tears, to have been a happy, peaceful refuge for her widowhood and poverty; she grieved over each parting, clung to the Faithfulls, reiterated fond counsels to Isabel, and could hardly bear to detach herself from the great-grandchild. But still it was her own son, and her own home, and Oliver and Cheveleigh were more to her than even James and Dynevor Terrace; so that, though she was sorry, it was not with a melancholy sorrow, and she could still hope against hope, that uncle and nephew might be brought together at last, and that a son of James would yet reign in the dear old place.
Besides, she had not time to be unhappy. She was fully employed nursing Isabel, doing honour to the little one, answering Oliver’s letters, superintending Clara’s wardrobe; choosing parting gifts for innumerable friends, high and low; and making arrangements for the inexperienced household.
Jane’s place was to be–not exactly supplied, but occupied by a cook. Miss Dynevor was to have ‘a personal attendant;’ and Mrs. Beckett begged that Marianne might be chosen, since she could not bear to see the poor thing sent away, when in so much need of care. The diamonds, the French millinery, and Jane’s motherly care, came in strong contrast to the miserable lodging, or the consumptive hospital, which poor Marianne had begun to anticipate; and weeping with gratitude, she declared that she had never seen nor thought of such kindness since her mother died.
Isabel seldom roused herself to understand anything about her servants; but she liked Marianne, and was glad Clara should have her, since she was not strong enough to undertake nursery cares. She believed it had not agreed with her to sit up late. Compunction for having been the cause had never dawned on Isabel’s mind.
Charlotte was to remain at Dynevor Terrace; James and Isabel wished to keep her, and Mrs. Beckett thought her sufficiently indoctrinated with her ways to have some chance of going on well. ‘Besides,’ as Jane said, ‘I can’t be accountable for taking her into that large family, until I see what company there may be. She’s a well-behaved girl enough, but she’s too pretty and too simple-like for me to have her among the common run of servants. I’ll see what I can do for her, when I see what sort of a housekeeper it is.’
And Jane gave Charlotte infinite injunctions, varying from due care of the ‘chaney images’ to reserve with mankind. ‘Because you see, Charlotte’ she said, ‘you’ll be terribly forsaken. Mrs. James, poor dear!–she would not know if the furniture weren’t rubbed once in ten years; but you must make it a pride to yourself to be faithful.’
‘I am faithful!’ cried Charlotte. ‘I never cared for that traitor, Delaford, and his guitar; but I could not get rid of him. And I’ll tell you what–I’ll seal up his fine red book, and all his verses; and you shall leave them in London as you go through, with my compliments. I think that will be proper and scornful.’
‘Hoity-toity! That’s what she’s at! The best thing you can do too, Charlotte; and I’m glad that you’ve too much spirit to pine like poor Marianne. I’d take my affidavit that if the crowner could sit upon her when she dies–and die she will–that there fine gentleman and his guitar will be found at the bottom of her chest. But don’t go off about that now–though ’tis the reason I won’t part from the poor thing till I can help–the better luck for you that you’d got more in your head than vanities and furbelows. What I meant was not being faithful to him out in Peru–that’s your own affair, but the being faithful to your duty to your mistress, whether she’s after you or not. You know what a good servant is, and you’ve got to show it ain’t all eye-service.’
Charlotte cried heartily. No one else was allowed that privilege when the 13th came, excepting Mrs. Frost herself. James, afraid that a scene would hurt his wife, severely forbade Clara to give way; and the poor girl, mute and white, did as she was told, and ventured not a word of farewell, though her embraces were convulsive, and when she went down stairs she could not help kissing Charlotte.
James handed his grandmother to her seat in the carriage which was to take her to the station.
‘Good-bye, my dear,’ she said; ‘I know the day will come when all this will be made up. You know how I have loved you both.’
‘I wish my uncle all good.’
‘I see it now,’ she said, holding his hand between both of hers. ‘It is my fault. I fostered our family pride. May God take away the sin from us both!’
The words were hardly articulate through tears, and perhaps James did not hear. He hurried Clara down the garden and into the carriage, and she had her last nod from Miss Faithfull at the open window. Miss Mercy was at the station, whither school-hours had hindered James from accompanying them, but where they found Lord Ormersfield and Louis.
The warm-hearted little woman was all tears and smiles. ‘Oh! dear Mrs. Frost, I am so sorry, and yet it is selfish. I am so happy! but where shall we find such another neighbour?’
‘Come and see us. You know you are to persuade your sister.’
‘Ah!’ She shook her head. ‘Salome is hard to move. But you–you are such a traveller–you will come to see Mr. James?’
‘I’m eighty to-morrow: I little expect to make any more journeys except one, Mercy. I never look to see poor Northwold more; but it has been a place of blessings to me, and you have been one of them. Don’t think I’m too glad to go away, but I cannot but be thankful that my dear boy is bringing me home to lay me down where my father and his father lie.’
It was said with that peculiar cheerfulness with which happy old age can contemplate the end of the pilgrimage, and she looked at Louis with a sunny smile.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE RESTORATION.
When silent time, wi’ lightly foot,
Had trod on thirty years,
I sought again my native land
Wi’ mony hopes and fears.
As I drew near my ancient pile,
My heart beat a’ the way;
The place I passed seemed yet to speak Of some dear former day.
Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, Wad next their welcome pay;
* * * * * * * *
But sair on ilka well-kenned face
I missed the youthful bloom.
Miss Blamire
Oliver had sent orders to his mother to sleep in London, and proceed the next morning by a train which would arrive at about two o’clock.
On that eventful morning, Clara was the prey of Mrs. Beckett, Marianne, and the French milliner, and in such a flounced glace silk, such a lace mantle, and such a flowery bonnet was she arrayed, that Lord Ormersfield bowed to her as a stranger, and Louis talked of the transformations of the Giraffe. ‘Is it not humiliating,’ she said, ‘to be so altered by finery? You might dress Isabel for ever, and her nobleness would surmount it all.’
‘If you are not the rose, at least you have lived near the rose,’ said Louis. ‘You don’t fall quite short of the character of Miss Dynevor.’
‘I wish I were going to school,’ said Clara, as they passed along familiar streets; ‘then, at least, some one would pity me.’
After two hours spent on the railroad, the train entered a district with the bleakness, but not the beauty, of the neighbourhood of mountains; the fresh September breeze was laden with smoke, and stations stood thick upon the line. As the train dashed up to one of these, a flag was seen waving, and the shout of ‘Cheveleigh, Cheveleigh road!’ greeted them.
On the platform stood a tall footman, in the most crimson of coats, powdered hair, and a stupendous crimson and white shoulder-knot, auch as Clara had only seen going to St. James’s. She would never have imagined that she had any concern with such splendour; but her grandmother asked him if the carriage were there, as a mere matter of course, and Jane devolved on him all luggage cares, as coolly as if she had been ruling over him all his life.
As they issued from the station, a thin, uncertain, boyish cheer rang out, and before them stood a handsome open carriage and four chestnut horses, with crimson postillions, and huge crimson-and-white satin rosettes.
‘Wont they all turn to rats and pumpkins?’ whispered Clara to Louis.
‘Bless the poor boy!’ cried Mrs. Frost, between laughing and crying, ‘what has he been about? Does he think I am the Sheriff’s lady still?’
The party entered the carriage, and the crowd of little boys and girls, flymen and porters, got up another ‘hurrah!’ as the four horses went thundering off, with Mrs. Frost apologizing–‘Poor Oliver’s notions were on such a grand scale!–He had been so long absent, that he did not know how much these things had been disused.’ But no one could look at her bright tearful eyes, and quivering mouth, without seeing that she exulted in her son’s affection and his victory; and after all it was natural to her, and a resumption of old habits.
They drove through two miles of brown flat heath, with far-away mountain outlines, which she greeted as dear friends. Here and there the engine-house of a mine rose up among shabby buildings, and by- and-by was seen a square church-tower, with lofty pinnacles, among which floated forth a flag. The old lady caught hold convulsively of Clara’s hand–‘The old church!–My old church!–See, Clara, that is where your dear grandfather lies!–My last home!’
With brimming eyes Mrs. Frost gazed on it as it came forth more distinctly, and Clara looked with a sense of awe; but rending her away from grave thoughts, shouts burst upon her ears, and above them the pealing crash of all the bells, as they dashed under a splendid triumphal arch, all evergreens and dahlias, forming the word ‘Welcome!’ and were met by a party on horseback waving their hats, while a great hurrah burst out from the numbers who lined the street. Mrs. Frost bowed her thanks and waved her hand. ‘But oh!’ she said, almost sobbing, ‘where am I? This is not Cheveleigh.’
Lord Ormersfield showed her a few old houses that they both recognised, looking antiquated in the midst of a modern growth of narrow, conceited new tenements. The shouting crowd had, to Fitzjocelyn’s eyes, more the aspect of a rabble than of a genuine rejoicing peasantry. What men there were looked beer-attracted rather than reputable, and the main body were whooping boys, women, nurse-girls, and babies. The suspicion crossed him that it was a new generation, without memories of forty years since, wondering rather than welcoming, in spite of arches, bells, and shouts.
After another half-mile, a gate swung wide beneath another arch, all over C. D., the F. studiously omitted; and the carriage wheeled in amid a shower of tight little nosegays from a squadron of school- children. They drove up the long approach, through fir plantations, which drew from Mrs. Frost a cry of friendly recognition–for her husband had planted them; but they had not taken kindly to the soil, and fifty years had produced but a starveling growth. Beyond lay an expanse of parched brown turf, here and there an enclosure of unprosperous trees, and full in front stood the wide space of stuccoed wall, with a great Gothic window full in the midst, and battlements in the castellated style of the early years of the nineteenth century.
No one spoke. After the first glance, Mrs. Frost shut her eyes to restrain the hot tears that arose at the thought of the wintry morning, when ice-drops hung hoary on the fir-trees, as she had driven away from the portal, whence music was now pealing forth a greeting, and where Oliver was standing on the very spot where, with clenched hand, he had vowed that all should be restored.
Alas! how much was in his power to restore?
Gaily-dressed people surrounded the entrance, and, amid triumphant strains from the band, the carriage stopped, and Oliver held out his hand, saying, ‘Welcome home, mother!’
She leant forward, kissed his brow, and suffered him to lead her up the steps to the hall-door, Lord Ormersfield conducting Clara. At the door Mrs. Frost paused, to turn, curtsey, and sign her thanks to the throng who had followed. Her noble aspect and demeanour, so full of dignity and feeling, obtained a fresh and more genuine acclamation; but throughout there was a strange sense of unreality; she seemed like one performing a part to gratify her son. Clara asked her cousin if it were not like acting a play; and it was plain to him that the spectators beheld it with more curiosity than sympathy.
They were a new race. Property had changed hands rapidly in a region of trade and manufacture, and the old Dynevor name had been forgotten past recall, amid the very population who were thriving upon the identical speculations which had swamped Mr. Frost’s fortune. If the crowd without looked like a mob, the assembly within had a parvenu appearance; and as Oliver handed his mother across the hall, he muttered something, as if he were disappointed both in the number and consequence of his guests.
He led her into a magnificent apartment, all gilding, blue brocade, and mirrors, as far as might be after the model of the days of the Shrievalty; but the bare splendour could ill recall the grace and elegance that had then reigned there without effort. Peru had not taught Oliver taste either of the eye or of the mind, and his indefatigable introductions–‘My mother, Mrs. Dynevor, my niece, Miss Dynevor, Lord Ormersfield, Lord Fitzjocelyn,’ came so repeatedly as quite to jingle in their ears.
Sir Andrew Britton, a burly cotton lord, with a wife in all the colours of the rainbow, seemed to be the grand guest. His lady seated herself beside Mrs. Frost, and began to tell her, with a tone of patronage, how good a neighbourhood it was, and how much pleasure she should have in introducing Miss Dynevor.
In vain did Mrs. Frost look for a face she knew, and inquire from her new acquaintance after familiar old names of places and people. The places were either become factories, or some charming new family lived there; and for the people, it seemed as if she might as well aak for antediluvians; Lady Britton had seldom heard their names, or if any trace survived, they had never been on her visiting list.
At last Oliver came up to her, saying, ‘Here, ma’am, Mr. Henderson claims an early acquaintance with you.’
‘Mr. Henderson!’ and she eagerly started up, but looked baffled.
‘Little George Henderson,’ said the grey-headed gentleman–for once a real gentleman–‘I assure you I have not forgotten the happy days I have spent here.’
‘Little George!’ as she took him by both hands–‘who would have thought it! You were little George with the apple cheeks. And are no more of you here?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘They would have been even more glad than I am to welcome you home; they were older, and knew you better.’
‘Ah! I must learn to ask no questions. And yet, that dear sister Fanny of yours–‘
‘Gone many years since, ma’am. She died in India. I hope my daughter Fanny may put you a little mind of her.’
‘Is she not here?’
‘Why, no. I wished to bring her, but she is but fifteen, and mamma will not trust her out without herself. We are quiet people, and the world is growing too gay for us.’
‘Clara and I must come to find you out. Can you believe this tall creature is poor dear Henry’s daughter?’ as Clara hastened to greet her father’s playfellow, with an alacrity which piqued Lady Britton into a supercilious aside to Lord Fitzjocelyn that the Hendersons were in poor circumstances, and no one visited them.
‘And is no one here whom I know? Not one of the old set, George?’ asked the old lady, mournfully.
‘I fear there is hardly any one,’ said Mr. Henderson. ‘All seem even to me new people. Stay, do you recollect old Mrs. Golding?’
After a little confusion, Mr. Henderson’s old Mrs. Golding proved to be Mrs. Frost’s young Mrs. Golding; and, on the eager inquiry whether she were present, ensued the melancholy answer that she was deaf and infirm, only just able to smile with pleasure at the tidings of her old friend’s restoration; and the daughter, whom she could only just believe to be grown up, was a worn, elderly woman. Not even the one heartfelt greeting was without sadness; and Clara likewise met with one solitary satisfaction, and that a very mixed one. Mr. Danvers, the young curate, whom Oliver had not thought worth presenting, was hailed by Fitzjocelyn as if their slight Oxford acquaintance had been an intimacy, and was by him introduced to Clara as belonging to James’s college. She frankly held out her hand, but was discomfited by his inquiry for her brother, whom he had hoped to meet. Louis said something about not expecting the schoolmaster abroad in the half-year, and Clara was not at all grateful to him for relieving her from the embarrassment, but regarded the reply as a shabby prevarication, and was much inclined to speak out; but Louis was drawing the curate into conversation about the population, and hearing but a desponding history. It was interrupted when Oliver, after waiting in vain for more distinguished company, began to marshal his guests to the grand hall, paved with black and white marble, and with a vast extent of wall and window, decked with evergreens, flags, and mottoes. Here a cold collation was prepared, with a band in a music-gallery above, and all the et ceteras dear to county papers. Oliver himself handed in Lady Britton, his mother fell to the lot of the Earl, and Fitzjocelyn received orders to conduct a handsome, young, giggling Mrs. Smithers, who, never having been in contact with a live Lord, wanted to make the most of him, and, before she had arrived at her place, was declaring that it was a most interesting occasion, just like a scene at the Opera.
Louis glanced back to see what became of Clara, and, finding her following with Sir Andrew Britton, contrived to sit immediately opposite to her, at the long, narrow table, with nothing between them but a couple of cold chickens and a tongue garnished with transfixed crayfish. His eyes were, perhaps, a greater support to her than even conversation, for she gathered a little philosophy and charity from their cheering smile and arch twinkling, and she managed to listen civilly to her neighbour, while she saw that her cousin was being very polite to Mrs. Smithers. She was a great way from all other friends, for the table had been spread for a more numerous assembly, and the company sat in little clusters, with dreary gaps between, where moulds of jelly quaked in vain, and lobster-salads wasted their sweetness on the desert air. Her uncle could just be seen in the far perspective at the head of the table, and, between him and the Earl, Louis descried his Aunt Catharine, looking bright, with a little embellishing flush on her withered cheek.
Sir Andrew was not a lady’s man; and, after he had heard how far Miss Dynevor had come to-day, that she had never ridden, and had not seen the Menai tubular bridge, he discontinued the difficult task; and she, finding that he had not even seen the cathedral, which she had passed only fifteen miles off, gave him up, and occupied herself with watching the infinite variety of affectations which Mrs. Smithers was playing off, and the grave diversion with which Louis received them. The lady was evidently trying to discover what had been the intermediate history of Mrs. and Miss Dynevor; and Louis was taking pleasure in baffling her, with cool, quiet answers, especially when she came to the question whether Miss Dynevor had not a brother, and why he was not present. It appeared that Oliver had made almost as if his mother had been buried and dug up again; involving the thirty- four years of her exile in such utter mystery, that people had begun to make all sorts of wild stories to account for her proceedings; and Lord Fitzjocelyn’s explanation that she had lived in her own house in Northwold, and taught him the Latin grammar, seemed quite a disappointment from the simplicity and want of romance.
The weary banquet had arrived at ices, and Clara hoped the end was near, when the worse trial of speeches began. Mr. Henderson was declaring how strongly he felt the honour which had been devolved on him, of expressing the universal joy in having so excellent and much- beloved a neighbour restored by the noble exertions of her son. He said all that the rest of the world ought to have felt, and so heartily and sincerely as to make every one imagine the whole the general sentiment, and the welcoming hurrah was cordial and joyous. Mrs. Frost was deeply touched and gratified, and Lord Ormersfield congratulated himself on having instigated Oliver to give this toast to Mr. Henderson. If Clara could have driven James from her mind, she would have been delighted, but there could be no triumph for her where he was excluded.
The Earl returned thanks on behalf of his aunt, and said a great deal that could have come from the mouth of no one ‘unaccustomed to public speaking,’ ending by proposing the health of ‘Mr. Oliver Frost Dynevor.’ In the midst of ‘the fine old English gentleman,’ while Louis was suppressing a smile at the incongruity, a note was brought to him, which he tossed to Clara, purporting that he was to return thanks for her. She bent over the table to say, ‘You will say nothing I cannot bear to hear,’ folded her hands, and shut her eyes, as if she had been going to stand fire.
Oliver’s clear, harsh tones, incapable of slowness or solemnity, began to return thanks for himself, and pronounce this to be the happy day to which he had been looking throughout his life–the day of restoring the family inheritance to his mother, and the child of his elder brother; he faltered–he never could calmly speak of Henry. Failing the presence of one so dear, he rejoiced, however, to be able to introduce to them his only daughter, and he begged that his friends would drink the health of the heiress of Cheveleigh, Miss Dynevor.
Never did toast apparently conduce so little to the health of the subject. Unprepared as Clara was for such a declaration, it was to her as if she had been publicly denounced as the supplanter of her brother. She became deadly white, and sat bolt upright, stiff and motionless, barely stifling a scream, and her eyes fixed between command and entreaty on her cousin without seeing, far less acknowledging, the bows levelled at her. Louis, alarmed by her looks, saw that no time was to be lost; and rising hastily before any one was ready, perilled his fame for eloquence by rapidly assuring the gentlemen and ladies that Miss Dynevor was truly sensible of the kindness of their welcome, and their manner of receiving the toast. Then pushing back his chair, with ‘never mind,’ to Mrs. Smithers and her scent-bottle, he was at the back of Clara’s chair almost before her confused eyes had missed him in her gasps for breath, and impulse to do something desperate; and so she might, if his voice had not been in her ear, his hand grasping hers, both to console and raise her. ‘Clara, come, take care.’ She obeyed, but trembling so much that he was obliged to support her. Others would have risen in alarm, but he silenced them by signs, and entreaties that no one would frighten her grandmother. There was a large glass door standing open under the Gothic window, and through it he led her out upon a wide green lawn. She drew her breath in sobs, but could not speak. Louis asked her to untie her bonnet, and touched the string, which was merely a streamer. This brought a kind of laugh, but she unfastened the bonnet herself, and the first use she made of her breath was fiercely to exclaim–‘How could you! Why did you not tell them I never will–‘
‘Sit down,’ said Louis, gently. ‘Let me fetch some water.’
‘No–no–let me get away from this place!’ and she almost dragged him along, as fresh cheers and peals of music broke out, till they had entered a lonely walk in a sort of wilderness of shrubs. Still she hurried on, till they came out on a quiet little garden, where the tinkling of a little fountain was the only sound; the water looked clear and fresh with the gold-fish darting in it, and the sun shone calmly on the bright flowers and wavy ferns adorning the rockwork.
‘What are you doing, Clara? You must rest here,’ said he, drawing her down on a rustic bench, intended to represent a crocodile.
‘I can’t rest here! I must go home! I’m going home to Jem!’ she exclaimed, obeying, however, because, though she could run, she could not stand.
‘Dear Clara,’ he said, affectionately, ‘it was much worse than I expected. I never believed he could have committed himself to such an open declaration, especially without warning.’
‘I’ll not stay!’ cried Clara, with all the vehemence of her Dynevor nature. ‘I’ll go straight home to Northwold to-morrow morning–to- night if I could. Yes, I will! I never came here for this!’
‘And what is to become of my poor Aunt Kitty?’
‘She has her Oliver! She would not have me put Jem out of his birthright.’
‘James will not be put into it.’
She wrenched away her hand, and looked at him with all her brother’s fierceness. ‘And you!’ she cried, ‘why could not you speak up like a man, and tell them that I thank none of them, and will have nothing to say to any of them; and that if this is to belong to any one, it must be to my noble, my glorious, generous brother; and, if he hasn’t it, it may go to the Queen, for what I care! I’ll never have one stone of it. Why could you not say so, instead of all that humbug’!’
‘I thought the family had afforded quite spectacles enough for one day,’ said Louis; ‘and besides, I had some pity upon your grandmother, and on your uncle too.’
‘Jem told me grandmamma claimed my first duty; but he never knew of this wicked plan.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Knew that I was to supplant him!’
‘Yes; we all knew it was a threat of your uncle; but we spared you the knowledge, thinking that all might yet be accommodated, and never expecting it would come on you in this sudden way.’
‘Then I think I have been unfairly used,’ cried Clara; ‘I have been brought here on false pretences. As if I would have come near the place if I had known it!’
‘A very false pretence that your grandmother must not be left alone at eighty, by the child whom she brought up.’
‘Oh, Louis! you want to tear me to pieces!’
‘I have pity on my aunt; I have far more pity on your uncle.’ Clara stared at him. ‘Here is a man who started with a grand heroic purpose to redeem the estate, not for himself, but for her and his brother; he exiles himself, he perseveres, till this one pursuit, for which he denies himself home, kindred, wife or child, absorbs and withers him up. He returns to find his brother dead; and the children, for whom he sacrificed all, set against him, and rejecting his favours.’
This was quite a new point of view to Clara. ‘It is his own fault,’ she said.
‘That a misfortune is by our own fault is no comfort,’ said Louis. ‘His apparent neglect, after all, arose from his absorption in the one object.’
‘Yes; but how shameful to wish James to forget his Ordination.’
‘A strong way of putting it. He asked too much: but he would have been, and may yet be, contented with concessions involving nothing wrong. His way of life can hardly have taught him to appreciate James’s scruples, as we do; and even if right and wrong were more neatly partitioned between them than I think they are, it would still be hard on him to find this destined heir spurning his benefits.’
‘What are you coming to, Louis! You think James right?
‘I would give the world to think so, Clara. One motive is too high for praise, the other–No, I will say nothing of it. But I could wish I had not precipitated matters last year.’
‘What, would you have robbed us of our few happy months?’
‘It was your uncle whom I robbed; he would otherwise have come home like a good genius; but he found you all happy without him, and with no gratitude to spare for him. And there he sits at the head of that long melancholy table, trying to bring back days that have gone too far ever to be recalled, and only raising their spectres in this mocking finery; scarcely one man present, whose welcome comes from his heart; his mother past the days of heeding the display, except for his sake; his nephew rejecting him; you indignant and miserable. Oh, Clara! I never saw more plainly money given for that which is not bread, and labour for that which satisfieth not. Empty and hollow as the pageant was, I could better bear to take my part in it, so far as truth would let me, than tell that poor man that the last of his brother’s children rejects him and his benefits.’
‘At this rate, you will make a hero of Uncle Oliver.’
‘It is because he is one of this world’s heroes that he is distasteful to you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Exclusive devotion to one object, grand though it was, has made him the man he appears to us. Think what the spirit must have been that conceived and carried out such a design! Depend upon it there is a greatness in him, which may show, when, as dear granny says, she has cured him of all he learnt away from home. I think that must be the work for which you are all brought together here.’
‘But I can’t thrust out Jem. I won’t stay here on those terms. I shall protest–‘
‘It is not graceful to make an uproar about your own magnanimity, nor to talk of what is to happen after a man’s death. You don’t come here to be heiress, but to take care of your grandmother. There is no need to disturb the future, unless, to be sure, you were obliged to explain your expectations.’
‘Ah! to be sure, any way I could restore it all to James.’
‘Or, better still, you may yet be able to draw the uncle and nephew together, and bring back peace and union.’
‘Then I must stay and bear all this, you think?’
‘As a mere matter of obedience, certainly.’
Clara’s countenance fell.
‘That may deprive it of the brilliance of a voluntary sacrifice; but, after all, it is what makes your course safe and plain.’
‘And very dismal, just because no one will believe so.’
‘So the safer for humility,’ said Louis. ‘Perhaps the dear old Terrace did not offer training and trial enough. I try to believe something of the kind in my own case. If choice had been mine, I should hardly have been exactly what I am; and you know how my chief happiness has been put far from me; but I can imagine that to be at the summit of my wishes might foster my sluggishness, and that I might rest too much on better judgment than my own, if it were beside me. Probation maybe safer than joy; and you may do more good to yourself and others than even under Isabel’s wing. Only think of the means in your hands, and all the wretched population round! There will be some hope of help for the curate now–besides, I shall know where to come for subscriptions next time I run crazy about any wonderful charity.’
Clara smiled. ‘I suppose I must bear it,’ she said.
‘For shame, Clara! With Aunt Kitty, who would make a palace of a dungeon, in the glorious glow of such a sunset, turning each cloud to red and purple radiance by the very force of love and faith, who could regret the being beside her? My own dear and precious aunt, to see her so happy, with bliss and peace so undisturbed, so far above these toys, and these distresses, gives me a sort of fear–‘
‘Oh, don’t, Louis–‘
They were interrupted by approaching voices. Clara hastily started up, as her uncle and Lady Britton appeared in the green alley.
‘Oh, must I go back to them all! My head does ache!’
Louis gave her his arm, pursued the path in the opposite direction, and emerged at the lower end of the bowling-green, with the battlemented front of the house rising before them. Presently, he met his father searching for him. ‘Poor Clara has been overcome,’ he said, in explanation. ‘The speechifying has been too much for her.’
It was the first time that Clara had appeared to the Earl in any light but that of an idle school-girl, and he said, kindly, ‘It must have been very trying. There should have been more preparation. Your uncle would have shown better taste in sparing your grandmamma so obtrusive a reception, and I was much pained both for her and for you during some of the speeches.’
Sympathy from Lord Ormersfield nearly overthrew Clara again, and she involuntarily squeezed Louis’s arm. He asked for his aunt, and was told, ‘She is in the house, entertaining these people. They do not know when to go away. How could Oliver inflict such a party on her and such a style of people!’
‘I must go and help her,’ said Louis.
Clara was in no condition to appear, but Louis caused Mrs. Beckett to be summoned, and committed her to her care. Her transport was one of the few pleasant things of that day. ‘Oh, Miss Clara! Oh, my Lord! Was there ever the like? Isn’t Master Oliver the most blessed boy? Missus in her own home again! Eight men, and a French man-cook! If ever I thought to see the day! Her old room just as it was, only grander! Oh, if poor Mr. James was but here!’
‘Ay, Jane, and here’s Clara thinking herself ill about Mr. James. Take her up and give her some tea, and make her fit to behave prettily by-and-by, that granny may not be vexed.’
Having seen her safe under Jane’s fondling care and infectious exultation, he betook himself to the drawing-room, relieved his aunt’s anxiety by a whisper, and won golden opinions from the whole company, before they were fairly got rid of; and Oliver begged to conduct his mother to her apartment. ‘Yes, my dear, I must go to poor little Clara.’
‘I’ve no fears for Clara,’ said Oliver, as he led her upstairs. ‘Knowing young fellow to wait for my announcement! I can give her near double what Ponsonby could. I’d not object–old Dynevor blood–‘
‘My poor Oliver, you have so learnt to think of money, that you can’t believe others live for anything else. You’ll learn your mistake.’
‘You think the young chap meant nothing? I shall look sharp after him, then. I look on Clara as my own. I’ll have no trifling.’
‘You may save yourself the trouble,’ said his mother. ‘They understand each other–they have always been like brother and sister, and I cannot have the children teased, or things put into their heads.’
Oliver laughed his scornful chuckle, and said he did not understand that sort of brother and sister, but happily he became absorbed in showing his mother the fittings of her splendid bedroom.
Clara had the comfort of clinging round her grandmother’s neck, and being told that it was all nonsense. Jem should have his rights, and Uncle Oliver would learn to love and honour him at last; and she was a good child, and ought to have been prepared, if granny could have guessed he would do it so publicly and suddenly, but she must forgive him, for he was beside himself at having got them home again, and he could not make enough of her because she was poor Henry’s child. So she saw granny must not be grieved, and she let herself be dressed for a constrained dinner in the vast dining-room, where the servants outnumbered the diners, and the silver covers bore the Dynevor dragon as a handle, looking as spiteful as some of the race could do.
Oliver was obliged to conclude that no offer had passed between the two young people; but on the way home next morning the Earl observed, ‘Clara Frost has a fine figure, and is much improved by dress. She shows excellent feeling, and does credit to her education.’
‘The Pendragon blood never had a finer development,’ said Louis.
‘Even supposing justice done to poor James, she will have a handsome portion. Oliver will have far more to dispose of than the five thousand pounds guaranteed to her.’
‘Poor child!’ said Louis.
‘Yes, I pity her for being exposed to his parading. He forgot the gentleman in his merchant’s office. If you should ever have any thoughts of rescuing her from him, my approval would not be wanting, and it would be the easiest way of restoring her brother.’
‘My dear father, if Clara and I were always sister and brother when she was poor, we certainly shall be no more now.’
Lord Ormersfield mentally execrated Mr. Ponsonby, and felt that he had spoken too soon.
Jane’s felicity was complete when, a few days after, she received, addressed in Lord Fitzjocelyn’s handwriting, an Illustrated News, with a whole page containing ‘the reception of Mrs. Dynevor of Cheveleigh,’ with grand portraits of all the flounces and veils, many gratuitous moustaches, something passing for Oliver standing up with a wine-glass in his hand, a puppy that would have perfectly justified Mr. Ponsonby’s aversion representing Lord Fitzjocelyn, and no gaps at the banquet-table.
That picture Mrs. Beckett caused to be framed and glazed, kept it as her treasure for life, and put it into her will as a legacy to Charlotte Arnold.
CHAPTER IX.
THE GIANT OF THE WESTERN STAR.
Come, let us range the subterranean vast, Dark catacombs of ages, twilight dells, And footmarks of the centuries long past, Which look on us from their sepulchral cells.
Then glad emerge we to the cheering day, Some sun-ranged height, or Alpine snowy crown, Or Chimborazo towering far away
O’er the great Andes chain, and, looking down, On flaming Cordilleras, mountain thrown O’er mountain, vast new realms.
The Creation–REV. I. WILLIAMS.
The same impression of the Illustrated London News which delighted Jane Beckett’s simple heart in England, caused no small sensation at Lima.
Dona Rosita cast one glance at El Visconde there portrayed, and then became absorbed in Clara’s bonnet; Mr. Robson pronounced Lord Ormersfield as good a likeness as Mr. Dynevor, Mr. Ponsonby cast a scornful look and smile at the unlucky figure representing Fitzjocelyn; and not a critical voice was heard, excepting Tom Madison’s, who indignantly declared that they had made the young Lord look as if he had stood behind a counter all his life.
The juxtaposition of Lord Fitzjocelyn and Mr. Dynevor’s niece, was not by any means forgotten. It looked very like a graceful conclusion to Oliver’s exertions that he should crown their union, and the county paper, which had likewise been forwarded, very nearly hinted as much. Mr. Ponsonby took care that the paragraph should be laid in his daughter’s way, and he offered her the sight of Oliver Dynevor’s own letter.
Mary suspected that he regarded it as something conclusive, and took care to read it when there were no eyes to mark her emotions. ‘Ormersfield and his son were there,’ wrote Oliver. ‘The young man is not so soft as he looks. They tell me he is going to work sensibly at the estate, and he has a sharp eye for the main chance. I hear he played fast and loose till he found your daughter had better prospects than Miss Conway, whom my fool of a nephew chose to marry, and now he is making up to my niece. My mother dotes on him, and I shall make no objection–no extravagance that I can see, and he will take care of the property. You will take no offence, since you refuse the tender altogether.’
Of this Mary believed two sentences–namely, that Aunt Catharine doted on Fitzjocelyn, and that he was not so soft as he looked, which she took as an admission that he was not comporting himself foolishly. She was quite aware that the friendship between him and Clara might deceive an uninitiated spectator; and, though she commanded herself to think that an attachment between them would be equally natural and desirable, she could not but look with great satisfaction at the easy unsuspicious tone of Mrs. Frost’s letter, which, after mentioning with much affection and gratitude all Oliver’s attempts to make her happy, in spite of the many sad changes around, ended by saying that poor Clara felt the separation from her brother so much, that without dear Louis she did not know how she would have gone through the festivities. ‘You can guess how he is everything to us all,’ said Aunt Kitty, ‘and I brightened up his looks with giving him your last letter to read. I dare say, Miss Mary, you would like to scold me.’
Aunt Kitty! Aunt Kitty! you dearly loved a little kindly mischief! Let that be as it might, Mr. Ponsonby thought that Mr. Dynevor’s letter had certainly not had much effect, for Mary was more lively and cheerful than he had seen her since her first arrival. Mary’s cheerfulness was becoming the more necessary to him, since he was beginning a little to weary of the childish charms of his young Limenian wife. Rosita had neither education nor conversation; and when all her pretty ways had been tried on him in succession, they began to grow tedious. Moreover, the playful submission which she had brought from her convent was beginning to turn into wilfulness. Her extravagances in dress were appalling. She refused to wear the same dresses twice, and cried, stamped her graceful foot, and pouted when he remonstrated. She managed to spend every evening in amusement, either at the Opera, or at evening parties, where her splendid eyes, and scraps of broken English, made great havoc among young lieutenants and midshipmen visiting Lima. Mr. Ponsonby was growing tired of these constant gaieties, and generally remained at home, sending Mary in his stead, as a sort of guard over her; and Mary, always the same in her white muslin, followed Rosita through all the salas of Lima–listened to the confidences of Limenian beauties–talked of England to little naval cadets, more homesick than they would have chosen to avow–and felt sure of some pleasure and interest for the evening, when Mr. Ward came to stand by her chair.
One afternoon, as Mary sat in her window reading, a gay voice exclaimed, ‘Beso las manos a Usted;’ and looking up, she saw one of the prettiest figures imaginable. A full dark purple satin skirt just revealed the point of a dainty white satin shoe. It was plaited low on the hips, and girded loosely with a brightly striped scarf. The head and upper part of the person were shrouded in a close hood of elastic black silk webbing, fastened behind at the waist, and held over the face by the hand, which just allowed one be-ringed finger and one glancing dark eye to appear, while the other hand held a fan and a laced pocket-handkerchief. So perfectly did the costume suit the air and shape of the lady, that, as she stood among Mary’s orange trees, it was like an illusion, of the fancy, but consternation took away all the charm from Mary’s eyes. ‘Tapada, she cried; ‘you surely are not going out, tapada?’
‘Ah, you have found me out,’ cried Rosita. ‘Yes, indeed I am! and I have the like saya y manto ready for you. Come, we will be on the Alameda; Xavier waits to attend us. Your Senor Ouard will be at his evening walk.’
But Mary drew back. This pretty disguise was a freak, such as only the most gay ladies permitted themselves; and she had little doubt that her father would be extremely displeased at his wife and daughter so appearing, although danger there was none; since, though any one might accost a female thus veiled, not the slightest impertinence was ever allowed. Mary implored Bosita to wait till Mr. Ponsonby’s views should be known; but she was only laughed at for her English precision, and the pretty creature danced away to her stolen pleasure.
She came in, all glory and delight at the perplexity in which she had involved the English officers, the guesses and courtesies of her own countrymen, and her mystification of Mr. Robson, who had evidently recognised her, though pretending to treat her as a charming stranger.
The triumph was of short duration. For the first time, she had aroused one of Mr. Ponsonby’s gusts of passion; she quailed under it, wept bitterly, and made innumerable promises, and then she put on her black mantilla, and, with Xavier behind her, went to her convent chapel, and returned, half crying over the amount of repetitions of her rosary by which her penance was to be performed, and thereby all sense of the fault put away. Responsibility and reflection never seemed to be impressed on that childish mind.
Mary had come in for some of the anger, for not having prevented Rosita’s expedition; but they were both speedily forgiven, and Mary never was informed again of her using the saya y manto.
Their minds were diverted by the eager desire of one of the young officers to visit the silver mines. It had been an old promise to Mary from her father to take her to see them; but in her former residence in Peru, it had never been fulfilled. He now wished to inspect matters himself, in order to answer the numerous questions sent by Oliver; and Rosita, eagerly catching at any proposal which promised a variety, a party was made up for ascending to the San Benito mines, some days’ journey from Lima. Mary and Rosita were the only ladies; but there were several gentlemen, three naval officers, and Mr. Ward, who was delighted to have an opportunity of visiting the wonders which had been, for many years, within his reach without his rousing himself from his business to see them. Tents, bedding, and provisions were to be carried with them, and Mary had full occupation in stimulating Dolores to bring together the requisite preparations; while Mr. Ward and Robson collected guides, muleteers, and litters.
It was a merry party, seated on the gaily-trapped mules, with an idle young midshipman to make mischief, and all in spirits to enjoy his nonsense, in the exhilaration of the mountain air blowing freshly from the snowy summits which seemed to rise like walls before them. The steaming, misty, relaxing atmosphere of Lima was left behind, and with it many a care and vexation. Mr. Ponsonby brought his mule to the side of his wife’s litter, and exchanged many a joke in Anglo- Spanish with her and the lieutenant; and Mr. Ward, his brow unfurrowed from counting-house cares, walked beside Mary’s mule, gathered each new flower for her, and listened to her narrative of some of the causes for which she was glad, with her own eyes, to see Tom Madison in his scene of action.
The first day of adventure they slept at a hacienda, surrounded with fields where numerous llamas were pasturing. The next began the real mountain work; the rock looked like a wall before them, and the white summits were sharply defined against the blue sky. The sharper air made Rosita shiver; but the English travellers congratulated themselves on something like a breeze, consoling them for the glow with which the sunbeams beat upon the rocks. The palms and huge ferns had given place to pines, and these were growing more scanty. Once or twice they met a brown Indian, robed in a coloured blanket, with a huge straw hat, from beneath which he gazed with curious, though gentle eyes, upon the cavalcade. By-and-by, looking like a string of ants descending a perpendicular wall, Mary beheld a row of black specks slowly moving. She was told that these were the mules bringing down the metal in panniers–the only means of communication, until, as the lieutenant promised, a perpendicular railroad should be invented. The electricity of the atmosphere made jokes easily pass current. The mountain was ‘only’ one of the spurs of the Andes, a mere infant among the giants; but, had it been set down in Europe, Mont Blanc must have hid his diminished head; and the view was better than on some of the more enormous neighbours, which were both further inland, and of such height, that to gaze from them was ‘like looking from an air-balloon into vacancy.’ Whereas here Mary had but to turn her head, as her mule steadily crept round the causeway–a legacy of the Incas–to behold the expanse of the Pacific, a sheet of glittering light in the sunshine, the horizon line raised so high, that the first moment it gave her a sense of there being something wrong with her eye, before the feeling of infinity rushed upon her.
They were turning the flank of the mountain, and losing the sunshine. The evening air was almost chill, and the clearness such that they already saw the ragged height whither they were bound rising in craggy shattered grandeur, every flat space or gentler declivity covered with sheds and huts for the work-people, and cavernous mouths opening on the cliff-side. Dark figures could be distinctly seen moving about; and as to the descending mules, they seemed to be close on the other side of a narrow ravine. Rosita, who, now it came to the point, was not without fears of sleeping on the bare mountain- side, wanted to push on; she was sure they could arrive before night, but she was told that she knew nothing of mountain atmosphere; and she was not discontented with the bright fire and comfortable arrangements on which they suddenly came, after turning round a great shoulder of rock. Mr. Robson and the sumpter-mules had quietly preceded them, and the gipsying on the Andes was likely to be not much less luxurious than an English pic-nic. The negro cook had done his best; Mary made her father’s coffee, and Rosita was waited on to her satisfaction. And when darkness came on, too early for English associations with warm days, the lights of the village at the mine glittered merrily, and, apparently, close at hand; and the stars above shone as Mary had never seen them, so marvellously large and bright, and the Magellan clouds so white and mysterious. Mr. Ward came and told her some of the observations made on them by distinguished travellers; and after an earnest conversation, she sought her matted bed, with a pleasant feeling on her mind, as if she had been unusually near Louis’s world.
Clear, sharp, and cold was the air next day; the snow-fields glistened gloriously in the rising sun, and a rose-coloured mist seemed to rise from them. Rosita was shown the unusual spectacle of hoar frost, and shiveringly profited by Mary’s ample provision of wraps. The hill-sides were beyond conception desolate and bare. Birds were an almost unknown race in Peru; and here even green things had departed, scarcely a tuft of blossom looking out on the face of the red and purple rock; and the exceeding stillness so awful, that even the boy-sailor scarce dared to speak above his breath. Rosita began to repent of having come near so horrible a place; and when she put her head out of her litter, and beheld herself winding along a ledge projecting from the face of a sheer precipice, she would have begged to go back instantly; but her husband spoke in a voice of authority which subdued her; she drew in her head into her basket- work contrivance, and had recourse to vows to Sta Rosa of Lima of a chaplet of diamond roses, if she ever came safely down again.
Mary had made up her mind that they should not have been taken thither if there were any real danger; and so, though she could have preferred her mule taking the inner side of the ledge, and was not too happy when it climbed like a cat, she smiled, and answered all inquiries that she did not think she ought to be frightened. The region was in general more stern than beautiful, the clefts between the hills looking so deep, that it seemed as if an overthrown mountain could hardly fill them; but now and then came sudden peeps of that wonderful ocean; or almost under her feet, as if she could throw a stone into it, there would lie an intensely green valley, shut in with feathering pines, and the hacienda and grazing llamas dwindled, so that they could have been taken for a Swiss farm and flocks of sheep.
Not till the middle of the day did they meet the line of mules, and not until the sunset did they find themselves close before the wonderful perforated San Benito summit. It was, unlike many other metalliferous hills, an isolated, sharply-defined mass of rock, breaking into sudden pinnacles and points, traversed with veins of silver. These veins had been worked with galleries, which, even before the Spanish conquest, had honeycombed the solid rock, and had been thought to have exhausted its riches; but it had been part of Oliver Dynevor’s bold speculations to bring modern science to profit by the leavings of the Peruvians and their destroyers. It was a marvellous work, but it might still be a question whether the profit would bear out the expense.
However, that was not the present consideration. No one could feel anything but admiring astonishment at the fantastic craggy height of peaks and spires, rising against the darkening sky, like the very stronghold of the Giant of the Western Star; and, with the black openings of the galleries, here and there showing the lights of the workmen within. Mary remembered the tales, in which Louis used vainly to try to interest her, of metal-working Dwarfs within the mountains; and would have been glad to tell him that, after all, reality was quite as strange as his legends.
The miners, Indians and negroes, might truly have been Trolls, as, with their brown and black countenances, and wild bright attire, they came thronging out of their rude houses, built of piled stones on every tolerably level spot. Three or four stout, hearty Cornish miners, with picks on their shoulders, made the contrast stranger; and among them stood a young man, whose ruddy open face carried Mary home to Ormersfield in one moment; and she could not but blush almost as if it had been Louis, when she bent her head in acknowledgment of his bow.
He started towards her as if to help her off her mule; but Mr. Ponsonby was detaining him by questions, and Mr. Ward, as usual, was at her rein. In a wonderfully brief time, as it seemed to her, all the animals were led off to their quarters; and Robson, coming up, explained that Madison’s hut, the only habitable place, had been prepared for the ladies–the gentlemen must be content to sleep in their tent.
‘The hut was at least clean,’ said Robson, as he ushered them in; and Mary felt as if it were a great deal more. It was rudely built, and only the part near the hearth was lined with matting; the table and the few stools and chairs were rough carpentry, chiefly made out of boxes; but upon the wall hung a beautiful print from Raffaelle, of which she knew the giver as surely as if his name had been written on it; and the small bookcase suspended near contained, compressed together, an epitome of Louis’s tastes–the choicest of all his favourites, in each class of book. Mary stood by it, reading the names, and trying to perceive Louis’s principle of selection in each case. It jarred upon her when, as the gentlemen loitered about, waiting for the evening meal, they came and looked at the titles, with careless remarks that the superintendent was a youth of taste, and a laugh at the odd medley–Spenser, Shakspeare, ‘Don Quixote,’ Calderon, Fouque, and selections from Jeremy Taylor, &c.
Mary would hear no more comments. She went to the fire, and tried to persuade Rosita they would come safe down again; and then, on the apology for a mantelshelf, she saw some fossils and some dried grasses, looking almost as if Fitzjocelyn had put them there.
She did not see Madison that night; but the next morning he presented himself to act as their guide through the wonders of the extraordinary region where his lot had been cast. She found that this was only the first floor of the wondrous castle. Above and above, rose galleries, whence the ore was lowered down to the buildings here placed, where it underwent the first process of separation. The paths above were fit for none, save a chamois, or a barefooted Indian, or a sailor–for the midshipman was climbing aloft in such places, that Tom’s chief work was to summon him back, in horror lest he should involve himself in endless galleries, excavated before the days of Atahualpa.
Much of the desperate scrambling which Madison recommended as plain- sailing, was beyond Mr. Ponsonby; but where he went, Mary went; and when he stopped, she, though she had not drawn since the master at her school had resigned her, as a hopeless case, applied herself to the perpetration of an outline of the rocks, that, as she said, ‘her aunts might see what sort of place it was.’ Her steady head, and firm, enterprizing hand and foot, enabled her to see the crowning wonder of the mountain, one of the ventanillas or windows. Mr. Ward, having visited it, came back bent on taking her thither; there was no danger, if she were not afraid. So, between him and Tom Madison, she was dragged up a steep path, and conducted into a gallery cut out in the living rock, growing gloomier and gloomier, till suddenly there was a spot of light on the sparkling floor, and Mary found herself beneath an opening through the mountain crown, right up into the sky, which, through the wild opening, looked of the deepest, most ultra- marine, almost purple blue, utterly beyond conception in the glory of intense colour, bringing only to her mind those most expressive, yet most inexpressive words, ‘the body of heaven in His clearness.’ She felt, what she had often heard said, that to all mountain tops is given somewhat of the glory that dwelt on Sinai. That ineffable blue was more dazzling than even the fields beyond fields of marvellous white that met her eye on emerging from the dark gallery.
‘I never wish so much that Lord Fitzjocelyn should see anything as that,’ said Tom Madison, when Mary, in her gratitude, was trying to say something adequate to the trouble she had given, though the beauty was beyond any word of admiration.
‘He would–‘ she began to answer, but the rest died away, only answered by Tom with an emphatic ‘He _would_!’ and then began the difficulties of getting down.
But Mary had the pleasure at the next pause of hearing Mr. Ward say, ‘That is a very fine intelligent young fellow, worthy of his library. I think your father has a prize in him!’
Mary’s eyes thanked Mr. Ward, with all her heart in them. It was worth going up the Andes for such a sentence to put into a letter that Aunt Kitty would show to Louis.
Robson seemed anxious to monopolize the attention of the gentlemen, to the exclusion of Madison; and while Tom was thus thrust aside, Mary succeeded in having a conversation with him, such as she felt was a sort of duty to Louis. She asked him the names of the various mountain-peaks in sight, whose bare crags, too steep to support the snow, here and there stood out dark in salient contrast to the white scenery, and as he gave them to her, mentioning the few facts that he had been able to gather respecting them, she was able to ask him whether he was in the habit of seeing anything approaching to society. He smiled, saying that his nearest neighbours were many miles off–an engineer conducting some far more extensive mining operations, whom he sometimes met on business, and an old Spanish gentleman, who lived in a valley far down the mountain side, with whom he sometimes smoked his cigar on a Sunday, if he felt inclined for a perpendicular promenade on a Peruvian causeway for nearly four miles. Mary asked whether he often did feel inclined. No, he thought not often; he had generally worked hard enough in the week to make his book the best company; but he liked now and then to see something green for a change after these bare mountains and rocks, and the old Don Manrique was very civil and agreeable. Then, after a few minutes’ conversation of this kind, something of the old conscious abruptness of tone seemed to come over the young man, and looking down, he said bluntly, ‘Miss Ponsonby, do you think there would be any objection to my coming into Lima just for Christmas?’
‘I suppose not; I cannot tell.’
Tom explained that all the miners would be making holiday, and the senior Cornishman might safely be left in charge of the works, while he only wished to spend Christmas-day itself in the city, and would be a very short time absent. He blushed a little as he spoke, and Mary ventured to reply to what she gathered of his thought, ‘No other day would suit you as well?’
‘No, ma’am, it hardly would,’ he answered, gravely.
‘I will try what can be done,’ said Mary, ‘unless you would speak to Mr. Ponsonby yourself.’
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Ponsonby’s figure some paces distant, and shook his head.
‘I will try,’ repeated Mary; and then she added, ‘These grand hill- tops and blue sky almost make a church–‘
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Tom, his black eyes lighting at the thought; ‘I’ve felt so sometimes, but ’tis a mighty lonely one after a time. I’ve taken my book, and got out of earshot of the noise the blacks make; and I do assure you, Miss Ponsonby, the stillness was enough to drive one wild, with nothing but savage rocks to look at either! Not a green plant, nor a voice to answer, unless one got to the mountain echoes, and they are worse–‘
‘But surely you have the Cornishmen! What do they do on a Sunday?’
‘They lie about, and smoke and sleep, or go down to the valley,’ said Tom. ‘I never thought of them.’
‘I think you should,’ said Mary, gravely. ‘If you are in any authority over them, it must give you a charge over their souls. I think you should, at least, give them the choice of reading the service with you.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Madison, gruffly.
‘I will send up some books for them to make an opening,’ said Mary. ‘I should not like to think of men living in such scenes, without being the better for them.’
Robson was here obliged to call Madison to refer some question to him; but Mary had another talk with him, when he begged to know if there were likely soon to be an opportunity of sending to England. He had some fossils which he wished to send to Lord Fitzjocelyn; and he fetched them, and explained his theories with regard to them as if he had almost forgotten that she was not his young Lord. She carried his request to her father, and was answered that of course he might take a holiday if he could leave the works with safety; he had better spend a few days in the town when he did come. With this answer she made him happy; and they set off, to the extreme joy of Rosita, who had engrossed much less attention than she had expected, and declared she would never have come into these horrible places if she could have imagined what they were like. Certainly, no one wished to have her company there again.
When Mr. Ponsonby mentioned the permission which he had accorded to Madison, Robson coughed and looked annoyed. Mary could not help suspecting that this was because the request had not been preferred through himself. ‘So the young fellow wants to be coming down, does he? I thought his ardour was too hot to last long.’
‘Very natural that the poor lad should want a holiday,’ said Mr. Ponsonby. ‘It must take a tolerable flow of spirits to stand long, being so many feet above the level of the sea, in caves fit for a robber’s den at the theatre.’
‘Oh, I am making no objection, sir,’ returned Robson; ‘the young man may take his pleasure for what I care, so he can be trusted not to neglect his business.’
Here the path narrowed, and Mary had to fall back out of hearing; but she had an unpleasant suspicion that Robson was telling her father something to Tom’s disadvantage, and she had to consider how to avoid rousing a jealousy, which she knew might be dangerous.
Mr. Ward, however, came up to interrupt her thoughts and watch the steps of her mule. The worst difficulties of the descent had precluded all conversation; and the party were just beginning to breathe freely, think of terra firma as not far off, and gaze with easier minds on the marvellous ocean. Mary went on in very comfortable discussion of the wonders they had seen, and of Madison’s remark that the performances of the Incas made one quite ashamed of the achievements of modern science–a saying in which Mr. Ward perfectly agreed; and then he began to say something rather long, and a little disconnected, and Mary’s mind took an excursion to Aunt Kitty, and the reading of the letter that she was going to write, when suddenly something in Mr. Ward’s voice startled her, and recalling her attention, she discovered, to her dismay, that he was actually making her an offer! An offer! She would as soon have expected one from her father! And oh! how well expressed–how entirely what it ought to be! How unlike every one of those three of her past experience!
In great distress she exclaimed, ‘Oh, Mr. Ward, pray do not–indeed, I cannot!’
‘I feared that I was but too likely to meet with such an answer,’ said Mr. Ward; ‘and yet your father encouraged me to hope, that in course of time–‘
‘Then papa has told you what he thinks?’ said Mary.
‘I applied to him before I could venture to join this party. Mary, I am aware that I can bring none of the advantages which have’–his voice faltered–‘which have forestalled me; but the most true and earnest affection is already yours.’
‘I am very sorry for it, Mr. Ward,’ said Mary, gravely, though much touched. ‘It is very kind of you, but it is only fair and candid to tell you that papa has probably led you into a mistake. He thinks that the–the object was weak and unworthy, and that my feelings could be easily overcome. He does not know–‘
‘He assured me that all was at an end–‘
‘It is,’ said Mary; ‘but I am certain that I shall never feel for any one else the same as’–and the tears were coming last. ‘You are very kind, Mr. Ward, but it is of no use to think that this can ever be.’
‘Forgive me for having harassed you,’ said Mr. Ward, and they went on so long in silence that Mary hoped it was over, and yet he did not go away from her. She was sorry to see the grieved, dejected expression on his good, sensible, though somewhat worn countenance; and she esteemed him highly; but who could have thought of so unlucky a fancy coming into his head? When, at length, he spoke again, it was to say that he begged that she would forget what was past, and allow him to continue on his former footing. Mary was glad to have something grateful to say, and answered that she should have been very sorry to lose him as a friend; whereupon his face cheered up, he thanked her, and fell back from her rein. In spite of her past trials of the futility of the attempt to live with a rejected suitor as if nothing had happened, she had hopes of the possibility when her own heart was untouched, and the gentleman nearly doubled her years; but when she talked to her father, she gathered that it was considered by both gentlemen that the proposal had been premature, and that her final detachment from Louis was reckoned on as so certain that Mr. Ward was willing to wait, as if it were only a matter of time. He was so wealthy and prosperous, and a connexion with him would have been so useful to the firm, that Mary was grateful to her father for forbearing to press her on what he evidently wished so earnestly. Mr. Ward had exactly the excellent, well-balanced character, which seemed made to suit her, and she could have imagined being very happy with him, if–No, no–Mr. Ward could not be thought of at the same moment.
Yet, whatever she might say, no one would believe her; so she held her peace, and wrote her history of the silver mines; and Mr. Ward haunted the house, and was most kindly forbearing and patient, and Mary found at every turn, how good a man he was, and how cruel and mistaken his sister thought her.
And Christmas came, when the churches were perfect orange-groves, and the scene of the wanderers of Bethlehem was acted from house to house in the twilight. The scanty English congregation met in the room that served as a chapel in the Consul’s house–poor Mary alone of all her household there to keep the feast; and Mr. Ward was there, and Madison had come down from his mountain. There were hearts at home that would rejoice to hear that.
Mary saw him afterwards, and he thanked her for her suggestion respecting the miners. Two had been only as shy as Tom himself; they had been reading alone, and were glad to join company, a third was beginning to come, and it had led to a more friendly intercourse. Mary sent him away, very happy with some books for them, some new Spanish reading for himself, an astronomical book, and her little celestial globe–for the whole firmament of stars had been by no means lost on him. That interview was her Christmas treat. Well for her that she did not hear Robson say, ‘That young man knows how to come over the ladies. I shall keep a sharper look-out after him. I know no harm of him, but if there’s one man I trust less than another, it is one that tries the serious dodge.’
CHAPTER X.
THE WRONG WOMAN IN THE WRONG PLACE.
Give me again my hollow tree,
My crust of bread, and liberty.
The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse–POPE.
The new cook’s first compliment to Charlotte was, ‘Upon my word, you are a genteel young woman, I dare say you have a lot of sweethearts.’
The indignant denial of the Lady of Eschalott was construed into her being ‘sly,’ and Mrs. Cook promised herself to find her out.
Those were not happy days with the little maiden. The nurse looked down on her, and the cook filled the kitchen with idlers, whose looks and speeches were abhorrent to her. Sometimes the woman took offence at her for being high; at others, she forced on her advice upon her dress, or tried to draw out confidences either on lovers or the affairs of the family. Charlotte was sadly forlorn, and shut herself up in her pantry, or in her own little attic with Jane’s verbenas which cook had banished from the kitchen, and lost her sorrows in books hired at the library. She read, and dreamt, created leisure for reading, lived in a trance, and awoke from it to see her work neglected, reproach herself, and strain her powers to make up for what was left undone. Then, finding her efforts failing, she would be distressed and melancholy, until a fresh novel engrossed her for a time, and the whole scene was enacted over again.
Still, it was not all idleness nor lost ground. The sense of responsibility was doing her good, she withstood the cook’s follies, and magnanimously returned unopened a shining envelope of Mr. Delaford’s. At Christmas, when Mr. and Mrs. Frost went to pay a visit at Beauchastel, and the cook enjoyed a course of gaieties, the only use she made of her liberty was to drink tea once with Mrs. Martha, and to walk over to Marksedge to see old Madison, who was fast breaking, and who dictated to her his last messages to his grandson.
James and Isabel spent a pleasant lively Christmas with their hospitable old friends, and James returned full of fresh vigour and new projects. His first was to offer his assistance to the Vicar, so as to have a third service on the Sunday; but there were differences of opinion between them, and his proposal was received so ungraciously, that a coolness arose, which cut him off from many openings for usefulness.
However, he had enough to occupy him in his own department, the school. He was astonished at his boys’ deficiency in religious instruction, and started a plan for collecting them for some teaching for an hour before morning service. Mr. Calcott agreed with him that nothing could be more desirable, but doubted whether the parents would compel their sons to attend, and advised James to count the cost, doubting whether, in the long run, he would be able to dispense with one day of entire rest. This was the more to be considered, since James expended a wonderful amount of energy in his teaching, did his utmost to force the boys on, in class and in private, drilled his usher, joined in the games, and gave evening lectures on subjects of general information.
Some responded to his training, and these he strenuously encouraged, asking them to dinner and taking them to walk; and these were enthusiastically fond of him, and regarded his beautiful wife as a being of a superior order. Fitzjocelyn and James used to agree that intercourse with her was a very important element in their training, and the invitations were made as impartial as possible, including the intelligent and well-conducted, irrespective of station. Isabel’s favourite guest was a good, well-mannered lad, son to Mr. Ramsbotham’s follower, the butcher, but, unluckily, Mrs. Richardson and her friends did not esteem it a compliment when their sons were asked to meet him, and, on the other hand, James did not always distinguish real merit from mere responsiveness to his own mind. Dull boys, or such as had a half sullen, half conservative dislike to change, did not gain notice of an agreeable kind, and while intending to show strict justice, he did not know how far he was affected by his prepossessions.
His lectures had emancipated him from evening parties; and, after Mrs. Frost’s departure, visiting gave Isabel little trouble. The calm, lofty manners that had been admired in Miss Conway, were thought pride in Mrs. James Frost, and none of the ladies of Northwold even wished to do more than exchange morning calls with her, and talk among themselves of her fine-ladyism. She recked nothing of their keeping aloof; her book and her pen were far pleasanter companions on her alternate evenings of solitude, and in them she tried to lose her wishes for the merry days spent with granny and Clara, and her occasional perceptions that all was not as in their time. James would sometimes bring this fact more palpably before her.
The separation of the families had not diminished the income of the household, but the difference in comfort was great. Isabel knew nothing of management, and did not care to learn. She had been willing to live on a small scale, but she did not understand personal superintendence, she was careless of display, and perfectly happy as long as she was the guest of the grandmother, but she had no comprehension of petty tidinesses or small economies. Now James, brought up on a very different scale, knew in detail how the household ought to live, and made it a duty not to exceed a fixed sum. He had the eye for neatness that she wanted; he could not believe it a hardship to go without indulgences to which his grandmother and sister had not been accustomed. Thus, he protested against unnecessary fires; Isabel shivered and wore shawls; he was hurt at seeming to misuse her, resigned his study fire, and still found the coals ever requiring to be renewed, insisted that his wife should speak to the cook, and mystified her by talking about the regulation of the draught of the kitchen fire; and when Isabel understood, she forgot the lecture.
He was a devoted and admiring husband, but he could not coolly discover innumerable petty neglects and wasteful habits. Impatient words broke out, and Isabel always received them so meekly that he repented and apologized; and in the reconciliation the subject was forgotten, but only to be revived another time. Isabel was always ready to give warm aid and sympathy in all his higher cares and purposes, and her mild tranquillity was repose and soothing to him, but she was like one in a dream. She had married a vision of perfection, and entered on a romance of happy poverty, and she had no desire to awaken; so she never exerted her mind upon the world around her, when it seemed oppressive; and kept the visionary James Frost before her, in company with Adeline and the transformed Sir Hubert. It was much easier to line his tent with a tapestry of Maltese crosses, than to consider whether the hall should be covered with cocoanut matting.
How Christmas passed with Clara, may be seen in the following letter:–
‘Cheveleigh, Jan. 1851.
‘Dearest Jem,–I can write a long letter to-night, for a fortunate cold has spared me from one of Sir Andrew’s dinner-parties. It is a reminiscence of the last ball, partly brought on by compunction at having dragged poor granny thither, in consideration of my unguarded declaration of intense dislike to be chaperoned by Lady Britton. Granny looks glorious in black velvet and diamonds, and I do trust that her universal goodwill rendered the ball more tolerable to her than it was to me. She, at least, is all she seems; whereas I am so infested with civilities, that I long to proclaim myself little Clara Frost, bred up for a governess, and the laughing-stock of her school. Oh! for that first ball where no one danced with me but Mr. Richardson, and I was not a mere peg for the display of Uncle Oliver’s Peruvian jewels! I have all the trouble in the world to be allowed to go about fit to be seen, and only by means of great fighting and coaxing did I prevail to have my dress only from London instead of Paris.
‘And no wonder I shivered all the way to the ball. Fancy Jane insisting on my going to display my dress to that poor dying Marianne; I was shocked at the notion of carrying my frivolities into such a scene, but Jane said her mind ran on it, and it was ‘anything to take off her thoughts from that man.’ So I went into her room, and oh! if you could have seen the poor thing, with her short breath and racking cough, her cheeks burning and her eyes glistening at that flimsy trumpery. One bunch of the silver flowers on my skirt was wrong; she spied it, and they would not thwart her, so she would have the needle, and the skeleton trembling fingers set them right. They said she would sleep the easier for it, and she thanked me as if it had really set her more at rest; but how sad, how strange it seems, when she knows that she is sinking fast, and has had Mr. Danvers with her every day. He thinks all is well with her; but it was a melancholy, blank, untaught mind, to begin to work on. Louis would call her life a mournful picture of our civilization. She has told it all to Jane: she was of the mechanic class, just above the rank that goes to Sunday-schools; she went to a genteel weekly school, and was taken out pleasuring on Sunday–no ground-work at all. An orphan at fifteen, she never again knew tenderness. Then came dressmaking till her health failed, and she tried service. She says, Isabel’s soft tones made a paradise for her; but late hours, which she did not feel at the time, wore her out, and Delaford trifled with her. Always when alone he pretended devotion to her, then flirted with any other who came in his way, and worry and fretting put the finish to her failing health. She had no spirit to break entirely with him, and even now is pining for one kind word, which he seems to be too hard and selfish to send to her, in answer to a letter of forgiveness that she wrote a fortnight back. What a wretch he must be! Jane says, he tried flirting with poor little Charlotte, and that she was a little ‘took up’ with his guitar and his verses; but then, Jane says, ‘Charlotte has somewhat at the bottom, and knows better than to heed a man as wasn’t real religious.’ I suppose that is the true difference between Charlotte and Marianne, and even if we looked into Delaford’s history, most likely we should find him another nineteenth-century victim to an artificial life. At least, I trust that Jane has been the greatest blessing, Marianne herself speaks of her as more than a mother to her; and I believe I told you of the poor girl’s overpowering gratitude, when she found we would not turn her out to die homeless. We read, and we talk, and Mr. Danvers comes; but I believe dear old Jane does more for her than all.
‘Poor Jane! when her task of nursing is over, I do not know what she will turn to. The grand servants only keep terms with her because Uncle Oliver gave notice that no one should stay in the house who did not show respect to his _friend_ Mrs. Beckett. It takes all her love for Missus and Master Oliver to make her bear it; and her chief solace is in putting me to bed, and in airing Master Oliver’s shirt and slippers. You would laugh to hear her compassionating the home minced-pies! and she tells me she would give fifty pounds rather than bring Charlotte here. My uncle wished grandmamma to manage the house, and she did so at first, but she and the servants did not get on well together; and she said, what I never knew her say before, that she is too old, and so we have an awful dame who rules with a high hand.
‘You ask whether the dear granny is happy. You know she is all elasticity, and things are pleasanter here to her than to me, but I do not think she enjoys life as she did at home. It is hard to have her whole mission reduced to airing those four horses. We have tormented my uncle out of making us use more than two at a time, by begging for six and the Lord Mayor’s coach; but aired alternately they must be, and we must do it, and by no road but what the coachman chooses; and this does not seem to me to agree with her like trotting about the town on her errands. There is no walking here, excepting in the pleasure-ground, where all my grandfather’s landscape- gardening has been cut up so as to be a mere vexation to her. The people round are said to be savage and disaffected, and the quarter of a mile between the park and the village is subject to miners going home. They did once holloa at me, and orders were issued that I should walk no more. I believe that if they saw me fearless, and coming among them for friendly purposes, they would leave off hooting; but the notion frightens granny, so I am a prisoner. They are the people to think it a mockery to be visited by a lady bedizened as I am, and stuck up in a carriage; so we can do very little except through Mr. Danvers, and my uncle is always discontented at the sight of him, and fancies he is always begging. A little sauciness on my part has the best effect when anything is wanted, for my uncle is very kind to me in his own fashion, which is not mine.
‘We have made something of a nest in the last of the suite of rooms, the only one habitably small; but it is wonderful where all the time in the day goes. My uncle likes me to ride with him in the morning, and I have to help granny air the horses in the afternoon; and in the evening, when we are lucky enough to dine alone, I play them both asleep, unless they go to backgammon. Think of granny reduced to that! We should be very happy when he is detained in his study, but that granny thinks it is bad for him. Dear granny!
I see the object of her life is to win him back to serious thoughts. She seems to think of him like a schoolboy who must be lured to find home pleasanter than idle ways; and she begs me quite sadly to bear with him, and make him happy, to prevent him from longing after his counting-house at Lima. She tried to make him promise never to go back, but he has only promised never to go while she lives, and she seems to think it would be fatal, and to charge all his disregard of religious matters upon herself for having sent him out. If you could see her pleased smile when we extort a subscription, or when she gets him to church; but when those South American mails come in on Sundays–alas! Those accounts are his real element, and his moments of bliss are over the ‘Money-market and City intelligence,’ or in discussing railway shares with Sir Andrew. All the rest is an obstinate and dismal allegiance to the days of Shrievalty, about as easy to recall as the days when the Pendragons wore golden collars and armlets. Imitated hospitality turns into ostentation; and the people who seek after silver covers and French cookery are no more to my taste than they are, in good earnest, to Uncle Oliver’s. The nice people, if there are any, won’t come in our way, except Mr. Henderson; and when we do pluck up courage to disgust Mr. Coachman by calling on Mrs. Henderson, we are very happy. But she is a wise woman, and will not bring her pretty Fanny into our world; and when I press her, behold! I remember what I used to think of patronage.
‘But Louis has promised to come at Easter, and he will teach me a little more charity, I hope; and, what is better (no, I don’t mean that), will tell me about the dear, dear, trebly dear Terrace and all the doings. I hope you will begin your Sunday scheme; but granny fears the bad set will not care, and the good will prefer having their families together. It is worse than I expected even of Mr. Purvis to refuse the afternoon service, when you offered to take all the trouble off hishands; granny hopes you will take care what you are about with him. Tell Louis we have a famous letter from Mary to show him if he will bring us all news of every one, and especially of his godchild. Contrary to custom, you tell us more about her than her mamma does.
‘Your most affectionate Sister, ‘CLARA.’
Before Easter, Charlotte’s poor rival was lying at rest in Cheveleigh churchyard, and Jane’s task of love was at an end.
CHAPTER XI.
AUNT CATHARINE’S HOME.
The lady sleeps–O may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This bed being changed for one more holy, This room for one more melancholy,
Some tomb, that oft hath flung its black And wing-like panels fluttering back,
Triumphant o’er the fluttering palls Of her grand family funerals.
E. A. POE.
The summer was nearly over, when, one morning at breakfast, Louis surprised his father by a sound, half consternation, half amusement, and handed him a note, containing these words:–
‘DEAR F.,–There were three of us last night; there are five this morning. Isabel and the twins are doing well. Heaven knows what is to become of us!
‘Yours, J. F.’
‘What would you have?’ said Lord Ormersfield, calmly. ‘The poorer people are, the more children they have!’
He went on with his own letters, while Louis laughed at the enunciation of this inverse ratio; and then took up the note again, to wonder at the tone of anxiety and distress, so unlike James. He went to call on Lady Conway, and was better satisfied to find that James had written in a lively strain to her, as if proud of his little daughters, and resolved not to be pitied. Of this he was in no danger from his sisters-in-law, who looked upon twin-girls as the only blessing needed to complete Isabel’s felicity, had devised three dozen names for them, and longed to be invited to Northwold to see them.
Nothing was heard of James for more than a week, and, as London grew hotter, dustier, and drearier than ever, Fitzjocelyn longed, more than he thought wholesome to confess, after Ormersfield turf, the deep ravines, and rushing brooks. The sun shone almost through the blind of the open window on the large library table, where sat Louis at his own end, writing to his Inglewood bailiff, and now and then solacing himself by lifting with the feather of his pen one of the bells of a delicate lily in a glass before him–a new spectacle on the Earl’s writing-table; and so was a strip of vellum, with illuminations rich and rare–Louis’s indulgence when he felt he had earned an hour’s leisure. There was a ring at the door, a step on the stairs, and before the father and son stood James, his little black bag in his hand, like himself, all dust, and his face worn, heated, and tired.
‘Then you have not heard from Cheveleigh?’ he said, in answer to their astonished greetings, producing a note, which was eagerly read:–
‘Dearest Jem,–My uncle says I may write to you, in case you can leave Isabel, that he will be glad to see you. I told you that dear grandmamma had a cold, and so we would not let her come to Isabel; but I little guessed what was coming. It only seemed a feverish cold, and Jane and I almost laughed at my uncle for choosing to send for a doctor. He was not alarmed at first, but yesterday she was inert and sleepy, and he asked for more advice. Dr. Hastings came to-day, and oh! Jem, he calls it a breaking up of the constitution, and does not think she will rally. She knows us, but she is almost always drowsy, and very hard to rouse. If you can come without hurting Isabel, I know you will. We want you all the more, because my uncle will not let me send for Mr. Danvers. Poor Uncle Oliver is dreadfully troubled.
‘Your most affectionate CLARA.’
‘Transplantation has killed her–I knew it would!’ said James, as Louis stood, with the note in his hand, as if not yet understanding the blow.
‘Nay,’ said the Earl, ‘it is an age at which we could hardly hope she would long be spared. You could leave Mrs. James Frost with comfort?’
‘Yes, Miss Mercy undertakes her–she is doing well–she would not hear of my staying. I must go on, the train starts at two,’ he added, hastily, looking at the time-piece.
‘We will send you,’ said Lord Ormersfield. ‘Take time to rest. You look very ill! You should have some luncheon.’
‘No, thank you!’ said James, at first with the instinct of resistance; but yielding and confessing, ‘Charlotte went into hysterics, and I had nothing to eat before I came away.’
Louis came forward from the window where he had been standing as in a dream, he laid his hand on James’s shoulder, and said, ‘I will go!’ His voice was hardly audible, but, clearing it, and striving to recall his thoughts, he added, ‘Father, I can be spared. The division is not coming on to-night, or you could get me a pair.’
The Earl looked doubtfully at James.
‘Yes, let me go,’ said Louis. ‘I must see her again. It has been mother and son between us.’ And, hiding his face in his hands, he hurried out of the room.
‘Let him come,’ said James. ‘If duty and affection claim a right, none have such as he.’
‘I hesitate only as to acting unceremoniously by your uncle.’
‘This is no moment for ceremony–no time to deprive her of whatever she loves best.’
‘Be it so, then. His own feelings are his best passport, and well has she deserved all that he can ever feel! And, James, if she should express any desire to see me, if I can be of any use in settling matters, or could promote any better understanding with your uncle, I am ready at a moment’s notice. I would come at once, but that many might be burdensome to your uncle and sister.’
The two cousins were quickly on their way. James took a second-class ticket, the first time he had ever done so in travelling with his cousin. Fitzjocelyn placed himself beside him without remark.
James dozed as well as the narrow seat would permit, and only woke to chafe at each halt, and Louis mused over the associations of those scenes, and last year’s triumphant return. Had the change of habits truly hastened the decay of her powers? had her son’s toil and success been merely to bring her home to the grave of her fathers, at the expense of so many heartburnings, separations, and dissensions? At least, he trusted that her last hours might be crowned by the peacemaker’s joy, and that she might see strife and bitterness laid aside between Oliver, and Henry’s only surviving son.
Alas! it was not to be. The shutters and blinds were closed, and Clara met them at the door, her pale face and streaming eyes forestalling the tidings. The frame, hitherto so vigorous and active, had been spared long or weary decay; and tranquil torpor had mildly conducted the happy, gentle spirit to full repose. She had slumbered away without revival or suffering, as one who did ‘rest from her labours,’ and her eyes had been closed on the previous night.
Clara wept as she spoke, but she had been alone with her sorrow long enough to face it, and endure calmly.
Not so her brother. It was anguish to have come too late, and to have missed the last word and look; and he strode madly up and down the room, almost raving at the separation and removal which he declared had killed her.
‘Oh, speak to him, Louis!’ cried Clara. ‘Oh, what shall I do?’
As she spoke, the door was opened, and Mr. Dynevor came in, with a grief-stricken look and quieter manner, but his entrance instantly silenced all James’s demonstrations, and changed them into a haughty, compressed bitterness, as though he actually looked on him in the light of his grandmother’s destroyer.
‘Ah! James,’ began his uncle, gently, ‘I wish you had been here earlier!’
‘I left home by the first train after hearing. I ought to have heard sooner.’
‘I could not suppose you would choose to come here without serious reason,’ said Oliver, with more dignity than usual. ‘However, I would willingly forget, and you will remain here for the present.’
‘I must apologize for having thrust myself on you, sir,’ said Louis, ‘but, indeed, I could not stay away. After what she has been to me, ever since I can remember her–‘ and tears cut him short.
‘Sir, it does you honour!’ returned Oliver. ‘She was attached to you. I hope you will not leave us as yet.’
Louis felt as if he could not leave the house where what was mortal of his dear old aunt yet remained, and he likewise had a perception that he might be a support and assistance to Clara in keeping the peace between her brother and uncle; so he gratefully accepted the invitation.
Mr. Dynevor presently explained that he intended the funeral to take place at the end of the week.
‘I can not be so long from home,’ said James, in a quick, low voice.
Clara ran up to her uncle, laid her hand on his arm, and drew him into a window, whence he presently turned, saying, ‘Your sister tells me that you cannot be so long absent in the present state of your family. If possible, the day shall be hastened.’
James was obliged to say, ‘Thank you!’ but any concession seemed to affect him like an injury.
Grievous work was it to remain at Cheveleigh, under the constant dread of some unbecoming outbreak between uncle and nephew. Fortunately, Oliver had too much on his hands to have much time to spend with the others; but when they were together, there was scarcely a safe subject, not even the intended names of the twins. James made hasty answer that they had already received their names, Mercy and Salome. Louis and Clara both cried out incredulously.
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘We don’t like family names.’
‘But such as those!’
‘I wish nothing better for them than to be such another pair of faithful sisters. May they only do as well, poor children!’
The end was softer than the beginning, and there was a tight short sigh, that seemed to burst upward from a whole world of suppressed anxiety and despondence.
It was not easy to understand him, he would not talk of home, was brief about his little Catharine; and when Clara said something of Isabel’s writings, formerly his great pride, and feared that she would have no more time for them, his blunt answer was, ‘She ought not.’
These comparatively indifferent topics were the only resource; for he treated allusions to his grandmother as if they were rending open a wound, and it was only in his absence that Louis and Clara could hold the conversations respecting her, which were their chief comfort and relief. If they were certain that Oliver was busy, and James writing letters, they would walk up and down the sheltered alley, where Louis had last year comforted Clara. The green twilight and chequered shade well accorded with the state of their minds, darkened, indeed, by one of the severest losses that could ever befall either of them, and yet it was a sorrow full of thankfulness and blessed hope.
Louis spoke of his regret that scenes of uncongenial gaiety should have been forced upon her last year.
‘I believe it made very little difference to her,’ said Clara. ‘She did just what Uncle Oliver wished, but only as she used to play with us, no more; nay, rather less for her own amusement than as she would play at battledore, or at thread-paper verses.’
‘And she was not teased nor harassed?’
‘I think not. She was grieved if I were set against Uncle Oliver’s plans, and really hurt if she could not make him think as she did about right and wrong, but otherwise she was always bright. She never found people tiresome; she could find something kind to say to and for the silliest; and when my uncle’s display was most provoking, she would only laugh at ‘poor Oliver’s’ odd notions of doing her honour. I used to be quite ashamed of the fuss I would make when I thought a thing vulgar; when I saw that sort of vanity by the side of her real indifference, springing from unworldliness.’
‘And then her mornings were quiet?’
‘More quiet than at home. While we were riding, she used to sit with her dear old big Bible, and the two or three old books she was so fond of. You remember her Sutton and her Bishop Home, and often she would show me some passage that had struck her as prettier than ever, well as she had always known it. Once she said she was very thankful for the leisure time, free from household cares, and even from friendly gossip; for she said first she had been gay, then she had been busy, and had never had time to meditate quietly.’
‘So she made a cloister of this grand house. Ah! I trusted she was past being hurt by external things. That grand old age was like a pure glad air where worldly fumes ccnild not mount up. My only fear would have been this unlucky estrangement making her unhappy.’
‘I think I may tell you how she felt it,’ said Clara; ‘I am trying to tell James, but I don’t know whether I can. She said she had come to perceive that she had confounded pride with independence. She blamed herself, so that I could not bear to hear it, for the grand fine things in her life. She said pride had made her stand alone, and unkindly spurn much that was kindly meant. I don’t mean that she repented of the actions, but of the motives; she said the glory of being beholden to no one had run through everything; and had been very hurtful even to Uncle Oliver. She never let him know all her straits, and was too proud, she said, to ask, when she was hurt at his not offering help, and so she made him seem more hard-hearted, and let us become set against him. She said she had fostered the same temper in poor Jem, who had it strongly enough by inheritance, and that she had never known the evil, nor understood it as pride, till she saw the effects.’
‘Did they make her unhappy?’
‘She cried when she spoke of it, and I have seen her in tears at church, and found her eyes red when she had been alone, but I don’t think it was a hard, cruel sorrow; I think the sunshine of her nature managed to beam through it.’
‘The sunshine was surely love,’ said Louis, ‘making the rainbow of hope on the tears of repentance. Perhaps it is a blessing vouchsafed to the true of heart to become aware of such a hidden constitutional infirmity in time to wash it out with blessed tears like those.’
‘Hidden,’ said Clara, ‘yes, indeed it was, even from herself, because it never showed in manner, like my pride; she was gracious and affable to all the world. I heard the weeding-women saying, ‘she had not one bit of pride,’ and when I told her of it, she shook her head, and laughed sadly, and said that was the kind of thing which had taken her in.’
‘Common parlance is a deceitful thing,’ said Louis, sighing; ‘people can’t even be sincere without doing harm! Well, I had looked to see her made happy by harmony between those two!’
‘She gave up the hope of seeing it,’ said Clara, ‘but she looked to it all the same. She said meekly one day that it might be her penalty to see them at variance in her own lifetime, but over her grave perhaps they would be reconciled, and her prayers be answered. How she did love Uncle Oliver! Do you know, Louis, what she was to him showed me what the mother’s love must be, which we never missed, because–because we had her!’
‘Don’t talk of it, Clara,’ said Louis, hastily; ‘we cannot dwell on ourselves, and bear it patiently!’
It was truly the loss of a most tender mother to them both; bringing for the first time the sense of orphanhood on the girl, left between the uncongenial though doting uncle, and the irritable though affectionate brother; and Louis, though his home was not broken up, suffered scarcely less. His aunt’s playful sweetness had peculiarly accorded with his disposition, and the affection and confidence of his fond, clinging nature had fastened themselves upon her, all the more in the absence of his own Mary. Each loss seemed to make the other more painful. Aunt Kitty’s correspondence was another link cut away between him and Peru, and he had never known such a sense of dreariness in his whole life. Clara was going patiently and quietly through those trying days, with womanly considerateness; believing herself supported by her brother, and being so in fact by the mere sisterly gratification of his presence, though she was far more really sustained and assisted by Fitzjocelyn. How much happier was the sorrow of Louis and Clara than that of James or Oliver! Tempers such as those in which the uncle and nephew but too closely resembled each other were soured, not softened by grief, and every arrangement raised discussions which did not tend to bring them nearer together.
Oliver designed a stately funeral. Nothing was too much for him to lavish on his mother, and he was profuse in orders for hangings, velvet, blazonry, mutes, and hired mourners, greedy of offers of the dreary state of empty carriages, demanding that of Lord Ormersfield, and wanting James to write to Lady Conway for the same purpose.
Nothing could be more adverse to the feelings of the grandchildren; but Clara had been schooled into letting her uncle have his way, and knew that dear granny would have said Oliver might do as he pleased with her in death as in life, owning the affection so unpleasantly manifested; James, on the other hand, could see no affection, nothing but disgusting parade, as abhorrent to his grandmother’s taste as to his own. He thought he had a right to be consulted, for he by no means believed himself to have abdicated his headship of the family; and he made his voice heard entirely without effect, except the indignation of his uncle, and the absence of the Conway carriage; although Lord Ormersfield wrote that he should bring Sir Walter in his own person, thus leaving James divided between satisfaction in any real token of respect to his grandmother, and dislike to gratifying Oliver’s ostentation by the production of his baronet kin.
Sydney Calcott wrote to him in the name of various former scholars of Mrs. Frost, anxious to do her the last honours by attending the funeral. Homage to her days of gallant exertion in poverty was most welcome and touching to the young people; but their uncle, without taste to understand it, wishing to forget her labours, and fancying them discreditable to a daughter of the Dynevors, received the proposal like an indignity; and but for Fitzjocelyn’s mediation and expostulations, it would have been most unsuitably rejected. He was obliged to take the answer into his own hands, since Oliver insisted that his mother was to be regarded in no light save that of Mrs. Dynevor, of Cheveleigh; and James was equally resolved that she should be only Mrs. Frost, of Dynevor Terrace.
It was heart-sickening to see these bickerings over the grave of one so loving and so beloved; and very trying to be always on the alert to obviate the snappings that might at any time become a sharp dissension; but nothing very distressing actually arose until the