by Ellen Wood
“A minute, John: answer me a question or two before I answer yours. What age is this Miss St. George?”
“I do not know. I have a general idea that she is not young. I once saw her at Mr. Serle’s, but retain a very faint recollection of her. I fancy she is older than Mrs. Serle; and that she lives with her because she has no other home.”
“There; that’s quite enough: you have most fully answered me,” impetuously returned Mrs. Philip Danesbury. “Take care of yourself, John.”
“Take care of myself? In what way?”
“It will be a terrible temptation to a woman in her position, the getting herself to be the real mistress of this house. She will play her cards with the hope and view to be your second wife, John: mind she does not play them to win.”
A contraction of displeasure passed across Mr. Danesbury’s ample brow. He could not understand his sister-in-law, and deemed these remarks to be unworthy of her.
“John,” she resumed, “I can not help speaking out all my thoughts, but it is that I am anxious for the children’s welfare and your happiness. You can not understand these things, but I can; and rely upon it, this lady’s motive in proffering a temporary sojourn here arises from a dim hope that she may improve it into a permanent one. I see also another evil — that it will cause rebellion and warfare with the servants. You look surprised, but I tell you you have had no experience in these things, and do not understand them.”
No, Mr. Danesbury did not understand it at all, and he certainly did not believe it. He asked Mrs. Philip to remain to dinner.
“I will,” she replied, “and I shall let Miss St. George know unmistakably that I am Mrs. Philip Danesbury, the nearest kin you and the children have, and quite competent to direct the affairs of Danesbury House, where direction may be necessary, without her assistance.”
Mrs. Philip untied the crape strings of her bonnet as she spoke, and ran up stairs again. She was somewhat given to be dictatorial, but she was a thoroughly sincere, good woman at heart. Glisson opened upon her grievance.
“I hope this new person’s not going to take too much upon herself, ma’am, for it’s what I shan’t be able to put up with. I’d do any thing for a Danesbury, and for my dear late mistress, who was a mistress in a thousand, but an interloper is a different sort of thing. Master said we were to take our orders from her.”
“It’s beginning,” thought Mrs. Philip; but she did not choose to say so, she was fond of keeping servants in their place. “Miss St. George is a relative of poor Mrs. Danesbury, and every respect must be shown her, Glisson,” she said, in an authoritative tone. “Jessy, I hope you hear me also. I dare say you will get on very well with her for the time she is to remain.”
Glisson made no reply. She went out for the baby, who had been laid down for his mid-day sleep, and brought him in. The sleeves of his embroidered white frock were tied up with black silk ribbon, and he wore a broad black sash.
“Poor little motherless darling!” uttered Mrs. Philip, taking the child, and clasping him to her. “I wish papa would give you to me, my little god-son,” she murmured covering his sweet face, so lovely in its rosy flush, with kisses. The tears came into her eyes as she gazed on him — for the having no children had been Mrs. Philip Danesbury’s great trial in life. “Glisson,” she suddenly exclaimed, ‘‘how did that dreadful mistake happen? How came you to be deceived in the medicine?”
‘‘Ma’am,” said the nurse, turning round in a sort of phrensy, “I’ll go down upon my knees and beg you not to ask me! I have been almost mad ever since, thinking of it; and, if I have to talk of it, it will drive me quite so. I wish I had been dead before it had happened!”
She sat down in the rocking-chair, threw her apron over her head, and burst into a storm of wails and sobs. Mrs. Philip walked about with the child, and considerately abstained from further allusion to it. In the midst of this, the travellers were seen approaching. It was a clear, frosty day, and they were walking up from the Ram, where the stage-coach stopped. The two children, in their sombre black attire, were accompanied by two ladies, one of whom was in deep mourning, the other in slighter.
“Why, there’s two of them!” unceremoniously uttered Glisson, who had made her way to the window.
“Miss St. George has put on deep black to be like the family, as she is to stay here,” decided Mrs. Philip; “and the other must be Mrs. Serle.”
She eyed Miss St. George critically as she spoke. Glisson did the same. A thin, shortish, vinegar-looking lady, with cold, light eyes, a sharp nose, and flaxen hair: Miss St. George was one of those whom black attire does not improve.
“It’s a disagreeable face, if I ever saw one,” cried Glisson; “as cross as two sticks. If she knew any body was looking at her, she’d smooth it, I expect.”
“Five-and-thirty, if she’s a day, and a soured woman!” was Mrs. Philip Danesbury’s mental comment. “Won’t she be having a try at John?”
The visitors were shown to the drawing-room, a spacious apartment opening to the lawn. It was fitted up with rich silk damask furniture, mirrors, ornaments, and some exquisite paintings. Mrs. Philip Danesbury entered, and welcomed the two ladies gracefully, as though she were the mistress of the house.
“To whom have we the honour of speaking?” demanded Mrs. Serle.
“Madam, to the sister-in-law of Mr. Danesbury, the aunt of these dear children. I am Mrs. Philip Danesbury. This, I presume, is Miss St. George, who has kindly proffered us a visit.”
“I proffered it for her,” smiled Mrs. Serle, who appeared all complaisance. “The isolated condition of these poor children, left entirely to servants, struck me as being so pitiable, that I suggested to Eliza to come home with them for a short period, should it be agreeable to Mr. Danesbury. I did not know of their possessing so efficient a relative near to them. From the remarks of the children, I fancied Mrs. Philip Danesbury’s residence was in Yorkshire.”
“I have been there for a long visit. We appreciate your kindness, and shall be happy to render Miss St. George’s visit agreeable to her,” was the somewhat frigid answer of Mrs. Philip.
Mr. Danesbury came in. Unusually noble he looked in his deep mourning attire, and with the saddened expression on his fine features. Ere he had well kissed his two children, he was obliged to hurry from the room: their sight brought his loss and theirs too painfully to his memory.
“Harriet!” exclaimed Miss St. George, the moment she was alone with her sister in the chamber to which they had been shown, “I shall go back with you; I shan’t stop here. The idea of being domineered over by that sharp woman! She is mistress, and I should be no better than a temporary visitor; an interloper. I did not come down, and go in mourning for that.”
“You will do no such thing, Eliza. You are come, and you must remain. She is not mistress, she does not live here.”
“But she comes armed with full power to do as she pleases in the house; there’s no doubt of it. She’ll be here forever.”
“Nonsense. Stop, and feel your way. You will supersede her if you try. And if you don’t, you are only where you were before.”
“I hate children,” cried Miss St. George. “And to assume to ‘love’ these will be more difficult than I thought, with her shrewd eyes upon me.”
She sighed as she turned to the glass, and began to arrange the bands of her very light hair. She had no parents, no money, and had been obliged to her sister for a home. She was not always comfortable in it; her temper was bad, Mrs. Serle would not put up with it, and at such times would make her feel that she was an intruder. To get away from it, and take the sway in such a house as Mr. Danesbury’s, had been a glowing prospect, and the damper cast on it by the sight and words of Mrs. Philip was a mortifying disappointment. Whether she, or Mrs. Serle for her, had cast a glance to the possibility that time and luck might transform her into Mrs. Danesbury, can not be told.
“What, an exceedingly fine man Mr. Danesbury is!” exclaimed Mrs. Serle; “I should call him one
of nature’s true nobility. The child Arthur will be like him.”
“And what a handsome house,” returned Miss St. George. “Every thing so well appointed and comfortable.”
“Ay, plenty of wealth here, Eliza. If you can succeed in establishing a firm footing you will be fortunate.”
Mrs. Philip Danesbury, meanwhile, was looking about for Arthur, who had disappeared. She found him in the little room where Mrs. Danesbury used to assemble her children for the ten minutes after breakfast in the morning, to read to them their Bible stories and to talk of heaven. It was a duty she never omitted, and the children had learned to love it. Arthur was stretched across the low sofa where his mamma used to sit, crying as if his heart would break. Mrs. Philip Danesbury closed the door, sat down, and drew him to her.
“My darling, don’t sob so; be comforted.”
“Aunt Philip, I shall never see her again! I never thought it could be quite true till I came home now. Oh, mamma! mamma!”
“My child, be comforted; she is better off; she is gone to heaven.”
“But never to come back! never to come back!” he wailed. “Oh, mamma! if you would but come to me for one minute, only one!”
“Arthur, she can not return to you; you know it, my darling; but you will go to her.”
“But it is such a long while!”
‘‘It will come, my child. She is one of God’s angels now, and she will watch over you here, and wait for you.”
His sobs nearly choked him.
“Arthur, do you know why I am sure your mamma is happy, and is gone to the rest promised to the people of God?”
“Because she was good,” he sobbed.
“No, my darling: she was good; better than most people are; but she is gone because she loved Christ, and put her whole trust in Him. She had always taken God for her guide. She taught you to do so, Arthur.”
“Yes,” answered the child; and he gradually grew calmer.
“Aunt Philip,” he presently said, a catching sob seizing his breath occasionally, “how could that Giles let the gate fall against the horses?”
“Because he was a wicked man,” promptly answered Mrs. Philip, whose indignation was sure to break loose when she thought of the accident and its lamentable consequences. “He had got horribly tipsy, my dear, and could not hold it back.”
“Would it have happened if he had not been tipsy?”
“No, of course not: but for Giles’s drinking that night, your mamma would have been alive and well now; and, perhaps, sitting here with us.”
That set Arthur on again. “Why did he drink?” he sobbed. “Why does any body drink?”
“Because they are beasts,” said Mrs. Philip. “And they are nothing else,” she added, as if in apology for her word, “when they drink themselves into that state.”
“I never will,” said Arthur.
“You, my dearest! Oh no, never. Your dear mamma would be grieved in heaven if she were to look down and see you, even once, so far forget yourself.”
The child gazed upward at the blue sky, almost as if he were looking for his mother’s face there. Soon, he gave his head that very decided shake, which in him, child as he was, expressed firm, inward resolve.
“No, Aunt Philip, I will never drink. How long is she going to stay?” he added.
“Who, my dear?”
“Miss St George.”
“I can not tell. Don’t you like her?”
‘‘Not much,” answered Arthur. “She told me she was going to be with us, instead of mamma.”
Mrs. Philip Danesbury wondered what there could be, or not be, in Miss St. George, that nobody seemed to like her. She only hoped her brother-in-law would fall into the general opinion.
When they assembled to sit down to dinner, Arthur was not to be found. He had made his way into the factory to Thomas Harding. The latter shook him by the hand, and said he was glad to see him home again.
“Mr. Harding,” whispered the child, struggling to hide the tears, which would rise to his eyes, “could you not have helped the gate from falling on the horses?”
“Master Arthur, sir, you see this arm,” said Thomas Harding, holding it out, bared to the elbow, for his coat was off and his shirt sleeve rolled up, at his work; “well, I’d have given that freely, ay, and the other to it, to have helped it. I wish I could.”
“Aunt Philip says Giles was tipsy. And that if he had not been so, mamma would have been here now.”
“And that’s true. Master Arthur.”
“Why do they let people get tipsy?”
“Who let them, dear?”
“I don’t know,” said the child, puzzled himself, as he thought over his question. “Why do people get tipsy?”
“I believe they can’t tell, themselves, why. Nobody who is worth any thing does so.”
“You don’t; do you, Mr. Harding?”
“No; I’m thankful to say I have kept from that failing all my life,” he fervently answered.
“And papa does not?”
“No, no, child. I tell you nobody, who is good, does such a disgraceful thing. Only poor creatures who have no self-restraint.”
“Does Giles get tipsy now?”
“No, that he does not! The jailer takes care of that. He is in prison, Master Arthur.”
“For killing mamma?”
“For letting the gate swing to and frighten the horses. He is to be tried at the March Assizes.”
“Is Master Danesbury here?” called out a servant-man, who had come in search of him. “Oh, there you are, sir. Dinner’s waiting.”
CHAPTER IV.
THE GAME PLAYED OUT.
The time went on. March Assizes came and passed, and Roger Giles entered upon the punishment awarded him — two years imprisonment. Miss St. George stopped on at Danesbury House; nobody suggested to her that she should leave it, and she took care not to suggest it to herself. She behaved wonderfully well, and endeavoured to ingratiate herself with all in it, master, servants, and children. Her exertions never flagged. Her chief consideration seemed to be that of rendering herself unobtrusively agreeable to Mr. Danesbury; and, so far as he or any body else saw of her temper, it might be that of an angel. The servants were indulged; the children were petted; it all went on as smooth as oil. Miss St. George was playing her game.
Summer came round, and with it Isabel’s birthday. Some children were invited to dinner, and Mrs. Philip Danesbury was expected to preside: but she did not come, and they sat down without her. Miss St. George occupying the place opposite Mr. Danesbury: when Mrs. Philip was there, she always took it herself. At the period of dessert, Miss St. George filled glasses of wine for the children; including Arthur and Isabel.
“Why have you given wine to me and Isabel?” asked Arthur.
“It is Isabel’s birthday, and you must drink her health,” was Miss St. George’s reply.
“But we never drink wine,” repeated Arthur.
“That’s no reason why you never should. On such an occasion as this, it is necessary. What would Isabel say, if you did not drink good wishes to her?”
“I’ll drink them in water,” said Arthur.
“Oh no, that would never do,” Miss St George remonstrated; “that would not be cordial. May he not have a glass of wine to-day?” she added, appealing to Mr. Danesbury.
“If he likes,” was the reply. Mr. Danesbury had never been so particular as his wife about the children’s beverage being positively restricted to water. Probably he had not thought about it so much and deeply.
“There, Arthur,” said Miss St. George, “your papa gives you leave.”
“No,” answered Arthur, passing the wine back toward Miss St. George. And, filling a wine-glass with water, he wished his sister many happy returns of the day. The children followed his example, but drank their good wishes in wine.
‘‘Now, Isabel,” said Miss St. George, ‘‘thank every one. There’s your wine.”
Isabel raised the wine to her lips, but befo
re she could taste it, Arthur had risen from his seat, opposite to her, and was leaning across the table with a flushed face and kindling eye, speaking vehemently.
“Isabel! You know!”
His startling energy aroused Mr. Danesbury to astonishment. Isabel instantly put down her glass, blushed painfully, and likewise pushed it toward Miss St. George.
“You ought to be ashamed, Isabel,” continued Arthur. “ If I had not spoken, you were going to drink it. You have forgotten mamma.”
Isabel burst into tears. “It was Miss St. George told me,” she sobbed; “I did not want to drink it.”
“You have a very particular prejudice against drinking wine, Arthur,” said Mr. Danesbury, smiling.
“Papa, I promised her that I never would. And Isabel knows all about it, that I never mean to, and she said she never would. Miss St. George knew it.”
“Promised who?” said Mr. Danesbury.
“My dear mamma. It was the last words she said to me before she left, that night; and I promised her, and she is looking down from heaven at me now.”
He laid his head on the table, overcome by the remembrance of his mother, and sobbed aloud. It seemed that Mr. Danesbury was likewise overcome, for he hastily rose, and quitted the room for some minutes.
“Do not attempt to give the children wine again,” he said to Miss St. George when he returned. And Miss St. George bowed her head, but she “would very much have liked, just then, to give Arthur a wholesome whipping instead.
They soon heard why Mrs. Philip Danesbury had not arrived to dinner. She had received news from Yorkshire that her mother was alarmingly ill, and she had been busy making preparations to start thither on the morrow morning. She ran up at night to say good-by. Miss St. George, lamenting outwardly, was in a state of inward rapture, fervently hoping that the visit might last six months.
Six months it did last. For Mrs. Philip Danesbury found her mother, Mrs. Heber, in a precarious state, and thought it necessary to remain. It was summer when she went, it was winter when she came back; and the very first news to greet her on her return was, that Eliza St. George was to be Mr. Danesbury’s second wife.