The vicar made, at any rate, a good start, fulfilling his uncle's instructions exactly; apprenticed his second son, Alfred, to the College of Surgeons—that was the most liberal way in those days of entering the medical profession—and placed him [{401}] to board with an old family friend, an opulent practitioner. The third son was articled to an eminent attorney; the others were sent to school. The void made by the death of those even most important and most fondly loved is soon filled up externally; how otherwise could justice be done to the living? The widow acquiesced in the separation from her children; it was her husband's plan, and for their advantage. She was sure she could not long survive him; she might even be sinful enough to wish to die, but for her sons' sakes, she was so utterly lonely. They loved her truly, the darlings; but they could not understand her, never would, unless—which God in his great mercy forbid—they ever came to suffer as she suffered. To lose such a husband! so manly, yet so tender and thoughtful. She had always looked forward to his nursing her in her last illness, and receiving her last breath. He would have grieved for her truly, she was sure of that; but he could have borne it better; he would have been of more use to the boys. Thus she mused often, weeping plentifully; but she never denied that she had many consolations. No one could have suited her better than Polly, and she was never more than a day or two absent from her. They were alike in character—simple, self-sacrificing, and affectionate in an uncommon degree. Polly's caresses seldom failed to arouse her; the gentle girl felt how much more she could have done had Mrs. Wickham been accessible to the comfort in which her own, the dear old faith, abounded; and prayed daily that it might soon be hers, and did her best. She never attempted direct consolation, but interested the mourner in some trifle, or coaxed her into conversation or employment. Sometimes she really could not arrange some obstinate flowers; sometimes her work was all wrong, and no one but Mrs. Wickham could show her how to put it right, and Mary Hodge's baby ought to have the garment that evening. Once, when all her ingenuity failed, she was actually delighted by Betty's running in with her darling kitten, wet to the skin, just saved out of the water-butt; Mrs. Wickham dried her eyes, and pitied it, and watched Polly wiping it, and arranging a cushion inside the fender for it; and at last smiled at the endearing nonsense she talked, and told her she was more than a mother to it.
Robert was quite steady; regular at the brewery, pleasant at home. Of course it would have been dull for him without Polly: her youth, beauty, and sisterly at-homeness made a glow in the dear old house. Did he or his mother ever calculate on what was likely to come of that near companionship? No: their actual life engrossed them. He first drew his mother to look on while he and Polly played cribbage or backgammon, and then to play herself a little. He took in the Gentleman's Magazine, and showed her the curious old prints, and read the odds and ends of news aloud. Music was unendurable to her for some months; but she conquered herself by degrees, and came to enjoy it. Then Robert and Polly sang every evening, she playing the accompaniments. Summer brought the boys home for holidays, and that did good. When the anniversary of the father's death came round, its melancholy associations pressed evidently on the widow, and she spent the greater portion of the day in her room; but she was resigned, and better than those who watched her lovingly expected her to be.
The great feature of those Christmas holidays was Alfred's return in an altered character. He had left Upfield a lout—the despair of his mother and the maids; who were the more provoked, because he was undeniably the handsomest of the family. To keep him clean, or make him put on his clothes properly, had been impossible. He had credit for talent; for, when sufficiently excited, he wrote what were deemed wonderfully pretty [{402}] verses, and he was quick at repartee and sarcasm; but he had been in perpetual disgrace at school, and silent and awkward—sulky as a bear, his brothers called him at home. He made a great sensation on the first evening of his return from London: he was fluent in conversation, perfectly well dressed, and—chief marvel—had clean, carefully-shaped nails. Polly smiled, wondered, and said to herself that he was really very handsome, and sang beautifully. All the Wickhams sang, but none of them, she thought, could be compared to him. The change was not agreeable to Robert, and he showed it; grumbled in an undertone about fops; and asked his brother if he could play cricket or quoits, or skate, or take a five-barred gate, or shoot snipe.
Alfred yawned, and replied:
"My dear Bob, don't you remember that I was never fond of trouble? Those rough amusements are very well for country gentlemen and farmers; and I give them up to them with all my heart. As to skating, you none of you know anything about it; you should see the gentlemen, and elegant ladies too, cutting out flowers, and other complicated figures, on the Serpentine."
Then addressing himself to his mother and Polly—Robert's countenance lowering as he observed the innocent girl's natural interest in such-topics—he talked about the last drawing-room and the fashionable plays. He had seen The School for Scandal and The Haunted Tower, at Drury Lane; Othello and The Conscious Lovers, at Covent Garden, and he recited—really well—some of the tender passages in Othello. Next he described the lying-in-state of the Duke of Cumberland; the trial and execution of Jobbins and Lowe for arson; the recent storms, which had not touched Upfield, but had been terrible elsewhere—chimneys killing people in their beds, the lightning flowing like a stream of fluid from a glasshouse. And no one interrupted him, till Robert said, savagely:
"That fellow will talk us all deaf."
"Not this time, Bob: you and I will sing 'Love in thine eyes' now. I know Polly will play for us."
They did it; Alfred directing the sentiment to her, so as to make her feel shy and uncomfortable, and his brother vowing inwardly that "he'd give that puppy a good thrashing before he went back to London, if he didn't mind what he was about."
Alfred had seen a good deal of what country folk call "finery" in London; but he declared that breakfast at home was unrivalled, particularly in winter. There was the superb fire of coal and oak blocks, throwing a glow on the massive family plate and fine, spotless damask: such a silver urn and teapot were not often seen. Further, the young gentleman inherited a family predilection for an abundant show of viands; liked to see—as was usual at an everyday breakfast there—a ham just cut, a cold turkey, round of beef, and delicate clear honey, with other sweet things, for which his mother's housekeeping was famed. This was not all. The room formed one side of a light angle in the picturesque old house, and from two sides of the table one could see a magnificent pyrocanthus, the contrast between its scarlet berries and the table-cloth positively delicious.