There are some characters so constituted, that of them the old proverb,
that Love is blind, is perfectly true; they can see no imperfection in
the mind or body of those dear to them. There are others in whom the
strongest affections do not destroy clearness of vision, who see their
friends on all sides, and perceive their faults and foibles, without
loving them the less.
Albinia Kendal was a person of the latter description. It might almost
be called her temptation, that her mind beheld all that came before it
in a clear, and a humorous light, such as only a disposition overflowing
with warm affection and with the energy of kindness, could have
prevented from bordering upon censoriousness. She had imagination, but
it was not such as to make an illusion of the present, or to interfere
with her almost satirical good sense. Happily, religion and its earthly
manifestation--charity regulated her, taught her to fear to judge lest
she should be judged, strengthened her naturally fond affections, and
tempered the keenness that disappointment might soon have turned to
sourness. The tongue, the temper, and the judgment knew their own
tendencies, and a guard was set over them; and if the sentinel were ever
torpid or deceived, repentance paid the penalty.
She had not long seen her husband at home before she had involuntarily
completed her view of his character. Nature must have designed him for
a fellow of a college, where, apart from all cares, he might have
collected fragments of forgotten authors, and immortalized his name by
some edition of a Greek Lyric poet, known by four poems and a half,
and two-thirds of a line quoted somewhere else. In such a controversy,
lightened by perpetually polished poems, by a fair amount of modern
literature, select college friendships, and methodical habits, Edmund
Kendal would have been in his congenial element, lived and died, and had
his portrait hung up as one of the glories of his college.
But he had been carried off from school, before he had done more than
prove his unusual capacity. All his connexions were Indian, and his
father, who had not seen him since his earliest childhood, offered him
no choice but an appointment in the civil service. He had one stimulus;
he had seen Lucy Meadows in the radiant glory of girlish beauty, and had
fastened on her all a poet’s dreams, deepening and becoming more fervid
in the recesses of a reserved heart, which did not easily admit new
sensations. That stimulus carried him out cheerfully to India, and
quickened his abilities, so that he exerted himself sufficiently
to obtain a lucrative situation early in life. He married, and his
household must have been on the German system, all the learning on
one side, all the domestic cares on the other. The understanding and
refinement wanting in his wife, he believed to be wanting in all women.
As resident at a small remote native court in India, he saw no female
society such as could undeceive him; and subsequently his Bayford life
had not raised his standard of womankind. A perfect gentleman, his
superiority was his own work, rather than that of station or education,
and so he had never missed intercourse with really ladylike or
cultivated, female minds, expected little from wife, or daughters, or
neighbours; had a few learned friends, but lived within himself. He had
acquired a competence too soon, and had the great misfortune of property
without duties to present themselves obviously. He had nothing to do but
to indulge his naturally indolent scholarly tastes, which, directed as
they had been to Eastern languages, had even less chance of sympathy
among his neighbours than if they had been classical. Always reserved,
and seldom or never meeting with persons who could converse with him,
he had lapsed into secluded habits, and learnt to shut himself up in his
study and exclude every one, that he might have at least a refuge from
the gossip and petty cares that reigned everywhere else. So seldom was
anything said worth his attention, that he never listened to what was
passing, and had learnt to say ‘very well’--‘I’ll see about it,’ without
even knowing what was said to him.
But though his wife had been no companion, the illusion had never died
away, he had always loved her devotedly, and her loss had shattered all
his present rest and comfort; as entirely as the death of his son had
taken from him hope and companionship.
What a home it must have been, with Lucy reigning over it in her pert
self-sufficiency, Gilbert and Sophy running riot and squabbling,
and Maria Meadows coming in on them with her well-meant worries and
persecutions!
When taken away from the scene of his troubles, his spirits revived;
afraid to encounter his own household alone, he had thought Albinia the
cure for everything. But at home, habit and association had proved too
strong for her presence--the grief, which he had tried to leave behind,
had waited ready to meet him on the threshold, and the very sense that
it was a melancholy welcome added to his depression, and made him less
able to exert himself. The old sorrows haunted the walls of the house,
and above all the study, and tarried not in seizing on their unresisting
victim. Melancholy was in his nature, his indolence gave it force,
and his habits were almost ineffaceable, and they were habits of quiet
selfishness, formed by a resolute, though inert will, and fostered by
an adoring wife. A youth spent in India had not given him ideas of
responsibilities beyond his own family, and his principles, though
sound, had not expanded the views of duty with which he had started in
life.
It was a positive pleasure to Albinia to discover that there had been an
inefficient clergyman at Bayford before Mr. Dusautoy, and to know that
during half the time that the present vicar had held the living, Mr.
Kendal had been absent, so that his influence had had no time to work.
She began to understand her line of action. It must be her effort, in
all loving patience and gentleness, to raise her husband’s spirits and
rouse his faculties; to make his powers available for the good of his
fellow-creatures, to make him an active and happy man, and to draw him
and his children together. This was truly a task to make her heart throb
high with hope and energy. Strong and brave was that young heart, and
not self-confident--the difficulty made her only the more hopeful,
because she saw it was her duty. She was secure of her influence
with him. If he did exclude her from his study, he left her supreme
elsewhere, and though she would have given the world that their
sovereignty might be a joint one _everywhere_, still she allowed much
for the morbid inveterate habit of dreading disturbance. When he began
by silence and not listening, she could always rouse him, and give him
animation, and he was so much surprised and pleased whenever she entered
into any of his pursuits, that she had full hope of drawing him out.
One day when the fog, instead of clearing off had turned to violent
rain, Albinia had been out on parish work, and afterwards enlivening
old Mrs. Meadows by dutifully spending an hour with her, while Maria
was nursing a nervous headache--she had been subject to headaches ever
since...an ominous sigh supplied the rest.
But all the effect of Albinia’s bright kindness was undone, when the
grandmother learnt that Gilbert was gone to his tutor, and would have
to come home in the rain, and she gave such an account of his exceeding
delicacy, that Albinia became alarmed, and set off at once that she
might consult his father about sending for him.
Her opening of the hall door was answered by Mr. Kendal emerging from
his study. He was looking restless and anxious, came to meet her,
and uncloaked her, while he affectionately scolded her for being so
venturesome. She told him where she had been, and he smiled, saying,
‘You are a busy spirit! But you must not be too imprudent.’
‘Oh, nothing hurts me. It is poor Gilbert that I am anxious about.’
‘So am I. Gilbert has not a constitution fit for exposure. I wish he
were come home.’
‘Could we not send for him? Suppose we sent a fly.’
He was consenting with a pleased smile, when the door opened, and there
stood the dripping Gilbert, completely wet through, pale and chilled,
with his hair plastered down, and his coat stuck all over with the
horse’s short hair.
‘You must go to bed at once, Gilbert,’ said his father. ‘Are you cold?’
‘Very. It was such a horrid driving wind, and I rode so fast,’ said
Gilbert; violently shivering, as they helped to pull him out of his
great coat; he put his hand to his mouth, and said that his face ached.
Mr. Kendal was very anxious, and Albinia hurried the boy up to bed,
and meantime ordered quickly a basin of the soup preparing for dinner,
warmed some worsted socks at the fire, and ran upstairs with them.
He seemed to have no substance in him; he had hardly had energy to
undress himself, and she found him with his face hidden on the pillow,
shivering audibly, and actually crying. She was aghast.
The boys with whom she had been brought up, would never have given
way so entirely without resistance; but between laughing, cheering,
scolding, covering him up close, and rubbing his hands with her own, she
comforted him, so that he could be grateful and cheerful when his father
himself came up with the soup. Albinia noticed a sort of shudder pass
over Mr. Kendal as he entered, and he stood close by Gilbert, turning
his back on everything else, while he watched the boy eat the soup,
as if restored by every spoonful. ‘That was a good thought,’ was his
comment to his wife, and the look of gratitude brought a flush of
pleasure into her cheek.
Of all the dinners, this was the most pleasant; he was more gentle and
affectionate, and she made him tell her about the Persian poets, and
promise to show her some specimens of the Rose Garden of Saadi--she had
never before been so near having his pursuits opened to her.
‘What a favourite Gilbert is!’ Lucy said to Sophia, as Albinia lighted a
candle and went up to his room.
‘He makes such a fuss,’ said Sophy. ‘What is there in being wet through
to cry about?’
Albinia heard a little shuffle as she opened the door, and Gilbert
pushed a book under his pillow. She asked him what he had been reading.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘he had not been doing it long, for the flickering of the
candle hurt his eyes.’
‘Yes, you had better not,’ said Albinia, moving the flaring light to a
less draughty part of the dingy whitewashed attic. ‘Or shall I read to
you?’
‘Are you come to stay with me?’ cried the boy, raising himself up to
look after her, as she moved about the room and stood looking from the
window over the trees at the water meadows, now flooded into a lake, and
lighted by the beams of a young moon.
‘I can stay till your father is ready for tea,’ said Albinia, coming
nearer. ‘Let me see whether your hands are hot.’
She found her own hand suddenly clasped, and pressed to his lips, and
then, as if ashamed, he turned his face away; nor would she betray her
pleasure in it, but merely said, ‘Shall I go on with your book!’
‘No,’ said he, wearily turning his reddened cheek to the other side. ‘I
only took it because it is so horrid lying here thinking.’
‘I am very sorry to hear it. Do you know, Gibbie, that it is said there
is nothing more lamentable than for a man not to like to have his own
thoughts for his company,’ said she, gaily.
‘Ah! but--!’ said Gilbert. ‘If I lie here alone, I’m always looking
out there,’ and he pointed to the opposite recess. She looked, but saw
nothing. ‘Don’t you know?’ he said.
‘Edmund?’ she asked.
He grasped her hands in both his own. ‘Aye! Ned used to sleep there. I
always look for him there.’
‘Do you mean that you would rather have another room? I would manage it
directly.’
‘O no, thank you, I like it for some things. Take the candle--look by
the shutter--cut out in the wood.’
The boys’ scoring of ‘E. & G. K.,’ was visible there.
‘Papa has taken all he could of Edmund’s,’ said Gilbert, ‘but he could
not take that! No, I would not have any other room if you were to give
me the best in the house.’
‘I am sure not! But, my dear, considering what Edmund was, surely they
should be gentle, happy thoughts that the room should give you.’
He shuddered, and presently said, ‘Do you know what?’ and paused; then
continued, with an effort, getting tight hold of her hand, ‘Just before
Edmund died--he lay out there--I lay here--he sat up all white in bed,
and he called out, clear and loud, “Mamma, Gilbert”--I saw him--and
then--he was dead! And you know mamma did die--and I’m sure I shall!’ He
had worked himself into a trembling fit, hid his face and sobbed.
‘But you have not died of the fever.’
‘Yes--but I know it means that I shall die young! I am sure it does! It
was a call! I heard Nurse say it was a call!’
What was to be done with such a superstition? Albinia did not think it
would be right to argue it away. It might be in truth a warning to him
to guard his ways--a voice from the twin-brother, to be with him through
life. She knelt down by him, and kissed his forehead.
‘Dear Gilbert,’ she said, ‘we all shall die.’
‘Yes, but I shall die young.’
‘And if you should. Those are happy who die young. How much pain your
baby-brother and sisters have missed! How happy Edmund is now!’
‘Then you really think it meant that I shall’’ he cried, tremblingly. ‘O
don’t! I can’t die!’
‘Your brother called on what he loved best,’ said Albinia. ‘It may mean
nothing. Or rather, it may mean that your dear twin-brother is watching
for you, I am sure he is, to have you with him, for what makes your
mortal life, however long, seem as nothing. It was a call to you to be
as pure on earth as he is in heaven. O Gilbert, how good you should be!’
Gilbert did not know whether it frightened him or soothed him to see his
superstition treated with respect--neither denied, nor reasoned away.
But the ghastliness was not in the mere fear that death might not be far
off.
The pillow had turned a little on one side--Albinia tried to smooth
it--the corner of a book peeped out. It was a translation of The Three
Musqueteers, one of the worst and most fascinating of Dumas’ romances.
‘You wont tell papa!’ cried Gilbert, raising himself, in far more real
and present terror than he had previously shown.
‘How did you get it? Whose is it?’
‘It is my own. I bought it at Richardson’s. It is very funny. But you
wont tell papa? I never was told not; indeed I was not.’
‘Now, Gilbert dear, will you tell me a few things? I do only wish what
is good for you. Why don’t you wish that papa should hear of this book?’
Gilbert writhed himself.
‘You know he would not like it?’
‘Then why did you take to reading it?’
‘Oh!’ cried the boy, ‘if you only did know how stupid and how miserable
it has been! More than half myself gone, and Sophy always glum, and Lucy
always plaguing, and Aunt Maria always being a torment, you would not
wonder at one’s doing anything to forget it!’
‘Yes, but why do what you knew to be wrong?’
‘Nobody told me not.’
‘Disobedience to the spirit, then, if not to the letter. It was not the
way to be happier, my poor boy, nor nearer to your brother and mother.’
‘Things didn’t use to be stupid when Ned was there!’ sobbed Gilbert,
bursting into a fresh flood of tears.
‘Ah! Gilbert, I grieved most of all for _you_ when first I heard your
story, before I thought I should ever have anything to do with you,’
said Albinia, hanging over him fondly. ‘I always thought it must be so
forlorn to be a twin left solitary. But it is sadder still than I knew,
if grief has made you put yourself farther from him instead of nearer.’
‘I shall be good again now that I have you,’ said Gilbert, as he looked
up into that sweet face.
‘And you will begin by making a free confession to your father, and
giving up the book.’
‘I don’t see what I have to confess. He would be so angry, and he never
told me not. Oh! I cannot tell him.’
She felt that this was not the right way to begin a reformation, and yet
she feared to press the point, knowing that the one was thought severe,
the other timid.
‘At least you will give up the book,’ she said.
‘O dear! if you would let me see whether d’Artagnan got to England. I
must know that! I’m sure there can’t be any harm in that. Do you know
what it is about?’
‘Yes, I do. My brother got it by some mistake among some French books.
He read some of the droll unobjectionable parts to my sister and me, but
the rest was so bad, that he threw it into the fire.’
‘Then you think it funny?’
‘To be sure I do.’
‘Do you remember the three duels all at once, and the three valets? Oh!
what fun it is. But do let me see if d’Artagnan got the diamonds.’
‘Yes, he did. But will this satisfy you, Gilbert? You know there are
some exciting pleasures that we must turn our backs on resolutely. I
think this book is one of them. Now you will let me take it? I will tell
your father about it in private, and he cannot blame you. Then, if he
will give his consent, whenever you can come home early, come to my
dressing-room, out of your sisters’ way, and I will read to you the
innocent part, so as to get the story out of your brain.’
‘Very well,’ said Gilbert, slowly. ‘Yes, if you will not let papa be
angry with me. And, oh dear! must you go?’
‘I think you had better dress yourself and come down to tea. There is
nothing the matter with you now, is there?’
He was delighted with the suggestion, and promised to come directly;
and Albinia carried off her prize, exceedingly hopeful and puzzled,
and wondering whether her compromise had been a right one, or a mere
tampering with temptation--delighted with the confidence and affection
bestowed on her so freely, but awe-struck by the impression which the
boy had avowed, and marvelling how it should be treated, so as to render
it a blessed and salutary restraint, rather than the dim superstitious
terror that it was at present. At least there was hope of influencing
him, his heart was affectionate, his will on the side of right, and in
consideration of feeble health and timid character, she would overlook
the fact that he had not made one voluntary open confession, and that
the partial renunciation had been wrung from him as a choice of evils.
She could only feel how much he was to be pitied, and how he responded
to her affection.
She was crossing the hall next day, when she heard a confusion of
tongues through the open door of the dining-room, and above all,
Gilbert’s. ‘Well, I say there are but two ladies in Bayford. One is Mrs.
Kendal, and the other is Genevieve Durant!’
‘A dancing-master’s daughter!’ Lucy’s scornful tone was unmistakeable,
and so was the ensuing high-pitched querulous voice, ‘Well, to be sure,
Gilbert might be a little more--a little more civil. Not that I’ve a
word to say against--against your--your mamma. Oh, no!--glad to see--but
Gilbert might be more civil.’
‘I think so indeed,’ said Albinia. ‘Good morning, Miss Meadows. You see
Gilbert has come home quite alive enough for mischief.’
‘Ah! I thought I might be excused. Mamma was so uneasy--though I know
you don’t admit visitors--my just coming to see--We’ve been always so
anxious about Gilbert. Gibbie dear, where is that flannel I gave you for
your throat?’
She advanced to put her finger within his neck-tie and feel for it.
Gilbert stuck his chin down, and snapped with his teeth like a gin. Lucy
exclaimed, ‘Now, Gilbert, I know mamma will say that is wrong.’
‘Ah! we are used to Gilbert’s tricks. Always bear with a boy’s antics,’
said Miss Meadows, preventing whatever she thought was coming out of
Mrs. Kendal’s month. Albinia took the unwise step of laughing, for her
sympathies were decidedly with resistance both to flannels and to the
insertion of that hooked finger.
‘Mr. Bowles has always said it was a case for great care. Flannel next
the skin--no exposure,’ continued Miss Meadows, tartly. ‘I am sure--I
know I am the last person to wish to interfere--but so delicate--You’ll
excuse--but my mother was uneasy; and people who go out in all
weathers--’
‘I hope Mrs. Meadows had my note this morning.’
‘O yes! I am perfectly aware. Thank you. Yes, I know the rule, but
you’ll excuse--My mother was still anxious--I know you exclude visitors
in lesson-time. I’m going. Only grandmamma would be glad--not that she
wishes to interfere--but if Gilbert had on his piece of flannel--’
‘Have you, Gilbert?’ said Albinia, becoming tormented.
‘I have been flannel all over all my life,’ said Gilbert, sulkily, ‘one
bit more or less can make no odds.’
‘Then you have not that piece? said Albinia.
‘Oh, my dear! Think of that! New Saxony! I begged it of Mr. Holland. A
new remnant--pink list, and all! I said it was just what I wanted
for Master Gilbert. Mr. Holland is always a civil, feeling man. New
Saxony--three shillings the yard--and trimmed with blue sarsenet! Where
is it, Gilbert?’
‘In a soup dish, with a crop of mustard and cress on it,’ said Gilbert,
with a wicked wink at Albinia, who was unable to resist joining in the
girls’ shout of laughing, but she became alarmed when she found that
poor Miss Meadows was very near crying, and that her incoherency became
so lachrymose as to be utterly incomprehensible.
Lucy, ashamed of her laughter, solemnly declared that it was very wrong
of Gilbert, and she hoped he would not suffer from it, and Albinia,
trying to become grave, judicial, and conciliatory, contrived to
pronounce that it was very silly to leave anything off in an east wind,
and hoping to put an end to the matter, asked Aunt Maria to sit down,
and judge how they went on with their lessons.
O no, she could not interrupt. Her mother would want her. She knew Mrs.
Kendal never admitted visitors. She had no doubt she was quite right.
She hoped it would be understood. She would not intrude. In fact,
she could neither go nor stay. She would not resume her seat, nor let
anything go on, and it was full twenty minutes before a series of little
vibrating motions and fragmentary phrases had borne her out of the
house.
‘Well!’ cried Gilbert, ‘I hoped Aunt Maria had left off coming down upon
us.’
‘O, mamma!’ exclaimed Lucy, ‘you never sent your love to grandmamma.’
‘Depend upon it she was waiting for that,’ said Gilbert.
I’m sure I wish I had known it,’ said Albinia, not in the most judicious
manner. ‘Half-past eleven!’
‘Aunt Maria says she can’t think how you can find time for church when
you can’t see visitors in the morning,’ said Lucy. ‘And oh! dear mamma,
grandmamma says gravy soup was enough to throw Gilbert into a fever.’
‘At any rate, it did not,’ said Albinia.
‘Oh! and, dear mamma, Mrs. Osborn is so hurt that you called on Mrs.
Dusautoy before returning her visit; and Aunt Maria says if you don’t
call to-day you will never get over it, and she says that--’
‘What business has Mrs. Osborn to ask whom I called on?’ exclaimed
Albinia, impatiently.
‘Because Mrs. Osborn is the leading lady in the town,’ said Lucy. ‘She
told Miss Goldsmith that she had no notion of not being respected.’
‘And she can’t bear the Dusautoys. She left off subscribing to anything
when they came; and he behaved very ill to the Admiral and everybody at
a vestry-meeting.’
‘I shall ask your papa before I am in any hurry to call on the Osborns!’
cried Albinia. ‘I have no desire to be intimate with people who treat
their clergyman in that way.’
‘But Mrs. Osborn is quite the leader!’ exclaimed Lucy. They keep the
best society here. So many families in the county come and call on
them.’
‘Very likely--’
‘Ah! Mrs. Osborn told Aunt Maria that as the Nugents called on you, and
you had such connexions, she supposed you would be high. But you wont
make me separate from Lizzie, will you? I suppose Miss Nugent is a
fashionable young lady.’
‘Miss Nugent is five years old. Don’t let us have any more of this
nonsense.’
‘But you wont part me from Lizzie Osborn,’ said Lucy, hanging her head
pathetically on one side.
‘I shall talk to your father. He said, the other day, he did not wish
you to be so much with her.’
Lucy melted into tears, and Albinia was conscious of having been first
indiscreet and then sharp, hurt at the comments, feeling injured by
Lucy’s evident habit of reporting whatever she said, and at the failure
of the attempt to please Mrs. Meadows. She was so uneasy about the
Osborn question, that she waylaid Mr. Kendal on his return from riding,
and laid it before him.
‘My dear Albinia,’ he said, as if he would fain have avoided the appeal,
‘you must manage your own visiting affairs your own way. I do not wish
to offend my neighbours, nor would I desire to be very intimate with any
one. I suppose you must pay them ordinary civility, and you know what
that amounts to. As to the leadership in society here, she is a noisy
woman, full of pretension, and thus always arrogates the distinction to
herself. Your claims will establish themselves.’
‘Oh, you don’t imagine me thinking of that!’ cried Albinia, laughing. ‘I
meant their behaving ill to Mr. Dusautoy.’
‘I know nothing about that. Mr. Dusautoy once called to ask for my
support for a vestry meeting, but I make it a rule never to meddle with
parish skirmishes. I believe there was a very unbecoming scene, and that
Mr. Dusautoy was in the minority.’
‘Ah, Edmund, next time you’ll see if a parson’s sister can sit quietly
by to see the parson beaten!’
He smiled, and moved towards his study.
‘Then I am to be civil?’
‘Certainly.’
‘But is it necessary to call to-day?’
‘I should suppose not;’ and there he was, shut up in his den. Albinia
went back, between laughing and vexation, and Lucy looked up from her
exercise to say, ‘Does papa say you must call on the Osborns?’
It was undignified! She bit her lip, and felt her false position, as
with a quiver of the voice she replied, ‘We shall make nothing but
mischief if we talk now. Go on with your business.’
The sharp, curious eyes did not take themselves off her face. She leant
over Sophy, who was copying a house, told her the lines were slanting,
took the pencil from her hand, and tried to correct them, but found
herself making them over-black, and shaky. She had not seen such a
line since the days of her childhood’s ill-temper. She walked to the
fireplace and said, ‘I am going to call on Mrs. Osborn to-day. Not that
your father desires it, but because I have been indulging in a wrong
feeling.’
‘I’m sure you needn’t,’ cried Gilbert. ‘It is very impertinent of
Mrs. Osborn. Why, if he is an admiral, she was the daughter of an old
lieutenant of the Marines, and you are General Sir Maurice Ferrars’
first cousin.’
‘Hush, hush, Gilbert!’ said Albinia, blushing and distressed. ‘Mrs.
Osborn’s standing in the place entitles her to all attention. I was
thinking of nothing of the kind. It was because I gave way to a wrong
feeling that I mean to go this afternoon.’
On the Sunday, when Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to pay their weekly visit
to Mrs. Meadows, they found the old lady taking a turn in the garden.
And as they were passing by the screen of laurels, Gilbert’s voice was
heard very loud, ‘That’s too bad, Lucy! Grandmamma, don’t believe one
word of it!’
‘Gilbert, you--you are, I’m sure, very rude to your sister.’
‘I’ll not stand to hear false stories of Mrs. Kendal!’
‘What is all this?’ said Mr. Kendal, suddenly appearing, and discovering
Gilbert pirouetting with indignation before Lucy.
Miss Meadows burst out with a shower of half sentences, grandmamma
begged that no notice might be taken of the children’s nonsense, Lucy
put on an air of injured innocence, and Gilbert was beginning to speak,
but his father put him aside, saying, ‘Tell me what has happened,
Sophia. From you I am certain of hearing the exact truth.’
‘Only,’ growled Sophy, in her hoarse boy’s voice, ‘Lucy said mamma said
she would not call on Mrs. Osborn unless you ordered her, and when you
did, she cried and flew into a tremendous passion.’
‘Sophy, what a story,’ exclaimed Lucy, but Gilbert was ready to
corroborate his younger sister’s report.
‘You know Lucy too well to attach any importance to her
misrepresentations,’ said Mr. Kendal, turning to Mrs. Meadows, ‘but
I know not what amends she can make for this most unprovoked slander.
Speak, Lucy, have you no apology to make?’
For Lucy, in self-defence, had begun to cry, and her grandmother seemed
much disposed to do the same. Miss Meadows had tears in her eyes,
and incoherencies on her lips. The distress drove away all Albinia’s
inclination to laugh, and clasping her two hands over her husband’s arm,
she said, ‘Don’t, Edmund, it is only a misunderstanding of what really
happened. I did have a silly fit, you know, so it is my fault.’
‘I cannot forgive for you as you do for yourself,’ said Mr. Kendal, with
a look that was precious to her, though it might have given a pang to
the Meadowses. ‘I did not imagine that my daughter could be so lost to
the sense of your kindness and forbearance. Have you nothing to say,
Lucy?’
‘Poor child! she cannot speak,’ said her grandmother. ‘You see she is
very sorry, and Mrs. Kendal is too kind to wish to say any more about
it.’
‘Go home at once, Lucy,’ said her father. ‘Perhaps solitude may bring
you to a better state of feeling. Go!’
Direct resistance to Mr. Kendal was never thought of, and Lucy turned
to go. Her aunt chose to accompany her, and though this was a decided
relief to the company she left, it was not likely to be the best thing
for the young lady herself.
Mr. Kendal gave his arm to Mrs. Meadows, saying gravely that Lucy must
not be encouraged in her habit of gossiping and inaccuracy. Mrs. Meadows
quite agreed with him, it was a very bad habit for a girl, she was very
sorry for it, she wished she could have attended to the dear children
better, but she was sure dear Mrs. Kendal would make them everything
desirable. She only hoped that she would remember their disadvantages,
have patience, and not recollect this against poor Lucy.
The warm indignation and championship of her husband and his son were
what Albinia chiefly wished to recollect; but it was impossible to free
herself from a sense of pain and injury in the knowledge that she lived
with a spy who would exaggerate and colour every careless word.
Mr. Kendal returned to the subject as they walked home.
‘I hope you will talk seriously to Lucy about her intolerable
gossiping,’ he said. ‘There is no safety in mentioning any subject
before her; and Maria Meadows makes her worse. Some stop must be put to
it.’
‘I should like to wait till next time,’ said Albinia.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because this is too personal to myself.’
‘Nay, your own candour is an example to which Lucy can hardly be
insensible. Besides, it is a nuisance which must be abated.’
Albinia could not help thinking that he suffered from it as little as
most people, and wondering whether it were this which had taught him
silence.
They met Miss Meadows at their own gate, and she told them that dear
Lucy was very sorry, and she hoped they would take no more notice of a
little nonsense that could do no one any harm; she would be more on her
guard next time.
Mr. Kendal made no answer. Albinia ventured to ask him whether it would
not be better to leave it, since her aunt had talked to her.
‘No,’ he said; ‘Maria has no influence whatever with the children.
She frets them by using too many words about everything. One quiet
remonstrance from you would have far more effect.’
Albinia called the culprit and tried to reason with her. Lucy tried at
first to battle it off by saying that she had made a mistake, and Aunt
Maria had said that she should hear no more about it. ‘But, my dear, I
am afraid you must hear more. It is not that I am hurt, but your papa
has desired me to talk to you. You would be frightened to hear what he
says.’
Lucy chose to hear, and seemed somewhat struck, but she was sure that
she meant no harm; and she had a great deal to say for herself, so
voluble and so inconsequent, that argument was breath spent in vain; and
Albinia was obliged to wind up, as an ultimatum, with warning her, that
till she should prove herself trustworthy, nothing interesting would be
talked of before her.
The atmosphere of gossip certainly had done its part in cultivating Mr.
Kendal’s talent for silence. When Albinia had him all to herself, he was
like another person, and the long drives to return visits in the country
were thoroughly enjoyable. So, too, were the walks home from the dinner
parties in the town, when the husband and wife lingered in the starlight
or moonlight, and felt that the weary gaiety of the constrained evening
was made up for.
Great was the offence they gave by not taking out the carriage!
It was disrespect to Bayford, and one of the airs of which Mrs. Kendal
was accused. As granddaughter of a Baron, daughter of one General
Officer and sister of another, and presented at Court, the Bayford
ladies were prepared to consider her a fine lady, and when they found
her peculiarly simple, were the more aggrieved, as if her contempt
were ironically veiled. Her walks, her dress, her intercourse with the
clergy, were all airs, and Lucy spared her none of the remarks. Albinia
might say, ‘Don’t tell me all Aunt Maria says,’ but it was impossible
not to listen; and whether in mirth or vexation, she was sure to be
harmed by what she heard.
And yet, except for the tale-bearing, Lucy was really giving less
trouble than her sister, she was quick, observant, and obliging, and
under Albinia’s example, the more salient vulgarities of speech and
manner were falling off. There had seldom been any collision, since it
had become evident that Mrs. Kendal could and would hold her own;
and that her address and air, even while criticised, were regarded as
something superior, so that it was a distinction to belong to her. How
many of poor Albinia’a so-called airs should justly have been laid to
Lucy’s account?
On the other hand, Sophy would attend to a word from her father,
where she had obstinately opposed her step-mother’s wishes, making her
obedience marked, as if for the very purpose of enforcing the contrast.
It was a character that Albinia could not as yet fathom. In all
occupations and amusements, Sophy followed the lead of her elder sister,
and in her lessons, her sole object seemed to be to get things done with
as little trouble as possible, and especially without setting her mind
to work, and yet in the very effort to escape diligence or exertion, she
sometimes showed signs of so much ability as to excite a longing desire
to know of what she would be capable when once aroused and interested;
but the surly, ungracious temper rendered this apparently impossible,
and whatever Albinia attempted, was sure, as if for the very reason that
it came from her, to be answered with a redoubling of the growl of that
odd hoarse voice.
On Lucy’s birthday, there was an afternoon party of her young friends,
including Miss Durant. Albinia, who, among the girlhood of Fairmead and
its neighbourhood, had been so acceptable a playmate, that her marriage
had caused the outcry that ‘there would never be any fun again without
Miss Ferrars,’ came out on the lawn with the girls, in hopes of setting
them to enjoy themselves. But they looked at her almost suspiciously,
retained their cold, stiff, company manners, and drew apart into
giggling knots. She relieved them of her presence, and sitting by the
window, watched Genevieve walking up and down alone, as if no one cared
to join her. Presently Lucy and Lizzie Osborn spoke to her, and she went
in. Albinia went to meet her in the hall; she coloured and said, ‘She
was only come to fetch Miss Osborn’s cloak.’
Albinia saw her disposing it over Lizzie’s shoulders, and then running
in again. This time it was for Miss Louisa’s cloak, and a third time
for Miss Drury’s shawl, which Albinia chose to take out herself, and
encountering Sophia, said, ‘Next time, you had better run on errands
yourself instead of sending your guests.’
Sophy gave a black look, and she retreated, but presently the groups
coalesced, and Maria Drury and Sophy ran out to call Genevieve into
the midst. Albinia hoped they were going to play, but soon she beheld
Genevieve trying to draw back, but evidently imprisoned, there was an
echo of a laugh that she did not like; the younger girls were skipping
up in the victim’s face in a rude way; she hastily turned round as in
indignation, one hand raised to her eyes, but it was instantly snatched
down by Maria Drury, and the pitiless ring closed in. Albinia sprang to
her feet, exclaiming aloud, ‘They are teasing her!’ and rushed into the
garden, hearing on her way, ‘No, we wont let you go!--you shall
tell us--you shall promise to show us--my papa is a magistrate, you
know--he’ll come and search--Jenny, you shall tell!’
Come with me, Genevieve,’ said Albinia, standing in the midst of the
tormentors, and launching a look of wrath around her, as she saw tears
in the young girl’s eyes, and taking her hand, found it trembling
with agitation. Fondling it with both her own, she led Genevieve away,
turning her back upon Lucy and her, ‘We were only--’
The poor girl shook more and more, and when they reached the shelter of
the house, gave way to a tightened, oppressed sob, and at the first
kind words a shower of tears followed, and she took Albinia’s hand, and
clasped it to her breast in a manner embarrassing to English feelings,
though perfectly natural and sincere in her. ‘Ah! si bonne! si bonne!
pardonnes-moi, Madame!’ she exclaimed, sobbing, and probably not knowing
that she was speaking French; ‘but, oh, Madame, you will tell me! Is it
true--can he?’
‘Can who? What do you mean, my dear?’
‘The Admiral,’ said Genevieve, looking about frightened, and sinking
her voice to a whisper. ‘Miss Louisa said so, that he could send and
search--’
‘Search for what, my dear?’
‘For my poor little secret. Ah, Madame, assuredly I may tell you. It
is but a French Bible, it belonged to my martyred ancestor, Francois
Durant, who perished at the St. Barthelemi--it is stained with his
blood--it has been handed on, from one to the other--it was all that
Jacques Durant rescued when he fled from the Dragonnades--it was given
to me by my own dear father on his death-bed, with a charge to keep
it from my grandmother, and not to speak of it--but to guard it as
my greatest treasure. And now--Oh, I am not disobeying him,’ cried
Genevieve, with a fresh burst of tears. ‘You can feel for me, Madame,
you can counsel me. Can the magistrates come and search, unless I
confess to those young ladies?’
‘Most decidedly not,’ said Albinia. ‘Set your mind at rest, my poor
child; whoever threatened you played you a most base, cruel trick.’
‘Ah, do not be angry with them, Madame; no doubt they were in sport.
They could not know how precious that treasure was to me, and they will
say much in their gaiety of heart.’
‘I do not like such gaiety,’ said Albinia. ‘What, they wished to make
you confess your secret?’
‘Yes. They had learnt by some means that I keep one of my drawers
locked, and they had figured to themselves that in it was some relic of
my Huguenot ancestors. They thought it was some instrument of death, and
they said that unless I would tell them the whole, the Admiral had the
right of search, and, oh! it was foolish of me to believe them for a
moment, but I only thought that the fright would, kill my grandmother.
Oh, you were so good, Madame, I shall never forget; no, not to the end
of my life, how you rescued me!’
‘We did not bring you here to be teased,’ said Albinia, caressing her.
‘I should like to ask your pardon for what they have made you undergo.’
‘Ah, Madame!’ said Genevieve, smiling, ‘it is nothing. I am well used to
the like, and I heed it little, except when it falls on such subjects as
these.’
She was easily drawn into telling the full history of her treasure, as
she had learnt from her father’s lips, the Huguenot shot down by the
persecutors, and the son who had fled into the mountains and returned
to bury the corpse, and take the prized, blood-stained Bible from the
breast; the escapes and dangers of the two next generations; the
few succeeding days of peace; and, finally, the Dragonnade, when the
children had been snatched from the Durant family, and the father and
mother had been driven at length to fly in utter destitution, and had
made their way to England in a wretched, unprovisioned open boat. The
child for whose sake they fled, was the only one rescued from the hands
of these enemies, and the tradition of their sufferings had been handed
on with the faithfully preserved relic, down to the slender girl, their
sole descendant, and who in early childhood had drunk in the tale
from the lips of her father. The child of the persecutors and of the
persecuted, Genevieve Durant did indeed represent strangely the history
of her ancestral country; and as Albinia said to her, surely it might be
hoped that the faith in which she had been bred up, united what was true
and sound in the religion of both Reformed and Romanist.
The words made the brown cheek glow. ‘Ah, Madame, did I not say I
could talk with you? You, who do not think me a heretic, as my dear
grandmother’s friends do, and who yet can respect my grandmother’s
Church.’
Assuredly little Genevieve was one of the most interesting and engaging
persons that Albinia had ever met, and she listened earnestly to her
artless history, and pretty enthusiasms, and the story which she could
not tell without tears, of her father’s care, when the reward of her
good behaviour had been the reading one verse in the quaint black letter
of the old French Bible.
The conversation lasted till Gilbert made his appearance, and Albinia
was glad to find that his greeting to Genevieve was cordial and
affectionate, and free from all that was unpleasant in his sisters’
manner, and he joined himself to their company when Albinia proposed
a walk along the broad causeway through the meadows. It was one of
the pleasantest walks that she had taken at Bayford, with both her
companions so bright and merry, and the scene around in all the beauty
of spring. Gilbert, with the courtesy that Albinia’s very presence had
infused into him, gathered a pretty wild bouquet for each, and Albinia
talked of cowslip-balls, and found that neither Gilbert nor Genevieve
had ever seen one; then she pitied them, and owned that she did not know
how to get through a spring without one; and Gilbert having of course
a pocketful of string, a delicious ball was constructed, over which
Genevieve went into an inexpressible ecstasy.
All the evening, Gilbert devoted himself to Genevieve, though more than
one of the others tried to attract him, playing off the follies of more
advanced girlhood, to the vexation of Albinia, who could not bear to see
him the centre of attention to silly girls, when he ought to have been
finding his level among boys.
‘Gilbert makes himself so ridiculous about Jenny Durant,’ said his
sisters, when he insisted on escorting her home, and thus they brought
on themselves Albinia’s pent-up indignation at their usage of their
guest. Lucy argued in unsatisfactory self-defence, but Sophy, when
shown how ungenerous her conduct had been, crimsoned deeply, and though
uttering no word of apology, wore a look that gave her step-mother for
the first time a hope that her sullenness might not be so much from want
of compunction, as from want of power to express it.
Oh! for a consultation with her brother. But he and his wife were taking
a holiday among their kindred in Ireland, and for once Albinia could
have echoed the aunts’ lamentation that Winifred had so many relations!