Mrs. Smith.
“Still no Mr. Earnshaw,” said Lady Mary. “This business of his and yours
is a long affair then, Tom. I wanted to send down to those cousins of
his to ask them to dinner, or something. I suppose I must write a little
civil note, and tell Mrs. Smith why I delay doing so. It is best to wait
till he comes back.”
“I’ll take your note, Aunt Mary,” said Harry, with alacrity. “Oh, no, it
will not inconvenience me in the least. I shall be passing that way.”
“I suppose you want to see the beauty again?” said Lady Mary, smiling.
“She is very pretty. But I don’t care much for the looks of the brother.
He has an uncertain way, which would be most uncomfortable in illness.
If he were to stand on one foot, and hesitate, and look at you like
that, to see what you were thinking of him, when some one was ill! A
most uncomfortable doctor. I wish we may not have been premature about
poor old Dr. Franks.”
“Anyhow it was not your doing,” said Mr. Tottenham.
Lady Mary blushed slightly. She answered with some confusion: “No, I
don’t suppose it was.” But at the same time she felt upon her
conscience the weight of many remarks, as to country practitioners, and
doctors of the old school, and men who did not advance with the progress
of science even in their own profession, which she had made at various
times, and which, no doubt, had gone forth with a certain influence. She
had not had it in her power to influence Dr. Franks as to the person who
should succeed him; but she had perhaps been a little instrumental in
dethroning the old country doctor of the old school, whose want of
modern science she had perceived so clearly. These remarks were made the
second day after the lecture, and Edgar had not yet returned. Nobody at
Tottenham’s knew where he was, or what had become of him; nobody except
the master of the house, who kept his own counsel. Harry had made
another unavailing promenade in front of Mrs. Smith’s lodgings on the
day before, and had caught a glimpse of Margaret in a cab, driving with
her brother to some patient, following the old lofty gig which was Dr.
Franks’ only vehicle. He had taken off his hat, and stood at the gate of
Tottenham’s, worshipping while she passed, and she had given him a smile
and a look which went to his heart. This look and smile seemed the sole
incidents that had happened to Harry; he could not remember anything
else; and when Lady Mary spoke of the note his heart leaped into his
mouth. She had, as usual, a hundred things to do that morning while he
waited, interviews with the housekeeper, with the gardener, with the
nurse, a hundred irrelevant matters. And then she had her letters to
write, a host of letters, at which he looked on with an impatience
almost beyond concealment--letters enclosing circulars, letters asking
for information, letters about her lectures, about other “schemes” of
popular enlightenment, letters to her friends, letters to her family.
Harry counted fifteen while he waited. Good lord! did any clerk in an
office work harder? “And most of them about nothing, I suppose,” Harry
said cynically to himself. Luncheon interrupted her in the middle of her
labours, and Harry had to wait till that meal was over before he could
obtain the small envelope, with its smaller enclosure, which justified
his visit. He hurried off as soon as he could leave the table, but not
without a final arrangement of his locks and tie. The long avenue seemed
to flee beneath his feet as he walked down, the long line of trees flew
past him. His heart went quicker than his steps, and so did his pulse,
both of them beating so that he grew dizzy and breathless. Why this
commotion? he said to himself. He was going to visit a lady whom he had
only seen once before; the loveliest woman he had ever seen in his life,
to be sure; but it was only walking so quickly, he supposed, which made
him so panting and excited. He lost time by his haste, for he had to
pause and get command of himself, and calm down, before he could venture
to go and knock at the shabby little green door.
Margaret was seated on the end of the little sofa, which was placed
beside the fire. This, he said to himself, no doubt was the reason why
he had not seen her at the window. She had her work-basket on the
table, and was sewing, with her little girl seated on a stool at her
feet. The little girl was about seven, very like her mother, seated in
the same attitude, and bending her baby brows over a stocking which she
was knitting. Margaret was very plainly, alas! she herself felt, much
too plainly-dressed, in a dark gown of no particular colour, with
nothing whatever to relieve it except a little white collar; her dark
hair, which she also lamented over as quite unlike and incapable of
being coaxed into, the fashionable colour of hair, was done up simply
enough, piled high up upon her head. She had not even a ribbon to lend
her a little colour. And she was not wise enough to know that chance had
befriended her, and that her beautiful pale face looked better in this
dusky colourless setting, in which there was no gleam or reflection to
catch the eye, than it would have done in the most splendid attire. She
raised her eyes when the door opened and rose up, her tall figure, with
a slight wavering stoop, looking more and more like a flexile branch or
tall drooping flower. She put out her hand quite simply, as if he had
been an old friend, and looked no surprise, nor seemed to require any
explanation of his visit, but seated herself again and resumed her work.
So did the child, who had lifted its violet eyes also to look at him,
and now bent them again on her knitting. Harry thought he had never seen
anything so lovely as this group, the child a softened repetition of the
mother--in the subdued greenish atmosphere with winter outside, and the
still warmth within.
“I came from my aunt with this note,” said Harry, embarrassed. She
looked up again as he spoke, and this way she had of looking at him only
now and then gave a curious particularity to her glance. He thought,
poor fellow, that his very tone must be suspicious, that her eyes went
through and through him, and that she had found him out. “I mean,” he
added, somewhat tremulously, “that I was very glad of--of the chance of
bringing Lady Mary’s note; and asking you how you liked the place.”
“You are very kind to come,” said Margaret in her soft voice, taking the
note. “It’s a little lonely, knowing nobody--and a visit is very
pleasant.”
The way in which she lingered upon the “very,” seemed sweetness itself
to Harry Thornleigh. Had a prejudiced Englishman written down the word,
probably he would, after Margaret’s pronunciation, have spelt it
“varry;” but that would be because he knew no better, and would not
really represent the sound, which had a caressing, lingering
superlativeness in it to the listener. She smiled as she spoke, then
opened her letter, and read it over slowly. Then she raised her eyes to
his again with still more brightness in them.
“Lady Mary is very kind, too,” she said, with a brightening of pleasure
all over her face.
“She’s waiting for your cousin to come back--I suppose she says
so--before asking you to the house; and I hope it will not be long
first, for I am only a visitor here,” said Harry impulsively. Margaret
gave him another soft smile, as if she understood exactly what he meant.
“You are not staying very long, perhaps?” she said.
“Oh, for some weeks, I hope; I hope long enough to improve my
acquaintance with--with Dr. Murray and yourself.”
“I hope so too,” said Margaret, with another smile. “Charlie is troubled
with an anxious mind. To see you so friendly will be very good for him,
very good.”
“Oh, I hope you will let me be friendly!” cried Harry, with a glow of
delight. “When does he go out? I suppose he is busy with the old doctor,
visiting the sick people. You were with him yesterday--”
“He thinks it is good for my health to go with him; and then he thinks I
am dull when he’s away,” said Margaret. “He is a real good brother;
there are not many like him. Yes, he is going about with Dr. Franks
nearly all the day.”
“And you are quite alone, and dull? I am so sorry. I wish you would let
me show you the neighbourhood; or if you would come and walk in the park
or the wood--my aunt, I am sure, would be too glad.”
“Oh, I’m not dull,” said Margaret. “I have my little girl. She is all I
have in the world, except Charles; and we are great companions, are we
no, Sibby?”
This was said with a change in the voice, which Harry thought, made it
still more like a wood-pigeon’s note.
“Ay are we,” said the little thing, putting down her knitting, and
laying back her little head, like a kitten, rubbing against her mother’s
knee. Nothing could be prettier as a picture, more natural, more simple;
and though the child’s jargon was scarcely comprehensible to Harry, his
heart answered to this renewed appeal upon it.
“But sometimes,” he said, “you must want other companionship than that
of a child.”
“Do I?” said Margaret, pressing the little head against her. “I am not
sure. After all, I think I’m happiest with her, thinking of nothing
else; but you, a young man, will scarcely understand that.”
“Though I am a young man, I think I can understand it,” said Harry. He
seemed to himself to be learning a hundred lessons, with an ease and
facility he was never conscious of before. “But if I were to come and
take you both out for a walk, into the woods, or through the park, to
show you the country, that would be good both for her and you.”
“Very good,” said Margaret, raising her eyes, “and very kind of you; but
I think I know why you’re so very good. You know my cousin, Edgar
Earnshaw, too?”
“Yes; I know him very well,” said Harry.
“He must be very good, since everybody is so kind that knows him; and
fancy, _I_ don’t know him!” said Margaret. “Charles and he are friends,
but Sibby and I have only seen him once. We have scarcely a right to
all the kind things that are done for his sake.”
“Oh, it isn’t for his sake,” cried Harry. “I like him very much; but
there are other fellows as good as he is. I wouldn’t have you make a
hero of Edgar; he is odd sometimes, as well as other folks.”
“Tell me something about him; I don’t know him, except what he did for
Granny,” said Margaret. “It’s strange that, though I am his relative,
you should know him so much better. Will you tell me? I would like to
know.”
“Oh, there’s nothing very wonderful to tell,” said Harry, somewhat
disgusted; “he’s well enough, and nice enough, but he has his faults.
You must not think that I came for his sake. I came because I thought
you would feel a little lonely, and might be pleased to have some one to
talk to. Forgive me if I was presumptuous.”
“Presumptuous! no,” said Margaret, with a smile. “You were quite right.
Would you like a cup of tea? it is just about the time. Sibby, go ben
and tell Mrs. Sims we will have some tea.”
“She is very like you,” said Harry, taking this subject, which he felt
would be agreeable, as a new way of reaching the young mother’s heart.
“So they tell me,” said Margaret. “She is like what I can mind of
myself, but gentler, and far more good. For, you see, there were always
two of us, Charlie and me.”
“You have always been inseparable?”
“We were separated, so long as I was married; but that was but two
years,” said Margaret, with a sigh; and here the conversation came to a
pause.
Harry was so touched by her sigh and her pause, that he did not know how
to show his sympathy. He would have liked to say on the spot, “Let me
make it all up to you now;” but he did not feel that this premature
declaration would be prudent. And then he asked himself, what did she
mean? that the time of her separation from her brother was sad? or that
she was sad that it came to an end so soon? With natural instinct, he
hoped it might be the former. He was looking at her intently, with
interest and sympathy in every line of his face, when she looked up
suddenly, as her manner was, and caught him--with so much more in his
looks than he ventured to say.
Margaret was half amused, half touched, half flattered; but she did not
let the amusement show. She said, gratefully, “You are very kind to take
so much interest in a stranger like me.”
“I do not feel as if you were a stranger,” cried Harry eagerly; and then
not knowing how to explain this warmth of expression, he added in haste,
“you know I have known--we have all known your cousin for years.”
Margaret accepted the explanation with a smile, “You all? You are one of
a family too--you have brothers and sisters like Charles and me?”
“Not like you. I have lots of brothers and sisters, too many to think of
them in the same way. There is one of my sisters whom I am sure you
would like,” said Harry, who had always the fear before his eyes that
the talk would flag, and his companion get tired of him--a fear which
made him catch wildly at any subject which presented itself.
“Yes?” said Margaret, “tell me her name, and why you think I would like
her best.”
From this it will be seen that she too was not displeased to keep up the
conversation, nor quite unskilled in the art.
“The tea’s coming,” said little Sibby, running in and taking her seat on
her footstool. Perhaps Harry thought he had gone far enough in the
revelation of his family, or perhaps only that this was a better
subject. He held out his hand and made overtures of friendship to the
little girl.
“Come and tell me your name,” he said, “shouldn’t you like to come up
with me to the house, and play with my little cousins in the nursery?
There are three or four of them, little things. Shouldn’t you like to
come with me?”
“No without mamma,” said little Sibby, putting one hand out timidly, and
with the other clinging to her mother’s dress.
“Oh, no,” said Harry, “not without mamma, she must come too; but you
have not told me your name. She is shy, I suppose.”
“A silly thing,” said Margaret, stroking her child’s dark hair. “Her
name is Sybilla, Sybil is prettier; but in Scotland we call it Sibby,
and sometimes Bell for short. Now, dear, you must not hold me, for the
gentleman will not eat you, and here is the tea.”
Harry felt himself elected into one of the family, when Mrs. Sims came
in, pushing the door open before her, with the tray in her arms; upon
which there was much bread and butter of which he partook, finding it
delightful, with a weakness common to young men in the amiable company
of the objects of their affection. He drew his chair to the table
opposite to Margaret, and set Sibby up on an elevated seat at the other
side, and felt a bewildering sensation come over him as if they belonged
to him. It was not a very high ideal of existence to sit round a red and
blue table in a cottage parlour of a winter’s afternoon, and eat bread
and butter; but yet Harry felt as if nothing so delightful and so
elevating had ever happened to him before in all his life.
It was a sad interruption to his pleasure, when Dr. Murray came in
shortly afterwards, pushing the door open as Mrs. Sims had done, and
entering with the air of a man to whom, and not to Harry, the place
belonged. He had his usual doubtful air, looking, as Lady Mary said, to
see what you thought of him, and not sure that his sister was not
showing an injudicious confidence in thus revealing to Harry the
existence of such a homely meal as tea. But he had no desire to send the
visitor away, especially when Margaret, who knew her brother’s humour,
propitiated him by thrusting into his hand Lady Mary’s note.
“I am sure her Ladyship is very kind,” he said, his face lighting up,
“Margaret, I hope you have written a proper reply.”
“When we have had our tea, Charles--will you not have some tea?” his
sister said; she always took things so easily, so much more easily than
he could ever do.
“Oh, you are having tea with the child, five o’clock tea,” said the poor
doctor, who was so anxious to make sure that everybody knew him to have
been “brought up a gentleman;” and he smiled a bland uneasy smile, and
sat down by Sibby. He would not take any bread and butter, though he was
hungry after a long walk; he preferred Harry to think that he was about
to dine presently, which was far from being the case. But Harry neither
thought of the matter nor cared; he had no time nor attention to spare,
though he was very civil to _her_ brother, and engaged him at once in
conversation, making himself agreeable with all his might.
“I suppose you are making acquaintance with quantities of people, and I
hope you think you will like the place,” he said.
“Yes, a great many people,” said Dr. Charles, “and it was full time that
somebody should come who knew what he was doing. Dr. Franks, I am
afraid, is no better than an old wife.”
“Oh, Charlie, how rashly you speak! he always says out what he thinks,”
said Margaret with an appealing look at Harry, “and it is often very far
from a wise thing to do.”
“Bravo, Aunt Mary will be delighted,” cried Harry, “it is what she
always said.”
“I knew Lady Mary Tottenham was very talented,” said Dr. Murray with
some pomp, “and that she would see the state of affairs. I can’t tell
you what a pleasure and support it is to have a discriminating person in
the neighbourhood. He is just an old wife. You need not shake your head
at me, Margaret, I know Mr. Thornhill is a gentleman, and that he will
not repeat what is said.”
“Surely not,” said Harry, somewhat surprised to find himself thus put on
his honour; “but my name is Thornleigh; never mind, it was a very simple
mistake.”
The doctor blushed with annoyance, and confounded himself in excuses.
Harry took his leave before these apologies were half over. He was
rather glad to get away at the last, feeling that a shadow had come over
his happiness; but before he had left the Green, this momentary shade
disappeared, and all the bliss of recollection came back upon him. What
an hour he had spent, of happiness pure and unalloyed, with so many
smiles, so many looks to lay up as treasures! how lovely she was, how
simple, how superior to everything he had ever seen before! Talk of
fashion, Harry said to himself hotly, talk of rank and society and high
birth, and high breeding! here was one who had no need of such
accessories, here was a perfect creature, made in some matchless mould
that the world had never seen before; and how kindly she had looked at
him, how sweetly talked to him! What had he done, that he should have
suddenly fallen upon such happiness?