FAREWELL TO GREATNESS.
Soon from the halls my fathers reared
Their scutcheons must descend.
Scott
Mr. Holdsworth contrived to set James at liberty for a fortnight, and
he was thus enabled to watch over the negotiation, and expedite matters
for the removal. The result was, that the resignation of the estate,
furniture, and of Clara's jewels, honourably cleared off the debts
contracted in poor Mr. Dynevor's eagerness to reinstate the family in
all its pristine grandeur, and left him totally dependent on whatever
might be rescued in Peru. He believed this to be considerable, but the
brother and sister founded little hopes on the chance; as, whatever
there might be, had been entangled in the Equatorial Company, and
nothing could be less comprehensible than Mr. Robson's statements.
Clara retained her own seventy pounds per annum, which, thrown into the
common stock, would, James assured her, satisfy him, in a pecuniary
point of view, that he was doing no wrong to his children; though he
added, that even if there had been nothing, he did not believe they
would ever be the worse for what might be spent on their infirm old
uncle.
Notice was sent to Isabel to prepare, and she made cordial reply that
the two rooms on the ground-floor were being made ready for Mr.
Dynevor, and Clara's own little room being set in order; Miss Mercy
Faithfull helping with all her might, and little Kitty stamping about,
thinking her services equally effectual.
Oliver was in haste to leave a place replete with disappointment and
failure, and was so helpless and dependent as to wish for his nephew's
assistance on the journey; and it was, therefore, fixed for the end of
James's second week. No one called to take leave, except the Curate
and good Mr. Henderson, who showed Clara much warm, kind feeling, and
praised her to her brother.
She begged James to walk with her for a farewell visit to her
grandmother's other old friend. Great was her enjoyment of this
expedition; she said she had not had a walk worth having since she was
at Aix-la-Chapelle, and liberty and companionship compensated for all
the heat and dust in the dreary tract, full of uncomfortable
shabby-genteel abodes, and an unpromising population.
'One cannot regret such a tenantry,' said Clara.
'Poor creatures!' said James. 'I wonder into whose hands they will
fall. Your heart may be free, Clara; you have followed the clear path
of duty; but it is a painful thought for me, that to strive to amend
these festering evils, caused very likely by my grandfather's
speculations, might have been my appointed task. I should not have had
far to seek for occupation. When I was talking to the Curate
yesterday, my heart smote me to think what I might have done to help
him.'
'It would all have been over now.'
'It ought not. Nay, perhaps, my presence might have left my uncle free
to attend to his own concerns.'
'I really believe you are going to regret the place!'
'After all, Clara, I was a Dynevor before my uncle came home. It might
have been my birthright. But, as Isabel says, what we are now is far
more likely to be safe for the children. I was bad enough as I was,
but what should I have been as a pampered heir! Let it go.'
'Yes, let it go,' said Clara; 'it has been little but pain to me. We
shall teach my poor uncle that home love is better than old family
estates. I almost wish he may recover nothing in Peru, that he may
learn that you receive him for his own sake.'
'That is more than I can wish,' said James. 'A hundred or two a-year
would come in handily. Besides, I am afraid that Mary Ponsonby may be
suffering in this crash.'
'She seems to have taken care of herself,' said Clara. 'She does not
write to me, and I am almost ready to believe her father at last. I
could not have thought it of her!'
'Isabel has always said it was the best thing that could happen to
Louis.'
'Isabel never had any notion of Louis. I don't mean any offence, but
if she had known what he was made of, she would never have had you.'
'Thank you, Clara! I always thought it an odd predilection, but no one
can now esteem Fitzjocelyn more highly than ahe does.'
'Very likely; but if she thinks Louis can stand Mary's deserting him--'
'It will be great pain, no doubt; but once over, he will be free.'
'It never will be over.'
'That is young-ladyism.'
'I never was a young lady, and I know what I mean. Mary may not be all
he thinks her, and she may be dull enough to let her affection wear
out; but I do not believe he will ever look at any one again, as he did
after Mary on your wedding-day.'
'So you forbid him to be ever happy again!'
'Not at all, only in that one way. There are many others of being
happy.'
'That one way meaning marriage.'
'I mean that sort of perfect marriage that, according to the saying, is
made in heaven. Whether that could have been with Mary, I do not know
her well enough to guess; but I am convinced that he will always have
the same kind of memory of her that a man has of a first love, or first
wife.'
'It may have been a mistake to drive him into the attachment, which
Isabel thinks has been favoured by absence, leaving scope for
imagination; but I cannot give up the hope that his days of happiness
are yet to come.'
'Nor do I give up Mary, yet,' said Clara. 'Till she announces her
defection I shall not believe it, for it would be common honesty to
inform poor Louis, and in that she never was deficient.'
'It is not a plant that seems to thrive on the Peruvian soil.'
'No; and I am dreadfully afraid for Tom Madison. There were hints
about him in Mr. Ponsonby's letters, which make me very anxious; and
from what my uncle says, it seems that there is such an atmosphere of
gambling and trickery about his office, that he thinks it a matter of
course that no one should be really true and honest.'
'That would be a terrible affair indeed! I don't know for which I
should be most concerned, Louis or our poor little Charlotte. But
after all, Clara, we have known too many falsehoods come across the
Atlantic, to concern ourselves about anything without good reason.'
So they talked, enjoying the leisure the walk gave them for
conversation, and then paying the painful visit, when Clara tried in
vain to make it understood by the poor old lady that she was going
away, and that James was her brother. They felt thankful that such
decay had been spared their grandmother, and Clara sighed to think that
her uncle might be on the brink of a like loss of faculties, and then
felt herself more than ever bound to him.
On the way home they went together to the church, and pondered over the
tombs of their ancestry,--ranging from the grim, defaced old knight,
through the polished brass, the kneeling courtier, and the dishevelled
Grief embracing an urn, down to the mural arch enshrining the dear
revered name of Catharine, daughter of Roland, and wife of James Frost
Dynevor, the last of her line whose bones would rest there. Her grave
had truly been the sole possession that her son's labours had secured
for her; that grave was the only spot at Cheveleigh that claimed a pang
from Clara's heart. She stood beside it with deep, fond, clinging love
and reverence, but with no painful recollections to come between her
and that fair, bright vision of happy old age. Alas! for the memories
that her brother had sown to spring up round him now!
Apart from all these vipers of his own creating, James after all felt
more in the cession of Cheveleigh than did his sister. These were days
of change and of feudal feeling wearing out; but James, long as he had
pretended to scorn 'being sentimental about his forefathers,' was
strongly susceptible of such impressions; and he was painfully
conscious of being disinherited. He might have felt thus, without any
restoration or loss, as the mere effect of visiting his birthright as a
stranger; but, as he received all humbly instead of proudly, the
feeling did him no harm. It softened him into sympathy with his uncle,
and tardy appreciation of his single-minded devotion to the estate,
which he had won not for himself, but for others, only to see it first
ungratefully rejected, and then snatched away. Then, with a thrill of
humiliation at his own unworthiness, came the earnest prayer that it
might yet be vouchsafed to him to tend the exhausted body, and train
the contracted mind to dwell on that inheritance whence there could be
no casting out.
Poor Oliver was fretful and restless, insisting on being brought down
to his study to watch over the packing of his papers, and miserable at
being unable to arrange them himself. Even the tenderest pity for him
could not prevent him from being an exceeding trial; and James could
hardly yet have endured it, but for pleasure and interest in watching
his sister's lively good-humour, saucy and determined when the old man
was unreasonable, and caressing and affectionate, when he was violent
in his impotence; never seeming to hear, see, or regard anything unkind
or unpleasant; and absolutely pleased and gratified when her uncle, in
his petulance, sometimes ungraciously rejected her services in favour
of those of 'Roland,' who, he took it for granted, must, as a man, have
more sense. It would sometimes cross James, how would Isabel and the
children fare with this ill-humour; but he had much confidence in his
wife's sweet calm temper, and more in the obvious duty; and, on the
whole, he believed it was better not to think about it.
The suffering that the surrender cost Oliver was only shown in this
species of petty fractiousness, until the last morning, when his nephew
was helping him across the hall, and Clara close at his side, he made
them stand still beside one of the pillars, and groaned as he said,
'Here I waited for the carriage last time! Here I promised to get it
back again!'
'I wish every one kept promises as you did,' said James, looking about
for something cheerful to say.
'I had hope then,' said Oliver; and well might he feel the contrast
between the youth, with such hopes, energies, and determination mighty
within him, and the broken and disappointed man.
'Hope yet, and better hope!' James could not help saying.
'Not while there's such a rascal in the office at Lima,' cried Oliver,
testily.
'Oh! Uncle Oliver, he did not mean that!' exclaimed Clara.
Mr. Dynevor grumbled something about parsons, which neither of them
chose to hear; and Clara cut it short by saying, 'After all, Uncle
Oliver, you have done it all! Dear grandmamma came back and was happy
here, and that was all that signified. You never wanted it for
yourself, you know, and my dear father was not here to have it. And
for you, what could you have had more than your nephew and niece to--to
try to be like your children! And hadn't you rather have them without
purchase than with?' And as she saw him smile in answer to her bright
caress, she added merrily, 'There's nothing else to pity but the fir
trees and gold fish; and as they have done very happily before without
the Pendragon reign, I dare any they will again; so I can't be very
sorry for them!'
This was Clara's farewell to her greatness, and cheerily she enlivened
her uncle all the way to London, and tried to solace him after the
interviews that he insisted on with various men of business, and which
did not tend to make him stronger in health or spirits through the next
day's journey.
The engine whistled its arriving shriek at Northwold. Happy Clara!
What was the summer rain to her? Every house, every passenger, were
tokens of home; and the damp rain-mottled face of the Terrace, looking
like a child that had been crying, was more welcome to her longing eyes
than ever had been lake or mountain.
Isabel and little Catharine stood on the step; but as Mr. Dynevor was
lifted out, the little girl shrank out of sight with a childish awe of
infirmity. The dining-room had been made a very comfortable
sitting-room for him, and till he was settled there, nothing else could
be attended to; but he was so much fatigued, that it was found best to
leave him entirely to Jane; and Clara, after a few moments, followed
her brother from the room.
As she shut the door, she stood for some seconds unobserved, and
unwilling to interfere with the scene before her. Halfway upstairs,
James had been pulled down to sit on the steps, surrounded by his
delighted flock. The baby was in his arms, flourishing her hands as he
danced her; Kitty, from above, had clasped tightly round his neck,
chattering and kissing with breathless velocity; one twin in front was
drumming on his knee, and shrieking in accordance with every shout of
the baby; and below, leaning on the balusters, stood their mother's
graceful figure, looking up at them with a lovely smiling face of
perfect gladness. She was the first to perceive Clara; and, with a
pretty gesture to be silent, she pointed to the stand of the Wedgewood
jar, under which sat the other little maid, her two fat arms clasped
tight round her papa's umbrella, and the ivory handle indenting her
rosy cheek, as she fondled it in silent transport.
'My little Salome,' whispered Isabel, squeezing Clara's hand, 'our
quiet one. She could not sleep for expecting papa, and now she is in a
fit of shy delight; she can't shout with the others; she can only nurse
his umbrella.'
Just then James made a desperate demonstration, amid peals of laughter
from his daughters. 'We are stopping the way! Get out, you unruly
monsters! Let go, Kitty--Mercy; I shall kick! Mamma, catch this
ball;' making a feint of tossing the crowing Fanny at her.
Assuredly, thought Clara, pity was wasted; there was not one too many.
And then began the happy exulting introductions, and a laugh at little
Mercy, who stood blank and open-mouthed, gazing up and up her tall
aunt, as if there were no coming to the top of her. Clara sat down on
the stairs, to bring her face to a level, and struck up a friendship
with her on the spot, while James lilted up his little Salome, her joy
still too deep and reserved for manifestation; only without a word she
nestled close to him, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her
eyes, as if languid with excess of rapture--a pretty contrast to her
sister's frantic delight, which presently alarmed James lest it should
disturb his uncle, and he called them up-stairs.
But Clara must first run to the House Beautiful, and little Mercy must
needs come to show her the way, and trotted up before her,
consequentially announcing, 'Aunt Cara.' Miss Faithfull alone was
present; and, without speaking, Clara dropped on the ground, laid her
head on her dear old friend's lap, and little Mercy exclaimed, in
wondering alarm, 'Aunt Cara naughty--Aunt Cara crying!'
'My darling,' said Miss Faithfull, as she kissed Clara's brow and
stroked her long flaxen hair, 'you have gone through a great deal. We
must try to make you happy in your poor old home.'
'Oh, no! oh, no! It is happiness! Oh! such happiness! but I don't
know what to do with it, and I want granny!'
She was almost like little Salome; the flood of bliss in returning
home, joined with the missing of the one dearest welcome, had come on
her so suddenly that she was almost stifled, till she had been calmed
and soothed by the brief interval of quiet with her dear old friend.
She returned to No. 5, there to find that her uncle was going to bed,
and Charlotte, pink and beautiful with delight, was running about in
attendance on Jane. She went up straight to her own little room, which
had been set out exactly as in former times, so that she could feel as
if she had been not a day absent; and she lost not a moment in adding
to it all the other little treasures which made it fully like her own.
She looked out at the Ormersfield trees, and smiled to think how well
Louis's advice had turned out; and then she sighed, in the fear that it
might yet be her duty to leave home. If her uncle could live without
her, she must tear herself away, and work for his maintenance.
However, for the present, she might enjoy to the utmost, and she
proceeded to the little parlour, which, to her extreme surprise, she
found only occupied by the four children--Kitty holding the youngest
upon her feet, till, at the new apparition, Fanny suddenly seated
herself for the convenience of staring.
'Are you all alone here!' exclaimed Clara.
'I am taking care of the little ones,' replied Kitty, with dignity.
'Where's mamma!'
'She is gone down to get tea. Papa is gone to the Union; but we do not
mean to wait for him,' answered the little personage, with an air
capable, the more droll because she was on the smallest scale, of much
less substance than the round fat twins, and indeed chiefly
distinguishable from them by her slender neat shape; for the faces were
at first sight all alike, brown, small-featured, with large dark eyes,
and dark curly hair--Mercy, with the largest and most impetuous eyes,
and Salome with a dreamy look, more like her mother. Fanny was in a
different style, and much prettier; but her contemplation ended in
alarm and inclination to cry, whereupon Kitty embraced her, and
consoled her like a most efficient guardian; then seeing Mercy becoming
rather rude in her familiarities with her aunt, held up her small
forefinger, and called out gravely, 'Mercy, recollect yourself!'
Wonders would never cease! Here was Isabel coming up with the tea-tray
in her own hands!
'My dear, do you always do that?'
'No, only when Charlotte is busy; and,' as she picked up the baby, 'now
Kitty may bring the rest.'
So, in various little journeys, the miniature woman's curly head arose
above the loaf, and the butter-dish, and even the milk-jug, held
without spilling; while Isabel would have set out the tea-things with
one hand, if Clara had not done it for her; and the workhouse girl
finally appeared with the kettle.
Was this the same Isabel whom Clara last remembered with her baby in
her lap, beautiful and almost as inanimate as a statue? There was
scarcely more change from the long-frocked infant to the bustling
important sprite, than from that fair piece of still life to the active
house-mother. Unruffled grace was innate; every movement had a lofty,
placid deliberation and simplicity, that made her like a disguised
princess; and though her beauty was a little worn, what it had lost in
youth was far more than compensated by sweetness and animation. The
pensive cast remained, but the dreaminess had sobered into thought and
true hope. Her dress was an old handsome silk, frayed and worn, but so
becoming to her, that the fading was unnoticed in the delicate neatness
of the accompaniments. And the dear old room! It looked like a
cheerful habitation; but Clara's almost instant inquiry was for the
porcelain Arcadians, and could not think it quite as tidy and orderly
as it used to be in old times, when she was the only fairy Disorder.
'However, I'll see to that,' quoth she to herself. And she gave
herself up to the happy tea-drinking, when James was welcomed by
another tumult, and was pinned down by Kitty and Salome on either
side--mamma making tea in spite of Fanny on her lap--Mercy adhering to
the new-comer--the eager conversation--Kitty thrusting in her little
oar, and being hushed by mamma--the grand final game at romps, ending
with Isabel carrying off her little victims, one by one, to bed; and
James taking the tea-tray down stairs. Clara followed with other parts
of the equipage, and then both stood together warming themselves, and
gossiped over the dear old kitchen fire, till Isabel came down and
found them there. And then, before any of the grand news was discussed,
all the infant marvels of the last fortnight had to be detailed; and
the young parents required Clara's opinion whether they were spoiling
Kitty.
Next, Clara found her way to the cupboard, brought the shepherd and
shepherdess to light, looked them well over, and satisfied herself that
there was not one scar or wound on either--nay, it is not absolutely
certain that she did not kiss the damsel's delicate pink cheek--set
them up on the mantelpiece, promised to keep them in order, and stood
gazing at them till James accused her of regarding them as her penates!
'Why, Jem!' she said, turning on him, 'you are a mere recreant if you
can feel it like home without them!'
'I have other porcelain figures to depend on for a home!' said James.
'Take care, James!' said his wife, with the fond sadness of one whose
cup overflowed with happiness; 'Clara's shepherdess may look fragile,
but she has kept her youth and seen many a generation pass by of such
as you depend on!'
'She once was turned out of Cheveleigh, too, and has borne it as easily
as Clara,' said James, smiling. 'I suspect her worst danger is from
Fanny. There's a lady who, I warn you, can never withstand Fanny!'
Isabel took up her own defence, and they laughed on. Poor Uncle
Oliver! could he but have known how little all this had to do with
Cheveleigh!