The equinoctial sun had long set, and the blue haze of March east
wind had deepened into twilight and darkness when Albinia Kendal found
herself driving down the steep hilly street of Bayford. The town was not
large nor modern enough for gas, and the dark street was only lighted
here and there by a shop of more pretension; the plate-glass of the
enterprising draper, with the light veiled by shawls and ribbons, the
‘purple jars,’ green, ruby, and crimson of the chemist; and the modest
ray of the grocer, revealing busy heads driving Saturday-night bargains.
‘How well I soon shall know them all,’ said Albinia, looking at her
husband, though she knew she could not see his face, as he leant back
silently in his corner, and she tried to say no more. She was sure that
coming home was painful to him; he had been so willing to put it off,
and to prolong those pleasant seaside days, when there had been such
pleasant reading, walking, musing, and a great deal of happy silence.
Down the hill, and a little way on level ground--houses on one side,
something like hedge or shrubbery on the other--a stop--a gate
opened--a hollow sound beneath the carriage, as though crossing a wooden
bridge--trees--bright windows--an open door--and light streaming from
it.
‘Here is your home, Albinia,’ said that deep musical voice that she
loved the better for the subdued melancholy of the tones, and the
suppressed sigh that could not be hidden.
‘And my children,’ she eagerly said, as he handed her out, and,
springing to the ground, she hurried to the open door opposite,
where, in the lamp-light, she saw, moving about in shy curiosity and
embarrassment, two girls in white frocks and broad scarlet sashes, and
a boy, who, as she advanced, retreated with his younger sister to the
fireplace, while the elder one, a pretty, and rather formal looking girl
of twelve, stood forward.
Albinia held out her arms, saying, ‘You are Lucy, I am sure,’ and
eagerly kissed the girl’s smiling, bright face.
‘Yes, I am Lucy,’ was the well-pleased answer, ‘I am glad you are come.’
‘I hope we shall be very good friends,’ said Albinia, with the sweet
smile that few, young or old, could resist. ‘And this is Gilbert,’ as
she kissed the blushing cheek of a thin boy of thirteen--‘and Sophia.’
Sophia, who was eleven, had not stirred to meet her. She alone inherited
her father’s fine straight profile, and large black eyes, but she had
the heaviness of feature that sometimes goes with very dark complexions.
The white frock did not become her brown neck and arms, her thick black
hair was arranged in too womanly a manner, and her head and face looked
too large; moreover, there was no lighting-up to answer the greeting,
and Albinia was disappointed.
Poor child, she thought, she is feeling deeply that I am an interloper,
it will be different now her father is coming.
Mr. Kendal was crossing the hall, and as he entered he took the hand and
kissed the forehead of each of the three, but Sophia stood with the same
half sullen indifference--it might be shyness, or sensibility.
‘How much you are grown!’ he said, looking at the children with some
surprise.
In fact, though Albinia knew their ages, they were all on a larger scale
than she had expected, and looked too old for the children of a man of
his youthful appearance. Gilbert had the slight look of rapid growth;
Lucy, though not so tall, and with a small, clear, bright face, had the
air of a little woman, and Sophia’s face might have befitted any age.
‘Yes, papa,’ said Lucy; ‘Gilbert has grown an inch-and-a-half since
October, for we measured him.’
‘Have you been well, Gilbert?’ continued Mr. Kendal, anxiously.
‘I have the toothache, said Gilbert, piteously.
‘Happily, nothing more serious,’ thrust in Lucy; ‘Mr. Bowles told Aunt
Maria that he considers Gilbert’s health much improved.’
Albinia asked some kind questions about the delinquent tooth, but the
answers were short; and, to put an end to the general constraint, she
asked Lucy to show her to her room.
It was a pretty bay-windowed room, and looked cheerful in the firelight.
Lucy’s tongue was at once unloosed, telling that Gilbert’s tutor, Mr.
Salsted, had insisted on his having his tooth extracted, and that he had
refused, saying it was quite well; but Lucy gave it as her opinion that
he much preferred the toothache to his lessons.
‘Where does Mr. Salsted live?’
‘At Tremblam, about two miles off; Gilbert rides the pony over there
every day, except when he has the toothache, and then he stays at home.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘We went to Miss Belmarche till the end of our quarter, and since that
we have been at home, or with grandmamma. Do you _really_ mean that we
are to study with you?’
‘I should like it, my dear. I have been looking forward very much to
teaching you and Sophia.’
‘Thank you, mamma.’
The word was said with an effort as if it came strangely, but it
thrilled Albinia’s heart, and she kissed Lucy, who clung to her, and
returned the caress.
‘I shall tell Gilbert and Sophy what a dear mamma you are,’ she said.
‘Do you know, Sophy says she shall never call you anything but Mrs.
Kendal; and I know Gilbert means the same.’
‘Let them call me whatever suits them best,’ said Albinia; ‘I had
rather they waited till they feel that they like to call me as you have
done--thank you for it, dear Lucy. You must not fancy I shall be at
all hurt at your thinking of times past. I shall want you to tell me of
them, and of your own dear mother, and what will suit papa best.’
Lucy looked highly gratified, and eagerly said, ‘I am sure I shall love
you just like my own mamma.’
‘No,’ said Albinia, kindly; ‘I do not expect that, my dear. I don’t ask
for any more than you can freely give, dear child. You must bear with
having me in that place, and we will try and help each other to
make your papa comfortable; and, Lucy, you will forgive me, if I am
impetuous, and make mistakes.’
Lucy’s little clear black eyes looked as if nothing like this had ever
come within her range of observation, and Albinia could sympathize with
her difficulty of reply.
Mr. Kendal was not in the drawing-room when they re-entered, there was
only Gilbert nursing his toothache by the fire, and Sophy sitting in the
middle of the rug, holding up a screen. She said something good-natured
to each, but neither responded graciously, and Lucy went on talking,
showing off the room, the chiffonieres, the ornaments, and some pretty
Indian ivory carvings. There was a great ottoman of Aunt Maria’s work,
and a huge cushion with an Arab horseman, that Lucy would uncover,
whispering, ‘Poor mamma worked it,’ while Sophy visibly winced, and
Albinia hurried it into the chintz cover again, lest Mr. Kendal should
come. But Lucy had full time to be communicative about the household
with such a satisfied, capable manner, that Albinia asked if she had
been keeping house all this time.
‘No; old Nurse kept the keys, and managed till now; but she went this
morning.’
Sophy’s mouth twitched.
‘She was so very fond--’ continued Lucy.
‘Don’t!’ burst out Sophy, almost the first word Albinia had heard from
her; but no more passed, for Mr. Kendal came in, and Lucy’s conversation
instantly was at an end.’
Before him she was almost as silent as the others, and he seldom
addressed himself to her, only inquiring once after her grandmamma’s
health, and once calling Sophy out of the way when she was standing
between the fire and--He finished with the gesture of command, whether
he said ‘Your mamma,’ none could tell.
It was late, and the meal was not over before bed-time, when Albinia
lingered to find remedies for Gilbert’s toothache, pleased to feel
herself making a commencement of motherly care, and to meet an
affectionate glance of thanks from Mr. Kendal’s eye. Gilbert, too,
thanked her with less shyness than before, and was hopeful about the
remedy; and with the feeling of having made a beginning, she ran down
to tell Mr. Kendal that she thought he had hardly done justice to the
children--they were fine creatures--something so sweet and winning about
Lucy--she liked Gilbert’s countenance--Sophy must have something deep
and noble in her.
He lifted his head to look at her bright face, and said, ‘They are very
much obliged to you.’
‘You must not say that, they are my own.’
‘I will not say it again, but as I look at you, and the home to which I
have brought you, I feel that I have acted selfishly.’
Albinia timidly pressed his hand, ‘Work was always what I wished,’ she
said, ‘if only I could do anything to lighten your grief and care.’
He gave a deep, heavy sigh. Albinia felt that if he had hoped to have
lessened the sadness, he had surely found it again at his own door. He
roused himself, however, to say, ‘This is using you ill, Albinia; no one
is more sensible of it than I am.’
‘I never sought more than you can give,’ she murmured; ‘I only wish to
do what I can for you, and you will not let me disturb you.’
‘I am very grateful to you,’ was his answer; a sad welcome for a bride.
‘And these poor children will owe everything to you.’
‘I wish I may do right by them,’ said Albinia, fervently.
‘The flower of the flock’--began Mr. Kendal, but he broke off at once.
Albinia had told Winifred that she could bear to have his wife’s memory
first with him, and that she knew that she could not compensate to him
for his loss, but the actual sight of his dejection came on her with
a chill, and she had to call up all her energies and hopes, and, still
better, the thought of strength not her own, to enable her to look
cheerfully on the prospect. Sleep revived her elastic spirits, and with
eager curiosity she drew up her blind in the morning, for the first view
of her new home.
But there was a veil--moisture made the panes resemble ground glass, and
when she had rubbed that away, and secured a clear corner, her range of
vision was not much more extensive. She could only see the grey outline
of trees and shrubs, obscured by the heavy mist; and on the lawn below,
a thick cloud that seemed to hang over a dark space which she suspected
to be a large pond.
‘There is very little to be gained by looking out here!’ Albinia
soliloquized. ‘It is not doing the place justice to study it on a misty,
moisty morning. It looks now as if that fever might have come bodily out
of the pond. I’ll have no more to say to it till the sun has licked
up the fog, and made it bright! Sunday morning--my last Sunday without
school-teaching I hope! I famish to begin again--and I will make time
for that, and the girls too! I am glad he consents to my doing whatever
I please in that way! I hope Mr. Dusautoy will! I wish Edmund knew him
better--but oh! what a shy man it is!’
With a light step she went down-stairs, and found Mr Kendal waiting for
her in the dining-room, his face brightening as she entered.
‘I am sorry Bayford should wear this heavy cloud to receive you,’ he
said.
‘It will soon clear,’ she answered, cheerfully. ‘Have you heard of poor
Gilbert this morning?’
‘Not yet.’ Then, after a pause, ‘I have generally gone to Mrs. Meadows
after the morning service,’ he said, speaking with constraint.
‘You will take me?’ said Albinia. ‘I wish it, I assure you.’
It was evidently what he wished her to propose, and he added, ‘She must
never feel herself neglected, and it will be better at once.’
‘So much more cordial,’ said Albinia. ‘Pray let us go!’
They were interrupted by the voices of the girls--not unpleasing voices,
but loud and unsubdued, and with a slight tone of provincialism, which
seemed to hurt Mr. Kendal’s ears, for he said, ‘I hope you will tune
those voices to something less unlike your own.’
As he spoke, the sisters appeared in the full and conscious rustling
of new lilac silk dresses, which seemed to have happily carried off all
Sophy’s sullenness, for she made much more brisk and civil answers, and
ran across the room in a boisterous manner, when her father sent her to
see whether Gilbert were up.
There was a great clatter, and Gilbert chased her in, breathless and
scolding, but the tongues were hushed before papa, and no more was heard
than that the tooth was better, and had not kept him awake. Lucy seemed
disposed to make conversation, overwhelming Albinia with needless
repetitions of ‘Mamma dear,’ and plunging into what Mrs. Bowles and Miss
Goldsmith had said of Mr. Dusautoy, and how he kept so few servants,
and the butcher had no orders last time he called. Aunt Maria thought he
starved and tyrannized over that poor little sickly Mrs. Dusautoy.
Mr. Kendal said not one word, and seemed not to hear. Albinia felt as if
she had fallen into a whirlpool of gossip; she looked towards him, and
hoped to let the conversation drop, but Sophy answered her sister,
and, at last, when it came to something about what Jane heard from
Mrs. Osborn’s Susan, Albinia gently whispered, ‘I do not think this
entertains your papa, my dear,’ and silence sank upon them all.
Albinia’s next venture was to ask about that which had been her Sunday
pleasure from childhood, and she turned to Sophy, and said, ‘I suppose
you have not begun to teach at the school yet!’
Sophy’s great eyes expanded, and Lucy said, ‘Oh dear mamma! nobody does
that but Genevieve Durant and the monitors. Miss Wolte did till Mr.
Dusautoy came, but she does not approve of him.’
‘Lucy, you do not know what you are saying,’ said Mr. Kendal, and again
there was an annihilating silence, which Albinia did not attempt to
disturb.
At church time, she met the young ladies in the hall, in pink bonnets
and sea-green mantillas over the lilac silks, all evidently put on for
the first time in her honour, an honour of which she felt herself the
less deserving, as, sensible that this was no case for bridal display,
she wore a quiet dark silk, a Cashmere shawl, and plain straw bonnet,
trimmed with white.
With manifest wish for reciprocity, Lucy fell into transports over the
shawl, but gaining nothing by this, Sophy asked if she did not like the
mantillas? Albinia could only make civility compatible with truth by
saying that the colour was pretty, but where was Gilbert? He was on a
stool before the dining-room fire, looking piteous, and pronouncing his
tooth far too bad for going to church, and she had just time for a fresh
administration of camphor before Mr. Kendal came forth from his study,
and gave her his arm.
The front door opened on a narrow sweep, the river cutting it off from
the road, and crossed by two wooden bridges, beside each of which stood
a weeping-willow, budding with fresh spring foliage. Opposite were
houses of various pretentious, and sheer behind them rose the steep
hill, with the church nearly at the summit, the noble spire tapering
high above, and the bells ringing out a cheerful chime. The mist had
drawn up, and all was fresh and clear.
‘There go Lizzie and Loo!’ cried Lucy, ‘and the Admiral and Mrs. Osborn.
I’ll run and tell them papa is come home.’
Sophy was setting off also, but Mr. Kendal stopped them, and lingered a
moment or two, making an excuse of looking for a needless umbrella,
but in fact to avoid the general gaze. As if making a desperate plunge,
however, and looking up and down the broad street, so as to be secure
that no acquaintance was near, he emerged with Albinia from the gate,
and crossed the road as the chime of the bells changed.
‘We are late,’ he said. ‘You will prefer the speediest way, though it is
somewhat steep.’
The most private way, Albinia understood, and could also perceive that
the girls would have liked the street which sloped up the hill, and
thought the lilac and green insulted by being conducted up the steep,
irregular, and not very clean bye-lane that led directly up the ascent,
between houses, some meanly modern, some picturesquely ancient, with
stone steps outside to the upper story, but all with far too much of
pig-stye about them for beauty or fragrance. Lucy held up her skirts,
and daintily picked her way, and Albinia looked with kindly eyes at
the doors and windows, secretly wondering what friends she should find
there.
The lane ended in a long flight of more than a hundred shallow steps cut
out in the soft stone of the hill, with landing-places here and there,
whence views were seen of the rich meadow-landscape beyond, with
villages, orchards, and farms, and the blue winding river Baye in
the midst, woods rising on the opposite side under the soft haze of
distance. On the other side, the wall of rock was bordered by gardens,
with streamers of ivy or periwinkle here and there hanging down.
The ascent ended in an old-fashioned stone stile; and here Sophy,
standing on the step, proclaimed, with unnecessary loudness, that Mr.
Dusautoy was carrying Mrs. Dusautoy across the churchyard. This had the
effect of making a pause, but Albinia saw the rector, a tall, powerful
man, rather supporting than actually carrying, a little fragile form
to the low-browed door leading into the chancel on the north side. The
church was handsome, though in the late style, and a good deal misused
by eighteenth-century taste; and Albinia was full of admiration as Mr.
Kendal conducted her along the flagged path.
She was rather dismayed to find herself mounting the gallery stairs, and
to emerge into a well-cushioned abode, with the shield-bearing angel
of the corbel of an arch all to herself, and a very good view of the
cobwebs over Mr. Dusautoy’s sounding-board. It seemed to suit all
parties, however, for Lucy and Sophia took possession of the forefront,
and their father had the inmost corner, where certainly nobody could see
him.
Just opposite to Albinia was a mural tablet, on which she read what
revealed to her more of the sorrows of her household than she had
guessed before:
‘To the memory of Lucy, the beloved wife of Edmund Kendal.
Died February 18th, 1845, aged 35 years.
Edmund Meadows Kendal, born January 20th, 1834.
Died February 10th, 1845.
Maria Kendal, born September 5th, 1840.
Died September 14th, 1840.
Sarah Anne Kendal, born October 3rd, 1841.
Died November 20th, 1843.
John Augustus Kendal, born January 4th, 1842.
Died July 6th, 1842.
Anne Maria Kendal, born June 12th, 1844.
Died June 19th, 1844.’
Then followed, in the original Greek, the words, ‘Because I live, ye
shall live also.’
Four infants! how many hopes laid here! All the English-born children
of the family had died in their cradles, and not only did compassion for
the past affect Albinia, as she thought of her husband’s world of hidden
grief, but a shudder for the future came over her, as she remembered
having read that such mortality is a test of the healthiness of a
locality. What could she think of Willow Lawn? It was with a strong
effort that she brought her attention back to Him Who controlleth the
sickness that destroyeth at noon-day.
But Mr. Dusautoy’s deep, powerful intonations roused her wandering
thoughts, and she was calmed and reassured by the holy Feast, in which
she joined with her husband.
Mr. Kendal’s fine face was calm and placid, as best she loved to look
upon it, when they came out of church, and she was too happy to disturb
the quiet by one word. Lively and animated as she was, there was a sort
of repose and enjoyment in the species of respect exacted by his grave
silent demeanour.
If this could only have lasted longer! but he was taking her along an
irregular street, and too soon she saw a slight colour flit across his
cheek, and his eyebrows contract, as he unlatched a green door in a high
wall, and entered a little flagged court, decorated by a stand destined
for flowers.
Albinia caught the blush, and felt more bashful than she had believed
was in her nature, but she had a warm-hearted determination that she
would work down prejudices, and like and be liked by all that concerned
him and his children. So she smiled at him, and went bravely on into the
matted hall and up the narrow stairs, and made a laughing sign when he
looked back at her ere he tapped at the sitting-room door.
It was opened from within before he could turn the handle, and a shrill
voice, exaggerating those of the girls, showered welcomes with such
rapidity, that Albinia was seated at the table, and had been helped
to cold chicken, before she could look round, or make much answer to
reiterations of ‘so very kind.’
It was a small room, loaded with knicknacks and cushions, like a
repository of every species of female ornamental handiwork in vogue for
the last half century, and the luncheon-tray in the middle of all, ready
for six people, for the two girls were there, and though Mr. Kendal
stood up by the fire, and would not eat, he and his black image,
reflected backwards and forwards in the looking-glass and in the little
round mirror, seemed to take up more room than if he had been seated.
Mrs. Meadows was slight, shrunken, and gentle-looking, with a sweet tone
in her voice, great softness of manner, and pretty blue eyes. Albinia
only wished that she had worn mourning, it would have been so much more
becoming than bright colours, but that was soon overlooked in gratitude
for her affectionate reception, and in the warmth of feeling excited by
her evident fondness and solicitude for Mr. Kendal.
Miss Meadows was gaily dressed in youthful fashion, such as evidently
had set her off to advantage when she had been a bright, dark, handsome
girl; but her hair was thin, her cheeks haggard, the colour hardened,
and her forty years apparent, above all, in an uncomfortable furrow on
the brow and round the mouth; her voice had a sharp distressed tone that
grated even in her lowest key, and though she did not stammer, she could
never finish a sentence, but made half-a-dozen disjointed commencements
whenever she spoke. Albinia pitied her, and thought her nervous, for she
was painfully assiduous in waiting on every one, scarcely sitting down
for a minute before she was sure that pepper, or pickle, or new bread,
or stale bread, or something was wanted, and squeezing round the table
to help some one, or to ring the bell every third minute, and all in
a dress that had a teasing stiff silken rustle. She offered Mr. Kendal
everything in the shape of food, till he purchased peace by submitting
to take a hard biscuit, while Albinia was not allowed her glass of water
till all manner of wines, foreign and domestic, had been tried upon her
in vain.
Conversation was not easy. Gilbert was inquired after, and his aunt
spoke in her shrill, injured note, as she declared that she had done her
utmost to persuade him to have the tooth extracted, and began a history
of what the dentist ought to have done five years ago.
His grandmother softly pitied him, saying poor little Gibbie was such
a delicate boy, and required such careful treatment; and when Albinia
hoped that he was outgrowing his ill-health, she was amused to find that
desponding compassion would have been more pleasing.
There had been a transaction about a servant in her behalf: and Miss
Meadows insisted on hunting up a note, searching all about the room, and
making her mother and Sophy move from the front of two table-drawers, a
disturbance which Sophy did not take with such placid looks as did her
grandmother.
The name of the maid was Eweretta Dobson, at which there was a general
exclamation.
‘I wonder what is the history of the name,’ said Albinia; ‘it sounds
like nothing but the diminutive of ewer. I hope she will not be the
little pitcher with long ears.’
Mr. Kendal looked as much amused as he ever did, but no one else gave
the least token of so much as knowing what she meant, and she felt as if
she had been making a foolish attempt at wit.
‘You need not call her so,’ was all that Mrs. Meadows said.
‘I do not like calling servants by anything but their true names,’
answered Albinia; ‘it does not seem to me treating them with proper
respect to change their names, as if we thought them too good for them.
It is using them like slaves.
Lucy exclaimed, ‘Why! grandmamma’s Betty is really named Philadelphia.’
Albinia laughed, but was disconcerted by finding that she had really
given annoyance. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘It is only a fancy
of my own. I am afraid that I have many fancies for my friends to
bear with. You see I have so fine a name of my own, that I have a
fellow-feeling for those under the same affliction; and I believe some
servants like an alias rather than be teased for their finery, so I
shall give Miss Eweretta her choice between that and her surname.
The old lady looked good-natured, and that matter blew over; but Miss
Meadows fell into another complication of pros and cons about writing
for the woman’s character, looking miserably harassed whether she should
write, or Mrs. Kendal, before she had been called upon.
Albinia supposed that Mrs. Wolfe might call in the course of the week;
but this Miss Meadows did not know, and she embarked in so many half
speeches, and looked so mysterious and significant at her mother, that
Albinia began to suspect that some dreadful truth was behind.
‘Perhaps,’ said the old lady, ‘perhaps Mrs. Kendal might make it
understood through you, my dear Maria, that she is ready to receive
visits.’
‘I suppose they must be!’ said Albinia.
‘You see, my dear, people would be most happy, but they do not know
whether you have arrived. You have not appeared at church, as I may
say.’
‘Indeed,’ said Albinia, much diverted by her new discoveries in the
realms of etiquette, ‘I was rather in a cupboard, I must allow. Ought we
to have sailed up the aisle in state in the Grandison pattern? Are you
ready?’ and she glanced up at her husband, but he only half heard.
‘No,’ said Miss Meadows, fretfully; ‘but you have not appeared as a
bride. The straw bonnet--you see people cannot tell whether you are not
incog, as yet--’
To refrain from laughing was impossible. ‘My tarn cap,’ she exclaimed;
‘I am invisible in it! What shall I do? I fear I shall never be
producible, for indeed it is my very best, my veritable wedding-bonnet!’
Lucy looked as if she thought it not worth while to be married for no
better a bonnet than that.
‘Absurdity!’ said Mr. Kendal.
If he would but have given a good hearty laugh, thought Albinia, what a
consolation it would be! but she considered herself to have had a lesson
against laughing in that house, and was very glad when he proposed going
home. He took a kind, affectionate leave of the old lady, who again
looked fondly in big face, and rejoiced in his having recovered his
looks.
As they arrived at home, Lucy announced that she was just going to speak
to Lizzie Osborn, and Sophy ran after her to a house of about the same
degree as their own, but dignified as Mount Lodge, because it stood
on the hill side of the street, while Mr. Kendal’s house was for more
gentility called ‘Willow Lawn.’ Gilbert was not to be found; but at four
o’clock the whole party met at dinner, before the evening service.
Gilbert could eat little, and on going back to the fire to roast his
cheek instead of going to church, was told by his father, ‘I cannot
have this going on. You must go to Mr. Bowles directly after breakfast
to-morrow, have the tooth drawn, and then go on to Mr. Salsted’s.
The tone was one that admitted of no rebellion. If Mr. Kendal interfered
little, his authority was absolute where he did interfere, and Albinia
could only speak a few kind words of encouragement, but the boy was
vexed and moody, seemed half asleep when they came home, and went to bed
as soon as tea was over.
Sophy went to bed too, Mr. Kendal went to his study, and Albinia, after
this day of novelty and excitement, drew her chair to the fire, and as
Lucy was hanging wearily about, called her to her side, and made her
talk, believing that there was more use in studying the girl’s character
than even in suggesting some occupation, though that was apparently the
great want of the whole family on Sunday.
Lucy’s first confidence was that Gilbert had not been out alone, but
with that Archibald Tritton. Mr. Tritton had a great farm, and was a
sort of gentleman, and Gilbert was always after that Archy. She thought
it ‘very undesirable,’ and Aunt Maria had talked to him about it, but he
never listened to Aunt Maria.
Albinia privately thought that it must be a severe penance to listen to
Aunt Maria, and took Gilbert’s part. She supposed that he must be very
solitary; it must be a melancholy thing to be a twin left alone.
‘And Edmund, dear Edmund, was always so kind and so fond of Gilbert!’
said Lucy. ‘You would not have thought they were twins, Edmund was so
much the tallest and strongest. It seemed so odd that Gilbert should
have got over it, when he did not. Should you like to hear all about it,
mamma?’
It was Albinia’s great wish to lift that dark veil, and Lucy began, with
as much seriousness and sadness as could co-exist with the satisfaction
and importance of having to give such a narration, and exciting emotion
and pity. It was remarkable how she managed to make herself the heroine
of the story, though she had been sent out of the house, and had escaped
the infection. She spoke in phrases that showed that she had so often
told the story as to have a set form, caught from her elders, but still
it had a deep and intrinsic interest for the bride, that made her sit
gazing into the fire, pressing Lucy’s hand, and now and then sighing
and shuddering slightly as she heard how there had been a bad fever
prevailing in that lower part of the town, and how the two boys were
both unwell one damp, hot autumn morning, and Lucy dwelt on the escape
it had been that she had not kissed them before going to school. Sophy
had sickened the same day, and after the tedious three weeks, when
father and mother were spent with attendance on the three, Edmund, after
long delirium, had suddenly sunk, just as they had hopes of him; and
the same message that told Lucy of her brother’s death, told her of the
severe illness of both parents.
The disease had done the work rapidly on the mother’s exhausted frame,
and she was buried a week after her boy. Lucy had seen the procession
from the window, and thought it necessary to tell how she had cried.
Mr. Kendal’s had been a long illness; the first knowledge of his loss
had caused a relapse, and his recovery had long been doubtful. As soon
as the children were able to move, they were sent with Miss Meadows to
Ramsgate, and Lucy had joined them there.
‘The day before I went, I saw papa,’ she said. ‘I had gone home for some
things that I was to take, and his room door was open, so he saw me on
the stairs, and called me, for there was no fear of infection then. Oh,
he was so changed! his hair all cut off, and his cheeks hollow, and he
was quite trembling, as he lay back on pillows in the great arm-chair.
You can’t think what a shock it was to me to see him in such a state.
He held out his arms, and I flung mine round his neck, and sobbed and
cried. And he just said, so faintly, “Take her away, Maria, I cannot
bear it.” I assure you I was quite hysterical.’
‘You must have wished for more self-command,’ said Albinia, disturbed by
Lucy’s evident pleasure in having made a scene.
‘Oh, but it was such a shock, and such a thing to see the house all
empty and forlorn, with the windows open, and everything so still! Miss
Belmarche cried too, and said she did not wonder my feelings overcame
me, and _she_ did not see papa.’
‘Ah! Lucy,’ said Albinia, fervently, ‘how we must try to make him happy
after all that he has gone through!’
‘That is what grandmamma said when she got his letter. “I would be glad
of anything,” she said, “that would bring back a smile to him.” And Aunt
Maria said she had done her best for him, but he must consult his own
happiness; and so I say. When people talk to me, I say that papa is
quite at liberty to consult his own happiness.’
‘Thank you.’
Lucy did not understand the tone, and went on patronizing. ‘And if they
say you look younger than they expected, I don’t object to that at all.
I had rather you were not as old as Aunt Maria, or Miss Belmarche.’
‘Who thinks me so young?’
‘Oh! Aunt Maria, and grandmamma, and Mrs. Osborn, and all; but I don’t
mind that, it is only Sophy who says you look like a girl. Aunt Maria
says Sophy has an unmanageable temper.’
‘Don’t you think you can let me find that out for myself?’
‘I thought you wanted me to tell you about everybody.’
‘Ah! but tell me of the good in your brother and sister.’
‘I don’t know how,’ said Lucy. ‘Gilbert is so tiresome, and so is Sophy.
I heard Mary telling Jane, “I’m sure the new missus will have a heavy
handful of those two.”’
‘And what of yourself?’ said Albinia.
‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said Lucy, modestly.
Mr. Kendal came in, and as Albinia looked at his pensive brow, she was
oppressed by the thought of his sufferings in that dreary convalescence.
At night, when she looked from her window, the fog hung white, like
mildew over the pond, and she could not reason herself out of a spectral
haunting fancy that sickness lurked in the heavy, misty atmosphere. She
dreamt of it and the four babies, started, awoke, and had to recall
all her higher trust to enable her vigour to chase off the oppressive
imagination.