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

‘What! your little governess friend?’ said Ulick. ‘Yes; she did show superior wit, when the rest of the world stood gaping round.’

‘It was admirable—just like Genevieve’s tenderness and dexterity,’ said Albinia. ‘I dare say she is doing everything for the poor little fellow.’

‘Yes, admirable,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘but you all behaved very creditably, ladies.’

‘Ay,’ said Albinia; ‘not to scream is what a man thinks the climax of excellence in a woman.’

‘It is generally all that is required,’ said Mr. Kendal. I don’t know what I should have done if poor Lucy had been there.’

Thereupon the ladies went upstairs, Maurice following Sophy to extract a full account of the skirmish. The imp probably had an instinct that she would think more of what redounded to Ulick O’More’s glory than of what would be edifying to his own infant mind. It was doubtful how long it would be before Guy Fawkes would arrive at his proper standing in the little Awk’s opinion, after the honour of an auto-da-fe in company with papa.

Mr. Hope escorted Genevieve home, and was kept to dinner. They narrated that they had found the public-house open, and the bar full of noisy runaways.

The burns were dreadful, but the surgeon did not think they would be fatal, and the child had held Genevieve’s hand throughout the dressing, and seemed so unwilling to part with her, that she had promised to come again the next day, and had been thanked gratefully. There seemed no positive want of comforts, and there was every hope that all would do well.

Genevieve looked pale after the scene she had gone through, and could not readily persuade herself to eat, still less rally her spirits to talk; but she managed to avoid observation at dinner-time, and afterwards a rest on the sofa restored her. She evidently felt, as she said, that this was coming home, and her exquisite gift of tact making her perceive that she was to be at ease and on an equality, she assumed her position without giving her friends the embarrassment of installing her, and Mr. Hope was in such a state of transparent admiration, that Albinia could not help two or three times noiselessly clapping her hands under the table, and secretly thanking the rioters and their tag-rag and bob-tail for having provided a home for little Genevieve Durant.

There was indeed a pang as she thought of Gilbert; but she believed that Genevieve’s heart had never been really touched, and was still fresh and open. She thought she might make Mr. Kendal and Sophy equally magnanimous. Perhaps by that time Sophy would be too happy to have leisure to be hurt, and she had little fear but that Mr. Kendal’s good sense would conquer his jealousy for his son, though it might cost him something.

Two lovers to befriend at once! Two desirable attachments to foster! There was glory! Not that Albinia fulfilled her mission to a great extent; shamefacedness always restrained her, and she had not Emily’s gift for making opportunities. Indeed, when she did her best, so perversely bashful were the parties, that the wrong pairs resorted together, the two who could talk being driven into conversation by the silence of the others.

Of Mr. Hope’s sentiments there could be no doubt. He was fairly carried off his feet by the absorption of the passion, which was doubly engrossing because all ladies had hitherto appeared to him as beings with whom conversation was an impossible duty; but after all he had heard of Miss Durant, he might as a judicious man select her for an excellent parsoness, and as a young man fall vehemently in love. Nothing could be more evident to the lookers-on, but Albinia could not satisfy herself whether Genevieve had any suspicion.

She was not very young, knew something of the world, and was acute and observing; but on the other hand, she had made it a principle never to admit the thought of courtship, and she might not be sufficiently acquainted with the habits of the individual to be sensible of the symptomatic alteration.

She had begged the Dusautoys to make her leisure profitable, and spent much of her time upon the schools, on her little patient in Tibb’s Alley, and in going about among the poor; she visited her old shopkeeper friends, and drank tea with them much oftener than gratified Mr. Kendal, talking so openly of the pleasure of seeing them again, that Albinia sometimes thought the blood of the O’Mores was a little chafed.

‘There,’ said Genevieve, completing a housewife, filled with needles ready threaded, ‘I wonder whether the omnibus is too protestant to leave a parcel at the convent?’

‘I don’t think its scruples of conscience would withstand sixpence,’ said Albinia.

‘You might post it for less than that,’ said Sophy.

‘Don’t you know,’ said Ulick O’More, who was playing with the little Awk in the window, ‘that the feminine mind loves expedients? It would be less commonplace to confide the parcel to the conductor, than merely let him receive it as guard of the mail bag and servant of the public.’

‘Exactly,’ laughed Genevieve. ‘Think of the moral influence of being selected as bearer of a token of tenderness to my aunt on her fete, instead of being treated as a mere machine, devoid of human sympathies.’

‘Sophy, where were we reading of a nation which gives the simplest transaction the air of a little romance?’ said Ulick.

‘And I have heard of a nation which denudes every action of sentiment, and leaves you the tree without the leaves,’ was Genevieve’s retort.

‘That misses fire, Miss Durant; my nation does everything by the soul, nothing by mechanism.’

‘When they do do it.’

‘That’s a defiance. You must deprive the conductor of the moral influence, whether as man or machine, and entrust the parcel to me.’

‘That would be like chartering a steamer to send home a Chinese puzzle.’

‘No, indeed; I must go to Hadminster. Bear me witness, Sophy, Miss Goldsmith wants me to talk to the house agent.’

‘Mind, if you miss St. Leocadia’s day, you will miss my aunt’s fete.’

Mr. O’More succeeded in carrying off the little parcel. The next morning, as the ladies were descending the hill, a hurried step came after them, and the curate said in an abrupt rapid manner, ‘I beg your pardon, I was going to Hadminster; could I do anything for you?’

‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Albinia, at whom he looked.

‘Did I not hear—Miss Durant had some work to send her aunt to-day?’

‘How did you know that, Mr. Hope?’ exclaimed Genevieve.

‘I heard something pass, when some one was admiring your work,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘And this—I think—is St. Leocadia’s day.’

‘I am very much obliged to you for remembering it, but I have sent my little parcel otherwise, so I need not trouble you.’

‘Ah! how stupid in me! I am very sorry. I beg your pardon,’ and he hurried off, looking as if very sorry were not a mere matter of course.

‘Poor man,’ thought Albinia, ‘I dare say he has reckoned on it all this time, and hunted out St. Leocadia in Alban Butler, and then tried to screw up his courage all yesterday. Ulick has managed to traverse a romance, but perhaps it is just as well, for what would be the effect on the public of Mr. Hope in that coat being seen ringing at the convent door?’

‘Well, Miss Durant,’ said Ulick, entering the drawing-room in the winter twilight, ‘here is evidence for you!’

‘You have actually penetrated the convent, and seen my aunt? Impossible! and yet this pencilled note is her own dear writing!’

‘You don’t mean that you really were let in?’ cried Sophy.

‘I entered quite legitimately, I assure you. It was all luck. I’d just been putting up at the Crown, when what should I see in a sort of a trance, staring right into the inn-yard, but as jolly-looking a priest as ever held a station. “An’ it’s long since I’ve seen the like of you,” says he aloud to himself. “Is it the car?” says I. “Sure it is,” says he. “I’ve not laid my eyes on so iligant a vehicle since I left County Tyrone.”’

‘Mr. O’Hara!’ exclaimed Genevieve.

‘“And I’m mistaken if you’re not the master of it,” he goes on, taking the measure of me all over,’ continued Ulick, putting on his drollest brogue. ‘You see he had too much manners to say that such a personable young gentleman, speaking such correct English, could be no other than an Irishman, so I made my bow, and said the car and I were both from County Galway, and we were straight as good friends as if we’d hunted together at Ballymakilty. To be sure, he was a little taken aback when he found I was one of the Protestant branch, of the O’Mores, but a countryman is a countryman in a barbarous land, and he asked me to call upon him, and offered to do me any service in his power.’

‘I am sure he would. He is the kindest old gentleman I know,’ exclaimed Genevieve. ‘He always used to bring me barleysugar-drops when I was a little girl, and it was he who found out our poor old Biddy in distress at Hadminster, and sent her to live with us.’

‘Indeed! Then I owe him another debt of gratitude—in fact, he told me that one of his flock, meaning Biddy, had spoken to him honourably of me. “Well,” said I, “the greatest service you could do me, sir, would be to introduce me to Mademoiselle Belmarche; I have a young lady’s commission for her.” “From my little Genevieve,” he said, “the darling that she is. Did you leave the child well?” And so when I said it was a present for her saint’s day, and that your heart was set on it—’

‘But, Mr. O’More, I never did set my heart on your seeing her.’

‘Well, well, you would have done it if you’d known there had been any chance of it, besides, your heart was set on her getting the work, and how could I make sure of that unless I gave it into her own hand? I wouldn’t have put it into Mr. O’Hara’s snuffy pocket to hinder myself from being bankrupt.’

‘Then he took you in?’

‘So he did, like an honest Irishman as he was. He rang at the bell and spoke to the portress, and had me into the parlour and sent up for the lady; and I have seldom spent a pleasanter hall-hour. Mademoiselle Belmarche bade me tell you that she would write fuller thanks to you another day, and that her eyes would thank you every night.’

‘Was her cold gone? Did she seem well, the dear aunt?’

Genevieve was really grateful, and had many questions to ask about her aunt, which met with detailed answers.

‘By-the-by,’ said Ulick,’ I met Mr. Hope in the street as I was coming away, I offered him a lift, but he said he was not coming home till late. I wonder what he is doing.’

Albinia and Sophy exchanged glances, and had almost said, ‘Poor Mr. Hope!’ It was very hard that the good fortune and mere good nature of an indifferent person should push him where the quiet curate so much wished to be. Albinia would have liked to have had either a little impudence or a little tact to enable her to give a hint to Ulick to be less officious.

St. Leocadia’s feast was the 9th of December. Three days after, Genevieve received a letter which made her change countenance, and hurry to her own room, whence she did not emerge till luncheon-time.

In the late afternoon, there was a knock at the drawing-room door, and Mr. Dusautoy said, ‘Can I speak with you a minute, Mrs. Kendal?’

Dreading ill news of Lucy, she hurried to the morning-room with him.

‘Fanny said I had better speak to you. This poor fellow is in a dreadful state.’

‘Algernon!’

‘No, indeed. Poor Hope! What has possessed the girl?’

‘Genevieve has not refused him?’

‘Did you not know it? I found him in his rooms as white as a sheet! I asked what was the matter, he begged me to let him go away for one Sunday, and find him a substitute. I saw how it was, and at the first word he broke down and told me.’

‘Was this to-day?’

‘Yes. What can the silly little puss be thinking of to put an excellent fellow like that to so much pain? Going about it in such an admirable way, too, writing to old Mamselle first, and getting a letter from her which he sends with his own, and promising to guarantee her fifty pounds a year out of his own pocket. ‘I should like to know what that little Jenny means by it. I gave her credit for more sense.’

‘Perhaps she thinks, under the circumstances of her coming here, within the year—’

‘Ah! very proper, very pretty of her; I never thought of that; I suppose I have your permission to tell Hope?’

‘I believe all the town knew it,’ said Albinia.

‘Yes; he need not be downhearted, he has only to be patient, and he will like her the better for it. After all, though he is as good a man as breathes, he cannot be Gilbert, and it will be a great relief to him. I’ll tell him to put all his fancies about O’More out of his head.’

‘Most decidedly,’ said Albinia; ‘nothing can be greater nonsense. Tell him by no means to go away, for when she finds that our feelings are not hurt, and has become used to the idea, I have every hope that she will be able to form a new—’

‘Ay; ay; poor Gilbert would have wished it himself. It is very good of you, Mrs. Kendal; I’ll put the poor fellow in spirits again.’

‘Did you hear whether she gave any reasons?’

‘Oh! I don’t know—something about her birth and station; but that’s stuff—she’s a perfect lady, and much more.’

‘And he is only a bookseller’s son.’

‘True, and though it might be awkward to have the parson’s father-in-law cutting capers if he lived in the same town, yet being dead these fifteen or eighteen years, where’s the damage?’

‘Was that all?’

‘I fancy that she said she never meant to marry, but that’s all nonsense; she is the very girl that ought, and I hope you will talk to her and bring her to reason. There’s not a couple in the whole place that I should be so glad to marry as those two.’

Albinia endeavoured to discuss the matter with Genevieve that night when they went upstairs. It was not easy to do, for Genevieve seemed resolved to wish her good-night outside her door, but she made her entrance, and putting her arm round her little friend’s waist, said, ‘Am I very much in your way, my dear? I thought you might want a little help, or at least a little talk.’

‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal, I hoped you did not know!’ and her eyes filled with tears.

Mr. Dusautoy told me, my dear; poor Mr. Hope’s distress betrayed him, and Mr. Dusautoy was anxious I should—’

Genevieve did not let her finish, but exclaiming, ‘I did not expect this from you, madame,’ gave way to a shower of tears.

‘My dear child, do we not all feel you the more one with ourselves for this reluctance?’ said Albinia, caressing her fondly. ‘It shall not be forced upon you any more till you can bear it.’

‘’Till!’ exclaimed Genevieve, alarmed. ‘Oh! do not say that! Do not hold out false hopes! I never shall!’

‘I do not think you are a fair judge as yet, my dear.’

‘I think I am,’ said Genevieve, slowly, ‘I must not let you love me on false pretences, dearest Mrs. Kendal. I do not think it is all for—for his sake—but indeed, though I must esteem Mr. Hope, I do not believe I could ever feel for him as—’ then breaking off. ‘I pray you, with all my heart, dearest friend, never to speak to me of marriage. I am the little governess, and while Heaven gives me strength to work for my aunt, and you let me call this my home, I am content, I am blessed. Oh! do not disturb and unsettle me!’

So imploringly did she speak, that she obliterated all thought of the prudent arguments with which Albinia had come stored. It was no time for them; there was no possibility of endeavouring to dethrone the memory of her own Gilbert, and her impulse was far more to agree that no one else could ever be loved, than to argue in favour of a new attachment. She was proud of Gilbert for being thus recollected, and doubly pleased with the widowed heart; nor was it till the first effect of Genevieve’s tears had passed off that she began to reflect that the idea might become familiar, and that romance having been abundantly satisfied by the constancy of the Lancer, sober esteem might be the basis of very happy married affection.

Mr. Hope did not go away, but he shrank into himself, and grew more timid than ever, and it was through the Dusautoys that Albinia learnt that he was much consoled, and intended to wait patiently. He had written to Mdlle. Belmarche, who had been extremely disappointed, and continued to believe that so excellent and well brought up a young girl as her niece would not resist her wishes with regard to a young pastor so respectable.

Sophy, when made aware of what was going on, did not smile or shed a tear, only a strange whiteness came across her face. She made a commonplace remark with visible effort, nor was she quite herself for some time. It was as if the reference to her brother had stirred up the old wound. Genevieve seemed to have been impelled to manifest her determination of resuming her occupation, she wrote letters vigorously, answered advertisements, and in spite of the united protest of her friends, advertised herself as a young person of French extraction, but a member of the Church of England, accustomed to tuition, and competent to instruct in French, Italian, music, and all the ordinary branches of education. Address, G. C. D., Mr. Richardson’s, bookseller, Bayford.

CHAPTER XXX

Miss Goldsmith went to spend Christmas with an old friend, leaving Ulick more liberty than he had enjoyed for a long time. He used it a good deal at Willow Lawn, and was there of course on Christmas-day. After dinner the decoration of the church was under discussion. The Bayford neighbourhood was unpropitious to holly, and Sophy and Genevieve had hardly ever seen any, except that Genevieve remembered the sooty bits sold in London. Something passed about sending for a specimen from Fairmead, but Albinia said that would not answer, for her brother’s children were in despair at the absence of berries, and had ransacked Colonel Bury’s plantations in vain.

The next day, about twilight, Albinia and Sophy were arranging some Christmas gifts for the old women, in the morning-room; Genevieve was to come and help them on her return from the child in Tibb’s Alley.

‘Oh, here she comes, up the garden,’ said Sophy, who was by the window.

Presently Albinia heard a strange sound as of tightened breath, and looking up saw Sophy deathly pale, with her eyes fixed on the window. In terror she flew to her side, but Sophy spoke not, she only clutched her hand with fingers cold and tight as iron, and gazed with dilated eyes. Albinia looked—

Ulick had come from the house—there was a scarlet-berried spray in Genevieve’s hand, which she was trying to make him take again—his face was all pleading and imploring—she turned hastily from him, and they saw her cheek glowing with crimson—she tried to force back the holly spray—but her hand was caught—he was kissing it. No, she had rent it away—she had fled in through the conservatory—they heard the doors—she had rushed up to her own room.

Sophy’s grasp grew more rigid—she panted for breath.

‘My child! my child!’ said Albinia, throwing her arms round her, expecting her to faint. ‘Oh! could I have imagined such treason?’ Her eyes flashed, and her frame quivered with indignation. ‘He shall never come into this house again!’

‘Mamma! hush!’ said Sophy, releasing herself from her embrace, and keeping her body upright, though obliged to seat herself on the nearest chair. ‘It is not treason,’ she said slowly, as though her mouth were parched.

‘Contemptible fickleness!’ burst out Albinia, but Sophy implored silence by a gesture.

‘No,’ she said; ‘it was a dream, a degrading, humiliating dream; but it is over.’

‘There is no degradation except to the base trifler I once thought better things of.’

‘He has not trifled,’ said Sophy. ‘Wait! hush!’

There was a composure about her that awed Albinia, who stood watching in suspense while she went to the bed-room, drank some water, cooled her brow, pushed back her hair, and sitting down again in the same collected manner, which gave her almost a look of majesty, she said, ‘Promise me, mamma, that all shall go on as if this folly had never crossed our minds.’

‘I can’t! I can’t, Sophy!’ said Albinia in the greatest agitation. ‘I can’t unknow that you have been shamefully used.’

‘Then you will lead papa to break his promise to Genevieve, and lower me not only in my own eyes, but in those of every one.’

‘He little knew that he was bringing her here to destroy his daughter’s happiness. So that was why she held off from Mr. Hope,’ cried Albinia, burning with such indignation, that on some one she must expend it, but a tirade against the artfulness of the little French witch was cut off short by an authoritative—

‘Don’t, mamma! You are unjust! How can she help being loveable!’

‘He had no business to know whether she was or not.’

‘You are wrong, mamma. The absurdity was in thinking I ever was so.’

‘Very little absurd,’ said Albinia, twining her arms round Sophy.

‘Don’t make me silly,’ hastily said Sophy, her voice trembling for a moment; ‘I want to tell you all about it, and you will see that no one is to blame. The perception has been growing on me for a long time, but I was weak enough to indulge in the dream. It was very sweet!’ There again she struggled not to break down, gained the victory, and went on, ‘I don’t think I should have dared to imagine it myself, but I saw others thought it, who knew more; I knew the incredible was sometimes true, and every little kindness he did—Oh! how foolish! as if he could help doing kindnesses! My better sense told me he did not really distinguish me; but there was something that would feed upon every word and look. Then last year I was wakened by the caricature business. That opened my eyes, for no one who had that in him would have turned my sister into derision. I was sullen then and proud, and when—when humanity and compassion brought him to me in my distress—oh! why—why could not I have been reasonable, and not have selfishly fed on what I thought was revived?’

‘He had no right—’ began Albinia, fiercely.

‘He could neither help saving Maurice, nor speaking comfort and support when he found me exhausted and sinking. It was I who was the foolish creature—I hate myself! Well, you know how it has been—I liked to believe it was the thing—I knew he cared less for me than—but I thought it was always so between men and women, and that I would not have petty distrusts. But when she came, I saw what the true—true feeling is—I saw that he felt when she came into the room—I saw how he heard her words and missed mine—I saw—’ Sophy collected herself, and spoke quietly and distinctly, ‘I saw his love, and that it had never been for me.’

There was a pause; Albinia could not bear to look, speak, or move. Sophy’s words carried conviction that swept away her sand castle.

‘Now, mamma,’ said Sophy, earnestly, ‘you own that he has not been false or fickle.’

‘If he has not, he has disregarded the choicest jewel that lay in his way,’ said Albinia with some sharpness.

‘But he has not been that,’ persisted Sophy.

‘Well—no; I suppose not.’

‘And no one can be less to blame than Genevieve.’

‘Little flirt, I’ve no patience with her.’

‘She can’t help her manners,’ repeated Sophy, ‘I feel them so much more charming than mine every moment. She will make him so happy.’

‘What are you talking of, Sophy? He must be mad if he is in earnest. A man of his family pride! His father will never listen to it for a moment.’

‘I don’t know what his father may do,’ said Sophy; ‘but I know what I pray and entreat we may do, and that is, do our utmost to make this come to good.’

‘Sophy, don’t ask it. I could not, I know you could not.’

‘There is no loss of esteem. I honour him as I always did,’ said Sophy. ‘Yes, the more since I see it was all for papa and the right, all unselfish, on that 5th of November. Some day I shall have worn out the selfishness.’

She kept her hand tightly pressed on her heart as she spoke, and Albinia exclaimed, ‘You shall not see it; you overrate your strength; it is my business to prevent you!’

‘Think, mamma,’ said Sophy, rising in her earnestness. ‘Here is a homeless orphan, whom you have taught to love you, whom papa has brought here as to a home, and for Gilbert’s sake. Is it fair—innocent, exemplary as she is—to turn against her because she is engaging and I am not, to cut her off from us, drive her away to the first situation that offers, be it what it may, and with that thought aching and throbbing in her heart? Oh, mamma! would that be mercy or justice?’