What has put such a fancy in your head, my dear? said Albinia, nearly smiling.
Grandmammas Betty said so, she used to call me Peter Grievous, and I know it is so. It is of no good to bother yourself about me. It cant be helped, and theres an end of it.
There is not an end of it, indeed! cried Albinia. Why, Sophy, do you suppose I could bear to leave you so?
Im sure I dont see why not.
Why not? continued Albinia, in her bright, tender voice. Why, because I must love you with all my heart. You are your own dear papas child, and this little mans sister. Yes, and you are yourself, my poor, sad, lonely child, who does not know how to bring out the thoughts that prey on her, and who thinks it very hard to have a stranger instead of her own mother. I know I should have felt so.
But I have behaved so ill to you, cried Sophy, as if bent on repelling the proffered affection. I would not like you, and I did not like you. Never! and I have gone against you every way I could.
And now I love you because you are sorry for it.
Im notSophy had begun, but the words turned into Am I?
I think you are, and with the sweetest of tearful smiles, she put an arm round the no longer resisting Sophy, and laying her cheek against the little brothers, she kissed first one and then the other.
I cant think why you are so, said Sophy, still struggling against the undeserved love, though far more feebly. I shall never deserve it.
See if you dont, when we pull together instead of contrary ways.
But, cried Sophy, with a sudden start from her, as if remembering a mortal offence, you drained the pond!
I own I earnestly wished it to be drained; but had you any reason for regretting it, my dear?
Ah! you did not know, said Sophy. He and I used to be always there.
He?
Why, will you make me say it? cried Sophy. Edmund! I mean Edmund! We always called it his pond. He made the little quay for his boatshe used to catch the minnows there. I could go and stand by it, and think he was coming out to play; and now you have had it dried up, and his dear little minnows are all dead, and she burst into a passion of tears, that made Maurice cry till Albinia hastily carried him off and returned.
My dear, I am sorry it seemed so unkind. I do not think we could have let the pond stay, for it was making the house unhealthy; but if we had talked over it together, it need not have appeared so very cruel and spiteful.
I dont believe you are spiteful, said Sophy, though I sometimes think so.
The filial compliment was highly gratifying.
And now, Sophy, she said, that I have told you why we were obliged to have the pond drained, will you tell me what you wanted with baby at Mrs. Osborns?
I will tell, said Sophy, but you wont like it.
I like anything better than concealment.
Mrs. Osborn said she never saw him. She said you kept him close, and that nobody was good enough to touch him; so I promised I would bring him over, and I kept my word. I know it was wrongandI did not think you would ever forgive me.
But how could you do it?
Mrs. Osborn and all used to be so kind to us when there was nobody else. I wont cast them off because we are too fine and grand for them.
I never thought of that. I only was afraid of your getting into silly ways, and your papa did not wish us to be intimate there. And now you see he was right, for good friends would not have led you to such disobedienceand by stealth, too, what I should have thought you would most have hated.
Albinia had been far from intending these last words to have been taken as they were. Sophy hid her face, and cried piteously with an utter self-abandonment of grief, that Albinia could scarcely understand; but at last she extracted some broken words. False! shabby! yesOh! I have been false! Oh! Edmund! Edmund! Edmund! the only thing I thought I still was! I thought I was true! Oh, by stealth! Why couldnt I die when I tried, when Edmund did?
And has life been a blank ever since?
Off and on, said Sophy. Well, why not? I am sure papa is melancholy enough. I dont like people that are always making fun, I cant see any sense in it.
Some sorts of merriment are sad, and hollow, and wrong, indeed, said Albinia, but not all, I hope. You know there is so much love and mercy all round us, that it is unthankful not to have a cheerful spirit. I wish I could give you one, Sophy.
Sophy shook her head. I cant understand about mercy and love, when Edmund was all I cared for.
But, Sophy, if life is so sad and hard to you, dont you see the mercy that took Edmund away to perfect joy? Remember, not cutting you off from him, but keeping him safe for you.
No, no, cried Sophy, I have never been good since he went. I have got worse and worse, but I did think I was true still, that that one thing was left mebut now The sense of having acted a deception seemed to produce grief under which the stubborn pride was melting away, and it was most affecting to see the child weeping over the lost jewel of truth, which she seemed to feel the last link with the remarkable boy whose impress had been left so strongly on all connected with him.
My dear, the truth is in you still, or you could not grieve thus over your failure, said Albinia. I know you erred, because it did not occur to you that it was not acting openly by me; but oh! Sophy, there is something that would bring you nearer to Edmund than hard truth in your own strength.
I dont know what you mean, said Sophy.
Did you ever think what Edmund is about now?
I dont know, said Sophy.
I only know that the one thing which is carried with us to the other world is love, Sophy, and love that becomes greater than we can yet imagine. If you would think of Him who redeemed and saved your dear Edmund, and who is his happiness, his exceeding great reward, your heart would warm, and, oh! what hope and peace would come!
Edmund was good, said Sophy, in a tone as if to mark the hopeless gulf between.
And you are sorry. All human goodness begins from sorrow. It had even to be promised first for baby at his christening, you know. Oh, Sophy, Gods blessing can make all these tears come to joy.
Albinias own tears were flowing so fast, that she broke off to hide them in her own room, her heart panting with hope, and yet with grief and pity for the piteous disclosure of so dreary a girlhood. After all, childhood, if not the happiest, is the saddest period of lifepains, griefs, petty tyrannies, neglects, and terrors have not the alleviation of the experience that this also shall pass away; time moves with a tardier pace, and in the narrower sphere of interests, there is less to distract the attention from the load of grievances. Hereditary low spirits, a precocious mind, a reserved temper, a motherless home, the loss of her only congenial companion, and the long-enduring effect of her illness upon her health, had all conspired to weigh down the poor girl, and bring on an almost morbid state of gloomy discontent. Her fathers second marriage, by enlivening the house, had rendered her peculiarities even more painful to herself and others, and the cultivation of mind that was forced upon her, made her more averse to the trifling and playfulness, which, while she was younger, had sometimes brightened and softened her. And this was the girl whom her father had resolved upon sending to the selfish, inconsiderate, frivolous world of school-girls, just when the first opening had been made, the first real insight gained into her feelings, the first appearance of having touched her heart! Albinia felt baffled, disappointed, almost despairing. His stern decree, once made, was, she knew, well-nigh unalterable; and though resolved to use her utmost influence, she doubted its power after having seen that look of decision. Nay, she tried to think he might be right. There might be those who would manage Sophy better. Eighteen months had been a fair trial, and she had failed. She prayed earnestly for whatever might be best for the child, and for herself, that she might take it patiently and submissively.
Sophy felt the heat of the day a good deal, but towards the evening she revived, and seemed so much cheered and refreshed by her tea, that, as the sound of the church bell came sweetly down in the soft air, Albinia said, Sophy, I am going to take advantage of my holiday and go to the evening service. I suppose you had rather not come?
I think I will, returned Sophy, somewhat glumly, but Albinia hailed the answer joyfully, as the first shamefaced effort of a reserved character wishing to make a new beginning, and she took care that no remark, not even a look, should rouse the sullen sensitiveness that could so easily be driven back for ever.
Slowly they crept up the steps on the shady side of the hill, watching how, beyond the long shadow it cast over the town and the meadows, the trees revelled in the sunset light, and windows glittered like great diamonds, where in the ordinary daylight the distance was too great for distinct vision.
The church was cool and quiet, and there was something in Sophys countenance and reverent attitude that seemed as if she were consecrating a newly-formed resolution; her eye was often raised, as though in spite of herself, to the name of the brother whose short life seemed inseparably interwoven with all the higher aspirations of his home.
In the midst of the Thanksgiving, a sudden movement attracted Albinia, and she saw Sophy resting her head, and looking excessively pale. She put her arm round her, and would have led her out, but could not persuade her to move, and by the time the Blessing was given, the power was gone, and she had almost fainted away, when a tall strong form stooped over her, and Mr. Dusautoy gathered her up in his arms, and bore her off as if she had been a baby, to the open window of his own drawing-room.
Put me down! The floor, please! said Sophy, feebly, for all her remaining faculties were absorbed in dislike to the mode of conveyance.
Yes, flat on the floor, said Mrs. Dusautoy, rising with full energy, and laying a cushion under Sophys head, reaching a scent-bottle, and sending her husband for cold water and sal volatile; with readiness that astonished Albinia, unused to illness, and especially to faintings, and remorseful at having taken Sophy out. Was it the pain of her arm that had overcome her?
No, said Sophy, it was only my back.
Indeed! you never told me you had hurt your back; and Albinia began describing the fall, and declaring there must be a sprain.
Oh, no, said Sophy, kneeling always does it.
Does what, my dear? said Albinia, sitting on the floor by her, and looking up to Mrs. Dusautoy, exceedingly frightened.
Makes me feel sick, said Sophy; I thought it would go off, as it always does, it didnt; but it is better now.
No, dont get up yet, said Mrs. Dusautoy, as she was trying to move; I would offer you the sofa, it would be more hospitable, but I think the floor is the most comfortable place.
Thank you, much, said Sophy, with an emphasis.
Do you ever lie down on it when you are tired? asked the lady, looking anxiously at Sophy.
I always wish I might.
Albinia was surprised at the interrogations that followed; she did not understand what Mrs. Dusautoy was aiming at, in the close questioning, which to her amazement did not seem to offend, but rather to be gratifying by the curious divination of all sensations. It made Albinia feel as if she had been carrying on a deliberate system of torture, when she heard of a pain in the back, hardly ever ceasing, aggravated by sitting upright, growing severe with the least fatigue, and unless favoured by day, becoming so bad at night as to take away many hours of sleep.
Oh! Sophy, Sophy, she cried, with tears in her eyes, how could you go on so? Why did you never tell me?
I did not like, began Sophy, I was used to it.
Oh, that barrier! Albinia was in uncontrollable distress, that the girl should have chosen to undergo so much suffering rather than bestow any confidence. Sophy stole her hand into hers, and said in her odd, short way, Never mind, it did not signify.
Yes, said Mrs. Dusautoy, those things are just what one does get so much used to, that it seems much easier to bear them than to speak about them.
But to let oneself be so driven about, cried Albinia. Oh! Sophy, you will never do so again! If I had ever guessed
Please hush! Never mind! said Sophy, almost crossly, and getting up from the floor quickly, as though resolved to be well.
I have never minded long enough, sighed Albinia. What shall I do, Mrs. Dusautoy? What do you think it is?
This was the last question Mrs. Dusautoy wished to be asked in Sophys presence. She had little doubt that it was spine complaint like her own, but she had not intended to let her perceive the impression, till after having seen Mrs. Kendal alone. However, Albinias impetuosity disconcerted all precautions, and Sophys two great black eyes were rounded with suppressed terror, as if expecting her doom. I think that a doctor ought to answer that question, Mrs. Dusautoy began.
Yes, yes, exclaimed Albinia, but I never had any faith in old Mr. Bowles, I had rather go to a thorough good man at once.
Yes, certainly, by all means.
And then to whom! I will write to my Aunt Mary. It seems exactly like you. Do you think it is the spine?
I am afraid so. But, my dear, holding out her hand caressingly to Sophy, you need not be frightenedyou need not look at me as an example of what you will come toI am only an example of what comes of never speaking of ones ailments.
And of having no mother to find them out! cried Albinia.
Indeed, said Mrs. Dusautoy, anxious to console and encourage, as well as to talk the young step-mother out of her self-reproach, I do not think that if I had been my good aunts own child, she would have been more likely to find out that anything was amiss. It was the fashion to be strong and healthy in that house, and I was never really illbut I came as a little stunted, dwining cockney, and so I was considered ever afternever quite comfortable, often forgetting myself in enjoyment, paying for it afterwards, but quite used to it. We all thought it was only Fanny, and part of my London breeding. Yes, we thought so in good faith, even after the largest half of my life had been spent in Yorkshire.
And what brought it to a crisis? Did they go on neglecting you? exclaimed Albinia.
Why, my dear, said the little lady, a glow lighting on her cheek, and a smile awakening, my uncle took a new curate, whom it was the family custom to call the good-natured giant, and whose approach put all of us young ladies in a state of great excitement. It was all in character with his good-nature, you know, to think of dragging the poor little shrimp up the hill to church, and I believe he did not know how she would get on without his strong arm; for do you know, when he had the curacy of Lauriston given him, he chose to carry the starveling off with him, instead of any of those fine, handsome prosperous girls. Dear Mary and Bessie! how good they were, and how kind and proud for me! I never could complain of not having sisters.
Well, and Mr. Dusautoy made you have advice?
Not he! Why, we all believed it cockneyism, you know, and besides, I was so happy and so well, that when we went to Scotland, I fairly walked myself off my legs, and ended the honeymoon laid up in a little inn on Loch Katrine, where John used regularly to knock his head whenever he came into the room. It was a fortnight before I could get to Edinburgh, and the journey made me as bad as ever. So the doctors were called in, and poor John learnt what a crooked stick he had chosen; but they all said that if I had been taken in hand as a child, most likely I should have been a sound woman. The worst of it was, that I was so thoroughly knocked up that I could not bear the motion of a carriage; besides, I suppose the doctors wanted a little amusement out of me, for they would not hear of my going home. So poor John had to go to Lauriston by himself, and those were the longest, dreariest six months I ever spent in my life, though Bessie was so good as to come and take care of me. But at last, when I had nearly made up my mind to defy the whole doctorhood, they gave leave, and between water and steam, John brought me to Lauriston, and ever since that, I dont see that a backbone would have made us a bit happier.