MISTS.
Therefore thine eye through mist of many days
Shines bright; and beauty, like a lingering rose,
Sits on thy cheek, and in thy laughter plays;
While wintry frosts have fallen on thy foes,
And, like a vale that breathes the western sky,
Thy heart is green, though summer is gone by.
F. TENNYSON.
Happy Aunt Kitty!--the centre, the confidante of so much love! Perhaps
her enjoyment was the most keen and pure of all, because the most free
from self--the most devoid of those cares for the morrow, which, after
besetting middle life, often so desert old age as to render it as free
and fresh as childhood. She had known the worst: she had been borne
through by heart-whole faith and love, she had seen how often frettings
for the future were vain, and experienced that anticipation is worse
than reality. Where there was true affection and sound trust, she
could not, would not, and did not fear for those she loved.
James went backwards and forwards in stormy happiness. He had come to
a comfortable understanding with old Mr. Mansell, who had treated him
with respect and cordiality from the first, giving him to understand
that Isabel's further expectations only amounted to a legacy of a
couple of thousands on his own death, and that meantime he had little
or no hope of helping him in his profession. He spoke of Isabel's
expensive habits, and the danger of her finding it difficult to adapt
herself to a small income; and though, of course, he might as well have
talked to the wind as to either of the lovers, his remonstrance was so
evidently conscientious as not to be in the least offensive, and Mr.
Frost Dynevor was graciously pleased to accept him as a worthy relation.
All was smooth likewise with Lady Conway. She and Mr. Mansell
outwardly appeared utterly unconscious of each other's proceedings,
remained on the most civil terms, and committed their comments and
explanations to Mrs. Mansell, who administered them according to her
own goodnatured, gossiping humour, and sided with whichever was
speaking to her. There was in Lady Conway much kindness and
good-humour, always ready to find satisfaction in what was inevitable,
and willing to see all at ease and happy around her--a quality which
she shared with Louis, and which rendered her as warm and even
caressing to 'our dear James' as if he had been the most welcome suitor
in the world; and she often sincerely congratulated herself on the
acquisition of a sensible gentleman to consult on business, and so
excellent a brother for Walter. It was not falsehood, it was real
amiability; and it was an infinite comfort in the courtship, especially
the courtship of a Pendragon. As to the two young sisters, their
ecstasy was beyond description, only alloyed by the grief of losing
Isabel, and this greatly mitigated by schemes of visits to Northwold.
The marriage was fixed for the end of November, so as to give time for
a little tranquillity before the commencement of James's new duties.
As soon as this intelligence arrived, Mrs. Frost removed herself, Mary,
and her goods into the House Beautiful, that No. 5 might undergo the
renovations which, poor thing! had been planned twenty years since,
when poor Henry's increasing family and growing difficulties had
decided her that she could 'do without them' one year more.
'Even should Miss Conway not like to keep house with the old woman,'
said she, by way of persuading herself she had no such expectation, 'it
was her duty to keep the place in repair.'
That question was soon at rest: Isabel would be but too happy to be
allowed to share her home, and truly James would hardly have attached
himself to a woman who could not regard it as a privilege to be with
the noble old lady. Clara was likewise to be taken home; Isabel
undertook to complete her education, and school and tuition were both
to be removed from the contemplation of the happy girl, whose letters
had become an unintelligible rhapsody of joy and affection.
Isabel had three thousand pounds of her own, which, with that valuable
freehold, Dynevor Terrace, James resolved should be settled on herself,
speaking of it with such solemn importance as to provoke the gravity of
those accustomed to deal with larger sums. With the interest of her
fortune he meant to insure his life, that, as he told Louis, with
gratified prudence, there might be no repetition of his own case, and
his family might never be a burden on any one.
The income of the school, with their former well-husbanded means, was
affluence for the style to which he aspired; and his grandmother,
though her menus plaisirs had once doubled her present revenue,
regarded it as the same magnificent advance, and was ready to launch
into the extravagance of an additional servant, and of fitting up the
long-disused drawing-room, and the dining-parlour, hitherto called the
school-room, and kicked and hacked by thirty years of boys. She and
Clara would betake themselves to their present little sitting-room, and
make the drawing-room pleasant and beautiful for the bride.
And in what a world of upholstery did not the dear old lady spend the
autumn months! How surpassingly happy was Jane, and how communicative
about Cheveleigh! and how pleased and delighted in little Charlotte's
promotion!
And Charlotte! She ought to have been happy, with her higher wages and
emancipation from the more unpleasant work, with the expectation of one
whom she admired so enthusiastically as Miss Conway, and, above all,
with the long, open-hearted, affectionate letter, which Miss Ponsonby
had put into her hand with so kind a smile. Somehow, it made her do
nothing but cry; she felt unwilling to sit down and answer it; and, as
if it were out of perverseness, when she was in Mrs. Martha's very
house, and when there was so much to be done, she took the most violent
fit of novel-reading that had ever been known; and when engaged in
working or cleaning alone, chanted dismal ballads of the type of
'Alonzo the brave and the fair Imogens,' till Mrs. Martha declared that
she was just as bad as an old dumbledore, and not worth half so much.
One day, however, Miss Ponsonby called her into her room, to tell her
that a parcel was going to Lima, in case she wished to send anything by
it. Miss Ponsonby spoke so kindly, and yet so delicately, and
Charlotte blushed and faltered, and felt that she must write now!
'I have been wishing to tell you, Charlotte,' added Mary, kindly, 'how
much we like Mr. Madison. There were some very undesirable people
among the passengers, who might easily have led him astray; but the
captain and mate both spoke to Lord Ormersfield in the highest terms of
his behaviour. He never missed attending prayers on the Sundays; and,
from all I could see, I do fully believe that he is a sincerely good,
religions man; and, if he keeps on as he has begun, I think you are
very happy in belonging to him.'
Charlotte only curtsied and thanked; but it was wonderful how those
kind, sympathizing words blew off at once the whole mists of nonsense
and fancy. Tom was the sound, good, religious man to whom her heart
and her troth were given; the other was no such thing, a mere
flatterer, and she had known it all along. She would never think of
him again, and she was sure he would not think of her. Truth had
dispelled all the fancied sense of hypocrisy and double-dealing: she
sat down and wrote to Tom as if Delaford had never existed, and
forthwith returned to be herself again, at least for the present.
Poor Mary! she might speak cheerfully, but her despatches were made up
with a trembling heart. Louis and Mary missed the security and
felicity that seemed so perfect with James and Isabel. In the first
place, nothing could be fixed without further letters, although the
Earl had tried to persuade Mary that her father had virtually forfeited
all claim to her obedience, and that she ought to proceed as if in fact
an orphan, and secure herself from being harassed by him, by hastening
her marriage. Of this she would not hear, and she was exceedingly
grateful to Louis for abstaining from pressing her, as well as for
writing to Mr. Ponsonby in terms against which no exception could be
taken.
Till secure of his consent, she would not consider her engagement as
more than conditional, nor consent to its being mentioned to any one.
If Isabel knew it, that was James's fault. Even the Faithfull sisters
were kept in ignorance; and she trusted thus to diminish the wrong that
she felt her secrecy to be doing to Aunt Melicent, who was so much
vexed and annoyed at her return, that she dreaded exceedingly the
effect of the knowledge of her engagement. Miss Ponsonby was convinced
that the news had been exaggerated, and insisted that but for Lord
Ormersfield's dislike, it would have been further sifted; and she wrote
to Mary to urge her coming to her to await the full tidings, instead of
delaying among her father's avowed enemies.
Mary settled this point by mentioning her promise to Mrs. Frost to
remain with her until her grandchildren should be with her; and Miss
Ponsonby's correspondence ceased after a dry, though still kind letter,
which did not make Mary more willing to bestow her confidence, but left
her feeling in her honest heart as if she were dealing insincerely by
Aunt Melicent.
The discretion and reserve rendered requisite by the concealment were
such as to be very tormenting even to so gentle a temper as that of
Louis, since they took from him all the privileges openly granted to
the cousin, and scarcely left him those of the friend. She, on whose
arm he had leant all last summer, would not now walk with him without
an escort, and, even with Mrs. Frost beside her, shrank from
Ormersfield like forbidden ground. Her lively, frank tone of playful
command had passed away; nay, she almost shrank from his confidence,
withheld her counsel, and discouraged his constant visits. He could
not win from her one of her broad, fearless comments on his past
doings; and in his present business, the taking possession of
Inglewood, the choice of stock, and the appointment of a bailiff,
though she listened and sympathized, and answered questions, she
volunteered no opinions, ahe expressed no wishes, she would not come to
see.
Poor Louis was often mortified into doubts of his own ability to
interest or make her happy; but he was very patient. If disappointed
one day, he was equally eager the next; he submitted obediently to her
restrictions, and was remorseful when he forgot or transgressed; and
they had real, soothing, comforting talks just often enough to be
tantalizing, and yet to convince him that all the other unsatisfactory
meetings and partings were either his own fault, or that of some
untoward circumstance.
He saw, as did the rest, that Mary's spirits had received a shock not
easily to be recovered. The loss of her mother was weighing on her
more painfully than in the first excitement; and the step her father
had taken, insulting her mother, degrading himself, and rending away
her veil of filial honour, had exceedingly overwhelmed and depressed
her; while sorrow hung upon her with the greater permanence and
oppression from her strong self-control, and dislike to manifestation.
All this he well understood; and, reverent to her feeling, he laid
aside all trifling, and waited on her mood with the tenderest
watchfulness. When she could bear it, they would dwell together on the
precious recollections of her mother; and sometimes she could even
speak of her father, and relate instances of his affection for herself,
and all his other redeeming traits of character; most thankful to Louis
for accepting him on her word, and never uttering one word of him which
she could wish unsaid.
What Louis did not see, was that the very force of her own affection
was what alarmed Mary, and caused her reserve. To a mind used to
balance and regulation, any sensation so mighty and engrossing appeared
wrong; and repressed as her attachment had been, it was the more
absorbing now that he was all that was left to her. Admiration,
honour, gratitude, old childish affection, and caressing elder-sisterly
protection, all flowed in one deep, strong current; but the very depth
made her diffident. She could imagine the whole reciprocated, and she
feared to be importunate. If the day was no better than a weary
turmoil, save when his voice was in her ear, his eyes wistfully bent on
her, the more carefully did she restrain all expression of hope of
seeing him to-morrow, lest she should be exacting and detain him from
projects of his own. If it was pride and delight to her to watch his
graceful, agile figure spring on horseback, she would keep herself from
the window, lest he should feel oppressed by her pursuing him; and when
she found her advice sought after as his law, she did not venture to
proffer it. She was uncomfortable in finding the rule committed to
her, and all the more because Lord Ormersfield, who had learnt to talk
to her so openly that she sometimes thought he confounded her with her
mother, used in all his schemes to appear to take it for granted that
she should share with him in the managing, consulting headship of the
house, leaving Louis as something to be cared for and petted like a
child, without a voice in their decisions. These conversations used to
make her almost jealous on Louis's account, and painfully recall some
of her mother's apprehensions.
That was the real secret source of all her discomfort--namely, the
misgiving lest she had been too ready to follow the dictates of her own
heart. Would her mother have been satisfied? Had not her fondness and
her desolation prevailed, where, for Louis's own sake, she should have
held back! Every time she felt herself the elder in heart, every time
she feared to have disappointed him, every time she saw that his
liveliness was repressed by her mournfulness, she feared that she was
letting him sacrifice himself. And still more did she question her
conduct towards her father. She had only gradually become aware of the
extent of the mutual aversion between him and the Earl; and Miss
Ponsonby's reproaches awakened her to the fear that she had too lightly
given credence to hostile evidence. Her affection would fain have
justified him; and, forgetting the difficulties of personal
investigation in such a case, she blamed herself for having omitted
herself to question the confidential clerk, and having left all to Lord
Ormersfield, who, cool and wary as he ordinarily was, would be less
likely to palliate Mr. Ponsonby's errors than those of any other
person. Her heart grew sick as she counted the weeks ere she could
hear from Lima.
None of her troubles were allowed to interfere with Mrs. Frost's peace.
Outwardly, she was cheerful and helpful; equable, though less lively.
Those carpets and curtains, tables and chairs, which were the grand
topics at the House Beautiful, were neither neglected nor treated with
resigned impatience. Mary's taste, counsel, and needle did good
service; her hearty interest and consideration were given to the
often-turned volume of designs for bedsteads, sofas, and
window-curtains; and Miss Mercy herself had hardly so many resources
for making old furniture new. Many of her happiest half-hours with
Louis were spent as she sewed the stiff slippery chintz, and he held
the curtain rings, while Aunt Catharine went to inspect the workmen,
and many a time were her cares forgotten, and her active spirits
resumed, while Louis acted carpenter under her directions, and
rectified errors of the workmen. It might not be poetical, but the
French sky-blue paper, covered with silvery fern-leaves, that Louis
took such pains to procure, and the china door-handles that he brought
over in his pockets, and the great map which Mary pasted over the
obstinate spot of damp in the vestibule, were the occasions of the
greatest blitheness and merriment that they shared together. Much did
they enjoy the prediction that James would not know his own house;
greatly did they delight in sowing surprises, and in obtaining Aunt
Catharine's never-failing start of well-pleased astonishment. Each
wedding present was an event;--Mr. Mansell's piano, which disconcerted
all previous designs; Lord Ormersfield's handsome plate; and many a
minor gift from old scholars, delighted to find an occasion when an
offering would not be an offence. Even Mr. Calcott gave a valuable
inkstand, in which Mrs. Frost and Louis beheld something of forgiveness.
Isabel had expressed a wish that Mary should be one of her bridesmaids.
A wedding was not the scene which poor Mary wished to witness at
present; but she saw Louis bent on having her with him, and would not
vex him by reluctance. He had also prevailed on his father to be
present, though the Earl was much afraid of establishing a precedent,
and being asked to act the part of father on future contingencies.
There was only one bride, as he told Louis, whom he could ever wish to
give away. However, that trouble was spared him by Mr. Mansell; but
still Louis would not let him off, on the plea that James's side of the
house should make as imposing a demonstration as possible.
Mrs. Frost was less manageable. Though warmly invited by the Conways,
and fondly entreated by her grandson, she shook her head, and said she
was past those things, and that the old mother always stayed at home to
cook the wedding dinner. She should hear all when Clara came home the
next day, and should be ready for the happy pair when they would return
for Christmas, after a brief stay at Thornton Conway, which Isabel
wished James to see, that he might share in all her old associations.
All the rest of the party journeyed to London on a November day; and,
in gaslight and gloom, they deposited Mary at her aunt's house in
Bryanston Square.
Gaslight was the staple of Hymen's torch the next morning. London was
under one of the fogs, of which it is popularly said you may cut them
with a knife. The church was in dim twilight; the bride and bridegroom
loomed through the haze, and the indistinctness made Clara's fine tall
figure appear quite majestic above the heads of the other bridesmaids.
The breakfast was by lamp-light, and the mist looked lurid and grim
over the white cake, and no one talked of anything but the comparative
density of fogs; and Mr. Mansell's asthma had come on, and his speech
was devolved upon Lord Ormersfield, to whom Louis had imprudently
promised exemption.
What was worse, Lady Conway had paired them off in the order of
precedence; and Louis was a victim to two dowagers, between whom he
could neither see nor speak to Mary. He was the more concerned,
because he had thought her looking depressed and avoiding his eye.
He tried to believe this caution, but he thought she was also eluding
his father, and her whole air gave him a vague uneasiness. The whole
party were to dine with Lady Conway; and, trusting in the meantime to
discover what was on her spirits, he tried to resign himself to the
order of the day, without a farther glimpse of her.
When the married pair took leave, Walter gave his sister a great hug,
but had no perception of his office of handing her downstairs; and it
was Fitzjocelyn who gave her his arm, and put her into the carriage,
with an augury that the weather would be beautiful when once they had
left the fog in London.
She smiled dreamily, and repeated, 'beautiful,' as though all were so
beautiful already to her that she did not so much as perceive the fog.
James pressed his hand, saying, 'I am glad you are to be the one to be
happy next.'
'You do not look so,' said Clara, earnestly.
The two sisters had come partly downstairs, but their London habits had
restrained them from following to the street-door, as Clara had done;
and now they had rushed up again, while Clara, with one foot on the
staircase, looked in her cousin's face, as he tried to smile in answer,
and repeated, 'Louis, I hoped you were quite happy.'
'I am,' said Louis, quickly.
'Then why do you look so grave and uneasy?'
'Louis!' said an entreating voice above, and there stood Mary--'Pray
say nothing, but call a cab for me, please. No, I am not ill--indeed,
I am not--but I cannot stay!'
'You look ill! It has been too much for you! Clara, take her--let her
lie down quietly,' cried Louis, springing to her side.
'Oh no, thank you-no,' said Mary, decidedly, though very low; 'I told
Lady Conway that I could not stay. I settled it with Aunt Melicent.'
'That aunt of yours--'
'Hush! No, it is for my own sake--my own doing. I cannot bear it any
longer! Please let me go!'
'Then I will take you. I saw the brougham waiting. We will go quietly
together.'
'No, that must not be.'
'I was thoughtless in urging you to come. The turmoil has been too
much. My poor Mary! That is what comes of doing what I like instead
of what you like. Why don't you always have your own way? Let me
come; nay, if you will not, at least let Clara go with you, and come
back.'
Mary roused herself at last to speak, as she moved downstairs--'You
need not think of me; there is nothing the matter with me. I promised
Aunt Melicent to come home. She is very kind--it is not that.'
'You must not tell me not to think. I shall come to inquire. I shall
be with you the first thing tomorrow.'
'Yes, you must come to-morrow,' said Mary, in a tone he could not
interpret, and a tight lingering grasp on his hand, as he put her into
his father's carriage.
He stood hesitating for a moment as it drove off; then, instead of
entering the house, walked off quickly in the same direction.
Clara had stood all the time like a statue on the stairs, waiting to
see if she were wanted, and gazing intently, with her fingers clasped.
When both were gone she drew a long breath, and nodded with her head,
whispering to herself, in a grave and critical voice--'That is love!'
She did not see Fitzjocelyn again till nearly dinner-time; and, as he
caught her anxious interrogating eye, he came to her and said, very
low, 'I was not let in; Miss Ponsonby was engaged. Miss Mary lying
down--I believe they never told her I was there.'
'It is all that aunt--horrid woman!'
'Don't talk of it now. I _will_ see her to-morrow.'
Clara grieved for him whenever she saw him called on to exert himself
to talk; and she even guarded him from the sallies of his young
cousins. Once, when much music and talk was going on, he came and sat
by her, and made her tell him how fondly and affectionately she had
parted with her schoolfellows; and how some of her old foes had become,
as she hoped, friends for life; but she saw his eye fixed and absent
even while she spoke, and she left off suddenly. 'Go on,' he said, 'I
like to hear;' and with a manifest effort he bent his mind to attend.
'Oh!' thought Clara, as she went up that night--'why will the days one
most expects to be happy turn out so much otherwise? However, he will
manage to tell me all about it when he and his father take me home
to-morrow.'