Bankers -- Fiction; Christian life -- Fiction; Fraud -- Fiction; Fugitives from justice -- Fiction
Before Christmas a house was found for them in Cheyne Walk. The Chelsea
Embankment was not then thought of, and the streets leading to it, like
those now lying behind it, were mean and crowded. It was a narrow house,
with rooms so small that when the massive furniture from their old house
was set up in it there was no space for moving about freely. Madame had
known only two houses--the old straggling, picturesque country manse in
the Jura, with its walnut-trees shading the windows, and tossing up
their branches now and then to give glimpses of snow-mountains on the
horizon, and her husband's pleasant and luxurious house at
Riversborough, with every comfort that could be devised gathered into
it. There was the river certainly flowing past this new habitation, and
bearing on its full and rapid tide a constantly shifting panorama of
boats, of which the children never tired, and from Felicita's window
there was a fair reach of the river in view, while from the dormer
windows of the attic above, where Felix slept, there was a still wider
prospect. But in the close back room, which Madame allotted to herself
and Hilda, there was only a view of back streets and slums, with sights
and sounds which filled her with dismay and disgust.
But Madame made the best of the woeful change. The deep, quiet love she
had given to her son she transferred to Felicita, who, she well knew,
had been his idol. She believed that the sorrows of these last few
months had not sprung out of the ground, but had for some reason come
down from God, the God of her fathers, in whom she put her trust. Her
son had been called away by Him; but three were left, her daughter and
her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote
herself to them.
But to Felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of
thorns. Until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the
wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp
pin-prick to her. To have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait
upon, her--not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household
duties well and quickly--to live in a little room where she felt as if
she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have
the smell of cooking pervade the house--these and numberless similar
discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of
surprises and disappointments.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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