Yes! Albinia was excessively happy. Her naturally high spirits were
enhanced by the enjoyment of recovery, and reaction, from her former
depression. Since the great stroke of the drainage, every one looked
better, and her pride in her babe was without a drawback. He seemed to
have inherited her vigour and superabundance of life, and ‘that first
wondrous spring to all but babes unknown,’ was in him unusually rapid,
so that he was a marvel of fair stateliness, size, strength, and
intelligence, so unlike the little blighted buds which had been wont to
fade at Willow Lawn, that his father watched him with silent, wondering
affection, and his eldest sister was unmerciful in her descriptions of
his progress; while even Sophia had not been proof against his smiles,
and was proud to be allowed to carry him about and fondle him.
Neither was Mr. Kendal’s reserve the trial that it had once been. After
having become habituated to it as a necessary idiosyncrasy, she had
become rather proud of his lofty inaccessibility. Besides, her brother’s
visit, her recovery, and the renewed hope and joy in this promising
child, had not been without effect in rousing him from his apathy. He
was less inclined to shun his fellow-creatures, had become friendly
with the Vicar, and had even let Albinia take him into Mrs. Dusautoy’s
drawing-room, where he had been fairly happy. Having once begun taking
his wife out in the carriage, he found this much more agreeable than
his solitary ride, and was in the condition to which Albinia had once
imagined it possible to bring him, in which gentle means and wholesome
influence might lead him imperceptibly out of his morbid habits of
self-absorption.
Unfortunately, in the flush of blitheness and whirl of activity, Albinia
failed to perceive the relative importance of objects, and he had taught
her to believe herself so little necessary to him that she had
not learnt to make her pursuits and occupations subservient to his
convenience. As long as the drive took place regularly, all was well,
but he caught a severe cold, which lasted even to the setting in of the
east winds, the yearly misery of a man who hardly granted that India was
over-hot. Though Albinia had removed much listing, and opened various
doors and windows, he made no complaints, but did his best to keep the
obnoxious fresh air out of his study, and seldom crossed the threshold
thereof but with a shiver.
His favourite atmosphere was quite enough to account for a return of the
old mood, but Albinia had no time to perceive that it might have been
prevented, or at least mitigated.
Few even of the wisest women are fit for authority and liberty so little
restrained, and happily it seldom falls to the lot of such as have not
previously been chastened by a life-long affliction. But Mrs. Kendal,
at twenty-four, with the consequence conferred by marriage, and by her
superiority of manners and birth, was left as unchecked and almost
as irresponsible as if she had been single or a widow, and was
solely guided by the impulses of her own character, noble and highly
principled, but like most zealous dispositions, without balance and
without repose.
Ballast had been given at first by bashfulness, disappointment, and
anxiety, but she had been freed from her troubles with Gilbert, had
gained confidence in herself, and had taken her position at Bayford. She
was beloved, esteemed, and trusted in her own set, and though elsewhere
she might not be liked, yet she was deferred to, could not easily be
quarrelled with, so that she met with little opposition, and did not
care for such as she did meet. In fact, very few persons had so much of
their own way as Mrs. Kendal.
She was generally in her nursery at a much earlier hour than an
old-established nurse would have tolerated, but the little Susan,
promoted from Fairmead school and nursery, was trained in energetic
habits. In passing the doors of the young ladies’ rooms, Albinia gave
a call which she had taught them not to resist, for, like all strong
persons, she thought ‘early to rise’ the only way to health, wealth, or
wisdom. Much work had been despatched before breakfast, after which,
on two days in the week, Albinia and Lucy went to church. Sophy never
volunteered to accompany them, and Albinia was the less inclined to
press her, because her attitudes and attention on Sunday were far from
satisfactory. On Tuesday and Thursday Albinia had a class at school,
and so, likewise, had Lucy, who kept a jealous watch over every stray
necklace and curl, and had begun thoroughly to enjoy the importance
and bustle of charity. She was a useful assistant in the penny club and
lending library, which occupied Albinia on other mornings in the week,
until the hour when she came in for the girls’ studies. After luncheon,
she enjoyed the company of little Maurice, who indeed pervaded all her
home doings and thoughts, for she had a great gift of doing everything
at once.
A sharp constitutional walk was taken in the afternoon. She thought no
one could look drooping or dejected but from the air of the valley, and
that no cure was equal to rushing straight up one hill and on to the
next, always walking rapidly, with a springy buoyant step, and surprised
at any one who lagged behind. Parochial cares, visits, singing classes,
lessons to Sunday-school teachers, &c., filled up the rest of the day.
She had an endless number of ‘excellent plans,’ on which she always
acted instantly, and which kept her in a state of perpetual haste. Poor
Mrs. Dusautoy had almost learnt to dread her flashing into the room,
full of some parish matter, and flashing out again before the invalid
felt as if the subject had been fairly entered on, or her sitting down
to impress some project with overpowering eagerness that generally
carried away the Vicar into grateful consent and admiring approval,
while his wife was feeling doubtful, suspecting her hesitation of being
ungracious, or blaming herself for not liking the little she could do to
be taken out of her hands.
There was nothing more hateful to Albinia than dawdling. She left the
girls’ choice of employments, but insisted on their being veritably
occupied, and many a time did she encounter a killing glance from Sophia
for attacking her listless, moody position in her chair, or saying, in
clear, alert tones, ‘My dear, when you read, read, when you work, work.
When you fix your eye in that way, you are doing neither.’
Lucy’s brisk, active disposition, and great good-humour, had responded
to this treatment; she had been obliging, instead of officious; repeated
checks had improved her taste; her love of petty bustle was directed to
better objects, and though nothing could make her intellectual or deep,
she was a really pleasant assistant and companion, and no one, except
grandmamma, who thought her perfect before, could fail to perceive how
much more lady-like her tones, manners, and appearance had become.
The results with Sophy had been directly the reverse. At first she had
followed her sister’s lead, except that she was always sincere, and
often sulky; but the more Lucy had yielded to Albinia’s moulding,
the more had Sophy diverged from her, as if out of the very spirit
of contradiction. Her intervals of childish nonsense had well nigh
disappeared; her indifference to lessons was greater than ever, though
she devoured every book that came in her way in a silent, but absorbed
manner, a good deal like her father. Tales and stories were not often
within her reach, but her appetite seemed to be universal, and Albinia
saw her reading old-fashioned standard poetry--such as she had never
herself assailed--and books of history, travels, or metaphysics. She
wondered whether the girl derived any pleasure from them, or whether
they were only a shield for doing nothing; but no inquiry produced an
answer, and if Sophy remembered anything of them, it was not with
the memory used in lesson-time. The attachment to Louisa Osborn was
pertinacious and unaccountable in a person who could have so little in
common with that young lady, and there was nothing comfortable about her
except her fondness for her little brother, and that really seemed to be
against her will. Her voice was less hoarse and gruff since the pond
had been no more, and she had acquired an expression, so suffering,
so concentrated, so thoughtful, that, together with her heavy black
eyebrows, large face, profuse black hair, and unlustrous eyes, it gave
her almost a dwarfish air, increased by her awkward deportment, which
concealed that she was in reality tall, and on a large scale. She looked
to so little advantage in bright delicate colours, that Albinia was
often incurring her displeasure, and risking that of Lucy, by the deep
blues and sober browns which alone looked fit to be seen with those
beetle brows and sallow features. Her face looked many years older than
that of her fair, fresh, rosy stepmother; nay, her father’s clear olive
complexion and handsome countenance had hardly so aged an aspect; and
Gilbert, when he came home at Midsummer, declared that Sophy had grown
as old as grandmamma.
The compliment could not be returned; Gilbert was much more boy-like in
a good sense. He had brought home an excellent character, and showed
it in every look and gesture. His father was pleased to have him again,
took the trouble to talk to him, and received such sensible answers,
that the habit of conversing was actually established, and the dinners
were enlivened, instead of oppressed, by his presence. Towards his
sisters he had become courteous, he was fairly amiable to Aunt Maria,
very attentive to grandmamma, overflowing with affection to Mrs.
Kendal, and as to little Maurice, he almost adored him, and awakened a
reciprocity which was the delight of his heart.
At Midsummer came the grand penny-club distribution, the triumph for
which Albinia had so long been preparing. One of Mrs. Dusautoy’s hints
as to Bayford tradesmen had been overruled, and goods had been ordered
from a house in London, after Albinia and Lucy had made an incredible
agitation over their patterns of calico and flannel. Mr. Kendal was just
aware that there was a prodigious commotion, but he knew that all ladies
were subject to linen-drapery epidemics, and Albinia’s took a more
endurable form than a pull on his purse for the sweetest silk in the
world, and above all, it neither came into his study nor even into his
house.
It was a grand spectacle, when Mr. Dusautoy looked in on Mrs. Kendal and
her staff, armed with their yard-wands.
A pile of calico was heaped in wild masses like avalanches in one
corner, rapidly diminishing under the measurements of Gilbert, who
looked as if he took thorough good-natured delight in the frolic. Brown,
inodorous materials for petticoats, blouses, and trowsers were dealt out
by the dextrous hands of Genevieve, a mountain of lilac print was folded
off by Clarissa Richardson, Lucy was presiding joyously over the various
blue, buff, brown, and pink Sunday frocks, the schoolmistress helping
with the other goods, the customers--some pleased with novelty, or
hoping to get more for their money, others suspicious of the gentry,
and secretly resentful for favourite dealers, but, except the desperate
grumblers, satisfied with the quality and quantity of the wares--and
extremely taken with the sellers, especially with Gilbert’s wit, and
with Miss Durant’s ready, lively persuasions, varied to each one’s
taste, and extracting a smile and ‘thank you, Miss,’ from the surliest.
And the presiding figure, with the light on her sunny hair, and
good-natured, unfailing interest in her countenance, was at her central
table, calculating, giving advice, considering of complaints, measuring,
folding--here, there, and everywhere--always bright, lively, forbearing,
however complaining or unreasonable her clients might be.
Mr. Dusautoy went home to tell his Fanny that Mrs. Kendal was worth her
weight in gold; and the workers toiled till luncheon, when Albinia took
them home for food and wine, to restore them for the labours of the
afternoon.
‘What have you been about all the morning, Sophy? Yes, I see your
translation--very well--I wish you would come up and help this
afternoon, Miss Richardson is looking so pale and tired that I want to
relieve her.’
‘I can’t,’ said Sophy,
‘I don’t order you, but you are losing a great deal of fun. Suppose you
came to look on, at least.’
‘I hate poor people.’
‘I hope you will change your mind some day, but you must do something
this afternoon. You had better take a walk with Susan and baby; I told
her to go by the meadows to Horton.’
‘I don’t want to walk.’
‘Have you anything to do instead? No, I thought not, and it is not at
all hot to signify.--It will do you much more good. Yes, you must go.’
In the course of the summer an old Indian friend was staying at Fairmead
Park, and Colonel Bury wrote to beg for a week’s visit from the whole
Kendal family. Even Sophy vouchsafed to be pleased, and Lucy threw all
her ardour into the completion of a blue braided cape, which was to add
immensely to little Maurice’s charms; she declared that she should work
at it the whole of the last evening, while Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were at
the dinner that old Mr. and Mrs. Bowles annually inflicted on themselves
and their neighbours, a dinner which it would have been as cruel to
refuse as it was irksome to accept.
There was a great similarity in those Bayford parties, inasmuch as the
same cook dressed them all, and the same waiters waited at them, and the
same guests met each other, and the principal variety on this occasion
was, that the Osborns did not come, because the Admiral was in London.
The ladies had left the dining-room, when Albinia’s ear caught a sound
of hurried opening of doors, and sound of steps, and saw Mrs. and Miss
Bowles look as if they heard something unexpected. She paused, and
forgot the end of what she was saying. The room door was pushed a little
way open, but then seemed to hesitate. Miss Bowles hastened forward, and
opening it, admitted a voice that made Albinia hurry breathlessly from
the other side of the room, and push so that the door yielded, and she
saw it had been Mr. Dusautoy who had been holding it while there was
some kind of consultation round Gilbert. The instant he saw her, he
exclaimed, ‘Come to the baby, Sophy has fallen down with him.’
People pressed about her, trying to speak cheeringly, but she understood
nothing but that her husband and Mr. Bowles were gone on, and she had a
sense that there had been hardness and cruelty in hesitating to summon
her. Without knowing that a shawl was thrown round her, or seeing Mr.
Dusautoy’s offered arm, she clutched Gilbert’s wrist in her hand, and
flew down the street.
The gates and front door were open, and there was a throng of people in
the hall. Lucy caught hold of her with a sobbing, ‘Oh, Mamma!’ but she
only framed the words with her lips--‘where?’
They pointed to the study. The door was shut, but Albinia broke from
Lucy, and pushed through it, in too much haste to dwell on the sickening
doubt what it might conceal.
Two figures stood under the window. Mr. Kendal, who was holding the
little inanimate form in his arms for the doctor to examine, looking up
as she entered, cast on her a look of mute, pleading, despairing agony,
that was as the bitterness of death. She sprang forward herself to clasp
her child, and her husband yielded him in broken-hearted pity, but
at that moment the little limbs moved, the features worked, the eyes
unclosed, and clinging tightly to her, as she strained him to her bosom,
the little fellow proclaimed himself alive by lusty roars, more welcome
than any music. Partly stunned, and far more terrified, he had been in
a sort of swoon, without breath to cry, till recalled to himself by
feeling his mother’s arms around him. Every attempt of Mr. Bowles to
ascertain whether he were uninjured produced such a fresh panic and
renewal of screams, that she begged that he might be left to her. Mr.
Kendal took the doctor away, and gradually the terror subsided, though
the long convulsive sobs still quivered up through the little frame, and
as the twilight darkened on her, she had time to realize the past alarm,
and rejoice in trembling over the treasure still her own.
The opening of the door and the gleaming of a light had nearly brought
on a fresh access of crying, but it was his father who entered, and
Maurice knew the low deep sweetness of his voice, and was hushed. ‘I
believe there is no harm done,’ Albinia said; and the smile that she
fain would have made reassuring gave way as her eyes filled with tears,
on feeling the trembling of the strong arm that was put round her, when
Mr. Kendal bent to look into the child’s eyes.
‘I thought my blight had fallen on you,’ was all he said.
‘Oh! the thankfulness--’ she said; but she could not go on, she must
stifle all that swelled within her, for the babe felt each throb of her
beating heart; and she could barely keep from bursting into tears as his
father kissed him; then, as he marked the still sobbing breath, said,
‘Bowles must see him again.’
‘I don’t know how to make him cry again! I suppose he must be looked at,
but indeed I think him safe.--See, this little bruise on his forehead is
the only mark I can find. What was it? How did it happen?’
‘Sophia thought proper to take him herself from the nursery to show him
to Mrs. Osborn. In crossing the street, she was frightened by a party of
men coming out of a public-house in Tibbs’s Alley, and in avoiding them,
slipped down and struck the child’s head against a gate-post. He was
perfectly insensible when I took him--I thought him gone. Albinia, you
must let Bowles see him again!’
‘Is any one there?’ she said.
‘Every one, I think,’ he replied, looking oppressed--‘Maria, and Mrs.
Osborn, and Dusautoy--but I will call Bowles.’
Apparently the little boy had escaped entirely unhurt, but the surgeon
still spoke of the morrow, and he was so startled and restless, that
Albinia feared to move, and felt the dark study a refuge from the voices
and sounds that she feared to encounter, lest they should again occasion
the dreadful screaming. ‘Oh, if they would only go home!’ she said.
‘I will send them,’ said Mr. Kendal; and presently she heard sounds of
leave-taking, and he came back, as if he had been dispersing a riot,
announcing that the house was clear.
Gilbert and Lucy were watching at the foot of the stairs, the one pale,
and casting anxious, imploring looks at her; the other with eyes red and
swollen with crying, neither venturing near till she spoke to them, when
they advanced noiselessly to look at their little brother, and it was
not till they had caught his eye and made him smile, that Lucy bethought
herself of saying she had known nothing of his adventure, and Albinia,
thus recalled to the thought of the culprit, asked where Sophy was.
‘In her own room,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I could not bear the sight of her
obduracy. Even her aunt was shocked at her want of feeling.’
Low as he spoke, the sternness of his voice frightened the baby, and
she was obliged to run away to the nursery, where she listened to the
contrition of the little nursemaid, who had never suspected Miss Sophy’s
intention of taking him out of the house.
‘And indeed, ma’am,’ she said, ‘there is not one of us servants who
dares cross Miss Sophy.’
It was long before Albinia ventured to lay him in his cot, and longer
still before she could feel any security that if she ceased her low,
monotonous lullaby, the little fellow would not wake again in terror,
but the thankfulness and prayer, that, as she grew more calm, gained
fuller possession of her heart, made her recur the more to pity and
forgiveness for the poor girl who had caused the alarm. Yet there was
strong indignation likewise, and she could not easily resolve on meeting
the hard defiance and sullen indifference which would wound her more
than ever. She was much inclined to leave Sophy to herself till morning,
but suspecting that this would be vindictive, she unclasped the arm that
Lucy had wound round her waist, whispered to her to go on singing, and
moved to Sophy’s door. It was fastened, but before she could call,
it was thrown violently back, and Sophy stood straight up before her,
striving for her usual rigidity, but shaking from head to foot; and
though there were no signs of tears, she looked with wistful terror at
her step-mother’s face, and her lips moved as if she wished to speak.
‘Baby is gone quietly to sleep,’ began Albinia in a low voice, beginning
in displeasure; but as she spoke, the harshness of Sophy’s face gave
way, she sank down on the floor, and fell into the most overpowering
fit of weeping that Albinia had ever witnessed. Kneeling beside her, she
would have drawn the girl close to her, but a sharp cry of pain startled
her, and she found the right arm, from elbow to wrist, all one purple
bruise, the skin grazed, and the blood starting.
‘My poor child! how you have hurt yourself!’
Sophy turned away pettishly.
‘Let me look! I am sure it must be very bad. Have you done anything to
it?’
‘No, never mind. Go back to baby.’
‘Baby does not want me. You shall come and see how comfortably he is
asleep, if you will leave off crying, and let me see that poor arm. Did
you hurt it in the fall?’
‘The corner of the wall,’ said Sophy. ‘Oh! did it not hurt him?’ but
then, just as it seemed that she was sinking on that kind breast in
exhaustion, she collected herself, and pushing Albinia off, exclaimed,
‘I did it, I took him out, I fell down with him, I hurt his head, I’ve
killed him, or made him an idiot for life. I did.’
‘Who said so?’ cried Albinia, transfixed.
‘Aunt Maria said so. She said I did not feel. Oh, if I could only die
before he grows up to let one see it. Why wont you begin to hate me?’
‘My dear,’ said Albinia, consoled on hearing the authority, ‘people
often say angry things when they are shocked. Your aunt had not seen
Mr. Bowles, and we all think he was not in the least hurt, only terribly
frightened. Dear, dear child, I am more distressed for you than for
him!’
Sophy could hold out no longer, she let her head drop on the kind
shoulder, and seemed to collapse, with burning brow, throbbing pulses,
and sobs as deep and convulsive as had been those of her little brother.
Hastily calling Lucy, who was frightened, subdued, and helpful, Albinia
undressed the poor child, put her to bed, and applied lily leaves and
spirits to her arm. The smart seemed to refresh her, but there had been
a violent strain, as well as bruise, and each touch visibly gave severe
pain, though she never complained. Lucy insisted on hearing exactly how
the accident had happened, and pressed her with questions, which Albinia
would have shunned in her present condition, and it was thus elicited
that she had taken Maurice across the street to how him to Mrs. Osborn.
He had resented the strange place, and strange people, and had cried
so much that she was obliged to run home with him at once. A knot of
bawling men came reeling out of one of the many beer shops in Tibbs’s
Alley, and in her haste to avoid them, she tripped, close to the
gate-post of Willow Lawn, and fell, with only time to interpose her arm
between Maurice’s head and the sharp corner. She was lifted up at once,
in the horror of seeing him neither cry nor move, for, in fact, he had
been almost stifled under her weight, and all had since been to her
a frightful phantom dream. Albinia was infinitely relieved by this
history, showing that Maurice could hardly have received any real
injury, and in her declarations that Sophy’s presence of mind had saved
him, was forgetting to whom the accident was owing. Lucy wanted to know
why her sister could have taken him out of the house at all, but Albinia
could not bear to have this pressed at such a moment, and sent the
inquirer down to order some tea, which she shared with Sophy, and
then was forced to bid her good-night, without drawing out any further
confessions. But when the girl raised herself to receive her kiss, it
was the first real embrace that had passed between them.
In the very early morning, Albinia was in the nursery, and found
her little boy bright and healthy. As she left him in glad hope and
gratitude, Sophy’s door was pushed ajar, and her wan face peeped out.
‘My dear child, you have not been asleep all night!’ exclaimed Albinia,
after having satisfied her about the baby.
‘No.’
‘Does your arm hurt you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does your head ache?’
‘Rather.’
But they were not the old sulky answers, and she seemed glad to have
her arm freely bathed, her brow cooled, her tossed bed composed, and
her window opened, so that she might make a fresh attempt at closing her
weary eyes.
She was evidently far too much shaken to be fit for the intended
expedition, even if her father had not decreed that she should be
deprived of it. Albinia had never seen him so much incensed, for nothing
makes a man so angry as to have been alarmed; and he was doubly annoyed
when he found that she thought Sophy too unwell to be left, as he
intended, to solitary confinement.
He would gladly have given up the visit, for his repugnance to society
was in full force on the eve of a party; but Albinia, by representing
that it would be wrong to disappoint Colonel Bury, and very hard on the
unoffending Gilbert and Lucy, succeeded in prevailing on him to accept
his melancholy destiny, and to allow her to remain at home with Sophy
and the baby--one of the greatest sacrifices he or she had yet made. He
was exceedingly vexed, and therefore the less disposed to be lenient.
The more Albinia told him of Sophy’s unhappiness, the more he hoped it
would do her good, and he could not be induced to see her, nor to send
her any message of forgiveness, for in truth it was less the baby’s
accident that he resented, than the eighteen months of surly resistance
to the baby’s mother, and at present he was more unrelenting than the
generous, forgiving spirit of his wife could understand, though she
tried to believe it manly severity and firmness.
‘It would be time to pardon,’ he said, ‘when pardon was asked.’
And Albinia could not say that it had been asked, except by misery.
‘She has the best advocate in you,’ said Mr. Kendal, affectionately,
‘and if there be any feeling in her, such forbearance cannot fail to
bring it out. I am more grieved than I can tell you at your present
disappointment, but it shall not happen again. If you can bring her to a
better mind, I shall be the more satisfied in sending her from home.’
‘Edmund! you do not think of it!’
‘My mind is made up. Do you think I have not watched your patient
care, and the manner in which it has been repaid? You have sufficient
occupation without being the slave of those children’s misconduct.’
‘Sophy would be miserable. Oh! you must not! She is the last girl in the
world fit to be sent to school.’
‘I will not have you made miserable at home. This has been a long trial,
and nothing has softened her.’
‘Suppose this was the very thing.’
‘If it were, what is past should not go unrequited, and the change will
teach her what she has rejected. Hush, dearest, it is not that I do not
think that you have done all for her that tenderness or good sense
could devise, but your time is too much occupied, and I cannot see
you overtasked by this poor child’s headstrong temper. It is decided,
Albinia; say no more.’
‘I have failed,’ thought Albinia, as he left the room. ‘He decides that
I have failed in bringing up his children. What have I done? Have I been
mistaken? have I been careless? have I not prayed enough? Oh! my poor,
poor Sophy! What will she do among strange girls? Oh! how wretched, how
harsh, how misunderstood she will be! She will grow worse and worse, and
just when I do think I might have begun to get at her! And it is for my
sake! For me that her father is set against her, and is driving her out
from her home! Oh! what shall I do? Winifred will promote it, because
they all think I am doing too much! I wonder what put that in Edmund’s
head? But when he speaks in that way, I have no hope!’
Mr. Kendal’s anger took a direction with which she better sympathized
when he walked down Tibbs’s Alley, and counted the nine beer shops,
which had never dawned on his imagination, and which so greatly shocked
it, that he went straight to the astonished Pettilove, and gave him a
severe reprimand for allowing the houses to be made dens of iniquity and
disorder.
He was at home in time to meet the doctor, and hear that Maurice had
suffered not the smallest damage; and then to make another ineffectual
attempt to persuade Albinia to consign Sophy to imprisonment with Aunt
Maria; after which he drove off very much against his will with Lucy and
Gilbert, both declaring that they did not care a rush to go to Fairmead
under the present circumstances.
Albinia had a sad, sore sense of failure, and almost of guilt, as she
lingered on the door-step after seeing them set off. The education of
‘Edmund’s children’ had been a cherished vision, and it had resulted
so differently from her expectations, that her heart sank. With Gilbert
there was indeed no lack of love and confidence, but there was a sad
lurking sense of his want of force of character, and she had avowedly
been insufficient to preserve him from temptation; Lucy, whom externally
she had the most altered, was not of a nature accordant enough with her
own for her to believe the effects deep or permanent; and Sophia--poor
Sophia! Had what was kindly called forbearance been really neglect
and want of moral courage? Would a gentler, less eager person have won
instead of repelling confidence? Had her multiplicity of occupations
made her give but divided attention to the more important home duty.
Alas! alas! she only knew that her husband thought his daughter beyond
her management, and for that very reason she would have given worlds to
retain the uncouth, perverse girl under her charge.
She stood loitering, for the sound of the river and the shade of the
willows were pleasant on the glowing July day, and having made all her
arrangements for going from home, she had no pressing employment, and
thus she waited, musing as she seldom allowed herself time to do, and
thinking over each phase of her conduct towards Sophy, in the endeavour
to detect the mistake; and throughout came, not exactly answering her
query, but throwing a light upon it, her brother’s warning, that if she
did not resign herself to rest quietly when rest was forced upon her,
she would work amiss when she did work.
Just then came a swinging of the gate, a step on the walk, and Miss
Meadows made her appearance. A message had been sent up in the morning,
but grandmamma was so nervous, that Maria had trotted down in the heat
so satisfy her.
Albinia was surprised to find that womanhood had thrown all their
instincts on the baby’s side, and was gratified by the first truly kind
fellow-feeling they had shown her. She took Maria into the morning room,
where she had left Sophy lying on the sofa, and ran up to fetch Maurice
from the nursery.
When she came down, having left the nurse adorning him, she found that
she had acted cruelly. Sophy was standing up with her hardest face on,
listening to her aunt’s well-meant rebukes on her want of feeling,
and hopes that she did regret the having endangered her brother, and
deprived ‘her dear mamma of the party of pleasure at Fairmead; but Aunt
Maria knew it was of no use to talk to Sophy, none--!’
‘Pray don’t, Aunt Maria,’ said Albinia, gently drawing Sophy down on the
sofa again; ‘this poor child is in no state to be scolded.’
‘You are a great deal too good to her, Mrs. Kendal--after such
wilfulness as last night--carrying the dear baby out in the street--I
never heard of such a thing--But what made you do it, Sophy, wont you
tell me that? No, I know you won’t; no one ever can get a word from her.
Ah! that sulky disposition--it is a very nasty temper--can’t you break
through it, Sophy, and confess it all to your dear mamma? You would be
so much better. But I know it is of no use, poor child, it is just like
her father.’
Albinia was growing very angry, and it was well that Maurice’s merry
crowings were heard approaching. Miss Meadows was delighted to see him,
but as he had a great aversion to her, the interview was not prolonged,
since he could not be persuaded to keep the peace by being held up to
watch a buzzing fly, as much out of sight of her as possible, wrinkling
up his nose, and preparing to cry whenever he caught sight of her white
bonnet and pink roses.
Miss Meadows bethought her that grandmamma was anxious, so she only
waited to give an invitation to tea, but merely to Mrs. Kendal; she
would say nothing about Sophy since disgrace--well-merited--if they
could only see some feeling.
‘Thank you,’ said Albinia, ‘some evening perhaps I may come, since you
are so kind, but I don’t think I can leave this poor twisted arm to
itself.’
Miss Meadows evaporated in hopes that Sophy would be sensible of--and
assurances that Mrs. Kendal was a great deal too--with finally,
‘Good-bye, Sophy, I wish I could have told grandmamma that you had shown
some feeling.’
‘I believe,’ said Albinia, ‘that you would only be too glad if you knew
how.’
Sophy gasped.
Albinia could not help feeling indignant at the misjudged persecution;
and yet it seemed to render the poor child more entirely her own, since
all the world besides had turned against her. ‘Kiss her, Maurice,’ she
said, holding the little fellow towards her. That scratched arm of hers
has spared your small brains from more than you guess.’
Sophy’s first impulse was to hide her face, but he thought it was
bo-peep, caught hold of her fingers, and laughed; then came to a sudden
surprised stop, and looked up to his mother, when the countenance behind
the screen proved sad instead of laughing.
‘Ah! baby, you had better have done with me,’ Sophy said, bitterly; ‘you
are the only one that does not hate me yet, and you don’t know what I
have done to you.’
‘I know some one else that cares for you, my poor Sophy,’ said Albinia,
‘and who would do anything to make you feel it without distressing you.
If you knew how I wish I knew what to do for you!’
‘It is no use,’ said Sophy, moodily; ‘I was born to be a misery to
myself and every one else.’
‘What has put such a fancy in your head, my dear?’ said Albinia, nearly
smiling.
‘Grandmamma’s Betty said so, she used to call me Peter Grievous, and I
know it is so. It is of no good to bother yourself about me. It can’t be
helped, and there’s an end of it.’
‘There is not an end of it, indeed!’ cried Albinia. ‘Why, Sophy, do you
suppose I could bear to leave you so?’
‘I’m sure I don’t see why not.’
‘Why not?’ continued Albinia, in her bright, tender voice. ‘Why, because
I must love you with all my heart. You are your own dear papa’s child,
and this little man’s sister. Yes, and you are yourself, my poor, sad,
lonely child, who does not know how to bring out the thoughts that prey
on her, and who thinks it very hard to have a stranger instead of her
own mother. I know I should have felt so.’
‘But I have behaved so ill to you,’ cried Sophy, as if bent on repelling
the proffered affection. ‘I would not like you, and I did not like you.
Never! and I have gone against you every way I could.’
‘And now I love you because you are sorry for it.’
‘I’m not’--Sophy had begun, but the words turned into ‘Am I?’
‘I think you are,’ and with the sweetest of tearful smiles, she put an
arm round the no longer resisting Sophy, and laying her cheek against
the little brother’s, she kissed first one and then the other.
‘I can’t think why you are so,’ said Sophy, still struggling against the
undeserved love, though far more feebly. ‘I shall never deserve it.’
‘See if you don’t, when we pull together instead of contrary ways.’
‘But,’ cried Sophy, with a sudden start from her, as if remembering a
mortal offence, ‘you drained the pond!’
‘I own I earnestly wished it to be drained; but had you any reason for
regretting it, my dear?’
‘Ah! you did not know,’ said Sophy. ‘He and I used to be always there.’
‘He--?’
‘Why, will you make me say it?’ cried Sophy. ‘Edmund! I mean Edmund!
We always called it his pond. He made the little quay for his boats--he
used to catch the minnows there. I could go and stand by it, and think
he was coming out to play; and now you have had it dried up, and his
dear little minnows are all dead,’ and she burst into a passion of
tears, that made Maurice cry till Albinia hastily carried him off and
returned.
‘My dear, I am sorry it seemed so unkind. I do not think we could have
let the pond stay, for it was making the house unhealthy; but if we had
talked over it together, it need not have appeared so very cruel and
spiteful.’
‘I don’t believe you are spiteful,’ said Sophy, ‘though I sometimes
think so.’
The filial compliment was highly gratifying.
‘And now, Sophy,’ she said, ‘that I have told you why we were obliged
to have the pond drained, will you tell me what you wanted with baby at
Mrs. Osborn’s?’
‘I will tell,’ said Sophy, ‘but you wont like it.’
‘I like anything better than concealment.’
‘Mrs. Osborn said she never saw him. She said you kept him close, and
that nobody was good enough to touch him; so I promised I would bring
him over, and I kept my word. I know it was wrong--and--I did not think
you would ever forgive me.’
‘But how could you do it?’
‘Mrs. Osborn and all used to be so kind to us when there was nobody
else. I wont cast them off because we are too fine and grand for them.’
‘I never thought of that. I only was afraid of your getting into silly
ways, and your papa did not wish us to be intimate there. And now
you see he was right, for good friends would not have led you to such
disobedience--and by stealth, too, what I should have thought you would
most have hated.’
Albinia had been far from intending these last words to have been taken
as they were. Sophy hid her face, and cried piteously with an utter
self-abandonment of grief, that Albinia could scarcely understand; but
at last she extracted some broken words. ‘False! shabby! yes--Oh! I have
been false! Oh! Edmund! Edmund! Edmund! the only thing I thought I still
was! I thought I was true! Oh, by stealth! Why couldn’t I die when I
tried, when Edmund did?’
‘And has life been a blank ever since?’
‘Off and on,’ said Sophy. ‘Well, why not? I am sure papa is melancholy
enough. I don’t like people that are always making fun, I can’t see any
sense in it.’
‘Some sorts of merriment are sad, and hollow, and wrong, indeed,’ said
Albinia, ‘but not all, I hope. You know there is so much love and mercy
all round us, that it is unthankful not to have a cheerful spirit. I
wish I could give you one, Sophy.’
Sophy shook her head. ‘I can’t understand about mercy and love, when
Edmund was all I cared for.’
‘But, Sophy, if life is so sad and hard to you, don’t you see the mercy
that took Edmund away to perfect joy? Remember, not cutting you off from
him, but keeping him safe for you.’
‘No, no,’ cried Sophy, ‘I have never been good since he went. I have got
worse and worse, but I did think I was true still, that that one thing
was left me--but now--’ The sense of having acted a deception seemed to
produce grief under which the stubborn pride was melting away, and
it was most affecting to see the child weeping over the lost jewel of
truth, which she seemed to feel the last link with the remarkable boy
whose impress had been left so strongly on all connected with him.
‘My dear, the truth is in you still, or you could not grieve thus over
your failure,’ said Albinia. ‘I know you erred, because it did not occur
to you that it was not acting openly by me; but oh! Sophy, there is
something that would bring you nearer to Edmund than hard truth in your
own strength.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Sophy.
‘Did you ever think what Edmund is about now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophy.
‘I only know that the one thing which is carried with us to the other
world is love, Sophy, and love that becomes greater than we can yet
imagine. If you would think of Him who redeemed and saved your dear
Edmund, and who is his happiness, his exceeding great reward, your heart
would warm, and, oh! what hope and peace would come!’
‘Edmund was good,’ said Sophy, in a tone as if to mark the hopeless gulf
between.
‘And you are sorry. All human goodness begins from sorrow. It had even
to be promised first for baby at his christening, you know. Oh, Sophy,
God’s blessing can make all these tears come to joy.’
Albinia’s own tears were flowing so fast, that she broke off to hide
them in her own room, her heart panting with hope, and yet with grief
and pity for the piteous disclosure of so dreary a girlhood. After all,
childhood, if not the happiest, is the saddest period of life--pains,
griefs, petty tyrannies, neglects, and terrors have not the alleviation
of the experience that ‘this also shall pass away;’ time moves with a
tardier pace, and in the narrower sphere of interests, there is less
to distract the attention from the load of grievances. Hereditary low
spirits, a precocious mind, a reserved temper, a motherless home, the
loss of her only congenial companion, and the long-enduring effect of
her illness upon her health, had all conspired to weigh down the poor
girl, and bring on an almost morbid state of gloomy discontent. Her
father’s second marriage, by enlivening the house, had rendered
her peculiarities even more painful to herself and others, and the
cultivation of mind that was forced upon her, made her more averse
to the trifling and playfulness, which, while she was younger, had
sometimes brightened and softened her. And this was the girl whom
her father had resolved upon sending to the selfish, inconsiderate,
frivolous world of school-girls, just when the first opening had
been made, the first real insight gained into her feelings, the
first appearance of having touched her heart! Albinia felt baffled,
disappointed, almost despairing. His stern decree, once made, was,
she knew, well-nigh unalterable; and though resolved to use her
utmost influence, she doubted its power after having seen that look
of decision. Nay, she tried to think he might be right. There might be
those who would manage Sophy better. Eighteen months had been a fair
trial, and she had failed. She prayed earnestly for whatever might be
best for the child, and for herself, that she might take it patiently
and submissively.
Sophy felt the heat of the day a good deal, but towards the evening she
revived, and seemed so much cheered and refreshed by her tea, that, as
the sound of the church bell came sweetly down in the soft air, Albinia
said, ‘Sophy, I am going to take advantage of my holiday and go to the
evening service. I suppose you had rather not come?’
‘I think I will,’ returned Sophy, somewhat glumly, but Albinia hailed
the answer joyfully, as the first shamefaced effort of a reserved
character wishing to make a new beginning, and she took care that no
remark, not even a look, should rouse the sullen sensitiveness that
could so easily be driven back for ever.
Slowly they crept up the steps on the shady side of the hill, watching
how, beyond the long shadow it cast over the town and the meadows, the
trees revelled in the sunset light, and windows glittered like great
diamonds, where in the ordinary daylight the distance was too great for
distinct vision.
The church was cool and quiet, and there was something in Sophy’s
countenance and reverent attitude that seemed as if she were
consecrating a newly-formed resolution; her eye was often raised, as
though in spite of herself, to the name of the brother whose short life
seemed inseparably interwoven with all the higher aspirations of his
home.
In the midst of the Thanksgiving, a sudden movement attracted Albinia,
and she saw Sophy resting her head, and looking excessively pale.
She put her arm round her, and would have led her out, but could not
persuade her to move, and by the time the Blessing was given, the power
was gone, and she had almost fainted away, when a tall strong form
stooped over her, and Mr. Dusautoy gathered her up in his arms, and
bore her off as if she had been a baby, to the open window of his own
drawing-room.
‘Put me down! The floor, please!’ said Sophy, feebly, for all her
remaining faculties were absorbed in dislike to the mode of conveyance.
‘Yes, flat on the floor,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, rising with full energy,
and laying a cushion under Sophy’s head, reaching a scent-bottle, and
sending her husband for cold water and sal volatile; with readiness that
astonished Albinia, unused to illness, and especially to faintings, and
remorseful at having taken Sophy out. ‘Was it the pain of her arm that
had overcome her?’
‘No,’ said Sophy, ‘it was only my back.’
‘Indeed! you never told me you had hurt your back;’ and Albinia began
describing the fall, and declaring there must be a sprain.
‘Oh, no,’ said Sophy, ‘kneeling always does it.’
‘Does what, my dear?’ said Albinia, sitting on the floor by her, and
looking up to Mrs. Dusautoy, exceedingly frightened.
‘Makes me feel sick,’ said Sophy; ‘I thought it would go off, as it
always does, it didn’t; but it is better now.’
‘No, don’t get up yet,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, as she was trying to move;
‘I would offer you the sofa, it would be more hospitable, but I think
the floor is the most comfortable place.’
‘Thank you, _much_,’ said Sophy, with an emphasis.
‘Do you ever lie down on it when you are tired?’ asked the lady, looking
anxiously at Sophy.
‘I always wish I might.’
Albinia was surprised at the interrogations that followed; she did not
understand what Mrs. Dusautoy was aiming at, in the close questioning,
which to her amazement did not seem to offend, but rather to be
gratifying by the curious divination of all sensations. It made Albinia
feel as if she had been carrying on a deliberate system of torture,
when she heard of a pain in the back, hardly ever ceasing, aggravated
by sitting upright, growing severe with the least fatigue, and unless
favoured by day, becoming so bad at night as to take away many hours of
sleep.
‘Oh! Sophy, Sophy,’ she cried, with tears in her eyes, ‘how could you go
on so? Why did you never tell me?’
‘I did not like,’ began Sophy, ‘I was used to it.’
Oh, that barrier! Albinia was in uncontrollable distress, that the girl
should have chosen to undergo so much suffering rather than bestow any
confidence. Sophy stole her hand into hers, and said in her odd, short
way, ‘Never mind, it did not signify.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, ‘those things are just what one does get so
much used to, that it seems much easier to bear them than to speak about
them.’
‘But to let oneself be so driven about,’ cried Albinia. ‘Oh! Sophy, you
will never do so again! If I had ever guessed--’
‘Please hush! Never mind!’ said Sophy, almost crossly, and getting up
from the floor quickly, as though resolved to be well.
‘I have never minded long enough,’ sighed Albinia. ‘What shall I do,
Mrs. Dusautoy? What do you think it is?’
This was the last question Mrs. Dusautoy wished to be asked in Sophy’s
presence. She had little doubt that it was spine complaint like her own,
but she had not intended to let her perceive the impression, till
after having seen Mrs. Kendal alone. However, Albinia’s impetuosity
disconcerted all precautions, and Sophy’s two great black eyes were
rounded with suppressed terror, as if expecting her doom. ‘I think that
a doctor ought to answer that question,’ Mrs. Dusautoy began.
‘Yes, yes,’ exclaimed Albinia, ‘but I never had any faith in old Mr.
Bowles, I had rather go to a thorough good man at once.’
‘Yes, certainly, by all means.’
‘And then to whom! I will write to my Aunt Mary. It seems exactly like
you. Do you think it is the spine?’
‘I am afraid so. But, my dear,’ holding out her hand caressingly to
Sophy, ‘you need not be frightened--you need not look at me as an
example of what you will come to--I am only an example of what comes of
never speaking of one’s ailments.’
‘And of having no mother to find them out!’ cried Albinia.
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, anxious to console and encourage, as well
as to talk the young step-mother out of her self-reproach, ‘I do not
think that if I had been my good aunt’s own child, she would have been
more likely to find out that anything was amiss. It was the fashion to
be strong and healthy in that house, and I was never really ill--but I
came as a little stunted, dwining cockney, and so I was considered ever
after--never quite comfortable, often forgetting myself in enjoyment,
paying for it afterwards, but quite used to it. We all thought it was
“only Fanny,” and part of my London breeding. Yes, we thought so in
good faith, even after the largest half of my life had been spent in
Yorkshire.’
‘And what brought it to a crisis? Did they go on neglecting you?’
exclaimed Albinia.
‘Why, my dear,’ said the little lady, a glow lighting on her cheek, and
a smile awakening, ‘my uncle took a new curate, whom it was the family
custom to call “the good-natured giant,” and whose approach put all of
us young ladies in a state of great excitement. It was all in character
with his good-nature, you know, to think of dragging the poor little
shrimp up the hill to church, and I believe he did not know how she
would get on without his strong arm; for do you know, when he had the
curacy of Lauriston given him, he chose to carry the starveling off with
him, instead of any of those fine, handsome prosperous girls. Dear Mary
and Bessie! how good they were, and how kind and proud for me! I never
could complain of not having sisters.’
‘Well, and Mr. Dusautoy made you have advice?’
‘Not he! Why, we all believed it cockneyism, you know, and besides, I
was so happy and so well, that when we went to Scotland, I fairly walked
myself off my legs, and ended the honeymoon laid up in a little inn on
Loch Katrine, where John used regularly to knock his head whenever he
came into the room. It was a fortnight before I could get to Edinburgh,
and the journey made me as bad as ever. So the doctors were called in,
and poor John learnt what a crooked stick he had chosen; but they all
said that if I had been taken in hand as a child, most likely I should
have been a sound woman. The worst of it was, that I was so thoroughly
knocked up that I could not bear the motion of a carriage; besides, I
suppose the doctors wanted a little amusement out of me, for they
would not hear of my going home. So poor John had to go to Lauriston by
himself, and those were the longest, dreariest six months I ever spent
in my life, though Bessie was so good as to come and take care of
me. But at last, when I had nearly made up my mind to defy the whole
doctorhood, they gave leave, and between water and steam, John brought
me to Lauriston, and ever since that, I don’t see that a backbone would
have made us a bit happier.’
Sophy had been intently reading Mrs. Dusautoy’s face all through the
narration, from under her thick black eyelashes, and at the end she drew
a sigh of relief, and seemed to catch the smile of glad gratitude and
affection. There was a precedent, which afforded incredible food to the
tumultuous cravings of a heart that had been sinking in sullen gloom
under the consciousness of an unpleasing exterior. The possibility of a
‘good-natured giant’ was far more present to her mind than the present
probability of future suffering and restraint.
Ever rapid and eager, Albinia could think of nothing but immediate
measures for Sophy’s good, and the satisfaction of her own conscience.
She could not bear even to wait for Mr. Kendal’s return, but, as her
aunts were still in London, she resolved on carrying Sophy to their
house on the following day for the best advice. It was already late, and
she knelt at the table to dash off two notes to put into the post-office
as she went home. One to Mrs. Annesley, to announce her coming with
Sophy, baby, and Susan, the other as follows:--
‘July 10th, 9 p.m.
‘Dearest Edmund,
‘I find I have been cruelly neglectful. I have hunted and driven that
poor child about till it has brought on spine complaint. The only thing
I can do, is to take her to have the best advice without loss of time,
so I am going to-morrow to my aunt’s. It would take too long to write
and ask your leave. You must forgive this, as indeed each word I have to
say is, forgive! She is so generous and kind! You know I meant to do my
best, but they were right, I was too young.
‘Forgive yours,
‘A. K.’
The Dusautoys were somewhat taken by surprise, but they knew too well
the need of promptitude to dissuade her; and Sophia herself sat aghast
at the commotion, excited by the habitual discomfort of which she had
thought so little. The vicar, when he found Mrs. Kendal in earnest,
offered to go with them and protect them; but Albinia was a veteran
in independent railway travelling, and was rather affronted by being
treated as a helpless female. Mrs. Dusautoy, better aware of what the
journey might be to one at least of the travellers, gave advice, and
lent air cushions, and Albinia bade her good night with an almost
sobbing ‘thank you,’ and an entreaty that if Mr. Kendal came home before
them, she would tell him all about it.
At home, she instantly sent the stupefied Sophy to bed, astonished the
little nurse, ordered down boxes and bags, and spent half the night in
packing, glad to be stirring and to tire herself into sleeping, for her
remorse and her anticipations were so painful, that, but for fatigue,
her bed would have been no resting-place.