‘Mrs. Kendal, dear Madame, a great favour, could you spare me a few
moments?’
A blushing face was raised with such an expression of contrite timidity,
that Albinia felt sure that the poor little Frenchwoman had recovered
from her brief intoxication, and wanted to apologize and be comforted,
so she said kindly,
‘I was wishing to see you, my dear; I was afraid the day had been too
much for you; I was certain you were feverish.’
‘Ah! you were so good to make excuses for me. I am so ashamed when
I think how tedious, how disagreeable I must have been. It was why I
wished to speak to you.’
‘Never mind apologies, my dear; I have felt and done the like many a
time--it is the worst of enjoying oneself.’
‘Oh! that was not all--I could not help it--enjoyment--no!’ stammered
Genevieve. ‘If you would be kind enough to come this way.’
She opened her grandmother’s back gate, the entrance to a slip of
garden smothered in laurels, and led the way to a small green arbour,
containing a round table, transformed by calico hangings into what the
embroidered inscription called ‘Autel a l’Amour filial et maternel,’
bearing a plaster vase full of fresh flowers, but ere Albinia had time
to admire this achievement of French sentiment, Genevieve exclaimed,
clasping her hands, ‘Oh, madame, pardon me, you who are so good! You
will tell no one, you will bring on him no trouble, but you will tell
him it is too foolish--you will give him back his billet, and forbid him
ever to send another.’
Spite of the confidence about Emily, spite of all unreason, such was
the family opinion of Fred’s propensity to fall in love, that Albinia’s
first suspicion lighted upon him, but as her eye fell on the pink
envelope the handwriting concerned her even more nearly.
‘Gilbert!’ she cried. ‘My dear, what is this? Do you wish me to read
it?’
‘Yes, for I cannot.’ Genevieve turned away, as in his best hand, and bad
it was, Albinia read the commencement--
“My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!”
In mute astonishment Albinia looked up, and met Genevieve’s eyes.
‘Oh, madame, you are displeased with me!’ she cried in despair,
misinterpreting the look, ‘but indeed I could not help it.’
‘My dear child,’ said Albinia, affectionately putting her arm round her
waist, and drawing her down on the seat beside her, ‘indeed I am not
displeased with you; you are doing the very best thing possible by us
all. Think I am your sister, and tell me what is the meaning of all
this, and then I will try to help you.’
‘Oh, madame, you are too good,’ said Genevieve, weeping; and kindly
holding the trembling hand, Albinia finished the letter, herself. ‘Silly
boy! Genevieve, dear girl, you must set my mind at rest; this is
too childish--this is not the kind of thing that would touch your
affections, I am sure.’
‘Oh! pour cela non,’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! no; I am grateful to Mr.
Gilbert Kendal, for, even as a little boy, he was always kind to me, but
for the rest--he is so young, madame, even if I could forget--’
‘I see,’ said Albinia. ‘I am sure that you are much too good and
sensible at your age to waste a moment’s thought or pain on such a
foolish boy, as he certainly is, Genevieve, though not so foolish in
liking you, whatever he may be in the way of expressing it. Though of
course--’ Albinia had floundered into a dreadful bewilderment between
her sense of Genevieve’s merits and of the incompatibility of their
station, and she plunged out by asking, ‘And how long has this been
going on?’
Genevieve hesitated. ‘To speak the truth, madame, I have long seen that,
like many other youths, he would be--very attentive if one were not
guarded; but I had known him so long, that perhaps I did not soon enough
begin, to treat him en jeune homme.
‘And this is his first letter?’
‘Oh! yes, madame.’
‘He complains that you will not hear him? Do you dislike to tell me if
anything had passed previously?’
‘Thursday,’ was slightly whispered.
‘Thursday! ah! now I begin to understand the cause of your being
suddenly moon-struck.’
‘Ah! madame, pardon me!’
‘I see--it was the only way to avoid a tete-a-tete!’ said Albinia. ‘Well
done, Genevieve. What had he been saying to you, my dear?’
Poor Genevieve cast about for a word, and finally faltered out, ‘Des
sottises, Madame.’
‘That I can well believe,’ said Albinia. ‘Well, my dear--’
‘I think,’ pursued Genevieve, ‘that he was vexed because I would not
let him absorb me exclusively at Fairmead; and began to reproach me, and
protest--’
‘And like a wise woman you waked the sleeping dragon,’ said Albinia.
‘Was this all?’
‘No, madame; so little had passed, that I hoped it was only the
excitement, and that he would forget; but on Saturday he met me in the
flagged path, and oh! he said a great deal, though I did my best to
convince him that he could only make himself be laughed at. I hoped even
then that he was silenced, and that I need not mention it, but I see
he has been watching me, and I dare not go out alone lest I should meet
him. He called this morning, and not seeing me left this note.’
‘Do your grandmother and aunt know?’
‘Oh, no! I would far rather not tell them. Need I? Oh! madame, surely
you can speak to him, and no one need ever hear of it?’ implored
Genevieve. ‘You have promised me that no one shall be told!’
‘No one shall, my dear. I hope soon to tell you that he is heartily
ashamed of having teased you. No one need be ashamed of thinking you
very dear and good--you can’t help being loveable, but Master Gibbie has
no right to tell you so, and we’ll put an end to it. He will soon be in
India out of your way. Good-bye!’
Albinia kissed the confused and blushing maiden, and walked away,
provoked, yet diverted.
She found Gilbert alone, and was not slow in coming to the point,
endeavouring to model her treatment on that of her brother, the General,
towards his aide-de-camp in the like predicaments.
‘Gilbert, I want to speak to you. I am afraid you have been making
yourself troublesome to Miss Durant. You are old enough to know better
than to write such a note as this.’
He was all one blush, made an inarticulate exclamation, and burst out,
‘That abominable treacherous old wooden doll of a mademoiselle.’
‘No, Miss Belmarche knows nothing of it. No one ever shall if you will
promise to drive this nonsense out of your head.’
‘Nonsense! Mrs. Kendal!’ with a gesture of misery.
‘Gilbert, you are making yourself absurd.’
He turned about, and would have marched out of the room, but she pursued
him. ‘You must listen to me. It is not fit that you should carry on this
silly importunity. It is exceedingly distressing to her, and might lead
to very unpleasant and hurtful remarks.’ Seeing him look sullen, she
took breath, and considered. ‘She came to me in great trouble, and
begged me to restore your letter, and tell you never to repeat the
liberty.’
He struck his hand on his brow, crying vehemently, ‘Cruel girl! She
little knows me--you little know me, if you think I am to be silenced
thus. I tell you I will never cease! I am not bound by your pride, which
has sneered down and crushed the loveliest--’
‘Not mine,’ said Albinia, disconcerted at his unexpected violence.
‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know you could patronize! but a step beyond,
and it is all the same with you as with the rest--you despise the jewel
without the setting.’
‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘so far from depreciating her, I want to convince
you that it is an insult to pursue her in this ridiculous underhand
way.’
‘You do me no justice,’ said Gilbert loftily; ‘you little understand
what you are pleased to make game of,’ and with one of his sudden
alternations, he dropped into a chair, calling himself the most
miserable fellow in the world, unpitied where he would gladly offer his
life, and his tenderest feelings derided, and he was so nearly ready
to cry, that Albinia pitied him, and said, ‘I’ll laugh no more if I can
help it, Gibbie, but indeed you are too young for all this misery to be
real. I don’t mean that you are pretending, but only that this is your
own fancy.’
‘Fancy!’ said the boy solemnly. ‘The happiness of my life is at stake.
She shall be the sharer of all that is mine, the moment my property is
in my own hands.’
‘And do you think so high-minded a girl would listen to you, and take
advantage of a fancy in a boy so much younger, and of a different
class?’
‘It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all at her feet!’
‘So it might, if it were worthy of her to accept it. Gilbert, if
you knew what love is, you would never wish her to lower herself by
encouraging you now. She would be called artful--designing--’
‘If she loved me--’ he said disconsolately.
‘I wish I could bring you to see how unlikely it is that a sensible,
superior woman could really attach herself to a mere lad. An
unprincipled person might pretend it for the sake of your property--a
silly one might like you because you are good-looking and well-mannered;
but neither would be Genevieve.’
‘There is no use in saying any more,’ he said, rising in offended
dignity.
‘I cannot let you go till you have given me your word never to obtrude
your folly on Miss Durant again.’
‘Have you anything else to ask me?’ cried Gilbert in a melodramatic
tone.
‘Yes, how would you like your father to know of this? It is her secret,
and I shall keep it, unless you are so selfish as to continue the
pursuit, and if so, I must have recourse to his authority.’
‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal,’ he said, actually weeping, ‘you have always pitied me
hitherto.’
‘A man should not ask for pity,’ said Albinia; ‘but I am sorry for you,
for she is an admirable person, and I see you are very unhappy; but
I will do all I can to help you, and you will get over it, if you are
reasonable. Now understand me, I will and must protect Genevieve, and
I shall appeal to your father unless you promise me to desist from this
persecution.’
The debate might have been endless, if Mr. Kendal had not been heard
coming in. ‘You promise?’ she said. ‘Yes,’ was the faint reply, in
nervous terror of immediate reference to his father; and they hurried
different ways, trying to look unconcerned.
‘Never mind,’ said Albinia to herself. ‘Was not Fred quite as bad about
me, and look at him now! Yes, Gilbert must go to India, it will cure
him, or if it should not, his affection will be respectable, and worth
consideration. If he were but older, and this were the genuine article,
I would fight for him, but--’
And she sat down to write a loving note to Genevieve. Her sanguine
disposition made her trust that all would blow over, but her experience
of the cheerful buoyant Ferrars temperament was no guide to the morbid
Kendal disposition, Gilbert lay on the grass limp and doleful till the
fall of the dew, when he betook himself to a sofa; and in the morning
turned up his eyes reproachfully at her instead of eating his breakfast.
About eleven o’clock the Fairmead pony-carriage stopped at the door,
containing Mr. Ferrars, the Captain, Aunt Gertrude, and little Willie.
Albinia, her husband, and Lucy, were soon in the drawing-room welcoming
them; and Lucy fetched her little brother, who had been vociferous for
three days about Cousin Fred, the real soldier, but now, struck with
awe at the mighty personage, stood by his mamma, profoundly silent, and
staring. He was ungracious to his aunt, and still more so to Willie, the
latter of whom was despatched under Lucy’s charge to find Gilbert, but
they came back unsuccessful. Nor did Sophy make her appearance; she was
reported to be reading to grandmamma--Mrs. Meadows preferred to Miss
Ferrars! there was more in this than Albinia could make out, and she sat
uneasily till she could exchange a few words with Lucy. ‘My dear, what
is become of the other two?’
‘I am sure I don’t know what is the matter with them,’ said Lucy.
‘Gilbert is gone out--nobody knows where--and when I told Sophy who was
here, she said Captain Ferrars was an empty-headed coxcomb, and she did
not want to see him!’
‘Oh! the geese!’ murmured Albinia to herself, till the comical suspicion
crossed her mind that Gilbert was jealous, and that Sophy was afraid of
falling a victim to the redoubtable lady killer.
Luncheon-time produced Sophy, grave and silent, but no Gilbert, and Mr.
Kendal, receiving no satisfactory account of his absence, said, ‘Very
strange,’ and looked annoyed.
Captain Ferrars seemed to have expected to see his bright little
partner of Thursday, for he inquired for her, and Willie imparted
the information that Fred had taken her for Sophy all the time! Fred
laughed, and owned it, but asked if she were not really the governess?
‘A governess,’ said Albinia, ‘but not ours,’ and an explanation
followed, during which Sophy blushed violently, and held up her head as
if she had an iron bar in her neck.
‘A pity,’ said the Lancer, when he had heard who she was, and under his
moustache he murmured to Albinia, ‘She is rather in Emily’s style.’
‘Oh, Fred,’ thought Albinia, ‘after all, it may be lucky that you aren’t
going to stay here!’
When Albinia was alone with her brother, she could not help saying,
‘Maurice, you were right to scold me; I reproached you with thinking
life made up of predicaments. I think mine is made of blunders!’
‘Ah! I saw you were harassed to-day,’ said her brother kindly.
‘Whenever one is happy, one does something wrong!’
‘I guess--’
‘You are generous not to say you warned me months ago. Mind, it is no
fault of hers, she is behaving beautifully; but oh! the absurdity, and
the worst of it is, I have promised not to tell Edmund.’
‘Then don’t tell me. You have a judgment quite good enough for use.’
‘No, I have not. I have only sense, and that only serves me for what
other people ought to do.’
‘Then ask Albinia what Mrs. Kendal ought to do.’
Gilbert came in soon after their departure, with an odd, dishevelled,
abstracted look, and muttering something inaudible about not knowing the
time. His depression absolutely courted notice, but as a slight cough
would at any time reduce him to despair, he obtained no particular
observation, except from Sophy, who made much of him, flushed at
Genevieve’s name, and looked reproachful, that it was evident that she
was his confidante. Several times did Albinia try to lead her to
enter on the subject, but she set up her screen of silence. It was
disappointing, for Albinia had believed better things of her sense, and
hardly made allowance for the different aspect of the love-sorrows of
seventeen, viewed from fifteen or twenty-six--vexatious, too, to be
treated with dry reserve, and probably viewed as a rock in the course of
true love; and provoking to see perpetual tete-a-tetes that could hardly
fail to fill Sophy’s romantic head with folly.
At the end of another week, Albinia received the following note:--
‘Dear and most kind Madame,
‘I would not trouble you again, but this is the third within four days.
I returned the two former ones to himself, but he continues to write.
May I ask your permission to speak to my relatives, for I feel that
I ought to hide this no longer from them, and that we must take some
measures for ending it. He does me the honour to wait near the
house, and I never dare go out, since--for I will confess all to you,
madame--he met me by the river on Monday. I am beginning to fear that
his assiduities have been observed, and I should be much obliged if
you would tell me how to act. Your kind perseverance in your goodness
towards me is my greatest comfort, and I hope that you will still
continue it, for indeed it is most unwillingly that I am a cause of
perplexity and vexation to you. Entreating your pardon,
‘Your most faithful and obliged servant,
Genevieve Celeste Durant.’
What was to be done? That broken pledge overpowered Albinia with a
personal sense of shame, and though it set her free to tell all to her
husband, she shrank from provoking his stern displeasure towards his
son, and feared he might involve Genevieve in his anger. She dashed off
a note to her poor little friend, telling her to do as she thought fit
by her aunt and grandmother, and then sought another interview with
the reluctant Gilbert, to whom she returned the letter, saying, ‘Oh,
Gilbert, at least I thought you would keep your word.’
‘I think,’ he said, angrily, trying for dignity, though bewrayed by
his restless eyes and hands--‘I think it is too much to accuse me
of--of--when I never said--What word did I ever give?’
‘You promised never to persecute her again.’
‘There may be two opinions as to what persecution means,’ said Gilbert.
‘I little thought of subterfuges. I trusted you.’
‘Mrs. Kendal! hear me,’ he passionately cried. ‘You knew not the misery
you imposed. To live so near, and not a word, not a look! I bore it as
long as I could; but when Sophy would not so much as take one message,
human nature could not endure.’
‘Well, if you cannot restrain yourself like a rational creature, some
means must be taken to free Miss Durant from a pursuit so injurious and
disagreeable to her.’
‘Ay,’ he cried, ‘you have filled her with your own prejudices, and
inspired her with such a dread of the hateful fences of society, that
she does not dare to confess--’
‘For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of acting a part.’
‘No!’ he exclaimed, ‘all I say is, that she has been so thrust down
and forced back, that she cannot venture to avow her feelings even to
herself!’
‘Oh!’ said Albinia, ‘you conceited person!’
‘Well!’ cried the boy, so much nettled by her sarcasm that he did not
know what he said, ‘I think--considering--considering our situations, I
might be worth her consideration!’
‘Who put that in your head?’ asked Albinia. ‘You are too much a
gentleman for it to have come there of its own accord.’
He blushed excessively, and retracted. ‘No, no! I did not mean that! No,
I only mean I have no fair play--she will not even think. Oh! if I had
but been born in the same station of life!’
Gilbert making entrechats with a little fiddle! It had nearly overthrown
her gravity, and she made no direct answer, only saying, ‘Well, Gilbert,
these talks are useless. I only thought it right to give you notice that
you have released me from my engagement not to make your father aware of
your folly.’
He went into an agony of entreaties, and proffers of promises, but no
more treaties of secrecy could he obtain, she would only say that she
should not speak immediately, she should wait and see how things turned
out. By which she meant, how soon it might be hoped that he would be
safe in the Calcutta bank, where she heartily wished him.
She sought a conference with Genevieve, and took her out walking in the
meadows, for the poor child really needed change and exercise, the fear
of Gilbert had made her imprison herself within the little garden, till
she looked sallow and worn. She said that her grandmother and aunt
had decided that she should go in a couple of days to the Convent at
Hadminster, to remain there till Mr. Gilbert went to India--the superior
was an old friend of her aunt, and Genevieve had often been there, and
knew all the nuns.
Albinia was startled by this project. ‘My dear, I had much rather send
you to stay at my brother’s, or--anywhere. Are you sure you are not
running into temptation?’
‘Not of that kind,’ said Genevieve. ‘The priest, Mr. O’Hara, is a
good-natured old gentleman, not in the least disposed to trouble himself
about my conversion.’
‘And the sisters?’
‘Good old ladies, they have always been very kind to me, and petted me
exceedingly when I was a little child, but for the rest--’ still seeing
Albinia’s anxious look--‘Oh! they would not think of it; I don’t believe
they could argue; they are not like the new-fashioned Roman Catholics of
whom you are thinking, madame.’
‘And are there no enthusiastic young novices?’
‘I should think no one would ever be a novice there,’ said Genevieve.
‘You seem to be bent on destroying all the romance of convents,
Genevieve!’
‘I never thought of anything romantic connected with the reverend
mothers,’ rejoined Genevieve, ‘and yet when I recollect how they came
to Hadminster, I think you will be interested. You know the family at
Hadminster Hall in the last century were Roman Catholics, and a daughter
had professed at a convent in France. At the time of the revolution, her
brother, the esquire, wrote to offer her an asylum at his house. The
day of her arrival was fixed--behold! a stage-coach draws up to the
door--black veils inside--black veils clustered on the roof--a black
veil beside the coachman, on the box--eighteen nuns alight, and the poor
old infirm abbess is lifted out. They had not even figured to themselves
that the invitation could be to one without the whole sisterhood!’
‘And what did the esquire do with the good ladies?’
‘He took them as a gift from Providence, he raised a subscription among
his friends, and they were lodged in the house at Hadminster, where
something like a sisterhood had striven to exist ever since the days of
James II.’
‘Are any of these sisters living still?’
‘Only poor old Mother Therese, who was a little pensionnaire when they
came, and now is blind, and never quits her bed. There are only seven
sisters at present, and none of them are less than five-and-forty.’
‘And what shall you do there, Genevieve?’
‘If they have any pupils from the town, perhaps I may help to teach them
French. And I shall have plenty of time for my music. Oh! madame, would
you lend me a little of your music to copy?’
‘With all my heart. Any books?’
‘Oh! that would be the greatest kindness of all! And if it were not
presuming too much, if madame would let me take the pattern of that
beautiful point lace that she sometimes wears in the evening, then I
should make myself welcome!’
‘And put out your eyes, my dear! But you may turn out my whole
lace-drawer if you think anything there will be a pleasure to the old
ladies.’
‘Ah! you do not guess the pleasure, madame. Needlework and embroidery is
their excitement and delight. They will ask me closely about all I have
seen and done for months past, and the history of the day at Fairmead
will be a fete in itself.’
‘Well! my dear, it is very right of you; and I do feel very thankful to
you for treating the matter thus. Pray tell your grandmamma and aunt to
pardon the sad revolution we have made in their comfort, and that I hope
it will soon be over!’
Genevieve took no leave. Albinia sent her a goodly parcel of books
and work-patterns, and she returned an affectionate note; but did not
attempt to see Lucy and Sophy.
The next Indian mail brought the expected letter, giving an exact
account of the acquirements and habits that would be required of
Gilbert, with a promise of a home where he would be treated as a son,
and of admission to the firm after due probation. The letter was so
sensible and affectionate, that Mr. Kendal congratulated his son upon
such an advantageous outset in life.
Gilbert made slight reply, but the next morning Sophy sought Albinia
out, and with some hesitation began to tell her that Gilbert was very
anxious that she would intercede with papa not to send him to Calcutta.
‘You now, Sophy!’ cried Albinia. ‘You who used to think nothing equal to
India!’
‘I wish it were I,’ said Sophy, ‘but you know--’
‘Well,’ said Albinia, coldly.
Sophy was too shy to begin on that tack, and dashed off on another.
‘Oh, mamma, he is so wretched. He can’t bear to thwart papa, but he says
it would break his heart to go so far away, and that he knows it would
kill him to be confined to a desk in that climate.’
‘You know papa thinks that nothing would confirm his health so much as a
few years without an English winter.’
‘One’s own instinct--’ began Sophy; then breaking off, she added,
‘Mamma, you never were for the bank.’
‘I used not to see the expediency, and I did not like the parting; but
now I understand your father’s wishes, and the sort of allegiance
he feels towards India, so that Gilbert’s reluctance will be a great
mortification to him.’
‘So it will,’ said Sophy, mournfully, ‘I am sure it is to me. I always
looked forward to Gilbert’s going to Talloon, and seeing the dear old
bearer, and taking all my presents there, but you see, of course, mamma,
he cannot bear to go--’
‘Sophy, dear,’ said Albinia, ‘you have been thinking me a very
hard-hearted woman this last month. I have been longing to have it out.’
‘Not hard-hearted,’ said Sophy, looking down, ‘only I had always thought
you different from other people.’
‘And you considered that I was worldly, and not romantic enough. Is that
it, Sophy?’
‘I thought you knew how to value her for herself, so good and so
admirable--a lady in everything--with such perfect manners. I thought
you would have been pleased and proud that Gilbert’s choice was so much
nobler than beauty, or rank, or fashion could make it,’ said Sophy,
growing enthusiastic as she went on.
‘Well, my dear, perhaps I am.’
‘But, mamma, you have done all you could to separate them: you have shut
Genevieve up in a convent, and you want to banish him.’
‘It sounds very grand, and worthy of a cruel step-dame,’ said Albinia;
‘but, my dear, though I do think Genevieve in herself an admirable
creature, worthy of any one’s love, what am I to think of the way
Gilbert has taken to show his admiration?’
‘And is it not very hard,’ cried Sophy, ‘that even you, who own all her
excellences, should turn against him, and give in to all this miserable
conventionality, that wants riches and station, and trumpery worldly
things, and crushes down true love in two young hearts?’
‘Sophy dear, I am afraid the love is not proved to be true in the one
heart, and I am sure there is none in the other!’
‘Mamma! ‘Tis her self-command--’
‘Nonsense! His attentions are nothing but distress to her! Sensible
grown-up young women are not apt to be flattered by importunity from
silly boys. Has he told you otherwise?’
‘He thinks--he hopes, at least--and I am sure--it is all stifled by her
sense of duty, and fear of offending you, or appearing mercenary.’
‘All delusion!’ said Albinia; ‘there’s not a spark of consciousness
about her! I see you don’t like to believe it, but it is my great
comfort. Think how she would suffer if she did love him! Nay, think,
before you are angry with me for not promoting it, how it would bring
them into trouble and disgrace with all the world, even if your father
consented. Have you once thought how it would appear to him?’
‘You can persuade papa to anything!’
‘Sophy! you ought to know your father better than to say that!’ cried
Albinia, as if it had been disrespect to him.
‘Then you think he would never allow it! You really think that such a
creature as Genevieve, as perfect a lady as ever existed, must always be
a victim to these hateful rules about station.’
‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘certainly not; but if she were in the very same
rank, if all else were suitable, Gilbert’s age would make the pursuit
ridiculous.’
‘Only three years younger,’ sighed Sophy. ‘But if they were the same
age? Do you mean that no one ever ought to marry, if they love ever so
much, where the station is different?’
‘No, but that they must not do so lightly, but try the love first to see
whether it be worth the sacrifice. If an attachment last through many
years of adverse circumstances, I think the happiness of the people
has been shown to depend on each other, but I don’t think it safe to
disregard disparities till there has been some test that the love is
the right stuff, or else they may produce ill-temper, regrets, and
unhappiness, all the rest of their lives.’
‘If Gilbert went on for years, mamma?’
‘I did not say that, Sophy.’
‘Suppose,’ continued the eager girl, ‘he went out to Calcutta, and
worked these five years, and was made a partner. Then he would be
two-and-twenty, nobody could call him too young, and he would come home,
and ask papa’s consent, and you--’
‘I _should_ call that constancy,’ said Albinia.
‘And he would take her out to Calcutta, and have no Drurys and Osborns
to bother her! Oh! It would be beautiful! I would watch over her while
he was gone! I’ll go and tell him!’
‘Stop, Sophy, not from me--that would never do. I don’t think papa would
think twenty-two such a great age--’
‘But he would have loved her five years!’ said Sophy. ‘And you said
yourself that would be constancy!’
‘True, but, Sophy, I have known a youth who sailed broken-hearted,
and met a lady “just in the style” of the former one, on board the
steamer--’
Sophy made a gesture of impatient disdain, and repeated, ‘Do you allow
me to tell Gilbert that this is the way?’
‘Not from me. I hold out no hope. I don’t believe Genevieve cares for
him, and I don’t know whether his father would consent--’ but seeing
Sophy’s look of disappointment, ‘I see no harm in your suggesting it,
for it is his only chance with either of them, and would be the proof
that his affection was good for something.’
‘And you think her worth it?’
‘I think her worth anything in the world--the more for her behaviour in
this matter. I only doubt if Gilbert have any conception how much she is
worth.’
Away went Sophy in a glow that made her almost handsome, while Albinia,
as usual, wondered at her own imprudence.
At luncheon Sophy avoided her eye, and looked crestfallen, and
when afterwards she gave a mute inquiring address, shook her head
impatiently. It was plain that she had failed, and was too much pained
and shamed by his poorness of spirit to be able as yet to speak of it.
Next came Gilbert, who pursued Albinia to the morning-room to entreat
her interference in his behalf, appealing piteously to her kindness;
but she was obdurate. If any remonstrance were offered to his father, it
must be by himself.
Gilbert fell into a state of misery, threw himself about upon the
chairs, and muttered in the fretfulness of childish despair something
about its being very hard, when he was owner of half the town, to
be sent into exile--it was like jealousy of his growing up and being
master.
‘Take care, Gilbert!’ said Albinia, with a flash of her eye that he felt
to his backbone.
‘I don’t mean it,’ cried Gilbert, springing towards her in supplication.
‘I’ve heard it said, that’s all, and was as angry as you, but when a
fellow is beside himself with misery at being driven away from all he
loves--not a friend to help him--how can he keep from thinking all sorts
of things?’
‘I wonder what people dare to say it!’ cried Albinia wrathfully;
but he did not heed, he was picturing his own future
misfortunes--toil--climate--fevers--choleras--Thugs--coups de
soleil--genuine dread and repugnance working him up to positive agony.
‘Gilbert,’ said Albinia, ‘this is trumpery self-torture! You know this
is a mere farrago that you have conjured up. Your father would neither
thrust you into danger, nor compel you to do anything to which you had
a reasonable aversion. Go and be a man about it in one way or the other!
Either accept or refuse, but don’t make these childish lamentations.
They are cowardly! I should be ashamed of little Maurice if he behaved
so!’
‘And you will not speak a word for me!’
‘No! Speak for yourself!’ and she left the room.
Days passed on, till she began to think that, after all, Gilbert
preferred Calcutta, cholera, Thugs, and all, to facing his father; but
at last, he must have taken heart from his extremity, for Mr. Kendal
said, with less vexation than she had anticipated, ‘So our plans are
overthrown. Gilbert tells me he has an invincible dislike to Calcutta.
Had you any such idea?’
‘Not till your cousin’s letter arrived. What did you say to him?’
‘He was so much afraid of vexing me that I was obliged to encourage him
to speak freely, and I found that he had always had a strong distaste
to and dread of India. I told him I wished he had made me aware of it
sooner, and desired to know what profession he really preferred. He
spoke of Oxford and the Bar, and so I suppose it must be. I do not
wonder that he wishes to follow his Traversham friends, and as they are
a good set, I hope there may not be much temptation. I see you are not
satisfied, Albinia, yet your wishes were one of my motives.’
‘Thank you--once I should,’ said Albinia; ‘but, Edmund, I see how wrong
it was to have concealed anything from you;’ and thereupon she informed
him of Gilbert’s passion for Genevieve Durant, which astonished him
greatly, though he took it far less seriously than she had expected,
and was not displeased at having been kept in ignorance and spared the
trouble of taking notice of it, and thus giving it importance.
‘It will pass off,’ he said. ‘She has too much sense and principle to
encourage him, and if you can get her out of Bayford for a few years he
will be glad to have it forgotten.’
‘Poor Genevieve! She must break up her grandmother’s home after all!’
‘It will be a great advantage to her. You used to say that it would be
most desirable for her to see more of the world. Away from this place
she might marry well.’
‘Any one’s son but yours,’ said Albinia, smiling.
‘The connexion would be worse here than anywhere else; but I was not
thinking of any one in our rank of life. There are many superior men in
trade with whom she might be very happy.’
‘Poor child!’ sighed Albinia. ‘I cannot feel that it is fair that she
should be banished for Gilbert’s faults; and I am sorry for the school;
you cannot think how much the tone was improving.’
‘If it could be done without hurting her feelings, I should gladly give
her a year at some superior finishing school, which might either qualify
her for a governess, or enable her to make this one more profitable.’
‘Oh! thank you!’ cried Albinia; ‘yet I doubt. However, her services
would be quite equivalent in any school to the lessons she wants. I’ll
write to Mrs. Elwood--’ and she was absorbed in the register-office in
her brain, when Mr. Kendal continued--
‘This is quite unexpected. I could not have supposed the boy so foolish!
However, if you please, I will speak to him, tell him that I was unaware
of his folly, and insist on his giving it up.’
‘I should be very glad if you would.’
Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfactory than Albinia
thought that Genevieve deserved. His frenzy had tended to wear itself
out, and he had been so dreadfully alarmed about India and his father,
that in his relief, gratitude, and fear of being sent out, he was ready
to promise anything. Before his father he could go into no rhapsodies,
and could only be miserably confused.
‘Personally,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘it is creditable that you should be
attracted by such estimable qualities, but these are not the sole
consideration. Equality of station is almost as great a requisite as
these for producing comfort or respectability, and nothing but your
youth and ignorance could excuse your besetting any young woman with
importunities which she had shown to be disagreeable to her.’
There was no outcry of despair, only a melancholy muttering. Then Mr.
Kendal pronounced his decree in terms more explicit than those in which
Albinia had exacted the promise. He said nothing about persecution,
nor was he unreasonable enough to command an instant immolation of the
passion; he only insisted that Gilbert should pay no marked attention,
and attempt no unsanctioned or underhand communication. Unless he
thought he had sufficient self-command to abstain, his father must take
‘further measures.’
As if fearing that this must mean ‘Kendal and Kendal,’ he raised his
head, and with a deep sigh undertook for his own self-command. Mr.
Kendal laid his hand on his shoulder with kind pity, told him he was
doing right, and that while he acted openly and obediently, he should
always meet with sympathy and consideration.
Two difficult points remained--the disposing of the young people.
Gilbert was still over young for the university, as well as very
backward and ill-prepared, and the obstinate remains of the cough
made his father unwilling to send him from home. And his presence made
Genevieve’s absence necessary.
The place had begun to loom in the distance. A former governess of
Albinia’s, who would have done almost anything to please her, had lately
been left a widow, and established herself in a suburb of London, with
a small party of pupils. She had just begun to feel the need of an
additional teacher, and should gladly receive Genevieve, provided she
fulfilled certain requisites, of which, luckily, French pronunciation
stood the foremost. The terms were left to Albinia, who could scarcely
believe her good fortune, and went in haste to discuss the matter with
the Belmarches.
It almost consoled her for what she had been exceedingly ashamed to
announce, the change of purpose with regard to Gilbert, which was a
sentence of banishment to the object of his folly. Nothing pained her
more than the great courtesy and kindness of the two old ladies to whom
it was such a cruel stroke, they evidently felt for her, and appeared to
catch at Mrs. Elwood’s offer, and when Albinia proposed that her salary
should be a share in the instructions of the masters, agreed that this
was the very thing they had felt it their duty to provide for her, if
they had been able to bring themselves to part with her.
‘So,’ said good Madame Belmarche, smiling sadly, ‘you see it has been
for the dear child’s real good that our weakness has been conquered.’
Genevieve was written to, and consented to everything, and when Mr.
Kendal took Gilbert away to visit an old friend, his wife called for
Genevieve at the convent to bring her home. Albinia could not
divest herself of some curiosity and excitement in driving up to the
old-fashioned red brick house, with two tall wings projecting towards
the street, and the front door in the centre between them, with steps
down to it. She had not been without hopes of a parlour with a grille,
or at least that a lay sister would open the door; but she saw nothing
but a very ordinary-looking old maid-servant, and close behind her
was Genevieve, with her little box, quite ready--no excuse for seeing
anything or anybody else.
If Genevieve were sad at the proposal of leaving home and going among
strangers, she took care to hide all that could pain Mrs. Kendal, and
her cheerful French spirit really enjoyed the prospect of new scenes,
and bounded with enterprise at the hope of a new life and fresh field of
exertion.
‘Perhaps, after all,’ she said, smiling, ‘they may make of me something
really useful and valuable, and it will all be owing to you, dear
madame. Drawing and Italian! When I can teach them, I shall be able to
make grandmamma easy for life!’
Genevieve skipped out of the carriage and into her aunt’s arms, as
if alive only to the present delight of being at home again. It was a
contrast to Sophy’s dolorous visage. Poor Sophy! she was living in a
perpetual strife with the outward tokens of sulkiness, forcing herself
against the grain to make civil answers, and pretend to be interested
when she felt wretched and morose. That Gilbert, after so many ravings,
should have relinquished, from mere cowardice, that one hope of earning
Genevieve by honourable exertion, had absolutely lowered her trust in
the exalting power of love, and her sense of justice revolted against
the decision that visited the follies of the guilty upon the innocent.
She was yearning over her friend with all her heart, pained at the
separation, and longing fervently to make some demonstration, but the
greater her wish, the worse was her reserve. She spent all her money
upon a beautiful book as a parting gift, and kept it beside her, missing
occasion after occasion of presenting it, and falling at each into
a perfect agony behind that impalpable, yet impassable, barrier of
embarrassment.
It was not till the very last evening, when Genevieve had actually
wished her good-bye and left the house, that she grew desperate. She
hastily put on bonnet and cloak, and pursued Genevieve up the street,
overtaking her at last, and causing her to look round close to her own
door.
‘My dear Miss Sophy,’ cried Genevieve, ‘what is the matter? You are
quite overcome.’
‘This book--’ said Sophy--it was all she could say.
‘Love--yes,’ said Genevieve. ‘Admiration--no.’
‘You shall not say that,’ cried Sophy. ‘I have found what is really
dignified and disinterested, and you must let me admire you, Jenny, it
makes me comfortable.’
Genevieve smiled. ‘I would not commit an egoism,’ she said; but if the
sense of admiration do you good, I wish it had a worthier cause.’
‘There’s no one to admire but you,’ said Sophy. ‘I think it very unfair
to send you away, and though it is nobody’s fault, I hate good sense and
the way of the world!’
‘Oh! do not talk so. I am only overwhelmed with wonder at the goodness
I have experienced. If it had happened with any other family, oh! how
differently I should have been judged! Oh! when I think of Mrs. Kendal,
I am ready to weep with gratitude!’
‘Yes, mamma is mamma, and not like any one else, but even she is obliged
to be rational, and do the injustice, whatever she feels,’ said Sophy.
‘Oh! not injustice--kindness! I shall be able to earn more for
grandmamma!’
‘It is injustice!’ said Sophy, ‘not hers, perhaps, but of the world! It
makes me so angry, to think that you--you should never do anything but
wear yourself out in drudging over tiresome little children--’
‘Little children are my brothers and sisters, as I never had any,’ said
Genevieve. ‘Oh! I always loved them, they make a home wherever they are.
I am thankful that my vocation is among them.’
In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would not notice it, but
pursued, ‘You must come in and rest--you must have my aunt’s salts.’
‘No--no--’ said Sophy, ‘not there--’ as Genevieve would have taken her
to the little parlour, but opening the door of the school-room, she sank
breathless into a sitting position on the carpetless boards.
Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found Sophy’s arms thrown
round her, pressing her almost to strangulation.
‘Oh! I wanted to do it--I never could wont you have the book,
Genevieve? It is my keepsake--only I could not give it because--’
‘Is it your keepsake, indeed, dear Miss Sophy?’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! if
it is yours--how I shall value it--but it is too beautiful--’
‘Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve,’ said Sophy fervently.
‘And it is your gift! But I am frightened--it must have cost--!’ began
Genevieve, still a little on her guard. ‘Dear, dear Miss Sophy, forgive
me if I do seem ungrateful, but indeed I ought to ask--if--if it is all
your own gift?’
‘Mine? yes!’ said Sophy, on the borders of offence. ‘I know what you
mean, Genevieve, but you may trust me. I would not take you in.’
Genevieve was blushing intensely, but taking courage she bestowed a
shower of ardent embraces and expressions of gratitude, mingled with
excuses for her precaution. ‘Oh! it was so very kind in Miss Sophy,’ she
said; ‘it would be such a comfort to remember, she had feared she too
was angry with her.’
‘Angry? oh, no!’ cried Sophy, her heart quite unlocked; ‘but the more I
loved and admired, the more I could not speak. And if they drive you to
be a governess? If you had a situation like what we read of?’
‘Perhaps I shall not,’ said Genevieve, laughing. ‘Every one has been so
good to me hitherto! And then I am not reduced from anything grander. I
shall always have the children, you know.’
‘How I should hate them!’ quoth Sophy.
‘They are my pleasure. Besides I have always thought it a blessing that
my business in life, though so humble, should be what may do direct
good. If only I do not set them a bad example, or teach them any harm.’
‘Not much danger of that,’ said Sophy, smiling. ‘Well, I can’t believe
it will be your lot all your life. You will find some one who will know
how to love you.’
‘No,’ said Genevieve, ‘I am not in a position for marriage--grandmamma
has often told me so!’
‘Things sometimes happen,’ pursued Sophy. ‘Mamma said if Gilbert had
been older, or even if--if he had been in earnest and steady enough to
work for you in India, then it might--And surely if Gilbert could care
for you--people higher and deeper than he would like you better still.’
‘Hush,’ said Genevieve; ‘they would only see the objections more
strongly. No, do not put these things in my head. I know that unless a
teacher hold her business as her mission, and put all other schemes
out of her mind, she will work with an absent, distracted, half-hearted
attention, and fail of the task that the good God has committed to her.’
‘Then you would never even wish--’
‘It would be seeking pomps and vanities to wish,’ said Genevieve;
‘a school-room is a good safe cloister, probably less dull than the
convent. If I wish at all, it will be that I may be well shut up there,
for I know that in spite of myself my manners are different from your
English ones. I cannot make them otherwise, and that amuses people; and
I cannot help liking to please, and so I become excited. I enjoy society
so much that it is not safe for me! So don’t be sorry, dear Sophy, it
is a fit penance for the vanity that elated me too much that evening at
Fairmead!’
Mademoiselle Belmarche was here attracted by the voices. Sophy
started up from the ground, made some unintelligible excuse, and while
Mademoiselle was confounded with admiration at the sight of the book,
inflicted another boa-constrictor embrace, and hurried away.