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

‘I see how it is! You’ll treat him as grandpapa treated Captain Pringle, but I shall break my heart, quite!’ and she burst into tears.

‘My dear, your father and I will do our best for your happiness, and we would never use concealment. Whatever we do shall be as Christian people working together, not as tyrants with a silly girl.’

Lucy was pleased, and let Albinia take her hand.

‘Then I will write to decline the horse. It would be far too marked.’

‘But oh, mamma! you wont keep him away!’

‘I shall not alter our habits unless I see cause. He is much too young for us to think seriously of what he may have said; and I entreat you to put it out of your mind, for it would be very sad for you to fix your thoughts on him, and then find him not in earnest, and even if he were, you know it would be wrong to let affection grow up where there is no real dependence upon a person’s goodness.’

The kindness soothed Lucy, and though she shed some tears, she did not resist the decision. Indeed she was sensible of that calm determination of manner, which all the family had learnt to mean that the measures thus taken were unalterable, whereas the impetuous impulses often were reversed.

Many a woman’s will is like the tide, ever fretting at the verge of the boundary, but afraid to overpass it, and only tempting the utmost limit in the certainty of the recall, and Lucy perhaps felt a kind of protection in the curb, even while she treated it as an injury. She liked to be the object of solicitude, and was pleased with Albinia’s extra kindness, while, perhaps, there was some excitement in the belief that Algernon was missing her, so she was particularly amenable, and not much out of spirits.

The original Meadows character, and Bayford breeding, had for a time been surmounted by Albinia’s influence and training; but so ingrain was the old disposition, that a touch would at once re-awaken it, and the poor girl was in a neutral state, coloured by whichever impression had been most recent. Albinia’s hopes of prevailing in the end increased when Mrs. Dusautoy told her, with a look of intelligence, that Algernon was going to stay with a connexion of his mother, a Mr. Greenaway, with six daughters, very stylish young ladies.

Six stylish young ladies! Albinia could have embraced them all, and actually conferred a cordial nod on Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy when she met him on the way home.

But as she entered the house, so ominous a tone summoned her to the library, that she needed not to be told that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy had been there.

‘I told him,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘that he was too young for me to entertain his proposal, and I intimated that he had character to redeem before presenting himself in such capacity.’

‘I hope you made the refusal evident to his intellect.’

‘He drove me to be more explicit than I intended. I think he was astonished. He stared at me for full three minutes before he could believe in the refusal. Poor lad, it must be real attachment, there could be no other inducement.’

‘And Lucy is exceedingly pretty.’

Mr. Kendal glanced at the portrait over the mantelpiece smiled sadly, and shook his head.

‘Poor dear,’ continued Albinia, ‘what a commotion there will be in her head; but she has behaved so well hitherto, that I hope we may steer her safely through, above all, if one of the six cousins will but catch him in the rebound! Have you spoken to her?’

‘Is it necessary?’

‘So asked her grandfather,’ said Albinia, smiling, as he, a little out of countenance, muttered something of ‘foolish affair—mere child—and turn her head—’

‘That’s done!’ said Albinia, ‘we have only to try to get it straight. Besides, it would hardly be just to let her think he had meant nothing, and I have promised to deal openly with her, otherwise we can hardly hope for plain dealing from her.’

‘And you think it will be a serious disappointment?’

‘She is highly flattered by his attention, but I don’t know how deep it may have gone.’

‘I wish people would let one’s daughters alone!’ exclaimed Mr. Kendal. ‘You will talk to her then, Albinia, and don’t let her think me more harsh than you can help, and come and tell me how she bears it.’

‘Won’t you speak to her yourself?’

‘Do you think I must?’ he said, reluctantly; ‘you know so much better how to manage her.’

‘I think you must do this, dear Edmund,’ she said, between decision and entreaty. ‘She knows that I dislike the man, and may fancy it my doing it she only hears it at second hand. If you speak, there will be no appeal, and besides there are moments when the really nearest should have no go-betweens.’

‘We were not very near without you,’ he said. ‘If it were Sophy, I should know better what to be about.’

‘Sophy would not put you in such a fix.’

‘So I have fancied—’ he paused, smiling, while she waited in eager curiosity, such as made him finish as if ashamed. ‘I have thought our likings much the same. Have you never observed what I mean?’

‘Oh! I never observe anything. I did not find out Maurice and Winifred till he told me. Who do you think it is? I always thought love would be the making of Sophy. I see she is another being. What is your guess, Mr. Hope?’

Mr. Kendal made a face of astonishment at such an improbable guess, and was driven into exclaiming, ‘How could any one help thinking of O’More?’

‘Oh! only too delightful!’ cried Albinia. ‘Why didn’t I think of it—but then his way is so free and cousinly with us all.’

‘There may be nothing in it,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘and under present circumstances it would hardly be desirable.’

‘If old Mr. Goldsmith acts as he ought,’ continued Albinia, ‘we should never lose our Sophy—and what a son we should have! he has so exactly the bright temper that she needs.’

‘Well, well, that is all in the clouds,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I wish the present were equally satisfactory.’

‘Ah, I had better call poor Lucy.’

‘Come back with her, pray,’ called Mr. Kendal, nervously.

Albinia regretted her superfluous gossip when Lucy appeared with eyes so sparkling, and cheeks so flushed, that it was plain that she had been in all the miseries of suspense. Her countenance glowed with feeling, that lifted her beyond her ordinary doll-like prettiness. Albinia’s heart sank with compassion as she held her hand, and her father stood as if struck by something more like the vision or his youth than he had been prepared for; each feeling that something genuine was present, and respecting it accordingly.

‘Lucy,’ said Mr. Kendal, tenderly, ‘I see I need not tell you why I have sent for you. You are very young, my dear, and you must trust us to care for your happiness.’

‘Yes.’ Lucy looked up wistfully.

‘This gentleman has some qualities such as may make him shine in the eyes of a young lady; but it is our duty to look farther, and I am afraid I know nothing of him that could justify me in trusting him with anything so precious to me.’

Lucy’s face became full of consternation, her hand lay unnerved in Albinia’a pressure, and Mr. Kendal turned his eyes from her to his wife, as he proceeded,

‘I have seen so much wretchedness caused by want of religious principle, that even where the morals appeared unblemished, I should feel no confidence where I saw no evidence of religion, and I should consider it as positively wrong to sanction an engagement with such a person. Now you must perceive that we have every means of forming an opinion of this young man, and that he has given us no reason to think he would show the unselfish care for your welfare that we should wish to secure.’

Albinia tried to make it comprehensible. ‘You know, my dear, we have always seen him resolved on his own way, and not caring how he may inconvenience his uncle and aunt. We know his temper is not always amiable, and differently as you see him, you must let us judge.’

Wrenching her hand away, Lucy burst into tears. Her father looked at Albinia, as if she ought to have saved him this infliction, and she began a little whispering about not distressing papa, which checked the sobs, and enabled him to say, ‘There, that’s right, my dear, I see you are willing to submit patiently to our judgment, and I believe you will find it for the best. We will do all in our power to help you, and make you happy,’ and bending down he kissed her, and left her to his wife.

In such family scenes, logic is less useful than the power of coming to a friendly conclusion; Lucy’s awe of her father was a great assistance, she was touched with his unwonted softness, and did not apprehend how total was the rejection. But what he was spared, was reserved for Albinia. There was a lamentable scene of sobbing and weeping, beyond all argument, and only ending in physical exhaustion, which laid her on the bed all the rest of the day.

Gilbert and Sophy could not but be aware of the cause of her distress. The former thought it a great waste.

‘Tell Lucy,’ he said, ‘that if she wishes to be miserable for life, she has found the best way! He is a thorough-bred tyrant at heart, pig-headed, and obstinate, and with the very worst temper I ever came across. Not a soul can he feel for, nor admire but himself. His wife will be a perfect slave. I declare I would as soon sell her to Legree.’

Sophy’s views of the gentleman were not more favourable, but she was in terror lest Lucy should have a permanently broken heart, after the precedent of Aunt Maria. And on poor Sophy fell the misfortune of being driven up by grandmamma’s inquiries, to own that the proposal had been rejected.

Shade of poor dear Mr. Meadows, didst thou not stand aghast! Five thousand a year refused! Grandmamma would have had a fit if she had not conceived a conviction, that imparted a look of shrewdness to her mild, simple old face. Of course Mr. Kendal was only holding off till the young man was a little older. He could have no intention of letting his daughter miss such a match, and dear Lucy would have her carriage, and be presented at court.

Sophy argued vehemently against this, and poor grandmamma, who had with difficulty been taught worldly wisdom as a duty, and always thought herself good when she talked prudently, began to cry. Sophy, quite overcome, was equally distressing with her apologies; Albinia found them both in tears, and Sophy was placed on the sick-list by one of her peculiar headaches of self-reproach.

It was a time of great perplexity. Lucy cried incessantly, bursting out at every trifle, but making no complaints, and submitting so meekly, that the others were almost as unhappy as herself.

She was first cheered by the long promised visit from Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars. Albinia had now no fears of showing off home or children, and it was a great success.

The little Awk was in high beauty, and graciously winning, and Maurice’s likeness to his Uncle William enchanted the aunts, though they were shocked at his mamma’s indifference to his constant imperilling of life and limb, and grievously discomfited his sisters by adducing children who talked French and read history, whereas he could not read d-o-g without spelling, and had peculiar views as to b and d, p and q. However, if he could not read he could ride, and Mrs. Annesley scarcely knew the extent of the favour she conferred, when she commissioned Gilbert to procure for him a pony as his private property.

Miss Ferrars had not expected one of the thirty-six O’Mores to turn up here. She gave some good advice about hasty intimacies, and as it was received with a defence of the gentility of the O’Mores, the two good ladies agreed that dear Albinia was quite a child still, not fit for the care of those girls, and it would be only acting kindly to take Lucy to Brighton, and show her something of the world, or Albinia would surely let her fall a prey to that Irish clerk.

They liked Lucy’s pretty face and obliging ways, and were fond of having a young lady in their house; they saw her looking ill and depressed, and thought sea air would be good for her, and though Lucy fancied herself past caring for gaiety, and was very sorry to leave home and mamma, she was not insensible to the refreshment of her wardrobe, and the excitement and honour of the invitation. At night she cried lamentably, and clung round Albinia’a neck, sobbing, ‘Oh, mamma, what will become of me without you?’ but in the morning she went off in very fair spirits, and Albinia augured hopefully that soon her type of perfection would be no longer Polysyllabic. Her first letters were deplorable, but they soon became cheerful, as her mornings were occupied by lessons in music and drawing, and her evenings in quiet parties among the friends whom the aunts met at Brighton. Aunt Gertrude wrote to announce that her charge had recovered her looks and was much admired, and this was corroborated by the prosperous complacency of Lucy’s style. Albinia was more relieved than surprised when the letters dwindled in length and number, well knowing that the Family Office was not favourable to leisure; and devoid of the epistolary gift herself, she always wondered more at people’s writing than at their silence, and scarcely reciprocated Lucy’s effusions by the hurried notes which she enclosed in the well-filled envelopes of Gilbert and Sophy, who, like their father, could cover any amount of sheets of paper.

CHAPTER XXII

‘There!’ cried Ulick O’More, ‘I may wish you all good-bye. There’s an end of it.’

Mr. Kendal stood aghast.

‘He’s insulted my father and my family,’ cried Ulick, ‘and does he think I’ll write another cipher for him?’

‘Your uncle?’

‘Don’t call him my uncle. I wish I’d never set eyes on his wooden old face, to put the family name and honour in the power of such as he.’

‘What has he done to you?’

‘He has offered to take me as his partner,’ cried Ulick, with flashing eyes; and as an outcry arose, not in sympathy with his resentment, he continued vehemently, ‘Stay, you have not heard! ‘Twas on condition I’d alter my name, leave out the O that has come down to me from them that were kings and princes before his grandfathers broke stones on the road.’

‘He offered to take you into partnership,’ repeated Mr. Kendal.

‘Do you think I could listen to such terms!’ cried the indignant lad. ‘Give up the O! Why, I would never be able to face my brothers!’

‘But, Ulick—’

‘Don’t talk to me, Mr. Kendal; I wouldn’t sell my name if you were to argue to me like Plato, nor if his bank were the Bank of England. I might as well be an Englishman at once.’

‘Then this was the insult?’

‘And enough too, but it wasn’t all. When I answered, speaking as coolly, I assure you, as I’m doing this minute, what does he do, but call it a folly, and taunt us for a crew of Irish beggars! Beggars we may be, but we’ll not be bought by him.’

‘Well, this must have been an unexpected reception of such a proposal.’

‘You may say that! The English think everything may be bought with money! I’d have overlooked his ignorance, poor old gentleman, if he would not have gone and spoken of my O as vulgar. Vulgar! So when I began to tell him how it began from Tigearnach, the O’More of Ballymakilty, that was Tanist of Connaught, in the time of King Mac Murrough, and that killed Phadrig the O’Donoghoe in single combat at the fight of Shoch-knockmorty, and bit off his nose, calling it a sweet morsel of revenge, what does he do but tell me I was mad, and that he would have none of my nonsensical tales of the savage Irish. So I said I couldn’t stand to hear my family insulted, and then—would you believe it? he would have it that it was I that was insolent, and when I was not going to apologize for what I had borne from him, he said he had always known how it would be trying to deal with one of our family, no better than making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. “And I’m obliged for the compliment,” said I, quite coolly and politely, “but no Irish pig would sell his ear for a purse;” and so I came away, quite civilly and reasonably. Aye, I see what you would do, Mr. Kendal, but I beg with all my heart you won’t. There are some things a gentleman should not put up with, and I’ll not take it well of you if you call it my duty to hear my father and his family abused. I’ll despise myself if I could. You don’t—’ cried he, turning round to Albinia.

‘Oh, no, but I think you should try to understand Mr. Goldsmith’s point of view.’

‘I understand it only too well, if that would do any good. Point of view—why, ‘tis the farmyard cock’s point of view, strutting on the top of that bank of his own, and patronizing the free pheasant out in the woods. More fool I for ever letting him clip my wings, but he’s seen the last of me. No, don’t ask me to make it up. It can’t be done—’

‘What can be done to the boy?’ asked Albinia; ‘how can he be brought to hear reason?’

‘Leave him alone,’ Mr. Kendal said, aside; while Ulick in a torrent of eager cadences protested his perfect sanity and reason, and Mr. Kendal quietly left the room, again to start on a peace-making mission, but it was unpromising, for Mr. Goldsmith began by declaring he would not hear a single word in favour of the ungrateful young dog.

Mr. Kendal gathered that young O’More had become so valuable, and that cold and indifferent as Mr. Goldsmith appeared, he had been growing so fond and so proud of his nephew, as actually to resolve on giving him a share of the business, and dividing the inheritance which had hitherto been destined to a certain Andrew Goldsmith, brought up in a relation’s office at Bristol. Surprised at his own graciousness, and anticipating transports of gratitude, his dismay and indignation at the reception of his proposal were extreme, especially as he had no conception of the offence he had given regarding the unfortunate O as a badge of Hibernianism and vulgarity. ‘I put it to you, Mr. Kendal, as a sensible man, whether it would not be enough to destroy the credit of the bank to connect it with such a name as that, looking like an Irish haymaker’s. I should be ashamed of every note I issued.’

‘It is unlucky,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and a difficulty the lad could hardly appreciate, since it is a good old name, and the O is a special mark of nobility.’

‘And what has a banker to do with nobility? Pretty sort of nobility too, at that dog-kennel of theirs in Ireland, and his father, a mere adventurer if ever there lived one! But I swore when he carried off poor Ellen that his speculation should do him no good, and I’ve kept my word. I wish I hadn’t been fool enough to meddle with one of the concern! No, no, ‘tis no use arguing, Mr. Kendal, I have done with him! I would not make him a partner, not if he offered to change his name to John Smith! I never thought to meet with such ingratitude, but it runs in the breed! I might have known better than to make much of one of the crew. Yet it is a pity too, we have not had such a clear-headed, trustworthy fellow about the place since young Bowles died; he has a good deal of the Goldsmith in him when you set him to work, and makes his figures just like my poor father. I thought it was his writing the other day till I looked at the date. Clever lad, very, but it runs in the blood. I shall send for Andrew Goldsmith.’

One secret of Mr. Kendal’s power was that he never interrupted, but let people run themselves down and contradict themselves; and all he observed was, ‘However it may end, you have done a great deal for him. Even if you parted now, he would be able to find a situation.’

‘Why—yes,’ said Mr. Goldsmith, ‘the lad knew nothing serviceable when he came, we had an infinity of maggots about algebra and logarithms to drive out of his head; but now he really is nearly as good an accountant as old Johns.’

‘You would be sorry to part with him, and I cannot help hoping this may be made up.’

‘You don’t bring me any message! I’ve said I’ll listen to nothing.’

‘No; the poor boy’s feelings are far too much wounded,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Whether rightly or wrongly, he fancies that his father and family have been slightingly spoken of, and he is exceedingly hurt.’

‘His father! I’m sure I did not say a tenth part of what the fellow richly deserves. If the young gentleman is so touchy, he had better go back to Ireland again.’

Nothing more favourable could Mr. Kendal obtain, though he thought Mr. Goldsmith uneasy, and perhaps impressed by the independence of his nephew’s attitude.

It was an arduous office for a peace-maker, where neither party could comprehend the feelings of the other, but on his return he found that Ulick had stormed himself into comparative tranquillity, and was listening the better to the womankind, because they had paid due honour to the amiable ancestral Tigearnach and all his guttural posterity, whose savage exploits and bloody catastrophes acted as such a sedative, that by the time he had come down to Uncle Bryan of the Kaffir war, he actually owned that as to the mighty ‘O,’ Mr. Goldsmith might have erred in sheer ignorance.

‘After all,’ said Albinia, ‘U. O’More is rather personal in writing to a creditor.’

‘It might be worse,’ said Ulick, laughing, ‘if my name was John. I. O’More would be a dangerous confession. But I’ll not be come round even by your fun, Mrs. Kendal, I’ll not part with my father’s name.’

‘No, that would be base,’ said Sophy.

‘Who would wish to persuade you?’ added Albinia. ‘I am sure you are right in refusing with your feelings; I only want you to forgive your uncle, and not to break with him.’

‘I’d forgive him his ignorance, but my mother herself could not wish me to forgive what he said of my father.’

‘And how if he thinks this explosion needs forgiveness?’

‘He must do without it,’ said Ulick. ‘No, I was cool, I assure you, cool and collected, but it was not fit for me to stand by and hear my father insulted.’

Albinia closed the difficult discussion by observing that it was time to dress, and Sophy followed her from the room burning with indignant sympathy. ‘It would be meanly subservient to ask pardon for defending a father whom he thought maligned,’ said Albinia, and Sophy took exception at the word ‘thought.’

‘Ah! of course he cannot be deceived!’ said Albinia—but no sooner were the words spoken than she was half-startled, half-charmed by finding they had evoked a glow of colour.

‘How do you think it will end?’ asked Sophy.

‘I can hardly fancy he will not be forgiven, and yet—it might be better.’

‘Yes, I do think he would get on faster in India,’ said Sophy eagerly; ‘he could do just as Gilbert might have done.’

Was it possible for Albinia to have kept out of her eyes a significant glance, or to have disarmed her lips of a merry smile of amused encouragement! How she had looked she knew not, but the red deepened on Sophy’s whole face, and after one inquiring gaze from the eyes they were cast down, and an ineffable brightness came over the expression, softening and embellishing.

‘What have I done?’ thought Albinia. ‘Never mind—it must have been all there, or it would not have been wakened so easily—if he goes they will have a scene first.’

But when Mr. Kendal came back he only advised Ulick to go to his desk as usual the next day, as if nothing had happened.

And Ulick owned that, turn out as things might, he could not quit his work in the first ardour of his resentment, and with a great exertion of Christian forgiveness, he finally promised not to give notice of his retirement unless his uncle should repeat the offence. This time Albinia durst not look at Sophy.

Rather according to his friend’s hopes than his own, he was able to report at the close of the next day, that he had not ‘had a word from his uncle, except a nod;’ and thus the days passed on, Andrew Goldsmith did not appear, and it became evident that he was to remain on sufferance as a clerk. Nor did Albinia and Sophy venture to renew the subject between themselves. At first there was consciousness in their silence; soon their minds were otherwise engrossed.

Mrs. Meadows was suddenly stricken with paralysis, and was thought to be dying. She recovered partial consciousness in the course of the next day, but was constantly moaning the name of her eldest and favourite granddaughter, and when telegraph and express train brought home the startled and trembling Lucy, she was led at once to the sick bed—where at her name there was the first gleam of anything like pleasure.

‘And where have you been, my dear, this long time?’