Kathleen Norris - "Undertow"

William Shakespeare - "The Comedie of Errors"

Edgar B. P. Darlington - "The Circus Boys On the Mississippi"

Anthony Trollope - "North America"

The Two Sides of the Shield

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Two Sides of the Shield




And Dolores was certainly softening and improving. A word to Mrs.
Halfpenny had secured the two girls being permitted to say their
prayers together in Dolores's room unmolested; and what was a reality
to a contemporary became less and less to Dolores a mere lesson imposed
by the authority of an elder. That link between religious instruction
and daily life, which is all important, yet so difficult to find, was
being gradually put into Dolores's hands by her little cousin-friend.
Lady Merrifield hoped and guessed it might be thus, from the questions
that Mysie asked her at times, and from the quickened attention Dolores
showed to her religious lessons, and her less dull and indifferent air
at church.

It could not be said that she was different with the others. She was
depressed, and wanted spirits for enjoyment, nor would active romping
diversions ever be pleasant to her. She had not the nature for them,
and was not young enough to learn to like them. It could not but seem
foolish to her to race about as a Croat or a savage, and she only
beheld with wonder Gillian's genuine delight in games not merely
entered into for the sake of the little ones. But there was a strong
devotion growing up in her to her aunt and to Mysie, and what they
asked of her she did--even when on a wet day her aunt condemned her to
learn battledore and shuttle-cock of Gillian, who was equally to be
pitied for the awkwardness of her pupil and the banter of her brothers,
while Dolly picked up her shuttlecock and tossed it off with grim
determination, as if doing penance for this dismal half hour. She
managed better in the games where ready sharpness of intellect or
memory was wanted, and she liked these, and would have liked them still
better if Uncle Reginald had not always looked astonished if she
laughed.

She did her part, too, in the little play, being one of the chorus of
the maidens who 'make a vow to make a row.' Lady Merrifield had,
according to the general request, saved disputes by casting the parts,
Gillian being the sage old woman who brought the damsels to reason.
Fly, the prime mover of the tumult, and Mysie, her confidante, while
Val and Dolly made up the mob. A little manipulation of skirts,
tennis-aprons, ribbons, and caps made very nice peasant costumes. Hal
was the self-important Bailli, and Jasper the drummer, the part of
gens-d'armes being all that Wilfred and Fergus could be trusted with.

Lord Rotherwood came back, and his little daughter's ecstacy was goodly
to see, as she danced about her daddy, almost bursting with the secret
of what he was to see after dinner, and showing herself so brilliantly
well and happy that he congratulated himself upon her mother's
satisfaction.

While the elders were at dinner, Gillian, with Miss Vincent's help,
finished off the arrangements. There were no outsiders, except the
Vicar and Mr. Pollock who had been asked to dinner, for Lady
Merrifield said she never liked to make her children an exhibition.

'You are an old-fashioned Lily,' said her cousin, 'and happily not
concerned with popularity. It is a fine thing to be able to consult
one's children's absolute best.'

The performance went off beautifully--at least so thought both actors
and spectators. The dignity of the Bailli and the meddling of the
drummer were alike delightful; Fly was charmingly arch and mutinous;
Mysie very straightforward; and the least successful personation was
that of Gillian, who had a fit of stage-fright, forgot sentences, and
whirred her spinning-wheel nervously, all the worse for being scolded
by her brothers behind the scenes, and assured that she was making a
mull of the whole affair. And she had been so spirited at the
rehearsals, but she was at a self-conscious age, and could not forget
the four spectators. Very little was required of Dolores, but that
little she did simply and well, and Lord Rotherwood, after watching her
all the evening, observed to Lady Merrifield, 'I should say your
difficulties were diminishing, are they not? The thunder-cloud seems
to be a little lightened.'

'I am so glad you think so, Rotherwood. I feel sure that all this
distress has drawn her nearer to us, only Regie won't believe it.'

'Regie is prejudiced.'

'Is he? I thought him specially fond of Maurice's child, and that this
was revulsion of feeling; but what I am afraid of is, that he will
never believe in her or like her again, whatever she may be, and she is
really fond of him.'

'Yes, Reginald is not over disposed to believe in any woman's truth--
outside his own family and sisters. Poor fellow! I can't say he was
well used.'

'What? I suppose be has bad his romance like other people--his little
episode, as my husband calls it.'

'Yes; and I am afraid we were accountable for it. You remember we were
at Harthope Castle for the first two years after I was married, while
Rotherwood was brought up to the requirements of the Victorian age.

The ---th was quartered at Harfield, within easy distance, and a
splendid looking fellow like Regie was invaluable to Victoria, whenever
she wanted anything to go off well. Well, in those days I had a ward,
my mother's great niece, Maude Conway. A pretty winsome creature it
was, and an heiress in a moderate sort of way, and poor old Redge,
after all his little affairs, and he had had his share of them, was
evidently in for it at last. Victoria thought, as well as myself, it
was the best thing for them both. He was the sound-hearted, good
fellow to keep her matters straight, and she had enough for comfort
without overweighting the balance. So they were engaged but unluckily
they had to wait till she was of age, about eight months off, and they
were both ridiculously shy, and would not have the thing known, though
Victoria said it was unwise. I don't think even Jane suspected it.'

'No; I don't think she could have done so.'

'Well, there was the season, and Victoria was not in condition for
going out, and Maude was all for staying quietly with her; but old Lady
Conway came about--a regular schemer--a woman I never could abide. She
had married off her own daughters, and wanted her niece to practise on,
that was the fact. Victoria says she always knew that she, Maude I
mean, was very impressionable and impulsive, and so she wanted to have
her out of harm's way; but one could not prevent her aunt from getting
hold of her and taking her out. Then people told us of her goings on
with that scamp Clanmacklosky and that sister of his. Victoria talked
to her by the yard, but she denied it, and we thought it all gossip.
Regie came up for a couple of nights, and she was as sweet on him as
ever, and sent him away thinking it all right; but the end of it was,
she fought off going down to Rotherwood with us, but went to Brighton
with Lady Conway, and the next thing we heard was that she wrote to
throw Reginald over, and she married Clanmacklosky a month after she
was twenty-one! I don't think I ever saw Victoria so cut up, for we had
really liked the girl and thought well of her. To this hour I believe
it was all that woman's doing, and that poor Maude has supped sorrow.
She has lost all her good looks.'

'And Regie has never got over it?'

'Not so as to believe in a woman again.'

'He used to be rather a joke for susceptibility, and was still a
regular boy when we went out to Gibraltar. I thought him much graver.'

'Exactly; since that affair his soul has gone into his regiment. It's
a wife to him, and luckily he got his promotion in time, so as not to
be shelved.'

'I suppose it was really an escape.'

'I don't know--she would have done very well in his hands. She is the
sort of woman to be as you make her, and even now is a world too good
for Clan. Victoria can never be quite cordial with her, but I can't
see the poor harassed thing without thinking what a sweet creature she
once was, and wishing I'd had the sense to look after her better. But
what I came here for, Lily, was to say you must let me have that Mysie
of yours, since you won't come yourself to this concern of ours. I'm
afraid you won't think much good has come of us, but we couldn't do the
Country Mouse much harm in a fortnight; and you know it is the wish of
my heart that my lonely Fly should grow up on such terms with your
flock as Florence and I did with you all.'

He pleaded quite piteously, and he was backed up by a letter from his
wife, very grateful for her little Phyllis's happy visit, reiterating
the invitation to Lady Merrifield, and begging that if she still could
not come herself, she would at least send Jasper and Mysie for the
Butterfly's Ball. Mysie's fancy dress would be ready for her, only
waiting for the final touches after it was tried on. Lady Florence
Devereux, too, was near at hand, and wrote to promise to look after
Mysie.

There was no refusing after this. Lady Florence was not far from being
like a sister to her cousins. She had tended her mother's old age, and
had subsequently settled down into the lady of all work of Rotherwood
parish. Lady Merrifield had much confidence in her, and indeed all she
saw of Fly gave her a great respect for Lady Rotherwood's management of
her child. Harry was going to his uncle's at Beechcroft for some
shooting, and would bring Mysie home when Jasper went back to school.

So Gillian was called to her mother's room to be told first of the
arrangement, which certainly in some aspects was rather hard on her.

'I could not help it, my dear,' said Lady Merrifield, 'without
absolutely asking for an invitation for you.'

'No, mamma; and it is Mysie who is Fly's friend, being the same age and
all. It is quite right, and I understand it.'

'My dear, I am so glad I can do such a thing as this. If there were
small jealousies among you, I could not venture on letting you be set
aside, for I know the disappointment was quite as great to you as to
Mysie, when we gave it up.'

'But she was better about it than I,' said Gillian; 'mamma, your
trusting me in that way is better than a dozen balls. Besides, I know
I should hate being there without you; I'm a great old thing, as Jasper
says, neither fish nor fowl, you know, not come out, and not a little
girl in the schoolroom, and it would be very horrid going to a grand
place like that on one's own account.'

'That's right, Gillyflower. 'Tis very wholesome to discover the
sourness of the grapes. And as I think grandmamma is really coming, I
shall want you at home, and to look after Dolores.'

'That's the worst of it, mamma; I shall never get on with her as Mysie
does.'

'We must do our best, for I do think really the poor child is
improving.'

'Lessons will begin again! That's one comfort,' said Gillian, rather
quaintly, thinking of the length of time that Dolores would thus be off
her hands.

'And now call Mysie. I must speak to her.'

As for Mysie, she was in a state of rapture. She knew her bliss before
her mother had communicated it, for Lord Rotherwood could not refrain
from telling his daughter that consent was gained, and Fly darted
headlong to embrace Mysie, dance round her and rejoice. The boys
declared that Mysie at once sprang into the air like a chamois, and
that her head touched the ceiling, but this is believed to be a figment
of Jasper's.

It was only on the summons to her mother's room that Mysie discovered
that Gillian was not going with her. It dimmed the lustre of her
delight for a little while, 'Oh, Gill, aren't you very sorry? You
ought to have had the first turn.'

'Never mind, Mysie, you are Fly's friend,'--and the two sisters' looks
at one another at that moment were a real pleasure to their mother.

Mysie was of a less shy nature than Gillian, as well as at a less
awkward age, so that the visiting without her mother was less
formidable, and she rushed about wild with delight; but Dolores was
very disconsolate.

'Every one I care for goes away and changes,' she said in her
melancholy little sentiment.

'But it's only for a fortnight, Dolly, I don't think I could change so
fast.'

'Oh yes, you will, among all those swells. You like Fly ever so much
better than me.'

Mysie looked grieved and puzzled, but then exclaimed, in the tone of a
discovery, 'There are different sorts of likings, Dolly, don't you see.
I do love Fly very much, but you know you are like a sort of almost
twin sister to me. I like her best, but I care about you most!'

With which curious distinction Dolores had to put up.




CHAPTER XIX.

A SADDER AND A WISER AUTHORESS.



Colonel Mohun took Wilfred to his school, which began its term earlier
than did Jasper's, and Silver-ton was wonderfully quiet. The elder
Mrs. Merrifield was not to come for nearly a week, so that it would
have been possible for her daughter-in-law to go to the Rotherwood
festivities without interfering with her visit, but this no one except
Gillian and Mysie knew, and they kept the secret well.

The departure of the boys was a great relief to Dolores. Her aunt did
not rank her with Valetta and Fergus, but let her consort with herself
and Gillian, and this suited her much better. Even Gillian allowed
that she was ever so much nicer when there was no one to tease her. It
was true that Jasper certainly, and perhaps Wilfred, would not have
molested her if she had not offended the latter, and offered herself as
fair game; but Gillian, who had to forestall and prevent their pranks,
could not feel their absence quite the privation her sisterly spirit
usually did!

Valetta and Fergus were harmless without them, but they were forlorn,
being so much used to having their sports led by their two seniors that
they hardly knew what to do without them, and the entreaty, or rather
the whine, 'I want something to do,' was heard unusually often. This
led to Gillian's being often called off to attend to them during the
course of wet days that ensued, and thus Dolores was a good deal alone
with her aunt, who was superintending her knitting a pair of silk
stockings to send out to her father, it was hoped in time for his next
birthday.

At the first proposal, Dolores looked dull and unwilling, and at last
she squeezed out, 'I don't think father will ever want me to do
anything for him again.'

'My poor child, do you think a father does not forgive and love all the
more one who is in deep sorrow for a fault?'

'I don't think my letter seemed sorry! I was not half so sorry then as
I am now,' then at a kind word from her aunt her eyes overflowed, and
she said, 'No, I wasn't; I didn't know how good you were, or how bad I
was!'

And when Aunt Lily kissed her, she put her arms round the kind neck
that bent down to her, and laid her head against it, as if it was quite
a rest to feel that love. Her aunt encouraged her to write again to
her father, and to try to express something of her grief and entreaty
for forgiveness, and she was somewhat cheered after this; as though
something of the load on her mind was removed. One day she brought
down all the books in her room and said, 'Please, Aunt Lily, look at
them, and let them be with the rest in the schoolroom, I want to be
just like the others.'

Lady Merrifield was much pleased with this surrender. Some of the
books were really well worth having and reading, indeed, the best of
them she knew, but there were eight or ten which she suspected of being
what Mysie called silly stories, and she kept them back to look over.
She had been trying in this quiet interval to get Dolly to read
something besides mere childish stories for recreation; and when she
saw how well worn the story books were, and how untouched the 'easy
history,' and the books about animals and foreign countries were, she
saw why so clever a girl as Dolores seemed so stupid about everything
she had not learnt as a lesson, and entirely ignorant of English
poetry.

Lady Merrifield read to her and Gillian in the evenings, and how they
did enjoy it, and bemoaned the coming of grandmamma, to spoil their
snugness and occupy 'mamma.' For Dolores began so to call Lady
Merrifield. She had never so termed her own mother, and it seemed to
her that with the words 'Aunt Lily' she put away all sorts of foolish,
sinister feelings.

'Mrs. Merrifield was a wonderful old lady, brisk of mind and body,
though of great age. She had been spending Christmas with her eldest
son, the Admiral, at Stokesley, and was going to take on her way the
daughter-in-law, of whom she knew but little in comparison; and with
her she brought the granddaughter, Elizabeth Merrifield, who--since her
own daughter had died--generally lived with her in London, to take care
of her.

'It will be all company and horrid, and nobody will be allowed to make
a noise!' sighed Valetta to Fergus, as the waggonette, well shut up,
drove to the door.

'There's cousin Bessie,' said Fergus.

'Oh, cousin Bessie is thirty-four, and that is as bad as being as old
as grandmamma!'

And they hung back while the old lady was helped out, and brought
across the hall into the warm drawing-room before her fur cloak was
taken off. There was a quiet little person with her, and Val
whispered, 'She'll be just like Aunt Jane.'

But the eyes that Bessie turned on her cousins were not at an like Aunt
Jane's little searching black ones. They were of a dark shade of grey,
and had a wonderful softness and sweetness in them. Gillian knew her a
little already, but very little, for there had always been the elder
sisters at their former short meetings. Mamma lamented that there
should be so few grandchildren at home to be shown, though, as she
said, 'the full number might have been too noisy.'

Grandmamma shook her head. 'I like the house full,' she said, 'I'm all
right, but it is a pity to see the nest emptied, like Stokesley, now.
Nobody left at home but Susan and little Sally! Make the most of them
while you have them about you!'

The old lady was quite delighted to find Primrose so nearly a baby, and
to have one grandchild still quite as small or smaller than some of her
great grandchildren whom she had never seen. Her great pleasure,
however, soon proved to be in talking about her son Jasper, and hearing
all his wife could tell her about his life in India; and as Lady
Merrifield liked no other subject so well, they were very happy
together, and quite absorbed.

Meanwhile Bessie made herself a companion to Gillian and Dolores, and
though so much older, seemed to consider herself as a girl like them.
Then, living for the most part in town, she could talk about London
matters to Dolly, and this was a great treat, while yet she had country
tastes enough to suit Gillian, and was not in the least afraid of a
long walk to the fir plantations to pick up Weymouth pine cones, and
the still more precious pinaster ones.

For the first time Gillian began to see Dolores as Uncle Reginald used
to know her, free from that heavy mist of sullen dislike to everything
and everybody. It seemed to bring them together, but, in spite of
Bessie's charms, they both continually missed Mysie, out of doors and
in, in schoolroom and drawing-room, and, above all, in Dolly's bedroom.
She seemed to be, as Gillian told Bessie, 'a sort of family cement,
holding the two ends, big and little, together;' and Bessie responded
that her elder sister Susan was one of that sort.

The evenings now were quite unlike the usual ones. Dinner was late,
and the two girls came down to it. Afterwards the young ones sat round
the fire in the hall, where Bessie, who was a wonderful story-teller,
kept Fergus and Valetta quiet and delighted, either with invented tales
or histories of the feats of her own brothers and sisters, who were so
much older than their Silverton first cousins as to be like an elder
generation.

When the two young ones were gone to bed, the others came into the
drawing-room, where mamma and grandmamma were to be found, either going
over papa's letters, or else Mrs. Merrifield talking about her
Stokesley grandchildren, the same whose pranks Bessie had just been
telling, so that it was not easy to believe in Sam, a captain in the
navy. Harry and John farming in Canada, David working as a clergy-man
in the Black Country, George in. a government office, Anne a
clergyman's wife, and mother to the great grandchildren who were always
being compared to Primrose, Susan keeping her father's house, and
Sarah, though as old as Alethea, still treated as the youngest--the
child of the family.

The bits of conversation came to the girls as they sat over their work,
and Bessie would join in, and tell interesting things, till she saw
that grandmamma was ready for her nap, and then one or other gave a
little music, during which Dolly's bed-time generally came.

'You can't think how grateful I am to you for helping to brighten up
that poor child in a wholesome way!' said Lady Merrifield to Bessie,
under cover of Gillian's performance.

'One can't help being very sorry for her,' said Elizabeth, who knew
what was hanging over Dolly.

'Yes, it is a terrible punishment, especially as she has a certain
affection for her step-uncle, or whatever he should be called, for her
mother's sake. It really was a perplexed situation.'

'But why did she not consult you?'

'Do you know, I think I have found out. She held aloof from us all,
and treated us--especially me--as if we were her natural enemies, and I
never could guess what was the reason till the other day; she
voluntarily gave me up all her books to be looked over and put into the
common stock, which you saw in the schoolroom.'

'You look over all the children's books?'

'Yes. While we were wandering, they did not get enough to make it a
very arduous task, and now I find that they want weeding. If children
read nothing but a multitude of stories rather beneath their capacity,
they are likely never to exert themselves to anything beyond novel
reading.'

'That is quite true, I believe.'

'Well, among this literature of Dolly's I found no less than four
stories based on the cruelty and injustice suffered by orphans from
their aunts. The wicked step-mothers are gone out, and the barbarous
aunts are come in. It is the stock subject. I really think it is
cruel, considering that there are many children who have to be adopted
into uncles' families, to add to their distress and terror, by raising
this prejudice. Just look at this one'--taking up Dolly's favourite,
'Clare; or No Home'--'it is not at all badly written, which makes it
all the worse.'

'Oh, Aunt Lilias,' cried Bessie, whose colour had been rising all this
time. 'How shall I tell you? I wrote it!'

'You! I never guessed you did anything in that line.'

'We don't talk about it. My father knows, and so does grandmamma, in a
way; but I never bring it before her if I can help it, for she does not
half like the notion. But, indeed, they aren't all as bad as that! I
know now there is a great deal of silly imitation in it; but I never
thought of doing harm in this way. It is a punishment for
thoughtlessness,' cried poor Bessie, reddening desperately, and with
tears in her eyes.

'My dear, I am so sorry I said it! If I bad not one of these aunts, I
should think it a very effective story.'

'I'm afraid that's so much the worse! Let me tell you about it, Aunt
Lilias. At home, they always laughed at me for my turn for
dismalities.'

'I believe one always has such a turn when one is young.'

'Well, when I went to live with grandmamma, it was very different from
the houseful at home, I had so much time on my hands, and I took to
dreaming and writing because I could not help it, and all my stories
were fearfully doleful. I did not think of publishing them for ever so
long, but at last when David terribly wanted some money for his mission
church, I thought I would try, and this Clare was about the best. They
took it, and gave me five pounds for it, and I was so pleased and never
thought of its doing harm, and now I don't know how much more mischief
it may have done!'

'You only thought of piling up the agony! But don't be unhappy about
it. You don't know how many aunts it may have warned.'

'I'm afraid aunts are not so impressionable as nieces. And, indeed,
among ourselves story-books seemed quite outside from life, we never
thought of getting any ideas from them any more than from Bluebeard.'

'So it has been with some of mine, while, on the other hand, Dolores
seemed to Mysie an interesting story-book heroine--which indeed she is,
rather too much so. But you have not stood still with Clare.'

'No, I hope I have grown rather more sensible. David set me to do
stories for his lads, and, as he is dreadfully critical, it was very
improving.'

'Did you write 'Kate's Jewel'? That is delightful. Aunt Jane gave it
to Val this Christmas, and all of us have enjoyed it! We shall be quite
proud of it--that is--may I tell the children?'

'Oh, aunt, you are very good to try to make me forget that miserable
Clare. I wonder whether it will do any good to tell Dolores all about
it. Only I can't get at all the other girls I may have hurt.'

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