MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
Mr. Boxall, with some difficulty, arising from reluctance, made his
wife acquainted with the annoyance occasioned him by the discovery of
the fact that Tom Worboise had not even told his father that Mary was
ill.
"I'm convinced," he said, "that the young rascal has only been amusing
himself--flirting, I believe, you women call it."
"I'm none so sure of that, Richard," answered his wife. "You leave him
to me."
"Now, my dear, I won't have you throwing our Mary in any fool's face.
It's bad enough as it is. But I declare I would rather see her in her
grave than scorned by any man."
"You may see her there without before long," answered his wife, with a
sigh.
"Eh! What! She's not worse, is she?"
"No; but she hasn't much life left in her. I'm afraid it's settling on
her lungs. Her cough is something dreadful to hear, and tears her to
pieces."
"It's milder weather, though, now, and that will make a difference
before long. Now, I know what you're thinking of, my dear, and I won't
have it. I told the fellow she wasn't fit to see anybody."
"Were you always ready to talk about me to everyone that came in your
way, Richard?" asked his wife, with a good-humored smile.
"I don't call a lad's father and mother any one that comes in the
way--though, I dare say, fathers and mothers are in the way sometimes,"
he added, with a slight sigh.
"Would you have talked about me to your own father, Richard?"
"Well, you see, I wasn't in his neighborhood. But my father was
a--a--stiff kind of man to deal with."
"Not worse than Mr. Worboise, depend upon it, my dear."
"But Worboise would like well enough to have our Mary for a
daughter-in-law."
"I dare say. But that mightn't make it easier to talk to him about
her--for Tom, I mean. For my part, I never did see two such parents
as poor Tom has got. I declare it's quite a shame to sit upon that
handsome young lad--and amiable--as they do. He can hardly call his
nose his own. I wouldn't trust that Mr. Worboise, for my part, no, not
if I was drowning."
"Why, wife!" exclaimed Mr. Boxall, both surprised and annoyed, "this
_is_ something new. How long--"
But his wife went on, regardless.
"And that mother of his! It's a queer kind of religion that freezes the
life out of you the moment you come near her. How ever a young fellow
could talk about his sweetheart to either of them is more than I can
understand--or you either, my dear. So don't look so righteous over it."
Mrs. Boxall's good-natured audacity generally carried everything before
it, even with more dangerous persons than her own husband. He could not
help--I do not say smiling, but trying to smile; and though the smile
was rather a failure, Mrs. Boxall chose to take it for one. Indeed,
she generally put her husband into good humor by treating him as if he
were in a far better humor than he really was in. It never does any
good to tell a man that he is cross. If he is, it makes him no better,
even though it should make him vexed with himself; and if he isn't
cross, nothing is more certain to make him cross, without giving him a
moment's time to consult the better part of him.
Within the next eight days, Mrs. Boxall wrote to Tom as follows:
"My Dear Mr. Thomas--Mary is much better, and you need not be at all
uneasy about the consequences of your expedition to the North Pole on
Christmas Day. I am very sorry I was so cross when you brought her
home. Indeed, I believe I ought to beg your pardon. If you don't come
and see us soon, I shall fancy that I have seriously offended you. But
I knew she never could stand exposure to the weather, and I suppose
that was what upset my temper. Mary will be pleased to see you.--I am,
ever yours sincerely,
Jane Boxall."
Tom received this letter before he left for town in the morning. What
was he to do? Of course he must go and _call_ there, as he styled
it, but he pronounced it a great bore. He was glad the poor girl was
better; but he couldn't help it, and he had no fancy for being hunted
up after that fashion. What made him yet more savage was, that Mr.
Boxall was absolutely surly--he had never seen him so before--when he
went into his room upon some message from Mr. Stopper. He did not go
that day nor the next.
On the third evening he went;--but the embarrassment of feeling that
he ought to have gone before was added to the dislike of going at all,
and he was in no enviable condition of mind when he got off the Clapton
omnibus. Add to this that an unrelenting east wind was blowing, and my
reader will believe that Tom Worboise was more like a man going to the
scaffold than one going to visit a convalescent girl.
There was something soothing, however, in the glow of warmth and
comfort which the opening door revealed. The large hall, carpeted
throughout, the stove burning in it most benevolently, the brightness
of the thick stair-rods, like veins of gold in the broad crimson
carpeting of the generously wide stair-case--all was consoling
to Thomas, whose home was one of the new straight-up-and-down,
stucco-faced abominations which can never be home-like except to
those who have been born in them--and no thanks to them, for in that
case a rabbit-hutch will be home-like. Mrs. Boxall was one of those
nice, stout, kindly, middle-aged women who have a positive genius
for comfort. Now there is no genius in liking to be comfortable; but
there is some genius in making yourself comfortable, and a great deal
more in making other people comfortable. This Mrs. Boxall possessed
in perfection; and you felt it the moment you entered her house,
which, like her person, summer and winter, was full of a certain
autumnal richness--the bloom of peaches and winter apples. And what was
remarkable was, that all this was gained without a breath of scolding
to the maids. She would ring the bell ten times an hour for the same
maid, if necessary. She would ring at once, no matter how slight the
fault--a scrap of paper, a cornerful of dust, a roll of flue upon that
same stair-carpet--but not even what might make an indulgent mistress
savage--a used lucifer match--would upset the temper of Mrs. Boxall.
Why do I linger on these trifles, do you ask, reader? Because I shall
have to part with Mrs. Boxall soon; and--shall I confess it?--because
it gives me a chance of reading a sly lecture to certain ladies whom
I know, but who cannot complain when I weave it into a history. My
only trouble about Mrs. Boxall is, to think in what condition she must
have found herself when she was no longer in the midst of any of the
circumstances of life--had neither house nor clothes, nor even the body
she had been used to dress with such matronly taste, to look after.
It was with a certain tremor that Tom approached the door of Mary
Boxall's room. But he had not time to indulge it, as I fear he might
have done if he had had time, for, as I have said, he prized feelings,
and had not begun even to think about actions.
What a change from the Mary of the snow-storm! She lay on a couch near
the fire, pale and delicate, with thin white hands, and altogether an
altered expression of being. But her appearance of health had always
bees somewhat boastful. Thomas felt that she was far lovelier than
before, and approached her with some emotion. But Mary's illness had
sharpened her perceptions. There was no light in the room but that
of the fire, and it lightened and gloomed over her still face, as
the clouds and the sun do over a landscape. As the waters shine out
and darken again in the hollows, so her eyes gleamed and vanished,
and in the shadow Thomas could not tell whether she was looking at
him or not. But then Mary was reading his face like a book in a hard
language, which yet she understood enough to read it. Very little was
said between them, for Mary was sad and weak, and Thomas was sorrowful
and perplexed. She had been reckoning on this first visit from Thomas
ever since she had recovered enough to choose what she would think
about; and now it was turning out all so different from what she had
pictured to herself. Her poor heart sank away somewhere, and left a
hollow place where it had used to be. Thomas sat there, but there was
a chasm between them, not such as she any longer sought to cross,
but which she would have wider still. She wished he would go. A few
more commonplaces across the glimmering fire, and it sank, as if
sympathetic, into a sullen gloom, and the face of neither was visible
to the other. Then Thomas rose with the effort of one in a nightmare
dream. Mary held out her hand to him. He took it in his, cold to the
heart. The fire gave out one flame which flickered and died. In that
light she looked at him--was it reproachfully? He thought so, and felt
that her eyes were like those of one trying to see something at a great
distance. One pressure of her hand, and he left her. He would gladly
have shrunk into a nutshell. "Good-by, Thomas," "Good-by, Mary," were
the last words that passed between them.
Outside the room he found Mrs. Boxall.
"Are you going already, Mr. Thomas?" she said, in an uncertain kind of
tone.
"Yes, Mrs. Boxall," was all Tom had to reply with.
Mrs. Boxall went into her daughter's room, and shut the door. Thomas
let himself out, and walked away.
She found Mary lying staring at the fire, with great dry eyes, lips
pressed close together, and face even whiter than before.
"My darling child!" said the mother.
"It's no matter, mother. It's all my own foolish fault. Only bed again
will be so dreary now."
The mother made some gesture, which the daughter understood.
"No, mother; don't say a word. I won't hear a word of that kind. I'm
a good deal wiser already than I used to be. If I get better, I shall
live for you and papa."
A dreadful fit of coughing interrupted her.
"Don't fancy I'm going to die for love," she said, with a faint attempt
at a smile. "I'm not one of that sort. If I die, it'll be of a good
honest cough, that's all. Dear mother, it's nothing, I declare."
Thomas never more crossed that threshold. And ever after, Mr. Boxall
spoke to him as a paid clerk, and nothing more. So he had to carry
some humiliation about with him. Mr. Stopper either knew something of
the matter, or followed the tone of his principal. Even Charles Wither
was short with him after awhile. I suppose Jane told him that he had
behaved very badly to Mary. So Tom had no friend left but Lucy, and was
driven nearer to Mr. Molken. He still contrived to keep his visits at
Guild Court, except those to Mr. Molken, a secret at home. But I think
Mr. Stopper had begun to suspect, if not to find him out.
I have not done with the Boxalls yet, though there is hence--forth an
impassable gulf between Tom and them.
As the spring drew on, Mary grew a little better. With the first
roses, Uncle John Boxall came home from the Chinese Sea, and took up
his residence for six weeks or so with his brother. Mary was fond of
Uncle John, and his appearance at this time was very opportune. A more
rapid improvement was visible within a few days of his arrival. He gave
himself up almost to the invalid; and as she was already getting over
her fancy for Tom, her love for her uncle came in to aid her recovery.
"It's the smell of the salt water," said he, when they remarked how
much good he had done her; "and more of it would do her more good yet."
They thought it better not to tell him anything about Tom. But one day
after dinner, in a gush of old feelings, brought on by a succession of
reminiscences of their childhood, Richard told John all about it, which
was not much. John swore, and kept pondering the matter over.