Sir John Wetheral and Christobelle were speedily on their road to
Ripley. The morning air was fresh and delicious, for May was on its
threshold, and April had passed in smiles. The father's countenance
beamed with pleasure, for he was conferring happiness--and his daughter
was revelling in delight, because she was rolling towards Isabel,
and should enjoy hours of amusement with the kind and patient Mr.
Boscawen. All nature smiled under her eager eye, and she fancied the
woods of Ripley even more beautiful than the grounds of Wetheral. They
turned from the high road, through the great gates of Ripley Park, and
wound for nearly two miles by the side of a lake, magnificent in her
estimation at that time, and lovely in its stillness, now. The grey
towers of Ripley burst upon the sight, as they turned rapidly from the
beautiful sheet of water to enter the deep shrubbery which led to its
entrance, and Christobelle could not help exclaiming--"Oh, papa, how
beautiful this is!"
"Yes, Christobelle, it is lovely; and all, save the spirit of man, is
divine," replied her father, patting her shoulder.
"That was a quotation, papa, from Lord Byron, which you read to me
yesterday. Oh, see what a collection of beautiful plants are ranged in
the conservatory!"
Christobelle was engrossed with the sight of the numerous flowering
shrubs, when the carriage stopped, and four servants advanced to the
hall-door. Sir John inquired if their master was at home.
Sir Foster had been from home since half-past five o'clock that morning.
"When was he expected to return?"
Sir Foster had left no orders or directions.
"Surely," said Sir John, "Sir Foster has forgotten our engagement, and
has set off to Brierly alone. Is Miss Kerrison at home?"
Miss Kerrison was walking in the park--should they send her information
of Sir John Wetheral's arrival?
"By no means. Sir Foster is probably gone to Brierly; but, if your
master returns from elsewhere, inform him I am on the road to
Bridgnorth." Sir John ordered the postillions to proceed.
They drove back, towards the park gates, and met Miss Kerrison, at the
head of her little troop of brothers and sisters. The carriage stopped
at their approach, and Lucy Kerrison's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"Are you come for _me_, Sir John? Has Lady Wetheral sent for _me_, by
your early visit?"
The expression of her face clouded over, when she learned their
destination; but she could not enlighten her friends upon Sir Foster's
flight. Lucy said, "her father did such odd things, that no one at
Ripley ever knew where he was. Sometimes he was here, and sometimes
he was there--he had left the house very early, which was rather an
event of novelty, as he seldom rose before eleven; but she was sure
her father did not know himself where he was going, and no one else
could guess." With this unsatisfactory intelligence, Sir John and
Christobelle were obliged to take leave of Miss Kerrison, and pursue
their route. Sir John persisted in supposing Sir Foster far on his way
towards Brierly. Christobelle, on the other hand, felt an undefinable
assurance that he was gone to visit Clara. The subject, however, faded
soon from the mind of each; and Sir John cheered the remainder of the
drive, by pleasant tales, and affectionate questionings upon subjects
they had read together.
Isabel screamed with joy at her father and sister's arrival. She was
walking up and down before their door, holding her husband's arm, when
the carriage suddenly appeared before them. She rushed to the door, ere
the servant could open it, and threw herself into her father's arms.
"Oh, papa, what a blessing this is! What made you think of coming to
see us so soon? and pray let Chrystal remain with me for some months,
now she is here. Oh, papa, this is such a happiness! such a comfort!"
Isabel threw her arms round her sister's neck, and wept.
"Well, Chrystal, you see I am crying; but it's for joy to see you both
at Brierly. I hope you will stay a long time! My dear papa, come in,
and refresh yourself before dinner;--and, Chrystal, you will be such a
dear companion to me!"
Mr. Boscawen waited till the raptures were ended, and then he welcomed
them to Brierly, with the kindness which ever made him agreeable to
those he esteemed. The meeting on all sides was most delightful in
feeling, and they entered the house, full of smiles and mutual content.
Isabel stood for a moment in the hall, and looked at her husband.
"Mr. Boscawen, I am going to take my sister up stairs, into my room--is
that right?"
"Certainly, my love, do so; the half-hour bell will ring in a few
minutes."
Isabel seated herself, when they had gained her dressing-room, and drew
a chair for her sister.
"Now, Chrystal, just take off your hat and shake your curls."
Christobelle did so.
"Very well; now you are ready for dinner, so let us chat out the time
till the bell rings, and tell me all about Wetheral. Poor Wetheral!--I
often wish I was there again. Oh, Chrystal, perhaps now you are
arrived, I shall not be so much with Miss Tabitha, work, work, work,
all day long!--but what brought you here, without any notice? I hope
every body is well?"
Christobelle gave her sister all the Wetheral news, and detailed the
affairs of Clara as clearly as her young judgment would allow. Isabel
was charmed.
"Well, papa was so good to prevent Clara marrying that old Sir Foster!
I assure you, Chrystal, it would have been a foolish affair. How would
poor Clara have endured reading four or five hours every day, per
force, with her warm temper?"
"Sir Foster never reads, Isabel."
"Ah, but he would have compelled her to read; for old men are all
alike, Chrystal. You may depend upon it, Clara would have been
miserable. Is Sir Foster very unhappy about it?"
Christobelle told her in confidence what she had seen as she passed
through the chapel, and how cheerful Clara appeared afterwards at
dinner. Isabel looked serious.
"What could that mean? I was very unhappy, I know, till papa said I
should marry Mr. Boscawen. I was very silly, then; but Clara was not
Lady Kerrison, therefore she did not know how very soon those things
are got over, and I am surprised she was cheerful just at that time. I
wonder any body marries so young, when they can do as they please at
home. Don't marry, Chrystal, till you are thirty."
The great gong sounded at this moment, and Isabel rose to make a change
in her dress: but she continued talking.
"I don't mind that horrible gong, to-day, because you and papa are
here; but it is always a signal to me of misery. After the gong sounds,
I am sure to pass the remainder of the day with Miss Tabitha, and I am
tired to death with teaching. In the morning I am learning geography
and history, and the evening brings tent-stitch and lectures. I hope I
shan't be obliged to learn tent-stitch while you are here."
Isabel's maid appeared, to assist her mistress.
"Oh, is that you, Mrs. Anson? Do you know if Mr. Boscawen has ordered
any change in the dinner? I am sure I forgot all about it. Dear me,
Anson, how hot your hands are! Well, if ever I felt such hands! Mr.
Boscawen's hands are cold as ice. Just scratch out my hair, Anson. I
don't care how it looks; no more will Clara, if she marries Sir....
There is Mr. Boscawen's tap against the wall; don't you hear it? Now
that tap always means that he is ready to go down, and I must hold my
tongue and make haste. I am always chatting to Mrs. Anson, when you are
not here, Chrystal. Come, I am ready now."
They left the dressing-room, and Mr. Boscawen appeared immediately
at his door. He offered an arm to each, and they descended to the
drawing-room, where Sir John was seated in company with Miss Boscawen,
who was diligently plying at a large worstedwork frame, dressed in
dove-coloured silk, the whitest muslin handkerchief, and the most
delicate net-cap which had ever gladdened the eye: she was indeed
the _beau ideal_ of an old maid. Christobelle looked with pleased
astonishment at the delicate cleanliness of her person; the band of
brown hair, intermingled with grey, which peeped beneath her cap--the
tightly-fitting dress--her white silk mittens--the repose of her
countenance, which looked smilingly upon her--all inclined Christobelle
to admire and gaze upon Miss Tabitha Boscawen. Surely, this could not
be the original of Isabel's gloomy description!
Christobelle's admiration amused and pleased Miss Boscawen: she rose,
and held out her hand. "You are welcome," she said, "to Brierly, Miss
Wetheral. Our dear Isabel will be delighted to have a companion in her
work and studies."
Christobelle was charmed by the reception, and stood near Miss
Boscawen, examining her work, and watching its progress. She was
pleased by her young acquaintance's curiosity, for she performed
her stitches very slowly, to allow time for observation. She asked
Christobelle if she loved work: Christobelle told her she should like
to learn to work well, but that she was very fond of reading. She
smiled.
"I shall be happy to teach you every kind of stitch, Miss Wetheral,
when you are tired with books. I like to see young people employed.
Every hour is valuable, and idleness is the mother of mischief, as you
may remember writing in your copybook. I hope you are never idle, Miss
Wetheral?"
Isabel answered for her sister.
"Oh, dear Tabitha, Chrystal is always reading history and poetry: I am
astonished at her learning, for I never could bear reading or writing:
I liked my doll best, and dancing with Tom Pynsent."
"We shall like one another, Miss Wetheral, I foresee," said Miss
Boscawen, taking no notice of the latter part of Isabel's speech.
At dinner, Isabel sat silent. She took her seat at the head of the
table, it is true; but her eyes were constantly referring to her
husband, and sundry whispers from Miss Boscawen, who sat at her right
hand, increased her alarm and confusion. There were some attractive
glasses of raspberry-cream upon the table at the second course, to
which Isabel "did seriously incline," and she accordingly had one
placed before her. Miss Boscawen was distressed.
"Oh! sister, that is the worst thing you could eat at this time! Pray
send away that cream! John, take away that cream!"
Isabel's eyes overflowed, as the cream vanished from her sight: Mr.
Boscawen saw her disappointment with pity, and endeavoured to mitigate
the sentence.
"Tabitha, _half_ a cream will not hurt Isabel: let her try half a
cream."
"Oh, brother, the very worst thing my sister could take! No, don't eat
a cream, sister."
"I think," said Sir John, "as the parent of five children, I will
undertake to answer for the innocence of the cream. Lady Wetheral
fancied many extraordinary things, and did not suffer from their
effects. I should be inclined to give Isabel that cream, Boscawen."
Mr. Boscawen appeared pleased by an opinion of some weight and
experience, which coincided with his own wish to gratify his young
wife: he accordingly ordered the cream to be reinstated on her plate.
Isabel ate of it greedily.
"Oh, brother!" exclaimed Miss Boscawen, "sister will be so ill!"
Mr. Boscawen, however, enjoyed the eagerness and satisfaction with
which Isabel devoured her cream. "Poor thing, poor thing!" he uttered,
in a low tone, as Isabel laid down her spoon, and exclaimed, "How
excellently good that was!"
"It will do you no harm, my love," said her father, as he watched
her with great interest; "I will answer for your not suffering any
unpleasant effects."
"Oh! Sir John," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, "creams are such very
indigestible things! I am sure sister will be very poorly; indeed,
brother, sister will be ill."
Christobelle now understood the meaning of poor Isabel's distress, when
she complained at Wetheral, that only Miss Tabitha was to preside over
her confinement. Miss Boscawen did indeed watch over her with jealous
care, and, like Don Pedro Snatchaway in Sancho's suite, she allowed
her victim neither to eat nor drink in peace. When the ladies retired
from the dining-room, Miss Boscawen fidgeted about Isabel's seat. She
was not to sit near the window--it was cold; she was not to sit near
the fire--it was hot: the sofa was not quite the thing, and the chairs
might make her uncomfortable. Poor Isabel looked at her sister in
despair.
Miss Boscawen was equally alarmed when Isabel offered to walk round the
flower-garden with Christobelle.
"Oh! sister, the sun is setting, and you will take such a cold! you
have eaten a cream; pray don't take cold upon it."
The walk was given up; Isabel would chat about Wetheral.
"Now, sister, don't talk much just after your dinner; nothing does so
much harm to the constitution, and so completely prevents digestion."
Well, then, they would all take a little nap.
"Won't you get very fat, sister?" asked Miss Boscawen, as she saw
Isabel preparing to lie down upon the sofa; "sleep fattens very much."
Isabel, however, made her preparations, and composed herself to sleep.
Christobelle sat by her with a book which she had taken from one of
the tables. Miss Boscawen sat down to her worsted frame, and rang
for candles. They were some time silent, when Isabel started up and
exclaimed she was extremely unwell. Miss Boscawen looked horrified.
"Oh! sister, that cream! I knew you would be ill."
"I cannot tell the reason, but I am very ill. Send for Mr. Boscawen,
Chrystal." Isabel looked very pale, and was unable to rise from the
sofa.
"Oh! sister, don't send for my brother; let me assist you to your room;
the cream has made you sick."
"Send for Mr. Boscawen," repeated Isabel, her face becoming flushed
with pain.
Mr. Boscawen was summoned, and he carried Isabel to her bed. The
surprise and joy of receiving her family unexpectedly, had brought on a
rather premature confinement. The medical man was sent for, the nurse
was summoned in haste; all the household were in commotion. The medical
attendant gave it as his opinion some surprise or alarm had hastened
Mrs. Boscawen's accouchement. Miss Boscawen was convinced it was the
raspberry-cream.
Sir John decided to remain at Brierly, till Isabel should be considered
out of all danger, and till the little stranger should receive
his blessing. All that night passed in eager hope and watching.
Christobelle could not sleep; she could not rest in her bed, but
remained at Isabel's door, listening to every sound and footfall till
the morning dawned; and then Miss Boscawen insisted upon her going to
rest again. "Isabel was doing very well, considering she had hastened
every thing by eating the cream so pertinaciously, against her own
better judgment; she never could digest cream herself at any period of
her life; how could her sister expect to do so, when she was so near
her confinement?"
Under many promises on Miss Boscawen's part not to forget her in the
general confusion, Christobelle retired to her room, and slept long
and soundly; when she woke again, Isabel was in safety, and the house
of Boscawen rejoiced in a son and heir to succeed to its honours. Miss
Boscawen brought the blessed intelligence herself, and redeemed her
promise by so doing. Christobelle wanted to fly that instant to her
sister, but Miss Boscawen objected. "She was too young to judge of
consequences," she remarked; "she would talk too much, or laugh too
loud for Isabel's nerves. She should visit her in proper time, and at
proper seasons; she had just seen her father, and he had taken Master
Boscawen in his arms, and pronounced him a very fine child. Isabel was
now, she hoped, asleep."
Christobelle said she would rise immediately, as she wanted very
much to see her father; she was surprised to learn he had quitted
Brierly soon after his interview with Isabel. He would not allow
Christobelle to be called, because her rest had been broken; he left
his affectionate love, and his wishes that his child would write
often, and attend to Miss Boscawen's directions in her conduct. He had
returned to Wetheral rather earlier than he intended, but business of
importance called him away. This was Christobelle's first separation
from her father. She learned afterwards Mr. Boscawen's perfect
approbation of his scheme to spend some months in Scotland; and by so
doing, putting it out of Clara's power to renew her engagement with Sir
Foster, induced Sir John to hurry away to its fulfilment. It was his
intention to leave Wetheral in the course of a fortnight with the whole
establishment, and pass the summer at Fairlee. Christobelle was to be
Mr. Boscawen's care till her father recalled her.
Isabel was delighted with that part of the plan which decided her
sister a guest at Brierly for an indefinite period. The satisfaction
of her mind gave her strength and spirits to delight in her little
one, and to bear with unparalleled sweetness of temper the tiresome
attentions and fears of Miss Boscawen. Nothing was quite right with the
old lady which did not emanate from herself. The child was too upright,
or it was too long in a horizontal posture. Its food was acid, or too
sweet; it was too tight in its clothes, or the poor little thing was
hardly kept together in its covering. Isabel tied and untied, as the
complaint dictated; but some new fault was ever arising to rouse the
alarms of Miss Boscawen. One morning, Isabel amused herself by dressing
her babe with her own hands, a pleasure she had not enjoyed since its
birth. The nurse sat by her mistress's bed-side, watching and directing
the operation, while Christobelle gazed delightedly at the little thing
as it crowed and stretched its limbs. The sisters were most pleasingly
occupied when Miss Boscawen entered. Her alarms were roused immediately.
"Oh! sister, how can you sit up there, dressing the child? Nurse, take
away the infant, your mistress will be so fatigued! you must lie down
again, sister."
"Sister," however, was for once resolved to persist; she could not
relinquish the delightful amusement.
"Tabitha, I have not washed my child; I am only putting on his dear
little clothes."
"Oh! sister, you are very wrong; you suffered by that cream which I
begged you not to touch, and now I must insist upon your lying down;
what will my brother say?"
"Mr. Boscawen will not object to seeing me dress my little boy,"
replied Isabel.
"Oh! sister, he will indeed. My brother is not aware how you fatigue
yourself. Nurse, pray take the infant from your mistress."
Isabel became nervous, and the baby began to cry with all its might.
Miss Boscawen was certain he was nearly strangled by tight strings.
"There, sister, you have hurt him; the tapes are tied too tightly, I
dare say. How can you dress a babe, sister, when you never had one
before? Nurse, take the poor infant."
A passion of tears weakened Isabel beyond all that the mere dressing of
her babe could produce. Miss Boscawen became alarmed, and she ceased
all further expostulation. Mr. Boscawen, who never remained long absent
from his wife and child, at this moment entered the room. Isabel sobbed
out:
"Mr. Boscawen!"
"Here I am, my love. What has discomposed you? I am afraid you are
feverish." Mr. Boscawen seated himself in the nurse's chair, and felt
Isabel's pulse; he looked very grave. "My dear Isabel, this pulse won't
do. Nurse, what has caused this fever?"
"Tabitha won't let me dress my child, Mr. Boscawen," sobbed Isabel,
clasping her hands, and looking heart-broken.
"Give your mistress her child, nurse. My dear Isabel, you shall dress
it whenever you please. Dress it now, my love, and let me see how
maternally you can handle your infant." Mr. Boscawen took his boy
from the nurse, and placed it in Isabel's arms. Delighted with the
action, and feeling the kindness of her husband's manner, Isabel almost
involuntarily kissed Mr. Boscawen's hand.
"Oh! brother, you are very wrong," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, looking
anxiously at Isabel, whose delight was unbounded.
"A mother is performing a laudable and pleasing duty, Tabitha, when she
nurses and fondles her child."
"Ah! but, brother, you are very wrong. Sister will be quite low and ill
this evening. I foretold that cream business, brother."
What could Miss Boscawen do? Isabel continued to play with her child,
and her brother authorised the deed; nay, he was watching his wife's
movements with earnest and pleased attention. Her authority was of no
avail, since her brother sanctioned such very improper exertions; she
could only sigh, and resign herself to her own duties--the worsted
frame, and ordering dinner.
Miss Boscawen had a kind heart; her own dictations were prompted by
good-will to others, and a desire to give pleasure, but then those
pleasures must proceed from herself. She loved Isabel, and watched
carefully over her health; but Isabel must not think for herself;
every idea must originate from Miss Boscawen, otherwise it could not
be wisely carried into effect; it could not even be wisely planned,
if Miss Boscawen had not been a party in its formation. This was
irritating and vexatious. Christobelle was under many obligations to
Miss Boscawen, and loved her, when circumstances did not bring her
into contact with Isabel. She very patiently undertook to teach her
all kinds and varieties of work. She learned all the worsted stitches,
and could assist her in sorting colours very ably. Miss Boscawen
protested always against idleness in young people, and loved to see
Christobelle employed in reading, or, practising under her tuition, the
tasteful arts of tatting, embroidery, and fancy-work. Miss Boscawen and
Christobelle were very good friends; and she often drew her attention
from Isabel, and prevented sundry visits to her sister's room, which
would have terminated in mutual annoyance.
Christobelle had been a fortnight at Brierly, when a letter from Lady
Wetheral threw her into consternation. It was a great honour to be
noticed by her mother, but its contents were astounding.
"Dear Bell,
"You must make up your mind to return home, and be useful in spite of
your stupidity, for I can't be left without a companion. Your father
alarms me to death with his violence; and as to Clara, she has every
excuse for the step she has taken. You know poor Clara and Sir Foster
were very much attached, and it was tyranny to separate them. Nothing
would serve your father but breaking off their engagement, so Clara
ran away with Kerrison the day you quitted Wetheral. I declare I knew
nothing about Clara's intention, for your sister always did as she
pleased, without consulting me. However, she is Lady Kerrison now, and
mistress of Ripley, which I always particularly wished might be her
destiny.
"Your father has been ill, and confined some days to his room;
but, I confess, _I_ never was better, or more satisfied with the
contemplation of my daughters' excellent establishments. Of course,
Clara has no settlement; but Kerrison is a poor, half-witted creature,
and it will be her fault if she does not do as she pleases with him.
The first Lady Kerrison gave way too much. The Kerrisons arrived at
Ripley two days ago, and your father will not allow me to call upon
them. I cannot think it right to bear malice; it would have been
another thing if Clara had married a curate, or Lesley's son. I tell
Sir John we ought to forgive as we hope to be forgiven ourselves; but
he shakes his head like Lord Burleigh, and waves me away. Altogether,
his temper is become extremely violent, and I must have you at home,
for Thompson is going to marry the Hatton butler, and set up a
public-house. I have no patience with servants marrying.
"I hope Isabel does not nurse; it will ruin her figure. Whereabouts is
the nursery? I hope _miles_ from her room. Tell her about the baize
door; and as boys have loud voices, give the child lettuce lozenges,
and make it sleep day and night. I hope Boscawen won't let her nurse
it. When you return, perhaps you will persuade your father to forgive
the Kerrisons, for I wish to give a succession of parties, and I am
sure I knew nothing about Clara's intentions. I think Frank Kerrison
would be an excellent match for you, Bell, a few years hence. I shall
send Thompson for you next week. Yours truly,
"G. WETHERAL."
Christobelle wept over Clara's flight; she wept over her dear father's
illness, but still more over the summons to return and become her
mother's companion. She gave her letter to Miss Boscawen in distress,
for she could not trust her voice. Christobelle was too young then to
understand her error in so doing. She was not aware the letter laid
bare to Miss Boscawen's notice all her mother's private thoughts and
intentions, and that its perusal must consign her to contempt and
ridicule, in the opinion of brother and sister. She considered only
her wretched fate in returning to Wetheral, as the avowed companion of
a person who had never loved her, and who felt compelled to bear with
"stupidity," because Thompson was on the eve of matrimony.
Miss Boscawen returned the letter without any comment: she advised
Christobelle to conceal its intelligence from Isabel, and try to appear
gay, lest the idea of losing her sister should affect her spirits. It
might be, Lady Wetheral's mind would change, or some event occur to
postpone her return. She would inform her brother of the intimation
from Wetheral; but in the mean time Christobelle was to drive all
thoughts from her mind of leaving Brierly for some time to come.
With these consolations before her mental view, combined with the
hopes and sprightliness of extreme youth, Christobelle soon forgot
her sorrow, and enjoyed, in happy forgetfulness, the calm pleasures
of Brierly. Thompson did not make her appearance, and the Boscawens
never alluded to the transactions which had taken place at Wetheral.
In a few days, therefore, all fears were hushed, and she resumed her
usual occupations and amusements. Isabel made her appearance in the
sitting-room in due time, to her sister's great satisfaction; but their
mutual comfort was disturbed daily and hourly by the watchful affection
of Miss Boscawen, who objected and demurred to every project and action
on their parts, on the score of health. By this vexatious exaction of
power on the sister's side, one material change was effected, which
progressively gave happiness to Isabel, and gilded the gloominess of
Brierly to her eye and heart. It drew her thoughts and affection
towards her husband, who so often shielded her from Miss Boscawen's
anxieties, particularly in her treatment of her son.
June opened so brightly in sunbeams and flowers, that Isabel and
her sister loved to sit with the babe under the shade of a large
mulberry-tree which stood upon the lawn. The air benefitted Isabel, and
the soft rustling of the mulberry leaves lulled the infant into sound
sleep. This pleasure was not suffered to pass without its alloy. Miss
Boscawen was not the inventor of the agreeable _al fresco_, therefore
it was wrong.
"Oh, sister, don't sit there! Miss Wetheral, my dear, come in. The
flies will kill that poor child; nurse, bring it in. Sister, your
complexion!"
"I don't mind my complexion, Tabitha, at all; and my child is very
sleepy; it is just closing its eyes."
Miss Boscawen stood at the drawing-room window, with a parasol in her
hand.
"Oh, but, sister, that is wrong: the child will be bitten all over with
flies. Miss Wetheral, my dear, bring your sister in."
"Tabitha, here are no flies, I assure you. Don't insist upon my leaving
this shady place!" exclaimed Isabel, beseechingly.
"Oh, sister, the heat! What will my brother say? Oh, brother, I am glad
you are come, for sister is doing very foolishly."
"What is Isabel doing?" asked Mr. Boscawen, quickly.
"Sister is quite in a draught, brother; and the poor child must be all
over insects and flies!"
Mr. Boscawen joined his lady. He stood for some moments contemplating
Isabel, who sat in a low rustic chair, gently rocking the sleeping babe
on her lap. She smiled as she met his eye.
"Mr. Boscawen, I know you are come to take my part. You won't insist
upon my leaving this shady seat, will you?"
"No, my love, I am going to enjoy it with you." Mr. Boscawen seated
himself on the turf, at Isabel's feet. Christobelle could not help
thinking of the fairy tale which described Beauty and the Beast. It was
exemplified in the forms before her. Isabel, so young and delicate,
sat like a fairy, graceful in every movement, bending over her child,
smiling, and delighting to be free from her sister-in-law's power.
Boscawen, gaunt, tall, and unlovely, lay extended near her, smiling
grimly. Miss Boscawen saw her alarms were unheeded.
"Oh, brother, you are wrong. Sister will be very poorly, and you are
on the damp grass yourself--oh, brother!"
It was a useless lamentation: the little party remained long and
happily seated under the mulberry-tree; and Isabel, grateful for her
husband's sanction, became less reserved in his presence. In time, she
even sought his society, and the infant was ever a bond of union and
affection between them. Christobelle did not think the gay, thoughtless
Isabel would have become such a fond, anxious mother, so devoted to
her child, so active as a nurse. And yet, why was she surprised? Had
not Isabel warm affections, and was she not the favourite at Wetheral;
always kind and conciliating, always gentle and beloved? Mr. Boscawen's
age and manners chilled Isabel's heart by his anxiety to bestow
attainments upon a mind which disliked application; but her child was
sure to call forth every particle of her affectionate heart; its daily
wants, its helplessness, made her useful in the way she best loved.
There was no more dull schooling for Isabel to pine over--no more
lectures from Mr. Boscawen to urge her forward against her inclination,
and perhaps against her capacity. Another object had entered upon the
scene, to engross and charm each parent. Isabel never wearied in
watching her babe; her dislike to work chair-covers and footstools,
under Miss Boscawen's surveillance, was now succeeded by a taste for
baby-clothes; and the quickness with which she acquired from the nurse
the mystery of cutting out, and shaping materials, proved that an
object alone was needed to call forth her energies.
Mr. Boscawen was content to see his lady so employed; the schoolmaster
gave way to the parent; and he was no longer distressed by his young
wife's thoughtless speeches. How could Isabel talk unadvisedly, when
her only subject embraced the nursery department? How could she alarm
her husband's nice perceptions in conversation, when all her thoughts
rested in one absorbing interest--on one dear and mutual object of
earthly pleasure?
Christobelle was happiest of the happy at Brierly. Mr. Boscawen
had always something pointed in his remarks which attracted her
admiration; and if Isabel could not withdraw her attention from her
new and delightful occupation, Christobelle was ready to profit by her
husband's extensive reading; to listen with eagerness to his details;
and enjoy his animating comments upon men and books. Miss Boscawen was
aware that her brother's attention was given exclusively now to his
wife and child, to the utter exclusion of her complaints and alarms;
but her anxieties abated not. She still objected to every arrangement,
and cavilled at all pleasures which her own brain had not devised; she
could not even participate in them.
Isabel had long wished to spend a day in Bridgnorth. She knew no one
in that part of the country; she could scarcely give a reason for
wishing to visit that quiet rural spot; but she had been struck by its
beautiful scenery, as she passed and repassed from Wetheral. She liked
its situation, its river, its luxuriant banks; altogether, she had an
extraordinary desire to spend a day at Bridgnorth, and take her child.
It was a little change, it would be a pleasant long drive, and she was
sure every body would like the little trip. Isabel mechanically watched
her husband as she uttered her wish. He smiled. Isabel found a willing
auditor, and her desire waxed stronger in word and deed.
"Well, now, dear Mr. Boscawen, you will take us; won't you? Chrystal
and the child will have so many things to see. To be sure, the dear
babe can't understand what he sees, but I shall so like to carry him
about the town, and hear people admiring his little beautiful face!"
Mr. Boscawen was overcome. This was the first time Isabel had ever
addressed him as "dear Mr. Boscawen," and she was tossing her child
at the moment with such grace, with such beaming affection! He threw
his long arms round his wife and child, most ungracefully, but most
fondly.--
"We will do as you wish, my love; we will go to Bridgnorth for a
day--for a week, if you prefer it."
Isabel smiled in her husband's embrace, and looked truly happy. At
that moment, perhaps, a change passed over the mind of each. Mr.
Boscawen lost his alarmed and disgusted pupil in the matronly woman and
companion, at least in _one_ engrossing care. Isabel might feel that
the task-master was exchanged for a kind and indulgent protector. Her
child might engross her heart, but she would honour its father, and
rejoice under his mild administration. Isabel's nature was grateful:
she must love those who kindly sought her happiness; and Mr. Boscawen's
attention to her wishes would surely secure her content of heart.
Miss Boscawen appeared the only thorn in her path likely to affect
her peace; but the release from books and study was to Isabel's mind
emancipation from all evils. The minor vexations of life were hardly
felt by her yielding and gentle temper.
The Bridgnorth excursion was at once negatived by Miss Boscawen.
"Oh, sister, going to Bridgnorth! Mercy! who do we know in Bridgnorth,
brother?"
"My wife wishes it, Tabitha."
"Oh mercy, brother, what a foolish wish! Eleven miles' drive, and a day
spent in Bridgnorth!--what for, sister?"
"I always admired Bridgnorth, Tabitha, and I want to show my babe. I
have set my heart upon displaying my babe."
"Oh, sister, mercy! I can't think a drive to Bridgnorth can do you any
good. No, stay at home, sister."
"Mr. Boscawen has no objection, Tabitha. Have you, dear Mr. Boscawen?"
"Oh, but, brother, what nonsense! the child will be sick, and sister
will be so tired! Don't go to Bridgnorth, sister: let us spend a day at
Hawkstone next week."
"I have set my heart upon Bridgnorth," said Isabel, throwing an
appealing glance to her husband.
Mr. Boscawen was resolved to please his wife. There was a link between
them now, which nothing human could dissolve. Perhaps Mr. Boscawen
silently felt pride in the idea of displaying his "beautiful babe,"
as Isabel termed it. At Brierly, beyond the establishment, there were
none to gaze and admire. An elderly gentleman is generally proud of his
first-born; the less he says, the more apparent it becomes in action.
Mr. Boscawen watched his infant with unceasing interest, though he
seldom made it the subject of his discourse. He was now going to enjoy
the commendations of passing strangers in Bridgnorth. Isabel openly
confessed her pride and expectations; they only lurked in her husband's
eyes.
Miss Boscawen could not hear the subject named without expressing her
dissent. She had not proposed the drive, or even imagined such an
amusement, therefore the whole affair must be foolish and useless. Mr.
Boscawen urged his sister to remain at Brierly--there was no occasion
for her to undertake an irksome drive, if it was so unpalatable--she
could prepare a late tea against their return. Miss Boscawen differed
in opinion.
"Oh, mercy, no, brother! I must go, to see that sister does not
fatigue herself. The poor child, you know--yes, sister, I will go with
you, but, indeed, I think it a very foolish business--what with the
heat, and the poor child, I am sure we shall all be very tired."
In spite of Miss Boscawen's murmurs and prognostics, Isabel looked
forward with pleasure to the Bridgnorth visit, which was to take place
in two days from the date of its first proposition. Isabel gloried
in the idea of walking with her infant round the Castle Hill, and up
all the streets; she was sure every body would exclaim at the size
and beauty of her boy, and it would be a day of proud exultation to
her. She was also gratefully eloquent upon her husband's kindness in
entering at once into her plan; she was sure she must be the happiest
creature in the world, if dear Mr. Boscawen never more required her to
read, and plague herself over maps and things. She dearly loved nursing
and singing to her babe, and dear Mr. Boscawen had told her that
morning, he did not mind the child crying half the night; he was only
happy to see what an excellent nurse and mother he had married. Was not
that very good of dear Mr. Boscawen?
Christobelle also looked forward with pleasure to the trip; she had
never been allowed to accompany her family to Shrewsbury, because
Lady Wetheral said, nothing was so impolitic as displaying a lot
of coming-on girls; she had never seen a cluster of houses beyond
the small village of Wetheral, and her mind resigned itself to most
pleasing anticipations of Bridgnorth gaiety. She could conceive nothing
more charming than roaming with Isabel up and down the streets, and
examining the shop-windows--nothing more sublime than standing upon
the bridge, to watch the coal-barges from its parapet--nothing more
exquisite than the permission to buy gingerbread-nuts without remark
and without ridicule. There were not two happier beings than Isabel and
Christobelle, in their visions of the pleasures which were to surround
them at Bridgnorth.