Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)

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

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Was it a delusion of fancy, acting on reflections in the glass, that,
as he mounted the steps from the lawn, depicted Mary's figure through
the dining-room windows? Nay, the table was really laid for
breakfast--a female figure was actually standing over the tea-chest.

'A scene from the Vicar of Wakefield deluding me,' decided Louis,
advancing to the third window, which was open.

It was Mary Ponsonby.

'Mary!'

'You here?--They said you were not at home!'

'My father!--Where?'

'He is not come down. He is as well as possible. We came at eleven
last night. I found I was not wanted,' added Mary, with a degree of
agitation, that made him conclude that she had lost her father.

One step he made to find the Earl, but too much excited to move away
or to atand still, he came towards her, wrung her hand in a more real
way than in his first bewildered surprise, and exclaimed in
transport, 'O Mary! Mary! to have you back again!' then, remembering
his inference, added, low and gravely, 'It makes me selfish--I was
not thinking of your grief.'

'Never mind,' said Mary, smiling, though her eyes overflowed, 'I must
be glad to be at home again, and such a welcome as this--'

'O Mary, Mary!' he cried, nearly beside himself, 'I have not known
what to do without you! You will believe it now, won't you?'--oh,
won't you?'

Mary would have been a wonderful person had she not instantly and
utterly forgotten all her conclusions from Frampton's having declared
him gone to Beauchastel for an unlimited time; but all she did was to
turn away her crimson tearful face, and reply, 'Your father would not
wish it now.'

'Then the speculations have failed? So much the better!'

'No, no! he must tell you--'

She was trying to withdraw her hand, when Lord Ormersfield opened the
door, and in the moment of his amazed 'Louis!' Mary had fled.

'What is it? oh! what is it, father? cried Louis for all greeting,
'why can she say you would not wish it now?'

'Wish it? wish what?' asked the Earl, without the intuitive
perception of the meaning of the pronoun.

'What you have always wished--Mary and me--What is the only happiness
that life can offer me!'

'If I wished it a year ago, I could only wish it the more now,' said
the Earl. 'But how is this?--I fully believed you committed to Miss
Conway.'

'Miss Conway! Miss Conway!' burst out Louis, in a frenzy. 'Because
Jem Frost was in love with her himself, he fancied every one else
must be the same, and now he will be married to her before Christmas,
so that's disposed of. As to my feeling for her a particle, a shred
of what I do for Mary, it was a mere fiction--a romance, an
impossibility.'

'I do not understand you, Louis. Why did you not find this out
before?'

'Mrs. Ponsonby called it my duty to test my feelings, and I have
tested them. That one is a beautiful poet's dream. Mary is a woman,
the only woman I can ever love. Not an hour but I have felt it, and
now, father, what does she mean?'

'She means, poor girl, what only her own scrupulous delicacy could
regard as an objection, but what renders me still more desirous to
have a right to protect her. The cause of our return--'

'How? I thought her father was dead.'

'Far worse. At Valparaiso we met Robson, the confidential agent. I
learnt from him that Mr. Ponsonby had hardly waited for her mother's
death to marry a Limenian, a person whom everything pointed out as
unfit to associate with his daughter. Even Robson, cautious as he
was, said he could not undertake to recommend Miss Ponsonby to
continue her journey.'

'And this was all?' exclaimed Louis, too intent on his own views for
anything but relief.

'All? Is it not enough to set her free? She acquiesced in my
judgment that she could do no otherwise than return. She wrote to
her father, and I sent three lines to inform him that, under the
circumstances, I fulfilled my promise to her mother by taking her
home. I had nearly made her promise that, should we find you about
to form an establishment of your own, she would consider herself as
my child; but--'

'Oh, father! how shall we make her believe you care nothing for her
scruple? The wretched man! But--oh! where is she?'

'It does not amount to a scruple in her case,' deliberately resumed
the Earl. 'I always knew what Ponsonby was, and nothing from him
coldd surprise me--even such an outrage on feeling and decency.
Besides, he has effectually shut himself out of society, and degraded
himself beyond the power of interfering with you. For the rest, Mary
is already, in feeling, so entirely my child, that to have the right
to call her so has always been my fondest wish. And, Louis, the
months I have spent with her have not diminished my regard. My Mary!
she will have a happier lot than her mother!'

The end of the speech rewarded Louis for the conflict by which he had
kept himself still to listen to the beginning. Lord Ormersfield had
pity on him, and went in search of Mary; while he, remembering former
passages, felt that his father might be less startling and more
persuasive, but began to understand what James must have suffered in
committing his affairs to another.

The Earl found Mary in what had been her mother's sitting-room,
striving to brace her resolution by recalling the conversation that
had taken place there on a like occasion. But alas! how much more
the heart had now to say! How much it felt as if the only shelter or
rest in the desolate world was in the light of the blue eyes whose
tender sunshine had been on her for one instant!

Yet she began firmly--'If you please, would you be so kind as to let
me go to Aunt Melicent?'

'By-and-by, my dear, when you think fit.'

'Oh, then, at once, and without seeing any one, please!'

'Nay, Mary,' with redoubled gentleness, 'there is one who cannot let
you go without seeing him. Mary, you will not disappoint my poor boy
again. You will let him be an amendment in my scheme.'

'You have been always most kind to me, but you cannot really like
this.'

'You forget that it has been my most ardent wish from the moment I
saw you what only your mother's child could be.'

'That was before-- No, I ought not! Yours is not a family to bring
disgrace into.'

'I cannot allow you to speak thus. I knew your trials at home when
first I wished you to be my son's wife, and my opinion is unchanged,
except by my increased wish to have the first claim to you.'

'Lord Ormersfield,' said Mary, collecting herself 'only one thing.
Tell me, as if we were indifferent persons, is this a connexion such
as would do Louis any harm? I trust you to answer.'

He paced along the room, and she tried to control her trembling. He
came back and spoke: No, Mary. If he were a stranger, I should give
the same advice. Your father's own family is unexceptionable; and
those kind of things, so far off--few will ever hear of them, and no
one will attach consequence to them. If that be your only scruple,
it does you infinite credit; but I can entirely remove it. What
might be an injury to you, single, would be of comparatively little
importance to him.'

'Miss Conway,' faltered Mary, who could never remember her, when in
Louis's presence.

'A mere delusion, of our own. There was nothing in it. He calls you
the only woman who can make him happy, as I always knew you were. He
must explain all. You will come to him, my dear child.'

Mary resisted no more; he led her down stairs, and left her within
the dining-room door.

'Mary, you will now--' was all Louis said; but she let him draw her
into his arms, and she rested against his breast, as when he had come
to comfort her in the great thunderstorm in auld lang-syne. She felt
herself come at length to the shelter and repose for which her heart
had so long yearned, in spite of her efforts, and as if the world had
nothing more to offer of peace or joy.

'Oh, Mary, how I have wanted you! You believe in me now!'

'I am sure mamma would!' murmured Mary.

He could have poured forth a torrent of affection, but the suspicion
of a footstep made her start from him; and the next moment she was
herself, glowing, indeed, and half crying with happiness, but alarmed
at her own agitation, and struggling to resume her common-place
manner.

'There's your father not had a morsel of breakfast!' she exclaimed,
hurrying back to her teacups, whose ringing betrayed her trembling
hand. 'Call him, Louis.'

'Must I go?' said Louis, coming to assist in a manner that threatened
deluge and destruction.

'Oh yes, go! I shall be able to speak to you when you come back.'

He had only to go into the verandah. His father was watching at the
library window, and they wrung each other's hand in gladness beyond
utterance.

Mary had seated herself in the solid stately chair, with the whole
entrenchment of tea equipage before her. They knew it signified that
she was to be unmolested; they took their places, and the Earl carved
ham, and Louis cut bread, and Mary poured out tea in the most matter-
of-fact manner, hazarding nothing beyond such questions as, 'May I
give you an egg?'

Then curiosity began to revive: Louis ventured, 'Where did you land?'
and his father made answer, 'At Liverpool, yesterday,' and how the
Custom-house had detained them, and he had, therefore, brought Mary
straight home, instead of stopping with her at Northwold, at eleven
o'clock, to disturb Mrs. Frost.

'You would have found us up,' said Louis.

'You were sleeping at the Terrace?'

'Yes, I walked here this morning.'

'Then your ankle must be pretty well,' was Mary's first contribution
to the conversation.

'Quite well for all useful purposes,' said Louis, availing himself of
the implied permission to turn towards her.

'But, Louis,' suddenly exclaimed the Earl, 'did you not tell me
something extraordinary about James Frost? Whom did you say he was
going to marry?'

'Isabel Conway.'

Never was his love of electrifying more fully gratified! Lord
Ormersfield was surprised into an emphatic interjection, and inquiry
whether they were all gone mad.

'Not that I am aware of,' said Louis. 'Perhaps you have not heard
that Mr. Lester is going to retire, and Jem has the school?'

'Then, it must be Calcott and the trustees who are out of their
senses.'

'Do you not consider it an excellent appointment?'

'It might be so some years hence,' said the Earl. 'I am afraid it
will tie him down to a aecond-rate affair, when he might be doing
better; and the choice is the last thing I should have expected from
Calcott.'

'He opposed it. He wanted to bring in a very ordinary style of
person, from -- School, but Jem's superiority and the general esteem
for my aunt carried the day.'

'What did Ramsbotham and his set do?'

'They were better than could have been hoped; they gave us their
votes when they found their man could not get in.'

'Ha? As long as that fellow is against Calcott, he cares little whom
he supports. I am sorry that Calcott should be defeated, even for
James's sake. How did Richardson vote?'

'He was doubtful at first, but I brought him over.'

Lord Ormersfield gave a quick, searching glance as he said,' James
Frost did not make use of our interest in this matter.'

'Jem never did. He and my aunt held back, and were unwilling to
oppose the Squire. They would have given it up, but for me. Father,
I never supposed you could be averse to my doing my utmost for Jem,
when all his prospects were at stake.'

'I should have imagined that James was too well aware of my
sentiments to allow it.'

What a cloud on the happy morning!

Louis eagerly exclaimed: 'James is the last person to be blamed! He
and my aunt were always trying to stop me, but I would not listen to
their scruples. I knew his happiness depended on his success, and I
worked for him, in spite of himself. If I did wrong, I can only be
very sorry; but I cannot readily believe that I transgressed by
setting the question before people in a right light. Only, whose
fault soever it was, it was not Jem's.'

Lord Ormersfield had not the heart to see one error in his son on
such a day as this, more especially as Mary peeped out behind the urn
to judge of his countenance, and he met her pleading eyes, swimming
in tears.

'No, I find no fault,' he kindly said. 'Young, ardent spirits may be
excused for outrunning the bounds that their elders might impose.
But you have not removed my amazement. James intending to marry on
the grammar-school!--it cannot be worth 300 pounds a year.'

'Isabel is satisfied. She never desired anything but a quiet,
simple, useful life.'

'Your Aunt Catharine delighted, of course? No doubt of that; but
what has come to Lady Conway?'

'She cannot help it, and makes the best of it. She gave us very
little trouble.'

'Ah! her own daughter is growing up,' said the Earl, significantly.

'Isabel is very fond of Northwold,' said Mary, feeling that Louis was
wanting her sympathy. 'She used to wish she could settle there--with
how little consciousness!'

'If I had to judge in such a case,' said Lord Ormersfield,
thoughtfully, 'I should hesitate to risk a woman's happiness with a
temper such as that of James Frost.'

'Oh, father!' cried Louis, indignantly.

'I suspect,' said Lord Ormersfield, smiling, 'that of late years,
James's temper has been more often displayed towards me than towards
you.'

'A certain proof how safe his wife will be,' returned Louis.

His father shook his head, and looking from one to the other of the
young people, congratulated himself that here, at least, there were
no perils of that description. He asked how long the attachment had
existed.

'From the moment of first sight,' said Louis; 'the fine spark was
lighted on the Euston Square platform; and it was not much later
with her. He filled up her beau ideal of goodness--'

'And, in effect, all Lady Conway's pursuit of you threw them
together,' said Lord Ormersfield, much entertained.

'Lady Conway has been their very best friend, without intending it.
It would not have come to a crisis by this time, if she had not taken
me to Paris. It would have been a pity if the catastrophe of the
barricades had been all for nothing.'

Lord Ormersfield and Mary here broke out in amazement at themselves,
for having hitherto been oblivious of the intelligence that had
greeted them on their first arrival, when Frampton had informed them
of Lord Fitzjocelyn's wound and gallant conduct, and his father had
listened to the story like the fastening of a rivet in Miss Conway's
chains, and Mary with a flush of unselfish pride that Isabel had been
taught to value her hero. They both claimed the true and detailed
account, as if they had hitherto been defrauded of it, and insisted
on hearing what had happened to him.

'I dare say you know best,' said Louis, lazily. 'I have heard so
many different accounts of late, that I really am beginning to forget
which is the right one, and rather incline to the belief that
Delaford brought a rescue or two with his revolver, and carried us
into a fortress where my aunt had secured the windows with feather-
beds--'

'You had better make haste and tell, that the true edition may be
preserved,' said Mary, rallying her spirits in her eagerness.

'I have begun to understand why there never yet has been an authentic
account of a great battle,' said Louis. 'Life would make me coincide
with Sir Robert Walpole's judgment on history. All I am clear about
is, that even a Red Republican is less red than he is painted; that
Isabel Conway is fit to visit the sentinels in a beleaguered castle--
a noble being-- But oh, Mary! did I not long sorely after you when.
it came to the wounded knight part of the affair! I am more sure of
that than of anything else!'

Mary blushed, but her tender heart was chiefly caring to know how
much he had been hurt, and so the whole story was unfolded by due
questioning; and the Earl had full and secret enjoyment of the signal
defeat of his dear sister-in-law, the one satisfaction on which every
one seemed agreed.

It was a melancholy certainty that Mary must go to Mrs. Frost, but
the Earl deferred the moment by sending the carriage with an entreaty
that she would come herself to fetch her guest. Mary talked of
writing a note; but the autumn sun shone cheerily on the steps, and
Louis wiled her into seating herself on the upper step, while he
reclined on the lower ones, as they had so often been placed when
this was his only way of enjoying the air. The sky was clear, the
air had the still calm of autumn, the evergreens and the yellow-
fringed elms did not stir a leaf--only a large heavy yellow plane
leaf now and then detached itself by its own weight and silently
floated downwards. Mary sat, without wishing to utter a word to
disturb the unwonted tranquillity, the rest so precious after her
months of sea-voyage, her journey, her agitations. But Louis wanted
her seal of approval to all his past doings, and soon began on their
inner and deeper story, ending with, 'Tell me whether you think I was
right, my own dear governess--'

'Oh no, you must never call me that any more.'

'It is a name belonging to my happiest days.'

'It was only in play. It reverses the order of things. I must look
up to you.'

'If you can!' aaid Louis, playfully, slipping down to a lower step.

A tear burst out as Mary said, 'Mamma said it must never be that
way.' Then recovering, she added, 'I beg your pardon, Louis; I was
treating it as earnest. I think I am not quite myself to-day, I will
go to my room!'

'No, no, don't,' he said; 'I will not harass you with my gladness,
dearest.' He stepped in-doors, brought out a book, and when Mrs.
Frost arrived to congratulate and be congratulated, she found Mary
still on the step, gazing on without seeing the trees and flowers,
listening without attending to the rich, soothing flow of Lope de
Vega's beautiful devotional sonnets, in majestic Spanish, in Louis's
low, sweet voice.

CHAPTER III.

MISTS.

Therefore thine eye through mist of many days
Shines bright; and beauty, like a lingering rose,
Sits on thy cheek, and in thy laughter plays;
While wintry frosts have fallen on thy foes,
And, like a vale that breathes the western sky,
Thy heart is green, though summer is gone by.
F. TENNYSON.

Happy Aunt Kitty!--the centre, the confidante of so much love!
Perhaps her enjoyment was the most keen and pure of all, because the
most free from self--the most devoid of those cares for the morrow,
which, after besetting middle life, often so desert old age as to
render it as free and fresh as childhood. She had known the worst:
she had been borne through by heart-whole faith and love, she had
seen how often frettings for the future were vain, and experienced
that anticipation is worse than reality. Where there was true
affection and sound trust, she could not, would not, and did not fear
for those she loved.

James went backwards and forwards in stormy happiness. He had come
to a comfortable understanding with old Mr. Mansell, who had treated
him with respect and cordiality from the first, giving him to
understand that Isabel's further expectations only amounted to a
legacy of a couple of thousands on his own death, and that meantime
he had little or no hope of helping him in his profession. He spoke
of Isabel's expensive habits, and the danger of her finding it
difficult to adapt herself to a small income; and though, of course,
he might as well have talked to the wind as to either of the lovers,
his remonstrance was so evidently conscientious as not to be in the
least offensive, and Mr. Frost Dynevor was graciously pleased to
accept him as a worthy relation.

All was smooth likewise with Lady Conway. She and Mr. Mansell
outwardly appeared utterly unconscious of each other's proceedings,
remained on the most civil terms, and committed their comments and
explanations to Mrs. Mansell, who administered them according to her
own goodnatured, gossiping humour, and sided with whichever was
speaking to her. There was in Lady Conway much kindness and good-
humour, always ready to find satisfaction in what was inevitable, and
willing to see all at ease and happy around her--a quality which she
shared with Louis, and which rendered her as warm and even caressing
to 'our dear James' as if he had been the most welcome suitor in the
world; and she often sincerely congratulated herself on the
acquisition of a sensible gentleman to consult on business, and so
excellent a brother for Walter. It was not falsehood, it was real
amiability; and it was an infinite comfort in the courtship,
especially the courtship of a Pendragon. As to the two young
sisters, their ecstasy was beyond description, only alloyed by the
grief of losing Isabel, and this greatly mitigated by schemes of
visits to Northwold.

The marriage was fixed for the end of November, so as to give time
for a little tranquillity before the commencement of James's new
duties. As soon as this intelligence arrived, Mrs. Frost removed
herself, Mary, and her goods into the House Beautiful, that No. 5
might undergo the renovations which, poor thing! had been planned
twenty years since, when poor Henry's increasing family and growing
difficulties had decided her that she could 'do without them' one
year more.

'Even should Miss Conway not like to keep house with the old woman,'
said she, by way of persuading herself she had no such expectation,
'it was her duty to keep the place in repair.'

That question was soon at rest: Isabel would be but too happy to be
allowed to share her home, and truly James would hardly have attached
himself to a woman who could not regard it as a privilege to be with
the noble old lady. Clara was likewise to be taken home; Isabel
undertook to complete her education, and school and tuition were both
to be removed from the contemplation of the happy girl, whose letters
had become an unintelligible rhapsody of joy and affection.

Isabel had three thousand pounds of her own, which, with that
valuable freehold, Dynevor Terrace, James resolved should be settled
on herself, speaking of it with such solemn importance as to provoke
the gravity of those accustomed to deal with larger sums. With the
interest of her fortune he meant to insure his life, that, as he told
Louis, with gratified prudence, there might be no repetition of his
own case, and his family might never be a burden on any one.

The income of the school, with their former well-husbanded means, was
affluence for the style to which he aspired; and his grandmother,
though her menus plaisirs had once doubled her present revenue,
regarded it as the same magnificent advance, and was ready to launch
into the extravagance of an additional servant, and of fitting up the
long-disused drawing-room, and the dining-parlour, hitherto called
the school-room, and kicked and hacked by thirty years of boys. She
and Clara would betake themselves to their present little sitting-
room, and make the drawing-room pleasant and beautiful for the bride.

And in what a world of upholstery did not the dear old lady spend the
autumn months! How surpassingly happy was Jane, and how
communicative about Cheveleigh! and how pleased and delighted in
little Charlotte's promotion!

And Charlotte! She ought to have been happy, with her higher wages
and emancipation from the more unpleasant work, with the expectation
of one whom she admired so enthusiastically as Miss Conway, and,
above all, with the long, open-hearted, affectionate letter, which
Miss Ponsonby had put into her hand with so kind a smile. Somehow,
it made her do nothing but cry; she felt unwilling to sit down and
answer it; and, as if it were out of perverseness, when she was in
Mrs. Martha's very house, and when there was so much to be done, she
took the most violent fit of novel-reading that had ever been known;
and when engaged in working or cleaning alone, chanted dismal ballads
of the type of 'Alonzo the brave and the fair Imogens,' till Mrs.
Martha declared that she was just as bad as an old dumbledore, and
not worth half so much.

One day, however, Miss Ponsonby called her into her room, to tell her
that a parcel was going to Lima, in case she wished to send anything
by it. Miss Ponsonby spoke so kindly, and yet so delicately, and
Charlotte blushed and faltered, and felt that she must write now!

'I have been wishing to tell you, Charlotte,' added Mary, kindly,
'how much we like Mr. Madison. There were some very undesirable
people among the passengers, who might easily have led him astray;
but the captain and mate both spoke to Lord Ormersfield in the
highest terms of his behaviour. He never missed attending prayers on
the Sundays; and, from all I could see, I do fully believe that he is
a sincerely good, religions man; and, if he keeps on as he has begun,
I think you are very happy in belonging to him.'

Charlotte only curtsied and thanked; but it was wonderful how those
kind, sympathizing words blew off at once the whole mists of nonsense
and fancy. Tom was the sound, good, religious man to whom her heart
and her troth were given; the other was no such thing, a mere
flatterer, and she had known it all along. She would never think of
him again, and she was sure he would not think of her. Truth had
dispelled all the fancied sense of hypocrisy and double-dealing: she
sat down and wrote to Tom as if Delaford had never existed, and
forthwith returned to be herself again, at least for the present.

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