To no one, not even to Thomas Kenwood (in whom I confided most), did I
impart the discovery just described. Again and again I went to examine
those letters, jealous at once of my secret, and fearful lest they
should vanish. But though they remained perhaps unaltered, they never
appeared so vivid as on that day.
With keener interest I began once more to track, from page to page, from
volume to volume, the chronicled steps of limping but sure-footed
justice.
Not long after this I was provided with a companion. "Clara," said my
guardian one day at breakfast, "you live too much alone. Have you any
friends in the neighbourhood?"
"None in the world, except my mother."
"Well, I must try to survive the exclusion. I have done my best. But
your mother has succeeded in finding a colleague. There's a cousin of
yours coming here very soon."
"Mother dear," I cried in some surprise, "you never told me that you had
any nieces."
"Neither have I, my darling," she replied, "nor any nephews either; but
your uncle has; and I hope you will like your visitor."
"Now remember, Clara," resumed my guardian, "it is no wish of mine that
you should do so. To me it is a matter of perfect indifference; but
your mother and myself agreed that a little society would do you good."
"When is she to come?" I asked, in high displeasure that no one had
consulted me.
"He is likely to be here to-morrow."
"Oh," I exclaimed, "the plot is to humanize me through a young
gentleman, is it? And how long is he to stay in my house?"
"In your house! I suppose that will depend upon your mother's wishes."
"More likely upon yours," I cried; "but it matters little to me."
He said nothing, but looked displeased; my mother doing the same, I was
silent, and the subject dropped. But of course I saw that he wished me
to like his new importation, while he dissembled the wish from knowledge
of my character.
Two years after my father's birth, his father had married again. Of the
second wedlock the only offspring was my guardian, Edgar Vaughan. He
was a posthumous son, and his mother in turn contracted a second
marriage. Her new husband was one Stephen Daldy, a merchant of some
wealth. By him she left one son, named Lawrence, and several daughters.
This Lawrence Daldy, my guardian's half-brother, proved a spendthrift,
and, while scattering the old merchant's treasure married a fashionable
adventuress. As might be expected, no retrenchment ensued, and he died
in poverty, leaving an only child.
This boy, Clement Daldy, was of my own age, or thereabout, and, in
pursuance of my guardian's plan, was to live henceforth with us.
He arrived under the wing of his mother, and his character consisted in
the absence of any. If he had any quality at all by which one could
know him from a doll, it was perhaps vanity; and if his vanity was
singular enough to have any foundation, it could be only in his good
looks. He was, I believe, as pretty a youth as ever talked without
mind, or smiled without meaning. Need it be said that I despised him at
once unfathomably?
His mother was of a very different order. Long-enduring, astute, and
plausible, with truth no more than the pith of a straw, she added
thereto an imperious spirit, embodied just now in an odious meekness.
Whatever she said or did, in her large contempt of the world, her
lady-abbess walk, and the chastened droop of her brilliant eyes, she
conveyed through it all the impression of her humble superiority.
Though profoundly convinced that all is vanity, she was reluctant to
force this conviction on minds of a narrower scope, and dissembled with
conscious grace her knowledge of human nature.
To a blunt, outspoken child, what could be more disgusting? But when
upon this was assumed an air of deep pity for my ignorance, and interest
in my littleness, it became no longer bearable.
This Christian Jezebel nearly succeeded in estranging my mother from me.
The latter felt all that kindness towards her which people of true
religion, when over-charitable, conceive towards all who hoist and
salute the holy flag. Our sweet pirate knew well how to make the most
of this.
For myself, though I felt that a hypocrite is below the level of hate, I
could not keep my composure when with affectionate blandness our visitor
dared to "discharge her sacred duty of impressing on me the guilt of
harbouring thoughts of revenge." Of course, she did not attempt it in
the presence of my mother; but my guardian was there, and doubtless knew
her intention.
It was on a Sunday after the service, and she had stayed for the
sacrament.
"My sweet child," she began, "you will excuse what I am about to say, as
I only speak for your good, and from a humble sense that it is the path
of duty. It has pleased God, in His infinite wisdom, to afflict your
dear mother with a melancholy so sensitive, that she cannot bear any
allusion to your deeply-lamented father. You have therefore no female
guidance upon a subject which justly occupies so much of your thoughts.
Your uncle Edgar, in his true affection for you, has thought it right
that you should associate more with persons calculated to develop your
mind."
Now I hate that word "develop;" and I felt my passion rising, but let
her go on:--
"Under these circumstances, it grieves me deeply, my poor dear child, to
find you still display a perversity, and a wilful neglect of the blessed
means of grace, which must (humanly speaking) draw down a judgment upon
you. Now, open your heart to me, the whole of your little unregenerate
heart, you mysterious but (I firmly believe) not ill-disposed lambkin.
Tell me all your thoughts, your broodings, your dreams--in fact, your
entire experiences. Uncle Edgar will leave the room, if you wish it."
"Certainly not," I said.
"Quite right, my dear; have no secrets from one who has been your second
father. Now tell me all your little troubles. Make me your
mother-confessor. I take the deepest interest in you. True, I am only
a weak and sinful woman, but my chastisements have worked together for
my edification, and God has been graciously pleased to grant me peace of
mind."
"You don't look as if you had much," I cried.
Her large eyes flashed a quick start from their depths, like the stir of
a newly-fathomed sea. My guardian's face gleamed with a smile of sly
amusement. Recovering at once her calm objective superiority, she
proceeded:
"I have been troubled and chastened severely, but now I perceive that it
was all for the best. But perhaps it is not very graceful to remind me
of that. Yet, since all my trials have worked together for my good, on
that account I am, under Providence, better qualified to advise you, in
your dark and perilous state. I have seen much of what thoughtless
people call 'life.' But in helping you, I wish to proceed on higher
principles than those of the world. You possess, beyond question, a
strong and resolute will, but in your present benighted course it can
lead only to misery. Now, what is the principal aim of your life, my
love?"
"The death of my father's murderer."
"Exactly so. My unhappy child, I knew it too well. Though a dark sin is
your leading star, I feel too painfully my own shortcomings, and old
unregenerate tendencies, to refuse you my carnal sympathy. You know my
feelings, Edgar."
"Indeed, Eleanor," replied my guardian, with an impenetrable smile, "how
should I? You have always been such a model of every virtue."
She gave him a glance, and again addressed me. "Now suppose, Clara
Vaughan, that, after years of brooding and lonely anguish, you obtain
your revenge at last, who will be any the better for it?"
"My father and I."
"Your father indeed! How you wrong his sweet and most forgiving
nature!"
This was the first thing she had said that touched me; and that because
I had often thought of it before. But I would not let her see it.
"Though his nature were an angel's," I cried, "as I believe it was,
never could he forgive that being who tore him from me and my mother. I
know that he watches me now, and must be cold and a wanderer, until I
have done my duty to him and myself."
"You awful child. Why, you'll frighten us all. But you make it the
more my duty. Come with me now, and let me inculcate the doctrines of a
higher and holier style."
"Thank you, Mrs. Daldy, I want no teaching, except my mother's."
"You are too wilful and headstrong for her. Come to me, my poor stray
lamb."
"I would sooner go to a butcher, Mrs. Daldy."
"Is it possible? Are you so lost to all sense of right?"
"Yes, if you are right," I replied; and left the room.
Thenceforth she pursued tactics of another kind. She tried me with
flattery and fictitious confidence, likely from a woman of her maturity
to win a young girl, by inflating self-esteem: she even feigned a warm
interest in my search, and wished to partake in my readings and secret
musings. Indeed, I could seldom escape her. I am ready to own that, by
her suggestions and quick apprehension, she gained some ascendancy over
me, but not a tenth part of what she thought she had won; and I still
continued to long for her departure. Of this, however, no symptom
appeared: she made herself quite at home, and did her best to become
indispensable to my mother.
Clement Daldy had full opportunity to commend himself to my favour. We
were constantly thrown together, in the presence of his mother, and the
absence of mine. For a long time, I was too young, and too much
engrossed by the object for which I lived, to have any inkling of their
scheme; but suddenly a suspicion broke upon me. My guardian and his
sister-in-law had formed, as I thought, a deliberate plot for marrying
me, when old enough, to that tailor's block. The one had been so long
accustomed to the lordship of the property, to some county influence,
and great command of money, that it was not likely he would forego the
whole without a struggle. But he knew quite well that the moment I
should be of age I would dispense with his wardship, and even with his
residence there, and devote all I had to the pursuit of my "monomania."
All his endeavours to make me his thrall had failed, partly from my
suspicions, partly from a repugnance which could not be conquered. Of
course, I intended to give him an ample return for his stewardship,
which had been wise and unwearying. But this was not what he wanted.
The motives of his accomplice require no explanation. If once this neat
little scheme should succeed, I must remain in their hands, Clement
being nobody, until they should happen to quarrel for me.
To show what Clement Daldy was, a brief anecdote is enough. When we
were about sixteen years old, we sat in the park one morning, at the
corner of the lake; Clement's little curled spaniel, which he loved as
much as he could love anything, was gambolling round us. As the boy
lounged along, half asleep, on the rustic chair, with his silky face
shaded by a broad hat, and his bright curls glistening like daffodils
playing, I thought what a pretty peep-show he made, and wondered whether
he could anyhow be the owner of a soul.
"Oh, Clara," he lisped, as he chanced to look up--"Couthin Clara, I wish
you wouldn't look at me tho."
"And did it look fierce at its dolly?" I said; for I was always
good-natured to him. "Dolly knows I wouldn't hurt it, for it's house
full of sugar-plums."
"Then do let me go to thleep; you are such a howwid girl."
So I hushed him off with a cradle song. But before the long lashes sunk
flat on his cheeks, like the ermine tips on my muff, and while his red
lips yet trembled like cherries in the wind, my attention was suddenly
drawn to the lake. There was a plashing, and barking, and hissing, and
napping of snow-white wings--poor Juan engaged in unequal combat with
two fierce swans who had a nest on the island. The poor little dog,
though he fought most gallantly, was soon driven into deep water, and
the swans kept knocking him under with rapid and powerful strokes.
Seeing him almost drowned, I called Clement to save him at once.
"I can't," said the brave youth; "you go if you like. They'll kill me,
and I can't bear it; and the water ith tho cold."
In a moment I pushed off the boat which was near, jumped into it, and,
seizing an oar, contrived to beat back the swans, and lifted the poor
little dog on board, gasping, half-drowned, and woefully beaten.
Meanwhile my lord elect had leaped on the seat for safety, and was
wringing his white little hands, and dancing and crying, "Oh, Clara'll
be throwned, and they'll say it was me. Oh, what thall I do! what thall
I do!"
Even when I brought him his little pet safe, he would not touch him,
because he was wet; so I laid him full on his lap.