2,49 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 2,49 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 2,49 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Ratgeber
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Young Step-Mother; Or, A Chronicle of Mistakes," Charlotte M. Yonge crafts a compelling narrative that unfolds the complexities of blended family dynamics in Victorian England. Reflecting themes of misunderstanding, personal growth, and the nuances of domestic life, Yonge employs a captivating prose style that intertwines realism with moral undertones. The novel explores the emotional turmoil faced by a young stepmother, navigating her relationships with her new family, and challenges societal expectations placed upon women during the time, illustrating the convoluted paths of love and acceptance. Charlotte M. Yonge, a prominent figure in 19th-century literature, was deeply influenced by her upbringing in a large family and her experiences in the evolving social landscape of the era. Her dedication to moral and educational themes, often derived from her own life and the struggles she observed around her, lends authenticity to her characters' dilemmas. Yonge's extensive writings'—ranging from novels to non-fiction'—seek to elevate the role of women and challenge social conventions. This novel is highly recommended for those interested in Victorian literature, family dynamics, and social commentary. Yonge's insightful exploration will not only engage readers with its narrative depth but also provoke thoughtful reflection on the nature of family and acceptance, making it a timeless read. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Ähnliche
The Young Step-Mother; Or, A Chronicle of Mistakes
Table of Contents
Introduction
A young bride discovers that love, authority, and duty intersect most perilously within the delicate architecture of a newly blended family. Charlotte M. Yonge’s The Young Step-Mother; Or, A Chronicle of Mistakes explores this tension with a steady, observant gaze, tracing how good intentions can falter amid pride, grief, and inexperience. The novel invites readers into the domestic sphere not as a refuge from conflict, but as the very stage on which character is tried and reformed. Without sensationalism, it emphasizes everyday decisions—how to speak, when to yield, what to insist upon—as the true crucibles of moral life.
Written by the English novelist Charlotte M. Yonge (1823–1901), the book belongs to the Victorian domestic novel tradition and is set in provincial England. First appearing in the early 1860s, it reflects the concerns of mid-nineteenth-century readers for whom home, education, and reputation were urgent public and private matters. Yonge’s subtitle, A Chronicle of Mistakes, signals a narrative interested less in melodrama than in the cumulative weight of choices. Rooted in social realism, the story depicts everyday rhythms—parlor visits, schoolroom lessons, calls of duty—while situating them within a moral framework characteristic of the period’s earnest, reform-minded fiction.
The premise is spare and resonant: a young woman marries a widower and assumes responsibility for his household and children, entering a role defined as much by expectation as by affection. From the start she encounters wary affections, conflicting loyalties, and community scrutiny, all rendered in a measured, conversational prose that prizes clarity over ornament. The plot advances through domestic episodes and well-observed dialogue rather than through shocks or revelations. The experience for the reader is thoughtful and immersive: a close study of temperament and principle in motion, enlivened by gentle humor and a sympathetic attention to the motives behind both obedience and resistance.
At the heart of the novel are themes of growth through error, the education of judgment, and the testing of kindness under strain. Authority and affection must be harmonized; ill-timed severity can alienate, while indulgence can weaken. Yonge examines duty as a daily practice rather than a single grand act, showing how patience, steadiness, and self-command form the bedrock of trustworthy love. She probes questions that still resonate: How does one guide without coercing? What debt is owed to the past, and when must the claims of the present take precedence? The story’s moral energy lies in these quiet but consequential negotiations.
The family Yonge portrays is varied in age and temperament, and the stepmother’s youth complicates her authority even as it gives her vitality. The widower’s reserve, the children’s shifting loyalties, and the neighborhood’s attentive gaze create a network of pressures that the heroine must learn to read. Misunderstandings are not merely plot devices; they are the means by which characters reveal their blind spots and capacities. Household management, education, and social obligation become tests of prudence and generosity. The result is a sequence of encounters—some tender, some bracing—in which character hardens or softens according to how responsibility is exercised.
Yonge’s fiction was widely read in her time, and this novel exemplifies her commitment to serious-minded, family-centered storytelling. The tone is earnest yet compassionate, shaped by a mid-Victorian moral sensibility that prizes duty, restraint, and charity. Without polemic, she places domestic life at the center of cultural meaning, suggesting that the health of society begins at the hearth. Her craft favors slow accumulation over sudden reversals, allowing readers to witness how habits form and hearts change. In this respect, the book sits comfortably alongside the era’s domestic realism while retaining Yonge’s distinctive blend of practical counsel and humane understanding.
Modern readers may find in this chronicle of mistakes a strikingly contemporary portrait of stepfamilies, caregiving, and the ethics of influence. The novel invites reflection on emotional labor, on the dignity of mundane tasks, and on the courage it takes to set new patterns without erasing old loyalties. Its pace encourages deliberation, rewarding patience with insight into how relationships mature. For those interested in Victorian culture, it offers a window onto everyday life and its moral vocabulary; for those navigating blended households today, it offers companionship and perspective. Above all, it affirms that wisdom is often the child of well-examined error.
Synopsis
Albinia Ferrars marries the reserved widower Mr. Kendal and moves to Bayford, a small country town where her lively spirit meets a household long set in silence and habit. She becomes stepmother to Lucy, Sophy, and Gilbert, each shaped by loss and by the management of relatives whose indulgence or timidity left uneven foundations. The new mistress aims to brighten rooms and consciences at once, establishing order without harshness. The novel opens with this domestic rearrangement, tracing how Albinia’s good intentions encounter caution from neighbors, curiosity from the parish, and cautious gratitude from a husband unaccustomed to candid companionship.
Household character is quickly sketched. Mr. Kendal’s grief and studious seclusion have made him gentle but distant. Lucy, fond of approval and appearance, loves the social round. Sophy, grave and proud, struggles with ill health and a strict conscience that turns sternest on herself. Gilbert, affectionate yet weak-willed, drifts toward the path of least resistance. Albinia begins with practical reforms—lessons, calls, and regular worship—while learning the local map of influence, from the vicarage to the drawing rooms that rule opinion. The stepmother’s role is defined as guidance amid fragility: urging responsibility without breaking bruised reeds.
Early efforts bring friction. Albinia’s wish to broaden the children’s reading and companions meets resistance from town traditions and from private habits formed in a quieter regime. Lucy’s relish for parties and praise grows, while Sophy resents correction even as she craves justice. Gilbert enjoys improvements until they require firmness. Meanwhile, Albinia’s marriage deepens and she faces motherhood, balancing care for an infant with allegiance to older children. Mr. Kendal supports her principles but shuns scenes, forcing her to manage everyday discipline tactfully. The narrative observes how small choices—visits, tutors, pastimes—set the tenor for later trials.
Bayford’s society supplies occasions for mistake and amendment. Parish life under a conscientious clergyman presses for steadiness, while fashionable influences present easier roads. A charming newcomer, connected with the vicar’s circle, dazzles the town and especially captivates Lucy, who thrives on admiration. Albinia counsels restraint, mindful that agreeable manners can conceal uncertain purpose. Sophy gravitates toward serious friendships that temper her severity, and Gilbert seeks companions who promise confidence without correction. The story frames these attractions as crossroads rather than verdicts, showing how loyalties are formed, reputations are made, and the boundary between harmless mirth and risky vanity can blur.
A first family crisis emerges through Gilbert’s imprudence. Tempted by easy indulgences, he conceals minor debts and then faces the more burdensome concealment they require. Albinia’s discovery forces a choice between quiet shielding and frank confession. Mr. Kendal’s standards are high but his manner reticent, and the household braces for displeasure. Lucy shrinks from disturbance, while Sophy’s strictness risks hardness. The episode highlights the story’s central concern: how correction can be both just and healing. Without resolving all its consequences, the narrative marks this as a turning point, after which obedience, truth-telling, and trust must be re-learned within ordinary routines.
Renewed discipline follows. Albinia steadies daily life, pressing on with schooling, service, and small responsibilities that restore confidence. Sophy, humbled yet resolute, practices self-control in body and mind, discovering quiet usefulness. Lucy continues to favor admiration, navigating invitations and correspondence with supervision that tests her patience. Friendly attentions from the brilliant visitor grow more pointed, inviting misread signals and hopeful talk beyond what prudence allows. Mr. Kendal, drawn out by Albinia’s steadfastness, engages more closely with the children’s affairs. The chronicle emphasizes growth by inches rather than sudden change, as each member learns to value duty over mood or moment.
Illness alters the scale of concerns. A season of sickness in the neighborhood, and trials within the household, place Albinia and her stepchildren in sustained service. Night watches, difficult decisions, and the need for steady courage reveal capacities previously hidden. Sophy’s firmness becomes an asset when discomfort might excuse neglect; Lucy confronts realities that dull the appeal of idle flattery; Gilbert faces the tangible costs of earlier follies. Community respect for Albinia increases as she acts without display, and Mr. Kendal’s reliance on her becomes more evident. The family’s bonds tighten under pressure, shaping sympathies that discussion alone could not create.
Further complications arise from visits, prospects, and legacies of the past. Questions of livelihood, training, and eligible connections demand sober judgment. Albinia must weigh fairness to her stepchildren with natural tenderness for her own little ones, keeping distinctions from hardening into rivalry. Partial revelations about Mr. Kendal’s first marriage and earlier misjudgments cast light on his reserve and the children’s early shaping. Opportunities that look like escape prove morally ambiguous; proposals that flatter pride require testing motives. The narrative maintains tension by showing choices postponed or re-evaluated, while preserving the privacy of outcomes that hinge on character rather than chance.
The close turns from incident to meaning. Mistakes—of haste, vanity, severity, or weak indulgence—are named and owned, not as final defeats but as lessons that re-form a household. Albinia’s stepmotherhood is shown as a vocation: patient, principled affection that neither yields to caprice nor calls despair wisdom. Mr. Kendal’s quiet strength grows through trust; the children move toward steadier footing, each by a different road. Without disclosing final arrangements, the book affirms that family life can be repaired through truth, forgiveness, and daily discipline. The overall message is the gradual victory of duty informed by love, tested and proved in ordinary rooms.
Historical Context
Charlotte M. Yonge situates The Young Step-Mother in mid-Victorian England, roughly the 1840s–1850s, in a provincial market-town milieu akin to southern counties such as Hampshire. The fictional Bayford resembles the small towns around Winchester and Hursley that Yonge knew intimately, marked by a parish church at the social center, a resident gentry family, professional households, and respectable tradespeople. The setting reflects a society negotiating rapid change—railways, urban hygiene campaigns, and new educational ventures—while retaining older hierarchies of clergy, squire, and shopkeeper. Domestic interiors, parish schools, and vestry rooms anchor the action, making the family and the Anglican parish the principal theaters where national debates are refracted into daily life.
The Oxford Movement (Tractarianism) profoundly shaped the ethos of the novel’s world. Sparked by John Keble’s “National Apostasy” Assize Sermon on 14 July 1833 at St Mary’s, Oxford, and disseminated through the Tracts for the Times (1833–1841), it urged the Church of England to recover sacramental discipline, parish order, and social duty. Figures like Edward Bouverie Pusey and John Henry Newman (who entered the Roman Catholic Church in 1845) drove liturgical revival and parish visiting. Yonge, mentored by Keble at nearby Hursley, internalized this program: the book’s stress on catechizing, almsgiving, church attendance, and the moral formation of youth mirrors High Church priorities in the 1830s–1850s parish-renewal movement.
Public health crises in the 1830s–1850s—cholera (1832; 1848–1849; 1854), typhus, and typhoid—pressed municipal reform and shaped domestic anxieties depicted in the novel. Edwin Chadwick’s 1842 Report on the Sanitary Condition of the Labouring Population documented lethal urban filth; the Public Health Act of 1848 created a General Board of Health and local boards to address drainage and water supply. In 1854 John Snow traced a London cholera outbreak to the Broad Street pump, advancing contagion control; the “Great Stink” of 1858 forced sewer modernization. The book’s attention to fevers, nursing, and prudent household management reflects this culture of sanitary vigilance, where genteel women’s visiting and relief work translated national sanitary discourse into intimate, parish-scale action.
Victorian marriage and custody law frame the stepfamily conflicts central to the plot. Under coverture, a wife’s legal identity and property were subsumed under her husband’s; significant reforms came only later with the Married Women’s Property Acts (1870, 1882). Mid-century change arrived piecemeal: the Custody of Infants Act (1839) first allowed mothers limited custody of children under seven, and the Matrimonial Causes Act (1857), implemented in 1858, established a civil Divorce Court, though divorce remained costly and reputation-ruining. The novel’s tensions over a young stepmother’s authority, household governance, and the paternal prerogatives of guardianship reflect this legal matrix, exposing how women’s moral responsibility outstripped their formal power.
Educational reform and the management of children’s reading—crucial to the story’s domestic pedagogy—unfolded amid national initiatives. The National Society’s Anglican schools (founded 1811) expanded in the 1840s–1850s; the Ragged School Union (1844) spread philanthropy to the urban poor. Female education advanced through institutions like Queen’s College, London (1848), and Bedford College (1849), while the Governesses’ Benevolent Institution (1841) signaled precarious professional openings for educated women. The book’s emphasis on supervised study, moral literature, and parish classes replicates these debates, favoring Christian formation over utilitarian drill. Its young stepmother’s role as tutor and monitor echoes mid-century anxieties about cultivating character, curating print culture, and balancing gentility with practical instruction.
Industrialization and the railway network reconfigured provincial life, themes the novel quietly mirrors through mobility, altered visiting patterns, and market-town dynamism. Railway Mania (1845–1847) stitched southern England to London and regional hubs; lines like the Great Western accelerated travel, commerce, and social mixing. The Great Exhibition of 1851 at the Crystal Palace showcased Britain’s manufacturing prowess and self-confidence, reinforcing a culture of improvement and display. For a community like Bayford, rail access brought new goods, fashions, and ideas, testing the gentry–trades hierarchy. The narrative’s concern with prudent consumption, time discipline, and respectable sociability aligns with the etiquette of a society learning to manage speed, novelty, and widened social contact.
War and empire furnished the moral atmosphere of duty, discipline, and service that the novel esteems. The Crimean War (1853–1856) galvanized national sentiment; Florence Nightingale’s 1854 mission to Scutari and subsequent reforms recast nursing and sanitary practice. The Indian Rebellion (1857–1858) reshaped imperial governance, dissolving the East India Company in 1858 and transferring rule to the Crown. Concurrently, the Rifle Volunteer movement (from 1859) fostered local patriotism. Parishes organized subscriptions, hospital comforts funds, and prayer cycles, activities familiar in Yonge’s circle. While domestic in focus, the book’s celebration of steadfastness, obedience, and sacrificial care channels this wartime ethos, casting household trials as training in the public virtues demanded by mid-Victorian Britain.
As social critique, the book exposes the precariousness of women’s authority under coverture, probing how a conscientious stepmother bears moral burdens without commensurate legal power. It scrutinizes class paternalism, showing both the efficacy and limits of parish charity when structural sanitation and education deficits persist. The narrative challenges fashionable superficiality in provincial elites, preferring disciplined benevolence and responsible consumption amid railway-borne novelty. Its parish lens queries civic lethargy over drainage and schooling, even as it valorizes Church-led initiative. By dramatizing guardianship disputes, adolescent misdirection, and the hazards of fever, the work indicts complacency and calls for a reformed domestic and civic order grounded in duty, competence, and public-minded faith.
The Young Step-Mother; Or, A Chronicle of Mistakes
CHAPTER I.
‘Have you talked it over with her?’ said Mr. Ferrars[1], as his little slender wife met him under the beeches that made an avenue of the lane leading to Fairmead vicarage.
‘Yes!’ was the answer, which the vicar was not slow to understand.
‘I cannot say I expected much from your conversation, and perhaps we ought not to wish it. We are likely to see with selfish eyes, for what shall we do without her?’
‘Dear Albinia! You always taunted me with having married your sister as much as yourself.’
‘So I shall again, if you cannot give her up with a good grace.’
‘If I could have had my own way in disposing of her.’
‘Perhaps the hero of your own composition might be less satisfactory to her than is Kendal[2].’
‘At least he should be minus the children!’
‘I fancy the children are one great attraction. Do you know how many there are?’
‘Three; but if Albinia knows their ages she involves them in a discreet haze. I imagine some are in their teens.’
‘Impossible, Winifred, he is hardly five-and-thirty.’
‘Thirty-eight, he said yesterday, and he married very early. I asked Albinia if her son would be in tail-coats; but she thought I was laughing at her, and would not say. She is quite eager at the notion of being governess to the girls.’
‘She has wanted scope for her energies,’ said Mr. Ferrars. ‘Even spoiling her nephew, and being my curate, have not afforded field enough for her spirit of usefulness.’
‘That is what I am afraid of.’
‘Of what, Winifred?’
‘That it is my fault. Before our marriage, you and she were the whole world to each other; but since I came, I have seen, as you say, that the craving for work was strong, and I fear it actuates her more than she knows.’
‘No such thing. It is a case of good hearty love. What, are you afraid of that, too?’
‘Yes, I am. I grudge her giving her fresh whole young heart away to a man who has no return to make. His heart is in his first wife’s grave. Yes, you may smile, Maurice, as if I were talking romance; but only look at him, poor man! Did you ever see any one so utterly broken down? She can hardly beguile a smile from him.’
‘His melancholy is one of his charms in her eyes.’
‘So it may be, as a sort of interesting romance. I am sure I pity the poor man heartily, but to see her at three-and-twenty, with her sweet face and high spirits, give herself away to a man who looks but half alive, and cannot, if he would, return that full first love—have the charge of a tribe of children[1q], be spied and commented on by the first wife’s relations—Maurice, I cannot bear it.’
‘It is not what we should have chosen,’ said her husband, ‘but it has a bright side. Kendal is a most right-minded, superior man, and she appreciates him thoroughly. She has great energy and cheerfulness, and if she can comfort him, and rouse him into activity, and be the kind mother she will be to his poor children, I do not think we ought to grudge her from our own home.’
‘You and she have so strong a feeling for motherless children!’
‘Thinking of Kendal as I do, I have but one fear for her.’
‘I have many—the chief being the grandmother.’
‘Mine will make you angry, but it is my only one. You, who have only known her since she has subdued it, have probably never guessed that she has that sort of quick sensitive temper—’
‘Maurice, Maurice! as if I had not been a most provoking, presuming sister-in-law. As if I had not acted so that if Albinia ever had a temper, she must have shown it.’
‘I knew you would not believe me, and I really am not afraid of her doing any harm by it, if that is what you suspect me of. No, indeed; but I fear it may make her feel any trials of her position more acutely than a placid person would.’
‘Oho! so you own there will be trials!’
‘My dear Winifred, as if I had not sat up till twelve last night laying them before Albinia. How sick the poor child must be of our arguments, when there is no real objection, and she is so much attached! Have you heard anything about these connexions of his? Did you not write to Mrs. Nugent? I wish she were at home.’
‘I had her answer by this afternoon’s post, but there is nothing to tell. Mr. Kendal has only been settled at Bayford Bridge a few years, and she never visited any one there, though Mr. Nugent had met Mr. Kendal several times before his wife’s death, and liked him. Emily is charmed to have Albinia for a neighbour.’
‘Does she know nothing of the Meadows’ family?’
‘Nothing but that old Mrs. Meadows lives in the town with one unmarried daughter. She speaks highly of the clergyman.’
‘John Dusautoy? Ay, he is admirable—not that I have done more than see him at visitations when he was curate at Lauriston.’
‘Is he married?’
‘I fancy he is, but I am not sure. There is one good friend for Albinia any way!’
‘And now for your investigations. Did you see Colonel Bury?’
‘I did, but he could say little more than we knew. He says nothing could be more exemplary than Kendal’s whole conduct in India, he only regretted that he kept so much aloof from others, that his principle and gentlemanly feeling did not tell as much as could have been wished. He has always been wrapped up in his own pursuits—a perfect dictionary of information.’
‘We had found out that, though he is so silent. I should think him a most elegant scholar.’
‘And a deep one. He has studied and polished his acquirements to the utmost. I assure you, Winifred, I mean to be proud of my brother-in-law.’
‘What did you hear of the first wife?’
‘It was an early marriage. He went home as soon as he had sufficient salary, married her, and brought her out. She was a brilliant dark beauty, who became quickly a motherly, housewifely, common-place person—I should think there had been a poet’s love, never awakened from.’
‘The very thing that has always struck me when, poor man, he has tried to be civil to me. Here is a man, sensible himself, but who has never had the hap to live with sensible women.’
‘When their children grew too old for India, she came into some little property at Bayford Bridge, which enabled him to retire. Colonel Bury came home in the same ship, and saw much of them, liked him better and better, and seems to have been rather wearied by her. A very good woman, he says, and Kendal most fondly attached; but as to comparing her with Miss Ferrars, he could not think of it for a moment. So they settled at Bayford, and there, about two years ago, came this terrible visitation of typhus fever[3].’
‘I remember how Colonel Bury used to come and sigh over his friend’s illness and trouble.’
‘He could not help going over it again. The children all fell ill together—the two eldest were twin boys, one puny, the other a very fine fellow, and his father’s especial pride and delight. As so often happens, the sickly one was spared, the healthy one was taken.’
‘Then Albinia will have an invalid on her hands!’
‘The Colonel says this Edmund was a particularly promising boy, and poor Kendal felt the loss dreadfully. He sickened after that, and his wife was worn out with nursing and grief, and sank under the fever at once. Poor Kendal has never held up his head since; he had a terrible relapse.’
‘And,’ said Winifred, ‘he no sooner recovers than he goes and marries our Albinia!’
‘Two years, my dear.’
‘Pray explain to me, Maurice, why, when people become widowed in any unusually lamentable way, they always are the first to marry again.’
‘Incorrigible. I meant to make you pity him.’
‘I did, till I found I had wasted my pity. Why could not these Meadowses look after his children! Why must the Colonel bring him here? I believe it was with malice prepense!’
‘The Colonel went to see after him, and found him so drooping and wretched, that he insisted on bringing him home with him, and old Mrs. Meadows and her daughter almost forced him to accept the invitation.’
‘They little guessed what the Colonel would be at!’
‘You will be better now you have the Colonel to abuse,’ said her husband.
‘And pray what do you mean to say to the General?’
‘Exactly what I think.’
‘And to the aunts?’ slyly asked the wife.
‘I think I shall leave you all that correspondence. It will be too edifying to see you making common cause with the aunts.’
‘That comes of trying to threaten one’s husband; and here they come,’ said Winifred. ‘Well, Maurice, what can’t be cured must be endured. Albinia’a heart is gone, he is a very good man, and spite of India, first wife, and melancholy, he does not look amiss!’
Mr. Ferrars smiled at the chary, grudging commendation of the tall, handsome man who advanced through the beech-wood, but it was too true that his clear olive complexion had not the line of health, that there was a world of oppression on his broad brow and deep hazel eyes, and that it was a dim, dreamy, reluctant smile that was awakened by the voice of the lady who walked by his side, as if reverencing his grave mood.
She was rather tall, very graceful, and well made, but her features were less handsome than sweet, bright, and sensible. Her hair was nut-brown, in long curled waves; her eyes, deep soft grey, and though downcast under the new sympathies, new feelings, and responsibilities that crowded on her, the smile and sparkle that lighted them as she blushed and nodded to her brother and sister, showed that liveliness was the natural expression of that engaging face.
Say what they would, it was evident that Albinia Ferrars had cast in her lot with Edmund Kendal, and that her energetic spirit and love of children animated her to embrace joyfully the cares which such a choice must impose on her.
As might have been perceived by one glance at the figure, step, and bearing of Mr. Ferrars, perfectly clerical though they were, he belonged to a military family. His father had been a distinguished Peninsular officer, and his brother, older by many years, held a command in Canada. Maurice and Albinia, early left orphans, had, with a young cousin, been chiefly under the charge of their aunts, Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars, and had found a kind home in their house in Mayfair, until Maurice had been ordained to the family living of Fairmead, and his sister had gone to live with him there, extorting the consent of her elder brother to her spending a more real and active life than her aunts’ round of society could offer her.
The aunts lamented, but they could seldom win their darling to them for more than a few weeks at a time, even after their nephew Maurice had—as they considered—thrown himself away on a little lively lady of Irish parentage, no equal in birth or fortune, in their opinion, for the grandson of Lord Belraven.
They had been very friendly to the young wife, but their hopes had all the more been fixed on Albinia; and even Winifred could afford them some generous pity in the engagement of their favourite niece to a retired East India Company’s servant—a widower with three children.
CHAPTER II.
The equinoctial sun had long set, and the blue haze of March east wind had deepened into twilight and darkness when Albinia Kendal found herself driving down the steep hilly street of Bayford. The town was not large nor modern enough for gas, and the dark street was only lighted here and there by a shop of more pretension; the plate-glass of the enterprising draper, with the light veiled by shawls and ribbons, the ‘purple jars,’ green, ruby, and crimson of the chemist; and the modest ray of the grocer, revealing busy heads driving Saturday-night bargains.
‘How well I soon shall know them all,’ said Albinia, looking at her husband, though she knew she could not see his face, as he leant back silently in his corner, and she tried to say no more. She was sure that coming home was painful to him; he had been so willing to put it off, and to prolong those pleasant seaside days, when there had been such pleasant reading, walking, musing, and a great deal of happy silence.
Down the hill, and a little way on level ground—houses on one side, something like hedge or shrubbery on the other—a stop—a gate opened—a hollow sound beneath the carriage, as though crossing a wooden bridge—trees—bright windows—an open door—and light streaming from it.
‘Here is your home, Albinia,’ said that deep musical voice that she loved the better for the subdued melancholy of the tones, and the suppressed sigh that could not be hidden.
‘And my children,’ she eagerly said, as he handed her out, and, springing to the ground, she hurried to the open door opposite, where, in the lamp-light, she saw, moving about in shy curiosity and embarrassment, two girls in white frocks and broad scarlet sashes, and a boy, who, as she advanced, retreated with his younger sister to the fireplace, while the elder one, a pretty, and rather formal looking girl of twelve, stood forward.
Albinia held out her arms, saying, ‘You are Lucy, I am sure,’ and eagerly kissed the girl’s smiling, bright face.
‘Yes, I am Lucy,’ was the well-pleased answer, ‘I am glad you are come.’
‘I hope we shall be very good friends,’ said Albinia, with the sweet smile that few, young or old, could resist. ‘And this is Gilbert,’ as she kissed the blushing cheek of a thin boy of thirteen—‘and Sophia.’
Sophia, who was eleven, had not stirred to meet her. She alone inherited her father’s fine straight profile, and large black eyes, but she had the heaviness of feature that sometimes goes with very dark complexions. The white frock did not become her brown neck and arms, her thick black hair was arranged in too womanly a manner, and her head and face looked too large; moreover, there was no lighting-up to answer the greeting, and Albinia was disappointed.
Poor child, she thought, she is feeling deeply that I am an interloper, it will be different now her father is coming.
Mr. Kendal was crossing the hall, and as he entered he took the hand and kissed the forehead of each of the three, but Sophia stood with the same half sullen indifference—it might be shyness, or sensibility.
‘How much you are grown!’ he said, looking at the children with some surprise.
In fact, though Albinia knew their ages, they were all on a larger scale than she had expected, and looked too old for the children of a man of his youthful appearance. Gilbert had the slight look of rapid growth; Lucy, though not so tall, and with a small, clear, bright face, had the air of a little woman, and Sophia’s face might have befitted any age.
‘Yes, papa,’ said Lucy; ‘Gilbert has grown an inch-and-a-half since October, for we measured him.’
‘Have you been well, Gilbert?’ continued Mr. Kendal, anxiously.
‘I have the toothache, said Gilbert, piteously.
‘Happily, nothing more serious,’ thrust in Lucy; ‘Mr. Bowles told Aunt Maria that he considers Gilbert’s health much improved.’
Albinia asked some kind questions about the delinquent tooth, but the answers were short; and, to put an end to the general constraint, she asked Lucy to show her to her room.
It was a pretty bay-windowed room, and looked cheerful in the firelight. Lucy’s tongue was at once unloosed, telling that Gilbert’s tutor, Mr. Salsted, had insisted on his having his tooth extracted, and that he had refused, saying it was quite well; but Lucy gave it as her opinion that he much preferred the toothache to his lessons.
‘Where does Mr. Salsted live?’
‘At Tremblam, about two miles off; Gilbert rides the pony over there every day, except when he has the toothache, and then he stays at home.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘We went to Miss Belmarche till the end of our quarter, and since that we have been at home, or with grandmamma. Do you really mean that we are to study with you?’
‘I should like it, my dear. I have been looking forward very much to teaching you and Sophia.’
‘Thank you, mamma.’
The word was said with an effort as if it came strangely, but it thrilled Albinia’s heart, and she kissed Lucy, who clung to her, and returned the caress.
‘I shall tell Gilbert and Sophy what a dear mamma you are,’ she said. ‘Do you know, Sophy says she shall never call you anything but Mrs. Kendal; and I know Gilbert means the same.’
‘Let them call me whatever suits them best,’ said Albinia; ‘I had rather they waited till they feel that they like to call me as you have done—thank you for it, dear Lucy. You must not fancy I shall be at all hurt at your thinking of times past. I shall want you to tell me of them, and of your own dear mother, and what will suit papa best.’
Lucy looked highly gratified, and eagerly said, ‘I am sure I shall love you just like my own mamma.’
‘No,’ said Albinia, kindly; ‘I do not expect that, my dear. I don’t ask for any more than you can freely give, dear child. You must bear with having me in that place, and we will try and help each other to make your papa comfortable; and, Lucy, you will forgive me, if I am impetuous, and make mistakes.’
Lucy’s little clear black eyes looked as if nothing like this had ever come within her range of observation, and Albinia could sympathize with her difficulty of reply.
Mr. Kendal was not in the drawing-room when they re-entered, there was only Gilbert nursing his toothache by the fire, and Sophy sitting in the middle of the rug, holding up a screen. She said something good-natured to each, but neither responded graciously, and Lucy went on talking, showing off the room, the chiffonieres, the ornaments, and some pretty Indian ivory carvings. There was a great ottoman of Aunt Maria’s work, and a huge cushion with an Arab horseman, that Lucy would uncover, whispering, ‘Poor mamma worked it,’ while Sophy visibly winced, and Albinia hurried it into the chintz cover again, lest Mr. Kendal should come. But Lucy had full time to be communicative about the household with such a satisfied, capable manner, that Albinia asked if she had been keeping house all this time.
‘No; old Nurse kept the keys, and managed till now; but she went this morning.’
Sophy’s mouth twitched.
‘She was so very fond—’ continued Lucy.
‘Don’t!’ burst out Sophy, almost the first word Albinia had heard from her; but no more passed, for Mr. Kendal came in, and Lucy’s conversation instantly was at an end.’
Before him she was almost as silent as the others, and he seldom addressed himself to her, only inquiring once after her grandmamma’s health, and once calling Sophy out of the way when she was standing between the fire and—He finished with the gesture of command, whether he said ‘Your mamma,’ none could tell.
It was late, and the meal was not over before bed-time, when Albinia lingered to find remedies for Gilbert’s toothache, pleased to feel herself making a commencement of motherly care, and to meet an affectionate glance of thanks from Mr. Kendal’s eye. Gilbert, too, thanked her with less shyness than before, and was hopeful about the remedy; and with the feeling of having made a beginning, she ran down to tell Mr. Kendal that she thought he had hardly done justice to the children—they were fine creatures—something so sweet and winning about Lucy—she liked Gilbert’s countenance—Sophy must have something deep and noble in her.
He lifted his head to look at her bright face, and said, ‘They are very much obliged to you.’
‘You must not say that, they are my own.’
‘I will not say it again, but as I look at you, and the home to which I have brought you, I feel that I have acted selfishly.’
Albinia timidly pressed his hand, ‘Work was always what I wished,’ she said, ‘if only I could do anything to lighten your grief and care.’
He gave a deep, heavy sigh. Albinia felt that if he had hoped to have lessened the sadness, he had surely found it again at his own door. He roused himself, however, to say, ‘This is using you ill, Albinia; no one is more sensible of it than I am.’
‘I never sought more than you can give,’ she murmured; ‘I only wish to do what I can for you, and you will not let me disturb you.’
‘I am very grateful to you,’ was his answer; a sad welcome for a bride. ‘And these poor children will owe everything to you.’
‘I wish I may do right by them,’ said Albinia, fervently.
‘The flower of the flock’—began Mr. Kendal, but he broke off at once.
Albinia had told Winifred that she could bear to have his wife’s memory first with him, and that she knew that she could not compensate to him for his loss, but the actual sight of his dejection came on her with a chill, and she had to call up all her energies and hopes, and, still better, the thought of strength not her own, to enable her to look cheerfully on the prospect. Sleep revived her elastic spirits, and with eager curiosity she drew up her blind in the morning, for the first view of her new home.
But there was a veil—moisture made the panes resemble ground glass, and when she had rubbed that away, and secured a clear corner, her range of vision was not much more extensive. She could only see the grey outline of trees and shrubs, obscured by the heavy mist; and on the lawn below, a thick cloud that seemed to hang over a dark space which she suspected to be a large pond.
‘There is very little to be gained by looking out here!’ Albinia soliloquized. ‘It is not doing the place justice to study it on a misty, moisty morning. It looks now as if that fever might have come bodily out of the pond. I’ll have no more to say to it till the sun has licked up the fog, and made it bright! Sunday morning—my last Sunday without school-teaching I hope! I famish to begin again—and I will make time for that, and the girls too! I am glad he consents to my doing whatever I please in that way! I hope Mr. Dusautoy will! I wish Edmund knew him better—but oh! what a shy man it is!’
With a light step she went down-stairs, and found Mr Kendal waiting for her in the dining-room, his face brightening as she entered.
‘I am sorry Bayford should wear this heavy cloud to receive you,’ he said.
‘It will soon clear,’ she answered, cheerfully. ‘Have you heard of poor Gilbert this morning?’
‘Not yet.’ Then, after a pause, ‘I have generally gone to Mrs. Meadows after the morning service,’ he said, speaking with constraint.
‘You will take me?’ said Albinia. ‘I wish it, I assure you.’
It was evidently what he wished her to propose, and he added, ‘She must never feel herself neglected, and it will be better at once.’
‘So much more cordial,’ said Albinia. ‘Pray let us go!’
They were interrupted by the voices of the girls—not unpleasing voices, but loud and unsubdued, and with a slight tone of provincialism, which seemed to hurt Mr. Kendal’s ears, for he said, ‘I hope you will tune those voices to something less unlike your own.’
As he spoke, the sisters appeared in the full and conscious rustling of new lilac silk dresses, which seemed to have happily carried off all Sophy’s sullenness, for she made much more brisk and civil answers, and ran across the room in a boisterous manner, when her father sent her to see whether Gilbert were up.
There was a great clatter, and Gilbert chased her in, breathless and scolding, but the tongues were hushed before papa, and no more was heard than that the tooth was better, and had not kept him awake. Lucy seemed disposed to make conversation, overwhelming Albinia with needless repetitions of ‘Mamma dear,’ and plunging into what Mrs. Bowles and Miss Goldsmith had said of Mr. Dusautoy, and how he kept so few servants, and the butcher had no orders last time he called. Aunt Maria thought he starved and tyrannized over that poor little sickly Mrs. Dusautoy.
Mr. Kendal said not one word, and seemed not to hear. Albinia felt as if she had fallen into a whirlpool of gossip; she looked towards him, and hoped to let the conversation drop, but Sophy answered her sister, and, at last, when it came to something about what Jane heard from Mrs. Osborn’s Susan, Albinia gently whispered, ‘I do not think this entertains your papa, my dear,’ and silence sank upon them all.
Albinia’s next venture was to ask about that which had been her Sunday pleasure from childhood, and she turned to Sophy, and said, ‘I suppose you have not begun to teach at the school yet!’
Sophy’s great eyes expanded, and Lucy said, ‘Oh dear mamma! nobody does that but Genevieve Durant and the monitors. Miss Wolte did till Mr. Dusautoy came, but she does not approve of him.’
‘Lucy, you do not know what you are saying,’ said Mr. Kendal, and again there was an annihilating silence, which Albinia did not attempt to disturb.
At church time, she met the young ladies in the hall, in pink bonnets and sea-green mantillas over the lilac silks, all evidently put on for the first time in her honour, an honour of which she felt herself the less deserving, as, sensible that this was no case for bridal display, she wore a quiet dark silk, a Cashmere shawl, and plain straw bonnet, trimmed with white.
With manifest wish for reciprocity, Lucy fell into transports over the shawl, but gaining nothing by this, Sophy asked if she did not like the mantillas? Albinia could only make civility compatible with truth by saying that the colour was pretty, but where was Gilbert? He was on a stool before the dining-room fire, looking piteous, and pronouncing his tooth far too bad for going to church, and she had just time for a fresh administration of camphor before Mr. Kendal came forth from his study, and gave her his arm.
The front door opened on a narrow sweep, the river cutting it off from the road, and crossed by two wooden bridges, beside each of which stood a weeping-willow, budding with fresh spring foliage. Opposite were houses of various pretentious, and sheer behind them rose the steep hill, with the church nearly at the summit, the noble spire tapering high above, and the bells ringing out a cheerful chime. The mist had drawn up, and all was fresh and clear.
‘There go Lizzie and Loo!’ cried Lucy, ‘and the Admiral and Mrs. Osborn. I’ll run and tell them papa is come home.’
Sophy was setting off also, but Mr. Kendal stopped them, and lingered a moment or two, making an excuse of looking for a needless umbrella, but in fact to avoid the general gaze. As if making a desperate plunge, however, and looking up and down the broad street, so as to be secure that no acquaintance was near, he emerged with Albinia from the gate, and crossed the road as the chime of the bells changed.
‘We are late,’ he said. ‘You will prefer the speediest way, though it is somewhat steep.’
The most private way, Albinia understood, and could also perceive that the girls would have liked the street which sloped up the hill, and thought the lilac and green insulted by being conducted up the steep, irregular, and not very clean bye-lane that led directly up the ascent, between houses, some meanly modern, some picturesquely ancient, with stone steps outside to the upper story, but all with far too much of pig-stye about them for beauty or fragrance. Lucy held up her skirts, and daintily picked her way, and Albinia looked with kindly eyes at the doors and windows, secretly wondering what friends she should find there.
The lane ended in a long flight of more than a hundred shallow steps cut out in the soft stone of the hill, with landing-places here and there, whence views were seen of the rich meadow-landscape beyond, with villages, orchards, and farms, and the blue winding river Baye in the midst, woods rising on the opposite side under the soft haze of distance. On the other side, the wall of rock was bordered by gardens, with streamers of ivy or periwinkle here and there hanging down.
The ascent ended in an old-fashioned stone stile; and here Sophy, standing on the step, proclaimed, with unnecessary loudness, that Mr. Dusautoy was carrying Mrs. Dusautoy across the churchyard. This had the effect of making a pause, but Albinia saw the rector, a tall, powerful man, rather supporting than actually carrying, a little fragile form to the low-browed door leading into the chancel on the north side. The church was handsome, though in the late style, and a good deal misused by eighteenth-century taste; and Albinia was full of admiration as Mr. Kendal conducted her along the flagged path.
She was rather dismayed to find herself mounting the gallery stairs, and to emerge into a well-cushioned abode, with the shield-bearing angel of the corbel of an arch all to herself, and a very good view of the cobwebs over Mr. Dusautoy’s sounding-board. It seemed to suit all parties, however, for Lucy and Sophia took possession of the forefront, and their father had the inmost corner, where certainly nobody could see him.
Just opposite to Albinia was a mural tablet, on which she read what revealed to her more of the sorrows of her household than she had guessed before:
Then followed, in the original Greek, the words, ‘Because I live, ye shall live also.’
Four infants! how many hopes laid here! All the English-born children of the family had died in their cradles, and not only did compassion for the past affect Albinia, as she thought of her husband’s world of hidden grief, but a shudder for the future came over her, as she remembered having read that such mortality is a test of the healthiness of a locality. What could she think of Willow Lawn? It was with a strong effort that she brought her attention back to Him Who controlleth the sickness that destroyeth at noon-day.
But Mr. Dusautoy’s deep, powerful intonations roused her wandering thoughts, and she was calmed and reassured by the holy Feast, in which she joined with her husband.
Mr. Kendal’s fine face was calm and placid, as best she loved to look upon it, when they came out of church, and she was too happy to disturb the quiet by one word. Lively and animated as she was, there was a sort of repose and enjoyment in the species of respect exacted by his grave silent demeanour.
If this could only have lasted longer! but he was taking her along an irregular street, and too soon she saw a slight colour flit across his cheek, and his eyebrows contract, as he unlatched a green door in a high wall, and entered a little flagged court, decorated by a stand destined for flowers.
Albinia caught the blush, and felt more bashful than she had believed was in her nature, but she had a warm-hearted determination that she would work down prejudices, and like and be liked by all that concerned him and his children. So she smiled at him, and went bravely on into the matted hall and up the narrow stairs, and made a laughing sign when he looked back at her ere he tapped at the sitting-room door.
It was opened from within before he could turn the handle, and a shrill voice, exaggerating those of the girls, showered welcomes with such rapidity, that Albinia was seated at the table, and had been helped to cold chicken, before she could look round, or make much answer to reiterations of ‘so very kind.’
It was a small room, loaded with knicknacks and cushions, like a repository of every species of female ornamental handiwork in vogue for the last half century, and the luncheon-tray in the middle of all, ready for six people, for the two girls were there, and though Mr. Kendal stood up by the fire, and would not eat, he and his black image, reflected backwards and forwards in the looking-glass and in the little round mirror, seemed to take up more room than if he had been seated.
Mrs. Meadows was slight, shrunken, and gentle-looking, with a sweet tone in her voice, great softness of manner, and pretty blue eyes. Albinia only wished that she had worn mourning, it would have been so much more becoming than bright colours, but that was soon overlooked in gratitude for her affectionate reception, and in the warmth of feeling excited by her evident fondness and solicitude for Mr. Kendal.
Miss Meadows was gaily dressed in youthful fashion, such as evidently had set her off to advantage when she had been a bright, dark, handsome girl; but her hair was thin, her cheeks haggard, the colour hardened, and her forty years apparent, above all, in an uncomfortable furrow on the brow and round the mouth; her voice had a sharp distressed tone that grated even in her lowest key, and though she did not stammer, she could never finish a sentence, but made half-a-dozen disjointed commencements whenever she spoke. Albinia pitied her, and thought her nervous, for she was painfully assiduous in waiting on every one, scarcely sitting down for a minute before she was sure that pepper, or pickle, or new bread, or stale bread, or something was wanted, and squeezing round the table to help some one, or to ring the bell every third minute, and all in a dress that had a teasing stiff silken rustle. She offered Mr. Kendal everything in the shape of food, till he purchased peace by submitting to take a hard biscuit, while Albinia was not allowed her glass of water till all manner of wines, foreign and domestic, had been tried upon her in vain.
Conversation was not easy. Gilbert was inquired after, and his aunt spoke in her shrill, injured note, as she declared that she had done her utmost to persuade him to have the tooth extracted, and began a history of what the dentist ought to have done five years ago.
His grandmother softly pitied him, saying poor little Gibbie was such a delicate boy, and required such careful treatment; and when Albinia hoped that he was outgrowing his ill-health, she was amused to find that desponding compassion would have been more pleasing.
There had been a transaction about a servant in her behalf: and Miss Meadows insisted on hunting up a note, searching all about the room, and making her mother and Sophy move from the front of two table-drawers, a disturbance which Sophy did not take with such placid looks as did her grandmother.
The name of the maid was Eweretta Dobson, at which there was a general exclamation.
‘I wonder what is the history of the name,’ said Albinia; ‘it sounds like nothing but the diminutive of ewer. I hope she will not be the little pitcher with long ears.’
Mr. Kendal looked as much amused as he ever did, but no one else gave the least token of so much as knowing what she meant, and she felt as if she had been making a foolish attempt at wit.
‘You need not call her so,’ was all that Mrs. Meadows said.
‘I do not like calling servants by anything but their true names,’ answered Albinia; ‘it does not seem to me treating them with proper respect to change their names, as if we thought them too good for them. It is using them like slaves.
Lucy exclaimed, ‘Why! grandmamma’s Betty is really named Philadelphia.’
Albinia laughed, but was disconcerted by finding that she had really given annoyance. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘It is only a fancy of my own. I am afraid that I have many fancies for my friends to bear with. You see I have so fine a name of my own, that I have a fellow-feeling for those under the same affliction; and I believe some servants like an alias rather than be teased for their finery, so I shall give Miss Eweretta her choice between that and her surname.
The old lady looked good-natured, and that matter blew over; but Miss Meadows fell into another complication of pros and cons about writing for the woman’s character, looking miserably harassed whether she should write, or Mrs. Kendal, before she had been called upon.
Albinia supposed that Mrs. Wolfe might call in the course of the week; but this Miss Meadows did not know, and she embarked in so many half speeches, and looked so mysterious and significant at her mother, that Albinia began to suspect that some dreadful truth was behind.
‘Perhaps,’ said the old lady, ‘perhaps Mrs. Kendal might make it understood through you, my dear Maria, that she is ready to receive visits.’
‘I suppose they must be!’ said Albinia.
‘You see, my dear, people would be most happy, but they do not know whether you have arrived. You have not appeared at church, as I may say.’
‘Indeed,’ said Albinia, much diverted by her new discoveries in the realms of etiquette, ‘I was rather in a cupboard, I must allow. Ought we to have sailed up the aisle in state in the Grandison pattern? Are you ready?’ and she glanced up at her husband, but he only half heard.
‘No,’ said Miss Meadows, fretfully; ‘but you have not appeared as a bride. The straw bonnet—you see people cannot tell whether you are not incog[4], as yet—’
To refrain from laughing was impossible. ‘My tarn cap,’ she exclaimed; ‘I am invisible in it! What shall I do? I fear I shall never be producible, for indeed it is my very best, my veritable wedding-bonnet!’
Lucy looked as if she thought it not worth while to be married for no better a bonnet than that.
‘Absurdity!’ said Mr. Kendal.
If he would but have given a good hearty laugh, thought Albinia, what a consolation it would be! but she considered herself to have had a lesson against laughing in that house, and was very glad when he proposed going home. He took a kind, affectionate leave of the old lady, who again looked fondly in big face, and rejoiced in his having recovered his looks.
As they arrived at home, Lucy announced that she was just going to speak to Lizzie Osborn, and Sophy ran after her to a house of about the same degree as their own, but dignified as Mount Lodge, because it stood on the hill side of the street, while Mr. Kendal’s house was for more gentility called ‘Willow Lawn.’ Gilbert was not to be found; but at four o’clock the whole party met at dinner, before the evening service.
Gilbert could eat little, and on going back to the fire to roast his cheek instead of going to church, was told by his father, ‘I cannot have this going on. You must go to Mr. Bowles directly after breakfast to-morrow, have the tooth drawn, and then go on to Mr. Salsted’s.
The tone was one that admitted of no rebellion. If Mr. Kendal interfered little, his authority was absolute where he did interfere, and Albinia could only speak a few kind words of encouragement, but the boy was vexed and moody, seemed half asleep when they came home, and went to bed as soon as tea was over.
Sophy went to bed too, Mr. Kendal went to his study, and Albinia, after this day of novelty and excitement, drew her chair to the fire, and as Lucy was hanging wearily about, called her to her side, and made her talk, believing that there was more use in studying the girl’s character than even in suggesting some occupation, though that was apparently the great want of the whole family on Sunday.
Lucy’s first confidence was that Gilbert had not been out alone, but with that Archibald Tritton. Mr. Tritton had a great farm, and was a sort of gentleman, and Gilbert was always after that Archy. She thought it ‘very undesirable,’ and Aunt Maria had talked to him about it, but he never listened to Aunt Maria.
Albinia privately thought that it must be a severe penance to listen to Aunt Maria, and took Gilbert’s part. She supposed that he must be very solitary; it must be a melancholy thing to be a twin left alone.
‘And Edmund, dear Edmund, was always so kind and so fond of Gilbert!’ said Lucy. ‘You would not have thought they were twins, Edmund was so much the tallest and strongest. It seemed so odd that Gilbert should have got over it, when he did not. Should you like to hear all about it, mamma?’
It was Albinia’s great wish to lift that dark veil, and Lucy began, with as much seriousness and sadness as could co-exist with the satisfaction and importance of having to give such a narration, and exciting emotion and pity. It was remarkable how she managed to make herself the heroine of the story, though she had been sent out of the house, and had escaped the infection. She spoke in phrases that showed that she had so often told the story as to have a set form, caught from her elders, but still it had a deep and intrinsic interest for the bride, that made her sit gazing into the fire, pressing Lucy’s hand, and now and then sighing and shuddering slightly as she heard how there had been a bad fever prevailing in that lower part of the town, and how the two boys were both unwell one damp, hot autumn morning, and Lucy dwelt on the escape it had been that she had not kissed them before going to school. Sophy had sickened the same day, and after the tedious three weeks, when father and mother were spent with attendance on the three, Edmund, after long delirium, had suddenly sunk, just as they had hopes of him; and the same message that told Lucy of her brother’s death, told her of the severe illness of both parents.
The disease had done the work rapidly on the mother’s exhausted frame, and she was buried a week after her boy. Lucy had seen the procession from the window, and thought it necessary to tell how she had cried.
Mr. Kendal’s had been a long illness; the first knowledge of his loss had caused a relapse, and his recovery had long been doubtful. As soon as the children were able to move, they were sent with Miss Meadows to Ramsgate, and Lucy had joined them there.
‘The day before I went, I saw papa,’ she said. ‘I had gone home for some things that I was to take, and his room door was open, so he saw me on the stairs, and called me, for there was no fear of infection then. Oh, he was so changed! his hair all cut off, and his cheeks hollow, and he was quite trembling, as he lay back on pillows in the great arm-chair. You can’t think what a shock it was to me to see him in such a state. He held out his arms, and I flung mine round his neck, and sobbed and cried. And he just said, so faintly, “Take her away, Maria, I cannot bear it.” I assure you I was quite hysterical.’
‘You must have wished for more self-command,’ said Albinia, disturbed by Lucy’s evident pleasure in having made a scene.
