Pleasure or Pain?
At the sight of four saddle-horses and a carriage at Mr. Byerley’s door,
the population of A—— began to assemble for the purpose of speculation
as to what sort of a journey was about to be undertaken. That part of
the population is meant, which was dressed and on foot by eight o’clock;
for the grooms and the coachman were very punctual. Here, a workman with
his frail basket of tools on his shoulder stood to see the provision
packed in under the carriage-seat; there, a boy who had been
birds’-nesting passed so close before the pony’s eyes, that it reared.
Here, a milliner’s apprentice lingered in hopes of a glimpse of the
riders for whom the side-saddles were destined; and there, an old man
who was going to sun himself in the church-yard, stood leaning on his
staff, to watch the departure of the company. Presently the young ladies
were mounted, and patting the necks of their steeds to sooth them till
the signal of departure should be given. Then was heard the slam of the
carriage-door, the crack of the whip, and the crash of the wheels on the
gravel. The cavalcade gradually disappeared at the turn of the road, and
the gazers looked at one another, and betook themselves their several
ways.
It was a beautiful morning: no cloud in the sky, no dust on the road;
but all fresh, fragrant, and green, in the meadows and hedges. The
carriage-party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, their daughter
Selina, and Mary Byerley, began to talk all at once, as is the natural
impulse from rapid motion of an agreeable kind; and the enquiries went
round, “Have you room?” “I am afraid the basket incommodes you:” “let me
put away your shawl, for you will not want it;” and so on. To which Mr.
Fletcher added, “Have you provided umbrellas, Miss Mary?”
“Umbrellas!” said Mary; “when there is not a cloud in the sky?”
“There was no cloud in the sky at this time yesterday, and what a deluge
of rain we have had since!”
It appeared that the servants had marked this fact, for the handles of a
very satisfactory number of umbrellas peeped out when sought for.
“How well your sister rides!” observed Mary, as Rose Fletcher cantered
past the carriage, and waved her hand in passing.
“Where can Anna be? She cannot have passed without our seeing her;” said
Selina, standing up to look before and behind. Far, very far behind, not
cantering, nor apparently dreaming of cantering, was Anna, pacing
soberly, side by side with Signor Elvi, either talking or listening very
earnestly.
“O, look! look!” cried Selina; “they have forgotten every thing but what
they are talking about. I wonder whether he is telling her about his
poor wife and children.”
“Or about his beautiful estate that he will never see again,” said Mary.
“Or about the dear friend he was obliged to leave in prison,” added
Selina.
“Sit down, Selina!” said her father, in a voice which silenced her.
After a long pause, Mrs. Fletcher began to talk with Mary about various
trifles; but the conversation was far from amusing till Mr. Fletcher,
after a long yawn, took a book from his pocket, and began to read very
attentively. Then the two young heads met under one parasol, and carried
on a busy talk, with low voices, and much care to avoid attracting the
notice of the reader. Room was presently made for Mrs. Fletcher’s
companionship, and then the girls forgot to wish the gentleman away,
except when a finger was held up to say “hush!”
It was observed, at length, that Mr. Fletcher had ceased to read. The
book was not laid aside, but closed with a finger between the leaves,
while he looked over the side of the carriage. The three bonnets emerged
from beneath the parasol, and every body cried, “How beautiful!”
“I was wondering,” said Mr. Fletcher, laughing, “whether you would
actually pass by this view without looking about you.”
“You would not have allowed us, surely, sir,” said Mary.
“Nay; no doubt your fine imaginations were furnishing you with something
much more beautiful than any thing vulgar eyes can look upon.”
Mary, young as she was, and modest as became her youth, was little
daunted by Mr. Fletcher’s rough manner and speech. It was probably
because she was more humble than Selina, that she was less mortified by
any rebuke or sign of contempt. Selina’s silence was not that of
humility. If not allowed to be sentimental in speech, she did not change
her style of conversation, but indulged her dreams of the imagination in
silence; while her very silence expressed that she did not think her
father worthy to sympathize in her pleasures. Mrs. Fletcher never
interfered between them, or attempted to make her husband and children
understand one another better. She was very timid, rather indolent, and
somewhat inclined to be sentimental, though not in the childish way in
which she encouraged her daughters to be so.
“This place is very much altered within a few years: I should scarcely
have known it again,” said Mr. Fletcher to himself, as they passed a
gentleman’s estate.
“Yes,” said Mary; “even I can remember the time when there were no
corn-fields where they now stretch almost as far as we can see.”
“This was all common: was it not?” said Mr. Fletcher. “I think it was a
very bleak common, with nothing but furze growing upon it, when I saw it
last.”
“Yes, sir; and the owner of it had a great deal of trouble about the
alterations he wished to make. But you see he persevered.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“The poor people were discontented when their cows were not allowed to
graze, and when they could not cut their turf on the common any longer.”
“Well; do not you think it was very hard upon them?”
“I dare say it was, at first; but papa says it is much better worth
while to grow corn enough to maintain a great many men, than only grass
enough for a few cows.”
Mr. Fletcher nodded; and Selina observed that all the rest of the way he
enquired of Mary who lived at every gentleman’s seat they passed.
Sometimes she knew, and sometimes she did not; but he did not sneer when
she had no satisfactory answer to give. One mansion, which stood on a
lawn a little way back from the road, appeared in a state of lamentable
ruin. It was unroofed, and the stone pillars and doorways, and naked
window-sills were blackened with smoke. In answer to Mr. Fletcher’s
question, “When was this burned down?” Mary told all that she knew of
the when and the how; and then turned to the ladies to relate some
circumstances of a different kind. Notwithstanding Selina’s exclamations
of admiration and pity, and his wife’s heightened colour, which
testified to the deep interest of the story, Mr. Fletcher also for once
seemed inclined to listen.
“Eh? What was that?” said he, after leaning forwards, in vain, to hear.
“I was telling what happened at the fire,” said Mary. “There was a poor
old man in the house at the time, who had arrived only the day before to
see Colonel Osborne. He had belonged to his regiment, I believe. He was
sleeping high up stairs, at the back of the house, and nobody remembered
him when the fire was discovered. Miss Osborne recollected him at last,
and while every body was busy, she wrapt a blanket round her and flew up
the back stairs. The curtains of the old man’s bed were on fire, and he
was fast asleep when she burst in. She thought he was suffocated; but as
soon as she dashed some water on his face, he roused himself enough to
let her put the woollen coverlid over his shoulders, and lead him down
the burning stairs. While she was helping him, the blanket slipped, and
her gown-sleeve caught fire. She was dreadfully burned; but she scarcely
felt the pain, while the stairs cracked and cracked again at every step
they took, and the flames rushed and roared all round them. At the foot
of the stairs she met her father, coming in despair to look for her; but
though he saw how she was blackened with smoke, he asked no questions
till he had helped her to get the old man beyond the reach of the
burning rafters which fell on the lawn.”
“Bravo! Like daughter, like father,” cried Mr. Fletcher. “But what
became of her?”
“Her face was so much burned that nobody could know her for the Miss
Osborne that used to be so much admired; and what is worse, her left arm
is so shrunk up, that she never can use it again. As for the poor old
man, between the fire, and the fright and the grief, he was quite worn
out, and he died the next week.”
“What a disastrous fire!” exclaimed Mr. Fletcher. “How the young lady
must wish that she had staid where she was safe!”
“O! no, sir,” said Mary, in a low voice.
“Why, you say she did not save the old man after all.”
“No; but what a conscience she would have had all her life long! Do you
think all her beauty and the use of all her limbs would have made up for
that?”
“Well then, she must wish that the fire had never happened. Why do you
shake your head now?”
“Because it is worth all she suffered, and more, to know what she _can_
do on such an occasion. She need never be afraid again that she shall
not be able to do her duty, or to bear the consequences.”
“Her father, at least, must be very sorry that the fire happened.”
“I think not still,” said the persevering Mary. “If you were to see him
with his daughter for only one half hour, you would find out how he
loves her, and tries to make her feel what has happened as little as
possible; but he can never be sorry that it has been proved what a
daughter he has. When she begins to repent of what she did, he may begin
to be sorry for the occasion; but that will never, never be.”
“Well, you shall have it all your own way, because you are right, I
believe,” said Mr. Fletcher. “But I hope, my dear, _your_ father will
have some pleasanter proof that you have a strong mind and a willing
spirit.”
Mary could not answer, as Mr. Fletcher looked kindly at her. He soon
opened his book again, and nobody spoke till the carriage stopped at the
door of the Audley Arms.
The party presently dispersed themselves in groups about the park. Anna
and Selina, of course, flew to each other, as soon as the one had
alighted from her pony, and the other from the carriage. Arm in arm,
they wandered away under the shade of the avenue. Rose and Mary, with
their sketch-book, explored their way to the Ruin, to which the people
of the inn had directed them; and they were immediately followed by Mrs.
Fletcher and their Italian friend. Mr. Byerley also seemed disposed to
accompany them; but Mr. Fletcher persuaded him to go round a longer way,
for the purpose of witnessing the result of an experiment in tillage,
which he knew to have been made on a piece of land adjoining the park.
At the Ruin they were all to meet at two o’clock; by which time the
servants were to have spread the dinner at the precise point of view
where prospect-hunters were wont to feast body and soul at the same
time.
The members of the three detachments all enjoyed themselves in their
several ways; the four who were together, perhaps the most. Signor Elvi
could draw well, and he superintended Mary’s sketch, to her great profit
and pleasure. He advised her not to attempt the more extensive view
which, though spread temptingly before them, could not easily be
transferred to paper with all its flitting lights and shadows, its
sloping lawns and wooded banks, and streams that peeped out where the
sunshine fell brightest. He rather recommended a particular angle of the
Ruin, whose massy stone-work was finely contrasted with the light birch
which waved near. He took her pencil, and on the back of a letter showed
her, with a few rapid strokes, what kind of effect he thought might be
produced. When he had seen her make a successful beginning, he carried
off Rose to a little distance, that she might attempt the same subject
from a different point of view; to which her only objection was, that
she should be too far off to hear the conversation.
“Oh! that will be too sad,” exclaimed he: “no lady must feel forlorn
to-day. Mrs. Fletcher and I will sit between you, and tell you tales to
beguile your tasks.”
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[Illustration: _Page 85_]
Mrs. Fletcher was willing, but observed that her daughter scarcely
understood French well enough to enjoy a narrative related in it. The
good-natured Signor therefore attempted to make himself understood in
English, which he spoke better than might have been expected from his
very short practice, but yet so as to render it very difficult for the
hearers to maintain their gravity long. From the beginning of his tale,
his auditors imagined that it was to be of a melancholy cast; but as
soon as the narrator became aware that his broken language was an
impediment to the serious impression he meant to produce, he dexterously
placed his personages in new situations, and gave so strange a turn to
the incidents he had related, that the whole became comic, and the girls
were supplied with a good reason for the mirth which they could not have
suppressed. Their drawing, meantime, went on but slowly; for they sat,
pencil in hand, looking towards their companions instead of the Ruin,
and when they began to laugh, all hope of steadying their hands again
speedily was over.
“Eh! well,” said he, rising at length, “laugh as you will, but draw
also.” And with all gravity he began to criticise; but again and again,
as often as they looked towards one another, or some odd phrase which
they had just heard occurred to them, there was a fresh burst. It ended
in their being too weak, with hunger and mirth, to do any thing more
before dinner, while their friend’s politeness could not allow him to
leave their sketches unfinished.
In a little while, the whole party being assembled, except Anna and her
friend, and the cloth being spread temptingly on the turf, every body
sat down to eat. When, however, knives and forks were laid across, and
the empty bottles outnumbered the full ones, and still the two girls did
not appear, Mrs. Fletcher and Mary grew rather uneasy. Mr. Byerley went
to the brow of the eminence on which they sat, and looked round in vain.
Signor Elvi rose to go in search of them, but Mr. Fletcher prevented
him, declaring it impossible that any harm should befall them in the
park, and that nothing was so probable as that they should forget the
time. On enquiry it appeared that neither of them had a watch.
“No matter,” said Mr. Fletcher; “which of them would think of using it
if she had? Depend upon it, they are reclining under a tree or beside a
brook, wondering if ever mortals felt such friendship for one another
before; or perhaps weeping over the tales Miss Anna heard from the
Signor this morning.”
Signor Elvi looked very grave, but said nothing.
“It is time they were dining, however,” said Mrs. Fletcher; “and if they
have lost their way, they must be quite exhausted.”
“My dear,” said her husband, “I thought you had known better than to
suppose they can care about eating when they have something so much
better to do. I think, sir,” turning to Mr. Byerley, “that it is time we
were finding our way to the bridge, unless the ladies require a longer
rest.”
He rose and sauntered away; and his wife immediately, by Mr. Byerley’s
advice, dispatched two of the servants different ways, in search of the
lost companions. Mary sent some biscuits by each; and having left orders
with the remaining servant to make the young ladies comfortable when
they should arrive, and to direct them towards the bridge, the rest of
the party followed Mr. Fletcher.
Anna and Selina were soon found, within half a mile of the place of
rendezvous, walking as leisurely as if the sun had just risen, and they
had had the whole day before them. They were both sad and disinclined to
eat; and in a very few minutes they followed the party to the bridge.
Very little notice was taken of them there but by the anxious mother and
sister, who having satisfied themselves that nothing disastrous had
happened, tried to cheer and amuse them; but they were still silent and
sad. They saw, like every body else, how majestically the river wound
round the bases of the hills, now darkened by overhanging thickets, now
gleaming as a flood of light fell upon a reach of it, now sweeping by
the terrace of a lordly mansion, and now bending round the promontory on
which was a single cottage, with its one willow dipping into the water.
They saw, like every one else, how the far-distant city rose to shut in
the view at the further limit of the valley; and, like every one else,
they listened to the many sounds which came from far and near. The
chapel-clock in the park was heard to strike; the creaking waggon, with
the jingling harness of the team came down the steep slope from the
farms; the lapse of the river under the arches of the bridge gave out a
never-ceasing sound; and the cawing of the rooks as they sailed round
the tree tops suited well with it. The merry voices of children came
from behind the laurel-hedge which separated the parsonage from the
road. Anna and her friend saw, heard, and felt the beauty of all this;
but it seemed to them a melancholy beauty, because their minds were
melancholy. It grated upon their feelings to hear any observations made
on the scene before them; and when Mr. Fletcher laughed loudly, they
left the balustrades of the bridge, through which they had been gazing,
and went down to find a seat on the sloping bank, where they might sit
with their feet touching the brink of the river. Mrs. Fletcher followed,
and as soon as the girls perceived her, they ran to take each an arm.
She soon discovered what was in their minds, and Anna could not have
desired a more ready listener to the tale of sorrow which she had heard
that morning, and which had affected her very deeply.
“Did you see, Anna,” said Selina, “how he turned to listen when the
children in the parsonage-garden shouted at their play?”
“O, yes,” replied Anna; “and he says it gives him pleasure to see us and
talk to us, because he can think of his own daughters all the time. What
charming girls they must be! and just our age, Selina!”
“I wish we could make ourselves so like them that we could comfort him
better than we can do now.”
“We must be very unlike them, I am sure, Selina; for he says they are
very gay and lively.”
“I always thought you had been so, Anna,” said Mrs. Fletcher. Anna
sighed, and replied that she was merry when she had nothing to make her
sad.
“But, my love,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “you must endeavour not to give way
so much. You must take the Signor himself for an example there. If you
had seen him two hours ago, you would scarcely believe that he had ever
felt melancholy in his life.”
Selina and Anna were both rather dismayed when they heard of their
foreign friend’s genius for comic narrative. “How could he forget so
soon?” thought they.
Mrs. Fletcher was surprised that he should have told his domestic tale
to one so young as Anna; but it appeared all very natural when she
explained how it happened. He spoke of the young ladies of Italy as the
subject which he thought would most interest his companion; this led to
some mention of his own children: and as there was a full share of
curiosity in Anna, and an interest and sympathy far more engaging than
curiosity, he had gone on to tell one circumstance after another, till
she had heard enough to fill her whole soul with admiration and pity.
Her feelings were strong, and she had never tried to restrain them and
as this was the first time she had ever heard so sad a tale from the
actual sufferer, and that sufferer was peculiarly interesting and
amiable, she was in danger of being more strongly excited than her
health and spirits would bear. If she had had a judicious friend at hand
to have directed her feelings aright, she might have derived much
benefit from the new views of human suffering which were now opened to
her; but this was not the case. Mrs. Fletcher seemed, in the education
of her own daughters, quite unaware that a feeling, innocent or amiable
in itself, may be indulged to an injurious excess. On the present
occasion, she was delighted to witness in Anna indications of the
sensibility she had loved in her mother; and though she did not exactly
tell her so in words, she made her understand it by kissing her, and
whispering how she loved to be reminded of her early friend, whose
congeniality of feeling with her own was perfect. This led to a long
conversation, which at some other time would have been as useful as it
was delightful to Anna, by softening her heart and exercising her
tenderest affections. Just now, however, when her heart was already
melting, and her imagination highly excited, this further stimulus was
not only needless, but very hurtful; and the youthful mind which should
have been this day open to enjoyment, was tormented with tender
sufferings, and weakened by a melancholy which it had never experienced
before. Some of the natural evil consequences followed immediately. Mr.
Byerley, seeing traces of tears on his daughter’s cheeks, and thinking
them particularly ill-timed, was provoked to speak hastily to her. Anna
was seldom or never known to be sullen, but to-day she was sunk below
all power of instant recovery; and her temper gave way at the first
irritation. Mary gave her an affectionate hint to try to be cheerful;
but, for once, she received a pettish answer. The Signor himself was not
quite in her good graces, for he was disposed to be agreeable. He sang,
and his song was indeed plaintive as she could wish; but long before she
had recovered it, and while his tones of deep feeling yet thrilled in
her heart, he was talking with her father as if nothing had happened.
The pleasures of the ramble through the park, on the return of the party
to the inn, were lost on her, and the amusing bustle of departure was
also unheeded; but horse-exercise is so exhilarating as to lighten the
deepest depression, as even Anna found. When they had left behind the
melting sunlights on the woods, and when the cool evening breeze blew in
their faces as they crossed a heath in the twilight, she willingly
obeyed her father’s signal to hasten on, shook the bridle, urged on the
race, and, for a time, forgot her sensibilities.
Every body was tired, dull, and sleepy, when the carriage stopped at Mr.
Byerley’s door. Nobody relished the candle-light: no lady wished for
supper, or refused to retire when the gentlemen had dispatched their
sandwiches. When Mrs. Fletcher had bade her children good-night up
stairs, it appeared that the young folks were pairing off, according to
a new arrangement. Mary and Rose, Anna and Selina.
“My loves, it really makes me uneasy,” expostulated Mrs. Fletcher; “you
will talk half the night, I know, tired to death as you are.”
“No, mamma, we will not indeed.”
“Then what is the use of being together if you do not talk? Do be
persuaded. I can trust your sisters to take care of you; but you two
will wear each other out.”
A repeated promise, however, won her consent. They kept their promise.
Having kissed with melancholy smiles, and promised each other never to
forget this never-to-be-forgotten day, they lost all remembrance of it,
and of every thing else in sleep.