Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)

C >> Charlotte M Yonge >> Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27

'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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27