Lettice Arnold. A tale. By the author of 'Emilia Wyndham,' etc

Chapter I

It is the generous spirit, that, when brought Unto the task of common life, hath wrought Even upon the plan which pleased the childish thought. Who, doomed to go in company with pain, And fear, and ruin — miserable train ! — Makes that necessity a glorious gain, By actions that would force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate. ****** More gifted with self-knowledge — even more pure As tempted more — more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress ; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. Wordsworth. Happy Warrior. "No, dearest mother, no! I cannot. What! after all the tenderness, care, and love, I have VOL. I. B received from you, for now one and twenty years, to leave you and my father, in your old age, to yourselves! Oh, no ! Oh, no !" "Nay, my child," said the pale, delicate, nervous woman, thus addressed by a blooming girl, whose face beamed with every promise for future happiness which health, and cheerful ness, and eyes filled with warm affections, could give ; " Nay, my child, don't talk so.

You must not talk so. It is not to be thought of." And, as she said these words with effort, her poor heart was dying within her, not only from sorrow at the thought of the parting from her darling ; but with all sorts of dreary, undefined terrors at the idea of the forlorn deserted life before her. Abandoned to her self and to servants ; so fearful, so weak as she was, and with tbe poor invalided and crippled veteran her husband, a martyr to that long train of sufferings which honourable wounds, received in the service of country, too often leave behind them, — A man at all times so difficult to soothe, so impossible to entertain — and old age creeping upon them both. Tbe little strength she ever had diminishing ; the little spirit she ever possessed failing ; what should she do without this dear, animated; this loving, clever being, who was, in one word, everything to her ?

Yet she held to her resolution, — no martyr ever more courageously than did this trembling, timid woman. A prey to ten thousand imaginary fears — and, let alone the imaginary fears, placed in a position where the help she was now depriving herself of was really so greatly needed ! But what will not the strong love of a mother do 1 " No, my dear," the mother repeated, " don't think of it ; — don't speak of it. You distress me very much. Pray don't, my dearest Catherine." " But I should be a shocking creature, mamma, to forsake you. And I am sure Edgar would despise me as much as I should B2 despise myself, if I could think of it. I cannot — Iought not to leave you." The gentle blue eye of Mrs. Melwyn was fixed upon the daughter's generous, glowing face. She smothered a sigh, and waited a while to steady her faltering voice.

She wished to hide, if possible, from her daughter, the extent of the sacrifice she was making. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to speak with composure, and then she said : — " To accept such a sacrifice from a child, I have always thought the most monstrous piece of selfishness of which a parent could be guilty. My love, this trial does not come upon me unexpectedly. I have, of course, anticipated it. I knew my sweet girl could not be long known and seen without inspirin" and returning the attachment of some valuable man. I have resolved — and God strengthen me in this resolve," — she cast up a silent appeal to the fountain of strength and courage — "that nothing should tempt me to what I consider so base, as conduct such as my own Catherine would tempt me to, M'ould, in my poor opinion be.

What ! a parent accept the sacrifice of a whole life in exchange for the poor remnant of her own ! A parent who has had ber own portion of the joys of youth in her day, deprive a child of a share in her turn ! No, my dearest love, never — never ! I M'ould die, and I will die first." But it was not death that she feared. It was not the idea of death that appalled her. Weak as were her nerves, delicate as was her frame, she had escaped that dread, among the many evils which flesh, susceptible to every impression as hers was, is heir to. What she dreaded was melancholy. She knew the unsoundness of her own nerves. She had often felt herself, as it were, trembling upon the fearful verge of reason, when tbe mind, unable to support itself, is forced to rest upon another. She had known a feeling, common to many very nervous people, I believe, as though her mind must inevitably be overset when pressed far, if it were not helped, strengthened, and cheered by some more wholesome mind ; and she shrank appalled from the prospect.

But even these terrors, great as they con fessedly are, and peculiarly great in the in stance before us, could not make her waver in her resolution. She was a generous, just, disinterested woman ; though the exigencies of a most delicate constitution, and most susceptible nervous system, had too often exposed her, from those who did not understand such things, to tbe reproach of being a tiresome, whimsical hypochondriac ; — from those whose iron nerves, and vigorous spirits, rendered sym pathy in such distresses impossible. Poor thing, she knew this but too M-ell. It was the difficulty of making herself under stood ; the want of sympathy — the impos sibility of rendering needs, most urgent in her case, comprehensible by her friends, which had added so greatly to that timorous cowardice, that fear of circumstances — of changes — which had been the bane of her existence.

And, therefore, this kind, animated, affectionate daughter, M'hose tenderness seemed never to weary in the task of cheering ber ; M-hose activity M'as never exhausted in the endeavour to assist and serve her ; whose good sense and spirit kept everything right at home, and more especially kept those terrible things, the servants, in order — of whom the poor mother, like many other feeble anel lan guid people, was so foolishly afraid ; — there fore, this kind daughter was as the very sjDring of her existence ; and the idea of part ing with her was really dreadful. Yet she hesitated not. So did that man behave, who stood firm upon tbe rampart till he had finished his observation, though his hair turned white with fear. Mrs. Melwyn was an heroic coward of this kind. She had prayed ardently, fervently, tbat day, for courage, for resolution to complete the dreaded sacrifice, and she had found it.

"Ob, Lord! I am thy servant. Do with me what thou wilt. Trembling in spirit, the victim of my.infirmity, a poor, selfish, cowardly being, I fall doM'n before Thee. Thou bast showed me what is right, the sacrifice I ought to make. Oh, give me strength in my weak ness to be faithful to complete it!" Thus had she prayed. And now, resolved in heart, the poor sinking spirit failing her within; but, as I said, steadying her voice with an almost heroic constancy, she resisted her grateful and pious child's representation : " I have told Edgar, — dear as he is to me, strong as are tbe claims bis generous affection gives him over me, — that I will not, I cannot forsake you." " You must not call it forsake," said the mother, gently. " My love, the Lord of life himself has spoken it : ' Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mcther, and shall cleave unto his wife.' " " And so he is ready to do," cried Catherine, eagerly.

" Yes, mother, he desires nothing better — he respects my scruples — he has offered, dear Edgar ! to abandon his profession, and come and live here, and help me to take care of you and my father. Was not that beautiful'." and the tears stood in her eyes. " Beautiful, — generous, — devoted ! My Ca therine will be a happy woman," and the mother smiled. A ray of genuine pleasure warmed her beating heart. This respect for the filial scruples of her he loved, was indeed beautiful in the gay handsome young officer. But the mother knew his disposition too well to listen to this proposal, even for a moment. "And abandon his profession? No, my sweet child, that would never, never do." " But he says be is independent of bis pro fession — tbat his private fortune, though not large, is enough for such simple, moderate people as he and I are.

In short, that be shall be miserable without me, and all that charming stuff, mamma, — and that be loves me the better, for what he calls, dear felloM', my piety to you. And so, dear mother, he says if you and my father will but consent to take him in, he Mill do his very best in helping me to make you comfortable ; and be is so sM-eet-tempered, so reasonable, so good, so amiable, I am quite sure be would keep bis promise, mamma." And she looked anxiously into her mother's face, waiting for an answer. The temptation was very, very strong. Again those domestic spectres which had so appalled her poor timorous spirit rose before her. A desolate, didl fireside — her own ten dency to melancholy — her poor maimed, suffering, and alas, too often peevish partner — her encroaching, unmanageable servants.

The cook, with her careless, saucy ways — the butler so indifferent and negligent, and ber own maid Randall — that Randall, who in secret tyran nised over her — exercising the empire of fear to an extent of M'hich Catherine, alive as she was to these evils, had no idea. And again Mrs. Melwyn asked herself, if these things were so disagreeable now, when Catherine was here to take care of her, what would they become when she should be left alone ? And then such a sweet picture of happiness presented itself to tempt her — Catherine settled there — settled there, at the Hazles for ever. That handsome, lively young man, with his sweet cordial ways and polite observance of every one, sitting by their hearth, and talking, as be was used to do, to tbe General, of old days and military matters — the only sub jects in which this aged military man took any real interest, — reading the newspaper to him, and making such lively, pleasant com ments as he read !

How should she ever get through the debates, with her breath so short, and her voice so indistinct and low? The General would lose all patience— be hated to bear her attempt to read such things, and always, when he could, got Catherine or the young Lieutenant-Colonel to do it. Oh ! it was a sore temptation ; but this poor, dear, good creature resisted it. " My love," she said, after a little pause, during which this noble victory was achieved — laugh if you will at me for tbe expression, but it was a noble victory over self; — "my love," she said, " don't tempt your poor mother be yond her strength. Gladly, gladly, as far as we are concerned, would we enter into this arrangement ; but it must not be. No, Catherine ; Edgar must not quit his profession. It M-ould not only be a very great sacrifice I am sure now, but it would lay the foundation of endless regrets in future.

No, my darling girl, neither bis happiness nor your happiness shall be ever sacrificed to mine. A life against a few uncertain years ! No — no." The mother was inflexible. The more these good children offered to give up for her sake, the more she resolved to suffer no such sacrifice to be made. Edgar could not but rejoice. He was an excellent young fellow, and excessively in love with the charming Catherine, you may be sure, or he never would have thought of offer ing to abandon a profession in which he had distinguished himself highly, for her sake. — A profession which opened to him the fairest prospects, and of which he was especially fond, — but he was not sorry to be excused. He had resolved upon this sacrifice ; for there is something in those who truly love, and whose love is elevated almost to adoration by the moral worth they have observed in the chosen one, which revolts at the idea of lower ing the tone of that enthusiastic goodness and self-immolation to principle which has so en chanted them.

Edgar could not do it. He could not attempt to persuade this tender, generous daughter, to consider her own welfare and his, in preference to that of her parents. He could only offer, on his own part, to make the greatest sacrifice which coulel have been demanded from him. Rather than part from her what M'ould he not do ? Everything was possible but that. However, when the mother positively refused to accept of this act of self-abnegation, I cannot say that he regretted it ; or that he used any very strenuous arguments to per suade Catherine to persist in her proposal. No, he thought Mrs. Melwyn quite right in deciding as she had done; and he felt bis affection for herself, and his respect both for her character and understanding, very much increased by this unexpected proof of courage and good sense.

That night Mrs. Melwyn was very, very low indeed. And when she went up into her dressing-room, and Catherine had kissed ber tenderly, and with a heart quite divided be tween anxiety for her mother, and a sense of happiness upon her own account, that would make itself felt in spite of all, had retired to her room ; the mother sat down, poor thing, in the most comfortable arm-chair that ever was invented, but which imparted no comfort to her ; anel placing herself before a merry blazing fire, which was reflected from all sorts of cheerful pretty things with which the dress ing-room was adorned ; her feet upon a warm, soft footstool of Catherine's own working, ber elbow resting upon her knee, and her head upon ber band, she, with her eyes bent mourn fully upon the fire, began crying very much.

And so she sat for a long time, thinking and crying — very sorrowful, but not in the least repenting. She could not, however, help meditating upon all sorts of dismal things — . seeing everything in the blackest possible lijjht ; and her heart was filled with all kinds of melancholy forebodings, as to how it would, and must inevitably be, when dear, dear Catherine was really gone. She sank at lest into a deep sorrowful reverie, and sate quite absorbed in her own thoughts, till she — who was extremely punctual in her hour of going to bed, for reasons best known to herself, though never confided to any human being — namely, that her maid disliked very much sitting up for her — quite forgot the hour. She started as the clock in the hall sounded eleven and two quarters, and almost with the trepidation of a chidden child, rose and rang tbe bell.

Nobody came. This made her still more uneasy. It M'as Randall's custom not to answer her mistress' bell the first time, when she was cross. And poor Mrs. Melwyn dreaded few things in this world more than cross looks from those about her, especially from Randall ; and that Randall knew perfectly well. " She must be fallen asleep in her chair, poor thing. It M'as very thoughtless of me," Mrs. Melwyn did not say, but would have said, if people ever did speak to themselves aloud. Even in this sort of mute soliloquy she did not venture to say, " Randall will be very ill tempered and unreasonable." But after wait ing a respectful length of time, in a state of much mental self-reproach and fear of consequences, she ventured, with considerable hesi tation, to repeat the summons, and — ring again. But it was not even then till after a proper space of time bad been yielded to the claims of offended dignity, that it pleased Mrs. Ran dall to make ber appearance.

" I am very sorry, Randall. — Really I bad no idea bow late it was. — I was thinking about Miss Catherine, and I missed it M'hen it struck ten. — I bad not the least idea it was so late," began the mistress, in an apologising vol. i. c tone, to which Randall vouchsafed not an answer, but looked like a thunder cloud, as she went banging up and down the room, opening and shutting drawers with a loud noise, and treacling with a rough, heavy step; two things particularly annoying, as she very well knew, to the sensitive nerves of her mistress. But Randall settled it with herself — tbat as ber mistress had kept her out of bed an hour and a half longer than usual, for no reason at all but just to please herself, she should find she was none the better for it. The poor mistress bore all this with patience for some time.

She would have gone on bearing the roughness and the noise, however disagreeable, as long as Randall so pleased; but ber soft heart could not bear those glum cross looks, and this alarming silence. " I was thinking of Miss Catherine's marriage, Randall. That was what made me forget the hour. — What shall I do without her?" " Do without her ! What will you do without her ! What other people do, I suppose," said the insolent abigail. " Yes, that's just like it; nothing ever can content some people, I think. Most ladies M'ould be glad to have settled their daughters so M-ell ; but some folk must make a crying matter of every thing. It would be well for poor servants, when they're sitting over the fire, their bones aching to death for very weariness, if they'd something as pleasant to think about.

They wouldn't be crying for nothing, and keeping all the world out of their beds, like those who care for nought but how to please them selves." Part of this was said, part muttered, part thought ; and the poor timid mistress — one of whose domestic occupations it seemed to be to study the humours of her servants — beard a portion, and divined the rest. " Well, Randall, I don't quite hear all you are saying," at last she mustered courage to c2 say, " and perhaps it is as well I do not ; but I wish you would give me my things and make haste, for I'm really very tired, and I want to go to bed." " People can't make more haste than they w can. And so it went on. The maid-servant never relaxing an atom of ber offended dignity — continuing to look as ill-humoured, and to do everything as disagreeably as she possibly could — and her poor victim, by speaking from time to time in an anxious, most gentle, and almost flattering manner, hoping to mollify her dependant ; — but all in vain.

" I'll teach her to keep me up again for nothing at all," thought Randall. Whilst " Oh ! how foolish it was of me to forget the clock," and " Oh ! I never will be so thoughtless as to do it again," was mentally ejaculated by her penitent mistress. At last the poor lady, very miserable and disconsolate in the midst of all ber luxuries, gained her comfortable bed, and lay there not able to sleep for very discomposure of mind ; whilst the abigail retired to her own warm apartment, where she was greeted with a pleasant fire, by which stood a little nice cho colate, simmering, which she had prepared to solace and refresh herself with after the fatigue of putting her mistress to bed ; and then she retired to ber downy couch, in the full enjoy ment of victorious ill-humour, and all the sweets of revenge.

For she bad been dread fully ill-used, it was true; but then she had been dreadfully out of temper, and had paid her mistress off one while, at least, for the fearful hardship she had inflicted. No bard ship on earth sure could equal that she en dured, — forced to sit up in consequence of another's whim, when she wanted so sadly to be in her bed. Whilst, thus, all that the most abundant possession of the M-orld's goods and comforts could bestow was marred by the weakness of the mistress upon one band, and the ill-temper of the maid upon the other — tbe plentiful gifts of fortune rendered valueless by this erroneous facility upon one side, and this insolent love of domination upon that; how many in the large metropolis, only a few miles distant, and of which the innumerable lights might be seen brightening, like an Aurora, the southern sky; — hoM' many laid down their heads supperless that night !

Stretched upon miserable pallets, and ignorant M'here food M'as to be found on tbe morrow to satisfy the cravings of hunger ; yet, in the midst of their misery, more misera ble, still because they, like their more fortunate fellow creatures, were not exempt from those worst pests of existence, — their own faults and infirmities. Yet, in spite of this, how many poor crea tures did actually lay down their heads that night far less miserable than poor Mrs. Melwyn. The tyranny of a servant is noticed by the wise man, if I recollect right, as one of the most irritating and insupportable of mortal miseries. We will now, if you please, leave this abode of ease aud opulence, and poor Mrs. Melwyn restless and dissatisfied with herself, tossing and turning upon her muslin-trimmed pillow, and visit one of the neglected streets of our great city, enter an obscure lodging house, and see how it went with some inmates that we shall find there.

Two young women inhabited one small room of about ten feet by eight, in the upper story of a set of houses somewhere near Mary lebone-street. These houses appear to have been once intended for rather substantial per sons, but have gradually sunk into lodging houses for the very poor. The premises look upon an old grave-yard, a dreary prospect enough, but perhaps preferable to a close street, and are in general filled with decent though very poor people. Every room ap pears to serve a whole family, and few of the rooms are much larger than the one I have described. It was now half-past twelve o'clock, and stilfthe miserable dip tallow candle burned in a dilapidated tin candlestick. The wind whistled with that peculiar wintry sound which betokens that snow is falling ; it was very, very cold — the fire was out, and the girl who sat plying her needle by the hearth, — M'here it was still a little warmer than through out tbe rest of the room, — had wrapped up lier feet in an old worn-out piece of flannel, and had an old black silk wadded cloak thrown over her to keep her from being almost perished.

The chamber was scantily furnished, and bore an air of extreme poverty, amounting almost to absolute destitution. One by one the little articles of property possessed by its inmates had disappeared to supply the calls of urgent want. An old four-post bedstead, with curtains of worn-out serge, stood in one corner ; one mattress, with two small thin pillows and a bolster tbat was almost flat, three old blankets, cotton sheets of the coarsest description, were upon it : three rush-bottomed chairs, an old claw-table, a very ancient, dilapidated chest of drawers, at the top of which were a few battered band-boxes, — a miserable bit of carpet before the fireplace, a wooden box for coals ; a little low tin fender, a poker, or rather half a poker, a shovel and tongs, much the worse for wear, and a very few kitchen utensils, comprised all the furniture in the room.

What there Mas, however, was kept clean ; the floor was clean, the yellow paint was clean, and I forgot to say, there was a washing-tub set aside in one corner. The wind blew shrill, and shook the window, and the snow M'as heard beating against the panes ; the clock went another quarter, but still the indefatigable toiler sewed on. Now and then she lifted up her head, as a sigh proceeded from that corner of the room where the bed stood, and some one might be heard turning and tossing uneasily upon the mattress, — then she returned to her occupation, and plied her needle with increased assiduity. The M'orkM'oman M-as a girl of from eighteen to tM-enty, rather below the middle size, and of a face and form little adapted to figure in a story — one, whose life, in all probability, would never be diversified by those romantic adventures M'hicb real life in general reserves to the beautiful and the highly-gifted.

Her features were rather homely, her hair of a light brown, ivithout golden threads through it, her hands anel arms rough and red M'ith cold and labour, and her dress ordinary was to a degree. — Her clothes M'ere of the cheapest materials, — but then these clothes were so neat, so carefully mended where they had given way ; the hair was so smooth, and so closely and neatly drawn round tbe face, and the face itself had such a sweet expression, that all the defects of line and colour were more than redeemed to the lover of character in countenance, rather than beauty. In describing the character of that coun tenance, I shall not use the word patient, not even that of resigned. She was patient and she was resigned, but it was not this that was pre-eminently expressed in her face. Cheerful it cannot be said that she exactly could look — she looked earnest, composed, busy, and exceedingly kind.

It would almost seem as if she had never, in the midst of her privations, thought enough of herself to call for the full exercise of what may be strictly called the virtues of patience and resignation. She M-as so much occupied with the sufferings of others, that she never seemed to think of her own. She was, indeed, naturally of the most cheerful, hopeful temper in the world — those people without selfishness usually are. And though sorrow had a little lowered the tone of her spirits to more than their constitutional composure, and Mant and disappointment bad faded the bright colours of hope upon ber cheek ; still hope was not entirely gone, nor cheerfulness utterly exhausted. But the pre dominant expression of every word and look, and tone and gesture, M'as kindness — inex haustible kindness.

I said she lifted up her head from time to time, as a sigh proceeded from the bed, and its suffering inhabitant tossed and tossed, and turned and turned again : and at last she broke silence, and said, " Poor Myra, can't you get to sleep ?" " It is so fearfully cold," was the reply ; " and when will you have done, and come to bed?" " One quarter of an hour more, and I shall have finished it. Poor Myra, you are so ner vous, you never can get to sleep till all is shut up — but have patience, dear, one little quarter of an hour, and then I will throw my clothes over your feet, and I hope you will be a little warmer." A sigh for all ansM*er; and then she who ought to be, according to all rule, the true heroine, — for she was extremely beautiful, or rather had been, poor thing, for she was too wan and wasted to be beautiful now, — lifted up ber bead, from which fell a profusion of the fairest hair in the world, and leaning her bead upon her arm, watched, in a sort of impatient patience, the progress of the indefatigable needle-woman.

" One o'clock striking, and you hav'nt done yet, Lettice ! How slowly you do get on." "I cannot M'ork fast and neatly too, dear Myra. I cannot get through as some do — I wish I could. But my hand^ are not so delicate and nimble as yours, such swelled, clumsy things," she said, laughing a little, as she looked at them — swelled, indeed, and all mot tled over with the cold ! " I cannot get over the ground nimbly and well at tbe same time; some people seem like fine race-horses — I am a poor little drudging pony ; but I M'ill make as much haste as I possibly can." Myra once more uttered an impatient, fretful sigh, and sank clown again, saying, "My feet are so dreadfully cold !" " Take this bit of flannel, then, and let me wrap them up." " Nay, but you will want it." " Oh, I have only five minutes more to stay, and I can wrap the carpet round my feet."

And she laid down her work and went to the bed, and wrapped her sister's delicate, but now icy feet, in tbe flannel ; and then she sat down, and toiled and toiled, till at last the task was finished. And oh, bow glad she was to creep to that mattress, hard as it was, and to lay her aching limbs down upon it ! Hard it might be, and wretched the pillows and bolster, and scanty the covering, but little felt she such inconveniences. She fell asleep almost immediately, whilst her sister still tossed and murmured. Presently Lettice, for Lettice it was, awakened a little and said, "What is it, love? Poor, poor Myra! Ob, that you could but sleep as I do." And then she drew ber own little pillow from under ber head, and put it under her sister's, and tried to make her more comfortable ; and she partly succeeded, and at last tbe poor, delicate, suffering creature fell asleep, and then Lettice slumbered like a baby.