The Christmas holidays did indeed put an end to the walks to meet
Gilbert, but only so as to make Albinia feel responsible for him all
day long, and uneasy whenever he was not accounted for. She played chess
with him, found books, and racked her brains to seek amusements for
him; but knowing all the time that it was hopeless to expect a boy of
fourteen to be satisfied with them. One or two boys of his age had come
home for the holidays, and she tried to be relieved by being told that
he was going out with Dick Wolfe or Harry Osborn, but it was not quite
satisfactory, and she began to look fagged and unwell, and had lost so
much of her playfulness, that even Mr. Kendal was alarmed.
Sophia’s birthday fell in the last week before Christmas, and it had
always been the family custom to drink tea with Mrs. Meadows. Albinia
made the engagement with a sense of virtuous resignation, though not
feeling well enough for the infliction, but Mr. Kendal put a stop to all
notion of her going. She expected to enjoy her quiet solitary evening,
but the result was beyond her hopes, for as she was wishing Gilbert
good-bye, she heard the click of the study lock, and in came Mr. Kendal.
‘I thought you were gone,’ she said.
‘No. I did not like to leave you alone for a whole evening.’
If it were only an excuse to himself for avoiding the Meadows’ party, it
was too prettily done for the notion to occur to his wife, and never had
she spent a happier evening. He was so unusually tender and unreserved,
so desirous to make her comfortable, and, what was far more to her,
growing into so much confidence, that it was even better than what she
used last year to picture to herself as her future life with him. It
even came to what he had probably never done for any one. She spoke of a
beautiful old Latin hymn, which she had once read with her brother, and
had never seen adequately translated, and he fetched a manuscript book,
where, written out with unrivalled neatness, stood a translation of his
own, made many years ago, full of scholarly polish. She ventured to ask
leave to copy it. ‘I will copy it for you,’ he said, ‘but it must be for
yourself alone.’
She was grateful for the concession, and happy in the promise.
She begged to turn the page, and it was granted. There were other
translations, chiefly from curious oriental sources, and there were
about twenty original poems, elaborated in the same exquisite manner,
and with a deep melancholy strain of thought, and power of beautiful
description, that she thought finer and more touching than almost
anything she had read.
‘And these are all locked up for ever. No one has seen them.’
‘So. When I was a young lad, my poor father put some lines of mine
into a newspaper. That sufficed me,’ and he shut the clasped book as if
repenting of having revealed the contents.
‘No, I was not thinking of anything you would dislike with regard to
those verses. I don’t like to let in the world on things precious,
but (how could she venture so far!) I was thinking how many powers and
talents are shut up in that study! and whether they might not have been
meant for more. I beg your pardon if I ought not to say so.’
‘The time is past,’ he replied, without displeasure; ‘my youth is gone,
and with it the enterprise and hopefulness that can press forward,
insensible to annoyance. You should have married a man with freshness
and energy more responsive to your own.’
‘Oh, Edmund, that is a severe reproach for my impertinent speech.’
‘You must not expect too much from me,’ he continued. ‘I told you that
I was a broken, grief-stricken man, and you were content to be my
comforter.’
‘Would that I could be so!’ exclaimed Albinia, ‘but to try faithfully, I
must say what is on my mind. Dear Edmund, if you would only look out of
your books, and see how much good you could do, here in your own sphere,
how much the right wants strengthening, how much evil cries out to be
repressed, how sadly your own poor suffer--oh! if you once began, you
would be so much happier!’
She trembled with earnestness, and with fear of her own audacity, but a
resounding knock at the door prevented her from even discovering whether
he were offended. He started away to secure his book, and the two girls
came in. Albinia could hardly believe it late enough for their return,
but they accounted for having come rather earlier by saying that Gilbert
had been making himself so ridiculous when he had come at last, that
grandmamma had sent him home.
‘At last!’ said Albinia. ‘He set off only ten minutes after you, as soon
as he found that papa was not coming.’
‘All I know,’ said Lucy, ‘is, that he did not come till half-past nine,
and said he had come from home.’
‘And where can he be now?’
‘Gone to bed,’ growled Sophy.
‘I don’t know what he has been doing,’ said Lucy, who since the
suspicion of favouritism, had seemed to find especial pleasure in
bringing forward her brother’s faults; ‘but he came in laughing like a
plough-boy, and talking perfect nonsense. And when Aunt Maria spoke to
him, he answered quite rudely, that he wasn’t going to be questioned and
called to order, he had enough of petticoat government at home.’
‘No,’ said Sophy, breaking in with ungracious reluctance, as if against
her will conveying some comfort to her step-mother for the sake of
truth, ‘what he said was, that if he bore with petticoat government at
home, it was because Mrs. Kendal was pretty and kind, and didn’t torment
him out of his life for nothing, and what he stood from her, he would
not stand from any other woman.’
‘But, Sophy, I am sure he did say Mrs. Kendal knew what she was going
to say, and said it, and it was worth hearing, and he laughed in Aunt
Maria’s face, and told her not to make so many bites at a cherry.’
‘He must have been beside himself,’ said Albinia, in a bewilderment
of consternation, but Mr. Kendal’s return put a stop to all, for the
sisters never told tales before him, and she would not bring the subject
under his notice until she should be better informed. His suffering was
too great, his wrath too stern, to be excited without serious cause; but
she spent a wakeful, anxious night, revolving all imaginable evils into
which the boy could have fallen, and perplexing herself what measures
to take, feeling all the more grieved and bound to him by the preference
that, even in this dreadful mood, he had expressed for her. She fell
into a restless sleep in the morning, from which she wakened so late as
to have no time to question Gilbert before breakfast. On coming down,
she found that he had not made his appearance, and had sent word that he
had a bad headache, and wanted no breakfast. His father, who had made a
visit of inspection, said he thought it was passing off, smiling as he
observed upon Mrs. Meadows’s mince-pie suppers and home-made wine.
Lucy said nothing, but glanced knowingly at her sister and at Albinia,
from neither of whom did she get any response.
Albinia did not dare to take any measures till Mr. Kendal had ridden
out, and then she went up and knocked at Gilbert’s door. He was better,
he said, and was getting up, he would be down-stairs presently. She
watched for him as he came down, looking still very pale and unwell. She
took him into her room, made him sit by the fire, and get a little life
and warmth into his chilled hands before she spoke. ‘Yes, Gilbert,
I don’t wonder you cannot lift up your head while so much is on your
mind.’
Gilbert started and hid his face.
‘Did you think I did not know, and was not grieved?’
‘Well,’ he cried, peevishly, ‘I’m sure I have the most ill-natured pair
of sisters in the world.’
‘Then you meant to deceive us again, Gilbert.’
He had relapsed into the old habit--as usual, a burst of tears and a
declaration that no one was ever so badly off, and he did not know what
to do.
‘You _do_ know perfectly well what to do, Gilbert. There is nothing for
it but to tell me the whole meaning of this terrible affair, and I will
see whether I can help you.’
It was always the same round, a few words would always bring the
confession, and that pitiful kind of helpless repentance, which had only
too often given her hope.
Gilbert assured her that he had fully purposed following his sisters,
but that on the way he had unluckily fallen in with Archie Tritton and a
friend, who had driven in to hear a man from London singing comic songs
at the King’s Head, and they had persuaded him to come in. He had been
uneasy and tried to get away, but the dread of being laughed at about
his grandmother’s tea had prevailed, and he had been supping on oysters
and porter, and trying to believe himself a fast man, till Archie, who
had assured him that he was himself going home in ‘no time,’ had found
it expedient to set off, and it had been agreed that he should put a
bold face on it, and profess that he had never intended to do more than
come and fetch his sisters home.
That the porter had anything to do with his extraordinary manner to his
grandmother and aunt, was so shocking a notion, and the very hint made
him cry so bitterly, and protest so earnestly that he had only had one
pint, which he did not like, and only drank because he was afraid of
being teased, that Albinia was ready to believe that he had been so
elevated by excitement as to forget himself, and continue the style
of the company he had left. It was bad enough, and she felt almost
overpowered by the contemplation of the lamentable weakness of the poor
boy, of the consequences, and of what was incumbent on her.
She leant back and considered a little while, then sighed heavily, and
said, ‘Gilbert, two things must be done. You must make an apology
to your grandmother and aunt, and you must confess the whole to your
father.’
He gave a sort of howl, as if she were misusing his confidence.
‘It must be,’ she said. ‘If you are really sorry, you will not shrink.
I do not believe that it could fail to come to your father’s knowledge,
even if I did not know it was my duty to tell him, and how much better
to confess it yourself.’
For this, however, Gilbert seemed to have no force; he cried piteously,
bewailed himself, vowed incoherently that he would never do so again,
and if she had not pitied him so much, would have made her think him
contemptible.
She was inexorable as to having the whole told, though dreading the
confession scarcely less than he did; and he finally made a virtue
of necessity, and promised to tell, if only she would not desert him,
declaring, with a fresh flood of tears, that he should never do wrong
when she was by. Then came the apology. It was most necessary, and he
owned that it would be much better to be able to tell his father that
his grandmother had forgiven him; but he really had not nerve to set
out alone, and Albinia, who had begun to dread having him out of sight,
consented to go and protect him.
He shrank behind her, and she had to bear the flood of Maria’s surprises
and regrets, before she could succeed in saying that he was very sorry
for yesterday’s improper behaviour, and had come to ask pardon.
Grandmamma was placable; Gilbert’s white face and red eyes were pleading
enough, and she was distressed at Mrs. Kendal having come out, looking
pale and tired. If she had been alone, the only danger would have been
that the offence would be lost in petting; but Maria had been personally
wounded, and the jealousy she already felt of the step-mother, had been
excited to the utmost by Gilbert’s foolish words. She was excessively
grieved, and a great deal more angry with Mrs. Kendal than with Gilbert;
and the want of justification for this feeling, together with her great
excitement, distress, and embarrassment, made her attempts to be dry and
dignified ludicrously abortive. She really seemed to have lost the power
of knowing what she said. She was glad Mrs. Kendal could walk up this
morning, since she could not come at night.
‘It was not my fault,’ said Albinia, earnestly; ‘Mr. Kendal forbade me.
I am sure I wish we had come.’
The old lady would have said something kind about not reproaching
herself, but Miss Meadows interposed with, ‘It was very unlucky, to be
sure--Mr. Kendal never failed them before, not that she would wish--but
she had always understood that to let young people run about late in
the evening by themselves--not that she meant anything, but it was very
unfortunate--if she had only been aware--Betty should have come down to
walk up with them.’
Gilbert could not forbear an ashamed smile of intense affront at this
reproach to his manliness.
‘It was exceedingly unfortunate,’ said Albinia, trying to repress her
vexation; ‘but Gilbert must learn to have resolution to guard himself.
And now that he is come to ask your forgiveness, will you not grant it
to him?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, certainly, I forgive him from my heart. Yes, Gilbert,
I do, only you must mind and beware--it is a very shocking thing--low
company and all that--you’ve made yourself look as ill--and if you knew
what a cake Betty had made--almond and citron both--“but it’s for Master
Gilbert,” she said, “and I don’t grudge”--and then to think--oh, dear!’
Albinia tried to express for him some becoming sorrow at having
disappointed so much kindness, but she brought Miss Meadows down on her
again.
‘Oh, yes--she grudged nothing--but she never expected to meet with
gratitude--she was quite prepared--’ and she swallowed and almost
sobbed, ‘there had been changes. She was ready to make every excuse--she
was sure she had done her best--but she understood--she didn’t want to
be assured. It always happened so--she knew her homely ways were not
what Mrs. Kendal had been used to--and she didn’t wonder--she only hoped
the dear children--’ and she was absolutely crying.
‘My dear Maria,’ said her mother, soothingly, ‘you have worked yourself
into such a state, that you don’t know what you are saying. You must not
let Mrs. Kendal think that we don’t know that she is leading the dear
children to all that is right and kind towards as.’
‘Oh, no, I don’t accuse any one. Only if they like to put me down under
their feet and trample on me, they are welcome. That’s all I have to
say.’
Albinia was too much annoyed to be amused, and said, as she rose to
take leave, ‘I think it would be better for Gilbert, as well as for
ourselves, if we were to say no more till some more cool and reasonable
moment.’
‘I am as cool as possible,’ said Miss Meadows, convulsively clutching
her hand; ‘I’m not excited. Don’t excite yourself, Mrs. Kendal--it is
very bad for you. Tell her not, Mamma--oh! no, don’t be excited--I mean
nothing--I forgive poor dear Gibbie whatever little matters--I know
there was excuse--boys with unsettled homes--but pray don’t go and
excite yourself--you see how cool I am--’
And she pursued Albinia to the garden-gate, recommending her at every
step not to be excited, for she was as cool as possible, trembling and
stammering all the time, with flushed cheeks, and tears in her eyes.
‘I wonder who she thinks is excited?’ exclaimed Albinia, as they finally
turned their backs on her.
It was hardly in human nature to help making the observation, but it
was not prudent. Gilbert took licence to laugh, and say, ‘Aunt Maria is
beside herself.’
‘I never heard anything so absurd or unjust!’ cried Albinia, too much
irritated to remember anything but the sympathy of her auditor. ‘If I am
to be treated in this manner, I have done striving to please them. Due
respect shall be shown, but as to intimacy and confidence--’
‘I’m glad you see it so at last!’ cried Gilbert. ‘Aunt Maria has been
the plague of my life, and I’m glad I told her a bit of my mind!’
What was Albinia’s consternation! Her moment’s petulance had undone her
morning’s work.
‘Gilbert,’ she said, ‘we are both speaking very wrongly. I especially,
who ought to have helped you.’
Spite of all succeeding humility the outburst had been fatal, and argue
and plead as she might, she could not restore the boy to anything like
the half satisfactory state of penitence in which she had led him from
home. The giving way to her worse nature had awakened his, and though he
still allowed that she should prepare the way for his confession to his
father, all real sense of his outrageous conduct towards his aunt was
gone.
Disheartened and worn out, Albinia did not feel equal even to going to
take off her walking things, but sat down in the drawing-room on the
sofa, and tried to silence the girls’ questions and chatter, by desiring
Lucy to read aloud.
By-and-by Mr. Kendal was heard returning, and she rose to arrest him in
the hall. Her looks began the story, for he exclaimed, ‘My dear Albinia,
what is the matter?’
‘Oh, Edmund, I have such things to tell you! I have been doing so
wrong.’
She was almost sobbing, and he spoke fondly. ‘No, Albinia, I can hardly
believe that. Something has vexed you, and you must take time to compose
yourself.’
He led her up to her own room, tried to soothe her, and would not listen
to a word till she should be calm. After lying still for a little while,
she thought she had recovered, but the very word ‘Gilbert’ brought such
an expression of anxiety and sternness over his brow as overcame her
again, and she could not speak without so much emotion that he silenced
her; and finding that she could neither leave the subject, nor mention
it without violent agitation, he said he would leave her for a little
while, and perhaps she might sleep, and then be better able to speak to
him. Still she held him, and begged that he would say nothing to Gilbert
till he had heard her, and to pacify her he yielded, passed his promise,
and quitted her with a kiss.