# 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"——
"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 ​recollections; 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 ​obedience 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-like 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.
Tea was ready almost as soon as they entered the room; but there was obviously a weight on Mrs. Whyte's spirits, and the cakes and ​marmalade were distributed with a more than usual number of "poor dears," and divers mysterious and significant shakes of the head. The children being busily employed in eating, and both herself and visitor drawn a little apart, and armed with cups of most fragrant tea, the housekeeper addressed the nurse, after a deep drawn sigh, and a preliminary shake of the head.
"I suppose you have heard the news?" Though for her to have heard it approached to an impossibility—and her having heard it would have been a sore disappointment to the communicator.
"News," replied Eda, "what is it?"
"The worst news that this house has heard for many a day."
The affectionate Indian turned a startled glance on the two children; but no, there they were, looking equally well and happy; so, satisfied, she contented herself with an enquiring glance at her companion.
"Ah! you may well look at those poor dear ​children," continued Mrs. Whyte, who possessed to the highest degree the art of working up her hearers into a state of miserable suspense by what she called preparing them for the worst.
"Is there," exclaimed the nurse, "any illness in the neighbourhood?"
"Oh no; I wish that were all."
"All, that all!" said Eda, to whom the illness of the children, to whom she was so fondly attached, seemed a calamity of the most formidable order. "What can be worse? my master, has anything happened to him?"
"Yes, it is of my master I am speaking; but he is well enough."
Eda's anxiety was now sufficiently quieted to enable her to wait patiently for Mrs. Whyte's intelligence, who seemed resolved to prolong to the utmost the importance which untold news gives to its possessor. She however told it, at last, abruptly enough—
"So, my master is going to be married."
"Married!" almost shrieked Eda, " ​impossible!" she sank back, her dark countenance turning to a livid paleness with the violence of her emotion—while her companion remained absolutely awed into silence by the change in the Indian’s agitated features. "Impossible," continued she in a low voice, rather as if thinking aloud, "it seems but yesterday that she was at his side, with her soft eyes that so watched his own, and her sweet voice, which he never heard utter one harsh word, and indeed who ever did? She sleeps in a cold dark vault on which her native sun looks not; had they buried her in its warm light, amid the long grass which she loved, the flowers would have grown up to hide the dark earth below. Why his heart is yet warm with the beating of her's. He cannot look in the faces of those children and not see hers; so beautiful, so young, so devoted—she cannot be so soon forgotten—it is impossible."
Little as she liked the news she told, Mrs. Whyte felt her own consequence impeached by having her authority doubted.—Diving therefore ​to the very depths of her pockets, she drew forth a letter: "You know," said she, "my master's hand-writing." Eda took the letter; she read the few first lines; she could read no more. The room swam round with her. The faces grew indistinct, and, staggering like one who has received a violent blow, she rose from her seat—she stood for a moment as if she knew not what she was doing,—when the voice of Mrs. Whyte recalled her to herself. Making a strong effort to command her feelings, she exclaimed, in a low broken voice, "Take care of the children," and hurried to her own chamber. Partly to divert their attention from the absence of their nurse, but still more because she found it impossible to keep her knowledge to herself—the housekeeper began to communicate the important fact that they were going to have a mamma.
"Mamma!" cried the twins in the same breath, springing from the table, "Is mamma coming back to us?" The colour glowing in their cheeks and the large tears in their eyes— ​with hope and eagerness—they pressed close to Mrs. Whyte for her answer.
"No, poor dears, no; you are going to have a new mamma—a fine new one."
"We won't have a new mamma," Julia. "I will have my own mamma."
"Will is a naughty word for young ladies," said the housekeeper; "and you must be so good now; for your father, next week, will bring you a new mamma."
"Why has he brought her?" asked Ellen.
This question somewhat puzzled Mrs. Whyte.
"Because he has married her," was however her answer at last.
"And will she be called Mrs. Dalton, and live here always?" said Julia.
"Yes;–just like your mamma."
"And will she have mamma's room, and mamma's garden?"
"Yes;" said the old woman, her heart melting within her at all the recollections these word excited.
​ "And will she be put in mamma's picture?" and both of the children hid their faces in Mrs. Whyte's lap, and began to cry bitterly. Before Mrs. Whyte could explain that the picture would remain, Eda re-entered, and at once the two orphans ran towards her.
"Pray, pray, ask papa not to bring us home a new mamma, and we will be so good without her."
The sight of the children for the moment over-set all the prudent resolutions which it had cost poor Eda so much to form; her natural strong sense at once shewed her the necessity of submission, to tell the children of the event cheerfully, and to induce them to look forward to the bride's arrival as something which was to be a source of happiness, had been her immediate, and, as she thought, firm resolve; but the sudden enquiry overset her hardly acquired firmness. The sight of her tears made the twins cry half in sympathy, and half in fear; any one who has noticed may have observed that the weeping of grown up persons produces a sensation of awe on ​the mind of a child. Accustomed to associate the idea of superiority with that of their elders, they cannot understand their giving way to the same emotions as themselves. It must be something very dreadful indeed to have produced it. Eda soon recovered from her emotion, or rather soon subdued its external signs—and, taking the children on her knee, first soothed them with caresses, and then endeavoured to place the subject in its pleasantest light; she told them how kind their new mamma would be, and that she would take them to walk with her, and ask their father to forgive them if ever he was angry. Scott beautifully says
"The tear down childhood's cheek that flows
 Is like the dew drop on the rose."
So it proved to be in the present instance, and the children again took their places at the table, to Mrs. Whyte's great satisfaction, who considered seed-cake and marmalade a sovereign panacea for all the ills to which childhood is heir. Still the conversation of the evening made a deep impression on Ellen and Julia—they ​remembered Mrs. Whyte's "poor dears," and still more anxiously Eda's weeping. Every morning they stole into the drawing-room where it hung and watched to see if their mamma's picture was still unaltered. Finding it the same, day after day, seemed to reconcile them more than all Eda could urge to the duty which they owed to their father, and the indulgence which they were to expect from his bride. At length the important day came on which Mr. and Mrs. Dalton were expected to arrive. It was with a heavy heart that Eda prepared to dress the children. It was the first time that they had laid aside their mourning since their mother's death. The affectionate and faithful creature felt almost as much in putting on the white frocks as she had done when they first wore their black ones. She was almost angry at the pleasure which their new dresses gave the children, who admiringly surveyed their long new white sashes and shoes. Her anger had however not to last long, for Julia suddenly put her new dress aside, and said,
​ "We put on our black frocks for our own mamma's memory—are we to put on our white ones to forget her for our new mamma? I won't wear them."
It now required all Eda's soothing and reasoning to induce them to put on what they had just been admiring. When they were drest, Eda saw from the flushed cheek and little trembling hand of her beloved charges that they were over excited. Naturally delicate and timid, they were sensitive beyond their years; and, anxious both for their good looks and good behaviour, their nurse sent them into the garden to gather a nosegay to give Mrs. Dalton on her arrival.
It was a lovely morning in autumn, one of those delicious days which unite the warmth of spring with the deeper and more melancholy tone of the departing year. The early flowers had long since perished. The snow-drop, crocus and epatica had led the way for the lavish profusion of the violet, the laburnum, the lilac, and the numberless roses that take so many shapes and all ​of them beautiful. But now the colours of the garden were at their richest—the dahlias, those magnificent strangers, spread around their oriental magnificence white, scarlet, crimson, orange, like the livery of a court, when a King assembles his nobles in the bravest attire. The geraniums too were in full blossom, and as various in kind and colour as the rose; nor was the rose herself wanting, the delicate species called Chinese. Singular that what seems but, to look at, the most fragile of its kind, should yet linger to the last, and smile even amid the snows. The children felt the influence of the soft and balmy hour. Their colour, as they wandered through the garden, became even more bright, though less feverish. The interest of their employment occupied them entirely, and exercise and sunshine made them cheerful as usual. At last the important task was completed, the rose-bud arranged with the myrtle and the geranium, and the heliotrope gave its sweet breath like incense; but some white ribbon was wanted to tie the prettily ​arranged bouquet, and they returned to ask Eda for some. The flowers were scarcely fastened together when the distant sound of a carriage was heard, and the nurse hurried with her charge into the hall. She was agitated herself, and this was rather increased, for she could feel the trembling of each little hand as she took them in her own.
They reached the hall, the moment before Mr. and Mrs. Dalton entered—the two children clung to Eda's gown—and with difficulty could she unloose their clasp, and make them to go forwards—for their father's first question was, "Where are Julia and Ellen?" The sound of his voice, which was very kind, re-assured them, and he himself led them blushing till the tears stood in their eyes.
"What beautiful children," exclaimed the bride as she stooped down to kiss them—obviously more careful of the folds of her veil than anything else: she took the flowers without looking at them, and, taking her husband's arm, pursued her way through the hall, with a look of scrutiny and observation which would better have suited the returning ​mistress, careful of what might have happened in her absence, than a young bride passing a strange threshold for the first time. The two children hung back, but Eda, in a whisper, bade them follow. She was glad that she did so, for Mr. Dalton looked round, and, seeing them beside, smiled, and bade them run before and show mamma the way to the drawing-room. The group in the hall were now left free to make their comments, which were not of the most flattering order. The truth was, none of their self-love was enlisted in the favour of their new mistress; she had past on without a single kind word and look, not one old servant, and most of those at Dalton Hall had lived there four years, had received from her the slightest notice. Eda was the only one who could not be persuaded to say more than that "Mrs. Dalton was certainly very handsome:" and so she was; her figure was tall and finely proportioned, though there was a stiffness in her movements which somewhat detracted from their grace. Her features were ​regular, though of a kind that advancing years might render sharp, while her dark eyes, very handsome eyes they were, had every beauty of shape, colour—all but sweetness.
The children soon made their appearance in the nursery, they said that their father's new mamma had a head-ache. Neither seemed inclined to talk about her, and Eda thought it most judicious to ask no questions. Soon after they came in, she observed that Ellen had in her hand the very flowers on whose selection so much pains had been bestowed.
"Why did you not give your mamma her pretty nosegay?" asked Eda.
"Oh, we did," replied Julia, "but she dropped it in the passage, and when we picked it up and gave it to her again, she said that she could not bear the perfume."
"We did not like it to be lost," added Ellen, "because the geranium was from our own mamma's tree."
"Some people cannot bear odours," said the ​nurse: "do you remember your mamma never could walk through the lime avenue in spring?"
"I wish we had not put any heliotrope," said Julia, "I dare say it was that."
Though the morning had been so fine, the afternoons were chilly, and the twins, who inherited their mother's sensitiveness to cold, drew their stools to the fire and asked Eda to tell them one of the stories of her own country. They seemed never to weary of the picturesque tales of which India is so fertile. While they were thus employed, the door opened unceremoniously, a rustle of silk was heard, and in came Mrs. Dalton. Eda of course left off speaking, and, rising from her seat, curteseyed respectfully and remained silent and standing; the two children rose also, and stood, like their nurse in silence. Mrs. Dalton had heard the sound of talking as she came in, and immediately supposed that they had been speaking of herself: the silence on her entrance seemed very suspicious. "Pray," said she, with a sneer, "do ​not let me interrupt your conversation, unless, as is often the case, I am too nearly connected with it to hear it. Pray what were you talking about?" said she, turning abruptly to Julia.
"We were not talking," replied the child, answering her question in the most literal manner—"Eda was telling us about her father's elephant"—
Mrs. Dalton made no direct reply, but exclaimed, "What, a fire already!—I never heard of a fire at this time of the year. I wonder, nurse, you suffer these children to sit burning themselves up in such a manner." Eda tried to answer, but her words choaked her; and, without waiting for it, Mrs. Dalton approached the window, and threw it up, though a small drizzling rain was beating against it: at this moment the door of the nursery opened again, and a most unusual visitor, Mr. Dalton, appeared "Come here, children," said he, depositing at the same time a variety of parcels on the table, "come and look at all the play-things your mamma has brought you from London:" catching sight of Mrs. Dalton, he added, ​advancing towards her, "will you distribute your treasures yourself?"
"You see," said she with a smile which Eda had not thought her face could assume, "I am beginning my acquaintance with your house betimes, you can imagine the attraction which this room possesses in my eyes." Mr. Dalton looked gratified, and proceeded to unfasten the strings of the different packages.
"Where does this draught come from?" exclaimed he suddenly; "why, Eda," looking towards the open window, "this is not like your usual care." Eda remained silent for a minute or two, but, finding her mistress did not speak, said "Mrs. Dalton opened it, I believe she found the room too warm." As if she had just recollected it, the lady looked round:
"Ah, I forgot, but you cannot think how close it was when I came in. Very unwholesome to keep a room so hot. I see you will all require a deal of reform, shall I begin with you," addressing Mr. Dalton; "but that would be saying little ​for my own taste, I at least cannot discover your faults."
"I am afraid you soon will," replied he, though in a tone of voice which showed the flattery had not been lost. They continued unfastening the toys, but though Mrs. Dalton was now profuse in her "loves," and "dears," it was easy to see that she sought entirely to engross her husband's attention. At last, turning the conversation from some doll's furniture to that she now saw for the first time, she expressed a wish to see the house, "This being the only room to which I could find my way by myself." Mr. Dalton immediately proposed shewing her what rooms there yet remained day-light enough to see.
"I was going," continued she, "to petition that these dear children might accompany us, but really, after this over-heated room, it might give them cold." She left the nursery, and both Eda and the children felt the relief of her absence. The first thing Julia did was to run and shut the window, she did it somewhat loudly and hastily. ​nurse saw the spirit of opposition in her act, and, calling her to her side, said gently, "Your mamma is not used to the country here, I am sure that she will wish us to have a fire, when she knows that these large and cold rooms would be very chilly without. Now show me all the beautiful play things which she has brought you." The Indian spoke cheerfully, but she did not feel as she spoke; she was too shrewd not to perceive the petty and unkind spirit of jealously which animated Mrs. Dalton, and her heart sunk within her as she considered the influence which her new mistress would in future exercise over those who were dearer to her than her own life.
A few days passed on—and never did a few days bring about more changes. The furniture was moved, the dinner-hours altered, all old habits were infringed, and, before a month was out, every servant had given warning. Mrs. Whyte was the last. "I had hoped," said she, "to have lived died in the old house—I am sure I have done my duty by its master—but I am too old to take up ​with new habits, and I only hope my mistress will be better satisfied with my successor." It might be supposed that she would, for Mrs. Dalton declared her intention of being, for the future, her own housekeeper. Mrs. Whyte's dismissal was the only one which drew a comment from Mr. Dalton. Provided no one interfered with either his library or his stable, he did not care how the rest of his establishment was managed, it being fully understood that he was to have as little trouble as was possible; but when the neat old woman, who had been "one of the old familiar faces" from his boyhood, claimed the privilege of an old servant, who had known him in his cradle, to bid him good-bye, and who could not restrain her tears when she came to say "God bless him," all Mr. Dalton's sympathies were aroused. He bade her adieu most kindly, inquired minutely about her circumstances, and even shook hands with her at parting. Nor did his kindness rest here: he immediately settled a small annuity on her, which would amply supply every comfort, ​during her life. Moreover, that very day after. dinner, as soon as the servants were withdrawn, and Mrs. Dalton and himself quietly settled down into the arm-chairs on each side the fire, he even ment so far as to say, "Do you know, my dear, I am very sorry that you have found it necessary to part with Mrs. Whyte; poor old creature, I have known her ever since I was born, and she was so attached to the family."
"I am sure, my love," replied Mrs. Dalton, in her blandest tones, "I am very sorry, I did not know that she was so great a favourite with you—I would not have parted with her on any account; but, indeed, my dear, you have spoilt all your servants—I could do nothing with them—I shall not have half the trouble with a new set, who know my ways from the first. I am not very particular, but, I own, I know when work is well done. I used to tell you I piqued myself on my housekeeping: I kept mamma's house for her since I was sixteen." A pause ensued, and Mr. Dalton began to crack his walnuts with unusual industry, ​and his lady continued, "I can assure you, Mrs. Whyte is not the only old servant I should rejoice to be rid of."
"There are not," replied Mr. Dalton, "many now left to interfere with your arrangements."
"Why there is that tiresome old black woman."
"Eda is not black," said her husband.
"But she is as obstinate as a mule—she minds nothing that I say—she manages those children—the way in which they are spoilt is enough to ruin them: I never saw any thing so rude as they grow, and it is all Eda's fault."
"I am sorry to hear this, as they grow older I trust that they will be more amenable to your advice. But," and his brow darkened as he spoke, "the spoiling of an old woman cannot much matter, counteracted as it is by your judicious control."
"I am sure," continued the lady, "the wisest thing we could do would be to get rid of her."
"We will drop this subject once and for ever," replied her husband. "While I have a house, that ​house will be a home for Eda. You do not know the fidelity and devotion of that affectionate creature."
"My dear love," said his wife, "you are master in your own house. I would not for the world interfere with any of your wishes. I am very sorry I ever mentioned the subject." Here the conversation changed, Mrs. Dalton revolving in her own mind whether it would not be possible to provoke Eda into leaving of her own accord.
Julia and Ellen had that very morning given her more than usual cause of displeasure. She had early begun to lay down a system of rules, as much opposed to all their old habits as could well be devised. Eda conformed in every thing, saving in one or two instances to which she knew the strength of the children was unequal, and even then she did not deviate from the rule laid down, without the most submissive remonstrance and explanation. Among other rules rigidly insisted upon was they were not to run in and out of the drawing-rooms; indeed, they were not to make their appearance ​there, unless they were sent for. Eda believed this prohibition was strictly observed: indeed, she secretly thought that there was too little temptation to fear that it would be neglected; but Julia and Ellen made an exception, in their own favour, for one single room, and into that they contrived to steal every morning. It was at some distance from their usual sitting-room, so their disobedience had yet remained undiscovered. It so happened that Mrs. Dalton, while receiving some visitors, happened to mention a rare plant she had noticed in the green-house. These visitors had a valuable collection of their own, and that generally gives us an interest in another's. They went to the green-house, where the gardener said it had been sent to the house and placed in the window of the blue drawing-room, as it was called. Thither Mrs. Dalton proceeded with her guests, and there she found the two children; who, hearing footsteps, endeavoured to make a rapid retreat. The window opened down to the ground, and they had come through it with all possible precaution; but, in their haste to ​leave the room unobserved, they threw down the stand of flowers—Ellen's frock caught on one of the pots, and Julia staid to assist her.
"As usual, those children are always in mischief," exclaimed Mrs. Dalton. "What were you doing here?" The culprits stood silent, when an old lady of the party good-naturedly came forward and said,
"I am sure they are very sorry for what they have done. Will you let me intercede for them this once?"
"Nay," said Mrs. Dalton, "I only regret that the very plant should be destroyed which you took the trouble of coming to see;" but her face contradicted her words. The party left the room, and the same lady who had interceded for them now said, "I must get acquainted with these little strangers," and, taking a hand of each, led them forward, silent and reluctant.
"You will find them sadly troublesome," replied Mrs. Dalton, who however made no farther objection. The visit was constrained and tedious, ​there was a stiffness and coldness in the manners of the hostess that precluded all attempts at familiar conversation. Interested in nothing that did not immediately concern herself, she had none of that general kindliness which is so winning even in trifles. Her very politeness was chilling, for there was nothing of the heart in it. As to the children, it was impossible to extract a word from them—Mrs. Dalton muttered something about sullenness, but the old lady who had before taken their part felt tempted to say, "Why, madam, they are frightened out of their poor little wits." Lunch having been eaten and the green-house seen,—nothing now remained to supply topics of discourse or the want of them, and, after a dull quarter of an hour, the ladies rose, glad that the penance was over.
What a duty it is to cultivate a pleasant manner how many a meeting does it make cheerful which would otherwise have been stupid and formal! We do not mean by this the mere routine of polite observance, but we mean that general ​cheerfulness which, like the sunshine lights up whatever it touches, that attention to others which discovers what subject is most likely to interest them, and that information which, ready for use, is easily laid under contribution by the habit of turning all resources to immediate employ. In short, a really pleasant manner grows out of benevolence, which can be as much shown in a small courtesy as in a great service. It can never be possessed by a selfish person, and Mrs. Dalton was thoroughly selfish. She had no idea that it could be a greater pleasure to give up your own comfort, or your own wishes, to those of another, than even enjoying their fullest gratification yourself. Julia and Ellen were gliding as they though unperceived out of the room, when the harsh voice of Mrs. Dalton recalled them.
Slowly, and holding each other fast by the hand, they approached the sofa where she was seated.
"Can't you stand upright," exclaimed she angrily, "without leaning upon each other in that awkward way? And now perhaps you will have ​the goodness to tell me what business you had in the drawing-room. Was this the first time?"
"No," said Julia, in an almost inaudible whisper.
"How dare you run in and out, bringing all the dirt from the garden."
"We take such care," replied Julia, who on most occasions acted as spokeswoman, "to rub our feet before we come in."
"But how dare you come in when my orders are that you should not?" To this question no answer was returned, the culprits stood pale with fear, their heads hung down and not daring even to look at each other.
"I'll make you repent this obstinacy. I insist upon knowing what you were doing there." The loud tone in which this was said admitted of no farther delay: trembling from head to foot, Julia at last answered:
"We go there every morning to see if you have been put in our own mamma's picture." The fact was the children, who never rightly ​understood why a stranger should come in the place of their still fondly remembered parent, expected that, as every thing else had changed, the portrait would change too, and watched over it with a mixture of fear and love. Every morning they stole quietly into the room, and went happy in the conviction that the sweet face which was to their affectionate eyes such a treasure had still a smile for them. There was something in this answer that provoked Mrs. Dalton to the utmost, and yet she scarcely knew how to make it a subject of reproof: catching, however, at one expression Julia had used, she retorted, "So I am not your mamma, you little ungrateful creatures. I know who taught you this; but I won't have an old black in my house much longer to make every body as insolent as herself: go along to the nursery, and, to punish you for your disobedience, you shall not come down stairs after dinner today." This was no longer a punishment, it was a penance, on the contrary, which they were glad to avoid. They knew that, from the time they ​entered, till the bell rang for "Eda to fetch the Misses Dalton," it would be an incessant repetition of reproofs. Nothing discourages a child so much as the impossibility of pleasing. At first Julia and Ellen held up their heads, and altered their position every second minute, but it was in vain. They grew careless at last, and, not loving Mrs. Dalton, became indifferent whether they pleased her or not.
In the meantime their father found all this very tiresome; and, too indolent to examine who was in fault, satisfied himself with repeating, what his wife so often asserted, "that all children were plagues when come to a certain age." He only hoped that this age would soon be past, and in the meantime only supposed that his own had more than ordinary allotment of wearisomeness and stupidity. The fact was that they scarcely dared to speak, or raise their eyes, during the brief visit which they paid to the dining-room. He was little aware of the system of minute tyranny which his wife pursued. Not that she was cruel, ​or intended any positive injury; but she was harsh, selfish, delighted in a system of punishment and restraint, while she considered the luckless orphans as intruders on her rights, and, as such, to be regarded with an unkindly and perpetual jealousy; she interfered with all their childish enjoyments; they were forbidden two thirds of their old accustomed walks, indeed any where there was a chance of their meeting their father. The little poney carriage, in which they used to drive, was pronounced an unnecessary expense, and, though the children required air, they were not equal to much exercise. Their dinners, on the pretence of regimen, were reduced to the coarsest material, and they were possessed of that delicate appetite very different from the healthy hunger which usually belongs to their age.
But the worst was the perpetual fear in which they lived; they would start and turn pale at the opening of a door, lest they should see Mrs. Dalton, and some slight fault be followed by punishment far beyond the offence. Hours of solitary ​imprisonment were a usual infliction, when they were leſt to brood over the assurance of their own extreme wickedness. Eda was with bitter regret that their spirits were quite broken, and that they were gradually confounding all ideas of right and wrong. Reverence to a parent is a child's first duty, and a parent's approbation is a child's sweetest reward. But how could she inculcate duty where it was utterly undeserved, and how hold forth that approbation which no exertion could gain? As to herself, nothing but the most devoted affection could have induced the faithful Indian to have remained under Mrs. Dalton's roof. Her mistress never spoke to her but with some paltry taunt reflecting on her country or her complexion. Her fellow servants, encouraged by such example, were insolent and unkind; every comfort due to her age and situation was withdrawn and she had a yet keener source of suffering in the condition of those who were far dearer to her than herself. But for their sakes she would have borne even death—for their sakes she ​endured contumely and privation—for their sakes she curbed a temper naturally warm—lest one disrespectful word should give her mistress a hold against her. She knew that while she remained in that house—now so little of a home to any of them, the orphans had still one tender friend, one to watch their sickness, to hear their little griefs, and console them as far as pity could console. She could talk to them of their own mother—she could teach them to pray, and, young as they were, their sweetest hopes were garnered in that world which is beyond the grave.
Evening after evening, when secure from Mrs. Dalton's entrance, as she was then generally engaged with her guests below, the children would take their seats at Eda's feet, and listen while she read aloud, from the large old Bible, such portions as were adapted to their infant minds. "Suffer ye little children to come unto me," were the latest words that they heard at night, and the hope which lingered the last around their often restless pillow. All Mrs. Dalton's efforts to ​dislodge the tiresome old Indian were in vain. Direct dismissal she knew that her husband would not suffer, and all indirect attempts were counteracted by what might truly be called Eda's patience and long suffering. But the scene of the morning had furnished Mrs. Dalton with an excuse for an attempt to carry a plan into execution which she had long revolved. After dinner, when Mr. Dalton enquired why the children did not make their usual appearance, his lady at once replied "that they were in disgrace."
"Pshaw," replied Mr. Dalton, "no great matter, I dare say: come, let them be forgiven, and I will ring the bell for them."
"Will you pardon my opposing your wishes for once?" said she. "I do not often interfere with the management of the children. I feel how delicately I am situated, but really I fear I have been wrong. They are sadly neglected, left entirely as they are under Eda's charge; they are getting too old for the nursery." This was a fact which ​Mr. Dalton could not deny, though he had never given it a moment's consideration before.
"Those dear children," continued she in the blandest tone possible, "ought to have some education; or do you mean that they should run wild about the country, as they do now, when they are grown up?"
"Certainly," answered the gentleman, "they do need instruction."
"And restraint still more. I cannot tell you this morning how shocked I was when Mrs. Dalrymple, was calling here (you have yourself often observed what elegant girls her daughters are), to have Julia and Ellen scampering in at the drawing-room windows, covered, with dirt, and throwing down the flower-stand where was the very plant which Mrs. Darlymple had gone there to see." This narration touched Mr. Dalton on the tenderest point: he had the greatest horror of noise or any thing like romping in a girl. A woman, in his idea, could not be too quiet; and this riotous conduct in Ellen and Julia was at ​complete variance with all his notion of feminine delicacy. He instantly became alarmed as to what they would be as they grew up, and two loud, awkward, vulgar looking, girls rose to his mind's eye. "You are right, my dear," exclaimed he, after a pause, "Eda is a faithful and affectionate creature, but certainly quite unfit to educate my daughters; something must be done, suppose we have a governess."
"Your plan," returned Mrs. Dalton, "would be excellent, were the acquisition of accomplishments all we had in view: but I fear the first object must be to break the dear children of many, I must say, the very many, bad habits in which they have been indulged."
"Send them to school," said her husband.
"I have thought of that myself, but am not altogether satisfied with the plan; are you at leisure to hear a little idea of my own?" Mr. Dalton knew by experience these 'little ideas' took up a considerable time in developing, and the usually listened in abstraction rather than ​patience, but he was too much interested in the subject not to be a most attentive auditor; and, though he could sometimes have spared their exercise, he had a high idea of his wife's abilities.
"I take great blame to myself," said Mrs. Dalton.
"I really do not know for what," interrupted her husband.
"You are very kind to say so," replied she; "but I do blame myself very much, I have allowed a false delicacy to carry me too far. I ought to have interfered more than I have done hitherto. I ought not to have allowed the dread of any invidious construction to interfere with what I knew to be right. Eda is, as you truly say, a good, faithful creature, but ignorant and prejudiced to the last degree; I can forgive her dislike to myself, however unjust, but I now regret that I have allowed her to influence the children as it has done; I do not often complain, but I cannot tell you how it hurt me this morning when the children told me, 'Indeed I was not their own ​mamma.' But it is foolish to plague you with these trifles."
"What nonsense of Eda," exclaimed Mr. Dalton, "to put any such fancy in the children's heads."
"But," said his wife, "to go on with my plan: I propose that Julia should be sent to school; it is best that they should be separated for a time, for they encourage each other in all sorts of mischief; and yet I wish Ellen, who is far the most delicate of the two, to remain at home."
"You think then that Julia's health is good," asked Mr. Dalton, with marked anxiety.
"Indeed I do, she is a little strong, daring thing, and a school will be useful to her in every point of view."
"And Ellen, shall we have a governess for her?"
"By your leave, no, I wish her to be my pupil. I shall henceforth devote a portion of every morning to her education: I used to be considered tolerably accomplished, and, if at the end of six ​months she does not improve as I expect, we can then decide on her accompanying her sister to school next half year."
"I do not see a single objection to what you propose, we will drive over to Mrs. Dalrymple's to morrow; I know that her daughters were all educated at the same school, and she can answer all our enquiries." This was proceeding rather more rapidly than Mrs. Dalton intended: she would have liked to have chosen the school herself: for Mrs. Dalrymple's advice to be taken interfered with her own love of patronage; moreover she feared that in the course of the conversation a different version of the morning's adventure might come out, and a different view be taken of the children's conduct to what she had given. Still one great point was gained, in Mr. Dalton consenting to a school at all: she therefore trusted to her own dexterity in guiding the morrow's discourse; and she knew her husband well enough to know that though he rarely interfered, yet he equally rarely departed from a resolution when once formed.
​ The next day they drove to Mrs. Dalrymple's. A winding road, through a small plantation of young limes, led them to the house, a light modern building rather convenient than large. The portico was filled with plants, whose graceful arrangement bespoke that fine taste and eye ſor blended colours which shows that the task has been a pleasure. I believe the love of flowers to be as inherent in the disposition as any other inclination. Nothing could be more cheerful than the sitting-room into which they were shown. Mrs. Dalrymple was surrounded by her own youngest daughters and eldest grand-children, all employed, down to the little creature who sat at her feet engaged with a box of ivory letters. Conversation was soon begun and easily maintained, for though quiet and rather retiring, there was a general ease of manner, as by a look or a kind word, Mrs. Dalrymple was always ready to encourage the modest question or intelligent remark of the young people around her.
Mr. Dalton, intelligent though reserved, ​appreciated the graceful and interesting circle, and grew the more anxious to consult Mrs. Dalrymple. He was too full of the subject to take an interest in any other, and, after the first general topics were discussed, he said that he should take the liberty of an old friend, and mention the object of their visit. Mrs. Dalrymple had both heard more and seen more than would have pleased Mrs. Dalton, but she was too judicious to hazard making matters worse by fruitless interference. Experience had long since taught her that a stranger rarely did any good in family affairs, but, now that her opinion was asked, and her advice likely to be followed, she at once saw how much she might benefit the twins, who had interested her exceedingly. Any home was better than their own, and if she could promote their being placed under Mrs. Wilson's charge, she knew they were sure both of instruction and kindness: she did not therefore content herself with expressing merely her warm approbation of the establishment, but she entered at length into her reasons ​for so doing, she gave the most minute details, and ended by saying, "I do not so strongly recommend Mrs. Wilson's, on the usual advertising terms because 'the house is in an airy situation, or, is attended by the best masters,' but because I know Mrs. Wilson's worth and kind-heartedness. Her being beloved, as she is, by her former scholars, is the highest praise that I can bestow."
Both Mr. and Mrs. Dalton went home perfectly satisfied. He quite persuaded that a few years would make his daughters as highly accomplished and as graceful as the Misses Dalrymple, while Mrs. Dalton congratulated herself on the success of her scheme; and the morning's visit had led to no unpleasant suspicions in her husband's mind, as to whether her disinterested attachment to the twins was quite so genuine as she wished him to believe. All was settled during their drive home. Mrs. Dalton was going to town the end of the week, and Julia was to accompany her. "Ellen," said she, "will not like being left behind, we must think of something to console her." That ​day after dinner, Mr. Dalton first divided some preserve between Julia and Ellen, though his wife observed "that an apple would be much more wholesome," and while the fruit was eating he said "We have been seeing some such nice little girls to-day. One of them is not so tall as you, Ellen, and she can play very prettily on the piano. Should not you like to play too!"
"Oh, yes," exclaimed both the children in a breath.
"You are growing great girls now, and you must not be idle all day; you have a great deal to learn before you."
"We like to learn," said Julia, encouraged by her father's manner, "we say our lessons to Eda every day."
Mr. Dalton smiled, and added, "But young ladies have a great deal more to learn than poor Eda can teach them. Would you not like to have some young friends, and to know how to dance, and to paint pictures?"
"Yes," exclaimed Julia, colouring with delight.
​ "You are a good girl," replied her father, "and deserve to go to school. You shall go there next week, and learn to do so many pretty things."
"Will Eda go with us?" asked Ellen.
"No," replied Mrs. Dalton, "she is to stay at home to take care of you."
"Am I not going to school?" said the child in faltering voice.
"No, you are to stay at home," answered her father, "with mamma and me: your mamma is going to teach you herself to play on the piano in the drawing-room." The children became silent, at once; their little hearts were too full to speak, the large tears swelled in their eyes, but they were afraid to shed them.
"Don’t cry," said Mr. Dalton, "you are too old to be babies now, go and tell Eda the good news of how clever you are soon to be."
"I thought," observed Mrs. Dalton, as they left the room, "that Ellen would not like to stay at home."
​ "It is very natural," replied her husband, "she and her sister have never been parted before–Perhaps it would be best to let both go to school."
"Nay, nay," she exclaimed, "I will not be robbed of my little pupil: you know, my dear, you are always out in the morning, and Ellen's education will fill up my solitary hours: besides, she is not strong enough for a school." No more was said, and early the next morning Mr. Dalton set off to a distant part of the country whence he was to join his wife in London. The two children had hurried to the nursery, and, throwing themselves at Eda's feet, and hiding their faces in her lap, gave way to the tears they had with such difficulty suppressed. It was long before their nurse could learn the cause of such passionate grief; at last, she distinguished the broken words of "going to school." "And is that all," exlcaimed she, "why you ought to be glad—you will learn so many things that you ought to know: do you remember how your poor mother used to ​play, and how you used to sit beside the piano? I am sure you will be such good children, and when you come back you will have so many things to tell us."
"Ah but," replied Julia, in a voice choaked with sobs, "I am going without Ellen."
"I am to stay," continued Ellen, in an equally inaudible tone, "at home, for our new Mamma to teach." For once, Eda had not a word to say. She clasped the children in her arms, and, unable to conceal her emotion, wept over them bitterly. She knew the devoted affection of the twins to each other, and to part them seemed refinement in cruelty. As to Ellen, she trembled to think of the teaching in preparation. It was dreadful to think how her poor spirit would be checked, and her young temper embittered by the perpetual harshness and undue expectations of Mrs. Dalton. Julia might do well, she was a quick and clever child, while her generous and affectionate temper would surely win its own way, and make friends for itself. But poor Ellen, whatever she did, ​would be sure to be wrong: Mrs. Dalton had no kindness in her nature, fault-finding was the very element in which she lived, and the child was so timid that reproof incapacited her from exertion. Eda, saving when she lost the mistress whom she loved as her child, had never felt a keener pang—still she felt that her indulgence in sorrow rather added to the mischief. The sight of her grief increased that of the twins, and, what was worse, made them think it right to indulge in complaints.
"I am a foolish old woman," said she at last, "to cry, when I ought to be glad." The word glad choaked her as she said it—and she paused for a moment, but Eda had a strength of mind and an uprightness of principle that would have done honour to any state, or any education. She saw that in the present instance it was at once a kindness and a duty to encourage them as much as possible. It was a hard task—but at least it should not want her affectionate efforts. "Surely, Ellen," continued she, "my darling does not cry ​because she is to stay and take care of her poor old nurse!" The child raised her head, and, clasping her arms round her neck, tried to speak, but could only kiss her, and sob out some inarticulate words. Still after a little time Eda soothed them into composure sufficient for attention. To Julia she dwelt on the advantages of going to school. "Why you will be able to teach your sister when you come home;" while to Ellen she rather talked of herself. "I could not bear to lose both of you at once—I know the time must come."
"No, no," interrupted the children, "when we are grown up, you shall always live with us."
"But is a long time till then," continued Eda, "and many things may happen. Both of you may go to school next year, I shall be used to be alone by that time; but I could not have parted with you both at once—Ellen must try and attend to what her Mamma tells her." A deep sigh was the child's only answer; and their nurse went on trying to look forward and to anticipate their next meeting. They went to bed, but when Eda leant ​over their pillow, the last thing at night, she saw, from the yet glittering eye-lash, and the feverish cheek, that they had cried themselves to sleep—often and often, during the following days, did the tears start into her own eyes to see how the children clung to each other—Ellen seemed afraid to lose sight of Julia for one moment; and Julia, generally the most active of the two, could scarcely be prevailed upon to move, if thereby she loosed hold of her sister's hand.
The evening of the last day came—It was in June, and the weather had been unusually hot: to go out during the morning had been impossible; but the children had been anxiously awaiting the cooler afternoon to visit, for the last time, all their favourite haunts. The long shadows were now resting on the park, and those red hues were beginning to gather on the clouds which so soon flush into crimson and as soon fade. Scarcely had they set out, before a message came from Mrs. Dalton, who had seen them from the window, and had sent for them. She wished, she said, to give ​Julia some advice about her behaviour at school. Alas, for the weary hours now passed on two small upright chairs, listening to a succession of reproofs: "As to Julia, I am sure, if I were her, I should be ashamed of going to school such a dunce—the youngest child in it will laugh at her. I expect that you will pass the next half-year in the corner, with a foolscap on. You will find it very different to being spoilt, as you are at home: I shall have trouble enough with Ellen. Are you dumb, child? Though, I believe you can find your tongue fast enough when you are with servants." At last, quite tired out, and taking a sort of courage from despair, Julia asked if they might go and finish their walk, and bid goodbye to Mrs. Whyte? The old housekeeper lived now in the village.
"I will have nothing of the kind," cried Mrs. Dalton, "you have enough to do with servants in the house, without going out in search of them; and as to Julia, going walking herself to death, I will not hear of it. Terrible as it is, you will have ​to pass the whole evening quietly with me." And the whole evening did she keep the two poor children seated, without the least employ or amusement till an hour considerably past their usual time of going to bed, pale and tired enough: when at length she allowed them to leave the apartment. Such was Mrs. Dalton's character—unkind, selfish and tyrannical: she delighted in the exercise of petty authority. How many children, discontented with the exercise of needful authority, might learn submission and thankfulness from the lot of others; such a temper as that we have been describing is very uncommon; the treatment of children oftener errs on the side of over-indulgence than aught else. How many might be taught better to appreciate the blessings which surround them by considering what some, less fortunate than themselves, are called upon to endure! Weary as they were, before they retired to rest, the twins resolved to rise early the following morning, and to take their purposed walk. "I shall not be able to go as far as Mrs. Whyte's, but Ellen will ​carry her my good-bye and the needle book which I have worked her. We can go and see the poor old pond and the lime-walk." Eda, though she resolved not to rouse the children, tired as they seemed, if they should be sleeping in the morning, made no opposition to the scheme.
Too excited for sleep, they rose almost with the sun, and hurried to take their farewell walk. How many an old tree did they linger beside, like a familiar friend! What handfuls of flowers were gathered in a spirit of the tenderest remembrance. They had no longer gardens of their own. Mrs. Dalton had chosen their little plot of ground to have some seeds, about which she was very particular, sown.—They never came up, which the old gardener said was "a judgment upon her." It must be confessed that it was a judgment originating in himself; still there was an end to the children's garden, the lady having decided that gardening was very unfit employment for young ladies, and that they were so tanned they would soon be not fit to be seen.
​ They had now entered the park, and, as they expected, two tame deer came up, and, gazing at them with their large eyes, waited for their portion of bread. Julia could not feed her's for the last time without crying—and Ellen cried for sympathy. "You will have to feed mine to-morrow." and the child leant down to kiss the head of her graceful favourite. "Well," continued she, "they would miss both, they will not miss only one." The bread was soon eaten, and the deer bounded away over the dewy grass. Julia watched them till the thicket hid them from her sight, and at that moment the whole herd, bounding along—scattered the dew like light from the sparkling herbage over which they hurried. The sunshine found a mirror in every blade of lucid grass—in every leaf that hung from the boughs—one bright drop, glistening at every slender point. The branches seemed filled with birds singing as if in welcome to the glad morning; while the flowers around wore the fresh bright colours which they unfold to the native wind, with the sweets that night has garnered ​in each folded blossom. "How cheerful everything looks," exclaimed Julia: "just as if I were not going away!" Poor child, she and her sister walked on hand in hand, casting sorrowful looks at the shining leaves, and the sweet flowers, which had so long been their companions. To their young eyes a shadow rested on all they saw, they were now learning the bitter lesson how the little world of the human heart gives its own likeness to the vast universe of which it is but an atom.
But the long shadows of the early morning began to shorten, and the children, hurrying to an old sundial that stood beside the lake in the park, saw that it was time to return home. They only staid to give the remainder of the bread to the swans that came sweeping over the bright expanse at their approach. "Good bye," again exclaimed Julia in a scarcely audible whisper, and snatching her sister's hand, they ran in silence to the house. Eda and breakfast were waiting for them, but the hearts of all were too full to eat. The nurse was the only one who attempted to ​speak cheerfully, but, at last, even her voice failed. They heard the carriage come round to the door, and all started up from the untasted meal; a few minutes were given to the bustle of preparation, when Eda having taken care that there should not be a moment's delay to irritate Mrs. Dalton, took Julia on her knee, and said, in an earnest and, at first, a calm voice, "You are going away, my own darling child, going, I trust in God, for your own good; you will have to learn many things which your poor Eda could not teach you. But you will not forget what she has taught you, to be a good child, always to speak the truth, and when you say your prayers at night, think if you deserve to pray for your sister. God bless you, my dearest, God bless you:" and she kissed the weeping child, her tears fast mingling with those which Julia was shedding. "Dry your eyes, my own darling," exclaimed Eda, for at that moment a servant announced "that the carriage was ready."
Eda led the two children into the hall, which ​Mrs. Dalton had just entered. "What a figure," she said, in a harsh tone, "those children have made themselves with crying: there, good by, I can’t be kept waiting all day." She stepped into the carriage. "Keep this for my sake," whispered her nurse, as she gave Julia a little book. Still the children clung together, and Eda was herself obliged to part their hands and lift Julia into her place by Mrs. Dalton's side. They drove rapidly off, and perhaps the journey may be best summed up by the account which the lady's maid gave of it. "That truly her mistress was enough to plague the very life out of the poor little patient creature, who scarce ever opened her lips."
The day after their arrival in London, Mrs. Dalton took Julia to school. Mrs. Wilson lived at Richmond, one of those large old houses which look at once airy and substantial. The garden, towards the lonely and sheltered road, was small, but through the iron railings were visible two neatly kept beds of annual flowers embedded in turf of ​emerald green. The hall, with its large oaken staircase, opened into another garden apparently of considerable extent, and on one side was the sitting-room into which they were shewn. It was filled with the various trifles which female ingenuity creates, evincing at least an ample share of taste and industry. Now if idleness be, as the old copy-books have it, "the root of all evil," industry is no less the root of all good.
Mrs. Wilson soon made her appearance, she was a lady-like looking person, with very kind and cheerful manners. Julia was sent to see the garden, at Mrs. Dalton's desire, who immediately addressed Mrs. Wilson on the subject: "I wished to speak to you about your pupil, for I really think it right to put you on your guard; she is a terribly naughty child, artful far beyond her years."
"And with such a sweet open countenance," exclaimed Mrs. Wilson.
"Appearances are very deceitful," continued her visitor. "I really can hardly reconcile it to my ​conscience to leave such a torment with a stranger, but she is far beyond our management at home. I own that I have been to blame, but you can enter into my feelings, it was natural to err on the side of over indulgence." She now rose to depart, adding, "I will not ask to see Julia, for she will be sure to cry to come away with me. I therefore leave her in your good care, and only hope you will have less trouble with her than I have. No doubt school will do wonders for her."
"How unreasonable people are," thought Mrs. Wilson to herself, as she returned from the door to which she had conducted her visitor. "First, children are allowed to have their own way in every thing, reasonable or unreasonable. They are taught a thousand unnecessary wants, encouraged in a thousand foolish and injurious practices, are, in short utterly spoilt, and unused to restraint, employment, or reproof–are sent to me, indeed, expecting that 'my school will do wonders for them.' Still that little girl has such a sweet countenance, she looked so pale, so delicate, and so ​gentle, that I cannot help being interested in her."
That night at supper Mrs. Wilson's first question to the teacher, under whose care Julia was more especially placed, was "What do you think of our new pupil?"
"That she is the most beautiful and quiet little creature that I ever saw. But she is sadly home-sick. We asked her if she had any sisters, and she could scarcely tell us that she had one, whose name was Ellen, for sobbing. Her only anxiety seems to be to take care of a little book—a prayer-book—which she has kept in her hand, and now has under her pillow. There is something written at the beginning, but, as she was careful of it, I asked no questions." Poor Julia! this was another night of the many during which she had cried herself to sleep. Accustomed to the quiet and seclusion of the nursery, the number of new faces frightened her. She was not used to companions of her own age, she had no amusements in common with theirs, yet they were something like Ellen—but alas they were not her.
​ The next day, Mrs. Wilson sent for the stranger to her own room, to judge, herself, what her small stock of acquirements might be. Julia came, one hand clasping Eda's parting gift, and the other bearing the volume in which she was to read. Pale, trembling, the tears starting from her eyes, she in vain endeavoured to answer when Mrs. Wilson addressed her. Surprised at what was even more terror than timidity, Mrs.Wilson sought by every means to encourage her; she made her sit on a stool at her side, and only asked her a few simple questions. The fact was that Mrs. Dalton had filled the child’s head with the most exaggerated ideas of what would be required of her, and of the severity which her deficiencies would inevitably provoke. What with fear and the fatigue of the journey, sorrow, want of food—for her little heart had been too full to eat, Julia was quite exhausted. Mrs. Wilson, though with some difficulty, made her take some milk which she sent for, and a piece of seed cake, and allowed he to remain unnoticed till her little visitor had somewhat recovered her spirits.
​ "Will you not," said her new friend, "let me see the book which you are carrying about so carefully? It is a very pretty prayer-book." Julia immediately rose and offered the volume, which Mrs. Wilson opened: on the first page there appeared some legible, but very peculiar, hand-writing, more resembling Arabic than English characters. The inscription was as follows: "To Julia Dalton, from her affectionate nurse, who hopes God will bless her, and keep her the same good girl, till she comes home again. Eda."
"Your nurse, I see," observed Mrs. Wilson, giving back the book with an encouraging smile, "gives you a good character; so we shall expect you to be very good here."
"I will try," answered Julia, lifting up her dark eyes in which the tears yet lingered.
"Then I am sure that you will succeed. Let large me hear how you can read." Julia opened the volume, at first her voice faltered, but her companions re-assured her, and she read a portion with distinctness and a natural grace, and answered ​the few questions put afterwards in a manner that showed she quite understood what she had been reading.
"Your mamma must have taken a great deal of pains with you," observed her new instructress. "You must now try and take pains with yourself. I am sure you love your mamma, and would wish to please her."
"I do not love her, and do not wish to please her," answered Julia.
"Fie, fie," exclaimed the governess, "you must not say so."
"Eda," replied the child, meekly, but steadily, "told me I was always to speak the truth."
"But surely you ought to love your mamma, who has taken so much trouble in teaching you to read?"
"I do not love her, for she does not love us, und she did not teach me to read."
"Who taught you to read?"
"Eda: and she taught us to say our prayers, and to pray for the new mamma; but she has not ​told us to love her for a long while." Mrs. Wilson at once saw that this was a case in which silence was the only resource; and, telling the child that she had read very well, sent her to water some of her favourite geraniums. "They are to be under your care, Julia, while you are a good girl."
Julia's great loveliness, for it was impossible to look upon her sweet face without pleasure, her gentle temper, and constant readiness to oblige, soon made her an universal favourite. The youngest in the school—she was the general pet—and yet so good that the care of the geraniums was never taken from her one single morning; but Mrs. Wilson observed, with regret, that the child had not the spirits belonging to her age—she was always gentle and tractable; but the moment she could escape from the caresses lavished upon her, she would retreat into the darkest corner, and cry for the hour together. Still she trusted that constant kindness would in time work out its effect, and that, once accustomed to ​the place, and interested in the pursuits allotted to her, she would grow less home-sick, and strengthen alike in mind and body.
In the meantime, Mrs. Dalton had commenced the education of Ellen—great preparations were made in the first instance: grammars, catechisms, histories and geographies made easy, maps and multiplication tables, were mingled with boxes of colours, and pieces of music. Moreover, a back-board and collar, a pair of stocks, another of dumb bells, and a small upright chair, showed that the body was to be put into as much training as the mind. Every morning Ellen was to go down into Mrs. Dalton's room, and stay there till three. Day after day she used to return to the nursery, pale, spiritless, and turning with absolute loathing from the dinner which awaited her. The evenings were the long and beautiful ones in summer, but she could scarcely be prevailed on to walk. To rest her head on Eda's knee, without speaking, was all to which she seemed equal. Her kind old nurse trusted that Mrs. Dalton's ​taste for teaching would soon wear itself out—so it did: but not so her taste for tormenting. She liked to talk of the sacrifice she made of her mornings—of her devotion to Mr. Dalton's children—and she also liked complaining of Ellen's stupidity and obstinacy. She liked, even better than all, the petty authority which she exercised; and the unfortunate child was kept for hours in a painful and constrained attitude, poring over lessons quite beyond her powers of comprehension, harrassed by perpetual reproof, and encouraged by no prospect of praise or success. But all these troubles were light when weighed in the balance against the one paramount over all.
Ellen pined for her sister—she could find no pleasure in any of the employments that they were wont to pursue together. True, she went every morning, that the weather at all permitted, to feed their favourite deer, but it was a task never fulfilled without tears: she took no pleasure in any of their former amusements—a beautiful flower only drew from her the exclamation of, ​"I wish Julia were here to see it." She put away their playthings till Julia came back again; and would interrupt Eda when she began to tell an interesting story—that it might be kept till Julia could hear it too. The affectionate nurse became daily more alarmed for her darling's health. True, to an indifferent observer, Ellen did not look ill:—her eyes were unnaturally bright, and the least emotion sent the rich colour into her cheek—but Eda knew those hectic symptoms only too well; it was not the first time that she had watched their deceiving progress. She knew too that the child's nights were restless and feverish, that appetite she had none, and that, when worn out by the exertion of the morning, the rest of the day was spent in a state almost amounting to stupor. One morning Ellen, after rising, was seized with a sudden faintness; and, when recovered, seemed so totally unequal to the labour of lessons, that Eda felt herself fully justified in sending an excuse to Mrs. Dalton.
The very idea of being left quiet revived her; ​she drew her little stool to the open window, and sat still, without desiring more enjoyment than the fresh air and the perfect quiet. About an hour had so elapsed, and Ellen was beginning to raise her languid head, when a step, only too well known, was heard on the stairs, and the door, rudely thrown open, announced the approach of Mrs. Dalton. "Just as I thought," said she, in an angry tone, "a mere idle excuse, and Ellen is the idlest child in the world—she only wanted to waste her time in doing nothing; but, for once, you will find yourself mistaken—you will have the goodness, young lady, to come down stairs at once. I will see if I cannot find a cure for you headache." Ellen rose from her seat with a bewildered air, and, accustomed to implicit obedience, prepared, though with trembling steps, to follow, turning pale as death. Eda had hitherto stood by in silence. Aware of how little good her interference could effect, she always tried to avoid any ineffectual opposition that might afterwards be turned against herself; but here she could ​forbear no longer. Addressing Mrs. Dalton in the most respectful tone, she said, "I do not think, Madam, that you are quite aware of how ill Miss Ellen is; she has not tasted a morsel to-day."
"You are always," exclaimed Mrs. Dalton angrily, "making these children fancy themselves ill. You coddle them till they fancy they are like no one else. Come, Ellen, you have already dawdled half the morning away." The child walked a few steps feebly—and then, staggering towards Eda, sank again insensible, and would have fallen—but, that her nurse, who had seen her change countenance, was in time to catch her up in her arms. Mrs. Dalton was now thoroughly alarmed—she disliked the children from a petty jealousy—and she domineered over them from a naturally despotic temper, made worse from constant indulgence; but she did not want the common humanity which shudders at the sight of positive suffering. She rang the bell hastily for assistance, opened the window to its utmost extent, ​for more air, and ran herself to get salts and lavender water.
During the morning, her visits to the nursery were so frequent that Eda was forced to insist upon the necessity of keeping the patient quiet; and Mrs. Dalton acquiesced the more readily as she was somewhat recovered from her first fright, and had done enough to establish the reputation of anxiety and attention. But the misfortunes of the day were not yet at a close: while sitting after dinner with Mr. Dalton a letter was brought. She opened it and found that it came from Mrs. Wilson and the contents were as follows:
"Dear Madam,
It is with great regret that I find myself obliged to state that the health of my sweet little pupil, Julia Dalton, is such that I fear further care or attention on my part is unaavailing. Her native air will I trust do much for her, and her return to the sister for whom she pines will, it appears to me, remove the greatest obstacle to her recovery. I part from the dear child with extreme pain, for a more gentle or affectionate little creature I have never known. With best compliments,I remain, Your's very truly, M. Wilson."
​ Mrs. Dalton could scarcely muster sufficient self-command to give the letter to her husband; for once, she found herself without words. Mr. Dalton read the letter without speaking—the moment it was finished he rang the bell violently.—"Order post horses immediately," said he, in a scarcely audible voice to the servant.
"What do you intend to do?" exclaimed Mrs. Dalton, who had taken to the ordinary resource of crying, and was now seated with her face buried in her handkerchief. "I mean to go and fetch Julia without an hour's delay. I only hope that it will not be too late—I wish to God that I had never consented to part those children."
"We did it for the best," sobbed Mrs. Dalton, "but had you not better let me accompany you?"
"It would only be loss of time, I shall travel all night, and shall hope to have Julia home before the afternoon, to-morrow: you will take care of Ellen, and tell her that her sister is coming home." There was much in this arrangement ​that Mrs. Dalton both feared and disliked, but she saw that opposition was fruitless, and so set about making the few preparations needful with as good a grace as she could assume. The carriage soon came round to the door, and Mr. Dalton set off urging the postilions to their utmost speed. He arrived at Richmond early the following morning, sent a messenger to Mrs. Wilson, and was at the door, ready again for immediate departure, before ten o'clock. Julia was quite ready, but in spite of the flush which the hope of seeing her sister had brought to her face, her father was shocked at the alteration. At first she shrank back timidly, but the kindness of his manner brought her instantly to his knee, and she whispered an inquiry after Ellen. Mr. Dalton was shocked to find, as he lifted her into the carriage, that she was light as a baby in his arms.
"But you do not ask how mamma is," said her father, chiefly by way of engaging her in some discourse. "I did not want to know," said Julia. He thought this reply deserved a reproof, but he ​had not the heart to give it to the little emaciated being whose head rested on his arm, while he held the small and feverish hand in his. During the early part of the journey—the excitement of the movement, and the joy of returning home, put Julia in a flutter of spirits that made her more that ready, eager, to talk. Her father learnt quite enough during the conversation to know why Julia did not wish to hear how her new mamma might be. Mr. Dalton listened to the sweet low voice that so artlessly confided all its small store of hopes and regrets, with a pang of bitter self-reproach. He blamed himself more than he blamed his wife, and soon, when Julia, exhausted by the over excitement, became silent, and content to look up in his face, and clasp his hand as if desirious of assuring herself that she really was with her father and returning home, then he had ample leisure for regret. He scarcely observed the road, when Julia started up with a shriek of delight, and, exclaiming, "I see them, I see them," pointed out to his attention a clump of ​old oaks, which, growing on an ascent in the Park, were visible at a considerable distance. But even Julia's delight was not sufficient to counter-balance the fatigue of the journey; she raised her head from time to time to look out for familiar objects, she had not strength to sit up; a burst of gladness as they entered the avenue quite overcame her, and, when the carriage stopped, she clung with all the strength of hysterical agitation to her father, and implored him to take her at once to her nurse.
He took her in his arms, past hastily through the hall, and went direct to the nursery—Ellen was in bed, from which she sprang when she saw her sister. "I told you, I heard the carriage," and the next moment the twins were in each other's arms, and the affectionate Indian stood over them crying like a child. A loud cry from Julia, as her sister sank from her arms on the floor, was the first thing that recalled Eda to herself. She caught the child up and saw that a small stream of blood was slowly swelling from her lips, while ​her face was deadly pale. With that force which fear often gives, she bore her to the window, and flung open the casement. Mr. Dalton stood for a moment stupified, but catching Eda's eye, he exclaimed, "For the love of heaven, a surgeon." And he rushed at once from the room—Once, and only once, Ellen again opened her eyes—she looked anxiously round and muttered some indistinct sounds. Her sister who, from fright and fatigue, was incapable of moving—had been laid on her bed; by a mutual impulse, they again extended their arms to each other—their faces touched, and they sank, as if to sleep, but it was a sleep from which they never waked more!
Mr. Dalton, who had himself gallopped to the neighbouring town, as if life and death were indeed upon his speed, now white with agitation, entered the chamber accompanied by the medical attendant. One look was sufficient. The twins lay each in the other's arms, Julia's bright auburn hair mingling with Ellen's darker curls. The colour had left both lip and cheek, and the ​features, pale and sculptured, were like the marble to which Chantry imparts an existence, at once so tender, and yet so sad. The wretched father signed to the attendants to leave the room: all obeyed but one, and she was stupified with this last excess of sorrow. Mr. Dalton left the room unconscious of her presence.
A week, a dreary week, had elapsed—and it was the morning of the funeral. In the very room where the young and unfortunate mother had rested in her shroud ere she was restored to Earth—were two small coffins—the lids were closed—human eye had looked its last on the mournful remains below. Yet one stood gazing upon them as if unable to tear herself away: it was the Indian nurse, in whose face that week had written death. She stood there pale, ghastly, more like a spectre than a human being, yet bound to that spot by the strong ties of earthly affection. Slowly the door opened, and Mr. Dalton entered: he started on seeing Eda, who at once came forward; and, grasping his arm with a force of which her ​emaciated hand might have seemed incapable, exclaimed in a hollow, yet fierce, tone:
"The lids are closed, we shall never look on those sweet faces again. Ask of your own heart if you deserve to see them—She who is now an angel in heaven spent her last breath in blessing you. Would she have so blessed you, think ye, had she known that, pass away but a few fleeting months, and another would take her place, at your side, and in your house? That her children would be given over to a stranger, till they sickened for want of those kind words which they never heard but from the mouth of the old Indian woman. Had you gone down to the grave first, would she have so forgotten your memory; would she have so deserted your children?" Mr. Dalton leant against the mantel-piece, and Eda saw a convulsion of subdued agony pass over the face, which he immediately concealed—again she laid her hand upon his arm, but this time the touch was light, and the voice was subdued and broken: "Husband of her whom I loved even ​as a daughter; Father of those who were even as dear; for their sakes, I would not part from you in unkindness. With these little coffins, I leave your house; and, like them, I leave it, never to return."
Mr. Dalton started at this address, and subdued his emotion by a strong effort, and, taking the aged woman's hand, kindly said: "While this house owns me for master, it is your home; and the home of none who do not treat you with kindness and with respect."
"I could not live here," exclaimed she, "the light and the music are put away together; the few days which may yet be allotted unto me, upon this weary earth, I shall spend with an old servant of your own, Mrs. Whyte: her dwelling looks upon the church where—" Eda's voice became inarticulate, and an unbroken silence of some minutes ensued. Mr. Dalton then said, "At least, I can make your old age comfortable; this pocket-book does not even contain your due—but"—The Indian flung the offered money from her, ​and, drawing herself up to her full height, said, with a dignity which might have belonged to the eastern queens of her line:
"Not for the wages of an hired servant have I staid in your house; nor will I take them. I owe nothing to you but the shelter of a roof which was begrudged me; and the bread which was steeped in the tears of bitterness. For the love of those who are no more, I have endured taunts, and cold looks, and harsh words:–do you think that I will be paid for them—do you think you can pay me? Let us, I pray of you, for her sake, part in kindness. Farewell, God bless you." She wrung his hand; and, before he could speak, she had left the room.–Eda never entered the house again. The twins were buried in the family vault. And the skill of the sculptor was taxed for their monument. The marble gave their likeness, as they lay folded in each other's arms, in their last pale sleep. Beautiful they looked—and sad—yet not a sadness without hope.
In the summer's heat, and in the winter's cold, ​came the aged Indian woman, to weep and to pray as she knelt before the mournful statues of those who were the children of her heart. One day, they found her, in her usual attitude—her eyes fixed on the sculpture, her hands clasped, as if in earnest prayer. But the eyes were closed—and the hands rigid–God had, in his mercy, released her; and the faithful and affectionate Indian had died in the very act of praying by those whom she had loved so dearly and so well. They were going to bury her in the church-yard; but, at Mr. Dalton's command, the family vault was opened and they laid her at the feet of her mistress.