THE NEW GREY.
That was what Neil signed himself in the first letter he sent to Bessie
after his return to London, and in which he assured her that he was
instant in season and out of season in his endeavors to be like the
American and make himself worthy of the dearest little girl a man ever
called his wife. He had borne with perfect equanimity his mother's
frequent ebullitions of temper; had read aloud to Blanche for two hours,
when she had a headache, although he wanted so much to go to his club;
and had listened daily, without a sign of impatience, to his father's
tiresome talk upon politics and the demoralized condition of the country
generally. Then he told her how much he loved her, and how a thought of
her and her sweet face was constantly in his mind, inspiring him to a
nobler life than he had hitherto been living.
And Bessie, as she read his letter, felt her love grow stronger for him,
and her face grew brighter and lovelier each day, and there was a ring
of gladness and hopefulness in her voice as she went singing about the
house thinking of the future which stretched so pleasantly before her,
and in which she could be always with Neil, "the new Grey." Sometimes
she thought of the real Grey, who was still at Oxford, which Neil had
left for good. He was not fond of study, and greatly preferred his idle,
pleasant life at home, breakfasting when he pleased and as he pleased,
either in bed or in the breakfast-room, lounging through the morning,
playing duets with Blanche, sorting her worsteds for her, or teasing her
about the grotesque figures she was embroidering and calling shepherd
boys and girls. The comfort and luxury of Trevellian House suited him
better than Stoneleigh, and now that he was engaged and there was no
probability of his marrying Blanche, her society was not half as
distasteful to him as it had formerly been, neither were her eyebrows as
light nor her shoulder-blades as sharp, and he began to think she really
was a good-natured kind of a girl and played splendidly. And then he
remembered with a pang that Bessie did not play at all, except simple
accompaniments to songs, and found himself wondering in a vague kind of
way what people would say to a Mrs. Neil McPherson who had no
accomplishments except a sweet voice for ballad singing and a tolerable
knowledge of French and German, which she had picked up when a child
leading a Bohemian life on the Continent. Bessie was neither learned,
nor accomplished, nor fashionable; but she was good and pure and
beautiful, and Neil loved her with all the intensity of his selfish
nature, and meant to be true to her. He wrote to her, three times a
week, long letters, full of love and tenderness, and of Grey Jerrold,
with whom he corresponded.
Once he tried to tell his mother of his engagement. She had been
speaking to him of Blanche, talking as if everything were settled, and
asking why it were not as well to announce the engagement at once.
"Because," Neil said to her, "I am not engaged to Blanche, and do not
know that I ever shall be. To tell you the truth, mother, I love my
Cousin Bessie better than any woman living, and if I had money of my own
I would marry her to-morrow."
This was a great deal for Neil to say, knowing his mother as he did, and
possibly he might not have said it could he have foreseen the storm
which followed his declaration. What she had once before said to him
upon the subject was nothing when compared with her present anger and
scorn, as she assured him again and again that if he married Bessie
McPherson, she would at once cut off his allowance and leave him to
shirk for himself. That was the way she expressed it, for she could be
very coarse in her language at times, even if she were a titled lady.
Bessie should never enter her house as her daughter-in-law, she said,
and she would not only cut off Neil's allowance during her life, but at
her death would leave what little money she had to some one else--Jack
Trevellian, perhaps, who would represent the family far better than her
scapegrace son, with his low McPherson tastes.
After this Neil could not tell her. On the contrary, he bent every
energy to keep the secret from her, and never again mentioned Bessie or
Stoneleigh in her presence, but devoted himself to Blanche in a
friendly, brotherly kind of way, which kept the peace in that quarter
and left him in quiet. But his thoughts were busy with plans for the
future, when Bessie would be his wife and he disinherited, for her sake.
Once he calculated the possibility of living at Stoneleigh on the meagre
annuity which he knew Archie received, and which would die with him. But
he could not do that, and he called himself a sneak for considering the
matter an instant.
"If there was something I could do which would not compromise me," he
thought. "I might become an inventor, or an author. I could do better at
that, for I have some talent for yarning, they say. Wilkie Collins and
George Eliot make heaps of money with their pens. Yes, I believe I'll
try it."
And so Neil shut himself in his room for some hours each day, and
commenced the story which was to make his fortune. But as Bessie sat for
his heroine and Grey Jerrold for his hero, he became furiously jealous
when he reached the love passages, and tearing up his manuscript in
disgust, abandoned the field of authorship forever.
Suddenly his thoughts turned to the old aunt in America, whom, his fancy
painted as fabulously rich. She could help him, and perhaps if he wrote
her the right kind of a letter she would. And so he set himself to the
task, which proved harder, even, than the story-writing had been. Neil
knew his Aunt Betsey was very eccentric, and he hardly knew how to make
her under stand him without saying too much and so ruining his cause.
"By Jove, I'll tell her the truth, that I want money in order to marry
Bessie," he said, and he took Bessie for his starting paint, and waxed
eloquent as he described her sweetness and beauty, and told of her life
of toil and care and self-denial at Stoneleigh, with her father, whom he
represented as just on the verge of the grave. Then he told of his
engagement and his mother's fierce opposition to it, and the sure
poverty which awaited him if he remained true to his cousin, as he meant
to do, and then he came to the real object of his letter, and asked for
money on which to live until his mother was reconciled, as she was sure
to be in time, when she knew how lovely and good Bessie was. A few
thousand pounds would suffice, he said, as he knew his father would
allow him to occupy a house in Warwick Crescent which belonged to him
and which would save his rent. And then, growing bolder as he advanced,
he hinted at the possibility that his aunt might be intending to make
Bessie her heir, and said if it were so he should be glad to know it,
and would keep the secret religiously from Bessie until such time as he
might reveal it. A speedy answer to this letter was desired, and Neil
closed by signing himself:
"Your very affectionate nephew, Neil McPherson."
He posted the letter himself, and feeling almost sure of a favorable
response, went and bought Bessie a small solitaire ring, such as he
could afford, and sent it with the most loving, hopeful letter he had
yet written to her.