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

Her mind was evidently made up, and it was past Albinia’s divination whether her agitation were composed of fear of the future and remorse for the past, or whether it were mere love of home and hurry of spirits, exaggerated by belief that a bride ought to weep. Probably it was a compound of all, and the whole of her reply perfect truth, especially the final clause.

So they married her, poor child, very much as if they had been attending her to the block. Sophy’s view of the case had infected them all beyond being dispelled by the stately complacency of the bridegroom, or the radiant joy and affection of his uncle.

They put her into a carriage, watched her away, and turned back to the task which she had left them, dreading the effects of her absence. She was missed, but less than they feared; the faculties had become too feeble for such strong emotion as had followed Gilbert’s departure; and the void was chiefly perceptible by the plaintive and exacting clinging to Albinia, who had less and less time to herself and her children, and was somewhat uneasy as to the consequences as regarded Maurice. While Gilbert was at home, the child had been under some supervision; but now his independent and unruly spirit was left almost uncontrolled, except by his own intermittent young conscience, his father indulged him, and endured from him what would have been borne from no one else; and Sophy was his willing slave, unable to exact obedience, and never complaining, save under the most stringent necessity or sense of duty. He was too young for school, and there was nothing to be done but to go on, from day to day, in the trust that no harm could eventually ensue in consequence of so absolute a duty as the care of the sufferer; and that while the boy’s truth and generosity were sound, though he might be a torment, his character might be all the stronger afterwards for that very indocility.

It was not satisfactory, and many mothers would have been miserable; but it was not in Albinia’s nature to be miserable when her hands were full, and she was doing her best. She had heard her brother say that when good people gave their children sound principles and spoilt them, they gave the children the trouble of self-conquest instead of doing it for them. She had great faith in Maurice’s undertaking this task in due time; and while she felt that she still had her hand on the rein she must be content to leave it loose for a while.

Besides, when his father and sisters, and, least of all, herself, did not find him a plague, did it much matter if other people did?

CHAPTER XXV

Exulting peals rang out from the Bayford tower, and as Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy alighted from their carriage at Willow Lawn, the cry of the vicar and of the assembled household was, ‘Have you heard that Sebastopol is taken?’

‘Any news of Gilbert?’ was Lucy’s demand.

‘No, the cavalry were not landed, so he had nothing to do with it.’

‘I say, uncle,’ said Algernon, ‘shall I send up a sovereign to those ringers?’

‘Eh! poor fellows, they will be very glad of it, thank you; only I must take care they don’t drink it up. I’m sure they must be tired enough; they’ve been at it ever since the telegraph came in!’

‘There!’ exclaimed Algernon; ‘Barton must have telegraphed from the station when we set out!’

‘You? Did you think the bells were ringing for you,’ exclaimed his uncle, ‘when there’s a great battle won, and Sebastopol taken?’

‘Telegraphs are always lies!’ quoth Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, tersely, ‘I don’t believe anything has happened at all!’ and he re-pocketed the sovereign.

Meantime Lucy was in a rapture of embracing. She was spread out with stiff silk flounces and velvet mantle, so as to emulate her husband’s importance, and her chains and bracelets clattered so much, that Mr. Kendal could not help saying, ‘You should have taken lessons of your Ayah, to learn how to manage your bangles.’

‘Oh! papa,’ said she, with a newly-learnt little laugh, ‘I could not help it; Louise could not find room for them in my dressing-case.’

They were not, however, lost upon the whole of the family. Grandmamma’s dim eyes lighted when she recognised her favourite grand-daughter in such gorgeous array, and that any one should have come back again was so new and delightful, that it constantly recurred as a fresh surprise and pleasure.

All were glad to have her again—their own Lucy, as she still was, though somewhat of the grandiose style and self-consequence of her husband had overlaid the original nature. She was as good-natured and obliging as ever, and though beginning by conferring her favours as condescensions, she soon would forget that she was the great Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy, and quickly become the eager, helpful Lucy. She was in very good looks, and bright and happy, admiring Algernon, rejoicing to obey his behests, and enhancing his dignity and her own by her discourses upon his talents and importance. How far she was at ease with him, Albinia sometimes doubted; there now and then was an air of greater freedom when he left the room, and some of her favourite old household avocations were tenderly resumed by stealth, as though she feared he might think them unworthy of his wife.

She gave her spare time to the invalid, who was revived by her presence as by a sunbeam; and Albinia, in her relief and gratitude, did her utmost to keep Algernon happy and contented. She resigned a room to him as an atelier, and let the little Awk be captured to have her likeness taken, she promoted the guitar and key-bugle, and abstained from resenting his strictures on her dinners.

Such a guest reduced Mr. Kendal to absolute silence, but she did not think he suffered much therefrom, and he was often relieved, for all the neighbourhood asked the young couple to dinner. Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy’s toilette was as good as a play to the oldest and youngest inhabitants of the house, her little sister used to stand by the dressing-table with her small fingers straightened to sustain a column of rings threaded on them, and her arm weighed down with bracelets, and grandmamma’s happiest moments were when she was raised up to contemplate the costly robes, jewelled neck, and garlanded head of her darling.

When it turned out that Sebastopol was anything but taken, Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy’s incredulity was a precious confirmation of his esteem for his own sagacity, more especially as Ulick O’More and Maurice had worn out the little brass piece of ordnance in firing feux de joie.

‘But,’ said Maurice, ‘papa always said it was not true. Now you only said so when you found the bells were ringing for that, and not for you.’

Maurice’s observations were not always convenient. Algernon, with much pomp, had caused a horse to be led to the door, for which he had lately paid eighty guineas, and he was expatiating on its merits, when Maurice broke out, ‘That’s Macheath, the horse that Archie Tritton bought of Mr. Nugent’s coachman for twenty pounds.’

‘Hush, Maurice!’ said his father, ‘you know nothing of it; and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy pursued, ‘It was bred at Lord Lewthorp’s, and sold because it was too tall for its companion. Laing was on the point of sending it to Tattersalls, where he was secure of a hundred, but he was willing to oblige me, as we had had transactions before.’

‘Papa!’ cried Maurice, ‘I know it is Macheath, for Mr. Tritton showed him to Gilbert and me, when he had just got him, and said he was a showy beast, but incurably lame, so he should get what he could for him from Laing. Now, James, isn’t it?’ he called to the servant who was sedulously turning away a grinning face, but just muttered, ‘Same, sir.’

Mr. Kendal charitably looked the other way, and Algernon muttered some species of imprecation.

Thenceforth Maurice took every occasion of inquiring what had become of Macheath, whether Laing had refunded the price, and what had been done to him for telling stories.

If the boy began in innocence, he went on in mischief; he was just old enough to be a most aggravating compound of simplicity and malice. He was fully aware that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy was held cheap by his own favourites, and had been partly the cause of his dear Gilbert’s troubles, and his sharp wits and daring nature were excited to the utmost by the solemn irritation that he produced. Not only was it irresistibly droll to tease one so destitute of fun, but he had the strongest desire to see how angry it was possible to make the big brother-in-law, of whom every one seemed in awe.

First, he had recourse to the old term Polysyllable, and when Lucy remonstrated, he answered, ‘I’ve a right to call my brother what I please.’

‘You know how angry mamma would be to hear you.’

‘Mamma calls him the Polysyllable herself,’ said Maurice, looking full at his victim.

Lucy, who would have given the world to hinder this epithet from coming to her husband’s knowledge, began explaining something about Gilbert’s nonsense before he knew him, and how it had been long disused.

‘That’s not true, Lucy,’ quoth the tormentor. ‘I heard mamma tell Sophy herself this morning to write for some fish-sauce, because she said that Polysyllable was so fanciful about his dinner.’

Lucy was ready to cry, and Algernon, endeavouring to recal his usual dignity, exclaimed, ‘If Mrs. Kendal—I mean, Mrs. Kendal has it in her power to take liberties, but if I find you repeating such again, you little imp, it shall be at your risk.’

‘What will you do to me?’ asked the sturdy varlet.

‘Dear Maurice, I hope you’ll never know! Pray don’t try!’ cried Lucy; but if she had had any knowledge of character, she would have seen that she had only provoked the little Berserkar’s curiosity, and had made him determined on proving the undefined threat. So the unfortunate Algernon seldom descended the stairs without two childish faces being protruded from the balusters of the nursery-flight over-head, pursuing him with hissing whispers of ‘Polysyllable’ and ‘Polly-silly,’ and if he ventured on indignant gestures, Maurice returned them with nutcracker grimaces and provoking assurances to his little sister that he could not hurt her.

Algernon could not complain without making himself ridiculous, and Albinia was too much engaged to keep watch over her son, so that the persecution daily became more intolerable, and barren indications of wrath were so diverting to the little monkey, that the presence of the heads of the family was the sole security from his tricks. Poor Lucy was the chief sufferer, unable to restrain her brother, and enduring the brunt of her husband’s irritation, with the great disappointment of being unable to make him happy at her home, and fearing every day that he would fulfil his threat of not staying another week in the house with that intolerable child, for the sake of any one’s grandmother.

Tidings came, however, that completely sobered Maurice, and made them unable to think of moving. It was the first rumour of the charge of Balaklava, with the report that the 25th Lancers were cut to pieces. In spite of Algernon’s reiteration that telegraphs were lies, all the household would have been glad to lose the sense of existence during the time of suspense. Albinia’s heart was wrung as she thought of the cold hurried manner of the last farewell, and every look she cast at her husband’s calm melancholy face, seemed to be asking pardon that his son was not safe in India.

Late that evening the maid came hurriedly in with a packet of papers. ‘A telegraph, ma’am, come express from Hadminster.’

It was to Mrs Kendal from one of her friends at the Horse Guards. She did not know how she found courage to turn her eyes on it, but her shriek was not of sorrow.

‘Major the Honourable F. Ferrars, severely wounded—right arm amputated.’

‘Lieutenant Gilbert Kendal, slightly wounded—contusion, rib broken.’

She saw the light of thankfulness break upon Mr. Kendal’s face, and the next moment flew up to her boy’s bed-side. He started up, half asleep, but crying out, Mamma, where’s Gibbie?’

‘Safe, safe! Maurice dearest, safe; only slightly wounded! Oh, Maurice, God has been very good to us!’

He flung his arms round her neck, as she knelt beside his crib in the dark, and thus Mr. Kendal found the mother and son. As he bent to kiss them, Maurice exclaimed, with a sort of anger, ‘Oh, mamma, why have I got a bullet in my throat?’

Albinia laughed a little hysterically, as if she had the like bullet.

‘It was very kind of Lord H–,’ fervently exclaimed Mr. Kendal; ‘you must write to thank him, Albinia. Gilbert may be considered safe while he is laid up. Perhaps he may be sent home. What should you say to that, Maurice?’

‘Oh! I wouldn’t come home to lose the fun,’ said Maurice. ‘Oh, mamma, let me get up to tell Awkey, and run up to Ulick! Gilbert will be the colonel when I’m a cornet! Oh! I must get up!’

His outspoken childish joy seemed to relieve Albinia’s swelling heart, too full for the expression of thankfulness, and the excitement was too much even for the boy, for he burst into passionate sobs when forbidden to get up and waken his little sister.

The sobering came in Mr. Kendal’s mention of Fred. Albinia was obliged to ask what had happened to him, and was shocked at having overlooked so terrible a misfortune; but Maurice seemed to be quite satisfied. ‘You know, mamma, it said they were cut to pieces. Can’t they make him a wooden arm?’ evidently thinking he could be repaired as easily as the creatures in his sister’s Noah’s Ark. Even Algernon showed a heartiness and fellow-feeling that seemed to make him more like one of the family. Moreover, he was so much elevated at the receipt of a telegraph direct from the fountain-head, that he rode about the next day over all the neighbourhood with the tidings and comported himself as though he had private access to all Lord Raglan’s secrets.

The unwonted emotion tamed Maurice for several days, and his behaviour was the better for his daily rides with papa to Hadminster, to forestall the second post. At last, on his return, his voice rang through the house. ‘Mamma, where are you? The letter is come, and Gilbert shot two Russians, and saved Cousin Fred!’

‘I opened your letter, Albinia,’ said Mr. Kendal; and, as she took it from him, he said, ‘Thank God, I never dared hope for such a day as this!’

He shut himself into the library, while Albinia was sharing with Sophy the precious letter, but with a moment’s disappointment at finding it not from Gilbert, but from her brother William.

‘Before you receive this,’ he wrote, ‘you will have heard of the affair of to-day, and that our two lads have come out of it better than some others. There are but nine officers living, and only four unhurt out of the 25th Lancers, and Fred’s escape is entirely owing to your son.’

Then followed a brief narrative of the events of Balaklava, that fatal charge so well described as ‘magnifique mais pas la guerre,’ a history that seemed like a dream in connexion with the timid Gilbert. His individual story was thus:—He safely rode the ‘half a league’ forward, but when more than half way back, his horse was struck to the ground by a splinter of the same shell that overthrew Major Ferrars, at a few paces’ distance from him. Quickly disengaging himself from his horse, Gilbert ran to assist his friend, and succeeded in extricating him from his horse, and supporting him through the remainder of the terrible space commanded by the batteries. Fred, unable to move without aid, and to whom each step was agony, had entreated Gilbert to relinquish his hold, and not peril himself for a life already past rescue; but Gilbert had not seemed to hear, and when several of the enemy came riding down on them, he had used his revolver with such effect, as to lay two of the number prostrate, and deter the rest from repeating the attack.

‘All this I heard from Fred,’ continued the General; ‘he is in his usual spirits, and tells me that he feels quite jolly since his arm has been off, and he has been in his own bed, but I fear he has a good deal to suffer, for his right side is terribly lacerated, and I shall be glad when the next few days are over. He desires me to say with his love that the best turn you ever did him was putting young Kendal into the 25th. Tell your husband that I congratulate him on his son’s conduct, and am afraid that his promotion without purchase is only too certain. Gilbert’s only message was his love. Speaking seems to give him pain, and he is altogether more prostrated than so slight a wound accounts for; but when I saw him, he had just been told of the death of his colonel and several of his brother officers, among them young Wynne, who shared his tent; and he was completely overcome. There is, however, no cause for uneasiness; he had not even been aware that he was hurt, until he fainted while Fred was under the surgeon’s hands, and was then found to have an ugly contusion of the chest, and a fracture of the uppermost rib on the left side. A few days’ rest will set all that to rights, and I expect to see him on horseback before we can ship poor Fred for Scutari. In the meantime they are both in Fred’s tent, which is fairly comfortable.’

Albinia understood whence came Gilbert’s heroism. He had charged at first, as he had hunted with Maurice, because there was no doing otherwise, and in the critical moment the warm heart had done the rest, and equalled constitutional courage: but then, she saw the gentle tender spirit sinking under the slight injury, and far more at the suffering of his friend, the deadly havoc among his comrades, and his own share in the carnage. The General coolly mentioned the two enemies who had fallen by his pistol, and Maurice shouted about them as if they had been two rabbits, but she knew enough of Gilbert to be sure that what he might do in the exigency of self-defence, would shock and sicken him in recollection. Poor Fred! how little would she once have believed that his frightful wound could be a secondary matter with her, only enhancing her gratitude on account of another.

That was a happy evening; Maurice was sent to ask Ulick to dinner, and at dessert drank the healths of his soldier relatives, among whom Mr. Kendal with a smile at Ulick, included Bryan O’More.

In the universal good-will of her triumph, Albinia having read her precious letter to every one, resolved to let the Drurys hear it, before forwarding it to Fairmead. Lucy’s neglect of that family was becoming flagrant, and Albinia was resolved to take her to make the call. Therefore, after promulgating her intentions too decidedly for Algernon to oppose them, she set out with Lucy in the most virtuous state of mind. Maurice was to ride out with his father, and Sophy was taking care of grandmamma, so she made her expedition with an easy mind, and absolutely enjoyed the change of scenery.

The war had drawn every one nearer together, and Mrs. Drury was really anxious about Gilbert, and grateful for the intelligence. Nor did Lucy meet with anything unpleasant. Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy, in waist-deep flounces, a Paris bonnet, and her husband’s dignity, impressed her cousins, and whatever use they might make of their tongues, it was not till after she was gone.

As the carriage stopped at the door, Sophy came out with such a perturbed an expression, as seemed to prelude fatal tidings; and Lucy was pausing to listen, when she was hastily summoned by her husband.

‘Oh! mamma, he has struck Maurice such a blow!’ cried Sophy.

‘Algernon? where’s Maurice? is he hurt?’

‘He is in the library with papa.’

She was there in a moment. Maurice sat on his father’s knee, listening to Pope’s Homer, leaning against him, with eye, cheek, and nose exceedingly swelled and reddened; but these were symptoms of which she had seen enough in past days not to be greatly terrified, even while she exclaimed aghast.

‘Aye!’ said Mr. Kendal, sternly. ‘What do you think of young Dusautoy’s handiwork?’

‘What could you have done to him, Maurice?’

‘I painted his image.’

‘The children got into the painting-room,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and did some mischief; Maurice ought to have known better, but that was no excuse for his violence. I do not know what would have been the consequence, if poor little Albinia’s screams had not alarmed me. I found Algernon striking him with his doubled fist.’

‘But I gave him a dig in the nose,’ cried Maurice, in exultation; ‘I pulled ever so much hair out of his whiskers. I had it just now.’

‘This sounds very sad,’ said Albinia, interrupting the search for the trophy. ‘What were you doing in the painting-room? You know you had no business there.’

‘Why, mamma, little Awk wanted me to look at the pictures that Lucy shows her. And then, don’t you know his image? the little white bare boy pulling the thorn out of his foot. Awkey said he was naughty not to have his clothes on, and so I thought it would be such fun to make a militiaman of him, and so the paints were all about, and so I gave him a red coat and black trousers.’

‘Oh, Maurice, Maurice, how could you?’

‘I couldn’t help it, mamma! I did so want to see what Algernon would do!’

‘Well.’

‘So he came up and caught us. And wasn’t he in a jolly good rage? that’s all. He stamped, and called me names, and got hold of me to shake me, but I know I kicked him well, and I had quite a handful out of his whisker; but you see poor little Awkey is only a girl, and couldn’t help squalling, so papa came up.’

‘And in time!’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘he reeled against me, almost stunned, and was hardly himself for some moments. His nose bled violently. That fellow’s fist might knock down an ox.’

‘But he didn’t knock me down,’ said Maurice. ‘You told me he did not, papa.’

‘That’s all he thinks of!’ said Mr. Kendal, in admiration.

‘Not a cry nor a tear from first to last. I told Sophy to let me know when Bowles came.’

‘For a black eye?’ cried the hard-hearted mother, laughing. ‘You should have seen what Maurice and Fred used to do to each other.’

‘Oh, tell me, mamma,’ cried Maurice, eagerly.

‘Not now, master,’ she said, not thinking his pugnacity in need of such respectable examples. ‘It would be more to the purpose to ask Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy’s pardon for such very bad behaviour.’

Mr. Kendal looked at her in indignant surprise. ‘Ours is not the side for the apology,’ he said. ‘If Dusautoy has a spark of proper feeling, he must excuse himself for such a brutal assault.’

‘I am afraid Maurice provoked it; I hope my little boy is sorry for having been so mischievous, and sees that he deserves—’

Mr. Kendal silenced her by an impatient gesture, and feeling that anything was better than the discussion before the boy, she tried to speak indifferently, and not succeeding, left the room, much annoyed that alarm and indignation had led the indulgent father to pet and coax the spirit that only wanted to be taken down, and as if her discipline had received its first real shock.

Mr. Kendal followed her upstairs, no less vexed. ‘Albinia, this is absurd,’ he said. ‘I will not have the child punished, or made to ask pardon for being shamefully struck.’

‘It was shameful enough,’ said Albinia; ‘but, after all, I can’t wonder that Algernon was in a passion; Maurice did behave very ill, and it would be much better for him if you would not make him more impudent than he is already.’

‘I did not expect you to take part against your own child, when he has been so severely maltreated,’ said he, with such unreasonable displeasure, that almost thinking it play, she laughed and said, ‘You are as bad as the mothers of the school-children, when they wont have them beaten.’

He gave a look as if loth to trust his ears, walked into his room, and shut the door. The thrill of horror came over her that this was the first quarrel. She had been saucy when he was serious, and had offended him. She sprang to the door, knocked and called, and was in agony at the moment’s delay ere he returned, with his face still stern and set. Pleading and earnest she raised her eyes, and surrendered unconditionally. ‘Dear Edmund, don’t be vexed with me, I should not have said it.’

‘Never mind,’ he said, affectionately; ‘I do not wish to interfere with your authority, but it would be impossible to punish a child who has suffered so severely; and I neither choose that Dusautoy should be made to think himself the injured party, nor that Maurice should be put to the pain of apologizing for an offence, which the other party has taken on himself to cancel with interest.’