Winifred Ferrars was surprised by Mr. Kendal’s walking into her garden,
with a perturbed countenance, begging her to help him to make out what
could be the meaning of a note which he had just received. He was afraid
that there was much amiss with the baby, and heartily wished that he
had not been persuaded to leave home; but poor Albinia wrote in so much
distress, that he could not understand her letter.
More accustomed to Albinia’s epistolary habits, Winifred exclaimed
at the first glance, ‘What can you mean? There is not one word of the
little one! It is only Sophy!’
The immediate clearing of his face was not complimentary to poor Sophy,
as he said, ‘Can you be quite sure? I had begun to hope that Albinia
might at least have the comfort of seeing this little fellow healthy;
but let me see--she says nursed and--and danced--is it? this poor
child--’
‘No, no; it is hunted and driven; that’s the way she always _will_ make
her _h_‘s; besides, what nonsense the other would be.’
‘This poor child--’ repeated Mr. Kendal, ‘Going up to London for advice.
She would hardly do that with Sophia.’
‘Who ever heard of a baby of six months old having a spine complaint?’
cried Mrs. Ferrars almost angrily.
‘I have lost one in that way,’ he replied.
A dead silence ensued, till Winifred, to her great relief, spied the
feminine pronoun, but could not fully satisfy Mr. Kendal that the ups
and downs were insufficient for the word _him_; and each scrawl was
discussed as though it had been a cuneiform inscription, until he
had been nearly argued into believing in the lesser evil. He then was
persuaded that the Meadowses had been harassing and frightening Albinia
into this startling measure. It was so contrary to his own nature, that
he hardly believed that it had actually taken place, and that she must
be in London by this time, but at any rate, he must join her there, and
know the worst. He would take the whole party to an hotel, if it were
too great a liberty to quarter themselves upon Mrs. Annesley.
Winifred was as much surprised as if the chess-king had taken a knight’s
move, but she encouraged his resolution, assured him of a welcome at
what the cousinhood were wont to call the Family Office, and undertook
the charge of Gilbert and Lucy. The sorrowful, almost supplicating tone
of his wife’s letter, would have sufficed to bring him to her, even
without his disquietude for his child, whichever of them it might be;
and though Albinia’s merry blue-eyed boy had brought a renewed spring of
hope and life, his crashed spirits trembled at the least alarm.
Thus, though the cheerful Winifred had convinced his reason, his gloomy
anticipations revived before he reached London; and with the stern
composure of one accustomed to bend to the heaviest blows, he knocked
at Mrs. Annesley’s door. He was told that Mrs. Kendal was out; but on
further inquiry, learnt that Sophy was in the drawing-room, where he
found her curled up in the corner of the sofa, reading intently.
She sprang to her feet with a cry of surprise, but did not approach,
though he held out his arms, saying in a voice husky with anxiety, ‘Is
the baby well, Sophia?’
‘Yes,’ she cried, ‘quite well; he is out in the carriage with them.’
Then shrinking as he was stooping to kiss her, she reddened, reddening
deeply, ‘Papa, I did very wrong; I was sly and disobedient, and I might
have killed him.’
‘Do not let us speak of that now, my dear, I want to hear of--’ and
again he would have drawn her into his embrace, but she held out her
hand, with her repelling gesture, and burst forth in her rude honesty,
‘I can’t be forgiven only because I am ill. Hear all about it, papa, and
then say you forgive me if you can. I always was cross to mamma, because
I was determined I would be; and I did not think she had any business
with us. The more she was kind, the more I did not like it; and I
thought it was mean in Gilbert and Lucy to be fond of her. No! I have
not done yet! I grew naughtier and naughtier, till at last I have been
false and sly, and--have done this to baby--and I would not have cared
then--if--if she would not have been--oh! so good!’
Sophy made no farther resistance to the arm that was thrown round her,
as her father said, ‘So good, that she has overcome evil with good. My
child, how should I not forgive when you are sensible of your mistake,
and when she has so freely forgiven?’
Sophy did not speak, but she pressed his arm closer round her, and laid
her cheek gratefully on his shoulder. She only wished it could last for
ever; but he soon lifted her, that he might look anxiously at her face,
while he said, ‘And what is all this, my dear! I am afraid you are not
well.’
Her energies were recalled; and, squeezing his hand, she said, ‘Mind,
you will not let them say it was mamma’s fault.’
‘Who is accusing her, my dear?’ What is the matter?’
‘It is only my back,’ said Sophy; ‘there always was a stupid pain there;
but grandmamma’s Betty said I made a fuss, and that it was all laziness,
and I would not let any one say so again, and I never told of it, and it
went on till the other night I grew faint at church, and Mrs. Dusautoy
put mamma in such a fright, that we all came here yesterday; and there
came a doctor this morning, who says my spine is not straight, and that
I must lie on my back for a long time; but never mind, papa, it will be
very comfortable to lie still and read, and I shall not be cross now,’
she added reassuringly, as his grasp pressed her close, with a start of
dismay.
‘My dear, I am afraid you hardly know what you may have to go through,
but I am glad you meet it bravely.’
‘But you wont let them say mamma did it?’
‘Who should say so?’
‘Aunt Maria will, and mamma _will_ go and say so herself,’ cried Sophy;
‘she _will_ say it was taking walks and carrying baby, and it’s not
true. I told the doctor how my back ached long before baby came or she
either, and he said that most likely the weakness had been left by the
fever. So if it is any one’s mismanagement, it is Aunt Maria’s, and if
you wont tell her so, I will.’
‘Gently, Sophy, that would hardly be grateful, after the pains that she
has taken with you, and the care she meant to give.’
‘Her care was all worry,’ said Sophy, ‘and it will be very lucky if I
don’t tell her so, if she says her provoking things to mamma. But you
wont believe them, papa.’
‘Most certainly not.’
‘Yes, you must tell her to be happy again,’ continued Sophy; ‘I cannot
bear to see her looking sorrowful! Last night, when she fancied me
asleep, she cried--oh! till it made me miserable! And to-day I heard
Miss Ferrars say to Mrs. Annesley, that her fine spirits were quite
gone. You know it is very silly, for I am the last person in all the
world she ought to cry for.’
‘She has an infinite treasure of love,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and we have
done very little that we should be blessed with it.’
‘There, they are come home!’ exclaimed Sophy, starting up as sounds were
heard on the stairs, and almost at the same moment Albinia was in the
room, overflowing with contrition, gladness, and anxiety; but something
of sweetness in the first hasty greeting made the trust overcome all
the rest; and, understanding his uppermost wish, she stepped back to the
staircase, and in another second had put Maurice into his arms, blooming
and contented, and with a wide-mouthed smile for his papa. Mr. Kendal
held him fondly through all the hospitable welcomes of the aunts, and
his own explanations; but to Albinia it was all confusion, and almost
annoyance, till she could take him upstairs, and tell her own story.
‘I am afraid you have been very much alarmed,’ were his first words.
‘I have done everything wrong from beginning to end,’ said Albinia. ‘Oh,
Edmund, I am so glad you are come! Now you will see the doctor, and know
whether it was as bad as all the rest to bring her to London.’
‘My dearest, you must calm yourself, and try to explain. You know
I understand nothing yet, except from your resolute little advocate
downstairs, and your own note, which I could scarcely make out, except
that you were in great trouble.’
‘Ah, that note; I wrote it in one of my impetuous fits. Maurice used to
say I ran frantic, and grew irrational, and so I did not know what I was
saying to you; and I brought that poor patient girl up here in all the
heat, and the journey hurt her so much, that I don’t know how we shall
ever get her home again. Oh, Edmund, I am the worst wife and mother in
the world; and I undertook it all with such foolish confidence.’
Mr. Kendal liked her impetuous fits as little as her brother did,
and was not so much used to them; but he dealt with her in his quiet,
straightforward way. ‘You are exaggerating now, Albinia, and I do not
wonder at it, for you have had a great deal to startle and to try you.
Walking up and down is only heating and agitating you more; sit down
here, and let me hear what gave you this alarm.’
The grave affection of his manner restrained her, and his presence
soothed the flutter of spirits; though she still devoted herself with
a sort of wilfulness to bear all the blame, until he said, ‘This is
foolish, Albinia; it is of no use to look at anything but the simple
truth. This affection of the spine must be constitutional, and if
neglect have aggravated the evil, it must date from a much earlier
period than since she has been under your charge. If any one be to
blame, it is myself, for the apathy that prevented me from placing the
poor things under proper care, but I was hardly then aware that Maria’s
solicitude is always in the wrong place.’
‘But everybody declares that it was always visible, and that no one
could look at her without seeing that she was crooked.’
‘Apres le coup,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I grant you that a person of more
experience might perhaps have detected what was amiss sooner than you
did, but you have only to regret the ignorance you shared with us all;
and you did your utmost according to your judgment.’
‘And a cruel utmost it was,’ said Albinia; ‘it is frightful to think
what I inflicted, and she endured in silence, because I had not treated
her so that she could bear to speak to me.’
‘That is over now,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘you have conquered her at last.
Pride could not hold out against such sweetness.’
‘It is her generosity,’ said Albinia; ‘I always knew she was the best of
them all, if one could but get at her.’
‘What have you done to her? I never heard her say half so much as she
voluntarily said to me just now.’
‘Poor dear! I believe the key of her heart was lost when Edmund died,
and so all within was starved,’ said Albinia. ‘Yes,’ as his eyes were
suddenly raised and fixed on her, ‘I got to that at last. No one has
ever understood her, since she lost her brother.’
‘She has a certain likeness to him. I knew she was his favourite sister;
but such a child as she was--’
‘Children have deeper souls than you give them credit for,’ said
Albinia. ‘Yes, Edmund, you and Sophy are very much alike! You had your
study, and poor Sophy enclosed herself in a perpetual cocoon of study
atmosphere, and so you never found each other out till to-day.’
Perhaps it was the influence of the frantic fit that caused her to make
so direct a thrust; but Mr. Kendal was not offended. There was a good
deal in the mere absence from habitual scenes and associations; he
always left a great deal of reserve behind him at Bayford.
‘You may be right, Albinia,’ he said; ‘I sometimes think that amongst us
you are like the old poet’s “star confined into a tomb.”’
Such a compliment was a pretty reward for her temerity.
Returning to business, she found that her journey was treated as
more judicious than she deserved. The consequences had justified her
decision. Mr. Kendal knew it was the right thing to be done, and was
glad to have been spared the dreadful task of making up his mind to it.
He sat down of his own accord to write a note to Winifred, beginning,
‘Albinia was right, as she always is,’ and though his wife interlined,
‘Albinia had no right to be right, for she was inconsiderate, as she
always is,’ she looked so brilliantly pretty and bright, and was so full
of sunny liveliness, that she occasioned one of the very few disputes
between her good aunts. Miss Ferrars declared that poor Albinia was
quite revived by the return to her old home, and absence of care, while
Mrs. Annesley insisted on giving the credit to Mr. Kendal. They were
perfectly agreed in unwillingness to part with their guests; and as the
doctor wished to see more of his patient, the visit was prolonged, to
the enjoyment of all parties.
Sophy had received her sentence so easily, that it was suspected that
she did not realize the tedium of confinement, and was relieved by being
allowed to be inactive. Until she should go home, she might do whatever
did not fatigue her; but most sights, and even the motion of the
carriage, were so fatiguing, that she was much more inclined to
remain at home and revel in the delightful world of books. The kind,
unobtrusive petting; the absence of customary irritations; the quiet
high-bred tone of the family, so acted upon her, as to render her
something as agreeably new to herself as to other people. The glum mask
was cast aside, she responded amiably to kindness and attention,
allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and developed much more
intelligence and depth than even Albinia had given her credit for.
One day, when Miss Ferrars was showing Mr. Kendal some illustrations of
Indian scenery, a question arose upon the date of the native sovereign
to whom the buildings were ascribed. Mr. Kendal could not recollect; but
Sophia, looking up, quietly pronounced the date, and gave her reasons
for it. Miss Ferrars asked how she could have learnt so much on an
out-of-the-way topic.
‘I read a book of the History of India, up in the loft,’ said Sophy.
‘That book!’ exclaimed her father; ‘I wish you joy! I never could get
through it! It is the driest chronicle I ever read--a mere book of
reference. What could induce you to read that?’
‘I would read anything about India;’ and her tone, though low and
subdued, betrayed such enthusiasm as could find nothing dry, and this
in a girl who had read aloud the reign of Edward III. with stolid
indifference!
‘Well, I think I can promise you more interesting reading about India
when we go home,’ said Mr. Kendal.
The colour rose on Sophy’s cheek. Books out of papa’s study! Could the
world offer a greater privilege?’ She could scarcely pronounce, ‘Thank
you.’
‘Very faithful to her birth-place,’ said Miss Ferrars; ‘but she must
have been very young when she came home.’
‘About five years old, I believe,’ said her father. ‘You surely can
remember nothing of Talloon.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophy, mournfully; ‘I used--’
‘I thought Indian children usually lost their eastern recollections very
early,’ said Miss Ferrars; ‘I never heard of one who could remember the
sound of Hindostanee a year after coming home.’
Mr. Kendal, entertained and gratified, turned to his daughter; and, by
way of experiment, began a short sentence in Hindostanee; but the first
sound brought a glow to her cheeks, and, with a hurried gesture, she
murmured, ‘Please don’t, papa.’
Albinia saw that feelings were here concerned which must not be played
on in public; and she hastily plunged into the discussion, and drew it
away from Sophy. Following her up-stairs at bed-time, she contrived to
win from her an explanation.
Edmund had been seven years old at the time of the return to England.
Fondly attached to some of the Hindoo servants, and with unusual
intelligence and observation, the gorgeous scenery and oriental habits
of his first home had dwelt vividly in his imagination, and he had
always considered himself as only taken to England for a time, to return
again to India. Thus, he had been fond of romancing of the past and of
the future, and had never let his little sister’s recollections fade
entirely away. His father had likewise thought that it would save future
trouble to keep up the boys’ knowledge of the language, which would
by-and-by be so important to them. Gilbert’s health had caused his
studies to be often intermitted, but Edmund had constantly received
instructions in the Indian languages, and whatever he learnt had been
imparted to Sophia. It was piteous to discover how much time the poor
forlorn little girl had spent sitting on the floor in the loft, poring
over old grammars, and phrase-books, and translations of missionary
or government school-books there accumulated--anything that related to
India, or that seemed to carry on what she had done with Edmund: and she
had acquired just enough to give her a keen appetite for all the higher
class of lore, which she knew to reside in the unapproachable study.
Those few familiar words from her father had overcome her, because, a
trivial greeting in themselves, they had been a kind of password between
her and her brother.
Mr. Kendal was greatly touched, and very remorseful for having left such
a heart to pine in solitude, while he was absorbed in his own lonely
grief; and Albinia ventured to say, ‘I believe the greatest pleasure you
could give her would be to help her to keep up the language.’
He smiled, but said, ‘Of what possible use could it be to her?’
‘I was not thinking of future use. It would be of immense present use
to her to do anything with you, and I can see that nothing would gratify
her so much. Besides, I have been trying to think of all the new things
I could set her to do. She must have lessons to fill up the day, and I
want to make fresh beginnings, and not go back to the blots and scars of
our old misunderstandings.’
‘You want me to teach her Sanscrit because you cannot teach her
Italian.’
‘Exactly so,’ said Albinia; ‘and the Italian will spring all the better
from the venerable root, when we have forgotten how cross we used to be
to each other over our relative pronouns.’
‘But there is hardly anything which I could let her read in those
languages.’
‘Very likely not; but you can pick out what there is. Do you remember
the fable of the treasure that was to be gained by digging under the
apple-tree, and which turned out not to be gold, but the fruit, the
consequence of digging? Now, I want you to dig Sophy; a Sanscrit, or a
Hindostanee, or a Persian treasure will do equally well as a pretext. If
she had announced a taste for the differential calculus, I should have
said the same. Only dig her, as Maurice dug me apropos to Homer. I
wouldn’t bother you, only you see no one else could either do it, or be
the same to Sophy.’
‘We will see how it is,’ said Mr. Kendal.
With which Albinia was obliged to be content; but in the meantime she
saw the two making daily progress in intimacy, and Mr. Kendal beginning
to take a pride in his daughter’s understanding and information, which
he ascribed to Albinia, in spite of all her disclaimers. It was as if
she had evoked the spirit of his lost son, which had lain hidden under
the sullen demeanour of the girl, devoid indeed of many of Edmund’s
charms, but yet with the same sterling qualities, and with resemblance
enough to afford infinite and unexpected joy and compensation.
Mr. Kendal enjoyed his stay in town. He visited libraries, saw pictures,
and heard music, with the new zest of having a wife able to enter into
his tastes. He met old friends, and did not shrink immoderately from
those of his wife; nay, he found them extremely agreeable, and was
pleased to see Albinia welcomed. Indeed, his sojourn in her former
sphere served to make him wonder that she could be contented with
Bayford, and to find her, of the whole party, by far the most ready
to return home. Both he himself and Sophy had an unavowed dread of
the influence of Willow Lawn; but Albinia had a spring of spirits,
independent of place, and though happy, was craving for her duties,
anxious to have the journey over, and afraid that London was making her
little Maurice pale.
Miss Meadows was the first person whom they saw at Willow Lawn. Two
letters had passed, both so conventionally civil, that her state of
mind could not be gathered from them, but her first tones proved that
coherence was more than ever wanting, and no one attempted to understand
anything she said, while she enfolded Sophy in an agitated embrace, and
marshalled them to the drawing-room, where the chief of the apologies
were spent upon Sophy’s new couch, which had been sent down the day
before by the luggage-train, and which she and Eweretta had attempted to
put together in an impossible way, failing which, they had called in the
carpenter, who had made it worse.
It was an untold advantage that she had to take the initiative in
excuses. Sophy was so meek with weariness, that she took pretty well
all the kind fidgeting that could not be averted from her, and Miss
Meadows’s discourse chiefly tended to assurances that Mrs. Kendal was
right, and grandmamma was nervous--and poor Mr. Bowles--it could not
be expected--with hints of the wonderful commotion the sudden flight to
London had excited at Bayford. As soon as Mr. Kendal quitted the
room, these hints were converted into something between expostulation,
condolence, and congratulation.
It was so very fortunate--so very lucky that dear Mr. Kendal had come
home with her, for--she had said she would let Mrs. Kendal hear, if only
that she might be on her guard--people were so ill-natured--there never
was such a place for gossip--not that she heard it from any one but Mrs.
Drury, who really now had driven in--not that she believed it, but to
ascertain.--For Mrs. Drury had been told--mentioning no names--oh, no!
for fear of making mischief--she had been told that Mrs. Kendal had
actually been into Mr. Kendal’s study, which was always kept locked up,
and there she had found something which had distressed her so much that
she had gone to Mr. Dusautoy, and by his advice had fled from home to
the protection of her brother in Canada.
‘Without waiting for Bluebeard’s asking for the key! Oh, Maria!’ cried
Albinia, in a fit of laughter, while Sophia sat up on the sofa in
speechless indignation.
‘You may laugh, Mrs. Kendal, if you please,’ said Maria, with tart
dignity; ‘I have told you nothing but the truth. I should have thought
for my part, but that’s of no consequence, it was as well to be on one’s
guard in a nest of vipers, for Edmund’s sake, if not for your own.’ And
as this last speech convulsed Albinia, and rendered her incapable of
reply, Miss Meadows became pathetic. ‘I am sure the pains I have taken
to trace out and contradict--and so nervous as grandmamma has been--“I’m
sure, Mrs. Drury,” said I, “that though Edmund Kendal does lock his
study door, nobody ever thought anything--the housemaids go in to
clean it--and I’ve been in myself when the whitewashers were about
the house--I’m sure Mrs. Kendal is a most amiable young woman, and you
wouldn’t raise reports.” “No,” she said, “but Mrs. Osborn was positive
that Mrs. Kendal was nearly an hour shut up alone in the study the night
of Sophy’s accident--and so sudden,” she said, “the carriage being sent
for--not a servant knew of it--and then,” she said, “it was always
the talk among the girls, that Mr. Kendal kept his study a forbidden
place.”’
‘Then,’ said Sophia, slowly, as she looked full at her aunt, ‘it was the
Osborns who dared to say such wicked things.’
‘There now, I never meant you to be there. You ought to be gone to bed,
child. It is not a thing for you to know anything about.’
‘I only want to know whether it was the Osborns who invented these
stories,’ said Sophy.
‘My dear,’ exclaimed Albinia, ‘what can it signify? They are only a
very good joke. I did not think there had been so much imagination in
Bayford.’ And off she went laughing again.
‘They are very wicked,’ said Sophy, ‘Aunt Maria, I will know if it was
Mrs. Osborn who told the story.’
Sophy’s _will_ was too potent for Miss Meadows, and the admission was
extracted in a burst of other odds and ends, in the midst of which
Albinia beheld Sophy cross the room with a deliberate, determined step.
Flying after her, she found her in the hall, wrapping herself up.
‘Sophy, what is this? What are you about?’
‘Let me alone,’ said Sophy, straining against her detaining hand, ‘I do
not know when I shall recover again, and I will go at once to tell the
Osborns that I have done with them. I stuck to them because I thought
they were my mother’s friends; I did not guess that they would make an
unworthy use of my friendship, and invent wicked stories of my father
and you.’
‘Please don’t make me laugh, Sophy, for I don’t want to affront you.
Yes, it is generous feeling; I don’t wonder you are angry; but indeed
silly nonsense like this is not worth it. It will die away of itself, it
must be dead already, now they have seen we have not run away to Canada.
Your heroics only make it more ridiculous.’
‘I must tell Loo never to come here with her hypocrisy,’ repeated Sophy,
standing still, but not yielding an inch.
Miss Meadows pursued them at the same moment with broken protestations
that they must forget it, she never meant to make mischief, &c., and the
confusion was becoming worse confounded when Mr. Kendal emerged from
the study, demanding what was the matter, to the great discomfiture
of Maria, who began hushing Sophy, and making signs to Albinia that it
would be dangerous for him to know anything about it.
But Albinia was already exclaiming, ‘Here’s a champion wanting to do
battle with Louisa Osborn in our cause. Oh, Edmund! our neighbours could
find no way of accounting for my taking French leave, but by supposing
that I took advantage of being shut in there, while poor little Maurice
was squalling so furiously, to rifle your secrets, and detect something
so shocking, that away I was fleeing to William in Canada.’
‘Obliging,’ quietly said Mr. Kendal.
‘Now, dear Edmund--I know--for my sake--for everything’s sake, remember
you are a family man, don’t take any notice.’
‘I certainly shall take no notice of such folly,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and
I wish that no one else should. What are you about, Sophia?’
‘Tell mamma to let me go, papa,’ she exclaimed, ‘I must and will tell
Louisa that I hate her baseness and hypocrisy, and then I’ll never speak
to her again. Why will mamma laugh? It is very wicked of them.’
‘Wrong in them, but laughing is the only way to treat it,’ said Mr.
Kendal. ‘Go back to your sofa and forget it. Your aunt and I have heard
Bayford reports before.’
Sophy obeyed unwillingly, she was far too much incensed to forget. On
her aunt’s taking leave, and Mr. Kendal offering his escort up the hill,
she rose up again, and would have perpetrated a denunciation by letter,
had not Albinia seriously argued with her, and finding ridicule,
expediency, and Christian forgiveness all fail of hitting the mark,
said, ‘I don’t know with what face you could attack Louisa, when you
helped her to persecute poor Genevieve because you thought she had an
instrument of torture in her drawer.’
‘It was not I who said that,’ said Sophy, blushing.
‘You took part with those who did. And poor Genevieve was a much more
defenceless victim than papa or myself.’
‘I would not do so now.’
‘It does not take much individual blackness of heart to work up a fine
promising slander. A surmise made in jest is repeated in earnest, and
all the other tale-bearers think they are telling simple facts. Depend
upon it, the story did not get off from the Osborns by any means as it
came back to Aunt Maria.’
‘I should like to know.’
‘Don’t let us make it any worse; and above all, do not let us tell
Lucy.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Sophy, emphatically.
To Albinia’s surprise no innuendo from Mrs. or Miss Meadows ever
referred to her management having caused Sophy’s misfortune, and she
secretly attributed this silence to Mr. Kendal’s having escorted his
sister-in-law to her own house.
Sophy’s chief abode became the morning-room, and she seemed very happy
and tranquil there--shrinking from visitors, but grateful for the
kindness of parents, brother and sister.
Mr. Kendal, finding her really eager to learn of him, began teaching her
Persian, and was astonished at her promptness and intelligence. He took
increasing pleasure in her company, gave her books to read, and would
sometimes tell the others not to stay at home for her sake, as he should
be ‘about the house.’
He really gave up much time to her, and used to carry her, when the
weather served, to a couch in the garden, for she could not bear the
motion of wheels, and was forbidden to attempt walking, though she was
to be in the air as much as possible, so that Albinia spent more time at
home. The charge of Sophy was evidently her business, and after talking
the matter over with Mrs. Dusautoy, she resigned, though not without
a pang, the offices she had undertaken in the time of her superfluous
activity, and limited herself to occasional superintendence, instead of
undertaking constant employment in the parish. Though she felt grieved
and humiliated, Willow Lawn throve the better for it, and so did her
own mind, yes, and even her temper, which was far less often driven by
over-haste into quick censure, or unconsidered reply.
Her mistakes about Sophia had been a lesson against one-sided
government. At first, running into the other extreme, she was ready to
imagine that all the past ill-humour had been the effect of her neglect
and cruelty; and Sophy’s amiability almost warranted the notion. The
poor girl herself had promised ‘never to be cross again,’ and fancied
all temptation was over, since she had ‘found out mamma,’ and papa was
so kind to her. But all on a sudden, down came the cloud again. Nobody
could detect any reason. Affronts abounded--not received with an
explosion that would have been combated, laughed at, and disposed of,
but treated with silence, and each sinking down to be added to the
weight of cruel injuries. There was no complaint; Sophy obeyed all
orders with her old form of dismal submission, but everything proposed
to her was distasteful, and her answers were in the ancient surly
style. If attempts were made to probe the malady, her reserve was
impenetrable--nothing was the matter, she wanted nothing, was vexed
at nothing. She pursued her usual occupations, but as if they were
hardships; she was sullen towards her mamma, snappishly brief with her
aunt and sister, and so ungracious and indifferent even with her father,
that Albinia trembled lest he might withdraw the attention so improperly
received. When this dreary state of things had lasted more than a week,
he did tell her that if she were tired of the lessons, it was not worth
while to proceed; but that he had hoped for more perseverance.
The fear of losing these, her great pride and pleasure, overcame her.
She maintained her grim composure till he had left her, but then fell
into a violent fit of crying, in which Albinia found her, and which
dissolved the reserve into complaints that every one was very cruel and
unkind, and she was the most miserable girl in all the world; papa was
going to take away from her the only one thing that made it tolerable!
Reasoning was of no use; to try to show her that it was her own
behaviour that had annoyed him, only made her mamma appear equally
hard-hearted, and she continued wretched all the rest of the day,
refusing consolation, and only so far improved that avowed discontent
was better than sullenness. The next morning, she found out that it was
not the world that was in league against her, but that she had fallen
into the condition which she had thought past for ever. This was worst
of all, and her disappointment and dejection lasted not only all that
long day, but all the next, making her receive all kindnesses with a
broken-down, woebegone manner, and reply to all cheerful encouragements
with despair about anything ever making her good. Albinia tried to put
her in mind of the Source of all goodness; but any visible acceptance
of personal applications of religious teaching had not yet been
accomplished.
Gradually all cleared up again, and things went well till for some fresh
trivial cause or no cause, the whole process was repeated--sulking,
injured innocence, and bitter repentance. This time, Mr. Kendal
pronounced, ‘This is low spirits, far more than temper,’ and he
thenceforth dealt with these moods with a tender consideration that
Albinia admired, though she thought at times that to treat them more
like temper than spirits might be better for Sophy; but it was evident
that the poor child herself had at present little if any power either
of averting such an access, or of shaking it off. The danger of her
father’s treatment seemed to be, that the humours would be acquiesced
in, like changes in the weather, and that she might be encouraged
neither to repent, nor to struggle; while her captivity made her much
more liable to the tedium and sinking of heart that predisposed her to
them.
There seemed to be nothing to be done but to bear patiently with them
while they lasted, to console the victim afterwards, lead her to prayer
and resolute efforts, and above all to pray for her, as well as to avoid
occasions of bringing them on; but this was not possible, since no one
could live without occasional contradiction, and Sophy could sometimes
bear a strong remonstrance or great disappointment, when at others a
hint, or an almost imperceptible vexation, destroyed her peace for days.
Mr. Kendal bore patiently with her variations, and did his best to amuse
away her gloom. It was wonderful how much of his own was gone, and
how much more alive he was. He had set himself to attack the five
public-houses and seven beer-shops in Tibbs’s Alley, and since his eyes
had been once opened, it seemed as if the disorders became more flagrant
every day. At last, he pounced on a misdemeanour which he took care
should come before the magistrates, and he was much annoyed to find the
case dismissed for want of evidence. One Sunday he beheld the end of a
fray begun during service-time; he caused an information to be laid, and
went himself to the petty sessions to represent the case, but the result
was a nominal penalty. The Admiral was a seeker of popularity, and
though owning that the town was in a shocking state, and making great
promises when talked to on general points, yet he could never make
up his mind to punish any ‘poor fellow,’ unless he himself were in a
passion, when he would go any length. The other magistrates would not
interfere; and all the satisfaction Mr. Kendal obtained was being told
how much he was wanted on the bench.
One of the few respectable Tibbs’s Alleyites told him that it was of no
use to complain, for the publicans boasted of their impunity, snapped
their fingers at him, and drank Admiral Osborn’s health as their friend.
The consequence was, that Mr. Kendal took a magnanimous resolution,
ordered a copy of Burn’s Justice, and at the September Quarter Sessions
actually rode over to Hadminster, and took the oaths.
On the whole, the expectation was more formidable than the reality.
However much he disliked applying himself to business, no one understood
it better. The value of his good sense, judgment, and acuteness was
speedily felt. Mr. Nugent, the chairman, depended on him as his ally,
and often as his adviser; and as he was thus made to feel himself of
weight and importance, his aversion subsided, and he almost learnt to
look forward to a chat with Mr. Nugent; or whether he looked forward to
it or not, there could be no doubt that he enjoyed it. Though still shy,
grave, silent, and inert, there was a great alteration in him since the
time when he had had no friends, no interests, no pursuits beyond his
study; and there was every reason to think that, in spite of the many
severe shocks to his mauvaise honte, he was a much happier man.
His wife could not regret that his magisterial proceedings led to a
coolness with the Osborns, augmented by a vestry-meeting, at which
Mr. Dusautoy had begged him to be present. The Admiral and his party
surpassed themselves in their virulence against whatever the vicar
proposed, until they fairly roused Mr. Kendal’s ire, and ‘he came out
upon them all like a lion;’ and with force appearing the greater from
being so seldom exerted, he represented Mr. Dusautoy’s conduct in
appropriate terms, showing full appreciation of his merits, and holding
up their own course before them in its true light, till they had nothing
to say for themselves. It was the vicar’s first visible victory. The
increased congregation showed how much way he had made with the
poor, and Mr. Kendal taking his part openly, drew over many of the
tradespeople, who had begun to feel the influence of his hearty nature
and consistent uprightness, and had become used to what had at first
appeared innovations. Mr. Dusautoy, in thanking Mr. Kendal, begged
him to allow himself to be nominated his churchwarden next Easter,
and having consented while his blood was up, there was no danger that,
however he might dislike the prospect, he would falter when the time
should come.