NINA
It might have spared Mr. Stanmore a deal of unnecessary discomfort had
the owner of those legs which he saw through the open window at Putney
thought fit to show the rest of his person to voyagers on the river.
Dick would then have recognised an old college friend, would have
landed to greet him with the old college heartiness, and in the
natural course of events would have satisfied himself that his
suspicions of Maud were unfounded and absurd.
Simon Perkins is not a romantic name, nor did the exterior of Simon
Perkins, as seen either within or without the Putney cottage,
correspond with that which fiction assigns to a hero of romance. His
frame was small and slight, his complexion pale, his hair weak and
thin, his manner diffident, awkward, almost ungainly, but that its
thorough courtesy and good-nature were so obvious and unaffected. In
general society people passed him over as a shy, harmless, unmeaning
little man; but those who really knew him affirmed that his courage
was not to be damped, nor his nerve shaken, by extremity of
danger--that he was always ready with succour for the needy, with
sympathy for the sorrowful. In short, as they tersely put it, that
"his heart was in the right place."
For half-a-dozen terms at Oxford he and Dick had been inseparable.
Their intimacy, none the less close for dissimilarity of tastes and
pursuits, since Perkins was a reading man, and Dick a "fast" one, had
been still more firmly soldered by a long vacation spent together in
Norway, and a "thrilling tableau," as Dick called it, to which their
expedition gave rise. Had Simon Perkins's heart been no stouter than
his slender person, his companion must have died a damp death, and
this story would never have been told.
The young men were in one of the most picturesque parts of that wild
and beautiful country, created, as it would seem, for the express
gratification of the fisherman and the landscape painter; Simon
Perkins, an artist in his very soul, wholly engrossed by the sketch of
a mountain, Dick Stanmore equally absorbed in fishing a pool. Scarce
twenty yards apart, neither was conscious, for the moment, of the
other's existence; Simon, indeed, being in spirit some seven thousand
feet above the level of the sea, putting more ochre into the virgin
snow that crested his topmost peak, and Dick deftly dropping a fly,
the size of a pen-wiper, over the nose of a fifteen-pounder that had
already once risen to the gaudy lure.
Poising himself, like a Mercury, on a rock in mid-stream, the angler
had just thrown eighteen yards of line lightly as a silken thread
to an inch, when his foot slipped, and a loud splash, bringing the
painter, like Icarus, out of the clouds with a run, startled his
attention to the place where his companion was not. In another second
Simon had his grip on Dick's collar, and both men were struggling for
dear life in the pool. Stanmore could swim, of course, but it takes
a good swimmer to hold his own in fisherman's boots, encumbered,
moreover, with sundry paraphernalia of his art. Simon was a very mild
performer in the water, but he had coolness, presence of mind, and
inflexible tenacity of purpose. To these qualities the friends owed it
that they ever reached the shore alive. It was a very near thing,
and when they found their legs and looked into each other's faces,
gasping, dripping, spouting water from ears, nose, and mouth, Dick
gathered breath to exclaim, "You trump! I should have been drowned,
to a moral!" Whereat the other, choking, coughing, and sputtering,
answered faintly, "You old muff! I believe we were never out of our
depth the whole time!"
Perkins did not go up for his degree, and the men lost sight of one
another in a few years, cherishing, indeed, a kindly remembrance each
of his friend, yet taking little pains to refresh that remembrance by
renewed intercourse. How many intimacies, how many attachments outlast
a twelvemonth's break? There are certain things people go on caring
for, but I fear they are more intimately connected with self in daily
life than either the romance of friendship or the intermittent fever
of love. The enjoyment of luxury, the pursuit of money-making, seem to
lose none of their zest with advancing years, and perhaps to these we
may add the taste for art.
Now to Simon Perkins art was as the very air he breathed. The greatest
painter was, in his eyes, the greatest man that lived. When he left
Oxford, he devoted himself to the profession of painting with
such success as rendered him independent, besides enabling him to
contribute largely to the comfort of two maiden aunts with whom he
lived.
Not without hard work; far from it. There is no pursuit, perhaps,
which demands such constant and unremitting exertion from its
votaries. The ideal to which he strains can never be reached, for his
very successes keep building it yet higher, and a painter is so far
like a baby his whole life through that he is always learning to
_see_.
Simon was still learning to see on the afternoon Dick Stanmore sculled
by his cottage windows--studying the effect of a declining sun on the
opposite elms, not entirely averting his looks from that graceful
girl, who ran into the house to the oarsman's discomfiture, and
missing her more than might have been expected when she vanished
up-stairs. Was not the sun still shining bright on that graceful
feathery foliage? He did not quite think it was.
Presently there came to the door a rustle of draperies, and an elderly
lady, not remarkable for beauty, entered the room. Taking no notice
of Simon, she proceeded to arrange small articles of furniture with a
restless manner that denoted anxiety of mind. At last, stopping short
in the act of dusting a china tea-cup, with a very clean cambric
handkerchief, she observed, in a faltering voice, "Simon, dear, I feel
so nervous I know I shall never get through with it. Where's your Aunt
Jemima?" Even while she spoke there appeared at the door another lady,
somewhat more elderly, and even less remarkable for beauty, who seated
herself bolt upright in an elbow-chair without delay, and, looking
austerely round, observed in an impressive voice, "Susannah, fetch me
my spectacles; Simon, shut the door."
Of all governments there must be a head. It was obvious that in this
deliberative assembly Miss Jemima Perkins assumed the lead. Both
commands being promptly obeyed, she pulled her spectacles from their
case and put them on, as symbols of authority, forthwith.
"I want your advice, Simon," said this strong-minded old lady, in a
hard, clear voice. "I dare say I sha'n't act upon it, but I want it
all the same. I've no secrets from either of you; but as the head of
the family I don't mean to shirk responsibility, and my opinion is,
she must go. Susannah, no weakness. My dear, you ought to be ashamed
of yourself. Nina, run up-stairs again, we don't want you just now."
This to a pretty head with raven hair, that popped saucily in, and as
saucily withdrew.
Simon looked wistfully after the pretty head, and relapsed into a
day-dream. Was he thinking what a picture it would make, or what a
reality it was? His aunt's voice recalled him to facts.
"Simon," she repeated, "my opinion is she must go."
"Go!" said her nephew vacantly, "what do you mean,
aunt?--Go?--where?--who?"
"Why that girl we're all so fond of," replied Miss Jemima, growing
every moment more severe. "Mr. Algernon used to come here twice every
quarter, usedn't he? Never missed the day, did he? and paid his money
as regular as clockwork. Susannah, how long is it since he's been to
see us?"
Susannah sobbed.
"That's no answer," pursued the inflexible speaker. "Tomorrow week it
will be ten months since we have seen him; and tomorrow week it will
be ten months since we've had a scrap of his handwriting. Is that girl
to remain here, dependent on the bounty of a struggling artist and two
old maids? My opinion is that she ought to go out and gain her own
livelihood; my feeling is that--that--I couldn't bear to think of the
poor dear in any home but this."
Here the old lady, whose assumption of extreme fortitude had
been gradually leading to the inevitable catastrophe, broke down
altogether, while Susannah, giving rein to her emotions, lifted up her
voice and wept.
"You knew who she was all along, Jemima," said the latter, gulping
sadly at her syllables: "you know you did; and it's cruel to harrow up
our feelings like this."
Simon said nothing, but on his homely features gathered an expression
of resolve, through which there gleamed the bright radiance of hope.
Miss Perkins wiped her eyes and then her spectacles. Resuming her
dignity, she proceeded in a calmer voice--
"I will not conceal from you, Susannah, nor from you, Simon, that I
have had my suspicions for several years. Those suspicions became a
certainty some time ago. There can be no doubt now of the relationship
existing between our Nina and the Mr. Algernon, as he called himself,
who took such an interest in the child's welfare. When I saw Mr.
Bruce's death in the paper, I knew that our pet had lost her father.
What was I to do? When I consented to take charge of the child twenty
years ago--and a sweet pretty babe she was--I perfectly understood
there must be a mystery connected with her birth. As head of the
family, I imparted my suspicions to neither of you, and I kept my
conjectures and my disapproval to myself. This seemed only fair to
my correspondent, only fair to the child. When I learned Mr. Bruce's
death, it came upon me like a shot, that he was the Mr. Algernon who
used to visit here, and who furnished such liberal means for the
support and education of that girl up-stairs--Susannah, I cannot make
myself understood if you will persist in blowing your nose!--Since Mr.
Bruce's death no Mr. Algernon has darkened our doors, no remittances
have come to hand with the usual signature. Simon, my impression is
that no provision whatever has been made for the poor thing, and that
our Nina is--is utterly destitute and friendless."
Here Miss Susannah gave a little scream, whereat her sister glared
austerely, and resumed the spectacles she had taken off to dry.
"Not friendless, aunt," exclaimed Simon, in a great heat and fuss;
"never friendless so long as we are all above ground. I am perfectly
willing to--stay, Aunt Jemima, I beg your pardon, what do you think
ought to be done?"
The old lady smoothed her dress, looking round with placid dignity.
"I will first hear what you two have to propose. Susannah, leave off
crying this minute, and tell us what you think of this--this _very_
embarrassing position."
It is possible that but for the formidable adjective Susannah might
have originated, and indeed expressed some idea of her own; but to
confront a position described by her sister as "embarrassing" was
quite beyond her powers, and she could only repeat feebly, "I'll give
her half my money--I'll give her half my money. We can't drive her
out into the cold." This with sobs and tears, and a hand pressed
helplessly to her side.
Miss Jemima turned from her with contempt, declaring, in an audible
whisper, she had "more than half a mind to send the foolish thing to
bed;" then looked severely at her nephew.
"This girl," said he, "has become a member of our family, just as
if she were a born relation. It seems to me there is no question of
feeling or sentiment or prejudice in the matter. It is a mere affair
of duty. We are bound to treat Nina Algernon exactly as if she were a
Perkins."
His aunt took his face in both her hands, squeezed it hard, and
flattened his nose with a grim kiss. After this feat she looked more
severe than ever.
"I believe you are right," she said; "I believe this arrangement is a
special duty sent on purpose for us to fulfil. I had made up my mind
on the subject before I spoke to you, but it is satisfactory to
know that you both think as I do. When we give way to our feelings,
Susannah, we are sure to be injudicious, sometimes even unjust. But
duty is a never-failing guide, and--O! my dears, to part with that
darling would be to take the very heart out of my breast; and, Simon,
I'm so glad you agree with me; and, Susannah, dear, if I spoke harshly
just now, it was for your own good; and--and--I'll just step upstairs
into the storeroom, and look out some of the house-linen that wants
mending. I had rather you didn't disturb me. I shall be down again to
tea."
So the old lady marched out firmly enough, but sister and nephew both
knew right well that kindly tears, long kept back from a sense of
dignity, would drop on the half-worn house-linen, and that in the
solitude of her storeroom she would give vent to those womanly
feelings she deemed it incumbent on her, as head of the family, to
restrain before the rest.
Miss Susannah entertained no such scruples. Inflicting on her nephew a
very tearful embrace, she sobbed out incoherent congratulations on the
decision at which her eldest sister had arrived.
"But we mustn't let the dear girl find it out," said this sensitive,
weak-minded, but generous-hearted lady. "We should make no sort of
difference in our treatment of her, of course, but we must take great
care not to let anything betray us in our manner. I am not good at
concealment, I know, but I will undertake that she never suspects
anything from mine."
The fallacy of this assertion was so transparent that Simon could not
forbear a smile.
"Better make a clean breast of it at once," said he. "Directly there's
a mystery in a family, Aunt Susannah, you may be sure there can be
no union. It need not be put in a way to hurt her feelings. On the
contrary, Aunt Jemima might impress on her that we count on her
assistance to keep the pot boiling. Why, she's saving us pounds and
pounds at this moment. Where should I get such a model for my Fairy
Queen, I should like to know? It ought to be a great picture--a great
picture, Aunt Susannah, if I can only work it out. And where should I
be if she left me in the lurch? No--no; we won't forget the bundle of
sticks. I'll to the maul-stick, and you and Aunt Jemima shall be as
cross as two sticks; and as for Nina, with her bright eyes, and her
pleasant voice, and her merry ways, I don't know what sort of a stick
we should make of her." "A fiddlestick, I should think," said that
young lady, entering the room from the garden window, having heard, it
is to be hoped, no more than Simon's closing sentence. "What are
you two doing here in the dark? It's past eight--tea's ready--Aunt
Jemima's down--and everything's getting cold."
Candles were lit in the next room, and the tea-things laid. Following
the ladies, and watching with a painter's eye the lights and shades as
they fell on Nina's graceful beauty, Simon Perkins felt, not for the
first time, that if she were to leave the cottage, she would carry
away with her all that made it a dear and happy home, depriving him at
once of past, present, and future, taking from him the very cunning of
his handicraft, and, worse still, the inspiration of his art.
It was no wonder she had wound herself round the hearts of that quiet
little family in the retired Putney villa. As like Maud Bruce in form
and feature, as though she had been her twin sister, Nina Algernon
possessed the same pale, delicate features, the same graceful form,
the same dark, pleading eyes and glossy raven hair; but Mr. Bruce's
elder and unacknowledged daughter had this advantage over the younger,
that about her there was a sweetness, a freshness, a quiet gaiety, and
a _bonhomie_ such as spring only from kindliness of disposition and
pure unselfishness of heart. Had she been an ugly girl, though she
might have lacked admirers, she could not have long remained without a
lover. Being as handsome as Maud, she seemed calculated to rivet more
attachments, while she made almost as many conquests. Between the
sisters there was a similitude and a difference. One was a costly
artificial flower, the other a real garden rose.