THE MARBLE PSYCHE.
Mark Brace was the tenant of the Duke of Downsbury, as his fathers
before him had for many generations been the tenants of the duke's
ancestors; yet no two lines of life seemed to run farther apart than
those of the duke and the farmer. The duke respected and appreciated his
tenant, and the tenant sturdily held loyal faith in his duke, as the
noblest duke in England.
Yet, when Downsbury Castle was shut up, and all the family were abroad,
seeking, year by year, health for the patrician daughter, that absence
of the noble patron made no change in the current of life at the farm.
Patty and Mark, when the duke came to their minds, hoped he would find
for his only child the health he sought.
"How we should feel if our Mattie was delicate!" said Patty.
"What a pity it is," said Mark, "that the duke has no son. He has hoped
and hoped, but now he knows he will be the last Duke of Downsbury."
"But Lady Estelle will get strong, perhaps, and marry, and he will have
great comfort in his grandchildren," said Patty.
Meanwhile, at Brackenside Farm, little Doris grew every day in beauty
and brightness. Never was such a winsome wee thing. Patty felt sure the
saucy blue eyes would count many victims when Doris bloomed into
girlhood's beauty. Patty was tender of her charge, as of some strange
tropic bird that had fluttered into her homely nest. Mattie, with her
frank simplicity, adored, waited on, yielded to, her "little sister."
Honest Mark fell a complete slave to the fascinations of her beauty: he
could not give a severe look, nor a reproving word: the twining of those
dimpled arms around his neck brought instant submission to any whim of
Miss Doris.
"Mark, Mark, you are like all the men--you think the world and all of a
pretty face," said Patty, laughing.
"She's just a wonder, and I _can't_ cross her," said Mark. "Not but I
like Mattie best. You can rely on Mattie, somehow: she's worth twenty of
this pretty Doris; but I _can_ say 'no' to her, and I can try to train
her up to be a good woman; but this little golden and pearly thing is
just like a butterfly or a humming-bird to me, that's a fact. And then,
Patty, we have had luck ever since she came; her hands brought us
blessings."
Was it any wonder that it came about that when one child was to yield to
the other, Mattie yielded to Doris? Mattie was older and stronger, and,
truth to say, yielded more readily. If Patty called on a child to help
her, to pick up toys, or a spool, or run to call Mark, was it not
natural that Mattie, true, industrious child of the house, was the one
called on, rather than the child who paid a hundred pounds a year? Was
it strange that, thinking of that lady-mother, who might any day come to
claim her own, Patty protected the snowy beauty of her nurse-child with
nankeen mitts, and sleeves, and wide-brimmed hat? Did it seem less than
honest, when one considered that yearly hundred pounds, and the gentle
birth, to give the child finer shoes and daintier garments than little
Mattie had?
Thus it came about that pride, and vanity, and indolence, and imperious
self-will, were nursed insensibly in this child, whose soul Patty
greatly desired to keep white and pure.
Mark Brace, too, felt the duties that the yearly payment pressed upon
him. When Doris was three years and a half old, he said to his wife:
"We must make her mannerly, lest her mother should not be satisfied.
When she gets big she must learn music and languages; now she must learn
to sew and to read. We will let our Mattie learn what she does. She is
our only child; we can afford it."
"And you mean me to teach them?" asked Patty.
"Oh, no, wife. You are too busy. We will send them every day to
Brakebury, to the Misses Hopwell."
The Misses Hopwell were very genteel ladies; a surgeon's daughters,
fallen into narrow circumstances, and keeping a little school, very
genteel indeed, where they taught the making of samplers, the tables,
reading, writing, the globes, etc., in prim, old-fashioned style.
To this "ladies' school" went Mattie and Doris every day, in a little
wicker cart, drawn by a donkey, beside which ran a bare-foot farm-boy as
their charioteer. And so time went on, and Doris had been four years at
the farm, and news now spread abroad that Lady Estelle Hereford was
better at last, and the duke was coming home.
Back to England finally, and the castle was filled with guests.
"I believe," said the duchess to the duke, "that the best thing for our
daughter would be a happy marriage. She is over twenty-two. If we could
rouse her up to take any interest in any one--all she lacks is
animation. She is a Psyche before the coming of Cupid. I heard a
gentleman in Italy calling her 'the marble Psyche,' speaking to a
friend."
"I cannot understand it," said the duke. "During her first year in
society she seemed animated and interested. I believe I even once spoke
sharply to her for dancing twice with Captain Rodney Alnwick."
"You were quite right," said the duchess. "I spoke to her myself about
him. He was entirely ineligible in every particular. But that all passed
by. I thought she liked him a little, and I was glad when he exchanged
his regiment and went off to India. A ne'er-do-well family, if an old
one."
"We must bring together the best _partis_," said the duke, "and she may
fancy some one. I long to see her settled, and to have grandchildren
about me."
The guests came; and among them, calm, gracious, lovely, went Lady
Estelle, untouched by adoration, a goddess moving in a nimbus of her own
impregnable repose.
There was a dinner-party given for the Bishop of Lansdown, and, as
usual, the bishop was full of stories, and told them well.
"I remember," said Lady Estelle, "before we went abroad, you told me
some story that interested me--something about a child----"
"No doubt--about the child left at Mark Brace's door."
"Perhaps that might be it. I suppose it has been claimed."
"Not at all. Mark has it yet, and shows himself a most honest man in his
care of it."
"Ah! In what way?"
"He not only adores the child, but he rears it delicately, and he means
to educate her."
"Yes? And can one be educated at Brakebury?" said the soft, caressing,
languid, scarcely interested voice.
"The child is very young yet. She goes in a little donkey-carriage to a
really nice little school, kept by two ladies in reduced circumstances.
When she gets too old for that school, Mark means to find a better one
for her."
"Quite thoughtful of him; and the child is pretty?"
"More pretty than I can tell you. I am sure she is nobly born. I saw her
after service the day I held confirmation."
"And her parents have never been found?" asked the duchess.
"No; and surely never will be. Great care has been taken to secure
secrecy, and Mark feels bound to maintain it."
"I do not know but it may be quite as well," said her grace; and then
dinner was announced.