Mrs. Sewell's maid made two ineffectual efforts to awaken her mistress
on the following morning, for agitation had drugged her like a narcotic,
and she slept the dull, heavy sleep of one overpowered by opium. “Why,
Jane, it is nigh twelve o'clock,” said she, looking at her watch. “Why
did you let me sleep so late?”
“Indeed, ma'am, I did my best to rouse you. I opened the shutters, and I
splashed the water into your bath, and made noise enough, I 'm sure, but
you did n't mind it all; and I brought up the doctor to see if there was
anything the matter with you, and he felt your pulse, and put his hand
on your heart, and said, No, it was just overfatigue; that you had been
sitting up too much of late, and hadn't strength for it.”
“Where 's Colonel Sewell?” asked she, hurriedly.
“He's gone off to the country, ma'am; leastways, he went away early this
morning, and George thinks it was to Killaloe.”
“Is Dr. Beattie here?”
“Yes, ma'am; they all breakfasted with the children at nine o'clock.”
“Whom do you mean by all?”
“Mr. Lendrick, ma'am, and Miss Lucy. I hear as how they are coming back
to live here. They were up all the morning in his Lordship's room, and
there was much laughing, as if it was a wedding.”
“Whose wedding? What were you saying about a wedding?”
“Nothing, ma'am; only that they were as merry,--that's all.”
“Sir William must be better, then?”
“Yes, ma'am,--quite out of danger; and he 's to have a partridge for
dinner, and the doctor says he 'll be downstairs and all right before
this day week; and I 'm sure it will be a real pleasure to see him
lookin' like himself again, for he told Mr. Cheetor to take them wigs
away, and all the pomatum-pots, and that he 'd have the shower-bath that
he always took long ago. It's a fine day for Mr. Cheetor, for he has
given him I don't know how many colored scarfs, and at least a dozen
new waistcoats, all good as the day they were made; and he says he won't
wear anything but black, like long ago; and, indeed, some say that old
Rives, the butler as was, will be taken back, and the house be the way
it used to be formerly. I wonder, ma'am, if the Colonel will let it
be,--they say below stairs that he won't.”
“I'm sure Colonel Sewell cares very little on the subject. Do you know
if they are going to dine here to-day?”
“Yes, ma'am, they are. Miss Lucy said the butler was to take your orders
as to what hour you 'd like dinner.”
“Considerate, certainly,” said she, with a faint smile.
“And I heard Mr. Lendrick say, 'I think you 'd better go up yourself,
Lucy, and see Mrs. Sewell, and ask if we inconvenience her in any way;'
but the doctor said, 'You need not; she will be charmed to meet you.'”
“He knows me perfectly, Jane,” said she, calmly. “Is Miss Lucy so very
handsome? Colonel Sewell called her beautiful.”
“Indeed, I don't think so, ma'am. Mr. Cheetor and me thought she was too
robusteous for a young lady; and she's freckled, too, quite dreadful.
The picture of her below in the study's a deal more pretty; but perhaps
she was delicate in health when it was done.”
“That would make a great difference, Jane.”
“Yes, ma'am, it always do; every one is much genteeler-looking when they
're poorly. Not but old Mr. Haire said she was far more beautiful than
ever.”
“And is he here too?”
“Yes, ma'am. It was he that pushed Miss Lucy down into the arm-chair,
and said, 'Take your old place there, darling, and pour out the tea, and
we'll forget that you were ever away at all.'”
“How pretty and how playful! The poor children must have felt themselves
quite old in such juvenile company.”
“They was very happy, ma'am. Miss Cary sat in Miss Lucy's lap all the
time, and seemed to like her greatly.”
“There's nothing worse for children than taking them out of their daily
habits. I 'm astonished Mrs. Groves should let them go and breakfast
below-stairs without orders from me.”
“It's what Miss Lucy said, ma'am. 'Are we quite sure Mrs. Sewell would
like it?'”
“She need never have asked the question; or if she did, she might have
waited for the answer. Mrs. Sewell could have told her that she totally
disapproved of any one interfering with the habits of her children.”
“And then old Mr. Haire said, 'Even if she should not like it, when she
knows all the pleasure it has given us, she will forgive it.'”
“What a charming disposition I must have, Jane, without my knowing it!”
“Yes, ma'am,” said the girl, with a pursed-up mouth, as though she would
not trust herself to expatiate on the theme.
“Did Colonel Sewell take Capper with him?”
“No, ma'am; Mr. Capper is below. The Colonel gave him a week's leave,
and he's going a-fishing with some other gentlemen down into Wicklow.”
“I suspect, Jane, that you people below-stairs have the pleasantest life
of all. You have little to trouble you. When you take a holiday, you can
enjoy it with all your hearts.”
“The gentlemen does, I believe, ma'am; but we don't. We can't go
a-pleasuring like them; and if it a'n't a picnic, or a thing of the kind
that's arranged for us, we have nothing for it but a walk to church and
back, or a visit to one of our friends.”
“So that you know what it is to be bored!” said she, sighing
drearily,--“I mean to be very tired of life, and sick of everything and
everybody.”
“Not quite so bad as that, ma'am; put out, ma'am, and provoked at
times,--not in despair, like.”
“I wish I was a housemaid.”
“A housemaid, ma'am!” cried the girl, in almost horror.
“Well, a lady's-maid. I mean, I'd like a life where my heaviest sorrow
would be a refused leave to go out, or a sharp word or two for an
ill-ironed collar. See who is that at the door; there's some one tapping
there the last two minutes.”
“It's Miss Lucy, ma'am; she wants to know if she may come in?”
Mrs. Sewell looked in the glass before which she was sitting, and as
speedily passed her hands across her brow, and by the action seeming to
chase away the stern expression of her eyes; then, rising up with a face
all smiles, she rushed to the door and clasped Lucy in her arms, kissing
her again and again, as she said, “I never dreamed of such happiness as
this; but why didn't you come and awaken me? Why did you rob me of one
precious moment of your presence?”
“I knew how tired and worn-out you were. Grandpapa has told me of all
your unwearying kindness.”
“Come over to the light, child, and let me see you well. I 'm wildly
jealous of you, I must own, but I 'll try to be fair and judge you
honestly. My husband says you are the loveliest creature he ever saw;
and I declare I 'm afraid he spoke truly. What have you done with your
eyes? they are far darker than they used to be; and this hair,--you need
not tell me it's all your own, child. Gold could not buy it. Yes, Jane,
you are right, she _is_ perfectly beautiful.”
“Oh, do not turn my head with vanity,” said Lucy, blushing.
“I wish I could,--I wish I could do anything to lessen any of your
fascinations. Do you know it's very hard--very hard indeed--to forgive
any one being so beautiful, and hardest of all for _me_ to do so?”
“Why for you?” said Lucy, anxiously.
“I'll tell you another time,” said she, in a half-whisper, and with
a significant glance at her maid, who, with the officiousness of her
order, was taking far more than ordinary trouble to put things to
rights. “There, Jane,” said her mistress, at last, “all that opening and
shutting of drawers is driving me distracted; leave everything as it is,
and let us have quiet. Go and fetch me a cup of chocolate.”
“Nothing else, ma'am?”
“Nothing; and ask if there are any letters for me. It's a dreadful
house, Lucy, for sending one's letters astray. The Chief used to have
scores of little scented notes sent up to him that were meant for me,
and I used to get masses of formal-looking documents that should have
gone to him; but everything is irregular here. There was no master, and,
worse, no mistress; but I 'll hope, as they tell me here, that there
will soon be one.”
“I don't know,--I have not heard.”
“What a diplomatic damsel it is! Why, child, can't you be frank, and say
if you are coming back to live here?”
“I never suspected that I was in question at all; if I had, I 'd have
told you, as I tell you now, there is not the most remote probability
of such an event. We are going back to live at the Nest. Sir Brook has
bought it, and made it over to papa or myself,--I don't know which, but
it means the same in the sense I care for, that we are to be together
again.”
“How delightful! I declare, child, my envy of you goes on increasing
every minute. I never was able to captivate any man, old or young, who
would buy a beautiful house and give it to me. Of all the fortunate
creatures I ever heard or read of, you are the luckiest.”
“Perhaps I am. Indeed I own as much to myself when I bethink me how
little I have contributed to my own good fortune.”
“And I,” said she, with a heavy sigh, “about the most unlucky! I suppose
I started in life with almost as fair a promise as your own. Not so
handsome, I admit. I had neither these long lashes nor that wonderful
hair, that gives you a look of one of those Venetian beauties Giorgione
used to paint; still less that lovely mouth, which I envy you more
even than your eyes or your skin; but I was good-looking enough to be
admired, and I was admired, and some of my admirers were very great folk
indeed; but I rejected them all and married Sewell! I need not tell
you what came of that. Poor papa foresaw it all. I believe it helped to
break his heart; it might have broken mine too, if I happened to have
one. There, don't look horrified, darling. I was n't born without one;
but what with vanity and distrust, a reckless ambition to make a figure
in the world, and a few other like good qualities, I made of the heart
that ought to have been the home of anything that was worthy in my
nature, a scene of plot and intrigue, till at last I imagine it wore
itself out, just as people do who have to follow uncongenial labor. It
was like a lady set down to pick oakum! Why don't you laugh, dear, at my
absurd simile?”
“Because you frighten me,” said Lucy, almost shuddering.
“I 'm certain,” resumed the other, “I was very like yourself when I
was married. I had been very carefully brought up,--had excellent
governesses, and was trained in all the admirable discipline of a
well-ordered family. All I knew of life was the good side. I saw people
at church on Sundays, and fancied that they wore the same tranquil and
virtuous faces throughout the week. Above all things I was trustful and
confiding. Colonel Sewell soon uprooted such delusions. He believed in
nothing nor in any one. If he had any theory at all of life, it was that
the world consisted of wolves and lambs, and that one must make an early
choice which flock he would belong to. I 'm ashamed to own what a zest
it gave to existence to feel that the whole thing was a great game in
which, by the exercise of skill and cleverness, one might be almost sure
to win. He soon made me as impassioned a gambler as himself, as ready to
risk anything--everything--on the issue. But I have made you quite ill,
child, with this dark revelation; you are pale as death.”
“No, I am only frightened,--frightened and grieved.”
“Don't grieve for me,” said the other, haughtily. “There is nothing I
could n't more easily forgive than pity. But let me turn from my odious
self and talk of you. I want you to tell me everything about your own
fortune, where you have been all this time, what seeing and doing, and
what is the vista in front of you?”
Lucy gave a full account of Cagliari and their life there, narrating
how blank their first hopes had been, and what a glorious fortune had
crowned them at last. “I 'm afraid to say what the mine returns at
present; and they say it is a mere nothing to what it may yield when
improved means of working are employed, new shafts sunk, and steam power
engaged.”
“Don't get technical, darling; I'll take your word for Sir Brook's
wealth; only tell me what he means to do with it. You know he gambled
away one large fortune already, and squandered another, nobody knows
how. Has he gained anything by these experiences to do better with the
third?”
“I have only heard of his acts of munificence or generosity,” said Lucy,
gravely.
“What a reproachful face to put on, and for so little!” said the other,
laughing. “You don't think that when I said he gambled I thought the
worse of him.”
“Perhaps not; but you meant that _I_ should.”
“You are too sharp in your casuistry; but you have been living with only
men latterly, and the strong-minded race always impart some of their
hardness to the women who associate with them. You'll have to come down
to silly creatures like me, Lucy, to regain your softness.”
“I shall be delighted if you let me keep your company.”
“We will be sisters, darling, if you will only be frank with me.”
“Prove me if you like; ask me anything you will, and see if I will not
answer you freely.”
“Have you told me all your Cagliari life,--all?”
“I think so; all at least that was worth telling.”
“You had a shipwreck on your island, we heard here; are such events so
frequent that they make slight impression?”
“I was but speaking of ourselves and our fortunes,” said Lucy; “my
narrative was all selfish.” “Come,--I never beat about the bush,--tell
me one thing,--it's a very abrupt way to ask, but perhaps it's the best
way,--are you going to be married?”
“I don't know,” said she; and her face and neck became crimson in a
moment.
“You don't know! Do you mean that you 're like one of those young ladies
in the foreign convents who are sent for to accept a husband whenever
the papas and mammas have agreed upon the terms?”
“Not that; but I mean that I am not sure whether grandpapa will give his
consent, and without it papa will not either.”
“And why should not grandpapa say yes? Major Traf-ford,--we need n't
talk riddles to each other,--Major Trafford has a good position, a good
name, and will have a good estate; are not these the three gifts the
mothers of England go in pursuit of?”
“His family, I suspect, wish him to look higher; at all events, they
don't like the idea of an Irish daughter-in-law.”
“More fools they! Irish women of the better class are more ready to
respond to good treatment, and less given to resent bad usage, than any
I ever met.”
“Then I have just heard since I came over that Lady Trafford has written
to grandpapa in a tone of such condescension and gentle sorrow that
it has driven him half crazy. Indeed, his continual inference from the
letter is, 'What must the son of such a woman be!'”
“That's most unfair!”
“So they have all told him,--papa, and Beattie, and even Mr. Haire, who
met Lionel one morning at Beattie's.”
“Perhaps I might be of service here; what a blush, child! dear me, you
are crimson, far too deep for beauty. How I have fluttered the dear
little bird! but I 'm not going to rob its nest, or steal its mate away.
All I meant was, that I could exactly contribute that sort of worldly
testimony to the goodness of the match that old people like and ask for.
You must never talk to them about affections, nor so much as allude
to tastes or tempers; never expatiate on anything that cannot be
communicated by parchment, and attested by proper witnesses. Whatever is
not subject to stamp-duty, they set down as mere moonshine.”
While she thus ran on, Lucy's thoughts never strayed from a certain
letter which had once thrown a dark shadow over her, and even yet left a
gloomy memory behind it. The rapidity with which Mrs. Sewell spoke, too,
had less the air of one carried away by the strong current of feeling
than of a speaker who was uttering everything, anything, to relieve her
own overburdened mind.
“You look very grave, Lucy,” went she on. “I suspect I know what's
passing in that little brain. You are doubting if I should be the
fittest person to employ on the negotiation; come, now, confess it.”
“You have guessed aright,” said Lucy, gravely.
“But all that 's past and over, child. The whole is a mere memory now,
if even so much. Men have a trick of thinking, once they have interested
a woman on their behalf, that the sentiment survives all changes of time
and circumstance, and that they can come back after years and claim the
deposit; but it is a great mistake, as _he_ has found by this time. But
don't let this make you unhappy, dear; there never was less cause for
unhappiness. It is just of these sort of men the model husbands are
made. The male heart is a very tough piece of anatomy, and requires a
good deal of manipulation to make it tender, and, as you will learn
one day, it is far better all this should be done before marriage than
after.--Well, Jane, I did begin to think you had forgotten about the
chocolate. It is about an hour since I asked for it.”
“Indeed, ma'am, it was Mr. Cheetor's fault; he was a shooting rabbits
with another gentleman.”
“There, there, spare me Mr. Cheetor's diversions, and fetch me some
sugar.”
“Mr. Lendrick and another gentleman, ma'am, is below, and wants to see
Miss Lucy.”
“A young gentleman, Jane?” asked Mrs. Sewell, while her eyes flashed
with a sudden fierce brilliancy.
“No, ma'am, an old gentleman, with a white beard, very tall and stern to
look at.”
“We don't care for descriptions of old gentlemen, Jane. Do we, Lucy?
Must you go, darling?”
“Yes; papa perhaps wants me.”
“Come back to me soon, pet. Now that we have no false barriers between
us, we can talk in fullest confidence.”
Lucy hurried away, but no sooner had she reached the corridor than she
burst into tears.