Mr. Kendal made no answer. Albinia ventured to ask him whether it would not be better to leave it, since her aunt had talked to her.
No, he said; Maria has no influence whatever with the children. She frets them by using too many words about everything. One quiet remonstrance from you would have far more effect.
Albinia called the culprit and tried to reason with her. Lucy tried at first to battle it off by saying that she had made a mistake, and Aunt Maria had said that she should hear no more about it. But, my dear, I am afraid you must hear more. It is not that I am hurt, but your papa has desired me to talk to you. You would be frightened to hear what he says.
Lucy chose to hear, and seemed somewhat struck, but she was sure that she meant no harm; and she had a great deal to say for herself, so voluble and so inconsequent, that argument was breath spent in vain; and Albinia was obliged to wind up, as an ultimatum, with warning her, that till she should prove herself trustworthy, nothing interesting would be talked of before her.
The atmosphere of gossip certainly had done its part in cultivating Mr. Kendals talent for silence. When Albinia had him all to herself, he was like another person, and the long drives to return visits in the country were thoroughly enjoyable. So, too, were the walks home from the dinner parties in the town, when the husband and wife lingered in the starlight or moonlight, and felt that the weary gaiety of the constrained evening was made up for.
Great was the offence they gave by not taking out the carriage!
It was disrespect to Bayford, and one of the airs of which Mrs. Kendal was accused. As granddaughter of a Baron, daughter of one General Officer and sister of another, and presented at Court, the Bayford ladies were prepared to consider her a fine lady, and when they found her peculiarly simple, were the more aggrieved, as if her contempt were ironically veiled. Her walks, her dress, her intercourse with the clergy, were all airs, and Lucy spared her none of the remarks. Albinia might say, Dont tell me all Aunt Maria says, but it was impossible not to listen; and whether in mirth or vexation, she was sure to be harmed by what she heard.
And yet, except for the tale-bearing, Lucy was really giving less trouble than her sister, she was quick, observant, and obliging, and under Albinias example, the more salient vulgarities of speech and manner were falling off. There had seldom been any collision, since it had become evident that Mrs. Kendal could and would hold her own; and that her address and air, even while criticised, were regarded as something superior, so that it was a distinction to belong to her. How many of poor Albiniaa so-called airs should justly have been laid to Lucys account?
On the other hand, Sophy would attend to a word from her father, where she had obstinately opposed her step-mothers wishes, making her obedience marked, as if for the very purpose of enforcing the contrast. It was a character that Albinia could not as yet fathom. In all occupations and amusements, Sophy followed the lead of her elder sister, and in her lessons, her sole object seemed to be to get things done with as little trouble as possible, and especially without setting her mind to work, and yet in the very effort to escape diligence or exertion, she sometimes showed signs of so much ability as to excite a longing desire to know of what she would be capable when once aroused and interested; but the surly, ungracious temper rendered this apparently impossible, and whatever Albinia attempted, was sure, as if for the very reason that it came from her, to be answered with a redoubling of the growl of that odd hoarse voice.
On Lucys birthday, there was an afternoon party of her young friends, including Miss Durant. Albinia, who, among the girlhood of Fairmead and its neighbourhood, had been so acceptable a playmate, that her marriage had caused the outcry that there would never be any fun again without Miss Ferrars, came out on the lawn with the girls, in hopes of setting them to enjoy themselves. But they looked at her almost suspiciously, retained their cold, stiff, company manners, and drew apart into giggling knots. She relieved them of her presence, and sitting by the window, watched Genevieve walking up and down alone, as if no one cared to join her. Presently Lucy and Lizzie Osborn spoke to her, and she went in. Albinia went to meet her in the hall; she coloured and said, She was only come to fetch Miss Osborns cloak.
Albinia saw her disposing it over Lizzies shoulders, and then running in again. This time it was for Miss Louisas cloak, and a third time for Miss Drurys shawl, which Albinia chose to take out herself, and encountering Sophia, said, Next time, you had better run on errands yourself instead of sending your guests.
Sophy gave a black look, and she retreated, but presently the groups coalesced, and Maria Drury and Sophy ran out to call Genevieve into the midst. Albinia hoped they were going to play, but soon she beheld Genevieve trying to draw back, but evidently imprisoned, there was an echo of a laugh that she did not like; the younger girls were skipping up in the victims face in a rude way; she hastily turned round as in indignation, one hand raised to her eyes, but it was instantly snatched down by Maria Drury, and the pitiless ring closed in. Albinia sprang to her feet, exclaiming aloud, They are teasing her! and rushed into the garden, hearing on her way, No, we wont let you go!you shall tell usyou shall promise to show usmy papa is a magistrate, you knowhell come and searchJenny, you shall tell!
Come with me, Genevieve, said Albinia, standing in the midst of the tormentors, and launching a look of wrath around her, as she saw tears in the young girls eyes, and taking her hand, found it trembling with agitation. Fondling it with both her own, she led Genevieve away, turning her back upon Lucy and her, We were only
The poor girl shook more and more, and when they reached the shelter of the house, gave way to a tightened, oppressed sob, and at the first kind words a shower of tears followed, and she took Albinias hand, and clasped it to her breast in a manner embarrassing to English feelings, though perfectly natural and sincere in her. Ah! si bonne! si bonne! pardonnes-moi, Madame! she exclaimed, sobbing, and probably not knowing that she was speaking French; but, oh, Madame, you will tell me! Is it truecan he?
Can who? What do you mean, my dear?
The Admiral, said Genevieve, looking about frightened, and sinking her voice to a whisper. Miss Louisa said so, that he could send and search
Search for what, my dear?
For my poor little secret. Ah, Madame, assuredly I may tell you. It is but a French Bible, it belonged to my martyred ancestor, Francois Durant, who perished at the St. Barthelemiit is stained with his bloodit has been handed on, from one to the otherit was all that Jacques Durant rescued when he fled from the Dragonnadesit was given to me by my own dear father on his death-bed, with a charge to keep it from my grandmother, and not to speak of itbut to guard it as my greatest treasure. And nowOh, I am not disobeying him, cried Genevieve, with a fresh burst of tears. You can feel for me, Madame, you can counsel me. Can the magistrates come and search, unless I confess to those young ladies?
Most decidedly not, said Albinia. Set your mind at rest, my poor child; whoever threatened you played you a most base, cruel trick.
Ah, do not be angry with them, Madame; no doubt they were in sport. They could not know how precious that treasure was to me, and they will say much in their gaiety of heart.