"POOR SUSAN!"
The subject of the foregoing discussion stole quickly and quietly up
to her room, unconscious of the angry passions she had unwittingly
aroused, intending to remain there till the people returned from
church, when she would meet her mother surrounded by strangers, and so
avoid the bad quarter of an hour which her conscience told her she
ought to expect. She had scarcely removed her hat, however, when the
door opened and her mother appeared, wearing a smile in which curious
impatience mingled with complacent certainty. The worthy lady had very
little doubt as to what she was going to be told, and was already
congratulating herself on her good management and good luck combined.
"Good morning, mamma. How anxious you must have been! Did you think I
was lost? But, to be sure, uncle Joseph's being in the same
predicament would keep your mind at ease."
Margaret had run forward to embrace her mother effusively, and was
speaking with unusual vivacity. There was so much to tell and so much
to leave untold, without hesitancy, which might betray that aught was
being kept back. She did not know how she was to manage, and like
other timid things when they find there is no escape, she rushed at
the danger as if she could encounter and overbear it. Anything seemed
preferable to expectancy, cowering and waiting to be fallen upon and
devoured.
Her mother submitted to be kissed. It was the morning
routine-observance between her and her girls, but she had not patience
for prolonged embraces on the present occasion.
"Tell me," she said, as soon as she could free herself from the
importunate endearments; "has he proposed?"
"I almost think he has, to judge from his manner; and he looks so
happy."
"You think? You do not know? Come, that is too ridiculous! What did he
say?"
"I do not know what he said."
"You don't? And you call yourself a grown-up girl?... That I should be
mother to such an _ingénue_!... You must be a fool!"
"You do not imagine he would propose in open meeting, do you? I only
infer from her affectionateness to me when we were alone together last
night.... We slept in a fisherman's hut.... But she did not exactly
tell me anything.... And then he was so awfully attentive to her this
morning; ... and they seemed to understand each other so perfectly,
although both were rather quiet, and not particularly good company for
the rest of us."
"Margaret Naylor! Am I to believe my ears? Do you mean to say you
have let that Hillyard girl cut you out?... You grown-up baby! When I
was your age, no girl should have done that to me--whether I wanted
the man or not. It's a disgrace to your womanhood, and your
upbringing--that means me--and your looks, and your spirit--if you had
any; but you have none, or you would not have allowed it. The way that
man stuck to you yesterday, and trotted away with you on that blessed
island!... And you to let another woman cut in and take him away from
you!... And people call you a clever girl! Hm!"
"But what was I to do, mother? I could not go in for him myself. I
could not make him propose to me."
"Why not, pray? Is he not good enough for you? What do you expect? Is
it a President of the United States you hope to captivate?"
"I do not understand. He could not have been persuaded to do anything
so dreadful. And you, I am sure, whatever the surprise of this may
have stupefied you into saying, you would not have me want to be my
own aunt?"
"What do you mean? Whom are you talking about?"
"Uncle Joseph, to be sure. Whom else?"
"Joseph? You must be dreaming."
"I really think, however, he has proposed to Rose Hillyard, and been
accepted."
"Impossible! Joseph marry! I never heard anything so preposterous."
"Nevertheless, you will see now. I am sure he is in love I do not
think he spoke twice to me all the time we were upon the island--only
to Rose, and once or twice, when it was necessary, to Wa--W--to Mr
Wilkie, I ought to say."
Margaret started and grew pale as she spoke, but her mother was too
intent upon the idea of Joseph's entanglement to observe the stumble.
"My dear, he was blighted some years before you were born. There was a
time when I would have laughed at the notion of a blighted man. It
seemed one only fit to exist in a novel. Even the novels, some of
them, used to make fun of a blighted being. There was 'Mr Toots,' I
remember. But in the case of your uncle Joseph, the thing positively
occurred. His affections got a wrench some time very long ago,--I
never heard the particulars,--and he has never got over it to this
day. He might have had any woman in the country for the asking, any
time these twenty years--till lately, at least, when he began to grow
stout and grey, and, one would have thought, had given up all idea of
that sort of thing. There never was as good and soft-hearted a fellow
as Joseph, I do believe. You don't catch many of his fellow-men
playing such games of constancy, I promise you. His heart must have
been shattered. So different from other men's hearts, my dear, as
you'll find out! They seem generally to be made of india-rubber--able
to swell or contract any quantity, but there's no break in them. You
may jump on them, if they will let you; but you will not crush or
bruise them. Joseph is the exception to a universal rule--the best
brother-in-law and friend that ever lived. But you will not persuade
me that he would ask any one to marry him, after the dozen or more
fine women I have seen throw themselves at his head; and he never knew
it, I do believe. The idea of Joseph becoming entangled! There's no
constancy in man, if it turns out that _he_ has succumbed to a woman's
wiles. If what men call their heart has begun to sprout again with
him, it is an unbreakable article for sure.... But I will not believe
it: it would spoil my ideal of a perfect love."
"Have you not noticed, mamma, how much he and Rose have been
together?"
"Now you speak of it, he has certainly taken most unusual notice of
her--for him, that is. But think of the disparity in age!"
"She saved him from drowning, remember."
"That is enough to account for their striking up a fast friendship.
But _she_ is no forlorn damsel, and no pauper, evidently. She may
choose where she likes. Why should she take up with a man old enough
to be her father?"
"I do not think anybody need look on Uncle Joseph as old. There are
very few young fellows to compare with him for activity or strength,
or niceness every way. And he is so well off, besides."
"That maybe it. Poor Joseph! To be saved from the sea only to fall
into the hands of a designing fortune-hunter! But I hope you are
mistaken. It would be too sad; it would be dreadful! And you and Lucy,
my poor children, what a difference it will make in your prospects!
You will have to stand on your merits now, if this should chance to be
true. No longer the heiresses of wealthy Joseph Naylor!"
"That is no reason why Uncle Joseph should not marry. We have lived
very comfortably on what papa left us."
"You do not understand yet. Wait till you go to Ottawa or Toronto. You
will recognise the difference then."
"I do not want to stand on anybody's merits but my own. I think I
shall be fond of Rose, after the first queerness of her being Uncle
Joseph's wife wears off."
"You think so because you do not know the world. I know it, and I can
tell you you are wrong.... If once that woman is married to your
uncle, there will be no standing her.... And I won't!" And Mrs Naylor,
flushing an angry red, turned and left the room. The impending danger
to her own consequence had driven every other idea from her mind, and
she went without one word upon the subject she had come to discuss--to
wit, Peter Wilkie's attentions to her daughter, and how they had been
received.
On the stair she met Joseph coming up as she went down. It required an
effort to pull herself together and meet him as usual, but she
succeeded; or perhaps he was too preoccupied to observe the constraint
of her manner as she wished him good-morning and proceeded on her way.
He turned in his course, and followed her into a parlour, empty like
the other rooms at that hour, owing to the absence of every one at
church.
She sat down in a large chair before the open window, with the shady
gallery outside, and the fanning breeze blowing in from off the sea.
He drew up the nearest seat and placed himself beside her, looking at
his nails the while, but saying nothing.
She watched him from under her eyelids. It was true, then, she feared,
what Margaret had been telling her, and it made her feel so angry and
vindictive that she would not even help him out of the difficulty of
breaking his news, by beginning the conversation. He sat, and she sat,
but they did not speak. Those nails of his must have had uncommon
attractions, or his thoughts had wandered away into pleasant fields,
and he had forgotten that speech was expected of him.
She shuffled her feet beneath her gown and waited, growing more and
more impatient. The front of her dress was agitated by the drumming of
her slipper-toes, which would not keep still, yet proved an inadequate
vent for the impatience which devoured her. It grew intolerable, at
last, to have him beaming there upon his own finger-tips, and saying
never a word. A red spot came in either cheek; and steadying her voice
with a little cough into an uncertain tone, ready alike to grow
plaintive or indignant as occasion should arise, she spoke at last--
"How did you contrive to be left behind yesterday?"
He started. His thoughts came back from their wool-gathering with a
leap. "Very simply. We stayed too long, I suppose, on the other side
of the island. Then the storm came on, and we took shelter in a
fisherman's hut. We sent a man to bid the steamer people wait. When he
reached the landing the steamer was gone."
"That must have been hours after we left. We got home before the storm
overtook us."
"You travelled faster than the storm, then. It was quite early, I
should say, when it came on us; though I cannot name the hour, having
forgot my watch."
"Had nobody a watch? There were four of you."
"I do not know. The fact is, I was interested in other things."
"Such as--for instance----"
"Well, I was---- But really, Susan, I cannot speak of it in this
cold-blooded way. The truth is, I--I have asked Rose Hillyard to marry
me."
Mrs Naylor sat bolt-upright in her chair, and turned to look at him,
with the red spot burning in either cheek. She lifted her hands, but
whether she intended to clasp them or to do something else, was not
apparent. His unabashed assurance seemed to petrify her, for though
her lips were parted she did not speak.
"And she has been so kind as to say yes.... Wish me joy, dear Susan,
of my happiness. It is more than I can believe to be possible." Before
she could protest, he had taken her hands in his and shaken them, and
was imprinting a kiss upon the flushed place on her cheek.
"Let go, Joseph! You will suffocate me. This is more than---- This is
something---- You must be out of your senses."
"Very nearly, Susan. I am the happiest man alive!"
"She is not half your age."
"She is twenty-five."
"And you are forty-seven. May and December! How can you possibly get
on together?"
"Where love is, Susan, what else matters?"
"At your age, Joseph, you should have more sense than yield to such
raptures. You must know you are talking nonsense."
"Come! you know better than that. It is your commonplace worldliness
that is nonsense; and you know it. You were once a bride yourself."
"I was young then, Joseph. We get sense--or we should--as we grow
older."
"Rose is young. Why may she not have fresh true feeling, just as you
had yourself?"
"But has she? Does she go into raptures as you do, I wonder?"
"One would not like a girl to display her feelings too openly before
marriage. You would call it boldness."
"Has she any feeling to display? Can we expect her to have that kind
of feeling for a man who might be her father?"
"My dear Susan, time will show. I bring love to the union enough for
both, and it will be strange if I do not make her happy. If you knew
the story of my youth--which you do not, and it is not needful that
you should--but you have known my later life; how I have been alone
while others have been making themselves tender ties and households.
Do you think it can be anything but dreary to feel that you have no
one to call your own--that you can shelter your whole family under
your hat-brim?"
"What of your nieces? What of poor Caleb's children?"
"You know I am fond of them, Susan. I do not think you will accuse me
of being a neglectful uncle or brother-in-law."
"And yet you are going to cast us off, and put this stranger in our
places."
"Not in your places. Why should it make any difference between us? The
girls like her."
"That only shows their innocence and ignorance of the world, poor
things."
"I do not see it, Susan. If it is their prospects you mean, they are
independent already; but you may rest assured they will both come in
for a slice, when my belongings come to be divided."
"There! It only wanted that!" cried the sister-in-law, seizing the
opportunity to let off steam in a burst of indignation. "It only
wanted insult to heap upon the injury. You must fling your
testamentary intentions in my teeth, as if I were a mercenary person,
in case I should not feel crushed and humbled sufficiently under your
latest whim! Have I failed to keep up the family respectability and
position as I should? I am growing too old, I suppose, to be the Mrs
Naylor of Jones's Landing. Somebody younger must be found to lord it
over the people, and turn their heads with follies and expensive
notions they cannot afford; and I am to be the neglected dowager
living in retirement with my fatherless girls.... But she shall never
have it all her own way, Joseph Naylor, if _I_ can help it; and if she
has, it will be still worse for _you!_" And so saying, Susan got up
and flung out of the room, retiring to her chamber, where a full hour
elapsed before her heat subsided, and she was able to see how foolish
and unreasonable, not to say imprudent, she had been.
Joseph, as was natural, saw it at once, but he was too happy to be
easily annoyed. He rose as she did, stepped out on the gallery, and so
away, merely whispering to himself, half aloud--
"Poor Susan! It must be a disappointment, and hard to bear. But she is
not half as bad and worldly as she pretends. She will be ashamed and
sorry enough when next we meet. My cue is to forget this little
tantrum altogether."