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 Novels and Tales 
 
 BY 
 
 CHAELOTTE M. YONGE 
 
 VOLUME IX 
 
 C6^ gouitfl ^tep^motfier 
 
 bonbon 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 1882.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER
 
 
 
 /^v '^■.v-^^sfe^.'iSy^ 
 
 "Hr iuifl I useil to lie al\vn\s tlii'ic."^/V/<;f lils.
 
 THE 
 
 /// 
 
 YOUNG STEPMOTHER 
 
 
 
 
 r:^SSB':[-#; ^' 
 
 l!^iM^^'':,r1l ii l:M-- 
 
 
 .^- .■l^\ "I'll 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY MARIAN HUXLEY 
 
 I? Dili) on 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 1882 
 
 The. Right of Trnm^htion 's Tleservcd.

 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 " He and I used to be always there " Page lOS 
 
 " You will find some one who will know how to love you " . ,, 224 
 
 " The mouth, hitherto only gasping for air, endeavoured to 
 
 form a word ; the hand sought hers " . . . . ,,393
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-IIOTHEE. 
 
 H 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AVE you talked it over with her?' said Mr. Ferrars, as 
 his little slender wife met him under the beeches that 
 made an avenue of the lane leading to Fairmead vicarage. 
 
 ' Yes !' was the answer, which the vicar was not slow to 
 understand. 
 
 ' I cannot say I expected much from your conversation, and 
 perhaps we ought not to wish it. We are likely to see with 
 selfish eyes, for what shall we do without her V 
 
 ' Dear Albinia ! You always taunted me with having married 
 your sister as much as yourself.' 
 
 ' So I shall again, if you cannot give her up with a good 
 grace.' 
 
 ' If I could have had my own way in disposing of hei'.' 
 
 * Perhaps the hero of your own composition might be less 
 satisfactory to her than is Kendal.' 
 
 'At least he shoi;ld be minus the children !' 
 
 ' I fancy the children are one great attraction. Do you 
 know how many there are f 
 
 ' Three ; but if Albinia knows their ages she involves them in 
 a discreet haze. I imagine some are in their teens.' 
 
 ' Impossible, Winifred ; he is hardly five-and-thirty.' 
 
 * Tliirty-eight, he said yesterday, and he married very early. 
 I asked Albinia if her son would be in tail-coats ; but she 
 thought I was laughing at her, and would not say. She is 
 quite eager at the notion of being governess to the girls.' 
 
 ' She has wanted scope for her energies,' said Mr. Ferrars. 
 • Even spoiling her nephew, and being my curate, have not 
 ali'unled field enough for her spirit of usefulness.' 
 
 ' Tliat is what I am afraid of.' 
 
 ' Of what, Winifred V 
 
 * That it is my fault. Before our marriage, you and she 
 were the whole world to each other; but since I came, I h-iwo
 
 2J THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 seen, as you say, that the craving for work was strong, and I 
 fear it actuates her more than she knows.' 
 
 ' No such thing. It is a case of good hearty love. What, 
 are you afraid of that, too ?' 
 
 'Yes, I am. I grudge her giving her fresh whole young 
 heart away to a man wlio has no return to make. His heart is 
 in his first wife's grave. Yes, you may smile, Maurice, as if I 
 were talking romance ; but only look at him, poor man ! Did 
 you ever see any one so utterly broken down 1 She can hardly 
 beguile a smile from him.' 
 
 ' His melancholy is one of his charms in her eyes.' 
 
 ' So it may be, as a sort of interesting romance. I am sura 
 I pity the poor man heartily; but to see her at three-and- 
 twenty, with her sweet face and high spirits, give herself away 
 to a man who looks but half alive, and caunot, if he would, 
 return that full first love — have the charge of a tribe of children, 
 be spied and commented on by the first wife's relations — Maurice, 
 I cannot bear it.' 
 
 ' It is not what we should have chosen,' said her husband, 
 'but it has a bright side. Kendal is a most right-minded, 
 superior man, and she appreciates him thoroughly. She has 
 great energy and cheerfulness, and if she can comfort him, and 
 rouse him into activity, and be the kind mother she will be to 
 his poor children, I do not think we ought to grudge her from 
 our own home.' 
 
 ' You and she have so strong a feeling for motherless chil- 
 dren !' 
 
 ' Thinking of Kendal as I do, I have but one fear for her.' 
 
 * I have many — the chief being the gi-andmother.' 
 
 * Mine will make you angry, but it is my only one. You, 
 who have only known her since she has subdued it, have pro- 
 bably never guessed that she has that sort of quick sensitive 
 temper — ' 
 
 ' Maurice, Maurice ! as if I had not been a most provoking, 
 presuming sister-in-law. As if I had not acted so that if 
 Albinia ever had a temper, she must have shown it.' 
 
 ' I knew you would not believe me, and I really am not 
 afraid of her doing any harm by it, if that is what you susi^ect 
 me of No, indeed ; but I fear it may make her feel any trial* 
 of her position more acutely than a placid person would.' 
 
 ' Oho ! so you own there will be trials !' 
 
 ' My dear Winifred, as if I had not sat up till twelve last 
 night laying them before Albinia. How sick the poor child 
 must be of our arguments, when there is no real objection, and 
 *he is eo much attached! Have you heard anything about
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 3 
 
 tbese connexions of his 1 Did you not write to Mrs. Nugent 1 
 I wish she were at home.' 
 
 'I had her answer by this afternoon's post, but there is 
 nothing to tell. Mr. Kendal has only been settled at Bayford 
 Bridge a few years, and she never visited any one there, though 
 Mr. ISTugeut had met Mi\ Kendal several times before his wife's 
 death, and liked him, Emily is charmed to have Albinia for a 
 neighbour.' 
 
 ' Does she know nothing of tlie Meadows' family.' 
 
 ' Nothing but that old Mrs. Meadows lives in the town with 
 
 one unmarried daugliter. She speaks highly of the clergyman.' 
 
 'John Dusautoy? Ay, he is admirable — not that I have 
 
 done more than see him at visitations when he was curate at 
 
 Lauriston.' 
 
 ' Is he married f 
 
 ' I fancy he is, but I am not sure. There is one good friend 
 for Albinia any way !' 
 
 ' And now for your investigations. Did you see Colonel 
 Buiy ]' 
 
 ' I did, but he could say little more than we knew. He saya 
 nothing could be more exemplary than Kendal's whole conduct 
 in India ; he only regretted that he kept so much aloof from 
 others, that his principle and gentlemanly feeling did net tell 
 as much as could have been wished. He has always bt-en 
 wrapped up in his owa pursuits — a perfect dictionary of in- 
 formation.' 
 
 'We had found out that, though he is so silent. I should 
 think him a most elegant scholar.' 
 
 'And a deep one. He has studied and polished his acquire- 
 ments to the utmost. I assure you, Winifred, I mean to be 
 proud of my brother-in-law,' 
 
 ' What did you hear of the fir.st wife V 
 
 ' It was an early marriage. He went home as soon as he had 
 sufficient salary, married her, and brought her out. She was a 
 brilliant dark beauty, who became quickly a motherly, house- 
 wifely, common-place person, I should think there had been a 
 poet's love, never awakened from.' 
 
 ' The very thing that has always struck me when, poor man, 
 he has tried to be civil to me. Here is a man, sensible himself, 
 but who has never had the hap to live with sensible women.' 
 
 'When their children grew too old for India, she came 
 into some little property at Bayford Bridge, which enabled 
 him to retire. Colonel Bury came home in the same hhip, 
 and saw much of them, liked him better and better, and 
 Beem^ to have been rather wearied by her. A very good 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 Vv'oman, he says, and Kendal .most fondly attached ; but as to 
 comparing her with Miss Ferrars, he could not think of it for a 
 moment. So they settled at Bayford, and there, about two 
 years ago, came this terrible visitation of typhus fever.' 
 
 ' I remember how Colonel Bury used to come and sigh over 
 his friend's illness and trouble.' 
 
 ' He could not help going over it again. The children all fell 
 ill together — the two eldest were twin boys, one puny, the 
 other a very tine fellow, and his father's especial pride and 
 delight. As so often happens, the sickly one was spared, the 
 healthy one was taken.' 
 
 ' Then Albinia will have an invalid on her hands !' 
 
 ' The Colonel says this Edmund was a particularly promising 
 boy, and poor Kendal felt the loss dreadfully. He sickened 
 after that, and his wife was worn out with nursing and griel", 
 and sank under the fever at once. Poor Kendal has never held 
 up his head since ; he had a terrible relapse.' 
 
 ' And,' said Winifred, ' he no sooner recovers than he goes 
 and mai'ries our Albinia !' 
 
 ' Two years, my dear.' 
 
 * Pray explain to me, Maurice, why, when people become 
 widowed in any unusually lamentable way, they always are the 
 tii'st to marry again.' 
 
 ' Incorrigible. I meant to make you pity him.' 
 
 ' I did, till I found I had wasted my pity. Why could not 
 these Meadowses look after his children 1 Why must the 
 Colonel bring him here 1 I believe it was with malice pi-epense !' 
 
 ' The Colonel went to see after him, and found him so droop- 
 ing and wretched, that he insisted on bringing him home with 
 him ; and old Mrs. Meadows and her daughter almost forced 
 him to accept the invitation.' 
 
 ' They little guessed what the Colonel would be at !' 
 
 ' You will be better now you have the Colonel to abuse,' said 
 her husband. 
 
 ' And pray what do you mean to say to the General.* 
 
 ' Exactly what I think.' 
 
 'And to the aunts f slily asked the wife. 
 
 <I think I shall leave you all that correspondence. It will 
 he too edifying to see you making common cause with the 
 aunts.' 
 
 * That comes of trying to threaten one's husband ; and here 
 they come,' said Winifred. ' Well, Maurice, what can't be cured 
 must be endured. Albinia's heart is gone; he is a very good 
 man, and spite of India, tirst wife, and melancholy, he does not 
 look aijji>w I'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP -MOT HER. 5 
 
 Mr. Ferrat's smiled at the cliaiy, gi-udoing commendation of 
 the tall, handsome man who advanced through the beech-wood ; 
 but it was too true that his clear olive complexion had not the 
 liue of health, that there was a world of 0|)pre3siou on his broad 
 brow and deep hazel eyes, and that it was a dim, dreamy, re- 
 luctant smile that was awakened by the voice of the lady who 
 walked by his side, as if reverencing his grave mood. 
 
 She was rather tall, very graceful, and well made, but her 
 features were less handsome than sweet, bright, and sensible. 
 Her hair was nut-brown, in long curled waves ; her eyes, deep 
 soft grey, and though downcast under the new sympathies, new 
 feelings, and responsibilities that crowded on her, the smile and 
 sparkle that lighted them as she bkished and nodded to her 
 brother and sister, showed that liveliness was the natural ex- 
 pression of that engaging face. 
 
 Say what they would, it was evident that Albinia Ferrars 
 had cast in her lot with Edmund Kendal, and that her energetic 
 spirit and love of children animated her to embrace joyfully the 
 cares which such a choice must impose on her. 
 
 As might have been perceived by one glance at the figure, step, 
 and bearing of Mr. Ferrars, perfectly clerical though they were, 
 he belonged to a military family. His father had been a distin- 
 guished Peninsular officer, and his brother, older by many years, 
 held a command in Canada. Maurice and Albinia, early left 
 orphans, had, with a young cousin, been chiefly under the ch;irge 
 of their aunts, Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars, and had found 
 a kind home in their house in Mayfair, until Maui-ice had beea 
 ordained to the family living of Fairmead, and his sister had. 
 gone to live with him thei-e, extorting the consent of her elder 
 brother to her spending a more real and active life than her 
 aunts' round of society could offer her. 
 
 The aunts lamented, but they could seldom win their darling 
 to them for more than a few weeks at a time, even after their 
 nephew Maurice had — as they considered — thrown himself 
 away on a little lively lady of Irish parentage, no equal in 
 birth or fortune, in their opinion, for the grandson of Lord 
 Belraven. 
 
 They had been very friendly to the young wife, but their 
 hopes had all the more been fixed on Albinia ; and even 
 Winifred could afford them some generous pity in the engage- 
 ment of their favourite niece to a retired East India Comrany'a 
 servant — a widower with three children.
 
 6 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 THE equinoctial sun liad long set, and the blue haze of March 
 east wind had deepened into twiliglit and darkness when 
 Albinia Kendal found herself driving down the steep hilly 
 street of Bayford. The town was not lai-ge nor modern enough 
 for gas, and the dark street was only lighted here and there by 
 a shop of nioi-e pretension ; the plate-glass of the enterprising 
 draper, with the light veiled by shawls and ribbons ; the ' purple 
 jars,' green, ruby, and crimson of the chemist • and the modest 
 ray of the grocer, revealing busy heads driving Saturday-night 
 bargains. 
 
 ' How well I soon shall know them all,' said Albinia, looking 
 at her husband, though she knew she could not see his face, as 
 he leant back silently in his corner, and she tried to say no 
 more. She was sure that coming home was painful to him ; 
 he had been so willing to put it ofi', and to prolong those pleasant 
 seaside days, when there had been such pleasant reading, 
 walking, musing, and a great deal of happy silence. 
 
 Down the hill, and a little way on level ground — houses on 
 one side, something like hedge or shrubbery on the other — a 
 stop — a gate opened — a hollow sound beneath the carriage, as 
 though crossing a wooden bridge — trees — ^bright windows — an 
 open door — and light streaming from it. 
 
 * Here is your home, Albinia,' said that deep musical voice 
 that she loved the better for the subdued melancholy of the 
 tones, and the suppressed sigh that could not be hidden. 
 
 * And my children,' she eagerly said, as he handed her out, 
 and, springing to the ground, she hurried to the open door 
 0})posite, where, in the lamp-light, she saw, moving about in 
 shy curiosity and embarrassment, two girls in white frocks and 
 broad scarlet sashes, and a boy, who, as she advanced, retreated 
 with his younger sister to the fireplace, while the elder one, a 
 pretty, and rather formal looking girl of twelve, stood forward. 
 
 Albinia held out her arms, saying. * You ai'e Lucy, I am 
 sure,' and eagerly kissed the girl's smiling, bright iace. 
 
 ' Yes, I am Lucy,' was the well-pleased answer ; ' I am glad 
 you are come.' 
 
 ' I hope we shall be very good friends,' said Albinia, with tho 
 Bweet smile that few, young or old, could resist. * And this is 
 Gilbert,' as she kissed the blushing cheek of a thin boy of 
 thirteen — 'and Sophia.' 
 
 Sophia, who was eleven, had not stirred to meet her. She 
 alune inherited her father's fine straight profile, and large black
 
 THE YOUNG STEP- MOTHER. 7 
 
 eyes j but she had the heaviness of feature that sometimes goea 
 with very dark complexions. The white frock did not become 
 her brown neck and arms ; her thick black hair was arranged 
 in too womanly a manner, and her head and face looked too 
 large ; moreover, there was no lighting- up to answer the greeting, 
 and Albinia was disappointed. 
 
 Poor child, she thought, she is feeling deeply that I am an 
 interloper ; it will be diflereut now her father is coming. 
 
 Mr. Kendal was crossing the hall, and as he entered he took 
 the hand and kissed the forehead of each of the three, but Sophia 
 stood with the same half-sullen indifference — it might be shy- 
 ness, or sensibility. 
 
 ' How much you are grown !' he said, looking at the children 
 ■with some surprise. 
 
 In fact, though Albinia knew their ages, they were all on a 
 larger scale than she had expected, and looked too old for the 
 children of a man of his youthful appearance. Gilbert had the 
 slight look of rapid growth ; Lucy, though not so tall, and with 
 a small, clear, bright face, had the air of a little woman ; and 
 Sophia's face might have befitted any age. 
 
 ' Yes, papa,' said Lucy ; ' Gilbert has grown an inch-and-a-half 
 since October, for we measured him.' 
 
 ' Have you been well, Gilbert V continued Mr. Kendal, 
 anxiously. 
 
 * I have the toothache, said Gilbert, piteously. 
 
 ' Happily, nothing more serious,' thrust in Lucy ; ' Mr. Bowles 
 told Aunt Maria that he considers Gilbert's hea,lth much im- 
 proved.' 
 
 Albinia asked some kind questions about the delinquent tooth, 
 but the answers were short ; and, to put an end to the general 
 constraint, she asked Lucy to show her to her room. 
 
 Tt was a pretty bay-windowed room, and looked cheerful in 
 the firelight. Lucy's tongue was at once unloosed, telling that 
 Gilbert's tutor, Mr. Salsted, had insisted on his having his 
 tooth extracted, and that he had refused, saying it was quite 
 well ; but Lucy gave it as her opinion that he much preferred 
 the toothache to his lessons. 
 
 ' Where does Mr. Salsted live V 
 
 'At Tremblam, about two miles off; Gilbert rides the pony 
 over there every day, except when he has the toothache, and 
 then he stays at home.' 
 
 ' And what do you do T 
 
 ' We went to Miss Belmarche till the end of our quarter, 
 i!nd since that we have been at home, or with grandmamma. 
 Do you really mean that we are to study with you V
 
 8 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' I sliould like it, my dear. I have been looking forward 
 very mucli to teaching you and Sophia.' 
 
 •' Thank you, mamma.' 
 
 The word was said with an effort as if it came strangely, but 
 jt thrilled Albinia's heart, and she kissed Lucy, who clung to 
 her, and returned the caress. 
 
 ' I shall tell Gilbert and Sophy what a dear mamma you are,' 
 Bhe said. * Do you know, Sophy says she shall never call you 
 anything but Mrs. Kendal ; and I know Gilbert means the 
 same.' 
 
 ' Let them call me whatever suits them best,' said Albinia ; 
 ' I had rather they waited till they feel that they like to call 
 me as you have done — thank you for it, dear Lucy. You must 
 not fancy I shall be at all hurt at your thinking of times past. I 
 shall want you to tell me of them, and of your own dear mother, 
 and what will suit papa best.' 
 
 Lucy looked highly gratified, and eagerly said, 'I am sure I 
 shall love you just like my own mamma.' 
 
 ' No,' said Albinia, kindly ; ' I do not expect that, my dear. 
 T don't ask for any more than you can freely give, dear child. 
 You mixst bear with having me in that place, and we will try 
 and help each other to make your papa comfortable ; and, 
 Lucy, you will forgive me, if I am impetuovis, and make mis- 
 takes.' 
 
 Lucy's little clear black eyes looked as if nothing like this 
 had ever come within her range of observation, and Albinia 
 could sympathize with her difficulty of reply. 
 
 Mr. Kendal was not in the drawing-room when they re- 
 entered ; there was only Gilbert nursing his toothache by the 
 fire, and Sophy sitting in the middle of the rug, holding up a 
 screen. She said something good-natured to each, but neither 
 responded graciously, and Lucy went on talking, showing off 
 the room, the chifibnieres, the ornaments, and some pretty 
 Indian ivory carvings. There was a great ottoman of Aunt 
 Maria's work, and a huge cushion with an Arab horseman, that 
 Lucy would uncover, whispering, 'Poor mamma worked it,' 
 while Sojjhy visibly winced, and Albinia hurried it into the 
 chintz cover again, lest Mr. Kendal should come. But Lucy 
 had full time to be communicative about the household with 
 such a satisfied, capable manner, that Albinia asked if she had 
 been keeping house all this time. 
 
 ' No ; old Nurse ko]jt the keys, and managed till now ; but 
 che went this morning.' 
 
 Sophy's mouth twitched. 
 
 * She was so very fond — ' continued Lucy.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 9 
 
 'Don't!' burst out Sophy, almost the first word Albinia had 
 heard from her ; but no moi-e passed, for Mr. Kendal came in, 
 and Lucy's conversation instantly was at an end. 
 
 Before him she was almost as silent as the othei's, and he 
 seldom addressed himself to her, only inquiriug once after her 
 grandmamma's health, and once calling Sophy out of the way 
 when she was standing between the tire and — He finished 
 with the gesture of command, whether he said ' Your mamma,' 
 none could tell. 
 
 It was late, and the meal was not over before bed-time, when 
 Albinia lingered to find remedies for Gilbert's toothache, pleased 
 to feel herself making a commencement of motherly care, and 
 to meet an afiectionate glance of thanks from Mr. Kendal's eye. 
 Gilbert, too, thanked her with less shyness than befoi-e, and 
 was hopeful about the remedy ; and with the feeling of having 
 made a be2innin<ir, she ran down to tell Mr. Kendal that she 
 thought he had hardly done justice to the children — they were 
 fine creatures — something so sweet and winning about Lucy — 
 she liked Gilbert's countenance — Sophy must have something 
 deep and noble in her. 
 
 He lifted his head to look at her bright face, and said, ' They 
 are very much obliged to you.' 
 
 ' You must not say that, they are my own.' 
 
 ' I will not say it again, but as 1 look at you, and the home 
 to which I have brought you, I feel that I have acted sel- 
 fishly.' 
 
 Albinia timidly pressed his hand, 'Work was always what I 
 wished,' she said ; ' if only I could do anything to lighten your 
 grief and care.' 
 
 He gave a deep, heavy sigh. Albinia felt that if he had 
 hoped to have lessened the sadness, he had surely found it again 
 at his own door. He roused himself, however, to say, ' This 
 is using you ill, Albinia ; no one is more sensible of it than 
 I am.' 
 
 ' I never sought more than you can give,' she murmured ; ' I 
 only wish to do what I can for you, and you will not let me dis- 
 turb you.' 
 
 ' I am very grateful to you,' was his answer ; a sad welcome 
 for a bride. ' And these jjoor children will owe everything to 
 you.' 
 
 * I wish I may do right by them,' said Albinia, fervently. 
 
 'The flower of t]i£ flock' — began ]\Ir. Kendal, but he broke 
 ofi" at once. 
 
 Albinia had told Winifred that she could bear to have 
 Lis wife's memory first with him, and that she knew that she
 
 10 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 could not compensate to him for liis loss ; but the actual sight 
 of his dejection came on her with a chill, and she had to call 
 up all her energies and hopes, and, still better, the thought of 
 strength not her own, to enable her to look cheerfully on the 
 prospect. Sleep revived her elastic spirits, and with eager 
 curiosity she drew up her blind in the morning, for the first view 
 of her new home. 
 
 But there was a veil — moisture made the panes resemble ground 
 glass, and when she had rubbed that away, and secured a clear 
 corner, her range of vision was not much more extensive. She 
 could only see the grey outline of trees and shrubs, obscured by 
 the heavy mist ; and on the lawn below, a thick cloud that 
 seemed to hang over a dark space which she suspected to be 
 a large pond. 
 
 'There is very little to be gained by looking out here!' 
 Albinia soliloquized. ' It is not doing the place justice to study 
 it on a misty, moisty morning. It looks now as if that fever 
 might have come bodily out of the pond. I'll have no more to 
 say to it till the sun has licked up the fog, and made it bright I 
 Sunday morning — my last Sunday without school-teaching I 
 hope ! I famish to begin again — and I will make time lor 
 that, and the girls too ! I am glad he consents to my doing 
 whatever I please in that way ! I hope Mr. Dusautoy will ! 
 I wish Edmund knew him better — but oh ! what a . hy man 
 it is ! ' 
 
 With a light step she went down-stairs, and found Mr* Ken- 
 dal waiting for her in the dining-room, his face brighten iig as 
 she entered. 
 
 ' I am sorry Bay ford should wear this heavy cloud to receive 
 you,' he said. 
 
 ' It will soon clear,' she answered, cheerfully. ' Have you 
 heard of poor Gilbert this morning?' 
 
 'Not yet.' Then, after a pause, 'I have generally gone to 
 Mrs. Meadows after the morning service,' he said, speaking with 
 constraint. 
 
 * You will take me 1 ' said Albinia. ' I wish it, I assure you.' 
 
 It was evidently what he wished her to propose, and he 
 added, 'She must never feel her.self neglected, and it will be 
 better at once.' 
 
 ' So much more cordial,' said Albinia. ' Pray let us go ! ' 
 
 They were interrupted by the voices of the girls— not un- 
 pleasing voices, but loud and unsubdued, and with a slight tone 
 of provincialism, which seemed to hurt Mr. Kendal's ears, for 
 he said, ' I hope you will tune those voices to something less 
 unlike your own.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 11 
 
 As he spoke, the sisters appeared iu the full and conscious 
 rustling of new lilac silk dresses, which seemed to have happily 
 carried off" all Sophy's suUenness j for she made much more brisk 
 and civil answers, and ran across the room in a boisterous 
 manner, when her father sent her to see whether Gilbert were 
 up. 
 
 There was a great clatter, and Gilbert chased her in, breath- 
 less and scolding, but the tongues were hushed before papa, and 
 no more was heard than that the tooth was better, and had not 
 kept him awake. Lucy seemed disposed to make conversation, 
 overwhelming Albinia with needless repetitious of ' Mamma 
 dear,' and plunging into what Mi-s. Bowles and Miss Goldsmith 
 had said of Mr. Dusautoy, and how he kept so few servants, and 
 the butcher had no orders last time he called. Aunt Maria 
 thought he starved and tyrannized over that poor little sickly 
 Mrs. Dusautoy. 
 
 Mr. Kendal said not one word, and seemed not to hear. 
 Albinia felt as if she had fallen into a whirlpool of gossip ; she 
 looked towards him, and hoped to let the conversation drop, but 
 Sophy answered her sister, and, at last, when it came to some- 
 thing about what Jane heard from Mrs. Osboru's Susan, Albinia 
 gently whispered, ' I do not think this entertains your papa, my 
 dear,' and silence sank upon them all. 
 
 Albinia's next venture was to ask about that which had been 
 her Sunday pleasure from childhood, and she turned to Sophy, 
 and said, ' I suppose you have not begun to teach at the school 
 yet r 
 
 Sophy's great eyes expanded, and Lucy said, ' Oh dear 
 mamma ! noi^ody does that but Genevieve Durant and the 
 monitors. Miss Wolte did till Mr. Dusautoy came, but she does 
 not approve of him.' 
 
 ' Lucy, you do not know what you are saying,' said Mj-. 
 Kendal, and again there was an annihilating silence, whicli 
 Albinia did not attempt to disturb. 
 
 At church time, she met the young ladies in the ball, in 
 pink bonnets and sea-green mantillas over the lilac silks, all 
 evidently put on for the first time in her honour, an honour 
 of which she felt herself the less deserving, as, sensible that 
 this was no case for bridal display, she wore a quiet dark 
 silk, a Cashmere shawl, and plain straw bonnet, trimmed with 
 white. 
 
 With manifest wish for reciprocity, Lucy fell into transports 
 over the shawl ; but gaining nothing by this, Sophy asked if 
 she did not like the mantillas 1 Albinia could only make civility 
 compatible with truth by saying that the colour was pretty,
 
 12 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 but where was Gilbert ? He was on a stool before the dining- 
 room fire, looking piteous, and pronouncing his tooth far too bad 
 for going to church, and she had just time for a fresh adminis- 
 tration of camphor before Mr. Kendal came forth from his study, 
 and gave her his arm. 
 
 The front door opened on a narrow sweep, the river cutting 
 it off from the road, and crossed by two wooden bridges, beside 
 each of which stood a weeping-willow, budding with fresh spring 
 foliage. Opposite were houses of various pretentions, and sheer 
 behind them rose the steep hill, with the church nearly at the 
 sunnnit, the noble spire tapering high above, and the bells ring- 
 ing out a cheerful chime. The mist had drawn up, and all was 
 fresh and clear. 
 
 'There go Lizzie and Loo !' cried Lucy, 'and the Admiral 
 and Mrs. Osborn. I'll run and tell them papa is come home.' 
 
 Sophy was setting off also, but IMi*. Kendal stopped them, and 
 lingered a moment or two, making an excuse of looking for a 
 needless umbrella, but in fact to avoid the general gaze. As if 
 making a desperate plunge, however, and looking up and down 
 the broad street, so as to be secure that no acquaintance was 
 near, he emerged with Albinia from the gate, and crossed the 
 road as the chime of the bells changed. 
 
 ' We are late,' he said. * You will prefer the speediest way, 
 though it is somewhat steep.' 
 
 The most private way, Albinia understood, and could also 
 perceive that the girls would have liked the street which sloped 
 up the hill, and thought the lilac and green insulted by being 
 conducted up the steep, irregular, and not very clean bye-lane 
 that led directly up the ascent, between houses, some meanly 
 modern, some picturesquely ancient, with stone steps outside to 
 the upper story, but all with far too much of pig-stye about them 
 for beauty or fragrance. Lucy held up her skirts, and daintily 
 picked her way, and Albinia looked with kindly eyes at the 
 doors and windows, secretly wondering what friends she should 
 find there. 
 
 The lane ended in a long flight of more than a hundred 
 shallow steps cut out in the soft stone of the hill, with landing- 
 places here and there, whence views were seen of the rich mea- 
 dow-landscape beyond, with villages, orchards, and farms, and 
 the blue winding river Baye in the midst, woods rising on the 
 opposite side under the soft haze of distance. On the other side, 
 the wall of rock was bordered by gardens, with streamers of ivy 
 or periwinkle here and there hanging down. 
 
 The ascent ended in an old-fashioned stone stile ; and here 
 Sophy, standing on the step, proclaimed, with unnecessary
 
 THE YOUNG STEP- MOTHER. 13 
 
 loudness, tliat Mr. Dusautoy was carrying iNIrs. Dusaittoy aci'oss 
 the churchyard. This had the effect of making a pause, but 
 Albiuia saw the rector, a tall, powerful man, rather supporting 
 than actually carrying, a little fragile form to the low-browed 
 door leading into the chancel on the north side. The church 
 was handsome, though in the late style, and a good deal misused 
 by eighteenth-century taste ; and Albinia was full of admiration 
 as Mr. Kendal conducted her along the flagged path. 
 
 She was rather dismayed to find herself mounting the gallery 
 stairs, and to emerge into a well-cushioned abode, with the 
 shield-beai'ing angel of the corbel of an arch all to herself, and a 
 very good view of the cobwebs over Mr. Dusautoy's sounding- 
 board. It seemed to suit all parties, however, for Lucy and 
 Sophia took possession of the forefront, and their father had the 
 inmost corner, where certainly nobody could see him. 
 
 Just opposite to Albinia was a mural tablet, on which she 
 read what revealed to her more of the sorrows of her household 
 than she had guessed before : 
 
 'To the memory of Lucy, the beloved wife of Edmund 
 Kendah Died February i8th, 1845, aged 35 years. 
 
 Edmund Meadows Kendal, born January 20th, 1834. Died 
 February loth, 1845. 
 
 Maria Kendal, born September 5th, 1840. Died September 
 14th, 1840. 
 
 Sarah Anne Kendal, born October 3rd, 1841. Died I^ovem- 
 ber 20th, 1843. 
 
 John Augustus Kendal, born January 4th, 1842. Died 
 July 6th, 1842. 
 
 Anne Maria Kendal, born June 1 2th, 1844. Died June 1 9th, 
 
 I044. 
 
 Then followed, in the original Greek, the words, ' Because I 
 live, ye shall live also.' 
 
 Four infants ! how many hopes laid here ! All the English- 
 born children of the family had died in their ci'adles, and not 
 only did compassion for the past affect Albinia, as she thought 
 of her husband's world of hidden grief, but a shudder for the 
 future came over her, as she remembered having read that sucli 
 mortality is a test of the healthiness of a locality. What could 
 she think of Willow Lawn ] It was with a strong effort that 
 she brought her attention back to Him Who controlleth tho 
 sickness that destroyeth at noon-day. 
 
 But Mr. Dusautoy's deep, powerful intonations roused her 
 wandering thoughts, and she was calmed and reassured by the 
 holy Feast, in which she joined with her husband. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's fine face was calm and placid, as best she loved
 
 14 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 to looTs upon it, when they came out of church, and she was too 
 happy to disturb the quiet by one word. Lively and animated 
 as she was, there was a sort of repose and enjoyment in the 
 species of respect exacted by his grave silent demeanoui'. 
 
 If this could only have lasted longer ! but he was taking her 
 along an irregular street, and too soon she saw a slight colour flit 
 across his cheek, and his eyebrows contract, as he unlatched a 
 green door in a high wall, and entered a little flagged court, de- 
 corated by a stand destined for flowers. 
 
 Albinia caught the blush, and felt more bashful than she had 
 "believed was in her nature, but she had a warm-hearted deter- 
 mination that she would work down prejudices, and like and be 
 liked by all that concerned him and his children. So she 
 smiled at him, and went bravely on into the matted hall and up 
 the narrow stairs, and made a laughing sign when he looked 
 back at her ere he tapped at the sitting-room door. 
 
 It was opened from within before he could turn the handle; 
 and a shrill voice, exaggerating those of the girls, showered wel- 
 comes with such rapidity, that Albinia was seated at the table, 
 and had been helped to cold chicken, before she could look 
 round, or make much answer to reiterations of ' so very kind.' 
 
 It was a small room, loaded with knicknacks and cushions, 
 like a repository of every species of female ornamental handi- 
 work in vogue for the last half century, and the luncheon-tray 
 in the middle of all, ready for six people, for the two girls were 
 there, and though Mr. Kendal stood up by the fire, and would 
 not eat, he and his black image, reflected backwards and for- 
 wards in the looking-glass and in the little round mirror, 
 seemed to take up more room than if he had been seated. 
 
 Mrs. Meadows was slight, shrunken, and gentle-looking, with 
 a sweet tone in her voice, great softness of manner, and pretty 
 blue eyes. Albinia only wished that she had worn mourning, 
 it would have been so much more becoming than bright colours ; 
 but tliat was soon overlooked in gratitude for her affectionate 
 reception, and in the warmth of feeling excited by her evident 
 fondness and solicitude for Mr. Kendal. 
 
 Miss Meadows was gaily dressed in youthful fashion, such as 
 evidently had set her off to advantage when she had been a 
 bright, dai'k, handsome girl ; but her hair was thin, her cheeks 
 haggard, the colour hai'dened, and her forty years apparent, 
 above all, in an uncomfortable furrow on the brow and round 
 the mouth ; her voice had a sharp distressed tone that grated 
 even in her lowest key, and though she did not stammer, .she could 
 never finish a sentence, but made half-a-dozen disjointed com-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 15 
 
 niencements whenever she spoke. Albiuia pitied her, and thought 
 her nervous, for she was painfully assiduous in waiting on every 
 one, scarcely sitting down for a minute before she was sure that 
 pepper, or pickle, or new bread, or stale bread, or something 
 was wanted, and squeezing round the table to help some one, or 
 to ring the bell every third minute, and all in a dress that had 
 a teasing still' silken rustle. She offered Mr. Kendal everything 
 in the shape of food, till he purchased peace by submitting to 
 take a hard biscuit ; while Albinia was not allowed her glass of 
 water till all manner of wines, foreign and domestic, had been 
 tried upon her in vain. 
 
 Conversation was not easy. Gilbert was inquired after, and 
 Lis aunt spoke in her shrill, injured note, as she declared that 
 she had done her utmost to persuade him to have the tooth ex- 
 tracted, and began a history of what the dentist ought to have 
 done five years ago. 
 
 His grandmother softly pitied him, saying poor little Gibbie 
 ■was such a delicate boy, and required such careful treatment ; 
 and when Albinia hoped that he was outgrowing his ill-health, 
 she was amused to find that desponding compassion would have 
 been more pleasing. 
 
 There had been a transaction about a servant in her behalf : 
 and Miss Meadows insisted on hunting up a note, searching all 
 about the room, and making her mother and Sophy move from 
 the front of two table-drawers, a disturbance which Sophy did 
 not take with such placid looks as did her grandmother. 
 
 The name of the maid was Eweretta Dobson, at whic hthere 
 was a general exclamation. 
 
 •' I wonder what is the history of the name,' said Albinia ; 
 < it sounds like nothing but the diminutive of ewer. I hope 
 she will not be the little pitcher with long ears.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal looked as much amused as he ever did, but no 
 one else gave the least token of so much as knowing what she 
 meant, and she felt as if she had been making a foolish attempt 
 at wit. 
 
 ' You need not call hec so,' was all that Mrs. Meadows said. 
 
 ' I do not like calling servants by anything but their true 
 names,' answered Albinia ; ' it does not seem to me treating 
 them with proper respect to change their names, as if we 
 thought them too good for them. It is using them like slaves.' 
 
 Lucy exclaimed, ' Why ! grandmamma's Betty is really named 
 Philadelphia.' 
 
 Albinia laughed, but was disconcerted by finding that she had 
 really given annoyance. ' I beg your pardon,' she said. * It ia
 
 16 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 only a fancy of my own. I am afraid that I have many fancies* 
 for my friends to bear with. You see I liave so fine a name of 
 my own, that I have a fellow-feeling for those under the same 
 affliction ; and I believe some servants like an alias rather than 
 be teased for their finery, so I shall give Miss Eweretta her 
 choice between that and her surname.' 
 
 The old lady looked good-natured, and that matter blew over ; 
 but Miss Meadows fell into another complication of pros and 
 cons about writing for the woman's character, looking miserably 
 harassed whether she should write, or Mrs. Kendal, before she 
 had been called upon. 
 
 Albinia supposed that Mrs. Wolfe might call in the course 
 of the week ; but this Miss Meadows did not know, and she 
 embarked in so many half speeches, and looked so mysterious 
 and significant at her mother, that Albinia began to suspect 
 that some dreadful truth was behind. 
 
 'Perhaps,' said the old lady, 'pei-haps Mrs. Kendal might 
 make it understood through you, my dear Maria, that she is 
 ready to receive visits.' 
 
 ' I suppose they must be !' said Albinia. 
 
 * You see, my dear, people would be most happy, but they do 
 not know whether you have arrived. You have not appeared 
 at church, as I may say.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Albinia, much diverted by her new discoveries 
 in the realms of etiquette, ' I was rather in a cupboard, I must 
 allow. Ought we to have sailed up the aisle in state in the 
 Grandison pattern 1 Are you ready V and she glanced uj) at 
 her husband, but he only half heard. 
 
 ' No,' said Miss Meadows, fretfully ; * but you have not ap- 
 peared as a bride. The straw bonnet — you see people cannot 
 tell whether you are not incog, as yet — ' 
 
 To refrain from laughing was impossible. ' My tarn cap,* 
 she exclaimed ; * I am invisible in it ! What shall I do ? I 
 fear I shall never be producible, for indeed it is my very best, 
 my veritable wedding-bonnet !' 
 
 Lucy looked as if she thought it not worth while to be mar- 
 ried for no better a bonnet than that. 
 
 * Absurdity !' said IVIr. Kendal. 
 
 If he would but have given a good hearty laugh, thought 
 Albinia, what a consolation it would be ! but she considered 
 herself to have had a lesson against laughing in tliat house, and 
 was very glad when he proposed going home. He took a kind, 
 afiectionate leave of the old lady, who again looked fondly in 
 his face, and rejoiced in his having recovei-ed his looks. 
 
 As they arrived at home, Lucy announced that she was just
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 17 
 
 going to speak to Lizzie Osborn, and Sophy ran after hcv to a, 
 house of about the same degree as their own, but dignitled as 
 Mount Lodge, because it stood on the hill side of the street, 
 while Mr. Kendal's ho;;se was for more gentility called 'Willow 
 Lawn.' Gilbert was not to be found ; but at four o'clock the 
 whole party met at dinner, befoi'e the evening service. 
 
 Gilbert could eat little, and on going back to the fire to roast 
 his cheek instead of going to church, was told by his father, 
 ' I cannot have this going on. Yon must go to Mr. Bowles 
 dii'ectly after breakfast to-morrow, have the tooth drawn, And 
 then go on to Mr. Salsted's. 
 
 The tone was one that admitted of no rebellion. If Mr. 
 Kendal interfered little, his authority was absolute v/here he 
 did interfere, and Albinia could only speak a few kind words of 
 encouragement ; but the boy was vexed and moody, seemed half 
 asleep when they came home, and went to bed as soon as tea 
 was over. 
 
 Sophy went to bed too, Mr. Kendal went to his study, and 
 Albinia, after this day of novelty and excitement, drew her chair 
 to the fire, and as Lucy was hanging wearily about, called her 
 to her side, and made her talk, believing that there was more 
 use in studying the girl's character than even in suggesting 
 some occupation, though that v/as apparently the great want of 
 the whole family on Sunday. 
 
 Lucy's first confidence was that Gilbert had not been out 
 alone, but witli that Archibald Tritton. Mr. Tritton had a 
 great farm, and was a sort of gentleman, and Gilbert was al- 
 ways after that Archy. She thought it ' veiy undesirable,' and 
 Aunt Maria had talked to him about it, but he never listened 
 to Aunt Maria. 
 
 Albinia privately thought that it mnst be a severe penance 
 to listen to Aunt Maria, and took Gilbert's part. She supposed 
 that he must be very solitary ; it must be a melancholy thing to 
 be a twin left alone. 
 
 ' And Edmund, dear Edmund, v/as always so kind and so 
 fond of Gilbert!' said Lucy. "You would not have thought 
 they were twins, Edmund was so much the tallest and strongest. 
 It seemed so odd that Gilbert should have got over it, when he 
 did not. Should you like to hear all about it, mamma f 
 
 It was Albinia's great wish to lift that dark veil, and Lucy- 
 began, with as much seriousness and sadness as could co-exist 
 with the satisfaction and importance of having to give such a 
 narration, and exciting emotion and pity. It was remarkable 
 how she managed to make herself the heroine of the stor}-, 
 though she hadbeen sent out of the house, and had escaped the 
 
 C
 
 18 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 infection. She spoke in phrases that showed that she had so 
 ofi'. u told the stoiy as to have a set form, caught from her 
 elders, but still it had a deep and iutrinsic interest for the bride, 
 that made her sit gazing into the fire, pressing Lucy's liand, 
 and now and then sighing and shuddering slightly as she lieard 
 how there had been a bad fever prevailing in that lower part of 
 the town, and how the two boys were both unwell one damp, 
 hot autumn morning, and Lucy dwelt on the esca|)e it had been 
 that she had not kissed them before going to school. Sopliy 
 had sickened the same day, and after the tedious three weeks, 
 "when fatlier and mother were spent with attendance on the 
 three, Edmund, after long delirium, had suddenly sunk, just 
 as they had hopes of him ; and the same message that told 
 Lucy o-f her brot:her''s death, told her of the severe illness of 
 both parents. 
 
 The disease Lad done the work rapidly on the mother's ex- 
 hausted frame, and she was buried a week after her boy. Lucy 
 had seen the procession from the window, and thought it neces- 
 sary to tell how she had cried. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's had been a long illness ; the first knowledge of 
 his loss had caused a relapse, and his recovery had long been 
 doubtful. As soon as the childi-en were able to moA'e, they 
 were sent with Miss Meadows to Ramsgate, and Lucy had joined 
 them there. 
 
 ' The day before I v/ent, I saw papa,' she said. * I had gone 
 home for some things that I was to take, and his room door was 
 open, so he saw me on the stairs, and called me, for there was 
 no fear of infection then. Oh, he was so changed ! his hair all 
 cut off, and his cheeks hollow, and he was quite trembling, as 
 he lay back on pillows in the great arm-chair. You can't think 
 what a shock it was to me to see him in such a state. He held 
 out his arms, and I flung mine round his neck, and sobbed and 
 cried. And he just said, so faintly, " Take her away, Maria, I 
 cannot bear it." I assure you I was quite hysterical.' 
 
 ' You must have wished for more self-command,' said Albinia, 
 disturbed by Lucy's evident pleasure in having made a scene. 
 
 ' Oh, but it was such a shock, and such a thing to see the house 
 all empty and forlorn, with the windows open, and everything 
 60 still ! Miss Eelmarche cried too, and said she did not wonder 
 my feelings overcame me, and she did not see papa.' 
 
 * Ah ! Lucy,' said Albinia, fervently, ' how we must try to 
 make him happy after all that he has gone through !' 
 
 ' That is what grandmamma said when she got his letter. " I 
 would be glad of anything," she said, " that would bring back
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 19 
 
 a smile to him." And Aunt Ma via said she had done her best 
 l"or him, but he must consult his own happiness ; and so I say. 
 When people talk to me, I say that papa is quite at liberty to 
 consult his own happiness.' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 Lucy did not understand the tone, and went on patronizing. 
 * And if they say you look younger than they expected, I don't 
 object to that at all. I had rather you were not as old as Aunt 
 Maria, or JVIiss Belmarche.' 
 
 * Who thinks me so young V 
 
 ' Oh ! Aunt Maria, and grandmamma, and Mrs. Osborn, and 
 all ; but I don't mind that, it is only Sophy who says you look 
 like a girh Aunt Maria says Sophy has an immanageable 
 temper.' 
 
 ' Don't you think jou can let me find that out for myself 2' 
 
 * I thought you wanted me to tell you about everybody.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but tell me of the good in your brother and sister.' 
 
 ' I don't know how,' said Lucy. ' Gilbert is so tiresome, and 
 so is Sophy. I heai-d Mary telling Jane, " I'm sure the new 
 missus will have a heavy handful of those two." ' 
 
 'And what of yourself?' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know,' said Lucy, modestly. 
 
 Mr. Kendal came in, and as Albinia looked at his pensive 
 brow, she was oppressed by the thought of his sufferings in tliat 
 dreary convalescence. At night, when she looked from her 
 window, the fog hung white, like mildew over the pond, and she 
 could not reason herself out of a spectral haunting fancy tliat 
 sickness lurked in the heavy, misty atmosphere. She dreamt of 
 it and the four babies, started, awoke, and had to recal all her 
 higher trust to enable her vigour to chase off the oppressive 
 imagination. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 FOG greeted Mrs. Kendal's eyes as she rose, and she resolved 
 to make an attack on the pond without loss of time. But 
 Mr. Kendal was absorbed nearly all breakfast-time in a letter 
 from India, containing a scrap in some uncouth chai-acter. A^-. 
 he finished his last cup of tea, he looked up and said, ' A letter 
 from my old friend Penros-e, of Bombay— an iuscriptiou in the 
 Salsette caves.' 
 
 * Have you seen the Salsette caves V 
 
 c2
 
 ^0 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 She was longing to hear about them, but his horse was 
 auiiounced. 
 
 ' You said you would be engaged in the morning while I ride 
 out, Albinia V he said ; ' I shall return before luncheon. Gilbert, 
 you had better go at once to Mr. Bowles. I shall order your 
 pony to be ready when you come bach.' 
 
 There was not a word of remonstrance, though the boy looked 
 very disconsolate, and be*an to murmur the moment his faths-r 
 liad gone. Albinia, who had regarded protection at a dentist's 
 one of tlie offices of tlie head of a f\xi;'.:ly, tliough dismayed at 
 the task, told Gilbert tliat she would cume with him in a 
 moment. The girls exclaimed that no one thought of going 
 with him, and fearing she had put an affront on his manliness, 
 she asked what he would like, but could get no answei', only 
 when Lucy scolded him for lingering, he said, ' I thought she 
 was going with me.' 
 
 • Amiable,' thought Albinia, as she ran up to put on her 
 bonnet ; ' but I suppose toothache puts people out of the pale of 
 civilization. And if he is thankless, is not that treating me 
 more like a mother?' 
 
 Perhaps he had accepted her escort in hopes of deferring the 
 evil liour, for he seemed discomfited to see her so quickly ready, 
 and not grateful to his sisters, who hurried them by saying that 
 x\Ir. Bowles would be gone out upon lii.s rounds, 
 
 Mr. Bowles was amazed at tho sight of Mrs. Kendal, and so 
 elaborate in compliments and assui-auces that Mrs. Bowles would 
 do herself the honour of calling, that Albinia, pitying Gilbert, 
 called his attention back. 
 
 With him the apothecary was peremptory and facetious. 
 ' He had expected that he should soon see him after his papa's 
 return!' And with a 'soon be over,' he set him down, and 
 Albina bravely stood a desperate wringing of her hand at the 
 tug of war. She was glad she had come, for the boy suffered a 
 good deal, and was faint, and Mr. Bowles pronounced his mouth 
 in no state for a ride to Tremblam. 
 
 * I must go,' said Gilbert, as they walked home ; * I wish papa 
 would listen to anything.' 
 
 ' He would not wish you to hurt yourself.' 
 
 ' When papa says a thing — ' began Gilbert. 
 
 'Well, Gilbert, you are quite right, and I hope you don't 
 think I mean to teach you disobedience. But I do desire you, 
 on my own responsiljility, not to go and catch an inflammation 
 in your jaw. I'll undertake papa.' 
 
 Gilbert at once became quite another creature. He discoursed
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-r^IOTHER. 21 
 
 so much, that she had to make him restore the handkerchief to 
 his mouth ; he held open the gate, showed her a shoal of min- 
 nows, and tried to persuade her to come round the garden 
 before going in, but she clapped her hands at him, and hunted 
 him back into the v/arm room, much impressed and delighted 
 by his implicit obedience to his father. With Lucy and So])hy, 
 his remaining seemed likewifc^e to make a great sensation ; they 
 looked at Mrs. Kendal and whispered, and were evidently 
 cuiious as to the result of her audacitJ^ Albinia, who had 
 grown u}) with her brother Maurice and cousin Frederick, was 
 more tised to boys than to girls, and was already more at ease 
 with her son than her daughters. 
 
 Gilbert lent a ready hand with hammer and chisel, and boxes 
 were opened, to the great delight and admiration of the girls. 
 They were all very happy and busy setting things to rights, but 
 Albinia vv'as in difficulty how to bestow her books. There was 
 an unaccountable scarcity both of books and book-cases ; none 
 were to be seen except that, in a chiffoniere in the drawing- 
 room, there was a row in gilded bindings, chiefly Pope, Gray, 
 and the like ; and one whicli Albinia took out had pages Avliich 
 stuck together, a little pale blue string, faded at the end, and 
 in the garlanded fly-leaf the inscription, 'To Miss Lucy Meadows, 
 the reward of good conduct, December 20th, 1822.' The book 
 seemed rather surprised at being opened, and Albinia let it close 
 itself as Lucy said, ' Those are poor mamm-a's books ; all the 
 others are in the study. Come in, and I'll show you.' 
 
 She threw open the door, and Albinia entered. The study 
 was shaded witli a mass of laurels that kept out the sun, and 
 made it look chill and sad, and the air in it was close. Tlie 
 round library-table was loaded vrith desks, pocket-books, and 
 papers ; the mantelpiece was covered with letters, and book- 
 shelves mounted to the ceiling, filled with the learned and the 
 poetical of new and old times. 
 
 Over the fireplace hung what it needed not Lucy's whisper 
 to point out, as ' Poor mamma's picture.' It represented a very 
 pretty girl, with dark eyes, brilliant coloui', and small cherry 
 mouth, painted in the exaggerated style usually called ' ridicu- 
 lously like.' 
 
 Albinia's first feeling was that there was nothing in herself 
 that could atone for the loss of so fair a creature, and the 
 thought became more oppressive as she looked at a niche in the 
 wall, holding a carved sandal-wood work-box, with a silver 
 watch lying on it. 
 
 ' Poor Edmund's Avatch,' ?;iid Lucy. * It was given to him 
 for a reward just before he was ilL'
 
 22 THE rOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 All)inia tried to ivcover composure by reading the titles of 
 the books. Suddenly, Lucy started and exclaimed, 'Come 
 away. There he is !' 
 
 ' Why come away V said Albinia. 
 
 'I would not have him find me there for all the world.' 
 
 In all her vexation and dismay, Albinia could not help 
 thinking of Bluel)eard's closet. Her inclination was to stay 
 where she was, and take her chance of losing her head, yet she 
 felt as if she could not bear to be found invading a sanctuary of 
 past recollections, and was relieved to find that ifc was a false 
 alarm, though not relieved by the announcement that Admiral 
 and Mrs. Osborn and the Miss Osborns were in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 ' Before luncheon — too bad !' she exclaimed, as she hurried 
 upstairs to wash oif the dust of unpacking. 
 
 Ere she could hurry down, there was another inundation 
 streaming across the hall, Mis. Drury and three IMiss Drurys, 
 who, as she remembered, when they began to kiss her, were 
 some kind of cousins. 
 
 There was talk, but Albinia could not give entire attention ; 
 she was watching for Mr. Kendal's return, that she might 
 guard Gilbert from his displeasure, and the instant she heard 
 him, she sprang up, and flew into the hall. He could not help 
 brightening at the eager welcome, but when she told him of 
 Mr. Bowles' opinion, he looked graver, and said, ' I fear you 
 must not always attach credit to all Gilbert's reports.' 
 
 * Mr. Bowles told me himself that he must run no risk of 
 inflammation.' 
 
 * You saw Mr. Bowles !' 
 *I went with Gilbert.' 
 
 * You ! I never thought of your imposing so unpleasant a 
 task on yourself. I fear the boy has been trespassing on youi 
 kindness.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, ho never asked me, but — ^ with a sort of laugh 
 to hide the warmth excited by his pleased, grateful look, ' I 
 thought it all in the day's work, only natui-al — ' 
 
 She would have given anything to have had time to enjoy 
 his epanchement de cosn.r at those words, bvit she was obliged to 
 add, ' Alas ! there's' all the world in the drawing-room 1' 
 
 'Whor 
 
 ' Osborns and Drurys.' 
 
 ' Do you want me V 
 
 ' I ran away on the plea of calling you.' 
 
 ' I'll never do so again,' was her inward addition, as his coun- 
 tenance settled into the accustomed fixed look of abstraction, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 23 
 
 as an unwilling victim he entered the room with hez-, and tlie 
 visitors were * dreadful enough' to congratulate him. 
 
 Albinia knew that it must be so unpleasant to him, that she 
 blushed up to the roots of her hair, and could not look at any- 
 body. 
 
 When she recovered, the first comers were taking leave, but 
 the second set stayed on and on till j^ast luncheon-time, and far 
 past her patience, before the room was at last cleared. 
 
 Gilbert hurried in, and was received by his father with, ' You 
 are very much obliged to her V 
 
 ' Indeed I am,' said Gilbert, in a winning, pleasant 
 manner. 
 
 ' I don't want you to be,' said Albinia, affectionately laying 
 her arm on his shoulder. ' And now for luncheon — I pitied 
 you, poor fellow ; I tliought you must have been famished.' 
 
 ' Any tiling not to have all the Drurys at luncheon,' said 
 Gilbert, confidentially ; ' I had begun to wish myself at Trem- 
 blani.' 
 
 ' By the bye,' said Mr. Kendal, waking as he sat down at the 
 bottom of the table, ' how was it that the Druiys did not stay 
 to luncheon V 
 
 ' Was that what they were waiting for Y exclaimed Albinia. 
 * Poor people, I had no notion of that.' 
 
 ' They do have luncheon here in general,' said Mr. Kendal, as 
 if not knowing exactly how it came to pass. 
 
 ' O yes,' said Lucy ; ' Sarah Anne asked me whether we ate 
 wedding-cake every day.' 
 
 ' Poor Miss Sarah Anne !' said Albinia, laughing. ' But one 
 cannot help feeling inho.spitable when people come so uncon- 
 Bcionably early, and cut up all one's morning.' 
 
 The door was again besieged by visitors, just as they were 
 all going out to make the round of the garden ; and it was not 
 till half-past four that the succession ceased, and Albinia was 
 left to breathe freely, and remember how often Maurice had 
 called her to order for intolerance of morning calls. 
 
 ' And not the only people I cared to see,' she said, ' the 
 Dusautoys and Nugents. But they have too much mercy to 
 call the first day.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal looked as if his instinct were drawing him study- 
 wards, but Albinia hung on his arm, and made him come into 
 the garden. Though devoid of Winifred's gardening tastes, she 
 was dismayed at the untended look of the flower-beds. The 
 laurels were too high, and seemed to choke tlie narrow .space, 
 and .the turf owed its verdant appeai'ance to damp moss. She 
 had made but few steps before the water squished under her
 
 24) THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 feet, and impelled her to exclaim, ' Wliat a pity this pond should 
 not he filled up !' 
 
 ' Filled up !— ' 
 
 ' Yes, it would be so much less damp. One might drain it 
 off into the river, and then we should get rid of the fog.' 
 
 And she began actively to demonstrate the convenient slopo, 
 and the beautiful flower-bed that might be made in its place. 
 Mr. Kendal answered with a few assenting sounds and com- 
 placent looks, and Albinia, accustomed to a brother with wliom 
 to assent was to act, believed the matter was in train, and that 
 pond and fever would be annihilated. 
 
 The garden opened into a meadow with a causeway leading to 
 a canal banlr, where there was a })romising country walk, bat 
 the cruel visitors had left no time for exploring, and Albinia 
 had to return home and hurry up her arrangements before 
 there was space to turn round in her room — even then 
 it was not what '\7inifred could have seen without making a 
 face. 
 
 Mr. Kendal had read aloud to his wife in the evening duringthe 
 stay at tlie sea-side, and she was anxious not to let the habit drop. 
 He liked it, and read beautifully, and she thought it good for 
 the children. She therefore begged him to I'ead, catching 
 liim on the way to his study, and coaxing him to stay no 
 longer than to find a boolc. Ke brought Sohlegel's Fhilo- 
 sophy of History. She feai'ed that it was above the young ones, 
 but it was delightful to herself, and the custom had better be 
 established before it was ])eriHcd by attempts to adapt it to the 
 children. Lucy and Sophy seemed astonished and displeased, 
 and their whispers had to be silenced ; Gilbert learnt his lessons 
 ai)art. Albinia i-allied her spiiits, and insist'id to herself that she 
 did not feel discouraged. 
 
 Monday had gone, or rather Albinia had been robbed of it 
 by visitors — now for a vigorous Tuesday. Her unpacking and 
 her settinjr to rights were not half over, but as the surface was 
 habitable, she resolved to finish at her leisure, and sacrifice no 
 more mornings of study. 
 
 So after she had lingered at the door, to delight Gilbert by 
 admiring his pony, she returned to the dining-room, where the 
 girls were loading a small table in the window with piles of 
 books and exercises, and Lucy was .standing, looking all eager- 
 ness to show off her drawings. 
 
 * Yes, my dear, but first we had better read. I liave been 
 talking to your papa, and we have settled that on Wednesdays 
 tnd Fridays we will go to church ; but on these days we will 
 V>egin by reading the Psalms and Lessons.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 25 
 
 * Oh,' said Lucy, ' we never do that, except when we are at 
 grandmamma's.' 
 
 'Pray are you too old or too young for itf said Albinia. 
 
 ' We did it to please grandmamma,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' Now you will do it to please me,' said Aloinia, ' if for no 
 better reason. Fetch your Bibles and Prayerbooks.' 
 
 ' We shall never have time for our studies, I assure you, 
 mamma,' objected Lucy. 
 
 ' That is not your concern,' said Albinia, her spirit rising at 
 the girls' opposition. ' I wish for obedience.' 
 
 Lucy went ; Sophy leant against the table like a post. 
 Albinia regretted that the first shot should have been fired for 
 such a cause, and sat perplexing herself v\^hether it were worse 
 to give way, or to force the girls to read Holy Scripture in such 
 a mood. 
 
 Lucy came flying down with the four books in her hands, and 
 began officiously opening them before her sister, and exhorting 
 her not to give way to sullenness — she ought to like to read 
 the Bible — which of course made Sophy look crosser. The 
 desire to establish her authority conquered the scruple about 
 reverence. Albinia set them to read, and suffered for it. 
 Lucy read flippantly ; Sophy in the hoarse, dull, dogged voice 
 of a naughty boy. She did not dare to expostulate, lest she should 
 exasperate the tempers that she had roused. 
 
 ' Never mind,' she thought, ' when the institution is fixed, they 
 will be more amenable.' 
 
 She tried a little examination afterwards, but not one answer 
 was to be extracted from Sophy, and Lucy knew far less than 
 the first class at Fairmead, and made her replies wide of the 
 mark, with an air of satisfaction that nearly overthrew the young 
 step-motlier's patience. 
 
 AVhen Albinia took her Bible upstairs, she gave Sophy time 
 to say what Lucy reported instantly on her entrance. 
 
 'Dear me, mamma, here is Sophy declaring that you ought 
 to be a cliarity -schoolmistress. You won't be angry with her, 
 but it is so funny !' 
 
 ' If you were at my charity school, Lucy,' said Albinia, 
 *tho first lesson I should give you would be against telling tales.' 
 
 Lucy subsided. 
 
 Albinia turned to Sophy. ' My dear,' she said, ' perhaps I 
 pressed this on v/heu you were not prepared for it, but I have 
 always been used to think of it as a duty.' 
 
 Sophy made no answer, but her moody attitude rehixed, and 
 Albinia took comfort in the hope that she might have been 
 gracious if she had known how to set about it.
 
 26 'l"HE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' I suppose Miss Belmarche is a Roman Catholic,' slie said, 
 ■wisliing to account for this wonderful ignorance, and address- 
 ing herself to Sophy ; but Lucy, whom she thought she had 
 effectually put down, was up again in a moment like a Jack-iu- 
 a-box. 
 
 ' O yes, but not Genevieve. Her papa made it his desire 
 that she should be brought up a Protestant. Wasn't it funny ? 
 You know Genevieve is J\ladame Belmarche's grand-daughter, 
 and Mr. Duraut was a danciug-master.' 
 
 ' Madame Belmarche's father and brother were guillotined,' 
 cou tinned Sophy. 
 
 ' Ah ! then she is an emigrant V 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Belmarche has always kept school here. Our 
 own mamma, and Aunt Maria went to scliool to her, and INIiss 
 Celeste Belmarche married Mr. Durant, a dancing-master — she 
 vv^as French teacher in a school in London where he taught ; 
 and Madame Belmarche did not approve, for she and her liusband 
 were something very grand in France, so they waited and waited 
 ever so long, and when at last they did marry, they were quite 
 old, and she died very soon ; and they say he never was happy 
 again, and pined away till he really did die of grief, and so Gene- 
 vieve came to her grandmamma to be bronglit up.' 
 
 ' Poor child ! How old is she V 
 
 ' Fifteen,' said Lucy. ' She teaches in the school. She is 
 not at all pretty, and such a queer little thing.' 
 
 ' Wa-i her father French V 
 
 ' No,' said Sophy, 
 
 ' Yes,' said Lucy. ' You know nothing about it, Sophy. He 
 ■was French, but of the Protestant French sort, that came to 
 Enghmd a great many years ago, when they ran away from the 
 Sicilian Vespers, or the Edict of Nantes, I don't remember 
 which ; only the Spitalfields weavers have something to do with 
 it. However, at any rate Genevieve has got something in a 
 drawer up in her own room that she is very secret about, and 
 wont show to anybody.' 
 
 ' I think it is something that somebody was killed with,' said 
 Sophy, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Dear me, if it is, I am sure it is quite wicked to keep it. I 
 shall be quite afraid to go into her room, and you know I slept 
 three, all the time of the fever.' 
 
 ' It did not hurt you,' said Sophy, 
 
 Albinia had been strongly interested by the touching 
 ^cts, so untouchingly narrated, and by the characteristic 
 account of the Huguenot emigration, but it suddenly oc- 
 curred to her that she was promoting gossip, and she retui-ned
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 27 
 
 to business. l-ucy shov^ed off her attainments -^^ith her 
 usual self-satisfaction. They were what might be expected 
 from a second-rate old-fashioned young ladies' school, where 
 nothing was good but the French pronunciation. She was 
 evidently considered a great proficient, and her glib mediocrity 
 was even more disheartening than the tin gracious carelessness 
 or duluess — there was no knowing which — that made her sister 
 figure wretchedly in the examination. However, there was 
 little time — the door-bell rang at a quarter to twelve, and Mrs. 
 Wolfe was in the drawing-room. 
 
 'I told you so,' whispered Lucy, exultingly. 
 
 * This is unbearable,' cried Albinia. * I shall give notice that 
 I am always engaged in the morning.' 
 
 She desired each young lady to work a sum in her absence, 
 and left them to murmur, if they were so disposed. Perhaps 
 it was Lucy's speech that made her inflict the employment : at 
 anj'' rate, her spirit was not as serene as she could have desired. 
 
 Mr. Kendal was quite willing that she should henceforth 
 shut her door against company in the morning ; that is to say, 
 he bowed his head assentingly. She was begging him to take 
 a walk with her, when, at another sound of the bell, he made a 
 precipitate retreat into his study. The visitors were the Belmaix-he 
 i'amily. The old lady was dark and withered, small, yet in look 
 and air, with a certain nobility and grandeur that carried Albinia 
 back in a moment to the days of hoops and trains, of powder and 
 high-heeled shoes, and made her feel that the sweeping courtesy 
 had come straight from the days of Marie Antoinette, and that 
 it was an honour and distinction conferred by a superior — 
 superior, indeed, in all the dignity of age, suffering, and con- 
 fctancy. 
 
 Albinia blushed, and took her hand with respect very imlike 
 the patronizing airs of Bayford Bridge towards 'poor old 
 Madame Belmarche,' and with downcast eyes, and pretty 
 embarrassment, heard the stately compliments of the ancien 
 regime. 
 
 Miss Belmarche was not such a fine specimen of Sevres 
 porcelain as her mother. She was a brown, dried, small 
 woman, having lost, or never possessed, her country's taste in 
 dress, and with a rusty bonnet over the tight, frizzly curls of 
 her front ; too thin and too scantily robed to have any waist, 
 and sjjeaking English too well for the piquant grace of her 
 mother's speech. Poor lady ! born an exile, she had toiled and 
 struggled for a whole lifetime to support her mother ; but 
 though care had worn her down, there was still vivacity in her 
 quick little black eyes, and though her teeth were of a dreadful
 
 28 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 colour, lier laiigli wais so full of life and sweetness, that Albinia 
 felt drawn towards lier in a moment. 
 
 Silent and demure, plainly dressed in an old dark merino, 
 and a white-ribboned faded bonnet, sat a little figure almost 
 behind her grandmother. Her face had the French want of 
 complexion, but the eyes were of the deepest, most lustrous 
 hue of grey, almost as dark as the pupils, and with the softness 
 of long dark eyelashes — beautiful eyes, full of light and expres- 
 sion — and as she moved towards the table, there was a finish 
 and delicacy about the whole form and movements, that made 
 jier a most pleasing object. 
 
 But Albinia could not impi'ove her acquaintance, for in 
 flowed anotlier party of visitors, and Madame curtsied herself 
 out again, Albinia volunteering that she would soon come to 
 see her, and being answered, 'You will do me too much 
 honour.' 
 
 Another afternoon devoiired by visitors ! Evei'y one seemed 
 to have come except the persons who would have been most 
 welcome, Mr. Dusautoy, and "Winifred's friends, the Nugents. 
 
 When, at four o'clock, she had shaken hands with the last 
 guest, she gave a hearty yawn, jumj)ed up and shook herself, as 
 she exclaimed, 'There! There! that is done! I wonder 
 whether your papa would come out now 1' 
 
 ' He is in his .study,' said the girls. 
 
 Albinia thougiit of knocking and calling at the door, but 
 somehow it seemed impossible, and she decided on pronienadiiig 
 past his window to show that she was ready for him. But 
 alas ! those evergreens ! She could not see in, and probably 
 he could not see out. 
 
 ' Ha !' cried Lucy, as they pursued their walk into the kitchen 
 garden, ' here are some asparagus coming up. Grandmamma 
 always has our first asparagus.' 
 
 Albinia was delighted to find such an opening. Out came 
 lier knife — they would cut the heads and take them up at 
 once ; but when the tempting white-stalked, pink-tipped bundle 
 had been made up and put into a basket, a difficulty arose. 
 
 * I'll call the boy to take it,' said Lucy. 
 
 ' What, v/lien we are going ourselves f said Albinia. 
 
 ' Oh ! but we can't.' 
 
 •Why? Do you think we shall break down under the 
 weight T 
 
 ' O no, but people will stare.' 
 
 ' Why — what shovdd they stare at?' 
 
 ' It looks so to carry a basket — ' 
 
 Albinia burst into one of her merriest peals of laughmij.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTH EE. 29 
 
 • Not cany a basket ! My dear, I have looked so all the 
 days of my life, Bayford must endure the spectacle, so it may 
 as well begin at once.' 
 ' But, dear mamma — ^ 
 
 ' I'm not asking you to carry it. O no, I only hope you 
 don't think it too ungenteel to walk with me. But the notion 
 of calling a boy away from his work, to carry a couple of dozen 
 asparagus when an able-bodied woman is going that way herself !' 
 Albiuia was so tickled tliat she could hardly check herself, 
 even when she saw Lucy looking distressed and hnrt, and little 
 langhs would break out every moment as she beheld the you::g 
 lady keet)iug aloof, as if ashamed of her company, turning 
 towards the steep churcli steps, willing at least to hide the 
 dreadful sight from the Hi<rh Street. 
 
 Just as they had entered the narrow alley, they heard a 
 hasty tread, and almost running over them with his long strides, 
 came Mr. Dusautoy. He brought himself up short, just in 
 time, and exclaimed, ' I beg your pardon — Mrs. Kendal, I be- 
 lieve. Could you be kind enough to give me a glass of brandy V 
 Albinia gave a groat start, as well she might. 
 ' I was going to fetch one,' quicklj'- proceeded Mr, Dusautoy, 
 'but your house is nearer, A poor man — there — just come 
 home — been on the tramp for work — quite exhausted — ' and he 
 pointed to one of the cottages. 
 
 ' I'll fetch it at once,' cried Albinia. 
 
 * Thank you,' he said, as they crossed the street. ' This poor 
 fellow has had nothing all day, has walked from Hadminster — 
 just got home, sank down quite worn out, and thei'e is nothing 
 in the house but dry bread. His wife wants something nearly 
 as much as he does.' 
 
 In the excitement, Albinia utterly forgot all scruples about 
 * Bluebeard's closet.' She hurried into the house, and made but 
 one dash, standing before her astouished husband's dreamy eyes, 
 exclaiming, ' Pray give me the key of the cellaret ; there's a 
 poor man just come home, fainting with exhaustion ; Mi\ Du- 
 sautoy wants some brandy for him.' 
 
 Like a man but half awake, obeying an apparition, Mr. 
 Kendal put his hand into bis pocket and gave her the key. She 
 was instantly opening the cellaret, seeking among the bottles, 
 and asking questions all the time. She proposed taking a jug 
 of the kitchen- tea then in operation, and Mr. Dusautoy caught 
 at the idea ; so that poor Lucy beheld the dreadful spectacle of 
 the vicar bearing a can full of steaming tea, and Mrs. Kendal a 
 small cup with the ' spirituous liquor.' What vras the asparagus 
 to this ?
 
 so THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Albinia told her to go on to Mrs. Meadows', and that she 
 should soon follow. She intended to have gone the moment 
 that she had carried in the cup, leaving Mr. Dusautoy in the 
 cottage, but the poor trembling frightened wife needed woman's 
 sympathy and soothing, and she vvaited to comfort her, and to 
 see the pair more able to enjoy the meeting, in their tidy, but 
 bare and damp-looking cottage. She promised broth for the 
 morrow, and took her leave, the vicar coming away at the same 
 time. 
 
 ' Thank you,' he said, warmly, as they came out, and turned 
 to mount the hill together. 
 
 * May I go and call on them again V 
 
 ' It will be very kind in you. Poor Simkins is a steady, 
 good sort of fellow, but a clumsy workman, down-hearted, and 
 with poor health, and things have been untoward with him.' 
 
 ' People who do not prosper in the world are not always the 
 worst,' said Albinia. 
 
 'No, indeed, and these are gi-ateful, warm-hearted people 
 that you will like, if you can get over the poor woman's lack- 
 adaisical manner. But you are used to all that,' he added, 
 smiling. ' I see you know what poor folk are made of.' 
 
 * I have been living among them nearly all my days,' said 
 Albinia. ' 1 hope you will give me something to do, I should 
 be quite forlorn without it;' and she looked up to his kind, open 
 face, as much at home with him as if she had known him for 
 jears. 
 
 ' Fanny — my wife — shall find work for you,' he said. ' You 
 must excuse her calling on you, she is never off the sofa, but—' 
 And what a bright look he gave ! as much as to say that his 
 wife on the sofa was better than any one else of. ' I was hoping 
 to call some of these afternoons,' he continued, ' but I have 
 had little time, and Fanny thought your door was besieged 
 enough already.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Albinia ; * I own I thought it was your 
 kindness in leaving me a little breathing time. And would 
 Mrs. Dusautoy be able to see me if I were to call V 
 
 ' She would be delighted. Suppose you were to come in at 
 once.' 
 
 ' I wish I could, but I must go on to Mrs. Meadows'. If I 
 were to come to-morrow V 
 
 ' Any time— any time,' he said. ' She is always at home, 
 and she has been much better since we came here. We were 
 too much in the to\vii at Lauriston.' 
 
 Mr. Dusautoy, having a year ago come out of the dioceso 
 where had been Albinia's home, they had many common friends,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 31 
 
 and plunged into ' ecclesiastical intelligence,' with a mutual 
 understanding of the topics most often under discussion, that 
 made Albinia quite in her element. ' A great ISTevvfouudlaud 
 dog of a man in size, and countenance, and kindness,' thought 
 she. * If his wife be worthy of him, I .shall reck little of all the 
 rest.' 
 
 Her tread the gayer for this resumption of old habits, she 
 proceeded to Mrs. Meadows', where the sensation created by 
 her poor little basket justified Lucy's remonstrance. There 
 were regrets, and assurances that the girl could have come in a 
 moment, and that she need not have troubled herself and her 
 laughing declarations that it was no trouble were disregarded, 
 except that the old lady said, in gentle excuse to her daughter, 
 that Mrs. Kendal had always lived in the country, where people 
 could do as they pleased. 
 
 < I mean to do as I please here,' said Albinia, laughing ; but 
 the s])eech was received with silent discomfiture that made her 
 heartily regret it. She disdained to explain it away ; she was 
 beginning to hold Mrs. and Miss Meadows too cheap to think 
 it worth while. 
 
 ' Well,' said Mrs. Meadows, as if yielding up the subject, 
 * things may be different from what they were in my time.' 
 
 ' oil ! mamma — Mrs. Kendal — I am sure — ' Albinia let 
 Maria flounder, but she only found her way out of the speech 
 with ' Well ! and is not it the most extraordinary ] — Mr. Du- 
 sautoy — so rude — ' 
 
 ' I should not wonder if you found me almost as extraordinary 
 as Mr. Dusaxttoy,' said Albinia, 
 
 Why would Miss Meadows always nettle her into saying 
 exactly the wrong thing, so as to alarm and distress the old 
 lady 1 That want of comprehension of playfulness was a 
 strangely hard trial. She turned to iMrs. Meadows and tried to 
 reassure her by saying, ' You know I have been always in the 
 clerical line myself, so I naturally take the part of the parson.' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear,' said Mrs. Meadows. ' I dare say Mr. Dusau- 
 toy is a very good man, but I wish he would allow his poor 
 dedicate wife more butcher's meat ; and I don't think it looks 
 well to see the vicarage without a man-servant.' 
 
 Albinia finally made her escape, and while wondering whether 
 she should ever visit that house without tingling with irritation 
 with herself and with the inmates, Lucy exclaimed, ' There, you 
 see I was right. Grandmamma and Aunt Maria were surprised 
 when I told them that you said you were an able-bodied woman.' 
 
 What would not Albinia have given for Winifred to laugh 
 with her 1 What to do now she did not know, so she thought
 
 32 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 it best not to hear, and to ask the way to a carpenter's shop to 
 order some book-shelves. 
 
 She was more uncomfortable after she came home, for by the 
 sounds when Mr. Keudal next emerged from his study, she 
 found that he had locked himself in, to guard against further 
 intrusion. And when she offered to return to him the key of 
 the cellaret, he quietly replied that he should prefer her retain- 
 ing it, — not a formidable answer in itself, but one which, 
 coupled with the locking of the door, proved to her that she 
 might do anything rather than invade his privacy. 
 
 Now Maixrice's study was the thoroughfare of the household, 
 the place for all parish preparations unjiresentable in the 
 drawing-room, and Albinia was taken by surprise. She gi-ew 
 hot and cold. Had she done anything wrong 'i Could he cai'e 
 for her if he could lock her out 1 
 
 ' I will not be morbid, I will not be absurd,' said she to 
 herself, though the tears stood in her eyes. * Some men do not 
 like to be rushed in upon ! It may be only habit. It may 
 have been needful here. It is base to take petty offences, and 
 set up doubts.' 
 
 And Mr. Kendal's tender manner when they were again 
 together, his gentle way of addressing her, and a sort of shy 
 cai'css, proved that he was far from all thought of displeasure ; 
 nay, he might be repenting of his momentary annoyance, though 
 he said nothing. 
 
 Albinia went to inquire after the sick man at her first 
 leisui-e moment, and while talking kindly to the wife, and 
 hearing her troubles, was surpi-ised at the foi-lorn rickety 
 state of the building, the broken y)avement, damp walls, and door 
 that would not shut, because the frame had sunk out of the 
 perpendicular. 
 
 ' Can't you ask your landlord to do something to the house V 
 
 ' It is of no use, ma'am, Mr. Pettilove never will do nothing. 
 Perhaps if you would be kind enough to say a word to him, 
 ma'am — ' 
 
 * Mr. Pettilove, the lawyer 1 I'll try if Mr. Kendal can say 
 anything to him. It really is a shame to leave a hoxxse in this 
 condition.' 
 
 Thanks were so profuse, that she feared that she was sujiposed 
 to possess some power of amelioration. Tlie y)Oor woman even 
 insisted on conducting her up a break-neck staircase to see the 
 broken ceiling, whence water often sti'eamed in plentifully from 
 the roof. 
 
 Her mind full of designs against the cruel landlord, shfl 
 Bpeedcd up the hill, exhilarated by each step she took into the
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 33 
 
 fresh air, to the garden-gate, which she was just unhasping when 
 the hearty voice of the Vicar was heard behind her. ' Mrs. 
 Kendal ! I told Fanny you would come.' 
 
 Instead of takinor her to the front door he conducted her 
 across a sloping lawn towards a French window open to the 
 bright afternoon sunshine, 
 
 'Here she is, here is Mrs. Kendal!' he said, sending his 
 Toice before him, as they cams in sight of the pretty little 
 draAving-room, where through the gay chintz curtains, she saw 
 the clear fire shining upon half-a-dozen school girls, ranged 
 opposite to a couch. ' Ah !' as he perceived them, ' shall I 
 take her for a turn in the garden while you finish your lesson V 
 
 ' One moment, if you please. I did not know it was so late,' 
 and a face as bric(ht as all the rest was turned towards the 
 window. 
 
 * Ah ! give her her scholars, and she never knows how time 
 passes,' said Mr. Dusautoy. ' Eut step this way, and I'll show 
 you the best view in Bayford.' He took her up a step or two, 
 to a little turfed mound, where there was a rustic seat command- 
 ing the whole exquisite view of river, vale, and woodland, with 
 the church tower rising in the foregi-ound. The wind blew 
 pleasantly, chasing the shadows of the clouds across the open 
 space, Albinia was delighted to feel it fan her brow, and her 
 eager exclamations contented Mr. Dusautoy. * Yes,' he said, 
 * it was all Fanny's notion. She planned it all last summer 
 when I took her round the garden. It is wonderful what an 
 eye she has ! I only hope when the diy weather comes, that I 
 shall be able to get her up there to enjoy it.' 
 
 On coming down they found that Mrs. Dusautoy had dismissed 
 her class, and come out to a low, long-backed sloping garden- 
 seat at the window. She was very little and slight, a mere 
 doll in proportion to her great husband, who could lift her 
 as easily and tenderly as a baby, paying her a sort of reve- 
 rential deference and fond admiration that rendered them a 
 beautiful sight, in such full, redoubled measure was his fondness 
 repaid by the little, clever, fairy-looking woman, with her 
 playful manner, high spirits, keen wit, and the active habits 
 that even confirmed invalidism could not destroy. She had 
 small deadly white hands, a fair com])lexion, that varied more 
 than was good for her, pretty, though rather sharp and irregular 
 features, and hazel eyes dancing with merriment, and face and 
 figure at some years above thirty, would have suited a girl of 
 twenty. To see Mr. Dusautoy bringing her footstools, shawls, 
 and cxishions, and to remember the accusation of starvation, was 
 almost irresistibly ludicrous.
 
 S4 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Now, Jolm, you had better have been giving Mrs. Kendal 
 a chair all this time.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Kendal will excuse,' said Mr. Dusautoy, aa he brought 
 her a .seat. 
 
 ' ]Mrs. Kendal has excused,' said IVIi-s. Dusautoy, bursting into 
 a nierry fit of laiigliter. ' Oh, I never heard anything more 
 chainiing than your introduction ! I beg your pardon, but I 
 laughed last evening till I was worn out, and waked in the night 
 laughing again.' 
 
 It was exhilarating to find that any one laughed at Bayford, 
 and Albinia partook of the mirth with ail her heart. ' Never 
 was an address more gratifying to me !' she said. 
 
 ' It was like him ! so unlike Bayford ! So bold a ventui-e !' 
 continued ]Mrs. Dusautoy amid peals of laughter. 
 
 ' What is there to laugh at V said Mr. Dusautoy, putting on a 
 look between merriment and simplicity. ' What else could 
 I have done ? I should ha"\'e done the same whoever I had met.' 
 
 ' Ah ! now he is afraid of your taking it as too great a com- 
 pliment ! To do him justice I believe he would, but the question 
 is, what answer he would have had.' 
 
 * Nobody could have refused — ' began Albinia. 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Mrs. Dusautoy. ' Little you know Bayford. 
 
 * Fanny ! Fanny ! this is too bad. Madame Belraarche — ' 
 
 ' Would have had nothing but eau s^icre ! No, John, decidedly 
 you and Simkins fell upon your legs, and you had better take 
 credit for your " admirable sagacity." ' 
 
 ' I like the people,' said Albinia \ 'but they never can be well 
 while they live in such a shocking jjlace. It is quite a disgrace 
 to Bayford.' 
 
 ' It is in a sad state,' said Mr. Dusaiitoy. 
 
 ' I know I should like to set my brother xipon that Mr. Betti- 
 love, who they say will do nothing,' exclaimed Albinia. 
 
 The Vicar was going to have said something, but a look 
 from his wife checked him. All)inia was sorry for it. as 
 she detected a look of su])pressod amusement on Mrs. Dnsau- 
 toy's face. ' I mean to ask Mr. Kendal what can be done,' 
 she said ; ' and in the meantime, to descend from what we can't 
 do to what we can. Mr. Dusautoy told me to come to you foi* 
 orders.' 
 
 ' And I told Mr. Dusautoy that I should give you none.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is hard.' 
 
 ' If you could liave heard liim ! He thought he had got 
 a working lady at last, and he would have had no mercy u[)ou 
 you. One would have imagined that Mr. Kendal had brought 
 you here f<or his sole behoof !'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 35 
 
 * Then T shall look to you, Mr. Dusautoy.' 
 
 ' No, I believe she is quite right,' he said. * She says you 
 ought to undertake nothing till you have had time to see wliat 
 leisure you have to give us.' 
 
 ' Nay, I have been used to think the parish my business, 
 home my leisui'e.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, 'but then you were tlie woman- 
 kind of the clergy, now you are a lay woman.' 
 
 ' I think you have work at home,' said the Vicar. 
 
 'Worii, but not work enough P cried Albinia. 'The girls 
 ■will help me ; only tell me what I may do.' 
 
 ' I say, " what you can," ' said Mrs. Dusautoy. ' You see 
 before you a single-handed man. Only two of the ladies here 
 can be called coadjutors, one being poor little Genevieve Durant, 
 the other the bookseller's daughter, CLirissa E-icbardsoii, who 
 made all the rest fly off. All the others do what good they 
 mean to do according to their own sweet will, free and inde- 
 pendent women, and we can't have any district system, so I 
 think you can only do what just comes to hand.' 
 
 Most heartily did Albinia undertake all that Mrs. Dusautoy 
 would let her husband assign to her, 
 
 ' Yes, John is a strong temptation,' said the bright little 
 invalid ; 'but you must let Mrs. Kendal find out in a nioutii's 
 time whetlier she has work enough.' 
 
 ' I could tliink my wise brother Maurice had been cautioning 
 you,' said Albinia, taking leave as of an old friend, for indeed 
 she felt more at home with Mrs. Dusautoy than with any ao 
 quaintance she had made in Bayford. 
 
 Albinia told her husband of the state of the cottages, and 
 railed at Mr Pettilove much to her own satisfaction. YVv. 
 Kendal answered, ' He would see about it,' an answer of v/liich 
 Albinia had yet to learn the import. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THEKE are some characters so constituted, that of them the 
 old proverb, that Love is blind, is perfectly true j they can 
 see no imperfection in the mind or body of those dear to them. 
 There ai-e others in whom the strongest affections do not destroy 
 clearness of vision, who see their friends on all sides, and per- 
 o*)ive their faults and foibles, without loving them the less. 
 
 Albinia Kendal was a person of the latter description. It 
 might almost be called her temptation, that her mind beheld 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE YOUNG STEP-JIOTHER. 
 
 all that came before it in a clear, and a humorous light, such as 
 only a disposition overflowing with warm affection and with the 
 energy of kindness, could have prevented from bordering upon 
 censoriousness. She had imagination, but it was not such aa 
 to make an illusion of the present, or to interfere with her 
 almost satirical good sense. Happily, religion and its earthly 
 manifestation — charity regulated her, tauglit her to fear to 
 judge lest she should be judged, strengtliened her naturally 
 fond aflfections, and tempered the keenness that disappointment 
 might soon have turned to sourness. The tongue, the temper, 
 and the judgment knew their own tendencies, and a guard 
 was set over them ; and if the sentinel were ever torpid or 
 deceived, repentance paid the penalty. 
 
 She had not long seen her husband at home before she had 
 involuntai'ily completed her view of his character. Nature 
 must have designed him for a fellow of a college, where, apart 
 from all cares, he might have collected fragments of lorgottea 
 authors, and immortalized his name by some edition of a Greek 
 Lyric poet, known by four poems and a half, and two-thirds of 
 a line quoted somewhere else. In such a controversy, lightened 
 by perpetually polished poems, by a fair amount of modern 
 literature, select college friendships, and methodical habits, 
 Edmund Keiadal would have been in his congenial element, 
 lived and died, and had his portrait hung up as oijC of the 
 glories of his college. 
 
 But he had been carried off from school, before he had done 
 more than prove his unusual capacity. All his connexions were 
 Indian, and his father, who had not seen him since his earliest 
 childhood, ofiered him no choice but an appointment in the 
 civil service. He had one stimulus ; he had seen Lucy 
 Meadows in the radiant glory of girlish beauty, and had 
 fastened on her all a poet's dreams, deepening and becoming 
 more fervid in the recesses of a reserved heart, which did not 
 easily admit new sensations. That stimulus carried him out 
 cheerfully to India, and quickened his abilities, so that he 
 exerted himself suthciently to obtain a lucrative situation early 
 in life. He married, and his household must have been on the 
 German system, all the learning on one side, all the domestic 
 cares on the othei*. The understanding and refinement want- 
 ing in his wife, he believed to be wanting in all women. As 
 resident at a small remote native court in India, he saw no 
 female society such as could undeceive him ; and subsequently 
 his Layford life had not raised his standard of womankind. A 
 perfect gentleman, his superiority was his own work, i-ather 
 than that of station or education ; and so he had never missed
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. '67 
 
 Intel-course with really ladylike or cultivated female minds, 
 expected little from wife, or daughters, or neighbours j had a 
 few learned friends, but lived within himself. Me had acquired 
 a competence too soon, and had the great misfortune of pro- 
 perty without duties to present themselves obviously. He had 
 nothing to do but to indulge his naturally indolent scholarly 
 tastes, which, dii-ected as they had been to Eastern languages, 
 had even less chance of sympathy among his neighbours than 
 if they had been classical. Always reserved, and seldom or 
 never meeting with persons who could converse with him, he 
 had lapsed into secluded habits, a-nd learnt to shut himself up 
 in his study and exclude every one, that he might have at least a 
 refuge from the gossip and petty cares that reigned everywheie 
 else. So seldom was anything said worth his attention, th;it 
 he never listened to what was passing, and had learnt to say 
 ' very well' — ' I'll see about it,' without even knowing what was 
 said to him. 
 
 But though his wife had been no companion, the illusion had 
 never died away ; he had always loved her devotedly, and her 
 loss had shattered all his present rest and comfort ; as entirely 
 as the death of his son had taken from him hope and companion- 
 ship. 
 
 What a home it must have been, with Lucy reigning over it 
 in her pert self-sufficiency, Gilbert and Sophy running riot and 
 squabbling, and Maria Meadows coming in on them with hev 
 well-meant worries and persecutions ! 
 
 When taken away from the scene of his troubles, his spi rits 
 revived ; afraid to encounter his own household alone, he liad 
 thought Albinia the cure for everything. But at home, habit 
 and association had proved too strong for her presence — ihe 
 grief, which he had tried to leave behind, had waited ready to 
 meet him on the threshold, and the very sense that it was a 
 melancholy welcome added to his depi'ession, and made him les.s 
 able to exert himself The old sorrows haunted the walls of 
 the house, and above all the study, and tarried not in seizing 
 on their unresisting victim. Melancholy was in his nature, his 
 indolence gave it force, and his habits were almost inetiaceable, 
 and they were habits of quiet selfishness, formed by a resolute, 
 though inert will, and fostered by an adoring wife. A youth 
 spent in India had not given him ideas of responsibilities 
 beyond his own family ; and his princi[)lcs, though sound, had 
 not expanded the views of duty with which he had started in life. 
 It was a positive pleasure to Albinia to discover that there had 
 been an inefficient clergyman at Bay ford Ijefore ]Mr. Dusautoy, 
 and to know that during half the time that the present vicar
 
 S8 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 Lad lield the living, Sir. Keudai laad been absent, so that his 
 influence had had no time to work. She began to understand 
 her line of action. It must be her effort, in all loving patience 
 and g?;Titleness, to raise her husband's spirits andi-ouse his facul- 
 ties; to make his powers available for the good of his fellow- 
 creatures, to make him an active and happy man, and to draw 
 him and his children together. This was truly a task to make her 
 heart throb high with hope and energy. Strong and brave was 
 that young heart, and not self-confident — the ditiiculty made 
 her only the more hopeful, because she saw it was her duty. 
 She was secure of her influence with him. If he did exclude 
 her from his study, he left her supreme elsewhere, and though 
 Bhe would have given the world that their sovereignty might be 
 a joint one everywhere, still she allowed much for the morbid 
 invetei'ate habit of dreading disturbance. When he began by 
 silence and not listening, she could always rouse him, and give 
 him animation, and he was so much surprised and pleased 
 whenever she entered into any of his pursuits, that she had full 
 hope of drawing liim out. 
 
 One day when the fog, instead of clearing oflf had turned to 
 violent rain, Albinia had been out on parish work, and afterwards 
 enlivening old Mrs. Meadows by dutifully spending an hour 
 wiih her, while Maria was r.ursing a nervous headache— she 
 
 had been subject to headaches ever since an ominous sigh 
 
 supplied the rest. 
 
 But all the effect of Albinia's bright kindness was undone, 
 when the grandmother learnt that Gilbert was gone to his 
 tutor, and would have to come home in the rain, and she gave 
 such an account of his exceeding delicacy, that Albinia became 
 alarmed, and set nrf at once that she might consult his father 
 aljout sending for him. 
 
 Her opening of the hall door was answered by Mr. Keudai 
 emerging from his study. He was looking restless and anxious, 
 came to meet lier, and uncloaked her, while he affectionately 
 scolded her for being so venturesome. She told him where she 
 had been, and he smiled, saying, ' You are a busy spirit ! But 
 you must not be too imprudent,' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing hurts me. It is poor Gilbert that I am anxious 
 about.' 
 
 ' So am I, Gilbert has not a constitution fit for exposure. 
 I wish he were come home.' 
 
 ' Could we not send for him ? Suppose we sent a fly.' 
 
 He was consenting with a T>leased smile, when the door 
 ojieued, and there stood the dripping Gilbert, completely wet
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 39 
 
 through, pain and chilled, with his Jiair plastered down, and his 
 Coat stuck all over with the horse's short hair. 
 
 ' You must go to bed at once, Gilbert,' said his father. ' A re 
 you cold V 
 
 ' Very. It was sucJi a horrid driving wind, and I rode so 
 fast,' said Gilbert ; violently shivering, as they helped to pull 
 him out of his great coat ; he put his hand to his mouth, and 
 said that his face ached. Mr. Kendal was very anxious, and 
 Albinia hurried the boy up to bed, and meantime ordered quickly 
 a basin of the soup preparing for dinner, warmed some worsted 
 socks at the fire, and ran upstairs with them. 
 
 He seemed to have no substance in him ; he had hai-dly had 
 energy to undress himself, and she found him with his face 
 hidden on the pillow, shivering audibly, and actually crying. 
 She was aghast. 
 
 The boys with whom she had been brought up, would never 
 have given way so entirely without resistance; but between 
 laughing, cheering, scolding, covering him up close, and rubbing 
 his hands with her own, she comforted him, so that he could be 
 grateful and cheerful when his father himself came up with the 
 soup. Albinia noticed a sort of shudder pass over Mr. Kendal 
 as he entered, and he stood close by Gilbert, turning his back 
 on everything else, while he watched the boy eat the soup, as if 
 restored by every spoonful. ' That was a good thought,' was 
 his comment to his wife, and the look of gratitude brought a 
 flush of pleasui'e into her cheek. 
 
 Of all the dinners, this was the most pleasant; he was more 
 gentle and affectionate, and she made him tell her about the 
 Persian poets, and promise to show her some specimens of the 
 Rose Garden of Saadi — she had never before been so near 
 having his pursuits opened to hei\ 
 
 'What a favourite Gilbert is!' Lucy said to Sophia, as 
 Albinia lighted a candle and went iip to his room. 
 
 'He makes such a fuss,' said Sophy. 'What is there in 
 being wet through to cry about ?' 
 
 Albinia heard a little shufile as she opened the door, and 
 Gilbert pushed a book under his pillow. She asked him what 
 he had been reading. ' Oh,' he said, ' he had not been doing it 
 long, for the flickering of the candle hurt his eyes.' 
 
 ' Yes, you had better not,' said Albinia, moving the flaring 
 light to a less draughty part of the dingy whitewashed attic. 
 * Or shall I read to you V 
 
 ' Are you come to stay with me V cried the boy, raising 
 himself up to look alter her, as she moved about the room and
 
 40 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Stood looking from the window over the trees at the water 
 metidows, now flooded into a lake, and lighted by the beams of 
 a young moon. 
 
 ' I can stay till your father is ready for tea,' said Albinia, 
 coming nearer. ' Let me see whether your hands are hot.' 
 
 She found her own hand suddenly clasped, and pressed to his 
 lips, and then, as if ashamed, he turned his face away ; nor 
 would she betray her pleasure in it, but merely said, ' Shall I 
 go on with your book 1 ' 
 
 ' No,' said he, wearily turning his reddened cheek to the 
 other side. ' I only took it because it is so horrid lying here 
 thinking.' 
 
 ' I am very fjorry to hear it. Do you know, Gibbie, that it is 
 said there is nothing more lamentable than for a man not to 
 like to have his own thoughts for his company,' said she, gaily. 
 ' Ah ! but — !' said Gilbert. 'If I lie here alone, I'm always 
 looking out there,' and he pointed to the ojiposite recess. She 
 looked, but saw nothing. ' Don't you know V he said. 
 * Edmund V she asked. 
 
 He grasped her hands in both his own. * Aye ! Ned used to 
 sleey* there. I always look for him there.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that you would rather have another room ? 
 I v.ould manage it directlv.' 
 
 ' O no, thank you, I like it for some things. Take the candle 
 — look by the shutter — cut out in the wood.' 
 
 The boys' scoi'ing of 'E. & G. K.,' v/as visible tliere. 
 ' Papa has taken all he could of Edmund's,' said Gilbert, 
 * but he could not take that ! No, I would not have any other 
 room if you were to give me the best in the house.' 
 
 'I am sure nut! But, my dear, considering what Edmund 
 was, surely tliey should be gentle, happy thoughts that the 
 room should g- ve you.' 
 
 He shuddered, and presently said, 'Do you know what?' and 
 paused ; then continued, with an effort, getting tight hold of 
 her hand, ' Just before Edmund died — he lay out there — 1 lay 
 here — he sat up all white in bed, and he called ©ut, clear 
 and loud, " Mamma, Gilbert " — I saw him — and then — he was 
 drad ! And you know mamma did die — and I'm sure I shall!' 
 He had worlced himself into a trembling fit, hid his face and 
 sobbed. 
 
 ' But you have not died of the fever.' 
 
 ' Yes — but I know it means that I shall die young ! I am 
 Bure it does ! It was a call ! I heard Nurse say it was a 
 call!' 
 
 What was to be done with such a superstition 1 Albinia did
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 41 
 
 not think it would be nglit to argue it away. It might be in 
 truth a warning to him to guard his ways — a voice from the 
 twin-brother, to be with him through life. She knelt down by 
 him, and kissed his forehead. 
 
 ' Dear Gilbert,' she said, ' we all shall die.' 
 
 ' Yes, but I shall die young.' 
 
 'And if you should. Those are happy who die j'oung. 
 How much ]min your baby-brother and sisters have missed 1 
 How happy Edmund is now !' 
 
 'Then you really think it meant that I shall!' he cried, 
 tremblingly, 'O don't! I can't die !' 
 
 ' Your brother called on what lie loved best,' said Albinia. 
 ' It may mean nothing. Or rather, it may mean that your 
 dear twin-brother is watching for you, I am sure he is, to have 
 you with him, for what makes your moi'tal life, however long, 
 seem as nothing. It was a call to you to be as pui-e on earth 
 as he is in heaven. O Gilbert, how good you should be !' 
 
 Gilbert did not know whether it frightened him or soothed 
 him to .see his superstition treated with respect — neither denied, 
 nor reasoned away. But the ghastliness was not in the mere 
 iear that death might not be far oif. 
 
 The pillow had turned a little on one side — Albinia tried to 
 smoothe it — the corner of a book peeped out. It was a trans- 
 lation of The Three 3Iusqueleers, one of the worst and most 
 ■fascinating of Dumas' romances. 
 
 ' You wont tell papa !' cried Gilbert, raising himself, in far 
 more real and j^resent terror than he had previously shown. 
 
 ' How did you get it 1 Whose is it T 
 
 * It is my own. I bought it at Richardson's. It is very funny. 
 But you wont tell papa? I never was told not ; indeed I was 
 not.' 
 
 ' Now, Gilbert dear, will you tell me a few ihii:gs ? I do 
 only wish what is good for you. Why don't you wish that 
 papa should hear of this book V 
 
 Gilbert writhed himself. 
 
 * You know he would not like it V 
 
 ' Then why did you take to reading it V 
 
 * Oh ! ' cried the boy, ' if you only did know how stupid and 
 liow miserable it has been ! More than half myself gone, and 
 Hophy always glum, and Lucy always plaguing, and Aunt 
 i\Iaria always being a torment, you would not wonder at one's 
 doing anything to forget it !' 
 
 ' Yes, but why do what you knew to be wrong V 
 
 ' Nobody told me not.' 
 
 'Disobedience to the spirit, then, if not to the letter. It
 
 42 THE YOUNG- STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 was not the way to be happier, my poor boy, nor nearer to your 
 bi'other and mother.' 
 
 'Things didu'c use to be stupid when Ned was there!' 
 sobbed Gilbert, bursting into a fresh flood of tears. 
 
 ' Ah ! Gilbert, I grieved most of all for you when first 1 
 heard your story, before I thought I sliould ever have anything 
 to do with you,' said Albinia, hanging over him fondly. ' I 
 always thought it must be so forlorn to be a twin left solitary. 
 But it is sadder still tlian I knew, if grief has made you put 
 yourself farther from him instead of nearer.' 
 
 ' I shall be good again now that I have you,' said Gilbert, as 
 he looked up into that sweet face. 
 
 ' And you will begin by making a free confession to your 
 father, and giving up the book.' 
 
 ' I don't see what I have to confess. He would be so angry, 
 anrl he never told me not. Oh ! I cannot tell him.' 
 
 She felt that this v/as not the right way to begin a reforma- 
 tion, and yet she feared to press the point, knowing that the 
 one was thought severe, the other timid. 
 
 ' At least you will give up the book,' she said. 
 
 ' O dear ! if you would let me see whether d'Artagnan got to 
 England. I must know that ! I'm sure there can't be any 
 harm in that. Do you know what it is about V 
 
 ' Yes, I do. My brother got it by some mistake among some 
 French books. He read some of the droll unobjectionable parts 
 to my sister and me, but the rest was so bad, that he threw it 
 into the fire.' 
 
 ' Then you think it funny f 
 
 ' To be sure I do.' 
 
 'Do you remember the tliree duels all at once, and the three 
 valets % Oh ! what fun it is. But do let me see if d'Artagnan 
 got the diamonds.' 
 
 'Yes, he did. But will this satisfy you, Gilbert? You 
 know there are some exciting pleasures tliat we must turn our 
 backs on resolutely. I think this book is one of them Now 
 you will let me take if? I will tell your father about it in 
 private, and he cannot blame you. Then, if he will give his 
 consent, whenever you can come home early, come to my dress- 
 ing-room, out of your sisters' way, and I will read to you the 
 innocent part, so as to get the story out of your brain.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Gilbert, slowly. ' Yes, if you will not let 
 papa be angry with me. And, oh dear ! must you go ?' 
 
 ' 1 think you had better dress yourself and come dov/n to tea. 
 There is nothing the matter with you now, is there?' 
 
 He was delighted with the suggestion, and promised to coiuo-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 43 
 
 directly ; and Albinia carried off lier prize, exceedingly hopeful 
 and puzzled, and wondering whether her compromise had been 
 a right one, o)- a mere tampering with temptation — delighted 
 with tlie confidence and affection bestowed on her so freely, but 
 awe-struck by the impression which the boy had avowed, and 
 marvelling how it should be treated, so as to render it a blessed 
 and salutary restraint, rather than the dim superstitious terror 
 that it was at present. At least there was hope of influencing 
 him ; his heart was affectionate, his will on the side of right, 
 and in consideration of feeble health and timid character, she 
 would overlook the fact that he had not made one voluntary 
 open confession, and that the partial renunciation had been 
 wrung from him as a choice of evils. She could only feel how 
 much he v/as to be pitied, and how he responded to her affec- 
 tion. 
 
 She was crossing the hall next day, when she heard a con- 
 fusion of tongues through the open door of the dining-room, and 
 above all, Gilbert's. 'Well, I say there are but two ladies in 
 Eayford. One is Mrs. Kendal, and the other is Genevieve 
 Durant !' 
 
 ' A dancing-master's daughter !' Lucy's scornful tone wa3 
 unmistakeable, and so was the ensuing high-pitched querulous 
 voice, ' Well, to be sure, Gilbert might be a liitle more— a little 
 more civil. Not that I've a word to say against — against your 
 — your mamma. Oh, no ! — glad to see — but Gilbert might be 
 more civil.' 
 
 'I think so indeed,' said Albinia. 'Good morning. Miss 
 jMeadows. You see Gilbert has come home quite alive enough 
 for miscliief 
 
 ' Ah ! I thought I might be excused. Mamma was so uneasy 
 — though I know you don't admit visitors — my just coming to 
 see — We've been always so anxious about Gilbert. Gibbie 
 dear, where is that flannel I giwe you for your throat V 
 
 She advanced to put her finger within his neck-tie and feel 
 for it. Gilbert stuck his chin down, and sna])ped with his teeth 
 like a gin. Lucy exclaimed, ' Now, Gilbert, I know mamma 
 v/ill say that is wrong.' 
 
 ' Ah ! we are used to Gilbert's tricks. Always bear with a 
 boy's antics,' said Miss Meadows, preventing whatever she 
 thought was coming out of Mrs. Kendal's mouth. Albinia 
 took the unwise step of laughing, for her sympathies were de- 
 cidedly with resistance both to flannels and to the insertion of 
 that hooked finger. 
 
 ' Mr. Eov.'leslias always said it was a case for great care. 
 Flannel next the skin — no exposure,' continued Miss Me^dowa^
 
 4i THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 tai-tiv. * I am sure — I know I am the last person to wish to 
 interfei-e — but so delicate — You'll excuse — but my mother 
 was uneasy ; and people who go out in all weathers — ' 
 
 ' I hope Mrs. Meadows had my note this morning.' 
 
 ' O yes ! I am perfectly aware. Thank you. Yes, I know 
 the rule, but you 11 excuse — My mother was still anxious — 
 I know you exclude visitors in lesson-time. I'm going. Only 
 grandmamma would be glad — not that she wishes to interfere — 
 but if Gilbert had on his piece of flannel — ' 
 
 ' Have you, Gilbert f said Albinia, becoming tormented. 
 
 ' I have been flannel all over all my life,' said Gilbert, sulkily ; 
 •one bit more or less can make no odds.' 
 
 ' Then you have not that piece V said Albinia. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear ! Think of that ! New Saxony ! I begged 
 it of Mr. Holland. A new remnant — pink list, and all ! I 
 said it was just what I wanted for Master Gilbert. Mr. Hol- 
 land is always a civil, feeling man. New Saxony — three shillings 
 the yard — and trimmed with blue sarsenet ! Where is it, 
 Gilbert?' 
 
 'In a soupdish, with a crop of mustard and cress on it,' said 
 Gilbert, with a wicked wink at Albinia, who was unable to 
 resist joining in the girls' shout of laughing ; but she became 
 alarmed when she found that poor Miss Meadows was very near 
 crying, and that her incoherency became so lachrymose as to be 
 utterly incomprehensible. 
 
 Lucy, ashamed of her laughter, solemnly declared that it was 
 very wrong of Gilbert, and she hoped he would not suffer from 
 it ; and Albinia, trying to become grave, judicial, and concilia- 
 tory, contrived to pronounce that it was very silly to leave any- 
 thing off in an east wind, and hoping to put an end to the mattei-, 
 asked Aunt Maria to sit down, and judge how they went on with 
 their lessons. 
 
 O no ; she could not interrupt. Her mother would want her. 
 She knew Mrs. Kendal never admitted visitors. She had no 
 doubt she was quite right. She hoped it would be understood. 
 She would not intrude. In fact, she could neither go nor stay. 
 She would not resume her seat, nor let anything go on, and it 
 was full twenty minutes before a series of little vibrating 
 motions and fragmentary phrases had borne her out of the 
 house. 
 
 ' Well !' cried Gilbert, ' I hoped Aunt Maria had left off' com- 
 ing down upon us.' 
 
 ' 0, mamma !' exclaimed Lucy, ' you never sent your love to 
 gi'andmamma.' 
 
 ' Depend upon it she was waiting for that,' said Gilbert.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 45 
 
 'I'm sure I wish I had known it,' said AlbinJa, not in the 
 most judicious manner. ' Half-past eleven !' 
 
 'Aunt Maria says she can't think how you can find time for 
 chui'ch when you can't see visitors in the mox*ning,' said Lucy. 
 ' And oh ! dear mamma, grandmamma says gravy soup was 
 enough to throw Gilbert into a fever.' 
 
 * At any rate, it did not,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Oh ! and, dear mamma, Mrs. Osborn is so hurt that you 
 called on Mrs. Dusautoy before returning her visit ; and Aunt 
 JMaria says if you don't call to-day you will never get over it, 
 and she says that — ' 
 
 * What business has Mrs. Osborn to ask whom I called on V 
 exclaimed Albinia, impatiently. 
 
 ' Because Mrs. Osborn is the leading lady in the town,' said 
 Lucy. ' She told Miss Goldsmith that she had no notion of not 
 being respected.' 
 
 ' And she can't bear the Dusautoys. She left off subscribing 
 10 anything when they came ; and he behaved very ill to the 
 Admiral and everybody at a vestry-meeting.' 
 
 ' I shall ask your papa before I am in any hurry to call on 
 uhe Osborns !' cried Albinia. ' I have no desire to be intimate 
 with people who treat their clergyman in that way.' 
 
 ' But Mrs. Osborn is quite the leader !' exclaimed Lucy. 
 They keep the best society here. So many families in the 
 county come and call on them.' 
 
 ' Very likely—' 
 
 * Ah ! Mrs. Osborn told Aunt Maria that as the Nugents 
 called on you, and you had such connexions, she supposed you 
 would be high. But you wont make me separate from Lizzie, 
 will you 1 I suppose Miss Nugent is a fashionable young lady.' 
 
 ' Miss Nugent is five years old. Don't let us have any more 
 of this nonsense.' 
 
 ' But you wont part me from Lizzie Osborn,' said Lucy, 
 banging her head pathetically on one side. 
 
 ' I shall talk to your father. He said, the other day, he d:*d 
 not wish you to be so much with her.' 
 
 Lucy melted into tears, and Albinia was conscious of having 
 been first indiscreet and then sharp, hurt at the comments, 
 feeling injured by Lucy's evident habit of reporting whatever 
 she said, and at the failure of the attempt to please Mrs. ^lea- 
 dows. She was so uneasy about the Osborn question, that she 
 waylaid Mr. Kendal on his return from riding, and laid it before 
 him. 
 
 'My dear Albinia,' he said, as if he would fain have avoided 
 the appeal, ' you must manage your own visiting affairs your owu
 
 46 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHES. 
 
 way. I do not wish to ofFend my neighbours, nor would I 
 desire to be very intimate with any one. I suppose you must 
 pay them ordinary civility, and you know what that amounts 
 to. As to the leadershi]) in society here, she is a noisy woman, 
 full of pretension, and thus always arrogates the distinction to 
 herself. Your claims will establish themselves.' 
 
 ' Oh, yovL don't imagine me thinking of that '' cried Albinia, 
 laughing. ' I meant their behaving ill to jMr. Dusautoy.' 
 
 ' I know nothing about that. Mr. Dusautoy once called to 
 ask for my support for a vestry meeting, but I make it a rule 
 never to meddle with parish skirmishes. I believe there was a 
 very unbecoming scene, and that Mr. Dusautoy was in the 
 ^linorit3^' 
 
 ' Ah, Edmund, next time you'll see if a parson's sister can 
 sit quietly by to see the parson beaten !' 
 
 He smiled, and moved towards his study. 
 
 ' Th en I am to be civil V 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' But is it necessary to call to-day V 
 
 ' I should suppose not j' and there he was, shut up in his 
 den. Albinia went back, between laughing and vexation ; and 
 Lucy looked up from her exercise to say, ' Does papa say you 
 must call on the Osborns V 
 
 It was undignified ! She bit her lip, and felt her false posi- 
 tion, as with a quiver of the voice she replied, *' We shall make 
 nothing but mischief if we talk now. Go on with your 
 business.' 
 
 The sharp, curious eyes did not take themselves off her face. 
 She leant over Sophy, who was copying a house, told her the 
 lines were slanting, took the pencil from her hand, and tried 
 to correct them, but found lierself making them over-black, 
 and shaky. She had not seen such a line i;ince the days of her 
 childhood's ill-tem))er. She walked to the fireplace and said, 
 '1 am going to call on Mrs. Osborn to-day Not that your 
 father desires it, but because I have been indulging in a wrong 
 feeling.' 
 
 'I'm sure you needn't,' cried Gilbert. * It is very imper- 
 tinent of Mrs. Osborn. Why, if he is an admiral, she was the 
 daughter of an old lieutenant of the Marines, and you are 
 General Sir Maurice Ferrars' first cousin.' 
 
 'Hush, hush, Gilbert!' said Albinia, blushing and distressed, 
 ' Mr.s. Osborn's standing in the place entitles her to all atten- 
 tion. I was thinking of notliing of the kind. It was because 
 I gave way to a wrong feeling that I mean to go this afternoon.' 
 
 On the Sunday, when Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to pay
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 17 
 
 their weekly visit to Mrs. Meadows, they found the old lady 
 taking a turn in the garden. And as they were passing by 
 the screen of laurels, Gilbert's voice was heard vezy loud, 
 ' That's too bad, Lucy ! Grandmamma, don't believe one word 
 of it !' 
 
 ' Gilbert, you— you are, I'm sure, very rude to your sister.' 
 
 ' I'll not stand to hear false stories of Mrs. Kendal !' 
 
 * What is all this V said Mr. Kendal, suddenly appearing, 
 and discovering Gilbert pirouetting with indignation before 
 Lucy. 
 
 Miss Meadows burst out with a shower of half sentences, 
 grandmamma begged that no notice might be taken of the 
 children's nonsense, Lucy put on an air of injured innocence, 
 and Gilbert was beginning to speak, but his father put him 
 aside, saying, ' Tell me what has happened, Sophia. From you 
 I am certain of hearing the exact truth.' 
 
 ' Only,' growled Sophy, in her hoarse boy's voice, ' Lucy said 
 mamma said she would not call on Mrs. Osborn unless yoii 
 ordered her, and when you did, she cried and flew into a tre- 
 mendous passion.' 
 
 ' Sophy, what a story/ exclaimed Lucy, but Gilbert was ready 
 to corroborate his younger sister s report. 
 
 ' You know Lucy too well to attach any importance to her 
 misrepresentations,' said Mr. Kendal, turning to Mrs. Meadows, 
 ' but I know not what amends she can make for this most 
 unprovoked slander. Speak, Lucy, have you no apology to 
 make V 
 
 For Lucy, in self-defence, had begun to cry, and her grand- 
 mother seemed much disposed to do the same. Miss Meadows 
 had tears in her eyes, and incoherences on her lips. The dis- 
 tress drove away all Albinia's inclination to laugh, and clasp- 
 ing her two hands over her husband's arm, she said, 'Don't, 
 Edmund, it is only a misunderstanding of what really happened. 
 I did have a silly fit, you know, so it is my fiiult.' 
 
 ' I cannot forgive for you as you do for yourself,' said Mr. 
 Kendal, with a look that was precious to her, though it might 
 have given a pang to the Meadowses. ' I did not imagine that 
 my daughter could be so lost to the sense of your kindness and 
 forbearance. Have you nothing to say, Lucy V 
 
 ' Poor child ! she cannot speak.' said her grandmother. ' You 
 see she is very sorry, and Mrs. Kendal is too kind to wish to 
 eay any more about it.' 
 
 ' Go home at once, Lucy,' said her fathei'. ' Perhaps solitudo 
 may bring you to a better state of feeling. Go !' 
 
 Direct resistance to Mr. Kendal was never thought of, and
 
 48 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHES. 
 
 Lucy irtrned to go. Her aunt chose to accompany her ; and 
 though this was a decided relief to the company she left, it was 
 not likely to be the best thing for the young lady herself, 
 
 Mr. Kendal gave his arm to Mrs. Meadows, saying gravely 
 that Lucy must not be encouraged in her habit of gossiping 
 and inaccuracy. Mrs. Meadows quite agreed with him ; it was 
 a very bad habit for a girl, she was very sorry for it, she wished 
 she could have attended to the dear children better, but she 
 was sure dear Mrs. Kendal would make them everything de- 
 sirable. She only hoped that she would remember their disad- 
 vantages, have patience, and not recollect this against poor 
 Lucy. 
 
 The warm indignation and championship of her husband and 
 his son were what Albinia chiefly wished to recollect ; but it 
 was impossible to free herself from a sense of pain and injury 
 in the knowledge that she lived with a spy who would exagge- 
 rate and colour every careless word. 
 
 Mr. Kendal returned to the subject as they walked home. 
 * I hope you will talk seriously to Lucy about her intolerable 
 gossiping,' he said. * There is no safety in mentioning any sub- 
 ject before her ; and Maria Meadows makes her worse. Some 
 stop must be put to it.' 
 
 ' I should like to wait till next time,' said Albinia. 
 
 * What do you mean Y 
 
 * Because this is too personal to myself.' 
 
 'Nay, your own candour is an example to which Lucy can 
 hardly be insensible. Besides, it is a nuisance which must be 
 abated.' 
 
 Albinia could not help thinking that he sxiffered from it as 
 little as most people, and wondering whether it were this which 
 had taught him silence. 
 
 They met Miss Meadows at their own gate, and she told them 
 that dear Lucy was very sorry, and she hoped they would take 
 no more notice of a little nonsense that could do no one any 
 harm ; she would be more on her guard next time. 
 
 Mr. Kendal made no answer. Albinia ventured to ask him 
 whether it would not be better to leave it, since her aunt had 
 talked to her. 
 
 ' No,' he said ; * Maria has no influence whatever with the 
 children. She frets them by using too many words about every- 
 tliing. One quiet remonstrance from you would have far more 
 efl'cct.' 
 
 Albinia called the culprit and tried to reason with her. 
 Lucy tried at first to battle it off by saying that she had made 
 a mistake, and Aunt Maria had said that she should hear no
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 49 
 
 more about it. ' But, my dear, I am afraid you must hear 
 more. It is not tbat I am hurt, but your papa has desii'ed 
 me to talk to you. You would be frightened to hear what he 
 says.' 
 
 Lucy chose to hear, and seemed somewhat struck, but she 
 was sure that she meant no harm ; and she had a great deal to 
 say for herself, so voluble and so inconsequent, that argu- 
 ment was breath spent in vain ; and Albinia was obliged to 
 wind up, as an ultimatum, with warning her, that till she should 
 pi'ove herself trustworthy, nothing interesting would be talked 
 of before her. 
 
 The atmosphere of gossip certainly had done its part in cul- 
 tivating Mr. Kendal's talent for silence. When Albinia had 
 him all to herself, he was like another person, and the long 
 drives to return visits in the country were thoroughly enjoy- 
 able. So, too, were the walks home from the dinner parties in 
 the town, when the husband and wife lingered in the starlight 
 or moonlight, and felt that the weary gaiety of the constrained 
 evening was made up for. 
 
 Great was the offence they gave by not taking out the carriage ! 
 
 It was disrespect to Bayford, and one of the airs of which 
 Mrs. Kendal was accused. As granddaughter of a Baron, 
 daugliter of one Genei'al Officer and sister of another, and pre- 
 sented at Court, the Bayford ladies were prepared to consider 
 her a fine lady ; and when they found her peculiarly simple, 
 were the more aggrieved, as if her contempt were ironically 
 veiled. Her walks, her dress, her intercourse with the clergy, 
 were all airs, and Lucy spared her none of the remarks. Albinia 
 might say, ' Don't tell me all Aunt Maria says,' but it was 
 impossible not to listen ; and whether in mirth or vexation, she 
 was sure to be harmed by what she heard. 
 
 And yet, except for the tale-bearing, Lucy was really giving 
 less trouble than her sister ; she was quick, observant, and 
 obliging, and under Albinia's example, the more salient vul- 
 garities of sjDeech and manner were falling off. There had 
 seldom been any collision, since it had become evident that Mrs. 
 Kendal could and would hold her own ; and that her address 
 and air, even while criticised, were regarded as something su- 
 perior, so that it was a distinction to belong to her. How 
 many of poor Albinia's so-called airs should justly have been 
 laid to Lucy's account 1 
 
 On the other hand, Sophy would attend to a word from her 
 father, where she had obstinately opposed her step-mother'a 
 wishes, making her obedience marked, as if for the very purpose of 
 enforcing the contrast. It was a character that Albinia could not as
 
 oO TEE YOUNG STEP-MOTHES. 
 
 yet fatliom. In all occupations and amnsemeuts, Sophy followed 
 the lead of her elder sister, and in her lessons, her sole object 
 seemed to be to get things done with as little trouble as j)0Psil)le, 
 and especially without setting her mind to work ; and yet iu the 
 very effort to escape diligence or exertion, she sometimes showed 
 signs of so much ability as to excite a longiug desire to 
 know of what she would be capable when once aroused and in- 
 terested ; but the surly, ungracious te'mper rendered this ap- 
 parently impossible, and whatever Albinia attempted, was sure, 
 as if for the veiy reason that it came from her, to be answered 
 ■with a redoubling of the £;rowl of that odd hoarse voice. 
 
 On Lucy's birthday, there was an afternoon party of her 
 young friends, including Miss Durant. Albinia, who, among 
 the girlhood of Fairmead and its neighbourhood, had been so 
 acceptable a playmate, that her marriage had caused the outcry 
 that ' there would never be any fun again without Miss Fer- 
 rars,' came out on the lawn v/ith the girls, in hopes of setting 
 them to enjoy themselves. But they looked at her almost sus- 
 piciously, retained their cold, stiff, company manners, and drew 
 apart into giggling knots. She relieved them of her presence, 
 and sitting by tlie window, watched Genevieve walking up and 
 down alone, as if no one cared to join her. Presently Lucy and 
 Lizzie Osborn spoke to her, and she went in. Albinia went to 
 meet her in the hall ; she coloiu'ed and said, ' She was only come 
 to fetch Miss Osborn's cloak.' 
 
 Albinia saw her disposing it over Lizzie's shoulders, and then 
 running in again. This time it was for Miss Louisa's cloak, 
 and a third time for Miss Drury's shawl, wdiich Albinia chose 
 to take out herself, and encountering Sophia, said, ' Next time, 
 you had better run on errands yourself instead of sending your 
 guests.' 
 
 Sophy gave a black look, and she retreated, but presently 
 the groups coalesced, and INIaria Drury and Sophy ran out to call 
 Genevieve into the midst. Albinia hoped they were going to 
 play, but soon she beheld Genevieve trying to di'aw back, but 
 evidently imprisoned ; there was an echo of a laugh that she 
 did not like ; the younger girls were skipping up in the victim's 
 face in a rude way ; she hastily turned round as in indignation, 
 one hand raised to her eyes, but it was instantly snatched down 
 by l\Iaria Drury, and the pitiless ring closed in. Albinia sprang 
 to her feet, exclaiming aloud, 'They are teasing her!' and 
 rushed into the garden, hearing on her way, ' No, we wont lee 
 you go ! — you shall tell us — you shall promise to show us — my 
 papa is a magistrate, you know — he 11 come and search — Jenny, 
 you shall tell 1'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 51 
 
 Come witli me, Genevieve,' said Albinia, standing in tho 
 midst of the tormeutors, and launcliing a look of wrath aiound 
 her, as she saw tears in the young girl's eyes, and taking her 
 hand, found it trembling with agitation. Fondling it with 
 both her own, she led Genevieve away, turning her back upon 
 Lucy and her, ' We were only — ' 
 
 The poor girl shook move and more, and when they reached 
 the shelter of the house, gave way to a tightened, oppre.«sed 
 sob ; and at the fii-st kind words a shower of tears followed, 
 and she took Albinia's hand, and clasped it to her breast in a 
 manner embarrassing to English feelings, though perfectly 
 natural and sincere in her. ' Ah ! si bonne ! si bonne 1 var- 
 do7inez-moi, Madame F she exclaimed, sobbing, and probably 
 not knowing that she was speaking French ; ' but, oh, Madame, 
 you will tell me ! Is it true — can he V 
 
 ' Can who 1 What do you mean, my dear V 
 
 'The Admiral,' said Genevieve, looking about frightened; 
 and sinking her voice to a whisper. ' Miss Louisa said so, that 
 he could send and search — ' 
 
 ' Search for what, my dear V 
 
 ' For my poor little secret. Ah, Madame, assuredly I may tell 
 you. It is but a French Bible ; it belonged to my maj'tyred 
 ancestor, ]''ran9ois Duraut, who perished at the St. Barthelemi 
 — it is stained with his blood — it has been handed on fVom one 
 to the other — it was all that Jacques Durant rescued when he 
 fled from the Di-agonnades — it was given to me by my own 
 dear father on his death-bed, with a charge to keep it from my 
 grandmother, and not to speak of it — but to guard it as my 
 greatest treasure. And now — Oh, I am not disobeying him,' 
 cried Genevieve, with a fresh burst of tears. ' You can feel for 
 me, Madame, you can counsel me. Can the magistrates come 
 and search, unless I confess to those young ladies T 
 
 ' Most decidedly not,' said Albinia. ' Set your mind at rest, 
 my poor child ; whoever threatened you played you a most 
 base, cruel trick.' 
 
 ' Ah, do not be angry with them, Madame ; no doubt they 
 were in sport. They could not know how precious that treasure 
 was to me, and they will say much in their gaiety of heart.' 
 
 ' I do not like such gaiety,' said Albinia. ' What, they wished 
 to make you confess your secret V 
 
 ' Yes. They had learnt by some means that I keep one of 
 my drawers locked, and they had figured to themselves that in 
 it was some relic of my Hviguenot ancestors. They thought it 
 was some instrument of death, and they said that unless T would 
 tell them the whole, the Admiral had the right of search, and, 
 
 £ 2
 
 52 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 oh ! it was foolish of me to believe them for a moment, but I 
 only thouglit that the fright would kill my grandmother. Oh, 
 you were so good, Madame, I shall never forget ; no, not to the 
 end of my life, how you rescued me !' 
 
 ' We did not bring you here to be teased,' said Albinia, caress- 
 ing her. ' I should like to ask your pardon for what they 
 have made you undergo.' 
 
 ' Ah, Madame 1' said Genevieve, smiling, ' it is nothing. I 
 am well used to the like, and I hoed it little, except when it 
 tails on such subjects as these.' 
 
 She was easily drawn into telling the full history of her 
 treasure, as she had learnt from her father's lips ; the Huguenot 
 shot down by the persecutors, and the son who had fled into 
 the mountains and returned to bury the corpse, and take the 
 prized, blood-stained Bible from the breast ; the escapes and 
 dangers of the two next generations ; the few succeeding days 
 of peace ; and, finally, the Dragonuade, when the children 
 had been snatched from the Durant family, and the father and 
 mother had been driven at length to fly in utter destitution, 
 and had made their way to England in a wretched, unpro- 
 visioned open boat. The child for whose sake they fled, was 
 the only one rescued from the hands of these enemies, and the 
 tradition of their sufferings had been handed on with the 
 laithfully pi-eserved relic, down to the slender girl, their sole 
 descendant, and who in early childhood had drunk in the tale 
 from the lips of her father. The child of the persecutors and 
 of the persecuted, Genevieve Durant did indeed represent 
 strangely the history of her ancestral country ; and as Albinia 
 said to her, surely it might be hoped that the faith in which 
 she had been bi'ed up. united what was true and sound in the 
 religion of both Reformed and Romanist. 
 
 The words made the brown cheek glow. ' Ah, IMadame, did 
 I not say I could talk with you 1 You, who do not think me 
 a heretic, as my dear grandmother's friends do, and who yet 
 can respect my grandmother's Church.' 
 
 Assuredly little Genevieve was one of the most interesting 
 and engaging persons that Albinia had ever met, and she 
 listened earnestly to her artless history, and pvett}^ enthusiasms, 
 and the story which she could not tell without tears, of her 
 father's care, when the reward of her good behaviour had been 
 tlie reading one verse in the quaint black letter of the old 
 French Bi1)Ie. 
 
 The conversation lasted till Gilbert made his appearance, 
 and Albinia was glad to find that his greeting to Genevieve 
 was cordial and affectionate, and free from all that was un-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 53 
 
 pleasant in liis sisters' manner; and he joined himself to their 
 company when Albinia proposed a walk along the broad cause- 
 way through the meadows. It was one of the pleasautest walks 
 that she had taken at Bay ford, with both her companions so bright 
 and meriy, and the scene around in all the beauty of spring. 
 Gilbert, with the courtesy that Albinia's very presence had 
 infused into him, gathered a pretty wild bouquet for each, and 
 Albinia talked of cowslip-balls, and found that neither Gilbert 
 nor Genevieve had ever seen one ; then she pitied them, and 
 owned that she did not know how to get through a spring 
 without one ; and Gilbert having of course a pocketful of 
 string, a delicious ball was constructed, over which Genevieve 
 went into an inexpressible ecstasy. 
 
 All the evening, Gilbert devoted himself to Genevieve, 
 though moi'e than one of the others tried to attract him, play- 
 ing off the follies of more advanced girlhood, to the vexation of 
 Albinia, who could not bear to see him the centre of attention 
 to silly girls, when he ought to have been finding his level 
 among boys. 
 
 ' Gilbert makes himself so ridiculous about Jenny Durant,' 
 said his sisters, when he insisted on escorting her home, and 
 thus they brought on themselves Albinia's pent-up indignation 
 at their usage of their guest. Lucy argued in unsatisfactory 
 self-defence, but Sophy, when shown how ungenerous her con- 
 duct had been, crimsoned deeply, and though uttering no wo;d 
 of apology, wore a look that gave her step-mother for the first 
 time a hope that her sullenness might not be so much from 
 want of compunction, as from want of power to express it. 
 
 Oh ! for a consultation with her brother. But he and bin 
 wife were taking a holiday among their kindred in Ireland, and 
 for once Albinia could have echoed the aunts' lamentation 
 that Winifred had so many relations ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ALBINIA needed patience to keep alive hope and energy, 
 for a sore disappointment awaited her. Whatever had 
 been her annoyances with the girls, she had always been on 
 happy and comfortable terms with Gilbert ; he had responded 
 to her advances, accommodated himself to her wishes, adopted 
 her tastes, and returned her aifection. She had early jierceived 
 that his f^ither and sisters looked on him as the naughty one ot 
 the family, but when she saw Lucy's frettiug interference, and
 
 5'h THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Sophia's wrangling contempt, she did not wonder that an unjnst 
 degree of blame had often iailea to his share ; and under her 
 management, he scarcely ever gave cause for complaint. That 
 he was evidently happier and better for her presence, was com- 
 pensation for many a vexation ; she loved him with all her heart, 
 made fun with him, told legends of the freaks of her brother 
 Maiirice and cousin Fred, and grudged no trouble for his pleasure. 
 
 As long as The Three Musqueteers lasted, he had come 
 constantly to her dressing-room, and afterwards she pi"omised 
 to find other pleasant reading ; but after such excitement, it 
 was not easy to find anything that did not appear dry. As the 
 daughter of a Peninsular man, she thought nothing so charming 
 as the Subaltern, and Gilbert seemed to enjoy it; but by the 
 time he had heard all her oral traditions of the war by way of 
 notes, his attendance began to slacken ; he stayed out later, and 
 always brought excuses — Mr. Salsted had kept him, he had been 
 with a fellow, or his pony had lost a shoe. Albinia did not care 
 to question ; the evenings were light and warm, and the one thing 
 she desired for him was manly exercise ; she thought it much 
 better for him to be at play with his fellow-pupils, and she could 
 not regret the gain of another hour to her hui-ried day. 
 
 One morning, however, Mr. Kendal called her, and his look 
 was so grave and perturbed, that she hardly Avaited till the 
 door was shut to ask in terror, what could be the matter. 
 
 ' Nothing to alarm you,' he said. ' It is only that I am vexed 
 about Gilbert. I have I'eason to fear that he is deceiving us 
 again ; and I want you to help lis to recollect on which days 
 he should have been at Tremblam, My dear, do not look so 
 pale !' 
 
 For Albinia had turned quite white at hearing that the boy, 
 on whom she harl fixed her warm affection, hail been carrying 
 on a course of falsehood ; but a moment's hope restored her. 
 ' I did keep him at home on Tuesday,' she said ; ' it was so very 
 liot, and he had a headache. I thought I might. You told me 
 not to send him on doubtful days.' 
 
 ' I hope you may be able to make out that it is right,' said 
 IMr. Kendal ; ' but I am afraid that Mr. Salsted has too much 
 cause of complaint. It is the old stoiy !' 
 
 And so indeed it proved, when Albinia heard what the tutor 
 had come to say. The boy was seldom in time, often altogether 
 missing, excusing himself by saying he was kept at home by 
 fears of the weather ; but Mr. Salsted was certain that his 
 father could not know how he disposed of his time, namely, in 
 a low style of sporting with young Tritton, the son of a rich 
 laimer or half-gentleman, who was the pest of Mr, Salsted's
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTrlER. 55 
 
 parish. Ill-learn fc, sUirrecI-over lessons, with lame excuses, were 
 nothing as compared with this, and the amount of petty deceit, 
 subterfuge, and folsehood, was frightful, especially when Albinia 
 recollected the tone of thought which the boy had seemed to be 
 catching from her. Unused to duplicity, except from mere 
 ignorant, unmanageable school-children, she was excessively 
 shocked, and felt as if he must be utterly lost to all good, and 
 had been acting a lie from first to last. After the conviction 
 had broken on her, she hardly spoke, while Mr. Kendal was 
 promising to talk to his son, threaten him with severe punish- 
 ment, and keep a strict account of his comings and goings, to 
 be compared weekly with Mr. Salsted's notes of his arrival. 
 This settled, the tutor departed, and no sooner was he gone, 
 than Albinia, hiding her face in her hands, shed tears of bitter 
 grief and dissappointment. 'My dearest,' said her husband, 
 fondly, ' yon must not let my boy's doings grieve you in this 
 manner. You have been doing your utmost for him ; if any one 
 could do him good, it would be you.' 
 
 ' O no, surely I must have made some dreadful mistake, to 
 have promoted such faults.' 
 
 ' No, I have long known him not to be trustworthy. It is 
 an evil of long standing.' 
 
 ' Was it always so V 
 
 'I cannot tell,' said he, sitting down beside her, and shading 
 his brow with one hand ; ' I have only been aware of it since he 
 has been left alone. When the twins were together, they were 
 led by one soul of truth and generosity. What this poor fellow 
 was separately no one could know, while he had his brother to 
 guide and shield him. The first time I noticed the evil was 
 when we were recovering. Gilbert and Sophia were left to- 
 gether, and in one of their quarrels injured some papers of mine. 
 I was very weak, and had little power of self-control ; I believe 
 I terrified him too much. There was absolute falsehood, and. 
 the truth was only known by Sophia's coming forward and 
 confessing the whole. It was ill managed. I was not equal to 
 dealing with him, and whether the mischief began then or 
 earlier, it has gone on ever since, breaking out every now and 
 then. I had hoped that with your care — But oh ! how dif- 
 ferent it would have been with his brother ! Albinia, what 
 would I not give that you had but seen him ! Not a fault 
 was there ; not a moment's grief did he give us, till — O what 
 an overthrow of hope !' And he gave way to an excess of grief 
 that quite appalled her, and made her feel herself powerless to 
 comfort. She only ventured a few words of peace and hope ; 
 but the contrast between the brothers was just then keen agony,
 
 66 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 and he cotild not help exclaiming liow strange it was, that 
 Edmund should be the one to be taken. 
 
 ' Nay,' she said, ' was not he ripe for better things 1 May 
 not poor Gilbert have been spared that longer life may train 
 him to be like his brother T 
 
 ' He never will be like him,' cried Mr. Kendal. * No ! no ! 
 The difference is evident in the very countenance and features.' 
 
 ' Was he like you f 
 
 ' They said so, but you could not gather an idea of him from 
 me,' said Mr. Kendal, smiling mournfully, as he met her gaze. 
 ' It was the most beautiful countenance I ever saw, full of life 
 and joy ; and there were wonderful expressions in the eyes when 
 he was thinkins: or listening. He used to read the Greek 
 Testament with me every morning, and his questions and re- 
 marks rise up before me again. That text — You have seen 
 it in church.' 
 
 ' Because I live, ye shall live also,' Albinia repeated. 
 
 'Yes. A little before his illness we came to that. He 
 rested on it, as he used to do on anything that struck him, and 
 asked me, " whether it meant the life hereafter, or the life that 
 is hidden here !" We went over it with such comments as I 
 could find, but his mind was not satisfied ; and it must have 
 gone on working on it, for one night, Vv'hen I had been thinking 
 him delirious, lie called me, and the light shone out of those 
 bright dark eyes of his as he said, joyfully, " It is both, papa ! 
 It is hidden here, but it will shine out there," and as I did not 
 catch his meaning, he repeated the Greek words.' 
 
 ' Dear boy ! Some day we shall be glad that the full life and 
 glory came so soon.' 
 
 He shook his head, the parting was still too recent, and it was 
 the first time he had been able to speak of his sou. It was a 
 great satisfaction to her that the reserve had once been broken ; 
 it seemed like compensation for the present trouble, though that 
 was acutely felt, and not softened by the curious eyes and 
 leading questions of the sisters, when she returned to give what 
 attention she could to their interrupted lessons. 
 
 Gilbert returned, unsuspicious of the storm, till his fatlier'a 
 stern gravity, and her depressed, pre-occupied manner, excited 
 his attention, and he asked her anxiously whether anything were 
 the matter. A sad gesture replied, and perhaps revealed the 
 state of the case, for he became absolutely silent. Albinia left 
 them together. She watched anxiously, and hurried after Mr. 
 Kendal into the study, where his manner showed her not to be 
 unwelcome as the sharer of his trouble. ' 1 do not know what 
 to do,' he said, dejectedly. ' I can make nothing of him. It is
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 57 
 
 all prevarication and sulkiness ! I do not think he felt one 
 word that I said.' 
 
 ' People often feel more than they show.' 
 
 He groaned. 
 
 ' Will you go to him V he presently added. ' Perhaps I grew 
 too angry at last, and I believe he loves you. At least, if he 
 do not, he must be more unfeeling than I can think him. You 
 do not dislike it, dearest.' 
 
 ' no, no ! If I only knew what would be best for him !' 
 
 ' Pie may be more unreserved with you,' said Mr. Kendal ; 
 and as he was anxious for her to make the attempt, she moved 
 away, though in perplexity, and in the revulsion of feeling, with 
 a sort of disgust towards the boy who had deceived her so long. 
 
 She found him seated on a wheelbarrow by the pond, chuck- 
 ing pebbles into the still black water, and disturbing the duck- 
 weed on the surface. His colour was gone, and his face waa 
 dark and moody, and strove not to relax, as she said, ' O Gilbert, 
 how could you f 
 
 He turned sharply away, muttering, ' She is coming to bother, 
 
 BOW 
 
 It cut her to the heart. ' Gilbert !' was all she could exclaim, 
 but the tone of pain made him look at her, as if in spite of 
 himself, and as he saw the tears he exclaimed in an impatient 
 voice of rude consolation, ' There's nothing to take so much to 
 heart. No one thinks anything of it !' 
 
 ' What would Edmund have thought V said Albinia ; but tlie 
 appeal came too soon ; he made an angry gesture and said, ' He 
 ■was nearly three years younger than I am now ! He would not 
 have been kept in these abominable leading-strings.' 
 
 She was too much shocked to find an answer, and Gilbert 
 went on, ' Watched and examined wherever I go — not a minute 
 to myself — nothing but lessons at Tremblam, and bother at 
 home ; driven about hither and thither, and not allowed a 
 friend of my own, nor to do one single thing ! There's no 
 standing it, and I wont !' 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' said Albinia, struggling with choking 
 tears. ' It has been my great wish to make things pleasant to 
 you. I hope I have not teased or driven you to — ' 
 
 ' Nonsense !' exclaimed Gilbert, disrespectfully indeed, but 
 from the bottom of his heart, and brealving at once into a flood 
 of tears. ' You are the only creature that has been kind to me 
 since I lost my mother and Ned, and now they have been and 
 turned you against me too ;' and he sobbed violently. 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean, Gilbert. If I stand in your 
 mother's place, I can't be turned against you, any more than she
 
 53 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 could ;' and she stroked his brow, which she found so throbbing 
 as to accoiTnt for his paleness. ' You can grieve and hurt me, 
 but you can't prevent me from feeling for you, nor for your 
 dear father's grief.' 
 
 He declared that people at home knew nothing about boys, 
 and made an iiproar about nothing. 
 
 * Do you call falsehood nothing V 
 
 ' Falsehood ! A mere trifle now and then, when I am driven 
 to it by being kept so strictly.' 
 
 ' I don't know how to talk to you, Gilbert,' said Albinia, 
 rising ; ' your conscience knows better than your tongue.' 
 
 ' Don't go j' and he went off into another paroxysm of crying, 
 as he caught hold of her dress; and when he spoke again his 
 mood was changed ; he was very miserable, nobody cared for 
 him, he did not know what to do ; he wanted to do right, and 
 to please her, but Archie Tritton would not let him alone; he 
 wished he had never seen Archie Tritton. At last, walking up 
 and down with him, she drew from him a full confidence, and 
 began to understand how, when health and strength had come 
 back to him in greater measure than he had ever before enjoyed, 
 the Cleaving for boyish sports had awakened, just after he bad 
 been deprived of his brother, and was debarred from almost 
 every wholesome manner of gratifying it. To fall in with young 
 Tritton was as srreat a misfoi'tune as could well have befallen a 
 boy, with a dreary home, melancholy, reserved father, and weari- 
 some aimt. Tritton was a youth of seventeen, who had newly 
 finished his education at an inferior commercial school, and 
 lived on his father's farm, giving himself the airs of a sporting 
 character, and fast hurrying into dissipation. 
 
 He was really good-natured, and Gilbert dwelt on his kind- 
 ness with warmth and gratitude, and on his prowess in all 
 sporting accomplishments with a perfect effervescence of admi- 
 ration. He evidently patronized Gilbert, partly from good- 
 natured pity, and partly as flattered by the adherence of a boy 
 of a grade above him ; and Gilbert was proud of the notice of 
 one who seemed to him a man, and an adept in all athletic 
 games. It was a dangerous intimacy, and her heart sank as she 
 found that the pleasures to which he had been introducing Gil- 
 bert, were not merely the free exercise, the rabbit-shooting and 
 rat-hunting of the farm, nor even the village cricket-match, all 
 of which, in other company, would have had her full sympathy. 
 But there had been such low and cruel sports that she 
 turned her head away sickened at the notion of any one dear to 
 her having been engaged in such amusemer*^s ; and when Gil-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 69 
 
 Vfert in excuse said that every one did it, she answered indig- 
 nantly, ' My brothers never !' 
 
 ' It is no use talking about what swells do that hunt and 
 shoot and go to school,' answered Gilbert. 
 
 ' Do you wish you went to school T asked Albinia. 
 
 ' I wish I was out of it all !' 
 
 He was in a very difi'erent frame. He owned that he knew 
 how wrong it had been to deceive, but he seemed to look upon 
 it as a sort of fate ; he wished he could help it, but could not ; 
 he was so much afraid of his father that he did not know what 
 he said ; Archie Tritton said no one could get on without. — There 
 was an utter bewilderment in his notions, here and there showing 
 a better tone, but obscured by the fancies imbibed from his com- 
 panion, that the knowledge and practice of evil were manly. 
 At one moment he cried bitterly, and declared that he was 
 wretched ; at another he defended each particular case with all 
 his might, changing and slipping away so that she did not know 
 where to take him. However, the conclusion was far more in pity 
 than anger, and after receiving many promises that if she would 
 shield him from his father and bear with him, he would abstain 
 from all she disapproved, she caressed and soothed the aching 
 head, and returned to his father hopeful and encouraged, certain 
 that the evil had been chiefly caused by weakness and neglect, 
 and believing th.at here was a beginning of repentance. Since 
 there was sorrow and confession, there surely must be refor- 
 mation. 
 
 For a week Gilbert went on steadily, but at the end of that 
 time his arrivals at home became irregular, and one day there 
 was another great aberration. On a doubtful day, when it had 
 been decided that he might go safely between the showers, 
 he never came to Tremblam at all, and Mr. Salsted sent a note 
 to Mr. Kendal to let him know that his son had been at the 
 races — village races, managed by the sporting farmers of the 
 neighbourhood. There was a sense of despaii-, and again a talk, 
 bringing at once those ever-ready tears and protestations, sori'ow 
 genuine, but fruitless. ' It was all Archie's fault, he had over- 
 taken him, persuaded him that Mr. Salsted would not expect 
 him, promised him that he should see the celebrated ' Blunder- 
 buss,' Sam Shepherd's horse, that won the race last year.' Gil- 
 bert had gone ' because he could not help it.' 
 
 ' Not help it !' cried Albinia, looking at him with her clear 
 indignant eyes. ' How can you be such a poor creature, Gil- 
 bert f 
 
 * It is very hard !' exclaimed Gilbert ; ' I must go past Robbie's
 
 60 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Leigli twice eveiy day of my life, and Archie will come out and 
 be at me.' 
 
 ' That is the veiy temptation you have to resist,' said Albinia. 
 ' Fight against it, pray against it, resolve against it j ride fust. 
 and don't linger and look after him.' 
 
 He looked desponding and miserable. If she conld only have 
 put a spirit into him ! 
 
 'Shall I walk and meet you sometimes before you get to 
 Robbie's Leigh V 
 
 His face cleared up, but the cloud returned in a moment. 
 ' What is it V she asked. ' Only tell me. You know I wish 
 for nothing so miich as to help you.' 
 
 He did confess that there was nothing he should like better, 
 if Ai-clue would not be all the worse another time, whenever he 
 should catch him alone. 
 
 ' But surely, Gilbert, he is not always lying in ambush for you, 
 like a cat for a mouse. You can't be his sole game.' 
 
 ' No, but he is coming or going, or cut with his gun, and he 
 will often come part of the way with me, and he is such a droll 
 fellow !' 
 
 Albinia thought that there was but one cure. To leave 
 Gilbert daily exposed to the temptation must be wrong, and she 
 laid the case before Mr. Kendal with so much eai-nestness, that 
 he allowed that it would be better to send the boy from home ; 
 and in the meantime, Albinia obtained that Mr. Kendal should 
 ride some way on the Tremblam road with his son in the morn- 
 ing, so as to convoy him out of reach of the tempter ; whilst 
 she tried to meet him in the afternoon, and managed so that he 
 should be seldom without the hope of meeting her. 
 
 Albinia's likings had taken a current absolutely contrary to 
 all her preconceived notions ; Sophia, with her sullen truth, was 
 respected, but it was not easy to like her even as well as l^ucy, 
 who, though pert and empty, had much good-nature and good- 
 temper, and was not indocile ; while Gilbert, in spite of a weak, 
 shallow character, habits of deception, and low ungentleman'.y 
 tastes, had won her affection, and occupied the chief of her 
 time and thoughts ; and she dreaded the moment of parting with 
 him, as removing the most available and agreeable of her young 
 companions. 
 
 That moment of parting, though acknowledged to be ex- 
 pedient, did not approach. Gilbert could not be sent to a 
 public school witl)out risk and anxiety which his father did not 
 like, and which would have been horror to his grandmother ; 
 and Albinia herself did not feel certain that he was fit for it, 
 nor that it was her part to enforce it. She wrote to her brother,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 61 
 
 and found that he likewise thought a tutor would be a safer 
 alternative ; but then he must be a perfect man in a perfect 
 climate, and Mr. Kendal was not the man to make researches. 
 Mr. Dusautoy mentioned one clergyman who took pupils, Maurice 
 Ferrars another, but there was something against each. Mr. 
 Kendal wrote four letters, and was \indecided — a third was 
 heard of, but the locality was doubtful, and the plan went off, 
 because Mr. Kendal could not make up his mind to go thirty 
 miles to see the place, and talk to a stranger. 
 
 Albinia found that her power did not extend beyond 
 driving him from ' I'll see about it,' to ' Yes, by all means.' 
 Action was a length to which he could not be brought. Mr. 
 Nugent was very anxious that he should qualify as a magistrate, 
 since a sensible, highly-principled man was much wanted to 
 counterbalance Admiral Osborn's misdirected, restless activity, 
 and the lower parts of the town were in a dreadful state. Mrs. 
 Nugent talked to Albinia, and she urged it in vain. To come 
 out of his study, examine felons, contend with the Admiral, and 
 to meet all the world at the quarter sessions, was abhorrent to 
 him, and he silenced her almost with sternness. 
 
 She was really hurt and vexed, and scarcely less so by a dis- 
 covery that she made shortly after. The hot weather had made 
 the houses beneath the hill more close and unwholesome than 
 evei", Simkins's wife had fallen into a lingering illness, and 
 Albinia, visiting her constantly, was painfully sensible of the 
 dreadful atmosphere in which she lived, under the roof, with a 
 window that would not open. She ofiered to have the house 
 improved at her own expense, but was told that Mr. Pettilove 
 ■would raise the rent if anything were laid out on it. She went 
 about talking indignantly of Mr. Pettilove's cruelty and rapa- 
 city, and when Mi-. Dusautoy hinted that Pettilove was only an 
 agent, she exclaimed that the owner was worse, since ignorance 
 alone could be excused. Who was the wretch 1 Some one, no 
 doubt, who never came near the place, and only thought of it as 
 money. 
 
 ' Fanny,' said Mr. Dusautoy, ' I really think we ought to tell 
 her.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ' I think it would be better. The 
 houses belonged to old Mr. Meadows.' 
 
 ' Oh, if they are Mrs. Meadows's, I don't wonder at anything.' 
 ' I believe they are Gilbert Kendafs.' 
 
 They were very kind ; Mr. Dusautoy strode out at the window, 
 and his wife would not look at Albinia during the minute's 
 struggle to regain her composure, under the mortilication that 
 her husband should have let her rave so much and so long about
 
 62 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 what must be in his own power. Her only comfort was the 
 hope that he had never heard what she said, and she knew that 
 he so extremely disliked a conference with Pettilove, that ha 
 would consent to anything rather than have a discussion. 
 
 She was, for the first time in her life, out of spirits. Gilbert 
 was always upon her mind ; and the daily walk to meet him 
 was a burthen, consuming a great deal of time, and becoming 
 trying on hot summer afternoons, the more so as she seldom 
 ventured to rest after it, lest dulness should drive Gilbert into 
 mischief, or, if nothing worse, into quarrelling with Sophia. If 
 she could not send him safely out fishing, she must be at hand to 
 invent pleasures and occupations for him ; and the worst of it 
 was, that the girls grudged her attention to their brother, and 
 were becoming jealous. They hated the walk to Robbie's Leigh, 
 and she knew that it was hard on them that their pleasure 
 should be sacrificed ; but it was all-important to preserve him 
 from evil. She had wislied to keep the tutor-negotiations a 
 secret, but they had oozed out, and she found that Mrs. and ]\Iiss 
 Meadows had been declaring that they had known how it would 
 be — whatever people said beforehand, it always came to the 
 same thing in the end, and as to its being necessary, poor dear 
 Gibbie was very different before the change at home. 
 
 Albinia could not help shedding a few bitter tears. Why 
 was she to be always misjudged, even when she meant the best ? 
 And, oh! how hard, well-nigh impossible, to forgive and can- 
 didly to believe that, in the old lady, at least, it was partiality, 
 and not spite. 
 
 In September, Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars returned from their 
 journey. Albinia was anxious to see them, for if thei-e was a 
 sense that she had fallen short of her confident hopes of doing 
 prosperously, there was also a great desire for their sympathy 
 and advice. But Maurice had been too long away from liis 
 parish to be able to spare another day, and begged that the 
 Kcndals would come to Fairmead. Seeing that Albinia's heart 
 was set on it, Mr. Kendal allowed himself to be stirred up to 
 appoint a time for driving her over to spend a long day at Fair- 
 mead. 
 
 For her own pleasure and ease of mind, Albinia made a point 
 of taking Gilbert, and the girls were to spend the day with their 
 grandmother. 
 
 ' Pretty old Fairmead !' she cried, as the beech-trees roso be- 
 fore her ; and she was turning round every minute to point out 
 to Gilbert some of the spots of which she had told him ; and 
 nodding to the few scattered children who were not at school, 
 and who looked up with mouths from ear to ear, and flushed
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 63 
 
 cheeks, as tliey cui-tsied to 'Miss Ferrai'S.' The 'Miss Ferrars 
 life seemed long ago. 
 
 They came to the little gi^een gate that led to what had been 
 'home' for the hapjjiest years of Albinia's life, and from the 
 ivy porch there was a rush of little Willie and Mary, and close 
 at hand their raainma, and Maurice emerging from the school. 
 It was very joyous and natural. But there were two more 
 figures, not youthful, but of decided style and air, and quiet but 
 fashionable dress, and Albinia had only time to say quickly to 
 her husband, ' my aunts,' before she was foudly embraced. 
 
 It was not at all what she had intended. Mrs. Annesley and 
 Miss Ferrars wei'e very kind aunts, and she had much affection 
 lor them ; but there was an end of the hojie of the unreserve 
 and confidence that she wanted. She could get plenty of com- 
 passion and plenty of advice, but her whole object would be to 
 avoid these ; and, ])esides, Mr. Kendal had not bargained for 
 strangers. What would become of his opportunity of getting 
 better acquainted with Maurice and Winifred, and of all the 
 pleasures that she had promised Gilbert 1 
 
 At least, however, she was proud that her aunts should see 
 what a fine-looking man her husband was, and they were evi- 
 dently struck with his appearance and manner. Gilbert, too, 
 was in very good looks, and was altogether a bright, gentlemanly 
 boy, well made, though with the air of growing too fast, and 
 with something of uncertainty about his expression. 
 
 It was quickly explained that the aunts had onl}'- decided, 
 two days before, on coming to Fairmead at once, some other 
 engagement having failed them, and they were delighted to tind 
 that they should meet their dear Albinia, and be introduced to 
 Mr. Kendal. Setting off" before the post came in, Albinia had 
 missed Winifred's note to tell her of their arrival. 
 
 ' And,' said Winifred, as she took Albinia upstairs, * if I did 
 suspect that would be the case, I wont say I regretted it. I 
 did not wish to afford Mr. Kendal the pleasures of anticipation.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it was better,' said Albinia, smiling; ' especially as 
 I suppose they will stay for the next six weeks, so that the days 
 will be short before you will be free.' 
 
 ' And now let me see you, my pi-etty one,' said Winifred, 
 fondly. ' Are you well, are you strong 'I No, d(m't wriggle 
 your head away ; I shall believe nothing but what I read for 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Don't believe anything you read without the notes,' said Al- 
 binia. ' I have a great deal to say to you, but I don't expect 
 much opportunity thereof.' 
 
 Certainly not, for Miss Ferrars was knocking at the door.
 
 64 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 SLe had never been able to suppose that the sisters-in-law could 
 be more to each other than she was to her own niece. 
 
 So it became a regular specimen of a ' long day ' spent toge- 
 ther by relations, who, intending to be very happy, make them- 
 selves very weary of each other, by discarding ordinary occupa- 
 tions, and reducing themselves to needlework and small talk, 
 Albinia was bent on liveliness, and excelled herself in her droll 
 observations ; but to Winifred, who knew her so well, this bril- 
 liancy did not seem like perfect ease ; it was more like effort 
 than natural spirits. This was no wonder, for not only had the 
 sight of new people thrown Mr. Kendal into a severe access of 
 shyness and silence, but he was revolving in fear and dread the 
 expediency of asking them to Willow Lawn, and considering 
 whether Albinia and propriety could make the effort bearable. 
 Silent he sat, while the aunts talked of their wishes that one 
 nephew would marry, and that the other would not ; and no 
 one presumed to address him, except little Mary, who would 
 keep trotting up to him, to make him drink out of her doll's 
 tea-cups. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars took pity on him, and took him and Gilbert out 
 to call upon Colonel Bury ; but this did not lessen his wife's 
 difficulties, for there was a general expectation that she would 
 proceed to confidences ; whereas she would do nothing but 
 praise the Dusautoys, ask after all the parishioners of Fairmead 
 one by one, and consult about French reading-books and Italian 
 grammars. Mrs. Annesley began a gentle warning against over- 
 taxing her strength, and Miss Ferrars enforced it with such 
 vehemence, that Winifred, who had been rather on that side, 
 began to take Albinia's part, but perceived, with some anxiety, 
 that her sister's attempts to laugh off the admonition almost 
 amounted to an admission that she was working very hai'd. As 
 to the stop-daughters, no intelligence was attainable, except that 
 Lucy would be pleased with a new crochet pattern, and that 
 Sophy was like her father, but not so handsome. 
 
 The next division of time passed better. Albinia walked out 
 at the window to meet the gentlemen when they came home, 
 and materially relieved Mr. Kendal's mind by saying to him, 
 ' The aunts are settled in here till they go to Knutsford. I 
 hope you don't think — there is not the least occasion for asking 
 them to stay with us.' 
 
 * Are you sure you do not wish it V said Mr. Kendal, with 
 great kindness, but an evident weight removed. 
 
 ' Most certain !' she exclaimed, with full sincerity ; * I am 
 not at all ready for them. What should I do with them to 
 entertain V
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 65 
 
 •Very well,' said Mr. Kendal, 'you must be the judge. If 
 there be no necessity, I shall be glad to avoid unsettling our 
 habits, and probably Bayford would hardly afford much enjoy- 
 ment to your aunts.' 
 
 Albinia glanced in his face, and in that of her brother, with 
 her own arch fun. It was the first time that day that Maurice 
 had seen that peculiarly merry look, and he rejoiced, but he wa.s not 
 without fear that she was fostering Mr. Kendal's retiring habits 
 more than was good for him. But it was not only on his 
 account that she avoided the invitation ; she by no means 
 wished to show Bayford to her fastidious aunts, and felt as if to 
 keep them satisfied and comfortable would be beyond herpovver. 
 
 Set free from this dread, and his familiax'ity with his brother- 
 in-law renewed, Mr. Kendal came out to great advantage at the 
 early dinner. Miss Ferrars was well read and used to literaiy 
 society, and she started subjects on which he was at home, and 
 they discussed new books and criticised critics, so that his deep 
 reading showed itself, and even a grave, quiet tone of satire, such 
 as was seldom developed, except under the most favourable cir- 
 cumstances. He and Aunt Gertrude were evidently so well 
 pleased with each other, that Albinia almost thought she had 
 been precipitate in letting him off the visit. 
 
 Gilbert had, fortunately, a turn for small children, and sub- 
 mitted to be led about the garden by little Willie ; and as far 
 as moderate enjoyment went, the visit was not unsuccessful ; but 
 as for what Albinia came for, it was unattainable, except for 
 one little space alone with her brother. 
 
 * I meant to have asked a great deal,' she said, sighing. 
 
 'If you want me, I would contrive to ride over,' said 
 Maurice. 
 
 ' No, it is not worth that. But, Maurice, what is to be done 
 when one sees one's duty, and yet fails for ever for want of tact 
 and temper 1 Ah, I know what you will say, and I often say 
 it to myself; but whatever I propose, I always do either tlie 
 wrong thing or in the wrong way !' 
 
 ' You fell a hundred times a day, but are raised up again,' 
 said Maurice. 
 
 ' Maurice, toll me one thing. Is it wrong to do, not the best, 
 but only the best one can V 
 
 ' It is the wrong common to us all,' said Maurice. 
 
 'I used to believe in " whatever is worth doing at all, is worth 
 doing well." Now, I do everything ill, rather than do wutLm^ 
 at all.' 
 
 • There are only two ways of avoiding that.' 
 ' And they are — V 
 
 F
 
 66 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 
 
 ' Either doing nothing, or admiring all your own doings.' 
 
 ' Which do you recommend ?' said Albinia, smiling, but not 
 far from tears. 
 
 ' JMy dear,' said Maurice, ' all I can dare to recommend, is 
 patience and self-control. Don't fret and agitate yourself about 
 what you can't do, but do your best to do calmly what you 
 can. It will be made up, depend upon it.' 
 
 There was no time for more ; but the sound counsel, the 
 sympathy, and playfulness had done Albinia wonderful good, 
 and she was almost glad there had been no more privacy, or 
 her friends might have guessed that she had not quite found a 
 counsellor at home. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE Christmas holidays did indeed put an end to the walks 
 to meet Gilbert, but only so as to make Albinia feel 
 responsible for him all day long, and uneasy whenever he was 
 not accounted for. She played chess with him, found books, 
 and racked her brains to seek amusements for him ; but know- 
 ing all the time that it was hopeless to expect a boy of fourteen 
 to be aa.tisfied with them. One or two boys of his age had 
 come home for the holidays, and she tried to be relieved by 
 being told that he was going out with Dick Wolfe or Harry 
 Osborn ; but it was not quite satisfactory, and she began to 
 look fagged and unwell, and had lost so much of her playfid- 
 ness, that even Mr. Kendal was alarmed. 
 
 Sophia's birthday fell in the last week before Christmas, and 
 it had always been the family custom to drink tea with 
 Mrs. Meadows. Albinia made the engagement with a sense of 
 virtuous resignation, tliough not feeling well enough for the 
 infliction, but Mr. Kendal put a stop to all notion of her going. 
 
 She expected to enjoy her quiet solitary evening, but the 
 result was beyond her iiO])es, for as she was wishing Gilbert 
 go()d-V)ye, she heard the click of the study lock, and in came 
 Mr, Kendal. 
 
 ' I thought you were gone,' she said. 
 
 ' No. 1 did not like to leave you alone for a whole 
 evening.' 
 
 If it were only an excuse to himself for avoiding the 
 Meadows' party, it was too prettily done for the notion to 
 occur to his wife, and never had she spent a happier evening. 
 He was so unusually tender and unreserved, so desirous to
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. (^7 
 
 Tnake her comfortable, and, what was far more to her, growing 
 into so much confidence, that it was even better than what she 
 used last year to picture to herself as her future life with him. 
 It even came to what he had probably never done for any one. 
 She spoke of a beautiful old Latin hymu, which she had once 
 read with her brother, and had never seen adequately trans- 
 lated, and he fetched a manuscript book, where, written out 
 with unrivalled neatness, stood a translation of his own, made 
 many years ago, full of scholarly polish. She ventured to ask 
 leave to copy it. ' I will copy it for you,' he said, ' but it must 
 be for yourself alone.' 
 
 She was grateful for the concession, and happy in the 
 promise. She begged to turn the page, and it was granted. 
 There were other translations, chiefly from cuinous oriental 
 sources, and there were about twenty original ])oems, elaborated 
 in the same exquisite manner, and with a deep melancholy 
 strain of thought, and power of beautiful description, that she 
 thought finer and more touching than almost anything she had 
 read. 
 
 ' And these are all locked i;p for ever. No one has seen 
 them.' 
 
 ' No. When I was a young lad, my poor father put some 
 lines of mine into a newspaper. That sufficed me,' and he shut 
 the clasped book as if repenting of having revealed the 
 contents. 
 
 ' No ; I was not thinking of anything you would dislike 
 with regard to those verses. I don't like to let in the world on 
 things precious, but (how could she venture so far 1) 1 was 
 thinking how many powers and talents are shut up in that 
 study ! and whether they might not have been meant for more. 
 I beg your pardon if I ought not to say so.' 
 
 ' The time is past,' he reiilied, without displeasure ; ' my 
 youth is gone, and with it the enterprise and hopefulness that 
 can press forward, insensible to annoyance. You should have 
 mai-ried a man with freshness and energy more responsive to 
 your own.' 
 
 ' Oh, Edmund, that is a severe reproach for my impertinent 
 speech.' 
 
 ' You must not expect too much from me,' he continued. ' I 
 told you that I was a broken, grief-stricken man, and you were 
 C^nterit to be my coniforter.' 
 
 ' Wnnld that I could be so !' exclaimed Albinia, ' but to try 
 faithfully, I must say what is on my mind. Dear Edmund, if 
 you would only look out of your books, and see how much good 
 you could do, here in your own sphere, how much the right 
 
 f2
 
 68 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 wants strengthening, how much evil cries out to be repressed, 
 how sadly your own poor suffer — oh ! if you once began, you 
 would be so much happier !' 
 
 She trembled with earnestness, and with fear of her own 
 audacity, but a resounding knock at the door prevented her from 
 even discovering whether he were offended. He started away 
 to secui-e his book, and the two girls came in. Albinia could 
 hardly believe it late enough for their return, but they accounted 
 for having come rather earlier by saying that Gilbert had been 
 making himself so ridiculous when he had come at last, that 
 grandmamma had sent him home. 
 
 ' At last !' said Albinia. ' He set off only ten minutes after 
 you, as soon as he found that papa was not coming.' 
 
 'All I know,' said Lucy, 'is, that he did not come till half- 
 past nine, and said he had come from home.' 
 
 ' And where can he be now V 
 
 * Gone to bed,' gi'owled Sophy. 
 
 *I don't know what he has been doing,' said Lucy, who since 
 the suspicion of favouritism, had seemed to hud especial plea- 
 sure in bringing forward her brother's faults ; ' but he came in 
 laughing like a plougli-boy, and talking perfect nonsense. And 
 when Aunt JMaria spoke to him, he answered quite rudely, that 
 he wasn't going to be questioned and called to order, he had 
 enough of petticoat government at home.' 
 
 ' No,' said Sophy, breaking in with \;ngracious reluctance, as if 
 against her will conveying some comfort to her step-motlier for 
 the sake of truth, 'what he said was, that if he bore with petticoat 
 government at home, it was because Mrs. Kendal was pretty 
 and kind, and didnt torment him out of liis life for nothing, 
 and wliat he stood from her, he would not stand from any 
 other woman.' 
 
 'But, Sophy, I am sure he did say Mi-s. Kendal knew what 
 she was going to say, and said it, and it was worth hearing, and 
 he laughed in Aunt Maria's face, and told her not to make so 
 many bites at a cheriy.' 
 
 ' He must have been beside himself,' said Albinia, in a 
 bewilderment of consternation ; but Mr. Kendal's return put a 
 stop to all, for the sistei-s never told tales before him, and she 
 would not bring the subject under his notice until she should 
 be better informed. His suffering was too great, his wrath too 
 stern, to be excited without serious cause ; but she .spent a 
 wakeful, anxious night, revolving all imaginable evils into 
 which the boy could have fallen, and perpU-xing herself what 
 njeasures to take, feeling all the more grieved and bound to
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK, 69 
 
 him by the preference that, even in this dreadful mood, he had 
 expressed for her. She fell into a restless sleep in the morning, 
 from which she wakened so late as to have no time to question 
 Gilbert before breakfast. On coming down, she found that he 
 had not made his appearance, and had sent word that he had a 
 bad headache, and wanted no breakfast. His father, who had 
 made a visit of inspection, said he thought it was passing off", 
 smiling as he observed upon Mrs. Meadows's mince-pie suppers 
 and home-made wine. 
 
 Lucy said nothing, but glanced knowingly at her sister and 
 at Albinia, from neither of whom did she get any response. 
 
 Albinia did not dare to take any measures till Mr. Kendal 
 had ridden out, and then she went up and knocked at Gilbert's 
 door. He was better, he said, and was getting up, he would 
 be down-stairs presently. She watched for him as he came 
 down, looking still very pale and unwell. She took him into 
 her room, made him sit by the fire, and get a little life and 
 warmth into his chilled hands before she spoke. ' Yes, Gilbert, 
 I don't wonder you cannot lift up your head while so much is 
 on your mind.' 
 
 Gilbert started and hid his face. 
 
 ' Did you think I did not know, and was not grieved V 
 
 ' Well,' he cried, peevishly, ' I'm sure I have the most ill- 
 natured pair of sisters in the world.' 
 
 ' Then you meant to deceive us again, Gilbert.' 
 
 He had relapsed into the old habit — as usual, a burst of 
 tears and a declaration that no one was ever so badly off, and 
 he did not know what to do. 
 
 * You do know perfectly well what to do, Gilbert. There is 
 nothing for it but to tell me the whole meaning of this terrible 
 affair, and I will see whether I can help you.' 
 
 It was always the same round, a few words would always 
 bring the confession, and that pitilul kind of helpless repentance, 
 which had only too often given her hope. 
 
 Gilbert assured her that lie had fully purposed following his 
 sisters, but that on the way he had unluckily fallen in with 
 Archie Tritton and a friend, who had driven in to hear a man 
 from London singing comic songs at the King's Head, and they 
 had persuaded him to come in. He had been uneasy and tried 
 to get away, but the dread of being laughed at about his 
 grandmother's tea had prevailed, and he had been supping on 
 oysters and porter, and trying to believe himself a fast man, 
 till Archie, who had assured him that he was himself going 
 home in ' no time,' had found it expedient to set off, aud it had
 
 70 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 oeen agreed that he should put a bold face on it, and profess 
 that he had never intended to do more than come and fetch 
 his sisters home. 
 
 That the porter had anything to do with his extraordinary 
 manner to his grandmother and aunt, was so shocking a notion, 
 and the very hint made him cry so bitterly, and protest so ear- 
 nestly that he had only had one pint, which he did not like, and 
 only drank because he was afraid of being teased, that Albinia 
 was ready to believe that he had been so elevated by excitement 
 as to forget himself, and continue the style of the company 
 he had left. It was bad enough, and she felt almost over- 
 powered by the contemplation of the lamentable weakness of 
 the poor boy, of the consequences, and of what was incumbent 
 on her. 
 
 She leant back and considered a little while, then sighed 
 heavily, and said, ' Gilbert, two things must be done. You 
 must make an apology to your grandmother and aunt, and you 
 must confess the whole to your father.' 
 
 He gave a sort of howl, as if she were misusing his confidence. 
 * It must be,' she said. * If you are really sorry, you will not 
 shrink.' 
 
 ' I do not believe that it could fail to come to your father's 
 knowledge, even if I did not know it was my duty to tell him, 
 and how much better to confess it yourself 
 
 For this, however, Gilbert seemed to have no force ; he cried 
 piteously, bewailed himself, vowed incoherently that he would 
 never do so again ; and if she had not ])itied him so much, 
 would have made her think him contemptible. 
 
 She was inexorable as to having the whole told, though 
 dreading the confession scarcely less than he did ; and he finally 
 made a virtue of necessity, and ])roiiiised to tell, if only she 
 would not desert him, dechmng, with a fresh flood of tears, that 
 he should never do wrong when she was by. Then came the 
 apology. It was most necessary, and he owned that it would 
 be much better to be able to tell his father that his gi-andraother 
 had forgiven him ; but he really had not nerve to set out alone, 
 and Albinia, who had begun to dread having him out of sight, 
 consented to go and protect him. 
 
 He shrank behind her, and she had to bear the flood of 
 Maria's surprises and regrets, before she could succeed in saying 
 that he was very sorry fur yesterday's improper behaviour, and 
 had come to ask pardon. 
 
 Grandmamma was placable; Gilbert's white face and red 
 eyes were jjlcading enough, and she was distressed a^ Mrs. 
 Kendal having come out, looking pale and tired. If she had
 
 TOE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 71 
 
 been alone, the only danger -would have been that the offence 
 would be lost in petting ; but Maria had been pei'sonally 
 wounded, and the jealousy she already felt of the step-mother, 
 had been excited to the utmost by Gilbert's foolish words. She 
 was excessively grieved, and a great deal more angry with Mrs. 
 Kendal than with Gilbert; and the want of justification for 
 this feeling, together with lier great excitement, distress, and 
 embarrassment, made her attem])ts to be dry and dignified ludi- 
 crously abortive. She really seemed to have lost the power of 
 knowins what she said. Slie was iA-dd Mrs. Kendal could walk 
 up this morning, since she could not come at night. 
 
 * It was not my fault,' said Albinia, earnestly ; ' Mr. Kendal 
 forbade me. I am sure I wish we had come.' 
 
 The old lady would have said something kind about not 
 reproaching herself, but Miss Meadows interposed with, ' It was 
 very unlucky, to be sure — Mr. Kendal never failed them before, 
 not that she would wish — but she had always understood that 
 to let young people run about late in the evening by themselves 
 — not that she meant anything, but it was veiy unfortunate — 
 if she had only been aware — Betty should have come down to 
 walk up with them.' 
 
 Gilbert could not forbear an ashamed smile of intense aff"ront 
 at this reproach to his manliness. 
 
 'It was exceedingly unfortunate,' said Albinia, trying to 
 repress her vexation ; ' but Gilbert must learn to have resolu- 
 tion to guai'd himself. And now that he is come to ask your 
 forgiveness, will you not grant it to him f 
 
 ' Oh, yes, yes, certainly, I forgive him from my heart. Yes, 
 Gilbert, I do, only you must mind and beware — it is a very 
 shocking thing — low company and all that — you've made your- 
 self look as ill — and if you knew what a cake Betty had made 
 — almond and citron both — " but it's for Master Gilbert," she 
 said, " and I don't grudge" — and then to think — oh, dear !' 
 
 Albinia tried to express for him some becoming sorrow at 
 having disapjiointed so much kindness, but she brought Misa 
 Meadows down on her again. 
 
 ' Oh, yes — she grudged nothing— but she never expected to 
 meet with gratitude — she was quite prejiared — ' and she swal- 
 lowed and almost sobbed, 'there had been changes. She was 
 ready to make every excuse — she was sure she had done her 
 best — but she understood — she didn't want to be assured. It 
 always happened so — she knew her homely ways were not what 
 Mrs. Kendal had been used to — and she didn't wonder — she 
 only hoped the dear children — ' and she was absolutely crying. 
 
 *My dear Maria,' said her mother, soothingly, 'you havQ
 
 72 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. s 
 
 worked yourself into such a state, that yon don't know what 
 you are saying. You must not let Mrs. Kendal think that we 
 don't know that she is leading the dear children to all that is 
 right and kind towards us.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, I don't accuse any one. Only if they like to put me 
 down under their feet and trample on me, they are welcome. 
 That's all I have to say.' 
 
 Albiuia was too much annoyed to be amused, and said, as 
 she rose to take leave, ' I think it would be better for Gilbert, 
 as well as for ourselves, if we were to say no more till some 
 more cool and reasonable moment.' 
 
 ' I am as cool as possible,' said Miss Meadows, convulsively 
 clutching her hand ; ' I'm not excited. Don't excite yourself, 
 Mrs. Kendal — it is very bad for you. Tell her not, Mamma — 
 oh ! no, don't be excited — I mean nothing — I forgive poor dear 
 Gibbie whatever little matters — I know there was excuse — boys 
 with unsettled homes — but pray don't go and excite yourself — 
 you see how cool I am — ' 
 
 And she pursued Albinia to the garden-gate, recommending 
 her at every step not to be excited, for she was as cool as 
 possible, trembling and stammering all the time, with flushed 
 cheeks, and tears in her eyes. 
 
 ' I wonder who she thinks is excited V exclaimed Albinia, as 
 they finally turned their backs on her. 
 
 It was hardly in human nature to help making the observa- 
 tion, but it was not prudent. Gilbert took licence to laugh, 
 and say, ' Aunt Maria is beside herself.' 
 
 ' I never heard anything so absurd or unjust !' cried Albinia, 
 too much irritated to remember anything but the sympathy of 
 her auditor. 'If I am to be treated in this manner, I have 
 done striving to please them. Due respect shall be shown, but 
 as to intimacy and confidence — ' 
 
 ' I'm glad you see it so at last !' cried Gilbert. ' Aunt Maria 
 has been the plague of my life, and I'm giad I told her a bib of 
 my mind !' 
 
 What was Albinia's consternation 1 Her moment's petulance 
 hud undone her morning's work. 
 
 ' Gilbert,' she said, ' we are both speaking very wrongly. I 
 especially, who ought to have helped you.' 
 
 Spite of all succeeding humility the outburst had been fatal, 
 and argue and plead as she might, she could not restore the 
 boy to anything like the half satisfactory state of penitence in 
 which she had led him from home. The giving way to her 
 worse nature had awakened his, and though he still allowed 
 that she should prepare the way for his confession to his father,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 73 
 
 all real sense of Lis outrageous conduct towards his aiii.t v/as 
 gone. 
 
 Disheartened and worn out, Albinia did not feel equal even 
 to going to take off her walking things, but sat down in the 
 drawing-room on the sofa, and tried to silence the girls' ques- 
 tions and chatter, by desiring Lucy to read aloud. 
 
 By-and-by Mr. Kendal was lieard returning, and she rose to 
 arrest him in the hall. Her looks began the story, for he ex- 
 claimed, ' My dear Albinia, what is the matter?' 
 
 ' Oh, Edmund, I have such things to tell you ! I have been 
 doing so wrong.' 
 
 She was almost sobbing, and he spoke fondly. ' No, Albinia, 
 I can hardly believe that. Something has vexed you, and you 
 must take time to compose yourself.' 
 
 He led her up to her own room, tried to soothe her, and 
 would not listen to a word till she should be calm. After 
 lying still for a little while, she thought she had recovered, but 
 the very word ' Gilbert' brought such an expression of anxiety 
 and sternness over his brow as overcame her again, and she could 
 not sj^eak without so much emotion thcit he silenced her ; and 
 finding that she coiild neither leave the subject, nor mention 
 it without violent agitation, he said he would leave her for a 
 little while, and perhaps she might sleej), and then be better 
 able to speak to him. Still she held him, and begged that 
 he would say notliing to Gilbert till he had heard her, and 
 to pacify her he yielded, passed his promise, and quitted her 
 with a kiss. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THERE was a messenger at Fairmead Parsonage by sunrise 
 the next morning, and by twelve o'clock Mr. and Mrs. 
 Ferrars were at Willow Lawn. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's grave brow and depressed manner did not I'e- 
 assure Winifred as he met her in the hall, although his 
 words were, ' I hope she is doing well.' 
 
 He said no more, for the drawinff-room door was movinsf to 
 and fro, as if uneasy on the hinges, and as he made a step 
 towards it, it disclosed a lady with black eyes and pinched 
 features, whom he presented as * Miss Meadows.' 
 
 ' Well, now — I think — since more eflicient — since I leave 
 Mrs. Kendal to better — only pray tell her — my love and my 
 mother s — if I could have been of any use — or shall I remain 1 — •
 
 74 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 
 
 could I be of any sei'vice, Edmund? — I would not intrude when 
 ■ — but in the house — if I could be of any further use.' 
 
 ' Of none, thank you,' said Mr. Kendal, * unless you would be 
 kind enougli to take home the girls.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa !' cried Lucy, I've got the keys. You wont be 
 able to get on at all without me, Sophy may go, but I could 
 not be spared.' 
 
 ' Let it be as you will,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' I only desire 
 quiet, and that you should not inconvenience Mrs. Ferrars.' 
 
 'You will help me, will you notf said Winifred, smiling, 
 though she did not augur well from this opening scene. ' May 
 I go soon to Albinia V 
 
 ' Presently, I hope,' said Mr. Kendal, with an uneasy glance 
 towards Miss Meadows ; ' she has seen no one as yet, and she is 
 so determined that you cannot come till after Christmas, that 
 she dies not expect you.' 
 
 JNIiss Meadows l)egan one of her tangled skeins of words, the 
 most tangible of which was excitement ; and Mr. Kendal, 
 knowing by long experience that the only chance of a conclu- 
 sion was to let her run herself down, held his tongue, and she 
 finally departed. 
 
 Then he breathed more freely, and said he would go and 
 prepai'e Albinia to see her sister-, desiring Lucy to show Mrs. 
 Ferrars to her room, and to take care not to talk upon the 
 stairs. 
 
 This, Lucy, who was in high glory, obeyed by walking upon 
 creaking tip-toe, ap]^t;r^ntly borrowed from her aunt, and 
 whispering at a wondeiful rate about her eagerness to see dear, 
 dear mamma, and the darling little brother. 
 
 The spare room did not look expectant of guests, and felt 
 still less so. It struck Winifred as very like the m'^iith of a 
 well, and the paper showed patches of ancient damp. One maid 
 was hastily laying the fire, the other shaking out the curtains, 
 in the endeavour to render it habitable, and Lucy began saying, 
 'I must a])ologize. If pa])a had only given us notice that we 
 were to have the pleasure of seeing you,' and then she dashed 
 at the maid in all the pleasure of authority. ' Eweretta, go and 
 bring up Mrs. Ferrarss trunks directly, and some water, and 
 some towels.' 
 
 Winifred thought the greatest mercy to the hunted maid 
 would be to withdraw as soon as she had hastily thrown off 
 bonnet and cloak, and Lucy followed her into the passage, re- 
 peating that papa was so absent and forgetful, that it was very 
 incuuvenient in making arrangements. Whatever was oidi-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 75 
 
 nai'ily repressed in her, was repaying itself with interest in the 
 pleasure of acting as mistress of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Ferrars beheld Gilbert sitting listlessly on the deep 
 ■window-seat at the end of the passage, resting his head on his 
 hand. 
 
 ' Well !' exclaimed Lucy, ' if he is not there still ! He has 
 hardly stirred since breakfast ! Come and speak to Mrs. Fer- 
 rars, Gilbert. Or,' and she simpered, ' shall it be Aunt Wini- 
 fred V 
 
 ' As you please,' said Mrs. Ferrars, advancing towards her 
 old acquaintance, whom she would hardly have recognised, so 
 different was the pale, downcast, slouching figure, from the 
 bright, handsome lad she remembered. 
 
 'How cold your hand is !' she exclaimed ; 'you should not 
 sit in this cold passage.' 
 
 ' As I have been telling him all this morning,' said Lucy. 
 
 * How is she V whispered the boy, rousing himself to look 
 imploringly in Winifred's face. 
 
 * Your father seems satisfied about her.' 
 
 At that moment a door at some distance was opened, and 
 Gilbert seemed to thrill all over as for the moment ere it closed 
 a baby's cry was heard He turned his face away, and rested 
 it on the window. ' My brother ! my brother !' he murmured, 
 but at that moment his father turnpd the corner of the passage, 
 saying that Albinia had heard their arrival, and was very 
 eager to see her sister. 
 
 Still Winifred could not leave the boy without saying, 'You 
 can make Gilbert happy about her, can you not 1 He is wait- 
 ing here, watching anxiously for news of her.' 
 
 ' Gilbert himself best knows whether he has a right to be 
 made happy,' said Mr. Kendal, gravely. ' I promised to ask no 
 questions till she is able to explain, but I much fear that 
 he has been causing her sjreat grief and distress.' 
 
 He fixed his eyes on his son, and Winifred, in the belief that 
 she was better out of their way, hurried to Albinia's room, and 
 was seen very little all the rest of the day. 
 
 She was spared, however, to walk to cluirch the next morning 
 with her husband, Lucy showing them the way, and being 
 quiet and agreeable when I'epressed by JNIr. Ferrars's presence. 
 After church, Mr. Dusautoy overtook them to inquire after 
 Mrs. Kendal, and to make a kind pi-o]iosal of exchanging Sunday 
 duty. He undertook to drive the [)onies home on the morrow, 
 begged for credentials for the clerk, and messages for Willie and 
 Mai-y, and seemed highly pleased with the prospect of the holi-
 
 76 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEPu 
 
 day, as he called it, only entreatiDg that Mrs. Ferrars would be 
 so kiud as to look iu ou * Fanny,' if Mrs. Kendal could spare 
 her. 
 
 ' I thought,' said Winifred to her husband, ' that you would 
 rather have exchanged a Sunday when Albiuia is better able to 
 enjoy you V 
 
 ' That may yet be, but poor Kendal is so much depressed, 
 that I do not like to leave him.' 
 
 ' I have no patience with him !' cried Winifred ; ' he does 
 not seem to take the slightest pleasure in his baby, and he will 
 hardly let poor Albinia do so eitlier ! Do you know, Maurice, 
 it is as bad as I ever feared it would be. No, don't stop me, I 
 must have it out. I always said he had no business to victimize 
 her, and I am sure of it now ! I believe this gloom of his has 
 broken down her own dear sunny spirits ! There she is — so 
 tinlike herself — so anxious and iidgetty about her baby — will 
 hardly take any one's word for his being as healthy and stout a 
 child as I ever saw ! And then, every other moment, she is 
 restless about that boy — always asking where he is, or what he 
 is doing. I don't see how she is ever to get well, while it goes on 
 in this way ! Mr. Kendal told me that Gilbert had been worry- 
 ing and distressing her ; and as to those girls, the eldest of 
 them is intolerable with her airs, and the youngest — I asked 
 her if she liked babies, and she growled, "No." Lucy said 
 Gilbert was waiting in the passage for news of mamma, and she 
 gi-unted," All sham !" and that's the whole I have heard of her 1 
 He is bad enougli in himself, but with such a ti-ain ! My 
 poor Albiuia ! If they are not the death of her, it will be 
 lucky !' 
 
 ' Well done, Winifred !' 
 
 ' But, Maurice,' said his impetuous wife, in a curiously al- 
 tered tone, 'are not you very unhap))y about Albinia? 
 
 ' I shall leave you to hnd that out for me.' 
 
 'Then you ai-e not? 
 
 *I think Kendal thoroughly values and appreciates her, and 
 is very uncomfortable without her.' 
 
 ' I suppose so. Peo])le do miss a maid-of-all-woi'k. I should 
 not so much mind it, if she had been only his slave, but to be 
 so to all those disagreeable children of his too ! And with so 
 little effect. Why can't he send them all to school V 
 
 'Propose that to Albiuia,' 
 
 ' She did want the boy to go somewhere. I should not care 
 where, so it were out of her way. What creatures they must 
 be for her to have produced no moi-e effc'ct on them !' 
 
 * Poor Albinia I I am afraid it is a hard task ; but these are
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 77 
 
 still early days, and we see things at a disadvantage. We shall 
 be able to judge whether there be really too great a strain on 
 her spirits, and if so, I would talk to Kendal.' 
 
 ' And I wonder what is to come of that. It seems to me 
 like what John Smith calls singing psalms to a dead horse.' 
 
 * John Smith ! I am glad you uientioned him ; I shall deare 
 Dusautoy to bring him here on IMonday.' 
 
 ' What ! as poor Albinia would say, you can't exist a week 
 without John Smith.' 
 
 ' Even so. I want him to lay out a plan for draining the 
 garden. That pond is intolerable. I suspect that all, yourself 
 included, will become far more good-tempered in consequence.' 
 
 'A capital measure ; but do you mean that Edmund Kendal 
 is going to let you and John Smith drain his pond under his 
 very nose, and never find it out 1 I did not imagine him quite 
 come to that.' 
 
 * Not quite' said Maurice ; ' it is with his free consent, and I 
 believe he will be very glad to have it done without any trouble 
 to himself. He said that " Albinia thought it damp,'" aud when 
 I put a few sauatory facts before him, tiianked me heartily, and 
 seemed quite relieved. If they had only been in Sanscrit, they 
 would have made the greater impression.' 
 
 ' One comfort is, Maurice, that however provoking you are 
 at first, you generally prove yourself reasonable at last. I am 
 glad you are not Mr. Kendal.' 
 
 ' Ah ! it will have a fine efiect on you to spend your Christ- 
 mas-day tete-a-tete with him.' 
 
 Mrs. Ferrars's views underwent various modifications, like 
 all hasty yet candid judgments. She took Mr. Kendal into 
 favour when she found him placidly submitting to Miss Mea- 
 dows's showers of words, in order to prevent her gaining access 
 to his wife. 
 
 ' Maria Meadows is a very well-meaning person,' he said 
 afterwards ; ' but I know of no worse infliction in a sick-room.' 
 
 ' I wonder,' thought \Vinifred, ' whether he married to get 
 rid of her. I should have thought it justifiable had it been 
 any one but Albinia !' 
 
 The call on Mrs. Dusautoy was consoling. It was delight- 
 ful to find how Albinia was loved and valued at the vicavMge, 
 Mrs. Dusautoy began by sending her as a message, John's first 
 exclamation on hearing of the event. ' Then she will never be 
 of any more use.' In fact, she said, it was much to him like 
 having a curate disabled ; and she believed he could only be 
 consoled by the hopes of a pattern christening, and of a nursery 
 for his school-girls ; but there Winifred shook her head, fail--
 
 78 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 mead had a prior claim, and Albiuia had long had her eye upon 
 a scholar of her own. 
 
 ' I told John that she would ! and he must bear it as he can,' 
 laughed Mrs. Dusautoy ; and she went on more seriously to say 
 that her gratitude was beyond expression, not merely for the 
 actual help, though that was miich, but for the sympathy, the 
 first encouragement they had met among their richer parish- 
 ioners ; aud she spoke of the i-efreshment of the mirthfulness 
 and playful manner, so as to convince Winifred that they had 
 neither died away nor been everywhere wasted. 
 
 Winifred had no amenal)le patient. Weak and depressed as 
 Albinia was, her restlessness and air of anxiety could not be 
 apjjeased. There was a look of being constantly on the watch, 
 and once, when her door was ajar, before Winifred was aware, 
 she exerted her voice to call Gilbert ! 
 
 Pushing the door just wide enough to enter, and treading 
 almost noiselessly, he came forward, looking from side to side as 
 with a sense of guilt. She stretched out her hand and smiled, 
 and he obeyed the movement that asked him to bend and kisa 
 her, but still durst not speak. 
 
 ' Let me have the baby,' she said. 
 
 Mrs. Ferrars laid it beside her, and held aloof. Gilbert's eyes 
 were fixed intently on it. 
 
 ' Yes, Gilbert,' Albinia said, ' I know what you will feel 
 for him. He can't be what you once had — but oh, Gilbert, 
 you will do all that an elder brother can to make him like 
 Edmund !' 
 
 Gilbert wrung her fingers, and ventiired to stoop down to 
 kiss the little red forehead. The tears were running down his 
 cheeks, and he could not speak. 
 
 ' If your father might only say the same of him ! that he 
 never grieved him !' said Albinia ; ' but oh, Gilbert — example ;' 
 and then, pausing aud gazing searchingly in his face, * You have 
 not told papa.' 
 
 'No,' whispered Gilbert. 
 
 * Winifred,' said Albinia, ' would you be so kind as to ask 
 pa]>a to come V 
 
 Winifred was forced to obey, though feeling much to blame as 
 Mr. Kendal rose with a sigh of uneasiness. Gilbert still stood 
 with his hand clasped in Albinia's, and she held it while her 
 weak voice made the full confession for him, and assured his 
 father of his shame and .sorrow. There needed no such assur- 
 ance, his whole demeanour had been sorrow all these dreary 
 days, and Mr. Kendal could not but forgive, though his eye 
 spoke deep grief.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 79 
 
 ' I could not refuse pardon thus asked,' he said. ' Oh, Gil- 
 bert, that I could hope this were the beginning of a new 
 course !' 
 
 Albinia looked from Gilbert to his little brother, and back 
 again to Gilbert. 
 
 ' It shall he,^ she said, and Gilbert's resolution was perhaps 
 the more sincei-e that he spoke no word. 
 
 ' Poor boy,' said Albinia, half to herself and half aloud, ' I 
 think I feel more strong to love and to help him !' 
 
 That interview was a dangerous experiment, and she sufiored 
 for it. As her brother said, instead of having too little life, she 
 had too much, and could not let herself rest ; she had never 
 cultivated the art of being still, and when she was weak, she 
 could not be calm. 
 
 Still the strength of her constitution staved off the nervous 
 fever of her spirits, and though she was not at all a comfortable 
 patient, she made a certain degree of progi-ess ; so that though 
 it was not easy to call her better, she was not quite so ill, and 
 grew less irrational in hei solicitude, and more open to other 
 ideas. ' Do you know, Winifred,' she said one day, ' I have 
 been thinking myself at Fairmead till I almost believed I heard 
 John Smith's voice under the window.' 
 
 Winifred was obliged to look out at the window to hide her 
 smile. Maurice, who was standing on the lawn with the veiy 
 John Smith, beckoned to her, and she went down to hear his 
 plans. He was wanted at home the next day, and asked whe- 
 ther she thought he had better take Gilbert with him. ' It is 
 the wisest thing that has been said yet !' exclaimed she. ' Now 
 I shall have a chance for Albinia!' and accordingly, Mr. Ken- 
 dal having given a gracious and gi-ateful consent, Albinia was 
 informed; but Winifred thought her almost perverse when a 
 perturbed look came over her, and she said, ' It is very kind in 
 Maurice, but I must speak to him.' 
 
 He was struck by the worn, restless expression of her features, 
 so unlike the calm contented repose of a young mother ; and 
 when she spoke to him, her first word was of Gilbert. ' Maurice, 
 it is so kind, I know you will make him hapjjy — but oh ! take 
 care — he is so delicate — indeed, he is — don't let him get wet 
 through.' 
 
 Maurice promised, but Albinia resumed with minutiae of 
 directions, ending with, ' Oh ! if he should get hurt or into 
 any mischief, what should we do ? Pray, take care, Maurice, 
 you are not used to such delicate boys.' 
 
 ' My dear, I think you may rely on me.' 
 
 • Yes, but you will not be too strict with him — ' and more
 
 so THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 was following, when her brother said, ' I promise you to make 
 him my special charge. I like the boy very much. I thiuk 
 you may be reasonable, and trust him with me, without so 
 much agitation. You have not let me see my own nephew 
 yet.' 
 
 Albinia looked with her wistful piteous face at her brother as 
 he took in his arms her noble-looking fair infant. 
 
 * You are a great fellow indeed, sir,' said his uncle. ' Now 
 if I were your mamma, I would be jiroud of you, rather than — ' 
 
 * I am afraid !' said Albinia, in a sudden low whisper. 
 He looked at her anxiously. 
 
 ' Let me have iiim,' she said ; then as Maurice bent over her, 
 and she hastily gathered the babe into her arms, she whispered 
 in quick, low, faint accents, ' Do you know how many children 
 have been born in this house V 
 
 Mr. Ferrars understood her ; he too had seen the catalogue 
 in the church, and guessed that the phantoms of her boy's dead 
 brethren dwelt on her imagination, forbidding her to rejoice in 
 him hopefully. He tried to say something encouraging of the 
 child's appearance, but she would not let him go on. 'I know,' 
 she said, ' he is so now — but — ' then catching her bx-eath again 
 and speaking very low, 'his father does not dare look at him — 
 I see that he is sorry for me — Oh, Maurice, it will come, and I 
 shall be able to do nothing !' 
 
 Maurice felt his lip quivering as his sister's voice became 
 choked — the sister to whom he had once been the whole world, 
 and who still could j)Our out her inmost heart more freely to 
 him than to any other. But it was a time for grave authority, 
 and though he spoke gently, it was almost sternly. 
 
 ' Albinia, this is not right. It is not thankful or trustful. 
 No, do not cry, but listen to me. Your child is as likely to do 
 well as any child in the world, but nothing is so likely to do 
 him harm as your want of composure.' 
 
 'I tell myself so,' said Albinia, 'but there is no helping it.' 
 
 * Yes, there is. Make it your duty to keep yourself still, an.* 
 not be troubled about what may or may not happen, but be 
 glad of the present pleasure.' 
 
 ' Don't you think 1 am f said Albinia, half smiling ; ' so 
 glad, that I grow frightened at myself, and — ' As if fain to 
 leave the subject, she added, ' And it is what you don't under- 
 stand, Maurice, but he can't be the first to Edmund as he is to 
 me — never — and when I get almost jealous for him, I think of 
 Gilbert and the girls — and oh ! there is so much to do for them 
 — they want a mother so much — and Winifred wont let me see 
 them, or tell vuq about them l'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 81 
 
 She had grown piteous and incoherent, and a glance from 
 Winifred told him, * this is always the way.' 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, ' you will never be ht to attend to tliero, 
 if you do not use this present time rightly. You may hurt your 
 health, and still more certainly, you will go to work fretfully 
 and impetuously. If you have a busy life, the more reason to 
 learn to be tranquil. Calm is forced on you now, and if you 
 give way to useless nervous brooding over the work you are 
 obliged to lay aside for a time, you have no right to hope that 
 you will either have judgment or temper for your tasks.' 
 
 ' But how am I to keep from thinking, Maurice 1 The 
 weaker I am, the more I tliink.' 
 
 ' Are you dutiful as to what Winifred thei-e thinks wisest 1 
 Ah ! Albinia, you want to learn, as poor Queen Anne of Aus- 
 tria did, that docility m illness may be self-i-esignation into 
 higher Hands. Perhaps you despise it, but it is no mean exer- 
 cise of strength and resolution to be still.' 
 
 Albinia looked at him as if receiving a new idea. 
 
 ' And,' he added, bending nearer her face, and speaking lower, 
 * when you pray, let them be hearty faithful prayers that God's 
 hand may be over your child — your children, not half-hearted 
 faithless ones, that He may work out your will in them.' 
 
 ' Oh, Maurice, how did you know 1 But you are not going 1 I 
 have so much to talk over with you.' 
 
 ' Yes, T must go ; and you must be still. Indeed I will watch 
 over Gilbert as though he wei'e mine. Yes, even more. Don't 
 speak again, Albinia, I desire you will not. Good-bye.' 
 
 That lecture had been the most wholesome treatment she had 
 yet received ; she ceased to give way without effort to restless 
 thoughts and cares, and was m\ich less refractory. 
 
 When at last Lucy and Sophia wei-e admitted, Winifred 
 found perils that she had not anticipated. Lucy was indeed 
 supremely and girlishly haijpy : but it was Sophy whose eye 
 Albinia sought with anxiety, and that eye was averted. Her 
 cheek was cold like that of a doll when Albinia touched it 
 eagerly with her lips ; and when Lucy admonished her to kiss 
 the dear little brother, she fairly turned and ran out of the 
 room. 
 
 ' Poor Sophy !' said Lucy. ' Never mind her, mamma, but 
 she is odder than ever, since baby has been born. When 
 Eweretta came up and told us, she hid her face and cried ; and 
 when grandmamma wanted to make us promise to love him 
 with all our hearts, and not make any dilference, she would only 
 say, « I wont !" ' 
 
 * We will lea\ e him to take care of that, Lucy,' said Albinia. 
 
 Q
 
 82 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 But tliongli slie spoke cheerfully, Winifred was not surprised, 
 after a little interval, to hear sounds like stifled weeping. 
 
 Almost every home subject was so dangerous, that whenever 
 Mrs. Fen-ars wanted to make cheerful, innocent conversation, 
 she began to talk of her visit to Ireland and the beautiful Gal- 
 way coast, and the O'Mores of Ballymakilty, till Albinia grew 
 quite sick of the names of the whole clan of thirty-six cousins, 
 and thought, with her aunts, that Winifred was too Irish. Yet, 
 at any other time, the hist07'ies would have made her sometimes 
 laugh, and sometimes cry j but the world was sadly out of joint 
 with her. 
 
 There was a sudden change when, for the first time her eye 
 rested on the lawn, and she beheld the work of drainage. The 
 light glanced in her eye. the colour rose on her cheek, and she 
 exclaimed, ' How kind of Edmund !' 
 
 Winifred mvist needs give her husband his share. 'Ah ! you 
 would never have had it done without Maurice.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Albinia, 'Edmund has been out of the way of such 
 things ; but he consented, you know.' Then as her eyes grew 
 liquid, 'A duckpond is a funny subject for sentiment, but oh ! 
 if you knew what that place has been to my imagination from 
 the first, and how the wreaths of mist have wound themselves 
 into spectres in ray dreams, and stretched out white shrouds 
 now for one, now for the other !' and she shuddered. 
 
 * And you have gone through all this and never spoken. No 
 wonder your nerves and spirits were tried.' 
 
 *1 did speak at first,' said Albinia ; 'but I thought Edmund 
 did not hear, or thought it nonsense, and so did I at times. 
 But you see he did attend ; he always does, you see, at the right 
 time. It was only my impatience.' 
 
 * I suspect Maurice and John Smith had more to do with it,' 
 said Winifred. 
 
 * Well, we wont quarrel about that,' said Albinia. ' I only 
 know that whoever Vu'onght it about has taken the heavie.st 
 weight off my mind that has been there yet.' 
 
 In truth, the terror, half real, half imaginary, had been a sorer 
 burthen than all tlie positive cares for those unruly children, or 
 their silent, melancholy father ; and the relief told in all 
 ways — above all, in the peace with which she began to regard 
 her child. Still she would provoke Winifred by bestowing all 
 her gratitude on Mr. Kendal, who began to be persuaded that 
 he had made a heroic exertion. 
 
 Winifred had been somewhat scandalized by discovering 
 Albinia's deficiencies in the furniture development. She was 
 too active and stirring, and too fond of out-of-door occupation,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 83 
 
 to regard interior decoration as one of the domestic graces ; 
 'her nest was rather that of the ostrich tlian the chaffinch,' as 
 Winifred told lier on the discovery tliat her morning-room had 
 been used for no other purpose than as a deposit for all the 
 books, wedding presents, lumber, <fec., which she had never had 
 leisure to arrange. 
 
 ' You might be more civil,' answered Albinia. ' Remember 
 that the ringdove never made half such a fuss about her nest 
 as the magpie.' 
 
 ' Well, I am glad you have found some likeness in yourself to 
 a dove,' rejoined Winifred. 
 
 Mrs. Ferrars set vigorously to work with Lucy, and rendered 
 the room so pretty and pleasant, that Lucy pronounced that it 
 must be called nothing but the boudoir, for it was a perfect 
 little bijou. 
 
 Albinia was laid on the sofa by the sparkling fire, by her side 
 the little cot, and in her hand a most happy affectionate letter 
 from Gilbert, detailing the Fairmead Christmas festivities. She 
 felt the invigoration of change of room, admired and was grate- 
 ful for Winifred's work, and looked so fair and bright, so tran- 
 quil and so contented, that her sister and husband could not 
 help pausing to contemplate her as an absolutely new creature, 
 in a state of qtiiescence. 
 
 It did not last long, and Mrs. Ferrars felt herself the unwill- 
 ing culprit. Attracted by sounds in the hail, she found the 
 two girls receiving from the hands of Genevieve Dui'ant a pretty 
 basket choicely adorned with spi'ays of myrtle, saying mamma 
 would be much obliged, and they would take it up at once ; 
 Genevieve should take home her basket, and down plunged their 
 Lands regardless of tlie garniture. 
 
 Genevieve's disiipi>ointed look caught Winifred's attention, 
 and springing forward she exclaimed, ' You shall come to Mrs. 
 Kendal yourself, my dear. She must see your pretty basket,' 
 and yourself, she could have added, as she met the grateful 
 glitter of the dark eyes. 
 
 Lucy remonstrated that mamma had seen no one yet, not even 
 Aunt Maria, but Mrs. Ferrars would not listen ; and treading 
 airily, yet with reverence that would have befitted a royal 
 palace, G§nevidve was ushei'ed upstairs, and with heartfelt 
 sweetness, and timid grace, presented her etrennes. 
 
 Under the fragrant sprays lay a small white-paper parcel, 
 tied with narrow blue satin bows, such as no English fingers 
 could accomplish, and within was a little frock-body, exquisitely 
 embroidered, with a breastplate of actual ])oint lace in a patten. 
 like frostwork on the windows. It was such work as Madame 
 
 o2
 
 84 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 Belmarcli^ had learnt in a convent in times of liistoiy, and poor 
 little Geuevieve had almost worn out her black eyes on this 
 piece of homage to her dear Mi-s. Kendal, grieving only that 
 she had not been able to add the length of robe needed to com- 
 plete her gift. 
 
 Albinia's kiss was recompence beyond her dreams, and she 
 fairly cried for joy when she vvas told that she should come and 
 help to dress the babe in it for his christening, Mrs, Ferrars 
 would walk out with her at once to buy a sufficiency of camorlc 
 for the mighty skii-ts. 
 
 That visit was indeed nothing but pleasure, but Mrs, FeiTars 
 had not calculated on contingencies and family punctilios. She 
 forgot that it would be a mortal offence to let in any one rather 
 than Miss jMeadows ; but the rest of the family were so well 
 aware of it, that when she returned she heard a perfect sparrow's- 
 nest of voices — Lucy's pert and eager, Miss Meadows's injured 
 and shrill, and Albinia's, alas ! thin and loud, half sarcasm, 
 half fret. 
 
 There sat Aunt Maria fidgeting in the arm-chair ; Lucy stood 
 by the fire ; Albinia's counteuance sadly different from what it 
 had been in the morning — weary, impatient, and excited, all 
 that it ought not to be ! 
 
 Winifred would have cleared the room at once, but this was 
 not easy, and poor Albinia was so far gone as to be determined 
 on finishing that endless thiug, an altercation ; so all three began 
 explaining and appealing at once. 
 
 It seemed that Mrs. Osborn was requiting Mrs, Kendal's 
 neglect in not having inquired after her when the Admiral's 
 sister's husband died, by the omission of inquiries at present ; 
 whereat Albinia laughed a feeble, overdone giggle, and observed 
 that she believed Mrs. Osborn knew all that passed in Willow 
 Lawn better than the inmates ; and Lucy depcjsed that Sophy 
 and Loo were together every day, though Sophy knew mamma 
 did not like it, ]\Iiss Meadows said if reparation were not made, 
 the Osborns had expressed their intention of omitting Lucy and 
 Sophy from their Twelfth-day party. 
 
 To this Albinia pettishly replied that the girls were to go to 
 no Chri.stmas ])arties without her ; Miss Meadows had taken it 
 very much to heart, and Lucy was declaiming against mamma 
 making any conrlescension to Mrs, Osborn, or herself being 
 supposed to care lor * the Osborn's parties,' where the boys were 
 so rude and vulgar, the girls so boisterous, and the dancing a 
 mere romp. Sophy might like it, but slie never did 1 
 
 Miss Mcafluws was liuvt by her niece's dcf-ction, and had 
 come to ' Oh, very well,' and ' things were altered,' and ' people
 
 THE YOTTNG STEP-MOTHER. 85 
 
 dsed to be grateful to old friends, but there were changes.' Anil 
 thereby Lucy grew personal as to the manners of the Osborus, 
 while Albinia defended herself against the being grand or ex- 
 clusive, but it was her duty to do what she thought right for 
 the children ! Yes, Miss Meadows was quite aware — only 
 grandmamma was so nervous about poor dear Gibbie missing his 
 Christmas dinner for the first time — being absent — Mrs. Ferrara 
 would take great care, but damp stockings and all — 
 
 Winifred endeavoured to stem the tide of words, but in 
 vain, between the meandering incoherency of the one, and the 
 nervous rapidity of the other, and they had both set off again 
 on this fresh score, when in despair she ran downstairs, rapped 
 at the study door, and cried, ' Mr. Kendal, Mr. Kendal, will you 
 not come? I can't get Miss Meadows out of Albinia's rocai.' 
 
 Forth came Mr. Kendal, walked straight upstairs, and stood 
 in full majesty on the threshold. Holding out his hand to Maria 
 with grave courtesy, he thanked her for coming to see his wife, 
 but at the same time handed her down, saw her out safely at 
 the hall door, and Lucy into the drawing-room. 
 
 It was a pity that he had not returned to Albinia's room, fo^ 
 she was too much excited to be composed without authority. 
 First, she scolded Winifred ; ' it was the thing she most wished 
 to avoid, that he should fancy her teased by anything the 
 Meadowses could say,' and she laughed, and protested she nevei 
 was vexed, such absurdity did not hurt her in the least. 
 
 * It has tired you, though,' said Winifred. ' Lie quite down 
 and sleep.' 
 
 Of course, however, Albinia wovild not believe that she was 
 tired, and began to talk of the Osborns and their party — she 
 was annoyed at the being thought too fine. * If it were not such 
 a penance, and if you would not be gone home, I really would 
 ask you to take the girls, Winifred.' 
 
 ' I shall not be gone home.' 
 
 * Yes, you will. I am well, and every one wants you.' 
 
 * Did you not hear Willie's complimentary message, that he is 
 never naughty now, because Gilbert makes him so hajjpy T 
 
 * But, Winifred, the penny club 1 The people must have their 
 things.' 
 
 ' They can wait, or — * 
 
 'It is very well for us to talk of waiting,' cried Albinia, 'but 
 how should we like a frosty night without cloaks, or blankets, or 
 fire 1 I did not think it of you, Winifred. It is the first winter 
 I have been away from my poor old dames, and I did think you 
 would have cared for them.' 
 
 And thereupon her overwrought spirits gave way id a flood
 
 86 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEB. 
 
 of tears, as she angrily averted her face from her sister, who 
 could have cried too, not at the injustice, but with compassion 
 and perplexity lest there should be an equally violent reaction 
 either of remorse or of mirth. 
 
 It must be confessed that Albinia was very much the 
 creature of health. Never having been ill before, the depres- 
 sion had been so new that it broke her completely down ; con- 
 valescence made her fractious. 
 
 Recovery, however, filled her with such an ecstasy of animal 
 spirits that her time seemed to be entirely passed in happiness 
 or in sleep, and cares appeared to have lost all power. It was 
 so sudden a change that Winifred was stai-tled, though it was a 
 very pleasant one, and she did not reflect that this was as far 
 from the calm, self-restrained, meditative tranquillity enjoined 
 by Maurice, as had been the previous restless, querulous state. 
 Both were body more than mind, but Mrs. Ferrars was much 
 more ready to be merry with Albinia than to moralize about 
 her. And it was droll that the penny club was one of the first 
 stages in her revival. 
 
 * Oh, mamma,' cried Lucy, flying in, ' Mr. Dusaiitoy is at the 
 door. There is such a to do. All the women have been 
 getting gin with their penny club tickets, and Mrs. Brock has 
 been stealing the money, and Mr. Dusautoy wants to know if 
 you paid up three-and tburpence for the Hancock children.' 
 
 Albinia instantly invited Mr. Dusautoy to explain in person, 
 and he entered, hearty and pleasant as ever, but in great haste, 
 for he had left his Fanny keeping the peace between five angry 
 women, while he came out to collect evidence. 
 
 The Bayford clothing-club payments were collected by Mrs. 
 Brock, the sexton's wife, and distributed by tickets to be 
 produced at the various shops in the town. Mrs. Brock had 
 detected some women exchanging their tickets for gin, and the 
 offV^nding parties retaliated by accusing her of embezzling the 
 subscriptions, both parties launching into the usual amount of 
 personalities and exaggerations. 
 
 Albinia's testimony cleared Mrs. Brock as to the three-and- 
 fourpence, but she ' snuffed the bsictle from afar,' and rushed 
 into a scheme of taking the clothing-club into her own hands, 
 collecting the pence, having the goods from London, and selling 
 them herself — slie would propose it on the very first oppor- 
 tunity to the Dusautoys. Winifred asked if .she had not a good 
 deal on her hands already. 
 
 * JMy dear, I have the work in me of a young giant.' 
 ♦And will Mr. Kendal like itf 
 
 ' He would never find it out unless I told him, and very
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 87 
 
 possibly not tlien. Six months hence, perhaps, he may tell me 
 he is glad that Lucy is inclined to useful pursuits, and that is 
 approval, Winifred, much more than if I went and worried him 
 about every little petty woman's matter.' 
 
 ' Every one to her taste,' thought Winifred, who had begun 
 to regard Mr. and ]\Irs. Kendal in the same relation as the king 
 and queen at chess. 
 
 The day before the christening, Mr. Ferrars brought back 
 Gilbert and his own little Willie. 
 
 Through all the interchange of greetings, Gilbert would 
 hardly let go Albinia's hand, and the moment her attention 
 was free, he earnestly whispered, ' May I see rny brother V 
 
 She took him upstairs at once. ' Let me look a little while,' 
 he said, hanging over the child with a sort of hungry fondness 
 and curiosity. ' My brother ! my brother !' he repeated. ' It 
 has rung in my ears every morning that I can say my brother 
 once more, till I have feared it was a dream.' 
 
 It was the sympathy Albinia cared for, come back again ! 'I 
 hope he will be a good brother to you,' she said. 
 
 ' He must be good ! he can't help it ! He has you !' said 
 Gilbert. ' See, he is opening his eyes — oh I how blue ! May I 
 touch him V 
 
 ' To be sure you may. He is not sugar,' said Albinia, laugh- 
 ing. ' There — make an arm ; you may have him if you like. 
 Your left arm, you awkward man. Yes, that is right. You 
 will do quite as well as I, who never touched a baby till 
 Willie was born. There, sir, how do you like your brother 
 Gilbert r 
 
 Gilbert held him reverently, and gave him back with a sigh 
 when he seemed to have satiated his gaze and touch, and con- 
 vinced himself that his new possession was substantial. ' I 
 say,' he added wistfully, * did you think that name would bring 
 
 ill-luck r 
 
 She knew the name he meant, and answered, ' No, but your 
 father could not have borne it. Besides, Gibbie, we would not 
 think him instead of Edmund. No, he shall learn to look up 
 to his other brother as you do, and look to meeting and know- 
 ing him some day.' 
 
 Gilbert shivered at this, and made no opposition to her 
 carrying him downstairs to his uncle ; and then Gilbert 
 hurried off for the basket of snowdrops that he had gathei-ed 
 early, from a favourite spot at Fairmead. That short absence 
 seemed to have added double force to his affection ; he could 
 hardly bear to be away from her, and every moment wlien he 
 could gain her ear, poured histories of the delights of Fair-
 
 88 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 
 
 mead, where l\Ir. Fevrai's had devoted himself to his amuse- 
 ment, and had made him happier than perhaps he had ever 
 been in his life — he had had a taste of shooting, oi' sJ^atiug, of 
 snowballing — he had been useful and important in the village 
 feasts, had dined twice at Colonel Bury's, and felt himself 
 many degrees nearer manhood. 
 
 To hear of her old haunts and friends from such enthusiastic 
 lips, delighted Albinia, and her felicity with her baby, with Mr, 
 Kendal, with lier brother and his little son, was one of the 
 brightest things in all the world — the fresh young loving bloom 
 of her matronhood was even sweeter and more beautiful tlian 
 her girlish days. 
 
 Poor little frail, blighted Mrs. Dusautoy ! Winifred could 
 cot help wondering if the contrast pained her, when in all the 
 glory of her motherly thankfulness, Albiniacai-ried her beautiful 
 newly-christened Maurice Ferrars Kendal to the vicarage to 
 show him off, lying so open-chested and dignified, in Genevieve's 
 pretty work, with a sort of manly sei-euity already dawning 
 on his baby brow. 
 
 Winifred need not have pitied the little lady. She would 
 not have changed with Mrs. Kendal — no, not for that perfect 
 health, usefulness, value — nor even for such a baby as t.h;.t. 
 No, indeed ! She loved — she rejoiced in all her friend's sweet 
 and precious gifts — but Mrs. Dusautoy had one gift that she 
 prized above all. 
 
 Even grandmamma and Aunt Maria did justice to Master 
 Maurice's attractions, at least in public, though it came round 
 that Miss Meadows did not admire fat children, and when he 
 had once been seen in Lucy's arms, an alarm arose that Mrs. 
 Kendal would allow the girls to carry him about, till his weight 
 made them crooked ; but Albinia was too joyous to take their 
 displeasure to heart, and it only served her for something to 
 laugh at. 
 
 They had a very happy christening party, chiefly juvenile, in 
 lionour of little Willie and of Francis and Emily Nugent. 
 Albinia was so radiantly lively and good-natured, and her 
 assistants, Winifred, Maurice, and Mr. Dusautoy, so kind, so 
 droll, so inventive, that even Aunt Maria forgot herself in enjoy- 
 ment and novelty, and was like a different ])erson. Mr. Kendal 
 looked at her with a pleased sad wondci', and told his wife it 
 reminded hiru of what she had been when she was nearly the 
 prettiest girl at Bay ford. 
 
 Gilbert devoted himself as usual to making Gdnevieve feel 
 welcome; and she had likewise Willie Ferrars and Francis 
 Nugent at her feet. Neither urchin would sit two inches
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. S9 
 
 away from her all the evening, and in all games she was obliged 
 to obviate jealousies by being partner to both at once. Where 
 there was no one to oppress her, she came out with all her 
 natural grace and vivacity, and people of a larger growth than 
 her little admirers were cliarmed with her. 
 
 Lucy was obliging, read}', and iiseful, and looked very 
 pretty; the only blot was the heavy duluess of poor Sophy, who 
 seemed resolved to take pleasui-e in nothing. Winifred varied 
 in opinion whether her moodiness arose from ill-health, or from 
 jealousy of her little brother. This latter Albinia would not 
 believe, especially as she saw that little Maurice's blue eyes 
 were magnets that held the silent Sophy fast, but surly denials 
 silenced her interrogations as to illness, and made her content to 
 acquiesce in Lucy's explanation that Sophy was only ci'oss 
 because the Osborns and Drurys were not asked. 
 
 Albinia did her duty handsomely by the two families a day 
 or two after, for whatever reports might come round, they were 
 always ready to receive her advances, and she only took notice 
 of what she saw, instead of what she heard. Her brother 
 helped Mr. Kendal through the party, and Winifred made a 
 discovery that excited her more than Albinia thought warranted 
 by any fact relating to the horde of Irish cousins. 
 
 'Only think, Albinia, I have found out that poor Ellen 
 O'More is Mr. Goldsmith's sister !' 
 
 ' Indeed ! But I am afraid I don't remember which Elleu 
 O'More is. You know I never undertake to recollect any but 
 your real cousins out of the thirty-six.' 
 
 ' For shame, Albinia ; I have so often told you about Ellen. 
 I'm sure you can't forget. Her husband is my sister's brother- 
 in-law's cousin.' 
 
 ' Oh, Winifred, AVinifred !' 
 
 ' But 1 tell you, her husband is the third son of old IMr. 
 O'More of Ballymakilty, and was in the army.' 
 
 'Oh! the half pay officer with the twelve children in the 
 cottage on the estate.' 
 
 ' There now, 1 did think you would care wlien I told you 
 of a soldier, a Waterloo man too ; and you only call him a half- 
 pay officer !' 
 
 ' I do remember,' said Albinia, taking a little pity, ' that you 
 used to be sony for his good little English wife.' 
 
 ' Of course. I knew she had married him very imprudently, 
 but she has struggled gallantly with ill-health, and poverty, and 
 Irish recklessness. I quite venerate her, and it seems these 
 Goldsmiths had so far cast her off that they had no notion of 
 the extent of her troubles.'
 
 90 THE YOU.N'G STEP MOTHER. 
 
 "Just like them,' said Albinia. ' Is that the reason you wibh 
 me to make the most of the connexion? Let me see, my sister- 
 in-law's sister's wife — no, husband's brother's uncle, eh V 
 
 'I don't want you to do anything,' said Winifred, a little 
 hurt ; ' only if you had seen Ellen's patient face you would be 
 interested in her.' 
 
 ' Well, I am interested ; you know I am, Winifred. I hope 
 you interested our respected banker, which would be more to 
 the purpose.' 
 
 ' I think I did,' said Winifred ; ' at least he said " poor Elleu'' 
 once or twice. I don't want him to do anything for the captain ; 
 you might give him a thousand pounds and he would never be 
 the better for it : but that fourth boy, Ulick, is without exception 
 the nicest fellow I ever saw in my life — so devoted to his 
 mother, so much more considerate and self-denying than any of 
 the others, and very clever. Maurice examined him and was 
 quite astonished. We did get him sent to St. Columba for 
 the present, but whether they will keep him there no one can 
 guess, and it is the greatest pity he should run to waste. I 
 told Mr. Goldsmith all this, and I really think he seemed to 
 attend. I wonder if it will woi'k.' 
 
 Albinia was by this time anxious that it should take effect, 
 and tliey agreed that an old bachelor banker and his sister, both 
 past sixty, were the very people to adopt a promising nephew. 
 
 What had become of the multitude of things which Albinia 
 had to discuss with her brother 1 The floodtide of bliss had 
 floated her over all the stumbling-blocks and shoals that the 
 ebb had disclosed ; and she had absolutely forgotten all the 
 perplexities that had seemed so trying. Even when she sought 
 a ))rivate interview to talk to him about Gilbert, it was in full 
 security of hearing the pi-aises of her darling. 
 
 ' A nice boy, a very nice boy,' returned Maurice ; ' most 
 amiable and intelligent, and particularly engaging, from his 
 feeling being so much on the surface.' 
 
 ' Notliing can be more sincere and genuine,' she cried, as if 
 this fell a little flat. 
 
 ' Certainly not, at the time.' 
 
 'Always !' exchiinied Albinia. 'You must not distrust him 
 because he is not like you or Fred, and has never been hardened 
 and taught reserve by rude boys. Nothing was ever more 
 real than his atfection, poor dear boy,' and the tears thrilled to 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' No, and it is much to his credit. His love and gratit\ide to 
 you are quite touching, poor fellow ; but the worst of it is that 
 I am afraid he is very timid, both physically and morally.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 91 
 
 Often as she had experienced this truth, the soldier's daughter 
 could not bear to avow it, and she answered hastily, ' He has 
 never been braced or ti-ained ; he was always ill till within the 
 last few years — coddling at first, neglect afterwards, he has it all 
 to learn, and it is too late for school.' 
 
 ' Yes, he is too old to be laughed at or bullied out of cowardice. 
 Indeed, I doubt whether there ever would have been substance 
 enough for much wear and tear.' 
 
 ' I know you have a turn for riotous, obstinate boys ! You 
 want Willie to be another Fred,' said Albinia, like an old hen, 
 ruffling up her feathers. ' You think a boy can't be good foi 
 anything unless he is a universal plague !' 
 
 ' I wonder what you will do with your own son,' said Maurice, 
 amused, ' since you take Gilbert's part so fiercely.' 
 
 ' I trust my boy will never be as much to be pitied as his 
 brother,' said Albinia, with tenderness that accused her ])etu- 
 lance. ' At least he can never be a lonely twin with that sore 
 spot in his heart. Oh, Maurice, how can any one help dealing 
 gently with my poor Gibbie V 
 
 ' Gentle dealing is the very thing he wants,' said Mr. Ferrars ; 
 ' and I am thinking how to find it for him. How did his going 
 to Traversham fail V 
 
 ' I don't know ; Edmund did not like to send him without 
 having seen Traversham, and I could not go. But I don't think 
 there is any need for his going away. His father has been quite 
 enough tormented about it, and I can manage him very well 
 now. He is always good and hapi)y with me. I mean to try 
 to ride with him, and I have promised to teach him music, and 
 we shall garden. Never fear, I will employ him and keep him 
 out of mischief — it is all pleasure to me.' 
 
 ' And pray what are your daughters and baby to do, while 
 you are gallo])ing after Gilbert V 
 
 ' Oh ! I'll manage. We can all do things together. Come, 
 Maurice, I wont have Edmund teased, and I can't bear parting 
 with any of them, or think that any strange man can treat 
 Gibbie as I should.' 
 
 Maurice was edified by his sister's warm-hearted weakness, but 
 not at all inclined to let ' Edmund' escape a 'teasing.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal's first impulse always was to find a sufficieni; plea 
 for doing nothing. If Gilbert was to go to India, it was not 
 worth while to give him a classical education. 
 
 ' Is he to go to India 1 Albinia had not told me so.' 
 
 * I thought she was aware of it ; but possibly I may not have 
 mentioned it. It has been an understood thing ever since I came 
 home. He will, have a good deal of the property in this place,
 
 92 THE YOUNG STEP -MOTHER. 
 
 but he had better have seen something of the v/orld. BajforJ 
 is no place for a man to settle dciwn in too young.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Mr. Ferrars, repressing a smile. * Then are 
 you thinking of sending him to Haileybury V 
 
 He was pi'onounced too young ; besides, it was explained that 
 his destination in India was unfixed. On going home it had 
 been a kind of promise that one of the twin brothers should have 
 an appointment in the civil service, the other should enter the 
 bank of Kendal and Kendal ; and the survivor was uucousciously 
 suspended between these alternatives, while the doubt served as 
 a convenient protection to his father from making up his mind 
 to prepare him for either of these or for anything else. 
 
 The prompt Ferrars temper could bear it no longer, and 
 Maurice spoke out. ' I'll tell you what, Kendal, it is time to 
 attend to your own concerns. If you choose to let your son 
 run to ruin, because you will not exert yourself to remove him 
 from temptation, I shall not stand by to see my sister worn out 
 with making efforts to save him. She is willing and devoted, 
 she fancies she could work day and night to preserve him, and 
 she does it with all her heart j but it is not woman's woi-k, she 
 cannot do it, and it is not tit to leave it to her. When Gilbert 
 has broken her heart as well as yours, and left an evil example 
 to his brother, then you will feel what it is to have kept a lad 
 whom you know to be well disposed, but weak as water, in the 
 very midst of contamination, and to have left your young, in- 
 experienced wife to struggle alone to save him. If you are un- 
 warned by the experience of last autumn and winter, I could 
 not pity you, whatever might happen.' 
 
 Maurice, who had run on the longer because Mr. Kendal did 
 not answer immediately, was shocked at his own impetuosity; 
 but a rattling peal of thunder was not more than was requisite. 
 
 ' I believe you are. right,' Mr. Kendal said. ' I was to blame 
 for leaving him so entirely to Albinia ; but she is veiy fond of 
 hini, and is one who will never be induced to spare herself, and 
 ^here were considerations. Howevei", she shall be relieved at 
 once. What do you recommend V 
 
 Mr. Ferrars actually made ]Mi'. Kendal promise to set out for 
 Traversham with hiui next morning, thirty miles by the railway, 
 to inspect Mr. Downton and his pu])il.s. 
 
 Albinia had just sense enough not to object, though the dis- 
 covery of the Indian plans was such a blow to her that she could 
 not be consoled by all her husband's representations of the 
 advantages Gilbert would derive there, and of his belief that the 
 Kendal constitution always derived strength from a hot climate; 
 and lliat to himself going to India seemed going home. She
 
 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 93 
 
 took refuge in the hope that between the two Indian stools, 
 Gilbert miglit fall upon one of the professions which she 
 thought alone worthy of man's attention, the clerical or the 
 military. 
 
 Under Maurice's escort, jMr. Kendal greatly enjoyed his ex- 
 pedition ; liked Traversham, was satisfied with the looks of the 
 pupils, and very much pleased with the tutor, whom he even 
 begged to come to Bayford for a conference with Mrs. Kendal, 
 and this was received by her as no small kindness. She was 
 delighted with Mr. Downton, and felt as if Gilbert could be 
 safely trusted in his charge ; nor was Gilbert himself reluctant. 
 He was glad to escape from his tempter, and to begin a new life, 
 and though he hung about Mrs. Kendal, and implored her to write 
 often, and always tell him about his little brother — nay, thoagh 
 he cried like a child at the last, yet still he was happy and 
 satisfied to go, and to break the painful fetters which had held 
 him so long. 
 
 And though Albinia likewise shed some parting tears, she 
 could not but own that she was glad to have him in trustworthy 
 hands ; and as to the additional time thus gained, it was disposed 
 of in a mUlion of bright plans for every one's service — daughters, 
 baby, parish, school, classes, clubs, neighbours. It almost made 
 Winifred giddy to hear how much she had undertaken, and yet 
 with what zest she talked and acted. 
 
 ' There's your victim, Winifred,' said Maurice, as they drove 
 away, and looked back at Albinia, scandalizing Bayford by 
 standing in the open gateway, her face all smiles of cheerful 
 parting, tlie sun and wind making merry with her chtstnut 
 curls, her baby in one arm, the other held up to wave her fare- 
 well. 
 
 ' That child will catch cold,' began Winifred, turning to 
 sign her to go in, ' Well,' she continued, ' after all, I believe 
 Rome people like an idol that sits quiet to be worshipped ! To 
 be sure she must want to beat him sometimes, as the Africans 
 do their gods. But, on the whole, her sentiment of reverence 
 is satisfied, and she likes the acting for herself, and jeigiiing 
 absolute. Yes, she is quite happy — why do you look doubtful? 
 Don't you admire herf 
 
 ' From my heart.' 
 
 'Then why do you doubt? Do you expect her to do any- 
 thing r 
 
 ' A little too much of everything.'
 
 94; THE YOUNO STEP MOTHER. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TT^ES ! Albinia was excessively happy. Her naturally high 
 -L spirits were enhanced by the enjoyment of recovery, and 
 reaction from her former depression. Since the great stroke 
 of the drainage, every one looked better, and her pride in her 
 babe was without a drawback. He seemed to have inherited 
 her vigour and superabundance of life, and ' that first wondrous 
 spring to all but babes unknown,' was in him unusually rapid ; 
 so that he was a marvel of fair stateliuess, size, strength, and 
 intelligence ; so unlike the little blighted buds which had been 
 wont to fade at Willow Lawn, that his father watched him 
 with silent, wondering affection, and his eldest sister was un- 
 merciful in her descriptions of his progress ; while even Sophia 
 had not been proof against his smiles, and was proud to be 
 allowed to cany him about and fondle him. 
 
 Neither was Mr. Kendal's reserve the trial that it had once 
 been. After having become habituated to it as a necessary- 
 idiosyncrasy, she had become rather proud of his lofty inaccessi- 
 bility. Besides, her brother's visit, her recovery, and the re- 
 newed hope and joy in this promising child, had not been with- 
 out effect in rousing him from his apathy. He was less in- 
 clined to shun his fellow-creatures, hail become friendly with 
 the Vicar, and had even let Albinia take him into Mrs. Dusau- 
 toy's drawing-room, where he had been fairly happy. Having 
 once begun taking his wife out in the carriage, he found this 
 much more agreeable than his solitary ride, and was in the 
 condition to which Albinia had once imagined it possible to 
 bring him, in which gentle means and wholesome influence 
 might lead him imperceptibly out of his morbid habits of self- 
 abi-orption. 
 
 Unfortunately, in the flush of blitlieness and whirl of acti- 
 vity, Albinia failed to ])erceive the relative im])ortance of 
 objects, and he had taught her to believe herself so little neces- 
 sary to him that she had not learnt to make her pursuits and 
 occupations subservient to his convenience. As long as the 
 drive took ])lace regularly, all was well, but he caught a severe 
 cold, which lasted even to the setting in of the east winds, the 
 yearly miseiy of a man who hardly granted that India was 
 over-hot. Though Albinia had removed much listing, and 
 opo'ned various doors and windows, he made no com])laints, but 
 did his best to keep the obnoxious fi'csh air out of his study, 
 and seldom crossed the threshold thereof but with a shiver.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 9o 
 
 Hi,s favourite atmosphere was quite euougli to account for a 
 return of the old mood, but Albinia had no time to perceive 
 that it migiit have been prevented, or at least mitigated. 
 
 Few even of the wisest women are fit for authority and 
 liberty so little restrained, and happily it seldom falls to the lot 
 of such as have not previously been chastened by a life-long 
 affliction. But Mrs. Kendal, at twenty-four, with the couse- 
 quence conferred by marriage, and by her superiority of manners 
 and birth, was left as unchecked and almost as irresponsible as 
 if she had been single or a widow, and was solely guided by 
 the impulses of her own character, noble and highly principled, 
 but like most zealous dispositions, without balance and without 
 repose. 
 
 Ballast had been given at first by bashfulness, disappointment, 
 and anxiety ; but she had been freed from her ti'oubles with 
 Gilbert, had gained confidence in herself, and had taken her 
 position at Bayford. She was beloved, esteemed, and trusted 
 in her own set, and though elsewhere she might not be liked, 
 yet she was deferred to, could not easily be quan^elled with, so 
 that she met with little opposition, and did not care for such as 
 she did meet. In fact, very few persons had so much of their 
 own way as Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 She was generally in her nursery at a much earlier hour 
 than an old-established nurse would have tolerated, but the 
 little Susan, promoted from Fairmead school and nursery, was 
 trained in energetic habits. In passing the doors of the young 
 ladies rooms, Albinia gave a call which she had taught them 
 not to resist, for, like all strong persons, she thought ' early to 
 rise' the only way to health, wealth, or wisdom. Much work 
 had been despatched before breakfast, after which, on two days 
 in the week, Albinia and Lucy went to church. Sophy never 
 volunteered to accompany them, and Albinia was the less in- 
 clined to press hex-, because her attitudes and attention on 
 Sunday were far from satisfactory. On Tuesday and Thursday 
 Albinia had a class at school, and so, likewise, had Lucy, who 
 kept a jealous watch over every stray necklace and curl, and 
 had begun thoroughly to enjoy the importance and bustle of 
 charity. She was a useful assistant in the penny club and 
 lending library, which occupied All)inia on other mornings in 
 the week, until the hour when she came in for the girls' studies. 
 After luncheon, she enjoyed the company of little Maurice, wlio 
 indeed pei'vaded all her liome doings and thoughts, for she had 
 a great gift of doing everything at once. 
 
 A sharp constitutional walk was taken in the afternoon. She 
 thought no one could look drooping or dejected but from the
 
 96 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 air of the valley, and that no cure was equal to rushing straight 
 up one hill and on to the next, always walking raj^idly, with a 
 springy buoyant step, and surprised at any one who lagged 
 behind. Parochial cares, visits, singing classes, lessons to 
 Sunday-school teachers, &c., filled up the rest of the day. She 
 had an endless number of ' excellent plans,' on which she 
 always acted instantly, and which kept her in a state of per- 
 petual haste. Poor Mrs. Dusautoy had almost learnt to dread 
 her flashing into the room, full of some parish matter, and 
 flashing out again before the invalid felt as if the subject had 
 been fairly entered on, or her sitting down to impress some 
 project with overpowering eagerness that generally carried 
 away the Vicar iuto grateful consent and admiring approval, 
 while his wife was feeling doubtful, suspecting her hesitation of 
 being ungracious, or blaming herself for not liking the little she 
 could do to be taken out of her hands. 
 
 There was nothing: more hateful to Albinia tlian dawdling 
 She left the girls choice of employments, but insisted on tlieir 
 being veritably occupied, and many a time did she encounter p 
 ■killing glance from Sophia for attacking her listless, moody 
 position in her chair, or saying, in clear, alert tones, ' My dear, 
 when you read, read; when you work, work. When you lix 
 your eye in that way, you are doing neither.' 
 
 Lucy's brisk, active disposition, and great good-humour, had 
 responded to this ti-eatment ; she had been obliging, instead of 
 ofiicious ; repeated checks had improved her taste; her love of 
 petty bustle was directed to better objects ; and thou£,di 
 nothing could make her intellectual or deep, she was a really 
 pleasant assistant and companion ; and no one, except grand- 
 mamma, who thought her perfect before, could fail to perceive 
 how much more lady-like her tones, manners, and appearance 
 bad become. 
 
 The results with Sophy had been directly the reverse. At 
 £i-st she had followed her sister's lead, except that she was 
 always sincere, and often sulky ; but the more Lucy had 
 yielded to Albinia's moulding, the more had Sophy diverged 
 from her; as if out of the very spirit of contradiction. Her 
 intervals of childish nonsense had well nigh dlsaj)pear('d ; her 
 indiflerence to lessons was greater than ever, though she 
 devoured every book that came in her way in a silent, but 
 absorbed manner, a good deal like her father. Tales and 
 stories were not often within her reach, but her appetite 
 seemed to be universal, and Albinia saw her reading old- 
 fashioned standard poetry — such as she had never herself 
 ajjsailed — and books of history, travels, or metaphysics. Sbo
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 97 
 
 wondered whether the girl derived any pleasure from them, or 
 whether they were only a shield for doing nothing ; but no 
 inquiry produced an answer, and if Sophy remembered any- 
 thing of them, it was not with the memory used in lesson-time. 
 The attachment to Louisa Osl^orn was pertinacious and unac- 
 countable in a person who could have so little in common with 
 that young lady, and there was nothing comfortable about her 
 except her fondness for her little brother, and that really 
 seemed to be against her will. Her voice was less hoarse and 
 gruff since the pond had been no more, and she had acquired 
 an expression, so suffering, so concentrated, so thoughtful, that, 
 together with her heavy black eyebrows, large face, profuse 
 black hair, and unlustrous eyes, it gave her almost a dwarfish 
 air, increased by her awkward deportment, which concealed 
 that she was in reality tall, and on a large scale. She looked 
 to so little advantage in briglit delicate colours, that Albinia 
 was often incurring her displeasure, and risking that of Lucy, 
 by the deep blues and sober browns which alone looked fit to 
 be seen with those beetle brows and sallow features. Her face 
 looked many years older than that of her fair, fresh, rosy step- 
 mother ; nay, her father's clear olive complexion and handsome 
 countenance had hardly so aged an aspect ; and Gilbert, when 
 he came home at Midsummer, declared that Sojihy had grown 
 as old as grandmamma. 
 
 The compliment could not be returned ; Gilbert was mi;ch 
 more boy-like in a good sense. He had brought home an 
 excellent character, and showed it in every look and gesture. 
 His father was pleased to have him again, took the ti'Oiible to 
 talk to him, and received such sensible answers, that the habit 
 of conversing was actually established, and the dinnei's were 
 enlivened, instead of oppressed, by his presence. Towards his 
 sisters he had become courteous, he was faii'ly amiable to Aunt 
 Maria, very attentive to grandmamma, overflowing with 
 affection to Mrs. Kendal, and as to little Maurice, he almost 
 adored him, and awakened a reciprocity which was the delight 
 of his heart. 
 
 At Midsummer came the grand penny-club disti'ibution, the 
 triumph for which Albinia had so long been preparing. One 
 of Mrs. Dusautoy's hints as to Bayford tradesmen had been 
 overruled, and goods had been ordered from a house in 
 London, after Albinia and Lucy had made an incredible agita- 
 tion over their patterns of calico and flannel. Mr. Kendal was 
 just awai'e that there was a prodigious commotion, but he knew 
 that all ladies were subject to linen drapery epidemics, and 
 Albinia's took a more endurable form than a pull on his purse 
 
 H
 
 98 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 for the sweetest silk in the world, and above all.it neither came 
 into his study nor even into his house. 
 
 It was a grand spectacle, when Mr. Dnsautoy looked in on 
 Mrs. Kendal and her staff, armed with their yard-wands. 
 
 A pile of calico was heaped in wild masses like avalanches in 
 one corner, rapidly diminishing under the measurements of 
 Gilbert, who looked as if he took thorough good-natured delight 
 in the frolic. Brown, inodorous materials for petticoats, blouses, 
 and trowsers were dealt out by the dextrous hands of Gene- 
 vieve ; a mountain of lilac print was folded off by Clarissa 
 Richardson ; Lucy was presiding joyously over the various 
 blue, buff, brown, and pink Sunday frocks ; the schoolmistress 
 helping with the other goods, the customers — some pleased 
 with novelty, or hoping to get more for their money, others 
 suspicious of the gentry, and secretly resentful for favourite 
 dealers, but, exce])t the desperate grumblers, satisfied with the 
 quality and quantity of the wares — and extremely taken with 
 the sellers, especially with Gilbert's wit, and with MissDurauus 
 ready, lively persuasions, varied to each one's taste, and extract- 
 ing a sn)ile and ' thank you. Miss,' from the surliest. And the 
 presiding figure, with the light on her sunny hair, and good- 
 natured, unfailing interest in her countenance, was at her central 
 table, calculating, giving advice, considering of complaints, 
 measuring, folding — here, there, and everywhere — always bright, 
 lively, forbearing, however complaining or unreasonable her 
 clients might be. 
 
 Mr. Dusaiitoy went home to tell his Fanny that Mrs. Kendal 
 was worth her weight in gold ; and the workers toiled till 
 luncheon, when All)inia took thein home for food and wine, to 
 restore them for the labours of the afternoon. 
 
 ' What have you been about all the morning, Sophy 1 Yes, I 
 see your translation — very well — I wish you would come up 
 and help this afternoon. Miss Richardson is looking so pale and 
 tired that I want to relieve her.' 
 
 * I can't,' said Sophy. 
 
 * I don't order you, but you are losing a great deal of fun. 
 Suppose you came to look on, at least.' 
 
 ' I hate poor people.' 
 
 ' I hope you will change your mind some day, but you must 
 do something this afternoon. You had better take a walk with 
 Susan and baby ; I told her to go by the meadows to Horton.' 
 
 * 1 don't want to walk.' 
 
 ' Have you anything to do instead 1 No, I thought not ; and 
 it is not at all hot to signify. — It will do you much more gnud. 
 Yes, you must go.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 99 
 
 In the course of the summer an old Indian friend was staying 
 at Fairmead Park, and Colonel Bury wrote to beg for a week's 
 visit from the whole Kendal family. Even Sophy vouchsafed to 
 be pleased, and Lucy threw all her ardour into the completion 
 of a blue braided cape, which was to add immensely to little 
 Maurice's charms ; she declared that she should work at it the 
 whole of the last evening, while Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were at 
 the dinner that old Mr. and Mrs. Bowles annually inflicted on 
 themselves and their neighboui-s, a dinner which it would have 
 been as cruel to refuse as it was irksome to accept. 
 
 There was a great similarity in those Bayford parties, inas- 
 much as the same cook dressed them all, and the same waiters 
 waited at them, and the same guests met each other, and the 
 principal variety on this occasion was, that the Osborns did not 
 come, because the Admiral was in London. 
 
 The ladies had left the dining-room, when Albinia's ear 
 caught a sound of hurried opening of dooi's, and sound of 
 steps, and saw Mrs. and Miss Bowles look as if they heard 
 something unexpected. She paused, and forgot the end of 
 what she was saying. The room door was pushed a little way 
 open, but then seemed to hesitate. Miss Bowles hastened forward, 
 and opening it, admitted a voice that made Albinia hurry breath- 
 lessly from the other side of the room, and push so that the 
 door yielded, and she saw it had been Mr. Dusautoy who had 
 been holding it while there was some kind of con.sultation 
 round Gilbert. Tlie instant he saw hei-, he exclaimed, * Come 
 to the baby, Sojdiy has fjxllen down with him.' 
 
 People pressed about her, trying to speak cheeringly, but she 
 understood nothing but that her husband and Mr. Bowles were 
 gone on, and she had a sense that there had been hardness and 
 cruelty in hesitating to summon her. Without knowing that a 
 shawl was thrown round her, or seeing Mr. Dusautoy 's offered 
 arm, she clutched Gilbert's wrist in her hand, and flew down 
 the street. 
 
 The gates and front door were open, and there was a throng 
 of people in the hall. Lucy caught hold of her with a sobbing, 
 
 * Oh, Mamma !' but she only framed the words with her lips — 
 
 * where f 
 
 They pointed to the study. The door was shut, but Albinia 
 liroke from Lucy, and pushed through it, in too much haste to 
 dwell on the sickening doubt what it might conceal. 
 
 Two figures stood under the window. Mr. Kendal, who was 
 holding the little inanimate form in his arms for the doctor 
 to examine, looking up as she entered, cast on her a look, of 
 mute, pleading, despairing agony, that was as the bitterness of 
 
 u li
 
 100 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 death. She s])rang forward herself to clasp her child, and her 
 husband yielded him in broken-hea>'ted pity, but at that moment 
 the little limbs moved, the features worked, the eyes unclosed, 
 aud clinging tightly to her, as she strained him to her bosom, 
 the little fellow proclaimed himself alive by lusty roars, more 
 welcome than any music. Partly stunned, and far more terri- 
 fied, he had been in a sort of swoon, without breath to ciy, till 
 recalled to himself by feeling his mother's arms around him. 
 Every attempt of Mr. Bowles to ascertain whether he were un- 
 injured produced such a fresh panic and renewal of screams, 
 that she begged that he might be left to her. Mr. Kendal 
 took the doctor away, and gradually the terror subsided, though 
 the long convulsive sobs still quivered u\) thi"ough the little 
 frame ; and as the twilight darkened on her, she had time to 
 realize the past alarm, and rejoice in trembling over the treasure 
 still her own. 
 
 The opening of the door aud the gleaming of a light had nearly 
 brought on a fresh access of crying, but it was his father who 
 entered, and Maurice knew the low deep sweetness of his voice, 
 and WAS hushed. ' I believe there is no harm done,' Albinia 
 said ; and the smile that she fain would have made re- 
 assuring gave way as her eyes filled with tears, on feeling the 
 trembling of the strong arm that was put round her, when Mr. 
 Kendal bent to look into the child's eyes. 
 
 ' I thought my blight had fallen on you,' was all he said. 
 
 ' Oh ! the thankfulness — ' she said ; but she could not go on, 
 she must stifle a' I that swelled within hex*, for the babe felt each 
 throb of her beating heart .; und she could barely keep from 
 bursting into tears as his father kissed him ; then, as he marked 
 the still sobbing breath, said, 'Bowles must see him again.' 
 
 * I don't know how to m}»ke him cry again ! I !su])pose he 
 must be looked at, but indeed I think him safe. — See, tliis little 
 bruise on his forehead is the only mark I can find. What was 
 it ? How did it happen !* 
 
 ' Sophia thought proper to take him herself from the nursery 
 to show him to Mrs. Osborn. In crossing the street; she was 
 friglitened by a party of men coming out of a public-house in 
 Tibbs's Alley, and in avoiding them, slipped down and struck 
 the child's head against a gate-post. He was perfectly insen- 
 sible when I took him — I thought him gone. Albinia, you must 
 let Bowles see him again !' 
 
 ' Is any one there f she said. 
 
 * Every one, I think,' he replied, looking oppressed — * Maria, 
 und Mrs. Osboru. and Dusautoy — but I will call Bowles.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 101 
 
 Apparently the little boy had escaped entirely nnhurt, hnt the 
 surgeon still spoke of the morrow, and he was so startled and 
 restless, that Albinia feared to move, and felt the dark study a 
 refage from the voices and sounds that she feared to encounter, 
 lest they should again occasion the dreadful screaming. ' Oh, if 
 they would only go home !' she said. 
 
 'I will send them,' said Mr. Kendal ; and presently she heard 
 sounds of leave-taking, and he came back, as if he had been dis- 
 persing a riot, announcing that the house was clear. 
 
 Gilbert and Lucy were watching at the foot of the stairs, the 
 one pale, and casting anxious, imploring looks at her ; the other 
 with eyes red and swollen with crying, neither venturing near 
 till she spoke to them, when they advanced noiselessly to 
 look at their little brother, and it was not till they had caught 
 his eye and made him smile, that Lucy bethought herself of 
 saying she had known nothing of his adventure, and Albinia, thus 
 recalled to the thought of the culprit, asked where Sophy was. 
 
 ' In her own room,' said Mr. Kendal. ' I could not bear the 
 sight of her obduracy. Even her aunt was shocked at her want 
 of feeling.' 
 
 Low as he spoke, the sternness of his voice frightened the baby, 
 and she was obliged to run away to the nursery, where she 
 listened to the contrition of the little nursemaid, who had never 
 sus])ected Miss Sophy's intention of taking him out of the house. 
 * And indeed, ma'am,' she said, ' there is not one of us servants 
 who dares cross Miss Sophy.' 
 
 It was long before Albinia ventured to lay him in his cot, 
 and longer still before she could feel any security that if she 
 ceased her low, monotonous lullaby, the little fellow would not 
 wake again in terror ; but th.e thankfulness and prayer, that, as 
 she grew more calm, gained fuller possession of her heart, made 
 her recur the more to pity and forgiveness for the poor girl who 
 had caused the alarm. Yet there was strong indignation like- 
 wise, and she could not easily resolve on meeting the hard 
 defiance and sullen indifference which would wound her more 
 than ever. She was much inclined to leave Sophy to herself till 
 morning, but suspecting that this would be vindictive, she un- 
 clasped the arm that Lucy had wound round her waist, whispered 
 to her to go on singing, and moved to Sophy's door. It was 
 fastened, but before she could call, it was thrown violently back, 
 and Sophy stood straight up before her, striving for her usual 
 rigidity, but shaking from head to foot; and though there were 
 no signs of tears, she looked with wistful terror at her step- 
 mother's face, and her lips moved as if she wished to s])eak. 
 
 ' Baby is gone quietly to sleep,' began Albinia in a low voice,
 
 102 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 beginning in displeasure ; but as she spoke, the hai'shness of 
 Sophy's face gave way, she sank down on the floor, and fell into 
 the most overpowering fit of weeping that Albiuia had ever 
 witnessed. Kneeling beside her, she would have drawn the 
 girl close to her, but a sharp cry of pain startled her, and slie 
 found the I'ight arm, from elbow to wrist, all one purple bruise, 
 the skin grazed, and the blood starting. 
 
 ' My poor child ! how you have hurt yovirself !' 
 
 Sophy turned away pettishly. 
 
 ' Let me look ! I am sure it must be very bad. Have you 
 done anvthinof to it ?' 
 
 ' No, never mind. Go back to baby.' 
 
 * Baby does not want me. You shall come and see how com- 
 fortably he is asleep, if you will leave off crying, and let me see 
 that poor arm. Did you hurt it in the fall V 
 
 ' The corner of the wall,' said Sophy. ' Oh ! did it not hurt 
 him V but then, just as it seemed that she was sinking on that 
 kind breast in exhaustion, she collected herself, and pushing 
 Albiuia off, exclaimed, ' I did it, I took him out, I fell down with 
 him, I hurt his head, I've killed him, or made him an idiot for 
 life. I did.' 
 
 ' Who said so?' cried Albinia, transfixed. 
 
 ' Aunt Maria said so. She said I did not feel. Oh, if I could 
 only die before he grows up to let one see it. Why wont you 
 begin to hate me V 
 
 ' My dear,' said Albinia, consoled on hearing the authority, 
 ' people often say angry things when they are shocked. Your 
 aunt had not seen Mr. Bowles, and we all think he was not in 
 the least hurt, only terribly frightened. Dear, dear child, I am 
 more distressed for you than for him !' 
 
 So])hycouldholdoutno longei', slielet her head dro[)on the kind 
 shoulder, and seemed to collapse, with burning bi-ow, throbbing 
 pulses, and sobs as deep and convulsive as had been those of her 
 little brother. Hastily calling Lucy, who was frightened, sub- 
 dued, and helpful, Albinia undressed the poor child, put her to 
 bed, and applied lily leaves and spirits to her arm. The smart 
 seemed to refresh her, but there had been a violent strain as 
 well as bruise, and each touch visibly gave sevei-e pain, though 
 she never complained. Lucy insisted on hearing exactly how 
 the accident had happened, and pressed her with questions, which 
 Albinia would have shunned in her present condition, and it 
 was tlius elicited that slie had taken Maurice aci'oss the street 
 to show him to Mrs. Osborn. He had resented the strange place, 
 and strange jieople, and had cried so much that slic was obliged 
 Lo run home with him at once. A knot of bawling men cama
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. HYA 
 
 reeling out of one of the many beershops in Tibbs's Allrsy, and 
 in her haste to avoid them, she tripped, close to the gate-post of 
 Willow Lawn, and fell, with only time to interpose her arm 
 between Maurice's head and the sharp corner. She was lifted 
 lip at once, in the horror of seeing h'.m neither cry nor move, for, 
 in fact, he had been almost stifled under hor weight, and all had 
 since been to her a frightful phantom dream. Albinia was in- 
 finitely relieved by this history, showing tliat Maurice could 
 hardly have received any real injury ; and in her declarations 
 that Sophy's jiresence of mind had saved him, was forgetting 
 to whom the accident was owing. Lucy wanted to know why 
 her sister could have taken him out of the house at all, but 
 Albinia could not bear to have this pressed at such a moment, 
 and sent the inquirer down to order some tea, which she shared 
 with Sophy, and then was foi'ced to bid her good-night, without 
 drawing out any further confessions. But when the girl raised 
 herself to receive her kiss, it was the first real embrace that had 
 passed between them. 
 
 In the very early morning, Albinia was in the nursery, and 
 found her little boy bright and healthy. As she left him in 
 glad hope and gratitude, Sophy's door was pushed ajar, and her 
 wan face peeped out. ' My dear child, you have not been 
 asleep all night !' exclaimed Albinia, after having satisfied her 
 about the baby. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Does your arm hurt you?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Does your head ache f 
 
 ' Rather.' 
 
 But they were not the old sulky answers, and she seemed 
 glad to have her arm freely bathed, her brow cooled, her tossed 
 bed composed, and her window opened, so that she might make 
 a fr'esh attempt at closing her weary eyes. 
 
 She was evidently far too much shaken to be fit for the in- 
 tended expedition, even if her father had not decreed that sh« 
 should be deprived of it. Albinia had never seen him so much 
 incensed, for nothing makes a man so angry as to have been 
 alarmed ; and he was douVjly annoyed when he found that she 
 thought Sophy too unwell to be left, as he intended, to solitary 
 confinement. 
 
 He would gladly have given up the visit, for his repugnance 
 to society was in full force on the eve of a party ; but Albinia, 
 by representing that it would be wrong to disappoint Colonel 
 Bury, and very hard on the unoffending Gilbert and Lucy, suc- 
 ceeded in prevailing on him to accept his melancholy destiny,
 
 104 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 and to allow hei' to remain at home with Sophy and the bab\ 
 — one of the greatest sacrifices he or she had yet made. He 
 was exceedingly vexed, and therefore the less disposed to be 
 lenient. The moi'e Albinia told him of Sophy's unhappiness, 
 the more he hoped it would do her good, and he could not be 
 induced to see hei*, nor to send her any message of forgiveness ; 
 for in truth it was less the baby's accident that he resented, 
 than the eighteen months of surly resistance to the baby's 
 mother ; and at present he was more unrelenting than the 
 geuerous, forgiving spirit of his wife could understand, though 
 she tried to believe it manly severity and firmness. 
 
 ' It would be time to pardon,' he said, ' when pardon was 
 asked.' 
 
 And Albinia could not say that it had been asked, except by 
 misery. 
 
 ' She has the best advocate in you,' said Mr. Kendal, affection- 
 ately, ' and if there be any feeling in her, such forbeai'ance 
 cannot fail to brinoj it out. I am more grieved than I can tell 
 you at your present disappointment, but it shall not happen 
 again. If you can bring her to a better mind, I shall be the 
 more satisfied in sending her from home.' 
 ' Edmund ! you do not think of it !' 
 
 ' IMy mind is made up. Do you think I have not watched 
 your patient care, and the manner in which it has been repaid ? 
 You have sufficient occupation without being the slave of those 
 children's misconduct.' 
 
 ' Sophy would be miserable. Oh ! you must not ! She is 
 the last girl in the world fit to be sent to school.' 
 
 ' I will not have you made miserable at home. This has 
 been a long ti-ial, and nothing has softened her.' 
 ' Suppose this was the very thing.' 
 
 'If it were, what is past .should not go unrequited, and the 
 change will teach her what she has rejected. Hush, dearest ; it 
 is not that I do not think that you have done all for Jier that 
 tenderness or good sense could devise, but your time is too 
 much occupied, and I cannot see you overtasked by this poor 
 child's headstrong temper. It is decided, Albinia ; say no 
 more.' 
 
 ' I have failed,' thought Albinia, as he left the room. ' He 
 decides that I have failed in bringing up his children. What 
 have I done 1 Have I been mistaken 1 have I been careless ? 
 have I not prayed enough 'I Oh ! my poor, poor Sophy ! What 
 will she do among strange girls 1 Oh ! how wretched, how 
 harsh, how mi.sunderstood she will be ! She will grow worse 
 and worse, and just when I do think I might have begun to
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 105 
 
 get at hei' ! And it is for my sake ! For me that her 
 father is set against her, and is driving her out from her 
 home ! Oh ! what shall I do 1 Winifred will promote it, 
 because they all think I am doing too much ! I wonder what 
 put that in Edmund's head 1 But when he speaks in that 
 way, I have no hope !' 
 
 Mr. Kendal's anger took a direction with which she better 
 sympathized when he walked down Tibbs's Alley, and counted 
 the nine beershops, which had never dawned on his imagina- 
 tion, and which so gi-eatly shocked it, that he went straight to 
 the astonished Pettilove, and gave him a severe repririajid 
 for allowing the houses to be made dens of iniquity an i dis- 
 order. 
 
 He was at home in time to meet the doctor, and hear that 
 Maurice had suffered not the smallest damage ; and then tc 
 make another ineffectual attempt to persuadf. llbinia to con- 
 sign Sophy to imprisonment with Aunt Jvlaria ; after which 
 he drove off very much against his will ' jth Lucy and Gilbert, 
 both declaring that they did not care a rush to go to Fairmead 
 under the present circumstances. 
 
 Albinia had a sad, sore sen.se of failure, and almost of guilt, 
 as she lingered on the door-step after seeing them set off. The 
 education of ' Edmund's children' had been a cherished vision, 
 and it had resulted so differently from her expectations, that her 
 heart sank. With Gilbert there was indeed no lack of love and 
 confidence, but there was a sad lurking sense of his want of 
 force of cliaracter, and she had avowedly been insufficient to 
 preserve him from temptation ; Lucy, whom externally she had 
 the most altered, was not of a nature accordant enough with 
 her own for her to believe the effects deep or permanent ; and 
 Sophia — poor Sophia ! Had what was kindly called forbearance 
 been really neglect and want of moral courage? Would a 
 gentler, less eager person have won instead of repelling confi- 
 dence ? Had her multiplicity of occupations made her give but 
 divided attention to the more important home duty. Alas ! 
 alas 1 she only knew that her husband thought his daughter 
 beyond her management, and for that very reason she would 
 have given worlds to retain the uncouth, perverse girl under her 
 charge. 
 
 She stood loitering, for the sound of the river and the shade 
 of the willows were jileasant on the glowing July day, and having 
 made all her arrangements for going from home, she had no 
 pressing employment ; and thus she waited, musing as she 
 seldom allowed herself time to do, and thinking over each \)]y,\se 
 of her conduct towards Sophy, in the endeavour to detect the 
 
 t>
 
 106 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 mistake ; and throughout came, not exactly answei'iug her 
 query, but throwing a light upon it, her brother's warning, 
 that if she did not resign herself to rest quietly wlien rest was 
 forced upon her, she would work amiss when she did work. 
 
 Just then came a swinging of the gate, a step on the walk, 
 and Miss Meadows made her appearance. A message had been 
 sent up in the morning, but grandmamma was so nervous, that 
 M;iria had trotted down in the heat so satisfy her. 
 
 Albinia was surprised to find that womanhood had thrown 
 all their instincts on the baby's side, and was gratified by the first 
 truly kind fellow-feeling they had shown her. She took Maria 
 into the morning room, where slie had left Sophy lying on the 
 sofa, and ran up to fetch Maurice from tlie nursery. 
 
 Wlien she came down, liaving left the nurse adorning him, 
 she found that she had acted cruelly. Sophy was standing up 
 with lier hai'dest face on, listening to her aunt's well-mearit 
 rebukes on her want of feeling, and hopes tliat she did regi'et 
 the having endangered her brother, and deprived ' her dear 
 mamma of the party of pleasure at Fairmead ; but Aunt Mai-ia 
 knew it was of no use to talk to Sophy, none — !' 
 
 ' Pray don't, Aunt Maria,' said Albinia, gently drawing 
 Sophy down on the sofa again ; ' this poor child is in no state to 
 be scolded.' 
 
 ' You are a great deal too good to her, Mi's. Kendal — after 
 such wilfulness as last night — carrying the dear baby out in 
 the street — I never heard of such a thing — But what made 
 you do it, Sophy, wont you tell me that 1 No, I know you 
 wont; no one ever can get a word from her. Ah ! that sulky 
 disposition — it is a very nasty tenjper — can't you break through 
 it, Sophy, and confess it all to your dear mamma 1 You would 
 be so much better. But I. know it is of no use, poor child ; it is 
 just like her father.' 
 
 Albinia was growing very angry, and it was well that 
 Maurice's merry ci'owings were heard approaching. Miss 
 Meadows was delighted to see him, but as he had a great aver- 
 sion to her, the interview was not j)rolonged, since he could not 
 be persuaded to keep the peace by being held up to watch a 
 buzzing fly, as much out of sight of her as possible, wrinkling 
 up his nose, and prepai-ing to cry whenever he caught sight of 
 her white bonnet and pink roses. 
 
 Miss Meadows bethought her that grandmamma was anxious, 
 BO she only waited to give an invitation to tea, but merely to 
 Mrs. Kendal ; she would say nothing about Sophy since disgrace 
 —well-merited — if they could only see some feding. 
 
 'Thank you,' .said Albinia, 'some evening perhaps I may
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 107 
 
 come, since you are so kind, but I don't think I can leave this 
 poor twisted arm to itself.' 
 
 ]\Iiss Meadows evaporated in hopes that Sophy would be 
 sensible of — and assurances that Mrs. Kendal was a great deal 
 
 too with finally ; ' Good-bye, Sophy, I wish I could have told 
 
 grandmamma that you had shown some feeling.' 
 
 ' I believe,' said Albiuia, ' that you would only be too glad if 
 you knew how.' 
 
 Sojihy gasped. 
 
 Albiuia could not help feeling indignant at the misjudged 
 persecution ; and yet it seemed to render the poor child more 
 entirely her own, since all the world besides had turned against 
 her. ' Kiss her, Maurice,' she said, holding the little iellow 
 towards her. That scratched arm of hers has spared your 
 small brains from more than you guess.' 
 
 Sophy's first impulse was to hide her face ; but he thought it 
 •was bo-peep, caught hold of her fingers, and laughed ; then came 
 to a sudden surprised stop, and looked up to his mother, when 
 the countenance behind the screen proved sad instead of 
 laughing. 
 
 ' Ah ! baby, you had better have done with me,' Sophy said, 
 bitterly ; ' you are the only one that does not hate me yet, and 
 you don't know what I have done to you.' 
 
 ' I know some one else that cares for you, my poor Sophy,' 
 said Albinia, ' and who would do anything to make you feel it 
 without distressing you. If you knew how I wish I knew what 
 to do for you !' 
 
 ' It is no use,' said Sophy, moodily ; ' I was born to be a 
 misery to myself and every one else.' 
 
 ' What has put such a fancy in your head, my dear?' said 
 Albinia, nearly smiling. 
 
 ' Grandmamma's Betty said so ; she used to call me Peter 
 Grievous, and I know it is so. It is of no good to bother 
 yourself about me. It can't be helped, and there's an end of it.' 
 
 ' There is not an end of it, indeed !' cried Albinia. ' Why, 
 Sophy, do you suppose I could bear to leave you so V 
 
 ' I'm sm-e I don't see why not.' 
 
 ' Why not V continued Albiuia, in her bright, tender voice. 
 ' Why, because I must love you with all my heart. You are 
 yoixr own dear papa's child, and this little man's sister. Yes, 
 and you are ^'•ourself, my poor, sad, lonely child, who does not 
 know how to bring out the thoughts that prey on her, and who 
 think it very hard to have a stranger instead of her own 
 mother. I know I should have felt so.' 
 
 ' But I have behaved so ill to you,' cried Sophy, as if beut on
 
 108 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 repelling tte proffered affection. ' I would not like yon, and I 
 did not like you. Never ! and I have gone against you every 
 way I could.' 
 
 * And now I love you because you are sorry for it.' 
 
 ' I'm not ' — Sophy had begun, but the words turned into 
 *AmI?' 
 
 * I think you are,' aad with the sweetest of tearful smiles, 
 she put an arm round the no longer resisting Sophy, and laying 
 her cheek against the little bi'other's, she kissed first one and 
 then the otlier. 
 
 * I can't think why you are so,' said Sophy, still struggling 
 against the undeserved love, though far more feebly. ' I shall 
 never deserve it.' 
 
 'See if you don't, when we pull together instead of contrary 
 ways.' 
 
 ' But,' cried Sophy, with a sudden start from her, as if 
 remembering a mortal offence, 'you drained the pond !' 
 
 * I own I earnestly wished it to be drained ; but had you any 
 reason for regretting it, my dear V 
 
 ' Ah ! you did not know,' said Sophy. 'He and I used to be 
 alwavs there.' 
 
 ' He— V 
 
 'Why, will you make me say \tV cried Sophy. 'Edmund! 
 I mean Edmund ! We always called it his jiond. He made 
 the little quay for his boats — he used to catcli the minnows 
 there. I could go and stand by it, and think he was coming 
 out to play ; and now you have had it dried up, and his dear 
 little minnows are all dead ;' and slie bui\st into a passion of 
 tears, that made Maurice cry till Albiuia hastily carried him off 
 and returned. 
 
 ' My dear, I am soi-ry it seemed so unkind. I do not think 
 we could liave let the pond stay, for it was making the hoiise 
 unhealthy ; but if we had talked over it togetlier, it need not 
 have a]i[)eared so very cruel and spiteful.' 
 
 ' I don't believe you are spiteful,' said Sophy, ' though I 
 sometimes think so.' 
 
 The filial compliment was highly gratifying. 
 
 ' And now, Soj^hy,' she said, ' tliat I have told you why wo 
 were obliged to have the pond drained, will you tell me whiit 
 you wanted with baby at Mrs. Osborn's V 
 
 *I will tell,' said So{)hy, ' but you wont like it.' 
 
 * I like anything better than concealment.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Osborn said slie never saw him. She said you kept 
 him close, and tliat nobody was good enough to touch him ; so 
 T nromised I would bring him over, and I kept my word. I
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 100 
 
 know it was wrong — and — I did not think you would ever 
 forgive me.' 
 
 ' But liow could you do it V 
 
 ' Mra. Osborn and all used to be so kind to its when there 
 was nobody else. I wont cast them ofi' because we are too fine 
 and grand for them.' 
 
 ' I never thought of that. I only was afraid of your getting 
 into silly ways, and your papa did not wish us to be intimate 
 there. And now you see he was right, for good friends would 
 not have led you to such disobedience — and by stealth, too, what 
 I should have thought you would most have hated.' 
 
 Albinia had been far from intending these last words to have 
 been taken as they were. Sophy hid her face, and cried 
 piteously with an utter self-abandonment of grief, that Albinia 
 could scarcely understand ; but at last she exti'acted some 
 broken woi'ds. ' False ! shabby ! yes — Oh ! I have been false ! 
 Oh ! Edmund ! Edmund ! Edmund ! the only thing I thought 
 I still was ! I thought I was true ! Oh, by stealth ! Why 
 couldn't I die when 1 tried, when Edmimd did? 
 
 ' And has life been a blank ever since V 
 
 ' Oif and on,' said Sophy. ' Y/ell, why not 1 T am sure papa 
 is melancholy enough. I don't like peoj)le that ai-e always 
 making fun, I can't see any sense in it.' * 
 
 ' Some sorts of merriment are sad, and hollow, and wrong, 
 indeed,' said Albinia, * but not all, I hope. You know there is 
 so much love and mercy all round us, that it is unthankful not 
 to have a cheerful spirit. I wish I could give you one, Sophy.' 
 
 Sophy shook her head. 'I can't understand about mercy 
 and love, when Edmund was all I cared for.' 
 
 ' But, Sophy, if life is so sad and hard to you, don't you see 
 the mercy that took Edmuiul away to perfect joy 1 Eemember, 
 not cutting you off from him, but keeping him safe for you.' 
 
 'No, no,' cried Sophy, ' I have never been good since he went. 
 I have got worse and worse, but I did think I was true still, 
 
 that that one thing was leit me — but now ' The sense of 
 
 having acted a deception seemed to produce grief under which 
 the stubborn pride was melting away, and it was most affecting 
 to see the chiUl weeping over the lost jewel of truth, which she 
 seemed to feel the last link with the remarkable boy whose 
 impress had been left so strongly on all connected with him. 
 
 *My dear, the truth is in you still, or you could not grieve 
 thus over your failure,' said Albinia. ' I know you erred, 
 because it did not occur to you that it was not acting openly by 
 me ; but oh ! Sophy, there is something that wwuld bring you 
 nearer to Edmund tlian hard truth in your own strength.'
 
 110 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' Did you ever think what Edmund is about now T 
 
 * I don't know,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' I only know that the one thing which is carried with us to 
 the other world is love, Sophy, and love that becomes greater 
 than we can yet imagine. If you would think of Him who 
 redeemed and saved your dear Edmund, and who is his happi- 
 ness, his exceeding great reward, your heart would warm ; aud, 
 oh ! what hope and peace would come !' 
 
 ' Edmund was good,' said Sophy, in a tone as if to mark the 
 hopeless gulf between. 
 
 ' And you are sorry. All human goodness begins from 
 sorrow. It had even to be promised first for baby at his 
 christening, you know. Oh, Sophy, God's blessing can make 
 all these tears come to joy.' 
 
 Albinia's own tears were flowing so fast, that she broke off 
 to hide them in her own room, her heart panting with hope, 
 and yet with grief and pity for the piteous disclosure of so 
 dreary a girlhood. After all, childhood, if not the happiest, is 
 the saddest period of life — pains, griefs, petty tyrannies, neg- 
 lects, and terrors have not the alleviation of the experience that 
 'this also shall pass away;' time moves with a tardier pace, and 
 in the narrower sphere of interests, there is lews to distract the 
 attention from the load of grievances. Hereditary low spirits, 
 a precocious mind, a reserved temper, a motherless home, the 
 loss of her only congenial conipanioo, and the long-endui'ing 
 effect of her illness upon her health, had all conspired to weigh 
 down the poor girl, and bring on an almost morbid state of gloomy 
 discontent. Her father's second marriage, by enlivening the 
 house, had rendered her peculiarities even more painful to 
 herself and others, and the cultivation of mind that was forced 
 upon her, made her more averse to the trifling and playfulness, 
 which, while she was younger, had sometimes brightened and 
 softened her. And this was the girl whom her father had 
 resolved upon sending to the selfish, inconsiderate, frivolous 
 world of school-girls, just when the fii'st opening had been made, 
 the first real insight gained into her feelings, the first appear- 
 ance of bavins touched her heart ! Albinia felt baflfled, dis- 
 appointed, almost despairing. His stern decree, once made, 
 was, she knew, well-nigh unalterable ; and though resolved 
 to use her utmost influence, she doubted its power after having 
 seen that look of decision. Nay, .she tried to tliink he migiit 
 be riglit. There might be those who would manage So))hy 
 better. Eighteen months had been a fair trial, and she had 
 failed. She prayed earnestly for whatever might be best for
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. j 1 ] 
 
 the child ; and for herself, that she might take it patiently and 
 submissively. 
 
 Sophy felt the heat of the day a good deal, but towards the 
 evening she revived, and seemed so much cheered and refreshed 
 by her tea, that, as the sound of the church bell came sweetly 
 down in the soft air, Albiuia said, ' Sophy, I am going to take 
 advantage of my holiday and go to the evening service. I 
 suppose you had rather not come V 
 
 ' I think I will,' returned So]jhy, somewhat glumly ; but 
 Albinia hailed the answer joyfully, as the first shamefaced 
 effort of a reserved character wishing to make a new beginniug, 
 and she took care that no remark, not even a look, should rouse 
 the sullen sensitiveness that could so easily be driven back for 
 ever. 
 
 Slowly they crept up the steps on the shady side of the hill, 
 watching how, beyond the long shadow it cast over the town 
 and the meadows, the trees revelled in the sunset light, and 
 windows glittered like great diamonds, where in the ordinary 
 daylight the distance was too great for distinct vision. 
 
 The chiu'ch was cool and quiet, and there was something in 
 Sophy's countenance and reverent attitude that seemed as if she 
 •were consecrating a newly-formed resolution ; her eye was often 
 raised, as though in spite of herself, to tlie name of the brotlier 
 whose short life seemed inseparably interwoven with all the 
 higher aspirations of his home. 
 
 In the midst of the Thanksgiving, a sudden movement 
 attracted Albinia, and she saw Sophy resting her head, and 
 l(.>oking excessively pale. She put her arm round her, and 
 would have led her out, but could not persuade her to move, 
 and by the time the Blessing was given, the power was gone, 
 and she had almost fainted away, when a tall strong form 
 stooped over her, and Mr. Dusautoy gathered her up in his 
 arms, and boi-e her off as if she had been a baby, to the open 
 window of his own drawing-room. 
 
 * Put me down ! The floor, please !' said Sophy, feebly, for all 
 her remaining faculties were absorbed in dislike to the mode of 
 conveyance. 
 
 ' Yes, flat on the floor,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, rising with full 
 energy, and laying a cushion under Sophy's head, reaching a 
 scent-bottle, and sending her husband for cold water and sal- 
 volatile ; with readiness that astonished Albinia, unused to 
 illness, and especially to faintings, and remorseful at having 
 taken Sophy out. ' Was it the pain of her arm that had over- 
 come her V 
 
 ' No,' said Sophy, ' it was only my back.'
 
 112 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Indeed ! you never told me you had hurt your back ;' and 
 Albinia began describing the fall, and declaring there must be 
 a sprain. 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Sophy, 'kneeliug always does it.' 
 
 ' Does what, my dear T said Albinia, sittinsj on the floor by 
 her, and looking up to Mrs. Dusautoy, exceedingly frightened. 
 
 ' Makes lue feel sick,' said Sojjhy ; ' I thought it would go off, 
 as it always does ; it didn't ; but it is better now.' 
 
 'No, don't get up yet,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, as she was trying 
 to move ; ' I would offer you the sofa, it would be more hospi- 
 table, but I think the floor is the most comfortable place.' 
 
 ' Thank you, tnuch' said Sophy, with an emphasis. 
 
 ' Do you ever lie down on it when you are tired f asked the 
 lady, looking anxiously at Sophy. 
 
 ' I always wish I might.' 
 
 All)inia was surprised at the interrogations that followed ; 
 she did not understand what Mrs. Dusautoy was aiming at, in 
 the close questioning, which to her amazement did not seem to 
 offend, but rather to be gratifying by the curious divination of 
 all sensations. It made Albinia feel as if she had been carry- 
 ing on a deliberate system of torture, when she heard of a pain 
 in the back, hardly ever ceasing, aggravated by sitting upright, 
 growing severe with the least fatigue, and unless f;\vox;red by 
 day, becoming so bad at night as to take away many hours ot 
 sleep. 
 
 ' Oh ! Sophy, Sophy,' she cried, with tears in her eyes, ' how 
 coidd you go on so '^ Why did you never tell me 1' 
 
 'I did not like,' began Soi)hy ; 'I was ix.sed to it' 
 
 Oh, that barrier 1 Albinia was in uncontrollable distress, 
 that the giil should have chosen to undergo so much suffering 
 rather than bestow any confidence. So])hy stole her hand into 
 hers, and said in her odd, short way, ' Kever mind, it did not 
 signify.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ' those things are just what one 
 does get so much used to, that it seems much easier to bear 
 them than to speak about them.' 
 
 ' But to let oneself be so driven about,' cried Albinia. ' Oh ! 
 Sophy, you will never do so again ! If 1 had ever guessed — ' 
 
 ' Please hush 1 Never mind !' said Sophy, almost crossly, and 
 getting uj) from the floor quickly, as though resolved to be 
 well. 
 
 'I have never minded long enough,' sighed Albinia. 'What 
 shall I do, Mi'S, Dusautoy 1 What do you think it isf 
 
 This was the last question i\Irs. Dusautoy wished to be asked 
 in. Sojjhy's presence. She had little doubt that it was spine
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 1]3 
 
 complaint like her own, but she had not intended to let her 
 perceive the impression, till after having seen Mrs. Kendal 
 alone. However, Albinia's impetuosity disconcerted all pre- 
 cautions, and Sophy's two great black eyes were rounded 
 with sujjpressed terror, as if expecting her doom. ' I think 
 that a doctor ought to answer that question,' Mrs, Dusaiitoy 
 began. 
 
 'Yes, yes,' exclaimed Alhinia, 'but I never had any faith 
 in old Mr. Bowles. I hud rather go to a thorough good man 
 at once.' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly, by all means.' 
 
 * And then to whom 1 I will write to my Aunt Mary. It 
 seems exactly like you. Do you think it is the spine V 
 
 'I am afraid so. Bat, my dear,' holdhig out her hand cai'ess- 
 ingly to Sophy, ' you need not be frightened — you need not 
 look at me as an example of what you will come to — I am 
 only an example of what comes of never speaking of one's 
 ailments.'- 
 
 ' And of havino; no mother to find them out !' cried 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, anxious to console and en- 
 courage, as well as to talk the young step-mother out of her 
 self-reproach, ' I do not think that if I had been my good aunt's 
 own child, she would have been more likely to find out that 
 anything was amiss. It was the fashion to be strong and 
 healthy in that house, and I was never really ill — but I came 
 as a little stunted, dwiuing cockney, and so I was considered 
 ever after — never quite comfortable, often forgetting myself in 
 enjoyment, paying for it afterwards, but quite used to it. We 
 all thought it was " only Fanny," and part of my London breed- 
 ing. Yes, we thought so in good faith, even after the largest 
 half of my life had been spent in Yorkshire.' 
 
 ' And what brought it to a crisis ? Did they go on neglect- 
 ing you V exclaimed Albinia. 
 
 ' Why, my dear,' said the little lady, a glow lighting on her 
 cheek, and a smile awakening, * my uncle took a new curate, 
 whom ifc was the family custom to call "the good-natured giant," 
 and whose a^jpi-oach Y)ut all of us young ladies in a state of 
 great excitement. It was all in chai-acter with his good-nature, 
 you know, to think of dragging the poor little shrimp up the 
 hill to church, and I believe he did not know how she would 
 get on without liis strong arm ; for do you know, when he had 
 the curacy of Lauriston given him, he chose to cai'ry the 
 starveling off with him, instead of any of those fine, handsome 
 prosperous girls. Dear Mary and Bessie ! how good they were, 
 
 I
 
 114 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 and how kind and proud for me ! I never could complain of 
 not having sisters.' 
 
 ' Well, and Mr. Dusautoy made you have advice V 
 
 ' Not he ! Why, we all believed it cockneyisra, you know, 
 and besides, I was so happy and so well, that when we went 
 to Scotland, I fairly walked myself off my legs, and ended the 
 honeymoon laid up in a little inn on Loch Katrine, where 
 John used regularly to knock his head whenever he came into 
 the room. It was a fortnight before I could get to Edinburgh, 
 and the journey made me as bad as ever. So the doctors were 
 called in, and p'.'or John learnt what a crooked stick he had 
 chosen ; but they all said that if I had been taken in hand as 
 a child, most likely I should have been a sound woman. The 
 worst of it was, that I was so thoroughly knocked up that I 
 could not bear the motion of a carriage ; besides, I suppose the 
 doctors wanted a little amusement out of me, for they would 
 not hear of my going home. So poor John had to go to 
 Lauriston by himself, and those were the longest, dreariest six 
 months I ever spent in my life, though Bessie was so good as 
 to come and take care of me. But at last, when I had nearly 
 made up my mind to defy the whole doctorhood, they gave 
 leave, and between water and steam, John brought me to 
 Lauriston, and ever since that, I don't see that a backbone 
 would have made us a bit happier.' 
 
 Sophy had been intently reading Mrs. Dusautoy 's face all 
 through the narration, from under her thick black eyelashes, 
 and at the end she drew a sigh of relief, and seemed to catch 
 ♦■he smile of glad gratitude and aifection. There was a prece- 
 dent, which alibrded incredible food to the tumultuous cravings 
 of a heart that had been sinking in sullen gloom under the 
 consciousness of an unpleasing exterior. The possibility of a 
 ' good-natured giant ' was for more ])resent to her mind than 
 the present probability of future suffering and restraint. 
 
 Evt-r rajjid and eager, Albinia could think of nothing but 
 immediate measures for Sophy's good, anil the satisfaction 
 of her own conscience. She could not bear even to wait for 
 i\lr. Kendal's return, but, as her aunts were still iu London, 
 she resolved on carrying Sophy to their house on the following 
 day it)v the best advice. It was already late, and she knelt at 
 the table to dash off two notes to put into the post-office as she 
 went home. One to Mis. Annesley, to announce her coming 
 with Scjpliy, baby, and Susan, the other as follows : — 
 
 'July loth, 9 p.m. 
 'Dearest Edmund, 
 
 * I tind 1 have been cruelly negk-ciful. I Lave hunted and driven
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. lij 
 
 that poor cliild about till it has brought on spiue complaint. The only thing 
 I can do, is to take her to have the best advice without loss of time, so I am 
 going to-morrow to my aunt's. It would take too long to write and ask 
 your leave. You must forgive this, as indeed each word I have to s.iy is, 
 forgive ! She is so generous and kiud ! You know I meant to do my best, 
 but they were right, I was too young. 
 
 ' Forgive yours, 
 
 'A. K.' 
 
 The Dusautoys were somewhat taken by surprise, but they 
 knew too well the need of promptitude to dissuade her ; and 
 Sophia herself sat aghast at the commotion excited by the 
 habitual discomfort of which she had thought so little. The 
 vicar, when he found Mrs. Kendal in earnest, offered to go with 
 them and protect them ; but Albinia was a veteran in inde- 
 pendent railway travelling, and was rather affronted by being 
 treated as a helpless female. Mrs. Dusautoy, better aware of 
 what the journey might be to one at least of the travellers, 
 gave advice, and lent air cushions, and Albinia bade her good 
 night with an almost sobbing ' thank you,' and an entreaty 
 that if Mr. Kendal came home before them, she would tell him 
 all about it. 
 
 At home, she instantly sent the stupified Sophy to bed, 
 astonished the little nurse, ordered down boxes and bags, and 
 spent half the night in packing, glad to be stirring and to tire 
 herself into sleeping, for her remorse and her anticipations 
 were so painful, that, but for fatigue, her bed would have been 
 no resting-place. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WINIFRED FERRARS was surprised by Mr. Kendal's 
 walking into her garden, with a perturbed countenance, 
 begging her to help him to make out what could be the mean- 
 ing of a note which he had just received. He was afraid that 
 there was much amiss with tlie baby, and heartily wished that 
 he had not been persuaded to leave home ; but poor Albinia 
 >vrote in so much distress, that he could not understand her 
 letter. 
 
 More accustomed to Albinia's epistolary habits, Winifred 
 oxclaimed at the tirst glance, * What can you mean 1 There is 
 not one word of the little one ! It is only Sophy !' 
 
 The immediate clearing of his face w^as not complimentary to 
 poor Sophy, as he said, ' Can you be quite sure 1 I had begun 
 
 I^'
 
 116 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 to hope that Albinia might at least have the comfort of seeing 
 this little fellow healthy ; but let me see — she says nursed and 
 — and danced — is it 1 this poor cliild — ' 
 
 ' No, no ; it is hunted and driven ; that's the way she always 
 vjill make her A's / besides, what nonsense the other would be.' 
 
 ' This poor child — ' repeated Mr. Kendal, ' Going up to Lon- 
 don for advice. She would hardly do that with Sophia.' 
 
 ' Who ever heard of a baby of six months old having a spine- 
 coiuj.'laiut ?' cried Mrs. Ferrars almost angrily. 
 
 ' I have lost one in that way,' he replied. 
 
 A dead silence ensvxed, till Winifred, to her great relief, spied 
 the feminine pronoun, but could not fully satisfy Mr. Kendal 
 that the ups and downs were insufEeient for the word Jam ; 
 and each scrawl was discussed as tliough it had been a cuniforra 
 inscription, until he had been nearly argued into believing in 
 the lesser evil. He then was persuaded that the Meadowses 
 had been harassing and frightening Albinia into this startling 
 measure. It was so contrary to his own nature, that he hardly 
 believed that it had actually taken place, and that she must be 
 in London by tliis time ; but at any rate, he must join her 
 there, and know the worst. He would take the whole party to 
 an hotel, if it were too great a liberty to quarter themselves 
 upon Mrs. Annesley. 
 
 Winifred was as much surprised as if the chess-king had 
 taken a knight's move; but she encouraged his resolution, 
 assured him of a welcome at what the cousinhood were wont 
 to call the Family Office, and undertook the charge of Gilbert 
 and Lucy. The sorrowful, almost supplicating tone of his wife's 
 letter, would have sufficed to bring him to her, even with- 
 out his disquietude for his child, whichever of them it might 
 be ; and though Albinia's merry blue-eyed boy had brouglit a 
 renewed sj)riug of hope and life, his crushed spirits trembled at 
 the least alarm. 
 
 Thus, though the cheerful Winifred had convinced his reason, 
 his gloomy anticipations revived before he reached London ; and 
 with the stern composure of one accustomed to bend to the 
 heaviest blows, he knocked at Mrs. Aunesley's door. He was 
 told that Mrs. Kendal was out ; but on further inquiry, learnt 
 that Sophy was in the drawing-room, where he found her curled 
 up in the corner of the sofa, reading intently. 
 
 She sprang to her feet with a cry of surprise, but did not 
 approach, though he held out his arms, saying in a voice husky 
 with anxiety, * Is the baby well, Sophia T 
 
 ' Yes,' she cried, ' quite well ; he is out in the carriage with 
 them.' Then .slu-iuking as he was stooping to kiss her, shcvjin-
 
 rBE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 117 
 
 tinned, reddening deeply, 'Papa, I did very wrong; I was sly 
 and diriobedient, and I might have killed liim.' 
 
 ' Do not let us speak of that now, ray dear ; I want to hear 
 of — ' and again be would have drawn her into his emhrace, but 
 she lield out her hand, with her repelling gestui'c, and burst 
 forth in her rude honesty, 'I can't be forgiven only because I 
 am ill. Hear all about it, papa, and then say you forgive me 
 if you can. I always was cross to mamma, because I was 
 determined I would be ; and I did not think she had any 
 business with us. The more she was kind, the more I did not 
 like it ; and I thought it was mean in Gilbert and Lucy to be 
 fond of her. No ! I have not done yet ! I grew naiightier and 
 naughtier, till at last I have been false and slv, and — have done 
 this to baby — and I would not have cared then — if — if she 
 would not have been — oh ! so good 1' 
 
 Sojjhy made no farther resistance to the arm that was 
 thrown round her, as her father said, ' So good, that she has 
 overcome evil with good. My child, how should I not forgive 
 when you are sensible of your mistake, and when she has so 
 freely forgiven V 
 
 Sophy did not speak, but she pressed his arm closer round 
 her, and laid her cheek gratefully on his shoulder. She only 
 wished it could last for ever ; but he soon lifted her, that he 
 might look anxiously at her face, while he said, ' And what is 
 all this, my dear 1 I am afraid you are not well.' 
 
 Her energies were recalled ; and, squeezing his hand, she 
 said, ' Blind, you will not let them say it was mamma's fault.' 
 
 'Who is accusing her, my dearl What is the matter?' 
 
 *It is only my back,' said Sophy ; 'there always was a stupid 
 pain there ; but grandmamma's Betty said I made a fuss, and 
 that it was all laziness, and I would not let any one say so again, 
 and I never told of it ; av.d it went on till the other night I 
 grew faint at church, and Mrs. Dusautoy put mamma in such a 
 fright, that we all came here yesterday ; and there came a 
 doctor this morning, who says my spine is not straight, and 
 that I must lie on my back for a long time ; but never mind, 
 papa, it will be veiy comfortable to lie still and read, xnd I 
 shall not be cross now,' she added reassuringly, as his grasp 
 pressed her close, with a start of dismay. 
 
 ' My dear, I am afraid you hardly know what you may have 
 to go through ; but I am glad you meet it bravely.' 
 
 ' But you wont let them say mamma did it T 
 
 ' Who should say so V 
 
 ' Aunt Maria will, and mamma toiU go and say so herself,' 
 cried Sophy j ' she will say it was takins walks and carrying
 
 118 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 baby, and it's not true. I told tlie doctor how my back ached 
 long before baby came or she either ; and he said that most 
 likely the weakness had been left by the fever. So if it i.s 
 any one's mismanagement, it is Aunt Maria's ; and if you wont 
 tell her so, I will.' 
 
 ' Gently, Sophy ; that would hardly be grateful, after the 
 pains that she has taken with you, and the care she meant to 
 give.' 
 
 ' Her care was all worry,' said Sophy ; ' and it will be very 
 lucky if I don't tell her so, if she says her provoking things to 
 mamma. But you wont believe them, papa.' 
 
 * Most certainly not.' 
 
 ' Yes, you must tell her to be happy again,' continued Sophy ; 
 * I cannot bear to see her looking sorrowful ! Last night, when 
 she fancied me asleep, she cried — uh ! till it made me miserable ! 
 And to-day I heard Miss Ferrars say to Mrs. Annesley, that her 
 fine spirits were quite gone. You know it is vei-y silly ; for I 
 am the last person in all the world she ought to cry for.' 
 
 'She has an infinite treasure of love,' said Mr. Kendal ; 'and 
 we have done very little that we should be blessed with it.' 
 
 ' There, they are come home !' exclaimed Sophy, starting up 
 as sounds were heard on the stairs, and almost at the same 
 moment Albinia was in the room, overflowing with contrition, 
 gladness, and anxiety ; but something of sweetness in the first 
 hasty greeting made the trust overcome all the rest ; and, un- 
 derstanding his uppermost wish, she stepped back to the stair- 
 case, and in another second had put Maurice into his arms, 
 blooming and contented, and with a wide-mouthed smile for his 
 papa. Mr. Kendal held him fondly through all the hospitable 
 welcomes of the aunts, and his own explanations ; but to Al- 
 binia it was all confusion, and almost annoyance, till she could 
 take him upstairs, and tell her own story. 
 
 ' I am afraid you have been very much alarmed,' were his 
 first words. 
 
 ' I have done everything wrong from beginning to end,' said 
 All)inia. *0h, Edmund, I am so glad you are come ! Now you 
 will see the doctor, and know whether it was as bad as all the 
 rest to bring her to London.' 
 
 ' My dearest, you must calm yourself, and try to explain. 
 You know I understand nothing yet, except from your resolute 
 little advocate downstairs, and your own note, which I could 
 scarcely make out, except that you were in great trouble.' 
 
 * Ah, that note ; I wrote it in one of my impetuous fits. 
 Matuice used to say I ran frantic, and grew irrational ; and so 
 I did not know what I was raying to you ; and I brought that
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 1!9 
 
 poor patient girl up here in all the heat, and the journey hurt 
 her so much, that I don't know how we shall ever get her home 
 again. Oh, Edmund, I am the worst wife and mother in the 
 world ; and I undertook it all with such foolish confidence.' 
 
 ]\rr. Kendal liked her impetuous fits as little as her brother 
 did, and was not so much used to them ; but he dealt with her 
 in his quiet, .straightforward way. ' You are exaggerating now, 
 Albinia, and I do not wonder at it, for you have had a great 
 deal to startle and to try you. "Walking up and down is only 
 heating and agitating you more j sit down here, and let me 
 hear what gave you this alarm.' 
 
 The grave affection of his manner restrained her, and hia 
 presence soothed the flutter of 8i)irits ; though she still devoted 
 herself with a sort of wilfulness to bear all the blame, tintil he 
 said, ' This is foolish, All)inia ; it is of no use to look at anything 
 but the simple truth. This affection of the spine must be con- 
 stitutional ; and if neglect have aggravated the evil, it must date 
 from a much earlier period than since she has been under your 
 charge. If any one be to blame, it is myself, for the apathy 
 that prevented me from placing the poor things under proper 
 care ; but I was hardly then aware that Maria's solicitude is 
 always in the wrong place.' 
 
 ' But everybody declares that it was always visible, and that 
 no one could look at her without seeing that she was crooked.' 
 
 ' Apr^s le coup,'' said Mr. Kendal. ' I grant you that a person 
 of more experience might perhaps have detected what was 
 amiss sooner than you did ; but you have only to regret the 
 ignorance you shared with us all ; and you did your utmost 
 according to your judgment.' 
 
 'And a cruel utmost it was,' said Albinia; 'it is frightful 
 to think what I inflicted, and she endured in silence, because I 
 had not treated her so that she could bear to speak to me.' 
 
 ' That is over now,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' you have c(^nquered 
 her at last. Pride could not hold out against such sweetness.' 
 
 * It is her generosity,' said Albinia ; ' I always knew she 
 was the best of them all, if one could but get at her.' 
 
 ' What have you done to her 1 I never heard her say half so 
 much as she voluntai'ily said to me just now.' 
 
 ' Poor dear ! I believe the key of her heart was lost when 
 Edmund died, and so all within was starved,' said Albinia. 
 * Yes,' as his eyes were suddenly i-aised and fixed on her, 'I 
 got to that at last. No one has ever understood her, since she 
 lost her brother.' 
 
 ' She has a certain likeness to him. I knew she was hia 
 favourite sister ; but such a child as she was — ''
 
 ]20 THE YOUNG STEP-AIOTHER. 
 
 ' Children have deeper souls tlian you give them credit for,' 
 said Albinia. ' Yes, Edmund, you and Sophy are very much 
 alike ! You had your study, and poor Sophy enclosed herself 
 hx a perpetual cocoon of study atmosphere, and so you never 
 found each other out till to-day.' 
 
 Perhaps it was the influence of the frantic fit that caused 
 her to make so direct a thrust ; but Mr. Kendal was not 
 offended. There was a good deal in the mere absence from 
 habitual scenes and associations ; he always left a great deal of 
 reserve behind him at Bayford. 
 
 ' You may be right, Albinia,' he said ; ' I sometimes think 
 that amongst us you are like the old poet's " star confined into 
 a tomb." ' 
 
 Such a compliment was a pretty reward for her temerity. 
 
 Eeturning to business, she found that her journey was treated 
 as more judicious than she deserved. The consequences had 
 justified her decision. Mr. Kendal knew it was the right thing 
 to be done, and was glad to have been spared the dreadful task 
 of making up his mind to it. He sat down of his own accord 
 to write a note to Winifred, beginning, ' Albinia was right, as 
 she always is ;' and though his wife interlined, ' Albinia had no 
 right to be right, for she was inconsiderate, as she always is,' 
 she looked so brilliantly pretty and bright, and was so full o/ 
 sunny liveliness, that she occasioned one of the very few dis- 
 putes between her good aunts. Miss Ferrars declared that poor 
 Albinia was quite revived by the return to her old home, and 
 absence of care ; Avliile INIrs. Annesley insisted on giving the 
 credit to Mr. Kendal. They were perfectly agreed in unwilling- 
 ness to part with their guests ; and as the doctor wished to see 
 more of his patient, the visit was prolonged, to the enjoyment 
 of all parties. 
 
 Sojjhy had received her sentence so easily, that it was sus- 
 pected that she did not realize the tedium of confinement, and 
 was relieved by being allowed to be inactive. Until she should 
 go home, she might do wliatever did not fatigue her ; but most 
 sights, and even the motion of the carriage, were so fatiguing, 
 that she was much more inclined to remain at home and revel 
 in the deliglitful world of books. The kind, unobtrusive pet- 
 ting ; the absence of customary irritations ; the quiet high-bred 
 tone of the family, so acted upon her, as to render her some- 
 thing as agreeably new to herself as to otlier people. The glum 
 mask was cast aside, she responded amiably to kindness and at- 
 tention, allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and de- 
 veloped much more intelligence and depth than even Albinia 
 had civeu her credit lov.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 'J 21 
 
 One day, when Miss Ferrars was showing Mr. Kendal some 
 iiluslratious of Indian scenery, a question arose upon the date 
 of the native sovereign to whom the buildings were ascribed. 
 Mr. Kendal could not recollect ; but Sophia, looking up, quietly 
 pronounced the date, and gave her reasons for it. Miss Ferrars 
 asked how she could have learnt so much on an out-of-the-way 
 topic. 
 
 ' I read a book of the History of India, up in the loft,' said 
 Sophy. 
 
 ' That book !' exclaimed her father; *I wish you joy! I 
 never could get through it ! It is the driest chronicle I ever 
 read — a mere book of reference. What could induce you to 
 read that V 
 
 ' I would read anything about India ;' and her tone, though 
 low and subdued, betrayed such enthusiasm as could find nothing 
 dry, and this in a girl who had read aloud the reign of Ed- 
 ward III. with stolid indifierence ! 
 
 ' Well, I think I can promise you more interesting reading 
 about India when we go home,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 The colour rose on Sophy's cheek. Books out of papa's study ! 
 Could the world ofi'er a greater privilege 1 She could scarcf ly 
 pronounce, ' Thank you.' 
 
 ' Very faithful to her birth-place,' said Miss Ferrars ; ' but 
 she mu.st have been very young when she came home.' 
 
 ' About five years old, I believe,' said her father. ' You 
 surely can remember nothing of Talloon.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Sophy, mournfully ; ' I used — ^ 
 
 ' I thought Indian children usually lost their eastern recollec- 
 tions very early,' said Miss Ferrars ; ' I never heard of one who 
 could I'emember the sound of Hiudostanee a year after coming 
 home.' 
 
 M r. Kendal, entertained and gratified, turned to his daughter; 
 and, by way of experiment, began a short sentence in Hindos- 
 tauee ; but the first sound brought a glow to her cheeks, and, 
 with a hurried gesture, she mxirmured, ' Please don't, papa.' 
 
 Albinia saw that feelings were here concerned which must 
 not be played on in public ; and she hastily plunged into the 
 discussion, and drew it away from Sophy. Following her up- 
 stairs at bed-time, she contrived to win from her an explana- 
 tion. 
 
 Edmund had been seven yeare old at the time of the return 
 to England. Fondly attached to some of the Hindoo servants, 
 and with unusual intelligence and observation, the gorgeous 
 scenery and oriental habits of his first home liad dwelt vividly 
 iu his imagination, and he had always considered himself aa
 
 122 TlIE YuUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 only taken to England for a time, to return again to India. 
 Thus, he had been fond of romancing of the past and of the 
 future, and had never let his little sisters recollections fade en- 
 tirely away. His father had likewise thought that it would save 
 future trouble to keep up the boys' knowledge of the language, 
 which would by-and-by be so important to them. Gilbert's 
 health had caused his studies to be often intermitted, but Ed- 
 mund had constantly received instructions in the Indian lan- 
 giaages, and whatever he learnt had been imjjarted to Sophia. 
 It was piteous to discover how much time the poor forlorn 
 little girl had spent sitting on the floor in the loft, poring over 
 old grammars, and phrase-books, and translations of missionary 
 or government school-books there accumulated — anything that 
 related to India, or that seemed to carry on what she had done 
 with Edmund : and she had acquired just enough to give her a 
 keen appetite for all the higher class of lore, which she knew to 
 reside in the unapproachable study. Those few familiar words 
 from her father had overcome her, because, a trivial greeting in 
 themselves, they had been a kind of password between her and 
 her brother. 
 
 Mr. Kendal was gi'eatly touched, and very remorseful for 
 having left such a heart to pine in solitude, while he was ab- 
 sorbed in his own lonely grief; and Albinia ventured to say, 
 * I believe the greatest pleasure you could give her would be to 
 help her to keep up the language.' 
 
 He smiled, but said, ' Of what possible use could it be to 
 herf 
 
 ' I was not thinking of future use. It would be of immense 
 •prexPMt use to her to do anything with you, and I can see that 
 nothing woidd gratify her so much. Besides, I have been try- 
 ing to think of all the new things I could set her to do. She 
 miist have lessons to fill up the day, and I want to make fresh 
 beginnings, and not go back to the blots and scars of our old 
 misunderstandings.' 
 
 ' You want me to teach her Sanscrit because you cannot 
 teach her Italian.' 
 
 ' Exactly so,' said Albinia; ' and the Italian will spring all the 
 better from the venerable root, when we have forgotten how 
 cross we used to be to each other over our relative pronouns.' 
 
 * But there is hardly anything which I could let her read iu 
 those languages.' 
 
 * Yery likely not ; but you can pick out vvhat there is. Do 
 you remember the fable of the treasure that was to be gained 
 by digging under the apple-tree, and which turned out not to 
 1^ gold, but the fruit, the consequence of digging ? Now, I
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 123 
 
 want yoTi to dig Sophy ; a Sanscrit, or a Hinclostanee, or a 
 Persian treasure will do equally well as a pretext. If she had 
 announced a taste for the differential calculus, I should have 
 said the same. Only dig her, as Maurice dug me apropos to 
 Homer. I wouldn't bother you, only you see no one else could 
 either do it, or be the same to Sophy.' 
 
 ' We will see how it is,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 With which Albinia was obliged to be content ; but in the 
 meantime she saw the two making daily progress in intimacy, 
 and Mr. Kendal beginning to take a pride in hi.s daughtei's 
 understanding and information, which he ascribed to Albinia, 
 in spite of all her disclaimers. It was as if she had evoked 
 the spirit of his lost son, which had lain hidden under the Guil- 
 len demeanour of the girl, devoid indeed of many of Edmund's 
 charms, but yet with the same sterling qualities, and with re- 
 semblance enough to afford infinite and unexpected joy and 
 compensation. 
 
 Mr. Kendal enjoyed his stay in town. He visited libraries, 
 saw pictures, and heard music, with the new zest of having a wife 
 able to enter into his tastes. He met old friends, and did not 
 shrink immoderately from those of his wife ; nay, he found 
 them extremely agreeable, and was pleased to see Albinia wel- 
 comed. Indeed, his sojourn in her former sphere served to 
 make him wonder that she could be contented with Bayford, 
 and to find her, of the whole party, by far the most ready to 
 return home. Both he himself and Sophy had an unavowed 
 dread of the influences of Willow Lawn ; but Albinia had a 
 spring of spirits, independent of place, and though happy, was 
 craving for her duties, anxious to have the journey over, and 
 afraid that London was making her little Maurice pale. 
 
 Miss Meadows was the first person whom they saw at Willow 
 Lawn. Two letters had passed, both so conventionally civil, 
 that her state of mind could not be gathered from them ; but 
 her first tones proved that coherence was more than ever want- 
 ing ; and no one attempted to understand anything slie said, 
 while she enfolded Sophy in an agitated embrace, and mar- 
 shalled them to the drawing-room, where the chief of the apo- 
 logies were .ipent upon Sophy's new couch, which had been sent 
 down the day before by the luggage-train, and which she and 
 Eweretta had attempted to put together in an im})ns:sible way, 
 failing which, they had called in the carpenter, who had made 
 it worse. 
 
 It was an untold advantage that she had to take the initiative 
 in excuses. Sophy was so meek with weai-iness, that s' e took 
 pretty well all the kind fidgeting that could not be averted
 
 124! THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 from her, and Miss JNIeadows's discourse chiefly tended to assur- 
 ances that Mrs. Kendal was right, and grandmamma was ner- 
 vous — and poor Mr. Bowles — it could not be expected — with 
 hints of the wonderful commotion the sudden flight to London 
 had excited at Bayford. As soon as Mr. Kendal quitted the 
 room, these hints were converted into something between expos- 
 tulation, condolence, and cc^\gratu]ation. 
 
 It was so very fortunate — so very lucky that dear Mr. Kendal 
 had come home with her, for — she had said she would let Mrs. 
 Kendal hear, if only that she might be on her guard — people 
 wei e so ill-uatured — ^there never was such a place for gossip — 
 not that she heard it from any one but Mrs. Drury, who really 
 now had driven in — not that she believed it, Iiut to ascertain. — 
 For Mrs. Drury had been told — mentioning no names — oh, no ! 
 for fear of making mischief — she had been told that Mrs. 
 Kendal had actually been into Mr. Kendal's study, which was 
 always kept locked up, and there she had found something which 
 had distresssd her so much that she had gone to Mr. Dusautoy, 
 and by his advice had fled from home to the protection of her 
 brother in Canada. 
 
 'Without waiting for Bluebeard's asking for the key ! Oh, 
 Maria !' cried Albinia, in a fit of laughter, while Sophia sat up 
 on the sofa in speechless indignation. 
 
 'You ma}' laugh, Mrs. Kendal, if you please,' said Maria, 
 with tart dignity ; ' I have told you nothing but the truth. I 
 should have thought for my part, but that's of no consequence, 
 it was as well to be on one's guard in a nest of vipers, for 
 Edmund's sake, if not for your own.' And as this last speech 
 convulsed Albinia, and rendered her incapable of reply, Miss 
 Meadows became pathetic. ' I am sure the pains I have taken 
 to trace out and contradict — and so ueiwous as grandmamma 
 has been — " I'm sure, Mrs. Drury," said I, " that though 
 Edmund Kendal does lock his study-door, nobody ever thought 
 anything — the housemaids go in to clean it — and I've been in 
 myself when the whitewashers were about the house — I'm sure 
 Mrs. Kendal is a most amiable young woman, and you wouldn't 
 raise reports." " No," she said, " but Mrs. Osborn was positive 
 that Mrs. Kendal was nearly an hour shut up alone in the study 
 the night of Sophy's accident — and so sudden," she said, " the 
 carriage being sent for — not a servant knew of it — and then," 
 fihe said, " it was always the talk among the girls, that Mr. 
 Kendal kept his study a forbidden place."' 
 
 'Then,' said Sophia, slowly, as she looked full at her aunt, 'it 
 was the Osboi'ns who dared to say such wicked things.' 
 
 ' There now, I never meant you to be there. You ought to
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 125 
 
 be gone to hed, child. It is not a thing for you to know any- 
 thing about.' 
 
 ' I only want to know whether it was the Osborns who in- 
 vented these stories,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' My dear,' exclaimed Albinia, ' what can it signify 1 They 
 are only a very good joke. I did not think there had been 
 so much imagination in Bayford.' And off she went laugliing 
 again. 
 
 ' They are very wicked,' said Sophy ; ' Aunt Maria, 1 will 
 know if it was Mrs. Osborn who told the story.' 
 
 Sophy's will was too potent for Miss Meadows, and the ad- 
 mission was extracted in a burst of other odds and ends, in the 
 midst of which Albinia beheld Sophy cross the room with a 
 deliberate, determined step. Flying after her, she found her in 
 the hall, wrapping herself up. 
 
 ' Soph}-, what is this 1 What are you about V 
 
 ' Let me alone,' said Sophy, straining against her detaining 
 hand; 'I do not know when I shall recover again, and I will go 
 at once to tell the Osborns that I have done with them. I 
 stvick to them because I thought they were my mother's friends ; 
 I did not guess that they would make an unworthy use of my 
 friendship, and invent wicked stories of mj' father and you.' 
 
 ' Please don't make me laugh, Sophy, for I don't want to 
 affront you. Yes, it is generous feeling ; I don't wonder you 
 are angry ; but indeed silly nonsense like this is not worth it. 
 It will die away of itself; it must be dead already, now they 
 have seen we have not run away to Canada. Your heroics only 
 make it more ridiculous.' 
 
 ' T must tell Loo never to come here with her hypocrisy,' re- 
 peated Sophy, standing still, but not yielding an inch. 
 
 Miss Meadows pursued them at tlae same moment with 
 broken protestations that they must forget it, she never meant 
 to make mischief, &c., and the confusion was becoming worse 
 confovmded when Mr. Kendal emerged from the study, demand- 
 ing what was the matter, to the great discomfiture of Maria, 
 who began hushing Sophy, and making signs to Albinia that it 
 would be dangerous for him to know anything about it. 
 
 But Albinia was already exclaiming, ' Here's a champion 
 wanting to do battle with Louisa Osborn in our cause. Oh, 
 Edmund ! our neighbours could find no way of accounting for 
 my taking Frencli leave, but by supposing that I took advantage 
 of being .shut in there, while poor little Maurice was squalling 
 so furiously, to rifle your secrets, and detect something so shock- 
 ing, that away I was fleeing to William in Canada.' 
 
 ' Obliging,' quietly said Mr. Kemlal.
 
 126 THE TOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 'Now, dear Ediaund — I know — for my sake — for every- 
 thing's sake, remember you are a family man, don't take any 
 notice.' 
 
 ' I certainly shall take no notice of such folly,' said Mr. 
 Kendal, ' and T wish that no one else should. What are you 
 about, Sophia]' 
 
 ' Tell mamma to let me go, papa,' she exclaimed ; 'I must and 
 will tell Louisa that I hate her baseness and hypocrisy, and then 
 I'll never speak to her again. Why will mamma laugh 1 It is 
 very wicked of them.' 
 
 ' Wrong in them, but laughing is the only way to treat it,* 
 said Mr. Kendal. ' Go back to your sofa and forget it. Your 
 aunt and I have heard Bayford i-eports before.' 
 
 Sophy obeyed unwillingly ; she was far too much incensed to 
 forget. On her aunt's taking leave, and Mr. Kendal offering 
 his escort up the hill, she rose up again, and would have perpe- 
 trated a deniiuciation by letter, had not Albinia seriously argued 
 with her, and finding ridicule, exj)ediency, and Christian for- 
 giveness all fail of hitting the mark, said, ' I don't know with 
 what face you could attack Louisa, when you helped her to per- 
 secute poor Genevieve because yon thouglit she had an instru- 
 nient of torture in her drawer.' 
 
 ' It was not I who said that,' said Sophy, blushing. 
 
 'You took part with those who did. And poor G6nevieve 
 was a much more defenceless victim than papa or myself.' 
 
 ' I would not do so now.' 
 
 ' It does not take much individual blackness of heart to work 
 up a fine promising slander. A surmise made in jest is repeated 
 in earnest, and all the other tale-beaiers think they ai'e telling 
 simple facts. Depend upon it, the story did not set off from 
 the Osborns by any means as it came back to Aunt Maria.' 
 
 ' I should like to know.' 
 
 * Don't let us make it any worse ; and above all, do not let us 
 tell Lucy.' 
 
 ' Oh, no !' said Sojjhy, emphatically. 
 
 To Albinia's surprise no inuendo from Mrs. or Miss Meadows 
 ever referred to her management having caused Sophy's misfor- 
 tune ; and she secretly attributed this silence to Mr. Kendal's 
 having escorted his sister-in-law to her own house. 
 
 Sophy's chief abode became the morning-room, and she seemed 
 very liaj^-py and tranquil there — shrinking from visitors, but 
 grateful for the kindness of parents, brother and sister. 
 
 Mr. Kendal, finding her really eager to learn of him, began 
 teaching her Persian, and was astonished at h<5r promp*^ness and 
 intelligence. He took increasing pleasure in her company.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 127 
 
 grive her books to read, and would sometimes tell the otherp 
 not to stay at home for her sake, as he should be 'about the 
 hoiise.' 
 
 He really gave up much time to her, and used to carry her, 
 when the weather served, to a couch in the garden, for she could 
 not bear the motion of wheels, and was forbidden to attempt 
 walking, though she was to be in the air as much as possible, 
 so that Albinia spent more time at home. The charge of Sophy 
 was evidently her business, and after talking the matter over 
 with Mrs. Dusautoy, she resigned, though not without a pang, 
 the offices she had undertaken in the time of her superfluous 
 activity, and limited herself to occasional superintendence, 
 instead of undertaking constant emj)loyment in the pai'ish. 
 Though she felt grieved and humiliated, Willow Lawn throve 
 the better for it, and so did her own mind, yes, and even her 
 temper, which was far less often driven by over-haste into quick 
 censure, or unconsidei'ed reply. 
 
 Her mistakes about Sophia had been a lesson against one- 
 sided government. At first, running into the other extreme, 
 she was ready to imagine that all the past ill-humour had been 
 the efiect of her neglect and cruelty ; and Sophy's amiability 
 almost warranted the notion. The poor girl herself had pro- 
 mised ' never to be cross again,' and fancied all temptation was 
 over, since she had 'found out mamma,' and papa was so kind 
 to her. But all on a sudden, down came the cloud again. 
 Nobody could detect any reason. AffiMuts abounded — not re- 
 ceived with an explosion that would liave been combated, 
 laughed at, and disposed of, but treated with silence, and each 
 sinking down to be added to the weight of cruel injuries. 
 There was no complaint ; Sophy obeyed all orders with her old 
 form of dismal submission, but everything pi-oposed to her was 
 distasteful, and her answers were in the ancient surly style. If 
 attempts were made to probe the malady, her reserve was 
 impenetrq,ble — nothing was the matter, she wanted nothing, 
 was vexed at nothing. She pursued her usual occupations, but 
 as if they were hardships ; she was sullen towards her mamma, 
 sna|)pishly brief with her aunt and sister, and so ungracious 
 and indifterent even with her father, that Albinia trembled lest 
 he might withdraw the attention so improperly received. When 
 tliis dreary state of things had lasted more than a week, he 
 did tell her that if she were tired of tlie lessons, it was not 
 worth while to proceed ; but that he had hoped for more i)er- 
 severance. 
 
 The fear of losing these, her great pride and pleasure, over- 
 c^ime her. She maintained her grim composure till he had left
 
 123 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHliR. 
 
 hev, but then fell into a violent fit of crying, in which Albinia 
 found her, and which dissolved the reserve into complaints that 
 every one was very cruel and unkind, and she was the most 
 miserable girl in all the world; papa was going to take away 
 from her the only one thing that made it tolerable ! 
 
 Reasoning was of no use ; to try to show her that it was her 
 own behaviour that had annoyed him, only made her mamma 
 appear equally hard-hearted, and she continued wretched all the 
 rest of the day, I'efusing consolation, and only so far impi'oved 
 that avowed discontent was better than sullenness. The next 
 morning, she found out that it was not the world that was in 
 league against her, but that she had fallen into the condition 
 which she had thought past for ever. This was worst of all, 
 and her disappointment and dejection lasted not only all that 
 long day, but all the next, making her receive all kindnesses 
 with a broken-down, wobegone manner, and reply to all cheer- 
 ful encouragements with despair about anything ever making 
 her good, Albinia tried to put her in mind of the Source of 
 all goodness ; but any visible acceptance of personal applica- 
 tions of religious teaching had not yet been accomplished. 
 
 Gradually all cleared up again, and things went well till for 
 some fresh trivial cause or no cause, the whole process was re- 
 peated — sulking, injui'ed innocence, and bitter repentance. This 
 time, Mr. Kendal pronounced, ' This is low spirits, far more 
 than temper,' and he thenceforth dealt with these moods with a 
 tender consideration that Albinia admired, tliough she thoiight 
 at times that to treat them more like temper than spirits might 
 be better for Sophy ; but it was evident that the poor child 
 herself had at present little if any power either of averting such 
 an access, or of sluiking it off. The danger of her father's treat- 
 ment seemed to be, that the humours would be acquiesced in, 
 like, changes in the weather, and that she might be encouraged 
 neither to repent, nor to struggle ; while her captivity made her 
 much more liable to the tedium and sinking of heart that pre- 
 di.si)osed her to them. 
 
 There seemed to be nothing to be done but to bear patiently 
 with them while they lasted, to console the victim afterwards, 
 lead her to prayer and resolute efforts, and above all to pray for 
 her ; as well as to avoid occasions of bringing them on ; but this 
 was not possible, since no one could live without occasional con- 
 tradiction, and Soi)hy could sometimes bear a strong remon- 
 strance or great disai)pointment, wlien at otliers a hint, or an 
 almost imperceptible vexation, destroyed her peace for days. 
 
 Mr. Kendal bore patiently with her variations, and did his 
 best to amuse away her gloom. It was wonderful how much oi
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 129 
 
 tis own was gone, aud how much more alive he was. He had 
 s^t himself to attack the five public-houses and seven beer-shops 
 in Tibbs's Alley, and since his eyes had been once opened, it 
 seemed as if the disorders became more flagrant every day. At 
 last, he pounced on a misdemeanour which he took care shoiild 
 come before the magistrates, and he was much annoyed to find 
 the case dismissed for want of evidence. One Sunday he beheld 
 the end of a fray begun during service-time ; he caused an in- 
 formation to be laid, and went himself to the petty sessions to 
 represent the case, but the result was a nominal penalty. The 
 Admiral was a seeker of popularity, and though owning that 
 the town was in a shocking state, and making great promises 
 when talked to on general points, yet he could never make u|) his 
 mind to punish any 'poor fellow,' unless he himself were in a 
 passion, when he would go any length. The other magistrates 
 would not interfere ; and all the satisfaction Mr. Kendal ob 
 tallied was being told how much he was wanted on the bench. 
 
 One of the few respectable Tibbs's Alleyltes told him that it 
 was of no use to complain, for the publicans boasted of their 
 impunity, snapped their fingers at him, and drank Admiral 
 Osborn's health as their friend. The consequence was, that Mr. 
 Kendal took a magnanimous resolution, ordered a copy of Burn's 
 Justice, and at the September Quarter Sessions actually rode 
 over to Hadi.;ilnster, and took the oaths. 
 
 On the whole, the expectation was more formidable than the 
 reality. However much he disliked applying himself to busi- 
 ness, no one understood It better. The value of his good sense, 
 judgment, and acuteness was speedily felt. Mr. Kugent, the 
 chairman, depended on him as his ally, and often as his adviser ; 
 and as he was thus made to feel himself of weight and impor- 
 tance, his aversion subsided, and he almost learnt to look forward 
 to a chat with Mr. Nugent ; or whether he looked forward 
 to It or not, there could be no doubt that he enjoyed It. 
 Though still shy, grave, silent, and Inert, there was a great 
 alteration in him since the time when he had had no friends, no 
 Interests, no pursuits beyond his study ; and there was every 
 reason to think that. In spite of the many severe shocks to his 
 mauvaise honte, he was a much liappler man. 
 
 His wife could not regret that his magisterial proceedings led 
 to a coolness with the Osborns, augmented by a vestry-meeting, 
 at which Mr. Dusautoy had begged him to be present. The 
 Admiral and his party surpassed themselves In their virulence 
 against whatever the vicar jn-ojiosed, until they fairly roused 
 ]\Ir. Kendal's Ire, aud ' he came out upon them all like a lion ;' 
 aud with force appearing the greater from being so seldom 
 
 K
 
 130 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 exerted, he represented Mr. Dusautoy's conduct in appropriate 
 terms, showing full appreciation of his merits, and holding up 
 their own course before them in its true hght, till they had 
 nothing to say for themselves. Tt was the vicar's first visible 
 victory. The increased congregation showed how much way he 
 had made with the poor, and Mr. Kendal taking his part openly, 
 drew over many of the tradespeople, who had liegnn to feel the 
 influence of his hearty nature and consistent uprightness, and 
 had become used to what had at first appeared innovations. Mr. 
 Dui^autoy, in thanking Mr. Kendal, begged him to allow himself 
 to be nominated his churchwarden next Easter, and having con- 
 sented while his blood was up, there was no danger that, how- 
 ever he might dislike the prospect, he would falter when the 
 tinii should come. 
 
 CHAPTER X, 
 
 IT was ' a green Yule,' a Christmas like an April day, and even 
 the lengtliening days and strengthening cold of January 
 attaining to nothing more than three slight hoar-frosts, each 
 quickly melting into mud, and the last concluding in rain 
 and fog. 
 
 ' What would Willow Lawn have been without the drainage V 
 Albiuia often thonglit when she paddled down the wet streets, 
 and saw the fields flooded. The damp had such an efi^ect upon 
 Sophy's throat, temper, and whole nervous system, that her 
 moods had few intervals, and Albinia wrote to the sui'geon a 
 detail of her symptoms, asking if she had not better be removed 
 into a more favourable air. But he pronounced that the in;ury 
 of the transport would outbalance the casual evils of the bad 
 weather, and as the rain and fog mitigated, slie improved ; but 
 there were others on whom the heavy moist air had a more fatal 
 eflfect. 
 
 One morning, !Mr. Kendal saw his wife descending the pic- 
 turesque rugged stone staircase that led outside the house to 
 the upper stories of the old block of buddings under the hill, 
 nearly opposite to Willow Lawn. She came towards him with 
 tears still in her eyes as she said, 'Poor Mrs. Simkins has just 
 lost her little girl, and I am afraid the two boys are sickening.' 
 
 ' What do you meanl Is the fever tliere again V exclaimed 
 Mr. Kendal in the utmost consternation.
 
 THE TOtJNG STEP-MOTHER. 13] 
 
 * Did you not know it 1 Lucy lias been very anxious about 
 tbe child, who was in her class.' 
 
 ' You have not taken Lucy to a house with a fever !' 
 ' No ; I thought it safer not, though she wanted very much 
 to go.' 
 
 * But you have been going yourself!' 
 
 *It was a low, lingering fever. I had not thought it infec- 
 tious, and even now I believe it is only one of those that run 
 through an over-crowded family. The only wonder is, tliatthey 
 are ever well in such a place. Dear Edmund, don't be angry ; 
 it is what I used to do continually at Fairmead. I never caught 
 anything ; and thei"e is plenty of chloride of lime, and all that. 
 I never imagined you would disapprove.' 
 
 ' It is the very place where the fever began before !' said Mr. 
 Kendal, almost under his breath. 
 
 Instead of going into the house, he made her turn into the 
 garden, where little Maurice was being promenaded in the sun. 
 He stretched out from his nurse's arms to go to them, and Al- 
 binia was going towards him, but her husband held her fast, and 
 said, ' I beg you will not take the child till you have changed 
 your dreps.' 
 
 Albinia was quite subdued, alarmed at the effect on him. 
 
 * You must go away at once,' he said presently. ' How soon 
 can you be ready 1 You had better take Lucy and Maurice at 
 once to your brother's. They will excuse the liberty when they 
 know the cause.' 
 
 * And pray what is to Vjecome of poor Sophy V 
 
 ' Never going out, there may be the less risk for her. I will 
 take care of her myself 
 
 ' As if I was going to endure that !' cried Albinia. 'No, no, 
 Edmund, I am not likely to run away from you and Sopiiy ! 
 You may send Lucy off, if you like, but certainly not me, or if 
 you do I shall come back the same evening.' 
 
 ' I should be much happier if you were gone.' 
 
 * Thank you, but what should I be 1 No, if it were to ba 
 caught here, which I don't believe, now the pond is gone, it 
 would be of no use to send me away, after I have been into the 
 house with it.' 
 
 Her resolution and Sophy's need prevailed, and most unwill- 
 ingly Mr. Kendal gave up the point. She was persuaded that 
 he was acting on a panic, the less to be wondei'ed at after all he 
 had suffered. She thought the chief danger was from the effect 
 of his fears, and would fain have persuaded him to remain at 
 Fairmead with Lucy, but she was not prepared to hear him 
 
 k2
 
 352 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 insist on likewise removing Maurice. She had promised not to 
 enter the sick room again, and pleaded that the little boy need 
 never be taken into the street — that the fever was not likely to 
 come acrc'ss the running stream — that the Fairmead nursery 
 wasfull enough already. 
 
 Mr. Kendal was inexorable. 'I hope you may never see 
 what I have seen,' he said gravely, and Albinia was silenced. 
 
 A man who had lost so many children might be allowed to 
 oe morbidly jealous of the health of the rest. But it was a cruel 
 stroke to her to be obliged to part with her noble little boy, just 
 when his daily advances in walking and talking made him mure 
 charming than ever. Her eyes were full of teai-s, and she 
 struggled to choke back some pettish rebellious words. 
 
 ' You do not like to trust him with Susan,' said Mr. Kendal; 
 'you had belter come with him.' 
 
 ' No,' said Albinia, ' I ought to stay here, and if you judge it 
 right, Maurice must go. I'll go and speak to Susan.' 
 
 And away she lan, for she had no power just then to speak 
 in a wifely manner. It was not easy to respect a man in a panic 
 so extremely inconvenient. 
 
 He was resolved on an immediate start, and the next few 
 hours were spent in busy preparation, and in watching lest the 
 excited Lucy should frighten her sister. Albinia tried to per- 
 suade Mr. Kendal at least to sleep at Fairmead that night, and 
 after watching him drive off', she hurried, dashing away the tears 
 that would gather again and again in her eyes, to hold council 
 with the Dusautoys on the best means of stop])ing the cour^e of 
 the malady, by depriving it of its victims. 
 
 She had a quiet snug evening with So[)hy, whom she had so 
 much interested in the destitution of the sick children as to set 
 her to work at some night-gear for them ; and she afterwards 
 sat long over the fire trying to read to silence the longing after 
 the little soft cheek that had never yet been laid to rest with- 
 out her caress, and foreboding that Mr. Kendal would i-etui*n 
 from his dark solitary drive with his spirits at tin; lowest ebl). 
 
 So late that she had begun to hope that Winifred had obeyed 
 her behest and detained him, she heard his ste]), and l)efore she 
 could run to meet him, he had already shut himself into the 
 study. 
 
 She was at the door in a moment ; she feared he had thought 
 her self-willed in the morning, and she was the more bent on 
 rousing him. She knocked — she opened the door. He had 
 thrown himself into his arm-chair, and was bending over the 
 dreary, smouldering, sulky log and white ashes, and his face, as
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 133 
 
 he raised his lieacl, was as if the whole load of care and sorrow 
 had suddenly descended again. 
 
 ' I am sorry you sat up,' was of course his beginning, con- 
 veying anything but welcome ; but she knew that this only 
 meant that he was in a state of depression. She took hold of 
 his hand, chilled with holding the reins, told him of the good, 
 fire in the morning-room, and fairly drew him iii:)-scairs. 
 
 There the lamp burnt brightly, and the red fire cast a merry 
 glow over the shining chintz cui'tains, and the two chairs drawn 
 so cosily towards the fire, the kettle puffing on the hearth, and 
 Albinia's choice little bed-room set of tea-china ready on the 
 small table. The cheerfulness seemed visibly to diffuse itself 
 over liis face, bv^t he still struggled to chei-ish his gloom, ' Thank 
 you, bvit I would not have had you take all this trouble, my dear.' 
 
 ' It would be a great deal more trouble if you caught a bad 
 cold. I meant you to sleep at Fairmead.' 
 
 ' Yea, they pressed me very kindly, but I could not bear not 
 to come home.' 
 
 'And how did Maurice com]iort himself?' 
 
 'He talked to the horse and then went to sleep, and he was 
 not at all shy with his aunt after the first. He watched the 
 children, but had not begun to play with them. Still I think 
 he will be quite happy with Lucy there, and I hope it will not 
 be for long.' 
 
 It was a ftivoui-able sign that Mr. Kendal commimicated all 
 these particulars without being plied with questions, and Albinia 
 ■went on with the more spirit.' 
 
 ' No, I hope it may not be for long. We have been holding 
 a great couucil against the enemy, and I do hope that we have 
 really done something. No, you need not be afraid, I have not 
 been there again, but we have been routing out the nucleus, and 
 hope we may starve out the fever for want of victims. You 
 never saw such a swarm as we had to turn out. There were 
 twenty-three people to be considered for.' 
 
 ' Twenty-three ! Have you turned out the whole block V 
 
 ' No, I wish we had ; but that would have been seventy-five. 
 This is only from those two tenements with one door !' 
 
 ' Impossible !' 
 
 'I shoidd have thought so ; but the lawful inhabitants make 
 up sixteen, and there were seven lodgers.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal gave a kind of groan, and asked what she had 
 done ; she detailed the measures. 
 
 'Twenty-three people in those two houses, and seventy-five in 
 the whole block of buildin2?'
 
 134 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 ' Too true. And if you could only see the rooms ! The 
 ■windows that wont open ; the roofs that opeu too much ; the 
 dirt on the stair-cases ; and, oh ! the horrible smells !' 
 
 ' It shall not go on,' said Mr. Kendal. ' I will look over the 
 place.' 
 
 * Not till the fever is out of it,' hastily interposed Albinia. 
 
 He made a sign of assent, and went on : ' I will certainly 
 talk to Pettilove, and have the place repaired, if it be at my 
 own expense.' 
 
 Albiiiia lifted up her eyes, not understanding at whose expense 
 it should be. 
 
 ' The fact is,' continued Mr. Kendal, * that there has been 
 little to induce me to take interest in the property. Old Mr. 
 Meadows was, as you know, a successful solicitor, and piirchased 
 these various town tenements bit by bit, and then settled them 
 very strictly on his grandson. He charged the property with 
 life incomes to his widow and daughters, and to me ; but the 
 land is in the hands of trustees until my son's majority, and 
 Pettilove is the only surviving trustee.' 
 
 The burning colour mantled in Albinia's face, and almost 
 inaudibly she said, 'I beg your pai-don, Edmund; I have 
 done you most grievous injustice. I thought you would not 
 see — ' 
 
 ' You did not think unjustly, my dear. I ought to have paid 
 more attention to the state of affairs, and have kept Pettilove 
 in order. But I knew nothing of English affairs, and was glad 
 to be spared the unpleasant charge. The consequence of leav- 
 ing a man like that irresponsible never occurred to me. His 
 whole conscience in the matter is to have a large sum to pxxt 
 into Gilbert's hands when he comes of age. Why, he upholds 
 those dens of iniquity in Tibbs's x\.lley on that very ground !' 
 
 ' Pof)r Gilbert ! I am afraid a large siim so collected is not 
 likely to do him much good ! and at one-and-twenty — ! But 
 that is one notion of faithfulness !' 
 
 Albinia was much happier after that conversation. She could 
 better endnie to regret her own injustice than to believe her 
 husband the cruel landlord ; and it was no small advance that 
 he had afforded her an explanation which once he would have 
 deemed beyond the reach of female capacity. 
 
 In s))ite of the lack of little Maurice's bright presence, which, 
 to Albinia's great di-light, his father missed as much as she did, 
 the period of quarantine sped by cheerfully. Sophy had not a 
 single siillin fit the whole time, and Albinia having persuaded 
 Mr. Kendal that it would be a sanatory measure to whitewash 
 the study ceiling, he was absolutely foiced to turn out of it and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 135 
 
 live in tlie moi-ning room, with all his books piled up in the 
 dining-room. And on that great occasion Albiuia abstracted 
 two fusty, faded, green canvas blinds from the windows, carried 
 them oiT with a pair of tongs, and pushed them into a bonfire in 
 the garden, persuaded they were the last relics of the old fever. 
 She had the laurels cut, the curtains changed, the windows 
 cleaned, and altogether made the room so much lighter, that 
 when Mr. Kendal again took possession, he did not look at all 
 sure whether he liked it ; and though he was courteously grate- 
 ful, he did not avail himself of the den half so much as when it 
 had more congenial gloom. But then he had the morning-room 
 as a resort, and it was one of Albinia's bargains with herself, 
 that as far as her own influence could prevent it, neither he noi 
 Sophy should ever rendei it a literal boudoir. 
 
 The sense of suugness that the small numbers produced was 
 one great charm, and made Mr. Kendal come unusually far out 
 of his shell. His chief sanatory precaution was to take Albinia 
 out for a drive or walk every day, and these expeditions were 
 greatly enjoyed. 
 
 One day,^ after a visit from her old nurse, Sophy received 
 Albinia with the words, — 
 
 'Oh, mamma,' she said, 'old nurse has V)een telling me such 
 things. I shall never be cross with Aunt Maria again. It is 
 such a sad story, just like one iu a book, if she was but that 
 kind of person.' 
 
 ' Aunt Maria ! I remember Mrs. Dusautoy once saying she 
 gave her the idea of happiness shattered, but — ' 
 
 ' Did she V exclaimed Sophy. ' I never thought Aunt Maria 
 could have done anything but fidget everybody that came near 
 her ; but old nurse says a gentleman was once in love with her, 
 and a very handsome young gentleman too. Old Mr. Pringle's 
 nephew it was, a very fine young ofiicer in the army. I want 
 you to ask papa if it is true. Nurse says that he wrote to make 
 an offer for her, very handsomely, but grandpapa did not choose 
 that both his daughters should go quite away ; so he locked the 
 letter up, and said no, and never told her, and she thought the 
 captain had been trifling and playing her false, and pined and 
 fretted, till she got into this nervous way, and fairly wore herself 
 out, nurse says, and came to be what she is now, instead of the 
 prettiest young lady in the town ! And then, mamma, when 
 grandpapa died, she found the letter in his papers, and one 
 inside for her, that had never been given to her ; and by that 
 time there was no hope, for Captain Pringle had gone out with 
 his regiment, and married a rich young lady in the Indies! 
 Oh, mamma ! you see she really is deserted, and it is all man's
 
 J 36 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 breacliery that has broken her heart. I thoufjht people always 
 died or weut into convents — I don't mean that Annt Maria 
 could have done that, but I did not think that way of hers was 
 a broken heart !' 
 
 ' Tf she has had such troubles, it should indeed make us trj 
 to be very forbearing with her,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Will you ask papa about it V entreated Sophy. 
 
 ' Yes, certainly ; but you must not make sure whether he 
 will think it right to tell us. Poor Aunt Maria ; I do think 
 some part of it must be true !' 
 
 ' But, mamma, is that really like deserted love V 
 
 ' My dear, I don't think I ever saw deserted love,' said Albinia, 
 rather amused. ' I suppose troubles of an}^ kind, if not — I 
 mean, I suppose, vexations — make people show their want of 
 spirits in the way most accordant with their natural dispositions, 
 and so your poor aunt has grown querulous and anxious.' 
 
 ' If she has such a real grand reason for being unhappy, I 
 shall not be cross about it now, except — ' 
 
 Sophy gave a sigh, and Albinia bade her good night. 
 
 Mr. Kendal had never heard the story before, but he re- 
 membered many cii'cumstances in coi-roboration. He knew 
 that ]\Ir. Pringle had a nephew in the army ; he recollected 
 that he had made a figure in Maria's letters to India ; and that 
 he had subsequently married a lady in the INIauritius, and 
 settled down on her father's estate. He testified also to the 
 bright gay youth of poor Maria, and his surprise at the pre- 
 mature loss of beauty and spirits ; and from his knowledge of 
 old Mr. Meadows, he believed him capable of such an act of 
 domestic tyranny. Maria had always been looked upon as a 
 mere child, and if her father did not choose to part with her, 
 he would tliiuk it for her good, and his own peace, for her not to 
 be awiire of the proposal. He was much struck, for he had not 
 suspected his sister-in-law to be capable of such permanent feeling. 
 
 ' There was little to help her in driving it away,' said Albinia. 
 ' Few occupations or interests, and very little change, to i)revent 
 it from preying on her spirits.' 
 
 ' True,' said Mr. Kendal; 'a narrow education and limited 
 sphore are sad evils in such cases.' 
 
 ' Do you tliink anything can be a cure for disappointment V 
 asked Sophy, in such a solemn, earnest tone, that Albinia was 
 disposed to laugh ; but she knew that this would be a dire 
 ofi'enco, and was much surprised that Sophy had so far broken 
 through lier i-eserve, as to mingle in their conversation on such 
 a subject. 
 
 ' Occupation,' said Mr. Kendal ; but speaking rather as if
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 137 
 
 from duty than from conviction, ' There are many sources of 
 happiness, even if shipwreck have been made on one venture. 
 Your aunt had few resources to whicli to turn her mind. Every 
 pursuit or study is a help stored up against the vacuity which 
 renders every care more corroding.' 
 
 ' Well !' said Sophy, in her blunt, downright way, 'I think it 
 would take all the spirit out of everything.' 
 
 ' I hope you will never be tried,' said Mr. Kendal, with a 
 mournful smile, as if he did not choose to confess that she had 
 divined too rightly the probable effect of trouble upon her own 
 temperament. 
 
 ' I suppose.' said Albinia, 'tliat the real cure can be but one 
 thing for that, as for any other trouble. I mean, " Thy will be 
 done." I don't suppose anything else would give enei'gj' to 
 turn to other duties. But it would be more to the purpose to 
 resolve to be more considerate to poor Maria.' 
 
 ' I shall never be impatieiit with her again,' said Sophy. 
 
 And though at first the discovery of so romantic a cause for 
 poor Miss MeadowVs fretfulness dignified it in Sophy's eyes, yet 
 it did not prove sufiicient to make it tolerable when she toi'- 
 mented the window-blinds, teased the fire, was shocked at 
 Sophy's favourite studies, or insisting on her wishing to s*^e 
 Maria Dniry. Nay, the bathos often rendered her ])etty un- 
 conscious provocations the more harassing; and Sophy often 
 felt, in an agony of self-reproach, that she ought to have known 
 herself too well to expect to show forbeai'auce with any one when 
 she was under the influence of ill-temper. 
 
 In Easter week Mr. Ferrars brought Lucy and Maurice home, 
 and Gilbert came for a short holiday. 
 
 Gilbert was pleased when he was called to go over the empty 
 houses with his father, Mr. Ferrai's, and a mason. 
 
 Back they came, horrified at the dreadful disrepair, at the 
 narrow area into which such numbei's were crowded, and still 
 more at the ill odours which Mr. Ferrars and the mason had 
 gallantly investigated, till they detected tlie absence of drains, 
 as well as convinced themselves that mending roofs, floors, or 
 windows, would be a mere mockery unless the whole were 
 pulled down. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars was more tlian ever thankful to be a country 
 parson, and mused on the i-etribution that the miasma, fostered 
 by the avarice of the grandfather and the neglect of the father, 
 had brought on the famil}'. Dives cannot always scorn Lazarus 
 without suS'ering even in this life. 
 
 Gilbert, in the glory of castle-building, was talking eagerly of 
 the thorough renovation that should take place, the sweep that
 
 138 THE YOTTNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 should be made of all the old teneuieuts, and the wide healthy 
 streets and model cottages that should give a new aspect to the 
 town. 
 
 Mr. Kendal prepared for the encounter with Pettilovp, and 
 his son begged to go with him, to which he consented, saying 
 that it was time Gilbert should have an o})iuion in a matter that 
 affected him so nearly. 
 
 Gilbert's opinion of the interview was thus announced on his 
 return : ' If there ever was a brute in the world, it is that 
 Pettilove !' 
 
 ' Then he wont consent to do anything V 
 
 * No, indeed ! Say what my father or I would to him, it was 
 all of not the slijjhtest use. He smiled, and made little intoler- 
 
 -I 1 
 
 able nods, and regretted — but there were the settlements, and 
 his late lamented partner ! A parcel of stuff Not so much as 
 a broken window will he mend ! He says he is not authorized !' 
 
 ' Quite true,' said Mr. Kendal. ' The man is warranted in 
 his proceedings, and thinks them his duty, though I believe he 
 hiis a satisfaction in the power of thwarting me.' 
 
 ' I'm sure he has !' cried Gilbert. 'I am sure there was spite 
 in his grin when he pulled out that horrid old parchment, with 
 the lines a yard long, and read us out the abominable old crabbed 
 writing, all about the houses, messuages, and tenements there- 
 upon, and a lot of lawyer's jargon. I'm sure I thought it was 
 left to Peter Pettilove himself. And when I came to under- 
 stand it, one would have thought it took my father to be the 
 worst enemy we had in the world, bent on cheating us !' 
 
 ' That is the assumi)tion on which settlements are drawn up, 
 Gilbert,' said his father. 
 
 ' Can nothing be done, then V said Albinia. 
 
 ' Thus much,' said Mr. Kendal. ' Pettilove will not object to 
 our putting the houses somewhat in repair, as, in fact, that will 
 be making a present to Gilbert ; but he will not spend a farthing 
 on them of the trust, except to hinder their absolute falling, nor 
 will he make any regulation on the number of lodgers. As to 
 taking them down, that is, as I always supposed, out of the 
 question, though I think the trustees might have stretched a 
 point, being certain of both my wishes and Gilbert's,' 
 
 ' Don't you think,' said Mr. Ferrars, looking up from his book, 
 ' that a sanatory commission might be got to over-ride Gilbert's 
 guardian V 
 
 ' J\ly guardian ! do not call him so !'. muttered Gilbert. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Mr. Kendal, ' that unless your commission 
 ooassisted of Albinia and Dusautoy they would have little per-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. lo9 
 
 ception of the evils. Our local authorities are obtuse in such 
 matters.' 
 
 ' Agitate ! agitate !' murmured Mr. Ferrars, going on with 
 his book. 
 
 * Well,' said Albinia, * at least there is one beer-shop less in 
 Tibbs's Alley. And if thei*e are tolerable seasons, I daresay 
 paint, whitewash, and windows to open, may keep the place 
 moderately wholesome till — Are you sixteen yet, Gilbert 1 Five 
 yeai's.' 
 
 ' Yes, and then — ' 
 
 Gilbert came and sat down beside her, and they built a scheme 
 for the almshouses so much wanted. Gilbert was sure the 
 accumulation would easily cover the expense, and Albinia had 
 many an old woman, who it was hoped might live to enjoy the 
 intended paradise there. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I promise,' cried Gilbert, warming with the subject ; 
 'the first thing I shall do — ' 
 
 * No, don't promise,' said Albinia. ' Do it from your heart, 
 or not at all.' 
 
 ' No, don't promise, Gilbert,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' Why not, Sophy V he said good-humouredly. 
 
 ' Because you are just what you feel at the moment,' said 
 Sophy. 
 
 ' You don't think I should keep it V 
 
 'No.' 
 
 The grave answer fell like lead, and Albinia told her she was 
 not kind or just to her brother. But she still looked steadily at 
 him, and answered, ' I cannot help it. What is truth, is truth, 
 and Gilbert cares only for what he sees at the moment.' 
 
 ' What is truth need not always be fully uttered,' said Albinia. 
 *I hope you may find it untrue.' 
 
 But Sophy's words would recur, and weigh on her painfully. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ^pHE summer had just begun, when notice was given that a 
 JL Confirmation would take place in the autumn ; and Lucy's 
 name was one of the first sent in to Mr. Dusautoy. His j>lan 
 was to collect his candidates in weekly classes of a few at 
 a time, and likev/ise to see as much as he could of them in 
 private.
 
 140 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Oh ' mamma !' exclaimed Lucy, returning from her first 
 class, ' Mr. Diisautoy has given us each a paper, where we are 
 to set down our christening days, and our godfathers and god- 
 mothers. And only think, I had not the least notion when I 
 ■was christened. I could tell nothing but that Mr, Wenlock 
 was my godfather 1 It made me feel quite foolish not to know 
 my godmothers.' 
 
 ' We were in no situation to have things done in order,' said 
 Mr. Kendal, gravely. ' If I recollect rightly, one of your god- 
 mothers was Captain Lee's pi-etty young wife, who died a fe\s 
 weeks after.' 
 
 ' And the other V said Lucy. 
 ' Your mother, I believe,' he said. 
 
 Lucy employed herself in filling up her paper, and exclaimed, 
 * Now I do not know the date ! Can you tell me that, 
 papa V 
 
 ' It was the Christmas-day next after your birth,' he said, 
 *I remember that, for we took yoa to spend Christmas at the 
 nearest station of troops, and the chaplain christened you.' 
 
 Lucy wrote down the pai'ticulars, and exclaimed, ' What an 
 old baby I must have been ! Six months old ! And I wondei 
 when Sophy was christened. I 'never knew who any of her 
 godfathers and godmotliers were. Did you, Sophy V 
 'No — ' she was looking up at her father. 
 A sudden flush of colour came over his face, and he left the 
 room in haste. 
 
 'Why, Sophy!' exclaimed Lucy, 'one would think you had 
 not been christened at all !' 
 
 Even the light Lucy was alarmed at the sound of her own 
 words. The same idea had thrilled across Albinia ; but on 
 turning her eyes on Sophy, she saw a countenance flushed, 
 anxious, but full ratlier of trembling hope than of dismay. 
 
 In a few seconds Mr. Kendal came back with a thick red 
 pocket-book in his hand, and produced the certificate of the 
 jtrivate baptism of Sophia, daughter of Ednuind and Lucy 
 Kendal, at, Talioon, Marcli 17th, 1838. 
 
 Sophy's face had more disappointment in it than satisfaction. 
 ' I can explain the circumstances to you now,' said her father 
 ' At Talioon we were almost out of reach of any chaplains, and, 
 as you know, were almost the only English. We always 
 intended to take you to tlie nearest station, as had I)een done 
 with Lucy, but your dear motlier was never well enough to bear 
 the journey ; and when our next little one was born, it was so 
 plain that he co\ild not live, that I sent in haste to beg that the 
 chaplain would come to us. It was then that you were l)oth
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 141 
 
 baptized, and before the week was over, he buried little Henry. 
 It was the hrst of our troubles. We never again had health or 
 spirits for any festive occasion while we continued in India, and 
 thus the ceremony was never completed. In fact, I take shame 
 to myself for having entirely forgotten that you had never been 
 received into the conofre^ation.' 
 
 ' Then I have told a false! lood whenever I said the Cate- 
 chism !' burst out Sophy. Lucy would have laughed, and 
 Albinia could almost have been amused at the turn her dis- 
 pleasure had taken. 
 
 ' It was not your fault,' said Mr. Kendal, quietly. 
 
 He evidently wished the subject to be at an end, excepting 
 that in silence he laid before Albinia's eyes the certificate of 
 tlie baptism of the twin-brothers, not long after the first arrival 
 in India. He tlien put the book in his pocket, and began, as 
 usual, to I'ead aloud. 
 
 ' Oh, don't go, mamma,' said Sophy, when she had been carried 
 to her own room at bed time, and made ready for the night. 
 
 Albinia was only too glad to linger, in the hope to be 
 admitted into some of the recesses of that untransparent nature, 
 and by way of assistance, said, ' I was not at all prepared for 
 this discovery.' 
 
 Sojjhy drew a long sigh, and said, ' If I had never been 
 christened, I should have thought there was some hope for 
 nie.' 
 
 ' That would have been too di'eadful. How could you imagine 
 your papa capable — V 
 
 ' I thought I had found out why I am so horrid !' exclaimed 
 Sophy. ' Oh, if I could only make a fresh begirming ! Mamma, 
 do jiray give me a Prayer Book.' 
 
 Albinia gave it to her, and she hastily turned the pages to 
 the Order for Private Baptism. 
 
 ' At least I have not made the promises and vows !' she said, 
 as if her stern conscientiousness obtained some relief. 
 
 'Not formally made them,' said Albinia; 'but you cannot 
 have a right to the baptismal blessings, except on those condi- 
 tions.' 
 
 ' Mamma, then I never had the sign of the cross on my fore- 
 head ! It does not feel blest !' And then, hastily and low, slie 
 mustered, ' Oh ! is that why I never could bear the cross in all 
 my life V 
 
 'Nay, my poor Sophy, you must not think of it like a spell. 
 Many bear the cross no better, wlio have had it marked on 
 their bi'ovvs.' 
 
 ' Can it be done now Y ci'ied So])hy, eagerly.
 
 142 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Certainly ; I think it ought to be done. We will see -what 
 your father says.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, beg hira, pray him !' exclaimed Sophy. * I 
 know it will make me begin to be good ! I can't bear not to 
 be one of those marked and sealed. Oh ! and, mamma, you 
 will be my godmother 1 Can't you t If the gleams of good- 
 ness and brightness do hnd me out, they are always from 
 you.' 
 
 ' I think I might be, dear child,' said Albinia ; * but Mr. 
 Dusautoy must tell us whether I may. But, indeed, I am 
 afraid to see you reckon too much on this. The essential, the 
 regenerating grace, is yours already, and can save you from 
 yourself; and Contirmation adds the rest — but you must not 
 think of any of these like a charm, which will save you all 
 further trouble with yourself. They do not kill the faults, but 
 they enable you to deal with them. Even baptism itself, you 
 know, has destroyed the guilt of past sin, but does not hinder 
 subsequent temptation.' 
 
 Albinia hardly knew how far Sophy attended to this caution, 
 for all she said was to reiterate the entreaty that the omitted 
 ceremony might be supplied. 
 
 Rlr. Kendal gave a ready consent, as soon as he was told that 
 Sopli y so ardently wished for it — so willing, indeed, that Albinia 
 was surprised, until he went on to say, ' No one need be aware 
 of the matter beyond ourselves. Your brother and sister would, 
 I have no doubt, act as sponsors. Nay, if Ferrars would officiate, 
 we need hardly mention it even to Dusautoy. It could take 
 place in your sitting-room.' 
 
 ' But, Edmund !' began Albinia, aghast, * would that be the 
 right thing 1 I hardly think Maurice would consent.' 
 
 'You are not imagining anything so preposterous or inex- 
 pedient as to wish to bring Sophia forward in church,' said Mr. 
 Kendal ; ' even if she were physically capable of it, I should 
 not choose to expose her to anything so painful or undesirable.' 
 
 'I am afraid, then,' said Albinia, 'that it will not be done 
 at all. It ia not receiving her into the congregation to have 
 this service read before half-a-dozen people in my sitting- 
 room.' 
 
 ' Better not have it done at all, then,' said Mr. Kendal. * It 
 is not essential. I will not have her made a spectacle.' 
 
 'Will you only consult Mr. Dusautoy V 
 
 ' I do not wish Mr. Dusautoy to interfere in my family regu- 
 lations. I mean, that I have a great respect for him ; but as a 
 clergyman, and one wedded to form, he would not take into 
 account the great evil of iTiikingapuhlic display, and attracting
 
 THE YOUNG STEP -MOTHER. 143 
 
 attention to a girl of her age, station, and disposition. And, in 
 fact,' added Mr. Kendal, with the same scrupulous candour as his 
 daughter always showed, ' for the sake of my own position, and 
 the effect of example, I should not wish this unfortunate omis- 
 sion to be known.' 
 
 ' I suspect,' said Albinia, ' that the example of repairing it 
 would speak volumes of good.' 
 
 ' It is mere absurdity to speak of it !' said Mr. Kendal. ' The 
 poor child is not to leave her couch yet for weeks.' 
 
 Sophy was told in the morning that the question was under 
 consideration, and Lucy was strictly forbidden to mention the 
 subject. 
 
 When next Mr. Kendal came to read with Sophy, she said 
 imploringly, ' Papa, have you thought V 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' I have done so ; but your mamma thinks, 
 and, on examination of the subject, I perceive she is riglit, that 
 the service has no meaning unless it take place in the church.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Sophy ; ' but you know I am to be allowed to go 
 about in July.' 
 
 ' You will hardly be equal to any fatigue even then, I feai', 
 my dear; and you would find this publicity extremely trying and 
 unpleasant.' 
 
 ' It would not last ten minutes,' said Sophy,' ' and I am sure 
 I should not care ! 1 should have something else to think about. 
 Oh ! papa, when my forehead aches with surliness, it does feel so 
 unblest, so uncrossed !' and she put her hand over it ; ' and all 
 the books and hymns seem not to belong to me. I think I 
 shall be able to keep off the tempers when I have a right in the 
 cross.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my child, I am afraid the tempers are a part of your 
 physical constitution,' he returned, mournfully. 
 
 * You mean that I am like you, papa,' said Sophy. ' I think 
 T might at least learn to be really like you, and if I must feel 
 miserable, not to be unkind and sulky ! And then I should 
 leave off even the being unhappy about nothing.' 
 
 Her eyes brightened, but her father shook his head sadly, and 
 said, ' You would not be like me, my dear, if depression never 
 made you selfish. But,' he added, with an etfort, * you will not 
 suffer so much from low spirits when you are in better health, 
 and able to move about.' 
 
 * Oh, no !' exclaimed Sophy ; ' I often feel so sick of lying here, 
 that I feel as if 1 never could be sulky if only I might walk 
 about, and go from one room to another when I please ! But 
 papa, you will let me be admitted into the Church when I am 
 able, will you not V
 
 ]4i THE YOrXG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 * It shall be well weighed, SoT)hv.' 
 
 Sophy taew her father too well, and had too much reticence 
 to cav any more. He was certaiulv meditatinsj deei>lv, and 
 reading too ; indeed he would almost have appeared to have a 
 fit of the studv. but for little Maurice, a tyrannical little gen- 
 tlemau, who domineered o^er the entire household, and would 
 have been grievously spoilt, if his mother had not taken all 
 the crossing the stout little will upon heri^elf. He had a gallant 
 pair of legs, and the disposition of a young Centaur ; he seemed 
 to divide the world into things that could be ridden on, and that 
 could not ; and when he bounced at the study door, with ' Papa ! 
 gee ! gee !' and lifted up his round, rosy face, and despotic blue 
 eyes, Mr. Kendal's foot was at his service, and the study was 
 brown no longer 
 
 The result of Mr. Kendal's meditations was an invitation to 
 his wife to drive with him to Fairmead. 
 
 That was a most enjoyable drive ; the weather too hot and 
 sunny, perhaps, for Albiuia's preferences, but thoroughly pene- 
 trating, and giving energy to, her East-Indian husband, and 
 making the whole country itidiant with siiuny beauty — the 
 waving hay-fields falling before the mower's scythe, the ranks 
 of hay-makers tossing the fi-agi-ant grass, the growing corn softly 
 waving in the summer breeze, the river blue with reflected sky, 
 the hedges glowing with stately fox-gloves, or with blushing 
 wreaths of eglantine. And how cool, fresh, and fair was the 
 beech-avenue at Fairmead. 
 
 Yet though Albinia came to it with the fond tenderness of 
 old a.<suciation. it was not with the retrretful cliuorini; of the first 
 visit, when it seemed to her the natural home to which she still 
 really belonged. Xor had she the lea-^t thought about producing 
 an impression of her own hajipiness, and scarcely any whether 
 'Edmund' would be amused and at ease, though knowing he had 
 a stranger to encounter in the pei-son of Winifred's sister, IMary 
 Reid. 
 
 That was not a long day. It was only too short, though 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kendal stayed three houi-s longer than on the 
 last occasion. Mr. Kendal faced Mary Reid without flinching, 
 and she, having been previously informed that Albiuia's husband 
 was the most silent and sh}' man in existence, began to doubt 
 her sisttr's veracity. Antl Albinia, instead of dealing out a 
 shower of firew. irks, to hide what, if not gloom, was at least 
 twili;:ht. wa.s now 'temperately bright,' talking natui-ally of what 
 most concerned her with thesprightliness of her happy tenijier, 
 but without eftbrt ; and gratifying Winifred by a great deal 
 more notice of the new niece and namesake than she had ever
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 145 
 
 bestowed oa either of Her predecessors in tbeir infant daT». 
 Moreover, Lncy's two long Tisits had made Mrs. Ferrai-s feel a 
 strong interest in her, and, with a sort of matranal a^ection, 
 she inquired after the cuttiiigs of the myrtle wliich she had 
 giren her. 
 
 * Ah ;' said Alb::i:3. •' I never hoiio"n.r:rd gardenmg so louch-' 
 
 * I know you would never resjnrcz ii in me," 
 
 * As yon know, I love a walk wiili an oljecr, and Dever coTJd 
 abide breaking my back, pottering av^ a pink with astern tha*- 
 wont support it, and a calyx that wont hold it.* 
 
 * And Lucy converted you when I ooxdd not ? 
 
 * If you had known my lon^ng for some wholesome occupa- 
 tion for her, sndi as could hurt neither herself nor any one else, 
 and the pleasure of seeing her engrossed bj anything innooent^ 
 making it so easy to gratify her. Why, a new geranium is a 
 constant fiind of ecstasy, and I do not believe she was ever so 
 grateful to her &ther in her life as wh^i he gave h^ a forcing- 
 &am& Anything is a ble^ing that makes jieople ooiiteu ted at 
 home, and takes them out of themselves.' 
 
 'Lucy is a very nice, pleasant inmate ; her ready oil: _-".::> 
 ness and fecility of adapting herself make her very rt" e,' 
 
 * Yes,' said Albinia, *she is the ** very woman," : . hei 
 
 complexion ^\»a things around, and so she wdl go smoothly 
 through the world, and be always preferred to my poor tnr^jid, 
 deep-souled Sophy.* 
 
 * Are you going to be very angry with me f 
 
 ' Ah ! you do not know Bophy ! Poor, dear child ! I do so 
 long tiiat she could have — if it were but one day, one hour, of 
 real, finee, glowing happiness ! I think it would sweeten and 
 open her heart wonderfully just to have known it I If I could 
 but see any chance of it, but I am a&aid her health wOl always 
 be against her ; and oh ! that dreadful sense of depression ! 
 Do you kncsr, Winifred, I do think love would be the b^t 
 chance, Now, don't lan<rh : I do assure vou there is no reason 
 So])hy should not be very handsome.' 
 
 ' Quite as handsome as the owFs children, my dear.' 
 ' Well, the owls are the only young birds fit to be seen. But 
 I tell you, Sophy's profile is as regidar as her fcthers, and 
 ani.iiutiou makes her eyes beautiful, and she has grown im< 
 niense'y since she has been lying down, so that she will come 
 out without that disproportioued look. If her ey ' 
 were r^iher less marked, and her coniplesion — ^Lut ti..-. — . 
 clear.' 
 
 * Yes, we will make her a beauty when we are about it.' 
 
 ' Aud, alter all, afiection is the great cbann, and if she were 
 
 L
 
 14:6 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 attached, it would be so intensely — and liajipiness would develop 
 so inuch that is glorious, only hidden down so dee)).' 
 
 ' 1 hope you may hnd her a male Albinia,' said Winifred, a 
 little wickedly ; ' but take care. It might be kill or cure ; and 
 I fancy when sunshine is attracted by shadow, it is more often 
 as it was in your case than " vice ven^d." 
 
 ' Take care !' repeated Albinia, affronted. * You don't fancy 
 I am going beyond a vague wish, do you V 
 
 ' And rather a premature one. How old is Sophy V 
 
 ' Towards fourteen, but years older in thought and in 
 suffering.' 
 
 Albinia did not hear the result of the conference with her 
 brother till she had resumeil her seat in the carriage, after 
 having been surprised by Mr. Kendal handing in three tall 
 theological tomes. They both had much to think over as they 
 drove home in the lengthening shadows. Albinia was gi-eatly 
 concerned that Winifred's liealth had become affected, and tliat 
 her ordinary home duties were beyond her strength. Albinia 
 had formerly thought Fairmead parsonage did not give her 
 enough to do, but now she saw the gap tliat she had left ; and 
 she had fallen into a maze of musings over schemes for helping 
 Winifred, befox'e Mr. Kendal spoke, telling her that he had re- 
 solved that Sophia's admission into tlie Church should take 
 place as soon as she was equal to the exertion. 
 
 Albinia asked if she should si)eak to Mr. Dusautoy, but the 
 manliness of Mr. Kendal's character revolted from putting off 
 a confession upon his wife ; so he went to church the next 
 morning, and saw the vicar afterwards. 
 
 Mr. l)usautoy's first thought was gratitude for the effort that 
 the resolution must have cost both Mr. Kendal and his daughter; 
 his next, how to make the occasion as little trying to their 
 feelings as was consistent with his duty and theirs. He saw 
 Sophy, and tried to draw her out, but, though far from sullen, 
 she did not reply freely. However, he was satisfied, and he 
 wished her, likewise, to consider herself under preparation for 
 Confirmation in the autumn. She did all that he wished 
 quietly and earnestly, but without much remark, her confiilence 
 only came forth wlien her feelings were strongly stirred ; and it 
 was remarkable that throughout this time of preparation there 
 was not the remotest shadow of ill-temper. 
 
 Mr. Kendal insisted that her London doctor should come to 
 see her at the year's end. The improvement had not been all 
 that had been "hoped, but it was decided that though several 
 hours of each day must still be spent on her back, she n\ight 
 move abo\it, join the meals, and do whatever she could without
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. ]47 
 
 over- fatigue. It seemed a great release, but it was a slioclc to 
 find how very little she covild do at first, now that she had lost 
 the habit of exertion, and of disregard of her discomforts. She 
 had quite shot up to more than the ordinary woman's height, and 
 was much taller than her sister — but this hardly gave the advan- 
 tage Albinia had hoped, for she had a weak, overgrown look, and 
 could not help stooping. A number of people in a room, or 
 even the sitting ujiright during a morning call, seemed quite to 
 overcome and exhaust her : but still the return to ordinary life 
 was such great enjoyment, that she endured all with guod 
 temper. 
 
 But now the church-going was possible, a fit of exceeding 
 dread came iipon her. Albinia found her with the tear-s 
 silently rolling down her cheeks, almost as if she were uncon- 
 scious of them. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, I can never do it ! I know what I am. I can't 
 let them say I will keep all the commandments always ! It 
 will not be true !' 
 
 ' It will be true that you have the steadfast purpose, my 
 dear.' 
 
 ' How can it be steadfast when I know I can't V 
 
 It was the old story, and all had to be argued through again 
 — how the obligation was already incurred at her baptism, and 
 how it was needful that she should be sworn to her own ^ide of 
 the great covenant — how the power would be given, and the 
 grace supplied, but that the will and purpose to obey was re- 
 quired — and then Sophy recurred to that blessing of the cross 
 for which she longed so earnestly, and which again Albinia 
 feared she was regarding in the light of a talisman. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars was to be her godfather. JNlr. Kendal had 
 wished Aunt Winifred, as Lucy called her, to be the godmother, 
 but Sophy had begged earnestly for Mrs. Dusautoy, whose 
 kindness had made a great impression. 
 
 There was not much liking between Mrs. Ferrars and Sojihy. 
 Perhaps Sophy had been fretted and angei-ed by her quick, 
 decided ways, and rather disgusted by the enthusiasm of her 
 brother and sister about Fairmead ; and she was not gratified 
 by hearing that Winifred was to accom]iany her husljand in 
 order to try the experiment of a short absence from cares and 
 children. 
 
 Albinia, on the contrary, was highly pleased to have Wini- 
 fred to nurse, and desirous of showing ofi' Sophy's reformation. 
 
 Winifred arrived late in the day, with an invalid look, and a 
 great inclination to pine for her baby. She was so much tired, 
 vhat Albinia took her upstairs very soon, and put her to bed, 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE YOrNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 sittiug with lier almost all tlie evening, hoping that downstairs 
 all was going on well. 
 
 The next morning, too, went off very well. Mr. Ferrars 
 sought a private talk with his old godchild, and though Sophy 
 scarcely answered, she liked his kind, frank, affectionate manner, 
 and showed such feeling as he wished, so that he fully credited 
 all that his sister thought of her. 
 
 Otherwise, Sophy was kept quiet, to save her strength and 
 collect her thoughts. 
 
 At seven o'clock in the evening, there was not a formid- 
 able congregation. Miss Meadows, who had been informed as 
 late as could save offence, had treated it as a freak of Mrs. 
 Kendal, resented the injunction of secrecy, and woidd neither 
 be present herself, nor let her mother come out. Genevieve, 
 three old men, and a child or tv,-o, were the whole number 
 present. The daily service at Bayford was an off'ei'ing made 
 in faith by the vicar, for as yet there was very little atten- 
 dance. ' But,' said Mr. Dusautoy, ' it is the w^/rship of God, 
 not an entertainment to jdease man — it is all nonsense to talk 
 of its answering or not answering.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal was in a state of far greater suffering from 
 shame than his daughter, as indeed he deserved, but he endured 
 it with a gallant, almost touching resignation. He was the only 
 witness of her baptism, and it seemed like a confession, when 
 he had to re])ly to the questions, by whom, and with what 
 words this child had been baptized, when she stood beside 
 him overtopping her little godmother. She stood with tightly- 
 locked hands, and ebbi)ig colour, which came back in a flood 
 ■when Mi\ Dusautoy took her by the hand, and said, * We re- 
 ceive this child into the congregation j' and when he traced 
 the cross on her brow, she stood tremblingly, her lips squeezed 
 close together, and after she returned to her place no one saw 
 her face. 
 
 All)inia, with her brother and Lucy, were at home by the 
 short cut before the carriage could return. She met Sophy at 
 the hall-door, kissed her, and said, ' Now, my dear, you had 
 better lie dovvn, and be quite quiet ;' then followed Winifred 
 into the drawing-room, and took lier .shawl and bonnet from 
 her, lingering for a happy twiliglit conversation. Lucy came 
 down, and went to water her flowers, and by-and-by tea was 
 brought, the gentlemen came in from their walk, and Mr. 
 Kendal asked whether Sophy was tired. Albinia went up to 
 see. She found her on her couch in the morning room, and 
 told her tliat tea was ready. There was something not pro- 
 mising in the voice thjit replied ; and she said,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 14.9 
 
 * No, don't move, my dear, I will bring it to you ; you are 
 tired.' 
 
 ' Ko — I'll go down, thauk you.' It was the gruff voice ! 
 
 ' ludeed you had much better not, my dear. It is only an 
 hour to bed-time, and you would only tire yourself for nothing.' 
 
 ' I'll go.' 
 
 ' You are tired, Sophy,' said her father. ' You had better lie 
 down while you have yovir tea.' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' growled Sophy, as thougli hurt by being 
 told to lie down before company. 
 
 Her fatlier put a sofa-cushion behind her, but though she 
 mumbled s<mie acknowledgment, it was so surly, that Mrs. 
 Ferrars looked up in surprise, and she would not lean back till 
 fatigue gained the ascendancy. Mr. Kendal asking her, got 
 little in reply but such a grunt, that Mrs. Ferrars longed to 
 shake her; but. her father fetched a footstool, and put it under 
 her feet, and grew a little abstracted in his talk, as if watching' 
 her, and his eye had something of the old habitual melancholy. 
 
 So it went on. The night's rest did not carry off the temper. 
 Sophy was monosyllabic, displeased if not attended to, but 
 receiving attention like an afiront ; wanting nothing, but oS'eniled 
 if it were not offt-red. Albinia was exceedingly grieved. She 
 had some suspicion that Sophy might have been hurt by her 
 going to INIrs. Ferrars instead of to her on their return from 
 church, and made an attempt at an apology, but this was snubbed 
 like an additional afiront, and she could only bide the time, 
 and be greatly disappointed at such an exhibition before the 
 guests. 
 
 Winifred looked on, forbearing to hurt Albinia's feelings by 
 remarks, but in private compensating by little outbreaks with 
 her husband, teasing him about his hopeful goddaughter, 
 laughing at Albinia's infatuation, and railing at Mr. Kendal s 
 endurance of the ill-humour, which she declared he promoted. 
 
 JMaurice, as usual, was provoking. He had no notion of 
 giving up his godchild, he said, and he had no doubt that 
 Edmund Kendal could manage his own child his own way. 
 
 ' Because of his great success in that line.' 
 
 * He is not what he was. He uses his sense and principle 
 now, and when they are fairly brought to bear, I know no one 
 whom I would more entirely trust.' 
 
 'Well ! it will be sreat good luck if I do not fall foul of 
 Miss Sophy one of t.hese days, if no one else will 1' 
 
 Winifred was slightly irritable herself from weakness, and on 
 the last morning of her stay she could bear the sight no longer. 
 Sophy had twice been surly to Lucy's good offices, had given
 
 150 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Albinia a look like thunder, and aiiswei-ed her father with a 
 sulky dls[)leasure that made Mrs. Ferrars exclaim, as soon as he 
 had left the room, ' I should never allow a child of mine to 
 gpeak to her father in that manner !' 
 
 Sophy swelled. She did not think Mrs. Ferrars had any 
 riorht to interfere between her and her father. Her silence 
 provoked Winifred to continue, ' I wonder if yon have any 
 compunction for having spoilt all your — all Mrs. Kendal's en- 
 joyment of our visit.' 
 
 * I am not of consequence enough to spoil any one's pleasure.' 
 
 That was the last effort. Albinia came into the room, with 
 little ]\Iaurice holding her hand, and flourishing a whip. He 
 trotted up to the sofa, and began instantly to ' whip sister 
 Sophy ;' serve her right, if I had but the whip, thought Mrs. 
 Ferrars, as his mother hurried to snatch him off. Leaning over 
 Sophy's averted face, she saw a tear under her eyelashes, but 
 took no notice. 
 
 Three seconds after, Sophy reai'ed herself up, and with a rigid 
 face and slow step walked out of the room. 
 
 ' Have you said anything to her V asked Albinia. 
 
 ' 1 could not help it,' said. AVinifred, narrating what had past. 
 * Have I done wrong T 
 
 ' Edmund cannot bear to have anything harsh said to her in 
 these moods, especially about her behaviour to himself. He 
 thinks she cannot help it — but it may be well that slie should 
 know how it appears to other people, for I cannot bear to see 
 his patient kindness spurned. Only, you know, she values it 
 in her heart. I am afraid we shall have a terrible agony now.' 
 
 Albinia was right. It was the wor^t agony poor Sojjhy had 
 ever undergone. She had been all this time ignorant that it 
 was a ci'oss fit, only imagining hei'self cruelly neglected and 
 cast aside for the sake of Mrs. Ferrars ; but the wakening time 
 had either arrived, or had been brought I'y that reproach, and 
 she beheld her conduct in the most abhorrent light. After 
 having desired to be ])ledged to her share of the covenant, and 
 earnestly longed to bear the cross, to be sworn in as soldier and 
 servant, to have put her neck under the yoke of her old master 
 ere the cross had dried upon her brow, to have been meanly 
 jealous, ungrateful, disrespectful, vindictive! ! oh ! misery, misery! 
 hopeless misery ! She would take no word of comfort when 
 All)inia tried to persuade her that it had been partly tlie 
 reaction of a mind wrought up to an occasion very simple in its 
 externals, and of a body fatigued by exertion ; and then in warm- 
 hearted candour professed that she herself had been thoughtless 
 in neglecting Sophy for Winifred. Still less comfort would she
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. ]51 
 
 take in her father's free forgiveness, and his sad entreaties that 
 she would not treat these fits of low spirits as a crime, for they 
 were not her fault, but that of her constitution. 
 
 ' Then one can't helj? being hateful and wicked ! Nothing is 
 of any use ! I had rather you had told me I was mad !' said 
 poor Sophy. 
 
 She was so spent and exhausted with weeping, that she could 
 not come down — indeed, between grief and nervousness she 
 would not eat ; and Albinia found Mr. Kendal mournfully 
 persuading her, when a stern command would have done moi'e 
 good. Albinia spoke it : * Sophy, you have put your father to a 
 great deal of pain already ; if you are really grieving over it, 
 you will not hurt him more by making yourself ill.' 
 
 The strong will came into action on the right side, and So{)hy 
 sat up, took what was offered, bub what was she that they should 
 care for her, when she had spoilt mamma's pleasure 1 Better 
 go and be happy with Mrs. Ferrars. 
 
 Sophy's next visitor came up with a manly tread, and she 
 almost feared that she had made herself ill enough for the 
 doctor ; but it was Mi'. Ferrars, with a kind face of pitying 
 sympathy. 
 
 ' May I come to wish my godchild good-bye f he said. 
 
 Sophy did not speak, and he looked compiissionately at the 
 prone dejection of the whole figure, and the jiale, sallow face, so 
 piteously mournful. He took her hand, and began to tell her 
 of the godfather's pi^eseut, that he had brought her — a little 
 book of devotions intended for the time when she should be con- 
 firmed. Sophy uttered a feeble ' thank you,' but a hopeless one. 
 
 ' Ah I yovx are feeling as if nothing would do you any good,' 
 said Mr. Ferrars. 
 
 ' Papa says so !' she answered. 
 
 'Not quite,' said Mr. Feriars. 'He knows that your low- 
 spirits are the effect of temperament and health, and that you 
 are not able to prevent yourself from feeling unha})py and 
 aggrieved. And perhaps you reckoned on too much sensible 
 effect from Church ordinances. Now joy, help, all these blessings 
 are seldom revealed to our consciousness, but are matters of 
 faith ; and yovi must be content to work on in faith in the dark, 
 before you feel comfort. I caiuiot but hope that if you will 
 struggle, even when you are hurt and annoyed, to avoid the 
 ex))ression of vexation, the morbid temper will wear out, and 
 you will both be tempted and suffer less, as you grow older. 
 And, Sophy — forgive me for asking— do you pray in this un- 
 happy state V 
 
 ' T cannot. It is not true.'
 
 152 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 
 
 ' Make it true. Take some verse of a Psalm. Shall I mark 
 you some 1 Repeat them, even if you seeui to yourself not to 
 feel them. There is a holy power that will work on you at 
 last ; and when you can truly pray, the dark hour will pass.' 
 
 ' Mark them,' said Sophy. 
 
 There was some space, while she gave him the book, and he 
 showed her the verses. Then he rose to go. 
 
 ' I wish I had not spoilt the visit,' she said, wistfully, at last. 
 
 * We shall see you again, and we shall know each other 
 better,' he said, kindly, ' You are my godchild now, Sophy, 
 and you know that I must remember you constantly in prayer.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she faintly said. 
 
 ' And will you promise me to try my remedy 1 I think it 
 will soften your heart to the graces of the Blessed Comforter. 
 And even if all seem gloom within, look out, see others happy, 
 try to rejoice with them, and peace will come in ! Now, good- 
 bye, my dear godchild, and the God of Peace bless you, and 
 give you rest. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. DUSAUTOY had given notice of the day of the Con- 
 firmation, wlien Mr. Kendal called his wife. 
 
 * I woudei-,' he said, ' my dear, whether Sophia can spare you 
 to take a walk with me before church.' 
 
 Sophy, who was well aware that a walk with him was the 
 greatest and rarest treat to his wife, gave gracious permission, 
 and in a few minutes they were walking by the briglit canal- 
 side, under the calm evening sunshine and deep blue sky of 
 early autumn. 
 
 Mr. Kendal said not a word, and Albinia, leaning on his arm, 
 listened, as it were, to the stillness, or rather to the sounds that 
 marked it — the curding of the little streams let ofi' into the 
 water-cour.ses in the meadows; the occasional plunge of the rat 
 from the banks ; the sounds from the town, softened by distance ; 
 and the far-off cawings of the rooks, which she could just see 
 wheeling about as little black sjiecks over the jilantations of 
 Woodside, or watching the swallows assembling for de})arture 
 sitting in long ranks, like an ornament along the roof of a neigh- 
 bouring l>arn. 
 
 Lour' lone it was l)efore Mr. Kendal broke silence, but when 
 at length he did .s])eak, his words amazed her extremely. 
 
 Albiuia, poor Sophia's admission into the Church has not
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEIl. 153 
 
 beeu the only neglect. I have never been confirmed. I intend 
 to speak to Dusautoy this evening, but I thought you would wish 
 to know it first.' 
 
 ' Thank you. I suppose you went out to India too young.' 
 ' Poor Maria says truly that no one tliought of these things ia 
 our day, at least so far as we were concerned. I must explain 
 to you, Albiuia, how it is that I see things very differently now 
 from tlie light in which I once viewed them. I was sent home 
 from India, at six years old, to correspondents and relations to 
 whom I was a burthen. I was placed at a private school, wherf> 
 the treatment was of the harsh style so common in those days. 
 The boys always had more tasks than they could accomplish, 
 and were kept employed by being always in arrears with their 
 lessons. This pressed less heavily u])on me than on most ; but 
 though I seldom incurred punishment, there was a sort of 
 hard distrust of me, I believe because the master could 
 not easily overwhelm me with work, so as to liave me in 
 his power. I know I was often unjustly treated, and I uevei 
 was popular.' 
 
 ' Yes, I can imagine you exti-emely miserable.' 
 ' You can understand my resolution that my boys should not 
 be sent to England to be homeless, and how I judged all sclioola 
 by my own experience. I stayed there too late, till I waa 
 beyond both tormentors and masters, and was left to an uu- 
 limited appetite tor books, chiefly poetry. Our religious instruc- 
 tion was a n\xllity, and I am only surprised that the results were 
 not worse. India was not likely to supply what education had 
 omitted. Looking back on old journals and the like, I am 
 astonislied to see how unsettled rny notions were — my subli- 
 mity, which was really ignorant childishness, and yet my perfect 
 unconsciousness of my want of Christianity.' 
 
 ' I dare say you cannot believe it was yourself, any more than 
 I can. What brought other thoughts?' 
 
 ' Practical obligations made me somewhat less dreamy, and 
 my dear boy, Edumnd, did much for me, but all so insensibly, 
 that I can remember no marked change. I do not know whether 
 you will understand me, when I say that I had attained to some- 
 what of what I should call personal religion, such as we often 
 find ai)art from the Church.' 
 
 * But, Ednnind, you always were a Churelnnan.' 
 ' 1 was ; but T viewed the Church merely as an establishment 
 — liuman, not divine. I had learnt faith from Holy Scripture, 
 from my boy, from the infants who passed away so quickly, and 
 I better understood how to direct the devotional tendencies that 
 I had never been without ; but the sacramental system had never
 
 154 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 dawned or. my comprehension, nor the real meaning of Christian 
 fellowshi^j. Thence my isohitiou.' 
 
 ' You had never fairly seen the Church.' 
 
 ' Never. It miglit have made a great difference to me if 
 Dusautoy had been here at the time of my trouble. When he 
 did come, I had sunk into a state whence 1 could not rouse 
 myself to understand his principles. I can hardly describe how- 
 intolerable my life had become. I was almost resolved on re- 
 turning to India. I believe I should have done so if you had 
 not come to my rescue.' 
 
 ' What would you have done with the children V 
 
 ' To say the truth I had idolized their brother to such an 
 exclusive degree, that I could not turn to the others when he 
 Avas taken from me. I deserved to lose him ; and since I have 
 seen this unfortunate strain of melancholy developed in poor 
 Sophia, who so much resembles him, I have been the more 
 reconciled to his having beau removed. I never understood 
 what the others miglit be until you drew them out.' 
 
 Albinia paused, afraid to press his reserve too far ; and the 
 next thing she said w^as, ' I think I understand your distinction 
 between personal religion and sacramental truth. It explains 
 what has often puzzled me about good devout jjeople who did 
 not belong to the Church. The Visible Church cannot save 
 without this individual personal religion ; but without having 
 
 recourse to the Church, there is ' she could not find the 
 
 word. 
 
 ' There is a loss of external aid,' he said ; ' nay, of much more. 
 There is no certainty of receiving the benefits linked by Divine 
 Power to her ordinances. Faith, in fact, while acknowledging 
 the great Object of Faith, refuses or neglects to exercise herself 
 iipon the very subjects which He has set before her ; and, in 
 effect, would accept Him on her terms, not on His own.' 
 
 ' It was not refusal on your part,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' No, it was rather indifference and imaginary superiority. 
 But 1 have read and thought much of late, and see more clearly. 
 If I thought of this rite of Confirmation at all, it was only as a 
 means of impressing young minds. I now see every evidence 
 that it is the completion of Baptism.al grace, and without, like 
 poor Sophia, expecting that effects would ever have been per- 
 cejitible, I think that had I known how to seek after the Si)irit 
 of Counsel and Ghostly Strength, I might have given way less 
 to the infirmities of my chai-acter. and have been less wilfully 
 insensible to obvious duties.' 
 
 * Then you have made up your mind f 
 
 'Yes. I shall speak to Mr. Dusautoy at once.'
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. ] 55 
 
 'And,' she said, feeling for his sensitive shyness, 'no one else 
 need know it — at least — ' 
 
 ' I should not wish to conceal it from the children,' he 
 answered, with his scrupulous candour. He was supine when 
 thought more ill of than he deserved, but he always defended 
 himself from undeserved credit. 
 
 ' Whom do you think I have for a candidate V said Mr. 
 Dusautoy that evening. 
 
 ' Another now ! I thought you were talking to Mr. Kendal 
 about the onslaught on the Pringle pew.' 
 
 ' What do you think of my churchwarden himself?' 
 
 * You don't mean that he has never been contirmed !' 
 
 ' So he tells me. He went out to India yoimg, and was 
 never in tlie way of such things. Well, it will be a great 
 example.' 
 
 ' Take care what you do. He will never endure having it 
 talked of.' 
 
 ' I think he has made up his mind, and is above all nonsense. 
 I am sure it is well that I need not examine him. I should 
 soon get beyond my depth.' 
 
 ' And what good did his depth ever do to him,' indignantly 
 cried Mrs. Dusautoy, ' till that dear good wife of his took liim 
 in hand? Don't you remember what a log he was when first 
 we came — how I used to say he gave you subscriptions to get 
 rid of you.' 
 
 'Well, well, Fanny, what's the use of recollecting all our 
 foolish first impressions. I always told jo\\ he was the most 
 able man in the parish.' 
 
 ' Fanny' laughed merrily at this piece of sngacit}^ as she said, 
 * Ay, the most able, and the least practicable ; and the best ot 
 it is, that his wife has not the most distant idea that she has 
 been the making of him. She neai'ly quarrelled with me for 
 hinting it. She would have it that " Edmund" had it all in 
 him, and had only recovered his health and spirits.' 
 
 And, indeed, it was no wonder she was happy. This step, 
 taken of free will by Mr. Kendal, was an evidence not only of 
 a powerful reasoning intellect bowed to an act of simple faith, 
 but of a victory over the false shame that had always been a 
 part of his nature. Nor did it apparently cost him as much as 
 his consent to Sophy's admission into the Chiu-ch ; the first 
 eflfort had been the greatest, and he was now too much taken 
 up with deep thoughts of devotion to be sensitive as to the 
 eyes and remarks of the Avorld. The very resolution to bend in 
 faithful obedience to a rite usually belonging to eai'ly youth 
 and not obviously enforced to human reason, nor made an
 
 156 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 express condition of salvation, was as a pleilge that ho would 
 strive to walk for the. future in the path of self-denying 
 obedience. Who that saw the manly well-knit form kneeling 
 amons the slight youthful ones around, and the thoughtful, 
 
 1-11 
 
 sorrow- marked brow bowed down beneath the Apostolic hand, 
 could doubt that such faith and such humble obedience would 
 surely be endowed with a full measure of the Spirit of Ghostly 
 Might, to lead him on in his battle with himself] Those young 
 ones needed the ' sevenfold veil between them and the fires of 
 youth,' but surely the freshening and renewing came most 
 blessedly to the man weary already with sin and woe, and tii-ed 
 out alike with himself and the world, because he had lived to 
 himself alona 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 OLD Mr. Pringle never stirred beyond his parlour, and was 
 invisible to every one, except his househeeper and doctor, 
 but his tall, square, curtained pew was jealously locked up, and 
 was a grievance to the vicar, who having been foiled in several 
 attempts, was meditating a fresh one, if, as he told his wife, he 
 could bring his churchwarden up to the scratch, when one 
 Sunday morning the congregation was electrified by the sound 
 of a creak and a shake, and beheld a stout hale sunburnt gentle- 
 man, fighting with the disused door, and finally gaining the 
 victoi-y Ijy strength of hand, admitting himself and a boy among 
 the dust and the cobwebs. 
 
 Had Mr. Pringle, or rather his housekeeper, made a virtue of 
 necessity 1 and if so, who could it be ? 
 
 Albinia hailed the event as a fertile source of conjecture 
 which might stave off dangerous subjects in tlie Sunday call ; 
 but tliere was no op|)ortunity for any discussion, for Maria was 
 popping about, settling and unsettling everything and every- 
 body, in a stnte of greater confusion than ever, inextricably 
 entangling her inquiries for Soi)hy with her explanations al)Out 
 the rheumatism which had kept grandmamma from church, 
 and juniping up to pull down the Venetian blind, which 
 descended awry, and went up worse. The lines got into such a 
 hopeless complication, that Albinia came to help her, while Mr. 
 Kendal stood dutifully l)y the fire, in the sentry-like manner in 
 which he always j)assed that hour, bending now and then to 
 listen and respond to some meek remark of old Mrs. Meadows, 
 »ud now and then originating one. As to assisting Maria
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 157 
 
 ill any pother, he well knew that would be a vain act of 
 chivalry, and he generally contrived to be insensible to her 
 turmoils. 
 
 ' Who could that have been in old Pringle's seat?' he presently 
 began, appropriating Albinia's cherislicd morsel of gossip ; but 
 lie was not allowed to enjoy it, for Miss Meadows broke out, 
 ' Oh, Edmund! this blind; I beg your pardon, but if you would 
 help—' 
 
 He was obliged to move to the window, and nervously 
 clutching his arm, she whispered, 'You'll excuse it, I know, but 
 don't mention it — not a word to mamma.' Mr. Kendal looked 
 at Albinia to gather what could be this dreadful subject, but 
 the next words made it no longer doubtful. ' Ah, you were 
 away , there's no use in explaining — but not a word of Sam 
 Pringle. It would only make her uneasy — ' she gasped in a 
 floundering whisper, stopping suddenly short, for at that moment 
 tlie stranger and his son were entering the garden, so near 
 them, that they might have seen the three pairs of eyes levelled 
 on them, through the wide open end of the unfortunate blind, 
 which was now in the shape of a fan. 
 
 Albinia's cheeks ghjwed with sympathy, and she longed for 
 the power of helping her, marvelling how a being so nervously 
 restless and devoid of self-command could pass through a scene 
 likely to be so trying. The bell sounded, and the loud hearty 
 tones of a manly voice were heard. Albinia looked to see 
 whether her help were needed, but Miss Meadows's whole face 
 was brightened, and moving across the room witli i;nusua!ly even 
 steps,she leant on the arm of her mother's chair,saying, ' IMamma, 
 it is Captain Pringle. You remember Samuel Pringle 1 He 
 settled in the Mauritius, you know, and he was at church thi.=i 
 morning with his little boy.' 
 
 There was something piteous in the searching look of inquiry 
 that Mrs. Meadows cast at her daughter's face ; but Maria had 
 put it aside with an atlemjjt at a smile, as 'Captain Pringle' 
 was announced. 
 
 He trod hard, and spoke loud, and his curly grizzled hair was 
 thrown back from a bronzed open face, full of broad heartiness, 
 as he walked in with outstntched hand, exclaiming, ' Well, and 
 how do you do?' shaking with all his might the hand that 
 Maria held out. ' And how are you, INIrs. Meadows'? You see 
 I could not help coming back to see old friends.' 
 
 'Old friends are always welcome, sir,' said the old lady, 
 warmly, 'My son, Mr. Kendal, sir — Mrs. Kendal,' she added, 
 with a becoming old-fisliioned movement of introduction. 
 
 * Very glad to meet you,' said the captain, extending to each
 
 158 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 sucli a hearty shake of the hand, that Albinia suspected he was 
 taking lier on trust for Maria's sister. 
 
 ' Your little boy V asked JMrs. Meadows. 
 
 ' Ay — Arthui', come and make the most of yourself, my man,' 
 «aid he, thumping the shy boy on the back to give him courage. 
 ' I've brought him home for his schooling — quite time, you see, 
 though what on earth I'm to do without him — ' 
 
 The boy looked miserable at the words. * Ay, ay,' con- 
 tinued his father, 'you'll do well enough. I'm not afraid for 
 you, mastei', but that you'll be happy as your father was 
 before you, when once you have fellows to play with you. 
 Here is Mr. Kendal will tell you so.' 
 
 It was an unfortunate appeal, but Mr. Kendal made the 
 best of it, saying that his boy was very happy at his tutor's. 
 
 ' A private tutor, eh V said the rough captain ; ' I'd not 
 thought of that — neither home nor school. I had rather do it 
 thoroughly, and trust to numbers to choose friends from, and 
 be licked into shape.' 
 
 Poor little Arthur looked as if the process would be severe ; 
 and by way of consolation, Mrs. Meadows suggested a piece of 
 Ciike. Maria moved to ring the bell. It was the first time 
 tihe had stirred since the visitor came in. and he getting up at 
 the same time, that she might not trouble herself, their eyes 
 met. ' I'm very glad to see you again,' he exclaimed, catching 
 hold of her hand for another shake; ' bvit, bless me ! you are 
 sadly altered ! I'm sorry to see you looking so ill.' 
 
 ' We all grow old, you know,' said I\Iaria, endeavouring to 
 smile, but half strangled by a teai', and looking at that moment 
 as she miglit have done long ago. 'You find many changes.' 
 
 'I hope you find Mr. Pringle pretty well,' said Albinia, 
 thinking this might be a relief; and accordingly, the kiud- 
 hearted caj)tain began I'uefnlly to describe the sad alterations 
 that time had wrought. Then he explained that he had had 
 little correspondence with home, and had only landed three 
 days since, so that he was ignorant of all Bayford tidings, and 
 began asking after a multitude of old friends and acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 The Kendals thought all would go on the better in their 
 absence, and escaped frc^m the x-ecord of deaths and marriages, 
 each observing to tlie other as they left the house, that there 
 could be little doubt that nurse's story was true, but both 
 amazed by tlie effect on Maria, who had never been seen before 
 to sit so long quiet in her chair. Was his wife alivel Albinia 
 thought not, but could not be certain. His ])resence was 
 evidently happiness to Mi.ss Meadows; but would this last 2
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 159 
 
 Would this renewal soothe her, or only make her more rostlesa 
 and unhappy 'I 
 
 Albinia found that Sophy's imagination had been quicker 
 than her own. Lucy had brought home the great news of the 
 stranger, and she had leapt at once to the conclusion that it 
 must be the hero of nurse's story : but she had had the resolu- 
 tion to keep the secret from her sister, who was found reproach- 
 ing her with making mysteries. When Lucy heard that it was 
 Captain Pringle, she was quite provoked. 
 
 'Only Mr.Prhigle's nephew !' she said, disdainfully. ' What 
 was the use of making a fuss 1 I thought it was some one in- 
 teresting !' 
 
 Sophy was able to walk to church in the evening, but was 
 made to go in to rest at the vicarage before returning home. 
 While this was being discussed before the porcli, Albinia felt a 
 pressure on her arm, and looking round, saw Maria Meadows. 
 ' Can you spare me a few moments V she said ; and Albinia 
 turned aside with her to the flagged terrace path between the 
 churchyard and vicarage garden, in the light of a half-moon. 
 
 'You were so kind this moi-niug,' began Maria, 'that I 
 thought — you see it is very awkward — not that I have any idea 
 — but if you would speak to Edmund— I know he is not in the 
 habit — morning visits and — ' 
 
 ' Do you wish him to call 1 He had been thinking of it.' 
 
 Maria would have been unbounded in her gratitude, but 
 catching herself up, she disclaimed all personal interest — only 
 she said Edmund knew nothing of anything that had passed — 
 if he did, he would see they would feel — 
 
 ' I think,' said Albinia, kindly, ' that we do know that you 
 had some trouVjles on that score. Old nurse said something to 
 Sophy, but no other creature knows it.' 
 
 ' Ah !' exclaimed Maria, ' that is what comes of trusting any 
 one. I was so ill when I found out how it had been, that I 
 could not keep it from nurse, but from mamma I did — my 
 poor father being just gone and all — I could not have had her 
 know how much I felt it — the discovery I mean — and it is 
 wliat I wish her never to do. But oh ! Mrs. Kendal, think 
 what ic was to find out that when I had been thinking he had 
 been only trifling with me all those years, to find that he had 
 been so unkindly treated. There was his own dear letter to 
 me never unsealed ; and there wiis another to my father saying 
 in a proud-spirited way that he did not know what he had done 
 to be so served, and he wished I might find hajipiness, for I 
 would never find one that loved me as well. 1 who had turned 
 against him in ray heart !'
 
 160 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTTTER. 
 
 ' It was cruel indeed ! And yon kept it from j'our mother !' 
 said Albinia, befrinnins; to hononr her. 
 
 ' My poor father was just gone, you know, and I could not be 
 grieving her with what was passed and over, and letting her 
 know tliat my father had broken my heart, as indeed I think 
 be did, though he meant it all for the best. But oh ! I thought 
 it hai-d when Lucy had married tlie handsomest man. in, the 
 country, and gone out to India, witliout a word against it, that 
 I might not please myself, because I was papa's favourite.' 
 
 ' It was very hai"d not to be made aware of his intentions.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Maria ; 'for it gave me such a bitter, restless feeling 
 against him — though I ought to have known him better than 
 to think he would give one minute's pain he could help; and 
 then when I knew the truth, the bitterness all went to poor 
 papa's memory, and yet perhaps he never meant to be unkind 
 either.' 
 
 Albinia said some kind words, and Maria went on : 
 
 ' But what I wantod to say was this — Please don't let mamma 
 suspect one bit about it ; and next, if Edmund would not mind 
 showing him a little attention. Do you think he would, my 
 dear ? I do so wish that he should not think we were hurt by 
 his marriajre ; and vou see, two lone women can do nothiujr to 
 make it agreeable ; besides that, it would not be proper.' 
 
 ' Is his wife living V 
 
 'My dear, I could not make np my tongue to ask — the poor 
 dear boy thei-e and all — but it is all the same. I hope she is, 
 for I would not see him unhappy ; and you don't imagine I 
 have any folly in my head — oh, no ! for I know what a fi-ight 
 the fret and the wear of this have made me ; and besides, I 
 never could leave mamma. So I trust his wife is living to make 
 him happy, and T shall be more at ]ieace now I have seen him 
 again, since he turned his horse at Hobble's Leigh, and said I 
 shovild soon hear from him again.' 
 
 ' Indeed I think you will be happier. There is something 
 very soothing in taking up old feelings and la3'ing them to rest. 
 I hojje even now there is less pain than pleasure.' 
 
 * I can't help it,' said ISIaria. * I do hoi^e it is not wrong ; 
 but his very voice has got the old tone in it, as if it were the old 
 lulliiby that my poor heart has been beating for all these year.s.' 
 
 Who Avould have thought of IMai'ia speaking poetically? 
 But her words did indeed seem to be the truth. In spite of the 
 embarrassment of her situation and the flutter of lu;r feelings, 
 she was in a state of composure unexampled. Albinia had just 
 gratified her greatly by a few words on Ca])tain Priugle's 
 evident good-nature, when a ti'cad came behind tliem.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MoTHER. 161 
 
 * Ha ! you here V exclaimed the loud honest voice. 
 
 ' We were taking a turn in the moonlight,' aaid Albiuia. 
 * A beautiful night.' 
 
 ' Beautiful ! Arthur and I have been a bit of the way home 
 with old Goldsmith. There's an evergreen, to be sure ; and 
 now — are you bound homewards, Maria V 
 
 Maria clung to Albinia's arm. Perhaps in the days of the 
 last parting, she had been less careful to be with a chaperon. 
 
 'Ah! I forgot,' said the captain ;' your way lies the other 
 side of the hill. I had very nearly walked into Willow Lawn 
 this morning, only luckily I bethought me of asking.' 
 
 ' I hope you will yet walk into Willow Lawn,' said Albinia. 
 
 * Ah ! thank you ; I should like to see the old place. I 
 dare say it may be transmogrified now, but I think I could 
 find my way blindfold about the old garden. I say, Maria, do 
 you remember that jolly tea-party on the lawn, when the frog 
 made one too many V 
 
 ' That I do — ' Maria could not utter moi-e, and Albinia said 
 she was afraid he would miss a great deal. 
 
 * I reckoned on that when I came home. Changes every- 
 where ; but after the one great change,' he added, mournfully, 
 ' the others tell less. One has the less heart to care for an old 
 tree or an old path.' 
 
 Albinia felt sure he could mean only one great change, but 
 they were now at Mrs. Meadows's door, and IMaria wished them 
 good night, giving a most grateful squeeze of the hand to Mrs. 
 Kendal. 
 
 * Where are you bound now V asked the captain. 
 
 ' Back to the vicarage, to take up my husband and the girls,' 
 said Albiuia ; ' but good night. I am not afraid.' 
 
 The captain, however, chose to continue a squire of dames, 
 and walked at her side, presently giving utterance to a sound 
 of commiseration. ' Ah ! well, poor Maria, I never thought to 
 see her so altered. Why, she had the prettiest bloom — I dare 
 say you remember — but, I beg your pardon, somehow I thought 
 you were her elder sister.' 
 
 'Mr. Kendal's first wife was,' said Albinia, pitying the poor 
 man ; but Captain Pringle was not a man for awkwardness, and 
 the short whistle with which he received her answer set her off 
 laughing. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he said, recovering himself ; ' but you see 
 I am all astray, like a man buried aud dug up again, so no 
 wonder I make strange blunders ; and my poor uncle is grown 
 so childish, that he does not know one person from another, and 
 began bv telling me Maria Meadows had married and gone out 
 
 M
 
 162 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 to India. I had not had a letter these seven years, so I thought 
 it was high time to bring my boy home, and renew old times, 
 though how I am ever to go back without him — ' 
 
 * Is he your only one ?' 
 
 ' Yes. I lost his mother when he was six years old, and we 
 have been all the world to each other since, till I began to think 
 I was spoiling him outright, and it was time he should see what 
 Old England was made of.' 
 
 Alhinia had something like a discovery to impai't now ; but 
 she hated the sense of speculating on the poor man's intentions. 
 He talked so much, that he saved her trouble in replying, and 
 presently resumed the subject of Maria's looks. 
 
 ' She has had a harassed life, I fear,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Eh ! old Meadows was a terrible old tyrant, I believe ; but 
 she was his pet. I thought he refused her nothing — but there's 
 no trusting such a Turk ! Oh ! ah ! I dare say,' as if replying 
 to somethinsj within. And then having: come to the vicarafre 
 v/icket, Albinia took leave of him and ran indoors, answering 
 the astonished queries as to how slie had been employed, ' Walk- 
 ing home with Aunt Maria and Captain Pringle !' 
 
 It was leather a relief at such a juncture that Lucy's curious 
 eyes should be removed. Mr. Ferrars came to talk his wife's 
 state over with his sister. Her children were too much for 
 Winifred, and he wished to borrow Lucy for a few weeks, till a 
 governess could be found for them. 
 
 It struck Albinia that this would be an excellent thing for 
 Genevieve Durant, and she at once contrived to ask her to tea, 
 and privately propound the plan. 
 
 Genevieve faltered much of thanks, and said that Madame was 
 very good ; but the next morning a note was brought in, which 
 caused a sudden change of countenance : 
 
 * My dear Madame, 
 
 'I was so overwhelmed with your Icindnesf? last night, and so un- 
 willing to appear ungrateful, that perhaps I left yovi under a false injpres- 
 Bion. I entreat you not to enter on the suhject with my grandniainnia or 
 my aunt. They would grieve to prevent what they would think for my 
 advantage, and would, I am but too sure, make any sacrifice on my 
 account ; but they are no longer young, and though my aunt does not 
 perceive it, I know that the real work of the school dejiends on me, and 
 that she could not support the fatigue if left unassisted. They need their 
 little G^nevibvc, likewise, to anmse them in their evenings ; and, forgive 
 me, madame, I could not, without ingratitude, forsake them now. Thus, 
 thougli with the utmost sense of your kindness, 1 must beg of you to 
 pardon me, and not to think me ungratcl'ul if I decline the situation sc» 
 kindly offered to me by Mr. Ferrars, thanking you ten thousand times for 
 your too partial recommendation, and entreating you to pardon 
 ' Your most grateful and Innnble .servant, 
 
 •Genevikve Celeste Dorant/
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 163 
 
 'There!' said Albinia, tossing the note to her brother, w!io 
 svas the only person jjresent excepting Gilbert. 
 
 ' Poor Albiuia/ he said ; *it is hard to be disappointed in a bit 
 of patronage.' 
 
 ' I never meant it as patronage,' said Albinia, slightly hurt. 
 * I thought it would help you, and rescue her from that school. 
 There will she spend the best years of her life in giving a second- 
 rate education to third-rate girls, not one of whose parents can 
 appreciate her, till she will grow as wizened and as wooden as 
 Mademoiselle herself 
 
 'Happily,' said Mr. Ferrars, 'there are worse things tlian 
 being spent in one's duty. She may be doing an important 
 woi'k in her sphere.' 
 
 ' So does a horse in a mill,' exclaimed Albinia ; ' but you 
 would not put a hunter there. Yes, yes, I know, education, 
 and these girls wanting right teaching ; but she, poor child, has 
 'been but half educated hei'self, and has not time to improve 
 herself If she does good, it is by force of sheer goodness, for 
 they all look down upon her, as much as vulgarity can upon 
 refinement.' 
 
 ' I told her so,' exclaimed Gilbert ; ' I told her it was the 
 only way to teach them what she was worth.' 
 
 ' What did you know of the matter V asked Albinia ; and the 
 colour mounted in the boy's face as he muttered, ' She was over- 
 come when she came down ; she said you had been so kind, and 
 we were obliged to walk up and down before she could compose 
 herself, for she did not want the old ladies to know anything 
 about it.' 
 
 ' And did she not wish to go V 
 
 ' No ; though I did the best I could. I told her what a jolly 
 place it was, and that the children would be a perfect holiday to 
 her. And I showed her it would not be like going away, for 
 she might come over here whenever she pleased ; and when I 
 have my horse, T would come and bring her word of the old 
 la,dies once a week.' 
 
 ' Inducements, indeed !' said Mr. Eerrars. ' And she could 
 not be melted by any of these V 
 
 ' No,' said Gilbert ; ' she would not hear of leaving the old 
 women. She was only afraid it would vex Mrs. Kendal, and 
 she could not bear not to take the advice of so kind a fi-iend, 
 she said. You are not going to be angry with her,' he added. 
 
 ' No,' said Albinia ; ' one cannot but honour her motives, 
 though I think she is mistaken ; and I am sorry for her ; but 
 she knows better than to be afraid of me.' 
 
 With which assurance Gilbert quitted the room ; and tho 
 
 m2
 
 16i THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 next moment, hearing the front door, she exclaimed, * I do be- 
 lieve he is gone to tell her how I took the announcement.' 
 
 Maiirice gave a significant ' Hem !' to which his sister re- 
 plied, ' Nonsense !' 
 
 'Very romantic consolations and confidences.' 
 
 ' Not at all. They have been used to each other all their 
 lives, and he used to be the only person who knew how to be- 
 have to her, so no wonder they are great friends. As to any- 
 thing else, she is nineteen, and he not sixteen.' 
 
 ' One "I'eat use of goino; to school is to save lads from that 
 silly pastime. I advise you to look to these moonlight escort- 
 ings !' 
 
 ' One would think you were an old dowager, Maurice. I 
 suppose Colonel Bury may not escort Miss Mary.' 
 
 ' Ah, Albinia, you are a very naughty child still.' 
 
 ' Of course, when you are here to kc^ep me in order ; I wish 
 I never were so at other times when it is not so safe.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal was kind and civil to Captain Pringle, and 
 thoxigh the boisterous manner seemed to affect him like a thun- 
 derstorm, Maria imagined they were delighted with one another, 
 
 Maria was strangely serene and happy ; her querulous, ner- 
 vous manner smoothed away, as if rest had come to her at last ; 
 and even if the renewed intercourse were only to result in a 
 friendship, there was ho])e that the troubled spirit had found 
 repose now that misvmderstaudings were over, and the sore 
 sense of ill-usage appeased. 
 
 Yet Albinia was startled when one day Mr. Kendal summoned 
 her, saying, ' It is all over ; she has refused him !' 
 
 ' Impossible ; she could only have left half her sentence un- 
 said.' 
 
 ' Too certain. She will not leave her mother.' 
 
 ' Is that all r 
 
 ' Of course it is. He told me the whole affair, and certainly 
 ]Mr. Meadows was greatly to blame. He let Maria give this 
 man every encouragement, believing his ])roperty largei', and 
 his expectations more secure than was the case ; and when the 
 proposal was made, having discovered his mistake, he sent a 
 peremptory refusal, giving him reason to suppose her a party to 
 the jejection. Captain Pringle sailed in auger; but it appears 
 that his return has revived his former feelings, and that he has 
 found out that poor Maria was a greater sufl'erer than him- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Why does he come to you V 
 
 ' To consult me. He wishes me to persuade poor old Mrs. 
 Meadows to go out to the Mauritius, which is clearly impossible;
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 165 
 
 but Maria must not be sacrificed again. Would the Drnrys 
 make her comfortable ? Or could she not live alone with her 
 maid V 
 
 ' She might live here.' 
 
 * Albinia ! Think a little.' 
 
 'lean think of nothing else. Let her have the morning- 
 room, and Sophy's little room, and Lucy and I would do our 
 best for her.' 
 
 ' No, that is out of the question. I would not impose such a 
 charge upon you on any consideration !' 
 
 Albinia's face became humble and remorseful. * Yes,' she 
 said, ' perhaps I am too impatient and flighty.' 
 
 ' That was not what I meant,' he said ; ' but I do not think 
 it right that a person with no claims of relationship should be 
 made a burthen on you.' 
 
 ' No claims, Edmund,' said she, softly. ' In whose place have 
 you put me f 
 
 He was silent : then said, ' No, it must not be, my kind 
 Albinia. She is a very good old lady, but Sophy and she would 
 clash, and I cannot expose the child to such a trial.' 
 
 * I dare say you are right,' pensively said Albinia, perceiving 
 that her plan had been inconsiderate, and that it would require 
 the wisdom, tact, and gentleness of a model woman to deal 
 with such discordant elements. ' What are you going to do V 
 as he took up his hat. ' Are you going to see Maria 1 May I 
 come with you V 
 
 ' If you please ; but do not mention this notion. There is 
 no necessity for such a tax on you ; and such arrangements 
 should never be rashly made.' 
 
 He asked whether Miss Meadows could see him. and awaited 
 her alone in the dining-room, somewhat to the surprise of hia 
 wife ; but either he felt that there was a long arrear of kind- 
 ness owing, or feai'ed to trust Albinia's impulsive generosity. 
 
 Meantime Albinia found the poor old lady in much uneasi- 
 ness and distress. Her daughter fancied it riglit to keep her in 
 ignorance of the crisis ; but Maria was not the woman to con- 
 ceal her feelings, and her nervous misery had i-evealed all that 
 she most wished to hide. Too timid to take her confidence by 
 storm, her mother had only exchanged surmises and observa- 
 tions with Betty, and was in a troubled condition of aflfection- 
 ate curiosity and anxiety. Albinia was a welcome visitor, 
 since it was a great relief to hear what had really taken place, 
 and to know that Mr. Kendal was with jNIaria. 
 
 -Ah ! that is kind,' she said; 'but he must tell her not to 
 think of me. I am an old woman, good for nothing but to bo
 
 166 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 pnt out of the way, and she has gone through quite enough ! 
 You will not let her give it up ! Tell her I have not many 
 tnore yeai's to live, and anything is good enough for me.' 
 
 ' That would- hardly comfort her,' said Albiuia, affectionately; 
 *but indeed, dear grandmamma, I hope we shall convince her 
 *hat we can do something to supply her place.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear, you are very kind, but nobody can be like a 
 daughter ! But don't tell Maria so — poor dear love — she may 
 never have another chance. Such a beautiful place out there, 
 and Mr. Pringle's property must come to him at last ! Bless 
 me, what will Sarah Drury say 1 And such a good attentive 
 man — besides, she never would hear of any one else — her poor 
 papa never knew — Oh ! she must have him ! it is all nonsense 
 to think of me ! 1 only wish I was dead out of the way !' 
 
 There was a strong mixture of unselfish love, and fear of 
 solitude; of the triumph of marrying a daughter, and dread of 
 separation ; of affection, and of implanted worldliness ; touch- 
 ing Albinia at one moment, and paining her at another ; but 
 she soothed and caressed the old lady, and was a willing listener 
 to what was meant for a history of the former transaction ; but 
 as it started from old Mr. Pringle's grandfather, it had only 
 proceeded as far as the wedding of the Captain's father and 
 motlier, when it was broken off by Mr. Kendal's entrance. 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear J\Ir. Kendal, and what does poor Maria say ? 
 It is so kind in you. I hope you have taken her in hand, and 
 told her it is quite another thing now, and her poor dear papa 
 ■would think so. She must not let this opportunity pass, for 
 she may never have another. Did you tell her so T 
 
 ' I told her that, under the circumstances, she has no alterna- 
 tive but to accept Captain Pringle.' 
 
 * Oh ! thank yon. And does she T 
 
 ' She has given me leave to send him to her.' 
 
 ' I am so much obliged. I knew that nobody but you could 
 settle it for her, poor dear girl ; she iy so young and inex})eri- 
 enced, and one is so much at a loss without a gentleman. But 
 this is veiy kind ; I did not expect it in you, Mr, Kendal. 
 And will you see Mr. Pettilove, and do all that is proper about 
 settlements, as her poor dear papa would have done. Poor 
 Pettilove, he was once very much in love with Mai-ia !' 
 
 In this mood of triumph and felicity, the old lady was left to 
 herself and hur daughter. Albinia, on the way home, begged 
 to liear how Mr. Kendal had managed Maria ; and found that 
 he had siinply told her, in an authoritative tone, that after all 
 that had passed, she had no choice but to accept Captain Pringle. 
 and that ho had added a promise, equally vague and reassuring,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 167 
 
 of being a son to Mrs. Meadows. Such injunctions from sncli 
 a quarter had infused new life into Maria; and iu the course 
 of the afternoon, Albinia met the Captain with the mother 
 and daughter, one on each arm, Maria in. recovered bloom and 
 brilliancy, and Mrs. Meadows's rheumatism forgotten in the 
 glory of exhibiting her daughter engaged. 
 
 For form's sake, secrecy had been mentioaed ; but the world 
 of Bayford had known of the engagement a fortnight before it 
 took place. Sophy had been questioned upon it by Mary Wolfe 
 two hours ere she was officially informed, and was sore with the 
 I'ecollection of her own ungracious professions of ignorance. 
 
 ' So it is true,' she said. ' I don't mind, since Arthur is not a 
 
 Ml". Kendal laughied so heartily, that Sophy looked to Albinia 
 for explauatii. a ; but even on the repetition of her words, she 
 failed to perceive anything ridiculous in them. 
 
 ' Why, mamma,' she said, impressively, ' if you had been like 
 
 Aunt Maria, I should ' she paused and panted for sufficient 
 
 strength of phrase — ' I should have run away and begged ! 
 Papa laiaghs, but I am sure he remembers when grandmamma 
 and Aunt Maria wanted to come and live here !' 
 
 He looked as if he remembered it only too well. 
 
 ' Well, papa,' pursued Sophy, ' we heard the maids saying 
 that they knew it would not do, for all Mr. Kendal was so still 
 and steady, for Miss Meadows would worret the life out of a 
 lead pincushion.' 
 
 ' Hem !' said Mr. Kendal. ' Albinia, do you think after ail 
 we are doing Captain Pringle any kindness V 
 
 ' He is the best judge.' 
 
 'Nay, he may think himself bound in honour and compassion 
 —he may be retui*ning to an old ideal.' 
 
 * People like Captain Pringle are not apt to have ideals,' said 
 Albinia ; ' nor do I think Maria will be so tiying. Do you 
 remember that creeper of Lucys, all tendrils and catching 
 leaves, which used to lie sprawling about, entangling everything, 
 till she gave it a prop, when it instantly found its proper 
 development, and offered no further molestation V 
 
 All was not, however, smooth water as yet. The Captain 
 invaded Mr. Kendal the next morning in despair at Maria's 
 having recurred to the impossibility of leaving her mother, and 
 wanting him to wait till he could reside in England. This could 
 not be till his son was grown up, and ten years were a serious 
 delay. Mr. Kendal suspected her of a latent hope that the 
 Captain would end by remaining at home ; but he was a man of 
 sense and determination, who would l»ave thought it unjustifiable
 
 168 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 weakness to sacrifice his son's interests and his own usefulness. 
 He would promise, that if all were alive and well, he would 
 bring Maria back in ten or twelve years' time; but he would 
 not sooner relinquish his duties, and he was very reluctant to 
 become engaged on such terms. 
 
 ' No one less silly than poor Maria would have thought of 
 such a proposal,' was Mr. Kendal's comment afterwards to his 
 wife. ' Twelve years ! No one would be able to live with her 
 by that time !' 
 
 ' I cannot help respecting the unselfishness,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' One sided unselfishness,' quoth Mr. Kendal. ' I am sick of 
 the whole business ; I wish I had never interfered. I cannot 
 get an hour to myself.' 
 
 He might be excused for the complaint on that day of nego- 
 tiations and counter- negotiations, which gave no one any rest, 
 especially after Mrs. Drury arrived with all the rights of a 
 relation, set on making it evident, that whoever was to be 
 charged with Mrs. Meadows, it was not herself ; and enforcing 
 that nothing could be more comfortable than that Liicy Kendal 
 should set up housekeeping with her dear grandmamma. Every 
 one gave advice, and nobody took it ; Mrs. Meadows cried ; 
 Maria gi'ew hysterical ; the Captain took up his hat and walked 
 out of the house ; and Albinia thought it would be vei-y good 
 in him ever to venture into it again. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Kendal ordered his horse early, and 
 hastened his breakfast ; told Albinia not to wait dinner for 
 him, and rode off by one gate, without looking behind hiui, as 
 the other opened to admit Captain Pringle. She marvelled 
 whither he had fled, and thought herself fortunate in having 
 only two fruitless discussions in his absence. Not till eight 
 o'clock did he make his a})pearance, and then it was in an 
 unhearing, unseeing mood, so tliat nothing could be extracted, 
 except that he did not want any dinner ; and it was not till late 
 in the evening that he abruptly announced, ' Lucy is coming 
 home on Wednesday. Colonel Bury will bring her to Wood- 
 side.' 
 
 * What ! have you heard from Maurice V 
 
 * No ; I have been at Fairmead.' 
 
 * You ! To-day 1 How was Winifred ?' 
 
 * Better — I believe.' 
 
 * How does she like the governess f 
 
 * I did not hear.' 
 
 Gradually something oozed out about Lucy having been happy 
 and valuable ; and after Sophy had gone to bed, he inquired 
 how the courtship was going on ?
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 169 
 
 ' Worse than ever,' Albinia said. 
 
 ' I suppose it must end in this V 
 
 'In what r 
 
 'If there is no more satisfactory arrangement, I suppose we 
 must receive Mrs. Meadows.' 
 
 If Albinia could but have heard what a scolding her brother 
 was undergoing from his vivacious wife ! 
 
 ' As if poor Albinia had not enough on her hands ! Of all 
 inmates in the woi-ld ! When Mr. Kendal himself did not like 
 it I Well ! Maurice would certainly have advised Sinbad to 
 I'equest the honour of taking the Old Man of the Sea for a 
 promenade & cheval. There was an end of Albinia. There 
 would never be any room in her house, and she would never be 
 able to come from home. And after having seen her worked to 
 death, he to advise ' 
 
 ' I did not advise, I only listened. What he came for was to 
 silence his conscience and his wife by saying, " Your brother 
 thinks it out of the question." Now to this my conscience 
 would not consent.' 
 
 ' More shame for it, then !' 
 
 * I could not say I thought these two people's happiness 
 should be sacrificed, or the poor old woman left desolate. 
 Albinia has spirits and energy for a worse infliction, and 
 Edmund Kendal himself is the better for every shock to his 
 secluded habits. If it is a step I would never dare advise, still 
 less would I dare dissuade.' 
 
 * Well ! I thought Mr. Kendal at least had more sense.' 
 
 * Ay, nothing is so provoking as to see others more unselfish 
 than ourselves.' 
 
 ' All I have to say,' concluded Mrs. Ferrars, walking oflE", ' is, 
 I wish there was a law against jDCople going and marrying two 
 wives.' 
 
 Albinia was in no haste to profit by her husband's consent 
 to her proposal. The more she revolved it, the more she fore- 
 saw the discomfort for all parties. She made every effort to 
 devise the 'more satisfactory arrangement,' but nothing would 
 occur. The Brurys would not help, and the poor old lady 
 could not be left alone. Her maid Betty, who had become 
 necessary to her comfort, was not a trustworthy ])erson, and 
 could not be relied on, either for honesty, or for not leaving her 
 mistress too long alone ; and when the notion was broached of 
 boarding Mrs. Meadows with some family in the place, the 
 «ouvictiou arose, that when she had grandchildren, there was 
 BO reason for leaving her to strangers. 
 
 Finally, the proposal was made, and as instantly rejected by
 
 170 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 JVIaria. It was very kind, but her mother could never be bappy 
 at Willow Lawn, never ; and the tone betrayed some injury at 
 such a thing beiiig thouglit ]jossible. But just as the Keudals 
 liad begun to rejoice at having cleared their conscience at so slight 
 a cost, Captain Pringle and Miss Meadows made their appear- 
 ance, and Mai'ia presently reqtxested that Mrs. Kendal would 
 allow her to say a few words. 
 
 ' I am afraid you thought me very rude and ungrateful,' she 
 began, ' but the truth was, I did not think dear mamma would 
 ever bear to live here, ray poor dear sister and all ; but since 
 that, I have been talking it over with the dear Captain — thinks 
 that since you are so kind, and dear Edmund — more than [ 
 could ever have dared to expect — that I could not do better 
 than just to sound mamma.' 
 
 There was still another vicissitude. Mrs. Meadows would not 
 hear of being thrust on any one, and was certain that Maria had 
 extorted an invitation ; she would never be a burden ixpon any 
 one ; young people liked company and amusement, and she 
 was an old woman in eveiy one's way ; she wished she were in 
 her coffin with poor dear Mr. Meadows, who would have 
 settled it all. Maria fell back into the depths of despair, and 
 all was lugubrious, till Mr. Kendal, in the most tender and 
 gentle manner, expressed his hopes that Mrs. Meadows would 
 consider the mr.tter, telling her that liis wife and children would 
 esteem it a great privilege to attend on her, and that he should 
 be very grateful if she would allow them to try to supply 
 ]\raria's place. And Albinia, in her coaxing tone, described the 
 arrangement ; how the old furnitui*e should stand in the sitting- 
 room, and how Lucy would attend to her carpet-work, and 
 what nice walks the sunny garden would afford, and how 
 pleasant it would be not to have the long hill between them, 
 till grandmamma forgot all her scruples in the fascination of that 
 sweet face and caressing manner ; she owned that poor old 
 AVillow Lawn always was like home, and finally promised to 
 come. Before the evening was over the wedding-day was fixed. 
 
 What Sophy briefly termed 'the fuss about Aunt Maria,' 
 liad been so tedious, that it almost dispelled all poetical ideas of 
 courtship. If Captain Pringle had been drowned at sea, and 
 Aunt Maria pined herself into her grave, it would have been 
 much more proper and affecting. 
 
 Sophy heard of the arrangement without reiiiai-k, and quietly 
 listened to Albinia's explanation that she was not to be sent up 
 to the attics, but was to inhabit the spare room, which was 
 larire enouj^h to serve her for a sitting-room. But in the
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 171 
 
 evening Mr. Kendal happened in her absence to take up the 
 book wiiich she had been reading, and did not perceive at once 
 on her entrance that she wanted it. When he did so, he 
 yiekled it with a few kind words of apology, but this vexation 
 had been sufficient to bring down the thunder-cloud which had 
 been lowering since the morning. There were no signs of 
 clearance the next day ; but Albinia had too much upon her 
 hands to watch the symptoms, and was busy making measure- 
 ments for the furniture in the morning-room when Mr. Kendal 
 came in. 
 
 ' I have been thinking,' he said, ' that it is a pity to disturb 
 this room. I dare say Mrs. ]\'Ieadows would prefer that below- 
 stairs. It used to be her parloui-, where she always sat when I 
 first knew the house.' 
 
 ' The dining-room ? How could we spare that V 
 
 *No, the study.' 
 
 Albinia remained transfixed, 
 
 ' We could put the books here and in the dining-room,' he 
 continued, 'until next spring, when, as your brother said, we 
 can build a new wing on the drawing-room side.' 
 
 ' And what is to become of you T she continued. 
 
 ' Perhaps you will admit me here,' he said^ smiling, for he 
 was pleased with himself. ' Turn me out when I am in the 
 way.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Edmund, how delightful ! See, we shall put your high 
 desk under the window, and your chair in your own corner. This 
 will be the pleasantest place in the house, with you and your 
 books ! Dear Winifred ! she did me one of her greatest ser- 
 vices when she made me keep this room habitable !' 
 
 ' And I think Sophy will not object to give up her present 
 little room for my dressing-room. Shall you, my dear T said he, 
 anxious to judge of her temper by her reply. 
 
 ' I don't care,' she said ; ' I don't want auy difference made to 
 please me; I think that weak.' 
 
 'Sophy !' began Albinia, indignantly, but Mr. Kendal stopped 
 her, and made her come down, to consider of the proposal in the 
 stiidy. 
 
 That study, once an oppressive rival to the bride, now not 
 merely vanquished, but absolutely abandoned by its former 
 captive ! 
 
 ' Don't say anything to her,' said Mr. Kendal, as they went 
 downstairs. ' Of course her spirits are one considei-ation, but 
 were it otherwise, I could not see you give up your private 
 room.'
 
 172 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' It is very kind in you, but indeed I can spare mine better 
 than you can,' said Albiaia. ' I am afraid you will never feel 
 out of the whirl.' 
 
 ' Yours would be a loss to us all,^ said Mr. Kendal. ' The 
 more inmates tliere are in a house, the more needfxil to have 
 them well assorted.' 
 
 ' Just so ; and that makes me afraid — ' 
 
 ' Of me ? No, Albinia, I will try not to be a check on your 
 spirits.' 
 
 ' You ! Oh ! I meant that we should disturb you.' 
 
 ' You never disturb me, Albinia ; and it is not what it was 
 when the children's voices were untrained and unsubdued.' 
 I can't say much for Master Maurice's voice.' 
 
 He smiled ; he had never yet found those joyous notes de trop, 
 and he continued, ' Your room is of value and use to us all ; 
 mine has been of little benefit to me, and none to any one else. 
 I wish I could as easily leave behind me all the habits I have 
 fostered there.' 
 
 ' Edmund, it is too good ! When poor Sophy recovers her 
 senses she will feel it, for I believe that morning-room would 
 have been a great loss to her.' 
 
 *It was too much to ask in her present state. I should have 
 come to the same conclusion without her showing how much 
 this plan cost her, for nothing can be yjlainer than that while 
 she continues subject to these attacks, she must have some 
 reti'eat.' 
 
 'Yet,' ventured Albinia, 'if you think solitude did you no 
 good, do you think letting these fits have their sw.uig is good 
 for Sophy f 
 
 * I cannot drive her about ! They must not be harshly treated,' 
 he answered quickly. ' Resistance can only come from within ; 
 compulsion is worse than useless. Poor child, it is piteous to 
 watch that state of dull misery ! On other grounds, I am con- 
 vinced this is the best plan. The comnuinication with the 
 oflices will prevent that maid from being always on the stairs. 
 Mrs. Meadows will have her own visitors more easily, and will 
 get out of doors sooner, and I think she will be better pleased.' 
 
 * Yes, it will be a much better plan for every one but Mr. 
 Kendal himself,' said Albinia ; ' and if he can be happy with us, 
 we sliall be all the hapjticr. So this was the old sitting-room !' 
 
 ' Yes, I knew them iir.st here,' he said. ' It used to be cheer- 
 ful then, and I dare say you can make it th(! same again. We 
 must dismantle it before Mrs. Meadows or Maria come to see it, 
 or it will remind them of notliing but the days when I waa 
 recovering, and anything but grateful for their attention. Yes,'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 173 
 
 he added, * poor Mrs. Meadows bore most gently and tenderly 
 with a long course of moroseness. I am glad to have it in my 
 power to make any sort of amends, though it is chiefly through 
 you.' 
 
 Albinia might well be very happy ! It was her moment of 
 triumph, and whatever might be her fears for the future, and 
 uneasiness at Sophy's discontent, nothing could take away the 
 pleasure of finding herself deliberately preferred to the study. 
 
 Sophy did not fail to make another protest, and when told 
 that ' it was not solely on her account,' the shame of having 
 fancied herself so important, rendered her ill-humour still more 
 painful and deplorable. It was vain to consvilt her about the 
 arrangements, she would not care about anything, except that 
 by some remarkable effect of her perverse condition, she bad 
 been seized wilh a peucliant for maize colour and blue foi the 
 bi'idesmaids, and was deeply oflended when Albinia represented 
 that they would look like a procession of macaws, and her aunt 
 declared that Sophy herself would be the most sacrificed by such 
 colours. She made herself so grim that Maria broke up the con- 
 sultation by saying good-humouredly, ' Yes, we will settle it 
 when Lucy comes home.' 
 
 ' Yes,' muttered Sophy, ' Lucy is ready for any sort of non- 
 sense.' 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to Woodside to meet Lucy, hoping 
 that solitude would be beneficial. Albinia grieved at the mani- 
 festations of these, her sullen fits, if only because they made Lucy 
 feel herself superior. In truth, Lucy was superior in temper, 
 amiability, and all the qualities that smooth the course of life, 
 and it was very pleasant to greet her pretty bright face, so full 
 of animation. 
 
 * Dear grandmamma going to live with us 1 Oh, how nice ! 
 I can always take care of her when you are busy, mamma.' 
 
 That accommodating spirit was absolute refreshment, and 
 long before Albinia reached home the task of keeping the house- 
 hold contented seemed many degrees easier. 
 
 A grand wedding was ' expected,' so all tlie Bayford flys were 
 bespoken three deep, a cake was ordered from Gunter, and so 
 many invitations sent out, that Albinia speculated how all were 
 to come alive out of the little dining-room. 
 
 And Mr. Kendal the presiding gentleman ! 
 
 He had hardly seemed aware of his impending fate till the 
 last evening, when, as the family were separating at night, he 
 sighed disconsolately, and said, ' I am as bad as you are, Sophy.' 
 
 It awoke her first comfortable smile. 
 
 Experience had, however, shown him that such occasions
 
 174! THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 might be survived, and he was less to be pitied than his daughter, 
 w'lio felt as if she and her great brown face would be the mai-k 
 of all beholders. Poor Sophy ! all scenes wei-e to her like 
 daguerreotypes in a bad light; she saw nothing but herself 
 distorted ! 
 
 And yet she was glad that tlie period of anticipation had con- 
 sumed itself and its own horrors, and found herself not insen- 
 sible to the excitement of the occasion. Lucy was joyous 
 beyond description, looking very pi'etty, and solicitously deco- 
 raiiug her sister, while both bestowed the utmost raptui-e on 
 their step-mother's appearance. 
 
 Having learnt at last what Bayford esteemed a compliment, 
 she had commissioned her London aunts to send her what she 
 called ' an unexceptionable garment,' and so well did they fiilhl 
 their orders, that not only did her little son scream, ' Mamma, 
 pretty, jjretty !' and Gilbert stand transfixed with admiration, 
 but it called forth Mr. Kendal's first personal remark, ' Albinia, 
 you look remarkably well ;' and Mrs. Meadows reckoned among 
 the honours done to her Maria, that Mrs. Kendal wore a beau- 
 tiful silk dress, and a lace bonnet, sent down oa purpose from 
 London ! 
 
 Maria Meadows made a very nice bride, leaning on her bro- 
 ther-in-law, and not more agitated than became her well. The 
 haggard restless look had long been gone, repose had taken away 
 the lean sharpness of countenance, the really pretty features had 
 fair play, and she was astonishingly like her niece Lucy, and 
 did not look much older. Her bridegroom was so beaming and 
 benignant, that it might fairly be hoped that even if force of 
 habit should bring back fretfulness, he had a stock of happiness 
 sufficient for both. The chairs were jammed so tight round the 
 table, tliat it was by a desperate struggle that people took their 
 seats, and Mr. Dusautoy's conversation was a series of apologies 
 for being unable to keep his elbows out of his neighbours' way 
 while carving ; and poor Sophy, whose back was not two feet 
 from the fire, was soon obliged to retreat. She had gained the 
 door before any one perceived her, and then her brother and 
 sister both followed ; Albinia was obliged to leave her to their 
 care, being in the innermost recesses, where moving was im- 
 possible. 
 
 There was not much the matter, she only wanted rest, and 
 Gilbert undertook to see her safely home. 
 
 ' I shall be heartily glad to get away,' he said. ' There is no 
 breathing in there, and they'll begin talking the most intolerable 
 nonsense presently. Besides, I want to be at home to take baby
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 175 
 
 down to the gate to lialloo at the four white horses from the 
 King's Head. Come along, Sophy.' 
 
 ' Mind you don't make her walk too fast,' said the careful 
 Lucy, ' and take care how you take off your muslin, Sophy ; you 
 had better go to the nursery for help.' 
 
 Gilbert did not seem inclined to hurry his sister as they came 
 near Madame Belmarche's, He lingered, and presently said, 
 ' Should you be too tired to come in here for a moment 1 it was 
 an intolerable shame that none of them were asked.' 
 
 ' Mamma did beg for Genevieve, but there was so little room, 
 and the Drurys did not like it. Mrs. Drury said it would only 
 be giving her a taste for things above her station.' 
 
 ' Then Mrs. Drury should never come out of the scullery. I 
 am sure she looks as if her station was to black the kettles !' 
 cried Gilbert, with some domestic confusion in his indignation. 
 ' Didn't she look like a housekeeper with her mistress's thing?, 
 on by mistake V 
 
 'She did not look like mamma, certainly,' said Sophy. 
 * Mamma looked no more aware that she had on .those pretty 
 things than if she had been in her old grey — ' 
 
 'Mamma — yes — Mrs. Drury might try seventy years to look 
 like mamma, or Genevieve either ! Put Genevieve into ?atin oi 
 into brown holland, you couldn't help her looking ten times 
 more the lady than Mrs. Drury ever will ! But come in, I have 
 got a bit of the cake for them here, and they will like to see you 
 all figged out, as they have missed all the rest of the show. 
 Aunt Maria might have cared for her old mistress !' 
 
 Sophy wished to be amiable, and refrained from objectiDg. 
 
 It was a holiday in honour of cette chsre eleve of five-and- 
 twenty years since, and the present pupils wei-e from their 
 several homes watching for the first apparition of the four gi'eys 
 from the King's Head, with the eight white satin rosettes at 
 their eight ears. 
 
 Madame Belmarche and her daughter were discovered in the 
 parlour, cooking with a stewpan over the fire a concoction 
 which Sophy guessed to be a conserve of the rose-leaves yearly 
 begged of the pupils, which were chiefly useful as serving to 
 be boiled up at any leisure moment, to make a cosmetic for 
 IMademoiselle's complexion. She had diligently used it these 
 forty-five years, but the effect was not encouraging, as brown, 
 wrinkled, with her frizzled front awry, with not stainless white 
 apron, and a long pewter spoon, she turned round to confront 
 the visitors in their wedding finery. 
 
 But what Frenchwoman ever was disconcerted? Away went
 
 176 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 the spoon, forward she sprang, both hands outstretched, and her 
 little black eyes twinkling with pleasux-e. ' Ah ! but this is 
 goodness itself,' said she, in the English wherein she flattered 
 herself no French idiom appeared. ' You are come to let us 
 participate in your rejoicing. Let me but summon Genevieve ; 
 the poor child is at every free moment trying to perfectionnato 
 her music in the school-room.' 
 
 Madame Belmarche had arisen to receive the guests with her 
 dignified courtesy and heartfelt felicitations, which were not 
 over when Genevieve tripped in, all freshness and grace, with 
 her neat little collar, and the dainty black apron that so prettily 
 marked her slender waist. One moment, and she had arranged 
 a resting-place for Sophy, and as she understood Gilbert's errand, 
 quickly produced from a corner-cupboard a plate, on which he 
 handed it to the two other ladies, who meanwhile paid their 
 compliments in the most perfect style. 
 
 The histoiy of the morning was discussed, and Madame Bel- 
 marche described her sister's wedding, and the curiosity which she 
 had shared with the bride for the first sight of lefutur^ when the 
 two sisters had been brought from their convent for the marriage. 
 
 ' But how could she get to like him X cried Sophy. 
 
 ' My sister was too well brought up a young girl to acknow- 
 ledge a preference,' replied Madame Belmarche. ' Ah ! ray dear, 
 you are English ; you do not understand these things.' 
 
 ' No,' said Sophy, ' I can't understand how people can marry 
 without loving. How miserable they must be !' 
 
 ' On the contrary, my dear, especially if one continued to live 
 with one's mother. It is far better to earn the friendship and 
 esteem of a husband than to see his love grow cold.' 
 
 ' And was your sister happy ?' asked Sophy, abruptly. 
 
 ' Ah, my dear, never were husband and v/ifc more attached. 
 My brother-in-law joined the army of the Prince de Conde, and 
 never was seen after the day of Valmy; and my sister pined 
 away and died of grief. My daughter and granddaughter go 
 to the Catholic burying-ground at Hadminster on her fete day, 
 to dress her grave with immortelles.' 
 
 Now Sophy knew wliy the strip of garden grew so many ot 
 the grey-leaved, woolly-stemmed, little yellow-and-white ever- 
 lasting flowers. Good madame began to regret having saddened 
 her on this day of joy. 
 
 ' Oh ! no,' said Sopliy, 'I like sad tilings best.' 
 
 • Mais, 01071, my child, that is not the way to go through life,* 
 said tlie old lady, affectionately. 'Look at me ; how could I have 
 Jived liad I not always turned to the bright side 1 Do not think 
 of sorrow, it is always near enough.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 177 
 
 XJ 
 
 Lhis conversation had made an impi-ession on Sophy, who 
 took the first opportunity of expressing her indignation at the 
 system of mariages de convenance. 
 
 ' And, mamma, she said if people began with love, it always 
 grew cold. Now, has not papa loved you better and better 
 every day V 
 
 Albiuia could not be displeased, though it made her blush, 
 and she could not answer such a home push. ' We don't quite 
 mean the same things,' she said evasively. ' Madame is thinking 
 of passion independent of esteem or confidence. But, Sophy, 
 this is enougli even for a wedding-day. Let us leave it off with 
 our finery, and resume daily life.' 
 
 ' Only tell me one thing, mamma.' 
 
 ' Well V 
 
 She paused and brought it out with an effort. It had evi- 
 dently occupied her for a long time. ' Mamma, must not every 
 one with feeling be in love once in their life V 
 
 ' Well done, reserve !' thought Albinia — ' but she is only a 
 child, after all ; not a blush, only those great eyes seeming ready 
 to devour my answer. What ought it to be ? Whatever it i?, 
 she will brood on it till her time comes. I must begin, or I 
 sliall grow nervous : " Dear Sophy, these are not things good to 
 tliink upon. There is quite enough to occupy a Christian 
 woman's heart and soul without that — no need for her feelings 
 to shrivel up for want of exercise. No ; I don't, believe in tlie 
 passion once in the life being a fate, and pray don't you, my 
 So[ihy, or you may make yourself very silly, or very unhappy, or 
 both."' 
 
 Sophy drew up her head, and her brown skin glowed. Albuiia 
 feared that she had said the wrong thing, and affronted her, but 
 it was all working in the dark. 
 
 At any rate the sullenness was dissipated, and there were no 
 tokens of a recurrence. Sophy set herself to find ways of 
 making amends for the past, and as soon as she had begun to 
 do little services for grandmamma, she seemed to have forgotten 
 her gloomy anticipations, even while some of them were partly 
 realized. For as it would be moi'e than justice to human nature 
 to say that Mrs. Meadows's residence at Willow Lawn was & 
 perfect success, so it would be less than justice to call it a failure. 
 
 To put the darker side first. Grandmamma's interest in life 
 was to know the proceedings of the whole household, and com- 
 ment on each. Now Albinia could endure housewifely advice, 
 some espionage on her servants, and even counsel about her 
 child ; but .she could not away with the anxiety that would 
 never leave Sophy alone, tri( d to force her sociability, and re-
 
 178 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 gretted all exti-a studies, unable to perceive the delicate treat- 
 meut her disposition needed. And Sophy, in the intolerance 
 of early girlhood, was wretched at heai'ing poor grandmamma's 
 petty views, and narrow, ignorant prejudices. She might resolve 
 to be filial and agreeable, but too often found herself just achiev- 
 ing a moody, disgusted silence, or else bursting out with some 
 true but unbecoming reproof. 
 
 On the whole, all did well. Mrs. Meadows was happy ; she 
 enjoyed the animation of the larger party, liked their cheerful 
 faces, gi-ew fond of Maurice, and daily more dependent on Lucy 
 and Mrs. Kendal. Probably she had never before had so much 
 of her own way, and her gentle placid nature was left to rest, 
 instead of being constantly worried. Her son-in-law was kind 
 and gracious, though few words i)assed between them, and he 
 gave her a sense of j)rotection. Indeed, his patience and good- 
 humour were exemplary ; he never complained even when he 
 was driven from the dining-room by the table-cloth, to find 
 Maurice rioting in the morning-room, and a music lesson in the 
 drawing-room, or still worse, when he heard the Drurys eveiy- 
 where ; and he probably would have submitted quietly for tlie 
 rest of his life, had not Albinia insisted on bringing forward 
 the plan of building. 
 
 When Captain and Mrs. Pringle returned to Bayford to take 
 leave, they found grandmamma so thoroughly at home, that 
 Maria could find no words to express her gratitude. Maria her- 
 self could hardly have been recognised, she had grown so like 
 her husband in look and manner ! If her sentences did not 
 always come to their legitimate development, they no longer 
 seemed blown away by a frosty wind, but pushed aside by fresh 
 kindly impulses ; and her pride in the Capt*un, and the rest in 
 his support, had set her at peace witli all the world and with 
 herself. A comfortable, comely, hapi)y matron was she, and 
 even her few weeks beyond the precincts of Bayford had done 
 something to enlarge her mind. 
 
 It was as if her education had newly begun. The fixed aim, 
 and the union with a practical man, had opened her faculties, 
 not deficient in themselves, but contracted and nipped by the 
 circumstances which she had not known how to turn to good 
 account. Such a fresh stage in middle lifi; comes to some few, 
 like the mid.summer shoot to repair tlie foliage that has sulTered 
 a spring blight ; but it cannot be reckoned on, and Mrs. Priugle 
 would have been a more effective and self-])ossessed woman, a 
 better companion to her husband, and with more I'oot in herself, 
 liad Maria Meadows learnt to tune her nerves and her temper 
 in the overthrow of her early hopes.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 173 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MAURICE FERRARS was a born architect, with such a 
 love of brick and mortar, that it was meritorious in him 
 BOt to have overbuilt Fairmead parsonage. With the sense of 
 giving him an agreeable holiday, his sister wrote to him in 
 February that Gilbert's little attic was at his service if he would 
 come and give his counsel as to the building project. 
 
 Mr. Kendal disliked the trouble and disturbance as much aa 
 Maurice loved it ; but he quite approved and submitted, pro- 
 vided they asked him no questions ; he gave them free leave to 
 ruin him, and set out to take Sophy for a drive, leaving the 
 brother and sister to their calculations. Of ruin, there was not 
 much danger ; Mr. Kendal had a handsome income, and had 
 always lived within it ; and Albinia's fortune had not appeared 
 to her a reason for increased expense, so there was a sufficient 
 sum in hand to enable Mr. Ferrars to plan with freedom. 
 
 A new drawing-room, looking southwards, with bedrooms 
 over it, was the matter of necessity ; and Albinia wished for a 
 bay-window, and would like to indulge Lucy by a conservatory, 
 filling up the angle to the east with glass doors opening into the 
 drawing-room and hall. Maurice drew, and she admired, and 
 thought all so delightful, that she began to be taken with 
 scruples as to luxury. 
 
 ' No,' said Maurice, ' these are not mere luxui'ies. You have 
 full means, and it is a duty to keep your household fairly com- 
 fortable and at ease. Crowded as you are with rather incon- 
 gruous elements, you are bound to give them space enough not 
 to clash.' 
 
 ' They don't clash, except poor Sophy. Gilbert and Lucy are 
 elements of union, with more plaster of Paris than stone in their 
 nature.' 
 
 ' Pray, has Kendal made up his mind what to do with 
 Gilbert r 
 
 ' I have heard nothing lately ; I hope he is grown too old for 
 India.' 
 
 * Gilbert is rather too well off for his good,' said Mr. Ferrars ; 
 ' the benefit of a profession is not evident enough.' 
 
 ' I know what I wish ! If he could but be Mr. Dusautoy's 
 curate, in five or six years' time, what glorious things we might 
 do with the parish !' 
 
 ' Eh ! is that his wish V 
 
 * I have sometimes hoped that his mind is taking that turn. 
 
 IT 2
 
 180 THE TOrNG STEP MOTHER. 
 
 He is ready to help in anything for the poor people. Once he 
 told iiio he" never wished to look beyond Bayford for happines.^ 
 or occupation ; but I did not like to draw him out, because of 
 his f\ither's plans. Why, what liave you drawn 1 The alms- 
 houses V 
 
 ' I could do no other when I was improving Gilbert's house 
 for him.' 
 
 ' That would be the real improvement ! How pretty ! I 
 Y/ill keep them for him.' 
 
 The second post came in, bringing a letter from Gilbert to 
 his father, and Albinia was so much surprised, that her brother 
 asked whether Gilbert were one of tbe boys who only write to 
 their father with a reason. 
 
 ' He can write more freely to me,' said Albinia ; * and it 
 comes to the same thing. I am not in the least afraid of 
 ajiything wrong, but perhaps he may be making some proposal 
 for the future. I want to know how he is. Fancy his being 
 so foolish as to go out bathing. I am afraid of his colds.' 
 
 Many times during the consultation did Mr. Ferrars detect 
 Albinia's eye stealing wistfully towards that ' E. Kendal, Esq. ;' 
 and when the proper owner came in, he was evidently as much 
 struck, for he paused, as if in dread of opening the letter. Her 
 eyes were on his countenance as he read, and did not gather 
 miich consolation. ' I am afraid this is sei'ious,' at last he said. 
 
 ' His cold V exclaimed Albinia. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Kendal, reading aloud sentence by sentence, 
 with gravity and consideration. 
 
 ' I do not wish to alarm Mrs. Kendal, and therefore address myself at 
 once to you, for I do not think it right to keep you in ignorance that I 
 have had some of tlie old symptoms. I do not wisli to m;iko any one uneasy 
 ahout nie, and I may have made light of the cold I caught a month since ; 
 hut I cannot conceal from myself that I have much painful cough, an in- 
 clination to shortness of breath, and pain in the back and shoulder.s, espe- 
 cially after long reading or writing. I thought it right to speak to Mr. 
 JJovvnton, but people in high health can understand nothing short of a 
 raging fever ; hovi^ever, at last he called in the parish surgeon, a .stupid, 
 ignorant fellow, who understands my case no more than his horse, and 
 treats me with hyoscyamus, as if it were a mere throat-cough. I thought 
 it my duty to speak openly, since, though I am quite aware that circum- 
 ^tp.nces make little diirei-cnce in constitutional cases, I know you and dear 
 Mrs. Kendal will wish that all possible means should be used, and I 
 think it — 
 
 Mr. Kendal broke down, and handed the letter to his wife, 
 who proceeded, 
 
 ' I think it best you should be prepared for the worst, as I wish and en- 
 rlear^ur to be ; and truly I see so much trial and disappointment in the 
 cour.sc of life before :ne, that it would hardly be the worst to me, except —
 
 THE \OUNG STEP-MOTHER. ISl 
 
 That sentence fiuislied Albiuia's voice, and stealing her hand 
 into her husbaud'Sj she read on in silence, 
 
 'for the additional sorrow to you, and my grief at bringing pain to my more 
 tlian mother, but ahe has long known of the presentiment that has alv.aya 
 hung over me, and will be the better prepared for its realization. If it 
 would be any satisfaction to you, I could easily take a ticket, and go up to 
 Loudon to see any physician you would prefer. I could go v/ith Price, 
 who is going for his sister's birthday, and I could sleep at his father's 
 house ; but, in that case, I should want three pounds journey money, a;.d 
 I should be very glad if you would be so kind as to let me have a soverei-n 
 in advance of my allowance, as Price knows of a capital secondhand bow 
 and arrows. "With my best love to all, 
 
 ' Your affectionate son, 
 
 ' Gilbert Kendal.' 
 
 Albiuia held the letter k» her brother, to whom she looked 
 for something cheering, but, behold ! a smile was gaining un- 
 controllably on the muscles of his cheeks, though his lips strove 
 hard to keep closely shut. She would not look at him, and 
 tuvninff to her husband, exclaimed, 'We will take him to 
 London ourselves !' 
 
 ' I am afraid that would be inconvenient,' observed Maurice. 
 
 ' That would not signify,' continued Albinia ; ' I must hear 
 myself what is thought of him, and hovr I am to nurse him. 
 Oh ! taking it in time, dear Edmund, we need not be so much 
 afraid ! IMaurice will not mind making his visit another time.' 
 
 ' I only meant inconvenient to the birthday party,' drily said 
 her brother. 
 
 ' Maurice !' cried she, * you don't know the boy !' 
 
 ' I have no doubt that he has a cold.' 
 
 ' And I know there is a great deal more the matter !' cried 
 Albinia. ' We. have let him go away to be neglected and badly 
 treated ! My poor, dear boy ! Edmund, I will fetch him 
 home to-morrow.' 
 
 ' You had better send me,' said Maurice, mischievously, for 
 he saw he was diminishing Mr. Kendal's alarm, and had a 
 brotherly love of teasing Albinia, and seeing how pretty she 
 looked with her eyes flashing through wratliful tears, and her 
 foot patting impetuously on the carpet. 
 
 'You !' she cried ; ' you don't believe in him ! You fancy 
 all boys are made of iron and steel — yon would only laugh at 
 him — you made us send him there — I wish — ' 
 
 ' Gently, gently, my dear Albinia,' said her husband, dis- 
 mayed at her vehemence, just when it most amused her brother. 
 ' You cannot expect Idaurice to feel exactly as we do, and I 
 confess that I have much hope that this alarm may be more 
 than adequate.'
 
 182 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' He thinks it all a scheme !' said Albinia, in a tone of great 
 injury. 
 
 ' jSo, indeed, Albinia,' answered her brother, seriously; *I 
 fully believe that Gilbert imagines all that he tells you ; but 
 you cannot suppose that either the tutor or doctor could fail to 
 see if he were so very ill.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' assented Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' And low spirits are more apt to accompany a slight ailment, 
 than such an illness as you apprehend.' 
 
 ' I believe you are right,' said Mr. Kendal. * Where is the 
 letter V 
 
 Albinia did not like it to come under discussion, but could 
 not withhold it, and as she read it again, she felt that neither 
 Maurice nor her cousin Fred could have written the like ; but 
 she was only the more impelled to do battle, and when she 
 came to the unlucky conclusion, she exclaimed, ' I am sure that 
 was an after-thought. I dare say Price asked him while he 
 was writing.' 
 
 'What's this?' asked Mr. Kendal, coming to the 'presenti- 
 ment.' 
 
 She hesitated, afraid both of him and of IMaurice, but there 
 was no alternative. ' Poor Gilbert !' she said, ' It was a cry 
 or call from his brother just at last. It has left a very deep 
 impression.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' said his father, much moved. ' Yes. Edmund 
 gave a cry such as was not to be forgotten,' and the sigh told 
 how it had haunted his own pillow ; ' but I had not thought 
 that Gilbert was in a condition to notice it. Did he mention 
 it to you V 
 
 ' Yes, not long after I came ; he thinks it was a call, and I 
 have never known exactly how to deal with it.' 
 
 ' It is a case for very tender handling,' said Maurice. 
 *I should have desired him never to think of it again,' said 
 Mr. Kendal, decidedly. ' Mere nonsense to dwell on it. Tlieir 
 names were always in Edmund's mouth, and it was nothing but 
 accident. You should have told him so, Albinia.' 
 And he walked out of the room. 
 * Ah ! it will prey upon him now,' said Albinia. 
 ' Yes ; I thought he only spoke of driving it away because 
 it was what he would like to be able to do. But things do not 
 prey on people of his age as they do on younger ones.' 
 
 ' I wonder if I did right,' said Albinia. ' I never liked to 
 ask you, though I wished it. I could not bear to treat it as a 
 fancy. How was I to know, if it may do+ have been intended
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 183 
 
 to do him good 1 And you see his father says it was verv 
 remarkable.' 
 
 ' Do you imagine that it dwells much upon his mind V 
 
 ' Not when he is well — not when it would do him good,' said 
 Albinia ; ' it rather haunts him the instant he is unwell.' 
 
 ' He makes it a supei'stitiou, then, poor boy ! You thought 
 me hard on him, Albinia ; but really I could not help being 
 angry with him for so lamentably frightening his father and 
 you.' 
 
 ' Let us see how he is before you find fault with him,' said 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' You're as bad as if you were his mother, or worse !' ex- 
 claimed Maurice. 
 
 ' Oh ! Maurice, I can't help it ! He had no one to care for 
 him till I came, and he is such a very dear fellow — he wants 
 me so miich !' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars agreed to go with Mr. Kendal to Traversham. 
 He thought his father would be encouraged by his presence, 
 and he was not devoid of curiosity. Albinia would not hear of 
 staying at home ; in fact, Maurice suspected her of being afraid 
 to trust Gilbert to his mercy. 
 
 With a trembling heart she left the train at the little Tra- 
 versham station, making i-esolutions neither to be too angry 
 with the neijlio-ent tutor, nor to show Gilbert how much im- 
 portance she attached to his illness. 
 
 As they walked into the village, they heard a merry clamour 
 of tongue, and presently met five or six boys, and, a few paces 
 behind them, Mr. Downton. 
 
 ' Ah r he exclaimed, ' I am glad you are come. I would 
 have written yesterday, but that I found your boy had done so. 
 I shall be very glad to have him cheered up about himself I 
 will turn back with you. You go on, Price. They are setting 
 out for one of HuUah's classes, so we shall have the house 
 clear.' 
 
 ' I hope there is not much amiss V said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 * A tedious cold,' said the tutor ; ' but the doctor assures me 
 that there is nothins: wron<; with his chest, and I do believe he 
 would not cough half so much, if he were not always watching 
 himself 
 
 ' Who has been attending him V 
 
 * Lee, the union doctor ; a very good man, with a large family,' 
 (Albinia could have beaten him). ' Indeed,' he continued, 
 perceiving some dissatisfied looks, ' I think you will find that 
 a little change is all that he wants.'
 
 184 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 * I hope you can give a good account of him in other respects V 
 said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 * Oh ! yes, in every way ; he is the most good-natured lad in 
 the world, and quite the small hoys' friend. Perhaps he has 
 been a little more sentimental of late, but that may be only 
 from being rather out of order. I'll call him.' 
 
 The last words were spoken as they entered the parsonage, 
 where opening a door, he said, ' Here, Kendal, here's a new 
 prescription for you.' 
 
 Albiuia had a momentary view of a tabby-cat and kitten, a 
 volume of poetry, a wiry-haired terrier, and Gilbert, all lying 
 promiscuously on the hearth-rug, before the two last leaped up, 
 the one to bark, and the other to come forward with outstretched 
 hand, and glad countenance. 
 
 He looked flushed ar.d languid, but the roaring fire and close 
 room might account for that ; and though, when the subject 
 was mentioned, he gave a short uncomfortable cough, Albinia's 
 mind was so far relieved, that she was in doubt with whom to 
 be angry, and prepared to stand on the defensive, should her 
 brother think him too well. 
 
 The gentlemen went away together, and Gilbert, grasping her 
 hand, gave way to one of his effusions of affection — ' So kind 
 to come to him — he knew he had her to trust to, whatever 
 happened' — and he leant his clieek on his hand in a melancholy 
 mood. 
 
 ' Don't be so piteous, Gibbie,' she said. * You were quite 
 right to tell us you were not well, only you need not have been 
 so veri/ doleful ; I don't like papa to be frightened.' 
 
 ' I thought it was no use to go on in this way,' said Gilbert, 
 with a cough : ' it was the old thing over again, and nobody 
 would believe I had anything tlie matter with me.' 
 
 And he comraenced a formidable catalogue of symptoms 
 which satisfied her that Maurice would think him fully justi- 
 fied. Just at a point v>'here it was not easy to know what next 
 to say, the kitten began to play tricks with her mother's tail, 
 and a happy divei'sion was made ; Gilbert began to exhibit the 
 vai'ious drollei'ies of the animals, to exi)lain the friendsliip be- 
 tween dog and cat, and to leave off coughing as he related 
 anecdotes of their sagacity ; and finally, when the gentlemen 
 returned, laughing was the first soimd they heard, and Mrs. 
 Kendal was found sitting on the floor at play with the live stoclc 
 
 They had come to fetch her to see the chui'ch and schools, 
 and on "oinfc ont, she found that Mr. Ferrars had moved and 
 ca^-riud that Gilbert should be taken home at once, and, on the 
 way, be shown to a physician at the county town. From this
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. "185 
 
 Blie gathered that Maurice was compassionate, and tliougli, of 
 course, he would make no such admission, slie had reason after- 
 wai-ds to believe that he had shown Mr. Downton that the pupil's 
 health ought to have met with a shade more attention. 
 
 With Gilbert wi-apped up to the tip of his nose, they set off, 
 and found the doctor at home. Nothing could have been more 
 satisfactory to Albinia, for it gave her a triumph over her 
 brother, without too much anxiety for the future. The phy- 
 sician detected the injury to the lungs left by an attack that 
 the boy had suiFered from in his first English winter, and had 
 scarcely outgrown when Albinia first knew him. The recent 
 cold had so far renewed the evil, tliat though no disease actually 
 existed, the cough must be watched, and exposure avoided ; in 
 fact, a licence for petting to any extent was bestowed, and there- 
 with every hope of recovery. 
 
 Albinia and her son sat in their corners of the carriage in 
 secret satisfaction, while Mi*. Kendal related the doctox''s opinion 
 to Mr. Ferrars ; laut one of them, at least, was unprepared for 
 the summing-up. ' Under the circumstances, Gilbert is most 
 fortunate. A few years in his native climate will quite set him up.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but he is too old for Haileybury,' burst out Albinia, 
 in her consternation. 
 
 ' Nearly old enough for John Kendal's bank, eh, Gilbert V 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Albinia, ' pray don't let us talk of that while 
 poor Gilbert is so ill.' 
 
 ' Hm !' said Mr. Kendal with interrogative surprise, almost 
 displeasure, and no moi'e was said. 
 
 Albinia felt guilty, as she remembered that she had no more 
 intended to betray her dislike to the scheme, than to gratify 
 Gilbert by calling him ' so ill.' Aristocratic and military, she had 
 no love for the monied interest, and had so sedulously impressed 
 on her friends that Mr. Kendal had been in the Civil Service, 
 and quite unconnected with the bank, that Mr. Ferrars had told 
 her she thought his respectability depended on it ; and she was 
 ashamed that her brother should hear her give way again so 
 foolishly to the weakness. 
 
 Gilbert became the most talkative as they drew near home, 
 and was the first to spring out and open the hall door, display- 
 ing his two sisters harnessed tandem-fashion with packthread, 
 and driven at full speed by little Maurice, armed with the 
 veritable caniage whip ! The next moment it was thrown 
 down, with a rapturous shout, and Maurice was lost to every- 
 thing but his brother ! 
 
 ' Oh ! girls, how could you let him serve you so V began tha 
 horrified Albinia. ' Sophy will be laid up for a week l'
 
 186 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Never mind,' said Sophy, dropping on a chair. ' Poor little 
 fellow, he wished it so much !' 
 
 ' I tried to stop her, mamma,' said Lucy, ' but she will do as 
 Maurice pleases.' 
 
 ' See, this is the way they will spoil my boy, the instant my 
 back is turned !' said Albinia. ' What's the use of all I can do 
 with him, if every one else will go and be his bond-slave ! I do 
 believe Sophy would let him kill her, if he asked her !' 
 
 ' It is no real kindness,' said Mr. Kendal. ' Their good-nature 
 ought not to go beyond reason.' 
 
 The elder Maurice could hardly help shrugging his shoulders. 
 Well did he know that Mr. Kendal would have joined the team 
 if such had been the will of that sovereign in scarlet merino, 
 who stood with one hand in Gilbert's, and the whip in the 
 other. 
 
 ' Come here, Maurice,' quoth Albinia ; ' put down the whip,' 
 and she extracted it from his grasp, with grave resolution, 
 against which he made no struggle, gave it to Lucy to be put 
 away, and seated him on her knee. ' ISTov^r listen, Maurice ; 
 poor sister Sophy is tired, and you are never to make a horso 
 of her. Do you hear V 
 
 'Yes,' said Maurice, fidgeting. 
 
 ' Mind, if ever you make a horse of Sophy, mamma will put 
 you into the black cupboard. You understand V 
 
 'Sophy shan't be horse,' said Maurice. 'Sophy naughty, 
 lazy horse. Boy has Gibbie — ' 
 
 'There's gratitude,' said Mr. Ferrars, as 'Boy' slid off his 
 mamma's knee, stood on tiptoe to pull the door open, and ran 
 after Gilbert to grandmammas I'oom. 
 
 * Yes,' said Albinia ; ' no one is grateful for services beyond 
 all reason. So, Sophy, mind, into the cupboard he goes, the 
 very next time you are so silly as to be a horse.' 
 
 ' To punish which of them V asked her brother, 
 
 * Sophy knows,' said Albinia. 
 
 Sophy was too miserable to smile. Sarah Anne Drury had 
 been calling, and on hearing of Gilbert's indisposition, had 
 favoured them with ' mamma's remarks,' and when Mrs. Kendal 
 was blamed, Sophy had indignantly told Sarah Anne that she 
 knew nothing about it, and had no business to interfere. 
 Then followed the accusation, that Mrs. Kendal had set the 
 whole family against their old friends ; and Sophy had 
 found all her own besetting sins charged upon her step- 
 mother. 
 
 'My dear!' said Albinia, 'don't you know that if a royal 
 tiger were to eat up your cousin John in India, the Drurys
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 187 
 
 would say Mrs. Kendal always let the tigers run about loose I 
 IS or am I sure that your fiiults ai-e not my fault. I helped 
 you to be more exclusive and intolerant, and I am sure I tried 
 your temper, when I did not know what was the matter with 
 you—' 
 
 * ISTo — no/ said the choked voice. It would have been au 
 immense comfort to cry, or even to be able to return the kiss ; 
 but she was a great deal too wretched to be capable of any de- 
 monstration j physically exhausted by being driven about by 
 Maurice ; mentally worn out by the attempts to be amiable, 
 which had degenerated into wrangling ; full of remorse for hav- 
 ing made light of her brother's illness, and, for that reason^ 
 persuaded that she was to be punished by seeing it become 
 fatal. Not a word of all this did she say, but, dejected and 
 silent, she spent the evening in a lonely corner of the drawing- 
 room, while her brother, in the full pleasure of returning home, 
 and greatly enjoying his invalid privileges, was discussing the 
 projected improvements. 
 
 Talking at last brought back his cough with real violence, 
 and he was sent to bed ; Albinia went up with him to see 
 that his fire burnt. He set Mr. Fen-ars's drawing of the alms- 
 houses over his mantelshelf. ' I shall nail it up to-morrowj' 
 he said. ' I always wanted a picture here, and that's a jolly 
 one to look to.' 
 
 ' It would be a beautiful beginning,' she said. ' I think your 
 life would go the better for it, Gibbie.' 
 
 ' I suppose old nurse would be too grand for one,' he said ; 
 ' but I should like to have her so near ! And you must mind 
 and keep old Mrs. Baker out of the Union for it. And that 
 famous old blind sailor ! I shall put him up a bench to sit 
 in the sun, and spin his yarns on, and tell him to think him- 
 self at Greenwich.' 
 
 Albinia went down, only afraid that his being so very good 
 was a dangerous symptom. 
 
 Sophy was far from well in the morning, and Albinia kept 
 her upstairs, and sent her godfather to make her a visit. He 
 always did her good ; he knew how to probe deeply, and help 
 her to speak, and he gave her advice with moi'e experience 
 than his sister, and more encouragement than her father. 
 
 Sophy said little, but her eyes had a softened look. 
 
 ' One good thing about Sophy,' said he afterwards to his 
 sister, ' is, that she will never talk her feelings to death.' 
 
 ' That reserve is my great pain. I don't get at the real being 
 once in six months.' 
 
 ' So much the better for people living together,'
 
 188 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 • Well, I was tliiuking that you and I are a great deal moro 
 iutimate and confidential when we meet now, than we used to 
 be when we were always together.' 
 
 ' People can't be often confidential from the innermost when 
 they live together,' said Maurice. 
 
 ' Since I have been a Kendal, such has been ray expe- 
 rience.' 
 
 ' It was the same before, only we concealed it by an upper 
 surface of chatter,' said Maurice. "As iron sharpeneth iron, so 
 doth a man the countenance of his friend ;" but if the mutual 
 sharpening went on without intermission, both irons would wear 
 away, and no work would be done. Aren't you coming with 
 me ? Edmund is going to drive me to Woodside to meet the 
 pony-carriage from home.' 
 
 ' I wisli I could ; but you see what happens when I go out 
 pleasuring !' 
 
 ' Well, you can take one element of mischief with you — that 
 imp, Maurice.' 
 
 ' Ye — es. Papa would like it, if you do.' 
 
 ' I should like you to come on worse terms.' 
 
 ' Very well, then ; and Sophy is safe ; I had already asked 
 Genevieve to come and read to her this afternoon. If Gilbert 
 can spare me, I will go.' 
 
 Gilbert did not want her, and begged Lucy not to think of 
 staying indoors on his account. He was presently left in soli- 
 tary possession of the drawing-room, whei'eupon he rose, settled 
 his brown locks at the glass, aiTanged his tie, brushed his cuffs, 
 leisurely walked upstairs, and lapped at the door of the morn- 
 ing-room, meekly asking, ' May I come in T with a cough at 
 each end of the sentence. 
 
 ' Oh ! Gilbert !' cried his anxious sister, starting up. ' Are 
 you come to see me V and she would have wheeled round her 
 father's arm-chair for him, but Genevieve was beforehand with 
 her, and he sank into it, saying pathetically, ' Ah ! thank you, 
 Miss Durant ; you are come to a perfect hospital. Oh ! this is 
 too much,' as she further gave him a footstool. ' Oh ! no, 
 thank you, Sojihy,' for she would have handed G6nevieve her 
 own pillow for his further support ; ' this is delightful !' re- 
 clining pathetically in his chair. ' This is not like Traversham.' 
 
 ' Where they would not believe he was ill !' said Sophy. 
 
 ' I hope he does not loolc so very ill,' said Gdnevieve, cheer- 
 fully, but this rather hurt the feelings of both ; the one said, 
 * Oh ! but he is terribly pale ;' the other coughed, and said, 
 'Looks are deceitful.' 
 
 ' That is the very reason,' said G6nevieve. ' You don't look
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 189 
 
 deceitful enough to be so ill — so ill as Miss Sopliie fears ;^now 
 you are at home, and well cared for, you will soon be well.' 
 
 ' Care would have prevented it all,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' And not brought me home !' said Gilbert. ' Home is home 
 on any terms. No one there had the least idea a fellow could 
 ever be unwell or out of spirits !' 
 
 'Ah! you must have been ill,' cried his sister, 'you who 
 never used to be miserable !' 
 
 Gilbert gave a sigh. ' They were such mere boys,' he said, 
 
 'Monsieur voire Frecepteicr T asked Genevieve. 
 
 'Ah ! he was otherwise occupied!' 
 
 ' There is some mystery beneath,' said Genevieve, turning to 
 Sophy, who exclaimed abruptly, ' Oh ! is he in love V 
 
 ' Sophy goes to the point,' said Gilbert, smiling, the picture of 
 languid comfort ; ' but 1 own there are suspicious circumstances. 
 He always has a photograph in his pocket, and Price has seen 
 him looking at it.' 
 
 ' Ah ! depend upon it. Miss Sophy, it is all a romance of these 
 young gentlemen,' said Genevieve, turning to her with a droll, 
 provoking air of confidence ; ' ce pauvre Monsieur had the por- 
 trait of his sister !' 
 
 ' Catch me carrying Sophy's face in my waistcoat pocket,' 
 cried Gilbert, forgetting his languor. 
 
 ' Speak for youi'self, Mr. Gilbert,' laughed Genevieve. 
 
 ' And he writes letters every day, and wont let any of us 
 put them into the post for him ; but we know the direction 
 begins with Miss — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! the curious boys !' cried Genevieve. ' If I could 
 only hint to this poor tutor to let them read Miss Downton 
 on one !' 
 
 ' I assure you,' cried Gilbert, ' Price has laid a bet that she's 
 an heireris with forty thousand pounds aud red hair.' 
 
 ' Mr. Price is an impertinent ! I hope you will inform me 
 how he looks when he is the loser.' 
 
 ' But he has seen her ! He met Mr. Downton last Christmas 
 in Regent Street, in a swell carriage, with a lady with such 
 carrots, he thought her bonnet was on fire ; and Mr. Downton 
 never saw Price, though he bowed to him; and you know 
 nobody would marry a woman with red hair unless she was an 
 heiress.' 
 
 ' Miss Sophy,' whispered Genevieve, ' prepai-e for a red- 
 haired sister-in-law. I predict that every one of the pupils of 
 the respectable Mr. Downton will many ladies with lively 
 chestnut locks.' 
 
 * What, you think me so mercenaiy, Genevieve ?' said Gilbei-t.
 
 190 THS YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' I only hope to see tliis school-boy logic well revenged !' said 
 Genevieve. ' INIrs. Price shall have locks of orange red, and for 
 Mrs. Gilbert Kendal — ah ! we will content ourselves with her 
 having a paler shade — sandy gold.' 
 
 ' No,' said Gilbert, speaking slowly, turning round his eyes. 
 * I could tell you what Mrs. G. Kendal's hair will be — ^ 
 
 Genevieve let this drop, and said, ' You do not want me ; 
 good-bye. Miss Sophie.' 
 
 ' Going ! why, you came to read to me, Genevieve,' exclaimed 
 So])hy. 
 
 ' Ah ! I beg your pardon, I have been interrupting you all 
 this time,' cried Gilbert ; ' I never meant to disturb you. Pray 
 let me listen.' 
 
 And G6nevieve read while Gilbert resumed his reclining 
 attitude, with half-closed eyes, listening to the sweet intona- 
 tions and pretty refined accent of the ancien regime. 
 
 Sophy enjoyed this exceedingly, she made it her especial 
 occupation to take care of Gilbert, and enter into his fireside 
 amusements. This indisposition had drawn the two nearer 
 together, and essentially unlike as they were, their two characters 
 seemed to be fitting well one into the other. His sentiment 
 accorded with her strain of romance, and they read poetry and 
 had discussions as they sat over the fire, growing constantly into 
 gi-eater intimacy and confidence. Sophy waited on him, and 
 watched him perpetually, and her assiduity was imparting a 
 softness and warmth quite new to her, while the constant occu- 
 pation kept affronts and vexations out of her sight, and made 
 her amiable. 
 
 Gilbert's health improved, though with vicissitudes that en- 
 forced the necessity of prudence. Pash when well, and de- 
 sponding at each renewal of illness, he was not easy to manage, 
 but he was always so gentle, grateful, and obliging, that he 
 endeared himself to the whole household. It was no novelty 
 for him to be devoted to his step-mother and his little brother, 
 but he was likewise very kind to Lucy, and spent much i,ime in 
 helping in her pursuits ; he was becoming companionable to his 
 father, and could play at chess sr.fficiently well to be a worthy 
 antagonist in Mr. Kendal's scientific and interminable games. 
 He would likewise play at backgammon with grandmamma, and 
 could entertain her for hours together by listening to her long 
 stories of the old Bayford world. He was a favourite in her 
 little societ}', and would often take a hand at cards to make 
 up a rubber ; nay, even when not absolutely required, he 
 was very apt to bestow his countenance upon the little parties, 
 where he had the pleasure of being treated as a great man, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 191 
 
 which, at least, had the advantage of making a variation in his 
 imprisonment during the east winds. 
 
 Madame Belmarche and her daughter and grandchild were 
 sometimes of the party, and on these occasions, Sophy always 
 claimed Genevieve, and usually succeeded in carrying her off, 
 when Gilbert would often join them. Their books and prints 
 were a great treat to her ; Gilbert had a beautiful illustrated 
 copy of Longfellow's poems, and the engi^avings and 'Evangeline' 
 were their enjoyment ; Gilbert regularly proffering the loan 
 of the book, and she as regularly refusing it, and turning a deaf 
 ear to gentle insinuations of the pleasure of knowing that any 
 book of his was in her hands. Gilbert had never had much of 
 the schoolboy manner, and he was adopting a gentle, pathetic 
 tone, at which Albinia was apt to laugh, but in her absence was 
 often verged upon tendresse, especially with Genevieve. She, how- 
 ever, by her perfect simplicity and lively banter, always nipped 
 the bud of his sentiment ; she had known him from a child, and 
 never lost the sense of being his elder, treating him somewhat 
 as a boy to be played with. Perfectly aware of her own posi- 
 tion, her demeanour, frank and gracious as it was, had something 
 in it which kept in check other Bayford youths less gentleman- 
 like than Gilbert Kendal. If she never forgot that she was a 
 dancing-master's daughter, she never let any one else forget that 
 she was a lady. 
 
 When the building began, Gilbert had a wholesome occupa- 
 tion, saving his father some trouble and — not quite so much 
 expense by overlooking the workmen. Mr. Kendal was glad 
 to be spared giving orders and speaking to people, and would 
 always rather be overcharged than be at the pains of bargaining 
 or inquiring. ' It was Gilbert's own house,' he said, ' and it 
 was good for the boy to take an interest in it, and not to be too 
 much interfered with.' So the bay window and the conserva- 
 tory were some degrees grander than Mi\ Ferrars had proposed, 
 bxit all was excused by tlie pleasure and experience they afforded 
 Gilbert, and it was very di-oll to see Maurice following him 
 about after the workmen, watching them most knowingly, and 
 deep in mischief at eveiy opportunity. Once he had been up 
 to his knees in a tempting hkNiaiianfffr-Wko lake of lime, many 
 times had be hammei-ed or cut his fingers, and once his legs had 
 gone througli the new drawing-room ceiling, where he hung by 
 the petticoats screaming till rescued by his brother. The room 
 was under these auspices finished, and was a very successful 
 affair — the conservatory, in which the hall terminated, and into 
 which a side door of the drawing-room opened, gave a bright, 
 fragrant, flowery air to the whole house ; and the low fireplace
 
 192 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 and comfortable fan-shaped fender made the room very cheerful. 
 Fresh delicately-tinted furniture, chosen con amove by the 
 London aunts, had made the apartment very unlike old Willow 
 Lawn ; and Albinia had so much enjoyed setting it off to the 
 best advantage, that she sent word to Winifred that she was 
 really becoming a furniture fanciex*. 
 
 It was a very pretty paper, and some choice prints hung on 
 it ; but Albinia and Sophy had laid violent hands on all the 
 best-looking books, and kept them for the eqiupment of one of 
 the walls. The rest were disposed, for Mr. Kendal's delectation, 
 in the old drawing-room, henceforth to be named the library. 
 Lucy thought it sounded better, and he was quite as willirg as 
 Albinia was that the name of study should be extinct. Mean- 
 time Mr. Downton had verified the boys' prediction by writing 
 to announce that he was about to marry and give up pupils. 
 
 Gilbert was past seventeen, and it was time to decide on his 
 profession. Albinia had virtuously abstained from any hint 
 adverse to the houf:e of Kendal and Kendal, for she knew it 
 hurt her husband's feelings to hear any disparagement of the 
 country where he had spent some of his happiest years. He 
 was fond of his cousins, and knew that they would give his son 
 a safe and happy home, and he believed that the climate was 
 exactly what his health needed. 
 
 Sophy fired at the idea. Her constant study of the subject 
 and her vivid imagination had taken the place of memory, which 
 could supply nothing but the glow of colouring and the dazzling 
 haze which enveloped all the forms that she would fain believe 
 that she remembered. She and her father would discuss Indian 
 scenei-y as if they had been only absoit from it a year ; she 
 envied Gilbert his return thither, but owned that it was the 
 next thing to going herself, and was already beginning to amass 
 a hoard of English gifts for the old ayahs and bearers who still 
 lived in her recollection, in preparation for the visit which on 
 his first holiday her brother must pay to her birthplace and 
 first home. 
 
 Gilbert, however, took no part in this enthusiasm, he made no 
 opposition, but showed no alacrity ; and at last his fiither asked 
 Albinia whether she knew of any objection on his part, or any 
 design which he might be unwilling to put forward. With a 
 beatincr heart she avowed her cherished scheme. 
 
 'Is this his own proposal f asked Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' No ; he has never spoken of it ; but your plan has always 
 seemed so decided that perha])S he thinks he has no choice.' 
 
 * That is not what I wish,' said his father. ' If his inclinations 
 be otherwise, he has only to speak, and I will consider.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 193 
 
 'Shall I sound him?' suggested Albinia, dreading the timiditj 
 that always stood between the boy and his fathei". 
 
 * Do not inspire him with the wish and then imagine it his 
 own,' said Mr. Kendal ; and then thinking he had s{)oken 
 sternly, added * I know you would be the last to wish him to 
 take holy orders inconsiderately, but you have such power ov6r 
 him, that I question whether he would know his wishes from 
 yours.' 
 
 Albinia began to disavow the desire of actuating him. 
 
 ' You would not intend it, but he would catch the desire from 
 you, and I own I would rather he were not inspired with it. 
 If he now should express it, I should fear it was the unconscious 
 effort to escape from India. If it had been his brother Edmund, 
 I would have made any sacrifice, but T do not think Gilbert has 
 the energy or force of character I should wish to see in a clergy- 
 man, nor do I feel willing to risk him at the university.' 
 
 'Oh! Edmund, why will you distrust Oxford? Why will 
 you not believe what I know through Maurice and his friends?' 
 
 ' If my poor boy had either the disposition or the discipline 
 of your brother, I -should not feel the same doubt.' 
 
 ' Maiu'ice had no discipline except at school and vrhen William 
 licked him,' cried Albinia. ' You know he was but eleven 
 years old when my father died, and my aunts spoilt us without 
 mitigation.' 
 
 ' I said the disposition,' repeated Mr. Kendal ; * I can see 
 nothing in Gilbert marking him for a clergyman, and I think 
 him susceptible to the temptations that you cannot deny to 
 exist at any college. Nor would I desire to see him fixed here, 
 until he has seen something of life and of business, for which 
 this bank affords the greatest facilities with the least amount of 
 temptation. He would also be doing something for his own 
 support ; and with the life-interests upon his property, he must 
 be dependent on his own exertions, unless I were to do more 
 for him than would be right by the other children.' 
 
 * Then I am to say nothing to him V 
 
 * I will speak to him myself He is quite old enough to 
 understand his prospects and decide for himself 
 
 ' But, Edmund,' cried Albinia, with sudden vehemence, 'you 
 are not sacrificing Gilbert for Maurice's sake V 
 
 She had more neai-ly displeased him than she had ever done 
 before, though he looked up quietly, saying, ' Certainly not. I 
 am not saci'ificing Gilbert, and I should do the same if Maurice 
 were not in existence.' 
 
 She was too much ashamed of her foolish fancy to say more, 
 and she cooled into candour sufficient to perceive that he wu3 
 
 o
 
 194 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 wise in distrusting her tact where her preference was so strong. 
 But she foresaw that Gilbert would shrink and falter before his 
 father, and that the conference would lead to no discovery of his 
 views, and she was not surprised when her husband told her 
 that he could not understand the boy, and believed that the 
 truth was, that he would like to do nothing at all. It had ended 
 by Mr. Kendal, in a sort of despair, undertaking to write to 
 his cousin John for a statemen t of what would be required, 
 after which the decision was to be made. 
 
 Meantime Mr. Kendal advised Gilbert to attend to arithmetic 
 and book-keeping, and ofiered to instruct him in his long- 
 forgotten Hindostanee. Sophy learnt all these with all her 
 heart, but Gilbert always had a pain in his chest if he sat 
 still at any kind of study ! 
 
 CHAPTER XV, 
 
 COLONEL BURY was the most open-hearted old bachelor 
 in the country. His imagination never could conceive the 
 possibility of everybody not being glad to meet everybody ; his 
 house could never be too full, his dinner-parties of 'a few 
 friends ' overflowed the dining-room, and his ' nobody ' meant 
 always at least six bodies. Every season was fertile in occasions 
 of gathering old and young together to be made happy ; and little 
 Mary Ferrars, at live years old, had told her mamma that ' the 
 Colonel's parties made her quite dissipated.' 
 
 One bright summer day, his beaming face ap[)eared at Willow 
 Lawn with a pereraj)tory invitation. His nephew and heir 
 had newly married a friend of Albiuia's girlhood, and was about 
 to pay his wedding visit. Too hapjjy to keep his guests to 
 himself, the Colonel had fixed the next Thursday for a fite, and 
 wanted all the world to come to it — the Kendals, every one of 
 them — if they could only sleep there — but Albiuia brought him 
 to confession that he had promised to lodge five people more 
 than the house would hold ; and the aunts were at the par- 
 Bonvige, where nobody ventured to crowd their servants. 
 
 But there was a moon— and though Mr. Kendal would not 
 allow that she was the harvest moon, the hospitable Colonel 
 dilated on her as if she had been bed, Vjoard, and lodging, and 
 he did not find much difficulty in his persuasions. 
 
 Few invitations ever gave more delight ; Albinia appreciated 
 a holiday to the utmost, and the whole family was happy at 
 Sophy's chance of at length seeing Fairmead, and taking part iu
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 195 
 
 a little gaiety. And if Mr. Kendal's expectations of pleasure 
 were less high, he submitted very well, smiled benignautly 
 at the felicity around him, and was not once seen to sliudder. 
 
 Sarah Anne Drury had been invited to enliven grandmamma, 
 and every one augured a beautiful day and perfect enjoyment. 
 The morning was beautiful, but alas ! Sophy was hors de combat, 
 far too unwell to think of making one of the party. She bore 
 the disappointment magnanimously, and even the pity. Every 
 one was sorry, and Gilbert wanted her to go and wait at Fair- 
 mead Parsonage for the chance of improving, promising to come 
 and fetch her for any part of the entertainment ; and her father 
 told her that he had looked to her as his chief companion while 
 the gay people were taking their pleasure. No one was iincom- 
 fortably generous enough to offer to stay at home with her ; but 
 Lucy suggested asking Genevieve to come and take care of her. 
 
 * Nay/ said Sophy, ' it would be much better if she were to 
 go in my stead.' 
 
 Gilbert and Lucy both uttei'ed an exclamation ; and Sophy 
 added, 'She would have so much more enjoyment than I could! 
 Oh, it would quite make up for my missing it !' 
 
 ' My dear,' said grandmamma, ' you don't know what you 
 are talking of. It would be taking such a liberty.' 
 
 ' Thei'e need be no scruples on that score,' said Albinia ; 
 * the Colonel would only thank me if I brought him half 
 Bayford.' 
 
 ' Then,' cried Sophy, ' you think we may ask her ? Oh, I 
 should like to run up myself;' — and a look of congratulation 
 and gratitude passed between her and her brother. 
 
 'No, indeed, you must not; let me go,' said Lucy ; 'I'll just 
 finish tliis cup of tea — ' 
 
 ' My dear, my dear,' interposed Mrs. Meadows, ' pray con- 
 sider. She is a very good little girl in her way, but it is only 
 giving her a taste for things out of her station.' 
 
 'Oh ! don't say that, dear grandmamma,' interposed Albinia; 
 ' one good festival does carry one so much better through days 
 of toil !' 
 
 'Ah, well ! my dear, you will do as you think proper ; but 
 considering who the poor child is, I should call it no kiudnes?' 
 to bring her forward in company.' 
 
 Something passed between the indignant Gilbert and Sophy 
 about Frenoli counts and mai-quises, but Lucy managed nuicti 
 better. ' Dear me, grandmamma, nobody wishes to bring her 
 forward. She will only play with the children, and see the 
 fireworks, and no one will speak to her.' 
 
 Albinia averted further discussion till crandmamma liau 
 
 2
 
 196 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 left the breakfast-table, when all four appealed with one 
 voice to Mr. Kendal, who saw no objection ; whereupon 
 Lucy ran off, while Albinia finished her arrangements for 
 the well-being of grandmamma, Sophy, and Maurice, who were 
 as difficult to manage as the fox, goose, and cabbage. At 
 every turn she encoimtered Gilbert, touching up his toilette at 
 each glass, and seriously consulting her and Sophy upon the 
 choice between lilac and lemon-coloured gloves, and iipon the 
 bows of his fringed neck-tie. 
 
 ' My dear Gilbert,' said Albinia, on the fifth anxious alter- 
 native, 'it is of no use. No living creature will be the wist-r, 
 and do what you will, you will never look half so well as your 
 father.' 
 
 Gilbert flung aside, muttering something about ' fit to be 
 seen,' but just then Lucy hurried in. ' Oh ! mamma, she wont 
 go — she is very much obliged, but she can't go.' 
 
 ' Can't 1 she must,' cried Albinia and Gill^ert together. 
 
 *She says you are very kind, but that she cannot. T said 
 everything I could ; I told her she should wear Sophy's muslin 
 mantle, or my second best polka.' 
 
 ' No doubt you went and made a great favour of it,' said 
 Gilbert. 
 
 ' No, I assure you I did not ; I persuaded her with all my 
 micht ; I said mamma wished it. and we all wished it ; and 
 I am sure she would really have been very glad if she could 
 have gone.' 
 
 ' It can't be the school, it is holiday time,' said Gilbert. ' I'll 
 go and see what is the matter.' 
 
 'No, I will go,' said Albinia; 'I will ask the old ladies to 
 luncheon here, and that will make her hay)py, and make it 
 easier for Sophy to get on with Sarah Anne Drary.' 
 
 Lucy had seen Genevieve alone ; Albinia took her by storm 
 before Madame BelmarchI, whose little black eyes sparkled as 
 she assured Mrs. Kejidal that the child merited that and every 
 other pleasure; and when Genevieve attempted to whis]ier ob- 
 jections, silenced her with an embrace, saying, * Ah ! iny love, 
 where is your gratitude to Madame 1 Have no fears for us. 
 Your pleasure will be ours for months to come.' 
 
 The liquid sweetness of Genevieve's eyes s))oke of no want of 
 gratitude, and with glee which she no hmger strove to repress, 
 she tripped away to eqnip herself, and Albinia heard her clear 
 young voice upstairs, singing away the burthen of some queer 
 old French ditty. 
 
 Albinia found Gilbert and Sophy in disgrace with Lucy for 
 having gathered the choicest flowers, which they were eagerly
 
 THE YOUNG STEP MOTH EU. 197 
 
 makino- np into bouquets. Genevieve's was i-eady before she 
 arrived in the prettiest tremor of gratitude ami anticipation, 
 and presented to her by Gilbert, whilst Sophy looked on, and 
 blushed crimson, face, neck, and all, as Genevieve smelt and 
 admired the white roses that had so cruelly been reft from 
 Lucy's beloved tree. 
 
 With every advantage of pretty features, good complexion, 
 and nice figure, the English Lucy, in her blue-and-white 
 checked silk, worked muslin mantle, and white chip bonnet 
 with blue ribbons, was eclipsed by the small swarthy French 
 girl, in that very old black silk dress, and white trimmed coarse 
 straw bonnet, just enlivened by little pink bows at the neck 
 and wrists. It had long been acknowledged that Genevidve 
 was unrivalled in the art of tying bows, and those pink ones 
 were paragons, redolent of all her own fresh sprightly archness 
 and refinement. Albinia herself was the best representative of 
 English good looks, and never had she been more brilliant, her 
 rich chestnut hair waving so prettily on the rounded contour of 
 her happy face, her fair cheek tinted with such a healthy fresh 
 bloom, her grey eyes laughing with merry softness, her whole 
 person so alert and elastic with exuberant life and enjoyment, 
 that grandmamma was as happy in watching her as if she had 
 been her own daughter, and stroked down the broad flounces of 
 her changeable silk, and admired her black lace, as if she felt 
 the whole family exalted by Mrs. Kendal's appearance. 
 
 It was a merry journey, through the meadows and corn-fields, 
 laughing in the summer sunshine ; and in due time they saw 
 the flag upon Fairmead steeple, and Albinia nodded to curtsey- 
 ing old friends at the cottage doors. The lodge gate swung 
 open wide, and the well-known striped marquee was seen 
 among the trees in the distance, as they went up the carriage- 
 road ; but at the little iron gate leading to the shrubbery there 
 was a halt ; Mr. Ferrars called to the carriage to stop, and 
 opened the door. At the same moment Albinia gave a cry of 
 wonder, and exclaimed, ' Why, Fred 1 is William here V 
 
 ' No ; at Montreal, but very well,' was the answer, with a 
 hearty shake of the hand. 
 
 « Edmund, it is Fred Ferrars,' said Albinia. * Why, Maurice, 
 you never told us.' 
 
 ' He took us by surprise yesterday.' 
 
 * Yes ; I landed yesterday morning, went to the Family 
 Office, found Belraven was nowhere, and the aunts at Fairmead, 
 and so came on here,' ex})lained Fred, as he finished shaking 
 hands with all the party, and walked on beside Albinia. He 
 was tall, fresh-coloured, a good deal like her, with a long fair
 
 198 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 moustache, and light, hanclsouie figure ; and Lucy, though 
 rather disconcerted at Genevieve being taken for one of them- 
 Belves, began eagerly to whisper her conviction that he was Lord 
 Belraven's brotlier, mamma's first cousin, captain in the 25th 
 Lancers, and aide-de-camp to General Ferrars. 
 
 It was the first meeting since an awkward parting. The 
 only son of a foolish second marriage, and early left an orphan, 
 Frederick Ferrars had grown up under the good aunts' charge, 
 somewhat neglected by his half-brother, by many years hia 
 senior. He was little older than Albinia, and a merry, banter- 
 ing afiection had always subsisted between them, till he had 
 begun to give it the air of something moi-e than friendship. 
 Albinia was, however, of a nature to seek for something of 
 depth and repose, on which to rely for support and anchorage. 
 Fred's vivacious disposition had never for a moment won her 
 serious attachment ; she was 'very fond of him,' b\it no more j 
 her heart was set on sharing her brother's life as a country pas- 
 tor. She went to Fairmead, Fied was carried oflf by the General 
 to Canada, and she ]iresently heard of his hopeless attachment 
 to a lovely Yankee, whom he met on board the steamer. All this 
 was now cast behind the seven most eventful years of Albinia's 
 life ; and in the dignity of her matronhood, she looked more 
 than ever on 'poor Fred' as a boy, and was delighted to see 
 him again, and to hear of her brother William. 
 
 A few steps brought them to the shade of the large cedar- 
 tree, where was seated Winifred, and Mrs. Annesley was with 
 her. The greetings had hardly been exchanged before the 
 Colonel came upon them in all his glory, with his pretty shy 
 bride niece on Ids arm, looking very like the Alice Percy of the 
 old times, when Fred used to tease the two girls. 
 
 Genevieve vvas made heartily welcome, and Sophia's absence 
 deplored, and then the Colonel carried off the younger ones to 
 the archery, giving his arm to the much-flattered Lucy, and 
 followed by Gilbert and Genevieve, with Willie and Mary- 
 adhering to them closely, and their governess in sight. 
 
 Mr, Ferrars and Mr. Kendal fell into one of their discussions, 
 and paced up and down the shady walk, while Albinia sat, in 
 the complete contentment, between Alice and Winifred, with 
 Fred Ferrars on the turf at their feet, living over again the 
 bygone days, laughing over ancient jokes, resu.scitating past 
 scrapes, tracing the lot of old companions, or telling mischievous 
 anecdotes of each other, for the very purpose of being contra- 
 dicted. They were much too light-liearted to note the lapse of 
 time, till Maurice came to take his wife home, thinking she had 
 had fatigue enough, Mrs. Annesley went with her, and Albinia,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 1S9 
 
 on looking for her husband, was told that he had fallen in with 
 some old Indian acquaintaiices ; and Charles Bury preseuily 
 came to find his wife, and conduct the party to luncheon. Theie 
 was no foi-mal meal, but a perpetual refection laid out in the 
 dining-room, for relays of guests. Fred took care of Albiaia, 
 and here they met Miss Ferrars, who had been with one of her 
 old friends, to whom she was delighted to exhibit her nephew 
 and niece in their prime of good looks. 
 
 ' But I must go,' said Albinia ; ' having found the provisions, 
 I must secure that Mr. Keudal and the children are not 
 famished.' 
 
 Fred came with her, and she turned doM'n the long alley 
 leading to the archery-ground. He felt old times so far re- 
 newed as to resume their habits of confidence, and began, ' I 
 suppose the General has not told you what has brought me 
 home V 
 
 ' He has not so much as told me you were coming.' 
 
 * Ay, ay, of course you know how he treats those things.' 
 ' Oh — h !' said Albinia, perfectly understanduig. 
 
 * But,' continued Frederick, eagerly, ' even he confesses that she 
 is the very sweetest — I mean,' as Albinia smiled at this evident 
 embellishment, ' even he has not a word of objection to make, 
 except the old story about married officers.' 
 
 ' And who is she, Fred V 
 
 *0h, mamma, there you are !' and Lucy joined them as they 
 emerged on the bowling-green, where stood the two bright tar- 
 gets, and the groups of archers, whose shafts, for the most part, 
 flevv far and wide. 
 
 ' Where are the rest, my dear ? are they shooting V 
 
 *Yes; Gilbert has been teaching Genevieve — there, she ia 
 shooting now.' 
 
 The little light figure stood in advance. Gilbert held her 
 arrows, and another gentleman appeared to be counselling her. 
 There seemed to be general exultation when one of her arrows 
 touched the white ring outside the target. 
 
 ' That has been her best shot,' said Lucy. ' I am sure I would 
 not shoot in public unless I knew how !' 
 
 ' Do you not like shooting V asked Captain Ferrai's ; and Lucy 
 smiled, and lost her discontented air. 
 
 ' It hurts my fingers,' .she said ; ' and I have always so much to 
 do in the garden.' 
 
 Albinia asked if she had had anything to eat. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; the Colonel asked Gilbert to carve in the tent there, 
 for the children and governesses,' said Lucy ; ' he and Genevieve 
 were very busy there ; but 1 found I was not of much use so, I
 
 200 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 came away with tlie Miss Bartons to look at the flowers ; but 
 now they are shooting, and I could not think what had become 
 of you.' 
 
 And Lucy bestowed her company on Albinia and the 
 Captain, reducing him to dashing, disconnected talk, till they 
 met Mr. Kendal, searching for them in the same tear that they 
 were starving, and anxious to introduce his wife to his Indian 
 friends. When at the end of the path, Albinia looked round, 
 the Lancer had disappeared, and Lucy was walking by her 
 father, trying to look serenely amused by a discussion on the 
 annexation of the Punjaub. 
 
 The afternoon was spent in pleasant loitering, chiefly with 
 Miss Ferrars, who asked much after Sophy, lamented greatly 
 over Winifred's delicate health, and was very anxious to know 
 what could have brought Fred home, being much afraid it was 
 some freah foolish attachment. 
 
 Ominous notes were heard from the band, and the Colonel 
 came to tell them that there was to be dancing till it was dark 
 enough for the fireworks, his little Alice bad promised him her 
 first country-dance. Fred Ferrars emerged again with a half- 
 laughing, half-imploring, ' For the sake of old times, Albinia! 
 We've been partners before !' 
 
 * You'll take care of Lucy,' said Albinia, turning to her aunt ; 
 but Mr. Winthrop had already taken pity on her, and Albinia 
 was led oft' by her cousin to her place in the fast lengthening 
 rank. How she enjoyed it ! She had cared little for London 
 balls after the first novelty, but these Fairmead dances on the 
 turf had always had an Arcadian charm to her fancy, and 
 were the more delightful after so long an interval, in the 
 renewal of the old scene, and the recognition of so many familiar 
 faces. 
 
 With bounding stop and laughing lips, she flew down the 
 middle, more exhilarated every moment, exchanging merry 
 scraps of talk with her partner or bright fragments as she 
 poussetted with pair after pair ; and when the dance was over, 
 with glowing complexion and eyes still dancing, she took Fred's 
 arm, and heard the renewal of liis broken story — the praise of 
 his Emily, the fairest of Canadians, whom even the General 
 could not dislike, though, thorough soldier as he was, he would 
 fain have had all military men as devoid of encumbrances as 
 himself, and thought an officer's wife one of the most misplaced 
 articles in the world. Poor Fred had been in love so often, 
 that he laboured under the great vexation of not being able to 
 persuade any of his friends to regard his passion seriously, but 
 Albinia was quite sisterly enough to believe him this time, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 201 
 
 give full sympathy to his hopes and fears. Far less wealth had 
 ialleu to his lot than to tlmt of his cousins, and his marriage 
 must depend on what his brother would ' do for him,' a point 
 on which he tried to be sanguine, and Albinia encouraged him 
 against probability, for Lord Belraven was never liberal towards 
 his relations, and had lately married an expensive wife, with 
 whom he lived chiefly abroad. 
 
 This topic was not exhausted when Fred fell a prey to the 
 Colonel, who insisted on his dancing again, and Albinia telling 
 him to do his duty, he turned towards a group that bad coalesced 
 round Miss Ferrurs, consisting of Lucy, Gilbert, Genevieve, and 
 the children from the parsonage, and at once bore off the little 
 Frenchwoman, leaving more than one countenance blank. Lucy 
 and Willie did their best for mutual consolation, while Albinia 
 undertook to preside over her niece and a still smaller partner 
 in red velvet, in a quadrille. It was amusing to watch the 
 puzzled downright motions of the sturdy little bluif King Hal, 
 and the earnest precision of the prim little damsel, and Albinia 
 hovering round, now handing one, now pointing to the other, 
 keeping lightly out of every one's way, and far more playful 
 than either of the small performers in this solemn undertaking. 
 As it concluded she found that Mr. Kendal had been watching 
 her, with much entertainment, and she was glad to take his 
 arm, and assure herself that he had not been miserable, but had 
 been down to the parsonage, where he had read the newspaper 
 in peace, and had enjoyed a cup of tea in quiet with Winifred 
 and Mrs. Annesley. 
 
 The dancing had been transferred to the tent, which presented 
 a very pretty scene from without, looking through the drooping 
 festoons of evergreens at the lamps and the figures flitting 
 to and fro in their measured movements, while the shrubs and 
 dark foliage of the trees fell into gloom around ; and above, 
 the sky assumed the deep tranquil blue of night, the pale bright 
 stars shining out one by one. The Kendals were alone in the 
 terrace, far enough from the gay tumult to be sensible of the 
 contrast. 
 
 ' How beautiful !' said Albinia : * it is like a poem.' 
 
 *I was just thinking so,' he answered. 
 
 ' This is the best part of all,' she said, feeling, though hardly 
 expressing to herself the repose of his lofty, silent serenity, 
 standing aloof from gaiety and noise. She could have compared 
 him and her lively col^sin to the evening stillness contrasted 
 with the mirthful scene in the tent ; and though her nature 
 seemed to belong to the busy world, her best enjoyment lay 
 with what calmed and raised her above herself ; and slfe was
 
 202 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 perfectly happy, standing still with her arm upon that of her 
 silent husband. 
 
 ' These things are well imagined,' said he. ' The freedom and 
 absence of formality give space for being alone and quiet.' 
 
 • Yes,' said Albinia, saucily ; * when that is what you go into 
 society for,' 
 
 ' You have me there,' he said, smiling ; ' but I must own how 
 much I enjoyed coming back from the parsonage by myself. 
 I am glad we brought that little Genevieve ; she seems to be 
 so perfectly in her element. I saw her amusing a set of little 
 children in the ))rettieist, most animated way ; and afterwards, 
 when the young people were playing at some game, her gestui'es 
 were so sprightly and graceful, that no one could look at the 
 English girls beside her. Indeed I think she was making 
 quite a sensation ; your cousin seemed to admire her very 
 much. If she were but in another station, she would shine any- 
 where.' 
 
 ' How much you have seen, Edmund !' 
 
 * I have been a spectator, you an actor,' he said, smiling. 
 Her quiescence did not long continue, for the poor people 
 
 had begun to assemble on the gravel road before the front door 
 to see the fireworks, and she hurried away to renew her 
 acquaintance with her village friends, guessing at them in the 
 dark, asking after old mothers and daughters at service, inquir- 
 ing the names of new babies, and whether the old ones were 
 at school, and excusing herself for having become ' quite a 
 stranger.' 
 
 In the midst — whish — hiss, with steady swiftness, up shot in 
 the dark purple air the first rocket, bursting and scattering a 
 rain of stars. There was an audible gasp in the surrounding 
 homely world, a few little cries, and a big boy clutched tight 
 hold of her arm, saying, ' I be afeard.' She was explaining 
 away liis al;irn)s, when she heard her brother's voice, and found 
 her arm drawn into his. 
 
 ' Here you are, then,' he said ; 'I thought I heard your voice.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Maurice, 1 have hardly seen you. Let us have a nice 
 quiet turn in the park together.' 
 
 He resisted, saying, ' I don't approve of parents and guar- 
 dians losing themselves. What have you done with all your 
 children Y 
 
 ' What have you done with yours V retorted she. 
 
 ' I left Willie and Mary at the window witli their governess; 
 I came to see that these other children of mine were orderly.' 
 
 ' Mf)st pro])er, [)rudential, and exemplary Maurice !' his sister 
 laiighfid- ' Now I have an equally hearty belief in my childreu
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 203 
 
 being somewhere, sure to turn up when wanted. Come, I want 
 to get out from the trees to look for Colonel Bury's harvest 
 moon, for I believe she is an imposition.' 
 
 ' No, I'm not coming. You don't understand your duties. 
 Your young ladies ought always to know where to find you, an J 
 you where to find them.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Maurice, what must you have suffered before you 
 imported Winifred to chaperon me !' 
 
 ' You are in so mad a mood that T shall attempt only one 
 moral maxim, and that is, that no cue should set up for a 
 chaperon, till she has retired from business on her own ac- 
 count.' 
 
 ' That's a stroke at my dancing with poor Fred, but it was 
 bis only chance of speaking to me.' 
 
 ' Not particularly at the dancing.' 
 
 ' Well, then—' 
 
 * You'll see, by-and-bye. It was not your fault if those girls 
 n^ere not in all sorts of predicaments.* 
 
 ' I believe you think life is made up of predicaments. And 
 I want to hear whether William has written to you anything 
 about poor Fred.' 
 
 ' Only that he is more mad than ever, and that he let him 
 go, thinking that, there is no chance of Belraven helping him, 
 but that it may wear itself out on the journey.' 
 
 A revolving circle shedding festoons of purple and crimson 
 jets of fire made all their talk interjectional, and they had by 
 this time reached the terrace, where all the company were 
 assembled, the open windows at regular intervals casting 
 bewildering lights on the heads and shoulders in front of thein. 
 Then out burst a grand wheat-sheaf of yellow flame with 
 ci-imson ears and beards, by whose light Albinia recognised 
 Gilbert standing close to her in the shadow, and asked him 
 where the rest where.' 
 
 ' I can't tell ; Lucy and my father were here just now,' 
 
 'Are you feeling the chill, Gilbert?' asked Albinia, stru> fc 
 by something in his tone. 'You had better look from the 
 window.' 
 
 He neither moved nor made answer, but a great iUumina.tion 
 of Colonel Bury's coat-of-arms, with Eoman candles and Chinese 
 trees at the four corners, engrossed every eye, and flashjjig on 
 every face, enabled Albinia to join Mr. Kendal, who was with 
 Lucy and Miss Ferrars. No one knew whei'c Genevieve was, 
 but Albinia was confident that she could take good care of 
 herself, and was not too uneasy to enjoy the grand representa- 
 tion of Windsor Castle, and the finale of interlaced ciphers
 
 204 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 amidst; a multitude of little fretful sputtering tongues of fla'ave. 
 Then it was, amid good nights, donning of shawls, and announc- 
 ing of carriages, that Captain Ferrai's and Miss Duraut made 
 their appearance together, having been ' looking every whei'e for 
 Mrs. Kendal,' and it was not in the nature of a brother not to 
 lijok a little arch, though Albinia returned him as resolute and 
 satisfied a glance as could express 'Well, what of that?' 
 
 In consideration of the night air, Mr. Kendal put Gilbert 
 inside the carriage, and mounted the box, to revel in the 
 pleasures of silence. The four within talked incessantly and 
 compared adventures. Lucy had been gratified by being 
 patronized by Miss Ferrars, and likewise had much to say of 
 the smaller fry, and went into raptures about many a ' dear 
 little thing,' none of whom would, however, stand a comparison 
 witli Maurice ; Gilbert was critical upon every one's beauty ; and 
 Genevieve was more animated than all, telling anecdotes with, 
 great piquancy, and rehearsing the comical Yankee stones she 
 had heard from Captain Ferrars. She had enjoyed with, the 
 zest and intensity of a peculiarly congenial temperament, and 
 she seemed not to be able to cease from working off her excite- 
 ment in repetitions of her thanks, and in discussing the endless 
 delights the day had afforded. 
 
 But the day had begun early, and the way was long, so 
 remarks became scanty, and answers wex'e brief and went astray, 
 and Albinia thought she was travelling for ever to Montreal, 
 when she was startled by a pettish exclamation from Lucy ; ' Is 
 that all 1 It was not worth while to wake me only to see the 
 moon.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Genevieve, * but I thought Mrs. 
 Kendal wished to see it rise.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Genevieve,' said Albinia, ojiening her sleepy 
 eyes ; ' she is as little worth seeing as a moon can well be ; a 
 waning moon does well to keej) untimely hours.' 
 
 *Why do you think she is so much more beautiful in the 
 crescent, Mrs, Kendal V said Genevieve, in the most wakeful 
 manner. 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know,' said Albinia, subsiding into her 
 cornel'. 
 
 ' Is it from the situation of the mountains in the moon V 
 continued the pertinaciou.s damsel. 
 
 * In Africa V said Albinia, well-nigh asleep ; but Genevieve's 
 laugh roused her again, partly because she thought it less 
 mannerly than accorded with the girl's usual poliieness. No 
 more sleep was allowed her ; an astronomical passion seemed to 
 have possessed tlie young lady, and she dashed into the tidesj,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 205 
 
 and the causes of the harvest-moon, and volcanoes, ai.d thunder- 
 bolts, and Lord Rosse's telescope, forcing her tired friend to 
 reply by direct appeals, till Albinia almost wiylied her in the 
 moon herself; and was rejoiced when in the dim greyuess of 
 the early summer dawn, the carriage drew u]) at Madame Bel- 
 marche's house. As the light from the weary maid's candle 
 flashed on Genevieve's face, it revealed such a glow of deep 
 crimson on each brown cheek, that Albinia perceived that the 
 excitement must have been almost fever, and went to bed 
 speculating on the strange effects of a touch of gaiety on the 
 hereditary French nature, startling her at once from her graceful 
 propriety and humility of demeanour, into such extraordinary 
 obtrusive talkativeness. 
 
 She heard more the next morning that vexed her. Lucy 
 ■was seriously of opinion that Genevieve had not been sufficiently 
 retiring. She herself had heedfuUy kept under the wing of 
 Mary's governess, mamma, or Miss Ferrars, and nobody had 
 paid'her any particular attention ; but Genevieve had been with 
 Gilbert half the day, had had all the gentlemen round her at 
 the archery and in the games, had no end of ])artners in the 
 dances, and had walked about in the dark with Captain Ferrars. 
 Lucy was sure she was taken for her sister, and whenever she 
 had told people the truth, they had said how pretty she was. 
 ' You are jealous, Lucy.' Sophy said. 
 
 Lucy protested that it was quite the reverse. She was glad 
 poor little Jenny should meet with any notice ; there was no 
 cause for jealousy of her, and she threw back her head in 
 conscious beauty ; ' only she was sorry for Jenny, for they were 
 quite turning her head, and laughing at her all the time.' 
 
 Albinia's candour bui'st out as usual, ' Say no more about it, 
 my dear ; it was a mistake from beginning to end. I was too 
 much taken up with my own diversion to attend to you, and 
 now you are punishing me for it. I left you to take care of 
 yourselves, and exposed poor little G6nevi§ve to unkind 
 remarks.' 
 
 * I don't know what I said,' began Lucy. ' I don't mean to 
 blame her; it was just as she always is with Gilbert, so very 
 French.' 
 
 That word settled it — Lucy pronounced it with ineffiible 
 pity and contempt — she was far less able to forgive another for 
 being attractive, than for trying to attract. 
 
 Sophy looked excessively hurt and grieved, and in pri\-ate 
 asked her step-mother what she thought of Genevieve's behaviour. 
 
 ' My dear, I cannot tell ; I think she was off" her guard 
 •with excitement ; but all was very new to her, and there was
 
 £06 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEH. 
 
 eveiy excuse. I was too bappy to be wise, so no wonder she 
 was.' 
 
 ' And do you think Captain Ferrars was laughing at her 1 I 
 wish you would tell her, mamma. Gilbert says he is a fine, 
 flourishing officer in moustaches, who, he is sure, flirts with and 
 breaks the heart of every gii'l he meets. If he is right, mamma, 
 it would cure Genevieve to tell her so, and you would not mind 
 it, though he is your cousin.' 
 
 ' Poor Fred !' said Albinia. ' I am sorry Gilbert conceived 
 Buch a notion. But Genevieve's heart is too sensible to bi'eak in 
 that way, even if Fred washed it, and I can acquit him of such 
 savage intentions. I never should have seen any harm in all 
 that Genevieve did last night if she had not talked us to death 
 coming home ! Still I think she was off" her balance, and I 
 own I am disappointed. But we don't know what it is to be 
 born French i' 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 * "jl TRS. KENDAL, dear Madame, a great favour, could you 
 i tl spare me a few moments T 
 
 A blushing face was raised with such an expression of contrite 
 timidity, that Albinia felt sure that the poor little Frenchwoman 
 had recovered from, her brief intoxication, and wanted to apolo- 
 gize and be comforted, so she said kin'lly, 
 
 ' I was wishing to see you, my dear ; I was afraid the day 
 bad been too much for you ; I was certain you were feverish.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you were so good to make excuses for me. I am so 
 ashamed when I think how tedious, how disagreeable I must 
 have heen. It was why I wished to speak to you.' 
 
 ' Never mind apologies, my dear ; I have felt and done the 
 like many a time — it is the worst of enjoying oneself.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that was not all — I could not help it — enjoyment- 
 no !' stammered Genevieve. * If you would be kind enough to 
 come this way.' 
 
 !She opened her gT-andmother's back gate, the entrance to a 
 slip of garden smotliered in laurels, and led the way to a small 
 green arbour, containing a round table, transformed by calico 
 hangings into wliat the embroidered inscri|)tion called ' Autel d, 
 V Amour Jil'ud et inaternel^ bearing a plaster vase full of fresh 
 flowers ; but ere Albinia had time to admire this achievement 
 of French sentiment, Genevigve exclaimed, clasping her hands, 
 ' Oh, madame, pardon me, you who are so good ! You will tell
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 207 
 
 no one, you will bring on him no trouble, but you will tell him 
 it is too foolish — you will give him back his billet, and forbid 
 him ever to send another.' 
 
 Spite of the confidence about Emily, spite of all unreason, 
 such was the family opinion of Fred's propensity to fall in 
 love, that Albinia's first suspicion lighted upon him ; but as her 
 eye fell on the pinli envelope the handwriting concerned her 
 even more nearly. 
 
 ' Gilbert !' she cried. ' My dear, what is this 1 Do you wish 
 me to read it V 
 
 ' Yes ; for I cannot.' Genevieve turned away, as in his best 
 hand, and bad it was, Albiuia read the commencement — 
 
 ' My hope, my joy, my Genevieve !' 
 
 In mute astonisliment Albinia looked up, and met Gene- 
 vieve's eyes. ' Oh, madame, you are displeased with nie !' she 
 cried in despair, misinterpreting the look ; 'but indeed I could 
 not help it.' 
 
 ' My dear child,' said Albinia, affectionately putting her arm 
 round her waist, and drawing her down on the seat beside her, 
 * indeed I am not displeased with you ; you are doing the very 
 best thing possible by us all. Think I am your sister, and 
 tell me what is the meaning of all this, and then I will try to 
 help you.' 
 
 ' Oh, madame, you are too good,' said Genevieve, weeping ; and 
 kindly holding the trembling hand, Albiuia finished the letter, 
 herself. ' Silly boy ! Genevieve, dear girl, you must set my mind 
 at rest ; this is too childish — this is not the kind of thing that 
 would toucli your afiections, I am sure.' 
 
 ' Oh I pour cela non,' said Genevieve. ' Oh ! no ; I am grateful 
 to Mr. Gilbert Kendal, for, even as a little boy, he was always 
 kind to me ; but for the rest — he is so young, madame, even if 
 1 could forget — ' 
 
 ' I see,' said Albinia. * I am sure that you are much too 
 good and sensible at your age to waste a moment's thought or 
 pain on sucli a foolish boy, as he certainly is, Genevieve, though 
 not so foolish in liking you, whatever he may be in the way of 
 expressing it. Though of course — ^ Albinia had floundered 
 into a dreadful bewilderment between her sense of Genevieve's 
 m«rits and of the incompatibility of their station, and she 
 plunged out by asking, ' And how long has this been going on f 
 
 Genevieve hesitated. ' To speak the truth, madame, I have 
 long seen that, like many other youths, he would be — very 
 attentive if one were not guarded ; but I had known him so 
 long, that perhaps I did not soon enough begin to treat him en 
 jeune honime.*
 
 208 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER, 
 
 ' And this is his first letter V 
 ' Oh ! yes, madame.' 
 
 * He complains that you will not hear him ? Do you dislike 
 to tell me if anything had passed previously V 
 
 * Thursday,' was slightly whispered. 
 
 * Thursday ! ah ! now I begin to understand the cause of your 
 being suddenly moon-struck.' 
 
 'Ah ! madame, jiardon me !' 
 
 * I see — it was the only way to avoid a tete-d,-tete F said 
 Albinia. ' Well done, Genevieve. What had he been saying 
 to you, my dear V 
 
 Poor Genevieve cast about for a word, and finally faltered out, 
 * Des sottises, Madame.^ 
 
 ' That I can well believe,' said Albinia. * Well, my dear — ' 
 
 ' I think,' pursued Genevieve, ' that lie was vexed because I 
 would not let him absorb me exclusively at Fairmead; and began 
 to reproach me, and protest — ' 
 
 ' And like a wise woman you waked the sleeping dragon,' said 
 Albinia. ' Was this all f 
 
 ' No, madame ; so little had passed, that T hoped it was only 
 the excitement, and that he would forget ; but on Saturday he 
 met me in the flagged path, and oh ! he said a great deal, thout;h 
 1 did my best to convince him that he could only make himself 
 — be laughed at. I hoped even then that he was silenced, 
 and that I need not mention it, but I see he has been watching 
 me, and I dare not go out alone lest I should meet him. He 
 called this morning, and not seeing me left this note.' 
 
 * Do your grandmother and aunt know V 
 
 ' Oh, no ! I would far rather not tell them. Need I ? Oh ! 
 madame, surely you can bpeak to him, and no one need ever 
 liear of it V implored Genevieve. * You have promised me that 
 no one shall be told !' 
 
 ' No one shall, my dear. I hope soon to tell you that he is 
 heartily ashamed of having teased you. No one need be ashamed 
 of thinking you very dear and good — you can't help being 
 loveable, but Master Gibbie has no right to tell you so, and 
 we'll put an end to it. He will soon be in India out of your 
 way. Good-bye !' 
 
 Albinia kissed the confused and blushing maiden, and walked 
 away, provoked, yet diverted. 
 
 She found Gilbert alone, and was not slow in coming to 
 thg point, endeavouring to model her treatnient on that of 
 h(jr brother, the General, towards his aide-de-camp in the like 
 predicaments. 
 
 * Gilbert, I want to speak to you. I am afraid you have
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 209 
 
 been making yoi^i'self troublesome to Miss Durant. You 
 are old enough to know better than to write such a note as 
 this.' 
 
 He was all one blush, made an inarticulate exclamation, and 
 burst out, ' That abominable treacherous old wooden doll of a 
 mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' No, Miss Belmai'ch^ knows nothing of it. No one ever shall 
 if you will promise to drive this nonsense out of your head.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! Mrs. Keudal !' with a gesture of misery. 
 
 * Gilbert, you are making yourself absurd.' 
 
 He turned about, and would have marched out of the room, 
 but she pursued him, ' You must listen to me. It is not fit 
 that you should carry on this silly importunity. It is exceed- 
 ingly distressing to hei*, and might lead to very unpleasant and 
 hurtful remarks.' Seeing him look sullen, she took breath, 
 and considered. * She came to me in great trouble, and 
 begged me to restore your letter, and tell you never to repeat 
 the liberty.' 
 
 He struck his hand on his brow, ciying vehemently, ' Cruel 
 girl ! She little knows me — you little know me, if you think I 
 am to be silenced thus. I tell you I will never cease ! I am 
 not bound by your pride, which has sneered down and crushed 
 the loveliest — ^ 
 
 ' Not mine,' said Albinia, disconcerted at his unexpected 
 violence. 
 
 ' Yes !' he exclaimed. ' I know you could patronize ! but 
 a step beyond, and it is all the same with you as with the rest — 
 you despise the jewel without the setting.' 
 
 * No,' said Albinia, ' so far from depreciating her, I want to 
 convince you that it is an insult to pursue her in this ridiculous 
 underhand way.' 
 
 * You do me no justice,' said Gilbert loftily ; ' you little un- 
 derstand what you are pleased to make game of ;' and with one 
 of his sudden alternations, he dropped into a chair, calling him- 
 self the most miserable fellow in the world, unpitied wliere he 
 would gladly offer his life, and his tenderest feelings derided, 
 and he was so nearly ready to cry, that Albinia pitied him, and 
 said, 'I'll laugh no more if I can help it, Gibbie, but indeed 
 you are too young for all this misery to be real. I don't 
 mean that you are pretending, but only that this is your own 
 fancy.' 
 
 ' Fancy !' said the boy solemnly. * The happiness of my life 
 i? at stake. She shall be the sharer of all that is mine, the 
 moment my property is in my own hands.' 
 
 ' And do you think so high-minded a girl would listen to you, 
 
 P
 
 21 U THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 and take advantage of a fancy in a boy so much younger, and of 
 a different class V 
 
 ' It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all at her feet !' 
 
 * So it might, if it were worthy of her to accept it. Gilbei't, 
 if you knew what love is, you would never wish her to lower 
 herself by encouraging you now. She would be called artful- 
 designing — ^ 
 
 ' If she loved me — ^ he said disconsolately. 
 
 * I wish I could bring you to see how unlikely it is that a 
 sensible, superior woman could really attach heiself to a mere 
 lad. An unprincipled person might pretend it for the sake of 
 your property — a silly one might like you because you are 
 good-looking and well-mannered ; but neither would be 
 Genevieve.' 
 
 ' There is no use in saying any more,' he said, rising in offended 
 dignity. 
 
 ' I cannot let you go till you have given me your word never 
 to obtrude your folly on Miss Duraut aga.in.' 
 
 ' Have you anything else to ask me V cried Gilbert in a melo- 
 dramatic tone. 
 
 ' Yes, how would you like your father to know of this 1 It 
 is her secret, and I shall keep it, unless you are so selfish as to 
 continue the pursuit, and if so, I must have recourse to his 
 authority.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mrs. Kendal,' he said, actually wee2:)ing, * you have 
 always pitied me hitherto.' 
 
 ' A man should not ask for pity,' said Albinia ; ' but I am 
 sorry for you, for she is an admirable person, and I see you are 
 very unhappy ; but I will do all I can to help you, and you will 
 get over it, if you are reasonable. Now understand me, I will 
 and must protect Genevieve, and I shall appeal to your father 
 unless you pi-omi.se me to desist from this persecution.' 
 
 The debate might have been endless, if Mr. Kendal had not 
 been heard coming in. * You promise V she said. ' Yes,' waa 
 the faint rei)ly, in nei'vous terror of immediate reference to his 
 father ; and they hurried different ways, trying to look uncon- 
 cerned. 
 
 * Never mind,' said Albinia to herself. * Was not Fred quite 
 as bad about me, and look at him now ! Yes, Gilbert must go 
 to India, it will cuie him ; or if it should not, his affection will 
 be respectable, and worth consideration. If he were but older, 
 and this were the genuine article, I would fight for him, but — ' 
 And she sat down to write a loving note to Genevieve. Her 
 sanguine disposition made her trusv that all would blow over, 
 but her experience of the cheerful buoyant Ferrars tempera-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 21 1 
 
 ment was no guide to the morbid Kendal disposition ; Gilbert, 
 lay on the grass limp and doleful till the fall of the dew, when 
 he betook himself to a sofa ; and in the morning turned up his 
 eyes reproachfully at her instead of eating his breakfast. 
 
 About eleven o'clock the Fairmead pony-carriage stopped at 
 the door, containing Mr. Ferrars, the Captain, Aunt Gertrude, 
 and little Willie. Albiuia, her husband, and Lucy, were soon 
 in the drawing-room welcoming them ; and Lucy fetched her 
 little brother, who had been vociferous for three days about 
 Cousin Fred, the real soldier, but now, struck with awe at the 
 mighty personage, stood by his mamma, profoundly silent, and 
 staling. He was ungracious to his aiint, and still more so to 
 Willie, the latter of whom was despatched under Lucy's charge 
 to find Gilbert, but they came back unsuccessful. Nor did 
 Sophy make her appearance ; she was reported to be reading to 
 grandmamma— Mrs. Meadows preferred to Miss Ferrars ! there 
 was more in this than Albinia could make out, and she sat 
 uneasily till she could exchange a few words with Lvicy. ' My 
 dear, what is become of the other two V 
 
 • I am sure I don't know what is the matter with them,' said 
 Lucy. ' Gilbert is gone out — nobody knows where — and when 
 I told Sophy who was here, she said Captain Ferrars was an 
 empty-headed coxcomb, and she did not want to see him !' 
 
 ' Oh ! the geese !' murmured Albinia to herself, till the 
 comical suspicion crossed her mind that Gilbert was jealous, and 
 that Sophy was afraid of falling a victim to the redoubtable 
 lady killer. 
 
 Luncheon-time produced Sophy, grave and silent, but no 
 Gilbert, and Mr. Kendal, receiving no satisfactory account of 
 Lis absence, said, ' Very strange,' and looked annoyed. 
 
 Captain Ferrars seemed to have expected to see his bright 
 little partner of Thursday, for he inquired for her, and Willie 
 imparted the information that Fred had taken her for Sophy 
 all the time ! Fred laughed, and owned it, but asked if she 
 were not really the governess? 'A governess,' said Albinia, 
 ' but not ours ;' and an explanation followed, during which 
 Sophy blushed violently, and held up her head as Lf she had an 
 iron bar in her neck. 
 
 ' A pity,' said the Lancer, when he had heai-d who she was, 
 and under his moustache he murmured to Albinia, ' She is rather 
 in Emily's style.' 
 
 'Oh, Fred,' thought Albinia, ' after all, it may be lucky that 
 you aren't going to stay here !' 
 
 When Albinia was alone with her brother, she could not 
 help saying, ' Maurice, you were right to scold me; I reproached 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 you with thitiking life made up of predicaments. I think mine 
 is made of bhmders !' 
 
 * Ah ! I saw you were harassed to-day,' said her brother kindly. 
 ' Whenever one is happy, one does something wrong !' 
 
 * I guess — ' 
 
 * You are generous not to say you warned me months ago. 
 Mind, it is no fault of hers, she is behaving beautifully ; but 
 oh ! the absurdity, and the worst of it is, I have promised not 
 to tell Edmund.' 
 
 ' Then don't tell me. You have a judgment quite good enough 
 for use.' 
 
 * No, I have not. I have only sense, and that only serves me 
 for what other people ought to do.' 
 
 ' Then ask Albinia what Mrs. Kendal ought to do.' 
 Gilbert came in soon after their departure, with an odd, dishe- 
 velled, abstracted look, and muttering something inaudible about 
 not knowing the time. His depression absolutely courted notice, 
 but as a slight cough would at any time reduce him to despair, 
 he obtained no particular observation, except from Sophy, who 
 made much of him, flushed at Genevieve's name, and looked 
 reproachful, that it was evident that she was his confidante. 
 Several times did Alhinia tiy to lead her to enter on the 
 subject, but she set up her screen of silence. It was disap- 
 pointing, for Albinia had believed better things of her sense, 
 and hardly made allowance for the diflerent aspect of the love- 
 sorrows of seventeen, viewed from fifteen or twenty-six — 
 vexatious, too, to be treated with dry reserve, and probably 
 viewed as a rock in the course of true love ; and provoking to 
 see perpetual tete-a-teies that could hardly fail to fill Sophy's 
 romantic head with fully. 
 
 At the end of another week, Albinia received the follow- 
 ing note : — 
 
 ' Dear and most kind Madame, 
 
 ' I would not trouble you again, but tliis is the third witliin four 
 days. I returned the two former ones to himself, but lie continues to 
 write. May I ask your permission to speak to my relatives, for I feel 
 that I ought to hide this no longer from them, and that we must take some 
 measures for ending it. He does me the honour to wait near the house, 
 and I never dare go out, since — for I will confess all to you, madame — he 
 met me by the rii'er on Monday. I am beginning to fear that his assidui- 
 ties have been observed, and I should be nuu-h obliged if you would tell me 
 how to act. Yonr kind perseverance in your goodness towards me is my 
 greatest comfort, and I hoi)e that you will still continue it, for indeed it is 
 most unwillingly that 1 am a cause of perplexity and vexation to you. 
 lintreating your pardon, 
 
 ' Your most fiitlifal and obligeil servant, 
 
 'G^iNEViEVji Celeste Dubai^t.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 213 
 
 What was to be done ? That broken pledge overpowered 
 Albinia with a personal sense of shame, and though it set her 
 free to tell all to her husband, she shrank from provoking his 
 stern displeasure towai'ds his son, and feared he might involve 
 Genevieve in his anger. She dashed off a note to her poor 
 little friend, telling her to do as she thought fit by her aunt 
 and grandmother, and then sought another interview with tlie 
 reluctant Gilbert, to whom she returned the letter, saying, ' Oh, 
 Gilbert, at least I thought you would keep your word.' 
 
 ' I think,' he said, angrily, trying for dignity, though be- 
 wrayed by his restless eyes and hands — 'I think it is too 
 much to accuse me of — of — when 1 never said — What word 
 did I ever give Y 
 
 ' You promised never to persecute her again.' 
 
 ' There may be two opinions as to what persecution means,' 
 said Gilbert. 
 
 ' I little thought of subterfuges. I trusted you.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Kendal ! hear me,' he passionately cried. ' You knew 
 not the misery you imposed. To live so near, and not a word, 
 not a look ! I bore it as long as I could ; but when Sophy 
 would not so much as take one message, human nature could 
 not endure.' 
 
 * Well, if you cannot restrain yourself like a rational creature, 
 some means must be taken to fi-ee JMiss Durant from a pursuit 
 so injurious and disagreeable to her.' 
 
 ' Ay,' he cried, ' you have filled her with your own prejudices, 
 and inspired her with such a dread of the hateful fences of society, 
 tliat she does not dare to confess — ' 
 
 ' For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of acting a part.' 
 
 'No !' he exclaimed, 'all I say is, that she has been so thrust 
 down and forced back, that she cannot venture to avow her 
 feelings even to herself !' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Albinia, ' you conceited person !' 
 
 ' Well !' cried the boy, so much nettled by her sarcasm that 
 he did not know what he said, ' I think — considering — con- 
 sidering our situations, I might be worth her consideration !' 
 
 'Who put tliat in your head f asked Albinia. 'You are 
 too much a gentleman for it to have come there of its own 
 accord.' 
 
 He blushed excessively, and retracted. * No, no ! I did not 
 mean tliat ! No, I only mean I have no ftiir play — she will 
 not even think. Oh ! if I had but been born in the same 
 station of life !' 
 
 Gilbert making entrechats with a little fiddle! It had nearly 
 overthrown her g}avity, and she made no direct answer, only
 
 214 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 sayiiiiT, ' Well, Gilbert, these talks are useless. I only tlionghk 
 it right to give you notice that you have released me from my 
 engagement not to make your father aware of your folly.' 
 
 He went into an agony of entreaties, and proffers of promises, 
 but no more treaties of secrecy could he obtain ; she would only 
 say that she should not speak immediately, she should wait and 
 see how things turned out. By which she meant, how soon it 
 might be hoped that he would be safe in the Calcutta bank, 
 where she heartily wished him. 
 
 She sought a conference with G^neviSve, and took her out 
 walking in the meadows, for the poor child really needed change 
 and exercise ; the fear of Gilbert had made her imprison herself 
 within the little garden, till she looked sallow and worn. She 
 said that her grandmother and aunt had decided that she should 
 go in a couple of days to the Consent at Hadminster, to remain 
 there till Mr. Gilbert went to India — the superior was an old 
 friend of her aunt, and Genevieve had often been there, and 
 knew all the nuns. 
 
 Albinia was startled by this project. ' My dear, I had much 
 rather send you to stay at my brother's, or — anywhere. Are 
 you sure you are not running into temptation V 
 
 ' Not of that kind,' said Genevieve. ' The prieyt, Mr. O'Hara, 
 is a good-natured old gentleman, not in the least disposed to 
 trouble himself about my conversion.' 
 
 ' And the sisters V 
 
 ' Good old ladies, they have always been very kind to me, 
 and petted me exceedingly when I was a little child ; but for 
 the rest — ' still seeing Albinia's anxious look--' Oh ! they would 
 not think of it ; I don't believe they could argue ; they are not 
 like the new-fashioned Roman Catholics of whom you are 
 thinking, madarae.' 
 
 • And are there no enthusiastic young novices V 
 
 ' I should think no one would ever be a novice there,* said 
 Genevieve. 
 
 'You seem to be bent on destroying all the romance of 
 convents, Genevieve !' 
 
 ' I never thought of anything romantic connected with the 
 reverend mothers,' rejoined Genevieve ; ' and yet when I 
 recollect how they came to Hadminster, I think you will be 
 interested. You know the family at Hadminster Hall in the 
 last century were Roman Catholics, and a daughter had 
 professed at a convent in France. At the time of the revolu- 
 tion, her brother, the esquire, wrote to offer her an asylum at 
 his house. The day of her arrival was fixed — behold ! a stage- 
 coach d^-uws up to the door — black veils inside— black veils
 
 THE YOUNO STEP-MOTHER. 215 
 
 clustered on the roof — a black veil beside the coachman on the 
 box — eighteen nuns alight, and the' poor old infirm abbess is 
 lifted out. They had not even figured to themselves that the 
 invitation could be to one without the whole sistei'hood !' 
 
 * And what did the esquire do with the good ladies V 
 
 ' He took them as a gift from Providence ; he raised a sub- 
 scription among his friends, and they were lodged in the house 
 at Hadmiuster, where something like a sisterhood had striven 
 to exist ever since the days of James II.' 
 
 * Are any of these sisters living still V 
 
 ' Only poor old Mother Therese, who was a little pension- 
 naire when they came, aud now is blind, and never quits her 
 bed. There are only seven sisters at present, aud none of them 
 are less than five-and-forty.' 
 
 ' And what shall you do there, Genevieve f 
 
 ' If they have any pupils from the town, perhaps I may help 
 to teach them French. And I shall have plenty of time for my 
 music. Oh ! madame, would you lend me a little of your music 
 to copy V 
 
 ' With all my heart. Any books V 
 
 ' Oh ! that would be the greatest kindness of all ! And if it 
 were not presuming too much, if madame would let me take the 
 pattern of that beautiful point lace that she sometimes wears in 
 the evening, then I should make myself welcome !' 
 
 ' And put out your eyes, my dear ! But you may turn out 
 my whole lace-drawer if you think anything there will be a 
 pleasure to the old ladies.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you do not guess the pleasure, madame. Needlework 
 and embroidery is their excitement and delight. They will 
 ask me closely about all I have seen and done for months 
 past, and the history of the day at Fairmead will be a fete in 
 itself.' 
 
 'Well ! my dear, it is very right of you ; and I do feel very 
 thankful to you for treating the matter thus. Pray tell your 
 grandmamma and aunt to pardon the sad revolution we 
 have made in their comfort, and that I hope it will soon be 
 over !' 
 
 Genevieve took no leave. Albinia sent her a goodly ]iarcel 
 of books and work-patterns, and she returned an afi'ectiouate 
 note ; but did not attempt to see Lucy and Sophy. 
 
 The next Indian mail brought the expected letter, giving an 
 exact account of the acquirements and habits that would be 
 required of Gilbert, with a promise of a home where he would 
 be treated as a son, and of admission to the firm after due prt>- 
 batiou. The letter was so sensible and affectionate, that Mt
 
 216 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Kendal congratulated his son upon such an advantageous outset 
 in life. 
 
 Gilbert made slight reply, but the next morning Sophy 
 sought Albinia out, and with some hesitation began to tell her 
 that Gilbert was very anxious that she would intercede with 
 papa not to send him to Calcutta, 
 
 ' You now, Sophy !' cried Albinia. 'You who used to think 
 nothing equal to India !' 
 
 * I wish it were I,' said Sophy; 'but you know ' 
 
 * Well,' said Albinia, coldly. 
 
 Sophy was too shy to begin on that tack, and dashed off on 
 another. 
 
 * Oh, mamma, he is so wretched. He can't bear to thwart 
 papa, but he says it would break his heart to go so far away, 
 and that he knows it would kill him to be confined to a desk 
 in that climate.' 
 
 * You know papa thinks that nothing would confirm his 
 health so much as a few years without an English winter.' 
 
 ' One's own instinct — ' began So])hy ; then breaking off, she 
 added, ' Mamma, you never were for the bank.' 
 
 ' I used not to see the expediency, and I did not like the 
 parting ; but now I understand your father's wishes, and the 
 sort of allegiance he feels towards India, so that Gilbert's re- 
 luctance will be a great mortification to him.' 
 
 ' So it will,' said Sophy, mournfully ; ' I am sure it is to me. 
 I always looked forwai'd to Gilbert's goiiig to Talloon, and 
 seeing the dear old bearer, and taking all my presents there ; 
 but you see, of course, mamma, he cannot bear to go ' 
 
 * Sojihy, dear,' said Albinia, ' you have been thinking me a 
 very hard-hearted woman this last month. I have been long- 
 ing to have it out.' 
 
 ' Not hard-hearted,' said Sophy, looking down ; ' only I had 
 always thought you different from other people.' 
 
 * And you considered that I was worldly, and not romantic 
 enough. Is that it, Sophy V 
 
 ' I thought you knew how to value her for herself, so good 
 and so admirable — a lady in everything — with such perfect 
 manners. I thought you would have been pleased and jn-oud 
 that Gilbert's choice was so much nobler than beauty, or rank, 
 or fashion could make it,' said Sophy, growing enthusiastic as 
 she went on. 
 
 ' Well, my dear, perhaps I am.' 
 
 * But, mamma, you htive done all you could to separate them : 
 you liave shut Genevieve up in a convent, and you want to 
 banish him.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 217 
 
 *Tt sounds very grand, and worthy of a cruel step-dame.' said 
 Albinia ; ' but, my dear, though I do think Genevieve in her- 
 self an admirable creature, worthy of any one's love, what am I 
 to think of the way Gilbert has taken to show his admiration V 
 
 'And is it not very hard,' cried Sophy, ' that even you, who 
 own all her excellences, should turn against him, and give if. 
 to all this miserable conventionality, that wants riches and 
 station, and trumpery worldly things, and crushes down true 
 love in two young hearts f 
 
 * Sophy dear, I am afraid the love is not proved to be true 
 in the one heart, and I am sui-e there is none in the other !' 
 
 * Mamma ! 'Tis her self-command — ' 
 
 * Nonsense ! His attentions are nothing but distress to her ! 
 Sensible grown-up young women are not apt to be flattei-ed by 
 importunity from silly boys. Has he told you otherwise V 
 
 ' He thinks — he hopes, at least — and I am sure— it is all 
 stifled by her sense of duty, and fear of offending you, or appear- 
 ing mercenaiy.' 
 
 ' All delusion 1' said Albinia ; ' there's not a spark of con- 
 sciousness about her ! I see you don't like to believe it, but it 
 is my great comfort. Think how she would suffer if she did love 
 him ! Nay, think, before you are angry with me for not pro- 
 moting it, how it would bring them into trouble and disgrace 
 •with all the world, even if your ftither consented. Have you 
 once thought how it would appear to him V 
 
 ' You can persuade papa to anything !' 
 
 ' Sophy ! you ought to know your father better than to say 
 that !' cried Albinia, as if it had been disrespect to him. 
 
 ' Then you think he would never allow it ! You really 
 think that such a creature as Genevieve, as perfect a lady as 
 ever existed, must always be a victim to these hateful rules 
 about station.' 
 
 ' No,' said Albinia, ' certainly not ; but if she were in the 
 very same rank, if all else were suitable, Gilbert's age would 
 make the pursuit ridiculous.' 
 
 ' Only three years younger,' sighed Sophy. * But if thoy 
 were the same age 1 Do you mean that no one ever ought to 
 marry, if they love ever so much, where the station is ume- 
 rent V 
 
 'No, but that they must not do so lightly, but try the love 
 firs/ to see whether it be worth the sacrifice. If an attachment 
 last through many years of adverse circumstance?, I think the 
 happiness of the people has been shown to depend on each 
 other; but I don't think it safe to disregard disparities till 
 there has been some test that the love is the right stuff, or else
 
 218 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 they may produce ill-tempei', regrets, and uuhappiness, all the 
 rest of their lives.' 
 
 ' Tf Gilbert went on for years, mamma ?' 
 
 ' I did not say that, Sophy,' 
 
 ' Suppose,' continued the eager girl, ' he went out to Calcutta, 
 and worked these tive years, and was made a partner. Then 
 he would be two-and-twenty, nobody could call him too young, 
 and he would come home, and ask papa's consent, and you — * 
 
 ' I should call that constancy,' said Albinia. 
 
 'And he would take her out to Calcutta, and have no Druryg 
 and Osborns to bother her ! Oh ! it would be beautiful ! I 
 would watch over her while he was gone ! I'll go and tell him !' 
 
 ' Stop, Sophy, not from me — that would never do. I don't 
 think papa would think twenty-two such a great age — ' 
 
 * But he would have loved her five years !' said Sophy. 'And 
 you said yourself that would be constancy !' 
 
 ' True ; but, Sophy, I have known a youth who sailed broken- 
 hearted, and met a lady "just in the style" of the former one, 
 on board the steamer — ' 
 
 Sophy made a gesture of impatient disdain, and repeated, 
 ' Do you allow me to tell Gilbert that this is the way '?' 
 
 ' Not from me. I hold out no hope. I don't believe Gene- 
 vieve cares for him, and I don't kntnv whether his father would 
 consent — ' but seeing Sophy's look of disappointment, ' I see 
 no harm in your suggesting it, for it is his only chance with 
 either of them, and would be the proof that his affection was 
 good for something.' 
 
 •' And vou think her worth it Y 
 
 'I tliiuk her worth anything in the world — the more for her 
 behaviour in this matter. T only doubt if Gilbert have any 
 conception how much she is worth.' 
 
 Away went Sophy in a glow that made her alm<ist 
 handsome, while Albinia, as usual, wondered at her own im- 
 prudence. 
 
 At luncheon Sophy avoided her eye, and looked crestfallen, 
 and when afterwards she gave a mute inquiring address, shook 
 her head impatiently. It was ])lain that she had failed, and 
 was too much pained and shamed by his poorness of spirit to be 
 able as yet to speak of it. 
 
 Next came Gilbert, who pursued Albinia to the inorning- 
 roora to entreat her interference in his behalf, appealing 
 piteously to her kindness ; but she was obdurate. If any re- 
 monstrance were offered to his father, it must be by himself. 
 
 Gilbert fell into a state of misci-y, threw liimself about upon 
 the chairs, and muttered in the fietfulness of childish despair
 
 THE rOUNG STEP MOTHER. 219 
 
 soraetliitig about its being very hard, when he was owner of 
 half the town, to be sent into exile— it was like jealousy of his 
 growing \\p and being master. 
 
 ' Take care, Gilbert 1' said Albinia, with a flash of her eye 
 that he felt to his backbone. 
 
 'I don't mean it,' cried Gilbert, springing towards her in 
 supplication. ' I've heard it said, that's all, and was as angry 
 as you 3 but when a fellow is beside himself with misery at 
 being driven away from all he loves — not a friend to help him 
 — how can he keep from thinking all sorts of things V 
 
 ' I wonder what people dare to say it !' cried Albinia wrath- 
 fully ; but he did not heed, he was picturing his own future 
 misfortunes — toil — climate — fevers — choleras — Thugs — coups 
 de soleil — genuine dread and repugnance working him up to 
 positive agony. 
 
 ' Gilbert,' said Albinia, ' this is trumpery self-torture ! Yon 
 know this is a mere fai-rago that you have conjured up. Your 
 father would neither thrust you into danger, nor compel you to 
 do anything to which you had a reasonable aversion. Go and 
 be a man about it in one way or the other ! Either accept or 
 refuse, but don't make these childish lamentations. They are 
 cowardly ! I should be ashamed of little Maurice if he behaved 
 so!' 
 
 ' And you will not speak a word for me !' 
 
 ' No ! Speak for yourself !' and she left the room. 
 
 Days passed on, till she began t-o think that, after all, Gilbert 
 preferred Calcutta, cholera, Thugs, and all, to facing his father ; 
 but at last, he must have taken heart from his extremity, for 
 Mr. Kendal said, with less vexation than she had anticipated, 
 ' So our plans are overthrown. Gilbert tells me he has au in- 
 vincible dislike to Calcutta. Had you any such idea T 
 
 ' Not till your cousin's letter arrived. What did you say to 
 him r 
 
 ' He was so much afraid of vexing me that I was obliged to 
 encourage him to speak freely, and 1 found that he had always 
 had a strong distaste to and dread of India. I told him I 
 wished he had made me aware of it sooner, and desired to know 
 what profession he really preferred. He spoke of Oxford and 
 the Bar, and so I suppose it must be. I do not wonder that 
 he wishes to follow his Traversham friends, and as they are a 
 good set, I hope there may not be much temptation. I see 
 you are not satisfied, Albinia, yet your wishes were one of ray 
 motives.' 
 
 'Thank you— once I should,' said Albinia ; 'but, Edmund, 
 1 see how wrong it was to have concealed anything from you ;'
 
 220 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 and thereupon she informed him of Gilbert's passion for Gene- 
 vieve Durant, which astonished him greatly, though he took it 
 far less seriously than she had expected, and was not dis[)leased 
 at having been kept in ignorance and spared the trouble of 
 taking notice of it, and thus giving it importance. 
 
 ' It will pass off,' he said. ' She has too much sense and 
 principle to encourage him, and if you can get her out of Eayford 
 for a few years he will be glad to have it forgotten.' 
 
 ' Poor Genevieve ! She must break up her grandmother's 
 home after all !' 
 
 ' It will be a great advantage to her. You used to say that 
 it would be most desirable for her to see more of the world. 
 Away from this place she might marry well.' 
 
 ' Any one's son but yours,' said Albinia, smiling. 
 
 ' The connexion would be worse here than anywhere else ^ 
 but I was not thinking of any one in our rank of life. There 
 are many superior men in trade with whom she might be very 
 happy.' 
 
 ' Poor child 1' sighed Albinia. * I cannot feel that it is fair 
 that she should be banished for Gilbert's faults ; and I am 
 sorry for the school; you cannot think how much the tone was 
 improving.' 
 
 * If it could be done without hurting her feelings, I should 
 gladly give her a year at some superior finishing school, which 
 might either qualify her for a governess, or enable her to make 
 this one more profitable.' 
 
 'Oh 1 thank you 1' cried Albinia ; 'yet I doubt. However, 
 her services would be quite equivalent in any school to the 
 lessons she wants. I'll write to Mrs. Elwood — ' and she was 
 absorbed in the register-oflice in her brain, when Mr. Kendal 
 continued — 
 
 ' This is quite unexpected. I could not have supposed the 
 boy so foolish ! However, if you please, 1 will sj)eak to him, 
 tell him that I was unaware of his folly, and insist on his giving 
 it up.' 
 
 'I should be very glad if you would.' 
 
 Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfactory than 
 Albinia thought that Genevieve deserved. His frenzy had 
 tended to wear itself out, and he had been so dreadfully alarmed 
 about India and his father, that in his nilief, gratitude, and fear 
 of being sent out, he was ready to promise anything. Before 
 his father he could go into no rha]»sodies, and could only be 
 miseraljly confused. 
 
 • Personally,' said Mr. Kendal, ' it is creditable that yo\i
 
 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 221 
 
 Bhoiild be attracted by such estimable qualities, but these are 
 not the sole consideration. Equality of station is almost as 
 great a requisite as these for producing comfort or respectability, 
 and nothing but your youth and ignorance could excuse your 
 besetting any young woman with impox'tunitles which she had 
 shown to be disagreeable to her.' 
 
 There was no outcry of despair, only a melaucholy muttering. 
 Then Mr. Kendal pronounced his decree in terms more explicit 
 than those in which Albinia had exacted the promise. He said 
 nothing about persecution, nor was he unreasonable enough to 
 command an instant immolation of the passion ; he only insisted 
 tliat Gilbert should pay no marked attention, and attempt no 
 unsanctioned or underhand communication. Unless he thought 
 he had sufficient self-command to abstain, his father must take 
 ' further measures.' 
 
 As if fearing that this must mean ' Kendal and Kendal,' he 
 raised his head, and with a deep sigh undei-took for his own 
 self-command. Mr. Kendal laid his hand on his shoulder with 
 kind pity, told him he was doing right, and that while he acted 
 openly and obediently, he should always meet with sympathy 
 and consideration. 
 
 Two difficult points remained — the disposing of the young 
 people. Gilbert was- still over young for the university, as well 
 as very backward and ill-prepared, and the obstinate remains of 
 the cough made his father unwilling to send him from home. 
 And his presence nui de Genevieve's absence necessary. 
 
 The place had begun to loom in the distance. A former 
 governess of Albinia's, who would have done almost anything 
 to please her, had lately been left a widow, and established her- 
 self in a suburb of London, with a small party of pupils. She 
 had just begun to feel the need of an additional teacher, and 
 should gladly receive Genevieve, provided she fulhlled certain 
 requisites, of which, luckily, French pronunciation stood the 
 foremost. The terms were left to Albinia, who could scarcely 
 believe her good fortune, and went in haste to discuss the matter 
 with the Belraarches, 
 
 It almost consoled her for what she had been exceedingly 
 ashamed to announce, the change of purpose with regard to 
 Gilbert, which was a sentence of banishment to the object of 
 his folly. Nothing pained her more than the great courtesy and 
 kindness of the two old ladies to whom it was such a cruel 
 sti'oke ; they evidently felt for her, and appeared to catch at 
 Mrs. Elwood's offer, and when Albinia proposed that her salary 
 should be a share in the instructions of the masters, agreed
 
 ^22 THE YOUNG STEP -MOTHER. 
 
 that tlds was tlie very thing they had felt it their duty to pro- 
 vide for her, if they had been able to bring themselves to part 
 with her. 
 
 ' So,' said good Madame Belmarch6, smiling sadly, 'you see it 
 has been for the dear child's real good that our weakness has 
 been conquered.' 
 
 Genevieve was written to, and consented to everything, and 
 when Mr. Kendal took Gilbert away to visit an old friend, his 
 wife called for Genevieve at the convent to bring her home. 
 Albinia could not divest herself of some curiosity and excite- 
 ment in driving up to the old-fashioned red brick house, with 
 two tall wings projecting towards the street, and the front door 
 in the centre between them, with steps down to it. She had 
 not been without hopes of a parlour with a grille, or at least 
 that a lay sister would open the door ; but she saw nothing but 
 a very ordinary-looking old maid-servant, and close behind her 
 was Genevieve, with her little box, quite ready — no excuse for 
 seeing anything or anybody else. 
 
 If Genevieve wei-e sad at the proposal of leaving home and 
 going among stx'angers, she took care to hide all that could paia 
 Mrs. Kendal, and her cheerful Fi-ench spirit really enjoyed the 
 p»rospect of new scenes, and bounded with enterprise at the 
 hope of a new life and fresh field of exertion. 
 
 ' Perhaps, after all,' she said, smiling, ' they may make of me 
 something really useful and valuable, and it will all be owing 
 to you, dear madame. Drawing and Italian ! When I can 
 teach them, I shall be able to make grandmamma easy for 
 life !' 
 
 Genevieve skipped out of the carriage and into her aunt's 
 arms, as if alive only to the present delight of being at home 
 again. It was a contrast to Soj^hy's dolorous visage. Poor 
 Sophy ! she was living in a perpt-tual strife with the outward 
 tokens of sulkiness, forcing herself against the grain to make 
 civil answers, and pretend to be interested when she felt wretched 
 and morose. That Gilbert, after so many ravings, should havo 
 relinquished, from mere cowardice, that one hope of earning 
 Genevieve by honourable exertion, had absolutely lowered her 
 trust in the exalting power of love ; and her sense of justice 
 revolted against the decision that visited the follies of the guilty 
 upon the innocent. She was yearning over her friend with all 
 her heart, pained at the separation, and longing fervently to 
 make some demonstration, but the greater her wish, the worse 
 was her reserve. She spent all her mcjney upon a beautiful 
 book as a parting gift, and kept it beside her, missing occasion 
 after occasion of preseutiug it, and falling at each into a [»er«
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 223 
 
 feet agony behind that impalpable, yet impassable, barrier of 
 embarrassment. 
 
 It was not till the very last evening, when Genevieve had 
 actually wished her good-bye and left the house, that she grew 
 desperate. She hastily put on bonnet and cloak, and pursued 
 Genevieve up the street, overtaking her at last, and causing her 
 to look round close to her own door. 
 
 ' My dear Miss Sophy,' cried Genevieve, ' what is the matter 1 
 You are quite overcome.' 
 
 * This book — ' said Sophy — it was all she could say. 
 *Love — yes,' said Genevieve. 'Admiration — no.' 
 ' You shall not say that,' cried Sophy. ' I have found what 
 is really dignided and disinterested, and you must let me admire 
 you. Jenny, it makes me comfortable.' 
 
 Genevieve smiled. *I would not commit an egoism,' she 
 said ; ' but if the sense of admiration do you good, I wish it had 
 a worthier cause.' 
 
 ' There's no one to admire but you,' said Sophy. * I think it 
 very unfair to send you away, and though it is nobody's fault, I 
 hate good sense and the way of the world !' 
 
 ' Oil ! do not talk so. I am only overwhelmed with wonder 
 at the goodness I have experienced. If it had happened with 
 any other family, oh ! how differently 1 should have been 
 judged ! Oh ! when I think of Mrs. Kendal, I am ready to 
 weep with gratitude !' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma is mamma, and not like any one else ; but even 
 she is obliged to be rational, and do the injustice, whatever she 
 feels,' said Sophy. 
 
 'Oh ! not injustice — kindness ! I shall be able to earn more 
 for grandmamma !' 
 
 ' It is injustice !' said Sophy; 'not hei's, perhaps, but of the 
 world ! It makes me so angry, to think that you — you should 
 never do anything but wear yourself out in di'udging over tire- 
 some little children — ' 
 
 ' Little children are my brothers and sisters, as I never had 
 any,' said Genevieve. * Oh ! I always loved them, they make a 
 home wherever they are. I am thankful that my vocation ia 
 among them.' 
 
 In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would not notice 
 it, but pursued, ' You must come in and x'est — you must have 
 my aunt's salts.' 
 
 'No — no — ' said Sophy, 'not there — ' as Genevieve would 
 have taken her to the little parlour ; but opening the door of 
 the school-room, she sank bx-eathless into a sittijig position ou 
 the carpetless boards.
 
 224 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found Sophy's 
 arms tlirown rountl lier, pressing her almost to strangulation. 
 
 'Oh! I wanted to do it — I never could. Wont you have 
 the book, Genevieve ? It is my keepsake — only I could not give 
 it because — ' 
 
 'Is it your keepsake, indeed, dear Miss Sophy?' said Gene- 
 vieve. * Oh ! if it is yours — how I shall value i1> — but it is too 
 beautiful — ' 
 
 ' Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve,' said Sophy 
 *ervently. 
 
 * And it is your gift ! But I am fi-ightened — it must have 
 cost — !' began Genevieve, still a little on her guai-d. ' Dear, 
 dear Miss Sophy, forgive me if I do seem ungrateful, but indeed 
 I ought to ask — if — if it is all your own gift f 
 
 ' Mine % yes !' said Sophy, on the borders of offence. ' I know 
 what you mean, Genevieve, but you may trust me. I woiild not 
 take you in.' 
 
 Genevieve was blushing intensely, but taking courage she 
 bestowed a shower of ai-dent embraces and expressions of grati- 
 tude, mingled with excuses for her precaution * Oh ! it was 
 so very kind in IVIiss Sophy,' she said ; ' it would be such a 
 comfort to remember ; she had feared she too was angry with 
 her.' 
 
 * Angry ! oh, no !' cried Sophy, her heart quite unlocked ; 
 * but the more I loved and admired, the more I could not 
 speak !' 
 
 'And if they drive you to be a governess? If you had a 
 situation like what we read off 
 
 * Perhaps I shall not,' said Genevieve, laiighing. 'Every one 
 has been so good to me hitherto ! And then I am not reduced 
 from anything grander. I shall always have the children, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' How I should hate them !' quoth Sophy. 
 
 ' Tliey are my jjleasure. Besides I have always thought it a 
 blessing that my busiiiess in life, though so humble, should be 
 what may do direct good. If only I do not set them a bad 
 example, or teach them any harm.' 
 
 ' Not much danger of that,' said Sophy, smiling. ' "Well, I 
 can't believe it will be your lot all your life. You will find 
 some one who will know how to love you.' 
 
 ' No,' said Genevieve, ' I am not in a position for marriage — 
 grandmamma has often told me so !' 
 
 ' Things sometimes happen,' pursued Sophy. ' Mamma said 
 if (^lilbert had been older, or even if — if he had been in earnest 
 and steady enough to work for you in India, then it might —
 
 ■'You will liiid some one who will know li.iw to lovu you." — {'acje 2H.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 225 
 
 And aurely if Gilbert could care for you — people higher and 
 defi]i9r than he would like you better still,' 
 
 ' Hush,' said Genevieve ; ' they would only see the objections 
 more strongly. !N"o, do not put these things in my head. I 
 know that unless a teacher hold her business as her mission, and 
 put all other schemes out of her mind, she will work with an 
 absent, distracted, half-hearted attention, and fail of the task 
 thiit the good God has committed to her.' 
 
 ' Then you would never even wish — ' 
 
 ' It would be seeking pomps and vanities to wish,' said Gene- 
 vieve ; ' a school-room is a good safe cloister, probably less dull 
 than the convent. If I wish at all, it will be that I may be 
 well shut up there, for I know that in spite of myself my man- 
 ners are different from your English ones. I cannot make them 
 otherwise, and that amuses people ; and I cannot help liking to 
 please, and so I become excited. I enjoy society so much that 
 it is not safe for me ! So don't be sorry, dear Sophy, it is a fit 
 ])cnance for the vanity that elated me too much that evening at 
 Fairmead !' 
 
 Mademoiselle Belmarche was here attracted by the voices. 
 Sophy started up from the ground, made some unintelligible 
 excuse, and while Mademoiselle was confounded with admiration 
 at the sight of the book, inflicted another boa- constrictor 
 embrace, and hurried away. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 PLANETS hostile to the tender passion must have been in 
 the ascendant, for the result of Captain Ferrars's pursuit 
 of his brother to Italy was the wholesome certainty that his own 
 slender poi'tioii was all he had to reckon upon. Before return- 
 ing to Canada, he came to Bayford to pour out his troubles to 
 his cousin, and to induce her, if he could induce no one else, to 
 advise his immediate marriage. It was the first time he had 
 been really engaged, and his affection had not only stood three 
 months' absence, but had so much elevated his shatter-brained 
 though frank and honest temperament, that Albinia conceived 
 a high opinion of ' Emily,' and did her best to persuade him to 
 be patient, and wait for promotion. 
 
 Sophy likewise approved of hini this time, perhaps because 
 he was so opposite a specimen of the genus lover from that pre- 
 sented by her brother. Gilbert had not been able to heln 
 enjoj^ing himself while from home, but his spirits sank on his 
 
 Q
 
 22o THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 return ; he lay about ou the grass in doleful dejection, studied 
 little but L. E. L., lost appetite, and reproachfully fondled his 
 cough ; but Albinia was now more conipassionate than Sojiliy, 
 whom she was obliged to rebuke for an unsisterly disregard 
 towai'd his woes. 
 
 ' Z. can't help it,' said Sophy ; ' I can't believe in him now !' 
 
 * Yes, you ought to believe that he is really unhappy, and be 
 more gentle and considerate with him.' 
 
 ' 1 f it had been earnest, he would have sacrificed himself 
 instead of Genevieve.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Sophy, some day yo\i will learn to make excuses for 
 other people, and not be so intolerant.' 
 
 ' I never make excuses.' 
 
 'Except for Maurice,' said Albinia. *If you viewed other 
 people as you do him, your judgments would be gentler.' 
 
 Sophy's conscientiousness, like her romance, was hard, high, 
 and strict ; but while she had as little mercy on herself us on 
 others, and while there were some soft spots in her adamantine 
 judgment, there was hope that these would spread, and, without 
 lowering her tone, make her more merciful. 
 
 She corresponded constantly with Genevieve, who seemed 
 very happily placed ; Mrs. Elwood was delighted with her, and 
 she with Mrs. Elwood ; and her lively letters sliowed no signs 
 of pining for home. Sophy felt as if it v/ere a duty to her friend, 
 to do what in her lay to prevent the two old ladies from being 
 dull, and spent an hour with them every week, not herself 
 contributing much to their amusement, but pleasing them by 
 the attention, and hearing much that was very curious of their 
 old-world recollections. 
 
 Ever since tliat unlucky penny-club-day, when she liad 
 declared that she hated poor i)eople, she had been let alone ou 
 that subject ; and though principle had made her use her 
 needle in their behalf, shyness and reserve had kept her back 
 from all intercourse with them ; but in her wish to compensate 
 for Gentjvieve's absence, she volunteered to take charge of her 
 vacant Sunday-school class, and obtained leave to have the girls 
 at home on the afternoons for an hour and a half. This was 
 enough for one v/ho worked a.s she did, making a conscience of 
 every word, and toiling to prepare her lessons, writing out 
 her questions beforehand, and begging for advice upon them. 
 
 ' I\ly dear,' said Albinia, 'you must alter this — you see this 
 question does not grow out of tlie last answer.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Soi)hy, ' that must have been what puzzled thcui 
 l£/3t Sunday : they want connexion.' 
 
 * Nothing like logic to teach one to be simple,' said Albinia.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 227 
 
 * I can'b see the use of all tliis trouble,' put in Lucy. ' Why 
 can't you ask them just what conies into your head, as I always 
 dof 
 
 ' Suppose mistakes came into my head.' 
 
 ' Oh ! they would not find it out if they did ! I declare ! — 
 what's this — Persian 1 Are you going to teach them Persian T 
 
 ' I^o ; it is Greek. You see it is a piece of a Psal in, a 
 quotation rather diffei'ent in the ISTew Testament. I wrote it 
 down to ask papa what it is in Hebrew.' 
 
 ' By-the-bye, Sophy,' continued Lucy, ' how coald you let 
 Susan Price come to church with lace sleeves — absolute iace 
 sleeves I' 
 
 ' Had she r 
 
 * There — you never see anything ! Mamma, would not it be 
 more sensible to keep their dress in order, than to go poking 
 into Hebrew, which can't be of use to any one f 
 
 There was more reason than might appear in what Lucy said : 
 the girls of her class were more orderly, and fonder of her 
 than Sophy's of the gi-ave young lady whose earnestness oppressed 
 them, and whose shyness looked dislike and pride. As to 
 finding fault with their dress, she privately told Albinia that 
 she could not commit such a discourtesy, and was answered that 
 no one but Mrs. Dusautoy need interfere. 
 
 ' I will go and ask Mrs. Dusautoy what she wishes,' said 
 Albinia. ' I should be glad if she would modify Lucy's 
 sumptuary laws. To fall foul of every trifle only makes the 
 girls think of their di-ess.' 
 
 Albinia found Mrs. Dusautoy busied in writing notes on 
 mourning paper. 
 
 ' Here is a note I had written to you,' she said. ' I am 
 sending over to Hadminster to see if any of the cui*atea can 
 take the services to-morrow.' 
 
 Albinia looked at the note while Mrs. Dusautoy wrote on 
 hurriedly. She read that there could be no daily services at 
 present, the Vicar having been summoned to Paris by the 
 sudden death of Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy. As the image of a 
 well-endowed widow, always trying to force her vray into 
 higher society, arose before Albinia, she could hardly wait till 
 the letter was despatched, to break out in amazement, 
 
 ' Was she a relation of yours 1 Even the name never mads 
 me think of it 1 ' 
 
 ' It is a pity she cannot have the gratification of hearing it, 
 poor woman,' said jMrs. Dusautoy, ' but it is a fact that she did 
 poor George Dusautoy the honour to marry him.' 
 
 ' Mi\ Dusautcy's brother 1 ' 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Ay — ^be was a young snrgeon, just set tip in pract'co, 
 exactly like John — nay, some j^Jople thought him still finer- 
 lookiui:. She was a Miss Greeuawav Cavendish, a stock- 
 broker's heiress of a certain age.' 
 
 ' Oh !' expressively cried Albinia. 
 
 ' You may say so,' returned Mrs. Dusautoy. ' She made him 
 put away his profession, and set up for taste and elegant 
 idleness.' 
 
 ' And he submitted T 
 
 ' There was a great deal of the meek giant in him, and he 
 believed implicitly in the honour she had done him. It would 
 have been very touching, if it had not beeu so provoking, to see 
 how patiently and humbly that fine young man gave up all that 
 would have made him happy, to bend to her caprices and pre- 
 tensions.' 
 
 ' Did you ever see them together?' 
 
 ' No, I never saw her at all, and him only once. I never 
 knew John really savage but once, and that was at her not 
 letting him come to our wedding ; but she did give him leave 
 of absence for one fortnight, when we were at Lauriston. How 
 happy the brothers v/ere ! It did one good to hear their great 
 voices about the house ; and they were like boys on a stolen 
 frolic, when John took him to prescribe for some of our poor 
 people. He used to talk of bringing us his little sou — the one 
 pleasiu'e of his life — but he never was allowed. Oh, how I used 
 to long to stir up a mutiny !' cried Mrs. L-asautoy, quite un- 
 knowing that she ruled her own lion with a leash of silk. 'If 
 she had appreciated him, it would have been bearable ; but to 
 her he was no more than the handsome young doctor, whom she 
 had made a crentleman, and not a very good piece of work of it 
 either ! Little she recked of the great loving heart that had 
 throv/n itself away on her, and the ])atience that bore with her; 
 and she tried to hinder all the liberal bountiful actions that 
 were all he cared to do with his means ! I wish the boy may 
 remember him !' 
 
 ' How long has he been dead V 
 
 ' These ten years. He was drowned in a lake storm in 
 Switzerland — people clung to him, and he could not swim. It 
 was John's one great grief — he cannot mention him even now. 
 And really,' she added, smiling, ' I do believe he has brought 
 himself to fancy it was a very happy marriage. She has always 
 been very civil ; but she has been chiefly abroad, and never 
 would tike his advice about sending her boy to school.' 
 
 ' What becomes of him now V 
 
 '■ He is our charge. She was on the way home from Italy,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 229 
 
 virhen she was taken ill at Paris, and died at the end of the 
 week.' 
 
 ' How old is he V 
 
 ' About nineteen, I fancy. He must have had an odd sort of 
 education ; but if he is a nice lad, it will be a great pleasui-e to 
 John to have something young about the house.' 
 
 ' I was thinking that Mr. Dusautoy hardly wanted more 
 cares.' 
 
 'So have I,' said her friend, smiling; 'and I have been 
 laying a plot against him. You see, he is as strong as a lion, 
 and never yet was too tired to sleep ; but it is ratlier a tempt- 
 ing of Providence to keep 3589 people and fourteen services 
 in a week resting upon one man !' 
 
 ' Exactly what his church wai'den has preached to him.' 
 
 'Moreover, he cannot be in two places at once, let alone half- 
 a-dozen. Now, my Lancashire people have written in quest of 
 a title for holy orders for a young man who has just gone 
 throush Cambrid<7e with great credit, and it strikes me that he 
 might at once help John, and cram Master Algernon. 
 
 ' And Gilbert !' cried Albiuia. ' Oh, if you will import a 
 tutor for Gilbert, we shall be for ever beholden to you !' 
 
 ' I had thought ot him. I have no doubt that he is much 
 better taught than Algernon ; but I am not afi-aid of this poor 
 fellow bringing home bad habits, and they will be good com- 
 panions. I reckon upon you and Mr. Kendal as great 
 auxiliaries, and I don't think John will be able to withstand 
 our united forces.' 
 
 On the way home, on emerging from the alley, Albinia 
 encountered Gilbert, just parting with another youth, who 
 walked off quickly on the Tremblam road, while she inquired 
 who it was. 
 
 ' That V said Gilbert ; ' oh ! that was young Tritton. He 
 has been away learning farming in Scotland. We speak when 
 we meet, for old acquaintance sake and that.' 
 
 The Bayford mind was diverted from the romance of Gene- 
 vieve by the enormous fortune of the Vicar s nephew, whose 
 capital was in their mouths and imaginations swelled into his 
 yearly income. Swarms of cards of inquiry were left at the 
 vicarage ; and Mrs. Meadows and Lucy enjoyed the reflected 
 dignity of being able to say that Mrs. Kendal was continually 
 there. And so she was, for Mrs. Dusautoy was drooping, 
 though more in body than visibly in spirit, and needed both 
 companionship and assistance in supporting the charge left by 
 her absent Atlas. 
 
 He was not gone a moment louijer than necessary, and took
 
 5JS0 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 her by surprise at last, while Albinia and Sophy wre sitting 
 on the lawn with her, Avhen she welcomed the nephew and the 
 Vicar, holding out a hand to each, and thanked them for taking 
 care of ' Fanny.' ' Here, Algernon,' he continued, ' here are 
 two of our best friends, Mrs. Kendal and Miss Sophy.' 
 
 There was a stiff bow from a stiff altitude. The youth, was 
 on the gigantic Dusautoy scale, looking taller even than his 
 uncle, from his manner of holding himself with his chin some- 
 what elevated. He had a good ruddy sun-burnt complexion, 
 shining brown hair, and regular features ; and Albinia could 
 respond heartily to the good Vicar's exclamation, as he followed 
 her down to the gate for the sake of saying, 
 
 ' Well-gi-own lad, isn't that 1 And a very good-hearted 
 fellow too, poor boy — the very picture of his dear father. 
 Well, and how has Fanny been V 
 
 He stayed to be reassured that his return was all his Fanny 
 wanted, and then hurried back to her, while Albinia and Sophy 
 pursued their way down the hill. 
 
 ' News for grandmamma. We must give her a particular 
 description of the hero.' 
 
 ' How ugly he thought me !' said Sophy, quaintly. 
 
 ' My dear, I believe that is the first thing you think of when 
 yon meet a stranger !' 
 
 ' I saw it this time,' returned Sophy. ' His chin went up in 
 the air at once. He set me down for IVIrs. Kendal, and you for 
 Miss Sophy.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Albinia, for the inveterate youthfulness of 
 her bright complexion and sunny hair was almost a sore sul)ject 
 with her. * Your always fancying that every one is disgusted 
 with you, is as sjUy as if you imagined yourself transcendently 
 beautiful. It is mere self-occupation, and helps to make you 
 blunt and shy.' 
 
 'Mamma,' said Sophy, 'tell me one thing. Did you ever 
 think yours(;lf pretty f 
 
 'I have thought myself looking so, under favourable circum- 
 stances, but that's all. You are as far from ugliness as I am, 
 and have as little need to think of it. As far as features go, there's 
 the making of a much handsomer woman in you than in me.' 
 
 Sophy laughed. A certain yearning for personal beauty waa 
 a curious part of her character, and she would have been ashamed 
 to own the pleasure those few words had given her, or how much 
 serenity and forbearance they were worth ; and her good-humour 
 was put to the proof that evening, for grandmamma had a tea- 
 party, bent on extracting the full description of the great Alger- 
 non Greenaway Cavendish Dusautoy, Esquire. Lucy's first
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 231 
 
 sight was less at hci' ease. Elizabeth Osborn, with whom she 
 kept up a fitful intimacy, summoned her mysteriously into her 
 garden, to show her a peep-hole throiigh a little dusty window 
 in the tool-house, whence could be descried the vicaraGje garden, 
 and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, as, with a cigar in his mouth, 
 and hid hands in his pockets, 
 
 'Stately stept he east the wa', and stately stept he west.' 
 
 Lucy was so much amused, that she could not help reporting 
 it at home, where Gilbert forgot his sorrows, in building up a 
 mischievous romance in honour of the hole in the ' sweet and 
 lovely wall.' 
 
 But the parents' feud did not seem likely to hold out A 
 hundred thousand pounds on one side of the wall, and three 
 single daughters on the other, Mrs. Osborn was not the woman 
 to trust to the ' wall's hole ;' and so Mr. Dusautoy's enemy laid 
 dov/n her colours ; and he was too kind-hearted to trace her 
 sudden politeness to the source. 
 
 Mr. Dusautoy acceded to the scheme devised by his wife, and 
 measures were at once taken for engaging the curate. When 
 Albinia went to talk the matter over at the parsonage, Lucy 
 accompanied her; but the object of her curiosity was not in the 
 room ; and when she had heard that he was fond of drawing, 
 and that his horses were to be kept at the King's Head stables, 
 the conversation drifted away, and she grew restless, and begged 
 Mrs. Dusautoy to allow her to replenish the faded bouquets on 
 the table. No sooner was she in the garden, than Mrs. Dusautoy 
 put on an arch look, and lowering her voice, said, 
 
 * Oh ! it is such fun ! He does despise us so immensely.' 
 
 * Despise — you f 
 
 * He is a good boy, faithful to his training. Now his poor 
 mother's axioms were, that the English are vulgar, country 
 English more vulgar, Fanny Dusautoy the most vulgar ! I wish 
 we always as heartily accepted what we are taught.' 
 
 * He must be intolerable.' 
 
 * No, he is very condescending and patronizing to the savages. 
 He really is fond of his uncle ; and John is so much hui't if I no- 
 tice his peculiarities, that I have been dying to have my laugh out.' 
 
 ' Can Mr. Dusautoy bear with pretension V 
 
 * It is not pretension, only calm faith in the lessons of his 
 youth. Look,' she added, becoming less personal at Lucy's re- 
 entrance, and pointing to a small highly-varnished oil-painting 
 of a red terra cotta vase, holding a rose, a rhododendron before 
 it, and half a water-melon grinning behind, newly severed by a 
 knife.
 
 232 I'HE YOUNG STEP^MOTHER. 
 
 ' Is tliat what people bring home from Italy now-a-days V said 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' That is an original production.' 
 
 ' Did Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy do that V cried Lucy. 
 
 ' Genre is his style,' was the re})ly, ' His mother was resolved 
 he should be an amateur, and I give his master great credit,' 
 
 'Especially for that not being a Madonna,' said Albiuia. *I 
 congratulate you on his having so safe an amusement.' 
 
 'Yes ; it disposes of him and of the spare room. He cannot 
 exist without an atelier.^ 
 
 Just then the Vicar entered. 
 
 ' Ah ! Algernon's picture,' began he, who had never been 
 known to look at one, except the fat cattle in the Illustrated 
 Ifeios. 'What do you think of it 1 Has he not made a good 
 hand of the pitcher T 
 
 Albinia gi'atiiied him by owning that the pitcher was round ; 
 and Lucy was in perfect rapture at the 'dear little spots' in the 
 rhododendron. 
 
 'A poor way of spending a lad's time,' said the uncle ; ' but 
 it is better than nothing ; and I call the knife very good : I 
 declare you might take it up,' and he squeezed up his eyes to 
 enhance the illusion. 
 
 A slow and wide opening of the door admitted the lofty i)VQ- 
 sence of Algernon Cavendish Dusautoy, with another small 
 picture in his hand. Becoming aware of the visitors, he saluted 
 them with a dignified movement of his head, and erecting his 
 chin, gazed at them over it. 
 
 ' So you have brought u.s another picture, Algernon,' said his 
 uncle. ' Mrs. Kendal has just been admiring your red jar.' 
 
 ' Have you a taste for art V demanded Mr. Cavendish Du- 
 sautoy, turning to her with magnificent suavity. 
 
 ' I used to be very fond of drawing.' 
 
 ' Genre is my style,' he pursued, almost overthrowing her 
 gravity by the original of his aunt's imitation. ' I took lessons 
 of old Barbouille — excellent mastei*. Truth aud nature, those 
 were his maxims ; and from the moment I heard them, I said, 
 '■' This is my man." We used positively to live in the Borgliese. 
 There !' as he walked backwards, after adjusting his production 
 in the best light. 
 
 'A snipe,' said Albinia. 
 
 * A snipe that I killed in the Pontine marshes.' 
 
 'There is very good sliooting about Auxur,' said Albinia. 
 
 " You have been at Konie V He pern^'tted himself a little 
 animation at discovenng any one within tliv.. -^lale of civilization. 
 
 ' For one fortnight in the course of a galloping toin- with my
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 203 
 
 two brothers,' said Albinia. ' All the Contiaent in one long 
 vacation ! 
 
 ' That was much to be regi'etted. It is my maxim to go 
 through every museum thoroughly,' 
 
 ' I can't regret,' said x\lbiuia. ' I should be very sorry to give 
 up my bright indistinct haze of glorious memories, though I was 
 too young to appreciate all I saw.' 
 
 ' For m}^ part, I have grown up among works of art. My 
 whole existence has been moulded on them, and I feel an inex- 
 pressible void without them. I shall be most happy to intro- 
 duce you into my atelier, and show you my notes on the various 
 Musees. I preserved them merely as a trifling memorial ; but 
 many connoisseurs have told me that I ought to print them as a 
 Catalogue raiso7inee, for private circulation, of course. I should 
 be sorry to interfere Avith IMurray, but on the whole I decided 
 otherwise : I should be so much bored with applications,' 
 
 Mrs. Dusautoy's wicked glance had so nearly demolished the 
 restraint on her friend's dimples, that she turned her back on 
 her, and commended the finish of a solitary downy feather that 
 lay detached beside the bird. 
 
 '' My maxim is truth to nature, at any cost of pains,' said the 
 youth, not exactly gratified, for homage was his native element, 
 but graciously ])roceeding to point out the merits of the com- 
 position. 
 
 Albiuia's composure could endure no more, and she took her 
 leave, Mr. Dusautoy coming down the hill with her to repeat, 
 and this time somewhat wistfully, 
 
 ' A fine lad, is he not, poor fellow V 
 
 With perfect sincerity, she could praise his good looks. 
 
 ' He has had a quantity of sad stuff thrust on him by the 
 people who have been about his poor mother,' said Mr. Dusautoy. 
 ' She could never bear to part with him, and no wonder, poor 
 thing ; and she must have let a very odd sort of people get 
 about her abroad — they've flattered that poor lad to the top of 
 his bent, you see ; but he's a very good boy for all that, very 
 warm-hearted.' 
 
 * He must be very amiable for his mother to have been able 
 to manage him all this while.' 
 
 ' Just what 1 say !' cried the Vicar, his honest face clearing. 
 ' Many youths would have run into all that is bad, brought up 
 in that way ; but only consider what disadvantages he has had ! 
 When we get him to see his real standing a little better — I say, 
 could not you let us have your young i)eopie to come up this 
 evening, have a little music, and make it lively 1 I su[)i)ose 
 Fanny and I are growing old, though I never tliought so before.
 
 i.'S4< THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Will yoii corae, Lwcy, there's a good girl, and bring your brother 
 and sister 1 The lads must be capital friends.' 
 
 Tjucy promised with sparkling eyes, and the Vicar strode off^ 
 saying he should depend on the three. 
 
 Gilbert ' supposed he was in for it,' but * did not see the use 
 of it ;' he was sick of the name of ' that polysyllable,' and 
 ' should see enough of him when Mr. Hope came, worse luck.' 
 
 The result of the evening was, that Lucy was enraptured at 
 the discovery that this most accomplished hero sang Italian 
 songs to the loveliest guitar in the world, and was very much 
 offended with Sophy for wishing to know whether mamma 
 really thought him so very clever. 
 
 Immediately after the Ordination arrived Mr. Hope, a very 
 youthful, small, and delicate-looking man, whom Mr. Dusautoy 
 could have lifted as easily as his own Fanny, with short sight, 
 timid nature, scholarly habits, weak nerves, and an inaudible voice. 
 
 Of great intellect, having read deeply, and reading still more 
 deeply, he had the utmost dread of ladies, and not even his 
 countrywoman, Mrs, Dusautoy, could drav/ him out. He threw his 
 whole soul into the work, winning the hearts of the infant-school 
 and the old women, but discomfiting the congregation by the 
 weakness of his voice, and the length and depth of his sermons. 
 There was one in especial which very few heard, and no one 
 entered into excejDt Sophy, who held an hour's argument over 
 it with her father, till they arrived at such lengthy names of 
 heresies, that poor grandmamma asked if it were right to talk 
 Persian on a Sunday evening. 
 
 He conscientiously tutored his two pupils, but there was no 
 common ground between him and them. Excepting his extra 
 intellect, there was no boyhood in him. A town-bred scholar, 
 a straight constitutional upon a clean road was his wildest 
 dream of exercise ; he had never moim ted a horse, did not know 
 a chicken from a partridge, excejjt on the table, was too short- 
 sighted for pictures, and esteemed no music except Gregorians. 
 
 The two youths were far more alive to his deficiencies than to 
 his endowments : Algernon contemned him for being a book- 
 seller's son, with nothing to live on but his fellowship and 
 curacy, and Gilbert looked down on his ignorance of evexy 
 matter of common life, and excessive bashfulness. Mr. Dusautoy 
 would have had less satisfaction in the growing intimacy between 
 the lads, had he known that it had been cemented by inveigling 
 poor Mr. Hope into a marsh in search of cotton-grass, which, at 
 Gilbert's instijjation, Alcrernon avouched to be a new sort of 
 Indian corn, grown in Italy for feeding silkworms. 
 
 An intimacy there was, rather from constant intercourse than
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 235 
 
 from positive liking. Gilbert saw through and disdained young 
 Dusautoy's dulne'^^s and self-consequence ; but good-natured, 
 kindly, a)id unoccupied, he had no objection to associate with 
 him. showiug him English ways, trying to hinder him from 
 needlessly exposing himself, and secretly amused with his pre- 
 tension. Algernon, with his fine horses, expensive appoint- 
 ments, and lofty air, was neither a discreditable nor unpleasant 
 companion. Mr. Kendal had given his son a horse, which, with- 
 out costiug the guineas that Algernon had * refused ' for each of 
 his steeds," was a very respectable-looking animal, and the two 
 young gentlemen, starting on their daily ride, were a grand 
 spectacle for more than little Maurice. 
 
 Gilbert had suifered some eclipse. Once he had been the grand 
 parti, the only indisputable gentleman ; but now Mr. Cavendish 
 Dusautoy had entirely surpassed him both in self-assertion and in 
 the grounds for it. His incipient dandyisms faded into insigni- 
 ficance beside the splendours of the heir of thousands ; and he, 
 who among all his faults had never numbered conceit or for- 
 wardness, had little chance beside such an implicit believer in 
 his own greatness. 
 
 Nor was Bayford likely to diminish that faith. The non- 
 adorers might be easily enumerated — his uncle and aunt, his 
 tutor, his groom, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Gilbert and Sophy : 
 the rest all believed in hiin as thoroughly as he did in himself. 
 His wealth was undoubted, his accomplishments were rated at 
 his own advertisement, and his magnanimous condescension was 
 esteemed at full value. Really handsome, good-natured and 
 sociable, he delighted to instruct his worshippers by his maxims, 
 and to bend graciously to their homage. The young ladies had 
 but one cynosure ! Few eyes were there that did not pursue his 
 every movement, few hearts that did not bound at his approach, 
 few tongues that did not chronicle his daily comings and goings, 
 ' It would save much trouble,' said Albinia, ' if a court circular 
 could be put into the Bayford paper.' 
 
 The Kendals were the only persons whom Algernon re- 
 garded as in any way on a footing with him. Finding that the 
 ]m\j was a Ferrars, and had been in Italy, he regarded her as 
 fit company, and whenever they met, favoured her with the 
 chief and choicest of his maxims, little knowing how she and 
 his aunt presumed to discuss him in private. 
 
 Without being ill-disposed, he had been exceedingly ill taught ; 
 his mother, the child of a gi-asping vulgar father, had little re- 
 licrious impression, and that little had not been fostered by the lax 
 hal)its of a self-expatriated Englishwoman, and very soon after hia 
 arrival at Baytord his disregard of ordinary English proprieticd
 
 236 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 had made itself apparent. On the first Sunday he went to church 
 in the morning, but spent the evening in pacing the garden with 
 a cigar ; and on the afternoon of that day week his aunt was 
 startled by the sound of horse's hoofs on the road. Mr, Dusautoy 
 was at school, and she started up, met the young gentleman, 
 and asked him what strange mistake could have been made. 
 He made her a slight bow, and loftily said he was always accus- 
 tomed to ride at that hour ! ' But not on Sunday !' she ex- 
 claimed. He vx/as not aware of any objection. She told him 
 his uncle would be much displeased ; he replied politely that he 
 would account to his uncle for his conduct ; begged her pardon, 
 but he could not keep his horse waiting. 
 
 Mrs. Dusautoy went back, fairly cried at the thought of her 
 husband's vexation, and the scandal to the whole town. 
 
 The Vicar was, of course, intensely annoyed, though he still 
 could make excuses for the poor boy, and laid all to the score of 
 ignorance and foreign education. He made Algernon clearly 
 understand that the Sunday ride must not be repeated. Alger- 
 non mumbled something about compromising his uncle and 
 offending English prejudices, by which he reserved to himself the 
 belief that he yielded out of magnanimity, not because he could 
 not help it ; but he could not forgive his aunt for her peremp- 
 tory opposition ; he became xm2)leasantly sullen and morose as 
 regularly as the Sunday came round, and revenged himself by 
 pacing the verandah with his cigar, or practising anything but 
 sacred music on his key-bugle in his painting-roora. 
 
 The youth was really fond of his uncle, but he had imbibed 
 all his mother's contempt for her sister-in-law. Used to be 
 wheedled by an idolizing mothei*, and to reign over her court of 
 parasites, he had no notion of obeying, and a direct command or 
 opposition roused his sullen temper of passive resistance. When 
 lie found ' that little nobody of a Mrs. John Dusautoy' so far 
 from being a flatterer, or an adorer of his perfections, inclined 
 to laugh at him, and bent on keeping him in order, all the 
 enmity of which he was capable arose in his mind, and though 
 in general good-natured and not aggressive, he had a decided 
 pleasure in doing what she disapproved, and thus asserting the 
 dignity of a Greenaway Cavendish Dusautoy. 
 
 The atelier was a happy invention. Certainly wearisome 
 noises, and an aroma of Ilavannahs would now and then pro- 
 ceed therefrom ; but ho was employed there the chief part of 
 the day, and fortunately his pictures were of small size, and 
 took an infinite quantity of labour, so that they could not 
 sjicedily outrun all the Vicarage '.vnlls. 
 
 He favoured the University of Oxford by going up wit^
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 237 
 
 Gilbert for ra;itriculation, when, to the surprise of Mr. Hope, 
 he was not plucked. They were to begin tlieir residence at the 
 Easter term. Mrs. Dusautoy did not confess even to Albiuia 
 how much she looked forward to Easter. 
 
 In early spring, a sudden and short illness took away Madame 
 Behnarche's brave spirit to its rest, after sixty years of exile 
 and poverty, cheerfully borne. 
 
 There had been no time to summon Genevieve, and her aunt 
 would not send for her, but decided on breaking up the 
 school, which could no longer be carried on, and going to live 
 in the Hadminster convent. And thus, as Mr. Kendal hoped, 
 all danger of renewed intercourse between his son and Genevieve 
 ended. Gilbert looked pale and wretched, and Sophy hoped it 
 was with compunction at having banished Genevieve at such a 
 moment, but not a word was said — and that page of early 
 romance was turned ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 IT was a beautiful July afternoon, the air musical with mid- 
 summer hum, the flowers basking in the sunshine, the turf 
 cool and green in the shade, and the breeze redolent of inde- 
 scribable freshness and sweetness compounded of all fragrant 
 odours, the present legacy of a past day's shower. Like the 
 flowers themselves, All3!nia was feeling the delicious repose of 
 reireshed nature, as iu her pretty pink muslin, her white drapery 
 folded round her, and her bright hair unbonnetted, she sat 
 reclining in a low garden chair, at the door of the conservatory, 
 a little pale, a little weak, but with a sweet happy languor, a 
 soft tender bloom. 
 
 There was a step* in the conservatory, and before she could 
 tux'n round, her brother Maurice bent over her, and kissed her. 
 
 ' jMaurice ! you have come after all !' 
 
 'Yes, the school inspection is put off. How ai'e you V as he 
 sat down on the grass by her side. 
 
 *0h, quite well ! What a delicious afternoon we shall have ! 
 Edmund will be at home directly. Mrs. Meadows has absolutely 
 let Gilbert take her to drink tea at the Drurys ! Only I am 
 sorry Sophy should miss you, for she w^as so good about going, 
 because Lucy wanted to do something to her fernery. Of course 
 you are come for Sunday, and the christening V 
 
 ' Yes, — that is, to throw myself on Dusautoy 's mercy.' 
 
 'We will send Mr. Hope to Fairmead,' said Albiuia, ' and 
 eee whether Winifred can make him speak. We can't spare
 
 238 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 the y icar, for he is our godfatlier, and you must cliristen the 
 little maiden.' 
 
 ' I thought the three elder ones were to be sponsors' 
 
 ' Gilbert is shy,' said Albinia,. ' afraid of the responsibility, 
 and perhaps he is almost too near, the very next to ourselves. 
 His father would have preferred ]\Ii'. Dusautoy from the first, 
 and only yielded to my wish. I wish you had come two minutes 
 sooner, slie was being paraded under that wall, but now she is 
 gone in asleep.' 
 
 ' Her father writes grand things of her.' 
 
 ' Does he 1' said Albinia, colouring and smiling at what could 
 not be heard too often ; ' he is tolerably satisfied with the young 
 woman ! And he thinks her like Edmund, and so she must be, 
 for she is just like him. She will have such beautiful eyes. It 
 is very good of her to take after him, since Maurice wont !' 
 
 * And she is to be another Albinia.' 
 
 'I represented the confusion, and how I always meant my 
 daughter to be Winifred, but there's no doing anything with 
 him ! It is only to be a second name. A. W. K. ! Think if she 
 should many a Mr. Ward !' 
 
 'No, she would not be awkward, if she were so a — warded.' 
 
 ' It wont spell, Maurice,' ciied Albinia, laughing as their 
 nonsense, as usual, rose to the surface, 'but how is Winifred?' 
 
 ' As well as could be hoped under the affliction of not being 
 able to come and keep you in order.' 
 
 ' She fancied me according to the former pattern,' said Albinia, 
 smiling ; ' I could have shown her a better specimen, not that it 
 was any merit, for there were no worries, and Edmund was so 
 liappy, that it was pleasure enough to watch him.' 
 
 'I was coming every day to judge for myscif, but I thought 
 things could not be very bad, while he wrote such flourishing 
 accounts.' 
 
 ' No, there were no more ponds !' said Albinia, * and grand- 
 mamma happily was quite well, cured, I believe, by the excite- 
 ment. Lucy took care of her, and Sophy read to me — how we 
 have enjoyed those readings ! Oh ! and Aunt Gertrude has 
 found a delightful situation for Genevieve, a barrister's family, 
 with lots of little children — eighty pounds a year, aud quite 
 ready to value her, so she is off my mind.* 
 
 ' IVIaurice, boy ! come here,' she called, as she caught sight of 
 a creature prancing astride on one stick, and waving another. 
 On j)erceiving a visitor, the urchin came careering u]), bouncing 
 full tilt ujion her, aud clasping her round with both his stalwart 
 arras. * Gently, gently, boy,' she said, bonding down, and look- 
 ing with proud delight at her brother, as she held between her
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 239 
 
 hands a face mucli like her own, as fair and freshly tinted, but 
 v.'ith a ])eculiar squareness of contoiir, large blue eyes, with dark 
 fricg-es, brimmiug over with mischief and fun, a bold, broad 
 brow, and thick, light curls. There was a spring and vigour as 
 of perpetual irrepressible life about, the whole being, and the 
 moment be had accepted his uncle's kiss, he poised his lance, 
 and exclaimed, ' You are Bonaparte, I'm the Duke !' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Mr, Ferrars, at once seizing a wand, and be- 
 striding the nearest bench. Two or three charges rendered the 
 boy so uproarious, that presently he was ordered off, and to use 
 the old apple tree as Bonaparte. 
 
 ' What a stout fellow !' said Mr. Feri'ars, as he went off at a 
 plunging gallop, ' I should have taken him for at least five years 
 old!' 
 
 ' So he might be,' said Albinia, 'for strength and spirit — he 
 ia utterly fearless, and never cries, much as he knocks himself 
 about ! He will do anything but learn. The rogue ! he once 
 knew all his letters, but no sooner did he find they were the 
 work of life, than he forgot every one, and was never so obstre- 
 perous as when called upon to say them. I gave up the point, 
 but I foresee some fine scenes.' 
 
 ' His minding no one but you is an old story. I hope at 
 least the exception continues.' 
 
 ' I have avoided testing it. I want all my forces for a decisive 
 battle. I never heard of such a masterful imp,' she continued,, 
 with much more exultation than anxiety, ' his sistos have no 
 chance with him, he rules them like a young Turk. There's 
 the pony ! Sophy will let him have it as a I'ight, and it is the 
 work of my life to see that she is not defrauded of her rides.' 
 
 ' You don't mean that that child rides anything but a stick.' 
 
 ' One would think he had been born in boots and spurs. 
 Legitimately he only rides with some one leading the pony, but 
 I have my suspicions that by some preternatui-al means he lias 
 been on the pony's back, and round the yard alone, and that 
 papa prudentially concealed it from me !' 
 
 ' I confess I should not like it,' said her brother gravely. 
 
 ' Oh 1 I don't mind that kind of thing. A real boy can't be 
 hurt, and I don't care how wild he runs, so long as he is obedient 
 and truthful. And true I think he is to the backbone, and I 
 know he is reverend. We had such a disturbance because he 
 would not say his prayers.' 
 
 ' Proof positive !' 
 
 ' Yes, it was,' said Albinia. ' It did not seem to him orthodox 
 without me, and when he was let into my room again, it was 
 the prettiest sight ! When he had been told of his little sister,
 
 240 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 all he said was that he did not want little girls — girls were 
 stupid — ^ 
 
 ' Ah ! that came of yonr premature introduction to my 
 Albinia.' 
 
 'Not at all. It was partly as William's own nephew, and 
 partly because pleasure was expected from him. But when he 
 actually saw the little thing, that sturdy face gi-ew so very soffc 
 and sweet, and when we told him he was her protector, he put 
 both his hands tight together, and said, " I'll be so good !" 
 When he is with her, an<jther child seems to shine out under 
 the bluff pickle he generally is — he walks so quietly, and thinks 
 it such an honour to touch her.' 
 
 ' She will be his best tutor,' said Maurice, smiling, but break- 
 ing off — 
 
 A sudden shriek of deadly terror rang out over the gard3n 
 from the river ! A second or two sufficed to show them 
 Lucy at the other end of the foot-bridge, that led across the 
 canal to the towing-path. She did not look round, till Albinia, 
 clutching her, demanded, 'Where is he?' 
 
 Unable to speak, Lucy pointed down the towing-path, along 
 which a horse was seen rushing wildly — a figure pursuing it. 
 ' It Avas hitched up here — he must have scrambled up by the 
 gate ! Oh ! mamma ! mamma ! He has run after him, but oh !' 
 
 ]\lr. Ferrars gave Lucy's arm a squeeze, a hint not to aug- 
 ment the horror. Something he said of ' Let me — and you had 
 better — ' but Albinia heard nothing, and was only bent on 
 pressing forward. 
 
 The canal and path took a wide sweep round the meadow, 
 and the horse was still in sight, galloping at full speed, with a 
 small heap on its back, as they trusted, but the rapid motion, 
 and their eyes strained and misty with alarm, caused an agony 
 of uncertainty. 
 
 Albinia pointed across the meadows in anguish at not being 
 able to make herself understood, and hoarsely said, * The gate !' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars caught her meaning, and the next moment had 
 leaped over the gutter, and splashed into the water meadow, 
 but in utter hopelessness of being beforehand with the nni- 
 away steed ! How could that gate be other than fatal 1 The 
 horse was ncaring it — the pursuer far behind — Mr. Ferrars not 
 half way over the fields. 
 
 There was a loud cry from Lucy. — *He is caught ! caught !' 
 
 A loud shout came l)ack, was caught up, and sent on by both 
 the pursuers, ' All right !' 
 
 Albinia had stood in an almost annihilation of conscious feel- 
 ing. Even when her brother strode back to her repeating
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 241 
 
 * All safe, thanks be to God,' she neithei' spoke nor relaxed 
 that intensity of watching. A few seconds more, and she 
 sprang forward again as the horse was led up by a young man 
 at his side ; and on his back, laughing and chattering, sat 
 Master Maurice. Algernon Dusautoy sti-odea few steps beliind, 
 somewhat aggrieved, but that no one saw. 
 
 The elder Maurice lifted down the younger one, who, as he 
 was clasped by his mother, exclaimed, ' Oh ! mamma, Bamfylde 
 went so ftist ! I am to ride home again ! He said so — he's my 
 cousin !' 
 
 Albinia scarcely heard ; her brother however had turned to 
 thank the stranger for her, and exclaimed, ' I should say you 
 were an O'More.' 
 
 ' I'm ITlick, from the Loughside Lodge,' was the answer. 
 
 * Is cousin Winifred here V 
 
 ' No, this is my sister, Mrs. Kendal, but — ' 
 
 Albinia held out her hand, and grasped his ; * I can't — Mau- 
 rice, speak,' she said. 
 
 The little Maurice persisted in his demand to be remounted 
 for the twelve yards to their owti gate, but nobody heard him ; 
 his uncle was saying a few words of explanation to the stranger, 
 and Algernon Dusautoy was enunciating something intended as 
 a gracious reception of the apologies which no one was making. 
 All Albinia thought of was that the little unruly hand was 
 warm and struggling, prisoned in her own ; all her brother 
 cared for was to have her safely at home. He led her across 
 the bridge, and into the garden, where they met Mr. Kendal, 
 who had taken alarm from her absence ; Lucy ran up with 
 her story, and almost at the same moment, Albinia, springing to 
 him, murmured, ' Oh ! Edmund, the great mercy — Maurice ;' 
 but there she found herself making a hoarse shriek ; with a 
 mingled sense of fright and shame, she smothered it, but tliere 
 was an agony of suffocation, she felt her husband's arms round 
 her, heard his voice, and her boy's scream of terror — felt them 
 all unable to help her, and sank into unconsciousness. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars helped Mr. Kendal to carry his wife's inanimate 
 form to her room. They used all means of restoration, but it 
 was a long, heavy swoon, and a slow, painful revival. Mr., 
 Kendal would have been in utter despair at hearing that the 
 doctor was out, but for his brother, with his ready resoui'ces and 
 cheerful encouragement ; and finally, she lifted her eyelids, and 
 as she felt the presence of her two dearest guardians, whispered, 
 ' Where is he V 
 
 Lucy reported that he was with Susan, and Albinia, after 
 hearing her husband again assure her that he was quite safe, 
 
 B
 
 242 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 lay still from exhaustion, but so calm, that liei brother thought 
 them best alone, and drew Lucy away. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour Mr. Kendal came down, say- 
 ing that she was quietly asleep, and he had left the nurse with 
 her. He had yet to hear the story, and when he understood 
 that the child had been madly careering along the towing jiath, 
 on the back of young Dusautoy's most spirited hunter, and had 
 been only stopped v/hen the horse was just about to leap the 
 tall gate, he was completely overcome. When he spoke again, 
 it was with the abrupt exclamation, ' That child ! Lucy, bring 
 him down !' 
 
 In marched the boy, full of life and mischief, though with 
 a large red s]iot beneath each eye. 
 
 ' Maurice !' Gilbert had often heard that tone, but Maurice 
 never, and he tossed back his head with an innocent look of 
 fearless wonder. ' Maurice, I find you have been a very naughty, 
 disobedient boy. When you rode the pony round the yard, 
 did not I order you never to do so again V 
 
 ' I did not do it again,' boldly rejoined Maurice. 
 ' Speak the truth, sir. What do you mean by denying 
 what you have done V exclaimed his father, angrily. 
 
 - 1 didn't ride the pony,' indignantly cried the child ; ' I rode 
 a horse, saddled and bridled !' 
 
 ' Don't answer me in that way !' thundered Mr. Kendal, 
 and much incensed l)y the nice distinction, and not appreciat- 
 ing the sincerity of it, he gave the child a shake, rough 
 enough to bring the red into his face, but ]iot a tear. * You 
 knew it was very wrong, and you were as near as possible 
 breaking your neck. You have frightened your mamma, so as 
 to make her very ill, and I am sorry to find you most mischiev- 
 ous and unruly, not to be trusted out of sight. Now, listen to 
 me, I shall punish you very severely if you act in this disobe- 
 dient way again.' 
 
 Papa angry, was a novel spectacle, at which Maurice looked 
 as innocently and steadily as ever, so completely without fear 
 or contrition, that he provoked a stein, 'Do you liear me, sir?' 
 and another shake. Maurice flushed, and lii.s chest heaved, 
 though he did not sob, and his father, uncomfortable at such 
 sharp dealing with so young a child, set him aside, with the 
 words, 'There now, recollect what I have told you !' and walked 
 to the window, whei'e he stood silent for some seconds, while 
 the boy stood with rounded shoulders, perplexed eye, and finger 
 on his pouting lip, and Sir. Ferrars, newsjiaper in hand, watched 
 him under his eyelids, and speculated what would be the best 
 Bort of mediation, or whether the young gentleman yet deserved
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 243 
 
 it. He knew that liis own Willie would have been a mere 
 quakiiig, sobbing mass of terror, under such a shake, and he 
 would like to have been sure whether that sturdy silence were 
 obstinacy or fortitude. 
 
 The sound of the door-bell made Mr. Kendal turn round, 
 and laying his hand on the little fellow's fair head, he said, 
 * There, Maui'ice, we'll say no more about it if you will be a 
 good boy. Run away now, but don't go into your mamma's 
 room.' 
 
 Maurice looked up, tossed his curls out of his eyes, shook 
 himself, felt the place on his arm where the grip of the hand 
 had been, and galloped off like the young colt that he was. 
 
 Albinia awoke, refreshed, though still shaken and feeble, and 
 surprised to find that dinner was going on downstairs. Her 
 own meal presently put such new force into her, tlmt she felt 
 able to speak Maurice's name without bursting into tears ; and 
 longing to see both her little ones beside her, she told the nurse 
 to fetch the boy, but received for answer, ' No, Master Maurice 
 said he would not come,' and the manner conveyed that it had 
 been defiantly said. Master Maurice was no favourite in the 
 nursery, and tie was still less so, when his mamma, disregarding 
 all mandates, set out to seek him. Already she heard from the 
 stairs the wrangling with Susan that accompanied all his toi- 
 lettes, and she found him the picture of firm, solid fairness, in 
 his little Tohe de nuit, growling through the combing of his 
 tangled locks. Though ordinarily scornful of caresses, he sprang 
 to her and hugged her, as she sat down on a low chair, and he 
 knelt in her lap, whispering with his head on her shouldei', and 
 his arms round her neck, ' Mamma, were you dead V 
 
 ' No, Maurice,' she answered with something of a sob, ' or I 
 should not have my dear, dear little boy throttling me now ! 
 But why would you not come down to me V 
 
 ' Papa said I must not.' 
 Oh, that was quite right, my boy ;' and though she unclasped 
 the tight arms, she drew him nestling into her bosom. ' Oh, 
 Maurice, it has been a teirible day ! Does my little boy know 
 how good the great God has been to him, and how near he was 
 never seeing mamma nor his little sister again.' 
 
 Her great object was to make him thankful for his presei-va- 
 tion, but with a child, knowing nothing of death and heedless 
 of fear, this was very difiicult. The rapid motion had been 
 delightful excitement, or if there had been any alarm, it was 
 forgotten in ihe triumph. She had to change her note, and re- 
 present how the poor horse might have run into the river, or 
 against a post ! Maurice looked serious, and then she came to 
 
 b2
 
 244 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 the high moral tone — mounting strangers' horses without leave 
 — would papa, would Gilbert, think of such a thing ? The 
 full lip was j)ut out, as though under conviction, and he hung 
 his head. 'You wont do it again f said she. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 She told him to say his prayers, guiding the confession and 
 thanksgiving that she feared he did not fully follow. As he 
 rose up, and saw the tears on her cheeks, he whispered, ' Mam- 
 ma, did it make you so T 
 
 Cause and effect were a great puzzle to him, but that swoon 
 was the only thing that brought home to him that he had 
 been guilty of something enormous, and when she owned that 
 his danger had been the occasion, he stood and looked ; then, 
 standing bolt upright, with clasped hands, and rosy feet pressed 
 close together, he said, with a long breath, ' I'll never get on 
 Bamfylde again till I'm a big boy.' 
 
 As he spoke, Mr. Kendal pushed open the half-closed door, 
 and Albiuia. looking up, said, ' Here's a boy who knows he has 
 done wrong, papa.' 
 
 Never was more welcome excuse for lifting the gallant child 
 to his bi-east, and lavishing caresses that would have been tender 
 but for the strong spirit of riot which turned them into a 
 game at romps, cut short by Mr. Kendal, as soon as the noise 
 grew very outrageous. ' That's enough to-night ; good night.' 
 And wlien they each had kissed the monkey face tossing about 
 among the clothes, Maurice might have heard more pride than 
 pain in the ' I never saw sucli a boy !' with which they shut 
 the door. 
 
 ' This is not prudent !' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' Do you think I could have rested till I had seen him % and 
 he said you had told him not to come down.' 
 
 ' 1 would have brought him to you. You are looking very 
 ill ; you had better go to bed at once.' 
 
 ' No, I should not sleep. Pray let me grow quiet first. Now 
 you know you trust Maurice, — old IMauricc, and I'll lie on the 
 sofa like any mouse, if you'll bring him up and lot him talk. 
 You know it will be an interesting novelty for you to talk, and 
 me to listen ! and he has not seen the baby.' 
 
 Albinia gained her point, but Mr. Kendal and Lucy first 
 tucked her up upon the sofa, till she cried out, ' You have 
 swatlied me hand and foot. How am I to show off that little 
 Awk ?' 
 
 ' I'll take care of that,' said j\Ir. Kendal ; and so he did, fully 
 doing the honours of the little daughter, who liad already fast- 
 ened on his heart. 
 
 o
 
 thp: young step-mothek. 245 
 
 'But,' cried Albinia, breaking into the midst, 'who or what 
 tire we, ungrateful monsters, never to have thought of the man 
 who caught that dreadful horse !' 
 
 ' You shall see him as soon as you are strong enough,' said 
 Mr. Kendal ; ' your brother and I have been with Mm.' 
 
 ' Oh, I am glad ; I could not rest if he had not been thanked. 
 And can anything be done for him 1 What is he ? I thought 
 he was a gentleman.' 
 
 Maurice smiled, and Mr. Kendal answered, ' Yes, he is Mr. 
 Goldsmith's nephew, and I am pleased to find that he is a con- 
 nexion of your brother.' 
 
 'One of the O'Mores,' cried Albinia. 'Oh, Maurice, is it 
 really one of Winifred's O'Mores V 
 
 ' Even so,' replied Mr. Ferrars ; the very last person I should 
 have expected to meet on the banks of the Baye ! It was that 
 clever son of the captain's for whose education Mr. Goldsmith 
 l^aid, and it seems had sent for, to consider of his future destina- 
 tion. He only arrived yesterday.' 
 
 ' A very fine young man,' said Mr. Kendal. * I was particu- 
 larly pleased with his manner, and it v/as an act of great pre- 
 sence of mind and dexterity.' 
 
 ' It is all a maze and mystery to me,' said Albinia ; ' do tell 
 me all about it. I can't make out how the horse came there.' 
 
 ' I understood that young Dusautoy was calling here,' said 
 Mr. Kendal ; ' I wondered at even his coolness in coming in by 
 that way, and at your letting him in.' 
 
 ' I saw nothing of him,' said Albinia. ' Perhaps he was look- 
 ing for Gilbert.' 
 
 ' No,' said Lucy, looking up from her work, with a slight 
 blush, and demure voice of secret importance ; ' he had only 
 stepped in for a minute, to bring me a new fern.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said her father ; ' I was not aware that he took in- 
 terest in your fernery.' 
 
 ' He knows everything about ferns,' said Lucy. ' Mrs. Caven- 
 dish Dusautoy once had a conservatory filled with the rarest 
 specimens, and he has given me a great many directions how to 
 manage them.' 
 
 ' Oh ! if he could get vovi to listen to his maxims, I don't 
 wonder at anything,' exclaimed Albinia. 
 
 'He had only just come in with the Adia7itiu7n, and was 
 telling me how hydraulic power directed a stream of water 
 near the roots among his mother's Fuci,' said Lucy, rather hurt. 
 * He had fastened up his h.orse quite securely, and nobody could 
 have guessed that Maurice could have opened that gate to cross 
 i,he bridge, far less have climbed up the rail to the horse's back.
 
 246 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 1 never shall forget my fright, when we heard the creature's 
 feet, and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy began to run after it 
 directly.' 
 
 ' As foolish a thing as he could have done,' said Mr. Kendal, 
 not impressed with Mr. Cavendish Dnsautoy's condescension in 
 giving chase. 'It was well poor little Maurice was not aban- 
 doned to your discretion, and his resources.' 
 
 ' It seems,' continued Mr. Ferrars, ' that young O'More was 
 taking a walk on the towing-path, and was just so far off as to 
 see, without being able to prevent it, this little monkey scramble 
 frocn the gate upon the horse's neck. How it was that he did 
 not go down between, I can't guess ; the beast gave a violent 
 start, as well it might, jerked the reins loose, and set off full 
 gallop. Seeing the child clinging on like a young panther, he 
 dashed across the meadow, to cut him off at the turn of the 
 river ; and it was a great feat of swiftness, I assure you, to run 
 so lightly through those marshy meadows, so as to get the start 
 of the runaway ; then he crept up under cover of the hedge, so 
 as not to stai'tle the horse, and had hold of the bridle, just as 
 he paused before leaping the gate ! H« said he could hai-dly 
 believe his eyes when he saw the urchin safe, and looking more 
 excited than terrified.' 
 
 ' Yes, he was exceedingly struck with Maurice's spirit,' said 
 Mr. Kendal, who, when the fright and anger were over, could 
 begin to be proud of the exploit. 
 
 ' They fraternized at once,' said Mr. Ferrai'S. ' Maurice im- 
 parted that his name was Maurice Ferrars Kendal, and Ulick, 
 in all good faith and Irish simplicity, discovered that they were 
 cousins !' 
 
 ' Oh ! Edmund, he must come to the chi-istening dinner !' 
 
 ' Mind,' said Maurice, * you know he is not even my Avife's 
 consin ; only nephew to her second cousin's husband.' 
 
 ' For shame, Maurice ; cousin is that cousinly does !' 
 
 ' Very well ; only don't tell the aunts that Winifred saddled 
 all the O' Mores ujjon you.' 
 
 'Not an O'Morc but should be welcome for his sake !' 
 
 * Nor an Irishman,' said ]\Ir. Ferrars. 
 
 Albinia suffered so much from the shock, that she could not 
 make her appearance till noon on the follovving day. Then, 
 after sitting a little while in the old study, to hear that grand- 
 mamma had not been able to sleep all night for thinking of 
 ?duurice's danger, and being told some terrible stories of acci- 
 dents with horses, she felt one duty done, and moved on to the 
 diawing-room in search of her brother. 
 
 She found herself breaking upon a tete-d-tete. A sweet, full
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, a-i? 
 
 voice, with strong cadences, was saying sometliing about duty 
 and advice, and she would have retreated, but her brother and 
 tlie stranger both sprang up, and made lier understand that .«he 
 was by no means to go away. No introduction was wanted ; 
 she grasped the hand that was extended to her, and would have 
 said something if she could, but she found herself not strong 
 enough to keep from tears, and only said, ' I wish little Maurice 
 were not gone out with his brother, but you will dine with us, 
 and see him to-morrow.' 
 
 ' With the greatest pleasure, if my uncle and aunt will 
 spare me.' 
 
 ' Tliey must,' said Albinia ; ' you must come to meet your old 
 friend and cousin,^ she added, mischievously glancing at Maurice; 
 but he did not look inclined to disavow the relationship, and 
 the youth was not a person whom any one would wish to keep 
 at a distance. He seemed about nineteen or twenty years of 
 age, not tall, but well made, and with an air of great ease and 
 agility, rather lounging and careless, yet alert in a moment. 
 The cast of his features at once betrayed his country, by the 
 rounded temples, with the free wavy hair ; the circular form of 
 the eyebrow ; the fully opened dark blue eye, looking almost 
 black when shaded ; the short nose, and the well-cut chin and 
 li])s, with their outlines of sweetness and of fun, all thoroughly 
 Irish, but of the best style, and with a good deal of thought 
 and mind on the brow, and determination in the mouth. Albinia 
 had scarcely a minute, however, for observation, for he seemed 
 agitated, and in haste to take leave, nor did her brother press 
 him to remain, since she was still looking very white and red, 
 and too fragile for anything but rest. With another squeeze of 
 the hand she let him go, while he, with murmured thanks, and 
 head bent in enthusiastic honour to the warm kindness of one so 
 sweet and graceful, took leave. Mr, Ferrars followed him into 
 the hall, leaving the door open, so that she heard the words, 
 ' Good-bye, Ulick ; I'll do my best for you. All I can say is, that 
 I respect you.' 
 
 ' Don't respect me too soon,' he answered ; * maybe you'll have 
 to change your mind. The situation may like me no better 
 than I the situation,' 
 
 ' No, what you will, you can do ; I trust to your perse- 
 verance,' 
 
 ' As my poor mother does ! Well, with patience the snail 
 got to Rome ; and if it is to lighten her load, I must bear it. 
 Many thanks, Mr, Ferrars. Good morning.' 
 
 •' Good morning ; only, Ulick, excuse me, but let me give you 
 a hint j if the situation is to like you, you must mind your Irish.'
 
 248 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Then you must not warm my heart with your kindness,* 
 •was the answer. ' No, no, never fear, when I'm not witli any 
 one who has seen Ballymakilty, I can speak English so that I 
 could not be known for a Galway man. Not that I'm ashamed 
 of my country,' he added ; and the next moment the door shiit 
 behind him. 
 
 ' How could you scold him for his Irish V exclaimed Albinia, 
 as her brother re-entered ; ' it sounds so pretty and charac- 
 teristic' 
 
 * I fear Mr. Goldsmith may think it too characteristic !' 
 
 ' I am sure Edmund might well call him prepossessing. I 
 hope Mr. Goldsmith is going to do something handsome for him ? 
 
 ' Poor lad ! Mr. Goldsmith considers that he has purchased 
 him for a permanent fixtui'e on a high stooh It is a sad disap- 
 pointment, for he had been doing his utmost to prepare himself 
 for college, and he has so far distinguished himself at school, 
 that I see that a very little help would soon enable him to main- 
 tain himself at the University. I could have found it in my 
 heart to give it to him myself; it would please Winifred.' 
 
 ' Oh, let us help ; I am sure Edmund would be glad.' 
 
 * No, no, this is better for all. Remember this is the Gold- 
 smith's only measure of conciliation towards their sister since 
 her marriage, and it ought not to be interfered with. Poor 
 Ulick says he knows this is tl-o readiest chance of being of any 
 use to his family, and that his mother has often said she should 
 be happy if she could but see one of the six launched in a way 
 to be independent ! There are those three eldest, little better 
 than squireens, never doing a thing but loafing about with their 
 guns. I used to long for a horse-whip to lay about them, till 
 they spoke to me, and then not one of the rogues but won my 
 heart with his fun and good-nature.' 
 
 ' Then I su]:)pose it is a great thing to have one in the way of 
 money-making.' 
 
 ' Hem 1 The Keltic blood is all in commotion ! This boy's 
 business was to ask my candid opinion whether there were any- 
 thing ungentltimanlike in a clerkship in a bank. It was well it 
 was not you !' 
 
 ' Now, Maurice, don't you know how glad I should have been 
 if Gilbert would have been as wise !' 
 
 ' Yes, you have some common sense after all, which is more 
 than Ulick attributes to his kith and kin. Wlicn I had proved 
 the respectability of banking to his conviction, I'll not say satis- 
 faction, he made me promise to write to his fVxther. He is 
 making up his mind to what is not only a great vexation to
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 24)9 
 
 himself, and very irksome employment, but he knows lie shall be 
 looked down upon as having lost caste with all his family !' 
 
 ' It really is heroism !' cried Albinia. 
 
 ' It is,' said Mr. Ferrars ; ' he does not trust himself to face 
 the clan, and means to get into harness at once, so as to clench 
 his resolution, and relieve his parents from his maintenance 
 immediately.' 
 
 * Is he to live with that formal Miss Goldsmith T 
 
 ' No. In solitary lodgings, after that noisy family and easy 
 home ! I can't think how he will stand it. I should not won- 
 der if the Galwegian was too strong after all.' 
 
 ' We must do all we can for him,' cried Albinia ; ' Edmund 
 likes him ah'eady. Can't he dine with us every Sunday V 
 
 ' I know you will be kind,' said Mr. Ferrars. ' Only see how 
 things turn out before you commit yourself. Ah ! I have said 
 the unlucky word which always makes you fly off!' 
 
 There was little fear tliat Ulick O'More would not win his 
 way with Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, recommended as he was, and 
 with considerable attractions in the frankness and brightness of 
 his manner. He was a very pleasant addition to the party who 
 dined at Willow Lawn, after the christening. No one had 
 time to listen to Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy's maxims, and he 
 retired lather sullenly, to lean against the mantelpiece, and 
 marvel why the Kendals should invite an Irish bankex-'s clerk 
 to meet Jiim. Gilbert likewise commented on the guest with a 
 muttered observation on his sisters' taste ; ' Last year it was all 
 the Polysyllable, now it would be all the Irishman !' 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THEPE was a war of supremacy in the Kendal household' 
 Albinia and her son were Greek to Greek, and if physical 
 force were on her side, her own tenderness was against her. As 
 to allies, Mavirice had by far the majority of the household ; the 
 much-tormented Susan was her mistx'ess's sole supporter ; Mr. 
 Kendal and Sophy might own it inexpedient to foster his 
 outrecuidance, but they so loved to do his bidding, so hated to 
 thwart him, and so grieved at his being punished, that they 
 were little better than Gilbert, Lucy, grandmamma, or any of 
 the maids or men. 
 
 The moral sense was not yet stirred, and the boy seemed to 
 be trying the force of his will like the strength of his limbs.
 
 250 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTKER. 
 
 Evea as lie deliglated to lift, a weight the moment lis saw tliat 
 it wiis heavy, so a commaud was to him a challenge to see how 
 much he would undergo rather than obev : but his resistance 
 was so open, g-ay, and free, that it could hardly be called ob- 
 stinacy, and he gloried in disappointing punishment. The dark 
 closet lost ail terror for him ; he stood there blowing the horn 
 through his hand, content to follow an imaginary chase ; and 
 when untimely sent to bed. he stole Susan's seissoi-s, and cut a 
 range of stable-s in the sheets. The short, sharp infliction of 
 pxuu answered best, but his father, though he could give a shake 
 when angry, could not strike when cool ; and Albinia was 
 forced to tm-n executioner, though with such tears and trembling 
 that her culprit looked up reassui'ingly, saying, ' Xever iiind, 
 mamma, I shan't !' He did, however, iniiid her tears, they 
 bore in upon him the sense of guilt ; and after each trans- 
 gression, he could not be at peace till he had marched ui> to her, 
 holding out his hand for the blow, and making np his face not 
 to wince, and then would clinar round her neck to feel himself 
 pardoned. Justice came to him in a most fair and motherly 
 shape ! The biightesc, the merriest of all his playmates was 
 mamma ; he loved her passionately, and could endure no cloud 
 between himself and her, so that he was slowly learning that 
 submission to her was peace and pleasure, and rebellion mere 
 pain to both. She established ten minutes of daUy lessons, but 
 even she could not reach beyond the capture of his restless 
 person, his mind was out of reach, and keen as he was in every- 
 tiiing else, towards a-b-ab he was an unmitigated dunce. Nor 
 did he obey any one who did not use authority and force of 
 will, and though j>erfectly simple and sincere, he was too young 
 to restrain himself without the assistance of the controlling 
 power, so that in his mother's absence he was tyrannical and 
 violent, and she never liked to have him out of her sight, and 
 never was so sui"e that he was deep in mischief as when she had 
 not heard his voice for a quarter of an hour. 
 
 'Albinia,' said Mr. Kendal, one relenting autumn day, when 
 November strove to look like April, ' I thought of walking to 
 pay Farmer Graves for the com. Will you come with me V 
 
 ' Delightful j I want to see what Maurice will say to the 
 turkey-cock.' 
 
 * Is it not too far for him P 
 
 ' He would run quite as many miles in the garden,' said 
 Albinia, who would have walked in dread of a cotirt of justice 
 on her return, had not the scarlet hose been safely prancing on 
 the road l)efore her. 
 
 ' This way, then,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' I must get this dral't
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 251 
 
 changed at the bank. Come, Maurice, you will see a friend 
 there.' 
 
 ' Do you know, Edmund,' s^aid Albinia, as they set forth, 
 * my conscience smites me as to that youth ; I think we have 
 neglected him.' 
 
 ' I cannot see what more we could have done. If his uncle 
 does not bring him forward in society, we cannot interfere.' 
 
 'It must be a forlorn condition,' said Albinia; 'he is above 
 the other clerks, and he seems to be voted below the Bayford 
 elite, since the Polysyllable had made it so very refined ! One 
 never meets him anywhere now it is too dark to walk after the 
 banking hoiirs. Cannot we ask him to come in some evening f 
 
 ' We cannot have our evenings broken up,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 *I should be glad to show him any kindness, but his uncle seesms 
 to have ruled it that he is to be considered more as his clerk 
 than as one of his family, and I doubt if it would be doing him 
 any service to interfere.' 
 
 They were now at the respectable old freestone building, with 
 ' Goldsmith ' inscribed on the iron window-blinds, and a vene- 
 rable date carved over the door. Inside, those blinds came high, 
 and let in but little light over the tall desks, at which were 
 placed the black-horsehair perches of the clerks, old Mr. Gold- 
 smith himself occupying a lower throne, more accessible to the 
 clients. One of the high stools stood empty, and Albinia 
 making inquiry, Mr. Goldsmith answered, with a dry, dissatisfied 
 cough, that JMore, as he called him, had struck work, and gone 
 home with a headache. 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Albinia, ' I am sorry to hear it. Mr. Hope 
 said he thought him not looking well.' 
 
 ' He has complained of headache a good deal lately,' said 
 Mr. Goldsmith. ' Young men don't find it easy to settle to 
 business.' 
 
 Albinia's heai-t smote her for not having thought more of her 
 son's rescuer, and she revolved what could or what might have 
 been done. It really was not easy to show him attention, con- 
 sidering Gilbert's prejudice against his accent, and Mr. Kendal's 
 dislike to an interrupted evening, and all she could devise was 
 a future call on Miss Goldsmith. But for Maurice, it would 
 have been a silent walk, and though her mind was a little 
 diverted by his gallant attemi)t to bestride the largest pig in 
 the farm-yard, she was sure Mr. Kendal was musing on the 
 same topic, and was not surprised when, as they returned, he 
 exclaimed, ' I have a great mind to go and see after tliat poor lad.' 
 
 ' This way, then,' said Albinia, turning down a narrow muddy 
 street parallel with the river.
 
 252 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 'Impossible!' said Mr. Kendal; 'lie can never live at the 
 Wharves V 
 
 'Yes,' said Albinia ; 'he told me that he lodged with an 
 old servant of the Goldsmiths, Pratt's wife, at the Lower 
 Wharf.' 
 
 She pointed to the name of Pratt over a shop-window in a 
 house that had once seen better days, but which looked so 
 forlorn, that Mr. Kendal would not look the slatternly maid in 
 the face while so absurd a question was asked as whether Mr. 
 O'More lived there. 
 
 The girl, without further ceremony, took them up a dark 
 stair, and opened the door of a twilight room, where Albinia's 
 first glimpse showed her the young man with his head bent 
 down on his arms on the table, as close as possible to the forlorn 
 black lire, of the grim, dull, sulky coal of the county, which had 
 filled the room with smoke and blacks. The window, opened 
 to clear it, only admitted the sickly scent of decaying weed from 
 the river to compete with the perfume of the cobbler's stock-in- 
 trade. Ulick started up pale and astonished, and Mr. Kendal, 
 struck with consternation, chiefly thought of takiug away his 
 wife and child from the infected atmosphei'c, and made signs to 
 Albinia not to sit down ; but she was eagerly compassionate. 
 
 ' It was nothing,' said Ulick ; ' only his liead was rather worse 
 than usual, and he thought it time to give in when the threes 
 put lapwings' feathers in their caps just like the fives.' 
 
 'Are you subject to these headaches f 
 
 ' It is only home-sickness,' he said, ' I'll have got over it soon.' 
 
 ' I must come and see after you, my good friend,' said Mr. 
 Kendal, with suppressed impatience and anxiety. 'I shall 
 return in a moment or two, but I am sure you are not well 
 enough for so many visitors taking you by surprise. Come.' 
 
 He was so peremptory, that Albinia found herself on the 
 staircase before she knew what she was about. The fever panic 
 had seized Mr. Kendal in full force ; he believed typhus was in 
 the air, and insisted on her taking Maurice home at once, while 
 he went himself to fetch Mr. Bowles. She did not in the least 
 credit fever to be in the chill touch of that lizard hand, and 
 believed that she could have been the best doctor ; but there 
 was no arffuine while he was under this alarm, and she knew 
 that she misht be thankful not to be ordered to observe a 
 quarantine. 
 
 When Mr. Kendal returned home he looked much discom- 
 posed, though his first words were, * Thank Heaven, it is no 
 fever ! Albinia, we must look after that poor lad ; he is posi- 
 tively poisoned by that pestiferous river and bad living ! Bowles
 
 THE YOUNG STEP- MOTHER. 253 
 
 said he was sure he was not eating meat enough. I dare say 
 that greasy woman gives him nothing fit to eat ! Albinia, you 
 must talk to him — find out whether old Goldsmith gives him a 
 decent salary !' 
 
 ' He ought not to be in those lodgings another day. I suppose 
 Miss Goldsmith had no notion what they were. I fancy she 
 never saw the Lower Wharf in her life.' 
 
 ' I never did till to-day,' said Mr. Kendal. * It was all of a 
 piece — the whole street — the room — the furniture — why the 
 paper was coming off the walls ! What could they be dreaming 
 of ! And there he was, trying to read a little edition of Pni- 
 dentius, printed at Salamanca, which he picked up at a bookstall 
 at Galway. It must have belonged to some priest educated iu 
 Spain. He says any Latin book was invaluable to him. He is 
 infinitely too good for his situation, and the Goldsmiths are 
 neglecting him infamously. Look out some rooms fit for him, 
 Albinia.' 
 
 ' I will try. Let me see — if I could only recollect any ; but 
 Mr. Hope has the only really nice ones in the place.' 
 
 ' Somewhere he must be, if it is in this house.' 
 
 ' There is poor old Madame Belmarche s still empty, with 
 Bridget keeping it, I wish he could have rooms there.' 
 
 ' Well, why not ? Pettilove told me it must be let as two 
 tenements. If the old woman could take half, a lodger would 
 pay her rent,' said Mr. Kendal, promptly. ' You had better 
 propose it.' 
 
 ' And the Goldsmiths V asked Albinia. 
 
 ' I will show him the Lower Wharf 
 
 The next afternoon Mx. Kendal desired his wife to go to the 
 Bank and borrow young O'More for her walking companion. 
 
 ' Really I don't know whether I have the impudence.' 
 
 ' I will come and do it for you. You will do best alone with 
 the lad ; I want you to get into his confidence, and find out 
 whether old Goldsmith treats him properly. I declare, but that 
 I know John Kendal so well, this would be enough to make me 
 rejoice that Gilbert is not thrown on the world !' 
 
 Albinia knew herself to be so tactless, that she saw little 
 hope of her doing anything but setting him against his relations; 
 but her husband was in no frame to hear objections, so she 
 made none, and only trusted she should not be very foolish. 
 At least, the walk would be a positive physical benefit to the 
 slave of the desk. 
 
 Ulick O'More was at his post, and said his head was well, 
 but his hair stuck up as if liis fingers had been many times run 
 througli it ] he was much thinner, and the wearied countenance,
 
 254 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 whitened complexion, and spiritless sunken eyes, were a sad 
 contrast to the glowing freshness and life that had distinguished 
 him in the summer. 
 
 Mr. Kendal told the Banker that it had been decided that 
 his nephew needed exercise, and that Mrs. Kendal would be 
 glad of his company in a long walk. Mr. Goldsmith seemed 
 rather surprised, but consented ; whereupon the young clerk 
 lighted up into animation, and bounded out of his prison house, 
 with a springy step learnt upon mountain heather. Mr. Kendal 
 only waited to hear whither they were bound. 
 
 ' Oh ! as far as we can go on the Woodside road,' said Albinia. 
 ' I think the prescription I used to inflict on poor Sophy will 
 not be thrown away here. I always fancy there is a whiii" of 
 sea air upon the hill there.' 
 
 Ulick smiled at such a fond delusion, bred up as he had been 
 upon the wildest sea-coast, exposed to the full sweep of the 
 Atlantic storm ! She set him off upon his own scenery, to the 
 destruction of his laborious English, as he dwelt on the gioi-ies of 
 his beloved rocks rent by fierce sea winds and waves into fon- 
 tastic, grotesque, or lovely shapes, with fiords of exquisite blue 
 sea between, the variety of which had been to him as the gentle 
 foliage of tamer countries. Not a tree stood near the ' town ' 
 of Ballymakilty, but the wild crags, the sparkling waters, the 
 broad open hills, and the bogs, with their intensely purple 
 horizon, held fast upon his heart ; and he told of white sands, 
 reported to be haunted by mermaids, and crevices of rock where 
 the tide roared, and gave rise to legends of sea monsters, and 
 giants turned to stone. He was becoming confidential and 
 intimate when, in a lowered voice, he mentioned the Banshee's 
 crag, where the slirouded messenger of doom never iailed to 
 bewail each dying child of the O'More, and where his own old 
 nurse had actually beheld her keening for the uncle who was 
 killed among the Caffrcs. Albinia began to know how she 
 ouglit to respect the O'Mores. 
 
 They were sldrting the side of the hill, with a dip of green 
 meadow-land below them, rising on the other side into coppices. 
 The twang of the horn, and the babbling cry of the hounds, 
 reminded Albinia that the hunting season had begun, and look- 
 ing over a gate, she watched the parti coloured forms of the 
 dogs glancing among the brushwood opposite, and an occasional 
 red coat gleaming out tlirough the edge above. Just then the 
 cry ceased, the dogs became silent, and scattered hither and 
 thither bewildered. Ulick looked eagerly, then suddenly vaulted 
 over Lhe gate, went forward a few stei)S, looked again, pointed 
 towards some dark object which she could barely discerUj put his
 
 THE YOUNG STEP -MOTHER. 255 
 
 l5i\£;ei" in liis ear, and uttered an unearthly screech, incomprehen- 
 sible to her, but well understood by the huntsman, and through 
 him by the dogs, which at once simultaneously dashed in one 
 direction, and came pouring into the meadow over towards him; 
 down went their heads, up went their curved tails ; the clatter 
 and rushing of hoofs, and the apparition of red coats, showed the 
 hunters all going i-ound the copse, while at the same moment, 
 away with winged steps bounded her companion, flying headlong 
 like the wind, so as to meet the hunt. 
 
 * Ask me not what the lady feels. 
 Left iu that dreadful hour alone,' 
 
 laughed Albinia to herself. ' Well done, speed ! Edmund might 
 be satisfied there's not much amiss ! Through the hedge — over 
 the meadow — a flying leap over the stream — it is more like a 
 bii-d than a man — up again. Does he mean to follow the hunt 
 all the rest of the way ? Rather Irish, I must say ! And I do 
 believe they will all come down this lane ! I must walk on ; it 
 wont do to be overtaken here between these high hedges. Ah ! 
 I thought he was too much of a gentleman to leave me — here he 
 comes. How much in his way I must be ! I never saw such 
 a runner ; not a bit does he slacken for the hill — and what bright 
 cheeks and eyes ! What good it must have done him !' 
 
 ' I beg ten thousand pardons !' cried he, as he came up, scarcely 
 out of breath. ' I declare I forgot you ; I could not help it, 
 when I saw them at a check !' 
 
 ' You feel for the hunter as I do for the fox,' said Albinia. 
 ^ Is yours one of the great hunting neiglibourhoods f 
 
 ' That it is !' he cried. ' My grandfather had the grand stud ! 
 He and his seven sons were out three times in the week, and 
 there was a mount for whoever wanted it !' 
 
 ' And this generation is not behind the last V 
 
 ' Ah ! and why would it be f exclaimed the boy, the last 
 remnant of English pronunciation forsaking him. ' My Uncle 
 Connel has the best mare on this side the bridge of Athlone I 
 I mean that side.' 
 
 ' And how is it with you V asked Albinia. 
 
 • We've got no horses — that is, except my father's mare, and 
 the colt, and Fir Darrig — the swish-tailed pony — and the blind 
 donkey that briugs in the turf So we younger ones mostly go 
 hunting on foot j and after all I believe that's the best sport. 
 Bryan always comes in before any of the horses, and we all 
 think it a shame if we don't !' 
 
 ' I see where you learnt the swiftness of foot that was Su 
 useful last July,' said Albinia.
 
 256 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 • That 1 oil ! but Bryan would have been up long before roe,* 
 said Ulick. * He'd have made for the lock, not the gate ! You 
 should see what sport we have when the fox takes to the Corrig 
 Dearg up among the rocks — and little Rosie upon Fir Darrig, 
 with her hair upon the wind, and her colour like the moruing 
 cloud, glancing in and out among the rocks like the fairy of the 
 glen. There are those that think her the best part of the hunt ; 
 they say the English officers at Ochlochtimore would never 
 think it worth coming out but for her. I don't believe that, 
 you know,' he added, laughing, ' though I like to fetch a rise 
 out of Ulick at the great house by telling him of it.' 
 
 ' How old is she V 
 
 ' Fifteen last April, and she is like an April wind, when it 
 comes warm and frolicking over the sea ! So wild and free, 
 and yet so gentle and soft ! Ellen and Mary are grave and 
 steady, and work hard— every stitch of my stockings was poor 
 Mary's knitting, except what poor old Peggy would send up for 
 a compliment ; but Rosie — I don't think she does a thing but 
 sing, and ride, and row the boat, and keep the house alive ! 
 My mother shakes her head, but I don't know what she'll say 
 ■when she gets my aunt's letter. My Aunt Goldsmith purses up 
 her lips, and says, " I'll write to advise my sister to send her 
 daughters to some good school." Ellen, maybe, might bear one, 
 but ah ! the thought of little Eosie in a good school !' 
 
 ' Like her brother Ulick in a good bank, eh V 
 
 * Why,' he cried, ' they always called me the steady English- 
 
 man '' 
 
 Albinia laughed, but at that moment the sounds of the hunt 
 again occupied them, and all were interpreted by Ulick with 
 the keenest interest ; but he would not run away again, though 
 she exhorted him not to regard her. Presently it swept on out 
 of hearing, and by-and-bye they reached the summit of the hill, 
 and looked forth on the dark pine plantations on the opposite 
 undulation, standing out in bUick relief against a sky golden 
 with a pale, pure, pearly November sunset, a ' daffodil sky' 
 flecked with tiny fleeces of soft bright-yellow light, reminding 
 Albinia of Fouque s beautiful dream of Aslauga's golden hair 
 showing the gates of Heaven to Ler devoted knight. She looked 
 for her companion's sympathy in her admiration, brt the woods 
 seemed to oppress him, and his i)anting sigh sliowed how real a 
 thing wa.'' helmweh. 
 
 ' 6h ! my poor sun !' he broke out, * I pity you for having to 
 go down before your time into these black, stifling woods tliat 
 rise up to smother you like giants — and not into your own 
 broad, cool Atlantic, laughing up your own sparkles of light.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 257 
 
 ' We inland people can hardly appreciate your longing for 
 space.' 
 
 ' It's a very prison,' said XJlick ; ' the horizon is choked all 
 round, and one can't breathe in these staid stiff hedges and 
 enclosures !' And he threw out his arms and flapped theni over 
 Lis breast with a gesture of constraint. 
 
 ' You seem no friend to cultiv^ation.' 
 
 'Why, your meadows would be pretty things if they were a 
 little greener,' said XJlick; 'but one gets tired of them, and of 
 those straight lines of plouglied field. There's no sense of 
 liberty ; it is like the man whose prison walls closed in upon 
 him !' And he gave another weary sigh, his step lost elasticity, 
 and he moved on heavily. 
 
 * You are tired ; I have brought you too far.' 
 
 * Tired by a bit of a step like this V cried the boy, disdain- 
 fully, as he straightened himself, and resumed his brisk tread. 
 But it did not last. 
 
 ' I had forgotten that you had not been well,' she said. 
 
 ' Pshaw !' muttered XJlick ; then resumed, 'Aye, Mr. Kendal 
 brought in the doctor upon me — very kind of him — but I do 
 assure you 'tis nothing but home sickness ; I was nearly as bad 
 when I went to St. Columba, but I got over it then, and I will 
 again !' 
 
 ' It may be so in part,' said Albinia, kindly ; ' but let me be 
 impertinent, XJlick, for my sister Winifred told me to look after 
 you ; surely you give it every provocation. Such a change of 
 habits is enough to make any one ill. Should you not ask your 
 uncle for a holiday, and go home for a little while V 
 
 ' Don't name it, I beg of you,' cried the poor lad in an 
 agitated voice ; ' it would only bring it all over again ! I've 
 promised my mother to do my part, and with His help I icill ! 
 Let the columns run out to all eternity, and the figures crook 
 themselves as spitefully as they will, I've vowed to myself not 
 to stir till I've got the better of the villains !' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Albinia, ' they have blackened your eyes like the 
 bruises of material antagonists ! Yes, it is a gallant battle, but 
 indeed you must give yourself all the help you can, for it would 
 be doing your mother no good to fall ill' 
 
 ' I've no fears,' said XJlick ; ' I know very well what is the 
 matter with me, and that if I don't give way, it will go off in 
 time. You've given it a good shove with your kindness, 
 Mrs. Kendal,' he added, with deep emotion in his sensitive 
 voice ; ' only you must not talk of my going home, or you'll 
 undo all you have done.' 
 
 ' Then I wont ; we must try to make you a home here. 
 
 s
 
 258 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 
 
 And in the first place, tliose lodgings of yours ; you cau never 
 be comfortable in them.' 
 
 'Ah ! you saw my fire smoking. I never shall learn to muke 
 a coal fire burn.' 
 
 'Not only that,' said Albinia, 'but you might easily find 
 rooms much better furnished, and fitter for you.' 
 
 ' I do assui-e you,' exclaimed Ulick, ' you scarcely saw it ! 
 "Why, I don't think there's a room at the big house in better 
 order, or so good !' 
 
 ' At least,' said Albinia, repi'essing her deduction as to the 
 ' big house of Ballymakilty,' ' you have no particular love for 
 the locality — the river smell — the stock of good leather, &c.' 
 
 ' It's all Bayford and town smell together,' said Ulick ; * I 
 never thought one part worse thau another, begging your 
 pardon, Mrs. Kendal.' 
 
 ' And I am sure,' she continued, ' that woman can never 
 make your meals comfortable. Yes, I see I am right, and I 
 assure you hard head-work needs good living, and you wiR 
 never be a match for the rogues in black and white without 
 good beef-steaks. Now confess whether she gives you dinners 
 of old shoe-leather.' 
 
 ' A man can't sit down to dinner by himself,' cried Ulick, 
 impatiently. ' Tea with a book are all that is bearable.' 
 
 'And you never go out — never see any one.' 
 
 * I dine at my uncle "s every Sunday,' said Ulick. 
 ' Is that all the variety you have V 
 
 ' Why, my uncle told me he would not have me getting into 
 what he calls idle company. I've dined once at the vicarage, 
 and drunk tea twice with Mr. Hope, but it is no use thinking 
 of it — I couldn't afford it, and that's the truth.' 
 
 ' Have you any books 1 What cau you find to do all the 
 evening V 
 
 ' I have a few that bear reading pretty often, and Mr. Hope 
 has lent me some. I've been trying to keep up my Greek, and 
 then I do believe there's some way of simplifying those accounts 
 by logarithms, if I could but work it out. But my mother 
 told me to walk, and I assure you I do take a constitutional as 
 soon as I come out at half-past four every day.' 
 
 * Well, I have designs, and mind you don't traverse them, or 
 I shall have to report you at home. I have a lodging in my 
 eye for you, away from the river, and a nice clean, tidy Irish- 
 woman to keep you iu order, make your fires, and cram you, if 
 you wont eat, and see if she does not make a man of you ' 
 
 ' Stop, stop, Mrs. Kendal !' cried Ulick, distressed. ' You 
 are very kind, but it can't be.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 259 
 
 * Excuse me, it is economy of tlie wrong sort to live in a 
 gutter, and catch agues and fevers. Only think, if it was my 
 boy Gilbert, should I not be obliged to any one that would 
 tyrannize over him for his good 1 Besides, what I propose is 
 not at all beyond such means as Mr. Kendal tells me are the 
 least Mr. Goldsmith ought to give you. Do you dislike going 
 into particulars with me 1 You know I am used to think for 
 Gilbert, and I am a sort of cousin.' 
 
 ' You are kindness itself,' said XJlick ; ' and thei-e ! I suppose 
 I must go to the bottom of it, and it is no new.s that pence ai-e 
 not plenty among the O'Mores, though it is no fault of my 
 uncle. See thei-e what my poor dear mother says.' 
 
 He drew a letter from his pocket, and gave a page to her. 
 
 ' I miss you sorely, my boy,' it said ; ' I know the more what 
 a support and friend you have been to me now that you are so 
 far away ; but all is made up to me in knowing you to be among 
 my own people, and the instrument of reconciliation Vv'ith my 
 brother, as you well know how great has been the pain of the 
 estrangement caused by my own pride and wilfulness. I cannot 
 tell you how glad I am that he appi'oves of you, and that you 
 are beginning to get used to the work that was my own poor 
 father's for so long. Bred up as you have been, my mountain 
 lad, I scarcely dared to hope that you would be able to sit 
 down quietly to it, with all our hopes of making you a scholar 
 so suddenly frustrated ; but I might have put faith in your 
 loving heart and sense of duty to carry you thi'ough anything. 
 I feel as if a load were ofi" my mind since you and Bryan are so 
 happily launched. The boy has not once applied for money 
 since he joined ; and if you write to him, pray beg him to be 
 careful, for it would well-nigh drive your father mad to be 
 presseri any more — the poor niai-e has been sold at a dead loss 
 and the Carrick-humbug quarry company pays no dividends, so 
 how we are to meet the Christmas bills I cannot guess. But, as 
 you remember, we have won over worse times, and now Pro\'i- 
 dence has been so good to you and Biyan, what have I to do 
 but be thankfid and hope the best.' 
 
 Ulick watched her face, and gave her another note, saying 
 mournfully, ' You see they all, but my mother, think that if I 
 am dragging our family honour through the mire, I've got 
 something by it. Poor Bryan, he knows no bettor — he's 
 younger than me by two years.' 
 
 The young ensign made a piteous confession of the first debt 
 he had been able to contract, for twenty pounds, with a promise 
 that if his brother would help him out of this one scrape, he 
 would never run into another.
 
 260 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 * I. am very sorry for you, Ulick,' said Albinia, 'and I Late to 
 advise you to be selfish, but it really is quite impossible for you 
 to be paymaster for all your brothers' debts.' 
 
 ' If it were Connel, I know it would be of no use,' said 
 Ulick. ' But Bryan — you see lie has got a start — they gave him 
 a commission, and he is the finest fellow of us all, and knows 
 what his word is, and keeps it ! Maybe, if I get on, I may bo 
 able to save, and help him to his next step, and then ii 
 Redmond could get to college, my mother would be a happy 
 woman, and all thanks to my uncle.' 
 
 ' Then it is this twenty pounds that is pinching you now ? 
 Is that it V 
 
 ' You see my uncle said he would give me enough to keep me 
 as a gentleman and his nephew, but not enough to keep all the 
 family, as he said. After my Christmas quarter I shall be up 
 in the world again, and then there will be time to think of the 
 woman you spoke of — a Connaught woman, did you say f 
 
 When Albinia reported this dialogue to her husband, he was 
 much moved by this simple self-abnegation. 
 
 'There is nothing for it,' he said, ' but to bring him here till 
 Christmas, and by that time we will take care that the new 
 lodgings are cheap enough for him. He must not be left to the 
 mercy of old Goldsmith and his sister !' 
 
 Even Albinia was astonished, but Mr. Kendal carried out 
 his intentions, and went in quest of his new friend ; while no 
 one thouglit of objecting except grandmamma. 
 
 ' I suppose, my dear,' she said, ' that you know what Mr. 
 Goldsmith means to do for this young man.' 
 
 ' I am sure I don't,' said A Ibinia. 
 
 ' Really ! Ah ! well, I'm an old woman, and I may be wrong, 
 but my poor dear Mr. Meadows would never encourage a banker's 
 clerk about the house unless he knew what were his expecta- 
 tions. Irish too ! If there was a thing Mr. Meadows disliked 
 more than another, it was an Irishman ! He said they wei'e 
 all adv-^enturers.' 
 
 However, U lick's first evening at Willow Lawn was on what 
 he called 'a headache day.' He could not have taken a better 
 measure for overcoming grandmamma's objections. Poor dear 
 ]\Ir. Meadows' worldly wisdom was not sufliciently native to 
 her to withstand the sight of anything so pale and suffering, 
 especially as he did not rebel against answei-ing her close 
 examination, which concluded in her pronouncing these inter- 
 mitting attacks to be agneish, and pi-escribing quinine. To 
 taVc medicines is an effectual way of gaining an old lady's lova
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 261 
 
 UHck was soon established iu her mind as * a very pretty 
 behaved yomg gentleman.' 
 
 In the evenings, when Mr. Kendal read aloud, Ulick listened, 
 and enjoyed it from the comer where he sheltered his eyes from 
 the light. He was told that he ought to go to bed quickly, but 
 after the ladies were in their rooms, a long buzzing murmur was 
 heard in the passage, and judicious peeping revealed the two 
 gentlemen, each, candle in hand, the one with his back against 
 the wall at the top of the stairs, the other leaning upon the 
 balusters three steps below, and there they stayed, till the clock 
 struck one, and Ulick's candle burnt out. 
 
 ' Wjiat could you be talking about f asked the aggrieved 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' Frometheus Vinctits,' composedly returned Mr. Kendal. 
 
 Ulick's eagerness in collecting every crumb of scholarship 
 was a great bond of union ; but there was still more in the 
 bright, open, demonstrative nature of the youth, which had a 
 great attraction for the reserved, serious Mr. Kendal, and scarcely 
 a day had passed befoi'o they were on terms of intimacy, almost 
 like an elder and younger brother. Admitted into the family 
 as a connexion, Ulick at once viewed the girls as cousins, and 
 treated them with the same easy grace of good-natured fami- 
 liarity as if they had been any of the nineteen Miss O'Mores 
 around Bally niakilty. 
 
 ' How is your head now V asked Mr. Kendal, ' You are late 
 this evening,' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ulick, entering the drawing-room, which was 
 ruddy with fii'elight, and fragrant with the breath of the con- 
 servatory, and leaning over an arm-chair, as he tried to rub the 
 aching out of his brow ; ' there were some accounts to finish up, 
 and my additions came out different every time.' 
 
 * A sure sign that you ought to have left off.' 
 
 'I was just going to have told my uncle I was good for 
 nothing to-day, when I heai-d old Johns mumbling something 
 to him about Mr. More being unwell, and looking up, I saw 
 that cold grey eye twinkling at me, as much as to say he was 
 proud to see how soon an Irishman could be beaten. So what 
 could I do but give him look for look, and go on with eight and 
 seven, and five and two, as unconcerned as he was.' 
 
 'Well,' said Mr. Kendal, ' you know I think that your uncle's 
 appai-ent indifference may be his fashion of being your best 
 friend.' 
 
 ' I'd take it like sunshine in May from a stranger, and be 
 proud to disappoint him,' said Ulick ; ' but to call himself my
 
 262 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 uncle, and nae my moiher's own eyes to look at me tliat way, 
 that's the stroke ! and to think that I'm only striving to harden 
 myself by force of habit to be exactly like him ! I'd rather 
 enlist to-morrow, if that would not be his greatest triumph I' 
 he cried, pressing his hands hard on his temples. ' It is veiy 
 childish, but I could foi-give him anything but using my mother's 
 eyes that way !' 
 
 ' You will yet rejoice iu the likeness,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 * You must believe in more than you can trace, and when, 
 vour perseverance has conquered his esteem, the rest will 
 follow.' 
 
 ' Follow ? The rest, as you call it, would go before at home,' 
 sighed Ulick, wearily. ' Esteem is like fame ! what I want 
 begins without it, and lives as well with or without it !' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said his friend, ' Mr. Goldsmith would think it 
 weakness to show preference to a relation before it was earned.' 
 
 ' Ah then,' cried Ulick, in a quaint Irish tone, ' Heaven have 
 mercy on the little children !' 
 
 ' Yes, the doctrine can only be consistently held by a solitary 
 man.' 
 
 ' Where would we be but for inconsistency V exclaimed 
 Ulick. 
 
 ' I do not like to hear you talk in that manner,' said Sophy. 
 ' Inconsistency is mere weakness.' 
 
 * Ah! then you are the dangerous character,' said Ulick, with 
 a droll gesture of sheltering himself behind the chair. 
 
 ' I did not call myself consistent, I Avish I were,' she said, 
 
 gi'avely. 
 
 ' How she must love the French !' returned Ulick, confiden- 
 tially turning to her father. 
 
 ' Not at all, I detest them.' 
 
 ' Tlien you are inconsistent, for they're the very models of 
 uncompromising consistency.' 
 
 ' Yes, to bad principles,' said So])hy. 
 
 ' Kobespierre was a prime specimen of consistency to good 
 principle !' 
 
 Sophy turned to her father, and with an odd dubious look, 
 asked him, ' Is he teasing me V 
 
 ' He'd be proud to have the honour,' Ulick made answer, so 
 that Mr. Kendal's smile grew broad. It was the funniest 
 thing to see Ulick sporting with Sophy's gravity, constraining 
 her to playfulness, with something of the compulsion exercised 
 by a large frolicsome puppy upon a sober old dog of less size and 
 strength.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 263 
 
 *T do not like to see powevs wasted on paradox,' she said, 
 even as the grave senior miglit roll up his lip and snarl. 
 
 ' I'm in earnest, Sophy,' pursued Ulick, changing his note to 
 eagerness. ' La grande nation herself finds that logic was her 
 bane. Consistency was never made for man ! Why where 
 would this world be if it did not go two ways at once?' 
 
 Sophy did laugh at this Irish version of the centripetal and 
 centrifugal forces, but she held out. ' The earth describes a 
 circle ; I like straight lines.' 
 
 ' Much we shall have of the right direction, unless we are 
 content to turn right about fiice,' said Ulick. ' The best path 
 of life is but a herring-bone pattern,' 
 
 ' What does he know of herring-boning V asked Mrs. Kendal, 
 coming in at the moment, with a white cashmere cloak folded 
 picturesquely over her delicate blue silk. Ulick in a moment 
 assumed a less careless attitude, as he answered — 
 
 'I found my poetical illustration on the motion of the earth 
 too much for her, so I descended to the herring-bone as more 
 suited to her capacity.' 
 
 ' There he is, mamma,' said Sophy, 'pleading that consistency 
 is the most ruinous thing in the world.' 
 
 ' I thought as much,' said Albinia. ' Prometheus and his kin 
 do most abound when Ulick 's head is woi'st, and papa is in 
 greatest danger of being late.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal turned round, looked at the time-piece, and 
 marched off. 
 
 ' But mamma!' continued Sophy, driving straight at her point, 
 'what do you think of consistency?' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma !' cried Lucy, coming into the room in a flutter 
 of white ; ' there you are in your beautiful blue ! Have you 
 really put it on for the Drui-ys ?' 
 
 Sophy bit her lip, neither pleased at the interruption, nor at 
 the taste. 
 
 ' Have you a graduated scale of dresses for all your friends, 
 Lucyf asked Ulick. 
 
 ' Everybody has, I suppose,' said Lucy. 
 
 'Ah ! then I shall know how to judge how I stand in your 
 favour. I never knew so well what the garh of friendship 
 meant.' 
 
 'You must know which way her scale goes,' said Albinia, 
 laughing at Sophy's evident affront at the frivolous turn the 
 conversation had taken. 
 
 ' That needs no asking,' quoth Ulick. ' Unadorned, adorned 
 the most for the nearest the hearth.'
 
 264 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 'That's all couceit,' said Lucy. 'Maybe familiarity breeda 
 contempt.' 
 
 ' No, no, when young ladies despise, they use a precision that 
 says, "'Tis myself I care for, and not you." ' 
 
 ' ^Yhat an observer !' cried Lucy. ' Now then, interpret my 
 dresu lo -night !' 
 
 ' How can you, Lucy V muttered the scandalized Sophy. 
 
 ' Well, Sophy, as you will have him to torment with philoso- 
 phy this whole evening, I think you might give him a little 
 respite,' said Lucj , good-humouredly. 'I want to know v>]iat 
 my dress reveals to him !' and drawing up her head^ where two 
 coral pins coni rasted with her dark braids, and spreading out 
 her full whiif^. skirts and cerise trimmings, she threw her ligure 
 into an attitude, and darted a merry challenge from her lively 
 black eyes, while Ulick availed himself of the permission to look 
 critically, and Sophy sank back disgusted. 
 
 ']Miss Kendal can, when she is inclined, produce as much 
 effect with her beams of the second order as with all her splen- 
 dours displayed.' 
 
 ' Stuff,' said Lucy. 
 
 ' Stuff indeed,' more sincerely murmured Sophy. 
 
 'Say something in earnest,' said Lucy. 'You professed to 
 tell what I thought of the people.' 
 
 'I hope you'll never put on such new white gloves where 
 I'm the party chiefly concerned.' 
 
 ' What do you mean T 
 
 ' They are a great deal too \inexceptionable.' 
 
 If there were something coquettish in the manner of these 
 two, it did not give Albiuia much concern. It was in him ' only 
 Irish ;' and Fred Ferrars had made her believe that it was 
 rather a sign of the absence of love than of its presence. She 
 saw much more respect and interest in his mischievous attacks 
 on Sophy's gravity, and though Lucy both pitied him and liked 
 chattering with him, it was all the while under the secret pro- 
 test that he was only a banker's clerk. 
 
 Sophy was glad of the presence of a third person to obviate 
 the perils of "her evenings with grandmamma, and she b(iheld 
 the trio set ofl" to their dinner-party, without the usual dread 
 of being betrayed into wrangling. Mr. O'More devoted him- 
 Belf to the old lady's entertainment ; he amused her Avith droll 
 stories, and played backgammon with her. Tlien she composed 
 herself to her knitting, and desired them not to mind her, she 
 liked to hear young people talk cheerfully ; where\ipon Sopliy, 
 by way of light and checiful coiiver.-ation, renewed the battle 
 of consistency with a whole broadside of heavy metal.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 265 
 
 When the diners-out came home, they found the war raging 
 as hotly as ever ; a great many historical facts and wise sayings 
 having been fired oif on both sides, and neither having found 
 out that each meant the same thing. 
 
 However, the hours had gone imperceptibly past them, which 
 could not be said for the others. The half-yearly dinners at 
 Mr. Di'ury's were Albinia's dread nearly as much as Mr. Kendal's 
 aversion. He was certain, whatever he might intend, to fall 
 into a fit of absence, and she was almost equally sure to hear 
 something unpleasant, and to regret her own reply. On the 
 whole, however, Mr. Kendal came away on this evening the least 
 dissatisfied, for Mr. Goldsmith had asked him with some solici- 
 tude, whether he thought 'that lad, young More,' positively 
 unwell ; and had gone the length of expressing that he seemed 
 to be fairly sharp, and stuck to his work. Mr. Kendal seized 
 the moment for telling his opinion of Ulick, and though Mr. 
 Goldsmith coughed and looked dry and almost contemptuous, 
 he was perceptibly gratified, and replied with a maxim evidently 
 intended both as an excuse for himself and as a warning to the 
 Kendals, that young men were always spoilt by being made too 
 much of — in his younger days — &c. 
 
 Lucy, meantime, was undergoing the broad banter of her un- 
 refined cousins on the subject of the Irish clerk. A veiy little 
 grace in the perpetration would have made it grateful to her 
 vanity, but this was far too broad raillery, and made her hold 
 up her head with protestations of her perfect indiflference, to 
 which her cousins manifested incredulity, visiting on her with 
 some petty spite their small jealousies of her higher pretensions, 
 and of the attention which had been paid to her by Mr. Caven- 
 dish Dusautoy. 
 
 ' Not that he will ever look at; you again, Lucy, you need not 
 flatter yourself,' said the amiable Sarah Anne. ' Harry Wolfe 
 writes that he was flirting with a beautiful young lady who 
 came to see Oxford, and that he is spending quantities of 
 money.' 
 
 ' It is nothing to me, I am sure,' retorted Lucy. ' Besides, 
 Gilbert says no such thing.' 
 
 ' Gilbert ! oh, no !' exclaimed jNIiss Drury ; ' why, he is just as 
 bad himself Papa said, from what Mrs. Wolfe told him, he 
 would not take £500 to pay Mr. Gilbert's bills.' 
 
 Albinia had been hearing much the same story from Mrs. 
 Drury, though not so much exaggerated, and administered with 
 more condolence. She did not absolutely believe, and yet she 
 could not utterly disbelieve, so the result was a letter to Gilbert, 
 with an anxious exhortation to be careful, and not to be deluded
 
 266 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 into foolish expeiiclitvire in imitation of tlie Polysyllable : and as 
 no special answer was returned, she dismissed tlie whole from 
 her mind as a Drury allegation. 
 
 Tlie horse chanced to be lame, so that Gilbert could not be 
 met at Hadminster on his return from Oxford ; but much earlier 
 than the omnibus usually lumbered into Bayford, he astonished 
 Sophy, who was lying on the sofa in the morning-room, by 
 mai-ching in with a free and easy step, and a loose coat of the 
 most novel device, 
 
 ' Ko one else at home V he asked. 
 
 ' Only grandmamma. We did not think the omnibus would 
 come in so soon, but I suppose you took a fly, as thei-e were 
 three of you.' 
 
 ' As if we were going to stand six miles of bus with the Wolfe 
 cub ! No, Dusautoy brought his horse down with him, and I 
 took a fly !' said Gilbert. ' Well, and what's the matter with 
 Ca])tain ; has the Irishman been riding him V 
 
 Sophy bit her lip to prevent an angry answer, and was glad 
 that Maurice rushed in, full of uproarious joy. 'Hollo ! boy, 
 how you grow ! What have you got there V 
 
 ' It's my new pop-gun that Ulick made me ; I'll shoot you,' 
 cried Maurice, retiring to a suitable distance. 
 
 ' 1 declare the child has caught the brogue ! Is the fellow 
 here still ?' 
 
 ' What fellow r coldly asked Sophy. 
 
 * Why, this pet of my father's.' 
 
 ' Bang !' cried Maurice, and a pellet passed perilously close to 
 Gilbert's eyes. 
 
 ' Don't, child. Pray is this banker's clerk one of our fixtures, 
 Sophy?' 
 
 ' I don't know why you despise him, unless it is because it is 
 what you ouglit to be yourself,' Sophy was provoked into re- 
 torting. 
 
 ' Apparently m}^ father has a monomania for the article.' 
 Gilbert intended to speak with provoking coolness ; but another 
 fraternal pellet hit him full in the nose, and the accompanying 
 shout of glee was too much for an already irritated temper. 
 With passion most unusual in him, he caught hold of the 
 child, and exclaiming, ' You. little imp, what do you mean by 
 it V he wrenched the weapon out of his hand, and dashed it 
 into the fire, in the midst of an energetic ' For shame !' from 
 his sister. Maurice, with a furious ' Naughty Gilbert,' struck 
 at him with both his little fists clenched, and then precipitated 
 himself over the fender to snatch his treasure from the grate, 
 but was instantly captured and pulled back, struggling, kicking,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-ilOTHER. 267 
 
 and fiiiliting "« ith all his might, till, to the equal relief of both 
 brothers, Sophy held up the pop-gun in the tongs, one end still 
 tinged with a red glow, smoky, blackened, and perfumed. Man- 
 rice made one bound, she lowered it into his grasr) as the last 
 red spark died out, ana he clasped it as Siegfried did the magic 
 sword ! 
 
 ' There, Maurice, I didn't mean it,' said Gilbert, heartily 
 ashamed and sorry ; 'kiss and make it up, and then put on your 
 hat, and we'll come up to old Smith's and get such a jolly one 1' 
 
 The forgiving child had already given the kiss, glad to atone 
 for his aggressions, but then was absorbed in rubbing the charred 
 wood, amazed that while so much black came off on his fingers, 
 the effect on the weapon was not proportionate, and then tried 
 another shot in a safer direction. ' Come,' said Gilbert, ' put 
 that black affair into the fire, and come along.' 
 
 'No !' said Maurice ; 'it is my dear gun that Ulick made me, 
 and it shan't be burnt.' 
 
 ' What, not if I give you a famous one — like a real one, with 
 a stock and barrel V said Gilbert, anxious to be freed from the 
 tokens of his ebullition. 
 
 ' No ! no !' still stoiitly said the constant Maurice. ' I don't 
 want new guns ; I've got my dear old one, and I'll keep him to 
 the end of his days and mine !' and he crossed his arras over it. 
 
 ' That's right, Maurice,' said Sophy ; ' stick to old friends that 
 have borne wounds in your service !' 
 
 ' Well, it's his concern if he likes such a trumpery old thing,' 
 said Gilbert. ' Come here, boy ; you don't bear malice ! Come 
 and have a ride on my back.' 
 
 The practical lesson, ' don't shoot at your brother's nose,' 
 would never have been impressed, had not mamma, on coming 
 in, found Maiu-ice and his pop-gun nearly equally black, and by 
 gradual uufoldino; of cause and effect, learnt his forgotten offence. 
 She reminded him of ancient "promises never to aim at human 
 creatures ; assured him that Gilbert was very kind not to have 
 burnt it outright ; and to the great displeasure, and temporary 
 relief of all the family, sequestrated the weapon for the rest of 
 the evening. . 
 
 Sophy told her in confidence that Gilbert had been the most 
 to blame, which she took as mei'ely an instance of Sophy's 
 blindness to Maurice's errors ; for the explosion had so com- 
 pletely worked off the Oxford dash, that he was perfectly meek 
 and amiable. Considering the antecedents, sxich a contrast to him- 
 self as yoiuig O'More could hardly fail to be an eyesore, walking 
 tame about the house, and specially recommended to his friend- 
 ship ; but so good-natured was he, and so attractive was the
 
 268 IHE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Irishman, that it took nuich influence from Algernon Dusaivfcoy 
 to keep up a thriving aversion. Albinia marvelled at the 
 power exercised over Gilbert by one whose intellect and preten- 
 sions he openly contemned, but perceived that obstinacy and 
 undoubting self-satisf;iction overmastered his superior intelli- 
 gence and principle, and that while perceiving all the follies 
 of the Polysyllable, Gilbert had a strange propensity for his 
 company, and therein always resumed the fast man, disdainful 
 of the clerk. He did not like Ulick better for being the im- 
 mediate cause of the removal of the last traces of the Belmarche 
 family from their old abode, which had been renovated by 
 pretty shamrock chintz furniture, the pride of the two Irish 
 hearts. Indeed it was to be feared that Bridget would assist 
 in the perpetuation of those rolling r's which caused Mr. Gold- 
 smith's brow to contract whenever his nephew careered along 
 upon one. 
 
 His departure from Willow Lawn was to take place at Christ- 
 mas. The Ferrars party were coming to keep the two consecu- 
 tive birthdays of Sophy and Maurice at Bayford, would take 
 him back for Christmas-day to Fairmead, and on his return he 
 would take possession of his new rooms. 
 
 Maurice's fete was to serve as the occasion of paying off 
 civilities to a miscellaneous young party ; but as grandmamma's 
 feelings would have been hurt, had not Sophy's been equally 
 distinguished, it was arranged that Mrs. Nugent should 
 then bring her eldest girl to meet the Ferrar.-es at an early 
 tea. 
 
 Just as Albinia had descended to await her guests, Gilbert 
 came down, and presently said, with would-be indifference, ' Oh, 
 by-the-by, Dusautoy said he would look in.' 
 
 ' The Polysyllable !' cried AU^inia, thunderstruck ; ' what 
 possessed you to ask him, when you knew I sacrificed Mr. 
 Dusautoy rather than have him to spoil it all !' 
 
 ' I didn't ask him exactly,' replied Gilbert ; ' it was old Bowles, 
 who met us, and tried to nail us to eat our mutton with him, 
 as he called it. I had my answer, and Dusautoy gob off ]>y 
 saying he was engaged to us, and desired me to tell you le 
 would make his excuses in person.' 
 
 ' He can make no excuse for downright falsehood.' 
 
 ' Hem !' quoth Gilbert. ' You wouldn't have him done into 
 drinking old BoAvles's surgery champagne.' 
 
 ' One comfort is that he wont get any dinnei',' said Albinia, 
 vindictively. ' I hope he'll be ravenously hungry.' 
 
 ' He may not come after all,' said Gilbert ; and Albinia, lay- 
 ing liold of that hope, had nearly forgotten the threatened dis-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 269 
 
 aster, as her party appeared by instalments, and Winifred 
 owned to her tliat Sophy had grown better-looking than could 
 have been expected. Her eyes had brightened, the cloudy brown 
 of her cheeks was enlivened, she held herself better, and the 
 less childish dress was much to her advantage. But above all, the 
 moody look of suffering was gone, and her face had something 
 of the grave sweetness and regular beauty of that of her father. 
 ' Seventeen,' said Mrs. Ferrars ; ' by the time she is seventy, she 
 may be a remarkably handsome woman !' 
 
 The tea-drinking was in lively operation, when after a 
 thundering knock, Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy was ushered in, 
 with the air of a prince honouring the banquet of his vassals, 
 saying, ' I told Kendal I should presume on your hospitality,, 
 I beg you will make no difference on iny account.' 
 
 Of which gracious permission Albinia was resolved to avail 
 hei'self. She left all the insincerity to her husband, and woidd 
 by no means allow grandmamma to abdicate the warm corner. 
 She suspected that he wanted an introduction to Mrs. ]S"u« 
 gent, and was resolved to defeat this object, unless he should 
 condescend to make the request, so she was well satisfied to 
 see him wedged in between papa and Sophy, while a prodi- 
 gious quantity of Irish talk was going on between Mrs. Nu- 
 gent and Mr. O'More, with contributions of satire from Mr. 
 Ferrars which kept every one laughing except little Noi"a 
 Nugent and Mary Ferrars, who were deep in the preliminaries 
 of an eternal friendship, and held the ends of each other's crack- 
 ers like a pair of cloves. Lucy, however, was ill at ease at the 
 obscurity which shrouded the illustrious guest, and in her anxi- 
 ety, gave so little attention to her two neighbours, that Willie 
 Ferrars, affronted at some neglect, exclaimed, 'Why, Lucy, 
 what makes you screw your eyes about so ? you can't attend to 
 
 any one.' 
 
 ' It is because Polly Silly is there,' shouted Master Maurice 
 from his throne beside his mamma. 
 
 To the infinite relief of the half-choked Albinia, little Mary 
 Ferrars, with whom her cousin had been carrying on a direful 
 warfare all day, fitted on the cap, shook her head gz'avely at 
 him, and after an appealing look of indignation, first at his 
 mimma, then at her own, was overheard confiding to Nora 
 Nugent that Maurice was a very naughty boy — she was sorry to 
 say, a regular spoilt child. 
 
 ' But how should you hinder ]Miss Kendal from attending V 
 
 ' I'll tell you, darling. Poor Lucy ! she is very fond of me, 
 and I dare say she wanted me to sit next to her, but yoii know 
 she will have me for three days, and I have you only this one
 
 270 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 evening. I'll go and speak to her after tea, when we go into 
 tlie drawing-room, and then she wont mind.' 
 
 Lucy, after an agony of blushes, had somewhat recovered on 
 finding that no one seemed to apply her brother's speech, and 
 when the benevolent Mary made her way to her, and thrust a 
 hand into hers,, only a feeble pressure replied to these romantic 
 blandishments, so anxious was she to carry to Mrs. Kendal the 
 information that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy had been so obliging 
 as to desire his servant to bring his guitar and key-bugle. 
 
 ' We are much obliged,' said Albinia, ' but look at that 
 face !' and she turned Lucy towards Willie's open-mouthed, 
 dismayed countenance. You must tell him the company are 
 not sufficiently advanced in musical science.' 
 
 ' But mamma, it would gratify him !' 
 
 'Very likely' — and without listening further, Albinia turned 
 to Willie, who had all day been insisting that papa should in- 
 troduce her to the new game of the Showman. 
 
 Infinitely delighted to be relieved from the fear of the guitar, 
 Willie hunted all who would play into another room ; whence 
 they were to be summoned, one by one, back to the drawing- 
 room by the showman, Mr. Ferrars, who shrugged his shoulders 
 at the task, but undertook it, and first called for Mrs. 
 Kendal. 
 
 She found him stationed before the red curtains, which were 
 closely drawn, and her liusband and the three elder ladies sitting 
 by as audience. 
 
 ' Pray, madam, may I ask what animal you would desire to 
 have exhibited to you, out of the vast resources that m}i 
 menagerie contains. Choose freely, I undertake that whatevei 
 you may select, you shall not be disajjpointed.' 
 
 ' What, not if I were to ask for a Ijlack spider monkey V 
 said Albinia, to whom it was very charming to be playing with 
 Maurice again. 
 
 Mr. Kendal looked up in entertained curiosity, Mrs. Nugent 
 smiled as if she thought the showman's task impossible, and 
 Winifred stretched out to gain a full view. 
 
 ' A black spider monkey,' he said, slowly. * Allow me to 
 ask, madam, if you are acquainted with the character of the 
 beast {' 
 
 ' It doesn't scratch, does it V said she, quickly. 
 
 * That is for you to answer.' 
 
 'I never knew it do so. It does chatter a great deal, but it 
 never scratched that I knew of.' 
 
 * Nor I,' said the showman, ' since it was young. Do you 
 think age renders it graver and steadier?*
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 271 
 
 ' Kot a bit. It is always frisky and troublesome, and I never 
 knew it get a bit better as it grew older,' 
 
 Winifred laughed outright. Mr. Kendal's lips were parted 
 by his smile. ' 1 wonder what sort of a mother it would make V 
 said the showman. 
 
 ' All animals are good mothers, of course.' 
 
 * I meant, is it a good disciplinarian V 
 
 ' If you mean cuffing its young one for playing exactly the 
 same tricks as itself.' 
 
 ' Exactly ; and what would be the effect of letting it and its 
 young one loose in a great scholar's study V 
 
 ' There wouldn't be much study left.' 
 
 * And would it be for his good V 
 
 ' Really, Mr. Showman, you ask very odd questions. Shall 
 we try f said Albinia, with a skip backward, so as to lay her 
 hand on tlie shoulder of her own great scholai-, while the show- 
 man drew back the curtain, observing — ' I wish, ma'am, I could 
 show " it and its young one" together, but the young specimen 
 is unfortunately asleep. Behold the original black spider 
 monkey !' 
 
 There stood the monkey, with sunny brown locks round the 
 laughing glowing face, and one white paw still lying on the 
 scholar's shoulder — while his face made no assurance needful 
 that it was veri/ good for him ! The mirror concealed behind 
 the curtains was the menagerie ! Albinia clapped her hands 
 with deliglit, and pronounced it the most ]ierfect of games. 
 
 'And now let us have Willie,' said Mrs. Ferrars ; 'it will 
 conduce to the harmony of the next room.' 
 
 Willie, already initiated, hoped to puzzle papa as a 2Jiciti/2)7j,s 
 ornithorynciis, but was driven to allow that it was a nonde- 
 script animal, neither fisli, flesh, nor good red-herring, useless, 
 and very fond of grubbing in the mud : and if it were not at 
 Botany Bay, it ought to be ! The laughter that hailed his de- 
 fence of its nose as ' well, nothing particular,' precipitated the 
 drawing up of the curtain and his apparition in the glass : and 
 then Nora Nugent being called, the inseparable Mary accom- 
 panied her, arm-in-arm, simpering an announcement that they 
 liked nothing so well as a pair of dear little love-birds. 
 
 Oh, unpitying papa ! to draw from the unsuspicious Nora the 
 admission that they were very dull little birds, of no shape 
 at all, who always sat hunched up in a corner without any 
 fun, and people said their love was all stupidity and pretence ; 
 in fact, if she had one she should call it Silly Polly or Polly Silly ! 
 
 To silence Willie's exultation in his sister's discomfiture, he 
 was sent to fetch Lucy, whose impersonation of an argus
 
 272 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 pheasant would not have answered well but for a suggestion of 
 Albinia, that she was eyes all over for any delinquency in 
 school. Ulick O'More, owning with a sigh that he should like 
 to see no beast better than a snipe, gave rise to much ingenuity 
 by being led to describe it as of a class migratory, hard to 
 catch, food for powder, given to long bills. There he guessed 
 something, and stood on the defensive, but could not deny that 
 its element was bogs, but that it had been seen skimming over 
 water meadows, and finding sustenance in banks, whereupon 
 the curtain rose. Ulick rushed upon the battles of his nation, 
 and was only reduced to quiescence by the entrance of Sophy, 
 who expressed a desire to see a coral worm, apparently perplex- 
 ing the showman, who, to gain time, hemmed, and said, ' A very 
 unusual species, ma'am ;' which set all the younger ones in a 
 double giggle, such as confused Sophy, to find herself stand- 
 ing up, with every one looking at her, and listening for her 
 words. ' I thought you undertook for any impossibility in 
 earth, air, or water.' 
 
 ' Well, ma'am, do you take me for a mere mountebank 1 Eiit 
 when ladies and gentlemen take such unusual fancies — and 
 for an animal that — you would not aver that it is often found 
 from home f 
 
 ' Never, I should say.' 
 ' Nor that it is accessible V 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 ' And why is it so, ma'am V 
 
 ' Why,' said Sophy, bewildered into forgetting her natural 
 history, * it lives at the bottom of the sea ; that's one thing.' 
 ' Where Truth lives,' said a voice behind. 
 * I beg to diflfer,' observed A Ibinia. 'Truth is a freshwatei 
 fish at the bottom of a well ; besides, I thought coral worms 
 were always close to the surface.' 
 
 ' But below it — not in everybody's view,' said Sophy — an 
 answer which seemed much to the satisfaction of the audi- 
 ence, but the showman insisted on knowing why, and whether 
 it did not conceal itself ' It makes stony caves for itself, out 
 of sight,' said So])hy, almost doubting whether she spoke cor- 
 rectly. * Well, surely it does so.' 
 
 ' ]\Iost surely,' said an acclamation so general i) <t she did 
 not like it. If she had been younger, she would 1 ve turned 
 sulky upon the spot, and Mr. Feri'ars almost doubtetl whether 
 to bring out his final query. 'Pray, ma'am, do you think 
 this creature out of reach in its self-made cave, at the bottom 
 — no, below the surface of the sea, would be popular enough 
 to repay the cost of procuring it.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 273 
 
 * Ah ! that's too bad,' burst out the Hibernian tones. ' Why, 
 is not the best of everything .hidden away from the common 
 eye 1 Out of sight — stony cave — It is the secret worker that 
 lays the true solid foundation, raises the new realms, and forms 
 the precious jewels,' The torrent of r's was irresistible ! 
 
 ' Police ! order !' cried the showman. * An Ii'ish mob has 
 got in, and there's an end of everything.' So up went the cur- 
 tain, and the polyp appeared, becoming rapidly red coral as she 
 perceived what the exhibition was, and why the politeness of 
 the Green Isle revolted from her proclaiming her own unpopu- 
 larity. But all she did was to turn gruffly aside, and say, ' It is 
 lucky there are no more ladies to come, jNTr. Showman, or the 
 mob would turn everything to a compliment.' 
 
 Gilbert's curiosity was directed to the Laughing Jackass, and 
 ■with too much truth he admitted that it took its tone from 
 whatever it associated with, and caught every note, from the 
 song of the lark to the bi-ay of the donkey ; then laughed good- 
 humouredly when the character was fitted upon himself. 
 
 ' That is all, is it not V asked the showman. ' I may retire 
 into private life.' 
 
 ' Oh no,' cried Willie ; ' you have forgotten Mr. Dusautoy.' 
 
 ' I was afraid you had,' said Lucy, ' or you could not have 
 left him to the last.' 
 
 ' I am tempted to abdicate,' said Mr. Ferrars. 
 
 ' No,' Albiuia said. . ' He must have his share, and no one but 
 you can do it. Where can lie be 1 the pause becomes awful !' 
 
 'Willie is making suggestions,' said Gilbert j 'his imagination 
 would never stretch farther than a lion. It's what he thinks 
 himself and no mistake.' 
 
 ' He is big enough to be the elephant,' said little Mary. 
 
 < The half-reasouing V said Ulick, softly ; ' and I can answer 
 for his trunk, I saw it come off the omnibus.' 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen, if you persist in such disorderly con- 
 duct, the exhibition will close,' cried the showman, waving his 
 wand as Willie trumpeted Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy in, and on 
 the demand what animal he /panted to see, twitched him aa 
 Flibbertigibbet did the giant warder, and caused him to I'e- 
 epoud— ' The Giraffe.' 
 
 ' Has it not another name, sir 1 A short or a long one, more 
 or less syllables !' 
 
 ' Camelopard. A polysyllabic word, certainly,' said Algernon, 
 looking with a puzzled expression at the laughers behind ; and 
 almost imagining it possible that he could have made an error, 
 he repeated, ' Camel-le-o-pard. Yes, it is a polysyllable — as, 
 indeed, he had added an unnecessary syllable. 
 
 T
 
 274 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Most assuredly,' said the showman, looking daggers at his 
 suffocating sister. ' May I ask you to describe the creature V 
 
 ' Seventeen feet from the crown to the hoof, but falls off 
 behind,' said the accurate Mr, Dusautoy ; ' beautiful tawny 
 colour.' 
 
 ' Nearly as good as a Lion,' added Gilbert ; but Algernon, 
 fancying the game was by way of giving useful instruction to 
 the children, went on in full swing. ' Handsomely mottled 
 with darker brown ; a ruminating animal ; so gentle that in spite 
 of its size, none of my little friends need be alarmed at its 
 vicinity. Inhabits the African deserts, but may be bred in 
 ■ more temperate latitudes. I myself saw an individual in the 
 Jardin des Plantes, which was popularly said never to bend its 
 neck to the ground, bi;t I consider this a vulgar delusion, for on 
 offering it food, it mildly inclined its head.' 
 
 ' Let us hope the present specimen is equally condescending,' 
 said Mr. Ferrars. 
 
 ' Eh ? what 1 I see myself !' said Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, 
 with a tone so inappreciably grand in mystification, that the 
 showman had no choice but to share the imiversal convulsion 
 of laughter, while Willie rolling on the floor with ecstasy, 
 shouted, ' Yes, it is you that are the thing with such a long 
 name that it can't bend its head to the ground !' 
 
 ' But too good-natured to be annoyed at folly,' said Mr. Ferrars, 
 perceiving that it was no sport to him. 
 
 ' This is the way my mischievous uncle" has served us all in 
 turn,' said Lucy, advancing ; ' we have all been shown up, 
 and there was mamma a monkey, and I an argus pheasant — ' 
 
 ' Ah ! I see,' said the gentleman. ' These are your rural 
 pastimes of the season. Yes, I can take my share in good part, 
 just as I have pelted the masks at the Carnival.' 
 
 ' Even a ciraffe can bend his head and do at Rome as Rome 
 does,' murmured Ulick. But instead of heeding the audacious 
 Irishman, Algernon patronized the showman by thanks for his 
 exhibition ; and then sitting down by Lucy, asked if he had ever 
 told her of the tricks that he and il Principe Odorico ]\f oretti 
 used to play at Ems on the old Baron Sprawlowsky, while Mr. 
 Ferrars, leaning over his sister's chair, said aside, ' I beg your 
 pardon, Albinia ; I should not have yielded to Willie. This 
 '* rural pastime " is only in season en families 
 
 ' Never mind ; it served him right.' 
 
 ' It may have served him right, but had we the right to serve 
 him.' 
 
 ' I forgive your prudence for the sake of your folly. Could 
 not Oxford have lessened his pomposity V
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 275 
 
 ' It comes too late,' said Maurice. 
 
 Before Ulick went to bed his pen and ink had depicted the 
 entire caravan. The love-birds were pressed up together, with the 
 individual features of the two young ladies, and completely little 
 parrots ; the snipe ran along the bars of the cage, looking exactly 
 like all the O'Mores. The monkey showed nothing but the hands, 
 but one held Maurice, and the other was clenched as if to cuff him, 
 and grandest of all was,asin duty hound., Gamelopardelis giraffa, 
 thrown somewhat backwards, with such a majestic form, such a 
 stalking attitude, loftily ruminating face, and legs so like the 
 Cavendish Dusautoy's last new pair of trowsers, that Albinia could 
 not help reserving it for the px'ivate delectation of his Aunt Fanny. 
 
 ' It and its young one,' said Mr. Kendal, as he looked at her 
 portrait ; and the name delighted him so much, that he for some 
 time ajaplied it with a smile whenever his wife gave him cause 
 to remember how much there was of the monkey in her com- 
 position. 
 
 It was the merriest Christmas ever known at Willow Lawn, 
 and the first time there had been anything of the atmosphere 
 of family frolic and fun. The lighting up of Sophy was 
 one great ingredient ; hitherto mirth had been merely endured 
 by her, whereas now, improved health and spirits had made her 
 take her share, amuse others and be amused, and cease to be 
 hurt by the jarring of chance words. Lucy was lively as usual, 
 but rather more excited than Albinia altogether liked ; she 
 was doubly particular about her dress ; more disdainful of the 
 common herd, and had a general air of exaltation that made 
 Albinia i-ejoice when the Polysyllable, the horses, the key- 
 bugle, and genre painting disappeared from the Bayford 
 horizon. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IF the end of the vacation were a relief on Lucy's account, 
 Albinia would gladly have lengthened it on Gilbert's. 
 Letters from his tutor had disquieted his father ; there had 
 been an expostulation followed by jjromises, and afterwards one 
 of the usual scenes of argument, complaint, excuse, lamentation, 
 and wish to amend ; but lastly, a murmur that it was no use 
 to talk to a father who had never been at the University, and 
 did not know what was expected of a man. 
 
 The aspect of Oxford had changed in Albinia's eyes since the 
 days of her brother. Alma Mater had been a vision of pealing 
 
 t2
 
 276 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 bells, chanting voices, cloistered shades, bright waters — ^the source 
 of her most cherished thoughts, the abode of youth walking in 
 the old paths of pleasantness and peace ; and she knew that to 
 faithful hearts, old Oxford was still the same. But to her 
 present anxious gaze it had become a field of snares and tempta- 
 tions, whither she had been the means of sending one, unguarded 
 and vmstable. 
 
 Once under the influence of a good sound-hearfced friend, he 
 might have been easily led right, but his intimacy with young 
 Dusautoy seemed to aincel all hope of this, and to be like a 
 rope about his neck, drawing him into the same career, .-^nd 
 keeping aloof all better influences. Algernon, with his pride, 
 pomposity, and false refinement, was more likely to run into 
 ostentatious expenditui-e, than into coai'se dissipation, and it 
 might still be hoped that the two youths would drag through 
 without public disgrace ; but this was felt to be a very poor 
 hope by those who felt each sin to be a fatal blot, and trembled 
 at the self-indulgent way of life that might be a more fatal 
 injury than even the ban of the authorities. 
 
 She saw that the anxiety pressed heavily on Mr. Kendal, 
 and though both shrank from giving their uneasiness force by 
 putting it into words, each felt that it was ever-present with 
 the other. Mr. Kendal was deeply grieving over the eftects ; for 
 the former state of ignorance and apathy of the evils of which 
 he had only recently become fully sensible. Living for himself 
 alone, without cognizance of his membership in one great uni- 
 versal system, he had needed the sense of churchmanship to 
 make him act up to his duties as father, ni;iglibour, citizen, 
 and man of jjroperty ; and when aroused, he lovind that the 
 time of his inaction had bound him about with fetters. A tone 
 of mind had gi-own up in his family from which only Sophy 
 had been entirely freed ; seeds of ineradicable evil had been 
 sown, mischiefs had grown by neglect, abuses been established by 
 custom ; and his own personal disadvantages, his mauvaise 
 honte, his reserved, apparently proud manner, his slowness of 
 speech, dislike to interruption, and over-vehemence when 
 excited, had so much increased upon him, as, in si)ite of his 
 efibrts, to be seiious hindrances. Kind, liberal, ])ainstaking, 
 and conscientious as he had become, he was still looked upon as 
 hard, stern, and. tyrannical. His ten years of inertness had 
 strewn hia path with thorns and briars, even beyond his own 
 household ; and when he looked back to his neglect of his son, 
 he felt that even the worst consequences would be but just 
 retribution. 
 
 Once such feelings would have wrapt him in morbid gloom ;
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 277 
 
 now he strove against Lis disposition to sit inert and hidden, 
 he did his work manfully, and endeavoured not to let his want 
 of spirits sadden the household. 
 
 Nor was he insensible to the cheerful healthy atmosphere 
 of animation which had diffused itself there ; and the 
 bright discussions of the trifling interests of the day. Ulick 
 O'More was also a care to him, which did him a great deal of 
 good. 
 
 That young gentleman now lived at his lodgings, but was 
 equally at home at Willow Lawn, and his knock at the library 
 door, when he wished to change a book, usually led to some 
 'Prometheus' discussion, and sometimes to a walk, if Mr. 
 Kendal thought him looking pale ; or to dining and to spending 
 the evening. 
 
 His scrapes were peculiar. He had thoroughly mastered his 
 work, and his active mind wanted farther scope, so that he 
 thi-ew himself with avidity into deeper studies ; and once fell 
 into horrible disgrace for being detected with a little Plato on 
 his desk. Mr. Goldsmith nearly gave him up in despair, and 
 pronounced that he would never make a man of business. He 
 made matters worse by replying that this was the best chance of 
 his not being a man of speculation. If he were allowed to think 
 of nothing but money, he should speculate for the sake of 
 something to do ! 
 
 Before Mr, Goldsmith had half recovered the shock, Mr. 
 Dusautoy and Mi-. Hope laid violent hands upon young O'More 
 for the evening school twice a week, which almost equally dis- 
 composed his aunt. She had never got over the first blow of 
 Mr. Dusautoy's innovations, and felt as if her nephew had gone 
 over to the enemy. She was doubly ungracious at the Sunday 
 dinner, and venomously critical of the choir's chanting, Mr. 
 Hope's voice, and the Yicar's sermons. 
 
 The worst scrape came in March. The Willow Lawn ladies 
 were in the lower end of the garden, which, towards the river, 
 was separated from the lane that continued Tibb's Alley, by a 
 low wall surmounted by spikes, and with a disused wicket, 
 always locked, and nearly concealed by a growth of laurels ; when 
 out broke a horrible hullabaloo in that region of evil report, 
 the shouts and yells coming nearer, and becoming so distinct 
 that they were about to retreat, when suddenly a dark tigui-e 
 leapt over the gate, and into the garden, amid a storm of outcries. 
 As he disappeared among the laurels, Albiuia caught up Maurice, 
 Lucy screamed and prepared to fly, and Sophy started forward, 
 exclaiming, ' It is Ulick, mamma ; his face is bleeding !' But as 
 he emerged, she retreated, for she had a nervous terror of the
 
 278 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 canine race, and in his hand, at arm's length he held by the 
 neck a yellow dog, a black pot dangling from its tail. 
 
 ' Take care,' he shouted, as Albinia set down Maurice, and 
 was running up to him ; ' he may be mad.' 
 
 Maurice was caught up again, Lucy shrieked, and Sophy, 
 tottering against an aj^ple-tree, faintly said, ' He has bitten you !' 
 
 ' No, not he ; it was only a stone,' said Ulick, as best he 
 might, with a fast bleeding upper lip. ' They were hunting the 
 poor beast to death — I believe he's no more mad than I am — 
 only with the fright — but best make sure.' 
 
 ' Fetch some nailk, Lucy,' said Albinia. * Take Maurice with 
 you. No, don't take the poor thing down to the river ; he'll only 
 think you are going to drown him. Go, Maurice dear.' 
 
 Maurice safe, Albinia was able to find ready expedients after 
 Sir Fowell Buxton's celebrated example. She brought Ulick 
 the gardener's thick gauntlets from the tool-house, and supplied 
 him with her knife, with which he set the poor creature free 
 from the instrument of torture, and then let him loose, with a 
 pan of milk before him, in the old-fashioned summer-house, 
 through the window of which he could observe his motions, and 
 if he looked dangerous, shoot him. 
 
 Nothing could look less dangerous ; the poor creature sank 
 down on the floor and moaned, licked its hind leg, and then 
 dragged itself as if famished to the milk, lapped a little eagerly, 
 but lay down again whining, as if in pain. Ulick and Albinia 
 called to it, and it looked up and tried to wag its tail, whining 
 appealingly. ' My poor biute !' he cried, ' they've treated you 
 worse than a heathen. That's all — let me see what I can do 
 for you.' 
 
 ' Yes, but yourself, Ulick,' said Albinia, as in his haste he 
 took down his handkerchief from his mouth ; ' I do believe your 
 lip is cut through ! You had better attend to that first.' 
 
 * No, no, thank you,' said Ulick, eagerly ; ' they've broken the 
 poor wretch's leg !' and he was the next moment sitting on the 
 summer-house floor, lifting up the animal tenderly, regardless of 
 her expostulation that the injured, frightened creature might 
 not know its friends. But she did it injustice ; it wagged its 
 stumpy tail, and licked his fingers. 
 
 She offered to fetch rag for his surgery, and he further begged 
 for some slight bits of wood to serve as splints ; he and his 
 brothers had been dog-doctors before. As she hurried into the 
 house, Sophy, who had sunk on a sofa in the drawing-room, 
 looking deadly pale, called out, ' Is he bitten V 
 
 ' No, no,' cried Albinia, hurrying on ; ' the dog is all safe. It 
 has only got a broken leg.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP- MOTHER. 279 
 
 INTaurice, with whom Lucy had all this timo been fighting, 
 came out with her to see the rest of the adventure ; and thought 
 it very cruel that he was not permitted to touch the patient, 
 which bore the operation with affecting fortitude and gratitude, 
 and was then consigned to a basket lined with hay, and left in the 
 summer-house, Mr. Kendal being known to have an almost 
 eastern repugnance to dogs. 
 
 Then Click had leisure to be conducted to the morning-room, 
 and be rendered a less ghastly spectacle, by some very uncom- 
 fortable sticking-plaster moustaches, which hardly permitted him 
 to narrate his battle distinctly. He thought the boys, even of 
 Tibb's Alley, would haixUy have ventured any violence after he 
 had interfered, but for some young men who ought to have known 
 better ; he fancied he had seen young Tritton of Robbies Leigh, 
 and he was sure of an insolent groom whom Mr, Cavendish 
 Dusautoy, to the great vexation of his uncle, had recently sent 
 down with a horse to the King's Head. They had stimulated 
 the boys to a shout of Paddy and a shower of stones, 
 and Ulick expected credit for great discretion in having fled 
 instead of fought. ' Ah ! if Brian and Connel had but been 
 there, wouldn't we have put them to the rout 1' 
 
 Nothing would then serve him but going back to Tibb's Alley 
 to trace the dog's history ; and meantime Lucy, from the end of 
 the passage, beckoned to Albinia, and whispered mysteriously 
 that ' Sophy would not have any one know it for the world — but,' 
 said Lucy, ' I found her absolutely fainting away on the sofa, 
 only she would not let me call you, and ordered that no one 
 should know anything about it. But, mamma, there was 
 a red-hot knitting-needle sticking out of the fire, and I am 
 quite sure that she meant if Ulick was bitten, to burn out the 
 place.' 
 
 Albinia believed Sophy capable of both the resolution and 
 its consequence ; but she agreed with Lucy that no notice should 
 be taken, and would not seem aware that Sophy was much paler 
 than usual. 
 
 The dog, as well as Ulick could make out, was a waif or stray, 
 belonging to a gipsy deported that morning by the police, and 
 on whom its master's sins had been visited. So without scruple 
 he carried the basket home to his lodgings, and on the way, had 
 the misfortune to encounter his uncle, while shirtfront, coat, 
 and waistcoat were fresh fi-om the muddy and bloody fray, and 
 his visage in the height of disfigurement. 
 
 Mr. Goldsmith looked on the whole aflTair as an insult to 
 every Goldsmith of past ages ! A mere street row ! He ordered 
 Mr. More to his lodgings, and said he should hear fi'om him
 
 2 so THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 to-morrow. Ulick came clown to Willow Lawn in tlie dai'k, 
 almost considering himself as dismissed, not knowing whether 
 to be glad or sorry ; and wanting to consult Mr. Kendal whether 
 it would be possible to work his way at college as Mr, Hope had 
 done, or even wondering whether he might venture to beg for a 
 recommendation to ' Kendal and Kendal.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal was so strongly afiected, that he took up his hat 
 and went straight to Mr. Goldsmith, ' to put the matter before 
 him in a true light.' 
 
 True light or false, it was intolerable in the banker's eyes, 
 and it took a great deal of eloquence to persuade him that his 
 nephew was worth a second trial. Fighting in Tibb's Alley 
 over a gipsy's dog, and coming back looking like a ruffian ! Mr. 
 Goldsmith wished him no harm, but it would be a disgrace to 
 the concern to keep him on, and TMiss Goldsmith, whom Mr. 
 Kendal heartily wished to gag, chimed in with her old predictions 
 of the consequences of her poor sister's foolish marriage. The final 
 argument, was Mr. Kendal's declaration of the testimonials with 
 which he would at once send him out to Calcutta, to take the 
 situation once offered to his own son. Ko sooner did Mr. Goldsmith 
 hear that his nephew had an alternative, than he promised to be 
 lenient, and finally dispatched a letter to U. More, Esquire, with 
 a veiy serious rebuke, but a promise that his conduct should 
 be overlooked, provided the scandal were not repeated, and he 
 should not present himself at the bank till his face should befit 
 to be seen. 
 
 Mr. Kendal mounted him tlie next morning on Gilbert's 
 horse, and sent him to Fairmead. The dog was left in charge 
 of Bridget, who treated it with abundant kindness, but failed to 
 obtain the exclusive afiection which the poor thing lavished 
 upon its rescuer. By the time Ulick came home, it had arrived 
 at limping upon three legs, and was bent on following him 
 wherever he went. Disreputable and heinously ugly it was, of 
 tawny curiish yellow (whence it was known as tb* Orange- 
 man),- with a bull-dog countenance; and the legs that did not 
 limp, were bandy. Albinia called it the Tripod, but somehow 
 it settled into the title of Hyder AH, to which it was said to 
 * answer' the most readily, though it would in fact answer any- 
 thing from Ulick, and nothing from any one else. 
 
 Ever at his heels, the 'brazen Trii)od' contrived to establish 
 an entrance at Willow Lawn ; scratched till jMr. Kendal would 
 interrupt a 'Prometheus talk' to let him in at the library door; 
 and gradually made it a matter of course to come into the 
 drawing-room, and repose upon Sophy's flounces. 
 
 This was by way of compensation for his misadventures else"
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 281 
 
 where. He was always bringing TJlick into trouble ; sliut or 
 tie him up as he might, he was sure to reappear when least 
 wanted. He had been at church, he had been in Miss Gold- 
 smith's drawing-room, he had been found times without 
 number curled up under TJlick's desk. Mr. Goldsmith growled 
 bints about hanging him, and old Mr. Johns, who really was 
 fond of his bright young fellow clerk, gave grave counsel ; but 
 Ulick only loved his protege the better, and after having ex- 
 hausted an Irish vocabulary of expostulation, succeeded in 
 prevailing on him to come no farther than the street ; except on 
 very wet days, when he would sometimes be found on the mat 
 in the entry, looking deplorably beseeching, and bringing on his 
 master an irate, ' Here's that dog again !' 
 
 'Would that no one fell into worse scrapes,' sighed Mr. 
 Dusautoy, when he heard of TJlick's disasters with Hyder Ali ; 
 and it was a sigh that the house of Kendal re-echoed. 
 
 Nobody could be surprised when, towards the long vacation, 
 tidings came to Bayford, that after long forbearance on the part 
 of the authorities, the insubordination and riotous conduct of 
 the two young men could be endured no longer. It appeared 
 that young Dusautoy, with his weak head and obstinate will, 
 had never attempted to bend to rules, but had taken every 
 reproof as an insult and defiance. Young men had not been 
 wanting who were ready to take advantage of his lavish ex- 
 penditure, and to excite his disdain for authorities. They had 
 promoted the only wit he did understand, broad practical jokes 
 and mischief; and had led him into the riot and gambling tn 
 which he was not naturally prone. Gilbert Kendal, with more 
 sense and principle, had been led on by the contagion around 
 him, and at last an outrageous wine party had brought matters 
 to a crisis. The most guilty were the most cunning, and the 
 only two to whom the affair could actually be brought home, 
 were Dusautoy and Kendal. The sentence was rustication, and 
 the tutor wrote to Mr. Dusautoy, as the least immediately 
 affected, to ask him to convey the intelligence to Mi-. Kendal. 
 
 The vicar was not a man to shrink from any task, however pain- 
 ful, but he felt it the more deeply, as, in spite of his partiality, he 
 was forced to look on his own favourite Algernon as the mis- 
 leader of Gilbert ; and when he overtook the sisters on his 
 melancholy way down the hill, he consulted them how their 
 father would bear it. 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know,' said Lucy ; ' he'll be terribly angry. I 
 Bhould not wonder if he sent Gilbert straight off to India; 
 should you, Sophy V 
 
 * I hope he will do nothing in haste,' exclaimed Mr. Dusautoy.
 
 282 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 • I do believe if those two lads were but separated, or even out 
 of such company, they would both do very well.' 
 
 ' Yes,' exclaimed Lucy ; * and, after all, they are such absurd 
 regulations, treating men like schoolboys, wanting them to 
 keep such regular troublesome hours. Mr. Cavendish Du- 
 sautoy told me that there was no enduring the having every- 
 thing enforced.' 
 
 * If things had been enforced on poor Algernon earlier, this 
 might never have been,' sighed his uncle, 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't see why papa should mind it so much,' 
 continued Lucy. ' Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy told me his friend 
 Lord Reginald Raymond had been rusticated twice, and ex- 
 pelled at last.' 
 
 ' What do you think of it, Sophy V asked the vicar, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 ' I don't feel as if any of us could ever look up again,' she 
 answered veiy low. 
 
 ' Why, no ; not that exactly. It is not quite the right way 
 to take these things, Sophy,' said Mr. Dusautoy. ' Boys may 
 be very foolish and wrong-headed, without disgi-acing their 
 family.' 
 
 Sophy did not answer — it was all too fresh and sore ; and she 
 did not find much consolation in the number of youths whom 
 Lucy reckoned up as having incurred the like penalty. When 
 they entered the house, and Mr, Dusautoy knocked at the 
 library door, she followed Lucy into the garden, witliout know- 
 ing where she was going, and threw herself down upon the 
 grass, miserable at the pain which was being inflicted upon her 
 fatlier, and with a hardened resentful feeling, between contempt 
 and anger, against the brother, who, for very weakness, could 
 so dishonour and grieve him. She clenched her hand in the in- 
 tensity of her passionate thoughts and impiilses, and sat like a 
 statue, wliile Lucy, from time to time, between the tying \ip of 
 flowers and watering of annuals, came up with inconsistent 
 exhortations not to be so uuhapi)y — for it was not expulsion — 
 it was sure to be unjust — nobody would think the worse of 
 them because young men were foolish — all men of spirit did get 
 into scrapes — 
 
 It was lucky for Lucy that all this passed by Sophy's ear as 
 unheeded as the baljbling of the brook. Slie did not move, till 
 roused by Ulick O'More, coming up from the bridge, telling 
 that he had met some Irish haymakers in the meadows, and 
 saying he wanted to beg a frock for one of their children. 
 
 'I tliink I can find you one,' said Lucy, ' if you will wait a 
 minute ; but don't go in, Mr, Dusautoy is there.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 283 
 
 * Is anything the mattei- V he exclaimed, 
 
 * Every one must soon know,' said Lucy ; ' it is of no use to 
 keep it back, Sophy. Only my brother and Mr. Cavendish 
 Dusautoy have got into a scrape about a wine party, and are 
 going to be rusticated. But wait, I'll fetch the frock.' 
 
 Sophy had almost run away while her sister spoke, but the 
 kind look of consternation and pity on Ulick's face deterred her j 
 he in soliloquy repeated, as if confounded by the greatness of 
 the misfortune, ' Poor Gilbert ! 
 
 ' Poor Gilbert !' burst from Sophy in irritation at misplaced 
 sympathy ; ' I thought it would be papa and mamma you cared 
 for?' 
 
 'With reason,' returned Ulick ; 'but T was thinking how it 
 must break his heart to have pained such as they.' 
 
 ' I wish he would feel it thus/ exclaimed Sophy ; ' but he 
 never will !' 
 
 ' Oh ! banish that notion, Sophy,' cried Ulick, recoiling at 
 the indignation in her dark eyes ; ' next to grieving my mother, 
 I declare nothing could cruslx me like meeting a look such as 
 that from a sister of mine.' 
 
 ' How can I help it V she said, reserve breaking down in her 
 vehemence, ' when I think how much papa has suffered — how 
 much Gilbert has to make up to him — how mamma took him 
 for her own — how they have borne with him, and set their 
 happiness on him, and yielded to his fancies, only for him to 
 disappoint them so cruelly, and just because he can't say No ! 
 I hope he wont come home ; I shall never know how to speak 
 to him !' 
 
 ' But all that makes it so much the worse for him,' said Ulick, 
 in a tone of amazement. 
 
 ' Yes, you can't understand,' she answered ; ' if he had had 
 one spark of feeling like you, he would rather have died than 
 have gone on as he has done.' 
 
 ' Surely many a man may be overtaken in a fault, and never 
 be wrong at heart,' said Ulick. 'There's many a worse sin 
 than what the world sets a blot upon, and I believe that is 
 just why homes were made.' 
 
 Lucy came back with the frock, and Ulick, thanking her, sped 
 away ; while Sophy slowly went vipstairs and laid herself on 
 her couch. For a woman to find a man thinking her over-hard 
 and severe, is sure either to harden or to soften her very 
 decidedly, and it was a hard struggle which would be the effect. 
 Thei'e was an inclination at first to attribute his surprise to the 
 lax notions and foolish fondness of his home, where no doubt 
 far worse disorders than Gilbert's were treated as mere matters
 
 284 THE YOULG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 of course. But such strong pity for the offender did not seem 
 to accord with this ; and the more slie thought, the more sure 
 she became that it was the fresh charity and sweetness of an 
 innocent spirit, ' believing all things,' and separating the fault 
 from the offender. His words had fallen on her ear in a sense 
 beyond what he meant. Pride and i;ncharitable resentment 
 might be worse sins than mei-e weakness and excess. She 
 thoixght of the elder son in the parable, who, unknowing of his 
 brother's temptation and sori'ow, closed his heart against his 
 return ; and if her tears would have come, she would have wept 
 that she could not bring herself to look on Gilbert otherwise 
 than as the troubler of her fathei-'s peace. 
 
 When her mother at last came upstairs, she only ventured tc 
 ask gently, ' How does papa bear it V 
 
 ' It did not come without pi'eparation,' was the answer ; ' and 
 at first we were occupied with comforting Mr. Dusautoy, who 
 takes to himself all the shame his nephew will not feel, for having 
 drawn poor Gilbert into such as ec' 
 
 ' And papa V still asked Soj)hy. 
 
 ' He is very quiet, and it is not easy to tell. I believe it was 
 a great mistake, though not of his making, to send Gilbert tc 
 Oxford at all, and I doubt whether he will ever go back again. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, not conquer this, and live it down !' cried 
 Sophy ; but then changing, she sighed and said, ' If he 
 would — ' 
 
 * Yes, a great deal depends upon how he may take this, and 
 what ])ecomes of Algerncn Dusautoy ; though I suppose there is 
 no lack of other tempters. Your papa has even spoken of India 
 again ; he still thinks he would be more guarded there, but all 
 depends on the spirit in which we find him. One thing I hope, 
 that I shall leave it all to his fathers judgment, and not say one 
 word.' 
 
 The next post brought a penitent letter from Gilbert, submit- 
 ting completely to his father ; otdy begging that be might not 
 see any one at home until he should have redeemed his character, 
 and promising to woik very hard and deny himself all relaxation 
 if he might only go to a tutor at a distance. 
 
 Tliis did not at all accoi-d with JNIi-. Kendal's views. He had 
 an unavowed distrust of Gilbert's letters ; he did not fancy a 
 tutor thus selected, and believed the boy to be physically inca- 
 pable of the proposed amount of study. So he wrote a very 
 grave but merciful summons to Willow Lawn. 
 
 Alljinia went to meet the delinquent at Hadmiuster, and was 
 struck by tlie different deportment of the two youths. Algernon 
 Du'^autoy, whose servant had met him, sauntered up to her as if
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 2S5 
 
 nothing had happened, carelessly hoped all were well at Bayford, 
 and, in spite of her exceeding coldness, talked on with perfect 
 ease npon tlie chances of a war with Russia, and had given her 
 three or four maxims, before Gilbert came up with the luggage 
 van, with a bag in his hand, and a hurried bewildered manner, 
 unable to meet her eye. He handed her into the carriage, 
 seated himself beside her, and drove off without one unnecessary 
 word, while Algernon, mounting his horse, waved them a dis- 
 engaged farewell, and cantered on. Albiuia heard a heavy sigh, 
 and saw her companion veiy wan and sori'owful, dejection in 
 every feature, in the whole stoop of his figure, and in the nervous 
 twitch of his hands. The contrast gave an additional impulse to 
 her love and pity, and the first words she said were, ' Your 
 father is quite ready to foi'give.' 
 
 ' I knew he would be so,' he answered, hai'dly able to command 
 his voice ; ' I knew you would all be a great deal too kind to me, 
 and that is the worst of all.' 
 
 'No, Gilbert, not if it give you resolution to resist th-3 next 
 tim^' 
 
 He groaned ; and it was not long before she drew from him a 
 sincei'e avowal of his follies and repentance. He had been led 
 on by assurances that ' every one' did the like, by fear of betray- 
 ing his own timidity, by absurd di-ead of being disdained as slow ; 
 all this working on his natural indolence and love of excite- 
 ment, had combined to involve him in habits wliich had brought 
 on him this disgrace. It was a hopeful sign that he admitted its 
 justice, and accused no one of partiality ; the reprimand haa told 
 upon him, and he was too completely struck down even to attempt 
 to justify himself ; exceedingly afraid of his father, and only 
 longing tohide himself. Such was his utter despair, that Albinia 
 had no scruples in encouraging him, and assuring him with all 
 her heart, that if taken rightly, the shock that brought him to 
 his senses, might be the Ijlessing of his life. He did not take 
 comfort readily, though soothed by her kindness ; he could not 
 get over his excessive dread of his father, and each attempt at 
 reassurance fell short. At last it came oiit that the very core of 
 his misery was this, that he liad found himself for part of the 
 journey, in the same train with Miss Durant and two or tliree 
 children. He could not tell her where he was going nor why, 
 and he had leant back in the carriage, and watched her on the 
 platform by stealth, as she moved about, ' lovelier and more grace- 
 ful than ever !' but how could he present himself to her in his 
 disgrace and miseiy ? ' Oh, Mrs. Kendal, I forgive niy father, 
 but my life was blighted when I was cut off from her !' 
 
 * No, Gilbert, you are wrong. There is no blighting in a worthy,
 
 286 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 disinterested attachment. To be able to love and respect such 
 a woman is a good substantial quality in you, and ought to make 
 you a higher and better man.' 
 
 Gilbert turned rouud a face of extreme amazement. ' I 
 thought,' he said, ' I thought you — ' and went no farther. 
 
 ' I respect your feeling for her more than when it was two 
 yeai's younger,' she said ; ' T should respect it doubly if instead 
 of making you ashamed, it had saved you from the need of shame.' 
 
 ' Do you give me any hope V cried Gilbert, his face gleaming 
 into sudden eager brightness. 
 
 ' Things have not become more suitable,' said Albinia ; and 
 his look lapsed again into despondency ; but she added, ' Each 
 step towards real manhood, force of character, and steadiness, 
 would give you weight which might make your choice worth 
 your father's consideration, and you worth tliat of Genevieve.' 
 
 ' Oh ! would you but have told me so before !' 
 
 ' It was evident to your own senses,' said Albinia ; and she 
 thought of the suggestion that Sophy had made. 
 
 ' Too late ! too late !' sighed Gilbert. 
 
 ' No, never too late ! You have had a warning ; you are very 
 young, and it cannot be too late for winning a character, and 
 redeeming the time !' 
 
 ' And you tell me I may love her !' repeated Gilbert, so in- 
 toxicated with the words, that slie became afraid of them. 
 
 ' I do not tell you that you may importune her, or disobey 
 your father. I only tell you that to look up and work and deny 
 yourself, in honour of one so truly noble, is one of the best and 
 most saving of secondary motives. I shall honour you, Gilbert, 
 if you do so use it as to raise and support you, though of coui'se 
 I cannot promise that she can be earned by it, and even that 
 motive will not do alone, however powerful you may think it.' 
 
 Neither of them said more, but Gilbert sighed heavily several 
 times, and would willingly have checked their homeward speed. 
 He grew pale as they entered the town, and groaned as the 
 gates swung back, and they rattled over the wooden bridge. It 
 was about four o'clock, and he said, hurriedly, as with a sort of 
 hojje, ' I suppose they are all out.' 
 
 He was answered by a whoop of ecstasy, and before he was 
 well out of the carriage, he was seized by the joyous Maurice, 
 shouting that he had been for a ride with papa, without a leading 
 rein. Happy age for both, too young to know more than that 
 the beloved playfellow was at home again ! 
 
 Little Albinia studied her brother till the small memory came 
 back, and she made her pretty signs for the well-remembered 
 dancing in his arma From such greetings, Gilbert's wounded
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 28? 
 
 spirit could not shrink, much as he dreaded all others ; aud, 
 carrying the baby and preceded by Maurice, while he again 
 muttered that of course no one was at home, he went upstairs. 
 
 Albinia meantime tapped at the library door. She knew 
 Mr. Kendal to be there, yearning to forgive, but thinking it 
 right to have his pardon sought ; and she went in to tell him of 
 liis son's keen remorse, and deadly fear. Displeased and mourn- 
 ful, Mr. Kendal sighed. ' He has little to fear from me, would 
 liu but believe so ! He ought to have come to me, but — ' 
 
 That ' but' meant repentance for ovei'-sternness in times 
 past. 
 
 ' Let me send him to you.' 
 
 ' I will come,' said Mr. Kendal, willing to spare his son the 
 terror of presenting himself. 
 
 There was a pretty sight in the morning-room. Gilbert was 
 on the floor with the two children, Maurice intent on showing 
 how nearly little Albinia could run alone, and between ordering 
 and coaxing, drawing her gently on ; her beautiful brown eyes 
 opened very seriously to the great undertaking, and her round 
 soft hands, with a mixture of confidence and timidity, trusted 
 within the sturdy ones of her small elder, while Gilbert knelt on 
 one knee, and stretched out a protecting arm, ready to grasp the 
 little one, if the more childish brother should fail her, and his 
 countenance, lighted up with interest and afiection, was far more 
 prepossessing than when so lately it had been full of cowering 
 almost abject apprehension. 
 
 Was it a sort of instinctive feeling that the little sister would 
 be his best shelter, that made him gatlier the child into his arms, 
 and hold her before his deeply blushing face as he rose from the 
 floor 1 She merrily called out. Papa ! Maurice loudly began to 
 recount her exploits, and thus passed the salutation, at the end 
 of which Gilbert found that his father was taking the little onff 
 from him, and giving her to her mother, who carried her away, 
 calling Maurice with her. 
 
 ' Have you nothing to say to me T said Mr. Kendal, after 
 waiting for some moments ; but as Gilbert only looked u)i to 
 himwith a piteous, scared, uncertain glance, he added ; ' You 
 need not fear me ; I believe you have erred more from weakness 
 than from evil inclinations, and I trust in the sincerity of your 
 repentance.' 
 
 These kind words softened Gilbert ; he assured his father of 
 his thanks for his kindness, no one could grieve more deejily, or 
 be more anxious to atone in any possible manner for what he 
 had unwittingly done. 
 
 * I believe you, Gilbert,' said his father ; ' but you well know
 
 288 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 that the only way of atoniug for the past, as well as of 
 avoiding such wretchedness and disgrace for the future, is to 
 show greater firmness.' 
 
 ' I know it is,' said Gilbert, sorrowfully. 
 
 'I cannot look into your heart,' added Mr, Kendal. *I can 
 only hope and believe that your grief for the sin is as deep, or 
 deeper, than that for the public stigma, for which comparatively, 
 I care little.' 
 
 Gilbert exclaimed that so indeed it was, and this was no more 
 than the truth. Out of sight of temptation, and in that pure 
 atmosphere, the loud revel and coarse witticisms that had led 
 him on, were only loathsome and disgusting, and made him 
 miserable in the recollection. 
 
 * 1 am ready to submit to anything,' he added, fervently. ' As 
 long as you forgive me, I am ready to bear anything.' 
 
 * I forgive you from my heart,' said Mr. Kendal, warmly. * I 
 only wish to consider what may be most expedient for you. I 
 should scarcely like to send you back to Oxford to retrieve your 
 character, unless I were sure that you would be more resolute 
 in resisting temptation. No, do not reply ; your actions during 
 this time of penance will be a far more satisfactory answer than 
 any promises. I had thovight of again applying to your cousin 
 John, to take you into his l)ank, tiiough you could not now go 
 on such terms as you might have done when there was no error 
 in the background, and 1 still sometimes question whether it be 
 not the safer method.' 
 
 ' Whatever you please,' said Gilbert ; ' I deserve it all.' 
 ' Nay, do not look upon my decision, whatever it may be, as 
 punishment, but only as springing from my desire for your real 
 welfare. I will write to your cousin and nsk whether he still 
 has a vacancy, but without abt-olutely proposing you to him, 
 and we will look on the coming months as a period of pi'obatiou, 
 during which we may j udge what may be the wisest course. I will 
 only ask one other question, Gilbert, and you need not be afraid 
 to answer me fully and freely. Have you any debts at Oxford V 
 ' A few,' stammered Gilbert, with a great effort. 
 ' Can you tell me to whom, and the amount V 
 He tried to recollect as well as he could, while comi^letely 
 frightened and confused by the gravity with which his father 
 was jotting them down in his pocket-book. 
 
 ' Well, Gilbert,' he concluded, ' you have dealt candidly with 
 me, and you shall never have cause to regret having done so. 
 And now we will onlj' feel that you are at home, and dwell no 
 longer on the cause that has brought you. Come out, and see 
 what we have been doing in the meadow.'
 
 THE YOUKG STEP-MOTHER. 289 
 
 Gilbert seemed more overilirown and broken down by kind- 
 ness than by reproof. He liardly exerted himself even to play 
 with Maurice, or to amuse his grandmother ; and though his 
 sisters treated him as usual, he never once lifted up his eyes to 
 meet Sophy's glance, and scarcely used his voice. 
 
 Nothing could be more disarming than such genuine sorrow ; 
 and Sophy, pardoning him with all her heart, and mourning for 
 her past want of charity, watched him, longing to do something 
 for his comfort, and to evince her tenderness ; but only 
 succeeded in encumbering every petty service or word of inter- 
 course with a weight of sad consciovisness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 'T HAD 3,lmost written to ask your pardon,' said Mrs. 
 X Dusautoy, as Albinia entered her drawing-room on the 
 afternoon following. ' I should like by way of experiment to 
 know what would put that boy out of countenance. He listened 
 with placid graciousness to his uncle's lecture, and then gave us to 
 understand that he was obliged for his solicitude, and that there 
 was a great deal of jealousy and misrepi-esentation at Oxford ; 
 but he thought it best always to submit to authorities, however 
 unreasonable. And this morning, after amiably paying his 
 respects to me, he said he was going to inquire for Gilbert. I 
 intimated that Willow Lawn was the last place where he would 
 be welcome, but he was far above attending to me. Did Gilbert 
 see him V 
 
 ' Gilbert was in the garden with us when we were told he 
 was in the house. Poor fellow, he shuddered, and looked as if 
 he wanted me to guard him, so I sent him out walking with 
 Maurice while I went in, and found Lucy entertaining the 
 gentleman. I made myself as cold and inhospitable as I could, 
 but I am afraid he rather relishes a dignified retenue.* 
 
 ' Poor boy ! I wonder what on earth is to be done with 
 him. I never before knew what John's love and patience were.' 
 
 ' Do you think he will remain here V 
 
 '1 cannot tell ; we talk of tutors, but John is really, I believe, 
 happier for having him here, and besides one can be sure the 
 worst he is doing is painting a lobster. However, much would 
 depend on what you and Mr. Kendal thought. If he and 
 Gilbert were doing harm to each other, everything must giv* 
 
 way.' 
 
 If people of that age will not keep themselves out of harm's 
 
 U
 
 290 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 way, nobcdy can do it for them,' said Albinia, ' and as long as 
 Gilbert continues in his present mood, there is more real sepa- 
 ration in voluntarily holding aloof, than if they were sent far 
 apart, only to come together again at college.' 
 
 Gilbert did continue in the same mood. The tender cherishing 
 of his home restored his spirits ; but he was much subdued, 
 and deeply grateful, as lie manifested by the most eager and 
 affectionate coxirtesy, such as made him almost the servant of 
 everybody, without any personal aim or object, except to work 
 up his deficient studies, and to avoid young Dusautoy. He 
 seemed to cling to his family as his protectors, and to follow 
 the occupations least likely to lead to a meeting with the Pol}'- 
 syllable ; he was often at church in the week, rode with his 
 father, went parish visiting with tlie ladies, and was responsible 
 when Maurice fished for minnows in the meadows. Nothing 
 could be more sincerely desirous to atone for the past and enter 
 on a different course, and no conduct could be more truly 
 humble or endearing. 
 
 The imaginary disdain of Ulick O'More was entirely gone, 
 and perceiving that the Irishman's delicacy was keeping him 
 away from Willow Lawn, Gilbert himself met him and brought 
 him home, in the delight of having heai'd of a naval cadetship 
 having been offered to his brother, and full of such eager joy as 
 longed for sympathy. 
 
 * Happy fellow !' Gilbert murmured to himself. 
 
 Younger in years, more childish in character, poor Gilbert 
 had managed to make his spirit world-worn and weary, com- 
 pared with the fresh manly heart of the Irishman, all centered 
 in the kindred * points of Heaven and home,' and enjoying 
 keenly, for the very reason that he bent dutifully with all his 
 might to a humble and uncongenial task. 
 
 Yet somehow, admire and esteem as he would, there arose 
 no intimacy or friendship between Gilboi-t and Ulick ; their 
 manners were frank and easy, but there was no spontaneous 
 approach, no real congeniality, nor exchange of mind and sym- 
 patliy as between Ulick and Mr. Kendal. Albinia had a theory 
 that the friendship was too much watched to take ; Sophy 
 hated herself for the recurring conviction tliat * Gilbert was nob 
 the kind of stuff,' though she felt day by day how far he 
 excelled her in humility, gentleness, and sweet temper. 
 
 When the Goldsmiths gave their annual dinner-party, Albinia 
 felt a sudden glow at the unexpected siglit of Ulick O'More. 
 
 ' I am only dejjuty for the Orange man,' he said j ' it is Hydcr 
 All who ouglit to Vje dining here ! Yes, it is his doing, I'd back 
 him against any detective !'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP -MOTHER. 291 
 
 ' What heroism have you beeu acting together V 
 
 *We had just given Farmer Martin ii:o^. in notes, when as 
 he went oiit, we heard little Hyder growling and giving tongue, 
 and a fellow swearing as if he was at the fair of Mouyveagh, 
 and the farmer hallooing thieves. I found little Hyder had 
 nailed th-^ rascal fast by the leg, just as he had the notes out of 
 the farmer's pouch. I collared him, Johns ran for the police, 
 and the rascal is fast.' 
 
 ' What a shame to cheat Mr. Kendal of the committal.' 
 
 ' The policeman said he was gone out, so we had the villain 
 up to the Admiral with the greater satisfaction, as he was a 
 lodger in one of the Admiral's pet public-houses in Tibb's 
 Alley.' 
 
 ' Ah, when Gilbert is of age,' said Albiuia, ' woe to Tibb's ! 
 So you are a testimonial to the Tripod V 
 
 ' So I suspect, for I found an invitation when I came home, 
 I would have run down to tell you, but I had been kept late, 
 and one takes some getting up for polite society.' 
 
 There was a gi-eat deal of talk about Hyder's exploit, and 
 some disposition to make Mr. O'More the hero of the day ; but 
 this was quickly nipped by his uncle's diy shortness, and the 
 superciliousness with which Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy turned 
 the conversation to the provision of pistols, couriers, and guards, 
 for travelling through the Abruzzi. The polysyllabic cour-age, 
 and false alarms on such a scale, completely eclipsed a real pick- 
 pocket, caught by a gipsy's cur and a banker's clerk. 
 
 Not that Ulick perceived any disregard until later in the 
 evening, when the young Kendals arrived, and of course he 
 wanted each and all to hear of his Tripod's achievement. He 
 met with ready attention from Sophy and Gilbert,»who pro- 
 nounced that as the cat was to Whittiugton, so v/as Hyder to 
 O'More ; but when in his overflowing he proceeded to Lucy, 
 she had neither eyes nor ears for him, and when the vicar told 
 her Mr. O'More was speaking to her, she turned with an air of 
 petulance, so that he felt obliged to beg her pardon and retreat. 
 
 The Bayford parties never lasted later than a few minutes 
 after ten, but when once Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy and Miss 
 Kendal had possession of the piano and guitar, thei-e was no 
 conclusion. Song succeeded song, they wanted nothing save 
 their own harmony, and hardly waited for Miss Goldsmith's 
 sleepy thanks. The vicar hated late hours, and the Kendals 
 felt every song a trespass upon their hosts ; but the mxisicians 
 had their backs to the world, and gave no interval, so that it 
 was eleven o'clock before Mi'. Kendal, in desperation, laid hia 
 hand on his daughter, and barbarously carried her off. 
 
 u ii
 
 292 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 
 
 Tlie flirtation was so palpable, that Albinia mused on the 
 means of repressing it ; but she believed that to remonstrate, 
 v/ould only he to give L\icy pleasure, and held her peace till a 
 passion for riding seized upon tlie young lady. The old pony 
 liad hard service between Sophy's needs and Maurice's exactions, 
 but Lucy's soul soared far above ponies, and fastened upon Gil- 
 bert's steed. 
 
 ' And pray what is Gilbert to ride f 
 
 ' Oh ! papa does not always want Captain, or Mr. Cavendish 
 Dusautoy would lend him Barafylde.' 
 
 * Tliank you,' returned Gilbert, satirically. 
 
 Next morning Lucy, radiant with smiles, announced that all 
 was settled. Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy 's Lady Elniira would be 
 bi'ought down for her to try this afternoon, so Gilbert might 
 keep his own horse and come too, which permission he received 
 with a long whistle and glance at Mrs. Kendal, and then walked 
 out of the room. 
 
 ' How disobliging !' said Lucy. ' Well then, Sophy, you must 
 make your old hat look as well as you can, for I suppose it will 
 not quite do to go without anyone.' 
 
 Sophy, like her brother, looked at Mrs. Kendal, and with an 
 eye of indignant appeal and entreaty, while Albinia's countenance 
 was so full of displeasure, that Lucy continued earnestly, * O, 
 mamma, you can't object. You used to go out riding with 
 papa when he was at Colonel Bui-y's.' 
 
 ' Well, Lucy !' exclaimed her sister, ' I did not think even you 
 capable of such a comparison.' 
 
 ' It's all the same,' said Lucy tartly, blushing a good deal. 
 
 Sophy leapt up to look at hei", and Albinia trying to be calm 
 and judicious, demanded, 'What is the same as whatf 
 
 * Why, Algernon and ?»e,' was the equally precise reply. 
 
 In stately horror, Sophy rose and seriously mai'ched away, 
 leaving, by her look and manner, a species of awe upon both 
 parties, and some seconds passed ere, with crimson blushes, Al- 
 binia ventured to invite the dreaded admission, by demanding, 
 ' Now, Lucy, will you be so good as to tell me the meaning of 
 this extraordinary allusion V 
 
 ' Why, to be sure — T know it was very different. Papa was 
 80 old, and there viere ?fs,' faltered Lucy ; ' but I meant, you 
 would know how it all is — how those things — ' 
 
 'Stop, Lucy, am I to understand by those things, that you 
 wish me to believe you and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy are on the 
 Kauie terms as — No, I can't say it.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean,' said Lucy, growing frightened,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 293 
 
 * I never thought there could be such au uproar about iny just 
 going out riding.' 
 
 ' You have led me to infer so much more, that it becomes my 
 duty to have au explanation, at least,' she added, thinking this 
 sounded cold, ' I should have hoped you would have given me 
 your confidence.' 
 
 ' O, but you always would make game of him !' cried Lucy. 
 
 * Not now ; this is much too serious, if you have been led to 
 believe that his attentions are not as I supposed, because you 
 are the only girl about here whom he thinks worthy of his 
 notice.' 
 
 ' It's a great deal more,' said Lucy, with more feeling aud less 
 vanity than had yet been apparent. 
 
 * And what has he been making you think, my poor child V 
 said Albinia. ' I know it is very distressing, but it would be 
 more riorht and safe if I knew what it amounts to.' 
 
 ' Nob much after all,' said Lucy, her tone implying the reverse, 
 and though her cheeks were crimson, not averse to the triumpli 
 of the avowal, nor enduring as much embarrassment as her 
 auditor ; ' only he made me sure of it — he said — (now, mamma, 
 you have made me, so I must) that he had changed his opinion 
 of English beauty — you know, mamma. And another time he 
 said he had wandered Europe over to — to find loveliness on the 
 banks of the Baye. Wasn't it absurd 1 And he says he does 
 not think it half so much that a woman should be accomplished 
 herself, as that she should be able to appreciate other people's 
 talents — and once he said the Principessa Bianca di Morettj 
 would be very much disappointed.' 
 
 ' Well, my dear,' said Albinia, kindly putting her arm round 
 Lucy's waist, ' perhaps by themselves the things did not so much 
 require to be told. I can hardly blame you, and I wish I had 
 been more on my guard, and helped you more. Only if he 
 seems to care so little about disappointing this lady might he 
 not do the same by you V 
 
 ' But she's an Italian, and a Roman Catholic,' exclaimed 
 Lucy. 
 
 Albinia could not help smiling, and Lucy, perceiving that 
 this was hardly a valid excuse for her utter indifference towards 
 her Grandison's Clementina, continued, ' I mean — of course there 
 was nothing in it.' 
 
 ' Very possibly ; but how would it be, if by-and-by he told 
 somebody that Miss Kendal would be very much disai)pointedf 
 
 ' O, mamma,' cried Lucy, hastily detaching herself, ' you don't 
 know !' 
 
 ' I cannot tell, my poor Lucy/ said Albinia. * T fear there
 
 29 4* THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 must be grief and trouble any way, if you let yourself attend to 
 him, for you know, even if be were in earnest, it would not be 
 right to think of a person who has shown so little wish to be 
 good.' 
 
 Lucy stood for a few moments befoi'e the sense reached her 
 mind, then she dropped into a chair, and exclaimed, 
 
 ' I see how it is ! You'll treat him as grandpapa treated 
 Captain Pringle ; but I shall break my heart, quite !' and she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 ' My dear, your father and I will do our best for your happi- 
 ness, and we would never use concealment. Whatever we do 
 shall be as Christian people working together, not as tyrants 
 with a silly girl.' 
 
 Lucy was pleased, and let Albinia take her hand. 
 
 * Then I will wiite to decline the horse. It would be far too 
 marked.' 
 
 ' But oh, mamma ! you wont keep him away !' 
 
 ' I shall not alter our habits unless I see cause. He is much 
 too young for us to think seriously of what he may have said ; 
 and I entreat you to put it out of your mind, for it would be 
 very sad for you to fix your thoughts on him, and then find 
 him not in earnest, and even if he were, you know it would be 
 wrong to let affection grow up where there is no real depen- 
 dence upon a person's goodness.' 
 
 The kindness soothed Lucy, and though she shed some teai's, 
 she did not resist the decision. Indeed she was sensible of that 
 calm determination of manner, which all the family had learnt 
 to mean that the measures thus taken were unalterable, whereas 
 the impetuous impulses often were reversed. 
 
 Many a woman's will is like the tide, ever fretting at the 
 verge of the boundary, but afraid to overpass it, and only tempt- 
 ing the utmost limit in the certainty of the recal, and Lucy 
 perhaps felt a kind of pi'otection in the curb, even while she 
 treated it as an injury. She liked to be the object of solicitude, 
 and was pleased with Albinia's extra kindness, while, perhaps, 
 there was some excitement in the belief that Algernon was 
 missing her, so she was particularly amenable, and not much 
 out of spirits. 
 
 The original Meadows character, and Bayford breeding, had 
 for a time been surmounted by Albinia's influence and training ; 
 but so ingrain was the old disposition, that a touch would at 
 once re-awaken it, and the poor girl was in a neutral state, 
 coloured by whichever impression had been most recent. Al- 
 binia's hopes of prevailing in the end increased when Mrs. 
 Dusautoy told her, with a look of intelligence, that Algernon
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 2^5 
 
 was going to stay with a connexion of his mother, a Mr. Green- 
 away, with six daughters, very stylish young ladies. 
 
 Six stylish young ladies ! Albinia could have embraced them 
 all, and actually conferred a cordial nod on Mr. Cavendish 
 Dusautoy wheu she met him on the way home. 
 
 But as she entered the house, so ominous a tone summoned 
 her to the library, that she needed not to be told that Mr. 
 Cavendish Dusautoy had been there. 
 
 ' I told him,' said Mr. Kendal, ' that he was too young for 
 me to entertain his proposal, and I intimated that he had a 
 character to redeem before presenting himself in such a 
 capacity.' 
 
 ' I hope you made the refusal evident to his intellect.' 
 
 ' He drove me to be more explicit than I intended. I think 
 he was astonished. He stared at me for full three minutes 
 before he could believe in the refusal. Poor lad, it must be I'eal 
 attachment, there could be no other inducement.' 
 
 ' And Lucy is exceedingly pretty.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal glanced at the portrait over the mantelpiece, 
 smiled sadly, and shook his head. 
 
 'Poor dear,' continued Albinia; 'what a commotion there 
 will be in her head ; but she has behaved so well hitherto, that 
 I hope we may steer her safely through, above all, if one of the 
 six cousins will but catch him in the rebound ! Have you 
 spoken to her V 
 
 ' Is it necessary T 
 
 ' So asked her grandfather,' said Albinia, smiling, as he, a 
 little out of countenance, muttered something of ' foolish affair 
 — mere child — and turn her head — ' 
 
 ' That's done !' said Albinia, ' we have only to try to get it 
 straight. Besides, it would hardly be just to let her think he 
 had meant nothing, and I have promised to deal openly with 
 her, otherwise we can hardly hope for plain dealing from her.' 
 
 ' And you think it will be a serious disappointment V 
 
 ' Slie is highly flattered by his attention, but I don't know 
 how deep it may have gone.' 
 
 ' I wish people would let one's daughters alone !' exclaimed 
 Mr. Kendal. ' You will talk to her then, Albinia, and don't 
 let her think me more harsh than you can help, and come and 
 tell me how she bears it.' 
 
 ' Wont you speak to her yourself f 
 
 ' Do you think I must Y he said, reluctantly ; * you know so 
 much better how to manage her.' 
 
 ' I think you must do this, dear Edmimd,' she said, between 
 decision and entreaty. ' She knows that I dislike the man, and
 
 296 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 may fancy it my doing il she only hears it at second hand. If 
 you speak, there will be no appeal, and besides there are mo- 
 ments when the really nearest should have no go-betweens.' 
 
 ' We were not very near without you,' he said. * If it were 
 Sophy, I should know better what to be about.' 
 
 ' Sophy would not put you in such a fix.' 
 
 ' No. I have fancied — ' he paused, smiling, while she waited 
 JQ eager curiosity, such as made him finish as if ashamed. ' I 
 have thought our likings much the same. Have you never ob^ 
 served what I mean V 
 
 ' Oh ! I never observe anything. I did not find out Maurice 
 and Winifred till he told me. Who do you think it is ? I 
 always thought love would be the making of Sophy. I see she 
 is another being. What is your guess, Mr. Hope V 
 
 Mr. Kendal made a face of astonishment at such an impro- 
 bable guess, and was driven into exclaiming, * How could any 
 one help thinking of O'IMore V 
 
 ' Oh ! only too delightful !' cried Albinia. ' Why didn't 
 I think of it — but then his way is so free and cousinly with 
 us all.' 
 
 ' There may be nothing in it,' said Mr. Kendal ; * and under 
 present circumstances it would hardly be desirable.' 
 
 ■ If old Mr. Goldsmith acts as he ought,' continued Alljinia, 
 ' we should never lose our Sophy — and what a son we should 
 have ! he has so exactly the bright temper that she needs.' 
 
 * Well, well, that is all in the clouds,' said Mr. Kendal. * I 
 wish the present were equally satisfactory.' 
 
 ' Ah, I had better call poor Lucy.' 
 
 'Comeback with her, pray,' called Mr. Kendal, nervously. 
 
 Albinia regretted her superfluous gossip when Lucy appeared 
 "with eyes so sparkling, and cheeks so fluslied, that it was plain 
 that she had been in all the miseries of suspense. Her counte- 
 nance glowed with feeling, that lifted her beyond her ordinary 
 doll-like prettiness. Albinia's heart sank with compassion as 
 she held her hand, and her father stood as if struck by some- 
 thing more like the vision of his youth than he had been pre- 
 pared for ; each feeling that something genuine was present, 
 and respecting it accordingly. 
 
 ' Lucy,' said Mr. Kendal, tenderly, ' I see I need not tell you 
 why I have sent for you. You are very young, my dear, and 
 you must trust us to care for your happiness.' 
 
 ' Yes.' Lucy looked up wistfully. 
 
 * This gentleman has some qualities such as may make 
 him shine in the eyes of a young lady ; but it is our duty to 
 look further, and I am afraid I know nothing of him that could
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 297 
 
 jii&tify me in trusting him with, anything so precious t(; 
 me.' 
 
 Lucy's face became full of consternation, her hand lay un- 
 nerved in Albinia's i^ressure, and Mr. Kendal turned his eyes 
 from her to his wife, as he proceeded, 
 
 ' I have seen so much wretchedness caused by want of reli- 
 gious jji'inciple, that even where the morals appeared unblem- 
 ished, I thould feel no confidence where I saw no evidence of 
 religion ; and I should consider it as positively wrong to sanc- 
 tion an engagement with such a jierson. Novv you must per- 
 ceive that we have every means of forming an opinion of this 
 young man, and that he has given us no reason to think he 
 would show the unselfish care for your welfare that we should 
 wish to secure.' 
 
 Albinia tried to make it comprehensible. 'You know, my 
 dear, we have always seen him resolved on his own way, and 
 not caring how he may inconvenience his imcle and aunt. We 
 know his temper is not always amiable, and diffei-ently as you 
 see him, you must let us judge.' 
 
 Wrenching her hand away, Lucy burst into tears. Her 
 father looked at Albinia, as if she ought to have saved him this 
 infliction, and she began a little whispering about not distressing 
 papa, wliich checked the sobs, and enabled him to say, '' There, 
 that's right, my dear, I see you are willing to submit patiently 
 to our judgment, and I believe you will find it for the best. 
 We will do all in our power to help you, and make you 
 happy,' and bending down he kissed her, and left her to his 
 wife. 
 
 In such family scenes, logic is less useful than the power of 
 coming to a friendly conclusion ; Lucy's awe of her father was 
 a great assistance, she was touched with his unwonted softness, 
 and did not apprehend how total was the rejection. But what 
 he was spared, was reserved for Albinia. There was a lament- 
 able scene of sobbing and weeping, beyond all argument, and 
 only ending in physical exhaustion, which laid her on the bed 
 all the rest of the day. 
 
 Gilbert and Sophy could not but be aware of the cause of her 
 distress. The former thought it a great waste. 
 
 ' Tell Lucy,' he said, ' that if she wishes to be miserable for 
 life, she has found the best way ! He is a thorough-bred tyrant 
 at heart, pig-headed, and obstinate, and with the very worst 
 temper I ever came across. Not a soul can he feel for, nor 
 admire but himself His wife will be a perfect slave. I declare 
 I would as soon sell her to Legree.' 
 
 Sophy's views of the gentleman were not more favourable, but
 
 298 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 she was in terror lest Lucy should have a permanently broken 
 heart, after the precedent of Aunt Maria. And on poor Sophy 
 fell the misfortune of being driven up by grandmamma's inqvii- 
 ries, to own that the proposal had been rejected. 
 
 Shade of poor dear Mr. Meadows, didst thou not stand 
 aghast 1 Five thousand a year refused ! Grandmamma would 
 have had a fit if she had not conceived a conviction, that im- 
 parted a look of shrewdness to her mild, simple old face. Of 
 course Mr. Kendal was only holding off till the young man was 
 a little older. He could have no intention of letting his daugh- 
 ter miss such a match, and dear Lucy would have her carriage, 
 and be presented at court. 
 
 Sophy argued vehemently against this, and poor grandmamma, 
 who had with difficulty been taught worldly wisdom as a duty, 
 and always thought herself good when she talked prudently, 
 began to cry. Sophy, quite overcome, was equally distressing 
 with her apologies ; Albinia found them both in tears, and Sophy 
 was placed on the sick list by one of her peculiar headaches of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 It was a time of great perplexity. Lucy cried incessantly, 
 bursting out at every trifle, but making no complaints, and 
 submitting so meekly, that the others were almost as unhappy 
 as herself. 
 
 She was first cheered by the long promised visit from Mrs. 
 Annesley and Miss Ferrars. Albinia had now no fears of 
 showing off home or children, and it was a great success. 
 
 The little Awk was in high beauty, and graciously winning, 
 and Maurice's likeness to his Uncle William enchanted the 
 aunts, though they were shocked at his mamma's indifference 
 to his constant imperilling of life and limb, and grievously 
 discomfited his sisters by adducing children who talked French 
 and read history, whereas he could not read d-o-g without 
 spelling, and had peculiar views as to b and d, p and q. How- 
 ever, if he could not read he could ride, and Mrs. Annesley 
 scarcely knew the extent of the favour she conferred, when she 
 commissioned Gilbert to procure for him a pony as his private 
 property. 
 
 Miss Ferrars had not expected one of the thirty-six 0' Mores 
 to turn up here. She gave some good advice about hasty in- 
 timacies, and as it was received with a defence of the gentility 
 of the O'Mores, the two good ladies agreed that dear Albinia 
 was quite a child still, not fit for the care of those girls, and it 
 would be only acting kindly to take Lucy to Bi-ighton, and 
 show her something of the world, or Albinia would surely let 
 her fall a prey to that Irish clerk.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 299 
 
 They liked Lucy's pretty face and obliging ways, and were 
 fond of having a young lady in their house ; they saw her 
 looking ill and depressed, and thought sea air would be 
 good for her, and though Lucy fancied herself past caring for 
 gaiety, and was very sorry to leave home and mamma, she 
 was not insensible to the refreshment of her wardrobe, and 
 the excitement and honour of the invitation. At night she 
 cried lamentably, and clung round Albinia's neck, sobbing, 
 ' Oh, mamma, what will become of me without you V but in the 
 morning she went off in very fair spirits, and Albinia augured 
 hopefully that soon her type of perfection would be no longer 
 Polysyllabic. Her first letters were deplorable, but they soon 
 became cheerful, as her mornings wei'e occupied bj'^ lessons in 
 music and drawing ; and her evenings in quiet parties among 
 the friends whom the aunts met at Brighton. Aunt Gertrude 
 wrote to announce that her chai'ge had recovered her looks and 
 was much admired, and this was corroborated by the prosperous 
 complacency of Lucy's style. Albinia was more relieved than 
 sui'prised when the letters dwindled in length and number, 
 well knowing that the Family Office was not favourable to 
 leisure ; and devoid of the epistolary gift herself, she always 
 wondered more at people's writing than at their silence, and 
 scarcely reciprocated Lucy's efi'usions by the hvirried notes which 
 she enclosed in the well-filled envelopes of Gilbert and Sophy, 
 who, like their father, could cover any amount of sheets of paper. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 * rpHEPtE !' cried TJlick O'More, ' I may wish you all good- 
 JL bye. There's an end of it,' 
 
 Mr. Kendal stood aghast. 
 
 ' He's insulted my father and my family,' cried Ulick, * and 
 does he think I'll write another cipher for him V 
 
 ' Your uncle f 
 
 'Don't call him my uncle. I wish Pd never set eyes on his 
 wooden old face, to put the family name and honour in the 
 power of such as he.' 
 
 ' What has he done to you f 
 
 ' He has offered to take me as his partner,' cried Ulick, with 
 flashing eyes ; and as an outcry arose, not in sympathy with his 
 resentment, he continued vehemently, ' Stay, you have not 
 I;eard ! 'Twas on condition I'd alter my name, leave out the
 
 300 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 O that has corae down to me from them that were kinirs and 
 princes before his grandfathers broke stones on the road.' 
 
 ' He ofFei'ed to take you into partnership,' repeated Mr. 
 Kendal. 
 
 ' Do you think I could listen to such terms V cried the indig- 
 nant lad. ' Give up the O I Why, I would never be able to 
 face my brothers !' 
 
 ' But, Ulick— ' 
 
 ' Don't talk to me, Mr. Kendal ; I wouldn't pell my name if 
 you were to argue to me like Plato, nor if his bank were the 
 Bank of England, I might as well be an Englishman at once.' 
 
 ' Then this was the iusult T 
 
 'And enough too, but it wasn't all. When I answered, 
 speaking as coolly, I assure you, as I'm doing this minute, what 
 does he do, but call it a folly, and taunt us ibr a crew of Irish 
 beggars ! Beggars we may be, but we'll not be bought by him.' 
 
 •' Well, this must have been an unexpected reception of such 
 a proposal.' 
 
 'You may say thati The English think everything may be 
 bought with money ! I'd have overlooked his ignorance, poor 
 old gentleman, if he would not have gone and spoken of my O 
 as vulvar. Vulgar ! So when I began to tell him how it 
 began from Tigearnach, the O'JNIore of Ballymakilty that was 
 Tanist of Connaught, in the time of King Alac Murrough, and 
 that killed Phadrig the O'Douoghoe in single combat at the 
 light of Shoch-knockmorty, and bit off his nose, calling it a 
 sweet morsel of revenge, what does he do but tell me I was 
 mad, and that he would have none of my nonsensical tales of 
 the savage Irish. So I said I couldn't stand to hear my family 
 insulted, and then — would you believe it 1 he would have it that 
 it was I that was insolent, and when I was not going to apologize 
 for what I had borne from him, he said he had always known how 
 it would be trying to deal with one of our family, no better than 
 making a silk purse out of a sow's ear. " And I'm obliged for 
 the compliment," said I, quite coolly and politely, "but no Irish 
 pig would sell his ear for a purse ;" and so I came away, quite 
 civilly and reasonably. Aye, I see what you would do, Mr. 
 Kendal, but I beg with all my heart you wont. There are 
 some things a gentleman should not put up with, and I'll not 
 take it well of you if you call it my duty to hear my father and 
 his family abused. I'll despise myself if I could. You don't 
 — ' cried he, turning round to Albinia. 
 
 ' Oh, no ; but I think you should try to understand Mr. 
 Goldsmith's point of view.' 
 
 'I uuder.sland it only too well, if that would do any good.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 801 
 
 Point of view — why, 'tis the farmyard cock's point of view, 
 strutting on the top of that hank of his own, and patronizing 
 the free pheasant out in the woods. More fool I for ever 
 letting him clip my wings ; but he's seen the last of me. No, 
 don't ask me to make it up. It can't be done — ' 
 
 ' What can be done to the boy V asked Albinia j 'how can he 
 he brought to hear reason V 
 
 ' Leave him alone,' Mr. Kendal said, aside ; while TJlick in a 
 torrent of eager cadences protested his perfect sanity and reason, 
 and Mr. Kendal quietly left the room, again to start on a 
 peace-making mission, but it was unpromising, for Mr. Gold- 
 smith began by declaring he would not hear a single word in 
 favour of the ungrateful young dog. 
 
 Mr. Kendal gathered that vouns: O'More had become so 
 valuable, and that cold and indifferent as Mr. Goldsmith ap- 
 peared, he had been growing so fond and so i:)roud of his nephew, 
 as actually to resolve on giving him a share of the business, and 
 dividing the inheritance which had hitherto been destined to a 
 certain Andrew Goldsmith, brought up in a relation's office at 
 Bristol. Surprised at his own graciousness, and anticipating 
 trans})orts of gratitude, his dismay and indignation at the recep- 
 tion of his proposal were extreme, especially as he had no con- 
 ception of the offence he had given regarding the unfortunate 
 O as a badge of Hibernianism and vulgarity. 'I put it to you, 
 Mr. Kendal, as a sensible man, whether it would not be enough 
 to destroy the credit of the bank to connect it with such a 
 name as that, looking like an Irish haymaker's. I should be 
 ashamed of every note I issued.' 
 
 * It is unlucky,' said Mr. Kendal, ' and a difficulty the lad 
 could hardly apin-eciate, since it is a good old name, and the O 
 is a special mark of nobility.' 
 
 * And what has a banker to do with nobility ? Pretty sort of 
 nobility too, at that dog-kennel of theirs in Ireland, and his 
 father, a mere adventurer if ever there lived one ! But I swore 
 when he carried off" poor Ellen that his speculation should do 
 him no good, and I've kept my word. I wish I hadn't been fool 
 enough to meddle with one of the concern ! No, no, 'tis no use 
 arguing, Mr. Kendal, I have done with him ! I would not 
 make him a partner, not if he offered to change his name to John 
 Smith ! I never thought to meet with such ingratitude, but it 
 runs in the breed ! I might have known better than to make 
 much of one of the crew. Yet it is a pity too, we have not had 
 such a clear-headed, trustworthy fellow about the place since 
 young Bowles died ; he has a good deal of the Goldsmith in him 
 when you set him to work, and makes his figures just like my
 
 302 THE youjS'G step- moth ek. 
 
 poor latliei*. I tliouglit it was his writing the other day till I 
 looked at the date. Clever lad, very, but it runs in the blood. 
 I shall send for Andrew Goldsmith.' 
 
 One secret of Mi\ Kendal's power was that he never inter- 
 rupted, but let people run themselves down and contradict 
 themselves ; and all he observed was, ' However it may end, 
 you have done a great deal for him. Even if you parted now, he 
 would be able to find a situation.' 
 
 ' V/hy — yes,' said Mr. Goldsmith, ' the lad knew nothing 
 serviceable Avhen he came, we had an infinity of maggots about 
 algebra and logarithms to drive out of his head ; but now he really 
 is nearly as good an accountant as old Johns.' 
 
 ' You would be sorry to part with him, and I cannot help 
 hoping this may be made up.' 
 
 ' You don't bring me any message! I've said I'll listen to nothing.' 
 
 ' No ; the poor boy's feelings are far too much wounded,' said 
 Mr. Kendal. ' Whether rightly or wrongly, he fancies that 
 bis father and family have been slightingly spoken of, and he is 
 exceedingly hurt.' 
 
 ' His father ! I'm sure I did not say a tenth part of what the 
 follow richly deserves. If the young gentleman is so touchy, he 
 had better go back to Ireland again.' 
 
 Nothing more favourable could Mr. Kendal obtain, though he 
 thought Mr. Goldsmith uneasy, and perha^JS impressed by the 
 independence of his nephew's attitude. 
 
 It was an arduous office for a peace-maker, where neither 
 party could comprehend the feelings of the other, but on his 
 return he found that Ulick liad stormed liimself into comparative 
 tranquillity, and was listening the better to the womankind, 
 because they had paid due honour to the amiable ancestral 
 Tigearuach and all his guttural posterity, whose savage exploits 
 and bloody catastrophes acted as such a sedative, that by the 
 time he had come down to Uncle Bryan of the Kaffir war, he 
 actually owned that as to the mighty ' O,' Mr. Goldsmith might 
 have erred in sheer ignorance. 
 
 ' After all,' said Albiuia, ' U. O'More is rather personal in 
 writing to a creditor.' 
 
 ' It might be worse,' said Ulick, laughing, * if my name was 
 John. I. O'More would be a dangerous confession. But 
 I'll not be come round even by your fun, Mrs. Kendal ; I'll not 
 part with my father's name.' 
 
 ' No, that would be base,' said Sophy. 
 
 'Who would wish to persuade youl' added Albinia. 'I am 
 sure you are right in refusing with your feelings ; I only want 
 you to forgive your uncle, and not to break with him.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. V.Od 
 
 * I'd forgive liim liis ignorance, but my mother herself could not 
 wish me to forgive what he said of my father,' 
 
 * And how if he thinks this explosion needs forgiveness V 
 
 * He must do without it,' said Ulick. * No, I was cool, I assui-e 
 you, cool and collected, but it was not fit for me to stand by and 
 hear my father insulted.' 
 
 Albinia closed the difficult discussion by observing that it was 
 time to di'ess, and Sophy followed her fi-om the room burning 
 with indignant sympathy. ' It would be meanly subservient to 
 ask pardon for defending a father whom he thought maligned,' 
 said Albinia, and Sophy took exception at the word ' thought.' 
 
 ' Ah ! of course he cannot be deceived !' said Albinia — but 
 no sooner were the words spoken than she was half-startled, 
 half-chaz'med by finding they had evoked a glow of colour*. 
 
 * How do you think it will end V asked Sophy. 
 
 * I can hardly fancy he will not be forgiven, and yet — it might 
 be better.' 
 
 * Yes, I do think he would get on faster in India,' said Sophy 
 eagerly; 'he could do just as Gilbert might have done.' 
 
 Was it possible for Albinia to have kept out of her eyes a 
 significant glance, or to have disai-med her lips of a merry smile 
 of amused encouragement ? Hosv she had looked she knew not, 
 but the red deepened on Sophy's whole face, and after one in- 
 quiring gaze from the eyes they were cast down, and an inefiable 
 brightness came over the expression, softening and embellishing. 
 ' What have I douef thought Albinia. ' Never mind — it must 
 have been all there, or it would not have been wakened so easily 
 — if he goes tliey will have a scene first.' 
 
 But when Mr. Kendal came back he only advised Ulick to go 
 to his desk as usual the next day, as if nothing had happened. 
 
 And Ulick owned that, turn out as things might, he could 
 not quit his work in the first ai-dour of his resentment, and with 
 a great exertion of Christian forgiveness, he finally promised not 
 to give notice of his retirement unless his uncle should repeat 
 the offence. This time Albinia durst not look at Sophy. 
 
 Eather according to his fx'iend's hopes than his own, he was 
 able to report at the close of the next day, that he had not ' had 
 a word from his uncle, except a nod ;' and thus the days passed 
 on, Andrew Goldsmith did not appeal-, and it became evident 
 that he was to remain on sufferance as a clerk. Nor did Albinia 
 and Sophy venture to renew the subject between themselves. 
 At first there was consciousness in their silence ; soon their 
 minds were otherwise engrossed. 
 
 Mrs. Meadows was suddenly stricken with paralysis, and was 
 thought to be dying, She recovered partial consciousness in the
 
 o04 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 
 
 course of the next day, but was constantly moaning the name of 
 her eldest and favourite granddaughter ; and when telegraph and 
 express train brought home the startled and trembling Lucy, 
 she was led at once to the sick bed — where at her name there 
 was the first gleam of anything like pleasure. 
 
 ' And where have you been, my dear, this long time V 
 
 ' I've been at — at Brighton, dear grandmamma,' said Lucy, 
 so much agitated as scarcely to be able to recal the name, or 
 utter the words, 
 
 ' And — I say, my dear love,' said Mrs. Meadows, earnestly 
 and mysteriously, ' have you seen him T 
 
 Poor Lucy turned scarlet with distress and confusion, but 
 she was held fast, and grandmamma pursued, ' I'm sure he has 
 not his equal for handsomeness and stateliuess, and there must 
 have been a pair of you.' 
 
 ' Dear grandmamma, we must let Liicy go and take off her 
 things ; she shall come back presently, but she has had a long 
 journey,' interposed Albinia, seeing her ready to sink into the 
 earth. 
 
 But Mrs. Meadows had roused into eagerness, and would not 
 let her go. ' I hope you danced v/ith him, dear,' she went on ; 
 ' and it's all nonsense about his being high and silent. Your 
 papa is bent on it, and you'll live like a princess in India.' 
 
 ' She takes you for your mother — she means papa, whispered 
 Albinia, not without a seci-et flash at once of indignation at 
 perceiving howhis first love had been wasted, yet of exultation in 
 finding that no one but herself had known how to love him ; 
 but poor Lucy, completely and helplessly overcome, could only 
 exclaim in a faltering voice : ' Oh, grandraanmia, don't — ' and 
 Albinia was forced to disengage her, support her out of the 
 room, and leaving her to her sister, hasten back to soothe the 
 old lady, who had been terrified by her emotion. It had been 
 a great mistake to bring her in abruy)t]y, when tired with her 
 journey, and not fully aware what awaited her. But tliere Avas 
 at that time reason to think all would soon be over, and Albinia 
 was startled and confused. 
 
 Albinia had hitherto been the only eflicient nurse of the 
 family. Sophy's presence seemed to stir up instincts of the old 
 wrangling habits, and the invalid was always fretful when left 
 to her, so that to her own exceeding distress she was kept 
 almost entirely out of the sick room. 
 
 Lucy, on the other hand, was extremely valuable there, her 
 bright manner and unfailing chatter always amused if needful, 
 and her light step and tender hand made her useful, and highly 
 appreciated by the regular nurse.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 305 
 
 For the first fev/ days, they watched in awe for the last dread 
 summons, but gradually it was impossible not to become in a 
 manner habituated to the suspense, so that common things re- 
 sumed their interest, and though Sophy was pained by the in- 
 coiigruity, it could not have been otherwise without the spirits 
 end health giving way under the strain. Nothing could be 
 more trying than to have tlie mind wrought up to hourly anti- 
 cipation of the last parting, and then the delay, without the 
 reaction of recovery, the spirit beyond all reach of intercourse, 
 and the mortal frame languishing and drooping. Mr, Kendal 
 had from the first contemplated the possibility of the long 
 duration of such lingering, and did his utmost to promote such 
 enlivenment and change for the attendants as was consistent 
 with their care of the sufierer. They never dared to be all 
 beyond call at once, since a very little agitation might easily 
 sufiice to bring on a fatal attack, and Albinia and Lucy were 
 foi'ced to share the hours of exercise and employment between 
 them, and often Albinia could not leave the house and garden. 
 at ail, 
 
 Gilbert was an excellent auxiliary, and would devote many an 
 hour to the cheering of the poor shattered mind. His entrance 
 seldom failed to break the thread of melancholy murmurs, and 
 he had exactly the gentle, bright attentive manner best fitted 
 to rouse and enliven. Nothing could* be more irreproachable 
 than his conduct, and his consideration and gentleness so much 
 endeared him, that he had never been so much at peace. All 
 he dreaded was the leaving what was truly to him the sanctuary 
 of home ; he feared alike temptation and the eifort of resistance, 
 and could not bear to go away when his grandmother was in so 
 precarious a state, and he could so much lighten Mrs, Kendal's 
 cares both by being with her, and by watching over Maurice. 
 His parents were almost equally afraid of trusting him in the 
 world ; and the embodiment of the militia for the county 
 offered a quasi profession, which would keep him at home and 
 yet give him employjnent. He was very anxious to be allowed 
 to a[)ply for a commission, and pleaded so earnestly and humbly 
 that it would be his best hope of avoiding his former errors, 
 that Ml'. Kendal yielded, though with doubt whether it 
 would be well to confine him to so narrow a sphere. Mean- 
 time the corps was quartei-ed at Bayford, and filled the streets 
 with awkward louts in red jackets, who were inveterate in 
 mistaking the right for the left. Gilbert had a certain shy 
 pride in his soldiership, and Maurice stepped like a young Field 
 Marshal when he saw his brother saluted. 
 
 Nothing had so much decided this step as the finding 
 
 X
 
 o 
 
 06 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 that young Dufiautoy was to return to his college after Easter. 
 He was at the Vicarage again, marking his haughty avoidance 
 of the Kendal family ; and to their great joy, Lucy did not 
 appear distressed, she was completely absorbed in her grand- 
 n)other, and shrank from all allusion to her lover. Had the 
 small flutter of vanity been cured by a glimpse beyond her own 
 corner of the world 1 
 
 But soon Albinia became sensible of an alteration in Gilbert. 
 He had no sooner settled completely into his new employment, 
 than a certain restless dissatisfaction seemed to have possessed 
 him. He was fastidious at his meals, grumbled at his horse, 
 scolded the groom, had fits of petulance towards his brother, 
 and almost neglected Mrs. Meadows. No one could wonder at 
 a youth growing weary of such attendance, but his tenderness 
 and amiability had been his best points, and it was grievous to 
 find them failing. Albinia would have charged the alteration 
 on his brother officers, if they had not been a very steady and 
 humdrum set, whose society Gilbert certainly did not prefer. 
 Slie was more uneasy at finding that he sometimes saw Algernon 
 Dusautoy, though for Lucy's sake, he always avoided bringing 
 his name forward. 
 
 A woman was ill in the bargeman's cottage by the towing- 
 path, and Albinia had walked to see her. As she came down- 
 stairs, she heard voices, and beheld Mr. Hope evidently on the 
 same errand with herself, talking to Gilbei't. She caught the 
 words, ere she could safely descend the rickety staircase, Gilbert 
 was saying. 
 
 * Oh ! some happy pair from the High Street !' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Hope ; ' I am so blind, I really 
 took it fur your sister, but our shopkeepei's' daughters do dress 
 so!' 
 
 Albinia looking in the same direction, beheld in a walk that 
 skirted the meadow towards the wood, two figures, of which 
 only one was clearly visible ; it was nearly a quarter of a mile 
 off, but there was something about it that made her exclaim, 
 * Why, that's Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy 1 whom can he be walk- 
 ing with V 
 
 Gilbert started violently at hearing her behind him, and 
 a word or two of greeting passed with Mr. Hope ; then there 
 was some spying at the pair, but they were getting further 
 off, and disappeared in the wood, while Gilbert, sci'cwing up 
 his eyes, and stammering, declai-ed he did not know ; it might 
 be, he did not think any one could be recognised at such a 
 distance ; and then saying that he had fallen in with Mr. Hojie 
 by chance, he hastened on. The curate made a brief visit, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 807 
 
 walked home with her, examiuing her on her impressioa that 
 the geutlemau was youug Dusautoy, and finally consultiug her 
 on the expediency of mentioning tiie suspicion to the vicar, in 
 case he should be deluding some foolish tradesman's daughter. 
 Albinia strongly advised his doing so ; she had much faith in 
 her own keen eyesight, and could not mistake the majestic mien 
 of Algernon ; she thought the vicar ought at once to be warned, 
 but felt relieved that it was not her part to speak. 
 
 She was very glad when Mr. Hope took an opportunity of 
 telling her that young Dusautoy was going to the Greenawaya 
 in a day or two. 
 
 As to Gilbert, it was as if this departui'e had relieved him 
 from an incubus ; he was in better spirits from that moment, 
 and returned to his habits of kindness to both grandmamma 
 and Maurice. 
 
 The manifold duties of head sick-nurse, governess, and house- 
 keeper, were ajjt to clash, and valiant and unwearied as Albinia 
 was, she Avas obliged perforce to leave the children more to 
 others than she would have preferred. Little Albinia was all 
 docility and sweetness, and already did such wonders with her 
 ivory letters, that the exulting Sophy tried to abash Maurice 
 by auguring that she would be the first to read ; to which, un- 
 daunted, he replied, ' She'll never be a boy !' Nevertheless 
 Maurice was developing a species of conscience, rendering him 
 trustworthy and obedient out of sight, better, in fact, alone 
 with his own honour and his mother's commands, than with any 
 authority that he could defy. He knew when his father meant 
 to be obeyed, and Gilbert managed him easily ; but he warred 
 with Lucy, ruled Sophy, and had no chivalry for any one but 
 little Albinia, nor obedience except for his mother, and was a 
 terror to maid-servants and elder children. With mucli ot 
 promise, he was anything but an agreeable child, and whilst no 
 one but herself ever punished, contradicted, or complained oi 
 him, Albinia had a task that would have made her very uneasy, 
 had not her mind been too fresh and strong for over-sense of 
 responsibility. Each immediate duty in its turn was sufiicient 
 for her. 
 
 Maui'ice's shadow-like pursuit of Gilbert often took him 08 
 her hands. It might sometimes be troublesome to the elder 
 bi'other, and now and then rewarded with a petulant rebuff, but 
 Maurice was only the more pertinacious, and on the whole his 
 allegiance was requited with ardent afi'ection and unbounded 
 indulgence. Nay, once when Maurice and his pony, one or 
 both, were swept on by the whole hunt, and obliged to follow 
 the hounds, Gilbert in his anxiety took leaps that he shuddered 
 
 x2
 
 808 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 to remember, while tlie urchin sat the first gallantly, and thougli 
 he fell into the next ditch, scrambled np on the instant, and 
 was borne by his spirited pony over two more, amid universal 
 applause. ^Ir. Nugent himself rode home with the brothers to 
 tell the story ; papa and mamma wei'e too much elated at his 
 prowess to scold. 
 
 The eventful year 1854 had begun, and General Ferrars was 
 summoned from Canada to a command in the East. On his 
 arrival in England, he -wrote to his brother and sister to 
 meet him in London, and the aunts, delighted to gather their 
 children once more round them, sent pressing invitations, only 
 regretting that there was not room enough in the Family Office 
 for the younger branches. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars' first measure was to ride to Willow Lawn. 
 Knocking at the door of his sister's morning-room, he found 
 Maurice with a pouting lip, back rounded, and legs twisted, 
 standing upon his elbows, which were planted upon the table 
 on either side of a calico spelling-book. Mr. Kendal stood up 
 straight before the fire, looking distressed and perplexed, and 
 Albinia sat by, a little worn, a little irritable, and with the ex- 
 pression of a wilful victim. 
 
 All greeted the new-comer warmly, and Maurice exclaimed, 
 * Mamma, I may have a holiday now !' 
 
 ' Not till you have learnt your spelling.' There was some 
 sharpness in the tone, and Maurice's shoulder-blades looked 
 sulky. 
 
 ' In consideration of his uncle,' began Mr. Kendal ; but she 
 put her hand on tlie boy, saying, ' You know we agreed there 
 were to be no holidays for a week, because we did not use the 
 last properly.' 
 
 He moved off disconsolately, and his father said, ' I hope 
 you are come to arrange the journey to London. Is Winifred 
 coming with you Y 
 
 ' No ; a hurry and confusion, and the good aunts would be 
 too much for lier ; you v/ill be the only one for inspection.' 
 
 * Yes, take him with, you, Maurice,' said Albinia ; ' he must 
 see William.' 
 
 ' You must be the exhibitor, then,' her brother replied. 
 
 * Now, Maurice, I know wliat you are come for, but you 
 ought to know better than to persuade me, when you know 
 there are six good reasons against my going.' 
 
 ' I know of one worth all the six.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' I have been telling her that she is 
 convincing me that I did wrong in allowing her to burthen 
 herself with this charge.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. S<)9 
 
 ' That's nothing to the purpose/ said Albinia ; 'having uucler- 
 taken it, when you all saw the necessity, I cannot forsake it 
 now — ' 
 
 ' If Mrs. Meadows were in the same condition as she was in 
 two months ago, there might be a doubt,' said Mr. Kendal ; 
 ' but she is less dependent on your attention, and Lucy and 
 Gilbert are most anxious to devote themselves to her in your 
 absence.' 
 
 ' I know they all wish to be kind, but if anything went 
 wrong, I should never forgive myself!' 
 
 ' Not if you went out for pleasure alone,' said her brother ; 
 'but relationship has demands.' 
 
 ' Of course,' she said, petulantly, ' if Edmund is resolved, I 
 must go, but that does not convince me that it is right to 
 leave everything to run riot here.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal looked serious, and Mr. Ferrars feared that the 
 winter cares had so far told on her temper, that perplexity 
 made her wilful in self-sacrifice. There was a pause, but just 
 as she began to perceive she had said something wrong, the 
 lesser Maurice burst out in exultation, 
 ' There, it is not indestructible !' 
 
 ' What mischief have you been about V The question was 
 needless, for the table was strewn with snips of calico. 
 
 ' This nasty spelling-book ! Lucy said it was called inde- 
 structible, because nobody could destroy it, but I've taken my 
 new knife to it. And see there !' 
 
 * And now can you make another V said his uncle. 
 ' I don't want to.' 
 
 ' Nor one either, sir,' said Mr. Kendal. ' What shall we 
 have to tell Uncle William about you ! I'm afraid you are 
 one of the chief causes of mamma not knowing how to go to 
 London.' 
 
 Maui-ice did not appear on the way to penitence, but his 
 mother said, ' Bring me your knife.' 
 
 He hung down his head, and obeyed without a word. She 
 closed it, and laid it on the mantel-shelf, which served as a 
 soi't of pound for properties in sequestration. 
 
 ' Now, then, go,' she said ; ' you are too naughty for me to 
 attend to you.' 
 
 ' But when will you, mamma V laying a hand on her dress. 
 ' I don't know. Go away now.' 
 
 He slowly obeyed, and as the door shut, she said, ' There !' 
 in a tone as if her view was established. 
 
 ' You must send him to Fairmead,' said the uncle. 
 
 'To "terrify" Winifred? No, no, I know better than
 
 310 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 that ; Gilbert can look after him. I don't so much care about 
 that.' 
 
 The admission was eagerly hailed, and objection after objec- 
 tion removed, and having recovered her good humour, she was 
 candid, and owned how much she wished to go. ' I really want 
 to make acquaintance with William. I've never seen him 
 since I came to my senses, and have only taken him on trust 
 from you.' 
 
 ' I wish equally that he should see you,' said her brother. 
 *It would be good for him, and I doubt whether he has any 
 conception what you are like.' 
 
 ' I'd better stay at home, to leave yon and Edmund to de- 
 pict for his benefit a model impossible idol — the normal woman.' 
 
 Maurice looked at her, and shook his head. 
 
 ' No — it would be rather — it and its young one, eh V 
 
 Maurice took both her hands. 'I should not like to tell 
 William what I shall believe if you do not come.' 
 
 ' Well, what—' 
 
 ' That Edmund is right, and you have been overtasked till 
 you are careful and troubled about many things.' 
 
 ' Only too much bent on generous self-devotion,' said Mr. 
 Kendal, eagerly ; ' too unselfish to cast the balance of duties.' 
 
 ' Hush, Edmund,' said Albinia. ' I don't deserve fine words. 
 I honestly believe I want to do what is right, but I can't be 
 sure what it is, and I have made quite fuss enough, so you two 
 shall decide, and then I shall be made right anyway. Only 
 do it from your consciences.' 
 
 They looked at each othei', taken aback by the sudden sur- 
 render. Mr. Ferrars waited, and her husband said, ' She 
 ought to see her brotlier. She needs the change, and there is 
 no sufiicient cause to detain her.' 
 
 ' She must be content sometimes to trust,' said Mr. Ferrars. 
 
 ' Aye, and all that will go wrong, when my back is turned.' 
 
 ' Let it,' said her brother. ' The right which depends on a 
 single human eye is not good for much. Let the weeds grow, 
 or you can't pull them up.' 
 
 'Let the mice play, that the cat may catch them,' said 
 Albinia, striving to hide her care. ' One good effect is, that 
 Edmund has not begun to groan.' 
 
 Indeed, in his anxiety that she should consent to enjoy her- 
 self, he had not had time to shrink from the introduction. 
 
 Outside the dooi' they found Maurice waiting, his spelling 
 learnt from a fragment of the indestructible spelling-book, and 
 the question followed. ' Now, mamma, you wont say I'm too 
 naughty for you to go to Loudon and see Uncle William V
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. ^11 
 
 'No, my little boy, I mean to trust you, and tell Uncle 
 William that my young soldier is learning the soldier's first 
 duty — obedience.' 
 
 ' And may I have my knife, mamma V 
 
 Papa had settled that qviestion by himself taking it off the 
 chimney-piece and restoring it. If mamma wished the penance 
 to have been longer, she neither looked it nor said it. 
 
 The young people received the decision Avith acclamation, 
 and the two elder ones vied with one another in attempts to set 
 her mind at i-est by undertaking everything, and promising for 
 themselves and the chiklren perfect regularity and harmony, 
 Sophy, with a bluntness that King Lear would have highly- 
 disapproved, said, ' Slie was glad mamma was goingv buC she 
 knew they should be all at sixes and sevens. She would do 
 her best, and very bad it would be.' 
 
 ' Not if you don't make up your mind beforehand that it must 
 be bad,' said her uncle. 
 
 Sophy smiled ; she was much less impervious to cheerful 
 auguries, and spoke with gladness of the pleasure it would give 
 her friend Genevieve to see Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars had a short interview with Ulick, and was amused 
 by observing that little Maiii'ice had learnt as much Irish as 
 Ulick had dropped. After the passing fever about his O had 
 subsided, he was parting with some of his ultra-nationality. 
 The whirr of his R's and his Irish idioms wex'e far less per- 
 ceptible ; and tho^igh a word of attack on his country would put 
 him on his mettle, and bring out the Kelt in full force, yet in 
 his reasonable state, his good sense and love of order showed an 
 evident development, and instead of contending that Galway 
 was the most perfect county in the world, he only said it might 
 yet be so. 
 
 ' Isn't he a noble fellow V cried Albinia, warmly. 
 
 ' Yes,' said her brother ; ' I doubt whether all the O'Mores put 
 together have ever made such a conquest as he has.' 
 
 ' It was fun to see how the aunts were dismayed to find one 
 of the horde in full force here. I believe it was as a measure of 
 precaution that they took Lucy away. I was very glad for Lucy 
 to go, but hers was not exactly the danger.' 
 
 ' Ha !' said Maurice ; and Albinia blushed. Whereupon he 
 said interrogatively, 'Hem?' which made her laugh so consciously 
 that he added, ' Don't you go and be romantic about either of 
 your yoimg ladies, or there will be a general burning of fingers,' 
 
 ' If you knew all our secrets, Maurice, you would think me a 
 model of prudence and forbearance.' 
 
 ' Ho !' was his next interjection, ' so much the worse. For my
 
 SI 2 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ovrn part, I don't expect prudence will come to you naturally till 
 the little Awk has a lover.' 
 
 ' Wont it come any other way V 
 
 'Yes, in one way,' he said, gravely. 
 
 * And that way is not easily found by those who have neither 
 numility nor patience,' she said, sadly ; ' who rush on their own 
 will.' 
 
 ' Nay, Albinia, it is being sought, I do believe ; and remember 
 the lines — 
 
 " Thine own mild energy bestow, 
 And deepen while then bidst it flow, 
 More calm our stream of love." ' 
 
 Forced to resign herself to her holiday, Albinia did so with a 
 good grace, in imitation of her brother, who assured her that he 
 had brought a bottle of Lethe, and had therein drowned wife, 
 children, and parish. Mr. Kendal's spirits, as usual, rose higher 
 every mile from Bayford, and they were a very lively party when 
 they arrived in May fair. 
 
 The good aunts were delighted to have round them all 
 those whom they called their children ; all excejjt Fred, whom 
 the new arrrangements had sent to rejoin his regiment in 
 Ireland. 
 
 Sinewy, spare, and Aviry, with keen gray eyes under straight 
 brows, narrow temples, a sunburnt face, and alert, iipright bearing 
 and quick step, William Ferrars was every inch a soldier ; but 
 nothins; so much struck Mr. and Mrs. Kendal as the likeness to 
 their little Maurice, though it consisted more in air and gestiire 
 than in feature. His speech was brief and to the point, softened 
 into delicately-polished courtesy towards womankind, in the con- 
 descension of strength to weakness — the quality he evidently 
 thought their chief characteristic. 
 
 Albinia was amused as she watched him with grown-up eyes, 
 and compared pi-esent with past imjiressions. She could now 
 imagine that she had been an inconvenient charge to a young 
 soldier brother, and that he had been glad to make her over to the 
 aunts ; only jietting and indulging her as a child ; looking down 
 on her fancies, and smiling at her sauciness when she was an en- 
 thusiastic maiden — treatment which she had so much resented, 
 that she had direfully offended Maurice by pronouncing William 
 a mere martinet, when she was hurt at his neither reading the 
 Curse of Kehama,nov entering into her plans for Fairmead school. 
 
 Having herself become a worker, she could better aj^preciate 
 a man who had seen and acted instead of i-eading, recollected 
 lierself as an emanation of conceit, and felt shy and anxious, even
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 813 
 
 more for her husband than for herself How would the scholar 
 and the soldier fare together? and could she and Maurice 
 keep them from wearying of each other 1 She had little trust 
 in her own fascinations, though she saw the General's eye 
 approvingly fixed on her, and believing herself to be a more 
 pleasing object in her womanly bloom than in her unformed 
 girlhood. 
 
 ' How does the Montreal affair go on V she asked. 
 
 * What afikir V 
 
 * Fred and Miss Kinnaird.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to say he has not put it out of his head.' 
 
 'Surely she is a very nice person.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! He has no right to think of a wife these dozen 
 years.' 
 
 ' Not even think 1 When he is not to have one at any rate 
 till he is a field officer !' 
 
 ' And he is a fool to have one then. A mere encumbrance to 
 himself and the entire corps.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know,' said Albinia ; ' she always gets the best cabin. 
 
 ' And that is no place for her ! No man, as I have told Fred 
 over and over again, ought to drag a woman into hardships for 
 which she is not fitted, and where she interferes with his effec- 
 tiveness and the comfort of every one else.' 
 
 The identical lecture of twelve years since, when he had feared 
 Albinia's becoming this inconvenient appendage ! If he had 
 repeated it on all like occasions, she did not wonder that it had 
 wearied his aide-de-camp. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' she said, ' the backwoods may have fitted Miss 
 Emily for the life ; and I can't but be glad of Fred's having been 
 steady to anything.' 
 
 Considering this speech like the Kehama days, the General 
 went on to dilate on the damage that marriage was to the 'service,' 
 removing the best officers, first from the mess, and then from the 
 army. 
 
 ' What a pity William was born too late to be a Knight of St. 
 John !' said Albinia. 
 
 All laughed, but she doubted whether he were pleased, for he 
 addressed himself to one of the aunts, while Maurice spoke to her 
 in an under tone — ' I believe he is quite right. Homes are 
 better for the individual man, but not for the service. How 
 remarkably the analogy holds with this other service !' 
 
 ' You mean what St. Paul says of the married and un- 
 married V 
 
 ' I always think he and his sayings are the most living lessona 
 I know on the requu'ements of the other army.'
 
 SI 4 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Albinia mused on the insensible change in IMaurice. He 
 had not embraced his profession entii'ely by choice. It had 
 always been understood that one of the younger branches must 
 take the family living ; and as Fred had spurned study, he had 
 been bred up to consider it as his fate, and if lie had ever had 
 other wishes, he had entirely accepted his destiny, and sincerely 
 turned to his vocation. The knowledse that he must be a 
 clergyman had ruled him and formed him from his youth, and 
 acting through him on his sister, had rendered her more than 
 the accomplished, prosperous young lady her aunts meant to have 
 made her. Yet, even up to a year or two after his Ordination, 
 thei'e had been a sense of sacrifice ; he loved sporting, and even 
 balls, and it had been an efibrt to renounce them. He had 
 avoided coming to London because his keen enjoyment of 
 society tended to make him discontented with his narrow sphere ; 
 she had even known him to hesitate to ride with the staff at a 
 review, lest he should make himself liable to repinings. And 
 now how entirely had all this passed away, not merely by 
 outgrowing the enterprising temper and boyish habits, nor by 
 contentment in a happy home, but by the sufficiency and rest of 
 his service, the engrossment in the charge fi-om his great 
 Captain. Without being himself aware of it, he had ceased to 
 distrust a holiday, because it was no longer a temptation ; and his 
 animation and mirth were the more free, because self-regiilatiou 
 was so thorougiily established, that restraint was no longer felt. 
 
 Mrs. Annesley was talking of the little Kendals, who she had 
 I'uled should be at Fairmead. 
 
 ' No,' said Maurice, ' Albinia thought her son too mighty for 
 Winifred. Our laudable efforts at cousinly friendship usually 
 produce war-whoops that bring the two mammas each to snatch 
 her own offspring from the fray, with a scolding for the sake of 
 appearances though believing the other the only guilty party.' 
 
 ' Now, Maurice,' cried Albinia, ' you confess how fond Mary 
 is of setting jieople to righi,s.' 
 
 ' Well — when Maurice bullies Alby.' 
 
 * Aye, you talk of the mammas, and you only want to make 
 out poor IMaurice the aggressor.' 
 
 ' Never mind, they will work in better than if they were 
 fabulous children. Ah, you are goin.g to contend that yours is 
 a fabulous child. Take care I don't come on you with the 
 indestructible — ' 
 
 ' Take cai'e I don't come on you with Mary's lessons to Colonel 
 Bury on the game-law.' 
 
 * Does it not do one good to see those two quarrelling just 
 like old times V exclaimed one aunt to the other.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 315 
 
 'And William looking ou as coutemptuous as ever!' said 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' Kot at all. I rejoice to have this week with you. I should 
 like to see your boy. Maurice says he is a thorough young soldier.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal looked pleased. 
 
 The man of study had a penchant for the man of action, and 
 the brothers-in-law were drawing together. Mars, the great 
 geographical master, was but opening his gloomy school on the 
 Turkish soil, and the world was discovering its ignorance 
 beyond the Pinnock's Catechisms of its youth. Maurice treated 
 Mr. Kendal as a dictionary, and his stores of Byzantine, Othman, 
 and Austrian lore, chimed in with the perceptions of the General, 
 who, going by military maps, described plans of operations which 
 Mr. Kendal could hardly believe he had not found in history, 
 while he could as little credit that Mr. Kendal had neither 
 studied tactics, nor seen the spots of which he could tell such 
 serviceable minutiae. 
 
 They had their heads together over the map the whole 
 evening, and the next morning, when the General began to ask 
 questions about Turkish, his sister was proud to hear her husband 
 answering with the directness and precision dear to a military 
 man. 
 
 ' That's an uncommonly learned man, Albinia's husband,' 
 began the General, as soon as he had started with his brother on 
 a roimd of errands. 
 
 'I never met a man of more profound and universal knowledge.' 
 
 ' I don't see that he is so grave and unlike other peojile. 
 Fred reported that he was silence itself, and she might as well 
 have married Hamlet's ghost.' 
 
 ' Fred saw him at a party,' said Maurice ; then remembering 
 ohat this might not be explanatory, he added, 'He shines most 
 w^hen at ease, and every year since his marriage has improved 
 and enlivened him.' 
 
 'I am satisfied. I hardly knew how to judge, though I did 
 not think myself called upon to remonstrate against the mai-- 
 riage, as the aunts wished. I knew I might depend on you, and 
 I thoiTght it high time that she should be settled.' 
 
 ' I have been constantly admiring her discernment, for I own 
 that at first his reserve stood very much in my way, but since 
 she has raised his spirits, and taught him to exert himself, he 
 has been a most valuable brother to me.' 
 
 ' Then you think her happy ? I was surprised to see her 
 such a fine-looking woman ; my aunts had croaked so much 
 about his children and his mother, that I thought she would ba 
 worr. to a shadow.'
 
 S16 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Very liappy. She lias casual troubles, and a great deal of 
 work, but that is what she is made for.' 
 
 ' How does she get on with his children V 
 
 ' Hearty love for them has carried her through the first dif- 
 ficulties, which appalled me, for they had been greatly mis- 
 managed. I am afraid that she has not been able to undo some 
 of the j)ast evil ; and with all her good intentions, I am some- 
 times afraid whether she is old enough to deal with grown-up 
 young people.' 
 
 ' You don't mean that Kendal's children are grown up ? I 
 should think him younger than I am.' 
 
 ' He is so, but civil servants marry early, and not always 
 wisely ; and the son is about twenty. Poor Albinia dotes on 
 him, and has done more for him than ever his father did ; but 
 the lad is weak and tender every way, with no stamina, moral or 
 physical, and with just enough property to do him harm. He 
 has been at Oxford and has iailed, and now he is in the militia ; 
 but what can be expected of a boy in a country town, with 
 nothing to do ? I did not like his looks last week, and I don't 
 think his being there, always idle, is good for that little manly 
 scam]) of Albinia's own.' 
 
 * Why don't they put him into the service V 
 
 * He is too old.' 
 
 ' Not too old for the cavalry !' 
 
 ' He can ride, certainly, and is a tall, good-looking fellow ; but 
 I should not have thought him the stuff to make a dragoon. 
 He has always been puling and delicate, unfit for school, want- 
 ing force.' 
 
 ' Wanting discijjline,' said the General. ' I have seen a year 
 in a good regiment make an excellent officer of that very stamp 
 of youngster, just wanting a mould to give him substance.' 
 
 ' The regiment shovild be a very good one,' said Mr. Ferx-ars ; 
 ' he would be only too easily drawn in by the bad style of subal- 
 tern.' 
 
 *Put him into the 25th Lancers,' said the Genei-al, 'and sot 
 Fred to look after him. liattle])ate as he is, he can take excel- 
 lent care of a lad to whom he takes a fancy, and if Albinia asked 
 him, he would do it with all his heart.' 
 
 ' I wish you would proj)ose it, though I am afraid his father 
 will never consent. 1 would do a great deal to get him away 
 before he has led little Maurice into harm.' 
 
 ' This consideration moved the Hector of Fairmead himself 
 to broach the subject; but neither Mr, Kendal nor Albinia 
 could think of venturing their fragile son in the army, though 
 assured that there was little chance that the 25th Lancers would
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 817 
 
 be summoned to the east, and tliey would only hold out hopes 
 of little Maurice by and by. 
 
 Albinia's martial ardour was revived as she listened with 
 greater grasp of comprehension to subjects familiar in her girl- 
 hood. She again met old friends of her father, the lingering 
 glories of the Peninsula and Waterloo, who liked her for her 
 own sake as well as for her father's, while Mai;rice looked on, 
 amused by her husband's silent pride in her, and her hourly 
 progress in the regard of the General, who began to talk of 
 making a long visit to Fairmead, after what he expected would 
 be a slight demonstration on the Danube. He even began to 
 regret the briefness of the time that he could spend in their 
 society. 
 
 Much was crowded into that week, but Albinia contrived to 
 find an hour for a call on her little French friend, to whom she 
 had already forwarded the parcels she had brought from home 
 — a great barm-brack from Biddy, and a store of delicate convent 
 confections from Hadminster. 
 
 She was set down at a sober old house in the lawyers' quarter 
 of the world, and conducted to a pretty, though rather littered 
 drawing-room, where she found a delicate-looking young mamma, 
 and various small children, 
 
 ' I'm so glad,' said little Mrs. Rainsforth, ' that you have been 
 able to come ; it will be such a pleasure to dear Miss Durant ;' 
 and while one of the children was sent to summon the governess, 
 the lady continued, nervously but warmly, ' I hope you will 
 think Miss Durant looking well ; I am afraid she shuts herself 
 up too much. I'm sure she is the greatest comfort, the greatest 
 blessing to us.' 
 
 Albinia's reply was prevented by a rush of children, followed 
 by the dear little trim, slight figure. There was no fear that 
 Genevieve did not look well or happy. Her olive complexion 
 was healthy ; her dark eyes lustrous with gladness ; her smile 
 frank and unquelled ; her movements full of elastic life. 
 
 She led the way to the back parlour, dingy by nature, but 
 bearing living evidence to the charm which she infused into any 
 room. Scratched table, desks, copybooks, and worn grammars, 
 had more the air of a comfortable occupation than of the shabby 
 haunt of irksome taskwork. There were flowers in the window, 
 and the children's treasures were arranged with taste. Gene- 
 vieve loved her school-room, and showed off its little advantages 
 with pretty exultation. If Mrs. Kendal could only see how 
 well it looked with the curtains down, after tea ! 
 
 And then came the long, long talk over home affairs, and the 
 history of half the population of Bayford, Genevieve making
 
 S13 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 inquiries, and drinking in tlie answers as if she could not make 
 enough of her enjoyment. 
 
 Not till all the rest had been discussed, did she saj, with 
 dropped eyelids, and a little blush, ' Is Mr. Gilbert Kendal 
 quite strong V 
 
 •' Thank you, he has been much better this winter, and so 
 useful and kind in nui'siug grandmamma !' 
 ' Yes, he was always kind.' 
 
 ' He was going to beg me to remember him to you, but he 
 broke off, and said you would not care.' 
 
 ' I care for all goodness towards me,' answered Genevidve, 
 lifting her eyes with a flash of inquiry. 
 
 * I am afraid he is as bad as ever, poor fellow,' said Albinia, 
 with a little smile and sigh ; ' but he has behaved very well. I 
 must tell you that you were in the same train with him on his 
 joui'ney from Oxford, and he was ashamed to meet your eye.' 
 
 ' Ah, I remember well. I thought I saw him. I was bring- 
 ing George and Fanny from a visit to their aunts, and I was sure 
 it must be Mr. Gilbert.' 
 
 'As prudent as ever, Genevieve.' 
 
 ' It would not have been right,' she said, blushing ; ' but it waa 
 such a treat to see a Eayford face, that I had nearly sprung out 
 of the waiting-room to speak to him at the first impulse.' 
 ' My poor little exile !' said Albinia. 
 
 ' No, that is not my name. Call me my aunt's bread-winner. 
 That's my pride ! I mean my cause of thankfulness. I could 
 not have earned half so much at home.' 
 ' I hope indeed you have a home here.' 
 
 ' That I have,' she fervently answei-ed. ' Oh, without being 
 a homeless orphan, one does not learn what kind hearts there 
 are. Mr. and Mrs. Rainsforth seemed only to fear that they 
 should not be good enoujrh to me.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that you found it a little oppressive f 
 ' Fi done, Madame ! Yet I must own that with her timid 
 uneasy way, and his so perfect courtesy, they did alarm me a 
 little at first. I pitied them, for I saw them so resolved not to 
 let me feel myself de trop, that I knew I was in their way.' 
 ' Did not that vex you V 
 
 * Why, I suppose they set their inconvenience against the 
 needs of their children, and my concern was to do my duty, and 
 be as little troublesome as possible. They pressed me to spend 
 my evenings with them, but I thought that would be too hard 
 on them, so I told them I preferred the last hours alone, and I 
 do not come in unless there are others to prevent their being 
 tet&-(X-iHe.''
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. SI 9 
 
 * Ver}' wise. And do you not find it lonely ?' 
 
 ' It is my time for I'eadiiig — my time for letters — my time for 
 being at home !' cried Genevieve. ' Now however that I hope 
 I am no longer a weight on them, Mi-s. Eainsforth will some- 
 times ask me to come and sing to him, or read aloud, when he 
 comes home so tired that he cannot speak, and her voice is 
 ■neak. Alas ! they are both so fragile, so delicate.' 
 
 Her soul was evidently with them and with her charges, of 
 whom there was so much to say, that the carriage came all too 
 soon to hurry Albinia away from the sight of that buoyant sweet- 
 ness and capacity of happiness. 
 
 She was rather startled by Miss Ferrars saying, ' By-the-by, 
 Albinia, how was it that you never told us of the development 
 of the Infant prodigy V 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean, Aunt Gertrude.' 
 
 ' Don't you remember that boy, that Mrs. Dusautoy Caven- 
 dish's son, whom that poor little companion of hers used to call 
 V Enfant prodigue. T did not know he was a neighbour of yours 
 as I find from Lucy.' . 
 
 ' What did Lucy tell you about him 1 She did not meet him ! 
 cried Albinia, endeavouring not to betray her alarm. ' I mean, 
 did she meet him V 
 
 ' Indeed.' said Miss Ferrars, ' you should have warned us if 
 you had any objection, my dear,' 
 
 ' Well, but what did happen f 
 
 ' Oh, nothing alarming, I assure you. They met at a ball at 
 Brighton; Lucy introduced him, and said he was your vicar's 
 nephew; they danced together. I think only once.' 
 
 * I wish you had mentioned it. When did it happen 1 ' 
 
 ' I can hardly tell. I think she had been about a fortnight 
 with us, but she seemed so indifferent that I should never have 
 thought it worth mentioning. I remember my sister thought 
 of asking him to a little evening party of ours, and Lucy dis- 
 suading her. Now, really, Albinia, don't look as if we had 
 been betraying our trust. You never gave us any reason to 
 think—' 
 
 'No, no. I beg your pardon, dear aunt. I hope there's no 
 harm done. If I could have thought of his turning up, I would 
 — But I hope it is all right.' 
 
 Such good accounts came from both homes, and the General 
 was so unwilling to part with his brother and sister, that he 
 persuaded them to accompany him to Southampton for em- 
 barkation. They all felt that these last days, precious now, 
 might be doubly precious by-and-by, and alone with them and 
 free from the kindly scrutiny of the good aunts, William ex-
 
 320 THE YOUNG STEP- MOTHER. 
 
 pauded and evinced more warm fraternal feeling than he had 
 ever manifested. He surprised his sister by thanking her 
 warmly for having come to meet him. ' I am glad to have 
 been with you, Albinia ; I am glad to have seen your husband. 
 I have told Maurice that I am heartily rejoiced to see you in 
 such excellent hands.' 
 
 ' You must come and see the children, and know him better.' 
 
 ' I hope so, when this affair is over, and I expect it will ba 
 soon settled. Anyway, I am glad we have been together. If 
 we meet again, we will try to see more of one another.' 
 
 He had said much more to his brother, expressing regret that 
 he had been so much separated from his sister. Thorough 
 soldier as he was, and ardent for active service, the sight of her 
 and her husband had renewed gentler thovights, and he was so 
 far growing old that the idea of home and rest came invitingly 
 before him. He was softened at the parting, and when he 
 wrung their hands for the last time on the deck of the steamer, 
 they were glad that his last words were, ' God bless you.' 
 
 There had been some uncertainty ^xs to the time of his 
 sailing, and Fairmead and Bayford had been told that unless 
 their travellei's arrived by the last i-easonable train on Friday, 
 they were not to be expected till the same time on Saturday, 
 Maurice having concocted a scheme for crossing by several 
 junction lines, so as to save waiting ; but they had not 
 reckoned on the discoui'tesies ' of two rival companies whose 
 lines met at the same station, and the southern train was only 
 in time to hear the parting snort of the engine that it professed 
 to catch. 
 
 The Ferrars' nature, above all when soi'e with farewells, was 
 not made to submit to having time wasted by treacherous trains 
 on a cold wintry day, and at a small new station, with an 
 apology for a waiting-room, no bookstall, and nothing to eat 
 but greasy gingerbread and hard apples. 
 
 Maurice relieved his feelings by heartily rowing all the 
 officials, but he could obtain no redress, as he knew full well 
 the whole time, nor would any train pick tbem up for full three 
 hours. 
 
 So indignant was he, that amusement rendered AlV)inia 
 patient, especially when he took to sti'iding up and down the 
 platform, devising cases in which the delay might be actionable, 
 and vituperating the placability of Mr. Kendal, who having 
 wrapt up his wife in plaids and seated her on the top of the 
 luggage, had set his back to the wall, and was lost to the pre- 
 sent world in a book. 
 
 'Never mind, Maurice,' said Albinia ; 'in any other circum-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. S21 
 
 stances we should tliink three hours of each other a great 
 been.' 
 
 ' If anything could be an aggravation, it would be to see 
 Albinia philosophical.' 
 
 ' You make me so on the p-iuciple of the Helots and 
 Spartans.' 
 
 It was possible to get to Hadminster by half-past seven, and 
 on to Bayford by nine o'clock, but Fairmead lay farther from 
 the line, and the next train did not stop at the nearest station, 
 so Maurice agreed to sleep at Bayford that night ; and this 
 settled, set out with his sister to explore the neighbourhood 
 for eatables and church architecture. They made an ineffec- 
 tual attempt to rouse Mr. Kendal to go with them, but he was 
 fiir too deep in his book, and only muttered something about 
 looking after the luggage. They found a stale loaf of bread, 
 and a liideous church, but it was a merry walk, and brought 
 them back in their liveliest mood, which lasted even to pro- 
 nouncing it ' great fun ' that the Hadminster flies were all at a 
 ball, and that the omnibus must convey them home by the full 
 moonlight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 SLOWLY the omnibus rumbled over the wooden bridge, and 
 then with a sudden impulse it thundered up to the front door. 
 
 Albinia jumped out, and caught Sophy in her arms, exclaim- 
 ing, ' And how are you all, my dear V 
 
 ' We had quite given you up,' Gilbert was saying. ' The fire 
 is in the library,' he added, as Mr. Kendal was opening the 
 drawing-room door, and closing it in haste at the sight of a pale, 
 uninviting pateh of moonlight, and the rush of a blast of cold 
 wiud. 
 
 ' And how is grandmamma 1 and the children ? My Sophy, 
 you don't look well ; and where's Lucy V 
 
 Ere she could receive an answer, down jumped, two steps at 
 a time, a half-dressed figure, all white stout legs and arms which 
 were speedily hugging mamma, 
 
 * There's my man !' said Mr. Kendal, *a good boy, I know.' 
 ' No !' cried the bold voice. 
 
 * No 1 (incredulously) what have you been doing V 
 
 ' I broke the conservatory with the marble dog, and — * he 
 looked at Gilbert. 
 
 ' There's my brave boy,' said Mr. Kendal, who had sitftered 
 6o much from his elder sou's oquivocaLion as to be i-c&dy to 
 
 Y
 
 822 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 overlook anything for the sake of truth. ' Here, Uncle Maurice, 
 shake hands with your godson, who always tells truth.' 
 
 The urchin folded his arms on his bosom, and looked like a 
 young Bonaparte. 
 
 ' Where's yoi;r hand V said his uncle. * Wont you give it 
 to me f 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' He will be wiser to-morrow, if you are so good as to try him 
 again,' said Albinia, who knew nothing did him more harm 
 than creating a commotion by his caprices ; ' he is up too late, 
 and fractious with sleepiness. Go to bed now, my dear.' 
 
 ' I shall not be wiser to-morrow,' qnoth the child, marching 
 out of the room in defiance. 
 
 'Monkey! what's the matter now f exclaimed Albinia; *I 
 Euppose you have all been spoiling him. But what's become of 
 Lu>cy V 
 
 ' Gilbert said she was at the Dusautoys,' replied Sophy ; ' but 
 if you would but come to grandmamma 1 She found out that 
 you were expected, and she is in such a state that we have not 
 known what to do,' 
 
 ' I'll come ; only, Sophy dear, please order tea and something 
 to eat. Your uncle looks i-avenons.' 
 
 She broke off, as there advanced into the room a being like 
 Lucy, but covered with streams and spatters of flowing sable 
 tears, like a heraldic decoration, over face, neck, and dress. 
 
 All unconscious, she came with outstretched hands and words 
 of welcome, but an astonished cry of ' Lucy 1' met her, and cast- 
 ing her eyes on her dress, she screamed, * Oh goodness ! it's ink !' 
 
 ' Where can you have been 1 what have you been doing V 
 
 « I — don't know — Oh ! it was the great inkstand, and not 
 the scent — Oh ! it is all over me ! It's in my hair !' shuddering. 
 ' Oh, dear ! oh dear ! I shall never get it out !' and ofl she 
 rushed, followed by (Jilbert, and was soon heard calling tho 
 maids to bring hot water to her room. 
 
 ' What is all this V asked Mr. Kendal. 
 
 *I do not know,' mournfully answered Sophy. 
 
 Albinia left the library, and taking a candle, went into the 
 empty drawing-room. The moonlight shone white upon tho 
 table, and showed the large cut-glass ink-bottle in a pool of its 
 own contents ; and the sofa-cover had black spots and stains as if 
 it had partaken of the libation, 
 
 Sophy saw, and stood like a statue. 
 
 * You know nothing, I am sure,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Nothing r repeated Sophy, with a blank look of wretched-
 
 THE YOUKG STEP-MOTHER. 823 
 
 'If you please, ma'am,' said the nurse at the door, 'could you 
 be kind enough to come to Mrs. Meadows, she will be quieter 
 when she has seen you V 
 
 ' Sophy deal", we must leave it now,' said Albinia. ' You 
 must bee to their tea j they have had nothing since break- 
 fast.' 
 
 She hastened to the sickroom, where she found Mrs. Meadows 
 in a painful state of agitation and excitement. The nurse said 
 that until this evening, she had been as usual, but finding that 
 Mrs. Kendal was expected, she had been very restless ; !Miss 
 Kendal was out, and neither Miss Sophy nor Mr. Gilbert could 
 soothe her. 
 
 She eagerly grasped the hand of Albinia who bent down to 
 kiss her, and asked how she had been. 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear, very unwell, very. They should not leave 
 me to myself so long, my dear. I thought you would never 
 come back ;' and she began to cry, and say, ' no one cared for 
 an old woman.' 
 
 Albinia assured her that she was not going away, and re- 
 strained her own eager and bewildered feelings to tranquillize 
 her, by prosing on in the lengthy manner which always soothed 
 the poor old lady. It was a great penance, in her anxiety to 
 investigate the mysteries that seemed to swarm in the house, 
 but at last she was able to leave the bedside, though not till she 
 had been twice summoned to tea. 
 
 Sophy, lividly pale, was presiding with trembling hands; 
 Gilbert, flushed and nervous, waiting on every one, and trying 
 to be lively and at ease, but secret distress was equally traceable 
 in each. 
 
 She durst only ask after the children, and heard that her 
 little namesake had been as usual as good and sweet as child 
 could be. And Maurice 1 
 
 * He's a famous fellow, went on capitally,' said Gilbert. 
 
 ' Yes, till yesterday,' hoarsely gasped Sophy, sincerity wrench- 
 ing out the protest by force. 
 
 ' Ah, what has he been doing to the conservatory V 
 
 ' He let the little marble dog down from the morning-room 
 window with my netting silk ; it fell, and mii.de a great hole,' 
 said Sophy. 
 
 ' What, as a form of dawdling at his lessons V 
 
 ' Yes ; but he has not been at all tiresome about them except 
 to-day and yesterday.' 
 
 ' And he has told the exact truth,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' his 
 gallant confession has earned the little cannon I promised him.' 
 
 'I believe,' said Albinia, 'that it would be greater merit in 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Maurice to learn forbearance than to speak trutli and be praised 
 for it. I Lave never seen his truth really tried.' 
 
 ' I value truth above all other qualities,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' So do I,' said Albinia, ' and it is my greatest joy in that little 
 fellow ; but some time or other it must cost him something, or 
 it will not be tested.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal did not like this, and repeated that he must have 
 his cannon. Albinia fancied that she heard something like a 
 groan from Gilbert. 
 
 When they broke up for the night, she threw her arm round 
 Sophy as they went upstairs, saying, ' My poor dear, you look 
 half dead. Have things been going very wrong V 
 
 ' Only these two days,' said Sophy ; ' and I don't know that 
 they have either. I am glad you are come !' 
 
 ' What kind of things V said Albinia, following her into her 
 room. 
 
 * Don't ask,' at first began Sophy ; but then, frowning as if 
 she could hardly speak, she added, ' I mean, I don't know whether 
 it is my own horrid way, or that there is really an atmosphere 
 of something I don't make out.' 
 
 ' Didn't you tell me Lucy was at the Vicarage ?' said Albinia, 
 suddenly. 
 
 ' Gilbert said yes, when I asked if she could be with the 
 Dusautoy-s,' said Sophy, ' when grandmamma wanted her and 
 she did not come. Mamma, please don't think of what I said, 
 for very likely it is only that I am cross, because of being left 
 alone with grandmamma so long this evening, and then Maurice 
 
 being slow at his lessons.' 
 
 You are not cross, Sophy ; you are worn out, and perplexed, 
 and unhappy.' 
 
 ' Oh ! not now you are come home,' and Sophy laid her head 
 on her shoulder and cried with relief and exhaustion. Albinia 
 caressed her, saying, 
 
 'My trust, my mainstay, my poor Soi)hy ! There, go to bed 
 and sleep, and don't think of it now. Only first tell me one 
 thing, is that Algernon at home V 
 
 ' No !' said Sophy, vehemently, ' certainly not !' 
 
 All)inia breathed more freely. 
 
 ' Everybody,' said Sophy, collecting herself, 'has gone on well, 
 Gilbert and Lucy have been as kind as could be, and Maurice 
 very good, but yesterday morning he went on in his foolish way 
 at lessons, and Gill)crt took him out riding before he had finished 
 them. They came in very late, and T think Maurice must 
 have been overtired, for lie was so idle this morning, that I 
 threatened to tell, and put him in mind cf the cannon papa
 
 THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER. 325 
 
 promised him ; but somehow I must have managed badly, for 
 he only grew more defiant, and ended by letting the marble 
 do" out of window, so that it went through the roof of the 
 conservatory.' 
 
 'Yes, of course it was your fault, or the marV le dog's,' said 
 Albinia, smiling, and stroking her fondly. * Ah ! we ought to 
 have come home at the fixed time, and not left you to their 
 mercy ; but one could not hurry away from William, when he 
 was so much more sorry to leave us than we ever expected.' 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, don't talk so ! We were so glad. If only we 
 could help being such a nuisance !' 
 
 Albinia contrived to laugh, and withdrew, intending to make 
 a visit of inquiry to Lucy, but she could not refuse herself the 
 refreshment of a kiss to the little darling who could have no 
 guile to hide, no "wrong to confess. She had never so much 
 realized the value of the certainty of innocence as when she hung 
 over the crib, and thought that when those dark fringed lids were 
 lifted, the eyes would flash with delight at meeting her, without 
 one drawback. 
 
 Suddenly a loud roar burst from the little room next to Gil- 
 bert's, in which Maurice had lately been installed. She hurried 
 swiftly in that direction, but a passage and some steps lay be- 
 tween, and Gilbert had been beforehand with her. 
 
 She heard the words, ' I don't care ! I don't care if it is 
 manly ! I will tell ; I can't bear this !' then as his brother 
 seemed to be hushing him, he burst out again, ' I wouldn't have 
 minded if papa wouldn't give me the cannon, but he will, and 
 that's as bad as telling a lie ! I can't sleep if you wont let me 
 off my pi'omise !' 
 
 Trembling from head to foot, her voice low and quivering 
 with concentrated, incredulous wrath, Albinia advanced. ' Are 
 you teaching my child falsehood V she said ; and Gilbert felt as 
 if her look were worse to him than a thousand deaths. 
 
 ' O mamma ! mamma ! Gilbert ! let me tell her,' cried the 
 child ; and Albinia, throwing herself on her knees, clasped 
 him in her arms, as though snatching him from the demon of 
 deceit. 
 
 ' Tell all, Maurice,' said Gilbert, folding his arms ; ' it is to 
 your credit, if you would believe so. I shall be glad to have 
 this misery ended any way! It was all for the sake of 
 others.' 
 
 ' Mamma,' Maurice said, in the midst of these muttcriugs of 
 his unhappy brother, ' I cau'fc have the cannon without papa 
 knowing it all. I couldn't shake hands with Uncle Maurice 
 for telling the truth, for I had not told it.'
 
 82t) THE YOITXG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 'And what is it, my boy 1 tell me now ; no one can hinder 
 you.' 
 
 ' I scratched and fought him — Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy — I 
 kicked down the decanter of wine. They told me it was manly 
 not to tell, and I promised.' 
 
 He was crying with the exceeding pain and distress of a 
 child whose tears were rare, and Albinia rocked liim in her 
 arms. 
 
 Gilbert cautiously shut the door, and said sadly, * Maurice 
 behaved nobly, if he woiild only believe so. You would be proud 
 of your son if you had seen him. They wanted to make him 
 drink wine, and he was fighting them off.' 
 
 ' And where were you, Gilbert, you to whom I trusted him V 
 
 ' I could not help it,' said Gilbert ; then as her lip curled with 
 contempt, and her eye spoke disappointment, he cast himself on 
 the ground, exclaiming, ' Oh, if you knew how I have been 
 mixed up with others, and what I have gone through, you would 
 pity me. Oh, Maurice, don't cry, when I would give worlds to 
 be like you. Why do you let him ciy 1 why don't you tell him 
 what a brave noble boy he is V 
 
 ' I don't know what to think or believe,' said Albinia, coldly ; 
 but returning vehemently to her child, she continued, ' Maurice, 
 my dear, no one is angry Avith you ! You, at least, I can depend 
 on. Tell me where you have been, and what they have been 
 doing to you.' 
 
 Even with Gilbert's explanations, she could hardly under- 
 stand Maurice's narrative, but she gathered that on Thursday, 
 the brothei's had ridden out, and were about to turn homewai-ds, 
 when Archie Tritton, of whom to her vexation Maurice spoke 
 fumiliarly, had told Gilbert that a friend was waiting for him at 
 the inn connected with the training stables, three miles farther 
 on. Gilbert had demurred, but w^as told the matter would brook 
 no delay, and yielded on being pressed. He tried to suppress 
 the friend's name, but Maui'ice had called him Mr. Cavendish 
 Dusautoy. 
 
 While Gilbert was engaged with him, Tritton had introduced 
 Maurice to the hoi'ses and stable boys, whose trade had inspired 
 him with such emulation, that he broke off in the midst of his 
 confession to ask whether he could be a jockey and also a 
 gentleman. All this had detained them till so late, that they 
 had been drawn into staying to dinner. Maui'ice had gone on 
 very happily, secure that he was riglit in Gilbert's hands, and only 
 laying up a few curious words for explanation ; but when he was 
 a.sked to drink wine, he stoutly answered that mamma did not 
 allow it.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 827 
 
 Idle niiscliiel prompted Dusaiitoy and Tritton to set them- 
 selves to overpower his resistance. Gilbert's feeble remonstrances 
 were treated as a jest, and A.lgernon, who could brook no oppo- 
 sition, swore that he would conquer the little prig. Maurice 
 found himself pinioned by strong arms, but determined and 
 spirited, he made a vigorous struggle, and so judiciously aimed 
 a furious kick, that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy staggered back, 
 stumbling against the table, and causing a general over- 
 throw. 
 
 The victory was with Maurice, but warned as he had often 
 been against using his natural weapons, he thought himself 
 guilty of a great crime. The others, including, alas ! Gilbert, 
 strove to persuade him it was a joke, and, above all, to bind him 
 to silence, lor Tritton and Dusautoy would never have ventured 
 so far, could they have imagined the possibility of such terms 
 as those on which he lived with his parents. They attacked the 
 poor child on the score of his manly aspirations, telling him it 
 was babyish to tell mamma and sisters everything, a practice fit 
 for girls, not for boys or men. These assurances extracted a 
 pledge of secrecy, which was kept as long as his mother was 
 absent, and only rendered him reckless by the sense that he had 
 forfeited the piize of good conduct ; but the sight of her re- 
 newed the instinct of confidence, and his father's reliance on hie 
 truth so acted on his sense of honour, that he could not hold his 
 peace. 
 
 ' j\Iay I tell papa 1 and will he let me have the cannon V he 
 finished. 
 
 ' You shall certainly tell him, my dear, dear little boy, and 
 we will see what he says about the cannon,' she said, fervently 
 kissing him. 'It will be some comfort for him to hear how you 
 have behaved, my precious little man. I thank God with all 
 my heart that He has saved you from putting anj^thing before 
 truth. I little thought I was leaving you to a tempter !' 
 
 The child did not fully understand her. His was a very simple 
 nature, and he was tired out by conflicting emotions. His breast 
 was relieved, and his mother caressed him ; he cared for nothing 
 more, and di-awing her hand so as to rest his cheek on it, he 
 looked up in her face with soft weary happiness in his eyes, then 
 let the lids sink over them, and fell peacefully asleep, while the 
 others talked on. ' At least you will do me the poor j ustice of 
 believing it was not willingly,' said Gilbert. 
 
 ' I wish you would not talk to me,' she answered, averting her 
 face, and speaking low as if to cut the heart; 'I don't want to 
 reproach you, and I can't speak to you properly.' 
 
 ' If you would only hear me, my only friend and helper !
 
 328 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 But it was a.11 tliat was wanting ! I have forfeited even your 
 toleration ! I wonder why I was born !' 
 
 He was taking up his light to depart, brit Albinia's fear of 
 her own temper made her suspect that she had spoken vindic- 
 tively, and she said, ' What can I do, Gilbert 1 Here is this 
 poor child, whom I trusted to you, who can never again be 
 ignorant of the sound of evil words, and only owes it to God's 
 mercy on his brave spirit that this has not been the begin- 
 ning of destruction. I feel as if you had been trying to snatch 
 away his soul !' 
 
 ' And will you, can you not credit,' said Gilbert, nearly 
 inaudibly, ' that I did not act by my free will 1 I had no 
 notion that any such thing could befel him, and would never 
 have let them try to silence him, but to shield others.' 
 
 'Others! Yes, Archie Tritton and Algernon Dusautoy ! I 
 know what your free-will is in their hands, and yet I thought 
 you cared for your brother enough to guard him, if not 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' If you knew the coercion,' muttered Gilbert. ' I protest, 
 as I would to my dying day, that I had no intention of going 
 near the stables when I set out, and would never have consented 
 could I have heljjed it.' 
 
 * And why could not you help it V 
 
 Gilbert gasped. 'Tritton brought me a message from 
 Dusautoy, insisting on my meeting him there. It was too late 
 to take Maurice home, and I could not send him with Archie. 
 I expected only to exchange a few words at the door. It was 
 Tritton who took Maurice away to the stables.' 
 
 * I hear, but I do not see the compulsion, only the extra- 
 ordinary weakness that leads you everywhere after those men.' 
 
 ' I must tell you, I suppose,' groaned Gilbert ; ' I can bear any- 
 thing but this. There's a miserable money entanglement that 
 lays me under a certain obligation to Dusautoy.' 
 
 ' Your father believed you had told him of all your debts,' 
 she said, in a tone of increased scorn and disappointment. 
 
 ' I did — I mean — Oh ! Mrs. Kendal, believe me, I intended 
 to have told him the utmost farthing — I thought I liad done so — 
 but this was a thing — Dusautoy had persuaded me into half con- 
 senting to have some wine with him from a cheating Portuguese 
 — then ordered more than ever I knew of, and tlie man went 
 and became bankrupt, and sent in a gi'eat abominable bill that 
 I no more owned, nor had reason to ex2)ect than my horse.' 
 
 ' So you preferred intriguing with this man to applying 
 openly to your fnthcr V 
 
 ' It was no doing of mine. It was forced upon me, and, in
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 329 
 
 fact, the account was mixed up with his. It was the most evil 
 houi" of my life when I consented. I've not had a moment's 
 peace or hapjiiness since, and it was the promise of the bill re- 
 ceipted that led me to this place.' 
 
 'And why was this place chosen for the meeting 1 You and 
 Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy live only too near one another.' 
 
 ' He is not at the Vicarage,' faltei-ed Gilbert. 
 
 Albinia suddenly grew pale with apprehension. ' Gilbert,' 
 she .said, ' there is only one thing that could make this business 
 worse/ and as she saw his change of countenance, she continued, 
 * Then it is so, and Lucy is his object.' 
 
 ' He did not speak, but his face was that of a convicted 
 traitor, and fresh perceptions crowded on her, as she exclaimed, 
 horror struck, ' The ink ! Yes, when i/ou said she was with 
 the Dusautoys ! I understand ! He has been in hiding, he 
 has been here ! And this expedition was to arrange a clandes- 
 tine meeting between them under your father's own roof ! You 
 conniving ! you who said you would sooner see your sister sold 
 to Legree !' 
 
 ' It is all true,' said Gilbert, moodily, his elbows on the table 
 and his face in his hands, * and if the utmost misery for weeks 
 past could be any atonement, it would be mine. But at least 
 I have done nothing willingly to bring them together. I have 
 only gone on in the hope and trust that I was some protection 
 to poor Liicy. 
 
 ' Fine protection,' sighed Albinia. * And how has it been ? 
 how does it stand V 
 
 ' Why, they met at Brighton, I believe. She used to walk 
 on the chain pier before breakfast, and he met her there. If 
 he chooses, he can make any one do what he likes, because he 
 does not undei'stand no for an answer. Then when she came 
 home, he used to meet her on the bridge, when you sent her 
 out for a turn in the evenirig, and sometimes she would make 
 me take her out walking to meet him. Don't you see how 
 utterly miserable it was for me ; when they had volunteered this 
 help all out of kindness, it was impossible for me to speak 
 to you.' 
 
 Albinia made a sound of contempt, and said, ' Go on.' 
 
 ' That time when you and Mr. Hope saw them, Lucy was 
 frightened, and they had a quarrel, he went away, and I hoped 
 and trusted it had died out, I heard no more till yesterday, 
 when I was dragged into giving him this meeting. It seems 
 that he had only just discovered your absence, and wanted to 
 take the ojiportunity of seeing her. I was in hopes you would 
 have come back 3 I assured him you would ; but he chose to
 
 830 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 watch till evening, and then Lucy was to meet him in tlie con- 
 servatory. Poor Lucy, you must not be very angry with her, 
 for she was much averse to it, and I enclosed a letter from her 
 to forbid him to come. I thought all was safe, till I actually 
 heard their voices, and grandmamma got into an agitation, and 
 Sopliy was running about wild to find Lucy. When you came 
 home, papa's opening the door frightened Lucy, and it seems 
 that Dusautoy thought that she was going to faint and scream, 
 and laid hold of the ink instead of the eau-de-cologne. There ! 
 I believe the ink would have betrayed it without me. Now 
 you have heard everything, Mrs. Kendal, and can believe thei'e 
 is not a more wretched and miserable creature breathing than 
 I am.' 
 
 Albinia slowly rose, and put her hand to her brow, as 
 though confused with the tissue of deceit and double dealing. 
 
 ' Oh ! Mrs. Kendal, will you not speak to me ? I solemnly 
 declare that I have told you all.' 
 
 ' I am thinking of your father.' 
 
 With a gesture of acquiescent anguish and despair, he let her 
 pass, held open the door, and closed it softly, so as not to awaken 
 the happy sleej^er. 
 
 ' Good night,' she said, coldly, and turned away, but his 
 mournful, resigned ' Good night,' was so utterly broken down 
 that her heart was touched, and turning she said, ' Good night, 
 Gilbert, I am sorry for you ; I believe it is weakness and not 
 wickedness.' 
 
 She held out her hand, but instead of being shaken, it was 
 pressed to his lips, and the fingers were wet with his tears. 
 
 Feeling as though the bad dreams of a night had taken shape 
 and life, Albinia stood by the fire in her sitting-room the next 
 morning, trying to rally her judgment, and equally dreading 
 the siglit of those who had caused her grief, and of those who 
 would share the shock she had last night experienced. 
 
 The first knock announced one whom she did not expect — 
 Gilbert, wretchedly pale from a sleepless night, and his voice 
 Bcarcely audible. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he said ; ' but I thought I might have 
 led you to be hard on Lucy : I do believe it was against her 
 will.' 
 
 Before she could answer, the door flew wide, and in ruslied 
 Maurice, shouting, 'Good morning, mamma;' and at his voice 
 Mr. Kendal's dressing-room door was pushed back, and he called, 
 'Hero, Maurice.' 
 
 As the boy ran forward, he was met and lifted to his father's
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 831 
 
 breast, while, with a fervency he little understood, thougli he 
 never forgot it, the words were v;ttered, 
 
 ' God bless you, Maurice, and give you grace to go on to 
 withstand temptation, and speak the truth from your heart !' 
 
 Mavirice was impressed for a moment, then he recurred to his 
 leading thought — 
 
 ' JMay I have the cannon, papa 1 I did kick — I broke the 
 bottle ; but may I have, the cannon V 
 
 ' Maurice, you are too young to understand the value of your 
 resistance. Listen to me, my boy, for you must never forget 
 this : you have been taken among persons who, I trust, will 
 never be your companions.' 
 
 ' Oh !' interrupted Maurice, ' miist I never be a jockey V 
 
 'No, Maurice. Horses are perverted to bad purposes by 
 thoughtless men, and you must keep aloof from such. You 
 were not to blame, for you refused to do what you knew to be 
 wrong, and did not know it was an improper place for you.' 
 
 ' Gilbert took me,' said Maurice, puzzled at the gravity, which 
 convinced him that some one was in fault, and of course it must 
 be himself 
 
 'Gilbert did very wrong,' said IMr. Kendal ; 'and henceforth 
 you must learn that you must trust to your own conscience, and 
 no longer believe that all your brother tells you is right.' 
 
 Maurice gazed in inquiry, and perceiving his brother's down- 
 cast air, ran to his mother, crying, ' Is papa angry?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gilbert, willing to spare her the pain of a reply, 
 'he is justly angi-y with me for having exposed you to tempta- 
 tion. Oh, Maurice, if I had been made such as you, it would 
 have been better for us all !' 
 
 It was the first perception that a grown person could do wrong, 
 and tha,t person his dear Gilbert. As if the grave countenances 
 were insupportable, he gave a long-drawn breath, hid his face on 
 his mother's knee, and burst into an agony of weeping. He was 
 lifted on her lap in a moment, father and mother both comfort- 
 ing him with assurances that he was a very good boy, and that 
 papa was much pleased with him, Mr. Kendal even putting the 
 cannon into his hand, as a tangible evidence of favour ; but the 
 child thrust aside the toy, and sliding down, took hold of his 
 brother's languid, dejected hand, and cried, with a sob and stamp 
 of his foot, 
 
 ' You shan't say you are naughty : I wont let you !' 
 
 Alas ! it was a vain re]iulsion of the trutli that this is a 
 wicked world. Gilbert only put him back, saying, 
 
 ' You had better go away from me, Maurice : you cannot
 
 332 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 miderstanci what I have done. Pray Heaveu you may nevei 
 know what I feel !' 
 
 Maui'ice did but cling tlie tighter ; and though Mr. Kendal 
 had not yet addressed the culprit, he respected the force of that 
 innocent love too much to interfere. The bell rang, and they 
 went down, Maurice still holding by his brother ; and when his 
 uncle met them, it was touching to see the generous little fellow 
 hanirins: back, and not oriving his own hand till he had seen 
 Gilbert receive the ordinaiy greeting. 
 
 Though Mr. Ferrars had been told nothing, he could not but 
 be aware of the symjitoms of a family crisis — the gravity of 
 some, and the pale, jaded looks of others. Lucy was not one of 
 these ; she came down with little Albinia in her arms, and 
 began to talk rather airiiy, excusing herself for not having come 
 down in the evening because that ' horrid ink ' had got into her 
 hair, and tittering a little over the absurdity of her having 
 picked up the inkstand in the dark. Not a word of response 
 did she meet, and her gaiety died away in vague alarm. Sophy, 
 the most innocent, looked wretched ; and Maurice absolutely 
 began to cry again, at the failure of some mauceuvre to make 
 his father speak to Gilbert. 
 
 His tears broke up the breakfast-party. His mother led him 
 away to reason with him, that, sad as it was, it was better that 
 people should be grieved when they had transgressed, as the 
 only hope of their forgiveness and improvement. Maurice 
 wanted her to reverse the declaration that Gilbert had done 
 wrong ; but, alas ! this could not be, and she was obliged to 
 send him out with his little sister, hoping that he would work 
 oif his grief by exercise. It was mournful to see the first shadow 
 of the penalty of sin falling on the Eden of his childhood ! 
 
 With an aching heart, she went in search of Lucy, who had 
 taken sanctuary in Mrs. Meadows's room, and was not e;isily 
 withdrawn from thence to a tete-cl-tete. Fearful of falsehood, 
 Albiuia began by telling her she knew all, and how little she 
 had expected such a i^equital of trust. 
 
 Lucy exclaimed tliat it had not been her fault, she had always 
 wanted to tell, and gradually Albiuia drew from her the whole 
 avowal, half shamefaced, half exultant. 
 
 She had never dreamt of meeting Algei'non at Brighton — it 
 was quite by chance tliat she came upon him at the officers' ball 
 when he was staying with Captain Greenaway. He asked her 
 to dance, and she had said yes, all on a sudden, without thinking, 
 and then she fancied ho would go away ; she begged him not 
 to come again, but whenuvei- she went oub ou the chain-pier 
 before breakfast, there he was.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. Soo 
 
 Why did she go thitlier 1 She hung her head, Mrs. Annesley 
 had desired her to walk ; she could not help it ; she was afraid 
 to write and tell what was going on — besides, he would come, 
 though she told him she would not see him ; and she could not 
 bear to make him unhappy. Then, when she came home, she 
 had been in hopes it was all over, but she had been very un- 
 liappy, and had been on the point of telling all about it many 
 times, when mamma looked at her kindly ; but then he came to 
 the Yicarage, and he ivoicld wait for her at the bridge, and 
 write notes to her, and she could not stop it ; but she had 
 always told him it was no use, she never would be engaged to 
 him without papa's consent. She had only promised that she 
 would not marry any one else, only because he was so very 
 desperate, and she was afraid to break it off entirely, lest he 
 should go and marry the Principessa Bianca, a foreigner and 
 Papist, which would be so shocking for him and his uncle. 
 Gilbert could testify how grieved she was to have any secrets 
 from mamma ; but Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy was so dreadful 
 when she talked of telling, that she did not know what would 
 happen. 
 
 When he went away, and she thought it was all over — 
 mamma might recollect how hard it was for her to keep up, 
 and what a force she put ujDon herself — but she would rather 
 have pined to death than have said one word to bring him back, 
 and was quite shocked when Gilbert gave her his note, to beg 
 her to let him see her that evening, before the party returned ; 
 she said, with all her might, that he miist not come, and when 
 he did, she was begging him all the time to go away, and she 
 was so dreadfully frightened when they actually came, that she 
 had all but gone into hysterics, or fainted away, and that was 
 the way he came to throw the ink at her — she was so very 
 much shocked, and so would he be — and really she felt the mis- 
 foi'tune to the beautiful new sofa-cover as a most serioxis calamity 
 and aggravation of her offence. 
 
 It was not easy to know how to answer ; Albinia was scornful 
 of the sofa-cover, and yet it was hard to laj^ hold of a tangible sub- 
 ject on which to show Lucy her error, except in the conceal- 
 ment, which, by her own showing, she had lamented the whole 
 time. She had always said no, but, unluckily, her noes were of 
 the kind that might easily be made to mean yes ; and she evidently 
 had been led on partly by her own heart, partly by the force of 
 the stronger will, though her better principles had filled her 
 with scruples and misgivings at every stage. She had been often 
 on the point of telling all, and asking forgiveness; and here it 
 painfully crossed Albinia, that if she herself had been less
 
 334 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 hurried, and less disposed to take everything for granted, a little 
 tenderness might have led to a voluntaiy confession. 
 
 Still Lucy defended herself by the compulsiou exercised on 
 her, and she would hear none of the conclusions Albinia drew 
 therefrom ; she would not see that the man who drove her to a 
 course of disobedience and subterfuge could be no fit guide, and 
 fired up at a word of censure, declaring that she knew that 
 mamma had always hated him, and that now he was absent, she 
 would not hear him blamed. The one drop of true love made 
 her difficult to deal with, for the heart was really made over to 
 the tyrant, and Albinia did not feel herself sufficiently guiltless 
 of negligence and imprudence to rebuke her with a comfortable 
 conscience. 
 
 Mr. Kendal had been obliged to attend to some justice busi- 
 ness — better for him, perhaps, than acting as domestic magistrate 
 — and meanwhile the Vicar of Fairmead found himself for- 
 gotten. He wanted to be at home, yet did not like to leave his 
 sister in unexplained trouble, though not sure whether he might 
 not be better absent. 
 
 Time passed on, he finished the newspaper, and wrote letters, 
 and then, seeing no one, he had gone into the hall to send for a 
 conveyance, when Gilbert, coming in from the militia parade, 
 became the recipient of his fiirewells, but apparently with so 
 little comprehension, that he broke off, struck by the dejected 
 countenance, and wandering eye. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' Gilbert said, passing his hand over his 
 brow, ' I did not hear.' 
 
 ' I was only asking you to tell my sister that I would not 
 disturb her, and leaving my good-byes with you.' 
 
 ' You are not fjoinw V 
 
 ' Thank you ; I think my wife will grow anxious.' 
 
 * I had hoped ' — Gilbert sighed and paused — ' I had thought 
 that perhaps — ' 
 
 The wretchedness of his tone drove away Mr. Ferrars's pur- 
 pose of immediate de^)arture, and returning to the drawing-room, 
 he said, ' If there were any way in which I could be of use.' 
 
 * Then you do not know V said Gilbert, veiling his face with 
 his hand, as he leant on the mantel-shelf 
 
 * I know nothing. I could only see that something was 
 amiss. I was wishing to know whether my presence or absence 
 would be best for you all.' 
 
 ' Oh ! don't go !' cried Gilbert. ' Nobody must go who can 
 be any comfort to Mrs. Kendal.' 
 
 A few kind words drew forth the whole piteous history that 
 lay so heavily on his heart, lleserves were all over now ; and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. HV^o 
 
 irregularly a.nd incoherently he laid open his griefs ami errors, 
 his gradual absorptiou into the society with which he had once 
 broken, and the inextricable complication of mischief in which 
 he had been involved by his debt. 
 
 ' Yet,' he said, ' all the time I longed from my heart to do 
 ■well. It was the very thing that led me into this scrape. I 
 thought if the man applied to my father, as he threatened, that 
 I should be suspected of having concealed this on purpose, and 
 be sent to India, and I was so happy, and thought myself so 
 safe here. I did believe that home and Mrs. Kendal would 
 have sheltered me ; but my destiny must needs hunt me out 
 here, and alienate even her !' 
 
 ' The way to find the Devil behind the Cross, is to cower be- 
 neath it in weak idolatry, instead of grasping it in courageous 
 faith,' said Mr. Ferrars. ' Such faith would have made you 
 trust yourself implicitly to your father. Then you would either 
 have gone forth in humble .acceptance of the punishment, or 
 else have stayed at home, free, pardoned, and guarded ; but, as 
 it was, no wonder temptation followed you, and you had no 
 force to resist it.' 
 
 * And so all is lost ! Even dear little Maurice can never be 
 trusted to me again ! And his mother, who would, if she could, 
 be still merciful and pitying as an angel, she cannot forget to 
 what I exposed him ! She will never be the same to me again ! 
 Yet I could lay down my life for any of them !' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars watched the drooping figure, crouching on his 
 chairs, elbows on knees, head bowed on the supporting hands, and 
 face hidden ; and, listening to the meek, afl'ectionate hopeless- 
 ness of the tone, he understood the fond love and compassion 
 that had often surprised him in his sistei*, but he longed to read 
 whether this were penitence towards God, or remorse towards 
 man. 
 
 ' Miserable indeed, Gilbert,' he said ; ' but if all were irre- 
 trievably ofiended, there still is One who can abundantly 
 pardon, where repentance is true.' 
 
 ' I thought ' — cried Gilbert — ' I thought it had been true 
 before ! If pain, and shame, and abhorrence could so render it, 
 I know it was when I came home. x\nd then it was compai-a- 
 tive happiness ; I thought I was forgiven ; I found joy and 
 peace where they are promised' — the burning tears dropped 
 between his fingers — ' but it was all delusion ; not prayers nor 
 sacraments can shield me — I am doomed, and all I ask is to be 
 out of the way of ruining Maurice !' 
 
 ' This is mere despair,' said Mr. Ferrars. ' 1 cannot but 
 believe your contrition was sincere ; but steadfast courage was
 
 336 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Avhat you needed, and you failed in the one trial that may have 
 been sent yovi to strengthen and prove you. The effects have 
 been terrible, but thei'e is every hope that you may retrieve 
 your error, and win back the sense of torgiveness.' 
 
 ' If I could dare to hope so — but I cannot presume to take 
 home to myself those assurances, when I know that I only 
 resolve, that I may have resolutions to break.' 
 
 ' Have you ever laid all this personally before Mr. Dusautoy V 
 
 ' No ; I have thought of it, but, mixed up as this is with his 
 nephew and my sister, it is impossible ! But you are a clergy- 
 man, Mr. Ferrars !' he added, eagerly. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars thought, and then said, 
 
 ' If you wish it, Gilbert, I will gladly do what I can for you. 
 I believe that I may rightly do so.' 
 
 His face gleamed for a moment with the light of gi-ateful 
 gladness, as if at the first ray of comfort, and then he said, ' I 
 am sure none was ever more grieved and wearied with the 
 bxirden of sin — if that be all.' 
 
 ' I think,' said Mr. Ferrars, ' that it might be better to give 
 time to collect yourself, examine the past, separate the sorrow 
 for the sin from the disgrace of the conseque^ices, and then look 
 earnestly at the sole ground of hope. How would it be to come 
 for a couple of nights to Fairmead, at the end of next week V 
 
 Gilbert gratef.Jly caught at the invitation ; and Mr. Ferrars 
 gave him some advice as to his reading and self-discipline, 
 speaking to him as gently and tenderly as Albinia herself. Both 
 lingered in case the other should have more to say ; but at last 
 Gilbert stood up, saying, 
 
 ' I would thankfully go to Calcutta now, but the situation is 
 filled up, and my fiither said John Kendal had been enougli 
 trifled with. If I saw any fresh opening, where I should be 
 safe from hurting Maurice !' 
 
 ' There is no reason you and your brother should not be a 
 blessing to each other.' 
 
 ' Yes, there is. Till I lived at home, I did not know how 
 impossible it is to keep clear of old acquaintance. They are 
 good-natured fellows — that Tritton and the like — and after all 
 that has come and gone, one would be a brute to cut them en- 
 tirely ; and IMaurice is always after me, and has been more about 
 with them than his mother knows. Even if I vv-ere very 
 different, I should be a link ; and though it might be no great 
 harm if Maurice were a tame mamma's boy — you see, being the 
 fellow he is, up to anything for a lark, and frantic about horses 
 — I could never keep him from them. There's no such great 
 harm in themselves — hearty, good-natured fellows they are—
 
 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 337 
 
 but there's a woi-se lot that they meet, and ]\taiu-ice will go all 
 lengths whenever he begins. Now, so little as he is now, if I 
 were once gone, he would never run into their way, and they 
 would never get a hold of him.' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars had unconsciously screwed up his face with dis- 
 may, but he relaxed it, and spoke kindly. 
 
 ' You are right. It was a mistake to stay at home. Perhaps 
 your regiment may be stationed elsewhere.' 
 
 ' I don't know how long it may be called out. If it wei'e but 
 possible to make a fresh beginning.' 
 
 ' Did you hear of my brother's suggestion V 
 
 ' I wish — but it is useless to talk about that. I could not 
 presume to ask my father for a commission — Heaven knows 
 when I shall dare to speak to him !' 
 
 ' You have not personally asked his pardon after fuU con- 
 fession.' 
 
 ' N-o — Mrs. Kendal knows all.' 
 
 ' Did you ever do such a thing in your life V 
 
 ' You don't know what my father is,' 
 
 ' Neither do you, Gilbert. Let that be the first token of sin- 
 cerity.' 
 
 Without leaving sjDace for another word, Mr. Ferrars went 
 through the conservatory into the garden, whex'e, meeting the 
 children, he took the little one in his arms, and sent Maurice 
 to fetch his mamma. Albiuia came down, looking so much 
 heated and harassed, that he was grieved to leave her. 
 
 ' Oh, Maurice, I am sorry ! You always come in for some 
 catastrophe,' she said, trying to smile. ' You have had a most 
 forlorn morning.' 
 
 'Gilbert has been with me,' he said. 'He has told me all, 
 my dear, and I think it hopeful : I like him better than I ever 
 did before.' 
 
 ' Poor feather, the breath of your lij)s has blown him the other 
 way,' said Albinia, too unhappy for consolation. 
 
 ' Well, it seems to me that you have done more for him than 
 I ever quite believed. I did not expect such sound, genuine 
 religious feeling.' 
 
 ' He always had plenty of religious sentiment,' said Albinia, 
 sadly. 
 
 ' I have asked him to come to us next week. Will you tell 
 Edmund so V 
 
 ' Yes. He will be thankful to you for taking him in hand. 
 Poor boy, I know how attractive his penitence is, but I have 
 quite left ofi" building on it.' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars defended him no longer. He could not h.plp
 
 SSS THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 beiug mucli moved by the youtli's self-abasement, but that might 
 be only because it was new to him, and he did not even try to 
 recommend him to her mercy ; he knew her own heart might be 
 trusted to relent, and it would not hurt Gilbert in the end to be 
 made to feel the full weight of his offence. 
 
 ' 1 must go,' he said, ' though I am sorry to leave you in per- 
 plexity. I am afraid I can do nothing for you.' 
 
 ' I^othing — but feel kindly to Gilbert,' said Albinia. ' I can't 
 do so yet. I don't feel as if I ever could again, when I think 
 what he was doing with Maurice. Yes, and how easily he 
 could have brought poor Lucy to her senses, if he had been 
 good for aaything ! Oh ! Maurice, this is sickening work ! 
 You should be grateful to me for not scolding you for having 
 taken me from home !' 
 
 ' I do not i-epeut,' said her brother. ' The explosion is better 
 than the subterranean mining.' 
 
 ' It may be,' said Albinia ; ' and I need not boast of the good 
 I did at home ! My poor, poor Lucy ! A little discreet kind- 
 ness and watchfulness on my part would have made all the dif- 
 ference ! It was all ray running my own way with my eyes 
 shut ; but then, I had always lived with trustworthy peo])le. 
 Well, I wont keep you listening to my maundering, when Wini- 
 fred wants you. Oh ! why did that Polysyllable ever come near 
 the place V 
 
 Mr. Ferrars said the kindest and most cheering things he 
 could devise, and drove away, not much afraid of her being un- 
 forgiving. 
 
 lie was disposed to stake all his hopes of the young man on 
 the issue of his advice to make a direct avowal to his father. 
 And Gilbert made the effort, tliough rather in desperation than 
 resolution, knowing that his condition could not be worse, and 
 seeing no hope save in Mr. Ferrars' counsel. He was the first 
 to seek Mr. Kendal, and dreadful to him as was the unaltering 
 melancholy displeasure of the fixed look, the steadily penetrating 
 deep dark eyes, and the subdued sternness of the voice, he made 
 his confession fully, without reserve or palliation. 
 
 It was more than Mr. Kendal had expected, and moi-e, per- 
 hajis, than he absolutely trusted, for Gill)ert had not hitherto 
 inspired faith in his protestations that he spoke the whole truth 
 and nothing but the truth, nor had he always the power ot 
 doing so when overpowered by fright. The manner in which 
 his father laid hold of any inadvertent discrepancy, treating it 
 as a wilful prevarication, was terror and agony ; and well as he 
 knew it to be the meod of past equivocation, he felt it cruel to 
 torture him by implied suspicion. Yet how could it be other-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. S39 
 
 wise, when lie had been introrkicjiig his little brother to his own 
 con'upters, and conniving at his sister's clandestine corre.sjiond- 
 ence with a man whom he knew to be worthless 1 
 
 The grave words that he obtained at last, scarcely amounted 
 to pardon ; they implied that he had done irreparable mischief, 
 and acted disgracefully, and snch forgiveness as was granted was 
 only made conditional on there being no farther reserves. 
 
 Alas ! even with all tender love and compassion, no earthly 
 parent can foi-give as does the Heavenl^y Father. None but the 
 Omniscient can test the fulness of the confession, nor the sin- 
 cerity of * father, I have sinned against Heaven and before 
 Thee, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.' This inter- 
 view only sent the son away more crashed and overwhelmed, 
 and yearning towards the more deeply offended, and yet more 
 compassionate Father. 
 
 Mr. Kendal, after this interview, so far relaxed his displeasure 
 as to occasionally address Gilbert when they met at luncheon 
 after this deplorable morning, wdiile towards Lucy he observed 
 a complete silence. It was not at first that she perceived this, 
 and even then it struck more deeply on Sophia than it did on 
 her. 
 
 Mv. Kendal shrank from inflicting pain on the good vicar, 
 and it was decided that the wives should be the channel through 
 which the information should be imparted. Albinia took the 
 children, sending them to play in the garden while she talked to 
 Mrs. Dusaiitoy. She found that keen little lady had some 
 shrewd suspicions, but had discovered nothing defined enough to 
 act upon, and was relieved to have the matter opened at last. 
 
 As to the ink, no mortal could help laughing over it ; even 
 Albinia, who had been feeling as if she could never laugh again, 
 was suddenly struck by the absurdity, and gave way to a pa- 
 roxysm of merriment. 
 
 ' Properly managed, T do think it might put an end to the 
 whole afiair,' said Mrs. Dusautoy. ' He could not stand being 
 laughed at.' 
 
 'I'm afraid he never will believe that he can be laughed at.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is unlucky,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, gravely ; but re- 
 collecting that she was not complimentary, she added, ' You 
 must not think we undervalue Lucy. John is very fond of her, 
 and the only objection is, tliat it would require a person of more 
 age and weight to deal with Algernon.' 
 
 'Never mind speeches,' sighed Albinia; * we know too well 
 tliat nothing could be worse for either. Can't you give him a 
 tutor and send him to travel.' 
 
 ' I'll talk to John ; but unluckily he is of age next month, and 
 
 z 2
 
 o40 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 there's an end of oui* power. And John would never keep him 
 away from hence, for he thinks it his only chance.' 
 
 ' I suppose we must do something with Lucy. Heigh-ho ! 
 People used not to be always falling in love in my time, except 
 Fred, and that was in a rational way ; that could be got 
 rid of !' 
 
 The effect of the intelligence on the vicar was to make him 
 set out at once to the livery-stables in quest of his nephew, but 
 he found that the young gentleman had that morning started 
 for London, whither he proposed to follow him on the Monday, 
 Lucy cried incessantly, in the fear that the gentle-hearted vicar 
 might have some truculent intentions towards his nephew, and 
 was so languid and unhappy that no one had the heart to scold 
 her ; and comforting her was still more impossible. 
 
 Mv. Kendal used to stride away from the sight of her swollen 
 eyes, and ask Albinia why she did not tell her that the only 
 good thing that could happen to her would be, that she should 
 never see nor hear of the fellow a^ain. 
 
 Why he did not tell her so himself was a different question. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 WELL, Albinia,' said Mr. Kendal, after seeing Mr. Dusau- 
 toy on his return from London. 
 
 Thei'e was such a look of deprecation about him, that she 
 exclaimed, ' One would really think you had been accepting this 
 charming son-in-law.' 
 
 ' Suppose I had,' be said, rather quaintly ; then, as he saw 
 her hands held up, ' conditionally, you understand, entirely 
 conditionally. What could I do, when Dusautoy entreated me, 
 with tears in his eyes, not to deprive him of the only chance of 
 saving his nephew V 
 
 ' Umph,' was the most innocent sound Albinia could persuade 
 hei-self to make. . 
 
 ' Besides,' continued Mr. Kendal, ' it will be better to have 
 the affair open and avowed than to have all this t^ecret plotting 
 going on without being able to prevent it. I can always with- 
 hold my consent if he should not improve, and Dusautoy de- 
 clai-es nothing would be such an incentive.' 
 
 ' May it ])rove so !' 
 
 ' You see,' he jjursucd, * as his uncle says, nothing can be
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. S41 
 
 worse than dr-iving him to these resorts, and when he is once of 
 age, there's an end of all power over him to hinder his running 
 straight to ruin. Now, when he is living at the Vicarage, we 
 shall have far moi-e opportunity of knowing how he is going 
 on, and putting a check on their intercourse, if he be unsatis- 
 factory.' 
 
 ' If we can.' 
 
 'After all, the young man has done nothing that need blight 
 his future life. He has had great disadvantages, and his steady 
 attachment is much in his favour. His uncle tells me he pro- 
 mises to become all that we could wish, and, in that case, I do 
 not see that I have the right to refuse the offer, when tilings 
 have gone so far — conditionally, of course.' He dwelt on that 
 saving clause like a salve for his misgivings. 
 
 'And what is to become of Gilbert and Maurice, with him 
 always about the house V exclaimed Albinia. 
 
 ' We will take care he is not too much here. He will soon 
 be at Oxford. Indeed, my dear, I am sorry you disapprove. I 
 shoiild have been as glad to avoid the connexion as you could 
 be, but I do not think I had any alternative, when Mr. Dusau- 
 toy pressed me so warmly, and only asked that he should be 
 taken on probation : and besides, when poor Lucy's affections 
 are so decidedly involved.' 
 
 Albinia perceived that there had been temper in her tone, 
 and could object no further, since it was too late ; and as she 
 could not believe that her husband had been weak, she en- 
 deavoured to acquiesce in his reasoning, and it was a strong 
 argument that they should see Lucy Ijright again. 
 
 'I suppose,' lie said, 'that you would prefer that I should 
 announce my decision to her myself?' 
 
 It was a more welcome task than spreading gloom over her 
 countenance, but she entered in great trepidation, prepared to 
 sink under some stern mandate ; and there was nothing at first 
 to undeceive her, for her father was resolved to atone for his 
 concession by sparing her no preliminary thunders ; and began 
 by depicting her indiscretion and deceit, as well as the folly of 
 attaching herself to a man without other recommendations thau 
 figure and fortune. 
 
 How much Lucy heard was uncertain ; she leant on a chair 
 with drooping head and averted f\xce, trembling, and suppressing 
 a sob, apparently too much frightened to attend. Just when 
 the exordium was over, and ' Therefore I lay mycoramands on 
 you' might have been expected, it turned into, ' However, upon 
 Mr. Dusautoy's kind representation, I have resolved to give the
 
 oi-2 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 youiii; man a trial, and provided lie convinces me by his conduct 
 that I may safely entrust your happiness to him, I have told his 
 uncle that I will not withhold my sanction.' 
 
 With a shriek of irrepressible feeling, Lucy looked from 
 father to mother, and clasped her hands, unable to trust her 
 ears. 
 
 'Yes, Lucy,' said Albinia, 'your father consents, on condition 
 that nothing further happens to excite his doubts of Mr. Caven- 
 dish Dusautoy. It rests with yourself now ; it is not too late. 
 After all that has passed, you would incur much deserved cen- 
 sure if you put an end to the affair ; but even that would be 
 better, far better, than entering into an engagement with a man 
 without sound principle.' 
 
 ' Your mother is quite right, Lucy,' said Mr. Kendal. ' This 
 is the only time. Gratified vanity has led you too far, and you 
 have acted as I hoped no child of mine would ever act, but you 
 have not forfeited our tenderest care. You are not ensrasred to 
 this man, and no word of yours would be broken. If you 
 hesitate to commit yourself to him, you have only to speak, and 
 we would gladly at once do everything that could conduce to 
 make you happy.' 
 
 ' You don't want me to give him up !' cried Lucy. * Oh ! 
 mamma, did not he say lie had consented ]' 
 
 'I said it rested with yourself, Lucy. Do not answer me 
 now. Come to me at six o'clock, and tell me, after full I'eflection, 
 whether I am to consider you as ready to pledge yourself to this 
 young man.' 
 
 It was all that could be done. Albinia had a dim hope that 
 the sense of responsibility, and dread of that hard will and sel- 
 fisli temper, miglit so rise upon Lucy as to startle her ; but then, 
 as Mr. Kendal observed, if she should decide against him, she 
 would have used him so exti'emely ill, that tliey should feel 
 nothing but shame. 
 
 * Yes,' said Albinia ; ' but it would be better to be ashamed of 
 a girl's folly, than to see her made miserable for life. Poor 
 Lucy ! if she decide against him, she will become a woman 
 at once ; if not, I'm afraid it will be the prediction aboub Marie 
 Antoinette over again — very gay, and coming right through 
 trial' 
 
 They wei'e obliged to tell Sojihy of the state of things. She 
 stood up straight, and said, slowly and clearly, ' I do not like 
 the world at all.' 
 
 ' I don't quite see what you mean.' 
 
 ' Every one does what can't be helped, and it is not the 
 thing
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. o43 
 
 •Explain yourself, Sophy,' said hei* father, amused. 
 
 * I don't think Lucy ought to be making the decision at all,' 
 said Sophy. ' She did that long ago, when first she attended to 
 what he said to her. If she does not take him now, it will be 
 swearing to her neighbour, and disappointing him, because it is 
 to her own hindrance.' 
 
 ' Yes, Sophy ; but I believe it is better to incur the sin of 
 breaking a promise, than to go on when the fulfilment involves 
 not only suffering, but mischief. Lucy has repeatedly declared 
 there was no engagement.' 
 
 ' I know it could not be helped ; biit Mr. Dusautoy ought 
 not to have asked papa.' 
 
 ' Nor papa to have consented, my Suleiman ben Daood,' 
 said Mr. Kendal. 'Ah ! Sophy., we all have very clear, straight- 
 forward views at eighteen of what other people ought to do.' 
 
 ' Papa — I never meant — I did not think I was saying any- 
 thing wrong. I only said I did not like the world.' 
 
 ' And I lieartily agree with you, Sophy ; and if I had lived 
 m it as short a time as you have, perhaps " considerations" would 
 not affect my judgment.' 
 
 ' I am always telling Sophy she will be more mercifal as she 
 grows older,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' If it were only being moi'e merciful, it would be very well,' 
 said Mr. Kendal ; ' but one also becomes less thorough-going, 
 because practice is more painful than theory, and one remembers 
 consequences that have made themselves felt. It is just as 
 well that there should be young people to put us in mind what 
 our flights once were.' 
 
 Albinia and Sophy left Lucy to herself; they both wished to 
 avoid the useless ' What shall I do V and they thought that, 
 driven back on her own resources, even her' own mind might 
 give her better counsel than the seven watchmen aloft in a high 
 tower. 
 
 She came down looking exceedingly pale. Mi\ Kendal re- 
 garded her anxiously, and held his hand out to her kindly. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, simply, ' I can't give it up. I do love him.' 
 
 * Yery well, my dear,' he answei-ed, * there is no more to be 
 said than that I trust he will mei-it your affection and mako 
 you hajipy.' 
 
 Good Mr. Dusautoy was as happy as a king ; he took Lucy 
 in his arms, and kissed her as if slie had been his child, and with 
 her hands folded in his own, he told her how she was to teach 
 his dear Algernon to be everything that was good, and to lead 
 him right by her influence. She answered with caresses and 
 promises, and whoever had watched her eye, would have seen it)
 
 S44< THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 in a ha^^py day-dream of Algernou's perfection, and his uncle 
 tbankino' her for it. 
 
 She had expected that grandmamma would have been very 
 happy ; but marriage had, with the poor old lady, led to so 
 much sepai-ation, that her weakened faculties took the alarm, 
 and she received the tidings by crying bitterly, and declaring 
 that every one was going away and leaving her, Lucy assured 
 her over and over again that she was never going to desert her ; 
 and as Mr, Kendal had made it a condition that Algernon 
 should finish his Oxford career respectably, there was little 
 chance that poor Mrs, Meadows would survive until the marriage. 
 
 All along Gilbert made no remark. Though he had been left 
 out of the family conclaves, and his opinion not asked, he sub- 
 mitted with the utmost meekness, as one who knew that he 
 had forfeited all right to be treated as son and heir. The more 
 he was concerned at the engagement, the greater stigma he 
 would place on his own connivance ; so he said nothing, and 
 only devoted himself to his grandmother, as though the attend- 
 ance upon her were a refuge and reliof, ]\[ore gentle and 
 patient than ever, he soothed her fretfuluess, invented pleasures 
 for hei', and rendered her so placid and contented, that her 
 health began to improve. 
 
 Not for a moment did he seem to forget his error ; and 
 Albinia's resolution to separate Maurice from him, could not 
 hold when he himself silently assumed the mournful necessity, 
 and put the child from him when clamorous for rides, till there 
 was an appeal to papa and mamma. Mr. Kendal gave one look 
 of inquiry at Albiuia, and she began some matter-of-course 
 about Gilbert being so kind — whereupon the brothers were 
 together as before. When Albinia visited her little boy at 
 night, she found that Gilbert had been talking to him of his 
 eldest brother, and she heard more of Edmund's habits and taste-; 
 from the little fellow who had never seen him, than from either 
 the twin-brother or the sister who had loved him so devotedly. 
 It was as if Gilbert knew that he could be doing JMaurice no 
 hai'm when leading him to think of Edmund, and perhaps he 
 felt some intrinsic resemblance in the deep loving strength of 
 the two natiu'es. 
 
 The invitation to Fairmead spared him the pain and shame 
 of Algernon Dusautoy's first reception as Lucy's accepted lover. 
 He went eai-ly on Hati.rday morning, and young Dusautoy, 
 arriving in the evening, was first ushered into the library ; wliilo 
 Albinia did her best to soothe the excited nerves and flutterin" 
 spirits of Lucy, who was exceedingly ashamed to meet him 
 again under the eyes of others, alter such a course of stolen
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 845 
 
 interviews, and what she had been told of her influence doing 
 him good only alarmed her the more. 
 
 - Well she might, for if ever character resembled that of the 
 Iron pot borne down the stream in company with the eai'theu 
 one, it was the object of her choice. Poor pipkin that Gilbei-t 
 was, the contact had cost him a smashing blow, and for all clay 
 of the more fragile mould, the best hope was to give the inviil- 
 nerable material a wide berth. Talk of influence ! Mr. Dusantoy 
 might as well hope that a Wedgewood cream-jug would guide a 
 copper cauldron and keep verdigris aloof. 
 
 His attraction for Lucy had always been a mystery to her 
 family, who perhaps hardly did justice to the magnetism of 
 mere force of purpose. Better training might have ennobled 
 into resolution that which was now do2:2;edness and obstinacy ; 
 and, even in that shape, the real element of strength had a 
 tendency to work upon softer natures. Thus it had acted in 
 different ways with the Yicar, with Gilbert, and with Lucy ; 
 each had fallen under the power of his determination, with 
 more or less of their own consent, and with Lucy the surrender 
 was complete ; she no sooner sat beside Algernon than she was 
 comr)letely his possession, and his complacent self-satisfaction 
 was reflected on her face in a manner that told her parents 
 that she was their own no longer, but given up to a stronger 
 master. 
 
 Albinia liked neither to see nor to think about it, and kept 
 aloof as much as she could, dividing herself between grandmamma 
 and the children. On Tuesday morning, during Maurice's 
 lessons, there was a knock at the sitting-room door. She ex- 
 pected Gilbert, but was delighted to see her brother. 
 
 ' I thought you were much too busy to come near us ?' 
 
 ' So I am ; I can't stay ; so if Kendal be not forthcoming you 
 must give this fellow a holiday.' 
 
 'He is gone to Hadmiuster, so — ' 
 
 • Where's Gilbert X broke in little Maurice. 
 
 * He went to his room to dress to go up to parade,' said Mr. 
 Ferrai'S, and off rushed the boy without waiting for permission. 
 
 Albinia sighed, and said, 'It is a perfect passion.' 
 
 'Don't mourn over it. Love is too good a thing to be 
 lamented over, and this may turn into a blessing.' 
 
 ' I \ised to be proud of it.' 
 
 ' So you shall be still. I am very much pleased with that 
 poor lad.' 
 
 She would not raise her ej-es ; she was weary of hoping for 
 Gilbert, and his last offence had touched her Avhere she had never 
 been touched before.
 
 346 TEE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Whatever faults he hay,' Mr. Feri-ars said, ' I am ranch mis- 
 taken if his humility, love, and contrition be not genuine ; and 
 what more can the best have ?' 
 
 ' Sincerity !' said Albiuia, hopelessly. ' There's no truth in 
 him!' 
 
 * You should discriminate between deliberate self-interested 
 deception, and failui'e in truth for want of moral courage. 
 Both are bad enough, but the latter is not "loving a lie," not 
 such a ruinous taint and evidence of corruption as the former.' 
 
 * It is curious to hear you repeating my old excxises for him,' 
 said Albinia, ' now that he has cast his glamour over you.' 
 
 ' Not wrongly,' said her brother. ' He is in earnest ] there 
 is no acting about him.' 
 
 ' Yes, that I believe ; I know he loves us with all his heart, 
 poor boy, especially Maurice and me, and I think he had rather 
 go right than wrong, if he could only be let alone. But, oh 1 
 it is all " unstable as water." Am I unkind, Maurice 1 I know 
 how it would be if I let him talk to me for ten minutes, or look 
 at me with those pleading brown eyes of his !' 
 
 Mi\ Ferrars knew it well, and v/hy she was steeled against him ; 
 but he put this aside, saying that he was come to speak of the 
 future, not of the past, and that he wanted Edmund to recon- 
 sider William's advice. He told her what Gilbert had said ot the 
 difficulty of breaking off old connexions, and the danger to 
 Maurice from his acquaintance. An exchange into another 
 corps of militia might be for the worse, the occupation was 
 uncertain, and Mr. Ferrars believed that a higher position, com- 
 panions of a better stamp, and the pi'otection of a man of lively 
 manners, quick sympathy, and sound principle, like their cousin 
 Fred, might l)e the opening of a new life. Pie had found Gilbert 
 most desirous of such a step, regarding it as his only hope ; but 
 thinking it so offensively presumptuous to propose it to his 
 father under present circumstances, his Oxford terras thrown 
 away, and himself disgraced both there and at home, that the 
 matter would hardly have been brought forward had not Mr. 
 Ferrars undertaken to press it, under the strong conviction that 
 remaining at home would be destruction, above all, with young 
 Dusautoy making part of the family. 
 
 ' I declare,' said Mr. Ferrars, * he looked so much at home in 
 t)ie drawing-room, and welcomed GilV)ert with such an air of 
 patronage, that I could have found it in my heart to have 
 knocked him down !' 
 
 It was a treat to hear IMaurice speak so unguardedly, and 
 Albinia laughed, and asked whether he thought it very wrong.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 347 
 
 to hope that the Polysyllable would yet do something flagrant 
 enough to open Liicy's eyes. 
 
 ' I'll allow you to hope that if he should, her eyes may be 
 opened,' said Maurice. 
 
 Albinia beoran a vehement vindication for their havinsr tole- 
 rated the engagement, in the midst of which her brother was 
 obliged to depart, amused at her betrayal of her own sentiments 
 by warfare against what he had never said. 
 
 She had treated his counsel as chimerical, but when she re- 
 peated it to her husband, she thought better of it, since, alas ! 
 it had become her great object to part those two loving brothers. 
 Mr. Kendal first asked where the 25th Lancers v\rere, then spoke 
 of expense, and inquired what she knew of the cost of commis- 
 sions, and of her cousin's means. All she could answer for was, 
 that Fred's portion was much smaller than Gilbert's inheritance,* 
 but at least she knew how to learn what was wanted, and if her 
 friends, the old Generals, were to be trusted, she ought to have 
 no lack of interest at the Hor^^e Guards. 
 
 Gilbert was taken into counsel, and showed so much right 
 spirit and good sense, that the discussion was friendly and un- 
 reserved. It ended in tlie father and son resorting to Pettilove's 
 office to ascertain the amount of ready money in his hands, and 
 what income Gilbert would receive on coming of age. The 
 investigation somewhat disappointed the youth, who had never 
 thorouglily credited what his father told him of the necessity of 
 his exerting himself for his own maintenance, nor understood 
 how heavy a drain on his property were the life-interests of his 
 father and grandmother, and the settlement on liis aunt. By- 
 and-by, he might be comparatively a rich man, but at first his 
 present allowance would be little more than doubled, and the 
 receipts would be considerably diminished by an alteration of 
 existing system of rents, such as had so long been planned. It 
 was plain that the almshouses were the unsubstantial fabric of 
 a dream ; but no one now dared to refer to them, and Mr. 
 Kendal desired Albinia to write to consult her cousin. 
 
 Captain Ferrars was so much flattered at her asking his pro- 
 tection for anything, that he would have promised to patronize 
 Cousin Slender himself for her sake. He praised the Colonel 
 and lauded the mess to the skies, and economy being his present 
 hobby, he represented himself as living upon nothing, and saving 
 his pay. He further gave notice of impending retirements, and 
 advised that the application should be made without loss of 
 time, lamenting grievously himself that there was no chance for 
 the 25th, of a touch at the Eussians.
 
 348 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Somethmg in Lis letter put every one into a hurry, and a 
 corx'espondeuce began, wliicli resulted in Gilbert's being sum- 
 moned to Sandhurst for an examination, which he passed credit- 
 ably. The puT'chase-money was deposited, and the household 
 was daily thrown into a state of excitement by the arrival of 
 official- looking envelopes, which turned out to contain solicita- 
 tions from tailors and outtittei's, bordered with jiortraits of 
 camp-beds and portable baths, until, at last, when the real 
 document appeared, Gilbert tossed it aside as from 'anotlier 
 tailor :' but Albinia knew the article too well to mistake it, 
 and when the long blue cover was opened, it proved to convey 
 more than they had reckoned upon. 
 
 Gilbert Kendal held a commission in the 25th Lancers, and 
 the corps was under immediate orders for the East. Tlie 
 immber of officers being deficient, he was to join the head- 
 quarters at Cork, without going to the depot, and would thence 
 sail with a stated minimum of bafjfrajce. 
 
 Albinia could not look up. She knew her husband had not 
 intended thus to risk the last of his eldest-born sons ; and 
 though her soldier-spirit might have swelled with exultation 
 had her own brave boy been concerned, she dreaded the sight 
 of quailing or dismay in Gilbert. 
 
 ' Going really to light the Russians,' shouted Maurice, as the 
 meaning reached him. ' Oh ! Gibbie, if I was but a man to go 
 ■with you !' 
 
 * You will do your duty, my boy,' said his father. 
 
 ' By God's help,' was the reverent answer wdiicli emboldened 
 Albinia to look up at him, as he stood with Maurice clinging 
 by both hands to him. She had done him injustice, aud her 
 heart bounded at the sight of tlie flush on his cheek, the liiiiit in 
 his eyes, and the expression on his lips, making his face finer and 
 more manly than she had ever seen it ; as if the grave necessity, 
 aud the awe of tlie unseen glorious danger, were fixing and 
 elevating his wandering purpose. To have no choice was a 
 blessing to an infirm will, and to be inevitably out of his own 
 power braced him and gave him rest. She held out her hand 
 to him, and there was a grasj) of inexpressible feeling, the first 
 renewal of their old terms of sympathy and confidence. 
 
 There was no time to be lost ; ]\Ir. Kendal would go to Lon- 
 don with him by the last train that day, to fit him out as speedily 
 as possible, before he started for Cork. 
 
 Every one felt dizzy, and there was no space for aught but 
 action. Perhajis Albinia was glad of the hurry ; she could not 
 talk to Gilbert till she had learnt to put faith iu him, aud she 
 ■would rather do him substantial kindnesses than be made the
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, S49 
 
 sharer of feelings that had too often proved like the growth of 
 the seed which found no depth of earth. 
 
 She ran about for him, worked for him, contrived for him, 
 and gave him directions ; she could not, or would not, perceive 
 his yearning for an effusion of penitent tenderness. He looked 
 wistfully at her when he was setting out to take leave at the 
 vicaracfe. but she had absorbed herself in flannel shirts, and 
 would not meet his eye, nor did he venture to make the request 
 that she would come with him. 
 
 Indeed, confidences there could be but few, for Maurice and 
 Albinia hung on either side of him, so that he could hardly 
 move, but he resisted all attempt to free him even from the 
 little girl, who was haixlly out of his arms for ten minutes to- 
 gethei". It was only from her broken words that her mother 
 understood that from the vicarage he had gone to the church. 
 Poor little Albinia did not like it at all. ' Why was brother 
 Edmund up in the church, and why did Gilbert cry V 
 
 Maurice angrily enunciated, ' Men never cry,' but not a word 
 of the visit to the church came from him. 
 
 Algernon Dusautoy had wisely absented himself, and the 
 two sisters devoted themselves to the tasks in hand. Sophy 
 worked as hard as did Mrs. Kendal, and spoke even less, and 
 Lucy took care of Mrs. Meadows, whose nerves were painfully 
 excited by the bustle in the house. It had been agreed that 
 she should not hear of her grandson's intention till the last 
 moment, and then he went in, putting on a cheerful manner, 
 to bid her good-bye, only disclosing that he was going to London ; 
 but little as she could understand, there was an instinct about 
 her that could not be deceived, and she began to cry helplessly 
 and violently. 
 
 Mrs. Kendal and Lucy were summoned in haste ; Gilbert 
 lingered, trying to help them to restore her to composure. But 
 time ran short ; his father called him, and they hardly knew 
 that they had received his last hurried embrace, nor that he 
 was really gone, till they heard Maurice shouting like a Red 
 Indian, as he careered about in the garden, his only resource 
 against tears ; and Sophy came in very still, very pale, and in- 
 capable of uttering a word or shedding a tear. Albinia was 
 much concerned, for she could not bear to have sent him away 
 without a more real adieu, and woi'd of blessing and good 
 augury ; it made her feel herself truly unforgiving, and perhaps 
 turned her heart back to him moi'C fully and fondly than any 
 exchanije of sentiment would have done. But she had not 
 much time to dwell on this omission, for poor Mrs. Meadows 
 missed liim sorely, and after two days' constant fretting after
 
 SoO THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 liim, another paralytic stroke renewed the immediate danger, so 
 that by the time Mr. Kendal returned from London she was 
 asain hovering between life and death. 
 
 Mr. Kendal, to his great joy. met Frederick Feri-ars at the 
 
 * Family Office.' The changes in the regiment had given him 
 his majority, and he had flashed over from Ireland to make his 
 preparations for the campaign. His counsel had been most 
 valuable in Gilbert's equipment, especially in the knotty ques- 
 tion of horses, and he had shown himself so amiable and rational 
 that Mi\ Kendal was quite delighted, and rejoiced in committing 
 Gilbert to his care. He had assumed the trust in a paternal 
 manner, and, infected by his brilliant hap^iiness and hopefulness, 
 Gilbert had gone off to Ireland in excellent spirits. 
 
 ' Another thing conduced to cheer him,' said Mr. Kendal 
 afterwards to his v/ife, with a tone that caused her to exclaim, 
 
 * You don't mean that he saw Genevieve V 
 
 ' You are right. We came upon her in Rivington's shop, 
 while we were looking for the smallest Bible. I saw who it 
 was chiefly by his change of colour, and I confess T kept out of 
 the way. The whole did not last five minutes ; she had her 
 pupils with her, and soon went away ; but he thanked me, and 
 took heart from that moment. Poor boy, who would have 
 thought the impression would have been so lasting?' 
 
 ' Well, by the time he is a fleld-ofiicer, even William will let 
 him please himself,' said Albinia, lightly, because her heart was 
 too full for her to speak seriously. 
 
 She tried, by a kind letter, to atone for the omitted farewell, 
 and it seemed to cheer and delight Gilbert. He wrote from 
 Coi'k as if he had imbibed fresh ho^je and enterprise from his new 
 companions ; he liked th' m all, and could not say enough of the 
 kindness of Major Ferrars. Everything went smoothly, and 
 in the ha])])iest frame he sailed from Cork, and was heard of 
 again at Muli.i and Gallipoli, direfully sea-sick, but reviving to 
 write most amusing long descriptive letters, and when he reached 
 the camp at Varna, he reported as gratefully of General Fer- 
 rars as the General did kindly of him. 
 
 Those letters Avere the chief pleasures in a harassing spring 
 and summer. It was well that practice had trained Sopliia in 
 the qualities of a nurse, for Lucy was seldom available when 
 Algernon Dusautoy was at home ; she was sure to be riding 
 with him, or sitting for her picture, or the good Vicar, afraid 
 of her overworking herself, insisted on her spending the even- 
 ing at the vicarage. 
 
 She yielded, but not with an easy conscience, to judge by 
 her numerous apologies, and when Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 351 
 
 returned to Oxford, she devoted herself with great assiduity to 
 the invalid. Her natural gifts were far more efficient than 
 Sophy's laboriously-earned gentleness, and her wonderful talent 
 for prattling about nothing had a revivifying influence, sparing 
 much of the plaintive weariness which accompanied that mourn- 
 ful descent of life's hill. 
 
 Albinia had reckoned on a rational Lucy until the Oxford 
 term should be over. She might have anticipated a failure in 
 the responsions, (wno, in connexion Avith the Polysyllable, 
 could mention being plucked for the little-go 1) but it was more 
 than she did expect tbat his rejection would send Mm home in 
 eullen resentment, resolved to punish Oxford by the withdrawal 
 of his august name. He had been quizzed by the young, re- 
 primanded by the old, plucked by the middle-aged, and he re- 
 turned with his mouth full of sentences against blind, benighted 
 bigutrj', and the futility of classical study, and of declamations, 
 ac^an injured orphan, against his uncle's di.sregard of the in- 
 tentions of his dear deceased parent, in keeping him from Bonn, 
 Jena, Heidelberg, or any other of the outlandish universities 
 whose guttural names he showered on the meek Vicar's despond- 
 ing head. 
 
 He was twenty-one ,and could not be sent v/hither he would 
 not go. His uncle's resource was Mr. Kendal, who strongly 
 hoped that the link was about to snap, when, summoning the 
 gentleman to the library, he gave him to understand that he 
 should consider a refusal to resume his studies as tantamount 
 to a dissolution of the engagement. A long speech ensued 
 about dear mothers, amiable daughters, classics, languages, and 
 foreign tours. That was all the account Mr. Kendal could give 
 his wife of the dialogue, and she could only infer that Alger- 
 non's harangue had sent him into such a fit of abstraction, that 
 he really could not tell the drift of it. However, he was clear 
 that he had himself given no alternative between returning to 
 Oxford and resigning Lucy. 
 
 That same evening, Lucy, all blushes and tears, faltered out 
 that she was very unwilling, she could not bear to leave them 
 all, nor dear gi-andmamma, but dear Algernon had prevailed on 
 her to say next August ! 
 
 When indignant astonishment permitted Albinia to speak, 
 she reminded Lucy that a respectable career at Oxford had been 
 the condition. 
 
 '1 know,' said Lucy; 'but dear Algernon convinced papa 
 of the unreasonableness of such a stipulation under the circum- 
 stances.' 
 
 Albinia felt the ground cut away under her feet, and all she
 
 So 2 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 could attempt was a diy answer. ' We shall see what papa 
 says ; but you, Lucy, how can you think of marrying with 
 your grandmamma in this state, and Gilbert in that camp of 
 cholera — ^ 
 
 ' I told Algernon it was not to be thought of,' said Lucy, 
 her tears flowing fast. ' But I don't know what to do ; no one 
 can tell how long it may go on, and we have no I'ight to trifle 
 with his feelings.' 
 
 ' If he had any feelings for you, he would not ask it.' 
 
 ' No, mamma, indeed !' cried Lucy, earnestly ; ' it was hia 
 feeling for me ; he said I was looking quite languid and ema- 
 ciated, and that he could not allow my — good looks and vivacity 
 to be diminished by my attendance in a sick chainbei*. I told 
 him never to mind, for it did not hurt me ; but he said it was 
 incumbent on him to take thought for me, and that he could 
 not present me to his friends if I were not in full bloom of 
 beauty ; yes, indeed, he said so ; and then he said it would be 
 the right season for Italy.' 
 
 ' It is impossible you can think of going so far away ! Oh, 
 Lucy 1 you should not have consented.' 
 
 ' I could not help it,' said Lucy, sobbing. * I could not bear 
 to contradict him ; but please, mamma, let papa settle it for 
 me. I don't want to go away ; I told him I never would ; I 
 told him I had promised never to leave dear grandmamma ; but 
 you see he is so resolute, and he cannot bear to be without me. 
 Oh ! do get him to j)ut it off — only if he is angry and goes to 
 Italy without me, I know I shall die !' 
 
 ' We will take care of you, my dear. I am sure we shall be 
 able to show him how impossible a gay wedding would be at 
 present ; and I do not think he can press it,' said Albinia, 
 moved into soothing the present distress, and relieved to find 
 that there was no heartlcssness on Lucy's side. 
 
 What a grand power is sheer obstinacy ! It has all the mo- 
 mentum of a stone, or cannon-ball, or any other object set iu 
 motion without inconvenient sensations to obstruct its course ! 
 
 Algernon Dusautoy had decided on being married in August, 
 and taking his obedient pupil-wife through a course of lectures 
 on the continental galleries of art ; and his determined single- 
 ness of aim prevailed against the iinited objections atid opposi- 
 tion of four people, each of double or quadruple his wisdom 
 and weight. 
 
 His first great advantage was, that, as Albinia surmised, INIr. 
 Kendal could not recal the finale of their interview, and hav- 
 ing lo.st tlie thread of the rigmarole, did not know to what hia 
 silence had been supposed to assent. Next, Algernon conquered
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 353 
 
 liis uncle by representing Lucy as on the road to an atrophy, 
 and persuading him tliat he should be much safer on the Con- 
 tinent with a wife than without one ; and though tlie two 
 ladies were harder to deal with in themselves, they were obliged 
 to stand by the decision of their lords. Above all, he made 
 way by his sincere habit of taking for granted whatever he 
 wished, and by his magnanimous oblivion of remonstrance and 
 denial ; so that every day one party or the other found that 
 assumed, as fixed in his favour, which had the day before been 
 most strenuously refused. 
 
 ' If you consented to this, I thought I could not refuse 
 that.' 
 
 ' I consent ! I told him it was the last thing I could think 
 of.' 
 
 ' Weil, I own I was surprised, but he told me you had readily 
 come into his views.' 
 
 Such was the usual tenor of consultations between the au- 
 thorities, until their marvel at themselves and each other came 
 to a height when they found themselves preparing for the wed- 
 ding on the very day originally chosen by Algernon. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's letter to Gilbert was an absolute apology. 
 Gilbert in Turkey was a very different person from Gilbert at 
 Bayford, and had assumed in his father's mind the natural 
 rights of son and heii* ; he seemed happy and valued, and the 
 heat of the climate, pestiferous to so many, seemed but to give 
 his Indian constitution the vio;our it needed. When his com- 
 rades were laid up, or going away for better air, much duty was 
 falling on him, and he was doing it with hearty good-will and 
 effectiveness. Already the rapid changes had made him a lieu- 
 tenant, and he wrote in the highest spirits. Moreover, he had 
 fallen in with Bryan O'More, and had been able to do him 
 sundry kindnesses, the report of which brought Ulick to Wil- 
 low Lawn in an overflow of gi-atitude. 
 
 It was a strange state of affairs there. Albinia was ashamed 
 of the nlea of * could not help it,' and yet that was the only 
 one to rest on ; the adherence to promises alone gave a sense of 
 duty, and when or how the promises had been given was not 
 clear. 
 
 Besides, no one could be certain even about poor Lucy's pre- 
 sent satisfaction ; she sometimes seemed like a little bird flutter- 
 ing unaer the fascination of a snake. She was evidently half 
 afraid of Algernon, and would breathe more freely when he 
 was not at hand ; but then a restlessness would come on if he 
 did not ai)])ear as soon as she expected, as if she dreaded having 
 offended him. She had violent bursts of remorseful tears, and 
 
 A A
 
 354 THE YOtTNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 great outpourings of fondness towards every one at home, and 
 she positively did look ill enough to justify Algernon in saying 
 that the present condition of matters was hurtful to her. Still 
 she could not endure a word that remotely tended towards ad- 
 vising her to break off the engagement, or even to retard the wed- 
 ding, and her admiration of her intended was unabated. 
 
 Indeed, his affection could not be doubted ; he liked her 
 adoration of all his performances, and he regarded her with 
 beneficent protection, as a piece of property ; he made her mag- 
 nificent presents, and conceded to her that the wedding tour 
 shoxild not be beyond Clifton, whence they would return to 
 Willow Lawn, and judge ere deciding on going abroad, 
 
 Ke said that it would be ' de hon ton! to have the marriage 
 strictly private. Even he saw the incongruity of festivity 
 alongside of that chamber of decay and death ; and besides, 
 lie had conceived such a distaste to the Drury family, that he 
 had signified to Lucy that they must not make part of the 
 spectacle. 
 
 Alhinia and Sophy thought this so impertinent, that they 
 manfully fought tlie battles of the Drurys, but without pre- 
 vailing ; Albinia took her revenge, by observing that this being 
 the case, it was impossible to ask her brother and little Mary, 
 whose well-sounding names she knew Algernon ambitiouated 
 for the benefit of the county paper. 
 
 Always doing what was most contrary to the theories with 
 which she started in life, Albinia found herself taking the 
 middle course that she contemned. She was marrying her first 
 daughter with an aching, foreboding heart, unable either to ap- 
 prove or to prevent, and obliged to console and cheer just when 
 she would have imagined herself insisting upon a rupture at all 
 costs. 
 
 Sophy had said from the first that her sister could not go 
 back. She expected her to be unhajipy, and believed it the 
 penalty of the wrongdoings in consenting to the clandestine 
 correspondence ; and treated her with melancholy kindness as a 
 victim under sentence. She was very afiectionate, but not at 
 all consoling when Lucy was sad, and she was impatient and 
 gloomy when the trousseau, or any of the privileges of & fiancee 
 brouglit a renewal of gaiety and ini])ortance. A broken heart 
 and ruined fortunes were the least of the consequences she 
 augiirud, and she went about the house as if she had realized 
 them both herself. 
 
 The wedding-day came, and grandmamma was torpid and 
 only half conscious, so that all could veutui-e to leave her. The 
 Uido was not allowed to see her, lest the agitation should over-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. .S35 
 
 whelm both ; for the poor girl was indeed looking like the vic- 
 tim her sister thought her, pale as death, with red rings round 
 her extinguished eyes, and trembling from head to foot, the 
 more at the apprehension that Algernon wonld think her a fright. 
 
 After all that lavender and sal-volatile could do for her, she 
 was such a spectacle, that when her father came to fetch her 
 he was shocked, and said, tenderly, ' Lucy, my child, this must 
 not be. Say one word, and all shall be over, and you shall 
 never hear a word of reproach.' 
 
 But Lucy only cast a frightened glance around, and rising up 
 with the accents of perfect sincerity, said, ' No, papa ; 1 am 
 quite ready ; I am quite ha]jpy. I was only silly.' 
 
 Her mind was evidently made up ] and it was past Albinia'a 
 divination whether her agitation were composed of fear of the 
 future and remorse for the past, or whether it were mere love 
 of home and hurry of spirits, exaggerated by belief that a 
 bride ought to weep. Probably it was a compound of all, and 
 the whole of her reply perfect truth, especially the final clause. 
 
 So they married her, poor child, very much as if they had 
 been attending her to the block. Sophy's view of the case 
 had infected them all beyond being dispelled by the stately 
 com])lacency of the bridegroom, or the radiant joy and affection 
 of his uucls. 
 
 Tliey put her into a carriage, watched her away, and turned 
 back to the task which she had left them, dreading the effects 
 of her absence. She was missed, but less than they feared ; the 
 faculties had become too feeble for such strong emotion as had 
 followed Gilbert's departure ; and the void was chiefly pei'cep- 
 tible by the plaintive and exacting clinging to Albinia, who had 
 less and less time to herself and her children, and was somewhat 
 uneasy as to the conse'juences as regarded Maurice. While 
 Gilbert was at home, the child had been under some super- 
 vision ; but now his independent and unruly spirit was left 
 almost uncontrolled, exce])t by his own intermittent young 
 conscience ; his father indulged him, and endured from him 
 what would have been boi-ne from no one else; and Sophy was 
 his willing .slave, unable to exact obedience, and never com- 
 plaining, save under the most stringent necessity or sense of 
 duty. He was too young tor school, and there was nothing to 
 Ve done but to go on, from day to day, in the trust that no 
 harm could eventually ensue in consequence of so absolute a 
 duty as the care of the sufferer ; and that while the boy's truth 
 and generosity were sound, though he might be a torment, his 
 character might be all the stronger afterwards for that very 
 indociliiy. 
 
 aa2
 
 356 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 It was not satisfactory, and many mothers would have been 
 miserable ; but it was not in Albinia's nature to be miserable 
 when her hands were full, and she was doing her best. She 
 had heard her brother say that when good people gave their 
 children sound principles and spoilt them, they gave the 
 children the trouble of self-conquest instead of doing it for 
 them. She had great faith in Maurice's undertaking this task 
 in due time ; and while she felt that she still had her hand on 
 tbe rein, she must be content to leave it loose for a while. 
 
 Besides, when his father and sisters, and, least of all, herself, 
 did not find him a plague, did it much matter if other people 
 did? 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 EXULTING peals rang out from the Bayford tower, and as 
 Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy alighted from their 
 carriage at Willow Lawn, the cry of the vicar and of the 
 assembled household was, ' Have you heard that Sebastopol is 
 taken V 
 
 ' Any news of Gilbert V was Lucy's demand. 
 
 * No ; the cavalry were not landed, so he had nothing to do 
 with it.' 
 
 * I say, uncle,' said Algernon, ' shall I send up a sovereign to 
 those ringers V 
 
 ' Eh ! poor fellows, they will be very glad of it, thank you ; 
 only I must take care they don't drink it up. I'm sure they 
 must be tired enough ; they've been at it ever since the tele- 
 graph came in !' 
 
 ' There !' exclaimed Algernon ; * Barton must have tele- 
 gra])hed from the station when we set out !' 
 
 ' You 1 Did you think the bells were ringing for you* 
 exclaimed his uncle, ' when there's a great battle won, and 
 •ciebastopol taken V 
 
 *Telegrai)hs are always lies !' quoth Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, 
 tersely ; ' I don't believe anything has happened at all !' and he 
 re-pocketed the sovereign. 
 
 Meantime Lucy was in a rapture of embracing. She was 
 spread out with stiff silk flounces and velvcit mantle, so as to 
 emulate her husband's importance, and her chains and bracelets 
 clattered so much, that Mr. Kendal could not help saying, 
 • X ou should have taken lessous of your Ayah, to learn how to 
 manage your bangles.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 35*1 
 
 'Oil! papa,' said she, with a newly-learnt little laugh,'] 
 could not help it ; Louise could not find room for them in mj 
 dressing-case.' 
 
 They were not, however, lost upon the whole of the family. 
 Grandmamma's dim eyes lighted when she recognised her 
 favourite grand-daughter in such gorgeous array, and tha4 
 any one should have come back again was so new and de- 
 lightful, that it constantly recurred as a fresh surprise and 
 pleasure. 
 
 All were glad to have her again — their own Lucy, as she 
 still was, though somewhat of the grandiose style and self- 
 consequence of her husband had overlaid the original nature. 
 She was as good-natured and obliging as ever, and though 
 beginning by conferring her favours as condescensions, she soon 
 would forget that she was the great Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy, 
 and quickly become the eager, helpful Lucy. She was in very 
 good looks, and bright and happy, admiring Algernon, rejoicing 
 to obey his behests, and enhancing his dignity and her own by 
 her discourses upon his talents and importance. How far she 
 was at ease with him, Albinia sometimes doubted ; there now 
 and then was an air of gi-eater freedom when he left the room, 
 and some of her favourite old household avocations were 
 tenderly resumed by stealth, as though she feared he might 
 think them unworthy of his wife. 
 
 She gave her spare time to the invalid, who was revived by 
 her presence as by a sunbeam ; and Albinia, in her relief and 
 gi-atitude, did her utmost to keep Algernon happy and con- 
 tented. She resigned a room to him as an atelier, and let the 
 little Awk be captured to have her likeness taken ; she pro- 
 moted the guitar and key -bugle, and abstained from resenting 
 his strictures on her dinners. 
 
 Such a guest reduced Mr Kendal to absolute silence, but she 
 did not think he suffered much therefrom, and he was often 
 relieved, for all the neighbourhood asked the young couple to 
 dinner. Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy's toilette was as good as a 
 play to the oldest and youngest inhabitants of the house ; her 
 little sister used to stand by the dressing-table with her small 
 fingers straightened to sustain a column of rings threaded on 
 them, and her ax-m weighed down with bracelets ; and grand- 
 mamma's happiest moments were when she was raised up to 
 contemplate the costly robes, jewelled neck, and garlanded head 
 of her darling. 
 
 When it turned out that Sebastopol was anything but taken, 
 Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy's incredulity was a precious confirma- 
 tion of his esteem for his own sagacity, more especially as Ulick
 
 S58 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 O'More and Maurice had worn out the little brass piece of 
 ordnance in &nng/eux dejoie. 
 
 ' But,' said Maurice, ' papa always said it was not true. Now 
 you only said so when you found the bells were ringing for 
 that, and not for you.' 
 
 Maurice's observations were not always convenient. Al- 
 gernon, with much pomp, had caused a hoi'se to be led to the 
 door, for which he had lately paid eighty guineas, and he was 
 expatiating on its merits, when Maurice broke out, ' That's 
 IVIacheath, tlie horse that Arcliie Trittou bought of Mr. Nugent's 
 coachman for twenty pounds.' 
 
 ' Hush, Maurice !' said his father, 'you know nothing of it ;' 
 and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy pursued, ' It was breil at Lord 
 Lewthorp's, and sold because it was too tall for its compauiou. 
 Laing was on the point of sending it to Tattersall's, where he 
 was secure of a hundred, but he was willing to oblige me, as 
 we had had transactions before.' 
 
 ' Papa 1' cried Maurice, ' I know it is IMacheath, for Mr. 
 Trittou showed him to Gilbert and me, when he had just got 
 him, and said he was a showy beast, but incurably lame, so he 
 should get what he coidd for him from Laing. Now, James, 
 isn't it T he called to the servant who was sedulously turning 
 away a grinning face, but just muttered, ' Same, sir.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal charitably looked the other way, and Algernoi» 
 muttered some species of imprecation. 
 
 Thenceforth Maurice took every occasion of inquiring what 
 had become of Macheath, whether Laing had refunded the price, 
 and what had been done to him for telling stories. 
 
 If the boy began in innocence, he went on in mischief; he 
 was just old enough to be a most aggravating compound of 
 pmiplicity and malice. lie was fully aware that Mr. Cavendish 
 Dusautoy was held cheap by his own favourites, and had been 
 partly the cause of his dear Gilbert's troubles ; and his sharp 
 wits and daring nature were excited to the utmost by the 
 solemn irritation that he produced. Not only wa,s it irresistibly 
 droll to tease one so destitute of fun, but he had the strongest 
 desire to see how angry it was possible to make the big brother- 
 in-law, of whom every one seemed in aw^e. 
 
 First, he had recourse to the old term Polysyllable, and when 
 Lucy remonstrated, he answered, ' I've a right to call my 
 biother what I please.' 
 
 ' You know how angry mamma would be to hear you.* 
 'Mamma calls him the Polysyllal)le herself,' said Maurice, 
 looking full at his victim. 
 
 Lucy, who would have given the world to hinder this epithet
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 359 
 
 from coining to Ler husband's knowledge, began explaining 
 something about Gilbert's nonsense before he knew him, and 
 how it had been long disused. 
 
 ' That's not true, Lucy,' quoth the tormentor. * I heard 
 mamma tell Sophy herself this morning to write for some fisli- 
 sauce, because she said that Polysyllable was so fanciful about 
 his dinner.' 
 
 Lucy was ready to cry, and Algernon, endeavouring to recal 
 his usual dignity, exclaimed, 'If Mrs. Kendal — I mean, Mrs. 
 Kendal has it in her power to take liberties, but if I find you 
 repeating such again, you little imp, it shall be at your risk.' 
 
 ' What will you do to me T asked the sturdy varlet. 
 
 * Dear Maurice, I hope you'll never know ! Pray don't try ? 
 cried Lucy ; but if she had had any knowledge of character, 
 she would have seen that she had only provoked the little 
 Berserkar's curiosity, and had made him determined on proving 
 the undefined threat. So the unfortunate Algernon seldom 
 descended the stairs without two childish faces being protruded 
 from the balusters of the nnrsery-flight over-head, pursuing him 
 with hissing whispers of ' Polysyllable ' and ' Polly-silly,' and if 
 he ventured on indignant gestures, Maurice returned them with 
 nutcracker gi-imacds and provoking assurances to his little sister 
 that he could not hurt her. 
 
 Algernon could not complain without making himself ridicu- 
 lous, and Albinia was too much engaged to keep watch over 
 her son, so that the persecution daily became more intolerable, 
 and barren indications of wrath were so divertinfj to the little 
 monkey, tliat the presence of the heads of the family was the 
 sole security from his tricks. Poor Lucy was the cliief sufferer, 
 nnaV)le to restrain her brother, and enduring the brunt of her 
 husband's irritation, with the great disappointment of being 
 imable to make him happy at her home, and fearing every day 
 that he would fulfil his threat of not staying another week in 
 the house with that intolerable child, for the sake of any one's 
 grandmother. 
 
 Tidings came, however, that completely sobered Maurice, and 
 made them unable to think of moving. It was the first rumour 
 of the charge o''^ Balaklava, with the report that the 25th 
 Lancers were cut to pieces. In spite of Algernon's I'eiteration 
 that telegraphs were lies, all the household would have been 
 glad to lose the sense of existence during the time of suspense. 
 Albinia's heart was wrung as she thought of the cold hurried 
 manner of the last farewell, and every look she cast at her 
 husband's calm melancholy f ice, seemed to be asking pardon 
 that his son was not safe in India.
 
 360 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Late tbat evening the maid came hurriedly in with a packet 
 of papers. 'A telegraph, ma'am, come express from Had- 
 minster.' 
 
 It was to Mrs Kendal from one of her friends at the Horse 
 Guards. She did not know how she found courage to turn her 
 eves on it, but her shriek was not of sorrow. 
 ' 'Major the Honourable F. Ferrars, severely wounded — right 
 arm amputated.' 
 
 ' Lieutenant Gilbert Kendal, slightly wounded — contusion, 
 rib broken.' 
 
 She saw the light of thankfulness break upon Mr. Kendal's 
 face, and the next moment flew up to her boy's bed-side. He 
 started up, half asleep, but crying out, ' Mamma, where's 
 Gibbief 
 
 * Safe, safe ! Maurice dearest, safe ; only slightly wounded ! 
 Oh, Maurice, God has been very good to us !' 
 
 He flung his arms round her neck, as she knelt beside his 
 crib in the dark, and thus Mr. Kendal found the mother and 
 son. As he bent to kiss them, Maurice exclaimed, with a sort 
 of anger, 'Oh, mamma, why have 1 got a bullet in my throat?' 
 
 Albinia laughed a little hysterically, as if she had the like 
 bullet. 
 
 ' It was very kind of Lord H ,' fervently exclaimed JNIr. 
 
 Kendal ; 'you must write to thank him, Albinia. Gilbei't may 
 be considered safe while he is laid up. Perhaps he may be sent 
 home. What should you say to that, Maurice V 
 
 ' Oh ! I wouldn't come home to lose the fan,' said Maurice. 
 ' Oh, mamma, let me get up to tell Awkey, and run up to 
 Ulick ! Gilbert will be the colonel when I'm a cornet ! Oh ! 
 I must get up !' 
 
 His outspoken childish joy seemed to relieve Albinia's swell- 
 ing heart, too full for the expression of thankfulness, and the 
 excitement was too much even for the boy, for he burst into 
 passionate sobs when forbidden to get up and waken his little 
 sister. 
 
 The sobering came in Mr. Kendal's mention of Fred. Al- 
 binia was obliged to ask what had happened to him, and was 
 shocked at having overlooked so terrible a misfortune ; but 
 Maurice seemed to be quite satisfied. ' You know, mamma, it 
 said they were cut to pieces. Can't they make him a wooden arm V 
 evidently thinking he could be repaired as easily as the crea- 
 tures in his sisters Koah's Ark. Even Algernon showed a 
 heartiness and fellow-feeling that seemed to make him more like 
 one of the family. INIoreover, he was so much elevated at the 
 receipt of a telegraph direct from the fountain-head, that he rod«
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 861 
 
 abo'at the next day over all the neighl30nrhood with the tidings, 
 and comported himself as though he had private accets to all 
 Lord Raglan's secrets. 
 
 The unwonted emotion tamed Maurice for several days, and 
 his behaviour was the better for his daily rides with papa to 
 Hadminster, to forestall the second post. At last, ou his return, 
 his voice rang through the house. ' Mamma, where are you 1 
 The letter is come, and Gilbert shot two Russians, and Liaved 
 Cousin Fred 1' 
 
 'I opened your letter, Albinia,' said Mr. Kendal ; and, as 
 she took it from him, he said, ' Thank God, I never dared hope 
 for such a day as this !' 
 
 He shut himself into the library, while Albinia was sharing 
 with Sophy the precious letter, but with a moment's disappoint- 
 ment at finding it not from Gilbert, but from her brother 
 William. 
 
 ' Before you receive this,' he wrote, * you will have heard of 
 the afiair of to-day, and that our two lads have come out of it 
 better than some others. There are but nine officers living, 
 and only four unhurt out of the 25th Lancers, and Fred's 
 escape is entirely owing to your son.' 
 
 Then followed a brief nari'ative of the events of Balaklava, 
 that fatal chai'ge so well described as ' magnifique mais pas la 
 guerre,^ a history that seemed like a dream in connexion with 
 the timid Gilbert. His individual story was thus : — He safely 
 rode the ' half a league ' forward, but when more than half way 
 back, his horse was struck to the gi-ouud by a splinter of the 
 same shell tlmt overthrew Major Ferrars, at a few paces' distance 
 from him. Quickly disengaging himself from his horse, Gilbert 
 ran to assist his friend, and succeeded in extricating him from 
 his horse, and supporting him through the remainder of the 
 terrible space commanded by the batteries. Fred, unable 
 to move without aid, and to whom each step was agony, had 
 entreated Gilbert to lelinquish his hold, and not peril himself 
 for a life already past rescue ; but Gilbert had not seemed to 
 hear, and when several of the enemy came riding down on them, 
 he had used his revolver with such efiect, as to lay two of the 
 number prostrate, and deter the rest from repeating the attack. 
 
 * All this I heard from Fred,' continued the General ; 'he is 
 in his usual spirits, and tells me that be feels quite jolly since 
 his arm has been off, and he has been in his own bed, but I 
 fear he has a good deal to suffer, for his right side is terribly 
 lacerated, and I shall be glad when the next few days are over. 
 He desires me to say with his love that the best turn you ever 
 did him was putting young Kendal into the 25th. Tell your
 
 362 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 husband that I congratulate him on his son's conduct, and am 
 afraid that his promotion without purchase is only too certain. 
 Gilbert's only message was his love. Speaking seems to give 
 him pain, and he is altogether more prostrated than so slight a 
 wound accounts for ; but when I saw him, he had just been told 
 of the death of his colonel and several of his brother officers, 
 among them young Wynne, who shared his tent ; and he was 
 completely overcome. There is, however, no cause for uneasi- 
 ness ; he had not even been aware that he was hurt, until he 
 fainted while Fred was under the surgeon's hands, and was then 
 found to have an ugly contusion of the chest, and a fracture of 
 the uppermost rib on the left side. A few days' i-est will set all 
 that to rights, and I expect to see him on horseback before we 
 can shij) poor Fred for Scutari. In the meantime they ai'e both 
 in Fred's tent, which is fairly comfortable.' 
 
 Albinia understood whence came Gilbert's heroism. He had 
 charged at first, as he had hunted with Maurice, because there 
 was no doing otherwise, and in the critical moment the warm 
 heart had done the rest, and equalled constitutional courage : 
 but then, she saw the gentle tender spirit sinking under the slight 
 irjuiy, and far more at the sufferiiig of his friend, the deadly 
 havoc among his comrades, and his own share in the carnage. 
 The General coolly mentioned the two enemies who had fallen 
 by his pistol, and i\Taurice shouted about them as if they had 
 been two rabbits, but she knew enough of Gilbert to be sure 
 that what he might do in the exigency of self-defence, would 
 shock and sicken him in rocoUection. Poor Fred ! how little 
 would she once have believed that his frightful wound could be 
 a secondary matter with her, only enhancing her gratitude on 
 account of another. 
 
 That was a happy evening ; Maurice was sent to ask Ulick to 
 dinner, and at dessert drank the healths of his soldier relatives, 
 among whom Mr. Kendal with a smile at Ulick, included 
 Bryan 0']VIore. 
 
 In the universal good-will of her trium|)h, Albinia having 
 read her precious letter to every one, resolved to let the Drurys 
 hear it, before forwarding it to Fairnioad. Lucy's negiect of 
 that ffimily was becoming flagrant, and Albinia was rcsolvixd to 
 take her to make the calL Therefore, after promulgating ker 
 intentions too decidedly for Algernon to oppose them, she set 
 out with Lucy in the most virtuous state of mind. Maurice 
 was to ride out with his father, and Sophy was taking care of 
 gi'imdmamma, so she made her expedition with an easy mind, 
 and ab.solutely enjoyed the change of scenery. 
 
 The war had diawn eveiy one nearer together, and Mrs.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 363 
 
 Drtiry was really anxious about Gilbert, and grateful for the 
 intelligence. Nor did Lucy meet witli anything unpleasant. 
 Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy, in waist-deep flounces, a Paris bonnet, 
 and her husband's dignity, impressed her cousins, and whatever 
 use they might make of their tongues, it was not till after she 
 was gone. 
 
 As the can-iage stopped at the door, Sophy came out with 
 such a perturbeJ an expression, as seemed to prelude fatal 
 tidings ; and Lucy was ]jausing to listen, when she was hastily 
 summoned by her husband. 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, he has struck Maurice such a blow f cried 
 Sophy. 
 
 * Algernon? where's Mairice? is he hurt?' 
 ' He is in the library with papa.' 
 
 She was there in a moment. Maurice sat on his father's knee, 
 listening to Pope's Homer, loaning against him, with eye, cheek, 
 and nose exceedingly swelled and reddened ; but these were 
 symptoms of which she had seen enough in past days not to be 
 greatly terrified, even while she exclaimed aghast. 
 
 'Aye!' said Mi-. Kendal sternly. 'What do you think of 
 young Dusautoy's handiwork f 
 
 * What could you have done to him, Maux'ice V 
 
 * 1 painted his image.' 
 
 * The children got into the painting-room,' said Mr. Kendal, 
 *and did some mischief; Maurice ought to have known better, 
 but that was no excuse for his violence. I do not know what 
 would have been the consequence, if poor little Albinia's screams 
 had not alarmed me. I found Algernon striking him with his 
 doubled fist.' 
 
 ' But I gave him a dig in the nose,' cried Maurice, in exulta- 
 tion ; ' I pulled ever so much liair out of his whiskers. I had 
 it just now.' 
 
 ' This sounds very sad,' said Albinia, interrupting the search 
 for the trophy. ' What were you doing in the painting-room 1 
 You know you had no business there.' 
 
 ' Why, mamma, little Awk wanted me to look at the pictures 
 that Lucy shows her. And then, don't you know his image ? 
 the little white bare boy pulling the thorn out of his foot. 
 Awkey said he was naughty not to have his clothes on, and so I 
 thought it would be such fun to make a militiaman of him, and 
 30 the paints were all about, and so I gave him a red coat and 
 l)lack trousers.' 
 
 'Oh, Maurice, Mam-ice, how could you f 
 
 'I couldn't help it, mamma! I did so want to see what 
 Algernon would do 1'
 
 S64 THE TOUNU STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 'Well.' 
 
 * So he came up and cauglit us. And wasn't lie in a jolly 
 good rage 1 that's all. He stamped, and called me names, and 
 got hold of me to shake me, but I know I kicked him well, and 
 I had quite a handful out of his whisker ; but you see poor 
 little Awkey is only a girl, and couldn't help squalling, so papa 
 came up.' 
 
 'And in time T said Mr. Kendal; 'he reeled against me, 
 almost stunned, and was hardly himself for some moments. His 
 nose bled violently. That fellow's fist might knock down au 
 
 ox.' 
 
 'But he didn't knock me down,' said Maurice. 'You told 
 me he did not, papa.' 
 
 ' That's all he thinks of !' said Mr. Kendal, in admiration. 
 * Not a cry nor a tear from first to last. I told Sophy to let m© 
 know when Bowles came.' 
 
 ' For a black eye f cried the hard-hearted mother, laughing. 
 ' You should have seen what Maurice and Fred used to do to 
 each other.' 
 
 ' Oh, tell me, mamma,' cried Maurice, eagerly. 
 
 * Not now, master,' she said, not thinking his pugnacity in 
 need of such respectable examples. ' It would be more to the 
 purpose to ask Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy's pardon for such very 
 bad behaviour.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal looked at her in indignant surprise. *Ours 
 is not the side for the apology,' he said. ' If Dusautoy has a 
 spark of proper feeling, he must excuae himself for such a brutal 
 assault.' 
 
 ' I am afraid Maurice provoked it ; I hope my little boy is 
 sorry for having been so mischievous, and sees that he de- 
 serves — ' 
 
 Mr. Kendal silenced her by an impatient gesture, and feeling 
 that anytliing was better than the discussion before the boy, she 
 tried to speak indiflurently, and not succeeding, left the room, 
 much annoyed that alarm and indignation had led the indul- 
 gent father to pet and coax the spirit that only wanted to be 
 taken down, and as if her discipline had received its first real 
 shock. 
 
 Mr. Kendal followed her upstairs, no less vexed. ' Albinia, 
 this is absurd,' he said. ' I will not have the child punished, or 
 made to ask pardcm for being shamefully struck.' 
 
 * It was shameful enough,' said Albinia ; ' but, after all, I 
 can't wonder that Algernon was in a passion ; Maurice did be- 
 have very ill, and it would be much better for him if you would 
 not make him more impudent than he is already.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 865 
 
 * I did not expect you to take part against your own child, 
 wlien lie has been so sevei'ely maltreated,' said he, with such un- 
 reasonable displeasure, that almost thinking it play, she laughed 
 and said, ' You are as bad as the mothers of the school-children, 
 when they wont have them beaten.' 
 
 He gave a look as if loth to trust his ears, walked into his 
 room, and shut the door. The thrill of horror came over her 
 that this was the first quarrel. She had been saucy when he 
 was serious, and had offended him. She sprang to the door, 
 knocked and called, and was in agony at the moment's delay ere 
 he returned, with his face still stem and set. Pleading and 
 earnest she raised her eyes, and surrendered unconditionally. 
 ' Dear Edmund, don't be vexed with me, I should not have 
 said it,' 
 
 ' Never mind,' he said, affectionately ; * I do not wish to inter- 
 fere with your authority, but it would be impossible to punish 
 a child who has suffered so severely ; and I neither choose that 
 Dusautoy should be made to think himself the injured party, 
 nor that Maui-ice should be put to the pain of apologizing for 
 an offence, which the other party has taken on himself to cancel 
 "with interest.' 
 
 Albinia was too much demolished to recollect her two argu- 
 ments, that pride on their side would only serve to make Alger- 
 non prouder, and that she did not believe that asking pardon 
 would be so bitter a pill to Maurice as his father supposed. She 
 could only feel thankful to have been forgiven for her own offence. 
 
 When they met at dinner, all were formal, Algernon stiff and 
 haughty, ashamed, but too grand to beti'ay himself ; and Lucy rest- 
 less and uneasy, her eyes looking as if slie had been crying. When 
 Maurice came in at dessert, the fourth part of his countenance 
 emulating the unlucky cast in gox'geous hues of crimson and 
 violet, Algernon was startled, and turning to Albinia, muttered 
 something about ' never having intended,' and ' having had no 
 idea.' 
 
 He might have said more, if Mr. Kendal, with Maurice on 
 his knee, had not looked as if he expected it ; and that look 
 sealed Albinia's lips againsit expressing regret for the provoca- 
 tion ; but Maurice exclaimed, ' Never mind, Algernon, it was 
 all fair, and it doesn't hurt now. I wouldn't have touched your 
 image, but that I wanted to know what you would do to me. 
 Shake hands ; peo]jle always do when they've had a good mill.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal looked across the table to his wife in a state of 
 unbounded exultation in his generous boy, and Albinia felt 
 infinitely relieved and gi-ateful. Mi: Cavendish Dusautoy took 
 the firm young paw, and said with an attempt at condescension,
 
 866 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 •Very well, Maurice, the subject shall be mentioned no more, 
 since you have received a severer lesson than I intended, and 
 appear sensible of your error.' 
 
 ' It wasn't you that made me so,' began Maurice, with defiant 
 eye ; but with a strong sense of 'let well alone,' his fatlier cut 
 him short with, ' That's enough, my man, you've said all that 
 can be wished,' lifted him again on his knee, and stopped his 
 mouth with almonds and raisins. 
 
 The subject was mentioned no more ; Lucy considered peace 
 as proclaimed, and heiself relieved from the necessity of such au 
 unprecedented deed as preferring an accusation against I\Iaurice ; 
 and Albinia, unaware of the previous persecution, did not trace 
 that Maurice considered himself as cliallenged to pi-ove, that 
 experience of his brother-in-law's list did not suffice to make 
 him cease from his ' fun.' 
 
 Two days after, Algernon was coming in from riding, when a 
 simple voice upon the stairs observed, ' Here's such a pretty 
 picture !' 
 
 ' Eh ! what V said Algernon ; and Maurice held it near to him 
 as he stood taking off his great coat. 
 
 * Such a pretty picture, but you mustn't have it ! No, it is 
 Ulick's.' 
 
 ' Heavens and earth !' thundered Algernon, as he gathered up 
 the meaning. ' Wlio has dared — 1 Give it nie — or — ' and as 
 soon as he was freed from the sleeves, he snatclied at the paper, 
 but the boy had already sprung up to tlic first landing, and 
 waving his treasure, shouted, 'No, it's not for you ; I'll not give 
 you Ulick's picture.' 
 
 ' Ulick !' cried Algernon, in redoubled fury. ' You're put up 
 to this ! Give it me this instant, or it shall be the worse for 
 you ;' but ere he could stride uj) the fiivst flight, Maurice's last leg 
 was disap[)earing round the corner above, and the next moment 
 the exhibition was repeated overhead in the gallery. Thither 
 did Algei-non rush headlong, following the scampering pattering 
 feet, till the door of Maurice's little room was slammed in his 
 face. Bui-sting it oi)en, he found the chamber empty, but there 
 was a shout of elvish laughter outside, and a cry of dismay 
 coming up from the garden, impelled him to mount the rickety 
 deal-table below the deep sunk dormer window, when thrusting 
 out his head and shoulders, he beheld his wife and her parents 
 gazing up in terror from the lawn. No wonder, for there was 
 a narrow ledge of leading without, uj)on which Maurice had 
 suddenly a]»p(^ared, running with unwavering steps till in a mo- 
 ment he st(jop','d down, and pupped through the similar window 
 of Gilbert's room.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 36? 
 
 While still too dizzy with horror to feel secure tliafc the child 
 \pas indeed safe within, those below were startled by a frantic 
 shout from Algernon: 'Let me out! I say, the imp has 
 locked me in ! Let me out !' 
 
 Albinia flew into the house and upstaii"S. IMaurice was 
 flourLshing the key, and executing a wai--dauce before the cap- 
 tive's door, with a chant alternating of war-whoops, ' Promise 
 not to hurt it, and I'll let you out I' and ' Pity poor prisoners in 
 a foreign land !' 
 
 She called to him to desist, but he was too wild to be checked 
 by her voice ; and as she advanced to capture him, he shot like 
 an arrow to the other end of the passage, and down the back- 
 stairs. She promised speedy rescue, and hurried down, hoping 
 to seize the culprit in the hall, but he had whipped out at the 
 back-door, and was making for the garden gate, wlien his father 
 hastened down the path to meet him, and seeing his retreat cut 
 off, he plunged into the bushes, and sprang like a cat up a cock- 
 spur-thorn, too slender for ascent by a heavier weight, and 
 thence grinned and waved his hand to his prisoner at the 
 window. 
 
 ' Maurice,' called his fether, * what does this mean V 
 
 ' I only want to take home Ulick's picture. Then Pll let him 
 out.' 
 
 ' Wliat jucture V 
 
 * That's my secret.' 
 
 *This is not play, Maurice,' said Albinia. 'Attend to papa." 
 The boy swung the light shrub about with him in a manner 
 fearful to behold, and looked irresolute. Lucy put in her cry, 
 ' You very naughty child, give up the key this moment ;' and 
 above, Algernon bawled appeals to Mr, Kendal, and threats to 
 Maurice. 
 
 * Silence !' said Mr. Kendal, sternly. ' IMaurice, this must not 
 be. Come down, and give me the key of your room.' 
 
 ' I will, papa,' said Maurice, in a reasonable voice. ' Only 
 please pi-omise not to let A Igernon have Ulick's picture, for I 
 got it without his knowing it.' 
 
 * I promise,' said Mr. Kendal. 'Let us put an end to this.' 
 IMaurice came down, and brought the key to his father, and 
 
 while Lucy hastened to release her husband, IVIr. Kendal seized 
 the boy, finding him already about again to take flight. 
 
 ' Papa, let me take home Ulick's picture before he gets out,' said 
 Maurice, finding the grasp too strong for him ; but Mr. Kendal 
 had taken the picture out of bis hand, and looked at it with 
 changed countenance. 
 
 It depicted the famous drawing-room scene, in its native
 
 868 THE TOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 element, tte moon squinting tliroiigli inky clouds at Lucy swoon- 
 ing on the sofa, while the lofty presence of the Polysyllable 
 discharged the fluid from the inkstand. 
 
 * Did ^Ir. O'More give you this V asked Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' No, it tumbled out of his paper-case. You know he said I 
 miglit go to his rooms and get the Illustrated News with the 
 picture of Balaklava, and so the newspaper knocked the jiaper- 
 case down, and all the things tumbled out, so I picked this up, 
 and thought I would see what Algernon would say to it, and 
 tlien put it back again. Let me have it, papa ; if he catches me, 
 he'll tear it to smithereens.' 
 
 ' Don't talk Irish, sir,' said his fathei*. ' I see where your 
 impertinence comes from, and I will put a stop to it.' 
 
 Maurice gave back a step, amazed at his father's unwonted 
 anger ; but far greater wrath was descending in the person of 
 ]\lr. Cavendish Dusautoy, who came striding across the lawn, 
 and planting himself before his father-in-law, demanded, 'I beg 
 to know, sir, if it is your desire that I should be deliberately 
 insulted in this house V 
 
 ' No one can be more concerned than I am at what has 
 occurred.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir ; then I require that this intolerable child 
 be soundly flogged, that beggarly Irishman kicked out, and that 
 infamous libel destroyed !' 
 
 ' Oh, papa,' cried Maurice, ' you promised me the picture 
 should be safe !' 
 
 ' I promise you, you impudent brat,' cried Algernon, ' that 
 you shall learn what it is to insult your elders ! You shall be 
 flogged till you repent it !' 
 
 ' You will allow me to judge of the discipline of my own 
 family,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 'Ay ! 1 knew how it would be ! You encourage that child 
 in every sort of unbearable impudence; but I have endured it 
 long enough, and 1 g've you warning that I do not remain 
 another night under this roof unless I see the impertinence 
 flogged out of him.' 
 
 * Papa never whips me,' interposed Maurice ' You must ask 
 mamma.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal bit his lips, and Albinia could have smiled, but 
 their sense of the ludicrous inflamed Algernon, and like one 
 beside himself, he swung round, and declaring he .should ask liis 
 uncle if that were proper treatment, he marched across the 
 lawn, while Mr. Kendal exclaimed, * More childish than 
 Maurice !' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, what shall T do Y was Lucy's woful cry, as she
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 869 
 
 turned back, finding herself unable to keep up with his huge 
 steps, and her calls disregarded. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Albiuia, affectionately, ' you had better com- 
 pose yourt^elf and follow him. His uncle will bring him to 
 reason, and then you can tell hira how sorry we are.' 
 
 ' You may assure him,' said Mr. Kendal, ' that I am as much 
 hurt as he can be, that such an improper use should have been 
 made of O'More's intimacy here, and I mean to mark my sense 
 of it.' 
 
 'And,' said Lucy, 'I don't thir.k anything would pacify him 
 so much as Maurice being only a little beaten, not to hurt him, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' If IMaurice be punished, it shall not be in revenge,' said 
 Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' I'm afraid nothing else will do,' said Lucy, wringing her 
 hands. ' He has really declared that he will not sleep another 
 niijlit here unless Maui'ice is punished ; and whatever he says, 
 lie'll do, and I know it would kill me to go away in this 
 manner.' 
 
 Her father confidently averred that he would do no such 
 thing, but she cried so much as to move Maurice into exclaim- 
 ing, 'Look here, Lucy, I'll come up with you, and let him give 
 me one good punch, and then we shall all be comfortable 
 again.' 
 
 ' I dcm't know about the pvmching,' said Albinia ; ' but I think 
 the least you can do, Maurice, is to go and ask his forgiveness 
 for having been so very naughty. You were not thinking what 
 you were about when you locked him in.' 
 
 This measure was adopted, i\Ir. Kendal accompanying Lucy 
 and the boy, while Albiuia went in search of Sophy, whom she 
 found in grandmamma's room, looking very pale. 'Well V was 
 tlie inquiry, and she told what had passed, 
 
 'I hope Maurice will be punished,' said Sojihy ; so unwonted 
 a sentiment, that Albinia quite started, though it was decidedly 
 her own opinion. 
 
 ' That meddling with papers was very bad,' she said, with an 
 extenuating smile. 
 
 'Fun is a perfect demon when it becomes master,' said Sopliy. 
 It was plain that it was not Maurice that she was thinking of, 
 but the caricature. Her sister should have been sacred from 
 derision. 
 
 ' We must remember,' she said, * that it was only through 
 Maurice's meddling that we became aware of the existence of 
 this ))reciou3 work. It is not as if he had shown it to any one. 
 
 ' How many of the O'JMores have made game ci" it V asked 
 
 B B
 
 870 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Sophy, bitterly. * No, I am glad I know of it ; I sliall not be 
 deceived any more.' 
 
 With these words she withdrew, evidently resolved to put an 
 end to the subject. Her face was like iron, and Albinia grieved 
 for the deep resentment that the man whom she had ventured 
 to think of as devoted to herself, had made game of her sister. 
 Poor Sophy, to her that tryste had been a subject of unmitigated 
 affliction and shame, and it was a cruel wound that Ulick 
 O'JMore should, of all men, have turned it into ridicule. What 
 would be the effect on her 1 
 
 In process of time Mr. Kendal returned. 'Albinia,' he said, 
 ' this is a most unfortunate affair. He is perfectly impracticable, 
 insists on starting for Paris to-morrow, and I verily believe he 
 will.' 
 
 * Poor Lucy.' 
 
 ' She is in such distress, that I could not bear to look at her, 
 but he will not attend to her, nor to his uncle and aunt. Mrs. 
 Dusautoy proposed that they should come to the vicarage, 
 where there would be no danger of collisions with Maurice ; but 
 his mind can admit no idea but that he has been insulted, and 
 that we encourage it, and he thinks his dignity concerned in 
 resenting it.' 
 
 ' Not much dignity in being driven off the field by a child of 
 six years old.' 
 
 ' So his aunt told him, but he mixes it up with O'More, and 
 insists on my complaining to Mr. Goldsmith, and getting the 
 lad dismissed for a libellous caricaturist, as he calls it. Now, 
 little as I should have expected such conduct from O'More, it 
 could not be made a ground of complaint to his uncle.' 
 
 ' I should think not. No one with more wit than Algernon 
 would have dreamt of it! But if Ulick came and apologized? 
 Ah! but I forgot! Mr. Goldsmith sent him to London this 
 morning. Well, it may be better that he should be out of the 
 way of Algernon in his present mood.' 
 
 ' Humph !' said INIr. Kendal. * It is the first time I ever 
 allowed a stranger to be intimate in my family, and it shall be 
 the last. I never imagined him aware of the circumstance.' 
 
 ' Nor I ; I am sure none of us mentioned it.' 
 
 ' Maurice told him, I suppose. It is well that we should bt 
 aware who has instigated the child's impertinence. I shall 
 keep him as much as possible with me ; he must be cured of 
 Irish brogue and Irish coolness before they are confirmed.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal's conscience was evidently relieved by transfer- 
 ring to the Irishman the imputation of fostering Maurice's mal- 
 pracliccs.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 871 
 
 They were interrupted by Lucy's arrival. She was come to 
 take leave of home, for her loi'd was not to be dissuaded from 
 going to Loudon by the evening's train. The greater the con- 
 sternation, tlie sweeter his revenge. Never able to see more 
 than one side of a question, he could not perceive how impos- 
 sible it was for the Kendals to fulfil his condition with regard 
 to Ulick O'More, and he sullenly adhered to his obstinate de- 
 termination. Lucy was in an agony of grief, and perhaps the 
 most painful blow was the perception how little he was swayed 
 by consideration for her. Her maid packed, while her parents 
 tried to console her. It was easier when she bevvailed the 
 terrors of the voyage, and the uncertainty of hearing of dear 
 grandmamma and dear Gilbert, than when she sobbed about 
 Algernon having no feeling for her. It might be only too true, 
 but her wifely submission ought not to have acknowledged it, 
 and they would not hear when they could not comfort ; and so 
 they were forced to launch her on the world, with a tyrant 
 instead of a guide, and dreading the effect of dissijjation on her 
 levity of mind, as much as they grieved for her feeble spirit. 
 It was a piteous parting — a mournful departure for a bride — a 
 heavy penalty for vanity and weakness. 
 
 Unfortunately the result is to an action as the lens through 
 which it is viewed, and the turpitude of the deed seems to in- 
 crease or diminish according to the effect it produces. 
 
 Had it been in Algernon Dusau toy's nature to receive the 
 joke good-humouredly, it niiglit have been regarded as an 
 audacious exercise of wit, and have been quickly forgotten ; but 
 when it had actually made a breach between him and his wife's 
 family, and driven him from Bay ford when everything con- 
 spired to make his departure unfeelingly cruel, the caricature 
 was regarded as a serious insult and an abuse of intimacy. 
 Even Mr. Kendal was not superior to this view, feeling the 
 offence with all the sensitiveness of a hot-tempered man, a proud 
 reserved guardian of the sanctities of home, and of a father who 
 had seen his daughter's weakest and most faulty action turned 
 into ridicule ; and he seemed to feel himself bound to atone for 
 not going to all the lengths to which Algernon would have im- 
 pelled him, by showing the utmost displeasure within the bounds 
 of common sense, 
 
 Albinia, better appreciating the irresistibly ludicrous aspect 
 of the adventure, argued that the sketch harmlessly shut up 
 in a paper-case showed no great amount of insolence, and that 
 considering how the discovery had been made, it ought not to 
 be. visited. She thought the drawing had better be re.stored 
 without remarks by the same hand that had abstracted it ; but 
 
 B B 2
 
 S72 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHKn. 
 
 Mr. Kendal sternly declared this was impossible, and Sophy's 
 countenance seconded him. 
 
 ' Well, then,' said Albinia, * put it into my hands. I'm a bad 
 manager in general, but I can promise that Ulick will come 
 down so shocked and concerned, that you will not have the 
 heart not to forgive him.' 
 
 'The question is not of forgiveness,' said Sophy, in the most 
 rigid of voices, as she saw yielding in her father's face ; it any 
 one had to forgive, it was poor liucy and Algernon. All wc 
 have to do, is to be on our guaixl for the future.' 
 
 'Sophy is right,' said Mr. Kendal ; 'intimacy must be over 
 witli one who has so little discretion or good taste.' 
 
 * Then after his saving Maurice, he is to be given up, because 
 he quizzed the Polysyllable!' cried Albinia. 
 
 * I do not give him up,' said Mr. Kendal. ' I highly esteem 
 his good qualities, and should be happy to do him a service, but 
 I cannot have my family at the mercy of his wit, nor my child 
 taught disrespect. We have been unwisely familiar, and must 
 retreat' 
 
 ' And what do you mean us to do V exclaimed Albinia. 'Are 
 we to cut him systematically V 
 
 ' I do not know what course you may adopt,' said Mr. Kendal, 
 \n a tone whose grave precision rebuked her half petulant, half 
 /acetious inquiry. ' I have told you that I do not mean to do 
 anything extravagant, nor to discontinue ordinary civilities, 
 but I think you will find that our former habits are not re- 
 sumed.' 
 
 * And Maurice must not be always with him,' said Sophy. 
 'Certainly not ; I shall keep the boy with myself.' 
 
 It was with the greatest effort that Albinia licld her tongue. 
 To liave Sophy not only making common cause against her, but 
 inciting her f;ither to interfere about Maurice, was well-nigh 
 intoleiable, and she only endured it by scaling her lips as wilh 
 a bar of iron. 
 
 By-and-by came the reflection that if poor Sophy had a 
 secict cause of bitterness, it was she herself who had given those 
 thoughts sul)stance and consciousness, and she quickly forgave 
 every one save herself and Algernon. 
 
 As to her little traitor son, she took him seriously in hand 
 at bedtime, and argued the wliole transaction with him, re- 
 presenting the dreadful consequences of meddling with peojJe's 
 private papers under trust. Here was poor Lucy taken away 
 from home, and papa made very angry with Ulick, because 
 Maurice liad been meddlesome and mischievous; and tho\igli he 
 bad not been beaten for it, he would find it a worse punish-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEll. Si'o 
 
 ment not to be trusted another time, nor allowed to be witli 
 Ulick. 
 
 Maurice turned round witb mouth open at hearing of papa's 
 anger with Ulick, and the accusation of having brought his 
 friend into trouble. 
 
 * Why, Maurice, you remember how unhappy we were, Gil- 
 bert and all. It was because it was sadly wrong of Gilbert 
 and Lucy to have let Algernon in without papa's knowing it, 
 and it was not right or friendly in Ulick to laugh at what was 
 so wrong, and grieved us all so much.' 
 
 ' It was such fun,' said Maurice. 
 
 ' Yes, Maurice ; but fun is no excuse for doing what is un- 
 kind and mischievous. Ulick would not have been amused if 
 he had cared as much for us as we thought he "did ; but, after 
 all, his drawing the picture would have done no harm but for 
 a little boy, whom he trusted, never thinking that an unkind 
 wish to tease, would beti-ay this foolish action, and set his best 
 friends against him.' 
 
 ' I did not know I should,' said Maurice, winking hard. 
 
 'No j you did not know you were doing what, if you wero 
 older, would have been dishonourable.' 
 
 Tliat word was too much ! First he hid his face from his 
 mother, and cried out fiercely, ' I've not — I've not been that /' 
 and clenched his fist. ' Don't say it, mamma.' 
 
 ' If you had known what you were doiug, it would have 
 been dishonourable,' she repeated, gravely. ' It will be a long 
 time before you earn trust and confidence again.' 
 
 There was a great struggle with his tears. She had punished 
 him, and almost more than she could bear to see, but she knew 
 the conquest must be secured, and she tried, while she caressed 
 him, to make him look at the real cause of his lapse ; he declared 
 that it was 'such fun' to provoke Algernon, and a little more 
 brought out a confession of the whole course of persecution ; 
 the child's voice becoming quite triumphant as he told of the 
 success of his tricks, and his mother, though appalled at their 
 audacity, with great difficulty hindering herself from manifesting 
 her amusement. 
 
 She did not wonder at Algernon's having found it intoler- 
 able, and though angry with him for having made himself such 
 fairgame, she set to work to inipressupon Maurice hisowu errors, 
 and the hatefalness of practical jokes, and she succeeded so far 
 as to leave him crying himself to sleep, completely subdued, 
 while she felt as if all the tears ought to have been shed by 
 herself for her want of vigilance. 
 
 Conflicting duties ! how hard to strike the balance ! She had
 
 374 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 readily given up her own pleasures for the care ot Mrs. Meadows, 
 but when it came to her son's training, it was another question. 
 She nmch wished to see the note with wliich Mr. Kendal 
 returned the unfoi'tunate sketch, but one of the points on which 
 he was sensitive, was the sacredness of his correspondence, and 
 all that she heard was, that Ulick had answered ' not at all aa 
 Mr. Kendal had expected ; he was nothing but an Irishman, 
 after all.' But at last she obtained a sight of the note. 
 
 ^ Bay ford, Nov. lofh, 1854. 
 'Dear Sir, 
 
 ' I was much astonished at the contents of your letter of this morn- 
 ing, and greatly concerned that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy should have done 
 BO much honour to any production of mine, as to alter his arrangements on 
 that account. 
 
 'As the scrawl in question was not meant to meet the eye of any living 
 being, I sliould, for my own part, have considered it proper to take no 
 notice of what was betrayed by mere accident. I should have considered 
 it more conducive to confidence between gentlemen. I fully acquiesce in 
 what j'ou say of the cessation of our former terms of acquaintance, and 
 with many thanks for past kindness, believe me, 
 
 ' Your obedient servant, 
 
 'U. O'MORE.' 
 
 Nothing was more evidently written in a passion at the in- 
 vasion of these private papers, and Albinia, though she had 
 always feared he might consider himself the aggrieved party, 
 had hardly expected so much ])rond irritation and so little 
 regret. Mr. Kendal called him 'foolish boy,' and tried to put 
 the matter aside, but he was much hurt ; and Ulick put himself 
 decidedly in the wrong by passing in the street with a formal 
 bow, when Mr. Kendal, according to his purpose of ordinary 
 civility without an open rupture, would have shaken hands. 
 
 Sophy looked white, stern, and cold, but said not a word ; 
 she deepened her father's displeasure quite sufficiently by her 
 countenance. His was grave disappointment in a youth whom 
 he found less grateful than he thought he had a right to expect ; 
 hers was the rankling of what she deemed an insult to her 
 sister, ami the festering of a wound of which she was ashamed. 
 She meant to bear it well, but it made her very hard and rigid, 
 and even the children could hardly extract a smile from her. 
 She seemed to have made a determinatio)i to do all that Lucy 
 or herself had ever done, and more too, and listened to no en- 
 treaties to spare herself. Commands were met with sullen 
 resignation, entreaties were unavailing, and both in the sick- 
 room and the parish, she insisted on working beyond her powers. 
 It was a nightly battle to send her to bed, and Albinia suspected 
 that she did not sleep. Meantime Lucy had sailed, and waa
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 375 
 
 presently heai'd of in a whirl of excitement that shortened her 
 letters, and made them joyous and self-important. 
 
 'Ah !' said Sophy, * she will soon forget that she ever had a 
 home.' 
 
 ' Poor dear ! Wait till trouble comes, and she will remember 
 it only too sadly,' sighed Albinia. 
 
 ' Trouble is certain enough,' said Sophy ; ' but I don't think 
 what we deserve does us much good.' 
 
 Sophy could see nothing but the most ungentle and gloomy 
 aspects. Gilbert had not yet wi-itten, and she was convinced 
 that he was either very ill, or had only recovered to be killed 
 at Xnkermann, and she would only sigh at the Gazette that 
 announced Lieutenant Gilbert Kendal's promotion to be Cap- 
 tain, and Major the Honourable Frederick Ferrars to be Lieu- 
 tenant ColoneL 
 
 The day after, however, came the long expected letter from 
 the captain himself. It was to ]\Irs. Kendal, and she detected 
 a shade of disappointment on her husband's face, so she would 
 have handed it to liim at once, but he siiid, ' No, the person 
 to whom the letter is addressed, should always be the first to 
 read it.' 
 
 The letter began with Gilbert's happiness in those from home, 
 which he called the greatest pleasure he had ever known. He 
 feared he had caused uneasiness by not writing sooner, but it 
 had been out of his power while Fred Ferrars was in danger. 
 Tiien followed the account of the severe illness from which Fred 
 was scarcely beginning to rally, though that morning, on hear- 
 ing that he was to be sent home as soon as he could move, he 
 had talked about Canada and Emily. Gilbert said that not 
 only time but strength had been wanting for writing, for atten- 
 dance on Fred had been all that he could attempt, since moving 
 produced so much pain and loss of breath, that he had been 
 forced to be absolutely still whenever he was not wanted, but 
 he was now much better. ' Though,' he continued, * I do not 
 now mind telling you that I had thought myself gone. You, 
 who have known all my feelings, and have borne with them so 
 kindly, will understand the effect upon me, when on the night 
 pi-evious to the 25th, I distinctly heard my own name, in 
 Edmund's voice, at the head of my bed, just as he used to cal 
 me when he had finished his lessons, and wanted me to come 
 out with him. As I started up, I heard it again outside the 
 tent. I ran to the door, but of course there was nothing, nor 
 did poor Wynne hear anything. I lay awake for some time, 
 but slept at last, and had forgotten all by morning. It did not 
 even occur to me when I saw the pleasant race they had cut
 
 l\7^ THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 out for us, nor through the whole affair. Do not ask me to 
 descrioe it, the scene haunts me enough. When I found that I 
 had not come oif unliurt, and it seemed as if I could not ask 
 for one of our fellows but to hear he was dead or dying, poor 
 Wynne among them, then the voice seemed a summons. I was 
 thoroughly done up, and could not even speak when (xeneral 
 Ferrars came to me ; I only wanted to be let alone to die in 
 peace. I fency I slept, for the next thing I heard was the 
 Major's voice asking for some water, too feebly to wake the 
 fellow who had been left in charge. I got up, and found him 
 in a state of high fever and great pain, and from that time to 
 the present, 1 have hardly thought of the circumstance, and 
 know not why I have now written it to you. Did my 
 danger actually bring Edmund nearer, or did its presence act on 
 my imagination 1 Be tJiat as it may, I think, after the first 
 impression of awe and terror, the having heard the dear old 
 voice braced me, and gave me a sense of being near home and 
 less lonely. Not that ray hurt has been for an instant dangerous, 
 and 1 am mending every day ; if it were warmer I should get 
 on faster, but I cannot stir into the air without bringing on 
 cough. Tell Ullck O'More that we entertained his brother at 
 tea last evening ; we were obliged to desire him to bring his 
 own cup, and he ])roduced the shell of a laud tortoise ; it was 
 very like the fox and the crane. Poor fellow, it was the first 
 good meal he had for weeks, and I was glad he came in for some 
 famous bread that the General had sent us in. iie made us 
 much more merry than was convenient to either of us, not 
 being in condition for laughing. He is a fine lad, and liked by 
 ail.' Then came a break, and the letter closed with such tidings 
 of Inkermann as had reached the invalid's tent, 
 
 A few lines from General Ferrars spoke of the improvement 
 in both ]jatients, adding that Fred had had a hard struggle for 
 his life, and had only been saved by Gilbert's unremitting care 
 by day and night. 
 
 Heroism had not transformed Gilbert, and Albinia's old 
 fondness glowed with double ardour as she mused over his his- 
 tory of the battlt-eve. His father attributtid the impression to 
 a mind full of ]>resage and excitement, acted upon by strong 
 memory ; but woman -like, Albinia preferred the belief that the 
 one twin might have been an actual messenger to cheer and 
 strengthen tiie other for the coming trial, Sophy only said, 
 ' Gilbert's fancies as usual,' 
 
 ' This was not like fiuicy,' said Albinia, ' This is an unkind 
 way of taking it.' 
 
 ' It is common sense,' she bluntly answered. ' I don't see why
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. S77 
 
 he sliould think that Edmund has nothing better to do than to 
 call him. It would be childish.' 
 
 Albinia did not reply, disturbed by this display of jealousy 
 and harshness, as if every bud of tenderness had been dried up 
 and withered, and poor Sophy only wanted to run counter to any 
 obvious sentiment. 
 
 Albinia was gi'ateful for the message which gave her an excuse 
 for seeking Ulick out, and endeavouring to conciliate him. Mr. 
 Kendal made no objection, and expressed a hope that he might 
 have become reasonable. She therefore contrived to waylay 
 him in the November darkness, holding out her hand so that 
 he took it at unawares, as if not recollecting that he was 
 offended, but in the midst his grasp relaxed, and his head 
 went up. 
 
 ' I have a message for you from Gilbert about your brother 
 Bryan,' she said ; and he could not defend himself from mani- 
 festing eager interest, as she told of the tea-party ; but that 
 over, it was in stiff formal English that he said, ' I hope you 
 had a good account.' 
 
 It struck a chill, and she answered, almost imploringly, 'Gil- 
 bert is much bettei", thank you.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it ;' and he was going to bow and pass on, 
 when she exclaimed, 
 
 ' Ulick, why are we strangers V 
 
 ' It was agreed on all hands that things past could not be un- 
 done,' he frigidly replied. 
 
 * Too true,' she said ; ' but I do not think you know how 
 sorry we are for my poor little boy's foolish trick.' 
 
 ' I owe no displeasure to Maurice. He knew no more what 
 he was doing than if he had been a gust of wind ; but if the 
 wind had borne a private paper to my feet, I would never have 
 acted on the contents.' 
 
 ' Unhappily,' said Albinia, 'some revelations, though received 
 against our will, cannot help being felt. We saw the drawing 
 befoi-e we knew how he came by it, and you cannot wonder 
 that it gave [)ain to find that a scene so distressing to us should 
 have furnished you with amusement. It was absurd in itself, 
 but we had hoj)ed it was a secret, and it wounded us because wo 
 thought you would have been tender of our feelings.' 
 
 ' You don't mean that it was fact!' cried Ulick, stopping 
 suddenly ; and as her silence rejjlied, he continued, ' I give you 
 my word and honour that I never imai^ined there was a word 
 of truth in the farrago old Biddy told me, and I'll not deny 
 that I did scrawl the scene down as the very picture of a bit of 
 slander. I only wonder I'd not brought it to yourself
 
 5TS THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Pray let me hear what she told j'ou.' 
 
 ' Oh ! she said they two had been colloguing together by 
 moonlight, and you came home in the midst, and Miss Kendal 
 fainted away, so he catches up the ink and throws it over her 
 instead of water, and you and Mr, Kendal came in and were 
 mad entirely ; and Mr. Kendal threatened to brain him with 
 the poker if he did no quit it that instant, and sent Gilbert for 
 a soldier for opening the door to him, but you and Lucy went 
 down on yonr bare knees to get him to relent.' 
 
 * Well, 1 own the poker does throw an air of improbability 
 over the whole. Minus that and the knees, I am afraid it is 
 only too true, I suppose it got abroad through the servants.' 
 
 ' It was an unlucky goose-quill that lay so handy,' exclaimed 
 Ulick ; ' but you may credit me, no eye but my own ever sa^t 
 the scrawl, nor wovild have seen it,' 
 
 ' Then, Ulick, if we all own that something is to be regretted^ 
 why do we stand aloof, and persist in quarrelling V 
 
 ' I want no quarrel,' said Ulick, stiffly. ' Mx'. Kendal intimated 
 to me that he did not wish for my company, and I'm not the 
 man to foice it.' 
 
 ' Oh, Ulick, this is not what T hoped from yo\i !' 
 
 * I'll tell you what, Mrs. Kendal, you could talk over the 
 Giant's Causeway if you had a mind,' said Ulick, with much 
 agitation ; ' but you must not talk over me, for your own judg- 
 ment would be against it. You know what I am, and what I 
 came of, and what have I in the world except the honour of a 
 gentleman 1 Mr. Kendal and yourself have been my kindest 
 friends, and I'll be grateful to my dying day ; but if Mr. Kendal 
 thinks I can submit tamely when he resents what he never 
 ought to have noticed, why, then, what have I to do but to 
 show him the difference 1 If his kindness was to me as a gentle- 
 man and his equal, I love and bless him for it, but if it be a 
 patronizing of the poor clerk, why, then, I owe it to myself 
 and my peof)le to show that I can stand alone, without cringing, 
 and being thankful for affi-onts.' 
 
 ' Did it ever occur to you to think whether pride be a sin V 
 ' 'Tis not pride !' cried Ulick. ' It is my duty to my family 
 and my name. You'd say yourself, as you allowed before now, 
 that it would be mere meanness and servility to swallow insults 
 for one's own profit ; and if I were to say " you're welcome, 
 with many thanks, to shuffle over my private papers, and call 
 myself to account," I'd better have given up my name at once, 
 for I'd have left the gentleman Itehind me.' 
 
 ' I do believe it is solely for the O'Mores that you are making 
 % luty of implacability 1'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 579 
 
 * It is a duty not to run from one's word, and debase oneself 
 for one's own advantage.' 
 
 * One would think some wonderful advantage was held out to 
 you.' 
 
 ' The pleasantest hours of my life,' murmured he sadly, undei 
 his breath. 
 
 ' Well, Ulick,' she said, holding out her hand, ' I'm not quite 
 dissatisfied ; I think some day even an O'More will see tliat 
 there is no exception from the law of forgiveness in their 
 .special favour, and that you will not be able to go on resent- 
 ing wliat we have suffered from the young of the spider-monkey.' 
 
 Even this allusion produced no outward effect ] he only shook 
 hands gravely, saying, * I never did otherwise than forgive, and 
 regret the consequences : I am very thankful for all your i>ast 
 kindness.' 
 
 Worse than the Giant's Causeway, thought Albinia as she 
 parted from him. Nothing is so hopeless as that sort of for- 
 giveness, because it satisfies the conscience. 
 
 Mr. Kendal predicted that, the Keltic dignity having been 
 asserted, good sense and principle would restore things to a 
 rational footing. What this meant might be uncertain, but he 
 certainly missed Prometheus, and found Maurice a poor sub- 
 stitute. Indulgence itself could hardly hold out in unmitigated 
 intercourse with an obstreperous dunce not seven years old, 
 and ]Maurice, deprived of Gilbert, cut off fronr Ulick, with 
 mamma busy, and Sophy out of spirits, underwent more snub- 
 bing than had ever yet fallen to his lot. Not that he was much 
 concerned thereat ; and ]\Ir. Kendal would resume his book 
 after a lecture iipon good manners, and then be roused to find 
 his library a gigantic cobweb, strings tied to every leg of table 
 or chair, and Maurice and the little Awk enacting spider and 
 fly, heedless of the unwilling flies who might suffer by their 
 trap. Such being the case, his magnsiuimity was the less 
 amazing when he said, ' Albinia, there is no reason that O'More 
 should not eat his Christmas dinner here.' 
 
 ' Very well. I trust he will not think it needful still to be 
 self-denying,' 
 
 ' It is not our part to press advances which are repelled,' 
 said Sophy. 
 
 ' Indeed, Sophy,' said her father, smiling, ' I see nothing attrac- 
 tive in the attitude of rocks rent asunder.' 
 
 The undesigned allusion must have gone deep, for she coloured 
 to a purple crimson, and said in a freezing tone, ' I thought you 
 considered that to take him up again would be a direct insult 
 to Lucy and her husband.'
 
 380 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 'They do not show much consideratiou for us,' said Mr. 
 Kendal. ' How long ago was the date of her last letter f 
 
 ' Nearly three weeks,' said Albinia. ' Poor child, how could 
 she write with the catalogue raisonnee of the Louvre to learn 
 by heai-t V 
 
 The Dusautoys yearly gave a Christmas tea-party to the 
 teachers in the Sunday-school, who had of late become more 
 numerous, as Mr. Dusautoy's influence had had more time to 
 tell. Mrs. Kendal was reckoned on as one of the chief supporters 
 of the gaiety of the evening, but on this occasion she was forced 
 to send Sophia alone. 
 
 Sophy regarded it as a duty and a penance, and siibmitted 
 the more readily because it was so distasteful. It was, however, 
 more than she had reckoned on to find that the party had been 
 extended to the male teachers, an exceedingly good and lugu- 
 brious-looking youth lately apprenticed to Mr. Bowles, and 
 Ulick O'More. It was the first time she had met tlie_ latter 
 since his off'ence. She avoided seeing him as long as possible, 
 though all his movements seemed to thrill her, and so confused 
 the conversation which she was trying to keep up, that she 
 iound herself saying that Genevieve Durant had lost an arm, 
 and that Gilbert would spend Christmas in London. 
 
 She felt him coming nearer ; she knew he was passing the 
 Miss Northover in the purple silk and red neck-ribbon ; she 
 heard him exchanging a few civil words with the sister with 
 the hair strained ofl' her face ; she knew he was coming ; she 
 grew more eager in her fears for Mr. Rainsforth's chest. 
 
 Tea was announced. Sophy held back in the general move, 
 Ulick made a step nearei', their eyes met, and if ever eyes s])oke, 
 hers ordered him to keep his distance, while he glanced afiront 
 for affront, bowed and step))ed back. 
 
 So{)hy sat by Miss Jane Northover, and endeavoured to make 
 her talk. Anything would have been better than the echoes 
 of the sprightliness at the lower end of the table, where Ulick 
 was talking what he would have called blarney to Miss Susan 
 Northover and .Miss Mary Anne Higgius, both at once, till he 
 excited them into a perpetual giggle. Mr. Dusautoy was de- 
 lighted, and evidently thought this brilliant success ; Mrs. Du- 
 sautoy was less at her ease — the mirtli was Uvss sober and mor<', 
 exclusive than she had intended ; and Sophy, finding nothing 
 could be made of Miss Jane, turned round to her other neigh- 
 bour, Mr. Hope, and asked his opinion of the Whewell and 
 Brewster controversy on the Plurality of Worlds. 
 
 Mr. Hope had rather a good opinion of Miss Sophia, and as 
 kLc had never molested him, could talk to her, so he straightway
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 881 
 
 became engrossed in the logical anrl theological aspects of the 
 theoiy ; and Mrs, Dusautoy could hardly suppress her smile at 
 this unconscious ponderous attempt at a counter flirtation, with 
 Saturn and Jupiter as weapons for light skirmishing. 
 
 TJlick received the invitation to dinner, and did not accept 
 it. He said he had an engagement — Albinia wondered what 
 it could be, and had reason afterwards to think that he had the 
 silent young apothecary to a Christmas dinner in his own rooms 
 — an act of cluiritj at least, if not of forgiveness. Mr, Johns, 
 the senior clerk, whose health had long been failing, was about 
 to retire, and this announcement was followed by the appear- 
 ance of a smart, keen-looking young man of six or seven-and- 
 twentj, whom Miss Goldamith paraded as lier cousin, Mr, Andrew 
 Goldsmith, and it was generally expected that he would be 
 taken into partnership, and undertake old John's work ; but in 
 a fortnight he disajipeared, and young O'More was promoted to 
 the vacant post with an inci-ease of salary. It was mortifying 
 only to be informed through Mr. Dusautoy, instead of by the 
 lad himself. 
 
 The Eastern letters were the chief comfort. First came 
 tidings that Gilbert, not having yet recovei'ed his contusion, 
 was to accompany Colonel Ferrars to Scutari, and then after a 
 longer interval came a brief and joyous note — Gilbert was 
 coming home 1 On his voyage from the Crimea he had caught 
 cold, and this had brought on severe inflammation on tlie in- 
 jured ciiest, which had laid him by for many days at Scutari. 
 The colonel had become the stronger of the two, in spite of a 
 fragment of shell lodged so deeply in the side, that the medical 
 board advised his going to London for its removal. Both were 
 ordered home together with six months' leave, and Gilbert's 
 note overflowed with glad messages to all, including Algernon, 
 of whose* departure he was still in ignorance. 
 
 Mr. Kendal knew not whether he was most gratified or dis- 
 comfited by the insinuating ringer who touched his hat, hoping 
 for due notice of the captain's arrival in time to welcome hin> 
 with a peal of bells. Indeed, Bayford was so excited aV)out its 
 hero, that there were symptoms of plans for a grand reC(>ption 
 with speeclies, cheers, and triumphal arches, which caused Sophy 
 to say she hoped that he would come suddenly without any 
 notice, so as to put a stop to all that nonsense ; while Albinia 
 could not help nourishing a 'strange vague expectation that his 
 ]?eturn would be the beginning of better days. 
 
 At last, Sophia, with a touch of the okl {Denny club fever, 
 toiled o\er the school clothing wilfully and unneces«xrily for 
 two hours, kept up till evening without owning to the pain in
 
 382 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 
 
 her back, but finally returned so faint and dizzy that she was 
 forced to be carried helpless to her room, and the next day 
 could barely drag herself to the couch in the morning- room, 
 wher-; she lay quite prostrated, and grieved at increasing instead 
 of ] -ssening her mother's cares. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, don't stay wioh me. You are much too busy, 
 ' No, I am not. The children are out, and grandmamma 
 asleep, and I am going to write to Lucy ; but there's no hurry. 
 Let me cool your forehead a little longer.' 
 ' How I hate being another bother !' 
 
 * I like you much better so, than when you would not let me 
 speak to you, my j)Oor child.' 
 
 ' I could not,' she said, stifling her voice on the cushion, and 
 averting her head ; but in a few moments she made a great 
 effort, and said, ' You think me unforgiving, mamma. It was 
 not entirely that. It was hating myself for an old fancy, a 
 mere mistake. I have got over it ; and I will not be in error 
 again.' 
 
 ' S()]ihy dear, if you find strength in pi-ide, it will only wound 
 yourself 
 
 'I do not think I am proud,' said Sophy, quietly. *I mav 
 have been headstrong, but I despise myself too much foi 
 pi'ide.' 
 
 'Are you sure it was mere fancy? It was an idea that 
 occurred to more than to you.' 
 
 ' Hush r cried Sophy. * Had it been so, could he have ridi- 
 culed Lucy 1 Could he have fio.vn out so against pajia I No ; 
 that caricature undeceived me, and 1 am th;inkful. He treated 
 us as cousins — no more — he w<mld act in the same manner by 
 any of the Miss O'^loi-es of Bullyr.uikilty, nay, by Jane North 
 over, herself We did not allow fijr Irish manner.' 
 
 * If so, he had no right to do so. I shall never wish to see 
 him here again.' 
 
 * No, mamma, he did not know the folly he had to deal witli. 
 Next time 1 meet him, 1 shall know how to be really indifferent. 
 Now, this is the last time we will mention the subject !' 
 
 Albinia oljeyed, but still hoped. It was well that hope 
 renjained, for her task was heavier than ever ; ]Mrs. Meadows 
 was feebler, but more restless and wakeful, asking twenty 
 times in an hour for Mrs. Kendal. The doctors thought it 
 impossible that she should hold out another fortnight, but she 
 lived on from day to day, and at times Albinia hardly could be 
 absent from her for ten minutes together. Sophy was so com- 
 pletely knocked up that slu; could barely creep about the house, 
 and was forbidden the sick-room; but she was softened and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 883 
 
 gentle, and was once more a companion to her father, while 
 eagerly looking forward to devoting herself to Gilbert. 
 
 A letter with the Malta post-mark was eagerly opened, as 
 the harbinger of his speedy arrival. 
 
 • Royal Hotel, Malta, 
 February 10th, 1855. 
 ' Dearest Mrs. Kendal, 
 
 ' I am afraid you will all be much disappointed, though your grief 
 cannot equal mine at the Doctor's crael decree. We arrived here the day 
 before yesterday, but I had been so ill all the voyage with pain in the side 
 
 and cough, that there was no choice but to laud, and call in Dr. , who 
 
 tells me that my broken rib has damaged my lungs so much, that I must 
 keep perfectly quiet, and not think of going home till warm wea.ther. If 
 I am well enough to join by that time, I shall not see you at all unless you 
 and my father could come out. Am I nourishiug too wild a hope in think- 
 ing it possible ? iSince Lucy has been so kind as to promise never to leave 
 grandmamma, I cannot help hoping you might be spared. I do not think 
 my proposal is selfish, since my poor grandmother is so little conscious of 
 your cares; and Ferrars insists on remaining with me till he sees me in 
 your hands, though they say that the splinter must be extracted in Ijondon, 
 and every week ho remains here is so much suifering, besides delaying his 
 expedition to Canada. I have entreated him to hasten on, but he will not 
 hear of it. He is like a brother or a father to me, and nurses me most 
 tenderly, when he ought to be nursed himself. We are famishing for 
 letters. I suppose all ours have gone up to Balaklava, and thence will be 
 sent to England. If we were but there ! We are both much better for 
 the quiet of these two days, and are to move to-morrow to a lodging that 
 a friend of Fred's has taken for us at Bormoia, so as to be out of the Babel 
 f.'{ these streets — we stipulated that it should be large enough to take in 
 ycu and my father. I wish Sophy and the children would come too — it 
 would do them all the good in the world ; and Maurice would go crazy 
 among the big guns ; I am only afrt.id we should have him enlisting as a 
 drammer. The happy pair would be very glad to have the house to them- 
 selves, and would persuade themselves that it was another honeymoon. 
 
 'Good-bye. Instead of looking lor a letter, 1 shall come down to meet 
 you at the Quarantine harbour. Love to all. 
 
 ' Your most affectionate 
 
 'Gilbert Kendal.* 
 
 How differently Gilbert wrote when really ill, from his de- 
 sponding style when he only fancied himself so, thought Albinia, 
 as, perplexed and grieved, she handed the letter to her husband, 
 and opened the enclosure, written in the laboured, ill-formed 
 characters of a left-hand not yet accustomed to doing the offices 
 of both. 
 
 * Dear Albinia, 
 
 ' Come, if poseible. His heart is set upon it, though he does not 
 realize his condition, and I cannot bear to tell him. Only the utmost care 
 can save him. I am doing my best for him, but my nursing is as left- 
 handed as my writing. 
 
 'Ever yours, 
 ' F. F.'
 
 384 THE YOT^NG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 His wife's look of horror was Mr. Kendal's preparation for 
 this emphatic summons, perhaps a shock less sudden to him 
 than to lier, for he had not been without misgivings ever since 
 he had heard of the situation of the injury. He read and spoke 
 not, till the silence became intolerable, and she burst out almost 
 with a scream, ' Oh ! Edmund, I knew not what I did when I 
 took grandmamma into this house !' 
 
 * This is very perplexing,' he said, his feelings so intense that 
 he dared only speak of acting ; ' I must set out to-night.' 
 
 ' Order me to corae with you,' she said breathlessly. ' That 
 will cancel everything else.' 
 
 ' Would Mrs. Drury take charge of her aunt f said he, with 
 a moment's hesitation ; and Albinia felt it implied his impression 
 that they were bound by her repeated promises never to quit 
 the invalid, but she only spoke the moi-e vehemently — 
 
 ' Mrs Drury 1 She might — she would, under the circum- 
 stances. She could not refuse. If you desire me to come, I 
 should not be doing wrong ; and grandmamma might never even 
 miss me. Surely — oh surely, a young life, full of hope and 
 promise, that may yet be saved, is not to be set against what 
 cannot be prolonged more than a few weeks.' 
 
 ' As to that,' said Mr. Kendal, in the deliberate tone which 
 denoted dissatisfaction, 'though of course it would be the 
 greatest blessing to have you with us, I think you may trust 
 Gilbert to my care. And we must consider poor Sophia.' 
 
 ' She could not bear to be considered.' 
 
 'No ; but it would be leaving her in a most distressing posi- 
 tion, when she is far from well, and with most uncongenial 
 assistants. You see, poor Gilbert reckons on Lucy being here, 
 which would make it very difl'urent. But think of poor Sophia 
 in the event of Mrs. Meadows not surviving till our return !' 
 
 ' You are right ! It would half kill her ! My promise was 
 sacred ; I was a wretch to think of breaking it. But when. I 
 think of my boy — my Gilbert pining for me, and I deserting 
 him—' 
 
 ' For the sake of duty,' said her husband. ' Let us do right, 
 and trust that all will be overruled ior the best. I shall go 
 witli an easier mind if I leave you with the other children, and 
 1 can be the sooner with him.' 
 
 ' I could travel as fast.' 
 
 ' I may soon bring him home to you. Or you might bring 
 the others to join us in the south of France. You will all need 
 change.' 
 
 The decision was made, and her judgment acquiesced, though 
 ebe could hardly have cast the balance for herself. She urged
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. S85 
 
 no more, even wlien relentings came over her husband at the 
 tliought of the trials to which he was leaving her, and of those 
 which he should meet in solitude ; yet not without a certain 
 secretdesire to make himself sufficient for the care and con- 
 tentment of his own son. He cast about for all possible helpers 
 for her, but could devise nothing except a note entreating her 
 brother to be with her as much as possible, and commending 
 her to the Dusautoys. It v/as a less decided kiudnef^s that he 
 ordered Maurice's pony to be turned out to grass, so as to 
 jn-event rides in solitude, thinking the boy too young to be 
 trusted, and warned by the example of Gilbert's temptations. 
 
 Going up to the bank to obtain a su])ply of gold, he found 
 3'oung O'More there without his uncle. The tidings of Gilbert's 
 danger had spread throughout the town, and one heart at least 
 was softened. Ulick wrung the hand that lately he would not 
 touch, and Mr. Kendal forgot his wrath as he replied to the 
 warm-hearted inquii-y for particulars. 
 
 ' Then Mrs. Kendal cannot go with yoxi V 
 
 ' No, it is impossible. There is no one able to take charge of 
 Mrs. Meadows.' 
 
 ' Ah ! and Mrs. Cavendish Dusautov is gone ! I grieve for 
 the hour when my pen got the better of me. Mr. Kendal, this 
 is worse than I thought. Your son will never forgive me when 
 he knows I'm at the bottom of his disappointment.' 
 
 ' There is something to forgive on all hands,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 ■ That meddlesome boy of mine has caused worse results than 
 we could have contemplated. I believe it has been a lesson 
 to him.' 
 
 * I know it has to some one else,' said Ulick. ' I wish I could 
 do anything ! It would be the greatest comfort you could give 
 me to tell me of a thing I could do for Gilbert or any of you. 
 If you'd send me to find Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, and tell him 
 'twas all my fault, and bring them back — ' 
 
 'Rather too wild a project, thank you,' said Mr. Kendal, 
 emiling. 'No; the only thing you could do, would be — if that 
 boy of mine have not completely forfeited your kindness — ' 
 
 ' Maurice ? Ah ! how I have missed the rogue.' 
 
 * Poor little fellow, I am afraid he may be a burthen to him- 
 self and every one else. It would be a great relief if you could 
 be kind enough now and then to give him the pleasure of a 
 walk.' 
 
 JNlaurice did not attend greatly to papa's permission to go out 
 with Mr. O'More. Either it was clogged with too many con- 
 ditions of discretion, and too many reminiscences of the past ; 
 or Mauiiees mind was too much bent on the thought of hia
 
 386 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 
 
 brother. Botli children haunted the packing up, entreating to 
 send out impo3sil^le presents. Maurice could hardly be per- 
 suaded out of contributing a perilous-looking boomerang, which 
 he argued had some sense in it ; while he scofted at the little 
 Awk. who stood kissing and almost crying over the china 
 countenance of her favourite doll, entreating that papa would 
 take dear Miss Jenny because Gibbie loved her the best of all, 
 and always put her to sleep on his knees. At last matters 
 were compromised by Sophy, who roused herself to do one ot 
 the few things for which she had strength, engrossing them by 
 cutting out in paper an interminable hunt with horses and 
 dogs adhering together by the noses and tails, which, when 
 brilliantly painted according to their united taste, they might 
 safely imagine giving pleasure to Gilbert, while, at any rate, it 
 would do no harm in paj^a's pocket-book. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 T^HE day after Mr. Kendal's departure, Mrs. Meadows had 
 . another attack, but a fortnight still passed before the long 
 long task was over and the weary s]:>irit set free. There had 
 been no real consciousness and no one could speak of regret ; of 
 anything but relief and thankfulness that release had come at 
 last, when Albiuia had redeemed her pledge and knew she 
 should no more hear of the dreary ' very bad night,' nor be 
 greeted by the low, restless moan. The long good-night was come, 
 and, on the whole, there was peace and absence of self-condem- 
 nation in looking back on the past connexion. Forbearance 
 and unselfishness were recompensed by the calm tenderness 
 with which she could regard one who at the outset had 
 appeared likely to cause nothing but frets and misunderstand- 
 ings. 
 
 Had she and Sophy been left to themselves, there would have 
 been nothing to break ujjon this frame of mind, but early the 
 next day arrived Mr. and Mrs. Drury, upsetting all her arrange- 
 ments, implying that it had been presumptuous to exert any 
 authority without relationship. It did seem hard that the 
 claims of kindred should be only recollected in order to un- 
 settle her plans, and ofi'end her unostentatious tastes. 
 
 Averse both to the proposals, and to the discussion, she felt 
 unprotected and forlorn, but her spirit revived as she heard her 
 brother's voice in the hall, and she liastened to put herself in 
 his hiindi(. He declined doing battle ; he said it would be
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 3S7 
 
 better to yield than to argue, and leave a grudge for ever. ' It 
 will not vex Edmund,' he said ; ' and though you and Sophy 
 may be pained by incongruities, they will hurt you less than 
 disputing.' 
 
 She felt that he was right, and by yielding the main points, 
 he contrived amicably to persuade Mr. Drury out of the 
 numerous invitations and grand luncheon as well as to adlier^- to 
 the day that she had originally fixed for the funeral, after which 
 he hoped to take her and the young ones home with him and 
 give her the thorough change and rest of which the over-energy 
 of her manner betrayed the need. 
 
 Not that she consented. She could not bear not to meet her 
 letters at once ; or suppose Edmund and Gilbert should return 
 to an empty, unaired house ; and she thought herself selhsh, 
 when it might do so much good to Sophy, &c., &c., &c. — till 
 Mr. Ferrars, going home for a night, agreed with Winifred, that 
 domineering would be the only way to deal with her. 
 
 On his return he found Albinia on the stairs, and boxes and 
 trunks can-ied down after hei\ Running to him, she ex- 
 claimed, abruptly, ' I am going to Malta, Maurice, to-morrow 
 evening !' 
 
 * Has Edmund sent for you V 
 
 'Not exactly — he did not know — but Gilbert is dying, 
 and wretched at my not coming. I never wished him good- 
 by — he thinks I did not forgive him. Don't say a word — I 
 shall go.' 
 
 He held her trembling hands, and said, ' This is not the way 
 to be able to go. Come in here ; sit down and tell me.' 
 
 ' It is no use to argue. It is my duty now,' said Albinia; 
 but she let him lead her into the room, where Sophy was changing 
 the bright border of a travelling-cloak to crape, and Maurice 
 stood watching, as if stunned. 
 
 ' It is settled,' continued she, rapidly. ' Sophy and the children 
 go to the vicarage. Yes, I know, you are very kind, but Maurice 
 would be troublesome, and Winifred is not well enough, and 
 the Dusautoys wish it.' 
 
 ' Yes, that may be the best plan, as I shall be absent.' 
 
 She turned round, startled. 
 
 * I cannot let you go alone.' 
 
 ' Nonsense — Winifred- — Sunday — Lent — I don't want any one. 
 Nothing could happen to me.' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars caught Sophy's eye beaming with sudden relief 
 and gratitude, and repeated, ' If you go, I must take you.' 
 
 ' I can't wait for Sunday,' she said. 
 
 'What have you heard f 
 
 c c 2
 
 3S8 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 She produced the letter, aud read parts of it. The whole 
 stood thus : — 
 
 ' Boi-mola, 
 II p.m., February 28tb, 1855. 
 
 ' Dearest Albinia, 
 
 ' I Lope all has gone fairly well with you in my absence, and that 
 Sophia is well again. Could I have foreseen the condition of affivirs here, 
 I doubt whether I could have resolved on leaving you at home, though you 
 may be spared much by not being with us. I landed at noon to-day, and 
 was met in the harbour by your cousin, who had come off in a boat in hopes 
 of finding you on board. He did his best to prepare me for Gilbert's ap- 
 pearance, but 1 was more shocked than I can express. There can no longer 
 be any doubt that it is a case of rapid decline, brought on by exposure, and 
 aggravated by the injury at Balalilava. Colonel Ferrars fancies that Gil- 
 bert's exertions on his behalf in tlie early part of his illness may have done 
 harm, by preventing the broken bone from uniting, and causing it to press 
 on the lungs; but knowing the constitutional tendency, we need not dwell 
 on secondary causes, and there is no one to whom we owe a deeper debt of 
 gratitude than to your cousin, for his most assiduous and affectionate atten- 
 dance at a time when he is very little equal to exeriion. They are like 
 brotliers together, and I am sure nothing has been wanting to Gilbert that 
 he could devise for his comfort. They are in a tolerably commodious airy 
 lodging, where I found Gilbert propped up with cushions on a large chair 
 by the window, flushed with eager watching. Poor fellow, to see how his 
 countenance fell when he found I was alone, was the most cutting reproach 
 I ever received in my life. He was so completely overcome, that he could 
 not restrain his tears, though he strove hard to command himself in the 
 fear of wounding my feelings ; but there are moments when the truth will 
 have its way, and you have been more to him than his father has ever been. 
 May it be granted that he may yet know how I feel towards him ! His first 
 impression was that you had never forgiven him for his unfortunate adven- 
 ture with Maurice, and could never feel towards him as before ; and though 
 I trust I have removed this idea, perhaps such a letter as you can write 
 might set his heart at rest. Ferrars says that hitherto his spirits have kept 
 up wonderfully, though latterly he had been evidently aware of his ccndi- 
 tion, but he has been very much depressed this evening, probably from the 
 reaction of excited expectation. On learning the cause of Lucy's desertion, 
 he seemed to consider that his participation in the transactions of that night 
 had recoiled upon himself, and deprived him of your j)resence. It was verj 
 painful to see how he took it. He was eager to be told of the children, and 
 the only time I saw iiim brighten was when I gave him their messages. I 
 am writing wjiile I hope he sleeps. I am glad to be here to relieve the 
 Colonel, who for several nights past has slept on the floor, in his room, not 
 thinking the Maltese servant trustworthy. He looks very ill and suflering, 
 but seems to have no thour;ht but for Gilbert, and will not hear of leavin" 
 hun ; and, in truth, they cling together so affectionately, that I could not 
 bear to urge their parting, even were Fred more fit to travel home alone. 
 I will close my letter to-morrow after the doctor's visit.' 
 
 The conclusion was even more desponding; the physician had 
 Kpoken of the case as hopeless, aud likely to terminate rapidly ; 
 and Gilbert, who was always at the worst in the morning, had 
 shown no symptom that could lead his father to retract his first 
 impression.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTIl EPv. S89 
 
 Mr. Ferrars saw that it would be useless and cruel to en- 
 deavour to detain Ins sister, and only doubted whethei', in her 
 precipitation, she might not cross and miss her husband in a 
 still sadder iourney homeward, and this made him the more re- 
 solved to be her escort. When she dissuaded him vehemently, 
 as though she were bent on doing something desperate, he 
 replied that he was anxious about Fred, and if she and her 
 husband were engrossed by their son, he should be of service in 
 brinsinaf him home ; and this somewliat reconciled her to what 
 was so much to her benefit. Only she gave notice that he must 
 not prevent her from travelling day and night, to which he 
 made no answer, while Sophy hoarsely said that but tor know- 
 "ng herself to be a mei'e impediment, she should have insisted on 
 going, and her uncle must not keep mamma back. Then 
 Maurice imitatively broke out, ' Mamma, take me to Gilbert ; I 
 wont be a plague, I promise you.' He was scarcely silenced 
 before Mr. Dusautoy came striding in to urge on her that Fanny 
 and himself should be much happier if he were permitted to 
 conduct Mrs. Kendal to IVJ alta (the fact being that Fanny was 
 persuaded that Mr. Ferrars would obviate such necessity). 
 Albinia almost lauijhed, as .she had declared that she had set all 
 the parsons in the country in commotion, and Mr. Dusautoy was 
 oblised to limit liis sood offices to the care of the children, and 
 the i-esponsibility of the Fairmead Sunday services. 
 
 The good hard-worked brother had hardly time to eat his 
 luncheon, before he started to inform his wife, and prepare for 
 his journey. Winifred was a very good sister on an emer- 
 gency ; she had not once gi'owled since poor Mrs. Meadows had 
 been really ill ; and though she had been feeding on hopes of 
 Albinia's visit, and was far from strong, she quashed her hus- 
 band's misgivings, and cheerily strove to convince him that he 
 would be wanted by no one, least of all by herself. A slight 
 vituperation of the polysyllabic pair was all the relief she jjer- 
 mitted hei'self ; and who could blame her for that, when even 
 Mr. Dusautoy called the one ' that foolish fellow,' and the other 
 ' poor dear Lucy V 
 
 Albinia and Sophy sat over the fire that evening, after their 
 sorrowful tasks unable to turn to anything else, wondering how 
 and when they should meet again, and their words coming slowly, 
 and with long intervals of silence. 
 
 ' Dear child,' said Albinia, ' promise me to take care of your- 
 self, and to let Mrs. Dusautoy judge what you can do.' 
 
 ' Vm not worth taking care of,' muttered Sophy. 
 
 'We think you worth oiu' anxiety,' said .Albinia, ten- 
 derly.
 
 390 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 * I will not make it worse for you,' meekly replied Sophy. *1 
 don't think I'm cross now; I could not be — ' 
 
 ' No, indeed you are not, my dear. We have leant on 
 each other, and when we come home, you will make our 
 welcome.' 
 
 ' The children will.' 
 
 * Ah ! I think INIaurice will behave well. He is very much 
 subdued. I told him he was to do no lessons, and he fairly 
 burst out crying.' 
 
 * Oh, mamma !' exclaimed Sophy, hurt, indignant, and nearly 
 ready to follow his example. 
 
 ' I do not think he has mastery over himself, so as to help 
 being unruly and idle, when he is chained to a spelling-book. I 
 would not for the world set him and you to worry each other 
 for an hour a day ; and I shall start afresh with him all the 
 better, wlien he knows what absence of lessons is, and has for- 
 gotten all the old associations.' 
 
 ' How could you make him cry V said Sophy, in reproach. 
 
 * I believe the tears only wanted an excuse. I did put it on 
 his naughtiness, which usually would liave elated him ; but his 
 heart was so full as to make even a long holiday a punishment. 
 That boy often shows me what a tliorougli Kendal he is ; things 
 sink into him as they never did into us at the same age, when 
 my aunts used to think I had no feeling. Oh, Sophy ! how 
 will you comfort him T 
 
 ' His will be an unstained sorrow,' said Sophy, from the depths 
 of her heart. ' O, mamma, only tell Gilbert what you know 1 
 feel — no, you don't, no one can ; but what I would not give, to 
 change all I have felt towards him 1 If I had been like 
 lidmund, and prized his gentleness and sweetness, and the 
 humility that was the best worth of all, how diflerent it would 
 be ! But I was pi'oud of despising wliere truth was wanting.' 
 
 * I should liave thouglit I should have done tlie same,' said 
 Albinia ; 'but tliere was no keeping from loving Gibbie. Besides, 
 he was sincere, except when he was afraid ; and he was miserable 
 when he was deceiving.' 
 
 ' Yes, after you came,' said Sophy ; ' but I believe I helped 
 him to think truth disagreeable. I showed my scorn for his 
 want of boldness, instead of helping him. Think of my having 
 fancied he had no courage.' 
 
 ' Kindness tauglit him courage,' said Albinia. * It might 
 perhaps have earlier taught him moral courage. If you and 
 he could liave leant against each other, and been fused to- 
 gether, you would have made something like what Edmund was, 
 I supj)ose.'
 
 THE YOC/NG STEP-MOTHER. 891 
 
 'I drove him off,' cried Sophy. 'I was no sister to him. 
 Will you bring me his forgiveness V 
 
 ' Indeed I will ; and you may feel sure of it already, dearest. 
 It will make you gentler all your life.' 
 
 ' No ; I shall grow harder and harsher the longer I live, and 
 the fewer I have to love me in spite of myself 
 
 ' I think not,' said Albinia. ' Humility will make your 
 severity more gentle, and you will soften, and win love and 
 esteem.' 
 
 She looked up, but cried, ' I shall never make up to Gilbert 
 nor to grandmamma !' 
 
 Albinia felt it almost as hard to leave her as the two little on 
 
 When once on her journey, and feeling each moment an 
 advance towards the goal, Albinia was less unhappy than she 
 could have thought possible ; she ti'usted to her brother, and 
 enjoyed the absence of responsibility, and while he let her go 
 on, could give her mind to what pleased and interested him ; and 
 he, who was an excellent courier, so managed that there were 
 few detentions to overthrow her equanimity on the way to 
 Marseilles. 
 
 But when the Yectis came in sight of the rocky isle, with its 
 white stony heights, the heart-sickness of apprehension gi-ew 
 over her, and she saw, as in a mist, the noble crescent-shaped 
 harbour, the stately ramparts, mighty batteries, the lofty ter- 
 races of flat-roofed dwellings, appai-ently rather hewn out of, 
 than built on, the dazzling white stone, between the intense 
 blue of the sky above and of the sea below. Her eye roamed 
 as in a dream over the crowds of gay boats with white awnings, 
 and the motley crowds of English and natives, the boatmen 
 screaming and fighting for the luggage, and beggars plaintively 
 whining out their entreaties for small coins. Her brother Maii- 
 rice had been at Malta as a little boy, and remembered the 
 habits of the place enough, as soon as they had set foot on 
 shore, to secure a brown-skinned loiterer, in Phrygian cap, loose 
 trousers, and crimson sash, to act as guide and porter. 
 
 Along the Strada San Giovanni, a street of stairs, shut in by 
 high stone walls, with doors opening on either side, they went 
 not as fast as Albinia's quivering limbs would fain have moved, 
 yet too fast when her breath came thick with anxiety — down 
 again by the stone stairs called ' JVix Mangiai-e' (nothing to eat), 
 from the incessant cry of the beggars that haunt them — then 
 again in a boat, which carried them amid a strange world of 
 shipping to the bottom of the dockyard creek, where, again 
 landing, she was told she had but to ascend, and she would bv 
 at Bormola,
 
 392 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 She could have paused, in dread ; and she leant heavily on 
 her brothers arm when they presently turned up a lane, no 
 broader than a passage, with low stone steps at irregular inter- 
 vals. They were come ! 
 
 The summons at the door was answered by a dark-visaged 
 Ttlaltese, and while Maurice was putting the question whether 
 Colonel Ferrars and Captain Kendal lived here, a figure appeared 
 on the stairs, and beckoned, ascending noiselessly with languid 
 steps and slippered feet, and leading the way into a slightly fur- 
 nished room, with green balcony and striped blind. There he 
 turned and held out his hand ; but Albiuia hardly recognised 
 him till he said, ' I thought I heard your voice, Maurice ;' and 
 then the low subdued tone, together with the gaunt wasted form, 
 haggard aged face, the long beard, and worn undress uniform, 
 with the armless sleeve, made her so realize his sufferings, that, 
 clasping his remaining hand in both her own, she could utter 
 nothing but, ' Oh ! Fred ! Fred !' 
 
 He looked at her brother with such inquiry, perplexity, and 
 compassion, that almost in despair Maurice exclaimed, ' We are 
 not too late !' 
 
 ' No, thank God !' said Frederick. ' We did hope you might 
 come ! Sit down, Albinia ; I'll — ' 
 
 ' Edmund — 1 Is he there !' she said, scarcely alive to what 
 was passing ; and casting another expressively sorrowful look 
 at IMaurice, Fred answered, ' Yes, I will tell him : I will see if 
 you can come in.' 
 
 * Stay,' said Mr. Ferrars ; 'she should compose herself, or she 
 will only hurt hei'self and Gillxn-t.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' murmured Fred, hastily leaving them. 
 
 Maurice understood that Gilbert was even then summoned by 
 one who would brook no delays ; but Albinia, too much agitated 
 to notice slight indications, was about to follow, when her brother 
 took her hand, and checked her like a child. * Wait a minute, 
 my dear ; he will soon come back.' 
 
 ' Where's Edmund 1 Why mayn't I go to Gilbert V she said, 
 still bewildered. 
 
 ' Fred is gone to tell them. Sit down, my dear ; take off 
 vour bonnet ; you are heated ; you will be better able to go to 
 him, if you are quiet.' 
 
 She passively submitted to be placed on a chair, and to remove 
 her bonnet ; and seeing some dressing apparatus through an 
 open door, Maurice brought her some cold water to refresh her 
 burning face. She looked up with a smile, herself again. 'There, 
 thank you, Maurice : I wont be foolish now.'
 
 "Tlif moutli, liillicrto only gasping foi- air, rndoavonred to form a word ; the hand sought 
 
 licrs." — ]'ape .'iO:<.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. S93 
 
 *God support you, my dear !' said her brother, for the longer 
 the Colonel tarried, the worse were his forebodings. 
 
 ' Perhaps the doctor is there,' she proceeded. ' That will be 
 well. Ask him everything, Maurice. But oh ! did you ever 
 see any one so much altered as poor Fred ! He looks twenty 
 years older ! Ah ! I am quite good now ! I may go now !' 
 she cried, as the door opened. 
 
 But as Frederick I'eturned, there was that written on his brow, 
 which lifted her out of the childishness of her agitation. 
 
 ' My dear Albinia,' he said in a trembling voice, ' Mr. Kendal 
 cannot leave him to come to you. He has been much worse 
 since last night ;' and as her face showed that she was gathering 
 his meaning, he pursued in a lower and more awe-struck tone : 
 ' We think he is sensible, but we cannot tell. It could not hurt 
 him for you to come in, and perhaps he may know you ; but are 
 you able to bear it 1 Is she, Maui-ice V 
 
 'Yes, I am,' she answered ; and the calm firmness of her tone 
 proved that she was a woman again. Her hand shook less than 
 did that of her cousin, as silently and reverently he took it, and 
 led her into another room on the same floor. 
 
 There, in the subdued light, she saw her husband, seated on the 
 bed, holding in his arms his son, who lay lifted up and supported 
 upon his breast, with hea,d resting on his shoulder, and eyes 
 closed. There was no greeting, no sound save the long, heavily 
 drawn, gasping breaths. Mr. Kendal raised his eyes to her ; 
 she silently knelt down and took the wasted hand that lay help- 
 lessly on the coverlet, but it moved feebly from her as though 
 harassed by the touch. 
 
 * Gilbert, dear boy,' said his father, earnestly, ' she is come ! 
 Speak to him, Albinia.' 
 
 She hardly knew her own voice as she said, ' Gilbert, Gibbie 
 dear, here I am.' 
 
 Those large brown eyes were shown for a few moments beneath 
 the heavy lids, and met hers. The mouth, hitherto only gasp- 
 ing for air, endeavoured to form a word ; the hand sought hers. 
 She kissed him, and his eyes opened wide and brightened, while 
 he said, ' I tliiuk it is pardon now.' 
 
 ' Pardon indeed !' said his father, with a greater look of relief 
 than Albinia understood ; ' you are resting in His Merits.' 
 
 Gilbert's look brightened, and he said, ' I know it nOw.' 
 
 ' Thank God,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 His eyes closed, and Fred whispered to the father, ' Maurice 
 is here too.' 
 
 Again the light woke in the eye, with almost a smile, the
 
 591 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 look that always -welcomed the little brother ; and Albinia 
 grieved to say, ' Not little Maurice, though he longed to come ; 
 it is my brother.' But the air of eagerness did not pass away, 
 and he seemed satisfied when Mr. Ferrars came in. It was as a 
 priest, speaking words not his own ; and Albinia and Fred 
 knelt with him. At the close of each prayer or psalm, Gilbert 
 signed imploringly for more, even like our mighty dying queen ; 
 and at each short pause, the distressed agonized expi'ession would 
 again contract the brow, thougli iu the sound of the holy words 
 all was peace. The Psalm of the Good Shepherd with the Rod 
 and Staff in the Yalley of the Shadow of Death, recurred so 
 strongly to Maurice, that he repeated it like a cadence after each 
 penitential supplication, every time bringing a look of peace to 
 the countenance of the sufferer. 
 
 They must have remained long thus, Fred had grown ex- 
 hausted with kneeling and had been forced to sit on the floor, 
 and Maurice's voice waxed low and hoarse ; yet he durst not 
 pause, though doubting whether Gilbert could follow the mean- 
 ing. At length the eyes were again raised. With a start as of 
 haste, Gilbert looked full at Albinia, and said, ' Thank you. 
 Tell Maurice — ' He could not finish, and there was an agony 
 for breath ; then as his father raised him, he contrived to say, 
 'Father — mother — kiss me ; it is forgiven !' 
 
 Another look brouglit Fred to press his hand, and he smiled 
 his thanks. 
 
 Tliere were a few more terrible minutes, from which they 
 would fain have led away Albinia, but suddenly his brow grew 
 smooth, his eyes were eagerly fixed as on something before him, 
 and as if replying to a call, he said, ' Yes !' with a start and a 
 quiver of all his limbs, and then — 
 
 The fii'st words were Mr. Kendal's. * Edmund has come for 
 him !' 
 
 It was to the rest as if the father had been in some manner 
 conscious of the presence of the one twin-brother, and were 
 resigning the other to his charge, for he calmly kissed the fore- 
 head, closed the eyes, laid down the form he had so long held 
 in his arms, and after a i'ew moments on his knees, witli his face 
 hidden in his hands, he rose witli composure, and said to his 
 wife, * I am glad you wei"e in time.' 
 
 Had he given way, Albinia would have been strong; but 
 there was no need to snjjport to counteract the force of disap- 
 pointment and grief, acting upon overwrought spirits, and a 
 flitigued, exhausted frame. Were these half-conscious looks and 
 broken words all she had come for, a.ll slie should ever have of 
 Gilbert 1 This was the moment's predominant sensation ; she
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 895 
 
 was past tliinlving ; and thougli slie still controlled herself, she 
 cast a wild, piteous eye on her husband, and as he lifted her up, 
 she sank on his breast, not fainting, not sobbing, but utterly 
 prostrated, and needing all his support as he led her out, and 
 laid her on a cc"ch in the next room, speaking softly as if 
 hoping his voice woi7.d restore her. * We had some faint hope 
 of you ; we knew you would wish it, so you see all is ready. 
 But you have done too much, my dear : Maurice should not 
 have let you travel so fast.' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Albinia, catching her breath. ' Oh ! not to 
 have come sooner !' and she gave way to a violent burst of tears, 
 during which he fondled and soothed her till she suddenly said, 
 
 * I did not come here to behave in this way ! I came to help 
 you ! Edmund, what shall I do V and she would have started up. 
 
 * Only lie still, and let me take care of you,' said he. ' Nothing 
 could be to me like your coming j' and she was forced to believe 
 his glistening eyes and voice of tenderness. 
 
 ' Can you keep quiet a little while,' said Mr. Kendal, wistfully, 
 
 * while I go to speak to your brother 1 It was very good in him 
 to come ! Don't speak ; I will come back directly.' 
 
 She did lie still, for she was too much spent to move, and the 
 silence was good for her ; for if the overwhelming sensation of 
 grief would sweep over her, on the other hand, there was the 
 remembrance of the look of peace, and the perception that 
 her husband was not as yet so struck to the earth as she 
 had feared. He was not long in returning, bringing some 
 coffee for her and for himself, and speaking with the same 
 dreamy serenity, though looking excessively pale. ' Your 
 brother told me to give you this,' he said. ' I am glad the 
 colonel is under such care, for he is terribly distressed and not 
 at all fit to bear it. I could not make him go to bed all last 
 night.' 
 
 ' You were up all last night, and many nights l.cfore,' said 
 Albinia ; ' and all alone ! Oh ! why was I not here to 
 help !' 
 
 ' Fred was a great comfort,' said INIr. Kendal. ' I cannot 
 describe my gratitude to him. And dearest — ' He paused, 
 and added with hesitation, ' I do not now regret the having 
 come out alone. After the first disappointment, I think that 
 my boy and I learnt to know each other better. If he had left 
 me nothing but the recollection that I had been too severe and 
 unsympathizing to win his confidence, I hardly know how I 
 could have borne it.' 
 
 ' He was able to talk to you, then V cried Albinia. ' That 
 was what I always wished ! Yes, it was right, so it came right.
 
 89 6 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 I had got between you as I ought not to have done, and it was 
 well yon should have him to yourself.' 
 
 ' Not as ytiu ought not,' he fondly answered. ' You always 
 were his better angel, and you came at last as a messenger of 
 peace. There was relief and hope from the moment that be 
 knew you.' 
 
 He told her what could scarcely have passed hislips save in those 
 earlier hours of affliction. It had been a time of grievous mental 
 distress. Neither natural temperament nor previous life had 
 been sucli as to arm poor Gilbert to meet the King of Terrors ; 
 and as day by day he felt the cold grasp tightening on him, he 
 had fluttered like a bird in tlie snare of the fowler, physically 
 affrighted at the death-pang, shrinking from the lonely entrance 
 into the unknown future, and despairing of the acceptableness 
 of bis own repentance. He believed that he had too often 
 relapsed, and he could not take heart to grasp the hope of 
 mercy and rest in the great atonement. The last Communion 
 had been melancholy, tlie contrite spirit unable to lift itself 
 up, and apparently only sunk the lower by the weight of love 
 and gratitude, deepening the sense of how mucli had been disre- 
 garded. There had since been a few hopeful gleams, but dimmed 
 by bodily suffering and terror ; and doubly mournful had been 
 the weary houi-s of the night and morning, while he lay gasping 
 away his life upon his father's breast. Having at first taken 
 the absence of his stepmother as a sign that she had not for- 
 given him, he had only laid aside this notion for a more morbid 
 fancy that the deprivation was a token of wrath from above ; 
 and there could be little doubt that her final appearance was 
 hailed as a seal of pardon not merely from her. Her brother, 
 who had raised him up after his last fall, was likewise the person 
 above all others to bring the message of mercy to speed him to 
 the Unseen, where, as his look and gesture had persuaded his 
 father, his brother, or some yet more blessed one, had received 
 and welcomed the frail and trembling spirit. 
 
 That last farewell, that dawn of peace, so long prayed for, so 
 ardently desired, had given Mr. Kendal such thankfulness and 
 relief as sustained him, and enabled him to support his wife, 
 who knew not how to meet her first home grief; whereas to 
 him sorrow had long been a household guest more faTuiliar than 
 joy ; and he was m(jre at rest about his son than he had been 
 for many a year. He could dwell on him together with Ed- 
 mund, instead of connecting him with shame, grief, and pain ; 
 though how little could he have borne to think that thus it 
 would end, when in the springtime of his manhood he had re- 
 joiced over his beautiful twin boys.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 39 7 
 
 He knew his son better than heretofore. After the first 
 clay's disappointment, Gilbert had found him all-sufScient, and 
 had rested on his tenderness. All sternness had ceased on one 
 side, all concealment on the other, and the sweetness of both 
 characters had had full scope. Gilbert's ardent love of home 
 had shown itself in every word, and his last exertion had been 
 to write a long letter to his little brother, which had been 
 com;)leted and despatched by a private hand a few days pre- 
 viously. He had desired that Maurice should have his sword, 
 and mentioned the books which he wished his sisters to share, 
 talking of Sophy as one whom he honoured much, and wished 
 he had known better ; but much pained by hearing nothing 
 from Lucy, and lamenting his share in her union with Algernon. 
 He had said something about his wish that the almshouses 
 should be built, but his father had turned away the subject, 
 knowing that in case of his d} ing intestate and unmarried, the 
 property was settled on the sisters, and seeing little chance of 
 any such work being carried out with the co-operation of Mr. 
 Cavendish Dusautoy. Latterly he had spoken of Genevieve 
 Durant ; he knew better how unworthy of her he had been, 
 and how harassing his pursuit must have appeared ; but he 
 could not help entreating that her pardon might be asked in 
 his name, that she might hear that he had loved her to the last, 
 and above all, that his father would never lose sight of her ; 
 and Mr. Kendal's promise to regard her as the next thing to 
 his daughters had been requited with a look of the utmost 
 gratitude and affection. 
 
 This was the substance of what Mr. Kendal told his wife as 
 they sat together, unwitting of the lapse of time, and shrinking 
 from any interruption that might mar their present peace and 
 renew the sense of bereavement. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars was the first to knock at the door. He had 
 been doing his utmost to spare both them and Fred, who needed 
 all his care. These four months of mutual dependence had been 
 even more endearing than the rescue of Fred's life on the battle- 
 field ; and he declared that Gilbert had done him more good 
 than any one else. They had been so thrown together as to 
 make the ' religious sentiment ' of the younger tell upon the 
 warm though thoughtless heart of the elder. They had been 
 most fondly attached ; and in his present state, reduced by 
 wounds and exhausted by watching, Fred was more overpowered 
 than those more closely conceined. He could hardly speak 
 collectedly when an oflBccr of the gari-ison called to consult him 
 with I'egard to a militaiy funeral ; and it was for this that 
 Maurice was obliged to refer to the father. There were iu*
 
 898 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 deed none of his regiment in the island, but there was a 
 universal desire in the garrison to do honour to the distin- 
 guished young officer, for whom great intei'est had been felt j 
 and the compliment brought aglow of exultation to M r. Kendal's 
 face, as he expressed his waim thanks, but desired that the 
 decision might rest with Fred himself, as his sou's lieutenant- 
 colonel. 
 
 Maurice ialt himself fully justified in his expedition when he 
 found that all devolved on him, even writing to Sophy, and 
 making the moat necessary ai-raugements ; for the colonel was 
 ineapal)le of exertion, Albiuia was prostrated by the shock, and 
 ]\Ir. Kendal appeared to be lulled into a strange calm by the 
 effects of the excessive bodily weariness consequent on the 
 exhausting attendance of the last few days. They all depended 
 upon Mr. Ferrars, and recognised his presence as an infinite 
 comfort. 
 
 In the morning Albinia came forth like one who had been 
 knocked down and shattered, weary and gentle, and with the 
 tears ever welling into her eyes, above all when she endeavoured 
 to write to Sophy ; and she showed her ordinary earnestness 
 only when she entreated to see her boy once more. Her hus- 
 band took her to look on the countenance settled into the ex- 
 pression of uneai'thly peace ; but she was not satisfied ; it was 
 not her own Gilbert, boyish, sensitive, dependent, and shrinking. 
 The pale brow, the marked manly features, the lower ones 
 concealed by the brown moustache, belonged to the hero who 
 had dared the deadly ride and boi'ne his friend through the 
 storm of shot and shell ; the noble, settled, steadfast face was 
 the face of a stranger, and gave her a thrill of disappointment. 
 She gloried in the later Gilbert ; but the lust she had seen of 
 him whom she loved for his weakness, had been when she had 
 not heeded his farewell. 
 
 It made the pang the less when evening came and he was 
 carried to his resting-place. They would have persuaded 
 Frederick to spare himself, but as the only officer of the same 
 corps, as well as for the sake of many closer ties, he would not 
 hear of being absent, and made his cousin Maurice do his best 
 to restore the smart soldierly air which he for the first time 
 thought of regretting. 
 
 Gilbert's horse had perished at Balaklava, but his cap, sword, 
 and spurs, were laid on the coffin, and from her shaded window 
 Albinia watched it borne between the files of soldiers with arms 
 reversed ; and the procession of officers whose bright array 
 contrasted with the colonel's war-worn dress, ghastly cheek, an""' 
 empty sleeve, tokens of the reality of war amid it.s pageantry.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. ti99 
 
 IS all moved slowly away to the deep tones of tlie solemn Dead 
 March, music well befitting the calm grandeur of the face she 
 had seen, and leaving her heart throbbing with the deep 
 exulting awe and pathos of a soldier's funeral. She knelt alone, 
 and followed the burial service in the stillness of the room 
 overlooking the broad expanse of blue sea and sky ; and by- 
 and-by, through the window came the sound of the volley fired 
 over the grave, the farewell of the army to the soldier at rest, 
 his battles ended. 
 
 There was peace, and there was glory ; but she could not 
 divest herself of a sense of unreality. She could not feel as if 
 it were really and truly Gilbert, and she were mourning for 
 him. All was like a dream — that solemn military spectacle — 
 the serene, grave sunshine on the fortress-harbour stretching its 
 mailed arms into the sea — the roofs of the knightly old monastic 
 city rising in steps from the bay crowded with white sails — and 
 even those around her were difierent ; her husband pale and 
 still, as in a region above common life, and her cousin like 
 another man, without his characteristic joyousness and insou- 
 ciance. She could hardly induce herself, in her drowsy state, to 
 believe that all was indeed veritable and tangible. 
 
 There was nothing to detain them at Malta, and Mr. Ferrars, 
 who arranged everything, thought the calm of a sea-voyage 
 would be better for them all than the bustle and fatigue of a 
 land journey, 
 
 * Kendal himself doe? not care about getting home,' he said 
 to Fred, who was afraid this was determined on his account. ' I 
 fear many annoyances are in store for him. His son-in-law will 
 not be pleasant to deal with about the property.' 
 
 With an exclamation Fred started from the chairs on 
 which he had been resting, and dived into his sabre-tasch 
 which hung from the wall, 'I never liked to begin about it,' 
 he said ; ' but I ought to have given them this. It was done 
 when he was so bad at Scutari, One night he worked himself 
 into a fever lest he should not live till his birthday, and said a 
 great deal about this Dusautoy making himself an annoyance, 
 perhaps insisting on a sale and turning his father out. Nothing 
 pacified him till, the very day he was of age, we got the vice- 
 consul to draw up what he wanted, and witness it, and so did I 
 and the doctor; and here it is. Afterwards he warned me to 
 say nothing of it when Mr. Kendal came, for he said if the 
 other fellow made a row, it would be better his father should be 
 able to say he had known nothing of the matter.' 
 ' Does he make his father his heir V 
 « That's the whole of it. He said his sisters would see it was
 
 400 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 the only way to get things even, and I was to tell Albinia some- 
 thing about building cottages or almshouses. Ay, " his father 
 was to do what ought to have been done.'" 
 
 ' Well, there's the best deed of poor Gilbert's life !' 
 
 ' Thank you,' mumbled Fred, half drolly, half gravely. 
 
 'Ay, Kendal and Albinia will do more good with that pro- 
 perty than you have thought of in all your life, sir.' 
 
 ' Their future and my past,' laughed Fred, adding more 
 gravely, 'Scamp as I am, there's more responsibility coming on 
 me now, and I have gone through some preparation for it. If 
 I can get out to Canada — ' 
 
 ' You will not lessen your responsibilities,' said Maurice^ 
 smiling, ' nor your competency to meet them.' 
 
 ' I trust not,' said Fred. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars read in his countenance far more than was im- 
 plied by those words. The General, by treating him as a boy, 
 liad kept him one, and perhaps his levity had been prolonged by 
 the rejection of his first love ; but a really steady attachment 
 had settled his character, and he had been undergoing much 
 training throvigh his own sufferings, Gilbert's illness, and the 
 .sense of the new position that awaited him as commanding 
 officer ; and for the first time Maurice, who had always been 
 very fond of him, felt that he was talking to a high-]irincipled 
 and right-minded man instead of the family pet and laughing- 
 stock. 
 
 ' I suppose,' he said, 'that you cannot have heard often from 
 Montreal since you have been in the East.' 
 
 ' No. If my letters are anywhere, it is at the Family Office. 
 I desired them to be forwarded thitlier from head-quarters, 
 not expecting to be detained here. But,' cried Fred with ani- 
 mation, ' what think you ot the General actually writing to Mr. 
 Kinnaird from Balaklaval' 
 
 ' It would have been too bad if he had not.' 
 
 *I believe he did so solely to make me sleep, but it is the 
 first time he has deigned to treat the affair as anything but a 
 delusion, and he can't retract now. Since that, poor Gilbert has 
 made a scrap or two of mine presentable, and there's all that I 
 liave been able to accomiJish ; but I hope it may have set her 
 iiiind at rest.' 
 
 'Shall 1 be secretary V 
 
 ' Thank you, I think not. She would only worry herself 
 about what is before me ; and if the doctors let me off easy, I 
 had rather report of myself in person.' 
 
 His eyes danced, and Maurice thought his unselfishness de- 
 .strved a reward.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 401 
 
 * My poor Gilbert's last secret,' said Mr. Kendal, as he laid 
 before his wife the brief document by which his son had desig- 
 nated him as his sole heir and executor. ' A gift to you, and a 
 trust to me.' 
 
 Albinia looked up for explanation. 
 
 * While he intrusts his sistei-s to my justice, he tacitly com- 
 mends to me the works which you wished to see accomplished.' 
 
 ' The, almshouses ! The improvements! Do you mean to 
 undertake them V 
 
 ' It shall be my most sacred duty.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that we could have planned it with him !' 
 
 * Perhaps I value this the more from the certainty that it is 
 spontaneous,' said jNIr. Kendal. ' It showed great consideration 
 and forethought, that he said nothing of his intention to me. 
 Had he mentioned it, I should have thought it right to suggest 
 his leaving his sistei's their share ; and yet, as we are situated 
 with young Dnsautoy, it would have been awkward to have in- 
 terfered. He did well and wisely to be silent.' 
 
 ' You don't expect Algernon to be discontented. Impossible, 
 at such a time, and so well off as he is !' 
 
 * I wish it may be impossible.' 
 
 * What do you mean to do V 
 
 ' As far as I can see at present, I shall do this. I fear neither 
 the mode of acquisition nor the management of that property 
 was such as to bring a blessing, and 1 believe my poor boy has 
 made it over to me in oi'der to free his sisters from the necessity 
 of winking at oppression and iniquity. Had it gone to them, 
 matters must have been let alone till Sophia came of age, and 
 even then, all improvements must have depended on Algernon's 
 consent. The land and houses we will keep, and suflBcient reacly 
 money for the building and repairs ; and to this, Sophia, at least, 
 will gladly agree. The rest — sometliing under twenty thousand, 
 if I. remember correctly — is the girls' right. I will settle Lucy's 
 share on her so as to be out of her husband's power, and Sophia, 
 shall have hers when she comes of age.' 
 
 ' I am sure that will take from Algernon all power of grumb 
 ling, though I cannot believe that even he could complain.' 
 
 ' You a])prove, then V 
 
 ' How can you ask 1 It is the j&rst thing that has seemed 
 like happiness, if it did not make one long for him to talk it 
 over !' The wound was still very recent, and her spirits very 
 tender, and the more she felt the blessing of the association witli 
 Gilbert in the woi-k of love, the more she wept, though not 
 altogether in sorrow. 
 
 Mortified at having come so much overworked and weakened 
 
 D D
 
 402 THE TOUXG STEP MOTHER. 
 
 as to occasion only trouble and anxiety, she yielded resignedly 
 when forbittd(ai to wear out strength and sjiirits by a visit to 
 the burial-ground before her embarkation. She must content 
 herself with Maurice's description of the locality, and carry 
 away in her eye only the general picture of the sapphire ocean 
 and white rock fortress of the holy warriors vowed to tenderness 
 and heroism, as the la.st resting-place of her cherished Gilbert, 
 when ' out of weakness he had been made strong' in penitence 
 and love. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 HAD Sophia's wishes been consulted, she would have pre- 
 ferred nursing her sorrows at home ; but no ciioice had been 
 left, and at the vicarage the fatherly kindness of Mr. Dusautoy, 
 and the considerate let-alone system of his wife, kept her at ease 
 and not far from cheerful, albtit neither the simplicity of the 
 one nor the keenness of the other was calculated to draw her 
 into unreserve : comfort was in the children. 
 
 The cliihlren clung to her as if she made their home, little 
 Albinia preferring her even to Uncle John, as he had insisted 
 on being called ever since Lucy had become his niece, and 
 Maurice invoking caresses, the bestowal of which was his 
 mothers rare privilege. The boy was dull and listless, and 
 though riot and mirth covdd be only too easily excited, his 
 wildest shouts and most f/autic gesticulations were like efibrts 
 to thi-ow off a load at his heart. Time hung heavy on his hands, 
 and he would lie rolling and kicking drearily on the floor, 
 watching with some envy his little sister as she spelt her way 
 prosperously thri-)Ugh ' Little Charles,' or daintily and distinctly 
 rejjeated her hymns, 'Nothing to do' was the burthen of his 
 song, and with masculine perverseness he disdained every occu- 
 pation suggested to him. So])hy might boast of his obedience 
 and quiescence, but Mrs, Dusautoy j)itied all parties, and won- 
 dered when he would be disposed ot at school. 
 
 Permission to o(»eu letters had been left with Sophy, who with 
 silent resignation followed thedctii.ilsof poor Gilbert's rapid decay. 
 At last caine the parcel by the private hand, containing a small 
 j)acket for each of the family, Sophy received a silver Maltese 
 Cross, and little Albinia a perfumy rose-leat bracelet. There 
 Was ;i llussian grape-siiot for Maurice, and with it a letter. 
 
 With childish secrecy, he refused to let any one look at so 
 much as the envel<)i)e, and ran awny with it, shouting ' It's 
 mine.' Sophy was grieved that it should be treated like a toy, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 403 
 
 fearins: that, wliile playing at importance, lie would lose or 
 destroy it, without coming to a knowledge of the contents, she 
 durst not betray her solicitude, lest she should give a stimulus to 
 his wilfidness and precipitate its fate. However, when he had 
 galloped about enough, he called imperatively, ' Soi)hy ;' anil she 
 found him lying on his back on the grass, the black cat an un- 
 willing prisoner on his chest. 
 
 ' You may read it to Smut and me,' he said. 
 
 It bore date the day after his father's arrival, but it had evi- 
 dently been continued at many diiierent times ; and as the 
 handwriting became more feeble, the style grew more earnest, 
 so that, but for her hoarse, indifferent voice, Sophy could hardly 
 have accomplished the reading. 
 
 ' My dear Maurice, 
 
 ' Many, many thanks to you and dear little Awkey for your present. 
 I have set it up like a picture, and niucli do I like to look at it, and guesa 
 who chose the colours and who are t!ie hunters. I am sure the fat man in 
 the red coat is the admiral. It makes the place seem like home to see 
 what tells so plainly of you and baby. 
 
 'Kiss my little Awk for me, and tliank her for wanting to send me Miss 
 Jenny, dear little maid ; I like to think of it. You will not let her quite 
 forget me. You must show her my name if it is put up in church, like 
 Edmund's and all the little ones' ; ami you will sometimes tell her about 
 dear old Ned on a Sunday evening wlieii you are both very good. 
 
 'I think you know that you and she will never again run out into the 
 hall to pull Gibbie almost down between you. Perhaps by the time you 
 read this, you will be the only son, with all the comfort and hope of the 
 house resting upon you. My poor Maurice, I know what it is to be told 
 so, and only to feel that one has no brother ; but at least it cannot be to 
 you as it was with me, wlien it was as if half myself were gone, and all my 
 stronger, better, braver self. 
 
 ' My father has been reading to me the Rich jNIan and Lazarus. Maurice, 
 when you read of him and the five brethren, think of me ; and how 1 pray 
 that I may not have left seeds of temptation for you. In the time of 
 my lonehness, Tritton was uO'nl-natured, but I ought to have avoided him; 
 and that to which he introduced me has been the bane of my life. Nothing 
 gives me such anguish as to think 1 have made you aciiuainted with tliat 
 set. Keep out of their way ! Never go near tho.se pigeon- shooungs and 
 donkey-races ; they seem good fun, but it is disobedience to go, and the 
 things that happen there are like the stings of venomous creatures ; the 
 poison was lett to fester even when your mother seemed to have cureil me. 
 Neither now nor when you are ohhr resort to sucii things or such people. 
 Next time you meet Tiitton and Shaw tell them I desired to be remem- 
 bered to them ; after that have nothing to do with them ; touch your hat 
 and pass on. They meant it in good nature, and thought no liaim, liut 
 they were my worst enemies ; they led me astray, and taught me dt-ception 
 as a matter of course. Oh! Maurice, never think it manly to have tha 
 smallest reserve with your parents. I would give worlds to have sooner 
 known that truth would have heeii freedom andrest. Thank Heaven, your 
 faults are not my faults. If you go wrong, it will be with a high hand, but 
 you would wring huarls that ean ill bear further grief and disappointment. 
 Oh! that I were more worthy to prav that you may use your strength and 
 
 D D 2
 
 iO-i THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 spirit the right way ; then you will be gladness to our father and mother, 
 and when you lie down to die, you will be happier than I am. 
 
 ' I want to tell you more, but it hurts me to write long. If I could only 
 see you — not only in my dreams. I wake, and my heart sickens with long- 
 ing for a sight of my brave boy's merry face, till I almost feel as if it would 
 make me well ; but it is a blessing past hope to have my father with me, 
 and know him as T have never done before. Give little Albinia these 
 beads, with my love, and be a better brother to her than I was to poor 
 Lucy. 
 
 ' Good-by, Maurice. No one can tell what you have been to me since 
 your mother put you into my arms, and I felt I had a brother again. God 
 bless you and cancel all evil you may have caught from me. Papa will 
 give you my sword. Perhaps you will wear it one day, and under my 
 colonel. I have never been so happy as in the time it was mine. When 
 you look at it, always say this to yourself: " Pear God, and fear nothing 
 else. " O that T had done so ! 
 
 * Let your dear, dear mother be happy in you : it will be the only way 
 to make her forgive me in her heart. Good-by, my own dear, brave boy. 
 
 ' Your most aifectionate brother, 
 
 'G. Kendal.' 
 
 * I say, Smut,' quoth Maurice, ' I think you and our Tahl^v 
 ■would make two famous horses for Awkey's little cart. I shall 
 take you home and harness you.' 
 
 Sophy sat breathless at his indifierence. ' You mustn't,' she 
 said in hasty anger ; • Smiit is not yours.' 
 
 * Well, Jack said that our Tabby had two kittens uj) in the 
 loft ; I think they'll make better ponies. 1 shall go and tiy 
 them !' 
 
 ' Don't plague the kittens.' 
 
 ' I'll not plague them ; I'll only make ponies of them. Give 
 me the letter.' 
 
 * No ; not to play with the cats. I thought you would have 
 cared about such a letter !' 
 
 ' You have no right to keep it ! It is mine ; give it me 1' 
 cried Maurice, passionately. 
 
 * Promise to take i"eal care of it.' 
 
 He only tore it from her, and was gone. 
 
 ' I'm a ibol to expect anything from such a child,' she 
 thought. 
 
 At two o'clock the Yicar hurried into the bank. * Good 
 morning, Mr. Goldsmith ; I beg your pardon ; I wanted to ask 
 it Mr. O'More has seen little Maurice Kendal.' 
 
 * Not since yesterday — what's the matter V 
 
 'The chikl is not come in to dinner. He is nowhere at 
 home or at Willow Lawn.' 
 
 ' Ha !' cried Ulick. ' Can he be gone to see his pony at 
 Ilobbs's 1' 
 
 * No ; it has been sent to Fairmead. Then you have no notion
 
 TflE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 405 
 
 where the child can be? Soj)hy is nearly distracted. She saw 
 him last about ten o'clock, bent on harnessing some kittens, but 
 he's not in the hay-loft !' 
 
 * He maj^ be gone to the toy-shop after the harness. Or has 
 anyone looked in the chui-ch-tower — he was longing to go up it, 
 and if the door were open — ' 
 
 ' The very thing !' cried the Vicar. * I'll go this moment.' 
 
 * Or there's old Peter, the sailor,' called XJlick ; ' if he wanted 
 any tackle fitted, he might go to him.' 
 
 ' You had better go yourself, More,' said Mr. Goldsmith. ' One 
 would not wish to keep poor Miss Kendal in suspense, though I 
 dare say the boy is safe enough.' 
 
 Mr. Goldsmith was thanked, and Ulick hurried out, Hyder 
 Ali leaping up in amazement at his master being loose at that 
 time of day. 
 
 Everybody had thought the child was with somebody else till 
 dinner-time, and the state of the vicarage was one of dire alarm 
 and self-reproach. Sophy was seeking and calling in every pos- 
 sible place, and had just brought herself to own the message of 
 remembrance in Gilbert's letter, thinking it possible Mai;rice 
 might have gone to deliver it at Hobbles Leigh ; and Mi\ Hope 
 had undertaken to go thither in quest of him. Ulick and Mr. 
 Dusautoy, equally disappointed by the tower aud the sailor, 
 went again to Willow Lawn to interrogate the servants. The 
 gardener's boy had heard Maurice scolding and the cat squalling, 
 and the cook had heard his step in the house. They hurried 
 into his little room — he was not there, but the drawers had been 
 disturbed. 
 
 ' He may be gone to Fairmead !' cried the Vicar. 
 'How V said Ulick. ' Ha ! Hyder, sir !' holding iip a little 
 shoe. * Seek ! That's my fine doggie — they only call you a 
 mongrel because you have all the canine virtues imited. See 
 what you can do as sleuth hound. Ha ! We'll nose him out for 
 you in no time, Mr. Dusautoy !' 
 
 After sniffing round the drawers, the yellow tripod made an 
 ungainly descent of the stairs, his nose down all the way, 
 then across the hall and oxit at the gate ; but when, after 
 I oking about, the animal set off on the turnpike- road, the Vioar 
 demurred. 
 
 ' Stay ; the poor dog only wants to get you out for a walk. 
 He is making for the Hadniinster road.' 
 
 ' And why wouldn't he, if the child is nowhere in Bay- 
 ford V 
 
 'I can't answer it to his mother wasting time in this way. 
 You may do as you like. I shall go to the train iug- stables.
 
 40n THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 where he has once been, if not on to Fairmead. I can't see 
 Sophy till he is found !' 
 
 ' I shall abide by my little Orangeman,' said Ulick ; and they 
 parted. 
 
 Hyder Ali pursued his way in the INIarch dust, while Ulick 
 eagerly scanned for the traces of a child's foot. Four miles did 
 the dog go on, evidently following a scent ; but Ulick's mind 
 misirave him as Hadminster church-tower rose before him, and 
 the dog took the ascent to the station. 
 
 Ulick made his way in as a train stood panting before the 
 platform. He had a glimyise of a square face and curly hair at 
 the window of a second-class carriage. 
 
 • Maurice, come back !' he cried. ' Here, guard ! this little 
 boy must come back !' 
 
 ' Go on !' shouted Maurice. * I've got my ticket. No one 
 can stop me. I'm going to Malta !' and he tried to get to the 
 other side of a stout traveller, who defended his legs ti-om him, 
 and said, ' Ha ! Running away from school, young master 1 
 Here's your usher.' 
 
 ' No,'l'm not running away ! I'm not at school ! I'm Maurice 
 Kendal ! I'm going to my brother at Malta !' 
 
 ' He is the son of Mr. Kendal of Bayford,' said Ulick to the 
 station-master ; ' his parents are from home, and there will be 
 dreadful distress if he goes in this way. Maurice, your sister 
 has troubles enough already.' 
 
 ' I've my ticket, and can't be stopjied.' 
 
 But even as he spoke, the stout traveller picked him up by 
 the collar, and dropped him like a pupjiy dog into Ulick's arms, 
 just as the train was getting into motion; and a head pro- 
 truded from every window to see the truant, who was pommelling 
 Ulick in a violent fury, and roaring, ' Let me go ; I will go to 
 Gilbei-t !' 
 
 ' Behave like a man,' said Ulick ; ' don't disgi-ace yourself in 
 that way.' 
 
 The boy coloured, and choking with passion and disappoint- 
 ment, and straining against Ulick's hold of his shoulder. 
 
 'Indeed, sir,' said the station-master, 'if we had recognised 
 the young gentleman, we would have made more inquiries; but 
 he asked so readily for his ticket, not seeming at a loss, and we 
 have so many young travellers, that wc thought of nothing 
 amiss. Will you have a fly, sir T 
 
 ' I'm not going home,' said the boy, undaunted. 
 ' You must submit, Mavirice. You do not wish to make poor 
 Sophy miserable.' 
 
 ' I must go to Malta,' the boy peisisted. ' Gilbert says it
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 407 
 
 would make Lim well to see me. I know my way ; I saw it 
 in the map ; and I've a roll, and the end of a cold tongue, 
 and a clean shirt, and my own sovereign, and four shillings, 
 and a half-crown, and a lialf-penny, in my pocket ; and I'm 
 going !' 
 
 ' But, Maurice, this gentleman will tell you tliat your whole 
 sovereign would not cany you a quarter of the way to Malta.' 
 
 The station-master gave so formidal)Ie a description of the 
 impossibilities of the route, that the hardy little fellow's look of 
 decision relaxed into dejection, his muscles lost their tension, 
 and he struggled hard with his tears. 
 
 He followed Ulick to the carriage, and hid his face in a 
 ct)rner, while orders were given to stop at the post-ofSce in case 
 there were fresh letters. There was one for Miss Kendal, in 
 Mr. Ferrars' writing, and with black borders. Ulick felt too 
 surely what it must be, and hardly could bear to address Maurice, 
 who had shrunk from him with some remains of passion ; but 
 hearing suppressed sobs, he put his hand on him and said, ' My 
 poor little man.' 
 
 ' Get away,' said Maurice, shaking him off. ' Why did you 
 come and bother V 
 
 'I came because it would have almost killed your sister 
 and mother for you to be lost. If you had seen Sophy's face, 
 Maurice !' 
 
 ' I don't care. Now I shall never see Gilbert again, and he 
 did want me so !' Maurice hid his face, and his frame shook 
 ■with sobs. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ulick, ' every one knew he wanted you ; hut if it 
 had been possible for you to go, your mamma would have taken 
 you. If your uncle had to take care of her how could you go 
 alone V 
 
 ' Id have got there somehow,' cried Maurice. ' I'd have seen 
 and heard Gilbert. He's written me a letter to say he wants to 
 see me, and I can't even make that out !' 
 
 ' Has not your sister read it to you !' 
 
 ' I hate Sophy's reading !' cried Maurice. ' It makes it all 
 grumpy, like her. Take it, Ulick — you read it.' 
 
 That rich, sensitive, modulated voice brought out the 
 meaning of the letter, though there were places where Ulick 
 had nearly broken down ; and Maurice pressed against him 
 with the large tears in his eyes, and was some minutes without 
 speaking. 
 
 ' He does not think of your coming ; he does not expect jou, 
 dear boy,' said Ulick. ' It is a precious letter to have. I hope 
 you will keep it and read it often, and heed it too.'
 
 403 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' I cant read it,' said Maurice, ruefully. * If I could, I fc houlda't 
 mind.' 
 
 * You soon will. You see how he tells you you are to be a 
 comfort ; and if you are a good boy, 3'ou'il quickly leave the 
 dunce behind.' 
 
 * I can't,' said Maurice. 
 
 ' Mamma said I should not do a bit of a lesson with Sophy, or 
 . should tease her heart out. Would it come quite out V 
 ' Well, I think you've gone hard to try to-day,' said Ulick. 
 
 * Mamma said my being able to read would be a comfort, and 
 papa says he never saw such an ignorant boy ! so what's the 
 nse of minding Gilbert's letter 1 It wont let me.' 
 
 'What wont let you V 
 
 * Fun !' said Maurice, with a sob. 
 
 ' He is a rogue !' cried Ulick, vehemently ; 'but a stout heart 
 and good will can get him under yet. Think of what your 
 brother says of making your father and mother happy !' 
 
 * If I could do something to please them very, very much ! 
 Oh ! if I could but learn to read all at once.' 
 
 ' You can read — anybody can read !' said Ulick, pulling a 
 book out of his pocket. ' There ! try.' 
 
 There was some laughing over tliis ; and then IMauriee leant 
 out of window, and grew sleepy. They had descended into the 
 wide basin of alluvial land through which the Baye dawdled its 
 meandering course, and were just about to cross the first bridge 
 about two miles from Bayford, when Maurice shouted, ' There's 
 Sophy ! — how funny.' 
 
 It was a tall figure, in deep mourning, slowly moving along 
 the towing-path, intently gazing into the river ; but so strange 
 was it to see Sophy so fiir from home, that Ulick paused a 
 moment ere calling to the driver to stop. 
 
 As he hastily wrenched open the door, she raised up her 
 face, and he was s])ocked. She looked as if she had lived years 
 of sorrow, and even Maurice was struck with consternation. 
 
 * Sophy ! Sophy !' he cried, hanging round her. ' I wouldn't 
 have gone vv-ithoiit telling you, if I had thought you would mind 
 it. Speak to me, Sophy !' 
 
 She could say nothing save a hoarse 'Where T as with both 
 arms she pressed him as if slie could never let him go again. 
 
 * In the train — intending to go to Malta,' said Ulick. 
 
 * I didn't know I could not ; I didn't mean to vex you, 
 So2)hy,' continued the child. * I'm come home now, and I 
 wont try again.' 
 
 ' Oh I Maurice, what would have become of you V She held 
 out her hand to Ulick, the first time for months.
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHET». 409 
 
 * And we've got a letter foi' you,' proceeded Maurice. 
 Ulick would fain have withheld it, but he had not the choice. 
 She caught at it, still holding Maurice fast, and ere he could 
 propose her opening it in the cari-iage while he walked home, 
 she had torn it open, and the same moment she had sunk down, 
 seated on the path, with an arm round her brother. ' Oh ! 
 Maurice, it is well you ax'e here 1 You would not have found 
 them — it is over !' 
 
 She had found one brother to lose the other; but the relief 
 of Maurice's safety had so softened the blow, that her tears 
 gushed forth freely. 
 
 The sense of Ulick's presence restrained her ; but raising her 
 head, she missed him, and felt lonely, desolate, deserted, almost 
 fainting, and in a strange place. 
 
 ' Is he dead V said Maurice, in a solemn low voice ; and she 
 wept helplessly, while the little fellow stood sustaining her 
 weight like a small pillar, pei-plexed and dismayed. 
 
 * Are you poorly, Sophy ? What shall I do V said he, as she 
 almost fell back ; but a stronger arm held her up. 
 
 ' Lean on me, dear Sophy,' said Ulick, who had returned, 
 bringing some water from a small house near at hand, and 
 supported her and soothed her like a brother. 
 
 The mists cleared away, the sense of desertion was gone, and 
 she rose, but could not stand without his arm, and he almost 
 lifted her into the carriage, where her appealing eye and helpless 
 gesture made him follow her, and take Maurice on his knee. 
 No one spoke ; Maurice nestled close to his friend ; awe-struck 
 but weighed down by weariness and excitement. The blow had 
 in reality been given when he was forced to relinquish the hope 
 of seeing his brother again, and the actual certainty of his 
 death fell with less comparative force. Perhaps he did not 
 enter into the fact enough to ask for particulars. After a 
 short space Sophy recovered herself enough to take out the 
 letter, and read it over with greater comprehension. 
 
 * They were come !' she said. 
 
 * In time. I am glad.' 
 
 * In time to bring him peace, my uncle says ! He knew 
 mamma. I could never have borne it if I had deprived him 
 of her !' 
 
 ' Nor I,' said Ulick, from his heart. * Did one but know the 
 upshot of one's idle follies !' 
 
 Sophy looked towards Maui'ice. 
 
 ' Asleep !' said Ulick, * No wonder. He has walked four 
 miles ! He has a heart tliat might have been born in Ireland ;' 
 and as he looked at the fair young face softened and sweetened
 
 ilO THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 by sleep, ' ^Yhat an infant it is to have even fancied such an 
 undertaking !' 
 
 ' Poor child !' sighed Sophy. * He will never be the same !' 
 
 ' Nay, grief at that age does not check the spirits for 
 life.' 
 
 ' You have never known,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' No ; our number has never yet been broken ; but for thi? 
 little man, I trust that the sense of duty may be deepened, and 
 with it his love to you all ; and surely that is not what will 
 quench the blithe temper.' 
 
 ' May it be so !' said Sophy. ' He may have enough of his 
 mother in him to be happy.' 
 
 ' I must think that tiie recollection of so loving a brother, 
 and his pride in him for a hero, may make the stream flow more 
 deeply, but not more darkly.' 
 
 ' Thei-e never was a cloud between them,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' Clouds are all past and gone now between those who can 
 with him " take part in that thanksgiving lay," ' answered 
 Ulick, kindly. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Sophy. ' My uncle says it Avas peace at last ! 
 Oh ! if humbleness and penitence could win it, one might be 
 sui-e it would be his.' 
 
 ' True,' said Ulick. * It was a beautiful thing to find the 
 loving sweetness and kindness I'cfined into self-devotion and 
 patience, and growing into something brighter and purer as it 
 came near the last. It will be a precious recollection.' 
 
 ' To those who have no self-reproach,' sighed Sophy ; and 
 after a pause she abruptly resumed, ' You once blamed me for 
 being hard with him. Nothing was more true.' 
 
 ' lmj)ossible — when could I have presumed V 
 
 ' When 1 You remember. After Oxford.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you should not have let what I said dwell with you. 
 I was a very raw Irishman then, and thought it barbarity to 
 look cold on a little indiscretion ; but I have learnt to think 
 differently ;' and he sighed. ' The severity that leads to re- 
 pentance is truer affection than is shown by making light of 
 foolishness.' 
 
 ' If it had been affection and not wounded pride.' 
 
 ' Tlie dross has been refined away, if there were any,' said 
 Ulick. ' You will be able to love him better now than ever 
 yon did in life.' 
 
 His comprehension met her half way, and gave her more 
 relief and soothing than anything she had experienced for 
 mouths. There was that response and intcrcommimion o'. 
 spirit for which her nature had yearned the more because oi
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 411 
 
 the inability to express the craving ; the very turn of the dark 
 blue eyes, and the inflexions of the voice, did not merely convey 
 pity, but an entering into the very core of her sorrow, namely, 
 that she had never loved her brother enough, nor forgiven him 
 for not being his fellow-twin. Whatever he said tended to 
 reveal to her that there had been more justice, rectitude, sisterly 
 feeling, and wholesome training than she had given herself 
 credit for, and, above all, that Gilbert had loved her all tlie 
 time. She was induced to dwell on the exidtiug and toucliing 
 circumstances of his last redeeming year, and her tears streamed 
 calmly and softly, not with the harshness that had hitlierto 
 marred her grief. Neither could have believed that there had 
 been so long and marked a separation in feeling, or that Ulick 
 O'More had not always been one with the Kendal family. It was 
 all too soon that the conversation ended, and Maurice wakened 
 suddenly at the vicarage wicket. Mrs. D\isautoy herself came 
 to meet them as the little boy was lifted out. She had never 
 been seen on her own feet so far from the house before ! But 
 no one ever knew the terror she had suffered, when of all her 
 three charges not one was sale but the little Albinia, whose 
 'poor Maurice' and 'all gone' were as trying as her alterna- 
 tions of merriment. The vicar, the curate, the parish clerk, 
 the servants of the two establishments, and four policemen, were 
 all gone difi'erent ways ; and poor Mrs. Dusautoy's day had been 
 spent in liearing the results of their fruitless researches, or in 
 woi'se presages, in which, as it now appeared, the river had 
 played its part. 
 
 She kissed Maurice, and he did not rebel ! She kissed Sophy, 
 and could have shaken off' Ulick's hand, but he only waited to 
 hold up Hyder Ali as the real finder, before he ran off" to desire 
 the school-bell to be rung — the signal for announcing a dis- 
 covery. It was well that Maurice was too much stunned and 
 fatigued to be sensible what a commotion he had excited, or he 
 might have thought it good fun. 
 
 The tidings from Malta came in almost as something secondary. 
 The case had been too hopeless for anything else to be looked 
 for ; and when Mrs. Dusautoy consigned her charge to a couch, 
 with entreaties to her not to move, there was calm tenderness 
 in Sophy's voice as she told what needed to be told, and did not 
 shrink from sympathy. She was grateful and gentle, and lay 
 all the rest of the day, sad and physically worn out, but quietly 
 mournful, and no longer dwelling on the painful side of past 
 transactions ; her remorse had given way to resigned acqui- 
 escence, and desolation to a sense that there was one who un- 
 derstood her. The sweet tones, and, above all, those two worda,
 
 412 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' dear Sophy,' would come chiming back from some involuntary 
 echo, and the turbid depths were at peace. 
 
 When Mr. Dusautoy came to her side, and held out his hand, 
 his honest eyes brimming over, there was no repulsion in her 
 manner of saying afiectionately, ' You have had a great deal of 
 trouble for my naughty little brothei'.' So different was her 
 whole tone, that her kind friends thoiight how much better for 
 some minds was any certainty than suspense. She bethou!i~ht 
 herself of sending to the Drurys, and showed rather gi-atifica- 
 tiou than her ordinary im]:>atience at the manifold reports of the 
 general sympathy, and of Baylord's grief for its hero. The 
 poison was gone from her mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 ri"^HE Family Office had been asked to receive the whole party 
 X on their retui-n. Mr. Kendal had business in London, and 
 could not bear to part with the colonel till he had seen him safely 
 lodged, and heard the surgeon's opinion. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars was laying hiaiself out to guard his brother-in- 
 law from being oppressed by the symjnithetic welcome of the 
 good aunts ; but though the good ladies never failed in kind- 
 ness, all the excess was directed into a different channel ; Al- 
 binia herself was but secondaiy to the wounded hero, for whom 
 alone they had eyes and ears. They would hardly let him stand 
 erect for a moment ; easy-chairs and couches were offei'ed, soup 
 and wine, biscuits and coffee were suggested, and questions were 
 crowded on him, while he, poor fellow, wistfully gazed at 
 the oft-uirected pile of foreign letters on the side-table, and in 
 pure desperation became too fatigued to go down to luncheon. 
 
 When the others returned, he was standing on the rug, curl- 
 ing his moustaches. There was a glow of colour on his 
 hollow cheek, and his eyes danced ; he put out his hand, and 
 catching Albinia's with boyish playfulness, he squeezed it trium- 
 phantly, with the words, ' Albinia, she's a brick !' 
 
 They went their several ways, Fred to rest, Maurice to make 
 an appointment for him with the doctor, and Albinia to 
 Genevieve, whom Mr. Kendal regarded lik«; his son's widow, 
 forgetting that the attachment had been neither sanctioned nor 
 returned. He could not rest without seeing her, and delivering 
 that last message, but he was glad to have tlie way prepai'ed by 
 his wife, and proposed to call for her when his law business 
 biiould be over.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 413 
 
 Albinia sent in her card, and asked whether IMiss Diii'ant were 
 at liberty. Genevieve came hurrying to her with outstretched 
 hands : 'Dear Mrs. Kendal, this is kind !' and led her to the 
 back drawing-room, where they were with one impulse enfolded 
 in each other's tearful embrace. 
 
 ' Oh ! madam e, how much you have suffei-ed !' 
 
 ' You know all V said Albinia. 
 
 ' O no, very little. My aunt knows little of Bayford now, 
 and her sight is too weak for much wi-iting.' 
 
 Genevieve pushed back her liair ; she looked ill and heavy- 
 eyed, with the extinguished air that sorrow gave her. Gilbert- 
 had distressed, perplexed her, and driven her from home : 
 but what could be remembered, save the warm affection he had 
 lavished on her, and the pain she had inflicted ? Uneasiness 
 and sorrow, necessarily unavowed, had preyed on the poor girl 
 for weeks in secret ; and even now she hai-dly presumed to give 
 way, relief, almost luxury, as it was to be pressed in those kind 
 arms, and suffered to weep freely for the champion of her 
 younger days. When she had heard how he had thought of 
 her to the last, her emotion grew less controllable ; and Albinia 
 was touched by the idea that there had all along been a stifled 
 preference. Embellished as Gilbert now was, she could not but 
 wish to believe that his affection had not been wasted ; and 
 Lis constancy might well be touching in one of the heroe>? 
 of the six hundred. At least, Genevieve had a most earnest 
 and loving appetite for every detail, and though the afternoon 
 was nearly gone, neither felt as if half an hour had passed when 
 admittance was asked for Mr. Kendal. 
 
 It was a trying moment, but Genevieve was too simple, 
 genuine, and grateful to pause in selfish embarrassment. 
 Had she toyed with Gilbert's affection, she could not have 
 met his father with such maidenly modesty, and sweet 
 sympathy and respect in her blushing cheek and downcast, tear- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 He took her hand, speaking in the kindest tone of his mellow 
 voice : ' My dear, Mrs. Kendal has told you what brings ua 
 hei'e, and how much we feel for and with you.' 
 
 ' So kind in you,' said Genevieve, faltering. 
 
 ' Poor child, she has suffered grievously for want of fuller 
 tidings,' said Albinia ; 'she has been keeping her sorrow ])eut 
 up all this time.' 
 
 * She has acted, as she has done throughout, most consistently,' 
 said Mr. Kendal. * My dear, thoughit was inexpedient to show 
 my sentiments, I always respected my son for having placed hia 
 affections so worthily ; and though circumstances were unfortu-
 
 il4 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 uately adverse, I cannot thank you enough for your course of 
 action and the influence you exercised.' 
 
 * I never did,' murmured Geuevieve. 
 
 * Not perhaps consciously ; but unswerving rectitude of con- 
 duct is one of tlie strongest earthly influences. He was sensible 
 of it. He bade me tell you that whenever higher and better 
 thoughts came to him, you were connected with them 3 and 
 when to his surprise, poor boy, he found that he was thought to 
 have distinguished himself, his first thought was that it might 
 be a step to your esteem. He desired me to thank you for all 
 that you have been to him, to entreat you to pardon the annoy- 
 ance of which he was the occasion, and to beg you to wear this 
 for his sake, if you could think of his presumption, with forgive- 
 ness and toleration. Those were his words ; but I trust you 
 do not retain disjileasure, for though, perhaps, foolishly and ob- 
 trusively expressed, it was sincere and lasting afiection.' 
 
 ' 01), sir !' exclaimed Genevieve, ' do not speak thus ! What 
 can I feel save that it will be my tenderest and deepest pride to 
 have been so regarded. Oh ! that I could thank him ! but,' 
 clasping her hands together, ' I cauuot even thank you.' 
 
 ' The best way to gratify us,' he said, ' will be always to re- 
 member that you have a home at Willow Lawn, and a daughter a 
 place in our hearts. Think of me like a father, Geuevieve ;' 
 and he kissed lier drooping forehead. 
 
 * Oh ! Mr. Kendal, this is goodness.' 
 
 He turned to Albinia to suggest, 'It must be intolerable to 
 be here at i>resent. Speak to Mrs. Eaiusforth ; let us take her 
 home, if it be but for a week.' 
 
 Leaving him to make the proposition to Gene\ieve, Albinia 
 gained admittance to the other drawing-room, which she found 
 all over little children, and their mother looking unequal to 
 dispensing with their deputy. She said she had feared Miss 
 Durant was looking ill, and had something weighing on her 
 spirits, though she was always so cheerful and helpi'ul ; but baby 
 had not been well, and IMr. llainsforth was not at all strong, 
 and her views had evidently taken no Avider range. 
 
 Albinia began to think lier proposal cruel, and prefiiced it by 
 a few words ou tlie state of the case. The little bit of romance 
 touched the kind heart. Mrs. Rainsforth was shocked to think 
 of the grief the governess must have suflered in secret while 
 aiding to bear her burdens, and was resolved on letting her 
 Jiave this respite, going eageily to assure her that she could 
 well be spared ; baby was better, and papa was better, and the 
 children would be good. 
 
 But Geuevieve knew too well how necessary she was, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 41 
 
 had been telliug Mr. Kendal of the poor little mother's anxieties 
 with her many delicate children, and her husliaud's failing 
 Ileal th. She could not leave them with a safe conscience ; and 
 she would not show how she longed after quiet, the country, 
 and her aunt. Slie stood firm, and Albinia could not say that 
 she was not right. Mrs. Rainsforth was distressed, though 
 much relieved, and was only pacified by the engagement that 
 Miss Durant should, when it was practicable, spend a long 
 holiday with her friends. 
 
 'At home!' said Mr. Kemlal ; and the responsive look of 
 mournful gratitude from beneath the black dewy eyelashes dis- 
 pelled all marvel at his son's enduring attachment. 
 
 He was wonderfully patient when Mrs. Rainsforth coidd not 
 be content without jMrs Kendal's maternal and medical opinion 
 of the baby, on the road to and from the nursery consulting her 
 on all the Mediterranean climates, and telling her what each 
 doctor had said of Mr. Eainsfortli's lungs, in the course of which 
 Miss Durant and her romance were put as entirely out of the 
 little lady's mind as if she had never existed. 
 
 The next day the Keudals set their faces homewards, having 
 Maurice till the surgeon's work should be done, and Fred, as 
 the aunts fondly hoped, to be their nursling. 
 
 But, behold ! Sunday and Monday Colonel Fred spent in bed, 
 smiling incessantly; Tuesday and Wednesday on the sofa; 
 Thursday in going about London ; Friday he was oif to Liver- 
 pool ; Saturday had sailed for Canada. 
 
 Alljinia was cmniug nearer to the home that was pulling her 
 by the heai-t-strings. Hadminster was past, and she had heard 
 the welcome words, ' All well,' fi om the servant who brought 
 the carriage ; but how much more there was to know than 
 Sophy's detailed letters could convey — Sopliy, whose sincerity, 
 though one of the most trustworthy things in the world, wais 
 never quite to be relied on as to her own health or Maurice's 
 conduct. 
 
 At the gate there was a little chestnut curled being in a 
 short black frock, struggling to pull the heavy gate open with 
 her plump ai-ms, and standing for one moment with her back to 
 it, screaming ' Mamma ! Pajja !' then jumping and clapi)ing her 
 hands in ecstasy and oblivion that the swing of the gate might 
 demolish her small ])erson between it and the horse. But there 
 was no time for fright. Sophy caught her and secured the 
 gate together ; and the first glimpse assured Albinia that the 
 hard gloom was absent. And there was Maurice, leaning 
 against the iron rail of the hall steps ; but he hardly moved, 
 and his face was so strangely white and set, that Albinia caught
 
 416 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 him in her arms, crying, 'Are you well, my boy 1 Sophy, is ho 
 well r 
 
 ' Quite well,' said Sophy ; but the boy had wriggled himself 
 loose, stood but for an instant to receive his father's kiss, and 
 had hold of the sword. The long cavalry sabre was almost as 
 tall as himself, and he stood with both arms clasped round it ; 
 but no sooner did he feel their eyes upon him, than he turned 
 about and ran upstairs. 
 
 It was not gracious, but they excused it ; they had their little 
 Albinia comfortably and clnldishly happy, as yet without those 
 troublesome Kendal feelings that always demonstrated them- 
 selves in some perverse manner. 
 
 And Sophy stood among them — that brighter, better Sophy 
 who had so long been obscured, happy to have them at home ; 
 talking and asking questions eagerly about the journey, and 
 describing the kindness of the Dusautoys and the goodness of 
 the children. 
 
 ' Have you heard from Lucy?' asked Mr. Kendal, as Albinia 
 went in pursuit of her little boy. 
 
 ' Yes — poor Lucy V 
 
 * Is there no letter from him ?' 
 
 'Not for yo\i, papa.' 
 
 ' What ? Did he write to his uncle ]' 
 
 'No, papa — he wrote to me and to Mr. Pettilovc. Cannot 
 he be stopped, papa ? Can he do any harm 1 Mr. Dusautoy and 
 Mr. Pettilove think he can.' 
 
 'You mean that he wishes to question the will? You may 
 be quite secure, my dear. Nothing can be more safe.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! I am so very glad. Not to be able to hinder 
 him was so dreadful, when he wanted to pit Lucy and me against 
 you. I could never have looked at 3'OU. I should always have 
 felt that you had something to forgive me.' 
 
 ' I could not well have confounded you with Algernon, my 
 dear,' said Mr. KendaL * What did Pettilove mean 1 Do you 
 know?' 
 
 ' Not exactly ; something about grandpapa's old settlement ; 
 which frightened the Vicar, though Mrs. Dusautoy said that it 
 was only that he fancied nobody could do anything right with- 
 out his help. Mr. Dusautoy is more angry with Algernon than 
 I thought he could be with anybody.' 
 
 ' No one but Algernon would have ever thought of it,' said 
 Mr. K(,'n(lal. 'I am sorry he has molested you, my dear. Have 
 you any objection to let me see his letter?' 
 
 ' 1 kept it for you, papa, and a copy of my answer. I thought
 
 THE TOTING STEP-MOTFIER. 417 
 
 though I am not of age, perhaps my saying I would have 
 nothing to do with it miglit do some good.' 
 
 Algernon maguUoquently condoled with his sister-in-law on 
 the injustice from which she and her sister had suffered, in con- 
 sequence of the adverse influence which surrounded her brother; 
 and generously informed her that she had a champion to defeat 
 the machinations against their rights. He had little doubt of 
 the futility of the document, and had wi-itten to the legal ad- 
 viser of the late Mr. Meadows to inquire whether the will of 
 that gentleman did not bar any power on the part of his grand- 
 son to dispose of the property. She might rely on him not to rest 
 until she should be put in possession of the estate, unless it should 
 prove to have been her grandfather's intention, in case of the 
 j)resent melancholy occurrence, that the elder sister should be 
 the sole inheritrix ; and he congratiilated her on having such a 
 protector, since, under the unfortunate circumstances, the sisters 
 would have had no one to uphold their cause against their 
 natural guardian. 
 
 Sophy's answer was — 
 
 ' Dear Algernon, 
 
 ' I prefer my natural guardian to any other whatever. I sliall 
 for my part owe you no thanks for attempting to frustrate my dearbrotlier'a 
 wishes, and to raise an unbecoming dissension. I desire that no use of my 
 name may be made, and you may rest assured that I should find nothing so 
 difficult to forgive as any such interference in my behalf. 
 
 ' Yours truly, 
 
 ' Sophia Kendal.' 
 
 * Certainly,' said Mr. Kendal, ' no family ill-will is complete 
 unless money matters be brought in to aggravate it.' 
 
 ' Do you think I did right, and spoke strongly enough, 
 pajta V 
 
 ' Quite strongly enough,' said Mr. Kendal, suppressing a smile. 
 *I hope you wrote kindly to Lucy at the same time.' 
 
 ' One could not help that, papa ; but I did say a great deal 
 about the outrageous im])ropriety of raising the question, because 
 I tliou^'ht Algernon might be ashamed.' 
 
 * Riches kept for the owners thereof to their hurt,' said Mr. 
 Kendal. ' Your gvandfatlier's acq<iisitions have brought us 
 little but evil hitherto ; and now I fear that our dear Gilbert's 
 endeavour to break the net which bound us into that system of 
 iniquity and oppression, may cause alienation from poor Lucy. 
 Sophy, you must allow no apparent coldness or neglect on her 
 part to keep you from writing often and affectionately.' 
 
 Maurice here came down with his mother, and as soon f.a
 
 418 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 there was a moment's pause, laid hold of the first book he met 
 with, and began : — 
 
 ' I do not see the justness of the analogy to which Oniiphrio refers, but 
 there are many parts of that vision on which I should wish to hear the ex- 
 planations of Philalethes.' 
 
 All broke out in amazement, 'Why, Maurice, has Mrs. Du- 
 sautoy been making a scholar of you V 
 
 ' Oh ! Maurice, was this your secret V ci'ied Sophy. 
 
 He had hidden his face in his mother's lap, and when she 
 raised it, struggled to keep it down, and she felt him sobbing and 
 panting for breath. Mr. Kendal stroked his hair, and they 
 tried to soothe him, but he started up abruptly. 
 
 ' I don't mean ever to be a plague again ! So I did it. But 
 there — when Ulick said it would be a comfort, you are all going 
 to cry again, papa and all, and that's worse !' and stamping his 
 foot passionately, he would have I'ushed out of the room, but 
 was held fiist in his father's arms, and indeed tears were flowing 
 fast from eyes that his brothei-'s death had left dry. 
 
 * My child ! my dear child !' said Mr. Kendal, ' it is comfort. 
 No one can rule you as by God's grace you can rule yourself, 
 and your endeavours to do this are the greatest blessing I can ask.' 
 
 One more kiss from his mother, and she let him go. He did 
 not know how to deal with emotion in himself, and hated the 
 siglit of it in others ; so tliat it was better to let him burst away 
 from them, while with one voice they admired, rejoiced, and in- 
 terrogated Sophy. 
 
 ' I know now,' she said, the rosy glow mantling in her cheek ; 
 *it must have been Mr. O'More.' 
 
 * Ah ! has he been with you T said her father. 
 
 ' Only once,' said Sophy, her colour deepening ; 'but Maurice 
 has been in a great hurry every day to go to him, and I saw 
 th(n-e was some secret. One day, Susan asked me to prevent 
 Master Maurice from teaching baby such ugly words, that she 
 could not sleep — not ])ad words, but she thought they were Latin. 
 So I watched, and I heard IMaurice singing out some of the 
 legend of Hiawatha, and insisting on poor little Awkey telling 
 him what m-i-s-h-e-n-a-h-m-a, spelt. Poor little Awk stared, as 
 well she might, and obedicntl}' madethe iitmost efforts to sayafter 
 him, Mishcnalinia, king of fishes, but he was tenibly disconijjosed 
 at getting nothing but Niffey-uinny, king of fithes. I went to her 
 rescue, and asked vvhat they were about ; but Maurice thundered 
 down on meall the Dela wares and Mohawks, and theChoctawsand 
 Oanieches ; and baby squeaked after him as well as she could, till I 
 fail ly stopped myears. I thought Ulick must bereadingthelegend 
 to him. Now I see he must have been teaching him to read ic'
 
 TliE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 419 
 
 ' Can it be possiVde V said Mr. Kendal. * He could not read 
 ^'ords of five letters without spelling.' 
 
 ' He always could do mucli more when lie pleased than whon 
 he did not please,' said Albinia. ' I believe the impulse to use 
 his understanding was all that was wanting, and I am veiy glad 
 the impulse came from such a motive.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal ordained that Maurice's reward should be learn- 
 ing Latin from himself, a perilous trial ; but it proved that Mr. 
 Kendal was really a good teacher for a child of spirit and 
 courage, and Maurice had early come to the age when boys do 
 better with man than with woman. He liked the honour and 
 the awe of papa's tutorship, and learnt so well, that his father 
 never believed in his ))ast duncesnip ; but over studies that he 
 did not deem sufScieutly masculine, he could be as troublesome 
 as ever, his attention absent, and his restlessness most weari- 
 some. To an ordinary eye, he was little changed ; but his 
 mother felt that the great victory of the will had been gained, 
 and that his se^was endeavouring to get the better of the spirit 
 of insubordination and mischief. Night after night she found 
 him sleeping with the Balaklava swoixl by his side, and his hand 
 clasped over it ; and he al ways crept out of the way of Cx'imean 
 news, though that he gathered up the facts was plain when he 
 committed his sovereign to Ulick, with a request that it might 
 be devoted to the comforts preparing to be sent to the 25th 
 Lancers, 
 
 Ulick wished him to consult his mother, but this he repelled. 
 He could not endure the sight of a tear in her eye, and she 
 could not restrain them wlien that chord was touched. It was 
 a propensity she much disliked, the more because she thought it 
 h)oked like affectation beside Sophy, whose feelings never took 
 that course ; but the more ill- timed the tears, the more they 
 would come, at the most common-place condolence or remote 
 allusion. It was the effect of the long strain on her powers, 
 and the severe shock coming suddenly after so much pressure 
 and flitigue ; moreover, lier habits had been so long disorganized 
 that her time seemed blank, and she could not rouse herself 
 from a feeling of languor and depression. Then Gilbert had 
 been always on her mind, whether at home or absent ; and it 
 did not seem at first as if she had enough to fill up time or 
 thoughts — she absolutely f(jund herself doing nothing, because 
 there was nothing she cared to do. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's first object was the fulfilment of Gilbert's 
 wishes ; but Albinia soon felt how much easier it is for women 
 and boys to make schemes, than for men to bring them to efTect, 
 and how rash it is hastily to condemn thjse who tolerate abuses. 
 
 K E 2
 
 420 THE YOUI^G STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 The whole was carefully looked over with a stirveyor, and it 
 was only then uuderstood how complicated wei'e the tenures, 
 and liow varied the covenants of the numerous small tenements 
 which old Mr. Meadows had amassed. It was not possible to 
 be free of the legal difficulties under at least a year, and plans 
 of drainage might be impeded for want of other people's consent 
 Even if all had been smooth, the sacrifice of income, by destroy- 
 ing Tibb's Alley, and reducing the number of cottages, would 
 be considerable. Meantime, the inspection had brought to light 
 worse iniqviities and greater wretchedness than Mr. Kendal had 
 imagined, and his eagerness to set to work was tenfold. His 
 table was heaped with sanitary reports, and his fits of abstrac- 
 tion were over the components of bad air or builder's 
 estimates. 
 
 I. only depended on Ulick to have resumed his intimacy at 
 Willow Lawn ; but the habit once broken was not resumed. 
 He was often there, but never without invitation ; and he was 
 not always to be had. He had less leisure ; he was senior 
 clerk, and the junior was dull and untrained ; and he often had 
 work to do far into the evening. He looked bright and well, 
 as •though possessed of a sense of being valuable in his own place, 
 more conducive to happiness than even congeniality of employ- 
 ment ; and Sophy, though now and then disappointed at his 
 non-appearance, always had a good re.ison for it, and continued 
 to j ustify Mr. Dusautoy's boast tliat the air of the hill had made 
 another woman of her. 
 
 Visiting cards had, of cotirse, come in numbers to "Willow 
 Lawn ; but Albinia seemed to have caught her husband's 
 aversions, and it would be dangerous to say how long it was 
 before she lashed herself into setting off for a round of calls. 
 
 Nothing surprised her more than Miss Goldsmith's reception. 
 Conscious of her neglect, she expected the stiff manner to be 
 more formal than ever; but the welcome was almost warm, and 
 there was something caressing in her fears that Miss Kendal 
 would be tired. Mr. Goldsmith was not quite well, there were 
 thieatenings of gout, and his sister had persuaded him to visit 
 the relations at Bristol next week ; everything might safely be 
 trusted to young More, and therewith came such praise of his 
 steadiness and ability, that Albinia did not know which way to 
 look when all was ascribed to Mr. Kendal's great kindness 
 to him. 
 
 It was too palpable to be altogether pleasant. Sophia Kendal 
 •was heiress enough to be a very desirable connexion for the 
 bank. Albinia was afraid she should see through the lady's 
 gruciousues.s, and took her leave in haste ; but Sophv only said,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 421 
 
 * Do you remember, mamma, whea the Goldsmiths thought we 
 unsettled him V 
 
 Before Albinia had disarmed her reply of the irony on the 
 tip of her tongue, the omnibus came lumbering round the 
 corner, and a voice proceeded from tlie rear, the door flew open, 
 and there was a rapid exit. 
 
 Face and voice, light step, and gay bearing, all were Fred — 
 the empty sleeve, the sole resemblance to the shattered con- 
 valescent of a few weeks back. 
 
 ' There, Albinia ! I said you should see her first. You haven't 
 got any change, have you T the last being addressed either to 
 Albhiia, the omnibus conductor, or a lady, who made a tender 
 of two shillings, while Albinia ordered the luggage on to Willow 
 Lawn, though something was faintly said about the inn. 
 
 ' And there ! ' cried Fred, with an emphatic twist of his 
 moustache, 'isn't she all I ever told you?' 
 
 * The last thing was a brick,' said Albinia, laughing, as she 
 looked at the smiling, confiding, animated face, Hot the less 
 pleasant for a French Canadian grace that recalled Genevieve. 
 
 'The right article for building a hut, I hope,' she said, 
 merrily. 
 
 ' But how and when could you have come V 
 
 ' This morning, from Liverpool. We did not mean to storm 
 you in this manner ; we meant to have settled ourselves at the 
 inn, and walked down ; Emily was very particular about it.' 
 
 ' But you see, when he saw you, he forgot all my lectui'es 1' 
 said Emily, taking his welcome for granted. 
 
 ' Very proper of him ! But, Fred, I don't quite believe it 
 yet. How long is it since we parted f 
 
 ' Six weeks ; just enough to go to Canada and back, with a 
 fortnight in the middle to spare.' 
 
 'And pray how long has Mrs. Fred existed V 
 
 'Three weeks and two days;' and turning half round to give 
 her the benefit of his words, ' it was on purely philanthropic 
 principles, because I could not tie my own necktie.' 
 
 ' Now could I,' said Emily pleadingly to Sojjhy — ' now could I 
 let him go back again alone, when he came so helpless, and 
 looking so dreadfully ill V 
 
 'And what are you going to do T asked Albinia. ' You 
 can't join again.' 
 
 ' Join ! why not? Here's a hand for a horse, and an arm for 
 a wife, and the rest will be done much better for me than ever 
 it was before.' 
 
 ' But with her? and at Seljastopol !' 
 
 ♦ That's the very thing !' cried the colonel, again turning
 
 422 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 about. *!N"otliiDg will serve her but to show how a backwoods- 
 maa's daughter cau live in a hut.' 
 
 ' And what will the geuei-al say V 
 
 ' The general,' cried Emily, ' will endure me better as a fact 
 than as a prospect ; and we will teach him tliat a lady is not till 
 made of nerves and of fancies ! See what he will say if we let 
 him into our paradise !' 
 
 Fred brightened ; though Albinia's inquiry had for a moment 
 taken him a little aback. The one being whom he dreaded was 
 General Fevrars, for whom he cared a thousand times more than 
 for his own elder brother; and he was soon speculating, with 
 his usual insouciance, as to how his announcement might have 
 been received by his lordship, and whether the aunts would look 
 at them as they went through London. 
 
 Mr. Keudal met them at the gate, amazed at the avalanche 
 of luggage, but well pleased, for he had grown very fond of Fred, 
 and had been very anxious about him, thinking him broken and 
 enfeebled for life, and hardly expecting him to return from hi.s 
 mad expedition. He was slow to believe his eyes and eai-s when 
 he beheld a hale, handsome, vigorous man, full of life and activity ; 
 but his welcome and congratulations were of the warmest. He 
 could far better stand a sudden inroad than if he had had to 
 meditate for a week on entertaining the bride. Not tliat the 
 bride wanted entertainment, except waiting upon her husband, 
 who let himself be many degrees less handy than at Malta, for 
 the pleasure of her attentions. 
 
 Perhaps the person least gratified was Maurice ; for the child 
 shrank with shy reverence from him whom his brother had saved, 
 and would as soon have thought of making a plaything of Gil- 
 bert's sword as of having fun with the survivor. The sight of 
 such a merry man was a shock, and he abruptly repelled all 
 attempts at playing with him, and kept apart with a big book 
 on a chair before him, a Kendalism for which he amply com- 
 pensated when familiarity had diminished his awe. 
 
 Mr. Kendal, though little disposed to exert himself to talk, 
 liked to watch his wife reviving into animation ; and Sophy 
 taking a full share in the glee with which Emily enjoyed turning 
 t\u' laugh against the good-natured soldier. In the midst of 
 their flush of joy there was a tender consideration about the 
 young coufile, such as to hinder their tone from jarriiig. Indeed, 
 it was less consideration than fellow-feeling, for Gilbei't Keudal 
 had become enshrined in the depths of Fred's heart ; while to 
 Emily the visit was well-nigh a ])i!grimage. All her hero- 
 wi.rship was directed to the youth who had guirded her soldier's 
 life, nursed him in his sickness, and, as he averred, inspired him
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 428 
 
 with serious thoughts. Poor, falling, timid, penitent Gilbert 
 was to her a very St. George, and every relic of him was vitswed 
 with reverence ; she conipo.sed a countenance for him from his 
 father's fine features, and fitted the fragments of his history into 
 an ideal, till Sophy, after being surprised and gratified, began to 
 view Gilbert through a like halo, and to rank him with his twin 
 bi'other. Friendship was a new and agreeable phase of life to 
 Sophy, who found a suitable companion in such an open-hearted 
 person, simpler in nature, and fiesher than herself, free from 
 English commonplaces, tliough older and of more standing. 
 She expanded and brightened wonderfully ; and Emily, ima- 
 gining her a female Gilbert, was devoted to her, and thought 
 her a marvel of learning, depth, goodness, and humility, the 
 more striking for her tinge of grave pensiveness. 
 
 ' Why, Albinia,' said the colonel, ' didn't I hear that it was 
 your handsome daughter who is married V 
 
 ' Yes ; poor Lucy was always calfed our pretty one.' 
 
 ' More admired than her sister ? Why, she never could have 
 had a countenance !' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Albinia, highly gratified by the opinion of such a 
 connoisseur. ' I always told Winifred that Sophy was the 
 beautv, but she has only lately had health or animation to set 
 her off.' 
 
 ' I declare, when we overtook you in the street, she looked a 
 perfect Spanish piincess, in her black robes and great shady 
 hat. You ought always to keep her in black. Ha ! Emily, 
 what are you smiling at ?' 
 
 His wife looked up into his face with mischievous shyness in 
 her eyes, as if she v/anted him to say what would be a liberty 
 in her. Somebody else had overtaken the ladies nearly at the 
 same moment, and Albinia exulted in perceiving that the em- 
 bellishment had been observed by others besides herself. She 
 did not look so severe but that Fred was encouraged to repeat, 
 * Only lately had healtli or animation 1 When Irish winds blow 
 this way, 1 fancy — But what will the aunts say V 
 
 ' They are not Sophy's aunts, whatever they ai-e to you.' 
 
 * What will Kendal say ? wliich is more to the pui-pose.' 
 
 * Oh ! he saw it first ; he will be delighted ; but you must 
 not say a word to him, for it can't come to anything just now.' 
 
 Albinia was thus confirmed in her anticipations, and the 
 bridal pair, only wishing everybody to be as happy as them- 
 selves, took the matter up with such vivid interest and amuse- 
 ment, thatshe was ratherafraid of a manifestation such as to shock 
 either her husban(1 or the parties themselves ; but Fred was too 
 much of a gentleman, and Emily too considerate, for anything
 
 424 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 perilously marked. Only she thought Emily need not have heen 
 so decided in making room for Ulick next to Sophy, when they 
 were all looking out at the young moon at the conservatory-door 
 that evening. 
 
 And then Emily took her hushand's arm, and insisted on going 
 down the garden to be introduced to English nightingales ; and 
 though she was told they never had come there in the meraoiy 
 of man, she was bent on doing as she would be done by, and 
 drew him along the silvered paths, among the black sliadows of 
 the trees ; and Ulick asked Sophy if slie wislied to go too. She 
 looked as if she should like it very much ; he fetched a cou|)le 
 of cloaks out of the hall, put her into one, and ran after Mra 
 Ferrars with the other. 
 
 ' Well !' thought Albinia, as she stood at the conservatory- 
 door, 'how much more boldness and tact some people have than 
 others ! If I had lived a hundred years, I should not have 
 managed it so well !' 
 
 ' What's become of them V said Mr. Kendal, as she went back 
 to the drawing-room, 
 
 ' Gone to listen for nightingales !' 
 
 ' Nightingales ? How could you let them go into the river-fogf 
 
 ' Emily was bent upon it ; she is too much of a bride not to 
 have her way.' 
 
 ' Umph ! I wonder Sophy was so foolish.' 
 
 They came back in a quarter of an hour. "No nightingales ; 
 and Fred was indulging in reminiscences of bull-fiogs ; the two 
 ladies were rapturous on the effect of the moonbeams in the 
 ripple of the waters, and the soft furry white mist rising over 
 the meadows. Ulick shivered, and leant over tlie fire to breathe 
 a drier air, bantering the ladies for their admiration, and de- 
 claring that Mrs. Ferrars had taken the moan of an imprisoned 
 house-dog for the nightingale, which he disdainfully imitated with 
 buzz, zizz, and guggle, assuring her she had had no loss ; but he 
 looked rather white and chilled. So[)liy whispered something to 
 her papa, who rang the bell, and ordei'ed in wine and hot water. 
 
 ' There, Emily,' said Albinia, when he had taken his leave ; 
 * what shall we say to your nightingales, if Mr. O'More catches 
 his ague again V 
 
 ' Oh, there are moments when people don't catch agues,' said 
 Fred. ' He would be a po(jr fellow to catch an ague after all 
 that, though, by-the-bye, it is not a place to go to at night 
 witliout a cigar.' 
 
 Alljinia was on thorns, lest Sophy should be offended ; but 
 though her cheeks lighted uj), and .she was certainly aware of 
 Bome part of their meaning, either she did not believe in the
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 426 
 
 |>ossibiHty of any one bantering her, or else the assumption was 
 more agi'eeable tlian the presumption was dif^agreeable. Slie 
 endured with droll puzzled dignity, when Fred teased her anxiety 
 the next day to know whether Mr. O'More had felt any ill effects; 
 and it really appeared as if she liked him better for what might 
 have been expected to be a dire affront ; but then lie was a man 
 whose manner enabled to do and say whatever he pleased. 
 
 Emily never durst enter on the subject with her, but had 
 more than one confidential little gossip with Albinia, and re- 
 peatedly declared tliat she hoped to be in England when ' it ' 
 took place. Indeed that week's visit made them all so intimate, 
 that it was not easy to believe how recent was the acquaintance. 
 The aunts had been so much disappointed at Fred's desertion, 
 so much discomfited at his recovery contrary to all predictions, 
 and so much annoyed at his marriage, that it took all their 
 kindness, and his Crimean fame, to make tliem invite him and 
 his colonial wife to the Family Office, to be present at the royal 
 distribution of medals. However, the good ladies did their duty ; 
 and Emily and Sophy parted with promises of letters. 
 
 The beginning of the correspondence was as full a description 
 of the presentation of the medals as could be given by a person 
 who only saw one figure wherever she went, and to whom the 
 great incident of the day was, that the gracious and kind- 
 hearted Queen had herself fastened the left-handed colonel's 
 medal as well as Emily could have done it herself! There was 
 another medal, with two clasps, that came to Bayford, and which 
 was looked at in pensive but not unhapjiy silence. ' You shall 
 have it some day, Maurice, but not now,' said Mr. Kendal; and 
 all felt that now meant his own lifetime. It was })Iaced where 
 Gilbert would well have liked to see it, beside his brother 
 Edmund's watch. 
 
 Emily made Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars moi-e fond of 
 her in three days, than eleven years had made them of Winifred ; 
 too fond, indeed, for they fell to preaching to Fred upon the 
 horrors of Sebastopol, till they persuaded him that he was a 
 selfish wretch, and brought him to decree that she should stay 
 with them during his absence. But, as Emily observed, that 
 was not what she left home for ; she demolished his arguments 
 with a small amount of playing at petulance, and triumphantly 
 departed tor the East, leaving Aunt Mary crying over her as a 
 predestined victim. 
 
 The last thing Fred did before sailing, was to send Albinia a 
 letter from his brother, that she might see ' how very kind and 
 cordial Belraven was,' besides something that concerued her 
 more nearly.
 
 425 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Lord Belraven was civil when it cost him nothing, and had 
 lately regarded his inconvenient younger brother with favour, as 
 bringing him distinction, and having gained two steps without 
 purchase, removed, too, by his present rank, and the pension for 
 his wound, from being likely to become chargeable to him ; so 
 he had written such brotherly congratulations, that good honest 
 Fred was quite affected. He was even discursive enough to 
 mention some connexions of the young man who had been with 
 Fred in the Crimea, a Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, a very good 
 sort of fellow, who gave excellent dinners, and was a pleasant 
 yachting conipanion. His wife was said to be very pretty and 
 pleasing ; but she had arrived at Genoa very unwell, had been 
 since confined, and was not yet able to see auy one. It was said 
 to be the effect of her distress for the death of her brother, and 
 the estrangement from her family, who had behaved very ill 
 about his property. Had not Albiuia Ferrars married into that 
 family 1 
 
 Albinia knew enough of her noble relative to be aware that 
 good dinners and obsequiousness were the way to his esteem, 
 and Algernon's was the sort of arrogance that would stoop to 
 adore a coronet. All this was nothing, however, to the idea of 
 Lucy, ill in that strange place, with no one to care for her but 
 her hard master. Albinia sometimes thought of going to find 
 her out at Genoa ; but this was too utterly wild and impossible, 
 and nothing could be done but to write letters of affectionate 
 inquiry, enclosing them to Lord Belraven. 
 
 Algernon's answer was solemn, and as brief as he could make 
 anything. He was astonished that the event had escaped the 
 notice of the circle at Bayford, since he believed it had appeared 
 in all the principal European newspapers ; and- his time had 
 been so fully occupied, that he had imagined that intimation 
 sutficient, since it was evident from the tone of the recent cor- 
 respondence, that the family of Bayford were inclined to drop 
 future intercourse. He was obliged for the inquiries for Lucy, 
 and was happy to say she was recovering favourably, though tho 
 late unfortunate events, and the agitation caused by letters from 
 home, had affected her so seriously, that they had been de- 
 tained at Genoa for nearly four months to his great incon- 
 venience, instead of pushing on to Florence and Rome. It had 
 been some compensation that he had become extremely intimate 
 with that most agreeable and superior person, Lord Belraven, 
 who had consented to become sponsor to his son. 
 
 Lney wrote to Albinia. Poor thing, the letter was the most 
 childishly expressed, and the least childishly felt, she had ever 
 written ; its whole aspect was weak and wobegone ; yet there
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 427 
 
 was less self-pity, and more endeavour to niake tlie best of it, 
 than before. She had the deare.st little baby in the world ; but 
 he was very delicate, and she wished mamma would send out 
 an English nurse, for she could not bear that Italian woman — 
 her black eyes looked so fierce, and she was sure it was not sale 
 to have those immense pins in her hair. Exjjense was nothing; 
 but she should never be hapjiy till she had an Englishwoman 
 about him, especially now that she was getting better, and 
 Algernon would want her to come out again with him. Dear 
 Algernon, he had lost the Easter at Rome for her sake ; but 
 perhaps it was a good thing, for he was often out in Lord Bel- 
 raven's yacht, and she could be quiet with baby. She did wish 
 baby to have had her dear brothers' names, but Algernon would 
 not consent. Next Tuesday he was to be christened ; and then 
 followed a string of mighty names, long enough for a Spanish 
 princess, beginning with Belraven ! ! ! 
 
 Lucy Dusautoy's dreary condition iu the midst of all that 
 wealth could give, was a contrast to Emily Ferrars' buoyant 
 delight in the burrow which was her first married home, and 
 proved a paradise to many a stray officer, aye, maybe, to Lieu- 
 tenant-General Sir William Ferrars himself. Her letters were 
 charming, especially a detail of Fred meeting Bryan O'More 
 coming out of the trenches, grim, hungry, and tired, having 
 recently kicked a newly alighted shell down from the parapet, 
 with the cool words, ' Be off with you, you iigly baste you ;' of 
 his wolfish appetite after having been long reduced to simple 
 rations, though he kept a curly black lamb loose about his hut, 
 because he hadn't the heart to kill it ; and it served him for 
 bed if not for board, all his rugs and blankets having flown off 
 in the hurricane, or been given to the wounded ; he had been 
 quite affronted at the suggestion that a Galway pig was as well 
 lodged as himself — it was an insult to any respectable Irish 
 animal! 
 
 Albinia sent Maurice to summon Ulick to enjoy the letter 
 in store for him. He looked grave and embarrassed, and did 
 not light up as usual at Bryan's praises. He said that 
 his aunt, who had written to him on business, had given a 
 bad account of Mr, Goldsmith ; but Albinia hardly thought 
 this accounted for his preoccupation, and was considering how 
 to probe it, when her brother Maurice ojjened the door. 'Ulick 
 O'More I that's right ; the very man I was in search of!' 
 
 * How's Winifred, Maurice V 
 
 * Getting on wonderfully well. I really think she is going 
 {;■© make a start, after all ! and she is in stich spirits herself.' 
 
 ' And the boy V
 
 428 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 'Oh. a thiimping great fellow ! T promise you he'll be a 
 matcli for your Maurice.' 
 
 ' I do believe it is to reward Winifred for sparing you in tlie 
 spring when we wanted you so much ! Come, sit down, and 
 wait for Edmund.' 
 
 ' No ; I've not a moment to stay. I'm to meet Bury again at 
 W^'ood.side at six o'clock; he drove me there, and I walked on, 
 looking in at your lodgings by the way, XJlick.' 
 
 ' I'm not there now. I am keeping guard at the bank.' 
 
 ' So they told me. Well, I hope your guard is not too strict 
 for you to come over to Fairmead on Sunday ; we want you to 
 do our boy the kindness to be his godfather!' 
 
 Sophy blushed with approving grntitude. 
 
 ' I don't consider that it will be a sinecure — he squalls in 
 such a characteristic manner that I am convinced he will rival 
 his cousin here in all amiable and amenable qualities; so I con- 
 sider it particularly desirable that he should be well provided 
 with great disciplinarians.' 
 
 'You certainly could not find anyone more accomplished in 
 teaching dunces to read,' said Albinia. 
 
 'When their mammas have taught them already!' added 
 Ulick, laughing. ' Thank you ; but you know I can't sleep out ; 
 Ilyder Ali and I are responsible for a big chest of sovereigns, 
 and all the rest of it.' 
 
 * Nor could I lodge you at present ; so we are agreed. My 
 proposition is that you should drive my sister over on Sunday 
 morning. My wife is wearying for a sight of her ; and she 
 has not been at Fairmead ou a Sunday since she left it ; eh, 
 Albiniar 
 
 ' I suppose for such a purpose it is not wrong to use the 
 horse,' she said, her eyes sparkling. 
 
 * And you might put my friend Maurice between you, if you 
 can't go out pleasuring without him.' 
 
 ' 1 scorn you, sir ; Maurice is as good as gold ; I shall leave 
 him at home, I think, to pi'ove that I can — ' 
 
 * That's the reward of merit !' exclaimed Sophy. 
 
 ' She expects my children to corrupt h'ua !' quoth Mr. 
 Ferrars. 
 
 ' For shame, Maurice ; that's on purpose to make me bring 
 him. Well, we'll see what [)apa says, and if ho thinks the new 
 black horse strong enouj'h, or to be trusted with Mr. O'More.' 
 
 ' I only wish 'twas a jaunting car !' cried Ulick. 
 
 'And what's the boy'.s name to be? Not Bel raven, I con- 
 clude, like my unf )rr,uiuitc grandson— Maurice, I hope.' 
 
 ' No ; the precedent of his namesake would be too dangeroua
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 429 
 
 I believe he is to be Edmund Ulick. Don't take it as too per- 
 sonal, Ulick, for it was the name of our mutual connexion.' 
 
 ' I take the personal part though, Maurice ; and thauk you, 
 said Albinia, and Mr. Ferrars looked more happy and joyous 
 than any time since his wife's health had begun to fail. Always 
 cheerful, and almost always taking matters up in the most lively 
 point of view, it was only by comparison that want of spirits 
 in him could be detected ; and it was chiefly by the vanishing 
 of a certain careworn, anxious expression about his eyes, and 
 by the ring of his merry laugh, that Albinia knew that he 
 thought better of his wife's state than for the last five or six years. 
 - Albinia and Ulick drove ofi"at six o'clock on a lovely summer 
 Sunday morning, with Maurice between them in a royal state 
 of felicity. That long fresh drive, past summer hay-fields sleep- 
 ing in their silver bath of dew, ard villages tardily awakening 
 to the well-earned Sunday rest, was not the least pleasant part 
 of the day ; and yet it was completely happy, not even clouded 
 by one outbreak of Master Maurice. Luckily for him, Mary 
 had a small class, who absorbed her superabundant love of rule j 
 and little Alby was a fair-haired, apple-cheeked maiden of five, 
 who awoke both admiration and chivalry, and managed to 
 coquet with him and Ulick both at once, so that Willie had no 
 disrespect to his sisters to resent. 
 
 He was exemplary at church, well-behaved at dinner, and so 
 little on his mamma's mind, that she had a delightful renewal 
 of her acquaintance with the Sunday-school, and a leisurable 
 gossip with Mrs. Reid and the two Miss Reids, collectively and 
 individually ; but the best of all was a long quiet teCe-ct-tete with 
 Winifred. 
 
 After the evening service, Mr. Ferrars himself carried his 
 newly-christened boy back to the mother, and paused that his 
 sister might come with him, and they might feel like the old 
 times, when the three had been alone together. 
 
 * Yes,' said Winifred, when he had left them, ' it is very 
 pretty playing at it ; but one cannot be the same.' 
 
 * Nor would one exactly wish it,' said Albinia ; * thougli I 
 think you are going to be more the same.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Winifred ; * the worst of being ill is that it 
 does wear one's husband so ! When he came in, and tried to 
 make me fancy we were gone back to Willie's time, I could not 
 help thinking how difierent you both looked.' 
 
 * Well, so much the better and more respectable,' said Albinia. 
 'You know I always wanted to grow old ; I don't want to stop 
 short like your sister Anne, who looks as much the child of the 
 house as ever.'
 
 430 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' I wish you had as few cares as Anne. Look ; I deck; 
 that's a grey hair !' 
 
 ' I kuow. I like it ; now Sophy is growing young, and Ti, 
 glowing old, it is all correct.' 
 
 'Old. indeed 1' ejaculated Winifred, looking at her fair fres 
 complexion and bright features ; ' don't try for that, when evej 
 Edmund is not grey.' 
 
 ' Yes he is,' said Albiuia, gravely ; ' Malta sowed many whit 
 threads in his black head, and worry about those buildings ha 
 brought more.' 
 
 ' Worry ; I'm very sorry to hear of it.' 
 
 * Yes ; the tenures are so troublesome, and everybody is Sf 
 cantankerous. If he wanted to set up some pernicious manu 
 faoture, it could not be worse ! The Osbornes, after havin 
 lived with Tibb's Alley close to them all their lives, object t^ 
 the almshouses ! Mr. Baron wont have the new drains carrieu 
 through his little strip of land. Tlie Town Council think we 
 are going to poison the water j and Pettilove, and everybod 
 else who owns a wretched tenement, that we shall increase the 
 wants of their tenants, aiad lower their rents. If it be carried 
 thruugh, it will be by that sheer force in going his own way 
 that Edmund can exert when he chooses.' 
 ' And he will V 
 
 ' O, yes, no fear of that ; he goes on, avoiding seeing or 
 hearing what he has not to act upon ; but worse than all are 
 the people themselves ; Tibb's Alley all has notice to quit, but 
 none of them can be got rid of till Martinmas, and some not till 
 Lady-day ; and the beer-house people are in such a rage ! The 
 turn-out of the public-houses come and roar at our gate on 
 Saturday nights ; and they write up things on the wall against 
 him ! and one day they threw over into the garden what little 
 Aw key called a poor dear dead pussy. I believe they tell them 
 aU sorts of absurd things about his tyranny ; poor creatures.' 
 ' Can't you get it stopped V 
 
 ' Edmund wont summon any one, because he thinks it would 
 do more harm than good. He says it will pass off; but it 
 grieves him more than he shows : he thinks he could once have 
 made himself more popular : but I don't kuow, it is a horrid set.* 
 ' I thought you said he was in good spii-its.' 
 * And so he is : he never gets depressed and unwilling to be 
 spoken to. He is ready to take interest in everything ; and 
 always so busy ! When I remember how he never seemed to 
 be obliged to attend to anything, I laugh at the contrast ; and 
 yet he goes about it all so gravely and slowly, that it never 
 seems like a change.'
 
 Tn this *iul otht^r luuui? t^lk »>t>«»rlY au )uxur h^^^ \\]^*H^ 
 
 Mr Forrars xviuvuchI. ' Aw you vvii\t^ to u>U n>o .> h., < '**^*i 
 
 Albinui. 
 
 * Not j«rtieukrlY.* he saiil, it) a t«M\t» !h»t nm\it> ht>v <!*»\sj\», 
 •Xo. no,' si;»iii NN'iuinwl ' I \v«u( « g>t»«t thul u\o»v of l>«n\ 
 
 Whoiv hrtve you Ihvu i' 
 
 ' 1 hsvo Ihvu to sih^ oUl Wilks ; Uliok wwlktxl ilowu \vH^ W<», 
 By iht^hvt», Alhinia, what «ouso»\ao h;».s Kwil's wilV hoou t*>)kui!>j; 
 to his hn^thor !" 
 
 'Ki\uly iioos uot talk nonsouso T tuv.l \\p Alhiuio, t^^hmvluj?, 
 neveriheh>ss. 
 
 ' Tho \voi"so for lior. thou I IKiwovor, it sooms lMya>» l\t»* 
 (HstiirluHl this poor tolKnv vt'ry luiu'li, )>y o.uii^nvtulfUiii; Imu >>ii 
 liis pnv<i>tvtj< !»t Willow Lawn.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is what n»a«io h\JU so tlisttnit tv\\x\ ertt\tlo«K, is tt J' 
 l;\uv'Iu'il All>inia. ' I thihk Mrs. K.mily uii^ht m woW not \\^\<^ 
 botrayoil its' 
 
 ' JJetmyoil ! ^\'ll:lt I'ovilil liavo jiassi'd f 
 
 'Oh! Kinily ami Kn'.l saw it. as |>laii\ an I iliil. \N hv. it 
 (loos not «lo onnlit to your iliscormiuiit, JMaiiiiio ; napa lo\m.l 
 it out long aiiO, and ti>Kl mo.' 
 
 ' Kon.lal iliii V 
 
 ' Yes. that ho did, and did iu>l mind (In' noliou at all , lallicr 
 liked it, in tact.' 
 
 ' Well !' said Mr. Forrars, in a. .lilloreni, tDlui, Mfe 1h A Vf>vy 
 qxioer business ! 1 certainly diil not. think tim hnl rthuwod any 
 symptoms. He said ho ha<l licaitl !.,'<i,s,sip alMint it liol'oii*, and 
 had tried to be careful ; his :unit talUt>d lo him oni-««, hut, an hn 
 said, it would be uothinti; but. the ranUoHt trtniMon l.o ihinl. ol' 
 such a thiuc, ou the terms on whir.h lu< is IreaU-d.' 
 
 ' Ay, that's it !' said Albinia ; ' he aeU mowL porfeoldy,' 
 
 ' Perfectly indeed, if that were acting,' naid Mr. Forrnrs. 
 
 * And what made him speak to you V aHkttd WinilVtid. 
 
 ♦He wanted to consult me. lie said it was v«uy iiard on 
 him, for all the pleasure he had came from Iuh ini.ereoiurto with 
 Willow Lawn ; and he could not, l».;ir to keep at a diHtal4«e, 
 because it looked as if he had not. lor-;oLt<n the old folly aboiit 
 the caricature ; but he was afraid of the u:\iitit comiuj< to your 
 €nrs or Mr. Kendal's, because you w.juld think it HO wrong and 
 shameful an abase of your kindness.' 
 
 ' And that's his whole concern V 
 
 ' So he told me.' 
 
 * A.nd what advice did you give him '/' 
 
 ' I told him Biyford was bent on f^o^sip, and no one hoed«4 U 
 less than my respected brother and sister.'
 
 432 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' That was famous of you, Maurice. 1 was afraid you would 
 have put it u})on his honour and the state of his own heart. 
 
 ' Sooth to say, I did not think his heart appeared very- 
 ticklish.' 
 
 ' Oh ! IMaurice, Maurice ! But you've not been there to see 
 the hot fits and the cold fits ! It is a very fine thermometer 
 whether he says Sophy or Miss Kendal.' 
 
 ' And you say Edmund perceived this V 
 
 ' IMuch you would trust my unassisted 'cuteness ! I tell you 
 he did, and that it will make him happier than anything.' 
 
 ' Very well ; then my advice svill have done no harm. I did 
 not think there had been so much self-control in an Irishman.' 
 
 ' Had he not better say, so much blindness in the rector of 
 Fairmead V laughed Albinia. 
 
 • And pray what course is the afiair to take f 
 
 ' The present, I suppose. Some catastrophe will occur at last 
 to prove to him that we honour him, and don't view it as 
 outrageous presumption ; and then — oh ! there can be no doubt 
 that he will have a share in the bank,; and Sophy may buy 
 toleration for his round O. After all, he has the best of it as 
 to ancestry, and we Keudals need not turn up our noses at 
 bauking.' 
 
 ' I think he will be too proud to address her, except on 
 equality as to money matters.' 
 
 ' Pride is sometimes quelled and love free,' said Albinia. ' No, 
 no ; content yourself with having given the best advice in the 
 world, with your eyes fast shut !' 
 
 And Albinia went home in high spirits. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 NOT long afterwards, Ulick O'More was summoned to Bristol, 
 where his uncle had become suddenly worse ; but he had 
 only reached Hadminster when a telegraph met him with tlie 
 news of Mr. Goldsmith's deatli, and orders to remain at his 
 post. 
 
 He came to the Kendals in the evening in great grief ; he had 
 really come to love and esteem his uncle, and he was very 
 unha;ipy at having lost the chance of a reconciliation for his 
 mother. As her chief friend and confidant, he koew that she 
 regarded the alienation of her own family as the punishment of 
 her disobedient niarrriage, and that his own ai)])ointmont had 
 been valued chiefiy as an opening towards fraternal feeling,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 483 
 
 and reproached himself for not having made more direct efforts 
 to induce his uncle to enter into personal intercourse with her. 
 ' If I had only ventured it before he went to Bristol,' he said ; 
 ' I was a fool not to have done so ; and there, the Goldsmiths 
 detest the very name of us ! Why could they not have tele- 
 graphed for me 1 I might have heard what would have done 
 my mother's heart good for the rest of her life. I am sure my 
 poor uncle wanted to ease his mind !' 
 
 'May he not have sent some communication direct to her?' 
 
 ' I trust he did ! I have long thought he only kept her aloof 
 from habit, and felt kindly towards her all the time.' 
 
 ' And never could persuade himself to make a move towards 
 her until too late,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Yes. Nothing comes home to one more than the words, 
 " Agree with thine adversary quickly whiles thou art in the 
 way with him." If once one comes to think there's creditable 
 pride in holding out, thei-e's no end to it, or else too much end.' 
 
 ' Mr. Goldsmith was persevering in the example his father had 
 set him,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' Ay ! my mother never blamed either, and I'm afraid, if the 
 truth were told, my fatlier was hot enough too, though it would 
 all have been bygones with him long ago, if they would have 
 let it. But I was thinkiug just then of my own foolishness 
 last winter, when I would not grant you it was pride, Mrs. 
 Kendal, for fear I should have to repent of it.' 
 
 ' What has brought you to see that it was V asked she. 
 
 ' Owe comes to a better mind when the fit is off,' he said. ' I 
 hope I will not be as bad next time.' 
 
 ' I hope we shall never give you a next time,' said Albinia ; 
 * for neither party is comfortable, perched on a high horse.' 
 
 ' And you see,' continued Ulick, 'it is hard for us to give up 
 our pride, because it is the only thing we've got of our own, and 
 has been meat, drink, and clothing to us for many a year.' 
 
 'So no wondfr you make the most of it.' 
 
 ' True ; I think a very high born and very rich man might 
 be humble,' said Ulick, so meditatively that they laughed ; but 
 Sophv said, 
 
 ' No. that is not a pai'adox ; the real difficulty is not in 
 willingly yielding, but in taking what we cannot help.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Ulick, ' I hope it is not pride not to intend 
 working under Andrew Goldsmith.' 
 
 ' t)o you consider that as your fatef asked Albinia. 
 
 'Never my fate,' said Ulick, quickly; 'hardly even my alter- 
 native, for he would like to pvit up a notice, " No Irish need 
 apply." We had enough of each other last winter.' 
 
 F F
 
 434) THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' And do you suppose,' said Mr. Kendal, ' that Mr. Goldsmith 
 has left your position exactly the same V 
 
 * I've no reason to think otherwise. I refused all connexion 
 with the bank if it was to interfere with my name. I don't 
 think it unlikely that he may have left me a small compliment 
 in the way of shares ; but if so, I shall sell them, and make 
 them keep me at Oxford. I'm not too old yet !' 
 
 'Then the work of these four years is wasted,' said Mr. 
 Kendal, gravely. 
 
 * No, indeed,' cried Ulick ; ' not if it takes me where I've 
 always longed to be ! Or, if not, I flatter myself I'm accountant 
 enough to be an agent in my own country.' 
 
 ' Anything to get away from here,' said Albinia, with a shade 
 of asperity, provoked by the spirit of enterpi'ise in his voice. 
 
 * After all, it is a bit of a place,' said Ulick ; ' and the office 
 parlour is not just a paradise ! Then 'tis all on such a narrow 
 scale, too little to absorb one, and too much to let one do any- 
 thing else ; I .see how larger transactions might be engrossing, 
 but this is mere cramping and worrying ; I know I could do 
 better for my family in the end than by what I can screw out 
 of my salary now ; and if it is no longer to give my poor mother 
 a sense of expiation, as she calls it, why, then, the cage-door ia 
 open.' 
 
 His eyes glittered, and Sophy exclaimed, * Yes ; and now the 
 training is over, it has made you fitter to fly.' 
 
 ' It has,' he said ; ' and I'm thankful for it. Without being 
 here, I would never have learnt application — nor some better 
 things, I hope.' 
 
 Tliey scarcely saw him again till after the funeral, when late 
 in the day he came into the drawing-room, and saying that his 
 aunt was pretty well and comi)osed,hekneltdownon the floor with 
 the little Awk, and silently built up a tower with her wooden 
 bricks. His hand trembled nervously at first, but gradually 
 steadied as the elevation became critical ; and a smile of interest 
 lighted his face as he became absorbed in raising the structure 
 to the last biick, holding back the eager child with one hand 
 lest she should overthrow it. Completion, triumph, a shock, a 
 downfall 1 
 
 ' Well,' cried the elder Albinia, unable to submit to the 
 suspense. 
 
 ' Telle est la vie,^ answered Ulick, smiling sadly as he passed 
 his hand over his brow. 
 
 ' It's too bad of him,' broke out Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 ' I thought you were prepared,' said Sophy, severely, disap- 
 pointed to see him so much discomposed.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 435 
 
 * How should I be prepared,' said he, petulantly, ' for the 
 whole concern, house, and bank, and all the rest of it f 
 
 ' Left to you V was the cry. 
 
 ' Every bit of it, and an annuity apiece charged on it to my 
 mother and aunt for their lives ! My aunt told me how it came 
 about. It was all that fellow Andrew's fault.' 
 
 ' Or misfortune,' murmured Albiuia. 
 
 ' My poor uncle had made a will in Andrew's favour long 
 before my time, and at Bristol he wanted to make some arrange- 
 ment for my mother and for me ; but it seems Mr. Andrew 
 took exception at me — would not promise to continue me on, 
 nor to give me a share in the business, and at last my uncle was 
 so much disgusted, that be sent for a lawyer and cut Andrew 
 out of -his will altogether. My aunt says he went on asking for 
 me, and it was Andrew's fault that they wrote instead of tele- 
 gi'aphing. You can't think what kind messages he sent to me ;' 
 and Ulick's eyes filled with tears. ' My poor uncle, away from 
 home, and with that selfish fellow.' • 
 
 ' Did he send any message to your mother V 
 
 * Yes ! he told my aunt to write to her that he was sorry 
 they had been strangers so long, and that — I'd been like a son 
 to him. I'm sure I wish I had been. I dai"e say he would have 
 let me if I had not flown out about my O. I could have saved 
 changing it without making such an intoleraVtle row, and then 
 he might have died more at peace with the world.' 
 
 ' At peace with you at least he did.' 
 
 ' I trust so. But if I could only have been by his side, and 
 felt myseJf a comfort, and thanked him with all my heart. 
 Maybe he would have listened to me, and not have sown ill-will 
 between Andrew and me, by giving neither what we would 
 like.' 
 
 ' Do you expect us to be sorry V 
 
 ' Nay, I came to be helped out of my ingratitude and discon- 
 tent at finding the cage-door shut, and myself chained to the 
 oar ; for as things are left, I could not get it off my hands 
 without giving up my motlier's interests and my aunt's. Besides, 
 my poor uncle left me an entreaty to keep things up creditably 
 like himself, and do justice by the bank. It is as if, poor man. 
 it was an idol that he had been high priest to, and wanted me 
 to be the same — ay, and sacrifice too.' 
 
 ' Nay, there are two ways of working, two kinds of sacrifice ; 
 and besides, you are still working for your mother.' 
 
 ' So I am, but without the hope she had before. To be sure, 
 it would be afiiuence at home, or would be if she could have it 
 in her own hands. Little Redmond shall have the best of edu- 
 
 F F 2
 
 486 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHKR. 
 
 cations ! And we must mind there is something in advance by 
 the time Bryan wants to purchase his company.' 
 
 Albinia asked how his aunt liked the arrangement. It seemed 
 that Audrew had offended her nearly as much as her brother, 
 and that she was clinging to Ulick as her great comfort and 
 supjort ; he did not like to stay long away from her, but he had 
 rushed down to Willow Lawn to avoid the jealous congratula 
 tions of the cousinhood. 
 
 ' You will hardly keep from glad people,' said Albinia. ' You 
 must shut yourself up if you cannot be congratulated. How 
 rejoiced Mr. Dusautoy will be !' 
 
 * Whatever is, is best,' sighed Ulick. ' I shall mind less when 
 the fii-st is past ! I must go and entertain all these people at 
 dinner !' and he groaned. * Good evening. Heigh ho ! I 
 wonder if our Banshee will think me worth keening for V 
 
 'I hope she will have no occasion yet,' said Albinia, as he 
 shut the door ; ' but she will be a very foolish Banshee if she 
 does not, for she will hardly find such another O'More ! Well, 
 Sophy, my dear.' 
 
 ' We should have missed him,' said Sophy, as grave as a 
 judge. 
 
 Albinia's heart beat high with the hope that Ulick would 
 soon perceive sufiicient consolation for remaining at Bayford, 
 but of course he could make no demonstration while Miss Gold- 
 smith continued with him. She made herself very dependent 
 on him, and he devoted his evenings to her solace. He had few 
 leisure moments, for the settlement of his affairs occupied him, 
 and fall attention was most important to establish confidence at 
 this critical juncture, when it might be feared that his youth, 
 his nation, and Andrew Goldsmith's murmurs might tell against 
 him. Mr. Kendal set the examjile of putting all his summer 
 rents into his hands, and used his influence to inspire trust ; and 
 fortunately the world had become so much accustomed to 
 transacting affairs with him, that the country business seemed 
 by no means inclined to fall away. Still there was much hard 
 work and some perplexity ; the Bristol connexion made them- 
 selves troublesome, and the ordinary business was the heavier 
 from the c-Ierks being both so young and inexperienced that he 
 wns obliged to exercise close supervision. It was guessed, too, 
 that he was not haj)[)y about the effect of the influx of wealth 
 at home, and that he feared it would only add to the number 
 of horses and debts. 
 
 He soon looked terribly fagged and harassed, and owned that 
 he en\'ied IMr. Hope, who hafl just received the ])romise of a 
 district church, in cour.se of building under Colonel Bury's
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 437 
 
 auspices, about four miles from Fairmead. To work his way 
 through the Univei'sity and take Holy Orders had been Ulick's 
 amljition ; he would gladly have endured privation for such an 
 object, and it did seem hard that such aspirations should be so 
 absolutely frustrated, and himself forced into the stream of un- 
 congenial, iinintellectual toil, in so obscure and uninviting a 
 sphere. The resignation of all lingering hope of escape, and the 
 effort to be contented, cost him more than even his original 
 breaking in ; and Mr. Kendal one day fuund him sitting in his 
 little office parlour unable to think or to speak under a temble 
 visitation of his autumnal tormentor, brow-ague. 
 
 This made Mr. Kendal take to serious expostulation. It wai 
 impossible to go on in this way ; why did he not send for a 
 brother to help him 1 
 
 Ulick could not restrain a smile at the fruitlessness of 
 thinking of assistance of this kind from his elder brothers ; and 
 as to little Redmond, the only younger one still to be disposed 
 of, he hoped to do better things for him. 
 
 ' Then send for a sister.' 
 
 He hoped he might bring Rose over when his aunt was 
 gone, but he could not shut those two up together at any 
 piice. 
 
 ' Then,' said Mr. Kendal, rather angrily, ' get an experienced, 
 trustworthy clerk, so as to be able to go from home, or give 
 yourself some relaxation.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I inquired about such a person, but there's the salary ; 
 and where would be the chance of getting Redmond to school ?' 
 
 ' I think your father might see to that.' 
 
 Ulick had no answer to make to this. The legacy to Mrs. 
 O'More might nearly as well have been thrown into the sea. 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Kendal, walking about the room, ' why don't 
 you keep a horse Y 
 
 * As a less costly animal than brother, sister, or clerk V said 
 Ulick, laughing. 
 
 ' Your health will prove more costly than all the rest if you 
 do not take care.' 
 
 ' Well, my aunt told me it would be respectable and promote 
 confidence if I lived like a gentleman and kept my horse. I'll 
 see about it,' said Ulick, in a moi-e persuadable tone. 
 
 The seeing about it resulted in the arrival of a genuine pro- 
 duct of county Galway, a long-legged, raw-boned huntei-, with 
 a wild, frightened eye, quivering, suspicious-looking ears, and an 
 ill-omened name compounded of kill and of kick, which Maurice 
 alone endeavoured to pi-onounce ; also an outside car, very 
 nearly as good as new. Tliis last exceeded Ulick's commission,
 
 438 THE YOCTNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 but it had been such a bargain, that Connel had not been able 
 to resist it ; indeed it cost more in coming over than the 
 original price ; but Ulick nearly danced round it, promising 
 Mrs. and Miss Kendal that when new cushioned and new- 
 painted they would find it beat everything. 
 
 He was not quite so envious of ilr. Hope when he devoted 
 the early morning hours to Killye-kickye, as the incorrect world 
 called his steed, and, if the truth must be told, he first began to 
 realize the advantages of wealth, when he set his name down 
 among the siibscribers to the hounds. 
 
 Nor wa-s this the only subscription to which he was glad 
 to set his name ; there were others where Mr. Dusautoy 
 wanted funds, and Mr. Kendal's ditficulties were lessened by 
 having another lord of the soil on his side. Some exchanges 
 brought land enough within their power to make drainage 
 feasible, and Ulick started the idea that it would be better to 
 locate the almshouses at the top of the hill, on the site of 
 Madame Belmarche s old house, than to place them where Tibb's 
 Alley at present was, close to the river, and far from church. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's plans were unpopular, and two or three un- 
 toward circumstances combined to lead to his being regarded as 
 a tyrant. He could not do things gently, and had not a con- 
 ciliating manner. Had he been more free spoken, real oppres- 
 sion would have been better endured than benefits against 
 people's will. He interfered to prevent some Sunday trading ; 
 and some of the Tibb's Alley tenants who ought to have gone at 
 midsummer, chose to stay on and set him at defiance till they 
 had to be forcibly ejected ; whereupon Ulick O'More showed 
 that he was not thoroughly Anglicised by demanding if, under 
 such circumstances, it was safe to keep the window shutters un- 
 closed at night, Mr. Kendal's head was such a beautiful mark 
 under the lamp. 
 
 If not a mark for a pistol, he was one for the disaffected 
 blackguard pa})ers, which made up a pathetic case of a helpless 
 ■widow with her bed taken away from under her, ending with 
 certain vague denunciations which were read with roars ot 
 aj)plause at the last beer shop which could not be cleai'ed till 
 Christmas, while the closing of the rest sent herds thither ; and 
 papers were nightly read, representing the Nabob expelling the 
 industrious from the beloved cottages of their ancestors, by 
 turns, to swell his own overgrown garden, or to found a con- 
 vent, whence, as a disguised Jesuit, he meant to convert all 
 Bay ford to popery. 
 
 An Albinia wrote to Genevieve, they were in a state of
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 439 
 
 Biege, for only in the middle of the day did Mr. Kendal allow 
 the womankind to venture out without an escort, the evening 
 was disturbed by bowlings at the gate, and all sorts of petty 
 acts of spite were committed in the garden, such as injuring 
 trees, stealing fruit, and carrying off the children's ral)bits. Let 
 that be as it might, Genevieve owned herself glad to come to 
 hospitable Willow Lawn, though sorry for the cause. 
 
 Poor Mr. Kainsforth, after vainly striving to recruit his 
 health at Torquay during the vacation, had been sentenced to 
 give up his profession, and ordered to Madeira, and Genevieve 
 was vipon the world again. 
 
 The Kendals claimed her promise of a long visit, or rather 
 that she should come home, and take time and choice in making 
 any fresh engagement, nay, that she should not even inquire for 
 a situation till after Christmas. And after staying to the last 
 moment when she could help the "Rainsforths, she proposed to 
 spend a day or two with her aunt at the convent, and then 
 come to her friends at Bayford, 
 
 Mr. Kendal drove his ladies to fetch her. He had lately in- 
 dulged the household with a large comfortable open carriage 
 with two horses, a rival to Mr, O'More's notable car, where he 
 used to drive in an easy lounging fashion on one side, with 
 Hyder Ali to balance him on the other. 
 
 This was a grand shopping day, an endless business, and as 
 the autumn cky began to close in, even JSir. Kendal's model 
 patience was nearly exhausted befoi'e they called for their little 
 friend. Tliere was something very sweet and appropriate in 
 her appearance ; her dress, without presuming to share their 
 mourning, did not insult it by gay colouring ; it was a quiet 
 dark violet and white checked silk, a black mantle, and black 
 velvet bonnet with a few green leaves to the lilac flowers, and 
 the face when at rest was softly pensive, but ready to respond 
 with cheerful smiles and grateful looks. She liad become more 
 English, and had dropped much foreign accent and idiom, but 
 without losing her characteristic grace and power of disem- 
 barrassing those to whom she spoke, and in a few moments 
 even SSophy had lost all sense of meeting under awkward or 
 melancholy circumstances, and was talking eagerly to her dear 
 old sympathizing friend. 
 
 There was a great exchange of tidings ; Genevieve had much 
 to tell of her dear Eaiusforths, the many vicissitudes of anxiety 
 in which she had shared, and of the children's ways of taking 
 the parting ; and of the dear little Fanny who seemed to 
 have carried away so large a piece of her susceptible heart, that
 
 440 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Sophy could not help breaking out, * Well, I do think it is very 
 hard to make yourself a bit of a mother's heart, only to have it 
 torn out again.' 
 
 Albinia smiled, and said, ' After all, Sophy, happiness in this 
 \T0i-ld is in such loving, only we don't find it out till the rent 
 has been made,' 
 
 * And some people can get fond of anytliing,' said Sophy. 
 
 * I'm sure,' said Genevieve, * every one is so kind to me 1 can't 
 help it.' 
 
 'I was not blaming you,' said Sophy. * People are the better 
 for it, but I cannot like except where I esteem, and that does 
 not often come.' 
 
 ' Oh ! don't you think so f cried Genevieve. 
 
 * I don't mean moderate approval. That may extend far, and 
 ■with it good-will, but there is a deep, concentrated feeling which 
 I don't believe those who like every one can ever have, and 
 that is life.' 
 
 Perhaps the deepening twilight ftxvoured the utterance of 
 her feelings, for, as they were descending a hill, she said, 
 ' J\lamma, that was the place where Maurice was brought back 
 to me.' 
 
 She had before passed it in silence, but in the dark she was 
 not afraid of betraying the expression that the thrill of exquisite 
 recollection brought to her countenance ; and leaning back in 
 her corner indulged in listening to the narration, as Albinia, 
 unaware of the special point of the episode, related Maurice's 
 desperate enterprise, going on to dilate on the benelit of having 
 Mr. O'More at the bank rather than Andrew Goldsmith. 
 
 ' Ah !' said Genevieve, * it is he who wants to pull down our 
 dear old house. I shall quarrel with him.' 
 
 ' Genevieve making common cause with the obstructives of 
 Bayford, as if he had not enemies enough !' 
 
 ' What's that light in the sky V exclaimed Sophy, starting up 
 to speak to her father on the driving seat. 
 
 ' A bonfire,' said Mr. Kendal. * If we had remembered that 
 it was the 5th of November, we would not have stayed out so 
 late.' The next moment he drew up the horses, exclaiming, 
 ' Mr. Hope, will you have a lift V 
 
 Mr. Hope, rather to the ladies' surprise, took the vacant place 
 beside Soj)hy, instead of climbing up to the box. He had heen 
 to st^e his intended parish, and was an enviable man, for he was 
 us pi'oud of it as if it liad been an intended wife ; and Albinia, 
 wlio knew it for a slice of dreary heath, was entertained with 
 his raptures. Ohutcli, schools, and parsonage, each in their way 
 were perfccLion or at least promised to be, and he had never
 
 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 441 
 
 been so much elevated or so communicative. The speechless 
 little curate seemed to have vanished. 
 
 The road, as may be remembered, did not run parallel with 
 the curve of the river, but cutting straight across, entered Bay- 
 ford over the hill, passing a small open bit of waste laud, where 
 stood a few cottages, the outskirts of the town. 
 
 Suddenly coming from an overshadowed lane upon this com- 
 mon, a glare of light flashed on them, showing them each other's 
 faces, and casting the shadow of the carriage into full relief. 
 The horses shied violently, and they beheld an enormous bonhre 
 raised on a little knoll about twenty yards in front of them, 
 surrounded by a dense crowd, making every species of hideous 
 noise. 
 
 JMr. Kendal checked the horses' start, and Mr. Hope sprang 
 to their heads. They were young and scarcely trustworthy, 
 their restless movements showed alarm, and it was impossible to 
 turn them without both disturbing the crowd and giving them 
 a fuller view of the object of their terror, Mr. Kendal came 
 down, and reconnoitring for a moment, said, ' You had better 
 get out while we try to lead them round, we will go home by 
 Squash Lane.' 
 
 Just then a brilliant glow of white flame, and a tremendous 
 roar of applause, put the horses in such an agony, that they 
 would have been too much for Mr. Hope, had not Mr. Kendal 
 started to his assistance, and a man standing by likewise caught 
 the rein. He was a respectable carpenter who lived on the 
 heath, and touching his hat as he recognised them, said, ' Sir, if 
 the ladies would come into my house, and you too. sir. Tlie 
 people are going on in an odd sort of way, and Mrs. Kendal 
 would be frigiitened. I'll take care of the carriage.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal went to the side of the carriage, and asked the 
 ladies if they were alarmed. 
 
 ' O no !' answered Albinia, *it is great fun ;' and as the horses 
 fidgeted again, ' it feels like a review.' 
 
 ' You had better get out,' he said ; ' I must try to back the 
 horses till I can turn them without ruuuing over any one. Will 
 you go into the house 1 You did not expect to find Bayford so 
 riotous,' he added with a smile, as he assisted Genevieve out. 
 
 ' You are not going to get up again,' said Albinia, catching 
 hold of him, and in her dread of his committing himself to the 
 mercy of the horses, returning unmeaning thanks to the car- 
 penter's urgent requests that she would take refuge in his house. 
 In fact, the scene was new and entertaining, and on the farther 
 side of the road, sheltered by the carriage, the party were en- 
 tirely apart from the throng, which was too much absorbed to
 
 4.42 THE YOUKG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 notice them, only a few heads turni)ig at the rattling of the 
 harness, and the ladies were amused at the bright flame, and the 
 dark figures glancing in and out of the light, the shouts of de- 
 light and the merry faces. 
 
 ' There's Guy Fawkes,' cried Albinia,as a procession of scare- 
 crows were borne on chairs amid thunders of acclamation ; 'but 
 whom have they besides 1 Here are some new characters.' 
 
 ' Most lugubrious looking,' said Genevieve. ' I cannot make 
 out the shouts.' 
 
 ' It is the Nabob,' said Mr. Kendal. ' Perhaps you do not 
 kjiow that is my alias. This is my execution.' 
 
 The carpenter implored them to come in, and Mr. Hope added 
 his entreaties, but Mr. Kendal would not leave the horses, and 
 the ladies would not leave him ; and they all stood still while 
 his effigy was paraded roimd the knoll, the mark of every squib, 
 tlie object of every invective that the rabble could roar out at 
 the top of their voices. Jesuits and Papists ; Englishmen 
 treated like blackamoor slaves in the Indies ; honest folk driven 
 out of house and home ; such was the burthen of the cries that 
 assailed the grim i-epresentative carried aloft, while the real man 
 stood unmoved as a statue, his tall, powerful figure unstirred, 
 his long driving-whip resting against his shoulder without be- 
 traying the sliglitest motion, neither firm lip nor steady eye 
 changing. Genevieve, with tears in her eyes, exclaimed,' Oh ! 
 this is madness ! Will no one tell them how wicked they are V 
 
 ' Never mind, my dear,' said Mr. Kendal, pressing the hand 
 that in her fervour she had laid on his arm, ' they will come to 
 their senses in time. No, Mr. Hope, I beg you will not inter- 
 fere, they are in no state for it ; they have done no harm aa 
 
 * I wonder what the police are about T cried Albiuia, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 ' They are too few to do any good,' said Mr. Kendal. ' It may 
 be Ijetter that they are not incensing the mob. It will all go 
 off quietly when this explosion has relieved their feelings.' 
 
 They felt as if there were something grand in this perfectly 
 dispassionate reception of the outrage, and they stood awed and 
 silenced, Sophy leaning on him. 
 
 ' It will soon be over now,' he said ; ' they are poking up the 
 flame to receive me.' 
 
 ' Hark ! wliats that V 
 
 The mob came swaying back, and a rich voice swelled abo\« 
 all the din, * Boys, boys, is it burning your friends you are T 
 Thf-n, for the first time, Mr. Kendal started, and muttered, 
 ' Foolish lad ! is he here V
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. ^43 
 
 Confused cries rose again, but the other voice gained the 
 mastery. 
 
 ' So you call that undertaker-looking figure there Mr. Kendal. 
 Small credit to your taste. You want to burn him. What 
 for ]' 
 
 ' For being a Nabob and a tyrant,' was the sbout. 
 
 ' Much you know of Nabobs ! No ; I'll tell you what it's for. 
 It is because his son got bis death fighting for his queen and his 
 country a year ago, and on his death-bed bade him do his best 
 to drive the fever from your doors, and shelter you and save you 
 from the Union in your old age. Is that a thing to burn him 
 for V 
 
 ' We want no Irish papists here !' shouted a blackguard voice. 
 ' Serve him with the same sauce.' 
 
 *I never was a papist,' was the indignant reply. 'No more 
 was he ; but I've said that the place shan't disgrace itself, 
 and — ' 
 
 ' I'm with you,' shouted another above all the howls of the 
 mob. ' Gilbert Kendal was as kind-hearted a chap as ever 
 lived, and I'll see no wrong done to his father.' 
 
 Tremendous uproar ensued ; then the well-known tones pealed 
 out again, 'I've given my word to save his likeness. Come on, 
 boys. Hurrah for Kendal !' 
 
 The war-cry was echoed by a body of voices, there was a 
 furious melee and a charge towards the Nabob, who rocked and 
 toppled down, while stragglers came pressed backwards on all 
 sides. 
 
 ' Hei-e, Hope, take care of them. Stay with them,' said Mr. 
 Kendal, putting the whip into the curate's hand, and striding 
 towards the nucleus of the fray, through the throng who were 
 driven backwards. 
 
 ' O'More,' he called, ' what's all this 1 Give over ! Are you 
 mad V and then catching up, and setting on his legs, a little 
 fallen boy, ' Go home ; get out of all this mischief. What are 
 you doing 1 Take home that child.' to a gaping girl with a 
 baby. ' O'More, I say, I'll commit every man of you if you don't 
 give over.' 
 
 He was recognised, and those who had little appetite for the 
 skirmish gave back from him ; but the more reckless and daring 
 small fry began shriekivig, ' The Nabob !' and letting off crackers 
 and squibs, through which he advanced upon the knot of positive 
 combatants, who were exchanging blows over his pi'ostrate 
 image in front of the fire. 
 
 One he caught by the collar, in the act of aiming a blow. 
 The fist was instantly levelled at him, v/ith the cry, ' You
 
 444 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 rascal ! what do you mean by it V But the fierce struggle failed 
 to shake otf the powerful grasp; aud at the command, 'Don't 
 be such a fool !' Ulick burst out, ' Murder ! 'tis liimself !' aud 
 in the sui-prise was dragged some paces before recovering his 
 perce})tions. 
 
 The cry of police had at the same instant produced a universal 
 scattering, and five policemen, coming on the ground, found 
 scarcely any one to separate or capture. Mr. Kendal relaxed 
 his hold, saying, 'You are my prisoner.' 
 
 ' I didn't think you'd been so strong,' said Ulick, shaking 
 hinaself, and looking bewildered. ' Where's the effigy V 
 
 ' What's that to you. Come away, lilie a rational being.' 
 
 ' Ha ! what's that V as a frightful, agonizing shriek rent the 
 air, and a pillar of flame came rushing across the now open 
 space. It was a child, one mass of fire, and flying, in its anguish, 
 from all who would have seized it. One moment of horror, and 
 it had vanished ! The next, Genevieve's voice was heard crying, 
 'Bring me something more to press on it.' She had con- 
 trived to cross its path with her large carriage rug, and was 
 kneelinsj over it, forcing down the rug to smother the flames. 
 Mr. Hope brought her a shawl, and they ail stood round in 
 silent awe. 
 
 ' The ])Oor child will be stifled,' said Albiuia, kneeling down to 
 help to unfold its face. 
 
 Poor little face, distorted with terror and agony ! One of the 
 policemen recognised it as the child of the public-house in Tibb's 
 Alley. There were moiius, but no one dared to uncover the 
 limbs ; and the policeman aud INIr. Hope proposed carrying it 
 at once to Mr. Bowles, and then home. Mr. Kendal desired 
 that it should be laid on the seat of tlie carriage, which he would 
 drive gently to the doctor's. Gene^■ieve got in to watch over 
 the poor little boy, and the others walked on by the side, passed 
 the battle-field, now entirely deserted, too much shocked for 
 aught but conjectures on his injuries, and the cause of the mis- 
 fortune. Either he must have ijeen pushed in on the fire by the 
 runaway rabble, or have trod upon some of the scattered com- 
 bustibles. 
 
 Mr. Bowles desired that the child should be taken home at 
 once, promising to follow instantly ; so at the entrance of Tibb's 
 Alley, the carriage stopped, and Mr. Hope lifted out the poor 
 little wailing bundle. All)inia was following, but a decided 
 prohibition from her husband checked her. ' I would not have 
 either of you go to that house on any account. Tell them to 
 eeu'l to us for whatever they want, but that is enough.' 
 
 There was no gainsaying such a command, but as they reached
 
 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 44'5 
 
 the door of Willow Lawn, Mi\ Kendal exclaimed, 'Where i3 
 Miss Durant V 
 
 ' She is gone with the little boy,' said Sophy, ' She told me 
 she hoped you would not be displeased . Mr. Hope will take 
 care of her, and she will soon come in.' 
 
 ' Every one is mad to-night !' cried Mr. Kendal. ' In such a 
 place as that ! I will go for her directly.' 
 
 ' Pray don't,' said Albinia ; ' no one could speak a rude word 
 to her on such an errand. She and Mi'. Hope will be much 
 more secure from incivility without you.' 
 
 ' I believe it may be so, but I wish ' 
 
 His wish was broken ofi', for his little Albinia, screaming, 
 ' Papa ! papa !' clung to him in a transport of caresses, which 
 jNIaurice explained by saying, ' Little Awkey has been ci-ying, 
 mamma ; she thought they were burning pa{)a in the bontire.' 
 
 'Papa not burnt !' cried little Awkey, patting his cheeks, and 
 laying her head on his shoulders alternately, as he held her 
 to his breast. ' Naughty people wanted to make a fire, but they 
 sha'n't burn papa or poor Guy Fawkes, or any of the good men.' 
 ' And where were you, Ulick V cried Maurice, in an impe- 
 rious, injured way. * You said once, perhaps you would take 
 me to see the fire ; and I went up to the bank, and they said 
 you were gone ; and it was glaring so in the sky ; and I did so 
 want to go.' 
 
 ' I am glad you stayed away, my man,' said Albinia. 
 ' I did want to go,' said Maurice ; ' and I ran up to the top 
 of the street, and there was Mr. Trittou ; and he said if I liked 
 
 a lark, he would take care of me ; but ' and there he stopped 
 
 short, and the colour came into his face. 
 
 Albinia threw her arm round him, and kissed him, saying, 
 ' My trusty boy ! and so you came home V 
 
 ' Yes ; and there was Awkey crying about their burning 
 jiapa, and she would not go up to the garret- window to see the 
 fire, nor do anything.' 
 
 'Why, what is the sword here for?' exclaimed Sophy, finding 
 it on the stairs. 
 
 ' Because then Awkey was not so afraid.' 
 For once, Maurice had been exemplary, keeping fi-om the 
 tempting uproar, and devoting himself to soothing his little 
 sister. It was worth all the vexations of the evening ; but he 
 went on to ask if Ulick could not take him now, if the fire 
 was not out yet, 
 
 ' Not exactly,' said Mr. Kendal, drily. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Mr. Keudal,' said Ulick, wlio had 
 ^.pparently only just resumed the use of speech; 'don't know
 
 446 THE YOUNG STEP- MOTHER, 
 
 what I may have done when you collared me, but I'd no more 
 notion of its being you than the Lord Lieutenant.' 
 
 ' And pray what took you there V asked Mr. Kendal. * The 
 surprise was quite as great to uie.' 
 
 ' Why,' said Ulick, ' one of the little lads of my Sunday 
 class gave me a hint the other day that those brutes meant to 
 have a pretty go to-night, and that Jackson was getting up a 
 figure of the Nabob to break their spite upon. So I told my 
 little fellow to give a hint to a few more of the right sort, and 
 we'd go up together and not let the rascals have their own way.' 
 
 ' Upon my word, I wonder what the Vicar will say to the 
 use you make of his Sunday-school. Pretty woi-k for his 
 model teacher.' 
 
 ' What better could the bf)vs be taught than to fight for the 
 good cause? Why, no one is a scratch the worse for it. And 
 do you think we could sit by and see our best friend used worse 
 than a dog V 
 
 ' Why not give notice to the police V 
 
 'And would you have me hinder a fight?' cried TJlick, in 
 the most Irish of all his voices. 
 
 ' Oh ! very well, if you like — only there will be a run on 
 the bank to-morrow.' 
 
 ' What has Ulick been doing, Sophy V asked Maurice. 
 
 * Only what you would have done had you been older, 
 Maurice,' she said, in a hurt voice ; ' defending papa's effigy, 
 for which he does not seem to meet with much gratitude.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Kendal, who all the time had had more 
 gratitude in his eyes than on his tongue, ' if the burning had 
 had the same consequence as melting one's waxen efiigy was 
 thought to have, it might have been worth wliile to interfere, 
 but I should have thought it more dignified in a respectable sub- 
 stantial householder to let those foolish fellows have their swing.* 
 
 'More dignified maybe,' smiled Albinia, ' but less like ao 
 O']\lore.' 
 
 ' No, you are not going,' said Mr. Kendal ; * I shall not 
 release my prisoner just yet.' 
 
 ' You carried off all the honour of the day,' said Ulick. *I 
 had no notion you had such an arm. ' Why, you swung me 
 round like a tom-cat, or — ' and he exemplified the exi)loit upon 
 Maurice, and was well buffeted. 
 
 ' That's a little Irish blarney to propitiate me,' laughed Mr. 
 Kendal, who certainly was in unusual sjiirits after his execu- 
 tion find rescue by ])roxy, 'but you wont escape prison fare.' 
 
 'There's no doubt who was the heroine of the day,' added 
 Sophy. ' How one envies her !'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTH EE. 447 
 
 ' What ! your little governess friend V said Ulick. ' Yes ; she 
 d^a snow superior wit, when ^he rest of the world stood gaping 
 round.' 
 
 ' It was admirable — just like Genevieve's tenderness and dex- 
 terity,' said Albinia. ' I dare say she is doing everything for 
 the poor little fellow.' 
 
 'Yes, admirable,' said Mr. Kendal; 'but you all behaved 
 very creditably, ladies,' 
 
 ' Ay,' said Albinia ; ' not to scream is what a man thinks the 
 climax of excellence in a woman ' 
 
 ' It is generally all that is required,' said Mr. Kendal. ' I 
 don't know what I should have done if poor Lucy had been 
 there.' 
 
 Thereupon the ladies went upstairs, Maurice following 
 Sophy to extract a full account of the skirmish. The imp 
 probably had an instinct that she would think more of what 
 redounded to Ulick O'More's glory than of what would be 
 edifying to his own infant mind. It was doubtful how long 
 it would be before Guy Fawkes would arrive at his proper 
 standing in the little Awk's opinion, after the honour of an 
 auto-da-fe in company with papa. 
 
 Mr. Hope escorted Genevieve home, and was kept to dinner. 
 They narrated that they had found the public-house open, and 
 the bar full of noisy runaways. 
 
 The burns were dreadful, but the surgeon did not think they 
 would be fatal, and the child had held Genevieve's hand through- 
 out the dressing, and seemed so unwilling to part with her, that 
 she had promised to come again the next day, and had been 
 thanked gratefully. There seemed no positive want of comforts, 
 and there was every hope that all would do well. 
 
 Genevieve looked pale after the scene she had gone through, 
 and could not readily persuade herself to eat, still less rally 
 her spirits to talk ; but she managed to avoid observation at 
 dinner-time, and afterwards a rest on the sofa restored her. 
 She evidently felt, as she said, that this was coming home, and 
 her exquisite gift of tact making her perceive that she was to 
 be at ease and on an equality, she assumed her position without 
 giving her friends the embarrassment of installing her, and 
 Mr. Hope was in such a state of ti^ansparent admiration, that 
 Albinia could not help two or three times noiselessly clapping 
 her hands under the table, and secretly thanking the rioters and 
 their tag-rag and bob-tail for having provided a home for little 
 Genevieve Durant. 
 
 There was indeed a pang as s^e thought of Gilbert ; but she 
 believed that Genevieve's heart had never been really touched,
 
 44-8 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 aud was still fresh and open. She thought she might mate 
 Mr. Kendal and Sophy equally magnanimous. Perhaps by tnat 
 time Sophy would be too happy to have leisure to be hurt, and 
 she had little fear but that Mr. Kendal's good sense would 
 conquer his jealousy for his son, though it might cost him 
 something. 
 
 Two lovers to befriend at once ! Two desirable attachments 
 to foster ! There was glory ! Not that Albiuia fultilled her 
 mission to a great extent ; shamefaced uess always restrained her, 
 ?aid she had not Emily's gift for making opportunities. Indeed, 
 when she did her best, so perversely bashlal were the paities, 
 that the wrong pairs resorted together, the two who could talk 
 being driven into conversation by the silence of the others. 
 
 Of Mr. Hope's sentiments there could be no doubt. He -was 
 fairly carried off his feet by the absorption of the passion, which 
 was doubly engrossing because all ladies had hitherto apj)eared 
 to him as beings with whom conversation was an impossible 
 duty ; but after all he had heard of Miss Durant, he might as 
 a judicious man select her for an excellent parsoness, and as a 
 young man fall vehemently in love. Nothing could be more 
 evident to the lookers-on ; but Albinia could not satisfy herself 
 whether G6nevieve had any suspicion. 
 
 She was not very young, knew something of the world, and 
 was acute and observing ; but on the other hand, she had made 
 it a principle never to admit the thought of courtship, and she 
 might not be sufficiently acquainted with the habits of the 
 individual to be sensiV)le of the symptomatic alteration. 
 
 She had begged the Dusautoys to make her leisure profitable, 
 and spent much of her time upon the schools, on her little 
 jiatient in Tibb's Alley, and in going about among the poor ; 
 she visited her old shoopkeeper friends, and drank tea with 
 them much oftener than gratified Mr. Kendal, talking so openly 
 of the pleasure of seeing them again, that An)inia sometimes 
 thought the blood of the O'Mores was a little chafed. 
 
 ' There,' said Genevieve, completing a housewife, filled with 
 needles ready threaded, ' I wonder whether the omnibus is too 
 protestant to leave a parcel at the convent V 
 
 ' I don't think its scruples of conscience would withstand 
 bix{)ence,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' You might ])Ost it for less than that,' said Sophy. 
 
 'Don't you know,' said Ulick O'More, who was playing with 
 the little Awk in the window, 'that the feminine mind loves 
 expedients? It would be less commonplace to confide the 
 j)arcel to the conductor, than merely let him I'eceive it as guard 
 of the mail bag aud servant of the public'
 
 THE YOCriTG STEP-MOTHER. 449 
 
 * Exactly,' langlied Genevieve. ' Think of the moral influence 
 of being selected as bearer of a token of tenderness to nsy aunt 
 on her i^te, instead of being treated as a mere machine, devoid 
 of human sympathies.' 
 
 ' Sophy, where were we reading of a nation which gives the 
 simplest transaction the air of a little romance V said TJlick. 
 
 ' And I have heard of a nation which denudes every action of 
 sentiment, and leaves you the tree without the leaves,' was 
 Genevieve's retort. 
 
 ' That misses fire, Miss Durant; my nation does everything 
 by the soul, nothiug by mechanism.' 
 
 ' When they do do it.' 
 
 ' That's a defiance. You must deprive the conductor of the 
 moral influence, whether as man or machine, and entrust the 
 parcel to me.' 
 
 ' That would be like chartering a steamer to send home a 
 Chinese puzzle.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ; I must go to Hadrainster. Bear me witness, 
 Sophy, Miss Goldsmith wants me to talk to the house agent* 
 
 ' Mind, if you miss St. Leocadia's day, you will miss my 
 aunt's fete.' 
 
 Mr. O'More succeeded in carrying ofi" the little parcel. The 
 next morning, as the ladies were descending the hill, a hurried 
 step came after them, and the curate said in an abrupt rapid 
 manner, ' I beg your pardon, I was going to Hadminster ; could 
 I do anything for you V 
 
 ' Nothing, thank you,' said Albinia, at whom he looked. 
 
 ' Did I not hear — Miss Durant had some work to send her 
 aunt to-day V 
 
 ' How did you know that. Mr. Hope V exclaimed Genevieve. 
 
 • I iieard something pass, when some one was admiring your 
 work,' he said, not looking at her. ' And this — I think — is St. 
 Leocadia's day.' 
 
 ' I am very much obliged to you for remembering it, but I 
 have sent my little parcel otherwise, so I .need not trouble 
 you.' 
 
 ' Ah ! how stupid in me ! I am very sorry. I beg your 
 pardon ; and he hurried ofi", looking as if very sorry were not a 
 mere matter of course. 
 
 ' Poor man,' thought Albinia, ' I dare say he has reckoned oa 
 it all this time, and hunted out St. Leocadia in Alban Butler, 
 and then tried to screw up his courage all yesterday. Ulick 
 has managed to ti'averse a romance ; but perhaps it is just as 
 well, for what would be the efiect on the public of Mr, Hope in 
 that coat being seen ringing at the convent door V 
 
 G Q
 
 450 . THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Well, Miss Durant,' said Ulick, entering the drawing-room 
 in the winter twilight, * here is evidence for you !' 
 
 ' Yon have actually penetrated the convent, and seen my 
 aunt 1 Impossible ! and yet this pencilled note is her OM^n dear 
 writing !' 
 
 ' You don't mean that you really were let in T cried Sophy, 
 
 * I entered quite legitimately, I assure you. It was all luck. 
 I'd just been putting up at the Crown, when what should I see 
 in a sort of a trance, staring right into the inn-yard, but as 
 jolly-looking a priest as ever held a station. " An' it's long 
 since I've seen the like of you," says he aloud to himself. *'Is 
 it the car f says I. " Sure it is," says he. " I've not laid my 
 eyes on so iligant a vehicle since I left County Tyrone."' 
 
 ' Mr. O'llara !' exclaimed Genevieve. 
 
 '" And I'm mistaken if you're not the master of it," he goes 
 on, taking the measure of me all over,' continued Ulick, putting 
 on his drollest brogue. ' You see he had too much manners to 
 say that such a personable young gentleman, speaking such 
 correct English, could be no other than an Irishman ; so I made 
 my bow, and said the car and I were both from County Galway, 
 and we were straight as good friends as if we'd hunted together 
 at Ballymakilty. To be sure, he was a little taken aback when 
 he found I was one of the Protestant branch of the O'Mores, 
 but a counti'yman is a countryman in a barbarous land, and he 
 asked me to call upon him, and ofi'ored to do me any service in 
 his power.' 
 
 ' I am sure he would. H3 is the kindest old gentleman I 
 know,' exclaimed Genevieve. * He always used to bring me 
 barleysugar-drops when I was a little girl, and it was he who 
 found out our poor old Biddy in distress at Had minster, and 
 sent her to live with us.' 
 
 * Indeed ! Then I owe him another debt of gratitude — in 
 fact, he told me that one of his flock, meaning Biddy, had 
 spoken to him honourably of me. " W^ell," said I, " the greatest 
 service you could do me, sir, would be to introduce me to 
 Mademoiselle Belmarchd ; I have a young lady's commission 
 for her." " From my little Genevieve," he said, "the darling 
 that she is. Did you leave the child well ?" And so when I 
 said it was a present for her saint's day, and that your heart 
 was set o!i it — ' 
 
 ' But, Mr. O'More, I never did set my heart on your seeing 
 her.' 
 
 ' Well, well, you would have done it if you'd known there 
 had been any chance of it ; besides, your heart was set on her 
 getting the work, and how could I make sure of that unless 1
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 451 
 
 gave it into her own hand 1 I wouldn't have put it into Mr. 
 O'Hara's snuffy poctefc to hinder myself from being bankrupt.' 
 
 ' Then he took you in V 
 
 ' So he did, like an honest Irishman as he was. He rang at 
 the bell, and spoke to the portress, and had me into the parlour 
 and sent up for the lady ; and I have seldom spent a pleasanter 
 hali-hour. Mademoiselle Belmarche bade me tell you that she 
 would write fuller thanks to you another day, and that her eyes 
 would thank you every night.' 
 
 ' Was her cold gone 1 Did she seem well, the dear aunt T 
 
 G6nevieve was really grateful, and had many questions to ask 
 about her aunt, which met with detailed answers. 
 
 ' By-the-by,' said TJlick, ' I met Mr. Hope in the street as I 
 was coming away, I offered him a lift, but he said he was not 
 coming bome till late. I wonder what he is doing.' 
 
 Albinia and Sophy exchanged glances, and had almost said, 
 ' Poor Mr. Hope !' It was very hard that the good fortune and 
 mere good nature of an indifferent person should push him 
 where the quiet curate so much wished to be. Albinia would 
 have liked to have had either a little impudence or a little 
 tact to enable her to give a hint to Ulick to be less officious. 
 
 St. Leocadia's feast was the 9th of December. Three days 
 after, Genevieve received a letter which made her change coun^ 
 tenance, and hurry to her own room, whence she did not emerge 
 till luncheon-time. 
 
 In the late afternoon, there was a knock at the drawing-room 
 door, and Mr. Dusautoy said, ' Can I speak with you a minute, 
 Mrs. Kendair 
 
 Dreading ill news of Lucy, she hurried to the morning-room 
 with him. 
 
 ' Fanny said I had better speak to you. This poor fellow is 
 in a dreadful state.' 
 
 ' Algernon T 
 
 ' No, indeed. Poor Hope ! What has possessed the girl V 
 
 ' Genevieve has not refused him V 
 
 ' Did you not know it ? I found him in his rooms as white 
 as a sheet ! I asked what was the matter ; he begged me to let 
 him go away for one Sunday, and find him a substitute. I saw 
 how it was, and at the first word he broke down and told me.' 
 
 ' Was this to-day V 
 
 ' Yes. What can the silly little puss be thinking of to put an 
 excellent fellow like that to so mvich pain 1 Going about it in 
 such an admirable way, too, writing to old Mamselle first, and 
 getting a letter from her vrliich he sends with his own, and pro- 
 mising to guarantee her fifty pounds a year out of his own 
 
 G o 3
 
 452 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 pocket. * I should like to know what that little Jenny means 
 by it. I gave her credit for more sense.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she thinks, vmder the circumstances of her coming 
 here, within the year — ' 
 
 * Ah ! very proper, very pretty of her ; I never thought ol 
 that ; I suppose I have your permission to tell Hope V 
 
 ' I believe all the town knew it,' said Albiuia. 
 
 * Yes ; he need not be downhearted, he has only to be patient, 
 and he will like her the better for it. After all, though he is 
 as good a man as breathes, he cannot be Gilbert, and it will be 
 a great relief to him. I'll tell him to put all his fancies about 
 O'More out of his head.' 
 
 ' Most decidedly,' said Albinia ; * nothing can be greater 
 nonsense. Tell him by no means to go away, for when she 
 finds that our feelings are not hurt, and has become used to 
 the idea, I have every hope that she will be able to form a 
 new — ' 
 
 ' Ay ; ay ;poor Gilbert would have wished it himself. It is 
 very good of you, Mrs. Kendal ; I'll put the poor fellow in 
 spix'its again.' 
 
 ' Did you hear whether she gave any reasons V 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know — something about her birth and station ; 
 bat that's stuff — she's a perfect lady, and much more.' 
 
 ' And he is only a bookseller's son.' 
 
 * True ; and though it might be awkward to have the parson's 
 father-in-law cutting capers if he lived in the same town, yet 
 being dead these fifteen or eighteen years, where's the damage T 
 
 ' Was that all ?' 
 
 ' I fancy that she said she never meant to marry ; but that's 
 all nonsense ; she is the very girl that ought, and I hope you 
 will talk to her and bring her to reason. There's not a couple 
 in the whole place that I should be so glad to marry as those 
 two.' 
 
 Albinia endeavoured to discuss the matter with Genevieve 
 that night when the}- went upstairs. It was not easy to do, for 
 Genevieve seemed resolved to wish her good-night outside her 
 ioor, but she made her entrance, and putting her arm round 
 her little friend's waist, said, ' Am I very much in your way, 
 my dear ? I thought you might want a little help, or at least 
 a little talk.' 
 
 ' Oh ! i\Irs. Kendal, I hoped you did not know !' and her eyes 
 filled with teai's. 
 
 Mr. Dusautoy told me, my dear ; poor Mr. Hope's distress 
 betrayed him, and Mr. Dusautoy was anxious I should — ' 
 
 Gcnevifive did not let her finish, but exclaiming, * I did
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 453 
 
 Eot expect this from you, madame,' gave way to a showev of 
 tears. 
 
 ' My dear cliild, do we not all feel you the more one with 
 ourselves for this reluctance V said Albinia, caressing her 
 fondly. ' It shall not be forced upon you any more till you can 
 bear it.' 
 
 'Till!' exclaimed Genevieve, alarmed. 'Oh! do not say that ! 
 Do not hold out false hopes ! I never shall !' 
 
 ' I do not think you are a fair judge as yet, my dear.' 
 
 * I think I am,' said Genevieve, slowly ; ' I must not let you 
 love me on false pretences, dearest Mrs. Kendal. I do not 
 thiuk it is all for — for his sake — but indeed, though I must 
 esteem Mr. Hope, I do not believe I coiild ever feel for him 
 as — ' then breaking off. ' I pray you, with all my heart, dearest 
 friend, never to speak to me of marriage. 1 am the little 
 governess, and while Heaven gives me strength to work for my 
 aunt, and you let me call this my home, I am content, I am 
 blessed. Oh ! do not disturb and unsettle me !' 
 
 So imploringly did she speak, that .she obliterated all thought 
 of the prudent arguments with which Albinia had come stored. 
 It was no time for them ; there was no possibility of endeavour- 
 ing to dethrone the memory of her own Gilbert ; and her im- 
 pulse was far more to agree that no one else could ever be loved, 
 than to argue in favour of a new attachment. She was pi'oud 
 of Gilbert for being thus recollected, and doulily pleased with 
 the widowed heart ; nor was it till the first effect of Genevieve's 
 tears had passed off that she began to reflect that the idea might 
 become familiar, and that I'omance having been abundantly 
 satisfied by the constancy of the Lancer, sober esteem might be 
 the basis of very happy married affection. 
 
 Mr. Hope did not go away, but he shrank into himself, and 
 grew more timid than ever, and it was through the Dusautoya 
 that Albinia learnt that he was much consoled, and intended to 
 wait patiently. He had written to J-Idlle. Belmarche, who had 
 been extremely dinappointed. and continued to believe that so 
 excellent and well brought up a young girl as her niece would 
 not resist her wishes with regard to a young pastor so re- 
 spectable. 
 
 Sophy, when made aware of what was going on, did not smile 
 or shed a tear, only a strange whiteness came across her fac& 
 She made a commonplace remark with visible effort, nor was 
 she quite herself for some time. It was as if the reference to 
 her brother had stirred up the old wound. Genevieve seemed 
 to have been impelled to manifest her determination of resuming 
 her occupation, she wrote letters vigorously, answered udver-
 
 45 i THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 tiseinents, and in spite of the united protest of lier friends, 
 advertised herself as a young person of Frenc-h extraction, but a 
 member of the Church of England, accustomed to tuition, and 
 comijetent to instruct in French, Italian, music, and all the ordi- 
 nary branches of education. Address, G. C. D,, Mr. Kichard- 
 son's, bookseller, Bayford. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ^,fTSS GOLDSMITH went to spend Christmas with an old 
 friend, leaving Ulick more liberty than he had enjoyed 
 for a long time. He used it a good deal at Willow Lawn, and 
 was there of course on Christmas-day. After dinner the deco- 
 ration of the church was under discussion. The Bayford neigh- 
 bourhood was unpropitious to holly, and Sophy and Genevieve 
 had hardly ever seen any, except that Genevieve remembered 
 the sooty bits sold in London. Something passed about sending 
 for a specimen from Fairmead, but Albinia said that would not 
 answer, for her brother's children were in despair at the absence 
 of berries, and had ransacked Colonel Bury's plantations in vain. 
 
 The next day, about twilight, Albinia and Sophy were 
 arranging some Christmas gifts for the old women, in the morn- 
 ing-room ; Genevieve was to come and help them on her return 
 from the child in Tibb's Alley. 
 
 ' Oh, here she comes, up the garden,' said Sophy, who was by 
 the window. 
 
 Presently Albinia heard a strange sound as of tightened 
 breath, and looking up saw Sophy deathly pale, with her eyes 
 fixed on the window. In terror she flew to her side, but Sophy 
 spoke not, she only clutched her hand with fingers cold and 
 tight as iron, and gazed with dilated eyes. Albinia looked — 
 
 Ulick had come from the house — there was a scarlet-beri-ied 
 spray in Genevieve's hand, which she was trying to make him 
 take again — his face was all pleading and imploring — she 
 turned hastily from him, and they saw her cheek glowing with 
 crimson — she tried to force back the holly spray — but her hand 
 was caught — he was kissing it. N'o ; she had rent it away — she 
 had fled in through the conservatory — they heard the doors— 
 Bhe had rushed up to her own room. 
 
 Sophy's gras}) grew more rigid — she panted for breath. 
 
 ' My child ! my child !' said Albinia, throwing her arms round 
 her, expecting her to faint. ' Oh ! could I have imagined such 
 treason V Her eyes flashed, and her frame quivered with indig 
 nation. ' He shall never come into this house again !'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEH. 455 
 
 ' Marania ! hush !' said Sophy, releasing herself from her 
 embrace, and keepiug her body upright, though obliged to seat 
 herself on the nearest chair, ' It is not treason,' she said slowly, 
 as though her mouth were parched. 
 
 * Contemptible fickleness !' burst out Albinia ; but Sophy 
 implored silence by a gesture. 
 
 'No,' she said; 'it was a dream, a degrading, humiliating 
 dream ; but it is over.' 
 
 ' There is no degradation except to the base trifler I once 
 thought better things of 
 
 ' He has not trifled,' said Sopliy. ' Wait ! hush !' 
 
 Tliere was a composure about her that awed Albinia, who 
 stood watching in suspense while she went to the bed-room, 
 drank some -water, cooled her brow, pushed back her hair, and 
 sitting down again in the same collected manner, which gave her 
 almost a look of majesty, she said, ' Promise me, mamma, that 
 all shall go on as if this folly had never crossed our minds.' 
 
 ' I can't ! I can't, Sophy !' said Albinia in the greatest agita- 
 tion. * I can't unknoio that you have been shamefully used.' 
 
 * Then you will lead papa to break his promise to Genevieve, 
 and lower me not only in my own eyes, but in those of every 
 one.' 
 
 ' He little knew that he was bringing her here to destroy liis 
 daughter's happiness. So that was why she held off from Mr. 
 Hope,' cried Albinia, burning with such indignation, that on 
 some one she must expend it, but a tirade against the artfulness 
 of the little Fi'ench witch was cut oS short by an authori- 
 tative — 
 
 ' Don't, mamma ! You are unjust ! How can she help being 
 loveable ?' 
 
 ' He had no business to know whether she was or not.' 
 
 ' You are wrong, mamma. The absurdity v/as in thinking I 
 ever was so.' 
 
 ' Very little absurd,' said Albinia, twining her arms round 
 Sophy, 
 
 ' Don't make me silly,' hastily said Sophy, her voice trembling 
 for a moment ; 'I want to tell you all about it, and you will 
 see that no one is to blame. The perception has been growing 
 on me for a long time, but I was weak enough to indulge in 
 the dream. It was veiy sweet !' There again she struggled not 
 to break down, gained the victory, and went on, * I don't think 
 I should have dax-ed to imagine it myself, but I saw others 
 thought it, who knew more ; I knew the incredible was some- 
 time.-; ti'ue, and every little kindness he did — Oh ! how foolish ! 
 as if he could help doing kindnesses ! My better sense told me
 
 456 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 he did not i-eally distinguish me ; but there was something that 
 would feed upon every word and look. Then last year I was 
 wakened by the caricature busin-ess. That opened my eyes, for 
 no one who had that in him would have turned my sister into 
 derision. I was sullen then and proud, and when — when 
 humanity and compassion brought him to me in my distress — oh ! 
 why — why could not I have been reasonable, and not have 
 selfishly fed on what I thought was revived T 
 'He had no right — ' began Albinia, fiercely. 
 
 * He could neither help saving Maurice, nor speaking comfort 
 and support when he found me exhausted and sinking. It was 
 I who was the foolish creature — I hate myself! Well, you 
 know how it has been — I liked to believe it was the thing — I 
 knew he caved less for me than — but I thought it was always 
 so between men and women, and that I would not have petty 
 distrusts. But when she came, I saw what the ti'ue — true 
 feeling is — I saw that he felt when she came into the room 
 — I saw how he heard her words and missed mine — I 
 saw — ' Sophy collected herself, and spoke quietly and dis- 
 tinctly, ' I saw his love, and that it had never been for 
 me,' 
 
 There was a pause ; Albinia could not bear to look, speak, or 
 move. Sophy's words carried conviction that swept away her 
 Band castle. 
 
 ' Now, mamma,' said Sophy, earnestly, * you own that he has 
 not been false or fickle.' 
 
 'If he has not, he has disregarded the choicest jewel that lay 
 in his way,' said Albinia with some sharpness. 
 
 * But he has not been that,^ persisted Sophy. 
 'Well — no; I suppose not.' 
 
 'And no one can be less to blame than Genevieve.' 
 
 ' Little flirt, I've no patience with her.' 
 
 ' She can't help her manners,' repeated Sophy ; ' I feel them 
 60 much more charming than mine every moment. She will 
 make him so happy.' 
 
 ' Wliat are you talking of, Sophy 1 He must be mad if he is 
 in earnest. A man of his family pride ! His father will never 
 listen to it for a moment.' 
 
 * I don't know what his father may do,' said Sophy; * but I 
 know what I pray and entreat we may do, and that is, do our 
 utmost to make this come to 2;ood.' 
 
 ' Sophy, don't ask it. I could not, I know you could not.' 
 ' There is no loss of esteem. I honour him as I always did,' 
 Eaid Sophy. ' Yes, the more since I see it was all for papa and 
 the right, all iinselfish, on that 5th of November. Some day I 
 shall have worn out the selfishness.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 457 
 
 She kept lier hand tightly pressed on her heart as she spoke, 
 and Albinia exclaimed, ' You shall not see it ; you overrate 
 your strength ; it is my business to prevent you 1' 
 
 ' Think, mamma,' said Sophy, rising in her earnestness. ' Here 
 is a homeless orphan, whom you have taught to love you, whom 
 papa has brought here as to a home, and for Gilbert's sake. Is 
 it fair — innocent, exemplary as she is — to turn against her 
 because she is engaging and I am not, to cut her off from us, 
 drive her away to the first situation that offers, be it what it 
 may, and with that tiiought aching and throbbing in her heart ? 
 Oh, mamma ! would that be mercy or justice V 
 
 ' You are not asking to have it encouraged in the very house 
 with you ?' 
 
 ' I do not see how else it is to be,' said Sophy. 
 
 < Let him go after her, if there's anything in it but Irish folly 
 and French coquetiy — ' 
 
 'How, mamma? Where? When she is a governess in 
 some strange place 1 How could he leave his business ? How 
 could she attend to him ? Oh, mamma ! you used to be kind : 
 how can you wish to put two people you love so much, to such 
 misery V 
 
 ' Because I can't put one whom I love better than both, and 
 who deserves it, to greater misery,' said Albinia, embracing her. 
 
 ' Then do not put me to the misery of being ungenerous, and 
 the shame of having my folly suspected.' 
 
 Albinia would have argued still, but the children came in, 
 Sophy went away, and there was no possibility of a tete-cl-tete. 
 How strange it was to have such a tumult of feeling within, and 
 know that the same must be tenfold multiplied in the hearts of 
 those two girls, and yet go through all the domestic conven- 
 tionalities, each wearing a mask of commonplace ease, as though 
 nothing had happened ! 
 
 Genevieve had, Albinia suspected, been crying excessively ; 
 for there was that effaced annihilated appearance that tears pro- 
 duced on her, but otherwise she did her part in answering her 
 host, who was very fond of her, and always made her an object 
 of attention. Albinia found herself betraying more abstraction, 
 she was so anxiously watching Sophy, who acquitted herself 
 best of all, had kept tears from her eyes, talked more than nsual, 
 and looked brilliant, with a bright colour dyeing her cheeks. 
 She was evidently sustained by eagerness to obtain her generous 
 purpose, and did not yet realize the price. 
 
 The spray of holly was lying as if it had been tossed in vex- 
 ation upon the marble slab in the hall. Albinia, from the stairs, 
 ■saw Sophy take it up, and waited to see wh;it she would do with 
 it. The Sophy she had once known v/ould have dashed it into
 
 458 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER 
 
 tlie flames, and then have repented. No ! Sophy held it ten- 
 derly, and looked at the glossy leaves and coral fruit with no 
 angry eye ; she even raised it to her lips, but it was to pierce 
 •with one of the long prickles till her brow drew together at the 
 smart, and the blood started. Then she began to mount the 
 stairs, and meeting Albinia, said quietly, ' I was going to take 
 this to Genevieve's room ; it is empty now, but perhaps you 
 had better take care of it for her, out of sight. It will be her 
 greatest treasure to-morrow.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal read aloud as usu.al, but who of his audience 
 attended 1 Certainly not Albinia. She sat with her head bent 
 over her work, revolving the history of these last two years, and 
 trying to collect herself after the sudden shock, and the angry 
 feelings of disappointment that surged within, in much need of 
 an object of wrath. Alas! who could that object be but that 
 blind, warm-hearted, impulsive Mistress Albinia Kendal ? 
 
 She saw plain enough, now it was too late, that there had not 
 been a shadow of sentiment in that lively confiding Irishman, used 
 to intimacy with a herd of cousins, and viewing all connexions 
 as cousins. She remembered his conversation with her brother 
 and her brother's impression ; she thought of the nnloverlike 
 dread of ague in Emily's moonlight walk ; she recalled the many 
 occasions when she had thought him remiss, and she could not 
 but acquit him of any designed flirtation, any dangerous tender- 
 ness, or what Mdlle. Belmarche would call legerete. He could not 
 be reserved — he was naturally free and open — and how could 
 she have put such a construction on his frankness, when Sophy 
 herself had long been gradually ai-riving at a conviction of the 
 truth ! It was a comfort at least to remember that it had not 
 been the fabrication of her own brain ; she had respectable 
 authority for the idea, and she trusted to its prompter to par- 
 ticipate in her indignation, argue Ulick out of so poor a match, 
 and at least put a decided veto \;pon Sophy's Spartan mag- 
 nanimity — Sophy's health and feelings being the subject, she 
 sometimes thought, which concerned him above all. 
 
 Ah ! but the evil had not been his doing. He had but gos- 
 siped out a pleasant conjecture to his wife as a trustworthy 
 help-meet. What business had she to go and telegraph that 
 conjecture, with her significant eyes, to the very last person who 
 ouglit to have shai-ed it, and then to have kept up the mischief 
 by believing it herself, and acting, looking, and arranging, as on 
 a certainty implied, though not expressed ? Mrs. Osborne or 
 Mrs. Drury might have sjioken more broadly ; tliey could not 
 have acted worse, thought she to hei"self. 
 
 Tlie notion might never have been suggested ; Sophy might
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 459 
 
 have simply enjoyed these years of intimacy, and even if her 
 heart had been touched, it would have been unconsciously, and 
 the pain and shame of unrequited affection have merely been a 
 slight sense of neglect, a small dreariness, lost in eagerness for the 
 happiness of both friends. Now, two years of love that she had 
 been allowed to imagine returned and sanctioned, and love with 
 the depth and forceof Sophy's whole nature — the shame of having 
 loved unasked, the misery of having lived in a delusion — how 
 would they act upon a being of her morbid tendency, frail con- 
 stitution, and proud spirit 1 As Albinia thought of the passive 
 endurance of last year's estrangement, her heart sank within 
 her ! Illness — brain-fever — permanent ill-health and crushed 
 spirits — nay, death itself she augured — and all — all her own 
 fault ! The last and best of Edmund's children so cruelly and 
 deeply wounded, and by her folly ! She longed to throw hen-elf 
 at liis feet and ask his pardon, but it was Sophy's secret as well 
 as hers, and how could womanhood betray that unrequited love ? 
 At least she thought, for noble Sophy's sake, she would not raise a 
 finger to hinder the marriage ; but as to forwarding it, or pro- 
 moting the courtship under Sophy's very eyes — that woxilcl be 
 like murdering her outright ; and she would join Mr. Kendal 
 with all her might in removing their daughter from the trying 
 spectacle. Talk of Aunt Maria ! This trouble was ten thou- 
 sand times worse ! 
 
 Albinia began to watch the timepiece, longing to have the 
 evening over, that she might prepare i\Ir. Kendal. It ended at 
 last, and Genevieve took up her candle, bade good-night, and 
 disappeared. Sophy lingered, till coming forward to her father 
 as he stood by the fire, she said, ' Papa, did you not promise 
 Gilbert that Genevieve should be as another daughter V 
 
 ' I wish she would be, my dear,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' but she 
 is too independent, and your mamma thinks she would consider 
 it as a mere farce to call her little Albinia's governess ; but if 
 you can persuade her — ' 
 
 * What I want you to do, papa, is to promise that she shall be 
 married from this house, as her home, and that you will fit her 
 out as you did Lucy.' 
 
 ' Ha 1 Is she beginning to relent V 
 
 'No, papa. It will be Ulick O'More.' 
 
 ' You don't mean it !' exclaimed Mr. Kendal, more taken by 
 surprise than perhaps he had ever been, and looking at his wife, 
 who was standing dismayed, yet admiring the gallant girl who 
 )iad forestalled her precautions. Obliged to speak, she said, ' I 
 am afraid so ; Sophy and I witnessed a scene to-day.' 
 
 ' Afraid f said Mr. Kendal : ' I see no reason to be afraid,
 
 460 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 if Ulick likes it. They are two of tlie most agreeable and 
 best people that ever fell in my way, and I shall be delighted 
 if they can an-ange it, for they are perfectly suited to each 
 other.' 
 
 ' But such a match !' exclaimed Albinia. 
 
 ' As to that, a sensible, economical wife will be worth more 
 to him than an expensive one, with however large a fortune. 
 And for the family pride, I am glad the lad has more sense than 
 I feared ; he has a full right to please himself, having won the 
 place he has, and he may make his father consent. He wants a 
 wife — nothing else will keep him from running headlong into 
 speculation, for want of something to do. Yes; I see what 
 you are thinking of, my dear; but you know we could not 
 wish her, as you said yourself, never to form another attach- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' But here P sighed Albinia, the ground knocked away fi-om 
 under her, yet still clinging to the last possible form of murmur. 
 
 ' It will cost us something,' said Mr. Kendal, ' but no more 
 than we will cheerfully bear, for the sake of one who lias such 
 claims upon us ; and it will be amply repaid by having such a 
 pair of friends settled close to iis.' 
 
 ' Then you will, ])apa V said Sophy. 
 
 * Will do what, my dear f 
 
 * Treat her as — as you did Lucy, papa.' 
 
 ' And with much more pleasure, and far more hope, than 
 ■when we fitted out poor Lucy,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 Sophy thanked him, and said ' Good-night ;' and the look 
 which accompanied her kiss to her step-mofcher was a binding 
 over to secrecy and non-interference. 
 
 ' Is she gone T said Mr. Kendal, who had been musing after 
 his last words. ' Gone to tell her friend, I suppose 1 I wanted 
 to ask what this scene was.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Albinia, ' it was in the garden — we saw it from 
 the window — only he brought her a bit of holly, and was trying 
 to kiss her hand.' 
 
 ' Strong premises, certainly. How did she receive the 
 advance V 
 
 ' She w^ould not listen, but made her escape.' 
 
 * Tlien matters are not in such a state of progress as for me 
 to congratulate her? I suppose that you ladies are the best 
 judges whether he may not meet with the same fate as poor 
 Hope V 
 
 ' Soj)liy seems to take it for gi'anted that he will not.' 
 'Irishman as he is, ho must be pretty secure of his ground 
 before coming to such strong measures. Well ! I hope we
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 461 
 
 may hear no more of brow-ague. But — ' witli sudden recollec- 
 tion — ' I thouglit, Albiuia, you fancied he had some inclination 
 for Sophy V 
 
 Was it not a good wife to suppress the * You did '? If she 
 could merrily have said, 'You told me so,' it would have been 
 ail very well ; but her mood would admit of nothing but a grave 
 and guarded answer — ' We did fancy so, but I am convinced it 
 was entirely without reason.' 
 
 That superior smile at her lively imagination was more 
 than human natm-e could bear, without the poor relief of an 
 entreaty that he would not sit meditating, and go to sleep in his 
 chair. 
 
 Albinia thought she had recovered equanimity during her 
 night's rest ; but in the midst of her morning toilette, Sophy 
 hurried in, exclaiming, ' She'll go away ! She is writing letters 
 and packing !' and she answered, ' Well, what do you want me 
 to do 1 You don't imagine that I can rush into her room and 
 lay hands on her 1 She will not go upon a wishiug-carpet. It 
 will be time to interfere when we know more of the matter.' 
 
 Sophy looked blank, and vanished, and Albinia felt excessively 
 vexed at having visited on the chief sufferer her universal cross- 
 ness with all mankind. She knew she had only spoken common 
 sense, but that made it doubly hateful ; and yet she could not 
 but wish Miss Durant anywhere out of sight, and Mr. O'More 
 on the top of the Hill of Howth. 
 
 At breakfast, Sophy's looks betrayed nothing to the uninitiated, 
 though Albinia detected a feverish restlessness and covert im- 
 patience, and judged that her sleep had been little. Genevieve's 
 had perhaps been less, for she was very sallow, with sunken eyes, 
 and her face looked half its usual size ; but Albinia could not 
 easily have compassion on the poor little unwitting traitress, even 
 ■when she began, ' Dear Mrs. Kendal, will you excuse me if I 
 take a sudden leave 1 I find it will ansv/er best for me to accept 
 Mrs. El wood's invitation; I can then present myself to any 
 lady who may wish to see me, and, as I promised my aunt 
 another visit, I had better go to Hadminster by the three o'clock 
 omnibus.' 
 
 Albinia was thankful for the loud opposition which drowned 
 the faint reluctance of her own ; Mr. Kendal insisting that she 
 should not leave them ; little Awk coaxing her ; and IMaurice 
 exclaiming, * If the ladies want her, let them come after her ! 
 One always goes to see a horse.' 
 
 ' I'm not so well worth the trouble, Maurice.' 
 
 ' I know Ulick O'More would come in to see you when all 
 the piebalds for the show were going by !'
 
 462 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 ' Some day you will come tu the same good taste,' said his 
 latner, to lessen the general confusion. 
 
 ' See a lady instead of a piebald ? Never !' cried Maurice 
 ■witli indignation, that made the most preoccupied laugh ; under 
 cover of which Genevieve effected a retreat. Sophy looked im- 
 ploringly at Albinia — Albinia was moving, but not with alacrity, 
 and Mr. Kendal was saying, 'I do not understand all this, 
 when, scarcely pausing to knock, TJlick opened the door, cheeks 
 and eyes betraying scarcely repressed eagerness. 
 
 ' What — where,' he stammered, as if even his words were 
 startled away ; * is not Miss Durant well V 
 
 ' She was here just this moment,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 « I will go and see for her,' said Sophy. ' Come, children.' 
 
 Whether Sophy's powers over herself or over Genevieve would 
 avail, was an anxious marvel ; but it did not last a moment, for 
 Maurice came clattering down to say that Genevieve was gone 
 out into the town. In such a moment? She must have 
 snatched up her bonnet, and fled one way while Ulick entered 
 by the other. He made one step forward, exclaiming, 'Where 
 is she gone V then pausing, broke out, ' Mrs. Kendal, you must 
 make her give me a hearing, or I shall go mad !' 
 
 ' A hearing V repeated Mrs. Kendal, with slight malice. 
 
 * Yes ; why, don't you know V 
 
 ' So your time has come, Ulick, has it V said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' Well, and I were worse than an old ledger if it had not, 
 when she was before me ! Make her listen to me, Mrs. 
 Kendal ; if she do not, I shall never do any more good in this 
 world !' 
 
 'I should have thought,' said Albinia, 'that an Irishman 
 would be at no loss for making opportunities.' 
 
 ' You don't know, Mrs. Kendal ; she is so fenced in with 
 scruples, humility — I know not what — that she will not so much 
 as hear me out. I'm not such a blockhead as to think myself 
 worthy ol her ; but I do think, if she would only listen to me, 
 I might stand a chance : and she runs off, as it she thought it a 
 sin to hear a word from my mouth !' 
 
 ' It is very honourable to her,' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' Very honourable to her,' replied Ulick, ' but cruelly hard 
 upon me.' 
 
 * I think, too,' continued Mr. Kendal, stimulated thereto by 
 his lady's severely prudent looks, 'that you ought — granting 
 Miss Durant to be, as I well know her to be, one of the most 
 excellent persons who ever lived — still to count the cost of 
 opening such an affair. It is not fair upon a woman to bring
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 46 
 
 n 
 
 her into a situation where disappointments may arise which 
 neither may be able to bear.' 
 
 ' Do you mean my family, Mr. Kendal ? Trust me for getting 
 consent from home. You will write my father a letter, saying 
 what you said just now ; Mrs. Kendal will write another to my 
 mother ; and I'll just let them see my heart is set on it, and 
 they'll not hold out.' 
 
 * Could you bear to see her — looked down on?' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Ha V he cried, with flashing eyes. ' No, believe me, Mrs. 
 Kendal, the O'Mores have too much gentle blood to do like that, 
 even if she were one whom any one could scorn. Why, what 
 is my mother herself but a Goldsmith by birth, and I'd Kke to 
 see who would cast it up to any of the family that she was not 
 as noble as an O'More 1 And G enevieve herself — isn't every 
 look and every movement full of the purest gentility her fathers' 
 land can show V 
 
 ' I dare say, once accepted, the O'Mores would heartily receive 
 her ; but here, in this place, there are some might think it told 
 against you, and might make her uncomfortable.' 
 
 'What care I? I've lived and thriven under Bay ford scorn 
 many a day. And for her — Oh ! I defy anything so base to 
 wound a heart so high as hers, and with me to protect her !' 
 
 ' And you can afford it V said JMr. Kendal. * Remember she 
 has her aunt to maintain.' 
 
 ' 1 can,' said Ulick. ' I have gone over it all again and again ; 
 and recalling his man-of-business nature, he demonstrated that 
 even at present he was well able to support Mdlle. BelmarchI, as 
 well as to begin housekeeping, and that there was every reason 
 to believe that his wider and more intelligent system of manage- 
 ment would continue to increase his income.' 
 
 ' Well, Ulick,' said Mr. Kendal at last, ' I wish you succs.sh 
 with all my heart, and esteem you for a choice so entirely founded 
 upon the qualities most certain to ensure happiness.' 
 
 ' You don't mean to say that she has not the most glorious 
 eyes, the most enchanting figure !' exclaimed Ulick, afi'ronted at 
 the compliment that seemed to aver that Genevieve's external 
 charms were not equal to her sterling merit. 
 
 Mr. Kendal and Albinia laughed ; and the former excused 
 himself, not quite to the lover's satisfaction, by declaring the 
 lady much more attractive than maty regularly handsome 
 people ; but he added, that what he meant was, that he was sure 
 'the attachment was built upon a sound foundation. Then he 
 etstveated that Mrs. Kendal would persuade her to listen to him, 
 for she had fled from him ever since his betrayal of his senti-
 
 464 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 ments till lie was half crazed, and had beeu walking up and 
 down his room all night. He should do something distracted, 
 if not relieved from suspense before night ! And Mr. Kendal 
 got rid of him in the midst of his transports, and turning to 
 Albinia said, ' We must settle this as fast as possible, or he will 
 lose his head, and get into a scrape.' 
 
 ' I do not like such wild behaviour. It is not dignified.' 
 
 < It is only temperament,' said Mr. Kendal. * Will you speak 
 to her V 
 
 ' Yes, whenever she comes in.' 
 
 ' I suspect she has gone out on purpose. Could you not go to 
 find her at the school, or wherever she is likely to be V 
 
 ' I don't know where to find her. I cannot give up the 
 children's lessons. Nothing hurts Maurice so much as irregu- 
 larity.' 
 
 He made no answer, but his look of disappointment excited 
 her to observe to herself that she supposed he expected her to 
 run all over the town without ordering dinner first, and she 
 wondered how he would like that ! 
 
 Presently she heard him go out at the front door, and felt 
 some contrition. 
 
 She had not the heart to seek Sophy to report progress, and 
 did not see her till about eleven o'clock, when she came in 
 hastily with her bonnet on, asking, 'Well, mamma?' 
 
 * Where have you been, Sopliy V 
 
 ' To school,' she said. ' Has anything happened V 
 
 ' We have had it out, and I am to speak to her when she 
 comes in,' said Albinia, glad as perhaps was Sophy of the enig- 
 matical form to which Maurice's presence restrained the com- 
 munication. 
 
 Sophy went away, but presently returning and taking up her 
 work, but with eyes that betrayed how she was listening ; but 
 there was .so entire an apparent absence of personal sutfering, 
 that Albinia began to discharge the weight from her mind, and 
 believe that the sentiment had been altogether imaginary even 
 on Sophy's bide, and the whole a marvellous figment of her 
 own. 
 
 At last, IVIr. Kendal's foot was heard ; Sophy stai-ted up, and 
 sat down again. He came upstairs, and his face was all smiles, 
 ' Well,' he said, ' I don't think she will go by the three o'clock 
 omnibu.s.' 
 
 'You have spoken to her V cried Albinia in compunction. 
 
 ' Has Maurice finished ? Then go out, my boy, for the prc- 
 Bent.' 
 
 ' Well V said Albinia, interrogatively, and Sophy laid dowu
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 46o 
 
 her work and crossed one hand over the otlier on her knees, and 
 leant back as though to hinder visible tremor. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, going on with what had been deferred till 
 Maurice was cone. 'I thought it hard on him — and as I was 
 going to speak to Edwards, I asked if she were at the Union, 
 where I found her, taking leave of the old women, and giving 
 them little packets of snuff, and small presents, chiefly her own 
 work, I am sure. I took her with me into the fields, and per- 
 suaded her at last to talk it over wiih me. Poor little thing ! 
 I never saw a mtne high-minded, conscientious spirit ; she was 
 very unhappy about it, and said she knew it was all her unfor- 
 tunate manner ; she wished to be guarded, but a little excite- 
 ment and conversation always turned her head ; and she en- 
 treated me not to hinder her going back to a school-room, out of 
 the way of every one. I told her that she must not blame herself 
 for being more than usually agreeable ; but she would not listen. 
 and T could hardly bring her to attend to what I said of young 
 O'More. Poor girl ! I believe she was running away from he? 
 own heart.' 
 
 ' You have prevented her f cried Sophy. 
 
 * At least I have induced her to hear his arguments. I told 
 her my opinion of him, which was hardly needed, and what I 
 thought might have more weight — that he has earned the right 
 to please himself, and that I believed she would be better for 
 him than riches. She repeated several times " Not now," and 
 " Not here ;" and I found that she was shocked at the idea of 
 the subject being brought before us. I was obliged to tell her 
 that nothing would gratify any of us so much, and that this was 
 the time to fulfil her promise of considering me as a father.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' murmured Sophy. 
 
 ' So finally 1 convinced her that she owed TJlick a hearing, 
 and I think she felt that to hear was to yield. She had cer- 
 tainly been feeling that flight was the only measure, and between 
 her dread of entrapping him and of hurting our feelings, had 
 persuaded herself it was her duty. The last thing she did was 
 to catch hold of me as I was going, and ask if he knew what her 
 father was.' 
 
 ' I dare say it has been the first thing she has said to him,' 
 said Albinia. ' She is a noble little creature ! But what have 
 you done with them now?' 
 
 ' I brought him to her in the parsonage garden. I believe 
 they are walking in the lanes,' said Mr. Kendal, much gratified 
 with his morning's work. 
 
 'She deserves him,' said Sophy ; and then her eyes became set, 
 as if looking into far distance.
 
 466 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 The walk in the h\ues liad not ended by luncheon-time, and 
 an afternoon loaded with callers was oppressive, but Sophy kept 
 up well. At last, in the twilight, the door was heard to open, 
 and Genevieve came in alone. They listened, and knew she 
 must have run up to her own room. What did it portend 1 
 Albinia must be the one to go and see ; so after a due interval, 
 she went up and knocked. G6nevieve opened the door, and 
 threw herself into her arms. ' Dear Mrs. Kendal ! Oh ! have 
 I done wrong 1 I am so very happy, and I cannot help it I' 
 
 Albinia kissed her, and assured her she had done nothing to 
 repent of. 
 
 ' I am so glad you think so. I never dreamt such happiness 
 could be meant for me, and I am afraid lest I should have been 
 solfish and wrong, and bring trouble on him.' 
 
 ' We have been all saying you deserve him.' 
 
 ' Oh no — no — so good, so noble, so heroic as he is. How 
 could he think of the poor little French teacher I And he will 
 pay my aunt's fifty pounds ! I told him all, and he knew it 
 iDefore, and yet he loves me ! Oh ! why are people so very good 
 to me r 
 
 ' I could easily find an answer to that question,' said Albinia. 
 * Where is he, my dear V 
 
 ' He is gone home. I would not come into the town with 
 him. It is nothing, you know ; no one must hear of it, for he 
 must be free unless his parents consent — and I know they never 
 can,' she said, shaking her head, sadly ; ' but even then I shall 
 have one secret of happiness — I shall know what has been ! But 
 oh ! Mrs. Kendal, let me go away — ' 
 
 ' Go away now V exclaimed Albinia. 
 
 ' Yes — it cannot be — here, in this house ! Oh I it is out- 
 raging your kindness.' 
 
 'No,' said Albinia ; ' it is but letting us fulfil a very precioua 
 charge.' 
 
 Genevieve's tears flowed as she said, ' Such goodness ! JMr. 
 Kendal spoke to me in this way in the morning, when he was 
 more kind and patient tlian I can express. But tell me, dearest 
 madanie, tell me candidly, is my remaining here the cause of 
 any secret pain to him V 
 
 With regard to him, Albinia could answer sincerely that 
 it was a gratification; and Genevieve owned that she should be 
 glad to await the letters from Ireland, which she tried to per- 
 suade herself she believed would put an end to everything, 
 excej)t the precious remembrance. 
 
 Sophy here came in with some tea. She had recollected that 
 (ieneviOve had wandei'ed all day without any bodily sustenance.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 467 
 
 There was great sweetuess in the quiet, grave manner in which 
 she bent over her friend and kissed her brow. All she said was, 
 'Papa has Lrnne to fetch him to dinner. Genevieve, you must 
 let me de your hair.' 
 
 It was in Genevieve's eyes an astonishing fancy, and Albinia 
 said, ' Come away now, my dear ; she must have a thorough rest 
 after such a day.' 
 
 Genevieve looked too much excited for rest, but that was the 
 more reason for leaving her to herself ; and besides, it was so 
 uncomfortable not to be able to be kind enough. 
 
 However, when people are happy, a little kindness goes a 
 great way ; and there was a subdued lustre like a glory in her 
 eyes when she came downstairs, with the holly leaves and 
 berries glistening in her hair, the first ornament she had ever 
 worn there. 
 
 ' It was Sophy's doing,' she said. ' Naughty girl ; she tried to 
 take me by surprise. She would not let me look in the glass, 
 but I guessed — and oh ! she was wounding her poor hands so 
 sadly.' 
 
 I must thank her,' said Ulick, looking ecstatic. * Why does 
 she not come down V 
 
 As she did not appear, Albinia went up, doubtful if it were 
 wise, yet too uneasy not to go in quest of her. 
 
 It was startling to have so faint an answer on knocking, and 
 on entering tlie room, she saw Sophy lying on her bed, upon her 
 back, with her arms by her sides, and with a ghastly whiteness 
 on her features. 
 
 Scarcely a pulse could be felt, and her hands were icy cold, 
 her voice sank to notliing, her eyelids scarcely raised, as if the 
 strain of the day had exhausted all vital warmth or energy, and 
 her purpose accomplished, annihilation was succeeding. INIuch 
 terrified, Albinia would have hurried in search of remedies, but 
 she raised her hand imploringly, and murmured, ' Please don't. 
 I'm not faint — I'm not ill. If you would only let me be still.' 
 
 Albinia teased her so far as to cover her with warmed shawls, 
 and force on her a stimulant. She shut her eyes, but presently 
 opened them to say, ' Please go.' 
 
 She was so often unable to appear at dinner, that no obser- 
 vation was made ; and it was to be feared that her absence was 
 chiefly regi-etted by the lovers, because it prevented them from 
 sitting on the same side of the table. 
 
 Always frank and unrestrained, Ulick made his felicity so 
 apparent, that Albinia had no toleration for him, and not much 
 for the amusement it afiorded jNlr. Kendal. She would have 
 approved of her husband much more if he had put her into a 
 
 a H 2
 
 468 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTH Ell. 
 
 great quandary by anxious inquiries what was the matter with his 
 daughter, instead of that careless, ' you are going up to Sophy ; 
 I hope she will be able to come down to tea,' when she left him 
 on guard over the children and the lovers. 
 
 ' So it is with woman's martyrdoms,' said she to herself as she 
 walked upstairs, chewing the cud of all the commonplaces by 
 which women have, of late years, flattered themselves, and been 
 flattered ; * but at any rate I'll have her out of sight of all their 
 absurdity. It is enough to kill her !' 
 
 Sophy hardly stirred at her entrance, but there was lessghast- 
 liness about her, and as Albinia sat down she did not remove 
 iier hand, and turned slightly round, so as to lose that strange 
 corpse-like attitude of I'epose. 
 
 * You are not so cold, dearest,' said Albinia. ' Have you 
 
 slept r 
 
 ' I think not.* 
 
 * Are you better ? Have you been comfortable V 
 
 * Oh yes.' Then, with a pause, ' Yes — it was like being 
 nothing !' 
 
 ' You were not faint, I hope V 
 
 * No — only lying still. Don't you know the comfort of not 
 thinking or feeling T 
 
 'Yes; this has been far too much for you. You have done 
 enough now, my generous Sopiiy.' 
 
 * Not generous ; one can't give away what one never had.' 
 
 'I think it more gracious to yield without jealousy or bitter- 
 ness — ' 
 
 * Only not quite base,' said Sophy. Then presently, turn- 
 ing on her pillow as though more willing to converse, she said, 
 * I am glad it was not last year.' 
 
 * We had troubles enough then !' 
 
 ' Not for that — because I should have been base then, and 
 hated myself for it all the time.' 
 
 ' That you never could have been !' cried Albinia. * But, my 
 di'ar, you must let me contrive for you ; I would not betray you 
 for all the world, but the sight of these two is more than you 
 ought to undergo. I will not send Genevieve away, but you 
 must go from home.' 
 
 'I don't think I shall be cross,' said poor Soph)', simply ; ' I 
 should be ashamed.' 
 
 ' Cross ! It is I who am cross, because I am to blame ; but, 
 di'arest, think if you are keeping up out of pride ; that will never, 
 never do.' 
 
 ' I do not believe it is ju'ide,' saifl Sophy, meekly ; ' at least, I 
 hope not. I feel humiliated enough, and I think it rna^/ be a
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 46f 
 
 gnrt of shame, as well as consideration foi* tliem, tliat ■vvonld 
 make me wish that no difierence should be made. Do you not 
 think wo may let things go onf she said, in so humble a man- 
 nei-, that it l)rought Albinia's tears, and a kiss was the only 
 answer. 'Please tell me,' said Sophy; 'for I don't want to 
 deceive myself.' 
 
 ' I am sure I am no judge,' cried Albinia, * after the dreadful 
 mischief I have done.' 
 
 ' The mischief was in me,' said Sophy, ' or you could not have 
 done it. I saw it all when I was lying awake last night, and 
 how it began, cr rather it was before I can remember exactly. 
 I always had craving after something — a yearning for something 
 to fix myself on — and after I grew to read and look out into 
 the world, I thought it must be that. And when I knew I 
 was ugly and disagreeable, I brooded and brooded, and only in 
 my better moments tried to be satisfied with you and papa and 
 the children.' 
 
 ' And the All -satisfying, Sophy dear.' 
 
 * I tried — I did — but it was duty — not heart. I used to 
 fancy what might be, if I shot out into beauty and grace — not 
 admiration, but to have that one thing to lean on. You see it 
 was all worldly, and only submissive by fits — generally it 
 was cross repining, yielding because I could not help it — and 
 BO, when the fancy came the throne was ready made, empty, 
 swept, and garnished, for the idol. I wont talk of all that 
 time ; but I don't believe even Genevieve, though she knows 
 she may, can dwell upon the thought as I did, in just the way 
 to bring punishment. And so I thought, by-and-by, at the 
 caricature time, that I was punished. I looked into the fallacy, 
 when I had got over the temper and the pride, and I saw it all 
 clear, and owned I was rightly served, for it had been an earthly 
 aim, and an idol worship. Well, the foolish hope came back 
 again, but indeed, indeed, I think I was the better for all the 
 chastening ; I had seen grandmamma die, I was fi-esh fi-oui 
 hearing of Gilbert, and I did feel as I never had done before, 
 that God was fii-st. I don't believe that feeling had passed, 
 though the folly came back, and made me feel glad to love al! 
 the world. There were — gleams of religious thought' — she 
 spoke with difficulty, but her face had a strange beauty — ' that 
 taught me how, if 1 was more good — there could be a fulness 
 of joy that all the rest flowed out from. And so when rais- 
 :;i vino's came, and I saw at times how little he could care for 
 lue — oh ! it was pain enough, but not the worst sort. And yet 
 I don't know — ' She turned away and hid her face on the 
 pillow. It was agony, though still, as she had said, not the
 
 470 THE YOUNa STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 worst, nntempered by faith or resignation. What a history of 
 that apparently cold, sullen, impassive spirit ! what an iinlock- 
 inor of pent-up mysteries ! 
 
 'It has been blessed to you,' said Albinia, affectionately. 
 'My dear, we always thought your character one that wanted 
 the softening of such — an attachment. Perhaps that made me 
 wrongly eager for it, and ready to imagine where I ought not ; 
 I think it did soften you ; but if jon had not conquered what 
 was earthly and exaggei-ated in it, how it would be hardening 
 and poisoning you now !' 
 
 ' I hope I may have,' sighed Sophy, as if she were doubtful, 
 
 ' Then will you not listen to me 1 You have done nobly so 
 far, and I know your feelings will be right in the main ; but 
 do you think you can bear the perpetual irritation of being 
 neglected, and seeing — what I must call rather a parade of his 
 preference V 
 
 ' I think it would be the best cure,' said Sophy ; ' it would 
 make me feel it real, and. I could be glad to see him — them— 
 so happy — ' 
 
 ' I don't know how to judge ! I don't know whether it be 
 right for you to have him always before your mind.' 
 
 ' He would be so all the more while I was away with nothing 
 to do,' said Sophy; 'fancy might be worse than fact. You 
 don't know how I used to forget the nonsense when he had 
 been ten minutes in the room, because it was just starved out. 
 Now, when it will be a sin, I believe that sti-ength will be given 
 me to root it out ;' her look grew determined, but she gasped 
 for breath. 
 
 ' And your bodily strength, my dear?' 
 
 ' If I should be ill, then it would be natural to go away,' 
 said Sophy, smiling ; 'but I don't think I shall be. This is 
 only the end of my fever to see it settled. Now I am thankful, 
 and my heart has left off throbbing when I am still. I shall 
 be all right to-morrow.' 
 
 * I hope so ; but you must sjiare yourself 
 
 ' Besides,' she added, ' one of the worst parts has been that, 
 in the fancy that a change was to come, I have gone about 
 everything in an unsettled way ; and now I want to begin again 
 at my duties, my readings and pai-ish matters, as my life's work, 
 dteadily and in eai-nest.' 
 
 ' Not violently, not to drive care away.' 
 
 *I have tried that once, and will not again. You shall 
 arrange for me, and I will do just as you tell me ;' and she 
 raised hor eyes with the most deep and earnest gaze of con- 
 fiding love that hnd ever greeted Albinia from any of the three.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 471 
 
 Til try not tu grieve you, for you are too sorry for me ;' and 
 she threw her arms round her neck. * Oh, mamma ! nothing is 
 so bad when you help me to bear it !' 
 
 Tears fell fast at this precious effusion from the deep, sincere 
 heart, at the moment when Albiuia herself was most guilty 
 ill her own eyes. Embraces were her only answer, and how 
 fervent ! 
 
 ' And, mamma,' whispered Sophy, ' if you could only let me 
 have some small part of teaching little Albiuia.' 
 
 A trotting of small feet and a call of mamma was heard 
 The little maiden was come with her good-nights, and in one 
 moment Albinia had lifted her into her sister's arms, where she 
 was devoured with kisses, returning them with interest, and 
 with many a fondling ' Poor Sophy,' and ' Dear Sophy.' 
 
 When the last fond good-night had passed, and the little one 
 had gone away to her nest, Sophy said in a soft, natural, un- 
 constrained voice, ' I am very sleepy. If you will be so kind 
 as to send up my tea, I will go to bed. Thank you ; good- 
 night.' 
 
 That was the redrawing of the curtain of reserve, the resig- 
 nation of sentimeut, the resumption of common life. The 
 romance of Sophia Kendal's early life had ended when she 
 wounded her fingers in wreathiug Genevieve's hair. Her next 
 romance might be on behalf of her beautiful little sister. 
 
 Albinia was cured of her fretfulness towards the new order 
 of events, and her admiration of Sophy carried her through all 
 that was yet to come. It was the easier since Sophy did not insist 
 on unreasonable fjelf-raartyrdoms, and iu her gratitude for being 
 allowed her pv.-rpose in the main, was submissive in detail, and 
 had mercy on her own powers of endurance, not inflicting the 
 sight of the lovers on herself more than was needful, and not 
 struggling with the languor that was a good reason for remain- 
 ing much u])stairs. She worked and read, but without 
 ovei'doing anything, and wisely undertook a French translation, 
 as likely to occupy her attention without forcing her to over- 
 exert her powers. Not that she said so ; she carefully avoided 
 all reference to her feelings ; and Albinia could almost have 
 deemed the whole a dream, excepting for the occasional detec- 
 tion of a mournful fixed gaze, which was instantaneously winked 
 away as soon as Sophy herself became aware of it. 
 
 Her trouble, though of a kind proverbially the most hardening 
 and exacerbating, had an entirely contrary tendency on her. The 
 rigidity and harsh judgment which had betokened her states 
 of morbid depression since she had outgrown the sulky form, 
 had passed away, and she had been right in predicting that sha
 
 472 THE TOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 should not be ci'oss, for slie had become sweet and gentle towards 
 all. Her voice was pitched more softly, and though she looked 
 ill, and had lost the bloom which had once given her a sort of 
 Fjeauty, her eyes had a meek softness that made them finer than 
 when they wore the stern, steady glance that used to make 
 poor Gilbert quail. Her strength came not from pride, but 
 from Grace ; and to hei', disappointment was more softening 
 than even the prosperous affection that Albinia had imagined, 
 it was love ; not earthly but heavenly. 
 
 If her father had been less busy, her pale cheek might have 
 alarmed him ; Ijut he was very much taken up with builders 
 and estimates, with persuading some of the superfluous popu- 
 lation to emigrate, and arranging where they should go ; and 
 while she kej^t the family hours and habits, he did not notice 
 lesser indications of flagging spirits, or if he did, he was wise, 
 and thought the cause had better not be put into words. 
 
 Albiuia had brought herself to give fair sympathy to the 
 lovers ; and when once she had begun it was easy to go on, not 
 as ardently as if she had never indxilged in her folly, but enough 
 to gratify two such happy and gratolul people, who wanted no 
 one but each other, and agreed in nothing better than in think- 
 ing her a sort of guardian angel to them both. 
 
 Genevieve had assuredly never given her heart to Gilbert, 
 and it was ready in all the fi-eshness of maidenly bliss to meet 
 the manly ardour of Ulick O'More. He was almost over- 
 poweringly demonstrative and eager, now and then making game 
 of himself, but yet not able to help rushing down to Willow 
 Lawn ten or twelve times a day, just to satisfy himself that his 
 treasure was there ; and if he could not meet with hei', catching 
 hold of Mr. or Mrs. Kendal to rave till they drove him back to 
 his business. Such glee danced in his eyes, there was such 
 suppressed joyousuess in his countenance, and his step was so 
 much nearer a dance than a walk, that his very air well-nigh 
 betrayed what was to be an absolute secret, till there had been 
 an answer from C,illymakilty,iintil which time Genevieve would 
 not rest in the hope of a happy future, nor give up her fears 
 that she had not brought pain uj)ou him. 
 
 In he came at last, so exulting and so grateful, that it was a 
 shock to discover tluit 'the kindest letterand fullest consent in the 
 world,' meant his f ither's ' su])jiosing he would do as he pleased ; 
 as long as he asked for nothing, it was no concern of his.' It 
 was discoveied, by Ulick's delight, that he had expected to have 
 a battle, and Albinia was scandalized ; but Mr. Kendal told 
 her it .somewhiit depended on what manner of father it was, 
 whether an independent son could defer implicitly to his judg-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 473 
 
 mcnt ; and tliougli principle might withhold Ulick from flat 
 disobedience, he might not scruple at extorting rehictaut 
 consent. Besides his mother, whom he honoured far more really, 
 had written, not without di*;appointment, but with full con- 
 fidence in his ability to judge for himself. 
 
 Mr. Kendal and Mr. Ferrars both wrote warmly in Gene- 
 vieve's praise ; and certainly her footing at Willow Lawn was 
 tlie one point cTappui in bringing round the O'More family ; so 
 that as Ulick truly said, ' It was Mrs. Kendal whom he had to 
 thank for the blessing of his life.' Had poor Miss Goldsmith's 
 description of Miss Durant's birth, parentage, and education 
 been the only one that had reached Ballymakilty, a prohibition 
 would assuredly have been issued ; but he was left sufficiently 
 free to satisfy liis own conscience ; and before Genevieve had 
 surmounted half her scruples, the whole town was ringing with 
 the news, though no one could guess how it had got wind. To 
 be sure the Dusautoys had been put into a state of rapture, and 
 })Oor Mr. Hope had had the fatal stroke administered to him. 
 He looked so like a ghost that Mr. Dusautoy contrived to 
 release him at once, whereupon he went to try the most un- 
 wholesome curacy he could find, with serious intentions of 
 exchanging his living for it ; but he fortunately became so 
 severely and helplessly ill there, that he was pretty well cured 
 of his mental fever, and quite content to go to his heath, and do 
 his woi'k there like the humble and earnest man that he was, 
 perhaps all the better for having been personally taught some- 
 thing more than could be gained from books and colleges. 
 
 Miss Goldsmith was the most to be pitied. She would not 
 hear a word from her nephew, refused to go near Willow Lawn, 
 packed up her goods and went to Bath, where Ulick promised 
 the much distressed Genevieve that she would yet relent. Gene- 
 vieve was somewhat consoled by the increasing cordiality of 
 I he Irish letters, and was carried along by the extreme delight 
 and triumph of her good old aunt. By some wonderful exertion of 
 Irish faculties, Ulick succeeded in bringing mademoiselle to 
 Bayford in his jaunting car, when she laughed, wept, sobbed, and 
 embraced, in a bewilderment of transport ; pronounced the 
 trousseau worthy of an angel of the ancien regime ; warned 
 Genevieve against expecting amour to continue instead of amitie, 
 and carried home conversation for the nuns for the rest of their 
 
 uves. 
 
 That trousseau was Sophy's special charge, and most jealous 
 was she that it should in no respect fall short of that outfit of 
 Lucy's for which she liad cared so little. A haid task it was 
 to make Gene^d^ve accept what Lucy had exacted ; but Sophy
 
 474 THE TOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 held the purse-strings, wrote the orders, and had her own 
 way. 
 
 fcjhe and her little sister were the only available bridesmaids, 
 since Rose O'More was not allowed to come. Having made up 
 her mind to this from the first, when the subject came forward, 
 her open, clieerful look and manner were meant to show that 
 she was not afraid, and that her wish was real. Freely resign- 
 ing him, why should she not be glad to join in calling down the 
 blessing 1 
 
 The wedding was fixed for Easter week, whicb fell early, and 
 Albinia cast about for some excuse for taking her away after- 
 wards. An opportune occasion offered. Sir William Ferrars 
 wrote from the East to propose the Kendals meeting him in 
 Italy, and travelling home together ; he was longing, he said, 
 to see something of his sister, and he sliould enjoy sight-seeing 
 ten times as much with a clever man like her husband to tell 
 him all about it. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars strongly seconded the project ! Clever fellow, 
 not a word did he say ; but did not he know the secrets of that 
 household as well or better than the inmates themselves 1 
 
 Now that Tibb's Alley was deserted, and plans fixed, ai'chitect 
 and clerk of the works chosen, jNIarch winds ready for building 
 and underground work to begin at once, what could be more 
 prudent than for the inhabitants of Willow Lawn to remove far 
 from the disturbance of ancient drains and no drains, and betake 
 themselves to a purer atmosphere 1 Mr. Kendal was of no use 
 as a superintendent, and needed no persuasion to flee from the 
 chance ot typhus. 
 
 As to the childi'en, the time had come early when Maurice's 
 whole nature cried out for school. He was much improved, and 
 there was that real principle within him which made it not 
 un.safe to launch him in a world where he might meet with 
 more useful trials than those of home. Child as he was, his 
 propensities were too much limited by the bounds of the town- 
 house and garden, and the society of his sisters, one too old and 
 one too young to serve as tomlioys. He needed to meet his 
 match, and work his way ; Albinia felt that school had become 
 his element, and Mr. Kendal only wanted to make his education 
 the reverse ot Gilbert's ; so he ran nearly frantic between the 
 real jacket and the promise of going to school with Willie. He 
 knew not, though his mother mourned over, the coming heart- 
 sickness and mother-sickness of the first night, the first Sunday, 
 the first trouble. It was sure to be very severe in one of such 
 strong and affectionate feeling, liut it must come sooner or later, 
 and the better that it should be CDiiquered while home was etill
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEH. 475 
 
 ft paradise. Fairmead was not so far from his destination but 
 that his uncle would keep an eye on him ; and Winifred hela 
 out a hope that if the tour lasted long enough, he should bi'ing 
 out both boys to spend their holidays with them. A very good 
 Winifred ! 
 
 Albinia the Less was to become a traveller, for the good 
 reason that nobody could or would go without her. They were 
 to go direct to Lixcy, who was at Naples with a second boy, and 
 pining for home faces and home comforts — the inducement which 
 perhaps worked most strongly to make Sophy like the journey, 
 for since her delusion had been swept away, a doubly deejj and 
 intense feeling had sprung \;p towards her own only sister, whose 
 foibles had been forgotten in long se])aratioii. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE Lake of Lucerne lay blue and dai-k in the shade of tha 
 mountains, on whose summits the evening sunshine wa.s 
 fast mounting, peak after peak falling into purple shadow. 
 
 There was a small inlet where a stream rushed down be- 
 tween the hills ; and on the green slope stood a chalet, the rich 
 red of the roof contrasting with the green ])asture. A littlu 
 boat was moored to a stump near the land, and in it sat So]jhi;i 
 Kendal, her hat by her side, listening to and answering merrilj 
 the chatter of Maurice, who tumbled about in the boat, ofteji 
 causing it severe shocks, while he inspected the cut of the small 
 sail which she was making for the miniature specimen, which he 
 often tried in the clear cold water. 
 
 Farther off, a little up the hill-side, Willie Ferrars was hold- 
 ing the hand of the chestnut-curled, black-eyed fairy, ' little 
 Awk,' who was impressing him by her fluency in two languages 
 at once, according as she chattered to him in English, or in 
 French to a picturesque peasant, her great ally, who was mow- 
 ing his flowery crop of hay, glanciug like an illumination, with 
 an under-current of brilliant blossoms among the grass. 
 
 Wandering with slow conversational pace up and down the 
 beach of the lake, were Mr. Kendal and Sir William Ferrars, 
 conversing as usual ; the soldier, with quick alert comprehen- 
 sion, wide observation, and clearness of mind, which jumped to 
 the very points to which the scholar's deeply-read and long- 
 digested arguments were bringing him more slowly. 
 
 On a projecting point sat Albinia, her fair hair shaded under 
 her dark hat, beneath which her English complexion ,glowed
 
 470 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 fresh and youthful, as with flat tin box by her side, and block 
 sketch-book on her knee, she mixed and she i)ainted, and tiied 
 to catcli tliose purples and those blues with unabated ardour. 
 Suddenly a great trailing frond of mountain fern came over 
 the brim of her hat from behind. ' Oh, Maurice, don't !' Then 
 looking up and laughing, ' Oh, it is you, is it? I know Maurice 
 would do, whichever it might be ; but see, the other is quite out 
 of mischief.' 
 
 ' Unless he should upset Sophy into the lake.' 
 
 ' He cau't do that, the rope is too short. But is not he very 
 much improved? He has quite lost his imperious manner 
 towards her.' 
 
 ' Nothing like school for making a boy behave himself to his 
 sisters.' 
 
 ' Exactly, as I learnt by experience long ago. I am glad 
 William did not see him till he had learnt to be agreeable. 
 How he does admire him !' 
 
 ' You'll never make anything of that sketch ; the mountain 
 ia humpbacked, and the face of that precipice is exactly liko 
 Colonel Bury ;' and he caught up a pencil to help out the re- 
 semblance with nostril and eyebrow. 
 
 ' For shame, to be so mischievieous ; such a gr-^at boy as you.* 
 
 ' Well, we all came out here to be great boys,, didn't we? I 
 am sure you look a dozen years younger than when I last saw 
 you, Mrs. Grandmother. By-the-by, it was a bold stroke to 
 encumber yourself with tliat brat ; what's become of him V 
 
 ' Susan has taken him in asleep. You see, Maurice, I really 
 could not help it, the poor little thing was so sickly, and had 
 never thriven ; but when they were a little while in bracing 
 air, Lucy was longing to have him in England, and his father, 
 who never believes in anything but what he likes, loould not 
 see it; and what with those Italian servants, and Algernon hunt- 
 ing Lucy about as he docs, it would have been the death of him. 
 Susan, good creature, had taken to him of her own accord the 
 moment we came to Naples, and could not have borne to leave 
 him ; and you know the A wk is almost off her hands now ; and 
 Sophy, who first ])roposed it, or I am sure I should never have 
 ventured, is delighted to do anything for either of them, and 
 always has lier little sister in her room. As to papa, he was 
 very good ; and the child is very little in his way, and has been 
 quite well ever since we have been in this delicious air.' 
 
 ' How did you get Lucy to consent ?' 
 
 ' Poor dear, it was a melancholy business ; but she had so 
 often be<ai in alarm about him, and had suflered so much from 
 ha^•ing to leave him with people she did not trust, that sha
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 477 
 
 caught at tlie proposal before she f;T,irly contemplated what the 
 [jarting would be ; and when she did, Algernon was too glad to 
 be reKeved from him not to keep her up to it ; but it wont do 
 to think of it, she has her baby, who is healthier, and if thej 
 remain abroad, I suspect we shall keep little Ralph altogether; 
 he is a dear little fellow, and Sophy has so taken possession of 
 Albinia, that I shovdd be quite lost if I did not set up a private 
 child. 
 
 * What do you call him ? I thought his name was Belraven.' 
 
 * I could not possibly call him so ; and his aunts, by way of 
 adding to the aviary, made him Ralph the Raven, so I mean it 
 to stick by him ; I believe papa has forgotten the other dreadful 
 fact, for I caught him giving his name as Ralph Cavendish Dii- 
 sautoy. How the dear vicar of Bayford will devour him ! and 
 what work I shall have to keep him from being spoilt 1' 
 
 ' Then you think they will remain abroad V 
 
 * Algernon hates England ; and all his habits are foreign.' 
 
 * Did he make himself tolerably agreeable f 
 
 ' He really did. One could bear to be patronized by one's 
 host better than by one's guest, and he was in wholesome awe 
 of William. Besides, he is really at home in Italy, and knows 
 his way about so well, that he was not a bad Cicerone. I am 
 sure Sophy could never have done either Vesuvius or Pompeii 
 without his arrangements ; and as long as he had a victim for 
 his catalogue raisonn'ee, he was very placable and obliging. That 
 was all extracts, so it really was not so bad.' 
 
 ' So you were satisfied V 
 
 * He has a bad lot about him, that's the worst — Polish counts, 
 desreputable artists and poets, any one who has a spurious sort 
 of fame, and knows how to flatter him. Edmund was terribly 
 disgusted.' 
 
 * Veiy bad for his wife.' 
 
 * You see, she is a thorough-going mother, and no linguist. 
 She really is imjiroved, and I like her more really than ever I 
 could, poor dear. I believe her head was once quite turned, 
 and that he influenced her entirely, and made her forget every- 
 thing else ; but she has a heart, though not much of a head, and 
 sorrow and illness and childi'en have brought it out ; and she is 
 what a 'very woman' becomes, I suppose, if there be any good 
 iu her, an abstract wife and mother.' 
 
 * Was it not dangerous to take away her child V 
 
 ' There was another, you know, and it was to save his life. 
 !I'he duties clashed, and were destroying all comfort.' 
 ' How does he behave to her Y 
 ' I believe she has all the love he has to spare ; lie is proud
 
 4,78 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 of her, and dresses hor up, and Las endless portraits of her. 
 Luckily she keeps her beauty. She is more refined, and has 
 more expression ; one could sometimes cry to watch her ; and 
 he likes to have her with him, and to discourse to her, but with- 
 out the slightest percejttion or consideration of what she would 
 prefer, and with no notion of sacrificing anything for her or the 
 children. I know she is afraid of him ; I have seen her tremble 
 if there were any chance of his being annoyed ; and she would 
 not object to any plan of his if it were to cost Aerlife. I believe 
 it would be misery to her, but I think she would resist — ay, she 
 did resist, and in vain, for the sake of her child.' 
 
 ' Does her affection hold out, do you think V 
 
 * Oh, yes, the spaniel and walnut-tree love, which is in us 
 all, and doubly in the very woman. It is very beautiful. She 
 is so proud of him and of her gilded slavery, and so uncon- 
 sciously submissive and patient ; but it is a harder life. I guess, 
 than we can see. I am sure it must be, for every bit of per- 
 sonal vanity and levity is worn out of her ; she only goes out 
 to satisfy him ; dresses to please his eye, and talks, with her 
 eye seeking round for him, in dread of being rebuked for 
 mistakes or bad French. And for the rest, her joy is to be left 
 in peace with little Algernon upon her lap. Yes, I hope living 
 in all womanly virtues may be training and compensation ; but 
 the saddest part of the aflfair is that he does not think it fashion- 
 able to be religious, and she has not moral courage to make 
 open resistance.' 
 
 ' May it come,' fervently. 
 
 ' It is strange, how much more real and good a creature she 
 is now, than when at home in the midst of all external obser- 
 vances. Yet it cannot be right ! she surely ought to make 
 more stand ; but it is too, too literally being afraid to say her 
 soul is her own, for she is unhappy. She does the utmost 
 she can without ofiending him, and feels it as she never did 
 before.' 
 
 'There is no judging,' said Maurice, as his sister looked 
 at him with eyes full of sorrowful yearning. ' No one can tell 
 where are the boundaries of the two duties. Poor girl ! she 
 has put herself into a state of temptation and trial ; but she 
 may be shielded by her exercise of so much that is simply 
 good, and her womanly qualities may become not idolatry, but 
 u training in reaching higher.' 
 
 ' JNIay it be so, indeed !' said AlViinia. * Oh, Maurice ! how I 
 once disdained being told I was too young, and how true it 
 was ! What visions I had about those three, and what failures 
 have resulted V
 
 THE YOUNG STEP -MOTH EP.. 47i) 
 
 ' Your visions may have vauislied, but you did your work 
 Mthfully, and it has not been fruitless.' 
 
 ' Ay, in shipwrecked lives. Mischiefs wherever I meant to 
 do best ! Why, I let even my own Maurice grow unmanage- 
 able while I was nursing poor grandmamma. The voluntary 
 duty choked the natural one, and yet — ' 
 
 ' And yet,' interrupted her brother, ' that was no error.' 
 
 * Oh, no ! I would not have done it for anything.' 
 
 * Nor do I think the boy the worse for it. I may venture 
 now on saying he was intolerable, and it hastened school ; but 
 though your rein was loose, you never let it fall ; and maybe, 
 the self-conquest was the best thing for him. If you had 
 neglected him wilfully for your own pleasure, nothing but 
 harm could have been expected. As you were absorbed by a 
 sacred act of duty, I believe it will all be made ujj to you in 
 your sou.' 
 
 ' Oh, Maurice, if I might trust so ! I believe I am doubly 
 set on that boy doing well, because his father must not, must 
 not have another pang !' 
 
 ' I think he knows that. I do not imagine that he will 
 never be carried astray by high spirits ; but 1 am sure that he 
 has the strength, honour, and sweetness that ai'e the elements 
 of greatness !' 
 
 ' iSTothing we did so changed him as the loss of his brother. 
 Oh, Maurice ! there was my most earnest wish to do right, and 
 my most fatal mistake !' 
 
 ' And greatest success. Gilbert owed everything to you.' 
 
 ' Had I but silenced my foolish pride, he might have been 
 safe in India now.' 
 
 ' We do not know how safe he might be. I did indeed 
 think it a pity your influence led the other way, but things 
 might have been far worse ; if you made some blunders, your 
 love and your earnestness were working on that susceptible 
 nature ; and what better ho]»e can we wish to have than what 
 rested with us at Malta? what better influence than has re- 
 mained with Maurice or with Fred V 
 
 Albinia had not yet learnt to talk calmly of Gilbert's last 
 hours, so she put this aside, and smiling through her tears, said, 
 ' Ah ! when Emily writes to Sophy, that their boy is to have his 
 name, since they can wish nothing better for him than to be 
 like him.' 
 
 ' The past vision always a little above what is visible V 
 
 ' Hardly. Emily and Fred are as proud of each other as two 
 peacocks ; and well they may be, for — stoop down, 'tis an intense 
 secret ; but do you know the effect of their Sebastopol den]'
 
 4)80 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHER. 
 
 'Ehf 
 
 'Lieutenant-General Sir William Ferrai'S is going out :n 
 quest of Emily's younger sister.' 
 
 ' You riiliculous child ! That's a trick of yours,' 
 
 * No, indeed. William was surprised into a moment of con- 
 fidence, walking home in the moonlight from the Coliseum. En 
 vrai militaire, he has begun at the right end, and written to 
 Mr. Kinnaird to ask leave to come and try his luck ; and cool 
 as he looks, I believe he would rather prepare for Inkerniann.' 
 
 ' Well ! if he be not making a fool of himself at his time of 
 life, I am sure 1 am very glad V 
 
 ' Time of life ! He's but three years older than Edmund. 
 If you are not more respectful, we shall have to go out to Canada 
 to countenance him.' 
 
 'I shall be rejoiced to see him with a home, and finding 
 life beyond his profession ; but I had rather he had known 
 more of her,' 
 
 'That's what he never would do. He cannot talk to a 
 Foiing lady. Why he admires Lucy a great deal more than 
 Sophy !' 
 
 ' Well, judging by the recent brides, I think if it had been me, 
 I should have gone in search of Mrs, Ulick O'More's younger 
 sister.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I wanted particularly to hear of your visit at the 
 bank. You had luncheon there, I think. How do they get on f 
 
 ' It is the most charming menage in the world. She looks 
 very graceful and elegant, and keeps him in great order, and is 
 just the wife he wanted — a little sauciness and piquancy to 
 spur him up at one time, and restrain him at another, with the 
 real ballast that both have, makes such a perfect conijiound, 
 that it is only too delightful to see anything so hapjty and ho 
 good in this world. They both seem to have such vivid enjoy- 
 ment of life.' 
 
 ' Pray, has any one called on Genevieve 1 though she co\ild 
 dispense with it.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; Bryan O'More spent a fortnight there. And see 
 what a moustache will do ! The Osbornes, Drurys, Wolf'es, 
 and Co., all dubbed themselves dear Mi-s. O'More's dearest 
 friends, T found a circle of tliem round her, and when I 
 observed that Bryan was not h;df such a handsome fellow as 
 his brother, you should see how I was scorned.' 
 
 ' I hope Bryan may not play his father's game again. Do 
 you know how she was received in Ireland V 
 
 'Tlie wliole clan adore her! Ulick, with his Anglo-Sa.Kon 
 truthiulness, got into serious scrapes for endeavouring to dis-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTH EK, 481 
 
 abuse them of the notion tliat she was sole heiress of the ancient 
 luarquisate of Durant. I believe Connei was ready to call 
 Ulick out for disrespect to his own wife.' 
 
 ' And was she happy there T 
 
 ' Very nauch amused, and treated like a queen ; charmed 
 ivith his mother, and great friends with Rose. They have 
 brought Redmond home to lick him into shape, and I believe 
 Rose is to come and be tamed.' 
 
 ' Always Ulick's wish,' said Albinia, as her eye fixed upon 
 Sophy. 
 
 And her brother, with perhaps too obvious a connexion of 
 ideas, said, ' Is she quite strong V 
 
 ' Very well,' said Albinia. ' I am glad we brought her. The 
 sight of beauty has been like a new existence. I saw it on her 
 brow, in calmness and rest, the first evening of the Bay of 
 Naples. It has seemed to soothe and elevate her, though all 
 :n her own silent way ; but watch her as she sits with her face 
 to those mountains, hear her voicj, and you will feel that the 
 presence of grandeur and beauty is repose and happiness to 
 her ; and I think the remembrance will always be so, even in 
 work-a-day Bayford.' 
 
 ' Yes ; because remembrance of such glory connects with hope 
 of future glory.' 
 
 'And it is a rest from human frets and passions. She has 
 taken to botany, too ; and I am glad, for I think those studies 
 tlmt draw one off" from men's works and thoughts, do most good 
 to the weary, self-occujiied brain. And the children are a 
 delight to her !' 
 
 ' Sophy is your greatest work.' 
 
 ' Not mine !' cried Albinia. ' The noblest by nature, the 
 dearest, the most generous.' 
 
 * Gi-eat qualities ; but they would have been only wretched 
 self-preying torments, but for the softening of your affection,' 
 said Maurice. 
 
 ' Dear, dear friend and sister and child in one,' cried Albinia. 
 And then meeting her brother's eyes, she said, ' Yes ; you know 
 to the full how noble she is, and how ' 
 
 ' I can guess how imprudent a young step-mother can be,' 
 said Maurice, smiling. 
 
 * It is vei'y strange. I don't know how to be thankful enough 
 for it ; but really her spirits have been more equal, her temper 
 more even than ever it had been, and that just when I thought 
 my folly had been most ruinous.' 
 
 * Yes, Albinia. After all, it is more than man can hope or 
 •jxpect to make no blunders ; but I do verily believe that while 
 
 I I
 
 482 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTH EK. 
 
 an earnest will saves us, by God's grace, from wilful sins, the 
 effects of the inadvertences that teach us our secret faults will 
 not be fatal; and while we are indeed honestly and faithfully 
 doing our best, though we are truly unprofitable servants, that 
 our lap!»es through infirmity will be compensated, both in the 
 training of our own character and the results upon others.' 
 
 ' If we are indeed faithfully doing our best,' repeated 
 Albiniu. 
 
 THE EXD, 
 
 R. CLAV, SON, AND TAYLOK, PRIM KRS, 
 BREAD STREET HILL.
 
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