"Her care was all worry," said Sophy, "and it will be very lucky if I don"t tell her so, if she says her provoking things to mamma. But you wont believe them, papa."
"Most certainly not."
"Yes, you must tell her to be happy again," continued Sophy; "I cannot bear to see her looking sorrowful! Last night, when she fancied me asleep, she cried--oh! till it made me miserable! And to-day I heard Miss Ferrars say to Mrs. Annesley, that her fine spirits were quite gone. You know it is very silly, for I am the last person in all the world she ought to cry for."
"She has an infinite treasure of love," said Mr. Kendal, "and we have done very little that we should be blessed with it."
"There, they are come home!" exclaimed Sophy, starting up as sounds were heard on the stairs, and almost at the same moment Albinia was in the room, overflowing with contrition, gladness, and anxiety; but something of sweetness in the first hasty greeting made the trust overcome all the rest; and, understanding his uppermost wish, she stepped back to the staircase, and in another second had put Maurice into his arms, blooming and contented, and with a wide-mouthed smile for his papa. Mr. Kendal held him fondly through all the hospitable welcomes of the aunts, and his own explanations; but to Albinia it was all confusion, and almost annoyance, till she could take him upstairs, and tell her own story.
"I am afraid you have been very much alarmed," were his first words.
"I have done everything wrong from beginning to end," said Albinia. "Oh, Edmund, I am so glad you are come! Now you will see the doctor, and know whether it was as bad as all the rest to bring her to London."
"My dearest, you must calm yourself, and try to explain. You know I understand nothing yet, except from your resolute little advocate downstairs, and your own note, which I could scarcely make out, except that you were in great trouble."
"Ah, that note; I wrote it in one of my impetuous fits. Maurice used to say I ran frantic, and grew irrational, and so I did not know what I was saying to you; and I brought that poor patient girl up here in all the heat, and the journey hurt her so much, that I don"t know how we shall ever get her home again. Oh, Edmund, I am the worst wife and mother in the world; and I undertook it all with such foolish confidence."
Mr. Kendal liked her impetuous fits as little as her brother did, and was not so much used to them; but he dealt with her in his quiet, straightforward way. "You are exaggerating now, Albinia, and I do not wonder at it, for you have had a great deal to startle and to try you.
Walking up and down is only heating and agitating you more; sit down here, and let me hear what gave you this alarm."
The grave affection of his manner restrained her, and his presence soothed the flutter of spirits; though she still devoted herself with a sort of wilfulness to bear all the blame, until he said, "This is foolish, Albinia; it is of no use to look at anything but the simple truth. This affection of the spine must be const.i.tutional, and if neglect have aggravated the evil, it must date from a much earlier period than since she has been under your charge. If any one be to blame, it is myself, for the apathy that prevented me from placing the poor things under proper care, but I was hardly then aware that Maria"s solicitude is always in the wrong place."
"But everybody declares that it was always visible, and that no one could look at her without seeing that she was crooked."
"Apres le coup," said Mr. Kendal. "I grant you that a person of more experience might perhaps have detected what was amiss sooner than you did, but you have only to regret the ignorance you shared with us all; and you did your utmost according to your judgment."
"And a cruel utmost it was," said Albinia; "it is frightful to think what I inflicted, and she endured in silence, because I had not treated her so that she could bear to speak to me."
"That is over now," said Mr. Kendal, "you have conquered her at last.
Pride could not hold out against such sweetness."
"It is her generosity," said Albinia; "I always knew she was the best of them all, if one could but get at her."
"What have you done to her? I never heard her say half so much as she voluntarily said to me just now."
"Poor dear! I believe the key of her heart was lost when Edmund died, and so all within was starved," said Albinia. "Yes," as his eyes were suddenly raised and fixed on her, "I got to that at last. No one has ever understood her, since she lost her brother."
"She has a certain likeness to him. I knew she was his favourite sister; but such a child as she was--"
"Children have deeper souls than you give them credit for," said Albinia. "Yes, Edmund, you and Sophy are very much alike! You had your study, and poor Sophy enclosed herself in a perpetual coc.o.o.n of study atmosphere, and so you never found each other out till to-day."
Perhaps it was the influence of the frantic fit that caused her to make so direct a thrust; but Mr. Kendal was not offended. There was a good deal in the mere absence from habitual scenes and a.s.sociations; he always left a great deal of reserve behind him at Bayford.
"You may be right, Albinia," he said; "I sometimes think that amongst us you are like the old poet"s "star confined into a tomb.""
Such a compliment was a pretty reward for her temerity.
Returning to business, she found that her journey was treated as more judicious than she deserved. The consequences had justified her decision. Mr. Kendal knew it was the right thing to be done, and was glad to have been spared the dreadful task of making up his mind to it.
He sat down of his own accord to write a note to Winifred, beginning, "Albinia was right, as she always is," and though his wife interlined, "Albinia had no right to be right, for she was inconsiderate, as she always is," she looked so brilliantly pretty and bright, and was so full of sunny liveliness, that she occasioned one of the very few disputes between her good aunts. Miss Ferrars declared that poor Albinia was quite revived by the return to her old home, and absence of care, while Mrs. Annesley insisted on giving the credit to Mr. Kendal. They were perfectly agreed in unwillingness to part with their guests; and as the doctor wished to see more of his patient, the visit was prolonged, to the enjoyment of all parties.
Sophy had received her sentence so easily, that it was suspected that she did not realize the tedium of confinement, and was relieved by being allowed to be inactive. Until she should go home, she might do whatever did not fatigue her; but most sights, and even the motion of the carriage, were so fatiguing, that she was much more inclined to remain at home and revel in the delightful world of books. The kind, un.o.btrusive petting; the absence of customary irritations; the quiet high-bred tone of the family, so acted upon her, as to render her something as agreeably new to herself as to other people. The glum mask was cast aside, she responded amiably to kindness and attention, allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and developed much more intelligence and depth than even Albinia had given her credit for.
One day, when Miss Ferrars was showing Mr. Kendal some ill.u.s.trations of Indian scenery, a question arose upon the date of the native sovereign to whom the buildings were ascribed. Mr. Kendal could not recollect; but Sophia, looking up, quietly p.r.o.nounced the date, and gave her reasons for it. Miss Ferrars asked how she could have learnt so much on an out-of-the-way topic.
"I read a book of the History of India, up in the loft," said Sophy.
"That book!" exclaimed her father; "I wish you joy! I never could get through it! It is the driest chronicle I ever read--a mere book of reference. What could induce you to read that?"
"I would read anything about India;" and her tone, though low and subdued, betrayed such enthusiasm as could find nothing dry, and this in a girl who had read aloud the reign of Edward III. with stolid indifference!
"Well, I think I can promise you more interesting reading about India when we go home," said Mr. Kendal.
The colour rose on Sophy"s cheek. Books out of papa"s study! Could the world offer a greater privilege?" She could scarcely p.r.o.nounce, "Thank you."
"Very faithful to her birth-place," said Miss Ferrars; "but she must have been very young when she came home."
"About five years old, I believe," said her father. "You surely can remember nothing of Talloon."
"I don"t know," said Sophy, mournfully; "I used--"
"I thought Indian children usually lost their eastern recollections very early," said Miss Ferrars; "I never heard of one who could remember the sound of Hindostanee a year after coming home."
Mr. Kendal, entertained and gratified, turned to his daughter; and, by way of experiment, began a short sentence in Hindostanee; but the first sound brought a glow to her cheeks, and, with a hurried gesture, she murmured, "Please don"t, papa."
Albinia saw that feelings were here concerned which must not be played on in public; and she hastily plunged into the discussion, and drew it away from Sophy. Following her up-stairs at bed-time, she contrived to win from her an explanation.
Edmund had been seven years old at the time of the return to England.
Fondly attached to some of the Hindoo servants, and with unusual intelligence and observation, the gorgeous scenery and oriental habits of his first home had dwelt vividly in his imagination, and he had always considered himself as only taken to England for a time, to return again to India. Thus, he had been fond of romancing of the past and of the future, and had never let his little sister"s recollections fade entirely away. His father had likewise thought that it would save future trouble to keep up the boys" knowledge of the language, which would by-and-by be so important to them. Gilbert"s health had caused his studies to be often intermitted, but Edmund had constantly received instructions in the Indian languages, and whatever he learnt had been imparted to Sophia. It was piteous to discover how much time the poor forlorn little girl had spent sitting on the floor in the loft, poring over old grammars, and phrase-books, and translations of missionary or government school-books there acc.u.mulated--anything that related to India, or that seemed to carry on what she had done with Edmund: and she had acquired just enough to give her a keen appet.i.te for all the higher cla.s.s of lore, which she knew to reside in the unapproachable study.
Those few familiar words from her father had overcome her, because, a trivial greeting in themselves, they had been a kind of pa.s.sword between her and her brother.
Mr. Kendal was greatly touched, and very remorseful for having left such a heart to pine in solitude, while he was absorbed in his own lonely grief; and Albinia ventured to say, "I believe the greatest pleasure you could give her would be to help her to keep up the language."
He smiled, but said, "Of what possible use could it be to her?"
"I was not thinking of future use. It would be of immense present use to her to do anything with you, and I can see that nothing would gratify her so much. Besides, I have been trying to think of all the new things I could set her to do. She must have lessons to fill up the day, and I want to make fresh beginnings, and not go back to the blots and scars of our old misunderstandings."
"You want me to teach her Sanscrit because you cannot teach her Italian."
"Exactly so," said Albinia; "and the Italian will spring all the better from the venerable root, when we have forgotten how cross we used to be to each other over our relative p.r.o.nouns."
"But there is hardly anything which I could let her read in those languages."
"Very likely not; but you can pick out what there is. Do you remember the fable of the treasure that was to be gained by digging under the apple-tree, and which turned out not to be gold, but the fruit, the consequence of digging? Now, I want you to dig Sophy; a Sanscrit, or a Hindostanee, or a Persian treasure will do equally well as a pretext. If she had announced a taste for the differential calculus, I should have said the same. Only dig her, as Maurice dug me apropos to Homer. I wouldn"t bother you, only you see no one else could either do it, or be the same to Sophy."
"We will see how it is," said Mr. Kendal.
With which Albinia was obliged to be content; but in the meantime she saw the two making daily progress in intimacy, and Mr. Kendal beginning to take a pride in his daughter"s understanding and information, which he ascribed to Albinia, in spite of all her disclaimers. It was as if she had evoked the spirit of his lost son, which had lain hidden under the sullen demeanour of the girl, devoid indeed of many of Edmund"s charms, but yet with the same sterling qualities, and with resemblance enough to afford infinite and unexpected joy and compensation.
Mr. Kendal enjoyed his stay in town. He visited libraries, saw pictures, and heard music, with the new zest of having a wife able to enter into his tastes. He met old friends, and did not shrink immoderately from those of his wife; nay, he found them extremely agreeable, and was pleased to see Albinia welcomed. Indeed, his sojourn in her former sphere served to make him wonder that she could be contented with Bayford, and to find her, of the whole party, by far the most ready to return home. Both he himself and Sophy had an unavowed dread of the influence of Willow Lawn; but Albinia had a spring of spirits, independent of place, and though happy, was craving for her duties, anxious to have the journey over, and afraid that London was making her little Maurice pale.