Men are really needed but in one place, and that is, public life; but
we are wanted everywhere. In public and in private, upstairs and
downstairs, in the nursery and the drawing-room,--nothing can go on
properly without us; and if it does, if our husbands and our servants
and our children don’t need us, we cannot be doing our duty.
Above all, we have the training of the mistresses of future
households, and the mothers of a coming generation--the bringing up,
in fact, of the “girls of the next period.”
If we cannot amend the faults we see in ourselves (an assertion which
should be paradoxical to anyone gifted with the least energy), if we
think it is too late to sit down in our middle age, and learn to rub
the rust off our brains, and to work our heads with our fingers, we
can rear them in a different fashion.
If we are wasteful and extravagant and useless--deserving of all the
hard things which have been said of us lately, let us at least take
heed that our daughters are not the same.
“MOTHER.”
It was close upon Easter. The long, dark days of Lent, with their
melancholy ceremonials, were nearly over, and, as if in recognition of
the event, the sun was shining brightly in the heavens. The hawthorn
bushes had broken into bloom, and the wild birds were bursting their
little throats in gratitude. The boys were almost as wild and joyous
as the birds, as they rushed about the playground, knocking each other
over in the exuberance of their glee, and forgetting to be angry in
the remembrance that the next day would be Holy Thursday, when they
should all go home to their fathers and mothers to spend the Easter
holidays. I alone of the merry throng sat apart under the quick-set
hedge, joining in neither game nor gaiety, as I wondered, with the
dull, unreasoning perception of childhood, why I had been the one
selected, out of all that crowd of boys, to have no part in their
anticipation or their joy. Even poor, lame Jemmy, who had no
remembrance of his father or his mother, and who had been, in a way,
adopted by our schoolmaster, and lived all the year round, from
January to December, in the same dull house and rooms, looked more
cheerful than I did. He was incapacitated by his infirmity from taking
part in any one of the noisy games that were going on around us, yet
he smiled pleasantly as he came limping up towards me on his crutches,
and told me that Mrs. Murray (who bestowed on him all the mother’s
care he would ever know) had promised, if he were good, to give him a
donkey ride during Easter week, and some seeds to plant in his strip
of garden.
“What’s the matter with you, Charlie?” he asked presently; “aren’t you
glad to be going home?”
“Oh! I don’t care,” I answered, listlessly.
“Don’t _care_ about seeing your father and mother again?”
“I haven’t got a mother,” I rejoined, quickly.
“Is your mother dead, like mine? Oh, I _am_ sorry! But your father
loves you for them both, perhaps.”
“No, he doesn’t! He doesn’t care a bit about me. He never asks to see
me when I do go home; and he frightens me. I wish I might stay all the
holidays with Mrs. Murray, like you do.”
“That _is_ bad,” quoth the lame child. “Well, maybe they’ll forget to
send for you, Charlie, and then we’ll have fine times together, you
and I.”
I had not the same hope, however. I knew that if by any oversight my
father forgot to send the servant for me, that my schoolmaster would
take the initiative and despatch me home himself.
How I dreaded it. The gloomy, half-closed house, the garden paths,
green with damp and thick with weeds, the servants acting entirely
upon their own authority, and the master querulous, impatient, and
unjust, either shut up in his own room brooding over the past and
present, or freely distributing oaths, complaints, and sometimes even
blows, amongst the unfortunate inmates of his household. As for
myself, I seldom came within the range of his arm without being
terrified away, and it had been a great relief to me when I returned
home for the previous Christmas holidays to find that he was absent,
and the term of my penance passed peacefully, if nothing else. But now
he was at home again, so my master informed me, my father had never
dreamt of writing to me, and I looked forward to the coming visit with
dread. A strange, unnatural state of things for a child of eight years
old, who had never known a mother’s love nor care, had never even
heard her name mentioned by any one with whom he was connected.
“What was your mother like?” continued Jemmy, after a few minutes’
pause, during which we two unfortunates had been ruminating upon our
lot. “Had she light-coloured hair, like Mrs. Murray, or dark, like the
cook?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, sadly. “I never saw her, that I remember.”
“Haven’t you got a likeness of her at home?” he demanded with
surprise. “Wait till I show you mine.”
He fumbled about in his waistcoat, and produced a much faded
daguerreotype of an ordinary-looking young woman in old-fashioned
habiliments.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” he exclaimed, with weak enthusiasm as he
pressed the miniature to his lips.
“Oh, how I wish she hadn’t died! I know I should have loved her so
much!”
I made no reply. Poor Jemmy’s imagination did not run so fast as mine.
If my mother had lived to side with my father, where should I have
been between them? I turned my face away, and sighed.
It was strange that I had no idea of what my mother had been like. I
have never even formed one, neither had I any relation to whose memory
I might have appealed on the subject. My father lived a solitary,
aimless life in the old neglected house I have alluded to, seldom
leaving his own apartments, except at meal times, and certainly never
asking any friend to enter them to bear him company. The servants had
their parents, or lovers, or brothers, to visit them by stealth in the
kitchen, but the master sat by himself, gloomy and preoccupied, and
irritable almost to frenzy when provoked. No wonder I wished that I
could have spent the Easter holidays with Mrs. Murray. But a great
surprise was in store for me. The boys had hardly concluded the game
of football they had been carrying on during my colloquy with Jemmy,
when Mrs. Murray came smiling down the playground in search of me.
“I’ve a piece of news for you, Master Vere,” she exclaimed. “Some one
is waiting to see you in the parlour.”
“Not papa!” I said, quickly.
“No; not your papa,” replied Mrs. Murray, laying her hand
compassionately on my shoulder, “but a new friend--a lady whom you
will like very much indeed.”
“A _lady!_” I repeated, in utter bewilderment, whilst my schoolmates
crowded round Mrs. Murray, with the question, “Is she come to take
Vere home?”
“Perhaps! most probably,” was her answer, whilst exclamations of, “Oh,
I say, that’s a jolly shame. It isn’t fair. School doesn’t break up
till to-morrow. _We_ sha’n’t get off to-day, try as hard as we may,”
greeted her supposition from every side, and I, trembling like a
culprit, affirmed that I would much rather not be introduced to the
pleasures of home one hour earlier than was needful.
“Come into the parlour, dear, and see the lady,” Mrs. Murray replied,
“and we will decide what to do afterwards.”
So my face and hair were hurriedly washed and arranged, and I
sheepishly followed my master’s wife to the formal little apartment
dedicated to the reception of visitors, where we found the lady she
had alluded to.
Shall I ever forget her face as she rose to greet me, and drew me into
her arms! Such a fair, sweet, fresh face as it was, but with an amount
of sorrowful thought pictured in the serious eyes.
“And so this is Charlie Vere,” she said, as she gazed into my
features. “I should have known you anywhere, my darling, from your
likeness to your father! And now do you guess who I am?”
“No!” I answered, shyly; for Mrs. Murray had slipped away and left me
all alone with the stranger.
“I am your mother, dear; your new mother who means to love you very
dearly, and I have come to take you home!”
Mother and Home! How sweet the dear familiar words sounded in my ears;
familiar, alas! to everyone but me. The hawthorn blossoms in the
playground seemed to smell sweeter than they had done before, as she
pronounced them, and the birds’ chorus rang out harmoniously.
“Will papa be there?” I asked, nervously.
“Papa! of course! What would home be without your father?”
I had found it much pleasanter without him than with him hitherto, but
some instinct made me hold my tongue.
“Don’t you love papa, dear?” the lady went on softly. “Don’t you think
that he loves you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, picking my fingers.
“Poor child! Perhaps you have thought not, but that will all be
altered now. But you have not yet told me if you will like to have me
for a mother!”
“I think I shall like you very much!”
“That’s right, so we will go home together and try to make each other
happy. You want a mother to look after you, dear child, and I want a
little boy to love. We will not part again, Charlie, now I have found
you, not for the present, at all events. You have been too long away
from home as it is. That is why I came to-day. I could not wait till
to-morrow, even: I was so impatient to see you and to take you home.”
How she dwelt and lingered on the word and repeated it, as though it
gave her as much happiness to listen to as it did me.
“Will _you_ be there?” I asked, presently.
“Of course, I shall--always! What would be the use of a mother,
Charlie, if she didn’t live in the house close to you, always ready to
heal your troubles and supply your wants to the utmost of her power?”
“Oh! let us go at once!” I exclaimed, slipping my hand into hers. All
dread of my father seemed to have deserted me. The new mother was a
guardian angel, under whose protection I felt no fear. She was
delighted with my readiness.
“So we will, Charlie! We need not even wait for your box to be packed.
Mrs. Murray can send on everything to-morrow. And papa will be anxious
until he sees us home again!”
My father anxious about me! That was a new thing to be wondered at. I
was too much of a baby still to perceive that his anxiety would be for
_her_--not for me! I had not yet been able to grasp the idea that she
was his wife. I only regarded her as my new mother.
As we passed out of the house, I asked leave to say good-bye to my
friend Jemmy.
“His mother is dead, like mine,” I said, in explanation. “He will be
so pleased to hear that I have got a new one.”
“Poor boy!” she sighed; “we will ask him to spend the summer holidays
with you, Charlie. A great happiness like ours should make us anxious
to make others happier.”
And when Jemmy came forward on his crutches, and smiled his
congratulations on the wonderful piece of news I had to give him, she
stooped down and kissed his forehead. Then we passed out of the
playground together, I clinging to her hand, and proud already to hear
the flattering comments passed upon her appearance by the other boys,
and to remember that from that time forward she was to be called _my
mother_.
* * * * * * * * *
Lilyfields, as my father’s house was designated, was not more than ten
or twelve miles from the school; but we had to make a little railway
journey to reach it, and I thought I had never travelled so pleasantly
before. My new mother laughed so often and chatted so continuously to
me, that I caught the infection of her mirthful loquacity, and, long
before we got home, had revealed so much of my past life and feelings,
that more than once I brought a shadow over her sunny face, and closed
her smiling lips with a sigh. But as we left the train and commenced
to walk towards Lilyfields, my old fears showed symptoms of returning,
and my sudden silence, with the tightening clasp of my hand, did not
pass unobserved by my companion.
“What is the matter, Charlie? Of what are you afraid?”
“Won’t papa be angry with me for coming back before the holidays
begin?” I whispered.
Her clear laugh rang over the peaceful meadows we were traversing.
“If he is angry with any one, he must be so with me, as I fetched you
home, Charlie.”
“And you are not afraid of him?”
“_Afraid!_” The sweet serious eyes she turned upon me as she
ejaculated the word were just about to deprecate so monstrous an idea,
when they caught sight of an approaching figure, and danced with a
thousand little joys instead.
“There he is!” she exclaimed excitedly. She ran up to him, dragging me
with her.
He took her in his arms (there was not another living soul within
sight of us) and embraced her fervently, whilst I stood by,
open-mouthed with astonishment.
“My angel,” he murmured, as she lay there, with her face pressed close
to his; “life has been insupportable without you.”
“Ah, Harold! it does me good to hear you say so; and I am so glad to
get back to you again. See! here is Charlie waiting for his father to
welcome him home.”
She lifted me up in her arms--big boy as I was--and held me towards
him for a kiss. How strange it was to feel my father kiss me; but he
did so, though I think his eyes never left her face the while. Then he
took her hand, and held it close against his heart, and they walked
through the silent, balmy-breathed fields together. As I entered the
house I could hardly help exclaiming aloud at the marvellous changes
that had taken place there. Not an article of furniture had been
changed, not a picture moved from its place, yet everything looked
bright as the glorious spring. The rooms had been thoroughly cleaned,
and lace curtains, snowy table-cloths, and vases of flowers, with here
and there a bright bit of colour in the shape of a rug, or a piece of
china, had transformed the house--not into a paradise--but into _a
home_. Even my father was changed like his surroundings. He looked ten
years younger, as with nicely kept hair, and a becoming velveteen
lounging coat, he sunk down into an easy-chair, and deprecated, whilst
he viewed with delight, the alacrity with which my new mother insisted
upon removing his boots and fetching his slippers. It was such a
novelty to both of us to be attended to in any way, that I was as much
surprised as he to find that the next thing she did was to take me
upstairs, and tidy me for tea herself, showering kisses and love words
upon me all the while. Oh! the happy meal that followed. How unlike
any we had taken in that house before! I, sitting up at table, with my
plate well provided; my father in his arm-chair, looking up with
loving eyes at each fresh proof of her solicitude for him, and my new
mother seated at the tea-tray, full of smiles and innocent jests,
watching us both with the utmost affection; but apparently too excited
to eat much herself. Once my father noticed her want of appetite and
reproached her with it.
“I am too happy to eat, Harold!” was her reply.
“Too happy,” he repeated in a low voice, “_really_ too happy! No
regrets, my Mary, no fears! Your future does not terrify you. You
would not undo the past if it were in your power!”
“Not one moment of it, Harold! If I ever think of it, with even a
semblance of regret, it is that it did not begin ten years sooner.”
“God bless you!” was all he answered.
If I had not been such a child I should have echoed the words; for
before many days were over my head, the whole of my joyous young life
was an unuttered blessing upon her. The darkness of fear and
despondency--the most unnatural feelings a young child can
entertain--had all passed away. I no longer dreaded my father’s
presence; on the contrary, it was my greatest treat to bear him
company as he worked in the garden, or whistled over his carpentering,
or accompanied my mother in strolls about the country.
He never shut himself up in his room now, unless she was shut in too;
and although his new-born love was for _her_, and not for me, the
glory of it was reflected in his treatment of me.
So I was very happy, and so was he, and so most people would have
thought my mother to be. But though she never appeared before my
father without a bright face, she was not always so careful in my
presence, thinking me, perhaps, too young to observe the changes in
her countenance; and sometimes when she and I were alone together, I
marked the same look steal over her which I had observed on the
occasion of our first meeting--an undercurrent of thoughtful
sadness--the look of one who had suffered, who still suffered, from a
pain which she kept to herself.
Once I surprised her in tears--a violent storm of tears, which she was
powerless for some time to control; and I eagerly inquired the reason
of them.
“Mamma, mamma, what is it, mamma? Have you hurt your foot? Did Prince
bite you? Have you got a pain anywhere?”
My childish mind could not comprehend that her tears should flow for
any other than a physical reason. Did not papa and I love her dearly?
and she was afraid of no one, and she never went to school. What
possible cause could she have for tears?
My mother composed herself as soon as she was able, and laid her
burning face against my cheek.
“Will my little boy love me always?” she
asked--“always--always--whatever happens?”
“Always, dear mamma. Papa and I would die if we hadn’t you. Oh, you
don’t know what it was like before you came here!”
“Then mamma will never again be so silly as to cry,” said my mother,
as she busied herself over some occupation to divert her thoughts.
But although this was the only time she betrayed herself so openly
before me, I often detected the trace of weeping on her face, which
she would try to disguise by excessive mirth.
So the years went on, until one bright summer’s day a little sister
was born in our house. I hailed the advent of this infant with the
greatest possible delight. It was such a new wonderful experience to
have a playmate so dependant on me, and yet so entirely my own. I
positively worshipped my little sister, although her birth was the
signal for my being sent back to school, but this time only as a
weekly boarder.
Hitherto my mother had taught me herself, and very sorry I was to give
up those delightful lessons, which were rendered so easy by the
trouble she took to explain them to me; but her time was too much
taken up with her baby to allow her to devote sufficient to me.
Besides, I was now eleven years old, growing a great lad, and able to
take every advantage of the education afforded me at Mr. Murray’s
school.
My old friend, Lame Jemmy, who had spent many a pleasant week at
Lilyfields meanwhile, was still there to welcome me back and make me
feel less of a stranger; and my father took away the last sting of the
new arrangement by buying me a sturdy pony on which to ride backwards
and forwards every week to see my mother and him.
But the greatest pang which I experienced was parting, even for a few
days, with baby Violet. I cried over her so much, indeed, that I made
my mother cry too, as she asked God to bless the boy who had been a
true son to her. I was very glad to think she loved me so much, for I
loved her dearly in return; but as I galloped back to Lilyfields every
Saturday afternoon, my thoughts were all for the dimpled baby sister
whom I would carry about in my arms, or roll with amongst the
newly-mown grass, rather than with those who had proved themselves to
be real parents to me,--she from the commencement of her knowledge of
me, and he from the date of his knowing her. It was my mother alone I
had to bless for it all. But I had grown accustomed to happiness by
this time, and took it as my due.
My parents were very proud of their little daughter, who grew into a
lovely child, but she did not seem to afford them as much pleasure as
pride. Sometimes I detected my mother looking at her as we romped
together, with more pain in the expression of her face than anything
else. Once she caught her suddenly to her bosom, and kissed her golden
curls with passion, exclaiming,--
“Oh, my heart, if I were to go, what would become of you?--what
_would_ become of you?”
I was still too young to grasp the full meaning of her words, but I
knew my mother meant that if she died, no one would take such good
care of Violet as she had done. So I marched up to her confidently,
with the assurance that _I_ would take that responsibility upon my own
shoulders.
“Don’t be afraid, mamma! As soon as I am a man, I mean to get a house
all to myself, and the best rooms in it shall be for Violet.”
She looked at me with her sweet, earnest, searching gaze for a moment,
and then folded me in one embrace with her own child.
“Father’s boy!” she murmured, caressingly over me--“father’s brave,
loving boy! No, Charlie, I will not be afraid! If it be God’s will
that I should go, I will trust Violet to father and to you.”
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile my father was a very contented man. He had undergone much
the same change as myself, and forgotten, in the sunshine that now
surrounded him, all the miserable years he had spent in that once
desolate mansion.
I do not suppose a happier nor more peaceful family existed than we
were. No jars nor bickering ever disturbed the quiet of the household;
everything seemed to go as smoothly as though it had been oiled. We
were like the crew of some ship, safely moored within a sunny harbour,
never giving a thought to what tempests might be raging outside the
bar.
Every Saturday when I rode home on my pony, I found my father either
working out of doors if it were summer, or indoors if it were winter,
but always with the same satisfied easy smile upon his countenance, as
though he had no trouble in the world, as indeed he had not; for my
mother warded off the most trifling annoyance from him as though he
were a sick child, that must not be upset; whilst she threaded her
quiet way through the kitchen and bedrooms, with little Violet
clinging to her gown, regulating the household machinery by her own
supervision, that no accident might occur to ruffle her husband’s
temper.
I believed her in those days--I believe her still to be the noblest
woman ever planned. One thing alone puzzled me--or rather, I should
say, seemed strange to me, for I did not allow it to go the length of
puzzlement--and that was why we had so few visitors at Lilyfields.
True, my father had made himself so unsociable in the old days that
strangers might well have been shy of intruding themselves upon him
now; but my mother was so sweet and gentle, I felt it must be their
loss rather than hers, that so few people knew her. When, as a lad of
fifteen, I mentioned this circumstance to her, she put it aside as a
matter of course.
“When I made up my mind, Charlie, to try as far as in me lay, to
render the remainder of your father’s life happy, I was perfectly
aware that I should have to depend for companionship upon him alone.
We have each other, and we have you and Violet. We want no other
society but yours.”
Still, I thought the clergyman and his wife might sometimes have come
to see us, as they did the rest of their parishioners, and I should
have liked an occasional game of play with the sons of Squire Roberts
up at the Hall. But, with the exception of the doctor, who sometimes
came in for a chat with my father, no one but ourselves ever took a
meal at Lilyfields.
As I grew still older, and others remarked on the circumstance in my
hearing, I came to the conclusion that my father must have offended
his own friends by marrying my mother, whose connections might be
inferior to his own. This idea was confirmed in my mind by observing
that she occasionally received letters she was anxious to conceal,
which, knowing the frankness of her disposition, and her great love
for him, appeared very strange to me. One day, indeed, my suspicions
became certainties. It so happened that my mother had appeared very
fidgety and unlike herself at the breakfast-table, and more than once
had spoken to Violet and me in a voice hardly to be recognised as her
own. We felt instinctively that something was the matter, and were
silent, but my father, who was not well, seemed irritated by the
unusual annoyance. He wished to remain quietly at home that morning,
but my mother found a dozen reasons why he should ride to the
neighbouring town and take me with him. He combatted her wish for some
time, till, finding that her arguments were revolving themselves into
entreaty, his affection conquered his irresolution, and we set off
together. It was not a genial day for a ride, and the trifling
commissions my mother had given us to execute were not of sufficient
consequence to turn the duty into a pleasure. I was rather pleased
than otherwise, therefore, when we had left Lilyfields some miles
behind us, to find that my pony had cast a shoe, and to be able,
according to my father’s direction, to turn back and walk it gently
home again, whilst he went forward to do my mother’s bidding.
When I reached Lilyfields I left the animal in the stables, and,
walking up to the house, gained the hall before anyone was sensible of
my approach. What was my surprise to hear a loud altercation going on
within the parlour. My first impulse was to open the door; but as my
mother turned and saw me standing on the threshold, she came forward
and pushed me back into the hall.
“Go away!” she whispered hurriedly; “go upstairs; hide yourself
somewhere, and do not come down until I call you!”
Her eyes were bright as though with fever, and a scarlet spot burned
on either cheek. I saw she was labouring under the influence of some
strong excitement, and I became intensely curious to learn the reason.
“Whom have you in there?” I demanded, for I had caught sight of
another figure in the drawing-room.
“Oh! you wish to know who I am, young man, do you?” exclaimed a
coarse, uncertain voice from the other side the half-opened door.
“Well, I’m not ashamed of myself, as _some_ people ought to be, and
you’re quite welcome to a sight of me if it’ll give you any pleasure.”
The door was simultaneously pulled open, and a woman stood before me.
How shall I describe her.
She may have been beautiful, perhaps, in the days long past, but all
trace of beauty was lost in the red, blotchy, inflamed countenance she
presented to my gaze. Her eyes were bloodshot; her hair dishevelled;
her dress tawdry and untidy, and if she had even been a gentlewoman,
which I doubted, she had parted with every sign of her breeding. As
she pushed her way up behind my mother--looking so sad and sweet and
ladylike beside her--she inspired me with nothing but abhorrence.
“Who is this person?” I repeated, with an intimation of disgust that
apparently offended the stranger, for in a shrill voice she commenced
some explanation which my mother was evidently most anxious I should
not hear.
“Oh, Charlie! do you love me?” she whispered.
“Mother! yes!”
“Then go up to your room, now, _at once_, and wait there till I come
to you! I will speak to you afterwards--I will tell you _all_--only go
now!”
She spoke so earnestly that I could not refuse her request, but did as
she desired me at once, the woman I had seen, screaming some
unintelligible sentence after me as I ascended the stairs. But when I
found myself alone, the scene I had witnessed recurred rather
unpleasantly to my memory. It was an extraordinary circumstance to see
a stranger at all within our walls; still more so a woman, and one who
dared to address my mother in loud and reproachful tones. And I was
now sixteen, able and willing to defend her against insult, why,
therefore, had she not claimed my services to turn this woman from the
house, instead of sending me upstairs, as she might have done little
Violet, until she had settled the matter for herself? But then I
remembered the trouble my mother had taken to get my father and me
away from Lilyfields that morning, and could not believe but that she
had foreseen this visitation and prepared against it. It was then as I
had often supposed. She had relations of whom she was ashamed, with
whom she did not wish my father to come in contact. Poor mother! If
this was one of them, I pitied her! I believed the story I had created
myself so much, that I accepted it without further proof, and when my
mother entered the room, and laying her head against my shoulder,
sobbed as if her heart would break, I soothed her as well as I was
able, without another inquiry as to the identity of the person with
whom I had found her.
“Don’t tell your father, Charlie!” she said, in parting. “Don’t
mention a word to anyone of what you have seen to-day. Promise me,
darling! I shall not be happy till I have your word for it!”
And I gave her my word, and thought none the less of her for the
secrecy, although I regretted it need be.
Not long after this my father articled me, at my own request, to an
architect in London, and my visits to the happy home at Lilyfields
became few and far between. But I had the consolation of knowing that
all went well there, and that I was taking my place in the world as a
man should do.
I had worked steadily at my profession for two years, and was just
considering whether I had not earned the right to take a real good
long holiday at Lilyfields (where Violet, now a fine girl of seven
years old, was still my favourite plaything), when I received a letter
from the doctor of the village--desiring me to come home at once as my
father was ill, beyond hope of recovery. I knew what that meant--that
he was already gone; and when I arrived at Lilyfields I found it to be
true; he had died of an attack of the heart after a couple of hours’
illness. The shock to me was very great. I had never loved my father
as I did my mother; the old childish recollections had been too strong
for that, but the last few years he had permitted me to be very happy,
and I knew that to _her_ his loss must be irreparable. Not that she
exhibited any violent demonstration of grief. When I first saw her, I
was surprised at her calmness. She sat beside my father’s body, day
and night, without shedding a tear; and she spoke of his departure as
quietly as though he had only gone on a journey from which she fully
expected him to return. But though her eyes were dry, they never
closed in sleep, and every morsel of colour seemed to have been
blanched out of her face and hands. So the first day passed, and when
the second dawned, I, having attained the dignity of eighteen years,
thought it behoved me to speak of my late father’s affairs and my
mother’s future.
“Where is father’s will, mother?”
“He never made one, dear!”
“Never made a will! That was awfully careless.”
“Hush, Charlie!”
She would not brook the slightest censure cast on her dead love.
“But there _must_ be a will, mother.”
“Darling, there is none! It was the one thought that disturbed his
last moments. But I am content to let things be settled as they may.”
“Lilyfields will be yours of course, and everything in it,” I answered
decidedly. “No one has a better right to them than you have. And you
and Violet will live here to your lives’ end, won’t you?”
“Don’t ask me, dear Charlie, don’t think of it--not just yet at least!
Let us wait until--until--it is all over, and then decide what is best
to be done!”
Before it was all over; matters were decided for us.
It was the day before the funeral. I had just gone through the
mournful ceremony of seeing my father’s coffin soldered down, and, sad
and dispirited, had retired to my own room for a little rest, when I
heard the sound of carriage wheels up on the gravel drive. I peered
over the window blind curiously, for I had never heard of my father’s
relations, and had been unable in consequence to communicate with any
of them. A lumbering hired fly, laden with luggage, stopped before the
door, and from it descended, to my astonishment, the same woman with
the fiery red face whom I had discovered in my mother’s company two
years before. I decided at once that, whatever the claims of this
stranger might be, she could not be suffered to disturb the widow in
the first agony of her crushing grief, and, quick, as thought, I ran
down into the hall and confronted her before she had entered the
house.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” I commenced, “but Mrs. Vere is unable to
see anyone at present. There has been a great calamity in the family,
and--”
“I know all about your calamity,” she interrupted me rudely, “if it
were not for that I shouldn’t be here.”
“But you cannot see Mrs. Vere!” I repeated.
“And pray who _is_ Mrs. Vere?” said the woman.
“My mother,” I replied proudly, “and I will not allow her to be
annoyed or disturbed.”
“Oh! indeed, young man. It strikes me you take a great deal of
authority upon yourself; but as I mean to be mistress in my own house,
the sooner you stop that sort of thing the better! Here! some of you
women!” she continued, addressing the servants who had come up from
the kitchen to learn the cause of the unusual disturbance. “Just help
the flyman up with my boxes, will you--and look sharp about it.”