‘Never mind, my dear,’ said Mr. Kendal, pressing the hand that in her fervour she had laid on his arm, ‘they will come to their senses in time. No, Mr. Hope, I beg you will not interfere, they are in no state for it; they have done no harm as yet.’
‘I wonder what the police are about?’ cried Albinia, indignantly.
‘They are too few to do any good,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It may be better that they are not incensing the mob. It will all go off quietly when this explosion has relieved their feelings.’
They felt as if there were something grand in this perfectly dispassionate reception of the outrage, and they stood awed and silenced, Sophy leaning on him.
‘It will soon be over now,’ he said, ‘they are poking up the name to receive me.’
‘Hark! what’s that?’
The mob came swaying back, and a rich voice swelled above all the din, ‘Boys, boys, is it burning your friends you are? Then, for the first time, Mr. Kendal started, and muttered, ‘foolish lad! is he here?’
Confused cries rose again, but the other voice gained the mastery.
‘So you call that undertaker-looking figure there Mr. Kendal. Small credit to your taste. You want to burn him. What for?’
‘For being a Nabob and a tyrant,’ was the shout.
‘Much you know of Nabobs! No; I’ll tell you what it’s for. It is because his son got his death fighting for his queen and his country a year ago, and on his death-bed bade him do his best to drive the fever from your doors, and shelter you and save you from the Union in your old age. Is that a thing to burn him for?’
‘We want no Irish papists here!’ shouted a blackguard voice.
‘Serve him with the same sauce.’
‘I never was a papist,’ was the indignant reply. ‘No more was he; but I’ve said that the place shan’t disgrace itself, and—’
‘I’m with you,’ shouted another above all the howls of the mob. ‘Gilbert Kendal was as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived, and I’ll see no wrong done to his father.’
Tremendous uproar ensued; then the well-known tones pealed out again, ‘I’ve given my word to save his likeness. Come on, boys. Hurrah for Kendal!’
The war-cry was echoed by a body of voices, there was a furious melee and a charge towards the Nabob, who rocked and toppled down, while stragglers came pressed backwards on all sides.
‘Here, Hope, take care of them. Stay with them,’ said Mr. Kendal, putting the whip into the curate’s hand, and striding towards the nucleus of the fray, through the throng who were driven backwards.
‘O’More,’ he called, ‘what’s all this? Give over! Are you mad?’ and then catching up, and setting on his legs, a little fallen boy, ‘Go home; get out of all this mischief. What are you doing? Take home that child,’ to a gaping girl with a baby. ‘O’More, I say, I’ll commit every man of you if you don’t give over.’
He was recognised, and those who had little appetite for the skirmish gave back from him; but the more reckless and daring small fry began shrieking, ‘The Nabob!’ and letting off crackers and squibs, through which he advanced upon the knot of positive combatants, who were exchanging blows over his prostrate image in front of the fire.
One he caught by the collar, in the act of aiming a blow. The fist was instantly levelled at him, with the cry, ‘You rascal! what do you mean by it?’ But the fierce struggle failed to shake off the powerful grasp; and at the command, ‘Don’t be such a fool!’ Ulick burst out, ‘Murder! ‘tis himself!’ and in the surprise was dragged some paces before recovering his perceptions.
The cry of police had at the same instant produced a universal scattering, and five policemen, coming on the ground, found scarcely any one to separate or capture. Mr. Kendal relaxed his hold, saying, ‘You are my prisoner.’
‘I didn’t think you’d been so strong,’ said Ulick, shaking himself, and looking bewildered. ‘Where’s the effigy?’
‘What’s that to you. Come away, like a rational being.’
‘Ha! what’s that?’ as a frightful, agonizing shriek rent the air, and a pillar of flame came rushing across the now open space. It was a child, one mass of fire, and flying, in its anguish, from all who would have seized it. One moment of horror, and it had vanished! The next, Genevieve’s voice was heard crying, ‘Bring me something more to press on it.’ She had contrived to cross its path with her large carriage rug, and was kneeling over it, forcing down the rug to smother the flames. Mr. Hope brought her a shawl, and they all stood round in silent awe.
‘The poor child will be stifled,’ said Albinia, kneeling down to help to unfold its face.
Poor little face, distorted with terror and agony! One of the policemen recognised it as the child of the public-house in Tibb’s Alley. There were moans, but no one dared to uncover the limbs; and the policeman and Mr. Hope proposed carrying it at once to Mr. Bowles, and then home. Mr. Kendal desired that it should be laid on the seat of the carriage, which he would drive gently to the doctor’s. Genevieve got in to watch over the poor little boy, and the others walked on by the side, passed the battle-field, now entirely deserted, too much shocked for aught but conjectures on his injuries, and the cause of the misfortune. Either he must have been pushed in on the fire by the runaway rabble, or have trod upon some of the scattered combustibles.
Mr. Bowles desired that the child should be taken home at once, promising to follow instantly; so at the entrance of Tibb’s Alley, the carriage stopped, and Mr. Hope lifted out the poor little wailing bundle. Albinia was following, but a decided prohibition from her husband checked her. ‘I would not have either of you go to that house on any account. Tell them to send to us for whatever they want, but that is enough.’
There was no gainsaying such a command, but as they reached the door of Willow Lawn, Mr. Kendal exclaimed, ‘Where is Miss Durant?’
‘She is gone with the little boy,’ said Sophy. ‘She told me she hoped you would not be displeased. Mr. Hope will take care of her, and she will soon come in.’
‘Every one is mad to-night!’ cried Mr. Kendal. ‘In such a place as that! I will go for her directly.’
‘Pray don’t,’ said Albinia, ‘no one could speak a rude word to her on such an errand. She and Mr. Hope will be much more secure from incivility without you.’
‘I believe it may be so, but I wish—’
His wish was broken off, for his little Albinia, screaming, ‘Papa! papa!’ clung to him in a transport of caresses, which Maurice explained by saying, ‘Little Awkey has been crying, mamma, she thought they were burning papa in the bonnie.’
‘Papa not burnt!’ cried little Awkey, patting his cheeks, and laying her head on his shoulders alternately, as he held her to his breast. ‘Naughty people wanted to make a fire, but they sha’n’t burn papa or poor Guy Fawkes, or any of the good men.’
‘And where were you, Ulick?’ cried Maurice, in an imperious, injured way. ‘You said once, perhaps you would take me to see the fire; and I went up to the bank, and they said you were gone, and it was glaring so in the sky, and I did so want to go.’
‘I am glad you stayed away, my man,’ said Albinia.
‘I did want to go,’ said Maurice; ‘and I ran up to the top of the street, and there was Mr. Tritton; and he said if I liked a lark, he would take care of me; but—’ and there he stopped short, and the colour came into his face.
Albinia threw her arm round him, and kissed him, saying, ‘My trusty boy! and so you came home?’
‘Yes; and there was Awkey crying about their burning papa, and she would not go up to the garret-window to see the fire, nor do anything.’
‘Why, what is the sword here for?’ exclaimed Sophy, finding it on the stairs.
‘Because then Awkey was not so afraid.’
For once, Maurice had been exemplary, keeping from the tempting uproar, and devoting himself to soothing his little sister. It was worth all the vexations of the evening; but he went on to ask if Ulick could not take him now, if the fire was not out yet.
‘Not exactly,’ said Mr. Kendal, drily.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Kendal,’ said Ulick, who had apparently only just resumed the use of speech; ‘don’t know what I may have done when you collared me, but I’d no more notion of its being you than the Lord Lieutenant.’
‘And pray what took you there?’ asked Mr. Kendal. ‘The surprise was quite as great to me.’
‘Why,’ said Ulick, ‘one of the little lads of my Sunday class gave me a hint the other day that those brutes meant to have a pretty go to-night, and that Jackson was getting up a figure of the Nabob to break their spite upon. So I told my little fellow to give a hint to a few more of the right sort, and we’d go up together and not let the rascals have their own way.’
‘Upon my word, I wonder what the Vicar will say to the use you make of his Sunday-school. Pretty work for his model teacher.’
‘What better could the boys be taught than to fight for the good cause? Why, no one is a scratch the worse for it. And do you think we could sit by and see our best friend used worse than a dog?’
‘Why not give notice to the police?’
‘And would you have me hinder a fight?’ cried Ulick, in the most Irish of all his voices.
‘Oh! very well, if you like—only there will be a run on the bank to-morrow.’
‘What has Ulick been doing, Sophy?’ asked Maurice.
‘Only what you would have done had you been older, Maurice,’ she said, in a hurt voice; ‘defending papa’s effigy, for which he does not seem to meet with much gratitude.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Kendal, who all the time had had more gratitude in his eyes than on his tongue, ‘if the burning had had the same consequence as melting one’s waxen effigy was thought to have, it might have been worth while to interfere, but I should have thought it more dignified in a respectable substantial householder to let those foolish fellows have their swing.’
‘More dignified maybe,’ smiled Albinia, ‘but less like an O’More.’
‘No, you are not going,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I shall not release my prisoner just yet.’
‘You carried off all the honour of the day,’ said Ulick. ‘I had no notion you had such an arm. Why, you swung me round like a tom-cat, or—’ and he exemplified the exploit upon Maurice, and was well buffeted.
‘That’s a little Irish blarney to propitiate me,’ laughed Mr. Kendal, who certainly was in unusual spirits after his execution and rescue by proxy, but you wont escape prison fare.’
‘There’s no doubt who was the heroine of the day,’ added Sophy. ‘How one envies her!’
‘What! your little governess friend?’ said Ulick. ‘Yes; she did show superior wit, when the rest of the world stood gaping round.’
‘It was admirable—just like Genevieve’s tenderness and dexterity,’ said Albinia. ‘I dare say she is doing everything for the poor little fellow.’
‘Yes, admirable,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘but you all behaved very creditably, ladies.’
‘Ay,’ said Albinia; ‘not to scream is what a man thinks the climax of excellence in a woman.’
‘It is generally all that is required,’ said Mr. Kendal. I don’t know what I should have done if poor Lucy had been there.’
Thereupon the ladies went upstairs, Maurice following Sophy to extract a full account of the skirmish. The imp probably had an instinct that she would think more of what redounded to Ulick O’More’s glory than of what would be edifying to his own infant mind. It was doubtful how long it would be before Guy Fawkes would arrive at his proper standing in the little Awk’s opinion, after the honour of an auto-da-fe in company with papa.
Mr. Hope escorted Genevieve home, and was kept to dinner. They narrated that they had found the public-house open, and the bar full of noisy runaways.
The burns were dreadful, but the surgeon did not think they would be fatal, and the child had held Genevieve’s hand throughout the dressing, and seemed so unwilling to part with her, that she had promised to come again the next day, and had been thanked gratefully. There seemed no positive want of comforts, and there was every hope that all would do well.
Genevieve looked pale after the scene she had gone through, and could not readily persuade herself to eat, still less rally her spirits to talk; but she managed to avoid observation at dinner-time, and afterwards a rest on the sofa restored her. She evidently felt, as she said, that this was coming home, and her exquisite gift of tact making her perceive that she was to be at ease and on an equality, she assumed her position without giving her friends the embarrassment of installing her, and Mr. Hope was in such a state of transparent admiration, that Albinia could not help two or three times noiselessly clapping her hands under the table, and secretly thanking the rioters and their tag-rag and bob-tail for having provided a home for little Genevieve Durant.
There was indeed a pang as she thought of Gilbert; but she believed that Genevieve’s heart had never been really touched, and was still fresh and open. She thought she might make Mr. Kendal and Sophy equally magnanimous. Perhaps by that time Sophy would be too happy to have leisure to be hurt, and she had little fear but that Mr. Kendal’s good sense would conquer his jealousy for his son, though it might cost him something.
Two lovers to befriend at once! Two desirable attachments to foster! There was glory! Not that Albinia fulfilled her mission to a great extent; shamefacedness always restrained her, and she had not Emily’s gift for making opportunities. Indeed, when she did her best, so perversely bashful were the parties, that the wrong pairs resorted together, the two who could talk being driven into conversation by the silence of the others.
Of Mr. Hope’s sentiments there could be no doubt. He was fairly carried off his feet by the absorption of the passion, which was doubly engrossing because all ladies had hitherto appeared to him as beings with whom conversation was an impossible duty; but after all he had heard of Miss Durant, he might as a judicious man select her for an excellent parsoness, and as a young man fall vehemently in love. Nothing could be more evident to the lookers-on, but Albinia could not satisfy herself whether Genevieve had any suspicion.
She was not very young, knew something of the world, and was acute and observing; but on the other hand, she had made it a principle never to admit the thought of courtship, and she might not be sufficiently acquainted with the habits of the individual to be sensible of the symptomatic alteration.
She had begged the Dusautoys to make her leisure profitable, and spent much of her time upon the schools, on her little patient in Tibb’s Alley, and in going about among the poor; she visited her old shopkeeper friends, and drank tea with them much oftener than gratified Mr. Kendal, talking so openly of the pleasure of seeing them again, that Albinia sometimes thought the blood of the O’Mores was a little chafed.
‘There,’ said Genevieve, completing a housewife, filled with needles ready threaded, ‘I wonder whether the omnibus is too protestant to leave a parcel at the convent?’
‘I don’t think its scruples of conscience would withstand sixpence,’ said Albinia.
‘You might post it for less than that,’ said Sophy.
‘Don’t you know,’ said Ulick O’More, who was playing with the little Awk in the window, ‘that the feminine mind loves expedients? It would be less commonplace to confide the parcel to the conductor, than merely let him receive it as guard of the mail bag and servant of the public.’
‘Exactly,’ laughed Genevieve. ‘Think of the moral influence of being selected as bearer of a token of tenderness to my aunt on her fete, instead of being treated as a mere machine, devoid of human sympathies.’
‘Sophy, where were we reading of a nation which gives the simplest transaction the air of a little romance?’ said Ulick.
‘And I have heard of a nation which denudes every action of sentiment, and leaves you the tree without the leaves,’ was Genevieve’s retort.
‘That misses fire, Miss Durant; my nation does everything by the soul, nothing by mechanism.’
‘When theydodo it.’
‘That’s a defiance. You must deprive the conductor of the moral influence, whether as man or machine, and entrust the parcel to me.’
‘That would be like chartering a steamer to send home a Chinese puzzle.’
‘No, indeed; I must go to Hadminster. Bear me witness, Sophy, Miss Goldsmith wants me to talk to the house agent.’
‘Mind, if you miss St. Leocadia’s day, you will miss my aunt’s fete.’
Mr. O’More succeeded in carrying off the little parcel. The next morning, as the ladies were descending the hill, a hurried step came after them, and the curate said in an abrupt rapid manner, ‘I beg your pardon, I was going to Hadminster; could I do anything for you?’
‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Albinia, at whom he looked.
‘Did I not hear—Miss Durant had some work to send her aunt to-day?’
‘How did you know that, Mr. Hope?’ exclaimed Genevieve.
‘I heard something pass, when some one was admiring your work,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘And this—I think—is St. Leocadia’s day.’
‘I am very much obliged to you for remembering it, but I have sent my little parcel otherwise, so I need not trouble you.’
‘Ah! how stupid in me! I am very sorry. I beg your pardon,’ and he hurried off, looking as if very sorry were not a mere matter of course.
‘Poor man,’ thought Albinia, ‘I dare say he has reckoned on it all this time, and hunted out St. Leocadia in Alban Butler, and then tried to screw up his courage all yesterday. Ulick has managed to traverse a romance, but perhaps it is just as well, for what would be the effect on the public of Mr. Hope inthatcoat being seen ringing at the convent door?’
‘Well, Miss Durant,’ said Ulick, entering the drawing-room in the winter twilight, ‘here is evidence for you!’
‘You have actually penetrated the convent, and seen my aunt? Impossible! and yet this pencilled note is her own dear writing!’
‘You don’t mean that you really were let in?’ cried Sophy.
‘I entered quite legitimately, I assure you. It was all luck. I’d just been putting up at the Crown, when what should I see in a sort of a trance, staring right into the inn-yard, but as jolly-looking a priest as ever held a station. “An’ it’s long since I’ve seen the like of you,” says he aloud to himself. “Is it the car?” says I. “Sure it is,” says he. “I’ve not laid my eyes on so iligant a vehicle since I left County Tyrone.”’
‘Mr. O’Hara!’ exclaimed Genevieve.
‘“And I’m mistaken if you’re not the master of it,” he goes on, taking the measure of me all over,’ continued Ulick, putting on his drollest brogue. ‘You see he had too much manners to say that such a personable young gentleman, speaking such correct English, could be no other than an Irishman, so I made my bow, and said the car and I were both from County Galway, and we were straight as good friends as if we’d hunted together at Ballymakilty. To be sure, he was a little taken aback when he found I was one of the Protestant branch, of the O’Mores, but a countryman is a countryman in a barbarous land, and he asked me to call upon him, and offered to do me any service in his power.’
‘I am sure he would. He is the kindest old gentleman I know,’ exclaimed Genevieve. ‘He always used to bring me barleysugar-drops when I was a little girl, and it was he who found out our poor old Biddy in distress at Hadminster, and sent her to live with us.’
‘Indeed! Then I owe him another debt of gratitude—in fact, he told me that one of his flock, meaning Biddy, had spoken to him honourably of me. “Well,” said I, “the greatest service you could do me, sir, would be to introduce me to Mademoiselle Belmarche; I have a young lady’s commission for her.” “From my little Genevieve,” he said, “the darling that she is. Did you leave the child well?” And so when I said it was a present for her saint’s day, and that your heart was set on it—’
‘But, Mr. O’More, I never did set my heart on your seeing her.’
‘Well, well, you would have done it if you’d known there had been any chance of it, besides, your heart was set on her getting the work, and how could I make sure of that unless I gave it into her own hand? I wouldn’t have put it into Mr. O’Hara’s snuffy pocket to hinder myself from being bankrupt.’
‘Then he took you in?’
‘So he did, like an honest Irishman as he was. He rang at the bell and spoke to the portress, and had me into the parlour and sent up for the lady; and I have seldom spent a pleasanter hall-hour. Mademoiselle Belmarche bade me tell you that she would write fuller thanks to you another day, and that her eyes would thank you every night.’
‘Was her cold gone? Did she seem well, the dear aunt?’
Genevieve was really grateful, and had many questions to ask about her aunt, which met with detailed answers.
‘By-the-by,’ said Ulick,’ I met Mr. Hope in the street as I was coming away, I offered him a lift, but he said he was not coming home till late. I wonder what he is doing.’
Albinia and Sophy exchanged glances, and had almost said, ‘Poor Mr. Hope!’ It was very hard that the good fortune and mere good nature of an indifferent person should push him where the quiet curate so much wished to be. Albinia would have liked to have had either a little impudence or a little tact to enable her to give a hint to Ulick to be less officious.
St. Leocadia’s feast was the 9th of December. Three days after, Genevieve received a letter which made her change countenance, and hurry to her own room, whence she did not emerge till luncheon-time.
In the late afternoon, there was a knock at the drawing-room door, and Mr. Dusautoy said, ‘Can I speak with you a minute, Mrs. Kendal?’
Dreading ill news of Lucy, she hurried to the morning-room with him.
‘Fanny said I had better speak to you. This poor fellow is in a dreadful state.’
‘Algernon!’
‘No, indeed. Poor Hope! What has possessed the girl?’
‘Genevieve has not refused him?’
‘Did you not know it? I found him in his rooms as white as a sheet! I asked what was the matter, he begged me to let him go away for one Sunday, and find him a substitute. I saw how it was, and at the first word he broke down and told me.’
‘Was this to-day?’
‘Yes. What can the silly little puss be thinking of to put an excellent fellow like that to so much pain? Going about it in such an admirable way, too, writing to old Mamselle first, and getting a letter from her which he sends with his own, and promising to guarantee her fifty pounds a year out of his own pocket. ‘I should like to know what that little Jenny means by it. I gave her credit for more sense.’
‘Perhaps she thinks, under the circumstances of her coming here, within the year—’
‘Ah! very proper, very pretty of her; I never thought of that; I suppose I have your permission to tell Hope?’
‘I believe all the town knew it,’ said Albinia.
‘Yes; he need not be downhearted, he has only to be patient, and he will like her the better for it. After all, though he is as good a man as breathes, he cannot be Gilbert, and it will be a great relief to him. I’ll tell him to put all his fancies about O’More out of his head.’
‘Most decidedly,’ said Albinia; ‘nothing can be greater nonsense. Tell him by no means to go away, for when she finds that our feelings are not hurt, and has become used to the idea, I have every hope that she will be able to form a new—’
‘Ay; ay; poor Gilbert would have wished it himself. It is very good of you, Mrs. Kendal; I’ll put the poor fellow in spirits again.’
‘Did you hear whether she gave any reasons?’
‘Oh! I don’t know—something about her birth and station; but that’s stuff—she’s a perfect lady, and much more.’
‘And he is only a bookseller’s son.’
‘True, and though it might be awkward to have the parson’s father-in-law cutting capers if he lived in the same town, yet being dead these fifteen or eighteen years, where’s the damage?’
‘Was that all?’
‘I fancy that she said she never meant to marry, but that’s all nonsense; she is the very girl that ought, and I hope you will talk to her and bring her to reason. There’s not a couple in the whole place that I should be so glad to marry as those two.’
Albinia endeavoured to discuss the matter with Genevieve that night when they went upstairs. It was not easy to do, for Genevieve seemed resolved to wish her good-night outside her door, but she made her entrance, and putting her arm round her little friend’s waist, said, ‘Am I very much in your way, my dear? I thought you might want a little help, or at least a little talk.’
‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal, I hoped you did not know!’ and her eyes filled with tears.
Mr. Dusautoy told me, my dear; poor Mr. Hope’s distress betrayed him, and Mr. Dusautoy was anxious I should—’
Genevieve did not let her finish, but exclaiming, ‘I did not expect this from you, madame,’ gave way to a shower of tears.
‘My dear child, do we not all feel you the more one with ourselves for this reluctance?’ said Albinia, caressing her fondly. ‘It shall not be forced upon you any more till you can bear it.’
‘’Till!’ exclaimed Genevieve, alarmed. ‘Oh! do not say that! Do not hold out false hopes! I never shall!’
‘I do not think you are a fair judge as yet, my dear.’
‘I think I am,’ said Genevieve, slowly, ‘I must not let you love me on false pretences, dearest Mrs. Kendal. I do not think it is all for—for his sake—but indeed, though I must esteem Mr. Hope, I do not believe I could ever feel for him as—’ then breaking off. ‘I pray you, with all my heart, dearest friend, never to speak to me of marriage. I am the little governess, and while Heaven gives me strength to work for my aunt, and you let me call this my home, I am content, I am blessed. Oh! do not disturb and unsettle me!’
So imploringly did she speak, that she obliterated all thought of the prudent arguments with which Albinia had come stored. It was no time for them; there was no possibility of endeavouring to dethrone the memory of her own Gilbert, and her impulse was far more to agree that no one else could ever be loved, than to argue in favour of a new attachment. She was proud of Gilbert for being thus recollected, and doubly pleased with the widowed heart; nor was it till the first effect of Genevieve’s tears had passed off that she began to reflect that the idea might become familiar, and that romance having been abundantly satisfied by the constancy of the Lancer, sober esteem might be the basis of very happy married affection.
Mr. Hope did not go away, but he shrank into himself, and grew more timid than ever, and it was through the Dusautoys that Albinia learnt that he was much consoled, and intended to wait patiently. He had written to Mdlle. Belmarche, who had been extremely disappointed, and continued to believe that so excellent and well brought up a young girl as her niece would not resist her wishes with regard to a young pastor so respectable.
Sophy, when made aware of what was going on, did not smile or shed a tear, only a strange whiteness came across her face. She made a commonplace remark with visible effort, nor was she quite herself for some time. It was as if the reference to her brother had stirred up the old wound. Genevieve seemed to have been impelled to manifest her determination of resuming her occupation, she wrote letters vigorously, answered advertisements, and in spite of the united protest of her friends, advertised herself as a young person of French extraction, but a member of the Church of England, accustomed to tuition, and competent to instruct in French, Italian, music, and all the ordinary branches of education. Address, G. C. D., Mr. Richardson’s, bookseller, Bayford.
Miss Goldsmith went to spend Christmas with an old friend, leaving Ulick more liberty than he had enjoyed for a long time. He used it a good deal at Willow Lawn, and was there of course on Christmas-day. After dinner the decoration of the church was under discussion. The Bayford neighbourhood was unpropitious to holly, and Sophy and Genevieve had hardly ever seen any, except that Genevieve remembered the sooty bits sold in London. Something passed about sending for a specimen from Fairmead, but Albinia said that would not answer, for her brother’s children were in despair at the absence of berries, and had ransacked Colonel Bury’s plantations in vain.
The next day, about twilight, Albinia and Sophy were arranging some Christmas gifts for the old women, in the morning-room; Genevieve was to come and help them on her return from the child in Tibb’s Alley.
‘Oh, here she comes, up the garden,’ said Sophy, who was by the window.
Presently Albinia heard a strange sound as of tightened breath, and looking up saw Sophy deathly pale, with her eyes fixed on the window. In terror she flew to her side, but Sophy spoke not, she only clutched her hand with fingers cold and tight as iron, and gazed with dilated eyes. Albinia looked—
Ulick had come from the house—there was a scarlet-berried spray in Genevieve’s hand, which she was trying to make him take again—his face was all pleading and imploring—she turned hastily from him, and they saw her cheek glowing with crimson—she tried to force back the holly spray—but her hand was caught—he was kissing it. No, she had rent it away—she had fled in through the conservatory—they heard the doors—she had rushed up to her own room.
Sophy’s grasp grew more rigid—she panted for breath.
‘My child! my child!’ said Albinia, throwing her arms round her, expecting her to faint. ‘Oh! could I have imagined such treason?’ Her eyes flashed, and her frame quivered with indignation. ‘He shall never come into this house again!’
‘Mamma! hush!’ said Sophy, releasing herself from her embrace, and keeping her body upright, though obliged to seat herself on the nearest chair. ‘It is not treason,’ she said slowly, as though her mouth were parched.
‘Contemptible fickleness!’ burst out Albinia, but Sophy implored silence by a gesture.
‘No,’ she said; ‘it was a dream, a degrading, humiliating dream; but it is over.’
‘There is no degradation except to the base trifler I once thought better things of.’
‘He has not trifled,’ said Sophy. ‘Wait! hush!’
There was a composure about her that awed Albinia, who stood watching in suspense while she went to the bed-room, drank some water, cooled her brow, pushed back her hair, and sitting down again in the same collected manner, which gave her almost a look of majesty, she said, ‘Promise me, mamma, that all shall go on as if this folly had never crossed our minds.’
‘I can’t! I can’t, Sophy!’ said Albinia in the greatest agitation. ‘I can’tunknowthat you have been shamefully used.’
‘Then you will lead papa to break his promise to Genevieve, and lower me not only in my own eyes, but in those of every one.’
‘He little knew that he was bringing her here to destroy his daughter’s happiness. So that was why she held off from Mr. Hope,’ cried Albinia, burning with such indignation, that on some one she must expend it, but a tirade against the artfulness of the little French witch was cut off short by an authoritative—
‘Don’t, mamma! You are unjust! How can she help being loveable!’
‘He had no business to know whether she was or not.’
‘You are wrong, mamma. The absurdity was in thinking I ever was so.’
‘Very little absurd,’ said Albinia, twining her arms round Sophy.
‘Don’t make me silly,’ hastily said Sophy, her voice trembling for a moment; ‘I want to tell you all about it, and you will see that no one is to blame. The perception has been growing on me for a long time, but I was weak enough to indulge in the dream. It was very sweet!’ There again she struggled not to break down, gained the victory, and went on, ‘I don’t think I should have dared to imagine it myself, but I saw others thought it, who knew more; I knew the incredible was sometimes true, and every little kindness he did—Oh! how foolish! as if he could help doing kindnesses! My better sense told me he did not really distinguish me; but there was something thatwouldfeed upon every word and look. Then last year I was wakened by the caricature business. That opened my eyes, for no one who hadthatin him would have turned my sister into derision. I was sullen then and proud, and when—when humanity and compassion brought him to me in my distress—oh! why—why could not I have been reasonable, and not have selfishly fed on what I thought was revived?’
‘He had no right—’ began Albinia, fiercely.
‘He could neither help saving Maurice, nor speaking comfort and support when he found me exhausted and sinking. It was I who was the foolish creature—I hate myself! Well, you know how it has been—I liked to believe it wasthe thing—I knew he cared less for me than—but I thought it was always so between men and women, and that I would not have petty distrusts. But when she came, I saw what the true—true feeling is—I saw that he felt when she came into the room—I saw how he heard her words and missed mine—I saw—’ Sophy collected herself, and spoke quietly and distinctly, ‘I saw his love, and that it had never been for me.’
There was a pause; Albinia could not bear to look, speak, or move. Sophy’s words carried conviction that swept away her sand castle.
‘Now, mamma,’ said Sophy, earnestly, ‘you own that he has not been false or fickle.’
‘If he has not, he has disregarded the choicest jewel that lay in his way,’ said Albinia with some sharpness.
‘But he has not been that,’ persisted Sophy.
‘Well—no; I suppose not.’
‘And no one can be less to blame than Genevieve.’
‘Little flirt, I’ve no patience with her.’
‘She can’t help her manners,’ repeated Sophy, ‘I feel them so much more charming than mine every moment. She will make him so happy.’
‘What are you talking of, Sophy? He must be mad if he is in earnest. A man of his family pride! His father will never listen to it for a moment.’
‘I don’t know what his father may do,’ said Sophy; ‘but I know what I pray and entreat we may do, and that is, do our utmost to make this come to good.’
‘Sophy, don’t ask it. I could not, I know you could not.’
‘There is no loss of esteem. I honour him as I always did,’ said Sophy. ‘Yes, the more since I see it was all for papa and the right, all unselfish, on that 5th of November. Some day I shall have worn out the selfishness.’
She kept her hand tightly pressed on her heart as she spoke, and Albinia exclaimed, ‘You shall not see it; you overrate your strength; it is my business to prevent you!’
‘Think, mamma,’ said Sophy, rising in her earnestness. ‘Here is a homeless orphan, whom you have taught to love you, whom papa has brought here as to a home, and for Gilbert’s sake. Is it fair—innocent, exemplary as she is—to turn against her because she is engaging and I am not, to cut her off from us, drive her away to the first situation that offers, be it what it may, and with that thought aching and throbbing in her heart? Oh, mamma! would that be mercy or justice?’
‘You are not asking to have it encouraged in the very house with you?’
‘I do not see how else it is to be,’ said Sophy.
‘Let him go after her, if there’s anything in it but Irish folly and French coquetry—’
‘How, mamma? Where? When she is a governess in some strange place? How could he leave his business? How could she attend to him? Oh, mamma! you used to be kind: how can you wish to put two people you love so much to such misery?’
‘Because I can’t put one whom I love better than both, and who deserves it, to greater misery,’ said Albinia, embracing her.
‘Then do not put me to the misery of being ungenerous, and the shame of having my folly suspected.’
Albinia would have argued still, but the children came in, Sophy went away, and there was no possibility of a tete-a-tete. How strange it was to have such a tumult of feeling within, and know that the same must be tenfold multiplied in the hearts of those two girls, and yet go through all the domestic conventionalities, each wearing a mask of commonplace ease, as though nothing had happened!
Genevieve had, Albinia suspected, been crying excessively; for there was that effaced annihilated appearance that tears produced on her, but otherwise she did her part in answering her host, who was very fond of her, and always made her an object of attention. Albinia found herself betraying more abstraction, she was so anxiously watching Sophy, who acquitted herself best of all, had kept tears from her eyes, talked more than usual, and looked brilliant, with a bright colour dyeing her cheeks. She was evidently sustained by eagerness to obtain her generous purpose, and did not yet realize the price.
The spray of holly was lying as if it had been tossed in vexation upon the marble slab in the hall. Albinia, from the stairs, saw Sophy take it up, and waited to see what she would do with it. The Sophy she had once known would have dashed it into the flames, and then have repented. No! Sophy held it tenderly, and looked at the glossy leaves and coral fruit with no angry eye; she even raised it to her lips, but it was to pierce with one of the long prickles till her brow drew together at the smart, and the blood started. Then she began to mount the stairs, and meeting Albinia, said quietly, ‘I was going to take this to Genevieve’s room, it is empty now, but perhaps you had better take care of it for her, out of sight. It will be her greatest treasure to-morrow.’
Mr. Kendal read aloud as usual, but who of his audience attended? Certainly not Albinia. She sat with her head bent over her work, revolving the history of these last two years, and trying to collect herself after the sudden shock, and the angry feelings of disappointment that surged within, in much need of an object of wrath. Alas! who could that object be but that blind, warm-hearted, impulsive Mistress Albinia Kendal?
She saw plain enough, now it was too late, that there had not been a shadow of sentiment in that lively confiding Irishman, used to intimacy with a herd of cousins, and viewing all connexions as cousins. She remembered his conversation with her brother and her brother’s impression; she thought of the unloverlike dread of ague in Emily’s moonlight walk; she recalled the many occasions when she had thought him remiss, and she could not but acquit him of any designed flirtation, any dangerous tenderness, or what Mdlle. Belmarche would call legerete. He could not be reserved—he was naturally free and open—and how could she have put such a construction on his frankness, when Sophy herself had long been gradually arriving at a conviction of the truth! It was a comfort at least to remember that it had not been the fabrication of her own brain, she had respectable authority for the idea, and she trusted to its prompter to participate in her indignation, argue Ulick out of so poor a match, and at least put a decided veto upon Sophy’s Spartan magnanimity—Sophy’s health and feelings being the subject, she sometimes thought, which concerned him above all.
Ah! but the evil had not been his doing. He had but gossiped out a pleasant conjecture to his wife as a trustworthy help-meet. What business had she to go and telegraph that conjecture, with her significant eyes, to the very last person who ought to have shared it, and then to have kept up the mischief by believing it herself, and acting, looking, and arranging, as on a certainty implied, though not expressed? Mrs. Osborne or Mrs. Drury might have spoken more broadly, they could not have acted worse, thought she to herself.
The notion might never have been suggested; Sophy might have simply enjoyed these years of intimacy, and even if her heart had been touched, it would have been unconsciously, and the pain and shame of unrequited affection have merely been a slight sense of neglect, a small dreariness, lost in eagerness for the happiness of both friends. Now, two years of love that she had been allowed to imagine returned and sanctioned, and love with the depth and force of Sophy’s whole nature—the shame of having loved unasked, the misery of having lived in a delusion—how would they act upon a being of her morbid tendency, frail constitution, and proud spirit? As Albinia thought of the passive endurance of last year’s estrangement, her heart sank within her! Illness—brain-fever—permanent ill-health and crushed spirits—nay, death itself she augured—and all—all her own fault! The last and best of Edmund’s children so cruelly and deeply wounded, and by her folly! She longed to throw herself at his feet and ask his pardon, but it was Sophy’s secret as well as hers, and how could womanhood betray that unrequited love? At least she thought, for noble Sophy’s sake, she would not raise a finger to hinder the marriage, but as to forwarding it, or promoting the courtship under Sophy’s very eyes—that would be like murdering her outright, and she would join Mr. Kendal with all her might in removing their daughter from the trying spectacle. Talk of Aunt Maria! This trouble was ten thousand times worse!
Albinia began to watch the timepiece, longing to have the evening over, that she might prepare Mr. Kendal. It ended at last, and Genevieve took up her candle, bade good-night, and disappeared. Sophy lingered, till coming forward to her father as he stood by the fire, she said, ‘Papa, did you not promise Gilbert that Genevieve should be as another daughter?’
‘I wish she would be, my dear,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘but she is too independent, and your mamma thinks she would consider it as a mere farce to call her little Albinia’s governess, but if you can persuade her—’
‘What I want you to do, papa, is to promise that she shall be married from this house, as her home, and that you will fit her out as you did Lucy.’
‘Ha! Is she beginning to relent?’
‘No, papa. It will be Ulick O’More.’
‘You don’t mean it!’ exclaimed Mr. Kendal, more taken by surprise than perhaps he had ever been, and looking at his wife, who was standing dismayed, yet admiring the gallant girl who had forestalled her precautions. Obliged to speak, she said, ‘I am afraid so, Sophy and I witnessed a scene to-day.’
‘Afraid?’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I see no reason to be afraid, if Ulick likes it. They are two of the most agreeable and best people that ever fell in my way, and I shall be delighted if they can arrange it, for they are perfectly suited to each other.’
‘But such a match!’ exclaimed Albinia.
‘As to that, a sensible, economical wife will be worth more to him than an expensive one, with however large a fortune. And for the family pride, I am glad the lad has more sense than I feared; he has a full right to please himself, having won the place he has, and he may make his father consent. He wants a wife—nothing else will keep him from running headlong into speculation, for want of something to do. Yes, I see what you are thinking of, my dear, but you know we could not wish her, as you said yourself, never to form another attachment.’
‘Buthere!’ sighed Albinia, the ground knocked away from under her, yet still clinging to the last possible form of murmur.
‘It will cost us something,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘but no more than we will cheerfully bear, for the sake of one who has such claims upon us; and it will be amply repaid by having such a pair of friends settled close to us.’
‘Then you will, papa?’ said Sophy.
‘Will do what, my dear?’
‘Treat her as—as you did Lucy, papa.’
‘And with much more pleasure, and far more hope, than when we fitted out poor Lucy,’ said Mr. Kendal.
Sophy thanked him, and said ‘Good-night;’ and the look which accompanied her kiss to her step-mother was a binding over to secrecy and non-interference.
‘Is she gone?’ said Mr. Kendal, who had been musing after his last words. ‘Gone to tell her friend, I suppose? I wanted to ask what this scene was.’
‘Oh!’ said Albinia, ‘it was in the garden—we saw it from the window—only he brought her a bit of holly, and was trying to kiss her hand.’
‘Strong premises, certainly. How did she receive the advance?’
‘She would not listen, but made her escape.’
‘Then matters are not in such a state of progress as for me to congratulate her? I suppose that you ladies are the best judges whether he may not meet with the same fate as poor Hope?’
‘Sophy seems to take it for granted that he will not.’
‘Irishman as he is, he must be pretty secure of his ground before coming to such strong measures. Well! I hope we may hear no more of brow-ague. But—’ with sudden recollection—‘I thought, Albinia, you fancied he had some inclination for Sophy?’
Was it not a good wife to suppress the ‘You did’? If she could merrily have said, ‘You told me so,’ it would have been all very well, but her mood would admit of nothing but a grave and guarded answer—‘We did fancy so, but I am convinced it was entirely without reason.’
That superior smile at her lively imagination was more than human nature could bear, without the poor relief of an entreaty that he would not sit meditating, and go to sleep in his chair.
Albinia thought she had recovered equanimity during her night’s rest, but in the midst of her morning toilette, Sophy hurried in, exclaiming, ‘She’ll go away! She is writing letters and packing!’ and she answered, ‘Well, what do you want me to do? You don’t imagine that I can rush into her room and lay hands on her? She will not go upon a wishing-carpet. It will be time to interfere when we know more of the matter.’
Sophy looked blank, and vanished, and Albinia felt excessively vexed at having visited on the chief sufferer her universal crossness with all mankind. She knew she had only spoken common sense, but that made it doubly hateful; and yet she could not but wish Miss Durant anywhere out of sight, and Mr. O’More on the top of the Hill of Howth.
At breakfast, Sophy’s looks betrayed nothing to the uninitiated, though Albinia detected a feverish restlessness and covert impatience, and judged that her sleep had been little. Genevieve’s had perhaps been less, for she was very sallow, with sunken eyes, and her face looked half its usual size; but Albinia could not easily have compassion on the poor little unwitting traitress, even when she began, ‘Dear Mrs. Kendal, will you excuse me if I take a sudden leave? I find it will answer best for me to accept Mrs. Elwood’s invitation; I can then present myself to any lady who may wish to see me, and, as I promised my aunt another visit, I had better go to Hadminster by the three o’clock omnibus.’
Albinia was thankful for the loud opposition which drowned the faint reluctance of her own; Mr. Kendal insisting that she should not leave them; little Awk coaxing her; and Maurice exclaiming, ‘If the ladies want her, let them come after her! One always goes to see a horse.’
‘I’m not so well worth the trouble, Maurice.’
‘I know Ulick O’Morewouldcome in to see you when all the piebalds for the show were going by!’
‘Some day you will come to the same good taste,’ said his father, to lessen the general confusion.
‘See a lady instead of a piebald? Never!’ cried Maurice with indignation, that made the most preoccupied laugh; under cover of which Genevieve effected a retreat. Sophy looked imploringly at Albinia—Albinia was moving, but not with alacrity, and Mr. Kendal was saying, ‘I do not understand all this,’ when, scarcely pausing to knock, Ulick opened the door, cheeks and eyes betraying scarcely repressed eagerness.
‘What—where,’ he stammered, as if even his words were startled away; ‘is not Miss Durant well?’
‘She was here just this moment,’ said Mr. Kendal.
‘I will go and see for her,’ said Sophy. ‘Come, children.’
Whether Sophy’s powers over herself or over Genevieve would avail, was an anxious marvel, but it did not last a moment, for Maurice came clattering down to say that Genevieve was gone out into the town. In such a moment! She must have snatched up her bonnet, and fled one way while Ulick entered by the other. He made one step forward, exclaiming, ‘Where is she gone?’ then pausing, broke out, ‘Mrs. Kendal, you must make her give me a hearing, or I shall go mad!’
‘A hearing?’ repeated Mrs. Kendal, with slight malice.
‘Yes; why, don’t you know?’
‘So your time has come, Ulick, has it?’ said Mr. Kendal.
‘Well, and I were worse than an old ledger if it had not, when she was before me! Make her listen to me, Mrs. Kendal, if she do not, I shall never do any more good in this world!’
‘I should have thought,’ said Albinia, ‘that an Irishman would be at no loss for making opportunities.’
‘You don’t know, Mrs. Kendal; she is so fenced in with scruples, humility—I know not what—that she will not so much as hear me out. I’m not such a blockhead as to think myself worthy of her, but I do think, if she would only listen to me, I might stand a chance: and she runs off, as if she thought it a sin to hear a word from my mouth!’
‘It is very honourable to her,’ said Mr. Kendal.
‘Very honourable to her,’ replied Ulick, ‘but cruelly hard upon me.’
‘I think, too,’ continued Mr. Kendal, stimulated thereto by his lady’s severely prudent looks, ‘that you ought—granting Miss Durant to be, as I well know her to be, one of the most excellent persons who ever lived—still to count the cost of opening such an affair. It is not fair upon a woman to bring her into a situation where disappointments may arise which neither may be able to bear.’
‘Do you mean my family, Mr. Kendal? Trust me for getting consent from home. You will write my father a letter, saying what you said just now; Mrs. Kendal will write another to my mother; and I’ll just let them see my heart is set on it, and they’ll not hold out.’
‘Could you bear to see her—looked down on?’ said Albinia.
‘Ha!’ he cried, with flashing eyes. ‘No, believe me, Mrs. Kendal, the O’Mores have too much gentle blood to do like that, even if she were one whom any one could scorn. Why, what is my mother herself but a Goldsmith by birth, and I’d like to see who would cast it up to any of the family that she was not as noble as an O’More! And Genevieve herself—isn’t every look and every movement full of the purest gentility her fathers’ land can show?’
‘I dare say, once accepted, the O’Mores would heartily receive her; but here, in this place, there are some might think it told against you, and might make her uncomfortable.’
‘What care I? I’ve lived and thriven under Bayford scorn many a day. And for her—Oh! I defy anything so base to wound a heart so high as hers, and with me to protect her!’
‘And you can afford it?’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Remember she has her aunt to maintain.’
‘I can,’ said Ulick. ‘I have gone over it all again and again; and recalling his man-of-business nature, he demonstrated that even at present he was well able to support Mdlle. Belmarche, as well as to begin housekeeping, and that there was every reason to believe that his wider and more intelligent system of management would continue to increase his income.’
‘Well, Ulick,’ said Mr. Kendal at last, ‘I wish you success with all my heart, and esteem you for a choice so entirely founded upon the qualities most certain to ensure happiness.’
‘You don’t mean to say that she has not the most glorious eyes, the most enchanting figure!’ exclaimed Ulick, affronted at the compliment that seemed to aver that Genevieve’s external charms were not equal to her sterling merit.
Mr. Kendal and Albinia laughed; and the former excused himself, not quite to the lover’s satisfaction, by declaring the lady much more attractive than many regularly handsome people; but he added, that what he meant was, that he was sure the attachment was built upon a sound foundation. Then he entreated that Mrs. Kendal would persuade her to listen to him, for she had fled from him ever since his betrayal of his sentiments till he was half crazed, and had been walking up and down his room all night. He should do something distracted, if not relieved from suspense before night! And Mr. Kendal got rid of him in the midst of his transports, and turning to Albinia said, ‘We must settle this as fast as possible, or he will lose his head, and get into a scrape.’
‘I do not like such wild behaviour. It is not dignified.’
‘It is only temperament,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Will you speak to her?’
‘Yes, whenever she comes in.’
‘I suspect she has gone out on purpose. Could you not go to find her at the school, or wherever she is likely to be?’
‘I don’t know where to find her. I cannot give up the children’s lessons. Nothing hurts Maurice so much as irregularity.’
He made no answer, but his look of disappointment excited her to observe to herself that she supposed he expected her to run all over the town without ordering dinner first, and she wondered how he would like that!
Presently she heard him go out at the front door, and felt some contrition.
She had not the heart to seek Sophy to report progress, and did not see her till about eleven o’clock, when she came in hastily with her bonnet on, asking, ‘Well, mamma?’
‘Where have you been, Sophy?’
‘To school,’ she said. ‘Has anything happened?’
‘We have had it out, and I am to speak to her when she comes in,’ said Albinia, glad as perhaps was Sophy of the enigmatical form to which Maurice’s presence restrained the communication.
Sophy went away, but presently returning and taking up her work, but with eyes that betrayed how she was listening; but there was so entire an apparent absence of personal suffering, that Albinia began to discharge the weight from her mind, and believe that the sentiment had been altogether imaginary even on Sophy’s side, and the whole a marvellous figment of her own.
At last, Mr. Kendal’s foot was heard; Sophy started up, and sat down again. He came upstairs, and his face was all smiles.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t think she will go by the three o’clock omnibus.’
‘You have spoken to her?’ cried Albinia in compunction.
‘Has Maurice finished? Then go out, my boy, for the present.’
‘Well?’ said Albinia, interrogatively, and Sophy laid down her work and crossed one hand over the other on her knees, and leant back as though to hinder visible tremor.
‘Yes,’ he said, going on with what had been deferred till Maurice was gone. ‘I thought it hard on him—and as I was going to speak to Edwards, I asked if she were at the Union, where I found her, taking leave of the old women, and giving them little packets of snuff, and small presents, chiefly her own work, I am sure. I took her with me into the fields, and persuaded her at last to talk it over with me. Poor little thing! I never saw a more high-minded, conscientious spirit: she was very unhappy about it, and said she knew it was all her unfortunate manner, she wished to be guarded, but a little excitement and conversation always turned her head, and she entreated me not to hinder her going back to a school-room, out of the way of every one. I told her that she must not blame herself for being more than usually agreeable; but she would not listen, and I could hardly bring her to attend to what I said of young O’More. Poor girl! I believe she was running away from her own heart.’
‘You have prevented her?’ cried Sophy.
‘At least I have induced her to hear his arguments. I told her my opinion of him, which was hardly needed, and what I thought might have more weight—that he has earned the right to please himself, and that I believed she would be better for him than riches. She repeated several times “Not now,” and “Not here;” and I found that she was shocked at the idea of the subject being brought before us. I was obliged to tell her that nothing would gratify any of us so much, and that this was the time to fulfil her promise of considering me as a father.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ murmured Sophy.
‘So finally I convinced her that she owed Ulick a hearing, and I think she felt that to hear was to yield. She had certainly been feeling that flight was the only measure, and between her dread of entrapping him and of hurting our feelings, had persuaded herself it was her duty. The last thing she did was to catch hold of me as I was going, and ask if he knew what her father was.’
‘I dare say it has been the first thing she has said to him,’ said Albinia. ‘She is a noble little creature! But what have you done with them now?’
‘I brought him to her in the parsonage garden. I believe they are walking in the lanes,’ said Mr. Kendal, much gratified with his morning’s work.
‘She deserves him,’ said Sophy; and then her eyes became set, as if looking into far distance.
The walk in the lanes had not ended by luncheon-time, and an afternoon loaded with callers was oppressive, but Sophy kept up well. At last, in the twilight, the door was heard to open, and Genevieve came in alone. They listened, and knew she must have run up to her own room. What did it portend? Albinia must be the one to go and see, so after a due interval, she went up and knocked. Genevieve opened the door, and threw herself into her arms. ‘Dear Mrs. Kendal! Oh! have I done wrong? I am so very happy, and I cannot help it!’
Albinia kissed her, and assured her she had done nothing to repent of.
‘I am so glad you think so. I never dreamt such happiness could be meant for me, and I am afraid lest I should have been selfish and wrong, and bring trouble on him.’
‘We have been all saying you deserve him.’
‘Oh no—no—so good, so noble, so heroic as he is. How could he think of the poor little French teacher! And he will pay my aunt’s fifty pounds! I told him all, and he knew it before, and yet he loves me! Oh! why are people so very good to me?’
‘I could easily find an answer to that question,’ said Albinia. ‘Where is he, my dear?’
‘He is gone home. I would not come into the town with him. It is nothing, you know; no one must hear of it, for he must be free unless his parents consent—and I know they never can,’ she said, shaking her head, sadly, ‘but even then I shall have one secret of happiness—I shall know what has been! But oh! Mrs. Kendal, let me go away—’
‘Go away now?’ exclaimed Albinia.
‘Yes—it cannot be—here, in this house! Oh! it is outraging your kindness.’
‘No,’ said Albinia; ‘it is but letting us fulfil a very precious charge.’
Genevieve’s tears flowed as she said, ‘Such goodness! Mr. Kendal spoke to me in this way in the morning, when he was more kind and patient than I can express. But tell me, dearest madame, tell me candidly, is my remaining here the cause of any secret pain to him?’
With regard to him, Albinia could answer sincerely that it was a gratification; and Genevieve owned that she should be glad to await the letters from Ireland, which she tried to persuade herself she believed would put an end to everything, except the precious remembrance.
Sophy here came in with some tea. She had recollected that Genevieve had wandered all day without any bodily sustenance.
There was great sweetness in the quiet, grave manner in which she bent over her friend and kissed her brow. All she said was, ‘Papa had goes to fetch him to dinner. Genevieve, you must let me do your hair.’
It was in Genevieve’s eyes an astonishing fancy, and Albinia said, ‘Come away now, my dear; she must have a thorough rest after such a day.’
Genevieve looked too much excited for rest, but that was the more reason for leaving her to herself; and besides, it was so uncomfortable not to be able to be kind enough.
However, when people are happy, a little kindness goes a great way, and there was a subdued lustre like a glory in her eyes when she came downstairs, with the holly leaves and berries glistening in her hair, the first ornament she had ever worn there.