Abbeychurch Or Self-Control and Self-Conceit Part 9
'Is she indeed?' said Mrs. Bouverie, in a tone of great interest.
'Yes, that she is, scarcely ever without a cough. Full of spirits, you see--rather too, much of it; but I should not be surprised any day--'
At this moment Winifred came running up, to cry, 'Look, Aunt Hazleby, at the basket of b.a.l.l.s; I have been to the house to fetch them, and now the boys are going away to the cricket-ground, and the girls are to have a famous game at play.'
Mrs. Hazleby only said, 'Hm,' but the other lady paid more attention to the little girl, who was very little troubled with shyness, and soon was very happy--throwing the b.a.l.l.s to the girls, and--at the same time--chattering to Mrs. Bouverie, and saying a great deal about 'Lizzie,' telling how Lizzie said that one little girl was good and another was naughty, that Lizzie said she should soon begin to teach her French; Lizzie taught her all her lessons, Mamma only heard her music; Lizzie had shewn her where to look in her Consecration-book, so that she should not be puzzled at Church to-day; Lizzie said she had behaved very well, and that she should tell Papa so; she had a red ribbon with a medal with Winchester Cathedral upon it, which Lizzie let her wear to shew Papa and Mamma when she was good at her lessons; she hoped she should wear it to-day, though she had not done any lessons, for Lizzie said it was a joyful day, like a Sunday. All this made Mrs.
Bouverie desirous of being acquainted with 'Lizzie,' but she could find no opportunity of speaking to her, as Elizabeth never willingly came near strangers, and was fully occupied with the school-children, so that she and Anne were the last to come in-doors to dress.
They were surprised on coming in to find Helen sitting on the last step of the stairs, with Dora on her lap, the latter crying bitterly, and Helen using all those means of consolation, which, with the best intention, have generally the effect of making matters worse. As soon as Elizabeth appeared, Dora sprang towards her, exclaiming, 'Lizzie, dear Lizzie, do you know, Aunt Hazleby says that my mamma is not your mamma, nor Kate's, nor Helen's, and I do not like it. What does she mean? Lizzie, I do not understand.'
Elizabeth looked up rather fiercely; but, kissing her little sister, said, gently, 'Yes, Dora, it is really true, my own mother lies in the churchyard. I will shew you where.'
'And are you, not my sisters?' asked Dora, holding firmly by the hands of Elizabeth, and Helen.
'Oh yes, yes, Dora!' cried Helen, 'we are your sisters, only not quite, the same as Winifred.'
'And have you no mamma, really no mamma?' continued Dora looking frightened, although soothed by Elizabeth's manner, and by feeling that the truth was really told her.
'Not really, Dora; but your mamma is quite the same to us as if she really was our mother,' said. Elizabeth, leading the little girl away, and leaving Anne and Helen looking unutterable things at each other.
Helen then went into the large, drawing-room, to fetch some, of her out-of-door apparel which she had left there, and Anne followed her. No one was in the room but Mrs. Hazleby, who looked more disconcerted than Helen had ever seen her before. She seemed to think, it necessary to make some apology, and began, 'I am sure I had no notion that, the child did not know it all perfectly at her age.'
'Mamma has always wished to keep the little ones from knowing of any difference as long as possible,' said Helen, rather indignantly; but recollecting herself, she added, 'I think Dora is rather tired, and perhaps she was the more easily overcome for that reason.'
'Ah! very likely, poor child,' said Mrs. Hazleby; 'it was folly to take her to such a ceremony.'
'She seemed to enjoy it, and enter into it as much as any of us,' said Helen.
'Ah! well, some people's children are vastly clever,' said Mrs.
Hazleby. 'Do you know where Fido is, Miss Helen? if one may ask you such a question.'
Helen replied very courteously, by an offer to go and look for him. He was quickly found, and as soon as she had brought him to his mistress, she followed Anne to Elizabeth's room, where in a short time they were joined by the latter, looking worn and tired, and with the brilliant flush of excitement on her cheeks.
'Is Dora comforted?' was the first question asked on her entrance.
'Oh yes,' said Elizabeth, 'that was soon settled; she was only scared, so I took her to Mamma, who kissed us both, told Dora she loved us all the same, and so on; which made her quite happy again.'
'Dear little affectionate creature!' exclaimed Helen warmly.
'How very angry with her Mrs. Hazleby seemed!' said Anne.
'Yes,' said Helen, 'because Dora came to me in her distress, and would not let Mrs. Hazleby kiss her.'
'How came Mrs. Hazleby to begin upon it?' said Elizabeth; 'was it from her instinctive perception of disagreeable subjects?'
'I can hardly tell,' said Helen, 'I was not there at first; I rather think--' but here she stopped short, and looked confused.
'Well, what do you think?'
'Why, I believe it arose from her seeing Uncle Edward playing with Edward on the green,' began Helen, with a good deal of hesitation, 'saying that he was his G.o.dfather, and--and she--she hoped he would be would be as--he would do as much for him, as if he was actually his uncle.'
'Horrid woman!' said Elizabeth, blushing deeply.
'My dear Lizzie,' said Anne, laughing, 'do you hope he will not?'
'Nonsense, Anne,' said Elizabeth, laughing too; 'but I hope you quite give up the Hazlebys after this specimen.'
'Now, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'that is quite in your unjust sweeping style of censuring. You do not mean to say that Lucy, or the Major, or the boys, are disagreeable.'
'Root and branch, they are all infected,' said Elizabeth; 'who could help it, living with Mrs. Hazleby?'
'Pray do not be so unfair, Lizzie,' continued Helen; 'I am sure that Lucy is a most amiable, sensible, gentle creature; the more to be admired for having such a mother and sister.'
'By way of foil, I suppose,' said Elizabeth; 'still, saving your presence, Helen, I think that if Lucy had all the sense you ascribe to her, she might keep things a little more straight.'
'Really, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'it is not like you to blame poor Lucy for her misfortunes; but I know very well that you only do it to contradict me.'
'Well,' said Elizabeth impatiently, 'I do allow that she is a redeeming point, but I do not give her such hyperbolical praise as you do; I may say she is the best of them, without calling her a paragon of perfection.'
'I never called her any such thing!' exclaimed Helen; 'but you will always wrest my words, and pretend to misunderstand me.'
'I am sorry I have vexed you, Helen,' said Elizabeth, more kindly; and Helen left the room.
'Indeed, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'I cannot think why you argued against this poor girl, after what you said yesterday.'
'Because I cannot bear Helen's sententious decided manner,' said Elizabeth; 'and she exaggerates so much, that I must sometimes take her down.'
'But,' said Anne, 'do you not exaggerate the exaggeration, and so put her more in the right than yourself?'
'You mean by turning her string of superlatives into a paragon of perfection,' said Elizabeth; 'I certainly believe I was unjust, but I could not help it.'
Anne did not see that her cousin might not have helped it, but she thought she had said enough on the subject, and let it pa.s.s.
'Now, Anne,' said Elizabeth, presently after, 'what strange people we are, to stand here abusing Helen and the Hazlebys, instead of talking over such wonderful happiness as it is to think that your father and mine have been allowed to complete such a work as this church.'
'Indeed it is wonderful happiness,' said Anne, her eyes filling with tears, 'but I do not know whether you feel as I do, that it is too great, too overwhelming, to talk of now it is fresh. We shall enjoy looking back to it more when we are further from it.'
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'this morning I was only fit to laugh or cry, at I did not know what, and now I am vexed with myself for having been too much occupied and annoyed with little things to be happy enough. This Consecration day will be a glorious time to look back to, when it is alone on the horizon, and we have lost sight of all that blemishes it now. I will tell you what it will be like. I once saw the Church, on a misty day, from a great distance. It was about the middle of the day, and the veil of mist was hanging all round the hill, but there stood the Church, clear and bright, and alone in the sunshine, all the scaffold poles and unfinished roughness lost sight of in the distance.
I never saw a more beautiful sight.'
'And do you expect that distance of time will conceal all blemishes as well as distance of place?' said Anne.
'Yes, unless I take a telescope to look at them with,' answered Elizabeth; 'perhaps, Anne, in thirty years time, if we both live so long, we may meet and talk over this day, and smile, and wonder that we could have been vexed by anything at such a time.'
'You like looking forward,' said Anne; 'I suppose I am too happy, for I am afraid to look forward; any change of any sort must bring sorrow with it.'
'I suppose you are right,' said Elizabeth; 'that is, I believe the safest frame of mind to be that which resigns itself to anything that may be appointed for it, rather than that which makes schemes and projects for itself.'
'Oh! but, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'I did not mean that. Mine is rather an indolent frame, which does not scheme, because my present condition is, I do believe, happier than any I could imagine upon earth. I do not think that is resignation--there are some things under which I do not think I could be resigned, at least not with my present feelings.'