The Young Step-Mother; Or, A Chronicle of Mistakes

‘For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of acting a part.’

‘No!’ he exclaimed, ‘all I say is, that she has been so thrust down and forced back, that she cannot venture to avow her feelings even to herself!’

‘Oh!’ said Albinia, ‘you conceited person!’

‘Well!’ cried the boy, so much nettled by her sarcasm that he did not know what he said, ‘I think—considering—considering our situations, I might be worth her consideration!’

‘Who put that in your head?’ asked Albinia. ‘You are too much a gentleman for it to have come there of its own accord.’

He blushed excessively, and retracted. ‘No, no! I did not mean that! No, I only mean I have no fair play—she will not even think. Oh! if I had but been born in the same station of life!’

Gilbert making entrechats with a little fiddle! It had nearly overthrown her gravity, and she made no direct answer, only saying, ‘Well, Gilbert, these talks are useless. I only thought it right to give you notice that you have released me from my engagement not to make your father aware of your folly.’

He went into an agony of entreaties, and proffers of promises, but no more treaties of secrecy could he obtain, she would only say that she should not speak immediately, she should wait and see how things turned out. By which she meant, how soon it might be hoped that he would be safe in the Calcutta bank, where she heartily wished him.

She sought a conference with Genevieve, and took her out walking in the meadows, for the poor child really needed change and exercise, the fear of Gilbert had made her imprison herself within the little garden, till she looked sallow and worn. She said that her grandmother and aunt had decided that she should go in a couple of days to the Convent at Hadminster, to remain there till Mr. Gilbert went to India—the superior was an old friend of her aunt, and Genevieve had often been there, and knew all the nuns.

Albinia was startled by this project. ‘My dear, I had much rather send you to stay at my brother’s, or—anywhere. Are you sure you are not running into temptation?’

‘Not of that kind,’ said Genevieve. ‘The priest, Mr. O’Hara, is a good-natured old gentleman, not in the least disposed to trouble himself about my conversion.’

‘And the sisters?’

‘Good old ladies, they have always been very kind to me, and petted me exceedingly when I was a little child, but for the rest—’ still seeing Albinia’s anxious look—‘Oh! they would not think of it; I don’t believe they could argue; they are not like the new-fashioned Roman Catholics of whom you are thinking, madame.’

‘And are there no enthusiastic young novices?’

‘I should think no one would ever be a novice there,’ said Genevieve.

‘You seem to be bent on destroying all the romance of convents, Genevieve!’

‘I never thought of anything romantic connected with the reverend mothers,’ rejoined Genevieve, ‘and yet when I recollect how they came to Hadminster, I think you will be interested. You know the family at Hadminster Hall in the last century were Roman Catholics, and a daughter had professed at a convent in France. At the time of the revolution, her brother, the esquire, wrote to offer her an asylum at his house. The day of her arrival was fixed—behold! a stage-coach draws up to the door—black veils inside—black veils clustered on the roof—a black veil beside the coachman, on the box—eighteen nuns alight, and the poor old infirm abbess is lifted out. They had not even figured to themselves that the invitation could be to one without the whole sisterhood!’

‘And what did the esquire do with the good ladies?’

‘He took them as a gift from Providence, he raised a subscription among his friends, and they were lodged in the house at Hadminster, where something like a sisterhood had striven to exist ever since the days of James II.’

‘Are any of these sisters living still?’

‘Only poor old Mother Therese, who was a little pensionnaire when they came, and now is blind, and never quits her bed. There are only seven sisters at present, and none of them are less than five-and-forty.’

‘And what shall you do there, Genevieve?’

‘If they have any pupils from the town, perhaps I may help to teach them French. And I shall have plenty of time for my music. Oh! madame, would you lend me a little of your music to copy?’

‘With all my heart. Any books?’

‘Oh! that would be the greatest kindness of all! And if it were not presuming too much, if madame would let me take the pattern of that beautiful point lace that she sometimes wears in the evening, then I should make myself welcome!’

‘And put out your eyes, my dear! But you may turn out my whole lace-drawer if you think anything there will be a pleasure to the old ladies.’

‘Ah! you do not guess the pleasure, madame. Needlework and embroidery is their excitement and delight. They will ask me closely about all I have seen and done for months past, and the history of the day at Fairmead will be a fete in itself.’

‘Well! my dear, it is very right of you; and I do feel very thankful to you for treating the matter thus. Pray tell your grandmamma and aunt to pardon the sad revolution we have made in their comfort, and that I hope it will soon be over!’

Genevieve took no leave. Albinia sent her a goodly parcel of books and work-patterns, and she returned an affectionate note; but did not attempt to see Lucy and Sophy.

The next Indian mail brought the expected letter, giving an exact account of the acquirements and habits that would be required of Gilbert, with a promise of a home where he would be treated as a son, and of admission to the firm after due probation. The letter was so sensible and affectionate, that Mr. Kendal congratulated his son upon such an advantageous outset in life.

Gilbert made slight reply, but the next morning Sophy sought Albinia out, and with some hesitation began to tell her that Gilbert was very anxious that she would intercede with papa not to send him to Calcutta.

‘You now, Sophy!’ cried Albinia. ‘You who used to think nothing equal to India!’

‘I wish it were I,’ said Sophy, ‘but you know—’

‘Well,’ said Albinia, coldly.

Sophy was too shy to begin on that tack, and dashed off on another.

‘Oh, mamma, he is so wretched. He can’t bear to thwart papa, but he says it would break his heart to go so far away, and that he knows it would kill him to be confined to a desk in that climate.’

‘You know papa thinks that nothing would confirm his health so much as a few years without an English winter.’

‘One’s own instinct—’ began Sophy; then breaking off, she added, ‘Mamma, you never were for the bank.’

‘I used not to see the expediency, and I did not like the parting; but now I understand your father’s wishes, and the sort of allegiance he feels towards India, so that Gilbert’s reluctance will be a great mortification to him.’

‘So it will,’ said Sophy, mournfully, ‘I am sure it is to me. I always looked forward to Gilbert’s going to Talloon, and seeing the dear old bearer, and taking all my presents there, but you see, of course, mamma, he cannot bear to go—’

‘Sophy, dear,’ said Albinia, ‘you have been thinking me a very hard-hearted woman this last month. I have been longing to have it out.’

‘Not hard-hearted,’ said Sophy, looking down, ‘only I had always thought you different from other people.’

‘And you considered that I was worldly, and not romantic enough. Is that it, Sophy?’

‘I thought you knew how to value her for herself, so good and so admirable—a lady in everything—with such perfect manners. I thought you would have been pleased and proud that Gilbert’s choice was so much nobler than beauty, or rank, or fashion could make it,’ said Sophy, growing enthusiastic as she went on.

‘Well, my dear, perhaps I am.’

‘But, mamma, you have done all you could to separate them: you have shut Genevieve up in a convent, and you want to banish him.’

‘It sounds very grand, and worthy of a cruel step-dame,’ said Albinia; ‘but, my dear, though I do think Genevieve in herself an admirable creature, worthy of any one’s love, what am I to think of the way Gilbert has taken to show his admiration?’

‘And is it not very hard,’ cried Sophy, ‘that even you, who own all her excellences, should turn against him, and give in to all this miserable conventionality, that wants riches and station, and trumpery worldly things, and crushes down true love in two young hearts?’

‘Sophy dear, I am afraid the love is not proved to be true in the one heart, and I am sure there is none in the other!’

‘Mamma! ‘Tis her self-command—’

‘Nonsense! His attentions are nothing but distress to her! Sensible grown-up young women are not apt to be flattered by importunity from silly boys. Has he told you otherwise?’

‘He thinks—he hopes, at least—and I am sure—it is all stifled by her sense of duty, and fear of offending you, or appearing mercenary.’

‘All delusion!’ said Albinia; ‘there’s not a spark of consciousness about her! I see you don’t like to believe it, but it is my great comfort. Think how she would suffer if she did love him! Nay, think, before you are angry with me for not promoting it, how it would bring them into trouble and disgrace with all the world, even if your father consented. Have you once thought how it would appear to him?’

‘You can persuade papa to anything!’

‘Sophy! you ought to know your father better than to say that!’ cried Albinia, as if it had been disrespect to him.

‘Then you think he would never allow it! You really think that such a creature as Genevieve, as perfect a lady as ever existed, must always be a victim to these hateful rules about station.’

‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘certainly not; but if she were in the very same rank, if all else were suitable, Gilbert’s age would make the pursuit ridiculous.’

‘Only three years younger,’ sighed Sophy. ‘But if they were the same age? Do you mean that no one ever ought to marry, if they love ever so much, where the station is different?’

‘No, but that they must not do so lightly, but try the love first to see whether it be worth the sacrifice. If an attachment last through many years of adverse circumstances, I think the happiness of the people has been shown to depend on each other, but I don’t think it safe to disregard disparities till there has been some test that the love is the right stuff, or else they may produce ill-temper, regrets, and unhappiness, all the rest of their lives.’

‘If Gilbert went on for years, mamma?’

‘I did not say that, Sophy.’

‘Suppose,’ continued the eager girl, ‘he went out to Calcutta, and worked these five years, and was made a partner. Then he would be two-and-twenty, nobody could call him too young, and he would come home, and ask papa’s consent, and you—’

‘I should call that constancy,’ said Albinia.

‘And he would take her out to Calcutta, and have no Drurys and Osborns to bother her! Oh! It would be beautiful! I would watch over her while he was gone! I’ll go and tell him!’

‘Stop, Sophy, not from me—that would never do. I don’t think papa would think twenty-two such a great age—’

‘But he would have loved her five years!’ said Sophy. ‘And you said yourself that would be constancy!’

‘True, but, Sophy, I have known a youth who sailed broken-hearted, and met a lady “just in the style” of the former one, on board the steamer—’

Sophy made a gesture of impatient disdain, and repeated, ‘Do you allow me to tell Gilbert that this is the way?’

‘Not from me. I hold out no hope. I don’t believe Genevieve cares for him, and I don’t know whether his father would consent—’ but seeing Sophy’s look of disappointment, ‘I see no harm in your suggesting it, for it is his only chance with either of them, and would be the proof that his affection was good for something.’

‘And you think her worth it?’

‘I think her worth anything in the world—the more for her behaviour in this matter. I only doubt if Gilbert have any conception how much she is worth.’

Away went Sophy in a glow that made her almost handsome, while Albinia, as usual, wondered at her own imprudence.

At luncheon Sophy avoided her eye, and looked crestfallen, and when afterwards she gave a mute inquiring address, shook her head impatiently. It was plain that she had failed, and was too much pained and shamed by his poorness of spirit to be able as yet to speak of it.

Next came Gilbert, who pursued Albinia to the morning-room to entreat her interference in his behalf, appealing piteously to her kindness; but she was obdurate. If any remonstrance were offered to his father, it must be by himself.

Gilbert fell into a state of misery, threw himself about upon the chairs, and muttered in the fretfulness of childish despair something about its being very hard, when he was owner of half the town, to be sent into exile—it was like jealousy of his growing up and being master.

‘Take care, Gilbert!’ said Albinia, with a flash of her eye that he felt to his backbone.

‘I don’t mean it,’ cried Gilbert, springing towards her in supplication. ‘I’ve heard it said, that’s all, and was as angry as you, but when a fellow is beside himself with misery at being driven away from all he loves—not a friend to help him—how can he keep from thinking all sorts of things?’

‘I wonder what people dare to say it!’ cried Albinia wrathfully; but he did not heed, he was picturing his own future misfortunes—toil—climate—fevers—choleras—Thugs—coups de soleil—genuine dread and repugnance working him up to positive agony.

‘Gilbert,’ said Albinia, ‘this is trumpery self-torture! You know this is a mere farrago that you have conjured up. Your father would neither thrust you into danger, nor compel you to do anything to which you had a reasonable aversion. Go and be a man about it in one way or the other! Either accept or refuse, but don’t make these childish lamentations. They are cowardly! I should be ashamed of little Maurice if he behaved so!’

‘And you will not speak a word for me!’

‘No! Speak for yourself!’ and she left the room.

Days passed on, till she began to think that, after all, Gilbert preferred Calcutta, cholera, Thugs, and all, to facing his father; but at last, he must have taken heart from his extremity, for Mr. Kendal said, with less vexation than she had anticipated, ‘So our plans are overthrown. Gilbert tells me he has an invincible dislike to Calcutta. Had you any such idea?’

‘Not till your cousin’s letter arrived. What did you say to him?’

‘He was so much afraid of vexing me that I was obliged to encourage him to speak freely, and I found that he had always had a strong distaste to and dread of India. I told him I wished he had made me aware of it sooner, and desired to know what profession he really preferred. He spoke of Oxford and the Bar, and so I suppose it must be. I do not wonder that he wishes to follow his Traversham friends, and as they are a good set, I hope there may not be much temptation. I see you are not satisfied, Albinia, yet your wishes were one of my motives.’

‘Thank you—once I should,’ said Albinia; ‘but, Edmund, I see how wrong it was to have concealed anything from you;’ and thereupon she informed him of Gilbert’s passion for Genevieve Durant, which astonished him greatly, though he took it far less seriously than she had expected, and was not displeased at having been kept in ignorance and spared the trouble of taking notice of it, and thus giving it importance.

‘It will pass off,’ he said. ‘She has too much sense and principle to encourage him, and if you can get her out of Bayford for a few years he will be glad to have it forgotten.’

‘Poor Genevieve! She must break up her grandmother’s home after all!’

‘It will be a great advantage to her. You used to say that it would be most desirable for her to see more of the world. Away from this place she might marry well.’

‘Any one’s son but yours,’ said Albinia, smiling.

‘The connexion would be worse here than anywhere else; but I was not thinking of any one in our rank of life. There are many superior men in trade with whom she might be very happy.’

‘Poor child!’ sighed Albinia. ‘I cannot feel that it is fair that she should be banished for Gilbert’s faults; and I am sorry for the school; you cannot think how much the tone was improving.’

‘If it could be done without hurting her feelings, I should gladly give her a year at some superior finishing school, which might either qualify her for a governess, or enable her to make this one more profitable.’

‘Oh! thank you!’ cried Albinia; ‘yet I doubt. However, her services would be quite equivalent in any school to the lessons she wants. I’ll write to Mrs. Elwood—’ and she was absorbed in the register-office in her brain, when Mr. Kendal continued—

‘This is quite unexpected. I could not have supposed the boy so foolish! However, if you please, I will speak to him, tell him that I was unaware of his folly, and insist on his giving it up.’

‘I should be very glad if you would.’

Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfactory than Albinia thought that Genevieve deserved. His frenzy had tended to wear itself out, and he had been so dreadfully alarmed about India and his father, that in his relief, gratitude, and fear of being sent out, he was ready to promise anything. Before his father he could go into no rhapsodies, and could only be miserably confused.

‘Personally,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘it is creditable that you should be attracted by such estimable qualities, but these are not the sole consideration. Equality of station is almost as great a requisite as these for producing comfort or respectability, and nothing but your youth and ignorance could excuse your besetting any young woman with importunities which she had shown to be disagreeable to her.’

There was no outcry of despair, only a melancholy muttering. Then Mr. Kendal pronounced his decree in terms more explicit than those in which Albinia had exacted the promise. He said nothing about persecution, nor was he unreasonable enough to command an instant immolation of the passion; he only insisted that Gilbert should pay no marked attention, and attempt no unsanctioned or underhand communication. Unless he thought he had sufficient self-command to abstain, his father must take ‘further measures.’

As if fearing that this must mean ‘Kendal and Kendal,’ he raised his head, and with a deep sigh undertook for his own self-command. Mr. Kendal laid his hand on his shoulder with kind pity, told him he was doing right, and that while he acted openly and obediently, he should always meet with sympathy and consideration.

Two difficult points remained—the disposing of the young people. Gilbert was still over young for the university, as well as very backward and ill-prepared, and the obstinate remains of the cough made his father unwilling to send him from home. And his presence made Genevieve’s absence necessary.

The place had begun to loom in the distance. A former governess of Albinia’s, who would have done almost anything to please her, had lately been left a widow, and established herself in a suburb of London, with a small party of pupils. She had just begun to feel the need of an additional teacher, and should gladly receive Genevieve, provided she fulfilled certain requisites, of which, luckily, French pronunciation stood the foremost. The terms were left to Albinia, who could scarcely believe her good fortune, and went in haste to discuss the matter with the Belmarches.

It almost consoled her for what she had been exceedingly ashamed to announce, the change of purpose with regard to Gilbert, which was a sentence of banishment to the object of his folly. Nothing pained her more than the great courtesy and kindness of the two old ladies to whom it was such a cruel stroke, they evidently felt for her, and appeared to catch at Mrs. Elwood’s offer, and when Albinia proposed that her salary should be a share in the instructions of the masters, agreed that this was the very thing they had felt it their duty to provide for her, if they had been able to bring themselves to part with her.

‘So,’ said good Madame Belmarche, smiling sadly, ‘you see it has been for the dear child’s real good that our weakness has been conquered.’

Genevieve was written to, and consented to everything, and when Mr. Kendal took Gilbert away to visit an old friend, his wife called for Genevieve at the convent to bring her home. Albinia could not divest herself of some curiosity and excitement in driving up to the old-fashioned red brick house, with two tall wings projecting towards the street, and the front door in the centre between them, with steps down to it. She had not been without hopes of a parlour with a grille, or at least that a lay sister would open the door; but she saw nothing but a very ordinary-looking old maid-servant, and close behind her was Genevieve, with her little box, quite ready—no excuse for seeing anything or anybody else.

If Genevieve were sad at the proposal of leaving home and going among strangers, she took care to hide all that could pain Mrs. Kendal, and her cheerful French spirit really enjoyed the prospect of new scenes, and bounded with enterprise at the hope of a new life and fresh field of exertion.

‘Perhaps, after all,’ she said, smiling, ‘they may make of me something really useful and valuable, and it will all be owing to you, dear madame. Drawing and Italian! When I can teach them, I shall be able to make grandmamma easy for life!’

Genevieve skipped out of the carriage and into her aunt’s arms, as if alive only to the present delight of being at home again. It was a contrast to Sophy’s dolorous visage. Poor Sophy! she was living in a perpetual strife with the outward tokens of sulkiness, forcing herself against the grain to make civil answers, and pretend to be interested when she felt wretched and morose. That Gilbert, after so many ravings, should have relinquished, from mere cowardice, that one hope of earning Genevieve by honourable exertion, had absolutely lowered her trust in the exalting power of love, and her sense of justice revolted against the decision that visited the follies of the guilty upon the innocent. She was yearning over her friend with all her heart, pained at the separation, and longing fervently to make some demonstration, but the greater her wish, the worse was her reserve. She spent all her money upon a beautiful book as a parting gift, and kept it beside her, missing occasion after occasion of presenting it, and falling at each into a perfect agony behind that impalpable, yet impassable, barrier of embarrassment.

It was not till the very last evening, when Genevieve had actually wished her good-bye and left the house, that she grew desperate. She hastily put on bonnet and cloak, and pursued Genevieve up the street, overtaking her at last, and causing her to look round close to her own door.

‘My dear Miss Sophy,’ cried Genevieve, ‘what is the matter? You are quite overcome.’

‘This book—’ said Sophy—it was all she could say.

‘Love—yes,’ said Genevieve. ‘Admiration—no.’

‘You shall not say that,’ cried Sophy. ‘I have found what is really dignified and disinterested, and you must let me admire you, Jenny, it makes me comfortable.’

Genevieve smiled. ‘I would not commit an egoism,’ she said; but if the sense of admiration do you good, I wish it had a worthier cause.’

‘There’s no one to admire but you,’ said Sophy. ‘I think it very unfair to send you away, and though it is nobody’s fault, I hate good sense and the way of the world!’

‘Oh! do not talk so. I am only overwhelmed with wonder at the goodness I have experienced. If it had happened with any other family, oh! how differently I should have been judged! Oh! when I think of Mrs. Kendal, I am ready to weep with gratitude!’

‘Yes, mamma is mamma, and not like any one else, but even she is obliged to be rational, and do the injustice, whatever she feels,’ said Sophy.

‘Oh! not injustice—kindness! I shall be able to earn more for grandmamma!’

‘It is injustice!’ said Sophy, ‘not hers, perhaps, but of the world! It makes me so angry, to think that you—you should never do anything but wear yourself out in drudging over tiresome little children—’

‘Little children are my brothers and sisters, as I never had any,’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! I always loved them, they make a home wherever they are. I am thankful that my vocation is among them.’

In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would not notice it, but pursued, ‘You must come in and rest—you must have my aunt’s salts.’