... As a child
She still was simple, rather shall I say
More simple than a child, as being lost
In deeper admirations and desires.
The roseate richness of her childish bloom
Remain’d, but by inconstancies and change
Referr’d itself to sources passion-swept.
EVE OF THE CONQUEST.
On the sofa of the small drawing-room of a small house, on the road to
Hampstead, lay a lady, of some age between fifty and sixty. Her
appearance was sickly and shabby--such, also, was the appearance of the
room; but it was a shabbiness of taste more than of necessity. There is
a hue in every colour, too full to be delicate, and too pale to be
decided, which good taste avoids; but it was this tone of colour which
nature had bestowed on Miss Price; and which she, following nature,
chose for the adornment of her room and person. Her hair was a dull,
dark flaxen; her complexion a sallow grey; her gown a muddy brown; her
furniture a sickly blue. Her countenance was as insipid as her taste,
devoid of character, and devoid of intellect; nevertheless, when closely
scrutinized, it was not devoid of a certain charm,--it was gentle and
patient; and her smile, the smile of a grateful and affectionate heart,
had the power to light up and dignify her face. She was now lying on the
sofa, with a shawl of salmon-colour over her feet, and a piece of sickly
worsted-work in her hands.
At a little distance from her, her two arms leaning on a table, was a
figure of a very different appearance. She was a young lady, healthful
and lovely, and with no lack of taste or decision about her. The
smoothness and roundness of her dazzling complexion, and the freshness
of her air, betokened very early youth, sixteen or seventeen at the
utmost; but in other respects her appearance was womanly. The silk of
her dress and the costly lace on her cloak were in a style uncommon to
young ladies in general; and the ease and decision of her graceful
figure seemed the acquirement of maturer years.
She was lovely rather than beautiful. Her hazel eyes bright and
piercing; her auburn hair soft and silky; her colouring full and fresh.
It was the beauty of animation and colour more than of feature: though
it would have been hard to fancy a time when her countenance would cease
to please.
At this moment there was discontent and dissatisfaction upon it; but it
sat upon her with an air of piquancy. Her bonnet was thrown off; and as
she pushed back her long thick curls from her face, she said, “My dear
aunt Jane, the fact is, this life is a very weary life.”
“I don’t find it so, my dear,” replied her aunt, while with a look of
interest she pulled out a needleful of olive-green worsted.
“And what makes you not find it so? Tell me, for it is what I cannot
understand.”
“The many things I have to be thankful for,” and she put down her work,
in grateful reverence to the words she said.
“You;--poor aunt Jane, and what have you to be thankful for?”
“My sight, my hearing, my tolerable health, my food and clothing, and
your love my dear, besides many other things, which it would take me a
long time to tell.”
“In that view, I suppose I have things to be thankful for too--but I
can’t say I feel it.”
“You have of course, my love, and many more than I have; you have youth
and beauty, and riches....”
“Ah! now,” said the young lady, decidedly, “stop there--don’t say
riches; the Bible says that money is the root of all evil, and I think
so too. One day I heard a little boy in the street say, ‘hang larning;’
I don’t exactly know what he meant; but since then I sometimes say
‘hang riches,’ and it gives me pleasure.”
“My love,” said her aunt, with a look of sincere consternation, “do you
know that is a very improper way of speaking!”
“Don’t look so shocked, my dear aunt Jane, I mean no harm. I only mean
that I wish all bags of gold were wound round with a rope, and chucked
into the sea.”
“Money is a very useful thing. I don’t mean to say, my love,” Miss Price
added, with some perplexity, “that money is _not_ the root of evil--of
course not; but it is a useful thing, and we ought to try to do good
with it.”
“Do you know what makes me out of temper to-day?” the young lady said,
with out attending to her aunt’s musings, “I mean especially out of
temper--more than usual.”
“You look very nice, my love,” she replied fondly, putting down her
worsted to examine her niece’s countenance.
“But cross. Look again.”
“You do frown, my love, certainly, but you don’t mean it, I know.”
“But I do mean it, and I must tell you why. Aunt Jane, did you ever wish
to marry?”
“My love, my love,” she said, fluttered and bewildered at the sudden
question.
“Don’t answer me, if you don’t like it,” said her niece, kindly, “all I
want to be sure of is, that you can understand me when I ask you, if
_you_ could submit to marry anybody that was picked out for you, however
little you cared for him.”
“My love,” replied her aunt, humbly, “I think I would rather not give an
opinion on such subjects. My head is not particularly strong.”
“To be bought and sold like a piece of land. I never, never will submit
to it; and yet I don’t well know how it is to be avoided.”
“God will provide, dearest--we need not fret ourselves about our future
lives.”
“I see people bought and sold with my own eyes,” said the young lady
with vehemence. “This is a vile world I live in. There is not one person
in all the world that I look up to and respect; and yet, unless I
respect, I never, never will marry: that is, so long as I can struggle
against it.”
“Certainly, my love; to esteem is the safest way; for we cannot esteem
bad people, you know.”
“Very true, Aunt Jane,” said her niece, smiling; “but now let me tell
you what has put me out of temper. Papa sent for me, yesterday morning,
to speak to me. I went down to his room, and he told me two things.
First, he told me a thing that made me very happy. He told me that he
had bought a large property, and that henceforward we should live a
great part of the year in the country.”
“That will be nice, indeed, my love! You will see all the flowers, and
hear the birds sing.”
“Yes, and be _free_, Aunt Jane. If you knew how I sometimes long to be
free! I was so pleased that I said so, and thanked papa, and behaved
like a very good, amiable daughter. And when he said he hoped as he had
pleased me in this that I should be more obedient in future, and conform
myself to his wishes, I said--Oh, yes, I would, indeed;--and I really
meant and felt what I said: and then what do you think he said next?”
“Now you frown again, my love, and I am sorry to see it.”
“He said the time would soon be approaching when he should wish me to
marry; and that he hoped when the proper person appeared that I should
behave myself as a dutiful daughter ought. My dear Aunt Jane, he said it
as quietly as if he spoke of a new gown.”
“Well, my love, I have heard that parents sometimes choose a very proper
person; and I would not set myself against him on that account.”
“I don’t. Do you know that I am so sensible and unromantic that if the
Bishop of London, who I suppose is a good man, was to bring me a person,
and say, ‘Here is a good man, wise and good, whom I am certain you can
admire and respect,’ I am so weary of scoffing and scorning that I would
consent as dutifully as if I were four years old; but I cannot trust
papa. Don’t look shocked, Aunt Jane! sometimes we _must_ speak the
truth; and I know if you would speak the truth you would allow that you
don’t trust him either. Now look at me, and answer!”
“A father, my love, is a father; and I don’t give opinions on such
subjects. It is better not.”
“Perhaps you are right. I do try myself not to express all I feel. If
you could tell what a boiling indignation I sometimes have pent up
here,” and she pressed her hands on her heart; “but I must speak for
once. I cannot trust papa’s choice; he would marry me to a post, if it
were rich enough.”
“Perhaps not, dearest. It is better not to distrust. Wait till the time
comes, and don’t fret till then. Did he say more? Did he speak of any
person in particular?”
“No, he did not say; but I have a guess.”
“And would it be a very unwelcome choice, my love, if you guessed
right?”
“I don’t know anything about it. I have a guess at the name; but I know
no more who it is, nor what he is, than you do. And I was such a fool,
aunt Jane--so astounded at what he said, that I did not say half what I
thought and felt; and, besides, I don’t know how it is, but I cannot
argue with papa. He seems to think he must be right, and has such a
contempt for everybody that does not think as he does. I am not afraid
of him; I don’t mind being in a passion, but somehow or other I feel
like a slave. It seems no use. He treats everything one says, however
wise it is, as if a baby spoke it. Sometimes I think I shall go mad.”
She started up as she spoke, and walked impetuously to the window. When
she came back, she said, “And so, Aunt Jane, you really are thankful for
your life; and to me it seems _so_ dreary. I wish I could feel as you
do. No I don’t. I would not feel contented with anything but perfect
happiness for all the world. Do you never think life dreary.”
“Days come and go, my love, and every day brings its great blessings. I
have no right to be dreary. Just now I feel particularly thankful.”
“For what?” asked her niece, quickly--
“For my fall, my love. Its--”
“For your fall! I call that truly wicked; one must _bear_ pain, but I
don’t think we ever were intended to like it.”
“I was going to say, my love,” continued her Aunt, in the same placid
manner, “that my fall has brought me a great good; and so I am
thankful, very thankful, even for the fall--”
“What can you mean? what great good?”
“A new friend, my love, and a kind one. I will tell you how it
happened.--You know I slipped down in the mud, about twenty yards from
my door; I was half stunned when I fell, and I could not get up. I heard
little boys laughing; and I wondered how long I should lie there. It was
not very pleasant. Then I heard a nice voice say, ‘Don’t crowd so--be
off!’ and then I felt strong arms lift me up; and then the kind voice
said, ‘Where shall I carry you?’ so I just forced out ‘Number 7,’ for I
was very faint; and then I don’t know any more, till I found myself on
this sofa, and a young man standing by me. Kitty was there too; but
girls are so easily frightened, and he seemed sorry to see me with
nobody but a frightened girl; and he was very kind, and told her to get
some water; and then he went himself for the doctor, and came back, and
was very kind; and since then, I suppose, being sorry to see me all
alone, he has called two or three times; and yesterday he sat down for a
long time, and read me out of the papers about those dreadful riots.
Altogether, he is particularly kind.”
“He does seem kind, indeed,” said the young lady; and the gaze with
which she contemplated her aunt, though full of affection, seemed to own
that she was no attractive object of a young man’s benevolence. “That is
the kind of thing I like to hear of; most people are kind, only for
show, or for some selfish thing.”
“Oh! my love, how you speak--”
“I speak what I think; it is a vile world I live in: but as to this
young man, what sort of a young man is he? Is he young? and is he
good-looking?”
“Not very good-looking, my dear. That is not what _I_ call handsome,”
and she glanced about her room with a satisfied air, as if her pride
(poor humble thing) was in her taste. “His nose is too large, and his
eyebrows are rather fierce; but, then, his countenance is very pleasant,
and I thought his smile particularly sweet.”
“I like a large nose, and fierce eyebrows,” said her niece laughing:
“there are sense and meaning in them. I should like to see your young
man. Do you know what his name is?”
“He did send up a card one day, but I forget; it was Travers, I think;
no, not Travers, but Vavers. I know I thought of two Vs. Vavers, or
Vassour; no, that’s not it, because of the two Vs. I forget, I am sorry
to say.”
“Not Vavasour?” asked the young lady, with a slight blush, and a look of
curiosity.
“Yes, my love, that was it indeed. Do you know him?”
“Oh, no; only the name.” She fell into a meditation; and as she mused,
there passed over her countenance a furtive smile, arch and
mischievous. The fruit of her meditations appeared at last. “I should
like to see your young man, Aunt Jane. When will he come again?”
“On Friday next, my love, he said he would call again, if he possibly
could; and he was kind enough to say, that if there was anything
interesting in the papers, he would bring one with him.”
“I shall come to see him--that is, if I can. Now you are ill, I think
papa will not refuse to let me come. I felt quite ashamed, when you said
your friend seemed sorry to see you alone. And it _is_ a shame, when you
have a niece who could take care of you. I shall tell papa what I
think.”
“If he lets you come, my love, I shall be very grateful, but I shall not
expect it.”
“You may expect it, for I mean to come; but you must not be grateful,
because this once I am not coming to see _you_, but out of mere
curiosity. And now, good-bye.--My dear Aunt Jane, what a hateful cat! Is
that piece of work for your new friend?”
“My love, I would not take such a liberty for all the world. It is for
the grocer’s wife who has been very kind to me. She thought it a pretty
thing, and so did I.”
“I suppose it is well tastes differ in this world,” said her niece with
a smile, as she affectionately kissed her. “But how tastes come to be
what they are, is past my understanding.”