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YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE; 



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A OHEONIOLE OF MISTAKES. 



BT TH« AOTHOB Of Yowj^e CVw^aVV^VaV;' 

*THE HEIR OF REDOLYFFE,' •HEARTSEASE,' ETO. 



F«H— yet rejoiee, beeauae no lent 
The &ilare that makes thy diatreti 
May teach another fUl aueoeM. 

Kor with thy share of work be rexedi 
Though Incomplete and eren perplexed 
It fits exactly to the next 

AcMaids A, ^roeion, 



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IN TWO TOLUMBB. :.': ::.-•: :? 
YOL I. : 






• -••: *• • 1 • ^ 

• «• • • * •• •«• ■»* 

• • ••• ••••• • 



NEW YORK : 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

448 A 445 BBOADWAT. 
1862. 



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THE NEW YORK I 

PUBLIC LIBRARY 

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THE TOMG STEP-MOTHEE. 



• •• 



CHAPTEB L 

* Havb yon talked it over with her t ' said Mr. Fer- 
rarSy as his little slender wife met him under the beeches 
that made an avenue of the lane leading to Fairmead 
vicarage. 

^ Yes I * was the answer, which the vicar was not slow 
to understand. 

* I cannot say I expected much from your conversation, 
and perhaps we ought not to wish it. We are likely to 
see with selfish eyes, for what shall we do without her ? ' 

^ Dear Albinia I You always taunted me with having 
married your sister as much as yoursell' 

^Solshall again, if you cannot give her up with a good 
grace.' 

^ If I could have had my own way in disposing of her.* 

^ Perhaps the hero of your own composition might be 
less satisfftctory to her than is Kendal.' 

' At least he should be minus the children 1 ' 

^ I &ncy the children are one great attraction. Do 
you know how many there are t ' 

^ Three ; but if Albinia knows their ages she involves 
them in a discreet haze. I imagine some are in their 
teens/ 

* Impossible, Winifred ;. he is hardly five-and-thirty/ 



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6 THB TOUKG 8TBF-M0THEB* 

* I did, but he could sa^ little more than we knew. 
He says nothing could be more exemplary than Kendal'i^ 
whole conduct in India ; he only regretted that he kept 
so much aloof from others, that his principle and gentle- 
manly feeling did not tell as much as could have been 
wished. He has always been wrapped up in his own 
pursuits — a perfect dictionary of information.' 

' We had found out that, though he is so silent. I 
should think him a most el^ant scholar.' 

^ And a deep one. He has studied and polished his 
acquirements to the utmost. I assure you, Winifred, I 
mean to be proud of my brother-in-law.' 

* What did you hear of the first wife ? ' 

' It was an early marriage. He went home as soon 
as he had sufficient salary, married her, and brought her 
out. She was a brilliant dark beauty, who became 

?uickly a motherly, housewifely, commonplace person, 
should think there had been a poet's love, nev^ awak- 
ened from.' 

'The very thing that has always strudc me when, 
poor man, he has tried to be civil to me. Here is a 
man, sensible himself, but who has never had the hap to 
live with sensible women.' 

' When their children grew too old for India, she came 
into some little property at Bayfbrd Bridge, which enabled 
him to retire. Colonel Bury came home in the same 
ship, and saw much of them, liked him better and better, 
and seems to have been rather wearied by her. A very 
good woman, he says, and Kendal most fondly attached ; 
but as to comparing her with Miss Ferrars, he could not 
think of it for a moment. So they settled at Bayford, 
and there, about two years ago, came this terrible visita- 
tion of typhus fever.' 

* I remember how Colonel Bury used to come and 
sigh over his friend's illness and trouble.' 

* He could not help going over it again. The children 
all fell ill together — ^the two eldest were twin boys, one 
puny, the other a very fine fellow, and his father's especial 
pride and delight. As so often happens, the 3ic]dy one 
was spared, (he healthy one was taken.' 



res Touira tnctoMt/ofrBj/M, Y 

* Hmu Alfainift will haye an invalid on her hands ! ' 

* The Colonel aajs this Edmund was a particularly 

fromising boy, and poor Kendal felt the loss dreadfully, 
le siclcened aiter that, and his wife was worn out with 
nursing and grie( and sank under the fever at once. 
Poor Kendal has never held up his head since ; he had a 
terrible relapse*' 

* And/ said Winifred, ^ he no sooner recovers than he 
goes and marries our Albinia t ' 

' Two years, my dear.' 

* Pray explain to me, Maurice, why, when people be- 
come widowed in any unusually lamentable way, they 
always are the first to marry again.' 

* Incorrigible I I meant to make you pity him.' 

* I did, till I found I had wasted my pity. Why oould 
not these Meadowses lode after his children ? Why must 
the Colonel bring him here t I believe it was with malice 
prepense 1 ' 

^ The Colonel went to see after him, and found him so 
drooping and wretched, that he insisted on bringing him 
home with him ; and old Mrs. Meadows and her daughter 
almost forced hhn to accept the invitation.' 

^ They little guessed what the Colonel would be at I ' 
*Tou will l^ better now you have the Colonel to 
abuse,' said her husband. 

* And pray what do you mean to say to the General t' 
' Exactly what I think.' 

* And to the aunts t ' slily asked the wife. 

' I think I shall leave you all that correspondence. It 
will be too edifying to see you making common cause 
with the aunts.' 

* That comes of trying to threaten one's husband ; and 
here they come,' said Winifred. ' Well, Maurice, what 
can't be cured must be endured. Albinia's heart is gone ; 
he is a very sood man, and spite of India, first wife, and 
melancholy, he does not look amiss I ' 

Mr. Ferrars smiled at the chary, grudging commen- 
dation of the tall, handsome man who advan<^ through 
the beedi-wood ; but it was too true that his clear olive 
complexion had not the hue of health, that there was a 



8 IHS TOVKO 0mVlC<MSSft, 

world of oppreasion on his broad brow and deep hazel 
ejea, and that it was a dim, dreamy, reluctant smile that 
was awakened by the voice of the lady who walked by 
his side, as if reverencing his grave mood. 

She was rather tall, very graceful, and well made, but 
her features were less handsome than sweet, bright, and 
sensible. Her hair was nut-brown, in long curled waves ; 
her eyes, deep soft grey, and though downcast under the 
new sympathies, new feelings, and responsibilities that 
crowded on her, the smile and sparkle that lighted them as 
she blushed and nodded to her brother and sister, showed 
that liveliness was the natural expression of that engaging 
face. 

Say what they would, it was evident that Albinia 
Ferrars had cast in her lot with Edmund Kendal, and 
that her energetic spirit and love of children animated her 
to embrace joyfully the cares which such a choice must 
impose on her. 

As might have been perceived by one glance at the 
figure, step, and bearing of Mr. Ferrars, perfectly clerical 
though they were, he belonged to a military family. His 
father had been a distinguished Peninsular officer, and his 
brother, older by many years, held a command in Can- 
ada. Maurice and Albinia, early left orphans, had, with 
a young cousin, been chiefly under the charge of their 
aunts, Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars, and had found a 
kind home in their house in May&ir, until Maurice had 
been ordained to the family living of Fairmead, and his 
sister had gone to live with him there, extorting the con- 
sent of her elder brother to her spending a more real and 
active life than her aunts' round of society could offer her. 

The aunts lamented, bu£ they could seldom win their 
darling to them for more than a few weeks at a time, even 
after their nephew Maurice had — ^as they considered- 
thrown himself away on a little lively lady of Irish par- 
entage, no equal in birth or fortune, in their opinion, for 
the grandson of Lord Belraven. 

They had been very friendly to the young wife, but 
their hopes had all the more been fixed on Albinia ; and 
«ven Winifred could afford them some generous pity in 



TBB TOUVS 91'JUMIUfi'JUB* 



the engaganent of their £ivourite nieoe to « retired Eett 
India Compaay'e servant— a widower with three children* 



•»> 



CHAPTER n. 

Thx equinoctial sun had long set, and the blue haze 
of March east wind had deepened into twilight and dark- 
ness when Albinia Kendal found herself driving down the 
steep hilly street of Bayford, The town was not lar^e 
nor mo'dem enough for gas, and the dark street was only 
lighted here and there by a shop of more pretension ; the 
plate-glass of the enterprising draper, with the light veiled 
by shawls and ribbons ; the * purple jars,' green, ruby, 
and crimson of the chemist ; and the modest ray of the 
grocer, revealing busy heads driving Saturday-night bar- 
gains. 

' How well I soon shall know them all,' said Albinia, 
looking at her husband, though she knew she could not 
see his &ce, as he leant back silently in his corner, and 
she tried to say no more. She was sure that coming 
home was painful to him ; he had been so willing to put 
it oflT, and to prolong those pleasant seaside days, when 
there had been such pleasant reading, walking, musing, 
and a great deal of happy silence. 

Down the hill, and a little way on level ground- 
houses on one side, something like hedge or shrubbery on 
the other — ^a stop — a gate opened — a hollow sound be- 
neath the carriage, as though crossing a wooden bridge- 
trees — ^bright windows — an open door — and light stream- 
ing from it. 

* Here is your home, Albinia,* said that deep musical 
' voice that she loved the better for the subdued melan- 
choly of the tones, and the suppressed sigh that could not 
be hidden. 

* And my children ! * she eagerly said, as he handed her 
out,-and, springing to the ground, she hurried to the open 
door opposite, where, in the lamp-light, she saw, moving 

1* 



about in illy curiosity nod embsmssment^ two girki in 
white lirodES and brooid scarlet sashes, and a boy, who, as 
she advanced, retreated with his younger sister to the 
fireplace, while the elder one, a pretty, and rather formal 
looking girl of twelve; stood forward. 

Albinia held out her arms, saying, * You are Lucy, I 
am sure,' and eagerly kissed the girl's smiling, bright face. 

' Yes, I am Lucy,' was the well-pleased answer ; * I am 
glad you are come.' 

' I hope we shall be very good friends,' said Albinia^ 
with the sweet smile that few, young or old, could resist. 
* And this is Gilbert,' as she kissed the blushing cheek of 
a thin boy of thirteen — * and Sophia.' 

Sophia^ who was eleven, had not stirred to meet her. 
She alone inherited her father's fine straight profile, and 
large black eyes ; but she had the heaviness of feature 
that sometimes goes with very dark complexions. The 
white firock did not become her brown neck and arms ; 
her thick black hair was arranged in too womanly a 
manner, and her head and face looked too large ; more- 
over, there was no lighting up to answer the greeting, and 
Albinia was disappointed. 

Poor child, she thought, she is feeling deeply that I 
am an interloper ; it will be diff^reDt now her fother is 
coming. 

Mr. Kendal was crossing the ball, and as he entered 
be took the hand and kissed the forehead of each of the 
threei but Sophia stood with the same hal^sullen indiffer- 
ence — it might be shyness or sensibility. 

* How mudi you are grown ! ' he said, looking at the 
children with some surprise. 

In fact, though Albinia knew their ages, they were all 
on a larger scale than she had expected, and looked too 
old for the diildrcn of a man of his youthful appearance. 
.Gilbert had the slight look of rapid growth ; Lucy, though 
not so tall, and with a small, dear, bright face, had the 
air of a little woman ; and Sophia's face might have be- 
fitted any age. 

' Yes, papa,' said Lucy ; * Gilbert has grown an incb- 
and-Srhalf since October, for we measured him.' 



Have joa been well, Gilbert f ' oontuiued Mr. Kexh 
dal, anxiously. 

* I have the toothaehe,' said Gilbert, piteoualj. 
^Happily, nothing more serious,' thrust in Lucy; 

* Mr. Bowles told Aunt Maria that he considers Gilbert's 
health much improved.' 

Albinia asked some kind questions about the delin- 
quent tooth, but the answers were short ; and, to put an 
end to the general constraint, she asked Lucy to show her 
to her room. 

It was a pretty bay-windowed room, and looked cheer- 
ful in the firelight. Lucy's tongue was at once unloosed, 
telling that Gilbert's tutor, Mr. Salsted, had insisted on 
his having his tooth extracted, and that he had refused, 
saying it was quite well ; but Lucy gave it as her opinion 
that he much preferred the toothache to his lessons. 

' Where does Mr. Salsted live ? ' 

* At Tremblam, about two miles ofT; Gilbert ride^ 
the pony over there every day, except when he has the 
toothache, and then he stays at home. 

* And what do you do ? ' 

* We w^it to Miss Belmarche till the end of our 
quarter, and since that we have been at home, or with 
grandmamma. Do yoii really mean that we are to study 
with you ? ' 

* I should like it, my dear. I have been looking for* 
ward very much to teaching you and Sophia.' 

' Thank you, mamma.' 

The word wassaid with an effort, as if it came strangely, 
but it thrilled Albinia's heart, and she kissed Lucy, who 
dung to her, and returned the caress. 

* I shall tell Gilbert and Sophy what a dear mamma 
you ure,' she said. * Do you know, Sophy says she shall 
never call you anything but Mrs. Kendal ; and I know 
Gilbert means the same. 

* Let them call me whatever suits them best,' said 
Albinia ; ' I had rather they waited tiU they feel that they 
like to call me as you have done — thank you for it, dear 
Luoy, You must not fancy I shall be at all hurt at your 
thinking of times past. I shall want you to tell me of 







THE 



YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE; 



OB, 



A OHEONICLE OF MISTAKES. 



BT IHl AUTHOR OF >oVN|^e CW«<<oVVeWx;?r 

'THE HEIB OF BEDOLYFFE,' 'HEABTSEASE,' ETO. 



Fail— yet rejoloo, beesoM no I«mi 
The lUIare that makes thy distreit 
May teaoh another ftdl saecesflb 



Kor with thy share of work be T«xed» 
Though incomplete and eren peiplesed 
It fits exactly to the next 


* 

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V: r : 

• »" (V* 

• • • • 


IN TWO YOLUMBS. VJ* 

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■J it 




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VOL I. : 


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NEW YORK! : 
D. APPLETON AN^D COMPANY, 

448 & 445 BBOADWAY. 

1862. 



9be oottld not oomp«»at6 to him for fais loss; but Ike 
actual sight of his dejection came on her with a chill, Bod 
Ae had to call up all fa^ energies ai^ hopes, and, still 
better, the thought of strength not her own, to enable her 
to look cheerfully on the prospect. Sleep reyiyed her 
elastic spirits, and with eager curiosity she drew up h^ 
Uind in the morning, for the first view of her new home. 

But there was a veil — ^moisture made the panes re- 
semble ground glass, and when she had rubbed that away, 
and secured a dear comer, her range of yision was not 
much more extensive. She could only see the grey out* 
line of trees and duruba, obscured by the heavy mist ; and 
on the lawn below, a thick cloud that seemed to hang 
over a dark space which she suspected to be a large 
pond. 

^ There is very little to be gained by looking out 
here 1 ' Albinia soliloquized. ' It is not doing the place 
justice to study it on a misty, moisty morning. It looks 
now as if that fever might have come bodily out of the 

!)ond. I'll have no more to say to it till the sun has 
icked up the fog, and made it bright I Sunday morning 
*— my last Sunday without school-teaching, I hope! I 
famish to begin again — and I will make time for that, and 
the girls too ! I am glad he consents to my doing what- 
ever I please in that way I I hope Mr. Dusautoy will 1 
I wish Edmund knew him better — ^but oh I what a shy 
man he is 1 ' 

With a light step she went down-stairs, and found 
Mr. Kendal waiting for her in the dining-room, his &ce 
br^htening as she entered. 

* I am sorry Bayford should wear this heavy cloud to 
receive you,' he said. 

* It will soon dear,' she answered, cheerfully. * Have 
you heard of poor Gilbert this morning ? ' 

* Not yet.* Then, after a pause, ' I have generally 
gone to Mrs. Meadows after the morning service,' he 
mud, speaking with constraint. 

^You will take me?' said Albinia. 'I wish it, 1 
assure you.' 

It whs evidently whafr he wished her to propose, and 



15 

jM«Ued, ^She must .nener fed hendf jiegleotad,jHid It 

will be better at once.' 

. ^So maoh more eordiol,' said Albiaia. 'Pray let 

asflol' 

They were intemtpted by the Toioei of the girl»— not 
jinpleacdng yoioes, but loud and unsubdued, and with a 
alight tone 49f provincialism, which seemed to hurt Mr. 
Kendal's ears, for he said, ^I hope you will tune those 
Toioes to something less unlike your own.' 

As he spoke, tiie sisters appeared in the full and con* 
eeious rustling of new lUao suk. dresses, winch seemed to 
have happily carried off all Sophy's suUenness ; for she 
made muoh more brisk and oivil answers, and ran across 
the room in a boisterous manner, when her fiither sent 
ber to see whether Gilbert were up. 

There was a great dieter, and Gilbert chased her in, 
breathless and scolding, but the tongues were hushed be- 
ibre papa, and no more was heard than that the tooth was 
better^ and liad not kept him awake. Lucy seemed dis- 
posed to make conversation, overwhelming: Albinia with 
needless repetitions of ^ Mamma dear,' and plunginff into 
what Mrs. Bowles and Miss Goldsmith had said of Mr« 
Dnaautoy, and how he kept so few servants, and the 
butcher had no orders last time he called.* Aunt Maria 
thought he starved and tyrannized over that poor little 
eiokly Mrs. Dusautoy. . 

Mr. Kendal said not one word, and seemed not to 
hear. Albmia felt as if she had fallen into a whirlpool 
of gossip ; she looked towards him, and hoped to let the 
conversation drop, but Sophy answered, her sister, and, at 
last, when it came to something about what Jane heard 
from Mrs. Osbom's Susan, Albinia gently whispered, I 
4o not think this entertains your papa, my dear,' and 
silence sank upon them all. 

Albinia's next venture was to ask about that which 
had been her Sunday pleasure from childhood, and she 
turned to Sophy, and said, I suppose you have not begun 
.to teach at tiie school yet f ' 

Sophv's great eyes expanded, and Lucy said, ' Oh deur 
■inamtnat nobody does tiiat but Genevieve Durant and 



1^ TBB TOI7K0 UIWMUnBWBL 



the iDomton. Miss Wolfe did till Mr. Du8ftut(>y esm^ 

but she does not approve of him.' 

^Lucy, you do not know what you are saying/ said 
Mr. Kendal, and again there was an annihilating sUenoe^ 
which Albinia did not attempt to disturb. 

At church time, she met the young ladies in the hall, 
in pink bonnets and sea-green mantillas over the lilao 
silks, all evidently put on for the first time in her honour, 
an honour of which she felt herself the less deserving, as, 
sensible that this was no case for bridal display, she wore 
a quiet dark silk, a Cashm^e shawl, and playi straw bon- 
net, trimmed with white. 

With manifest wish for reciprocity, Lucy fell into 
transports over the shawl ; but gaining nothing by this, 
Sophy asked if she did not like the mantillas ? Albinia 
could only make civility compatible with truth by saying 
that the colour was pretty, but where was Gilbert ? He 
was on a stool before the dining-room fire, looking pit- 
eous, and pronouncing his tooth iar too bad for going to 
church, and she had just time for a fresh administration 
of camphor before Mr. Kendal came forth from his study, 
and gave her his arm. 

The front door opened on a narrow sweep, the river 
cutting it off from the road, and crossed by two wooden 
bridges, beside each of which stood a weeping-willow, 
budding with fresh spring foliage. Opposite were houses 
of various pretensions, and sheer behind them rose the 
steep hill, with the church nearly at the summit, the 
noble spire tapering high above, and the bells ringing out 
a cheerful chime. The mist had drawn up, and idl was 
fresh and clear. 

* There go Lizzie and Loo I' cried Lucy, *and the 
Admiral and Mrs. Osbom. TU run and tell them papa 
is come home.' 

Sophy was setting off als'>, but Mr. Kendal stopped 
them, and lingered a moment or two, making an excuse 
of looking for a needless umbrella, but in fact to avoid 
the general gaze. As if making a desperate plunge, how- 
ever, and looking up and down the broad street, so as to 
be secure that no acquaintance was near, he emerged wiUi 



THB TQVTSB nSP-XOTHSB. IT 

Albinla from the gate, and crossed the road as the diima 

of the bells chang^. 

< We are late,' he said. ' You will prefer the speed* 
icfit way, thought it is somewhat steep.' 

The most private way, Albinia understood, and could 
also perceive that the girls would have liked the street 
which sloped up the hill, and thought the lilac and green 
insulted by being^ conducted up the steep, irregular, and 
not very dean bye-lane that led directly up the ascent, 
between houses, some meanly modem, some pictu* 
resquely ancient, with stone steps outside to the upper 
story, but all with far too much of pig-stve about them 
for beauty or fragrance. Lucy held up her skirts, and 
daintily picked her way, and Albinia looked with kindly 
eyes at the doors and windows, secretly wondering what 
£riends she should find there. 

The lane ended in a long flight of more than a hun- 
dred shallow steps cut out in the soft stone of the hill, 
with landing-places here and there, whence views were 
seen of the rich meadow-landscape beyond, with villages, 
orchards, and farms, and the blue winding river Baye in 
the midst, woods rising on the opposite side under the 
soft haze of distance. On the other side the wall of rock 
was bordered by gardens with streamers of ivy or peri- 
winkle here and there hanging down. ' 

The ascent ended in an old-fashioned stone stile ; and 
here Sophy, standing on the step, procliumed, with unne- 
cessary loudness, that Mr. Dusautoy was carrying Mrs. 
Dusautoy across the churchyard. This had the effect of 
making a pause, but Albinia saw the rector, a tall, pow- 
erful man, rather supporting, than actually carrying, a 
little fragile form to the low-browed door leading into the 
chancel on the north side. The churdi was handsome, 
though in the late style, and a good deal misused by 
eighteenth-century taste ; and Albinia was full of admira- 
tion as Mr. Kendal conducted her along the flagged 
path. 

She was rather dismayed to find herself mounthig the 
gallery stairs, and to emerge into a well-cushioned abode, 
with tiie sUeld-bearing angel of the corbel of an arch all 



to herself, and a very good yiev of the cobwebs .oyer Mf, 
Dusautoy's sounding-board. It seemed to suit all par- 
ties, however, for Lucy and Sophia took possession of the 
forefront, and their father had the inmost comer, where 
certainly nobody could see him. 

Just opposite to Alblnia was a mural tablet, on which 
she read what revealed to her more of the sorrows of her 
household than she had guessed before : — 

* To the memory of Lucy, the beloved wife of Edmund 
Kendal. Died February 18th, 1845, aged 35 years. 

Edmund Meadows Kendal, born January lk)th, 1834^ 
Died February 10th, 1845. 

Maria Kendal, bom September 5th, 1840. Died Sep- 
tember 14th, 1840. 

Sarah Anne Kendal, bom October 3d, 1841. Died 
November 20th, 1843. 

John Augustus Kendal, bom January 4th, 1842. 
Died July 6th, 1842. ^ 

Anne Maria Kendal, bom June 12th, 1844. Died 
June igth, 1844.' 

Then followed, in the original Greek, the words, * Be- 
cause I live, ye shall live also.' 

Four infants ! how many hopes kid here ! All the 
English-bom children of the family had died m their cra- 
dles, and not only did compassion for the past affect Al* 
bmia, as she thought of her husband's world of hidden 
grief, but a shudder for the future came over her, as she 
remembered having read that such mortality is a test of 
the healthiness of a locality. What could she think of 
Willow Lawn? It was with a strong effort that she 
brought her attention back to Him who controlleth the 
sickness that destroyeth at noon-day. 

But Mr. Dusautoy's deep, powerful intonations roused 
her wandering thoughts, and she was calmed and reas- 
sured by the holy Feast, in which she joined with her 
husband. 

Mr. Kendal's fine face was calm and placid, as best 
she loved to look upon it, when they came out of church, 
and she was too happy to disturb the quiet by one word. 
Lively and animated as she was, there was a sort of re- 



pose and enjojmiBnt in the speeies of respect ezaoted by 
his crave sileiit demeanour. 

li this could only have lasted longer 1 but he was tak* 
ing her along an irregular street, and too soon she saw a 
slight colour flit across his cheeic, and his eyebrows ood> 
tract, as he unlatched a green door in a high wall, and 
entered a little flagged court, decorated by a stand des» 
tined for flowers. 

Albinia caught the blush, and felt more bashful than 
she had believed was in her nature, but she had a wamo^ 
hearted det^mination that she would work down prej!»> 
dices, and like and be liked by all that conoemed him 
and his children. So she smiled at him, and vreaat bravely 
on into the matted hall and up the narrow stairs, and 
made a laughing sign when he looked baek at her ere he 
tapped at the sitting-room door. 

It was opened m>m within before he could turn the 
handle ; and a shrill voice, exaggerating those of the girls^ 
showered welcomes with sndi ri^dity, that Albinia was 
seated at the table, and had been helped to cold chicken, 
before she could look round, or make much answer to 
reiterations of ' so very kind.' 

It was a small room, loaded with knicknacks and cusk> 
ions, like a repository of every species of female om»» 
mental handiwork in vogue for the last half century, and 
the luncheon-tray in the middle of all, ready for six peo- 
ple, for the two girls were there, and though Mr. Kendal 
stood up by the fire, and would not eat, he and his black 
image, reflected backwards and forwards in the looking- 
glass and in the little round mirror, seemed to take up 
more room than if he had been seated. 

Mrs. Meadows was slight, shrunken, and gentle-look- 
ing, with a sweet tone in her voice, great sofhiess of man- 
ner, and pretty blue eyes. Albinia only wished that she 
had worn mourning, it would have been so much more 
becoming than bright colours ; but that was soon over- 
looked in gralatude for her affectionate reception, and in 
the warmth of feeling excited by her evident fondness 
and solicitude for Mr. Kendal. 

Miss Meadows was gaily dreased in youthful &8hion. 



20 THX TOUBO siBP^xoraxB. 

such as eyidently had set her off to adyantage when she 
had been a bright, dark, handsome girl ; but her hair was 
thin, her cheeks haggard, the colour hardened, and her 
forty years apparent, above all, in an uncomfortable fur- 
row on the brow and round the mouth ; her voice had a 
sharp distressed tone that grated even in her lowest key, 
and though she did not stammer, she could never finish a 
sentence, but made hali-ardozen disjointed commencements 
whenever she spoke. Albinia pitied her, and thought her 
nervous, for she was painfully assiduous in waiting on 
every one, scarcely sitting down for a minute before she 
was sure that pepper, or pickle, or new bread, or stale 
bread, or something was wanted, and squeezing round the 
table to help some one, or to ring the bell evei^ third 
minute, and all in a dr<ess that had a teazing stiff silken 
rustle. She offered Mr. Kendal everything in the shape 
of food, till he purchased peace by submitting to take a 
hard biscuit ; while Albinia was not allowed her glass of 
water till all manner of wines, foreign and domestic, had 
been tried upon her in vain. 

Conversation was not easy. Gilbert was inquired 
after, and his aunt spoke in her shrill, injured note, as she 
declared that she had done her utmost to persuade him to 
have the tooth extracted, and began a history of what the 
dentist ought to have done five years ago. 

His grandmother softly pitied him, saying poor little 
Cribbie was such a delicate Doy, and required such care- 
ful treatment ; and when Albinia hoped that he was out- 
growing his ill-health, she was amused to find that de- 
sponding compassion would have been more pleasing. 

There had been a transaction about a servant in her 
behalf: and Miss Meadows insisted on hunting up a note, 
searching all about the room, and making her mother and 
Sophy move from the front of two table-drawers, a dis- 
turbance which Sophy did not take with such placid looks 
as did her grandmother. 

The name of the maid was Eweretta Dobson, at which 
there was a general exclamation. 

* I wonder what is the history of the name ? ' said Al- 
binia; 'it sounds like nothing but the diminutive of 



ewer. I hope she will not be the little pitdier widi long 

ears.' 

Mr. Kendal looked as much amused as he ever did, 
but no one else gave the least token of so much as know- 
ing what she meant, and she felt as if she had been mak- 
ing a foolish attempt at wit. 

*• You need not call her so/ was all that Mrs. Meadows 
said. 

*• I do not like calling servants by anything but theur 
true names,' answered Albmia ; ' it does not seem to me 
treating them with proper respect to change their names, 
as if we thought them too good for them. It is using 
them like slaves.' 

Lucy exclaimed, ' Why I grandmamma's Betty is 
really named Philadelphia.' 

Albinia laughed, but was disconcerted by finding that 
she had 'really given annoyance. * I beg your pardon,' 
she said. ' It is only a &ncy of my own. I am afraid 
that I have many fancies for my uriends to bear with. 
You see I have so fine a name of my own, that I have a 
fellow-feeling for those under the same affliction \ and I 
believe some servants like an alias rather than be teased 
for their finery, so I shall give Miss Eweretta her choice 
between that and her surname.' 

The old lady looked good-natured, and that matter 
blew over ; but Miss Meadows fell into another compli- 
cation of pros and cons about writing for the woman's 
character, looking miserably harassed whether she would 
write, or Mrs. Kendal, before she had been called upon. 

Albinia supposed that Mrs. Wolfe might call in the 
course of the week ; but this Miss Meadows did not know, 
and she embarked in so many half speeches, and looked 
so mysterious and significant at her mother, that Albinia 
began to suspect that some dreadful truth was behind. 

'Perhaps,' said the old lady, 'perhaps Mrs. Kendal 
might make it understood through you,>my dear Maria, 
that she is ready to receive visits.' 

' I suppose they must be I ' said Albinia. 

' You see, my dear, people would be most happy, but 



they do not know whetiier yon have arrived. You have 
not appeared at church, as I may say.' 

Mndeed,' said Albiniay mudi diverted by her new 
discoveries in the realms of etiquette, ' I was rather in a 
cupboard, I must allow. Ought we to have sailed up the 
aisle in state in the Grandison pattern ? Are you ready ? ' 
and she glanced up at her husband, but he only half 
heard. 

^ No,' said Miss Meadows, fretfully ; * but you have not 
iq^peared as a bride. The straw bonnet— you see people 
cannot tell whether you are not inoc^. as yet—' 

To refrain from laughing was impossible. * My tarn 
cap,' she exclaimed ; * 1 am invisible in it 1 What shall 
I do f I fear I shall never be producible, for indeed it is 
my very best, my veritable wedding-bcHmet 1 ' 

Lucy looked as if she thought it not worth while to 
be married for no better a bonnet than that. 

* Absurdity 1 ' sud Mr. Kendal. 

If he would but have given a good hearty laugh, 
thought Albinia, what a consolation it would be ! but she 
considered herself to have had a lesson against laughing 
in that house, and was very glad when he proposed going 
home. He took a kind, affectionate leave of the old lady, 
who again looked fondly in his &ce, and rejoiced in his 
having recovered his looks. 

As they arrived at home, Lucy announced that she 
was just going to speak to Lizzie Osbom, and Sophy ran 
after her to a house of about the same degree as their 
own, but dignified as Mount Lodge, because it stood on 
the hill side of the street, while Mr. Kendal's house was 
for more gentility called ' Willow Lawn.' Gilbert was 
not to be found ; but at four o'clock the whole party met 
at dinner, before the evening service. 

Gilbert could eat little, and on going back to the fire 
to roast his cheek instead of going to church, was told by 
his father, * I cannot have this going on. You must go to 
Mr. Bowles directly after breakfast to morrow, have the 
tooth drawn, and then go on to Mr. Salsted's.' 

The tone was one that admitted of no rebellion. If 
Mr. Kendal interfered little, his authority was absolute 



Xm T09XI9 wmMUfTBtfik 28 

t^cre he did inieifevey and AHwU oonild only wpesk a 
^w kind words of encouragement; but the wy was 
^exed and moody^ seemed Uf asleep when they came 
home, and went to bed as soon as tea was over. 

Sof^y went to bed too, Mr. Kendal went to hia 
study, and Albinia, after this day of novelty and excite- 
ment, drew her diair to the fire, and as Lucy was haog- 
ms wearily about, called her to her side, and made her 
talk, believing that there was more use in studying the 
girl's charaofcer than even in suggesting some occupation, 
though that was apparently the great want of the whole 
family on Sunday. 

Lucy's first confidence was that Gilbert had not been 
ant alone, but with that Ardiibald Tritton. Mr. Tritton 
had a great fium, and was a sort of gentleman, and Gil^ 
bert was always after that Areby. She thou^t it ' very 
undesirable,' and Aunt Maria had talked to hun about 1% 
but he never listened to Aunt Maria. 

Albinia privately thought tibat it must be a severe 
penance to listen to Aunt Maria, and took Gilbert's part* 
She supposed that be must be very solitary ; it must be 
ameUmcbcdy thing to be. a twin left akHieu 

^ And E^nund, dear Edmund, was always so kind and 
eo fond of Gilbert I ' said Lucy. ' You would not have 
thought they were twins, Edmund was ao much the tallp 
est and strongest. It seemed so. odd that Gilbert should 
have got over it, wha:i he did not. Should you like to 
bear all abcmt it, mamma 9 ' 

It was Albinia's great wish to lift that dark v^, and 
Lucy began, with as mudi seriousness and sadness as 
oould co-exist with the satisfaction and importance of hav- 
ing to give such a narration, and exciting emotion and 
pity. It was remarkable how she manag^ to make her- 
aelf the heroine of the story, though she had been sent 
out of the house, and had escaped the infection. She 
spoke Jn phrases that showed that she had so oft;en told the 
story as to have a set form, caught fi-om her elders, but 
still it had a deep and intrinsic interest for the bride, that 
made iier sit gazing into the fire, pressing Lucy's hand, 
and now and then sighing and shuddering slighdy as she 



24 IflS TO17M0 flTXP-VOIHXB* 

heard how tiiere had been a bad fever prerailing in that 
lower part of the town, and how the two boys were both 
unwell one damp, hot autumn morning, and Lucy dwelt 
on the escape it had been that she had not kissed them 
before going to school. Sophy had sickened the same 
day, and after the tedious three weeks, when father and 
mother were spent with attendance on the three, Ed- 
mund, after long delirium, had suddenly sunk, just as 
they had hopes of him ; and the same message that told 
Lucy of her brother's death, told her of the severe illness 
of both parents. 

The disease had done the work rapidly on the moth* 
er's exhausted frame, and she was buried a week after her 
boy. Lucy had seen the procession from the window, 
and thought it necessary to tell how she had cried. 

Mr. Kendal's had been a long illness ; the first knowl- 
edge of his loss had caused a relapse, and his recovery 
had long been doubtful. As soon as the children were 
able to move, they were sent with Miss Meadows to 
Bamsgate, and Lucy had joined them there. 

* The day before I went, I saw papa,' she said. ^ I had 
gone home for some things that I was to take, and his 
room door was open, so he saw me on the stairs, and 
called me, for there was no fear of infection then. Oh, he 
was so changed 1 his hair all cut off, and his cheeks hol- 
low, and he was quite trembling, as he lay back on pU«^ 
lows in the great arm-chair. You can't think what a 
shock it was to me to see him in such a state. He held 
out his arms, and 1 flung mine round his neck, and sobbed 
and cried. And he just said, so faintly, " Take her away, 
Maria, I cannot bear it." I assure you I was quite hys- 
terical.' 

* You must have wished for more self-command,' said 
Albinia, disturbed by Lucy's evident pleasure in having 
made a scene. 

' Oh, but it was such a shock, and such a thing to see 
the house all empty and forlorn, with the windows open, 
and everything so still I Miss Belmarch6 cried too, and 
said she did not wonder my feelings overcame me, and 
«^ did not see papa.' 



* Ah 1 Lucy,' said Albinia, fervently, * how we must 
try to make him happy after all that he has gone 
through ! ' 

^That is what grandmamma said when she got his 
letter. '' I would be glad of anything," she said, ^' that 
would bring back a smile to him." And Aunt Maria said 
she had done her best for him, but he must consult his 
own happiness ; and so I say. When people talk to me, 
I say that papa is quite at liberty to consult his own hap- 
piness.' 

' Thank you.' 

Lucy did not understand the tone, and w^it on piu 
tronizing. * And if they say you look younger than they 
expected, I don't object to that at all. I had rather you 
were not as old as Aunt Maria, or Miss Belmarche.' 

* Who thinks me so young ? ' 

* Oh ! Aunt Maria and grandmamma, and Mrs. Os- 
bom, and all ; but I don't mind that, it is only Sophy 
who says you look like a girl. Aunt Maria says Sophy 
has an unmanageable temper.' 

* Don't you think you can let me find that out for 
myself? ' 

* I thought you wanted me to tell you about every- 
body.' 

' Ah ! but tell me of the good in your brother and 
sister.' 

* I don't know how,' said Lucy. * Gilbert is so tire- 
some, and so is Sophy. I heard Mary telling Jane, ** I'm 
sure the new missus will have a heavy handful of those 
two." ' 

* And what of yourself ? ' said Albinia. 

* Oh ! I don't know,' said Lucy, modestly. 

Mr. Kendal came in, ahd as Albinia looked at his 
pensive brow, she was oppressed by the thought of his 
sufferings in that dreary convalescence. At night, when 
she loc^d from her window, the fog hung white, like 
mildew over the pond, and she could not reason herself 
out of a spectral haunting fancy that sickness lurked in the 
heavy, misty atmosphere, ^e dreamt of it and the four 
babies, started, awoke, and h^d to reeaU all hi^ higher 

2 



26 THB YOjnXQ STBP-MOTHBR. 

trust to enable her vigour to chase off the oppresBire 
imagination. 



•«♦«< 



CHAPTER III. 

Foo greeted Mrs. Kendal's eyes Od she rose, and she 
resolved to make an attack on the pond without loss of 
time. But Mr. Kendal was absorbed nearlj all breakfast 
time in a letter from India, containing a scrap in some 
uncouth character. As he finished his last cup of tea, he 
looked up and said, ^ A letter from my old friend Pen- 
rose, of Bombay — an inscription in the Salsette caves.' 

*• Have you seen the Salsette caves 1 ' 

* Yes.' 

She was longing to hear about them, but his horse 
was announced. 

' You said you would be engaged in the morning while 
I ride out, Albinia?' he said; 'I shall return before 
luncheon. Gilbert, you had better go at once to Mr. 
Bowles. I shall order your pony to be ready when you 
come back.' 

There was not a word of remonstrance, though the 
boy looked very disconsolate, and began to murmur the 
moment his father had gone. Albinia, who had regarded 
protection at a dentist's one of the offices of the head of a 
family, though dismayed at the task, told Gilbert that she 
would go with him in a moment. The girls exclaimed 
that no one thought of going with him ; and fearing she 
had put an affront on his manliness, she asked what he 
would like, but could get no answer, only when Lucy 
scolded him for lingering, he said, ' I thought she was 
going with me.' 

* Amiable,' thought Albinia, as she ran up to put on 
her bonnet ; * but I suppose toothache puts people out of 
the pale of civilization. And if he is thankless, is not 
that treating me more like a mother *? ' 

Perhaps be had accepted her escort in hopes of defer- 



ring' tbe evil hour, for he seemed discomfited to see her so 
quickly ready, and not grateful to his sisters, who hurried 
them by saying that Mr. Bowles would be gone out upon 
his rounds. 

Mr. Bowles was amazed at the sight of Mrs. Kendal, 
and so elaborate in compliments and assurances that Mrs. 
Bowles would do herself the honour of calling, that Al- 
binia, pitying Gilbert, called his attention back. 

With him the apothecary was peremptory and face- 
tious. He ' had expected that he should soon see him 
after his papa's return ! ' And with a ' soon be over,' he 
set him down, and Albinia bravely stood a desperate 
wringing of her hand at the tug of war. She was glad 
she had come, for the boy suffered a good deal, and was 
faint, and Mr. Bowles pronounced his mouth in no state 
for a ride to Tremblam. 

' I must go,' said Gilbert, as they walked home ; * I 
wish papa would listen to anything.' 

' He would not wish you to hurt yourself.' 

* When papa says a thing — ' began Gilbert. 

' Well, Gilbert, you are quite right, and I hope you 
don't think I mean to teach you disobedience. But I do 
desire you, on my own responsibility, not to go and catch 
an inflammation in your jaw. Til undertake papa.' 

Gilbert at once became quite another creature. He 
discoursed so much, that she had to make him restore the 
handkerchief to his mouth ; he held open the gate, showed 
her a shoal of minnows, and tried to persuade her to come 
round the garden, before- going in, but she clapped her 
hands at him, and hunted him back into the warm room, 
much impressed and delighted by his implicit obedience 
to his father. With Lucy and Sophy, his remaining 
seemed likewise to make a great sensation ; they looked 
at Mrs. Kendal and whispered, and were eyidently curious 
as to the result of her audacity. Albinia, who had grown 
up with her brother Maurice and cousin Frederick, was 
more used to boys than to girls, and was already more at 
ease with her son than her daughters. 

Gilbert lent a ready hand with hammer and chisel, 
and boxes were opened, to the great delight and admira- 



28 TBX TOCnfO 8TBP-H0THSK 

tion of the gtrls. They were all very happy and busy 
setting things to rights, but Albinia was in difficulty how 
to bestow her books. There was an unaccountable scaro> 
ity both of books and book-cases ; none were to be seen 
except that, in a chiffoni^re in the drawing-room, there 
was a row in gilded bindings, chiefly Pope, Gray, and the 
like ; and one which Albinia took out had pages which 
stuck together, a little pale blue string, faded at the end, 
and in the garlanded fly-leaf the inscription, * To Miss 
Lucy Meadows, the reward of good conduct, December 
20th, 1822.' Ibe book seemed rather mirprised at being 
opened, and Albinia let it close itself as Lucy said, 
* Those are poor mamma's books ; all the others are in 
the study. Come in, and I'll show you.' 

She threw open the door, and Albinia entered. The 
study was shad^ with a mass of laurels that kept out the 
sun, and made it look chill and sad, and the air in it was 
close. The round library>table was loaded with desks, 
pocket-books, and papers ; the mantel-piece was covered 
with letters, and book-shelves mounted to the ceiling, 
iilled with the learned and the poetical of new and old 
times. 

Over the fireplace hung what it needed not Lucy's 
whisper to point out, as ' Poor mamma's picture.' It 
represented a very pretty girl, with dark eyes, brilliant 
colour, and small cherry mouth, painted in the exagger- 
ated style usually called * ridiculously like.' 

Albinia's first feeling was that there was nothing in 
herself that could atone for the* loss of so fair a creature, 
and the thought became more oppressive as she looked at 
a niche in the wall, holding a carved sandal-wood work- 
box, with a silver watch lying on it. 

* Poor Edmund's watch,' said Lucy. * It was given to 
him for a reward just before he was ill.' 

Albinia tried to recover composure by reading the 
titles of the books. Suddenly, Lucy started and ex- 
claimed, ' Come away. There he is ! ' 

* "Why come away f ' said Albinia. 

'I would not have him find me there for all the 
world.' In all her vexation and-dionay, Albinia could 



TBM TOUHQ ffEBMftCKI'lUi M 

not hdp thinking of Bluebeard's closet. Her inclination 
was to stay ivfaere i^e was, and take her chance of losing 
her head, yet she felt as if she could not bear to be found 
invading a sanctuary of past recollections, and was re* 
lieyed to find that it was a false alarm, though not re« 
lieved by the announcement that Admiral and Mrs* 
Osborn and the Miss Osborns were in the drawing-room. 

'Before luncheon — ^too bad I' she exclaimed, as she 
hurried upstairs to wash off the dust of unpacking. 

Ere she could hurry down there was another inunda- 
tion streaming across the hall, Mrs. Drury and three 
Miss Drurys, who, as she remembered, when they began 
to kiss her, were some kind of cousins. 

There was talk, but Albinia could not give ^tire at- 
tention ; she was watching for Mr. Kendiu's return, that 
she might guard Gilbert from his displeasure, and the 
instant she heard him, she sprang up, and flew into the 
hall. He could not help brightening at the eager wel- 
come, but when she told him of Mr. Bowles' opinion, he 
looked graver, and said, 'I fear you must not always 
attach credit to all Gilbert's reports.' 

* Mr. Bowles told me himself that he must nm no risk 
of inflammation.' 

* You saw Mr. Bowles I ' 

* I went with Gilbert.' 

* You 1 I never thought of your imposing so unpleas- 
ant a task on yourself I fear Uie boy naa been trespass- 
ing on your kindness.' 

* No, indeed, he never asked me, but—' with a sort of 
laugh to hide the warmth excited by his pleased, grateful 
look, * I thought it all in the day's work, only natural — ^ 

She would have given anything to have had time to 
enjoy his Spanchement dt coeur at those words, but she was 
obliged to add, ' Alas I there's all the world in the draw- 
ing-room ! ' 

*Who?' 

* Osborns and Drurys.' 

* Do you want me f ' 

* I ran away on the plea of calling you. 

. < I'll never do so again,' was her inward addition, as 



30 TBB TOVNO BTEP-HOTHSB. 

his countenance settled into the accustomed fixed look of 
abstraction, and as an unwilling victim, he entered the 
room with her, and the visitors were * dreadful enough * 
to congratulate him. 

Albinia knew that it must be so unpleasant to him, 
that she blushed up to the roots of her hair, and could 
not look at anybody. 

When she recovered, the first comers were taking 
leave, but the second set stayed on and on till past lun- 
cheon-time, and far past her patience, before the room 
was at last cleared. 

Gilbert hurried in, and was received by his &ther 
with, * You are very much obliged to her ? ' 

' Indeed I am,' said Gilbert, in a winning, pleasant 
manner. 

' 1 don't want you to be,' said Albinia^ affectionately- 
laying her hand on his shoulder. ' And now for limcheon 
— I pitied you, poor fellow ; I thought you must have 
been famished.' 

' Anything not to have all the Drurys at luncheon,' 
said Gilbert, confidentially ; ' I had begun to wish myself 
at Tremblam.' 

' By the bye,' sud Mr. Kendal, waking as he sat down 
at the bottom of the table, ' how was it that the Drurys 
did not stay to luncheon I ' 

^ Was that what they were waiting for ? ' exclaimed 
Albinia. * Poor people, I had no notion of that.' 

' They do have luncheon here in general,' said Jtf r. 
Kendal, as if not knowing exactly how it came to pass. 

* O yes,' said Lucy ; * Sarah Anne asked me whether 
we ate wedding-cake every day.' 

'Poor Miss Sarah Ajinai' said Albinia, laughing. 
' But one cannot help feeling inhospitable when people 
come so unconscionably early, and cut up all one's morn- 
ing.' 

The door was again besieged by visitors, just as they 
were all going out to make the round of the garden ; and 
It was not till half-past four that the succession ceased, 
and Albinia was left to breathe fi'eely, and remember how 
often Maurice had called her to order for intolerance of 
morning calls. 



r 



TflK TOtTVO BlJBIVMOTUJUb 81 

And not the only people I cared to see,' she said, 
*the Dusautoys and Nugents. But they have too much 
mercy to call the first day.' 

Mr. Kendal looked as if his instinct were drawing him 
study-wards, but Albinia hung on his arm, and made him 
oome into the garden. Though devoid of Winifred's gar- 
dening tastes, she was dismayed at the untended look of 
the flower-beds. The laurels were too high, and seemed 
to choke the narrow space, and the turf owed its verdant 
appearance to damp moss. She had made but few steps 
before the water squished under her feet, and impelled her 
to exdaim, * What a pity this pond should not be filled 
up I' 

* Filled up !— ' 

* Yes, it would be so much less damp. One might 
drain it off into the river, and then we should get rid of 
the fog.' 

And ahe began actively to demonstrate the convenient 
slope, and the beautiful flower-bed that might be made in 
its place. Mr. Kendal answered with a few assenting 
sounds and complacent looks, and Albinia, accustomed to 
a brother with whom to assent was to act, believed the 
matter was in train, and that pond and fever would be 
annihilated. 

The garden opened into a meadow with a causeway 
leading to a canal bank, where there was a promising 
country walk, but the cruel visitors had left no time for 
exploring, and Albinia had to return home and hurry up 
her arrangements before there was space to turn round 
in her room-— even then it was not what Winifred could 
have seen without making a face. 

Mr. Kendal had read aloud to his wife in the evening 
during the stay at the sea-side, and she was anxious not 
to let the habit drop. He liked it, and read beautifully, 
and she thought it good for the children. She therefore 
b^ged him to read, catdiing him on the way to his 
study, and coaxing him to stay no longer tluui to find 
a book. He brought Schlegel's Philosophy of History. 
She feared that it was above the young ones, but it was 
delightiiQ to herself^ and the custom hal better be estab- 



32 TBB YOXnXQ STEP-HOXHXB. 

lished before it was perilled by attempts to adapt it to 
the children. Lucy and Sophy seemed astonished and 
displeased, and their whispers had to be silenced ; Gilbert 
learnt his lessons apart. Albinia rallied her spirits, and 
insisted to herselT that she did not feel discouraged. 

Monday had gone, or rather Albinia had been robbed 
of it by visitors — ^now for a vigorous Tuesday. Her un- 
packing and her setting to rights were not half over, but 
as the surface was habitable, she resolved to finish at her 
leisure, and sacrifice no more mornings of study* 

So i^er she had lingered at the door, to delight Gil- 
bert by admiring his pony, she returned to the dining- 
room, where the girls were loading a small table in the 
wmdow with piles of books and exercises, and Lucy was 
standing, looking all eagerness to show off her drawings. 

^ Yes, my dear, but first we had better read. I have 
been talking to your papa, and we have settled that on 
Wednesdays and Fridays we will go to church ; but on 
these days we will begin by reading the Psalms and Les- 
sons.' 

* Oh,' said Lucy, * we never do that, except when we 
are at grandmamma's.' 

^ Pray are you too old or too young for it 1 ' said 
Albinia. 

' We did it to please grandmamma,' said Sophy. 

*Now you will do it to please me,' said Albinia, * if 
for no better reason. Fetch your Bibles and Prayer- 
books.' 

^ We shall never have time for our studies, I assure 
you, mamma,' objected Lucy. 

* That is not your concern,' said Albinia, her spirit 
rising at the girl's opposition. * I wish for obedience.' 

Lucy went ; Sophy leant against the table like a post. 
Albinia regretted that the first shot should have been 
fired for such a cause, and sat perplexing herself whether 
it were worse to give way, or to force the girls to read 
Holy Scripture in such a mood. 

Lucy came flying down with the four books in her 
hands, and began officiously opening them before her 
sister, and exhorting her not to ^ve way to sullennesa — 



fehe ought to like to read the Bible— which of course made 
Bophy look Grosser. The desire to establish her author* 
ity conquered the scruple about reverence. Albinia set 
them to read, and suffered for it. Lucy read flippantly 3 
Sophy in the hoarse, dull, dogged voice of a naughty boy* 
She did not dare to expostulate, lest she should exasperate 
the tempers that she had roused. 

* Never mind,' she thought, ' when the institution is 
fixed, they will be more amenble.' 

She tried a little examination afterwards, but not one 
answer was to be extracted from Sophy, and Lucy knew 
far less than the first class at Fairmead, and made^ her 
replies wide of the mark, with an air of satis&ction that 
nearly overthrew the younffstep-mother's patience. 

When Albinia took her Bible upstairs, she gave Sophy 
time to say what Lucy reported instantly on her entrance. 

* Dear me, mamma, here is Sophy declaring that you 
ought to be a charity-schoolmistress. You won't be 
angry with her, but it is so funny I ' 

* If you were at my charity school, Lucy,' said Al- 
binia, * the first lesson I should give you would be against 
telling tales.' 

Lucy subsided. 

Albinia turned to Sophy. * My dear,' she said, * per- 
haps I pressed this on when you were not prepared for 
it, but I have always been used to think of it as a duty.' 

Sophy made no answer, but her moody attitude re* 
laxed, and Albinia took comfort in the hope that she 
might have been gracious if she had known how to set 
about it. 

* I suppose Miss Belmarche is a Roman Catholic,' she 
said, wishing to account for this wonderful ignorance, and 
addressing herself to Sophy ; but Lucy, whom she thought 
she had efiectually put down^ was up again in a moment 
like a Jack-in-a-box. 

f * O yes, but not Genevieve. Her papa made it his 
desire that she should be brought up a Protestant. 
Wasn't it funny ? You know G6nevi6ye is Madame Bel- 
march^'s grand-daughter, and Mr. Durant was a dancing- 
master.' 

2* 



^ Madame Belmarche'a &ther and brother were guil^ 
lotined,' continued Sophy. 

* Ah I then she is an emigrant ? ' 

* Yes. Miss Belmarch^ has always kept school here. 
Our own mamma and Aunt Maria went to school to her, 
and Miss Celeste Belmarch^ married Mr. Durant, a danc* 
ing-master — she was French teacher in a school in Lon« 
don where he taught ; and Madame Belmarche did not 
approve, for she and her husband were something very 
grand in France, so they waited and waited ever so long, 
and when at last they did marry, they were quite old, 
and she died very soon; and they say he never was 
happy again, and pined away till he really died of grief| 
and so Genevieve came to her grandmamma to be 
brou^t up.' 

* Poor child I how old is she ? ' 

^Fifteen/ said Lucy. 'She teaches in the school. 
She is not at all pretty, and such a queer little thing.' 

* Waj3 her father French 1 ' 

* No,' said Sophy. 

* Yes/ said Lucy. * You know nothing about it, 
Sophy. He was French, but of the Protestant French 
sort, that came to England a great many years ago, when 
they ran away from the Sicilian Vespers, or the Edict of 
Nantes, I don't remember which ; only the Spitalfields 
weavers have something to do with it. However, at any 
rate G^nevi^ve has got something in a drawer up in her 
own room that she is very secret about, and won't show 
to anybody.' 

' I think it is something that somebody was killed 
with,' said Sophy, in a low voice. 

* Dear me, if it is, I am sure it is quite wicked td 
keep it. I shall be quite afraid to go into her room, 
and you know I slept there all the time of the fever.' 

' It did not hurt you,' said Sophy. 

Albinia had been strongly interested by the touching 
facts, so untouchingly narrated, and by the characteristic 
account of the Huguenot emigration, but it suddenly oc- 
curred to her that she was promoting gossip, and she re- 
turned to business. Lucy showed off her attainments 



riftx TouKG Brxp-MorHSB. aft 

vith her usual self-satisfaction. They were what might 
be expected from a second-rate old-fashioned young ladies' 
school, where nothing was good but the French pronun- 
ciation. She was evidently considered a great proficient, 
and her glib mediocrity was even more disheartening tiurn 
the ungracious carelessness or dulness— -there was no 
knowing which — that made her sister figure wretchedly 
in the examination. However, there was little time-— 
the door-bell rang at a quarter to twelve, and Mrs* 
Wolfe was in the drawing-room. 

* I told you 80,' whispered Lucy, exultingly, 

'This is unbearable,' cried Albinia. *l shall give 
notice that I am always engaged in the morning.' 

She desired each young lady to work a sum in her 
absence, and left them to murmur, if they were so di»> 
posed. Perhaps it was Lucy's speech that made her in- 
flict the employment ; at any rate, her spirit was not as 
serene as she could have desired. 

Mr. Kendal was quite willing that she should hence- 
forth shut her door against company in the morning; 
that is to say, he bowed his head ass^itingly. She was 
be^ng him to take a walk with her, when, at another 
sound of the bell, he made a precipitate retreat into his 
study. The visitors were the Bdmarch6 family. The 
old lady was dark and withered, small, yet in look and 
air, with a certain nobility and grandeur that carried Al- 
binia back in a moment to the days of hoops and trains, 
of powder and high-heeled shoes, and made her feel that 
the sweeping courtesy had come straight from the days 
of Marie Antoinette, and that it was an iionour and dis- 
tinction conferred by a superior — superior, indeed, in all 
the dignity of age, suffering, and constancy. 

Albinia blushed, and took her hand with respect very 
unlike the patronizing airs of Bayford Bridge towards 
* poor old Madame Belmarche,' and with downcast eyes 
and pretty embarrassment, heard the stately compliments 
of the ancien regime. 

Miss Belmaroh6 was not such a fine specimen of 
Sevres porcelain as her mother. She was a brown, dried, 
small woman, having lost, or never possessed, her coun- 



try's taste in dress, and with a mstj botmet over the 
tight, frizzly curls of her firont ; too thin and too scantily 
robed to have any waist, and speaking English too well 
lor the f^quant grace of her mother's speech. Poor 
lady ! bom an esole^ she had toiled and struggled for a 
whole lifetime to support her mother } but though care 
bad worn her down, there was still vivacity in her quick 
little black eyesy and though ber teeth were of a dreadful 
colour, her laugh wa» so full of life and sweetness, thafr 
Albinia felt drawn towards her ki a moment. 

Silent and demure, plainly dressed in an old dark 
mermo, and a white-ribboned faded bonnet, sat a little 
figure almost behind her grandmother* Her face had the 
Irencb want of complexion, but the eyes were of the 
deepest, most lustrous hue of grey, almost as dark as the 
pupils, and with the sofhiess of long dark eyelashes- 
beautiful eyes^ full of l^ht and expresnon— and as she 
moved towards the table, there was a finish and delicacy 
about the whole form and movements, that made her a 
most pleasdng object. 

But Albinia could not improve her acqumntance, for 
in flowed another party of visitors, and Madame curtsied 
herself out again, Albinia volunteering that she would 
soon come to see her, and being answered, ^ You will da 
me too much honour.' 

Another afternoon devoured by visitors I Eveiy one 
seemed to have come except the persons who would have 
been most welcome, Mr. Dusautoy, and Winifred's 
friends, the Nugents. 

When, at four o'clock, she had shaken hands with the 
last guest, she gave a heartyyawn, jumped up and shook 
herself, as she exclaimed, ' Inere I There ! that is done 1 
1 wonder whether your papa would come out now I ' 

* He is in his study,' said the girls. 

Albinia thought of knocking and calling at the door, 
but somehow it seemed impossible, and she decided on 
promenading past his window to show that she was ready 
for him. But alas I those evergreens I She could not 
see in, and probably he could not see out. 

^ Ha I ' cried liicy, as they pursued their walk into 



ibe kitohfiii gsrdoQi ' here are some asparagus coining up. 
Grandmamma always has our first asparagus/ 

Albinia was delighted to find such an opening. Out 
came her knife-^they would cut the heads and take them 
up at once ; but when the tempting white-etalked, pink" 
tipped bundle had been made up and put into a basket, a 
difficulty arose* 

' I'll call the boy to take it,' said Lucy. 

* Whaty when we are going oursdyes f ' said Albinia. 

* Oh I but we can't.' 

* Why ? Do you think we shall break down under 
tlie weight)' 

' O noy but people will stare.' 

* Why— what should they stare at) ' 

* It looks so to carry a basket—-' 

Albinia burst into one of her merriest peels of laugh- 
ing. 

* Not carry a basket ! My dear, I have looked so all 
the days of my life. Bayford must endure the spectacle^ 
so it may as well begin at once.' . 

^ But, dear mamma — ' 

' I'm not asking you to carry it. O no, I only hope 
you don't think it too ungenteel to walk with me. But 
the notion of calling a boy away from his work, to carry 
a couple of dozen asparagus when an able-bodied woman 
is going that way herself! ' 

Albinia was so tickled that she could hardly check 
herself, even when she saw Lucy looking distressed and 
hurt, and little laughs would break out every moment as 
she beheld the young lady keeping aloof, as if ashamed of 
her company, turning towards the steep church steps, 
willing at least to hide the dreadful sight from the High 
Street. 

Just as they had entered theiiiarrow alley, they heard 
a hasty tread, and almost running over them with his long 
strides, came Mr. Dusautoy. He brought himself up 
short, just in time, and exclaimed, * I beg your pardon — 
Mrs. Kendal I believe. Could you be kind enough to 
give me a glass of brandy 1 ' 

Albinia gave a great start, as well she might* 



88 IBS TOtTlTG flfnCP-lCOTlUBB. 

*I was going to fetch one,' quickly proceeded Vbt. 
Dusautoj, * but your house is nearer. A poor man—" 
there— just come home— been on the tramp for work- 
quite exhausted-**' and he pointed to one of the cottages. 

* I'll fetch it at once,' cried Albinia. 

* Thank you,' he said, as they crossed the street. 
' This poor fellow has had nothing all day, has walked 
from Hadminster^ust got home, sank down quite worn 
out) and there is nothing in the house but dry bread. 
His wife wants something nearly as much as he does.' 

In the excitement, Albinia utterly forgot all scruples 
about * Bluebeard's closet.' She hurried into the house^ 
and made but one dash, standing before her astonished 
husband's dreamy eyes, exclaiming, ' Pray give me the 
key of the cellaret ; there's a poor man just come home, 
fainting with exhaustion; Mr. Dusautoy wants some 
brandy for him.' 

Like a man but half awake, obeying an apparition, 
Mr. Kendal put his hand into his pocket and gave her 
the key. She was instantly opening the cellaret, seeking 
among the bottles, and asking questions all the time. 
She proposed taking a jug of the kitchen-tea then in oper- 
ation, and Mr. Dusautoy caught at the idea ; so that poor 
Lucy beheld the dreadM spectacle of the vicar bearing a 
can full of steaming tea, and Mrs. Kendal a small cup 
with the ' spirituous liquor.' What was the asparagus to 
this? 

Albinia told her to go on to Mrs. Meadows', and that 
she should soon follow. She intended to have gone the 
moment that she had carried in the cup, leaving Mr. Du- 
sautoy in the cottage, but the poor trembling frightened 
wife needed woman's sympathy and soothing, and she 
waited to comfort her, and to see the pair more able to 
enjoy the meeting, in their tidy, but bare and damp-look- 
ing cottage. She promised broth for the morrow, and 
took her leave, the vicar coming away at the same time. 

' Thank you,' he said, warmly, as they came out, and 
turned to mount the hill together. 

' May I go and call on them again ? ' 

^It will be very kind in you. Poor Simkins is a 



iteady, good sort of fellow, but a olumsy irorkmaoi 
down-hearted, and with poor health, and things have been 
untoward with him.' 

'People who do not prosper in the world are not 
always the worst,' said Albinia. 

'No, indeed, and these are grateful, warm-hearted 
people that you will like, if you can get over the poor 
woman's lackadaisical manner. But you are used to all 
that,' he added, smiling. ' I see you know what poor folks 
are made of.' 

* I have been living among them nearly all my days,' 
said Albinia. ' I hope you will give me something to do, 
I should be quite forlorn without it ] ' and she looked up 
to his kind, open face, as much at home with him as if she 
had known him for years^ 

* Fanny-^my wife-*- shall find work for you,' he said* 
' You must excuse her calling on you, she is never off the 
sofa^ but-^' and what a bright look he gave I as much as 
to say that his wife on the sofa was better than any one 
else ojf . ' I was hoping to call some of these afternoons,' 
he continued, 'but I have had little time, and Fanny 
thought your door was besieged enough alr^y.' 

'Thank you,' said Albinia ; ' I own I thought it was 
your kindness in leaving me a little breathing time. 
And would Mrs. Dusautoy be able to see me if I were to 
call?' 

' She would be delighted. Suppose you were to come 
in at once.' 

' I wish I could, but I must go on to Mrs. Meadows'^ 
If I were to come to-morrow 1 ' 

' Any tim^^any time,' he said. ' She is always at 
home, atid she has been much better since we came here. 
We were too much in the town at Lauriston.' 

Mr. Dusautoy, having a year ago come out of the 
diocese where had been Albinia's home, they had many 
common friends, and plunged into ' ecclesiastical intelli- 
gence,' with a mutual understanding of the topics most 
often under discussion, that made Albinia quite in her 
element. ' A great Newfoundland dog of a man in size, 



40 Ttts irotfKQ fln&P'KaTffiESi 

and countenance, and kindness/ thought she. * If his trife 
be worthy of him, I shall reck little of all the rest.' 

Her tread the gayer for this resumption of old habits^ 
die proceeded to Mrs* Meadows', where the sensation 
created by her poor little basket ju^ified Lucy's remon- 
strance. There were regrets, and assurances that the girl 
could have come in a moment, and that she need not have 
troubled herself, and her laughing declarations that it was 
no trouble, were disregarded, except that the old lady 
said, in gentle excuse to her daughter, that Mrs. Kendal 
had always lived in the country, where people could do 
as they pleased. 

' I mean to do as I please here,' said Albinia, laugh- 
faig ; but the speech was received with silent discomfiture 
that made her heartily regret it. She disdained to ex- 

Slain it away ; she was beginning to hold Mrs. and Miss 
feadows too cheap to think it worth while. 

* Well,' said Mrs. Meadows, as if yielding up the sub- 
ject, * things may be different from what they were in my 
time.' 

* Oh I mamma — ^Mrs. Kendal— I am sure—* Albinia 
let Maria flounder, but she only found her way out of the 
speech with * Well ! and is not it the most extraordinary 1 
^-Mr. Dusautoy— so rude—' 

* I should not wonder if you found me almost as ex- 
traordinary as Mr. Dusautoy,^ said Albinia. 

Why would Miss Meadows always nettle her into say- 
ing exactly the wrong thing, so as to alarm and distress 
the old lady 1 That want of comprehension of playfulness 
was a strangely hard trial. She turned to Mrs. Meadows 
and tried to reassure her by saying, * You know I have 
been always in the clerical line myself, so I naturally take 
the part of a parson.' 

* Yes, my dear,' said Mrs. Meadows. * I dare say Mr. 
Dusautoy is a very good man, but I wish he would allow 
his poor delicate wife more butcher's meat ; and I don't 
think it looks well to see the vicarage without a man- 
servant.' 

Albinia finally made her escape, and while wondering 
whether she should ever visit that house without tingling 



TBB TOITSrO ffSXMHi/tHMSU 41 

with initation with herself and with the inmates, Lucy 
exclaimed, ' There, you see I was right. Grandmamma 
and Aunt Maria were surprised when I told them that 
you said you were an able«bodied woman.' 

What would not Albinia have given for Winifred to 
laugh with her ? What to do now, she did not know, so 
she thought it best not to hear, and to ask the way to a 
carpenter's shop to order some book-shelves. 

She was more uncomfortable after she came home, for 
by the sounds when Mr. Kendal next emerged from his 
study, she found that he had locked himself in, to guard 
against further intrusion. And when she offered to re* 
turn to him the key of the cellaret, he quietly replied that 
he should prefer her retaining it, — not a formidable an- 
swer in itself, but one which, coupled with the locking of 
the door, proved to her that she might do anything rather 
than invade his privacy. ' 

Now Maurice's study was the thorough&re of the 
household, the place for all parish preparations unpresent- 
able in the drawing-room, and Albinia was taken by sur- 
prise. She grew hot and cold. Had she done anything 
wrong ? Could he care for her if he could lock her out ? 

' 1 will not be morbid, I will not be absurd,' said she 
to herself, though the tears stood in her eyes. * Some 
men do not like to be rushed in upon ! It may be only 
habit. It may have been needful here. It is base to take 
petty offences, and set up doubts.' 

And Mr. Kendal's tender manner when they were 
agam together, his gentle way of addressing her, and a 
sort of shy caress, proved that he was far from all thought 
of displeasure ; nay, he might be repenting of his mo- 
mentary annoyance, though he said nothing. 

Albinia went to inquire after the sick man at her first 
leisure moment, and while talking kindly to the wife, and 
hearing her troubles, was surprised at the forlorn rickety 
state of the building, the broken pavement, damp walls, 
and door that would not shut, because the frame had sunk 
out of the perpendicular. 

' Can't you ask your landlord to do something to the 
house 1' 



42 THX TOUNO BTEP^OTBEB. 

* It is of no use, ma'am, Mr. Pettiloye never will do 
nothing. Perhaps if you would be kind enough to say a 
word to him, ma'am — ' 

* Mr. Pettilove, the lawyer ? I'll try if Mr. Kendal 
can say anything to him. It really is a shame to leave a 
house in this condition.' 

Thanks were so profuse, that she feared that she was 
supposed to possess some power of amelioration. The 
poor woman even insisted on conducting her up a break- 
neck staircase to see the broken ceiling, whence water 
often streamed in plentifully from the roof. 

Her mind full of designs against the cruel landlord, 
she speeded up the hill, exhilarated by each step she took 
into the fresh air, to the garden-gate, which she was just 
unhasping, when the hearty voice of the vicar was heard 
behind her. * Mrs. Eendid ! I told Fanny you would 
come.' 

Instead of taking her to the front door, he conducted ^ 
her across a sloping lawn towards a French window open 
to the bright afternoon sunshine. 

*' Here she is, here is Mrs. Kendal ! ' he said, sending 
his voice before him, as they came in sight of the pretty 
little drawing-room, where through the gay chintz cur- 
tains, she saw the clear fire shining upon half-a-dozen 
school girls, ranged opposite to a couch. ' Ah ! ' as he 
perceiv^ them, ' shall 1 take her for a turn in the garden 
while you finish your lesson ? ' 

' One moment, if you please. I did not know it was 
so late,' and a face as bright as all the rest was turned 
towards the window. 

* Ah ! give her her scholars, and she never knows how 
time passes,' said Mr. Dusautoy. ^But step this way, 
and I'll show you the best view in Bayford.' He took her 
up a step or two, to a little turfed mound, where there 
was a rustic seat commanding the whole exquisite view 
of river, vale, and woodland, with the church tower rising 
in the foreground. The wind blew pleasantly, chasing 
the shadows of the clouds across the open space. Albinia 
was delighted to feel it fan her brow, and her eager excla- 
mations contented Mr. Dusautoy. ' Yes,' he said, * it was 



XHK TOITNG BTXP-XOTHSB* 48 

all Fanny's notion. She planned it all last summer when 
I took her round the garden. It is wonderful what an 
eye she has I I only hope when the dry weather comes, 
that I shall be able to get her up there to enjoy it.' 

On coming down they found that Mrs. Dusautoy had 
dismissed her class, and come out to a low, long-backed 
sloping garden-seat at the window. She was very little 
and slight, a mere doll in proportion to her great hus- 
band, who could lift her as easily and tenderly as iv baby, 
paying her a sort of reverential deference and fond admi* 
ration that rendered them a beautiful sight, in such full, 
redoubled measure was his fondness repaid by the little, 
clever, fairy-looking woman, with her playful manner, 
high spirits, keen wit, and the active habits that even con- 
firmed invalidism could not destroy. She had small 
deadly white hands, a fair complexion, that varied more 
than was good for her, pretty, though rather sharp and 
irregular features, and hazel eyes dancing with merriment, 
and face and figure at some years above thirty, would 
have suited a girl of twenty. To see Mr. Dusautoy 
bringing her footstools, shawls, and cushions, and to 
remember the accusation of starvation, was almost irre» 
sistibly ludicrous. 

' Now, John, you had better have been giving Mrs. 
Kendal a chair all this time.' 

^ Mrs. Kendal will excuse,' said Mr. Dusautoy, as he 
brought her a seat. 

^Mrs. Kendal has excused,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, 
bursting into a merry fit of laughter. *0h, I never 
heard anything more charming than your introduction I 
I beg your pardon but I laughed last evening till I was 
worn out, and waked in the night laughing again.' 

It was exhilarating to find that any one laughed at 
Bayford, and Albinia partook of the mirth with all her 
heart. ' Never was an address more gratifying to me,' 
she said. 

^ It was like him ! so unlike Bayford I So bold a ven- 
ture ! ' continued Mrs. Dusautoy, amid peals of laughter. 

*What is there to laugh at?' said Mr. Dusautoy, 
patting on a look between merriment and simplicity. 



44t THS TOmfO SXBOMf OIBBB, 

* What else oould I have done f I should have done the 
same whoever I had met.' 

* Ah ! now he is afraid of your taking it as too great 
a compliment ! To do him justice I believe he would, 
but the question is, what answer he would have had.' 

' Nobody could have refused—' began Albinia. 

* Oh 1 ' cried Mrs. Dusautoy. * Little you know 
Bayford.' 

'Fanny! Fanny I this is too bad. Madame Bel- 
march^ — ^ 

* Would have had nothing but eau sucrS ! No, John, 
decidedly you and Simkins fell upon your legs, and you 
had better take credit for your " admirable sagacity." ' 

* I like the people,' said Albinia ; ' but they never can 
be well while they live in such a shocking place. It is 
quite a disgrace to Bayford.' 

' It is in a sad state,' said Mr. Dusautoy. 

* I know I should like to set my brother upon that 
Mr. Pettilove, who they say will do nothing,' exclaimed 
Albinia. 

The vicar was going to have said something, but a 
look from his wife checked him. Albinia was sorry for 
it, as she detected a look of suppressed amusement on 
Mrs. Dusautoy's face. ' I mean to ask Mr. Kendal what 
can be done,' she said ; ' and in the meantime, to descend 
from what we can't do to what we can. Mr. Dusautoy 
told me to come to you for orders.' 

'And I told Mr. Dusautoy that I should give you 
none.' 

* Oh ! that is hard.' 

' If you could have heard him I He thought he had 
got a working lady at last, and he would have had no 
mercy upon you. One would have imagined that Mr. 
Kendal had brought you here for his sole behoof! ' 

* Then I shall look to you, Mr. Dusautoy.' 

* No, I brieve she is quite right,' he said. * She says 
you ought to undertake nothing till you have had time to 
see what leisure you have to give us.' 

' Nay, I have been used to think the parish my busi- 
ness, home my leisure*' 



THX Toinire stbp-kotbxk 45 

* Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ^ but then you were the 
woman-kind of the clergy, now you are a lay-woman.' 

^ I think you have work at home,' said the vicar. 

* Work, but not work enough I ' cried Albinia. * The 
girls will help me ; only tell me what I may do.' 

' I say, " what you can," * said Mrs. Dusautoy. * You 
see before you a single-handed man. Only two of the 
ladies here can be called coadjutors, one being poor little 
Genevieve Durant, the other the bookseller's daughter, 
Clarissa Richardson, who made all the rest fly off. All 
the others do what good they mean to do according to 
their own sweet will, free and independent women, and 
we can't have any district system, so I think you can only 
do what just comes to hand.' 

Most heartily did Albinia undertake all that Mrs. 
Dusautoy would let her husband assign to her. 

^Yes, John is a strong temptation,' said the bright 
little invalid ; * but you must let Mrs. Kendal find out in 
A month's time whether she has work enough.' 

'I could think my wise brother Maurice had been 
cautioning you,' said Albinia, taking leave as of an old 
friend, for indeed she felt more at home with Mrs. Dusau- 
toy than with any acquaintance she had made in Bayford. 

Albinia told her husband of the state of the cottages, 
and railed at Mr. Pettilove much to her own satisfaction. 
Mr. Kendal answered, ^ He would see about it,' an answer 
of which Albinia had yet to learn the import. 



■♦♦•- 



CHAPTER IV. 

Thsrb are some characters so constituted, that of 
them the old proverb, that Love is blind, is perfectly 
true ; they can see no imperfection in the mind or body 
of those dear to them. There are others in whom the 
strongest affections do not destroy clearness of vision, 
who see their friends on all sides, and perceive their 
&ults and foibles, without loving them the less. 



46 THX TOVECQ 8TJUVX0TUJUC 

Albinia Kendal was a person of the latter description* 
It might almost be called her temptation, that her mind 
beheld all that came before it in a clear, and a humorous 
light, such as only a disposition overflowing with warm 
affection and with the energy of kindness, could have pre- 
vented from bordering upon censoriousess. She had 
imagination, but it was not such as to make an illusion 
of the present, or to interfere with her almost satirical 
good sense. Happily, religion and its earthly manifesta- 
tion — charity regulated her, taught her to fear to judge, 
lest she should be judged, strengthened her naturally fond 
affections, and tempered the keenness that disappointment 
might soon have turned to sourness. The tongue, the 
temper, and the judgment knew their own tendencies, and 
A guard was set over them ; and if the sentinel were ever 
torpid or deceived, repentance paid the penalty. 

She had not long seen her husband at home before she 
had involuntarily completed her view of his character. 
Nature must have designed him for a fellow of a college^ 
where, apart from all cares, he might have collected frag- 
ments of forgott^i authors, and immortalized his name by 
some edition of a Greek Lyric poet, known by four poems 
and a half, and two-thirds of a line quoted somewhere 
else. In such a controversy, lightened by perpetually 
polished poems, by a fair amount of modem literature, 
select college friendships, and methodical habits, Edmund 
Kendal would have been in his congenial element, lived 
and died, and had his portrait hung up as one of the 
glories of his college. 

But he had been carried off from school, before he had 
done more than prove his unusual capacity. All his con- 
nexions were Indian, and his father, who had not seen 
him since his earliest childhood, offered him no choice but 
an appointment in the civil service. He had one stim- 
ulus ; he had seen Lucy Meadows in the radiant glory c^. 
girlish beauty, and had fastened on her all a poet's dreams, 
deepening and becoming more fervid in the recesses of a 
reserved heart, which did not easily admit new sensations. 
That stimulus carried him out cheerfully to India, and 
quickened his abilities, so that he exerted himself suffi- 



THB TOUNG SHEP-MOTHSB*^ 47 

ciently to obtain a lucrative situation early in life. He 
married, and his household must have been on the Ger- 
man system, all the learning on one side, all the domestic 
cares on the other. The understanding and refinement 
wanting in his wife, he belieyed to be wanting in all 
women. As resident at a small remote native court in 
India, he saw no female society such as could undeceive 
him ; and subsequently his Bayford life had not raised his 
standard of womankind. A perfect gentleman, his supe- 
riority was his own work, rather than that of station or 
education ; and so he had never missed intercourse with 
really ladylike or cultivated female minds, expected little 
from wife, or daughters, or neighbours ; had a few learned 
friends, but lived within himself. He had acquired a 
competence too soon, and had the great misfortune of 
property without duties to present themselves obviously* 
He had nothing to do but to indulge his naturally indo- 
lent scholarly tastes, which, directed as they had been to 
Eastern languages, had even less chance of sympathy 
among his neighbours than if they had been classical. 
Always reserved, and seldom or never meeting with per- 
sons who could converse with hin;, he had lapsed into 
secluded habits, and learnt to shut himself up in his study 
and exclude every one, that he might have at least a 
refuge from the gossip and petty cares that reigned every- 
where else. So seldom was anything said worth his atten- 
tion, that he never listened to what was passing, and had 
learnt to say *very well' — TU see about it,' without 
even knowing what was said to him. 

But though his wife had been no companion, the illu- 
sion had never died away ; he had always loved her de- 
votedly, and her loss had shattered all his present rest 
and comfort ; as entirely as the death of his £on had 
taken from him hope and companionship. 

What a home it must have been, with Lucy reigning 
over it in her pert self-sufficiency, Gilbert and Sophy run- 
ning riot and squabbling, and Maria Meadows coming in 
on them with her well-meant worries and persecutions ! 

When taken away from the scene of his troubles, his 
spirits revived; afraid to encounter his own household 



4B TBE TOCHG 8I8P-X0THSB; 

alone, he had thought Albinia the cure for everything. 
But at home, habit and association had proved too strong 
for her presence — the grief which he had tried to leave 
behind, had waited ready to meet him on the threshold, 
and the very sense that it was a melancholy welcome 
added to his depression, and made him less able to exert 
himself. The old sorrows haunted the walls of the house, 
and above all the study, and tarried not in seizing on their 
unresisting victim. Melancholy was in his nature, his in- 
dolence gave it force, and his habits were almost inefiace* 
able, and they were habits of quiet selfishness, formed by 
a resolute, though mert will, and fostered by an adoring 
wife. A yout^ spent in India had not given him ideas 
of responsibilities beyond his own family; and his prin- 
ciples, though sound, had not expanded the views of duty 
with which he had started in life. 

It was a positive pleasure to Albinia to discover that 
there had been an inefficient clergyman at Bayford before 
Mr. Dusautoy, and to know that during half the time that 
the present vicar had held the living, Mr. Kendal had 
been absent, so that his influence had had no time to 
work. She b^an to understand her line of action. It 
must be her eii^rt, in all loving patience and gentleness, 
to raise her husband's spirits and rouse his faculties ; to 
make his powers available for the good of his fellow- 
creatures, to make him an active and happy man, and to 
draw him and his children together. This was truly a 
task to make her heart throb high with hope and energy* 
Strong and brave was that young heart, and not self-con* 
fident— the difficulty made her only the more hopeful, 
because she saw it was her duty. She was secure of her 
influence with him. If he did exclude her from his study, 
he left her supreme elsewhere, and though she would have 
given the world that their sovereignty might be a joint 
one everywhere^ still she allowed much for the morbid 
inveterate habit of dreading disturbance. When he began 
by silence and not listening, she could always rouse him, 
and give him animation, and he was so much surprised 
and pleased whenever she entered into any of his pursuitS| 
tlukt she had full hope of drawing him out. 



THB YOUNG fiTSP-MOTHm. 49 

One day when the fyg, instead of clearing off, had 
turned to violent rain, Albinia had been out on parish 
work, and afterwards enlivening old Mrs. Meadows by 
dutifully spending an hour with her, while Maria was 
nursing a nervous headaches-she had been subject to head> 
aches ever since an ominous sigh supplied the rest. 

But all the effect of Albinia's bright kindness was 
undone, when the grandmother learnt that Gilbert was 
gone to his tutor, and would have to come home in the 
rain, and she gave such an account of his exceeding deli- 
cacy, that Albinia became alarmed, and set <^ at once 
that she might consult his father about sending for him. 

Her opening of the hall door was answered by Mr. 
Kendal emerging from his study. He was looking rest- 
less and anxious, came to meet her, and uncloaked her, 
while he affectionately scolded her for being so venture- 
some. She told him where she had been, and he smiled, 
saying, ' You are a busy spirit I But you must not be 
too imprudent.' 

* Oh, nothing hurts me. It is poor Gilbert that I am 
anxious about. 

' So am I. Gilbert has not a constitution fit for ex- 
posure. I wish he were come home.' 

* Could we not send for him ? Suppose we sent a fly.* 
He was consenting with a pleased smile, when the 

door opened, and there stood the dripping Gilbert, com- 
pletely wet through, pale and chilled, with his hair plas- 
tered down, and his coat stuck all over with the horse's 
short hair. 

* You must go to bed at once, Gilbert,' said his &ther. 
* Are you cold ? ' 

' Very. It was such a horrid driving wind, and I rode 
so fast,' said Gilbert ; violently shivering, as they helped 
to pull him out of his great coat ; he put his hand to his 
mouth, and said that his face ached. Mr. Kendal was 
very anxious, and Albinia hurried the boy up to bed, and 
meantime ordered quickly a basin of the soup preparing 
for dinner, warmed some worsted socks at the fire, and 
ran upstairs with them. 

He seemed to have no substance in him ; he had 
8 



50 XRB TOmrO Smp-MOTBXB. 

hardl J had enei^y to undress himself, and she found him 
with his face hidden on the pillow, shivering audibly, and 
actually crying. She was aghast. 

The boys with whom she had been brought up, would 
never have given way so entirely without resistance ; but 
between laughing, cheering, scolding, covering him up 
close, and rubbing his hands with her own, she comforted 
him, so that he could be grateful and cheerful when his 
father himself came up with the soup. Albinia notieed a 
sort of shudder pass over Mr. Kendal as he entered, and 
he stood close by Gilbert, turning his back on everything 
else, while he watched the boy eat the soup, as if restored 
by every spoonful. ' That was a good thought,' was his 
comment to his wife, and the look of gratitude brought a 
flush of pleasure into her cheek. 

Of all the dinners, this was the most pleasant; he was 
more gentle and affectionate, and she made him tell her 
about the Persian poets, and promise to show her some 
specimens of the Rose Garden of Saadi — she had never 
before been so near having his pursuits opened to her. 

' What a favourite Gilbert is 1 ' Lucy said to Sophia^ 
as Albinia lighted a candle and went up to his room. 

^ He makes such a fuss,' said Sophy. ' What is there 
in being wet through to cry about ? ' 

Albinia heard a little shuffle as she opened the door, 
and Gilbert pushed a book under his pillow. She asked 
him what he had been reading. * Oh,' he said, ' he had 
not been doing it long, for the flickering of the candle 
hurt his eyes.' 

* Yes, you had better not,' said Albinia, moving the 
flaring light to a less draughty part of the dingy white- 
washed attic. * Or shall I read to you ? ' 

' Are you come to stay with me ? ' cried the boy, 

raising himself up to look afler her, as she moved about 

, the room and stood looking from the window over the 

' trees at the water meadows, now flooded into a lake, and 

lighted by the beams of a young moon. 

* I can stay till your father is ready for tea,' said Al- 
binia, coming nearer. ^ Let me see whether your hands 
are hot.' 



THB TO0KO STXP^MOrBBB. 61 

She found her own hand suddonlj clasped, and pressed 
to his lips, and then, as if ashamed, he turned his face 
away ; nor would she betray her pleasure in it, but 
merely said, ^ Shall I go on with your book ? ' 

*' No,' said he, wearily turning his reddened cheek to 
the other side. * I only took it because it is so horrid 
lying here thinking.' 

* I am very sorry to hear it. Do you know, Gibbie, 
that it is said there is nothing more lamentable than 
for a man jiot to like to have his own thoughts for his 
company,' said she, gaily. 

* Ah 1 but — ! ' said Gilbert. * If I lie here alone, I'm 
always looking out there,' and he pointed to the opposite 
recess. She looked, but saw nothing. ^ Don't you know 1 ' 
he said. 

' Edmund ? ' she asked. 

He grasped her hands in both his own, ' Aye I Ned 
used to sleep there. I always look for him there.' 

^ Do you mean that you would rather have another 
room 1 1 would manage it directly.' 

' O no, thank you, I like it for some things. Take 
the candle — ^look by the shutter— <jut out in the wood.' 

The boys' scoring of ' E. & G. K.,' was visible there. 

' Papa has taken all he could of Edmund's,' said Gil- 
bert, ^ but he could not take that 1 No, I would not have 
any other room if you were to give me the best in the 
house.' 

' I am sure not ! But, my dear, considering what 
Edmund was, surely they should be gentle, happy 
thoughts that the room should give you.' 

He shuddered, and presently said, * Do you know 
what ? ' and paused ; then continued, with an effort, get- 
ting tight hold of her hand, * Just before Edmund died — 
he lay out there — I lay here — ^he sat up all white in bed, 
and he called out, clear and loud, " Mamma, Gilbert " — 
I saw him — and then — ^he was dead ! And you know 
mamma did die — and I'm sure I shall I ' He had worked 
himself into a trembling fit, hid his face and sobbed. 

* But you have not died of the fever.' 

* Yes — ^but I know it means that 1 shall die young ! 



52 THB TOUKO BTBP^MOTHSa. 

I am sure it does I It was a call ! I heard Nurse say it 
was a call I ' 

What was to be done with such a superstition 1 Al- 
binia did not think it would be right to argue it away. 
It might be in truth a warning to him to guard his ways 
— a voice from the twin-brother, to be with him through 
life. She knelt down by him, and kissed his forehead. 

' Dear Gilbert,' she said, ' we all shall die.* 

* Yes, but I shall die young.' 

* And if you should. Those are happy who die young. 
How much pain your baby-brother and sisters have 
missed ! How happy Edmimd is now ! ' 

*• Then you really think it meant that I shall ! ' he 
cried, tremblingly. ' O don't I 1 can't die ! ' 

* Your brother called on what he loved best,' said Al- 
binia. ' It may mean nothing. Or rather, it may mean 
that your dear twin-brother is watching for you, I am 
sure he is, to have you with him, for what makes your 
mortal life, however long, seem as nothing. It was a 
call to you to be as pure on earth as he is in heaven. O 
Gilbert, how good you should be ! ' 

Gilbert did not know whether it frightened him or 
soothed him to see his superstition treated with respect 
— ^neither denied, nor reasoned away. But the ghastliness 
was not in the mere fear that death might not be far off. 

The pillow had turned a little on one side — ^Albinia 
tried to smoothe it — ^the corner of a book peeped out. 
It was a translation of The Three Musqueteers, one of the 
worst and most fascinating of Dumas' romances. 

' You won't tell papa ! ' cried Gilbert, raising himself, 
in far more real and present terror than he had previously 
shown. 

* How did you get it ? Whose is it 1 ' 

* It is my own. I bought it at Richardson's. It is 
very fimny. But you won't tell papa ? I never was told 
not ; indeed I was not.' 

* Now, Gilbert, dear, will you tell me a few things ? 
I do only wish what is good for you. Why don't you 
wish that papa should hear of this book 1 ' 

Gilbert writhed himself. 



TBX TOUNG 8TBP-M0THBB. 58 

* You know he would not like it ? * 

* Then why did you take to reading it ? ' 

* Oh ! ' cried the boy, * if you only did know how 
stupid and how miserable it has been ! More than half 
myself gone, and Sophy always glum, and Lucy always 
plaguing, and Aunt Maria always being a torment, you 
would not wonder at one's doing anything to forget it ! ' 

' Yes, but why do what you knew to be wrong ? ' 

* Nobody told me not.' 

* Disobedience to the spirit, then, if not to the letter. 
It was not the way to be happier, my poor boy, nor 
nearer to your brother and mother/ 

'Things didn't use to be stupid when Ned was 
there!' sobbed Gilbert, bursting into a fresh flood of 
tears. 

* Ah ! Gilbert, I grieved most of all for you when first 
I heard your story, before I thought I should ever have 
anything to do with you,' said Albinia, hanging over him 
fondly. ' I always thought it must be so forlorn to be a 
twin lefl solitary. But it is sadder still than I knew, if 
grief has made you put yourself farther from him instead 
of nearer.' 

' I shall be good again now that I have you,' said Gil- 
bert, as he looked up into that sweet face. 

' And you will begin by making a free confession to 
your father, and giving up the book.' 

* I don't see what I have to confess. He would be so 
angry, and he never told me not. Oh ! I cannot tell him.' 

She felt that this was not the right way to begin a 
reformation, and yet she feared to press the point, know- 
ing that the one was thought severe, the other timid. 

' At least you will give up the book,' she said. 

* O dear ! if you would let me see whether d'Artig- 
nan got to England. I must know that I I'm sure there 
can't be any harm in that. Do you know what it is 
about % ' 

*Yes, I do. My brother got it by some mistake 
among some French books. He read some of the droll 
unobjectionable parts to my sister and me, but the rest 
was so bad, that he threw it into the fire.' 



54 THB TOUKO BrBP>MOTHXB* 

* Then you think it funny 1 ' 

* To be sure 1 do.* 

* Do you remember the three duels all ftt once, and 
the three valets 1 Oh ! what fun it is. But do let me 
see if d'Artignan got the diamonds.' 

*Yes, he did. But will this satisfy you, Gilbert? 
You know there are some exciting pleasures that we 
must turn our backs on resolutely. I think this book is 
one of them. Now you will let me take it ? I will tell 
your father about it in private, and he caimot blame you. 
Then, if he will give his consent, whenever you can come 
home early, come to my dressing-room, out of your sis^ 
ters' way, and I will read to you the innocent part, so as 
to get the story out of your brain.' 

' Very well,' said Gilbert, slowly. * Yes, if you will 
not let papa be angry with me.' And, oh dear ! must 
you go 1 ' 

M think you had better dress yourself and come down 
to tea. There is nothing the matter with you now, is 
there ? ' 

He was delighted with the suggestion, and promised 
to come directly ; and Albinia carried off her prize, ex- 
ceedingly hopeful and puzzled, and wondering whether 
her compromise had been a right one, or a mere tamper- 
ing with temptation— delighted with the confidence and 
affection bestowed on her so freely, but awe-struck by the 
impression which the boy had avowed, and marvelling 
how it should be treated, so as to render it a blessed and 
salutary restraint, rather than the dim superstitious 
terror that it was at present. At least there was hope 
of influencing him ; his heart was affectionate, his will on 
the side of right, and in consideration of feeble health and 
timid character, she would overlook the fact that he had 
not made one voluntary open confession, and that the 
partial renunciation had been wrung from him as a choice 
of evils. She could only feel how much he was to be 
pitied, and how he responded to her affection. 

She was crossing tne hall next day, when she heard a 
confusion of tongues through the open door of the dining- 
room, and above all, Gilbert's. ' Well, I say, there are 



THB TOUHQ fflSF-HOTHSB. 55 

but two ladies in Bayford. One is Mrs. Kendal, and the 
other is G^nevi^ve Durant 1 ' 

* A dancing-master's daughter ! ' Lucy's scornful tone 
was unmistakeable, and so was the ensuing high-pitched 
querulous voice, ^ Well, to be sure, Gilbert might be a 
little more — ^a little more civil. Not that I've a word to 
say against — ^against your — your mamma. Oh, no! — 
glad to see — but Gilbert might be more civil.' 

* I think so indeed,' said Albinia. * Good morning. 
Miss Meadows. You see Gilbert has come home quite 
alive enough for mischief.' 

^ Ah I 1 thought I might be excused. Mamma was so 
uneasy — ^though 1 know you don't admit visitors — my 
just coming to see — We've been always so anxious 
about Gilbert. Gibbie dear, where is that flannel I gave 
you for your throat ? ' ' 

She advanced to put her finger within his neok-tie and 
feel for it, Gilbert stuck his chin down, and snapped with 
his teeth like a gin. Lucy exclaimed, ^ Now, Gilbei*t, I 
know mamma will say that is wrong.' 

* Ah J we are used to Oilbert's tricks. Always bear 
with a boy's antics,' said Miss Meadows, preventing 
whatever she thought was coming out of Mrs. Kendal's 
mouth. Albinia took the unwise step of laughing, for her 
sympathies were decidedly with resistance both to flan- 
iiels and to the insertion of that hooked finger. 

' Mr. Bowles has always said it was a case for great 
care. FlSnnel next the skin — no exposure,' continued 
Miss Meadows, tartly. * I am sure — 1 know I am the last 
person to wish to interfere — ^but so delicate — You'll 
excuse — ^but my mother was uneasy ; and people who go 
out in all weathers — ^ 

* I hope Mrs. Meadows had my note this morning.' 

' O yes ! I am perfectly aware. Thank you. Yes, 
I know the ruTe, but you'll excuse — My mother was 
still anxious — I know you exclude visitors in lesson-time. 
I'm going. Only grandmamma would be glad — not that 
she wishes to interfere — ^but if Gilbert had on his piece of 
flannel — ' 

'Have you, Gilbert?' said Albinia, becoming tor- 
mented. 



56 THB T0T7NQ SIEP-MOTHEB* 

* I have been flannel all over all mj life,' said Gilbert^ 
sulkily ; * one bit more or less can make no odds.' 

^ Then you have not that piece ? ' said Albinia, 

* Oh, my dear ! Think of that I New Saxony ! I 
begged it of Mr. Holland. A new remnant — pink list, 
and all ! I said it was just what I wanted for Master Gil- 
bert. Mr. Holland is always a civil, feeling man. New 
Saxony — three shillings the yard — and trimmed with 
blue sarsenet I Where is it, Gilbert ? ' 

^ In a soup-dish, with a crop of mustard and cress on 
it,' said Gilbert, with a wicked wink at Albinia, who was 
unable to resist joining in the girls' shout of laughing ; 
but she became alarmed when she found that poor Miss 
Meadows was very near crying, and that her incoherency 
became so lachrymose as to be utterly incomprehensible. 

Lucy, ashamed of her laughter, solemnly declared 
that it was very wrong of Gilbert, and she hoped he 
would not suffer from it ; and Albinia, trying to become 
grave, judicial, and conciliatory, contrived to pronounce 
that it was very silly to leave anything off in an east 
wind, and hoping to put an end to the matter, asked Aunt 
Maria to sit down, and judge how they went on with their 
lessons. 

O no ; she could not interrupt. Her mother would 
want her. She knew Mrs. Kendal never admitted vis- 
itors. She had no doubt she was quite right. She 
hoped it would be understood. She would not intrude. 
In fact, she could neither go nor stay. She would not 
resume her seat, nor let anything go on, and it was full 
twenty minutes before a series of little vibrating motions 
and fragmentary phrases had borne her out of the house. 

' Well ! ' cried Gilbert, ' I hoped Aunt Maria had left 
off coming down upon us.' 

* O, mamma ! ' exclaimed Lucy, * you never sent your 
love to grandmamma.' 

' Depend upon it she was waiting for that,' said Gil- 
bert. 

^ I'm sure I wish I had known it,' said Albinia, not in 
the most judicious manner. ' Half-past eleven I ' 

' Aunt Maria says she can't tmnk how you can find 



time for church when you can't see risitors in the inoni< 
ing,' said Lucy. ' And oh I dear mammai grandmamma 
says gravy sbup was enough to throw (Gilbert into a 
fever.' 

* At any rate^ it did not/ said Albinia. 

' Oh I and, dear mamma, Mrs. Osbom is so hurt that 
you called on Mrs. Dusautoy before returning her visit ; 
and Aunt Maria says if you don't call to-day yoU will 
never get over it, and she says that^' 

* What business has Mrs. Osbom to ask whom I 
called on ? ' exclaimed Albinia, impatiently. 

^Because Mrs. Osbom is the leading lady in the 
town," said Lucy* ' She told Miss Goldsmith that she had 
no notion of not being respected.' 

* And she can't bear the Dusautoys. She left otf sul>- 
Bcribing to anything when they came; and he behaved 
very ill to the Admiral and everybody at a vestry* 
meeting^' 

* I shall ask your papa before I am in any hurry to call 
on the Osborns ! ' cried Albinia ' I have no desire to be 
intimate with people who treat their clergyman in that 
way.' 

*But Mrs. Osbom is quite the leader 1' exclaimed 
Lucy. * They keep the best society here. So many &m- 
ilies in the county come and call on them.' 

* Very likely—' 

* Ah ! Mrs. Osborn told Aunt Maria that as the Nu- 
gents called on you, and you had such connexions, she 
supposed you would be high. But you won't make me 
separate from Lizzie, will you 1 I suppose Miss Nugeut 
is a fashionable young lady.' 

* Miss Nugent is five vears old. Don't let Us have 
any more of this nonsense.' 

*But you won't part me from Lizzie Osbom,' said 
Lucy, hanging her head pathetically on one side. 

* I shall talk to your father. He said, the other day, 
he did not wish you to be so much with her.' 

Lucy melted into tears, and Albinia was conscious of 
having been first indiscreet and then sharp, hurt at the 
comments, feeling injured by Lucy's evident habit of 

3* 



reporting whatever she said, and at the failure df Ad 
attempt to please Mrs. Meadows. She was so uneasy 
about the Osborn question, that she waylaid Mr. Kendal 
on l\is return from riding, and laid it before him. 

* My dear Albinia,' he said, as if he would fain have 
avoided the appeal, ' you must manage your own visiting 
affairs your own way. I do not wish to offend my neigh- 
bours, nor would I desire to be very intimate with any 
one. I suppose you must pay them ordinary civility, and 
you know what that amounts to. As to the leadership hi 
society here, she is a noisy woman, full of pretension, and 
thus always arrogates the distinction to herself. Your 
daims will establish themselves.' 

' Oh, you don't imagine me thinking of that ! ' cried 
Albinia, laughing. ' I meant their behaving ill to Mr. 

Dusautoy.' . 

*I know nothing about that. Mr. Dusautoy once 
called to ask for my support for a vestry meeting, but I 
make it a rule never to meddle with parish skirmishes. 
I believe there was a very unbecoming scene, and that 
Mr. Dusautoy was in the minority.' 

* Ah, Edmund, next time you'll see if a parson's sister 
can sit quietly by to see the parson beaten ! * 

He smiled, and moved towards his study. 

* Then I am to be civil 1 ' 

* Certainly.' 

* But is it necessary to call to-day 1 ' 

* I should suppose not ; ' and there he was, shut up in 
his den. Albinia went back, between laughing and vexa- 
tion; and Lucy looked up from her exercise to say, 
* Does papa say you must call on the Osboms ? ' 

It was undignified ! She bit her lip, and felt her false 
position, as with a quiver of the voice, she replied, * We 
shall make nothing but mischief if we talk now. Go on 
with your business.' 

The sharp, curious eyes did not take themselves off 
her face. She leant over Sophy, who was copying a 
house, told her the lines were slanting, took the pencil 
from her hand, and tried to correct them, but found her- 
self making them over black, and shaky. She had not 



THB TOUKO ffrxp-MonuBB* 50 

seen such a line since the days of her childhood^s ill-tem- 
per. She walked to the fireplace anS said, * I am going 
to call on Mrs. Osborn to-day. Not that your father de- 
sires it, but because I have been indulging in a wrong 
leelin^.' 

*rm sure you needn't/ cried Gilbert, *It is very 
impertinent of Mrs. Osborn. Why, if he is an admiral, 
she was the daughter of an old lieutenant of the marines, 
and you are General Sir Maurice Ferrars' first cousin. 
- * Hush, hush, Gilbert I ' said Albinia, blushing and 
distressed. ' Mrs. Osbom's standing in the place entitles 
her to all attention. I was thinking of nothing c^ the 
kind. It was because I gave way to a wrong feeling that 
I mean to go this aflemoon.' 

On the Sunday, when Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to 
pay their weekly visit to Mrs, Meadows, they found the 
old lady taking a turn in the garden. And as they were 
passing by the screen of laurels, Gilbert's voice was heard 
very loud, * That's too bad, Lucy ! Grandmamma, don't 
believe one word of it ! ' 

' Gilbert, you — ^you are, Ym. sure, very rude to your 
sister.' 

' I'll not stand to hear false stories of Mrs. Kendal ! * 

* What is all this ? ' said Mr. Kendal, suddenly ap- 
pearing, and discovering Gilbert pirouetting with indigna- 
tion before Lucy. 

Miss Meadows bui^st out with a shower of half sen- 
tences, grandmamma begged that no notice might be taken 
of the children's nonsense, Lucy put on an air of injured 
innocence, and Gilbert was beginning to speak, but his 
father put him aside, saying, 'Tell me what has hap- 
pened, Sophia. From you I am certain of hearing the 
exact truth.' 

*Only,' growled Sophy, in her hoarse boy's voice, 
* Lucy said mamma said she would not call on Mrs. Os- 
born unless you ordered her, and when you did, she cried 
and flew into a tremendous passion.' 

* Sophy, what a story,' exclaimed Lucy, but Gilbert 
was ready to corroborate his younger sister's report. 

* You know Lucy too well to attach any importance 



60 TH£ YOCira STEF-MOTEOBB. 

to her misrepresentations/ said Mr. Kendal, turning to 
Mrs. Meadows, ' but I know not what amends she can 
make for this most unprovoked slander. Speak, Lucy, 
have you no apology to make ? ' 

For Lucy, in self-defence, had begun to cry, and her 
grandmother seemed much disposed to do the same« 
Miss Meadows had tears in her eyes, and incoherenees on 
her lips. The distress drove away all Albinia's inclina* 
tion to laugh, and clasping her two hands over her hus- 
band's arm, she said, ^ Don't, Edmund, it is only a mis- 
nnderstandii^ of what really happened. I did have a- 
silly fit, you know, so it is my fault.' 

* I cannot forgive for you as you do for yourself,' said 
Mr. Kendal, with a look that was precious to her, though 
it might have given a pang to the Meadowses. * I did 
not imagine that my daughter could be so lost to th& 
sense of your kindness and forbearance. Have you noth- 
ing to say, Lucy ? ' 

^ Poor child I she cannot speak,' said her grandmotherr 
' You see she is very sorry, and Mrs. Kendai is too kind 
to wish to say any more about it.' 

* Go home at once, Lucy,' said her father. * Perhaps 
solitude may bring you to a better state of feeling. 60 I ' 

Direct resistance to Mr. Kendal was never thought 
of, and Lucy turned to go. Her aunt chose to accompany 
her ; and though this was a decided relief to the company 
she left, it was not likely to be the best thing for the 
young lady herself. 

Mr. Kendal gave his arm to Mrs, Meadows, saying 
gravely that Lucy must not be encouraged in her habit 
of gossiping and inaccuracy. Mrs. Meadows quite agreed 
with him ; it was a very bad habit for a girl, she was 
very sorry for it, she wished she could have attended to 
the dear diildren better, but she was sure dear Mrs. Ken- 
dal would make them everything desirable. She only 
hoped that she would remember their disadvantages, have 
patience, and not recollect this against poor Lucv. 

The warm indignation and championship of her hus- 
band and his son were what Albinia chiefly wished to 
recollect ; but it was impossible to free herself from a 



MDse of pain and injury in the knowledge that she lired 
wkh a spy who would exaggerate and cdour every care- 
less, woi^. 

Mr. Kendal returned to the subject as they walked 
home. * I hope you will talk seriously to Lucy about her 
intolerable gossiping,' he said. 'There is no safety in 
m^itioning any subject before her ; and Maria Meadows 
makes her worse. Some stop must be put to it.' 

* I should like to wait till next time/ said Albinia* 

* What do you mean ? ' 

* Because this is too personal to myself.' 

* Nay, your own candour is an example to which Lucy 
can hardly be insensible. Besides, it is a nuisance, whidb 
must be abated.' 

Albinia could not help thinking that he suffered from 
it as little as most people, and wondering whether it 
were this which had taught him silence. 

They met Miss Meadows at their own gate, and she 
told th^ that dear Lucy was very sorry, and she hoped 
they would take no more notice of a little nonsense that 
ooidd do no one any harm ; she would be more on her 
guard next time. 

Mr. Kendal made no answer. Albinia ventured to 
ask him whether it would not be better to leave it, since 
her aunt had talked to her. 

' No,' he said ; ^ Maria has no influence whatever with 
the children. She frets them by using too many words 
about everything. One quiet remonstrance from you 
would have &r more effect.' 

Albinia called the culprit and tried to reason with 
her. Lucy tried at first to battle it off by saying that she 
had made a mistake, and Aunt Maria had said that she 
should hear no more about it. ' But, my dear, I am afraid 
you must hear more« It is not that I am hurt, but your 
papa has desired me to talk to you* You would be 
frightened to hear what he says.' 

Lucy chose to hear, and seemed somewhat struck, but 
she was sure that she meant no harm ; and she had a 
great deal to say for herself, so voluble and so inconse- 
quent, that argument was breath spent in vain ; and AJU 



6d TBB T(yCTK<} iTEP-XOI'UldU 

binU was obliged to wind up, as an ultimatum, with 
warning her, that till she should prove herself truat* 
worthy, nothing interesting would be talked of before 
her. 

The atmosphere of gossip certainly had done its part 
in cultivating Mr. KendaFs talent for silence. When Al- 
binia had him all to herself, he was like another person, 
and the long drives to return visits in the country were 
thoroughly enjoyable. So, too, were the walks home from 
the dinner parties in the town, when the husband and 
wife lingered in the starlight or moonlight, and felt that 
the weary gaiety of the constrained evening was made 
up for. 

Great was the offence they gave by not taking out the 
oarriage! 

It was disrespect to Bayford, and one of the airs of 
which Mrs. Kendal was accused. As granddaughter of a 
baron, daughter of one General Officer, and sister of an- 
other, and presented at Court, the Bayford ladies were 
prepared to consider her a fine lady ; and when they 
found her peculiarly simple, were the more aggrieved, as 
if her contempt were ironically veiled. H€r walks, her 
dress, her intercourse witli the clergy, were all airs, and 
Lucy spared^ her none of the remarks. Albinia might 
say, ' Don't tell me all Aunt Maria says,' but it was im- 
possible not to listen ; and whether in mirth or vexation, 
she was sure to be harmed by what she heard. 

And yet, except for the tale-bearing, Lucy was really 
giving less trouble than her sister ; she was quick, ob* 
servant, and obliging, and under Albinia's example, the 
more salient vulgarities of speedi and manner were fall- 
ing off! There had seldom been any collision, since it 
had become evident that Mrs. Kendal could and would 
hold her own ; and that her address and air, even while 
criticised, were regarded as something superior, so that it 
was a distinction to belong to her. How many of poor 
Albinia's so-called airs should justly have been laid to 
Lucy's account ! 

On the other hand, Sophy would attend to a word 
from her fiither, where she had obstinately op^oaed her 



Itep-mother^s wishes, making her obedience marked, as if 
for the very purpose of enforcing the contrast. It was a 
character that Albinia could not as yet fathom. In all 
occupations and amusements, Sophy followed the lead of 
her elder sister, and in her lessons, her sole object seemed 
to be to get things done with as little trouble as possible, 
and especially without setting her mind to work; and 
yet in the very effort to escape diligence or exertion, she 
sometimes showed signs of so much ability as to excite a 
longing desire to know of what she would be capable 
when once aroused and interested ; but the surly, ungra- 
cious temper rendered this apparently impossible, and 
whatever Albinia attempted, was sure, as if for the very 
reason that it came firom her, to be answered with a re- 
doubling of the growl of that odd hoarse voice. 

On Lucy's birthday there was an afternoon party of 
her young friends, including Miss Durant. Albinia, who, 
among the girlhood of Fairmead and its neighbourhood, 
had been so acceptable a playmate, that her marriage had 
caused the outcry that ' there would never be any fun 
again without Miss Ferrars,' came out on the lawn with 
the girls, in hopes of setting them to enjoy themselves. 
But they looked at her almost suspiciously, retained their 
cold, stiff, company manners, and drew apart into giggling 
knots. She relieved them of her presence, and sitting by 
the window, watched Genevieve walking up and down 
alone, as if no one cared to join her. Presently Lucy and 
Lizzie Odbom spoke to her, and she went in. Albinia 
went to meet her in the hall ; she coloured and said, * She 
was only come to fetch Miss Osbom's cloak.' 

Albinia saw her disposing it over Lizzie's shoulders,* 
and then running in again. This time it was for Miss 
Louisa's cloak, and a third time for Miss Drury's shawl, 
which Albinia chose to take out herself, and encountering 
Sophia, said, ^ Next time, you had better run on errands 
yourself instead of sending your guests.' 

Sophy gave a black look, and she retreated, but pres- 
ently the groups coalesced, and .Maria Drury and Sophy 
ran out to call Genevieve into the midst. Albinia hoped 
IJKey were going to play, but soon she beheld Genev&ve 



64 MS YOtJJSt^ fiTBP-llOTfifift. 

trying to draw back, but evidently imprisoned; ther0 
was an echo of a laugh that she did not like ; the youngeif 
girls were skipping up in the victim's face in a rude way ; 
ahe hastily turned round as in indignation, one hand 
raised to her eyes, but it was instantly snatched down by 
Maria Drury, and the pitiless ring closed in* Albinid 
sprang to her feet, exclaiming aloud, * They are teazing 
her I ' and rushed into the ^trden, hearing on her way. 
* No, we won't let you go I— you shall tell us— you shall 
promise to show us-^my papa is a magistrate, you know 
—he'll come and search— Jenny, you shall tell 1 * 

'Come with me, G6nevi^ve,' said Albinia, standing 
in the midst of the tormentors, and launching a look of 
wrath around her, as she saw tears in the young girl'd 
eyes, and taking her hand, found it trembling with agita^ 
tion. Fondling it with both her own, she led G6nevi6ve 
away, turning her back upon Lucy and her, * We were 
only—' 

The poor girl shook more and more, and when they 
reached the shelter of the house, gave way to a tightened, 
oppressed sob ; and at the first kind words a shower of 
tears followed, and she took Albinia's hand, and clasped 
it to her breast in a manner embarrassing to English 
feelings, though perfectly natural and sincere in her. ' Ah / 
si bonne I si bonne ! pardonnez-mot^ Madame ! ' she ex« 
claimed, sobbing, and probably not knowing that she wto 
speaking French ; * but, oh, Madame, you will tell me I 
Is it true-^can he ? ' 

* Can who ? What do you mean, my dear ? ' 

* The Admiral,' said Genevieve, looking about fright- 
ened, and sinking her voice to a whisper. ' Miss Louisa 
said so, that he could send and search*-*' 

' Search for what, my dear ? ' 

' For my poor little secret. Ah, Madame, assuredly 
I may tell you. It is but a French Bible ; it belonged to 
my martyred ancestor, Francois Burant, who perished 
at the St. Barthelemi— it is stained with his blood — it 
has been handed on from one to the otheiv-it was all 
that Jacques Durant rescued when he fled from the Dra- 
gonnades'-^it was given to me by my own dear father on 



THB TOUira BTEP-KOTHSB. 65 

his death-bedy with a charge to keep it from my grand* 
motEer, and not to speak of it — but to guard it as my 
greatest treasure. And now — Oh, I am not disobeying 
him,' cried Genevieve, with a fresh burst of tears. ' You 
can feel for me, Madame, you can counsel me. Can the 
magistrates come and search, unless I confess to those 
young ladies ? ' 

* Most decidedly not,' said Albinia. * Set your mind 
at rest, my poor child ; whoever threatened you played 
you a most base, cruel trick.' 

' Ah, do not be &i^y with them, Madame ; no doubt 
they were in sport. They could not know how precious / 
that treasure was to me, and they will say much in their 
gaiety of heart.' 

^ I do not like such gaiety,' said Albinia. * What, they 
wished to make you confess your secret 1 ' 

' Yes. They had learnt by some means that I keep 
one of my drawers locked, and they had figured to them- 
selves that in it was some relic of my Huguenot ancestors. 
They thought it was some instrument of death, and they 
said that unless I would tell them the whole, the Admiral 
had the right of search, and, oh ! it was foolish of me to 
believe them for a moment, but I only thought that the 
fright would kill my grandmother. Oh, you were so 
good, Madame, I shall never forget ; no, not to the end 
of my life, how you rescued me I ' 

* We did not bring you here to be teazed,' said Al- 
binia, caressing her. ^ I should like to ask your pardon 
for what they have made you undeigo.' 

^ Ah, Madame ! ' said Genevieve, smilinff, ' it is noth- 
ing. I am well used to the like, and I heed it little, ex- 
cept when it falls on such subjects as these.' 

She was easily drawn into telling the full history of 
her treasure, as she had learnt from her father's lips ; the 
Huguenot shot down by the persecutors, and the son who 
had fled into the mountains and returned to, bury the 
corpse, and take the prized, blood-stained Bible from the 
breast ; the escapes and dangers of the two next genera- 
lions ; the few succeeding days of peace ; and, finally, the 
Dragonnade, when the children had been snatched from 



66 THB Totnra siep-mother. 

the Duiant family, and the father and mother had been 
driven at length to fiy in utter destitution, and had made 
their way to England in a wretched, unprovisioned open 
boat. The child for whose sake they fled, was the only 
one rescued from the hands of these enemies, and the tra- 
dition of their sufferings had been handed on with the 
faithfully preserved relic, down to the slender girl, their 
sole descendants and who in earlv childhood had drunk in 
the tale from the lips of her father. The child of the per- 
secutors and of the persecuted, Genevieve Durant did 
indeed represent strangely the history of her ancestral 
country ; and as Albinia said to her, surely it might be 
hoped that the faith in which she had been bred up, united 
what was true and sound in the religion of both Reformed 
and Bomanist. 

The words made the brown cheek glow. *Ah, 
Madame, did I not say I could talk with you ? You who 
do not think me a heretic, as my dear grandmother's 
friends do, and who yet can respect my grandmother's 
Church.' 

Assuredly little Genevieve was one of the most inter- 
esting and engaging persons that Albinia had ever met, 
and she listened earnestly to her artless history, and 
pretty enthusiasms, and the story which she could not 
tell without tears, of her father's care, when the reward 
of her good behaviour had been the reading one verse in 
the quaint black letter of the old French Bible. 

The conversation lasted till Gilbert made his appear- 
ance, and Albinia was glad to find that his greeting to 
G6nevi^ve was cordial and affectionate, and free from all 
that was unpleasant in his sisters' manner ; and he joined 
himself to their company when Albinia proposed a walk 
along the broad causeway through the meadows. It was 
one of the pleasantest walks that she had taken at Bay- 
ford, with both her companions so bright and merry, and 
the scene ground in all the beauty of spring. Gilbert, 
with the courtesy that Albinia's very presence had infused 
into him, gathered a pretty wild bouquet for each, and Al- 
binia talked of cowslip-balls, and found that neither Gil-^ 
bert nor G^nevi^ve had ever seen one ; then she pitied 



THB TOmCQ ffnEP-VOTHXB. 67 

them, and owned that she did not know how to get 
through a spring without one; and Gilbert having of 
course a pocketful of string, a delicious ball was con- 
structed, over which G6nevidve went into an inexpressible 
ecstasy. 

All the evening, Gilbert devoted himself to G6nevi^ve, 
thoagh more than one of the others tried to attract him, 
playing off the follies of more advanced girlhood, to the 
vexation of Albinia, who could not bear to see him the 
centre of attention to silly girls, when he ought to have 
been finding his level among boys. 

^ Gilbert makes himself so ridiculous about Jenny 
Durant,' said his sisters, when he insisted on escorting 
her home, and thus they brought on themselves Albinia's 
pent-up indignation at their usage of their guest, Lucy 
argued in unsditisfactory self-defence, but Sophy, when 
shown how ungenerous her conduct had been, crimsoned 
deeply, and though uttering no word of apol<^y, wore a 
look that gave her step-mother, for the first time, a hope 
that hef sullenness might not be so much from want of 
compunction, as from want of power to express it. 

Oh I for a consultation with her brother. But he 
and his wife were taking a holiday among their kindred 
in Ireland, and for once Albinia could have echoed the 
aunts' lamentation that Winifred had so many relations. 



■♦♦•- 



CHAPTER V. 

Albinia needed patience to keep alive hope and en- 
ergy, for a sore disappointment awaited her. Whatever 
had been her annoyances with the girls, she had always 
been on happy and comfortable terms with Gilbert ; he 
had responded to her advances, accommodated himself to 
her wishes, adopted her tastes, and returned her affection. 
She had early perceived that his father and sisters looked 
on him as the naughty one of the family, but when she 
saw Lucy's fretting interference, and Sophia's wrangling 



68 TBX YOUJXQ 6X1EP-M0THXB. 

contempt, she did not wonder that an unjust degree of 
blame had oflen fallen to his share ; and under her man- 
agement, he scarcely ever gave cause for complaint. That 
he was evidently happier and better for her presence, was 
compensation for many a vexation ; she loved him with 
all her heart, made fun with him, told legends of the 
freaks of her brother Maurice and cousin Fred, and 
grudged no trouble for his pleasure. 

As long as The Three Musqueteera lasted, he had 
come constantly to her dressing-room, and afterwards she 
promised to find other pleasant reading ; but after such 
excitement, it was not easy to find anything that did not 
appear dry. As the daughter of a Peninsular man, she 
thought nothing so charming as the Svhalter% and Gilbert 
seemed to enjoy it ; but by the time he had heard all her 
oral traditions of the war by way of notes, his attendance 
b^an to slacken ; he stayed out later, and always brought 
excuses — Mr. Salsted had kept him, he had been with a 
fellow, or his pony had lost a shoe. Albinia did not care 
to question ; the evenings were light and warm, and the 
one thing she desired for him was manly exercise ; she 
thought it much better for him to be at play with his fel- 
low-pupils, and she could not regret the gain of another 
hour to her hurried day. 

One morning, however, Mr. Kendal called her, and his 
look was so grave and perturbed, that she hardly waited 
till the door was shut to ask in terror, what could be the 
matter. 

* Nothing to alarm you,' he said. * It is only that I 
am vexed about Gilbert. I have reason to fear that he is 
deceiving us again ; and I want you to help us to recollect 
on which days he should have been at Iremblam. My 
dear, do not look so pale ! ' 

For Albinia had turned quite white at hearing that 
the boy, on whom she had fixed her warm affection, had 
been carrying on a course of falsehood ; but a moment's 
hope restored her. * I did keep him at home on Tuesday,* 
she said ; ^ it was so very hot, and he had a headache. I 
thought I might. You told me not to send him on doubt- 
ful days.' 



THS TOUHO SXBP^HOTHXB. 69 

* I hope you may be able to make out that it is right,' 
said Mr. Kendal ; ' but I am afraid that Mr. Salsted has 
too much cause of complaint. It is the old story 1 ' 

And so indeed it proved, when Albinia heard what the 
tutor had come to say. The boy was seldom in time, 
often altogether missing, excusing himself by saying he 
was kept at home by fears of the weather ; but Mr. Sal- 
sted was certain that his father could not know how he 
disposed of his time, namely, in a low style of sporting 
with young Tritton, the son of a rich &rmer or half-gen- 
tleman, who was the pest of Mr. Salsted's parish. Ill- 
learnt, slurred-over lessons, with lame excuses, were noth- 
ing as compared with this, and the amount of petty deceit, 
subterfuge, and falsehood, was frightful, especially when 
Albinia recollected the tone of thought which the boy had 
seemed to be catx^hing from her. Unused to duplicity, 
except from mere Ignorant, unmanageable school-children, 
she was excessively shocked, and felt as if he must be 
utterly lost to all good, and had been acting a lie from 
first to last. Afler the conviction had broken on her, she 
hardly spoke, while Mr. Kendal was promising to talk to 
his son, threaten him with severe punishment, and keep a 
strict account of his comings and goings, to be compared 
weekly with Mr. Salsted's notes of his arrival. This set- 
tled, the tutor departed, and no sooner was he gone, than 
Albinia, hiding her &ce in her hands, shed tears of bitter 
grief and disappointment. ' My dearest,' said her hus- 
band, fondly, * you must not let my boy's doings grieve 
you in this manner. You have been doing your utmost 
for him ; if any one could do him good, it would be you.' 

^ O no, surely I must have made some dreadful mis- 
take, to have promoted such faults.' 

* No, I have long known him not to be trustworthy. 
It is an evil of long standing.' 

* Was it always so ? ' 

' I cannot tell,' said he, sitting down beside her, and 
shading his brow with one hand; ^I have only been 
aware of it since he has been left alone. When the twins 
were together, they were led by one soul of truth and 
generosity. What this poor fellow was separately no 



70 THX TOUKO SnaP'XOTBIII. 

one could know, while he had his brother to guide and 
shield him. The first time I noticed the evil was when 
we were recoyering. Gilbert and Sophia were left to- 
gether, and in one of their quarrels injured some papers 
of mine. I was very weak, and had little power of self*- 
control ; I believe I terrified him too much. There was 
absolute falsehood, and the truth was only known by 
Sophia's coming forward and confessing the whole. It 
was ill managed. I was not equal to dealing with him, 
and whether the mischief b^an then or earlier, it has 
gone on ever since, breaking out every now and then. I 
had hoped that with your care — But oh ! how different 
it would have been with his brother ! Albinia, what 
would I not give that you had but seen hint! Not a 
&ult was there ; not a moment^s grief did he give us, till 
— O what an overthrow of hope I ' And he gave way 
to an^ excess of grief that quite appalled her, and made 
her feel herself powerless to comfort. She only ventuf^ed 
a few words of peace and hope ; but the contrast between 
the brothers was just then keen agony, and he could not 
help exclaiming how strange it was, that Edmund should 
be the one to be taken. 

* Nay,' she said, * was not he ripe for better things % 
May not poor Gilbert have been spared that longer life 
may train him to be like his brother ? ' 

* He never will be like him,' cried Mr. Kendal. « No ! 
no ! The difference is evident in the very countenance 
and features.' 

' Was he like you 1 ' 

* They said so, but you could not gather an idea of 
him from me,' said Mr. Kendal, smiling mournfully, as 
he met her gaze. < It was the most beautiful countenance 
I ever saw, full of life and joy ; and there were wonderful 
expressions in the eyes when he was thinking or listening. 
He used to read the Greek Testament with me every 
morning, and his questions and remarks rise up before 
me again. That text — You have seen it in church.' 

* Because I live, ye shall live also,' Albinia repeated. 

' Yes. A little before his illness we came to that. 
He rested on it, as he used to do on anything that struck 



TBS XOUVQ BTSP-MOTHXB* 71 

him, and asked me, " whether it meant the life hereaiker^ 
or the life that is hidden here ! " We went over it with 
such comments as I could find, but his mind was not sat- 
isfied ; and it must have gone on working on it, for one 
night, when I had been thinking him delirious, he called 
me, and the light shone out of those bright dark eves of 
his as he said, joyfully, ^* It is both, papa ! It is hidden 
here, but it will shine out there," and as I did not catch 
his meaning, he repeated the Greek words.' 

^ Dear boy I Some day we shidl be glad that the full 
life and glory came so soon.' 

He snook his head, the parting was still too recent, 
and it was the first time he had been able to speak of his 
son. It was a great satisfaction to her that the reserve 
had once been broken ; it seemed like compensation for 
the present trouble, though that was acutely felt, and not 
softened by the curious eyes aud leading questions of the 
sisters, when she returned to give what attention she 
eould to their interrupted lessons. 

Gilbert returned, unsuspicious of the storm, till his 
&ther's stern gravity, and her depressed, pre-occupied 
manner, excited his attention, and he asked her anxiously 
whether anything were the matter. A sad gesture re- 
plied, and perhaps revealed the state of the case, for he 
became absolutely silent. Albinia left them together. 
She watched anxiously, and hurried after Mr. Kendal into 
the study, where his manner showed her not to be un- 
welcome as the sharer of his trouble. ^ I do not know 
what to do,' he said, dejectedly. * I can make nothing of 
him. It is all prevarication and sulkiness I I do not 
think he felt one word that I said.' 

' People often feel more than they show.' 

He groaned. 

' Will you go to him ? ' he presently added. * Per- 
haps I grew too angry at last, and I believe he loves you. 
At least, if he do not, he must be more unfeeling than I 
can think him. You do not dislike it, dearest 1 ' 

' O no, no ! If I only knew what would be best for 
him!' 

' He may be more imreserved with you/ said Mr. 



72 THB TOUKG fil^EP-KOTHSB. 

Kendal ; and as he was anxious for her to make the at* 
tempt, she moved away, though in perplexity, and in the 
revulsion of feeling, with a sort of disgust towards the 
boy who had deceived her so long. 

She found him seated on a wheelbarrow by the pond, 
chucking pebbles into the still black Water, and disturb- 
ing the duck-weed on the surface. His colour was gone, 
and his face was dark and moody, and strove not to 
relax, as she said, * O Gilbert, how could you ? ' 

He turned sharply away, muttering, ' She is coming 
to bother now ! ' 

It cut her to the heart. * Gilbert ! ' was all she could 
exclaim, but the tone of pain made him look at her, as if 
in spite of himself, and as he saw the tears, he exclaimed 
in an impatient voice of rude consolation, ' There's noth* 
ing to take so much to heart. No one thinks anything 
of it!' 

* What would Edmund have thought ? ' said Albinia ; 
but the appeal came too soon ; he made an angry gesture 
and said, ' He was nearly three year^^ounger than I am 
now I He would not have been kept in these abominable 
leading-strings.' 

She was too much shocked to find an answer, and 
Gilbert went on, * Watched and examined wherever I go 
— ^not a minute to myself — ^nothing but lessons at Trem- 
blam, and bother at home; driven about hither and 
thither, and not allowed a friend of my own, nor to do 
one single thing ! There's no standing it, and I won't ! ' 

* I am very sorry,' said Albinia, struggling with chok- 
ing tears. ' It has been my great wish to make things 
pleasant to you. I hope I have not teazed or driven you 
to—-' 

* Nonsense I ' exclaimed Gilbert, disrespectfully in- 
deed, but from the bottom of his heart, and breaking at 
once into a flood of tears. * You are the only creature 
that has been kind to me since I lost my brother Ned, 
and now they have been and turned you against me too ; ' 
and he sobbed violently. 

* I don't know what you mean, Gilbert. If I stand in 
your mother's place I can't be turned against you, any 



THB TOUKa 8TEP-MOTHEB. 78 

more than she could ; * and she stroked his brow, which 
she found so throbbing as to account for his paleness. 
* You can grieve and hurt me, but you can't prevent me 
from feeling for you, nor for your dear father's grief.' 

He declared that people at home knew nothing about 
boys, and made an uproar about nothing. 

' Do you call falsehood nothing ? ' 

^ Falsehood ! A mere trifle now and then, when I am 
driven to it by being kept so strictly.' 

* I don't know how to talk to you, Gilbert,' said Al- 
binia, rising ; ' your conscience knows better than your 
tongue.' 

^ Don't go ; ' and he went off into another paroxysm 
of crying, as he caught hold of her dress ; and when he 
spoke again his mood was changed ; he was very miser- 
able, nobody cared for him, he did not know what to do ; 
he wanted to do right, and to please her, but Archie Trit- 
ton would not let him alone ; he wished he had never 
seen Archie Tritton. At last, walking up and down with 
him, she drew from him a full confidence, and began to 
understand how, when health and strength had come back 
to him in greater measure than he had ever before en- 
joyed, the craving for boyish sports had awakened, just 
after he had been deprived of his brother, and was de» 
barred from almost every wholesome manner of gratify- 
ing it. To &11 in with young Tritton was as great a mis- 
fortune as could well have befallen a boy, with a dreary 
home, melancholy, reserved &ther, and wearisome aunt. 
Tritton was a youth of seventeen, who had newly finished 
his education at an inferior commercial school, and lived 
on his father's farm, giving himself the airs of a sporting 
character, and fast hurrying into dissipation. 

He was really good-natured, and Gilbert dwelt on his 
kindness with warmth and gratitude, and on his prowess 
in all sporting accomplishments with a perfect efferves* 
cence of admiration. He eyidently patronized Gilbert, 
partly from good-natured pity, and partly as flattered by 
the adherence of a boy of a grade above him ; and Gil" 
bert was proud of the notice of one who seemed to him a 
man, and W adept in all iM^etio games. It was a dao- 

4 



94 THE TOUNG BTEP^MOTHSB. 

gerous intimacy, and her heart sank as she found that the 
pleasures to which he had been introducing Gilbert, were 
not merely the free exercise, the rabbit-shooting and rat- 
hunting of the farm, nor even the village cricket-match, 
all of which, in other company, would have had her full 
sympathy. But there had been such low and cruel sports 
that she turned her head away sickened at the notion of 
any one dear to her having been engaged in such amuse- 
ments ; and when Gilbert in excuse said that every one 
did it, she answered indignantly, * My brothers never ! ' 

' It is no use talking about what swells do that hunt 
and shoot, and go to school,' answered Gilbert. 

* Do you wish you went to school ? ' asked Albinia. 

* I wish I was out of it all I ' 

He was in a very different frame. He owned that he 
knew how wrong it had been to deceive, but he seemed 
to look upon it as a sort of fate ; he wished he could help 
it, but could not ; he was so much afraid of ^is father that 
he did not know what he said ; Archie Tritton said no one 
could get on without. — ^There was an utter bewilderment 
in his notions, here and there showing a better tone, but 
obscured by the fancies imbibed from his companion, that 
the knowledge and practice of evil were manly. At one 
moment he cried bitterly, and declared that he was 
wretched ; at another he defended each particular case 
with all his might, changing and slipping away, so that 
she did not know where to take him. However, the con- 
clusion was far more in pity than anger, and after receiv- 
ing many promises that if she would shield him from his 
father, and bear with him, he would abstain from all she 
disapproved, she caressed and soothed the aching head, 
and returned to his father hopeful and encouraged, certain 
that the evil had been chiefly caused by weakness and 
neglect, and believing that here was a beginning of re- 
pentance. Since there was sorrow and confession, there 
surely must be reformation. 

For a week Gilbert went on steadily, but at the end 
of that time his arrivals at home became irregular, and 
one day there was another great aberration. On a doubt- 
ful day, when it had been decided that he might go safely 



TSE TOUITG tnEP-XOTHSB. Y6 

between the showers, he never came to Tremblam at all, 
and Mr. Salsted sent a note to Mr. Kendal to let him 
know that his son had been at the races — ^village races, 
managed by the sporting farmers of the neighbourhood. 
There was a sense of despair, and again a talk, bringhig 
at once those ever-readj tears and protestations, sorrow 
genuine, but fruitless. ' It was all Archie's fault, he had 
overtaken him, persuaded him that Mr. Salsted would 
not expect him, promised him that he should see the cel- 
ebrated ^^ Blunderbuss," Sam Shepherd's horse, that won 
the race last year.' Gilbert had gone ' because he could 
not help it.' 

' Not help it ! ' cried Albinia, looking at him with her 
dear indignant eyes. ' How can you be such a poor crea- 
ture, Gilbert 1' 

' it is very hard ! ' exclaimed Gilbert ; * I must go 
past Robbie's Leigh twice every day of my life, and 
Archie will come out and be at me.' 

* That is the very temptation you have to resist,' said 
Albinia. ' Fight against it, pray against it, resolve against 
it ; ride fast, and don't linger and look after him.' 

He looked desponding and miserable. If she could 
only have put a spirit into him I 

' Shall I walk and meet you sometimes before you get 
to Robbie's Leigh ? ' 

His fiice cleared up, but the cloud returned in a mo- 
ment. * What is it ? ' she asked. ' Only tell me. You 
know I wish for nothing so much as to help you.' 

He did confess that there was nothing he should like 
better, if Archie would not be all the worse another time, 
whenever he should catch him alone. 

^ But surely, Gilbert, he is not always lying in am- 
bush for you, like a cat for a mouse. You can't be his 
sole game.' 

* No, but he is coming or going, or out with his gun, 
and he will often come part of the way with me, and he 
is such a droll fellow 1 ' 

Albinia thought that there was but one cure. To 
leave Gilbert daily exposed to the temptation must be 
wrong, and she laid the case before Mr. Kendal with so 



Y6 TBB YOUKO 6TSP-KOTHES. 

much earnestness, that he allowed that it would be better 
to send the boy from home ; and in the meantime^ Al- 
binia obtained that Mr. Kendal should ride some way on 
the Tremblam road with his son in the morning, so as to 
convoy him out of reach of the tempter ; whilst she tried 
to meet him in the afternoon, and managed so that he 
should be seldom without the hope of meeting her. 

Albinia's likings had taken a current absolutely con- 
trary to all her preconceived notions ; Sophia, with her 
sullen truth, was respected, but it was not easy to like 
her even as well as Lucy, who, though pert and empty, 
had much good-nature and good temper, and was not 
indocile ; while Gilbert, in spite of a weak, shallow char- 
acter, habits of deception, and low ungentlemanly tastes, 
had won her affection, and occupied, the chief of her time 
and thoughts ; and she dreaded the moment of parting 
with him, as removing the most available and agreeable 
of her young companions. 

That moment of parting, though acknowledged to be 
expedient, did not approach. Gilbert could not be sent 
to a public school without risk and anxiety which his 
father did not like, and which would have been horror to 
his grandmother ; and Albinia herself did not feel certain 
that he was fit for it, nor that it was her part to enforce 
it. She wrote to her brother^ and found that he likewise 
thought a tutor would be a safer alternative ; but then he 
must be a perfect man in a perfect climate, and Mr. Ken- 
dal was not the man to make researches. Mr. Dusautoy 
mentioned one clergyman who took pupils, Maurice Fer- 
rars another, but there was something against each. Mr. 
Kendal wrote four letters, and was undecided — a third 
Was heard of, but the locality was doubtful, and the plan 
Went off, because Mr. Kendal could not make up his mind 
to go thirty miles to see the place, and talk to a stranger. 

Albinia found that her power did not extend beyond 
driving him from * I'll see about it,' to * Yes, by all 
means.' Action was a length to which he could not be 
brought. . Mr. Nugent was very anxious that he should 
qualify as a magistrate, since a sensible, highly-principled 
masx was much wanted to counterbalance Admiral Os- 



THB TOUITG 0ISP-MOTHEB. 77 



bora's misdirected, restless activity, and the lower parts 
of the town were in a dreadful state. Mrs. Nugent talked 
to Albinia, and she urged it in vain. To come out of his 
study, examine felons, contend with the Admiral, and to 
meet all the world at the quarter sessions, was abhorrent 
to him, and he silenced her almost with sternness. 

She was really hurt and vexed, and scarcelv less so by 
a discovery that she made shortly after. The hot weather 
had made the houses beneath the hill more close and un- 
wholesome than ever, Simkins's wife had fallen into a lin- 
gering illness, and Albinia, visiting her- constantly, was 
painiully sensible of the dreadful atmosphere in which 
she lived, under the roof, with a window that would not 
open. She offered to have the house improved at her 
own expense, but was told that Mr. Pettilove would raise 
the rent if anything were laid out on it. She went about 
talking indignantly of Mr. Pettilove's cruelty and rapa- 
city, and when Mr. Dusautoy hinted that Pettilove was 
only an agent, she exclaimed that the owner was worse, 
since ignorance alone could be excused. Who was the 
wretch ? Some one, no doubt, who never came near the 
place, and only thought of it as money. 

' Fanny,' said Mr. Dusautoy, *I really think we ought 
to tell her.' 

' Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ' I think it would be better. 
The houses belonged to old Mr. Meadows.' 

' Oh, if they are Mrs. Meadows's, I don't wonder at 
anything.' 

' I believe they are Gilbert Kendal's.' 

They were very kind ; Mr. Dusautoy strode out at 
the window, and his wife would not look at Albinia dur- 
ing the minute's struggle to regain her composure, under 
the mortification that her husband should have let her 
rave so much and so long about what must be in his own 
power. Her only comfort was the hope that he had 
never heard what she said, and she knew that he so ex- 
tremely disliked a conference with Pettilove, that he 
would consent to anything rather than have a discussion. 

She was, for the first time in her life, out of spirits. 
Gilbert was always upon her mind ; and the daily walk 



78 THB Touira step-motheb. 

to meet him wias a burthen, oonsuming a great deal of 
time, and becoming trying on hot summer afternoons, 
the more so as she seldom ventured to rest after it, lest 
dulness should drive Gilbert into mischief, or, if nothing 
worse, into quarrelling with Sophia. If she could not 
send him safely out fishing, she must be at liand to invent 
pleasures and occupations for him ; and the worst of it 
was that the girls grudged her attention to their brother, 
and were becoming jealous. They hated the walk to 
Robbie's Leigh, and she knew that it was hard on them 
that their pleasure should be sacrificed ; but it was all- 
important to preserve him from evil. She had wished to 
keep the tutor-n^otiations a secret, but they had oozed 
out, and she found that Mrs. and Miss Meadows had been 
declaring that they had known how it would be — ^what- 
ever people said beforehand, it always came to the same 
thing in the end, and as to its being necessary, poor dear 
Gibbie was very different before the change at home. 

Albinia could not help shedding a few bitter tears. 
Why was she to be always misjudged, even when she 
meant the best ? And, oh ! how hard, well nigh impos- 
sible, to forgive and candidly to believe that, in the old 
lady, at least, it was partiality, and not spite. 

In September, Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars returned from 
their journey. Albinia was anxious to see them, for if 
there was a sense that she had fallen short of her con- 
fident hopes of doing prosperously, there was also a great 
desire for their sympathy and advice. But Maurice had 
been too long away from his parish to be able to spare 
another day, and begged that the Kendals would come to 
Fairmead. Seeing that Albinia's heart was set on it, Mr. 
Kendal allowed himself to be stirred up to appoint a time 
for driving her over to spend a long day at Fairmead. 

For her own pleasure and ease of mind, Albinia made 
a point of taking Gilbert, and the girls were to spend the 
day with their grandmother. 

* Pretty old Fairmead I ' she cried, as the beech trees 
rose before her ; and she was turning round every minute 
to point out to Gilbert some of the spots of which she 
had told him ; and nodding to the few scattered children 



THB TOUVG ilXP-XOTHZB. 79 

wbo were not at school, and who looked up with mouths 
from ear to ear, and flushed cheeks, as they curtsied to 
* Miss Ferrars.' The * Miss Ferrars ' life seemed loug ago« 

They came to the little green gate that led to what 
had been ' home ' for the happiest years of Albinia^s life, 
and from the ivy porch there was a rush of little Willie 
and Mary, and close at hand their mamma, and Maurice 
emerging from the school. It was very joyous and nat- 
ural. But there were two more figures, not youthful, but 
of decided style and air, and quiet but fiushionable dress, 
and Albinia liad only time to say quickly to her husband, 
^ my aunts,' before she was fondly embraced. 

It was not at all what she had intended. Mrs. Annes< 
ley and Miss Ferrars were very kind aunts, and she had 
much affection for them ; but there was an end of the 
hope of the unreserve and confidence that she wanted. 
She could get plenty of compassion and plenty of advice, 
but her whole object would be to avoid these ; and, be- 
sides, Mr. Kendal had not bargained for strangers. 
What would become of his opportunity of getting better 
acquainted with Maurice and Winifred, and of all the 
pleasures that she had promised Gilbert ? 

At least, however, she was proud that her aunts 
should see what a fine-looking man her husband was, and 
they were evidently struck with his appearance and man* 
ner« Gilbert, too, was in very good looks, and was alto- 
gether a bright, gentlemanly ooy, well made, though 
with the air of growing too fast, and with something of 
uncertainty about his expression. 

It was quickly explained that the- aunts had only de- 
cided, two days before, on coming to Fairmead at once, 
some other engagement having failed them, and they were 
delighted to find that they should meet their dear Albinia, 
and be introduced to Mr. Kendal. Setting off before the 

Eost came in, Albinia had missed Winifred's note to tell 
er of their arrival. 
* And,' said Winifred, as she took Albinia up-stairs, 
^ if I did suspect that would be the case, I won't say I re- 
gretted it. I did not wish to afford Mr. Kendal the pleas- 
ures of anticipation.' 



80 THE TOTTNO SXBF-MOTHSB. 

* Perhaps it was better/ said Albinia, smiling ; * cspe- 
dally as I suppose they will stay for the next six weeks, 
so that the days will be short before you will.be free.' 

' And now let me see you, my pretty one,' said Win- 
ifred, fondly. * Are you well, are you strong ? No, don't 
wriggle your head away; I shall believe nothing but 
what I read for myself.' 

* Don't believe anything you read without the notes,' 
said Albinia. * I have a great deal to say to you, but I 
don't expect much opportunity thereof.* 

Certainly not, for Miss Ferrars was knocking at the 
door. She had never been able to suppose that the sis- 
ters-in-law could be more to each other than she was to 
her own niece. 

So it became a regular specimen of a ' long day ' spent 
together by relations, who, intending to be very happy, 
make themselves very weary of each other, by discarding 
ordinary occupations, and reducing themselves to needle- 
work and small-talk. Albinia was bent on liveliness, and 
excelled herself in her droll observations; but to Wini- 
fred, who knew her so well, this brilliancy did not seem 
like perfect ease; it was more like effort than natural 
spirits. This was no wonder, for not only had the sight 
of new people thrown Mr. Kendal into a severe access of 
shyness and silence, bvt he was revolving in fear and 
dread the expediency of asking them to "Willow Lawn, 
and considering whether Albinia and propriety could 
make the effort bearable. Silent he sat, while the aunts 
talked of their wishes that one nephew would marry, and 
that the other would not ; and no one presumed to ad- 
dress him, except little Mary, who would keep trotting 
up to him, to make him drink out of her doll's tea-cups. 

Mr. Ferrars took pity on him, and took him and Gil- 
bert out to call upon CJolonel Bury ; but this did not lessen 
his wife's difficulties, for there was a general expecta- 
tion that she would proceed to confidences ; whereas she 
would do nothing but praise the Dusautoys, ask after all 
V P*£?^*^^^^ers of Fairmead one by one, and consult 
about French reading-books and Italian grammars. Mrs. 
Annesiey began a genUe warning against over-taxing her 



THB Y0JJ7XG ffnE^XOTHBS* 81 

strength, and Miss Ferrars enforced it yrith such vehe- 
menoe, that Winifred, who had been rather on that side, 
began to take Albinia's part, but perceived, with some 
anxiety, that her sister's attempts to laugh oflf the admo- 
nition abnost amounted to an admission that she was 
working very hard. As to the step-daughters, no intelli- 
gence was attainable, except that Lucy would be pleased 
with a new crochet pattern, and that Sophy was like her 
father, but not so handsome. 

The next division of time passed better. Albinia 
walked out at the window to meet the gentlemen when 
they came home, and materially relieved Mr. Kendal's 
mind by saying to him, ' The aunts are settled in here 
till they go to Knutsford. I hope you don't think — there 
is not the least occasion for asking them to stay with us.' 

* Are you sure you do not wish it ? ' said Mr. Kendal, 
with great kindness, but an evident weight removed. 

'Most certain I' she exclaimed, with full sincerity; 
* I am not at all ready for them. What should I do with 
them to entertain ? ' 

^ Very well,' said Mr. Kendal, ' you must be the judge. 
If there be no necessity, I shall be glad to avoid unsettling 
our habits, and probably Bayford would hardly afford 
much enjoyment to your aunts.' 

Albinia glanced in his face, and in that of her brother, 
with her own arch fun. It was the first time that day 
that Maurice had seen that peculiarly merry look, and he 
rejoiced, but he was not without fear tiiat she was fostering 
Mr. Kendal's retiring habits more than was good for him. 
But it was not only on his account that she avoided the 
invitation ; she by no means wished to show Bayford to 
her fastidious -aunts, and felt as if to keep them satisfied 
and comfortable would be beyond her power. 

Set free from this dread, and his familiarity with his 
. brother-in-law renewed, Mr. Kendal came out to great ad- 
vantage at the early dinner. Miss Ferrars was well read 
and used to literary society, and she started subjects on 
which he was at home, and they discussed new books and 
criticised critics, so that his deep reading showed itself, 
and even a grave, quiet tone of satire, such as was seldom 
. 4* 



33 THB Tomro vteb^khibou 

deydopedy except under the most favourable circumstances. 
He and Aunt Gertrude were evidently so well pleased with 
each other, that Albinia ahnost thought she had been pre- 
cipitate in letting him off the visit 

Gilbert had, fortunately, a turn for small children, and 
submitted to be led about the garden by little Willie ; and 
as far as moderate enjoyment went, the visit was not un- 
successful ; but as for what Albinia came for, it was unat- 
tainable, except for one little space alone with her brother. 

< I meant to have asked a great deal,* she said, sighing. 
*K you want me, I would contrive to ride over,' said 

tiaurice. 

*No, it is not worth that. But, Maurice, what is to 
be done when one sees one's duty, and yet &ils for ever 
for want of tact and temper? Ah, I know what you wiU 
say, and I often say it to myself; but whatever I jaopose, 
I always do either the wrong thing, or in the wrong way ! * 

<Tou fall a hundred times a day, but are raised up 
again,' said Maurice. 

* Maurice, tell me one thing. Is it wrong to do, not 
the best, but only the best one can 1 ' 

' It is the wrong common to us all,' said Maurice. 

< I used to believe in '^ whatever is worth doing at all, 
is worth doing well." Now, I do everything ill, rather 
than do nothing at all' 

* There are only two ways of avoiding that.' 

* And they are — ? ' 

< Either doing nothing, or admiring all your own 

doings.' 

< Which do you recommend ? ' said Albinia, smiling, 
\fsA not far from tears. 

<My dear,' said Maurice, ^all I can dare to recom- 
mend, is patience and self-control. Don't fret and agitate 
yourself about what you can't do, but do your best to do 
calmly what you can. It will be' made up, depend upon it.' 

There was no time for more ; but the sound counsel, 
the sympathy, and playfulness had done Albinia wonder- 
ful good, and she was almost glad there had been no more 
privacy, or her friends might have guessed that she had 
not quite found a counsellor at home. 



nCB TOUK^ SnBP-MOTHXB. 83 



CHAPTEB VL 

The Christmas holidays did indeed put an end to the 
walks to meet Gilbert, but only so as to make Albiniafeel 
responsible for him all day long, and uneasy ^vhenever he 
was not accounted for. She played chess with him, found 
books, and racked her brains to seek amusements for him ; 
but knowing aU the time that it was hopeless to expect a 
boy of fourteen to be satisfied with them. One or two 
boys of his age had come home for the holidays, and she 
tried to be reeved by being told that he was going out 
with Dick Wolfe or Harry Osbom ; but it was not quite 
satisfactory, and she began to look fagged and unwell, and 
had lost so much of her playfulness, that even Mr. Kendal 
was alarmed. 

Sophia's birthday fell in the last week before Christ* 
mas, and it had always been the family custom to drink 
tea with Mrs. Meadows. Albinia made the engagement 
with a sense of virtuous resignation, though not feeling 
well enough for the infliction, but Mr. Kendal put a stop 
to all notion of her going. 

She expected to enjoy her quiet solitary evening, but 
the result was beyond her hopes, for as she was wishing 
Gilbert good-bye, she heard the click of the study lock, 
and in came Mr. Kendal. 

^ I thought you were gone,' she said. 

* No. I did not like to leave you alone for a whole 
evening.* 

If it were only an excuse to himself for avoiding the 
Meadows' party, it was too prettily done for the notion to 
occur to his wife, and never had she spent a happier even- 
ing. He was so unusually tender and unreserved, so de- 
sirous to make her comfortable, and, what was far more to 
her, growing into so much confidence, that it was even 
better than what she used last year to picture to herself as 
her future life with him. It even came to what he had 
probably never done for any one. She spoke of a beauti- 
ful old Latin hymn, which she had once read with her 
brother, and had never seen adequately translated, and he 



84 THB TOTTKa SfrBF-XOTHSB. 

fetched a mannscript book, where, written out with nnri- 
Talled neatness, stood a translation of his own, made many 
years ago, full of scholarly polish. She ventured to ask 
leave to copy it. * I will copy it for you,* he said, ' but it 
must be for yourself alone.' 

She was grateful for the concession, and happy in the 
promise. She begged to turn the page, and it was granted. 
There were other translations, chiefly from curious orien- 
tal sources, and there were about twenty original poems, 
elaborated in the same exquisite manner, and with a deep 
melancholy strain of thought, and power of beautiful de- 
scription, that she thought finer and more touching than 
almost anything she had read. 

* And these are all locked up for ever. No one has 
seen them.' 

* No. When 1 was a young lad, my poor father put 
some lines of mine into a newspaper. That sufficed me,' 
and he shut the clasped book as if repenting of having 
revealed the contents. 

' No ; I was not thinking of anything you would dis- 
like with regard to those verses. I don't like to let in 
the world on things precious, but (how could she venture 
so far 1) I was thinking how many powers and talents are 
shut, up in that study I and whether they might not have 
been meant for more. I beg your pardon if I ought not 
to say so.' 

'The time is past,' he replied, without displeasure; 
* my youth is gone, and with it the enterprise and hope- 
fulness that can press forward, insensible to annoyance. 
You should have married a man with freshness and en- 
ergy more responsive to your own.' 

' Oh, Edmund, that is a severe reproach for my im^ 
pertinent speech.' 

' You must not expect too much from me,' he contin- 
ued. ' I told you that I was a broken, grief>stricken man, 
and you were content to be my comforter.' 

' Would that I could be so ! ' exclaimed Albinia, ' but 
to try faithfully, I must say what is on my mind. De.ar 
Edmund, if you would only look out of your books, and 
see how much good you could do, here in your own 



THB YOUKC^ 8TBP»M0THEB, 85 

splierey how much the right wants strengthening, how 
much evil cries out to be repressed, how sadly your own 
poor sufier— oh ! if you once began, you would be so 
much happier ! ' 

She trembled with earnestness, and with fear of her own 
audacity, but a resounding knock at the door prevented 
her from even discovering whether he were offended He 
started away to secure his book, and the two girls came 
in. Albinia could hardly believe it late enough for their 
return, but they accounted for having come rather earlier 
by saying that Gilbert had been making himself so ridi<y 
ulcus when he had come at last, that grand^iamma had 
sent him home. 

' At last ! ' said Albinia. ^ He set off only ten min- 
utes after you, as soon as he found that papa was not 
coming.' 

' All I know,' said Lucy, ' is, that he did not come till 
half-past nine , and said he had come from home.' 

* And where can he be now ? ' 

* Gone to bed,' growled Sophy. 

*I don't know what he has been doing,' said Lucy, 
who since the suspicion of favouritism, had seemed to find 
especial pleasure in bringing forward her brother's faults ; 
' but he came in laughing like a plough-boy, and talking 
perfect nonsense. And when Aunt Maria spoke to him, 
he answered quite rudely, that he wasn't going to be 
questioned, and called to order, he had enough of petti- 
coat government at home.' 

* No,' said Sophia, breaking in with ungracious reluc- 
tance, as if i^ainst her will conveying some comfort to 
her step-mother for the sake of truth, * what he said was, 
that if he bore with petticoat government at home, it was 
because Mrs. Kendal was pretty and kind, and didn't tor- 
ment him out of his life for nothing, and what he stood 
from her, he would not stand from any other woman.' 

* But, Sophy, I am sure he did say Mrs. Kendal knew 
what she was going to say, and said it, and it was worth 
hearing, and he laughed in Aunt Maria's face, and told 
her not to make so many bites at a cherry.' 

' He must have been beside himself,' said Abinia in a 



/ 



86 THB TOUNG 81!EP<*K<KtHBB« 

bewilderment of oonstemation ; but Mr. Kendal's return 

Eut a stop to all, for the sisters never told tales before 
im, and she would not bring the subject under his notice 
until she should be better informed. His suflTering was 
too great, his wrath too stem, to be excited without se- 
riou? cause ; but she spent a wakeful, anxious night, re- 
volving all imaginable evils into which the boy could 
have fallen, and perplexing herself what measures to take, 
feeling all the more grieved and bound to him by the 
preference that, even in this dreadful mood, he had ex- 
pressed for her. She fell into a restless sleep in the 
morning, from which she wakened so late as to have no 
time to question Gilbert before breakfast. On coming 
down, she found that he had not made his appearance, 
and had sent word that he had a bad headache, and 
wanted no breakfast. His father, who had made a visit 
of inspection, said he thought it was passing off, smiling 
as he observed upon Mrs. Meadows' mince-pie suppers 
and home-made wine. 

Lucy said nothing, but glanced knowingly at her sister 
and at Albinia, from neither of whom did she get any 
response. 

Albinia did not dare to take any measures till Mr. 
Kendal had ridden out, and then she went up and knocked 
at Gilbert's door. He was better, he said, and was get- 
ting up, he would be down-stairs presently. She watched 
for him as he came down, looking still very pale and un* 
well. She took him into her room, made him sit by- the 
fire, and get a little life and warmth into his chilled hands 
before she spoke. * Yes, Gilbert, I don't wonder you can- 
not lift up your head while so much is on your mind.' 
Gilbert started and hid his face. 

* Did you think I did not know, and was not grieved ? ' 

* Well,' ho cried, peevishly, * I'm sure I have the most 
ill-natured pair of sisters in the world.' 

' Then you meant to deceive us again, Gilbert.' 

He had relapsed into the old habit — as usual, a burst 

of tears and a declaration that no one was ever so badly 

off, and he did not know what to do. 

*You do know perfectly well what to do, Gilbert. 



There is nothii^ for it but to tell me the whole meaning 
of this terrible affiur, and I will see whether I can help 
you.' 

It was always the same round, a few words would 
always bring the confession, and that pitiful kind of help- 
less repentance, which had only too often given her hope. 

Gilbert assured her that he had fully purposed fol* 
lowing his sisters, but that on the way he had unluckily 
fallen in with Archie Tritton and a friend, who had driven 
in to hear a man from London singing comic aongs at the 
King's Head, and they had pei*suaded him to come in. 
He had been uneasy and tried to get away, but the dread 
of being laughed at about his grandmother's tea had pre- 
vailed, and he had been supping on oysters and porter, 
and trying to believe himself a &st man, till Archie, who 
had assured him that he was himself going home in ' no 
time,' had found it expedient to set oflT, and it had been 
agreed that he should put a bold fitce on it, and profess 
that he had never intended to do more than come and 
fetch his sisters home. 

Tiuit the porter had anything to do with his extraor- 
dinary manner to his grandmother and aunt, was so 
shocking a notion, and the very hint made him cry so 
bitterly, and protest so earnestly that he had only had 
one pint, which he did not like, and only drank because 
he was afraid of being teased, that Albinia was ready to 
believe that he had been so elevated by excitement as to 
forget himself, and continue the style of the company he 
had left. It was bad enough, and she felt almost over- 
powered by the contemplation of the lamentable weak- 
ness of the poor boy, of the consequences, and of what was 
incumbent on her. 

She leant back and considered a little while, then 
sighed heavily, and said, 'Gilbert, two things must be 
done. You must make an apology to your grandmother 
and aunt, an^ you must confess the whole to your father.' 

He gave a sort of howl, as if she were misusing his 
confidence. 

' It must be,' she said. ^ If you are really sorry, you 
will not shrink.' 



88 TBS YOXnSQ BTBP-MOTHBB. 

* I do not bdlieve that it could fail to oome to jour 
fether's knowledge, even if I did not know it was my duty 
to tell him, and how much better to confess it your- 
self.' 

For this, however, Gilbert seemed to have no force ; 
he cried piteously, bewailed himself, vowed incoherently 
that he would never do so again ; and if she had not pitied 
him so much, would have made her think him contemp- 
tible. 

She was inexorable as to having the whole told, 
though dreading the confession scarcely less than he did ; 
and he finally made a virtue of necessity, and promised 
to tell, if only she would not desert him, declaring, with 
a fresh flood of tears, that he should never do wrong when 
she w^as by. Then came the apology. *It was most neces- 
sary, and he owned that it would be much better to be 
able to tell his father that his grandmother had forgiven 
him ; but he really had not nerve to set out alone, and 
Albinia, who had begun to dread having him out of sights 
consented to go and protect him. 

He shrank behind her, and she had to bear the flood 
of Marians surprises and regrets, before she could succeed 
in saying that he was very sorry for yesterday's improper 
behaviour, and had come to ask pardon. 

Grandmamma was placable ; Gilbert's white &ce and 
red eyes were pleading enough, and she was distressed at 
Mrs. Kendal having oome out, looking pale and tired. If 
she had been alone, the only danger would have been that 
the offence would be lost in petting ; but Maria had been 
personally wounded, and the jealousy she already felt of 
the step-mother, had been excited to the utmost by Gil- 
bert's foolish words. She was excessively grieved, and a 
great deal more angry with Mrs. Kendal than with Gil- 
bert ; and the want of justification for this feeling, to-i 
gether with her great excitement, distress, and embar- 
rassment, made her attempts to be dry and dignified 
ludicrously abortive. She really seemed to have lost the 
power of knowing what she said. She was glad Mrs. 
Kendal could walk up this morning, since she could not 
come at night. 



TBB YOUira STSP-HOTHEB* 69 

* It was not my fault/ said Albinia, earnestly ; * Mr. 
Kendal forbade me. I am sure I wish we had come/ 

The old lady would have said something kind about 
not reproaching herself, but Miss Meadows interposed 
with, 'It was very unlucky, to be sure — Mr, Kendal 
never failed them before, not that she would wish — ^but. 
she had always understood that to let young people run 
about late in the evening by themselves — not that she 
meant anything, but it was very unfortunate— if she had 
only been aware— Betty should have come down to walk 
up with them.' 

Gilbert could not forbear an ashamed smile of intense 
affront at this reproach to his manliness. 

* It was exceedingly unfortunate,' said Albinia, trying 
to repress her vexation ; ' but Gilbert must learn to have 
resolution to guard himself. And now that he is come to 
ask your forgiveness, will you not grant it to him 1 ' 

* Ob, yes, yes, certainly, I forgive him from my heart. 
Yes, Gilbert, I do, only you must mind and beware — 
it is a very shocking thing — low company and all that — 
you've made yourself look as ill — and if you knew what 
a cake Betty had made — almond and citron both, — ^* but 
it's for Master Gilbert," she said, " and I don't grudge " 
— ^and then to think — oh, dear I ' 

Albinia tried to express for him some becoming sor- 
row at having disappointed so much kindness, but she 
brought Miss Meadows down on her again. 

* Oh, yes — ^she grudged nothing — but she never ex- 
pected to meet with gratitude-— she was quite prepared 
— ^ and she swallowed and almost sobbed, ' there had been 
changes. She was ready to make every excuse — she was 
sure she had done her best — but she understood — she 
didn't want to be assured. It always happened so — §he 
knew her homely ways were not what Mrs. Kendal had 
been used to — and she didn't wonder— she only hoped 
the dear children — ^ and she was absolutely crying. 

' My dear Maria,' said her mother, soothingly, ' you 
have worked yourself into such a state, that you don't 
know what you are saying. You must not let Mrs. Ken* 



90 TBB TOUN0 SISF-lCOl'UJUC 

cial think that we don't know that she is leading the dear 
children to all that is right and kind towards us.' 

^ Oh, no, I don't accuse any one. Only if they like to 
put me down under their feet and trample on me, they 
are welcome. That's all I have to say.' 

Albinia was too much annoyed to be amused, and 
said, as she rose to take leave, ' I think it would be better 
for Gilbert, as well as for ourselves if we were to say no 
more till some more cool and reasonable moment' 

' I am as cool as possible,' said Miss Meadows, con- 
vulsively clutching her hand ; ' I'm not excited. Don't 
excite yourself, Mrs. Kendal — ^it is very bad for you. Tell 
her not, Mamma— oh I no, don't be excited — ^I mean 
nothing — ^I forgive poor dear Gibbie whatever little mat- 
ters — I know there was excuse — boys with unsettled 
homes — but pray don't go and excite, yourself— -you see 
how cool I am — ' 

And she pursued Albinia to the garden-gate, recom- 
mending her at every step not to be excited, for she was 
as cool as possible, trembling and stammering all the timci 
with fhished cheeks, and tears in her eyes. 

' I wonder who she thinks is excited I ' exdiaimed Al- 
binia, as they finally turned their backs on her. 

It was hardly in human nature to help making the 
observation, but it was not prudent. Gilbert took licence 
to laugh, and say, ' Aunt Maria is beside herself.' 

' I never heard anything so absurd or unjust ! ' cried 
Albinia, too much irritated to remember anything but 
the sympathy of her auditor. * If I am to be treated in 
this manner, I have done striving to please them. Due 
respect shall be shown, but as to intimacy and confi- 
dence — ^ 

^Vm glad you see it so at last!' cried Gilbert, 
' Aunt Maria has been the plague of my life, and I'm 
glad I told her a bit of my mind ! ' 

What was Albinia's consternation I Her moment's 
petulance had undone her morning's work. 

* Gilbert,' she said, * we are both speaking very 
wrongly. I especially, who ought to have helped you.' 

Spite of all succeeding humility, the outburst had 



XBB TOmrO SXSPiMaTBXB. 91 

been fatal, and argue and plead as she might, she could 
not restore the boy to anything like the half satis&ctory 
state of penitence in which she had led him from home. 
The giving way to her worse nature had awakened his, 
and though he still allowed that she should prepare the 
way for his confession to his father, all real sense of his 
outrageous conduct towards his auut was gone. 

Disheartened and worn out, Albinia did not feel equal 
even to going to take off her walking things, but sat down 
in the cbawing-room on the sofa, and tried to silence the 
girls' questions and chatter, by desiring Lucy to read 
aloud. 

By-and-by Mr. Eendal was heard returning, and she 
rose to arrest him in the hall. Her looks began the story, 
for he exclaimed, ' My dear Albinia, what is the matter ? ' 

^ Oh, Edmund, I have such things to tell you I I have 
been doing so wrong.' 

She was almost sobbing, and he spoke fondly. ^No^ 
Albinia, I can hardly believe that. SomeUiing has vexed 
you, and you must take time to compose yourself.' 

He led her up to her own room, tried to soothe her, 
and would not listen to a word till she should be calm. 
After lying still for a little while, she thought she had re- 
covered, but the very word * Gilbert ' brought such an ex- 
pression of anxiety and sternness over his brow as over* 
came her again, and she could not speak without so much 
emotion that he silenced her ; and finding that she could 
neither leave the subject, nor mention it without violent 
agitation, he said he would leave her for a little while, and 
perhaps she might sleep, and then be better able to speak 
to him. Still she held him, and begged that he would say 
nothing to Gilbert till he had heard her, and to pacify her 
he yielded, passed his promise, and quitted her with a kiss. 



92 TBB TOmrO 8IEP-H0THZB. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

Thebb was a messenger at Fairmead parsonage by 
stinrise the next morning, and by twelve o'clock Mr. and 
Mrs. Ferrars were at Willow Lawn. 

Mr. Kendal's grave brow and depressed manner did 
not reassure Winifred as he met her in the hall, although 
his words were, ' I hope she is doing well.' 

He said no more, for the drawing-room door was 
moving to and fro, as if uneasy on the hinges, and as he 
made a step towards it, it disclosed a lady with black eyes 
and pinched features, whom he presented as 'Miss 
Meadows.' 

*Well, now— I think — ^since more efficient-Hsince I 
leave Mrs. Kendal to better — only pray tell her — ^my love 
and my mother's — if I could have been of any use— -or 
sh^ I remain t— could I be of any service, Edmund t — 
I would not intrude when — but in the house — if I could 
be of any further use.' 

* Of none, thank you,' said Mr. Kendal, ' unless you 
would be kind enough to take home the girls.' 

' Oh, papa ! ' cried Lucy, * I've got the keys; Tou 
won't be able to get on at all without me. Sophy may go, 
but I could not be spared.' 

* Let it be as you will,' said Mr. Kendal ; * I only de- 
sire quiet, and that you should not inconvenience Mrs* 
Ferrars.' 

*You will help me, will you nott* said Winifred, 
smiling, though she did not augur well from this opening 
scene. * May I go soon to Albinia 1 ' 

^ Presently, I hope,' said Mr. Kendal, with an uneasy 
glance towards Miss Meadows ; ^ she has seen no one as 
yet, and she is so determined that you cannot come till 
after Christmas, that she does not expect you.' 

Miss Meadows began one of her tangled skeins of 
words, the most tangible of which was excitement ; and 
Mr. Kendal, knowing by long experience that the only 
chance of a conclusion was to let her run herself down, 
held his tongue, and she finally departed. 



t 

Then he breathed more freely, and said he would go 
and prepare Albinia to see her sister, desiring Lucy to 
show Mrs. Ferrars to her room, and to take care not to 
talk upon the stairs. 

TMs, Lucy, who was in high glory, obeyed by walking 
upon creaking tip-toe, apparently borrowed from her aunt, 
and whispering at a wonderful rate about her eagerness to 
see dear, dear mamma, and the darling little brother. 

The spare room did not look expectant of guests, and 
felt still less so. It struck Winifred as very like the month 
of a well, and the paper showed patches of ancient damp. 
One maid was hastily laying the fire, the other shaking 
out the curtains, in the endeavour to render it habitable, 
and Lucy began saying, ^ I must apologize. If papa had 
only given us notice that we were to have the pleasure of 
seeing you,' and then she dashed at the maid in all the 
pleasure of authority. < Eweretta, go and bring up Mrs. 
Ferraret's trunks directly, and some water, and some 
towels.' 

Winifred thought the greatest mercy to the hunted 
maid would be to withdraw as soon as she had hastily 
thrown off bonnet and cloak, and Lucy followed her into 
the passage, repeating that papa was so absent and for- 
getful, that it was very inconvenient in making arrange* 
ments. Whatever was ordinarily repressed in her, was 
repaying itself with interest in the pleasure of acting as 
mistress of the house. 

Mrs. Ferrars beheld Gilbert sitting listlessly on the 
deep window-seat at the end of the passage, resting his 
head on his hand. 

* Well ! ' exclaimed Lucy, * if he is not there still I 
He has hardly stirred since breakfast ! Come and speak 
to Mrs. Ferrars, Gilbert. Or,' and she simpered, * shall 
it be Aunt Winifred 1 ' 

* As you please,' said Mrs. Ferrars, advancing towards 
her old acquaintance, whom she would hardly have recog- 
nised, so different was the pale, downcast, slouching figure, 
from the bright, handsome lad she remembered. 

' How cold your hand is ! ' she exclaimed ; ' you 
should not sit in this cold passage*' 



04 THB TOTTHG 8TBP"M0THXR. 

* As I have been telling him all this morning/ said 
Lucy. 

* How is she ? ' whispered the boy, rousing himself to 
look imploringly in Winifred's face. 

* Your father seems satisfied about her.' 

At that moment a door at some distance was opened, 
and Gilbert seemed to thrill all over as for the moment 
ere it closed a baby's cry was heard. He turned his face 
away, and rested it on the window. * My brother ! my 
brother ! ' he murmured, but at that moment his father 
turned the comer of the passage, saying that Albinia had 
heard their arrival, and was very eager to see her sister. 

Still Winifred could not leave the boy without saying, 
' You can make Gilbert happy about her, can you not I 
He is waiting here, watching anxiously for news of her.' 

' Gilbert himself best knows whether he has a right to 
be made happy,' said Mr. Kendal, gravely. ^ I promised 
to ask no questions till she is able to explain, but I much 
fear that he has been causing her great grief and distress.' 

He fixed his eyes on his son, and Winifred, in the belief 
that she was better out of their way, hurried to Albinia's 
room, and was seen very little all the rest of the day. 

She was spared, however, to walk to church the next 
morning with her husband, Lucy showing them the way, 
and being quiet and agreeable when repressed by Mr. 
Ferrars's presence. After church, Mr. Dusautoy over- 
took them to inquire after Mrs. Kendal, and to make a 
kind proposal of exchanging Sunday duty. He undertook 
to drive the ponies home on the morrow, begged for cre- 
dentials for the clerk, and messages for Willie and Mary, 
and seemed highly pleased with the prospectj|of the holi- 
day as he called it, only entreating that Mrs. Ferrars 
would be so kind as to look in on ^ Fanny,' if Mrs. Ken* 
dal could spare her. 

* 1 thought,' said Winifred to her husband, * that you 
would rather have exchanged a Sunday when Albinia is 
better able to enjoy you ? ' 

^ That may yet be, but poor Kendal is so much de- 
pressed, that I do not like to leave him.' 

' I have no patience with him ! ' cried Winifred ; ' he 



IBB TOUNG ffTBFuiCOTHBB. ^ 95 

does not seem to take the slifflitest pleasure in his baby, 
and he will hardly let poor Albinia do so either ! Do 
you know, Maurice, it is as bad as I ever feared it would 
be. No, don't stop me, I must have it out. I always 
said he had no business to victimize her, and I am sure 
of it now I I believe this gloom of his has broken down 
her own dear sunny spirits? There she is — so unlike 
herself — so anxious and fidgety about her baby — will 
hardly take any one's word for his being as healthy and 
stout a child as I ever saw ! And then, every other mo- 
ment, she is restless about that boy — always asking where 
he iSy or what he is doing. I don't see how she is ever to 
get well, while it goes on in this way I Mr. Kendal told 
me that Gilbert had been worrying and distressing her ; 
and as to those girls, the eldest of them is intolerable 
with her airs, and the youngest — I asked her if she liked 
babies, and she growled, '' No." Lucy said Gilbert was 
waiting in the passage for news of mamma, and she 
grunted, ^' All sham I ^ and that's the whole I have heard 
of her ! He is bad enough in himself, but with such a 
train I My poor Albinia ! If they are not the death of 
her, it will be lucky I ' 

* Well done, Winifred ! ' 

' But, Maurice,' said his impetuous wife, in a curiously 
altered tone, ' are not you very unhappy about Albinia f ' 
' I shall leave you to find that out for me.' 

* Then you are not f ' 

*l think Kendal thoroughly values and appreciates 
her, and is very uncomfortable without her.' 

^ I suppose so. People do miss a maid-of-all-work. 1 
should not so much mind it, if she had been only hi$ 
slave, but to be so to all those disagreeable children of 
his too ! And with so little efiect. Why can't he send 
them all to school ? ' 

* Propose that to Albinia.' 

' She did want the boy to go somewhere. I should 
not care where, so it were out of her way. What crea- 
tures they must be for her to have produced no more 
effect on them ! ' 

* Poor Albinia ! I am afraid it is a hard task ; but these 



n 



96 THB YOUNG STEP-MOTHSB. 

are still early days, and we see things at a disadvantage. 
We shall be able to judge whether there be really too 
great a. strain on her spirits, and if so, I would t^ to 
Kendal.' 

' And I wonder what is to come of that. It seems to 
me like what John Smith calls singing psalms to a dead 
horse/ 

^John Smith! I am glad you mentioned him; I 
shall desire Dusautoy to bring him here on Monday.' 

* What ! as poor Albinia would say, you can't exist a 
week without John Smith.' 

^ Even so. I want him to lay out a plan for draining 
the garden. That pond is intolerable. I suspect that all, 
yourself included, will become £ar more good-tempered in 
consequence.' 

' A capital measure ; but do you mean that Edmund 
Kendal is going to let you and John Smith drain his pond 
under his very nose, and never find it out 1 I did not 
imagine him quite come to that.' 

' Not quiiey said Maurice ; Mt is with his free cort* 
sent, and I believe he will be very glad to have it done 
without any trouble to himself. He said that " Abinia 
thought it damp^^ and when I put a few sanatory facts be- 
fore him, thanked me heartily, and seemed quite relieved. 
If they had only been in Sanscrit, they would have made 
the greater impression.' 

* One comfort is, Maurice, that however provoking 
you are at first, you generally prove yourself reasonable 
at last. I am glad you are not Mr. Kendal.' 

^ Ah I it will have a fine effect on you to spend your 
Christmas-day tSte-a-t4te with him.' 

Mrs. Ferrars's views underwent various modifica- 
tions, like all hasty yet candid judgments. She took Mr. 
Kendal into favour when she found him placidly submit- 
ting to Miss Meadows's showers of words, in order to 
prevent her gaining access to his wife. 

* Maria Meadows is a very well-meaning person,' he 
said afterwards ; ' but 1 know of no worse infliction in a 
sick room.' 

* I wonder,' thought Winifred, * whether he married 



THE YOXJJXQ STEP^ICOTHBR. 97 

to get rid of her. I should have thought it justifiable had 
it ^n any one but Albinia ! ' 

*The call on Mrs.. Dusautoy was consoling. It was 
delightful to find how Albinia was loved and valued at 
the vicarage. Mrs. Dusautoj began by sending her as 
a message, John's first exclamation on hearing of the 
event. * Then she will never be of any more use.' In 
fact, she said, it was much to him like having a curate 
disabled ; and she believed he could only be consoled by 
the hopes of a pattern christening, and of a nursery for 
his school-girls; but there Winifred shook her head, 
Fairmead had a prior claim, and Albinia had long had 
her eye upon a scholar of her own, 

< I told John that she would ! and he must bear it as 
he can,' laughed Mrs. Dusautoy ; and she went on more 
seriously to say that her gratitude was beyond expres- 
sion, not merely for the actual help, though that was 
much, but for the sympathy, the first encouragement 
they had met among their richer parishioners ; and she 
spoke of the refreshment of the mirthfiilness and playful 
manner, so as to convince Winifred that they had neither 
died away nor been everywhere wasted. 

Winifred had no amenable patient. Weak and de- 
pressed as Albinia was, her restlessness and air of anxiety 
could not be appeased. There was a look of being con- 
stantly on the watch, and once, when her door was ajar, 
before Winifred was aware, she exerted her voice to call 
Gilbert ! 

Pushing the door just wide enough to enter, and 
treading almost noiselessly, he came forward, looking 
from side to side as with a sense of ffuilt. She stretched 
out her hand and smiled, and he obeyed the movement 
that asked him to bend and kiss her, but still durst not 
speak. 

* Let me have the baby,' she said. 

Mrs. Ferrars laid it beside her, and held aloof. Oilr 
bert's eyes were fixed intently on it. 

* Yes, Gilbert,' Albinia said, * I know what you will 
feel for him. He can't b^ what you once had-«-but oh| 



98 THE TOtTETG STEP-KOTHICB. 

Gilbert, jou will do all that an elder brother can to make 
him like Edmmid 1' 

Gilbert wrung her fingers, ai^l ventured to st(k)p 
down to kiss the little red forehead. The tears were 
running down his cheeks, and he could not speak. 

^ If your &ther might only say the same of him I that 
he never grieved him I ' said Albinia ; ' but oh, Gilbert- 
example ; ' and then, pausing and gazing searchingly in his 
&ce, ^ You have not told papa.' 

* No,' whispered Gilbert. 

* Winifred,' said Albinia, * would you be so kind as 
to ask papa to come ? ' 

Winifred was forced to obey, though feeling much to 
blame as Mr. Kendal. rose with a sigh of uneasiness. 
Gilbert still stood with his hand clasped in Albinia's, and 
she held it while her weak voice made the full confession 
for him, and assured his father of his shame and sorrow. 
There needed no such assurance, his whole demeanour 
had been sorrow all these dreary days, and Mr. Kendal 
could not but forgive, though his eye spoke deep grief. 

' I could not refuse pardon thus asked,' he said. ^ Oh, 
Gilbert, that I could hope this we the beginning of a 
new course I ' 

Albinia looked from Gilbert to his little brother, and 
back again to Gilbert. 

^ It shall be,' she said, and Gilbert's resolution was 
parhaps the more sincere that he spoke no word. 

'Poor boy,' said Albinia, half to herself and half 
aloud, * I think 1 feel more strong to love and help to him ! ' 

That interview was a dangerous experiment, and she 
suffered for it. As her brother said, instead of having 
too little life, she had too much, and could not let herself 
rest ; she had never cultivated the art of being still, and 
when she was weak, she could not be calm. 

Still the strength of her constitution staved off the 
nervous fever of her spirits, and though she was not at all 
a comfortable patient, she made a certain d^ree of prog- 
ress ; so that though it was not easy to call her better, 
she was not quite so ill, and grew less irrational in her 
solicitude, and more open to other ideas, *Po you 



IBB YOUNG BTEP-MOTHSB. 99 

know, Winifred/ she said, one day, * I have been thinking 
myself at Fairmead till I almost believed I heard John 
Smith's voice under the window.' 

Winifred was obliged to look out at the window to 
hide her smile. Maurice, who was standing on the lawn 
with the very John Smith, beckoned to her, and she went 
down to hear his plans. He was wanted at home the 
next day, and asked whether she thought he had bet- 
ter take Gilbert with him. * It is the wisest thing that 
has been said yet I ' exclaimed she. ^ Now I shall have a 
chance for Albinia I * and accordingly, Mr. Kendal having 
given a gracious and grateful consent, Albinia was in- 
n)rmed ; but Winifred thought her almost perverse when 
a perturbed look came over her, and she said, * It is very 
kind in Maurice, but I must speak to him.' 

He was struck by the worn, restless expression of her 
features, so unlike the calm contented repose of a young 
mother ; and when she spoke to him, her first word was 
of Gilbert. 'Maurice, it is so kind, I know you will 
make him, happy — ^but oh I take care— he is so delicate-*- 
indeed, he is--Hdon't let him get wet through.' 

Maurice promised, but Albinia resumed with minudes 
of directions, ending with, ' Oh ! if he should get hurt or 
into any mischief, what should we do ? Pray, take care, 
Maurice, you are not used to such delicate boys.' 

* My dear, I think you may rely on me.' 

* Yes, but you will not be too strict with him — ^ and 
more was following, when her brother said, ' I promise 
you to make him my special charge. I like the boy very 
much. I think you may be reasonable, and trust him 
with me, without so much agitation. You have not let 
me see my own nephew yet.' 

Albinia looked with her wistful piteous face at her 
brother as he took in his arms her noble-looking fair 
infant. 

' You are a great fellow, indeed, sir,' said his uncle. 
* Now if I were your mamma, 1 would be proud of you, 
rather than — ^ 

* I am afraid ! ' said Albinia, in a sudden low whisper. 
He looked at her anxiously. 



824214 



100 THE YOUNG BTEP-HOTHSB. 

^ Let me have him,' she said ; then as Maurice bent 
over her, and she hastily gathered the babe into her arms, 
she whispered in quick, low, faint accents, * Do you know 
how many children have been born in this house 1 ' 

Mr. Ferrars understood her; he too had seen the 
catalogue in the church, and guessed that the phantoms 
of her boy's dead brethren dwelt on her imagination, for- 
bidding her to rejoice in him hopefully. He tried to say 
something encouraging of the child's appearance, but she 
would not let him go on. ' I know,' she said, ^ he is so 
now — ^but — ^ then catching her breath again and speaking 
very low, * his father does not dare look at him — I see 
that he is sorry for me — Oh, Maurice, it will oome, and I 
shall be able to do nothing I ' 

Maurice felt his lip quivering as his sister's voice be- 
came choked — ^the sister to whom he had once been the 
whole world, and who still could pour out her inmost 
heart more freely to him than to any other. But it was 
a time for grave authority, and though he spoke gently, 
it was almost sternly. 

' Albinia, this is not right. It is not thankful or trust- 
ful. No, do not cry, but listen to me. Your child is as 
likely to do well as any child in the world, but nothing 
is so likely to do him harm as your want of composure.' 

* I tell myself so,' said Albinia, * but there is no help- 
ing it.' 

* Yes, there is. Make it your duty to keep yourself 
still, and not be troubled about what may or may not 
happen, but be glad of the present pleasure.' 

^ Don't you think I am ? ' said Albinia, half smiling ; 
* so glad, that I grow frightened at myself, and — ' As if 
fain to leave the subject, she added, ' And it is what you 
don't understand, Maurice, but he can't be the first to 
Edmund as he is to me — ^never — and when I get almost 
jealous for him, I think of Gilbert and the girls — and oh ! 
there is so much to do for them — they want a mother so 
much — and Winifred won't let me see them, or tell me 
about them ! ' 

She had grown piteous and incoherent, and a glance 
from Winifred told him, * this is always the way.' 



THE TOTTiro 8TEP*M0TGQCB« 101 

' M7 dear, he said, ' you will never be fit to attend to 
them, if you do not use this present time rightly. You 
may hurt your health, and still more certainly, you will 
go to work fretfully and impetuously. If you liave a busy 
life, the more reason to learn to be tranquil. Calm is 
forced on you now, and if you give way to useless ner- 
vous brooding over the work you are obliged to lay aside 
for a time, you have no right to hope that you will either 
have judgment or temper for your tasks.' 

*' But how am I to keep from thinking, Maurice ? The 
weaker I am, the more I think.' 

'Are you dutiful as to what Winifred there thinks 
wisest 9 Ah I Albinia, you want to learn, as poor Queen 
Anne of Austria did, that docility in illness may be self- 
resignation into higher Hands. Perhaps you despise it, 
but it is no mean exercise of strength and resolution to 
be still.' 

Albinia looked at him as if receiving a new idea. 

' And,' he added, bending nearer her face, and speak- 
ing lower, * when you pray, let them be hearty faithful 
prayers that God's hand may be over your child — ^your 
children, not half-hearted faithless ones, that He may 
work out your will in them.' 

* Oh, Maurice, how did you know ? But you are not 
going 1 I have so much to talk over with you.' 

'Yes, I must go; and you must be still. Indeed I 
will watch over Gilbert as though he were mine. Yes, 
even more. Don't speak again, Albinia, I desire you will 
not. Grood-bye.' 

That lecture had been the most wholesome treatment 
she had yet received; she ceased to give way without 
effort to restless thoughts and cares, and was much less 
refractory. 

When at last Lucy and Sophia were admitted, Win- 
ifred found perils that she had not anticipated. Lucy 
was indeed supremely and girlishly happy : but it was 
Sophy whose eye Albinia sought with anxiety, and that 
eye was averted. Her cheek was cold like that of a doll 
when Albinia touched it eagerly with her lips ; and when 



102 THK YOWXQ SIBP-HOTHER* 

Lucy admonished her to kiss the dear litde brother, she 
feirlj turned and ran out of the room. 

* Poor Sophy ! ' said Lucy. * Never mind her, mamma, 
but she is odder than ever, since baby has been bom. 
When Eweretta oame up and told us, she hid her face 
and cried ; and when grandmamma wanted to make us 
promise to love him with all our hearts, and not make 
any difference, she would only say, " I won't I " ' 

' We will leave him to take care of that, Lucy,' said 
Albinia. But though she spoke cheerfully, Winifred was 
not surprised, after a little interval, to hear sounds like 
stifled weeping. 

Almost every home subject was so dangerous, that 
whenever Mrs. Ferrars wanted to make cheerful, innocent 
conversation, she began to talk of her visit to Ireland and 
the beautiful Galway coast, and the O'Mores of Ballyma- 
kilty, till Albinia grew quite sick of the names of the 
whole dan of thirty-six cousins,' and thought, with her 
aunts, that Winifred was too Irish. Yet, at any other 
time, the histories would have made her sometimes laugh, 
and sometimes cry ; but the world was sadly out of joint 
with her. 

There was a sudden change when, for the first time, 
her eye rested on the lawn, and she beheld the work of 
drainage. The light glanced in her eye, the colour rose 
on her cheek, and she exclaimed, ^How kind of Ed- 
mund I' 

Winifred must needs give her husband his share. 
^ Ah ! you would never have had it done without 
Maurice.' 

' Yes,' said Albinia, * Edmund has been out of the way 
of such things ;. but he consented, you know.' Then as 
her eyes grew liquid, ' A duck-pond is a funny subject for 
sentiment, but oh ! if you knew what that place has been 
to my imagination from the first, and how the wreaths 
of mist have wound themselves into spectres in my 
dreams, and stretched out white shrouds now for one, 
now for the other I ' and she shuddered. 

'And you have gone through all this and never 
? )oken. No wonder your nerves and spirits were tried*' 



THx Toinra BnMtoiBWBu 103 

* I did speak at firsts' said Albinia ; * but I thought 
Edmund did not hear, or thought it nonsense, and so did 
I at times. But you see he did attend ; he always does, 
you see, at the right time. It was only my impatience.' 

' I suspect Maurice and John Smith had more to do 
with it,' sud Winifred. 

* Well, we won't quarrel about that,' said Albinia. * I 
only know that whoever brought it about has taken the 
heaviest weight off my mind tmit has been there yet.' 

In truth, the terror, half real, half imaginary, had been 
a sorer burthen than all the positive cares for those un- 
ruly children, or their silent, melancholy &ther ; and the 
relief told in all ways — ^above all, in the peace with which 
she began to regard her child. Still she would provoke 
Winifred by b^towing all her gratitude on Mr. Kendal, 
who began to be persuaded tlmt he had made a heroic 
exertion. 

Winifred had been somewhat scandalized by discov- 
ering Albinia's deficiencies in the fumitmre development 
She was too active and stirring, and too fond of out-ofdoor 
occupation to regard interior decoration as one of the do- 
mestic graces ; ' her nest was rather that of the ostrich 
than the chaffinch,' as Winifred told her on the discovery 
that her morning-room had been used for no other pur- 
pose than as a deposit for all the books, wedding pres- 
ents, lumber, dsc, which she had never had leisure to 
arrange. 

* You might be more, civil,' answered Albinia. ^ Re- 
member that the ringdove never made half such a fuss 
about her nest as the magpie.' 

' Well, I am glad you have found some likeness in 
yourself to a dove,' rejoined Winifred. 

Mrs. Ferrars set vigorously to work with Lucy, and 
rendered the room so pretty and pleasant, that Lucy pro- 
nounced that it must be Cdlled nothing but the boudoir, 
for it was a perfect little bijou. 

Albinia waa laid on the sofa by the sparkling fire, by 
her side the little cot, and in her hand a most happy af- 
fectionate letter from Gilbert, detailing the Fairmead 
Christmas festivities. She Mt the invigoration of change 



104 TBB TOUVG 8TSMC0THBB. 

of room, admired and was grateful for Winifred's work, 
and looked so fair and bright, so tranquil and so con- 
tented, that her sister and husband could not help pausing 
to contemplate her as an absolutely new creature in a 
state of quiescence. 

It did not last long, and Mrs. Ferrars felt herself the 
unwilling culprit Attracted by sounds in the hall, she 
found the two girls receiving from the hands of Genevieve 
Durant a pretty basket choicely adorned with sprays of 
myrtle, saying mamma would be much obliged, and they 
would take it up at once ; G^nevi^e should take home 
her basket, and down plunged their hands regardless of 
the garniture. 

Genevieve's disappointed look caught Winifred's at- 
tention, and springing forward she exclaimed, ' You shall 
come to Mrs. Kendi^ yourself, my dear. She must see 
your pretty basket,' and yourself, she could have added, 
as she met the grateful glitter of the dark eyes. 

Lucy remonstrated that mamma had seen no one yet, 
not even Aunt Maria, but Mrs. Ferrars would not listen ; 
and treading airily, yet with reverence that would have 
befitted a royal palace, G^nevi^ve was ushered upstmrs, 
and with heartfelt sweetness, and timid grace, presented 
her etrennes. 

Under the fragrant sprays lay a small white paper 
parcel, tied with narrow blue satin bows, such as no 
English fingers could accomplish, and within was a little 
frock-body, exquisitely embroidered, with a breastplate 
of actual point lace in a pattern like frostwork on the 
windows. It was sudi work as Madame Belmarche had 
learnt in a convent in times of historv, and poor little 
G^nevi^ve had almost worn out her black eyes on this 
piece of homage to her dear Mrs. Kendal, grieving only 
that she had not been able to add the length of robe 
needed to complete her gift. 

Albinia's kiss was recompence beyond her dreams, 
and she fairly cried for joy when she was told that she 
should come and help to dress the baby in it for his 
christening. Mrs. Ferrars would walk out with her at 
once to buy a sufficiency of cambric for the mighty skirts. 



THB YOW^ SIXP*MOTHXB« 105 

TbBt visit was indeed nothing but pleasure, but Mrs. 
Ferrars had not calculated on contingencies and family 
punctilios. She forgot that it would be a mortal offence 
to let in any one rather than Miss Meadows ; but the rest 
of the family were so well aware of it, that when she re- 
turned she heard a perfect sparrow's-nest of voices- 
Lucy's pert and eager, Miss Meadows's injured and shrill, 
and Albinia's, alas ! tliin and loud, half sarcasm, half 
fret.- 

There sat Aunt Maria fidgeting in the arm-chair; 
Lucy stood by the fire ; Albinia's countenance sadly dif- 
ferent from what it had been in the morning — weary, im- 
patient, and excited, all that it ought not to be ! 

Winifred would have cleared the room at once, but 
this was not easy, and poor Albinia was so far gone as to 
be determined on finishing that endless thing, an alter- 
cation ; so all three began explaining and appealing at 
once. • 

It seemed that Mrs. Osbom was r^uiting Mrs. Ken- 
dal's neglect in not having inquired after her when the 
Admiral's sister's husband died, by the omission of in- 
quiries at present; whereat Albinia laughed a feeble, 
overdone giggle, and observed that she believed Mrs. 
Osbom knew all that passed in Willow Lawn better than 
the inmates ; and Lucy deposed that Sophy and Loo were 
together every day, though Sophy knew mamma did not 
like it. Miss Meadows said if reparation were not made, 
the Osboms had expressed their intention of omitting 
Lucy and Sophy from their Twelflh-day party. 

To this Albinia pettishly replied that the girls were 
to go to no Christmas parties without her ; Miss Mead- 
ows had taken it very much to heart, and Lucy was de- 
claiming against mamma making any condescension to 
Mrs. Osbom, or herself being supposed to dare for * the 
Osbom's parties,' where the boys were so rude and vulgar, 
the girls so boisterous, and the dancing a mere romp. 
Sophy might like it, but she never did ! 

Miss Meadows was hurt by her niece's defection, and 
had come to * Oh, very well,' and * things were altered,' 
and ' people used to be grateful to old friends, but there 

6* 



106 THB YOUKG SIBMCOTHSB. 

were changes.' And thereby Lucy grew personal as to 
the manners of the OabomSy while Albinia defended lier- 
self against the being grand or exdusive, but it was her 
duty to do what she thought right for the children I Yes, 
Miss Meadows was quite aware— only grandmamma was 
so nervous about poor dear Gibbie missing his Christmas 
dinner for the first time — ^being absent — ^Mrs. Ferrars 
would take great care, but damp stockings and all — 

Winifred endeavoured to stem the tide of words, but 
in vain, between the meandering incoherency of the one, 
and the nervous rapidity of the other, and they had both 
set off again on this fresh score, when in despair she ran 
downstairs, rapped at the study door, and cried, 'Mr, 
Kendal, Mr. Kendal, will you not comet I can't get 
Miss Meadows out of Albinia's room.' 

Forth came Mr. Kendal, walked straight upstairs, and 
stood in full majesty on the threshold. Holding out his 
hand to Maria with grave courtesy, he thanked her for 
coming to see his wife, but at the same time handed her 
down, saw her out safely at the hall door, and Lucy into 
the drawing-room. 

It was a pity that he had not returned to Albinia's 
room, for she was too much excited to be composed with- 
out authority. First, she scolded Winifred ; * it was the 
thing she most wished to avoid, that he should fancy her 
teased by anything the Meadowses could say,' and she 
laughed, and protested she never was vexed, such absur- 
dity did not hurt her in the least. 

* It has tired you, though,' said Winifred. ' Lie quite 
down and sleep.' 

Of course, however, Albinia would not believe that 
she was tired, and began to talk of the Osboms and their 
party — she was annoyed at the being thought too fine. 
* If it were not such a penance, and if you would not be 
gone home, I really would ask you to take the girls, 
Winifred.' 

' I shall not be gone home.' 

* Yes, you will. I am well, and every one wants you.' 

* Did you not hear Willie's complimentary message, 
that he is never naughty now, because Gilbert makes him 
so happy ? ' 



TBE YOUVO SISP^MaiBBB. 107 

^ But, Winifired, the penny dub I The people must 
have their things.' 

* They can wait, or — ^ 

* It is very well for us to talk of waiting,' cried Al- 
binia, 'but how should we like a frosty night without 
cloaks, or blankets, or fire 9 I did not think it of you, 
Winifred. It is the first winter I have been away from 
my poor old dames, and I did think you would have cared 
for them.' 

And thereupon her overwrought spirits gave way in 
a flood of tears, as she angrily averted her face from her 
sister, who could have cried too, not at the injustice, but 
with compassion and perplexity lest there should be an 
equally violent reaction either of remorse or of mirth. 

It must be confessed that Albinia was verv much the 
creature of health. Never having been ill berore, the de- 

Sression had been so new that it broke her completely 
own ; convalescence made her fractious. 
Recovery, however, filled her with such an ecstasy of 
animal spirits that her time seemed to be entirely passed 
in happiness or in sleep, and cares appeared to have lost 
all power. It was so sudden a change that Winifred was 
startled, though it was a very pleasant one, and she did 
not reflect that this was as far from the calm, self* 
restrained, meditative tranquillity enjoined by Maurice, 
as had be^ the previous restless, querulous state. Both 
were body more than mind, but Mrs. Ferrars was much 
more ready to be merry with Albinia than to moralize 
about her. And it was droll that the penny club was one 
of the first stages in her revival. 

* Oh, mamma,' cried Lucy, flying in, * Mr. Dusautoy 
is at the door. There is such a to do. All the women 
have been getting gin with their penny dub tickets, and 
Mrs. Brock has been stealing the money, and Mr. Du- 
sautoy wants to know if you paid up three-and-fourpence 
for the Hancock children.' 

Albinia instantly invited Mr. Dusautoy to explain in 
person, and he entered, hearty and pleasant as ever, but 
in great haste, for he had left his Fanny keeping the 
peace between five angry women, while he came out to 
collect evidence. 



108 THB TOUHG buep-hotheb, 

The Bayford ciothing-club payments were collected 
by Mrs. Brock, the sexton's wife, and distributed by 
tickets to be produced at the various shops in the town. 
Mrs. Brock had detected some women exchanging their 
tickets for gin, and the offending parties retaliated by ac* 
cusing her of embezzling the subscriptions, both parties 
launching into the usual amount of personalities and ex- 
aggerations. 

Albinia's testimony cleared Mrs. Brock as to the 
three-and-fourpence, but she 'snufied the battle from 
afar,' and rushed into a scheme of taking the dothing-club 
into her own hands, collecting the pence, having the 
goods from London, and selling them herself — she would 
propose it on the very first opportunity to the Dusau* 
toys. Winifred asked if she had not a good deal on her 
hands already. 

* My dear, I have the work in me of a young giant.' 

* And will Mr. Kendal like it ? ' 

* He would never find it out unless I told him, and 
very possibly not then. Six months hence, perhaps, he 
may tell me he is glad that Lucy is inclined to useful 
pursuits, and that is approval, Winifred, much more than 
if I went and worried him about every little petty wo- 
man's matter.' 

* Every one to her taste,' thought Winifred, who had 
b^un to regard Mr. and Mrs. Kendal in the same rela- 
tion as the king and queen at chess. 

The day before the christening, Mr. Ferrars brought 
back Gilbert and his own little Willie. 

Through all the interchange of greetings, Gilbert 
would hardly let go Albinia's hwd, and the moment her 
attention was free, he earnestly whispered, 'May I see 
my brother 1 ' 

She took him upstairs at once. * Let me look a little 
while,' he said, hanging over the child with a sort of 
hungry fondness and curiosity. 'My brother! my 
brother I ' be repeated, ' It has rung in my ears every 
morning that I can say my brother once more, till I have 
feared it was a dream. 

It was the sympathy Albinia cared for, come back 



THB TOOVB 8TBP-H0THBB. 109 

again ! * I hope he will be a good brodier to you/ she 
said. 

^ He must be good ! he caa't help it ! He has jovl ! ' 
said Gilbert. 'See, he is opening his eyes— oh! how 
blue ! May I touch him ? 

' To be sure you may. He is not sugar/ said Al« 
binia, laughing. ' There — ^make an arm ; you may have 
him if you like. Your left arm, you awkward man. 
Yes, that is right. You will do quite as well as I, who 
never touched a baby till Willie was bom. There, sir, 
how do you like your brother, Gilbert ? ' 

Gilbert held him reverently, and gave him back with 
a sigh when he seemed to have satiated his gaze and 
toudb, and convinced himself that his new possession was 
substantial. * I say,' he added wistfully, * did you think 
that name would bring ill-luck f ' 

She knew the name he meant, and answered, ' No, but 
your father could not have borne it Besides, Gibbie, we 
would not think him instead of Edmund. No, he shall 
learn to look up to his other brother as you do, and look 
to meeting and knowing him some day.' 

Gilbert shivered at this, and made no opposition to 
her carrying him downstairs to his uncle ; and then Gil- 
bert hurried off for the basket of snowdrops that he had 
gathered early, from a favourite spot at Fairmead. That 
short absence seemed to have added double force to his 
affection ; he could hardly bear to be away from her, and 
every moment when he could gain her ear, poured his- 
tories of the delights of Fairmead, where Mr. Ferrars 
had devoted himself to his amusement, and had made 
him happier than perhaps he had ever been in his life — 
he had had a taste of shooting, of skating, of snowballing 
— ^he had been useful and important in the village feasts, 
had dined twice at Colonel Bury's, and felt himself many 
d^rees nearer manhood. 

To hear of her old haunts and friends from such en- 
thusiastic lips, delighted Albinia, and her felicity with 
her baby, with Mr. Kendal, with her brother and his little 
son, was one of the brightest things in all the world — the 



110 XHB TOUVO 

fresh young loving bloom of her matronhood was even 
sweeter and more beautiful than her girlish days. 

Poor little frail, blighted Mrs. Dusautoy ! Winifred 
could not help wondering if the contrast pained her, when 
in all the glory of her motherly thankfulness, Albinia car- 
ried her beautiful newly-christened Maurice Ferrars Ken- 
dal to the vicarage to show him off, lying so open-chested 
and dignified, in Genevieve's pretty work, with a sort of 
manly serenity already dawning on his baby brow, 

Winifred need not have pitied the little lady. She. 
would not have changed with Mrs. Kendal — ^no, not for 
that perfect health, usefulness, value — ^nor even for such a 
baby as that. No, indeed ! She loved — she rejoiced in 
all her friend's sweet and precious gifts — ^but Mrs. Du- 
sautoy had one gift that she prized above all. 

Even grandmamma and Aunt Maria did justice to 
Master Maurice's attractions, at least in public, though 
it came round that Miss Meadows did not adinaire fat 
children, and when he had onCe been seen in Lucy's arms, 
an alarm arose that Mrs. Kendal would allow the girls to 
carry him about, till his weight made them crooked ; but 
Albinia was too joyous to take their displeasure to heart, 
and it only served her for something to laugh at. 

They had a very happy christening party, chiefly ju- 
venile, in honour of little Willie and of Francis and 
Emily Nugent. Albinia was so radiantly lively and 

food-natured, and her assistants, Winifred, Maurice, and 
ir. Dusautoy, so kind, so droll, so inventive, that even 
Aunt Maria forgot herself in enjoyment and novelty, and 
was like a different person. Mr. Kendal looked at her 
with a pleased sad wonder, and told his wife it reminded 
him of what she had been when she was nearly the pret- 
tiest girl at Bayford. 

Gilbert devoted himself as usual to making Genevieve 
feel welcome ; and she had likewise Willie Ferrars and 
Francis Nugent at her feet Neither urchin would sit 
two inches away from her all the evening, and in all 
games she was obliged to obviate jealousies by being 
partner to both at once. Where there was no one to 
oppress her, she came out with all her natural grace and 



IBB TOUNO (fl'JBIVMOiIHXB. Ill 

▼ivadty, and people of a larger growth than her little 
admirers were charmed with her. 

Lucy was obliging, ready, and useful, and looked very 

gretty; the only blot was the heavy dulness of poor 
ophy, who seemed resolved to take pleasure in nothing. 
Winifred varied in opinion whether her moodiness arose 
from ill-health, or from jealousy of her little brother. 
This latter Albinia would not believe, especially as she 
saw that little Maurice's blue eyes were magnets that 
Jield the silent Sophy fast, but surly denials silenoed her 
interrogations as to illness, and made her content to ac- 
quiesce in Lucy's explanation that Sophy .was only cross 
because the Osboms and Drurys were not asked. 

Albinia did her duty handsomely by the two &milie8 
a day or two after, for whatever reports might come 
round, they were always ready to receive her advances, 
and she only took notice of wnat she saw, instead of what 
she heard. Her brother helped Mr. Kendal through the 
party, and Winifred made a discovery that ezdted her 
more than Albinia thought warranted by any fact relat- 
ing to the horde of Irish cousins. 

^ Only think, Albinia, I have found out that poor Ellen 
O'More is Mr. Goldsmith's sister ! ' 

* Indeed ! But I am afraid I don't remember which 
Ellen O'More is. You know I never undertake to recollect 
any but your real cousins out of the thirty-six.' 

* For shame, Albinia ; I have so often told you about 
Ellen. I'm sure you can't forget Her husbaud is my 
sister's brother-in-law's cousin.' 

* Oh, Winifred, Winifred ! ' 

^ But I tell you her husband is the third son of old 
Mr. O'More of Ballamakilty, and was in the army.' 

' Oh ! the half-pay officer with the twelve children in 
the cottage on the estate.' 

* There now, I did think you would care when I told 
you of a soldier, a Waterloo man too ; and you only call 
him a half-pay officer ! ' 

' I do remember,' said Albinia, taking a little pity, 
^ that you used to be sorry for hki good little English 
wife.* 



112 TBB TOUNO 8!rBP»X0TH1EB> 

' Of oourse. I knew she had married him very im^ 
prudently, but she had struggled gallantly with ill-health, 
and poverty, and Irish recklessness. I quite venerate 
her, and it seems these Goldsmiths had so far east her off 
that they had no notion of the extent of her troubles.' 

' Just like them,' said Albinia. ' Is that the reason 
you wish me to make the most of the connexion *i Let 
me see, my sister-in-law's sister's wife — no, husband's 
brother's uncle, eh ? ' 

' I don't want you to do anything,' said Winifred, a- 
little hurt ; ' only if you had seen Ellen's patient face you 
would be inteiested in her.' 

' Well, I am interested ; you know I am, Winifred. 
I hope you interested our respected banker, which would 
be more to the purpose.' 

^ I think I did,' said Winifred ; * at least he said '^ poor 
Ellen " once or twice. I don't want him to do anydiing 
for the captain ; you might give him a thousand pounds 
and he would never be the letter for it : but that fourth 
boy, Ulick, is without exception the nicest fellow I ever 
saw in my life— so devoted to his mother, so much more 
considerate and self-denying than any of the others, and 
very clever. Maurice examined him and was quite as- 
tonished. We did get him sent to St. Columba for the 
present, but whether they will keep him there no one can 

ress, and it is the greatest pity he should run to waste, 
told Mr. Goldsmith all this, and I really think he 
seemed to attend. I wonder if it will work.' 

Albinia was by this time anxious that it should take 
effect, and they agreed that an old bachelor banker and 
his sister, both past sixty, were the very people to adopt 
a promising nephew. 

What had become of the multitude of things which 
Albinia had to discuss with her brother ? The floodtide 
of bliss had floated her over all the stumbling-blocks and 
shoals that the ebb had disclosed ; and she had absolutely 
forgotten all the perplexities that had seemed so trying. 
Even when she sought a private interview to talk to him 
about Gilbert, it was in full security of hearing the 
praises of her darling. 



TIES YOVJSCQ STEP-HOIHES. 113 

*A nice boy, a very nice boy,' returned Maurice; 
* most amiable and intelligent, and particularly engaging, 
from his feelingj)eing so much on the surface.' 

' Nothing (^ be more sincere and genuine,' she cried, 
as if this fell a little flat. 

' Certainly not, at the time.' 

'Always!' exclaimed Albinia. 'You must not dis- 
trust him because he is not like you or Fred, and has 
never been hardened and taught reserve by rude boys. 
Nothing was ever more real than his affection, poor dear 
boy,' and the tears thrilled to her eyes. 

' No, and it is much to his credit. His love and grat- 
itude to you are quite touching, poor fellow; but the 
worst of it is that I am afraid he is very timid, both 
physically and morally.' 

Often as she had experienced this truth, the soldier's 
daughter could not bear to avow it, and she answered 
hastily, ' He has never been braced or trained ; he was 
always ill till within the last few years— -coddling at first, 
neglect afterwards, he has it all to learn, and it is too late 
for school.' 

' Yes, he is too old to be laughed at or bullied out of 
cowardice. Indeed, I doubt whether there ever would 
have been substance enough for much wear and tear.' 

' I know you have a turn for riotous, obstinate boys ! 
You want W illie to be another Fred,' said Albinia, like 
an old hen, rufHing up her feathers. ' You think a boy 
can't be good for anything unless he is a universal 
plague ! ' 

* I wonder what you will do with your own son,' said 
Maurice, amused, ' since you take Gilbert's part so 
fiercely,' 

* I trust my boy will never be as mudi to be pitied 
as his brother,' said Albinia, with tenderness that accused 
her petulance. * At least he can never be a lonely twin 
with that sore spot in his heart. Oh, Maurice, how can 
any one help dealing gently with my poor Gibbie 1 ' 

* Gentle dealing is the very thing he wants,' said Mr. 
Ferrars; 'and I am thinking how to find it for him. 
How did his going to Traversham fiul 1 ' 



114 THB TOUNa 8TBa^'lC0^HEB• 

*l don't know; Edmund did not like to send bim 
without having seen Traversham, and I could not go. 
But 1 don't think there is any need for his going away. 
His &ther has been quite enough tormexfted about it, and 
I can manage him very well now. He is always good 
and happy with me. I mean to try to ride with him, and 
1 have promised to teach him music, and we shall garden. 
Never fear, I will employ him and keep him out of mis- 
chief — it is all pleasure to me.' 

' And pray what are your daughters and baby to do, 
while you are galloping after Gilbert ? ' 

'Oh! I'll manage. We can all do things together. 
Come, Maurice, I won't have Edmund teazed, and I can't 
bear parting with any of them, or think that any strange 
man can trea£ Gibbie as I should.' 

Maurice was edified by his sister's warm-hearted 
weakness, but not at all inclined to let ' Edmund ' escape 
a * teazing.' 

Mr. Kendal's first impulse always was to find a suffi- 
cient plea for doing nothing. If Gilbert was to go to 
India, it was not worth while to give him a classical edu- 
cation. 

* Is he to go to India ? Albinia had not told me so.' 

* I thought she was aware of it ; but possibly I may 
not have mentioned it. It has been an understood thing 
ever since I came home. He will have a good deal of the 
property in this place, but he had better have seen some- 
thing of the world. Bayford is no place for a man to 
settle down in too young.' 

* Certainly,' said A(&. Ferrars, repressing a smile. 
' Then are you thinking of sending him to Haileybury ? ' 

He was pronounced too young ; besides, it was ex- 
plained that his destination in India was unfixed. On 
going home it had been a kind of promise that one of the 
twin brothers should have an appointment in the civil 
service, the other should enter the bank of Kendal and 
Kendal; and the survivor was unconsciously suspended 
between these alternatives, while the doubt served as a 
convenient protection to his father from making up his 
mind to prepare him for either of these or for anything 



THB TOUHG 0IBP-MOIBBB, 115 

The prompt Ferraro' temper could bear it no longer, 
and Maurice spoke out. * I'll tell you what, Kendal, it is 
time to attend to your own concerns. If you choose to 
let your son run to ruin, because you will not exert your- 
self to remove him from temptation, I shall not stand by 
to see my sister worn out with making efforts to save 
him. She is willing and devoted, she mncies she could 
work day and night to preserve him, and she does it with 
all hei* heart ; but it is not woman's work, she cannot do 
it, and it is not fit to leave it to her. When Gilbert has 
broken her heart as well as yours, and left an evil exam- 
nle to his brother, then you will feel what it is to have 
kept a lad whom you know to be well disposed, but weak 
as water, in the very midst of contamination, and to have 
left your young, inexperienced wife to struggle alone to 
save him. If you are unwarned by the experience of 
last autumn and winter, I could not pity you, whatever 
might happen.' 

Maurice, who had run on the longer because Mr. Ken- 
dal did not answer immediately, was shocked at his own 
impetuosity ; but a rattling peal of thunder was not more 
thim was requisite. 

' I believe you are right,' Mr. Kendal said. * I was to 
blame for leaving him so entirely to Albinia ; but she is 
very fond of him, and is one who will never be induced 
to spare herself, and there were considerations. How- 
ever, she shall be relieved at once. What do you recom- 
mend ? ' 

Mr. Ferrars actually made Mr. Kendal promise to 
set out for Traversham with him next morning, thirty 
miles by the railway, to inspect Mr. Downton and his 
pupils* 

Albinia had just sense enough not to object, though 
the discovery of the Indian plans was such a blow to her 
that she could not be consoled by all her husband's repre- 
sentations of the advantages Gilbert would derive there, 
and of his belief that the Kendal constitution always de- 
rived strength from a hot climate ; and that to himself 
going to India seemed going home. She took refuge in 
uie nope that between the two Indian stools, Gilbert 



116 THs Tomra sxsp^motboeb. 

might fail upon one of the professions which she thought 
alone worthy of man's attention, the clerical or the mil- 
itary. 

Under Maurice's escort, Mr. Kendal greatly enjoyed 
his expedition ; liked Traversham, was satisfied with the 
looks of the pupils, and very much pleased with the tutor, 
whom he even begged to come to Bayford for a confer- 
ence with Mrs. Kendal, and this was received by her as 
no small kindness. She was delighted with Mr. Down- 
ton, and felt as if Gilbert could be safely trusted in his 
charge ; nor was Gilbert himself reluctant. He was glad 
to escape from his tempter, and to begin a new life, and 
though he hung about Mrs. Kendal and implored her to 
write oflen, and always tell him about his little brother 
—-nay, though he cried like a child at l^e last, yet still he 
was happy and satisfied to go, and to break the painful 
fetters which had held him so long. 

And though Albinia likewise shed some parting tears, 
she could not but own that she was glad to have him in 
trustworthy hands ; and as to the additional time thus 
gained, it was disposed of in a million of bright plans 
for every one's service— daughters, baby, parish, sdiool, 
classes, clubs, neighbours. It almost made Winifred 
giddy to hear how much she had undertaken, and yet 
with what zest she talked and acted. 

'There's your victim, Winifred,' said Maurice, as 
they drove away, and looked back at Albinia, scandal- 
izing Bayford by standing in the open gateway, her face 
all smiles of cheerful parting, the sun and wind making 
merry with her chestnut curls, her baby in one arm, the 
other held up to wave her farewell. 

* That child will catch cold,' began Winifred, turning 
to sign her to go in. ' Well,' she continued, ' after all, I 
believe some people like an idol that sits quiet to be wor- 
shipped ! To be sure she must want to beat him some- 
times, as the Africans do their gods. But, on the whole, 
her sentiment of reverence is satisfied, and she likes the 
acting for herself, and reigning absolute. Yes, she is 
quite happy — ^why do you look doubtful? Don't you 
admire her ? ' 



THB TOUHG 8X1!P»M0THBB. llf 

* Prom my heart.' 

' Then why do you doubt f Do you expect her to do 
anything ? ' 

* A little too much of everything/ 



-•♦•- 



CHAPTER Vffl. 

Yes f Albinia was excessively happy. Her paturally 
high spirits were enhanced by the enjoyment of recovery, 
and reaction from her former depression. Since the great 
stroke of the drainage, every one looked better, and her 
pride in her babe was without a drawback. He seemed 
to have inherited her vigour and superabundance of life, 
and 'that first wondrous spring to all but babes un- 
known,' was in him unusually rapid ; so that he was a 
marvel of fair stateliness, size, strength, and intelligence ; 
so unlike the little blighted buds which had been wont to 
fade at Willow Lawn, that his father watched him with 
silent, wondering affection, and his eldest sister was un- 
merciful in her descriptions of his progress ; while even 
Sophia had not been proof against his smiles, and was 
proud to be allowed to carry him about and fondle him. 

Neither was Mr. Kendal's reserve the trial that it had 
once been. AfVer having become habituated to it as a 
necessary idiosyncrasy, she had become rather proud of 
his lofty inaccessibility. Besides, her brother's visit, her 
recovery, and the renewed hope and joy in this promising 
child, had not been without effect in rousing him from his 
apathy. He was less inclined to shun his fellow-crea- 
tures, had become friendly with the vicar, and had even 
let Albinia take him into Mrs. Dusautoy's drawing-room, 
where he had been fairly happy. Having once b^un 
taking his wife out in the carriage, he found this much 
more agreeable than his solitary ride, and was in the con- 
dition to which Albinia had once imagined it possible to 
bring him, in which gentle means and wholesome influ* 



118 THB TOtnVG ffnEP'MOTHBB* 

ence might lead him imperceptibly out of his morbid 
habits of self-absorption. 

Unfortunately, in the flush of blitheness and whirl of 
activity, Albinia failed to perceive the relative import- 
ance of objects, and he had taught her to believe herself 
so little necessary to him tha^ she had not learnt to make 
her pursuits and occupations subservient to his conven- 
ience. As long as the drive took place regularly, all 
was well, but he caught a severe cold, which lasted ev^i 
to the setting in of the east winds, the yearly misery of a 
man who hardly granted that India was over-hot. Though 
Albinia had removed much listing and opened various 
doors and windows, he made no complaints, but did his 
best to keep the obnoxious fresh air out of his study, and 
seldom crossed the threshold thereof but with a shiver. 
His favourite atmosphere was quite enough to account 
for a return of the old mood, but Albinia had no time to 
perceive that it might have been prevented, or at least 
mitigated. 

Few even of the wisest women are fit for authority 
and liberty so little restrained, and happily it seldom 
falls to the lot of such as have not previously been chast* 
ened by a life-long afHiction. But Mrs. Kendal, at twenty- 
four, with the consequence conferred by marrii^e, and by 
her superiority of manners and birth, was lefl as un- 
checked and almost as irresponsible as if she had be^i 
single or a widow, and was solely guided by the impulses 
of her own character, noble and highly principled, but 
like most zealous dispositions, without balance and with- 
out repose. 

Ballast had been given at first by bashfulness, disap- 
pointment, and anxiety ; but she had been freed from her 
troubles with Gilbert, had gained AConfidence in herself, 
and had taken her position at Bayford. She was beloved, 
esteemed, and trusted in her own set, and though else- 
where she might not be liked, yet she was deferred to, 
could not easily be quarrelled with, so that she met with 
little opposition, and did not care for such as she did 
meet. In fact, very few persons had so much of their 
own way as Mrs. Kendal. 



She was generally in her nursery at a much earlier 
hour than an old-established nurse would have tolerated, 
but the little Susan, promoted from Fairmead school and 
nursery, was trained in energetic habits. In passing the 
doors of the young ladies' rooms, Albinia gave a call 
which she had taught them not to resist, for, like all 
strong persons, she thought ' early to rise ' the only way 
to health, wealth, or wisdom. Much, work had been de- 
spatched before breakfast, after which, on two days in the 
week, Albinia and Lucy went to church. Sophy never 
volunteered to accompany them, and Albinia was the less 
inclined to press her, because her attitudes and attention 
on Sunday were &r from satisfactory. On Tuesday and 
Thursday Albinia had a class at school, and so, likewise^ 
had Lucy, who kept a jealous watch over every stray 
necklace and curl, and had begun thoroughly to enjoy the 
importance and bustle of charity. She was a useful 
assistant in the penny club and lending library, which 
occupied Albinia on other mornings in the week, until 
the hour when she came in for the girls' studies. After 
luncheon, she enjoyed the company of little Maurice, who 
indeed pervaded all her home doings and thoughts, for 
she had a great gift of doing everything at once. 

A sharp constitutional walk was taken in the after^ 
noon. She thought no one could look drooping or de- 
jected but from the air of the valley, and that no cure 
was equal to rushing straight up one hill and on to the 
next, ^ways walking rapidly, with a springy, buoyant 
step, and surprised at any one who lagged behind. Pa- 
rochial cares, visits, singing classes, lessons to Sunday- 
school teachers, &c., filled up the rest of the day. She 
had an endless number of ' excellent plans,' on which she 
always acted instantly, and which kept her in a state of 
perpetual haste. Poor Mrs. Dusautoy had almost learnt 
to dread her flashing into the room, full oT some parish 
matter, and flashing out again before the invalid felt as if 
the subject had been fairly entered on, or her sitting 
down to impress some project with overpowering eager- 
ness that generally carried away the vicar into grateful 
consent and admiring approval, while his wife was feeling 



120 THB TOCKG SllEF^XOTHEB. 

doubtful, suspecting her hesitation of being ungracious^ or 
blaming herself for not liking the little whe could do to 
be taken out of her hands. 

There was nothing more hateful to Albinia than dawd- 
ling. She left the girls choice of employments, but in- 
sisted on their being veritably occupied, and many a 
time did she encounter a killing glance from Sophia for 
attacking her listless, moody position in her chair^ or say- 
ing, in clear, alert tones, ' My dear, when you read, read ; 
when you work, work. When you fix your eye in that 
way, you are doing neither.' 

Lucy's brisk, active disposition, and great good- 
humour, had responded to this treatment ; she had been 
obliging, instead of officious; repeated checks had im- 
proved her taste ; her love of petty bustle was directed 
to better objects; and though nothing could make her 
intellectual or deep, she was a really pleasant assistant 
and companion ; and no one, except grandmamma, who 
thought her perfect before, could fail to perceive how 
much more lady-like|her tones, manners, and appearance 
had become. 

The results with Sophy had been directly the reverse. 
At first she had followed her sister's lead, except that she 
was always sincere, and often sulky ; but the more Lucy 
had yielded to Albinia's moulding, the more had Sophy 
diverged from her ; as if out of the very spirit of contra- 
diction. Her intervals of childish nonsense had well nigh 
disappeared ; her indifference to lessons was greater than 
ever, though she devoured every book that came in her 
way in a silent, but absorbed manner, a good deal like 
her father. Tales and stories were not often within her 
reach, but her appetite seemed to be universal, and Al- 
binia saw her reading old-fashioned standard poetry-— 
such as she had never herself assailed — ^and books of his- 
tory, travels, or metaphysics. She wondered whether 
the girl derived any pleasure from them, or whether they 
were only a shield for doing nothing ; but no inquiry pro- 
duced an answer, and if Sophy remembered anything of 
them, it was not with the memory used in lesson-time. 
The attachment to Louisa Osbom was pertinacious and 



THB TOUNG- BTJEF-XOl'UJEK. 121 

unaccountable in a person who could have so little in 
common with that-young lady, and there was nothing 
comfortable about her except her fondness for her little 
brother, and that really seemed to be against her wilL 
Her voice was less hoarse and gruff* since the pond had 
been no more, and she had acquired an expression, so 
suffering, so concentrated, so thoughtful, that, together 
with her heavy black eyebrows, lai^e &oe, profuse black 
hair, and unlustrous eyes, it gave her almost a dwarfish 
air, increased by her awkward deportment, which con- 
cealed that she was in reality tall, and on a large scale. 
She looked to so little advantage in bright delicate col* 
ours, that Albinia was offien incurring her displeasure, 
and risking that of Lucy, by the deep blues and sober 
browns which alone looked fit to be seen with those bee> 
tie brows and sallow features. Her &ce looked many 
years older than that of her fair, fresh, rosy step-mother ; 
nay, her father's clear olive complexion and handsome 
countenance had hardly so aged an aspect ; and Gilbert^ 
when he came home at Midsummer declared that Sophy 
had grown as old as grandmamma. 

The compliment could not be returned ; Gilbert was 
much more boy4ike in a good sense. He had brought 
home an excellent character, and showed it in every look 
and gesture. His &ther was pleased to have him again, 
took the trouble to talk to him, and received such sensi- 
ble answers, that the habit of conversing was actually 
established, and the dinners were enlivened, instead of 
oppressed, by his presence. Towards his sisters he had 
become courteous, he was fairly amiable to Aunt Maria, 
very attentive to grandmamma, overflowing with affeo- 
tion to Mrs. Kendal, and as to little Maurice, he almost 
adored him, and awakened a reciprocity which was the 
delight of his heart. 

At Midsummer came the grand penny-dub distribu^ 
tion, the triumph for which Albinia had so long been pre- 
paring. One of Mrs. Dusautoy's hints as to Bayford 
tradesmen had been overruled, and goods had been or« 
dered from a house in London, after Albinia and Lucy 
had made an incredible agitation over their patterns of 



122 TBS TOUKO 8TEP-M0THSB. 

calico and flannel. Mr. Kendal was just aware that there 
was a prodigious commotion, but he knew that all ladies 
were subject to linen-drapery epidemics, and Albinia's 
took a more endurable form than a pull on his purse for 
the sweetest silk in the world, and above all, it neither 
came into his study nor even into his house. 

It was a grand spectacle, when Mr. Dusautoj looked 
in on Mrs. Kendal and her stafi^ armed with their yard- 
wands. 

A pile of calico was heaped in wild masses like ata- 
lanches in one comer, rapidly diminishing under the 
measurements of Gilbert, who looked as if he took thor- 
ough good-natured delight in the frolic. Brown, inodor* 
rous materials for petticoats, blouses, and trowsers, were 
dealt out by the dexterous hands of G6nevi^ve ; a moun- 
tain of lilac print was folded off by Clarissa Richardson ; 
Lucy was presiding joyously over the various blue, buff, 
brown, and pink Sunday frocks ; the schoolmistress help- 
ing with the other goods, the customers — some pleased 
with novelty, or hoping to get more for their money, 
others suspicious of the gentry, and secretly resentful for 
favourite dealers, but, except the desperate grumblers, 
satisfied with the quality and quantity of the wares — and 
extremely taken with the sellers, especially with Gilbert's 
wit, and with Miss Durant's ready, lively persuasions, 
varied to each one's tastes, and extracting a smile and 
* thank you, Miss,' from the surliest. And the presiding 
figure, with the light on her sunny hair, and good-natured, 
un&iling interest in her countenance, was at her central 
table, calculating, giving advice, considering of com- 
plaints, measuring, folding — here, there, and everywhere 
— always bright, lively, forbearing, however complaining 
or unreasonable her clients might be. 

Mr. Dusautoy went home to tell his Fanny that Mrs. 
Kendal was worth her weight in gold ; and the workers 
toiled till luncheon, when Albinia took them home for 
food and wine, to restore them for the labours of the 
ailernoon. 

' What have you been about all the morning, Sophy ? 
Yes, I see your translatiour-very well — ^I wish you would 



) 
^ 



THB TOimO 8TBP-M0THB8. 128 

come up and help this afternoon, Miss Richardson is look* 
ing so pale and tired that I want to relieve her.' 

* I can't,' said Sophy. 

* I don't order you, but you are losing a great deal of 
fun. Suppose you came to look on, at least.^ 

* I hate poor people.' 

' I hope you will change your mind some day, but 
you must do something this afternoon. You had better 
take a walk with Susan and baby ; I told her to go by 
the meadows to Horton.' 

* I don't want to walk.* 

* Have you anything to do instead ? No, I thought 
not ; and it is not at ^1 hot to signify. — ^It will do you 
much more good. Yes, you must go.* 

In the course of the summer an old Indian friend was 
staying at Fairmead Park, and Colonel Bury wrote to 
beg for a week's visit from the whole Kendal family. 
Even Sophy vouchsafed to be pleased, and Lucy threw 
all her ardour into the completion of a blue braided cape, 
which was to add immensely to little Maurice's charms ; 
she declared that she should work at it the whole of the 
last evening, while Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were at the 
dinner that old Mr. and Mrs. Bowles annually inflicted 
on themselves and their neighbours, a dinner which it 
would have been as cruel to refuse as it was irksome to 
accept. 

There was a great similarity in those Bayford parties, 
inasmuch as the same cook dressed tiiem all, and the same 
waiters waited at them, and the same guests met each 
other, and the principal variety on this occasion was, that 
the Osboms dSd not come, because the Admiral was in 
London. 

The ladies had left the dining-room, when Albinia's 
ear caught a sound of hurried opening of doors, and 
sound of steps, and saw Mrs. and Miss Bowles look as 
if they heard something unexpected. She paused, and 
forgot the end of what she was saying. The room door 
was pushed a little way open, but then seemed to hesi* 
tate. Miss Bowles hastened forward, and opening it, ad- 
mitted a voice that made Albinia hurry breathlessly from 



124 THB TOUKG BTBF>MOfIBXB; 

the other side of the room, and push so that the door 
yielded, and she saw it had been Mr. Dusautoy who had 
been holding it while there was some kind of oonsulta- 
tion round Gilbert. The instant he saw her, he ex- 
claimed, * Come to the baby, Sophy has fallen down with 
him.' 

People pressed about her, trying to speak cheeringly, 
but she understood nothing but that her husband and Mr. 
Bowles were gone on, and she had a sense that there had 
been hardness and cruelty in hesitating to summon her* 
Without knowing that a shawl w;as thrown round her, or 
seeing Mr. Dusautoy's offered arm, she clutched Gilbert's 
wrist in her hand, and flew down the street. 

The gates and front door were open, and there was a 
throng of people in the hall. Lucy caught hold of her 
with a sobbing, ' Oh, Mamma ! ' but she only framed the 
words with her lips—* where ? * 

They pointed to the study. The door was shut, but 
Albinia broke from Lucy, and pushed through it, in too 
much haste to dweU on the sickening doubt what it might 
conceal. 

Two figures stood under the window. Mr. Kendal, 
who was holding the little inanimate form in his arms for 
the doctor to examine, looking up as she entered, cast on 
her a look of mute, pleading, despairing agony, that was 
as the bitterness of death. She sprang forward herself to 
clasp her child, and her husband yielded him in broken- 
hearted pity, but at that moment the little limbs moved, 
the features worked, the eyes unclosed, and dinging 
tightly to her, as she strained him to her bosom, the 
little fellow proclaimed himself alive by lusty roars, more 
welcome than any music. Partly stunned, and &r more 
terrified, he had been in a sort of swoon, without breath 
to cry, till recalled to himself by feeling his mother's 
arms around him. Every attempt of Mr. Bowles to as- 
certain whether he were uninjured produced such a fresh 
panic and renewal of screams, that she begged that he 
might be lefl to her. Mr. Kendal took the doctor away, 
and gradually the terror subsided, though the long con- 
vulsive sobs still quivered up through the little frame; 



THB TOUVa 8ISIP>X<XrH]BBk 125 

and as the twilight darkened on her, she had time to re- 
alize the past {Qarniy and rejoioe in trembling over the 
treasure still her own. 

The opening of the door and the gleaming of a light 
had nearly brought on a fresh access of crying, but it was 
his father who entered, and Maurice knew the low deep 
sweetness of his voice, and was hushed. ' I believe there 
is no harm done,' Albinia said ; and the smile that she 
fain would have made reassuring gave way as her eyes 
filled with tears, on feeling the trembling of the strong 
arm that was put round her, when Mr. Kendal bent to 
look into the child's eyes. 

^ I thought my blight had &llen on you,' was all he 
said. 

* Oh ! the thankfulness — ^ she said ; but she could not 
go on, she must stifle all that swelled within her, for the 
babe felt each throb of her beating heart ; and she could 
barely keep from bursting into tears as his father kissed 
him; then, as he marked the still sobbing breath, said, 
' Bowles must see him again.' 

* I don't know how to make him cry again ! I sup- 
pose he must be looked at, but indeed 1 thiiuL him safe. — 
See,, this little bruise on 1^ forehead is the only mark 1 
can find. What was it ? How did it happen f ' 

* Sophia thought proper to take him herself from the 
nursery to show him to Mrs. Osbom. In crossing the 
street, she was frightened by a party of men coming out 
of a publio-house in Tibbs's Alley, and in avoiding them, 
slipped down and struck the child's head against a gate- 
post. He was perfectly insensible when 1 took him^-I 
thought him gone. Albinia, you must let Bowles see 
him again I ' 

' Is any one there 1 ' she said. 

* Every one, I think,' he replied, looking oppressed— 
^ Maria, and Mrs. Osbom, and Dusautoy— but I will call 
Bowles.' 

Apparently the little boy had escaped entirely unhurt, 
but the surgeon still spoke of the morrow, and he was so 
startled and restless, that Albinia feared to move, and felt 
the dark study a refuge firom the voices and sounds that 



126 1HB TOUKG BUEP^KOTHBB. 

she feared to enoomiter, lest they should again occasion 
the dreadful screaming. ' Oh, if they would only go 
home ! ' she said. 

' I will send them,' said Mr. Kendal ; and presently 
she heard sounds of leave-taking, and he came back, as if 
he had been dispersing a riot, announcing that the house 
was clear. 

Gilbert and Lucy were watching at the foot of the 
stairs, the one pale, and casting anxious, imploring looks 
at her ; the other with eyes red and swollen with crying, 
neither venturing near till she spoke to them, when they 
advanced noiselessly to look at their little brother, and it 
was not till they had caught his eye and made him smile, 
that Lucy bethought herself of saying she had known 
nothing of his adventure, and Albinia, thus recalled to the 
thought of the culprit, asked where Sophy was. 

'In her own room,' said Mr. Kendal. * I could not 
bear the sight of her obduracy. Even her aunt was 
shocked at her want of feeling.' 

Low as he spoke, the sternness of his voice frightened 
the baby, and sue was obliged to run away to the nur- 
sery, where she listened to the contrition of the little 
nursemaid, who had never suspected Miss Sophy's inten- 
tion of taking him out of the house. ^ And indeed, ma'am,' 
she said, ' there is not one of us servants who dares cross 
Miss Sophy.' 

It was long before Albinia ventured to lay him in his 
cot, and longer still before she could feel any security 
that if she ceased her low, monotonous lullaby, the little 
fellow would not wake again in terror ; but the thankful- 
ness and prayer, that, as she grew more calm, gained 
fuller possession of her heart, made her recur the more 
to pity and forgiveness for the poor girl who had caused 
the alarm. Yet there was strong indignation likei^ise, 
and she could not easily resolve on meeting the hard de- 
fiance and sullen indifference which would wound her 
more than ever. She was much inclined to leave Sophy 
to herself till morning, but suspecting that this would be 
vindictive, she unclasped the arm that Lucy had wound 
round her waist, whispered to her to go on singing, and 



THB TOUira 8TBFWM0TBBB. 127 

moved to Sophy's door. It was ftstened, but before she 
oould call, it was thrown violently back, and Sophy stood 
straight up before her, striving for her usual rigidity, but 
shaking from head to foot; and though there were no 
^gns of tears, she looked with wistful terror at her step- 
mother's face, and her lips moved as if she wished to 
speak. 

' Baby is gone quietly to sleep,' began Albinia in a 
low voice, b^inning in displeasure; but as she spoke, 
the harshness of Sophy's face gave way, she sank down 
on the floor, and fell into the most overpowering fit of 
weeping that Albinia had ever witnessed. Kneeling be- 
side her, she would have drawn the girl close to her, but 
a sharp cry of pain startled her, and she found the right 
arm, ^m elbow to wrist, all one purple bruise, the skin 
grazed, and the blood starting. 

' My poor diild ! how you have hurt yourself! ' 

Sophy turned away pettishly. 

^Let me look! I am sure it must be very bad. 
Have you done anything to it ? ' 

* No, never mind. Go back to baby/ 

* Baby does not want me. You shall come and see 
how comfortably he is asleep, if you will leave off crying, 
and let me see that poor arm. Did you hurt it in the 
fell?' 

* The comer of the wall,' said Sophy. * Oh I did it not 
hurt him ? ' but then, just as it seemed that she was sink- 
ing on that kind breast in exhaustion, she collected her- 
self and pushing Albinia off, exclaimed, * I did it, I took 
him out, I fell down with him, I hurt his head, I've killed 
him, or made him an idiot for life. I did.' 

* Who said so f ' cried Albinia, transfixed. 

' Aunt Maria said so. She said I did not feel. Oh, 
if I could only die before he grows up to let one see it. 
Why won't you begin to hate me ? ' 

' My dear,' said Albinia, consoled on hearing the au- 
thority, 'people often say angry things when they are 
shocked. Your aunt had not seen Mr. Bowles, and we 
all think he was not in the least hurt, only terribly fright- 
ened. Dear, dear child, I am more distressed for you 
than for him I ' 



128 TBS TOITNG BIXP-MOTHSS* 

Sophy could hold out no longer, she let her head drop 
on the kind shoulder, and seemed to collapse, with burn- 
ing brow, throbbing pulses, and sobs as deep and convul- 
sive as had been those of her little brother. Hastily 
calling Lucj, who was frightened, subdued, and helpful, 
Albinia undressed the poor child, put her to bed, and 
applied lily leaves and spirits to her arm. The smart 
seemed to refresh her, but there had been a violent strain 
as well as bruise, and each touch visibly gave severe 
pain, though she never complained. Lucy insisted on 
hearing exactly how the accident had happened, and 
pressed her with questions, which Albinia would have 
shunned in her present condition, and it was thus elicited 
that she had taken Maurice across the street to show him 
to Mrs. Osbom. He had resented the strange place, and 
strange people, and had cried so much that she was 
obliged to run home with him at once. A knot of bawl- 
ir^ men came reeling out of one of the many beershops 
in Tibbs's Alley, and in her haste to avoid them, she 
tripped, close to the gate-post of Willow Lawn, and fell, 
with only time to interpose her arm between Maurice's 
head and the sharp comer. She was lifted up at once, in 
the horror of seeing him neither cry nor move, for, in 
fact, he had been almost stifled under her weight, and all 
had since been to her a frightful phantom dream. Al- 
binia was infinitely relieved by this history, showing that 
Maurice could hardly have received any real injury ; and 
in her declarations that Sophy's presence of mind had 
saved him, was forgetting to whom the accident was 
owing. Lucy wanted to know why her sister could have 
taken him out of the house at all, but Albinia could not 
bear to have this pressed at such a moment, and sent the 
inquirer down to order some tea, which she shared with 
Sophy, and then was forced to bid her good-night, without 
drawing out any further confessions. But when the girl 
raised herself to receive her kiss, it was the first real em- 
brace that had passed between them. 

In the very early morning, Albinia was in the nur- 
sery, and found her little boy bright and healthy. As 
she left him in glad hope and gratitude, Sophy's door was 



THB TOUira SIIE^-MOTHEB. 129 

pushed i^ar, and her won face peeped out. ' Mj dear 
child, you have not been asleep all night I ' exclaimed 
Albinia, after having satisfied her about me baby. 
*No.' 

* Does your arm hurt you 1 ' 
' Yes.' 

' Does your head ache ? ' 

* Rather.' 

But they were not the old sulky answers, and she 
seemed glad to have her arm freely bathed, her brow 
cooled, her tossed bed composed, and her window 
opened, so that she might make a fresh attempt at clos- 
ing her weary eyes. 

She was evidently far too much shaken to be fit for 
the intended expedition, even if her father had not decreed 
that she should be deprived of it. Albinia had never seen 
him so much incensed, for nothing makes a man so angry 
as to have been alarmed ; and he was doubly annoyed 
when he found that she thought Sophy too unwell to be 
left, as he intended, to solitary confinement. 

He would gladly have given up the visit, for his re- 
pugnance to society was in full force on the eve of a 
party; but Albiniay by representing that it would be 
wrong to disappoint Colonel Bury, and very hard on the 
unoffending Gilbert and Lucy, succeeded in prevailing on 
him to accept his melancholy destiny, and to allow her 
to remain at home with Sophy and the baby--one of the 
greatest sacrifices he or she had yet made. He was ex- 
ceedingly vexed, and therefore the less disposed to be 
lenient. The more Albinia told him of Sophy's unhappi- 
ness, the more he hoped it would do her good, and he 
eould not be induced to see her, nor to send her any mes- 
sage of foigiveness ; for in truth it was less the baby's 
accident that he resented, than the eighteen months of 
surly resistance to the baby's mother ; and at present he 
was more unrelenting than the generous, forgiving spirit 
of his wife could understand, though she tried to believe 
it manly severity and firmness. 

' It would be time to pardon,' he said, * when pardon 
was asked.' 

6» 



130 TH9 TOima STEE^MOTH&B. 

And Albinia oould not say that it had been asked, ex- 
cept by misery. 

' She has the best advocate in you,' said Mr. Kendal, 
afiectionately, ' and if there be any feeling in her, such 
forbearance cannot fail to bring it out. I am more 
grieved than I can tell you at your present disappoint- 
ment, but it shall not happen again. If you can bring 
her to a better mind, I shall be the more satisfied in send- 
ing her from home.' 

' Edmund ! you do not think of it I ' 

*' My mind is made up. Do you think I have not 
watched your patient care, and the manner in which it 
has been repaid ? You have sufficient occupation without 
being the slave of those children's misconduct.' 

* Sophy would be miserable. Oh! you must not! 
She is the last girl in the world fit to be sent to school.' 

' I will not have you made miserable at home. This 
has been a long trial, and nothing has softened her.' 

* Suppose this was the very thing.' 

' If it were, what is past should not go unrequited, and 
the change will teach her what she has rejected. Hush, 
dearest ; it is not that I do not think that you have done 
all for her that tenderness or good sense could devise, but 
your time is too much occupied, and I cannot see you 
overtasked by this poor child's headstrong temper. It is 
decided, Albinia ; say no more.' 

' I have failed,' thought Albinia, as he left the room. 
' He decides that I have failed in bringing up his children. 
What have I done 1 Have I been mistaken 1 have I been 
careless? have I not prayed enough? Oh! my poor, 
poor Sophy 1 What will she do among strange girls ? 
Oh I how wretched, how harsh, how misunderstood she 
will be I She will grow worse and worse, and just when 
1 do think I might have begun to get at her I And it is 
for my sake I For me that her &ther is set against her, 
and is driving her out from her home I Oh ! what shall 
I do ? Winifred will promote it, because they all think 
I am doing too much ! I wonder what put that in Ed- 
mund's head ) But when he speaks in that way, I have 
no hope 1 ' 



SHB xoxnua szef-hothsb. 181 

Mr. Kendal's anger took a direction with which she 
better sympathized when he walked down Tibbs's Alley, 
and counted the nine beershops which had never dawned 
on his imagination, and which so greatly shocked it, that 
he went straight to the astonished Fettilove, and gave him 
a severe reprimand for allowing the houses to be made 
dens of iniquity and disorder. 

He was at home in time to meet the doctor, and hear 
that Maurice had suffered not the smallest damage ; and 
then to make another ineffectual attempt to persuade Al- 
binia to consign Sophy to imprisonment with Aunt Maria; 
after which he drove off very much against his will with 
Lucy and Gilbert, both declaring that they did not care a 
rush to go to Fairmead under the present circumstances. 

Albinia had a sad, sore sense of failure, and almost of 
guilt, as she lingered on the door-step after seeing them 
set off. The education of ' Edmund's children ' had been 
a cherished vision, and it had resulted so differently from 
her expectations, that her heart sank. With Gilbert there 
was indeed no lack of love and confidence, but there was 
a sad lurking sense of his want of force of character, and 
she had avowedly been insufficient to preserve him from 
temptation ; Lucy, whom externally she had the most 
altered, was not of a nature accordant enough with her 
own for her to believe the effects deep or permanent ; 
and Sophia — ^poor Sophia ! Had what was kindly cidled 
forbearance been really neglect and want of moral cour- 
age ? Would a gentler, less eager person have won in- 
stead of repelling confidence 1 Had her multiplicity of 
occupations made her give but divided attention to the 
more important home duty. Alas I alas ! she only knew 
that her husband thought his daughter beyond her man- 
agement, and for that very reason she would have given 
/worlds to retain the uncouth, perverse girl under her 
charge. 

She stood loitering, for the sound of the river and the 
shade of the willows were pleasant on the glowing July 
day, and having made all her arrangements for going 
from home, she had no pressing employment ; and thus 
she waited, musing as she seldom allowed herself time to 



132 THB TOUNO BTXP*XOTHXB. 

do, and thinking over each phase of her conduct towards 
^ophy, in the endeavour to detect the mistake; and 
throughout came, not exactly answering her query, but 
throwing a light upon it, her brother's warning, that if 
she did not resign herself to rest quietly when rest was 
forced upon her, she would work amiss when she did 
work. 

Just then came a swinging of the gate, a step on the 
walk, and Miss Meadows made her appearance. A mes- 
sage had been sent up in the morning, but grandmamma 
was so nervous, that Maria had trotted down in the heat 
to satisfy her. 

Albinia was surprised to find that womanhood had 
thrown all their instincts on the baby's side, and was 
gratified by the first truly kind fellow-feeling they had 
shown her. She took Maria into the morning room, 
where she had left Sophy lying on the sofo, and ran up to 
fetch Maurice from the nursery. 

When she came down, having left the nurse adorning 
him, she found that she had acted cruelly. Sophy was 
standing up with her hardest face on, listening to her 
aunt's well-meant rebukes on her want of feeling, and 
hopes that she did regret the having endangered her 
brother, and deprived * her dear mamma of the party of 
pleasure at Fairmead ; but Aunt Maria knew it was of no 
use to talk to Sophy, none — 1 ' 

* Pray, don't. Aunt Maria,' said Albinia, gently draw- 
ing Sophy down on the sofa again ; ^ this poor child is in 
no state to be scolded.' 

' You are a great deal too good to her, Mrs. Kendal 
— afler such wilfulness as last night-— carrying the dear 
baby out in the street — I never heard of such a thing — 
But what made you do it, Sophy, won't you tell me that? 
No, I know you won't ; no one ever can get a word from 
her. Ah! that sulky disposition — it is a very nasty 
temper — can't you break through it, Sophy, and confess 
it all to your dear mamma ? You would be so much 
better. But I know it is of no use, poor child ; it is just 

ilbiS wL growing very angry, aad it was well tiu.* 



XHX TOITHG 6IKP>X<yiHXB. 188 

Haurioe's merry Growings were heard approaching. Miss 
Meadows was delighted to see him, but as he had a great 
aversion to her, the interview was not prolonged, since he 
could not be persuaded to keep the peace bj being held 
up to watch a buzzing fly> as much out of sight of her as 
possible, wrinkling up his nose, and preparing to cry 
whenever he caught sight of her white bonnet and pink 
roses. 

Miss Meadows bethought her that grandmamma was 
anxious, so she only waited to give an invitation to tea, 
but merely to Mrs. Kendal ; she would say nothing about 
Sophy since disgrace— well-merited — ^if they could only 
see some feeling. 

^ Thank you,' said Albinia, ' some evening perhaps I 
may come, since yoii are so kind ; but I don't think I can 
leave this poor twisted arm to itself.' 

Miss Meadows evaporated in hopes that Sophy would 
be sensible of — ^and assurances that Mrs. Kendal was a 

feat deal too— with finally ; * Good-bye, Sophy, I wish 
could have told grandmamma that you had shown 
some feeling.' 

* I believe,' said Albinia, * that you would only be too 
glad if you knew how.' 

Sophy gasped. 

Albinia could not help feeling indignant at the mis- 
judged persecution ; and yet it seemed to render the 
poor child more entirely her own, since all the world be- 
sides had turned against her. ^ Kiss her, Maurice,' she 
said, holding the little fellow towards her. That scratched 
arm of hers has spared your small brains from more than 
you guess.' 

Sophy's first impulse was to hide her face ; but he 
thought it was bo-peep, caught hold of her fingers, and 
laughed; then came to a sudden surprised stop, and 
looked up to his mother, when the countenance behind 
the screen proved sad instead of laughing. 

*Ah! baby, you had better have done with me,' 
Sophy said, bitterly; *you are the only one that does 
not hate me yet, and you don't know what I have done 
to you,' 



134 TBM TOmrO BXEEmCOXHOEB. 

' I know some one else that cares for you, my poor 
Sophy/ said Albinia, ^and who would do anything to 
miULe you feel it without distressing you. If you Imew 
how I wish I knew what to do for you ! ' 

' It is no use,' said Sophy, moodily ; ' I was bom to 
be a misery to myself and every one else.' 

^ What has put such a fancy in your head, my dear ? ' 
said Albina, nearly smiling. 

*' Grandmamma's Betty said so ; she used to call me 
Peter Grievous, and I know it is so. It is of no good to 
bother yourself about me. It can't be helped, and there's 
an end of it.' 

^ There is not. an end of it, indeed!' cried Albinia. 
* Why, Sophy, do you suppose I could bear to leave you 
so?' 

' I'm sure I don't see why not.' 

' Why not 1 ' continued Albinia, in her bright, tender 
voice. * Why, because I must love you with all my 
heart. You are your own dear papa's diild, and this lit- 
tle man's sister. Yes, and you are yourself, my poor, 
sad, lonely child, who does not know how to bring out 
the thoughts that prey on her, and who thinks it very 
hard to nave a stranger instead of her own mother. I 
know I should have felt so.' 

^ But I have behaved so ill to you,' cried Sophy, as if 
bent on repelling the proffered affection. ' I would not 
like you, and I did not like you. Never ! and I have 
gone against you every way I could.' 

* And now I love you because you are sorry for it.' 

' I'm not — ^ Sophy had begun, but the words turned 
into'Am 11' 

* I think you are,' and with the sweetest of tearful 
smiles, she put an arm round the no longer resisting 
Sophy, and laying her cheek against the little brother's, 
she kissed first one and then the other. 

*I can't think why you are so,' said Sophy, still 
struggling against the undeserved love, though &r more 
feebly. * I shall never deserve it' 

* See if you don't, when we pull together instead of 
contrary ways.' 



THB TODHO 9ISP-XOXHBE. 185 

' But)' cried Sophy, ^th a suddoi start from her, as 
if remembering a mortal offence, * you drained the pond I ' 

* I own I earnestly wished it to be drained ; but had 
you any reason for r^pretting it, my dear 1 ' 

' Ah ! you did not know,' said Sophy. * He and I 
used to be always there.' 

'He—r 

*Why, will you make me say it?' cried Sophy. 
* Edmund ! I mean Edmund ! We always called it his 
pond. He made the little quay for his boats — ^he used to 
catch the minnows there. I could go and stand by it, and 
think he was coming out to play ; and now you have had 
it dried up, and his dear little minnows are all dead ; ' and 
she burst into a passion of tears, that made Maurice cry 
till Albinia hastily carried him ojflTand returned; 

< My dear, I am sorry it seemed so unkind. I do not 
think we could have let the pond stay, for it was making 
the house unhealthy ; but if we. had talked over it to- 
gether, it need not have appeared so very cruel and spite- 
ful.' 

^ I don't believe you are spiteful,' said Sophy, ^ though 
I sometimes think so.' 

The filial compliment was highly gratifying. 

^ And now, Sophy,' she said, ' that I have told you 
why we were obliged to have the pond drained, will you 
tell me what you wanted with baby at Mrs. Osbom'sl ' 

* I will tell,' said Sophy, * but you won't like it' 
^ I like anything better than concealment.' 

* Mrs. Osbom said she never saw him. She s^d you 
kept him close, and that nobody was good enough to 
touch him ; so I promised I would bring him over, and I 
kept my word. I know it was wrong — ^and — ^I did not 
think you would ever foi^ve me.' 

* But how could you do it 1 ' 

' Mrs. Osborn and all used to be so kind to us when 
there was nobody else I won't cast them off because we 
are too fine and grand for them.' 

* I never thought of that. I only was afraid of your 
getting into silly ways, and your papa did not wish us to 
be intimate there. And now you see he was right, for 



186 TBB TOUKG 8ZBP-XOXHBE. 

good fUends would not have led you to such disobedience 
— and by stealth, too, what I should have thought you 
would most have hated.' 

Albinia had been far from intending these last words 
to have been taken as they were. Sophy hid her face, 
and cried piteously with an utter self-abandonment of 
grief, that Albinia could scarcely understand ; but at last 
she extracted some broken words. 'False! shabby! 
yes — Oh ! I have been false I Oh ! Edmund ! Edmund ! 
Edmund ! the only thing I thought I still was ! I thought 
I was true ! Oh, by stealth ! Why couldn't I die when 
I tried, when Edmund did ? ' 

' And has life been a blank ever since ? ' 

* Off and on,' said Sophy. ' Well, why not ? I am 
sure papa is melancholy enough. I don't like people 
that are always making fun, I can't see any sense in it.' 

* Some sorts of merriment are sad, and hollow, and 
wrong, indeed,' said Albinia, ' but not all, I hope. You 
know there is so much love and mercy all round us, that 
it is unthank^l not to have a cheerful spirit. I wish I 
could give you one, Sophy.' 

Sophy shook her bead. 'I can't understand about 
mercy and love, when Edmund was all I cared for.' 

*• But, Sophy, if life is so sad and hard to you, don't you 
see the mercy that took Edmund away to perfect joy ? 
Remember, not cutting you off from him, but keeping 
him safe for you.' 

* No, no,' cried Sophy, ' I have never been good since 
be went. I have got worse and worse, but I did think I was 

true still, that that one thing was left me-^but now ^ 

The sense of having acted a deception seemed to produce 
grief under which the stubborn pride was melting away, 
and it was most affecting to see the child weeping over 
the lost jewel of truth, which she seemed to feel the last 
link with the remarkable boy whose impress had been 
left so strongly on all connected with him. 

* My dear, the truth is in you still, or you could not 
grieve thus over your failure,' said Albinia. *I know 
you erred, because it did not occur to you that it was not 
acting openly by me; but oh! Sophy, there is some- 



THX TOmfG fiHEP-XOTSOBR. 137 

thing that would bring you nearer to Edmund than hard 
truth in your own strength/ 

' I don't know what you mean/ said Sophy. 

* Did you ever think what Edmund is about now 1 ' 

* I don't know,' said Sophy. 

* I only know that the one thing which is carried with 
us to the other world is love, Sophy, and love that be- 
comes greater than we can yet imagine. If you would 
think of Him who redeemed and saved your dear Edmund, 
and who is his happiness, his exceeding great reward, 
your heart would warm ; and, oh ! what hope and peace 
would come ! ' 

' Edmund was good,' said Sophy, in a tone as if to 
mark the hopeless gulf between. 

'And you are sorry. All human goodness begins 
from sorrow. It had even to be promised first for baby 
at his christening, you know. Oh, Sophy, God's blessing 
can make all these tears come to joy.' 

Albinia's own tears were flowing so fast, that she broke 
off to hide them in her own room, her heart panting with 
hope, and yet with grief and pity for the piteous disclo- 
sure of so dreary a girlhood. After all, childhood, if not 
the happiest, is the saddest period of life — pains, griefs, 
petty tyrannies, neglects, and terrors have not the allevia- 
tion of the experience that ' this also shall pass away ; ' 
time moves with a tardier pace, and in the narrower sphere 
of interests, there is less to distract the attention from the 
load of grievances. Hereditary low spirits, a precocious 
mind, a reserved temper, a motherless home, the loss of 
her only congenial companion, and the long enduring 
effect of her illness upon her health, had all conspired to 
weigh down the poor girl, and bring on an almost morbid 
state of gloomy discontent. Her father's second mar- 
riage, by enlivening the house, had rendered her peculiar- 
ities even more painful to herself and others, and the cul- 
tivation of mind that was forced Upon her, made her more 
averse to the trifling and playfulness, which, while she 
was younger, had sometimes brightened and softened her. 
And this was the girl whom her father had resolved upon 
sending to the selfish, inconsiderate, frivolous world of 



138 THB TOUVG SXBP^XOXBBB. 

schoolgirls, just when the first opening had been made, 
the first real insight gained into her feelings, the first ap- 
pearance of having touched her heart ! Albinia felt baf- 
fled, disappointed, almost despairing. His stem decree, 
once made, was, she knew, well-nigh unalterable; and 
though resolved to use her utmost influ^ice, she doubted 
its power after having seen that look of decision. Nay, 
she tried to think he might be right. There might be 
those who would manage Sophy better. Eighteen 
months had been a fair trial, and she had fitiled. She 
prayed earnestly for whatever might be best for the 
child ; and for herself, that she might take it patiently 
and submissively. 

Sophy felt the heat of the day a good deal, but tow- 
ards uie evening she revived, and seemed so much 
cheered and refreshed by her tea, that, as the sound of 
the church-bell came sweetly down in the soft air, Albinia 
said, ' Sophy, I am going to take advantage of my holiday 
and go to the evening service. I suppose you had rather 
not come 1 ' 

* I think I will,' returned Sophy, somewhat glumly ; 
but Albinia hailed the answer joyfully, as the first shame- 
&ced effort of a reserved character wishing to make a 
hew beginning, and she took care that no remark, not 
even a look, should rouse the sullen sensitiveness that 
could so easily be driven back forever. 

Slowly they crept up the steps on the shady side of 
the hill, watching how, beyond the long shadow it cast 
over the town and the meadows, the trees revelled in the 
sunset light, and windows glittered like great diamonds, 
where in the ordinary daylight the distance was too great 
for distinct vision. 

The church was cool and quiet, and there was sonio- 
thing in Sophy's countenance and reverent attitude that 
seemed as if she were consecrating a newly-formed reso- 
lution ; her eye was often raised, as though in spite of 
herself, to the name of the brother whose short life 
seemed inseparably interwoven with all the higher aspira- 
tions of his home. 

In the midst of the Thanksgiving, a sudden movement 



THS TOmrQ SniP-XOIBBB* 139 

attracted Albinisi and she saw Sophy resting her head, 
and looking exoessivelj pale. She put her arm round 
her, and would have led her out, but could not persuade 
her to move, and by the time the Blessing was given, the 
power was gone, and she had almost fainted away, when 
a tall strong form stooped over her, and Mr. Dusautoy 
gathered her up in his arms, and bore her off as if she 
had been a baby, to the open window of his own drawing- 
room. 

* Put me down I The floor, please I * said Sophy, 
feebly, for all her remaining &culties were absorbed in 
dislike to the mode of conveyance. 

'Yes, flat on the floor,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, rising 
with full energy, and laying a cushion under Sophy's 
head, reaching a scent-bottle, and sending her husband for 
cold water and sal-volatile ; with readiness that astonished 
Albinia, unused to illness, and especially to faintings, and 
remorseful At having taken Sophy out. ' Was it the pain 
of her arm that had overcome her ? ' 

* No,' said Sophy, * it was only my back.' 
'Indeed! you never told me you had hurt your 

back ; ' and Albinia began describing the fiedl, and declar- 
ing there must be a sprain. 

' Oh, no,' said Sophy, ' kneeling always does it.' 

' Does what, my dear ? ' said Albinia, sitting on the 
floor by her, and looking up to Mrs. Dusautoy, exceed- 
ingly frightened. 

'Makes me feel sick,' said Sophy; 'I thought it 
would go ofl*, as it always does ; it didn't ; but it is better 
now. 

' No, don't get up yet,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ifis she 
was trying to move; 'I would offer you the sofa, it 
would be more hospitable, but I think the floor is the 
most comfortable place.' 

' Thank you, much^ said Sophy, with an emphasis. 

' Do you ever lie down on it when you are tired % ' 
asked the lady, looking anxiously at Sophy. 

' I always wish I might.' 

Albinia was surprised at the interrogations that fol- 
lowed ; she did not understand what Mrs. Dusautoy was 



140 TBB TOUKO fiTXP-KiXEHBB. 

uming at, in the close questioning, which to her amaze- 
ment did not seem to offend, but rather to be gratifying 
by the curious divination of all sensations. It made Al- 
binia feel as if she had been carrying on a deliberate sys- 
tem of torture, when she heard of a pain in the back, 
hardly ever ceasing, aggravated by sitting upright, grow- 
ing severe with the least &tigue, and unless favoured by 
day, becoming so bad at night as to take away many 
hours of sleep. 

* Oh ! Sophy, Sophy,' she cried, with tears in her eyes, 
*how could you go on so! Why did you never tell 
me?' 

' I did not like,' b^an Sophy ; * I was used to it' 
Oh, that barrier ! Albinia was in uncontrollable dis- 
tress, that the girl should have chosen to undergo so 
much suffering rather than bestow any confidence. Sophy 
stole her hand into hers, and said in her odd, short way, 

* Never mind, it did not signify.' 

*Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, 'those things are just 
what one does get so much used to, that it seems much 
easier to bear them than to spiBak about them.' 

* But to let oneself be so driven about,' cried Albinia. 

* Oh I Sophy, you will never do so again I If I had ever 
guessed — ^ 

'Please hush! Never mind I' said Sophy, almost 
crossly, and getting up from the floor quickly, as though 
resolved to be well. 

' I have never minded long enough,' sighed Albinia. 
' What shall I do, Mrs. Dusautoy ? What do you think 
it is?' 

This was the last question Mrs. Dusautoy wished to 
be asked in Sophy's presence. She had little doubt that 
it was spine complaint like. her own, but she had not in- 
tended to let her perceive the impression, till after having 
seen Mrs. Kendal alone. However, Albinia's impetuosity 
disconcerted all precautions, and Sophy's two great black 
eyes were rounded with suppressed terror, as if expecting 
her doom. ' I think that a doctor ought to answer that 
question,' Mrs. Dusautoy began. 

* Yes, yes,' exclaimed Albinia, ' but I never had any 



IHB TOUKQ 8XBP-K0TmEB» 141 

&ith in old Mr. Bowles. I had rather go to a thorough 
good man at once.' 

* Yes/oertaiillyy by all means.' 

* And then to whom t I will write to my Aunt Mary. 
It seems exactly like you. Do you think it is the 
spine 1 ' 

^ I am afraid so. But, my dear,' holding out her hand 
caressingly to Sophy, * you need not be frightened— you 
need not look at me as an example of what you will 
come to — I am only an example of what oomes of never 
speaking of one's ailments.' 

* And of haying no mother to find them out I ' cried 
Albinia. 

' Indeed,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, anxious to console and 
encourage, as well as to talk the young step-mother out of 
her sel^reproach, ^ I do not think that if I had been my 
good aunt's own child, she would have been more likely 
to find out that anything was amiss. It was the fashion to 
be strong and healthy in that house, and I was never 
really ill — but I came as a little stunted, dwining cock- 
ney, and so I was considered ever after— never quite 
comfortable, often forgetting myself in enjoyment, paying 
for it afterwards, but quite used to it. We all thought 
it was " only Fanny," and part of my London breeding. 
Yes, we thought so in good faith, even after the largest 
half of my life had been spent in Yorkshire.' 

' And what brought it to a crisis ? Did they go on 
neglecting you ? ' exclaimed Albinia. 

' Why, my dear,' said the little lady, a glow lighting 
on her cheek, and a smile awakening, ' my uncle took a 
new curate, whom it was the family custom to call " the 
good-natured giant," and whose approach put all of us 
young ladies in a state of great excitement. It was all in 
character with his good-nature, you know, to think of 
dragging the poor little shrimp up the hill to church, and 
I believe he did not know how she would get on without 
his strong arm ; for do you know, when he had the curacy 
of Lauriston given him, he chose to carry the starveling 
off with him, instead of any of those fine, handsome, pros* 
peroua girls. Dear Mary and Bessie ! how good they 



142 THK TOUKQ 8I1BP*K0THBB. 

were, and how kind and proud for me ! I never could 
complain of not having sisters.' 

* Well, and Mr. Dusautoy made you have advice ? * 

* Not he ! Why, we all believed it cockneyism, you 
know, and besides, I was so happy and so well, that when 
we went to Scotland, I fairly walked myself off my legs, 
and ended the honeymoon laid up in a little inn on Loch 
Katrine, where John used regularly to knock his head 
whenever he came into the room. It was a fortnight 
before I could get to Edinburgh, and the journey made 
me as bad as ever. So the doctors were called in, and 
poor John learnt what a crooked stick he had chosen ; 
but they all said that if I had been taken in hand as a 
child, most likely I should have been a sound woman. 
The worst of it was that I was so thoroughly knocked up 
that I could not bear the motion of a carriage ; besides, I 
suppose the doctors wanted a little amusement out of me, 
for they would not hear of my going home. So poor 
John had to go to Lauriston by himself, and those were 
the longest, dreariest six months I ever spent in my life, 
though Bessie was so good as to come and take care of 
me. But at last, when I had nearly made up my mind 
to defy the whole doctorhood, they gave leave, and be* 
tween water and steam, John brought mo to Lauriston, 
and ever since that, I don't see that a backbone would 
hav« made us a bit happier.' 

Sophy had been intently reading Mrs. Dusautoy's faco 
all through the narration, from under her thick black eye* 
lashes, and at the end she drew a sigh of relief, and seemed 
to catch the smile of glad gratitude and affection. There 
was a precedent, which afforded inoredible food to the tu- 
multuous <)ravings of a heart that had been sinking in 
sullen gloom under the consciousness of an unpleasing 
exterior. The possibility of a * good-natured giant ' was 
far more present to her mind than the present probability 
of future suffering and restraint. 

Ever rapid and eager, Albinia could think of nothing 
but immediate measures for Sophy's good, and the satis- 
faction of her own conscience. She could not bear even 
to wait for Mr. Kendal's return, but, as her aunts were 



THB TOUVG STlEP^HCXrHBIt, 148 

still in London, she resolved on carrying Sophy to their 
house on the following day for the best advice. It was 
already late^ and she knelt at the table to dash off two 
notes to put into the post-office as she went home. One 
to Mrs* Annesley, to announce her coining with Sophy, 
baby, and Susan, the other as follows : — 

July 10th, 9 p. M. 
j * Dearest Edmund, 

'I find I have been cruelly neglectful. I have 
hunted and driven that poor child about till it has 
brought on spine complaint. The only thing I can do 
is to take her to have the best advice without loss of 
time, so I am going to-morrow to my aunt's. It would 
take too long to write and ask your leave. You must 
forgive this, as indeed each word I have to say is, for- 
give ! She is so generous and kind ! You know I meant 
to do my best, but they were right, I was too young. 

' Forgive yours, 

* A. K.' 

The Dusautoys were somewhat taken by surprise, but 
they knew too well the need of promptitude to dissuade 
her ; and Sophia herself sat aghast at the commotion excited 
by the habitual discomfort of which she had thought so 
little. The vicar, when he found Mrs. Kendal in earnest, 
offered to go with them and protect them ; but Albinia 
was a veteran in independent railway travelling, and was 
rather affronted by being treated as a helpless female. 
Mrs. Dusautoy, better aware of what the journey might 
be to one at least of the travellers, gave advice, and lent 
air cushions, and Albinia bade her good night with an 
almost sobbing * thank you,' and an entreaty that if Mr. 
Kendal came homo before them, she would tell him all 
about it. 

At home, she instantly sent the stupefied Sophy to 
bed, astonished the little nurse, ordered down boxes and 
bags, and spent half the night in packing, glad to be stir- 
ring and to tire herself into sleeping, for her remorse and 
her anticipations .were so painfiil, that, but for fatigue, her 
bed would have been no resting-place. 



144 THB YOUNG BXEP-MOTHEB. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Winifred Ferrarb was surprised by Mr. Kendal's 
walking into her garden, with a perturbed countenance, 
begging her to help him to make out what could be the 
meaning of a note which he had just received. He was 
afraid that there was much amiss with the baby, and 
heartily wished that he had not been persuaded to leave 
home ; but poor Albinia wrote in so much distress, that 
he could not understand her letter. 

More accustomed to Albinia's epistolary habits, 
Winifred exclaimed at the first glance, * What can you 
mean ? There is not one word of the little one I It is 
only Sophy I ' 

The immediate clearing of his &ce was not compli- 
mentary to poor Sophy, as he said, * Can you be quite 
sure ? I had begun to hope that Albinia might at least 
have the comfort of seeing this little fellow healthy ; but 
let me see— she says nursed and— -and danced — is it ? this 
poor child — ^ 

' No, no ; it is hunted and driven ; thaf s the way she 
always will make her A'«; besides, what nonsense the 
other would be.' 

*This poor child — ^ repeated Mr. Kendal, * Going up 
to London for advice. She would hardly do that with 
Sophia.' 

* Who ever heard of a baby of six months old having 
a spine-complaint 1 ' cried Mrs. Ferrars almost angrily. 

' 1 have lost one in that way,' he replied. 

A dead silence ensued, till Winifred, to her great 
relief, spied the feminine pronoun, but could not fully sat- 
isfy Mr. Kendal that the ups and downs were insufficient 
for the word him; and each scrawl was discussed as 
though it had been a cuniform inscription, until he had 
been nearly argued into believing in the lesser evil. He 
then was persuaded that the Meadowses had been harass- 
ing and frightening Albinia into this startling measure. 
It was so contrary to his own nature, that he hardly be- 
lieved that it had actually taken place, and that she must 



THJB TOUVG SmEP-HOTHlEB. 140 

be in London hj this time ; but at any rate, he must join 
her there, and know the worst. He would take the whole 
party to an hotel, if it were too great a liberty to quarter 
themselves upon Mrs. Annesley. 

Winifred was as much surprised as if the chess-king 
had taken a knight's move ; but she encouraged his reso- 
lution, assured him of a welcome at what the cousinhood 
were wont to call the Family Office, and undertook the 
charge of Gilbert and Lucy, The sorrowful, almost sup- 
plicating tone of his wife's letter would have sufficed to 
bring him to her, even without his disquietude for his 
child, whichever of them it might be ; and though Al- 
binia's merry, blue-eyed boy had brought^ a renewed 
spring of hope and life, his crushed spirits trembled at 
the least alarm. 

Thus, though the cheerful Winifred had convinced his 
reason, his gloomy anticipations revived before he reached 
London ; and with the stem composure of one accustomed 
to bend to the heaviest blows, he knocked at Mrs. Anues- 
ley's door. He was told that Mrs. Kendal was out ; but 
on further inquiry, learnt that Sophy was in the drawing- 
room, where he iound her curled up in the comer of the 
sofa, reading intently. 

She sprang to her feet with a cry of surprise, but did 
not approach, though he held out his arms, saying in a 
voice husky with anxiety, ' Is the baby well, Sophia ? ' 

* Yes,' she cried, * quite well ; he is out in the carriage 
with them.' Then shrinking as he was stooping to kiss 
her, she continued, reddening deeply, * Papa, I did very 
wrong; I was sly and disobedient, and I might have 
killed him.' 

< Do not let us speak of that now, my dear ; I want to 
hear of — ' and again he would have drawn her into his 
embrace, but she held out her hand, with her repelling 
gesture, and burst forth in her rude honesty, ^ I can't be 
forgiven only because I am ill. Hear all about it, papa, 
and then say you forgive me if you can. I always was 
cross to mamma, because I was determined I would be ; 
and I did not think she had any business with us. The 
more she was kind, the more I did not li)c9 it s and J 

7 



146 THX TOUNO BTEP-HOTHEB. 

thought it was mean in Gilbert and Lncy to be fond of 
her. No ! I have not done yet ! I grew naughtier and 
naaghtier, till at last I have been false and sly, and — 
have done this to baby — and I would not have cared then 
—if — ^if she would not have been — oh ! so good t ' 

Sophy made no farther resistance to the arm that was 
thrown round her, as her father said, ^ So good, that she 
has overcome evil with good. My child, how should I 
not forgive when you are sensible of your mistake, and 
when she has so freely forgiven 1 * 

Sophy did not speak, but she pressed his arm closer 
round her, and laid her cheek gratefully on his shoulder. 
She only wished it could last for ever ; but he soon lifted 
her, that he might look anxiously at her face, while he 
said, 'And what is all this, my dear ? I am afraid you are 
not well.* 

Her energies were recalled ; and, squeezing his hand, 
she said, ' Mind you will not let them say it was mamma's 
fault; 

* Who is accusing her, my dear ? What is the matter *? * 
^ It is only my back,' said Sophy ; ' there always was a 

stupid pain there ; but grandmamma's Betty said I made 
a fuss, and that it was all laziness, and I would not let 
any one say so again, and I never told of it ; and it went 
on till the other night I grew faint at church, and Mrs. 
Dusautoy put mamma in such a fright, that we all came 
here yesterday ; and there came a doctor this morning, 
who says my spine is not straight, and that I must lie on 
my back for a long time ; but never mind, papa, it will be 
very comfortable to lie still and read, and I shall not be 
cross now,' she added reassuringly, as his grasp pressed her 
close, with a start of dismay. 

* My dear, I am afraid you hardly know what you may 
have to go through ; but I am glad you meet it bravely.' 

* But you won't let them say mamma did it ? ' 

* Who should say so t ' 

* Aunt Maria will, and mamma vnll go and say so her- 
self', cried Sophy ; ' she vnll say it was taking walks and 
carrying baby, and it's not true. I told the doctor how 
my back ached long before baby came or she either s f'^i 



THE TCKTKG STEP-HOTHIEB. 147 

he said that most likely the weakness had been left by the 
fever. So if it is any one's mismanagement, it is Aunt 
Maria's ; and if you won't tell her so, I will.' 

* Gently, Sophy ; that would hardly be grateful, after 
the pains that she has taken with you, and the care she 
meant to give.' 

' Her care was all worry,' said Sophy ; * and it will be 
very lucky if I don't tell her so, if she says her provoking 
things to mamma. But you won't believe them, papa 1 ' 

^ Most certainly not.' 

^ Yes, you must tell her to be happy again,' continued 
Sophy ; * I cannot bear to see her looking sorrowful ! Last 
nigh^ when she fancied me asleep, she cried — oh ! till it 
made me miserable ! And to-day I heard Miss Ferrars 
say to Mrs. Annesley, that her fine spirits were quite gone. 
Tou know it is very silly ; for I am the last person in all 
the world she ought to cry for.* 

^ She has an infinite treasure of love,' said Mr. Eendal ; 
< and we have done very little that we should be blessed 
with it.' 

* There, they are come home ! ' exclaimed Sophy, start- 
ing up as sounds were heard on the stairs, and almost at 
the same moment Albinia was in the room, overflowing 
with contrition, gladness, and anxiety ; but something of 
sweetness in the first hasty greeting made the trust over- 
come all the rest ; and, understanding his uppermost wish, 
she stepped back to the staircase, and in another second 
had put Maurice into his arms, blooming and contented, 
and with a wide-mouthed smile for his papa. Mr. Kendal 
held him fondly through all the hospitable welcomes of the 
aunts, and his own explanations ; but to Albinia it was 
all confusion, and almost annoyance, till she could take 
him upstairs, and tell her own story. 

' I am afraid you have been very much alarmed,' were 
his first words. 

* I have done everything wrong from beginning to end,' 
said Albinia. ' Oh, Edmund, I am so glad you are come I 
Now you will see the doctor, and know whether it was as 
bad as all the rest to bring her to London.' 

*' My dearest, you must calm yourself, and try to ejp* 



148 THB TOCnfG BTBT-KOTHER. 

plain. Yoa know I mideietand notMng yet, except from 
yoar resolute little advocate downstairs, and your own 
note, which I could scarcely make out, except that yoa 
were in great trouble.' 

*• Ah, that note ; I wrote it in one of my impetaona 
fits. Maurice used to say I ran frantic, and grew irrational; 
and so I did not know what I was saying to you ; and I 
brought that poor patient girl up here in all the heat, and 
the journey hurt her so much, that I don't know how we 
shall ever get her home again. Oh, Edmund, I am the 
worst wife and mother in the world ; and I undertook it 
all with such foolish confidence.' 

Mr. Kendal liked her impetuous fits as little as her 
brother did, and was not so much used to them ; but he 
dealt with her in his quiet, straightforward way. ^ You 
are exaggerating now, Albinia, and I do not wonder at it^ 
for you have had a great deal to startle and to try you. 
Walking up and down is only heating and agitating you 
more ; sit down here, and let me hear what gave you this 
alarm.' 

The grave affection of his manner restrained her, and 
his presence soothed the flutter of spirits ; though she still 
devoted herself with a sort of wilfulness to bear all the 
blame, until he said, ^ This is foolish, Albinia ; it is of no 
use to look at anything but the simple trutL This affisc* 
tion of the spine must be constitutional ; and if neglect 
have aggravated the evil, it must date from a much earlier 
period than since she has been under your charge. If any 
one be to blame, it is myself, for the apathy that prevented 
me from placing the poor things under proper care ; but I 
was hardly then aware that Maria's solicitude is always in 
the wrong place.' 

* But everybody declares that it was always visible, 
and that no one could look at her without seeing that she 
was crooked.' 

* Apris le coup/ said Mr. Eendal. * I grant you that 
a person of more experience might perhaps have detected 
what was amiss sooner than you did ; but you have only 
to regret the ignorance you shared with us all ; and yoa 
did your utmost according to your judgment' 



2BX TODHO 0IXP4C<XrHn» 149 

< And a cmel ntixuwt it was,' said Albinia; <it is fright- 
ful to think what I inflicted, and she enduied in silence, 
bepanse I had not treated her so that she could bear to 
speak to me.' 

' That is over now,' said Mr. Kendal ; < you hare con- 
quered her at last. Pride could not hold out against such 
sweetness.' 

' It is her generosity,' said Albinia ; < I fdways knew 
she was the best of them all, if one could but get at her.' 

' What hare you done to her ? I neyer heard her say 
half so much as she voluntarily said to me just now.' 

' Poor dear I I believe the key of her heart was lost 
when Edmund died, and so all within was starved,' said 
Albinia. ^Yes,' as bis eyes were suddenly raised and 
fixed on her, ^ I got to that at last. No one has ever 
understood her, since she lost her brother.' 

^ She has a certain likeness to him. I knew she was 
his favourite sister ; but such a child as she was—' 

^ Children have deeper souls than you give them credit 
for,' said Albinia. *• Yes, Edmund, you and Sophy are 
very much alike! you had your study, and poor Sophy 
enclosed herself in a perpetual cocoon of study atmosphere, 
and so you never found each other out till to-day.' 

Perhaps it was the influence of the frantic fit that 
caused her to make so direct a thrust ; but Mr. Kendal 
was not oflended. There was a good deal in the mere 
absence from habitual scenes and associations ; he always 
left a great deal of reserve behind him at Bay ford. 

^ You may be right, Albinia,' he said; 'I sometimes 
think that amongst us you are Hke the old poet's ^ star 
confined into a tomb." ' 

Such a compliment was a pretty reward for her te- 
merity. 

Betuming to business, she found that her journey was 
treated as more judicious than she deserved. The conse- 
quences had justified her decision. Mr. Kendal knew it 
was the right thing to be done, and was glad to have been 
iq)ared the dreadful task of making up his mind to it. 
He sat down of his own accord to write a note to Wini- 
|red, beginning, ^Albinia was right as she always is ;' and 



150 IBB TODVO (nXlMiOTHJBB. 

ihongfa his wife interlined, ' Albinia had no right to he 
right, for she was inconsiderate, as she always is,' she 
looked so brilliantly pretty and bright, and was so fall of 
sunny liveliness, that she occasioned one of the very few 
disputes between her good aunts. Miss Ferrars declared 
that poor Albinia was quite revived by the return to her 
old home, and absence of care ; while Mrs. Annesley in- 
sisted on giving the credit to Mr. Kendal. They were 
perfectly agreed in unwillingness to part with their guests ; 
and as the doctor wished to see more of his patient, the 
visit was prolonged, to the enjoyment of all parties. 

Sophy had received her sentence so easily, that it was 
suspected that she did not realize the tedium of confine- 
ment, and was relieved by being allowed to be inactive. 
Until she should go home, she might do whatever did not 
fatigue her ; but most sights, and even the motion of the 
carriage, were so fatiguing, that she was much more in- 
clined to remain at home and revel in the delightful world 
of books. The kind, unobtrusive petting ; the absence of 
customary irritations; the quiet high-bred tone of the 
&milyy so acted upon her, as to render her something as 
agreeably new to herself as to other people. The glum 
mask was cast aside, she responded amiably to kindness 
and attention, allowed herself to be drawn into conversa- 
tion, and developed much more intelligence and depth 
than even Albinia had given her credit for. 

One day, when Miss Ferrars was showing Mr. Ken- 
dal some illustrations of Indian scenery, a question arose 
upon the date of the native sovereign to whom the build- 
ings were ascribed. Mr. Kendal could not recollect ; but 
Sophia, looking up, quietly pronounced the date, and gave 
her reasons for it. Miss Ferrars asked how she could 
have learnt so much on an out-of-the-way topic 

' I read a book of the history of India, up in the loft,' 
said Sophy. 

^ That book ! ' exclaimed her father ; ' I wish you joy ! 
I never could get through it ! It is the driest chronicle 
I ever read — a mere book of reference. What could in- 
duce you to read that 1 ' 

' I would read anything about India ; ' and her tone, 



ISB TOmffO BTiaP-XOTHEB. 151 

though low and subdued, betrayed such enthusiasm as 
oould find nothing dry, and this in a girl who had read 
aloud the reign of Edward III. with stolid indifference 1 

^ Well, I think I can promise you more interesting 
reading about India when we go home,' said Mr. Kendal. 

The colour rose on Sophy's cheek. Books out of 
papa's study ! Could the world offer a greater privilege f 
She could scarcely pronounce, ' Thank you.' 

^ Very faithful to her birth-place,' said Miss Ferrars ; 
'but sh/xaust have beeu ver^ young .hen ahe can.e 
home.' 

^ About five years old, I believe,' said her father. 

* You surely can remember nothing of Talloon.' 

* I don't know,' said Sophy, mournfully ; * I used — ^ 

* I thought Indian children usually lost their eastern 
recollections very early,' said Miss Ferrars; ^I never 
heard of one who could remember the sound of Hin* 
dostanee a year after coming home.' 

Mr. Kendal, entertained and gratified, turned to his 
daughter ; and, by way of experiment, began a short sen- 
tence in Hindostanee ; but the first sound brought a glow 
to her cheeks, and with a hurried gesture, she murmured, 

* Please don't, papa.' 

Albinia saw that feelings were here concerned which 
must not be played on in public ; and she hastily plui^ed 
into the discussion, and drew it away from Sophy. Fol* 
lowing her up-etairs at bed-time, she contrived to win 
from her an explanation. 

Edmund had been seven years old at the time of the 
return to England. Fondly attached to £ome of the 
Hindoo servants, and with unusual intelligence and ob« 
servation, the gorgeous scenery and oriental habits of his 
first home had dwelt vividly in his imagination, and he 
had always considered himself as only taken to England 
for a time, to return again to India. Thus, he had been 
fond of romancing of the past and of the future, and had 
never let his little sister's recollections &de entirely away. 
His father had likewise thought that it would save future 
trouble to keep up the boys' knowledge of the language, 
whidi would by-aod-by be so important to them. Gil- 



152 ram rcvma smMconoBk 

bert's healdi had caused his studies to be often intermit- 
ted, but £dmund had constantly received instructions in 
the Indian languages, and whatever he learnt had been 
imparted to Sophia. It was piteous to discover how 
much time the poor forlorn little girl had spent sitting 
on the floor in the lofl, poring over old grammars, and 
phrase-books, and translations of missionary or govern- 
ment school-books there accumulated — ^anything that re- 
lated to India, or that seemed to carry on what she had 
done with Edmund : and she had acquired just enough to 
give her a keen appetite for all the higher class of lore^ 
which she knew to reside in the unapproachable study. 
Those few familiar words from her father had overcome 
her, because, a trivial greeting in themselves, they had 
been a kind of password between her and her brother. 

Mr. Kendal was greatly touched and very remorseful 
for having lefl such a heart to pine in solitude, while he 
was absorbed in his own lonely grief; and Albinia ven- 
tured to say, ^ I believe the greatest pleasure you could 
give her would be to help her to keep up the language.' 

He smiled, but said, ' Of what possible use coidd it 
be to her r 

* I was not thinking of future use. It would be of 
immense present use to her to do anything with you, and 
I can see that nothing would gratify her so much. Be- 
sides, I have been trying to think of all the new things I 
could set her to do. She must have lessons to fill up the 
day, and I want to make fresh beginnings, and not go 
back to the blots and scars of our old misunderstandings.' 

'You want me to teach her Sanscrit because you 
cannot teach her Italian.' 

' Exactly so,' said Albinia ; ' and the Italian will spring 
all the better from the venerable root, when we have for- 
gotten how cross we used to be to each other over our 
relative pronouns.' 

' But there is hardly anything which I could let her 
read in those languages.' 

* Very likely not ; but you can pidc out what there is. 
Do you remember the fable of the treasure that was to 
be gained by digging under the apple-tree, and which 



Tax TOUHG flXl^llOIRIB* 153 

turned out not to be gold, but the fruit, the oonsequonoe 
of digging ? Now, I want you to dig Sophy ; a Sanscrit, 
or a fiindostanee, or a Persian treasure will do equally 
well as a pretext. If she had announced a taste for the 
differential calculus, I should have said the same. Only 
dig her, as Maurice dug me apropos to Homer. I 
wouldn't bother you, only you see no one else could 
dtdier do it, or be the same to Sophy.' 
^ We will see how it is,' said Mr. Kendal. 

With which Albinia was obliged to be content ; but 
in the mean time she saw the two making daily progress 
in intimacy, and Mr. K^!idal beginning to take pride in 
his daugher's undersanding and information, which he 
ascribed to Albinia, in spite of all her disclaimers. It 
was as if she had evoked the spirit of his lost son, which 
had lain hidden under the sullen demeanour of the girl, 
devoid indeed of many of Edmund's charms, but yet with 
the same sterling quidities, and with resemblance enough 
to afford infinite and unexpected joy and compensation. 

Mr. Kendal enjoyed his stay in town. He visited 
libraries, saw pictures, and heard music, with the new 
zest of having a wife able to enter into his tastes. He 
met old friends, and did not shrink inmioderately from 
those of his wife ; nay, he found them extremely agree- 
able, and was pleased to see Ablinia welcomed. Indeed, 
his sojourn in her former sphere served to make him 
wonder that she could be contented with Bayford, and to 
find her, of the whole party, by far the most ready to 
return home. Both he himself and Sophy had an un- 
avowed dread of the influences of Willow Lawn ; but 
Albinia had a spring of spirits, independent of place, and 
though happy, was craving for her duties, anxious to have 
the journey over, and afraid that London was making her 
Httle Maurice pale. 

Miss Meadows was the first person whom they saw 
at Willow Lawn. Two letters had passed, both so con- 
ventionally civil, that her state of mind could not be gath- 
ered from them ; but her first tones proved that coherence 
was more than ever wanting ; and no one attempted to 
understand anything she said, while she enfolded Sophy 



154 TBS TOUVQ WTBMtCfTHMB* 

in an agitated embrace, and marshalled them to the 
drawing-room, where the chief of the apologies were spent 
upon Sophy's new couch, which had been sent down the 
day before by the luggage-train, and which she and Ewe- 
retta had attempted to put together in an impossible way, 
failing which, they had called in the carpenter, who had 
made it worse. 

It was an untold advantage that she had to take the 
initiatiye in excuses. Sophy was so meek with weariness, 
that she took pretty well all the kind fidgeting that could 
not be averted from her, and Miss Meadows's discourse 
chiefly tended to assurances that Mrs. Kendal was right, 
and grandmamma was nervous— and poor Mr. Bowlefr— * 
it could not be expected — with hints of the wonderful 
commotion the sudden flight to London had excited at 
Bayford. As soon as Mr. Kendal quitted the room, these 
hints were converted into something between expostala* 
tion, condolence, and congratulation. 

It was so very fortunate— so very lucky that dear 
Mr. Kendal had come home with her, for— she had said 
she would let Mrs. Kendal hear, if only that she might be 
on her guard — ^people were so ill-natured — ^there never 
was such a place for gossip— not that she had heard it 
from any one but Mrs. Drury, who really now had 
driven in — ^not that she believed it, but to ascertain. — 
For Mrs. Drury had been told — ^mentioning no names — 
oh, no ! for fear of making mischief — she had been told 
that Mrs. Kendal had actually been into Mr. Kendal's 
study, which was always kept locked up, and there she 
had found something which had distressed her so much 
that she had gone to Mr. Dusautoy, and by his advice 
had fled from home to the protection of her brother in 
Canada. 

' Without waiting for Bluebeard's asking for the key ! 
Oh, Maria ! ' cried Albinia, in a fit of laughter, while 
Sophia sat up on the sofa in speechless indignation. 

' You may laugh, Mrs. Kendal, if you please,' said 
Maria, with tart dignity ; ' I have told you nothing but 
the truth. I should have thought for my part, but that's 
of no consequence, it was as well to be on one's guard in 



a nest of vipers, for Edmund's sake, if not for your own.' 
And as this last speech convulsed Albinia, and rendered 
her incapable of reply. Miss Meadows became pathetic. 
' I am sure the pains 1 have taken to trace out and contra- 
dict — and so nervous as grandmamma has been — ^^ I'm 
sure, Mrs. Drury," said I, ** that though Edmund Kendal 
does lock his study-door, nobody ever thought anything 
—-the housemaids go in to dean it — and I've been in my- 
self when the whitewashers were about the house— -I'm 
sure Mrs. Kendal is a most amiable young woman, and 
you wouldn't raise reports." " No," she said, " but Mrs. 
Osbom was positive mat Mrs. Kendal was nearly an hour 
shut up alone in the study the night of Sophy's accident 
—and so sudden," she said, '' the carriage oeing sent for 
•—not a servant knew of it — and then," she said, '* it was 
always the talk among the girls, that Mr. Kendal J^ept 
his study a forbidden place." ' 

^ Then,' said Sophia, slowly, as she looked full kT her 
aunt, ' it was the Osborns who dared to say such wicked 
things.' 

* There now, I never meant you to be there. You 
ought to be gone to bed, child. It is not a thing for you 
to know anything about.' 

^I only want to know whether it was the Osborns 
who invented these stories,' said Sophy. 

* My dear,' exclaimed Albinia, * what can it signify f 
They are only a very good joke. I did not think there 
had been so much imagination in Bayford.' And off she 
went laughing again. 

* They are very wicked,' said Sophy ; * Aunt Maria^ I 
will know if it was Mrs. Osbom who told the story.' 

Sophy's will was too potent for Miss Meadows, and 
the admission was extracted in a burst of other odds and 
ends, in the midst of which Albinia beheld Sophy cross 
the room with a deliberate, determined step. Flying 
afler her she found her In the hall, wrapping herself up. | 

* Sophy, what is this 1 What are you about ? ' 

i * Let me alone,' said Sophy, straining against her de- 
taining hand ; ^ I do not know when I shall recover again, 
and I will go at once to tell the Osborns that I have done 



160 TBM TQUKO BXB^ICOTHSB. 

iritfa them. I stuck to them because I thought they were 
my mother's friends; I did not guess that they would 
make an unworthy use of my l^iendshipy and invent 
wicked stories of my father and you«' 

'Please don't make me laugh, Sophy, for I don't 
want to affront you. Yes, it is generous feeling ; I don't 
wonder you are angry; but indeed silly nonsense like 
this is not worth it. It will die away of itself; it must 
be dead already, now they have seen we have not run 
away to Canada. Your b^roios only make it more ri- 
diculous.' 

* I must tell Loo never to come here with her hypoc- 
risy,' repeated Sophy, standing still, but not yielding an 
inch* 

Miss Meadows pursued them at the same moment 
with broken protestations that they must forg^ it, she 
never meant to make mischief, <Sz;c., and the confusion was 
becoming worse confounded when Mr. Kendal emerged 
from the study demanding what was the matter, to the 
great discomfiture of Maria, who began hushing Sophy, 
and making signs to Albinia that it would be dangerous 
for him to know anything about it. 

But Albinia was already exclaiming, ' Here's a cham- 
pion wanting to do battle with Louisa Osbom in our 
cause. Oh, Edmund ! our neighbours could find no way 
of accounting for my taking French leave, but by suppos- 
ing that I took advantage of being shut in there, while 
poor little Maurice was squalling so furiously, to rifle 

four secrets, and detect something so shocking, that away 
was fleeing to William in Canada.' 

* Obliging,' quietly said Mr. KendaL 

*Now, dear Edmund — ^I know — ^for my sake^-for 
everything's sake, remember you are a family man, don't 
take any notice.' 

' J certainly shall take no notice of such folly,' said 
Mr. Kendal, ^ and I wish that no one else should. Whab 
are you about, Sophia ? ' 

' Tell mamma to let me go, papa,' she exclaimed ; ' I 
must and will tell Louisa that I hate her baseness and 



THB TOXnSI^ 8a!SFmC0THXB. 157 

hypocrisy, aad then I'll never speak to her again. Why 
will mamma laugh 1 It is very wicked of them.' 

' Wrong in them, but laughing is the only way to 
treat it,' said Mr. Kendal. ' Go l^k to your sofa and 
forget it. Your aunt and I have heard Bayford reports 
before.' 

Sophy obeyed unwillingly ; she was far too muoh in- 
censed to forget. On her aunt's taking leave, «id Mr. 
Kendal offering his escort up the hill, she rose up again, 
and would have perpetrated a denunciation by letter, had 
not Albinia seriously argued with her, and finding rid- 
icule, expediency, and Christian forgiveness all fail of hit- 
ting the mark, said, ' I don't know with what fiice you 
could attack Louisa, when you helped her to persecute 
poor G^nevi^ve because you thought she had an instru- 
ment of torture in her drawer.' 

' It was not I who said that,' said Sophy, blushing. 

^ You took part with those who did. And poor 
Genevieve was a much more defenceless victim than papa 
or myself.' 

* 1 would not do so now.' 

' It does not take much individual blackness of heart 
to work up a fine promising slander. A surmise made 
in jest, is repeated in earnest, and all the other tale-bear- 
ers think they are tellii^ simple facts. Depend upon it, 
the story did not set off from the Osboms by any means 
as it came back to Aunt Maria,' 

' I should like to know.' 

* Don't let us make it any worse ; and above all, do 
not let us tell Lucy.' 

* Oh, no I ' said Sophy, emphatically. 

To Albinia's surprise no inuendo from Mrs. or Miss 
Meadows ever referred to her management having caused 
Sophy's misfortune ; and she secretly attributed this si- 
lence to Mr. Kendal's having escorted his sister-in-law to 
her own house. 

Sophy's chief abode became the morning-room, and 
she seeined very happy and tranquil there — shrinking 
from visitors, but gra^ul for the kindness of parents, 
brother and sister. 



158 TBM Totnre 8nP*3L<XrUlUK« 

Mr. Kendal, finding her really eager to learn of him, 
began teaching her Persian, and was astonished at hesr 
promptness and intelligence. He took increasing pleasure 
m her company, gare her books to read, and would some- 
times tell the others not to stay at home for her sake, as 
be should be ' about the house.' 

He really gave up much time to her, and used to 
carry her, when the weather served, to a couch in the 
garden, for she could not bear the motion of wheels, and 
was forbidden to attempt walking, though she was to be 
in the air as much as possible, so that Albinia spent more 
time at home. The charge of Sophy was evidently her 
business, and after talking the matter over with Mrs. Du- 
sautoy, she resigned, though not without a pang, the 
offices she had undertaken in the time of her superfluous 
activity, and limited herself to occasional superintendence, 
instead of undertaking constant employment in the parish. 
Though she felt grieved and humiliated. Willow Lawn 
throve the better for it, and so did her own mind, yes, 
and even her temper, which was far less often driven by 
over-haste into quick censure, or unconsidered reply. 

Her mistakes about Sophia had been a lesson against 
one-sided government. At first, running into the other 
extreme, she was ready to imagine that all the past ill- 
humour had been the effect of her neglect and cruelty ; 
and Sophy's amiability almost warranted the notion. The 
poor girl herself had promised * never to be cross again,' 
and fancied all temptation was over, since she had ' found 
out mamma,' and papa was so kind to her. But all on a 
sudden, down came the cloud again. Nobody could de- 
tect any reason. Affronts abounded — ^not received with 
an explosion that would have been combated, laughed at, 
and disposed of, but treated with silence, and each sinking 
down to be added to the weight of cruel injuries. There 
was no complaint ; Sophy obeyed all orders with her old 
form of dismal submission, but everything proposed to 
her was distasteful, and her answers were in the ancient 
surly. style. If attempts were made to probe the malady, 
her reserve was impenetrable — ^nothing was the matter, 
she wanted nothing, was vexed at nothi^. She pursued 



THX TOXTNO ffnCF-XOTHBU 150 

her U9ual ooeupataons, but as if they were hardships ; she 
was sullen towards her mamma, snappishly brief with her 
aunt and sister, and so ungracious and indiflferent even 
with her father, that Albinia trembled lest he might with- 
draw the attention so improperly reoeived. When this 
dreary state of things had lasted more than a week, he 
did tell h^r that if she were tired of the lessons, it was 
not worth while to proceed ; but that he had hoped for 
more perseverance. 

The fear of losing these, her great pride and pleasure, 
overcame her. She maintaind her grim composure till 
he had lefb her, but then fell into a violent fit of crying, 
iu which Albinia found her, and which dissolved the re- 
serve into complaints that every one was very cruel and 
unkind, and she was the most miserable girl in all the 
world ; papa was going to take away from her the only 
one thing that made it tolerable. 

Reasoning was of no use ; to try to show her that it 
was her own behaviour that had annoyed him, only made 
her mamma appear equally hard-hearted, and she contin- 
ued wretched all the rest of the day, refusing consolation, 
and only so far improved that avowed discontent was 
better than sullenness. The next morning, she found out 
that it was not the world that was in league against her, 
but that she had fallen into the condition whidi she had 
thought past for ever. This was worst of all, and her 
disappointment and dejection lasted not only all that long 
day, but all the next, making her receive all kindnesses 
with a broken-down, wobegone manner, and reply to all 
cheerful encouragements with despair about anything ever 
making her good. Albmia tried to put her in mind of 
the Source of all goodness ; but any visible acceptance of 
personal applications of religious teaching had not yet 
been accomplished. 

Gradually all cleared up again, and things went well 
till for some fresh trivial cause or no cause, the whole 
process was repeated — sulking, injured innocence, and 
bitter repentance. This time, Mr. Kendal pronounced, 
* This is low spirits, fiur more than temper,' and he thence- 
forth dealt with these moods with a tender consideration 



160 IBB Tomro (nsF-iforasB. 

that Albinia admired, tlioiigh she thought at times that to 
treat them more like temper thaa spirits might be better 
for Sophy ; but it was evident that the poor child hersdf 
had at present little if any power either of averting such 
an aooessy or of shaking it off. The danger of her father's 
treatment seemed to be, that the humours would be ao- 
aquiesoed in, like changes in the weather, and that she 
might be encouraged neither to rq^ent, nor to struggle ; 
while her captivity made her much more liable to the 
tedium and sinking of heart that predisposed her to 
them. 

There seemed to be nothing to be done but to bear 
patiently with them while they lasted, to console the 
victim afterwards, lead her to prayer and resolute efforts^ 
and above all to pray for her ; as well as to avoid occa* 
sions of bringing them on ; but this was not possible, 
smce no one could live without occasional contiadictioni 
and Sophy oould sometimes bear a str<aig remonstrance 
or great disappointment, when at others a hint, or an 
almost imperceptible vexation, destroyed her peace for 
days. 

Mr. Kendal bore patiently with her variations, and 
did his best to amuse away her gloom. It was wonderful 
how mudi of his own was gone, and how mudi more alive 
he was. He had set himself to attack the five public- 
houses and seven beer-shops in Tibbs's Alley, and since 
his eyes had been once opened, it seemed as if the disor- 
ders became more flagrant every day. At last, he 
pounced on a misdemeanour which he took care should 
come before the magistrates, and he was much annoyed 
to find the case dismissed for want of evidence. One 
Sunday he beheld the end of a fray b^un during service- 
Ume ; he caused an information to be laid, and went him- 
self to the petty sessions to represent the case, but the 
result was a nominal penalty. The Admiral was a seeker 
of popularity, and though owning that the town was in a 
shocking state, and making great promises when talked 
to on general points, yet he could never make up his 
mind to punish any ' poor fellow,' unless he himself were 
in a passion^ when he would go any lengUi. The other. 



TB8 TO1J1I0 8ISP4fOTHKb Idl 

magistrates vcnild not interfere ; and all the satisfaction 
Mr. Kendal obtained was being told how much he was 
wanted on the bench. 

One of the few respectable Tibbs's AUeyites told him 
that it was of no use to complaiQ^ for the publicans boasted 
of their impunity, snapped their fingers at him, and drank 
Admiral Osborn's health as their friend. The coose* 
quence was, that Mr. Kendal took a magnanimous resolu- 
tion, ordered a copy of Burn's Justice, and at the Septem* 
ber Quarter Sessions actually rode over to Hadminster, as^ 
took the oaths. 

On the whole, the expectation was more formidable 
than the reality. However much he disliked applying 
himself to business, no one understood it better. The 
value of his good sense, judgment, and acuteness was 
speedily felt. Mr. Nugent, the chairman, depended on 
lum as his ally, and ofben as his adviser ; and as he was 
thus made to feel hmself of weight and importance, his 
aversion subsided, and he almost learnt to look forward to 
a chat with Mr. Nugent ; or whether he looked forward 
to it or not, there could be no doubt that he enjoyed it. 
Though still shy, grave, silent, and inert, there was a 
great alteration in him since the time when he had had 
no friends, no interests, no pursuits beyond his study ; and 
there was every reason to think that, in spite of the many 
severe shocks to his mauvaue konte^ he was a much happier 
man. 

His wife could not regret that his magisterial proceed- 
mgs led to a coolness with the Osboms, augmented by a 
vestry-meeting, at which Mr. Dusautoy had begged him to 
be present The Admiral and his party surpassed them- 
selves in their virulence against whatever the vicar pro- 
posed, until they fairly roused Mr. Kendal's ire, and * he 
came out upon them all like a lion ; and with force ap- 
pearing the greater from being so seldom exerted, he 
represented Mr. Dusautoy's conduct in appropriate terms, 
showing full appreciation of his merits, and holding up 
their own course before them in its true light, till they had 
nothing to say for themselves. It was the vicar's first 
visible victory. The increased congregation showed how 



/ 



163 TBB TOW0 iTBMCOVBBB. 

much way he liad mAcLe with the poor, and Mr. Kendal 
taking hia part openly, drew over many of the trades- 
people, who had begun to feel the influence of his hearty 
nature and consistent uprightness, and had become used 
to what had at first appeared innovations. Mr. Dusautoy, 
in thanking Mr. Kendal, begged him to allow himself to 
be nominated his churchwarden next Easter, and having 
consented while his blood was up, there was no danger 
that, however he might dislike the prospect, he would 
falter when the time diould come. 



-•♦♦■ 



CHAPTEE X. 



It was ^ a green Tule,' a Christmas like an April day, 
and even the lengthening days and strengthening cold 
of January attaining to nothbig more than three slight 
hoar-frosts, each quickly melting into mud, and the last 
concluding in rain and fog. 

'What would Willow Lawn have been without the 
drainage t ' Albinia often thought when she paddled down 
the wet streets, and saw the fields flooded. The damp 
had such an effect upon Sophy's throat, temper,' and whole 
nervous system, that her moods had few intervals, and 
Albinia wrote to the surgeon a detail of her symptoms, 
asking if she had not better be removed into a more &vour- 
able air. But he pronounced that the injury of the trans- 
port would outbalance the casual evils of the bad weather, 
and as the rain and log mitigated, she improved; but 
there were others on whom the heavy moist air had a more 
fiEktal effect 

One morning, Mr. Kendal saw his wife descending 
the picturesque ru^ed stone staircase that led outside the 
house to the upper stories of the old block of buildings 
under the hill, nearly opposite to Willow Lawn. She 
came towards him with tears still in her eyes as she said, 
'Poor Mrs. Simkins has just lost her little girl, and I am 
afraid the two boys are sickening.* 



XSH TOCKa STBP-VOl'llJUt. 163 

' What do ycfu mean T Is the fever there again t ' ex« 
claimed Mr. Kendal in the ntmoet consternation. 

^Pid you not know itt Lucy has been very anzions 
about the child, who was in her class.' 

^ You have not taken Lucy to a house with a fever ! ' 

' No ; I thought it safer not, though she wanted very 
much to go.' 

' But you have been going yourself I ' 

^ It was a low, lingenng fever. I had not thought it 
infectious, and even now I believe it is only one of those 
that run through an over-crowded family. The only 
wonder is, that they are ever well in such a place. Dear 
Edmund, don't be angry ; it is what I used to do con* 
tinually at Fainnead. I never caught anything; and 
there is plenty of chloride of lime, and all that I never 
imagined you would disapprove.' 

^ It is the very place where the fever began before I ' 
said Mr. Kendal, almost under his breath. 

Instead of going into the house, he made her turn into 
the garden, where little Maurice was being promenaded 
in the sun. He stretched out from his nurse's arms to go 
to them, and AlMnia was going towards him, but her hus* 
band held her fast, and said, ' I beg you wiU not take the 
child till you have changed your dress.' 

Albinia was quite subdued, alarmed at the effect on 

* You must go away at once,' he said presently. *How 
soon can you be ready f * Yon had better take Lucy and 
Maurice at once to your brother's. They will excuse the 
liberty when they know the cause.' 

^ And pray what is to become of poor Sophy t ' 
< Never going out, there may be the less risk for her. 
I will take care of her myself.' 

^ As if I was going to endure that!' cried Albinia. 
' No, no, Edmund, I am not likely to run away from you 
and Sophy ! You may send Lucy off, if you like, but cer- 
tainly not me, or if you do I shall come back the same 
evening.' 

' I should be much happier if you were gone.' 

^ Thank you, but what should I be 1 No, if it were to 



164 T/BM TOUMtt flS^VOSHBiU 



be caag^ here, which I dcnH bdieve, now the pond is 
gone, it would be of no use to send me awftj, after I have 
been into the honse with it.' ' 

Her resolution and Sophy's need prevailed, and most 
unwillingly Mr. Kendal gave up the point. She was per- 
suaded that he was acting on a panic, the less to be 
wondered at after all he had suffered. She thought the 
chief danger was from the effect of his fears, and would 
fiun have persuaded him to remain at Fairmead with 
Lucy, but she was not prepared to hear him insist on like- 
wise removing Maurice. She had promised not to enter the 
sick room again, and pleaded that the little boy need 
never be taken into the streetH-4hat the fever was not 
likely to come across the running stream-— that the Fair- 
mead nursery was full enough already* 

Mr. Kendal ¥(as inexorable. ^ I hope you may nev^ 
see what I have seen,' he said gravely, and Albinia was 
silenced. 

A man who had lost so many children might be allow- 
ed to be morbidly jealous of the health of the rest But 
it was a cruel stroke to her to be obliged to part with h^ 
noble little boy, just when his daily advances in walking 
and talking made him more charming than ever. Her 
eyes were full of tears, and she struggled to dioke back 
some pettish rebellious words. 

^ You do not like to trust him with Susan,' said Mr. 
Kendal ; < you had better c<»ne with him.' 

< No,' said Albinia, ^ I ought to stay here, and if yon 
judge it right, Maurice must go. I'll go and speak to 
Susan.' 

And away she ran, for she had no power just th^i to 
speak in a wifely manner. It was not easy to respect a 
man in a panic so extremely inconvenient. 

He was resolved on an immediate start, and the next 
few hours were spent in busy preparation, and in watching 
lest the excited Lucy should frighten her sister. Albinia 
tried to persuade Mr. Kendal at least to sleep at Fair- 
mead that night, and after watching him drive off, she 
hurried, dashing away the tears that would gather again 
and again in her eyes, to hold council with the Dnsautoys 



1KB YOVRQ ffnO^llOriUB. 165 

on the best means of stopping the coarse of the malady, by 
depriring it of its Tictims. 

She had a qtiiet snng evening with Sophy, whom she 
had so much interested in the destitution of the sick chil- 
dren as to set her to work at some night-gear for them ; 
and she afterwards sat long over the fire trying to read 
to silence the longing after the little soft cheek that had 
never yet been laid to rest without her caress, and fore« 
boding that Mr. Kendal would return from his dark soli* 
tary drive with his spirits at the lowest ebb. 

So late that she had begun to hope that Winifred had 
obeyed her behest and detained him, she heard his step^ 
and before she could run to meet him, he had already shut 
himself into the study. 

She was at the door in a moment ; she feared he had 
thought her self-willed in the morning, and she was the 
more bent on rousing him. She knocked — she opened the 
door. He had thrown himself into his arm-chair, and was 
bending over the dreary, smouldering, sulky log and 
white ashes, and his face, as he raised his head, was as if 
the whole load of care and sorrow had suddenly descended 
again. 

' I am sorry you sat up,' was of course his beginning, 
conveying anything but welcome ; but Aie knew that this 
only meant that he was in a state of depression. She 
took hold of his hands, chilled with holding the reins, told 
him of the good fire in the morning room, and fidrly drew 
him up-stairs. 

There the lamp burnt brightly, and the red fire cast a 
merry glow over the shining chintz curtains, and the two 
chairs drawn so cosily towards the fire, the kettle pufiing 
on the hearth, and Albinia's choice little bed-room set of 
tea-china ready on the small table. The cheerfulness 
seemed visibly to difiuse itself over his face, but he still 
struggled to cherish his gloom, * Thank you, but I would 
not have had you take all this trouble, my dear.' 

* It would be a great deal more trouble if you caught 
a bad cold. I meant you to sleep at Fairmead.' 

* Yes, they pressed me very kindly, but I could not 
bear not to come home.' 



160 noD Tomro wtwMncoBaL 

* And how did Maurice ccmiport himself] ' 

^ He talked to the horse and then went to sleep, and 
he was not at all shj with his aunt after the Brst. He 
watched the children, but had not begun to play with 
them. Still I think he will be quite happy with Lucy 
.there, and I hope it will not be for long.' 

It was a favourable sign that Mr. Kendal communi- 
cated all these particulars without being plied with ques- 
tions, and Albinia went on with the more spirit. 

' No, I hope it may not be for long. We have been 
holding a great council against the enemy, and I do hope 
that we have really done something. No, you need not 
be afraid, I have not been there again, but we have been 
routing out the nudeus, and hope we may starve out the 
fever for want of victims. You never saw such a swarm 
as we had to turn out. There were twenty-three people 
to be considered for.' 

' Twenty-three I Have you turned out the whole 
block ? ' 

^ No, I wish we had ; but that would have been 
seventy-five. This is only from those two tenements 
with one door ! ' 

* Impossible ! ' 

' I should ha^ thought so ; but the lawful inhabitants 
make up sixteen, and there wei« seven lodgers.' 

Mr. Kendal gave a kind of groan, and asked what she 
had done ; she detailed the measures. 

' Twenty-three people in those two houses, and seventy- 
five in the whole block of building ? ' 

' Too true. And if you could only see the rooms ! 
The windows that won't open ; the roofs that open too 
much ; the dirt on the staircases ; and, oh ! the horrible 
smells ! ' 

' It shall not go on,' said Mr. Kendal. ^ I will look 
over the place.' 

* Not till the fever is out of it,' hastily interposed Al- 
binia. 

He made a sign of assent, and went on : ' I will cer- 
tainly talk to Pettilove, and have the place repaired^ if it 
be at my own expense.' 



THS TOUKG STEP-XOmEB. , 16Y 

Albinia lifted up her eyes, not understanding at whose 
ezp^ise it should be. 

The fact is,' continued Mr. Kendal, ^ that there has 
been little to induce me to take interest in the property. 
Old Mr. Meadows was, as you know, a successful solicitor, 
and purchased these various town tenements bit by bit, 
and then settled them very strictly on his grandson. He 
charged the property with life incomes to his widow and 
daughters, and to me ; but the land is in the hands of 
trustees until my son's majority, and Pettilove is the 
only surviving trustee.' 

The burning colour mantled in Albinia's face, and al- 
most inaudibly she said, ' I beg your pardon, Edmund ; 
I have done you most grievous injustice. I thought you 
would not see — ' 

' You did not think unjustly, my dear. I ought to have 
paid more attention to the state of affairs, and have kept 
JPettilove in order. But I knew nothing of English af- 
fairs, and was glad to be spared the unpleasant charge. 
The consequence of leaving a man like that irresponsible 
never occurred to me. His whole conscience in the mat* 
ter is to have a large sum to put into Gilbert's hands 
when he comes of age. Why, he upholds those dens of 
iniquity in Tibbs's Alley on that very ground ! ' 

' Poor Gilbert ! I am afraid a large sum so collected 
is not likely to do him much good! and at one-and- 
twenty — I But that is one notion of faithfulness 1 ' 

Albinia was much happier after that conversation. 
She could better endure to regret her own injustice than 
to believe her husband the cruel landlord ; and it was no 
small advance that he had afforded her an explanation 
which once he would have deemed beyond the reach of 
female capacity. 

In spite of the lack of little Maurice's bright presence, 
which, to Albinia's great delight, his father missed as 
much as she did, the period of quarantine sped by cheers 
fully. Sophy had not a single sullen fit the whole time, 
and Albinia having persuaded Mr. Kendal that it would 
be a sanatory measure to whitewash the study ceiling, he 
was absolutely forced to turn out of it and live in the 



168 SHB TOCJVO WOBg^anDOU 

monung-room, with all his books piled up in the dining- 
room. And on that great occasion, Albinia abstracted 
two fusty, faded, green canvas blinds from the windows, 
carried them off with a pair of tongs, and pushed them 
into a bonfire in the garden, persuaded they were the last 
relics of the old fever. She had the laurels cut, the cur* 
tains changed, the windows cleaned, and altogether made 
the room so much lighter, that when Mr. Kendal again 
took possession, he did not look at all sure whether he 
liked it ; and though he was courteously grateful, he did 
not avail himself of the den half so mudk as when it had 
more congenial gloom. But then he had the morning- 
room as a resort, and it was one of Albinia's bargains 
with herself, that as &r as her own influence could pre- 
vent it, neither he nor Sophy should ever render it a 
literal boudoir. 

The sense of snueness that the small numbers pro- 
duced was one great charm, and made Mr. K^idal come 
unusually far out of his shell. His chief sanatory pre* 
caution was to take Albinia out for a drive or walk every 
day, and these expeditions were greatly enjoyed. 

One day, after a visit from her old nurse, Sophy re- 
ceived Albinia with the words, — 

' Oh, mamma,' she said, ' old nurse has been telling 
me such things. I shall never be cross with Aunt Maria 
again. It is such a sad story, just like one in a book, if 
she was but that kind of person.' 

* Aunt Maria 1 I remember Mrs. Dusautoy once say- 
ing she gave her the idea of happiness shattered, but — ' 

^Did shel' exclaimed Sophy. ^I never thought 
Aunt Maria could have done anything but fidget every- 
body that came near her ; but old nurse says a gentleman 
was once in love with her, and a very handsome young 
gentleman too. Old Mr. Pringle's nephew it was, a very 
fine young officer in the army. I want you to ask papa 
if it is true. Nurse says that he wrote to make an offer 
for her, very handsomely, but grandpapa did not choose 
that both his daughters should go quite away; so he 
locked the letter up, and said no, and never told her, and 
she thought the captain had been trifling and playing her 



XH8 TOima 613BP-MOTHXB. 169 

fidse, and pined and fretted, till she got into this nervotis 
wajy and fairly wore herself out, nurse says, and came to 
be what she is now, instead of the prettiest young lady in 
the town ! And then, mamma, when grandpapa died, 
she found the letter in his papers, and one inside for her, 
that had never been given to her ; and by that time there 
was no hope, for Captain Pringle had gone out with his 
lament, and married a rich young lady in the Indies ! 
Oh, mamma 1 you see she really is deserted, and it is 
all man's treachery that has broken her heart. I thought 
people always died or went into convents — I don't mean 
that Aunt Maria could have done that, but I did not think 
that way of hers was a broken heart ! ' 

' If she has had such troubles, it should indeed make 
us try to be very forbearing with her,' said Albinia. 

' Will you ask papa about it ? ' entreated Sophy. 

* Yes, certainly ; but you must not make sure whether 
he will think it right to tell us. Poor Aunt Maria ; I do 
think some part of it must be true I ' 

* But, mamma, is that really like deserted love 1 ' 

* My dear, I don't think I ever saw deserted love,' said 
Albinia^ rather amused. ' I suppose troubles of any kind, 
if not — I mean, I suppose, vexations — ^make people show 
their want of spirits in the way most accordant with their 
natural dispositions, and so your poor aunt has grown 
querulous and anxious.' 

' If she has such a real grand reason for being unhappy, 
I shall not be cross about it now, except — ^ 

Sophy gave a sigh, and Albinia bade her good night. 

Mr. Kendal had never heard the story before, but he 
remembered many circumstances in corroboration. He 
knew that Mr. Pringle had a nephew in the army ; he 
recollected that he h^ made a figure in Maria's letters to 
India ; and that he had subsequently married a lady in 
the Mauritius, and settled down on her father's estate, 
He testified also to the bright gay youth of poor Maria, 
and his surprise at the premature loss of beauty and 
spirits ; and from his knowledge of old Mr. Meadows, he 
believed him capable of such an act of domestic tyranny, 
Maria bad always been looked upon im a mere child, iui4 

8 



170 THB TOUirO 8'11CP-M(X1'UJC1L 

if her father did not choose to part with her, he would 
think it for her good, and his own peace, for her not to 
be aware of the proposal. He was much stinick, for he 
had not suspected his sister-in-law to be capable of such 
permanent feeling. 

* There was little to help her in driving it away,' said 
Albinia. * Few occupations or interests, and very little 
change, to prevent it from preying on her spirits.' 

*True,' said Mr. Kendal; *a narrow education and 
limited sphere are sad evils in such cases.' 

' Do you think anything can be a cure for disappoint- 
ment ? ' asked Sophy, in such a solemn, earnest tone, that 
Albinia was disposed to laugh ; but she knew that this 
would be a dire offence, and was much surprised that 
Sophy had so far broken through her reserve, as to 
mingle in their conversation on such a subject. 

' Occupation,' said Mr. Kendal ; but speaking rather 
as if from duty than from conviction. * There are many 
sources of happiness, even if shipwreck have been made 
on one venture. Your aunt had few resources to which 
to turn her mind. Every pursuit or study is a help 
stored up against the vacuUy which renders every care 
more corroding.' 

* Well I ' said Sophy, in her blunt, downright way, * I 
think it would take all the spirit out of everything.' 

*I hope you will pever be tried,' said Mr. Kendal, 
with a mournful smile, as if he did not choose to confess 
that she had divined too rightly the probable effect of 
trouble upon her own temperament. 

' I suppose,' said Albinia, * that the real cure can be 
but one thing for that, as for any other trouble. I mean, 
"Thy will be done." I don't suppose anything else 
would give energy to turn to other duties. But it would 
be more to the purpose to resolve to be more considerate 
to poor Maria.' 

' ^I shall never be impatient with her agun,' said 
Sophy. 

And though at first the discovery of so romantic a 
cause for poor Miss Meadows's fretfulness dignified it in 
Sophy's eyes, yet it di4 not prove sufSpient to make it 



TBS TOXJSG STEP-MOTHEB. 171 

tolerable when she tormented the window-blinds, teased 
the fire, was shocked at Sophy's favourite studies, or in- 
sisting on her wishing to see Maria Drury. Nay, the 
bathos often rendered her petty iinconscious provooations 
the more har^sing ; and Sophy often felt, in an agony of 
self-reproach, that she ought to have known herself too 
well to expect to show ibrbearance with any one when 
she was under the influence of ill-temper. 

In Easter week Mr. Ferrars brought Lucy and Maur- 
ice home, and Gilbert came for a short holiday. 

Gilbert was pleased when he was called to go over 
the empty houses with his father, Mr. Ferrars, and a 
mason. 

Back they came, horrified at the dreadful disrepair, at 
the narrow area into which such numbers were crowded, 
and still more at the ill odours which Mr. Ferrars and 
the mason had gallantly investigated, till they detected 
the absence of drains, as well as convinced themselyes 
that mending roofs, floors, or windows, would be a mere 
mockery unless the whole were pulled down. 

Mr. Ferrai*s was more than ever thankful to be a 
country parson, and mused on the retribution that the 
miasma, fostered by the avarice of the grandfather and 
the neglect of the father had brought on the family. 
Dives cannot always scorn Lazarus without suffering 
even in this life. 

Gilbert, in the glory of castle-building, was talking 
eagerly of the thorough renovation that should take 
place, the sweep that should be made of all the old tene- 
ments, and the wide healthy streets and model cottages 
that should give a new aspect to the town. 

Mr. Kendal prepared for the encounter with Petti* 
love, and his son begged to go with him, to which he 
consented, saying that it was time Gilbert should have an 
opinion in a matter that affected him so nearly. 

Gilbert's opinion of the interview was thus announced 
on his return : ' If there ever was a brute in the world, it 
is that Pettilove ! ' 

' Then he won't consent to do anything ? ' 

*No, indeed! Say what my father or I would to 



172 THX TOUVQ trrJUVMOTlLBU* 

him, it was all of not the slightest use. He smiled, and 
made little intolerable nods, and regretted — ^but there 
were the settlements, and his late lamented partner ! A 
parcel of stuff. Not so much as a broken window will 
he mend I He says he is not authorized ! ' 

^ Quite true,' said Mr. Kendal. 'The man is war- 
ranted in his proceedings, and thinks them , his duty, 
though I believe he has a satisfiiction in the power of 
thwarting me.' 

' I'm sure he has I ' cried GUbert. ' I am sure there 
was spite in his grin when he pulled out that horrid old 
parchment, with the lines a yard long, and read us out 
the abominable old crabbed writing, all about the houses, 
messuages, and tenements thereupon, and a lot of lawyer's 
jargon. I'm sure I thought it was left to Peter Pettilove 
himself. And when I came to understand it, one would 
have thought it took my &ther to be the worst enemy 
we had in the world, bent on cheating us 1 ' 

'That is the assumption on which settlements are 
drawn up, Gilbert,' said nis father. 

' Can nothing be done, then ? ' said Albinia. 

* Thus mucV said Mr. Kendal. ' Pettilove will not 
object to our putting the houses somewhat in repair, as, 
in fact^ that will be making a present to Gilbert ; but he 
will not spend a farthing on them of the trust, except to 
hinder their absolute filing, nor will he make any r^n- 
lation on the number of lodgers. As to taking them 
down, that is, as I always supposed, out of the question, 
though I think the trustees might have stretched a point, 
being certain of both my wishes and Gilbert's.' 

' Don't you think,' said Mr. Ferrars, looking up from 
his book, ' that a sanatory commission might be got to 
over-ride Gilbert's guardian 1 ' 

* My guardian ! do not call him so ! ' muttered Gil- 
bert. 

'I am afraid,' said Mr. Kendal, 'that unless your 
commission consisted of Albinia and Dusautoy they 
would have little perception of the evils. Our local au^ 
thorities are obtuse in such matters.' 

< Agitate! agitate I ' muimuxed Mr. Femra, going on 
with his book. 



Tax TOUK0 8TKP-H0THB8. 178 

< WelV said Albinia, < at least there is one beer-shop 
less in Tibbs's Alley. And if there are tolerable seasons, 
I daresay paint, whitewash, and windows to open, may 
keep the place moderately wholesome till— Are you six* 
teen yet, Gilbert t Five years.' 

' Yes, and then—' 

Gilbert came and sat down beside her, and they bnilt 
a scheme for the ahnshoases so much wanted. Gilbert was 
sure the accumulation would easily cover the expense, and 
Albinia had many an old woman, who it was hoped might 
live to enjoy the intended paradise there. 

*yes, yes, I promise,' cried Gilbert, warming with the 
subject ; ' the first thing I shall do — * 

*No, don't promise,' said Albinia. *Do it from your 
heart, or not at all.' 

'No, don't promise, Gilbert,* said Sophy. 

* Why not, Sophy 1 ' he said good-humouredly. 

' Because you are just what you feel at the moment,' 
aaid Sophy. 

^ You don't think I should keep it 1 ' 

*No.' 

The grave answer fell like lead, and Albinia told her 
she was not kind or just to her brother. But she still 
looked steadily at him, and answered, ' I cannot help it 
What is truth, is truth, and Gilbert cares only for what he 
sees at the moment.' 

<What is truth need not always be fully uttered,' said 
Albinia. ' I hope you may find it untrue.' 

But Sophy's words would recur, and weigh on her 
painfully. 



• •• 



CHAPTER XI. 

The summer had just begun, when notice was given 
that a Confirmation would take place in the autumn ; and 
Lucy's name was one of the first sent in to Mr. Dusautoy. 
His plan was to collect his candidates in weekly classes of 



174 THX TOUKO 8I!BP-MOTHB& 

a few at a time, and likewise to see as much as he could 
of them in private. 

* Ob ! mamma ! ' exclaimed Lacy, returning from her 
first class, 'Mr. Dosautoy has given us each a paper, 
where we are to set down oar christening days, and our 
godfathers and godmothers. And only diink, I had not 
the least notion when I was christened. I could tell 
nothing but tbat Mr. Wenlock was my godfather! It 
made me feel quite foolish not to know my godmothers.' 

^ We were in no situation to have things done in order,' 
said Mr. Kendal, gravely. * If I recollect rightly, one of 
your godmothers was Captain Lee's pretty young wife, who 
died a few weeks after.' 

' And the other 1 ' said Lucy. 

* Your mother, I believe,' he said. 

Lucy employed herself in filling up her paper, and ex- 
claimed, 'Now I do not know the date! Can you teU 
me that, papa t ' 

*• It was the Christmas-day next after your birth,' he 
said. * I remember that, for we took you to spend Christ- 
mas at the nearest station of troops, and the chaplain 
christened you.' 

Lucy wrote down the particulars, and exclaimed^ 
' What an old baby I must have been I Six months old! 
And I wonder when Sophy was christened. I never knew 
who any of her godfathers and godmothers were. Did 
you, Sophy?* 

* No—' she was looking up at her father. 

A sudden flush of colour came over his fisus^, and he 
left the room in haste. 

'Why, Sophy!' exclaimed Lucy, 'one would think 
you had not been christened at all ! ' 

Even the light Lucy was alarmed at the sound of her 
own words. The same idea had thrilled across Albinia ; 
but on turning her eyes on Sophy, she saw a countenance 
flushed, anxious, but full rather of trembling hope than 
of dismay. 

In a few seconds Mr. Kendal came back with a thick 
red pocket-book in his hand, and produced the certificate 



THE TOITXa STSP-HOTHSR. 175 

of the private baptism of Sophia, daughter of Edmand 
and Lucy Kendal, at TaHoon, March 17th, 1838. 

Sophy's face had more disappointment in it than satis- 
faction. 

' I can explain the circumstances to you now,' said her 
father. ' At Talloon we were almost out of reach of any 
chaplains, and, as you know, were almost the only Eng- 
lish. We always intended to take you to the nearest 
station, as had been done with Lucy, but your dear 
mother was never well enough to bear the journey ; and 
when our next little one was born, it was so plain that he 
could not live, that I sent in haste to beg that the chap- 
Iain would come to us. It was then that you were both 
baptized, and before the week was over, he buried little 
Henry. It was the first of our troubles. We never again 
had health or spirits for any festive occasion while we con- 
tinued in India, and thus the ceremony was never com- 
pleted. In fact, I take shame to myself for having en- 
tirely forgotten that you had never been received into the 
congregation.' 

^Then I have told a falsehood whenever I said the 
Catechism ! ' burst out Sophy. Lucy would have laughed, 
and Albinia could almost have been amused at the turn 
her displeasure had taken. 

^ It was not your fault,' said Mr. Kendal, quietly. 

He evidently wished the subject to be at an end, ex- 
cepting that in silence he laid before Albinia's eyes the 
certificate of the baptism of the twin-brothers, not long 
after the first arrival in India. He then put the book in 
his pocket, and began, as usual, to read aloud. 

^Oh, don't go, mamma,' said Sophy, when she had 
been carried to her own room at bed-time, and made ready 
for the night 

Albinia was only too glad to linger, in the hope to be 
admitted into some of the recesses of that untransparent 
nature, and by way of assistance, said, ' I was not at all 
prepared for this discovery.' 

Sophy drew a long sigh, and said, ^ If I had never 
been christened, I should have thought there was some 
hope for me.' 



170 nS TODKQ 8XKP*M0THSB» 

^ That would hare been too dreadfol. How could you 
imagine your papa capable— t ' 

^ I thought I had found out why I am so horrid I ' ex* 
claimed Sophy. ^ Oh, if I could only make a fresh begin- 
ning ! Mamma, do pray give me a Prayer Book.' 

Albinia gave it to her, and she hastily turned the 
pages to the Order for Private Baptism. 

*' At least I have not made the promises and vows ! * 
she said, as if her stem conscientiousness obtained some 
relief. 

'Not formally made them,' said Albinia; 'but yon 
cannot have a right to the baptinnal blessings, except on 
those conditions.' 

' Mamma, then I never had the sign of the cross on 
my forehead ! It does not feel blest ! ' And then, hastily 
and low, she muttered, ' Oh ! is that why I never could 
bear the cross in all my life ? ' 

'Nay, my poor Sophy, you must not think of it like a 
spell. Many bear the cross no better, who have had it 
marked on their brows.' 

' Can it be done now t ' cried Sophy, eagerly. 

' Certainly ; I think it ought to be done. We will see 
what your father says.'* 

' Oh, mamma, beg him, pray him ! ' exclaimed Sophy. 
< J know it will make me begin to be good ! I can't bear 
not to be one of those marked and sealed. Oh! and, 
mamma^ you will be my godmother t Can't yout If the 
gleams of goodness and brightness do find me out, they 
are always from yon.' 

' I think I might be, dear child,' said Albinia ; ' but 
Mr. Dusautoy must tell us whether I may. But, indeed, 
I am afraid to see you reckon too much on this. The es- 
sential, the regenerating grace, is yours already, and can 
save you from yourself ; and Confinnation adds the rest — 
but you must not think of any of these like a charm, 
which will save you all further trouble with yourself. They 
do not kill the faults, but they enable you to deal witi^ 
them. Even baptism itself you know, has destroyed the 
guilt of past sin, but does not hinder subsequent tempta- 
tion*' 



XB8 Tomra sm^MOTBEB. 177 

Albiiiia hardly laum how tar Sophy attended to this 
caution, for all she said was to reiterate the entreaty that 
the omitted ceremony might be supplied. 

Mr. Kendal gave a ready consent, as soon as he was 
told that Sophy so ardently wished for itr— so willing, in- 
deed, that Albinia was surprised, until he went on to say, 
^ No one need be aware of the matter beyond ourselTes. 
Your brother and sister would, I have no doubt, act as 
sponsors. Nay, if Ferrars would officiate, we need hardly 
mention it eyen to Dusautoy. It could take place in your 
sitting-room.' 

'But, Edmund!' began Albinia, aghast, 'would that 
be the right thing t I hardly think Maurice would con- 
sent.' 

' You are not imagining anything so preposterous or 
inexpedient as to wish to bring Sophia forward in church,' 
said Mr. Kendal ; 'even if she were physically capable of 
it, I should not choose to expose her to anything so pain- 
fid or undesirable.' 

' I am afraid, then,' said Albinia, ' that it will not be 
done at all. It is not receiving her into the congregation 
to have this service read before half-a-dozen people in my 
sitting-room.' 

' Better not have it done at all, then,' said Mr. Ken- 
daL ' It is not essential. I will not have her made a 
spectacle.' 

' Will you only consult Mr. Dusautoy ? ' 

' I do not wish Mr. Dusautoy to interfere in my family 
regulations. I mean, that I have a great respect for him ; 
but as a clergyman, and one wedded to form, he would 
not take into account the great evil of making a public 
display, and attracting attention to a girl of her age, sta- 
tion, and disposition. And, in fact,' added Mr. Kendal, 
with the same scrupulous candour as his daughter always 
f showed, ' for the sake of my own position, and the effect 
' of example, I should not wish this unfortunate omission to 
be known.' 

' I suspect,' said Albinia, ' that the example of repair- 
ing it would speak volumes of good.' 

' It is mere absurdity to speak of it ! ' said Mr. Ken* 
8* 



1.78 THS TOUVG fiHSF-MOTHKB. 

^^. * The poor child is not to leave her couch yet for 
.^eeks.' 

Sophy was told in the morning that the question was 
^n^er consideration, and Lucy was strictly forbidden to 
^^ention the subject. 

When next Mr. Kendal came to read with Sophy, she 
0»id imploringly, * Papa, have you thought 1 ' 

'Yes,' he said, 'I have done so; but your mamma 
^];iiiiks, and, on examination of the subject, I perceive she 
is ^^^}y ^^^^ the service has no meaning unless it take 
place in the church.' 

* Yes,' said Sophy ; * but you know I am to be allowed 
to go *^o^* }^ July.' 

* You will hardly be equal to any fatigue even then, 
J fear, my dear ; and you would find this publicity ex- 
^eEttcly trying and unpleasant.' 

* It would not last ten minutes,' said Sophy, * and I 
am sure I should not care ! 1 should have something else 
^ think about. Oh ! papa, when my forehead aches with 
gxifliness, it does feel so unblessed, so uncrossed ! ' and 
she put t^r hand over it ; ' and all the books and hymns 
seem not to belong to me. I think I shall be able to 
]ceep off the tempers when I have a right in the cross.' 

^ Ah ! my child, I am afraid the tempers are a part 
of your physical constitution,' he returned, mournfully. 

'You mean that I am like you, papa,' said Sophy. 
< I think I might at least learn to be really like you, and 
if I must feel miserable, not to be unkind and sulky ! 
And then- 1 should leave off even the being unhappy 
about nothing.' 

Her eyes brightened, but her father shook his head 
sadly, and said, ' You would not be like me, my dear, if 
depression never made you selfish. But,' he added, with 
an effort, ' you will not suffer so much from low spirits 
when you are in better health, and able to move about.' 

* Oh, no ! ' exclaimed Sophy ; * I often feel so sick of 
lying here, that I feel as if 1 never could be sulky if only 
I might walk about., and go from one room to another 
when I please ! But, papa, you will let me be admitted 
into the church when 1 am able, will you not ! ' 



XUK TOUKa STEP^KOTHJSS. 179 

' It shall be well weighed, Sophy.' 

Sophy knew her father too well, and had too much 
reticence to say any more. He was certainly meditating 
deeply, and reading too ; indeed he would almost have 
appeared to have a iit of the study, but for little Maurice, 
a tyrannical little gentleman, who domineered over the 
entire household, and would have been grievously spoilt, 
if his mother had not taken all the crossing the stout lit- 
tle will upon herself. He had a gallant pair of legs, and 
the disposition of a young Centaur ; he seemed to divide 
the world into things that could be ridden on, and that 
could not ; and when he bounced at the study door, with 
^Papa! gee! gee I' and lifted up his round, rosy face, 
and despotic blue eyes, Mr. Kendal's foot was at his ser- 
vice, and the study was brown no longer. 

The result of Mr. Kendal's meditations was an invita- 
tion to his wife to drive with him to Fairmead. 

That was a most enjoyable drive ; the weather too 
hot and sunny, perhaps, for Albinia's preferences, but 
thoroughly penetrating, and giving energy to her East- 
Indian husband, and making the whole country radiant 
with sunny beauty — the waving hay-fields falling before 
the mower's scythe, the ranks of hay-makers tossing the 
fragrant grass, the growing com softly waving in the 
summer breeze, the river blue with reflected sky, the 
hedges glowing with stately fox-gloves, or with blushing 
wreaths of eglantine. And how cool, fresh, and fair, was 
the beech-avenue at Fairmead. 

Yet though Albinia came to it with the fond tender- 
ness of old association, it was not with the regretful cling- 
ing of the first visit, when it seemed to her the natural 
home to which she still really belonged. Nor had she 
the least thought about producing an impression of her 
.'own happiness, and scarcely any whether 'Edmund' 
would be amused and at ease, though knowing he had a 
stranger to encounter in the person of Winifed's sister, 
Mary Reid. 

* That was not a long day. It was only too short, 
though Mr. and Mrs. Kendal stayed three hours longer 
than on the last occasion, Mr. Kendal faced Mary Beid 



without flinching, and she, having been previoasly in- 
formed that Albinia's husband was the most silent and 
shy man in existence, b^^an to doubt her sister's veracity. 
And Albinia, instead of dealing out a shower of fireworks, 
to hide what, if not gloom, was at least twilight, was now 
* temperately bright,' talking naturally of what most con- 
cerned hw with the sprightliness of her happy temper, 
but without effort ; and gratifying Winifred by a great 
deal more notice of the new niece and namesake than she 
had ever bestowed on either of her predecessors in their 
infant days. Moreover, Lucy's two long visits had made 
Mrs. Ferrars feel a strong interest in her, and, with a 
aort of maternal affection, she inquired after the cuttings 
of the myrtle which she had given her. 

^ Ah ! ' said Albinia, * I never honoured gardening so 
much.' 

* I know you would never respect it in me.* 

'As you know, I love a walk with an object, and 
never could abide breaking my back, pottering over a 
pink with a stem that won't support it, and a calyx that 
won't hold it.' 

* And Lucy converted you wh^ I conld not 1 ' 

* If you had known my longing for some wholesome 
occupati<m for her, such as could hurt neither herself nor 
any one else, and the pleasure of seeing her engrossed by 
anything innocent, making it so easy to gratify her. 
Why, a new geranium is a constant fund of ecstasy, and 
I do not believe she was ever so grateful to her father in 
her life as when he gave her a forcing-frame. Anything 
is a blessing that makes people contented at home, and 
takes them out of themselves.' 

'Lucy is a very nice, pleasant inmate; her ready 
obligingness and facility of adapting herself make her 
very agreeable.' 

*• Yes,' said Albinia, * she is the ** very woman," taking 
her complexion from things around, and so she will go 
smoothly through the world, and be always preferred to 
my poor turbid, deep-souled Sophy.' 

* Are you going to be very angry with me ? ' 

'Ah I you do not know Sophy I Poor, dear child 1 



IBM TO03i» fftBSlCOTBSR. ISl 

I do SO long that she oould haTe*— If it were but one day, 
one hour, of real, free, glowing happiness ! I think it 
would sweeten and opoi her heart wonderfully just to 
have known it I If I oould but see any chance of it, but I 
am afraid her health will always be against her ; and oh ! 
that dreadful sense of depression ! Do you know, Win* 
ifredy I do think love would be the best chance. Now, 
don't laugh ; I do assure you there is no reason Sophy 
should not be very handsome.' 

' Quite as handsome as the owl's children, my dear.' 

*' Well, the owls are the 4)nly young birds fit to be 
seen. But I tell you, Sophy's profile is as regular as her 
father's, and animation makes her eyes beautiful, and she 
has grown immensely since she has been lying down, so 
that she will come out without that disproportioned look. 
If her eyebrows were rather less marked, and her com- 
plexion — ^but that will dear.' 

'Yes, we will make her a beauty whoi we are 
about it.' 

' And, after all, affection is the great charm, and if 
she were attached, it would be so intensely — and happi- 
ness would develope so mueh that is glorious, only hid- 
den down so deep.' 

' I hope you may find her a male Albinia,' said Win- 
ifred, a little wickedly ; ' but take care. It might be kill 
or cure; and I fancy when sunshine is attracted by 
i^iadow, it is more often as it was in your case than '' vice 
versd.^^ ' 

' Take care ! ' repeated Albinia, affronted. ^ You don't 
&ncy I am going beyond a vague wish, do you ? ' 

' And rather a premature one. How old is Sophy 1 ' 

' Towards fourteen, but years older in thought and in 
suffering.' . 

Albinia did not hear the result of the conference with 
her brother till she had resumed her seat in the carriage, 
after having been surprised by Mr. Kendal handing in 
three tall theological tomes. They both had much to 
think over as they drove home in the lengthening shad- 
ows. Albinia was greatly concerned that Winifred's 
health had become aiSectedi and. that her ordinary home 



18d TBB YimHk SCBWMOIHXB. 

duties were beymid her strength. Albinia had formerly 
thought Fairmead parsonage did not give her enough to 
do, but uow she saw the gap that she had left ; and she 
had &llen into a maze of musings over schemes for help- 
ing Winifred, before Mr. Kendal spoke, telling her that 
he had resolved that Sophia's admission into the church 
should take place as soon as she was equal to the exer- 
tion. 

Albinia asked if she should speak to Mr. Dusautoy, 
but the manliness of Mr. Kendal's character revolted 
from putting off a confession upon his wife ; so he went 
to church the next morning, and saw the vicar after- 
wards. 

Mr. Dusautoy's first thought was gratitude for the 
effort that the resolution must have cost both Mr. Kendal 
and his daughter ; his next, how to make the occasion as 
little trying to their feelings as was consistent with his 
duty and theirs. He saw Sophy, and tried to draw her 
out, but, though far from sullen, she did not reply freely. 
However, he was satisfied, and he wished her, likewise, 
to consider herself under preparation for Confirmation in 
the autumn. She did all that he wished quietly and ear- 
nestly, but without much remark, her confidence only 
came forth when her feelings were strongly stirred ; and 
it was remarkable that throughout this time of prepara- 
tion there was not the remotest shadow of ill-temper. 

Mr. Kendal insisted that her London doctor should 
oome to see her at the year's end. The improvement 
had not been all that had been hoped, but it was decided 
that though several hours of each day must still be spent 
on her back, she might move about, join the meals, and 
do whatever she comd without over-fatigue. It seemed a 
great release, but it was a shock to find how very little 
she could do at first, now that she had lost the habit of ex- 
ertion, and of disregard of her discomforts. She had quite 
shot up to more than the ordinary woman's height, and 
was much taller than her sister — ^but this hardly gave the 
advantage Albinia had hoped, for she had a weak, over- 
grown look, and could not help stooping. A number of 
people in a room, or even the sitting upright during a 



THS TOITKG 0I3BP*XOTHaBt. 188 

morning call, seemed quite to overcome and e^thaust her : 
but still the return to ordinary life was such great enjoy- 
ment, that she endured all with good-temper. 

But now the church-going was possible, a fit of exceed- 
ing dread came upon her. Albinia found her with the 
tears silently rolling down her cheeks, almost as if she 
were unconscious of them. 

^ Oh, mamma, I can never do it ! I know what I am. 
I can't let them say I will keep all the commandments 
always ! It will not be true ! ' 

*' It will be true that you have the stead&st purpose, 
my dear.* 

* How can it be steadfast when I know I can't f ' 

It was the old story, and all had to be argued through 
again — how the obligation was already incurred at her 
baptism, and how it was needful that she should be sworn 
to her own side of the great covenant — how the power 
would be given, and the grace supplied, but that the will 
and purpose to obey was required — and then Sophy re- 
curred to that blessing of the cross for which she longed 
so earnestly, and which again Albinia feared she was re- 
garding in the light of a talisman. 

Mr. Ferrars was to be her godfather, Mr. Kendal 
had wished Aunt Winifred, as Lucy called her, to be the 

fodmother, but Sophy had begged earnestly for Mrs. 
)usautoy, whose kindness had made a great impression. 

There was not much liking between Mrs. Ferrars and 
Sophy. Perhaps Sophy had been fretted and angered by 
her quick, decided ways, and rather disgusted by the en- 
thusiasm of her brother and sister about Fairmead ; and 
she wad not gratified by hearing that Winifred was to 
accompany her husband in order to try the experiment 
of a short absence from cares and children. 

Albinia, on the contrary, was highly pleased to have 
Winifred to nurse, and desirous of showing off Sophy's 
reformation, 

Winifred arrived late in the day with an invalid look, 
and a great inclination to pine for her baby. She was so 
much tired, that Albinia took her up-stairs very soon, and 



164 IBB TOOBO 8XBr-iC0!mBB^ 



pt her to bed, rittiiig with her almost all the eycsiins 
hoping that down-stairs all was going on well. 

The next morning, too, went off very well.' Mr Fer- 
rars sought a private talk with his old godchild and 
though Sophy scarcely answered, she liked his kind, frank 
affectionate manner, and showed such feeling as he wished! 
so that he fully credited all that his sister thought of h^ 

Otherwise, Sophy was kept quiet, to save her strenffth 
and collect her thoughts. ^ 

At seven o'clock in the evening, there was not a for- 
midable oongr^;ation. Miss Meadows, who had been in- 
formed as late as could save offence, had treated it as a 
freak of Mrs. Kendal, resented the injunction of secrecy 
and would neither be present herself, nor let her mother 
oome out. Genevieve, three old men, and a child or two 
were the whole number present. The daily service at 
Bayford was an offering made in faith by the vicar for as 
yet there was very little attendance. * But,' said Mr 
Dusautoy, * it is the worship of God, not an entertoinl 
ment to please maa— it is all nonsense to talk of its an- 
swering or not answering.' 

Mr. Kendal was in a state of far greater suffering from 
shame than his daughter, as indeed he deserved, but he 
^dured It with a gallant, almost touchmg resiimation 
He was the only witness of her baptism, and it seemed 
like a confession, when he had to reply to the questions, 
by whom, and with what words this child had been bap! 
tized, when she stood beside him overtopping her littie 
godmother. She stood with tightly-locked hands, and 
ebbing colour, which came back in a flood when Mr Du- 
sautoy took her by the hand, and said, * We receive this 
child into the congregation ; ' and when he traced the 
cross on her brow, she stood tremblingly, her lips 
squeezed close together, and after she retoned to her 
place no one saw her face. 

A , lni"^7w ^^'' ^'"'^^^^ "^^ I^«^^» ^^^ at home by 

£nhi atTl^^^^^^ Sheme^ 

Sophy at the haU^Joor, kissed her, and said, ' Now, mv 

foUowed Winifred mto the drawing-room, aid tolk her 



TUB TOinf0 fiXHMtOIHXB* 185 

shawl and bonnet frcfm her, lingering for a happy twilight 
conyersation. Lucy came down, and went to water her 
flowers, and by-and-by tea was brought, the gentlemen 
came in from their walk, and Mr« Kendal asked whether 
Sophy was tired. Albinia went up to see. She found 
her on her couch in the morning room, and told her that 
tea was ready. There was something not promising in 
the voice that replied ; and she said, 

* No, don't move, my dear, I will bring it to you ; 
you are tired.' 

' No— ril go down, thank you.' It was the gruff voice 1 

* Indeed, you had much better not, my dear. It is 
only an hour to bed-time, and you would only tire your- 
self for nothing.' 

* I'll go.' 

* You are tired, Sophy,' said her &ther. * You had 
better lie down while you have your tea.' 

* No, thank you,' growled Sophy, as though hurt by 
being told to lie down before company. 

Her father put a sofa-cushion behind her, but though 
she mumbled some acknowledgment, it was so surly, that 
Mrs. Ferrars looked up in surprise, and she would not 
lean back until fatigue gained the ascendancy. Mr. Ken* 
dal asking her, got little in reply but such a grimt, that 
Mrs. Ferrars longed to shake her ; but her father fetched 
a footstool, and put it under her feet, and grew a little ab- 
sti'acted in his talk, as if watching her, and his eye had 
something of the old habitual melancholy. 

So it went on. The nighfs rest did not carry off the 
temper. Sophy was monosyllabic, displeased if not at- 
tended to, but receiving attention like an afiront ; want- 
ing nothing, but offended if it were not offered. Albinia 
was exceedingly grieved. She had some suspicion that 
Sophy might have been hurt by her going to Mrs. Fer- 
rars instead of to her on their return from church, and 
made an attempt at an apology, but this was snubbed like 
an additional affront, and she could only bide the time, 
and be greatly disappointed at such an exhibition before 
the guests. 

Winifred looked (», forbearing to hurt Albinia's fed- 



186 TBB TOUKa STKP-XOrHXB. 

ings by remarks^ but in private compensatiDg by little 
outbreaks with her husband, teasing him about his hope- 
ful goddaughter, laughing at Albiuia's infatuation, and 
railing at Mr. Kendal's endurance of the ill-humour, 
which she declared he promoted. 

Maurioe, as usual, was provoking. He had no notion 
of giving up his godchild, he said, and he had no doubt 
that Edmund Kendal could manage his own child his 
own way. 

' Because of his great success in that lino.' 

' He is not what he was. He uses his sense and prinr 
ciple now, and when they are fairly brought to bear, I 
know no one whom I would more entirely trust.' 

' Well ! it will be great good luck if I do not fall foul 
of Miss Sophy one of these days, if no one else will ! ' 

Winifred was slightly irritable herself from weakness, 
and on the last morning of her stay she could bear the 
sight no longer. Sophy had twice been surly to Lucy's 
good offices, had given Albinia a look like thunder, and 
answered her father with a sulky displeasure that made 
Mrs. Ferrars exclaim, as soon as he had lefl the room, ' I 
should never allow a child of mine to speak to her father 
in that manner 1 ' 

Sophy swelled. She did not think Mrs. Ferrars had 
any right to interfere between her and her father. Her 
silence provoked Winifred to continue, * I wonder if you 
have any compunction for having spoilt all your — ^all 
Mrs. Kendal's enjoyment of our visit.^ 

^ I am not of consequence enough to spoil any one's 
pleasure,' 

That was the last efibrt. Albinia came into the room, 
with little Maurice holding her hand, and flourishing a 
whip. He trotted up to the sofa, and began instantly to 
* whip sister Sophy ; ' serve her right, if I had but the 
whip, thought Mrs. Ferrars, as his mother hurried to 
snatch him off. Leaning over Sophy's averted face, she 
saw a tear under her eyelashes, but took no notice. 

Three seconds after, Sophy reared herself up, and 
with a rigid face and slow step, walked out of the room. 

' Have you said anything to her ? ' asked Albinia. 



TBB TOmfO flTX^XOTEOBB; 187 

^ I could not help it,' said Winifred, narrating what 
had past. ' Have I done wrong ? ' 

' Edmund cannot bear to have anything harsh said to 
her in these moods, especially about her behaviour to 
himself. He thinks she cannot help it — but it may be 
well that she should know how it appears to other people, 
for I cannot bear to see his patient kindness spurned. 
Only, you know, she values it in her heart. I am afraid 
we shall have a terrible acony now.' 

Albinia was right. It was the worst agony poor 
Sophy had ever undergone. She had been all this time 
ignorant that it was a cross fit, only imagining herself 
cruelly neglected and cast aside for the sake of Mrs. Fer- 
rars ; but the wakening time had either arrived, or had 
been brought by that reproach, and she beheld her con- 
duct in the most abhorrent light. After having desired 
to be pledged to her share of the covenant, and earnestly 
longed to bear the cross, to be sworn in as soldier and 
servant, to have put her neck under the yoke of her old 
master ere the cross had dried upon her brow, to have 
been meanly jealous, ungrateful, disrespectful, vindictive ! 
oh ! misery, misery 1 hopeless misery ! She would take 
no word of comfort when Albinia tried to persuade her 
that it had been partly the reaction of a mind wrought 
up to an occasion very simple in its externals, and of a 
body fatigued by exertion; and then in warm-hearted 
candour professed that she herself had been thoughtless 
in neglecting Sophy for Winifred. Still less comfort 
would she take in her father's free forgiveness, and )iis 
sad entreaties that she would not treat these fits of low 
spirits as a crime, for they were not her fault, but that of 
her constitution. 

•Then one can't help being hateful and wicked! 
Nothing is of any use ! I had rather you had told me I 
was mad I ' said poor Sophy. 

She was so spent and exhausted with weeping, that she 
could not come down — ^indeed, between grief and ner- 
vousness she would not eat ; and Albinia found Mr. Ken- 
dal mournfully persuading her, when a stern command 
would have done more good. Albinia spoke it : « Sophy, 



188 TBM TOUSO WtWMtWl'HMUL 

yon hmre pat your father to a great deal of pain already; 
if you are really grieving over it^ you will not hurt hua 
more by making yourself ill.' 

The strong will came into action on the right side, and 
Sophy sat up, took what was offered, but what was she 
that they should care for her, when she had spoilt mamma's 
pleasure ? Better go and be happy with Mrs. Ferrars. 

Sophy's next visitor came up with a manly tread, and 
she i^ost feared that she had made herself ill enough for 
the aoctor ; but it was Mr. Ferrars^ with a kind face of 
pitying sympathy. 

^ May I come to wish my godchild good-bye ? ' he said. 

Sophy did not speak, and he looked compassionately 
at tbe prone dejection of the whole figure, and the pale, 
BaQow face, so piteously mournful. He took her hand, 
and began to tell her of the godfather's present, that he 
had brought her — a little book of devotions intended for 
the time when she should be confirmed, Sophy uttered a 
feeble ^ thank you,' but a hopeless one. 

^ Ah 1 you are feeling as if nothing would do you any 
good,' said Mr. Ferrars. 

^ Papa says so ! ' she answered. 

^Not quite,' said Mr. Ferrars. ^He knows that your 
low spirits are the effect of temperament and health, and 
that you are not able to prevent yourself from feeling un- 
happy and aggrieved. And perhaps you reckoned on too 
much sensible effect fix>m Church ordinances. Now joy, 
help, all these blessings are seldom revealed to our con« 
sciousness, but are matters of faith; and you must be 
content to work on in faith in the dark, before you /eel 
comfort. I cannot but hope that if you will struggle, even 
when you are hurt and annoyed, to avoid the expression 
of vexation, the morbid temper will wear out, and you will 
both be tempted and suffer less, as you grow older. And, 
Sophy— forgive me for asking— -do you pray in this un- 
happy state t ' 

' I cannot. It is not true.' 

' Make it true. Take some verse of a Psalm. Shall 
I mark you some ? Bepeat them, even if you seem to 
yourself not to feel them. There is a holy power that will 



^" 



TfiB TOtnro ffnCMCOTHSB* 18f 

work on jon at last ; and when jmi can trnly pray* the 
dark hoar will pass.' 

< Mark them,' said Sophy. 

There was some space, while she gave him the book^ 
and he showed her the verses. Then he rose to ga 

^ I wish I had not spoilt the visits' she said, wistfully, 
at last. 

< We shall see yon again, and we shall know each other 
better,' he said, kindly. ' Yon are my godchild now, So- 
phy, and yon know that I most rememljNBr yon constantly 
in prayer.' % 

<Tes,' she faintly said. 

* And will you promise me to try my remedy ? I think 
it will soften your heart to the graces of the Blessed Com- 
forter. And even if all seem gloom within, look out,* see 
others happy, try to rejoice with them, and peace wiU 
come in! Now, good-bye, my dear godchild, and the 
God of Peace bless you, and give you rest.' 



-♦♦♦- 



CHAPTER XIL 

Ms. DusAxm>T had given notice of the day of the Con- 
firmation, when Mr. Kendal called his wife. 

'I wonder,' he said, ^my dear, whether Sophia can 
spare you to take a walk with me before church.' 

Sophy, who was well aware that a walk with him was 
the greatest and rarest treat to his wife, gave gracious 
permission, and in a few minutes they were walkiug by 
the bright canal-side, under the calm evening sunshine 
and deep blue sky of early autumn. 

Mr. Kendal said not a word, and Albinia, leaning on 
his arm, listened, as it were, to the stUlness, or rather to 
the sounds that marked it-— tihe gurgling of the little 
streams let off into the water-courses in the meadows ; the 
occasional plunge of the rat from the banks ; the sounds 
from the town, softened by distanced; and the far-off caw- 
ings of the xooks, which Ae could just sea wheeling aboot 



190 TBB TOUirO 8TBP>]COXHEB. 

as little black specks over the plantations of Woodside, or 
watching the swallows assembling for departure sitting in 
long ranks, like an ornament along the roof of a neigh- 
bouring bam. 

Long, long it was before Mr. Kendal broke silence, buV 
when at length he did speak, his words amassed her ex- 

tremely. 

* Albinia, poor Sophia's admission into the Church has 
not been the only neglect . I have never been confirmed. 
I intend to speak to Dusautoy this evening, but I thought 
you would wish to know it first' 

* Thank you. I suppose you went out to India too 

young.' 

< Poor Maria says truly that no one thought of these 
things in our day, at least so far as we were concerned* 
I must explain to you, Albinia, how it is that I see things 
very differently now from the light in which I once view- 
ed them. I was sent home from India, at six years old, 
to correspondents and relations to whom I was a burthen. 
I was placed at a private school, where the treatment was 
of the harsh style so common in those days. The boys 
always had more tasks than they could accomplish, an>i 
were kept employed by being always in arrears with their 
lessons. This pressed less heavily upon me than on most ; 
but though I seldom incurred punishment, there was a sort 
of hard distrust of me, I believe because the master could 
not easily overwhelm me with work, so as to have me in 
his power. I knew I was often unjustly treated, and I 
never was popular.' 

^ Yes, I can ima^ne you extremely miserable.' 

* You can understand my resolution that my boys 
should not be sent to England to be homeless, and how I 
judged all schools by my own experience. I stayed -there 
too late, till I was beyond both tormentors and masters, 
and was left to an unlimited appetite for books, chiefiy 
poetry. Our religious instruction was a nullity, and I am 
only surprised that the results were not worse. India was 
not likely to supply what education had omitted. Look* 
ing back on old journals and the like, I am astonished to 
see how unsettled my notions were— -my sublimity, which 



THB TOI7KQ 8TEP-M0THSB* 191 

was really ignorant childishness, and yet my perfect nn- 
conscioosness of my want of Christianity/ 

< I dare say you cannot believe it was yourself, any more 
than I can. What brought other thoughts *? * 

' Practical obligations made me somewhat less dreamy, 
and my dear boy, Edmund, did much for me, but all so 
insensibly, that I can remember no marked change. I do 
not know whether yon will understand me, when I say 
that I had attained to somewhat of ivhat I shall call per- 
sonal reb'gion, such as we often find apart from the Church.* 

^ But, Edmund, you always were a Churchman.' 

^ I was ; but I viewed the Church merely as an estab- 
lishment — ^human, not divine. I had learnt faith from 
Holy Scripture, from my boy, from the infants who passed 
away so quickly, and I better understood how to direct 
the devotional tendencies that I had never been without ; 
but the sacramental system had never dawned on my com- 
prehension, nor the real meaning of Christian fellowship. 
Thence my isolation.' 

* You had never fairly seen the Church.' 

^ Never. It might have made a great difference to me 
if Dusautoy had been here at the time of my trouble. When 
he did come, I had sunk into a state whence I could not 
rouse myself to understand his principles. I can hardly 
describe how intolerable my life had become. I was al- 
most resolved on returning to India. I believe I should 
have done so if you had not come to my rescue.' 

* What would you have done with the children 1 ' 

* To say the truth I had idolized their brother to such 
an exclusive degree, that I could not turn to the others 
when he was taken from me. I deserved to lose him ; and 
since I have seen this unfortunate strain of melancholy 
developed in poor Sophia, who so much resembles him, I 
have been the more reconciled to his having been removed. 
I never understood what the others iiight be until you drew 
them out.' 

Albinia paused, afraid to press his reserve too far ; and 
the next thing she said was, ' I think I understand your 
distinction between personal religion and sacramental 
truth. It explains what has often puzzled me about good 



192 THB Tomra BXBP*xoraBB* 

deroat people who did not belong to tbe Chnrcb. The 
Visible Church cannot save without this individual per» 
sonal religion ; but without having recourse to the Church, 
there is * she could not find fiie word. 

< There is a loss of external aid/ he said; < nay of 
much more. There is no certainty of receiving the bene* 
fits linked by Divine Power to her ordinances. Faith, in 
fact, while acknowledging the great Object of Faith, re- 
fuses or neglects to exercise herself upon the very subjects 
which He has set before her; and, in effect, would accept 
Him on her terms, not on His own.' 

' It was not refusal on your part,' said Albinia, 
<No, it was rather indifference and imaginary superi- 
ority. But I have read and thought much of late, and 
see more clearly. K I thought of this rite of Confirma* 
tion at all, it was only as a means of impressing young 
minds. I now see every evidence that it is the comple- 
tion of Baptismal grace, and without, like poor Sophia, 
expecting that effects would ever have been perceptible, 
I think that had I known how to seek after the Spirit of 
Counsel and Ghostly Strength, I might have given way 
less to the infirmities of my character, and have been less 
wilfully insensible to obvious duties.' 

* Then you have made up your mind t ' 

* Tes. I shall speak to Mr. Dusautoy at once.' 

^ And,' she said, feeling for his sensitive shyness, ^ no 
one else need know it — ^at least— ' 

' I should not wish to conceal it from the children,' he 
answered, with his scrupulous candour. He was supine 
when thought more ill of than he deserved, but he always 
defended himself from undeserved credit. 

< Whom do you think I have for acandidatet ' said Mr. 
Dusautoy that evening. 

^ Another now I I thought you were talking to Mr. 

Kendal about the on^anght on the Pringle pew.' 

^ What do you think of my churchwarden himself?' 
' You don't mean that he has neyer been confirmed! ' 
^ So he tells me. He went out to India young, and 

was never in the way of such things. Well, it will be a 

great example.' 



THE YOUNa STEP-MOTHXB. 193 

* Take care what ^ou do. He will never endure hay- 
ing it talked of.' 

' I think he has made up his mind, and is above all 
nonsense. I am sure it is well that I need not examine 
him. I should soon get beyond my depth.' 

< And what good did his depth ever do to him,' indig- 
nantly cried Mrs. Dusautoy, * till that dear good wife of 
his took him in hand I Don't you remember what a log 
he was when first we came — how I used to say he gave you 
subscriptions to get rid of you.' 

* Well, well, Fanny, what's the use of recollecting all 
our foolish first impressions. I always told you he was the 
most able man in the parish.' 

* Fanny ' laughed merrily at this piece of sagacity, as 
she said, 'Ay, the most able, and the least practicable ; and 
the best of it is, that his wife has not the most distant idea 
that she has been the making of him. She nearly quar- 
relled with me for hinting it. She would have it that 
" Edmund" had it all in him, and had only recovered his 
health and spirits.' 

And, indeed, it was no wonder she was happy. This 
step, taken of free will by Mr. Kendal, was an evidence 
not only of a powerful reasoning intellect bowed to an act 
of simple faith, but of a victory over the false shame that 
had always been a part of his nature. Nor did it appar- 
ently cost him as much as his consent to Sophy's admis- 
sion into the Church ; the first efibrt had been the greatest, 
and he was now too much taken up with deep thoughts of 
devotion to be sensitive as to the eyes and remarks of the 
world. The very resolution to bend in faithful obedience 
to a rite usually belonging to early youth and not obvi- 
ously enforced to human reason, nor made an express con-: 
dition of salvation, was as a pledge that he would strive 
to walk for the future in the path of self-denying obedi- 
ence. Who that saw the manly well-knit form kneeling 
among the slight youthful ones around, and the thoughtful, 
sorrow-marked brow bowed down beneath the Apostolic 
hand, could doubt that such faith and such humble obedi- 
ence would surely be endowed with a full measure of the 
Spirit of Ghostly Might, to lead him on in his bitttle with 

9 



194 XHB XOUKO STEP-XOrHBB. 

himself t Those young ones needed the ' seveiifold veil 
between them and the fires of youth,' but surely the 
freshening and renewing cam most blessedly to the man 
weary already with sin and woe, and tired out alike with 
himself and the world, because he had lived to Viirngftlf 
alone. 



•♦•■ 



CHAPTER Xin. 

Old Mr. Pringle never stirred beyond his parlor, and 
was invisible to every one, except his housekeeper and 
doctor, but his tall, square, curtained pew was jealously 
locked up, and was a grievance to the vicar, who, having 
been foiled in several attempts, was meditating a fresh 
one, if, as he told his wife, he could bring his church- 
warden up to the scratch, when one Sunday morning the 
congregation was electrified by the sound of a creak and 
a shake, and beheld a stout hale sunburnt gentleman, 
fighting with the disused door, and finally gaining the vic- 
tory by strength of hand, admitting himself and a boy 
among the dust and the cobwebs. 

Had Mr. Pringle, or rather his housekeeper, made a 
virtue of necessity t and if so^ who could it be? 

Albinia hailed the event as a fertile source of conjec- 
ture which might stave off dangerous subjects in the Sun- 
day call ; but there was no opportunity for any discussion, 
for Maria was popping about, settling and unsettling 
everything and everybody, in a state of greater confusion 
than ever, inextricably entangling her inquiries for Sophy 
with her explanations about the rheumatism which had 
kept grandmamma from church, and jumping up to puU 
down the Venetian blind, which descended awry, and went 
tip worse. The lines got into such a hopeless complica- 
tion, that Albinia came to help her, while Mr. Kendal 
stood dutifully by the fire, in the sentry-like manner in 
which he always passed that hour, bending now and then 
to listen and respond to some meek remark of old Mn;, 



THB YOtnXQ STEF^HOTHSB. 195 

Meadows, and now and then originating one. As to 
assisting Maria in any pother, be well knew that would 
be a vain act of chivalry, and be generally contrived to be 
inaccessible to her turmoils. 

' Who could that have been in old Pringle's seat ? ' he 
presently began, appropriating Albinia's cherished morsel 
of gossip ; but he was not allowed to enjoy it, for Miss 
Meadows broke out, ' Oh, Edmund ! this blind ; I beg 
your pardon, but if you would help—' 

He was obliged to move to the window, and ner- 
vously clutching his arm, she whispered, ' You'll excuse 
it, I know, but don't mention it — ^not a word to mamma.' 
Mr. Kendal looked at Albinia to gather what could be this 
dreadful subject, but the next words made it no longer 
doubtful. * Ah, you were away ; there's no use in ex- 
plaining — ^but not a word of Sam Pringle. It would only 
make her uneasy — ^ she gasped in a floundering whisper, 
stopping suddenly short, for at that moment the stranger 
and his son were entering the garden, so near them, that 
they might'^have seen the three pairs of eyes levelled on 
them, through the wide open end of the unfortunate blind, 
which was now in the shape of a fan. 

Albinia's cheeks glowed with sympathy, and she longed 
for the power of helping her, marvelling how a being so 
nervously restless and devoid of self-command could pass 
through a scene likely to be so trying. The bell sounded, 
and the loud hearty tones of a manly voice were heard. 
Albinia looked to see whether her help were needed, but 
Miss Meadows's whole face was bright^ed, and moving 
across the room with unusually even steps, she lent on 
the arm of her mother's chair, saying, ' Mamma, it is 
Captain Pringle. You remember Samuel Pringle ? He 
settled in the Mauritius, you know, and he was at church 
this morning with his little boy.' 

There was something piteous in the searching look of 
inquiry that Mrs. Meadows cast at her daughter's face ; 
but Maria had put it aside with an attempt at a smile, as 
* Captain Pringle ' was announced. 

He trod Iwrd, and spoke loud, and his curly grizzled 
hair was thrown back from a bronzed open face, full of 



196 THX TOUNG STEP-XOTHSB. 

broad heartiness, as he walked in with ontstretched hand, 
exclaiming, ' Well, and how do you do ? ' shaking with all 
his might the hand that Maria held out. ' And how are 
you, Mrs. Meadows ? You see I could not help coming 
back to see old friends.' 

' Old friends are always welcome, sir,' said the old 
lady, warmly. * My son, Mr. Kendal, sir — Mrs. Kendal/ 
she added, with a becoming old-fashioned movement of 
introduction. 

' Very glad to meet you,' said the captain, extending 
to each sudb a hearty shake of the hand, that Albinia sus- 
pected he was taking her on trust for Maria's sister. 

' Your little boy % ' asked Mrs. Meadows. 

< Ay^-Arthur, come and make the most of yourself, 
my man,' said he, thumping the shy boy on the back to 
give him courage. ^ I've brought him home for his school- 
ing — quite time, you see, though what on earth I'm to do 
without him — ' 

The boy looked miserable at the words. * Ay, ay,' 
continued his father, * you'll do well enough. I'm not 
afraid for you, master, but that you'll be happy as your 
father was before you, when once you have fellows to 
play with you. Here is Mr. Kendal will tell you so.' 

It was an unfortunate appeal, but Mr. Kendal made 
the best of it, saying that his boy was very happy at his 
tutor's. 

' A private tutor, eh % ' said the rough captain ; ' I'd 
not thought of that — neither home nor school. I had 
rather do it thoroughly, and trust to numbers to choose 
fHends from, and be licked into shape.' 

Poor little Arthur looked as if the process would be 
severe ; and by way of consolation, Mrs. Meadows su^ 
gested a piece of cake. Maria moved to ring the bell. 
It was the first time she had stirred since the visitor came 
in, and he getting up at the same time, that she might not 
trouble herself, their eyes met. ' I'm very glad to see 
you again,' he exclaimed, catching hold of her hand again 
for another shake ; ' but, bless me ! you are sadly altered ! 
I'm sorry to see you looking so ill.' 

' We all grow old, you know,' »ud Maria, endeavour* 



THB YOXnXQ BTKP-KOTHXBt 197 

itig to smile, but half strangled by a tear, and looking at 
that moment as she might have done long ago. ^ You 
may find changes.' 

* I hope you find Mr. Pringle pretty well,' said Al- 
binia, thinking this might be a relief; and accordingly, 
the kind-hearted captain began ruefully to describe the 
sad alterations that time had wrought. Then he explained 
that he had had little correspondence with home, and had 
only landed three days since, so that he was ignorant of 
all Bayford tidings, and began asking after a multitude 
of old Mends and acquaintances. 

The Kendals thought all would go on the better in 
their absence, and escaped from the record of deaths and 
marriages, each observing to the other as they left the 
house, that there could be little doubt that nurse's story 
was true, but both amazed by the effect on Maria, who 
had never been seen before to sit so long quiet in her 
chair. Was his wife alive? Albinia thought not, but 
could not be certain. His presence was evidently hap- 
piness to Miss Meadows ; but would this last ? Would 
this renewal soothe her, or only make her more restless 
and unhappy ? 

Albinia found that Sophy's imagination had been 
quicker than her own. Lucy had brought home the great 
news of the stranger, and she had leapt at once to the 
conclusion that it must be the hero of nurse's story ; but 
she had had the resolution to keep the secret from her 
sister, who was found reproaching her with making mys- 
teries. When Lucy heard that it was Captain Pringle, 
ahe was quite provoked. 

' Only Mr. Pringle's nephew ! ' she said, disdainfully. 
* What was the use of making a fuss ? I thought it was 
some one interesting ! ' 

Sophy was able to walk to church in the evening, but 
was made to go in to rest at the vicarage before returning 
home. While this was being discussed before the porch, 
Albinia felt a pressure on her arm, and looking round, 
saw Maria Meadows. *Can you spare me a few mo- 
ments ? ' she said 5 and Albinia turned aside with her to 



198 THB TOUKO BrKP-lCOTHXIL 

the flagged terrace path between the churchyard and 
vicarage garden, in the light of a half-moon. 

* 1iu>u were so kind this morning,' began Maria, ^ that 
I thought — ^you see it is very awkward — not that I have 
any idea — ^but if you would speak to Edmund — ^I know 
he is not in the ha^it — ^morning visits and — ^ 

^Do you wish him to call? He had been thinking 
of it.' 

Maria would have been unbounded in her gratitude, 
but catching herself up, she disclaimed all personal inter- 
est—only she said Edmund knew nothing of anything 
that had passed — ^if he did, he would see they would 
feel— 

* I think,' said Albinia, kindly, ' that we do know that 
you had some troubles on that score. Old nurse said 
something to Sophy, but no other oreatiure knows it' 

' Ah ! ' exclaimed Maria, ^ that is what comes of trust- 
ing any one. I was so ill when 1 found out how it had been, 
that I could not keep it from nurse, but from mamma I 
did — ^my poor father being just gone and all — ^I could not 
have had her know how much I felt it — ^the discovery I 
mean-^-snd it is what I wish her never to do. But oh ! 
Mrs. Kendal, think what it was to find out that when I 
had been thinking he had been only trifling with me all 
those years, to find that he had been so unkindly treated. 
There was his own dear letter to me never unsealed ; and 
there was another tb my father saying in a proud-spirited 
way that he did not know what he had done to be so 
served, and he wished I might find happiness, for I would 
never find one that loved me as well. I who had turned 
against him in my heart ! ' 

* It was cruel indeed ! And you kept it from your 
mother ! ' said Albinia, beginning to honour her. 

'My poor father was just gone, you know, and I 
could not be grieving her with what was passed and over, 
and letting her know that my father had broken my 
heart, as indeed I think he did, though he meant it all for 
the best. But oh I I thought it hard when Lucy had mar- 
ried the handsomest man in the country, and gone out to 



TtiOB YOUKG STKP-MOTHER. 199 

India, without a word against it, that I might not please 
myself, because I was papa's favourite.' 

' It was very hard not to be made awaro of his inten- 
tions.' 

^ Yes,' said Maria ; ' for it gave me such a bitter, rest- 
less feeling against him — ^though I ought to have known 
him better than to think he would give one minute's pain 
he could help ; and then when I knew the truth, the bit- 
terness all went to poor papa's memory, and yet perhaps 
he never meant to be unkind either.' 

Albinia said some kind words, and Maria went on : 

* But what I wanted to say was this — ^Please don't let 
mamma suspect one bit about it ; and next, if Edmund 
would not mind showing him a little attention. Do you 
think he would, my dear ? I do so wish that he should 
not think we were hurt by his marriage ; and you see, 
two lone women can do nothing to make it agreeable ; 
besides that, it woald not be proper.' 

*.Is his wife living ? ' 

' My- dear, I could not make up my tongue to ask — 
the poor dear boy there and all-^but it is all the same. 
I hope she is, for I would not see him unhappy ; and you 
don't imagine I have any folly in my head — oh, no 1 for I 
know what a firight the fret and the wear of this have 
made me ; and besides, I never could leave mamma. So 
I trust his wife is living to make him happy, and I shall 
be more at peace now I have seen him again, since he 
tamed his horse at Eobble's Leigh, and said I should 
soon hear from him again.' 

* Indeed I think you will be happier. There is some- 
thing very soothing in taking up old feelings and laying 
them to rest. I hope even now there is less pain than 
pleasure.' 

*I can't help it,' said Maria. -*I do hope it is not 
wrong ; but his very voice has got the old tone in it, as 
if it were the old lullaby that my poor heart has been 
beating for all these years.' 

Who would have thought of Maria speaking poet- 
ically ? But her words did indeed seem to be the truth. 
In spite of the embarrassment of her situation and the 



200 IHX TOUnO BISP*K01H1SL 

flutter of her feelings, she was in a state of composure 
unexampled. Albinia had just gratified her greatly bj 
a few words on Captain Pr ingle's evident good-nature 
when a tread came behind them. 

* Ha ! you here 1 ' exciaimed the loud honest voice. 

* We were taking a turn in the moonlight,' said Al- 
binia. ^ A beautiful night.' 

' Beautiful I Arthur and I have been a bit of the way 
home with old Goldsmith. There's an 'evergreen, to bo 
sure ; and now — are you bound homewards, Maria ? * 

Maria clung to Albinia's arm. Perhaps in the days 
of the last parting, she had been less careful to be with a 
chaperon. 

* Ah I I foi^ot,' said the captain ; * your way lies the 
other side of the hill. I ha*d very nearly walked into 
Willow Lawn, this mommg, only luckily I bethought me 
of asking.' 

' I hope you will yet walk into Willow Lawn,' said 
Albinia. 

* Ah I thank you ; I should like to see the old place. 
I dare say it may be transmogrified now, but I think I 
could find my way blindfold about the old garden. I 
say, Maria, do you remember that jolly tea-party on the 
lawn, when the frog made one too many 1 ' 

' That I do — ^ Maria could not utter more, and Al- 
binia said she was afraid he would miss a great deal. 

*I reckoned on that when I came home. Changes 
everywhere ; but after the one great change,' he added, 
mournfully, ' the others tell less. One has the less heart 
to care for an old tree or an old path.' 

Albinia felt sure he could mean only one great 
change, but they were now at Mrs. Meadows's door, and 
Maria wished them good-night, giving a most grateful 
squeeze of the hand to Mrs. Kendal. 

' Where are you bound now ? * asked the captain. 

* Back to the vicarage, to take up my husband and the 
girls,' said Albinia ; ' but good night. I am not afraid.* 

The captain, however, chose to continue a squire of 
dames, and walked at her side, presently giving utterance 
to a soimd of commiseration. * Ah I well, poor Maria, I 



TtBB YOtnxa 8inDP*MOlHBB« 201 

hever thought to see her so altered. Why, she had the 
prettiest bloom — I dare say you remember — but, I beg 
your pardon, somehow I thought you were her elder 
sister.' 

* Mr. Kendal's first wife was,' said Albinia, pitying 
the poor man ; but Captain Pringle was not a man for 
awkwardness, and the short whistle with which he re- 
ceived her answer set her off laughing. 

*I beg your pardon,' he said, recovering himself; 
* but you see I am all astray, like a man buried and dug 
up again, so no wonder 1 make strange blunders ; and 
my poor uncle is grown so childish, that he does not 
know one person from another, and began by telling me 
Maria Meadows had married and gone out to India. 1 
had not had a letter these seven years, so I thought it was 
high time to bring my boy home, and renew old times, 
though how I am ever to go back without him — ^ 

* Is he your only one ? ' 

^ Yes. I lost his mother when he was six years old, 
and we have been all the world to each other since, till I 
began to think I was spoiling him outright, and it was 
time he should see what old England was made of.' 

Albinia had something like a discovery to impart now ; 
but she hated the sense of speculating on the poor man's 
intentions. He talked so much that he saved her trouble 
in replying, and presently resumed the subject of Maria's 
looks. 
^ * She has had a harassed life, I fear,' said Albinia. 

* Eh ! old Meadows was a terrible old tyrant, I be- 
lieve; but she was his pet. I thought he refused her 
nothing — but there's no trusting such a Turk I Oh ! ah ! 
1 dare say,' as if replying to something within. And then 
having come to the vicarage wicket, Albinia took leave 
of him, and ran indoors, answering the astonished queries 
as to how she had been employed, * Walking home with 
Aunt Maria and Captain Pringle ! ' 

It was rather a relief at such a juncture that Lucy's 
curious eyes should be removed. Mr. Ferrars came to 
talk his wife's state over with his sister. Her children 
were too much for Winifred, and he wished to borrow 

9* 



202 IHX TOUIfQ SIBP-MOTEOBL 

Lucy for a few weeks, till a goTemess could be found for 
them. 

It struck Albinia that this would be an excellent 
thinff for Genevieve Durant, and she at once contrived to 
ask her to tea, and privately propound the plan. 

G^nevi^ve faltered much of thanks, aod said that 
Madame was very good ; but the next morning a note 
was brought in, which caused a sudden change of coun- 
tenance:-— 

* My dear Madame, 

*I was so overwhelmed with your kindness last 
night, and so imwilling to appear ungrateful, that per- 
haps I left you under a false impression. I entreat you 
not to enter on the subject with my grandmamma or my 
aunt. They would grieve to prevent what they would 
think for my advantage, and would, I am but too sure, 
make any sacrifice on my account; but they are no 
longer young, and though my aunt does not perceive it, I 
know that the real work of the school depends on me, 
and that she could not ^pport the fatigue if left unas- 
sisted. They need their little G6nevi6ve, likewise, to 
amuse them in their evenings ; and, forgive me, madame, 
I could not, without ingratitude, forsake them now. Thus, 
though with the utmost sense of your kindness, I must 
beff of you to pardon me, and not to think me ungrate&l 
if 1 decline the situation so kindly offered to me by Mr. 
Ferrars, thanking you ten thousand times for your too 
partial recommendation, and entreating you to pardon « 
' Your most grateful and humble servant, 

* GlBNBVIEVE OeLBSTB DuRANT.' 

* Tliere ! ' said Albinia, tossing the note to her brother, 
who was the only person present excepting Gilbert. 

* Poor Albinia,^he said ; * it is hard to be disappointed 
in a bit of patronage.' 

* I never meant it as patronage,* said Albinia, slightly 
hurt. * I thought it would help you, and rescue her from 
that school. There will she spend the best years of her 
life in giving a second-rate education to third-rate girls, 
not one of whose parents can appreciate her, till she will 
grow as wizened and as wooden as Mademoiselle herself.' 



TBE TOtTKG SllBaP-XOTHl&B. 20^ 

* Happily,' said Mr. Ferrars, * there are worse things 
than being spent in one's duty. She may be doing an 
important work in her sphere.' 

' So does a horse in a mill,' exclaimed Albinia ; ^ but 
yon would not put a hunter there. Yes, yes, I know, 
education, and these girls wanting right teaching; but 
she, poor child, has been but half educated herself, and 
has not time to improve herself. If she does good, it is 
by force of sheer goodness, for they all look down upon 
her, as much as vulgarity can upon refinement' 

' I told her so,' exclaimed Gilbert ; ' I told her it was 
the only way to teach them what she was worth.' 

' "What did you know of the matter ? ' asked Albinia ; 
and the colour mounted in the boy's face as he muttered, 
' She was overcome when she came down ; she said you 
had been so kind, and we were obliged to walk up and 
down before she could compose herself, for she did not 
want the old ladies to know anything about it.' 

' And did she not wish to go ? ' 

* No ; though I did the best I could. I told her what 
a jolly place it was, and that the children would be a per- 
fect holiday to her. And I showed her it would not be 
like going aw^ay, for she might come over here whenever 
she pleased ; and when I have my horse, I would come 
and bring her word of the old ladies once a week.' 

^ Inducements, indeed 1 ' said Mr. Ferrars. ' And she 
could not be melted by any of these ? ' 

* No,' said Gilbert ; * she would not hear of leaving 
the old women. She was only afraid it would vex Mrs. 
Kendal, and she could not bear not to take the advice of so 
kind a friend, she said. You are not going to be angry 
with her,' he added. 

' No,' said Albinia ; * one cannot but honour her mo- 
f tives, though I think she is mistaken ; and I am sorry for 
her ; but she knows better than to be afraid of me.' 

With which assurance Gilbert quitted the room ; and 
the next moment, hearing the front door, she exclaimed, 
' I do believe he is gone to tell her how I took the an- 
nouncement.' 

Maurice ^ave a significant ^ Hem ! ' to whidi his sis- 
ter replied, ' Nonsense ! ' 



It04 IHB TOmfO STXP-KOTBBB. 

' Very roinantic consolations and confidences.' 

* Not at all. They have been used to each other all 
their lives, and he used to be the only person who knew 
how to behave to her, so no wonder they are great 
friends. Aa to anything else, she is nineteen, and he not 
sixteen.' 

* One great use of going to school is to save lads from 
that silly pastime. I advise you to look to these moon- 
light escortings ! ' 

^ One would think you were an old dowager, Maurice. 
I suppose Colonel Bury may not escort Miss Mary.' 
' Ah, Albiniu, you are a very naughty child still.' 

* Of course, when you are here to keep roe in order ; 
I wish 1 never were so at other times when it is not so 
safe.' 

Mr. Kendal was kind and dvil to Captain Pringle, 
and though the boisterous manner seemed to affect him 
like a thunder-storm, Maria imagined they were de^ 
lighted with one another. 

Maria was strangely serene and happy ; her queru* 
lous, nervous manner smoothed away, as if rest had come 
to her at last ; and even if the renewed intercourse were 
only to result in a friendship, there was hope that the 
troubled spirit had found repose now that misunderstand- 
ings were over, and the sore sense of ill-usage appeased. 

Yet Albinia was starUed when one day Mr. Kendal 
summoned her, saying, * It is all over ; she has refused 
himl' 

^ Impossible ; she could only have left half her sen* 
tence unsaid.' 

* Too certain. She will not leave her mother.' 

* Is that all ? ' 

* Of course it is. He told me the whole affair, and 
eertainly Mr. Meadows was greatly to blame. He let 
Maria give this man every encouragement, believing his 
property larger, and his expectations more secure than 
was the case ; and when the proposal was made, having 
discovered his mistake, he sent a peremptory refusal, giv- 
ing him reason to suppose her a party to the rejection. 
Captain Pringle sailed in anger ; but it appears that his 



TBDB TOUHO STSP-HOTHXB* 205 

return has revived his former feelings, and that he has 
found out that poor Maria was a greater sufferer than 
himself. 

* Why does he come to you ? ' 

^ To consult me. He wishes me to persuade poor old 
Mrs. Meadows to go out to the Mauritius, which is 
clearly impossible; but Maria must not be sacrificed 
again. Would the Drurys make her comfortable ? Or 
could she not live alone with her maid ? ' 

' She might live here.' 

*Albinia! Think a little.' 

^ I can think of nothing else. Let her have the morn- 
ing-room, and Sophy's little room, and Lucy and I would 
do our best for her.' 

^ No, that is out of the question. I would not impose 
such a charge upon you on any consideration ! ' 

Albinia's face became humble and remorseful. ^ Yes,' 
she said, ^ perhaps 1 am too impatient and flighty.' 

^ That was not what I meant,' he said ; ^ but I do not 
think it right that a person with no claims of relationship 
should be made a burthen on you.' 

* No claims, Edmund,' said she soflly. * In whose 
place have you put me? ' 

lie was silent : then said, ^ No, it must not be, my 
kind Albinia. She is a very good old lady, but Sophy 
and she would clash, and I cannot expose the child to such 
a trial.' 

* I daresay you are right,' pensively said Albinia^ per- 
oeiving that her plan had been inconsiderate, and that it 
would require the wisdom, tact, and gentleness of a model 
woman to deal with such discordant elements. * W^hat are 
you going to doV as he took up his hat. 'Are you 
going to see Maria 1 May I come with you 1 ' 

' If you please ; but do not mention this notion. 
There is no necessity for such a tax on you ; and such ar- 
rangements should never be rashly made.' 

He asked whether Miss Meadows could see him, and 
awaited her alone in the dining-room, somewhat to the 
surprise of his wife ; but either he felt that there was a 
long arrear of kindness owing, or feared to trust Albinia's 
impulsive generosity. 



206 TBK YOUHtO 8XEP*M0TH]EB. 

Meantime Albinia found the poor old lady in much 
uneasiness and distress. Her daughter fancied it right to 
keep her in ignorance of the crisis ; but Maria was not 
the woman to conceal her feelings, and her nervous mis- 
ery had revealed all that she most wished to hide. Too 
timid to take her confidence by storm, her mother had 
only exchanged surmises and observations with Betty, 
and was in a troubled condition of affectionate curiosity 
and anxiety. Albinia was a welcome visitor, since it was 
a great relief to hear what had really taken place, and to 
know that Mr. Kendal was with Maria. 

^ Ah ! that is kind,' she said ; ' but he must tell her 
not to think of me. I am an old woman, good for noth- 
ing but to be put out of the way, and she has gone through 
quite enough ! You will not let her give it up ! Tell her 
I have not many more years to live, and anything is good 
enough for me.' 

' That would hardly comfort her,' said Albinia, afiecs 
tionately; 'but indeed, dear grandmamma, I hope we 
shall convince her that we can do something to supply 
her place.' 

* Ah ! my dear, you are very kind, but nobody can 
be like a daughter ! But don't tell 'Maria so — ^poor dear 
love — she may never have another chance. Sudi a beau- 
tiful place out there, and Mr. Pringle's property must 
come to him at last ! Bless me, what will Sarah 
Drury say ? And such a good attentive man — besides, 
she never would hear of any one else — her poor papa 
never knew — Oh I she must have him ! it is all nonsense 
to think of me ! I only wish I was dead out of the way ! ' 

There was a strong mixture of unselfish love, and fear 
of solitude ; of the triumph of marrying a daughter, and 
dread of separation ; of affection, and of implanted world- 
liness ; touching Albinia at one moment, and paining her 
at another ; but she soothed and caressed the old lady, 
and was a willing listener to what was meant for a history 
of the former transaction ; but as it started from old Mr. 
Pringle's grandfather, it had only proceeded as far as the 
wedding of the captain's father and mother, when it was 
broken off by Mr. Kendal's entrance. 



*0h! my dear Mr. Kendal, and what does poor 
Maria say ? It is so kind in you. I hope you have 
taken her in hand, and told her it is quite another thing 
now, and her poor dear papa would think so. She must 
not let this opportunity pass, for she may never have 
another. Did you tell her so ? ' 

' I told her that, under the circumstances, she has no 
alternative but to accept Captain Pringle.' 

' Oh ! thank you. And does she ? ' 

* She has given me leave to send him to her.* 

* 1 am so much obliged. I knew that nobody but you 
could settle it for her, poor dear girl ; she is so young 
and inexperienced, and one is so much at a loss without 
a gentleman. But this is very kind ; I did not expect it 
in you, Mr. Kendal. And will you see Mr. Pettilove, 
and do all that is proper about settlements, as her poor 
dear papa would have done? Poor Pettilove, he was 
once very niuch in love with Maria I ' 

In this mood of triumph and felicity, the old lady was 
left to herself and her daughter. Albinia, on the way 
home, begged to hear how Mr. Kendal had managed 
Maria ; and found that he had simply told her, in an au- 
thoritative tone, that afber all that had passed, she had no 
choice but to accept Captain Pringle, and that he had 
added a promise, equally vague and reassuring, of being 
a son to Mrs. Meadows. Such injunctions from such a 
quarter had infused new life into Maria ; and in the 
course of the afternoon, Albinia met the Captain with the 
mother and daughter, one on each arm, Maria in recov- 
ered bloom and brilliancy, and Mrs. Meadows's rheum- 
atism forgotten in the glory of exhibiting her daughter 
eng^ed. 

.For form's sake, secrecy had been mentioned ; but the 
world of Bayford had known of the engagement a fort- 
night before it took place. Sophy had been questioned 
upon it by Mary Wolfe two hours ere she was officially 
informed, and was sore with the recollection of her own 
ungracious professions of ignorance. 

* So it is true,' she said. * I don't mind, since Arthur 
is not a girl.' 



a08 TUB TOioro stsp-mothkb. 

Mr. Kendal laugbed so heartily, that Sophy looked to 
Albinia for explanation ; bat even on the repetition of 
her words, she fiiiled to perceive anything ridiculous in 
them. 

' Why, mamma,' she said impressively, * if you had 

been like Aunt Maria, I should ' she paused and 

panted for sufficient strength of phrase — * I should have 
run away and be^ed ! Papa laughs, but 1 am sure he 
remembers when grandmamma and Aunt Maria wanted 
to come and live here ! ' 

He looked as if he remembered it only too well. 
* Well, papa,' pursued Sophy, ' we heard the maids 
saying that they knew it would not do, for all Mr. Ken- 
dal was so still and steady, for Miss Meadows would 
worret the life out of a lead pincushion.' 

^Hem!' said Mr. Kendal. 'Albinia, do you think 
after all we are doing Captain Pringle any kindness ? ' 
< He is tiie best judge.' 

' Nay, he may think himself bound in honour and 
compassion — ^he may be returning to an old ideal.' 

'People like Captain Pringle are not apt to have 
ideals,' said Albinia ; ' nor do I think Maria will be so 
trying. Do you remember that creeper of Lucy's, all 
tendrils and catching leaves, which used to lie sprawling 
about, entangling everything, till she gave it a prop, when 
it instantly found its proper development, and ofiered no 
further molestation 1 ' 

All was not, however, smooth water as yet. The 
Captain invaded Mr. Kendal the next morning in despair 
at Maria's having recurred to the impossibility of leaving 
her mother, and wanting him to wait till he could reside 
in England. This could not be till his son was grown 
up, and ten years were a serious delay. Mr. Kendal sus- 
pected her of a latent hope that the Captain would end 
Dy remaining at home ; but he was a man of sense and 
determination, who would have thought it unjustifiable 
weakness to sacrifice his son's interests and his own use- 
fulness. He would promise, that if all were alive and 
well, he would bring Maria back in ten or twelve years' 
time ; but he would not sooner relinquish his duties, and 



THB YOXnXQ STEP-HOTHXB. 209 

he was very reluctant to become engaged on such 
terms. 

* No one less silly than poor Maria would have 
thought of such a proposal,' was Mr. Kendal's comment 
afterwards to his wife. ' Twelve years I No one would 
be able to live with her by that time ! ' 

^ I cannot help respecting the unselfishness,' said Al- 
binia. 

* One-sided unselfishness,' quoth Mr. Kendal. * I am 
sick of the whole business ; I wish I had never interfered. 
I cannot get an hour to myself.' 

He might be excused for the complaint on that day 
of negotiations and. counter-negotiations, which gave no 
one any rest, especially after Mrs. Drury arrived with all 
the rights of a relation, set on making it evident, that 
whoever was to be charged with Mrs. Meadows, it was 
not herself; "and enforcing that nothing could be more 
comfortable than that Lucy Kendal should set up house- 
keeping with her dear grandmamma. Every one gave 
advice, and nobody took it ; Mrs. Meadows cried ; Maria 
grew hysterical ; the Captain took up his hat and walked 
out of the house ; and Albinia thought it would be very 
good in him ever to venture into it again. 

The next morning, Mr. Kendal ordered his horse 
early, and hastened his breakfast; told Albinia not to 
wait dinner for him, and rode off by one gate, without 
looking behind him, as the other opened to admit Captain 
Pringle. She marvelled whither he had fled, and thought 
herself fortunate in having only two fruitless discussions 
in his absence. Not till eight o'clock did he make his 
appearance, and then it was in an unhearing, unseeing 
mood, so that nothing could be extracted, except that he 
did not want any dinner ; and it was not till late in the 
evening that he abruptly announced, ' Lucy is coming 
home on Wednesday. Colonel Bury will bring her to 
Woodside.' 

* What ! have you heard from Maurice ? ' 

* No ; I have been at Fairmead.' 

* You ! To-day t How was Winifred J ' 

* Better — I believe.' 



210 THB TOTTNG 8TEP*M0TECBB. 

* How does she like the goyemess 1 ' 
^ I did not hear.' 

Gradually something oozed out about Lucy having 
been happy and valuable ; and after Sophy had gone to 
bed, he inquired how the courtship was going on ? 

* Worse than ever,' Albinia said. 

* I suppose it must end in this 1 ' 

* In what r 

^ If there is no more satis&ctory arrangement, I sup- 
pose we must receive Mrs. Meadows.' 

If Albinia could but have heard what a scolding her 
brother was undergoing from his vivacious wife ! 

' As if poor Albinia had not enough on her hands ! 
Of all inmates in the word ! When Mr. Kendal himself 
did not like it ! Well ! Maurice would certainly have 
advised Sinbad to request the honour of taking the Old 
Man of the Sea for a promenade d ckevaL There was an 
end of Albinia. There would never be any room in her 
house, and she would never be able to come from home. 
And after having seen her worked to death, he to advise ' 

* I did not advise, I only listened. What he came for 
was to silence his conscience and his wife by saying, 
*' Your brother thinks it out of the question." Now to 
this my conscience would not consent.' 

* More shame for it, then ! ' 

' I could not say I thought these two people's happi* 
ness shoud be sacrificed, or the poor old woman left des- 
olate. Albinia has spirits and energy for a worse inflic- 
tion, and Edmund Kendal himself is the better for every 
shock to his secluded habits. If it is a step I would 
never dare advise, still less would I dare dissuade.' 

* Well ! I thought Mr. Kendal had more sense.' 

* Ay, nothing is so provoking as to see others more 
unselfish than ourselves.' 

' All I have to say,' concluded Mrs. Ferrars, walking 
off, * is, I wish there was a law against people going and 
marrying two wives.' 

Albinia was in no haste to profit by her husband's 
consent to her proposal. The more she revolved it, the 
more she foresaw die discomfort for all parties. She made 



THB YOima STEP-M0THB1EC 211 

every effort to devise the * more satisfactory arrangement/ 
but nothing would occur. The Drurys would not help, 
and the poor old lady could not be left alone. Her maid 
Betty, who had become necessary to her comfort, wad 
not a trustworthy person, and could not be relied on, 
either for honesty, or for not leaving her mistress too 
long alone ; and when the notion was broached of board- 
ing Mrs. Meadows with some family in the place, the 
conviction arose, that when she had grandchildren, Uiere 
was no reason for leaving her to strangers. 

Finally, the proposal was made, and as instantly re- 
jected by Maria. It was very kind, but her mother 
could never be happy at Willow Lawn, never ; and the 
tone betrayed some injury at such a thing being thought 
possible. But just as the Kendals had begun to rejoice at 
having cleared their conscience at so slight a cost, Captain 
Pringle and Miss Meadows made their appearance, and 
Maria presently requested that Mrs. Kendal would allow 
her to say a few words. 

- ^ I am afi'aid you thought me very rude and ungrate- 
ful,' she began, ' but the truth was, I did not think dear 
mamma would ever bear to live here, my poor dear sister 
and all ; but since that I have been talking it 6ver with 
the dear Captain — ^thinks that since you are so kind, and 
dear Edmund — ^more than I could ever have dared to ex- 
pect — ^that I could not do better than just to sound 
mamma.' 

There was still another vicissitude. Mrs. Meadows 
would not hear of beii^ thrust on any one, and was cer- 
tain tJiat Maria had extorted an invitation; she would 
never be a burden upon any one; young people liked 
company and amusement, and she was an old woman in 
every one's way ; she wished she were in her coffin with 
poor dear Mr. Meadows, which would have settled it all. 
Maria fell back into the depths of despair, and all was lu- 
gubrious, till Mr. Kendal in the most tender and gentle 
manner, expressed his hopes that Mrs. Meadows would 
consider the matter, telling her that his wife and children 
would esteem it a great privilege to attend on her, and 
that he should be very grateful if she would allow them 



212 THS TOUKQ 8TEP-M0THSB. 

to try to supply Maria's place. And Albinia, in her 
coaxing tone, described the arrangement; how the old 
furniture should stand in the sitting-room, and how Lucy 
would attend to her carpet-work, and what nice walks the 
sunny garden would afford, and how pleasant it would be 
not to have the long hill between them, till grandmamma 
forgot all her scruples in the fascination of that sweet 
&ce and caressing manner; she owned that poor old 
Willow Lawn always was like home, and finally prom- 
ised to come. Before the evening was over the wedding- 
day was fixed. 

What Sophy briefly termed *the fuss about Aunt 
Maria,' had been so tedious, that it almost dispelled all 
poetical ideas of courtship. If Captain Pringle had been 
drowned at sea, and Aunt Maria pined herself into her 
grave, it would have been much more proper and affect- 
ing. 

Sophy heard of the arrangement without remark, and 
quietly listened to Albinia's explanation that she was not 
to be sent up to the attics, but was to inhabit the spare 
room, which was large enough to serve her for a sitting- 
room. But in the evening Mr. Kendal happened in her 
absence to take up the book which she had been reading, 
and did not perceive at once on her entrance that she 
wanted it. When he did so, he yielded it with a few 
kind words of apology, but this vexation had been suffi- 
cient to bring down the thunder-cloud which had been 
lowering since the morning. There were no signs of 
clearance the next day, but Albinia had too much upon 
her hands to watch the symptoms, and was busy making 
measurements for the furniture in the morning-room when 
Mr. Kendal came in. 

' I have been thinking,' he said, * that it is a pity to 
disturb this room. I dare say Mrs. Meadows would pre- 
fer that below-stairs. It used to be her parlour, where she 
always sat when I first knew the house.' 

' The dining-room 1 How could we spare that ! ' 
. ' No, the study.' 
Albinia remained transfixed. 
' We could put the books here and in the dining- 



THB TOnifG 8XXP-M0TBSB, 213 

room,' he continued, ^ until next spring, when, as your 
brother said, we can build a new wing on the drawing- 
room side/ 

' And what is to become of you ? ' she continued. 

^ Perhaps you will admit me here ? ' he said, smiling, 
for he was pleased with himself. ' Turn me out when I 
am in the way.' 

* Oh ! Edmund, how delightful 1 See, we shall put 
your high desk under the window, and your chair in your 
own corner. This will be the pleasantest place in the 
house, with you and your books ! Dear Winifred ! she 
did me one of her greatest services when she made me 
keep this room habitable I ' 

* And I think Sophy will not object to give up her 
present little room for my dressing-room. Shall you, 
my dear ? ' said he, anxious to judge of her temper by 
her reply. 

* I don't care,' she said ; * I don't want any difference 
made to please me ; I think that weak.' 

* Sophy I ' began Albinia, indignantly, but Mr. Ken- 
dal stopped her, and made her come down, to consider of 
the proposal in the study. 

That study, once an oppressive rival to the bride, now 
not merely vanquished, but absolutely abandoned by its 
former captive ! 

* Don't say anything to her,' said Mr. Kendal, as they 
went downstairs. ' Of course her spirits are one consid- 
eration, but were it otherwise, I could not see you give 
up your private room.' 

' It is very kind in you, but indeed I can spare mine 
better than you can,' said Albinia. 'I am afraid you 
will never feel out of the whirl.' 

' Yours would be a loss to us aZZ,' said Mr. Kendal. 
* The more inmates there are in a house, the more need- 
ful to have them well assorted.' 

' Just so ; and that makes me afraid — ' 

* Of me ? No, Albinia, I will try not to be a check 
on your spirits.' 

* You I Oh 1 I meant that we should disturb you.' 

* You never disturb me, Albinia ; and it is not what 



214 THB YOI7170 fiTEP-MOTHEB, 

it was when the children's Toices were untrained and un- 
subdued.' 

* I can't say much for Master Maurice's voice.' 

He smiled; he had never yet found those joyous 
notes de trap', and he continued, ' Your room is of value 
and use to us all ; mine has been of little benefit to me, 
and none to any one else. I wish I could as easily leave 
behind me all die habits I have fostered there.' 

* Edmund, it is too good I When poor Sophy re- 
covers her senses she will feel it, for I believe that morn- 
ing-room would have been a great loss to her.' 

' It was too much to ask in her present state. I should 
have come to the same conclusion without her showing 
how much this plan cost her, for nothing can be plainer 
than that while she continues subject to these attad^s, she 
must have some retreat.' 

*Yet,' ventured Albinia, * if you think solitude did you 
no good, do you think letting tiiiese fits have their swing 
is good for Sophy ? ' 

* I cannot drive her about ! They must not be harshly 
treated,' he answered quickly. ^Resistance can only 
come fi"om within; compulsion is worse than useless. 
Poor child, it is piteous to watch that state of dull mis- 
ery I On other grounds, I am convinced this is the best 
plan. The communication with the offices will prevent 
that maid from being always on the stairs. Mrs. Mead- 
ows will have her own visitors more easily, and will get 
out of doors sooner, and I think she will be better 
pleased.' 

* Yes, it will be a much better plan for every one but 
Mr. Kendal himself,' said Albinia; 'and if he can be 
happy with us, we shall be all the happier. So, this was 
the old sitting-room ! ' 

* Yes, I knew them first here,' he said. * It used to 
be cheerful then, and I dare say you can rnake it the same 
again. We must dismantle it before Mrs. Meadows and 
Maria come to see it, or it will remind them of nothing 
but the days when I was recovering, and anything but 
grateful for their attention. Yes,' he added,* poor Mrs, 
Meadows bore most gently and tenderly with a long 



THB YOUNG 8XEP-HOTHBB. 215 

course of moroseness. - I am glad to have it in my power 
to make any sort of amends, though it is chiefly through 
you.' 

Albinia might well be very happy ! It was her mo- 
ment of triumph, and whatever might be her fears for the 
future, and uneasiness at Sophy's discontent, nothing could 
take away the pleasure of imding herself deliberately pre- 
ferred to the study. 

Sophy did not fail to make another protest, and when 
told that *' it was not solely on her account,' the shame of 
having fancied herself so important, rendered her ill- 
humour still more painful and deplorable. It was vain 
to consult her about the arrangements, she would not 
care about anything, except that by some remarkable 
effect of her perverse condition, she had been seized with 
a penchant for maize colour and blue for the bridesmaids, 
and was deeply offended when Albinia represented that 
they would look like a procession of macaws, and her 
aunt declared that Sophy herself would be the most sacri- 
ficed by such colours. She made herself so grim that 
Maria broke up the consultation by saying good-humour« 
edly, * Yes, we will settle it when Lucy comes home.' 

* Yes,' muttered Sophy, * Lucy is ready for any sort 
of nonsense.' 

Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to Woodside to meet 
Lucy, hoping that solitude would be beneficial. Albinia 
grieved at the manifestations of these, her sullen fits, if 
only because they made Lucy feel herself superior. In 
truth, Lucy was superior in temper, amiSbility, and all 
the qualities that smooth the course of life, and it was 
very pleasant to greet her pretty bright fiwje, so full of 
animation. 

* Dear grandmamma going to live with us 1 Oh, how 
nice ! I can always take care of her when you are busy, 
mamma.' 

That accommodating spirit was absolute refreshment, 
and long before Albinia reached home the task of keeping 
the household contented seemed many degrees easier. 

A grand wedding * was expected,' so all the Bayford 
flys were bespoken three deep, a cake was ordered from 



216 THB TOUKG STBaP-KOTHXB. 

Gunter, ana so many invitations isent out, that Albinia 
speculated how all were to come alive out of the little 
dining-room. 

And Mr. Kendal the presiding gentleman ! 
He had hardly seemed aware of his impending fate 
till the last evening, when, as the family were separating 
at night, he sighed disconsolately, and said, * 1 am as bad 
as you are, Sophy.' 

It awoke her first comfortable smile. 
Experience had, however, shown him that such occa- 
sions might be survived, and he was 4ess to be pitied 
than his daughter, who felt as if she and ber great brown 
face would be the mark of all beholders. Poor Sophy 1 
all scenes were to her like daguerreotypes in a bad light ; 
she saw nothing but herself distorted I 

And yet she was glad that the period of anticipation 
had consumed itself and its own horrors, and found her- 
self not insensible to the excitement of the occasion. 
Lucy was joyous beyond description, looking very pretty, 
and solicitously decorating her sister, while both bestowed 
the utmost rapture on their step-mother's appearance. 
Having learnt at last what Bay ford esteemed a com* 
• pliment, she had commissioned her London aunts to send 
Jxer what she called * an unexceptionable garment,' and so 
vrell did they fulfil their orders, that not only did her 
little son scream, * Mamma, pretty, pretty 1 ' and Gilbert 
stand transfixed with admiration, but it called forth Mr. 
Kendal's first personal remark, *Albinia, you look re- 
markably well,' and Mrs. Meadows reckoned among the 
honours done to her Maria, that Mrs. Kendal wore a 
beautiful silk dress, and a lace bonnet, sent down on pur- 
pose from London I 

Maria Meadows made a very nice bride, leaning on 
her brother-in-law, and not more agitated than became her 
well. The haggard restless look had long been gone, re- 
pose had taken away the lean sharpness of countenance, 
the really pretty features had fair play, and she was as- 
tonishingly like her niece Lucy, and did not look much 
older. Her bridegroom was so beaming and benignant, 
that it might feirly be hoped that even if force of habit 



THB YOTJKO 8TEF-H0THEIU 217 

should bring back fretfulness, he had a stock of happiness 
sufficient for both. The chairs were jammed so tight 
round the table, that it was by a desperate struggle that 
people took their seats, and Mr. Dusautoy's conversation 
was a series of apologies for being unable to keep his el- 
bows out of his neighbour's way while carving ; and poor 
Sophy, whose back was not two feet from the fire, was 
soon obliged to retreat. She had gained the door before 
any one perceived her, and then her brother and sister 
both followed ; Albinia was obliged to leave her to their 
care, being in the innermost recesses, where moving was 
impossible. 

There was not much the matter, she only wanted rest, 
and Gilbert undertook to see her safely home. 

* I shall be heartily glad to get away,' he said. ' There 
is no breathing in there, and they'll begin talking the most 
intolerable nonsense presently. Besides, I want to be at 
home to take baby down to the gate to halloo at the four 
white horses from the King's Head. Come along, Sophy.' 

* Mind you don't make her walk too fast,' said the 
careful Lucy, ' and take care how you take off your mus- 
lin, Sophy ; you had better go to the nursery for help.' 

Gilbert did not seem inclined to hurry his sister as 
they came near Madame B^lmarche's. He lingered, and 
presently said, * Should you be too tired to come in here 
for a moment ? it was an intolerable shame that none of 
them were asked.' 

* Mamma did b^ for Genevieve, but there was so lit- 
tle room, and the Drurys did not like it. Mrs. Drury 
said it would only be giving her a taste for things above 
her station.' 

* Then Mrs. Drury should never come out of the scul- 
lery. I am sure she looks as if her station was to black 
the kettles I ' cried Gilbert, with some domestic confusion 
in his indignation. •Didn't she look like a housekeeper 
with her mistress's things on by mistake ? ' 

* She did not look like mamma, certainly,' said Sophy, 
* Mamma looked no more aware that she had on those 
pretty things than if she had been in her old grey ^ 

* Mammar— ye»— Mrs, Drury might try seventy yeaw 



218 THB YOUKO SXBP-MOIHSB. 

to look like mamma, or Genevieve either ! Put Gene- 
vieve into satin or into brown hoUand, you couldn't help 
her looking ten times more the lady than Mrs. Drury 
ever will ! But come in ; I have got a bit of the cake for 
them here, and they will like to see you all figged out, as 
they have missed all the rest of the show. Aunt Maria 
might have cared for her old mistress ! ' 

Sophy wished to be amiable, and refrained from ob- 
jecting. 

It was a holiday in honour of cette chkre eUve of five 
and twenty years since, and the present pupils were from 
their sever^ homes watching for the first apparition of 
the four greys from the King's Head, with the eight white 
satin rosettes at their eight ears. 

Madame Belmarch6 and her daughter were discovered 
in the parlour, cooking with a stewpan over the fire a con* 
coction which Sophy guessed to be a conserve of the rose- 
leaves yearly begged of the pupils, which were chiefly use- 
ful as serving to be boiled up at any leisure moment, to 
make a cosmetic for Mademoiselle's complexion. She 
had diligently used it these forty-five years, but the effect 
was not encouraging, as brown, wrinkled, with her frizzled 
front awry, with not stainless white apron, and a long 
pewter spoon, she turned round to confront the visitors 
in their wedding finery. 

But what Frenchwoman ever was disconcerted I 
Away went the spoon, forward she sprang, both hands 
outstretched, and her little black eyes twinkling with 
pleasure. ^ Ah ! but this is goodness itself,' said she, in 
the English wherein she flattered herself no French idiom 
appeared. ' You are come to let us participate in your 
rejoicing. Let me but summon G6nevi&ve; the poor 
cmld is at everv free moment trying to perfectionate her 
music in the school-room.' 

Madame Belmarch6 had arisen to receive the guests 
with her dignified courtesy and heartfelt felicitations, 
which were not over when Genevieve tripped in, all 
freshness and grace, with her neat little collar, and the 
dainty black apron that so prettily marked her slender 
vwt. 0;ie moment^ and she had arranged a resting- 






r 



TfilB TOtTNG STSP-MOTHKB. 219 

place for Sophy, and as she understood Gilbert's errand, 
quickly produced from a comer-cupboard a plate, on 
which he handed it to the two other ladies, who mean- 
while paid their compliments in the most perfect style. 

The history of the morning was discussed, and Ma- 
dame Belmarche described her sister's wedding, and the 
curiosity which she had shared with the bride for the 
first sight of * le fuiur^ when the two sisters had been 
brought from their convent for the marriage. 

* But how could she get to like him 1 ' cried Sophy, • 

* My sister was too well brought up a young girl to 
acknowledge a preference,' replied Madame Belmarche. 
* Ah I my dear, you are English ; you do not understand 
these things.' 

* No,' said S|ophy, ' I can't understand how people can 
marry without loving. How miserable they must 
be!'/ 

* On the contrary, my dear, especially if one continued 
to .live with one's mother. * It is far better to earn the 
friendship and esteem of a husband than to see his love 
grow cold.' 

* And was your sister happy ? ' asked Sophy, abruptly. 
*Ah, my dear, never were husband and vrife more 

attached. My brother-in-law joined the army of the 
Prince de Cond6, and never was seen after the day of 
Valmy ; and my sister pined away and died of grief. 
My daughter and granddaughter go to the Catholic burying- 
ground at Hadminster on her f^te day, to dress her grave 
with immortelles.' ^ 

Now Sophy knew why the strip of garden grew so 
many of the grey-leaved, woolly-stemmed little yellow- 
and-white everlasting flowers. Good madame began to 
regret having saddened her on this day of joy. 

' Oh ! no,' said Sophy, * I like sad things best.' 

* Mais noUy my child, that is not the way to go 
through life,' said the old lady, affectionately. * Look at 
me ; how could I have lived had I not always turned to the 
bright side 1 Do not think of sorrow, it is always near 
enough.' 

This convarsation had made an impression <ai Sophy, 



220 THB YOUKa fiTEP-MOTHSB. 

who took the first opportunity of expressing her indigna- 
tion at the system of mariages de convenance. 

* And, mamma, she said if people began with love, it 
always grew cold. Now, has not papa loved you better 
and better every day ? ' 

Albinia could not be displeased, though it made her 
blui^ and she could not answer such a home push. ^ We 
don't quite mean the same things,' she said evasively. 
* Madame is thinking of passion, independent of esteem 
or confidence. But, Sophy, this is enough even for a 
wedding-day. Let us leave it off with our finery, and 
resume daily life.' 

^ Only tell me one thing, mamma.' 

* Well ? ' 

She paused and brought it out with an effort. It had 
evidently occupied her for a long time. ^ Mamma, must 
not every one with feeling be in love once in their life ? ' 

' Well done, reserve ! ' thought Albinia — ^ but she is only 
a child after all ; not a blush, only those great eyes seem- 
ing ready to devour my answer. What ought it to be 1 
Whatever it is, she will brood on it till her time comes. 
I must b^n, or I shall grow nervous : " Dear Sophy, 
these are not things good to think upon. There is quite 
enough to occupy a Christian woman's heart and soul 
without that — ^no need for her feelings to shrivel up for 
want of exercise. No ; I don't believe in the passion, once 
in the life being a fate, and pray don't you, my Sophy, 
or you may make yourself very silly, or very imhappy, 
or both." ' 

Sophy drew up her head, and her brown skin glowed. 
Albinia feared that she had said the wrong thing, and 
affronted her, but it was all working in the dark. 

At any rate the sullenness was dissipated, and there 
were no tokens of a recurrence. Sophy set herself to find 
ways of making amends for the past, and as soon as she 
had begun to do little services for grandmamma, she 
seemed to have forgotten her gloomy anticipations, even 
while some of them were partly realized. For as it 
would be more than justice to human nature to say that 
Mrs. Meadows's residence at Willow Lawn was a perfect 



THIB TOUKO STBP-MOTHiaU 221 

success, so it would be less than justice to call it a 
failure. 

To put the darker side first. Grandmamma's inter- 
est in life was to know the proceedings of the whole 
household, and comment on each. Now Albinia could 
endure housewifely advice, some espionage on her ser- 
vants, and even counsel about her child; but she could 
not away with the anxiety that would never leave Sophy 
alone, tried to force her sociability, and regretted all 
extra studies, unable to perceive the delicate treatment 
her disposition needed. And Sophy, in the intolerance 
of early girlhood, was wretched at hearing poor grand- 
mamma's petty views, and narrow, ignorant prejudices. 
She might resolve to be filial and agreeable, but too often 
found herself just achieving a moody, disgusted silence, 
or else bursting out with some true but unbecoming 
reproof. 

On the whole, all did well. Mrs. Meadows was 
happy ; she enjoyed the animation of the larger party, 
liked their cheerful faces, grew fond of Maurice, and daily 
more dependent on Lucy and Mrs. Kendal. Prolably 
she had never before had so much of her own way, and 
her gentle placid nature was left to rest, instead of being 
constantly worried. Her son-in-law was kind and gra- 
cious, though few words passed between them, and he 
gave her a sense of protection. Indeed, his patience and 
good-humour were exemplary ; he never complained even 
when he was driven from the dining-room by the table- 
cloth, to find Maurice rioting in the morning-room, and a 
music-lesson in the drawing-room, or still worse, when he 
heard the Drurys everywhere ; and he probably would 
have submitted quietly for the rest of his life, had not 
Albinia insisted on bringing forward the plan of building. 

When Captain and Mrs. Pringle returj^ed to Bayford 
to take leave, they found grandmamma so thoroughly at 
home, that Maria could fmd no words to express her grat- 
itude. Maria herself could hardly have been recognized, 
she had grown so like her husband in look and manner I 
If her sentences did not always come to their legitimate 
development, they no longer seemed blown away by a 



222 THB YOinra stef-kotheb. 

frosty wind, but pushed aside by fresh kindly impulses ; 
and her pride in the Captain, and the rest in his support^ 
had set her at peace with all the world and with herself. 
A comfortable, comely, happy matron was she, and even 
her few weeks beyond the precincts of Bayford had done 
something to enlarge her mind. 

It was as if education had newly begun. The fixed 
aim, and the union with a practical man, had opened her 
faculties, not deficient in themselves, but contracted and 
nipped by the circumstances which she had not known 
how to turn to good account. Such a fresh stage in mid- 
dle life comes to some few, like the midsummer shoot to 
repair the foliage that has suffered a spring blight ; but it 
cannot be reckoned on, and Mrs. Pringle would have 
been a more effective and self-possessed woman, a better 
companion to her husband, and with more root in herself 
had Maria Meadows learnt to tune her nerves and her 
temper iu the overthrow of her early hopes. 



-•♦•- 



CHAPTER XIV. 

MAtmiCB FsRRARs was a bom architect, with such a 
love of brick and mortar, that it was meritorious in him 
not to have overbuilt Fairmead parsonage. With the 
sense of giving him an agreeable holiday, his sister wrote 
to him in February that Gilbert's little attic was at his 
service if he would come and give his counsel as to the 
building project. 

Mr. Kendal disliked the trouble and disturbance as 
much as Maurice loved it ; but he quite approved and 
submitted, provided they asked him no questions; he 
gave them free leave to ruin him, and set out to take 
Sophy for a drive, leaving the brother and sister to their 
calculations. Of ruin, there was not much danger ; Mr. 
Kendal had a handsome income, and had always lived 
within it ; and Albinia's fortune had not appeared to her 



THB TOUNG 8TEP-MOTHEB» 223 

a reason for increased expense, so there was a sufficient 
sum in hand to enable Mr, Ferrars to plan with freedom, 
A new drawing-room, looking southwards, with bed- 
rooms over it, was the matter of necessity ; and Albinia 
wished for a bay-window, and would like to indulge Lucy 
by a conservatory, filling up the angle to the east with 
glass doors opening into the drawing-room and hall. 
Maurice drew, and she admired and thought all so de* 
lightful, that she began to be taken with scruples as to 
luxury. 

* No,' said Maurice, * these are not mere luxuries. 
You have full means, and it is a duty to keep your house- 
hold fairly comfortable and at ease. Crowded as you are 
with rather incongruous elements, you are bound to give 
them space enough not to clash.' 

* They don't clash, except poor Sophy. Gilbert and 
Lucy are elements of union, with more plaster of Paris 
than stone^ in their nature.' 

' Pray, has Kendal made up bis mind what to do with 
Gilbert ? ' 

* I have heard nothing lately ; I hope he is grown too 
old for India.' 

* Gilbert is rather too well off for his good,' said Mr. 
Ferrars; 'the benefit of a profession is not evident 
enough.' 

' I know what I wish ! If he could but be Mr. Dusau- 
toy'a curate, in five or six years' time, what glorious 
things we mightr do for the parish 1 ' 

'Eh! is that his wish ? ' 

' I have sometimes hoped that his mind is taking that 
turn. He is ready to help in anything for the poor peo- 

Ele. Once he told me he never wished to look beyond 
!ayford for happiness or occupation ; but I did not like 
to draw him out, because of his father's plans. Why, 
what have you drawn 1 The almshouses ? ' 

* I could do no other, when I was improving Gilbert's 
house for him.' 

' That would be the real improvement I How pretty 
I will keep them for him.' 

The second post came in, biinging a letter from Gil- 



224 THB TOtTNa BUEPOCOnSBB. 

bert to his fiither, and Albinia was so much surprised, 
that her brother asked whether Gilbert were one of the 
boys who only write to their father with a reason. 

* He can write more freely to me,' said Albinia ; * and 
it comes to the same thing. I am not in the least a&aid 
of anything wrong, but perhaps he may be making some 
proposal for the future. I want to know how he is. 
Fancy his being so foolish as to go out bathing. I am 
afraid of his colds.' 

Many times during the consultation did Mr. Ferrars 
detect Albinia's eye stealing wistfully towards that * E. 
Kendal, Esq. ; ' and when the proper owner came in, he 
was evidently as much struck, for he paused, as if in 
dread of opening the letter. Her eyes were on his coun- 
tenance as he read, and did not gather much consolation. 
^ I am afraid this is serious,' at last he said. 

' His cold 1 ' exclaimed Albinia. 

'Yes,' said Mr. Kendal, reading aloud sentence by 
sentence, with gravity and consideration. 

*' I do not wish to alarm Mrs. Kendal, and therefore 
address myself at once to you, for I do not think it right 
to keep you in ignorance that I have had some of the old 
symptoms. I do not wish to make any one uneasy about 
me, and I may have made light of the cold I caught a 
month since ; but I cannot conceal from myself that I 
have much painful cough, an inclination to shortness of 
breath, and pain in the back and shoulders, especially 
after long reading or writing. I thought it right to speak 
to Mr. Downton, but people in high health can understand 
nothing short of a raging fever ; however, at last he called 
in the parish surgeon, a stupid, ignorant fellow, who un- 
derstands my case no more than his horse, and treats me 
with hyoscyamus, as if it were a mere throat-cough. I 
thought it my duty to speak openly, since, though I am 
quite aware that circumstances make little difference in 
constitutional cases, I know you and dear Mrs. Kendal 
will wish that all possible means should be used, and I 
think it — 

Mr. Kendal broke down, and handed the letter to his 
wife, who proceeded, 



TBS TOI7NO BI9DMC0ITHSB. 285 

' I think it best yoQ should be prepared for the worst, 
as I wish and endeavour to be ; and truly I see so much 
trial and disappointment in the course of life before me, 
that it would hardly be the worst to me, except^- 

That sentence finished Albinia's voice, and stealing her 
hand into her husband's, she read on in silence, 

' for the additional sorrow to you, and my grief at bring* 
ing pain to my more than mother, but she has long 
known of the presentiment that has always hung over 
me, and will be the better prepared for its realization. 
If it would be any satisfaction to you, I could easily take 
ticket, and go up to London to see any physician you 
would prefer. I could go with Price, who is going for 
his sister's birthday, and I could sleep at his father's 
house; but, in that case, I should want three pounds 
journey money, and I should be very glad if you would 
be so kind as to let me have a sovereign in advance of 
my allowance, as Price knows of a capital secondhand 
bow and arrows. With my best love to all, 

* Your affectionate son, 

*' Gilbert Kendal.' 

Albinia held the letter to her brother, to whom she 
looked for something cheering, but, behold ! a smile was 
gaining uncontrollably on the muscles of his cheeks, 
though his lips strove hard to keep closely shut. She 
would not look at him, and turning to her husband, ex- 
diumed, ' We will take him to London ourselves ! ' 

*I am afraid that would be inconvenient,' observed 
Maurice. 

* That would not signify,* continued Albinia ; * I must 
hear myself what is thought of him, and how I am to 
nurse him. Oh I taking it in time, dear Edmund, we 
need not be so much afraid! Maurice will not mind 
making his visit another time.' 

1 *I only meant inconvenient to the birthday party,' 
drily said her brother. 

• Maurice ! ' cried she, * you don't know the boy ! ' 
' I have no doubt that he has a cold.' 

' And I know there is a great deal more the matter 1 ' 

10* 



826 THE TOlWa flXEF^XOTHXB. 

cried Albinia. ' We have let him go away to be neg- 
lected and badly treated I My poor, dear boy I Ed- 
mund, I will fetdi him home to-morrow.' ^ 

'You had better send me,' said Maurice, mischiev- 
ously, for he saw he was diminishing Mr. Kendal's alarm, 
and had a brotherly love of teasing Albinia, and seeing 
how pretty she looked with her eyes flashing through 
wrathful tears, and her foot patting impetuously on the 
carpet. 

' You I ' she cried ; * you don't believe in him ! You 
fiincy all boys are made of iron and steel — you would 
only laugh at him>^you made us send him there-— I 
wish — ^ 

' Gently, gently, my dear Albinia,' said her husband, 
dismayed at her vehemence, just when it most amused 
her brother. * You cannot expect Maurice to feel exactly 
as we do, and I confess that I have much hope that this 
alarm may be more than adequate.' 

* He thinks it is all a sjcheme I ' said Albinia, in a tone 
of great injury. 

* No, indeed, Albinia,' answered her brother, seriously ; 
' I fully believe that Gilbert imagines all that he tells 
you ; but you cannot suppose that either the tutor or 
doctor could fail to see if he were so very ill.' 

' Certainly not,' assented Mr. Kendal. 

' And low spirits are more apt to accompany a slight 
ailment, than such an illness as you apprehend.' 

' I believe you are right,' said Mr. Kendal. * Where 
is the letter 1 ^ 

Albinia did not like it to come under discussion, but 
could not withhold it, and as she read it again, she felt 
that neither Maurice nor her cousin Fred could have writ- 
ten the like ; but she was only the more impelled to do 
battle, and when she came to the unlucky conclusion, she 
exclaimed, ' 1 am sure that was an after-thought. I dare 
say Price asked him while he was writing.' 

'What's this?' asked Mr. Kendal, coming to the 
* presentiment.' 

She hesitated, afraid both of him and of Maurice, but 
there was no alternative. ' Poor Gilbert ! ' she said. 



TBB TOUKG SIXP-XOIBXB. 227 

' It was a cry or call from his brother just at last It has 
left a very deep impression.' 

' Indeed ! ' said his father, much moved. ' Yes, Ed- 
mund gave a cry such as was not to be forgotten,' and 
the sigh told how it had haunted his own pillow ; ^ but I 
had not thought that Gilbert was in a condition to notice 
it. Did he mention it to you ? ' 

* Yes, not long after I came ; he thinks it was a call, 
and I have never known exactly how to deal with it.' 

' It is a case for very tender handling,' said Maurice. 

^ I should have desired him never to think of it again,' 
said Mr. Kendal decidedly. ' Mere nonsense to dwell on 
it. Their names were always in Edmund's mouth, and it 
was nothing but accident, i ou should have told him so, 
Albinia.' 

And he walked out of the room. 

^ Ah ! it will prey upon him now,' said Albinia. 

^ Yes ; I thought he only spoke of driving it away be- 
cause it was what he would like to be able to do. But 
things do not prey on people of his age as they do on 
younger ones.' 

' I wonder if I did right,' said Albinia. * I never liked 
to ask you, though I wished it. I could not bear to treat 
it as a &noy. Bow was I to know, if it may not have 
been intended to do him good ? And you see his &ther 
says it was very remarkable.' 

^ Do you imagine that it dwells much upon his mind 1 ' 

^Not when he is well — ^not when it would do him 
good,' said Albinia ; ' it rather haunts him the instant he 
is unwell.' 

' He makes it a superstition, then, poor boy I You 
thought me hard on him, Albinia ; but really I could not 
help being angry with him for so lamentably frightening 
/ his father and you.' 

^ Let us see how be is before you find fault with him,' 
said Albinia. \ 

* You're as bad as if you were his mother, or worse ! ' 
exclaimed Maurice. 

* Oh I Maurice, I can't help it I He had no one to 



228 TBB TOUNO 8ISF-K0TBXB. 

cai6 for bim till I came, and he is such a rerj dear fdlow 
— he wants me so much ! ' 

Mr. Ferrars agreed to go with Mr. Kendal to Traver- 
sham. He thought his father would be encouraged by his 
presence^ and he was not devoid of curiosity. Albinia 
would not hear of staying at home; in fact, Maurice 
suspected her of being idraid to trust Gilbert to his 
mercy. 

With a trembling heart she left the train at the little 
Traversham station, making resolutions neither to be too 
angry with the negligent tutor, nor to show Gilbert how 
much importance ^e attached to his illness. 

As they walked into the village, they heard a merry 
clamour of tongue, and presently met five or six boys, and, 
a few paces behind them, Mr. Downton. 

< Ah I ' he exclaimed, ^ I am glad yon are come. I 
would have written yesterday, but that I found your boy 
had done so. I shall be very glad to have him cheered 
up about himself. I will turn back with you. You go on, 
Price. They are setting out for one of Hullah's classes, 
so we shall have the house clear.' 

* I hope there is not much amiss ? ' said Mr. Eendal. 

* A tedious cold,' said the tutor ; * but the doctor as- 
suTes me that there is nothing wrong with his chest, and 
I do believe he would not cough half so much, if he were 
not always watching himself' 

* Who has been attending him 1 ' 

*Iiee, the union doctor; a very good man, with a 
large family,' (Albinia could have beaten him). ^In- 
deed,' he continued, perceiving some dissatisfied looks, < I 
think you will find that a little change is all that he 
wants.' 

' I hope you can give a good account of him in other 
respects 1 ' said Mr. Kendal. 

* Oh ! yes, in every way ; he is the most good-natured 
lad in the world, and quite the small boys' Mend. 
Perhaps he has been a little more sentimental of late, but 
that may be only from being rather out of order. Pll call 
him.' 

The last words were spoken as they entered the par- 



HOB Tomra snBPocoiHnu 229 

Bonage, where opening a door, he said, * Here, Kendal, 
here's a new prescription for jou.' 

Albinia had a momentarj view of a tabby cat and 
kitten, a volume of poetry, a wiry-haired terrier, and Oil* 
bert, all lying promiscaoosly on the hearth-rag, before 
the two last leaped up, the one to bark, and the other to 
come forward with outstretched hand and glad counte- 
nance. 

He looked flashed and languid, but the roaring fire 
and close room might account for that ; and though, when 
the subject was mentioned, he gave a short uncomfortable 
cough, Albinia's mind was so far relieved, that she was in 
doubt with whom to be angry, and prepared to stand on 
the defensive, should her brother think him too well. 

The gentlemen went away together, and Gilbert^ grasp- 
ing her hand, gave way to one of his eflfusions of affection 
•— ^ So kind to come to him — ^he knew he had her to trust 
to, whatever happened' — and he leant his cheek on his 
hand in a melancholy mood. 

^ Don't be so piteous, Oibbie,' she said. ' You were 
quite right to tell us you were not well, only you need not 
have been so very doleful ; I don't like papa to be fright- 
ened.' 

^ I thought it was no use to go on in this way,' said 
Gilbert, with a cough ; < it was the old thing over again, 
and nobody would believe I had anything the matter with 
me.' 

And he commenced a formidable catalogue of symp- 
toms which satisfied her that Maurice would think him 
fully justified. Just at a point where it was not easy to 
know what next to say, the kitten began to play tricks 
with her mother's tail, and a happy diversion was made ; 
Gilbert began to exhibit the various drolleries of the ani* 
mals, to explain the friendship between dog and cat, and 
to leave off coughing as he related anecdotes of their sa- 
gacity ; and finally, when the gentlemen returned, laugh- 
ing was the first sound they heard, and Mrs. Kendal was 
found sitting on the floor at play with the live stock. 

They had come to fetch her to see the church and 
schools, and on going out, she found that Mr. Ferrars had 



230 THB TOinra sibf^cothkr. 



inoFed «nd carried that Qilbert ahonld be taken home at 
once, and, on the way, be shown to a physician at the 
county town. From this she^ gathered that Maurice was 
compassionate, and though, of course, he would make no 
such admission, she had reason afterwards to believe that 
he had shown Mr. Downton that the pupil's health ought 
to have met with a shade more attention. 

With Gilbert wrapped up to the tip of his nose, they 
set aS[, and found the doctor at home. Nothing could 
have been more satisfactory to Albinia, for it gave her a 
triumph over her brother, without too much anxiety for the 
future. The physician detected the injury to the lungs 
left by an attack that the boy had suffered from in his first 
Engliish winter, and had scarcely outgrown when Albinia 
first knew him. The recent cold had so far renewed the 
evil, that though no disease actually existed, the cough 
must be watched, and exposure avoided ; in &ct, a license 
for petting to any extent was bestowed, and therewith 
every hope of recovery. 

Albinia and her son sat in their comers of the carriage 
in secret satisfaction, while Mr. Kendal related the doc- 
tor's opinion to Mr. Ferrars ; but one of them, at least, 
was unprepared for the summing-up. ^ Under the circum- 
stances, Gilbert is most fortunate. A few years in his 
native climate will quite set him up.' 

' Oh ! but he is too old for Haoleybury,' burst out Al- 
binia, in her consternation. 

^ Nearly old enough for John Kendal's bank, eh, Gil- 
bert?' 

< Oh ! ' cried AIlHnia, < pray don't let us talk of that 
while poor Gilbert is so ilL' 

' Hm ! ' said Mr. Kendal with interrogative surprise, 
almost displeasure, and no more was said. 

Albinia felt gmlty, as she remembered that she had no 
more intended to betray her dislike to the scheme, than 
to gratify Gilbert by calling him *80 ilL' Aristocratic 
and military, she had no love for the moneyed interest, and 
had so sedidously impressed on her friends that Mr. Ken- 
dal had been in the Civil Service, and quite unconnected 
with the bank, that Mr. Feziars had told her she thought 



THB TOUKO STB^MOTBSB* 281 

his respectability depended on it ; and she was ashamed 
that her brother should hear her give way again so fool- 
ishlj to the weakness* 

OUbert became the most talkative as they drew near 
home, and was the first to spring oat and open the hail 
door, displa3ring his two sisters harnessed tandem-fashion 
with packthread, and driven at full speed by little Maurice, 
armed with the veritable carriage whip I The next mo- 
ment it was thrown down, with a rapturous shout, and 
Maurice was lost to everything but his brother I 

' Oh ! girls, how could you let him serve you so t ' be- 
gan the horrified Albinia. ^ Sophy will be laid up for a 
week I ' 

'Never mind,' said Sophy, dropping on a chair. 
' Poor little fellow, he wished it so much ! ' 

' I tried to stop her, mamma,' said Lucy, ' but she will 
do as Maurice pleases.' 

' See, this is the way they will spoil my boy, the in- 
stant my back is turned I ' said Albinia. ' What's the 
use of aU I can do with him, if every one else will go and 
be his bond-slave I I do believe Sophy would let hun kill 
her, if he asked her ! ' 

'It is no real kindness,' said Mr. Kendal. 'Their 
good-nature ought not to go beyond reason.' 

The elder Maurice could hardly help shrugging his 
shoulders. Well did he know that Mr. Kendal would 
have joined the team if such had been the will of that 
sovereign in scarlet merino, who stood with one hand in 
Gilbert's, and the whip in the other. 

' Come here, Maurice,' quoth Albinia ; ' put down the 
whip,' and she extracted it from his grasp, with grave 
resolution, against which he made no struggle, gave it to 
Lucy to be put away, and seated him on her knee. ' Now 
listen, Maurice ; poor sister Sophy is tired, and you are . 
never to make a horse of her. Do you hear t ' 

' Yes,' said Maurice, fidgeting. 

' Mind, if ever you make a horse of Sophy, mamma 
will put you into the black cupboard. You understand t ' 

'Sophy shan't be horse,' said Maurice, 'Sophy 
naughty, lazy horse. Boy has Gibbi( 



282 1KB TOUKO SIXPoXOTHSB. 

* There's gratitade,* said Mr. Ferrars, as ' Boy ' slid 
off his mamma's knee, stood on tiptoe to pull the door 
open, and ran after Gilbert to grandmamma's room. 

* Tes,' said Albinia ; ^ no one is grateful for services 
beyond all reason. So, Sophy, mind, into the cupboard he 
goes, the very next time yon are so silly as to be a horse.' 

< To punish which of them t ' asked her brother. 

* Sophy knows,' said Albinia. 

Sophy was too miserable to smile. Sarah Anne Drury 
had been calling, and on hearing of Gilbert's indispo- 
sition, had favoured them with ' mamma's remarks,' and 
when Mrs. Kendal was blamed, Sophy had indignantly 
told Sarah Anne that she knew nothing about it, and had 
no business to interfere. Then followed the accusation, 
that Mrs. Kendal had set the whole family against their 
old friends ; and Sophy had found all her own besetting 
sins charged upon her step-mother. 

' My dear ! ' said Albinia, ' don't you know that if a 
royal tiger were to eat up your cousin John in India, the 
Drurys would say Mrs. Kendal always let the tigers run 
about loose ? Nor am I sure that your faults are not my 
fault. I helped you to be more exclusive and intolerant, 
and I am sure I tried your temper, when I did not know 
what was the matter with you — * 

* No — ^no,' said the choked voice. It would have been 
an immense comfort to cry, or even to be able to return 
the kiss; but she was a great deal too wretched to be 
capable of any demonstration; physically exhausted by 
being driven about by Maurice ; mentally worn out by the 
attempts to be amiable, which had degenerated into 
wrangling ; full of remorse for having made light of her 
brother's illness, and, for that reason, persuaded that she 
was to be punii^ed by seeing it become fatal. Not a word 
jof all this did she say, but, dejected and silent, she spent 
the evening in a lonely comer of the drawing-room, while 
her brother, in the full pleasure of returning home, and 
greatly enjoying his invalid privileges, was discussing the 
projected improvements. 

Talking at last brought back his cough with real vio- 
lence, and he was sent to bed ; Albinia went up with him 



TBX TOUKQ 8TEP-M0THXB. 233 

to see that bis fire barnt. He set Mr. Ferrars*8 drawing 
of the almshoases over his mantelshelf. < I shall nail it 
Up to-morrow,' he said. ' I always wanted a picture here, 
and that's a jolly one to look to.' 

^ It would he a beautiful beginning,' she said. ' I think 
your life would go the better for it, Gibbie,' 

* I suppose old nurse would be too grand for one,' he 
said ; ^ but I should like to have her so near ! And you 
must mind and keep old Mrs. Baker out of the Union for 
it. And that fetmous old blind sailor ! I shall put him 
up a bench to sit in the sun, and spin his yarns on, and 
tell him to think himself at Greenwich.' 

Albinia went down, only afraid that his being so very 
good was a dangerous symptouL 

Sophy was far from well in the morning, and Albinia 
kept her upstairs, and sent her godfather to make her a 
visit. He always did her good ; he knew how to probe 
deeply, and help her to speak, and he gave her advice with 
more experience than his sister, and more encouragement 
than her father, 

Sophy said little, but her eyes had a softened look. 

^ One good thing about Sophy,' said he afterwards to 
his sister, ^is, that she will never talk her feelings to 
death.' 

* That reserve is my great pain. I don't get at the 
real being once in six months.' 

* So much the better for people living together.* 

* Well, I was thinking that you and I are a great deal 
more intimate and confidential when we meet now, than 
we used to be when we were always together.' 

' People can't be often confidential from the innermost 
when they live together,' said Maurice. 

' Since I have been a Kendal, such has been my expe- 
rience.' 

* It was the same before, only we concealed it by an 
upper surface of chatter,' said Maurice. ' " As iron sharp- 
eneth iron, so doth a man the countenance of his friend ; " 
but if the mutual sharpening went on without intermission, 
both irons would wear away, and no work would be done. 



284 THS TOXJKO BTKP-XOTHXB. 

Aren*t yon coining with met Edmund is going to drive 
me to Woodside to meet the pony-carriage from home.' 

^ I wish I could ; but you see what happens when I go 
out pleasuring ! ' 

* Well, you can take one element of mischief with you 
—that imp, Maurice/ 

< Ye— es. Papa would like it, if you do.* 

* I should like you to come on worse terms.* 

' Very well, then ; and Sophy is safe ; I had abeady 
asked Oenevidve to come and read to her this afternoon. 
If Gilbert can spare me, I will go.* 

Gilbert did not want her, and begged Lucy not to 
think of staying indoors on his account. He was pres- 
ently left in solitary possession of the drawing-room, 
whereupon he rose, settled his brown locks at the glass, 
arranged his tie, brushed his cuffs, leisurely walked up- 
stairs, and tapped at the door of the morning-room, meekly 
asking, ^ May I come in t * with a cough at each end of the 
sentence. 

' Oh I Gilbert ! * cried his anxious sister, starting np. 
* Are yon come to see me ? ' and she would have wheeled 
round the father's arm-chair for him, but G^nevidve was 
beforehand with her, and he sank into it, saying patheti- 
cally, ^Ah ! thank you. Miss Dnrant ; you are come to a 
perfect hospital Oh I this is too much,* as she further 
gave him a footstool. ' Oh ! no, thank you, Sophy,* for 
she would have handed G6nevi5ve her own pillow for his 
further support; ^tbis is delightful!* reclining patheti- 
cally in his chair. ' This is not like Traversham.' 

* Where they would not believe he was ill ! * said 
Sophy. 

* I hope he does not look so very ill,* said G6nevi^ve, 
cheerfully, but this rather hurt the feelings of both ; the 
one said, ' Oh ! but he is terribly pale ; ' Qie other cough- 
ed and said, ^ Looks are deceitful.' 

' That is the very reason,' said Genevieve. * You don't 
look deceitful enough to be so ill — so ill as Miss Sophie 
fears ; now you are at home and well *icared for, you will 
soon be well.' 

* Care would have prevented it all,' said Sophy. 



IBB TOUNQ STKP*MOTHXB, 235 

< And not brought me home ! ' said Gilbert. ' Home 
is home on any terms. No one there had the least idea a 
fellow could ever be unwell or out of spirits I ' 

' Ah ! you must have been ill/ cried his sister, ' you 
who never used to be miserable ! ' 

Gilbert gave a sigh. * They were such mere boys/ 
he said. 

* Monsieur votre Precepieur ? ' asked G6nevi6ve. 
^ Ah ! he was otherwise occupied ! * 

^ There is some mystery beneath/ said Genevieve, 
turning to Sophy, who exclaimed abruptly, ' Oh I is he 
in love \ ' 

' Sophy goes to the point/ said Gilbert, smiling, the 
picture of languid comfort ; ' but I own there are suspi- 
cious circumstances. He always has a photograph in 
his pocket, and Price has seen him looking at it.' 

^ Ah I depend upon it, Miss Sophy, it is all a romance 
of these youns gentlemen/ said G^nevi^ve, turning to 
her with a droll, provoking air of confidence ; ' ce pauvre 
Monsieur had the portrait of his sister I ' 

^ Catch me carrying Sophy's face in my waistcoat 
pocket,' cried Gilbei*t, forgetting his languor. 

* Speak for yourself, Mr. Gilbert,' laughed G6nevi6ve. 

* And he writes letters every day, and won't let any 
of us put them into the post for him ; but we know the 
direction begins with Miss — ^ 

* Oh ! the curious boys ! ' cried G6nevi6ve. ' If I could 
only hint to this poor tutor to let them read Miss Down 
ton on one I ' 

' I assure you/ cried Gilbert, * Price has laid a bet 
that she's an heiress with forty thousand pounds and red 
hair.' 

* Mr. Price is an impertinent I I hope you will in- 
form me how he looks when he is the loser.' 

' But he has seen her 1 He met Mr. Downton last 
Christmas in Regent Street, in a swell carriage, with a 
lady with such carrots, he thought her bonnet was on 
fire; and Mr. Downton never saw Price, though he 
bowed to him ; and you know nobody would marry a 
woman with red hair unless she was an heiress.' 



286 TBX TOUKO BTEP^XOTBXB. 

* Miss Sophy,' whispered G6nevieve, ' prepare for a 
red-haired sister-in-law. I predict that every one of the 
pupils of the respectable Mr. Downton will marry ladies 
with lively chestnut locks.' 

' What, you think me so mercenary, Genevieve ? ' 
said Gilbert. 

*I only hope to see this school-boy logic well re- 
venged ! ' said G6nevi6ve. ' Mrs. Price shall have locks 
of orange red, and for Mrs. Gilbert Kendal — ah ! we will 
content ourselves with her having a paler shade — sandy 
gold.' 

* No,' said Gilbert, speaking slowly, turning round 
his eyes. ' I could tell you what Mrs. G. Kendal's hair 
will be — ^ 

G^nevi^ve let this drop, and said, ' You do not want 
me ; good-bye. Miss Sophie.' 

' Going ! why, you came to read to me, Genevieve,' 
exclaimed Sophy. 

* Ah ! I beg your pardon, I have been interrupting 
you all this time,' cried Gilbert ; ^ I never meant to dis- 
turb you. Pray let me listen.' 

And Genevidve read while Gilbert resumed his reclin- 
ing attitude, with half-closed eyes, listening to the sweet 
intonations and pretty refined accents of the ancien regime, 

Sophy enjoyed this exceedingly, she made it her espe- 
cial occupation to take care of Gilbert, and enter into his 
fireside amusements. This indisposition had drawn the 
two nearer together, and essentiafly unlike as they were, 
their two characters seemed to be fitting well one into the 
other. His sentiment accorded with her strain of ro- 
mance, and they read poetry and had discussions as they 
sat over the fire, growing constantly into greater intimacy 
and confidence. Sophy waited on him, and watched him 
perpetually, and her assiduity was imparting a softness 
and warmth quite new to her, while the constant occupa^ 
tion kept af&onts and vexations out of her sight, and 
made her amiable. 

Gilbert's health improved, though with vicissitudes 
that enforced the necessity of prudence. Rash when 
well, and desponding at each renewal of illness, he was 



THB YOUNG STEP-MOTHEB. 839 

hot easy to manage, but he was always so gentle, grateful, 
and obliging, that he endeared himself to the whole hous^ 
hold. It was no novelty for him to be devoted to his 
step-mother and his little brother, but he was likewise 
very kind to Lucy, and spent much time in helping in her 
pursuits ; he was becoming companionable to his father, 
and could play at chess sufficiently well to be a worthy 
antagonist In Mr. Kendal's scientific and interminable 
games. He would likewise play at backgammon with 
grandmamma, and could entertain her for hours together 
by listening to her long stories of the old Bayford world. 
He was a favourite in hei^ little society, and would often 
take a hand at cards to make up a rubber ; nay, even 
when not absolutely required, he was very apt to bestow 
his countenance upon the little parties, where he had the 
pleasure of being treated as a great man, and which, at 
least, had the advantage of making a variation in his im- 
prisonment during the east winds. 

Madame Belmarch6 and her daughter and ^andchild 
were sometimes of the party, and on these occasions, 
Sophy always claimed Ginevieve, and usually succeeded 
in carrying her off, when Gilbert would often join them. 
Their books and prints were a great treat to her ; Gilbert 
had a beautiful illustrated copy of Longfellow's poems, 
and the engravings and ' Evangeline ' were their enjoy- 
ment ; Gilbert regularly proffering the loan of the book, 
and she as regularly refusing it, and turning a deaf ear to 
gentle insinuations of the pleasure of knowing that any 
book of his was in her hands. Gilbert had never had 
much of the schoolboy manner, and he was adopting a 

fentle, pathetic tone, at which Albinia was apt to laugh, 
ut. in her absence was often verged upon tendresse, es- 
pecially with G6nevi^ve. She, however, by her perfect 
simplicity and lively banter, always nipped the bud of 
his sentimenf; she had known him from a child, and 
never lost the sense of being his elder, treating him some- 
what as a boy to be played with. Perfectly aware of her 
own position, her demeanour, frank and gracious as it 
was, had something in it which kept in check other Bay- 
ford youths less gentlemanlike tihan Gilbert {Kendal. If 



288 IBB TOUKG BTSP'XOTHKB. 

she never fbi^t that she was a dancing-master's daughter, 
she never let any one else forget that she was a lady. 

When the building began, Gilbert had a wholesome 
occupation, saving his father some trouble and — ^not quite 
so much expense by overlooking the workmen. Mr. 
Kendal was glad to be spared giving orders and speaking 
to people, and would always rather be overcharged than 
be at the pains of bai^ining or inquiring. * It was Gil- 
bert's own house/ he said, ^ and it was good for the boy 
to take an interest in it, and not to be too much interfered 
with.' So the bay window and the conservatory were 
some d^rees grander than Mr. Ferrars had proposed, 
but all was excused by the pleasure and experience t^ey 
afforded Gilbert, and it was very droll to see Maurice 
following him about after the workmen, watching them 
most knowingly, and deep in mischief at every oppor- 
tunity. Once he had been up to his knees in a tempting 
blancmanger-like lake of lime, many times had he ham- 
mered of cut his fingers, and once his l^s had gone 
through the new drawing-room ceiling, where he hun^ 
by the petticoats screaming till rescued by his brother. 
Tiie room was under these auspices finished, and was a 
very successful afiair — the conservatory, in which the hall 
terminated, and into which a side door of the drawing- 
room opened, gave a bright, fragrant, flowery air to the 
whole house ; and the low fire-place and comfortable fan- 
shaped fender made the room very cheerful. Fresh, del- 
icately-tinted furniture, chosen con amore by the London 
aunts, had made the apartment very unlike old Willow 
Lawn ; and Albinia had so much enjoyed setting it off 
to the best advantage, that she sent word to Winifred 
that she was really becoming a furniture fancier. 

It was a very pretty paper, and some choice prints 
hung on it; but Albinia and Sophy- had laid violent 
hands on all the best-looking books, and kept them for 
the equipment of one of the walls. The rest were dis- 
posed, for Mr. Kendal's delectation, in the old drawing- 
room, henceforth to be named the library. Lucy thought 
it sounded better, and he was quite as willing as Albinia 
was that the name of study should be extinct. Meantime 



THE TOimO BTEP-MOTffiEB. 239 

Mr. Dbwnton had verified the boy's prediction by writ- 
ing to announce that he was about to marry and give up 
pupils. 

Gilbert was past seventeen, and it was time to decide 
on his profession. Albinia had virtuously abstained from 
any hint adverse to the house of Kendal and Kendal, for 
she knew it hurt her husband's feelings to hear any dis- 
paragement of the country where he had spent some of 
his happiest years. He was fond of his cousins, and 
knew that they would give his son a safe and happy 
home, and he believed that the climate was exactly what 
his health needed. 

Sophy fired at the idea. Her constant study of the 
subject and her vivid imagination had taken the place of 
memory, which could supply nothing but the glow of 
colouring and the dazzling haze which enveloped all the 
forms that she would fia.in "believe that she remembered. 
She and her father would discuss Indian scenery as if they 
had been only absent from it a year ; she envied Gilbert 
his return thither, but owned that it was the next thing 
to going herself, and was already beginning to amass a 
hoard of English gifls for the old ayahs and bearers who 
still lived in her recollection, in preparation for the visit 
which on his first holiday her brother must pay to her 
birthplace and first home. 

Gilbert, however, took no part in this enthusiasm, he 
made no opposition, but showed no alacrity ; and at last 
his father asked Albinia whether she knew of any objec- 
tion on his part, or any design which he might be unwill- 
ing to put forward. With a beating heart she avowed 
her cherished ischeme. 

' Is this his own proposal ? ' asked Mr. Kendal. 

^ No ; he has never spoken of it ; but your plan has 
always seemed so decided that perhaps he thinks he has 
no choice.' 

*■ That is not what I wish,' said his father. ' If his in- 
clinations be otherwise, he has only to speak, and I will 
consider.' 

^ Shall I sound him ? ' suggested Albinia, dreading the 
timidity that always stood between the boy and his 
fiither. 



240 THS TOUKG BTBtP-HOTHlSB. 

* Do not inspire him with the wish and then imagine 
it his own,' said Mr. Kendal ; and then thinking he had 
spoken sternly, added, ' I know you would be the last to 
wish hiin to take holy orders inconsiderately, but you 
have such power over him, that I question whether he 
would know his wishes from yours.' 

Albinia began to disavow the desire of actuating him. 

' You would not intend it, but he would catch the 
desire from you, and I own I would rather he were 
not inspired with it. If he now should express it, I 
should tear it was the unconscious effort to escape from 
India. If it had been his brother Edmund, I would have 
made any sacrifice, but I do not think Gilbert has the 
energy or force of character I should wish to see in a 
clergyman, nor do I feel willing to risk him at the univer- 
sity.' 

* Oh ! Edmund, why will you distrust Oxford ? 
Why will you not believe what I know through Maurice 
and his friends ? ' 

^ If my poor boy had either the disposition or the 
discipline of your brother, I should not feel the same 
doubt.' 

* Maurice had no discipline except at school and when 
William licked him,' cried Albinia. * You know he was 
but eleven years old when my &ther died, and my aunts 
spoilt us without mitigation.' 

* I said the disposition,' repeated Mr. Kendal ; * I can 
see nothing in Gilbert marking him for a clergyman, and 
I think him susceptible to the temptations that you can- 
not deny to exist at any college. Nor would I desire to 
see him fixed here, until he has seen something of life and 
of business, for which this bank affords the greatest facil- 
ities with the least amount of temptation. He would 
also be doing something for his own support ; and with 
the life-interests upon his property, he must be dependent 
on his own exertions, unless I were to do more for him 
than would bo right by the other children.' 

* Then I am to say nothing to him ? ' 

' I will speak to him myself. He is quite old enough 
to understand his prospects, and decide for himself.' 



THE YOUNG STBP-MOTHXB. 241 

• But, Edmund,' cried Albinia, with sudden vehemence, 

* you are not sacrificing Gilbert for Maurice's sake ? ' 

She had more nearly displeased him than she had 
ever done before, though he looked up quietly, saying, 

* Certainly not. I am not sacrificing Gilbert, and I should 
do the same if Maurice were not in existence.' 

She was too much ashamed of her foolish fancy to 
say more, and she cooled into candour sufficient to peiN 
oeive that he was wise iu distrusting her tact where her 
preference was so strong. But she foresaw that Gilbert 
would shrink and falter before his father, and that the 
conference would lead to no discovery of his views, and 
she was not surprised when her husband told her that he 
could not understand the boy, and believed that the truth 
was, that he would like to do nothing at all. It had 
ended, by Mr. Kendal, in a sort of despair, undertaking 
to write to his cousin John for a statement of what would 
be required, after which the decision was to be made. 

Meantime Mr. Kendal advised Gilbert to attend to 
arithmetic and book-keeping, and offered to instruct him 
in his long-forgotten Hindostanee. Sophy learnt all these 
with all her heart, but Gilbert always had a pain in his 
chest if ho sat still at any kind of study i 



■♦♦•■ 



CHAPTER XV. 

Colonel Burt was the most open-hearted old bach- 
elor in the country. His imagination never could con- 
ceive the possibility of everybody not being glad to 
meet everybody ; his house could never be too full, his 
dinner-parties of * a few friends ' overflowed the dining- 
room, and his ' nobody ' meant always at least six bodies. 
Every season was fertile in occasions of gathering old and 
young together to be made happy ; and little Mary Eer- 
rars, at five years old, had told her mamma that ' the 
Oplonel's parties made her quite dissipated.' 

11 



242 THX TOUHG STEP-XOrmEB. 

One bright snmxner day, his beaming face appeared 
at Willow Lawn with a peremptory invitation. His 
nephew and heir had newly married a friend of Albinia's 

firlhood, and was about to pay his wedding visit. Too 
appy to keep his guests to himself, the Colonel had fixed 
the next Thursday for a fete, and wanted all the world to 
come to it — the Kendals, every one of them — ^if they 
could only sleep there — but Albinia brought him to con^ 
fession that he had promised to lodge five people more 
than the house would hold ; and the aunts were at the 
parsonage, where nobody ventured to crowd their ser- 
vants. 

But there was a moon — ^and though Mr. Kendal would 
not allow that she was the harvest moon, the hospitable 
Colonel dilated on her as if she had been bed, board, and 
lodging, and he did not find much difficulty in his per- 
suasions. 

Few invitations ever gave more delight ; Albinia ap- 
preciated a holiday to the utmost, and the whole &mily 
was happy at Sophy's chance of at length seeing Fur- 
mead, and taking part in a little gaiety. And if Mr. 
EendaFs expectations of pleasure were less high, he sub- 
mitted very well, smiled benignantly at the felicity 
around him, and was not once seen to shudder. 

Sarah Anne Drury had been invited to enliven grand- 
mamma, and every one augured a beautiful day and per- 
fect enjoyment. The morning was beautiful, but alas! 
Sophy was hors de combat, far too unwell to think of 
making one of the party. She bore the disappointment 
magnanimously, and even the pity. Every one was 
sorry, and Gilbert wanted her to go and wait at Fair- 
mead Parsonage for the chance of improving, promising 
to come and fetch her for any part of the entertainment ; 
and her father told her that he had looked to her as his 
chief companion while the gay people were taking their 
pleasure. No one was uncomfortably generous enough 
to offer to stay at home with her ; but Lucy suggested 
asking G6nevi6ve to come and take care of her. 

* Nay,' said Sophy, * it would be much better if she 
were to go in my stead.' 



THB Toinra sxbp-hothbb. 243 

Gilbert and Lucy both uttered an exclamation ; and 
Sophy added, ^ She would have so much more enjoyment 
than I could ! Oh, it would quite make up for my miss- 
ing it! ' 

* My dear,' said grandmamma, ' you don't know what 
you are talking of. It would be taking such a liberty.' 

' There need be no scruples on that score,' said AU 
binia ; ^ the Colonel would only thank me if 1 brought him 
half Bayford.' 

*Then,' cried Sophy, *you think we may ask her? 
Oh, I should like to run up myself; ' — ^and a look of con- 
gratulation and gratitude passed between her and her 
brother. 

' No, indeed, you must not ; let me go,' said Lucy ; 
* I'll just finish this cup of tea — ^ 

* My dear, my dear,' interposed Mrs. Meadows, * pray 
consider. She is a yery good little girl in her way, but 
it is only giving her a taste for things out of her station.' 

^ Oh ! don't say that, dear grandmamma,' interposed 
Albinia ; ' one good festival does carry cme so much bet- 
ter through days of toil ! ' 

* Ah, well ! my dear, you wiU do as you think 
proper ; ' but considering who the poor child is, I should 
call it no kindness to bring her forward in company.' 

Something passed between the indignant Gilbert and 
Sophy about French counts and marquises, but Lucy 
managed much better. ' Dear me, grandmamma, no- 
body wishes to bring her forward. She will only play 
with the children, and see the fireworks, and no one wiU 
speak to her.' 

Albinia averted further discussion till grandmamma 
had left the breakfast-table, when all four appealed 
with onie voice to Mr. Kendal, who saw no objection ; 
whereupon Lucy ran off, while Albinia finished her ar« 
rangements for the well-being of grandmamma, Sophy, 
and Maurice, who were as difficult to manage as the fox, 
goose, and cabbage. At every turn she encountered GiU 
bert, touching up his toilette at each glass, and seriously 
consulting her and Sophy upon the dioice between lilac 
and lemon-coloured gloves, and upon the bows of his 
fringed neck-tie. 



N. 



244 1^ TOUKG firKP-MOTHEB. 

^ My dear Gilbert,' said Albinia, on the fifth anxious 
alternative, ^ it is of no use. No living creature will be 
the wiser, and do what you will, you will never look half 
so well as your father,' 

Gilbert flung aside, muttering something about ^ fit to 
be seen,' but just then Lucy hurried in. * Oh ! mamma, 
she won't go— she is very much obliged, but she can't go.' 

^ Can't? she must,' cried Albinia and Gilbert to- 
gether. 

* She says you are very kind, but that she camiot. I 
said everything I could; I told her she should wear 
Sophy's muslin mantle, or my second best polka.' 

' No doubt you went and made a great favour of it,' 
said Gilbert. 

* No, I assure you I did not ; I persuaded her with all 
my might ; I said mamma wished it, and we all wished 
it ; and I am sure she would really have been very gla 
if she could have gone.' 

^ It can't be the school, it is holiday time,' said Gil- 
bert. * I'll go and see what is the matter.' 

* No, I will go,' said Albinia ; * I will ask the old 
ladies to luncheon here, and that will make her happy, 
and make it easier for Sophy to get on with Sarah Anne 
Drury.' 

Lucy had seen Q6nevi6ve alone ; Albinia took her by 
storm before Madame Belmarch^, whose little black eyes 
sparkled as she assured Mrs. Kendal that the child mer- 
ited that and every other pleasure ; and when Genevieve 
attempted to whisper objections, silenced her with an 
embrace, saying, ' Ah ! my love, where is your gratitude 
to Madame 1 Have no fears for us. Your pleasure will 
be ours for months to come.' 

The liquid sweetness of Genevieve's eyes spoke of no 
want of gratitude, and with glee which she no longer 
strove to repress, she tripped away to equip herself, and 
Albinia heard her clear young voice up-stairs, singing 
away the burthen of some queer old French ditty. 

Albinia found Gilbert and Sophy in disgrace with Lucy 
for having gathered the choicest flowers, which they were 
eagerly ma^ng up into bouquets. Genevieve's was ready 



THE YOmfO feU'JfilVMO'l'illfiS. 245 

before she arriyed in the prettiest tremor of gratitude and 
anticipation^ and presented to her by Gilbert, whilst Sophj 
looked on, and blushed crimson, face, neck, and all, as 
Genevieve smelt and admired the white roses that had so 
cruelly been reft from Lucy's beloved tree. 

With every advantage of pretty features, good com» 
plexion, and nice figure, the English Lucy, in her blue- 
and-white checked silk, worked muslin mantle, and white 
chip bonnet with blue ribbons, was eclipsed by the small 
swarthy French girl, in that very old black silk dress, 
and white trimmed coarse straw bonnet, just enlivened 
by little pink bows at the neck and wrists. It had long 
been acknowledged that Genevieve was unrivalled in the 
art of tying bows, and those pink ones were paragons, 
redolent of all her own fresh sprightly archness and re-' 
finement. Albinia herself was the best representative of 
English good looks, and never had she been more brill- 
iant, her rich chestnut hair waving so prettily on the 
rounded contour of her happy face, her fair cheek tinted 
with such a healthy fresh bloom, her grey eyes laughing 
with merry softness, her whole person so alert and elastic 
with exuberant life and enjoyment, that grandmamma 
was as happy in watching her as if she had been her own 
daughter, and stroked down the broad flounces of her 
changeable silk, and admired her black lace, as if she felt 
the whole family exalted by Mrs. Kendal's appearance. 

It was a merry journey, through the meadows and 
cornfields, laughing in the summer sunshine ; and in due 
time they saw the fiag upon Fairmead steeple, and Al- 
binia nodded to curtseying old friends at the cottage 
doors. The lodge gate swung open wide, and the well- 
known striped marquee was seen among the trees in 
the distance, as they went up the carriage-road ; but at 
the little iron gate leading to the shrubbery there was a 
halt; Mr, Ferrars called to the carriage to stop, and 
opened the door. At the same moment Albinia gave a 
cry of wonder, and exclaimed, * Why, Fred ! is William 
here ? ' 

* No ; at Montreal, but very well,' was the answer, 
with a hearty shake of the hand. 



246 THS TOUKa STBP-MOTBm. 

* Edmtmd, it is Fred Ferrars,' said Albinia. * Why, 
Maurioe, you never told us.' 

* He took us by surprise yesterday.' 

^Yes; I landed yesterday morning, went to the 
Family Office, found Belraven was nowhere, and the 
aunts at Fairmead, and so came on here,' explabied Fred, 
as he finished shaking hands with all the party, and 
walked on beside Albinia. He was tall, fresh-coloured, a 
ffood deal like her, with a long &ir moustache, and light, 
handsome figure ; and Lucy, though rather disconcerted 
at G6neyi&ve being taken for one of themselves, began 
eagerly to wliisper her conviction that he was Lord Bel- 
raven's brother, niiamma's first cousin, captain in the 25th 
Lancers, and aide-de-camp to General Ferrars. 

It was the first meeting since an awkward parting. 
The only son of a foolish second marriage, and early 1^ 
an orphan, Frederick Ferrars had grown up imder the 
good aunts' charge, somewhat neglected by his half> 
brother, by many years his senior. He was little older 
than Albinia, and a merry, bantering affection had always 
subsisted between them, till he had begun to give it the 
air of something more than friendship. Albinia was, 
however, of a nature to seek for something of depth and 
repose, on which to rely for support and andiorage. 
Fred's vivacious disposition had never for a moment won 
her serious attachment ; she was ' very fond of him,' but 
no more ; her heart was set on sharing her brother's life 
as a country pastor. She went to Fairmead, Fred was 
carried off by the General to Canada, and she presently 
heard of his hopeless attachment to a lovely Yankee, 
whom he met on board the steamer. All this was now 
cast behind the seven most eventful years of Albinia's 
life ; and in the dignity of her matronhood, she looked 
more than ever on ' poor Fred ' as a boy, and was de. 
lighted to see him again, and to hear of her brother 
William. 

A few^ steps brought them to the shade of the large 
cedar-tree, where was seated Winifred, and Mrs. Annes- 
ley was with her. The greetings had hardly been ex- 
changed before the Colonel came upon them in all his 



XSOB TOUKG SIXP-HOTHBB* 247 

glory, with his pretty shy bride nieoe on his arm, looking 
very like the Alice Percy of the old times, when Fred 
used to tease the two girls, 

G^nevi&ve was made heartily welcome, and Sophia's 
absence deplored, and then the Colonel carried off the 
younger ones to the archery, giving his arm to the much 
flattered Lucy, and followed by Gilbert and Genevieve, 
with Willie and Mary adhering to them closely, and their 
gOTemess in sight. 

Mr. Ferrars and Mr. Kendal fell into one of their dis- 
cussions, and paced up and down the shady walk, while 
Albinia sat, in the complete coutentmeut, beween Alice 
and Winifred, witii Fred Ferrars on the turf at their feet, 
living over again the bygone days, laughing over ancient 
jokes, resuscitating past scrapes, tracing the lot of old 
companions, or telling mischievous anecdotes of eadi 
other, for the very purpose of being contradicted. They 
were much too light-hearted to note the lapse of time, till 
Maurice came to take his wife home, thinking she had 
had &tigue enough. Mrs. Annesley went with her, and 
Albinia, on looking for her husband, was told that he had 
fallen in with some old Indian acquaintances ; and Charles 
Bury presently came to find his wife, and conduct the 
party to luncheon. There was no formal meal, but a 
perpetual refection laid out in the dining-room, for relays 
of guests. Fred took care of Albinia, and here they met 
Miss Ferrars, who had been with one of her old friends, 
to whom she was delighted to exhibit her nephew and 
niece in their prime of good looks. 

^But I must go,' said Albinia; * having found the 
provisions, I must secure that Mr. Kendal and the chil- 
dren are not famished.' 

Fred came with her, and she turned down the long 
alley leading to the archery-ground. He felt old times 
so far renewed as to resume their habits of confidence, 
and began, * I suppose the General has not told you what 
has brought me home 1 ' 

^ He has not so much as told me you were coming.' 

* Ay, ay, of course you know how he treats those 
things.' 



248 THB TOUNa BTEPmCOTHXB* 

* Oh — ^h ! ' said Albinia, perfectly understanding. 

'But,' contiaued Frederick, eagerly, *even he con- 
fesses that she is the very sweetest — I mean,' as Albinia 
smiled at this evident embellishment, ' even he has not a 
word of objection to make, except the old story about 
married officers.' 

' And who is she, Fred ? ' 

' Oh, mamma, there you are ! ' and Lucy joined them 
as they emerged on the bowling-green, where stood the 
two bright targets, and the groups of archers, whose 
shafts, for the most part, flew far and wide. 

* Where are the rest, my dear ? are they shooting 1 ' 
*Yes; Gilbert has been teaching G6nevi6ve — there, 

she is shooting now.' 

The little light figure stood in advance. Gilbert 
held her arrows, and another gentleman appeared to be 
counselling her. There seemed to be general exultation 
when one of her arrows touched the white ring outside 
the tai^et. 

' That has been her best shot,' said Lucy. ^ I am sure 
I would not shoot in public unless I knew how ! ' 

* Do you not like shooting 1 ' asked Captain Ferrars ; 
and Lucy smiled, and lost her discontented air. 

' It hurts my fingers,' she said ; ' and I have always so 
much to do in the garden.' 

Albinia asked if she had had anything to eat. 

' Oh, yes ; the Colonel asked Gilbert to carve in the 
tent there, for the children and governesses,' said Lucy ; 
* he and Genevifeve were very busy there ; but I found I 
was not of much use, so I came away with the Miss Bar- 
tons to look at the flowers ; but now they are shooting, 
and I could not think what had become of you.' 

And Lucy bestowed her company on Albinia and the 
Captain, reducing him to dashing, disconnected talk, till 
they met Mr. Kendal, searching for them in the same fear 
that they were starving, and anxious to introduce his wife 
to his Indian friends. When at the end of the path, Al- 
binia looked round, the Lancer had disappeared, and Lucy 
was walking by her father, trying to look serenely amused 
by a discussion on the annexation of the Punjaub. 



THX TOtnrO ffrBP-HOTHXB. 249 

The afternoon was spent in pleasant loitering, chiefly 
with Miss Ferrars, who asked much after Sophy, la- 
mented greatly over Winifred's delicate health, and was 
very anxious to know what could have brought Fred 
home, being much afraid it was some foolish attachment. 

Ominous notes were heard from the band, and the 
Colonel came to tell' them that there was to be dancing 
till it was dark enough for the fireworks ; his little Alice 
had promised him her first country-dance. Fred Ferrars 
emerged again with a half-laughing, half-imploring, ' For 
the sake of old times, Albinia ! We've been partners 
before ! ' 

• You'll take care of Lucy,'' said Albinia, turning to 
her aunt ; but Mr. Winthrop had already taken pity on 
her, and Albinia was led off by her cousin to her place in 
the fast lengthening rank. How she enjoyed it! She 
had cared little for London balls afler the first novelty, 
but these Fairmead dtoces on the turf had always had an 
Arcadian charm to her fancy, and were the more delight- 
ful after so long an interval, in the renewal of the old 
scene, and the recognition of so many familiar faces. 

With bounding step and laughing lips she flew down 
the middle, more exhilarated every moment, exchanging 
merry scraps of talk with her partner or bright fragments 
as she poussetted with pair after pair; and when the 
dance was over, with glowing complexion and eyes still 
dancing, she took Fred's arm, and heard the renewal of 
his broken story — ^the praise of his Emily, the fairest of 
Canadians, whom even the General could not dislike, 
though, thorough soldier as he was, he would fain have 
had all military men as devoid of encumbrances as him- 
self, and thought an officer's wife one of the most mis- 
placed articles in the world. Poor Fred had bieen in love 
so often, that he laboured under the great vexation of not 
being able to persuade any of his friends to regard his 
passion seriously, but Albinia was quite sisterly enough 
to believe him this time, and give full sympathy to his 
hopes and fears. Far less wealth had fallen to his lot 
than to that of his cousins, and his marriage must depend 
on what his brother would * do for him, a point on which 

11* 



260 THX Yomra stspkothsb. 

lie tried to be aanguiney and Albinia enoonraged him 

against probability, for Lord Belraven was never liberal 
towards his relations, and had lately married an expen- 
sive wife, with whom he lived chiefly abroad. 

This topic was not exhausted when Fred fell a prey 
to the Ck)lonel, who insisted on his dancing again, and Al> 
binia tellins him to do his duty, he turned towards a 
group thathad coalesced round Miss Ferrars, consisting 
of Lucy, Gilbert, G6nevi6ve, and the children from the 

f>arsonage, and at once bore off the little Frenchwoman, 
eaving more than one countenance blank. Lucy and 
Willie did their best for mutual consolation, while Al- 
binia undertook to preside over her niece and a still 
smaller partner in red velvet, in a quadrille. It was 
amusing to watch the puzzled downright motions of the 
sturdy little bluff King Hal, and the earnest precision of 
the prim little damsel, and Albinia hovering round, now 
handing one, now pointing to the other, keeping lightly 
out of every one's way, and far more playful than either 
of the small performers in this solemn undertaking. As 
it concluded she found that Mr. Kendal had been watdiing 
her, with much entertainment, and she was glad to take 
his arm, and assure herself that he had not been misera- 
ble, but had been down to the parsonage, where he had 
read the newspaper in peace, and had enjoyed a cup of 
tea in quiet with Winifred and Mrs. Annesley. 

The dancing had been transferred to the tent, which 
presented a very pretty scene from without, looking 
through the drooping festoons of evergreens at the lamps 
and the figures flitting to and fro in their measured move- 
ments, while the shrubs and dark foliage of the trees fell 
into gloom around ; and above, the sky assumed the deep 
tranquil blue of night, the pale bright stars shining out 
one by one. The Rendals were alone in the terrace, £ur 
enough from the gay tumult to be sensible of the con- 
trast. 

I * How beautiful ! ' said Albinia : * it is like a poem.' 
I * I was just thinking so,' he answered. 

^ This is the best part of all,' she said, feeling, though 
hardly expressing to herself the repose of his lofty, silent 



7HB TOUKG STBP-HOTHER. 251 

serenity, standing aloof from gaiety and noise. She could 
have compared nim and her lively cousin to the evening 
stillness contrasted with the mirthful scene in the tent ; 
and though her nature seemed to beloqg to the busy 
woiid, her best enjoyment lay with what calmed and 
raised her above herself; and she was perfectly happy, 
standing still with her arm upon that of her silent hus- 
band. 

' lliese things are well imagined,' said he. * The free- 
dom and absence of formality give space for being alone 
and quiet.' 

^ Yes,' said Albinia saucily, ' when that is what you 
go into society for.' 

^ You have me there,' he said, smiling ; * but I must 
own how much I enjoyed coming back from the parson- 
age by myself I am glad we brought that little G^ne- 
v^ve ; she seems to be so perfectly in her element. I 
saw her amusing a set of little children in the prettiest, 
most animated way; and afterwards, when the young 
people were playing at some game, her gestures were so 
sprightly and graceful, that no one could look at the 
English girls beside her. Indeed I think she was mak- 
ing quite a sensation ; your cousin seemed to admire her 
Tery much. If she were but in another station, she 
would shine anywhere.' 

* How much you have seen, Edmund I ' 

^ I have been a spectator, you an actor,' he said, 
smiling. 

Her quiescence did not long continue, for the poor 
people had begun to assemble on the gravel road before the 
front door ta see the fireworks, and she hurried away to 
renew her acquaintance with her village friends, guessing 
at them in the dark, asking after old mothers and daugh- 
ters at service, inquiring the names of new babies, and 
\ whether the old ones were at school, and excusing herself 
for having become ' quite a stranger.' 

In the midst — whish — hiss, with steady swiftness, up 
^hot In the dark purple air the first rocket, bursting and 
scattering a rain of stars. There was an audible gasp in 
^he surrounding homely world, a few little cries^ and a 



THB TOVnSO SCTF-HOTHEB* 

big boy dutehed tight hold of her arm, saying, 'I be 
afeard.' She was explaining away his alarms, whoi she 
heard her brother's voioe, and found her arm drawn into 
his. . 

*Here you are, then,' he said; M thought I heard 
your voice.' 

* Oh ! Maurice, I have hardly seen you. Let us have 
a nice quiet turn in the park together.' 

He resisted, saying, ^ I don't approve of parents and 
guardians losing themselves. What have you done with 
all your children ? ' 

* What have you done with yours ] ' retorted she. 

*I left Willie and Mary at the window with their 
governess; I came to see that these other children of 
mine were orderly.' 

* Most proper, prudential, and exemplary Maurice ! * 
his sister laughed. ^ Now I have an equally hearty b^ 
lief in my cMldren being somewhere, sure to turn up 
when wanted. Come, I want to get out from the trees 
to look for Colonel Bury's harvest moon, foir I believe 
she is an imposition. 

*' No, I'm not coming. You don't understand your du- 
ties. Your young ladies ought always to know where to 
find you, and you where to find them.' 

'Oh! Maurice, what must you have suffered before 
you imported Winifred to chaperon me ! ' 

' You are in so mad a mood, that I shall attempt only 
one moral maxim, and that is, that no one should set up 
for a chaperon, till she has retired from business on her 
own account.' 

' That's a stroke at my dancing with poor Fred, but it 
was his only chance of speaking to me/ 

^ Not particularly at the dancing.' 

* Well, then—' 

' You'll see by-and-bye. It was not your fiiult if those 
girls were not in all sorts of predicaments.' 

^ I believe you think life is made up of predicaments. 
And I want to hear whether William has written to you 
anything about poor Fred.' 

^ Omy that he is more mad than ever^ and that he let 



TBM TOUNa BTEP-XOIBXB, 258 

him go, thinking that there is no chance of Belraven help- 
ing him, but that it may wear itself out on the journey. 

A revolving circle shedding festoons of purple and 
crimson jets of fire made all their talk inter] ectional, and 
they had by this time reached the terrace, where all the 
company were assembled, the open windows at regular 
intervals casting bewildering lights on the heads and 
shoulders in front of them. 'Hien out burst a grand 
wheat-sheaf of yellow flame with crimson ears and beards, 
by whose light Albinia recognized Gilbert standing close 
to her in the shadow, and asked him where the rest 
were. 

*• I can't tell ; Lucy and my father were here just 
now.' 

^ Are you feeling the chill, Gilbert ? ' asked Albinia, 
struck by something in his tone. ' You had better look 
from the window.' 

He neither moved nor made answer, but a great illu- 
mination of Colonel Bury's coatofarms, with Roman 
candles and Chinese trees at the four comers, engrossed 
every eye, and flashing on every face, enabled Albinia to 
join Mr. Kendal, who was with Lucy and Miss Ferrars. 
No one knew where G6nevi^ve was, but Albinia was con- 
fident that she could take good care of herself, and was 
not too uneasy to enjoy the grand representation of 
Windsor Castle, and the finale of interlaced ciphers 
amidst a multitude of little firetful sputtering tongues of 
flame. Then it was, amid good nights, donning of shawls, 
and announcing of carriages, that Captain Ferrars and 
Miss Durant made their appearance together, having been 
* looking everywhere for Mrs. Kendal,' and it was not in 
the nature of a brother not to look a little arch, though 
Albinia returned him as resolute and satisfied a glance as 
could express ' Well, what of that 1 ' 

In consideration of the night air, Mr. Kendal put Gil- 
bert inside the carriage, and mounted the box, to revel in 
the pleasures of silence. The four within talked inces- 
santly and compared adventures. Lucy had been grati- 
fied by being patronized by Miss Ferrars, and likewise 
had much to say of the smaller firy, and went into rap- 



254 TBS TOUIIO RXP-KOTHSB. 

tures about many s ' dear litfle thing,' none of whom 
would, however, stand a comparison with Maurice ; Gil- 
bert was criticai upon every one's beauty ; and G^ne- 
vi^ve was more animated than all, telling anecdotes with 
great piquancy, and rehearsing the comical Yankee stories 
she had heard from detain Ferrars. She had enjoyed 
with the zest and intensity of a peculiarly congenial tem- 
perament, and she seemed not to be able to cease from 
woricing off her excitement in repetitions of her thanks, 
and in discussing the endless delights the day had afibrded. 
But the day had begun early, and the way was long, 
so remarks became scanty, and answers were brief and 
went astray, and Albinia thought she was travelling for 
ever to Montreal, when she was startled by a pettish ex- 
clamation from Lucy ; ' Is that all ? It was not worth 
while to wake me only to see the moon.' 

* I beg your pardon,' said Genevieve, ^ but I thought 
Mrs. Kendal wi^ed to see it rise.' 

^ Thank you, G^nevidve,' said Albinia, opening her 
sleepy eyes ; ^ she is as little worth seeing as a moon can 
well bo; a waning moon does well to keep untimely 
hours.' «. 

^ Why do you think she is so much more beautiful in 
tlie crescent, Mrs. Kendal f ' said Genevieve, in the most 
wakeful manner. 

^ I'm sure I don't know,' said Albinia, subsiding into 
her comer. 

Ms it from the situation of the mountains in the 
moon ? ' continued the pertinacious damsel. 

* In Africa ? ' said Albinia, well-nigh asleep ; but Gen- 
evieve's laugh roused her agiun, partly because she 
thought it less mannerly than accoided with the girl's 
usual politeness. No more sleep was allowed her; an 
astronomical passion seemed to have possessed the young 
lady, and she dashed into the tides, and the causes of the 
harvest-moon, and volcanoes, and thunderbolts, and Lord 
Kosse's telescope, forcing her tired friend to reply by 
direct appeals, till Albinia almost wished her in the moon 
herself; and was rejoiced when in the dim greyness of 
the early summer dawn, the carriage drew up at Madame 



THX T<H7NO 8!nDP»K0TRSB. 255 

Belmardi^'s house. As the light ftom the weary maid's 
candle flashed on Genevieve's face, it revealed such a glow 
of deep crimson on each brown dieek, that Albinia per- 
ceived that the excitement must have been almost fever, 
and went to bed speculating on the strange effects of a 
touch of gaiety on the hereditary French nature, startling 
her at once from her graceful propriety and humility of de- 
meanour, into such extraordinary obtrusive talkativeness. 

She heard more the next morning that vexed her. 
Lucy was seriously of opinion that U^nevi^ve had not 
been sufficiently retiring. She herself had heedfully kept 
under the wing of Mary's governess, mamma, or Miss 
Ferrars, and nobody had paid her any particular attei^- 
tion ; but G^nevi^ve had been with Gilbert half the day, 
had had all the gentlemen round her at the archery and 
in the games, had no end of partners in the dances, and 
had walked about in the dark with Captain Ferrars. 
Lucy was sure she was taken for her sister, and whenever 
she had told people the truth, they had said how pretty 
she was. ' You are jealous, Lucy,' Sophy said. 

Lucy protested that it was quite the reverse. She 
was glad poor little Jenny should meet with any notice ; 
there was no cause of jealousy of her, and she tm^w back 
her head in conscious beauty ; * only she was sorry for 
Jenny, for they were quite turning her head, and laugh- 
ing at her all the time.' 

Abinia's candour burst out as usual, ^ Say no more 
about it^ my dear ; it was a mistake from beginning to 
end. I was too much taken up with my own diversion 
to attend to you, and now you are punishing me for it. 
I lefb you to take care of yourselves, and exposed poor 
little Genevieve to unkind remarks.' 

*I don't know what I said,' began Lucy. *I don't 
mean to blame her ; it was just as she always is with 
Gilbert, so very French.' 

That word settled it — Lucy pronounced it with in- 
effable pity and contempt — she was far less able to for- 
give another for being attractive, than for trying to 
attract. 

Sophy looked excessively hurt and grieved, and in 



35d THX TOUH0 STEP-MOTHBB. 

private asked her step-mother what she thought of 6611- 
evi&ye's behaviour. 

' My dear, I cannot tell ; I think she was ofTher guard 
with excitement ; but all was very new to her, and there 
was every excuse. I was too happy to be wise, so no 
wonder she was.' 

* And do you think Captain Ferrars was laughing at 
her 1 I wish you would tell her, mamma. Gilbert says 
he is a fine, flourishing officer in moustaches, who, he is 
sure, flirts with and breaks the heart of every girl he 
meets. If he is right, mamnui, it would cure G^nevi^ve 
to tell her so, and you would not mind it, though he is 
^ur cousin.' 

'Poor Fred!' said Albinia. *I am sorry Gilbert 
conceived such a notion. But Genevieve's heart is too 
sensible to break in that way, even if Fred wished it, and 
I can acquit him of such savage intentions. I never should 
have seen any harm in all tluit Genevieve did last night 
if she had not talked us to death coming home I Still I 
think she was off her balance and I own I am disappointed* 
But we don't know what it is to be bom French I ' 



• •• 



CHAPTER XVI. 

^Mrs. Kendal, dear Madame, a great favour, could 
you spare me a few moments 1 ' 

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 intoxi- 
cation, 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 I you were so good to make excuses for me. I 
am so ashamed when I think how tedious, how disagree- 



THE TOUKO flTBP>XOIHXB. 86 f 

able I must haye 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— enjoy- 
ment — no ! ' stammered G6nevi^ve. * 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, trans- 
formed by calico hangings into what the embroidered in- 
scription called 'Auiel d P Amour filial et maternel* 
bearing a plaster vase full of fresh flowers ; but ere Al- 
binia had time to admire this achievement of French sen- 
timent, G^nevi^ve 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 yon 
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 un- 
reason, 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 ou the pink envelope the hand- 
writing concerned her even more nearly. 

* Gilbert ! ' she cried. * My dear, what is this ? Do 
you wish me to read it 1 ' 

' Yes ; for I cannot.' Genevieve turned away, as in 
his best hand, and bad it was, Albinia read the commence- 
ment— 

' My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! ' 

In mute astonishment Albinia looked up, and met 
G6nevi6ve'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. 



258 TBB TOVnO STBP-lCOiIHflB. 

Hiink I am yonr 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 — tills is not the kind of thing that would touch 
your affections, I am sure.' 

* Oh I 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 
80 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, 
Gdnevi^ve, 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 in- 
compatibility of their station, and she plunged out by 
asking, ' And how long has this been going on % ' 

G^nevi^ve 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 enjeune homme? 

* And this is his first letter % ' 

* Oh I yes, madame.' 

* He complains that you will not hear him ? Do you 
dislike to tell me if anydiing had passed previously % ' 

* Thursday,' was slightly whispered. 

* Thursday ! ah ! now I begin to understand the cause 
of your being suddenly moon-struck.' 

*' Ah 1 madame, pardon me 1 ' 

* I see — it was the only way to avoid a tete^tSte ! ' 
said Albinia. * Well done, G6nevi6ve. What had he 
been saying to you, my dear ? ' 

Poor Genevieve cast about for s word and finally fal- 
tered out, ' Des soiiisesy Madame.'^ 

' That I can well believe,' said Albinia. ' Well, my 
deaiv— ' 



* I think/ pursued Genevi^ye, ' that he wbb vexed be- 
cause I would not let him absorb me exdusively at Fair- 
mead ; 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 exdtement, and that he would forget ; but 
on Saturday he met me in the flagged path, and oh 1 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 men- 
tion it, but I see he has been watdiing me, and 1 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 1 ' 

' Oh, no ! 1 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 G6nevi^ve. ' 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 exclama- 
tion, and burst out 'That abominable treacherous old 
wooden doll of a mademoiselle.' 

* No, Miss Belmarch6 knows nothing* of it. No one 
ever shall if you will promise to drive this nonsense out 
of your head.' 



860 THX TOUKe 8m^-M0THSB« 

^ 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 impor- 
tunity. It is exc^Mlingly 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 b^ged me to restore 
your letter, and tell you never to repeat the liberty.' 

He struck his hand on his brow, crying vehemently, 
* Gruel girl 1 She little knows me — ^you little know me, 
if you think I am to be silenced thus. 1 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 unex- 
pected violence. 

* Yes ! ' he exclidmed. ' 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 oflfer 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 1 ' 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 £uicy ii^ a boy so much 
younger, and of a different class 1 ' 

' It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all at her 
feet!' 



TBB TOUNG BI1EP*M0THXB. 261 

* 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 her- 
self to a mere lad. An unprincipled person might pre- 
tend it for the sake of your property — a silly one might 
like you because you are good-looking and well man- 
nered ; 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 t ' cried Gilbert, 
in a melo-dramatic 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 selBsh as to continue the pursuit, and if so, I must have 
recourse to his authority.' 

* Oh I 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, 
^d 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 dif- 
ferent ways, trying to look unconcerned. 

' Never mind,' said Albinia to herself. * Was not 
Fred quite as bad about me, and look at him now I Yes, 
Gilbert must go to India, it will cure him ; or if it should 
not, his affection will be respectable, and worth consid* 
eration. If he were but older, and this were the genuine 



262 IHB TOtTKG 6TBF-M0THBB* 

article, I would fight for him, but — * And she sat down 
to write a loving note to Genevieve. Her sanguine dis* 
position 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 break&st. 

About eleven o'clock the Fairmead pony-carriage 
stopped at the door, containing Mr. Ferrars, the Captain, 
Aunt Grertrude, 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 sol^ 
dier, but now, struck with awe at Ihe 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 ac- 
count of his absence, said, ^Yery strange,' and looked 
annoyed. 

Gaptain Ferrars seemed to have expected to see his 



THS TOUNG STBP-HOTHBB* 208 

bright little partner of Thursdaj, for he inquired for her, 
and Willie imparted the information that Fred had taken 
her for Sophy all the time I Fred laughed, aiid ow|ied 
it, but asked if she were not really the goveniessl ^ A 
governess', said Albinia, ' but not ours ; ' and an explana- 
tion 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 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 1 ' 

When Albinia was alone with her brother, she could 
not help saying, ' Maurice, you were right to scold me ; I 
reproadied you with thinking life made up of pr^dica* 
ments. I think mine is made of blunders I ' 

* Ah ! I saw you were harassed to-day,' said her brother 
kindly. 

* Whenever one is happy, one does something wrong 1 ' 

* I guess — ^ 

* You are generous not to say you warned me months 
ago. Mind, lit is no fault of hers, she is behaving beauti- 
fully ; but oh I 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 some- 
thing inaudible about not knowing the time. His depres- 
sion 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 G6nevi6ve's name, and looked 
reproachful, that it was evident that she was his confi- 
dante. 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 



264 THE TOtTNG 8TEP-MOTHBB. 

of her sense, and hardly made allowance for the different 
aspect of the love-sorrows of seventeen, viewed from iif* 
teen 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 t^te-d-i^tes that 
could hardly fail to fill Sophy's romantic head with folly. 
At the end of another week, Albinia received the fol- 
lowing 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 hon- 
our 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 per- 
severance 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 per- 
plexity and vexation to you. Entreating your pardon, 
* Your most faithful and obliged servant, 

' Genevieve Celeste Durant.* 

What was to be done? That broken pledge over- 
powered 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 Gil- 
bert, to whom she returned the letter, saying, ' Oh, Gil- 
bert, 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 ? * 



TBB TOtTNQ ffTSP-MOTHJER. 265 

* You promised neirer to persecute her again.' 

* There may he two opinions as to what persecution 
means,' said Gilbert 

' I little thought of subterfuges. I trusted you.' 

^ Mrs. Kendal 1 hear me,' he passionately cried. ^ You 

knew not the misery you imposed. To live so near, and 

not a word, not a look I 1 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 
nateful fences of society, that she does not dare to con- 
fess—' 

' For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of acting a 
part.' 

' No 1 ' 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 I ' said Albinia, * you conceited person ! ' 

* Well 1 ' cried the boy, so much nettled by her sar* 
casm that he did not know what he said, ' I think — con- 
sidering — 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, nol 
I did not mean that ! No, I only mean I have no fair 
play — she will not even think. Oh I if I had but been 
Dom in the same station of life ! ' 

Gilbert making entrechats with a little fiddle I It had 
nearly overthrown her gravity, and she made no direct 
answer, only sayinjr, * Well, Gilbert, these talks are use- 
less. 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 

1« 



266 THB TOUKQ flXKP-MOTHEB. 

promises, but no more treaties of secrecy could he ob- 
tain ; she would only say that she should not speak im- 
mediately, 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 G6nevi6ve, 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 G^nevi^vo 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 temp- 
tation ? ' 

' 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 I they would not think of it ; I don't believe they 
could argue ; they are not like the new-fashioned Boman 
Catholics of whom you are thinking, madame.' 

* And are there no enthusiastic young novices ? ' 

* I should think no one would ever be a novice ihere,^ 
said G6nevi6ve. 

* You seem to be bent on destroying all the romance 
of convents, G^nevi^ve I ' 

* 1 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 Had- 
minster Hall in the l^tst century were Boman Catholics, 



THB TOUNO STKP-HOTHEB. 267 

and a daughter had professed at a oonvent 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 I a stage-eoach 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 sister- 
hood ! ' 

* 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 sister- 
hood had striven to exist ever since the days of James II,' 

^ Are any of these sisters living still ? ' 

* Only poor old Mother Ther^se, who was a little pen- 
sionnaire 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, G^nevi^ve i ' 
' If they have any pupils from the town, perhaps I 
may help to teach them Trench. And I shall have plenty 
of time for my music. Oh I madame, would you lend 
me a little of your music to copv ? ' 

* With all my heart. Any books f ' 

'Oh I that would be the greatest kindness of all I 
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 1' 

* And put out your eyes, my dear 1 But you may 
turn out my whole lace-drawer if you think anything 
there will be a pleasure to the old ladies.' 

* Ah I you do not guess the pleasure, madame. Nee- 
dlework 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 f^te in itself.' 

' Well ! my dear, it is very right of you ; and I do 



268 THx Toinro enacB-uarassu 

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 1 ' 

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, giv- 
ing 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 ' 

* I wish it were I,' said Sophy ; * but you k^ow— * 

* 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 coniirm 
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 



tSB TOUHO SIXMCOTHXB* 269 

Tallooii, and seeing the dear old bearer, and taking all 
my presents there ; but you see, of course, mAmm^^ 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 1 ' 

* I thought you knew how to value her for herself, so 
good and so admirable — ^a lady in everythinc — ^with such 
perfect manners, I thought you would have oeen pleased 
and proud that Gilbert's choice was so much nobler than 
beauty, or rank, or &shion 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 sep- 
arate them : you have shut G6nevi^ve 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, uxough I do think 
G6nevi^ve 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 convention^ity 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 I ' 

' Mamma ! 'Tis her self-command — ^ 

* Nonsense I His attentions are nothing but distress 
to her I Sensible grown-up young women are not apt to 
be flattered by importunity from silly boys. Has he told 
you otherwise 1 ' 

* He thinks — he hopes, at least — ^and I am sure — it is 
all stifled by her sense of duty, and fear of oflfending you, 
or appearing mercenary.' 



270 THB TOUNO STBSP-MOTHBBi. 

* All delusion ! ' said Albinia ; ' there's not a spark of 
oonsdousness 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 I you ought to know your father better than 
to say that I ' cried Albinia^ as if it had been disrespect to 
him. 

* Then you think he would never allow it I You really 
think that such a creature as G6nevi^ve, as perfect a lady 
as ever existed, must always be a victim to these hateful 
rules about station.' 

* No,' said Albinia, ' cert^nly 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 1 ' 

* 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 cir- 
cumstances, 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 1 ' 

* I did not say that, Sophy.' 

* Suppose,' continued the e^^er 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. 



TRB TOVlfG flCTP^XOTHEB* 271 

^ And he would take her out to Calcutta, and have no 
Drurys and Osboms to bother her I Oh I it would be 
beautiful 1 I would watch over her while ho 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 1' said 
Sophy. 'And you said yourself that would be con* 
stancy 1 ' 

* 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 re* 
peated, ' 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 
&ther would consent — ' but seeing Sophy's look of disap- 
pointment, ' I see no harm in your su^esting it, for it is 
his only chance with either of them, and would be tiia 
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 crest- 
fallen, 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 mom- 
ing-room to entreat her interference in his behalf, appeal- 
ing 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 



273 IHB TOnrO nXpwKOTOSB; 



about upon the duurs, snd muttered in tlie fretfiilness of 
diildish despair something about its being very hard, 
irhen 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 I ' said Albinia^ with a flash of 
her eye that he felt to his backbone. 

*' 1 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 1 
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 rea- 
sonable 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 I ' 

^ And you will not speak a word for me ! ' 

'No! Speak for yourself!' and she lefl 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 vexa- 
tion than she had anticipated, * So our plans are over- 
thrown. Gilbert tells me he ha^an invincible dislike to 
Calcutta. Had you any such idea ? ' 

' Not till your cousin's letter arrived. What did yoa 
say to him ? ' 

'He was so much afridd 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 



InduL I told him I wiidied he had made me aware of it 
aooner^ and desired to know what profession he really 
preferrod. 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 mudi temptation. I see you 
are not satisfied, Albinia, yet your wishes were one of 
my motives.' 

' Thank you— onoe I should,' said Albinia ; ' but, Ed- 
mund, I see how wrong it was to have concealed anything 
from you ; ' and thereupon she informed him of Gilbert's 
passion for Grenevi^ve 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 
ignoi-ance, and spared the trouble of taking notice of it^ 
and thus giving it importance. 

^ It will pass ofl^' 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 G6nevi^ve I She must break up her grand* 
mother's home after all I ' 

' 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 youl' cried Albinia; ^yet I doubt* 
12* 



874 THB TOUKO STBP-KOTHXB. 

However, her senrioes would be quite equivalent in any 
school to the lessons she wants. I'll write to Mrs. £1- 
^ood — ^ and she was absorbed in the raster-office in 
her brain, when Mr. Kendal continued-— 

* This is quite unexpected. I could not have supposed 
the boy so foolish 1 However, if you please, I will speak 
to him, tell him that I was unaware of his folly, and in- 
sist on his giving it up.' 

' I should be very glad if you would.' 

Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfac* 
tory than Albinia thought that G^nevi^ve deserved. His 
frenzy had tended to wear itself out, and he had been so 
dreadfully alarmed about India and his &ther, 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 com« 
fort or respectability, and nothing but your youth and 
ignorance could excuse your besetting any young woman 
with importunities which she had shown to be disagree- 
able to her.' 

There was no outcry of despiur, only a melancholy 
muttering. Then Mr. Kendal pronounced his decree in 
terms more explicit than those in which Albinia had ex- 
acted 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 unsanc* 
tioned 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 Ken- 
dal,' 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. 



THX TOCKO STBP-KOTHBB. 275 

Two difficult points remained — the disposing of the 
young people. Gilbert was still over-young for the uni* 
▼ersity, as well as very backward and ill-prepared^ and 
the obstinate remains of the cough made his father un- 
willing to send him from home. And his presence made 
Genevieve's absence necessary. 

The place had begun to loom in the distance. A for- 
mer governess of Albinia's, who would have done almost 
anything to please her, had lately been led 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 Gene- 
vieve, 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 Belmardi^s. 

It almost consoled her for what she had been exceed- 
ingly 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 ofler, 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 Belmardi^, smiling sadly, 
^ you see it has been for die dear diild's real good that 
our weakness has been conquered.' 

Genevieve was written to, and consented to every- 
thing, and when Mr. Kendal took Gilbert away to visit 
• an old friend, his wife called for G6nevi^ve 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 be- 
tween them, with steps down to it. She had not been 



376 IBB TOVHO 8TKP-M0TBKB* 

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 G6nevi&ve, with her little box, quite 
ready — ^no excuse for seeing anything or anybody else. 

If G^nevi&ve were sad at the proposal of leaving home 
and going among strai^rs, she took care to hide all that 
could pain Mrs. Kend^, and her cheerful French spirit 
really enjoyed tiie prospect of new scenes, and bounded 
with enterprise at tne hope of a new life and fresh tield 
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 Ital« 
ian ! When I can teach them, I shall be able to make 
grandmamma easy for life.' 

G6nevidve skipped out of the carriage and into her 
aunt's arms, as if alive only to the present delight of be- 
ing at home again. It was a contrast to Stay's dolorous 
visage. Poor Sophy 1 she was living in a perpetual strife 
with the outwani tokens of sulkiness, forcing herself 
against the grain to make civil answers, and pretend to 
TO interested when she felt wretched and morose. That 
Gilbert, afcer so many ravings, should have relinquished, 
from mere cowardice, that one hope of earning G^nevi^ve 
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 n)oney upon a beautiful book as a parting gift, and 
kept it beside her, missing occasion after occasion of pre* 
senting it and falling at eadi into a perfect agony behind 
that impalpable, yet impassable, barrier of embarrass- 
ment. 

It was not till the very last evening, when G6nevi^ve 
had actually wished her good-bye, and left the house, that 
she grew desperate. She hastily put on bonnet and doak. 



IBB Tocnro 0isF*xognaHB. 27? 

and pursued G^nevi^ye up the street, overtaking ber at 
last, and causing her to look round dose to her own door* 

' M7 dear Miss Sophy,' cried G^neyi^ve, ' what is the 
matter } You are quite oyercome.' 

' This book — ' said Sophy — it was all she could say. 

* Loye — ^yes,' said G^neyi^ve. ' Admiration — ^no. 

' You shall not say that,' cried Sophy. ' I haye found 
what is really dignified and disinterested, and you must 
let me admire you, Jenny, it makes me comfortable.' 

G^neyidye smiled. ' I would not commit an egoism,' 
she said ; ' but if the sense of admiration do you good, I 
Wish it h^ a worthier cause.' 

' There's no one to admire but you,' said Sophy. ' I 
think it yery 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 trith gratitude ! ' 

' Yes, mamma is mamma, and not like any one else ; 
but even she is obliged to be rational, and do the injus* 
tice, whateyeir she feels,' said Sophy. 

' Oh I not injustice — kindness I I shall be able to 
earn more for grandmamma 1 ' 

' 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 G6nevi6ve. * Oh I I always loved 
them, they make a home wherever they are. I am thank- 
ful 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 G6nevi6ve 
would have taken her to the little parlour ; but opening 



878 VBK Toima sibp-hothsr. 

the door of the scfaooLioomy she sank breathlees into a 
sitting position on the carpetless boards. 

Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found 
Sophy's anus thrown round her, pressing her almost to 
strangulation. 

' Oh I I wanted to do it — ^I never could. Won't 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 
G6nevi^ve. * Oh I 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 I But I am frightened— it must 
have cost — 1' 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 f ' 

* Mine f yes 1 ' said Sophy, on the borders of offence. 
' I know what you mean, Genevieve, but you may trust 
me. I would not take you in.' 

G^nevidve was blushing intensely, but taking courage 
she bestowed a shower of ardent embraces and expres- 
sions of gratitude, mingled with excuses for her precau^ 
tion. ^ Ohl 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 un- 
locked ; ^ 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 Gteevi^ve, 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 1 ' quoth Sophy. 

'They are my pleasure. Besides I have always 
thought it a blessing that my business in life, though so 



fHB Tomra stbp-xothxb. 270 

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 G^nevi^ve, ' I am not in a position for mar* 
riage — grandmamma has often told me so 1 ' 

' Things sometimes happen,' pursued Sophy. ' Mam* 
ma 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 ob« 
jections 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 at- 
tention, and £eu1 of the task that the good Gk>d has com- 
mitted 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 wUl 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 be- 
come 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 
Fairmeadr 

Mademoiselle Belmarche was here attracted by th$ 
voices. Sophy started up from the ground, made some un* 
intelligible excuse, and while Mademoiselle was confounded 
with admiration at the si^t of the book, inflicted anothei 
boa-constrictor embrace, and hurried away. 



280 TBB TOUSO 8IBP4C0THSB. 



CHAPTER XVIL 



Planets hostQe to the tender passion must have been 
in theascendanty for the result of Captain Ferrars's pursuit 
of his brother to Italy was the wholesome certainty that 
his own slender portion was all he had to reckon upon, 
BefOTe returning to Canada, he came to Bayford to pour 
out his troubles to his cousin, and to induce her, if he 
could induce no one else, to advise his immediate marriage. 
It was the first time he had been really engaged, and his 
affection had not only stood three months' absence, but 
had so much elevated his shatter-brained though frank and 
honest temperament, that Albinia conceived a high opinion 
of * Emily,' and did her best to persuade him to be pa- 
tient, and wait for promotion. 

Sophy likewise approved of him this time, perhaps be* 
cause he was so opposite a specimen of the genus lover 
from that presented by her brother. Gilbert had' not been 
able to help enjoying himself while from home, but his 
spirits sank on his return ; he lay about on the grass in 
doleful dejection, studied little but L. E. L., lost appetite, 
and reproachfully fondled his cough ; but Albinia was now 
more compassionate than Sophy, whom she was obliged to 
rebuke for an unsisterly disregard toward his woes. 

* 1 can't help it,' said Sophy ; < I can't believe in him 
now I' 

* Yes, you ought to believe that he is really unhappy, 
and be more gentle and considerate with hijn.' 

* If it had been earnest, he would have sacrificed him- 
self instead of Genevieve.' 

^ Ah ! Sophy, some day you will learn to make excuses 
for other people, and not be so intolerant.' 

* I never make excuses.' 

^ Except for Maurice,' said Albinia. * If you viewed 
other people as you do him, your judgments would be 
gentler.' 

Sophy's conscientiousness, like her romance, was hard, 
high, and strict ; but while she had as little mercy on 
herself as on others, and while there were some soft spots 



in her adamantine judgment, there was hope that these 
TTonld spread, and, without lowering her tone^ make her 
more merciful. 

She corresponded constantly with Genevieve, who 
seemed very happily placed ; Mrs. Elwood was delighted 
with her, and she with Mrs. Elwood ; and her lively let- 
ters showed no signs of pining for home. Sophy felt as 
if it were a duty to her friend, to do what in her lay to 
prevent the two old ladies &om heing dull, and spent an 
hour with them every week, not herself contributiog much 
to their amusement, but pleasing them by the attention, 
and hearing much that was very curious of their old-world 
recollections. 

Ever since that unlucky penny-club-day, when she 
had declared that she hated poor people, she had been let 
alone on that subject ; and though principle had made her 
use her needle in their behalf shyness and reserve had 
kept her back from all intercourse with them ; but in her 
wish to compensate for G6nevieve*s absence, she volun- 
teered to take charge of her vacant Sunday-school class, 
and obtained leave to have the girls at home on the after* 
noons for an hour and a half. This was enough for one 
who worked as she did, making a conscience of every 
word, and toiling to prepare her lessons, writing out her 
questions beforehand, and begging for advice upon them. 

* My dear,' said Albinia, ^ you must alter this — ^you 
see this question does not grow out of the last answer.* 

* Tes,' said Sophy, ' that must have been what puzzled 
^ them last Sunday : ihej want connexion.' 

* Nothing like logic to teach one to be simple,' said 
Albinia. 

' I can't see the use of all this trouble,' put in Lucy. 
'Why can't you ask them just what comes into your 
head, as I always do ? ' 

' Suppose mistakes came into my head.' 

* Oh ! they would not find it out if they did I I de- 
clare ! — what's this — Persian f Are you going to teach 
them Persian 1' 

' No ; it is Greek. Tou see it is a piece of a Psalm, 



282 THX TOtTKO ffTEP-KOtHEB. 

a quotation rather different in the New Testament. I 
wrote it down to ask papa what it is in Hebrew.' 

* By-the-bye, Sophy,' continued Lucy, ' how could you 
let Susan Price come to church with lace sleeves — ^abso- 
lute lace sleeves ! ' 

'Hadshel' 

* There — ^you never see anything! Mamma, would 
not it be more sensible to keep- thdr dress in order, than 
to go poking into Hebrew, which can't be of use to any 
one?' 

There was more reason than might appear in what 
Lucy said : the girls of her olass were more orderly, and 
fonder of her tlum Sophy's of the grave young lady whose 
earnestness oppressed them, and whose 8h3mess looked 
dislike and pride. As to finding fault with their dress, 
she privately told Albinia that she could not commit such 
a discourtesy, and was answered that no one but Mrs. 
Dusautoy need interfere. 

' I will go and ask Mrs. Dusautoy what she wishes,' 
said Albinia. 'I should be glad if she would modify 
Lucy^s sumptuary laws. To fall foul of every trifle only 
makes the girls think of their dress.' 

Albinia found Mrs. Dusautoy busied in writing notes 
on mourning paper. 

* Here is a note I had written to you,' she said. ' I 
am sending over to Hadminster to see if any of the 
curates can take the services to-morrow.' 

Albinia looked at the note while Mrs. Dusautoy wrote 
on hurriedly. She read that there could be no daily ser- 
vices at present, the Vicar having been summoned to 
Paris by the sudden death of Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy. 
As the image of a well-endowed widow, always trying to 
force her way into higher society, arose before Albinid, 
she could hardly wait till the letter was despatched, tq 
break out in amazement, 

' Was she a relation of yours 1 Even the name never 
made me think of it ! ' 

^ It is a pity she cannot have the gratification of hear- 
ing it, poor woman,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ' but it is a ^t 
that she did poor George Dusautoy the honour to marry 
him.' 



THE YOXnXG SIBP^XOTHSB* 288 

* Mr. Dusautoy's brother 1 * 

* Ay — he was a youiig surgeon, just set up in practice, 
exactly like John — ^nay, some people thought him still 
finer-looking. She was a Miss Greenaway Cavendish, a 
stockbroker's heiress of a certain age.' 

^ * Oh ! ' expressively cried Albinia. 

*You may say so,' returned Mrs. Dusautoy. *She 
made him put away his profession, and set up for taste 
and elegant idleness.' 

' And he submitted ? * 

' There was a great deal of the meek giant in him, 
and he believed implicitly in the honour she had done 
him. It would have been very touching, if it had not 
been so provoking, to see how patiently and humbly that 
fine young man gave up all that would have made him 
happy, to bend to ner caprices and pretensions.' 

* Did you ever see them together 1 ' 

' No, I never saw her at ail, and him only once. I 
never knew John really savage but once, and that was at 
her not letting him come to our wedding ; but she did 
give him leave of absence for one fortnight, when we 
were at Lauriston. How happy the brothers were ! It 
did one good to hear their great voices about the house ; 
and they were like boys on a stolen frolic, when John 
took him to prescribe for some of our poor people. He 
used to talk of bringing us his little son — the one pleas- 
ure of his life — ^but he never was allowed. Oh, how I 
used to long to stir up a mutiny I ' cried Mrs. Dusautoy, 
quite unknowing that she ruled her own lion with a leash 
of silk. ' If she had appreciated him, it would have been 
bearable ; but to her he was no more than the handsome 
young doctor, whom she had made a gentleman, and not 
a very good piece of work of it either ! Little she recked 
of the great loving heart that had thrown itself away on 
her, and the patience that bore with her ; and she tried 
to hinder all the liberal bountiful actions that were all he 
cared to do with his means ! i wish the boy may re- 
member him I ' 

* How long has he been dead 1 ' 

' These ten years. He was drowned in a lake storm 



lo Swiljiu'UDd y^cf^/t cuw^ to Iniy sn ks ooidd not 
•iriin. It was Jofao's coe emit gricf^-lw caaiot mcntiaii 
bim «▼€» Dcrv* And re^lj/ she added, gniHng, * 1 do 
b«;#i«Te he ha« Wooght kinuelf to fimcj h was a ▼crj 
happy marriage, Bcie has alwara been tctj cHil ; Im^ 
she haa been chieilj abroad, and nercr weald take bis 
advice about aendhig her boy to acfaooL' 

* WhatbeoDmeaofbiin nowt' 

* He is our charge. Ifflbe was oo the way boine fit>nL 
Italy, when riie waa taken ill at Paria, and ^ed at tbe 
end of the week/ 

'How old la bet' 

' About nineteoi, I finu^. He most bare bad an odd 
aort of education ; bat if he ia a nice lad, it will be a great 
pleaaore to John to haTe aomething yoong about the 
nouae/ 

M waa thinking that Mr. Dnaantoy hardly wanted 
more carea/ 

' So have I,' aaid her fnend, smiling ; * and I have 
been laying a plot againat him. Yon aee, he ia as strong 
as a lion, and never yet waa too tired to sleep ; but it U 
rather a tempting of Providence to keep 3,589 people 
and fourteen services in a week resting upon one man V 

'Exactly what his churchwarden has preached to 
him; 

' Moreover, he cannot be in two places at once, let 
alone half-ardozen. Now, my Lancashire people have 
written in quest of a title for holy orders for a young 
man who has just gone through Cambridge with great 
credit, and it strikes me that he might at once help John, 
and cram Master Algernon.' 

* And Gilbert I ' cried Albinia. * Oh, if you will 
import a tutor for Gilbert, we shall be for ever beholden 
to you I ' 

*• I had thought of him. I have no doubt that he is 
much better taught than Algernon ; but I am not afnud 
of this poor fellow bringing home bad habits, and they 
will be good companions. I reckon upon you and Mr. 
Kendal as great auxiliaries, and I don't think John will 
be able to withstand our united forces.' 



XHB TOUNO STBMCOTBSB. 286 

On the way home, on emerging from the alley, Al- 
binia encountered Gilbert, just parting with another 
youth, who walked off quickly on the Tremblam road, 
while she inquired who it was. 

*' That ? ' said Gilbert ; ' oh 1 that was young Tritton. 
He has been away learning farming in Scotland. We 
speak when we meet, for old acquaintance sake and 
ihatJ 

The Bayford mind was diverted from the romance of 
Genevieve by the enormous fortune of the vicar's nephew, 
whose capital was in their mouths and imaginations 
swelled into his yearly income. Swarms of cards of 
inquiry were left at the vicarage; and Mrs. Meadows 
and Lucy enjoyed the reflected dignity of being able to 
say that Mrs. Kendal was continually there. And so she 
was, for Mrs. Dusautoy was drooping, though more in 
body than visibly in spirit, and needed both companion- 
ship and assistance in supporting the charge left by her 
absent Atlas. 

He was not gone a moment longer than necessary, 
and took her by surprise at last, while Albinia and Sophy 
were sitting on the lawn with her, when she welcomed 
the nephew and the Vicar, holding out a hand to each, and 
thanked them for taking care of * Fanny.' * Here, Alger- 
non,' he continued, * here are two of our best friends, Mrs. 
Kendal and Miss Sophy.' 

There was a stiff bow from a stiff altitude. The youth 
was on the gigantic Dusautoy scale, looking taller even 
than his uncle, from his manner of holding himself with 
his chin somewhat elevated. He had a good ruddy sun* 
burnt complexion, shining brown hair, and regular fea- 
tures; and Albinia could respond heartily to the good 
Vicar's exclamation, as he followed her down to the gate 
for the sake of saying, 

' Well-grown lad, isn't that ? And a very good- 
hearted fellow, too, poor boy — the very picture of his 
dear father. Well, and how has Fanny been ? ' 

He stayed to be reassured that his return was all 
his Fanny wanted, and then hurried back to her, while 
Albinia and Sophy pursued their way down the hill. 



< News fer gnudnunuHL We mnt gire her a par* 
iieolar dttienffikm of the hero.' 

' How ogijr be tbougfat me ! ' and Sopiij, qpaantlj, 

* My desu-, I believe tbat is the fint tbing j<m dindt 
^ when joo meet a stranger ! ' 

' 1 MW it this time/ retomed Sophj ' His dnn went 
up in the air at once. He set me down for Mis. Kendal, 
and joa for Miss 8ophj/ 

' Nonsense/ said Albinia for the inveterate yoothful- 
ness of her bright complexion and sonny hair was almost 
a sore subject with her. 'Your always fimcying that 
trery one is disfnisted with yon, is as silly as if yon 
Imagined yourself transeendently beautifuL It is mere 
•eli^fxjcupation, and helps to make you blunt and shy.' 

* Mamma/ said Sophy, * tell me one thing. Did yon 
ever think yourself pretty ? ' 

* I have thought myself looking so, under favourable 
oircumstancesy but that's all. You are as far from ugli- 
ness as I am, and have as little need to think of it. As 
far as features go, there's the making of a much hand- 
somer woman in you than in me.' 

Sophy laughed. A certain yearning for personal 
beauty was a curious part of her character, and she would 
have been ashamed to own the pleasure those few words 
had given her, or how much serenity and forbearance 
they wore worth ; and her good-humour was put to the 
proof that evening, for grandmamma had a tea-party, bent 
on extracting the full description of the great Algernon 
Orconawav Cavendish Dusautoy, Esquire. Lucy^s first 
sight was loss at her ease. Elizabeth Osbom, with whom 
■he kept up a fitAil intimacy, summoned her mysteriously 
into her garden, to show her a peep-hole through a little 
dusty window in the tool-house, whence could he descried 
the vicarage garden, and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, as, 
with a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, 

* Stately stept he east the wa\ and stately stept he west* 

Lucy was so much amused, that she could not help 
reporting it at home, where Gilbert forgot his sorrows, 
in building up a mischievous romance in honour of the 
hole in the * sweet and lovely walL' 



THS T0UN6 STBP-XOTaSB. ' 287 

But the parents' feud did not seem -likely to hold out. 
A hundred thousand pounds on one side of the wall, and 
three single daughters on the other, Mrs. Osbom was not 
the woman to trust to the ' wall's hole ; ' and so Mr. Du- 
sau toy's enemy laid down her colours ; and he was too 
kind-hearted to trace her sudden politeness to the source. 

Mr. Dusautoy acceded to the scheme devised by his 
wife, and measures were at onc& taken for engaging the 
curate. When Albinia went to talk the matter over at 
the parsonage, Lucy accompanied her ; but the object of 
her curiosity was not in the room ; and when she had 
heard that he was fond of drawing, and that his horses 
were to be kept at the King's Head stables, the conversa- 
tion drifted away, and she grew restless, and begged Mrs. 
Dusautoy to allow her to replenish the faded bouquets 
on the table. No sooner was she in the garden, than 
Mrs. Dusautoy put on an arch look, and lowering her 
voice, said, 

^ Oh ! it is such fun I He does despise us so im- 
mensely.' 

' Despise— you ? ' 

^ He is a good boy, faithful to his training. Now his 
poor mother's axioms were, that the English are vulgar, 
country English more vulgar, Fanny Dusautoy the most 
vulgar I I wish we always as heartily accepted what we 
are taught.' 

* He must be intolerable.' 

* No, he is very condescending and patronizing to the 
savages. He really is fond of his uncle ; and John is so 
much hurt if I notice his peculiarities, that I have been 
dying to have my laugh out.' 

* Can Mr. Dusautoy bear with pretension ? ' 

* It is not pretension, only calm faith in the lessons of 
his youth. Look,' she added, becoming less personal at 
Lucy's re-entrance, and pointing to a small, highly- var- 
nished oil-painting of a red terra cotta vase, holding a 
rose, a rhododendron before it, and half a water-melon 
grinning behind, newly severed by a knife. 

^Is that what people bring home from Italy now-a- 
days 1 ' said Albinia. 



288 TBE TOUirO SIEP-XOTBXB. 

* That is an original production.' 

* Did Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy do that ? ' cried Lucy. 

* Genre is his style,' was the reply. * His mother was 
resolved he should be an amateur, and I give his master 
great credit.' 

' Especially for that not being a Madonna,' said Al- 
binia. 'I congratulate you on his having so safe an 
amusement.' 

' Yes ; it disposes of him and of the spare room. He 
cannot exist without an atelier.^ 

Just then the Vicar entered. 

* Ah ! Algernon's picture,' began he, who had never 
been known to look at one, except the fat cattle in the 
Illustrated News, * What do you think of it f Has he 
not made a good hand of the pitcher ? ' 

Albinia gratified him by owning that the pitcher was 
round ; and Lucy was in perfect rapture at the * dear lit- 
tle spots ' in the rhododendron. 

' A poor way of spending a lad's time,' said the ttncle ; 
' but it is better than nothing ; and I call the knife very 
good : I declare you might take it up,' and he squeezed 
up his eyes to enhance the illusion. 

A slow and wide opening of the door admitted the 
lofty presence of Algernon Cavendish Dusautoy, with 
another small picture in his hand. Becoming aware of 
the visitors, he saluted them with a dignified movement 
of his head, and erecting his chin, gazed at them over it. 

* So you have brought us another picture, Algernon,' 
said his uncle. ^Mrs. Kendal has just been admiring 
your red jar.' 

' Have you a taste for art % ' demanded Mr. Cavendish 
Dusautoy, turning to her with magnificent suavity. 

* I used to be very fond of drawing.' 

* Genre is my style, he pursued, dmost overthrowing 
her gravity by the original of his aunt's imitation. * I 
took lessons of old Barbouille-— excellent master. Truth 
and nature, those were his maxims ; and from the mo- 
ment I heard them, I said, " This is my man." We used 
positively to live in the Borghese. There ! ' as he walked 
backwards, after adjusting his production in the best 
light. 



THB TOUITG SIXP-MOTHEB. 289 

* A snipe,' said Albinia. 

' A snipe diat I killed in the Pontine marshes.' 

^ There is very good shooting about Anxur,' said 
Albinia. 

' You have been at Rome 1 ' He permitted himself a 
little animation at discovering any one within the pale of 
civilization. 

' For one fortnight in the course of a galloping tour 
with mj two brothers/ said Albinia. * All the Continent 
in one long vacation I ' 

' That was much to be regretted. It is m j maxim to 
go through every museum thoroughly.' 

'I can't regret,' said Albinia. 'I should be very 
sorry to give up my bright indistinct haze of glorious 
memories, though I was too young to appreciate all I 
saw.' 

' For my part, I have grown up among works of art. 
My whole existence has been moulded on them, and I 
feel an inexpressible void without them. I shall be most 
happy to introduce you into my atelier^ and show you 
my notes en the various Musees, I preserved them merely 
as a trifling memorial ; but many connoUBeurs have told 
me that I ought to print them as a Catalogue raisonnie 
for private circulation, of course. I should be sorry to 
interfere with Murray, but on the whole I decided other- 
wise : I should be so much bored with applications.' 

Mrs. Dusautoy's wicked glance had so nearly demol- 
ished the restraint on her friend's dimples, that she turned 
her back on her, and commended the finish of a solitary 
downy feather that lay detached beside the bird. 

' My maxim is truth to nature, at any cost of pains,' 
said the youth, not exactly gratified, for homage was his 
native element, but graciously proceeding to point out 
the merits of the composition. 

Albinia's composure could endure no more, and she 
took her leave, Mr. Dusautoy coming down the hill with 
her to repeat, and this time somewhat wistfully, 

* A fine lad, is he not, poor fellow ? ' 

With perfect sincerity, she could praise his good looks. 
' He has had a quantity of sad stuff thrust ou him by 
13 



290 THB TOtTEra 8KBP*lCOrHSB. 

tiie people who hare been about bis poor motber,' said 
Mr. Dusaatoy. ' She could never bear to part with him, 
and no w<Hider9 poor thing ; and she must have let a Tery 
odd sort of people get about her abroad — they've flat- 
tered that poor lad to the top of his bent, you see ; but 
he's a very good boy for all that, very warm-hearted.' 

* He must be very amiable for his mother to have been 
able to manage him all this while.' 

* Just what I say 1 ' cried the Vicar, his honest &oe 
clearing. ' Many youths would have run into all that is 
bad, brought up in that way ; but only consider what 
disadvantages he has had ! When we get him to see his 
real standing a little better — ^I say, could not you let us 
have your young people to come up this evening, have a 
little music, and make it lively ? 1 suppose Fanny and I 
are growing old, though I never thought so before. Will 
you come, Lucy, there's a good girl, and bring your 
mother and sister f The lads must be capital friends.' 

Lucy promised with sparkling eyes, and the Vicar 
strode off, saying he should depend on the three. 

Gilbert * supposed he was in for it,' but ^ did not see 
the use of it ; ' he was sick of the name of ' that polysyl- 
lable/ and ' should see enough of him when Mr. Hope 
came, worse luck.' 

The result of the evening was, that Lucy was enrap- 
tured at the discovery that this most accomplished hero 
sang Italian songs to the loveliest guitar in the world, 
and was very much offended with Sophy for wishing to 
know whether mamma really thought him so very 
clever. 

Immediately afler the Ordination arrived Mr. Hope, a 
very youthful, small, and delicate-looking man, whom 
Mr. Dusautoy could have lifted as easily as his own 
Fanny, with short sight, timid nature, scholarly habits, 
weak nerves, and an inaudible voice. 

Of great intellect, having read deeply, and reading 
still more deeply, he had the utmost dread of ladies, and 
not even his countrywoman, Mrs. Dusautoy, could draw 
him out. He threw his whole soul into the work, win- 
©mg the hearts of the infent-school and the old women. 



TiiX TOUNO SXEF^MOTHSB. 201 

but discamfitiiig the oongr^ation by the weaknesfl of his 
voice, and the length and depth of his sermons. There 
was one in especial which very few heard, and no one 
entered into except Sophy, who held an hour's argument 
over it with her father, till they arrived at such lengthy 
names of heresies, that poor grandmamma asked if it 
were right to talk Persian on a Sunday evening. 

He conscientiously tutored his two pupils, but there 
was no common ground between him and them. Ex- 
cepting his extfa intellect, there was no boyhood in him. 
A town-bred scholar, a straight constitutional upon a 
clean road was his wildest dream of exercise ; he had 
never mounted a horse, did not know a chicken from a 
partridge, except on the table, was too short-sighted for 
pictures, and esteemed no music except Gregorians. 

The two youths were far more alive to his deficiencies 
than to his endowments; Algernon contemned him for 
being a bookseller's son, with nothing to live on but his 
fellowship and curacy, and Gilbert looked down on his 
ignorance of every matter of common life and excessive 
bashfulness. Mr. Dusautoy would have had less satis- 
fection in the growing intimacy between the lads, had he 
known that it had been cemented by inveigling poor Mr. 
Hope into a marsh in search of cotton-grass, which, at 
Gilbert's instigation, Algernon avouched to be a new sort 
of Indian corn, grown in Italy for feeding silkworms. 

An intimacy there was, rather from constant inter- 
course than from positive liking. Gilbert saw through 
and disdained young Dusautoy's dulness and self conse- 
quence; but good-natured, kindly, and unoccupied, he 
had no objection to associate with him, showing him 
English ways, trying to hinder him from needlessly ex- 
posing himself, and secretly amused with his pretension, 
Algernon, with his fine horses, expensive appointments, 
and lofty air, was neither a discreditable nor unpleasant 
companion. Mr. Kendal had given his son a horse, 
which, without costing the guineas that Algernon had 
* refused ' for each of his steeds, was a very respectable- 
looking animal, and the two young gentlemen, starting 
on their daily ride, were a grand spectacle for more than 
little Maurice. 



292 THX YOtJNa 8TEP-H0THXB. 

Gilbert had suffered some eclipse. Once he had been 
tbe grand partly the only indisputable gentleman ; but 
now Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy had entirely surpassed him 
both in self-assertion and in the grounds for it. His in- 
cipient dandyisms faded into insignificance beside the 
splendours of the heir of thousands ; and he, who among 
all his faults had never numbered conceit or forwardness, 
had little chance beside such an implicit believer in his 
own greatness. 

Nor was Bayford likely to diminish that faith. The non- 
adorers might be easily enumerated — ^his uncle and aunt, 
his tutor, his groom, Mr. and Mrs. Eendal, Gilbert and 
Sophy ; the rest all believed in him as thoroughly as he 
did in himselfl His wealth was undoubted, his accom- 
plishments were rated at his own advertisement, and his 
magnanimous condescension was esteemed at full value. 
BeaJly handsome, good-natured and sociable, he delighted 
to instruct his worshippers by his maxims, and to bend 
graciously to their homage. The young ladies had but 
one cynosure 1 Few eyes were there that did not pursue 
his every movement, few hearts that did not bound at his 
approach, few tongues that did not chronicle his daily 
comings and goings. 

* It would save much trouble,* said Albinia, * if a. court 
circular could be put into the Bayford paper.* 

The Kendals were the only persons whom Algernon 
regarded as in any way on a footing with him. Finding 
that the lady was a Ferrars, and had been in Italy, he 
regarded her as fit company, and whenever they met, fa- 
voured her with the chief and choicest of his maxims, lit- 
tle knowing how she and his aunt presumed to discuss 
him in private. 

Without being ill-disposed, he had been exceedingly 
ill-taught ; his mother, the child of a grasping vulgar 
father, had little religious impression, and that Httle had 
not been fostered by the lax habits of a seK-expatriated 
Englishwoman, and very soon after his arrival at Bayford 
his disregard of ordinary English proprieties had made it-> 
self apparent On the first Sunday he went to church in 
the morning, but spent the evening in pacing the garden 



THB TOUNQ 8TE3^-MOTHSB. 298. 

with a cigar ; and on the afternoon of that day week his 
sunt was startled hy the sound of horse's hoofs on the 
road. Mr. Dusautoy was at school, and she started up, 
met the young gentleman, and asked him what strange 
mistake could have heen made. He made her a slight 
bow, and loftily said he was always accustomed to ride at 
that hour I ^ But not on Sunday I ' she exclaimed. He 
was not aware of any objection. She told him his uncle 
would be much displeased ; he replied politely that he 
would account to his uncle for his conduct ; begged her 
pardon, but he could not keep his horse waiting. 

Mrs. Dusautoy went back, fairly cried at Uie thought 
other husband's vexation, and the scandal to the whole town. 

The Vicar was, of course, intensely annoyed, though 
he still could make excuses for the poor boy, and laid all 
to the score of ignorance and foreign education. He 
made Algernon clearly understand that the Sunday ride 
must not be repeated. Algernon mumbled something 
about compromising his uncle and offending English prej« 
udices, by which he reserved to himself the belief that he 
yielded out of magnanimity, not because he could not 
help it ; but he could not forgive his aunt for her peremp- 
tory opposition ; he became unpleasantly sullen and morose 
as regularly as the Sunday came round, and revenged 
himseK by pacing the verandah with his cigar, or prac- 
tising anything but sacred music on his key-bugle in his 
painting-room. 

The youth was really fond of his uncle, but he had 
imbibed all his mother's contempt for her sister-in-law. 
Used to be wheedled by an idolizing mother, and to reign 
over her court of parasites, he had no notion of obeying, 
and a direct command or opposition roused his sullen 
temper of passive resistance. When he found ^ that little 
nobody of a Mrs. John Dusautoy * so far from being a 
flatterer, or an adorer of his perfections, inclined to laugh 
at him, and bent on keeping him in order, all the enmity 
of which he was capable arose in his mind, and though in 
general good-natured and not aggressive, he had a decided 
pleasure in doing what she disapproved, and thus assert- 
ing the dignity of a Greenaway Cavendish Dusautoy. ^ 



294 THB YOUK<} BTEP-HOTHXB. 

The atelier was a happy invention. Certainly weari- 
WHne ncMseSy and an aroma of Havannahs would now and 
then proceed therefix>m ; but he was employed there the 
chief part of the day, and fortunately his pictures were of 
small size, and took an infinite quantity of labour, so that 
they could not speedily outrun all the Vicarage walls. 

He favoured the University of Oxford by going up 
with Gilbert for matriculation, when, to the surprise of Mr. 
Hope, he was not plucked. They were to begin their 
residence at the Easter term. Mrs. Dusautoy did not 
confess even ^to Albinia how much she looked forward to 
Easter. 

In early spring, a sudden and short illness took away 
Madame Belmarch^'s brave spirit to its rest^ after sixty 
years of exile and poverty, cheerfully borne. 

There had been no time to summon G^nevi^ve, and 
her aunt would not send for her, but decided on breaking 
up the school, which could no longer be carried on, and 
going to live in the Hadminster convent. And thus, as 
Mr. Kendal hoped, all danger of renewed intercourse be- 
tween his son and Genevieve ended. GHlbert looked pale 
and wretched, and Sophy hoped it was with compunction 
at having banished G6nevi6ve at such a moment^ but not 
a word was said— and that page of early romance was 
turned! 



SSnO OT TOiU I. 



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£ztraot from a review of ''The Heir of BedolyflEb," and "HeartBeaae," 
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" Tex fibst or her wsitings wmoEacADB a ssNSAiioir herb was thi 

* Hsnt,' AND WHAT A SENSATION IT WAS 1 RSTSBBING TO THE BEMAINS OF THE 
TEAS- WASHED OOYBBS OF THE OOPT AFOBESAID, WE FIND IT BELONGED TO THE 

* EIGHTH THOUSAND.' HoW MANY THOUSANDS HAYE BEEN ISSUED SINdB BT 
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TO SPFAK OF BEAL ONBS), FBOM SiB GhABLES GbANDISON DOWN TO THB NUR- 
SERY IDOL Carlton, we haye ltttlb hesitation in pronouncing Sm Ginr 

MOBYILLE, OF BeDOLTFFE, BaRONET, THE MOST ADMIBABLE ONE WE EYEB MET 
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CBELD OF GENIUS AND OF FOBTUNE, OBOWNED WITH THB BEAUTY OF HIS EARLY 
BOLINE88, AND OYEBSHADOWED WITH THE DABKNESS OF HIB HEBEDirABT 
«LOOM, AND THB SOFT AND TOUCHINO SADNESS OF HIB XARLT D1A1B— WHAT A 
aiimON' IB THERE 1 WhAT a YIBION I " 



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