DISCUSSING A SUITOR.
Is there some connection between a maiden's tresses and the workings
of her mind? When the braids are coiled in shining order for the
captivation of the world, are her thoughts as well confined in
conventional rolls and waves conforming to the fashion of the time?
Poets love to dwell upon her "locks": can it be because they guard
her confidences that they have named them so? There is more in this
than a mere wretched pun; there is a connection between sound and
sense--involuntary, no doubt, but the beginnings of language are all
involuntary. When the hair is unbound, the mind is freed from the
trammels of convention and reserve; and this may be why, at
hair-brushing time, as I have heard, girls' tongues are wont to wag so
freely.
There must be infinite relief to the poor little head, and brain
benumbed, when the weight of firmly drawn and twisted hair is
unbuckled and let down, and a refreshing stimulation of thought in the
action of brush and comb, spreading and airing and drawing out the
uncomfortable glory.
Margaret and Lucy Naylor had retired for the night, but not as yet to
rest. Relieved from hair-pins, they stood before their glasses in
freedom and disarray, more charming far than when decked out to meet
the public eye, which might not, alas! be privileged to behold them
now.
Yet doubtless there is a happiness in being handsome, for its own
sake, even if one is alone. One may legitimately rejoice in beauty
though it be one's own; and it were churlish to libel that as vanity
which is common to all things beautiful. See how the roses spread
their petals to the light, and how birds of starry plumage perch in
solitary places in the sun, to preen their feathers and display their
brilliant dyes!
The girls were pretty seen at any time, but when busied in these
secret mysteries they were vastly more so. The glossy abundance hung
down like mantles over the pearly shoulders and far below their
waists, and the supple white arms held up and played among the falling
waves of hair, which flashed like skeins of pale and ruddy gold-thread
in the flicker of the candles. The glittering veil half hid their
smiling features, but ever and anon the eyes flashed out beneath the
shadow, more brightly than their wont, answering to lips of red, and
rows of small white teeth, and gurgling rounds of laughter.
The doings of the evening were all gone over again, the successes won
anew; and in relation, what had seemed but trifling incidents at the
time, grew bigger, and under merry comment vastly entertaining. Lucy
had most to say. She was the chatterbox, and had much to tell about
the gentlemen she had danced with, and their sometimes rather vapid
talk. Could those lordly wiseacres have heard the _résumé_ and
description of their stiff-backed endeavours to converse and please,
they would have been surprised, and some of them not over-gratified,
at the shrewd commentaries of the pretty, timid, and not too clever
little thing they had trifled with so condescendingly.
Margaret had much less to say, but she was in equally good spirits. It
was with a very old friend that she had mostly been passing the time,
so there was nothing to tell, though Lucy looked a little incredulous
when she said as much; but her evening had been none the less pleasant
on that account, to judge from her ready appreciation of her sister's
fun.
There was a knock while the talk was at its briskest, but in the
babblement and laughter it was not heard. The knock was repeated, and
this time the speaker stopped short in the middle of a sentence, and
both turned round and looked at each other.
"It is mamma," whispered Lucy.
Margaret's countenance fell; she even frowned a little. Something
unpleasant was going to happen, she felt sure.
"Let's blow out the lights and jump into bed," suggested Lucy.
"No use," said Margaret. "Open the door and get it over as quickly as
possible. I shan't say a word, and she will run herself out of breath
the sooner."
"Nonsense!" and Lucy blew out one of the candles as she spoke. "She
will forget about it in the morning if we fall asleep now. I don't
want to have the feeling of a well-spent day spoilt by a lecture."
The knock was repeated more peremptorily than before. It was too late
to pretend unconsciousness now. Margaret went sullenly to the door and
admitted her mother.
"What an uproar you two girls are making in here--din enough for a
dozen--chattering like magpies, and laughing at this hour of the
night, when decent people are in their beds! Nice complaints and
remarks the people in adjoining rooms will make to-morrow!--though
they may not venture to speak to _me_ about it," she added grandly, as
if she dared any one to take that liberty. "But that makes it worse.
We cannot explain or set them right when they tattle behind our backs,
and the stories will grow bigger and worse, till no one knows what
they may come to.... You thoughtless pair! Lucy there speaking at the
very tip of her voice. It will be a wonder if the people through the
partitions do not know every word she has been saying--something, most
likely, which will do her no credit. Mrs Chickenpip, I may tell you,
is your neighbour on that side, and she does not spare people who
annoy her. For your own sakes you had better respect her slumbers. She
passed when I was hammering at your door, and she looked many things
at me which good manners prevent people from saying; but she will find
an opportunity of expressing them to some one else, or I am mistaken."
"Tiresome old cat," said Lucy. "No one will mind her. She is too grim
and proper. Nobody heeds what childless old women say about young
people."
"Old women? She is younger than I am. Would you speak of your own
mother----?"
"Oh no, mammy dear! Nobody thinks of its own pretty mamma in that
way;" and she threw her arms round her mother's neck.
"Have done, Lucy! I am in no mood for fooling, I assure you. Let me
alone, and be quiet. It was you, Margaret, that I wanted to talk to.
We must come to an understanding at once. This kind of thing which has
been going on down-stairs must come to an end. I have been
inexpressibly shocked and pained. It is more than my poor health can
stand. Would you bring my hair with sorrow to the grave?" ... "Grey
hairs with sorrow to the grave," was the Scriptural quotation which
had come into her mind; but even to make a rhetorical point, she felt
that she could not afford to attribute greyness to her carefully
tended braids. She put up her hand and stroked them tenderly, which
disturbed the thread of her argument, and she came to a stop, with her
eyes resting reproachfully on her elder daughter.
Margaret was aware that she had better let the lecture run itself
down. Interruptions, she knew by experience, acted like winding up a
clock, and set it off again, tick-tack, on a refreshed career. She
bore the reproachful gaze in silence as long as she was able, but at
last it grew too much for her, and rather sullenly she answered--
"What do you mean, mother?"
"You know very well what I mean. Have I not told you many times that
that childish nonsense with young Blount must be given up?"
"Is it our engagement you mean?" Margaret answered, with heightened
colour. She knew that she was unwise to speak, but her temper was
rising. It always _would_ rise, she knew not how, when her mother
spoke of "young Blount."
"Your what?" her mother cried, indignantly. "I will not hear of such a
thing. I have forbidden you to be engaged to him. You shan't be
engaged to him; and now that you force me to it, I forbid you to speak
to him. An abominable young man!--worming himself deceitfully into
families where he is not wanted. Was there ever anything so
ungentlemanlike as his sneaking down here after us, although he had
been as good as forbidden the house at home? He had not the candour to
come to me and say, 'Mrs Naylor, I am here;' but slyly waylays you in
a crowded ball-room, to hold surreptitious interviews. I never heard
of anything so atrocious in my life. I could not have believed it. But
it rewards me for my imprudence in taking up a stranger, merely to
oblige your uncle Joseph, and being kind to him--warming a viper in my
bosom, that he might turn and sting me!"
This was fine, and Mrs Naylor stopped for breath.
"You have no right to say such things, mother," Margaret answered,
hotly. "Walter never was ungentlemanlike. He could not be, if he were
to try. And he is no sneak. He is as brave and honest as the day; and
I have heard you say as much yourself, formerly, when he used to visit
us. You often said he was the nicest young man of your acquaintance."
"And this is the reward of my ill-judged hospitality--having him come
to me with your uncle, when you were both children! I see my
imprudence now; but at least my daughter might spare me," and Mrs
Naylor put her handkerchief to her eyes. "That a mother's solicitude
should be taunted thus, by the very child she is trying to shield from
the effects of her injudicious good-nature! Oh, Margaret, you are
cruel!"
Margaret felt shocked with herself. To think that she should bring
tears to her mother's eyes! How hard and obdurate she must surely be!
She had never felt so wicked in all her life before. Yet how to mend
it? She would gladly do anything to pacify and soothe her wounded
mother--anything but give up Walter; and that was the only thing which
would be of any avail. She forbore to say more in his defence,
however--in fact she could not have trusted her voice to keep steady
or say anything just then; and as she saw the handkerchief still at
her mother's eyes, her own began to overflow. She was contrite,
without attempting to particularise on what account, and very unhappy.
Mrs Naylor saw that her demonstration had told, and made haste to
improve the advantage. She put her handkerchief back in her pocket and
cleared her voice.
"It is for your own sake I am so solicitous, Margaret. It is you he is
trying to marry. You can marry but once, remember. Think how momentous
is this step you are so blindly eager to take. Your whole future life
depends on it."
"We are fond of one another, mother, and he is good and true. What
more can a girl want?"
"Much, my dear. You talk like an inexperienced simpleton. How
differently you will look on things in ten years' time! People cannot
live--perhaps for fifty years--like turtles in a nest, in one
continued round of billing and cooing. They must eat and dress
themselves every day; and to do that nicely takes a deal of money,
more than your friend is likely ever to earn."
"I do not want to be rich. The rich people we know are not so nice, I
am sure. Few of them are gentlemen."
"I know, my dear. I understand you perfectly. Love in a cottage, and
that sort of thing. When I was a girl, the novels were full of it, and
it was very pretty. The novels are much more sensible nowadays, and it
is strange that the young people who read them should still be as
foolish as ever."
"I do not think life without love would be worth the having."
"Of course not, my shepherdess! It would be charming to sit in the
woods always, holding a crook tied with nice fresh blue satin ribbon,
and a straw hat cocked on one side, a pet lamb at one's feet, and a
swain beside one to whistle tunes upon a reed, like the Dresden-china
figures; but when a shower came, and the ribbons got wet, it would be
but a draggle-tailed diversion, believe me. Remember the old saying,
'When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window.' You
can't make love on an empty stomach. Housekeeping knocks a deal of the
romance out of life."
"Walter has money, mother. With mine added, we shall be quite well
off."
"I think, Margaret, if I had been pleading a gentleman's cause, I
would not have put him in the invidious light of requiring a wife's
fortune to enrich him. It sounds mercenary. Not that I wish to speak
unkindly of your friend; but he lays himself open to the suspicion of
fortune-hunting, by running after a girl with your prospects. Your
uncle is not likely to marry, and you might look so very much higher,
if you only had common-sense."
"I don't know where I should look for 'higher.' You have always said
that his people were an excellent family in England."
"We are Canadians, my dear. Good connections in England will not help
him much with us, unless they are bankers. He is a younger son, and
his brother has children, so his prospect of ever coming to the family
property is not worth counting. He has got all they can afford to give
him, and is a fixture on this side the Atlantic for life."
"He is better off than most young men. Yet see how quickly some of
them get on, and rise to the top."
"_He_ will never rise, my dear. He has not been trained for getting on
in this country. He will not spend as little as our young men do, and
he has not the first idea of how to make a fortune."
"He would not be half as nice if he had."
"My dear, you talk like a child. When people advance into middle life,
mere lovemaking grows to be up-hill work. It would be grotesque, if it
had not become too insipid for people to attempt keeping it up. The
larger interests are needed to make middle life bearable. It is
gratifying then to find that one has married a man of note--some one
heard of everywhere, and spoken of by everybody. With your looks and
accomplishments and prospects, there is no man you may not have the
refusal of. How comfortable, when one grows elderly and uninteresting,
to be wife of the chief-justice, or of a senator, and receive as much
attention in old age as one has been accustomed to in youth! An
ex-beauty poorly married is a disappointed and a discontented woman,
let me tell you."
"Walter could go into politics if he liked; and if he ever does, he
must rise to the top, he is so clever and well informed."
"Not he. He will never be more than he is now. He is too much of an
Englishman, and too fixed in his notions, ever to catch the tone of
his neighbours."
"He is a gentleman. Why should he take the tone of people less
cultured than himself?"
"He won't. That's where the trouble is. And therefore his neighbours
will never really like him. They will fancy he looks down on them.
They will never send him to Parliament, mark my words, however hard he
may try. If they elect him reeve of his township, or a school-trustee,
it is the most they will ever do for him.
"Playing country gentleman does not answer, my dear. It has been often
tried. I have seen so many half-pay officers and others buy land, and
start as country gentlemen, and it always ended the same way. In a few
years their ready money was spent, and they could not move away. Their
farms were worse cultivated than their neighbours', and less
productive; and their children, rough and unkempt, grew up neither one
thing nor another--neither gentle nor simple--with the pretensions of
a class which did not care to accept them, and without the industry
and thrift to keep them up in the one into which they were sinking.
"Have nothing to do with the land in this country, my dear; or marry a
greedy and hard-working clown at once. Your children, at least, may
come to be somebody in that case, though you will lead a drudge's life
yourself."
"I am ready to risk it, mother, however it may turn out. A crust in
the woods with the man of my choice, rather than all the splendour you
can mention, without him."
"You are infatuated! Reason is thrown away on you. I wonder at my own
patience in attempting to argue with you so long. But at least you
shall not ruin your life if I can help it. If you will not send away
this pernicious young man, I must carry you away from him. He shall
find that however his persecution may inconvenience us, it shall
further his schemes not a jot.... You will pack up to-morrow, girls,
first thing. Come down to breakfast in your travelling dresses. We
leave by the first train tomorrow forenoon;" and so saying, she left
the room.
"Oh, Margaret!" sighed Lucy in despair; "and we had the prospect of
such a good time before us."
"What could I have said, Lucy, except what I did?"
"I don't know; but it is awfully disgusting."