Traits and Trials of Early Life

Front matter

TRAITS AND TRIALS

OF

EARLY LIFE.

The Twin Sisters

THE TWIN SISTERS.

"I am afraid the noise of the children disturbs you," said Mr. Dalton to his wife, as the loud laugh and ringing steps upon the gravel walk told the approach of the two play-mates.

"It is so cheerful," said the invalid, while her eyes brightened, as she turned her head in the direction whence the sounds came. The little feet became inaudible on the turf which they were now treading, but the clear laughter was still more distinct, and, in another moment, the branches of the dog-rose were dashed aside, a shower of the crimson leaves fell around, and the two children stood panting and breathless at their mother's side.

"What hands!" exclaimed Mr. Dalton: but the invalid only smiled at the soil which their eager grasp had left on her white dressing-gown.

"We were at work in our garden," said the eldest girl, colouring at the implied rebuke, "when we heard that Mamma was come out, and so we ran here"2

"That she might not have a moment's peace," said their father; but his voice was softer than his words, and, emboldened by his smile, the youngest added:

"We will be so quiet, now." And both sat down on the grass at their mother's feet. Mrs. Dalton was far too indulgent to permit such a penance as doing nothing is to the native activity of childhood, and a thousand slight commissions were devised, which, with little fatigue to herself, gave full occupation to their restless spirits. Now they were despatched to the further side of the opposite meadow to fetch some of the violets which grew on the southern bank in such profusion; and then it was a task of equal interest to seek if, in the more sheltered portion, the lilies of the valley yet gave promise of blossom. Any traveller riding up the hill, whose winding road in part over-looked the above scene, would have surely lingered, and then gone on his way rejoicing that he had witnessed such happiness.

The softened light of that most beautiful half hour which precedes the sun-set was upon the air, and the huge forms of the old trees flung forwards their gigantic shadows. A few of the central clouds had already begun to redden, and the windows of the distant village shone like gleams of fire through the elms of the boundary hedge. The pleasure ground sloped to the edge of the park-like meadow, and was the admiration of the neighbourhood for the variety and richness of its flowers; and June is the month for an English spring. Dalton Park was one of those old-fashioned houses all corners and angles, associate with the past, and possessing an interest which belongs to no newly built habitation. Not that Dalton Park aspired to the dignity of historical recollec

its connection was with domestic feelings, with the thought that the old walls had long been warmed by the cheerful presence of humanity, and that the ancient roof had long sheltered hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, like unto your own.

The western aspect, which looked down upon the meadow, was almost covered with fragrant creepers. The jessamine had as yet scarcely begun to unfold its long and slender leaves, but the honey-suckle was in all its bravery; covered with thousands of those fairy trumpets from whose sweet breath the laden bees were slowly wending homewards. The small porch, for the principal entrance was on the other side, was hidden by the small Ayrshire-rose, whose delicate crimson flowers, ascending year after year, were in rapid progress towards the roof. The lawn shone with the coloured foliage of the gay season: the beds were crowded with the "painted populace" of spring, and thickets of scented shrubs filled the air with odours. Those two beautiful children suited well with such a picture—they were in perpetual motion, and their long chesnut curls were but the more glossy for the wind that tossed the silken lengths, and the sunshine that turned the rich brown into gold. Their bright black eyes grew yet brighter with eagerness, as, laughing, they said, "How tall they were grown!" and each pursued the other's shadow, while the exercise deepened the already vivid red on each warm and glowing cheek.

But happiness is not for this world—a conviction that cannot be too soon acquired: it will destroy a thousand vain expectations, dissipate the most perplexing of our illusions—the early knowledge that life is but a trial, whose triumph is hereafter, and this earth a place appointed for that sorrow and patient endurance which is gradually fitting us for a better and a happier state. With this belief ever present before us, we should be more ready to enjoy the many moments of content and rest vouchsafed on our pilgrimage; and more ready to submit to that suffering which but turns the heart to its home which is in heaven. Even like the glorious sunset which, of all hours in the day, seems the most to mingle the influences of the world above with that below—when the golden light invests all familiar objects with a glory not their own; and yet the long shadows fall, the deepest heralds of the coming night: so do the lights and shadows of human existence mingle together.

Mrs. Dalton's pale cheek flushed, and her eye wore somewhat of its former brightness, as she watched those two graceful and happy creatures bound over the grass, on an infinity of schemes which almost always ended in bringing them to her side. But no one who looked on that face with other than the undiscerning eye of childhood but must have read on that wan, though youthful, brow the slow, but certain, approach of death. Mrs. Dalton had been born in India, and, like those more delicate exotics which pine and perish in a northern clime, she was fading, but as gradually as the flower that languishes for its native earth.

Mrs. Dalton had been united to her husband at a very early age; and had loved him perhaps the more that she had no one else to love. Her own parents had died when she was too young to remember them—she was scarcely two years of age. From motives of convenience, she was for a time placed at school in Calcutta, and thence consigned, like a bale of goods, to the care of a lady at Kensington, who took a select number of young ladies. She was about sixteen when transferred again to the house of her guardian; and in the course of a few months married to Mr. Dalton. Her guardian, not sorry see resigned into other hands the responsibility attendant on the charge of a beautiful girl, whose wealth added to the anxiety.

Mr. Dalton was the very reverse of his wife. Strong, alike in mind and body, his temper was unyielding, not to say stern. He was a man who made no allowances. Whatever ought to be done, that he expected should be done—and at once. He liked regularity, and expected prompt obedi and that every one else should be as active as himself. Timid, languid, and indolent—shrinking from exertion to which she felt unequal, Mrs. Dalton's oriental temperament was only to be roused by an appeal to her feelings or her generosity. Actuated by either of these motives—the gentle mind and slight frame seemed animated with a vigour that might have been held incompatible with her soft, sweet nature. Mr. Dalton would fain have carried this spirit farther; he perpetually lamented that "Indiana would listen to every impostor who had a few sorrowful words at command, and that it was enough to ruin those children the way in which she spoilt them." Still it was impossible to be angry with a creature so lovely, and so frail, and moreover so utterly devoted to him. It had been long, however, since a sound of reproach had been heard from Mr. Dalton's lips. His was no temper to hope against hope, and, from the first, he had seen that his wife's malady was fatal. She was now dying of consumption, and every thing else was forgotten in the deep love that sought, at least, to soothe the passage to the grave.

At this moment a loud exclamation from one of the children made Mrs. Dalton start, and her husband look round, half in fear, and half in anger. It was but the triumphant ejaculation that announced the capture of a large butterfly, whose brilliant colours seemed caught from the summer skies which brightened its brief existence. Ellen was seen the first, holding her fairy prisoner in the lightly clapsed hand, lest the glittering dust should be brushed from its delicate wings.

"You have frightened your Mamma out of her senses," said their father.

"Nay, nay," exclaimed Mrs. Dalton with one of her own gentle smiles. "I knew at once that it was a cry of pleasure. But, Ellen, you have not killed the poor insect?"

"No," said the child, "but you could not go to see it, and it was so pretty we could not help bringing it you to see."

"I shall see it best as it is flying away."

The hint was instantly taken, and, the little hand opening, the prisoner flew off as fast as its gossamer pinions could bear it.

"Would you like, Ellen, to have some giant snatch you up, and carry you off, for the sake of showing how your hair curled—should you not be very much frightened?"

Ellen stood silent, looking pleadingly into her mother's face; but Julia, who had drawn close to her sister, said,

"But there are no giants, mamma, to carry us away to look at us."

"No, love, but there are many ways in which all may be as needlessly tormented as that poor butterfly; and, by thinking how little we should ourselves like it, we shall surely grow more careful how we pain others. And now go, and see if there are any buds on the white rose tree, and, if there are, bring me one."

"I wish you would not talk, Indiana, it exhausts you," said Mr. Dalton: "besides, what did it matter about a nonsensical butterfly? you will make those children as soft-hearted as yourself."

"My dearest Albert," exclaimed Mrs. Dalton, "I believe half the cruelty in after life proceeds from the indifference with which children are accustomed to torment the few things within their little sphere of influence. We are all of us too selfish and too careless of what others may feel, and, from the very first, I wish Ellen and Julia to think of what may be suffered from their own heedlessness. Let them, above all things, be kind-hearted."

"Provided it does not," remarked her husband, "degenerate into weakness."

Mrs. Dalton smiled her assent, and the return of the children, with the white rose, put a stop to further conversation. The shadows gradually lengthened, and the gigantic outline of the elms became confused one with another. Fain would Mrs. Dalton have lingered in the open air, all was so calm, so lovely, every breath she drew brought a differing odour, as first one shrub, and then another, gave their hoarded sweetness to the evening wind. But Mr. Dalton grew impatient for her return to the house; and she could not say to him, "What does it matter to me? the chill air is of little moment now; I feel that my hours are numbered, and that no human care can avail to prolong their amount." Still she rose at his first word, and was at once carried to the dressing-room.

As soon as she was recovered from the fatigue of moving, she begged to be placed near the window. The warmer hues of the sun-set had faded into one deep, rich, purple. Only on the furthest verge of the horizon floated a few white clouds, on which the crimson lingered to the last, all below was tranquil, as in that stillness which precedes sleep. Not a leaf stirred on the tree, and the evening song of the birds had ceased. The colours of the variegated shrubbery were growing more and more indistinct, and the grass of the meadow had already caught the shadow of might. Now and then a low whirring sound was heard upon the air, and, borne on its dim and spectre- wings, the old owl swept heavily from one elm tree to another. The night-scented plants now came out in all their fragrance, and the musk rose, outside the window, filled the room with its odour. At every moment the sky was growing clearer and darker, and the silvery star of evening shone with that pure and spiritual light which seems so peculiarly its own. Mrs. Dalton's eyes were fixed on that star, she drank in its tremulous ray as if it were a message from above. She longed to speak of the numberless fancies which connected themselves with that star; but she felt that they were unreal, and hesitated to speak of such folly. She wished to bid her husband think of her, as he watched that calm and distant planet; and then she almost rebuked herself for the vain romance of her wish. "He will think of me," she whispered, "with strong and enduring affection—it is only the heart of a woman that links itself with those fanciful associations."

But, even while she gazed, the light became tremulous and indistinct; and her head sank back on the pillows of her arm-chair. She was immediately carried to bed, and, for nearly four hours, lay in a state of almost insensibility. She recovered sufficiently to take some nourishment from the old Indian nurse who had attended her from her birth and who now watched her death-bed, as devotedly as she had done her cradle. In about a quarter of an hour, she fell into a deep sleep, while the faithful creature, hanging over her, almost counted every breath which her mistress drew. Thus passed the night away, and the nurse was about to resign her place, which she always did most reluctantly, when a change, passing over the face of the beloved sleeper, induced her to remain. Mrs. Dalton roused up suddenly, more than refreshed, quite animated, by her slumber. The rose burnt upon her cheek, and her large clear eyes filled with unusual light. The thin, emaciated hand alone denoted the long-suffering invalid.

"Ask Mr. Dalton to come here," said she.

Eda was surprised, for generally her mistress's chief anxiety was that he should be disturbed as little as possible. The wish however was at once obeyed, and, in a few minutes, Mr. Dalton was in the room.

"Eda, fetch the children, but do not hurry them," said the sufferer, striving to raise herself on the pillow. She was unequal to the exertion, and sank back on her husband's extended arm.

"Yes, here," whispered she, resting her head on his shoulder. "I wished to speak to you, Albert," said she, "but, now I see you, I have nothing to say. Yes, thank you for all your kindness to a weak, suffering creature, who must often have tried your patience." A closer pressure to his heart was all Mr. Dalton's answer, his lips quivered, but in silence; and, for an instant, he turned his face aside. The children, though their little feet were stealing along, were now heard.

"Indiana, they must not disturb you," exclaimed Mr. Dalton.

"I must, I must, see them," cried she, more eagerly than he had ever known her answer him before.

They came in, and stole gently to the bed-side.

"Fling back the curtains," said Mrs. Dalton; "I am weary of this pale and sickly lamp-light."

Her wish was immediately obeyed, and the bright day-break of a June morning at once filled the sick chamber. For a few moments the long silken eye-lashes lay heavily on the burning cheek—the first effort to bear the day was too much. She soon, however, gazed around her again, and her eyes rested, how fondly! on the faces of her children. It was a strange contrast that room—all seemed so fresh and so glad. The rosy hues of the morning gladdened every object on which they fell; the crimson-touched bunches of the honeysuckle sent in their perfume at the open window, while the trees beyond glittered in the sunshine, more glittering from the early dew yet sparkling on the branches. The cheerful singing of the birds made every bough musical, and one, it was the lark, chaunting its morning hymn, seemed to pour down its song from the very gate of heaven. It was

"Singing like an angel in the clouds."

The two children suited such a morning, the golden sunbeams turned their light brown hair to gold, and their colour was as fresh as the flowers in the garden below: how different to the feverish flush on the cheek of their mother! The joyous beauty of inanimate nature but made the contrast sadder and deeper with suffering humanity. For once, the loveliness of external nature was unheeded by Mrs. Dalton—that loveliness on which she had never before gazed without a thrill of delight and gratitude. But now, as her gaze wandered from her husband to her children, she thought but of the brief time accorded to the deep emotions of earthly love; she felt that, indeed, death had its bitterness which the hope of an hereafter might soothe, but not subdue. Tenderly she passed her hand over the bright heads that scarcely reached to her pillow; she longed to say somewhat to their father about them. But to bespeak his tenderness for those so soon to be orphans was almost to doubt it, and she only asked him to lift them up, that she might kiss them.

"They must not stay," said Mr. Dalton, seeing how faint she became.

The old Indian nurse led them to the door whither their mother's eye followed them, it then turned towards their father's face, whence it never moved again. The flush gradually faded into utter paleness, and the head, which rested on Mr. Dalton's arm, was white and scarcely more animate than that of a marble statue. His sight had lost somewhat of its usual clear distinctness, or his eyes were filled with tears: suddenly he dashed them away, and leant eagerly over his wife.

"Eda," exclaimed he, in an agitated whisper "she is fainting."

"No," said the aged nurse, "it is all over."

Both stood for a moment motionless, breathless, when Mr. Dalton rushed from the room; he could not bear even that faithful old creature to witness an emotion which he felt he could not master.

It was a hard task to teach those poor children that their mother was dead. Death is so incomprehensible to a child. They would not believe that their mother would not return. "Mamma can’t do without us," said Ellen. "I am sure she will come back for us."

"She will never come back," replied Eda.

"Then why did she not take us with her?" exclaimed Julia.

"You will go to her in time, if you are good children," was the old nurse's answer.

"Let us go at once," cried they in a breath.

It was in vain to make them understand the impossibility; and that night, for the first time in their lives, the twins cried themselves to sleep.

"I know where Mamma is," whispered Julia to her sister; "though they keep the house so dark that we may not find her. I heard them say that their mistress was in the south room."

"Let us go there;" exclaimed Ellen. "When nurse goes down to dinner—we can walk so quietly."

The time soon came, and the twins stole out together. Ellen, who was the most timid of the two, hesitated a little as they opened the door of the darkened apartment, but Julia whispering, "Mamma won't be angry," encouraged her, and they entered the room together.

"Where is Mamma?" asked Ellen, looking first eagerly at the bed, and then more anxiously toward the chairs.

"I heard them say that she was here," exclaimed Julia, whose eyes were fast filling with tears: at that moment the coffin rivetted the attention of both. Each approached it, and each at the same moment recognised their mother "Why does she sleep in that strange box?" asked Ellen, in a frightened whisper.

"We must take care not to wake her," answered Julia, in a still lower tone. Both remained watching her, still and silent, for a considerable time.

"I wish she would wake," at last said Julia, and, stooping down, kissed the cold white hand extended over the shroud. Ellen did the same thing, and both started back at the icy chill. It would seem as if the sight and touch of death brought its own mysterious consciousness. The two children stood, pale and awe-struck, gazing on the well known, yet unafmiliar, face that, cold and ghastly, now answered not to their looks again. They passed their little arms around each other, and clinging together, with a sweet sense of companionship, neither spoke nor moved for a considerable time; at last Ellen, still holding her sister's hand, knelt down, and whispered, "Let us say our prayers." And the two orphans repeated, beside their mother's coffin, the infantine petitions they had learnt beside that mother's knee.

They were thus employed when Eda entered the chamber. Her step disturbed them, and they ran towards her, and, throwing themselves into her arms, began to weep bitterly. It was remarkable that, from that time, the twins never enquired when "Mamma would come back," but they listened, with an attention beyond their years, when the aged Indian woman spoke of her own earnest and simple hope whose home was beyond the grave. To her care they were principally left. Mr. Dalton was often out, he found the solitude of his house insupportable. He had been accustomed to have his lightest movement watched by eyes whose affection triumphed over even the trial of suffering, and the languor of disease. Indiana, even when too weak to speak, had always a smile to give in answer; and, to a man of his temper, silent assent was a pleasant method of continuing the conversation.

There are always an ample sufficiency of compassionate neighbours ready to console one who, by common consent, is styled "the disconsolate widower." He dined out, he spent whole days out, and, beyond a brief summons to his breakfast table, a summons always obeyed with a species of awe, saw but little of the children. He wondered at their silence, and then felt almost disposed to be angry, for he often heard their voices when he came upon them unexpectedly in the garden, or entered any apartment where they happened to be. But both the twins were of timid tempers—Julia less than Ellen—but even she could only be courageous when compared with her sister. Their father's natural gravity and silence overawed them—to cling to each other, to answer the meekest little "yes," or "no,", possible. A few kind words: would soon have induced them to talk, but their father did not understand the art of making them do so.

Mr. Dalton had no near female relative, but there are always ready friends, able and willing to settle everything in the world for everybody. These considered the somewhat neglected state of the children as a case, of all others, calling for neighbourly interposition. Some recommended a school to Mr. Dalton, others a governess, but, still more, a wife. The owner of Dalton Park was however not a man to be advised, at least, if people desired that their advice should be taken. An impatient shrug of the shoulder and a still deeper silence was the utmost reply that the ingenious insinuation, or even the more direct attack, ever produced. Every time Mr. Dalton went from home, it was universally decided that he was gone to be married: still, though there is an old proverb stating that what everybody says must be true, yet there is no rule without an exception. Though everybody said Mr. Dalton was gone to be married, still he persisted in coming home single; but, at last, the report was fairly used out. His neighbours grew tired of predicting what never came true. His marriage, which happened at last, took them all by surprise. No one had had the pleasure of foreseeing anything about it.

"Yesterday, at St. George's, Hanover Square, Eliza Meredith, daughter of the late John Meredith, Esq., to Albert Dalton, Esq., of Dalton Park," was the first intimation his neighbours received. To think that they should only hear of his marriage from the newspapers! The same post brought also letters to his steward and house-keeper, directing certain preparations to be made for the reception of himself and his bride, who were to arrive after a fortnight's tour. All was consternation in his own house: the servants, who, for two years, had been accustomed to have pretty well their own way, exceedingly disapproved of their master's marrying. Selfishness is hypocritical by nature, and seizes on the first decent excuse as a cloak; so their discontent took the shape of pity for the two poor children, who were to be subjected to all the tyranny of a step-mother. The house-keeper was the first to communicate the intelligence, and she sent an invitation to the nurse for herself and the twins to drink tea. This was a compliment to Eda, who was a sort of rival potentate, as absolute over her nursery as the other was over her own more extensive domain. Contrary to the established rule on such occasions there was no jealousy between these rival powers; indeed the humble and patient nature of the Indian rendered dispute all but impossible. To the children such a visit was a great treat; they looked forward to what seemed to them Mrs. Whyte's inexhaustible stores of cakes and preserves; moreover any change was an amusement to those who rarely stirred beyond the boundaries of their own Park. Five o'clock saw them seated round the walnut-tree table, shining like a looking-glass. To Ellen and Julia it was a constant source of amusement seeing themselves reflected in the polished surface, while the said polish was a perpetual triumph to Mrs. Whyte, who boasted that her new mistress might go over the furniture with her white cambric handkerchief, and find it unsoiled when she had done. The room was small, but lofty; and the chill of a November evening excluded by scarlet stuff curtains: it had been panelled with oak, which however had been painted white, a proceeding which added to the cheerfulness rather than to the beauty. It was lined with closets, and adorned with bottles, and regular rows of white pots marked with every variety of jam and jelly. These were however all left to the imagination, for drawer and door were kept carefully locked; and Mrs. Whyte's keys safely lodged in that vast receptacle—her pocket.

The party were assembled by five o'clock—the nurse and house-keeper duly occupying two old-fashioned arm-chairs on each side the fire, while the two children were placed on stools at their feet. The two aged servants were singular contrasts. Mrs. Whyte was the very model of a neat, pretty old woman. Her pale brown hair, a little tinged with gray, parted as it had parted all her life, in two equal divisions on her forehead; the high muslin cap was like a pyramid of snow. Mrs. Whyte would not have worn a coloured ribbon for the world. A muslin handkerchief was neatly pinned down in front, and a brown silk gown completed her attire. We had nearly forgotten a white apron, also a ribbon, from which hung a pin-cushion, whose gaiety quite enlivened her whole appearance; it boasted all the colours of the rainbow; but it was the work of "the dear children," and always worn at such visits. At other times it was wrapped in divers folds of silver paper, and laid up, literally, in lavender. With small delicate features, a complexion which retained much of its original fairness—age had past over her smiling countenance as lightly as possible; she seemed in complete keeping with comfort and quiet around her—she must have been known any where for an Englishwoman. Eda, on the contrary, obviously belonged to a far distant country. Her high and finely cut features expressed more passion and more determination than belonged to the soft and gentle face of the other;-and her skin, of a dark but clear olive, together with her thick black hair, gave something sombre to her appearance. Her dress, nevertheless, was in a more gorgeous taste; though the taste with which the colours were assimilated prevented it from being gaudy.—Her turban was of pure white, but her dress was a print of a richly variegated pattern, and a crimson shawl, whose folds she well knew how to manage, fell around her like drapery;—she also wore a pair of large gold earrings, an ornament suiting well with her peculiar and stately bearing. The highest praise that have been bestowed on the house-keeper's appearance was that of a neat, cheerful, and respectable old woman;—but the Indian appealed to the imagination, and might well have past for some captive Queen, grown aged in captivity. The dignity of misfortune was around her, for Eda had known much sorrow, and much suffering.

Beside these two representatives of advanced age, were those who as yet were but entering life, in all its freshness and its beauty. The twins were uncommonly lovely children. India gave its lustre and its darkness to their large black eyes, and England its rosy fairness to their complexion; while a profusion of glossy auburn hair hung down in thick curls to the waist. They were alike, only Julia was taller, and had more colour than her sister, and on all occasions was the one who rather took the lead, and encouraged her shy and timid sister. It was a touching thing to witness the entire affection of the orphans. They were never apart; their little stools were always drawn close together; if they were running in the garden, the shadow of the one was sure to fall on that of the other. If the one read, the other was at her side, reading from the same page; and at night each fell asleep in the other's arms. Though equally generous, and affectionate, both had warm tempers, yet a word almost would subdue them into penitence and tears; still that anger was never turned on each other; from their birth they had never had a dispute; everything that they had was in common; and any thing given to Julia was sure to be shared with Ellen; and Ellen, in her turn, was as ready to divide with Julia.