Five years of youth

There had, as yet, been no time for due honour to be paid to the favourite green parlour; but early the next evening, those of the party who were the most likely to appreciate its peculiarities, were assembled there. The harp-lute caught the eye of the Signor as soon as he entered. “Ah, ah!” cried he, pointing to it with delight, “may I?” and he took it down, and tuned it. Just when he was about to begin, his heart seemed to fail him. He laid it down, with a sigh, saying, “It is long——” A glance between Anna and Selina supplied what he would have said. Mary felt it all, as much as they; but she did not content herself with a sympathizing sigh. She took the instrument, and struck up her father’s favourite Spanish song of Liberty. As she hoped, the exile’s current of feeling was diverted from melancholy objects. “Libertà! libertà!” he echoed, starting up and waving his hand, while his eyes sparkled; and as often as the Signor looked up and smiled, he joined in the burden, “Libertà! libertà!”

He was delighted with Mary’s singing, which was very unlike what he had heard from any other young lady since he had been in England. She had been well taught; but she had that natural taste for music—the ear and the soul for it—without which no teaching is of any avail. She sang much and often, not because she had any particular aim at being very accomplished, but because she loved it; or, as she said, because she could not help it. She sang to Nurse Rickham’s children; she sang as she went up and down stairs; she sang when she was glad, and when she was sorry; when her papa was at home, because he liked it; when he was out, because he could not be disturbed by it. In the woods, at noon-day, she sang like a bird, that a bird might answer her; and if she woke in the dark night, the feeling of solemn music came over her, with which she dared not break the silence. Every thing suggested music to her. Every piece of poetry which she understood and liked, formed itself into melody in her mind, without an effort: when a gleam of sunshine burst out, she gave voice to it; and long before she had heard any cathedral service, the chanting of the Psalms was familiar to her by anticipation.

Anna had as good an ear, and a much richer voice, but not quite so prevailing a love for the art: if art it may be called, in such a case as theirs. She was always able and willing to sing, but not so continually and spontaneously alive to music as her sister. She would join in when her sister began; and whenever they sat at work in the balcony, their voices would ring clear and sweet, through the house, by the hour together. Their father loved to hear them, and the servants themselves were never tired.

When Signor Elvi had heard several songs for which he had asked, (scarcely with the hope that Mary would be able to gratify him,) he mentioned at last a duet, which she had never seen or heard of. It seldom happened that she could not sing whatever was asked for; for her father took care that she was supplied with good music of all kinds, ancient and modern; and when she had once noticed a melody, it was never forgotten, or might be revived on the slightest suggestion. The duet now mentioned, she knew nothing about; but thought she and Anna might learn it if the Signor would sing it to them. He was well pleased to do so, and they established themselves in the balcony, sitting at his feet, and learning almost as much from his countenance as his voice. The thing was accomplished presently, as much to his amazement as pleasure; and he sat with his head on his hand, listening with delight to the music of his own land. Mrs. Fletcher understood and felt the pleasure too; and their father, who was walking in the garden with Mr. Fletcher, stopped and listened, without remembering to apologize to his companion for the sudden interruption of their conversation. No new air was lost on him, especially when sung by his daughters.

“How sweet, how wild, Mary’s voice is!” observed Mrs. Fletcher to her daughters, as they sat within. “I have not heard such another since her mother sang to me.”

“Which is the most like Mrs. Byerley?” asked Rose.

“I scarcely know,” replied her mother: “they both remind me of her perpetually. Anna has her mother’s countenance, and I catch occasional glimpses of the mirth which I used to love.”

“And the sensibility,” said Selina.

“Mary has the sensibility to an equal degree.”

“Oh mamma! no.”

“I discover as great a depth of feeling in Mary as in Anna, with a stronger judgment. Yes, Mary is the most like her mother. They are charming companions for you, my dears, in most respects, and I am very glad you have met.”

“In most respects!” repeated Selina: “in every respect. They are every thing that is dear and delightful!”

“Take care, my little enthusiast,” said her mother, laying one hand on Selina’s shoulder, and pointing with the other to the balcony: “look at your friends now, and tell me if you would like to make exactly such an appearance.”

Selina saw that Mary’s hair, disordered and out of curl, hung in a very slovenly way about her face; and that Anna’s silk frock was stained from top to bottom with something which had been thrown over it.

“Oh! mamma,” exclaimed Selina, “how can you expect them to be quite neat and handy, when they have no mother to teach them?”

“I do not expect it, my dear; I only point out to you that they are not quite perfect. If we could carry them away with us, I think we might soon correct these bad habits; and they, in their turn, might improve you in some things of more importance.”

Rose and her sister besought Mrs. Fletcher to try to induce Mr. Byerley to part with them for a while; and as Mr. Fletcher had himself proposed it, believing that Mary would be a valuable companion to Rose, it was agreed that Mr. Byerley’s consent should be asked without delay.

While this matter was under consideration, Mr. Byerley entered and seated himself by Mrs. Fletcher. The girls presently withdrew.

“Can you guess what we were talking of when you came?” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Your countenance tells me,” replied Mr. Byerley, nodding towards the balcony. “There is much to be said on that subject, my dear madam; and I do assure you that the best kindness you can show us all, is to tell me truly and exactly what impression my poor motherless girls have made upon you.”

“I will do so with the greatest pleasure,” replied Mrs. Fletcher, smiling; “for the impression is very much like what I know you wish it to be.” And while she praised, the father listened with pleased attention.

“I have tried to make them good,” he said, when there was a pause: “they are affectionate, and they are simple. There is little in their conduct to myself which I wish otherwise; and no sisters were ever more attached to one another than they. But there is much which wants correction; and more evil in prospect, I am afraid.”

“Their personal habits want correction, I grant, without dispute,” replied Mrs. Fletcher; “and I have a plan to propose for that purpose: but what further evil is in prospect I do not see.”

“An evil of much greater magnitude than their sad external habits, which, however, are grievous enough,” replied their father. “You know my hatred of all schools, and of the usual method of female education.”

“Oh! yes,” said Mrs. Fletcher, smiling: “your prejudices on that subject are completely identified with yourself.”

“The reason of that hatred, which may have some prejudice mixed up with it, is, that almost all the women whom I have known to have much feeling, have been victims to feeling. It seems to me, that through some grand error in education, women become either unfeeling or sentimental—given either to levity or romance.

“I cannot agree with you at all,” said Mrs. Fletcher; “and I am very sure you have been unfortunate in your experience of female society; or that one beautiful example of sobriety and depth of feeling united, has made you imagine that the method of education adopted in that particular case, must be the only good one.”

“I have indeed wished that my girls should be placed, as nearly as possible, in the circumstances which made their mother what she was; but I begin to have my fears. Their minds are, in some respects, too forward for their age; their imaginations are growing too fast.”

“If you think so of your own children,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “what must be your opinion of mine?”

“I judge in no case but that in which I am most nearly concerned,” replied Mr. Byerley. “How your daughters act and feel I pretend not to know; and if I knew, I should not interfere with criticisms or advice. But, as to my own girls, I have seen Mary often lately so absorbed in her book of poetry or in a reverie, that it is difficult to recall her attention to necessary things; and Anna’s red eyes and melancholy countenance have really distressed me the last two days.”

“I am sure their feelings are of a most amiable kind,” said Mrs. Fletcher; “and such as I would not repress for the world.”

“Amiable, I grant, and natural,” replied the father; “but I think they come too early, and that there is too much of them. Nobody values more than I do the lofty and deep emotion which prompts to the most vigorous and benevolent action; but feeling of this kind cannot subsist in the mind in mature years, if an excessive sensibility be allowed early and idly to excite the imagination. If Anna’s compassion for Signor Elvi’s misfortunes could lead her to active exertions on behalf of him and his family, let her pity him as much as she will; but as she can do nothing, and tries to do nothing, I am afraid of the consequences of so many sighs and tears, natural and amiable as they may be in themselves.”

“I believe Mary feels quite as much,” observed Mrs. Fletcher, “and to better purpose, for she tries to amuse him, instead of awakening painful feelings.”

“If that was the case always, I should fear nothing,” replied Mr. Byerley; “but I dread the effects of the reveries over Paradise Lost, and——”

“Paradise Lost will do her no harm,” said Mr. Fletcher, who had joined them unperceived, and was leaning over the back of the sofa: “no imagination was ever the worse for being early nourished on that book. It is the flimsy, lovesick, sentimental poetry of modern times, which makes women so weak and tiresome, as those of them are who pretend to be bookish, or to have fine feelings.”

“I should not have thought,” said Mr. Byerley, smiling, “that you would have admitted poetry under any shape into your daughters’ library.”

“You do not know me then,” replied Mr. Fletcher. “If you and I were to compare our notions of a perfect woman, I believe they would be found pretty much alike. She must have an intellect capable of grasping high thoughts, and a heart expanded by boundless feelings, or religion cannot have done all it may do for her. It is because I value the noble faculty of imagination so highly, that it grieves me to see it weakened and perverted by early indulgence.”

“As it is in my girls,” said Mr. Byerley, gravely.

“No,” said Mr. Fletcher, “not in your girls; at least, not in Mary; and not to an irremediable degree in Anna: but it is time you were taking care.”

“If I had Mr. Byerley’s fears, (which I have not,)” said Mrs. Fletcher, “I should take the girls into the world; or, at least, let them see more society here. If they had a greater variety of realities to think about, they would have fewer imaginations.”

“I agree with you perfectly, my dear,” said Mr. Fletcher. And now it was most clearly proved, in various ways, to Mr. Byerley, that the best possible plan he could pursue with his daughters, would be to let them join their friends in a journey to the Continent, where they were going to reside for two or three years. Notwithstanding so many arguments, however, the father could not be persuaded of the possibility of parting with his children; and the most he could be brought to say was, that he would endeavour so to arrange his plans, as to join Mr. Fletcher’s family in the south of France in the course of a few months. He laughed as he adverted to the remarks which might very fairly be made on this new proof of his eccentricity, if his neighbours should lay hold of the idea that he went abroad for the moral improvement of the girls; as if they could not be made wise and good in their own country.

“The difference of country has nothing to do with it,” said Mr. Fletcher: “if we were going to Dublin or Edinburgh instead of Tours, you would come to us as you intend doing now. Your object is change of society more than of place, as far as your daughters are concerned. As for your own peculiar tastes, you can gratify them more easily abroad than you could in London, where such a politician as yourself can never be left long unmolested. But, Byerley, you surely do not regard what any body says about your domestic plans!”

“Nobody so little,” replied Mr. Byerley, “as my practice has proved; but I sometimes amuse myself with the remarks which are made on my oddity. I hope my girls will never suffer by the reputation of that sort which I have gained.”

“Not they: it is more likely they should suffer by our leaving them for the hour together, as we are doing now, to listen to the Signor’s pretty, soft sentiments.”

On approaching the balcony, it was found, however, that though the Signor was holding forth on a pretty subject, it was by no means a sentimental one. He was describing the process of rearing silk-worms in Italy, and of obtaining and managing their produce. Thence he proceeded to answer some questions of Rose’s about the silk manufactory at Lyons, of which he had talked with her father at dinner on the day of their arrival. Anna had not listened, and was not therefore much interested in what was now said.

The evening sun shone bright and warm into the balcony, when Mary gave up her seat there to Mrs. Fletcher, while she took her place at the tea-table. Remarks were made on the luxury of such an assemblage in such a place, on the beauty of the prospect, the fragrance of the flowers, and many other causes of enjoyment; when Mr. Fletcher, ever afraid of sentiment, cried out: “Pray, Miss Mary, do not let the tea be the worse for every thing else being so charming. Not all the prettiness in the world will make up for the tea being spoiled.” He appealed to the Signor, who did not appear to share Anna’s indignation; though he smiled while he replied, that he liked perfection of comfort when it could be had; and that, if he were an Englishman, he did not doubt that it would be a drawback to his pleasure to be disappointed in the strength and flavour of his tea.

Selina and her friend thought this was overstrained politeness, till they perceived that their foreign friend sipped his excellent coffee with real relish. They forgot to drink theirs till it was cold; but as they probably did not notice the fact, it did not signify.

Signor Elvi did not appear at the breakfast-table the next morning; and, on enquiry, it was found that he had gone out very early, leaving word that he should not return till night. No one could imagine whither he had departed: he knew not one person in the neighbourhood, and had no connexions of business or pleasure out of London. Had he gone in one of the coaches? No: it was not coach time when he went out. He took no parcel with him; nothing but his hat and stick, and a book which peeped out of his pocket, the servant said. She could not tell in what direction he had turned his steps. No further information was to be obtained, and the plans for the day were laid without any reference to their stranger guest.

The principal plan was for a long afternoon visit to the farm, to drink new milk, play with the children, and see all that was to be seen. Mrs. Fletcher had known Nurse Rickham in former days: she had now seen her at Mr. Byerley’s house, but had promised to visit her in her own homestead, where she might see all the children gathered together, and make some acquaintance with the husband. At a little past four, accordingly, Kitty stood by the farm-yard gate, dressed in her best, to open it for the ladies to enter. Tommy pulled his fore-lock without ceasing, when they came in sight; and Nurse, with her starched mob and clean white apron, advanced smiling and blushing to welcome her guests. In answer to her respectful enquiries about Mr. Byerley’s health, Mary told her that he would follow presently with Mr. Fletcher, to join them in time for tea. Nurse thought herself only too much honoured, but had not expected any but the ladies, as the gentleman from abroad had passed through and far away so early in the morning. Had he been at the farm? it was eagerly asked. Yes: as Robin was leading out the team, the gentleman who spoke so very strangely, asked leave to pass through the yard and the paddock behind, as this seemed the shortest way to the hills he wished to reach. Robin could scarcely understand one word of his enquiries; so he called Nurse Rickham, who, having been more used to gentlefolks, was able to afford him more satisfaction. She described the paths among the hills to him, and led him through two fields, so that he could not possibly mistake his way. All this was very strange. Anna was sure that he was gone into solitude to compose a poem:—who knew what might be in it! Selina having perceived that her mother looked somewhat grave, formed the horrible conjecture that he meant to destroy himself, as she had heard some of his countrymen had done under the pressure of distress. It was in vain that she was reminded how cheerful he was the night before; how he had mentioned his plans for the next week; and how little reason there was to suppose that he was now oppressed by any new or overwhelming grief or difficulty. Still Selina was persuaded in her own mind that he would be found weltering in his blood, or hanging from a tree. What other supposition was at all probable? How did her mamma, or Rose, or Mary, account for his absence? Her mamma left it to be explained by time; Rose ventured no conjecture; and Mary gently asked if no instance had ever been known of people retiring into woods, wildernesses, and fields, for the sake of solitude, and the employments which belong to solitude.

“You do not know all that I could tell you,” said Selina, sadly and mysteriously, “or you would not think he could have any such purpose.”

“I should like to hear, if you can tell me,” said Mary. “Do tell me.”

Selina drew her aside, and whispered: “Signor Elvi is not a Christian.”

“I know it,” replied Mary: “I heard papa say so.”

“Then how can you think he can like to be alone as a religious man would?”

“Because I think he is a religious man.”

Selina looked very much puzzled. Mary said: “Some other time I will tell you what papa told me about this, and then you will understand what I mean.”

“Does your papa think that Signor Elvi is religious?”

“Yes, he does; but do not fancy that papa is not a Christian. And I do assure you that you may make yourself quite easy about Signor Elvi. He is too wise and good to throw away his life as soon as misfortunes happen.”

“I do not blame people for destroying themselves so much as you do, Mary. They only do it when they are very miserable. I am more sorry for them than you are.”

“Not more sorry, I hope,” said Mary. “I am very sorry for their misery, and I am more sorry still that they have not strength to bear it. They are, indeed, more to be pitied than one can imagine.”

“Not strength!” repeated Selina. “Well, now, I cannot help admiring their courage. I think it shows such great courage to leave every thing that they know, and go they do not know where—to take the leap in the dark, as somebody says.”

“Do you not blame people then, for destroying themselves?” enquired Mary, perplexed in her turn.

“Oh yes, to be sure. It is very wrong, because——because——”

“Because of what?”

Selina did not seem quite ready with a reason. Presently, however, she answered: “Because it offends God.”

“Certainly,” said Mary: “it offends God to refuse to bear whatever he appoints. It shows that we do not trust in him; it shows that we are very cowardly.”

“Cowardly!” exclaimed Selina: “what! to do such a bold act as that?”

“Such a rash act,” said Mary: “it is not the less cowardly, on the whole, for being rash. I know it must require some sort of vehement resolution to do the very deed—to cut one’s throat across, or fire a pistol through one’s brains.”

“That is what I mean,” interrupted Selina.

“But a man who shows this sort of courage, only has it because he wants a greater; he only chooses the shortest way of getting rid of his troubles, because he cannot bear the longer trial. I am sure, Selina, you must admire the courage that can bear on, and bear on, happen what will.”

“Like the martyrs, and like the prisoners in the Inquisition. Oh yes!”

“And like many who never heard of the Inquisition, but who endure worse things than they could ever meet with there; troubles and griefs which last from year to year, and which oppress their wives or their children, or somebody else whom they care more about than themselves.”

Selina looked doubtful.

“I do not know any thing so grand,” continued Mary, “as to see any body—man, woman, or child, patiently and cheerfully bearing one affliction after another, without wanting any one to see or admire; giving up every thing, most precious, as soon as required to do so, and growing more and more careful to make other people happy as they are less so themselves. How very selfish, how very cowardly, is the boldest man that ever cut his throat, in comparison with such a one!”

Selina felt this; but enquired: “Do you think Signor Elvi could be such a one if he is not a Christian?”

Mary pondered awhile before she answered:—“I do not know: I will ask papa what he thinks. But I am very sure that a person so kind-hearted to every body, so fond of his wife and children, and so very serious, as papa says he is about religion, could never, in his right senses, plunge himself into destruction, and every body that he cared for into misery.”

This last sentence furnished Selina with a new scheme. If Signor Elvi would not, in his right senses, hang himself, he might do so if driven mad by his misfortunes; and who could wonder if such should prove to be the case? It mattered not that he had been not only sane but cheerful the night before, and that Nurse Rickham was pleased with all that he had said, and with his manner of saying it, that morning; Selina was determined to be apprehensive: who or what, therefore, could prevent her being so?

Mary, on her part, was resolved to ascertain what Signor Elvi’s principles were with respect to the duty of bearing the troubles of life with patience and cheerfulness. If she might judge from what she had seen, those principles were good; but she did not know how much allowance to make for differences of national character, and for constitutional temperament. She hoped to obtain satisfaction for herself, and instruction for Selina, by telling her father her wishes, and requesting him to engage his foreign friend in conversation on such topics as might lead to an explanation of those of his opinions which she wished to ascertain.

In the meanwhile, she was glad to see how Anna had recovered her spirits. At the farm it was her wont to be gay, and the well-known objects there brought back the cheerfulness with which she was accustomed to view them. When in a merry mood, Anna was almost wild: she was so now. A spirited game at prison-bars was going on in the paddock, and Anna and Mr. Fletcher were the most daring and active of the players. Nobody excelled Mr. Fletcher at this kind of sport; and he was glad when an opportunity offered of engaging his girls in amusements which they relished far less than was natural at their age. Rose had now thrown aside her bonnet, and was as eager to break the bounds of her prison as little Tommy Rickham himself; but Selina, who was disappointed to find that Anna’s sympathies were not as true to her own as the needle to the pole, turned away with a sigh, and sought a shaded alley in the garden, where she nourished her tender fears in solitude, and grew more melancholy with every shout of laughter which reached her from the paddock. She could not forget Anna as she had just seen her, panting with heat and fatigue, her face flushed, her hair blown back, her eyes almost starting with eagerness as she turned, and wound about the palings, fled round and round, crossed and crossed again in the agony of escape, which left her no breath to cry out as her pursuer came nearer and nearer, and at last exactly missed her in his last attempt to catch her as she leaped over the boundary. How different from the Anna who wept under the trees in Audley Park! Selina was afraid that, after all, she had not found the friend after her own heart, whom she had congratulated herself on securing.

“My love,” said her mother, when she saw that her bowl of new milk stood untasted before her, while the rest of the party were enjoying the meal they had earned by exercise, “I am afraid you are not well, Selina.”

There was visible agitation about the lower part of the face while she replied, in a low voice, that she was not ill. Her father, whose back was towards her, turned suddenly round and looked her full in the face, while he felt her pulse with mock gravity, observing that there was no distemper but on the nerves, which certainly wanted bracing. In an instant, before she was aware, he held her hands behind her with one hand, and with the other dragged her to the very brink of the pond, as if he would throw her in. Selina screamed and struggled; every body else laughed, Anna rather more loudly than was accordant with her friend’s sympathies. Mr. Fletcher let his prisoner escape, ran after her, and when he had given her such a chase as exhausted her breath, caught her, and whispering a few words, led her back to her seat at the table under the tree; he helped her plentifully with cake, thus giving her an opportunity of attesting his skill in restoring an appetite.

There was so much amusement afterwards for the gentlemen in accompanying the farmer through some of his fields—for Mrs. Fletcher in quietly talking over old times with Nurse Rickham—and for the young people, in seeing the dairy-woman finish her milking, that it was dusk before they left behind them the bows and curtseys of the household at the farm, and quite dark when they reached home.

In the parlour was Signor Elvi, perfectly safe, reading very intently, and looking so placid, that it was evident no such direful thoughts as Selina had imagined, had disturbed any mind but her own. Anna retained, for the present, her conjecture about the poem; but, though all were full of curiosity respecting his day’s adventures, no one made any allusion to them, except Mr. Fletcher, who observed on the universal predilection of patriots for the wilds of nature, for hills, heaths, and caves.

“It is universal because it is natural,” said Signor Elvi. “When men cannot breathe freely in despotic courts, they love to lay bare their bosoms to the winds. If they must be dumb before tyrants, they love to shout their songs of liberty in the depths of caverns. If they must smile falsely when the eyes of traitors are upon them, they love to drop their tears into the mountain stream, while none look on but the faithful and silent stars. Nature is the heaven of patriots.”

“But, my dear sir, here are no tyrants to constrain you to silence; and it is to be hoped we are not traitors. Weep as much as you please, and I, for one, will promise not to report your tears.”

“You spoke of patriots,” said the foreigner, smiling; “could I guess that your thoughts were of myself?”