The Lake of Lucerne lay blue and dark in the shade of the mountains, on
whose summits the evening sunshine was fast mounting, peak after peak
falling into purple shadow.
There was a small inlet where a stream rushed down between the hills,
and on the green slope stood a chalet, the rich red of the roof
contrasting with the green pasture. A little boat was moored to a
stump near the land, and in it sat Sophia Kendal, her hat by her side,
listening to and answering merrily the chatter of Maurice, who tumbled
about in the boat, often causing it severe shocks, while he inspected
the cut of the small sail which she was making for the miniature
specimen, which he often tried in the clear cold water.
Farther off, a little up the hill-side, Willie Ferrars was holding the
hand of the chestnut-curled, black-eyed fairy, ‘little Awk,’ who was
impressing him by her fluency in two languages at once, according as she
chattered to him in English, or in French to a picturesque peasant, her
great ally, who was mowing his flowery crop of hay, glancing like an
illumination, with an under-current of brilliant blossoms among the
grass.
Wandering with slow conversational pace up and down the beach of the
lake, were Mr. Kendal and Sir William Ferrars, conversing as usual; the
soldier, with quick alert comprehension, wide observation, and clearness
of mind, which jumped to the very points to which the scholar’s
deeply-read and long-digested arguments were bringing him more slowly.
On a projecting point sat Albinia, her fair hair shaded under her dark
hat, beneath which her English complexion glowed fresh and youthful, as
with flat tin box by her side, and block sketch-book on her knee, she
mixed and she painted, and tried to catch those purples and those blues
with unabated ardour. Suddenly a great trailing frond of mountain fern
came over the brim of her hat from behind. ‘Oh, Maurice, don’t!’ Then,
looking up and laughing, ‘Oh, it is you, is it? I knew Maurice would do,
whichever it might be; but see, the other is quite out of mischief.’
‘Unless he should upset Sophy into the lake.’
‘He can’t do that, the rope is too short. But is not he very much
improved? He has quite lost his imperious manner towards her.’
‘Nothing like school for making a boy behave himself to his sisters.’
‘Exactly, as I learnt by experience long ago. I am glad William did not
see him till he had learnt to be agreeable. How he does admire him!’
‘You’ll never make anything of that sketch; the mountain is humpbacked,
and the face of that precipice is exactly like Colonel Bury;’ and he
caught up a pencil to help out the resemblance with nostril and eyebrow.
‘For shame, to be so mischievous; such a great boy as you.’
‘Well, we all came out here to be great boys, didn’t we? I am sure you
look a dozen years younger than when I last saw you, Mrs. Grandmother.
By-the-by, it was a bold stroke to encumber yourself with that brat;
what’s become of him?’
‘Susan has taken him in asleep. You see, Maurice, I really could not
help it, the poor little thing was so sickly, and had never thriven; but
when they were a little while in bracing air, Lucy was longing to have
him in England, and his father, who never believes in anything but what
he likes, _would_ not see it, and what with those Italian servants, and
Algernon hunting Lucy about as he does, it would have been the death of
him. Susan, good creature, had taken to him of her own accord the moment
we came to Naples, and could not have borne to leave him, and you know
the Awk is almost off her hands now, and Sophy, who first proposed it,
or I am sure I should never have ventured, is delighted to do anything
for either of them, and always has her little sister in her room. As to
papa, he was very good, and the child is very little in his way, and has
been quite well ever since we have been in this delicious air.’
‘How did you get Lucy to consent?’
‘Poor dear, it was a melancholy business; but she had so often been in
alarm about him, and had suffered so much from having to leave him with
people she did not trust, that she caught at the proposal before
she fairly contemplated what the parting would be; and when she did,
Algernon was too glad to be relieved from him not to keep her up to it,
but it wont do to think of it, she has her baby, who is healthier, and
if they remain abroad, I suspect we shall keep little Ralph altogether;
he is a dear little fellow, and Sophy has so taken possession of
Albinia, that I should be quite lost if I did not set up a private
child.
‘What do you call him? I thought his name was Belraven.’
‘I could not possibly call him so; and his aunts, by way of adding to
the aviary, made him Ralph the Raven, so I mean it to stick by him; I
believe papa has forgotten the other dreadful fact, for I caught him
giving his name as Ralph Cavendish Dusautoy. How the dear vicar of
Bayford will devour him! and what work I shall have to keep him from
being spoilt!’
‘Then you think they will remain abroad?’
‘Algernon hates England; and all his habits are foreign.’
‘Did he make himself tolerably agreeable?’
‘He really did. One could bear to be patronized by one’s host better
than by one’s guest, and he was in wholesome awe of William. Besides, he
is really at home in Italy, and knows his way about so well, that he
was not a bad Cicerone. I am sure Sophy could never have done either
Vesuvius or Pompeii without his arrangements; and as long as he had a
victim for his catalogue raisonnee, he was very placable and obliging.
That was all extracts, so it really was not so bad.’
‘So you were satisfied?’
‘He has a bad lot about him, that’s the worst--Polish counts,
disreputable artists and poets, any one who has a spurious sort of fame,
and knows how to flatter him. Edmund was terribly disgusted.’
‘Very bad for his wife.’
‘You see, she is a thorough-going mother, and no linguist. She really
is improved, and I like her more really than ever I could, poor dear.
I believe her head was once quite turned, and that he influenced her
entirely, and made her forget everything else; but she has a heart,
though not much of a head, and sorrow and illness and children have
brought it out, and she is what a ‘very woman’ becomes, I suppose, if
there be any good in her, an abstract wife and mother.’
‘Was it not dangerous to take away her child?’
‘There was another, you know, and it was to save his life. The duties
clashed, and were destroying all comfort.’
‘How does he behave to her?’
‘I believe she has all the love he has to spare; he is proud of her, and
dresses her up, and has endless portraits of her. Luckily she keeps
her beauty. She is more refined, and has more expression; one could
sometimes cry to watch her, and he likes to have her with him, and to
discourse to her, but without the slightest perception or consideration
of what she would prefer, and with no notion of sacrificing anything
for her or the children. I know she is afraid of him; I have seen her
tremble if there were any chance of his being annoyed; and she would
not object to any plan of his if it were to cost her life. I believe
it would be misery to her, but I think she would resist--ay, she _did_
resist, and in vain, for the sake of her child.’
‘Does her affection hold out, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes, the spaniel and walnut-tree love, which is in us all, and
doubly in the very woman. It is very beautiful. She is so proud of him
and of her gilded slavery, and so unconsciously submissive and patient;
but it is a harder life, I guess, than we can see. I am sure it must be,
for every bit of personal vanity and levity is worn out of her; she only
goes out to satisfy him; dresses to please his eye, and talks, with her
eye seeking round for him, in dread of being rebuked for mistakes or
bad French. And for the rest, her joy is to be left in peace with little
Algernon upon her lap. Yes, I hope living in all womanly virtues may be
training and compensation, but the saddest part of the affair is that
he does not think it fashionable to be religious, and she has not moral
courage to make open resistance.’
‘May it come,’ fervently.
‘It is strange, how much more real and good a creature she is now, than
when at home in the midst of all external observances. Yet it cannot be
right! she surely ought to make more stand, but it is too, too literally
being afraid to say her soul is her own, for she is unhappy. She does
the utmost she can without offending him, and feels it as she never did
before.’
‘There is no judging,’ said Maurice, as his sister looked at him
with eyes full of sorrowful yearning. ‘No one can tell where are the
boundaries of the two duties. Poor girl! she has put herself into a
state of temptation and trial; but she may be shielded by her exercise
of so much that is simply good, and her womanly qualities may become not
idolatry, but a training in reaching higher.’
‘May it be so, indeed!’ said Albinia. ‘Oh, Maurice! how I once disdained
being told I was too young, and how true it was! What visions I had
about those three, and what failures have resulted!’
‘Your visions may have vanished, but you did your work faithfully, and
it has not been fruitless.’
‘Ay, in shipwrecked lives. Mischiefs wherever I meant to do best! Why,
I let even my own Maurice grow unmanageable while I was nursing poor
grandmamma. The voluntary duty choked the natural one, and yet--’
‘And yet,’ interrupted her brother, ‘that was no error.’
‘Oh, no! I would not have done it for anything.’
‘Nor do I think the boy the worse for it. I may venture now on saying he
was intolerable, and it hastened school, but though your rein was loose,
you never let it fall; and maybe, the self-conquest was the best thing
for him. If you had neglected him wilfully for your own pleasure,
nothing but harm could have been expected. As you were absorbed by a
sacred act of duty, I believe it will all be made up to you in your
son.’
‘Oh, Maurice, if I might trust so! I believe I am doubly set on that boy
doing well, because his father must not, _must_ not have another pang!’
‘I think he knows that. I do not imagine that he will never be carried
astray by high spirits; but I am sure that he has the strength, honour,
and sweetness that are the elements of greatness!’
‘Nothing we did so changed him as the loss of his brother. Oh, Maurice!
there was my most earnest wish to do right, and my most fatal mistake!’
‘And greatest success. Gilbert owed everything to you.’
‘Had I but silenced my foolish pride, he might have been safe in India
now.’
‘We do not know how safe he might be. I did indeed think it a pity your
influence led the other way, but things might have been far worse; if
you made some blunders, your love and your earnestness were working on
that susceptible nature, and what better hope can we wish to have than
what rested with us at Malta? what better influence than has remained
with Maurice or with Fred?’
Albinia had not yet learnt to talk calmly of Gilbert’s last hours, so
she put this aside, and smiling through her tears, said, ‘Ah! when Emily
writes to Sophy, that their boy is to have his name, since they can wish
nothing better for him than to be like him.’
‘The past vision always a little above what is visible?’
‘Hardly, Emily and Fred are as proud of each other as two peacocks, and
well they may be, for--stoop down, ‘tis an intense secret; but do you
know the effect of their Sebastopol den?’
‘Eh?’
‘Lieutenant-General Sir William Ferrars is going out in quest of Emily’s
younger sister.’
‘You ridiculous child! That’s a trick of yours.’
‘No, indeed. William was surprised into a moment of confidence, walking
home in the moonlight from the Coliseum. En vrai militaire, he has begun
at the right end, and written to Mr. Kinnaird to ask leave to come and
try his luck; and cool as he looks, I believe he would rather prepare
for Inkermann.’
‘Well! if he be not making a fool of himself at his time of life, I am
sure I am very glad!’
‘Time of life! He’s but three years older than Edmund. If you are not
more respectful, we shall have to go out to Canada to countenance him.’
‘I shall be rejoiced to see him with a home, and finding life beyond his
profession; but I had rather he had known more of her.’
‘That’s what he never would do. He cannot talk to a young lady. Why he
admires Lucy a great deal more than Sophy!’
‘Well, judging by the recent brides, I think if it had been me, I should
have gone in search of Mrs. Ulick O’More’s younger sister.’
‘Ah! I wanted particularly to hear of your visit at the bank. You had
luncheon there, I think. How do they get on?’
‘It is the most charming menage in the world. She looks very graceful
and elegant, and keeps him in great order, and is just the wife he
wanted--a little sauciness and piquancy to spur him up at one time, and
restrain him at another, with the real ballast that both have, makes
such a perfect compound, that it is only too delightful to see anything
so happy and so good in this world. They both seem to have such vivid
enjoyment of life.’
‘Pray, has any one called on Genevieve? though she could dispense with
it.’
‘Oh, yes; Bryan O’More spent a fortnight there. And see what a moustache
will do! The Osbornes, Drurys, Wolfes, and Co., all dubbed themselves
dear Mrs. O’More’s dearest friends. I found a circle of them round her,
and when I observed that Bryan was not half such a handsome fellow as
his brother, you should see how I was scorned.’
‘I hope Bryan may not play his father’s game again. Do you know how she
was received in Ireland?’
‘The whole clan adore her! Ulick, with, his Anglo-Saxon truthfulness,
got into serious scrapes for endeavouring to disabuse them of the notion
that she was sole heiress of the ancient marquisate of Durant. I believe
Connel was ready to call Ulick out for disrespect to his own wife.’
‘And was she happy there!’
‘Very much amused, and treated like a queen; charmed with his mother,
and great friends with Rose. They have brought Redmond home to lick him
into shape, and I believe Rose is to come and be tamed.’
‘Always Ulick’s wish,’ said Albinia, as her eye fixed upon Sophy.
And her brother, with perhaps too obvious a connexion of ideas, said,
‘Is _she_ quite strong?’
‘Very well,’ said Albinia. ‘I am glad we brought her. The sight of
beauty has been like a new existence. I saw it on her brow, in calmness
and rest, the first evening of the Bay of Naples. It has seemed to
soothe and elevate her, though all in her own silent way; but watch her
as she sits with her face to those mountains, hear her voice, and
you will feel that the presence of grandeur and beauty is repose and
happiness to her; and I think the remembrance will always be so, even in
work-a-day Bayford.’
‘Yes, because remembrance of such glory connects with hope of future
glory.’
‘And it is a rest from human frets and passions. She has taken to
botany, too, and I am glad, for I think those studies that draw one off
from men’s works and thoughts, do most good to the weary, self-occupied
brain. And the children are a delight to her!’
‘Sophy is your greatest work.’
‘Not mine!’ cried Albinia. ‘The noblest by nature, the dearest, the most
generous.’
‘Great qualities; but they would have been only wretched self-preying
torments, but for the softening of your affection,’ said Maurice.
‘Dear, dear friend and sister and child in one,’ cried Albinia. And then
meeting her brother’s eyes, she said, ‘Yes, you know to the full how
noble she is, and how--’
‘I can guess how imprudent a young step-mother can be,’ said Maurice,
smiling.
‘It is very strange. I don’t, know how to be thankful enough for it; but
really her spirits have been more equal, her temper more even than
ever it had been, and that just when I thought my folly had been most
ruinous.’
‘Yes, Albinia. After all, it is more than man can hope or expect to make
no blunders; but I do verily believe that while an earnest will saves
us, by God’s grace, from wilful sins, the effects of the inadvertences
that teach us our secret faults will not be fatal, and while we are
indeed honestly and faithfully doing our best, though we are truly
unprofitable servants, that our lapses through infirmity will be
compensated, both in the training of our own character and the results
upon others.’
‘If we are indeed faithfully doing our best,’ repeated Albinia.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Young Step-Mother, by Charlotte M. Yonge