Eleanor Morrison; or, Home Duties: a tale

Front matter

ELEANOR MORRISON; or., HOME DUTIES: g, Salt?. BY LADY CHARLES THYME. " We have two things to do, to live aud die : To win another, and a longer life Out of this earthly change and weary strife ; To catch the hours that one hy one go hy. And write the Cross upon them as they fly. So shall they lay their burden gently down Sinking, perchance hard hy, beneath the Throne, Withdrawn anew into Eternity. "Tis hard to live by youth's fast bubbling springs, And treat our loves, joys, hopes, as flowery things That for a while may climb the boughs, and twine Among the prickly leaves of discipline 3 Yet, would'st thou rise in Christ's self-metering school, Thy very heart itself must beat by rule." F. W. Fabek, D.D. DUBLIN: JAMES DUFFY, 7, WELLINGTON-QUAY. 1860. DUBLIN 3 Jjrinieb b2 g. UJ. ©'Coolt, 13, HAWKINS-STREET.

ERRATA. Page 7, line 11, erase the before Netherby. „ 7, „ 24, for " old corridors," read " long corridors." „ 7, „ 25, for " long home," read " old home." „ 102, „ 7, for "heorine," read "heroine." „ 111, „ 11, for "I would," read " / should." „ 114, „ 18, for " theirselves," read "themselves." „ 167, „ 6, for " on his lungs," read " in his lungs." „ 236, „ 13, for " theg reatest," read " the greatest." „ 254, „ — for " Aubery de Vere," read " Aubrey de Vere. ELEANOR MOREISON.

Chapter I

" The voices of my home, I hear them still ! They have been with me through the dreamy night ; The blessed household voices wont to fill My heart's clear depths with unalloyed delight. I hear them still unchanged — though some from earth Are music parted — and the tones of mirth, Wild, silvery tones that rang through days more bright, Have died in others — yet to me they come Singing of childhood back — the voices of my home." "The Forest Sanctuary." — Mrs. Hemans. ' ' The two sure symptoms of a heart at ease, Are peace of mind and pleasure felt at home." The sun shone brightly on the windows of a large house in Fitzroy-square ; but it was a winter's morning sun, — a bright, clear, frosty morning; and no one grumbled at it, or impatiently tried to ex clude it ; on the contrary, the cheerful light seemed reflected in the young happy faces of a group of children, who for some time had been steadily occupied in reading and writing.

But now the interests in their pursuits seemed diminishing, and wistful eyes were cast towards the window, and on the leafless trees of the dreary uninviting square. Those unattractive squares in London doubtless i; have their merits, and must be of use to small children and nursery-maids, or to some invalids who vainly imagine that, while there, they are in haling fresh air : but they always give me the most painful sense of imprisonment — even as a child I always felt like a squirrel in a cage, and the most uninteresting piece of pavement was freedom, as long as it was outside those iron railings. But this weakness was not shared by the young Morrisons. Mrs. Morrison caught one of those bright longing glances, and smiled. " Mama, it's so fine, we can easily finish in the afternoon," was said in an appealing tone.

" Very well, dear ; I suppose we must make the most of a fine morning at this time of year, other wise I do not like to leave lessons unfinished. But you may go now." The permission was scarcely given before the books were cleared away, and Bertha and Mar garet Morrison were rushing up stairs, calling impatiently for bonnets and cloaks, and in an in conceivably short time they were standing breathless before their mother, with bright eyes and merry voices, inquiring if she wanted anything before they went out. " We may go alone in the square, mama, of course, and then perhaps you will come out, and we may walk with you ?" Mrs. Morrison shook her head. " Oh, don't say no, and then perhaps you will come. Eleanor, you must make mama come." And the girls ran down stairs, and nodded to their mother, who watched them across the street.

Mrs. Morrison turned to her eldest daughter, who was sitting in an arm-chair with her feet on the fender, apparently without any interest in what was passing around her. " Eleanor, my dear, I should like the little ones to go out ; will you take them up to the nursery ?" " Can't they go alone ?" asked Eleanor lan guidly, closing her book without rising. " No, certainly not :" and Mrs. Morrison half rose, but checking the first impulse, said quietly, though in a voice that expressed pain and dis appointment : " I should like them to go at once." The group of fair-haired children that had been sitting on the floor, surrounded by toys, hastily rose, and looked up with some awe at their tall sister, who stood waiting for them with an air of complete indifference, moving as if she were in a dream, without casting one glance of affection or interest upon the little creatures who timidly followed her.

In a moment Eleanor returned. Mrs. Morrison looked up quickly. " I met Betsey, and told her to take them up stairs," said Eleanor, in answer to her mother's look of inquiry. " I suppose she can take care of them. I wonder why Turner does not come down to fetch them." " Turner has already quite as much to do as she is able, and I fear will have more. I sent the children away, Eleanor, partly because I wished to speak to you alone." Eleanor cast a look of regret upon her book, and then resigned herself and sat silent, her countenance expressing a kind of proud, cold submission; her heart — it was well for Eleanor that no one could see the tumult of feeling with which that heart was throbbing beneath a calm exterior. There were many circumstances to account for Eleanor Morrison's peculiar disposition.

The last iew years had been almost entirely spent with her grandfather, Sir James Netherby. She was his idol ; and though carefully educated by her aunt Julia, his only unmarried daughter, her's had been the education of the intellect, not of the heart. Every one at Everleigh was proud of Eleanor ; she was the single object of consideration to those around her; they gloried in her beauty, and exulted in her intellect, regardless of the baneful influence of such incessant adulation upon a young mind. She was scarcely eighteen, but her self-possessed manner and proud bearing made her appear con siderably older. She was a very striking-looking girl, with her small classical head and profusion of dark hair, and those large eyes, usually looking cold and pre-occupied, but which could flash with such immeasurable pride and scorn ; and though the features were not faultless, the slight figure, and slender graceful throat, gave a look of dignity rarely seen in one so young.

She sat now rigidly still and silent, while not without an effort her mother spoke on. It was evident that there was a barrier between those two hearts. How much Mrs. Morrison wished she knew how to remove it ; but she was shy and sensitive — perhaps proud, but in a different way to Eleanor ; and with a rather hopeless feeling she said : " I am afraid we shall have to make a change in our way of living." She paused, but Eleanor only said, " What change r** not caring about it, and feeling that any change would be a relief. " I think we shall be obliged to leave this house, and either take one that is smaller, or, more pro bably, leave London, and settle in the country." A start — a suppressed exclamation, was the only outward evidence of the pang that shot through Eleanor's heart at these words, for she still remained silent, whilst her mother added : " I think you can be of great assistance to me, dear Eleanor ; we shall have to make very different arrange ments, and I fear it will be better to let Bertha and Margaret go to school for a time."

" Oh — yes. — of course — if I can," fell slowly and mechanically from Eleanor's lips, like drops of water, which froze as they fell on her mother's heart. But an inward prayer for patience was the only effect they produced, while her face was as calm and kind, and her voice as gentle and loving as ever. " I am sorry that your father wished you to be at home just now ; but as he will be obliged to be often away, he was anxious that I should not be alone ; but I fear there will be a great deal that will harass you, dear child." All that was generous and noble in Eleanor's nature was roused by her mother's forbearance and consideration. She was conscious how poor a return she was making, and longed to show a part at least of what she was feeling, but had no courage to make an inroad into that wall of pride and reserve in which she had incased herself ; and though she was deeply touched, and her eyes filled with tears, she only said, in a low quiet voice — " I should mind nothing but leaving London ; I should be glad to be of use at home."

Leaving London did indeed come as a terrible sorrow to Eleanor. It seemed like a second uprooting ; and so soon ! for during the four years she had lived with her grandfather part of the year had always been spent in London. She had made several acquaintances, and the prospect of meeting her beloved relations from Everleigh had reconciled her to a home naturally so uncongenial as dingy, dreary London, after the woods and fields, the shady avenues and picturesque glades that surrounded the Manor-house at Everleigh. That dearly loved house, with its old-fashioned hall and staircase, covered with the escutcheons of the house of the Netherby ; the long lineage, which dated from Cressy and Poictiers, was the pride and romance of Eleanor's life. The feudal feeling which still existed among the tenants, the sort of reverence with which she had looked upon the quaint family pictures and the magnificent old oaks, and even the affection with which she had patted the heads of the noble bloodhounds, as if all these things were part of her own life, made that dull uninteresting London house still more dull and meaningless.

The square windows and modern furniture ; the cramped sensation which so small a house gave to one used to roam at will through the old corridors and turret stair cases of her long home ; the drive through the streets, or in the park, or pacing round and round that dull square, was a sad, dreary change, a serious trial to a young and undisciplined spirit, and she daily revenged herself by a more complete isolation and by " eating her own heart" in proud loneliness, regardless of the sorrow and disappointment her conduct caused to those who had looked forward to her return home with warm and anxious expecta tion. But dreary as London was to Eleanor, it had its redeeming points. There was the power of following the pursuits most congenial to her, especially the opportunity of procuring books ; for reading had now become a positive passion, and the only means she had of shutting out the dull present, and the still drearier future.

Then the occasional de light of hearing good music, of seeing pictures, and cultivating her love of drawing, had become valu able to her now, and these were bright gleams in the monotony of her home life. Yet that life need not have been monotonous or lonely. It was true that to a girl really as fond of study as Eleanor Morrison, the continual little interrup tions of a large family, to which she had grown up unaccustomed, were trials, and they fretted and wearied her ; but the consciousness of how entirely she neglected every small call upon her sympathy, and how imperfectly she fulfilled the known duty of assisting her mother, oppressed her more than all, and she lived on from day to day with a dissatisfied conscience and an aching heart, simply because she lacked the courage and energy necessary to throw off the trammels of self.

Her mother's patience and gentleness excited her admiration, especially as Eleanor instinctively felt that the daily harass of her life had not dimmed her perception of beauty, and that her appreciation of talent was as vivid as her own ; but still there was a separation between them. Mrs. Morrison could not approve of the alienation that was daily increasing between Eleanor and her sisters. It was now an understood thing that she would not share their small pleasures and interests ; she showed that she thought them childish, if not trifling, and they agreed among themselves that " Eleanor would not care, she never cared for anything." The loneliness of the proud isolated girl increased daily. It was little wonder, therefore, that as Eleanor had sought her consolation in some few external circumstances of her life, she should dread a change which must alter them, and she sat thinking of the future, which presented no very inviting picture to her morbid imagination, till roused by hearing her mother say, " Don't say anything to the poor chil dren about going to school ; I am afraid it will make them so unhappy, and they need not know it yet."

" Oh, no ! but must they go ?" And Eleanor thought, with some shame, how little impression her sisters' sorrow hadmadeuponhermind. " I am afraid they will not like it." " No, indeed, poor children ; it may be good for them to learn the lesson of life early, and yet I wish this could be avoided. We shall know more of our plans soon, as your brother comes home to-day." " To-day ! Oh, is Cyril coming to-day ?" and Eleanor spoke for the first time with life and energy. " Yes, I believe so ; you will be glad to see him, Eleanor." " Oh, so glad ! How long he has been away ; and he has been at Everleigh." Eleanor spoke quickly, and as if she were thaw ing in the gleam of sunshine that the anticipation of Cyril's visit shed over her ; but the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a visitor, and begging her mother to send for her if her brother arrived, Eleanor retired to her own room.

Chapter II

" Bland wilderness of tree and lawn, By landscape art in order drawn, Around an ancient seat. On swelling mound, in dreamy glade, Half in the light, half veiled in shade, Fresh sward and foliage meet." — J. A. S. Everleigh was, indeed, a magic name to Eleanor — the home of her happy girlhood, the place around which every thought and association of her past life were entwined. Young as she was she had a " past," which to her was very different from the dreary present. She had been early separated from her family, and bitterly now did Mrs. Morrison regret that she had entrusted the training of her child to others ; but she had acted, as was her wont, in the spirit of self-sacrifice, hoping by this concession to reconcile her father to her marriage, which he had never cordially approved. Sir James Netherby considered Mr. Morrison's position as a London merchant decidedly below that of his daughter, and his first feeling was one of indignation that he should aspire to her hand.

But when he found how deeply her happiness was involved, and that he was of a good old Scotch family, he yielded reluctantly, and consented to the marriage after two years of uncertainty and delay. Some, and among them the old priest who had seen Julia and Eleanor Netherby grow up from early childhood, thought Alfred Morrison hardly good enough for the prize he had won. Of winning manners and remarkably preposses sing appearance, every one felt his want of stability, and the indecision expressed in the flexible lines of his mouth was borne out by the irresolution of his conduct, and the fluctuation of his principles. Though generous and affectionate, he was wayward and irascible, and the worn and weary expression of his wife's countenance told of a spirit often sorely tried. The kind of alienation from her family that had existed since her marriage weighed upon her heart, and she readily yielded her little Eleanor to be her grandfather's companion whenever he spent any time alone at Everleigh, till at last Sir James grew so fond of the child, and so accustomed to her presence, that he declared he could not spare her again, and begged that the remainder of her educa tion should be entrusted to her aunt Julia, his only unmarried daughter.

Mrs. Morrison shrunk from offending her father by thwarting his request, and Mr. Morrison cared little about it as long as " Cyril was not taken away to be made a fine gentleman." And so years passed, and Eleanor grew up under her aunt Julia's worldly influence, frequently hearing her own family spoken of in a depreciating manner, and always glad, when her short periodical visits were over, to escape from the confusion of a large family to the refinement and luxury that surrounded her at Everleigh. Cyril, who was the idol of her life, still retained his hold upon her affections, and it was greatly owing to his influence that she received so little contamination from the atmosphere around her. But worldliness is a weed of unnatural growth in a young heart, and Eleanor's nature was a noble one, and though religion was never brought promi nently forward, her early Catholic training often served her in good stead, and Father Knoyle, who had loved her mother, watched over her carefully and tenderly, and tried to counteract the adulation and indulgence with which every one contrived to surround her.

Bitter was the grief, and indeed the resentment, with which her father's sudden and authoritative mandate to return home was received. How deeply every event of that day was imprinted upon Elea nor's memory! How often she recalled the summons to her grandfather's room which was to inform her of a change in her destiny, so unlooked for and so unwelcome ! Conscious of her power over him, she stood carelessly leaning against the deep window frame, the light falling full on her small graceful head and throat, as she bent down to pat the head of the large dog who had risen to welcome his young mistress, and was looking up in her face with his wise, kind eyes. Her grandfather looked at her and sighed. "Well, grandpapa, here I am, waiting your orders, like " patience on a monument." Why did you send for me ?

I was just beginning a drawing which will be spoilt if I stay here," and there was some real impatience in the half playful way she spoke. " Never mind your drawing, child. I have had a letter from your father." " Well, and is Cyril coming ?" " No, you are to go there." " Where ?" " To London, to live there." " Live in London — leave Everleigh — impossible ! I can't — in short, I won't ;" and the pas sionate flashing of her eyes testified to the truth of her words. But there was something of real sorrow in her grandfather's manner that startled her ; she walked up to his chair, and leaning over the back of it, said gently : " But you were not in earnest ?" " Yes, I am ; you may see the letter. Things don't seem going on well at home, and your mother wants your assistance." " I should be of no use there — I never could be of any use there.

That hateful London: grandpapa, you won't let me go ?" " My dear, you should wish to help your mother." " I am sure aunt Julia would not think that I ought to go and leave you, and everything ; and then Bertha and Margaret will be sent here to fill up my place," and she rushed away to hide the tears that would come thick and fast in spite of her efforts to restrain them. She hoped, too, to meet with entire sympathy from her aunt Julia, her little consideration for her mother having evidently rather displeased her grandfather. Up stairs she flew, across the old hall, down the long corridors, till she reached an apartment, which was hardly in keeping with the rest of the house, so much modern comfort and refinement pervaded it. There was a small room beyond the luxurious boudoir into which Eleanor hastily entered, but this room seemed little more than an entrance to the large window and balcony which overlooked a French garden beautifully kept, and raised above the gardens and lawns that surrounded the house.

It was enclosed by alow carved stone balustrade, under which was a stone seat which commanded a magnificent view of the park. Eleanor could not but love Everleigh ; it was so very beautiful — one of the stately homes of England — palaces, as all foreigners considered them, and its " ancestral pride," and hereditary traditions had been long and carefully cherished. The Netherbys were great people in that part of the world, and the old feudal feeling still lived on there, though effaced by the lapse of time from most parts of England. The undulating ground in front of the house gradually sloped down to the broad river below ; masses of woods crowned the hill on the side, the deer grouped themselves round the old oaks and among the fern in the most picturesque way possible, and a peacock, spreading his tail in conscious pride, and sunning himself on the low stone wall, completed the picture.

The scene, lovely as it was, was lost upon Eleanor, who, with dismay and anger in her heart, impatiently looked around for her aunt Julia, but the rooms were empty ; and overcome by vexation, she sat down on a low ottoman, covering her face with her hands. She did not remain long alone, for a lady entered, and Eleanor sprang forward to meet her. She was of middle age, and dressed in the height of the fashion ; some thought her still handsome, and she had evidently not yielded her claim to be considered still a" young lady." Cold and super cilious, it was strange that in a noble and generous nature she should have elicited any affection ; but she was really fond of her niece. Eleanor's admiration of her talents gratified her vanity ; and then aunt Julia was a part of grandpapa, a part of Everleigh, a part of all that was the romance and delight of her young life.

" Oh, aunt Julia, have you heard?" " Yes." And the supercilious mouth grew more supercilious. " Just like one of your father's ex traordinary whims. I cannot imagine how papa can bear with him as he does. Your mother never had any spirit, but I cannot see why we should give way always to him." " But grandpapa seems to think I must go. Oh, aunt Julia, was it not cruel to let me live here, if I was ever to return to that horrible place — that dismal house, and all the children !" and poor Eleanor wept piteously. Aunt Julia disliked what was disagreeable, so she put an end to anything like a " scene" at once, and promised to remonstrate with her father on Eleanor's behalf. She found him rather more impracticable than she expected. Mrs. Morrison was his favourite daughter, and he had received a touching letter from her that day, full of her old child-like love for him, and begging never again to be discarded from his heart.

C " Of course you can do as you please," was aunt Julia's final appeal ; " it was never at any sugges tion of mine that the child was removed from her proper position in life." " I don't know in what position in life you con sider my grandchild and your niece," interrupted Sir James, rather testily. " Her father is scarcely in the same rank of life as ourselves, I should imagine, but it is of no importance to me," said Miss Netherby, coldly. After a pause she added : " I merely wished to know if you had observed the impression that Eleanor has evidently made on Lord Brandon ?" " Do you think SO ?" said the old man, brighten ing up ; " that would be a capital match for her ; but pshaw ! she is such a child." " I don't think that is much against her ; just the thing to please a man who has lived much in the world — they always prefer a child to a woman of any sense and character.

He has proposed to come here again next week, and I thought his last visit would show, and —you would not like her to marry a Protestant, and she will have no fortune. It seems to me quite absurd for her father to send for her just now." " It is tiresome ; I am sorry for her, poor child, and she is very unhappy at leaving us, I fear." " I should wonder if she were not. Beinoat Everleigh must be rather different to a life in the city with such a different class of people." " You seem to be always harping upon that, Julia. I must say I do not see such an extraordi nary difference ; and, after all, a child's proper place is with her mother. However, tell her not to cry herself sick, and to be ready to ride over the farm with me presently. In the meantime I will write to Morrison to say we do not like to spare her. — I suppose it won't do to say she does not like to come.

I believe she cares more for me than for any one else in the world." The latter part was a soliloquy, for his daughter had left the room as soon as she heard his injunc tion to comfort Eleanor. But her grandfather's appeal was of no avail. Like all irresolute people, Mr. Morrison was glad of an opportunity of show ing steadfastness of purpose, and Eleanor was peremptorily recalled. When she arrived in London she was much struck with her mother's worn and anxious appear ance ; but. wrapped in gloom and self-consciousness, she excluded herself as much as possible from the daily life in Fitzroy-square, and Mrs. Morrison, neither understanding Eleanor nor her present state of morbid feeling, felt that she could only resign herself to things as they were, and endeavour not to dwell upon the disappointment of finding coldness where she hoped for affection, distance and reserve where she looked for confidence and love.

Any invasion upon her confidence Eleanor resented as an injury ; so the weary woman bore it patiently, hoping that time would effect some change, knowing that there is an evening to the most toilsome day, and hoping that to her it could not be very far off if she could only endure to the end. Her first great sorrow — the bitter disappointment she had experienced in her husband — had in some degree steeled her heart ; nothing again could bring to her the same intensity of suffering. And oh, what again could restore the buoyant spirit which had been so dimmed in its early youth and bright ness ? Nothing ; and she knew it, and faced her destiny patiently, if not cheerfully, rejoicing in the love of the children that had been watched over by her unwearied care, and finding real comfort in Cyril's gentle and loving heart.

Cyril was at present the only tie that bound Eleanor to her home, and she was anxiously awaiting his return. The prospect of an entire separation from her aunt and grandfather was a severe trial, and would have been felt by a more subdued spirit, and she sat long over the fire in her room, in a moody reverie, too listless to find employment, too spiritless to struggle against the dejection that oppressed her.

Chapter III

' ' Alas ! we make A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, But sleep ourselves at the foot ; our high resolves Look down upon our slumbering acts." — L. E. L. Eleanor came down to dinner, and looked anxiously round for her brother ; but in vain. " I thought Cyril was coming to-day," she said to her father, who looked tired and harassed, leaning his head upon his hand. " Yes, but I suppose he will be late, for I begged him to go and look at a house that I heard of, which might suit us. Your mother has told you all ?" " About leaving London, you mean ?" answered Eleanor, faintly ; and her father continued — " It will bring much fatigue and anxiety — much more than your mother can bear — but you can help her." He paused, and Eleanor asked where the house was that Cyril had gone to see. " In shire.