Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)

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

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Even if Mr. Ponsonby had been in full health, he would have had no
inclination to spare Mary the conversation with Mr. Ward, who took
his hot nine miles' ride from Lima in the early morning, before the
shadow of the mountains had been drawn up from the arid barren slope
leading to Chorillos.

He came in time for the late breakfast, when the table was loaded
with various beautiful tropical fruits, tempting after his ride, and
in his state of suspense. He talked of his journey, and of his
intended absence, and his regret, in a manner half mechanical, half
dreamy, which made Mary quite sorry for him; it was melancholy for a
man of his age to have fixed so many fond hopes where disappointment
was in store for him. She wished to deal as kindly with him as she
could, and did not shrink away when her father left them, muttering
something about a letter, and Rosita went to take her siesta.

With anxious diffidence he ventured to ask whether she remembered
what had passed between them on the San Benito mountain.

'Yes, Mr. Ward, but I am afraid I do not think differently now, in
spite of all your kindness.'

Poor Mr. Ward's countenance underwent a change, as if he had hoped
more. 'Your father had given me reason to trust,' he said, 'that you
had recovered your spirits; otherwise I should hardly have presumed
to intrude on you. And yet, before so long an absence, you cannot
wonder that I longed to hear something decisive.'

'Indeed I wished what I said before to be decisive. I am very sorry
to give pain to one so much kinder than I deserve, and to whom I look
up so much, but you see, Mr. Ward, I cannot say what is untrue.'

'Miss Ponsonby,' said Mr. Ward, 'I think you may be acting on a most
noble but mistaken view. I can well believe that what you have once
experienced you can never feel again. That would be more than I
should dare to ask. My own feeling for you is such that I believe I
should be able to rejoice in hearing of the fulfilment of your
happiness, in your own way; but since there seems no such
probability, cannot you grant me what you can still give, which would
be enough to cause me the greatest joy to which I have ever aspired;
and if my most devoted affection could be any sufficient return, you
know that it is yours already.'

The grave earnestness with which he spoke went to Mary's heart, and
the tears came into her eyes. She felt it almost wrong to withstand
a man of so much weight and worth; but she spoke steadily--'This is
very kind--very kind indeed; but I do not feel as if it would be
right.'

'Will you not let me be the judge of what will satisfy me?'

'You cannot judge of my feelings, Mr. Ward. You must believe me
that, with all my esteem and gratitude, I do not yet feel as if I
should be acting rightly by you or by any one else, under my present
sentiments.'

'You do not _yet_ feel?'

Mary felt that the word was a mistake. 'I do not think I ever
shall,' she added.

'You will not call it persecution, if I answer that perhaps I may
make the venture once more,' he said. 'I shall live on that word
'yet' while I am at New York. I will tease you no more now; but
remember that, though I am too old to expect to be a young lady's
first choice, I never saw the woman whom I could love, or of whom I
could feel so sure that she would bring a blessing with her; and I do
believe that, if you would trust me, I could make you happy. There!
I ask no answer. I only shall think of my return next year, and not
reckon on that. I know you will tell me whatever is true.' He
pressed her hand, and would fain have smiled reassuringly.

He took leave much more kindly than Mary thought she deserved, and
did not appear to be in low spirits. She feared that ahe had raised
unwarrantable hopes, but the truth was, that Mr. Ponsonby had
privately assured him that, though she could not yet believe it, poor
girl! the young man in England would be married before many months
were over to old Dynevor's niece. There would be no more difficulty
by the time he came back, for she liked him heartily already, and was
a sensible girl.

So Mr. Ward departed, and Mary was relieved, although she missed his
honest manly homage, and sound wise tone of thought, where she had so
few to love or lean on. She thought that she ought to try to put
herself out of the way of her cousins at home as much as possible,
and so she did not try to make time to write to Clara, and time did
not come unsought, for her father's health did not improve; and when
they returned to Lima, he engrossed her care almost entirely, while
his young wife continued her gaieties, and Mary had reason to think
the saya y manto disguise was frequently donned; but it was so much
the custom of ladies of the same degree, that Mary thought it neither
desirable nor likely to be effectual to inform her father, and incite
him to interfere. She devoted herself to his comfort, and
endeavoured to think as little as she heard of English cousins.

There was not much to hear. After returning home quite well, Lord
Ormersfield was laid up again by the first cold winds, and another
summer of German brunnens was in store for him and Louis. Lady
Conway had taken a cottage in the Isle of Wight, where Walter, having
found the Christmas holidays very dull, and shown that he could get
into mischief as well without Delaford as with him, she sent him off
in a sort of honourable captivity to James and Isabel, expecting that
he would find it a great punishment. Instead of this, the change
from luxury to their hard life seemed to him a sort of pic-nic. He
enjoyed the 'fun' of the waiting on themselves, had the freedom of
Ormersfield park for sport; and at home, his sister, whom he had
always loved and respected more than any one else. James had time to
attend to him, and to promote all his better tastes and feelings; and
above all, he lost his heart to his twin nieces. It was exceedingly
droll to see the half quarrelsome coquetries between the three, and
to hear Walter's grand views for the two little maidens as soon as he
should be of age. James and Louis agreed that there could not be
much harm in him, while he could conform so happily to such a way of
life. Everything is comparative, and the small increase to James's
income had been sufficient to relieve him from present pinching and
anxiety in the scale of life to which he and Isabel had become
habituated. His chaplaincy gave full employment for heart and head
to a man so energetic and earnest; he felt himself useful there, and
threw himself into it with all his soul; and, what was more
wonderful, he had never yet quarrelled with the guardians; and the
master told Mr. Calcott that he had heard Mr. Frost was a fiery
gentleman, but he had always seen him particularly gentle, especially
with the children in school. The old women could never say enough in
his praise, and doated on the little brown fairy who often
accompanied him.

There was plenty to be done at home--little luxury, and not much
rest; but Isabel's strength and spirits seemed a match for all, in
her own serene quiet way, and the days passed very happily.

Charlotte had a workhouse girl under her, who neither ate nor broke
so vehemently as her predecessor. One night, when Charlotte sat
mending and singing in the nursery, the girl came plodding up in her
heavy shoes, aaying, 'There's one wanting to see ye below.'

'One! Who can it be?' cried Charlotte, her heart bounding at the
thought of a denouement to her own romance.

'He looks like a gentleman,' said the girl, 'and he wanted not to see
master, but Miss Arnold most particular.' More hopes for Charlotte.
She had nearly made one bound downstairs, but waited to lay awful
commands on the girl not to leave the children on no account; then
flew down, pausing at the foot of the stairs to draw herself up, and
remember dignity and maidenliiiess. Alas for her hopes! It was
Delaford! His whiskers still were sleek and curly; he still had a
grand air; but his boots were less polished--his hat had lost the
gloss--and he looked somewhat the worse for wear.

Poor Charlotte started back as if she had seen a wild beast in her
kitchen. She had heard of his dishonesty, and her thoughts flew
distractedly to her spoons, murder, and the children. And here he
was advancing gracefully to take her hand. She jumped back, and
exclaimed, faintly, 'Mr. Delaford, please go away! I can't think
what you come here for!'

'Ah! I see, you have listened to the voice of unkind scandal,' said
Mr. Delaford. 'I have been unfortunate, Miss Arnold--unfortunate and
misunderstood--guilty never. On the brink of quitting for ever an
ungrateful country, I could not deny myself the last sad satisfaction
of visiting the spot where my brightest hours have been passed;' and
he looked so pathetic, that Charlotte felt her better sense melting,
and spoke in a hurry--

'Please don't, Mr. Delaford, I've had enough of all that. Please go,
and take my best wishes, as long as you don't come here, for I know
all about you.'

But the intruder only put his hand upon his heart, and declared that
he had been misrepresented; and let a cruel world think of him as it
might, there was one breast in which he could not bear that a false
opinion, of him should prevail. And therewith he reached a chair,
and Charlotte found herself seated and listening to him, neither
believing, nor wishing to believe him, longing that he would take
himself away, but bewildered by his rhetoric. In the first place, he
had been hastily judged; he had perhaps yielded too much to Sir
Walter--but youth, &c.; and when Lady Conway's means were in his
hands, it had seemed better--he knew now that it had been a weakness,
but so he had judged at the time--to supply the young gentleman's
little occasions, than to make an eclat. Moreover, if he had not
been the most unfortunate wretch in the world, a few lucky hits would
have enabled him to restore the whole before Lord Fitzjocelyn hurried
on the inquiry; but the young gentleman thought he acted for the
best, and Mr. Delaford magnanimously forgave him.

Charlotte could not follow through half the labyrinth; and sat
pinching the corner of her apron, with a vague idea that perhaps he
was not so bad as was supposed; but what would happen if her master
should find him there? She never looked up, nor made any answer,
till he began to give her a piteous account of his condition; how he
did not know where to turn, nor what to do; and was gradually
beginning to sell off his 'little wardrobe to purchase the
necessaries of life.' Then the contrast began to tell on her soft
heart, and she looked up with a sound of compassion.

In the wreck of his fortunes and hopes, he had thought of her; he
knew she had too generous a spirit to crush a wretch trodden down by
adversity, who had loved her truly, and who had once had some few
hopes of requital. Those were, alas! at an end; yet still he saw
that 'woman, lovely woman, in our hours of ease'--And here he
stumbled in his quotation, but the fact was, that his hopes being
blasted in England, he had decided on trying his fortune in another
hemisphere; but, unfortunately, he had not even sufficient means to
pay for a passage of the humblest description, and if he could
venture to entreat for a--in fact, a loan--it should be most
faithfully and gratefully restored the moment the fickle goddess
should smile on him.

Charlotte felt a gleam of joy at the prospect of getting rid of him
on any terms. She belonged to a class who seldom find the golden
mean in money matters, being either exceedingly close and saving, or
else lavish either on themselves or other people. Good old Jane had
never succeeded in saving; all her halfpence went to the beggars, and
all her silver melted into halfpence, or into little presents; and on
the receipt of her wages, she always rushed on to the shop like a
child with a new shilling. Reading had given Charlotte a few
theories on the subject, but her practice had not gone far. She
always meant to put into the savings' bank; but hiring books, and
daintiness, though not finery, in dress, had prevented her means from
ever amounting to a sum, in her opinion, worth securing. The spirit
of economy in the household had so far infected her that she had, in
spite of her small wages, more in hand than ever before, and when she
found what Mr. Delaford wanted, a strange mixture of feelings
actuated her. She pitied the change in his fortunes; she could not
but be softened by his flattering sayings,--she could not bear that
he should not have another chance of retrieving his character--she
knew she had trifled unjustifiably with his feelings, if he had any,-
-and she had a sense of being in fault. And so the little maiden ran
upstairs, peeped into her red-leather work-box, pulled out her bead-
purse, and extracted therefrom three bright gold sovereigns, and ran
downstairs again, trembling at her own venturesomeness, afraid that
their voices might be heard. She put the whole before Delaford,
saying--

'There--that is all that lays in my power. Don't mention it, pray.
Now, please go, and a happy journey to you.'

How she wished his acknowledgments and faithful promises were over!
He did hint something about refreshment, bread-and-cheese and beer,
fare which he used to despise as 'decidedly low,' but Charlotte was
obdurate here, and at last he took his leave. There stood the poor,
foolish, generous little thing, raking out the last embers of the
kitchen fire, conscious that she had probably done the silliest
action of her life, very much ashamed, and afraid of any one knowing
it; and yet strangely light of heart, as if she had done something to
atone for the past permission that she had granted him to play with
her vanity.

'Some day she might tell Tom all about it, and she did not think he
would be angry, for he knew what it was to have nowhere to go, and to
want to try for one more chance.'

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CRASH.

Late and early at employ;
Still on thy golden stores intent;
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent,
What thy winter will never enjoy.
SOUTHEY.

'Stitch! stitch!' said James Frost, entering the nursery on a fine
August evening, and finding his wife with the last beams of sunshine
glistening on her black braids of hair, as she sat singing and
working beside the cot where slept, all tossed and rosy, the yearling
child. 'Stitch! stitch! If I could but do needlework!'

'Ah!' said Isabel, playfully, lifting up a sweeter face than had ever
been admired in Miss Conway, 'if you will make your kittens such
little romps, what would you have but mending?'

'Is it my fault? I am very sorry I entailed such a business on you.
You were at that frock when I went to evening prayers at the Union,
and it is not mended yet.'

'Almost; and see what a perfect performance it is, all the spots
joining as if they had never been rent. I never was so proud of
anything as of my mending capabilities. Besides, I have not been
doing it all the time: this naughty little Fanny was in such a
laughing mood, that she would neither sleep herself nor let the rest
do so; and Kitty rose up out of her crib, and lectured us all. Now,
don't wake them--no, you must not even kiss the twin cherries; for if
they have one of papa's riots, they will hardly sleep all night.'

'Then you must take me away; it is like going into a flower-garden,
and being told not to gather.'

'Charlotte is almost ready to come to them, and in the meantime here
is something for you to criticise,' said she, taking from the recess
of her matronly workbasket a paper with a pencilled poem, on the
Martyrs of Carthage, far more terse and expressive than anything she
used to write when composition was the object of the day. James read
and commented, and was disappointed when they broke off short--

'Ah! there baby woke.'

'Some day I shall give you a subject. Do you know how Sta. Francesca
Romana found in letters of gold the verse of the Psalm she had been
reading, and from which she had been five times called away to attend
to her household duties?'

'I thought you were never to pity me again--'

'Do you call that pitying you?'

'Worse,' said Isabel, smiling.

'Well, then, what I came for was to ask if you can put on your
bonnet, and take a walk in the lanes this lovely evening.'

A walk was a rare treat to the busy mother, and, with a look of
delight, she consented to leave her mending and her children to
Charlotte. There seldom were two happier beings than that pair, as
they wandered slowly, arm-in-arm, in the deep green lanes, in the
summer twilight, talking sometimes of the present, sometimes of the
future, but with the desultory, vague speculation of those who feared
little because they knew how little there was to fear.

'It is well they are all girls,' said James, speaking of that
constant topic, the children; 'we can manage their education pretty
well, I flatter myself, by the help of poor Clara's finishing
governess, as Louis used to call you.'

'If the edge of my attainments be not quite rusted off. Meantime,
you teach Kitty, and I teach nothing.'

'You don't lose your singing. Your voice never used to be so sweet.'

'It keeps the children good. But you should have seen Kitty
chaunting 'Edwin and Angelina' to the twins this morning, and getting
up an imitation of crying at 'turn Angelina, ever dear,' because, she
said, Charlotte always did.'

'That is worth writing to tell Fitzjocelyn! It will be a great
disappointment if they have to stay abroad all this winter; but he
seems to think it the only chance of his father getting thoroughly
well, so I suppose there is little hope of him. I should like for
him to see Kitty as she is now, she is so excessively droll!'

'Yes; and it must be a great deprivation to have to leave all his
farm to itself, just as it is looking so well; only he makes himself
happy with whatever he is doing.'

'How he would enjoy this evening! I never saw more perfect rest!'

'Yes;--the sounds of the town come through the air in a hush! and the
very star seems to twinkle quietly!'

They stood still without speaking to enjoy that sense of stillness
and refreshment, looking up through the chestnut boughs that
overshadowed the deep dewy lane, where there was not air enough even
to waft down the detached petals of the wild rose.

'Such moments as these must be meant to help one on,' said James, 'to
hinder daily life from running into drudgery.'

'And it is so delightful to have a holiday given, now and then,
instead of having a life all holiday. Ah! there's a glow-worm--look
at the wonder of that green lamp!'

'I must show it to Kitty,' said James, taking it up on a cushion of
moss.

'Her acquaintance will begin earlier than mine. Do you remember
showing me my first glow-worm at Beauchastel? I used to think that
the gem of my walks, before I knew better. It is a great treat to
have poor Walter here in the holidays, so good and pleasant; but I
must say one charm is the pleasure of being alone together
afterwards.'

'A pleasure it is well you do not get tired of, my dear, and I am
afraid it will soon be over for the present. I do believe that is
Richardson behind us! An attorney among the glow-worms is more than
I expected.'

'Good evening, sir,' said the attorney, coming up with them; 'is Mrs.
Frost braving the dew?' And then, after some moments, 'Have you
heard from your sister lately, Mr. Frost?'

'About three weeks ago.'

'She did not mention then,' said Mr. Richardson, hesitating, 'Mr.
Dynevor's health?'

'No! Have you heard anything?'

'I thought you might wish to be aware of what I learnt from, I fear,
too good authority. It appears that Mr. Dynevor paid only a part of
the purchase-money of the estate, giving security for the rest on his
property in Peru; and now, owing to the failure of the Equatorial
Steam Navigation Company, Mr. Dynevor is, I fear, actually
insolvent.'

'Did you say he was ill?'

'I heard mentioned severe illness--paralytic affection; but as you
have not heard from Miss Clara, I hope it may be of no importance.'

After a few more inquiries, and additional information being
elicited, good-nights were exchanged, and Mr. Richardson passed on.
At first neither spoke, till Isabel said--

'And Clara never wrote!'

'She would identify herself too much with her uncle in his
misfortune. Poor dear child! what may she not be undergoing!'

'You will go to her?'

'I must. Whether my uncle will forgive me or not, to Clara I must
go. Shall I write first ?'

'Oh! no; it will only make a delay, and your uncle might say 'don't
come.''

'Right; delay would prolong her perplexities. I will go to-morrow,
and Mr. Holdsworth will see to the workhouse people.'

His alert air showed how grateful was any excuse that could take him
to Clara, the impulse of brotherly love coming uppermost of all his
sensations. Then came pity for the poor old man whose cherished
design had thus crumbled, and the anxious wonder whether he would
forgive, and deign to accept sympathy from his nephew.

'My dear,' said James, doubtfully; 'supposing, what I hardly dare to
imagine, that he should consent, what should you say to my bringing
him here?

'I believe it would make you happy,' said Isabel. 'Oh! yes, pray do-
-and then we should have Clara.'

'I should rejoice to offer anything like reparation, though I do not
dare to hope it will be granted; and I do not know how to ask you to
break up the home comfort we have prized so much.'

'It will be all the better comfort for your mind being fully at ease;
and I am sure we should deserve none at all, if we shut our door
against him now that he is in distress. You must bring him, poor old
man, and I will try with all my might to behave well to him.'

'It is a mere chance; but I am glad to take your consent with me.
As to our affording it, I suppose he may have, at the worst, an
allowance from the creditors, so you will not have to retrench
anything.'

'Don't talk of that, dearest. We never knew how little we could live
on till we tried; and if No. 12 is taken, and you are paid for the
new edition of the lectures, and Walter's pay besides--'

'And Sir Hubert,' added James.

'Of course we shall get on,' said Isabel. 'I am not in the least
afraid that the little girls will suffer, if they do live a little
harder for the sake of their old uncle. I only wish you had had your
new black coat first, for I am afraid you won't now.'

'You need not reckon on that. I don't expect that I shall be allowed
the comfort of doing anything for him. But see about them I must.
Oh, may I not be too late!'

Early the next morning James was on his way, travelling through the
long bright summer day; and when, after the close, stifling railway
carriage, full of rough, loud-voiced passengers, he found himself in
the cool of the evening on the bare heath, where the slanting
sunbeams cast a red light, he was reminded by every object that met
his eye of the harsh and rebellious sensations that he had allowed to
reign over him at his last arrival there, which had made him wrangle
over the bier of one so loving and beloved, and exaggerate the right
till it wore the semblance of the wrong.

By the time he came to the village, the parting light was shining on
the lofty church tower, rising above the turmoil and whirl of the
darkening world below, almost as sacred old age had lifted his
grandmother into perpetual peace and joy, above the fret and vexation
of earthly cares and dissensions. The recollection of her confident
trust that reconciliation was in store, came to cheer him as he
crossed the park, and the aspect of the house assured him that at
least he was not again too late.

The servant who answered the bell said that Mr. Dynevor was very ill,
and Miss Dynevor could see no one. James sent in his card, and stood
in an agony of impatience, imagining all and more than all he
deserved, to have taken place--his uncle either dying, or else
forcibly withholding his sister from him.

At last there was a hurried step, and the brother and sister were
clasping each other in speechless joy.

'O Jem! dear Jem! this is so kind!' cried Clara, as with arms round
each other they crossed the hall. 'Now I don't care for anything!'

'My uncle?'

'Much better,' said Clara; 'he speaks quite well again, and his foot
is less numb.'

'Was it paralysis?'

'Yes; brought on by trouble and worry of mind. But how did you know,
Jem?'

'Richardson told me. Oh, Clara, had I offended too deeply for you to
summon me?'

'No, indeed,' said Clara, pressing his arm, 'I knew you would help us
as far as you could; but to throw ourselves on you would be robbing
the children, so I wanted to have something fixed before you heard.'

'My poor child, what could be fixed?'

'You gave me what is better than house and land,' said Clara. 'I
wrote to Miss Brigham; she will give me employment in the school till
I can find a place as daily governess, and she is to take lodgings
for us.'

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