“I wonder whether Charley Clifford’s coming of age will be kept as it
ought to be,” said Miss Amelia Harwood, meditatively. It was more than
five years since the marriage, but there was still going to be a bazaar
at Summerhayes; and still a large basket stood on the drawing-room table
at Woodbine Cottage, full of embroidered cushions, babies’ socks,
children’s pinafores, and needle-books and pen-wipers without number,
upon which Miss Amelia was stitching little tickets which told the
price. “To give him all his honours will be ticklish work for Tom
Summerhayes, and to withhold them won’t answer with a boy of spirit like
Charley. I am fond of that boy. He behaves very well to his mother;
though really, when a woman makes a fool of herself, I don’t wonder if
her children get disgusted. I should like to know what she thinks of her
exploit now. I always foresaw she would see her folly as the children
grew up.”
“Oh, hush, Amelia,” said her elder sister; “don’t be hard upon poor dear
Mary now. I was surprised at the time—but of course she must have been
in love with him; and it was hard, you know, to be left all alone at her
time of life. She is quite a young woman now.”
“She is——” said Miss Amelia, pausing, with inexorable memory and a host
of dates at her finger-ends, “either forty-two or forty-three. I don’t
quite recollect whether she was born in ‘14 or in ‘15. Now that I think,
it was ‘14, for it was before the Waterloo year, which we had all such
good cause to remember; and as for being left all alone, she had her
children, and I always said she ought to have had the sense to know when
she was well off. However, that is not the question. I want to know
whether they will make any ado over Charley’s coming of age.”
“Poor boy!—it is sad for him having no father to advise him at such an
important time of his life,” said gentle Miss Harwood, with a sigh.
“Oh, stuff!” said Miss Amelia. “Harry Clifford, poor fellow, never was
wise enough to direct himself, and how could he have guided his son? I
daresay Tom Summerhayes would be a better adviser, if you come to that.
But I am sorry for Charley all the same: he’s the heir, and yet somehow
he doesn’t seem the heir. His mother, after all, _is_ still a young
woman, as you say, and Tom Summerhayes seems to have got everything so
secure in his hands that one can’t help feeling something is sure to
happen to make the estate his in the end. It can’t be, I suppose; they
said the deeds were irrevocable, and that Mary couldn’t alter them if
she wished, which I don’t suppose she does;—she loves her children, I
must say that for her. Still one never feels sure with a man like Tom
Summerhayes; and poor Charley has no more to do with his own affairs
than if he were a little ploughboy on Mr Summerhayes’s estate.”
“Hush, my dear,” said Miss Harwood, who was in her summer chair, which
commanded, through the openings of the green blind, a view of the
village green and the road before the door,—“here are Louisa and Lydia
coming to call—and out of breath, too; so they must have some news or
something particular to say.”
“About Charley’s coming of age, of course,” said Miss Amelia. “I daresay
Mary and Tom have had a fight over it, and he’s judged it as well for
once to let Mary have her way. He always had a great deal of sense, had
Tom Summerhayes.”
“Oh, I declare, to see how far the Miss Harwoods are on with their
things!” cried Miss Louisa Summerhayes, almost before she had entered
the room; “but you are always in such good time, Miss Amelia. As for us,
we have such a great deal to think about just now, it drives the bazaar
out of our heads; almost as bad as if we had a family ourselves,” said
Miss Lydia, with a breathless outburst. “I daresay you have heard the
news—you who always hear everything from Fontanel.”
“About Charley’s birthday?” said Miss Amelia.
“Well, upon my word, you are a witch of Endor, or something,” said Miss
Lydia, whose turn it was to begin the duet; “for dear Tom rode down to
tell us only this morning. He is so considerate, dear Tom; and I am sure
there never was such a stepfather,—to think of all he means to do, just
as if Charley was his own son and heir,” cried Miss Louisa, who was
scarcely able to keep in time for want of breath.
“His own son and heir, if he had one, need not to make so much
commotion, my dears,” said Miss Amelia, administering with great
goodwill a friendly snub; “there is a difference, you know, between
Fontanel and the manor-house. I suppose there will be a dinner of the
tenantry, and all that. There couldn’t, you know, much as your family is
respected in the county, be much of that sort of thing at Summerhayes.”
“My dear, you know Amelia always speaks her mind,” said Miss Harwood;
“you don’t mind what she says? I am sure I hope poor Charley will have a
good day for his _fête_, and that everything will go off well. I daresay
they will all feel a little strange on such a day, to think of all the
changes that have happened. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the day
he was born; and oh how happy poor Mary was!”
“I am sure she ought to be a great deal happier now,” said Miss Laura,
with a toss of her head, “if she were sensible enough to see her
advantages. Dear Tom makes himself a slave to her, and spends all his
strength upon the estate; and then never to get any thanks for it. I
declare, to hear how you speak is enough to make one hate the world,”
said Miss Lydia, with the usual joint disregard of punctuation. “But,
Miss Harwood, you always take Mary’s side.”
“I didn’t know we were come so far as to take sides,” said Miss Amelia,
dryly; “Mary never takes her own side, that’s clear. She tries to please
everybody, poor soul; to make her husband happy by letting him suppose
himself the master of Fontanel,—and to make her son happy by making
believe he’s all right and in his natural place; and what’s to come of
it all after Charley comes of age is more than I can tell; for Charley’s
a boy of spirit, though he’s devoted to his mother, and it’s hard never
to have anything to say in one’s own affairs. A woman may submit to it,
perhaps, but a young man is very different,” said Miss Amelia, with
great gravity, breaking off with an emphatic jerk the last end of her
thread.
Both the sisters were in tears before this speech was finished. “I am
sure it is very hard,” sobbed the elder, as soon as she could speak, “to
be in dear Tom’s position, and to have to manage everything, and always
to hear it brought up against him that he has nothing to do with the
estate, and it belongs to his wife. I wonder how he ever puts up with
it,” cried the other, “dear Tom, that is the head of one of the oldest
families in the county—far better blood than the Cliffords, whose
great-grandfather was in trade; and they would all have been ruined but
for dear Tom,” concluded Miss Louisa; “he has given himself up to their
interests—and this is his reward!”
“Hush, now,” said Miss Harwood, “I am sure nothing was said that could
make you cry; and I see poor dear Mary herself in the pony-carriage
driving down by the green. I daresay she will call here. She will be
quite surprised if she sees you have been crying. Shouldn’t you like to
run up-stairs and set your bonnets straight?”
“I daresay she’ll come in looking as bright as possible,” said Miss
Amelia, “and could not understand, if we were to tell her, why we should
quarrel and cry over her affairs. After all, it’s a shame she shouldn’t
be happy, poor soul; she always makes the best of everything. There she
is, kissing her hand to us already. How d’ye do, my dear? And I am sure
I think she’s as pretty now as when she was twenty, whatever the men may
say.”
“Oh dear, that’s just what the men say,” cried Miss Louisa, with
indignation, unable even at this crisis to resist the temptation; “for
she always was a gentleman’s beauty,” added Miss Lydia, half under her
breath. They were not in the least malignant, and both of them secretly
liked Mary in their hearts; but they could not resist the opportunity of
throwing a little javelin at her, which certainly did her no harm.
Mary did not reach the door until her sisters-in-law had put themselves
in order by the help of the mirror in the back drawing-room. All this
time Miss Amelia stood by the window making her comments. “Of course
there is a basket to be taken out of the pony-carriage,” said that
mollified observer, who was nodding and smiling all the time to the new
arrivals, “with a quantity of forced things in it, no doubt; for there’s
nothing else to be had at this time of the year. I think I can see
strawberries through the lid, which, considering it is only March, is
flying in the face of nature, I think. And here is Loo. Well, I am not
sure that poor Loo is not as much forced as the strawberries; she looks
a long way older than her mother, it appears to me. Poor thing! perhaps
it’s not wonderful under the circumstances; and I think Loo would be
pretty if she was free in her mind, or had time for anything but
brooding over affairs. She is, let me see, eighteen at her next
birthday——”
“Hush, Amelia! My dear Mary, it makes me very happy to see you,” said
old Miss Harwood, rising from her comfortable chair, with the slow
motion of an old woman, to meet the kiss of the mistress of Fontanel.
Perhaps it was the contrast of true old age which made Mary, though
convicted of having been born in the year ‘14, appear then, in ‘57, so
blooming and fresh and youthful. She had lived, on the whole, a quiet
life. She had little in her constitution of that rabid selfishness which
people call a sensitive temperament. She bore her troubles meekly, and
got over them; and even the anxieties and uneasiness of recent years had
added but few wrinkles to the fair face of a woman who always believed
that everything would turn out well, and heartily hoped for the best.
She came in, well-dressed, well-conditioned, sweet to look at and to
listen to, in easy matronly fulness and expansion, into the pretty but
strait and limited room where the two old sisters lived their life; and
when she had kissed them, kissed also the two younger maidens, who were,
however, of Mary’s own standing—no younger than herself. They all looked
grey, and relapsed into the shade in presence of her sweet looks and
natural graciousness. Even Loo, who stood behind her mother’s chair—a
tall girl, still with great brown eyes, which counted for twice as much
as their real size in her pale face—looked, as Miss Amelia said, old
beside Mrs Summerhayes. Hers were the bright but softened tints, the
round outlines, the affectionate, tender, unimpassioned heart, which
confers perpetual youth.
“How nice it is to see you looking so well!” said Mary. “I don’t think
you have grown a bit older, dear Miss Harwood, for twenty years. Loo and
I have come down on purpose to ask you to come to Fontanel for Charley’s
birthday. He comes of age, dear fellow, next month, you know; and as it
is a very very great occasion, we thought a three weeks’ invitation was
not too much. You must come to us the day before—the carriage will come
for you—and stay at least till the day after, so that you may not be the
least fatigued. We are going to have all sorts of pleasures and
rejoicing; and I am sure, though I am a foolish old mother to say so,”
said the smiling, blooming woman, in whom light and sunshine seemed to
have entered Miss Harwood’s drawing-room, “that nobody has more reason
to rejoice over a son than I—than we have,—he has always been such a
dear boy; he has never given me any anxiety all his life.”
“Well, he’s only just beginning his life,” said Miss Amelia. “What
anxiety could he give you, except about the measles and so forth? To be
sure he might have been plucked at the university, or rusticated, or
something dreadful; but I allow he’s a good boy, and not too good a boy
either—which is a great comfort. I am glad you are not going to stint
him at his _fête_: an eldest son has a right to that, I suppose; but I
hope you mean to let him have something to do, my dear, after he comes
of age.”
“To do? Oh, I daresay he will ynd quite enough to do, for a few fiears,
amusing himself,” said Mary, perceptibly growing paler for the moment.
“Of course I am calculating upon both of you, Louisa and Liddy,” she
said, turning round with an air of making her escape. “To ask such near
friends formally would be nonsense, you know; but you must not forget
the twenty-fifth; and I hope you will come early, too, and see the
preparations, and the tenants’ dinner, and all that is to go on out of
doors.”
“Oh, we have got an invitation already,” said Miss Laura. “Not that we
would have come unless you had asked us besides, dear Mary,” chimed in
Miss Lydia; “but dear Tom called this morning to tell us it was all
decided upon,” they both ran on together. “Such a comfort to our minds;
for I am sure Liddy and I cannot bear to hear you ever have any
difference of opinion,” cried Miss Laura, as her solo broke upon the
course of the duet. “And dear Tom is always so glad to do what will
please you, dear Mary,” chimed Miss Lydia, as it came to her turn.
Mary turned red and then turned pale in spite of herself. Most people
have some specially sensitive spot about them, and this was Mary’s: she
could not endure to think that her husband consulted his sisters about
things that occurred at Fontanel.
“I was not aware we had any difference of opinion,” she said, with
dignity; “things always have to be discussed, and Mr Summerhayes likes
to consider everything well before he takes it in hand; but, of course,
we can have but one mind about Charlie, who really is the owner of the
estate, or at least will be after the twenty-fifth. He is so popular
already,” continued the mother, returning to the Miss Harwoods. The
tears came to poor Mary’s eyes, notwithstanding all her efforts. She
felt they were all watching her, and that to do justice both to her son
and her husband was all but impossible; and, besides, at that moment she
was under the influence of a little irritation. Mr Summerhayes did not
_consult_ his sisters, for whose judgment he had a much greater contempt
than it had ever entered into the mind of Mary to entertain for any one
in the world; but when he was annoyed or irritated he occasionally took
the benefit of their unreasoning sympathy and partisanship, as he had
done this morning—and there was nothing in all the business which so
galled and exasperated his wife.
“He always was a dear boy,” said kind old Miss Harwood; “and such a
sweet baby as he was, my dear. I remember when he was born as if it were
yesterday. I was just saying so before you came in. I never saw any
people so happy as you, and—hem—it seems foolish, to be sure, talking of
what he was as a baby now he’s a man,” she concluded, hurriedly
stumbling over that unlucky allusion. Mary again grew a little pale,
poor soul. She could not escape from her troubles anyhow—they hemmed her
in on every side.
“And so all those things are for the bazaar,” she said, by way of making
a diversion. “Loo was to have worked you something, Miss Amelia, but
Loo’s fingers are not so useful as they might be. She is a great deal
too fond of dreaming; but I don’t think I was very fond of work myself
when I was her age; and, of course, she has something in hand for
Charley. A birthday would not be a birthday if the girls had not worked
something for their brother; though men are such bears, as I sometimes
tell Loo,” said poor Mary, beaming brightly out again from behind her
cloud, “I don’t think they ever look twice at the purses and slippers we
do for them. I suppose the great pleasure is in the doing, as it is with
most other things.”
“But I am sure you never found it so with dear Tom,” said Miss Laura;
“he was always, from a boy, so pleased with what we made for him. Oh, do
you remember those old braces, Laura?” cried Miss Lydia; “he always
appreciates what is done for him—always,” and both the sisters chimed in
in a breath.
“I was not speaking of Mr Summerhayes,” said Mary, returning into the
cloud; “I was speaking of—men in general. I have never had any perfect
people to deal with in my experience,” said the mistress of Fontanel,
with a sidelong, female blow, which she could not resist giving. “And
now we must say good-bye, dear Miss Harwood; it is so pleasant to see
you, and to come into this sheltered place where nothing ever seems to
change.”
“It is very odd,” said Miss Amelia, as she rose to shake hands with her
visitors, “you people who are living and going through all sorts of
changes, you like to come back to look at us old folks, and to say it is
pleasant to see us immovable. I suppose it has all the effect of a calm
background and bit of still life, as the painters say. Perhaps we don’t
enjoy it so much as you do; we like to have something happen now and
then for a little variety; we are often sadly at a loss, if you did but
know it, for an event.”
“Come back soon, my dear; that will be an event for us,” said Miss
Harwood, whose soft old kiss was balm to Mary’s cheek, which had flushed
and paled so often. Miss Laura and Miss Lydia went out to the door with
their sister-in-law, where they took leave of her. “We meant to have
driven on to the manor-house,” said Mary; “but we need not go now, since
we have seen you; and there is no room in this stupid little carriage,
or I would set you down anywhere. Good-bye! don’t forget the
twenty-fifth!” and so she drove her ponies away. The sisters went off
upon their usual round of calls, discussing her, while Mrs Summerhayes
drove through the village. They were not exactly spiteful women, and
they _did_ like poor Mary in their hearts: if she had been in trouble
they would have rallied to her with all their little might; but they
could not help being a little hard upon her now.
“Did you hear what she said about Charley being the true owner of the
estate?” said Miss Laura. “After all dear Tom has done!” said Miss
Lydia. “Oh, how strangely things do turn out!” cried the elder sister.
“He might have done so much better; and to get himself into all this
trouble and nobody even grateful to him,” said the younger. “Poor dear
Tom!” they both cried together, “he deserved such a different wife.”
Such was the aspect of affairs on the other side; and though it is
natural to take part with poor Mary rather than with her subtle and
skilful husband, perhaps his sisters were not altogether wrong. If they
had not, all of them, got somehow into conflict with nature, things
might have happened very differently. As it was, a perpetual false
position created mischief on every side.