There was never in any nature more of the milk of human kindness than in Mistress Alice:—her own disappointments had subdued her vivacity, without souring her temper, or freezing her manners. Forgetful of herself, she lived for and in the happiness of others, and her niece Katharine was to her as a daughter;—not that she exercised any thing like a mother’s control; Katharine had so ripe an understanding, and so mature a judgment, that Mistress Alice leaned upon her mind as though it were that of a sister or a bosom friend, to whose opinion she was pleased to defer her own.
She loved Sir Oliver with a true affection, but she was not blind to the faults of his character. She knew him to be impatient of contradiction, full of strong prejudices, easy and indolent—the being of habit and of custom—but violent when thwarted, and selfish when opposed. Nevertheless a kind brother, a fond father, a liberal master, and a most loyal subject. It always deeply grieved her when she heard him speak harshly of her nephew Edward Heywood, and his son Francis, for they were the offspring of an unfortunate brother, to whom she had been very closely attached from her childhood.
“This has been a trying day to me as well as to you, Katharine,” she said when they were left together. “I think my poor brother allows himself to be more troubled about public matters than is good for him; and I wish that he would avoid the mention of your unhappy cousins in connection with those subjects—however wrong they may be, they have cares and troubles enough for pity, rather than hard words and ill wishes.”
Katharine looked steadily at her aunt when she began to speak, and was rather startled at her opening words; but as she proceeded, discerning clearly it was only a sympathy in common with her own that she invited, replied, quietly, that “it was indeed very painful to see the good temper of her dear father giving way so early in times like these, which were only the beginning of troubles; but consider, dearest aunt, he has passed all his life in pleasure and ease—my blessed mother made his peace her study; and, though she could never win him to her own happiest views of the only bliss, her whole life was a transcript of those gentle and charitable sentiments which were the secret springs of all her actions. He reposed upon her character, and found a tranquillity, of which he shared the comfort, but which lived not within his own breast.”
“Well, Katharine, I am sure you follow in your mother’s path, and as far as daughter may, you supply her vacant place in his esteem and reverence. He loves you not as parent loves a child. You are his daughter, but you are also, in all seemly matters, his cherished adviser:—I have often noted it, my dear, with joy.”
“Do not humble me so sadly—my mother’s path!—alas! I am far from it—far out of the way, when I think of her exalted hopes, her self-denying life, and her settled peace; and when I look within, I am ashamed, and may well tremble at the comparison:—but yet I cherish the memory of her bright example; and the words you have just spoken shall rouse me to do all by my father, which if her sainted spirit could look down upon us she would herself approve. I know the duty of a daughter, and I know how much the happiness and the honour of a father may be promoted by her due performance of it. You have well shown me the better way. For my father, and to my father, I will devote my life, and cast self and all softer wishes behind me. When the first rough steps of difficulty are passed, the noble qualities of my father will all be seen:—bless you, Aunt Alice, for your sweet counsel.”
“My dear Katharine, you are not wont to be thus excited: your calmness and your even dignity have ever been beyond your age: I meant simply what I said, and designed not, by any hint, to stimulate you to any course of conduct beyond that which I have always observed you to pursue:—you are not well—you think too much of what may happen—troubles are fast travellers, and need not be met half way—you are not well.”
“I believe you are right—I cannot be well—the day has been oppressively hot—and my temples throb with pain.”
Mistress Alice taking from the dressing table a curious shaped bottle of eastern porcelain, which contained elder-flower water, sat down tenderly by Katharine, and bathed her temples with gentle care. The noble girl leaned back upon her chair, silent, passive, grateful:—no sob escaped her; no nervous tears were allowed to fall; but to a keener eye than that of her benevolent aunt a slight quiver on the lip, and a heaving of the folds above her bosom, quicker than the wont, might have told that very deep and painful emotions were struggling in her full heart.
Mistress Alice would not leave her till she saw her quietly put to bed, when, giving her the kiss of peace and good night as her pale cheek lay upon the pillow, she took her lamp, and went softly out of the chamber.