A PROPOSAL.
Morning at length broke—as it will break, after hours of pain and
watching and trial—type of that glorious eternity which must eventually,
sooner or later, succeed to, and dispel the darkness of, the dreariest
existence that ever fell to the lot of mortal man—man who is “born to
trouble as the sparks fly upwards.”
It dawned, bright, cold, and clear, upon that miniature nation, that
vast human beehive, filled with all sorts of labourers and drones, that
city of wealth and solidity and striking contrasts and worldwide
renown—London, the mighty, and silent and beautiful: its beams fell on
the windows of number 12, Belerma Square, and, spite of drawn blinds and
closed shutters, found, by some means, an entrance into each dingy,
desolate apartment.
The rays, at first dim and uncertain, straggled in through a chink to
the room where the corpse was lying, and cast strange lights on the
ceiling, floor, and walls; then gathering strength, one among them crept
curiously forward, little by little, bit by bit, till it finally fell
full on the calm, still face of the dead. There it rested for a
considerable period, as if content to remain stationary over that emblem
of mortality, whilst its brethren peered into other parts of the chamber
and obtruded their cheerful presence into other portions of the house.
Light, full, clear, and brilliant, at length streamed on every corner in
the mansion, into the apartment where John Merapie’s unfeeling widow
sat, exulting over the change in her condition, over the grand wide
prospect now spread out before herself and her only child, a boy some
twelve years old—hard, keen, precocious, selfish, like his parent;
whilst, on the next floor, Malcolm and Mina kept together in their
mother’s dressing-room, talking and wondering and waiting for some
indefinite event, which they felt to be approaching towards them with
hurried, rapid strides.
It was strange, almost pitiable, to notice how Malcolm—for the time
being thoroughly broken down and prostrated by the force of the
unexpected blow—hung like a child about his sister, followed her every
step, watched her every look; he seemed so impressed by the calmness of
her manner, as to entertain a vague idea that she would be able to
effect some arrangement for their benefit; he appeared to feel that,
whilst with her, no fresh sorrow could come near them: she spoke so
little, made so few laments about their misfortunes, exhorted him so
earnestly not to give way, not to look at the very blackest side of
things till they knew for a certainty there was no other; seemed to
consider the sorrow of their uncle’s death so much more than the
pecuniary difficulty, that Malcolm, who never looked beyond the surface,
imagined her cold, collected manner was the sign of a hopeful heart
instead of a breaking one, of a spirit buoyed up by expectations of
sunshine speedily bursting through the gloom, instead of a soul nerved
to endure and meet the worst by firmness of purpose, by natural strength
of character.
In answer to his incessant query of, “But, Mina, what are we to do?” she
had invariably answered,
“Wait, for the present, and see.”
But as eight, nine, half-past nine o’clock came, passed, and brought no
further knowledge on their rapid wings, even she grew restless to learn
their doom for a certainty; and, therefore, going to the fountain head
direct, she sent in a message to Mr. Westwood, requesting a few minutes’
conversation with that gentleman.
“Why could you not have asked to see _her_, Mina, at once?” inquired
Malcolm; but his sister shrunk from an interview with the imperious
stranger, of whose loud commanding voice and haughty overbearing manner,
the servants had brought such hurried intelligence to her the preceding
night, so she answered,
“Mr. Westwood can tell me all I want to know much better, and I am
accustomed to speak to him, whilst I have never even seen her.” And,
accordingly, the message was despatched to Mr. Westwood, who received it
just as he was in the act of pouring out his last cup of coffee.
“She will be glad enough to see me _now_,” he soliloquised, “in spite of
the airs she used to give herself, glad enough to see me now, and hear
me speak, and ready enough to speak to me; I always knew it was pride:
but I am of a forgiving disposition and will overlook past offences,
particularly as she has made the first advance to reconciliation, and I
will marry her, though I might do far better. Yes; I vowed I would, and
I never broke a vow yet, but one; but, oh! what a confounded thing it is
to have a conscience.”
Having concluded which peroration, he struck his hand upon his forehead
and then walked quietly into number 12 and up the wide staircase leading
to the drawing-room he had so often entered during the lifetime of his
late partner.
There was a lady in the apartment when he crossed the threshold, but it
was not Mina Frazer. She was a woman, not young, but still in the prime
of life, with fair hair, clear red and white complexion, large blue
eyes, pouting mouth, and high smooth forehead, the _beau ideal_ of a
“vulgar beauty:” it was only the quick determined glance and somewhat
aristocratic curve of the scornful upper lip that redeemed her face from
the general impression of commonness the remainder of her features
conveyed to the beholder.
Without word, without salutation, without apology, Alfred Westwood,
turning, perhaps, a shade paler than usual and keeping his eyes steadily
fixed on her countenance, advanced towards the new-made widow.
She had wheeled round when he first came in, and contemplated him, for
an instant, with an indifferent, half-curious, half-defiant expression
of face; but as he drew slowly nearer and nearer, that expression gave
place to one of doubt, surprise, terror; and, suddenly stretching out
both arms, as if to prevent his approach, she uttered a short startled
cry and fell back in a dead swoon.
With a fierce stormy cloud on his brow, Alfred Westwood remained
contemplating her for a moment: he never moved a finger to lift her; the
idea of endeavouring to restore consciousness never seemed to occur to
him.
“Yes, woman, yes,” he muttered, after he had scanned every lineament
with a settled stare of hatred; and then something like an oath came
hissing forth from between his tightly-set teeth, a sort of malediction
breathed over the inanimate form of John Merapie’s widow: there could be
no doubt of the matter, he was inwardly cursing her.
But at length remembering he had not come there merely to look at the
face of a fainting woman, he laid a hand on the bell pull, and then
stooping, raised, with no very compassionate or gentle gesture, Mrs.
Merapie from the ground.
“Take care of your mistress,” he said to the former housekeeper, Mrs.
Colefort, who appeared in answer to his summons. “Let Miss Frazer be
told I await her in the dining-room: after a short time I will speak to
Mrs. Merapie here;” and, without casting another glance on the person
last mentioned, he strode out of the apartment to seek some other
portion of the citadel not yet occupied by the enemy, where he might
hold a few minutes’ uninterrupted conversation with Mina Frazer.
“I will go with you,” Malcolm pleaded, as his sister rose to leave the
room when Mr. Westwood’s message was delivered to her; but she answered,
“No, no; stay with mamma,” and ran down the stairs without him.
The visitor had drawn a mental portrait of how she would appear before
him,—a pale, despairing, stricken, suppliant, a being as different as
possible from the Mina of former and more prosperous days as can well be
conceived: tears, lamentations, entreaties,—he had pictured them all,
and smiled grimly and contemptuously as he did so. He had fully prepared
himself to meet one sort of feminine sorrow; to speak words of hope and
comfort to one who came to him as to the sole friend misfortune had left
her, whose pride had yielded to her poverty, whose vanity had melted
away together with the dream of riches, which was, as he conceived, the
sole cause of her former coldness and reserve towards him.
Standing with his back to the fire-place, looking at the pattern on the
hearthrug, Mr. Westwood had drawn the above fancy sketch, which a nearer
view, a few moments after, pronounced to be, in many most important
respects, erroneous.
Pale and calm, though bearing on her face unmistakable marks of the blow
which had struck her heart, the girl came gliding in: changed she
was—changed, but not as he expected to find her; changed by sudden
sorrow, a great trial, an agonizing fear; changed, but not bowed: she
looked as if she had passed through a chastening lifetime of trouble
since last he beheld her, a sea of danger and strife and uncertainty,
which had only braced her nerves and developed some traits of greater
firmness in her character; altered she was for the better for herself,
perhaps; but he saw, and saw it with bitter anger, for the worse for
him.
They shook hands in silence, as people do shake hands upon the occasion
of their first meeting after some great misfortune has blasted the
happiness of one; the eloquent sentence he had prepared to check a
torrent of imaginary tears died away on Mr. Westwood’s lips.
Instead of his being the first to speak as he had intended, she broke
the stillness of that room where city men had laughed solemnly over
their wine, by saying, whilst she pointed to a chair,
“Will you not be seated?”
“Cool, with a vengeance,” thought Mr. Westwood, dropping into the chair,
however, as meekly as if he, not Mina, had been, as the newspaper
advertisement phrase runs, “the party in distress.”
“I have sent for you——” Mina began.
“Sent, indeed!” soliloquised the indignant visitor, whilst she
proceeded,
“To learn from your lips precisely how we are situated.”
“Right to the point, at all events,” he reflected; and the conclusion of
her sentence reminding him of her exact position and of the elevated
pinnacle he, by comparison, occupied, his former confidence returned,
and he accordingly replied to her simple question by demanding what she
meant.
“I believe,” she resumed, “you know everything” (the girl did not intend
this as a compliment, but Mr. Westwood accepted it as such), “and
therefore I thought I would ask you how the fact of my uncle being
married will affect us now he is dead?” The white lips trembled slightly
as she spoke. “My brother seems to fear we shall be reduced to penury; I
do not clearly understand, but—is it so?”
“If I do not mistake your meaning, you wish information on three
points,” answered Mr. Westwood in a blunt straightforward sort of way:
“first, if the person who arrived here last night be no impostor;
second, whether she and her son take precedence of you and your brother;
third, if any money will be left for you out of the wreck. Am I right?”
he demanded.
“Yes, I think so,” she replied.
“Before going any further,” he responded, “I must ask you whether your
uncle has left a will behind him? for if so, the aspect of your affairs
might be considerably brightened.”
“Malcolm says not,” she returned.
“Did he look?” asked Mr. Westwood.
“Mr. Ivraine did, I believe,” she replied, “but nothing finished;
nothing but the few lines he died before completing could be
discovered.”
A dry burning sensation, caused by excess of agitation and the absence
of tears, oppressed the girl’s aching eyeballs as she spoke of that
document, and Mr. Westwood, noticing the look of pain, asked if she were
ill.
“No, not very; that is, not at all: please go on.”
“I feared, from the commencement, there was none,” he resumed; “your
uncle promised me he would make some provision for you, and I presume
was just about to carry out his intention when——but we need pursue that
painful topic no further,” he added, with exquisite consideration. “With
regard to the marriage, I have known it for some considerable time. Mrs.
Merapie and her son succeed to _all_ the money your uncle left behind
him, the widow claiming one-third, the boy the remainder; and there will
be nothing for yourself, mother, or brother, either now or at any future
time.”
“Nothing?” she repeated.
“Not a solitary shilling,” he returned; “you have now no home, for you
were merely here on sufferance from the moment of your uncle’s demise:
you wish to learn the worst, and I tell it to you. Mrs. Merapie is so
indignant at having been kept in the background for such a number of
years, that she is eager to retaliate a little on those who she
imagines, during that interval, usurped her house and her position: you
are liable, at any moment, to rudeness and insolence; you are perfectly
powerless to resent either, as nothing here—not a single article the
place contains, excepting your own personal effects—belongs to you or
yours. I am speaking frankly, as you desired; it is best, perhaps, for
you to learn these facts from the lips of a friend than to hear them,
for the first time, spoken by an arbitrary vindictive woman.”
Though his words were stinging, still the tone was not unkind. Mina
looked for a moment right into the fire, whilst a faint colour suffused
her cheek and a sudden gush of her old pride, a sad thought of how truly
desolate they were, swept across her soul: the next instant she was calm
again, and said in a low voice, as if communing with herself,
“Then we are beggars.”
Mr. Westwood made no response; indeed, none was required.
“Thank you,” she said, after a brief pause, rising, as if about to leave
the room, “thank you, very much for devoting your time to me: I know all
I want to know, now.”
“More than it has been a pleasure to me to communicate,” returned Alfred
Westwood, who felt something nearer genuine love for the girl now than
he had ever done before. “Miss Frazer,” he hurriedly added, “this is no
time, these are no circumstances under which to consider ceremony; will
you excuse my again adverting to a subject we discussed in happier days?
If you would only give me a right to assist you, I will lay down my life
to serve you: I cannot promise what, perhaps, once you had reason to
expect, but I can give you a comfortable home, a competence, sterling
affection. Mrs. Frazer and you are both unfitted to bear the chill blast
of misfortune: I can provide a shelter as good as this, at all events; I
will help your brother to wealth, fortune, position; I will guard you
more tenderly now than even might have been the case had your lot been a
more fortunate one. Sorrow only makes real love stronger; I can preserve
you from knowledge of poverty, from grief, anxiety, vexation: only speak
one word, and I will smooth every difficulty away from your path and
devote my whole existence to making yours happy.”
There was no doubt about the matter now, so Mina thought; she had done
him great injustice: he had not been a mere mercenary fortune hunter; in
the hour of gloom, in the dark time of trial, he remained unchanged; he
had been weighed in the balance, and not found wanting; he had been
subject to the test, and discovered to be the sterling article. Mina
felt touched, softened—as what woman would not under similar
circumstances? There could be no mistake concerning his
disinterestedness at that moment; and though Mina felt no hesitation as
to the nature of her reply, still she paused for a moment ere uttering
it.
Slowly—not as they had done twice previously, rapidly and
indignantly—the words of refusal were uttered: she could not marry him;
she was very, very grateful, but it could not be.
“Think though,” said Alfred Westwood, “of your desolate position: a
delicate mother, a brother out of employment, all near relatives dead,
hundreds of miles from any who feel an interest in you; think of having
to go from hence without another place of shelter being provided for
you, of the skeleton poverty, of the daily fret and difficulty of
procuring, not luxuries, but the merest necessaries; think of poor mean
lodgings, the expense of medical attendance, the hopeless struggle, the
endless pinching and saving, the eternal outlay and demand; think that
the chief part of all this anxiety will fall on you, that friends will
grow cold and relatives careless and acquaintances callous. It requires
some time to realize such a position; therefore all I ask at present is,
for you to think of it. I have striven to keep myself and my own wishes
and everything, save yourself and your ultimate good, in the background;
but let me just remind you that this is not a mere affair of sudden
caprice or wayward fancy: I have loved you for years, ever since
you—then quite a child—came, with your Highland heart and thoughts fixed
intently on the moors and the hills and the streams of your native land,
to be caged up and imprisoned in a dull, depressing London square; and
now I love you better than formerly, because I have latterly learnt more
thoroughly to appreciate your character.”
Here was a change, indeed,—Mr. Alfred Westwood, instead of conferring
the immense honour of his hand on a portionless girl, instead of
graciously hearing her trembling petition for succour and help, and
acceding with triumphant superiority,—begging her to marry him, as he
might in the hey-day of her prosperity; the more difficult the prize
became to gain, the more valuable it appeared in his eyes. He had
formerly thought her a good catch, a pretty little self-willed being;
but now she seemed something more, a reasoning, reflecting,
brave-hearted girl, looking sorrow so steadily and undauntedly in the
face, suffering so much, talking so little, that the man of the world,
quite losing his wonted self-possession, absolutely forgot for once to
act and simulate, became natural, unaffected, earnest, and spoke in
those tones of truth which strike home to the understanding.
Mina Frazer felt her bosom swell and her conscience reproach her with
ingratitude as she listened to him, whom in prosperity she had despised
and rejected, renewing his suit with double ardour, now she had fallen
from her great estate and stood a pauper hearkening to his tale.
She did think, too; the rapid procession of mother, brother, self—of the
probable future and the certain present—of scanty means and expensive
tastes and contending opinions—of ill health and discontent—of murmurs,
repinings, reproaches, regrets,—swept across that stage we call the
mind. There was not a spectre he had conjured up before her, which did
not appear in obedience to his command.
The troop wanted nothing but reality to make them perfect; but the girl
had never yet experienced actual poverty, never known a day’s want,
never been short of money in her life; therefore the phantoms presented
for her contemplation were, after all, merely phantoms. She certainly
would have preferred not encountering them at all, but she did not dread
them sufficiently to prefer marrying Mr. Westwood to going forth and
meeting them; they were a chance, he a certainty: she had thought if it
might not be her duty for one brief instant, and then she reflected, an
union without affection never could be otherwise than a sin: “It could
not be; it could never be,” so she told him.
“I shall not receive that as a final answer,” he returned; “think more
about your situation, give yourself time to understand the danger and
difficulty of your position; look on both sides—at the prospect the
world presents, and the love and security and home I offer; ponder the
matter sensibly, quietly, rationally, and then decide: meanwhile,
consider me as a friend, a sincere, though humble one, and——”
What he was about to propose she should do with him when she had got the
length of friendship must ever remain a mystery, for at this juncture
the door of the dining-room opened and in stalked Mr. Ernest Ivraine,
who seemed destined to interrupt or overhear every dialogue Mr. Westwood
held, whereof matrimony was the theme.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered, finding that he had happened to
stumble in on the wrong people at the wrong time: “I wish to see Mr.
Malcolm Frazer.”
“You will find him in the breakfast parlour,” fibbed Mr. Westwood,
angrily; and hastily precluding the possibility of a reply from Mina,
and seeing his presence was most unwelcome, the baronet’s son walked
across the hall, and, entering the vacant breakfast parlour, sat down to
wait in patience till some one should have leisure or inclination to
come and see what he was doing.
Mina could not tell why she blushed to the temples when Ernest Ivraine
appeared so suddenly before her, but she felt the tell-tale blood mount
to her cheek while Alfred Westwood saw it; and, forgetting everything
but indignation at the advent of a supposed rival, he turned almost
fiercely and said, as if it had been a criminal he was addressing, so
totally devoid of consideration and respect was his manner,
“So that’s the way of it, is it?”
“Sir!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, yes,” he continued, “I see it all; a baronet’s son would be a very
nice catch: a protracted illness is a capital time for——”
“Mr. Westwood,” she vehemently interposed, “how can you allude to such
matters at a time when my heart is bleeding for the loss of a kind,
beloved relative, when my mind is distracted with our unhappy situation,
when I have less leisure and less inclination than ever to hear subjects
of the kind discussed? Your remark was worse than mistimed, it was
unfeeling and cruel; but,” she added, seeing the scarcely suppressed
sneer which curled his lip, “let me assure you, Mr. Ivraine is nothing
to me, except an acquaintance, a friend, like yourself.”
“So I thought,” remarked Mr. Westwood drily.
“I mean,” she eagerly explained, “that he is merely a friend to us,
nothing, nothing more; like what you offered to be a little time since,
like what I feel to you.”
“Oh, indeed!” sneered Mr. Westwood, who had managed to forget Ernest’s
very existence during the course of his conversation with Mina till that
gentleman, walking so unhappily in, reminded him of it; “Oh, indeed!”
“I think it very unkind,” began Mina, her large eyes filling with tears
of mortification, wounded sensitiveness, pride, irritation, and
resentment, “and——”
“Mrs. Merapie’s compliments, Miss, and would be glad to know when you
can leave the house,” here broke in the _ci-devant_ housekeeper,
flinging open the door and addressing the above speech to the young lady
from a hostile position she occupied on the mat outside.
Mr. Westwood turned with a triumphant glance to see how “Mina took it.”
It seemed to him as if every drop of blood forsook its accustomed
channel to rush into her face. The tears dried on the quivering lashes,
her eyes seemed literally to flash fire, and as she repeated the words
“leave the house,” her nostrils distended and her bosom heaved like one
restraining, by a violent effort, the outburst of a paroxysm of passion.
“Yes, Miss,” responded Mrs. Colefort, “she says she just wants to know,
and then she can make her arrangements accordingly, and so she sent me
to you to ask when you will leave.”
“Now,” said Mina, in a tone so emphatic that it implied more than a
dozen sentences could have done, and quickly sent Mrs. Colefort back to
her mistress, silently admiring the spirit which dictated it.
“Mina,” said Mr. Westwood, as she too turned to leave the room, “Mina,
matters have hurried much more than even I feared they would do; for
mercy’s sake let me counsel and assist you; give me liberty to act for
you: I spoke hastily a few minutes back, forgive me; do not refuse help
when you stand so lamentably in want of it.”
“If you will help me as a friend,” she returned, “if you will forget
everything which has heretofore passed between us, and let us start
afresh on that footing, I shall gratefully accept your offer; God knows,
friends are not so plentiful we can afford to refuse any, nor are they
likely now to become more so.”
There was a deep accent of despair running through the hurried current
of her words; she looked imploringly at him, as if she would have
accepted succour almost from an enemy; but Mr. Westwood was not to be
“done” now. He rapidly reflected that if he could not mould the iron of
the girl’s heart into the shape he wished in its present heated pliable
condition, he had no chance of effecting his object in calmer, cooler
moments; he had no idea of working for her Now, and being rejected
afterwards; he saw events were moving with such giant strides, that it
was needful for some decided steps to be taken at once, and he therefore
thrust his former scheme of friendship and gratitude impatiently aside,
and, with a vivid memory of Mina’s look when Ernest Ivraine entered,
tincturing his speech, he returned,
“You must give me a right to interfere in your concerns; after toiling
and working for your benefit and the benefit of those dearest to you, I
have no desire to be cast aside as a worthless instrument—a tool which
is no longer required; to have your brother call me a meddling fellow;
to have others considering me, perhaps, obtrusive, officious,
presumptuous; and, by way of a finish, when I have done all I can in
your behalf—when I have completed my task, and placed you beyond the
reach of want, to hear you coldly say how ‘grateful’ you are, and bid me
good-bye, wishing all the time it had been possible to do without me,
and that any other person save myself had been able to assist you in
your need.”
Once again Mina felt every syllable he had said was true; she knew
Malcolm would resent his interference the moment it ceased to be of
importance; that she should feel gratitude towards him a wonderfully
irksome burden; that obligation to him would be insupportable: besides,
unless she married him, or promised to marry him, what could he do for
her or hers which she could endure to accept from his hands? No, she
would not receive assistance from him; she and Malcolm were young; there
was plenty of work open in the world for both; she would rely on herself
and those in whom she had trusted for years, not on a man whom, even
whilst she acknowledged she had wronged, she disliked,—of whom, almost
in spite of herself, she felt a distrust. He had proffered service to
her, and she was grateful for that kindness; but further she could not
go, more she would not say.
“It cannot be,” she repeated, “I can give you no right. I thank you for
the kindness you have been wishful to show, most sincerely. Let us part
friends,” she added, extending her hand, “it may be long before we meet
again.”
“If I had influence enough with this woman to wring out of her an
annuity for your mother, would it make no difference in your sentiments
towards me?” thoughtlessly demanded Mr. Westwood, thrown off his guard
and provoked by the girl’s inexplicable refusal to become his wife; and
the question let light in on her understanding; she saw through him now;
trickery will reveal itself at last; she comprehended him fully, but she
made no reply.
“If you will but say, ‘Yes,’ to one simple request,” he proceeded, “I
will undertake to represent your case to her in such a way as will
ensure a small competence for Mrs. Frazer, and, perhaps, a commission
for your brother; give me the right to interfere, and I will use the
little influence I possess to some purpose.”
“Do you think,” said Mina, fixing a steady, searching gaze upon him, “do
you think you could manage to get me a fortune?”
The words were spoken in a cold, almost careless, tone, yet they made
Mr. Westwood look as confused as if he had been detected in a robbery,
and though he tried to stammer out an answer, his usual volubility had
forsaken him.
“No, no,” said Mina, “I see you were not as disinterested as I thought;
I am very sorry for it.”
“I am thoroughly disinterested,” he interrupted; “I could contrive to
get as much to portion any bride I might choose perhaps; or, better
still, wed your uncle’s widow, and so get all into my own hands. I am
speaking fairly now; I love you, and you are the only being on earth I
do love; once for all, will you marry me?”
“I will not,” she answered.
“And you cast from you my assistance, and consequently, any chance of
fortune for yourself and your brother, or a competence for your mother;
you cut off the sole hope of reconciliation, or rather, of a
commencement of friendly feeling, between your family and Mrs. Merapie;
you fling yourself without a shelter, almost a pauper, on the world:
will you do this?”
“If you have any influence, as you seem to imply, having received my
final answer and knowing my positive decision, I leave all the rest to
your generosity.”
“To the devil,” muttered Mr. Alfred Westwood, stamping furiously on the
carpet as Mina left the apartment; “well, be it so, Miss Frazer; you
shall repent this yet.”
Long, long afterwards, when he had concluded a confidential conversation
with Mrs. Merapie and was just about taking his departure from the
house, Mr. Westwood encountered some weeping servants carrying boxes,
bags, portmanteaus, etc., into the hall.
“What’s this for?” he demanded.
“They are going,” was the brief reply.
“What, now?” he ejaculated.
“Immediately, sir.”
“Smart work, egad!” soliloquised the _ci-devant_ clerk, once again
re-ascending the staircase, in the hope of meeting Mina, for if there
were one thing more than another he admired, it was a commodity he
mentally styled “pluck,” of which it appeared the lady of his affections
had an abundant store.
She had gone into the room where the corpse lay, after everything was
prepared for their abrupt departure; she had fallen on her knees by the
side of the bed, and kissed the pale cold face with a passion of
affection she had never felt for her uncle in life; tears of regret and
anguish fell abundantly on the countenance of the dead, and the drops
remained there till Mrs. Colefort came and removed the moisture, for the
natural heat had departed, which once would have absorbed them.
“Dear, dear uncle,” she moaned forth, “where shall I ever find another
friend like you? No place in the wide world.”
And then she took one long farewell of the inanimate body, as if it had
been a living being dearly loved she never hoped to see again; and,
passing drearily out of the room, was met on the threshold by Alfred
Westwood.
“I will give you another chance, Mina,” he said, “I offer you fortune,
position, establishment, affection: will you marry me?”
“No!” she responded; and, drawing her veil closely over her tearful
face, she passed him hastily to meet on the next landing the lady who
now called that place home, and had come so cruelly, and with such
unnecessary haste, to dispossess them of it.
Their dresses brushed together as Mina swept by her with the proud
defiant carriage of her childhood; there was no pause, no salutation, no
word: for an instant the broken-hearted girl seemed superior to the
triumphant haughty woman, for there was a confused upstart endeavour at
unconcern visible in the manner of the one, and nothing but contemptuous
indifference in the bearing of the other; the slight figure had been
drawn up to its full height, but there was nothing of stiffness about
the way in which she discharged her portion of the ceremony, while an
awkward attempt at well-bred stateliness failed altogether on the side
of Mrs. Merapie.
“Cleverly done, in truth,” thought Mr. Westwood, who witnessed the
little scene from his position above; “a very good beginning, Miss Mina:
well, they may talk as they like about men doing things better than
women, but there is one point the ladies excel in, and that is, cutting
one another: why, I could not have passed my worst enemy with the same
cool disdain as that girl has just done if it were to save my life.”
And Mr. Westwood, having concluded this sentence, and given the _pas_—as
every one does—to the feminine sex for natural talents in the grand
science above alluded to, exchanged a few more words with the widow of
his late partner, and then left her; but, while he was talking, a cab
had driven from the hall door, bearing another widow and her two
children to comfortless lodgings—to a new home—drearily, sadly conveying
them out into the world; and from that time forth the house in Belerma
Square “knew them no more;” and that place which had once been a home,
became, to all intents and purposes unto them as though it had never
been.