‘Mrs. Kendal, dear Madame, a great favour, could you spare me a few moments?’

A blushing face was raised with such an expression of contrite timidity, that Albinia felt sure that the poor little Frenchwoman had recovered from her brief intoxication, and wanted to apologize and be comforted, so she said kindly,

‘I was wishing to see you, my dear; I was afraid the day had been too much for you; I was certain you were feverish.’

‘Ah! you were so good to make excuses for me. I am so ashamed when I think how tedious, how disagreeable I must have been. It was why I wished to speak to you.’

‘Never mind apologies, my dear; I have felt and done the like many a time—it is the worst of enjoying oneself.’

‘Oh! that was not all—I could not help it—enjoyment—no!’ stammered Genevieve. ‘If you would be kind enough to come this way.’

She opened her grandmother’s back gate, the entrance to a slip of garden smothered in laurels, and led the way to a small green arbour, containing a round table, transformed by calico hangings into what the embroidered inscription called ‘Autel a l’Amour filial et maternel,’ bearing a plaster vase full of fresh flowers, but ere Albinia had time to admire this achievement of French sentiment, Genevieve exclaimed, clasping her hands, ‘Oh, madame, pardon me, you who are so good! You will tell no one, you will bring on him no trouble, but you will tell him it is too foolish—you will give him back his billet, and forbid him ever to send another.’

Spite of the confidence about Emily, spite of all unreason, such was the family opinion of Fred’s propensity to fall in love, that Albinia’s first suspicion lighted upon him, but as her eye fell on the pink envelope the handwriting concerned her even more nearly.

‘Gilbert!’ she cried. ‘My dear, what is this? Do you wish me to read it?’

‘Yes, for I cannot.’ Genevieve turned away, as in his best hand, and bad it was, Albinia read the commencement—

“My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!”

In mute astonishment Albinia looked up, and met Genevieve’s eyes. ‘Oh, madame, you are displeased with me!’ she cried in despair, misinterpreting the look, ‘but indeed I could not help it.’

‘My dear child,’ said Albinia, affectionately putting her arm round her waist, and drawing her down on the seat beside her, ‘indeed I am not displeased with you; you are doing the very best thing possible by us all. Think I am your sister, and tell me what is the meaning of all this, and then I will try to help you.’

‘Oh, madame, you are too good,’ said Genevieve, weeping; and kindly holding the trembling hand, Albinia finished the letter, herself. ‘Silly boy! Genevieve, dear girl, you must set my mind at rest; this is too childish—this is not the kind of thing that would touch your affections, I am sure.’

‘Oh! pour cela non,’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! no; I am grateful to Mr. Gilbert Kendal, for, even as a little boy, he was always kind to me, but for the rest—he is so young, madame, even if I could forget—’

‘I see,’ said Albinia. ‘I am sure that you are much too good and sensible at your age to waste a moment’s thought or pain on such a foolish boy, as he certainly is, Genevieve, though not so foolish in liking you, whatever he may be in the way of expressing it. Though of course—’ Albinia had floundered into a dreadful bewilderment between her sense of Genevieve’s merits and of the incompatibility of their station, and she plunged out by asking, ‘And how long has this been going on?’

Genevieve hesitated. ‘To speak the truth, madame, I have long seen that, like many other youths, he would be—very attentive if one were not guarded; but I had known him so long, that perhaps I did not soon enough begin, to treat him en jeune homme.

‘And this is his first letter?’

‘Oh! yes, madame.’

‘He complains that you will not hear him? Do you dislike to tell me if anything had passed previously?’

‘Thursday,’ was slightly whispered.

‘Thursday! ah! now I begin to understand the cause of your being suddenly moon-struck.’

‘Ah! madame, pardon me!’

‘I see—it was the only way to avoid a tete-a-tete!’ said Albinia. ‘Well done, Genevieve. What had he been saying to you, my dear?’

Poor Genevieve cast about for a word, and finally faltered out, ‘Des sottises, Madame.’

‘That I can well believe,’ said Albinia. ‘Well, my dear—’

‘I think,’ pursued Genevieve, ‘that he was vexed because I would not let him absorb me exclusively at Fairmead; and began to reproach me, and protest—’

‘And like a wise woman you waked the sleeping dragon,’ said Albinia. ‘Was this all?’

‘No, madame; so little had passed, that I hoped it was only the excitement, and that he would forget; but on Saturday he met me in the flagged path, and oh! he said a great deal, though I did my best to convince him that he could only make himself be laughed at. I hoped even then that he was silenced, and that I need not mention it, but I see he has been watching me, and I dare not go out alone lest I should meet him. He called this morning, and not seeing me left this note.’

‘Do your grandmother and aunt know?’

‘Oh, no! I would far rather not tell them. Need I? Oh! madame, surely you can speak to him, and no one need ever hear of it?’ implored Genevieve. ‘You have promised me that no one shall be told!’

‘No one shall, my dear. I hope soon to tell you that he is heartily ashamed of having teased you. No one need be ashamed of thinking you very dear and good—you can’t help being loveable, but Master Gibbie has no right to tell you so, and we’ll put an end to it. He will soon be in India out of your way. Good-bye!’

Albinia kissed the confused and blushing maiden, and walked away, provoked, yet diverted.

She found Gilbert alone, and was not slow in coming to the point, endeavouring to model her treatment on that of her brother, the General, towards his aide-de-camp in the like predicaments.

‘Gilbert, I want to speak to you. I am afraid you have been making yourself troublesome to Miss Durant. You are old enough to know better than to write such a note as this.’

He was all one blush, made an inarticulate exclamation, and burst out, ‘That abominable treacherous old wooden doll of a mademoiselle.’

‘No, Miss Belmarche knows nothing of it. No one ever shall if you will promise to drive this nonsense out of your head.’

‘Nonsense! Mrs. Kendal!’ with a gesture of misery.

‘Gilbert, you are making yourself absurd.’

He turned about, and would have marched out of the room, but she pursued him. ‘You must listen to me. It is not fit that you should carry on this silly importunity. It is exceedingly distressing to her, and might lead to very unpleasant and hurtful remarks.’ Seeing him look sullen, she took breath, and considered. ‘She came to me in great trouble, and begged me to restore your letter, and tell you never to repeat the liberty.’

He struck his hand on his brow, crying vehemently, ‘Cruel girl! She little knows me—you little know me, if you think I am to be silenced thus. I tell you I will never cease! I am not bound by your pride, which has sneered down and crushed the loveliest—’

‘Not mine,’ said Albinia, disconcerted at his unexpected violence.

‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know you could patronize! but a step beyond, and it is all the same with you as with the rest—you despise the jewel without the setting.’

‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘so far from depreciating her, I want to convince you that it is an insult to pursue her in this ridiculous underhand way.’

‘You do me no justice,’ said Gilbert loftily; ‘you little understand what you are pleased to make game of,’ and with one of his sudden alternations, he dropped into a chair, calling himself the most miserable fellow in the world, unpitied where he would gladly offer his life, and his tenderest feelings derided, and he was so nearly ready to cry, that Albinia pitied him, and said, ‘I’ll laugh no more if I can help it, Gibbie, but indeed you are too young for all this misery to be real. I don’t mean that you are pretending, but only that this is your own fancy.’

‘Fancy!’ said the boy solemnly. ‘The happiness of my life is at stake. She shall be the sharer of all that is mine, the moment my property is in my own hands.’

‘And do you think so high-minded a girl would listen to you, and take advantage of a fancy in a boy so much younger, and of a different class?’

‘It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all at her feet!’

‘So it might, if it were worthy of her to accept it. Gilbert, if you knew what love is, you would never wish her to lower herself by encouraging you now. She would be called artful—designing—’

‘If she loved me—’ he said disconsolately.

‘I wish I could bring you to see how unlikely it is that a sensible, superior woman could really attach herself to a mere lad. An unprincipled person might pretend it for the sake of your property—a silly one might like you because you are good-looking and well-mannered; but neither would be Genevieve.’

‘There is no use in saying any more,’ he said, rising in offended dignity.

‘I cannot let you go till you have given me your word never to obtrude your folly on Miss Durant again.’

‘Have you anything else to ask me?’ cried Gilbert in a melodramatic tone.

‘Yes, how would you like your father to know of this? It is her secret, and I shall keep it, unless you are so selfish as to continue the pursuit, and if so, I must have recourse to his authority.’

‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal,’ he said, actually weeping, ‘you have always pitied me hitherto.’

‘A man should not ask for pity,’ said Albinia; ‘but I am sorry for you, for she is an admirable person, and I see you are very unhappy; but I will do all I can to help you, and you will get over it, if you are reasonable. Now understand me, I will and must protect Genevieve, and I shall appeal to your father unless you promise me to desist from this persecution.’

The debate might have been endless, if Mr. Kendal had not been heard coming in. ‘You promise?’ she said. ‘Yes,’ was the faint reply, in nervous terror of immediate reference to his father; and they hurried different ways, trying to look unconcerned.

‘Never mind,’ said Albinia to herself. ‘Was not Fred quite as bad about me, and look at him now! Yes, Gilbert must go to India, it will cure him, or if it should not, his affection will be respectable, and worth consideration. If he were but older, and this were the genuine article, I would fight for him, but—’

And she sat down to write a loving note to Genevieve. Her sanguine disposition made her trust that all would blow over, but her experience of the cheerful buoyant Ferrars temperament was no guide to the morbid Kendal disposition, Gilbert lay on the grass limp and doleful till the fall of the dew, when he betook himself to a sofa; and in the morning turned up his eyes reproachfully at her instead of eating his breakfast.

About eleven o’clock the Fairmead pony-carriage stopped at the door, containing Mr. Ferrars, the Captain, Aunt Gertrude, and little Willie. Albinia, her husband, and Lucy, were soon in the drawing-room welcoming them; and Lucy fetched her little brother, who had been vociferous for three days about Cousin Fred, the real soldier, but now, struck with awe at the mighty personage, stood by his mamma, profoundly silent, and staring. He was ungracious to his aunt, and still more so to Willie, the latter of whom was despatched under Lucy’s charge to find Gilbert, but they came back unsuccessful. Nor did Sophy make her appearance; she was reported to be reading to grandmamma—Mrs. Meadows preferred to Miss Ferrars! there was more in this than Albinia could make out, and she sat uneasily till she could exchange a few words with Lucy. ‘My dear, what is become of the other two?’

‘I am sure I don’t know what is the matter with them,’ said Lucy. ‘Gilbert is gone out—nobody knows where—and when I told Sophy who was here, she said Captain Ferrars was an empty-headed coxcomb, and she did not want to see him!’

‘Oh! the geese!’ murmured Albinia to herself, till the comical suspicion crossed her mind that Gilbert was jealous, and that Sophy was afraid of falling a victim to the redoubtable lady killer.

Luncheon-time produced Sophy, grave and silent, but no Gilbert, and Mr. Kendal, receiving no satisfactory account of his absence, said, ‘Very strange,’ and looked annoyed.

Captain Ferrars seemed to have expected to see his bright little partner of Thursday, for he inquired for her, and Willie imparted the information that Fred had taken her for Sophy all the time! Fred laughed, and owned it, but asked if she were not really the governess? ‘A governess,’ said Albinia, ‘but not ours,’ and an explanation followed, during which Sophy blushed violently, and held up her head as if she had an iron bar in her neck.

‘A pity,’ said the Lancer, when he had heard who she was, and under his moustache he murmured to Albinia, ‘She is rather in Emily’s style.’

‘Oh, Fred,’ thought Albinia, ‘after all, it may be lucky that you aren’t going to stay here!’

When Albinia was alone with her brother, she could not help saying, ‘Maurice, you were right to scold me; I reproached you with thinking life made up of predicaments. I think mine is made of blunders!’

‘Ah! I saw you were harassed to-day,’ said her brother kindly.

‘Whenever one is happy, one does something wrong!’

‘I guess—’

‘You are generous not to say you warned me months ago. Mind, it is no fault of hers, she is behaving beautifully; but oh! the absurdity, and the worst of it is, I have promised not to tell Edmund.’

‘Then don’t tell me. You have a judgment quite good enough for use.’

‘No, I have not. I have only sense, and that only serves me for what other people ought to do.’

‘Then ask Albinia what Mrs. Kendal ought to do.’

Gilbert came in soon after their departure, with an odd, dishevelled, abstracted look, and muttering something inaudible about not knowing the time. His depression absolutely courted notice, but as a slight cough would at any time reduce him to despair, he obtained no particular observation, except from Sophy, who made much of him, flushed at Genevieve’s name, and looked reproachful, that it was evident that she was his confidante. Several times did Albinia try to lead her to enter on the subject, but she set up her screen of silence. It was disappointing, for Albinia had believed better things of her sense, and hardly made allowance for the different aspect of the love-sorrows of seventeen, viewed from fifteen or twenty-six—vexatious, too, to be treated with dry reserve, and probably viewed as a rock in the course of true love; and provoking to see perpetual tete-a-tetes that could hardly fail to fill Sophy’s romantic head with folly.

At the end of another week, Albinia received the following note:—

‘Dear and most kind Madame,

‘I would not trouble you again, but this is the third within four days. I returned the two former ones to himself, but he continues to write. May I ask your permission to speak to my relatives, for I feel that I ought to hide this no longer from them, and that we must take some measures for ending it. He does me the honour to wait near the house, and I never dare go out, since—for I will confess all to you, madame—he met me by the river on Monday. I am beginning to fear that his assiduities have been observed, and I should be much obliged if you would tell me how to act. Your kind perseverance in your goodness towards me is my greatest comfort, and I hope that you will still continue it, for indeed it is most unwillingly that I am a cause of perplexity and vexation to you. Entreating your pardon,

What was to be done? That broken pledge overpowered Albinia with a personal sense of shame, and though it set her free to tell all to her husband, she shrank from provoking his stern displeasure towards his son, and feared he might involve Genevieve in his anger. She dashed off a note to her poor little friend, telling her to do as she thought fit by her aunt and grandmother, and then sought another interview with the reluctant Gilbert, to whom she returned the letter, saying, ‘Oh, Gilbert, at least I thought you would keep your word.’

‘I think,’ he said, angrily, trying for dignity, though bewrayed by his restless eyes and hands—‘I think it is too much to accuse me of—of—when I never said—What word did I ever give?’

‘You promised never to persecute her again.’

‘There may be two opinions as to what persecution means,’ said Gilbert.

‘I little thought of subterfuges. I trusted you.’

‘Mrs. Kendal! hear me,’ he passionately cried. ‘You knew not the misery you imposed. To live so near, and not a word, not a look! I bore it as long as I could; but when Sophy would not so much as take one message, human nature could not endure.’

‘Well, if you cannot restrain yourself like a rational creature, some means must be taken to free Miss Durant from a pursuit so injurious and disagreeable to her.’

‘Ay,’ he cried, ‘you have filled her with your own prejudices, and inspired her with such a dread of the hateful fences of society, that she does not dare to confess—’

‘For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of acting a part.’

‘No!’ he exclaimed, ‘all I say is, that she has been so thrust down and forced back, that she cannot venture to avow her feelings even to herself!’

‘Oh!’ said Albinia, ‘you conceited person!’

‘Well!’ cried the boy, so much nettled by her sarcasm that he did not know what he said, ‘I think—considering—considering our situations, I might be worth her consideration!’

‘Who put that in your head?’ asked Albinia. ‘You are too much a gentleman for it to have come there of its own accord.’

He blushed excessively, and retracted. ‘No, no! I did not mean that! No, I only mean I have no fair play—she will not even think. Oh! if I had but been born in the same station of life!’

Gilbert making entrechats with a little fiddle! It had nearly overthrown her gravity, and she made no direct answer, only saying, ‘Well, Gilbert, these talks are useless. I only thought it right to give you notice that you have released me from my engagement not to make your father aware of your folly.’

He went into an agony of entreaties, and proffers of promises, but no more treaties of secrecy could he obtain, she would only say that she should not speak immediately, she should wait and see how things turned out. By which she meant, how soon it might be hoped that he would be safe in the Calcutta bank, where she heartily wished him.

She sought a conference with Genevieve, and took her out walking in the meadows, for the poor child really needed change and exercise, the fear of Gilbert had made her imprison herself within the little garden, till she looked sallow and worn. She said that her grandmother and aunt had decided that she should go in a couple of days to the Convent at Hadminster, to remain there till Mr. Gilbert went to India—the superior was an old friend of her aunt, and Genevieve had often been there, and knew all the nuns.

Albinia was startled by this project. ‘My dear, I had much rather send you to stay at my brother’s, or—anywhere. Are you sure you are not running into temptation?’

‘Not of that kind,’ said Genevieve. ‘The priest, Mr. O’Hara, is a good-natured old gentleman, not in the least disposed to trouble himself about my conversion.’

‘And the sisters?’

‘Good old ladies, they have always been very kind to me, and petted me exceedingly when I was a little child, but for the rest—’ still seeing Albinia’s anxious look—‘Oh! they would not think of it; I don’t believe they could argue; they are not like the new-fashioned Roman Catholics of whom you are thinking, madame.’

‘And are there no enthusiastic young novices?’

‘I should think no one would ever be a novice there,’ said Genevieve.

‘You seem to be bent on destroying all the romance of convents, Genevieve!’

‘I never thought of anything romantic connected with the reverend mothers,’ rejoined Genevieve, ‘and yet when I recollect how they came to Hadminster, I think you will be interested. You know the family at Hadminster Hall in the last century were Roman Catholics, and a daughter had professed at a convent in France. At the time of the revolution, her brother, the esquire, wrote to offer her an asylum at his house. The day of her arrival was fixed—behold! a stage-coach draws up to the door—black veils inside—black veils clustered on the roof—a black veil beside the coachman, on the box—eighteen nuns alight, and the poor old infirm abbess is lifted out. They had not even figured to themselves that the invitation could be to one without the whole sisterhood!’

‘And what did the esquire do with the good ladies?’

‘He took them as a gift from Providence, he raised a subscription among his friends, and they were lodged in the house at Hadminster, where something like a sisterhood had striven to exist ever since the days of James II.’

‘Are any of these sisters living still?’

‘Only poor old Mother Therese, who was a little pensionnaire when they came, and now is blind, and never quits her bed. There are only seven sisters at present, and none of them are less than five-and-forty.’

‘And what shall you do there, Genevieve?’

‘If they have any pupils from the town, perhaps I may help to teach them French. And I shall have plenty of time for my music. Oh! madame, would you lend me a little of your music to copy?’

‘With all my heart. Any books?’

‘Oh! that would be the greatest kindness of all! And if it were not presuming too much, if madame would let me take the pattern of that beautiful point lace that she sometimes wears in the evening, then I should make myself welcome!’

‘And put out your eyes, my dear! But you may turn out my whole lace-drawer if you think anything there will be a pleasure to the old ladies.’

‘Ah! you do not guess the pleasure, madame. Needlework and embroidery is their excitement and delight. They will ask me closely about all I have seen and done for months past, and the history of the day at Fairmead will be a fete in itself.’

‘Well! my dear, it is very right of you; and I do feel very thankful to you for treating the matter thus. Pray tell your grandmamma and aunt to pardon the sad revolution we have made in their comfort, and that I hope it will soon be over!’

Genevieve took no leave. Albinia sent her a goodly parcel of books and work-patterns, and she returned an affectionate note; but did not attempt to see Lucy and Sophy.

The next Indian mail brought the expected letter, giving an exact account of the acquirements and habits that would be required of Gilbert, with a promise of a home where he would be treated as a son, and of admission to the firm after due probation. The letter was so sensible and affectionate, that Mr. Kendal congratulated his son upon such an advantageous outset in life.

Gilbert made slight reply, but the next morning Sophy sought Albinia out, and with some hesitation began to tell her that Gilbert was very anxious that she would intercede with papa not to send him to Calcutta.

‘You now, Sophy!’ cried Albinia. ‘You who used to think nothing equal to India!’

‘I wish it were I,’ said Sophy, ‘but you know—’

‘Well,’ said Albinia, coldly.

Sophy was too shy to begin on that tack, and dashed off on another.

‘Oh, mamma, he is so wretched. He can’t bear to thwart papa, but he says it would break his heart to go so far away, and that he knows it would kill him to be confined to a desk in that climate.’

‘You know papa thinks that nothing would confirm his health so much as a few years without an English winter.’

‘One’s own instinct—’ began Sophy; then breaking off, she added, ‘Mamma, you never were for the bank.’

‘I used not to see the expediency, and I did not like the parting; but now I understand your father’s wishes, and the sort of allegiance he feels towards India, so that Gilbert’s reluctance will be a great mortification to him.’

‘So it will,’ said Sophy, mournfully, ‘I am sure it is to me. I always looked forward to Gilbert’s going to Talloon, and seeing the dear old bearer, and taking all my presents there, but you see, of course, mamma, he cannot bear to go—’

‘Sophy, dear,’ said Albinia, ‘you have been thinking me a very hard-hearted woman this last month. I have been longing to have it out.’

‘Not hard-hearted,’ said Sophy, looking down, ‘only I had always thought you different from other people.’

‘And you considered that I was worldly, and not romantic enough. Is that it, Sophy?’

‘I thought you knew how to value her for herself, so good and so admirable—a lady in everything—with such perfect manners. I thought you would have been pleased and proud that Gilbert’s choice was so much nobler than beauty, or rank, or fashion could make it,’ said Sophy, growing enthusiastic as she went on.

‘Well, my dear, perhaps I am.’

‘But, mamma, you have done all you could to separate them: you have shut Genevieve up in a convent, and you want to banish him.’

‘It sounds very grand, and worthy of a cruel step-dame,’ said Albinia; ‘but, my dear, though I do think Genevieve in herself an admirable creature, worthy of any one’s love, what am I to think of the way Gilbert has taken to show his admiration?’

‘And is it not very hard,’ cried Sophy, ‘that even you, who own all her excellences, should turn against him, and give in to all this miserable conventionality, that wants riches and station, and trumpery worldly things, and crushes down true love in two young hearts?’

‘Sophy dear, I am afraid the love is not proved to be true in the one heart, and I am sure there is none in the other!’

‘Mamma! ‘Tis her self-command—’

‘Nonsense! His attentions are nothing but distress to her! Sensible grown-up young women are not apt to be flattered by importunity from silly boys. Has he told you otherwise?’

‘He thinks—he hopes, at least—and I am sure—it is all stifled by her sense of duty, and fear of offending you, or appearing mercenary.’

‘All delusion!’ said Albinia; ‘there’s not a spark of consciousness about her! I see you don’t like to believe it, but it is my great comfort. Think how she would suffer if she did love him! Nay, think, before you are angry with me for not promoting it, how it would bring them into trouble and disgrace with all the world, even if your father consented. Have you once thought how it would appear to him?’

‘You can persuade papa to anything!’

‘Sophy! you ought to know your father better than to say that!’ cried Albinia, as if it had been disrespect to him.

‘Then you think he would never allow it! You really think that such a creature as Genevieve, as perfect a lady as ever existed, must always be a victim to these hateful rules about station.’

‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘certainly not; but if she were in the very same rank, if all else were suitable, Gilbert’s age would make the pursuit ridiculous.’

‘Only three years younger,’ sighed Sophy. ‘But if they were the same age? Do you mean that no one ever ought to marry, if they love ever so much, where the station is different?’

‘No, but that they must not do so lightly, but try the love first to see whether it be worth the sacrifice. If an attachment last through many years of adverse circumstances, I think the happiness of the people has been shown to depend on each other, but I don’t think it safe to disregard disparities till there has been some test that the love is the right stuff, or else they may produce ill-temper, regrets, and unhappiness, all the rest of their lives.’

‘If Gilbert went on for years, mamma?’

‘I did not say that, Sophy.’

‘Suppose,’ continued the eager girl, ‘he went out to Calcutta, and worked these five years, and was made a partner. Then he would be two-and-twenty, nobody could call him too young, and he would come home, and ask papa’s consent, and you—’

‘I should call that constancy,’ said Albinia.

‘And he would take her out to Calcutta, and have no Drurys and Osborns to bother her! Oh! It would be beautiful! I would watch over her while he was gone! I’ll go and tell him!’

‘Stop, Sophy, not from me—that would never do. I don’t think papa would think twenty-two such a great age—’

‘But he would have loved her five years!’ said Sophy. ‘And you said yourself that would be constancy!’

‘True, but, Sophy, I have known a youth who sailed broken-hearted, and met a lady “just in the style” of the former one, on board the steamer—’

Sophy made a gesture of impatient disdain, and repeated, ‘Do you allow me to tell Gilbert that this is the way?’

‘Not from me. I hold out no hope. I don’t believe Genevieve cares for him, and I don’t know whether his father would consent—’ but seeing Sophy’s look of disappointment, ‘I see no harm in your suggesting it, for it is his only chance with either of them, and would be the proof that his affection was good for something.’

‘And you think her worth it?’

‘I think her worth anything in the world—the more for her behaviour in this matter. I only doubt if Gilbert have any conception how much she is worth.’

Away went Sophy in a glow that made her almost handsome, while Albinia, as usual, wondered at her own imprudence.

At luncheon Sophy avoided her eye, and looked crestfallen, and when afterwards she gave a mute inquiring address, shook her head impatiently. It was plain that she had failed, and was too much pained and shamed by his poorness of spirit to be able as yet to speak of it.

Next came Gilbert, who pursued Albinia to the morning-room to entreat her interference in his behalf, appealing piteously to her kindness; but she was obdurate. If any remonstrance were offered to his father, it must be by himself.

Gilbert fell into a state of misery, threw himself about upon the chairs, and muttered in the fretfulness of childish despair something about its being very hard, when he was owner of half the town, to be sent into exile—it was like jealousy of his growing up and being master.

‘Take care, Gilbert!’ said Albinia, with a flash of her eye that he felt to his backbone.

‘I don’t mean it,’ cried Gilbert, springing towards her in supplication. ‘I’ve heard it said, that’s all, and was as angry as you, but when a fellow is beside himself with misery at being driven away from all he loves—not a friend to help him—how can he keep from thinking all sorts of things?’

‘I wonder what people dare to say it!’ cried Albinia wrathfully; but he did not heed, he was picturing his own future misfortunes—toil—climate—fevers—choleras—Thugs—coups de soleil—genuine dread and repugnance working him up to positive agony.

‘Gilbert,’ said Albinia, ‘this is trumpery self-torture! You know this is a mere farrago that you have conjured up. Your father would neither thrust you into danger, nor compel you to do anything to which you had a reasonable aversion. Go and be a man about it in one way or the other! Either accept or refuse, but don’t make these childish lamentations. They are cowardly! I should be ashamed of little Maurice if he behaved so!’

‘And you will not speak a word for me!’

‘No! Speak for yourself!’ and she left the room.

Days passed on, till she began to think that, after all, Gilbert preferred Calcutta, cholera, Thugs, and all, to facing his father; but at last, he must have taken heart from his extremity, for Mr. Kendal said, with less vexation than she had anticipated, ‘So our plans are overthrown. Gilbert tells me he has an invincible dislike to Calcutta. Had you any such idea?’

‘Not till your cousin’s letter arrived. What did you say to him?’

‘He was so much afraid of vexing me that I was obliged to encourage him to speak freely, and I found that he had always had a strong distaste to and dread of India. I told him I wished he had made me aware of it sooner, and desired to know what profession he really preferred. He spoke of Oxford and the Bar, and so I suppose it must be. I do not wonder that he wishes to follow his Traversham friends, and as they are a good set, I hope there may not be much temptation. I see you are not satisfied, Albinia, yet your wishes were one of my motives.’

‘Thank you—once I should,’ said Albinia; ‘but, Edmund, I see how wrong it was to have concealed anything from you;’ and thereupon she informed him of Gilbert’s passion for Genevieve Durant, which astonished him greatly, though he took it far less seriously than she had expected, and was not displeased at having been kept in ignorance and spared the trouble of taking notice of it, and thus giving it importance.

‘It will pass off,’ he said. ‘She has too much sense and principle to encourage him, and if you can get her out of Bayford for a few years he will be glad to have it forgotten.’

‘Poor Genevieve! She must break up her grandmother’s home after all!’

‘It will be a great advantage to her. You used to say that it would be most desirable for her to see more of the world. Away from this place she might marry well.’

‘Any one’s son but yours,’ said Albinia, smiling.

‘The connexion would be worse here than anywhere else; but I was not thinking of any one in our rank of life. There are many superior men in trade with whom she might be very happy.’

‘Poor child!’ sighed Albinia. ‘I cannot feel that it is fair that she should be banished for Gilbert’s faults; and I am sorry for the school; you cannot think how much the tone was improving.’

‘If it could be done without hurting her feelings, I should gladly give her a year at some superior finishing school, which might either qualify her for a governess, or enable her to make this one more profitable.’

‘Oh! thank you!’ cried Albinia; ‘yet I doubt. However, her services would be quite equivalent in any school to the lessons she wants. I’ll write to Mrs. Elwood—’ and she was absorbed in the register-office in her brain, when Mr. Kendal continued—

‘This is quite unexpected. I could not have supposed the boy so foolish! However, if you please, I will speak to him, tell him that I was unaware of his folly, and insist on his giving it up.’

‘I should be very glad if you would.’

Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfactory than Albinia thought that Genevieve deserved. His frenzy had tended to wear itself out, and he had been so dreadfully alarmed about India and his father, that in his relief, gratitude, and fear of being sent out, he was ready to promise anything. Before his father he could go into no rhapsodies, and could only be miserably confused.

‘Personally,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘it is creditable that you should be attracted by such estimable qualities, but these are not the sole consideration. Equality of station is almost as great a requisite as these for producing comfort or respectability, and nothing but your youth and ignorance could excuse your besetting any young woman with importunities which she had shown to be disagreeable to her.’

There was no outcry of despair, only a melancholy muttering. Then Mr. Kendal pronounced his decree in terms more explicit than those in which Albinia had exacted the promise. He said nothing about persecution, nor was he unreasonable enough to command an instant immolation of the passion; he only insisted that Gilbert should pay no marked attention, and attempt no unsanctioned or underhand communication. Unless he thought he had sufficient self-command to abstain, his father must take ‘further measures.’

As if fearing that this must mean ‘Kendal and Kendal,’ he raised his head, and with a deep sigh undertook for his own self-command. Mr. Kendal laid his hand on his shoulder with kind pity, told him he was doing right, and that while he acted openly and obediently, he should always meet with sympathy and consideration.

Two difficult points remained—the disposing of the young people. Gilbert was still over young for the university, as well as very backward and ill-prepared, and the obstinate remains of the cough made his father unwilling to send him from home. And his presence made Genevieve’s absence necessary.

The place had begun to loom in the distance. A former governess of Albinia’s, who would have done almost anything to please her, had lately been left a widow, and established herself in a suburb of London, with a small party of pupils. She had just begun to feel the need of an additional teacher, and should gladly receive Genevieve, provided she fulfilled certain requisites, of which, luckily, French pronunciation stood the foremost. The terms were left to Albinia, who could scarcely believe her good fortune, and went in haste to discuss the matter with the Belmarches.

It almost consoled her for what she had been exceedingly ashamed to announce, the change of purpose with regard to Gilbert, which was a sentence of banishment to the object of his folly. Nothing pained her more than the great courtesy and kindness of the two old ladies to whom it was such a cruel stroke, they evidently felt for her, and appeared to catch at Mrs. Elwood’s offer, and when Albinia proposed that her salary should be a share in the instructions of the masters, agreed that this was the very thing they had felt it their duty to provide for her, if they had been able to bring themselves to part with her.

‘So,’ said good Madame Belmarche, smiling sadly, ‘you see it has been for the dear child’s real good that our weakness has been conquered.’

Genevieve was written to, and consented to everything, and when Mr. Kendal took Gilbert away to visit an old friend, his wife called for Genevieve at the convent to bring her home. Albinia could not divest herself of some curiosity and excitement in driving up to the old-fashioned red brick house, with two tall wings projecting towards the street, and the front door in the centre between them, with steps down to it. She had not been without hopes of a parlour with a grille, or at least that a lay sister would open the door; but she saw nothing but a very ordinary-looking old maid-servant, and close behind her was Genevieve, with her little box, quite ready—no excuse for seeing anything or anybody else.

If Genevieve were sad at the proposal of leaving home and going among strangers, she took care to hide all that could pain Mrs. Kendal, and her cheerful French spirit really enjoyed the prospect of new scenes, and bounded with enterprise at the hope of a new life and fresh field of exertion.

‘Perhaps, after all,’ she said, smiling, ‘they may make of me something really useful and valuable, and it will all be owing to you, dear madame. Drawing and Italian! When I can teach them, I shall be able to make grandmamma easy for life!’

Genevieve skipped out of the carriage and into her aunt’s arms, as if alive only to the present delight of being at home again. It was a contrast to Sophy’s dolorous visage. Poor Sophy! she was living in a perpetual strife with the outward tokens of sulkiness, forcing herself against the grain to make civil answers, and pretend to be interested when she felt wretched and morose. That Gilbert, after so many ravings, should have relinquished, from mere cowardice, that one hope of earning Genevieve by honourable exertion, had absolutely lowered her trust in the exalting power of love, and her sense of justice revolted against the decision that visited the follies of the guilty upon the innocent. She was yearning over her friend with all her heart, pained at the separation, and longing fervently to make some demonstration, but the greater her wish, the worse was her reserve. She spent all her money upon a beautiful book as a parting gift, and kept it beside her, missing occasion after occasion of presenting it, and falling at each into a perfect agony behind that impalpable, yet impassable, barrier of embarrassment.

It was not till the very last evening, when Genevieve had actually wished her good-bye and left the house, that she grew desperate. She hastily put on bonnet and cloak, and pursued Genevieve up the street, overtaking her at last, and causing her to look round close to her own door.

‘My dear Miss Sophy,’ cried Genevieve, ‘what is the matter? You are quite overcome.’

‘This book—’ said Sophy—it was all she could say.

‘Love—yes,’ said Genevieve. ‘Admiration—no.’

‘You shall not say that,’ cried Sophy. ‘I have found what is really dignified and disinterested, and you must let me admire you, Jenny, it makes me comfortable.’

Genevieve smiled. ‘I would not commit an egoism,’ she said; but if the sense of admiration do you good, I wish it had a worthier cause.’

‘There’s no one to admire but you,’ said Sophy. ‘I think it very unfair to send you away, and though it is nobody’s fault, I hate good sense and the way of the world!’

‘Oh! do not talk so. I am only overwhelmed with wonder at the goodness I have experienced. If it had happened with any other family, oh! how differently I should have been judged! Oh! when I think of Mrs. Kendal, I am ready to weep with gratitude!’

‘Yes, mamma is mamma, and not like any one else, but even she is obliged to be rational, and do the injustice, whatever she feels,’ said Sophy.

‘Oh! not injustice—kindness! I shall be able to earn more for grandmamma!’

‘It is injustice!’ said Sophy, ‘not hers, perhaps, but of the world! It makes me so angry, to think that you—you should never do anything but wear yourself out in drudging over tiresome little children—’

‘Little children are my brothers and sisters, as I never had any,’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! I always loved them, they make a home wherever they are. I am thankful that my vocation is among them.’

In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would not notice it, but pursued, ‘You must come in and rest—you must have my aunt’s salts.’

‘No—no—’ said Sophy, ‘not there—’ as Genevieve would have taken her to the little parlour, but opening the door of the school-room, she sank breathless into a sitting position on the carpetless boards.

Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found Sophy’s arms thrown round her, pressing her almost to strangulation.

‘Oh! I wanted to do it—I never could wont you have the book, Genevieve? It is my keepsake—only I could not give it because—’

‘Is it your keepsake, indeed, dear Miss Sophy?’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! if it is yours—how I shall value it—but it is too beautiful—’

‘Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve,’ said Sophy fervently.

‘And it is your gift! But I am frightened—it must have cost—!’ began Genevieve, still a little on her guard. ‘Dear, dear Miss Sophy, forgive me if I do seem ungrateful, but indeed I ought to ask—if—if it is all your own gift?’

‘Mine? yes!’ said Sophy, on the borders of offence. ‘I know what you mean, Genevieve, but you may trust me. I would not take you in.’

Genevieve was blushing intensely, but taking courage she bestowed a shower of ardent embraces and expressions of gratitude, mingled with excuses for her precaution. ‘Oh! it was so very kind in Miss Sophy,’ she said; ‘it would be such a comfort to remember, she had feared she too was angry with her.’

‘Angry? oh, no!’ cried Sophy, her heart quite unlocked; ‘but the more I loved and admired, the more I could not speak. And if they drive you to be a governess? If you had a situation like what we read of?’

‘Perhaps I shall not,’ said Genevieve, laughing. ‘Every one has been so good to me hitherto! And then I am not reduced from anything grander. I shall always have the children, you know.’

‘How I should hate them!’ quoth Sophy.

‘They are my pleasure. Besides I have always thought it a blessing that my business in life, though so humble, should be what may do direct good. If only I do not set them a bad example, or teach them any harm.’

‘Not much danger of that,’ said Sophy, smiling. ‘Well, I can’t believe it will be your lot all your life. You will find some one who will know how to love you.’

‘No,’ said Genevieve, ‘I am not in a position for marriage—grandmamma has often told me so!’

‘Things sometimes happen,’ pursued Sophy. ‘Mamma said if Gilbert had been older, or even if—if he had been in earnest and steady enough to work for you in India, then it might—And surely if Gilbert could care for you—people higher and deeper than he would like you better still.’

‘Hush,’ said Genevieve; ‘they would only see the objections more strongly. No, do not put these things in my head. I know that unless a teacher hold her business as her mission, and put all other schemes out of her mind, she will work with an absent, distracted, half-hearted attention, and fail of the task that the good God has committed to her.’

‘Then you would never even wish—’

‘It would be seeking pomps and vanities to wish,’ said Genevieve; ‘a school-room is a good safe cloister, probably less dull than the convent. If I wish at all, it will be that I may be well shut up there, for I know that in spite of myself my manners are different from your English ones. I cannot make them otherwise, and that amuses people; and I cannot help liking to please, and so I become excited. I enjoy society so much that it is not safe for me! So don’t be sorry, dear Sophy, it is a fit penance for the vanity that elated me too much that evening at Fairmead!’

Mademoiselle Belmarche was here attracted by the voices. Sophy started up from the ground, made some unintelligible excuse, and while Mademoiselle was confounded with admiration at the sight of the book, inflicted another boa-constrictor embrace, and hurried away.