Friendship not always Bliss.
There had, as yet, been no time for due honour to be paid to the
favourite green parlour; but early the next evening, those of the party
who were the most likely to appreciate its peculiarities, were assembled
there. The harp-lute caught the eye of the Signor as soon as he entered.
“Ah, ah!” cried he, pointing to it with delight, “may I?” and he took it
down, and tuned it. Just when he was about to begin, his heart seemed to
fail him. He laid it down, with a sigh, saying, “It is long——” A glance
between Anna and Selina supplied what he would have said. Mary felt it
all, as much as they; but she did not content herself with a
sympathizing sigh. She took the instrument, and struck up her father’s
favourite Spanish song of Liberty. As she hoped, the exile’s current of
feeling was diverted from melancholy objects. “Libertà! libertà!” he
echoed, starting up and waving his hand, while his eyes sparkled; and as
often as the Signor looked up and smiled, he joined in the burden,
“Libertà! libertà!”
He was delighted with Mary’s singing, which was very unlike what he had
heard from any other young lady since he had been in England. She had
been well taught; but she had that natural taste for music—the ear and
the soul for it—without which no teaching is of any avail. She sang much
and often, not because she had any particular aim at being very
accomplished, but because she loved it; or, as she said, because she
could not help it. She sang to Nurse Rickham’s children; she sang as she
went up and down stairs; she sang when she was glad, and when she was
sorry; when her papa was at home, because he liked it; when he was out,
because he could not be disturbed by it. In the woods, at noon-day, she
sang like a bird, that a bird might answer her; and if she woke in the
dark night, the feeling of solemn music came over her, with which she
dared not break the silence. Every thing suggested music to her. Every
piece of poetry which she understood and liked, formed itself into
melody in her mind, without an effort: when a gleam of sunshine burst
out, she gave voice to it; and long before she had heard any cathedral
service, the chanting of the Psalms was familiar to her by anticipation.
Anna had as good an ear, and a much richer voice, but not quite so
prevailing a love for the art: if art it may be called, in such a case
as theirs. She was always able and willing to sing, but not so
continually and spontaneously alive to music as her sister. She would
join in when her sister began; and whenever they sat at work in the
balcony, their voices would ring clear and sweet, through the house, by
the hour together. Their father loved to hear them, and the servants
themselves were never tired.
When Signor Elvi had heard several songs for which he had asked,
(scarcely with the hope that Mary would be able to gratify him,) he
mentioned at last a duet, which she had never seen or heard of. It
seldom happened that she could not sing whatever was asked for; for her
father took care that she was supplied with good music of all kinds,
ancient and modern; and when she had once noticed a melody, it was never
forgotten, or might be revived on the slightest suggestion. The duet now
mentioned, she knew nothing about; but thought she and Anna might learn
it if the Signor would sing it to them. He was well pleased to do so,
and they established themselves in the balcony, sitting at his feet, and
learning almost as much from his countenance as his voice. The thing was
accomplished presently, as much to his amazement as pleasure; and he sat
with his head on his hand, listening with delight to the music of his
own land. Mrs. Fletcher understood and felt the pleasure too; and their
father, who was walking in the garden with Mr. Fletcher, stopped and
listened, without remembering to apologize to his companion for the
sudden interruption of their conversation. No new air was lost on him,
especially when sung by his daughters.
“How sweet, how wild, Mary’s voice is!” observed Mrs. Fletcher to her
daughters, as they sat within. “I have not heard such another since her
mother sang to me.”
“Which is the most like Mrs. Byerley?” asked Rose.
“I scarcely know,” replied her mother: “they both remind me of her
perpetually. Anna has her mother’s countenance, and I catch occasional
glimpses of the mirth which I used to love.”
“And the sensibility,” said Selina.
“Mary has the sensibility to an equal degree.”
“Oh mamma! no.”
“I discover as great a depth of feeling in Mary as in Anna, with a
stronger judgment. Yes, Mary is the most like her mother. They are
charming companions for you, my dears, in most respects, and I am very
glad you have met.”
“In most respects!” repeated Selina: “in every respect. They are every
thing that is dear and delightful!”
“Take care, my little enthusiast,” said her mother, laying one hand on
Selina’s shoulder, and pointing with the other to the balcony: “look at
your friends now, and tell me if you would like to make exactly such an
appearance.”
Selina saw that Mary’s hair, disordered and out of curl, hung in a very
slovenly way about her face; and that Anna’s silk frock was stained from
top to bottom with something which had been thrown over it.
“Oh! mamma,” exclaimed Selina, “how can you expect them to be quite neat
and handy, when they have no mother to teach them?”
“I do not expect it, my dear; I only point out to you that they are not
quite perfect. If we could carry them away with us, I think we might
soon correct these bad habits; and they, in their turn, might improve
you in some things of more importance.”
Rose and her sister besought Mrs. Fletcher to try to induce Mr. Byerley
to part with them for a while; and as Mr. Fletcher had himself proposed
it, believing that Mary would be a valuable companion to Rose, it was
agreed that Mr. Byerley’s consent should be asked without delay.
While this matter was under consideration, Mr. Byerley entered and
seated himself by Mrs. Fletcher. The girls presently withdrew.
“Can you guess what we were talking of when you came?” said Mrs.
Fletcher.
“Your countenance tells me,” replied Mr. Byerley, nodding towards the
balcony. “There is much to be said on that subject, my dear madam; and I
do assure you that the best kindness you can show us all, is to tell me
truly and exactly what impression my poor motherless girls have made
upon you.”
“I will do so with the greatest pleasure,” replied Mrs. Fletcher,
smiling; “for the impression is very much like what I know you wish it
to be.” And while she praised, the father listened with pleased
attention.
“I have tried to make them good,” he said, when there was a pause: “they
are affectionate, and they are simple. There is little in their conduct
to myself which I wish otherwise; and no sisters were ever more attached
to one another than they. But there is much which wants correction; and
more evil in prospect, I am afraid.”
“Their personal habits want correction, I grant, without dispute,”
replied Mrs. Fletcher; “and I have a plan to propose for that purpose:
but what further evil is in prospect I do not see.”
“An evil of much greater magnitude than their sad external habits,
which, however, are grievous enough,” replied their father. “You know my
hatred of all schools, and of the usual method of female education.”
“Oh! yes,” said Mrs. Fletcher, smiling: “your prejudices on that subject
are completely identified with yourself.”
“The reason of that hatred, which may have some prejudice mixed up with
it, is, that almost all the women whom I have known to have much
feeling, have been victims to feeling. It seems to me, that through some
grand error in education, women become either unfeeling or
sentimental—given either to levity or romance.
“I cannot agree with you at all,” said Mrs. Fletcher; “and I am very
sure you have been unfortunate in your experience of female society; or
that one beautiful example of sobriety and depth of feeling united, has
made you imagine that the method of education adopted in that particular
case, must be the only good one.”
“I have indeed wished that my girls should be placed, as nearly as
possible, in the circumstances which made their mother what she was; but
I begin to have my fears. Their minds are, in some respects, too forward
for their age; their imaginations are growing too fast.”
“If you think so of your own children,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “what must
be your opinion of mine?”
“I judge in no case but that in which I am most nearly concerned,”
replied Mr. Byerley. “How your daughters act and feel I pretend not to
know; and if I knew, I should not interfere with criticisms or advice.
But, as to my own girls, I have seen Mary often lately so absorbed in
her book of poetry or in a reverie, that it is difficult to recall her
attention to necessary things; and Anna’s red eyes and melancholy
countenance have really distressed me the last two days.”
“I am sure their feelings are of a most amiable kind,” said Mrs.
Fletcher; “and such as I would not repress for the world.”
“Amiable, I grant, and natural,” replied the father; “but I think they
come too early, and that there is too much of them. Nobody values more
than I do the lofty and deep emotion which prompts to the most vigorous
and benevolent action; but feeling of this kind cannot subsist in the
mind in mature years, if an excessive sensibility be allowed early and
idly to excite the imagination. If Anna’s compassion for Signor Elvi’s
misfortunes could lead her to active exertions on behalf of him and his
family, let her pity him as much as she will; but as she can do nothing,
and tries to do nothing, I am afraid of the consequences of so many
sighs and tears, natural and amiable as they may be in themselves.”
“I believe Mary feels quite as much,” observed Mrs. Fletcher, “and to
better purpose, for she tries to amuse him, instead of awakening painful
feelings.”
“If that was the case always, I should fear nothing,” replied Mr.
Byerley; “but I dread the effects of the reveries over Paradise Lost,
and——”
“Paradise Lost will do her no harm,” said Mr. Fletcher, who had joined
them unperceived, and was leaning over the back of the sofa: “no
imagination was ever the worse for being early nourished on that book.
It is the flimsy, lovesick, sentimental poetry of modern times, which
makes women so weak and tiresome, as those of them are who pretend to be
bookish, or to have fine feelings.”
“I should not have thought,” said Mr. Byerley, smiling, “that you would
have admitted poetry under any shape into your daughters’ library.”
“You do not know me then,” replied Mr. Fletcher. “If you and I were to
compare our notions of a perfect woman, I believe they would be found
pretty much alike. She must have an intellect capable of grasping high
thoughts, and a heart expanded by boundless feelings, or religion cannot
have done all it may do for her. It is because I value the noble faculty
of imagination so highly, that it grieves me to see it weakened and
perverted by early indulgence.”
“As it is in my girls,” said Mr. Byerley, gravely.
“No,” said Mr. Fletcher, “not in _your_ girls; at least, not in Mary;
and not to an irremediable degree in Anna: but it is time you were
taking care.”
“If I had Mr. Byerley’s fears, (which I have not,)” said Mrs. Fletcher,
“I should take the girls into the world; or, at least, let them see more
society here. If they had a greater variety of realities to think about,
they would have fewer imaginations.”
“I agree with you perfectly, my dear,” said Mr. Fletcher. And now it was
most clearly proved, in various ways, to Mr. Byerley, that the best
possible plan he could pursue with his daughters, would be to let them
join their friends in a journey to the Continent, where they were going
to reside for two or three years. Notwithstanding so many arguments,
however, the father could not be persuaded of the possibility of parting
with his children; and the most he could be brought to say was, that he
would endeavour so to arrange his plans, as to join Mr. Fletcher’s
family in the south of France in the course of a few months. He laughed
as he adverted to the remarks which might very fairly be made on this
new proof of his eccentricity, if his neighbours should lay hold of the
idea that he went abroad for the moral improvement of the girls; as if
they could not be made wise and good in their own country.
“The difference of country has nothing to do with it,” said Mr.
Fletcher: “if we were going to Dublin or Edinburgh instead of Tours, you
would come to us as you intend doing now. Your object is change of
society more than of place, as far as your daughters are concerned. As
for your own peculiar tastes, you can gratify them more easily abroad
than you could in London, where such a politician as yourself can never
be left long unmolested. But, Byerley, you surely do not regard what any
body says about your domestic plans!”
“Nobody so little,” replied Mr. Byerley, “as my practice has proved; but
I sometimes amuse myself with the remarks which are made on my oddity. I
hope my girls will never suffer by the reputation of that sort which I
have gained.”
“Not they: it is more likely they should suffer by our leaving them for
the hour together, as we are doing now, to listen to the Signor’s
pretty, soft sentiments.”
On approaching the balcony, it was found, however, that though the
Signor was holding forth on a pretty subject, it was by no means a
sentimental one. He was describing the process of rearing silk-worms in
Italy, and of obtaining and managing their produce. Thence he proceeded
to answer some questions of Rose’s about the silk manufactory at Lyons,
of which he had talked with her father at dinner on the day of their
arrival. Anna had not listened, and was not therefore much interested in
what was now said.
The evening sun shone bright and warm into the balcony, when Mary gave
up her seat there to Mrs. Fletcher, while she took her place at the
tea-table. Remarks were made on the luxury of such an assemblage in such
a place, on the beauty of the prospect, the fragrance of the flowers,
and many other causes of enjoyment; when Mr. Fletcher, ever afraid of
sentiment, cried out: “Pray, Miss Mary, do not let the tea be the worse
for every thing else being so charming. Not all the prettiness in the
world will make up for the tea being spoiled.” He appealed to the
Signor, who did not appear to share Anna’s indignation; though he smiled
while he replied, that he liked perfection of comfort when it could be
had; and that, if he were an Englishman, he did not doubt that it would
be a drawback to his pleasure to be disappointed in the strength and
flavour of his tea.
Selina and her friend thought this was overstrained politeness, till
they perceived that their foreign friend sipped his excellent coffee
with real relish. They forgot to drink theirs till it was cold; but as
they probably did not notice the fact, it did not signify.
Signor Elvi did not appear at the breakfast-table the next morning; and,
on enquiry, it was found that he had gone out very early, leaving word
that he should not return till night. No one could imagine whither he
had departed: he knew not one person in the neighbourhood, and had no
connexions of business or pleasure out of London. Had he gone in one of
the coaches? No: it was not coach time when he went out. He took no
parcel with him; nothing but his hat and stick, and a book which peeped
out of his pocket, the servant said. She could not tell in what
direction he had turned his steps. No further information was to be
obtained, and the plans for the day were laid without any reference to
their stranger guest.
The principal plan was for a long afternoon visit to the farm, to drink
new milk, play with the children, and see all that was to be seen. Mrs.
Fletcher had known Nurse Rickham in former days: she had now seen her at
Mr. Byerley’s house, but had promised to visit her in her own homestead,
where she might see all the children gathered together, and make some
acquaintance with the husband. At a little past four, accordingly, Kitty
stood by the farm-yard gate, dressed in her best, to open it for the
ladies to enter. Tommy pulled his fore-lock without ceasing, when they
came in sight; and Nurse, with her starched mob and clean white apron,
advanced smiling and blushing to welcome her guests. In answer to her
respectful enquiries about Mr. Byerley’s health, Mary told her that he
would follow presently with Mr. Fletcher, to join them in time for tea.
Nurse thought herself only too much honoured, but had not expected any
but the ladies, as the gentleman from abroad had passed through and far
away so early in the morning. Had he been at the farm? it was eagerly
asked. Yes: as Robin was leading out the team, the gentleman who spoke
so very strangely, asked leave to pass through the yard and the paddock
behind, as this seemed the shortest way to the hills he wished to reach.
Robin could scarcely understand one word of his enquiries; so he called
Nurse Rickham, who, having been more used to gentlefolks, was able to
afford him more satisfaction. She described the paths among the hills to
him, and led him through two fields, so that he could not possibly
mistake his way. All this was very strange. Anna was sure that he was
gone into solitude to compose a poem:—who knew what might be in it!
Selina having perceived that her mother looked somewhat grave, formed
the horrible conjecture that he meant to destroy himself, as she had
heard some of his countrymen had done under the pressure of distress. It
was in vain that she was reminded how cheerful he was the night before;
how he had mentioned his plans for the next week; and how little reason
there was to suppose that he was now oppressed by any new or
overwhelming grief or difficulty. Still Selina was persuaded in her own
mind that he would be found weltering in his blood, or hanging from a
tree. What other supposition was at all probable? How did her mamma, or
Rose, or Mary, account for his absence? Her mamma left it to be
explained by time; Rose ventured no conjecture; and Mary gently asked if
no instance had ever been known of people retiring into woods,
wildernesses, and fields, for the sake of solitude, and the employments
which belong to solitude.
[Illustration: _Page 96_]
[Illustration: _Page 126_]
“You do not know all that I could tell you,” said Selina, sadly and
mysteriously, “or you would not think he could have any such purpose.”
“I should like to hear, if you can tell me,” said Mary. “Do tell me.”
Selina drew her aside, and whispered: “Signor Elvi is not a Christian.”
“I know it,” replied Mary: “I heard papa say so.”
“Then how can you think he can like to be alone as a religious man
would?”
“Because I think he is a religious man.”
Selina looked very much puzzled. Mary said: “Some other time I will tell
you what papa told me about this, and then you will understand what I
mean.”
“Does your papa think that Signor Elvi is religious?”
“Yes, he does; but do not fancy that papa is not a Christian. And I do
assure you that you may make yourself quite easy about Signor Elvi. He
is too wise and good to throw away his life as soon as misfortunes
happen.”
“I do not blame people for destroying themselves so much as you do,
Mary. They only do it when they are very miserable. I am more sorry for
them than you are.”
“Not more sorry, I hope,” said Mary. “I am very sorry for their misery,
and I am more sorry still that they have not strength to bear it. They
are, indeed, more to be pitied than one can imagine.”
“Not strength!” repeated Selina. “Well, now, I cannot help admiring
their courage. I think it shows such great courage to leave every thing
that they know, and go they do not know where—to take the leap in the
dark, as somebody says.”
“Do you not blame people then, for destroying themselves?” enquired
Mary, perplexed in her turn.
“Oh yes, to be sure. It is very wrong, because——because——”
“Because of what?”
Selina did not seem quite ready with a reason. Presently, however, she
answered: “Because it offends God.”
“Certainly,” said Mary: “it offends God to refuse to bear whatever he
appoints. It shows that we do not trust in him; it shows that we are
very cowardly.”
“Cowardly!” exclaimed Selina: “what! to do such a bold act as that?”
“Such a rash act,” said Mary: “it is not the less cowardly, on the
whole, for being rash. I know it must require some sort of vehement
resolution to do the very deed—to cut one’s throat across, or fire a
pistol through one’s brains.”
“That is what I mean,” interrupted Selina.
“But a man who shows this sort of courage, only has it because he wants
a greater; he only chooses the shortest way of getting rid of his
troubles, because he cannot bear the longer trial. I am sure, Selina,
you must admire the courage that can bear on, and bear on, happen what
will.”
“Like the martyrs, and like the prisoners in the Inquisition. Oh yes!”
“And like many who never heard of the Inquisition, but who endure worse
things than they could ever meet with there; troubles and griefs which
last from year to year, and which oppress their wives or their children,
or somebody else whom they care more about than themselves.”
Selina looked doubtful.
“I do not know any thing so grand,” continued Mary, “as to see any
body—man, woman, or child, patiently and cheerfully bearing one
affliction after another, without wanting any one to see or admire;
giving up every thing, most precious, as soon as required to do so, and
growing more and more careful to make other people happy as they are
less so themselves. How very selfish, how very cowardly, is the boldest
man that ever cut his throat, in comparison with such a one!”
Selina felt this; but enquired: “Do you think Signor Elvi could be such
a one if he is not a Christian?”
Mary pondered awhile before she answered:—“I do not know: I will ask
papa what he thinks. But I am very sure that a person so kind-hearted to
every body, so fond of his wife and children, and so very serious, as
papa says he is about religion, could never, in his right senses, plunge
himself into destruction, and every body that he cared for into misery.”
This last sentence furnished Selina with a new scheme. If Signor Elvi
would not, in his right senses, hang himself, he might do so if driven
mad by his misfortunes; and who could wonder if such should prove to be
the case? It mattered not that he had been not only sane but cheerful
the night before, and that Nurse Rickham was pleased with all that he
had said, and with his manner of saying it, that morning; Selina was
determined to be apprehensive: who or what, therefore, could prevent her
being so?
Mary, on her part, was resolved to ascertain what Signor Elvi’s
principles were with respect to the duty of bearing the troubles of life
with patience and cheerfulness. If she might judge from what she had
seen, those principles were good; but she did not know how much
allowance to make for differences of national character, and for
constitutional temperament. She hoped to obtain satisfaction for
herself, and instruction for Selina, by telling her father her wishes,
and requesting him to engage his foreign friend in conversation on such
topics as might lead to an explanation of those of his opinions which
she wished to ascertain.
In the meanwhile, she was glad to see how Anna had recovered her
spirits. At the farm it was her wont to be gay, and the well-known
objects there brought back the cheerfulness with which she was
accustomed to view them. When in a merry mood, Anna was almost wild: she
was so now. A spirited game at prison-bars was going on in the paddock,
and Anna and Mr. Fletcher were the most daring and active of the
players. Nobody excelled Mr. Fletcher at this kind of sport; and he was
glad when an opportunity offered of engaging his girls in amusements
which they relished far less than was natural at their age. Rose had now
thrown aside her bonnet, and was as eager to break the bounds of her
prison as little Tommy Rickham himself; but Selina, who was disappointed
to find that Anna’s sympathies were not as true to her own as the needle
to the pole, turned away with a sigh, and sought a shaded alley in the
garden, where she nourished her tender fears in solitude, and grew more
melancholy with every shout of laughter which reached her from the
paddock. She could not forget Anna as she had just seen her, panting
with heat and fatigue, her face flushed, her hair blown back, her eyes
almost starting with eagerness as she turned, and wound about the
palings, fled round and round, crossed and crossed again in the agony of
escape, which left her no breath to cry out as her pursuer came nearer
and nearer, and at last exactly missed her in his last attempt to catch
her as she leaped over the boundary. How different from the Anna who
wept under the trees in Audley Park! Selina was afraid that, after all,
she had not found the friend after her own heart, whom she had
congratulated herself on securing.
“My love,” said her mother, when she saw that her bowl of new milk stood
untasted before her, while the rest of the party were enjoying the meal
they had earned by exercise, “I am afraid you are not well, Selina.”
There was visible agitation about the lower part of the face while she
replied, in a low voice, that she was not ill. Her father, whose back
was towards her, turned suddenly round and looked her full in the face,
while he felt her pulse with mock gravity, observing that there was no
distemper but on the nerves, which certainly wanted bracing. In an
instant, before she was aware, he held her hands behind her with one
hand, and with the other dragged her to the very brink of the pond, as
if he would throw her in. Selina screamed and struggled; every body else
laughed, Anna rather more loudly than was accordant with her friend’s
sympathies. Mr. Fletcher let his prisoner escape, ran after her, and
when he had given her such a chase as exhausted her breath, caught her,
and whispering a few words, led her back to her seat at the table under
the tree; he helped her plentifully with cake, thus giving her an
opportunity of attesting his skill in restoring an appetite.
There was so much amusement afterwards for the gentlemen in accompanying
the farmer through some of his fields—for Mrs. Fletcher in quietly
talking over old times with Nurse Rickham—and for the young people, in
seeing the dairy-woman finish her milking, that it was dusk before they
left behind them the bows and curtseys of the household at the farm, and
quite dark when they reached home.
In the parlour was Signor Elvi, perfectly safe, reading very intently,
and looking so placid, that it was evident no such direful thoughts as
Selina had imagined, had disturbed any mind but her own. Anna retained,
for the present, her conjecture about the poem; but, though all were
full of curiosity respecting his day’s adventures, no one made any
allusion to them, except Mr. Fletcher, who observed on the universal
predilection of patriots for the wilds of nature, for hills, heaths, and
caves.
“It is universal because it is natural,” said Signor Elvi. “When men
cannot breathe freely in despotic courts, they love to lay bare their
bosoms to the winds. If they must be dumb before tyrants, they love to
shout their songs of liberty in the depths of caverns. If they must
smile falsely when the eyes of traitors are upon them, they love to drop
their tears into the mountain stream, while none look on but the
faithful and silent stars. Nature is the heaven of patriots.”
“But, my dear sir, here are no tyrants to constrain you to silence; and
it is to be hoped we are not traitors. Weep as much as you please, and
I, for one, will promise not to report your tears.”
“You spoke of patriots,” said the foreigner, smiling; “could I guess
that your thoughts were of myself?”