Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)

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

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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
last day before the funeral, when the three cousins were sitting
together in the morning-room; James writing letters.

'I am asking Lady Conway to give you a bed to-morrow night, Clara,'
he said. 'We shall be at home by three o'clock.'

'Oh, Jem!' said Clara, clasping her hands to keep them from
trembling; 'I never thought of that.'

'You are not ready! That is unlucky, for I cannot come to fetch you;
but I suppose you can travel down with Jane. Only I should have
thought it easier to do the thing at once.'

'But, Jem! has my uncle said anything? Does he wish me to go?'

James laid down his pen, and stood upright, as if he did not
understand her words.

Clara came up to him, saying, 'I believe I ought to do what he may
wish.'

'I told you,' said James, as if her words were not worth considering,
'that you need only remain here on her account, who no longer needs
you.'

Louis would have left them to themselves, but Clara's glance sued for
his protection, and, as he settled himself in his chair, she spoke
with more decision.--'Dear James, nothing would make me so happy as
to go to dear home; but I do not think grandmamma would like me to
leave Uncle Oliver.'

'Oh, very well,' said James, sitting down to his writing, as if he
had done with her; 'I understand.'

'Dear James! O tell me you are not angry with me! Tell me you think
I am right!' cried Clara, alarmed by his manner.

'Quite right in one point of view,' he said, with acrimony.

'James,' said Louis, very low, but so as to make them both start,
'that is not the way to treat your sister!'

'We will renew the discussion another time, if you wish it, Clara,'
said James.

'No,' said Clara, 'I wish Louis to be here. He will judge for me,'
and she spoke clearly, her face colouring. 'It was grandmamma's
great wish that I should love my uncle. She used to beg me to be
patient with him, and rejoiced to see us together. She often said he
must not be left with no one to make a home for him, and to go out to
Lima again.'

'Did she ever desire you to remain here?'

'No,' said Clara, 'she never did; but I am convinced that if she had
known how soon she was to leave us, she would have done so. I feel
as much bound as if she had. I have heard her call him my charge.
And not only so, but my uncle has never varied in his kindness to me,
and when he worked all his life for grandmamma, and my father, it
would be wicked and cruel in me--if he does care for me--to forsake
him, now he has lost them all, and is growing old.'

'You need not scruple on that score,' said James. 'He has attained
his object, and made the most of it. He is free now, and he will
soon find a Rosita, if his mines are not sufficient for him.'

'James, you should not say wrong things,' said Clara.

'I am not likely to think it wrong, whatever you may. I have no
expectations. Do not rise up in arms against me, Fitzjocelyn, I do
not accuse her. I might have foreseen it. She meant well at first,
but the Terrace cannot bear competition with a place like this.
Where two so-called duties clash, she is at perfect liberty to make
her choice. It would not be easy to come down to what I have to
offer. I understand. The world will call it a wise choice. Say no
more, Clara, I feel no anger.'

She attempted no words; she clasped her hands over her face, and ran
out of the room.

'James,' said Louis, rising, indignation rendering his voice more low
and clearly distinct than ever, 'I little thought to hear you insult
that orphan sister of yours in her grief. No! I shall not defend
her, I shall go to give her what comfort I can. Heaven help her,
poor lonely child!'

He was gone. James paced about in desperation, raving against Louis
for maintaining what he thought Clara's self-deception; and, in the
blindness of anger, imagining that their ultra-generosity would
conduct them to the repair of Ormersfield with the revenues of
Cheveleigh; and, disdainful as he was, it seemed another cruel
outrage that his rightful inheritance should be in the hands of
another, and his children portionless. He was far too wrathful to
have any consistency or discrimination in his anger, and he was
cruelly wounded at finding that his sister deserted him, as he
thought, for her uncle's riches, and that his own closest friend was
ready to share the spoil.

In the stillness of the house, the sound of a door had revealed to
Louis where to seek his cousin. It was in the grand saloon, where
the closed shutters availed not to exclude the solid beams of
slanting sunlight falling through the crevices, and glancing on the
gilding, velvet, and blazonry upon the costly coffin, that shut her
out from the dear tender hands and lips that had never failed to
caress away her childish griefs. At first, the strange broad lines
of shadowy light in the gloom were all he could see, but one ray
tinged with paly light a plaited tress, which could only be Clara's
flaxen hair.

She had flung herself, crouching in a heap, on the floor, never
stirring, so that he almost feared she had fainted; and, kneeling on
one knee beside her, spoke soothingly: 'My poor little dear Clary,
this is the worst of all, but you know it was not Jem who spoke. It
was only prejudice and temper. He is not himself.'

The dim light seemed to encourage Clara to lift her head to listen to
the kind words. 'Was I so very wrong?' she murmured; 'you know I
never thought of that! Will he forgive me, and let me come home?
But, oh, granny! and what is to become of my uncle?' she ended, with
a sound of misery.

'Not here, not now, Clara--' said Louis; 'She is in perfect peace;
unhurt by our unhappy dissensions; she is with Him who looks at
hearts, who can take away all variance.'

There was a short space of silence, as the two cousins knelt in the
darkened room, in the sunbeams, which seemed as if they could not yet
forsake her who had lived in the light of love.

Presently Louis gave Clara his hand to raise her, and led her into
the adjoining room, also dim, but full of sweet fragrant breezes from
the garden. He seated her on a low couch, and stood by, anxiously
watching her.

'If he had only told me I was wrong!' she sighed.

'He could not tell you so, Clara, for it is not wrong, and he knows
it is not. He will thank you by-and-by for not attending to him, now
that he does not know what he says. He is fairly distracted with
this grief coming upon his home cares.'

'Cares at dear, dear happy home!' cried Clara. 'Never!'

'Ah, Clara! I fear that much comfort went away with dear granny.
I think he is overtasking himself at the school; and three children
within a year may well make a man anxious and oppressed.'

'And I have vexed and disappointed him more!' exclaimed she. 'No
wonder he was angry, and ready to impute anything! But he will
believe me, he will forgive me, he will take me home.'

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