Ashurst; or, "The days that are not." The prize story from the Charleston Weekly News

Chapter I

We talked with open heart and tongue, Affectionate and true.

[ Vfordsworth.

A large, old plantation house, with* a wide piazza and broad, high steps. On the top step a young girl sits with a book on her xnees; but her eyes are not by any means steadily fixed upon it; on the contrary they look up every minute or two, and wander away past the large oak before the door, and across the wide lawn, to where the bounding woods conceal an unseen fence, its presence only indicated by two high wooden gates, which appear at opposite corners of the broad green expanse. Green, not indeed to an English eye — not emerald, but a pale grayish green tint, showing a mild winter and the upspringing of. the new, close herbage, which, in the South, is accepted in lieu of turf.

A nice, gentle-looking old lady, in a black dress and large white cap, came out of the house and stood quietly for some minutes behind the girl, then laying a kind hand on her shoulder, said, caressingly :

“Is the book very dull, Janet, that you read so carelessly ?”

“No, grandmamma; but the coming letterbag is still more interesting.”

“Why, whom do you expect to hear from ?”

“From— mother,” answered the girl, with a slight hesitation, and, springing lightly up, she passed her arm through her grandmother’s, and coaxed her to walk up and down the piazza with her.

“From— mother; and, to tell you a secret, grandmamma, I expect it to have some very interesting news, a delightful permission in it.”

“A delightful permission ! What, pray ?”

“Well, you must know that last week, when you and grandpapa said how much you would like me to stay here longer, I took heart of grace and wrote to her, begging her to let me stay— until the spring.”

“You did, Jeanie ! She will never consent.”

“Oh ! yes she will. I was wise,” said the girl with a slight mocking tone in her voice; “I didn’t write to papa, in fact I hardly mentioned him. I threw myself entirely at her feet, and really I think she will. She is always good-natured if it doesn’t interfere with her, and as I have had the good luck to grow half a head taller than Agnes, and can’t be made to wear her old clothes any more, it will be quite economical to leave me here.”

“Her old clothes,” said the grandmother in a tone of offended pride; “'that may have done, my darling, when you were children, but nowi” looking up proudly at the tall, slender figure on whose arm she leant, “surely your father would never think of that now.”

“Papa !” said the girl with a clear, musical laugh. “Papa ! well — yes— I suppose that he does know that we wear frocks, but that is the extent of his knowledge. He would not notice if I had on your gown, grandmamma, and it is rather provoking sometimes, for Agnes is so dark, and looks best in reds and yellows, and though of course it is of no real consequenee, yet when I find my tow colored head in a yellow bonnet, and my sallow face in a bull frock, you know it is a trial— to a goose.” She ended with a laugh.

“It certainly should not be,” said the old lady, indignantly. “James is quite too well off, and so open-hearted ! There never seems to be any want of money, my child ?”

“I don’t know,” answered the girl, slowly. “Papa certainly does not seem worried, though I heard him tell her one day that he could not imagine how it went — and yet she is the closest manager ! Looks to every candle end, especially lately, and I think she is worried often, though she tries to hide it.”

“I don’t understand — don’t see how it can be — your mother’s fortune alone — however, we will say no more about it, but I will provide your things myself.”

“Oh ! no, grandmamma, that would not do, and papa did say the other day that I was getting too ‘leggy a colt’ for such short frocks, so I think I have had the last of them.”

“And high time too. And now my darling, about your staying with us. It would be so delightful, but Penelope has always been so ashurst; or the days that are not.

particular about the precise time, and your education being interfered with.”

“Ah ! but you don’t see the flight of time, grandmamma. I have left school now for good, you know, and there am I a great tall girl stuck up in the drawing-room. I can’t exactly be" sent to bed, and I am so big that it doesn’t look civil if I sit behind the table and read when visitors come in, and they will talk to me and call me Miss Berkley, and Agnes doesn’t like that, and it worries her. I am an uncomfortable creature, grandmamma, not a schoolgirl, and not a young lady.”

I should say that you were both” answered the old lady, “and you have masters, my dear.”

“Only for music and German now, and I wrote a famous account of my practicing, (you know I do strum by the hour,) with no idle companions to distract my attention, I said, and as for German, why 1 learn quantilities more from that dear old curiosity at Uncle Ralph’s in a day than from Mademoiselle Schwartz in a month; besides any amount of odds and ends of botany, geology and so on. I put it very prettily in my letter, ‘varied scientific information interestingly imparted.’ ”

“You are a magpie,” said the old lady laughingly; “Mrs. "Berkley will not be so easily imposed upon.”

“You are a hard-hearted old lady,” said the girl coaxingly; “you don’t want j T our poor grandchild any more; you are tired of her, and vou know it !”

“Very likely ! but there comes old Tim, and I own 1 am anxious to see the answer.”

In fact, an old negro man, mounted on an ancient pony, was soberly pacing across the lawn at the rate of about two miles an hour, an easy style of progression, which did not at all suit the impatient young lady, who, flying down the steps, stood waiving and beckoning (perfectly in vain) to hurry him on.

“Oh ! Uncle Tim; I thought you were never going to get here; what did make you so late"?”

“Kye, Missy, wha’ mek’ you so hurry ? It ain’t no late; de letter keep good,” said 7 the old man slowly unslingiDg his leather bag. “No you be so hurry, you lose dem. Gib dem to ole Miss, she no hairy-skairy like de young folks dese days,” and with a grin the old African passed on.

The young girl sat down on the st-eps, and, with hands which trembled with excitement, unbuckled the bag. Quickly pouncing upon her own letter, she tossed the sack up to her grandfather, who also now appeared to greet the event of the day, and, tearing open the envelope, devoured the contents with eager eyes. “Victoria!” she cried, after a moment’s eager perusal. “See, grandmamma, I am to stay two whole months longer; now you know you can’t turn me out, and won’t I have a nice time, and ride, and row, and fish, and tease your dear old heart out.”

“My darling, you don’t say so! I am so very happy. Let me see; what does she say ?”

The letter which Janet held ran thus :

‘ 'My Dear Janet : I have received your letter, (no date) and am pleased to hear that your grand-parents continue to enjoy that greatest of blessings, good health. Also, I observe with satisfaction that you have improved in your epistolatory style, and also in your handwriting, (there is still a sad negligence in your punctuation) and that you at length appear to attach that importance to education with which I have so long endeavored to inspire you. This has induced me to consider favorably your request for a longer sojourn in the country. Here (as you truly remark) you have many idle companions to distract your attention, and the visitors now attracted to the house (I need not say by whom) might still further interfere with your studies. The account you give of the German teacher at your uncle’s (although, I presume, drawn with habitual exaggeration) is also satisfactory. You do not mention the remuneration for these instructions, from which I infer that Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn prefer arranging it themselves. Be sure to let me know about this. Our expenses are heavy, and we must consider every item, especially since Agnes’s introduction into society, and the consequent expenses. The dear girl is moderation itself, and will hardly accept the dresses, &c., that we know to be necessary for her position. You, my dear, are happy that in your’s simplicity is your best ornament; and this reminds me that you say nothing of your wardrobe. Amply supplied as you were before leaving home, I suppose that you can need nothing more; nevertheless I will send a dress by the next boat, that handsome merino which Agnes wore last winter. One of your grandmother’s skilful sempstresses can easily let it down for you, (in the country a short skirt is by far the most apDropriate,) by piecing it under the flounce. Until May then, my dear, we consent to part with you, knowing what pleasure it gives your relations to have you, and that it is greatly to your advantage to pursue your studies undisturbed by the frivolities of a city life. Give my compliments and your father’s to Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn, and also to your uncle and aunt and Herr Muller, and express to the latter our sense of the advantage which his instruction is to you. Adieu, my dear. If your father knew that I was writing he would send his love, as Agnes does, and believe me always,

Your affectionate mother,

Penelope Berkley.”

‘What does she say ?” repeated the old lady, holding out her hand for the letter. But Janet who, at the first glance, had only recognized that the desired permission was granted, flushed as she hastily looked over it, and putting it behind her back said gaily :

“No, no, grandmamma, you are not to see it, you don’t appreciate Mrs. Berkley’s epistoashurst; or the days that are not.

lary style as you ought; but she says— she says that I am to stay until May — that is the grand point, and that she and papa (poor papa !) send their love to you and grandpapa, and to uncle and aunt Ralph, and to Herr Muller; and that I can’t want any clothes, but that nevertheless I shall have a new frock, which was an old one when Agnes left it off last spring. Also that she is my affectionate mother — that’s all.”

“Is she V” said the old lady drily. “Well, my pet, we are much obliged to her, and you must write and tell her so. Now go and tell grandpapa about it — he will be so delighted.”

CHAPTER II. * * * * in the bloom

Of bo v hood was, and so was graced With all that earliest runs to waste

[ Taylor.

As may be supposed from the foregoing chapter, Penelope Berkley was not Janet’s own mother.

James Berkley, her father, had started in life with but one firm resolve — to take the world by the smooth handle. If he had ever spoken French “ glissez mortel, n'appuyez pas" would have been his motto, but as he did not,

“take it easy boys” was his favorite phrase, and he had early discovered that the simplest way to effect this purpose was to say that rough monosyllable “No” as seldom as possible. Left an orphan when a boy, he had been brought up by his uncle and guardian, Mr. Selwyn, who, doting on him as the child of a dear, only sister, and having no sons of his own, indulged him in every respect. Being possessed of good abilities and a quick memory, he had done fairly well at school. With his taste and capacity it was easier to do so than to be always in trouble with the masters, and at sixteen Mr. Selwyn pointed to him triumphantly as the result of judicious indulgence. At twenty, however, things did not look so well.

At college the incentives to study were not so strong, the temptations to idleness greater. “Nothing so good as a university education,” says the wise Col. Morley, in “What will he do with it?” “Nothing so bad as a university without the education.” The truth of this axiom was seen in James Berkley. The university was near a great city, and he, with his handsome face, pleasant, joyous manners, and open purse, was soon overrun with invitations and engagements of all kinds. Nothing came amiss to him; any amusement, from cock-fighting “on the sly” to private

theatricals in B , he was delighted to share

in. “Bonnie King Jamie” his comrades called him, and declared that he was the best of all good fellows; but professors looked grave and shook their heads, and soon the head-shaking turned to reprimands aud solemn threats and warnings. Berkley was very sorry; he honestly wished to please everybody, and tried his best to do so. Even here his pleasantness stood him in good stead; not a professor there, not even the grave “Head” himself could be proof against that bright, sunny face and winning manners. He was always sinning, they said to each other, but then his contrition was evidently siucere — and for the time it was so. If he seldom came to chapel, (“it was so rough,” he piteously said, “to go through the December snow at day-break.”) his demeanor when there was perfectly reverential; if his recitations were faulty and his presence at lectures rare, yet his enjoyment of those which he did hear was so genuine, that the unspoken flattery of those eager eyes, and the look of quick apprehension, mollified the sternest professor, and oftener than can well be believed did these influences serve him w hen his sins were being examined into Misdemeanors that would have brought expu’sion upon most men, were, time after time, c -iidoned by an admonition, or a suspension. But the evil day could not be averted for ever; and at last, a few weeks after he had attained his majority, sentence of expulsi n was pronounced. Everybody was sorry; but not even the scape-grace himself co Id be surprised.

F<,r one night he shut himself up, grieved and humiliated; resolved to “pull up,” pay his bills and go home. With the morning gayer thoughts returned. It was near the vacation; a party of his classmates were going on a fishing excursion into the mountains. “Wait only a few weeks and go with us,” they cried; “don’t go back to the South now, in June !” He waited, and worse came of it, for on the said excursion he fell in with Miss Agnes Peacroft, daughter of the village schoolmaster, who managed so dexterously, that at the end of three weeks of sentimental attentions on her side, and amused acceptance of them on his, he, as one of his friends said, “consented to marry her.” “Surprised at it ? No,” said this ingenuous youth, when, on returning to the University, he was greeted with eager questions and expressions of amazement. “I’m not a bit surprised; would have been, by Jove, if he hadn't married her. She’s not bad-looking; black eyes, rosy face, trim little figure, and, besides, what could the poor devil do? She asked him, you know, or rather she told him that he had asked her, and Berkley had never contradicted a woman in his life; he couldn’t begin then; so he said ‘yes,’ and she married him, and a very sensible thing to do — for her, I mean — he’s an out and out good fellow; if I had been the women I’d have married him long ago, by Jove I would,” added the Junior with some confusion of language, but a clear perception of his friend’s virtues and weaknesses. No one, however, not even Berkley himself, perhaps, knew that this “yes” had been the hardest to say, or rather to act up to, of his whole life; for down in the bottom ashurst; or the days that are not.

of his easy-going heart was a something very like love for his pretty fair-haired cousin, Janet Selwyn, a delicate little girl of sixteen, the only daughter and darling of the old house at home. He had always supposed, vaguely, that she would some day be his wife, and now one of the clearest notions that he had about his marriage was, that it would part him from Janet. But Janet was far away, trimming her flowers and feeding her birds, on the old plantation, and Miss Agnes Peacroft was on the spot, making very ardent love. He said no more, even to himself, of doubt or hesitation, and they were married.

Great was the consternation when the pretty knotted cards, the first intimation of the marriage, reached Ashurst. Mrs. Selwyn cried, and Mr. Selwyn swore; pretty Janet looked pale, but said loyally that “she must be nice or Jamie would not have married her. ” Aunts, uncles and cousins gathered in council, and it was decided that as the deed was done, the best shouid be made of it; and Mr. Selwyn who, having done the most to spoil his nephew, was of course the most indignant at his conduct, was at last persuaded to allow his wife to write, not indeed a cordial, but at least a conventionally polite letter of welcome, to her new niece, and another to her nephew, in which, after some slight reproaches for his “want of confidence in those who had always endeavored to deserve it,” she invited him to bring his bride on and pay

them a visit at their house in D , where

they would be for the autumn months. “His uncle,” she told him, “said he was a bad boy and bade him come to be scolded, and Janet sent her love to both her cousins.”

They came, and sorely tried were the good resolutions adopted in the Berlkey-Selwyn family council. The bride, a mere village belle, with considerable prettiness and some natural intelligence, was entirely devoid of all elegance of mind or manner, and almost equally so of the simplicity and good temper, wnich alone can make amends for the want. Instructed to the extent of her father’s “first class,” she mistook the knowledge of a number of isolated facts for education, and a good memory for a cultivated mind. Add to this disposition the spirit of a reformer, and the idea may be formed of the jar produced in the hitherto harmonious family circle.

Poor Mrs. Selwyn was fairly nonplussed. Her gentle dignity could not defend her from the aggressive vulgarity of this young barbarian, to whom timidity was unknown and reverence a superstition.

“A married lady,” Mrs. James Berkley held, “was the equal of anybody.” Old people were necessarily behind the times, and especially inferior to herself, as from the most “advanced” part of the Union.

What could be more natural, more praiseworthy, than that she should kindly endeavor to enlighten and improve her new relatives. Accordingly she lectured Mr. Selwyn on politics and agriculture, and his wife on housekeeping and society; informing the one, with but little circumlocution, that he was narrow r - minded and rococo — the other that she was wasteful and dull. She even condescended to inquire into Janet’s studies and occupations, censuring her books as old-fashioned, and her ways as “poky.” The Selwyns marvelled and groaned over “poor dear James,” but bore all. “There never has been a family quarrel among us,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “and there never shall be if I can help it.” And so she soothed her husband, and kept the peace, but rejoiced greatly when, at the end of three months, the young couple moved to a house of their own/ The next summer they returned to the North, and, two days after Mr. Berkley had announced to his friends the birth of a daughter, came the further intelligence of the death of his wife.

The good people were, if not grieved, at least much shocked. It had not been possible to like Agnes while alive, but now that she was dead they remembered that she had been young, handsome and happy, and gave some sad, solemn thoughts to the young life cut short, speaking softly and kindly, “because that they were thinking less upon the dead than upon death.”

Mrs. Selwyn wrote again, a truly cordial and sympathetic letter this time, offering to take arid rear the child, as she had done her nephew himself, hinting as delicately as possible at the advantage of having his daughter brought up among his own people. Mr. Berkley was fully eooscious of this, but his wife’s mother had already claimed the child as hers by right; and he, glad to escape discussion, perhaps too, unconsciously glad to escape altogether from this episode of his life, agreed to leave it with her “for the present,” and, settling to pay her a handsome yearly sum for its support, returned home. Two years after he married his cousin, Janet Selwyn. And now the easy-going man was happy indeed. He loved his young wife with all his heart, and all for whose approval he cared smiled a “well-done” upon him.

Fair and sweet lay his life before him: but in the midst of the calm came the storm, and in little more than a year James Berkley was the father of another daughter, and again a widower.

Even his happy nature gave way under this new blow; for some months every semblance of peace left him. He could not endure • the sight of his baby or of the place where he had been so happy, and at last astonished his friends by suddenly announcing that he intended to give up planting, go to the city and engage in business.

“Pray don’t ask me not to,” he said to his advisers when they attempted to dissuade him. “I should hate to refuse you, and the truth is I want people about me— I want a crowd. This solitude is frightful to me — I cannot bear it. Here, where she has been, it is so lonely without her.”

They respected his grief and forbore.

He went to the city and offered himself and ashurst; or the days that are not.

his capital to a friend of his who had very lately gone into business, and, after some hesitation, was accepted as a partner, on the solemn promise that he would never make any arrangement, conclude any bargain, or sign any paper without having first submitted it to his partner. “For you see, my dear J em,” said the latter, “that although you are a deuced sight cleverer fellow than I am, and will, if let alone, see the rights and wrongs fast enough, yet that dreadful habit of saying ‘yes,’ of yours, will ruin us both if you don’t bind yourself.”

Mr. Berkley laughed, but assented, and the firm prospered; his partner supplied the element of firmness, he of suavity, and his ready perception and quick intelligence made him a really good business man. An instinct like that which leads the sick animal to the healing herb had surely led him to this occupation, for in a short time his easy temper resumed its sway, his cheerfulness returned, and his friends hardly remembered that “Jem Berkley” was a doubly widowed man. His little Janet, of course, remained with her grand-parents; he saw her frequently, and was extremely fond of her, but no idea of responsibility mingled with his caressing affection.

And so time went by, and the only trace which his troubles had left on his bright facile nature seemed to be a resolve never again to marry. More than one fair damsel would have been willing to forgive the existence of the two children, and console him for the two wives; but the very instant that any one looked more than common kind, Mr. Berkley retreated, and betook himself to less dangerous companionship. One day, however, when Janet was about twelve years old, this calm was suddenly disturbed.

CHAPTER III. Acd pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale !

“How cheerfully he seems to grin.

And welcomes little fishes in,

With gently smiling jaws !”

L Alice in Wonderland.

Mr. Parkyns, sorting his letters, exclaimed: “ ‘James Berkley, Esq.,’ in a black border an inch and a half wide. That’s for you, Jim. What is the matter ?” as Mr. Berkley, tearing open and hastily glancing at the letter, dropped it with a grunt of what sounded

more like vexation than grief.

“My mother-in-law is" dead,” replied Mr. Berkley.

“Mrs. Selwyn? Good Heavens! My dear fellow, you don’t say so?” for Mr. Parkyns knew well that Mrs. Selwyn was an altogether exceptional mother-in-law.

“No, no, not my aunt — God forbid ! My other mother-in law. Don’t you know that I have two ?”

“Oh, yes ! of course. I beg pardon, I’m sure, only for the moment, you see, I forgot.” Iu fact he had forgotten— had hardly ever heard of — her existence.

“Very likely; yes, she is dead, poor old lady, and now the trouble is, what am I to do with the child ?”

“The child” — striving vainly to remember something about it — “to be sure. What will you do ? How old is it ?”

“Why, let me see, bless my soul, Parkyns, she must be nearly grown up — about sixteen ! what shall I do with a grown-up daughter?”

Mr. Parkyns laughed aloud.

“My dear Berkley, I beg your pardon again, but the idea is really absurd; however, I suppose that you had better bring her home and get your aunt to see to her. Who is she with now ?”

“Now ? Oh, since her grandmother’s death, with her aunt, a younger sister of my poor wife, who, indeed, I rather fancy, has had the chief charge of her; at least I think the letters, as well as I remember, used, until she could write herself, to be written by an aunt— yes —‘Penelope Peacroft,’ that is the same name.”

Long as he had known his friend and partner, Mr. Parkyns could not help some wonder at this “happy-go-lucky” way of arranging his daughter’s education, but he merely said :

“And what does she say now ?”

Mr. Berkley read aloud : “In my unprotected condition, I feel myself unable to continue the precious charge, which (under my mother’s sheltering wing) has been so delightful to me, and I must re^gn my Agnes just when her developing graces of mind and body make it doubly painful to me to part with her. I must, therefore, request that you will come to receive, in person, the cherished charge — un— un — un — ”

“Poor soul ! yes, I dare say she feels it hard, eh Parkyns ?”

“ I dare say,” answered that gentleman drily. “Is she a young lady ?”

“Miss Penelope— 1 don’t remember. No, of course not; about forty probably.”

“Oh ! She writes with much composure. How long has her mother been dead ?”

Mr. Berkley again had recourse to his letter : — “Inform you that my beloved

mother breathed her last in the peaceful dawning of this day.” “The same day, you see.”

“Yes, you will have to go on at once. I suppose. That business of Robinson’s,” &c.

Mr. Berkley went on, and returned four months afterwards, with his third wife, the sister of his first !

“I must say that, for the sweetest and most amiable of men, your cousin James does inflict more shocks upon his family than any one I ever heard of,” said Mrs. George Berkley, a fair and lively Bostonian, who had ashurst; or the days that are not.

lately come to infuse animation into the i somewhat too tranquil waters of D so-

ciety. “Why were we not romantic, George?” When I think of the humdrum way in which we were married! It was almost as prosaic as being ‘asked’ in church.”

“And as decent,” growled her husband. I should like to have seen your mother, aye, and you yourself, my lady, bad I dared to propose any such romantic tricks as Jem’s ! Once in a lifetime one can understand it; but now — why the fellow is near forty.”

“ *'No fool like an old fool!’ Not that I call forty old, I am nearly thirty myself, and you know the Selwyns if consulted might have objected, and James would have been between two fires. Even now he may have trouble; for if Mrs. James interferes with Janet, Mr. Selwyn will show fight.’

Mrs. George was right. The Selwyn s’ anxiety as to how this new marriage might affect Janet was great. Mr. Selwyn, indeed, treated the matter scornfully, and replied to his wife’s suggestions that their nephew — son-in-law — might choose to have both his daughters with him, with sovereign contempt.

“Janet,” he said, “was his grandchild and heiress— belonged to him. No stepmother should touch her. James had another daughter already— might have twenty more for aught he cared. Janet was his.”

Mrs. Selwyn could not feel so confident. She recalled bye-gone experiences and feminine love of power; sighed over her nephew’s t weakness of character, and acknowledged his j parental authority; doubted her own right to withhold the child should he demand her, and feared the worst. Meanwhile, being perfectly honorable and upright, she carefully avoided saying a word that could prejudice her granddaughter against her new relatives, and, on the contrary, spoke of her nephew’s long solitude, and how well it was that he should now have a home of his own, and his children with him. Janet apparently thought but little of the coming stepmother, but dwelt with delight on the sister, whose existence she had, in truth, hardly hitherto realized. Mr. Berkley, with constitutional avoidance of painful topics, had never mentioned his first wife or her child to the daughter of his second, and the Selwyns, mistaking what was, in fact, an absence of deep feeling for an excess of it, had respected what they supposed to be a morbidly sensitive reserve, and, while telling Janet the little they knew of the first Mrs. Berkley and her child, had charged her never to speak to her papa of what would worry him. The little girl, occupied with her own amusements, had thought hardly at all about it until now, but now she drew a bright ideal image, and prepared to worship it with her whole warm, young heart.