Men are really needed but in one place, and that is, public life; but we
are wanted everywhere. In public and in private, upstairs and downstairs,
in the nursery and the drawing-room,—nothing can go on properly without
us; and if it does, if our husbands and our servants and our children
don’t need us, we cannot be doing our duty.
Above all, we have the training of the mistresses of future households,
and the mothers of a coming generation—the bringing up, in fact, of the
‘girls of the next period.’
If we cannot amend the faults we see in ourselves (an assertion which
should be paradoxical to anyone gifted with the least energy), if we
think it is too late to sit down in our middle age, and learn to rub the
rust off our brains, and to work our heads with our fingers, we can rear
them in a different fashion.
If we are wasteful and extravagant and useless—deserving of all the hard
things which have been said of us lately, let us at least take heed that
our daughters are not the same.
THE END.
[Illustration]
‘MOTHER.’
It was close upon Easter. The long, dark days of Lent, with their
melancholy ceremonials, were nearly over, and, as if in recognition of
the event, the sun was shining brightly in the heavens. The hawthorn
bushes had broken into bloom, and the wild birds were bursting their
little throats in gratitude. The boys were almost as wild and joyous
as the birds, as they rushed about the playground, knocking each other
over in the exuberance of their glee, and forgetting to be angry in the
remembrance that the next day would be Holy Thursday, when they should
all go home to their fathers and mothers to spend the Easter holidays. I
alone of the merry throng sat apart under the quick-set hedge, joining
in neither game nor gaiety, as I wondered, with the dull, unreasoning
perception of childhood, why I had been the one selected, out of all that
crowd of boys, to have no part in their anticipation or their joy. Even
poor, lame Jemmy, who had no remembrance of his father or his mother,
and who had been, in a way, adopted by our schoolmaster, and lived all
the year round, from January to December, in the same dull house and
rooms, looked more cheerful than I did. He was incapacitated by his
infirmity from taking part in any of the noisy games that were going on
around us, yet he smiled pleasantly as he came limping up towards me on
his crutches, and told me that Mrs Murray (who bestowed on him all the
mother’s care he would ever know) had promised, if he were good, to give
him a donkey ride during Easter week, and some seeds to plant in his
strip of garden.
‘What’s the matter with you, Charlie?’ he asked presently; ‘aren’t you
glad to be going home?’
‘Oh! I don’t care,’ I answered, listlessly.
‘Don’t _care_ about seeing your father and mother again?’
‘I haven’t got a mother,’ I rejoined, quickly.
‘Is your mother dead, like mine? Oh, I _am_ sorry! But your father loves
you for them both, perhaps.’
‘No, he doesn’t! He doesn’t care a bit about me. He never asks to see
me when I do go home; and he frightens me. I wish I might stay all the
holidays with Mrs Murray, like you do.’
‘That _is_ bad,’ quoth the lame child. ‘Well, maybe they’ll forget to
send for you, Charlie, and then we’ll have fine times together, you and
I.’
I had not the same hope, however. I knew that if by any oversight my
father forgot to send the servant for me, that my schoolmaster would take
the initiative and despatch me home himself.
How I dreaded it. The gloomy, half-closed house, the garden paths, green
with damp and thick with weeds, the servants acting entirely upon their
own authority, and the master querulous, impatient, and unjust, either
shut up in his own room brooding over the past and present, or freely
distributing oaths, complaints, and sometimes even blows, amongst the
unfortunate inmates of his household. As for myself, I seldom came
within the range of his arm without being terrified away, and it had been
a great relief to me when I returned home for the previous Christmas
holidays to find that he was absent, and the term of my penance passed
peacefully, if nothing else. But now he was at home again, so my master
informed me, my father had never dreamt of writing to me, and I looked
forward to the coming visit with dread. A strange, unnatural state of
things for a child of eight years old, who had never known a mother’s
love nor care, had never even heard her name mentioned by any one with
whom he was connected.
‘What was your mother like?’ continued Jemmy, after a few minutes’ pause,
during which we two unfortunates had been ruminating upon our lot. ‘Had
she light-coloured hair, like Mrs Murray, or dark, like the cook?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered, sadly. ‘I never saw her, that I remember.’
‘Haven’t you got a likeness of her at home?’ he demanded with surprise.
‘Wait till I show you mine.’
He fumbled about in his waistcoat, and produced a much faded
daguerreotype of an ordinary-looking young woman in old-fashioned
habiliments.
‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ he exclaimed, with weak enthusiasm as he pressed
the miniature to his lips.
‘Oh, how I wish she hadn’t died! I know I should have loved her so much!’
I made no reply. Poor Jemmy’s imagination did not run so fast as mine.
If my mother had lived to side with my father, where should I have been
between them? I turned my face away, and sighed.
It was strange that I had no idea of what my mother had been like. I
had never even formed one, neither had I any relation to whose memory I
might have appealed on the subject. My father lived a solitary, aimless
life in the old neglected house I have alluded to, seldom leaving his own
apartments, except at meal times, and certainly never asking any friend
to enter them to bear him company. The servants had their parents, or
lovers, or brothers, to visit them by stealth in the kitchen, but the
master sat by himself, gloomy and pre-occupied, and irritable almost to
frenzy when provoked. No wonder I wished that I could have spent the
Easter holidays with Mrs Murray. But a great surprise was in store for
me. The boys had hardly concluded the game of football they had been
carrying on during my colloquy with Jemmy, when Mrs Murray came smiling
down the playground in search of me.
‘I’ve a piece of news for you, Master Vere,’ she exclaimed. ‘Some one is
waiting to see you in the parlour.’
‘Not papa!’ I said, quickly.
‘No; not your papa,’ replied Mrs Murray, laying her hand compassionately
on my shoulder, ‘but a new friend—a lady whom you will like very much
indeed.’
‘A _lady_!’ I repeated, in utter bewilderment, whilst my schoolmates
crowded round Mrs Murray, with the question, ‘Is she come to take Vere
home?’
‘Perhaps! most probably,’ was her answer, whilst exclamations of, ‘Oh,
I say, that’s a jolly shame. It isn’t fair. School doesn’t break up
till to-morrow. _We_ sha’n’t get off to-day, try as hard as we may,’
greeted her supposition from every side, and I, trembling like a culprit,
affirmed that I would much rather not be introduced to the pleasures of
home one hour earlier than was needful.
‘Come into the parlour, dear, and see the lady,’ Mrs Murray replied,
‘and we will decide what to do afterwards.’
So my face and hair were hurriedly washed and arranged, and I sheepishly
followed my master’s wife to the formal little apartment dedicated to the
reception of visitors, where we found the lady she had alluded to.
Shall I ever forget her face as she rose to greet me, and drew me into
her arms! Such a fair, sweet, fresh face as it was, but with an amount of
sorrowful thought pictured in the serious eyes.
‘And so this is Charlie Vere,’ she said, as she gazed into my features.
‘I should have known you anywhere, my darling, from your likeness to your
father! And now do you guess who I am?’
‘No!’ I answered, shyly; for Mrs Murray had slipped away and left me all
alone with the stranger.
‘I am your mother, dear; your new mother who means to love you very
dearly, and I have come to take you home!’
Mother and Home! How sweet the dear familiar words sounded in my
ears; familiar alas! to everyone but me. The hawthorn blossoms in the
playground seemed to smell sweeter than they had done before, as she
pronounced them, and the birds’ chorus rang out harmoniously.
‘Will papa be there?’ I asked, nervously.
‘Papa! of course! What would home be without your father?’
I had found it much pleasanter without him than with him hitherto, but
some instinct made me hold my tongue.
‘Don’t you love papa, dear?’ the lady went on softly. ‘Don’t you think
that he loves you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, picking my fingers.
‘Poor child! Perhaps you have thought not, but that will all be altered
now. But you have not yet told me if you will like to have me for a
mother!’
‘I think I shall like you very much!’
‘That’s right, so we will go home together and try to make each other
happy. You want a mother to look after you, dear child, and I want a
little boy to love me. We will not part again, Charlie, now I have found
you, not for the present, at all events. You have been too long away
from home as it is. That is why I came to-day. I could not wait till
to-morrow, even: I was so impatient to see you and to take you home.’
How she dwelt and lingered on the word and repeated it, as though it
gave her as much happiness to listen to as it did me.
‘Will _you_ be there?’ I asked, presently.
‘Of course, I shall—always! What would be the use of a mother, Charlie,
if she didn’t live in the house close to you, always ready to heal your
troubles and supply your wants to the utmost of her power?’
‘Oh! let us go at once!’ I exclaimed, slipping my hand into hers. All
dread of my father seemed to have deserted me. The new mother was a
guardian angel, under whose protection I felt no fear. She was delighted
with my readiness.
‘So we will, Charlie! We need not even wait for your box to be packed.
Mrs Murray can send on everything to-morrow. And papa will be anxious
until he sees us home again!’
My father anxious about me! That was a new thing to be wondered at. I
was too much of a baby still to perceive that his anxiety would be for
_her_—not for me! I had not yet been able to grasp the idea that she was
his wife. I only regarded her as my new mother.
As we passed out of the house, I asked leave to say good-bye to my friend
Jemmy.
‘His mother is dead, like mine,’ I said, in explanation. ‘He will be so
pleased to hear that I have got a new one.’
‘Poor boy!’ she sighed; ‘we will ask him to spend the summer holidays
with you Charlie. A great happiness like ours should make us anxious to
make others happier.’
And when Jemmy came forward on his crutches, and smiled his
congratulations on the wonderful piece of news I had to give him,
she stooped down and kissed his forehead. Then we passed out of the
playground together, I clinging to her hand, and proud already to hear
the flattering comments passed upon her appearance by the other boys, and
to remember that from that time forward she was to be called _my mother_.
* * * * *
Lilyfields, as my father’s house was designated, was not more than ten or
twelve miles from the school; but we had to make a little railway journey
to reach it, and I thought I had never travelled so pleasantly before.
My new mother laughed so often and chatted so continuously to me, that
I caught the infection of her mirthful loquacity, and, long before we
got home, had revealed so much of my past life and feelings, that more
than once I brought a shadow over her sunny face, and closed her smiling
lips with a sigh. But as we left the train and commenced to walk towards
Lilyfields, my old fears showed symptoms of returning, and my sudden
silence, with the tightening clasp of my hand, did not pass unobserved by
my companion.
‘What is the matter, Charlie? Of what are you afraid?’
‘Won’t papa be angry with me for coming back before the holidays begin?’
I whispered.
Her clear laugh rang over the peaceful meadows we were traversing.
‘If he is angry with any one, he must be so with me, as I fetched you
home Charlie.’
‘And you are not afraid of him?’
‘_Afraid!_’ The sweet serious eyes she turned upon me as she ejaculated
the word were just about to deprecate so monstrous an idea, when they
caught sight of an approaching figure, and danced with a thousand little
joys instead.
‘There he is!’ she exclaimed excitedly. She ran up to him, dragging me
with her.
He took her in his arms (there was not another living soul within sight
of us) and embraced her fervently, whilst I stood by, open-mouthed with
astonishment.
‘My angel,’ he murmured, as she lay there, with her face pressed close to
his; ‘life has been insupportable without you.’
‘Ah, Harold! it does me good to hear you say so; and I am so glad to get
back to you again. See! here is Charlie waiting for his father to welcome
him home.’
She lifted me up in her arms—big boy as I was—and held me towards him
for a kiss. How strange it was to feel my father kiss me; but he did
so, though I think his eyes never left her face the while. Then he took
her hand, and held it close against his heart, and they walked through
the silent, balmy-breathed fields together. As I entered the house
I could hardly help exclaiming aloud at the marvellous changes that
had taken place there. Not an article of furniture had been changed,
not a picture moved from its place, yet everything looked bright as
the glorious spring. The rooms had been thoroughly cleaned, and lace
curtains, snowy table-cloths, and vases of flowers, with here and there
a bright bit of colour in the shape of a rug, or a piece of china, had
transformed the house—not into a paradise—but into _a home_. Even my
father was changed like his surroundings. He looked ten years younger,
as with nicely kept hair, and a becoming velveteen lounging coat, he
sunk down into an easy-chair, and deprecated, whilst he viewed with
delight, the alacrity with which my new mother insisted upon removing
his boots and fetching his slippers. It was such a novelty to both of
us to be attended to in any way, that I was as much surprised as he to
find that the next thing she did was to take me upstairs, and tidy me for
tea herself, showering kisses and love words upon me all the while. Oh!
the happy meal that followed. How unlike any we had taken in that house
before! I, sitting up at table, with my plate well provided; my father
in his arm-chair, looking up with loving eyes at each fresh proof of her
solicitude for him, and my new mother seated at the tea-tray, full of
smiles and innocent jests, watching us both with the utmost affection;
but apparently too excited to eat much herself. Once my father noticed
her want of appetite and reproached her with it.
‘I am too happy to eat, Harold!’ was her reply.
‘Too happy,’ he repeated in a low voice, ‘_really_ too happy! No regrets,
my Mary, no fears! Your future does not terrify you. You would not undo
the past if it were in your power!’
‘Not one moment of it, Harold! If I ever think of it, with even a
semblance of regret, it is that it did not begin ten years sooner.’
‘God bless you!’ was all he answered.
If I had not been such a child I should have echoed the words; for before
many days were over my head, the whole of my joyous young life was an
unuttered blessing upon her. The darkness of fear and despondency—the
most unnatural feelings a young child can entertain—had all passed
away. I no longer dreaded my father’s presence; on the contrary, it was
my greatest treat to bear him company as he worked in the garden, or
whistled over his carpentering, or accompanied my mother in strolls about
the country.
He never shut himself up in his room now, unless she was shut in too;
and although his new-born love was for _her_, and not for me, the glory
of it was reflected in his treatment of me.
So I was very happy, and so was he, and so most people would have thought
my mother to be. But though she never appeared before my father without
a bright face, she was not always so careful in my presence, thinking
me, perhaps, too young to observe the changes in her countenance;
and sometimes when she and I were alone together, I marked the same
look steal over her which I had observed on the occasion of our first
meeting—an undercurrent of thoughtful sadness—the look of one who had
suffered, who still suffered, from a pain which she kept to herself.
Once I surprised her in tears—a violent storm of tears, which she was
powerless for some time to control; and I eagerly inquired the reason of
them.
‘Mamma, mamma, what is it, mamma? Have you hurt your foot? Did Prince
bite you? Have you got a pain anywhere?’
My childish mind could not comprehend that her tears should flow for any
other than a physical reason. Did not papa and I love her dearly? and she
was afraid of no one, and she never went to school. What possible cause
could she have for tears?
My mother composed herself as soon as she was able, and laid her burning
face against my cheek.
‘Will my little boy love me always?’ she asked—‘always—always—whatever
happens?’
‘Always, dear mamma. Papa and I would die if we hadn’t you. Oh, you don’t
know what it was like before you came here!’
‘Then mamma will never again be so silly as to cry,’ said my mother, as
she busied herself over some occupation to divert her thoughts.
But although this was the only time she betrayed herself so openly before
me, I often detected the trace of weeping on her face, which she would
try to disguise by excessive mirth.
So the years went on, until one bright summer’s day a little sister was
born in our house. I hailed the advent of this infant with the greatest
possible delight. It was such a new wonderful experience to have a
playmate so dependent on me, and yet so entirely my own. I positively
worshipped my little sister, although her birth was the signal for my
being sent back to school, but this time only as a weekly boarder.
Hitherto my mother had taught me herself, and very sorry I was to give up
those delightful lessons, which were rendered so easy by the trouble she
took to explain them to me; but her time was too much taken up with her
baby to allow her to devote sufficient to me. Besides, I was now eleven
years old, growing a great lad, and able to take every advantage of the
education afforded me at Mr Murray’s school.
My old friend, lame Jemmy, who had spent many a pleasant week at
Lilyfields meanwhile, was still there to welcome me back and make me feel
less of a stranger; and my father took away the last sting of the new
arrangement by buying me a sturdy pony on which to ride backwards and
forwards every week to see my mother and him.
But the greatest pang which I experienced was parting, even for a few
days, with baby Violet. I cried over her so much, indeed, that I made my
mother cry too, as she asked God to bless the boy who had been a true
son to her. I was very glad to think she loved me so much, for I loved
her dearly in return; but as I galloped back to Lilyfields every Saturday
afternoon, my thoughts were all for the dimpled baby sister whom I would
carry about in my arms, or roll with amongst the newly-mown grass, rather
than with those who had proved themselves to be real parents to me,—she
from the commencement of her knowledge of me, and he from the date of his
knowing her. It was my mother alone I had to bless for it all. But I had
grown accustomed to happiness by this time, and took it as my due.
My parents were very proud of their little daughter, who grew into a
lovely child, but she did not seem to afford them as much pleasure
as pride. Sometimes I detected my mother looking at her as we romped
together, with more pain in the expression of her face than anything
else. Once she caught her suddenly to her bosom, and kissed her golden
curls with passion, exclaiming,—
‘Oh, my heart, if I were to go, what would become of you?—what _would_
become of you?’
I was still too young to grasp the full meaning of her words, but I
knew my mother meant that if she died, no one would take such good care
of Violet as she had done. So I marched up to her confidently, with the
assurance that _I_ would take that responsibility upon my own shoulders.
‘Don’t be afraid, mamma! As soon as I am a man, I mean to get a house all
to myself, and the best rooms in it shall be for Violet.’
She looked at me with her sweet, earnest, searching gaze for a moment,
and then folded me in one embrace with her own child.
‘Father’s boy!’ she murmured, caressingly over me—‘father’s brave, loving
boy! No, Charlie, I will not be afraid! If it be God’s will that I should
go, I will trust Violet to father and to you.’
* * * * *
Meanwhile my father was a very contented man. He had undergone much the
same change as myself, and forgotten, in the sunshine that now surrounded
him, all the miserable years he had spent in that once desolate mansion.
I do not suppose a happier nor more peaceful family existed than we
were. No jars nor bickering ever disturbed the quiet of the household;
everything seemed to go as smoothly as though it had been oiled. We were
like the crew of some ship, safely moored within a sunny harbour, never
giving a thought to what tempests might be raging outside the bar.
Every Saturday when I rode home on my pony, I found my father either
working out of doors if it were summer, or indoors if it were winter,
but always with the same satisfied easy smile upon his countenance, as
though he had no trouble in the world, as indeed he had not; for my
mother warded off the most trifling annoyance from him as though he were
a sick child, that must not be upset; whilst she threaded her quiet way
through the kitchen and bedrooms, with little Violet clinging to her
gown, regulating the household machinery by her own supervision, that no
accident might occur to ruffle her husband’s temper.
I believed her in those days—I believe her still to be the noblest woman
ever planned. One thing alone puzzled me—or rather, I should say, seemed
strange to me, for I did not allow it to go the length of puzzlement—and
that was why we had so few visitors at Lilyfields. True, my father had
made himself so unsociable in the old days that strangers might well have
been shy of intruding themselves upon him now; but my mother was so sweet
and gentle, I felt it must be their loss rather than hers, that so few
people knew her. When, as a lad of fifteen, I mentioned this circumstance
to her, she put it aside as a matter of course.
‘When I made up my mind, Charlie, to try as far as in me lay, to render
the remainder of your father’s life happy, I was perfectly aware that
I should have to depend for companionship upon him alone. We have each
other, and we have you and Violet. We want no other society but yours.’
Still, I thought the clergyman and his wife might sometimes have come to
see us, as they did the rest of their parishioners, and I should have
liked an occasional game of play with the sons of Squire Roberts up at
the Hall. But, with the exception of the doctor, who sometimes came in
for a chat with my father, no one but ourselves ever took a meal at
Lilyfields.