One Of Them. Lever Charles James
to this change. In the quiet monotony of a grave household a child’s influence is magical. As the sight of a butterfly out at sea brings up thoughts of shady alleys and woodbine-covered windows, of “the grass and the flowers among the grass,” so will a child’s light step and merry voice throw a whole flood of sunny associations over the sad-colored quietude of some old house. Clara was every one’s companion and everywhere, – with Charles as he fished, with May Leslie in the flower-garden, with old Sir William in the orangery, or looking over pictures beside him in the long-galleried library.
Mrs. Morris herself was yet too great an invalid for an active life. Her chair would be wheeled out into the lawn, under the shade of an immense weeping-ash, and there, during the day, as to some “general staff,” came all the “reports” of what was doing each morning. Newspapers and books would be littered about her, and even letters brought her to read, from dear friends, with whose names conversation had made her familiar. A portion of time was, however, reserved for Clara’s lessons, which no plan or project was ever suffered to invade.
It may seem a somewhat dreary invitation if we ask our readers to assist at one of these mornings. Pinnock and Mrs. Barbauld and Mangnall are, perhaps, not the company to their taste, nor will they care to cast up multiplications, or stumble through the blotted French exercise. Well, we can only pledge ourselves not to exaggerate the infliction of these evils. And now to our task. It is about eleven o’clock of a fine summer’s day, in Italy; Mrs. Morris sits at her embroidery-frame, under the long-branched willow; Clara, at a table near, is drawing, her long silky curls falling over the paper, and even interfering with her work, as is shown by an impatient toss of her head, or even a hastier gesture, as with her hands she flings them back upon her neck.
“It was to Charley I said it, mamma,” said she, without lifting her head, and went on with her work.
“Have I not told you, already, to call him Mr. Charles Heathcote, or Mr. Heathcote, Clara?”
“But he says he won’t have it.”
“What an expression, – ‘won’t have it’!”
“Well, I know,” cried she, with impatience; and then laughingly said, “I ‘ve forgot, in a hurry, old dear Lindley Murray.”
“I beg of you to give up that vile trash of doggerel rhyme. And now what was it you said to Mr. Heathcote?”
“I told him that I was an only child, – ‘a violet on a grassy bank, in sweetness all alone,’ as the little book says.”
“And then he asked about your papa; if you remembered him?”
“No, mamma.”
“He made some mention, some allusion, to papa?”
“Only a little sly remark of how fond he must be of me, or I of him.”
“And what did you answer?”
“I only wiped my eyes, mamma; and then he seemed so sorry to have given me pain that he spoke of something else. Like Sir Guyon, —
“‘He talked of roses, lilies, and the rest,
The shady alley, and the upland swelling;
Wondered what notes birds warbled in their nest,
What tales the rippling river then was telling.’”
“And then you left him, and came away?” said her mother.
“Yes, mamma. I said it was my lesson time, and that you were so exact and so punctual that I did not dare to be late.”
“Was it then he asked if mamma had always been your governess, Clara?”
“No; it was May that asked that question. May Leslie has a very pretty way of pumping, mamma, though you ‘d not suspect it She begins with the usual ‘Are you very fond of Italy?’ or ‘Don’t you prefer England?’ and then ‘What part of England?’”
Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and colored slightly; and then, laying her work on her lap, stared steadfastly at the girl, still deeply intent on her drawing.
“I like them to begin that way,” continued Clara. “It costs no trouble to answer such bungling questions; and whenever they push me closer, I ‘ve an infallible method, mamma, – it never fails.”
“What’s that?” asked her mother, dryly.
“I just say, as innocently as possible, ‘I ‘ll run and ask mamma; I ‘m certain she ‘ll be delighted to tell you.’ And then, if you only saw the shame and confusion they get into, saying, ‘On no account, Clara dearest. I had no object in asking. It was mere idle talking,’ and so on. Oh dear! what humiliation all their curiosity costs them!”
“You try to be too shrewd, too cunning, Miss Clara,” said her mother, rebukingly. “It is a knife that often cuts with the handle. Be satisfied with discovering people’s intentions, and don’t plume yourself about the cleverness of finding them out, or else, Clara,” – and here she spoke more slowly, – “or else, Clara, they will find you out too.”
“Oh, surely not, while I continue the thoughtless, guileless little child mamma has made me,” said she. And the tears rose to her eyes, with an expression of mingled anger and sorrow it was sad to see in one so young.
“Clara!” cried her mother, in a voice of angry meaning; and then, suddenly checking herself, she said, in a lower tone, “let there be none of this.”
“Sir William asked me how old I was, mamma.”
“And you said – ”
“I believed twelve. Is it twelve? I ought to know, mamma, something for certain, for I was eleven two years ago, and then I have been ten since that; and when I was your sister, at Brighton, I was thirteen.”
“Do you dare – ” But ere she said more, the child had buried her head between her hands, and, by the convulsive motion of her shoulders, showed that she was sobbing bitterly. The mother continued her work, unmoved by this emotion. She took occasion, it is true, when lifting up the ball of worsted which had fallen, to glance furtively towards the child; but, except by this, bestowed no other notice on her.
“Well,” cried the little girl, with a half-wild laugh, as she flung back her yellow hair, “Anderson says, —
“‘On joy comes grief, – on mirth comes sorrow;
We laugh to-day, that we may cry to-morrow.’
And I believe one is just as pleasant as the other, – eh, mamma? You ought to know.”
“This is one of your naughty days, Clara, and I had hoped we had seen the last of them,” said her mother, in a grave but not severe tone.
“The naughty days are much more like to see the last of me,” said the child, half aloud, and with a heavy sigh.
“Clara,” said her mother, in the same calm, quiet voice, “I have made you my friend and my confidante at an age when any other had treated you with strict discipline and reserve. You have been taught to see life – as my sad experience revealed it to me, too – too late.”
“And for me, too – too soon!” burst in the child, passionately.
“Here ‘s poor Clara breaking her heart over her exercise,” burst in Sir William, as he came forward, and, stooping over the child, kissed her twice on the forehead. “Do let me have a favor to-day, and let this be a holiday.”
“Oh, yes, by all means,” cried she, eagerly, clapping her hands.
“The lizard can lie in the sun, and bask
‘Mid the odor of fragrant herbs;
Little knows he of a wearisome task,
Or the French irregular verbs.
“The cicala, too, in the long deep grass,
All day sings happily,
And I’d venture to swear
He