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 THE 
 
 YOUNG STEP-MOTHER; 
 
 OK, 
 
 A CHEONICLE OF MISTAKES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE,' ' HEARTSEASE,' ETC. 
 
 Fail — yet rejoice, because no less 
 The failure that makes thy distress 
 May teach another full success. 
 
 Nor with thy share of work be vexed, * 
 Though incomplete and even perplexed 
 It fits exactly to the next 
 
 Adelaide A. Proctor. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL I. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 443 & 445 BROADWAY, 
 1862.
 
 *3 
 
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 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEB. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 4 Have you talked it over with her ? ' said Mr. Fer- 
 rars, as his little slender wife met him under the beeches 
 that made an avenue of the lane leading to Fairmead 
 
 a 
 
 * 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 ? ' 
 
 ' 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 wilh a good 
 grace.' 
 
 * If I could have had my own way in disposing of her.' 
 ' Perhaps the hero of your own composition might be 
 
 less satisfactory to her than is Kendal.' 
 
 1 At least he should be minus the children ! ' 
 
 ' I fancy the children are one great attraction. Do 
 
 you know how many there are 1 ' 
 
 ' Three ; but if Albinia knows their ages she involves 
 
 them in a discreet haze. I imagine some are in their 
 
 teens.' 
 
 1 Impossible, Winifred ; he is hardly five-and- thirty.' 
 
 39£6£/t
 
 4 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Thirty-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 afforded field enough for her spirit of use- 
 fulDess.' 
 
 ' That is what I am afraid of.' 
 
 'Of what, Winifred?' 
 
 1 That it is my fault. Before our marriage, you and 
 she were the whole world to each other ; but since I came, 
 I have seen, as you say, that the craving for work was 
 strong, and I fear it actuates her more than she knows.' 
 
 ' So 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 who 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 ? 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 sure 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 
 cannot, 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 hus- 
 band, ' 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 feeling for motherless 
 children ! '
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 5 
 
 ' Thinking of Kendal as I do, I have but one fear for 
 her.' 
 
 * I have many — the chief being the grandmother.' 
 
 I Mine will make you angry, but it is my only one. 
 You, who have only known her since she has subdued it, 
 have probably never guessed that she has that sort of 
 quick sensitive temper — ' 
 
 ' Maurice, Maurice ! as if I had not been a most pro- 
 voking, presuming sister-in-law. As if I had not acted 
 so that if Albinia ever had a temper, she must have 
 shown it.' 
 
 I 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 suspect me of. No, indeed ; but I fear it may make 
 her feel any trials of her position more acutely than a 
 placid person would.' 
 
 ' Oho ! so you own there will be trials ! ' 
 
 c My dear "Winifred, as if I had not set 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 she is so much attached ! Have you 
 heard anything about these connexions of his ? 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 
 Bay ford Bridge a few years, and she never visited 'any 
 one there, though Mr. Nugent had met Mr. Kendal sev- 
 eral times before his wife's death, and liked him. Emily 
 is charmed to have Albinia for a neighbour.' 
 
 c Does she know nothing of the Meadows' family ? ' 
 
 * Nothing but that old Mrs. Meadows lives in the 
 town with one unmarried daughter. 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.' 
 
 1 Is he married 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 Bury ? '
 
 b THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 * I did, but he could say little more than we knew. 
 He says 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 gentle- 
 manly feeling did not tell as much as could have been 
 wished. He has always been wrapped up in his own 
 pursuits — a perfect dictionary of information.' 
 
 1 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 
 acquirements to the utmost. I assure you, Winifred, I 
 mean to be proud of my brother-in-law.' 
 
 ' What did you hear of the first wife ? ' 
 
 ' 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, housewifely, commonplace person. 
 I should think there had been a poet's love, never awak- 
 ened 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 ship, and saw much of them, liked him better and better, 
 and seems to have been rather w r earied by her. A very 
 good woman, 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 visita- 
 tion 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 fine fellow, and his father's especial 
 pride and delight. As so often happens, the sickly one 
 was spared, the healthy one was taken.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 1 
 
 * Then Albinia will have an invalid on her hands ! ' 
 1 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 grief, and sank under the fever at once. 
 
 Poor Kendal has never held up his head since ; he had a 
 
 terrible relapse.' 
 
 I And,' said Winifred, ' he no sooner recovers than he 
 goes and marries our Albinia ! ' 
 
 ' Two years, my dear.' 
 
 { Pray explain to me, Maurice, why, when people be- 
 come widowed in any unusually lamentable way, they 
 always are the first to marry again.' 
 
 ' Incorrigible ! I meant to make you pity him.' 
 
 I I did, till I found I had wasted my pity. Why could 
 not these Meadowses look after his children ? Why must 
 the Colonel bring him here ? I believe it was with malice 
 prepense ! a 
 
 i The Colonel went to see after him, and found him so 
 drooping 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. 
 
 1 And pray what do you mean to say to the General ? ' 
 
 ' Exactly what I think.' 
 
 ' And to the aunts ? ' slily asked the wife. 
 
 ' I think I shall leave you all that correspondence. It 
 will be too edifying to see you making common cause 
 with the aunts.' 
 
 1 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, first wife, and 
 melancholy, he does not look amiss ! ' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars smiled at the chary, grudging commen- 
 dation of the tall, handsome man who advanced through 
 the beech-wood ; but it was too true that his clear olive 
 complexion had not the hue of health, that there was a
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 world of oppression on his broad brow and deep hazel 
 eyes, and that it was a dim, dreamy, reluctant 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 blushed and nodded to her brother and sister, showed 
 that liveliness was the natural expression 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 distinguished Peninsular officer, and his 
 brother, older by many years, held a command in Can- 
 ada. Maurice and Albinia, early left orphans, had, with 
 a young cousin, been chiefly under the charge of their 
 aunts, Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars, and had found a 
 kind home in their house in Mayfair, until Maurice had 
 been ordained to the family living of Fairmead, and his 
 sister had gone to live with him there, extorting the con- 
 sent 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 par- 
 entage, 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 YOUXG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 the engagement of their favourite niece to a retired East 
 India Company's servant — a widower with three children. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The equinoctial sun had long set, and the blue haze 
 of March east wind had deepened into twilight and dark- 
 ness when Albinia Kendal found herself driving down the 
 steep hilly street of Bay ford. The town was not large 
 nor modern enough for gas, and the dark street was only 
 lighted here and there by a shop of more 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 bar- 
 gains. 
 
 * 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 off, 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 be- 
 neath the carriage, as though crossing a wooden bridge — 
 trees — bright windows — an open door — and light stream- 
 ing from it. 
 
 ' Here is your home, Albinia,' said that deep musical 
 voice that she loved the better for the subdued melan- 
 choly 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 opposite, where, in the lamp-light, she saw, moving 
 l*
 
 10 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 are Lucy, I 
 am sure,' and eagerly kissed the girl's smiling, bright face. 
 
 ' Yes, I am Lucy,' was the well-pleased answer ; ' I am 
 glad you are come.' 
 
 1 1 hope we shall be very good friends,' said Albinia, 
 with the sweet 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 alone inherited her father's fine straight profile, and 
 large black eyes ; but she had the heaviness of feature 
 that sometimes goes 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 ; more- 
 over, 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 different 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 indiffer- 
 ence — it might be shyness 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 j and Sophia's face might have be- 
 fitted any age. 
 
 1 Yes, papa,' said Lucy ; ' Gilbert has grown an inch- 
 and-a-half since October, for we measured him.'
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 11 
 
 Have you been well, Gilbert ? ' continued Mr. Ken- 
 dal, anxiously. 
 
 ' I have the toothache,' said Gilbert, piteously. 
 
 1 Happily, nothing more serious/ thrust in Lucy ; 
 ' Mr. Bowles told Aunt Maria that he considers Gilbert's 
 health much improved.' 
 
 Albinia asked some kind questions about the delin- 
 quent tooth, but the answers were short ; and, to put an 
 end to the general constraint, she asked Lucy to show her 
 to her room. 
 
 It was a pretty bay-windowed room, and looked cheer- 
 ful 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 ? ' 
 
 ' 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 ? ' 
 
 I We went to Miss Belmarche till the end of our 
 quarter, and since that we have been at home, or with 
 grandmamma. Do you really mean that we are to study 
 with you ? ' 
 
 I I should like it, my dear. I have been looking for- 
 ward very much to teaching you and Sophia.' 
 
 ' Thank you, mamma.' 
 
 The word was said with an effort, as if it came strangely, 
 but it thrilled Albinia's heart, and she kissed Lucy, who 
 clung to her, and returned the caress. 
 
 1 1 shall tell Gilbert and Sophy what a dear mamma 
 you are,' she said. ' Do you know, Sophy says she shall 
 never call you anything but Mrs. Kendal ; and I know 
 Gilbert means the same. 
 
 1 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
 
 12 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 them, and of your own dear mother, and what will suit 
 papa best.' 
 
 Luey looked highly gratified, and eagerly said, ' I am 
 sure I shall love you just like my own mamma.' 
 
 1 No,' said Albinia, kindly ; ' I do not expect that, my 
 dear. I don't ask for any more than you can freely give, 
 dear child. You must 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 im- 
 petuous, and make mistakes.' 
 
 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 chiffonieres, the or- 
 naments, and some pretty Indian ivory carvings. There 
 w r as a great ottoman of Aunt Maria's work, and a huge 
 cushion with an Arab horseman, that Lucy would uncover, 
 whispering, c Poor mamma worked it, while Sophy vis- 
 ibly 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. 
 
 1 No ; old Nurse kept the keys, and managed till 
 now ; but she went this morning.' 
 
 Sophy's mouth twitched. 
 
 ' She was so very fond — ' continued Lucy. 
 
 1 Don't ! ' burst out Sophy, almost the first word 
 Albinia had heard from her ; but no more passed, for 
 Mr. Kendal came in, and Lucy's conversation instantly 
 was at an end. 
 
 Before him she was almost as silent as the others, and 
 he seldom addressed himself to her, only inquiring once 
 after her grandmamma's health, and once calling Sophy 
 out of the way when she was standing between the fire
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHEB. 13 
 
 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 commence- 
 ment of motherly care, and to meet an affectionate glance 
 of thanks from Mr. Kendal's eye. Gilbert, too, thanked 
 her with less shyness than before, and was hopeful about 
 the remedy ; and with the feeling of having made a be- 
 ginning, 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.' 
 
 I You must not say that, they are my own.' 
 
 ' I will not say it again, but as I look at you, and the 
 home to which I have brought you, I feel that I have 
 acted selfishly.' 
 
 Albinia timidly pressed his hand. ' Work was always 
 what I wished,' she said ; ' if only I could do any thing 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, how- 
 ever, 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 mur- 
 mured ; ' I only wish to do what I can for you, and you 
 will not let me disturb yon.' 
 
 ' 1 am very grateful to you,' was his answer ; a sad 
 welcome for a bride. ' And these poor children will owe 
 every thing to you.' 
 
 I I wish I may do right by them,' said Albinia, fer- 
 vently. 
 
 ' The flower of the flock ' — began Mr. Kendal, but he 
 broke off at once. 
 
 Albinia had told Winifred that she could bear to have 
 his wife's memory first with him, and that she knew that
 
 14 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 she could not compensate to him for his 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 re- 
 semble 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 out- 
 line 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. 
 
 1 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 ! Sunday morning 
 — my last Sunday without school-teaching, I hope ! I 
 famish to begin again — and I will make time for that, and 
 the girls too ! I am glad he consents to my doing what- 
 ever I please in that way ! I hope Mr. Dusautoy will ! 
 I wish Edmund knew him better — but oh ! what a shy 
 man he is ! ' 
 
 With a light step she went down-stairs, and found 
 Mr. Kendal waiting for her in the dining-room, his face 
 brightening as she entered. 
 
 ' I am sorry Bayford 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. 
 
 1 You will take me ? ' said Albinia. c I wish it, 1 
 assure you.' 
 
 It was evidently what he wished her to propose, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 15 
 
 he added, ' She must never feel herself 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 
 unpleasing 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.' 
 
 As he spoke, the sisters appeared in the full and con- 
 scious rustling of new lilac silk dresses, which seemed to 
 have happily carried off all Sophy's sullenness ; for she 
 made much more brisk and civil answers, and ran across 
 the room in a boisterous maimer, when her father sent 
 her to see whether Gilbert were up. 
 
 There was a great clatter, and Gilbert chased her in, 
 breathless and scolding, but the tongues were hushed be- 
 fore papa, and no more was heard than that the tooth was 
 better, and had not kept him awake. Lucy seemed dis- 
 posed to make conversation, overwhelming Albinia with 
 needless repetitions of ' Mamma dear,' and plunging into 
 what Mrs. 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. Arbinia 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 something about what Jane heard 
 from Mrs. Osborn'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 ? ' 
 
 Sophy's great eyes expanded, and Lucy said, ' Oh dear 
 mamma ! nobody does that but Genevieve Durant and
 
 16 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 the monitors. Miss Wolfe did till Mr. Dusautoy came, 
 but she does not approve of him.' 
 
 ' Lucy, you do not know what you are saying,' said 
 Mr. Kendal, and again there was an annihilating silence, 
 which Albinia did not attempt to disturb. 
 
 At church time, she met the young ladies in the hall, 
 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 bon- 
 net, 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 ? Albinia 
 could only make civility compatible with truth by saying 
 that the colour was pretty, but where was Gilbert ? He 
 was on a stool before the dining-room fire, looking pit- 
 eous, and pronouncing his tooth far too bad for going to 
 church, and she had just time for a fresh administration 
 of camphor before M r. 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 pretensions, and sheer behind them rose the 
 steep hill, with the church nearly at the summit, the 
 noble spire tapering high above, and the bells ringing 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 als •>, but Mr. 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, how- 
 ever, and looking up and down the broad street, so as to 
 be secure that no acquaintance was near, he emerged with
 
 THE TOTjNG STEP-MOTHEK. 1Y 
 
 Albinia from the gate, and crossed the road as the chime 
 of the bells changed. 
 
 ' We are late/ he said. ' You will prefer the speed- 
 iest way, thought 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 pictu- 
 resquely 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 hun- 
 dred shallow steps cut out in the soft stone of the hill, 
 with landing-places here and there, whence views were 
 seen of the rich meadow-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 peri- 
 winkle here and there hanging down. 
 
 The ascent ended in an old-fashioned stone stile ; and 
 here Sophy, standing on the step, proclaimed, with unne- 
 cessary loudness, that Mr. Dusautoy was carrying Mrs. 
 Dusautoy across the churchyard. This had the effect of 
 making a pause, but Albinia saw the rector, a tall, pow- 
 erful 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 w T as full of admira- 
 tion as Mr. Kendal conducted her along the flagged 
 
 , O DO 
 
 path. 
 
 She was rather dismayed to find herself mounting the 
 gallery stairs, and to emerge into a well-cushioned abode, 
 with the shield-bearing angel of the corbel of an arch all
 
 18 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 to herself, and a very good view of the cobwebs over Mr. 
 Dusautoy's sounding-board. It seemed to suit all par- 
 ties, 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 : — 
 
 i To the memory of Lucy, the beloved wife of Edmund 
 Kendal. Died February 18th, 1845, aged 35 years. 
 
 Edmund Meadows Kendal, born January 20th, 1834. 
 Died February 10th, 1845. 
 
 Maria Kendal, born September 5th, 1840. Died Sep- 
 tember 14th, 1840. 
 
 Sarah Anne Kendal, born October 3d, 1841. Died 
 November 20th, 1843. 
 
 John Augustus Kendal, born January 4th, 1842. 
 Died July 6th, 1842. 
 
 Anne Maria Kendal, born June 12th, 1844. Died 
 June 19th, 1844.' 
 
 Then followed, in the original Greek, the words, ' Be- 
 cause 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 cra- 
 dles, and not only did compassion for the past affect Al- 
 binia, 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 such 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 the 
 sickness that destroyeth at noon-day. 
 
 But Mr. Dusautoy's deep, powerful intonations roused 
 her wandering thoughts, and she was calmed and reas- 
 sured by the holy Feast, in which she joined with her 
 husband. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's fine face was calm and placid, as best 
 she loved to look 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 re-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 19 
 
 pose and enjoyment in the species of respect exacted by 
 his grave silent demeanour. 
 
 It* this could only have lasted longer ! but he was tak- 
 ing her along an irregular street, and too soon she saw a 
 slight colour flit across his cheek, and his eyebrows con- 
 tract, as he unlatched a green door in a high wall, and 
 entered a little flagged court, decorated by a stand des- 
 tined for flowers. 
 
 Albinia caught the blush, and felt more bashful than 
 she had believed was in her nature, but she had a warm- 
 hearted determination that she would work down preju- 
 dices, 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 welcomes 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 cush- 
 ions, like a repository of every species of female orna- 
 mental handiwork in vogue for the last half century, and 
 the luncheon-tray in the middle of all, ready for six peo- 
 ple, 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 forwards 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-look- 
 ing, with a sw^eet tone in her voice, great softness of man- 
 ner, and pretty blue eyes. Albinia only wished that she 
 had worn mourning, it w^ould have been so much more 
 becoming than bright colours ; but that was soon over- 
 looked 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,
 
 20 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 such as evidently had set her off to advantage when she 
 had been a bright, dark, handsome girl ; but her hair was 
 thin, her cheeks haggard, the colour hardened, and her 
 forty years apparent, above all, in an uncomfortable fur- 
 row 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 commencements 
 whenever she spoke. Albinia 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 teazing stiff 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 his aunt spoke in her shrill, injured note, as she 
 declared that she had done her utmost to persuade him to 
 have the tooth extracted, 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 care- 
 ful treatment ; and when Albinia hoped that he was out- 
 growing his ill-health, she was amused to find that de- 
 sponding 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 dis- 
 turbance which Sophy did not take with such placid looks 
 as did her grandmother. 
 
 The name of the maid was Eweretta Dobson, at which 
 there was a general exclamation. 
 
 1 1 wonder what is the history of the name 1 ' said Al- 
 binia; 'it sounds like nothing but the diminutive of
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-ilOTHEE. 21 
 
 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 know- 
 ing what she meant, and she felt as if she had been mak- 
 ing a foolish attempt at wit. 
 
 " ' You need not call her 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. ' Pbeg your pardon,' 
 she said. ' It is only a fancy of my own. I am afraid 
 that I have many fancies for my friends to bear with. 
 You see I have 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 compli- 
 cation of pros and cons about writing for the woman's 
 character, looking miserably harassed whether she would 
 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, ' perhaps 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
 
 22 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 ? Are you ready ? ' 
 and she glanced up at her husband, but he only half 
 heard. 
 
 ' No,' said Miss Meadows, fretfully ; ' but you have not 
 appeared 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 ; '1 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 married for no better a bonnet than that. 
 
 ' Absurdity ! ' said Mr. 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 that house, and was very glad when he proposed going 
 home. He took a kind, affectionate leave of the old lady, 
 who again looked fondly in his face, and rejoiced in his 
 having recovered his looks. 
 
 As they arrived at home, Lucy announced that she 
 was just going to speak to Lizzie Osborn, and Sophy ran 
 after her to a house of about the same degree as their 
 own, but dignified as Mount Lodge, because it stood on 
 the hill side of the street, while Mr. Kendal's house was 
 for more gentility called ' Willow Lawn.' Gilbert was 
 not to be found ; but at four o'clock the whole party met 
 at dinner, before 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. You must go to 
 Mr. Bowles directly 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 23 
 
 where 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 excite- 
 ment, drew her chair to the fire, and as Lucy was hang- 
 ing 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 was apparently the great want of the whole 
 family on Sunday. 
 
 Lucy's first confidence was that Gilbert had not been 
 out alone, but with that Archibald Tritton. Mr. Tritton 
 had a great farm, and was a sort of gentleman, and Gil- 
 bert was always after that Archy. She thought it ' very 
 undesirable,' and Aunt Maria had talked to him about it, 
 but he never listened to Aunt Maria. 
 
 Albinia privately thought that it must 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. 
 
 1 And Edmund, dear Edmund, was always so kind and 
 so fond of Gilbert ! ' said Lucy. ' You would not have 
 thought they were twins, Edmund was so much the tall- 
 est 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 ? ' 
 
 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 hav- 
 ing to give such a narration, and exciting emotion and 
 pity. It was remarkable how she managed to make her- 
 self the heroine of the story, though she had been sent 
 out of the house, and had escaped the infection. She 
 spoke in phrases that showed that she had so often told the 
 story as to have a set form, caught from her elders, but 
 still it had a deep and intrinsic interest for the bride, that 
 made her sit gazing into the fire, pressing Lucy's hand, 
 and now and then sighing and shuddering slightly as she
 
 24 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 heard 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 escape it had been that she had not kissed them 
 before going to school. Sophy had sickened the same 
 day, and after the tedious three weeks, when father and 
 mother were spent with attendance on the three, Ed- 
 mund, after long delirium, had suddenly sunk, just as 
 they had hopes of him ; and the same message that told 
 Lucy of her brother's death, told her of the severe illness 
 of both parents. 
 
 The disease had done the work rapidly on the moth- 
 er's exhausted frame, and she was buried a week after her 
 boy. Lucy had seen the procession from the window, 
 and thought it necessary to tell how she had cried. 
 
 Mr. Kendal's had been a long illness ; the first knowl- 
 edge of his loss had caused a relapse, and his recovery 
 had long been doubtful. As soon as the children were 
 able to move, they were sent with Miss Meadows to 
 Eamsgate, and Lucy had joined them there. 
 
 ' The day before I went, 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 hol- 
 low, and he was quite trembling, as he lay back on pil- 
 lows 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 camiot bear it." I assure you I was quite hys- 
 terical.' 
 
 ' 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 so still ! Miss Belmarche cried too, and 
 said she did not wonder my feelings overcame me, and 
 she did not see papa.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-M OTHER. 25 
 
 * Ah ! Lucy,' said Albinia, fervently, ' how we must 
 try to make him happy after all that he has gone 
 through ! ' 
 
 1 That is what grandmamma said when she got his 
 letter. "I would be glad of anything," she said, "that 
 would bring back a smile to him." And Aunt Maria said 
 she had done her best for 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 hap- 
 piness.' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 Lucy did not understand the tone, and went on pa- 
 tronizing. ' 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 Miss Belmarche.' 
 
 ' Who thinks me so young % ' 
 
 I Oh ! Aunt Maria and grandmamma, and Mrs. Os- 
 born, and all ; but I don't mind that, it is only Sophy 
 who says you look like a girl. Aunt Maria says Sophy 
 has an unmanageable temper.' 
 
 ' Don't you think you can let me find that out for 
 myself?' 
 
 I I thought you wanted me to tell you about every- 
 body.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but tell me of the good in your brother and 
 sister.' 
 
 ' I don't know how,' said Lucy. ' Gilbert is so tire- 
 some, and so is Sophy. I heard Mary telling Jane, " I'm 
 sure the new missus will have a heavy handful of those 
 two." ' 
 
 1 And what of yourself? ' said Albinia. 
 
 1 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 that 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 that sickness lurked in the 
 heavy, misty atmosphere. She dreamt of it and the four 
 babies, started, awoke, and had to recall all her higher 
 2
 
 26 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 trust to enable her vigour to chase off the oppressive 
 imagination. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 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 character. As he finished his last cup of tea, he 
 looked up and said, ' A letter from my old friend Pen- 
 rose, of Bombay — an inscription in the Salsette caves.' 
 
 ' Have you seen the Salsette caves ] ' 
 
 < Yes.' 
 
 She was longing to hear about them, but his horse 
 was announced. 
 
 ' You said you would be engaged in the morning while 
 I ride out, Albinia 1 ' 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 back.' 
 
 There was not a word of remonstrance, though the 
 boy looked very disconsolate, and began to murmur the 
 moment his father had gone. Albinia, who had regarded 
 protection at a dentist's one of the offices of the head of a 
 family, though dismayed at the task, told Gilbert that she 
 would go 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 answer, only when Lucy 
 scolded him for lingering, he said, ' I thought she was 
 going with me.' 
 
 1 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 defer-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 27 
 
 ring the evil hour, for he seemed discomfited to see her so 
 quickly ready, and not grateful to his sisters, who hurried 
 them by saying that Mr. Bowles would be gone out upon 
 his rounds. 
 
 Mr. Bowles was amazed at the sight of Mrs. Kendal, 
 and so elaborate in compliments and assurances that Mrs. 
 Bowles would do herself the honour of calling, that Al- 
 binia, pitying Gilbert, called his attention back. 
 
 With him the apothecary was peremptory and face- 
 tious. 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 Albinia bravely stood a desperate 
 wringing of her hand at the tug of war. She w T as 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.' 
 
 1 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 responsibility, not to go and catch 
 an inflammation in your jaw. I'll undertake papa.' 
 
 Gilbert at once became quite another creature. He 
 discoursed so much, that she had to make him restore the 
 handkerchief to his mouth ; he held open the gate, showed 
 her a shoal of minnows, 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 warm room, 
 much impressed and delighted by his implicit obedience 
 to his father. With Lucy and Sophy, his remaining 
 seemed likewise to make a great sensation ; they looked 
 at Mrs. Kendal and whispered, and were evidently curious 
 as to the result of her audacity. Albinia, who had grown 
 up with her brother Maurice and cousin Frederick, was 
 more used 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 admira-
 
 28 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 tion of the girls. They were all very happy and busy 
 setting things to rights, but Albinia was in difficulty how 
 to bestow her books. There was an unaccountable scarc- 
 ity 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 which Albinia took out had pages which 
 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 mamma'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 with a mass of laurels that kept out the 
 sun, and made it look chill and sad, and the air in it was 
 close. The round library-table was loaded with desks, 
 pocket-books, and papers ; the mantel-piece 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 
 colour, and small cherry mouth, painted in the exagger- 
 ated style usually called ' ridiculously 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 watch,' said Lucy. ' It was given to 
 him for a reward just before he was ill.' 
 
 Albinia tried to recover composure by reading the 
 titles of the books. Suddenly, Lucy started and ex- 
 claimed, ' Come away. There he is ! ' 
 
 ' AVhy come away ? ' said Albinia. 
 
 : I would not have him find me there for all the 
 world.' In all her vexation and dismay, Albinia could
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 29 
 
 not help thinking of Bluebeard'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 re- 
 lieved to find that it was a false alarm, though not re- 
 lieved by the announcement that Admiral and Mrs. 
 Osborn and the Miss Osborns were in the drawing-room. 
 
 1 Before luncheon — too bad ! ' she exclaimed, as she 
 hurried upstairs to wash off the dust of unpacking. 
 
 Ere she could hurry down there was another inunda- 
 tion streaming across the hall, Mrs. Drury and three 
 Miss 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 at- 
 tention ; 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 wel- 
 come, 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.' 
 
 I You saw Mr. Bowles ! ' 
 
 I I went with Gilbert.' 
 
 i You ! I never thought of your imposing so unpleas- 
 ant a task on yourself. I fear the boy has been trespass- 
 ing on your kindness.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, he 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 natural — ' 
 
 She would have given anything to have had time to 
 enjoy his epanchement de cccur at those words, but she was 
 obliged to add, ' Alas ! there's all the world in the draw- 
 ing-room ! ' ' 
 
 ' Who ? ' 
 
 1 Osborns and Drurys.' 
 
 ' Do you want me ? ' 
 
 ' I ran away on the plea of calling you. 
 
 * I'll never do so again,' was her inward addition, as
 
 30 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 his countenance settled into the accustomed fixed look of 
 abstraction, and as an unwilling victim, he entered the 
 room with her, and the 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 anybody. 
 
 When she recovered, the first comers were taking 
 leave, but the second set stayed on and on till past lun- 
 cheon-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 ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed I am,' said Gilbert, in a winning, pleasant 
 manner. 
 
 1 1 don't want you to be,' said Albinia, affectionately 
 laying her hand on his shoulder. ' And nowtfor luncheon 
 — I pitied you, poor fellow ; I thought you must have 
 been famished.' 
 
 ' Anything not to have all the Drurys at luncheon,' 
 said Gilbert, confidentially ; ' I had begun to wish myself 
 at Tremblam.' 
 
 ' By the bye,' said Mr. Kendal, waking as he sat down 
 at the bottom of the table, ' how w r as it that the Drurys 
 did not stay to luncheon ? ' 
 
 1 Was that what they were waiting for ? ' 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. 
 
 1 O yes,' said Lucy ; ' Sarah Anne asked me whether 
 we ate wedding-cake every day.' 
 
 ' Poor Miss Sarah Anna ! ' said Albinia, laughing. 
 1 But one cannot help feeling inhospitable when people 
 come so unconscionably early, and cut up all one's morn- 
 ing.' * 
 
 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.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 31 
 
 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 gar- 
 dening tastes, she was dismayed at the untended look of 
 the flower-beds. The laurels were too high, and seemed 
 to choke the narrow space, and the turf owed its verdant 
 appearance to damp moss. She had made but few steps 
 before the water squished under her feet, and impelled her 
 to exclaim, ' What a pity this pond should not be 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 
 slope, and the beautiful flower-bed that might be made in 
 its place. Mr. Kendal answered with a few assenting 
 sounds and complacent looks, and Albinia, accustomed to 
 a brother with whom 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 bank, where there was a promising 
 country walk, but 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 Winifred could 
 have seen without making a face. 
 
 Mr. Kendal had read aloud to his wife in the evening 
 during the stay at the 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 read, catching him on the way to his 
 study, and coaxing him to stay no longer than to find 
 a book. lie brought Schlegei's Philosophy of History. 
 She feared that it was above the young ones, but it Mas 
 delightful to herself, and the custom had better be estab- 
 
 f
 
 32 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 lished before it was perilled 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 apart. Albinia rallied her spirits, and 
 insisted 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 un- 
 packing and her setting 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 Gil- 
 bert 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 eagerness to show off her drawings. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, but first we had better read. I have 
 been talking to your papa, and we have settled that on 
 Wednesdays and Fridays we will go to church ; but on 
 these days we will begin by reading the Psalms and Les- 
 sons.' 
 
 * Oh,' said Lucy, ' we never do that, except when we 
 are at grandmamma's.' 
 
 ' Pray are you too old or too young for it 1 ' said 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' We did it to please grandmamma,' said Sophy. 
 
 'Now you will do it to please me,' said Albinia, ' if 
 for no better reason. Fetch your Bibles and Prayer- 
 books.' 
 
 1 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 girl's 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 whether 
 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 — 
 
 ;
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 33 
 
 she ought to like to read the Bible — which of course made 
 Sophy look crosser. The desire to establish her author- 
 ity 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 amenble.' 
 
 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-mother's patience. 
 
 When 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 charity-schoolmistress. You won't be 
 angry with her, but it is so funny ! ' 
 
 'If you were at my charity school, Lucy,' said Al- 
 binia, ' the first lesson I should give you would be against 
 telling tales.' 
 
 Lucy subsided. 
 
 Albinia turned to Sophy. ' My dear,' she said, ' per- 
 haps I pressed this on when 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 re- 
 laxed, and Albinia took comfort in the hope that she 
 might have been gracious if she had known how to set 
 about it. 
 
 ' I suppose Miss Belmarche is a Roman Catholic,' she 
 said, wishing to account for this wonderful ignorance, and 
 addressing herself to Sophy ; but Lucy, whom she thought 
 she had effectually put down, was up again in a moment 
 like a Jack-in-a-box. 
 
 1 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 Madame Bel- 
 marche's grand-daughter, and Mr. Durant was a dancing- 
 master.' 
 
 2*
 
 34 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Madame Belmarche's father and brother were guil- 
 lotined,' continued Sophy. 
 
 1 Ah ! then she is an emigrant ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Miss Belmarche has always kept school here. 
 Our own mamma and Aunt Maria went to school to her, 
 and Miss Celeste Belmarche married Mr. Durant, a danc- 
 ing-master — she was French teacher in a school in Lon- 
 don where he taught ; and Madame Belmarche did not 
 approve, for she and her husband 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 died of grief, 
 and so Genevieve came to her grandmamma to be 
 brought up.' 
 
 1 Poor child ! how old is she 1 ' 
 
 ' Fifteen,' said Lucy. ' She teaches in the school. 
 She is not at all pretty, and such a queer little thing.' 
 
 * Was her father French 1 ' 
 
 1 No,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Lucy. ' You know nothing about it, 
 Sophy. He was French, but of the Protestant French 
 sort, that came to England 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 Spital fields 
 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 won't show 
 to anybody.' 
 
 ' I think it is something that somebody was killed 
 with,' said Sophy, in a low voice. 
 
 i 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 there all the time of the fever.' 
 
 4 It did not hurt you,' said Sophy. 
 
 Albinia had been strongly interested by the touching 
 facts, 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 re- 
 turned to business. Lucy showed off her attainments
 
 THE YOUSiG STEP-MOTHER. 35 
 
 with 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 pronun- 
 ciation. She was evidently considered a great proficient, 
 and her glib mediocrity was even more disheartening than 
 the ungracious carelessness or dulness — 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. 
 
 1 1 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 dis- 
 posed. Perhaps it was Lucy's speech that made her in- 
 flict the employment ; at any rate, her spirit was not as 
 serene as she could have desired. 
 
 Mr. Kendal was quite willing that she should hence- 
 forth 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 Belmarche family. The 
 old lady was dark and withered, small, yet in look and 
 air, with a certain nobility and grandeur that carried Al- 
 binia 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 dis- 
 tinction conferred by a superior — superior, indeed, in all 
 the dignity of age, suffering, and constancy. 
 
 Albinia blushed, and took her hand with respect very 
 unlike 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 coun-
 
 36 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 try'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 speaking 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 
 colour, her laugh was so full of life and sweetness, that 
 Albinia felt drawn towards her 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 expression — and as she 
 moved towards the table, there was a finish and delicacy 
 about the whole 'form and movements, that made her a 
 most pleasing object. 
 
 But Albinia could not improve her acquaintance, for 
 in flowed another 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 devoured by visitors ! Every 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, jumped up and shook 
 herself, as she exclaimed, ' There ! There ! that is clone ! 
 1 wonder whether your papa would come out now ! ' 
 
 ' He is in his study,' said the girls. 
 
 Albinia thought of knocking and calling at the door, 
 but somehow it seemed impossible, and she decided on 
 promenading 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 YOUXG STEP-MOTHEE. 37 
 
 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 her 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. 
 
 1 What, when we are going ourselves ? ' said Albinia. 
 
 1 Oh ! but we can't.' 
 
 ' Why ? Do you think we shall break down under 
 the weight ? ' 
 
 1 O no, but people will stare.' 
 
 1 Why — what should they stare at % ' 
 
 ' It looks so to carry a basket — ' 
 
 Albinia burst into one of her merriest peels of laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 1 Not carry a basket ! My dear, I have looked so all 
 the days of my life. Bay ford must endure the spectacle, 
 so it may as well begin at once.' 
 
 ' But, dear mamma — ' 
 
 1 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 ! ' 
 
 Albinia was so tickled that she could hardly check 
 herself, even when she saw Lucy looking distressed and 
 hurt, and little laughs would break out every moment as 
 she beheld the young lady keeping aloof, as if ashamed of 
 her company, turning towards the steep church steps, 
 willing at least to hide the dreadful sight from the High 
 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 believe. Could you be kind enough to 
 give me a glass of brandy ? ' 
 
 Albinia gave a great start, as well she might.
 
 38 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' I was going to fetch one,' quickly 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. 
 1 This poor fellow has had nothing all day, has walked 
 from Hadminster — just got home, sank down quite worn 
 out, and there 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 astonished 
 husband's dreamy eyes, exclaiming, ' Pray give me the 
 key of the cellaret ; there's a poor man just come home, 
 fainting with exhaustion ; Mr. Dusautoy wants some 
 brandy for him.' 
 
 Like a man but half awake, obeying an apparition, 
 Mr. Kendal put his hand into his 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 oper- 
 ation, 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 was the asparagus to 
 this? 
 
 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. Du- 
 sautoy in the cottage, but the poor trembling frightened 
 wife needed woman's sympathy and soothing, and she 
 waited to comfort her, and to see the pair more able to 
 enjoy the meeting, in their tidy, but bare and damp-look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 1 May I go and call on them again ? ' 
 
 ' It will be very kind in you. Poor Simkins is a
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 39 
 
 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. 
 
 1 No, indeed, and these are grateful, warm-hearted 
 people that you will like, if you can get over the poor 
 woman's lackadaisical manner. But you are used to all 
 that,' he added, smiling. ' I see you know what poor folks 
 are made of.' 
 
 1 I have been living among them nearly all my days,' 
 said Albinia. ' I 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 years. 
 
 1 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 off. ' 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.' 
 
 i 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 '? ' 
 
 ' Any time — any time,' he said. ' She is always at 
 home, and she has been much better since Ave came here. 
 We were too much in the town at Lauriston.' 
 
 Mr. Dusautoy, having a year ago come out of the 
 diocese where had been Albinia's home, they had many 
 common friends, and plunged into ' ecclesiastical intelli- 
 gence,' with a mutual understanding of the topics most 
 often under discussion, that made Albinia quite in her 
 element. ' A great Newfoundland dog of a man in size,
 
 40 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 remon- 
 strance. 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. 
 
 1 1 mean to do as I please here,' said Albinia, laugh- 
 ing ; but the speech was received with silent discomfiture 
 that made her heartily regret it. She disdained to ex- 
 plain 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 sub- 
 ject, ' things may be different from what they were in my 
 time.' 
 
 ' Oh ! 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. Dusautoy — so rude — ' 
 
 1 1 should not wonder if you found me almost as ex- 
 traordinary as Mr. Dusautoy,' said Albinia. 
 
 Why would Miss Meadows always nettle her into say- 
 ing 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 Mrs. 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 a parson. 1 
 
 ' Yes, my dear,' said Mrs. Meadows. ' I dare say Mr. 
 Dusautoy is a very good man, but I wish he would allow 
 his poor delicate 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
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-3IOTHEK. 41 
 
 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 % What to do now, she did not know, so 
 she thought 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. Kendal next emerged from his 
 study, she found that he had locked himself in, to guard 
 against further intrusion. And when she offered to re- 
 turn to him the key of the cellaret, he quietly replied that 
 he should prefer her retaining it, — not a formidable an- 
 swer 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 Maurice's study was the thoroughfare of the 
 household, the place for all parish preparations unpresent- 
 able ill the drawing-room, and Albinia was taken by sur- 
 prise. She grew hot and cold. Had she done anything 
 wrong 1 Could he care for her if he could lock her out ? 
 
 ' 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 caress, proved that he was far from all thought 
 of displeasure ; nay, he might be repenting of his mo- 
 mentary annoyance, though he said nothing. 
 
 Albinia went to inquire after the sick man at her first 
 leisure moment, and while talking kindly to the wife, and 
 hearing her troubles, was surprised at the forlorn rickety 
 state of the building, the broken pavement, 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 \ '
 
 42 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' 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 ? I'll try if Mr. Kendal 
 can say anything to him. It really is a shame to leave a 
 house in this condition.' 
 
 Thanks were so profuse, that she feared that she was 
 supposed to possess some power of amelioration. The 
 poor woman even insisted on conducting her up a break- 
 neck staircase to see the broken ceiling, whence water 
 often streamed in plentifully from the roof. 
 
 Her mind full of designs against the cruel landlord, 
 she speeded up the hill, exhilarated by each step she took 
 into the 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 taking 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 voice before him, as they came in sight of the pretty 
 little drawing-room, where through the gay chintz cur- 
 tains, 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 ? ' 
 
 1 One moment, if you please. I did not know it was 
 so late,' and a face as bright as all the rest was turned 
 towards the window. 
 
 ' Ah ! give her her scholars, and she never knows how 
 time passes,' said Mr. Dusautoy. ' But 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 commanding the whole exquisite view 
 of river, vale, and woodland, with the church tower rising 
 in the foreground. 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 excla- 
 mations contented Mr. Dusautoy. ' Yes,' he said, ' it was
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 43 
 
 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 dry 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 hus- 
 band, who could lift her as easily and tenderly as a baby, 
 paying her a sort of reverential deference and fond admi- 
 ration 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 con- 
 firmed invalidism could not destroy. She had small 
 deadly white hands, a fair complexion, 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 cushions, and to 
 remember the accusation of starvation, was almost irre- 
 sistibly ludicrous. 
 
 ' Now, John, you had better have been giving Mrs. 
 Kendal a chair all this time.' 
 
 1 Mrs. Kendal will excuse,' said Mr. Dusautoy, as he 
 brought her a seat. 
 
 'Mrs. Kendal .has excused,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, 
 bursting into a merry fit of laughter. ' Oh, I never 
 heard anything more charming 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 
 Bay ford, and Albinia partook of the mirth with all her 
 heart. ' Never was an address more gratifying to me,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' It was like him ! so unlike Bay ford ! So bold a ven- 
 ture ! ' continued Mrs. Dusautoy, amid peals of laughter. 
 
 ' What is there to laugh at ? ' said Mr. Dusautoy, 
 putting on a look between merriment and simplicity.
 
 44 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 ' What else could I have done ? I should have done the 
 same whoever I had met.' 
 
 ' Ah ! now he is afraid of your taking it as too great 
 a compliment ! 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. Dusautov. ' Little you know 
 Bayford.' 
 
 1 Fanny ! Fanny ! this is too bad. Madame Bel- 
 marche — ' 
 
 I Would have had nothing but eau sucre ! 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 place. It is 
 quite a disgrace to Bayford.' 
 
 6 It is in a sad state,' said Mr. Dusautov. 
 
 I I know I should like to set my brother upon that 
 Mr. Pettilove, who they say will do nothing,' exclaimed 
 Albinia. 
 
 The vicar was going to have said something, but a 
 look from his wife checked him. Albinia was sorry for 
 it, as she detected a look of suppressed amusement on 
 Mrs. Dusautoy'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 for orders.' 
 
 ' And I told Mr. Dusautoy that I should give you 
 none.' 
 
 1 Oh ! that is hard.' 
 
 ' If you could have heard him ! He though!: he had 
 got a working lady at last, and he would have had no 
 mercy upon you. One would have imagined that Mr. 
 Kendal had brought you here for his sole behoof! ' 
 
 ' Then I 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 what leisure you have to give us.' 
 
 ' Nay, I have been used to think the parish my busi- 
 ness, home my leisure.'
 
 THE TOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 45 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ' but then you were the 
 woman-kind of the clergy, now you are a lay-woman.' 
 
 * I think you have work at home,' said the vicar. 
 
 ' Work, but not work enough ! ' cried Albinia. ' The 
 girls will help me ; only tell me what I may do.' 
 
 ' I say, " what you can," ' said Mrs. Dusautoy. c 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, 
 Clarissa Richardson, 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 independent 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 month's time whether she has work enough.' 
 
 ' I could think 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. Dusau- 
 toy than with any acquaintance 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. 
 Mr. Kendal answered, ' He would see about it,' an answer 
 of which Albinia had yet to learn the import. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 There are some characters so constituted, that of 
 them the old proverb, that Love is blind, is perfectly 
 true ; they can see no imperfection in the mind or body 
 of those dear to them. There are others in whom the 
 strongest affections do not destroy clearness of vision, 
 who see their friends on all sides, and perceive their 
 faults and foibles, without loving them the less.
 
 46 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 Albinia Kendal was a person of the latter description. 
 It might almost be called her temptation, that her mind 
 beheld 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 pre- 
 vented from bordering upon censoriousess. She had 
 imagination, but it was not such as to make an illusion 
 of the present, or to interfere with her almost satirical 
 good sense. Happily, religion and its earthly manifesta- 
 tion — charity regulated her, taught her to fear to judge, 
 lest she should be judged, strengthened her naturally fond 
 affections, 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 involuntarily 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 frag- 
 ments of forgotten 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 
 Kendal would have been in his congenial element, lived 
 and died, and had his portrait hung up as one 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 con- 
 nexions were Indian, and his father, who had not seen 
 him since his earliest childhood, offered him no choice but 
 an appointment in the civil service. He had one stim- 
 ulus ; 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 suffi-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 47 
 
 ciently to obtain a lucrative situation early in life. He 
 married, and his household must have been on the Ger- 
 man system, all the learning on one side, all the domestic 
 cares on the other. The understanding and refinement 
 wanting 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 Bayford life had not raised his 
 standard of womankind. A perfect gentleman, his supe- 
 riority was his own work, rather than that of station or 
 education ; and so he had never missed intercourse with 
 really ladylike or cultivated female minds, expected little 
 from wife, or daughters, or neighbours ; had a few learned 
 friends, but lived within himself. He had acquired a 
 competence too soon, and had the great misfortune of 
 property without duties to present themselves obviously. 
 He had nothing to do but to indulge his naturally indo- 
 lent scholarly tastes, which, directed 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 per- 
 sons who could converse with him, he had lapsed into 
 secluded habits, and 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 every- 
 where else. So seldom was anything said worth his atten- 
 tion, that 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 illu- 
 sion had never died away ; he had always loved her de- 
 votedly, 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 companionship. 
 
 What a home it must have been, with Lucy reigning 
 over it in her pert self-sufficiency, Gilbert and Sophy run- 
 ning riot and squabbling, and Maria Meadows coming in 
 on them with her well-meant worries and persecutions ! 
 
 When taken away from the scene of his troubles, his 
 spirits revived; afraid to encounter his own household
 
 48 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 alone, he had thought Albinia the cure for everything. 
 But at home, habit and association had proved too strong 
 for her presence — the 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 depression, and made him less 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 in- 
 dolence gave it force, and his habits were almost inefface- 
 able, 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 prin- 
 ciples, 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 before 
 Mr. Dusautoy, and to know that during half the time that 
 the present vicar had held the living, Mr. Kendal had 
 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 gentleness, 
 to raise her husband's spirits and rouse* his faculties ; 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-con- 
 fident — the difficulty 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 she would have 
 given the world that their sovereignty might be a joint 
 one everywhere, still she allowed much for the morbid 
 inveterate 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 him out.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 49 
 
 One day when the fog, instead of clearing off, had 
 turned to violent rain, Albinia had been out on parish 
 work, and afterwards enlivening old Mrs. Meadows by 
 dutifully spending an hour with her, while . Maria was 
 nursing a nervous headache — she had been subject to head- 
 aches 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 deli- 
 cacy, that Albinia became alarmed, and set off at once 
 that she might consult his father about sending for him. 
 
 Her opening of the hall door was answered by Mr. 
 Kendal emerging from his study. He was looking rest- 
 less and anxious, came to meet her, and uncloaked her, 
 while he affectionately scolded her for being so venture- 
 some. 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. 
 
 1 So am I. Gilbert has not a constitution fit for ex- 
 posure. I wish he were come home.' 
 
 ' Could we not send for him ? Suppose we sent a fly.' 
 
 He was consenting with a pleased smile, when the 
 door opened, and there stood the dripping Gilbert, com- 
 pletely wet through, pale and chilled, with his hair plas- 
 tered down, and his coat stuck all over with the horse's 
 short hair. 
 
 ' You must go to bed at once, Gilbert/ said his father. 
 ' Are you cold ? ' 
 
 ' Very. It was such 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 
 3
 
 50 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 hardly 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 pleasure 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 her. 
 
 ' What a favourite Gilbert is ! ' Lucy said to Sophia, 
 as Albinia lighted a candle and went up to his room. 
 
 1 He makes such a fuss,' said Sophy. ' What is there 
 in being w r et through to cry about ? ' 
 
 Albinia heard a little shuffle 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.' 
 
 1 Yes, you had better not,' said Albinia, moving the 
 flaring light to a less draughty part of the dingy white- 
 washed attic. ' Or shall I read to you ? ' 
 
 1 Are you come to stay with me ? ' cried the boy, 
 raising himself up to look after her, as she moved about 
 the room and stood looking from the window over the 
 trees at the water meadows, 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 Al- 
 binia, coming nearer. ' Let me see whether your hands 
 are hot.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 51 
 
 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, hut 
 merely said, ' Shall I go on with your book ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said he, wearily turning his reddened check to 
 the other side. ' I only took it because it is so horrid 
 lying here thinking.' 
 
 1 1 am very sorry 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. 
 
 1 Ah ! but — ! ' said Gilbert. ' If I lie here alone, I'm 
 always looking out there,' and he pointed to the opposite 
 recess. She looked, but saw nothing. ' Don't you know 1 ' 
 he said. 
 
 i Edmund ? ' she asked. 
 
 He grasped her hands in both his own. ' Aye ! Ned 
 used to sleep there. I always look for him there.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that you would rather have another 
 room ? 1 would manage it directly.' 
 
 1 O no, thank you, I like it for some things. Take 
 the candle — look by the shutter — cut out in the wood.' 
 
 The boys' scoring of ' E. & G. K.,' was visible there. 
 
 ' Papa has taken ail he could of Edmund's,' said Gil- 
 bert, ' 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 not ! But, my dear, considering what 
 Edmund was, surely they should be gentle, happy 
 thoughts that the room should give you.' 
 
 He shuddered, and presently said, ' Do you know 
 what 1 ' and paused ; then continued, with an effort, get- 
 ting tight hold of her hand, ' Just before Edmund died — 
 he lay out there — I lay here — he sat up all white in bed, 
 and he called out, clear and loud, l ' Mamma, Gilbert " — 
 I saw him — and then — he was dead ! And you know 
 mamma did die — and I'm sure I shall ! ' He had worked 
 himself into a trembling fit, hid his face and sobbed. 
 
 ' But you have not died of the fever.' 
 
 1 Yes — but I know it means that I shall die young !
 
 52 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 I am sure it does ! It was a call ! I heard Nurse say it 
 was a call ! ' 
 
 What was to be done with such a superstition ? Al- 
 binia did not think it would be right 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.' 
 
 c Yes, but I shall die young.' 
 
 1 And if you should. Those are happy who die young. 
 How much pain your baby-brother and sisters have 
 missed ! 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 he loved best,' said Al- 
 binia. ' 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 
 mortal life, however long, seem as nothing. It was a 
 call to you to be as pure 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 fear that death might not be for off. 
 
 The pillow had turned a little on one side — Albinia 
 tried to smoothe it — the corner of a book peeped out. 
 It was a translation of The Three Musqueteers, one of the 
 worst and most fascinating of Dumas' romances. 
 
 ' You won't tell papa ! ' cried Gilbert, raising himself, 
 in fir more real and present terror than he had previously 
 shown. 
 
 ' How did you get it 1 Whose is it ? ' 
 
 1 It is my own. I bought it at Richardson's. It is 
 very funny. But you won't tell papa ? I never was told 
 not ; indeed I was not.' 
 
 ' Now, Gilbert, dear, will you tell me a few things 1 
 I do only wish what is good for you. Why don't you 
 wish that papa should hear of this book % ' 
 
 Gilbert writhed himself.
 
 THE YOTJXG STEP-MOTHER, 53 
 
 * You know he would not like it 1 ' 
 
 * Then why did you take to reading it 1 ' 
 
 ■ Oh ! ' cried the boy, ' if you only did know how 
 stupid and how miserable it has been ! More than half 
 myself gone, and Sophy always glum, and Lucy always 
 plaguing, and Aunt Maria 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 1 ' 
 
 * Nobody told me not.' 
 
 ' Disobedience to the spirit, then, if not to the letter. 
 It was not the way to be happier, my poor boy, nor 
 nearer to your brother and mother.' 
 
 I Things didn't 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 
 I heard your story, before I thought I should 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 than 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 Gil- 
 bert, 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 I don't see what I have to confess. He would be so 
 angry, and he never told me not. Oh ! I cannot tell him.' 
 
 She felt that this was not the right way to begin a 
 reformation, and yet she feared to press the point, know- 
 ing 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'Artig- 
 nan 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 ? ' 
 
 ' 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.'
 
 54 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 * Then you think it funny ? ' 
 
 * To be sure I do.' 
 
 * Do you remember the three duels all at once, and 
 the three valets ? Oh ! what fiin it is. But do let me 
 see if d'Artignan got the diamonds.' 
 
 ' Yes, he did. But will this satisfy you, Gilbert 1 
 You know there are some exciting pleasures that we 
 must turn our backs on resolutely. 1 think this book is 
 one of them. Now you will let me take it ? 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 dressing-room, out of your sis- 
 ters' 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 r 
 
 1 1 think you had better dress yourself and come down 
 to tea. There is nothing the matter with you now, is 
 there 1 ' 
 
 He was delighted with the suggestion, and promised 
 to come directly ; and Albinia carried off her prize, ex- 
 ceedingly hopeful and puzzled, and wondering whether 
 her compromise had been a right one, or a mere tamper- 
 ing with temptation — delighted with the 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 was to be 
 pitied, and how he responded to her affection. 
 
 She was crossing the hall next day, when she heard a 
 confusion of tongues through the open door of the dining- 
 room, and above all, Gilbert's. ' Well, I say, there are
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 55 
 
 but two ladies in Bayford. One is Mrs. Kendal, and the 
 other is Genevieve Durant ! ' 
 
 I A dancing-master's daughter ! ' Lucy's scornful tone 
 was immistakeable, and so was the ensuing high-pitched 
 querulous voice, ' Well, to be sure, Gilbert might be a 
 little 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 I think so indeed,' said Albinia. ' Good morning, 
 Miss Meadows. You see Gilbert has come home quite 
 alive enough for mischief.' 
 
 ' 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 gave 
 you for your throat ? ' 
 
 She advanced to put her finger within his neck-tie and 
 feel for it. Gilbert stuck his chin down, and snapped with 
 his teeth like a gin. Lucy exclaimed, ' Now, Gilbert, I 
 know mamma will 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 decidedly with resistance both to flan- 
 nels and to the insertion of that hooked finger. 
 
 ' Mr. Bowles has always said it was a case for great 
 care. Flannel next the skin — no exposure,' continued 
 Miss Meadows, tartly. ' I am sure — 1 know I am the last 
 person to wish to interfere — but so delicate — You'll 
 excuse 1 — 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'll 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 ? ' said Albinia, becoming tor- 
 mented.
 
 56 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 * 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 ? ' 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 Gil- 
 bert. Mr. Holland is always a civil, feeling man. New 
 Saxony — three shillings the yard — and trimmed with 
 blue sarsenet ! Where is it, Gilbert 1 ' 
 
 1 In a soup-dish, 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 conciliatory, contrived to pronounce 
 that it was very silly to leave anything off in an east 
 wind, and hoping to put an end to the matter, asked Aunt 
 Maria to sit down, and judge how they went on with their 
 lessons. 
 
 no ; she could not interrupt. Her mother would 
 want her. She knew Mrs. Kendal never admitted vis- 
 itors. 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 coming down upon us.' 
 
 ' O, mamma ! ' exclaimed Lucy, ' you never sent your 
 love to grandmamma.' 
 
 ' Depend upon it she was waiting for that,' said Gil- 
 bert. 
 
 ' I'm sure I wish I had known it,' said Albinia, not in 
 the most judicious manner. ' Half-past eleven ! ' 
 
 1 Aunt Maria says she can't think how you can find
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 51 
 
 time for church when you can't see visitors in the morn- 
 ing,' said Lucy. ' And oh ! clear 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 Maria says if you don't call to-day you will 
 never get over it, and she says that — ' 
 
 1 What business has Mrs. Osborn to ask whom I 
 called on 1 ' 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 sub- 
 scribing to 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 the Osborns ! ' cried Albinia ' I have no desire to be 
 intimate with people who treat their clergyman in that 
 way.' 
 
 I But Mrs. Osborn is quite the leader ! ' exclaimed 
 Lucy. ' They keep the best society here. So many fam- 
 ilies in the county come and call on them.' 
 
 < Very likely—' 
 
 ' Ah ! Mrs. Osborn told Aunt Maria that as the Nu- 
 gents called on you, and you had such connexions, she 
 supposed you would be high. But you won't 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 won't part me from Lizzie Osborn,' said 
 Lucy, hanging her head pathetically on one side. 
 
 I I shall talk to your father. He said, the other day, 
 he did 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 
 3*
 
 58 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 reporting whatever she said, and at the failure of the 
 attempt to please Mrs. Meadows. 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 own way. I do not wish to offend my neigh- 
 bours, 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 leadership 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, you don't imagine me thinking of that ! ' cried 
 Albinia, laughing. ' I meant their behaving ill to Mr. 
 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 minority.' 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 < Then I am to be civil ? ' 
 
 < Certainly.' 
 
 1 But is it necessary to call to-day % ' 
 
 ' I should suppose not ; ' and there he was, shut up in 
 his den. Albinia went back, between laughing and vexa- 
 tion ; and Lucy looked up from her exercise to say, 
 1 Does papa say you must call on the Osborns 1 ' 
 
 It was undignified ! She bit her lip, and felt her false 
 position, 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 her- 
 self making them over black, and shaky. She had not
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 59 
 
 seen such a line since the days of her childhood's ill-tem- 
 per. She walked to the fireplace and said, * I am going 
 to call on Mrs. Osborn to-day. Not that your father de- 
 sires it, but because I have been indulging in a wrong 
 feeling.' 
 
 ' I'm sure you needn't,' cried Gilbert. ' It is very 
 impertinent 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. ' Mrs. Osborn's standing in the place entitles 
 her to all attention. I was thinking of nothing 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 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 
 very 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 ! • 
 
 1 What is all this % ' said Mr. Kendal, suddenly ap- 
 pearing, and discovering Gilbert pirouetting with indigna- 
 tion before Lucy. 
 
 Miss Meadows burst out with a shower of half sen- 
 tences, 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 hap- 
 pened, Sophia. From you I am certain of hearing the 
 exact truth.' 
 
 1 Only,' growled Sophy, in her hoarse boy's voice, 
 ' Lucy said mamma said she would not call on Mrs. Os- 
 born unless you ordered her, and when you did, she cried 
 and flew into a tremendous passion.' 
 
 4 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
 
 60 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEB. 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 For Lucy, in self-defence, had begun to cry, and her 
 grandmother seemed much disposed to do the same. 
 Miss Meadows had tears in her eyes, and incoherences on 
 her lips. The distress drove away all Albinia's inclina- 
 tion to laugh, and clasping her two hands over her hus- 
 band's arm, she said, ' Don't, Edmund, it is only a mis- 
 understanding of what really happened. I did have a 
 silly fit, you know, so it is my fault.' 
 
 1 1 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 noth- 
 ing to say, Lucy ? ' 
 
 ' Poor child ! she cannot .speak,' said her grandmother. 
 ' You see she is very sorry, and Mrs. Kendal is too kind 
 to wish to say any more about it.' 
 
 ' Go home at once, Lucy,' said her father. ' Perhaps 
 solitude may bring you to a better state of feeling. Go ! ' 
 
 Direct resistance to Mr. Kendal was never thought 
 of, and Lucy turned 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. Ken- 
 dal would make them everything desirable. She only 
 hoped that she would remember their disadvantages, have 
 patience, and not recollect this against poor Lucy. 
 
 The warm indignation and championship of her hus- 
 band and his son were what Albinia chiefly wished to 
 recollect ; but it was impossible to free herself from a
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-HOTHEE. 61 
 
 sense of pain and injury in the knowledge that she lived 
 wkh a spy who would exaggerate and colour every care- 
 less 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 subject 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 % ' 
 
 ' Because this is too personal to myself.' 
 
 1 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 suffered 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. 
 
 i No,' he said ; ' Maria has no influence whatever with 
 the children. She frets them by using too many words 
 about everything. One quiet remonstrance from you 
 would have far more effect.' 
 
 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 more about it. ' But, my dear, I am afraid 
 you must hear more. It is not that I am hurt, but your 
 papa has desired 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 inconse- 
 quent, that argument was breath spent in vain ; and Al-
 
 62 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 binia was obliged to wind up, as an ultimatum, with 
 warning her, that till she should prove herself trust- 
 worthy, nothing interesting would be talked of before 
 her. 
 
 The atmosphere of gossip certainly had done its part 
 in cultivating Mr. Kendal's talent for silence. When Al- 
 binia had him all to herself, he was like another person, 
 and the long drives to return visits in the country were 
 thoroughly enjoyable. 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 Bay ford, and one of the airs of 
 which Mrs. Kendal was accused. As granddaughter of a 
 baron, daughter of one General Officer, and sister of an- 
 other, and presented at Court, the Bay ford 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 im- 
 possible 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, ob- 
 servant, and obliging, and under Albinia's example, the 
 more salient vulgarities of speech and manner were fall- 
 ing 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 superior, so that it 
 was a distinction to belong to her. How many of poor 
 Albi uia's so-called airs should justly have been laid to 
 Lucy's account ! 
 
 On the other hand, Sophy would attend to a word 
 from her father, where she had obstinately opposed her
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 63 
 
 step-mother's wishes, making her obedience marked, as if 
 for the very purpose of enforcing the contrast. It was a 
 character that Albinia could not as yet fathom. In all 
 occupations and amusements, 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 possible, 
 and especially without setting her mind to work ; and 
 yet in the very effort to escape diligence or exertion, she 
 sometimes showed signs of so much ability as to excite a 
 longing desire to know of what she would be capable 
 when once aroused and interested ; but the surly, ungra- 
 cious temper rendered this apparently impossible, and 
 whatever Albinia attempted, was sure, as if for the very 
 reason that it came from her, to be answered with a re- 
 doubling of the growl 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 Ferrars,' came out on the lawn with 
 the girls, in hopes of setting them to enjoy themselves. 
 But they looked at her almost suspiciously, retained their 
 cold, stiff, company manners, and drew apart into giggling 
 knots. She relieved them of her presence, and sitting by 
 the 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 coloured 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, 
 which 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 pres- 
 ently the groups coalesced, and Maria Drury and Sophy 
 ran out to call Genevieve into the midst. Albinia hoped 
 they were going to play, but soon she beheld Genevieve
 
 64 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 trying to draw 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 
 Maria Drury, and the pitiless ring closed in. Albinia 
 sprang to her feet, exclaiming aloud, ' They are teazing 
 her ! ' and rushed into the garden, hearing on her way, 
 ' No, we won't let you go ! — you shall tell us — you shall 
 promise to show us — my papa is a magistrate, you know 
 — he'll come and search — Jenny, you shall tell ! ' 
 
 1 Come with me, Genevieve,' said Albinia, standing 
 in the midst of the tormentors, and launching a look of 
 wrath around her, as she saw tears in the young girl's 
 eyes, and taking her hand, found it trembling with agita- 
 tion. Fondling it with both her own, she led Genevieve 
 away, turning her back upon Lucy and her, ' We were 
 only—' 
 
 The poor girl shook more and more, and when they 
 reached the shelter of the house, gave way to a tightened, 
 oppressed sob ; and at the first 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 P si bonne! pardonnez-moi, Madame ! '' she ex- 
 claimed, sobbing, and probably not knowing that she was 
 speaking French ; ' but, oh, Madame, you will tell me ! 
 Is it true — can he ? ' 
 
 ' Can who ? What do you mean, my dear % ' 
 
 ' The Admiral,' said Genevieve, looking about fright- 
 ened, and sinking her voice to a whisper. ' Miss Louisa 
 said so, that he could send and search — ' 
 
 ' Search for what, my dear ? ' 
 
 ' For my poor little secret. Ah, Madame, assuredly 
 I may tell you. It is but a French Bible ; it belonged to 
 my martyred ancestor, Francois Durant, who perished 
 at the St. Barthelemi — it is stained with his blood — it 
 has been handed on from one to the other — it was all 
 that Jacques Durant rescued when he fled from the Dra- 
 gonnades — it was given to me by my own dear father on
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 65 
 
 his death-bed, with a charge to keep it from my grand- 
 mother, 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 % ' 
 
 ' Most decidedly not,' said Albinia. ' Set your mind 
 at rest, my poor child ; whoever threatened you played 
 you a most base, cruel trick.' 
 
 1 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 ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. They had learnt by some means that I keep 
 one of my drawers locked, and they had figured to them- 
 selves that in it was some relic of my Huguenot ancestors. 
 They thought it was some instrument of death, and they 
 said that unless I would tell them the whole, the Admiral 
 had the right of search, and, oh ! it was foolish of me to 
 believe them for a moment, but I only thought 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 teazed,' said Al- 
 binia, caressing her. ' I should like to ask your pardon 
 for what they have made you undergo.' 
 
 1 Ah, Madame ! ' said Genevieve, smiling, ' it is noth- 
 ing. I am well used to the like, and I heed it little, ex- 
 cept when it falls 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 genera- 
 tions ; the few succeeding days of peace ; and, finally, the 
 Dragonnade, when the children had been snatched from
 
 66 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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, unpruvisioned open 
 boat. The child for whose sake they fled, was the only 
 one rescued from the hands of these enemies, and the tra- 
 dition of their sufferings had been handed on with the 
 faithfully preserved 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 per- 
 secutors 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 bred up, united 
 what was true and sound in the religion of both Reformed 
 and Romanist. 
 
 The words made the brown cheek glow. ; Ah, 
 Madame, did I not say I could talk with you ? 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 inter- 
 esting and engaging persons that Albinia had ever met, 
 and she listened earnestly to her artless history, and 
 pretty 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 the reading one verse in 
 the quaint black letter of the old French Bible. 
 
 The conversation lasted till Gilbert made his appear- 
 ance, and Albinia was glad to find that his' greeting to 
 Genevieve was cordial and affectionate, and free from all 
 that was unpleasant in his sisters' manner ; and he joined 
 himself to their company when Albinia proposed a walk 
 along the broad causeway through the meadows. It was 
 one of the pleasantest walks that she had taken at Bay- 
 ford, with both her companions so bright and merry, 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 Al- 
 binia talked of cowslip-balls, and found that neither Gil- 
 bert nor Genevieve had ever seen one ; then she pitied
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-ilOTHEE. 67 
 
 them, and owned that she did not ^now how to get 
 through a spring without one ; and Gilbert having of 
 course a pocketful of string, a delicious ball was con- 
 structed, over which Genevieve went into an inexpressible 
 ecstasy. 
 
 All the evening, Gilbert devoted himself to Genevieve, 
 though more than one of the others tried to attract him, 
 playing 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. 
 
 1 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 conduct had been, crimsoned 
 deeply, and though uttering no word 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 his 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 en- 
 ergy, 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 affection. 
 She had early perceived that his father and sisters looked 
 on him as the naughty one of the family, but when she 
 saw Lucy's fretting interference, and Sophia's wrangling
 
 68 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 contempt, she did not wonder that an unjust degree of 
 blame had often fallen to his share ; and under her man- 
 agement, he scarcely ever gave cause for complaint. That 
 he was evidently happier and better for her presence, was 
 compensation for many a vexation ; she loved him with 
 all her heart, made fun with him, told legends of the 
 freaks of her brother Maurice 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 
 promised 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 fel- 
 low-pupils, and she could not regret the gain of another 
 hour to her hurried day. 
 
 One morning, however, Mr. Kendal called her, and his 
 look was so grave and perturbed, that she hardly waited 
 till the door was shut to ask in terror, what could be the 
 matter. 
 
 1 Nothing to alarm you,' he said. ' It is only that I 
 am vexed about Gilbert. I have reason to fear that he is 
 deceiving us again ; and I want you to help us 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 had fixed her warm affection, had 
 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 hot, and he had a headache. I 
 thought I might. You told me not to send him on doubt- 
 ful days.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 69 
 
 ' I hope you may be able to make out that it is right,' 
 said Mr. Kendal ; ' but I am afraid that Mr. Salsted has 
 too much cause of complaint. It is the old story ! ' 
 
 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. Sal- 
 sted 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 farmer or half-gen- 
 tleman, who was the pest of Mr. Salsted's parish. Ill- 
 learnt, slurred-over lessons, with lame excuses, were noth- 
 ing as compared with this, and the amount of petty deceit, 
 subterfuge, and falsehood, 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 punishment, and keep a 
 strict account of his comings and goings, to be compared 
 weekly with Mr. Salsted's notes of his arrival. This set- 
 tled, the tutor departed, and no sooner was he gone, than 
 Albinia, hiding her face in her hands, shed tears of bitter 
 grief and disappointment. ' My dearest,' said her hus- 
 band, fondly, ' you 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 mis- 
 take, 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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
 
 70 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 1 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 different 
 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, and he could not 
 help exclaiming how strange it was, that Edmund should 
 be the one to be taken. 
 
 ' Nay,' she said, ' was not he ripe for better things ? 
 May not poor Gilbert have been spared that longer life 
 may train him to be like his brother % ' 
 
 1 He never will be like him,' cried Mr. Kendal. ' No ! 
 no ! The difference is evident in the very countenance 
 and features.' 
 
 1 Was he like you ? ' 
 
 '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 thinking or listening. 
 He used to read the Greek Testament with me every 
 morning, and his questions and remarks rise up before 
 me again. That text — You have seen it in church.' 
 
 1 Because I live, ye shall live also,' Albinia repeated. 
 
 1 Yes. A little before his illness we came to that. 
 He rested on it, as he used to do on anything that struck
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. . 71 
 
 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 sat- 
 isfied ; and it must have gone on working on it, for one 
 night, when I had been thinking him delirious, he called 
 me, and the light shone out of those bright dark eyes of 
 his as he said, joyfully, u 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 son. 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 
 fathers stern gravity, and her depressed, pre-occupied 
 manner, excited his attention, and he asked her anxiously 
 whether anything were the matter. A sad gesture re- 
 plied, and perhaps revealed the state of the case, for he 
 became absolutely silent. Albinia left them together. 
 She watched anxiously, and hurried after Mr. Kenclal into 
 the study, where his manner showed her not to be un- 
 welcome as the sharer of his trouble. ' I do not know 
 what to do,' he said, dejectedly. ' I can make nothing of 
 him. It is all prevarication and sulkiness I I do not 
 think he felt one word that I said.' 
 
 1 People often feel more than they show.' 
 
 He groaned. 
 
 'Will you go to him 1 ? 'he presently added. 'Per- 
 haps 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? ' 
 
 ' O no, no ! If I only knew what would be best fur 
 him!' 
 
 ' He may be more unreserved with you,' said Mr.
 
 12 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 Kendal ; and as he "was anxious for her to make the at- 
 tempt, 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, 
 chucking pebbles into the still black water, and disturb- 
 ing the duck-weed on the surface. His colour was gone, 
 and his face was dark and moody, and strove not to 
 relax, as she said, ' O Gilbert, how could you 1 ' 
 
 He turned sharply away, muttering, ' She is coming 
 to bother now ! ' 
 
 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 noth- 
 ing to take so much to heart. No one thinks anything 
 of it!' 
 
 ' What would Edmund have thought ? ' said Albinia ; 
 but the 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 Trem- 
 blam, 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 won't ! ' 
 
 1 1 am very sorry,' said Albinia, struggling with chok- 
 ing tears. ' It has been my great wish to make things 
 pleasant to you. I hone I have not teazed or driven you 
 to—' 
 
 1 Nonsense ! ' exclaimed Gilbert, disrespectfully in- 
 deed, but from the bottom of his heart, and breaking at 
 once into a flood of tears. ' You are the only creature 
 that has been kind to me since I lost my brother 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 73 
 
 more than she could ; ' and she stroked his brow, which 
 she found so throbbing as to account 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 uproar about nothing. 
 
 1 Do you call falsehood nothing ? ' 
 
 ' Falsehood ! A mere trifle now and then, when I am 
 driven to it by being kept so strictly.' 
 
 1 I don't know how to talk to you, Gilbert,' said Al- 
 binia, rising ; ' your conscience knows better than your 
 tongue.' 
 
 i Don't go ; ' 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 miser- 
 able, nobody cared for him, he did not know what to do ; 
 he wanted to do right, and to please her, but Archie Trit- 
 ton 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 en- 
 joyed, the craving for boyish sports had awakened, just 
 after he had been deprived of his brother, and was de- 
 barred from almost every wholesome manner of gratify- 
 ing it. To fall in with young Tritton was as great a mis- 
 fortune as could well have befallen a boy, with a dreary 
 home, melancholy, reserved father, and wearisome aunt. 
 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 
 kindness with warmth and gratitude, and on his prowess 
 in all sporting accomplishments with a perfect efferves- 
 cence of admiration. 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 Gil- 
 bert was proud of the notice of one who seemed to him a 
 man, and an adept in all athletic games. It was a dan- 
 4
 
 74 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 gerous intimacy, and her heart sank as she found that the 
 pleasures to which he had been introducing Gilbert, 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 
 am r one dear to her having been engaged in such amuse- 
 ments ; and when Gilbert in excuse said that every one 
 did it, she answered indignantly, ' 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 ? ' asked Albinia. 
 
 ' I wish I was out of it all ! ' 
 
 He was in a very different 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 companion, 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 con- 
 clusion was far more in pity than anger, and after receiv- 
 ing 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 that here was a beginning of re- 
 pentance. Since there was sorrow and confession, there 
 surely must be reformation. 
 
 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 doubt- 
 ful day, when it had been decided that he might go safely
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-3IOTHEE. 75 
 
 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 despair, and again a talk, bringing 
 at once those ever-ready tears and protestations, sorrow 
 genuine, but fruitless. ' It was all Archie's fault, he had 
 overtaken him, persuaded him that Mr. Salsted would 
 not expect him, promised him that he should see the cel- 
 ebrated ' : Blunderbuss," Sam Shepherd's horse, that won 
 the race last year.' Gilbert 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 crea- 
 ture, Gilbert 1 ' 
 
 1 It is very hard ! ' exclaimed Gilbert ; ' I must go 
 past Robbie's Leigh twice every day of my life, and 
 Archie will come out and be at me.' 
 
 * That is the very temptation you have to resist,' said 
 Albinia. ' Fight against it, pray against it, resolve against 
 it ; ride fast, and don't linger and look after him.' 
 
 He looked desponding and miserable. If she could 
 only have put a spirit into him ! 
 
 ' Shall I walk and meet you sometimes before vou get 
 to Robbie's Leigh?' 
 
 His face cleared up, but the cloud returned in a mo- 
 ment. ' What is it ? ' she asked. ' Only tell me. You 
 know I wish for nothing so much as to help you.' 
 
 He did confess that there was nothing he should like 
 better, if Archie would not be all the worse another time, 
 whenever he should catch him alone. 
 
 ' But surely, Gilbert, he is not always lying in am- 
 bush for you, like a cat for a mouse. You can't be his 
 sole game.' 
 
 1 No, but he is coming or going, or out with his cun, 
 and he will often come part of the way with me, and he 
 is such a droll fellow I ' 
 
 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
 
 76 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 much earnestness, that he allowed that it would be better 
 to send the boy from home ; and in the meantime, Al- 
 binia obtained that Mr. Kendal should ride some way on 
 the Tremblam road with his son in the morning, 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 con- 
 trary to all her preconceived notions ; Sophia, with her 
 sullen truth, was respected, but it was not easy to like 
 her even as well as Lucy, who, though pert and empty, 
 had much good-nature and good temper, and was not 
 indocile ; while Gilbert, in spite of a weak, shallow char- 
 acter, habits of deception, and low ungentlemanly 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 
 expedient, did not approach. Gilbert could not be sent 
 to a public school without 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, 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. Ken- 
 dal was not the man to make researches. Mr. Dusautoy 
 mentioned one clergyman who took pupils, Maurice Fer- 
 rars another, but there was something against each. Mr. 
 Kendal wrote four letters, and was undecided — 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 Os-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 77 
 
 bom'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 discovery that she made shortly after. The hot weather 
 had made the houses beneath the hill more close and un- 
 wholesome than ever, Simkins's wife had fallen into a lin- 
 gering 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 offered 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 Mr. 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 ? 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, 1 1 think it would be better. 
 The houses belonged to old Mr. Meadows.' 
 
 ' Oh, if they are Mrs. Meadows's, I don't Avonder at 
 anything.' 
 
 1 1 believe they are Gilbert Kendal's.' 
 
 They were very kind ; Mr. Dusautoy strode out at 
 the window, and his wife would not look at Albinia dur- 
 ing the minute's struggle to regain her composure, under 
 the mortification that her husband should have let her 
 rave so much and so long about 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 ex- 
 tremely disliked a conference with Pettilove, that he 
 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
 
 78 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 wished to 
 keep the tutor-negotiations a secret, but they had oozed 
 out, and she found that Mrs. and Miss Meadows had been 
 declaring that they had known how it would be — what- 
 ever 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 1 And, oh ! how hard, well nigh impos- 
 sible, to forgive and candidly 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 
 there was a sense that she had fallen short of her con- 
 fident hopes of doing prosperously, there was also a great 
 desire for their sympathy and advice. But Maurice had 
 been too long away from his parish to be able to spare 
 another day, and begged that the Kendals 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 Fairmead. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Pretty old Fairmead ! ' she cried, as the beech trees 
 rose before 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 79 
 
 who were not at school, and who looked up with mouths 
 from ear to ear, and flushed cheeks, as they curtsied to 
 1 Miss Ferrars.' The ' Miss Ferrers ' life seemed long ago. 
 
 They came to the little green gate that led to what 
 had been ' home ' for the happiest years of Albinia's life, 
 and from the ivy porch there was a rush of little Willie 
 and Mary, and close at hand their mamma, and Maurice 
 emerging from the school. It was very joyous and nat- 
 ural. 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 fondly embraced. 
 
 It was not at all what she had intended. Mrs. Annes- 
 ley and Miss Ferrars were very kind aunts, and she had 
 much affection for them ; but there was an end of the 
 hope of the unreserve and confidence that she wanted. 
 She could get plenty of compassion and plenty of advice, 
 but her whole object would be to avoid these ; and, be- 
 sides, 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 ? 
 
 At least, however, she was proud that her aunts 
 should see what a fine-looking man her husband was, and 
 they were evidently struck with his appearance and man- 
 ner. Gilbert, too, was in very good looks, and was alto- 
 gether 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 only de- 
 cided, two days before, on coming to Fairmead at once, 
 some other engagement having failed them, and they were 
 delighted to find 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. 
 
 1 And,' said Winifred, as she took Albinia up-stairs, 
 1 if I did suspect that would be the case, I won't say I re- 
 gretted it. I did not wish to afford Mr. Kendal the pleas- 
 ures of anticipation.'
 
 80 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 c Perhaps it was better,' said Albinia, smiling ; ' espe- 
 cially 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 pretty one,' said Win- 
 ifred, fondly. ' Are you well, are you strong ? No, don'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 Albinia. ' 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. She had never been able to suppose that the sis- 
 ters-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 
 together by relations, who, intending to be very happy, 
 make themselves very weary of each other, by discarding 
 ordinary occupations, and reducing themselves to needle- 
 work and small-talk. Albinia was bent on liveliness, and 
 excelled herself in her droll observations ; but to Wini- 
 fred, who knew her so well, this brilliancy 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 ad- 
 dress 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 Gil- 
 bert out to call upon Colonel Bury ; but this did not lessen 
 his wife's difficulties, for there was a general expecta- 
 tion 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 81- 
 
 strength, and Miss Ferrars enforced it with such vehe- 
 mence, 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 admo- 
 nition almost amounted to an admission that she was 
 working very hard. As to the step-daughters, no intelli- 
 gence 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 % ' said Mr. Kendal, 
 with great kindness, but an evident weight removed. 
 
 1 Most certain ! ' she exclaimed, with full sincerity ; 
 * I am not at all ready for them. What should I do with 
 them to entertain 1 ' 
 
 '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 enjoyment 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 was 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 her power. 
 
 Set free from this dread, and his familiarity with his 
 brother-in-law renewed, Mr. Kendal came out to great ad- 
 vantage at the early dinner. Miss Ferrars was well read 
 and used to literary 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 
 4*
 
 82 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 developed, except under the most favourable circumstances. 
 He and Aunt Gertrude were evidently so well pleased with 
 each other, that Albinia almost thought she had been pre- 
 cipitate in letting him off the visit. 
 
 Gilbert had, fortunately, a turn for small children, and 
 submitted to be led about the garden by little Willie ; and 
 as far as moderate enjoyment went, the visit was not un- 
 successful ; but as for what Albinia came for, it was unat- 
 tainable, 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. 
 
 1 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 the wrong thing, or in the wrong way ! ■ 
 
 1 You fall a hundred times a day, but are raised up 
 again,' said Maurice. 
 
 4 Maurice, tell 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. 
 
 1 I used to believe in " whatever is worth doing at all, 
 is worth doing well." Now, I do everything ill, rather 
 than do nothing at all.' 
 
 1 There are only two ways of avoiding that.' 
 
 ' And they are — % ' 
 
 ' Either doing nothing, or admiring all your own 
 doings.' 
 
 ' Which do you recommend ? ' said Albinia, smiling, 
 but not far from tears. 
 
 1 My dear,' said Maurice, ' ail I can dare to recom- 
 mend, 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 wonder- 
 ful 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.
 
 THE TOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 83 
 
 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 knowing all the time that it was hopeless to expect a 
 boy of fourteen to be satisfied 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 playfulness, that even Mr. Kendal 
 was alarmed. 
 
 Sophia's birthday fell in the last week before Christ- 
 mas, and it had always been the family custom to drink 
 tea with Mrs. Meadows. Albinia made the engagement 
 with a sense of virtuous resignation, though 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 hopes, for as she was wishing 
 Gilbert good-bye, she heard the click of the study lock, 
 and in came Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' I thought you were gone,' she said. 
 
 1 No. I did not like to leave you alone for a whole 
 evening.* 
 
 If it w r ere 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 even- 
 ing. He was so unusually tender and unreserved, so de- 
 sirous to make 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 beauti- 
 ful old Latin hymn, which she had once read with her 
 brother, and had never soen adequately translated, and he
 
 84 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 fetched a manuscript book, where, written out with unri- 
 valled 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 curious orien- 
 tal sources, and there were about twenty original poems,, 
 elaborated in the same exquisite manner, and with a deep 
 melancholy strain of thought, and power of beautiful de- 
 scription, that she thought finer and more touching than 
 almost anything she had read. 
 
 ' And these are all locked up for ever. No one has 
 seen them.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 i No ; I was not thinking of anything you would dis- 
 like with regard to those verses. I don't like to let in 
 the world on things precious, but (how could she venture- 
 so far ?) I was thinking how many powers and talents are 
 shut up in that study I 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 replied, without displeasure; 
 * my youth is gone, and with it the enterprise and hope- 
 fulness that can press forward, insensible to annoyance. 
 You should have married a man with freshness and en- 
 ergy more responsive to your own.' 
 
 ' Oh, Edmund, that is a severe reproach for my im- 
 pertinent speech.' 
 
 ' You must not expect too much from me,' he contin- 
 ued. ' I told you that I was a broken, grief-stricken man, 
 and you were content to be my comforter.' 
 
 ' Would 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-ilOTHEK. 85 
 
 sphere, how much the right 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 secure 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 ridic- 
 ulous when he had come at last, that grandmamma had 
 sent him home. 
 
 1 At last ! ' said Albinia. ' He set off only ten min- 
 utes 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 ? ' 
 
 ' Gone to bed,' growled Sophy. 
 
 * I don't know what he has been doing,' said Lucy, 
 who since the suspicion of favouritism, had seemed to find 
 especial pleasure in bringing forward her brother's faults ; 
 * but he came in laughing like a plough-boy, and talking 
 perfect nonsense. And when Aunt Maria spoke to him, 
 he answered quite rudely, that he wasn't going to be 
 questioned, and called to order, he had enough of petti- 
 coat government at home.' 
 
 ' No/ said Sophia, breaking in with ungracious reluc- 
 tance, as if against her will conveying some comfort to 
 her step-mother 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 didn't tor- 
 ment him out of his life for nothing, and what he stood 
 from her, he would not stand from any other woman.' 
 
 1 But, Sophy, I am sure he did say Mrs. 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 cherry.' 
 
 ' He must have been beside himself' said Abinia in a
 
 86 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 bewilderment of consternation ; but Mr. Kendal's return 
 put a stop to all, for the sisters 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 se- 
 rious cause ; but she spent a wakeful, anxious night, re- 
 volving all imaginable evils into which the boy could 
 have fallen, and perplexing herself what measures to take, 
 feeling all the more grieved and bound to him by the 
 preference that, even in this dreadful mood, he had ex- 
 pressed 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' 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 get- 
 ting up, he would be down-stairs presently. She watched 
 for him as he came down, looking still very pale and un- 
 well. 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 can- 
 not 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? ' 
 
 ' 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.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 87 
 
 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 pitiful kind of help- 
 less repentance, which had only too often given her hope. 
 
 Gilbert assured her that he had fully purposed fol- 
 lowing 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 pre- 
 vailed, 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, and it had been 
 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 extraor- 
 dinary manner to his grandmother and aunt, was so 
 shocking a notion, and the very hint made him cry so 
 bitterly, and protest so earnestly 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 weak- 
 ness 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.'
 
 88 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 • 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 your- 
 self.' 
 
 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 pitied 
 him so much, would have made her think him contemp- 
 tible. 
 
 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 promised 
 to tell, if only she would not desert him, declaring, with 
 a fresh flood of tears, that he should never do wrong when 
 she was by. Then came the apology. It was most neces- 
 sary, and he owned that it would be much better to be 
 able to tell his father that his grandmother 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 for yesterday's improper 
 behaviour, and had come to ask pardon. 
 
 Grandmamma was placable ; Gilbert's white face and 
 red eyes were pleading enough, and she was distressed at 
 Mrs. Kendal having come out, looking pale and tired. If 
 she had been alone, the only danger would have been that 
 the offence would be lost in petting ; but Maria had been 
 personally wounded, and the jealousy she already felt of 
 the step-mother, had been excited to the utmost by Gil- 
 bert's foolish words. She was excessively grieved, and a 
 great deal more angry with Mrs. Kendal than with Gil- 
 bert ; and the want of justification for this feeling, to- 
 gether with her great excitement, distress, and embar- 
 rassment, made her attempts to be dry and dignified 
 ludicrously abortive. She really seemed to have lost the 
 power of knowing what she said. She was glad Mrs. 
 Kendal could walk up this morning, since she could not 
 come at night.
 
 THE TOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 89 
 
 ' It w-as 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 very 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 
 affront at this reproach to his manliness. 
 
 ' It was exceedingly unfortunate,' said Albinia, trying 
 to repress her vexation ; ' but Gilbert must learn to have 
 resolution to guard himself. And now that he is come to 
 ask your forgiveness, will you not grant it to him 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 yourself 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 sor- 
 row at having disappointed so much kindness, but she 
 brought Miss Meadows down on her again. 
 
 ' Oh, yes — she grudged nothing — but she never ex- 
 pected to meet with gratitude — she was quite prepared 
 — ' and she swallowed 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 w r onder — she only hoped 
 the clear children — ' and she was absolutely crying. 
 
 ' My dear Maria,' said her mother, soothingly, ' you 
 have worked yourself into such a state, that you don't 
 know what you are saying. You must not let Mrs. Ken-
 
 90 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 dal think that we don't know that she is leading ^he dear 
 children to all that is right and kind towards us.' 
 
 I 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.' 
 
 Alblnia 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 I am as cool as possible,' said Miss Meadows, con- 
 vulsively 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 mat- 
 ters — 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, recom- 
 mending 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 ? ' exclaimed Al- 
 binia, as they finally turned their backs on her. 
 
 It was hardly in human nature to help making the 
 observation, but it was not prudent. Gilbert took licence 
 to laugh, and say, ' Aunt Maria is beside herself.' 
 
 1 1 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 confi- 
 dence — ' 
 
 ' I'm glad you see it so at last ! ' cried Gilbert. 
 ' Aunt Maria has been the plague of my life, and I'm 
 glad I told her a bit of my mind ! ' 
 
 What was Albinia's consternation ! Her moment's 
 petulance had undone her morning's w'ork. 
 
 ' 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
 
 THE YOTJN'G STEP-MOTHER. 91 
 
 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, all real sense of his 
 outrageous conduct towards his aunt w r 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' questions and chatter, by desiring Lucy to read 
 aloud. 
 
 By-and-by Mr. Kendal was heard returning, and she 
 rose to arrest him in the hall. Her looks began the story, 
 for he exclaimed, ' My dear Albinia, what is the matter % ' 
 
 1 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 re- 
 covered, but the very word ' Gilbert ' brought such an ex- 
 pression of anxiety and sternness over his brow as over- 
 came her again, and she could not speak without so much 
 emotion that he silenced her ; and finding that she could 
 neither leave the subject, nor mention it without violent 
 agitation, he said he would leave her for a little while, and 
 perhaps she might sleep, and then be better able to speak 
 to him. Still she held him, and begged that he would say 
 nothing to Gilbert till he had heard her, and to pacify her 
 he yielded, passed his promise, and quitted her with a kiss.
 
 92 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 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 reassure Winifred as be met ber in tbe ball, altbougb 
 bis words were, ' I bope sbe is doing well.' 
 
 He said no more, for tbe drawing-room door was 
 moving to and fro, as if uneasy on tbe binges, and as be 
 made a step towards it, it disclosed a lady witb black eyes 
 and pincbed features, wbom be presented as 'Miss 
 Meadows.' 
 
 'Well, now — I tbink — since more efficient — since I 
 leave Mrs. Kendal to better — only pray tell ber — my love 
 and my motber's — if I could bave been of any use — or 
 sball I remain 1 — could I be of any service, Edmund f — 
 I would not intrude wben — but in tbe bouse — if I could 
 be of any furtber use.' 
 
 1 Of none, tbank you,' said Mr. Kendal, ' unless you 
 would be kind enougb to take borne tbe girls.' 
 
 ' Ob, papa ! ' cried Lucy, ' I've got tbe keys. You 
 won't be able to get on at all witbout me. Sopby may go, 
 but I could not be spared.' 
 
 ' Let it be as you will,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' I only de- 
 sire quiet, and tbat you sbould not inconvenience Mrs. 
 Ferrars.' 
 
 'You will belp me, will you not?' said Winifred, 
 smiling, tbougb sbe did not augur well from tbis opening 
 scene. ' May I go soon to Albinia 1 ' 
 
 ' Presently, I bope,' said Mr. Kendal, witb an uneasy 
 glance towards Miss Meadows ; ' sbe bas seen no one as 
 yet, and sbe is so determined tbat you cannot come till 
 after Cbristmas, tbat sbe does not expect you.' 
 
 Miss Meadows began one of ber tangled skeins of 
 words, tbe most tangible of wbicb was excitement ; and 
 Mr. Kendal, knowing by long experience tbat tbe only 
 cbance of a conclusion was to let ber run berself down, 
 beld bis tongue, and sbe finally departed.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 93 
 
 Then he breathed more freely, and said he would go 
 and prepare 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, apparently borrowed from her aunt, 
 and whispering at a wonderful rate about her eagerness to 
 see clear, 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 mouth 
 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 apologize. If papa 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. 
 Ferrari's 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, repeating that papa was so absent and for- 
 getful, that it was very inconvenient in making arrange- 
 ments. Whatever was ordinarily 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 ! 
 lie has hardly stirred since breakfast ! Come and speak 
 to Mrs. Ferrars, Gilbert. Or,' and she simpered, ' shall 
 it be Aunt Winifred?' 
 
 ' As you please,' said Mrs. Ferrars, advancing towards 
 her old acquaintance, whom she would hardly have recog- 
 nised, 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.'
 
 94 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 1 As I have been telling him all this morning/ said 
 Lucy. 
 
 ' How is she ? ' whispered the boy, rousing himself to 
 look imploringly in Winifred's face. 
 
 1 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 
 turned 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, 
 1 You can make Gilbert happy about her, can you not 1 
 He is waiting 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 great 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 church the next 
 morning with her husband, Lucy showing them the way, 
 and being quiet and agreeable when repressed by Mr. 
 Ferrars's presence. After church, Mr. Dusautoy over- 
 took them to inquire after Mrs. Kendal, and to make a 
 kind proposal of exchanging Sunday duty. He undertook 
 to drive the ponies home on the morrow, begged for cre- 
 dentials for the clerk, and messages for Willie and Mary, 
 and seemed highly pleased with the prospectj.of the holi- 
 day as he called it, only entreating that Mrs. Ferrars 
 would be so kind as to look in on ' Fanny,' if Mrs. Ken- 
 dal could spare her. 
 
 ' 1 thought,' said Winifred to her husband, ' that you 
 would rather have exchanged a Sunday when Albinia is 
 better able to enjoy you 1 ' 
 
 1 That may yet be, but poor Kendal is so much de- 
 pressed, that I do not like to leave him.' 
 
 ' I have no patience with him ! ' cried Winifred ; ' he
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTKEIi. 95 
 
 does not seem to take the slightest pleasure in his baby, 
 and he will hardly let poor Albinia do so either ! 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 unlike 
 herself — so anxious and fidgety 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 mo- 
 ment, 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 worrying 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 
 grunted, " All sham ! " and that's the whole I have heard 
 of her ! He is bad enough in himself, but with such a 
 train ! My poor Albinia ! If they are not the death of 
 her, it will be lucky ! ' 
 
 • Well done, Winifred ! ' 
 
 I But, Maurice,' said his impetuous wife, in a curiously 
 altered tone, ' are not you very unhappy about Albinia ? ' 
 
 I I shall leave you to find that out for me.' 
 
 I Then you are not ? ' 
 
 I I think Kendal thoroughly values and appreciates 
 her, and is very uncomfortable without her.' 
 
 ' I suppose so. People do miss a maid-of-all-work. \ 
 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Propose that to Albinia.' 
 
 1 She did want the boy to go somewhere. I should 
 not care where, so it were out of her way. What crea- 
 tures they must be for her to have produced no more 
 effect on them ! ' 
 
 ' Poor Albinia ! I am afraid it is a hard task ; but these
 
 96 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 are 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 mentioned him ; I 
 shall desire Dusautoy to bring him here on Monday.' 
 
 ' What ! as poor Albinia would say, you can't exist a 
 week without John Smith.' 
 
 I 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.' 
 
 e 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 ? I did not 
 imagine him quite come to that.' 
 
 * Not quite] said Maurice ; ' it is with his free con- 
 sent, and 1 believe he will be very glad to have it done 
 without any trouble to himself. He said that " Abinia 
 thought it damj)" and when I put a few sanatory facts be- 
 fore him, thanked 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 effect on you to spend your 
 Christmas-day tete-a-tete with him.' 
 
 Mrs. Ferrars's views underwent various modifica- 
 tions, like all hasty yet candid judgments. She took Mr. 
 Kendal into favour when she found him placidly submit- 
 ting to Miss Meadows'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 I wonder,' thought Winifred, ' whether he married
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 97 
 
 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 
 delightful to find how Albinia was loved and valued at 
 the vicarage. 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, 
 Fairmead had a prior claim, and Albinia 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 expres- 
 sion, not merely for the actual help, though that was 
 much, but for the sympathy, the first encouragement 
 they had met among their richer parishioners ; and she 
 spoke of the refreshment of the mirthfulness and playful 
 manner, so as to convince Winifred that they had neither 
 died away nor been everywhere wasted. 
 
 Winifred had no amenable patient. Weak and de- 
 pressed as Albinia was, her restlessness and air of anxiety 
 could not be appeased. There was a look of being con- 
 stantly 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 kiss her, but still durst not 
 speak. 
 
 1 Let me have the baby,' she said. 
 
 Mrs. Ferrars laid it beside her, and held aloof. Gil- 
 bert'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,
 
 98 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Gilbert, you will do all that an elder brother can to make 
 him like Edmund 1 ' 
 
 Gilbert wrung her fingers, and ventured to stoop 
 down to kiss the little red forehead. The tears were 
 running down his cheeks, and he could not speak. 
 
 1 If your father might only say the same of him ! that 
 he never grieved him ! ' said Albinia ; ' but oh, Gilbert — 
 example ; ' and then, pausing and gazing searchingly in his 
 face, ' Ycu have not told papa.' 
 
 * No,' whispered Gilbert. 
 
 * Winifred,' said Albinia, l would you be so kind as 
 to ask papa to come 1 ' 
 
 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 assurance, his whole demeanour 
 had been sorrow all these dreary days, and Mr. Kendal 
 could not but forgive, though his eye spoke deep grief. 
 
 * I could not refuse pardon thus asked,' he said. ' Oh, 
 Gilbert, 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 be,' she said, and Gilbert's resolution was 
 parhaps the more sincere that he spoke no word. 
 
 ' Poor boy,' said Albinia, half to herself and half 
 aloud, ' I think I feel more strong to love and help to him ! ' 
 
 That interview was a dangerous experiment, and she 
 suffered 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 prog- 
 ress ; so that though it was not easy to call her better, 
 she was not quite so ill, and grew less irrational in her 
 solicitude, and more open to other ideas. * Do you
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 99 
 
 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 very John Smith, beckoned to her, and she went 
 down to hear his plans. He was wanted at home the 
 next day, and asked whether she thought he had bet- 
 ter 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. Kendal having 
 given a gracious and grateful consent, Albinia was in- 
 formed ; 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 happy — 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 was following, when her brother said, ' I promise 
 you to make him my special charge. I like the boy very 
 much. I think 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. 
 
 I You are a great fellow, indeed, sir,' said his uncle. 
 ' Now if I were your mamma, 1 would be proud of you, 
 rather than — ' 
 
 I I am afraid ! ' said Albinia, in a sudden low whisper. 
 He looked at her anxiously.
 
 100 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Let me have him,' 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 ? ' 
 
 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, for- 
 bidding 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 breath 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 be- 
 came choked — the sister to whom he had once been the 
 whole world, and who still could pour 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 trust- 
 ful. 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.' 
 
 1 1 tell myself so,' said Albinia, ' but there is no help- 
 ing it.' 
 
 ' Yes, there is. Make it your duty to keep yourself 
 still, and not be troubled about what may or may not 
 happen, but be glad of the present pleasure.' 
 
 ' Don't you think I am ? ' 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 understand, 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 won't let me see them, or tell me 
 about them ! ' 
 
 She had grown piteous and incoherent, and a glance 
 from Winifred told him, ' this is always the way.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 101 
 
 1 My dear, he said, ' you will never be fit to attend to 
 them, 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 ner- 
 vous 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 ? The 
 weaker I am, the more I think.' 
 
 * Are you dutiful as to what Winifred there thinks 
 wisest ? Ah ! Albinia, you want to learn, as poor Queen 
 Anne of Austria did, that docility in illness may be self- 
 resignation into higher Hands. Perhaps you despise it, 
 but it is no mean exercise of strength and resolution to 
 be still.' 
 
 Albinia looked at him as if receiving a new idea. 
 
 1 And,' he added, bending nearer her face, and speak- 
 ing 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 ? But you are not 
 going 1 I have so much to talk over with you.' 
 
 1 Yes, I must go ; and you must be still. Indeed I 
 will watch over Gilbert as though he were 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 much less 
 refractory. 
 
 When at last Lucy and Sophia were admitted, Win- 
 ifred found perils that she had hot anticipated. Lucy 
 was indeed supremely and girlishly happy : but it was 
 Sophy whose eye Albinia sought with anxiety, and that 
 eye was averted. Her cheek Mas cold like that of a doll 
 when Albinia touched it eagerly with her lips ; and when
 
 102 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 difference, she would only say, " I won't ! " ' 
 
 ' We will leave him to take care of that, Lucy,' said 
 Albinia. But though she 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. Ferrars wanted to make cheerful, innocent 
 conversation, she began to talk of her visit to Ireland and 
 the beautiful Galway coast, and the O'Mores of Ballyma- 
 kilty, 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 histories would have made her sometimes laugh, 
 and sometimes cry ; 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 Ed- 
 mund ! ' 
 
 Winifred must 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 duck-pond 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 my 
 dreams, and stretched out white shrouds now for one, 
 now for the other ! ' and she shuddered. 
 
 1 And you have gone through all this and never 
 }oken. No wonder your nerves and spirits were tried.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 103 
 
 ' I 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. 
 
 1 Well, we won't quarrel about that,' said Albinia. ' I 
 only know that whoever brought it about has taken the 
 heaviest weight off my mind that has been there yet.' 
 
 In truth, the terror, half real, half imaginary, had been 
 a sorer burthen than all the positive cares for those un- 
 ruly 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 discov- 
 ering Albinia's deficiencies in the furniture development. 
 She was too active and stirring, and too fond of out-of-door 
 occupation to regard interior decoration as one of the do- 
 mestic graces ; ' her nest was rather that of the ostrich 
 than the chaffinch,' as W T inifred told her on the discovery 
 that her morning-room had been used for no other pur- 
 pose than as a deposit for all the books, wedding pres- 
 ents, lumber, &c, which she had never had leisure to 
 arrange. 
 
 1 You might be more civil,' answered Albinia. ' Re- 
 member that the ringdove never made half such a fuss 
 about her nest as the magpie.' 
 
 1 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 pro- 
 nounced 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 af- 
 fectionate letter from Gilbert, detailing the Fairmead 
 Christmas festivities. She felt the invigoration of change
 
 104 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 of room, admired and was grateful for Winifred's ■work, 
 and looked so fair and bright, so tranquil and so con- 
 tented, that her sister and husband could not help pausing 
 to contemplate her as an absolutely new creature in a 
 state of quiescence. 
 
 It did not last long, and Mrs. Ferrars felt herself the 
 unwilling culprit. Attracted by sounds in the hall, she 
 found the two girls receiving from the hands of Genevieve 
 Durant a pretty basket choicely adorned with sprays 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 hands regardless of 
 the garniture. 
 
 Genevieve's disappointed look caught Winifred's at- 
 tention, 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, Genevieve was ushered 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 point lace in a pattern like frostwork on the 
 windows. It was such work as Madame Belmarche had 
 learnt in a convent in times of history, and poor little 
 Genevieve had almost worn out her black eyes on this 
 piece of homage to her dear Mrs. Kendal, grieving only 
 that she had not been able to add the length of robe 
 needed to complete her gift. 
 
 Albinia's kiss was recompence beyond her dreams, 
 and she fairly cried for joy when she was told that she 
 should come and help to dress the baby in it for his 
 christening. Mrs. Ferrars would walk out with her at 
 once to buy a sufficiency of cambric for the mighty skirts.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 105 
 
 That visit was indeed nothing but pleasure, but Mrs. 
 Ferrars 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 Meadows ; but the rest 
 of the family were so well aware of it, that when she re- 
 turned 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 countenance sadly dif- 
 ferent from what it had been in the morning — weary, im- 
 patient, 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 thing, an alter- 
 cation ; so all three began explaining and appealing at 
 once. 
 
 It seemed that Mrs. Osborn was requiting Mrs. Ken- 
 dal's neglect in not having inquired after her when the 
 Admiral's sister's husband died, by the omission of in- 
 quiries 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 deposed that Sophy and Loo were 
 together every day, though Sophy knew mamma did not 
 like it. Miss 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 Christmas parties without her ; Miss Mead- 
 ows had taken it very much to heart, and Lucy was de- 
 claiming against mamma making any condescension to 
 Mrs. Osborn, or herself being supposed to care for ' 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 she never did ! 
 
 Miss Meadows was hurt by her niece's defection, and 
 had come to ' Oh, very well,' and ' things were altered,' 
 and ' people used to be grateful to old friends, but there 
 5*
 
 106 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHKR. 
 
 were changes.' And thereby Lucy grew personal as to 
 the manners of the Osborns, while Albinia defended her- 
 self against the being grand or exclusive, 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. Ferrars 
 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 room.' 
 
 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, for she was too much excited to be composed with- 
 out 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 never was vexed, such absur- 
 dity did not hurt her in the least. 
 
 ' It has tired you, though,' said Winifred. ' Lie quite 
 down and sleep.' 
 
 Of course, however, Albinia would 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. 
 1 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 happy ? '
 
 THE YOTJNG STEP-MOTHER. 107 
 
 1 But, Winifred, the penny club ! The people must 
 have their things.' 
 
 1 They can wait, or — ' 
 
 * It is very well for us to talk of waiting,' cried Al- 
 binia, ' but how should we like a frosty night without 
 cloaks, or blankets, or fire ? 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 in 
 a flood 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 de- 
 pression had been so new that it broke her completely 
 down ; convalescence 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 
 startled, 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. 
 
 1 Oh, mamma,' cried Lucy, flying in, ' Mr. Dusautoy 
 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. Du- 
 sautoy wants to know if you paid up three-and-fourpence 
 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.
 
 108 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 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 offending parties retaliated by ac- 
 cusing her of embezzling the subscriptions, both parties 
 launching into the usual amount of personalities and ex- 
 aggerations. 
 
 Albinia's testimony cleared Mrs. Brock as to the 
 three-and-fourpence, but she ' snuffed the battle 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 — she would 
 propose it on the very first opportunity to the Dusau- 
 toys. Winifred asked if she had not a good deal on her 
 hands already. 
 
 1 My dear, I have the work in me of a young giant.' 
 
 * And will Mr. Kendal like it 1 ' 
 
 ' He would never find it out unless I told him, and 
 very possibly not then. 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 wo- 
 man's matter.' 
 
 4 Every one to her taste,' thought Winifred, who had 
 begun to regard Mr. and Mrs. Kendal in the same rela- 
 tion 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 
 my brother % ' 
 
 She took him upstairs at once. c 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, i 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 109 
 
 again ! ' I hope he will be a good brother to you,' she 
 said. 
 
 1 He must be good ! he can't help it ! He has you ! ' 
 said Gilbert. ' See, he is opening his eyes — oh ! how 
 blue ! May I touch him ? 
 
 ' To be sure you may. He is not sugar,' said A1- 
 binia, laughing. ' 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 ? ' 
 
 Gilbert held him reverently, and gave him back with 
 a sigh when he seemed to have satiated his gaze and 
 touch, and convinced himself that his new possession was 
 substantial. ' I say,' he added wistfully, ' did you think 
 that name would bring ill-luck ? ' 
 
 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 knowing him some day.' 
 
 Gilbert shivered at this, and made no opposition to 
 her carrying him downstairs to his uncle ; and then Gil- 
 bert hurried off for the basket of snowdrops that he had 
 gathered 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 when he could gain her ear, poured his- 
 tories of the delights of Fairmead, where Mr. Ferrars 
 had devoted himself to his amusement, and had made 
 him happier than perhaps he had ever been in his life — 
 he had had a taste of shooting, of skating, 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 en- 
 thusiastic lips, delighted Albinia, and her felicity with 
 her baby, with Mr. Kendal, with her brother and his little 
 son, was one of the brightest things in all the world— the
 
 110 THE YOUNG STEP-il OTHER. 
 
 fresh young loving bloom of her matronhood was even 
 sweeter and more beautiful than her girlish days. 
 
 Poor little frail, blighted Mrs. Dusautoy ! Winifred 
 could not help wondering if the contrast pained her, when 
 in all the glory of her motherly thankfulness, Albinia car- 
 ried her beautiful newly-christened Maurice Ferrars Ken- 
 dal to the vicarage to show him off, lying so open-chested 
 and dignified, in Genevieve's pretty work, with a sort of 
 manly serenity 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 that. No, indeed ! She loved — she rejoiced in 
 all her friend's sweet and precious gifts — but Mrs. Du- 
 sautoy 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 ju- 
 venile, in honour 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 enjoyment and novelty, and 
 was like a different person. Mr. Kendal looked at her 
 with a pleased sad wonder, and told his wife it reminded 
 him of what she had been when she was nearly the pret- 
 tiest girl at Bayford. 
 
 Gilbert devoted himself as usual to making Genevieve 
 feel welcome ; and she had likewise Willie Ferrars and 
 Francis Nugent at her feet. Neither urchin would sit 
 two inches 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-ilOTIIEE. Ill 
 
 vivacity, and people of a larger growth than her little 
 admirers were charmed with her. 
 
 Lucy was obliging, ready, and useful, and looked very 
 pretty ; the only blot was the heavy dulness of poor 
 Sophy, who seemed resolved to take pleasure 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 ac- 
 quiesce in Lucy's explanation that Sophy was only cross 
 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 relat- 
 ing to the horde of Irish cousins. 
 
 1 Only think, Albinia, I have found out that poor Ellen 
 O'More is Mr. Goldsmith's sister ! ' 
 
 1 Indeed ! But I am afraid I don't remember which 
 Ellen 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, Winifred ! ' 
 
 ' But I tell you her husband is the third son of old 
 Mr. O'More of Ballamakilty, and was in the army.' 
 
 ' Oh ! the half-pay officer with the twelve children in 
 the cottage on the estate.' 
 
 ' There now, I did think you would care when 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, 
 1 that you used to be sorry for his good little English 
 wife.'
 
 112 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 1 Of course. I knew she had married him very im- 
 prudently, but she had 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.' 
 
 ' Just like them,' said Albinia. ' Is that the reason 
 you wish 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 % ' 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 i 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 
 Ellen " 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 as- 
 tonished. 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 work.' 
 
 Albinia was by this time anxious that it should take 
 effect, and they 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 ? 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 private interview to talk to him 
 about Gilbert, it was in full security of hearing the 
 praises of her darling.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 113 
 
 1 A nice boy, a very nice boy,' returned Maurice ; 
 4 most amiable and intelligent, and particularly engaging, 
 from his feeling being so much on the surface.' 
 
 ' Nothing can be more sincere and genuine,' she cried, 
 as if this fell a little fiat. 
 
 4 Certainly not, at the time.' 
 
 4 Always ! ' exclaimed Albinia. ' You must not dis- 
 trust 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 affection, poor dear 
 boy,' and the tears thrilled to her eyes. 
 
 ' No, and it is much to his credit. His love and grat- 
 itude 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.' 
 
 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 trained ; he was 
 always ill till within the last few years — coddling at first, 
 neglect afterwards, he has it all to lesrn, and it is too late 
 for school.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 4 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 for anything unless he is a universal 
 plague ! ' 
 
 4 1 wonder what you will do with your own son,' said 
 Maurice, amused, ' since you take Gilbert's part so 
 fiercely.' 
 
 4 1 trust my boy will never be as much to be pitied 
 as his brother,' said Albinia, with tenderness that accused 
 her petulance. ' 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 1 ' 
 
 4 Gentle dealing is the very thing he wants,' said Mr. 
 Ferrars ; 4 and I am thinking how to find it for him. 
 How did his going to Traversham fail 1 '
 
 114 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTILLH:. 
 
 ' 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 happy 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 mis- 
 chief — it is all pleasure to me.' 
 
 ' And pray what are your daughters and baby to do, 
 while you are galloping after Gilbert ? ' 
 
 1 Oh ! I'll manage. We can all do things together. 
 Come, Maurice, I won't have Edmund teazed, 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 ' teazing.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal's first impulse always was to find a suffi- 
 cient plea for doing nothing. If Gilbert was to go to 
 India, it was not worth while to give him a classical edu- 
 cation. 
 
 ' Is he to go to India ? 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, but he had better have seen some- 
 thing of the world. Bayford is no place for a man to 
 settle down in too young.' 
 
 1 Certainly,' said Mr. Ferrers, repressing a smile. 
 ' Then are you thinking of sending him to Haileybury ? ' 
 
 He was pronounced too young ; besides, it was ex- 
 plained 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 unconsciously 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 YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 115 
 
 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 your- 
 self 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 ; but it is not woman's work, she cannot do 
 it, and it is not fit to leave it to her. When Gilbert has 
 broken her heart as well as yours, and left an evil exam- 
 ple 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, inexperienced wife to struggle alone to 
 save him. If you arc unwarned 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. Ken- 
 dal 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. 1 1 was to 
 blame for leaving him so entirely to Albinia ; but she is 
 very fond of him, and is one who will never be induced 
 to spare herself, and there "were considerations. How- 
 ever, she shall be relieved at once. What do you recom- 
 mend ? ' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars actually made Mr. Kendal promise to 
 set out for Traversham with him next morning, thirty 
 miles by the railway, to inspect Mr. Downton and his 
 pupils. 
 
 Albinia had just sense enough not to object, though 
 the discovery of the Indian plans was such a blow to her 
 that she could not be consoled by all her husband's repre- 
 sentations of the advantages Gilbert would derive there, 
 and of his belief that the Kendal constitution always de- 
 rived strength from a hot climate ; and that to himself 
 going to India seemed going home. She took refuge in 
 the hope that between the two Indian stools, Gilbert
 
 110 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 might fall upon one of the professions which she thought 
 alone worthy of man's attention, the clerical or the mil- 
 itary. 
 
 Under Maurice's escort, Mr. Kendal greatly enjoyed 
 his expedition ; liked Traversham, was satisfied with the 
 looks of the pupils, and very much pleased with the tutor, 
 whom he even begged to come to Bay ford for a confer- 
 ence with Mrs. Kendal, and this was received by her as 
 no small kindness. She was delighted with Mr. Down- 
 ton, 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, though 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 million 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, scandal- 
 izing Bay ford by standing in the open gateway, her face 
 all smiles of cheerful parting, the sun and wind making 
 merry with her chestnut curls, her baby in one arm, the 
 other held up to wave her farewell. 
 
 ' That child will catch cold,' began Winifred, turning 
 to sign her to go in. ' Well,' she continued, ' after all, I 
 believe some people like an idol that sits quiet to be wor- 
 shipped ! To be sure she must want to beat him some- 
 times, as the Africans do their gods. But, on the whole, 
 her sentiment of reverence is satisfied, and she likes the 
 acting for herself, and reigning absolute. Yes, she is 
 quite happy — why do you look doubtful? Don't you 
 admire her ? '
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 117 
 
 1 From my heart.' 
 
 ' Then why do you doubt ? Do you expect her to do 
 anything ? ' 
 
 ' A little too much of everything.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Yes ! Albinia was excessively happy. Her naturally 
 high 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 un- 
 known,' was in him unusually rapid ; so that he was a 
 marvel of fair stateliness, 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 carry 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 inaccessibility. Besides, her brother's visit, her 
 recovery, and the renewed hope and joy in this promising 
 child, had not been without effect in rousing him from his 
 apathy. He was less inclined to shun his fellow-crea- 
 tures, had become friendly with the vicar, and had even 
 let Albinia take him into Mrs. Dusautoy'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 con- 
 dition to which Albinia had once imagined it possible to 
 bring him, in which gentle means and wholesome influ-
 
 118 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ence might lead him imperceptibly out of his morbid 
 habits of self-absorjDtion. 
 
 Unfortunately, in the flush of blitheness and "whirl of 
 activity, Albinia failed to perceive the relative import- 
 ance of objects, and he had taught her to believe herself 
 so little necessary to him that she had not learnt to make 
 her pursuits and occupations subservient to his conven- 
 ience. As long as the drive took place regularly, all 
 was well, but he caught a severe cold, which lasted even 
 to the setting in of the east winds, the yearly misery of a 
 man who hardly granted that India was over-hot. Though 
 Albinia had removed much listing and opened various 
 doors and windows, he made no complaints, but did his 
 best to keep the obnoxious fresh air out of his study, and 
 seldom crossed the threshold thereof but with a shiver. 
 His favourite atmosphere was quite enough to account 
 for a return of the old mood, but Albinia had no time to 
 perceive that it might 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 
 foils to the lot of such as have not previously been chast- 
 ened by a life-long affliction. But Mrs. Kendal, at twenty- 
 four, with the consequence conferred by marriage, and by 
 her superiority of manners and birth, was left as un- 
 checked 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 with- 
 out repose. 
 
 Ballast had been given at first by bash fulness, disap- 
 pointment, and anxiety ; but she had been freed from her 
 troubles 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 else- 
 where she might not be liked, yet she was deferred to, 
 could not easily be quarrelled 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.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 119 
 
 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 Fair mead 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 de- 
 spatched 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 
 inclined to press her, 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 Albinia 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, who 
 indeed pervaded all her home doings and thoughts, for 
 she had a great gift of doing everything at once. 
 
 A sharp constitutional walk was taken in the after- 
 noon. She thought no one could look drooping or de- 
 jected but from the air of the valley, and that no cure 
 was equal to rushing straight up one hill and on to the 
 next, always walking rapidly, with a springy, buoyant 
 step, and surprised at any one who lagged behind. Pa- 
 rochial 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 
 perpetual 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 eager- 
 ness that generally carried away the vicar into grateful 
 consent and admiring approval, while his wife was feeling
 
 120 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 than dawd- 
 ling. She left the girls choice of employments, but in- 
 sisted on their being veritably occupied, and many a 
 time did she encounter a killing glance from Sophia for 
 attacking her listless, moody position in her chair, or say- 
 ing, in clear, alert tones, ' My dear, when you read, read ; 
 when you work, work. When you fix your eye in that 
 way, you are doing neither.' 
 
 Lucy's brisk, active disposition, and great good- 
 humour, had responded to this treatment ; she had been 
 obliging, instead of officious ; repeated checks had im- 
 proved her taste ; her love of petty bustle was directed 
 to better objects ; and though nothing could make her 
 intellectual or deep, she was a really pleasant assistant 
 and companion ; and no one, except grandmamma, who 
 thought her perfect before, could fail to perceive how 
 much more lady-like her tones, manners, and appearance 
 had become. 
 
 The results with Sophy had been directly the reverse. 
 At first 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 contra- 
 diction. Her intervals of childish nonsense had well nigh 
 disappeared ; her indifference 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 Al- 
 binia saw her reading old-fashioned standard poetry — 
 such as she had never herself assailed — and books of his- 
 tory, travels, or metaphysics. She wondered whether 
 the girl derived any pleasure from them, or whether they 
 were only a shield for doing nothing ; but no inquiry pro- 
 duced an answer, and if Sophy remembered anything of 
 them, it was not with the memory used in lesson-time. 
 The attachment to Louisa Osborn was pertinacious and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 121 
 
 unaccountable 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 con- 
 cealed that she was in reality tall, and on a large scale. 
 She looked to so little advantage in bright delicate col- 
 ours, 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 bee- 
 tle 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 Sophy 
 had grown as old as grandmamma. 
 
 The compliment could not be returned ; Gilbert was 
 much 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 trouble to talk to him, and received such sensi- 
 ble answers, that the habit of conversing was actually 
 established, and the dinners were enlivened, instead of 
 oppressed, by his presence. Towards his sisters he had 
 become courteous, he was fairly amiable to Aunt Maria, 
 very attentive to grandmamma, overflowing with affec- 
 tion 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 distribu- 
 tion, the triumph for which Albinia had so long been pre- 
 paring. One of Mrs. Dusautoy's hints as to Bayford 
 tradesmen had been overruled, and goods had been or- 
 dered from a house in London, after Albinia and Lucy 
 had made an incredible agitation over their patterns of 
 6
 
 122 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 calico and flannel. Mr. Kendal was just aware 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 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. Dusautoy looked 
 in on Mrs. Kendal and her staff, armed with their yard- 
 wands. 
 
 A pile of calico was heaped in wild masses like ava- 
 lanches in one corner, rapidly diminishing under the 
 measurements of Gilbert, who looked as if he took thor- 
 ough good-natured delight in the frolic. Brown, inodor- 
 rous materials for petticoats, blouses, and trowsers, were 
 dealt out by the dexterous hands of Genevieve ; a moun- 
 tain 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 help- 
 ing 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, except 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 Miss Durant's ready, lively persuasions, 
 varied to each one's tastes, and extracting a smile 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 com- 
 plaints, measuring, folding — here, there, and everywhere 
 — always bright, lively, forbearing, however complaining 
 or unreasonable her clients might be. 
 
 Mr. Dusautoy went home to tell his Fanny that Mrs, 
 Kendal was worth her weight in gold ; and the workers 
 toiled till luncheon, when Albinia took them home for 
 food and wine, to restore them for the labours of the 
 afternoon. 
 
 ' What have you been about all the morning, Sophy ? 
 Yes, I see your translation — very well — I wish you would
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 123 
 
 come up and help this afternoon. Miss Richardson is look- 
 ing 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.' 
 
 ' I 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 good. Ye^, you must go.' 
 
 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 neighbours, a dinner which it 
 would have been as cruel to refuse as it was irksome to 
 accept. 
 
 There was a great similarity in those Bay ford parties, 
 inasmuch 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 doors, 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 hesi- 
 tate. Miss Bowles hastened forward, and opening it, ad- 
 mitted a voice that made Albinia hurry breathlessly from
 
 124 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 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 consulta- 
 tion round Gilbert. The instant he saw her, he ex- 
 claimed, ' Come to the baby, Sophy has fallen 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 ? ' 
 
 They pointed to the study. The door was shut, but 
 Albinia broke 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 death. She sprang forward herself to 
 clasp her child, and her husband yielded him in broken- 
 hearted pity, but at that moment the little limbs moved, 
 the features worked, the eyes unclosed, and 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 
 terrified, he had been in a sort of swoon, without breath 
 to cry, till recalled to himself by feeling his mother's 
 arms around him. Every attempt of Mr. Bowles to as- 
 certain whether he were uninjured 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 con- 
 vulsive sobs still quivered up through the little frame ;
 
 THE YOTTXG STEP-MOTHEIi. 125 
 
 and as the twilight darkened on her, she had time to re- 
 alize the past alarm, and rejoice in trembling over the 
 treasure still her own. 
 
 The opening of the door and 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 reassuring 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 all that swelled within her, for the 
 babe felt each throb of her beating heart ; and 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 make him cry again ! I sup- 
 pose he must be looked at, but indeed I think him safe. — 
 See, this little bruise on his forehead is the only mark 1 
 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 frightened 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 insensible when 1 took him — I 
 thought him gone. Albinia, you must let Bowles see 
 him again ! ' 
 
 * Is any one there 1 ' she said. 
 
 1 Every one, I think,' he replied, looking oppressed — 
 1 Maria, and Mrs. Osborn, and Dusautoy — but I will call 
 Bowles.' 
 
 Apparently the little boy had escaped entirely unhurt, 
 but 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 refuge from the voices and sounds that
 
 126 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 she feared to encounter, lest they should again occasion 
 the dreadful screaming. ' Oh, if they would only go 
 home ! ' she said. 
 
 1 1 will send them,' said Mr. Kendal ; and presently 
 she heard sounds of leave-taking, and he came back, as if 
 he had been dispersing 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 nur- 
 sery, where she listened to the contrition of the little 
 nursemaid, who had never suspected Miss Sophy's inten- 
 tion 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 the thankful- 
 ness 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 likewise, 
 and she could not easily resolve on meeting the hard de- 
 fiance 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 unclasped the arm that Lucy had wound 
 round her waist, whispered to her to go on singing, and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 127 
 
 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 
 speak. 
 
 ' Baby is gone quietly to sleep,' began Albinia in a 
 low voice, beginning in displeasure ; but as she spoke, 
 the harshness of Sophy's face gave way, she sank down 
 on the floor, and fell into the most overpowering fit of 
 weeping that Albinia had ever witnessed. Kneeling be- 
 side her, she would have drawn the girl close to her, but 
 a sharp cry of pain startled her, and she found the right 
 arm, from elbow to wrist, all one purple bruise, the skin 
 grazed, and the blood starting. 
 
 ' My poor child ! how you have hurt yourself! ' 
 
 Sophy turned away pettishly. 
 
 ' Let me look ! I am sure it must be very bad. 
 Have you done anything to it ? ' 
 
 ' No, never mind. Go back to baby.' 
 
 1 Baby does not want me. You shall come and see 
 how comfortably he is asleep, if you will leave off crying, 
 and let me see that poor arm. Did you hurt it in the 
 fall ? ' 
 
 i The corner of the wall,' said Sophy. 6 Oh ! did it not 
 hurt him ? ' but then, just as it seemed that she was sink- 
 ing on that kind breast in exhaustion, she collected her- 
 self, and pushing Albinia 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 won't you begin to hate me % ' 
 
 1 My dear,' said Albinia, consoled on hearing the au- 
 thority, ' 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 fright- 
 ened. Dear, dear child, I am more distressed for you 
 than for him ! '
 
 128 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 Sophy could hold out no longer, she let her head drop 
 on the kind shoulder, and seemed to collapse, with burn- 
 ing brow, throbbing pulses, and sobs as deep and convul- 
 sive as had been those of her little brother. Hastily 
 calling Lucy, who was frightened, subdued, 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 severe 
 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 thus elicited 
 that she had taken Maurice across the street to show him 
 to Mrs. Osborn. He had resented the strange place, and 
 strange people, and had cried so much that she was 
 obliged to run home with him at once. A knot of bawl- 
 ing men came reeling out of one of the many beershops 
 in Tibbs's Alley, 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 up at once, in 
 the horror of seeing him neither cry nor move, for, in 
 fact, he had been almost stifled under her weight, and all 
 had since been to her a frightful phantom dream. Al- 
 binia was infinitely relieved by this history, showing that 
 Maurice could hardly have received any real injury ; and 
 in her declarations that Sophy's presence 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 forced 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 em- 
 brace that had passed between them. 
 
 In the very early morning, Albinia was in the nur- 
 sery, and found her little boy bright and healthy. As 
 she left him in glad hope and gratitude, Sophy's door was
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 129 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 Does your arm hurt you ? ' 
 
 4 Yes.' 
 
 1 Does your head ache 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 fresh attempt at clos- 
 ing her weary eyes. 
 
 She was evidently far too much shaken to be fit for 
 the intended expedition, even if her father had not decreed 
 that she 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 doubly 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 re- 
 pugnance 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, succeeded in prevailing on 
 him to accept his melancholy destiny, and to allow her 
 to remain at home with Sophy and the baby — one of the 
 greatest sacrifices he or she had yet made. He was ex- 
 ceedingly vexed, and therefore the less disposed to be 
 lenient. The more Albinia told him of Sophy's unhappi- 
 ness, the more he hoped it would do her good, and he 
 could not be induced to see her, nor to send her any mes- 
 sage of forgiveness ; for in truth it was less the baby's 
 accident that he resented, than the eighteen months of 
 f surly resistance to the baby's mother ; and at present he 
 was more unrelenting than the generous, 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.' 
 
 G*
 
 130 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 And Albinia could not say that it had been asked, ex- 
 cept by misery. 
 
 ' She has the best advocate in you,' said Mr. Kendal, 
 affectionately, ' and if there be any feeling in her, such 
 forbearance cannot fail to bring it out. I am more 
 grieved than I can tell you at your present disappoint- 
 ment, but it shall not happen again. If you can bring 
 her to a better mind, I shall be the more satisfied in send- 
 ing her from home.' 
 
 ' Edmund ! you do not think of it ! ' 
 
 ' My 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.' 
 
 1 1 will not have you made miserable at home. This 
 has been a long trial, and nothing has softened her.' 
 
 * Suppose this was the very thing.' 
 
 1 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 her 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 ? Have I been mistaken 1 have I been 
 careless ? have I not prayed enough ? Oh ! my poor, 
 poor Sophy ! What will she do among strange girls % 
 Oh ! how wretched, how harsh, how misunderstood she 
 will be ! She will grow worse and worse, and just when 
 I do think I might have begun to get at her ! 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 ? Winifred will promote it, because they all think 
 I am doing too much ! I wonder what put that in Ed- 
 mund's head ? But when he speaks in that way, I have 
 no hope ! '
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 131 
 
 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 imagination, and which so greatly shocked it, that 
 he went straight to the astonished Pettilove, and gave him 
 a severe reprimand for allowing the houses to be made 
 dens of iniquity and disorder. 
 
 He was at home in time to meet the doctor, and hear 
 that Maurice had suffered not the smallest damage ; and 
 then to make another ineffectual attempt to persuade Al- 
 binia to consign Sophy to imprisonment with Aunt Maria ; 
 after which he drove off very much against his will with 
 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 sense 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 character, 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 cour- 
 age 1 Would a gentler, less eager person have won in- 
 stead of repelling confidence ? Had her multiplicity of 
 occupations made her give but divided attention to the 
 more important home duty. Alas ! alas ! she only knew 
 that her husband thought his daughter beyond her man- 
 agement, 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 pleasant on the glowing July 
 day, and having made all her arrangements for going 
 from home, she had no pressing employment ; and thu? 
 she waited, musing as she seldom allowed herself time to
 
 132 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 do, and thinking over each phase of her conduct towards 
 Sophy, in the endeavour to detect the mistake ; and 
 throughout came, not exactly answering her query, but 
 throwing a light upon it, her brother's warning, that if 
 she did not resign herself to rest quietly when 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 mes- 
 sage had been sent up in the morning, but grandmamma 
 was so nervous, that Maria had trotted down in the heat 
 to 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 she had left Sophy lying on the sofa, and ran up to 
 fetch Maurice from the nursery. 
 
 When she came down, having left the nurse adorning 
 him, she found that she had acted cruelly. Sophy was 
 standing up with her hardest face on, listening to her 
 aunt's well-meant rebukes on her want of feeling, and 
 hopes that she did regret the having endangered her 
 brother, and deprived ' her dear mamma of the party of 
 pleasure at Fairmead ; but Aunt Maria knew it was of no 
 use to talk to Sophy, none — ! ' 
 
 1 Pray, don't, Aunt Maria,' said Albinia, gently draw- 
 ing 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, Mrs. 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, won't you tell me that? 
 No, I know you won't ; no one ever can get a word from 
 her. Ah ! that sulky disposition — it is a very nasty 
 temper — can't you break through it, Sophy, and confess 
 it all to your dear mamma ? 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 133 
 
 Maurice's merry crowings were heard approaching. Miss 
 Meadows was delighted to see him, but as he had a great 
 aversion to her, the interview was not prolonged, 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 preparing to cry 
 whenever he caught sight of her white bonnet and pink 
 roses. 
 
 Miss Meadows bethought her that grandmamma was 
 anxious, so 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 feeling. 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Albinia, ' some evening perhaps I 
 may come, since you are so kind ; but I don't think I can 
 leave this poor twisted arm to itself.' 
 
 Miss 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 Albinia, ' that you would only be too 
 glad if you knew how.' 
 
 Sophy gasped. 
 
 Albinia could not help feeling indignant at the mis- 
 judged persecution ; and yet it seemed to render the 
 poor child more entirely her own, since all the world be- 
 sides had turned against her. ' Kiss her, Maurice,' she 
 said, holding the little fellow 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. 
 
 1 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.'
 
 134 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 What has put such a fancy in your head, my dear % ' 
 said Albina, 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?' 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't see why not.' 
 
 1 Why not ? ' continued Albinia, in her bright, tender 
 voice. ' Why, because I must love you with all my 
 heart. You are your own dear papa's child, and this lit- 
 tle man's sister. Yes, and you are yourself, my poor, 
 sad, lonely child, who does not know how to bring out 
 the thoughts that prey on her, and who thinks 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 
 bent on repelling the proffered affection. ' I would not 
 like you, and I did not like you. Never ! and I have 
 gone against you every way I could.' 
 
 I And now I love you because you are sorry for it.' 
 
 * I'm not — ' Sophy had begun, but the words turned 
 into 'Am 1 1 ' 
 
 ' I think you are,' and with* the sweetest of tearful 
 smiles, she put an arm round the no longer resisting 
 Sophy, and laying her cheek against the little brother's, 
 she kissed first one and then the other. 
 
 I 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 Ave pull together instead of 
 contrary ways.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 135 
 
 I But,' cried Sophy, with a sudden start from her, as 
 if remembering a mortal offence, ' you drained the pond ! ' 
 
 I I own I earnestly wished it to be drained ; but had 
 you any reason for regretting it, my dear % ' 
 
 ' Ah ! you did not know,' said Sophy. ' He and I 
 used to be always there.' 
 
 <He— ?' 
 
 'Why, will you make me say it?' cried Sophy. 
 * Edmund ! I mean Edmund ! We always called it his 
 pond. He made the little quay for his boats — he used to 
 catch 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 
 she burst into a passion of tears, that made Maurice cry 
 till Albinia hastily carried him off and returned. 
 
 ' My dear, I am sorry it seemed so unkind. I do not 
 think we could have let the pond stay, for it was making 
 the house unhealthy ; but if we had talked over it to- 
 gether, it need not have appeared so very cruel and spite- 
 ful.' 
 
 ' I don't believe you are spiteful,' said Sophy, ' though 
 I sometimes think so.' 
 
 The filial compliment was highly gratifying. 
 
 ' And now, Sophy,' she said, i that I have told you 
 why we were obliged to have the pond drained, will you 
 tell me what you wanted with baby at Mrs. Osborn's 1 ' 
 
 4 1 will tell,' said Sophy, ' but you won't like it.' 
 
 ' I like anything better than concealment.' 
 
 ' Mrs. OsDorn said she never saw him. She said you 
 kept him close, and that nobody was good enough to 
 touch him ; so I promised I would bring him over, and I 
 kept my word. I know it was wrong — and — I did not 
 think you would ever forgive me.' 
 
 ' But how could you do it ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Osborn and all used to be so kind to us when 
 there was nobody else I won't cast them off 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
 
 136 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 extracted some broken words. * 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 
 I tried, when Edmund did 1 ' 
 
 1 And has life been a blank ever since 1 ' 
 
 1 Off and on,' said Sophy. ' Well, why not 1 I am 
 sure papa is melancholy enough. I don't like people 
 that are always making fun, I can't see any sense in it.' 
 
 ' Some sorts of merriment are sad, and hollow, and 
 wrong, indeed,' said Albinia, i 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.' 
 
 4 But, Sophy, if life is so sad and hard to you, don't you 
 see the mercy that took Edmund away to perfect joy 1 
 Remember, not cutting you off from him, but keeping 
 him safe for you.' 
 
 1 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 left 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 child 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 some-
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 137 
 
 thing that would bring you nearer to Edmund than hard 
 truth in your own strength.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean/ said Sophy. 
 
 4 Did you ever think what Edmund is about now 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Sophy. 
 
 1 1 only know that the one thing which is carried with 
 us to the other world is love, Sophy, and love that be- 
 comes greater than we can yet imagine. If you would 
 think of Him wdio redeemed and saved your dear Edmund, 
 and who is his happiness, his exceeding great reward, 
 your heart would warm ; and, oh ! what hope and peace 
 would come ! ' 
 
 1 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.' , 
 
 A.lbinia'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 disclo- 
 sure of so dreary a girlhood. After all, childhood, if not 
 the happiest, is the saddest period of life — pains, griefs, 
 petty tyrannies, neglects, and terrors have not the allevia- 
 tion of the experience that ' this also shall pass away ; ' 
 time moves with a tardier pace, and in the narrower sphere 
 of interests, there is less 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 companion, and the long enduring 
 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 mar- 
 riage, by enlivening the house, had rendered her peculiar- 
 ities even more painful to herself and others, and the cul- 
 tivation 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
 
 138 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 school-girls, just when the first opening had been made, 
 the first real insight gained into her feelings, the first ap- 
 pearance of having touched her heart ! Albinia felt baf- 
 fled, disappointed, 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 think he might be right. There might be 
 those who would manage Sophy better. Eighteen 
 months had been a fair trial, and she had failed. She 
 prayed earnestly for whatever might be best for the 
 child ; and for herself, that she might take it patiently 
 and submissively. 
 
 Sophy felt the heat of the day a good deal, but tow- 
 ards 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, Albinia 
 said, ' Sophy, I am going to take advantage of my holiday 
 and go to the evening service. I suppose you had rather 
 not come 1 ' 
 
 1 1 think I will,' returned Sophy, somewhat glumly ; 
 but Albinia hailed the answer joyfully, as the first shame- 
 faced effort of a reserved character wishing to make a 
 new beginning, and she took care that no remark, not 
 even a look, should rouse the sullen sensitiveness that 
 could so easily be driven back forever. 
 
 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 church was cool and quiet, and there was some- 
 thing in Sophy's countenance and reverent attitude that 
 seemed as if she were consecrating a newly-formed reso- 
 lution ; her eye was often raised, as though in spite of 
 herself, to the name of the brother whose short life 
 seemed inseparably interwoven with all the higher aspira- 
 tions of his home. 
 
 In the midst of the Thanksgiving, a sudden movement
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 139 
 
 attracted Albinia, and she saw Sophy resting her head, 
 and looking excessively pale. She put her arm round 
 ,hei*, 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 bore 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 overcome her ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Sophy, ' it was only my back.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! you never told me you had hurt your 
 back ; ' and Albinia began describing the fall, and declar- 
 ing there must be a sprain. 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Sophy, ' kneeling always does it.' 
 
 ' Does what, my dear ? ' said Albinia, sitting on the 
 floor by her, and looking up to Mrs. Dusautoy, exceed- 
 ingly frightened. 
 
 1 Makes me feel sick,' said Sophy ; ' 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 hospitable, but I think the floor is the 
 most comfortable place.' 
 
 ' Thank you, much,' said Sophy, with an emphasis. 
 
 ' Do you ever lie down on it when you are tired ? ' 
 asked the lady, looking anxiously at Sophy. 
 
 ' I always wish I might.' 
 
 Albinia was surprised at the interrogations that fol- 
 lowed ; she did not understand what Mrs. Dusautoy was
 
 140 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 aiming at, in the close questioning, which to her amaze- 
 ment did not seem to offend, but rather to be gratifying 
 by the curious divination of all sensations. It made Al- 
 binia feel as if she had been carrying on a deliberate sys- 
 tem of torture, when she heard of a pain in the back, 
 hardly ever ceasing, aggravated by sitting upright, grow- 
 ing severe with the least fatigue, and unless favoured by 
 day, becoming so bad at night as to take away many 
 hours of sleep. 
 
 1 Oh ! Sophy, Sophy,' she cried, with tears in her eyes, 
 ' how could you go on so ? Why did you never tell 
 me?' 
 
 ' I did not like,' began Sophy ; ' I was used to it.' 
 
 Oh, that barrier ! Albinia was in uncontrollable dis- 
 tress, that the girl should have chosen to undergo so 
 much suffering rather than bestow any confidence. Sophy 
 stole her hand into hers, and said in her odd, short way, 
 ' Never mind, it did not signify.' 
 
 1 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 I had ever 
 guessed — ' 
 
 1 Please hush ! Never mind ! ' said Sophy, almost 
 crossly, and getting up from the floor quickly, as though 
 resolved to be well. 
 
 ' I have never minded long enough,' sighed Albinia. 
 ' What shall I do, Mrs. Dusautoy ? What do you think 
 it is ? ' 
 
 This was the last question Mrs. Dusautoy wished to 
 be asked in Sophy's presence. She had little doubt that 
 it was spine complaint like her own, but she had not in- 
 tended to let her perceive the impression, till after having 
 seen Mrs. Kendal alone. However, Albinia's impetuosity 
 disconcerted all precautions, and Sophy's two great black 
 eyes were rounded with suppressed terror, as if expecting 
 her doom. ' I think that a doctor ought to answer that 
 question,' Mrs. Dusautoy began. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' exclaimed Albinia, ' but I never had any
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 141 
 
 faith in old Mr. Bowles. I had rather go to a thorough 
 good man at once.' 
 
 * Yes, certainly, by all means.' 
 
 1 And then to whom ? I will write to my Aunt Mary. 
 It seems exactly like you. Do you think it is the 
 spine 1 ' 
 
 ' I am afraid so. But, my dear,' holding out her hand 
 caressingly 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.' 
 
 1 And of having no mother to find them out ! ' cried 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, anxious to console and 
 encourage, 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, dwining cock- 
 ney, 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 breeding. 
 Yes, we thought so in good faith, even after the largest 
 half of my life had been spent in Yorkshire.' 
 
 1 And what brought it to a crisis ? Did they go on 
 neglecting you 1 ' 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 it was the family custom to call " the 
 good-natured giant," and whose approach put all of us 
 young ladies in a state of great excitement. It was all in 
 character 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 
 his strong arm ; for do you know, when he had the curacy 
 of Lauris'ton given him, he chose to carry the starveling 
 off with him, instead of any of those fine, handsome, pros- 
 perous girls. Dear Mary and Bessie! how good they
 
 142 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 were, and how kind and proud for me ! I never could 
 complain of not having sisters.' 
 
 * Well, and Mr. Dusautoy made you have advice?' 
 
 * Not he ! Why, we all believed it cockneyism, 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 w T as a fortnight 
 before I could get to Edinburgh, and the journey made 
 me as bad as ever. So the doctors w r ere called in, and 
 poor 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 1 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 be- 
 tween 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 eye* 
 lashes, and at the end she drew a sigh of relief, and seemed 
 to catch the smile of glad gratitude and affection. There 
 was a precedent, which afforded incredible food to the tu- 
 multuous 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 present to her mind than the present probability 
 of future suffering and restraint. 
 
 Ever rapid and eager, Albinia could think of nothing 
 but immediate measures for Sophy's good, and the satis- 
 faction of her own conscience. She could not bear even 
 to wait for Mr. Kendal's return, but, as her aunts were
 
 THE TOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 143 
 
 still in London, she resolved on carrying Sophy to their 
 house on the following day for 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 Mrs. Annesley, to announce her coming with Sophy, 
 baby, and Susan, the other as follows : — 
 
 July 10th, 9 p. m. 
 
 ' Dearest Edmund, 
 
 1 1 find I have been cruelly neglectful. I have 
 hunted and driven that poor child about till it has 
 brought on spine 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 say is, for- 
 give ! She is so generous and kind ! You know I meant 
 to do my best, but they were right, I was too young. 
 1 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 independent 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 stupefied Sophy to 
 bod, astonished the little nurse, ordered down boxes and 
 bags, and spent half the night in packing, glad to be stir- 
 ring 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.
 
 144 TELE YOUNG STEP-MOTELEK. 
 
 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 
 meaning of a note which he had just received. He was 
 afraid that there was much amiss with the baby, and 
 heartily wished that he had not been persuaded to leave 
 home ; but poor Albinia wrote in so much distress, that 
 he could not understand her letter. 
 
 More accustomed to Albinia's epistolary habits, 
 Winifred exclaimed at the first glance, ' What can you 
 mean ? There is not one word of the little one ! It is 
 only Sophy ! ' 
 
 The immediate clearing of his face was not compli- 
 mentary to poor Sophy, as he said, ' Can you be quite 
 sure ? I had begun 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 ? this 
 poor child — ' 
 
 1 No, no ; it is hunted and driven ; that's the way she 
 always will make her It's ; besides, what nonsense the 
 other would be.' 
 
 'This poor child — ' repeated Mr. Kendal, 'Going up 
 to London for advice. She would hardly do that with 
 Sophia.' 
 
 I Who ever heard of a baby of six months old having 
 a spine-complaint 1 ' cried Mrs. Ferrars almost angrily. 
 
 I I have lost one in that way,' he replied. 
 
 A dead silence ensued, till Winifred, to her great- 
 relief, spied the feminine pronoun, but could not fully sat 
 isfy Mr. Kendal that the ups and downs were insufficient 
 for the word him; and each scrawl was discussed as 
 though it had been a cuniform inscription, until he had 
 been nearly argued into believing in the lesser evil. He 
 then was persuaded that the Meadowses had been harass- 
 ing and frightening Albinia into this startling measure. 
 It was so contrary to his own nature, that he hardly be- 
 lieved that it had actually taken place, and that she must
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 145 
 
 be in London by this 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 reso- 
 lution, 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 sup- 
 plicating tone of his wife's letter would have sufficed to 
 bring him to her, even without his disquietude for his 
 child, whichever of them it might be ; and though Al- 
 binia's merry, blue-eyed boy had brought a renewed 
 spring 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. Amies- 
 ley'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 ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' she cried, * quite well ; he is out in the carriage 
 with them.' Then shrinking as he was stooping to kiss 
 her, she continued, reddening deeply, ' Papa, I did very 
 wrong ; I was sly and disobedient, and I might have 
 killed him.' 
 
 ' Do not let us speak of that now, my dear ; I want to 
 hear of — ' and again he would have drawn her into his 
 embrace, but she held out her hand, with her repelling 
 gesture, and burst forth in her rude honesty, 1 1 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 
 7
 
 146 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 thought it was mean in Gilbert and Lucy to be fond of 
 her. No ! I have not done yet ! I grew naughtier and 
 naughtier, till at last I have been false and sly, and — 
 have done this to baby — and I would not have cared then 
 — if — if she would not have been — oh ! so good % ' 
 
 Sophy 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 f ' 
 
 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 f I am afraid you are 
 not well.' 
 
 Her energies were recalled ; and, squeezing his hand, 
 she said, ' Mind you will not let them say it was mamma's 
 fault.' 
 
 1 Who is accusing her, my dear ? 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 ; and 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 
 very comfortable to lie still and read, and 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 won't let them say mamma did it I ' 
 
 * Who should say so ? ' 
 
 * Aunt Maria will, and mamma will go and say so her- 
 self, cried Sophy ; ' she will say it was taking walks and 
 carrying baby, and it's not true. I told the doctor how 
 my back ached long before baby came or she either ; and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP- MOTHER. 147 
 
 he said that most likely the weakness had been left by the 
 fever. So if it is any one's mismanagement, it is Aunt 
 Maria's ; and if you won't 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.' 
 
 i 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 won't believe them, papa ? ' 
 
 1 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 — oh ! 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 very 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, start- 
 ing 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 over- 
 come all the rest ; and, understanding his uppermost wish, 
 she stepped back to the staircase, 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 Albinia 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 Albinia. ' Oh, 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.' 
 
 c My dearest, you must calm yourself, and try to ex-
 
 148 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 plain. 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. Maurice used to say I ran frantic, and grew irrational; 
 and so I did not know what I was saying to you ; and I 
 brought that 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.' 
 
 Mr. 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 ; sit down here, and let me hear what gave you this 
 alarm.' 
 
 The grave affection of his manner restrained her, and 
 his presence soothed the flutter of spirits ; though she still 
 devoted herself with a sort of wilfulness to bear all the 
 blame, until he said, ' This is foolish, Albinia ; it is of no 
 use to look at anything but the simple truth. This affec- 
 tion of the spine must be constitutional ; 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.' 
 
 ' Apres 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.'
 
 THE YOTJXG STEP-MOTHER. 149 
 
 * And a cruel utmost it was,' said Albinia ; * it is frignt- 
 ful 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 con- 
 quered 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.' 
 
 1 What have you done to her 1 I never heard her say 
 half so much as she voluntarily 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 raised and 
 fixed on her, ' I got to that at last. No one has ever 
 understood her, since she lost her brother.' 
 
 i She has a certain likeness to him. I knew she was 
 his favourite sister ; but such a child as she was — ' 
 
 ' Children have deeper souls than 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 in 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 -te- 
 merity. 
 
 Returning to business, she found that her journey was 
 treated as more judicious than she deserved. The conse- 
 quences 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 Wini- 
 fred, beginning, 'Albinia was right as she always is ;' and
 
 150 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 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 of 
 sunny liveliness, that she occasioned one of the very few 
 disputes between her good aunts. Miss Ferrars declared 
 that poor Albinia was quite revived by the return to her 
 old home, and absence of care ; while Mrs. Annesley in- 
 sisted on giving the credit to Mr. Kendal. They were 
 perfectly agreed in unwillingness 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. 
 
 Sophy had received her sentence so easily, that it was 
 suspected that she did not realize the tedium of confine- 
 ment, and was relieved by being allowed to be inactive. 
 Until she should go home, she might do whatever did not 
 fatigue her ; but most sights, and even the motion of the 
 carriage, were so fatiguing, that she was much more in- 
 clined to remain at home and revel in the delightful world 
 of books. The kind, unobtrusive petting ; the absence of 
 customary irritations ; the quiet high-bred tone of the 
 family, so acted upon her, as to render her something as 
 agreeably new to herself as to other people. The glum 
 mask was cast aside, she responded amiably to kindness 
 and attention, allowed herself to be drawn into conversa- 
 tion, and developed much more intelligence and depth 
 than even Albinia had given her credit for. 
 
 One day, when Miss Ferrars was showing Mr. Ken- 
 dal some illustrations of Indian scenery, a question arose 
 upon the date of the native sovereign to whom the build- 
 ings 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 in- 
 duce you to read that ? ' 
 
 1 1 would read anything about India j ' and her tone,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 151 
 
 though low and subdued, betrayed such enthusiasm as 
 could find nothing dry, and this in a girl who had read 
 aloud the reign of Edward III. with stolid indifference ! 
 
 ' 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 offer a greater privilege ? 
 She could scarcely pronounce, ' Thank you.' 
 
 ' Very faithful to her birth-place,' said Miss Ferrars ; 
 * but she must have been very young when she came 
 home.' 
 
 'About five years old, I believe/ said her father. 
 ' You surely can remember nothing of Talloon.' 
 
 1 1 don't know,' said Sophy, mournfully ; ' I used — ' 
 
 ' I thought Indian children usually lost their eastern 
 recollections very early,' said Miss Ferrars ; ' I never 
 heard of one who could remember the sound of Hin- 
 dostanee a year after coming homo.' 
 
 Mr. Kendal, entertained and gratified, turned to his 
 daughter ; and, by way of experiment, began a short sen- 
 tence in Hindostanee ; but the first sound brought a glow 
 to her cheeks, and with a hurried gesture, she murmured, 
 1 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. Fol- 
 lowing her up-stairs at bed-time, she contrived to win 
 from her an explanation. 
 
 Edmund had been seven years old at the time of the 
 return to England. Fondly attached to some of the 
 Hindoo servants, and with unusual intelligence and ob- 
 servation, the gorgeous scenery and oriental habits of his 
 first home had dwelt vividly in his imagination, and he 
 had always considered himself as 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 sister's recollections fade entirely 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. Gil-
 
 152 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 bert's health had caused his studies to be often intermit- 
 ted, but Edmund had constantly received instructions in 
 the Indian languages, and whatever he learnt had been 
 imparted 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 govern- 
 ment school-books there accumulated — anything that re- 
 lated 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 greatly touched and very remorseful 
 for having left such a heart to pine in solitude, while he 
 was absorbed in his own lonely grief; and Albinia ven- 
 tured 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 her % ' 
 
 ' I was not thinking of future use. It would be of 
 immense present use to her to do anything with you, and 
 I can see that nothing would gratify her so much. Be- 
 sides, I have been trying to think of all the new things I 
 could set her to do. She must 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.' 
 
 4 Exactly so,' said Albinia ; ' and the Italian will spring 
 all the better from the venerable root, when we have for- 
 gotten how cross we used to be to each other over our 
 relative pronouns.' 
 
 ' But there is hardly anything which I could let her 
 read in those languages.' 
 
 ' Very likely not ; but you can pick out what there is. 
 Do you remember the fable of the treasure that was to 
 be gained by digging under the apple-tree, and which
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 153 
 
 turned out not to be gold, but the fruit, the consequence 
 of digging ? Now, I want you to dig Sophy ; a Sanscrit, 
 or a Hindostanee, 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 mean time she saw the two making daily progress 
 in intimacy, and Mr. Kendal beginning to take pride in 
 his daugher's undersanding 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 sullen demeanour of the girl, 
 devoid indeed of many of Edmund's charms, but yet with 
 the same sterling qualities, and with resemblance 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 agree- 
 able, and was pleased to see Ablinia welcomed. 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 un- 
 avowed 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 con- 
 ventionally civil, that her state of mind could not be gath- 
 ered from them ; but her first tones proved that coherence 
 was more than ever wanting ; and no one attempted to 
 understand anything she said, while she enfolded Sophy
 
 154 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 in an agitated embrace, and marshalled them to the 
 drawing-room, where the chief of the apologies were spent 
 upon Sophy's new couch, which had been sent down the 
 day before by the luggage-train, and which she and Ewe- 
 retta had attempted to put together in an impossible 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 weariness, 
 that she took pretty well all the kind fidgeting that could 
 not be averted from her, and Miss Meadows's discourse 
 chiefly tended to assurances that Mrs. Kendal was right, 
 and grandmamma was nervous — and poor Mr. Bow T les — 
 it could not be expected — with hints of the wonderful 
 commotion the sudden flight to London had excited at 
 Bay ford. As soon as Mr. Kendal quitted the room, these 
 hints were converted into something between expostula- 
 tion, condolence, and congratulation. 
 
 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 were so ill-natured — there never 
 was such a place for gossip — not that she had heard it 
 from any one but Mrs. Drury, who really now had 
 driven in — not that she believed it, but 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 distressed 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 may 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 155 
 
 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 contra- 
 dict — and so nervous 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 my- 
 self 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," she said, " it was 
 always the talk among the girls, that Mr. Kendal kept 
 his study a forbidden place." ' 
 
 1 Then,' said Sophia, slowly, as she looked full at her 
 aunt, ' it was the Osborns who dared to say such wicked 
 things.' 
 
 'There now, I never meant you to be there. You 
 ought to be gone to bed, child. It is not a thing for you 
 to know anything about.' 
 
 'I only want to know whether it was the Osborns 
 who invented these stories,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' My dear,' exclaimed Albinia, ' what can it signify ? 
 They are only a very good joke. I did not think there 
 had been so much imagination in Bayford.' And off she 
 went laughing again. 
 
 ' They are very wicked,' said Sophy ; ' Aunt Maria, I 
 will know if it was Mrs. Osborn who told the story.' 
 
 Sophy's will was too potent for Miss Meadows, and 
 the admission 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. 
 
 ' Sophy, what is this 1 What are you about 1 ' 
 
 1 Let me alone,' said Sophy, straining against her de- 
 taining hand ; ' I do not know when I shall recover again, 
 and I will go at once to tell the Osborns that I have done
 
 156 THE YOUNG STJEP-MOTHER. 
 
 with them. I stuck 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 my 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 ri- 
 diculous.' 
 
 ' I must tell Loo never to come here with her hypoc- 
 risy/ repeated Sophy, standing still, but not yielding an 
 inch. 
 
 Miss Meadows pursued them at the same moment 
 with broken protestations that they must forget it, she 
 never meant to make mischief, &c, and the confusion was 
 becoming worse confounded when Mr. Kendal emerged 
 from the study demanding 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 cham- 
 pion wanting to do battle with Louisa Osborn in our 
 cause. Oh, Edmund ! our neighbours could find no way 
 of accounting for my taking French leave, but by suppos- 
 ing 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 shocking, that away 
 I was fleeing to William in Canada.' 
 
 1 Obliging,' quietly said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' Now, dear Edmund — I know — for my sake — for 
 everything'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 I wish that no one else should. What 
 are you about, Sophia 1 ' 
 
 1 Tell mamma to let me go, papa,' she exclaimed ; * I 
 must and will tell Louisa that I hate her baseness and
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 157 
 
 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 reports 
 before.' 
 
 Sophy obeyed unwillingly ; she was far too much in- 
 censed to forget. On her aunt's taking leave, and Mr. 
 Kendal offering his escort up the hill, she rose up again, 
 and would have perpetrated a denunciation by letter, had 
 not Albinia seriously argued with her, and finding rid- 
 icule, expediency, and Christian forgiveness all fail of hit- 
 ting the mark, said, ' I don't know with what face you 
 could attack Louisa, when you helped her to persecute 
 poor Genevieve because you thought she had an instru- 
 ment of torture in her drawer.' 
 
 1 It was not I who said that,' said Sophy, blushing. 
 
 ' You took part with those who did. And poor 
 Genevieve was a much more defenceless victim than papa 
 or myself.' 
 
 ' I would not do so now.' 
 
 1 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-bear- 
 ers think they are 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 Sophy, emphatically. 
 
 To Albinia's surprise no inuendo from Mrs. or Miss 
 Meadows ever referred to her management having caused 
 Sophy's misfortune ; and she secretly attributed this si- 
 lence 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 happy and tranquil there — shrinking 
 from visitors, but grateful for the kindness of parents, 
 brother and sister.
 
 158 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Mr. Kendal, finding her really eager to learn of him, 
 began teaching her Persian, and was astonished at her 
 promptness and intelligence. He took increasing pleasure 
 in her company, gave her books to read, and would some- 
 times tell the others not to stay at home for her sake, as 
 he should be ' about the house.' 
 
 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. Du- 
 sautoy, 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 employment in the parish. 
 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 unconsidered 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 effect of her neglect and cruelty ; 
 and Sophy's amiability almost warranted the notion. The 
 poor girl herself had promised ' 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 de- 
 tect any reason. Affronts abounded — not received with 
 an explosion that would have 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 proposed to 
 her was distasteful, and her answers were in the ancient 
 surly style. If attempts were made to probe the malady, 
 her reserve was impenetrable — nothing was the matter, 
 she wanted nothing, was vexed at nothing. She pursued
 
 THE YOUXG STJEP-MOTHEK, 159 
 
 her usual occupations, but as if they were hardships ; she 
 was sullen towards her mamma, snappishly brief with her 
 aunt and sister, and so ungracious and indifferent even 
 with her father, that Albinia trembled lest he might with- 
 draw the attention so improperly received. When this 
 dreary state of things had lasted more than a week, he 
 did tell her that if she were tired of the lessons, it was 
 not worth while to proceed ; but that he had hoped for 
 more perseverance. 
 
 The fear of losing these, her great pride and pleasure, 
 overcame her. She maintaind her grim composure till 
 he had left her, but then fell into a violent fit of crying, 
 in which Albinia found her, and which dissolved the re- 
 serve 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 contin- 
 ued wretched all the rest of the day, refusing consolation, 
 and only so far improved 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 
 cheerful 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 applications 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 repeated — sulking, injured innocence, and 
 bitter repentance. This time, Mr. Kendal pronounced, 
 • This is low spirits, for more than temper,' and he thence- 
 forth dealt with these moods with a tender consideration
 
 160 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 that Albinia admired, though she thought 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 shaking it off. The danger of her father's 
 treatment seemed to be, that the humours would be ac- 
 aquiesced 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 predisposed 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 occa- 
 sions of bringing them on ; but this was not possible, 
 since no one could live without occasional contradiction, 
 and Sophy could sometimes bear a strong remonstrance 
 or great disappointment, when at others 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 of his own was gone, and how much more alive 
 he was. He had set 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 disor- 
 ders became more flagrant every day. At last, he 
 pounced on a misdemeanour which he took care should 
 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 information to be laid, and went him- 
 self 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 up his 
 mind to punish any ' poor .fellow,' unless he himself were 
 in a passion, when he would go any length. The other
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 161 
 
 magistrates would not interfere ; and all the satisfaction 
 Mr. Kendal obtained was being told how much he was 
 wanted on the bench. 
 
 One of the few respectable Tibbs's Alleyites 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 conse- 
 quence -was, that Mr. Kendal took a magnanimous resolu- 
 tion, ordered a copy of Burn's Justice, and at the Septem- 
 ber Quarter Sessions actually rode over to Hadminster, an4 
 took the oaths. 
 
 On the whole, the expectation was more formidable 
 than the reality. However much he disliked applying 
 himself to business, no one understood it better. The 
 value of his good sense, judgment, and acuteness was 
 speedily felt. Mr. Nugent, the chairman, depended on 
 him as his ally, and often as his adviser ; and as he was 
 thus made to feel hmself of weight and importance, 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 happier 
 man. 
 
 His wife could not regret that his magisterial proceed- 
 ings 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 them- 
 selves in their virulence against whatever the vicar pro- 
 posed, until they fairly roused Mr. Kendal's ire, and ' he 
 came out upon them all like a lion ; and with force ap- 
 pearing the greater from being so seldom 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 light, till they had 
 nothing to say for themselves. It was the vicar's first 
 visible victory. The increased congregation showed how
 
 162 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 much way he had made with the poor, and Mr. Kendal 
 taking his part openly, drew over many of the trades- 
 people, who had begun to feel the influence of his hearty 
 nature and consistent uprightness, and had become used 
 to what had at first appeared innovations. Mr. Dusautoy, 
 in thanking Mr. Kendal, begged him to allow himself to 
 be nominated his churchwarden next Easter, and having 
 consented while his blood was up, there was no danger 
 that, however he might dislike the prospect, he would 
 falter when the time should come. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was c a green Yule,' a Christmas like an April day, 
 and even the lengthening 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 ? ' Albinia often thought when she paddled down 
 the wet streets, and saw the fields flooded. The damp 
 had such an effect upon Sophy's throat, temper, and whole 
 nervous system, that her moods had few intervals, and 
 Albinia wrote to the surgeon a detail of her symptoms, 
 asking if she had not better be removed into a more favour- 
 able air. But he pronounced that the injury of the trans- 
 port would outbalance the casual evils of the bad weather, 
 and as the rain and fog mitigated, she improved ; but 
 there were others on whom the heavy moist air had a more 
 fatal effect. 
 
 One morning, Mr. Kendal saw his wife descending 
 the picturesque rugged stone staircase that led outside the 
 house to the upper stories of the old block of buildings 
 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.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 163 
 
 1 What do you mean ? Is the fever there again ? ' ex- 
 claimed Mr. Kendal in the utmost consternation. 
 
 ' Did you not know it ? Lucy has been very anxious 
 about the child, who was in her class.' 
 
 1 You have not taken Lucy to a house with a fever ! ' 
 
 * No ; I thought it safer not, though she wanted very 
 much to go. 1 
 
 6 But you have been going yourself! ' 
 
 ' It was a low, lingering fever. I had not thought it 
 infectious, and even now I believe it is only one of those 
 that run through an over-crowded family. The only 
 wonder is, that they are ever well in such a place. Dear 
 Edmund, don't be angry ; it is what I used to do con- 
 tinually at Fairmead. I never caught anything ; and 
 there is plenty of chloride of lime, and all that. I never 
 imagined you would disapprove.' 
 
 i 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 Albinia was going towards him, but her hus- 
 band held her fast, and said, ' I beg you will not take the 
 child till you have changed your dress.' 
 
 Albinia was quite subdued, alarmed at the effect on 
 him. 
 
 I 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 become of poor Sophy % ' 
 e 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. 
 1 No, no, Edmund, I am not likely to run away from you 
 and Sophy ! You may send Lucy off, if you like, but cer- 
 tainly not me, or if you do I shall come back the same 
 evening.' 
 
 I I should be much happier if you were gone.' 
 
 * Thank you, but what should I be 1 No, if it were to
 
 164 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 be 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 
 unwillingly Mr. Kendal gave up the point. She was per- 
 suaded that he was acting on a panic, the less to be 
 wondered 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 insist on like- 
 wise 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 across the running stream — that the Fair- 
 mead nursery was full 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 allow- 
 ed to be 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 more charming than ever. Her 
 eyes were full of tears, and she struggled to choke back 
 some pettish rebellious words. 
 
 ' You do not like to trust him with Susan,' said Mr. 
 Kendal ; ' you had better 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 ran, 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 persuade Mr. Kendal at least to sleep at Fair- 
 mead 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 165 
 
 on the best means of stopping the course of the malady, by 
 depriving it of its victims. 
 
 She had a quiet snug evening with Sophy, whom she 
 had so much interested in the destitution of the sick chil- 
 dren 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 without her caress, and fore- 
 boding that Mr. Kendal would return from his dark soli- 
 tary drive with his spirits at the lowest ebb. 
 
 So late that she had begun to hope that Winifred had 
 obeyed her behest and detained him, she heard his step, 
 and before 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 he raised his head, 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, 
 conveying anything but welcome ; but she knew that this 
 only meant that he was in a state of depression. She 
 took hold of his hands, chilled with holding the reins, told 
 him of the good fire in the morning room, and fairly drew 
 him up-stairs. 
 
 There the lamp burnt brightly, and the red fire cast a 
 merry glow over the shining chintz curtains, and the two 
 chairs drawn so cosily towards the fire, the kettle purring 
 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 his face, but he still 
 struggled to cherish his gloom, ' Thank you, but 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 Fairmcad.' 
 
 1 Yes, they pressed me very kindly, but 1 could not 
 bear not to come home.'
 
 166 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 1 And how did Maurice comport himself? ' 
 
 c 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 favourable sign that Mr. Kendal communi- 
 cated all these particulars without being plied with ques- 
 tions, and Albinia went on with the more spirit, 
 
 1 No, I hope it may not be for long. We have been 
 holding a great council 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.' 
 
 1 Twenty-three ! Have you turned out the whole 
 block 1 ' 
 
 ' No, I wish we had ; but that would have been 
 seventy-five. This is only from those two tenements 
 with one door ! ' 
 
 1 Impossible ! ' 
 
 ' I should 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 building 1 ' 
 
 ' Too true. And if you could only see the rooms ! 
 The windows that won't open ; the roofs that open too 
 much ; the dirt on the staircases ; 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 Al- 
 binia. 
 
 He made a sign of assent, and went on : ' I will cer- 
 tainly talk to Pettilove, and have the place repaired, if it 
 be at my own expense.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 167 
 
 Albinia 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 purchased 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 al- 
 most inaudibly she said, ' I beg your pardon, 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 af- 
 fairs, and was glad to be spared the unpleasant charge. 
 The consequence of leaving a man like that irresponsible 
 never occurred to me. His whole conscience in the mat- 
 ter is to have a large sum to put into Gilbert's hands 
 when he comes of age. Why, he upholds those dens of 
 iniquity in Tibbs's Alley on that very ground ! ' 
 
 ' Poor Gilbert ! I am afraid a large sum 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 endure 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 spite of the lack of little Maurice's bright presence, 
 which, to Albinia's great delight, his father missed as 
 much as she did, the period of quarantine sped by cheer, 
 fully. Sophy had not a single sullen fit the whole time, 
 and Albinia having persuaded Mr. Kendal that it would 
 be a sanatory measure to whitewash the study ceiling, ho 
 was absolutely forced to turn out of it and live in the
 
 168 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 morning-room, with all his books piled up in the dining- 
 room. And on that great occasion, Albinia abstracted 
 two fusty, faded, green canvas blinds from the windows, 
 carried them off 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 cur- 
 tains 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 grateful, 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 pre- 
 vent it, neither he nor Sophy should ever render it a 
 literal boudoir. 
 
 The sense of snugness that the small numbers pro- 
 duced was one great charm, and made Mr. Kendal come 
 unusually far out of his shell. His chief sanatory pre- 
 caution 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 re- 
 ceived Albinia with the words, — 
 
 ' Oh, mamma,' she said, ' old nurse has been telling 
 me such things. I shall never be cross with Aunt Maria 
 again. It is such a sad story, just like one in a book, if 
 she was but that kind of person.' 
 
 ,' Aunt Maria ! I remember Mrs. Dusautoy once say- 
 ing she gave her the idea of happiness shattered, but — ' 
 
 1 Did she % ' exclaimed Sophy. ' I never thought 
 Aunt Maria could have done anything but fidget every- 
 body 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 officer 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 169 
 
 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 treachery that has broken her heart. I thought 
 people always died or went into convents — I don't mean 
 that Aunt Maria could have done that, but I did not think 
 that way of hers was a broken heart ! ' 
 
 ' If she has had such troubles, it should indeed make 
 us try to be very forbearing with her,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' Will you ask papa about it % ' 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 1 ' 
 
 ' My dear, I don't think I ever saw deserted love,' said 
 Albinia, rather amused. ' I suppose troubles of any 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 
 remembered many circumstances in corroboration. He 
 knew that Mr. 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 Mauritius, and settled down on her father's estate. 
 He testified also to the bright gay youth of poor Maria, 
 and his surprise at the premature 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 
 8
 
 110 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 if her father did not choose to part with her, he "would 
 think it for her good, and his own peace, for her not to 
 be aware of the proposal. He was much struck, for he 
 had not suspected his sister-in-law to be capable of such 
 permanent feeling. 
 
 1 There was little to help her in driving it away,' said 
 Albinia. ' Few occupations or interests, and very little 
 change, to prevent it from preying on her spirits.' 
 
 1 True,' said Mr. Kendal ; ' a narrow education and 
 limited sphere are sad evils in such cases.' 
 
 I Do you think anything can be a cure for disappoint- 
 ment 1 ' asked Sophy, in such a solemn, earnest tone, that 
 Albinia was disposed to laugh ; but she knew that this 
 would be a dire offence, and was much surprised that 
 Sophy had so far broken through her reserve, as to 
 mingle in their conversation on such a subject. 
 
 ' Occupation,' said Mr. Kendal ; but speaking rather 
 as if from duty than from conviction. l There are many 
 sources of happiness, even if shipwreck have been made 
 on one venture. Your aunt had few resources to which 
 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 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, ' that 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 energy to turn to other duties. But it would 
 be more to the purpose to resolve to be more considerate 
 to poor Maria.' 
 
 1 1 shall never be impatient with her again,' said 
 Sophy. 
 
 And though at first the discovery of so romantic a 
 cause for poor Miss Meadows's frctfulness dignified it in 
 Sophy's eyes, yet it did not prove sufficient to make it
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 171 
 
 tolerable when she tormented the window-blinds, teased 
 the fire, was shocked at Sophy's favourite studies, or in- 
 sisting on her wishing to see Maria Drury. Nay, the 
 bathos often rendered her petty unconscious 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 forbearance with any one when 
 she was under the iuiluence of ill-temper. 
 
 In Easter week Mr. Ferrars brought Lucy and Maur- 
 ice 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. Ferrars, and a 
 mason. 
 
 Back they came, horrified at the dreadful disrepair, at 
 the narrow area into which such numbers were crowded, 
 and still more at the ill odours which Mr. Ferrars and 
 the mason had gallantly investigated, till they detected 
 the 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 than ever thankful to be a 
 country parson, and mused on the retribution that the 
 miasma, fostered by the avarice of the grandfather and 
 the neglect of the father had brought on the family. 
 Dives cannot always scorn Lazarus without suffering 
 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 should be made of all the old tene- 
 ments, and the wide healthy streets and model cottages 
 that should give a new aspect to the town. 
 
 Mr. Kendal prepared for the encounter with Petti- 
 love, and his son begged to go with him, to which he 
 consented, saying that it was time Gilbert should have an 
 opinion 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 won't consent to do anything 1 ' 
 
 1 No, indeed ! Say what my father or I would to
 
 172 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 him, it was all of not the slightest use. He smiled, and 
 made little intolerable 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 ! ' 
 
 1 Quite true,' said Mr. Kendal. ' The man is war- 
 ranted in his proceedings, and thinks them his duty, 
 though I believe he has 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 thereupon, and a lot of lawyer's 
 jargon. I'm sure I thought it was left to Peter Pettilove 
 himself. And when I came to understand 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 assumption on which settlements are 
 drawn up, Gilbert,' said his father. 
 
 ' Can nothing be done, then ? ' 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 regu- 
 lation 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 1 My guardian ! do not call him so ! ' muttered Gil- 
 bert. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Mr. Kendal, ' that unless your 
 commission consisted of Albinia and Dusautoy they 
 would have little perception of the evils. Our local au- 
 thorities are obtuse in such matters.' 
 
 1 Agitate ! agitate ! ' murmured Mr. Ferrars, going on 
 with his book.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 1*73 
 
 * Well,' said Albinia, ' at least there is one beer-shop 
 less in Tibbs's Alley. And if there are tolerable seasons, 
 I daresay paint, whitewash, and windows to open, may 
 keep the place moderately wholesome till — Are you six- 
 teen yet, Gilbert 1 ? Five years.' 
 
 ' 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 — ' 
 
 1 No, don't promise,' said Albinia. ' Do it from your 
 heart, or not at all.' 
 
 'Xo, don't promise, Gilbert/ said Sophy. 
 
 ' Why not, Sophy 1 ' he said good-humouredly. 
 
 * Because you are just what you feel at the moment,' 
 said Sophy. 
 
 1 You don't think I should keep it ? ' 
 
 '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 XI. 
 
 The summer had just begun, when notice was given 
 that a Confirmation would take place in the autumn ; and 
 Lucy's name was one of the first sent in to Mr. Dusautoy. 
 His plan was to collect his candidates in weekly classes of
 
 174 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 a few at a time, and likewise to see as much as lie could 
 of them in private. 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma ! ' exclaimed Lucy, returning from her 
 first class, 'Mr. Dusautoy has given us each a paper, 
 where we are to set down our christening days, and our 
 godfathers and godmothers. And only think, I had not 
 the least notion when I was christened. I could tell 
 nothing but that Mr. Wenlock was my godfather! 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 godmothers was Captain Lee's pretty young wife, who 
 died a few weeks after.' 
 
 i And the other ? ' said Lucy. 
 
 1 Your mother, I believe,' he said. 
 
 Lucy employed herself in filling up her paper, and ex- 
 claimed, ' Now I do not know the date ! Can you tell 
 me that, papa ? ' 
 
 ' It was the Christmas-clay next after your birth,' he 
 said. ' I remember that, for we took you to spend Christ- 
 mas at the nearest station of troops, and the chaplain 
 christened you.' 
 
 Lucy wrote down the particulars, and exclaimed, 
 1 What an old baby I must have been ! Six months old ! 
 And I wonder when Sophy was christened. I never knew 
 who any of her godfathers and godmothers were. Did 
 you, Sophy?' 
 
 i 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 
 3 t ou 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 rather 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 175 
 
 of the private baptism of Sophia, daughter of Edmund 
 and Lucy Kendal, at Talloon, March 17th, 1838. 
 
 Sophy's face had more disappointment in it than satis- 
 faction. 
 
 1 1 can explain the circumstances to you now,' said her 
 father. ' At Talloon we were almost out of reach of any 
 chaplains, and, as you know, were almost the only Eng- 
 lish. We always intended to take you to the nearest 
 station, as had been done with Lucy, but your dear 
 mother was never well enough to bear the journey ; and 
 when our next little one was born, it was so plain that he 
 could not live, that I sent in haste to beg that the chap- 
 lain would come to us. It was then that you were both 
 baptized, and before the week was over, he buried little 
 Henry. It was the first of our troubles. We never again 
 had health or spirits for any festive occasion while we con- 
 tinued in India, and thus the ceremony was never com- 
 pleted. In fact, I take shame to myself for having en- 
 tirely forgotten that you had never been received into the 
 congregation.' 
 
 ' Then I have told a falsehood whenever I said the 
 Catechism ! ' burst out Sophy. Lucy would have laughed, 
 and Albinia could almost have been amused at the turn 
 her displeasure had taken. 
 
 * It was not your fault,' said Mr. Kendal, quietly. 
 
 He evidently wished the subject to be at an end, ex- 
 cepting that in silence he laid before Albinia's eyes the 
 certificate of the baptism of the twin-brothers, not long 
 after the first arrival in India. He then put the book in 
 his pocket, and began, as usual, to read 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.' 
 
 Sophy drew a long sigh, and said, ' If I had never 
 been christened, I should have thought there was some 
 hope for me.'
 
 1*76 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 I That would have been too dreadful. How could you 
 imagine your papa capable — ? ' 
 
 I I thought I had found out why I am so horrid ! ' ex- 
 claimed Sophy. ' Oh, if I could only make a fresh begin- 
 ning ! Mamma, do pray give me a Prayer Book.' 
 
 Albinia gave it to her, and she nastily turned the 
 pages to the Order for Private Baptism. 
 
 1 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 conditions.' 
 
 * Mamma, then I never had the sign of the cross on 
 my forehead ! It does not feel blest ! ' And then, hastily 
 and low, she muttered, * Oh ! is that why I never could 
 bear the cross in all my life ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, my poor Sophy, you must not think of it like a 
 spell. Many bear the cross no better, who have had it 
 marked on their brows.' 
 
 ' Can it be done now ? ' cried Sophy, eagerly. 
 
 * Certainly ; I think it ought to be done. We will see 
 what your father says.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, beg him, 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? Can't you? If the 
 gleams of goodness and brightness do find 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 es- 
 sential, the regenerating grace, is yours already, and can 
 save you from yourself ; and Confirmation 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 tempta- 
 tion.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-3IOTHEK. 177 
 
 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. 
 
 Mr. Kendal gave a ready consent, as soon as he was 
 told that Sophy so ardently wished for it — so willing, in- 
 deed, that Albinia was surprised, until he went on to say, 
 1 Xo 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.' 
 
 I But, Edmund ! ' began Albinia, aghast, ' would that 
 be the right thing? I hardly think Maurice would con- 
 sent.' 
 
 ' You are not imagining anything so preposterous or 
 inexpedient 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 pain- 
 ful or undesirable.' 
 
 ' I am afraid, then,' said Albinia, ' that it will not be 
 done at all. It is 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. Ken- 
 dal. ' It is not essential. I will not have her made a 
 spectacle.' 
 
 'Will you only consult Mr. Dusautoy ? ' 
 
 I I do not w r ish Mr. Dusautoy to interfere in my family 
 regulations. 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 making a public 
 display, and attracting attention to a girl of her age, sta- 
 tion, 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 omission to 
 be known.' 
 
 ' I suspect,' said Albinia, ' that the example of repair- 
 ing it would speak volumes of good.' 
 
 ' It is mere absurdity to speak of it!' said Mr. Ken-
 
 178 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 dal. * 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 ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' I have done so ; but your mamma 
 thinks, and, on examination of the subject, I perceive she 
 is right, 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 fear, my dear ; and you would find this publicity ex- 
 tremely trying and unpleasant.' 
 
 ' It would not last ten minutes,' said Sophy, * and I 
 am sure I should not care ! I should have something else 
 to think about. Oh ! papa, when my forehead aches with 
 surliness, it does feel so unblessed, 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. 
 
 1 You mean that I am like you, papa,' said Sophy. 
 
 I I think I 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 effort, ' 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 I 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 ? '
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 179 
 
 ' It shall be well weighed, Sophy.' 
 
 Sophy knew her father too well, and had too much 
 reticence to say any more. He was certainly meditating 
 deeply, and reading too ; indeed he would almost have 
 appeared to have a fit of the study, but for little Maurice, 
 a tyrannical little gentleman,, who domineered over the 
 entire household, and would have been grievously spoilt, 
 if his mother had not taken all the crossing the stout lit- 
 tle will upon herself. 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 ser- 
 vice, and the study was brown no longer. 
 
 The result of Mr. Kendal's meditations was an invita- 
 tion to his wife to drive with him to Fairmead. 
 
 That was a most enjoyable drive ; the weather too 
 hot and sunny, perhaps, for Albinia's preferences, but 
 thoroughly penetrating, and giving energy to her East- 
 Indian husband, and making the whole country radiant 
 with sunny beauty — the waving hay-fields falling before 
 the mower's scythe, the ranks of hay-makers tossing the 
 fragrant 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 tender- 
 ness of old association, it was not with the regretful cling- 
 ing of the first visit, when it seemed to her the natural 
 home to which she still really belonged. Nor had she 
 the least thought about producing an impression of her 
 own happiness, and scarcely any whether ' Edmund ' 
 would be amused and at ease, though knowing he had a 
 stranger to encounter in the person of Winifed's sister, 
 Mary Reid. 
 
 That was not a long day. It was only too short, 
 though Mr. and Mrs. Kendal stayed three hours longer 
 than on the last occasion. Mr. Kendal faced Mary Reid
 
 180 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 without flinching, and she, having been previously in- 
 formed that Albinia' s husband was the most silent and 
 shy man in existence, began to doubt her sister's veracity. 
 And Albinia, instead of dealing out a shower of fireworks, 
 to hide what, if not gloom, was at least twilight, was now 
 1 temperately bright,' talking naturally of what jnost con- 
 cerned her with the sprightliness of her happy temper, 
 but without effort ; and gratifying Winifred by a great 
 deal more notice of the new niece and namesake than she 
 had ever bestowed on either of her predecessors in their 
 infant days. Moreover, Lucy's two long visits had made 
 Mrs. Ferrars feel a strong interest in her, and, with a 
 sort of maternal affection, she inquired after the cuttings 
 of the myrtle which she had given her. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Albinia, ' I never honoured gardening so 
 much.' 
 
 ' I know you would never respect it in me.' 
 
 i As you know,. I love a walk with an object, and 
 never could abide breaking my back, pottering over a 
 pink with a stem that won't support it, and a calyx that 
 won't hold it.' 
 
 ' And Lucy converted you when I could not ! ' 
 
 1 If you had known my longing for some w T holesome 
 occupation for her, such as could hurt neither herself nor 
 any one else, and the pleasure of seeing her engrossed by 
 anything innocent, making it so easy to gratify her. 
 Why, a new geranium is a constant fund of ecstasy, and 
 I do not believe she was ever so grateful to her father in 
 her life as when he gave her a forcing-frame. Anything 
 is a blessing that makes people contented at home, and 
 takes them out of themselves.' 
 
 ' Lucy is a very nice, pleasant inmate ; her ready 
 obligingness and facility of adapting herself make her 
 very agreeable.' 
 
 1 Yes,' said Albinia, ' she is the " very woman," taking 
 her complexion from things around, and so she will go 
 smoothly through the world, and be always preferred to 
 my poor turbid, deep-souled Sophy.' 
 
 * Are you going to be very angry with me ? ' 
 
 * Ah ! you do not know Sophy ! Poor, dear child !
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 181 
 
 I do so long that she could have — if it were but one day, 
 one hour, of real, free, glowing happiness ! I think it 
 would sweeten and open her heart wonderfully just to 
 have known it ! If I could but see any* chance of it, but I 
 am afraid her health will always be against her ; and oh ! 
 that dreadful sense of depression ! Do you know, Win- 
 ifred, I do think love would be the best chance. Now, 
 don't laugh ; I do assure you there is no reason Sophy 
 should not be very handsome.' 
 
 1 Quite as handsome as the owl's children, my dear.' 
 
 1 Well, the owls are the only young birds fit to be 
 seen. But I tell you, Sophy's profile is as regular as her 
 father's, and animation makes her eyes beautiful, and she 
 has grown immensely since she has been lying down, so 
 that she will come out without that disproportioned look. 
 If her eyebrows were rather less marked, and her com- 
 plexion — but that will clear.' 
 
 1 Yes, we will make her a beauty when we are 
 about it.' 
 
 1 And, after all, affection is the great charm, and if 
 she were attached, it would be so intensely — and happi- 
 ness would develope so much that is glorious, only hid- 
 den down so deep.' 
 
 ' I hope you may find her a male Albinia,' said Win- 
 ifred, 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 
 versa,:' ' 
 
 ' Take care ! ' repeated Albinia, affronted. ' You don't 
 fancy I am going beyond a vague wish, do you % ' 
 
 ' And rather a premature one. How old is Sophy 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 resumed 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 shad- 
 ows. Albinia was greatly concerned that Winifred's 
 health had become affected, and that her ordinary home
 
 1815 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 duties were beyond her strength. Albinia had formerly 
 thought Fairmead parsonage did not give her enough to 
 do, but now she saw the gap that she had left ; and she 
 had fallen into a maze of musings over schemes for help- 
 ing Winifred, before Mr. Kendal spoke, telling her that 
 he had resolved that Sophia's admission into the church 
 should take place as soon as she was equal to the exer- 
 tion. 
 
 Albinia asked if she should speak 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 after- 
 wards. 
 
 Mr. Dusautoy '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 ear- 
 nestly, but without much remark, her confidence only 
 came forth when her feelings were strongly stirred ; and 
 it was remarkable that throughout this time of prepara- 
 tion 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 might move about, join the meals, and 
 do whatever she could without over-fatigue. It seemed a 
 great release, but it was a shock to find how very little 
 she could do at first, now that she had lost the habit of ex- 
 ertion, 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 
 advantage Albinia had hoped, for she had a weak, over- 
 grown look, and could not help stooping. A number of 
 people in a room, or even the sitting upright during a
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 183 
 
 morning call, seemed quite to overcome and exhaust her : 
 but still the return to ordinary life was such great enjoy- 
 ment, that she endured all with good-temper. 
 
 But now the church-going was possible, a fit of exceed- 
 ing dread came upon her. Albinia found her with the 
 tears silently rolling down her cheeks, almost as if she 
 were unconscious 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 ? ' 
 
 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 side of the great covenant — how the power 
 would be given, and the grace supplied, but that the will 
 and purpose to obey was required — and then Sophy re- 
 curred to that blessing of the cross for which she longed 
 so earnestly, and which again Albinia feared she was re- 
 garding in the light of a talisman. 
 
 Mr. Ferrars was to be her godfather. Mr. 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 
 Sophy. Perhaps Sophy had been fretted and angered by 
 her quick, decided ways, and rather disgusted by the en- 
 thusiasm of her brother and sister about Fairmead ; and 
 she was not gratified by hearing that Winifred was to 
 accompany her husband in order to try the experiment 
 of a short absence from cares and children. 
 
 Albinia, on the contrary, was highly pleased to have 
 Winifred to nurse, and desirous of "showing off* 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, that Albinia took her up-stairs very soon, and
 
 184 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 put her to bed, sitting with her almost all the evening, 
 hoping that down-stairs all was going on well. 
 
 The next morning, too, went off very well. Mr. Fer- 
 rars 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 for- 
 midable congregation. Miss Meadows, who had been in- 
 formed as late as could save offence, had treated it as a 
 freak of Mrs. Kendal, resented the injunction of secrecy 
 and would neither be present herself, nor let her mother 
 come out. Genevieve, three old men, and a child or two, 
 were the whole number present. The daily service at 
 Bayford was an offering made in faith by the vicar, for as 
 yet there was very little attendance. ' But,' said Mr. 
 Dusautoy, ' it is the worship of God, not an entertain- 
 ment to please man — it is all nonsense to talk of its an- 
 swering 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 reply to the questions, 
 by whom, and with what words this child had been bap- 
 tized, when she stood beside him overtopping her little 
 godmother. She stood with tightly-locked hands, and 
 ebbing colour, which came back in a flood when Mr. Du- 
 sautoy took her by the hand, and said, ' We receive this 
 child into the congregation ; ' 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. 
 
 Albinia, 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 down, and be quite quiet ; ' then 
 followed Winifred into the drawing-room, and took her
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 185 
 
 shawl and bonnet from her, lingering for a happy twilight 
 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 that 
 tea was ready. There was something not promising in 
 the voice that replied ; and she said, 
 
 * No, don't move, my dear, I will bring it to you ; 
 you are tired.' 
 
 * No — I'll go down, thank you.' It was the gruff voice ! 
 ' Indeed, you had much better not, my dear. It is 
 
 only an hour to bed-time, and you would only tire your- 
 self for nothing.' 
 
 < I'll go.' 
 
 1 You are tired, Sophy,' said her father. ' You had 
 better lie down while you have your tea.' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' growled Sophy, as though hurt by 
 being told to lie down before company. 
 
 Her father put a sofa-cushion behind her, but though 
 she mumbled some acknowledgment, it was so surly, that 
 Mrs. Ferrars looked up in surprise, and she would not 
 lean back until fatigue gained the ascendancy. Mr. Ken- 
 dal 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 ab- 
 stracted 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 at- 
 tended to, but receiving attention like an affront ; want- 
 ing nothing, but offended if it were not offered. Albinia 
 was exceedingly grieved. She had some suspicion that 
 Sophy might have been hurt by her going to Mrs. Fer- 
 rars instead of to her on their return from church, and 
 made an attempt at an apology, but this was snubbed like 
 an additional affront, and she could only bide the time, 
 and be greatly disappointed at such an exhibition before 
 the guests. 
 
 Winifred looked on, forbearing to hurt Albania's feel-
 
 186 THE YOUNG STEP-ilOTHER. 
 
 ings by remarks, but in private compensating by little 
 outbreaks with her husband, teasing him about his hope- 
 ful goddaughter, laughing at Albinia's infatuation, and 
 railing at Mr. Kendal's endurance of the ill-humour, 
 which she declared he promoted. 
 
 Maurice, 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. 
 
 1 Because of his great success in that line.' 
 
 1 He is not what he was. He uses his sense and prin- 
 ciple now, and when they are fairly brought to bear, I 
 know no one whom I would more entirely trust.' 
 
 ' Well ! it will be great good luck if I do not fall foul 
 of Miss Sophy one of these days, if no one else will ! ' 
 
 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 Albinia a look like thunder, and 
 answered her father with a sulky displeasure that made 
 Mrs. Ferrars exclaim, as soon as he had left the room, ' I 
 should never allow a child of mine to speak to her father 
 in that manner ! ' 
 
 Sophy swelled. She did not think Mrs. Ferrars had 
 any right to interfere between her and her father. Her 
 silence provoked Winifred to continue, ' I wonder if you 
 have any compunction for having spoilt all your — all 
 Mrs. Kendal's enjoyment 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 Maurice holding her hand, and flourishing a 
 whip. He trotted up to the sofa, and began instantly to 
 1 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 reared herself up, and 
 with a rigid face and slow step, walked out of the room. 
 
 * Have you said anything to her ? ' asked Albinia.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 187 
 
 * I could not help it,' said Winifred, narrating what 
 had past. ' Have I done wrong ? ' 
 
 ' 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 she 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 worst agony poor 
 Sophy had ever undergone. She had been all this time 
 ignorant that it was a cross fit, only imagining herself 
 cruelly neglected and cast aside for the sake of Mrs. Fer- 
 rars ; but the wakening time had either arrived, or had 
 been brought by that reproach, and she beheld her con- 
 duct in the most abhorrent light. After having desired 
 to be pledged 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 Albinia tried to persuade her 
 that it had been partly the 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 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 help 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 ner- 
 vousness she would not eat ; and Albinia found Mr. Ken- 
 dal mournfully persuading her, when a stern command 
 would have done more good. Albinia spoke it : * Sophy,
 
 188 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 
 Sophy sat up, took what was offered, but what was she 
 that they should care for her, when she had spoilt mamma's 
 pleasure ? 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 Mr. Ferrars, with a kind face of 
 pitying sympathy. 
 
 1 May I come to wish my godchild good-bye ? ' he said. 
 
 Sophy did not speak, and he looked compassionately 
 at the prone dejection of the whole figure, and the pale, 
 sallow face, so piteously mournful. He took her hand, 
 and began to tell her of the godfather's present, that he 
 had brought her — a little book of devotions intended for 
 the time when she should be confirmed. Sophy uttered a 
 feeble c thank you,' but a hopeless one. 
 
 ' Ah ! you are feeling as if nothing would do you any 
 good,' said Mr. Ferrars. 
 
 1 Papa says so ! ' she answered. 
 
 ' Not quite,' said Mr. Ferrars. ' He knows that your 
 low spirits are the effect of temperament and health, and 
 that you are not able to prevent yourself from feeling un- 
 happy 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 con- 
 sciousness, but are matters of faith; and you must be 
 content to work on in faith in the dark, before you feel 
 comfort. I cannot but hope that if you will struggle, even 
 when you are hurt and annoyed, to avoid the expression 
 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 ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot. It is not true.' 
 
 1 Make it true. Take some verse of a Psalm. Shall 
 I mark you some 1 Eepeat them, even if you seem to 
 yourself not to feel them. There is a holy power that will
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 189 
 
 work on you at last ; and when you can truly pray, the 
 dark hour will pass.' 
 
 I 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 I wish I had not spoilt the visit,' she said, wistfully, 
 at last. 
 
 1 We shall see you again, and we shall know each other 
 better,' he said, kindly. ' You are my godchild now, So- 
 phy, and you know that I must remember you constantly 
 in prayer.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she faintly said. 
 
 ' And will you promise me to try my remedy? I think 
 it will soften your heart to the graces of the Blessed Com- 
 forter. And even if all seem gloom within, look out, see 
 others happy, try to rejoice with them, and peace will 
 come in ! Xow, 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, when Mr. Kendal called his wife. 
 
 'I wonder,' 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 bright 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 gurgling of the little 
 streams let off into the water-courses in the meadows ; the 
 occasional plunge of the rat from the banks ; the sounds 
 from the town, softened by distance ; and the far-off caw- 
 ings of the rooks, which she could just see wheeling about
 
 190 TUE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 as little black specks over the plantations of Woodside, or 
 watching the swallows assembling for departure sitting in 
 long ranks, like an ornament along the roof of a neigh- 
 bouring barn. 
 
 Long, long it was before Mr. Kendal broke silence, but 
 when at length he did speak, his words amazed her ex- 
 tremely. 
 
 * Albinia, poor Sophia's admission into the Church has 
 not been 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.' 
 
 1 Thank you. I suppose you went out to India too 
 young.' 
 
 ' Poor Maria says truly that no one thought of these 
 things in our day, at least so far as we were concerned. 
 I must exjtlain to you, Albinia, how it is that I see things 
 very differently now from the light in which I once view- 
 ed 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, where 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 upon 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 have me in 
 his power. I knew I was often unjustly treated, and I 
 never was popular.' 
 
 * Yes, I can imagine you extremely miserable.' 
 
 ' You can understand my resolution that my boys 
 should not be sent to England to be homeless, and how I 
 judged all schools by my own experience. I stayed there 
 too late, till I was beyond both tormentors and masters, 
 and was left to an unlimited appetite for books, chiefly 
 poetry. Our religious instruction was a nullity, and I am 
 only surprised that the results were not worse. India was 
 not likely to supply what education had omitted. Look- 
 ing back on old journals and the like, I am astonished to 
 see how unsettled my notions were — my sublimity, which
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 191 
 
 was really ignorant childishness, and yet my perfect un- 
 consciousness of my want of Christianity.' 
 
 1 1 dare say you cannot believe it was yourself, any more 
 than I can. What brought other thoughts 1 ' 
 
 ' Practical obligations made me somewhat less dreamy, 
 and my dear boy, Edmund, 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 somewhat of what I shall call per- 
 sonal religion, such as we often find apart from the Church.' 
 
 ' But, Edmund, you always were a Churchman.' 
 
 ' I was ; but I viewed the Church merely as an estab- 
 lishment — human, 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 dawned on my com- 
 prehension, nor the real meaning of Christian fellowship. 
 Thence my isolation.' 
 
 1 You had never fairly seen the Church.' 
 
 ' Never. It might 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 I could not 
 rouse myself to understand his principles. I can hardly 
 describe how intolerable my life had become. I was al- 
 most resolved on returning 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 ! ' 
 
 1 To say the truth I had idolized their brother to such 
 an exclusive degree, that I could not turn to the others 
 when he was 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 been removed. 
 I never understood what the others might be until you drew 
 them out.' 
 
 Albinia paused, afraid to press his reserve too far ; and 
 the next thing she said was, ' I think I understand your 
 distinction between personal religion and sacramental 
 truth. It explains what has often puzzled me about good
 
 192 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 devout people who did not belong to tie Church. The 
 Visible Church cannot save without this individual per- 
 sonal 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 bene- 
 fits linked by Divine Power to her ordinances. Faith, in 
 fact, while acknowledging the great Object of Faith, re- 
 fuses or neglects to exercise herself upon the very subjects 
 which He has set before her ; and, in effect, would accept 
 Him on her terms, not on His own.' 
 
 1 It was not refusal on your part,' said Albinia. 
 
 'No, it was rather indifference and imaginary superi- 
 ority. But I have read and thought much of late, and 
 see more clearly. If I thought of this rite of Confirma- 
 tion at all, it was only as a means of impressing young 
 minds. I now see every evidence that it is the comple- 
 tion of Baptismal grace, and without, like poor Sophia, 
 expecting that effects would ever have been perceptible, 
 I think- that had I known how to seek after the Spirit of 
 Counsel and Ghostly Strength, I might have given way 
 less to the infirmities of my character, and have been less 
 wilfully insensible to obvious duties.' 
 
 i Then you have made up your mind ! ' 
 
 I Yes. I shall speak to Mr. Dusautoy at once.' 
 
 ' And,' she said, feeling for his sensitive shyness, ' no 
 one else need know it — at least — ' 
 
 I 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 ? ' said Mr. 
 
 Dusautoy that evening. 
 
 4 Another now ! I thought you were talking to Mr. 
 
 Kendal about the onslaught on the Pringle pew.' 
 
 1 What do you think of my churchwarden himself ? ' 
 i You don't mean that he has never been confirmed? ' 
 ' So he tells me. He went out to India young, and 
 
 was never in the way of such things. Well, it will be a 
 
 great example.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 193 
 
 * Take care what you do. He will never endure hav- 
 ing it talked of.' 
 
 1 1 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,' indig- 
 nantly cried Mrs. Dusautoy, ' till that dear good wife of 
 his took him 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.' 
 
 1 Well, well, Fanny, what's the use of recollecting all 
 our foolish first impressions. I always told you he was the 
 most able man in the parish.' 
 
 * Fanny ' laughed merrily at this piece of sagacity, as 
 she said, 'Ay, the most able, and the least practicable ; and 
 the best of it is, that his wife has not the most distant idea 
 that she has been the making of him. She nearly quar- 
 relled 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 w r as 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 appar- 
 ently cost him as much as his consent to Sophy's admis- 
 sion into the Church ; the first effort 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 
 world. The very resolution to bend in faithful obedience 
 to a rite usually belonging to early youth and not obvi- 
 ously enforced to human reason, nor made an express con- 
 dition of salvation, was as a pledge that he would strive 
 to walk for the future in the path of self-denying obedi- 
 ence. Who that saw the manly well-knit form kneeling 
 among the slight youthful ones around, and the thoughtful, 
 sorrow-marked brow bowed down beneath the Apostolic 
 hand, could doubt that such faith and such humble obedi- 
 ence would surely be endowed with a full measure of the 
 Spirit of Ghostly Might, to lead him on in his battle with 
 9
 
 194 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 himself? Those young ones needed the ' sevenfold veil 
 between them and the fires of youth,' but surely the 
 freshening and renewing cam most blessedly to the man 
 weary already with sin and woe, and tired out alike with 
 himself and the world, because he had lived to himself 
 alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Old Mr. Pringle never stirred beyond his parlor, and 
 was invisible to every one, except his housekeeper 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 church- 
 warden 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 gentleman, 
 fighting with the disused door, and finally gaining the vic- 
 tory by 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 ? and if so, who could it be *? 
 
 Albinia hailed the event as a fertile source of conjec- 
 ture which might stave off dangerous subjects in the Sun- 
 day call ; but there was no opportunity for any discussion, 
 for Maria was popping about, settling and unsettling 
 everything and everybody, in a state of greater confusion 
 than ever, inextricably entangling her inquiries for Sophy 
 with her explanations about the rheumatism which had 
 kept grandmamma from church, and jumping up to pull 
 down the Venetian blind, which descended awry, and went 
 up worse. The lines got into such a hopeless complica- 
 tion, that Albinia came to help her, while Mr. Kendal 
 stood dutifully by the fire, in the sentry-like manner in 
 which he always passed that hour, bending now and then 
 to listen and respond to some meek remark of old Mrs.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 195 
 
 Meadows, and now and then originating one. As to 
 assisting Maria in any pother, he well knew that would 
 be a vain act of chivalry, and he generally contrived to be 
 inaccessible to her turmoils. 
 
 1 Who could that have been in old Pringle's seat ? ' he 
 presently began, appropriating Albinia's cherished morsel 
 of gossip ; but he 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 ner- 
 vously 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 ex- 
 plaining — but not a word of Sam Pringle. It w T ould only 
 make her uneasy — ' she gasped in a floundering whisper, 
 stopping suddenly short, for at that moment the 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 glowed 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 with unusually even steps, she lent on 
 the arm of her mother's chair, saying, ' Mamma, it is 
 Captain Pringle. You remember Samuel Pringle ? He 
 settled in the Mauritius, you know, and he was at church 
 this 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 attempt 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
 
 196 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 broad heartiness, as he walked in with outstretched hand, 
 exclaiming, ' Well, and how do you do ? ' shaking with all 
 his might the hand that Maria held out. ' And how are 
 you, Mrs. Meadows ? You see I could not help coming 
 back to see old friends.' 
 
 1 Old friends are always welcome, sir,' said the old 
 lady, warmly. ' My son, Mr. Kendal, sir — Mrs. Kendal,' 
 she added, with a becoming old-fashioned movement of 
 introduction. 
 
 * Very glad to meet you,' said the captain, extending 
 to each such a hearty shake of the hand, that Albinia sus- 
 pected he was taking her on trust for Maria's sister. 
 
 1 Your little boy 1 ' asked Mrs. Meadows. 
 
 ' Ay — Arthur, come and make the most of yourself, 
 my man,' said he, thumping the shy boy on the back to 
 give him courage. ' I've brought him home for his school- 
 ing — quite time, you see, though what on earth I'm to do 
 without him — ' 
 
 The boy looked miserable at the words. ' Ay, ay,' 
 continued his father, ' you'll do well enough. I'm not 
 afraid for you, master, 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 ? ' 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 sug- 
 gested a piece of cake. Maria moved to ring the bell. 
 It was the first time she 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 again 
 for another shake ; ' but, bless me ! you are sadly altered ! 
 I'm sorry to see you looking so ill.' 
 
 * We all grow old, you know,' said Maria, endeavour-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 197 
 
 ing to smile, but half strangled by a tear, and looking at 
 that moment as she might have done long ago. ' You 
 may find changes.' 
 
 4 1 hope you find Mr. Pringle pretty well,' said Al- 
 binia, thinking this might be a relief; and accordingly, 
 the kind-hearted captain began ruefully 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 Bay ford tidings, and began asking after a multitude 
 of old friends and acquaintances. 
 
 The Kendals thought all would go on the better in 
 their absence, and escaped from the record of deaths and 
 marriages, each observing to the other as they left the 
 house, that there could be little doubt that nurse's story 
 was true, but both amazed by the effect on Maria, who 
 had never been seen before to sit so long quiet in her 
 chair. Was his wife alive 1 Albinia thought not, but 
 could not be certain. His presence was evidently hap- 
 piness to Miss Meadows ; but would this last 1 Would 
 this renewal soothe her, or only make her more restless 
 and unhappy ? 
 
 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 resolution to keep the secret from her 
 sister, who was found reproaching her with making mys- 
 teries. When Lucy heard that it was Captain Pringle, 
 she was quite provoked. 
 
 1 Only Mr. Pringle's nephew ! ' she said, disdainfully. 
 * What was the use of making a fuss ? I thought it was 
 some one interesting ! ' 
 
 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 porch, 
 Albinia felt a pressure on her arm, and looking round, 
 saw Maria Meadows. ' Can you spare me a few mo- 
 ments % ' she said ; and Albinia turned aside with her to
 
 198 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 the flagged terrace path between the churchyard and 
 vicarage garden, in the light of a half-moon. 
 
 1 You were so kind this morning,' 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 — ' 
 
 1 Do you wish him to call ? He had been thinking 
 of it.' 
 
 Maria would have been unbounded in her gratitude, 
 but catching herself up, she disclaimed all personal inter- 
 est — 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 troubles on that score. Old nurse said 
 something to Sophy, but no other creature knows it.' 
 
 1 Ah ! ' exclaimed Maria, ' that is what comes of trust- 
 ing any one. I was so ill when 1 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 what I wish her never to do. But oh ! 
 Mrs. Kendal, think what it 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 was 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 happiness, for I would 
 never find one that loved me as well. I who had turned 
 against him in my heart ! ' 
 
 ' It was cruel indeed ! And you kept it from your 
 mother ! ' said Albinia, beginning to honour 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 that my father had broken my 
 heart, as indeed I think he did, though he meant it all for 
 the best. But oh ! I thought it hard when Lucy had mar- 
 ried the handsomest man in the country, and gone out to
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 199 
 
 India, without a word against it, that I might not please 
 myself, because I was papa's favourite.' 
 
 ' It was very hard not to be made aware of his inten- 
 tions.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Maria ; ' for it gave me such a bitter, rest- 
 less 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 bit- 
 terness 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 wanted 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 marriage ; and you see, 
 two lone women can do nothing to make it agreeable ; 
 besides that, it w r ould not be proper.' 
 
 ' Is his wife living ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, I could not make up my tongue to ask — 
 the poor dear boy there 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 fright 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 I shall 
 be more at peace now I have seen him again, since he 
 turned his horse at Robbie's Leigh, and said I should 
 soon hear from him again.' 
 
 ' Indeed I think you will be happier. There is some- 
 thing very soothing in taking up old feelings and laying 
 them to rest. I hope even now there is less pain than 
 pleasure.' 
 
 ' I can't help it,' said Maria. ' I do hope it is not 
 wrong ; but his very voice has got the old tone in it, as 
 if it were the old lullaby that my poor heart has been 
 beating for all these years.' 
 
 Who would have thought of Maria speaking poet- 
 ically ? But her words did indeed seem to be the truth. 
 In spite of the embarrassment of her situation and the
 
 200 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 flutter of her feelings, she was in a state of composure 
 unexampled. Albinia had just gratified her greatly by 
 a few words on Captain Pringle's evident good-nature, 
 when a tread came behind them. 
 
 ' Ha ! you here ? ' exclaimed the loud honest voice. 
 
 ' We were taking a turn in the moonlight,' said Al- 
 binia. ' 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 1 ' 
 
 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.' 
 
 ' 1 hope you will yet walk into W'illow 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 % ' 
 
 1 That I do — ' Maria could not utter more, and Al- 
 binia said she was afraid he would miss a great deal. 
 
 1 I reckoned on that when I came home. Changes 
 everywhere ; 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 
 Maria wished them good-night, giving a most grateful 
 squeeze of the hand to Mrs. Kendal. 
 
 ' Where are you bound now 1 ' asked the captain. 
 
 1 Back to the vicarage, to take up my husband and the 
 girls,' said Albinia ; ' 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 201 
 
 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 re- 
 ceived her answer set her off laughing. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he said, recovering himself; 
 i but you see I am all astray, like a man buried and 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 by telling me 
 Maria Meadows had married and gone out 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.' 
 
 Albinia had something like a discovery to impart 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 be- 
 lieve ; 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 something within. And then 
 having come to the vicarage wicket, Albinia took leave 
 of him, and ran indoors, answering the astonished queries 
 as to how she had been employed, ' Walking home with 
 Aunt Maria and Captain Pringle ! ' 
 
 It was rather 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 
 
 9*
 
 202 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 coun- 
 tenance : — 
 
 * My dear Madame, 
 
 ' I was so overwhelmed with your kindness last 
 night, and so unwilling to appear ungrateful, that per- 
 haps I left you under a false impression. I entreat you 
 not to enter on the subject with my grandmamma 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 depends on me, 
 and that she could not support the fatigue if left unas- 
 sisted. They need their little Genevieve, likewise, to 
 amuse them in their evenings ; and, forgive me, madame, 
 I could not, without ingratitude, forsake them now. Thus, 
 though with the utmost sense of your kindness, I must 
 beg of you to pardon me, and not to think me ungrateful 
 if I decline the situation so 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 humble servant, 
 
 1 Genevieve Celeste Durant.' 
 
 ' There ! ' said Albinia, tossing the note to her brother, 
 who was the only person present excepting Gilbert. 
 
 ' Poor Albinia,' he said ; c 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.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 203 
 
 4 Happily,' said Mr. Ferrars, * there are worse things 
 than being spent in one's duty. She may be doing an 
 important work in her sphere.' 
 
 4 So does a horse in a mill,' exclaimed Albinia ; 4 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 herself, 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.' 
 
 1 1 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 ? ' asked Albinia ; 
 and the colour mounted in the boy's face as he muttered, 
 4 She was overcome 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.' 
 
 4 And did she not wish to go ? ' 
 
 4 No ; though I did the best I could. I told her what 
 a jolly place it was, and that the children would be a per- 
 fect 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, I would come 
 and bring her word of the old ladies once a week.' 
 
 4 Inducements, indeed ! ' said Mr. Ferrars. 4 And she 
 could not be melted by any of these 1 ' 
 
 4 No,' said Gilbert ; 4 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 friend, she said. You are not going to be angry 
 with her,' he added. 
 
 4 No,' said Albinia ; 4 one cannot but honour her mo- 
 tives, 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 
 the next moment, hearing the front door, she exclaimed, 
 4 1 do believe he is gone to tell her how I took the an- 
 nouncement.' 
 
 Maurice gave a significant 4 Hem ! ' to which his sis- 
 ter replied, 4 Nonsense ! '
 
 204 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 ' Very romantic consolations and confidences.' 
 
 i 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 behave to her, so no wonder they are great 
 friends. As to anything else, she is nineteen, and he not 
 sixteen.' 
 
 1 One great use of going to school is to save lads from 
 that silly pastime. I advise you to look to these moon- 
 light escortings ! ' 
 
 ' One would think you were an old dowager, Maurice. 
 I suppose Colonel Bury may not escort Miss Mary.' 
 
 1 Ah, Albinia, you are a very naughty child still.' 
 
 ' Of course, when you are here to keep 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 though the boisterous manner seemed to affect him 
 like a thunder-storm, Maria imagined they were de- 
 lighted with one another. 
 
 Maria was strangely serene and happy ; her queru- 
 lous, nervous 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 hope that the 
 troubled spirit had found repose now that misunderstand- 
 ings 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 sen- 
 tence unsaid.' 
 
 ' Too certain. She will not leave her mother.' 
 
 < Is that all ? ' 
 
 * 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 
 property larger, and his expectations more secure than 
 was the case ; and when the proposal was made, having 
 discovered his mistake, he sent a peremptory refusal, giv- 
 ing him reason to suppose her a party to the rejection. 
 Captain Pringle sailed in anger ; but it appears that his
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 205 
 
 return has revived his former feelings, and that he has 
 found out that poor Maria was a greater sufferer than 
 himself. 
 
 1 Why does he come to you ? ' 
 
 ' To consult me. He wishes me to persuade poor old 
 Mrs. Meadows to go out to the Mauritius, which is 
 clearly impossible ; but Maria must not be sacrificed 
 again. Would the Drurys make her comfortable ? Or 
 could she not live alone with her maid ? ' 
 
 1 She might live here.' 
 
 < Albinia ! Think a little.' 
 
 ' I can think of nothing else. Let her have the morn- 
 ing-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.' 
 
 1 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 % ' 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 I daresay you are right,' pensively said Albinia, per- 
 ceiving 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 % ' as he took up his hat. ' Are you 
 going to see Maria ? May I come with you ? ' 
 
 ' If you please ; but do not mention this notion. 
 There is no necessity for such a tax on you ; and such ar- 
 rangements 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 his wife ; but either he felt that there was a 
 long arrear of kindness owing, or feared to trust Albinia's 
 impulsive generosity.
 
 206 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 Meantime Albinia found the poor old lady in much 
 uneasiness and distress. Her daughter fancied it right to 
 keep her in ignorance of the crisis ; but Maria was not 
 the woman to conceal her feelings, and her nervous mis- 
 ery had revealed all that she most wished to hide. Too 
 timid to take her confidence by storm, her mother had 
 only exchanged surmises and observations with Betty, 
 and was in a troubled condition of affectionate 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 Maria. 
 
 ' Ah ! that is kind,' she said ; ' but he must tell her 
 not to think of me. I am an old woman, good for noth- 
 ing but to be put 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 more years to live, and anything is good 
 enough for me.' 
 
 ' That would hardly comfort her,' said Albinia, affec- 
 tionately ; ' but indeed, dear grandmamma, I hope we 
 shall convince her that 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 beau- 
 tiful place out there, and Mr. Pringle's property must 
 come to him at last ! Bless me, what will Sarah 
 Drury say ? 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 ! I 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 world- 
 liness ; touching 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 mother, when it was 
 broken off by Mr. Kendal's entrance.
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 207 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear Mr. 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 ? ' 
 
 ' I told her that, under the circumstances, she lias no 
 alternative but to accept Captain Pringle.' 
 
 1 Oh ! thank you. And does she ? ' 
 
 1 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 is so young 
 and inexperienced, and one is so much at a loss without 
 a gentleman. But this is very 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 Maria ! ' 
 
 In this mood of triumph and felicity, the old lady was 
 left to herself and her daughter. Albinia, on the way 
 home, begged to hear how Mr. Kendal had managed 
 Maria ; and found that he had simply told her, in an au- 
 thoritative tone, that after all that had passed, she had no 
 choice but to accept Captain Pringle, and that he had 
 added a promise, equally vague and reassuring, of being 
 a son to Mrs. Meadows. Such injunctions from such a 
 quarter had infused new life into Maria ; and in the 
 course of the afternoon, Albinia met the Captain with the 
 mother and daughter, one on each arm, Maria in recov- 
 ered bloom and brilliancy, and Mrs. Meadows's rheum- 
 atism forgotten m the glory of exhibiting her daughter 
 engaged. 
 
 For form's sake, secrecy had been mentioned ; but the 
 world of Bayford had known of the engagement a fort- 
 night 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 recollection of her own 
 ungracious professions of ignorance. 
 
 1 So it is true,' she said. * I don't mind, since Arthur 
 is not a girl.'
 
 208 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Mr. Kendal laughed so heartily, that Sophy looked to 
 Albinia for explanation ; 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 — ' 1 should have 
 run away and begged ! Papa laughs, 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. Ken- 
 dal 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 all we are doing Captain Pringle any kindness % ' 
 
 ' He is the best judge.' 
 
 ' Nay, he may think himself bound in honour and 
 compassion — he may be returning to an old ideal.' 
 
 ' People like Captain Pringle are not apt to have 
 ideals,' said Albinia ; ' nor do I think Maria will be so 
 trying. Do you remember that creeper of Lucy's, all 
 tendrils and catching leaves, which used to lie sprawling 
 ahput, entangling everything, till she gave it a prop, when 
 it instantly found its proper development, and offered no 
 further molestation ? ' 
 
 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 sus- 
 pected 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 have thought it unjustifiable 
 weakness to sacrifice his son's interests and his own use- 
 fulness. 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
 
 THE YOU-XG STEP-MOTHER. 209 
 
 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 I cannot help respecting the unselfishness,' said Al- 
 binia. 
 
 1 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 negotiations 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 Lucy Kendal should set up house- 
 keeping with her dear grandmamma. Every one gave 
 advice, and nobody took it ; Mrs. Meadows cried ; Maria 
 grew hysterical ; the Captain took up his hat and walked 
 out of the house ; and Albinia thought it would be very 
 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 him, 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 
 appearance, and then it was in an unhearing, unseeing 
 mood, so that 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 
 Woodside.' 
 
 ' What ! have you heard from Maurice ? ' 
 
 1 No ; I have been at Fairmead.' 
 
 < You ! To-day ? How was Winifred ? ' 
 
 ' Better — I believe.'
 
 210 THE YOUNG STEP-AIOTHEE. 
 
 1 How does she like the governess 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 ? 
 
 ' Worse than ever/ Albinia said. 
 
 ' I suppose it must end in this ? ' 
 
 1 In what ? ' 
 
 I If there is no more satisfactory arrangement, I sup- 
 pose 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 word ! When Mr. Kendal himself 
 did not like it ! Well ! Maurice would certainly have 
 advised Sinbad to request the honour of taking the Old 
 Man of the Sea for a promenade a 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 1 
 
 I 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 ! ' 
 
 1 1 could not say I thought these two people's happi- 
 ness shoud be sacrificed, or the poor old woman left des- 
 olate. Albinia has spirits and energy for a worse inflic- 
 tion, 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 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 
 off, ' is, I wish there was a law against people 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 foresaw the discomfort for all parties. She made
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-1I0THEE. 211 
 
 every effort to devise the ' more satisfactory arrangement,' 
 but nothing would occur. The Drurys 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 person, 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 board- 
 ing Mrs. Meadows with some family in the place, the 
 conviction arose, that when she had grandchildren, there 
 was no reason for leaving her to strangers. 
 
 Finally, the proposal was made, and as instantly re- 
 jected by Maria. It was very kind, but her mother 
 could never be happy at Willow Lawn, never ; and the 
 tone betrayed some injury at such a thing being thought 
 possible. But just as the Kendals had begun to rejoice at 
 having cleared their conscience at so slight a cost, Captain 
 Pringle and Miss Meadows made their appearance, and 
 Maria presently requested that Mrs. Kendal would allow 
 her to say a few words. 
 
 1 1 am afraid you thought me very rude and ungrate- 
 ful,' she began, ' but the truth was, I did not think dear 
 mamma would ever bear to live here, my 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 I could ever have dared to ex- 
 pect — 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 cer- 
 tain that Maria had extorted an invitation ; she would 
 never be a burden upon any one ; young people liked 
 company and amusement, and she was an old woman in 
 every one's way ; she wished she were in her coffin with 
 poor dear Mr. Meadows, which would have settled it all. 
 Maria fell back into the depths of despair, and all was lu- 
 gubrious, till Mr. Kendal in the most tender and gentle 
 manner, expressed his hopes that Mrs. Meadows would 
 consider the matter, telling her that his 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
 
 212 THE YOUNG STEP-3I0THEE. 
 
 to try to supply Maria's place. And Albinia, in her 
 coaxing tone, described the arrangement ; how the old 
 furniture 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 
 Willow Lawn always was like home, and finally prom- 
 ised to come. Before the evening was over the wedding- 
 day was fixed. 
 
 What Sophy briefly termed ' the fuss about Aunt 
 Maria,' had 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 affect- 
 ing. 
 
 Sophy heard of the arrangement without remark, 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 large enough to serve her for a sitting- 
 room. But in the evening Mr. Kendal happened in her 
 absence to take up the book which she had been reading, 
 and did not perceive at once on her entrance that she 
 wanted it. When he did so, he yielded it with a few 
 kind words of apology, but this vexation had been suffi- 
 cient 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 
 measurements 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. Meadows would pre- 
 fer that below-stairs. It used to be her parlour, where she 
 always sat when I first knew the house.' 
 
 ' The dining-room 1 How could we spare that ? ' 
 . ' No, the study.' 
 
 Albinia remained transfixed. 
 
 ' We could put the books here and in the dining-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 213 
 
 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 ? ' she continued. 
 
 ' Perhaps you will admit me here ? ' he said, smiling, 
 for he was pleased with himself. ' Turn me out when 1 
 am in the way.' 
 
 1 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 services when she made me 
 keep this room habitable ! ' 
 
 I And I think Sophy will not object to give up her 
 present little room for my dressing-room. Shall you, 
 my dear ? ' said he, anxious to judge of her temper by 
 her reply. 
 
 I I don't care,' she said ; ' I don't want any difference 
 made to please me ; I think that weak.' 
 
 ' Sophy ! ' began Albinia, indignantly, but Mr. Ken- 
 dal stopped her, and made her come down, to consider of 
 the proposal in the study. 
 
 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 consid- 
 eration, but were it otherwise, I could not see you give 
 up your private room.' 
 
 ' It is very kind in you, but indeed I can spare mine 
 better than you can,' said Albinia. ' I am afraid you 
 will never feel out of the whirl.' 
 
 1 Yours would be a loss to us all,'' said Mr. Kendal. 
 ' The more inmates there are in a house, the more need- 
 ful to have them well assorted.' 
 
 e 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
 
 214 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 it was when the children's voices were untrained and un- 
 subdued.' 
 
 ' I can't say much for Master Maurice's voice.' 
 
 He smiled ; he had never yet found those joyous 
 notes cle tro]), 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 re- 
 covers her senses she will feel it, for I believe that morn- 
 ing-room would have been a great loss to her.' 
 
 1 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 plainer 
 than that while she continues subject to these attacks, she 
 must have some retreat.' 
 
 'Yet,' ventured Albinia, ' if you think solitude did you 
 no good, do you think letting these fits have their swing 
 is good for Sophy ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot drive her about ! They must not be harshly 
 treated,' he answered quickly. ' Eesistance can only 
 come from within ; compulsion is worse than useless. 
 Poor child, it is piteous to watch that state of dull mis- 
 ery ! On other grounds, I am convinced this is the best 
 plan. The communication with the offices will prevent 
 that maid from being always on the stairs. Mrs. Mead- 
 ows 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 shall be all the happier. So, this was 
 the old sitting-room ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I knew them first here,' he said. ' It used to 
 be cheerful then, and I dare say you can make it the same 
 again. We must dismantle it before Mrs. Meadows and 
 Maria come to see it, or it will remind them of nothing 
 but the days when I was recovering, and anything but 
 grateful for their attention. Yes,' he added, ' poor Mrs. 
 Meadows bore most gently and tenderly with a long
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 215 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment 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 pre- 
 ferred 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 consult her about the arrangements, she would not 
 care about anything, except that by some remarkable 
 effect of her perverse condition, she had been seized with 
 a penchant for maize colour and blue for the bridesmaids, 
 and was deeply offended when Albinia represented that 
 they would look like a procession of macaws, and her 
 aunt declared that Sophy herself would be the most sacri- 
 ficed by such colours. She made herself so grim that 
 Maria broke up the consultation by saying good-humour- 
 edly, ' Yes, we will settle it when Lucy comes home.' 
 
 ' Yes,' muttered Sophy, ' Lucy is ready for any sort 
 of nonsense.' 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to Woodside to meet 
 Lucy, hoping that solitude would be beneficial. Albinia 
 grieved at the manifestations 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 ? 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 household contented seemed many degrees easier. 
 
 A grand wedding ' was expected,' so all the Bayford 
 flys were bespoken three deep, a cake was ordered from
 
 216 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Gunter, ana 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 occa- 
 sions might be survived, and he was less to be pitied 
 than his daughter, who felt as if she and her great brown 
 face would be the mark of all beholders. Poor Sophy ! 
 all scenes were to her like daguerreotypes in a bad light ; 
 she saw nothing but herself distorted ! 
 
 And yet she was glad that the period of anticipation 
 had consumed itself and its own horrors, and found her- 
 self not insensible to the excitement of the occasion. 
 Lucy was joyous beyond description, looking very pretty, 
 and solicitously decorating her sister, while both bestowed 
 the utmost rapture on their step-mother's appearance. 
 
 Having learnt at last what Bayfbrd esteemed a com- 
 pliment, she had commissioned her London aunts to send 
 her what she called ' an unexceptionable garment,' and so 
 well did they fulfil their orders, that not only did her 
 little son scream, ' Mamma, pretty, pretty ! ' and Gilbert 
 stand transfixed with admiration, but it called forth Mr. 
 Kendal's first personal remark, ' Albinia, you look re- 
 markably well,' and Mrs. Meadows reckoned among the 
 honours clone to her Maria, that Mrs. Kendal wore a 
 beautiful silk dress, and a lace bonnet, sent down on pur- 
 pose from London ! 
 
 Maria Meadows made a very nice bride, leaning on 
 her brother-in-law, and not more agitated than became her 
 well. The haggard restless look had long been gone, re- 
 pose had taken away the lean sharpness of countenance, 
 the really pretty features had fair play, and she was as- 
 tonishingly 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 217 
 
 should bring back fretfulness, he had a stock of happiness 
 sufficient for both. The chairs were jammed so tight 
 round the table, that 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 el- 
 bows out of his neighbour's 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 
 impossible. 
 
 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 down to the gate to halloo 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 mus- 
 lin, 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 ? it was an intolerable shame that none of 
 them were asked.' 
 
 ' Mamma did beg for Genevieve, but there was so lit- 
 tle 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 scul- 
 lery. 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 things on by mistake ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 10
 
 218 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 to look like mamma, or Genevieve either ! Put Gene- 
 vieve into satin or 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 ob- 
 jecting. 
 
 It was a holiday in honour of cette chere Sieve of five 
 and twenty years since, and the present pupils were from 
 their several homes watching for the first apparition of 
 the four greys 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 con- 
 coction which Sophy guessed to be a conserve of the rose- 
 leaves yearly begged of the pupils, which were chiefly use- 
 ful as serving to be boiled up at any leisure moment, to 
 make a cosmetic for Mademoiselle'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 7 
 Away went the spoon, forward she sprang, both hands 
 outstretched, and her little black eyes twinkling with 
 pleasure. ' 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 perfectionate 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-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 219 
 
 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 mean- 
 while paid their compliments in the most perfect style. 
 
 The history of the morning was discussed, and Ma- 
 dame Belmarche described her sister's wedding, and the 
 curiosity which she had shared with the bride for the 
 first sight of ' le fuiurj when the two sisters had been 
 brought from their convent for the marriage. 
 
 ' But how could she get to like him 1 ' cried Sophy. 
 
 ' My sister was too well brought up a young girl to 
 acknowledge a preference,' replied Madame Belmarche. 
 ' Ah ! my 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!' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Ah, my dear, never were husband and wife 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 why the strip of garden grew so 
 many of the grey-leaved, woolly-stemmed little yellow- 
 and- white everlasting flowers. Good madame began to 
 regret having saddened her on this day of joy. 
 
 ' Oh ! no,' said Sophy, ' I like sad things best.' 
 
 ? Mais non, my child, that is not the way to go 
 through life,' said the old lady, affectionately. ' Look at 
 me ; how could I have lived had I not always turned to the 
 bright side ? Do not think of sorrow, it is always near 
 enough.' 
 
 This conversation had made an impression on Sophy,
 
 2ViO THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 who took the first opportunity of expressing her indigna- 
 tion at the system of mariages de convenance. 
 
 1 And, mamma, she said if people began with love, it 
 always grew cold. Now, has not papa loved you better 
 and better every day ? ' 
 
 Albinia 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. 
 1 Madame is thinking of passion, independent of esteem 
 or confidence. But, Sophy, this is enough even for a 
 wedding-day. Let us leave it off with our finery, and 
 resume daily life.' 
 
 ' Only tell me one thing, mamma.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 She paused and brought it out with an effort. It had 
 evidently occupied her for a long time. * Mamma, must 
 not every one with feeling be in love once in their life % ' 
 
 4 Well done, reserve ! ' thought Albinia — ' but she is only 
 a child after all ; not a blush, only those great eyes seem- 
 ing ready to devour my answer. What ought it to be ? 
 Whatever it is, she will brood on it till her time comes. 
 I must begin, or I shall grow nervous : " Dear Sophy, 
 these are not things good to think 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 the passion once 
 in the life being a fate, and pray don't you, my Sophy, 
 or you may make yourself very silly, or very unhappy, 
 or both." ' 
 
 Sophy drew up her head, and her brown skin glowed. 
 Albinia 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 more than justice to human nature to say that 
 Mrs. Meadows's residence at Willow Lawn was a perfect
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 221 
 
 success, so it would be less than justice to call it a 
 failure. 
 
 To put the darker side first. Grandmamma's inter- 
 est in life was to know the proceedings of the whole 
 household, and comment on each. Now Albinia could 
 endure housewifely advice, some espionage on her ser- 
 vants, and even counsel about her child ; but she could 
 not away with the anxiety that would never leave Sophy 
 alone, tried to force her sociability, and regretted all 
 extra studies, unable to perceive the delicate treatment 
 her disposition needed. And Sophy, in the intolerance 
 of early girlhood, was wretched at hearing poor grand- 
 mamma's petty views, and narrow, ignorant prejudices. 
 She might resolve to be filial and agreeable, but too often 
 found herself just achieving 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, grew 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 gra- 
 cious, though few words passed between them, and he 
 gave her a sense of protection. 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 everywhere ; and he probably would 
 have submitted quietly for the 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 grat- 
 itude. Maria herself could hardly have been recognized, 
 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
 
 222 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 frosty wind, but pushed aside by fresh kindly impulses ; 
 and her pride in the Captain, and the rest in his support, 
 had set her at peace with all the world and with herself. 
 A comfortable, comely, happy matron was she, and even 
 her few weeks beyond the precincts of Bayford had done 
 something to enlarge her mind. 
 
 It was as if 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 mid- 
 dle life comes to some few, like the midsummer shoot to 
 repair the foliage that has suffered a spring blight ; but it 
 cannot be reckoned on, and Mrs. Pringle would have 
 been a more effective and self-possessed woman, a better 
 companion to her husband, and with more root in herself, 
 had Maria Meadows learnt to tune her nerves and her 
 temper in the overthrow of her early hopes. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Maurice Ferrars was a born architect, with such a 
 love of brick and mortar, that it was meritorious in him 
 not 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 as Maurice loved it ; but he quite approved and 
 submitted, provided 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 223 
 
 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 bed- 
 rooms 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 de- 
 lightful, that she began to be taken with scruples as to 
 luxury. 
 
 * No,' said Maurice, ' these are not mere luxuries. 
 You have full means, and it is a duty to keep your house- 
 hold fairly comfortable and at ease. Crowded as you are 
 with rather incongruous 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.' 
 
 1 Pray, has Kendal made up his mind what to do with 
 Gilbert ? ' 
 
 ' 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. Dusau- 
 toy's curate, in five or six years' time, what glorious 
 things we might do for the parish ! ' 
 
 < Eh ! is that his wish ? ' 
 
 ' I have sometimes hoped that his mind is taking that 
 turn. He is ready to help in anything for the poor peo- 
 ple. Once he told me he never wished to look beyond 
 Bay ford for happiness or occupation ; but I did not like 
 to draw him out, because of his father's plans. Why, 
 what have you drawn ? The almshouses ? ' 
 
 ' I could do no other when I was improving Gilbert's 
 house for him.' 
 
 ' That would be the real improvement ! How pretty 
 I will keep them for him.' 
 
 The second post came in, bringing a letter from Gil-
 
 224 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 bert to his father, and Albinia was so much surprised, 
 that her brother asked whether Gilbert were one of the 
 boys who only write to their father with a reason. 
 
 1 He can write more freely to me,' said Albinia ; ' and 
 it comes to the same thing. I am not in the least afraid 
 of anything 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 coun- 
 tenance as he read, and did not gather much consolation. 
 1 1 am afraid this is serious,' at last he said. 
 
 ' His cold ? ' 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 the old 
 symptoms. I do not wish to make any one uneasy about 
 me, and I may have made light of the cold I caught a 
 month since ; but I cannot conceal from myself that I 
 have much painful cough, an inclination to shortness of 
 breath, and pain in the back and shoulders, especially 
 after long reading or writing. I thought it right to speak 
 to Mr. Downton, but people in high health can understand 
 nothing short of a raging fever ; however, at last he called 
 in the parish surgeon, a stupid, ignorant fellow, who un- 
 derstands 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 circumstances make little difference 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,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 225 
 
 c I think it best you should be prepared for the worst, 
 as I wish and endeavour to be ; and truly I see so much 
 trial and disappointment in the course of life before me, 
 that it would hardly be the worst to me, except — 
 
 That sentence finished Albinia's voice, and stealing her 
 hand into her husband's, she read on in silence, 
 
 ' for the additional sorrow to you, and my grief at bring- 
 ing pain to my more than mother, but she has long 
 known of the presentiment that has always hung over 
 me, and will be the better prepared for its realization. 
 If it would be any satisfaction to you, I could easily take 
 ticket, and go up to London to see any physician you 
 would prefer. I could go with 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, and I should be very glad if you would 
 be so kind as to let me have a sovereign in advance of 
 my allowance, as Price knows of a capital secondhand 
 bow and arrows. With my best love to all, 
 1 Your affectionate son, 
 
 ' Gilbert Kendal.' 
 
 Albinia held the letter to her brother, to whom she 
 looked for something cheering, but, behold ! a smile was 
 gaining uncontrollably on the muscles of his cheeks, 
 though his lips strove hard to keep closely shut. She 
 would not look at him, and turning to her husband, ex- 
 claimed, ' 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 how I am to 
 nurse him. Oh ! taking it in time, dear Edmund, we 
 need not be so much afraid ! Maurice will not mind 
 making his visit another time.' 
 
 1 I only meant inconvenient to the birthday party,' 
 drily said her brother. 
 
 I Maurice ! ' cried she, ' you don't know the boy ! ' 
 
 I I have no doubt that he has a cold.' 
 
 ' And I know there is a great deal more the matter ! ' 
 
 10*
 
 226 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 cried Albinia. ' We have let him go away to be neg- 
 lected and badly treated ! My poor, dear boy ! Ed- 
 mund, I will fetch him home to-morrow.' 
 
 ' You had better send me,' said Maurice, mischiev- 
 ously, 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 
 wrathful 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 — you would 
 only laugh at him — you made us send him there — I 
 wish — ' 
 
 ' Gently, gently, my dear Albinia,' said her husband, 
 dismayed at her vehemence, just when it most amused 
 her brother. ' You cannot expect Maurice to feel exactly 
 as we do, and I confess that I have much hope that this 
 alarm may be more than adequate.' 
 
 ' He thinks it is all a scheme ! ' said Albinia, in a tone 
 of great injury. 
 
 ' No, 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.' 
 
 ' 1 believe you are right,' said Mr. Kendal. ' Where 
 is the letter ? ' 
 
 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 writ- 
 ten 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.' 
 
 1 What's this 1 ' asked Mr. Kendal, coming to the 
 ' presentiment.' 
 
 She hesitated, afraid both of him and of Maurice, but 
 there was no alternative. ' Poor Gilbert ! ' she said.
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHER. 227 
 
 1 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, Ed- 
 mund 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 ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, not long after I came ; he thinks it was a call, 
 and I have never known exactly how to deal with it.' 
 
 I It is a case for very tender handling,' said Maurice. 
 
 I I should have desired him never to think of it again,' 
 said Mr. Kendal decidedly. ' Mere nonsense to dwell on 
 it. Their 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. 
 
 I Yes ; I thought he only spoke of driving it away be- 
 cause 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 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 1 to know, if it may not have 
 been intended to do him good % And you see his father 
 says it was very remarkable.' 
 
 ' Do you imagine that it dwells much upon his mind 1 ' 
 
 * 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 superstition, 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. 
 
 1 You're as bad as if you were his mother, or worse ! ' 
 exclaimed Maurice. 
 
 1 Oh I Maurice, I can't help it ! He had no one to
 
 228 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 care for him till I came, and he is such a very dear fellow 
 — he wants me so much ! ' 
 
 Mr. Ferrars agreed to go with Mr. Kendal to Traver- 
 sham. 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 
 Traversham station, making resolutions neither to be too 
 angry with the negligent tutor, nor to show Gilbert how 
 much importance 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 ! ' 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 Hullah's classes, 
 so we shall have the house clear.' 
 
 ' I hope there is not much amiss ? ' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 * A tedious cold,' said the tutor ; * but the doctor as- 
 sures me that there is nothing wrong with his chest, and 
 I do believe he would not cough half so much, if he were 
 not always watching himself.' 
 
 c Who has been attending him 1 ' 
 
 1 Lee, the union doctor ; a very good man, with a 
 large family,' (Albinia could have beaten him). ' In- 
 deed,' he continued, perceiving some dissatisfied looks, ' I 
 think you will find that a little change is all that he 
 wants.' 
 
 ' I hope you can give a good account of him in other 
 respects ? ' said Mr. Kendal. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, in every way ; he is the most good-natured 
 lad in the world, and quite the small boys' 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 par-
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 229 
 
 sonage, where opening a door, he said, * Here, Kendal, 
 here's a new prescription for you.' 
 
 Albinia had a momentary view of a tabby cat and 
 kitten, a volume of poetry, a wiry-haired terrier, and Gil- 
 bert, 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 counte- 
 nance. 
 
 He looked flushed and 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, grasp- 
 ing 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 cheek on his 
 hand in a melancholy mood. 
 
 I 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 very doleful ; I don't like papa to be fright- 
 ened.' 
 
 I 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 the matter with 
 me.' 
 
 And he commenced a formidable catalogue of symp- 
 toms which satisfied her that Maurice would think him 
 fully justified. Just at a point where it was not easy to 
 know what next to say, the kitten began to play tricks 
 with her mother's tail, and a happy diversion was made ; 
 Gilbert began to exhibit the various drolleries of the ani- 
 mals, to explain the friendship between dog and cat, and 
 to leave off coughing as he related anecdotes of their sa- 
 gacity ; and finally, when the gentlemen returned, laugh- 
 ing was the first sound they heard, and Mrs. Kendal was 
 found sitting on the floor at play with the live stock. 
 
 They had come to fetch her to see the church and 
 schools, and on going out, she found that Mr. Ferrars had
 
 230 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 moved and carried that Gilbert should be taken home at 
 once, and, on the way, be shown to a physician at the 
 county town. From this she gathered that Maurice was 
 compassionate, and though, of course, he would make no 
 such admission, she had reason afterwards to believe that 
 he had shown Mr. Downton that the pupils health ought 
 to have met with a shade more attention. 
 
 With Gilbert wrapped 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 physician detected the injury to the lungs 
 left by an attack that the boy had suffered from in his first 
 English winter, and had scarcely outgrown when Albinia 
 first knew him. The recent cold had so far renewed the 
 evil, that though no disease actually existed, the cough 
 must be watched, and exposure avoided ; in fact, a license 
 for petting to any extent was bestowed, and therewith 
 every hope of recovery. 
 
 Albinia and her son sat in their corners of the carriage 
 in secret satisfaction, while Mr. Kendal related the doc- 
 tor's opinion to Mr. Ferrars ; but one of them, at least, 
 was unprepared for the summing-up. ' Under the circum- 
 stances, 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 Al- 
 binia, in her consternation. 
 
 ' Xearly old enough for John Kendal's bank, eh, Gil- 
 bert ? ' 
 
 ' 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 more 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 moneyed interest, and 
 had so sedulously impressed on her friends that Mr. Ken- 
 dal had been in the Civil Service, and quite unconnected 
 with the bank, that Mr. Ferrars had told her she thought
 
 THE TOUXG STEP-MOTHEE. 231 
 
 his respectability depended on it ; and she was ashamed 
 that her brother should hear her give way again so fool- 
 ishly 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, displaying his two sisters harnessed tandem-fashion 
 with packthread, and driven at full speed by little Maurice, 
 armed with the veritable carriage whip ! The next mo- 
 ment it was thrown down, with a rapturous shout, and 
 Maurice was lost to everything but his brother ! 
 
 i Oh ! girls, how could you let him serve you so ? ' be- 
 gan the horrified Albinia. ' Sophy will be laid up for a 
 week ! ' 
 
 ' Xever mind,' said Sophy, dropping on a chair. 
 1 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 in- 
 stant 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. ' Xow 
 listen, Maurice ; poor sister Sophy is tired, and you are 
 never to make a horse of her. Do you hear 1 ' 
 
 c Yes,' said Maurice, fidgeting. 
 
 1 Mind, if ever you make a horse of Sophy, mamma 
 will put you into the black cupboard. You understand ? ' 
 
 ' Sophy shan't be horse,' said Maurice. ' Sophy 
 naughty, lazy horse. Boy has Gibbie — '
 
 232 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 ' 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 grandmamma's room. 
 
 * 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 * ' 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 indispo- 
 sition, 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 would say Mrs. Kendal always let the tigers run 
 about loose ? Nor am I sure that your faults are 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 — ' 
 
 * No — no,' said the choked voice. It would have been 
 an 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 demonstration; 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 having 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 vio- 
 lence, and he was sent to bed ; Albinia went up with him
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 233 
 
 to see that his fire burnt. He set Mr. Ferrars's drawing 
 of the almshouses over his mantelshelf. ■ I shall nail it 
 up to-morrow,' 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 himself 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 helpJier to speak, and he gave her advice with 
 more 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.' 
 
 1 That reserve is my great pain. I don't get at the 
 real being once in six months.' 
 
 1 So much the better for people living together.' 
 
 6 Well, I was thinking that you and I are a great deal 
 more intimate 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 my expe- 
 rience.' 
 
 ' It was the same before, only we concealed it by an 
 upper surface of chatter,' said Maurice. ' " As iron sharp- 
 eneth 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.
 
 234 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Aren't you coming with me ? Edmund is going to drive 
 me to Woodside to meet the pony- carriage from home.' 
 
 1 1 wish 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.' 
 
 I Te — es. Papa would like it, if you do.' 
 
 I 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 pres- 
 ently left in solitary possession of the drawing-room, 
 whereupon he rose, settled his brown locks at the glass, 
 arranged his tie, brushed his cufTs, leisurely walked up- 
 stairs, and tapped at the door of the morning-room, meekly 
 asking, ' May I come in ? ' with a cough at each end of the 
 sentence. 
 
 1 Oh ! Gilbert ! ' cried his anxious sister, starting up. 
 1 Are you come to see me 1 ' and she would have wheeled 
 round the father's arm-chair for him, but Genevieve was 
 beforehand with her, and he sank into it, saying patheti- 
 cally, 'Ah ! thank you, Miss Durant ; you are come to a 
 perfect hospital. Oh ! this is too much,' as she further 
 gave him a footstool. l Oh ! no, thank you, Sophy,' for 
 she would have handed Genevieve her own pillow for his 
 further support ; 'this is delightful ! ' reclining patheti- 
 cally in his chair. ' This is not like Traversham.' 
 
 * Where they would not believe he was ill ! ' said 
 Sophy. 
 
 ' 1 hope he does not look so very ill,' said Genevieve, 
 cheerfully, but this rather hurt the feelings of both ; the 
 one said, ' Oh ! but he is terribly pale ; ' the other cough- 
 ed and said, < Looks are deceitful.' 
 
 1 That is the very reason,' said Genevieve. ' You don't 
 look deceitful enough to be so ill — so ill as Miss Sophie 
 fears ; now you are at home and well cared for, you will 
 soon be well.' 
 
 ' Care would have prevented it all,' said Sophy.
 
 THE YOTJXG STEP-MOTHER. 235 
 
 ' And not brought me home ! ' said Gilbert. ' Home 
 is home on any terms. Xo 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 votre Precepteur ? ' asked Genevieve. 
 
 ' Ah ! he was otherwise occupied ! ' 
 
 1 There is some mystery beneath,' said Genevieve, 
 turning to Sophy, who exclaimed abruptly, ' Oh ! is he 
 in love ? ' 
 
 1 Sophy goes to the point,' said Gilbert, smiling, the 
 picture of languid comfort ; ' but I own there are suspi- 
 cious 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 portrait of his sister !' 
 
 1 Catch me carrying Sophy's face in my waistcoat 
 pocket,' cried Gilbert, forgetting his languor. 
 
 ' Speak for yourself, Mr. Gilbert,' laughed Genevieve. 
 
 ' And he writes letters every day, and won't 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 Down 
 ton on one ! ' 
 
 ' I assure you.' cried Gilbert, ' Price has laid a bet 
 that she's an heiress with forty thousand pounds and red 
 hair.' 
 
 ' Mr. Price is an impertinent ! I hope you will in- 
 form 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.'
 
 236 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 
 
 ' Miss Sophy,' whispered Genevieve, ' prepare for a 
 red-haired sister-in-law. I predict that every one of the 
 pupils of the respectable Mr. Downton will marry ladies 
 with lively chestnut locks.' 
 
 ' What, you think me so mercenary, Genevieve ? ' 
 said Gilbert. 
 
 ' I only hope to see this school-boy logic well re- 
 venged ! ' said Genevieve. ' Mrs. 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 Sophy. 
 
 * Ah ! I beg your pardon, I have been interrupting 
 you all this time,' cried Gilbert ; ' I never meant to dis- 
 turb you. Pray let me listen.' 
 
 And Genevieve read while Gilbert resumed his reclin- 
 ing attitude, with half-closed eyes, listening to the sweet 
 intonations and pretty refined accents of the ancien regime. 
 Sophy enjoyed this exceedingly, she made it her espe- 
 cial 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 ro- 
 mance, and they read poetry and had discussions as they 
 sat over the fire, growing constantly into greater 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 occupa- 
 tion kept affronts and vexations out of her sight, and 
 made her amiable. 
 
 Gilbert's health improved, though with vicissitudes 
 that enforced the necessity of prudence. Rash when 
 well, and desponding at each renewal of illness, he was
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 237 
 
 not easy to manage, but he was always so gentle, grateful, 
 and obliging, that he endeared himself to the whole house- 
 hold. 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 time in helping in her 
 pursuits ; he was becoming companionable to his father, 
 and could play at chess sufficiently 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 Bay ford world. 
 He was a favourite in her little society, 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 which, at 
 least, had the advantage of making a variation in his im- 
 prisonment 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 engravings and ' Evangeline ' were their enjoy- 
 ment ; 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, es- 
 pecially with Genevieve. She, however, 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 some- 
 what as a boy to be played with. Perfectly aware of her 
 own position, her demeanour, frank and gracious as it 
 was, had something in it which kept in check other Bay- 
 ford youths less gentlemanlike than Gilbert Kendal. If
 
 238 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 
 occupation, 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 Gil- 
 bert'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 conservatory were 
 some degrees grander than Mr. Ferrars had proposed, 
 but all was excused by the pleasure and experience they 
 afforded Gilbert, and it was very droll to see Maurice 
 following him about after the workmen, watching them 
 most knowingly, and deep in mischief at every oppor- 
 tunity. Once he had been up to his knees in a tempting 
 blancmanger-like lake of lime, many times had he ham- 
 mered or cut his fingers, and once his legs had gone 
 through 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 fire-place and comfortable fan- 
 shaped fender made the room very cheerful. Fresh, del- 
 icately-tinted furniture, chosen con amore 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 fancier. 
 
 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 equipment of one of the walls. The rest were dis- 
 posed, 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 willing as Albinia 
 was that the name of studv should be extinct. Meantime
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 239 
 
 Mr. Downton had verified the boy's prediction by writ- 
 ing 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 house of Kendal and Kendal, for 
 she knew it hurt her husband's feelings to hear any dis- 
 paragement 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 scenery as if they 
 had been only absent 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 a}*ahs 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 father asked Albinia whether she knew of any objec- 
 tion on his part, or any design which he might be unwill- 
 ing to put forward. With a beating heart she avowed 
 her cherished scheme. 
 
 ' Is this his own proposal ? ' asked Mr. Kendal. 
 
 1 No ; he has never spoken of it ; but your plan has 
 always seemed so decided that perhaps he thinks he has 
 no choice.' 
 
 ' That is not what I wish,' said his father. * If his in- 
 clinations be otherwise, he has only to speak, and I will 
 consider.' 
 
 ' Shall I sound him ? ' suggested Albinia, dreading the 
 timidity that always stood between the boy and his 
 father.
 
 240 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Do not inspire him with the wish and then imagine 
 it his own,' said Mr. Kendal ; and then thinking he had 
 spoken sternly, added, ' I know you would be the last to 
 wish him to take holy orders inconsiderately, but you 
 have such power over him, that I question whether he 
 would know his wishes from yours.' 
 
 Albinia began to disavow the desire of actuating him. 
 
 1 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 I do not think Gilbert has the 
 energy or force of character I should wish to see in a 
 clergyman, nor do I feel willing to risk him at the univer- 
 sity.' 
 
 1 Oh ! Edmund, why will you distrust Oxford ? 
 Why will you not believe what I know through Maurice 
 and his friends 1 ' 
 
 ' If my poor boy had either the disposition or the 
 discipline of your brother, I should not feel the same 
 doubt.' 
 
 * Maurice had no discipline except at school and when 
 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 can- 
 not 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 facil- 
 ities 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 1 ' 
 
 ' I will speak to him myself. He is quite old enough 
 to understand his prospects, and decide for himself.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 241 
 
 ' But, Edmund,' cried Albinia, with sudden vehemence, 
 1 you are not sacrificing Gilbert for Maurice's sake ? ' 
 
 She had more nearly displeased him than she had 
 ever done before, though he looked up quietly, saying, 
 1 Certainly not. I am not sacrificing 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 per- 
 ceive that he was 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 statement 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 offered 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 bach- 
 elor in the country. His imagination never could con- 
 ceive 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 Fer- 
 rers, at five years old, had told her mamma that ' the 
 Colonel's parties made her quite dissipated.' 
 11
 
 242 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 One bright summer day, his beaming face appeared 
 at Willow Lawn with a peremptory invitation. His 
 nephew and heir had newly married a friend of Albinia's 
 girlhood, and was about to pay his wedding visit. Too 
 happy to keep his guests to himself, the Colonel had fixed 
 the next Thursday for a fete, and wanted all the world to 
 come to it — the Kendals, every one of them — if they 
 could only sleep there — but Albinia brought him to con- 
 fession that he had promised to lodge five people more 
 than the house would hold ; and the aunts were at the 
 parsonage, where nobody ventured to crowd their ser- 
 vants. 
 
 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, board, and 
 lodging, and he did not find much difficulty in his per- 
 suasions. 
 
 Few invitations ever gave more delight ; Albinia ap- 
 preciated a holiday to the utmost, and the whole family 
 was happy at Sophy's chance of at length seeing Fair- 
 mead, and taking part in a little gaiety. And if Mr. 
 Kendal's expectations of pleasure were less high, he sub- 
 mitted very well, smiled benignantly at the felicity 
 around him, and was not once seen to shudder. 
 
 Sarah Anne Drury had been invited to enliven grand- 
 mamma, and every one augured a beautiful day and per- 
 fect 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 uncomfortably 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.'
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHEE, 243 
 
 Gilbert and Lucy both uttered an exclamation ; and 
 Sophy added, ' She would have so much more enjoyment 
 than 1 could ! Oh, it would quite make up for my miss- 
 ing it ! ' 
 
 ' My dear,' said grandmamma, ' you don't know what 
 you are talking of. It would be taking such a liberty.' 
 
 ' There need be no scruples on that score,' said Al- 
 binia ; ' the Colonel would only thank me if 1 brought him 
 half Bayford.' 
 
 1 Then,' cried ^ophy, ' you think we may ask her ? 
 Oh, I should like to run up myself; ' — and a look of con- 
 gratulation and gratitude passed between her and her 
 brother. 
 
 1 Xo, indeed, you must not ; let me go,' said Lucy ; 
 1 I'll just finish this cup of tea — ' 
 
 1 My dear, my dear,' interposed Mrs. Meadows, ' pray 
 consider. She is a very good little girl in her way, but 
 it is only giving her a taste for things out of her station.' 
 
 1 Oh ! don't say that, dear grandmamma,' interposed 
 Albinia ; ' one good festival does carry one so much bet- 
 ter through days of toil ! ' 
 
 1 Ah, well ! my dear, you will do as you think 
 proper ; ' but considering who the poor child is, I should 
 call it no kindness to bring her forward in company.' 
 
 Something passed between the indignant Gilbert and 
 Sophy about French counts and marquises, but Lucy 
 managed much better. '-Dear me, grandmamma, no- 
 body 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 grandmamma 
 had 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 ar, 
 rangementa 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 encountered Gil- 
 bert, touching up his toilette at each glass, and seriously 
 consulting her and Sophy upon the choice between lilac 
 and lemon-coloured gloves, and upon the bows of his 
 fringed neck-tie.
 
 244 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' My dear Gilbert,' said Albhria, on the fifth anxious 
 alternative, ' it is of no use. No living creature will be 
 the wiser, 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 won't go — she is very much obliged, but she can't go.' 
 
 'Can't'? she must,' cried Albinia and Gilbert to- 
 gether. 
 
 ' She says you are very kind, but that she cannot. I 
 said everything I could ; I told Ker she should wear 
 Sophy's muslin mantle, or my second best polka.' 
 
 ' Xo doubt you went and made a great favour of it,' 
 said Gilbert. 
 
 ' No, 1 assure you I did not ; I persuaded her with all 
 m}^ might ; I said mamma wished it, and we all wished 
 it ; and I am sure she would really have been very gla 
 if she could have gone.' 
 
 ' It can't be the school, it is holiday time,' said Gil- 
 bert. ' 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 happ}*, 
 and make it easier for Sophy to get on with Sarah Anne 
 Drury.' 
 
 Lucy had seen Genevieve alone ; Albinia took her by 
 storm before Madame Belmarche, whose little black eyes 
 sparkled as she assured Mrs. Kendal that the child mer- 
 ited that and every other pleasure ; and when Genevieve 
 attempted to whisper objections, silenced her with an 
 embrace, saying, ' Ah ! my love, where is your gratitude 
 to Madame ? Have no fears for us. Your pleasure will 
 be ours for months to come.' 
 
 The liquid sweetness of Genevieve's eyes spoke of no 
 want of gratitude, and with glee which she no longer 
 strove to repress, she tripped away to equip herself, and 
 Albinia heard her clear young voice up-stairs, 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 making up into bouquets. Genevieve's was ready
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 245 
 
 before she arrived in the prettiest tremor of gratitude and 
 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 com- 
 plexion, 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 Genevieve was unrivalled in the 
 art of tying bows, and those pink ones were paragons, 
 redolent of all her own fresh sprightly archness and re- 
 finement. Albinia herself was the best representative of 
 English good looks, and never had she been more brill- 
 iant, her rich chestnut hair waving so prettily on the 
 rounded contour of her happy face, her fair check 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 
 cornfields, laughing in the summer sunshine ; and in due 
 time they saw the flag upon Fairmead steeple, and Al- 
 binia nodded to curtseying 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 ! is William 
 here ? ' 
 
 1 No ; at Montreal, but very well,' was the answer, 
 with a hearty shake of the hand.
 
 24(3 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' 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,' explained Fred, 
 as he finished shaking hands with all the party, and 
 walked on beside Albinia. Pie was tall, fresh-coloured, a 
 good deal like her, with a long fair moustache, and light, 
 handsome figure ; and Lucy, though rather disconcerted 
 at Genevieve being taken for one of themselves, began 
 eagerly to whisper her conviction that he was Lord Bel- 
 raven's brother, 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 his senior. He was little older 
 than Albinia, and a merry, bantering affection had always 
 subsisted between them, till he had begun to give it the 
 air of something more than friendship. Albinia was, 
 however, of a nature to seek for something of dejoth 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,' but 
 no more ; her heart was set on sharing her brother's life 
 as a country pastor. She went to Fairmead, Fred was 
 carried off by the General to Canada, and she presently 
 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 de- 
 lighted 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. Annes- 
 ley was with her. The greetings had hardly been ex- 
 changed before the Colonel came upon them in all his
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 247 
 
 glory, with his pretty shy bride niece on his arm, looking 
 very like the Alice Percy of the old times, when Fred 
 used to tease the two girls. 
 
 Genevieve was 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 
 nattered 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 dis- 
 cussions, and paced up and down the shady walk, while 
 Albinia sat, in the complete contentment, beween Alice 
 and Winifred, with Fred Ferrars on the turf at their feet, 
 living over again the bygone days, laughing over ancient 
 jokes, resuscitating past scrapes, tracing the lot of old 
 companions, or telling mischievous anecdotes of each 
 other, for the very purpose of being contradicted. They 
 were much too light-hearted 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, on looking for her husband, was told that he had 
 fallen in with some old Indian acquaintances ; and Charles 
 Bury presently came to find his wife, and conduct the 
 party to luncheon. There was no formal meal, but a 
 perpetual refection laid out in the dining-room, for relays 
 of guests. Fred took care of Albinia, 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. Kendal and the chil- 
 dren are not famished.' 
 
 Fred came with her, and she turned down the long 
 alley leading to the archery -ground. He felt old times 
 so far renewed as to resume their habits of confidence, 
 and began, ' I suppose the General has not told you what 
 has brought me home ? ' 
 
 ' He has not so much as told me you were coming.' 
 
 1 Ay, ay, of course you know how he treats those 
 things.'
 
 248 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Oh — h ! ' said Albinia, perfectly understanding. 
 
 ' But,' continued Frederick, eagerly, ' even he con- 
 fesses 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.' 
 
 4 And who is she, Fred ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, there you are ! ' and Lucy joined them 
 as they emerged on the bowling-green, where stood the 
 two bright targets, and the groups of archers, whose 
 shafts, for the most part, flew far and wide. 
 
 1 Where are the rest, my dear ? are they shooting ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; Gilbert has been teaching Genevieve — there, 
 she is 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 ? ' asked Captain Ferrars ; 
 and Lucy smiled, and lost her discontented air. 
 
 1 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 I found I 
 was not of much use, so I came away with the Miss Bar- 
 tons 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 fear 
 that they were starving, and anxious to introduce his wife 
 to his Indian friends. When at the end of the path, Al- 
 binia 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 YOUNG STEP-ilOTHER. 249 
 
 The afternoon was spent in pleasant loitering, chiefly 
 with Miss Ferrars, who asked much after Sophy, la- 
 mented greatly over Winifred's delicate health, and was 
 very anxious to know what could have brought Fred 
 home, being much afraid it was some 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 
 had 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 off 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 delight- 
 fid after so long an interval, in the renewal of the old 
 scene, and the recognition of so many familiar faces. 
 
 With bounding step 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 
 his 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 him- 
 self, and thought an officer's wife one of the most mis- 
 placed 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 give full sympathy to his 
 hopes and fears. Far less wealth had fallen to his lot 
 than to that of his cousins, and his marriage must depend 
 on what his brother would ' do for him, a point on which 
 11*
 
 250 THE YOUNG STEP MOTHEK. 
 
 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 expen- 
 sive 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 Al- 
 binia telling him to do his duty, he turned towards a 
 group that had coalesced round Miss Ferrars, 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 Al- 
 binia 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 bluff 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 misera- 
 ble, 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 move- 
 ments, 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 con- 
 trast. 
 
 ' 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
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 251 
 
 serenity, standing aloof from gaiety and noise. She could 
 have compared him and her lively cousin 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 she was perfectly happy, 
 standing still with her arm upon that of her silent hu? 
 band. 
 
 ' These things are well imagined,' said he. ' The free- 
 dom 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 parson- 
 age by myself. I am glad we brought that little Gene- 
 vieve ; she seems to be so perfectly in her element. I 
 saw her amusing a set of little children in the prettiest, 
 most animated way y and afterwards, when the young 
 people were playing at some game, her gestures were so 
 sprightly and graceful, that no one could look at the 
 English girls beside her. Indeed I think she was mak- 
 ing quite a sensation ; your cousin seemed to admire her 
 very much. If she were but in another station, she 
 would shine anywhere.' 
 
 ' 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 daugh- 
 ters at service, inquiring 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 — wiiish — 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
 
 2o2 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 big boy clutched tight hold of her arm, saying, ' I be 
 afeard.' She was explaining away his alarms, 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.' 
 
 I Oh ! Maurice, I 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 
 guardians losing themselves. What have you done with 
 all your children ? ' 
 
 ' What have you done with yours ? ' retorted she. 
 
 I I left Willie and Mary at the window with their 
 governess ; I came to see that these other children of 
 mine were orderly.' 
 
 ' Most proper, prudential, and exemplary Maurice ! ' 
 his sister laughed. ' Now I have an equally hearty be- 
 lief in my children 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. 
 
 1 No, I'm not coming. You don't understand your du- 
 ties. Your young ladies ought always to know where to 
 find you, and 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 I shall attempt only 
 one moral maxim, and that is, that no one should set up 
 for a chaperon, till she has retired from business on her 
 own account.' 
 
 ' That's a stroke at my dancing with poor Fred, but it 
 was his 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 were 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.' 
 
 1 Only that he is more mad than ever, and that he let
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 253 
 
 him go, thinking that there is no chance of Belraven help- 
 ing 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 them. Then out burst a grand 
 wheat-sheaf of yellow flame with crimson ears and beards, 
 by whose light Albinia recognized Gilbert standing close 
 to her in the shadow, and asked him where the rest 
 were. 
 
 ' I can't tell ; Lucy and my father were here just 
 now.' 
 
 ' Are you feeling the chill, Gilbert ? ' asked Albinia, 
 struck by something in his tone. ' You had better look 
 from the window.' 
 
 He neither moved nor made answer, but a great illu- 
 mination of Colonel Bury's coat-of-arms, with Roman 
 candles and Chinese trees at the four corners, engrossed 
 every eye, and flashing on every face, enabled Albinia to 
 join Mr. Kendal, who was "with Lucy and Miss Ferrars. 
 No one knew where Genevieve was, but Albinia was con- 
 fident that she could take good care of herself, and was 
 not too uneasy to enjoy the grand representation of 
 Windsor Castle, and the finale of interlaced ciphers 
 amidst a multitude of little fretful sputtering tongues of 
 flame. Then it was, amid good nights, donning of shawls, 
 and announcing of carriages, that Captain Ferrars and 
 Miss Durant made their appearance together, having been 
 ' looking everywhere for Mrs. Kendal,' and it was not in 
 the nature of a brother not to look 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 Gil- 
 bert inside the carriage, and mounted the box, to revel in 
 the pleasures of silence. The four within talked inces- 
 santly and compared adventures. Lucy had been grati- 
 fied by being patronized by Miss Ferrars, and likewise 
 had much to say of the smaller fry, and went into rap-
 
 254 THE YOUKG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 tures about many a ' dear little thing,' none of whom 
 would, however, stand a comparison with Maurice ; Gil- 
 bert was critical upon every one's beauty ; and Gene- 
 vieve was more animated than all, telling anecdotes with 
 great piquancy, and rehearsing the comical Yankee stories 
 she had heard from Captain Ferrars. She had enjoyed 
 with the zest and intensity of a peculiarly congenial tem- 
 perament, and she seemed not to be able to cease from 
 working off her excitement 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 were brief and 
 went astray, and Albinia thought she was travelling for 
 ever to Montreal, when she was startled by a pettish ex- 
 clamation from Lucy ; ' Is that all ? 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, opening her 
 sleepy eyes ; * she is as little worth seeing as a moon can 
 well be ; a waning moon does well to keep untimely 
 hours.' 
 
 ' Why do you think she is so much more beautiful in 
 the crescent, Mrs. Kendal ? ' said Genevieve, in the most 
 wakeful manner. 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know,' said Albinia, subsiding into 
 her corner. 
 
 1 Is it from the situation of the mountains in the 
 moon % ' continued the pertinacious damsel. 
 
 ' In Africa % ' said Albinia, well-nigh asleep ; but Gen- 
 evieve's laugh roused her again, partly because she 
 thought it less mannerly than accorded with the girl's 
 usual politeness. No more sleep was allowed her ; an 
 astronomical passion seemed to have possessed the young 
 lady, and she dashed into the tides, and the causes of the 
 harvest-moon, and volcanoes, and thunderbolts, and Lord 
 Eosse's telescope, forcing her tired friend to reply by 
 direct appeals, till Albinia almost wished her in the moon 
 herself; and was rejoiced when in the dim greyness of 
 the early summer dawn, the carriage drew up at Madame
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER . 255 
 
 Belmarche'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 per- 
 ceived 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 de- 
 meanour, 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 needfully kept 
 under the wing of Mary's governess, mamma, or Miss 
 Ferrars, and nobody had paid her any particular atten- 
 tion ; 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 partners 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 of 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 laugh- 
 ing at her all the time.' 
 
 Abinia's candour burst out as usual, ' Say no more 
 about it, my dear ; it was a mistake from beginning to 
 end. 1 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 Genevieve 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 in- 
 effable pity and contempt — she was fir less able to for- 
 give another for being attractive, than for trying to 
 attract. 
 
 Sophy looked excessively hurt and grieved, and in
 
 256 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 private asked her step-mother what she thought of Gen- 
 evi6ve's behaviour. 
 
 1 My dear, I cannot tell ; I think she was off her guard 
 with excitement ; but all was very new to her, and there 
 was every excuse. I was too happy to be wise, so no 
 wonder she was.' 
 
 ' And do you think Captain Ferrars was laughing at 
 heL' ? 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 girl 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.' 
 
 1 Poor Fred ! ' said Albinia. ' I am sorry Gilbert 
 conceived such a notion. But Genevieve's heart is too 
 sensible to break in that way, even if Fred wished 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 ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ' Mrs. Kendal, dear Madame, a great favour, could 
 you spare me a few moments ? ' 
 
 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 intoxi- 
 cation, and wanted to apologize and be comforted, so she 
 said kindly, 
 
 ' I was wishing to see you, my dear ; I was afraid the 
 day had 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 disagree-
 
 THE YOUNG BTEP-MOTHEK, 257 
 
 able I must have been. 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 — enjoy- 
 ment — no ! ' stammered Genevieve. ' If you would be 
 kind enough to come this way.' 
 
 She opened her grandmother's back gate, the entrance 
 to a slip of garden smothered in laurels, and led the way 
 to a small green arbour, containing a round table, trans- 
 formed by calico hangings into what the embroidered in- 
 scription called 'Autel a V Amour filial et maternel] 
 bearing a plaster vase full of fresh flowers ; but ere Ai- 
 binia had time to admire this achievement of French sen- 
 timent, Genevieve exclaimed, clasping her hands, ' Oh, 
 madame, pardon me, you who are so good ! You will 
 tell 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 un- 
 reason, 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 pink envelope the hand- 
 writing concerned her even more nearly. 
 
 ' Gilbert ! ' she cried. ' My dear, what is this 1 Do 
 you wish me to read it 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes ; for I cannot.' Genevieve turned away, as in 
 his best hand, and bad it was, Albinia read the commence- 
 ment — 
 
 ' My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! ' 
 
 In mute astonishment Albinia looked up, and met 
 Genevieve's eyes. ' Oh, madame, you are displeased 
 with me ! ' she cried in despair, misinterpreting the look ; 
 4 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.
 
 258 THE YOUXG STEP-^I OTHER. 
 
 Think I am your sister, and tell me what is the meaning 
 of all this, and then I will try to help you.' 
 
 1 Oh, madame, you are too good,' said Genevieve, 
 weeping ; and kindly holding the trembling hand, Albinia 
 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 touch 
 your affections, I am sure.' 
 
 ' Oh I pour cela nonj 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 I 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 such 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 merits and of the in- 
 compatibility of their station, and she plunged out by 
 asking, ' And how long has this been going on 1 ' 
 
 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 enjeune hommc? 
 
 1 And this is his first letter ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, madame.' 
 
 ' He complains that you will not hear him 1 Do you 
 dislike to tell me if anything had passed previously % ' 
 
 ' Thursday,' was slightly whispered. 
 
 ' Thursday ! ah ! now I begin to understand the cause 
 of your being suddenly moon-struck.' 
 
 ' Ah ! madame, pardon me ! ' 
 
 ' I see — it was the only way to avoid a iite-a-teie ! ' 
 said Albinia. ' Well done, Genevieve. What had he 
 been saying to you, my dear % ' 
 
 Poor Genevieve cast about for a word and finally fal- 
 tered out, ' Des sottlses, Madan 
 
 me. 
 
 That I can well believe,' said Albinia. ' Well, my 
 dear — '
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 259 
 
 ' I think,' pursued Genevieve, ' that he was vexed be- 
 cause I would not let him absorb me exclusively at Fair- 
 mead ; and began to reproach me, and protest — ' 
 
 ' And like a wise woman you waked the sleeping 
 dragon,' said Albinia. ' Was this all ? ' 
 
 ' No, madame ; so little had passed, that I 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, though I 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 men- 
 tion 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 1 ' 
 
 < Oh, no ! 1 would for rather not tell them. Need 1 1 
 Oh ! madame, surely you can speak to him, and no one 
 need ever hear of it ? ' 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 the point, endeavouring to model her treatment on 
 that of her brother, the General, towards his aide-de-camp 
 in the like predicaments. 
 
 1 Gilbert, I want to speak to you. I am afraid you 
 have been making yourself 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 exclama- 
 tion, and burst out ' That abominable treacherous old 
 wooden doll of a mademoiselle.' 
 
 1 No, Miss Bel m arch e knows nothing of it. No one 
 ever shall if you will promise to drive this nonsense out 
 of your head.'
 
 260 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! Mrs. Kendal ! ' with a gesture of misery. 
 
 1 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 impor- 
 tunity. It is exceedingly distressing to her, 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 
 jour letter, and tell you never to repeat the liberty.' 
 
 He struck his hand on his brow, crying vehemently, 
 1 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 unex- 
 pected violence. 
 
 1 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 understand what you are pleased to make game 
 of; ' and with one of his sudden alternations, he dropped 
 into a chair, calling himself the most miserable fellow in 
 the world, unpitied where 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.' 
 
 1 Fancy ! ' said the boy solemnly. ' The happiness of 
 my life is 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, and take advantage of a fancy in a boy so much 
 younger, and of a different class 1 ' 
 
 ' It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all at her 
 feet ! '
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 261 
 
 1 So it might, if it were worthy of her to accept it. 
 Gilbert, 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 her- 
 self to a mere lad. An unprincipled person might pre- 
 tend it for the sake of your property — a silly one might 
 like you because you are good-looking and well man- 
 nered ; 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 Durant again.' 
 
 1 Have you anything else to ask me ? ' cried Gilbert, 
 in a melo-dramatic tone. 
 
 ; Yes, how would you like your father to know cf 
 this % 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 weeping, ' you 
 have always pitied me hitherto.' 
 
 1 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 promise me 
 to desist from this persecution.' 
 
 The debate might have been endless, if Mr. Kendal 
 had not been heard coming in. ' You promise 1 ' she 
 said. ' Yes,' was the faint reply, in nervous terror of 
 immediate reference to his father ; and they hurried dif- 
 ferent ways, trying to look unconcerned. 
 
 ' 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 cure him ; or if it should 
 not, his affection will be respectable, and worth consid- 
 eration. If he were but older, and this were the genuine
 
 262 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 article, I would fight for him, but — ' And she sat down 
 to write a loving note to Genevieve. Her sanguine dis- 
 position made her trust that all would blow over, but her 
 experience of the cheerful buoyant Ferrars temperament 
 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. Albinia, her husband, 
 and Lucy, were soon in the drawing-room welcoming 
 them ; and Lucy fetched her little brother, who had been 
 vociferous for three clays about cousin Fred, the real sol- 
 dier, but now, struck with awe at the mighty personage, 
 stood by his mamma, profoundly silent, and staring. He 
 was ungracious to his aunt, 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 Lucy. ' My dear, what is become of the 
 other two ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know what is the matter with 
 them,' said Lucy. i 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 Soph} 7 , grave and silent, but 
 no Gilbert, and Mr. Kendal, receiving no satisfactory ac- 
 count of his absence, said, ' Very strange,' and looked 
 annoyed. 
 
 Captain Ferrars seemed to have expected to see his
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 263 
 
 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 explana- 
 tion followed, during which Sophy blushed violently, and 
 held up her head as if she had an iron bar in her neck. 
 
 ' A pity,' said the lancer, when he heard 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 you with thinking life made up of predica- 
 ments. I think mine is made of blunders ! ' 
 
 ' 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 beauti- 
 fully ; 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, dishevelled, abstracted look, and muttering some- 
 thing inaudible about not knowing the time. Tlis depres- 
 sion 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 confi- 
 dante. Several times did Albinia try to lead her to enter 
 on the subject, but she set up her screen of silence. It 
 was disappointing, for Albinia had believed better things
 
 264 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 of her sense, and hardly made allowance for the different 
 aspect of the love-sorrows of seventeen, viewed from fif- 
 teen 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-letes that 
 could hardly fail to fill Sophy's romantic head with folly. 
 
 At the end of another week, Albinia received the fol- 
 lowing note : — 
 
 Dear and most kind Madame, 
 
 ' I would not trouble you again, but this is the 
 third within four days. I returned the two former ones 
 to himself, but he 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 hon- 
 our 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 river on Monday. I am beginning to fear that his 
 assiduities have been observed, and I should be much 
 obliged if you would tell me how to act. Your kind per- 
 severance in your goodness towards me is my greatest 
 comfort, and I hope that you will still continue it, for 
 indeed it is most unwillingly that I am a cause of per- 
 plexity and vexation to you. Entreating your pardon, 
 ' Your most faithful and obliged servant, 
 
 ' Genevieve Celeste Durant.' 
 
 What was to be done ? That broken pledge over- 
 powered Albinia with a personal sense of shame, and 
 though it set her free, to tell all to her husband, she 
 shrank from provoking his stem displeasure towards 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 the reluctant Gil- 
 bert, to whom she returned the letter, saying, ' Oh, Gil- 
 bert, at least I thought you would keep your word.' 
 
 ' I think/ he said, angrily, trying for dignity, though 
 bewrayed by his restless eyes and hands — ' I think it is 
 too much to accuse me of — of — when I never said — 
 What word did I ever give ? '
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 265 
 
 I You promised never to persecute her again.' 
 
 ' There may be two opinions as to what persecution 
 means,' said Gilbert. 
 
 I I little thought of subterfuges. I trusted you.' 
 
 1 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 free Miss 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, that she does not dare to con- 
 fess — ' 
 
 ' For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of acting a 
 part.' 
 
 1 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 sar, 
 casm that he did not know what he said, ' I think — con- 
 sidering — considering our situations, I might be worth 
 her consideration ! ' 
 
 1 Who put that in your head ? ' 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 that ! No, I only mean I have no fair 
 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 gravity, and she made no direct 
 answer, only saying, ' Well, Gilbert, these talks are use- 
 less. I only thought 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 
 
 12
 
 266 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 promises, but no more treaties of secrecy could he ob- 
 tain ; she would only say that she should not speak im- 
 mediately, 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 Genevieve, 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 Convent 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 temp- 
 tation ? ' 
 
 ' Not of that kind,' said Genevieve. ' The priest, Mr. 
 O'Hara, is a good-natured old gentleman, not in the least 
 disposed to trouble himself about my conversion.' 
 
 I And the sisters ? ' 
 
 c 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, madame.' 
 
 ' And are there no enthusiastic young novices ? ' 
 
 I 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 Had- 
 minster Hall in the last century were Roman Catholics,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-M OTHER. 267 
 
 and a daughter had professed at a convent in France. 
 At the time of the revolution, her brother, the esquire, 
 wrote to offer her an asylum at his house. The day of 
 her arrival was fixed — behold ! a stage-coach draws up to 
 the door — black veils inside — black veils 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 sister- 
 hood ! ' 
 
 ' And what did the esquire do with the good ladies ? • 
 
 1 He took them as a gift from Providence ; he raised 
 a subscription among his friends, and they were lodged in 
 the house at Hadminster, where something like a sister- 
 hood had striven to exist ever since the days of James II.' 
 
 * Are any of these sisters living still ? ' 
 
 1 Only poor old Mother Therese, who was a little pen- 
 sionnaire when they came, and now is blind, and never 
 quits her bed. There are only seven sisters at present, 
 and none of them are less than five-and-forty.' 
 
 ' And what shall you do there, Genevieve ? ' 
 
 ' 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 ? ' 
 
 ' With all my heart. Any books ? ' 
 
 ' 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 any tiling 
 there will be a pleasure to the old ladies.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you do not guess the pleasure, madame. Nee- 
 dlework 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.' 
 
 1 Well ! my dear, it is very right of you ; and I do
 
 268 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEK. 
 
 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 
 parcel of books and work-patterns, and she returned an 
 affectionate note ; but did not attempt to see Lucy and 
 Sophy. 
 
 The next Indian mail brought the expected letter, giv- 
 ing 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 probation. The letter was so sensible 
 and affectionate, that Mr. 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 lie 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 Sophy ; 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 reluctance will be a great mortification to him.' 
 ■ * So it will,' said Sophy, mournfully ; ' I am sure it is 
 to me. I always looked forward to Gilbert's going to
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 269 
 
 Talloon, and seeing the dear old bearer, and taking all 
 my presents there ; but you see, of course, mamma, he 
 cannot bear to go — ' 
 
 ' Sophy, dear,' said Albinia, ' you have been thinking 
 me a very hard-hearted woman this last month. I have 
 been longing 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 % ' 
 
 1 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 proud 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. 
 
 1 Well, my dear, perhaps I am.' 
 
 ' But, mamma, you have done all you could to sep- 
 arate them : you have shut Genevieve up in a convent, 
 and you want to banish him.' 
 
 ' It sounds very grand, and worthy of a cruel step- 
 dame,' said Albinia ; ' but, my dear, though I do think 
 Genevieve in herself an admirable creature, worthy of 
 any one's love, what am I to think of the way Gilbert 
 has taken to show his admiration ? ' 
 
 1 And is it not very hard,' cried Sophy, ' that even you, 
 who own all her excellences, should turn against him, and 
 give in to all this miserable conventionality that wants 
 riches and station, and trumpery worldly things, and 
 crushes down true love in two young hearts ? ' 
 
 * Sophy dear, I am afraid the love is not proved to be 
 true in the one heart, and I am sure there is none in the 
 other ! ' 
 
 ' Mamma ! 'Tis her self-command — ' 
 
 1 Nonsense ! His attentions are nothing but distress 
 •to her ! Sensible grown-up young women are not apt to 
 be flattered by importunity from silly boys. Has he told 
 you otherwise ? ' 
 
 ' 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 appearing mercenary.'
 
 270 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' All delusion ! ' said Albinia ; ' there's not a spark of 
 consciousness 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 promoting it, how it would bring 
 them into trouble and disgrace with all the world, even 
 if your father consented. Have you once thought how it 
 would appear to him ? ' 
 
 1 You can persuade papa to anything.' 
 
 ' Sophy ! you ought to know your father better than 
 to isay 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 
 they were the same age ? Do you mean that no one 
 ever ought to marry, if they love ever so much, where 
 the station is different % ' 
 
 ' No, but that they must not do so lightly, but try 
 the love first to see whether it be worth the sacrifice. If 
 an attachment last through many years of adverse cir- 
 cumstances, 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 they may produce ill- 
 temper, regrets, and unhappiness, all the rest of their 
 lives.' 
 
 ' If Gilbert went on for years, mamma % ' 
 
 ' 1 did not say that, Sophy.' 
 
 1 Suppose,' continued the eager girl, ' he went out to 
 Calcutta, and worked these five 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.
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHEE. 271 
 
 1 And he would take her out to Calcutta, and have no 
 Drurys and Osborns to bother her ! Oh ! it would be 
 beautiful ! I would watch over her while he was gone J 
 I'll go and tell him ! ' 
 
 8 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 con- 
 stancy ! ' 
 
 1 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 re- 
 peated, ' Do you allow me to tell Gilbert that this is the 
 way % ' 
 
 1 Xot from me. I hold out no hope. I don't believe 
 Genevieve cares for him, and I don't know whether his 
 father would consent — ' but seeing Sophy's look of disap- 
 pointment, ' 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 you think her worth it ? ' 
 
 1 I think her worth anything in the world — the more 
 for her behaviour in this matter. I only doubt if Gilbert 
 have any conception how much she is worth.' 
 
 Away went Sophy in a glow that made her almost 
 handsome, while Albinia, as usual, wondered at her own 
 imprudence. 
 
 At luncheon Sophy avoided her eye, and looked crest- 
 fallen, and when afterwards she gave a mute inquiring 
 address, shook her head impatiently. It was plain that 
 she had foiled, 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 morn- 
 ing-room to entreat her interference in his behalf, appeal- 
 ing piteously to her kindness ; but she was obdurate. If 
 any remonstrance were offered to his father, it must be 
 by himself. 
 
 Gilbert fell into a state of misery, threw himself
 
 272 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 about upon the chairs, and muttered in the fretfulness of 
 childish despair something 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 up and being 
 master. 
 
 1 Take care, Gilbert ! ' 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 ; 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 ? ' 
 
 * I wonder what people dare to say it ! ' cried Albinia 
 wrathfully ; but he did not heed, he w T as 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 ! 
 You know this is a mere farrago that you have conjured 
 up. Your father would neither thrust you into danger, 
 nor compel you to do anything to which you had a rea- 
 sonable 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 ! ' 
 
 1 And you will not speak a word for me ! ' 
 
 'No! Speak for yourself!' and she left the room. 
 
 Days passed on, till she began to 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 vexa- 
 tion than she had anticipated, ' So our plans are over- 
 thrown. Gilbert tells "me he has an invincible dislike to 
 Calcutta. Had you any such idea ? ' 
 
 ' Not till your cousin's letter arrived. What did you 
 say to him ? ' 
 
 1 He was so much afraid of vexing me that I was 
 obliged to encourage him to speak freely, and I found 
 that he had always had a strong distaste to and dread of
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 2*73 
 
 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 
 my motives.' 
 
 1 Thank you— once I should,' said Albinia ; ' but, Ed- 
 mund, I see how wrong it was to have concealed anything 
 from you ; ' and thereupon she informed him of Gilbert's 
 passion for Genevieve Durant, which astonished him 
 greatly, though he took it far less seriously than she had 
 expected, and was not displeased 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 Bayford for a few years he will be glad to have it 
 forgotten.' 
 
 1 Poor Genevieve ! She must break up her grand- 
 mother's home after all ! ' 
 
 i 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.' 
 
 1 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 ! ' 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 ! thank you ! ' cried Albinia : ' yet I doubt. 
 12*
 
 274 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 However, her services would be quite equivalent in any 
 school to the lessons she wants. I'll write to Mrs. El- 
 wood — ' and she was absorbed in the register-office in 
 her brain, when Mr. Kendal continued — 
 
 ' This is quite unexpected. I could not have supposed 
 the boy so foolish ! However, if you please, I will speak 
 to him, tell him that I was unaware of his folly, and in- 
 sist on his giving it up.' 
 
 1 1 should be very glad if you would.' 
 
 Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfac- 
 tory 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 
 relief, gratitude, and fear of being sent out, he was ready 
 to promise anything. Before his father he could go into 
 no rhapsodies, and could only be miserably confused. 
 
 ' Personally,' said Mr. Kendal, ' it is creditable that 
 you should 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 com- 
 fort or respectability, and nothing but your youth and 
 ignorance could excuse your besetting any young woman 
 with importunities which she had shown to lje disagree- 
 able to her.' 
 
 There was no outcry of despair, only a melancholy 
 muttering. Then Mr. Kendal pronounced his decree in 
 terms more explicit than those in which Albinia had ex- 
 acted the promise. He said nothing about persecution, 
 nor was he unreasonable enough to command an instant 
 immolation of the passion ; he only insisted that Gilbert 
 should pay no marked attention, and attempt no unsanc- 
 tioned 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 Ken- 
 dal,' he raised his head, and with a deep sigh undertook 
 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.
 
 THE YOUXG STEP-MOTHEE. 2*75 
 
 Two difficult points remained — the disposing of the 
 young people. Gilbert was still over-young for the uni- 
 versity, as well as very backward and ill-prepared, and 
 the obstinate remains of the cough made his father un- 
 willing to send him from home. And his presence made 
 Genevieve's absence necessary. 
 
 The place had begun to loom in the distance. A for- 
 mer governess of Albania's, who would have done almost 
 anything to please her, had lately been left a widow, and 
 established herself 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 Gene- 
 vieve, provided she fulfilled 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 Belmarches. 
 
 It almost consoled her for what she had been exceed- 
 ingly 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 stroke ; they evidently felt for 
 her, and appeared to catch at Mrs. Elwood's offer, and 
 w T hen Albinia proposed that her salary should be a share 
 in the instructions of the masters, agreed that this was the 
 very thing they had felt it their duty to provide for her, 
 if they had been able to bring themselves to part with 
 her. 
 
 ' So,' said good Madame Belmarche, 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 every- 
 thing, 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 excitement 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 be- 
 tween them, with steps down to it. She had not been
 
 276 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 were sad at the proposal of leaving home 
 and going among strangers, she took care to hide all that 
 could pain Mrs. Kendal, and her cheerful French spirit 
 really enjoyed the prospect of new scenes, and bounded 
 with enterprise at the hope of a new life and fresh tield 
 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 Itak 
 ian ! 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 be- 
 ing at home again. It was a contrast to Sophy's dolorous 
 visage. Poor Sophy ! she was living in a perpetual 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 have 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 money upon a beautiful book as a parting gift, and 
 kept it beside her, missing occasion after occasion of pre- 
 senting it and falling at each into a perfect agony behind 
 that impalpable, yet impassable, barrier of embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 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,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 277 
 
 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 ? You are quite overcome.' 
 
 1 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 
 w r hat is really dignified 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 ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! do not talk so. I am only overwhelmed with 
 w r onder at the goodness I have experienced. If it had 
 happened with any other family, oh ! how differently I 
 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 injus- 
 tice, whatever she feels,' said Sophy. 
 
 ' Oh ! not injustice — kindness ! I shall be able to 
 earn more for grandmamma ! ' 
 
 ' It is injustice ! ' said Sophy ; ' not hers, perhaps, but 
 of the world ! It makes me so angry, to think that you 
 — you should never do anything but wear yourself out in 
 drudging over tiresome 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 thank- 
 ful that my vocation is among them.' 
 
 In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would 
 not notice it, but pursued, ' You must come in and rest 
 — 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
 
 278 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 the door of the school-room, she sank breathless into a 
 sitting position on the carpetless boards. 
 
 Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found 
 Sophy's arms thrown round her, pressing her almost to 
 strangulation. 
 
 ' Oh ! I wanted to do it — I never could. Won't you 
 have the book, Genevieve ? It is my keepsake — only I 
 could not give it because — ' 
 
 'Is it your keepsake, indeed, dear Miss Sophy V said 
 Genevieve. ' Oh ! if it is yours — how I shall value it — 
 but it is too beautiful — ' 
 
 ' Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve,' said 
 Sophy, fervently. 
 
 1 And it is your gift ! But I am frightened — it must 
 have cost — ! ' began Genevieve, still a little on her 
 guard. ' 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 ? ' 
 
 * Mine ? yes ! ' said Sophy, on the borders of offence. 
 ' I know what you mean, Genevieve, but you may trust 
 me. I would not take you in.' 
 
 Genevieve was blushing intensely, but taking courage 
 she bestowed a shower of ardent embraces and expres- 
 sions of gratitude, mingled with excuses for her precau- 
 tion. ' Oh ! it was so very kind in Miss 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 un- 
 locked ; ' 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 of? ' 
 
 1 Perhaps I shall not,' said Genevieve, laughing. 
 1 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. 
 
 1 They are my pleasure. Besides I have always 
 thought it a blessing that my business in life, though so
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 279 
 
 humble, should be what may do direct good. If only I 
 do not set them a bad example, or teach them any harm.' 
 
 1 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 mar- 
 riage — grandmamma has often told me so ! •' 
 
 ' Things sometimes happen,' pursued Sophy. ' Mam- 
 ma said if Gilbert had been older, or even if — if he had 
 been in earnest and steady enough to work for you in 
 India, then it might — And surely if Gilbert could care 
 for you — people higher and deeper than he would like 
 you better still.' 
 
 * Hush,' said Genevieve ; e they would only see the ob- 
 jections more strongly. No, 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 at- 
 tention, and fail of the task that the good God has com- 
 mitted to her.' 
 
 ' Then you would never even wish — ' 
 
 ' It would be seeking pomps and vanities to wish,' said 
 Genevieve ; ' 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 manners 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 be- 
 come excited. I enjoy society so much that it is not safe 
 for me I So don't be sorry, dear Sophy, it is a fit penance 
 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 un- 
 intelligible excuse, and while Mademoiselle was confounded 
 with admiration at the sight of the book, inflicted another 
 boa-constrictor embrace, and hurried away.
 
 280 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 CHAPTEK 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 portion was all he had to reckon upon. 
 Before returning 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 pa- 
 tient, and wait for promotion. 
 
 Sophy likewise approved of him this time, perhaps be- 
 cause he was so opposite a specimen of the genus lover 
 from that presented by her brother. Gilbert had not been 
 able to help enjoying himself while from home, but his 
 spirits sank on his return ; he lay about on the grass in 
 doleful dejection, studied little but L. E. L., lost appetite, 
 and reproachfully fondled his cough ; but Albinia was now 
 more compassionate than Sophy, whom she was obliged to 
 rebuke for an unsisterly disregard toward his woes. 
 
 ' I can't help it,' said Sophy ; 1 1 can't believe in him 
 now ! ' 
 
 * Yes, you ought to believe that he is really unhappy, 
 and be more gentle and considerate with him.' 
 
 ' If it had been earnest, he would have sacrificed him- 
 self instead of Genevieve.' 
 
 * Ah ! Sophy, some day you 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 as on others, and while there were some soft spots
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 281 
 
 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 let- 
 ters showed no signs of pining for home. Sophy felt as 
 if it were 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 that unlucky penny-club-day, when she 
 had declared that she hated poor people, she had been let 
 alone on 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 Genevieve's absence, she volun- 
 teered to take charge of her vacant Sunday-school class, 
 and obtained leave to have the girls at home on the after- 
 noons for an hour and a half. This was enough for one 
 who worked as 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. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Albinia, ' you must alter this — you 
 see this question does not grow out of the last answer.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Sophy, ' that must have been what puzzled 
 them last Sunday : they want connexion.' 
 
 * Nothing like logic to teach one to be simple,' said 
 Albinia. 
 
 1 1 can't see the use of all this trouble,' put in Lucy. 
 'Why can't you ask them just what comes into your 
 head, as I always do 1 ' 
 
 ' Suppose mistakes came into my head.' 
 
 ' Oh ! they would not find it out if they did ! I de- 
 clare ! — what's this — Persian ? Are you going to teach 
 them Persian 1 ' 
 
 1 No ; it is Greek. You see it is a piece of a Psalm,
 
 282 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEE. 
 
 a quotation rather different in the New Testament. I 
 wrote it down to ask papa what it is in Hebrew.' 
 
 ' By-the-bye, Sophy/ continued Lucy, ' how could you 
 let Susan Price come to church with lace sleeves — abso- 
 lute lace sleeves ! ' 
 
 ■ Had she % ' 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 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 grave 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 dress.' 
 
 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 
 curates can take the services to-morrow. 1 
 
 Albinia looked at the note while Mrs. Dusautoy wrote 
 on hurriedly. She read that there could be no daily ser- 
 vices 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 way into higher society, arose before Albinia, 
 she could hardly wait till the letter was despatched, tq 
 break out in amazement, 
 
 ' Was she a relation of yours ? Even the name never 
 made me think of it ! ' 
 
 ' It is a pity she cannot have the gratification of hear- 
 ing it, poor woman,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, ' but it is a fact 
 that she did poor George Dusautoy the honour to marry 
 him.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER, 283 
 
 ' Mr. Dusautoy's brother 1 ' 
 
 * Ay — he was a young surgeon, just set up in practice, 
 exactly like John — nay, some people thought him still 
 finer-looking. She was a Miss Greenaway Cavendish, a 
 stockbroker'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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 
 been 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 pretensions.' 
 
 ' Did you ever see them together 1 ' 
 
 1 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 were ! 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 son — the one pleas- 
 ure of his life — but he never was allowed. Oh, how I 
 used to long to stir up a mutiny ! ' cried Mrs. Dusautoy, 
 quite unknowing 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 gentleman, and not 
 a very good piece of work of it either ! Little she recked 
 of the great loving heart that had thrown itself away on 
 her, and the patience 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 re- 
 member him ! ' 
 
 ' How long has he been dead % ' 
 
 * These ten years. He was drowned in a lake storm
 
 284 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 take his 
 advice about sending her boy to school.' 
 
 ' What becomes of him now % ' 
 
 * He is our charge. She was on the way home from 
 Italy, when she was taken ill at Paris, and died at the 
 end of the week.' 
 
 < How old is he ? ' 
 
 ' 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 
 pleasure 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 
 rather a tempting of Providence to keep 3,589 people 
 and fourteen services in a week resting upon one man ! ' 
 
 ' Exactly what his churchwarden 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 through Cambridge with great 
 credit, and it strikes me that he might at once help John, 
 and cram Master Algernon.' 
 
 ' And Gilbert ! ' cried Albinia. ' Oh, if you will 
 import a tutor for Gilbert, we shall be for ever beholden 
 to you ! ' 
 
 ' I had thought of him. I have no doubt that he is 
 much better taught than Algernon ; but I am not afraid 
 of this poor fellow bringing home bad habits, and they 
 will be good companions. I reckon upon you and Mr. 
 Kendal as great auxiliaries, and I don't think John will 
 be able to withstand our united forces.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 285 
 
 On the way home, on emerging from the alley, Al- 
 binia encountered Gilbert, just parting with another 
 youth, who walked off quickly on the Tremblam road, 
 while she inquired who it was. 
 
 ' That ? ' 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 Bay ford mind was diverted from the romance of 
 Genevieve 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 companion- 
 ship and assistance in supporting the charge left by her 
 absent Atlas. 
 
 He was not gone a moment longer than necessary, 
 and took her by surprise at last, while Albinia and Sophy 
 were sitting on the lawn with her, when she welcomed 
 the nephew and the Vicar, holding out a hand to each, and 
 thanked them for taking care of ' Fanny.' ' Here, Alger- 
 non,' 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 somewhat elevated. He had a good ruddy sun- 
 burnt complexion, shining brown hair, and regular fea- 
 tures ; and Albinia could respond heartily to the good 
 Vicar's exclamation, as he followed her down to the gate 
 for the sake of saying, 
 
 1 Well-grown lad, isn't that ? And a very good- 
 hearted fellow, too, poor boy — the very picture of his 
 dear father. Well, and how has Fanny been ? ' 
 
 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.
 
 286 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 1 News for grandmamma. We must give her a par- 
 ticular description of the hero.' 
 
 ' How ugly he thought me ! ' said Sophy, quaintly. 
 
 1 My dear, I believe that is the first thing you think 
 of when you meet a stranger ! ' 
 
 ' I saw it this time,' returned Sophy ' His chin went 
 up in the air at once. He set me down for Mrs. Kendal, 
 and you for Miss Sophy.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Albinia for the inveterate youthful- 
 ness of her bright complexion and sunny hair was almost 
 a sore subject with her. ' Your always fancying that 
 every one is disgusted with you, is as silly as if you 
 imagined yourself transcendently beautiful. It is mere 
 self-occupation, and helps to make you blunt and shy.' 
 
 1 Mamma,' said Sophy, ' tell me one thing. Did you 
 ever think yourself pretty ? ' 
 
 ' I have thought myself looking so, under favourable 
 circumstances, but that's all. You are as far from ugli- 
 ness as I am, and have as little need to think of it. As 
 far as features go, there's the making of a much hand- 
 somer woman in you than in me.' 
 
 Sophy laughed. A certain yearning for personal 
 beauty was 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 Algernon 
 Greenaway Cavendish Dusautoy, Esquire. Lucy's first 
 sight was less at her ease. Elizabeth Osborn, with whom 
 she kept up a fitful intimacy, summoned her mysteriously 
 into her garden, to show her a peep-hole through a little 
 dusty window in the tool-house, whence could be descried 
 the vicarage garden, and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, as, 
 with a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, 
 ' Stately stept he east the to 1 , 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.'
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHEB. 287 
 
 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. Du- 
 sautoy's enemy laid down 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 conversa- 
 tion 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 im- 
 mensely.' 
 
 ' Despise — you ? ' 
 
 * 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 hurt if I notice his peculiarities, that I have been 
 dying to have my laugh out.' 
 
 1 Can Mr. Dusautoy bear with pretension ? ' 
 
 1 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-var- 
 nished 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. 
 
 4 Is that what people bring home from Italy now-a- 
 days ? ' said Albinia.
 
 288 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 ' That is an original production.' 
 
 ' Did Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy do that ? ' cried Lucy. 
 
 ' Genre is his style,' was the reply. ' His mother was 
 resolved he should be an amateur, and I give his master 
 great credit.' 
 
 ' Especially for that not being a Madonna,' said Al- 
 binia. ' 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. 7 
 
 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 Neivs. ' What do you think of it ? Has he 
 not made a good hand of the pitcher ? ' 
 
 Albinia gratified him by owning that the pitcher was 
 round ; and Lucy was in perfect rapture at the * dear lit- 
 tle 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 presence 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 us another picture, Algernon,' 
 said his uncle. ' Mrs. Kendal has just been admiring 
 your red jar.' 
 
 ' Have you a taste for art 1 ' demanded Mr. Cavendish 
 Dusautoy, 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 master. Truth 
 and nature, those were his maxims ; and from the mo- 
 ment I heard them, I said, " This is my man." We used 
 positively to live in the Borghese. There ! ' as he walked 
 backwards, after adjusting his production in the best 
 light.
 
 THE YOUXG STEP- MOTHER. 289 
 
 1 A snipe,' said Albinia. 
 
 ' A snipe that I'killecl in the Pontine marshes.' 
 
 ' There is very good shooting about Anxur,' said 
 Albinia. 
 
 ' You have been at Rome ? ' He permitted himself a 
 little animation at discovering any one within the pale of 
 civilization. 
 
 ' For one fortnight in the course of a galloping tour 
 with my two brothers,' said Albinia. ' All the Continent 
 in one long vacation ! ' 
 
 1 That was much to be regretted. It is my maxim to 
 go through every museum thoroughly.' 
 
 ' I can't regret,' said Albinia. ' I should be very 
 sorry to give up my bright indistinct haze of glorious 
 memories, though 1 was too young to appreciate all I 
 saw.' 
 
 1 For my part, I have grown up among works of art. 
 My whole existence has been moulded on them, and I 
 feel an inexpressible void without them. I shall be most 
 happy to introduce 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 raisonnee 
 for private circulation, of course. I should be sorry to 
 interfere with Murray, but on the whole I decided other- 
 wise : I should be so much bored with applications.' 
 
 Mrs. Dusautoy's wicked glance had so nearly demol- 
 ished 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 proceeding to point out 
 the merits of the composition. 
 
 Albinia'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 ? ' 
 
 With perfect sincerity, she could praise his good looks. 
 
 * He has had a quantity of sad stuff thrust on him by 
 13
 
 290 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 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 flat- 
 tered 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 I 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 people to come up this evening, have a 
 little music, and make it lively ? I suppose Fanny and I 
 are growing old, though I never thought so before. "Will 
 you come, Lucy, there's a good girl, and bring your 
 mother and sister ? The lads must be capital friends.' 
 
 Lucy 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 polysyl- 
 lable,' and ' should see enough of him when Mr. Hope 
 came, worse luck.' 
 
 The result of the evening was, that Lucy was enrap- 
 tured 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 draw 
 him out. He threw his whole soul into the work, win- 
 ning the hearts of the infant-school and the old women,
 
 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 291 
 
 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 except 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. Ex- 
 cepting his extra intellect, there was no boyhood in him. 
 A town-bred scholar, a straight constitutional upon a 
 clean road was his wild3st dream of exercise ; he had 
 never mounted a horse, did not know a chicken from a 
 partridge, except 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 
 bein<? a bookseller's son, with nothing to live on but his 
 fellowship and curacy, and Gilbert looked down on his 
 ignorance of every matter of common life and excessive 
 bashfulness. Mr. Dusautoy would have had less satis- 
 faction 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 instigation, Algernon avouched to be a new sort 
 of Indian corn, grown in Italy for feeding silkworms. 
 
 An intimacy there was, rather from constant inter- 
 course than from positive liking. Gilbert saw through 
 and disdained young Dusautoy's dulness and self-conse- 
 quence ; but good-natured, kindly, and unoccupied, he 
 had no objection to associate with him, showing him 
 English ways, trying to hinder him from needlessly ex- 
 posing himself, and secretly amused with his pretension. 
 Algernon, with his fine horses, expensive appointments, 
 and lofty air, was neither a discreditable nor unpleasant 
 companion. Mr. Kendal had given his son a horse, 
 which, without costing 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.
 
 292 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Gilbert had suffered 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 in- 
 cipient dandyisms faded into insignificance beside the 
 splendours of the heir of thousands ; and he, who among 
 all his faults had never numbered conceit or forwardness, 
 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 him as thoroughly as he 
 did in himself. His wealth was undoubted, his accom- 
 plishments were rated at his own advertisement, and his 
 magnanimous condescension was esteemed at full value. 
 Eeally 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, i if a court 
 circular could be put into the Bayford paper.' 
 
 The Kendals were the only persons whom Algernon 
 regarded as in any way on a footing with him. Finding 
 that the lady was a Ferrars, and had been in Italy, he 
 regarded her as fit company, and whenever they met, fa- 
 voured her with the chief and choicest of his maxims, lit- 
 tle 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 grasping vulgar 
 father, had little religious impression, and that little had 
 not been fostered by the lax habits of a self-expatriated 
 Englishwoman, and very soon after his arrival at Bayford 
 his disregard of ordinary English proprieties had made it- 
 self apparent. On the first Sunday he went to church in 
 the morning, but spent the evening in pacing the garden
 
 THE YOU^s'G STEP-3IOTHER. 293 
 
 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 accustomed to ride at 
 that hour ! ' But not on Sunday ! ' she exclaimed. He 
 was 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. Algernon mumbled something 
 about compromising his uncle and offending English prej- 
 udices, 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 unpleasantly sullen and morose 
 as regularly as the Sunday came round, and revenged 
 himself by pacing the verandah with his cigar, or prac- 
 tising anything but sacred music on his key-bugle in his 
 painting-room. 
 
 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 mother, 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 he 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 assert- 
 ing the dignity of a Greenaway Cavendish Dusautoy.
 
 294 THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 The atelier was a happy invention. Certainly weari- 
 some noises, and an aroma of Havannahs would now and 
 then proceed therefrom ; but he 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 speedily outrun all the Vicarage walls- 
 He favoured the University of Oxford by going up 
 with Gilbert for matriculation, when, to the surprise of Mr. 
 Hope, he was not plucked. They were to begin their 
 residence at the Easter term. Mrs. Dusautoy did not 
 confess even to Albinia how much she looked forward to 
 Easter. 
 
 In early spring, a sudden and short illness took away 
 Madame Belmarche'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 clanger of renewed intercourse be- 
 tween 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 ! 
 
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