"Do you love him, Clary?"
"No. I hate him."
"Hate him, Clary? You did not use to hate him. You did not hate him yesterday? You would not hate him without a cause. My darling, tell me what it means! If you and I do not trust each other what will the world be to us? There is no one else to whom we can tell our troubles." Nevertheless Clarissa would not tell this trouble. "Why do you say that you hate him?"
"I don"t know why. Oh, dear Patty, why do you go on so? Yes; he did say that he loved me;--there."
"And did that make you unhappy? It need not make you unhappy, though you should refuse him. When his brother asked you to marry him, that did not make you unhappy."
"Yes it did;--very."
"And is this the same?"
"No;--it is quite different."
"I am afraid, Clary, that Ralph Newton would not make a good husband.
He is extravagant and in debt, and papa would not like it."
"Then papa should not let him come here just as he pleases and whenever he likes. It is papa"s fault;--that is to say it would be if there were anything in it."
"Is there nothing in it, Clary? What answer did you make when he told you that he loved you?"
"You came, and I made no answer. I do so wish that you had come before." She wanted to tell her sister everything but the one thing, but was unable to do so because the one thing affected the other things so vitally. As it was, Patience, finding that she could press her questions no further, was altogether in the dark. That Ralph had made a declaration of love to her sister she did know; but in what manner Clarissa had received it she could not guess. She had hitherto feared that Clary was too fond of the young man, but Clary would now only say that she hated him. But the matter would soon be set at rest. Ralph Newton would now, no doubt, go to their father. If Sir Thomas would permit it, this new-fangled hatred of Clary"s would, Patience thought, soon be overcome. If, however,--as was more probable,--Sir Thomas should violently disapprove, then there would be no more visits from Ralph Newton to the villa. As there had been a declaration of love, of course their father would be informed of it at once. Patience, having so resolved, allowed her sister to go to her bed without further questioning.
In Clarissa"s own bosom the great offence had been forgiven,--or rather condoned before the morning. Her lover had been very cruel to her, very wicked, and most unkind;--especially unkind in this, that he had turned to absolute pain a moment of life which might have been of all moments the fullest of joy; and especially cruel in this, that he had so treated her that she could not look forward to future joy without alloy. She could forgive him;--yes. But she could not endure that he should think that she would forgive him. She was willing to blot out the offence, as a thing by itself, in an island of her life,--of which no one should ever think again. Was she to lose her lover for ever because she did not forgive him! If they could only come to some agreement that the offence should be acknowledged to be heinous, unpardonable, but committed in temporary madness, and that henceforward it should be buried in oblivion! Such agreement, however, was impossible. There could be no speech about the matter.
Was she or was she not to lose her lover for ever because he had done this wicked thing? During the night she made up her mind that she could not afford to pay such a price for the sake of avenging virtue.
For the future she would be on her guard! Wicked and heartless man, who had robbed her of so much! And yet how charming he had been to her as he looked into her eyes, and told her that he could do very much better than fall in love with her West Indian cousin. Then she thought of the offence again. Ah, if only a time might come in which they should be engaged together as man and wife with the consent of everybody! Then there would be no more offences.
CHAPTER IV.
MARY BONNER.
While Clarissa Underwood was being kissed on the lawn at Popham Villa, Sir Thomas was sitting, very disconsolate, in a private room at the Dolphin, in Southampton. It had required no great consideration to induce him to resolve that a home should be given by him to his niece. Though he was a man so weak that he could allow himself to shun from day to day his daily duty,--and to do this so constantly as to make up out of various omissions, small in themselves, a vast aggregate of misconduct,--still he was one who would certainly do what his conscience prompted him to be right in any great matter as to which the right and the wrong appeared to him to be clearly defined. Though he loved his daughters dearly, he could leave them from day to day almost without protection,--because each day"s fault in so doing was of itself but small. This new niece of his he certainly did not love at all. He had never seen her. He was almost morbidly fearful of new responsibilities. He expected nothing but trouble in thus annexing a new unknown member to his family. And yet he had decided upon doing it, because the duty to be done was great enough to be clearly marked,--demanding an immediate resolve, and capable of no postponement. But, as he thought of it, sitting alone on the eve of the girl"s coming, he was very uneasy. What was he to do with her if he found her to be one difficult to manage, self-willed, vexatious, or,--worse again,--ill-conditioned as to conduct, and hurtful to his own children? Should it even become imperative upon him to be rid of her, how should riddance be effected? And then what would she think of him and his habits of life?
And this brought him to other reflections. Might it not be possible utterly to break up that establishment of his in Southampton Buildings, so that he would be forced by the necessity of things to live at his home,--at some home which he would share with the girls?
He knew himself well enough to be sure that while those chambers remained in his possession, as long as that bedroom and bed were at his command, he could not extricate himself from the dilemma. Day after day the temptation was too great for him. And he hated the villa. There was nothing there that he could do. He had no books at the villa; and,--so he averred,--there was something in the air of Fulham which prevented him from reading books when he brought them there. No! He must break altogether fresh ground, and set up a new establishment. One thing was clear; he could not now do this before Mary Bonner"s arrival, and therefore there was nothing to create any special urgency. He had hoped that his girls would marry, so that he might be left to live alone in his chambers,--waited upon by old Stemm,--without sin on his part; but he was beginning to discover that girls do not always get married out of the way in their first bloom. And now he was taking to himself another girl! He must, he knew, give over all hope of escape in that direction. He was very uneasy; and when quite late at night,--or rather, early in the morning,--he took himself to bed, his slumbers were not refreshing.
The truth was that no air suited him for sleeping except the air of Southampton Buildings.
The packet from St. Thomas was to be in the harbour at eight o"clock the next morning,--telegrams from Cape Clear, The Lizard, Eddystone Lighthouse, and where not, having made all that as certain as sun-rising. At eight o"clock he was down on the quay, and there was the travelling city of the Royal Atlantic Steam Mail Packet Company at that moment being warped into the harbour. The ship as he walked along the jetty was so near to him that he could plainly see the faces of the pa.s.sengers on deck,--men and women, girls and children, all dressed up to meet their friends on sh.o.r.e, crowding the sides of the vessel in their eagerness to be among the first to get on sh.o.r.e.
He anxiously scanned the faces of the ladies that he might guess which was to be the lady that was to be to him almost the same as a daughter. He saw not one as to whom he could say that he had a hope.
Some there were in the crowd, some three or four, as to whom he acknowledged that he had a fear. At last he remembered that his girl would necessarily be in deep mourning. He saw two young women in black;--but there was nothing to prepossess him about either of them.
One of them was insignificant and very plain. The other was fat and untidy. They neither of them looked like ladies. What if fate should have sent to him as a daughter,--as a companion for his girls,--that fat, untidy, ill-bred looking young woman! As it happened, the ill-bred looking young woman whom he feared, was a cook who had married a ship-steward, had gone out among the islands with her husband, had found that the speculation did not answer, and was now returning in the hope of earning her bread in her old vocation. Of this woman Sir Thomas Underwood was in great dread.
But at last he was on board, and whispered his question to the purser. Miss Bonner! Oh, yes; Miss Bonner was on board. Was he Sir Thomas Underwood, Miss Bonner"s uncle? The purser evidently knew all about it, and there was something in his tone which seemed to a.s.sure Sir Thomas that the fat, untidy woman and his niece could not be one and the same person. The purser had just raised his cap to Sir Thomas, and had turned towards the cabin-stairs to go in search of the lady herself; but he was stopped immediately by Miss Bonner herself. The purser did his task very well,--said some slightest word to introduce the uncle and the niece together, and then vanished. Sir Thomas blushed, shuffled with his feet, and put out both his hands.
He was shy, astonished, and frightened,--and did not know what to say. The girl came up to him, took his hand in hers, holding it for a moment, and then kissed it. "I did not think you would come yourself," she said.
"Of course I have come myself. My girls are at home, and will receive you to-night." She said nothing further then, but again raised his hand and kissed it.
It is hardly too much to say that Sir Thomas Underwood was in a tremble as he gazed upon his niece. Had she been on the deck as he walked along the quay, and had he noted her, he would not have dared to think that such a girl as that was coming to his house. He declared to himself at once that she was the most lovely young woman he had ever seen. She was tall and somewhat large, with fair hair, of which now but very little could be seen, with dark eyes, and perfect eyebrows, and a face which, either for colour or lines of beauty, might have been taken as a model for any female saint or martyr.
There was a perfection of symmetry about it,--and an a.s.sertion of intelligence combined with the loveliness which almost frightened her uncle. For there was something there, also, beyond intelligence and loveliness. We have heard of "an eye to threaten and command." Sir Thomas did not at this moment tell himself that Mary Bonner had such an eye, but he did involuntarily and unconsciously acknowledge to himself that over such a young lady as this whom he now saw before him, it would be very difficult for him to exercise parental control.
He had heard that she was nineteen, but it certainly seemed to him that she was older than his own daughters. As to Clary, there could be no question between the two girls as to which of them would exercise authority over the other,--not by force of age,--but by dint of character, will, and fitness. And this Mary Bonner, who now shone before him as a G.o.ddess almost, a young woman to whom no ordinary man would speak without that kind of trepidation which G.o.ddesses do inflict on ordinary men, had proposed to herself,--to go out as a governess! Indeed, at this very moment such, probably, was her own idea. As yet she had received no reply to the letter she had written other than that which was now conveyed by her uncle"s presence.
A few questions were asked as to the voyage. No;--she had not been at all ill. "I have almost feared," she said, "to reach England, thinking I should be so desolate." "We will not let you be desolate,"
said Sir Thomas, brightening up a little under the graciousness of the G.o.ddess"s demeanour. "My girls are looking forward to your coming with the greatest delight." Then she asked some question as to her cousins, and Sir Thomas thought that there was majesty even in her voice. It was low, soft, and musical; but yet, even in that as in her eye, there was something that indicated a power of command.
He had no servant with him to a.s.sist in looking after her luggage.
Old Stemm was the only man in his employment, and he could hardly have brought Stemm down to Southampton on such an errand. But he soon found that everybody about the ship was ready to wait upon Miss Bonner. Even the captain came to take a special farewell of her, and the second officer seemed to have nothing to do but to look after her. The doctor was at her elbow to the last;--and all her boxes and trunks seemed to extricate themselves from the general ma.s.s with a readiness which is certainly not experienced by ordinary pa.s.sengers.
There are certain favours in life which are very charming,--but very unjust to others, and which we may perhaps lump under the name of priority of service. Money will hardly buy it. When money does buy it, there is no injustice. When priority of service is had, like a coach-and-four, by the man who can afford to pay for it, industry, which is the source of wealth, receives its fitting reward. Rank will often procure it; most unjustly,--as we, who have no rank, feel sometimes with great soreness. Position other than that of rank, official position or commercial position, will secure it in certain cases. A railway train is stopped at a wrong place for a railway director, or a post-office manager gets his letters taken after time.
These, too, are grievances. But priority of service is perhaps more readily accorded to feminine beauty, and especially to unprotected feminine beauty, than to any other form of claim. Whether or no this is ever felt as a grievance, ladies who are not beautiful may perhaps be able to say. There flits across our memory at the present moment some reminiscence of angry glances at the too speedy attendance given by custom-house officers to pretty women. But this priority of service is, we think, if not deserved, at least so natural, as to take it out of the catalogue of evils of which complaint should be made. One might complain with as much avail that men will fall in love with pretty girls instead of with those who are ugly! On the present occasion Sir Thomas was well contented. He was out of the ship, and through the Custom House, and at the railway station, and back at the inn before the struggling ma.s.s of pa.s.sengers had found out whether their longed-for boxes had or had not come with them in the ship. And then Miss Bonner took it all,--not arrogantly, as though it were her due; but just as the gra.s.s takes rain or the flowers sunshine. These good things came to her from heaven, and no doubt she was thankful. But they came to her so customarily, as does a man"s dinner to him, or his bed, that she could not manifest surprise at what was done for her.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Even the captain came to take a special farewell of her . . .]
Sir Thomas hardly spoke to her except about her journey and her luggage till they were down together in the sitting-room at the inn.
Then he communicated to her his proposal as to her future life. It was right, he thought, that she should know at once what he intended.
Two hours ago, before he had seen her, he had thought of telling her simply where she was to live, and of saying that he would find a home for her. Now he found it expedient to place the matter in a different light. He would offer her the shelter of his roof as though she were a queen who might choose among her various palaces. "Mary," he said, "we hope that you will stay with us altogether."
"To live with you,--do you mean?"
"Certainly to live with us."
"I have no right to expect such an offer as that."
"But every right to accept it, my dear, when it is made. That is if it suits you."
"I had not dreamed of that. I thought that perhaps you would let me come to you for a few weeks,--till I should know what to do."
"You shall come and be one of us altogether, my dear, if you think that you will like it. My girls have no nearer relative than you. And we are not so barbarous as to turn our backs on a new-found cousin."
She again kissed his hand, and then turned away from him and wept.
"You feel it all strange now," he said, "but I hope we shall be able to make you comfortable."
"I have been so lonely," she sobbed out amidst her tears.
He had not dared to say a word to her about her father, whose death had taken place not yet three months since. Of his late brother-in-law he had known little or nothing, except that the General had been a man who always found it difficult to make both ends meet, and who had troubled him frequently, not exactly for loans, but in regard to money arrangements which had been disagreeable to him. Whether General Bonner had or had not been an affectionate father he had never heard. There are men who, in Sir Thomas"s position, would have known all about such a niece after a few hours" acquaintance; but our lawyer was not such a man. Though the girl seemed to him to be everything that was charming, he did not dare to question her; and when they arrived at the station in London, no word had as yet been said about the General.
As they were having the luggage piled on the top of a cab, the fat cook pa.s.sed along the platform. "I hope you are more comfortable now, Mrs. Woods," said Mary Bonner, with a smile as sweet as May, while she gave her hand to the woman.
"Thank"ee, Miss; I"m better; but it"s only a moil of trouble, one thing as well as t"other." Mrs. Woods was evidently very melancholy at the contemplation of her prospects.
"I hope you"ll find yourself comfortable now." Then she whispered to Sir Thomas;--"She is a poor young woman whose husband has ill used her, and she lost her only child, and has now come here to earn her bread. She isn"t nice looking, but she is so good!" Sir Thomas did not dare to tell Mary Bonner that he had already noticed Mrs. Wood, and that he had conceived the idea that Mrs. Wood was the niece of whom he had come in search.
They made the journey at once to Fulham in the cab, and Sir Thomas found it to be very long. He was proud of his new niece, but he did not know what to say to her. And he felt that she, though he was sure that she was clever, gave him no encouragement to speak. It was all very well while, with her beautiful eyes full of tears, she had gone through the ceremony of kissing his hand in token of her respect and grat.i.tude;--but that had been done often enough, and could not very well be repeated in the cab. So they sat silent, and he was rejoiced when he saw those offensive words, Popham Villa, on the posts of his gateway. "We have only a humble little house, my dear," he said, as they turned in. She looked at him and smiled. "I believe you West Indians generally are lodged very sumptuously."
"Papa had a large straggling place up in the hills, but it was anything but sumptuous. I do love the idea of an English home, where things are neat and nice. Oh, dear;--how lovely! That is the River Thames;--isn"t it? How very beautiful!" Then the two girls were at the door of the cab, and the newcomer was enveloped in the embraces of her cousins.