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MY MOTHER AND I.
2i toe itorq.












~     l  t' I   f, I ill  itl.li!I ~i l.l.:. l~;;......)~ ~~.~I~1;.~.  ~.1~...~~ ~iil-,~- i~~; ~    t' 11 lli!- -~~'rIill  i ~
"~~~~~~~~~~
I             -~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There I sat like a fool-no, like a poor creature suddenly stunned, who knew not what she said or did." —[See p. 178.1




IY MOTHER AND I.,2  toie stort.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN," &c.
WITH ILL USTRATIONS.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1 8 7 4.








ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
" There I sat like a fool-no, like a poor creature suddenly stunned,
who knew not what she said or did."............Frontispiece.
"' You're a widow, I see?' "................................ 30''At this moment up came the carrier's cart.".................45
"He offered the coin to me with a half-smile and a bow.".......  51
"' You will pardon an old man for addressing a strange lady.'.  59
"' General, this is Mrs. Picardy.' "............................... 1o3
"'Away, Conrad, and let Elma see how  she likes to be an old
man's walking-stick.'  ".....'............................  115
"I can see him  now, sitting with his hands folded and eyes looking straight before him."................................ 146
"The quadrille over, Sir Thomas Appleton took me to Mrs. Rix,
and stood talking with Cousin Conrad.".................... i6o
"I crouched once more on the hearth-rug."...............9.....1..9
"Was it fancy, or did I feel the kind hand closed tighter over
mine?".............................................. 224
"He drew my arm through his.................................   229
"Cousin Conrad put his hand a moment lightly on my shoulder." 269








MY MOTHER AND I.
CHAPTER I.
"' Seventy years ago, my darling; seventy years ago."
r —--....      --        So murmurs Ten-. nyson's "Grandmother" to her ":Little
i~  Annie," telling, without pain, the painful
incidents of a longpast youth.
I have - no little
Annie, and it is not
quite seventy years
since I was a girl;
but still I can understand how  the old
woman talked of her
girlhood, and  even
enjoyed doing so, in
a sort of way.
Revisiting lately, after a long lapse of time, a place




12              MY MOTHER AND I.
where I once spent six months-the six months which
were the turning-point in my whole life —I see my own
old self so vividly and with such a curious interest, nay,
even pity, as if it were somebody else, that I half incline
to tell the whole story: a story so simple, so natural, so
likely to have happened, in one form or another, to many
a girl, and withal so long ended, that it can do nobody
any harm, and may do somebody some little good.
Poor Elma Picardy! Looking back at her, she seems
to be —not me at all, but " a girl in a book." If I were
to put her into a book, would she help other girls a little? Perhaps; for I believe many another girl has gone
through a similar experience; has had her fate settled
for good or ill before she was out of her teens; has
gone through the same hard struggles, all alone, with nobody to advise or comfort her, and a cluster of extraneous folk standing by, looking on and discussing her, in
the cold, wise — I mean worldly-wise —way in which
elder people do discuss the young, as if they themselves
had forgotten their own youth, or possibly had never
had any. It is different with me. I was young once
-young and foolish. I know it; yet am not ashamed
of it; and it may help me to be a help to some other
poor girl, who has no mother to speak to, or if she has
one, would not speak to her if she could, or could not if
she would, since, alas! all these cases do sometimes happen. For such a one I will write my story.




MY MOTHER AND I.               13
My name was Elma Picardy, as, indeed, it is still;
and I was just seventeen, an only child, whose life
would have been perfectly solitary except for her
mother.
My mother and I. Never were there such friends as
my mother and I; real equal friends, in addition to being mother and daughter. It was so from my cradle,
my father having died a month after I was born. I
never had a nurse-maid: she was too poor to give me
one, even had she wished; but I think she did not wish.
I was all she had, and she preferred keeping me wholly
to herself. Besides, in those days mothers took care of
their children rather more than they think it neces
sary to do now. It was not considered that even her
duties to society compelled a lady to resign to a staff of
inferior women that other duty-to bring up for God
and man those precious little human souls and bodies
with which Heaven had intrusted her. The world still
held the old-fashioned opinion that to be a mother, in
the largest sense, was at once the highest honor and the
chiefest usefulness to which any woman could aspire.
So my mother, both by choice and necessity, was my
only nurse, my sole playfellow. From morning till
night and from night till morning we were never apart.
It was, of course, an exceptional condition of things; but
so it was, and I have never ceased to be thankful for the
fact, and for its result, that through all my babyhood




14              MY MOTHER AND 1.
and childhood I learned absolutely nothing but what I
learned from her. Afterward other people taught me;
for though a well-read, she was not exactly an accomplished woman; but that was mere outside learning.
My true education, the leading and guiding of soul and
heart, was never in any hands but my mother's. In the
course of years she ceased to be my governess, but she
never ceased all her days to be, as the Bible says, "my
companion, my guide, my most familiar friend."
Yes, familiar, though she was thirty when I was bo-rn.
But this gulf of time did not seem to affect us. Either
she slipped gently down to my level, or I stepped up to
hers; I knew not how it was done, but done it was, the
gulf being bridged over without any conscious effort on
her side or mine. And the trust between us was equal
to the sympathy. I hear girls nowadays say, " Oh, don't
tell mamma; she wouldn't understand." Why, my
mother understood every thing, and I always told her
every thing! As soon as I could speak it was, "Look,
mnammy, look!" at every new felicity; and as for sorrow,
from the day when I broke my doll till I broke-something else: only I did not quite break it-my first cry
was, "AMother-I want my mother!"  Day and night
my only shelter was in her bosom. I remember, and can
feel still, though I am an old woman, the infinite healing
of her kiss for all anguish, great and small.
My mother was quite alone in the world, being, as I




MY MOTHER AND 1.              15
said, widowed directly after my birth. My father was
an Indian officer. From his miniature, he must have
been much handsomer, and I knew he was a year or two
younger, than herself. The exact circumstances of their
marriage I never learned. It came probably from what
I have heard called " the force of propinquity," for they
must have been very unlike in every way. But they
were thrown together, he having lodged at the house of
her parents-he had quarreled with his own-during a
long and dangerous illness. " Ile could not do without
me-so he married mei," she once said, with a rather sad
smile; and this was the only explanation she ever gave,
even to me, her daughter, of her courtship and marriage.
In a year death ended the union, and she was alone
again-more alone than before: for her parents had
died also, and died bankrupt. The few luxuries she had
ever enjoyed passed away; she had nothing to live upon
but the two small pensions, hers and mine, as a soldier's
widow and orphan; and she had not a creature in the
world belonging to her except me.
This was all I knew of her and myself during my childhood and early girlhood. She never talked to me about
the past; and the present was all-sufficient, of course, to
a child. Consequently she learned to make it sufficient
to herself. And this, I have since thought, constituted
the great blessing I unconsciously was to her. In all her
cares and afflictions she "set me in the midst," as Christ




16              MY MOTHER AND I.
once set a little child; and in my innocent ignorance,
my implicit trust, my glorious forgetfulness of yesterday
and indifference to to-morrow, I became to her truly " of
the kingdom of heaven."  As she told me long afterward, I comforted her more than she could have been
comforted by any other living soul.
So we were perfectly happy together, my mother and
I. We lived in a world of our own-a wonderful world,
full of love, content, and enjoyment. That we were
poor did not affect us in the least —poverty never does
much affect a child, unless prematurely tainted by being
brought up among worldly-minded elders For instance,
I have heard grown-up people recall the misery they
once suffered from going to school less well dressed than
their school-mates; but I can not remember such distresses ever troubling me. I was no more afflicted to
see other girls in sashes while I had none than my mother was grieved by the fact that her gowns were of print
or muslin when her friends wore silk and satin. I saw
she always dressed herself, as she dressed me, neatly,
comfortably, as prettily and as much in the fashion as
she could afford, and there the matter ended. What
we could not afford we neither craved for nor mourned
over.
As I grew toward womanhood the great contest between us was who should have the best clothes: I wished
it to be the mother, she would rather it had been the




MY MOTHER AM) I.              17
daughter. Many a fond battle we had upon this point
every time there were new clothes to be bought. I
could not bear to see her go on wearing a shabby bonnet and give me a new one, or turn and turn her gowns
to the last limits of respectability because I grew out of
my frocks so fast that it was almost impossible to keep
me well dressed, suitably dressed, which, it was easy to
find out, she was most anxious to do.
For I was her only child; and, let ~ne confess the
fact, so familiar that I soon ceased to think it of importance, and, indeed, have forgotten when I first discovered
it-I was an exceedingly pretty child. Not like herself
at all, but the very image of my father. Consequently
as I grew up I became not merely pretty, but handsome;
beautiful, in short-at fifteen I believe I was downright
beautiful-so that there could be no two opinions about
me.
Looking in my glass now, I take a pathetic pleasure
in recalling this, and my dear mother's pride and delight
in the same, which she now and then attempted to hide,
though she never tried to deny or conceal the obvious
fact of my beauty-first, because it would have been impossible; secondly, because she would have thought it
foolish and wrong. She held beauty to be a gift of
God, and, as such, to be neither ignored nor despised,
but received thankfully, gladly-a real blessing, if regarded and accepted as such in all simplicity and humility.




18              MY MOTHER AND I.
"Mammy dear," I remember once saying, as I ran
into her arms, " am I not a very pretty little girl? Every body says so."
-" Yes, my darling, you are a very pretty little girl, and
mammy is glad of it; but she is most glad because you
are good. Pretty little girls ought always to be exceedingly good."
This lesson she impressed upon me so strongly that I
came to think even beauty a secondary thing, and many
a comical story was preserved of my answers to my flatterers-children find only too many —-" Yes, of course
I'm a pretty little girl, but I'm a good girl too."  "Mainmy says pretty girls are plenty, and good girls scarce; I
mean to be a good girl," etc., etc. Simple, silly speeches, no doubt, but they serve to show that I was not vain
in any contemptible way. In truth, I was so accustomed
to be praised, to look in the glass, and see there a face
which could not fail to give myself as much pleasure as
it did to my friends, that I believe I accepted my beauty
as calmly as people accept most things which they are
born to-a title, an estate, or any other accidental appendage of fortune. I rejoiced in it, much as the lilies
and roses do, without any ridiculous pride.
My mother rejoiced too-in my eyes, which somebody
told her were like a gazelle's; in my hair, purple-black
and very long, which she always dressed herself with
her own hands till I was a woman grown; in my slender




MY MOTHER AND I.              19
willowy figure-I was tall, like my father, and at thirteen years old had overtopped herself entirely; above
all, in a certain well-bred air, which I suppose I always
had, for I have overheard people describe me as " a most
lady-like child." This quality might have been hereditary, but I myself attribute it to my never having had
any companionship except my mother's.
I did not understand then-I do now-why she was
so exceedingly particular over my associates; how many
and many a little girl whom I wanted to play with I
was gently withdrawn from, lest I might catch the tone
of that half-and-half "genteel" society which, for a
widow of limited income, is not easy to escape. Not
until I grew up a woman did I fully comprehend how
difficult it must have been for her to make me grow up
reallyv a lady, unharmed by the coarse influences of poverty, not always refined poverty, which necessarily surrounded us on every side. She could not have done it,
even though we lived as quietly as possible, first in London lodgings, where my father had died, and then in a
school, where, in return for my instruction, she took
charge of the whole seamstress work of the establishment-she could not possibly have done it, I say, had she
not kept me continually by her side, and exposed to no
influence except her own.
And sle was a lady. Aye, even though she was a
tradesman's daughter. But the fact that my grandfa



20              MY MOTHER AND I.
ther, a builder, had been a self-made man, only enough
educated to desire to educate his child, did not affect me
in the least. My mother's relations, the Dedmans, and
my father's, the Picardys, were to me equally mythical.
I knew nothing about them, and cared less.
She seldom spoke of either the persons or the incidents of her early life. She seemed to have been drifted out into the world, as Danae was drifted out to sea,
with her baby in her arms, utterly uncertain on what
shore she would be thrown, or if she would ever touch
land at all. But, like Danae and Perseus, we were cast
upon a friendly shore. Wherever we went, I remember,
every body was kind to us. Perhaps it was the deep instinct of human nature, that inclines people always to be
kind to the widow and orphan; but most probably it
was my mother's own sweet nature, and her remarkable
mixture of gentleness and self-dependence, which made
all whom she met ready to help her, because they saw
she was willing, to the utmost of her capabilities, to help
herself.
I dare say she had her chances of marrying again, but
of such a possibility she never dreamed. So we were
just "my mother and I," a pair so completely one, and
so content in each other, that beyond general kindliness
we never cared much for any body outside. We had no
visible relations, and not very many friends —intimate
friends, I mean, either young or old, who would stand




MY MOTHER AND I.              21
in my place toward her, or in hers toward me. It never
struck me to put any playfellow in opposition to my
mother; and she often said that ever since I was born
she liked my company better than that of any grown-up
person.
So we wandered about the world together, changing
our mode of life or place of residence as she deemed
best both for my health, which was rather delicate, and
for my education. It was always me, always for my advantage; of herself and her own pleasure I do not believe she ever thought at all. And therefore her sorrows, whatever they were, brought no bitterness with
them. She endured them till they passed by, and then
rose out of them to renewed life. She was to the end
of her days the happiest-natured woman I ever knew,
and the most cheerful of countenance.
Describe her personally I will not-I can not! Who
ever could paint a mother's face? It seems, or ought to
seem, unlike every other face in the wide world. We
have been familiar with it all our lives-from our cradle
we have drank it in, so to speak, like mother's milk, and
looked up to it as we looked up to the sky, long before
we understood what was beyond it — only feeling its
beauty and soothing power. My mother's face was like
heaven to me, from the time when I lay in her lap, and
sucked my thumb, with my eyes steadily fixed on hers,
while she told me "a'tory," until the day when I last




22              MY MOTHER AND I.
stood and gazed down upon it, with its sweet shut mouth
and sealed eyes: gazed-myself almost an old womanwondering that it had suddenly grown so young.
But many, many years, thank God! before that day
-years spent in peace and content, and no small share
of happiness, since, as I have said, we were always happy merely in being together-occurred that strange time,
that troubled six months, to which I have referred, and
which even now makes my heart beat with a sensation
which no length of time or change of fortunes has ever
deadened, nor ever will deaden, until I cease to live.
There is no pain in it now —not an atom of pain! no
regret, no remorse-but there it is, an unalienable fact,
an ineffaceable impression. And it all happened twenty, thirty-no, I will not count how many years ago.
I was just seventeen, and my mother was seven-andforty.




MY MOTHER AND I.              23
CHAPTER II.
I HAD "finished my education," or was supposed to
have done so, though my mother often laughed, and
said nobody's education was ever "finished."  Still, I
had had all the masters that she could afford to give
me, and further study was to be carried on by myself.
We also left the school, where we had resided so long,
in the suburbs of London, and came to live in the country, " all alone by ourselves," as we said. For we two
together was the same as being alone, only with the
comfort of companionship.
Our abode was a village in Somersetshire, whither we
had come chiefly by chance. Like Adam and Eve,
"the world was all before us where to choose," and any
place seemed pleasant after that horrid "genteel neighborhood," neither town nor country, with the advantages of neither and the unpleasantness of both. At
least so I thought in my hasty angry youth, which had
such quick eyes to see the dark shades in every picture.
But my mother always answered gently that there
might have been much worse places than Kilburn, and
we had lived very peacefully there for five years. She




24              MY MOTHER AND I.
always saw the sunny side of every thing, rather than
the cloudy one. She was of a far more contented disposition than I.
Still it was always I who started new and daring
ideas, as I had done in this case. When we decided as
to where we should make our new home, I had got out
the maps, and proposed laughingly that we should toss
up a half-penny, and select the place on which it fell.
It fell flat and prone on the town of Bath!
"Bath? —how odd! were you not born there, mother? Of course we'll go and live at Bath."
" Oh, no, no!" she cried, suddenly; then checked herself. " Well, my child, if you wish it particularly, I see
no reason why we should not go. There is nobody to
go to, certainly; I never had many relations, and those
I had are long dead; still, Bath is pretty, oh, so pretty!
You never saw any place at all like it, Elma;" and her
eyes brightened with a tender sort of memory in them.
" I should be delighted to see it, the home where you
lived as a child and a girl-a grown-up girl like me.
Also, mother darling, was it not at Bath that you met
my father, and were married?"
" Yes."
"Did papa like Bath as much as you?"
"Not quite. He was ill there for many months, you
know, and people seldom fancy the place where they
are long ill."




MY MOTHER AND I.              25
"But he fell in love with you there, and that ought
to have made him like it."
I had just begun to have an idea that there was such
a thing as " falling in love," and that of course it was
the happiest thing in all the world.
My mother was silent —so silent that I took her hand
caressingly.
"I like sometimes to talk about my father. Was he
not very handsome? —And exceedingly like me 2'
"You vain little monkey!" smiled my mother.
And then I laughed too at the conceited speech I
had unwittingly made. In our harmless fun the slight
shadow which had come over my mother's face passed
away, and we continued our consultation —we never
did any thing without consulting one another —but
made no more references to the past. I saw she did
not wish it.
Nevertheless, things so happened that, in the first instance, we went from London to Bath just to gratify
my curiosity. For three days we wandered about the
city-the beautiful lady-city, of which my mother had
not said one word too much; but it was too beautiful,
too expensive for our small finances. A little dreary,
too, despite its beauty. We knew no one-not a soul!
and there were so many grand idle people walking
about that the place felt far more lonely than London,
where every body is busy.
B




26              MY MOTHER AND I.
Also-it may seem a foolish, conceited thing to confess, and yet I must, for it is true —these idle people
stared at us so, as if they had nothing to do but to stare,
and I resented it much. My mother answered my in.
dignation with gentle composure.
"Idle folk will always stare, my child. Besides, you
are taller and more remarkable-looking-well, perhaps
prettier-than most girls; and then you have such a
very little, insignificant mother to walk beside you."
"Nonsense!" I said; for I thought her sweet face
and dainty figure the pleasantest to look at in all the
world.
"Come, don't let us be cross; let us take the stares
patiently, and fancy ourselves the Duchess of Kent and
the Princess Victoria, who have to endure the like
whenever they go out, as well as the rest of the royal
family."
C" But I am not one of the royal family."
"No, my child," said my mother, half laughing, half
sad; "but Heaven has given you almost as trying a
dignity. My poor Elma, people are sure to stare at you
wherever you go; but we will avoid it as much as we
can. What do you say? Instead of remaining at
Bath, which, indeed, we should find far too dear, suppose we were to try and find some pretty, quiet village
near it-I remember several-and settle down there,
where you will have nobody to look at you but the cows




MY MOTHER AND I.              27
and sheep-except your mother! Will she suffice, my
pet?"
"Yes, entirely."
And I spoke the truth. Odd as it may seem, my
mother had done wisely in never denying facts as they
were. Her fond, candid admiration of me supplied the
place of any other; her frank admission of the fact of
my beauty-a simple fact, no more-absolutely prevented my having any petty vanity about it. Just as children brought up without any mysteries make none, and
those to whom the truth is always spoken can not see
the slightest necessity for such a mean trick as lying.
Besides this rather comical reason for our taking
flight from Bath, my mother had another, which she
did not then tell me. She wished to live in the country
-in the healthiest place she could find. I had been
studying hard, I was not strong, and the disease of
which my father died-last of five brothers-was consumption. My mother had always watched me, I told
her sometimes, "as a cat watches a mouse;" but it was
not till after-years that I found out the reason.
Still, there was no sign of my father's having left me,
with his own strong likeness, this fatal inheritance. My
mother had given me not only her moral but her physical qualities-a sound mind in a sound body. The
wholesome Dedman blood, the blood of the people,
counteracted all that might have been dangerous on my




28              MY MOTHER AND I.
father's side. From that, and from her careful upbringing, I have, though never robust, enjoyed thoroughly good health. No troubles have been able to kill
me. I have lived-have been obliged to live-through
them all. There have been times when I almost regretted this-when it would have been so much easier to
slip from life, and shirk all its duties; when one fell
back longingly upon the heathen proverb that "those
whom the gods love die young." Not the Christian
God! To Him the best sacrifice is not death, but a
long, useful, active, healthy life; reaping unto the last
Christ's benediction —that it is more blessed to give
than to receive, to minister than to be ministered unto.
The nest where my mother and I settled ourselves we
found on our very first day of search. It was in a village a few miles from Bath —a small, old-fashioned
house in an old-fashioned street, which sloped down in
a steep descent to our door. Indeed, the whole neighborhood had a curious up-and-down-iness-very charming to me, who had grown sick of the long level London pavements and suburban roads.
Equally peculiar and attractive was the landlady, true
Somersetshire, blunt in words and kind in deeds, who
insisted on our accepting from her a lunch of bread
and cheese, but declined point-blank to accept us as
lodgers. She always had a family throughout the summer, she said —an excellent family from Bath-and she








~I=~   Iliii31t lliiiiillAlllh~lll &ii,~i"
FT~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~'~
"~' ~v-e a w~dow. Ili see.? "
You're a weidowt. I see?'""




3MY MOTHER AND I.             31
liked to be alone in the winter, and until they came,
which was never before June.
But it was now only January, and I had fallen in
love with the quaint old house, and its quainter furniture, chiefly of oak, certainly a century old. Also, by a
lucky chance, Mrs. Golding had fallen in love with my
mother.
Not with me. Oh dear, no! She took the greatest
pains to indicate how little she thought of me —considered me a mere chit of a girl, most objectionably pretty.
" I don't care to have good-looking misses about my
place. They're always such a bother. If it was only
you, ma'am "-and she looked admiringly at my mother's calm face and smooth gray hairs —she had been
gray ever since I could remember. " You're a widow,
I see?" glancing at the modified form of widow's cap
which she always wore.
"Yes, I have been a widow ever since that girl of
mine was born."
"And-not over-rich, I suppose, ma'am?"
" No," returned my mother, unoffended; for it never
occurred to her to feel the slightest shame or annoyance
on account of her poverty.
"Then I think I'll take you. You won't be much
trouble. Only your two selves?"
"Only our two selves," said my mother, putting her
arm through mine, a good deal amused, but longing,




32              MY MOTHER AND I.
like me, to take refuge in this quiet house, and with one
who seemed, though odd, to be a good and kindly woman. "I think, really, you had better take us. You
must be rather dull all alone."
"No doubt, ma'am-no doubt. But I couldn't take
from you my usual rent-it wouldn't be honest unless
the summer-time. Let us see-what shall it be? What
would you like to give me?"
My mother laughingly declining to name a sum, this
most extraordinary of landladies named one, which,
compared with London prices, was perfectly ridiculous,
and yet a great relief to our purse. But she declared it
was the usual rate of payment for winter lodgings. We
agreed, promising to turn out when the summer family
arrived.
"But that is five months to come. A great deal may
happen in five months," said my mother, half sighing.
" Aye, indeed, ma'am; miss may be married by then;
who knows? There is certainly nobody about here to
marry her. They're are all old maids in our parts. She
won't find one young gentleman, that I can tell her."
I blushed furiously, and felt so insulted that I would
almost have walked out of the house on the spot, had
not my mother said gently, with that quiet dignity
which puts a stop to all possible forwardness,
"We have not begun to think of these things yet,
Mrs. Golding. My daughter is only seventeen."




MY MOTHER AND I.              33
"Well, and I was only seventeen and a half when I
married, and a pretty mess I made of it. My face was
my fortune, every body said-that was why poor Golding married me; and it didn't last" (no, certainly not,
apparently); "and he was an awful worrit, and that did
last, and wore me to skin and bone, as you see. Well,
well, he's gone now, so we'll say no more about him.
Don't you believe in men, miss; don't marry in haste
and repent at leisure. That's all I say."
This melancholy sentiment-which the departed Golding, staring down from the wall in red face, blue coat,
and yellow waistcoat, did not contradict-amused me so
much that it cooled my wrath, and I made no objection
to our finally settling the bargain, and agreeing to become Mrs. Golding's inmates on the morrow.
" Only," I said, when we talked over the matter, " we
shall have to keep her at a distance, I am sure. She is
a very impertinent woman."
"Because she spoke about your marrying, my child?
Well, I suppose you will be married some day;" and my
mother put back my hair, and looked steadily into my
blushing face. "Would you like to be married, Elma?
Yes, of course you would. It is a woman's natural destiny. But there is plenty of time-plenty of time."
" I should rather think so."
"And when you do begin to take such a thing into
your little head, be sure you tell your mother."
B 2




34              MY MOTHER AND I.
" Of course I shall."
Here we dropped the matter, not unwillingly, I fancy,
on either side. It was a topic quite new; at least this
was the first time that my mother had named it at all
seriously. For me, as a little girl, I had always protested, like most little girls, that I meant to marry my
mother; afterward, that I would not marry at all, for
fear of having to leave her. Latterly these protestations
had ceased, for they seemed to me rather silly; besides,
a kind of shyness had crept over me on the subject of
love and marriage. Not that I did not think of it; on
the contrary, I believe I thought a great deal, but I said
nothing. If I could have questioned my mother about
her own experience —her own courtship and marriageit would have opened my heart; but this was almost
the only thing upon which she kept silence toward me,
or, if I attempted to speak, gently avoided the subject.
She did so now. When I hazarded a question or two
apropos of a small house in a back street of Bath, which
she showed me in passing, saying she had once lived
there for a little while, she answered abruptly; and
when we quitted the city-the fair city which I had
already begun to be fond of-I think it was rather a relief to her than not.
In a week's time we felt quite settled in our new
home. It was such a pretty home, the prettiest we had
ever had. The village was such a curious place, with




MY MOTHER AND I.              35
its ancient houses and gardens, shut in by high walls, its
picturesque church, and its altogether old-world aspect,
as if it had gone to sleep a century ago, and was only
half awake still.
We had one favorite walk, called the Tyning —a curious word, the meaning of which I never knew. But
the walk was very pleasant: a kind of high path or natural bridge from hill to hill, sloping steeply down on either side. On one hand you saw the distant uplands,
on the other the valley below, with a little river winding
through it, turning a gray old cloth-mill, which seemed
the only manufacturing industry of the place.
One day we crossed the Tyning on our way to an old
ruined abbey, which Mrs. Golding said was one of the
sights of the neighborhood. It was a bright, clear February day. I threw back my head, and eagerly drank
in every breath of the pleasant bracing air. But it
made my mother shiver. I placed myself on the windward side of her, and drew her arm through mine, as I
had always been in the habit of doing when we walked
out, ever since I had discovered, with the pride of thirteen years, that I was half an inch taller than she. She
clung to me, I thought, a little closer than usual as we
discussed our summer plans.
"We will be idle till March; then we will study regularly. You must not let slip your education. You
may need it yet."




36               MY MOTHER AND I.
She spoke with hesitation, knowing I knew quite well
the possibility to which she referred-that she might
die prematurely, when her pension would die with her,
and mine was too small to maintain me. If I were left
motherless, I should also have to earn my bread. But
the first terror, if I ever did look at it, blotted the second out of sight entirely.
" If you want me to make use of my education, I will
do it," said I, intentionally misapprehending her. "I
will turn governess to-morrow, if you wish, though I
should hate it-yes, hate it! And you always said it is
the last kind of life I am fitted for."
"That is true, my poor child."
I caught her sigh. I saw her sidelong anxious look.
Only since I have been gliding down the hill, and watched so many young folks climbing up it, have I recognized fully the meaning of my mother's silent looksher ceaseless prevision of a future that should last long
after hers was ended-if indeed it had not ended long
ago, her own individuality being entirely absorbed in
this young life of mine. To be a mother is in truth entirely to forget one's self-one's personal interests, griefs,
and joys, and to project one's self wholly into the new
generation, with its wonderful present, its still more mysterious future, both of which seem apparently to lie in
one's own hands. Only apparently, perhaps; and yet
we have to act as if it were really so, as if the whole re



MY MOTHER AND I.              37
sponsibility of her children's lives rested upon the mother. Oh, that all mothers felt it thus! and when they
do feel it, oh, if their children could now and then see
into their hearts!
I could not into my mother's-not wholly, even though
she was so dear' to me and I to her. Now and then, as
to-day, there seemed something on her mind which I did
not understand, something which she tried first to conceal, then to shake off; and finally succeeded.
" No, my darling, I do not wish you to turn governess,
or any thing else, just now," said she, gravely. " I only
wish you to grow up a well-educated gentlewoman, equal
to any position which- But just now your position is
to be your mother's own dear, only daughter," added
she, suddenly stopping herself; "a sensible, clever-no,
not very clever-"
Alas! that was true enough. I was not clever. Nor
accomplished, neither; for my wise mother, finding I
had little voice and less ear, had stopped my music; my
drawing also had come to an end-since, to waste time
on any study which requires real talent when one has
absolutely none, she considered simply ridiculous.
"No, you are certainly not a genius-you will never
set the Thames on fire. But, whatever you are, I am
content with you, my daughter."
" Thank you," replied I, humble, and yet proud.
My mother never allowed me to ponder over either




38              MY MOTHER AND I.
my merits or my short-comings. She said it was better
just to do one's work, and not think much about one's
self at all. Her satisfaction in me, not often thus plainly expressed -touched and pleased me, and I walked
gayly, a weight lifted off my heart. I knew well I was
in no sense a brilliant girl. My " face was my fortune,"
not my brains. This did not matter much now, though
there came a time when I would have given half my
beauty to possess just a little of what people call "talent." So it is-we generally care most for the qualities
which are not ours.
However, just now I cared for nothing and nobody
but my mother. She and I strolled on together, enjoying the spring smell in the air, and the colored twilight
just beginning to lengthen, and the blackbird's soft lovenote —the first of the year —for it was near upon Valentine's Day. Somehow or other we lost our way, and
found ourselves not at the ruined abbey, but exactly
where we had started; and it was too late to start again.
"Never mind, we will go there some other day" (aye,
we did-I have never forgotten that day). "Have we
not the whole spring before us  And how delicious,
mother, to think we have it all to ourselves! No school
-no lessons — no visitors. We literally don't know a
soul between here and London. Hurrah! How grand
it is to have got no friends!"
"But we may make some-I hope we shall."




MY MOTHER AND I.              39
"I don't. Because they will be falling in love with
you and taking you from me; and I like to have you all
to myself, mammy!" (Big girl as I was, I often called
her " mammy," or " mummy," or "mimi" —some one of
the half-hundred pretty names I used to invent for her
when I was a baby. But "mother" was my favorite
name. Lots of girls had "mammas "-very few had a
"mother." None, I averred, like mine.)
She laughed, and told me nobody was likely to dispute
my possession. " Especially of such an elderly person
as I am growing, for do you know, my child, though the
evening is so pleasant, I feel quite tired and cold."
I blamed myself bitterly for having persuaded her to
put on a summer cloak-her winter one looked so shabby in the sunshine.
" I protest, mother, you shall not go on a day longer
without buying that Paisley shawl we have so long
talked about, which will at once be light and warm.
We'll go to Bath after it to-morrow."
"Oh no, no!" Again her unaccountable shrinking
from this pleasant city, which, as soon as I had left it, I
quite longed to see again.
"Well, mother darling, you shall not be vexed; but
the shawl must be got somehow, and Bath is the only
place to get it at. Will you let me go and buy it all by
myself i"
The moment I had made this proposition I was fright



40              MY MOTHER AND I.
ened at it, for I had never yet walked a street's length
alone; and as to going shopping alone, the idea was
dreadful. Yet, as I hurried my mother home, every
shiver of hers made my conscience-stings sharper and
my resolution more strong.
"I must learn to be useful, and do things sometimes
by myself," argued I. "Only trust me! I will try to
lose none of the money, and waste it you may be sure I
shall not. And when I go into the shop I will not be
nervous-not get angry if people do stare at me. Why
should not I walk about alone? There is nothing really
to be afraid of."
" No, my love; and if you were obliged to do it-if I
were away, and you had no protection, I should wish
you to do it-brave as a lion, innocent as a lamb. But
you are not obliged. Wait a while, and we will choose
the shawl together."
But I could not wait-not longer than the few days
during which my mother was laid up with severe cold
after this unlucky walk. Why had I not taken care that
she was warmly clad before I let her buy me that gypsy
hat with the checked pink ribbons (how one remembers
individually one's girlish clothes-at least, when they are
not numerous!) and the brown silk pelisse, which had
cost such a deal of money?  I hated it-I hated myself. I resolved to have not another new thing all summer, if only I could coax her to be extravagant in the




MY MIOTHER AND I.             41
matter of the Paisley shawl. Go to Bath I must-but
how?
A bold idea struck me. "Mother, Mrs. Golding is
going to Bath to-morrow: may I go with her and buy
your shawl? She knows the shop, and will take care of
me."
And then, remembering the figure the old woman cut
in her enormous bonnet, and cloak of most respectable
antiquity, carrying a huge basket, which went full of
eggs and returned full of groceries, my mind misgave
me. Certainly, to walk up Milsom Street beside Mrs.
Golding would require some little moral courage.
I think my mother guessed this, for she smiled.
"Have you considered-"
"Yes, I've considered every thing. What does it matter? I'm not going to be a goose any more."
"But to act on the principle of the man who, walking
about in an old coat, said,'If every body knows me, it's
all right; if nobody knows me, it's all right too.' Well
done, my child!"
"Then I may go."
She hesitated; but I was so urgent that at last I got
my own way-as I did sometimes now, when it was not
actually a wrong way, but simply a question of feeling.
I had come to that age, my mother said, when, in many
things, she left me to judge for myself.
" Well, I never!" cried Mrs. Golding, when I broached




42              MY MOTHER AND I.
the subject to her. "Such a fine young lady as you
wanting to go to Bath with an old woman like me!
And I sha'n't walk either: my old legs can't stand it
this muddy weather. I meant to take the carrier's cart."
This was a new perplexity. "But in for a penny, in
for a pound." The shawl must be got, and this was
the only way to get it. At once, too, that my mother
might have it as soon as she was able to go out again.
I smile now to remember, not without a strange sense
of fatality, with what passionate persistence I stuck to
my point, and carried it. But it was not for myself, it
was solely for her-my own dear mother-the centre of
all my world.
"We'll go, then, miss, if you can manage to be up in
time, for the carrier passes at six in the morning," said
Mrs. Golding, rather maliciously. "And when you've
been to market with me, I'll go to Pulteney Street or
Royal Crescent with you, and look at the fine folks
promenading. That is, if you're not ashamed to be seen
with an old body who was once as young and bonny as
yourself-though I say it."
Mrs. Golding's prehistoric good looks were her weak
point, and I did not want to hurt her feelings. The old
woman had been very good to us ever since we arrived.
So I had no alternative but to consent; and my mother
had none but to let me go.
She dressed me, however, in my very simplest and




MY MOTHER AND I.              43
plainest garments. "It was evident," I told her, "that
she wished me to pass for Mrs. Golding's granddaughter."
"That would be difficult," said she. And catching
her face in the glass as she looked over my shoulder,
fastening my collar behind, I saw her fond, proud smile
-wholly a mother's smile. You girls, when you are
mothers yourselves, and dress your own daughters, will
understand it, and allow that no personal vanity was
ever half so pleasant.
"Now, then, turn round, child, and let me arrange
your bonnet-strings. How untidy you are!" (Alas, I
was-a common failing at seventeen.)  "You might
with advantage imitate that neat old woman-your supposed grandmother."
"Mrs. Golding?  Oh dear! But tell me, what was
my real grandmother-your mother-like?"
"I can not remember. You forget I was brought up
by my step-mother."
"And my other grandparents on my father's side?"
"I do not know; I never saw them," replied my
mother, hastily. " Child, don't forget to buy new ribbons for your hair." It was in long plaits, fastened
round my head like a coronet, very pretty to look at-I
may say so now.
My mother so evidently disliked the subject that I
ventured, no other questions. Strangely enough, I had




44              MY MOTHER AND I.
never asked any before, nor thought at all about my remote ancestors. We lived so entirely in the present,
and our life, in its mild, monotonous current, was so full,
that I never troubled myself about the past. I was not
of a very imaginative temperament-besides, the future
was every thing to me, as it generally is in our teens.
At this moment up came the carrier's cart. My
mother kissed me tenderly-more tenderly than usual,
perhaps, it was so seldom I ever had left her for a whole
day-put me gayly into that ignominious equipage, and
I drove away.
Had she seen, had I seen, that the driver was-not
that funny old man in his voluminous capes, but Fate
herself, sitting beside him and holding the reins! But
no; had I foreknown all, it would have been-with my
clear-eyed will it should have been-exactly the same.




l    /~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~l
"At this moment zt~ camze the carrier's cart."








MY MOTHER AND I.              47
CHAPTER  III.
o --   -   n    I THOUGHT in my
girlhood —I think still
~I8AA ~~                 -that Bath is one of,the  most beautiful
cities in the world.
Florence, they say, is
something like it; but
I   have never seen
Florence, and I love,      Bath, with that fond,
half-sad sort of love
which  hangs  about
particular places, mak-. ing them seem to us,
all our days, unlike
"~;~~~         - ",any other places in the
wide world.
During our short stay there I had not seen half its
beauties, for my mother seemed unwilling to go about
more than she was obliged, and it was winter weather;
but now as we crept slowly along the high Claverton




48              MY MOTHER AND I.
Road, and looked down on the valley below, where the
river and the canal meandered, side by side, and in and
out, glittering in the morning sunshine; then coming
suddenly upon it, I saw the white city, terraces, crescents, circuses, streets, one above the other, rising up almost to the top of Lansdowne Hill. I could not help
exclaiming, " How beautiful!"
Mrs. Golding, being a Somersetshire woman, looked
pleased. She made the carrier stop his jolting cart for
a minute or two that I might get a better view.
" Yes, Bath is a nice place, and there's some nice folks
in it-to make amends for the nasty ones."
"Who are they?" I inquired.
"Card-players and ball-goers, and worldlings generally," answered Mrs. Golding. "But they're nothing to
you, miss, or me either. And there are good folks besides-though they're not many."
I was silent. We had already discovered that Mrs.
Golding belonged to a peculiar sect, called Plymouth
Brethren, which had lately risen up in the West of England. My mother did not agree with them in their
opinions; but she told me that many of them were very
good people, and that I must never smile at Mrs. Golding and her extraordinary forms of speech, as if she and
her " brethren " were the only children of the Almighty
Father, the only receptacles of eternal truth, and accepters of what they called "salvation."




MY MOTHER AND I.               49
So I forgave her for holding forth a little too harshly
on the wickedness of the world, which to me seemed
not a wicked world at all, but most beautiful and enjoyable; forgave her, too, for keeping me out of the lively
streets — Milsom Street, Gay Street, Quiet Street, such
quaint names! Patiently I followed her into the narrow and dirty regions at the bottom of the town, where
she transacted her business, selling and buying alternately, but always contriving to keep one eye upon her basket and the other upon me.
Little need was there. Nobody looked at me. In
this busy quarter of the city every body was occupied
with his or her own affairs. I felt, with some amusement and perhaps a shade of annoyance, that I was being taken for the old woman's granddaughter after all.
Well, what did it matter? Like the Miller of Dee"I cared for nobody, and nobody cared for me,"
except my mother —only and always my mother.
It was very dull going about without her, we were so
seldom apart. So as soon as Mrs. Golding had done her
business I suggested mine-the shawl, and insisted on
getting it at the very best shop in Bath.
Must I confess that, even as an elderly lady, I rather
like shopping? Even when I do not buy, the sight of
the pretty things pleases me, as it did in the days when
I could not afford to buy; when rich silks and dainty
C




50             MY MOTHER AND I.
muslins were tantalizing impossibilities, and my mother
and I looked at them and shook our heads with a resolute smile, but still a smile. What was there to sigh
over? We never had to go in rags, or even threadbare,
like some people. And when we did enter a shop, money in hand, to clothe ourselves as elegantly and fashionably as we could afford, how we did enjoy it! Much
more, I think, than those who have not to pick and
choose, but can buy all they fancy without considering
the cost. And then our buying had one remarkable
feature, which we regarded essential —though I have
found since that every body does not so regard it-we
always paid.
I took care to let the shopman see my full purse, and
was counting my money rather too ostentatiously, and of
course awkwardly, when it tumbled down, and one halfsovereign rolled right at the feet of an old gentleman
who was just then entering the shop.
He stooped and picked it up, though he was rather
infirm, but politeness seemed an instinct with him; then
looking round, he offered the coin to me, with a halfsmile and a bow.
I bowed too, and said "thank you," rather gratefully,
for I thought it a kind thing for an old man to do.
But if old, his figure was upright still, and soldierly looking. It made me look at him a second time: my father
had been a soldier.




,li~~~~~~~~l ~~i-;i~ -~ —~ —.~:~i/,  ~ ~.   ~ ~!
~~~~i~!i''l                                 ~l
"]3re  oered the  coin to me with a half-smile  and a bow."








MY MOTHER AND I.             53
He looked at me, too, not as young men sometimes
looked, with rude admiration, but very intently, as if he
thought he knew me, and had half a mind to speak to
me. But as I did not know him in the least, I quietly
turned away, and gave all my mind to the purchase of
the shawl.
I have it still, that dear old shawl-old and worn, but
pretty still. Often I regard it with a curious feeling,
remembering the day I bought it. What a struggle the
buying cost me! a battle first against Mrs. Golding, who
wanted a bright scarlet centre, whereas this one was
white, with a gray "pine-apple " border, and then against
myself, for my mother had given me only three pounds,
and its price was three guineas, and I had to borrow.
" Yet it is so lovely, so quiet and lady-like, just after
my mother's own taste! She would be sure to like it,
only she would say it was too dear."
"Not a bit dear: good things are always cheap," said
reassuring Mrs. Golding, pressing the three shillings
upon me rather boisterously.
To escape-for I saw the old gentleman was watching
us and our dispute (probably he had nothing better to
do)-I took the money, at which I fancied he smiled.
Perhaps he had heard all that passed: well, what
harmS  Supposing he did overhear, he could learn
nothing except that my mother was poor and careful,
with lady-like tastes, and that I liked to please her if




54              MY MOTHER AND I.
possible. Nevertheless, his observant eye vexed me, and
I turned my back upon him until we went out of the
shop.
However, there was great consolation in thinking of
the beautiful shawl. How nice my mother would look
in it, and how warm it would be!
"And a real Paisley shawl is never out of fashion,"
added Mrs. Golding, encouragingly; then drew down
the corners of her mouth, saying, "Fashion was a snare."
Very likely; and yet I should have enjoyed being
dressed like those young ladies I saw walking up and
down Milsom Street in the sunshine. Pleasant as it
had been to admire the grand shops in the Corridor and
elsewhere, it would have been pleasanter still to be able
to go in and buy there whatever I chose. There were
scores of pretty things which I longed to take home with
me, for myself or my mother, and could only stare at
through the tantalizing glass panes. It was a little hard.
Another thing was harder. In spite of Mrs. Golding,
who made the fiercest duenna possible, the passers-by
did stare at me; idle loungers, who no doubt thought it
great fun to inspect a new face, and all the more so because it was under a plain cottage bonnet, and had no
protector but an old woman. With a man beside me, a
father or a brother, no one would have dared to stare;
and if instead of walking I had been driving, it would
have been altogether different. Then these young men




MY MOTHER AND I.              55
would have recognized my position, and paid me the
same respectful attentions that they offered to other
young ladies, to whom I saw them talk and bow, courteous and reverential, while to meWas it my lowly condition that exposed me to this
rude gaze, or only my beauty? but I hated my beauty
since it caused me such humiliation. My cheeks burning, my heart full of angry resentment, I hurried on
through the crowded streets, Mrs. Golding trotting after
me as fast as she could.
"Where are you going?" she pettishly said at last.
" What on earth is the matter with you.?"
It was useless to explain, and indeed I hardly knew
myself, so I merely replied that I was tired, and proposed that we should go and sit down in the quietest
place we could find.
"That will be Marlborough Fields, if you don't mind
the cows. People say some of these days there's going
to be a grand park made there for the fine folk to walk
in, just as they now walk up and down Royal Crescent.
You'll want to go and see them?  Of course, all you
young folk do like the vanities of the world."
Perhaps old folks too; for, though I protested against
it, Mrs. Golding, shaking her head in a solemn, incredulous way, took me right into the then fashionable promenade. The high, broad walk in front of the Crescent
houses was as full as it could hold of gayly dressed peo



56              MY MOTHER AND r.
pie, walking up and down, and conversing together, for
every body seemed to know every body. There were
no carriages, but there was a good sprinkling of sedanchairs, in which the old and infirm went about. Some
of them were pitiful spectacles, in their apparent struggle against remorseless age, sickness, decay; their frantic clinging to that poor feeble life, which could no
longer be to them either a pleasant or desirable thing.
It made me sad-me to whom, in my strong, fresh
youth, life seemed eternal. I looked upon these poor
creatures as if their melancholy lot could never concern
me, and yet it weighed me down, and I was glad to get
out of the crowd into a foot-path leading to the Weston
Road. There, in a quiet nook, some kind soul had put
lp under a shady tree a comfortable seat, where we sat
down, and Mrs. Golding took out a huge parcel of provisions: a most ungenteel repast, and I was horrified at
it, hungry as I felt; but there was no use in objecting;
and, besides, we were quite out of every body's way, the
grand people confining themselves entirely to their walk
up and down the Crescent, where they could see and be
seen properly.
So we sat quiet and alone. Nothing passed us save
one carriage-a very fine one-driving slowly toward
Weston.
"Bless us!" cried Mrs. Golding, indignantly, "how
stuck-up the world is growing! In my time there were




MY MOTHER AND I.               57
only four carriages in Bath, and only the very rich people thought of such a thing."
"Probably the owner of that one is a rich person,"
said I, carelessly; but I followed it with my eyes, for I
was very tired, and I thought how nice it would be to
be driving leisurely home instead of waiting about here
for an hour, and then being jolted back in that horrid
carrier's cart.
These half-sad, half-envious musings must have lasted
some minutes, for Mrs. Golding, having eaten and drunk
her fill, leaned her head back against the tree in a delicious dose. The same carriage drove past again, and,
stopping a little way off, the footman helped out its only
occupant, an elderly gentleman, who, after walking feebly a turn or two in the sunshine, came toward the bench,
much exhausted, though evidently striving hard against
his weakness, and holding himself as upright as he could.
Then I perceived he was the same old gentleman who
had picked up my half-sovereign for me in the shop.
Glad to return civility for civility, I made room for
him, squeezing myself close up to Mrs. Golding —a politeness which he just acknowledged, without looking at
me, sat down, quite exhausted, and closed his eyes.
What a contrast it was-the sleepy half-life of these
two old people, one on either side of me, with that strong,
vivid, youthful life of mine, full of such an endless capacity for pleasure and pain! Would it ever dwindle
C2




58              MY MOTHER AND I.
down to this? Should I ever be like them? It seemed
impossible.
Mrs. Golding's eyes were still peacefully shut; but
the old gentleman opened his, and, seeing me, gave a
start.
" I beg pardon; I am sure I have seen you beforeyes, yes, now I recollect. Excuse me." And he took
his hat off, clear off, from his reverend white head.
" You will pardon an old man for addressing a strange
lady; but I really think I must somewhere or other have
had the pleasure of meeting you."
I shook my head, smiling.
"Pardon, then, a thousand times. You, young lady,
may make a blunder sometimes when you are seventythree years old."
I said I made blunders now, and I was only seventeen.
"Only seventeen! You look older. But perhaps you
are the eldest of a large family?"
" Oh no! We are only two-just my mother and I."
"A most fortunate pair," said he, bowing, but asked
no further personal questions. And indeed, though we
immediately began talking, and talked straight on, upon
all sorts of subjects, for a full half-hour, he never made
the slightest approach to any topic that could imply any
c(uriosity about me or my affairs. He was equally reticent about himself, keeping punctiliously to the cautious,




Y4 ouX will Jordon ayz oldvi ran for addcressing a strange lady."'








MY MOTHER AND I.               61
neutral ground of pleasant generalities-a characteristic,
I often think, of well-bred people, and which constitutes
the charm of their society; just as the secret of true politeness consists in one thing-unselfishness; or, as the
Bible puts it, "esteeming others better than themselves."
In my short, shut-up'life I had seen few men, fewer
gentlemen; none, indeed, to compare with the characters in my books-Sir Charles Grandison, the Waverley
heroes, and even those of Miss Austin, whom I less
approved, for they were so like every body else, and I
wanted somebody quite different. NTow this old gentleman was certainly different from any one I had ever
seen, and I admired him exceedingly.
Nor, recalling him, do I wonder at my admiration,
sudden as it was. The fine old head, with its aquiline
features, the erect, soldierly bearing, the dignified and
yet gentle manners-as courteous to a mere "slip of a
girl" as if she had been a duchess-the blandly toned
voice, and easy flow of conversation, belonging to the
period when conversation was really held as a fine art,
and no flippancy or slang was tolerated. I had never
seen any one equal to him. Above all, I was struck by
his wonderful tact-the faculty of drawing one out, of
making one at ease with one's self, so that one unfolded
as naturally as a flower in sunshine: which quality, when
the old possess, and will take the trouble to use it, makes




62              MY MOTHER AND I.
them to the young the most charming companions in the
world.
I was deeply fascinated. I forgot how the time was
slipping on, and my mother sitting waiting for me at
home, while I was enjoying myself without her, talking
to a gentleman whom I had never set eyes on before today, and of whose name and circumstances I was as utterly ignorant as he was of mine.
The shadows lengthened, the soft rosy twilight began
to fade, and the thrush's long evening note was heard
once or twice from a tall tree.
"' Spring come again!" said the old gentleman, with a
slight sigh. " The days are lengthening already; it is
five o'clock," and he looked at his watch, a splendid oldfashioned one, with a large P in diamonds on the back.
" My carriage will be up directly. I always dine at six,
and dislike being unpunctual, though I have no ladies
to attract me homeward, no fair faces to brighten my
poor board. Alas! I have neither daughters nor granddaughters."
A wife, though, he must have had; for there was a
thin wedding-ring on the little finger of his left hand,
which it fitted exactly, his hands being remarkably small
and delicate for such a tall man. I always noticed people's hands, for my mother had told me mine were rather
peculiar, being the exact copy of my father's, with long,
thin fingers and almond-shaped nails. This old gentle



MY MOTHER AND I.              63
man's were, I fancied, rather like them, at least after the
same sort of type.
"You have no granddaughters! What a pity! Would
you have liked to have some?"
And then I blushed at this all but rude question, the
more so as he started, and a faint color came into his
cheek also, old as he was.
"Pardon me: I did not mean exactly that-that —
But why should I dilate on my own affairs? She is having a good long doze al fresco, this worthy nurse of
yours." (Then he at least had not concluded Mrs. Golding to be my grandmother.)
"Yes; I suppose she is tired. We ought to be going
home. My mother will be so dull: I have hardly ever
left her for a whole day alone."
"Is your mother like you?  Or, rather, are you like
your mother?"
This was the only question he had put that could at
all be considered personal; and he put it very.courteously, though examining my face with keen observation
the while.
" I, like my mother? Oh no; it is my father I take
after. Though I never saw him; I was a baby when he
died. But my mother —I only wish I were like her; so
good, so sweet, so-every thing! There never was her
equal in the whole world."
The old gentleman smiled.




64              MY MOTHER AND I.
"I dare say she thinks the same of her daughter. It
is a way women have. Never mind, my dear; I am not
laughing at your happy enthusiasm. It will soon cool
down."
" I hope I shall never cool down into not admiring my
mother!" said I, indignantly.
"No, of course. Mothers are an admirable institution, much more so than fathers sometimes. But your
nurse is waking up. Good-afternoon, madam." He was
of the old school, who did not think politeness wasted on
any thing in the shape of a woman. " Your young lady
and I have been having such a pleasant little conversation!"
" Indeed, sir!" said my duenna, bristling up at once,
but smoothing down her ruffled feathers when she perceived it was quite an old gentleman, a real gentleman
too, who had been talking to me. "But it's time we
were moving home. Are you rested now, Miss Picardy?"
The old man started violently.
"What did you say? What is her name?"
His eagerness, even excitement, put Mrs. Golding on
the defensive at once.
" I can't see, sir, that a strange young lady's name is
any business of yours. You've never seen her before
to-day, and you certainly won't after; so I'm not a-going
to answer any of your questions. Come, my dear."




MY MOTHER AND I.              65
But the old gentleman had fixed his eyes on me, examining me intently, and almost shaking with agitation.
" I beg pardon," he said, turning to Mrs. Golding, with
an evident effort; "you are quite right-quite right;
but, in this one instance, if you would allow me to know
her name-"
"No, I won't; and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking it," cried my angry protectress, as she
tucked me under her arm, and marched me off; for, of
course, resistance on my part would have been ridiculous.
Presently I ventured a remonstrance, but was stopped
at once.
" You don't know Bath ways, my dear. Wait till you
get home, and then tell your mother."
"Of course I shall tell my mother. But it was a
shame to be rude to such a kind old gentleman-the
most charming old gentleman I ever saw."
"Very well. Charming or not charming, I've done
my duty."
And she hurried me on, till, just stopping to breathe
at the corner of Royal Crescent, there overtook us a grayheaded man, who looked like an old family servant. He
touched his hat respectfully.
" Beg pardon, but I believe you are the young lady
who was sitting beside my master in Marlborough
Fields'? He desired me to go after you, and give you
this card."




66Y MOTHER AIND I.
Mrs. Golding extended her hand.
" No, no; I was told to give it to the young lady herself. All right. Good-afternoon, miss."
He too looked keenly in my face, and started even as
his master had done.
" Lord bless us! The saints be about us!" I heard
him mutter to himself.
But he was evidently an old soldier likewise, who
simply obeyed orders, asking no questions; so he touched
his hat again, and walked back as fast as he could.
I took the card-an ordinary visiting-card —with a
name and address printed thereon; a second address,
" Royal Crescent, Bath," being hurriedly written in pencil. But the name, when I made it out, caused me to
start in intense astonishment.  It was —" LieutenantGeneral Picardy."




MY MOTHER AND I.              67
CHAPTER IV.
As was natural, during the whole drive home in that
horrid shaky carrier's cart, I thought of little else than
the card in my pocket. I had put it there at once, without showing it to Mrs. Golding, who saw I was offended
with her, and perhaps recognized that I had some reason
to be. But in no case should I have discussed the matter with her. I was very proud in those days, and had
no notion of being confidential with my inferiors.
Besides, it might possibly concern us-our own private
affairs. The name, Picardy, was such a very peculiar
one that this stranger might turn out to be some relative
of ours. What relative?  Little as I knew about my
father, I did know that he had died the last of his race
-so it could not be his elder brother. Perhaps an uncle?
Or possibly-no, it was too much to expect!-it would
be too like a bit out of a book, and a very romantic book
indeed —that this most interesting old gentleman should
turn out to be my grandfather.
Yet I clung to the fancy, and to a hundred fancies
more, until, by the time we reached home, I had worked
myself up into a condition of strong excitement.




68             MY MOTHER AND I.
It was already dark, but I saw my mother's figure
against the blind, and her hand put forward to draw it
and look out, as she caught the first rattle of the cart
wheels down the street. In a minute more I had leaped
out, and come face to face with her dear little figure
standing at the door, the calm eyes shining upon meno, shining up at me, for I was so tall —and the cheerful
voice saying, in that peculiarly soft tone which rings in
my ears even now when I am sad and alone, " Well, my
child?"
A sudden thrill went through me. For the first time
in my life I knew something which my mother did not
know; I had a strong interest in which she possibly
might not share. For the Picardy name was hers, but
the Picardy blood was wholly mine.
" Well, my child, and have you had a pleasant day?"
I could not answer immediately. She saw, quick as
lightning, that things were not all right with me, and
perhaps imagining I had been annoyed by some difficulty concerning Mrs. Golding, bade me not tell her a
single thing that had happened until I had taken off my
bonnet, and had some tea.
" Then you will be rested, and can unfold to me all
your adventures."
Adventures, indeed! Little she knew! And some
instinct made me put off, minute after minute, telling
her the strange thing which had befallen me.




MY MOTHER AND I.              69
"But you have really enjoyed yourself, my darling,"
said my mother, anxiously, as she folded up my pelisse,
for I was so bewildered that I did less for myself than
usual.
" Oh yes, very much. And I have bought your
shawl-such a beautiful shawl! Shall we look at it
now?
"Not till after you have had some tea, my child.
How tired you look!  Are you sure you are quite
well?"
"Oh yes! But, mother darling, something has, happened-something so strange! Look here: an old gentleman gave me this card-such a charming old gentleman, who sat beside me on a bench and talked to me,
and I talked to him. It was not wrong, was it 2"
"' No, no," said my mother, hurriedly, trying in vain
to decipher the card by the dim candle-light.
"And when we left him, he wanted to know my
name, and Mrs. Golding was so cross, and refused to
give it-so he sent his man after us with this card.
Look, is it not strange? It is our name, our very own
name,' Lieutenant-General Picardy."'"
My mother sunk on a chair, deadly pale.  "Ah, I
knew it would come, some day. My child, my own
only child!"
She flung her arms about me, and burst out weeping
as I had never seen her weep before.




70              MY MOTHER AND I.
When she recovered herself I had put the card away,
but she asked me for it, and examined it carefully.
"Yes, it must be General Picardy himself. I did not
know he lived at Bath; indeed, I doubted if he were
living at all. I have not heard of him for so many
years."
"But, mother, who is General Picardy?"
" Your grandfather."
I too sank down on a chair, shaking all over with agitation. It was such a surprise. A painful surprise, too,
for it implied that my mother had had secrets from me
-secrets kept for years.
" And you never told me? Surely I was old enough
to know something about my own grandfather, whom I
always supposed to be dead."
"I never said so. But still I thought it most probable, since if alive he must have been keeping silence
and enmity against me for seventeen years."
" Enmity against you, my own best, dearest mother!'Then I will throw his card into the fire, and never
think of him again."
She stopped my hand.  "No-he is your grandfather, your father's father, and the nearest relation, after
me, that you have in the world. Let us talk about him
quietly by and by. Come down to tea now, Elma, my
child. You know," with a faint struggle at a smile,
"'you always say, if the world were coming to an end,




MY MOTHER AND I.              71
mother must have her tea."  I laughed, and my momentary wrath, first against her, and then against him,
passed away. It seems strange, but I was prone to
these outbursts of passion when I was a girl, though
they never lasted long. They never come now at all.
Sometimes I could almost wish they did, if I had my
mother there to soothe them.
"And after tea, mother, you will tell me every
thing 2"
" Yes. I would have told you long ago, but it was a
painful story, and one that I thought could not possibly
signify to your future, or affect your happiness in any
way. Perhaps I judged wrong."
"Oh no, you were right, you always are," cried I, impulsively; and when I heard the story, my reason seconded this conviction.
But first my mother made me tell her my adventure,
which I did, concealing nothing, not even my ardent
admiration of the old gentleman who was my grandfather-the first real gentleman, I declared, that I had
ever seen.
"Yes, I believe he is that," sighed my mother. "So
was your father —so were all the family. It is a very
old and honorable family."
" I am glad."
*Yes; I was glad, and proud also. I looked down on
my hands, my pretty hands, then up at my face, where




72              MY MOTHER AND I.
in the old cracked mirror I saw an image-was it not a
softened kind of image of that stern old face, with the
aquiline nose, firm  close mouth, and brilliant eyes?
Aye, undoubtedly I was a Picardy.
vMy mother, if she noticed me, said nothing, but only
made me sit down on the hearth-rug at her feet, with
my arm across her lap, and her soft hands stroking my
hair-our favorite position when we had a talk. Then
she began telling me the story of the past.
A sad story, though I could see that she intentionally
made it as little so as possible. Still, any body with ordinary perceptions must have felt sure that there had
been many painful bits in it, though she glossed them
over, and did not dwell upon them.
In the first place, my father's marriage with her had
evidently been considered by his father a disgraceful
meslZliance; for he refused to see him, and would have
disinherited him, only the property was entailed. Entailed, however, strictly in the male line, and I was a
daughter!  My birth, which my father had reckoned
on as a means of reconciliation, disappointed him so excessively that he, in his turn, declared he would not look
at me, and died a month afterward.
Whether in their brief married life he had been to
my mother kind or unkind-whether his own untrueness had brought about its natural results (for he had
persuaded her that his father had no objection to their




MY MOTHER AND I.              73
union), whether he came to blame her for, having believed in him, to reproach her for having loved him,
and loved him, too, when he was an utter wreck in
health and fortune —if things were thus or not I can
not tell. She did not tell me. She certainly did not
praise my father, but she never blamed him; and when
I began to blame him she laid her hand on my lips, as
if to say that, after all, he was my father.
But my grandfather I was free to criticise if I chose,
and I did it pretty sharply too. Ite, a poor soldier, to
insult my mother by accusing her of "catching" my
father, when she could get nothing by it, not even money, for the family estate did not fall in till after they
were married, and it was her father they lived uponher father, the tradesman, who, however uneducated,
had been an honest, independent man, and had educated his child and made her a lady-quite as much a
lady as her husband was a gentleman.
So thought I, and said it too, as far as I dared; but
my mother always stopped me, and confined herself to
strictly relating the facts of the case.
When she was a widow, and my grandfather was living, solitary and childless, at his newly gained estate,
she thought there might be some relenting, at any rate
toward me; but there was none. Her letter remained
long unanswered, and then there came one from the
family lawyer, saying that if Miss Picardy-that was
D




74            - MY MOTHER AND I.
myself-were sent to the General at once, she would be
received and adopted, on condition that her mother renounced all claim to her, and never saw her again.
"And what did you say?" I exclaimed, in passionate
indignation.
"I said that my child was my child-that I would
neither renounce her nor connive at her renouncing me
so long as I lived. But that after I was dead-and I
thought then that my life would be short-she would
belong legally to General Picardy, and I would leave
orders for her to be sent to him immediately."
" That was wrong."
"No; it was right," returned my mother, slowly and
softly. " For my own parents were dead; I had no near
kindred, and if I had, General Picardy was as near, or
nearer. Besides, though hard to me, I knew him to
have been always a just, honorable, upright man-a
man to be trusted; and whom else could I trust? I
was quite alone in the world, and I might die any day
-I often thought I should."
" My darling mother!"
"Yes; it was rather hard to bear," she said, with a
quivering lip. "To feel as ill as I often felt then, and
to know that my own frail life was the sole barricade
my baby had against the harsh world-my poor little
helpless baby-my almost more helpless little girl, who
was growing up headstrong, self-willed, yet so passion



MY MOTHER AND I.              75
ately loving!  No wonder I seized upon the only
chance I had for your safety after I was gone. I told
General Picardy that all I asked of him was to educate
you, so as to be able to earn your own living-that he
need not even acknowledge you as his granddaughterhis heiress you could not be, for I knew the property
passed to a distant cousin. But I entreated him to
bring you up so as to be a good woman, an educated
woman, and then leave you to fight your own battle, my
poor child!"
"But I have had no need to fight it. My mother has
fought it for me."
"Yes, so far. Are you satisfied 2"
"I should think so, indeed! And now, mother, I
shall fight for you."
She smiled, and said "there was no need." Then she
explained that having always in view this possibility of
my being sent to my grandfather and brought up by
him, she had never said a word to me of his unkindness
to herself; indeed, she had thought it wisest to keep
total silence with regard to him, since if I once began
questioning, it would have been so difficult to tell halftruths, and full explanations were impossible to a child.
"But now, Elma, you are no child. You can judge
between right and wrong. You can see there is a great
difference between avoiding a bad man and keeping a
dignified silence toward a good man who unfortunately




76              MY MOTHER AND I.
has misjudged one, under circumstances when one has no
power to set one's self right. Understand me, though
I have kept aloof from him, I have never hated your
grandfather. Nor do I now forbid you to love him."
"Oh, mother, mother!"
I clung to her neck. Simply as she had told her story, as if her own conduct therein had been the most ordinary possible, I must have been blind and stupid not
to perceive that it was any thing but ordinary, that very
few women would have acted with such wisdom, such
self-abnegation, such exceeding generosity.
"You don't blame me, then, child, for keeping you to
myself?  I was not keeping you to poverty-we had
enough to live upon, and, with care, to educate you fit
for any position which you might hereafter be called to
fill, so that General Picardy need never be ashamed of
his granddaughter. For all else, could any thing have
made up to my girl for the want of her mother?"
"Nothing - nothing!  Oh, what you have gone
through, and for me, too!"
"That made it lighter and easier. When you are a
mother yourself, you will understand."
"But General Picardy " —for I could not say grandfather-" did he answer your letter?"
"No. Still, I took care he should always have the
option of doing so. Wherever we lived, I sent our address to the lawyer. But nothing came of it, so of late




MY MOTHER AND I.              77
years I concluded he was either grown childish-he
must be a good age now-or was dead. But I kept
faithfully to my promise. I told you nothing about
him, and I educated you so as to meet all chances-to
be either iMiss Picardy, of Broadlands, or Miss Picardy,
the daily governess, as I was slowly coming to the cOhclusion you would have to be. Now-"
My mother looked steadily at me, and I at her. I do
not deny the sudden vision of a totally changed life-a
life of ease and amusement, able to get and to give
away all the luxuries I chose-flashed across my mind's
eye. " Miss Picardy, of Broadlands," and Miss Picardy,
the poor daily governess. What a difference! My
heart beat, my cheeks burned.
"Suppose your grandfather should want you?  You
said he seemed much agitated at hearing your name;
and he must have taken some trouble to inform you of
his, and his address too. No doubt he wishes you to
write to him."
"I will not. He is a wretch!"
" Hush; he is your grandfather."
"Don't attempt to make excuses for his conduct,"
cried I, furiously, the more furiously for that momentary longing after better fortunes to which I have pleaded guilty. "I will never forgive him as long as I live."
" That is more than I have ever said of him or any
human being."




78              MY MOTHER AND I.
"Because, mother, you are the most generous woman
alive. Also, because the wrong was done to yourself.
It is much easier, as you often say, to forgive for one's
self than for another person. Myself I don't care for;
but I can't forgive him for his behavior to you."
" You ought, I think," was the earnest answer. "Listen, Elma.  Unkind as he was, unfairly as he treated
me, he himself was treated unfairly too. I could never explain, never put myself right with him. I was
obliged to bear it. But it made me tender over himn
-indeed, rather sorry for him. Never mind me, my
child. There is no reason in the world why your
grandfather should not be very fond of you."
Here my mother began to tremble, though she tried
not to show it, and I felt her grasp tighten over my
hand.
"Darling mother," said I, cheerfully, "why should
we trouble ourselves any more about this matter? I
have seen my grandfather. He has seen me. Let us
hope the pleasure was mutual! And there it ends."
"It will not end," said my mother, half to herself.
She looked up at me as I stood on the hearth, very
proud and erect, I dare say, for I felt proud. I longed
to have a chance of facing my grandfather again, and
letting him see that I had a spirit equal to his own;
that if he disclaimed me, I also was indifferent to him,
and wished to have nothing in common with him-ex



MY MOTHER AND I.              79
cept the name, of which he could not deprive me: I too
was a Picardy. My mother looked at me keenly, as if
I had been another woman's child and not hers. "No,
no, it will not end."
But when two, three, four days slipped by and nothing occurred-to be sure, it would have been rather difficult for my grandfather to find us out, but I never
thought of that commonplace fact-the sense that all
had ended came upon me with a vexatious pain. I had
obstinately resisted my mother's proposal to write to
General Picardy.
"No; the lawyer has our London address; he can
write there, and we shall get it in time. By all means
let him have a little trouble in discovering us, as he
might have done any time these seventeen years."
"But the address may have got lost," argued my
mother. " Or when he comes to think it over, and especially when he gets no answer to his card, he may
doubt if you were the right person. Yet, if he only
looked at you-"
However, if I bore my father's likeness in my face, I
was all my mother in my heart; as self-contained, as independent, only not half so meek, as she. My spirit revolted against my grandfather; bitterly I resented
those long years of silence on his part, when, for all he
knew, we might have sunk into hopeless poverty, or
even starved.




80              MY MOTHER AND I.
"No, he knew we could not starve," said my mother,
when I angrily suggested this. "I told him we had our
pension, which doubtless he considered quite enoughfor us. You must remember, in his eyes I was a very
humble person."
"You, with your education!"
"IHe never knew I was educated. Nobody ever told
him any thing about me," added she, sadly. "He only
knew I was a tradesman's daughter; and that, to persons like General Picardy, is a thing unpardonable.
His son might as well have married a common servant;
he saw no difference; indeed, he said so."
" Oh, mother!"
"It is true-and you will find many others who think
so. There are strong class distinctions in the worldonly we have lived out of the world; but we can not
do so much longer;" and she sighed. "As to ladyhood, an educated woman is every where and always a
lady. But you are also a lady born."
And then she told me of my long string of ancestors,
and how her marriage must have fallen like a thunderbolt upon the family and its prejudices. Why my
father ever risked it, I can not comprehend, except by
supposing him to have been a young man who always
did what he liked best at the moment, without reflecting on its consequences to himself or to others.
But my mother, my long-suffering, noble-hearted




MY MOTHER AND I.                81
mother-the scape-goat upon whom all his sins were
laid"Has the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Has the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?"
I repeated these lines to her, half laughing, half crying,
vowing that no power on earth should compel me to
have any thing to say to General Picardy unless he fully
and respectfully recognized my mother.
But there seemed little chance of this heroic resolution being put to the test. Day after day slipped by;
the ring of purple and yellow crocuses under our parlor
window dropped their cups and lay prone on the ground,
to be succeeded by red and lilac primroses. Soon in
our daily walks we found the real wild primroses. I
brought them home by handfuls, happy as a child. I
had never before lived in the country —the real country
-such as I had read of in Miss Mitford's and other
books; and every day brought me new interests and
new pleasures, small indeed, but very delicious.
However, in the midst of all, I think we were both
conscious of a certain uneasy suspense —perhaps even
disappointment. No word came from my grandfather.
Whether we hoped or feared-I hardly knew which my
feeling was-that he would find us out, he did not do it.
The suspense made me restless, so restless that I was
D2




82              MY MOTHER AND I.
sure my mother saw it, for she proposed to recommence
my studies"'Tis better to work than live idle,'Tis better to sing than to grieve,"
said she, smiling.
" But I am not grieving; what should I grieve about?
I have every thing in the world to make me happy,"
was my half-vexed reply.
And yet somehow I was not quite happy. I kept
pondering again and again over the story of my parents,
and recalling every word and look of my grandfather,
who had attracted me to an extent of which I myself
was unaware until I began to doubt if I should ever see
him any more. Whatever his faults might have been,
or whatever faults of others, as my mother half hinted,
might have caused them, to me he had appeared altogether charming.
Besides, though I should have been ashamed to own
these last, with the thought of him came many foolish
dreams-springing out of the Picardy blood, I fancied,
and yet before I knew there was any thing remarkable
in the Picardy blood they had never come to medreams of pride, of position; large houses to live in,
beautiful clothes to wear, and endless luxuries both to
enjoy and to distribute. Yes, let me do myself this justice-I never wished to enjoy alone.
When we peeped at the handsome old houses walled




MY MOTHER AND I.              83
in with their lovely gardens, as one often sees in Devonshire villages, or met the inmates, who passed us by, of
course, they being the "gentry" of the place, and we
only poor people living in lodgings, I used to say to myself, " Never mind, I am as well-born as they; better
perhaps, if they only knew it;" and I would carry myself all the loftier because I knew my clothes were so
plain and so shabby - for I refused to have any thing
that summer, lest my mother should feel compunction
about her Paisley shawl.
That lovely shawl! it was my one unalloyed pleasure
at this time. She looked so sweet in it-its soft white
and gray harmonizing with the black dress she always
wore, though she did not pretend to permanent nourning. Though not exactly a pretty woman, she had so
much of youth about her still that she gave the effect of
prettiness; and being small, slight, and dainty of figure,
if you walked behind her you might have taken her for
a girl in her teens instead of a woman long past forty.
A lady indeed!-she was a lady, every inch of her!
The idea, of my grandfather supposing she was not! I
laughed to myself over and over again as I recalled how
I had unconsciously praised her to him. If he expected
me to be ashamed of my mother, he would find himself
egregiously mistaken.
How did she feel? Was her mind as full as mine of
this strange adventure, which had promised so much and




84             MY MOTHER AND I.
resulted in nothing? I could not tell, she never spoke
about it; not till, having waited and waited till I could
bear it no longer, I put to her the question direct, did
she think we should ever hear of my grandfather, and
would she be glad or sorry if we never did?
"My child, I hardly know. It may be, as I said, that
the lawyer has lost our address, or that General Picardy
expects you to pay him the respect of writing first.
Would you like to do it?"
" No. And you?  You never answered my second
question-if we hear of him no more, shall you be sorry
or glad?"
My mother hesitated. "At first, I own it was a great
shock to know he was so near, and had seen you, because I always felt sure that once seeing you, he would
want to have you."
" And would you have let him have me?"
She smiled faintly. " I think I would have tried to do
what was right at the time; what was best for you, my
darling. But apparently we are neither of us likely to
have the chance. I fear you must be content with only
your mother."
Only my mother! Did she imagine I was not content? And had her imaginations any foundation?
I think not. The more I recall my old self, that poor
Elma Picardy, who had so many faults, the more I feel
sure that this fault was not one of them. I had a ro



MY MOTHER AND I.             85
mantic longing to see my grandfather again, perhaps
even a wish to rise to my natural level in society and
enjoy its advantages; but love of luxury, position, or desire for personal admiration-these were not my sins.
Nothing that my grandfather could have given me
would have weighed for a moment in comparison with
my mother.
So the weeks went by and nothing happened. It was
already the end of April, when something did happen at
last.




86              MY MOTHER AND I.
CHAPTER V.:, -,        WE had been taking a long walk, across
the Tyning, and down
A li    "/i!)'7.'>    the sloping fields to the
deep valley through.   v which the river ran\\     the pretty river, which
first turned an ancient
cloth - mill, and then
wound out into the
open country in picturesque curves. I had
-Q>   I  a basket with me, and
as we sauntered along
between  the high
l~____1~1~:':- _ __- banks-such a treasure-trove of floral beauty! like most Somersetshire lanes
-I filled it with roots of blue and white violets. Even
now the smell of white violets makes me remember
that day.
When we got into our little parlor, rather tired, both




MY MOTHER AND I.               87
of us, I set the basket down beside a letter, which I was
nearly sweeping off the table. It was not a post letter,
but had been sent by hand.
" Stop-what is that?" said my mother.
What was it, indeed? I have it still.
It is a long letter, in a firm, clear, but rather small
handwriting; no slovenliness about it, neither the carelessness of youth nor the infirmity of age; a little formal and methodical, perhaps-I afterward learned to like
formality and method, at least to see the advantages of
both. But the letter:
"DEAR MADAM,-I write by desire of my cousin, General Picardy, who has for several weeks kept his bed
with severe and sudden illness, a sort of suppressed gout,
from which he is now gradually recovering. His extremely helpless condition, until at last he sent for
me, may account for the long delay in this communication.
" On the day of his seizure, he had accidentally seen
and conversed with a young lady whom he afterward
had reason to believe was your daughter, and his granddaughter. He asked in vain for her name and address,
and then gave his own, on the chance of her being the
right person. Receiving no answer, he concluded he
had been mistaken. But, unwilling to trust servants
with his private affairs, he waited till I could act as his




8 8             MY MOTHER AND I.
amanuensis, and get from his lawyer the address you
once promised always to give. This we have with difficulty obtained.
"It is, of course, a mere chance that the young lady
whom the General met, and whose name he fancied was
Picardy, should be his granddaughter, but he wishes to
try the chance. The bearer of this letter is the old butler who delivered the card, and who declares that the
lady to whom he delivered it was the very image of his
young master, whom he remembers well.
"Will you, dear madam, oblige me in one thing?
Whatever may be your feelings with regard to my
cousin, will you remember that he is now an old man,
and that any agitation may be dangerous, even fatal to
him? One line to say if it was really his granddaughter whom he met, and you will hear from him again immediately. In the sincere hope of this, allow me to
sign myself, dear madam, your faithful servant,
" CONRAD PICARDY."
"Conrad Picardy," repeated my mother, aloud. I,
reading the letter over her shoulder, was much more
agitated by it than she. These weeks of suspense had
apparently calmed her, and prepared her for whatever
might happen. Her voice was quite steady, and her
hand did not shake, as she gave me the letter to read
over a second time. " Conrad Picardy. That is cer



MY MOTHER AND I.              89
tainly the cousin-your grandfather's heir. It is generous of him to try to discover a possible heiress."
"I thought the estate was entailed."
"So it is, the landed estate; but the General can not
possibly have lived up to his large income. He is doubtless rich, and free to leave his money to whomsoever he
chooses."
"To me, probably?" said I, with a curl of the lip.
"Thank you, mother, for the suggestion."
" It would be but a natural and right thing," returned
my mother, gently, "though I do not think it very probable. This Conrad has no doubt been like a son to him
for years. I remember-yes, I am sure I remember hearing all about him. He was an orphan boy at school; a
very good boy."
"I hate good boys!"
Walking to the window, I stood looking out, in the
hope that my mother would not notice the excessive agitation which possessed me. Nevertheless I listened with
all my ears to the conversation that passed between her
and Mrs. Golding.
" No, ma'am, the messenger didn't wait, though he first
said he would, and tied his horse to the palings; and I
asked him into your parlor, he was such a very respectable-looking man. But the minute I had shut the door
he opened it and called me back, to ask whose miniature
was that on the chimney-piece — your dear husband's,




90              MY MOTHER AND I.
ma'am. And when I told him that, he said it was quite
enough; he would call for an answer to the letter tomorrow morning, for the sooner he got back to Bath the
better. And I thought so too, ma'anm," in a mysterious
whisper; " and do you know I was not sorry to get him
out of the house. For I do believe he was the servant
of that impertinent old fellow who —"
" Mrs. Golding," I cried, " speak more respectfully, if
you please. That' old fellow,' as you call him, happens
to be my grandfather."
If ever a woman was " struck all of a heap," as she
would say, it was Mrs. Golding. She had been very
kind to us, in a rather patronizing way, as well-to-do
commonalty likes to patronize poor gentility-or so I
had angrily fancied sometimes; but she had never failed
to show us the respect due to "real" ladies. To find us
grand folks, or connected with grand folks, after all, was
quite too much for her. She put on such an odd look
of alarm, deprecation, astonishment, that I burst out
laughing.
Much offended, the good woman was quitting the
room, when my mother came forward in that sweet, fearless, candid way she had; she often said the plain truth
was not only the wisest but the easiest course, and saved
people a world of trouble, if they only knew it.
"My daughter is quite in earnest, Mrs. Golding; General Picardy really is her grandfather, and my father-in



MY MOTHER AND I.              91
law; but, as often happens in families, there has been a
long coolness between us, so that when they met they
did iiot recognize one another, until he heard you mention her name. A fortunate chance, and you will not
be sorry to think you had a hand in it." (My mother,
dear heart! had always the sweetest way of putting
things.)
Mrs. Golding cleared up at once. "Indeed, ma'am,
I'm delighted. And, of course, he'll be wanting you immediately. I wish you joy. Such a grand carriage, and
miss there will look so well in it! A fine old gentleman he was-a real gentleman, as any one could see she
was a real lady. Why, ma'am, the day she and I was in
Bath, there was not a soul but turned and looked after
us, and I'm sure it wasn't at me! You'll make a great
show in the world; but don't heed it, don't heed it; it's
a poor world after all, Miss Picardy."
Very funny was the struggle between the old woman's
pleasure and pride in this romantic adventure, especially
since she too had had a finger in the pie, and her acquired habit of mourning over that " world" which she
secretly liked still. But we had no time to discuss her
and her feelings; we were too full of our own.
" What must be done?" said my mother, as she and I
sat down together, the letter before us. " The man said
he should call for an answer to-morrow. What shall I
say a"




92              MY MOTHER AND I.
"Whatever you choose, mother dear."
She looked at me keenly. " Itave you really no wish,
either way 2 You are old enough to have both a wish
and a will of your own."
"Not contrary to yours. You shall decide."
For I felt that if it were left to me, the decision would
be so difficult as to be all but impossible.
My mother read the letter over again. " A very good
letter, courteous and kind. Let me see; this Conrad was
a school-boy, about fifteen or so, when you were born.
He would now be between thirty and forty. Probably
he is married, with a family to provide for. It is really
much against his own interest to help the General to find
out a granddaughter."
I laughed scornfully-I was very scornful sometimes
in those days. " He may do as he chooses, and so shall
I. So, doubtless, will my grandfather, in whose hands
we'll leave the matter."
"No —in hands much higher," said my mother, reverently. "Nothing happens by chance. Chance did not
bring us here; nor send you, ignorantly, to meet your
grandfather in Bath, twice in the same day. It was very
curious. Something will come of it, I am sure."  (So,
in my heart, was I.) " But whatever comes, you will always be my daughter, my one ewe lamb. I have nobody
in the world but you."
She held out her arms half-imploringly, as if she




MY MOTHER AND I.               93
feared she knew not what. As I caressed her, I told
her she was a foolish old mother to be so afraid.
"No; I am not afraid. No true mother ever need
be. HIer little bird may fly away for a time, but is sure
to come back to its own safe nest. So will you."
" But I am not going to fly away-not, at least, without you. I never mean to leave you."
" Never is a long word, my darling. Let us content ourselves with settling the affairs of to-day-and to-morrow."
" When we will just send the briefest possible answer
— perhaps only your card-to General Picardy; your'kind compliments and thanks' to Mr. Picardy, this'good boy' Conrad, and then go a long walk and get
more violets."
Alas! I was not quite honest. My thoughts were
running upon very different things from violets.
I scarcely slept all night; nor, I think-for I had my
head on her shoulder-did my mother sleep much either. But we did not trouble one another with talking.
Perhaps both felt by instinct that to talk would be difficult, since, for the first time in our lives, we were looking on the same thing with different eyes, and each had
thoughts which she could not readily tell to the other.
This was sure to happen one day —it must happen to every human being; we all find ourselves at some point
of our lives alone, quite alone. Still, it was rather sad
and strange.




94              MY MOTHER AND I.
Next morning, after breakfast, when my mother had
just said, " Now, child, we must make up our minds what
to do, and do it at once," there appeared a grand carriage, with two servants, one of them being the same old
man who had followed me with his master's card. He
presented it once more.
" General Picardy's compliments, and he has sent the
carriage, hoping Miss Picardy will come and spend the
day with him at Bath. He will send her back in the
same way at night."
A brief message, delivered with military exactitude.
The one thing in it which struck me was that it was exclusively to Miss Picardy. There was no mention of
Mrs. Picardy at all. I wondered, did my mother notice
this?
Apparently not.  "Would you like to go, my darling?" was all she said; and-then, seeing my state of
mind, suggested we should go up stairs together. " We
will answer the General's message immediately," said
she, pointing to a chair in our poor little parlor for the
grand servant to sit down.
"Thank you, ma'am," answered he, and touched his
forehead, military fashion. Yes; the old soldier at once
recognized that she was a lady.
Then we sat together, my mother and I, with our bedroom door shut, hearing the horses champing outside,
and knowing that we had only a few minutes in which




MY MOTHER AND I.              95
to make a decision which might alter our whole future
lives -- my life certainly; and was not mine a part of
hers? It had been hitherto — was it possible things
would be different now?
"Would you like to go, Elma — would you be happy
in going."
" In going without you?"
Then she recognized the full import of the message.
"I perceive. He does not want me; he wishes you to
go alone."
" Then, whatever he wishes, I will not go. Not a step
will I stir without my mother. Nobody shall make me
do it."
" Stop a minute, my furious little woman. Nobody
wants to make you. That is not the question. The
question is, how far you are right to refuse a hand held
out thus-an old man's hand."
"But if it has struck my mother a?"
She smiled. "The blow harmed me not, and it has
healed long ago. He did not understand-he did not
mean it. Besides, I am not his own flesh and bloodyou are. Ile is your own grandfather."
" But he does not love me, nor I him, and love is the
only thing worth having."
" Love might come."
I recall my mother's look as she sat pleading thus, and
I wonder how she had the strength to do it. I think




196             MY MOTHER AND I.
there is only one kind of love-mother's love, and that
not even the love of all mothers-which could have
done it.
She argued with me a long time. At last I begged
her to decide for me, just as if I were still a little child;
but she said I was old enough to decide for myself, and
in such an important step I must decide. All this while
the horses kept tramping the ground outside; every
sound of their feet seemed to tramp upon my heart. If
ever a poor creature felt like being torn in two, it was I
at that moment.
For I wanted to go-I longed to go. Not merely for
the childish pleasure of driving in a grand carriage to a
fine house, but also because I had formed a romantic
ideal of my grandfather. I wished to realize it-to see
him again, and find out if he really were the kind of
man I imagined. If so, how fond of him, how proud of
him, I should have been! I, poor Elma Picardy, who
never in her life had seen a man-a real, heroic man;
only creatures on two legs, with ridiculous clothing and
contemptible faces-and manners to match.  Not one
of them ought to be named in the same day with my
grandfather.
Yes, I was thirsting to go to him; but I could not
bear to let my mother see it. At last a loop-hole of
hope appeared.
"Perhaps there was some mistake in the message




MY MOTHER AND I.               97
Let us send Mrs. Golding to ask the servant to repeat it."
No; there was no mistake. He was quite sure his
master expected Miss Picardy only.
Then I made up my mind. I had a mind and a will,
too, when I chose to exercise them; and the thing in
this world which most roused me was to see a wrong
done to another person. Here the injured person happened to be my own mother. Of course I made up my
mind!
"Very well. I will answer the message myself. You,
mother darling, shall have nothing to do with it."
And as I spoke I pressed her into an arm-chair, for
she looked very pale, and leaning over her, I kissed her
fondly. As I did so, it dawned upon me that the time
might come, was perhaps coming now, when I might
have to take care of my mother, not she of me. Be it
so; I was ready.
"Messages are sometimes misdelivered; write yours,"
said she, looking at me —a little surprised, but I think
not sorry; nay, glad.
I took a sheet of paper, and wrote in as clear and
steady a hand as I could"Elma Picardy thanks her grandfather for his kindness; but, as she told him, she has scarcely ever in her
life spent a whole day away from her mother. She can
not do it now. She must decline his invitation."
E




98              MY MOTHER AND I.
Then I walked down stairs, and gave the letter myself
to the servant, the old man who had known my father.
He must have seen my father in my face, for he looked
at me with swimming eyes -big, beaming Irish eyes
(have I ever said that the Picardys were an Irish, or,
rather, a French family long Hibernicized?). He held
the letter doubtfully.
" Ah, miss, it's to say ye're coming, is it? You that
are the young masther's own daughter, and as like him
as two peas. The ould masther's mad to see ye. Sure
now, ye'll come?"
It was my first welcome among my father's people,
and to reject it seemed hard. But I only shook my
head.
" No, I'm not coming."
"And why don't ye come, Miss Picardy?" said the
old man, with true Irish freedom-the freedom of long
devotion to the family.  I afterward found that he
had dandled on his knee my father and my four dead
uncles, and now was nursing his old master with the
tenderness of a brother.  "Ye're of the ould stock.
Wouldn't ye like to visit the General?"
"Very much, but —I could not possibly go without
my mother."
The Irish have many faults, but want of tact is not
one of them.
" You're right, miss, quite right, and I'll tell the Gen



MY MOTHER AND I.              99
eral so if he asks me. Good-day. It'll all come right
by and by, mark my words, Miss Picardy."
This was just a little too much. I did not understand
people taking liberties with me. I drew myself up, and
saw my grandfather's carriage drive away —standing
as still as a statue and as proud as Lucifer. But when
it was quite out of sight, and my chance gone-perhaps
the one chance in my life of rising to the level to which
I was born-the pride broke down, the statue meltedI am afraid into actual tears.
My mother should not see them, that I was determined; so I ran into Mrs. Golding's empty kitchen and
dried them — although, having left my pocket-handkerchief up stairs, I had to dry them on the round towel!
This most unpoetical solution of things knocked all the
nonsense out of me, and I went up stairs to my mother
with a gay face and a quiet heart.
She had said nothing, one way or other, after she told
me to decide for myself; but now that I had decided she
looked at me with gladdened eyes, and leaned her head
on my shoulder, uttering a sigh of relief. And once
again I felt how proud I should be when we had to
change places, and I became my mother's shield and
comforter, as she had been mine. Sometimes, of course,
regrets would come, and wonderings as to how my grandfather had taken my answer; but I put such thoughts
back, and after all we had a happy day.




100             MY MOTHER AND I.
The next day-oh! how lovely it was! I remember
it as if it were yesterday. Spring had come at last.
The sun shone with the changeful brightness of April
and the comfortable warmth of June. The palms were
all out, and the scent from their opening buds filled the
lanes. The woods were yellow with primroses and blue
with violets; hyacinths were not in blossom yet. As for
sound, what with larks in the sky, linnets and wrens in
the hedge-rows, and blackbirds on every tall tree, the
whole world seemed full of birds' singing. A day to
make old folk feel young again, and the young-whyI felt alive to the very ends of my fingers with a sense
of enjoyment present, a foreboding of infinitely greater
delight to come. How can I describe it? the delicious
feeling peculiar to one's teens, the "light that never was
on sea or shore." No, never was-never could be, perhaps; we only see its dawning. But there may be full
day somewhere, beyond this world of pain.
My mother and I were coming home from our long
walk. She carried a great bunch of primroses for our
parlor; I had a basket of violet roots to plant in Mrs.
Golding's garden. I was determined to finish her violetbed-in spite of my grandfather! indeed, I tried hard to
forget him, and to believe that all yesterday had been a
dream.
No, it was not a dream, for at that minute we came
face to face with a carriage turning round the corner of




MY MOTHER AND I.             101
the solitary Bath road. It was my grandfather's carriage, and he himself sat in it.
That it was he I saw at once, and my mother guessed
at once, for she grasped me by the arm. JIe leaned
back, a little paler, a little sterner-looking than I remeinbered him; but it was not at all a bad face or a mean
face. On the contrary, there was something very noble
in it; even his worst enemy would have said so. I
could have felt sorry for him, as he sat in the sunshine,
with his eyes closed, apparently not enjoying this beautiful world at all.
Should we pass him by? That was my first impulse.
It would be easy enough; easy also to remain out of
doors till all chance of his finding us, if he had really
come to call, was over. Pride whispered thus-and yetNo, it was too late. The old butler or valet, or whatever he was, had seen us; he touched his hat and said
something to a gentleman who sat opposite to my grandfather. The carriage stopped, and this gentleman immediately sprang out.
" I beg your pardon; I presume you are Mrs. Picardy."
He had addressed himself to my mother, taking no
notice of me. She bowed; I did nothing; all my attention was fixed on my grandfather, who seemed with difficulty to rouse himself so as to take in what was happening. The other gentleman spoke to him.




102             MY MOTHER AND I.
" General, this is Mrs. Picardy. Madam, we were going to call. MIy cousin is too lame to get out of the carriage. Will you mind entering it and driving a little
way with him? He wishes much to be introduced to
you."
I can not tell how he managed it-the stranger, who,
of course, I guessed was not a stranger, but my cousin,
Conrad Picardy-however, he did manage it. Almost
before we knew where we were, the momentous meeting
was over, and that without any tragic emotion on either
side. It was just an ordinary introduction of a gentleman to a lady. My mother was calm, my grandfather
courteous. The whole thing was as commonplace as
possible. No conversation passed-beyond a few words
on the extreme beauty of the day and the length of the
drive from Bath-until my mother said something about
her regret to find the General such an invalid.
"Yes; I suffer much," said he. "Poor old thing!"
patting his swathed leg propped on cushions; " it is almost worse than when I was shot in battle. I can not
walk a step. I am a nuisance to every body, especially
to my good cousin. By the bye, I should have presented
him to you —Major Picardy, Mrs. Picardy; and, Conrad,
this is my granddaughter, Elma."
He said my name with a tender intonation. It was a
family name, my mother had told me; in every generation there had been always at least one Elma Picardy.




:~ —— i —:                                                     -
~If  tI~ ~i'~    ~   /:~2
~~~~~~~~~
"' General, this is Mrs.  Picardy.'"~~~~~, —~ —








MY MOTHER AND I.             105
Major Picardy bowed, and then, as my mother held
out her hand, he shook hands with us both. IIis was a
touch rather peculiar, unlike all clasps of the hand I
ever knew, being at once soft and firm —strong as a
man's, gentle as a woman's. I can feel it still, even as
I can still see my mother's smile. hIis face-it seemed
as if I had seen it before somewhere-was of the same
type as my grandfather's, only not so hard. He looked
about thirty-five, or a little older.
"Major Picardy is visiting me now," said my grandfather. " He is kind enough to say he is not weary of my
dull house, where, madam, I have nothing to offer you,
should you honor me with a visit, but the society of two
lonely soldiers."
My mother bowed courteously, acknowledging but not
absolutely accepting the invitation.
" Major Picardy is not married, then?" said she, turning to him. "I thought-I imagined —"
"No, not married," said he; and the shadow flitting
across his face made my mother speak at once of something else, and caused me to begin weaving no end of
romantic reasons why he was still a bachelor, this elderly
cousin of mine, for to seventeen thirty-five is quite elderly. But he interested me, being the same sort of man
apparently as my grandfather, only younger.
General Picardy was entirely of the old school. IHe
called my mother "madam," and addressed her with
E 2




106             MY MOTHER AND I.
the formal politeness of Sir Charles Grandison. In no
way did he betray that there had ever been any anger
between them, or that he had ever treated her in any
way different from now.
Should I condone his offenses? Should I forgive
him? Alas! I fear I never once thought of his sins or
my condescending pardon. I was wholly absorbed in
the pleasure of this meeting, and in my intense admiration of my grandfather.
When the carriage, having moved slowly up and down
the village for half an hour, set us down at our own
door, he renewed the invitation.
" I will send the carriage for you, madam; and if you
will remain the night-a few days-a week-you and
this girl of yours-my girl, too" (and he gently touched
my hand) —"I shall be only too happy. Fix the day
when I may have the honor of receiving you; an early
day, I trust."
"Oh, mother," I cried, eagerly, "let us go-let us go
to-morrow!"
My grandfather looked pleased.
" See what it is to have a young lady to decide for us
elders. Madam, you must agree. Conrad, you will arrange every thing, as far as is possible to us helpless
soldiers?  Child, if we once let you into our house, I
fear you will turn commander-in-chief there, and rule
us all."




MY MOTHER AND I.              107
This speech, implying a future so bright that I hardly
dared believe in it, settled the matter. My mother,
whatever she felt, betrayed nothing, but assented cheerfully to the plan; and when we all parted it was with the
understanding that we should spend the next day and
night under my grandfather's roof, " and as many more
days and nights, madam, as you may find convenient or
agreeable."




108             MY MOTHER AND I.
CHAPTER VI.
I DID sleep under my grandfather's roof, but it was
not for a week after that, and it was without my mother.
That very night she slipped on the stairs, and sprained
her ankle-no serious injury, but enough to make her
glad to rest on the sofa, and confine herself to our two
little rooms.
"And it would never do to go hobbling helplessly
about big ones," said she. " Besides, all gentlemen hate
invalids-no doubt your grandfather does. IIe is an
old man, and you may have to put up with some peculiarities. I think you will do this better, and get on with
him better, quite alone."
"You don't mean me to go alone?"
"Yes, my child," said she, decisively.
And I found she had already answered affirmatively
a letter of his-or, rather, of Major Picardy's-begging
I might come, and explaining that he had invited a
Mrs. Rix, another "elderly" cousin, to stay at Royal
Crescent as my companion and chaperon until my
mother could join me.
At first I remonstrated vehemently. Either we would




MY MOTIHER AND I.            109
go together, or I would not go at all —at least, not tomorrow, as she had arranged.
"But he earnestly desires it. And you forget, my
child, that a man over seventy has not too many to-morrows."
" Oh, you wish me to go? You want to get rid of me a"
My mother smiled-a strangely pathetic smile. In a
moment my arms were round her neck.
"I'll do any thing you like, mammy dear —any thing
you consider right and best."
"Thank you, my darling. But we will sleep upon it,
and see what to-morrow brings."
It brought another urgent letter from my grandfather
-that is, his amanuensis-wishing us both to go, in spite
of my mother's half-invalid state; but I could not get
her to change her mind. Perhaps she was glad of an
excuse to stay behind; but chiefly, I fancied, because,
thinking always of me, and never of herself, she honestly believed I should get on better with my grandfather
alone. Whatever were her reasons, evidently her resolution was taken.
" And now let us pack up, my child; for the carriage "
(Major Picardy said it would be sent on chance) " ought
to be here directly."
"Put up very few things, mother, for I shall certainly
be back in two days," said I, half indignant at her thinking she could do without me so easily.




110             MY MOTHER AND I.
" You have very few things altogether, my poor Elma;
not half what General Picardy's granddaughter ought to
wear," said my mother, with one of her troubled looks.
"Nonsense!" and my passionate pride rose up. "He
must take me as I am-clothes and all. It is not his
doing that I have not ran about in rags these seventeen
years."
"Hush! my darling. Let by-gones be by-gones. He
wishes this, I am sure. If you had seen the way he
looked at you the other day! and you are all that is left
to him —the only child of his race and name. IIe is
sure to love you."
"' Is he 2"
Though I said nothing, in my heart of hearts I felt
that I too could love my grandfather —if he would let
me. There was such a world of love in me then-such
a capacity for admiring and adoring people. I longed
to find creatures worthy of worship, and to make myself
a mat for their feet to walk over. Hopeless delusion! not
rare in young girls, but costing them many a pang; yet
better and safer than the other delusion, that every body
must be admiring and adoring them. After all, I have
known worse human beings than poor Elma Picardy at
seventeen.
Our preparations were scarcely finished-and I found
from the condition of my wardrobe that my mother must
have been silently preparing it all the week-when I




MY MOTHER AND I.             111
heard the sound of carriage-wheels. My heart jumped
-I could not help it-I was so sorry to go, yet so glad.
In truth, I could not understand myself at all.
Major Picardy had said something about fetching me
himself; but the carriage was empty. This was a relief; for how could I have talked all the way to Bath
with a perfect stranger? A relief also was it that my
good-byes had to be so brief. I had no time to think
whether I was happy or miserable.
My mother clasped and kissed me fondly, but without
tears.
"There is nothing to weep for, my child. Go, and be
happy. One only advice I give you-it is your family
motto, only put into beautiful Latin —' Do the right, and
fear nobody.' Not even your grandfather."
So she sent me away with a jest and a smile-away
into the new, beautiful, unknown world! This bright
spring day, with the sun shining, the birds singing, the
soft southwest wind blowing, what girl in her teens
would not have been happy-at least, not very unhappy
-even though she had left her mother behind for a few
days, and was all alone? I dried my eyes, I sat up in
the carriage, and looked about me. Ah, yes, it was indeed a beautiful world!
It is so still; even though my eyes have ceased to
shine, and almost to weep; though my heart beats levelly and quietly; and I look behind rather than before,




112             MY MOTHER AmD I.
except when I look into the world everlasting. It isyes, thank God!-it is still to me the same beautiful
world.
Leaving the delicious country lanes, we entered Bath
streets. There I saw the admired young ladies and the
admiring young gentlemen, sauntering idly up and down,
looking at one another, and occasionally at me too. I
looked at them back again, fearlessly now. Times were
changed-my dreams were realized, my pride was healed.
As Miss Picardy, seated in her grandfather's carriage, I
met the world on an equal footing, and it was very
pleasant.
Will any one blame me-I hardly blame myself now
-for enjoying things so much, even though I had left
my mother? Was it not a delight to her to see me happy?.Had she not desired to see me happy? And as I
descended from the carriage in front of my grandfather's house at Royal Crescent, I really believe I was
one of the happiest girls in the world.
The house stands there yet. I passed it the other
day: a group of children were on the steps; a modern
carriage, very unlike my grandfather's, waited at the door.
New people lived in it, to whom, as to the rest of the
world, it seemed just like any other house. But it never
will seem so to me. To the end of my days, I could
never pass it without turning back to look at it-and
remember.




MY MOTHER AND I.              113
I did not enter it without a welcome. My grandfather
was still in his room; but my cousin, Major Picardy,
stood at the door, and behind him was an elderly lady,
Mrs. Rix, whom I may as well describe, as I did that
night in my letter home, as "' nothing particular."
Major Picardy I have never described, and I doubt if
I can do it now. Other people I see clearly enough;
but to me he never seemed like other people. Perhaps,
were I to meet him now, for the first time-but no! it
would be just the same, I am sure.
The "good boy" had become a good man-that you
saw at once by his face-a handsome face, I suppose,
since it resembled my grandfather's; but I never remember asking myself whether it were handsome or not.
It was his face-that was all. He was not a tall man —
scarcely taller than I-and his figure was a little bent,
being contracted at the chest; but he had great dignity
of carriage, and a certain formality of manner, also like
my grandfather, which became him as well as it did the
General. Both were soldiers, as I have said, and both
equally well-born, well-bred, and well-educated.
" Welcome!" he said to me, holding out a kind, warm
hand; " welcome, cousin, to the house of all others where
you have a right to be welcome. Mrs. Rix, will you
take Miss Picardy up to her room?"
[Mrs. Rix-who immediately informed me that she was
"born a Picardy," and seemed to have an unlimited ad



114             MY MOTHER AND I.
miration, mingled with awe, for the whole Picardy race
-led the way to the guest-chamber, evidently the best
room in the house, which had been prepared for my
mother and me. A charming room it was, with its three
windows, set in an oval, looking up the smiling hill-side,
where, dotted among the green hills, mansion after mansion, and terrace after terrace, were beginning to climb
up to the very rim of the deep circular basin in which
Bath is built.
"You will find it quite quiet, being at the back of the
house. Do you like quiet, my dear?"
I did not know. But I think I liked every thing, and
I told my grandfather so when I met him at lunch. He
was walking feebly into the dining-room on Major Picardy's arm. At my remark he laughed, and his cousin
smiled.
"' Away, Conrad, and let Elma see how she likes to be
an old man's walking-stick. She is fully as tall as you.
Come here, child."
I came, and he leaned on me. Does one love best those
who lean upon one? I think some do. From that minute I began, not only to admire, but to love my grandfather.
Was he loving-hearted? It was too much to expect
sentiment at his age. This first meal at his table almost
choked me, for I was so nervous, so full of conflicting
emotions, that it was with difficulty I could keep from




"'Away, Conrad, and let Elma see how she likes to be an old man's walking-stick."'








MY MOTHER AND I.             117
crying. But he ate with composure and appetite, talking Bath tittle-tattle to the others, and scarcely noticing
me. After lunch he called me to him, and took my face
between his soft, withered hands.
" Yes, you are like your father, but still more like your
grandmother. A beautiful girl she was; you remember
her, Mrs. Rix? and you, Conrad?  But no -I forgot.
My wife —Lady Charlotte Picardy-has been dead these
forty years."
He mentioned the fact quite calmly, not omitting the
"Lady " Charlotte. It was odd, I thought, for a man to
speak of a dead wife in that tone. Still, he had never
married again, but had lived solitary for forty years.
"You will turn her head, General, by comparing her
to her beautiful grandmother.  And yet it is true,"
whispered Mrs. Rix, looking at me.
I felt that my other cousin was looking too. He rose.
" Come, where shall we go for our afternoon drive?
What have you seen, Miss Picardy?"
" Nothing."
At which, as if I had said something funny, they all
smiled at me, these three people, all so much my seniors,
to whom I seemed already becoming the child of the
house. This fact I felt sure of: their manner to me
was so kind. Further, I did not consider-indeed, I was
thinking so much about them, that it did not occur to
me to trouble myself as to what they thought about me.




118              MY MOTHER AND I.
Shortly we were out in the sunshine; and, oh, how
bright the sunshine is at Bath! and how the white city
and green country shine together under it, in soft spring
days, such days as this! The carriage moved slowly'up
the steep hill. Mrs. Rix sat beside the General, Major
Picardy and I opposite.
"Take care of his arm," said the ever-fidgety Mrs.
Rix, as a jolt in the carriage pushed us together. And
then I found out that my cousin was invalided, having
been shot in the shoulder at some Indian battle.
"But pray don't look so grave about it," laughed he;
"it only makes me a little stiff. I have not much pain
now, though the ball is still there. I assure you, I am
enjoying my furlough extremely, Miss Picardy."
"Call her Elma-she is still a child," said my grandfather, so affectionately that even the pride of seventeen
could not take offense. Besides, was I not a child, and
was it not pleasant to be so regarded and so treated by
these three kind people?
They seemed different from any people I had ever
known, especially the two gentlemen. Both were gentlemen, in the deepest sense of the word. I felt it then
by instinct, my reason satisfies me of it now. Both being military men, they had seen a great deal of the
world, and seen it with intelligent eyes, so that their conversation was always interesting, often most delightful.
Not learned, or I could not have understood it; but this




MY MOTHER AND I.              119
talk of theirs I could understand, and feel happy that I
could. To show off one's own cleverness does one harm;
but to be able to appreciate the cleverness of other people always does one good.
I was so absorbed in listening that I scarcely looked
about me, until the fresh wind of Combe Down blew in
our faces, and my grandfather shivered. Major Picardy
leaned forward to fasten his cloak for him-it had two
lions' heads for a clasp, I remember. Moving seemed
to have hurt the wounded shoulder; he turned slightly
pale.
" Don't, Conrad. You never think half enough of
yourself. Let your arm rest. Here, Mrs. Rix, may I
trouble you."
"' Will you not' trouble' me."
I said it shyly, with much hesitation, but was rewarded by the sudden bright pleasure in my grandfather's
face —and not in his alone. It was curious what pains
my cousin took to make me feel at ease, and especially
with the General.
When I had fastened the cloak-with rather nervous
fingers, I confess-the old soldier took and kissed them,
with that "grand seigneur" air which became him so
well —then lifted them up. "See, Conrad, a true Picardy hand."
Cousin Conrad (I learned by and by to call him so)
smiled. "The General thinks, Cousin Elma, that to be




120             MY MOTHER AND I.
born a Picardy is the greatest blessing that can happen
to any human being."
Here Mrs. Rix looked quite frightened, which rather
amused me. For I had sense enough to see that the secret of Major Picardy's undoubted influence with the
old man was that, unlike most people, he was not afraid
of him. This spoke well for both parties. It is only a
tyrant who likes having slaves; and as I looked at the
General, I felt sure he was no tyrant. Under whatever
delusion he had so unkindly treated my mother, was, and
is still, a mystery to me, one that I can never penetrate,
because the secret of it was doubtless buried in a longforgotten grave. In all our intercourse he never once
spoke to me of his son, my father.
We drove down the steep valley below Combe Down,
then reascended and came out upon the beautiful Claverton Road. At Claverton church I exclaimed," I know
this place quite well."
"I thought you knew nothing, and had never been
any where. When, my dear, were you here before."
"The day I first saw you, sir" (I had noticed that
Cousin Conrad usually called him "sir," and he had
never yet bade me call him "grandfather "), "I drove
past here with Mrs. Golding, in the carrier's cart."
"In the carrier's cart! A young lady going about in
a carrier's cart!" cried Mrs. Rix, aghast.
"But how courageous of the young lady to own it!"




MY MOTHER AND I.             121
said Cousin Conrad; and then my grandfather, who had
looked annoyed for a moment, brightened up.
" Quite right —quite right. Mrs. Rix, I assure you
a Picardy may do any thing. Only, my dear Elma,
I hope you will not again patronize your friend the
carrier, or indulge in any such eccentric modes of
traveling."
"Indeed, young ladies should never do eccentric
things," said Mrs. Rix, eying me with a little curiosity,
but evidently not having the slightest idea that I was a
" poor relation," and ignorant that there had ever been
any "difficulties" between my mother and the General.
She had lived all her life in India, and was only a very
distant cousin; I felt glad she had not been made a confidante of the family history. But Cousin Conrad knew
every thing, and I drew courage from his encouraging
smile.
"And this was the view you saw from the carrier's
cart? Was it a pleasant conveyance?"
" Not very; exceedingly shaky. But I am sure I shall
never regret the journey."'
"No, I do not believe you ever will," replied Cousin
Conrad, suddenly changing into gravity.
We were standing on a tombstone, looking down the
valley, he and I only, he having proposed to show me
the beautiful little church and church-yard. There we
had lingered for ten minutes or more, reading the in



122            MY MOTHER AND I.
scriptions, and stepping from mound to mound-those
green mounds which to me implied almost nothing, except a sort of poetic melancholy, which added a tender
charm to life-this bright, hopeful young life of mine.
But Cousin Conrad was older.
"I am very familiar with graves," he said, stepping
round by one of them, not jumping over it as I did.
"All belonging to me are dead; my kindred, and the
dearest of my friends. I am quite alone in the world."
"Alone in the world! What a terrible thing!"
" I don't feel it so. I have plenty of work to do. My
doctor once told me I was not likely to have a very long
life, and ever since I have determined to make it as full
as possible."
" How?"
"What a puzzling question! especially as just now
you see me living the idlest of lives, having nothing in
the world to do but to be a little help to your grandfather."
"That is natural.  Are you not my grandfather's
heir?"
"Another puzzling question. What a catechist you
are!. Do you mean to interrogate every body like this,
when you come out into the world?"
"I can not tell," said I, laughing. "Really, I know
nothing of the world. We never lived in it, my mother
and I."




MY MOTHER AND I.             123
"Would you care to live in it?"
"Perhaps.  But that would depend upon what my
mother wished. She decides every thing."
"Tell me more about your mother."
So I described her, in a few brief passionate words,
determined that he at least should fully know all that
she really was in herself and all that she had been to
me. I can not say what made me do it, or wish to do
it, to so slight an acquaintance; but then he never seemed to me a stranger, and he was of my own blood and
name.
Also, to speak about my mother seemed to make
amends for what was so strange as to appear almost
wrong-that I could be happy, actually happy, away
from her.
" But I shall not be away long. If she is not able to
come here, I shall go back to her, let me see, the day
after to-morrow," said I, very decidedly.
"Could you not enjoy staying a while with the General? You like him?"
"Yes," hesitating, but only because I doubted how
far I could trust my companion. Then, looking in his
face, I felt sure I might trust him. "Yes, I could like
my grandfather very much, if only I were certain he
would be kind to my mother."
Major Picardy regarded me earnestly.  "You may
set your mind at rest on that point, now and always."




124             MY MOTHER AND I.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. He told me so. And when you know
him better, you will find him a man who, whatever his
other faults may be, is not given to change —perfectly
sincere and reliable. And now let us go back. Be as
good a girl as ever you can to your grandfather. He
wishes for you, and, remember, he needs you."
" Wishes me? needs me?  Oh, I am so glad?"
I went back to the carriage with a heart as light as
the lark's that we left singing over the church-yard. My
heart sang too, a happy song all to itself, the whole way
back. I had found something new in my life-my life
which had seemed already as full as it could hold, till
these fresh interests came, yet I found it could hold them,
and enjoy them too. " I must tell my mother all about it,"
thought I, and began writing my evening letter in my
head. But no words seemed strong enough to express
my grandfather's attractiveness and Cousin Conrad's
kindness.
The dinner hour was six. Mrs. Rix told me she was
going to dress, so I dressed likewise, in my only silk
gown-a soft, dark gray-with my best Valenciennes
collar and cuffs. I thought my toilet splendid, till I saw
Mrs. Rix, in cherry-colored satin, with bare arms and
neck, covered only by a black lace shawl. I felt almost
like a real " poor relation" beside her, till I met Cousin
Conrad's kind smile, as if he understood all about it, and




MY MOTHER AND I.             125
was rather amused than not. Then I forgot my foolish
vexation, and smiled too.
As for my grandfather, he took no notice whatever of
my clothes, but a good deal of me; talking to me at intervals all dinner-time, and when, that meal being quickly over, a good many people came dropping in, as was
the custom in Bath, Mrs. Rix told me, he introduced me
punctiliously to every body as " My granddaughter, Miss
Picardy."
Some of them looked surprised, and some of them, I
was sure, made undertoned comments upon me and my
appearance; but I did not care. If my grandfather was
satisfied, what did it matter?
The guests were not very interesting, nor could I understand how grown-up people should play with such
deep earnestness at those games of cards, which at school,
when we made up an occasional round game, I always
found so supremely silly-sillier even than building cardhouses. But I got a little quiet talk with Cousin Conrad, who, seeing I was dull, came up to me. By and by
the evening was over-this first evening, never to be forgotten.
When every body was gone, and we were saying goodnight, my grandfather put his hand on my shoulder, and
called Mrs. Rix.
" I do not presume to comprehend ladies' costume, but
it seems to me that this is a rather' sad-colored robe,' as




126             MY MOTHER AND I.
Shakespeare has it, for so young a person,. What say
you, my dear, would you not prefer to look a little more
-more like other young ladies?"
I winced.
"Yes, indeed, General, she ought," said Mrs. Rix. "I
have been thinking all the evening, only I did not quite
know how to say it, that if Miss Picardy were dressedas Miss Picardy-that is, if you would allow me to take
her to a proper Bath dressmaker-"
But my pride was up. "Thank you; I prefer to wait
till my mother comes. It is she who always chooses my
clothes."
"As you please. Good-night," said my grandfather,
shortly, as he took up his candle and disappeared.
Cousin Conrad gave me a look, a very kind one, yet it
seemed to "call me to order," almost like one of my
mother's. Was my pride right or wrong? What must
I do?
" Follow him," whispered Major Picardy; and I obeyed. I hope it is not a startling confession, but there
have been very few people in my life whom I either
could or would " obey."
I followed the old man, walking feebly down stairs,
and touched him.
"I beg your pardon, I —"
"Pray do not apologize. I merely asked you to give
me the pleasure of seeing you dressed as becomes your




MY MOTHER AND I.             127
position —my. position, I mean-and you declined. It
does not matter."
"It does matter, since I have vexed you. I could not
help it. Don't you see, sir, that I have got no money? 
How can I go and buy new clothes?"
He looked, puzzled, but a little less severe.
"Why, child, surely you understood that-but it is of
no consequence whether I am pleased or not."
"It is of consequence."
"To me, perhaps. I do not flatter myself it can be so
to either you or your mother."
Was this speech ironical? Did it infer any ill-feeling
toward my mother? If so, I must speak out. I must
make him see clearly on what terms we stood.
"Sir," I said, looking him boldly in the face, "I am
seventeen years old, and I never saw you, never even
heard of you, till a few weeks ago. My mother has
brought me up entirely. I am what I am, my mother's
child; and I can not be different. Are you ashamed
of me."
He looked, not at me, for he had turned his back upon
me, but at my reflection on the mirror opposite-a figure
which startled even myself, it stood so tall and proud.
"Ashamed of you? No."
"One word more: do you expect me to be ashamed
of my mother?"
Here I felt my hand caught with a warning pressure,




128             MY MOTHER AND I.
and Cousin Conrad joined us; coming, with his winning
smile, right between my grandfather and me.
" Is it not rather too late at night to begin any unnecessary conversation? The whole question lies in a nutshell, Cousin Elma. A young lady from the country
comes to visit her grandfather. She is, of course, a little
behind the fashion, and as her grandfather -wishes her to
take the head of his table" (I started at this news), " he
naturally wishes her to be dressed according to la mode
— is not that the word? —like other ladies of her age and
station. He has a right to bestow, and she to accept,
this or any other kindness.  I am sure Mrs. Picardy
would approve. Every wise mother knows that it is unwise for any young girl, in any society, to look peculiar."
"Do I look peculiar?"
"Very. Quite unlike any girl I ever saw."
" Is that meant for civility or incivility, Conrad?" said
my grandfather, laughing; for, in truth, there was no resisting that charming way Cousin Conrad had of smoothing down people —half in jest, half in earnest. " Then,
Elma, we will make you like other girls, if we can, tomorrow. Now, good-night."
A dismissal-decided, though kindly. Evidently my
grandfather disliked arguments and "scenes."  He preferred the comic to the tragic side of life-in fact, like
most men, he could not endure being " bothered"-would
do or suffer a great evil to avoid a small annoyance. So




MY MOTHER AND I.             129
Cousin Conrad that night told me; and so I found out
for myself by and by.
At present there was nothing for me to do but to creep
up stairs, rather crestfallen, and find Mrs. Rix waiting to
conduct me to my room; where she stayed talking a
terribly long time, advising me, in elderly and matronly
fashion, about the life into which I was about to plunge.
She seemed to take it for granted that I was to be a long
time in Bath; and she impressed upon me the necessity
of doing as other people did, and dressing as other people dressed, and, above all, of trying to please my grandfather.
" For he is an odd man, a very odd man, my dear. I
have seen very little of him of late years, but quite
enough to find out that. Until he invited me here he
never even told me his son had been married, so that to
make your acquaintance was a pleasant surprise, Miss
Picardy. You must introduce me to Mrs. Picardy. How
soon she must have become a widow! And where did
she come from? And what was her maiden name?"
"My mother was a Miss Dedman. She was born in
Bath," was all I answered to these and several more inquisitive questions.
"And she will be here, I trust, before I leave? Most
likely you will both stay with the General for some time?
A capital arrangement. He has lots of money to leave,
if he has not left it already to Major Picardy, who gets
F2




130            MY MOTHER AND I.
the landed estate. He is very fond of Cousin Conrad;
still, he might grow fonder of you, and if he were to alter his will in your favor —"
"I should despise him!"
I stamped with my foot —my tears burst forth; I
could not help it —I had been so over-excited that day.
And then to be told calmly that I was to stay here in
order to worm myself into the old man's good graces,
and supplant Cousin Conrad! What a horrid idea! what
a humiliating position! I felt inclined to run away that
minute, even though it was the middle of the night-run
away back to my mother.
The whole thing was so different from what I had
been used to. Mrs. Rix, who talked very little before
my grandfather and Cousin Conrad, when she talked to
me exhibited her true self, so exceedingly small and
worldly-minded, that all my pleasant sensations faded
out, and I began to feel as if I had got into an atmosphere where I could not breathe properly. When I
shut the door upon her, showing her politely out —not
much to her regret, for, though I checked them at once,
she had been quite frightened at my tears-I threw myself forlornly down upon the bed, and cried like a child
for my mother.




MY MOTHER AND L               131
CHAPTER VII.
[  in. =iit           IN spite of my pro~- -l'~ —-test that if my mother
did not come to me, I
should go to her directly, two or three
weeks slipped by; she
did not come, yet I
did not go. She kept
putting me off from
day to day, assuring
me that till she could
walk well, she was far
happier in small rooms
than large, and Mrs.
i  Golding was most de__________  U voted to her, which I
could well believe. Every body loved to serve my
mother.
"Besides" she argued, "if your grandfather wishes
to keep you, stay. It is your duty, as well as your pleasure, to please. him in all possible ways."




132             MY MOTHER AND I.
Therefore, I found she quite agreed with Cousin Conrad in condemning me for being so proud about accepting kindnesses; she said I ought to wear my new clothes
gratefully and gayly, and sent a polite message herself
to Mrs. Rix for the care bestowed on my toilet. My
dear mother! Not a word of hers expressed or betrayed
the slightest pain or jealousy; not a hint ever suggested
that, while I was happy and merry, the petted child of
the house, for whom every body was planning enjoyments all day long, she was left alone to spend long,
dull days, with little to do, and nothing to amuse her,
except reading my letters and answering them.
I have all hers, written daily; an extravagance of
postage which was made practicable by Cousin Conrad's
providing me with no end of franks. They are almost
the only letters she ever wrote me, and I read them over
still sometimes, with a full heart. A little formal they
may be-most people wrote formally in those days-but
they are charming letters, with her heart, the mother's
heart, at the core of all. She told me every thing, as I
her; so that, while our personal separation was hard,
there was a strange new delight in reading, as in writing, the visible words of love. Besides, to recount the
day's history at night was as good as living it over
again.
And what a life it was! even externally; full of endless amusement, with all the attractions of luxury and




MY MOTHER AND I.             133
refinement. I fell into it as naturally as if it had always been mine. "The Picardy blood," I supposed;
until Cousin Conrad laughed at me for saying this, and
assigning it as a reason for feeling so much at home, as
content in a large house as in a small one, with riches
as with poverty.
"C No," said he, gravely and gently, as if he thought he
had hurt me; "the real reason is because poverty and
riches are only outside things. The true you —Elma
Picardy-is the same through both, and unaffected by
either."
What did affect me, then? What made me feel as if
I saw a new heaven and a new earth, where every body
walked up and down like angels? and they were as
good as angels, some of them. For me —I never thought
if I were good or bad; I did not think much about myself at all. I was happy, but if any body had asked me
why, I could not have told. The strangest thing was,
my being happy away from my mother; but then she
was happy too-she assured me of that-and she knew
every thing that happened to me, day after day.
It was a curious life, regular even in its dissipation.
The only inmates of that large house were my grandfather, Mrs. Rix, and myself. Cousin Conrad lodged in
Marlborough Buildings, close by. But he usually met
us every morning at the Pump Room, again in the
afternoon promenade round Sydney Gardens, or up and




134             MY MOTHER AND I.
down our own Crescent, the most favorite lounge of all.
And he always dined with us, he alone generally; for
there was little dinner-giving at Bath then, but every
body went out of an evening. Besides small parties at
private houses, the Assembly Rooms were thronged
every night. There were the ordinary balls, beginning
at seven and ending at eleven; and the dress balls,
which were kept up an hour later, when, as twelve
o'clock struck, the master of the ceremonies would hold
out his watch to the band; instantly the music stopped,
and the dancers disappeared, as if over them hung the
doom of Cinderella.
At least so Mrs. Rix told me, for I myself did not go
to these balls; my grandfather said I was too young.
But I was taken to the dancing practice, where, on
stated afternoons, the young gentlemen and ladies for
miles round came to the rooms, to be-instructed in quadrilles and country dances, and those new round dances,
now all the fashion, of which Mrs. Rix much disapproved; I too. The exercise was charming; but to
have people's arms round my waist was not pleasant —
never could have been, I thought, unless I were dancing
with some one very near, and dear, and kind.
On the whole, I liked best the quiet social evenings,
at home or abroad, when my grandfather and Mrs. Rix
played cards, and I wandered about the room, sometimes alone, sometimes with Cousin Conrad, who, like




MY MOTHER AND I.             135
my grandfather, knew and was known by every body.
Though he was not a great talker, and cared neither for
cards nor dancing, he was very popular; and so many
sought his company that I always felt pleased and
grateful when he sought mine.
These evenings always ended at ten o'clock, when we
went home, in sedan chairs on wet nights; but when it
was fine, we walked back to Royal Crescent, cloaked
and hooded, as was the fashion of many ladies. Indeed,
one ancient dame used to boast that she often marched,
with all her diamonds on, attended only by her maid,
the whole way from her house in Norfolk Crescent to
the Assembly Rooms.
Mrs. Rix was not brave enough for that; so she and
the General had each a chair, Cousin Conrad and I
walking after them. HIow pleasantly the fresh night air
used to blow through circus and square; how pretty
even the common streets looked, with their lines of
lamps; and how grandly solemn was the sky overhead,
" Thick inlaid with patines of bright gold!"
He used often to say that line to me, with many others,
for he was a great lover of Shakespeare and other old
writers, of whom I knew almost nothing. Memory fails
me a little for modern poetry, but I think I could remember most of that, even now.
We also used to study a little astronomy, which was a




136             MY MOTHER AND I.
hobby of his, acquired in long night-marches and campings out. I learned all the constellations and their
names, and a good deal besides. There was one particular planet, I remember, which night after night used
to rise over Beechen Cliff. I called it "my star," at
which Major Picardy smiled, and said it was Jupiter,
the most prosperous star of any, astrologers believed,
and that I should have a most fortunate and happy life.
I laughed, and believed it all.
As I soon found out, I was, compared with him, exceedingly ill-educated. This was not my mother's fault,
but my own. Beyond exacted lessons, I had never cared
to study or to read. Now I felt my own ignorance painfully, horribly. My grandfather had a good library, and
one day, when Cousin Conrad found me hunting there,
he volunteered to choose some books for me. After
that, he used to talk to me about them; and many a
time, when the young gentlemen of Bath were whispering nonsense to me - which they did pretty often — I
used to grow very weary of them, and keep thinking all
the time of what I had been reading that morning, and
what Cousin Conrad would say about it when we
walked home together at night, under the stars.
Those wondrous stars! those delicious moonlights!
that cool, scented, summer dark, perhaps better than
either! I was only a girl then-only seventeen. Now
I am-no matter what. But to this day, if I chance to




MY MOTHER AND I.             137
walk home of a May night, after a party, the old time
comes back again, and the old feeling-the feeling that
life was such a grand and beautiful thing, with so much
to do, perhaps also to suffer; only suffering looked heroic and sweet-especially if borne for some one else.
The bliss of making unheard-of sacrifices for those one
loved haunted me continually; indeed, self-martyrdom
seemed the utmost joy of existence. For instance, I remember one bleak night silently placing myself as a
barrier-oh, what a feeble one!-between a fierce north
wind and- a person to whom it was very hurtful to
catch cold. I caught cold, of course; but whether I
saved that other person is doubtful. No matter. Some
people might laugh at me; I have never laughed at
myself.
I record these times and these feelings, because many
a girl may recognize them as her own experience too. It
is nothing to be ashamed of, though it does not always
bring happiness. But, I repeat, there are in life more
things —possibly better things-than happiness.
When I say I was happy, it was in a way rather different from the calm enjoyment I had with my mother.
Little things gave me the keenest joy; other things,
equally and ludicrously little, the sharpest pain. For
instance, one day, when Mrs.Rix said at table that I
was becoming "the belle of Bath," and my grandfather
laughed, and Cousin Conrad said-nothing at all! Did




138             MY MOTHER AND I.
he think I liked it? that I cared for being admired and
flattered, and talked nonsense to, or for any thing but
being loved? —as, it sometimes seemed, they were all beginning to love me at Royal Crescent. Even my grandfather, besides that chivalrous politeness which was his
habit toward all women, began to treat me with a personal tenderness very sweet, always ending by saying I
was " every inch a Picardy." Which was one of the
very few things I did not repeat to my mother.
My darling mother! All this time I had never seen
her. Cousin Conrad had. He rode over twice or thrice,
bringing me back full news; but though my grandfather said I might have the carriage whenever I liked
to go home for a few hours, somehow I never did get
it, and was afraid to ask for it. Since, kind as the General was, he always liked to bestow kindnesses, and not
to be asked for them.
So time passed. Bath became very hot and relaxing,
as is usual in spring; and, either with that or the constant excitement, my strength flagged, my spirits became variable.
" Is she quite well?" I overheard Cousin Conrad asking Mrs. Rix one day; when I answered sharply for myself that I was " perfectly well, only a little tired."
"Of what? Dissipation, or of us all? My child"he often addressed me so, quite paternally-" would you
like to go back to your mother."




MY MOTHER AND I.              139
A sudden " stound," whether of joy or pain I knew
not, came over me. I paused a minute, and then said,
"Yes."  Immediately afterward, for no cause at all, I
began to cry.
"She certainly is not strong, and ought not to have
too much dissipation," said Mrs. Rix, much troubled.
"Oh, dear me! and it was only this morning that the
General asked me to arrange about taking her to her
first public ball."
"Her first ball!"
"My first ball!"
Cousin Conrad and I were equally astonished —
whether equally pleased, I could not tell.
"Well, it is natural your grandfather should have
changed his mind. I don't wonder that he wishes to
see the'coming out'-is not that what you girls call
it?-of the last of his race, to witness the triumph of
another'beautiful Miss Picardy.'"
I looked at him reproachfully. " Cousin Conrad! are
you going to talk nonsense too a"
"It is not nonsense. I was merely stating a fact,"
said he, smiling. "But I beg your pardon."
It is strange how often we think lightly of the gifts
we have, and wish for those which Providence has denied. Often, when there was a knot of silly young fellows hovering round me, I thought how much better
than being merely pretty would it have been to be




140             MY MOTHER AND I.
clever and accomplished, able to understand the books
Cousin Conrad read, and talk with him in his own
way. I was so afraid he despised me, and this last remark convinced me of it. My heart sank with shame,
and I thought how willingly one would give away all
one's beauty —aye, and youth too, only that goes fast
enough-to become a sensible, educated woman. Such
are really valuable, and valued.
We were all three walking up and down the grassy
terrace of a house where my grandfather had come to
call, leaving us to amuse ourselves outside, as it was a
most beautiful place, centuries old. Every body about
Bath knows St. Katherine's Court. As it happens, I
have never seen it since that day, but I could remember
every bit of its lovely garden-the fountain that trickled from the rocky hill above, the cows feeding in the
green valley below, and the tiny gray church on one
side.
"I should like to show you the church. It dates
long before the Reformation, and is very curious. Will
you come, Mrs. Rix, or would you rather sit still
here?"
As Major Picardy might have known she would,
which I myself did not regret. She was a kind soul,
but she never understood in the least the things that we
used to talk about, and so she often left us alone. Very
dull indeed to her would have been our speculations




MY MOTHER AND I.             141
about the old carved pulpit, and who had preached in it;
the yew-trees in the church-yard, which might have furnished bows for the men who fought at Bosworth Field.
I tried hard to improve my mind by listening to what
Cousin Conrad said. He had such an easy, kind way of
giving information, that one took it in, scarcely fancying one was learning at all. Soon I quite forgot my
wounded feelings, my fear of his contempt for a poor
girl who had nothing in the world to recommend her
except her beauty.
Suddenly he turned round and asked me why I had
been so vexed with him about the ball. Did I dislike
going?
No, I liked it very much.
"Then why were you offended with me? Was it because I called you'the beautiful Miss Picardy i"'
He had guessed my thoughts, as he often did, just
like a magician. I hung my head. "I thought you
were laughing at me, or despising me. It is such a contemptible thing to be.only pretty. Oh, I wish I could
be ugly for a week!"
He smiled. " But only for a week. You would soon
be glad to turn back into your old self again, and so
would others. Believe me, beauty is always a blessing,
and not necessarily harmful. The loveliest woman I
ever beheld was also the best."
Who could that be? His mother, or-no, I had never




142            MY MOTHER AND I.
heard of his having a sister. Still I did not like to
ask.
" I would not speak of her to every body," continued
he, in a rather hesitating tone, suddenly sitting down.
He had a habit of turning pale and sitting down, invalid fashion, though he always refused to be called an invalid. " But I should like to speak of her to you sometimes, for you remind me of her in your height and the
color of your hair; though I think — yes, I am quite
sure-that.on the whole you are less handsome than she.
Still, it is the same kind of beauty, and I like to look
at it."
He paused, and I sat still, waiting for what was coming next; so still, that a little sparrow came and hopped
in at the church door, looked at us, and hopped out
again.
"I do not know if you will understand these things,
you are still such a child; but, once upon a time, I was
engaged to be married."
I started a little. Since my first romantic speculations concerning him -making him the hero of some
melancholy history —Cousin Conrad and his marrying
had quite gone out of my head. He was just himselfa gentleman of what to me seemed middle age, five-andthirty probably-always kind and good to me, and to
every young lady he knew, but never in the slightest degree " paying attention" to any body. And he had




MY MOTHER AND I.             143
been " engaged to be married." Consequently " in love."
(For I had no idea that the two things are not always
synonymous.)  I felt very strange, but I tried not to
show it.
"It was before I went to India," he continued. "I
was only three-and-twenty, and she was twenty-one.
She had every thing that fortune could give; I too, except perhaps money. But she had that as well; so we
did not mind. An honest man, who really loves a woman, and gives her all he has to give, need not mind,
though she is rich and he is poor. Do you not think
so?"
"Yes."
"One only trouble we had: she was delicate in health.
I knew I should always have to take care of her. I did
so already, for she had no mother. She was an orphan,
and had been a ward of Chancery. The lady who lived
with her was a sister of Mrs. Rix."
" Mrs. Rix! She never said a word."
" Oh, no," with a sad kind of smile, "it is so long ago;
every body has forgotten, except me. I think I amn one
of those people who can not forget. Still, I have come
to Bath; I have gone over the same walks; I have been
to a party at the same house-I mean the house where
she lived, and from which she was to have been married."
"Was to have been?" asked I, beneath my breath.
"It was only two weeks before the day. We were




144            MY MOTHER AND I.
both so young and happy-we liked dancing so much
-we wanted to have a good dance together in these
Assembly Rooms. We had it; and then she would
walk home. It was May, but you know how sharp the
winds come round street corners here. She caught cold;
in a week she died."
Died! So young, so happy, so well beloved! Poor
girl! Fortunate girl!
I could not weep for her; something lay heavy on
my heart, seemed to freeze up my tears.  But I sat
quiet, keeping a reverent silence toward a grief which
he had thought I could not " understand."
Cousin Conrad had told his story very calmly, letting
fall the brief words one by one, in the same mechanical
tone; so that any body who did not know him would
have thought he felt nothing. What a mistake!
We sat several minutes without speaking; and then,
with a sudden impulse of compassion, I touched his
hand. He pressed mine warmly.
" Thank you. I thought, Cousin Elma, we should be
better friends after this than even before. You will understand that mine has not been an altogether bright life
— like yours, for instance; indeed, mine seems half over
when yours is scarcely begun. Nor is it likely to be a
very long life, the doctors say; so I must put as much
into it as I possibly can. As much work, I mean. For
happiness-"








I,,..                                     l,Ad'i'
la~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~il7;il I,~iiii' Iii  i~l~li    I,/? 
rii''~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~1i  i~l tilli
II,~/ r.~:~-:r;=.~lllll~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ii.11!i/3' ltliittliii~'tltlllll 1li~~i?'iilill  i,  ~,l,,,
I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~i if
-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~i I,. can see him  now, sitting with his hands folded and eyes looking straighzt
before him."




MY MOTHER AND I.             147
He stopped. I can see him now, sitting with hands
folded and eyes looking straight before him — grave,
steady, fearless eyes, with a touch of melancholy in
them —but nothing either morbid, or bitter, or angry.
Such would have been impossible to a nature like his.
"Happiness must take its chance. I neither seek it
nor refuse it. Nor have I been, I hope, altogether unhappy hitherto. I have always found plenty to do, besides my profession."
I knew that. It had sometimes made me almost angry to learn, through Mrs. Rix, the endless calls upon
him —his health, his time, and his money —by helpless
people, who are sure to find out and hang upon a solitary man, who has the character of being unselfish and
ready to help every body. When I looked at him, and
thought of all that, and of the grief that had fallen upon
his life, which, falling upon most men, would have made
it a blank life forever, I felt-no, it is not necessary to
say what I felt.
There is a quality called hero-worship. It does not
exist. in every body; and, some people say that it is
scarcely to be desired, as causing little bliss and much
bale; but to those who possess it, and who have found
objects whereon to expend it, it is an ecstasy worth any
amount of pain.
Though all the world had seemed to swim round me
for a minute or two, and Cousin Conrad's quiet voice




148             MY MOTHER AND I.
went through me, word by word, like a sharp knifestill I slowly got right again. I saw the blue sky out
through the church door, and heard a lark in the air,
singing high up, like an invisible voice-rthe voice, I
could have fancied, of that girl, so long dead, who had
been so happy before she died. Happy to an extent
and in a sort of way of which the full sweetness had
never dawned upon me till now.
To be "in love," as silly people phrase it-to love, as
wise and good people have loved, my mother, for instance-I seemed all at once to understand what it was;
aye, in spite of Cousin Conrad. And, with that knowledge, to understand something else, which frightened
me.
However, I had sense enough to drive that back, for
the time being, into the inmost recesses of my heart, and
to answer him, when, after sitting a minute or two longer, he proposed that we should go back to Mrs. Rix, with
my ordinary "Yes."  He always laughed at these " Yeses" or "Noes," which he declared formed the staple of
my conversation with him- or my grandfather. Only,
as we went out, I said in a whisper, "Would you mind
telling me her name?"
"Agnes."
So we went back to the carriage, and drove home;
and I think: nobody would have known that any thing
had happened.




MY MOTHER AND I.            149
But little things make great changes sometimes.
When I went into the tiny gray church, Mrs. Rix had
laughed at the way I bounded down the hilly terrace,
called me "'such a child!" - no wonder the General
thought I was "too young" to go to the Assemblies.
When I came out again, I felt quite an old person-old
enough to go to twenty balls.




150             MY MOTHER AND L.
CHAPTER  VIII.
THERE came upon me a great craving to see my mother. Not that I wished to tell her any thing-indeed,
what had I to tell. In writing about that afternoon at
St. Katherine's Court, I merely described the house, the
garden, and the old gray church. What had passed
therein I thought I had no right-I had certainly no
desire-to speak of, not even to my mother; and from
the complete silence which followed - Cousin Conrad
never referred to it again-it seemed after a day or two
almost like a story heard in a dream.
But a dream that never could be forgotten. A young
girl seldom does forget the first time she comes face to
face with a love story-not in a book, but in real life;
meets and sympathizes with those who have actually felt
all that she has been mistily thinking about.
Whenever Cousin Conrad looked at me, as he did
sometimes, in a very tender, wistful way, as if seeing in
my face some reflection of the one long hidden under a
coffin-lid, I used to ponder on all he had gone through,
wondering how he had ever borne it and lived. But he
had lived up to five-and-thirty a useful and honored life;




MY MOTHER AND.I.             1-5.1
and though he had hinted it might not be a long one,
probably on account of that sad taint in our vaunted
Picardy blood-consumption-still there seemed no reason why he should fear or hope-did he hope? —for its
ending. Cheerful he was  cheerful, calm, busy; was
he also happy? Was it possible he ever could be happy?
Endlessly I used to ponder over him and her, and on
the brief time of love they had had together; and then,
overcome with an unaccountable sadness, I used to turn
to thinking of my mother.
If I could only go to her! lay my head on her shouilder, and feel how entirely she loved me —me only out
of the whole-world. And it seemed as if I had a little
neglected her of late, and allowed other people to absorb
me too much. Had she guessed this? Did she fancy I
loved her less?  I would soon show her she was mistaken. As soon as ever my grandfather would allow
me, I would go back to the two dear little rooms in our
quiet village, and be as merry and happy as if I had
never gone away-never known any thing beyond the
peaceful life when she and I were all in all to one another. We were so still, onlyWas there any thing in that " only " which made me
stop and examine myself sharply? Does there not come
a time to the most loving of children when they begin
to feel a slight want-when parents and home are not
quite sufficient to them?  They can no longer lie all




152             MY MOTHER AND I.
day, infant-like, on the mother's breast, and see no heaven beyond her face. Other faces grow pleasant, other
interests arise. It seems difficult to content one's self
Wvith the calm level of domestic life, with its small daily
pleasures and daily pains. They want something larger
-grander.  They are continually expecting some unknown felicity, or arming themselves against some heroic anguish, so delicious that they almost revel in the
prospect of woe.
This state of feeling is natural, and therefore inevitable. If recognized as such, by both parents and children, it harms neither, is met, and passed by.
If I could have gone to my mother! Afterward, the
hinderances to this looked so small; at the time they
seemed gigantic. First,: Mrs. Rix, with her pre-occupation about my toilet and her own at my first ball, which
was to happen in a few days. Then my grandfather's
dislike to have any thing suggested to him, even to the
use of his carriage, except by Cousin Conrad, to whom
the whole household were in the habit of applying in
all difficulties, who arranged every thing and thought of
every body; but he was absent —gone to London on
some'troublesome law business, somebody else's business,
of course.
"I can't tell why," he said, smiling, " except that it is
from my being so alone in the world, but I seem fated
to be every body's guardian, every body's trustee. Take




MY MOTHER AND I.             153
care; perhaps your grandfather may make me yours,
and then what a handful I shall have! and how tightly
I shall hold you, like one of the cruel guardians in storybooks - especially when you want to marry! -No, no,
my child, seriously, I will let you marry any body you
please."
" Thank you," I said, laughing. He did not know he
had hurt me.
We missed him much out of the house, even for a few
days. If he had been there, I should easily have got to
see my mother. As it was, there seemed no way, except
starting to walk the seven miles alone; and I doubted
if either she or Cousin Conrad would have approved of
that step: it would have seemed so disrespectful to my
grandfather.
Thus it came to pass that a fifth week was added to
the four, and still I had not seen my mother.
I wished, though, that she could have seen me when I
was dressed for the ball; I knew it would have made
her happy. That was my consolation for not feeling
quite so happy myself when it came to the point, as I
supposed all young girls ought to feel on such an occasion. How she would have admired the white silk, festooned with white roses, in which I stood like a statue
while Mrs. Rix and her maid dressed me-not half grateful enough, I fear, for their care; for I was thinking of
that girl " Agnes," scarcely older than myself, who, probG2




154             MY MOTHER AND I.
ably in some house close by, had once been dressed for
one of these very assemblies. So young, so happy; yes,
I was sure she had been happy; and I sighed, and my
white silk looked dull, and my white roses faded, and
that nameless despondency to which the young are so
prone fell upon me like a cloud, till Mrs. Rix said, kind
soul! "There now; I wish your mother could see you."
The mention of my mother nearly made me burst out
crying. Crying when one is dressed for one's first ball!
What a strange girl I must have been!
" Come now, my dear, and let your grandfather look
at you."
He quite started when I came into his room, regarded
me intently, then made me walk to and fro, which I did
-as grave and dignified as even he could desire. I was
not shy, but rather indifferent, feeling as if it mattered
little who looked at me.
"Yes, that will do, Elma; you gratify me much. All
the daughters of our house have been noted for their
beauty. This generation will be no exception to the
rule. I wish I were well enough to witness the debut
to-night of another beautiful Miss Picardy."
I smiled. There was no uncomfortable flattery in my
grandfather's grand politeness; it was the mere announcement of a fact. I said nothing. What value
was my beauty to me? except that it pleased him-and
my mother.




MY MOTHER AND I.             155
" Yes, you are quite right, General; and I am sure the
Major would say the same, if he were here; but I suppose nothing would have persuaded him to accompany
"No, Mrs. Rix; you are aware that he has never been
to a ball since the death of Miss Frere."
"Oh, poor Miss Frere! How much he was attached
to her, and she to him. My sister has told me all about
it. A sad story, Miss Picardy, which I will tell you
while we are having our tea, if you will remind me."
Which I did not do.
"Elma," said my grandfather, as he sat watching me,
looking more benign than I had ever seen him; "you
may like to read this before you go."
It was a letter from my mother, by which I found
that he had politely urged her coming to see my introduction into society. She excused herself, but promised,
if she felt well enough, to pay her long-promised visit
"in a few days."
Then I should have my mother, and I need not go
away! In a moment my variable spirits rose, and the
confused sense of pain which was so new to me slipped
away. As I wrapped my beautiful white cloak round
me, and caught sight of myself in the mirror on the
stairs, I knew I was, on the whole, not unpleasant to look
at! and was glad to please even the three women-servants who came to peep at me in the hall.




156             MY MOTHER AND I.
There was another person entering it, who stopped to
look too. He seemed tired with traveling, but in his
face was the familiar smile. Kind Cousin Conrad! every body was delighted to see him.
" I am not quite too late, I see. All the world seems
collected to behold your splendors, Cousin Elna. May
not I!"
He gently put aside my cloak. My heart was beating
fast with the surprise of seeing him, but I stood quite
still and silent for him to examine my dress and me.
"Thank you," he said, with the slightest possible sigh.
" You look very nice. Now let me put you into your
chaise." As he did so, he said gently, " Be happy, child.
Go and enjoy yourself."
So I did, to a certain extent. How could it be otherwise with a girl of seventeen, who loved dancing with
all her heart, and had no end of partners, some of whom
danced exceedingly well? Good and bad dancers was
the only distinction between them-to me. For all else
they might have been automatons spinning round on two
legs. Their faces I scarcely looked at. The only face
I saw was one which was not there.
How tired Cousin Conrad had looked! Sad too.
Had the sight of me in my ball-dress reminded him of
old times-of his best-beloved Agnes? All through the
whirl of light and music and dancing, I had in my
mind's eye the picture of those two as they must have




MY MOTHER AND I.             157
looked, dancing together at their last ball; but I thought
of one not wholly with pity, but envy.
Still I danced on-danced with every body that asked
me. My feet were light enough, though my heart felt
sometimes a little heavy, and I rather wondered why,
girls thought a ball-room such a paradise; until, crossing
through the crowd of figures, all alike either unknown
or indifferent to me, I saw one whom I knew. The
slight stoop, the head with its short, crisp curls, the grave,
quiet eyes, and wondrously beautiful smile, how the sight
of him changed all the aspect of the room!
It was very kind of Cousin Conrad to come. This
sense of his excessive kindness was my first thought, and
then another sense of comfort and enjoyment, such as I
used to feel when my mother was by. I could not go
to him-I was dancing; but I watched him go to Mrs.
Rix, and they both stood watching me, I saw, until they
fell into conversation, and did not notice me at all.
Then I noticed them.
It is an odd sensation, trying to view as with the eyes
of a stranger some one whom you know intimately.
MIany gentlemen in the room were taller, handsomer,
younger than Cousin Conrad; but somehow he was
Cousin Conrad, just himself, and different from them all.
I wondered what he and Mrs. Rix were talking about;
ordinary things probably: she would not surely be so
tactless, so cruel, as to wonder at his coming to-night, or




158             MY MOTHER AND I.
to remind him of the last night he was here, when he
danced with Miss Frere as his partner-just as one Sir
Thomas Appleton (I had good cause to remember his
name afterward) was dancing with me. Oh no! not so.
I cared nothing for Sir Thomas Appleton. If I had
been dancing with any one I loved, as Agnes loved Cousin Conrad, how different it would have been! Yet he
had said I " did not understand."
He was right. I did not understand-not fully. I
had no idea whither I was drifting; no more than has a
poor little boat, launched on a sunshiny lake without
helm or oars, which goes on floating, floating as it can
only float, toward the great open sea. There had come
a curious change in me, a new interest into my life, a
new glory over my world. It was strange,very strange,
but the whole room looked different now Cousin Conrad
was there.
Imlac, in "Rasselas," says (a trite and often-quoted
but most true saying), "Many persons fancy themselves
in love, when in reality they are only idle;" and therefore, for all young people, idleness is the thing most to be
avoided, since the sham of love, coming prematurely, is
of all things the most contemptible and dangerous. But
some people never" fall in love" at all; they walk into it
blindfold, and then wake suddenly, with wide-open eyes,
to find that all the interest of life is concentrated in one
person, whom they believe, truly or not, to be the best








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I''1111;iri~~~~~~~~~~iii~~~~ii'~'~'~.~'i..~' Ii~j''i I.      i,     i.~,,!,'                                                     11.....




MY MOTHER AND I.            161
person they ever knew, and whom they could no more
help loving than they could help loving the sun for shining on them, and the air for giving them wherewithal to
breathe. This is not being "in love," or being "made
love to." It is love, pure and simple, the highest thing,
if often the saddest, which a woman's heart can know.
If I had been an angel looking down from the heights
of Paradise upon another Elmna Picardy, I might have
sighed and said, "Poor child!" but I do not know that
I should have tried to alter things in any way.
The quadrille over, Sir Thomas Appleton took me to
Mrs. Rix, and stood talking with Cousin Conrad, whom
he knew; so there was no explanation, save a whisper
from Mrs. Rix"He says the General sent him. They thought you
ought not to be here without some male relative; so he
came."
"He is very kind," said I-but I was a little vexed.
In those days the one thing that sometimes vexed me in
Cousin Conrad was his habit of doing first what he ought
and next what he liked to do. I have lived long enough
to see that the man who does first what he likes and
then what he ought, is of all men, not absolutely wicked,
the most hopelessly unreliable.
Cousin Conrad might have come to the ball from duty
only, but I think he was not unhappy there. His good
heart was strong enough to forget its own sorrows in




162             MY MOTHER AND I.
others' joys. Giving Mrs. Rix his arm, and consigning
me to Sir Thomas, he led the way to the tea-room, and
made us all sit down to one of those little tables at which
people who liked one another's company were accustomed to form a circle to themselves. His pleasant talk
brightened us all. Then he proposed taking me round
the rooms, and showing me every thing and every
body.
"She is so young, with the world all before her," said
he to Sir Thomas Appleton. "And it is such a wonderful, enjoyable world."
Aye, it was. As I went along, leaning on Cousin Conrad's arm, and looking at all he showed me, I thought
there never was such a beautiful hall.  Cinderella's,
when the prince was dancing with her, was nothing to
it; only, unlike Cinderella, when twelve o'clock struck
my white silk did not crumble into rags, my slippers did
not drop off from my poor little feet.
"Well, it is over," said I, with a little sigh.
"Yes, it is over," echoed Sir Thomas, with a much
bigger one. I had been again his partner, by his own
earnest entreaty and Cousin Conrad's desire, that he
might be able to tell my grandfather how well I could
dance. So I had danced, my very best too, knowing
he was looking on, and was pleased with me. It made
me pleased with myself, and not vexed, even when I
heard people whispering after me, " The beautiful Miss




MY MOTHER AND I.            163
Picardy." Had not Cousin Conrad said that the most
beautiful person he ever knew was also the best?
I wondered if he were thinking of her now. From a
certain expression in his face as he stood watching the
quadrille, I fancied he was. Yes, he had truly said he
was one of those who "can not forget."
I also never forget. Many a ball have I been to in
my life, but not one incident of this, my first, has vanished from my memory.
It was over at last, and I felt myself in the midst of
a crowd of people pushing toward the door, with Cousin
Conrad on one side of me and Mrs. Rix on the other.
Sir Thomas Appleton was behind.
"See," said he, "what a beautiful night it is; ever
so many are walking home; will you walk home, too,
Miss Picardy?"
"No," said Cousin Conrad, decidedly.
He muffled me carefully up, put me in a chair, did
the same thing for Mrs. Rix, and then walked off down
the street with somebody, I suppose Sir Thomas; but I
really never noticed that poor young man. I doubt if I
even bade him good-night. In five minutes more he
had gone out of my head as completely as if he had
never existed.
So much so that when Mrs. Rix came into my room
to talk over the ball, and asked me what I thought of
him, I answered that I could not tell; I had never
thought about him at all.




164            MY MOTHER AND I.
"Never thought about him! Such a rich, handsome,
gentlemanly young man, just come into one of the finest
estates in Somersetshire. Well, you are the oddest girl
I ever knew."
Was I? How? What could she mean? Surely I
had not misbehaved myself, or been uncourteous in any
way to this very respectable gentleman? But no; he
was Cousin Conrad's friend, and Cousin Conrad had not
blamed me in the least, but had met me at the door and
parted from me with a kind good-night. He was not
displeased with me. Then, whatever Mrs. Rix meant or
thought did not matter so very much.




MY MOTHER AND I.               165
CHAPTER IX., —iI illli  it  Iii ii        IT was just a week
after the ball —a hapl; ~~~py week; for, as IMriis.
Rix said, all the family
Far    Inl I hseemed happier now
Cousin  Conrad  had
come back.
We had missed him
a  a hmuch. May grandfather was the sort of
I  man who would be
always autocrat absolute in his own house;
but Cousin Conrad
was his prime minister.  To him   the
heir presumptive, as every body knew —came every
body, with their petitions, their difficulties, their cares.
Far and near, all helpless people claimed his help; all
idle people his unoccupied time. - His money, too.
Moderate as his income was, he seemed always to have




166             MY MOTHER AND I.
enough to give to those that needed it. But he invariably gave cautiously, and in general secretly. So much
so that I have heard people call Major Picardy a rather "near" man. How little they knew!
We missed him, I say, because he was the guiding
spirit of the house. Guiding, for he never attempted to
rule. Yet his lightest word was always obeyed, because
we saw clearly that when he said, " Do this," he meant,
"Do it, not because I say so, but because it is right."
The right, followed unswervingly, unhesitatingly, and
without an atom of selfishness or fear, was the pivot
upon which his whole life turned. Therefore his influence, the divinest form of authority, was absolutely unlimited.
Besides, as Mrs. Rix sometimes said to me - just as
if I did not see it all!-he was " so comfortable to live
with."  In him were none of those variable moods of
dullness, melancholy, or ill-temper, which men so often
indulge in-moods which in a child we call "naughtiness," and set the sinner in a corner with his face to
the wall, or give him a good whipping and let him
alone; but in his papa, or grandpapa, or uncle, we submit to as something charmingly inevitable, rather interesting than not, although the whole household is thereby
victimized. But Cousin Conrad victimized no one; he
was always sweet-tempered, cheerful, calm, and wise.
His one great sorrow seemed to have swallowed up all




MY MOTHER AND I.             167
lesser ones, so that the minor vexations of life could not
afflict him any more. Or else it was because he, of all
men I ever knew, lived the most in himself, and yet out
of himself; and therefore was able to see all things with
larger, clearer eyes. Whether he knew this or notwhether he was proud or humble, as people count humility, I can not tell. No one could, because he never
talked of himself at all.
Young as I was, I had sense to see all this in him, the
first man with whom I was ever thrown in friendly relations; to see and-what does one do when one meets
that which is perfectly lovable and admirable? admire
it? love it? No; love is hardly the word for that kind
of feeling. We adore.
This did not strike me as remarkable, because every
body in degree did the same. Never was there a person better loved than he. And yet he gave himself no
pains to be popular; he seldom tried to please any body
particularly; only to be steadily kind and simply good
to every body.
Good above all to me, unworthy! Oh, so good!
The one person whose opinion of him I did not know
was my mother's, though he had ridden over to see her,
taking messages from me, almost every week. But she
said little about him, and I did not like to ask. One of
the keenest pleasures I looked forward to in this her visit
was that she would then learn to know Cousin Conrad




168             MY MOTHER AND I.
as I knew him. Mrs. Rix said, as soon as my mother
came to chaperon me, she should go to Cheltenham.
Then how happy would we three be, walking, talking
together, the best company in the world!
For the first time in my life, I thought without jealousy of my mother's enjoying any body's company but
mine. Planning the days to come, which seemed to
rise up one after the other, like the slope after slope of
sunshiny green which melted into the blue sky at the
top of Lansdowne Hill, I sat at my bedroom window,
perhaps the happiest girl in all Bath.
Ah, pleasant city of Bath! how sweet it looked to me
then, a girl in my teens! How sweet it looks still to
me, an old woman! Aye, though I walk its streets with
tired feet, thinking of other feet that walk there no
more, but in a far-away City which I see not yet; still
dear to my heart and fair to my eyes is every nook and
corner of that city, where I was so happy when I was
young.
Happy, even in such small things as my new dress,
which I had been arranging for the evening. We went
out so much that I should have been very ill off had not
my grandfather given me plenty of beautiful clothes.
When I hesitated, Cousin Conrad said, "Take them; it
is your right, and it makes him happy." So I took
them, and enjoyed them too. It is pleasant to feel that
people notice one's dress —people whose opinion one




MY MOTHER AND I.             169
values. I laughed to think my mother would not call
me " untidy" now.
Also, I was glad to believe, to be quite sure, that my
grandfather was not ashamed of me. When Mrs. Rix
told him how many partners I had, he used to smile
complacently. "Of course! She is a Miss Picardy —
a true Miss Picardy. Isn't she, Conrad?"  At which
Cousin Conrad would smile too.
He always went out with us now, though he did
not dance; but he kept near us, and made every thing
easy and pleasant-almost as pleasant as being at
home.
But these home evenings were the best, after all. I
hoped they would come back again when my mother
was here. Often I pictured to myself how we would
enjoy them. My grandfather asleep in his chair; my
mother and Cousin Conrad sitting on the large sofa, one
at either end; and I myself on my favorite little chair,
opposite them. How often he laughed at me-such a
big, tall girl-for liking such a little chair! They would
talk together, and I would sit silent, watching their two
faces. Oh, how happy I should be!
I had fallen in so deep a reverie, that when there
came a knock to my door I quite started.
It was only Mrs. Rix, coming to say that my grandfather wanted me. But she did it in such a mysterious
way-and besides, it was odd that he should want me at
H




170             MY MOTHER AND I.
that early hour, and in his study, where few ever went
except Cousin Conrad.
"What does he want me for? There is nothing the
matter?"
"Oh, no, my dear; quite the contrary, I do assure
you. But, as I said to the General, I She is so innocent,
I am sure she has not the slightest idea'-oh, dear, what
am I saying?-I only promised to tell you that your
grandfather wanted you."
"I will come directly."
She said true; I had not the slightest idea. I no more
guessed what was coming upon me than if I had been a
baby of five years old. I stayed calmly to fold up my
dress and put my ribbons by, Mrs. Rix looking on with
that air of deferential mysteriousness which had rather
vexed me in her of late.
"That is right, my dear. Be very particular in your
toilette; it is the proper thing, under-your circumstances. But here I am, letting the cat out of the bag again,
which the Major said I was on no account to do."
"Is Cousin Conrad with my grandfather?" said I, with
a sudden doubt that-this might concern him-his going
back to India, or something.
"Oh, no. He and Sir Thomas went away togetherSir Thomas Appleton, you know-who has been sitting
with the General these two hours."
"Has he a?" and I was just going to add, "How very




MY MOTHER AND I.             171
tired my grandfather must be!" when I remembered the
young man was a favorite with Mrs. Rix; at least, she
always contrived to have him near us, and to get me to
dance with him. The latter I liked well enough-he
was a beautiful dancer; the former I found rather a
bore. But then he was an excellent person, Cousin Conrad said, and they two were very good friends; which
had inclined me to be kind, kinder than I might otherwise have been, to Sir Thomas Appleton.
Forgetting all about him, I ran down stairs, gayly too.
For second thoughts told me there was nothing to be
afraid of. If any thing were going to happen-if Cousin Conrad had been returning to India, he would have
told me; certainly as soon as he told Mrs. Rix. He had
got into a habit of talking to me, and telling me things,
very much as a kind elder brother would tell a young
sister, whom he wished to make happy with his trust as
well as his tenderness. And it did make me happy,
more and more so every day. My soul seemed to grow,
like a flower in sunshine, and to stretch itself out so as
to be able to understand what seemed to me, the more I
knew of it, the most perfect character of a man that I
had ever heard or read of. And yet he liked me-poor
ignorant me! and I was certain, if he were going out to
India, or any where else, he would have told me as soon
as he told her. So I threw aside all uneasiness, and
knocked at my grandfather's door with a heart as light
as a child's.




172             MY MOTHER AND I.
For the last time! It never was a child's heart any
more.
"Come in, my dear!  Pardon my dressing-gown. If
I did not receive you thus early, I might not have
caught you at all. You have, I hear, such endless engagements, andare growing the cynosure of every eye
in Bath."
" I, sir?" said I, puzzled over the word " cynosure,"
being, alas! not classically educated, like my grandfather and Cousin Conrad. Still it apparently meant
something nice, and my grandfather smiled as if at
some pleasant idea; so I smiled too.
"Yes, they tell me you are universally admired," patting my hand affectionately with his soft, old fingers.
"Quite natural, too. One of your friends "-he looked
at me keenly-" one of your most ardent friends, has
been praising you to me for these two hours."
" Sir Thomas Appleton, was it? But he is Mrs. Rix's
friend, rather than mine. She is exceedingly fond of
him."
I said this, I know I did, with the most perfect simplicity and gravity. My grandfather again looked at
me, with a sort of perplexed inquiry, then smiled with
his grand air.
"Quite right. The proper thing entirely, in so very
young a lady. My dear Elma, your conduct is all I
could desire. How old are you?"




MY MOTHER AND I.             173
"Seventeen and a half."
"My mother, your grandmother —no, she would be
your great-grandmother-was, I remember, married at
seventeen."
"Was she? That was rather young —too young, my
mother would think. She did not marry till she was
thirty."
I said that rather confusedly. I always did feel a little confused when people began to talk of these sort of
things.
My grandfather drew himself up with dignity.
"Mrs. Picardy's opinion and practice are, of course,
of the highest importance. Still, you must allow me to
differ from her. Iin our family, early marriages have
always been the rule, and very properly. A young wife
is more likely to bend to her husband's ways, and thisespecially in cases where the up-bringing has been, hem!
a little different-is very desirable. In short, when in
such a case a suitable match offers, I think, be the young
lady ever so young, her friends have no right to refuse
it."
What young lady?. Did he mean me? Was any
body wanting to marry me? I began to tremble violently-why, I hardly knew.
" Sit down, my dear. Do not be agitated, though a
little agitation is of course natural under the circumstances. But did I not say that I am quite satisfied with




174             MY MOTHER AND I.
you? and-let me assure you-with the gentleman likewise."
It was that, then. Somebody was wanting to marry
me.
Now, I confess I had of late thought a great deal about
love, but of marriage almost nothing. Of course marriage follows love, as daylight dawn; but this wonderful, glorious dawn, coloring all the sleeping world-this
was the principal thing. When one sits on a hill-top,
watching the sun rise, one does not much trouble one's
self about what will happen at noonday. To love, with all
one's soul and strength, to spend and be spent for the
beloved object; perhaps, if one deserved it, to be loved
back again, in an ecstasy of bliss-these were thoughts
and dreams not unfamiliar and exquisitely sweet. But
the common idea of marriage, as I heard it discussed by
girls about me: the gentleman paying attention, proposing, then a grand wedding, with dresses and bridesmaids
and breakfast, ending by an elegant house and every
thing in good style; this I regarded, if not with indifference, with a sort of sublime contempt. That I should
ever marry in that way! I felt myself grow hot all
over at the idea.
"Yes, my dear, I assure you Sir Thomas Appleton-"
Now the truth broke upon me! iis persistent following of us, Mrs. Rix's encouragement of him, her incessant praising of him to me; and I had been civil and




MY MOTHER AND I.             175
kind to him, bore as he was, for her sake and Cousin
Conrad's! Oh me, poor me!
" Sir Thomas Appleton, Elma, has asked my permission to pay his addresses to you. He is a young man of
independent fortune, good family, and unblemished
character. He may not be-well, I have known cleverer men, but he is quite the gentleman. You will soon
reciprocate his affection, I am sure. Come, my dear, allow me to congratulate you." And he dropped on my
forehead a light kiss, the first he had ever given me.
" Pray be calm. I had wished Mrs. Rix to communicate this fact, but Conrad thought I had better tell you
myself."
The "fact," startling as it was, affected me less than
this other fact-that Cousin Conrad knew it.
My heart stood still a moment; then began to beat
so violently that I could neither hear nor see. Instinctively I shrank back out of my grandfather's sight; but
he did not look at me. With his usual delicacy he began turning over papers, till I should recover myself.
For I must recover myself, I knew that, though from
what I hardly did know; except that it was not the
feeling he attributed to me. Still, I must control it.
Cousin Conrad knew all, and would be told all.
When my grandfather turned round, I think he saw
the quietest possible face, for he patted my hand approvingly.




176             MY MOTHER AND I.
"That is right. Look happy-you ought to be happy.
Let me again say I am quite satisfied. Sir Thomas has
behaved throughout exceedingly like a gentleman. Especially in applying to me first, which he did, he says,
by Conrad's advice, you being so very young. But
not too young, I trust, to appreciate the compliment paid
you, and the great advantage of such a connection. I,
for my part, could not have desired for my granddaughter a better marriage; and, let me say it, in choosing you, Sir Thomas will do equal honor to my family
and his own."
It never seemed to enter my grandfather's head that
I should not marry Sir Thomas Appleton!
What was I to do, a poor, lonely girl? What was I
to say when my answer was demanded?   1 No," it
would be, of course; but if I were hard pressed as to
why I said noEasy enough to tell some point-blank lie, any lie that
came to hand; but the truth, which I had always been
accustomed to tell, without hesitation or consideration,
that I could not tell.  It burst upon me, while I sat
there, blinding and beautiful as sunrise.
Why could I not marry Sir Thomas Appleton or any
other man? Because, if so, I should have to give up
thinking-as I had lately come to think, in all I did or
felt or planned —of a friend I had: who was more
to me than any lover in the whole world. A man, the




MY MOTHER AND I.             177
best man I ever knew, who, if twenty lovers were to
come and ask me, I should still feel in my heart was superior to them all.
But-could I tell this to my grandfather, or any human being? And if not, why not? What was it, this
curious absorption which had taken such entire possession of me? Was it friendship? or-that other feeling
which my mother and I had sometimes spoken about,
as a thing to come one day? Had it come?.And, if
so, what then?
A kind of terror came over me. I grew cold as a
stone. For my life I could not have spoken a word.
There seemed no necessity to speak. Apparently my
grandfather took every thing for granted. He went on
informing me in a gentle, courteous, business-like way
that Sir Thomas and his sister, "a charming person,
and delighted to welcome you into the family, my dear,"
would dine here to-morrow. "Not to-day; Conrad suggested that you would probably like to be alone with
your mother to-day."
That word changed me from stone into flesh againflesh that could feel, and feel with an infinite capacity
of pain! I cried out with a great cry, " Oh, let me go
home to my mother."
"I have already sent for her. She ought to be here
in an hour," said my grandfather, rather stiffly, and
again turned to his papers that I might compose myself.
H2




178             MY MOTHER AND I.
And I tried, oh, how desperately I tried, to choke down
my sobs.
If I could only run away! hide myself any where,
anyhow, out of every body's sight! answering no questions and giving no explanations! That was my first
thought. My second was less frantic, less cowardly.
Whatever happened, I must not go away and leave my
grandfather believing in a lie.
Twice, thrice, I opened my lips to speak —just one
word —a brief, helpless, almost imploring "No," to be
given by him at once to the young man who was so mistaken as to care for me; but it would not come. There
I sat like a fool — no, like a poor creature suddenly
stunned, who knew not what she said or did -did not
recognize herself at all except for a dim consciousness
that her only safety lay in total silence.
Suddenly there came a knock at the hall-door close
by.
"That's Conrad," said my grandfather, evidently relieved. Young ladies and their love affairs were too
much for him after the first ten minutes. " Conrad said
he would be back directly. Ah, must you go, my
dear?" For I had started up like a hunted hare. At
all costs I must escape now, at once too, before Cousin
Conrad saw me. "Go, then, pray go. God bless you,
my dear."
I just endured that benediction; a politeness rather




MY MOTHER AND I.             179
than a prayer; and felt my grandfather touch my hand.
Then I fled —fled like any poor dumb beast with the
hounds after it, and locked myself up in my own room.
I am an old woman now. I very seldom cry for any
thing; there is nothing now worth crying for. Still,
I have caught myself dropping a harmless tear or two
on this paper at the thought of that poor girl, Elma Picardy, in her first moments of anguish, terror, and despair.
It was at first actual despair. Not that of hopeless
love; because if it were love, of course it was hopeless.
The idea of being loved and married in the ordinary
way by the only person whom it would be possible for
me to love and marry never entered into my contemplations. The despair was because my mother would be
here in an hour, either told, or expecting to be told every thing. And if I did not tell her, she, who knew
me so well, would be sure to find it out. What should
I do? For the first time in my life I dreaded to look
in the face of my own mother.
She must be close at hand now. I took out my watch;
ah, that watch! Cousin Conrad had given it me only
a week ago, saying he did not want it, it was a lady's
watch-his mother's, I think-and it would be useful to
me. I might keep it till he asked for it. I did. It
goes tick-tick-tick, singing its innocent daily song, just
over my heart, to this day. A rather old watch now;




180             MY MOTHER AND I.
but it will last my time. Laying my forehead on its
calm, white face-not my lips, though I longed to kiss
it, but was afraid-I sobbed my heart out for a little
while.
Then I rose up, washed my face and smoothed my
hair, trying to make myself look, externally at least, like
the same girl my mother sent away from her, only about
six weeks since. Oh, what a gulf lay between that
time and this! Oh, why did she ever send me away?
Why did I ever come here? And yet-and yetNo, I said to myself then, and I say now, that if all
were to happen over again, I would not have had it different.
So I sat with my hands folded, looking up the same
sunny hillside that I had looked at this morning, but
the light seemed to have slipped away from it, and was
fading, fading fast. Alas! the view had not changed
-it was only I.
A full hour - more than an hour - I must have sat
there, trying to shut out all thought, and concentrate myself into the one effort of listening for carriage-wheels,
which I thought I should hear even at the back of the
house. Still they did not come. I had just begun to
wonder why, when I heard myself called from the foot
of the stairs.
" Is Miss Picardy there? I want Miss Picardy."
The familiar voice, kind and clear! It went through




MY MOTHER AND I.             181
me like a sword. Then I sprang up and hugged my
pain. It was only pain; there was nothing wrong in it;
there could not be. Was it a sin, meeting with what
was perfectly noble, good, and true? to see it, appreciate
it, love it? Yes, I loved him. I was sure of that now.
But it was as innocently, as ignorantly, as completely
without reference to his loving me, as if he had been
an angel from heaven.
Now, when I know what men are, even the best of
them —not so very angelic after all-I smile to think
how any girl could ever thus think of any man; yet
when I remember my angel-not perhaps all I imagined
him, but very perfect still —I do not despise myself.
He came to me truly as an angel, a messenger, God's
messenger of all things pure and high. As such I loved
him-and love him still.
"Miss Picardy! Call any one tell me where to find
Miss Picardy 2"
For the second time I heard him call, and this time
it felt like music through the house. I opened my door,
and answered over the balustrade —
"I am here, Cousin Conrad. Has my mother come?"
a No."
My first feeling, let me tell the truth, was a horrible
sense of relief. Ah me! that I ever should have been
glad not to see my mother! Then I grew frightened.
What could have kept her from coming? No small rea



182            MY MOTHER AND I.
son, surely; if she knew how much I needed her, and
why she was sent for. But prhaps no one had told
her.
Cousin Conrad seemed to guess at my perplexity and
alarm. When I ran down stairs to him, the kind face
met me, and the extended hands, just as usual.
"I thought I would give you the news myself, lest
you might be uneasy. But there is no cause, I think.
Your grandfather only sent a verbal message, and has
received the same back, that Mrs. Picardy is "not able"
to come to-day, but will write to-morrow. However, if
you like, I will ride over at once."
"Oh, no."
"To-morrow, then; but I forget. I have to go to
London to-morrow for a week. Would you really wish
to hear? I can ride over to-night in the moonlight."
" You are very kind. No."
My tongue "clave to the roof of my mouth" —my
poor, idle, innocent, chattering tongue. My eyes never
stirred from the ground. Mercifully, I did not blush.
I felt all cold and white. And there I stood, like a fool.
No, I was not a fool, A fool would never have felt my
pain; but would have been quite happy, and gone and
married Sir Thomas Appleton.
Did he think I was going to do that? I was sure he
was looking at me with keen observation, but he made
no remark until he said at last, with a very gentle voice



MY MOTHER AND I.             183
"You need not be unhappy, cousin; I think you are
sure to see your mother to-morrow."
"Yes."
"Good-by, then, till dinner-time, the last time I shall
see you for some days."
" Good-by."
Possibly he thought I did not care about his going, or
my mother's coming, or any thing else-except, perhaps,
Sir Thomas Appleton.
Without another word he turned away, and went
slowly down stairs. It was a slow step, always firm and
steady, but without the elasticity of youth. I listened to
it, tread after tread, and to the sound of the hall-door
shutting after it. Then I went back into my room again,
and oh, how I cried!




184.            MY MOTHER AND I.
CHAPTER X.
WE had a strangely quiet dinner that evening. There
were only we four - my grandfather, Cousin Conrad,
Mrs. Rix, and I; and, as usual when we were alone, my
grandfather, with courteous formality, took Mrs. Rix in
to dinner, and Cousin Conrad took me. I remember, as
we crossed the hall, he glanced down on my left hand,
which lay on his arm; but he did not pat it, as he sometimes did, and he treated me, I thought, less like a child
than he had ever done before.
For me-what shall I say? what can I tell of myself? It is all so long ago, and even at the time I saw
every thing through such a mist-half fright, half painwith a strange gleam of proud happiness shining through
the whole.
I believed then, I believe still, that to be loved is a
less thing than to love-to see that which is loveworthy,
and love it. This kind of attachment being irrespective of self, fears no change, and finds none. If it suffers, its sufferings come to it in a higher and more bearable shape than to smaller and more selfish affections.
As Miranda says of Ferdinand



MY MOTHER AND I.              185
" To be your fellow
You may deny me, but I'll be your servant,
Whether you will or no."
Aye, and not an unhappy service, though silent, as with
a human woman-not a Miranda-it needs must be. I
was happy, happier than I could tell, when I had managed that his seat at dinner should be nearest the firehe loved fires, summer and winter; and that, in the
drawing-room, the chair he found easiest for his hurt
shoulder to lean against should be in the corner he liked
best, where the lamplight did not strike against his eyes.
The idea of his wooing or marrying me, or marrying
any body, after what he had told me, would have seemed
a kind of sacrilege. But it did him no harm to be loved
in this innocent way, and it did me good-oh, such infinite good! That quiet dinner-hour beside him, listening
to his talk with my grandfather, which he kept up, I noticed, with generous pertinacity, so that nobody might
trouble me; the comfort of being simply in the room
with him, able to watch his face and hear the tones of
his voice-how little can I tell of all this, how much can
I remember! And I say again, even for a woman, to
love is a better thing than to be loved.
Therefore, girls need not blush or fear, even if, by
some hard fortune, they find themselves in as sad a position as I.
When Mrs. Rix fell asleep, as she always did when we




186             MY MOTHER AND I.
were alone together after dinner, I sat down on the
hearth-rug, with her little pet spaniel curled up in my
lap, and thought, and thought, till I was nearly bewildered.
Neither she nor any one had named Sir Thomas Appleton. Nobody had taken the slightest notice of what
had happened since morning, or what was going to happen to-morrow, except that in Mrs. Rix's manner to me
there was a slight shade of added deference, and, in my
grandfather's, of tenderness, as if something had made
me of more consequence since yesterday. For Cousin
Conrad, he was just the same. Of course, to him, nothing that had occurred made any difference.
Sometimes the whole thing seemed like a dream, and
then I woke up to the consciousness of how true it all
was, and of the necessity for saying and doing something
that might end it. For if not, how did I know that I
might not be dragged unwittingly into some engagement, some understood agreement that might bind me
for life, when I only wanted to be free-free to think,
without sin, of one friend-the only man in the world
in whom I felt the smallest interest —free to care for
him, to help him if he ever needed it-to honor and love
him always.
This was all. If I could only get rid of that foolish
Sir Thomas, perhaps nobody else would ever want to
marry me, and then I could go back into the old ways,




MY MOTHER AND I.             187
externally at least, and nobody would ever guess my secret, not even my mother. For I had lately felt that
there was something in me which even she did not understand, a reticence and strength of will which belonged
not to the Dedmans, but the Picardys. Often, when I
looked into his eyes, I was conscious of being, in character, not so very unlike my grandfather.
Therefore, nobody could force me or persuade me
into any marriage —I was sure of that; and sitting in
front of the fire-we had fires still, for Cousin Conrad's
sake-idly twisting little Flossy's ears, I tried to nerve
myself for every thing.
Alas! not against every thing; for when the two gentiemen came in, and behind them a third, it was more
than I could bear. To my despair, I began blushing
and trembling so much that people might fancy I actually loved him.
But, oh! how I hated him -his handsome face, his
nervous, hesitating manner!
"I have to apologize. The General brought me in,
just for five minutes, to say how sorry I was not to be
able to pay my respects to Mrs. Picardy. To-morrow,
perhaps to-morrow —"
" We shall all be most happy to see you to-morrow,"
said my grandfather, with grave dignity, and, turning to
Mrs. Rix, left Sir Thomas to seat himself on a chair by
my side.




188             MY MOTHER AND I.
I suppose I ought to have been grateful. Every girl
ought to feel at least gratefully to the man that loves
her. But I did not; I disliked, I almost loathed him.
Pardon, excellent, kindly, and very fat baronet, whom
I meet every year, when you come up to London with a
still handsome Lady Appleton and three charming Miss
Appletons, who are all most polite to me  pardon!
Every thing is better as it is; both for you and for me.
It was a wretched wooing. Sir Thomas talked nervously to my grandfather, to Cousin Conrad, to every
body but me, who sat like a stone, longing to run away,
yet afraid to do it. For now and then the General cast
on me a look of slight annoyance —if so courteous a
gentleman could ever look annoyed; and Mrs. Rix came
and whispered to me not to be "frightened."  Frightened, indeed! At what? At a creature who was more
than indifferent — absolutely detestable - to me, from
the topmost curl of his black hair to the sole of his
shining boots. He must have seen this; I wanted him
to see it. Yet still he stayed on, and on, as if he would
never go.
When at last he did, and I faced the three with whom
I had lived so happily all these weeks-the three who
knew every thing, and knew that I knew they knew it
-it was a dreadful moment.
"I think we had better retire," said my grandfather,
rather sternly. "Conrad, I want you for a few minutes.




MY MOTHER AND I.            189
And Mrs. Rix, you who are accustomed to the ways of
society, will perhaps take the trouble to explain to my
granddaughter that-that-"
"I understand, General. Rely upon me," said Mrs.
Rix, mysteriously.
And then, with the briefest good-night to me, my
grandfather left the room.
Mrs. Rix, having her tongue now unsealed, made the
most of her opportunity. How she did talk! What
about, I very dimly remember, except that it was on the
great advantage of being married young, and to a person of wealth and standing. Then she held out to me
all the blessings that would come to me on my marriage
— country house, town house, carriages, horses, dresses,
diamonds-the Appleton diamonds were known all over
the county. In short, she painted my future couleur
de rose, only it seemed mere landscape-painting, figures
omitted, especially one figure which I had heretofore considered most important of all-the husband.
What did I answer? Nothing-I had nothing to say.
To speak to the poor woman would have been like two
people talking in different languages. Besides, I despised
too much all her arguments, herself also — aye, in my
arrogant youth I actually despised her-poor, good-natured Mrs. Rix, who only desired my happiness. If her
notion of happiness were not mine, why blame her? As
I afterward learned, she had had a hard enough life of




190             MY MOTHER AND I.
her own, to make her feel now that to secure meat,
drink, and clothing of the best description for the whole
of one's days, was, after all, not a bad thing.
But I? Oh! I could have lived on bread and water;
I could have served on my knees; I could have given
up every luxury, have suffered every sorrow-provided
it were myself alone that suffered-if only I might never
have parted from some one-not Sir Thomas Appleton.
Mrs. Rix talked till she was tired, and then, quite satisfied, I suppose, that silence meant acquiescence, and no
doubt a little proud of her own powers of rhetoric, she
bade me a kind good-night, and went up stairs.
I crouched once more on the hearth-rug, without even
the little dog, feeling the loneliest creature alive. Not
crying-I was past that-but trying to harden myself
into beginning to endure. " V'incit qui patitur," my
mother's favorite motto, to me had as yet no meaning.
I had had such a happy life, with almost nothing to endure. Now I must begin-I must take up my burden
and bear it, whatever it might be. And I must bear
it alone. No more-ah! never any more —could I run
to my mother, and lay my grief in her arms, and feel
that her kiss took away almost every sting of pain. At
least, so I thought then.
I tried to shut my eyes on the far future, and think
only of to-morrow. Then I must inevitably speak to my
grandfather, and ask him to give Sir Thomas a distinct




,.''l, l , -
7       Z    -
"I crouched once more on the hearth-rug."








MY MOTHER AND I.             193
No. If further information were required, I must say
simply that I did not love him, and therefore could not
marry himn; and keep to that. Nobody could force out
of me any thing more; and all reasonings and persuasions I must meet with that stony silence, easy enough toward ordinary persons, whom I cared as little for as for
Mrs. Rix. But with my mother? —I felt a frantic desire, now, that every thing should be over and done before my mother came. Then she and I would return to
the village together, and go back to our old life-with
a difference-oh, what a difference!
It was not wholly pain. I deny that. Miserable and
perplexed as I was, I felt at intervals content, glad-nay,
proud. I had found out the great secret of life; I was
a child no more, but a woman, with a woman's heart.
When I thought of it, I hid my face, a burning face,
though I was quite alone, yet I had no sense of shame.
To be ashamed, indeed, because I had seen the best, the
highest, and loved it! Mrs. Rix had said, apropos of
my "shyness," that of course no girl ought to care for
any man until he asked her. But I thought the angels,
looking down into my poor heart, might look with other eyes than did MIrs. Rix.
So I was not ashamed. Not even when the door suddenly opened, and Cousin Conrad himself came in. I
sprang up, and made believe I had been warming myself at the fire —that was all.
I




194             MY MOTHER AND I.
"I beg your pardon, Elma, but your grandfather sent
me here to see if you had gone to bed."
"I was just going. Does he want me "
CC No."
Conrad was so quiet that I perforce grew quiet
too, even when he came and sat down by me on the
sofa.
"Have you a few minutes to spare?  Because the
General asked me to speak to you about a matter which
you must surely guess. Shall I say my few words now,
or put them off till morning?"
" Say them now."
For I felt that whatever was to happen had best
happen at once, and then be over and done.
Our conversation did not last very long, but I remember it, almost word for word, even to this day. Throughout, he was his own natural self —calm, gentle, kind.
I could see he had never the slightest idea he was
wounding me, stabbing me deep down to the heart with
such a tender hand.
"I suppose you know," he said, "what I am desired
to speak to you about.?"
"I think I do."
"And I hope you know also that I should not take
the liberty —brotherly liberty though it be, for I feel to
you like an elder brother-if the General had not expressly desired it, and if I were not afraid of any excite



MY MOTHER AND I.             195
ment bringing on a return of his illness. You would be
very sorry for that."
"Yes."  Yes and No were all the words I found myself capable of answering.
"Your grandfather is, as you perceive, very proud of
you-fond of you, too. In his sort of way, he has set
his heart upon your making what he calls a good marriage. Now, Sir Thomas Appleton-"
I turned and looked him full in the face. I wished
to find out how far he spoke from his heart, and how far
in accordance with his duty and my grandfather's desire.
" Sir Thomas Appleton is not a brilliantly clever man,
nor, in all things, exactly the man I should have expected would please you; but he would please almost
any girl, and he is thoroughly good, upright, and gentlemanly. In worldly advantages this is, as your grandfather and Mrs. Rix say" (he slightly smiled), "a very'good' marriage indeed. Nor, I think, would your mother disapprove of it, nor need you do so, for her sake.
You will be married sometime, I suppose; she knows
that. This marriage would secure to her a home for
life, in the house of a son-in-law who I doubt not would
be as good a son to her as he always was to his own
mother. Elma, are you listening 2"
Of course I was! I heard every word-took in with
a cruel certainty that if I said " Yes," it would make
every body happy, most likely Cousin Conrad too.




196             MY MOTHER AND I.
"You wish me, then - you all wish me -to marry
Sir Thomas Appleton, whether I care for him or not?"
He noticed the excessive bitterness of my tone. "No,
you mistake. In fact, I must be in some mistake too.
I thought, from what they said, that there was not the
slightest doubt you cared for him. At least that his
love was not unacceptable to you."
"Love!" I said fiercely. "IHe has danced with me
half-a-dozen times at a ball, and talked with me at two
or three evening parties. How can he love me? What
does he know of me? As much as I of him-which is
nothing, absolutely nothing. How dare he say he loves
me."
I stood with my heart throbbing and my eyes burning. I wished to do something-to hurt something or
somebody, I was so hurt and sore myself. And then I
fell a-crying; not violently, but the great tears would
roll down. I was terribly ashamed of myself. When I
looked up again, I am sure there must have been something in my eyes —he once told me I had deer's eyes —
not unlike a deer when the hunter stands over her with
his knife at her throat.
"Cousin Conrad, why do you persuade me to marry
your friend, when I don't love him, when I don't want
to marry him or any body, but only to go home to my
mother? Oh, why can't you leave us at peace together a We were so happy, my mother and I 9"




MY MOTHER AND I.             197
I broke into one single sob. At the moment my only
thought was to hide myself from him and all the world
in my mother's arms.
Cousin Conrad looked much troubled.  "There has
been some great blunder," he said, "and the General
must have been utterly misled. I am glad he sent me to
speak to you instead of speaking himself; for when he
finds out the truth, he will be, I fear, exceedingly-disappointed. And for poor Sir Thomas, was it such a very
unnatural and wicked thing to love you?" And he
went on speaking with great kindliness, touching kind.
liness, of the many good qualities of the man who wanted to marry me —me, simple Elma Picardy, without fortune or accomplishments, or ally thing to recommend
me, except perhaps my poor pretty face. A generous
love, at any rate, and I could perceive he thought it so.
It was very hard to bear. Even now, at this distance
of time, I repeat that it was very hard to bear. For a
moment, in an impulse of sharp pain, I felt inclined to
do as many a girl has done under like circumstancesto throw myself, just as I was, into the refuge of a good
man's love, where I should suffer no more, be blamed no
more; where all my secret would be covered over, and
nobody would ever know. And then I looked at the
noble, good face that from my first glance at it had
seemed distinct from every face I ever beheld, except
my mother's.




198             MY MOTHER AND I.
No, I could not do it. Not while he stood there, alone
in the world, with no tie that made it wrong for me to
think of him as I did. I must think of him. I must
love him. Though it killed me, I must love him, and
never dream of marrying any body else.
So I said, quite quietly, that I should be very much
obliged to him if he would take the trouble of telling
my grandfather the real state of the case, as I feared
this morning I did not make him understand. In truth
I was so terribly frightened.
"Poor child! But you are not afraid of me a You
know I would never urge you to do any thing that made
you unhappy? My dear Elma, of course you shall go
back to your mother. Believe me, very few of us are
worth giving up a mother for."
IIe patted my hand. Oh, why could I not snatch it
away? What a horrible hypocrite I did feel!
"And now let us see what can be done, for it is rather
difficult. I have to go away early to-morrow morning,
and shall probably be absent the whole week. In the
mean time it will never do for you and your grandfather
to talk this over together; he will get irritated with you."
"Oh let me go home to my mother!"
"She expressly said you were on no account to go,
but to wait till she came or sent for you."
This was odd, but I did not take it much into account
then. I was too perplexed and miserable.




MY MOTHER AND I.             199
"The only way that I can see is to tell your grandfather that some difficulties have arisen, and that I have
gone to Sir Thomas to beg him not to urge his suit until Mrs. Picardy arrives. The General will accept that
explanation, and think no more about it till the week is
ended. You know, Elma, your grandfather has one very
strong peculiarity: he does not like being'bothered."'
And Cousin Conrad smiled, just to win back my faint
smile, I thought, and make me feel that life was not
the dreadful tragedy which no doubt my looks implied
that I found it.
"This is your first pain, my child, but it will soon
pass over. I wish I could say the same for poor Appleton."
I hung my head. "Have I been to blame? Have I
said or done any thing amiss? No, I am sure I have
not. When one does not feel love, one can not show it."
"Some girls can, but not you.  No, it is simply a
misfortune, and not your fault at all. I will go and tell
him the truth. He will get over it."
"' I hope so." And I felt as if a load were taken off
my heart, all the oppressive love (which I did not very
much believe in), all the horses and carriages, houses,
servants, and diamonds. I was again Elmna Picardy,
with her own free heart in her bosom, her heart which
nobody wanted —at least nobody that could have itand her life before her, straight'and clear. Sad it might




200             MY MOTHER AND I.
be, a little dreary perhaps sometimes, but it was quite
clear.
So we sat together, Cousin Conrad and I, having arranged this unpleasant business  sat in our old way
over the fire, talking a little before we bade good-night.
" Isn't it strange," said he, "that I should always be
mixed up with other people's love affairs —I who have
long given up every thing of the kind for myself? One
would think I was a woman, and not a man, by the way
people confide in me sometimes."
I thought it was because of the curious mixture of
the woman in him, as there is in all good men, the very
manliest of them; but I only said it was "because he
was so kind."
"It would be hard not to be kind, seeing how sad the
world is, and how much every body has to suffer. You,
too, Elma —I don't expect you will find life a bed of
roses. But I hope it will be a reasonably happy life,
and not a lonely one like mine."
He paused a little, looking steadily into the fire, and
folding his hands one upon the other, after his habit.
"Not that I complain-all that is, is best. And no
doubt I could change my life if I chose, since, without
vanity, women are so good that I could probably get
some kind soul to take me if I wished it. But I do not
wish it. My health is so uncertain that I have no right
to ask any young woman to marry me, and I am afraid




MY MOTHER AND I.             201
I should not like an old one. So I'll go on as I do, and
perhaps finally die in the arms of a Sister of Charity."
He was not looking at me, or thinking of me; probably he was thinking of her who died in his arms, and
whom he would meet again one day. Suddenly he
turned round and seized both my hands, with his whole
aspect changed, the grave, composed, middle-aged face
looking almost young, the sallow cheeks glowing, the lips
quivering.
"I hope you will have a happy life. I hope you will
find some good man whom you love, who will love you
and take care of you-' wear you in his bosom,' as the
song says,'lest his jewel he should tine.' For underneath that beauty which you despise so, Elma, is a rich
jewel-your heart; and I am sure your mother knows
it. If you see her before I return, tell her I said so.
And good-night, my dear child."
He wrung my hands and quitted the room.
Miserable girl that I was! —until he named her, I
had wholly forgotten my mother!
I 2




202             MY MOTHER AND I.
CHAPTER XI.
I HAD wished, in
she ~~~~        telling my story, to: ~.......~     ~speak as little as pos-'=I         Iisible of myself and.1,:.,t Imy feelings, but it is
in life, whenpeoplethik1  s gdifficult to avoid it,
so vividly do I recall
the emotions of that
time.
If I were asked at
what period of a
woman's life she is
capable of the intensest love, the sharpest
grief, I should say it
[i.~~::'.......     was inher teens,when
she is supposed too young to understand either, and late
in life, when people think she ought to have done with
both. Chiefly because, when young, we can scarcely take
in the future; when old, we know that for us the future
exists no more. Therefore I am much more sorry for




MY MOTHER AND 1.             203
girls and middle-aged women, when "in love," as the
phrase is, than I am for those in the prime of life, to
whom that very fact brings strength and compensation.
Falling asleep that night, or rather next morning, for
it was daylight before I lost consciousness of myself and
what had happened to me within those thirty-six hoursI was a changed creature. Not a miserable creature at
all, not in the least broken-hearted, only changed.
I knew now that for me woman's natural lot, to which
my mother looked innocently forward, was not to be. I
should never marry, never give her the grandchildren
that she used to laugh about, or the son-in-law that was
to be the staff of her old age. For me, and for her
through me, these felicities were quite at an end. Yet I
did not grieve. I felt rather a kind of solemn contentment, a peaceful acceptance of every thing; my lot, if
not happy in the ordinary-sense, would be very blessed,
for I should never lose him-he would never marry; nobody was likely ever to be a nearer friend to him than I.
And I might, in my own humble way, come very near
to him. The chances of life were so many, that to a
faithful heart, continually on the watch to do him good
or to be of use to him, innumerable opportunities might
arise. Nay, even if I were quite passive, never able to
do any thing for him, I might still watch him from a
distance, glory in his goodness, sympathize in his cares,




204             MY MOTHER AND I.
and feel that I belonged to him in some far-off way that
nobody knew of, to the end of my days.
That sad word he had let fall about the end of his
days being so uncertain did not affect me much. At
my age, to one who has never come near it, death seems
merely a phantom, often more beautiful than sad-a
shadow that may fall upon others, but does not touch
ourselves. To me, with my heart full of new-born love,
death seemed a thing unnatural and impossible. I never
remember thinking of him and it together, no more than
if he had been immortal, as to me he truly was.
Thus, after our conversation that night, I was quite
happy-happier than I had ever been in my life before.
My feeling was, in a dim sort of way, almost that of a
person betrothed-betrothed to some one who had gone
to a far country, or whom she could not possibly marry;
yet having a sense of settled peace, such as girls never
have whose hearts are empty and their destinies uncertain. Mine was, I believed, fixed forever; I had no
need to trouble about it any more.
And though I was so young, not yet eighteen, what
did it matter?  My grandmother was married at eighteen. So in a sense was I. I took one of my mother's
rings (the very few she possessed she had given me when
I left her) and placed it on the third finger; now nobody
need attempt to marry me any more.
Three days passed by —three perfectly quiet days. My




MY MOTHER AND I.             205
grandfather was not well, and kept his rooms. Mrs. Rix
never said a word to me about Sir Thomas Appleton, or
any thing. She was a little distant and cold, as if I had
somehow done a foolish or naughty thing, and thereby
made myself of much less value than I was a few days
before; but that was all the difference I found in her.
It was Cousin Conrad, I knew, who had smoothed matters down for me, even when absent, though how he
managed it I never knew.
The letter I had expected from my mother did not
come, nor she herself either. It surprises me now to remember how calmly I took this, and how easily I satisfied myself that, being quite unaware of the reason she
had been sent for, she was waiting patiently till my
grandfather should send for her again. Also, though
I watched the post daily, with an anxiety that I tried
hard to conceal, it was not entirely for my mother's letters.
Cousin Conrad had said that he should probably send
me a line from London. A letter from him-a bit of
his own handwriting, and for me! No wonder I waited for it, and rejoiced in it when it came, with a joy the
reflected shadow of which lingers even now.
The merest line it was:
" DEAR CousiN ELMA,-Tell your mother I have procured the books she wanted, and hope to bring them to




206             MY MOTHER AND I.
her next week, if she is not with you, as I trust she is.
No more, for I am very busy, but always
"Your affectionate friend,
" CONRAD PICARDY."
My "affectionate friend!"  It was enough, enough to
make my life happy until the end. So I believed then;
perhaps I do still. The heart of life is the love that is
in it, and the worthiness of the person loved.
I wrote to my mother, giving Cousin Conrad's message, and scolding her gayly for not having come or
written. I said if she did not appear to-morrow, I should
most certainly come and see her. Only come and see
her; I did not suggest coming home for good. I reasoned with myself it would be so very much better for
her to come here.
All my happy dreams revived, all my plans concerning her and him, and how they would care for one another, and I for them both. As to myself, I must try to
nlake myself worth caring for; try to cultivate my mind,
and even to make the most of my outside beauty, which
he had told me I "despised."  He did not; he liked
beautiful people, and owned it. Was not Agnes beautiful, and, as Mrs. Rix once said, just a little like me?
Once or twice, by ingeniously guiding the conversation, I had got Mrs. Rix to talk of Agnes; for I loved
her almost as if she had been alive-loved them both to



MY MOTHER AND I.             207
gether, for, in a human sense, both were equally distant
from. me-distant, yet so near. The thought of him was
now never absent from me for a single minute, not displacing other thoughts, but accompanying them like an
under-current of singing birds or murmuring streams;
or, rather, it was most like what I have heard nursing
mothers say when they went to sleep with a baby in their
arms: they were never afraid either of harming or forgetting it, because, waking or sleeping, they were always
conscious it was there.  So was I.  My last sigh of
prayer at night was for him; my first feeling in the
morning was how bright and happy the world seemed,
since he was in it! A world without him, a day in
which I could not wake up to the thought of him, appeared now incredible and impossible.
I know there are those who will smile, and call such
a love, such a worship rather, equally incredible and impossible. I do not argue the point. That it was a truth
my life has proved.
The third day after that day —so full of startling pain,
yet ending in solemn content-I was sitting peacefully
sewing in my bedroom, whither, on any excuse, I was
glad to creep. To be alone was the greatest bliss I knew.
My watch, ticking on the table beside me, was the only
sound that broke the quietness. I looked tenderly at its
pretty white face, and thought of Cousin Conrad's mother,
and what a happy woman she must have been, and how
I would have loved her had I known her.




208             MY MOTHER AND I.
Then, seeing it was near post-time, I listened, but not
anxiously. It was unlikely he would write again before
he came back on the following Wednesday, three days
hence. Then he would be sure to come. One of his
characteristics was exceeding punctuality and dependableness. If he had promised to do a certain thing at a
certain time, you might rely upon him that no whim, no
fancy, no variable change of plan, nothing, in short, but
inevitable necessity, would prevent his doing it. Down
to the smallest trifles, he was the most conscientious person I ever knew. Once when I told him so he laughed,
and said, "Life was so full of work that if one did not
take some trouble to make it all fit in together, like the
wheels of a watch, the whole machinery soon went
wrong."
But I am wandering from my actual story-wandering away to linger over this picture of a perfect life.
For his was an almost perfect life. Some women's destiny is to love down, excusingly, pityingly. Thank God!
mine was to love up.
I sat thinking of him, and wondering how he had settled that troublesome business in London which he had
told me of-other people's business, of course-sat as
happy as could be, as unconscious of the footstep of coming sorrow as (mercifully, I often think) we generally
are until it knocks at our very door. Thus, for the second time, under Mrs. Rix's fingers it knocked at mine.




MY MOTHER AND I.             209
"Come down at once to the General; he has got a
letter."
"From my mother 2" But though I said " my mother," I thought not of her alone, and if I turned sick with
dread, my fear was not wholly on her account.
" No, my poor dear girl, not exactly your mother. The
doctor-"
"Oh, she is ill! she is ill!"  And pushing Mrs. Rix
aside, I ran down stairs like lightning and burst into my
grandfather's room. He gave me the letter at once.
My darling mother! Her week of silence, her not
coming to Bath, as well as her anxiety to prevent my
coming home, were now fully accounted for. Small-pox
had been very much about in the village, and at last she
had caught it-not dangerously, the doctor said hers was
a mild case; still she had been very ill, and it would be
some time yet before she was able to write. He wrote,
by her desire, to my grandfather, explaining all, and entreating that I should be kept from coming to her. She
had all the care she needed-himself, Mrs. Golding, and
a hospital nurse -and nothing must be risked for her
child. On no account was I to come near her.
" Cruel! cruel!" sobbed I, till I met my grandfather's
look of amazement. "No, it is not cruel; it is just like
herself-just what she always told me she would do in
such a case. She used to say that she should have lived
alone but for me, and she could die alone, even without




210             MY MOTHER AND I.
one sight of me, rather than harm me. Oh, mother!
mother!"
I think my grandfather was touched, and that if he
bore any grudge against me in the matter of Sir Thomas
he forgot it now. His tone and manner were extremely
kind.
" Comfort yourself, my dear; you see all has gone well
so far; Mrs. Picardy is apparently out of danger, and no
doubt will soon be convalescent. She was quite right to
act as she did; I respect her for it, and shall tell the doctor so, desiring him to pay her all attention, and send
news of her every day."
" News every day!"  For, in spite of all my mother's
prohibitions, I had no thought but how fast I could get
ready, and, imploring for once to have the carriage, go
home immediately.
"Yes, every day, or every other day, as he says it is a
mild case," continued my grandfather, looking a little
wearied of my tears; "and if Mrs. Rix could suggest
any thing to send her-wine or jelly, perhaps —provided
we run no risk of infection. Pardon me, but I have a
great horror of small-pox. In my young days it was an
actual scourge. Two young ladies I knew had their prospects blighted for life by it; but your excellent mother
is neither very young nor-"
"She is beautiful-beautiful to me!" cried I, indignantly. "She is every thing that is sweet and precious




MY MOTHER AND I.             211
to me. Oh, if she had only told me she was ill-if I
could have gone to her days ago!"
"You do not mean to say you are going now?'
Had I meant it? I can not tell. I was silent.
" Such a step," my grandfather continued, " would be
most imprudent. She herself forbids it, and I respect
her for doing so. You could not benefit her, and you
might destroy your prospects for life."
Destroy my prospects for life! Probably because he,
too, considered that my face was my fortune, and the
small-pox might spoil me and prevent my being married
by some other Sir Thomas Appleton! That thought settled my mind at once.
I said, with a quietness that surprised myself, considering the storm of grief and rage within me, "I do not
care for my prospects. Since it is for my sake only that
my mother forbids my going to her, I mean to disobey
her and go."
Then, for the first time, I saw what my grandfather
could be when he was contradicted. Peace be to him!
I had rather not remember any thing he said, nor recall
the expression of his noble and handsome old face, as I
saw it just then. He must, as I found out afterward,
have built many hopes and plans upon poor me, the last
of his direct line, and it was hard to have them disappointed.
"You will understand one thing," said he at last, his




212             MY MOTHER AND I.
wrath turning from a red into a white heat, equally powerful and more dangerous, "when you quit this house
against my will, you quit it forever. All that I mean
to give you I shall leave to your Cousin Conrad. You
hear me?"
"Oh yes!" And I was so glad!-glad that he should
have all, and I nothing; that in any way my loss should
be his gain. But the next minute I heard something
more.
" Now, Elma, I will detain you no longer. If you
have your vexations, I have mine. Only this morning
Conrad writes to tell me he is going back to India immediately."
I have heard people, who have suffered sudden anguishes, say that it is like a gun-shot wound, which at
first does not hurt at all. The struck man actually
stands upright a minute, sometimes with a smile on his
face, before he drops. So it was with me.
Had my grandfather seen me, I believe there would
have been nothing to see; but he put his hand over his
face, and spoke querulously rather than angrily.
"So make up your mind-if any woman ever could
make up her mind. Stay, and I will send daily for news
of your mother. Go, and though it is a fool's errand, my
carriage shall take you there in safety. But, remember,
you do not return. Adieu now. In an hour let me have
your decision."




MY MOTHER AND I.             213
I-e rose, and bowed me out of his study with cold politeness-me, a poor girl whose mother was dying!
But I did not believe that; indeed, I must have accepted blindly the doctor's statement that it was a mild
case, and the worst over, and I must have deluded my
conscience in the most extraordinary way as to the sin
of disobeying my grandfather, as well as my mother.
Still, looking back, I can pity myself. It was a hard
strait for a poor girl to be in, even without that other
thing, which nobody knew of.
But I knew it. I —the inner me-was perfectly well
aware that my worst struggle was with another pang,
and that the difficulty of choice sprang from quite another motive than the dread of vexing my grandfather,
or even of saving myself-my young life and my pretty
face-which had, nevertheless, grown strangely dear to
me of late.
If I went back to my mother, and Cousin Conrad
went to India in a month, I should not see him again —
perhaps never in this world. For even if he wished to
come to bid me good-by, my grandfather would prevent
it. I, too, perhaps. Of course I should treat him exactly as my mother had treated me, and shut the door of
our infected house upon him, even though it broke my
heart. Therefore, if I went away to-day, I should never
look upon his face, never hear the sound of his voicenever any more!




214             MY MOTHER AND I.
Oh, my God! my God!
I believe I did instinctively cry out that upon him,
conscious for the first time in my brief life that he has
it in his power to take away the desire of our eyes at a
stroke. My mother-Cousin Conrad-I might lose them
both. Nay, by holding to one I should infallibly lose
the other. What must I do?
I did that which we are all so prone to do-I temporized. I said to myself that for a girl like me to fly in
the face of her grandfather and her mother was very
wrong; that if I literally obeyed them, whatever followed, they could not blame me. At any rate, I would
obey till Wednesday, when I should see Cousin Conrad,
and could ask him, whose judgment of right and wrong
was so clear and firm, what I ought to do.
Oh, sad sophistry! trying with vain arguments to reason myself into doing what I wanted to do, following the
compulsion of an emotion so overwhelming, an agony so
sharp and new, that I could not comprehend it or myself. Even with my mother in my heart all the timewretched about her, longing to go and take care of herI felt that at all risks~ at all costs, I must stay and look
on that other face-the only face that ever came between me and hers-just once more.
Within an hour I knocked at my grandfather's door,
and told him I would stay, at any rate, for one day
more  I dared not say two days, lest he might guess




MY MOTHER AND I.             215
why. But no, he seemed almost to have forgotten what
I came about till I reminded him.
"Certainly, certainly; we will send a messenger off
at once to inquire, and I hope your mother will be quite
well soon; she is sure to agree with me that you have
acted wisely. And for myself, I am much gratified by
your remaining with me. When Conrad is gone, I shall
have only you left to be a comfort to my old age."
He patted my hand almost with tenderness. Oh, what
a hypocrite I felt!
Most of those two days I spent in his study. He seemed to like to have me, and I liked to be there. It was
easier to busy myself in doing things for him than to sit
with my hands before me, thinking or listening to Mirs.
Rix's terrible flow of talk. Poor woman, she was so
torturingly kind to me-helped me pack up the basket
of good things, giving strict injunctions that it should be
dropped outside the door, and that the messenger should
on no account go in. She hovered over me while 1
wrote the letter that was to accompany it, sympathizing
with my torrents of tears, yet telling me no end of stories
about families she knew, who had been swept off wholesale by the small-pox, or made hideous for life.
" If it were any thing but small-pox, my dear, I should
say, go at once. A mother is a mother, you know.
When mine was in her last illness, I sat up with her
night after night for three weeks. The last forty-eight




216             MY MOTHER AND I.
hours I never left her for an instant —not till the breath
was out of her body. I closed her eyes my own self, my
dear, and thankful, too, for she had suffered very much."
"Oh, be quiet-be quiet!" I almost screamed; and
then the good woman kissed me, with her tears running
down, and was silent-for about three minutes.
Her next attempt to change the subject was concerning "poor Major Picardy" and his sudden return to India, wondering why he went, when he could so easily
have retired on half-pay or sold out; in the course of
nature it could not be very long before he came in
for the Picardy estate. "The property he must have;
though, as I told you, your grandfather can leave the
ready money to any body else-you, perhaps, since he is
much vexed at the Major's departure. Besides, India
doubles the risk of his health, and if he die, where is
the estate to go to — not that he is likely ever to be an
old man. Still, he might pull on with care, poor fellow!
for a good many years. But I suppose he thinks it does
not much matter whether his life is long or short, seeing
he has neither wife nor child. He said as much to me
the other day."
I did not believe that-it was contrary to his reticent
character; but I believed a great deal. And I listened
-listened as a St. Sebastian must have listened to the
whiz of each arrow that struck him-until I felt something like the picture of that poor young saint in the




MY MOTHER AND I.             217
National Gallery, which my mother and I used to stop
and look at. She was rather fond of pictures in the old
days.
Ah, those days! Six months ago I would no more
have thought of keeping away from her when she was
ill, had she- commanded it ever so, than of not pulling
her out of a river for fear of wetting my hand! Sometimes, strangely as I was deceiving myself about the
duty of obedience, and so on, there flashed across me a
vivid sense of what a cowardly, selfish wretch I was,
even though my motive was no foolish fear for my
pretty face, or even my poor young life, the whole preciousness of which hung on other lives, which might or
might not last.
Once, on the Tuesday evening, when I was taking a
walk with Mrs. Rix, who had benignly given up a cardparty; when the birds were singing their last sleepy
song, the sky was so clear and the earth so sweet, I had
such a vision of my mother lying sick in her bed, all
alone, perhaps neglected-at any rate without me beside
her, me, her own daughter, who knew all her little ways,
and could nurse her as no one else could-that a great
horror seized me. Had it not been night, I believe I
should have started off that minute and gone to her,
even had I walked the whole way.
With difficulty Mrs. Rix got me to go in and go to
bed-Mrs. Rix, the poor, dear woman whose arguments I
K




218             MY MOTHER AND I.
despised; yet I yielded, saying to myself, "It is only
twelve hours to wait."
Wait for what. The message from my mother or
the one more look at Cousin Conrad's face, the one last
clasp of his hand, and then it would all be shut up in
my heart forever-the love he did not care for, the
grief he could not see. I should just bid him good-by,
an ordinary good-by, and go back to my mother, to begin again the old life —with a difference. But the difference only concerned myself. Nobody else should be
troubled by it. If I were careful, even she should not
find it out.
So, with a kind of stolid patience and acceptance of
whatever might happen, without struggling against it
any more, I laid me down to sleep that Tuesday night,
and woke up on Wednesday morning-a very bright,
sunshiny morning, I remember, it was-much as those
wake up who, in an hour or two, are to be led outside
their prison walls to feel the sunshine, to see the blue
sky, just for a few minutes, and then, in their full young
strength, with every capacity of enjoyment, " aimer et
d'etre aim6" (as wrote a young Frenchman, Roussel,
who thus perished, in the terrible later revolution that
I have lived to see), be placed blindfold against a wall
and-shot.




MY MOTHER AND I.             219
CHAPTER XII.
I SPENT most of the Wednesday morning in my grandfather's study, reading aloud his daily newspapers, writing some letters, and doing other little things for him
which Cousin Conrad was used to do.
"But you may as well begin to learn to help me;
there will be nobody else to do it when he is gone," said
the old man sadly.
One quality, which my mother used to say was the
balance-weight that guided all others, she often thought
me sorely deficient in —self-control. I think I began
to learn it during these last days, and especially that
Wednesday morning.
Several times my grandfather praised me quite affectionately for my " quietness." " One might suppose you
were two or three and twenty, my dear, instead of not
yet eighteen."
Not yet eighteen! What a long, dreary expanse of
life seemed before me, if I took after him and the family (the Picardys, save during this last generation, have
been a long-lived race), and attained to the mysterious
threescore years and ten! Yet, in a sort of way, he was
happy still.




220             MY MOTHER AND I.
But I-I shivered at the prospect, and wondered how
I should ever bear it all.
Now I wonder no more. I think it will be so. Like
him, I shall probably live to extreme old age; the last
leaf on the tree: very lonely, but not forlorn. Yet I
accept the fact, and do not complain. God never leaves
any life without sunshine while it can find its sunshine
in his smile.
Cousin Conrad had not said what time he should arrive, and I thought every ring at the hall-bell was his.
When at last he came, it was without any warning. He
just walked in as if he had left us yesterday, and all
things were the same as yesterday.
" General! Cousin Elma! How very cosy you look,
sitting together!" And he held out a hand to each of us.
Then he sat down, and he and my grandfather fell
into talk at once about his going to India.
I would have slipped away, but nobody told me to go
away, or seemed to make any more account of me than
if I were a chair or a table. So I took up a book and
stayed. It would have been dreadful to have to go.
Even a few additional minutes in his presence was something. Of my own affairs nobody said a word, and for
the moment all remembrance of them passed from me.
I only sat in my corner and gazed and gazed.
He looked ill, and perhaps a shade graver than usual;
but the sweet expression of the mouth was unchanged,




MY MOTHER AND I.            221
and so was the wonderful look in the eyes, calm, faraway, heavenly, such as I have never seen in any human
eyes but his.
At that moment, aye, and many a time, I thought-if
I could just have died for him, without his knowing it!
died and left him happy for the rest of his life; yes,
even though it had been with some other woman-how
content I should have been!
My grandfather and he began talking earnestly. To
all the General's arguments he answered very little.
"No, I have no particular reason for going-at least,
none of any consequence to any body but myself. As
you say, perhaps I am weary of idleness, and there lies
work which I can do, and come back again in a few
years."
"To find me in my grave."
"Not you; you will be a hale octogenarian, and that
young lady," turning to look at me, "will be a blooming young matron. By-the-bye, Cousin Elma, did you
give my message to your mother? I hope she is quite
well."
I could bear no more. I burst into violent sobs. He
came over to me at once.
"What is the matter? What has happened?" Then
in a whisper, " Surely, my little jest did not offend you?"
Evidently, he knew nothing; but my grandfather soon
told him all.




222             MY MOTHER AND I.
" What! her mother ill, and Elma still here?"
This was all he said. Not in any reproach or blame,
but in a kind of sad surprise. At once, as by a flash of
lightning, I saw the right and the wrong of things; how
I had acted, and what he must have thought of me for
so acting.
"She is here, because I would not allow her to go,"
said my grandfather, hastily and half apologetically, as
if he, too, had read Cousin Conrad's look. " Mrs. Picardy herself, with extreme good sense, forbade her coming. Think what a risk the girl would run. As a man
of the world, Conrad, you must be aware that with her
beauty-."
"Yes, I am aware of every thing; but still I say she
should have gone."
It was spoken very gently, so gently that even my
grandfather could not take offense. For me, all I did
was frantically to implore Cousin Conrad to help me to
persuade my grandfather to let me go. I would run
any risks. I did not care what happened to myself at
all.
"I know that, poor child. Hush! and I will try to
arrange it for you."
He put me into an arm-chair, very tenderly, and stood
by me, holding my hand, as a sort of protection, if such
were needed. But it was not. Either my grandfather
had seen his mistake, or did not care very much about








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N!
i''~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~  ",,.ZSPT. 
I as it fancy, or did I ethe kid hand closed tei
I''I~ii~i~I! iii ifeel Ih er over mine?"i




MY MOTHER AND I.             225
the matter either way, so that he was not "bothered;"
or else-let me give the highest and best motive to him,
as we always should to every body —before many more
words had been said, he felt by instinct that Cousin Conrad was right.
"Elma has shown her good feeling and obedience to
me by not going at first," said he with dignity. "Now,
if you think it advisable, and if, as I suppose, the risk is
nearly over-"
" No, it is not over. Do not let us deceive ourselves."
Was it fancy, or did I feel the kind hand closed tighter
over mine? "For all that, she ought to go."
At that moment Mrs. Rix came in, looking very much
troubled. She had met the messenger returning with
the news that "Mrs. Picardy was not quite so well today."
"Order the carriage at once," said my grandfather,
abruptly.
Then there was a confused hurrying of me out of the
room, packing up of my things, talking, talking-poor,
kind Mrs. Rix could do nothing without talking!-but,
in spite of all the haste, at the end of an hour I was still
standing in my bedroom, watching stonily every body
doing every thing for me. Oh, they were so kind, so
terribly kind, as people constantly are to those unto whom
they think something is going to happen; and they
gave me endless advice about nursing my mother and
K 2




226             MY MOTHER AND I.
saving myself-I who knew nothing at all about smallpox or any kind of illness, who had never in my life been
laid on a sick-bed or stood beside one. They were sorry
for me, I think; for I remember even the little kitchenmaid coming up and pressing a little bag of camphor
into my hand.
" Take care of yourself, miss; oh, do take care of your
pretty face," said she; but I paid no attention to her or
to any body.
The one person who did not come near me was Cousin
Conrad. I thought I should have had to go without
bidding him good-by, when I saw him standing at the
drawing-room door.
"Here, Mrs. Rix, I want to consult you."
And then he explained that he had fetched a doctor,
whose new theory it was that second vaccination was a
complete preservative against small-pox- that every
thing was ready to do it if I would consent.
"You will not refuse? You think only of your
mother. But I-we-must think also of you."
" Thank you," I said; " you are very kind." He could
not help being kind to any creature in trouble.
Without more ado I bared my arm. I remember I
wore what in those days was called a tippet and sleeves,
so it was easy to get at it; but when the doctor took out
his case of instruments I began to tremble a little.
" Will it hurt much — Not that I mind."  In truth, I




MY MOTHER AND I.             227
should not have minded being killed, with his hand to
hold by, and his pitying eyes looking on.
" Do not be frightened. It hurts no more than the
prick of a pin," said Cousin Conrad, cheerfully; "only
it leaves a rather ugly mark. Stop a minute, Doctor.
Mrs. Rix, push the sleeve a little farther up. Do not let
us spoil her pretty arm."
The doctor called for somebody to hold it.
" I will," he said, seeing Mrs. Rix looked frightened.
She said she could not bear the sight of the smallest
"surgical operation"  "Not that this is one. But if
it were," added he, with a look I have never forgotten, "I think I should prefer nobody to hurt you but
me."
There was a silent minute, and then the doctor paused.
"I forgot to ask if this young lady is likely to be in
the way of small-pox just at present, because, if so, vaccination might double the risk instead of lessening it.
She ought to keep from every chance of infection for
ten or twelve days."
I said, with strange quietness, " It is of no consequence-i must go. My mother may be dead in ten
or twelve days."
Cousin Conrad stopped the surgeon's hand. "If it be
so, what are we doing? In truth I hardly know what I
am doing. Let me think a moment."
I saw him put his hand to his head. Then he and the




228             MY MOTHER AND I.
doctor retired together, and talked apart. I sat still a
minute or two, and followed them.
" I can not wait-I must go."
"You shall go, poor child," said Cousin Conrad. He
was very white-long afterward I remembered this too
-but he spoke quietly, soothingly, as to a child. " Listen; this is the difficult question. If you are vaccinated,
and go at once to your mother, you have no chance of
escaping the disease; if you are not vaccinated afresh,
there is just a chance that the old protection may remain. He does not say you will escape, but you may.
Will you try it? If you must go, you ought to go at
once. Shall you go 2"
" Of course I shall."
He drew a deep breath. "I thought she would. Doctor, you see."
"She runs a great risk," said the old man, looking at
me compassionately.
"I know that-nobody better than I. Still she must
go. Come, Elina, and bid your grandfather goodby."
He drew my arm through his, and we went down
stairs together, Mrs. Rix following us. She was crying
a little-kind, soft-hearted woman! —but I could not cry
at all.
My grandfather, too, was very kind. "A sad departure, Elma. We shall all miss you very much, shall we




.1.*
INe dre~ my arm t/~rozl,~~~I! ~?is. I'I II
I I~~~~~~*1
"He drew my arm through his."








MY MOTHER AND I.            231
not, Conrad? Such a bit of young bright life among us
old folks!"
"Yes," said he.
" Good-by, my dear, and God bless you. Kiss me."
I did so, clinging to him as I had never clung to any
body except my mother. My heart was breaking. All
my cry now was to go to my mother. Indeed, the strain
was becoming so dreadful, minute by minute, that I was
longing to be away.
" Is any body going in the carriage with you?" said
my grandfather.
Eagerly I answered that I wanted nobody, I had rather
be alone; that I wished no one to come near our house,
or to run the slightest danger of infection. And then
they praised me, my grandfather and Mrs. Rix, for my
good sense and right feeling. One person only said
nothing at all!
Not till the very last moment, when I was in the carriage and he standing by it-standing bare-headed in
the sunshine, looking so old, so worn. And oh, what a
bright day it was! How happy all the world seemed,
except me.
"If I do not come with you, it is not from fear of infection. You never thought it was2"
" No."
"That is right. And now think solely of nursing your
mother and taking care of yourself. Take all the care
you can. You promise?"




232             MY MOTHER AND I.
" Yes."
"Then good-by, and God bless you, my dearest child."
He said that-those very words. Confused asI was,
I was sure of this.
A minute more, and I was gone. Gone away from
him, from the sound of his voice and the sight of his
face; gone away into darkness, anxiety, and pain. How
sharp a pain I did not even then sufficiently recognize.
For there was remorse mixed with it-remorse that,
in my passionate exaggeration of girlhood, felt to me
like "the worm that dieth not, the fire that is never
quenched." From the moment that the glamour passed
away, and I got into the old familiar scenes-even before I entered the village — the gnawing pain began.
There was no need of Mrs. Golding's bitter welcome" So, Miss Picardy, you're come at last, and high time
too!"-no need of her sarcastic answer that my mother
was " going on quite well, and perfectly well attended
to," to smite me to the very heart.
"Beg your pardon, miss, but as nobody expected you,
the parlor isn't ready; and of course you won't think of
going up stairs."
I never answered a word, but just began to feel my
way up the narrow staircase. After Royal Crescent,
how narrow and dark it seemed, and how close and
stuffy the whole house was! Yet here my mother had
been lying, alone, sick unto death, without me; while I




MY MOTHER AND 1.             233
-Oh me, oh me! would God ever forgive me?  She
would, I knew; but he? Or should I ever forgive myself?
I think the sharpest conscience-sting of all is that
which nobody knows of except one's self. Now no creature said to me a word of blame. Even Mrs. Golding,
after her first sharp welcome, left me alone; too busy to
take the slightest notice of me or my misdeeds. She
and all the house seemed absorbed in their nursing.
There could be no doubt how well my mother was loved,
how tenderly she had been cared for.
But I-I was made no more account of than a stock
or a stone.
" You can't go in," said Mrs. Golding, catching hold
of me just as I reached the familiar door. "Nobody
sees her but the nurse and me. And she doesn't want
you. She begged and prayed that we wouldn't tell you;
and when you was obliged to be told, that we'd keep
you away from her. Bless her, poor dear lady, she might
have saved herself that trouble."
I groaned in the anguish of my heart.
"' Hold your tongue, or she'll hear you. She can't see,
but her ears are sharp enough. For all she said about
your not being allowed to come, she's been listening,
listening every day."
"I must go in-I will go in."
"No, you won't, Miss Picardy."




234             MY MOTHER AND I.
And without more argument the old woman pushed
me into the little room beside my mother's, shut the
door, and set her back against it.
"Here you are, and here you may stop; for you're
not of the least good any where else in the house. I'm
sorry the rooms so small-after them at Royal Crescent
-and dull, for a young lady as has been going to dancing-parties and card-parties every night; but it's all we
can do for you just at present. By-and-by, when your
mother gets better, if she does get better, and God only
knows-"
But here even the hard old woman grew softer at the
sight of my despair.
Does any body know what it is-the despair of having forsaken a mother, and such a mother as mine?
In all her life she had never forgotten me, never
ceased to make me her first object, first delight; and
now, in her time of need, I had forgotten her, had put
her in the second place, had allowed other interests and
other enjoyments to fill my heart. And when it came
to the point, I had taken advantage of her generous love,
seized upon every feeble excuse to stay away from her,
left to strangers the duty of nursing her; aye, and they
had done it, while her own daughter had contented herself with mere superficial inquiries, and never' come near
her bedside.
This, let people pity and excuse me as they might



MY MOTHER AND I.             235
and Mrs. Golding, to soothe me, did make some kindly
excuses at last —was the plain truth of the matter.
However others might be deceived, I could not deceive
myself. If, as they hinted, my mother were to die, I
should never be happy again-never in this world.
And there I was, bound hand and foot as it were;
close to her, yet unable to go near her, or do any thing
for her; shut up in that tiny room, afraid to stir or
speak, lest she should find out I was there, which, in her
critical state, both the nurse and the doctor agreed might
be most dangerous. I spoke to them both, and they
spoke to me those few meaningless, encouraging words
that people say in such circumstances; and then they
left me, every body left me, to pass hour after hour in
listening for every sound within that solemn, quiet sickchamber.
All the day, and half of the night, I sat there, perfectly passive, resisting nothing, except Mrs. Golding's efforts
to get me to bed. " What was the use of my sitting up?
-I was no good to nobody."
Ah! that was the misery of it. I was "no good to
nobody!" And with my deep despair there mingled a
mad jealousy of all those who were any good, who were
doing every thing they could think of for my darling
mother, while I sat there like a stone.
Oh, it served me right —quite right. Every thing was
a just punishment, for-what a




236'MY MOTHER AND I.
I did not even ask myself what. I gave no name to
the thing-the joy or the pain-which had been at the
bottom of all. From the moment I had crossed this
threshold, my whole life at Bath seemed to pass awaylike a dream when one awakes-as completely as if it
had never been.




MY MOTHER IaD 1.             237
CHAPTER XIII.
re..- _....                ~ 1   "SLEEPING for sorrow."  Some people
know what that is,
especially when they
are  young;  they
1 know also how terrible is the waking.
About midnight I
had thrown myself
on the bed in my
clothes.  Just be__  Allfore dawn, a twitter- ing swallow outside:  awoke me, shivering. — m    y           e       with cold, wondering where I was, and
why I was still dressed. Then the whole truth poured
upon me like a flood.
After a while I gathered strength and confidence
enough to get up and listen. All was quiet in the next
room, dead quiet. Even the faint, slow stirring of the




238             MY MOTHER AND I.
fire, the last sound I had caught before falling asleep,
had ceased. Who was there? What was happening?
I opened my door noiselessly-the other door stood
ajar, so that I could look in. Every thing was halfdark; the fire had dropped into red embers; the nurse
sat beside it, asleep in her chair. The bed I could not
see, but I heard from it faint breathing, and now and
then a slight moan.
Oh, my mother! my mother!
She was saying her prayers-all alone, in the middle
of the night, with not a creature to love her or comfort
her; sick-dying, perhaps-dying without one sight of
me. She was saying to herself the words which, she
once told me, had been her consolation her whole life
through —" Our Father," and " Thy will be done."
My heart felt like to burst. But the self-control which
she had tried vainly to teach me, until God taught me in
a different way, stood me in good stead now. Hiding
behind the door, I succeeded in keeping myself perfectly
quiet.
By-and-by she called feebly for "some water to
drink," but getting no answer, turned over again witll
a patient sigh.
What should I do?-wake the nurse, or go to my
mother myself-I who had been so cruelly shut out
from her?.But what if, as they said, I did her harm?
I had had no experience whatever of sickness or sick



MY MOTHER AND I.              239
nursing. Suppose at the mere sight of me she should
get startled, excited. And then I remembered, almost
with relief, that she could not see me. The small-pox
had, as often happens, for the time being made her totally blind.
She called again upon the stupid, sleeping nursewell, poor woman, she had not been to bed for eight
nights!-and called in vain. Then I determined to risk
it. Stepping stealthily forward, I came beside the bed,
and looked at my darling mother. Oh, what a sight!
Once I heard a poor lady say, threatened with heartcomplaint," Thank God, it is a clean disease to die of!"
and the horror of so many of those illnesses which we
have to fight with and suffer from is that they are just
the contrary-so terribly painful both to the sick and
those about them. Small-pox is one of these.
My mother had it in a comparatively mild form; that
is, the eruption had not extended beyond the face and
head. Yet there she lay-she, once so sweet and pure
that kissing her was, I sometimes said, like kissing a
bunch of violets-one mass of unpleasantness, soreness,
and pain.
Wearily she moved her head from side to side, evidently not knowing where to lay it for ease, talking to
herself between whiles in a helpless, patient way, " Oh,
the long, long night! —Oh, I wish it was morning!Nurse, nurse! isn't there any body to give me a drink
of water?"




240             MY MOTHER AND I.
Then I hesitated no more. Ignorant as I was, and
half stupid with misery besides, I managed to lift her
up in the bed, and hold the glass to her lips with a perfectly steady hand, afterward rearranging her pillows,
and making her, she said, " so comfortable."  This I did
not once, but several times. Yet she never found me
out. She said, " Thank you, nurse," and seemed a little
surprised at not being answered; but that was all. Sickness was too heavy upon her to take much notice of any
thing. And then the nursing she had had was mere
mechanical doing of what was necessary, not caressingly,
not what a daughter's would have been. Poor darling!
as she lay back again in her patient darkness, not seeming even to expect any thing —not one soothing word or
touch-her poor hands folded themselves in the same
meek resignation.
" Pray go to your bed, nurse. I will try to go to sleep
again."
I kept silence. It was for her sake, and I did it; but
it was one of the hardest things I ever had to do in all
my life. Until morning I sat beside my mother, she
utterly unconscious of my presence, and I thinking of
nothing and nobody but her.
Yes, it was so. The sight of her poor face blotted out
entirely every other face-even his. This was the real
life-the dream-life was gone. As I sat there, quite
quiet now, not even crying silently, as at first I had done,




MY MOTHER AND I.            241
all that I said to myself was that vow which another
girl made-not to her own mother, only her mother-inlaw-" God do so to me, and more also, if aught but
death part thee and me."
I think I could have restrained myself, and managed
so cleverly that for hours my mother might never have
found me out, had not Mrs. Golding suddenly entered
the room with a flash of daylight, waking up the nurse,
and coming face to face with me as I sat, keeping watch
in her stead.
" Bless my soul, you here? Go away directly."
I said in a whisper, but with a resolution she could
not mistake, "'I shall not go away. I have been here
half the night. No one shall nurse my mother but me."
Sick people often take things much more quietly than
we expect. All things come alike to them; they are
surprised at nothing. My mother only said" Mrs. Golding, who is' it that you want to send away?
Who says she has been sitting with me half the night?
Was it my child?"
" Yes, mother darling, and you'll let me stay? I'll be
such a good nurse-and I'll never go to sleep at all."
She laughed —a little, low, contented laugh-and put
out her hand; then suddenly seemed to recollect herself,
and drew it back.
"You ought not to have come — I told you not to
come."
L




242             MY MOTHER AND I.
"It is too late now, for I have been here, as I said,
half the night; and didn't I make you comfortable 2"
"Oh, so comfortable! Oh, how glad I am to have
my child!"
This was all she said, or I. People do not talk much
under such circumstances. Even Mrs. Golding forbore
to blame or scold, but stood with the tea-cup in her hand
until a large tear dropped into it. Then she gave it up
to me, and disappeared.
The nurse followed her, a little vexed, perhaps; but
they both recovered themselves in time, and allowed me
to take my place beside my mother without much opposition. Truly I was, as they said, "a young, ignorant,
helpless thing," but they saw I tried to do my best, and
it was my right to do it.
So I did it, making a few mistakes, no doubt, out of
utter inexperience; but out of carelessness, never. My
whole mind was set upon one thing-how I could best
take care of my mother. Of those words which, when
uttered, had shot through me with such a sense of joy,
"Take care of yourself," I never once thought again, or
of him who had said them. For the first time in my
life, I learned the utter, absorption of a sick-room-how
every thing seems to centre within its four narrow walls,
and every thing in the world without seems to fade away
and grow dim in the distance. No fear of my forgetting my mother now.




MY MOTIIER AND I.           243
It was very painful sick-nursing, the most painful I
think I ever knew, and I have known much in my lifetime. The mere physical occupation of it put out every
other thought, leaving no single minute for either hopes
or fears. To keep stolidly' on, doing every thing that
could be done, day by day, and hour by hour-that was
all. As for dread of infection, or anxiety as to what
would happen next, to her or to me, I do not remember
even thinking of these things. Except that it was just
her and me, my mother and I, as heretofore, shut up together in that one room, with the eye of God looking
upon us-we uncertain what it would be his will to do;
whether, in any way, either by taking her and leaving
me, or healing her and smiting me-I deserved it! oh,
how intensely I sometimes felt that I deserved it!-he
would part mother and child.
He did it not. She slowly recovered, and by one of
those mysterious chances which now and then occur with
small-pox, I, though running every danger of it, never
took the disease. They all watched me —I could see
how they watched me, with a kind of anxious pity that
I never felt for myself; but day after day went by, and
still I kept perfectly well, able for all that I had to do,
never once breaking down either in body or mind. My
mother sometimes followed me about the room with a
tender content in her eyes.
"I used to wonder what sort of woman my child
would grow up-now I know."




244             MY MOTHER AND I.
We had " turned the tables," she and I; she was weak,
I strong. Naturally, illness made her a little restless
and querulous; I was always calm. In fact, as I told
her laughing once, she was the baby, and I the old
woman. Yes, that was the greatest change in me —I
began to feel so very old.
That did not matter-heaven had preserved my mother, and me too, though I had taken my life in my hand
to win or lose. It was saved. I was kept to fight on
and labor on all these years, and at last, I suppose, to be
laid in my coffin with the same face which, even to this
day, those who love me are pleased to call beautiful.
But my mother's face was changed, though she recovered; and when she really began to mend, more rapidly than any one expected, still the disease left its mark
upon her soft cheeks, her pretty neck and throat, round
which, when I was quite a big girl, my sleepy hand loved
to creep in babyish fashion. The expression of her dear
face could not alter, but her complexion, once fresh as a
child's, totally faded. When I left her, that day she
stood at the door, and watched the carriage drive away,
she had still looked young; when she rose up from her
sick-bed, she was almost an elderly woman.
Still, this also did not matter. People do not love
their mothers as knights their ladye-loves, or husbands
their wives, for the sake of their youth and beauty;
though I have known of chivalric devotion to a very




MY MOTHER AND I.              245
plain woman, and tender love to a wife both feeble and
old. When I got my mother once more down stairs, and
had her in my arms safe and sound, warm and alive,
I think no lover ever wept over his mistress more passionate, more joyful tears. Tier poor, faded face counted for nothing. Only to think, as I say, that she was
safe and alive —that I had fought for her with death,
and beaten him —that is, God had given me the victory.
For I was so young still, so full of life: I could not accept death, as we afterward learn to do, as coming also
from God's hand. The first day that my mother came
down stairs I sang my jubilate all over the house, and
ran about, half laughing, half crying, like a child.
Only for one day. Then began the weary time of
convalescence, sometimes better, sometimes worse; the
reaction of the household from the excitement of a dangerous illness, which is always trying, and apt to leave
folks rather cross.  Besides, there were all the purifications to begin at once, with us still in the house.
Poor Mrs. Golding! she was very good, more especially
when we considered she had lost through us her summer
lodgers; for it was now June. Yet for them to come
in was as impracticable as for my mother and me to
turn out.
"We must make it up to her in some way," said my
another with a sigh, beginning already to trouble herself
with domestic and financial anxieties, until she saw that




246             MY MOTHER AND I.
I would not allow it. I threatened her, if she still persisted in considering me a child, incapable of managing
any thing, that I would take the law into my own hands,
and treat her like a captive princess-bound in silken
chains, but firmly bound. At which she laughed, and
said I was "growing clever," besides tyrannical. But I
think when Mrs. Golding assured her I really had some
sense, and was managing matters almost as well as she
herself could, my mother was rather proud than otherwise.
Other things she also, from the feebleness of illness,
seemed to have let slip entirely. She scarcely made a
single inquiry about my grandfather, or any of them in
Bath. This was well, since it might have hurt her to
find out-as I accidentally did-that none of them had
sent to inquire; not even to the garden gate. But perhaps, on every account, this was best. And yet I could
not choose but think it rather strange.
Gradually we passed out of the mysterious, unnatural
half-life of the sick-room into the full, clear daylight
of common existence. Then we found out what two
changed creatures we were in many respects, but still,
ever and always, my mother and I.
We were sitting together in the parlor, that is, I was
sitting, busy at work, and she lying idle, as was our way
now. I had taken very much to my needle-the girl's
dislike, the woman's consolation. The doctor had just




MY MOTHER AND I.            247
been, and said our invalid was much better —quite able
to see any body, only people were afraid of infection
still; and besides there was nobody to come. But he
said half the village had inquired for us, and to one person in particular he had had to give or send a bulletin
every day.
Only after the doctor had gone there darted into my
mind the possibility as to who that person was. To
let go of one's friends is one thing, but to be forced to
feel that they have let you go, in an unkind way, and
that you can not think quite so well of them as you used
to do, is another and a much harder trial. As I said my
prayers that night, I added earnestly, " Thank God!"For what-He knew.
But neither that day nor the next did I let my mind
wander one minute from my darling mother, given back
to me from the very jaws of the grave. Oh, what a girl
can be to a mother-a grown-up girl who is gaining the
sense and usefulness of womanhood! And oh, what a
mother is to a daughter, who now learns fully to feel her
value, and gives her all the devotion of a lover and all
the duty of a child! More especially if no duty is exacted. My mother and I never even mentioned the
word. But I loved her-God knows how I loved hereven then and through it all.
My needle-work done, I took to balancing our weekly
accounts, which cost me as much trouble as if I had




248             MY MOTHER AND I.
been Chancellor of the Exchequer, and when they were
done, began to tell my mother of a good suggestion of
Mrs. Golding's-that we should go to some sea-side lodging she knew of for a week or two, while she got the
rooms cleaned and repapered; then we could come back
and remain here the whole summer.
"She does not want to part with us; she has grown
so fond of you, mother."
" But she will want more rent, and how can we pay?"
"I can pay!" said I, with pride. "I could not tell
you till now, darling, but the doctor wants me to teach
his children, as soon as ever we are out quarantine. He
says, politely, such a good nurse will make a good governess, which does not follow. But I'll try. Do you
consent?"
She sighed. She too might have had other dreams;
but they had passed away like mine. She accepted the
fact that I must be a governess, after all.
We kissed one another, and then, to prevent her dwelling on the subject, I began the innocent, caressing nonsense which one gets into the habit of during sickness,
when the patient's mind is too feeble, and the nurse's
too full, to take in aught beyond the small interests close
at hand. We were silly enough, no doubt, but happywhen I heard a step come up the garden, a step I knew.
My first thought-I can not well tell what it was;
my second, that we were still an infected household.




MY MOTHER AND I.             249
"Stop him!" cried I, starting up and running to the
door. " Somebody must stop him. Mrs. Golding, tell
that gentleman he is not to come in."
"Why not " And I saw him stand there, with his
kind, smiling face. "Why not, Cousin Elmna?"
"Because it is not safe-we are in quarantine still,
you know."
"Of course I know-that and every thing else. But
I have taken all precautions. Your doctor and I are
the best of friends. He sent me here-Mrs. Picardy,
may I come in?"
"Certainly," she answered, looking quite pleased; so
without more ado he entered. Though he took no notice, I perceived that he saw the change in her-saw it
and was very sorry, both for her and me. Appropriating my chair, he sat down beside her and began talking
to her, giving small attention to me, beyond a nod and
smile. But that was enough; it felt like windows opened and sunshine coming into a long-shut-up room.
"General Picardy sends all sorts of kind messages to
you. He left Bath almost directly after your daughter
went. He said he could not bear the dullness of the
house. But I have kept him almost daily informed of
you both."
"Then we were not forsaken by you all?" said my
mother gently, by which I guessed she had thought
more of the matter than I supposed.
L2




250             MY MOTHER AND I.
Cousin Conrad shook his head gayly. "Elma, tell your
mother she does not quite know us yet-not so well as
you do."
She looked up quickly, this dear mother of mine, first
at him and then at me; but there was nothing to see.
In him, of course nothing; in me- But I had learned
to accept his kindness as he meant it, the frank familiar
friendship which implied nothing more. I answered
Cousin Conrad as I would have answered any other
friend whom I warmly liked and respected, and in whom
I entirely believed.
Then I took my sewing again, and left him to his
chat with my mother, which she evidently enjoyed. He
had come to see her so often while I was in Bath, that
they were better friends than I knew. My only wonder
was that all this long time she had never praised himscarcely spoken of him to me at all.
He took tea with us, and we were very happy in his
company; so happy that I almost forgot to be afraid for
him. At last, I thankfully heard him tell my mother
that he had had small-pox very severely as a boy, and
since then had gone in the way of it many times with
perfect impunity.
"Not that I should ever run useless risks-one's self
is not the only person to think of; and before I go home
I mean to change my clothes and do a deal of fumigation. You need not have the slightest uneasiness about
me, Mrs. Picardy. I may come again?"




MY MOTHER AND I.             251
"We shall be very happy to see you."
There was a little stiffness in my mother's manner, but
she looked at him as if she liked him. I knew her face
so well.
"Not that I shall burden you with many visits, as I
am still going to India, though not just yet. Would you
like to hear how things are settled?"
Without any apologies, but telling us as naturally as
if we belonged to him, he explained that the hill-station
to which he had been ordered was so healthy that the
doctor said he would be as well there as in England,
perhaps better. Two or three years might re-establish
his strength entirely.
"And I should be thankful for that. Though when
I first came home I did not much care. At five-andtwenty even, I thought my life was done."
"Mine is not, even at seven-and-forty," said my mother, smiling.
" But then you have your child."
"Aye, I have my child."
My mother looked at me-such a look! As I knelt
beside her sofa, laughing, yet within an inch of crying,
Cousin Conrad leaned over us and touched my hand.
I felt all the blood rush into my face, and my mother
saw it.
He stayed but a minute or two longer; I let him out
at the gate and listened -to the clatter of his horse's




252             MY MOTHER AND I.
hoofs up the village, then came back into the parlor at
once.
My mother lay quite still, looking straight before her.
In her eyes was a curious expression-not exactly sad,
but pensive, as if her mind had wandered far away, and
a letter which Cousin Conrad had just given her, saying
it was from the General, and he hoped would please her
as it had pleased the sender, lay untouched on her lap.
" Shall I open it?" said I, glad to say and do something.
It was a very kind letter, signed by him with his feeble, shaky signature, though the body of it was in another handwriting-one which we both recognized. And
it inclosed a hundred-pound note, begging our acceptance of the "trifle" to defray the expenses of her illness,
"' until I can make permanent provision for my daughter-in-law and her child."
"Y'our child, you see, mother. He puts us both together-he does not want to take me from you now;
and if he did, ever so much, I would not go. I will
never leave you again-never, darling mother!"
She smiled, but not a word said she — not a single
word.
I had expected she would say something of our visitor and his visit, but she did not, until just as we were
going to bed, when she asked me to give her my grandfather's letter, as she would like to read it over again.




MY MOTHER AND I.             253
"It is very kind of him; but I suppose Major Picardy, who seems almost like a son to him, is at the root of
it all."
"I suppose so."
"tHe, too, is very kind. Indeed, I never met any man
who seemed to me so thoroughly good, so entirely unselfish, reliable, and true. No one could know him
without loving him."
She looked at me-a keen, steady, half-smiling, halfpensive look. From that moment I was quite certain
that my mother had found out all.




254             MY MOTHER AND I.
CHAPTER XIV.
ALL my life I have been the recipient of countless
love-stories, the confidante both of young men and
maidens, and I always found the benefit of that sage
proverb, "Least said, soonest mended." On my side
certainly, because many a silly fancy is fanned into a
misplaced love by talking it over with a foolish sympathizer; on theirs, because I have generally found that
those who felt the most said the least. Happiness is
sometimes loquacious; but to pain —and there is so
much pain always mixed up in love affairs-the safest
and best panacea is silence.
My mother and I were silent to one another, perfectly
silent, though we must have read one another's hearts
as clear as a book, day by day; still neither spoke.
What was there to speak about?  He had never said a
word to me that all the world might not hear, and I-I
would not think of myself or of my future. Indeed I
seemed to have no future at all after the 18th of September, the day on which the ship was to sail from
Southampton.
Between now and then our life was full enough, even




MY MOTHER AND I.              255
though outside it was as quiet and lonely as before I
went to Bath, except for one friend who came to see us
now and then, like any ordinary friend, to whom our interests were dear, as his to us. He carne generally on a
Sunday, being so occupied during the week, and he used
to call us his "Sunday rest," saying that when he was
abroad he would try to console himself for the loss of it
by writing regularly " Dominical letters."
He was very cheerful about his departure, and very
certain as to his return, which he meant to be, at the
latest, within four years.
" Elma will then be one-and-twenty, and you not quite
a septuagenarian, Mrs. Picardy, and the General will be
only seventy-five. As I told him the other day, when
he spoke of my being one day master at Broadlands, it
is likely to be a good many years yet before that time
arrives."
But he would be master there some time, as of course
he and we both knew. Occasionally we all took a dip
into the far-away future, planning what he was to do
with his wealth and influence —schemes all for others,
none for himself. Not a thought of luxury or ease, or
worldly position, only how he should best use all the
good things that might fall to him so as to do the widest
good.
How proud I was of him-and am still!
My mother, I could see, enjoyed his society very much.




256             MY MOTHER AND I.
She told me once there was in him a charm of manner
that she had never seen in any man, except one. " Only,"
she added, "in nothing else does he at all resemble your
father."
Though she said this with a sigh, it was not a sigh of
pain. She was in no way unhappy, I think-quite the
contrary-only a little meditative and grave, but that
chiefly when we were alone. When Cousin Conrad
came she received him warmly, and exerted herself to
make all things as pleasant to him as possible; the more
so, because sometimes I was hardly able to speak a word.
What long, still Sunday afternoons we used to spend,
all three together, in our little parlor! What twilight
walks we had across the Tyning and over the fields!
Cousin Conrad always gave my mother his arm, and I
followed after, watching the two, and noticing his exceeding tenderness over her; but I was not jealous of
him-not at all.
At first I could see she was a little nervous in his
company, inclined to be irritable, and quick to mark
any little peculiarities he had-and he had a few; but
she never criticised him, only watched him; and gradually I could perceive that she grew satisfied, and neither
criticised nor watched him any more.
I had leisure to observe and think over these two, because I dared not think for a moment of myself-how
it would be with me when he ceased to come, when we




MY MOTHER AND I.              257
missed him out of our life, and the seas rolled between
us, and his familiar presence was only a remembrance
and a dream. Many a time when I could not sleep of
nights-when all these things came upon me in such a
tide that I could have wrung my hands and screamed,
or got up and paced the room in the darkness like a
wild creature in its cage, only for fear of disturbing my
mother-she would put out her hand and feel for me,
"Child, are you wide awake still?" and take me silently into her arms.
Her tenderness over me in those last weeks-those
last days —-I can not describe, but have never ceased to
remember. She kept me constantly employed; in fact
I was nervously eager after work, though I often left it
half finished. But whatever I did or left undone, she
never blamed me. She treated me a little like a sick
child, but without telling me I was ill. For I was illsick unto death at times with misery, with bitter, bitter
humiliation-and then by fits unutterably happy; but
of the happiness or the misery we neither of us spoke
at all.
Only once I remember her telling me, as if by accident, the history of a friend of hers, a girl no older than
myself, who when one day coming into a room saw a
face which she had never seen before, yet from that
moment she loved it-loved it, in one way or other, all
her life.




258             MY MOTHER AND T.
"And he deserved her love; he was a noble and good
man," said my mother.
"Did she marry him 2"
cc No."
We were silent a little, and then my mother continued, sewing busily as she spoke. " The world might
say it was a rather sad story, but I do not. I never
blamed her; I scarcely even pitied her. Love comes to
us, as all other things come, by the will of God; but
whether it do good or harm depends, also, like other
things apparently, upon our own will. There are such
things as broken hearts and blighted lives, but these are
generally feeble hearts and selfish lives. The really
noble, of men or women, are those who have strength
to love, and strength also to endure."
I said nothing, but I never forgot those healing
words; and often, when most inclined to despise myself, it was balm to my heart to know that, reading it,
as I was quite sure she did, my mother did not despise
me; and so I made up my mind, as she had said, to
"endure."
What she must have endured, for me and through me
-often, alas! from me, for I was very irritable at times
-no tongue can tell. Mothers only, I think, can understand how vicarious suffering is sometimes the sharpest
of all. During those days I used to pity myself; now,
looking back upon them, I pity my mother. Yet I have




MY MOTHER AND I.             259
no recollection of her ever changing from that sweet
motherly calmness which was the only thing that soothed
my pain.
Her pain, the anguish of seeing herself no longer able
to make the entire happiness of her child, of watching
the power slip out of her hands, and for a while perhaps
feeling, with unutterable bitterness, a vague dread that
the love is slipping away too —of this I never once
thought then; I did afterward.
Well, somehow or other the time went by and brought
us to the last week, the last day; which Cousin Conrad
asked if he might spend with us, both because " we were
the dearest friends he had," and because he had a somewhat important message to bring from my grandfather,
with whom he had been staying at Broadlands.
"And a charming place it is," he wrote, "and a very
well-managed estate too, though it is in Ireland." It
was always a pet joke of his against my mother that she
disliked every thing Irish, and distrusted him because
he was just a little bit of an Irishman. She used to
laugh, saying it was quite true he had all the Irish virtues-the warm, generous heart, the gay spirits, the quick
sympathy, the sweet courtesy which would always rather say a kind thing than an unkind one. As for his
Irish faults, she declined to pass judgment upon them.
Time would show. " Ah, yes," he would sometimes answer, gravely, "if heaven grant me time."




260             MY MOTHER AND I.
But these passing sadnesses of his I never noticed
much; the mere sight of him was enough to make any
one glad; and when he came, even though it was his
last time of coming, and I knew it, the joy of seeing
him after a week's absence was as great as if he had
been absent a year, and we had all three forgotten that
he was ever to leave us again.
He and my mother fell at once to talking, discussing the proposition of which my grandfather had made
him the bearer. This was, that she and I should come
at once to live at Broadlands, not, as I at first feared,
in the characters of Miss Picardy and Miss Picardy's
mother, but that she should take her position as his son's
widow and the mistress of his house so long as the
General lived.
" That may be many years or few," said Cousin Conrad, "and after his death he promises nothing; but,"
with a smile, "I think you need not be afraid."
And then he went on to explain that it was my grandfather's wish to spend half the year at Broadlands and
the other half in Dublin or London, according as was
convenient, especially with reference to me and the completion of my education, so as to fit me for whatever
position in society I might be called upon to fill.
" Not that she is ill-educated, or unaccomplished. We
know what she is, do we not, Mrs. Picardy? Still her
grandfather wishes her to be quite perfect, doubtless




MY MOTHER AND I.             261
with the idea that she shall one day be-" He stopped.
" I have no right to say any more, for I know nothing of
the General's intentions. All I entreat is-accept his
kindness. It will prove a blessing to himself, and to
you also. Elma rich will be a much more useful woman than Elma poor. This, whether she marry or not.
If she should marry, and I hope she will one day-"
Here my mother looked up sharply. There was in
her face a slight shade of annoyance, even displeasure;
but it met his-so sad, so calm, so resolute-and passed
away. She said nothing, only sighed.
"Forgive my referring to this subject, Mrs. Picardy;
but it is one upon which the General feels very strongly;
indeed, he bade me speak of it, both to relieve your mind
and your daughter's. There was once a gentleman, a
Sir Thomas Appleton-Elma may have told you about
him."
No. Elma had not. I felt I was expected to speak;
so I said with a strange composure, and yet not strange,
for it seemed as if I were past feeling any thing now,
" that I had not thought it worth while to trouble my
mother with my trouble about Sir Thomas Appleton."
"Trouble is an odd word for a young lady to use
when a young man falls in love with her," said Cousin
Conrad, smiling; "but she really was very miserable.
She looked the picture of despair for days. Never
mind! as Mercutio says,'Men have died and worms




262             MY MOTHER AND I.
have eaten them, but not for love.' Sir Thomas is not
dead yet-not likely to die. And your grandfather bade
me assure you, Elma, that if half-a-dozen Sir Thomases
should appear, he will not urge you to marry one of
them unless you choose."
" That is right," said my mother, "and Elma was quite
right too. If she do not love a man, she must never
marry him, however her friends might wish it. She
will not be unhappy even if she never marry at all.
My dear child!"
" Yes, you say truly," answered Cousin Conrad, after
a long pause, "and truly, also, you call her'a child.'
Therefore, as I told the General, before she marries, or
is even engaged, she ought to have plenty of opportunity
of seeing all kinds of men-good men —and of choosing deliberately, when she does choose, so that she may
never regret it afterward. Sometimes in their twenties
girls feel differently from what they do in their teens,
and if after being bound they wake up and wish themselves free again-God forbid such a misfortune should
happen to her."
" It never will, I think," said my mother.
"It never must," said Cousin Conrad, decisively. "We
will guard against the remotest chance of such a thing.
She shall be left quite free; her mother will be constantly beside her; she will have every opportunity of
choice; and when she does choose, among the many




MY MOTHER AND I.              263
who are sure to love her, she will do it with her eyes
open. You understand me, do you not-you at least?"
added he, very earnestly.
"I think I do."
"And you forgive me? Remember, I am going away."
"I do remember. I am not likely ever to forget," replied my mother, visibly affected, and offering him her
hand. He clasped it warmly, and turned away, not saying another word.
For me, I sat apart, thinking not much of what either
of them said or did; though afterward I recalled it all.
Thinking, indeed, very little about any thing beyond the
one fact-that he was going away, that after this day I
should see him no more for days and weeks and months
and years.
I sat apart, taking no share in the conversation, only
watching him by stealth, him to whom I was nothing at
all, and he nothing to me, except just my Cousin Conrad.
Yet then, aye, and at any time in my life, I could have
died for him!-said not a word, but just quietly died!
I sat, trying to lay up in my heart every trick of his
manner, every line of his face, as a sort of memorial
storehouse to live upon during the dark famine days
that were coming.
"Well, then, that business is settled," said he, with a
sigh of relief. "You will go to Broadlands as soon as
you can-perhaps even next week;" and he proceeded




264             MY MOTHER AND I.
to give minute directions for our journey, saying it
would be a comfort for him to know that all was arranged as easily as possible, and he would think of us
safe in my grandfather's beautiful home, while he was
tossing on the Bay of Biscay. He could not hear of us
for many months. There was no overland route to India then.
"But I can wait. I have learned to wait, and yet
it sometimes seems a little hard, at thirty-six years
old. But it is right-it is right," he added, half to
himself. Years after how thankful I was to remember
his words!
Then, rising, he suggested that we should sit talking
no longer; but all three go out together into the pleasant afternoon sunshine and " enjoy ourselves."
" Enjoy" seemed a strange word to use, and yet it was
a true one. When friends are all at peace together,
with entire trust and content in one another, there is no
bitterness even in the midst of parting pain. And such
was his sweet nature, and the influence it had upon
those about him, that this fact was especially remarkable. I have now not a single recollection of that day
which is not pleasant as well as dear.
We spent part of it at a place where my mother and
I had often talked of going, the abbey which we had
started to see that afternoon when the bleak wind made
me resolve to buy her a Paisley shawl. As we again




MY MOTHER AND I.             265
crossed the Tyning, I overheard her telling Cousin Conrad the whole story.
"Just like her-just like Elma!!" said he, turning
round to look at me, and then told how on his side he
remembered the General's calling him into his room to
write a letter concerning the possible granddaughter
which he thought he had found.
" It is strange upon what small chances great things
seem to hang. We go on and on, year after year, and
nothing happens, and we think nothing ever will happen; and then, suddenly turning a corner, we come upon
our destiny. Is it not so, Mrs. Picardy?"
I do not remember what my mother answered, or if
she answered at all. She was exceedingly kind, even
tender to him; but she was also exceedingly grave.
Thus we wandered on till we reached the old abbeya mere ruin, and little cared for by the owners of the
house in whose grounds it stood. The refectory was
used as a wood-shed, the chapel as a stable, and above
it, ascended by a broken stair, were two large rooms,
still in good preservation, said to have been the monks'
library and their dove-cot.
"You can still see the holes in the stone walls, I am
told, where the pigeons built their nests," said my mother. "Go up and look at them, if you like, you two; I
will rest here."
She sat down on a heap of hay, and we went on withM




266             MY MOTHER AND I.
out her. Only once she called after us that the stair
was dangerous, and he must take care of " the child."
"Ah, yes!" he said with such a smile! It made me
quite cheerful, and we began examining every thing and
discussing every thing quite after the old way. Then we
rested a while, and stood looking out through the narrow
slits of windows onto the pleasant country beyond.'" What a comfortable life those old monks must have
made for themselves! And how curious it must have
been as they sat poring over their manuscript-writing
or illuminating in this very room, to hear close by the
innocent little pigeons cooing in their nests! I wonder if they ever thought that the poor little birds were,
in some things, happier far than they."
" How?" said I, and then instinctively guessed, and
wished I had not said it.
" Very jolly old fellows, though, they must have been,
with a great idea of making themselves comfortable.
See, Elma, that must be the remains of their orchardthose gnarled apple-trees, so very old, yet trying to bear
a few apples still; and there are their fish-ponds-undoubtedly you always find fish-ponds near monasteries;
and look, what a splendid avenue of walnut-trees! No
doubt they had all the good things of this life; except
one, the best thing of all-home; a married home."
It was.only a word-but oh! the tone in which he
said it! he who, he once told me, had never had a home




MY MOTHER AND I.             267
in all his life. Did he regret it? Was he, as I always
fancied when he looked sad-was he thinking of Agnes?
Only Agnes?
I was not clever, and I was very young; but I believe,
even then, if any one had wanted it, I could have learned
how to make a home, a real home, as only a loving
woman can. Not a wealthy home, maybe, and one that
might have had its fair proportion of cares and anxieties; but I would have struggled through them all. I
would not have been afraid of any thing. I would
have fought with and conquered, please God, all remediable evils; and those I could not conquer I would
have sat down and endured without complaining. No
one need have been afraid that I had not strength
enough to bear my own burden, perhaps the burden of
two. Nay, it would have made me happier. I never
wished to have an easy life; only a life with love in it
-love and trust. Oh! how happy I could have been,
however difficult my lot, if only I had had some one always beside me, some one whom I could at once look
up to and take care of, cherish and adore! How we
could have spent our lives together, have passed through
poverty if need be, and risen joyfully to prosperity, still
together! have shared our prime and our decline, always together! Instead of thisNo! Silence, my heart! What am I that I should
fight against God? It was his will. With him there
are no such words as "might have been."




268             MY MOTHER AND I.
One thing I remember vividly — that as we stood
there, looking out, Cousin Conrad put his hand a moment lightly on my shoulder.
"Keep as you are a minute. Sometimes as you stand
thus, with your profile turned away, you look so very
like her-so like Agnes-that I could fancy it was she
herself come back again, young as ever, while I have
grown quite old. Yes, compared with you, Elma, I am
quite old."
I said nothing. If I had said any thing-if I could
have told him that those we love to us never seem old,
that even had it been as he said, he, with his gray hair,
was more to me, and would be, down to the most helpless old age, than all the young men in the world. But
how could I have said it? And if I had, it would have
made no difference. Years afterward I recalled his look
-firm and sweet, never wavering in a purpose which he
thought right. No; nothing would have made any difference.
We stayed a few minutes longer, and then came back,
he helping me tenderly down the broken stairs, to my
mother's side. She gave a start, and a sudden eager,
anxious look at us both; but when Cousin Conrad said
in his usual voice that it was time for us to go home,
she looked down again and-sighed.
We went home, rather silently now, and took a hasty
tea, for he had to be back in Bath by a certain hour, and




/ 1~ ~~ ~ ~ V                                          _ _
_s~-~~z2                                              _
~~~ri/             Vj: -,
"~Couz~sn  Conrad put htis h~and  a mnoment lighlS~~y on my sh~oulder"~








MY MOTHER AND I.             271
I)esides, the mists were gathering, and my mother urged
him to avoid the risk of a cold night-ride.
"We must say good-by at last, and perhaps it is best
after all to say it quickly," I heard her tell him in an
undertone. Her voice trembled, the tears stood in her
eyes. For me, I never stirred or wept. I was as still
as a stone.;"You are right," answered he, rising.."Good-by,
and God bless you. That is all one needs to say."
Taking her hand, he kissed it. Then, glancing at me,
he asked her-my mother only-" May I "
She bent her head in assent. Crossing the room, he
came and kissed me, once on my forehead, and onceoh, thank God, just that once!-on my mouth. Where
I keep it —that kiss of his —till I can give it back to
him in Paradise.
For in this world I never saw my Cousin Conrad
more.
We had a very happy three years-my mother and I
-as happy as we had ever known. For after Cousin
Conrad's departure we seemed to close up togethershe and I-in one another's loving arms; understanding one another thoroughly, though still, as ever, we did
not speak one word about him that all the world might
not have heard.
Outwardly, our life was wholly free from care. We




272              MY MOTHER A-ND I.
had as much of each other's society, or nearly as much,
as we had ever had, with the cares of poverty entirely
removed. My grandfather proved as good as his word,
and all that Cousin Conrad had said of him he justified
to the full. He received my mother with cordial welcome, and treated her from first to last with unfailing
respect and consideration. She had every luxury that I
could desire for her, and she needed luxuries, for after
her illness she was never her strong, active self again.
But she was her dear self always-the sweetest, brightest little mother in all the world.
To the world itself, however, we were two very grand
people - Mrs. and Miss Picardy of Broadlands. At
which we often laughed between ourselves, knowing
that we were in reality exactly the same as in our shutup poverty days-just "my mother and I."
Cousin Conrad's letters were our great enjoyment.
He never missed a single mail. Generally he wrote to
her, with a little note inside for me, inquiring about my
studies and amusements, and telling me of his own;
though of himself personally he said very little. Whether he were well or ill, happy or miserable, we could
guess only by indirect evidence. But one thing was
clear enough-his intense longing to be at home.
"[Not a day shall I wait," he said in a letter to my
grandfather-" not a single day after the term of absence I have prescribed to myself is ended." And my




MY MOTHER AND I.             273
grandfather coughed, saying mysteriously that " Conrad
always had his crotchets;" he hoped this would be the
last of them; it was not so very long to look forward.
Did I look forward? Had I any dreams of a possible future? I can not tell. My life was so full and
busy -my mother seemed obstinately determined to
keep it busy —that I had little time for dreams.
She took me out into society, and I think both she
and my grandfather enjoyed society's receiving me well.
I believe I made what is called a "sensation" in both
Dublin and London. I was even presented at Court,
and the young Queen said a kind word or two about
me, in Her Majesty's own pleasant way. Well, well, all
that is gone by now; but at the time I enjoyed it. It
was good to be worth something-even to look at-and
I liked to be liked very much, until some few did rather more than like me, and then I was sometimes very
unhappy. But my grandfather kept his promise; he
never urged upon me any offer of marriage. And my
mother, too —my tender mother-asked me not a single
question as to the why and the wherefore, though, one
after another, I persistently refused them all.
"When she is one-and-twenty, my dear, we may hope
she will decide. By then she will have time to know
her own mind. Conrad said so, and Conrad is always
right."
Thus said my grandfather to my mother, and they
M 2




274            MY MOTHER AND I.
both smiled at one another; they were the best friends
now, and so they remained to the last.
The last came sooner than any of us had thought
-for Cousin Conrad's prophecies were not realized.
When we had had only three years in which to make
him happy-and I know we did make him happy-my
dear grandfather died: suddenly, painlessly, without
even having had time to bid us good-by. It was a
great shock, and we mourned for him as if we had loved
him all our lives. Aye, even though, to the great surprise of our affectionate friends-a large circle nowhe left us only a small annuity-the rest of his fortune
going, as the will proved he had always meant it to go,
to Cousin Conrad. I was so glad!
Cousin Conrad was now obliged to come home. We
had only one line from him, when he got the sad news,
begging my mother to remain mistress at Broadlands
until he arrived there, and adding that, if it did not
trouble us very much, he should be grateful could we
manage to meet him at Southampton, he being " rather
an invalid."
So we went. I need not say any thing about the
journey. When it ended, my mother, just at the last
minute, proposed that I should remain in the carriage,
at the dock gates, while she went forward to the ship's
side, where we could dimly perceive a crowd disembarking.




MY MOTHER AND I.            275
They disembarked. I saw them land in happy groups,
with equally happy friends to greet them, laughing and
crying and kissing one another. They all came home,
safe and sound, all but one —my one. Deep in the Red
Sea, where the busy ships sail over him, and the warm
waves rock him in his sleep, they had left him-as much
as could die of him-my Cousin Conrad.
*         *   X      *      *      *
He had died of the fatal family disease which he
knew he was doomed to, though the warm climate of
the East and the pure air of the hills kept it dormant
for a long time. But some accidental exposure brought
on inflammation of his lungs; after which he began to
sink rapidly. The doctors told him he would never
reach England alive; but he was determined to try. I
heard it was wonderful how long the brave spirit upbore the feeble body. He did not suffer much, but just
lay every day on deck; alone, quite alone, as far as near
friends went-yet watched and tended by all the passengers, as if he had belonged to them for years. In
the midst of them all, these kind, strange faces, he one
day suddenly, when no one expected it, "fell on sleep."
For he looked as if asleep-they said —with the sun
shining on his face, and his hands folded, as quiet as a
child.
All that was his became mine. He left it me-and it
was a large fortune-in a brief will, made hastily the




276             MYr MOTHER AND I.
very day after he had received the tidings of my grandfather's death. He gave me every thing absolutely,
both "because it was my right," and "' because he had
always loved me."
He had always loved me. Then, why grieve?
In course of years, I think I have almost ceased to
grieve. If, long ago, merely because I loved him, I had
felt as if already married, how much more so now,
when nothing could ever happen to change this feeling,
or make my love for him a sin? 
I do not say there was not an intermediate and terrible time, a time of utter blankness and darkness, when
I "walked through the valley of the shadow of death;"
alone, quite alone. But by-and-by I came out of it into
the safe twilight-we came out of it, I should say, for
she had been close beside me all the while, my dearest
mother!
She helped me to carry out my life; as like his as I
could make it, in the way I knew he would most approve. And, so doing, it has not been by any means
an unhappy life. I have had his wealth to accomplish
all his schemes of benevolence; I have sought out his
friends and made them mine, and been as true to them
as he would have been. In short, I have tried to do all
that he was obliged to leave undone, and to make myself contented in the doing of it.
"Contented," I think, was the word people most often




MY MOTHER AND I.             277
used concerning us during the many peaceful years we
spent together, my mother and I. Now it is only I.
But I am, I think, a contented old woman yet. My
own'are still my own-perhaps the more so as I approach the time of reunion. For even here, to those
who live in it and understand what it means, there is,
both for us and for our dead, both in this life and in
the life to come, the same "kingdom of heaven."
Of course, I have always remained Elma Picardy.
THE END.








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FLAMMARION'S ATMOSPHERE. The Atmosphere. Translated from the
French of CAMILLE FLAMMARION. Edited by JAMES GLAISHER, F.R.S.,
Superintendent of the Magnetical and Meteorological Department of the
Royal Observatory at Greenwich. With 10 Chromo-Lithographs and 86
Woodcuts. 8vo, Cloth, $6 00.
HUDSON'S HISTORY OF JOURNALISM. Journalism in the United States,
from 1690 to 18T2. By FREDERI~C HUDSON. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
PIKE'S SUB-TROPICAL RAMBLES. Sub-Tropical Rambles in the Land
of the Aphanapteryx. By NICOLAS PIKE, U. S. Consul, Port Louis,
Mauritius. Profusely Illustrated from the Author's own Sketches; containing also Maps and Valuable Meteorological Charts. Crown 8vo,
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TRISTRAM'S THE LAND OF MOAB. The Result of Travels and Discoveries on the East Side of the Dead Sea and the Jordan. By H.B. TRISTRAM, M.A., LL.D., F.R.S., Master of the Greatham Hospital, and Hon.
Canon of Durham. With a Chapter on the Persian Palace of Mashita,
by JAS. FERGUSON, F.R.S. With Map and Illustrations. Crown 8vo,
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SANTO DOMINGO, Past and Present; with a Glance at Hayti. By SAMUEL
HAZARD. Maps and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 50.
LIFE OF ALFRED COOKMAN. The Life of the Rev. Alfred Cookman;
with some Account of his Father, the Rev. George Grimston Cookman.
By HENRY B. RIDGAWAY, D.D. With an Introduction by Bishop FOSTER,
LL.D. Portrait on Steel. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00.
HERVEY'S CHRISTIAN  itHlETORIC. A System of Christian Rhetoric,
for the Use of Preachers and Other Speakers. By GEORGE WINFRED
HERVEY, M.A., Author of "Rhetoric of Conversation," &c. 8vo, Cloth,
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CASTELAR'S OLD ROME AND NEW ITALY. Old Rome and New Italy.
By EMILIO CASTELAR. Translated by Mrs. ARTHUR ARNOLD. 12mo,
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THE TREATY OF WASHINGTON: Its Negotiation, Execution, and the
Discussions Relating Thereto. By CALEB CUSHING. Crown 8vo, Cloth,
$2 00.
PRIME'S I GO A-FISHING. I Go a-Fishing. By W. C. PRIME. Crown 8vo,
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HALLOCK'S FISHING TOURIST. The Fishing Tourist: Angler's Guide
and Reference Book. By CHARLES HALLOCK. Illustrations. Crown
8vo, Cloth, $2 00.
SCOTT'S AMERICAN FISHING. Fishing in American Waters. By GINIO C. SOOTT. With 170 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 50.




2     Harper &' Brothers' Valuable and Interesting Works.
ANNUAL RECORD OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY FOR 1872. Edited
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COL. FORNEY'S ANECDOTES OF PUBLIC MEN. Anecdotes of Public
Men. By JOHN W. FORNEY. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00.
MISS BEECHER'S HOUSEKEEPER AND HEALTHKEEPER: Containing Five Hundred Recipes for Economical and Healthful Cooking also,
many Directions for securing Health and Happiness. Approvedby Physicians of all Classes. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.
FARM BALLADS. By WILL CARLETON. Handsomely Illustrated. Square
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POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. The Poets of the Nineteenth Century. Selected and Edited by the Rev. ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT. With English and American Additions, arranged by EvERT A.
DUYCeINcK, Editor of " Cyclopmedia of American Literature." Comprising Selections from the Greatest Authors of the Age. Superbly Illustrated with 141 Engravings from Designs by the most Eminent Artists.
In elegant small 4to form, printed on Superfine Tinted Paper, richly
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THE REVISION OF THE ENGLISH VERSION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. With an Introduction by the Rev. P. SOCuFF, D.D. 618 pp.,
Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 00.
This work embraces in one volume:
I. ON A FRESH REVISION OF THE ENGLISH NEW  TESTAMENT. By J. B. LIGHTFOOT, D.D., Canon of St. Paul's, and Hulsean Professor of Divinity, Cambridge. Second Edition, Revised.
196 pp.
II. ON THE AUTHORIZED VERSION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT in Connection with some Recent Proposals for its Revision.
By RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENaH, D.D., Archbishop of Dublin. 194 pp.
III. CONSIDERATIONS ON THE REVISION OF THE ENGLISH
VERSION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. By C. J. ELLICOTT, D.D.,
Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol. 178 pp.
NORDHOFF'S CALIFORNIA. California: For Health, Pleasure, and Residence. A Book for Travelers and Settlers. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper,
$2 00; Cloth, $2 50.
MOTLEY'S DUTCH REPUBLIC. The Rise of the Dutch Republic. By
JOHN LOTIIROP MOTLEY, LL.D., D.C.L. With a Portrait of William of
Orange. 3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $10 50.
MOTLEY'S UNITED NETHERLANDS. History of the United Netherlands: from the Death of William the Silent to the Twelve Years' Truce
-1609. With a full View of the English-Dutch Struggle against Spain,
and of the Origin and Destruction of the Spanish Armada. By JOHN
LOTIIROP MOTLEY, LL.D., D.C.L. Portraits. 4 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $14 00.
NAPOLEON'S LIFE OF CAESAR. The History of Julius Coesar. By His
late Imperial Majesty NAPOLEON III. Two Volumes ready. Library Edition, 8vo, Cloth, $3 50 per vol.
HAYDN'S DICTIONARY OF DATES, relating to all Ages and Nations.
For Universal Reference. Edited by BENJAMIN VINCENT, Assistant Secretary and Keeper of the Library of the Royal Institution of Great Britain;
and Revised for the Use of American Readers. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00; Sheep,
$6 00.
MACGREGOR'S ROB ROY ON THE JORDAN. The Rob Roy on the
Jordan, Nile, Red Sea, and Gennesareth, &c. A Canoe Cruise in Palestine and Egypt, and the Waters of Damascus. By J. MAOQREGOR, M.A.
With Maps and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50.




Harper &' Brothers' Valuable and Interesting Works.        3
WALLACE'S MALAY  ARCHIPELAGO. The Malay Archipelago: the
Land of the Orang-Utan and the Bird of Paradise. A Narrative of Travel, 1854-1862. With Studies of Man and Nature. By ALFRED RUSSEL
WALLACE. With Ten Maps and Fifty-one Elegant Illustrations. Crown
8vo, Cloth, $2 50.
WHYMPER'S ALASKA. Travel and Adventure in the Territory of Alaska, formerly Russian America-now Ceded to the United States-and in
various other parts of the North Pacific. By FREDERICK WHEYMPEZ.
With Map and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50.
ORTON'S ANDES AND THE AMAZON. The Andes and the Amazon; or,
Across the Continent of South America. By JAMEs ORTON, M.A., Professor of Natural History in Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, N. Y., and
Corresponding Member of the Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia. With a New Map of Equatorial America and numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 00.
WINCHELL'S SKETCHES OF CREATION. Sketches of Creation: a
Popular View of some of the Grand Conclusions of the Sciences in reference to the History of Matter and of Life. Together with a Statement
of the Intimations of Science respecting the Primordial Condition and
the Ultimate Destiny of the Earth and the Solar System. By ALEXANDER WINCHELL, LL.D., Chancellor of the Syracuse University. With
Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00.
WHITE'S MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW. The Massacre of St.
Bartholomew: Preceded by a History of the Religious Wars in the Reign
of CharlesIX. By HENRY WHITE, M.A. With Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth,
$1 75.
LOSSING'S FIELD-BOOK OF THE REVOLUTION. Pictorial Field-Book
of the Revolution; or, Illustrations, by Pen and Pencil, of the History,
Biography, Scenery, Relics, and Traditions of the War for Independence. By BENSON J. LOSSING. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $14 00; Sheep, $15 00;
Half Calf, $18 00; Full Turkey Morocco, $22 00.
LOSSING'S FIELD-BOOK OF THE WAR OF 1812. Pictorial Field-Book
of the War of 1812; or, Illustrations, by Pen and Pencil, of the History,
Biography, Scenery, Relics, and Traditions of the Last War for American Independence. By BENSON J. LossING. With several hundred Engravings on Wood, by Lossing and Barritt, chiefly from Original Sketches by the Author. 1088 pages, 8vo, Cloth, $7 00; Sheep, $8 50; Half
Calf, $10 00.
ALFORD'S GREEK TESTAMENT. The Greek Testament: with a critically revised Text; a Digest of Various Readings; Marginal References
to Verbal and Idiomatic Usage; Prolegomena; and a Critical and Exegetical Commentary. For the Use of Theological Students and Ministers. By HENRY ALFORD, D.D., Dean of Canterbury. Vol. I., containing the Four Gospels. 944 pages, 8vo, Cloth, $6 00; Sheep, $6 50.
ABBOTT'S FREDERICK THE GREAT. The History of Frederick the
Second, called Frederick the Great. By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. Elegantly
Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
ABBOTT'S HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. The French
Revolution of 1789, as viewed in the Light of Republican Institutions.
By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. With 100 Engravings. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
ABBOTT'S NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. The History of Napoleon Bonaparte. By JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. With Maps, Woodcuts, and Portraits on
Steel. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $10 00.
ABBOTT'S NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA; or, Interesting Anecdotes and
Remarkable Conversations of the Emperor during the Five and a Half
Years of his Captivity. Collected from the Memorials of Las Casas,
O'Meara, Montholon, Antommarchi, and others. By JOHN S. C. ABBO3TT.
With Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, $5 00.
ADDISON'S COMPLETE WORKS. The Works of Joseph Addison, embracing the whole of the "Spectator." Complete in 3 vols., 8vo, Cloth,
$6 00.




4     Harper &<  Brothers' Valuable and Interesting Works.
ALCOCK'S JAPAN. The Capital of the Tycoon: a Narrative of a Three
Years' Residence in Japan. By Sir RUTHERFORD ALCoaK, K.C.B., Her
Majesty's Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary in Japan.
With Maps and Engravings. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3 50.
ALISON'S HISTORY OF EUROPE. FIRST SERIES: From the Commencement of the French Revolution, in 1789, to the Restoration of the Bourbons, in 1815. [In addition to the Notes on Chapter LXXVI., which correct the errors of the original work concerning the United States, a copious Analytical Index has been appended to this American Edition.]
SECOND SERIES: From the Fall of Napoleon, in 1815, to the Accession of
Louis Napoleon, in 1852. 8 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $16 00.
BARTH'S NORTH AND CENTRAL AFRICA. Travels and Discoveries in
North and Central Africa: being a Journal of an Expedition undertaken
under the Auspices of H.B.M.'s Government, in the Years 1849-1855. By
HENRY BARTH, Ph.D., D.C.L. Illustrated. 3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $12 00.
HENRY  WARD BEECHER'S SERMONS. Sermons by HENRY WARD
BEEcHER, Plymouth Church, Brooklyn. Selected from Published and
Unpublished Discourses, and Revised by their Author. With Steel Portrait. Complete in 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
LYMAN BEECHER'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, &o. Autobiography, Correspondence, &Jc., of Lyman Beecher, D.D. Edited by his Son, CHARLES
BEECHER. With Three Steel Portraits, and Engravings on Wood. In 2
vols., 12mo, Cloth, $5 00.
BOSWELL'S JOHNSON. The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. Including
a Journey to the Hebrides. By JAMES BOSWELL, Esq. A New Edition,
with numerous Additions and Notes. By JOEIN WILSoN CRBOER, LL.D.,
F.R.S. Portrait of Boswell. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $4 00.
DRAPER'S CIVIL WAR. History of the American Civil War. By JOHN
W. DRAPER, M.D., LL.D., Professor of Chemistry and Physiology in the
University of New York. In Three Vols. 8vo, Cloth, $3 50 per vol.
DRAPER'S INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE. A History of the Intellectual Development of Europe. By JOHN W. DRAPER,
M.D., LL.D., Professor of Chemistry and Physiology in the University
of New York. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
DRAPER'S AMERICAN CIVIL POLICY. Thoughts on the Future Civil
Policy of America. By JOHN W. DRAPER, M.D., LL.D., Professor of
Chemistry and Physiology in the University of New York. Crown 8vo,
Cloth, $2 50.
DU CHAILLU'S AFRICA. Explorations and Adventures in Equatorial Africa, with Accounts of the Manners and Customs of the People, and of
the Chase of the Gorilla, the Crocodile, Leopard, Elephant, Hippopotamus, and other Animals. By PAUL B. Du CHAILLU. Numerous Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, $5 00.
DU CHAILLU'S ASHANGO LAND. A Journey to Ashango Land: and
Further Penetration into Equatorial Africa. By PAUL B. Du CHAILLU.
New Edition. Handsomely Illustrated. Svo, Cloth, $5 00.
BELLOWS'S OLD WORLD. The Old World in its New Face: Impressions
of Europe in 1867-1868. By HENRY W. BELLOWS. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth,
$3 50.
BRODHEAD'S HISTORY OF NEW YORK. History of the State of New
York. By JOHN ROMEYN BRODHEAD. 1609-1691. 2 vols. 8vo, Cloth,
$3 00 per vol.
BROUGHAM'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  Life and Times of HENBY, LORD
BROUGHAM. Written by Himself. In Three Volumes. 12mo, Cloth,
$2 00 per vol.
4ULWER'S PROSE WORKS. Miscellaneous Prose Works of Edward Blwer, Lord Lytton. 2 vwls., 12mo, Cloth, $3 50.




Harper &' Brothers' Valuable and Interesting Works.       5
BULWER'S HORACE. The Odes and Epodes of Horace. A Metrical
Translation into English. With Introduction and Commentaries. By
LORD LYTTON. With Latin Text from the Editions of Orelli, Macleane,
and Yonge. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
BULWER'S KING ARTHUR, A Poem. By LoRDLYTTON. New Edition.
12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
BURNS'S LIFE AND WORKS. The Life and Works of Robert Burns.
Edited by ROBERT CHAMBERS. 4 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $6 00.
REINDEER, DOGS, AND SNOW-SHOES. A Journal of Siberian Travel
and Explorations made in the Years 1865-'67. By RICHARD J. BUSH, late
of the Russo-American Telegraph Expedition. Illustrated. Crown 8vo,
Cloth, $3 00.
CARLYLE'S FREDERICK THE GREAT. History of Friedrich II., called
Frederick the Great. By THOMAS CARLYLE. Portraits, Maps, Plans,
&c. 6 vols., 12ino, Cloth, $12 00.
CARLYLE'S FRENCH REVOLUTION. History of the French Revolution.
2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3 50.
CARLYLE'S OLIVER CROMWELL. Letters and Speeches of Oliver
Cromwell. With Elucidations and Connecting Narrative. 2 vols., 12mo,
Cloth, $3 50.
CHALMERS'S POSTHUMOUS WORKS. The Posthumous Works of Dr.
Chalmers. Edited by his Son-in-Law, Rev. WILLIAM HANNA, LL.D.
Complete in 9 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $13 50.
COLERIDGE'S COMPLETE WORKS. The Complete Works of Samuel
Taylor Coleridge. With an Introductory Essay upon his Philosophical
and Theological Opinions. Edited by Professor SHEDD. Complete in
Seven Vols. With a Portrait. Small Svo, Cloth, $10 50.
DOOLITTLE'S CHINA. Social Life of the Chinese: with some Account of
their Religious, Governmental, Educational, and Business Customs and
Opinions. With special but not exclusive Reference to Fuhchau. By
Rev. JusTus DOOLITTLE, Fourteen Years Member of the Fuhchau Mission of the American Board. Illustrated with more that 150 characteristic Engravings on Wood. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $5 00.
GIBBON'S ROME. History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
By EDWARD GIBBON. With Notes by Rev. H. H. MILMAN and M. GunzoT.
A new cheap Edition. To which is added a complete Index of the whole
Work, and a Portrait of the Author. 6 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $9 00.
HAZEN'S SCHOOL AND ARMY IN GERMANY AND FRANCE. The
School and the Army in Germany find France, with a Diary of Siege
Life at Versailles. By Brevet Major-General W. B. HAZEN, U.S.A., Colonel Sixth Infantry. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50.
HARPER'S NEW CLASSICAL LIBRARY. Literal Translations.
The following Vols. are now ready. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 each.
CAESAR. -VIRGIL.-SALLTUST.-HORACE.- CICERO'S ORATIONS. —CICERO'S
OFFICES, &C.-CICERO ON ORATORY AND ORATORS.-TACITUS (2 vols.).
-TERRENCE.-SOPHOCLES.-JUVENAL.-XENOPHON.-HOMER'S ILIAD.HOMER's ODYSSEY. - HERODOTIUS. - DEMOSTIHENES. - THUCYDIDES. -
AEsCHYLUS.-EURIPIDES (2 vols.).-LIvY (2 vols.).
DAVIS'S CARTHAGE. Carthage and her Remains: being an Account of
the Excavations and Researches on the Site of the Phoenician Metropolis in Africa and other adjacent Places. Conducted under the Auspices
of Her Majesty's Government. By Dr. DAvIs, F.R.G.S. Profusel:y Illustrated with Maps, Woodcuts, Chromo-Lithographs, &c. 8vo, Cloth,
$4 00.
EDGEWORTH'S (MIss) NOVELS. With Engravings.  10 vols., 12mo,
Cloth, $15 00.
GROTE'S HISTORY OF GREECE. 12 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $18 00.




6     Harper &  Brothers' Valuable and Interesting W[orks.
HELPS'S SPANISH CONQUEST. The Spanish Conquest in America, and
its Relation to the History of Slavery and to the Government of Colonies.
By ARTHUR HELPS. 4 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $6 00.
HALE'S (MRa.) WOMAN'S RECORD. Woman's Record; or, Biographical
Sketches of all Distinguished Women, from the Creation to the Present
Time. Arranged in Four Eras, with Selections from Female Writers of
Each Era. By Mrs. SARAH JosEPirr HALE. Illustrated with more than
200 Portraits. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
HALL'S ARCTIC RESEARCHES. Arctic Researches and Life among the
Esquimaux: being the Narrative of an Expedition in Search of Sir John
Franklin, in the Years 1860, 1861, and 1862. By CHARLES FRANCIS HALL.
With Maps and 100 Illustrations. The Illustrations are from the Original Drawings by Charles Parsons, Henry L. Stephens, Solomon Eytinge,
W. S. L. Jewett, and Granville Perkins, after Sketches by Captain Hall.
8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
HALLAM'S CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND, from the Accession of Henry VII. to the Death of George II. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00.
HALLAM'S LITERATURE. Introduction to the Literature of Europe during the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries. By HENRY
HALLAM. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $4 00.
HALLAM'S MIDDLE AGES. State of Europe during the Middle Ages.
By HENRY HALLAM. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00.
HILDRETH'S HISTORY  OF THE UNITED STATES. FIRST SERIEs:
From the First Settlement of the Country to the Adoption of the Federal
Constitution. SECOND SERIECS: From the Adoption of the Federal Constitution to the End of the Sixteenth Congress. 6 vols., 8vo, Cloth,
$18 00.
HUME'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Abdication of James II., 1688. By DAVID
HuaME. A new Edition, with the Author's last Corrections and Improvements. To which is Prefixed a short Account of his Life, written by
Himself. With a Portrait of the Author. 6 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $9 00.
JAY'S WORKS. Complete Works of Rev. William Jay: comprising his
Sermons, Family Discourses, Morning and Evening Exercises for every
Day in the Year, Family Prayers, &c. Author's enlarged Edition, revised. 3 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $6 00.
JEFFERSON'S DOMESTIC LIFE. The Domestic Life of Thomas Jefferson: compiled from Family Letters and Reminiscences, by his GreatGranddaughter, SARAH N. RANDOLPH. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo,
Illuminated Cloth, Beveled Edges, $2 50.
JOHNSON'S COMPLETE WORKS. The Works of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.
With an Essay on his Life and Genius, by ARTHUR MIJRPHY, Esq. Portrait of Johnson. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $4 00.
KINGLAKE'S CRIMEAN WAR. The Invasion of the Crimea, and an Account of its Progress down to the Death of Lord Raglan. By ALEX.ANDER WILLIAM KINGLAKE. With Maps and Plans. Two Vols. ready.
12mo, Cloth, $2 00 per vol.
KINGSLEY'S WEST INDIES. At Last: A Christmas in the West Indies.
By CHARLES KINGSLEY. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50.
KRUMMACHER'S DAVID, KING OF ISRAEL. David, the King of Israel: a Portrait drawn from Bible History and the Book of Psalms. By
FmFDERICK WILLTIAM KRUMMACHER, D.D., Author of "Elijah the Tishbite," &c. Translated under the express Sanction of the Author by the
Rev. M. G. EASTON, M.A. With a Letter from Dr. Krummacher to his
American Readers, and a Portrait. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
LAMB'S COMPLETE WORKS. The Works of Charles Lamb. Comprising his Letters, Poems, Essays of Elia, Essays upon Shakspeare, Hogarth, &c., and a Sketch of his Life, with the Final Memorials, by T. Noon
TALFO.U)D. Portrait. 2 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $3 00.




Harper &' Brothers' Valuable and Interesting Works.       7
LIVINGSTONE'S SOUTH AFRICA. Missionary Travels and Researches
in South Africa; including a Sketch of Sixteen Years' Residence in the
Interior of Africa, and a Journey from the Cape of Good Hope to Loando on the West Coast; thence across the Continent, down the River
Zambesi, to the Eastern Ocean. By DAVID LIVINGSTONE, LL.D., D.C.L.
With Portrait, Maps by Arrowsmith, and numerous Illustrations. 8vo,
Cloth, $4 50.
LIVINGSTONES' ZAMBESI. Narrative of an Expedition to the Zambesi
and its Tributaries, and of the Discovery of the Lakes Shirwa and Nyassa. 1858-1864. By DAVID and CHARLES LIVINGSTOiNE. With Map and
Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
M'CLINTOCK  & STRONG'S CYCLOPAEDIA. Cyclop.edia of Biblical,
Theological, and Ecclesiastical Literature. Prepared by the Rev. JOHN
M'CLINTOCK, D.D., and JAMES STRONG, S.T.D. 5 vols. now ready. Royal
8vo, Price per vol., Cloth, $5 00; Sheep, $6 00; Half Morocco, $8 00.
MARCY'S ARMY LIFE ON THE BORDER. Thirty Years of Army Life
on the Border. Comprising descriptions of the Indian Nomads of the
Plains; Explorations of New Territory; a Trip across the Rocky Mountains in the Winter; Descriptions of the Habits of Different Animals
found in the West, and the Methods of Hunting them; with Incidents
in the Life of Different Frontier Men, &c., &c. By Brevet BrigadierGeneral R. B. MARCY, U.S.A., Author of "The Prairie Traveller." With
numerous Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, Beveled Edges, $3 00.
MACAULAY'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. The History of England from
the Accession of James II. By THOMAS BABINGTON MAOAULAY. With
an Original Portrait of the Author. 5 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $10 00; 12mo,
Cloth, $7 50.
MOSHEIM'S ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY, Ancient and Modern; in
which the Rise, Progress, and Variation of Church Power are considered
in their Connection with the State of Learning and Philosophy, and the
Political History of Europe during that Period. Translated, with Notes,
&c., by A. MACLAINE, D.D. A new Edition, continued to 1826, by C.
COOTr, LL.D. 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $4 00.
THE DESERT OF THE EXODUS. Journeys on Foot in the Wilderness
of the Forty Years' Wanderings; undertaken in connection with the
Ordnance Survey of Sinai and the Palestine Exploration Fund. By E.
H. PALMER, M.A., Lord Almoner's Professor of Arabic, and Fellow of
St. John's College, Cambridge. With Maps and numerous Illustrations
from Photographs and Drawings taken on the spot by the Sinai Survey
Expedition and C. F. Tyrwhitt Drake. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 00.
OLIPHANT'S CHINA AND JAPAN. Narrative of the Earl of Elgin's Mis.
sion to China and Japan, in the Years 1857,'58,'59. By LAURENCE OLIPHANT, Private Secretary to Lord Elgin. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $3 50.
OLIPHANT'S (MRs.) LIFE OF EDWARD IRVING. The Life of Edward
Irving, Minister of the National Scotch Church, London. Illustrated by
his Journals and Correspondence. By Mrs. OLIPHANT. Portrait. Svo,
Cloth, $3 50.
RAWLINSON'S MANUAL OF ANCIENT HISTORY. A Manual of An.
cient History, from the Earliest Times to the Fall of the Western Empire.
Comprising the History of Chaldvea, Assyria, Media, Babylonia, Lydia,
Phcenicia, Syria, Judmea, Egypt, Carthage, Persia, Greece, Macedonia,
Parthia, and Rome. By GEORGE RAWLINSON, M.A., Camden Professor
of Ancient History in the University of Oxford. 12mo, Cloth, $2 50.
RECLUS'S THE EARTH. The Earth: A Descriptive History of the Phenomena and Life of the Globe. By ELTsIE RECLUs. Translated by the
late B. B. Woodward, and Edited by Henry Woodward. With 234 Maps
and Illustrations and 23 Page Maps printed in Colors. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.
RECLUS'S OCEAN. The Ocean, Atmosphere, and Life. Being the Second
Series of a Descriptive History of the Life of the Globe. By 1ELIsiE REcLos. Profusely Illustrated with 250 Maps or Fighres, and 27 Maps
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SPEKE'S AFRICA. Journal of the Discovery of the Source of the Nile.
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THOMSON'S LAND AND THE BOOK. The Land and the Book; or, Biblical Illustrations drawn from the Manners and Customs, the Scenes
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