'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 suggested, 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 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, endeavouring to smile, but half
strangled by a tear, and looking at that moment as she might have done
long ago. 'You find many changes.'

'I hope you find Mr. Pringle pretty well,' said Albinia, thinking this
might be a relief, and accordingly, the 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 Bayford tidings,
and began asking after a multitude of old friends and acquaintance.

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? Albinia thought not, but could not be certain. His presence was
evidently happiness to Miss Meadows, but would this last? Would this
renewal soothe her, or only make her more restless and unhappy?

Albinia found that Sophy's imagination bad 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 mysteries. When Lucy heard that it was
Captain Pringle, she was quite provoked.

'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 moments?' she said; and Albinia turned aside
with her to the flagged terrace path between the churchyard and vicarage
garden, in the light of a half-moon.

'You were so kind this 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--'

'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 interest--only she said Edmund knew
nothing of anything that had passed--if he did, he would see they would
feel--

'I think,' said Albinia, kindly, 'that we do know that you had some
troubles on that score. Old nurse said something to Sophy, but no other
creature knows it.'

'Ah!' exclaimed Maria, 'that is what comes of trusting any one. I was
so ill when I found out how it had been, that I could not keep it from
nurse, but from mamma I did--my poor father being just gone and
all--I could not have had her know how much I felt it--the discovery I
mean--and it is 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 married the handsomest
man in the country, and gone out to 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 intentions.'

'Yea,' said Maria; 'for it gave me such a bitter, restless feeling
against him--though I ought to have known him better than to think he
would give one minute's pain he could help; and then when I knew the
truth, the bitterness all went to poor papa's memory, and yet perhaps he
never meant to be unkind either.'

Albinia said some kind words, and Maria went on:

'But what I 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 would 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 Bobble's Leigh, and said I should soon hear
from him again.'

'Indeed I think you will be happier. There is something 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 poetically? But her words
did indeed seem to be the truth. In spite of the embarrassment of
her situation and the 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 Albinia. '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?'

Maria clung to Albinia's arm. Perhaps in the days of the last parting,
she had been less careful to be with a chaperon.

'Ah! I forgot,' said the captain; 'your way lies the other side of
the hill. I had very nearly walked into Willow Lawn this morning, only
luckily I bethought me of asking.'

'I hope you will yet walk into Willow Lawn,' said Albinia.

'Ah! thank you; I should like to see the old place. I dare say it may be
transmogrified now, but I think I could find my way blindfold about the
old garden. I say, Maria, do you remember that jolly tea-party on the
lawn, when the frog made one too many?'

'That I do--' Maria could not utter more, and Albinia said she was
afraid he would miss a great deal.

'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?' asked the captain.

'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 never thought to see her so altered. Why, she had
the prettiest bloom--I dare say you remember--but, I beg your pardon,
somehow I thought you were her _elder_ sister.'

'Mr. Kendal's first wife was,' said Albinia, pitying the poor man; but
Captain Pringle was not a man for awkwardness, and the short whistle
with which he received her answer set her off laughing.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, recovering himself; 'but you see I am all
astray, like a man buried 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 believe; but she was his
pet. I thought he refused her nothing--but there's no trusting such a
Turk! Oh! ah! I dare say,' as if replying to 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 Lucy for a few weeks, till a governess could be found for them.

It struck Albinia that this would be an excellent thing for Genevieve
Durant, and she at once contrived to ask her to tea, and privately
propound the plan.

Genevieve faltered much of thanks, and said that Madame was very good;
but the next morning a note was brought in, which caused a sudden change
of countenance:

'My dear Madame,

'I was so overwhelmed with your kindness last night, and so unwilling to
appear ungrateful, that perhaps 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 unassisted. 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,

'GENEVIEVE CELESTE DURANT.'

'There!' said Albinia, tossing the note to her brother, who was the only
person present excepting Gilbert.

'Poor Albinia,' he said, 'it is hard to be disappointed in a bit of
patronage.'

'I never meant it as patronage,' said Albinia, slightly hurt. 'I thought
it would help you, and rescue her from that school. There will she
spend the best years of her life in giving a second-rate education to
third-rate girls, not one of whose parents can appreciate her, till she
will grow as wizened and as wooden as Mademoiselle herself.'

'Happily,' said Mr. Ferrars, 'there are worse things than being spent in
one's duty. She may be doing an important work in her sphere.'

'So does a horse in a mill,' exclaimed Albinia; 'but you would not put a
hunter there. Yes, yes, I know, education, and these girls wanting right
teaching; but she, poor child, has been but half educated 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.'

'I told her so,', exclaimed Gilbert; 'I told her it was the only way to
teach them what she was worth.'

'What did you know of the matter?' asked Albinia; and the colour mounted
in the boy's face as he muttered, '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.'

'And did she not wish to go?'

'No, though I did the best I could. I told her what a jolly place it
was, and that the children would be a perfect holiday to her. And I
showed her it would not be like going away, for she might come over here
whenever she pleased; and when I have my horse, I would come and bring
her word of the old ladies once a week.'

'Inducements, indeed!' said Mr. Ferrars. 'And she could not be incited
by any of these?'

'No,' said Gilbert, 'she would not hear of leaving the old women. She
was only afraid it would vex Mrs. Kendal, and she could not bear not to
take the advice of so kind a friend, she said. You are not going to be
angry with her,' he added.

'No,' said Albinia, 'one cannot but honour her motives, though I think
she is mistaken; and I am sorry for her; but she knows better than to be
afraid of me.'

With which assurance Gilbert quitted the room, and the next moment,
hearing the front door, she exclaimed, 'I do believe he is gone to tell
her how I took the announcement.'

Maurice gave a significant 'Hem!' to which his sister replied,
'Nonsense!'

'Very romantic consolations and confidences.'

'Not at all. They have been used to each other all their lives, and he
used to be the only person who knew how to behave to her, so no wonder
they are great friends. As to anything else, she is nineteen, and he not
sixteen.'

'One great use of going to school is to save lads from that silly
pastime. I advise you to look to these moonlight escortings!'

'One would think you were an old dowager, Maurice. I suppose Colonel
Bury may not escort Miss Mary.'

'Ah, Albinia, you are a very naughty child still.'

'Of course, when you are here to 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 thunderstorm, Maria
imagined they were delighted with one another.

Maria was strangely serene and happy; her querulous, 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 misunderstandings
were over, and the sore sense of ill-usage appeased.

Yet Albinia was startled when one day Mr. Kendal summoned her, saying,
'It is all over, she has refused him!'

'Impossible; she could only have left half her sentence 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, giving him reason to suppose her a party
to the rejection. Captain Pringle sailed in anger; but it appears that
his return has revived his former feelings, and that he has found out
that poor Maria was a greater sufferer than himself.'

'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?'

'She might live here.'

'Albinia! Think a little.'

'I can think of nothing else. Let her have the morning room, and Sophy's
little room, and Lucy and I would do our best for her.'

'No, that is out of the question. I would not impose such charge upon
you on any consideration!'

Albinia's face became humble and remorseful. 'Yes,' she said, 'perhaps I
am too impatient and flighty.'

'That was not what I meant,' he said; 'but I do not think it right that
a person with no claims of relationship should be made a burthen on
you.'

'No claims, Edmund,' said she, softly. 'In whose place have you put me?'

He was silent: then said, 'No, it must not be, my kind Albinia. She is
a very good old lady, but Sophy and she would clash, and I cannot expose
the child to such a trial.'

'I dare say you are right,' pensively said Albinia, perceiving that her
plan had been inconsiderate, and that it would require the wisdom, tact,
and gentleness of a model woman to deal with such discordant elements.
'What are you going to do?' 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 arrangement 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.

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 misery 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 nothing 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, affectionately; '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 beautiful 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 worldliness; 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.

'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 has no alternative but to
accept Captain Pringle.'

'Oh! thank you. And does she?'

'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
authoritative 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 recovered bloom and brilliancy, and Mrs.
Meadows's rheumatism forgotten in the glory of exhibiting her daughter
engaged.

For form's sake, secrecy had been mentioned; but the world of Bayford
had known of the engagement a fortnight before 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.

'So it is true,' she said. 'I don't mind, since Arthur is not a girl.'

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--'I
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. Kendal was so still and steady, for Miss
Meadows would worret the life out of a lead pincushion.'

'Hem!' said Mr. Kendal. 'Albinia, do you think after 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
about, 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 having recurred to the
impossibility of leaving her mother, and wanting him to wait till he
could reside in England. This could not be till his son was grown up,
and ten years were a serious delay. Mr. Kendal suspected her of a latent
hope that the Captain would end by remaining at home; but he was a
man sense and determination, who would have thought it unjustifiable
weakness to sacrifice his son's interests and his own usefulness. He
would promise, that if all were alive and well, he would bring Maria
back in ten or twelve years' time; but he would not sooner relinquish
his duties, and he was very reluctant to become engaged on such terms.

'No one less silly than poor Maria would have thought of such a
proposal,' was Mr. Kendal's comment afterwards to his wife. 'Twelve
years! No one would be able to live with her by that time!'

'I cannot help respecting the unselfishness,' said Albinia.

'One sided unselfishness,' quoth Mr. Kendal. 'I am sick of the whole
business, I wish I had never interfered. I cannot get an hour to
myself.'

He might be excused for the complaint on that day of 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 housekeeping 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?'

'No; I have been at Fairmead.'

You! To-day! How was Winifred?'

'Better--I believe.'

'How does she like the governess?'

'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?'

'In what!'

'If there is no more satisfactory arrangement, I suppose we must receive
Mrs. Meadows.'

If Albinia could but have heard what a scolding her brother was
undergoing from his vivacious wife!

'As if poor Albinia had not enough on her hands! Of all inmates in the
world! 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--'

'I did not advise, I only listened. What he came for was to silence his
conscience and his wife by saying, "Your brother thinks it out of the
question." Now to this my conscience would not consent.'

'More shame for it, then!'

'I could not say I thought these two people's happiness should be
sacrificed, or the poor old woman left desolate. Albinia has spirits and
energy for a worse infliction, and Edmund Kendal himself is the better
for every shock to his secluded habits. If it is a step I would never
dare advise, still less would I dare dissuade.'

'Well! I thought Mr. Kendal at least had more sense.'

'Ay, nothing is so provoking as to see others more unselfish than
ourselves.'

'All I have to say,' concluded Mrs. Ferrars, walking 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 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 boarding 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 rejected 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.

'I am afraid you thought me very rude and ungrateful,' she began, 'but
the truth was, I did not think dear mamma would ever bear to live here,
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 expect--that I could not do
better than just to sound mamma.'

There was still another vicissitude. Mrs. Meadows would not hear of
being thrust on any one, and was certain that Maria had extorted an
invitation; she would never be a burden 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, who would have
settled it all. Maria fell back into the depths of despair, and all
was lugubrious, till Mr. Kendal, in the most tender and gentle manner,
expressed his hopes that Mrs. Meadows would consider the 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 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
promised 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 affecting.

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 sufficient
to bring down the thunder-cloud which had been lowering since the
morning. There were no signs of clearance the next day; but Albinia
had too much upon her hands to watch the symptoms, and was busy making
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 prefer that below-stairs. It used to
be her parlour, where she always sat when I first knew the house.'

'The dining-room? How could we spare that?'

'No, the study.'

Albinia remained transfixed.

'We could put the books here and in the dining-room,' he continued,
'until next spring, when, as your brother said, we can build a new wing
on the drawing-room side.'

'And what is to become of you?' she continued.

'Perhaps you will admit me here,' he said, smiling, for he was pleased
with himself. 'Turn me out when I am in the way.'

'Oh! Edmund, how delightful! See, we shall put your high desk under the
window, and your chair in your own corner. This will be the pleasantest
place in the house, with you and your books! Dear Winifred! she did me
one of her greatest services when she made me keep this room habitable!'

'And I think Sophy will not object to give up her present little room
for my dressing-room. Shall you, my dear?' said he, anxious to judge of
her temper by her reply.

'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. Kendal 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 consideration, 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.'

'Yours would be a loss to us all,' said Mr. Kendal. 'The more inmates
there are in a house, the more needful to have them well assorted.'

'Just so; and that makes me afraid--'

'Of me? No, Albinia, I will try not to be a check on your spirits.'

'You! Oh! I meant that we should disturb you.'

'You never disturb me, Albinia; and it is not what it was when the
children's voices were untrained and unsubdued.'

'I can't say much for Master Maurice's voice.'

He smiled, he had never yet found those joyous notes de trop, and he
continued, 'Your room is of value and use to us all; mine has been of
little benefit to me, and none to any one else. I wish I could as easily
leave behind me all the habits I have fostered there.'

'Edmund, it is too good! When poor Sophy recovers her senses she will
feel it, for I believe that morning room would have been a great loss to
her.'

'It was too much to ask in her present state. I should have come to the
same conclusion without her showing how much this plan cost her, for
nothing can be 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. 'Resistance can only come from within; compulsion is
worse than useless. Poor child, it is piteous to watch that state of
dull misery! On other grounds, I am convinced this is the best plan. The
communication with the offices will prevent that maid from being always
on the stairs. Mrs. Meadows will have her own visitors more easily, and
will get out of doors sooner, and I think she will be better pleased.'

'Yes, it will be a much better plan for every one but Mr. Kendal
himself,' said Albinia; 'and if he can be happy with us, we 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 or
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 course of moroseness. I am glad to have it in my power to make any
sort of amends, though it is chiefly through you.'

Albinia might well be very happy! It was her moment of triumph, and
whatever might be her fears for the future, and uneasiness at Sophy's
discontent, nothing could take away the pleasure of finding herself
deliberately preferred to the study.

Sophy did not fail to make another protest, and when told that 'it
was not solely on her account,' the shame of having fancied herself so
important, rendered her ill-humour still more painful and deplorable. It
was vain to 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 sacrificed by such colours. She
made herself so grim that Maria broke up the consultation by saying
good-humouredly, '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 Gunter, and so many invitations
sent out, that Albinia speculated how all were to come alive out of the
little dining-room.

And Mr. Kendal the presiding gentleman!

He had hardly seemed aware of his impending fate till the last evening,
when, as the family were separating at night, he sighed disconsolately,
and said, 'I am as bad as you are, Sophy.'

It awoke her first comfortable smile.

Experience had, however, shown him that such occasions 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 herself 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 Bayford esteemed a compliment, 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 remarkably well;' and Mrs. Meadows
reckoned among the honours done to her Maria, that Mrs. Kendal wore
a beautiful silk dress, and a lace bonnet, sent down on purpose 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, repose had taken away the lean sharpness of countenance,
the really pretty features had fair play, and she was astonishingly
like her niece Lucy, and did not look much older. Her bridegroom was so
beaming and benignant, that it might fairly be hoped that even if force
of habit should bring back fretfulness, he had a stock of happiness
sufficient for both. The chairs were jammed so tight round the table,
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 elbows out of his neighbours' way while carving, and poor
Sophy, whose back was not two feet from the fire, was soon obliged to
retreat. She had gained the door before any one perceived her, and then
her brother and sister both followed; Albinia was obliged to leave
her to their care, being in the innermost recesses, where moving was
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 muslin, Sophy, you had better go to the
nursery for help.'

Gilbert did not seem inclined to hurry his sister as they came near
Madame Belmarche's. He lingered, and presently said, 'Should you be too
tired to come in here for a moment? it was an intolerable shame that
none of them were asked.'

'Mamma did beg for Genevieve, but there was so little room, and the
Drurys did not like it. Mrs. Drury said it would only be giving her a
taste for things above her station.'

'Then Mrs. Drury should never come out of the scullery. I am sure she
looks as if her station was to black the kettles!' cried Gilbert, with
some domestic confusion in his indignation. 'Didn't she look like a
housekeeper with her mistress's things on by mistake?'

'She did not look like mamma, certainly,' said Sophy. 'Mamma looked no
more aware that she had on those pretty things than if she had been in
her old grey--'

'Mamma--yes--Mrs. Drury might try seventy years to look like mamma, or
Genevieve either! Put Genevieve into 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 objecting.

It was a holiday in honour of cette chere eleve 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 stew pan over the fire a concoction which Sophy guessed
to be a conserve of the rose-leaves yearly begged of the pupils, which
were chiefly useful as serving to be boiled up at any leisure moment, to
make a cosmetic for 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? 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
perfectionnate her music in the school-room.'

Madame Belmarche had arisen to receive the guests with her dignified
courtesy and heartfelt felicitations, which were not over when Genevieve
tripped in, all freshness and grace, with her neat little collar, and
the dainty black apron that so prettily marked her slender waist. One
moment, and she had arranged a resting-place for Sophy, and as she
understood Gilbert's errand, quickly produced from a corner-cupboard a
plate, on which he handed it to the two other ladies, who meanwhile paid
their compliments in the most perfect style.

The history of the morning was discussed, and Madame Belmarche described
her sister's wedding, and the curiosity which she had shared with the
bride for the first sight of 'le futur,' when the two sisters had been
brought from their convent for the marriage.

'But how could she get to like him?' 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!'

'On the contrary, my dear, especially if one continued to live with
one's mother. It is far better to earn the friendship and esteem of a
husband than to see his love grow cold.'

'And was your sister happy?' asked Sophy, abruptly.

'Ah, my dear, never were husband and 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, who took the first
opportunity of expressing her indignation at the system of mariages de
convenance.

'And, mamma, she said if people began with love, it always grew cold.
Now, has not papa loved you better and better every day?'

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. '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?'

'Well done, reserve!' thought Albinia--'but she is only a child, after
all; not a blush, only those great eyes seeming ready to devour my
answer. What ought it to be? Whatever it 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 success, so it would be less than justice to call it a failure.

To put the darker side first. Grandmamma's interest in life was to know
the proceedings of the whole household, and comment on each. Now Albinia
could endure housewifely advice, some espionage on her servants, and
even counsel about her child; but she could not away with the anxiety
that would never leave Sophy alone, 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 grandmamma'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 gracious, 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 gratitude. Maria herself could hardly have been
recognised, she had grown so like her husband in look and manner! If her
sentences did not always come to their legitimate development, they no
longer seemed blown away by a frosty wind, but pushed aside by fresh
kindly impulses, and her pride in the 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 her education had newly begun. The fixed aim, and the
union with a practical man, had opened her faculties, not deficient in
themselves, but contracted and nipped by the circumstances which she had
not known how to turn to good account. Such a fresh stage in middle 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 a reason for increased expense, so there was a sufficient sum in
hand to enable Mr. Ferrars to plan with freedom.

A new drawing-room, looking southwards, with bedrooms over it, was the
matter of necessity; and Albinia wished for a bay-window, and would like
to indulge Lucy by a conservatory, filling up the angle to the east with
glass doors opening into the drawing-room and hall. Maurice drew, and
she admired, and thought all so delightful, that she began to be taken
with scruples as to luxury.

'No,' said Maurice, 'these are not mere luxuries. You have full means,
and it is a duty to keep your household 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.'

'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. Dusautoy's curate, in five
or six years' time, what glorious things we might do with 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 people. Once he told me he never wished
to look beyond Bayford 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 alms-houses?'

'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 Gilbert 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.

'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 countenance as
he read, and did not gather much consolation. 'I 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 understands my case no more than his horse,
and treats me with hyoscyamus, as if it were a mere throat-cough. I
thought it my duty to speak openly, since, though I am quite aware that
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,

'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 bringing 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
a 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,

'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, exclaimed, 'We will
take him to London ourselves!'

'I am afraid that would be inconvenient,' observed Maurice.

'That would not signify,' continued Albinia; 'I must hear myself what is
thought of him, and 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.'

'I only meant inconvenient to the birthday party,' drily said her
brother.

'Maurice!' cried she, 'you don't know the boy!'

'I have no doubt that he has a cold.'

'And I know there is a great deal more the matter!' cried Albinia. 'We
have let him go away to be neglected and badly treated! My poor, dear
boy! Edmund, I will fetch him home to-morrow.'

'You had better send me,' said Maurice, mischievously, for he saw he
was diminishing Mr. Kendal's alarm, and had a brotherly love of teasing
Albinia, and seeing how pretty she looked with her eyes flashing through
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 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.'

'I 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 written the like, but she was only the more
impelled to do battle, and when she came to the unlucky conclusion, she
exclaimed, 'I am sure that was an afterthought. I dare say Price asked
him while he was writing.'

'What's this?' 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. 'It was a cry or call from his
brother just at last. It has left a very deep impression.'

'Indeed!' said his father, much moved. 'Yes. Edmund gave a cry such as
was not to be forgotten,' and the sigh told how it had haunted his own
pillow; 'but I had not thought that Gilbert was in a condition to notice
it. Did he mention it to you?'

'Yes, not long after I came, he thinks it was a call, and I have never
known exactly how to deal with it.'

'It is a case for very tender handling,' said Maurice.

'I should have desired him never to think of it again,' said Mr. Kendal,
decidedly. 'Mere nonsense to dwell on it. 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.

'Yes, I thought he only spoke of driving it away because it was what he
would like to be able to do. But things do not prey on people of his age
as they do on younger ones.'

'I wonder if I did right,' said Albinia. 'I never liked to ask you,
though I wished it. I could not bear to treat it as a fancy. How was I
to know, if it may 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?'

'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.

'You're as bad as if you were his mother, or worse!' exclaimed Maurice.

'Oh! Maurice, I can't help it! He had no one to care for him till I
came, and he is such a very dear fellow--he wants me so much!'

Mr. Ferrars agreed to go with Mr. Kendal to Traversham. He thought his
father would be encouraged by his presence, and he was not devoid of
curiosity. Albinia would not hear of staying at home; in fact, Maurice
suspected her of being afraid to trust Gilbert to his mercy.

With a trembling heart she left the train at the little 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 assures 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.'

'Who has been attending him?'

'Lee, the union doctor, a very good man, with a large family,'
(Albinia could have beaten him). 'Indeed,' he continued perceiving some
dissatisfied looks, 'I think you will find that a little change is all
that he wants.'

'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 parsonage, 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 Gilbert, all lying promiscuously on
the hearth-rug, before the two last leaped up, the one to bark, and the
other to come forward with outstretched hand, and glad countenance.

He looked flushed 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, grasping her hand, gave
way to one of his effusions of affection--'So kind to come to him--he
knew he had her to trust to, whatever happened'--and he leant his cheek
on his hand in a melancholy mood.

'Don't be so piteous, Gibbie,' she said. 'You were quite right to tell
us you were not well, only you need not have been so very doleful, I
don't like papa to be frightened.'

'I thought it was no use to go on in this way,' said Gilbert, with a
cough: 'it was the old thing over again, and nobody would believe I had
anything the matter with me.'

And he commenced a formidable catalogue of symptoms 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 animals, to explain the friendship
between dog and cat, and to leave off coughing as he related anecdotes
of their sagacity; and finally, when the gentlemen returned, laughing
was the first sound they heard, and Mrs. Kendal was found sitting on the
floor at play with the livestock.

They had come to fetch her to see the church and schools, and on going
out, she found that Mr. Ferrars had 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 pupil's 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
licence 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 doctor's opinion to Mr.
Ferrars, but one of them, at least, was unprepared for the summing-up.
'Under the circumstances, Gilbert is most fortunate. A few years in his
native climate will quite set him up.'

'Oh! but he is too old for Haileybury,' burst out Albinia, in her
consternation.

'Nearly old enough for John Kendal's bank, eh, Gilbert?'

'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 monied
interest, and had so sedulously impressed on her friends that Mr. Kendal
had been in the Civil Service, and quite unconnected with the bank, that
Mr. Ferrars had told her she thought his respectability depended on it,
and she was ashamed that her brother should hear her give way again so
foolishly to the weakness.

Gilbert became the most talkative as they drew near home, and was the
first to spring out and open the hall door, 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 moment
it was thrown down, with a rapturous shout, and Maurice was lost to
everything but his brother!

'Oh! girls, how could you let him serve you so?' began the horrified
Albinia. 'Sophy will be laid up for a week!'

'Never mind,' said Sophy, dropping on a chair. 'Poor little fellow, he
wished it so much!'

'I tried to stop her, mamma,' said Lucy, 'but she will do as Maurice
pleases.'

'See, this is the way they will spoil my boy, the instant my back is
turned!' said Albinia. 'What's the use of all I can do with him, if
every one else will go and be his bond-slave! I do believe Sophy would
let him kill her, if he asked her!'

'It is no real kindness,' said Mr. Kendal. 'Their good-nature ought not
to go beyond reason.'

The elder Maurice could hardly help shrugging his shoulders. Well did
he know that Mr. Kendal would have joined the team if such had been the
will of that sovereign in scarlet merino, who stood with one hand in
Gilbert's, and the whip in the other.

'Come here, Maurice,' quoth Albinia; 'put down the whip,' and she
extracted it from his grasp, with grave resolution, against which he
made no struggle, gave it to Lucy to be put away, and seated him on
her knee. 'Now listen, Maurice; poor sister Sophy is tired, and you are
never to make a horse of her. Do you hear?'

'Yes,' said Maurice, fidgeting.

'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--'

'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 indisposition, had favoured them with 'mamma's
remarks,' and when Mrs. Kendal was blamed, Sophy had indignantly told
Sarah Anne that she knew nothing about it, and had no business to
interfere. Then followed the accusation, that Mrs. Kendal had set the
whole family against their old friends, and Sophy had found all her own
besetting sins charged upon her step-mother.

'My dear!' said Albinia, 'don't you know that if a royal tiger were
to eat up your cousin John in India, the Drurys 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 violence, and he was
sent to bed; Albinia went up with him to see that his fire burnt. He set
Mr. Ferrars's drawing of the alms-houses 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 help her 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.'

'That reserve is my great pain. I don't get at the real being once in
six months.'

'So much the better for people living together.'

'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 experience.'

'It was the same before, only we concealed it by an upper surface of
chatter,' said Maurice. '"As iron sharpeneth iron, so doth a man the
countenance of his friend;" but if the mutual sharpening went on without
intermission, both irons would wear away, and no work would be done.
Aren't you coming with me? Edmund is going to drive me to Woodside to
meet the pony-carriage from home.'

'I 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.'

'Ye--es. Papa would like it, if you do.'

'I should like you to come on worse terms.'

'Very well, then; and Sophy is safe; I had already asked Genevieve to
come and read to her this afternoon. If Gilbert can spare me, I will
go.'

Gilbert did not want her, and begged Lucy not to think of staying
indoors on his account. He was presently left in solitary possession
of the drawing-room, whereupon he rose, settled his brown locks at the
glass, arranged his tie, brushed his cuffs, leisurely walked upstairs,
and tapped at the door of the morning-room, meekly asking, 'May I come
in?' with a cough at each end of the sentence.

'Oh! Gilbert!' cried his anxious sister, starting up. 'Are you come to
see me?' and she would have wheeled round her father's arm-chair for
him, but Genevieve was beforehand with her, and he sank into it, saying
pathetically, 'Ah! thank you, Miss Durant; you are come to a perfect
hospital. Oh! this is too much,' as she further gave him a footstool.
'Oh! no, thank you, Sophy,' for she would have handed Genevieve her
own pillow for his further support; 'this is delightful!' reclining
pathetically in his chair. 'This is not like Traversham.'

'Where they would not believe he was ill!' said Sophy.

'I 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 coughed, and said, 'Looks are deceitful.'

'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.

'And not brought me home!' said Gilbert. 'Home is home on any terms.
No one there had the least idea a fellow could ever be unwell or out of
spirits!'

'Ah! you must have been ill,' cried his sister, 'you who never used to
be miserable!'

Gilbert gave a sigh. 'They were such mere boys,' he said.

'Monsieur votre Precepteur?' asked Genevieve.

'Ah! he was otherwise occupied!'

'There is some mystery beneath,' said Genevieve, turning to Sophy, who
exclaimed abruptly, 'Oh! is he in love?'

'Sophy goes to the point,' said Gilbert, smiling, the picture of languid
comfort; 'but I own there are suspicious circumstances. He always has a
photograph in his pocket, and Price has seen him looking at it.'

'Ah! depend upon it, Miss Sophy, it is all a romance of these young
gentlemen,' said Genevieve, turning to her with a droll provoking air of
confidence; 'ce pauvre Monsieur had the portrait of his sister!'

'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 wont let any of us put them into
the post for him; but we know the direction begins with Miss--'

'Oh! the curious boys!' cried Genevieve. 'If I could only hint to this
poor tutor to let them read Miss Downton on one!'

'I assure you,' cried Gilbert, 'Price has laid a bet that she's an
heiress with forty thousand pounds and red hair.'

'Mr. Price is an impertinent! I hope you will inform me how he looks
when he is the loser.'

'But he has seen her! He met Mr. Downton last Christmas in Regent
Street, in a swell carriage, with a lady with such carrots, he thought
her bonnet was on fire; and Mr. Downton never saw Price, though he bowed
to him, and you know nobody would marry a woman with red hair unless she
was an heiress.'

'Miss Sophy,' whispered Genevieve, '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 revenged!' 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 disturb you. Pray let me listen.'

And Genevieve read while Gilbert resumed his reclining attitude, with
half-closed eyes, listening to the sweet intonations and pretty refined
accent of the ancien regime.

Sophy enjoyed this exceedingly, she made it her especial occupation
to take care of Gilbert, and enter into his fireside amusements. This
indisposition had drawn the two nearer together, and essentially unlike
as they were, their two characters seemed to be fitting well one into
the other. His sentiment accorded with her strain of romance, and they
read poetry and had discussions as they sat over the fire, growing
constantly into 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 occupation 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 not easy to manage, but he was always so gentle,
grateful, and obliging, that he endeared himself to the whole household.
It was no novelty for him to be devoted to his step-mother and his
little brother, but he was likewise very kind to Lucy, and spent much
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 Bayford
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
imprisonment during the east winds.

Madame Belmarche and her daughter and grandchild were sometimes of
the party, and on these occasions, Sophy always claimed Genevieve, and
usually succeeded in carrying her off when Gilbert would often join
them. Their books and prints were a great treat to her; Gilbert had a
beautiful illustrated copy of Longfellow's poems, and the engravings and
'Evangeline' were their enjoyment; Gilbert regularly proffering the loan
of the book, and she as regularly refusing it, and turning a deaf ear to
gentle insinuations of the pleasure of knowing that an book of his was
in her hands. Gilbert had never had much of the schoolboy manner, and he
was adopting a gentle, pathetic tone, at which Albinia was apt to laugh,
but in her absence was often verged upon tendresse, especially with
Genevieve. She, 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 somewhat 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 Bayford youths less gentlemanlike than Gilbert Kendal. If
she never forgot that she was 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 Gilbert's own house,' he said, 'and it
was good for the boy to take an interest in it, and not to be too much
interfered with.' So the bay window and the 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 opportunity. Once he had been
up to his knees in a tempting blancmanger-like lake of lime, many times
had he hammered 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 fireplace
and comfortable fan-shaped fender made the room very cheerful. Fresh
delicately-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
disposed, for Mr. Kendal's delectation, in the old drawing-room,
henceforth to be named the library. Lucy thought it sounded better, and
he was quite as willing as Albinia was that the name of study should
be extinct. Meantime Mr. Downton had verified the boys' prediction by
writing to announce that he was about to marry and give up pupils.

Gilbert was past seventeen, and it was time to decide on his profession.
Albinia had virtuously abstained from any hint adverse to the house of
Kendal and Kendal, for she knew it hurt her husband's feelings to hear
any disparagement of the country where he had spent some of his happiest
years. He was fond of his cousins, and knew that they would give his son
a safe and happy home, and he believed that the climate was exactly what
his health needed.

Sophy fired at the idea. Her constant study of the subject and her vivid
imagination had taken the place of memory, which could supply nothing
but the glow of colouring and the dazzling haze which enveloped all
the forms that she would fain believe that she remembered. She and her
father would discuss Indian 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 ayahs and bearers who still lived
in her recollection, in preparation for the visit which on his first
holiday her brother must pay to her birthplace and first home.

Gilbert, however, took no part in this enthusiasm, he made no
opposition, but showed no alacrity; and at last his father asked Albinia
whether she knew of any objection on his part, or any design which he
might be unwilling to put forward. With a beating heart she avowed her
cherished scheme.

'Is this his own proposal?' asked Mr. Kendal.

'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 inclinations 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.

'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.

'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 university.'

'Oh! Edmund, why will you distrust Oxford? Why will you not believe what
I know through Maurice and his friends?'

'If my poor boy had either the disposition or the discipline of your
brother, I should not feel the same doubt.'

'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 cannot deny to exist at any college. Nor would I
desire to see him fixed here, until he has seen something of life and of
business, for which this bank affords the greatest facilities with the
least amount of temptation. He would also be doing something for his
own support; and with the life-interests upon his property, he must be
dependent on his own exertions, unless I were to do more for him than
would be right by the other children.'

'Then I am to say nothing to him?'

'I will speak to him myself. He is quite old enough to understand his
prospects and decide for himself.'

'But, Edmund,' cried Albinia, with sudden vehemence, 'you are not
sacrificing Gilbert for Maurice's sake?'

She had more nearly displeased him than she had ever done before, though
he looked up quietly, saying, '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 perceive 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 bachelor in the country. His
imagination never could conceive the possibility of everybody not
being glad to meet everybody, his house could never be too full, his
dinner-parties of 'a few friends' overflowed the dining-room, and his
'nobody' meant always at least six bodies. Every season was fertile
in occasions of gathering old and young together to be made happy, and
little Mary Ferrars, at five years old, had told her mamma that 'the
Colonel's parties made her quite dissipated.'

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
confession 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 servants.

But there was a moon--and though Mr. Kendal would not allow that she was
the harvest moon, the hospitable Colonel dilated on her as if she had
been bed, board, and lodging, and he did not find much difficulty in his
persuasions.

Few invitations ever gave more delight; Albinia appreciated a holiday
to the utmost, and the whole family was happy at Sophy's chance of at
length seeing Fairmead, and taking part in a little gaiety. And if Mr.
Kendal's expectations of pleasure were less high, he submitted very
well, smiled benignantly at the felicity around him, and was not once
seen to shudder.

Sarah Anne Drury had been invited to enliven grandmamma, and every
one augured a beautiful day and perfect enjoyment. The morning was
beautiful, but alas! Sophy was hors de combat, far too unwell to think
of making one of the party. She bore the disappointment magnanimously,
and even the pity. Every one was sorry, and Gilbert wanted her to go
and wait at Fairmead 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.'

Gilbert and Lucy both uttered an exclamation; and Sophy added, 'She
would have so much more enjoyment than I could! Oh, it would quite make
up for my missing it!'

'My dear,' said grandmamma, 'you don't know what you are talking of. It
would be taking such a liberty.'

'There need be no scruples on that score,' said Albinia; 'the Colonel
would only thank me if I brought him half Bayford.'

'Then,' cried Sophy, 'you think we may ask her? Oh, I should like to run
up myself;'--and a look of congratulation and gratitude passed between
her and her brother.

'No, indeed, you must not, let me go,' said Lucy, 'I'll just finish this
cup of tea--'

'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.'

'Oh! don't say that, dear grandmamma,' interposed Albinia, 'one good
festival does carry one so much better through days of toil!'

'Ah, well! my dear, you will do as you think proper; but considering who
the poor child is, I should call it no 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, nobody wishes to bring her forward. She will only play with
the children, and see the fireworks, and no one will speak to her.'

Albinia averted further discussion till 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
arrangements for the well-being of grandmamma, Sophy, and Maurice, who
were as difficult to manage as the fox, goose, and cabbage. At every
turn she encountered Gilbert, 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.

'My dear Gilbert,' said Albinia, 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 wont go--she is very much
obliged, but she can't go.'

'Can't! she must,' cried Albinia and Gilbert together.

'She says you are very kind, but that she cannot. I said everything I
could; I told her she should wear Sophy's muslin mantle, or my second
best polka.'

'No doubt you went and made a great favour of it,' said Gilbert.

'No, I assure you I did not; I persuaded her with all my might; I said
mamma wished it, and we all wished it; and I am sure she would really
have been very glad if she could have gone.'

'It can't be the school, it is holiday time,' said Gilbert. 'I'll go and
see what is the matter.'

'No, I will go,' said Albinia, 'I will ask the old ladies to luncheon
here, and that will make her happy, 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 merited 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 upstairs, singing
away the burthen of some queer old French ditty.

Albinia found Gilbert and Sophy in disgrace with Lucy for having
gathered the choicest flowers, which they were eagerly making up into
bouquets. Genevieve's was ready 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 complexion, and nice
figure, the English Lucy, in her blue-and-white checked silk, worked
muslin mantle, and white chip bonnet with blue ribbons, was eclipsed by
the small swarthy French girl, in that very old black silk dress, and
white trimmed coarse straw bonnet, just enlivened by little pink bows
at the neck and wrists. It had long been acknowledged that Genevieve was
unrivalled in the art of tying bows, and those pink ones were paragons,
redolent of all her own fresh sprightly archness and refinement. Albinia
herself was the best representative of English good looks, and never had
she been more brilliant, her rich chestnut hair waving so prettily on
the rounded contour of her happy face, her fair cheek tinted with such
a healthy fresh bloom, her grey eyes laughing with merry softness, her
whole person so alert and elastic with exuberant life and enjoyment,
that grandmamma was as happy in watching her as if she had been her own
daughter, and stroked down the broad flounces of her changeable silk,
and admired her black lace, as if she felt the whole family exalted by
Mrs. Kendal's appearance.

It was a merry journey, through the meadows and corn-fields, laughing
in the summer sunshine, and in due time they saw the flag upon Fairmead
steeple, and Albinia nodded to 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?'

'No; at Montreal, but very well,' was the answer, with a hearty shake of
the hand.

'Edmund, it is Fred Ferrars,' said Albinia. 'Why, Maurice, you never
told us.'

'He took us by surprise yesterday.'

'Yes; I landed yesterday morning, went to the Family Office, found
Belraven was nowhere, and the aunts at Fairmead, and so came on here,'
explained Fred, as he finished shaking hands with all the party, and
walked on beside Albinia. He was tall, fresh-coloured, a good deal like
her, with a long fair 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
Belraven'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
bad 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
depth and repose, on which to rely for support and anchorage. Fred's
vivacious disposition had never for a moment won her serious attachment;
she was 'very fond of him,' 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 delighted to see him again,
and to hear of her brother William.

A few steps brought them to the shade of the large cedar-tree, where
was seated Winifred, and Mrs. Annesley was with her. The greetings
had hardly been exchanged before the Colonel came upon them in all his
glory, with his pretty shy bride niece on 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-flattered Lucy, and followed by Gilbert and Genevieve,
with Willie and Mary adhering to them closely, and their governess in
sight.

Mr. Ferrars and Mr. Kendal fell into one of their discussions, and
paced up and down the shady walk, while Albinia sat, in the complete
contentment, between Alice and Winifred, with Fred Ferrars on the turf
at their feet, living over again the bygone days, laughing over ancient
jokes, 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 children 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.'

'Ay, ay, of course you know how he treats those things.'

'Oh--h!' said Albinia, perfectly understanding.

'But,' continued Frederick, eagerly, 'even he confesses that she is the
very sweetest--I mean,' as Albinia smiled at this evident embellishment,
'even he has not a word of objection to make except the old story about
married officers.'

'And who is _she_, Fred?'

'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.

'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.

'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
Bartons to look at the flowers, but now they are shooting, and I could
not think what had become of you.'

And Lucy bestowed her company on Albinia and the Captain, reducing him
to dashing, disconnected talk, till they met Mr. Kendal, searching for
them in the same fear that they were starving, and anxious to introduce
his wife to his Indian friends. When at the end of the path, Albinia
looked round, the Lancer had disappeared, and Lucy was walking by her
father, trying to look serenely amused by a discussion on the annexation
of the Punjaub.

The afternoon was spent in pleasant loitering, chiefly with Miss
Ferrars, who asked much after Sophy, lamented greatly over Winifred's
delicate health, and was very anxious to know what could have brought
Fred home, being much afraid it was some fresh 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 delightful 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 himself, and
thought an officer's wife one of the most misplaced articles in the
world. Poor Fred had been in love so often, that he laboured under
the great vexation of not being able to persuade any of his friends to
regard his passion seriously, but Albinia was quite sisterly enough to
believe him this time, and 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 he tried to be sanguine, and Albinia encouraged him against
probability, for Lord Belraven was never liberal towards his relations,
and had lately married an expensive wife, with whom he lived chiefly
abroad.

This topic was not exhausted when Fred fell a prey to the Colonel, who
insisted on his dancing again, and Albinia telling him to do his
duty, he turned towards a group that 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 Albinia undertook to preside over her niece and a
still smaller partner in red velvet, in a quadrille. It was amusing to
watch the puzzled downright motions of the sturdy little 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
miserable, but had been down to the parsonage, where he had read the
newspaper in peace, and had enjoyed a cup of tea in quiet with Winifred
and Mrs. Annesley.

The dancing had been transferred to the tent, which presented a very
pretty scene from without, looking through the drooping festoons of
evergreens at the lamps and the figures flitting to and fro in their
measured movements, while the shrubs and dark foliage of the trees fell
into gloom around; and above, the sky assumed the deep tranquil blue of
night, the pale bright stars shining out one by one. The Kendals were
alone in the terrace, far enough from the gay tumult to be sensible of
the contrast.

'How beautiful!' said Albinia: 'it is like a poem.'

'I was just thinking so,' he answered.

'This is the best part of all,' she said, feeling, though hardly
expressing to herself the repose of his lofty, silent serenity, standing
aloof from gaiety and noise. She could have compared him and her lively
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 husband.

'These things are well imagined,' said he. 'The freedom and absence of
formality give space for being alone and quiet.'

'Yes,' said Albinia, saucily, 'when that is what you go into society
for.'

'You have me there,' he said, smiling; 'but I must own how much I
enjoyed coming back from the parsonage by myself. I am glad we brought
that little Genevieve; she seems to be so perfectly in her element. I
saw her amusing a set of little children in the prettiest, most animated
way; 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 making 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 daughters
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--whish--hiss, with steady swiftness, up shot in the dark
purple air the first rocket, bursting and scattering a rain of stars.
There was an audible gasp in the surrounding homely world, a few little
cries, and a big boy clutched tight hold of her arm, saying, 'I
be afeard.' She was explaining away 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.'

'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 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 belief 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.'

'No, I'm not coming. You, don't understand your duties. 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.'

'Only that he is more mad than ever, and that he let him go, thinking
that there is no chance of Belraven helping him, but that it may wear
itself out on the journey.'

A revolving circle shedding festoons of purple and crimson jets of fire
made all their talk interjectional, and they had by this time reached
the terrace, where all the company were assembled, the open windows at
regular intervals casting bewildering lights on the heads and shoulders
in front of them. Then out burst a grand wheat-sheaf of yellow flame
with crimson ears and beards, by whose light Albinia recognised Gilbert
standing close to her in the shadow, and asked him where the rest
where.'

'I can't tell; Lucy and my father were here just now.'

'Are you feeling the chill, Gilbert?' asked Albinia, struck by something
in his tone. 'You had better look from the window.'

He neither moved nor made answer, but a great illumination 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 confident 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 Gilbert inside the
carriage, and mounted the box, to revel in the pleasures of silence. The
four within talked incessantly and compared adventures. Lucy had been
gratified by being patronized by Miss Ferrars, and likewise had much to
say of the smaller fry, and went into raptures about many a 'dear little
thing,' none of whom would, however, stand a comparison with Maurice;
Gilbert was critical upon every one's beauty; and Genevieve was more
animated than all, telling anecdotes with great piquancy, and rehearsing
the comical Yankee stories she had heard from Captain Ferrars. She
had enjoyed with the zest and intensity of a peculiarly congenial
temperament, and she seemed not to be able to cease from working off her
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
exclamation 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.

'Is it from the situation of the mountains in the moon?' continued the
pertinacious damsel.

'In Africa!' said Albinia, well-nigh asleep, but Genevieve's laugh
roused her again, partly because she thought it less mannerly than
accorded with the girl's usual politeness. No mere 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 Rosse'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 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
perceived that the excitement must have been almost fever, and went
to bed speculating on the strange effects of a touch of gaiety on
the hereditary French nature, startling her at once from her graceful
propriety and humility of demeanour, into such extraordinary obtrusive
talkativeness.

She heard more the next morning that vexed her. Lucy was seriously of
opinion that Genevieve had not been sufficiently retiring. She herself
had heedfully kept under the wing of Mary's governess, mamma, or Miss
Ferrars, and nobody had paid her any particular attention; but Genevieve
had been with Gilbert half the day, had had all the gentlemen round her
at the archery and in the games, had no end of 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 for jealousy of
_her_, and she threw back her head in conscious beauty; 'only she was
sorry for Jenny, for they were quite turning her head, and laughing at
her all the time.'

Albinia's candour burst out as usual, 'Say no more about it, my dear; it
was a mistake from beginning to end. I was too much taken up with my own
diversion to attend to you, and now you are punishing me for it. I left
you to take care of yourselves, and exposed poor little 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 ineffable pity and
contempt--she was far less able to forgive another for being attractive,
than for trying to attract.

Sophy looked excessively hurt and grieved, and in private asked her
step-mother what she thought of Genevieve's behaviour.

'My dear, I cannot tell; I think she was off her guard with excitement;
but all was very new to her, and there was every excuse. I was too happy
to be wise, so no wonder she was.'

'And do you think Captain Ferrars was laughing at her? 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.'

'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 intoxication, 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 disagreeable 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--enjoyment--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, transformed by calico hangings into what the
embroidered inscription called 'Autel a l'Amour filial et maternel,'
bearing a plaster vase full of fresh flowers, but ere Albinia had time
to admire this achievement of French sentiment, 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 unreason, such was
the family opinion of Fred's propensity to fall in love, that Albinia's
first suspicion lighted upon him, but as her eye fell on the pink
envelope the handwriting concerned her even more nearly.

'Gilbert!' she cried. 'My dear, what is this? Do you wish me to read
it?'

'Yes, for I cannot.' Genevieve turned away, as in his best hand, and bad
it was, Albinia read the commencement--

"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, 'but indeed I could not help it.'

'My dear child,' said Albinia, affectionately putting her arm round her
waist, and drawing her down on the seat beside her, 'indeed I am not
displeased with you; you are doing the very best thing possible by us
all. Think I am your sister, and tell me what is the meaning of all
this, and then I will try to help you.'

'Oh, madame, you are too good,' said Genevieve, weeping; and kindly
holding the trembling hand, 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! pour cela non,' said Genevieve. 'Oh! no; I am grateful to Mr.
Gilbert Kendal, for, even as a little boy, he was always kind to me, but
for the rest--he is so young, madame, even if 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 incompatibility of their
station, and she plunged out by asking, 'And how long has this been
going on?'

Genevieve hesitated. 'To speak the truth, madame, I have long seen that,
like many other youths, he would be--very attentive if one were not
guarded; but I had known him so long, that perhaps I did not soon enough
begin, to treat him en jeune homme.

'And this is his first letter?'

'Oh! yes, madame.'

'He complains that you will not hear him? 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 tete-a-tete!' said Albinia. 'Well
done, Genevieve. What had he been saying to you, my dear?'

Poor Genevieve cast about for a word, and finally faltered out, 'Des
sottises, Madame.'

'That I can well believe,' said Albinia. 'Well, my dear--'

'I think,' pursued Genevieve, 'that he was vexed because I would not
let him absorb me exclusively at Fairmead; and began to reproach me, and
protest--'

'And like a wise woman you waked the sleeping dragon,' said Albinia.
'Was this all?'

'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 mention it, but I see
he has been watching me, and I dare not go out alone lest I should meet
him. He called this morning, and not seeing me left this note.'

'Do your grandmother and aunt know?'

'Oh, no! I would far rather not tell them. Need I? 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.

'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 exclamation, and burst out,
'That abominable treacherous old wooden doll of a mademoiselle.'

'No, Miss Belmarche knows nothing of it. No one ever shall if you will
promise to drive this nonsense out of your head.'

'Nonsense! Mrs. Kendal!' with a gesture of misery.

'Gilbert, you are making yourself absurd.'

He turned about, and would have marched out of the room, but she pursued
him. 'You must listen to me. It is not fit that you should carry on this
silly importunity. It is 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 your letter, and tell you never to repeat the
liberty.'

He struck his hand on his brow, crying vehemently, 'Cruel girl! She
little knows me--you little know me, if you think I am to be silenced
thus. I tell you I will never cease! I am not bound by your pride, which
has sneered down and crushed the loveliest--'

'Not mine,' said Albinia, disconcerted at his unexpected violence.

'Yes!' he exclaimed. 'I know you could patronize! but a step beyond,
and it is all the same with you as with the rest--you despise the jewel
without the setting.'

'No,' said Albinia, 'so far from depreciating her, I want to convince
you that it is an insult to pursue her in this ridiculous underhand
way.'

'You do me no justice,' said Gilbert loftily; 'you little 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.'

'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?'

'It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all at her feet!'

'So it might, if it were worthy of her to accept it. 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 herself to a mere lad. An
unprincipled person might pretend it for the sake of your property--a
silly one might like you because you are good-looking and well-mannered;
but neither would be Genevieve.'

'There is no use in saying any more,' he said, rising in offended
dignity.

'I cannot let you go till you have given me your word never to obtrude
your folly on Miss Durant again.'

'Have you anything else to ask me?' cried Gilbert in a melodramatic
tone.

'Yes, how would you like your father to know of 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.'

'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