Mrs. Loudon

“Thy fame, like the growing tree of the vale,
Shall arise in its season, and thy deeds
Shine like those of thy fathers. But go not
Yet to the bloody strife; for thy young arm
scarce can draw the heavy sword of Artho,
Or lift Temora’s spear.”
“The blue arms of the lovely boy
Invest him, as grey clouds the rising sun.”

Lord L. remembered, and even experienced, something of a consolatory feeling, in faithfully performing the promise which, within the first happy year of his marriage, he had made to his beloved wife, and which had seemed to give her so much pleasure: we mean that which respected placing and advancing Edmund in the navy. His lordship accordingly wrote from abroad to his friend, Lord Fitz Ullin, and Edmund, at the age of twelve, was received into the naval college at Portsmouth.

This was, no doubt, a very wise and proper arrangement; yet there were those to whom it caused infinite grief: we speak of the twins, who, though they had never been expressly told that Edmund was their brother, had learned to love him as such; and whether they really thought he was so, or never thought about the matter, were in the habit, in all their little plays and pastimes, of calling him brother Edmund, and fancying that nothing could be done without him.

His vacations, however, were all spent at Lodore House, and were joyful in proportion to the sorrows of parting. On the first of those memorable occasions, Mrs. Montgomery absolutely wept over him; Frances frolicked round him, as if obliged to exhaust herself by fatigue, to moderate her transports; while little Julia stood silently, and with a pensive expression, quite close to him; and when, after performing any extraordinary new feat for the amusement of Frances, he would stoop, and ask of his little favourite what he should do for her, she would answer, with a glow of enthusiasm, “Stay always with me!”

He generally brought some tasks home, which were to be learned before his return to college. When he sat at these, Frances would fidget round the table, in visible discontent—stop straight opposite to him, put her head on one side, watch to meet his eye, and make him laugh; failing in this, try to play alone; and finding this also dreadfully stupid, return to the charge; while Julia would get on a part of his chair, hold his hand and remain perfectly still, till the hand was borrowed to turn over a leaf, when she would follow it with an appealing look, which look, being repaid by a fond caress, she would retake the hand, and sit again as motionless as before. At length, poor Lady Frances, infected by the dullness of her companions, would sometimes bring a chair on the other side, and insist on having the other hand, which would reduce Edmund to the necessity of fastening his book open on the table with another book; after which arrangement, we must confess, that, however unjust the proceeding, and notwithstanding the remonstrances of the injured party, it was always the hand which Frances held, which was borrowed to turn over leaves, &c. &c.

But there was something in little Julia’s enthusiastic manner of showing attachment, which won upon the affections in an extraordinary degree, and made her almost unjustly the favourite; poor Frances, considering her lively temper, loved brother Edmund full as well, in her own way.

Thus passed two years; and at fourteen, Edmund was appointed to the same ship on board which Henry then happened to be. The vessel was ready for sea, and going on a foreign station, on which it was to remain for three years. Our hero, after joining, obtained a few days’ leave, that he might pay a farewell visit to Lodore. Arrived at the last stage of his journey, he stopped at the little inn, and put on his midshipman’s dress, which he had brought with him, from a boyish wish to surprise his two little sisters, as he called the twins, now about seven years old. Accordingly, he entered the domestic circle fully equipped, and produced, at least, as great a sensation as his beating heart, while jumping out of the carriage, and hastening across the lawn, had anticipated.

As soon as the first clamorous joy of meeting, as well as the first public examination of every part of his dress was over, Frances possessed herself of his cocked-hat, dirk, and belt, and began arraying herself in the spoils. While Mrs. Montgomery, drawing him near her chair, began to question him as to how long he could now remain with them, and when he thought he should be able to return. Little Julia stood close at the other side of her grandmother, her eyes raised, and passing from one countenance to the other, watching every word. When Edmund answering, that he must leave them early in the morning, and that it would be, at least, three years before he could hope to see them again.

“Three years!” exclaimed Julia, turning as red as crimson for one moment, and the next as pale as death! Edmund took her on his knee, kissed her little forehead, and remonstrated fondly. At length, showers of tears came to her relief; and amid reiterated sobs, she articulated, in broken accents, “No! I cannot bear the thoughts of summer coming three times without Edmund! Oh! I’ll hate summer, that I used to love so much!”

“But, Julia! my darling Julia!” said Edmund, “why should you hate summer? You know, I must be far away in the winter also.”

“Then I must only hate winter too!” said Julia, as well as her continued sobs would permit; “but you used to come back in the summer.”

Meanwhile, the little Lady Frances, quite unconscious of the tragic scene, was standing before a large mirror, at the far end of the room, contemplating her tiny form, surmounted by the cocked-hat, tried on in all the varieties of fore and aft, athwart ships, &c. &c. Now, perfectly satisfied with her own appearance, she advanced on tip-toe, that her height, as well as her dress, might, as much as possible, resemble Edmund’s. But perceiving Julia’s tears, and being informed of their cause, she flung away hat and dirk, and threw herself into her sister’s arms, and joined in her sobs—with a violence proportioned to the sudden transition of her feelings. Nothing could console the little girls, and it being late in the evening, they were obliged to be sent to bed; to which measure, after some demurring, and many last words, they consented, for the purpose of being up very early, as they could not think of an over-night farewell. Locked in each other’s arms, and planning to stay awake all night, lest they should not be called in time, they cried themselves to sleep; and, alas! ere their eyes started open in the morning, early as that was, the unconscious cheek of each had received Edmund’s parting kiss, and he was already some way on his journey.