THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.
This Valley is that from whence also the King will give to His their
Vineyards; and they that go through it shall sing, as Christian did,
for all he met with Apollyon.--Pilgrim's Progress.
The close of the session still found Lord Ormersfield so stiff, bent,
and suffering, that Louis with some difficulty persuaded him into
trying the experiment of foreign baths, and in a few weeks' time they
were both established at the Hotel du Grand Monarque at Aix-la-Chapelle.
The removing his son to a dull watering-place, when he had so many
avocations at home, had been a great vexation to the Earl; but he was
delighted at the versatile spirits which made a holiday and delight of
the whole, and found an endless fund of interest and occupation even in
his attendance on the wearisome routine of health-seeking. German
books, natural history, the associations of the place, and the
ever-fresh study of the inhabitants and the visitors, were food enough
for his lively conversation; and the Earl, inspirited by improving
health, thought he had never enjoyed his son so much.
They were already old inhabitants of their hotel, when one afternoon
they were much amused by finding a consequential courier gesticulating
vehemently to the whole establishment on the apartments he was to
secure for a superb Milord Anglais, who seemed to require half the
hotel. Their sitting-room, overlooking the court, was especially
coveted, and the landlord even followed them upstairs with many excuses
to ask if they could exchange it for another for only two days. Lord
Ormersfield's negative had all the exceeding politeness of offended
dignity; and Louis was much amused at the surmises, with which he
consoled himself, that this was nothing but some trumpery speculator,
most likely a successful quack doctor--no one else went about in such a
style.
In a grave, grand way, he was not a little curious, and took care to
place himself where he could command a view of the court; while Louis,
making no secret of his own amusement, worked up an excitement to
entertain his father, and stood watching at the window.
'Crack! crack! there are the postilion's whips! Now for the Grand
Monarque himself--thundering under the archway! Why, there are only
two of them, after all!--a lady and a little yellow old man! Father,
you are right after all--he is the very pattern of a successful quack!
How tall the lady is! Halloo!' and he stood transfixed for a moment,
then sprang to the door, replying to his father's astonished
question--'Clara! Clara Dynevor!'
The party were in course of proceeding up the principal staircase--the
tall figure of a young lady in mourning moving on with so stately, so
quiet, and almost weary a manner, that Louis for a moment drew back,
doubting whether the remarkable height had not deceived him. Her head
was turned away, and she was following the host, scarcely exerting
herself to gaze round, when she came close to the open door, where
Louis moved slightly forwards. There was a little ecstatic shriek, and
both her hands were clasped in his, while her face was glowing with
animation and delight.
'I don't know how to believe it!' she said; 'can you be here?'
'We are curing my father. Had you not heard of his illness?'
'I hear nothing,' said Clara, sadly, as she held out her hand to Lord
Ormersfield, who had also come to meet her; and her uncle, who followed
close behind, was full of cordial rejoicings on the encounter.
There was Jane Beckett also, whom Louis next intercepted on her way to
the bedrooms, laden with bags, and smiling most joyously to see him.
'To be sure, my young Lord! And your papa here too, my Lord! Well!
who'll be coming abroad next, I wonder?'
'I wonder at nothing since I have met you here, Jane.'
'And I am right glad of it, my Lord. You'll cheer up poor Miss Clara a
bit, I hope--for--Bless me! wont those Frenchmen never learn to carry
that box right side up?'
And off rushed Jane to a never-ending war of many tongues in defence of
Clara's finery; while Louis, following into the sitting-room, found Mr.
Dynevor inviting his father to the private dinner which he had ordered
for greater dignity.
The proposal was accepted for the sake of spending the evening
together, but little was thus gained; for, excepting for that one
little scream, Louis would hardly have felt himself in the company of
his Giraffe. She had become a very fine-looking person, not quite
handsome, but not many degrees from it, and set off by profuse hair,
and every advantage of figure and dress; while her manner was
self-possessed and formal, indifferent towards ordinary people, but
warm and coaxing towards her uncle. Blunt--almost morose to others--he
was fondling and affectionate towards her; continually looking at the
others as if to claim admiration of her, appealing to her every moment,
and even when talking himself, his keen eye still seeming to watch
every word or gesture.
The talk was all Switzerland and Italy--routes and pictures, mountains
and cathedrals--all by rote, and with no spirit nor heart in the
discussion--not a single word coming near home, nothing to show that
Dynevor Terrace had any existence. Louis bade Clara good-night,
mortified at the absence of all token of feeling for her brother, and
more than half repenting his advice to remain with her uncle. How
could the warm-hearted girl have become this cold, haughty being,
speaking by mechanism? He scarcely felt inclined to see her again; but
early the next morning, as he was at breakfast with his father, there
was a knock at the door, and a voice said, 'May I come in?' and as
Louis opened, there stood the true Clara, all blushes and abruptness.
'I beg your pardon if it is wrong,' she said, 'but I could not help it.
I must hear of him--of James.'
Lord Ormersfield welcomed her in an almost fatherly manner, and made
her sit down, telling her that she had come at a good moment, since
Louis had just received a letter; but he feared that it was not a very
good account of Isabel.
'Isabel! Is anything the matter?'
'You are behindhand. Had you not heard of the arrival of number four?'
'I never hear anything,' said Clara, her eyes overflowing.
'Ha! not since we last met?' asked the Earl.
'They wrote once or twice; but you know they thought me wrong, and it
has all died away since I went abroad. The last letter I had was dated
in November.'
'You know nothing since that time!'
'No; I often thought of writing to Miss Faithfull, but I could not bear
to show how it was, since they would not answer me. So I made bold to
come to you, for I cannot ask before my uncle. He is quite passionate
at the very name.'
'He is kind to you?' asked Lord Ormersfield, hastily.
'Most kind, except for that, the only thing I care about. But you have
a letter! Oh! I am famishing to hear of them!'
She did not even know of the loss of the school; and her distress was
extreme as she heard of their straits. 'It must be killing Isabel,'
she said; 'if I could but be at home to work for her!'
'Isabel has come out beyond all praise,' said Louis. 'I am afraid
there is much for them to undergo; but I do believe they are much
happier in the midst of it.'
'Everybody must be happy in Dynevor Terrace,' said Clara.
Louis shook his head and smiled, adding, 'But, Clara, I do believe, if
it were to come over again, Jem would hardly act in the same way.'
'Do you think he has forgiven me?'
'Judge for yourself.'
Her hand trembling, she caught at the well-known handwriting that to
her seemed as if it could hardly be the property of any one else; and
it was well for her that Louis had partly prepared her for the tone of
depression, and the heavy trials it revealed, when she had been
figuring to herself the writer enjoying all the felicity from which she
was banished.
'No. 5, Dynevor Terrace, Sept. 14th, 1851.
'Dear Fitzjocelyn,--I ought to have written yesterday; but I took the
whole duty at Ormersfield on Sunday, and was too lazy the next day to
do more than keep the children out of the way, and look after Isabel;
for, though I am told not to be uneasy, she does not regain strength as
she has done before. Over-exertion, or bad nursing, one or both, tell
upon her; and I wish we may not have too dear a bargain in the nurse
whom she chose for cheapness' sake. My lectures were to have paid the
expenses, but the author's need is not always the first consideration;
the money will not be forthcoming till Christmas, and meantime we
cannot launch out. However, Ormersfield partridges are excellent fare
for Isabel, and I could return thanks for the abundant supply that
would almost seem disproportionate; but you can guess the value as
substantial comforts. A box of uneatable grouse from Beauchastel,
carriage twelve shillings, was a cruel subject of gratitude; but those
good people mean more kindly than I deserve; and when Isabel is well
again, we shall rub on. This little one promises more resemblance to
her than the others. We propose to call her Frances, after my poor
mother and sister. Do you remember the thrill of meeting their names
in Cheveleigh church? That memorial was well done of my uncle. If
these children were to be left as we were, you would, I know, be their
best friend; but I have a certain desire to see your own assurance to
that effect. Don't fancy this any foreboding, but four daughters bind
a man to life, and I sometimes feel as if I hardly deserved to see good
days. If I am spared to bring up these children, I hope to make them
understand the difference between independence and pride.
'I have been looking back on my life; I have had plenty of time during
these months of inaction, which I begin to see were fit discipline.
Till Holdsworth left his parish under my charge the other day for six
weeks, I have exercised no office of my ministry, as you know that Mr.
Purvis's tone with me cut me off from anything that could seem like
meddling with him. I never felt more grateful to any man than I did
when Holdsworth made the proposal. It was as if my penance were
accepted for the spirit against which you too justly warned me before
my Ordination. Sunday was something between a very sorrowful and a
very happy day.
'I did not see the whole truth at first. I was only aware of my
unhappy temper, which had provoked the immediate punishment; but the
effort (generally a failure) to prevent my irritability from adding to
the distresses I had brought on my poor wife, opened my eyes to much
that I had never understood. Yet I had presumed to become an
instructor--I deemed myself irreproachable!
'I believe the origin of the whole was, that I never distinguished a
fierce spirit of self-exaltation from my grandmother's noble resolution
to be independent. It was a demon which took the semblance of good,
and left no room for demons of a baser sort. Even as a boy at the
Grammar-school, I kept out of evil from the pride of proving myself
gentlemanly under any circumstances; the motive was not a bit better
than that which made me bully you. I can never remember being without
an angry and injured feeling that my uncle's neglect left my
grandmother burdened, and obliged me to receive an inferior education;
and with this, a certain hope that he would never put himself in the
right, nor lay me under obligations. You saw how this motive actuated
me, when I never discerned it. I trust that I was not insincere, though
presumptuous and self-deceiving I was to an extent which I can only
remember with horror. If it approached to sacrilege, may the wilful
blindness be forgiven! At least, I knew it not; and with all my heart
I meant to fulfil the vows I had taken on me. Thus, when my uncle
actually returned, there was a species of revengeful satisfaction in
making my profession interfere with his views, when he had made it the
only one eligible for me. How ill I behaved--how obstinately I set
myself against all mediation--how I wrapped myself in
self-approval--you know better than I do. My conceit, and absurdity,
and thanklessness, have risen up before me; and I remember offers that
would have involved no sacrifice of my clerical obligations--offers
that I would not even consider--classing them all as 'mere truckling
with my conscience.' What did I take for a conscience?
'Ever since, things have gone from bad to worse, grieving my dear
grandmother's last year, and estranging me from my poor little sister
because she would not follow my dictation. At last my sins brought
down the penalty, and I would not grieve except for the innocent who
suffer with me. Perhaps, but for them, I should never have felt it.
Nor do I feel tempted to murmur; for there is a strange peace with us
throughout, in spite of a sad heart and too many explosions of my
miserable temper, and the sight of the hardships so bravely met by my
dear wife. But for all this, I should never have known what she is!
She whispered to me last evening, when she saw me looking tired and
depressed, that she had no fears for the future, for this had been the
happiest year of her life. Nothing can make her forget to soothe me!
'I have written a long rigmarole all about myself; but an outpouring is
sometimes a relief, and you have borne with me often enough to do so
now. My poor Clara's pardon, and some kind of clerical duty, are my
chief wishes; but my failures in the early part of the year have taught
me how unworthy I am to stir a step in soliciting anything of the kind.
Did I tell you how some ten of the boys continue to touch their hats to
me? and Smith, the butcher's son, often comes to borrow a book, and
consult me on some of the difficulties that his father throws in his
way. He is a fine fellow, and at least I hope that my two years at the
school did him no harm. I was much impressed with the orderliness at
Ormersfield Sunday-school. I wish I could have got half as much
religious knowledge into my poor boys. I walked through your turnips
in the South field, and thought they wanted rain. Frampton tells me
the Inglewood harvest is in very good condition; but I will see the
bailiff, and give you more particulars, when I can be better spared
from home for a few hours. Kitty's assistance in writing has
discomposed these last few lines.
'Yours ever,
'J.R.F.D.'
Clara turned away and groaned aloud several times as she read; but all
she said, as she gave it back to Louis, was, 'What is to be done? You
must talk to my uncle.'
'Ah, Clara! young gentlemen of the nineteenth century make but a bad
hand of the part of benevolent fairy.'
'I don't think my speaking would be of any use,' said Clara. 'Oh, if
this only would have been a boy!'
Lord Ormersfield undertook to sound Mr. Dynevor, and found an early
opportunity of asking whether he had heard of poor James's misfortune.
Yes, he had known it long ago. No wonder, with such a temper. Kept it
from the child, though. Would not have her always hankering after them.
Was he aware of his great distress and difficulties? Ha, ha! thought
so! Fine lady wife! No end of children--served him right!--to bring
down his pride.
Lord Ormersfield hazarded a hint that James had seen his errors, and
the school was no longer in the way.
'No, no!' said Oliver. 'Too late now. Drink as he has brewed. He
should have thought twice before he broke my poor mother's heart with
his cantankerous ways. Cheveleigh beneath him, forsooth! I'm not
going to have it cut up for a lot of trumpery girls! I've settled the
property and whatever other pickings there may be upon my little
Clara--grateful, and worthy of it! Her husband shall take Dynevor name
and arms--unless, to be sure, he had a title of his own. The girl was
much admired at Rome last winter, had a fair offer or two, but not a
word will she say to any of them. I can't tell what's in her head, not
I!'
And he looked knowingly at Lord Ormersfield, and willingly extended his
stay at Aix-la-Chapelle, letting Fitzjocelyn organize expeditions from
thence to Liege and other places in the neighbourhood.
The two cousins were so glad to be together, and the Earl so much
pleased that Louis should have anything which gave him so much delight
as this meeting with his old playfellow, that he did all in his power
to facilitate and prolong their intercourse. He often sacrificed
himself to Oliver's prosings on the Equatorial navigation, that the two
young people might be at liberty; and he invited Clara to their early
breakfast and walk before her uncle wanted her in the morning. These
were Clara's times of greatest happiness, except that it gave her a new
and strange sensation to be talked to by his lordship like a
grown-up--nay, a sensible woman. Once she said to herself, laughing,
'He really treats me almost as if I were poor Mary herself.' And then
came another flash: 'Perhaps he would even like me on the same terms!'
And then she laughed again, and shook her head: 'No, no, my Lord, your
son is much too good for that! Uncle Oliver would not have looked so
benignant at us when we were sitting in the gardens last night, if he
had known that I was giving Louis all my Lima letters. I wish they
were more worth having! It was very stupid of me not to know Mary
better, so that we write like two old almanacs. However, my letter
from hence will be worth its journey to Peru.'
Clara's heart was several degrees lighter, both from the pleasure of
the meeting and a suggestion of the Earl's, upon which she had at once
acted, and which seemed, even as she laid pen to paper, to bring her
somewhat nearer to her brother.
Her letter arrived at No. 5, on the next Monday morning at
breakfast-time. It did not at first attract the attention of James.
The Sunday exertions had again left a mental and physical lassitude,
showing how much care and privation had told upon his strength; and
Isabel's still tardy convalescence weighed him down with anxiety for
the future, and almost with despair, as he thought of the comforts for
want of which she suffered, though so patiently and silently dispensing
with them. To his further vexation, he had, on the previous Saturday,
seen Charlotte receiving at the back-door an amount of meat beyond her
orders; and, having checked himself because too angry and too much
grieved to speak at once, had reserved the reproof for the Monday, when
Charlotte brought in her book of petty disbursements.
Failing to detect the obnoxious item, he said, 'Where's the account of
the meat that came in on Saturday?'
'There, sir!' said Charlotte, indicating the legitimate amount, but
blushing violently.
'That was not all?' he said, with a look of stern, interrogation.
'Oh! if you please, sir, that was nothing!'
'This will not do, Charlotte! I can have nothing taken into my house
without being paid for. I insist on knowing what you could mean?'
'Oh, sir!' tearfully exclaimed the girl, 'it is paid for--I'll show you
the account, if you will--with my own money. I'd not have had you hear
of it for the world; but I could not bear that nurse's insinuations
about her meat five times a-day--she that never nursed nothing like a
real lady before! But I meant no harm, sir; and I hope you'll excuse
the liberty, for I did not mean to take none; and I'm sure I'm quite
contented for my own part, nor never meant to complain.'
'I know you did not, Charlotte! You are only too patient and kind--'
But his voice broke down, and he was forced silently to sign to her to
leave him.
'Can humiliation go farther!' he thought. 'My boasted independence
ending in this poor, faithful servant being stung, by the sneers of
this hired woman, into eking out her scanty meals with her own
insufficient wages!'
Little Catharine, who had been gazing with dilated black eyes, came
scrambling on his knee to caress him, perceiving that he was grieved.
'Ah! Kitty, Kitty!' he said, 'it is well that you are too young to
feel these troubles!'
'Papa! letter!' cried Kitty, waving the unregarded letter in the
triumph of discovery.
'The Reverend James Frost.' It was the writing formed by his own
copies, which he could not see without a sharp pang of self-reproach
for cruel injustice and unkindness.
Kitty slid down with the empty envelope to act reading to the twins,
whom she caught by turns as they crawled away, and set up straight
before her. Her operations and their remonstrances, though as loud as
they were inarticulate, passed utterly unheard and unheeded by their
father, as he read:--
'Hotel du Grand Monarque. Aix-la-Chapelle,
Sept. 18th.
'My Dearest James,--As a mere matter of honesty and justice, I may
venture to write to you. You always accepted from dear grandmamma the
income from the money in the Stocks. I did not know that half of it
has since come to me, till Lord Ormersfield paid me this last year's
dividend; and if you will not have his enclosed cheque for it, put it
in the fire, for I will never have it in any form. It is not my
uncle's, but my own; and if you would make me very happy, write to me
here. You must not suppose that I am trying to buy a letter; but I
look on this as yours, and I thought you had it till Lord Ormersfield
told me about it. We met him and Louis quite unexpectedly--the best
thing that has happened to me for years, though they told me much that
grieves me exceedingly--but I cannot write about it till I know that I
may. Tell me of dear Isabel and the babes. My heart yearns after
them! it would leap up at the sight of a stone from the Terrace!
'Your ever affectionate
'Clara.'
His first impulse was, as though he feared to repent, to turn to his
desk, the tears of feeling still in his eyes, and dash off these
words:--
'Your bounty, my dearest sister, is scarcely less welcome than the
forgiving spirit which prompted it. I will not conceal that I was
sorely in need of means to supply Isabel with the comforts that she
requires. That your affection can survive my treatment last year,
makes me equally grateful to you and ashamed of what then took place.'
He scarcely dared to look upon those phrases. Great as were his needs,
and kindly as the proffer was made, it was new and painful to him to be
under any such obligation, and he could hardly bend his spirit to know
that never again should he be able to feel that he had never been
beholden for money to a living creature. And while he felt it due to
his sister to own the full extent of the benefit, he weighed his words
as he wrote on, lest the simplest facts should look like a craving for
further assistance.
Charlotte came up to remove the breakfast, and he looked up to give an
order for some nourishing dainty for her mistress, adding, 'What did
that mutton come to? No, I am not displeased with you, but Miss Clara
has sent me some money.'
His assurance was needed, for Charlotte went down thinking she had
never seen master look so stern. He had spoken from a sense that the
truth was due to the generous girl, but each word had been intense
pain. He wrote on, often interrupted by little riots among the
children, and finally by a sharp contention, the twins having possessed
themselves of a paper-knife, which Kitty, with precocious notions of
discipline, considered as forbidden; and little Mercy was rapped over
the fingers in the struggle. The roar brought down interference, and
Kitty fell into disgrace; but when, after long persuasion, she was
induced to yield the paper-cutter, kiss and make friends, Mercy,
instead of embracing, locked her fingers into her dark curls, and
tugged at them in a way so opposite to her name, that all Kitty's
offence was forgotten in her merit for stopping her scream half-way at
the sight of her father's uplifted finger, and his whisper of 'Poor
mamma!'
That life of worry and baby squabbles, the reflection of his own
faults, was hard to bear; and with a feeling of seeking a refuge, when
the two little ones had fallen into their noonday sleep, and were left
with their mother to the care of good Miss Mercy, he set out for some
parish work at Ormersfield, still taking with him little Kitty, whose
quicksilver nature would never relieve her elders by a siesta.
He was afraid to speak to Isabel until he should have composed himself,
and, harassed and weary in spirits and in frame, he walked slowly, very
sore at the domestic discovery, and scarcely feeling the diminution of
the immediate pressure in the new sense of degradation. He could own
that it was merited, and was arguing with himself that patience and
gratitude were the needful proofs that the evil temper had been
expelled. He called back his thankfulness for his wife's safety, his
children's health, the constancy of his kind friends, and the
undeserved ardour of his young sister's affection, as well as poor
little Charlotte's unselfishness. The hard exasperated feeling that
once envenomed every favour, and barbed every dart that wounded him,
was gone; he could own the loving kindness bestowed on him, both from
Heaven and by man, and began to find peace and repose in culling the
low fragrant blossoms which cheered even the Valley of Humiliation.
He turned down the shady lane, overhung by the beech-trees of Mr.
Calcott's park, and as he lifted Kitty in his arms to allow her the
robin-redbreast, he did not feel out of tune with the bird's sweet
autumnal notes, nor with the child's merry little voice, but each
refreshed his worn and contrite spirit.
The sound of hoofs approaching made him turn his head; and while Kitty
announced 'horse!' and 'man!' he recognised Mr. Calcott, and felt
abashed, and willing to find a retreat from the meeting; but there was
no avoiding it, and he expected, as usual, to be passed with a bow; but
the Squire slackened his pace as he overtook him, and called out,
good-humouredly, 'Ha, Mr. Frost, good morning' (once it would have been
Jem). 'I always know you by the little lady on your shoulder. I was
intending to call on you this afternoon on a little business; but if
you will step up to the house with me, I shall be much obliged.'
James's heart beat thick with undefined hope; but, after all, it might
be only to witness some paper. After what had occurred, and Mrs.
Calcott considering herself affronted by Isabel, bare civility was
forgiveness; and he walked up the drive with the Squire, who had
dismounted, and was inquiring with cordial kindness for Mrs. Frost, yet
with a little awkwardness, as if uncertain on what terms they stood,
more as if he himself were to blame than the young clergyman.
Arriving at the house, James answered for his little girl's absence of
shyness, and she was turned over to the Miss Calcotts, while the Squire
conducted him to the study, and began with hesitation and something of
apology--'It had struck him--it was not worth much--he hardly liked to
propose it, and yet till something better should turn up--anything was
better than doing nothing.' To which poor James heartily agreed. The
board of guardians, where Mr. Calcott presided, were about to elect a
chaplain to the union workhouse; the salary would be only fifty pounds,
but if Mr. Frost would be willing to offer himself, it would be a great
blessing to the inmates, and there would be no opposition.
Mr. Calcott, making the proposal from sincere goodwill, but with some
dread how the Pendragon blood would receive it, was absolutely
astounded by the effect.
Fifty pounds additional per annum was a boon only to be appreciated
after such a pinching year as the past; the gratitude for the old
Squire's kind pardon was so strong, and the blessing of re-admission to
pastoral work touched him so deeply, that, in his weakened and dejected
state, he could not restrain his tears, nor for some moments utter a
word. At last he said, 'Oh, Mr. Calcott, I have not deserved this at
your hands.'
'There, there,' said the Squire, trying to laugh it off, though he too
became husky, 'say no more about it. It is a poor thing, and can't be
made better; but it will be a real kindness to us to look after the
place.'
'Let me say thus much,' said James, 'for I cannot be at peace till I
have done so--I am aware that I acted unjustifiably in that whole
affair, both when elected and dismissed.'
'No, no, don't let's go over that again!' said Mr. Calcott, in dread of
a scene. 'An over-ardent friend may be a misfortune, and you were very
young. Not that I would have taken your resignation if it had been
left to me, but the world is grown mighty tender. I dare say you never
flogged a boy like what I underwent fifty years ago, and was the better
for it,' and he launched into some frightful old-world stories of the
like inflictions, hoping to lead away from personalities, but James was
resolved to say what was on his mind. 'It was not severity,' he said,
'it was temper. I richly deserved some portion of the rebuke, and it
would have been well for me if that same temper had allowed me to
listen to you, sir, or to reason.'
'Well,' said Mr. Calcott, kindly, 'you think very rightly about the
matter, and a man of six-and-twenty has time to be wiser, as I tell
Mrs. Calcott, when Sydney treats us to some of his theories. And now
you have said your say, you must let me say mine, and that is, that
there are very few young couples--aye, or old ones--who would have had
the sense to go on as you are doing, fighting it out in your own
neighbourhood without nonsense or false shame. I honour you and Mrs.
Frost for it, both of you!'
James coloured deeply. He could have found commendation an
impertinence, but the old Squire was a sort of patriarch in the county,
and appreciation of Isabel's conduct must give him pleasure. He
stammered something about her having held up wonderfully, and the
salary being an immense relief, and then took refuge in matter-of-fact
inquiries on his intended functions.
This lasted till nearly half-past one, and Mr. Calcott insisted on his
staying to luncheon. He found the ladies greatly amused with their
little guest--a very small, but extremely forward and spirited child,
not at all pretty, with her brown skin and womanly eyes, but looking
most thoroughly a lady, even in her little brown holland frock, and
white sun-bonnet, her mamma's great achievement. Neither shy nor
sociable, she had allowed no one to touch her, but had entrenched
herself in a corner behind a chair, through the back of which she
answered all civilities, with more self-possession than distinctness,
and convulsed the party with laughing, when they asked if she could
play at bo-peep, by replying that 'the children did.' She sprang from
her place of refuge to his knee as soon as he entered, and occupied
that post all luncheon time, comporting herself with great discretion.
There was something touching in the sight of the tenderness of the
young father, taking off her bonnet, and settling her straggling curls
with no unaccustomed hands; and Mrs. Calcott's heart was moved, as she
remarked his worn, almost hollow cheeks, his eyes still quick, but sunk
and softened, his figure spare and thin, and even his dress not without
signs of poverty; and she began making kind volunteers of calling on
Mrs. Frost, nor were these received as once they would have been.
'He is the only young man,' said Mr. Calcott, standing before the fire,
with his hands behind him, as soon as the guest had departed, 'except
his cousin at Ormersfield, whom I ever knew to confess that he had been
mistaken. That's the difference between them and the rest, not
excepting your son Sydney, Mrs. Calcott.'
Mamma and sisters cried in chorus, that Sydney had no occasion for such
confessions.
The Squire gave his short, dry laugh, and repeated that 'Jem Frost and
young Fitzjocelyn differed from other youths, not in being right but in
being wrong.'
On which topic Mrs. Calcott enlarged, compassionating poor Mr. Frost
with a double quantity of pity for his helpless beauty of a fine
lady-wife; charitably owning, however, that she really seemed improved
by her troubles. She should have thought better of her if she had not
kept that smart housemaid, who looked so much above her station, and
whom the housekeeper had met running about the lanes in the dark, the
very night when Mr. Frost was so ill.
'Pshaw! my dear,' said her husband, 'cannot you let people be judges of
their own affairs?'
It was what he had said on the like occasions for the last thirty
years; but Mrs. Calcott was as wise as ever in other folks' matters.
The fine lady-wife had meanwhile been arranging a little surprise for
her husband. She was too composed to harass herself at his not
returning at midday, she knew him and Kitty to be quite capable of
taking care of each other, and could imagine him detained by parish
work, and disposing of the little maiden with Betty Gervas, or some
other Ormersfield friend, but she had thought him looking fagged and
worried, she feared his being as tired as he had been on the Sunday,
and she could not bear that he should drink tea uncomfortably in the
study, tormented by the children. So she had repaired to the parlour,
and Miss Mercy, after many remonstrances, had settled her there; and
when the good little lady had gone home to her sister's tea, Isabel lay
on the sofa, wrapped in her large soft shawl, languidly attempting a
little work, and feeling the room dreary, and herself very weak, and
forlorn, and desponding, as she thought of James's haggard face, and
the fresh anxieties that would be entailed on him if she should become
sickly and ailing. The tear gathered on her eyelash as she said to
herself, 'I would not exert myself when I could; perhaps now I cannot,
when I would give worlds to lighten one of his cares!' And then she
saw one little bit of furniture standing awry, in the manner that used
so often to worry his fastidious eye; and, in the spirit of doing
anything to please him, she moved across the room to rectify it, and
then sat down in the large easy chair, wearied by the slight exertion,
and becoming even more depressed and hopeless; 'though,' as she told
herself, 'all is sure to be ordered well. The past struggle has been
good--the future will be good if we can but treat it rightly.'
Just as the last gleams were fading on the tops of the Ormersfield
coppices, she heard the hall-door, and James's footstep; and it was
more than the ordinary music of his 'coming up the stair;' there was a
spring and life in it that thrilled into her heart, and glanced in her
eye, as she sat up in her chair, to welcome him with no forced smile.
And as he came in with a pleased exclamation, his voice had no longer
the thin, worn sound, as if only resolute resignation prevented
peevishness; there was a cheerfulness and solidity in the tone, as he
came fondly to her side, regretted having missed her first appearance,
and feared she had been long alone.
'Oh, no; but I was afraid you would be so tired! Carrying Kitty all
the way, too! But you look so much brighter.'
'I am brighter,' said James. 'Two things have happened for which I
ought to be very thankful. My dear, can you bear to be wife to the
chaplain of the Union at fifty pounds a-year!'
'Oh! have you something to do? cried Isabel; 'I am so glad! Now we
shall be a little more off your mind. And you will do so much good! I
have heard Miss Mercy say how much she wished there were some one to
put those poor people in the right way.'
'Yes; I hope that concentrated earnestness of attention may do
something to make up for my deficiency in almost every other
qualification,' said James. 'At least, I feel some of the importance
of the charge, and never was anything more welcome.'
'And how did it happen?'
'People are more forgiving than I could have hoped. Mr. Calcott has
offered me this, in the kindest way; and as if that were not enough,
see what poor little Clara says.'
'Poor little Clara!' said Isabel, reading the letter; 'you don't mean
to disappoint her!'
'I should be a brute if I did. No; I wrote to her this morning to thank
her for her pardoning spirit.'
'You should have told me; I should like to send her my love. I am glad
she has not quite forgotten us, though she mistook the way to her own
happiness.'
'Isabel! unless I were to transport you to Cheveleigh a year ago,
nothing would persuade you of my utter wrong-headedness.'
'Nor that, perhaps,' said Isabel, with a calm smile.
'Not my having brought you to be grateful for the Union chaplaincy?'
'Not if you had brought me to the Union literally,' said Isabel,
smiling. 'Indeed, dear James, I think we have both been so much the
better and happier for this last year, that I would not have been
without it for any consideration; and if any mistakes on your part led
to it, they were mistakes on the right side. Don't shake your head,
for you know they were what only a good man could have made.'
'That may be all very well for a wife to believe!'
And the rest of the little dispute was concluded, as Charlotte came
smiling up with the tea.