HE did follow her, and, convinced that she would be engaged ten deep in
five minutes, hustled up to the master of the ceremonies and begged an
introduction. The great banker's son was attended to at once. Julia saw
them coming, as her sex can see, without looking. Her eyes were on
fire, and a delicious blush on her cheeks, when the M. C. introduced Mr.
Alfred Hardie with due pomp. He asked her to dance.
“I am engaged for this dance, sir,” said she softly.
“The next?” asked Hardie timidly.
“With pleasure.”
But when they had got so far they were both seized with bashful silence;
and just as Alfred was going to try and break it, Cornet Bosanquet,
aged 18, height 5 feet 4 inches, strutted up with clanking heel, and,
glancing haughtily up at him, carried Julia off, like a steam-tug towing
away some fair schooner. To these little thorns society treats all
anxious lovers, but the incident was new to Alfred, and discomposed him;
and, besides, he had nosed a rival in Sampson's prescription. So now he
thought to himself, “that little ensign is 'his puppy.'”
To get rid of Mrs. Dodd he offered to conduct her to a seat. She thanked
him; she would rather stand where she could see her daughter dance: on
this he took her to the embrasure of a window opposite where Julia and
her partner stood, and they entered a circle of spectators. The band
struck up, and the solemn skating began.
“Who is this lovely creature in white?” asked a middle-aged solicitor.
“In white? I did not see any beauty in white,” replied his daughter.
“Why there, before your eyes,” said the gentleman, loudly.
“What, that girl dancing with the little captain? I don't see much
beauty in her. _And_ what a rubbishing dress.”
“It never cost a pound, making and all,” suggested another Barkingtonian
nymph.
“But what splendid pearls!” said a third: “can they be real?”
“Real! what an idea!” ejaculated a fourth: “who puts on real pearls as
big as peas with muslin at twenty pence the yard?”
“Weasels!” muttered Alfred, and quivered all over: and he felt to Mrs.
Dodd so like a savage going to spring, that she laid her hand upon his
wrist, and said gently, but with authority, “Be calm, sir! and oblige me
by not noticing these people.”
Then they threw dirt on her bouquet, and then on her shoes, while she
was winding in and out before their eyes a Grace, and her soft muslin
drifting and flowing like an appropriate cloud round a young goddess.
“A little starch would make it set out better. It's as limp as a towel
on the line.”
“I'll be sworn it was washed at home.”
“Where it was made.”
“I call it a rag, not a gown.”
“Do let us move,” whispered Alfred.
“I am very comfortable here,” whispered Mrs. Dodd. “How can these things
annoy my ears while I have eyes? Look at her: she is the best-dressed
lady in the room; her muslin is Indian, and of a quality unknown to
these provincial shopkeepers; a rajah gave it us: her pearls were my
mother's, and have been in every court in Europe; and she herself
is beautiful, would be beautiful dressed like the dowdies who are
criticising her: and I think, sir, she dances as well as any lady can
encumbered with an Atom that does not know the figure.” All this with
the utmost placidity.
Then, as if to extinguish all doubt, Julia flung them a heavenly smile;
she had been furtively watching them all the time, and she saw they were
talking about her.
The other Oxonian squeezed up to Hardie. “Do you know the beauty? She
smiled your way.
“Ah!” said Hardie, deliberately, “you mean that young lady with
the court pearls, in that exquisite Indian muslin, which floats so
gracefully, while the other muslin girls are all crimp and stiff; like
little pigs clad in crackling.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Yes. Introduce me.”
“I could not take such a liberty with the queen of the ball.”
Mrs. Dodd smiled, but felt nervous and ill at ease. She thought to
herself, “Now here is a generous, impetuous thing.” As for the hostile
party, staggered at first by the masculine insolence of young Hardy, it
soon recovered, and, true to its sex, attacked him obliquely, through
his white ladye.
“Who _is_ the beauty of the ball?” asked one, haughtily.
“I don't know, but not that mawkish thing in limp muslin.”
“I should say Miss Hetherington is the belle,” suggested a third.
“Which is Miss Hetherington?” asked the Oxonian coolly of Alfred.
“Oh, she won't do for us. It is that little chalk-faced girl, dressed in
pink with red roses; the pink of vulgarity and bad taste.”
At this both Oxonians laughed arrogantly, and Mrs. Dodd withdrew her
hand from the speaker's arm and glided away behind the throng. Julia
looked at him with marked anxiety. He returned her look, and was sore
puzzled what it meant, till he found Mrs. Dodd had withdrawn softly from
him; then he stood confused, regretting too late he had not obeyed her
positive request, and tried to imitate her dignified forbearance.
The quadrille ended. He instantly stepped forward, and bowing politely
to the cornet, said authoritatively, “Mrs. Dodd sends me to conduct you
to her. With your permission, sir.” His arm was offered and taken before
the little warrior knew where he was.
He had her on his arm, soft, light, and fragrant as zephyr, and her cool
breath wooing his neck; oh, the thrill of that moment! but her first
word was to ask him, with considerable anxiety, “Why did mamma leave
you?”
“Miss Dodd, I am the most unhappy of men.”
“No doubt! no doubt!” said she, a little crossly. She added with one
of her gushes of naivete, “and I shall be unhappy too if you go and
displease mamma.”
“What could I do? A gang of snobbesses were detracting from--somebody.
To speak plainly, they were running down the loveliest of her sex. Your
mamma told me to keep quiet. And so I did till I got a fair chance, and
then I gave it them in their teeth.” He ground his own, and added, “I
think I was very good not to kick them.”
Julia coloured with pleasure, and proceeded to turn it off. “Oh! most
forbearing and considerate,” said she. “Ah! by the way, I think I did
hear some ladies express a misgiving as to the pecuniary value of my
costume; ha! ha! Oh--you--foolish!--Fancy noticing that! Why it is in
little sneers that the approval of the ladies shows itself at a ball,
and it is a much sincerer compliment than the gentlemen's bombastical
praises: 'the fairest of her sex,' and so on; that none but the
'silliest of her sex' believe.”
“Miss Dodd, I never said the fairest of her sex. I said the loveliest.”
“Oh, that alters the case entirely,” said Julia, whose spirits were
mounting with the lights and music, and Alfred's company; “so now
come and be reconciled to the best and wisest of her sex; ay, and the
beautifullest, if you but knew her sweet, dear, darling face as I do.
There she is; let us fly.”
“Mamma, here is a penitent for you, real or feigned, I don't know
which.”
“Real, Mrs. Dodd,” said Alfred. “I had no right to disobey you and risk
a scene. You served me right by abandoning me; I feel the rebuke and its
justice. Let me hope your vengeance will go no further.”
Mrs. Dodd smiled at the grandiloquence of youth, and told him he had
mistaken her character. “I saw I had acquired a generous, hot-headed
ally, who was bent on doing battle with insects; so I withdrew; but so
I should at Waterloo, or anywhere else where people put themselves in a
passion.”
The band struck up again.
“Ah!” said Julia, “and I promised you this dance; but it is a waltz and
my guardian angel objects to the _valse a deux temps._”
“Decidedly. Should all the mothers in England permit their daughters to
romp and wrestle in public, and call it waltzing, I must stand firm till
they return to their senses.”
Julia looked at Alfred despondently. He took his cue and said with a
smile, “Well, perhaps it is a little rompy; a donkey's gallop and then
twirl her like a mop.”
“Since you admit that, perhaps you can waltz properly?” said Mrs. Dodd.
Alfred said he ought; he had given his whole soul to it in Germany last
Long.
“Then I can have the pleasure of dropping the tyrant. Away with you both
while there is room to circulate.”
Alfred took his partner delicately; they made just two catlike steps
forward, and melted into the old-fashioned waltz.
It was an exquisite moment. To most young people Love comes after a
great deal of waltzing. But this pair brought the awakened tenderness
and trembling sensibilities of two burning hearts to this their first
intoxicating whirl. To them, therefore, everything was an event,
everything was a thrill--the first meeting and timid pressure of their
hands, the first delicate enfolding of her supple waist by his strong
arm but trembling hand, the delightful unison of their unerring feet,
the movement, the music, the soft delicious whirl, her cool breath
saluting his neck, his ardent but now liquid eyes seeking hers
tenderly, and drinking them deep, hers that now and then sipped his so
sweetly--all these were new and separate joys, that linked themselves in
one soft delirium of bliss. It was not a waltz it was an Ecstasy.
Starting almost alone, this peerless pair danced a gauntlet. On each
side admiration and detraction buzzed all the time.
“Beautiful! They are turning in the air.”
“Quite gone by. That's how the old fogies dance.”
Chorus of shallow males: “How well she waltzes.”
Chorus of shallow females: “How well he waltzes.”
But they noted neither praise nor detraction: they saw nothing, heard
nothing, felt nothing, but themselves and the other music, till two
valsers _a deux temps_ plunged into them. Thus smartly reminded they had
not earth all to themselves, they laughed good-humouredly and paused.
“Ah! I am happy!” gushed from Julia. She hushed at herself, and said
severely, “You dance very well, sir.” This was said to justify her
unguarded admission, and did, after a fashion. “I think it is time to go
to mamma,” said she demurely.
“So soon? And I had so much to say to you.”
“Oh, very well. I am all attention.”
The sudden facility offered set Alfred stammering a little. “I wanted
to apologise to you for something--you are so good you seem to have
forgotten it--but I dare not hope that--I mean at Henley--when the
beauty of your character, and your goodness, so overpowered me, that a
fatal impulse----”
“What do you mean, sir?” said Julia, looking him full in the face, like
an offended lion, while, with true feminine and Julian inconsistency her
bosom fluttered like a dove. “I never exchanged one word with you in
my life before to-day; and I never shall again if you pretend the
contrary.”
Alfred stood stupified, and looked at her in piteous amazement.
“I value your acquaintance highly, Mr. Hardie, now I have made it,
as acquaintances are made; but please to observe, I never saw you
before--scarcely; not even in church.”
“As you please,” said he, recovering his wits in part. “What you say
I'll swear to.”
“Then I say, never remind a lady of what you ought to wish her to
forget.”
“I was a fool, and you are an angel of tact and goodness.”
“Oh, now I am sure it is time to join mamma,” said she in the driest,
drollest way. _“Valsons._”
They waltzed down to Mrs. Dodd, exchanging hearts at every turn, and
they took a good many in the space of a round table, for in truth both
were equally loth to part.
At two o'clock Mrs. Dodd resumed common-place views of a daughter's
health, and rose to go.
Her fly had played her false, and, being our island home, it rained
buckets. Alfred ran, before they could stop him, and caught a fly. He
was dripping. Mrs. Dodd expressed her regrets; he told her it did not
matter; for him the ball was now over, the flowers faded, and the lights
darkness visible.
“The extravagance of these children!” said Mrs. Dodd to Julia, with a
smile, as soon as he was out of hearing. Julia made no reply.
Next day she was at evening church: the congregation was very sparse.
The first glance revealed Alfred Hardie standing in the very next
pew. He wore a calm front of conscious rectitude; under which peeped
sheep-faced misgivings as to the result of this advance; for, like all
true lovers, he was half impudence, half timidity; and both on the grand
scale.
Now Julia in a ball-room was one creature, another in church. After
the first surprise, which sent the blood for a moment to her cheek,
she found he had come without a prayer-book. She looked sadly and half
reproachfully at him; then put her white hand calmly over the wooden
partition, and made him read with her out of her book. She shared
her hymn-book with him, too, and sang her Maker's praise modestly and
soberly, but earnestly, and quite undisturbed by her lover's presence.
It seemed as if this pure creature was drawing him to heaven holding by
that good book, and by her touching voice. He felt good all over. To be
like her, he tried to bend his whole mind on the prayers of the church,
and for the first time realised how beautiful they are.
After service he followed her to the door. Island home again, by the
pailful; and she had a thick shawl but no umbrella. He had brought a
large one on the chance; he would see her home.
“Quite unnecessary; it is so near.”
He insisted; she persisted; and, persisting, yielded. They said but
little; yet they seemed to interchange volumes; and, at each gaslight
they passed, they stole a look and treasured it to feed on.
That night was one broad step more towards the great happiness, or great
misery, which awaits a noble love. Such loves, somewhat rare in Nature,
have lately become so very rare in Fiction that I have ventured, with
many misgivings, to detail the peculiarities of its rise and progress.
But now for a time it advanced on beaten tracks. Alfred had the right
to call at Albion Villa, and he came twice; once when Mrs. Dodd was out.
This was the time he stayed the two hours. A Mrs. James invited Jane and
him to tea and exposition. There he met Julia and Edward, who had just
returned. Edward was taken with Jane Hardie's face and dovelike eyes;
eyes that dwelt with a soft and chastened admiration on his masculine
face and his model form, and their owner felt she had received “a call”
to watch over his spiritual weal. So they paired off.
Julia's fluctuating spirits settled now into a calm, demure,
complacency. Her mother, finding this strange remedial virtue in
youthful society, gave young parties, inviting Jane and Alfred in
their turn. Jane hesitated, but, as she could no longer keep Julia from
knowing her worldly brother, and hoped a way might be opened for her
to rescue Edward, she relaxed her general rule, which was to go into no
company unless some religious service formed part of the entertainment.
Yet her conscience was ill at ease; and, to set them an example, she
took care, when she asked the Dodds in return, to have a clergyman there
of her own party, who could pray and expound with unction.
Mrs. Dodd, not to throw cold water on what seemed to gratify her
children, accepted Miss Hardie's invitation; but she never intended to
go, and at the last moment wrote to say she was slightly indisposed. The
nature of her _indisposition_ she revealed to Julia alone. “That young
lady keeps me on thorns. I never feel secure she will not say or do
something extravagant or unusual: she seems to suspect sobriety and good
taste of being in league with impiety. Here I succeed in bridling her
a little; but encounter a female enthusiast in her own house? _merci!_
After all, there must be something good in her, since she is your
friend, and you are hers. But I have something more serious to say
before you go there: it is about her brother. He is a flirt: in fact, a
notorious one, more than one lady tells me.”
Julia was silent, but began to be very uneasy; they were sitting and
talking after sunset, yet without candles. She profited for once by that
prodigious gap in the intelligence of “the sex.”
“I hear he pays you compliments, and I have seen a disposition to single
you out. Now, my love, you have the good sense to know that, whatever a
young gentleman of that age says to you, he says to many other ladies;
but your experience is not equal to your sense; so profit by mine. A
girl of your age must never be talked of with a person of the other sex:
it is fatal; fatal! but if you permit yourself to be singled out, you
will be talked of, and distress those who love you. It is easy to avoid
injudicious duets in society; oblige me by doing so to-night.” To show
how much she was in earnest, Mrs. Dodd hinted that, were her admonition
neglected, she should regret for once having kept clear of an
enthusiast.
Julia had no alternative; she assented in a faint voice. After a pause
she faltered out, “And suppose he should esteem me seriously?”
Mrs. Dodd replied quickly, “Then that would be much worse. But,” said
she, “I have no apprehensions on that score; you are a child, and he is
a precocious boy, and rather a flirt. But forewarned is forearmed. So
now run away and dress, sweet one: my lecture is quite ended.”
The sensitive girl went up to her room with a heavy heart. All the fears
she had lulled of late revived. She saw plainly now that Mrs. Dodd only
accepted Alfred as a pleasant acquaintance: as a son-in-law he was out
of the question. “Oh, what will she say when she knows all?” thought
Julia.
Next day, sitting near the window, she saw him coming up the road. After
the first movement of pleasure at the bare sight of him, she was sorry
he had come. Mamma's suspicions awake at last, and here he was again;
the third call in one fortnight! She dared not risk an interview with
him, ardent and unguarded, under that penetrating eye, which she felt
would now be on the watch. She rose hurriedly, said as carelessly as
she could, “I am going to the school,” and tying her bonnet on all in a
flurry, whipped out at the back-door with her shawl in her hand just as
Sarah opened the front door to Alfred. She then shuffled on her shawl,
and whisked through the little shrubbery into the open field, and
reached a path that led to the school, and so gratified was she at her
dexterity in evading her favourite, that she hung her head, and went
murmuring, “Cruel, cruel, cruel!”
Alfred entered the drawing-room gaily, with a good-sized card and a
prepared speech. His was not the visit of a friend, but a functionary;
the treasurer of the cricket-ground come to book two of his eighteen to
play against the All-England Eleven next month. “As for you, my worthy
sir (turning to Edward), I shall just put you down without ceremony.
But I must ask leave to book Captain Dodd. Mrs. Dodd, I come at the
universal desire of the club; they say it is sure to be a dull match
without Captain Dodd. Besides, he is a capital player.”
“Mamma, don't you be caught by his chaff,” said Edward, quietly. “Papa
is no player at all. Anything more unlike cricket than his way of making
runs!”
“But he makes them, old fellow; now you and I, at Lord's the other day,
played in first-rate form, left shoulder well up, and achieved--with
neatness, precision, dexterity, and despatch--the British duck's-egg.
_“Misericorde!_ What is that?” inquired Mrs. Dodd.
“Why, a round O,” said the other Oxonian, coming to his friend's aid.
“And what is that, pray?”
Alfred told her “the round O,” which had yielded to “the duck's egg,”
and was becoming obsolete, meant the cypher set by the scorer against a
player's name who is out without making a run.
“I see,” sighed Mrs. Dodd. “The jargon of the day penetrates to your
very sports and games. And why British?”
“Oh, 'British' is redundant: thrown in by the universities.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It means nothing. That is the beauty of it. British is inserted in
imitation of our idols, the Greeks; they adored redundancy.”
In short, poor Alfred, though not an M. P., was talking to put off time,
till Julia should come in: so he now favoured Mrs. Dodd, of all people,
with a flowery description of her husband's play, which I, who have
not his motive for volubility, suppress. However, he wound up with the
captains “moral influence.” “Last match,” said he, “Barkington did
not do itself justice. Several, that could have made a stand, were
frightened out, rather than bowled, by the London professionals.
Then Captain Dodd went in, and treated those artists with the same
good-humoured contempt he would a parish bowler, and, in particular,
sent Mynne's over-tossed balls flying over his head for five, or to
square leg for four, and, on his retiring with twenty-five, scored in
eight minutes, the remaining Barkingtonians were less funky, and made
some fair scores.”
Mrs. Dodd smiled a little ironically at this tirade, but said she
thought she might venture to promise Mr. Dodd's co-operation, should he
reach home in time. Then, to get rid of Alfred before Julia's return,
the amiable worldling turned to Edward. “Your sister will not be back,
so you may as well ring the bell for luncheon at once. Perhaps Mr.
Hardie will join us.”
Alfred declined, and took his leave with far less alacrity than he had
entered; Edward went down-stairs with him.
“Miss Dodd gone on a visit?” asked Alfred, affecting carelessness.
“Only to the school. By-the-bye, I will go and fetch her.”
“No, don't do that; call on my sister instead, and then you will pull me
out of a scrape. I promised to bring her here; but her saintship was so
long adorning 'the poor perishable body,' that I came alone.”
“I don't understand you,” said Edward. “I am not the attraction here; it
is Julia.”
“How do you know that? When a young lady interests herself in an
undergraduate's soul, it is a pretty sure sign she likes the looks of
him. But perhaps you don't want to be converted; if so, keep clear
of _her._ 'Bar the fell dragon's blighting way; but shun that lovely
snare.'”
“On the contrary,” said Edward calmly, “I only wish she could make me
as good as she is, or half as good.”
“Give her the chance, old fellow, and then it won't be your fault if she
makes a mess of it. Call at two, and Jenny will receive you very kindly,
and will show you you are in the 'gall of bitterness and the bond of
iniquity.' Now, won't that be nice?”
“I will go,” said Edward gravely.
They parted. Where Alfred went the reader can perhaps guess; Edward to
luncheon.
“Mamma,” said he, with that tranquillity which sat so well on him,
“don't you think Alfred Hardie is spoony upon our Julia?”
Mrs. Dodd suppressed a start, and (perhaps to gain time before replying
sincerely) said she had not the honour of knowing what “spoony” meant.
“Why, sighs for her, and dies for her, and fancies she is prettier than
Miss Hardie. He must be over head and ears to think that.”
“Fie, child!” was the answer. “If I thought so, I should withdraw from
their acquaintance. Excuse me; I must put on my bonnet at once, not to
lose this fine afternoon.”
Edward did not relish her remark: it menaced more Spoons than one.
However, he was not the man to be cast down at a word: he lighted a
cigar, and strolled towards Hardie's house. Mr. Hardie, senior, had left
three days ago on a visit to London; Miss Hardie received him; he
passed the afternoon in calm complacency, listening reverently to her
admonitions, and looking her softly out of countenance, and into earthly
affections, with his lion eyes.
Meantime his remark, so far from really seeming foolish to Mrs. Dodd,
was the true reason for her leaving him so abruptly “Even this dear slow
Thing sees it,” thought she. She must talk to Julia more seriously,
and would go to the school at once. She went up-stairs, and put on her
bonnet and shawl before the glass; then moulded on her gloves, and came
down equipped. On the stairs was a large window, looking upon the open
field; she naturally cast her eyes through it in the direction she was
going, and what did she see but a young lady and gentleman coming slowly
down the path towards the villa. Mrs. Dodd bit her lip with vexation,
and looked keenly at them, to divine on what terms they were. And the
more she looked the more uneasy she grew.
The head, the hand, the whole body of a sensitive young woman walking
beside him she loves, betray her heart to experienced eyes watching
unseen; and especially to female eyes. And why did Julia move so slowly,
especially after that warning? Why was her head averted from that
encroaching boy, and herself so near him? Why not keep her distance,
and look him full in the face? Mrs. Dodd's first impulse was that of
leopardesses, lionesses, hens, and all the mothers in nature; to dart
from her ambush and protect her young; but she controlled it by a
strong effort; it seemed wiser to descry the truth, and then act with
resolution: besides, the young people were now almost at the shrubbery;
so the mischief if any, was done.
They entered the shrubbery.
To Mrs. Dodd's surprise and dismay, they did not come out this side
so quickly. She darted her eye into the plantation; and lo! Alfred had
seized the fatal opportunity foliage offers, even when thinnish: he
held Julia's hand, and was pleading eagerly for something she seemed not
disposed to grant; for she turned away and made an effort to leave him.
But Mrs. Dodd, standing there quivering with maternal anxiety, and
hot with shame, could not but doubt the sincerity of that graceful
resistance. If she had been quite in earnest, Julia had fire enough in
her to box the little wretch's ears. She ceased even to doubt, when
she saw that her daughter's opposition ended in his getting hold of two
hands instead of one, and devouring them with kisses, while Julia still
drew her head and neck away, but the rest of her supple frame seemed
to yield and incline, and draw softly towards her besieger by some
irresistible spell.
“I can bear no more!” gasped Mrs. Dodd aloud, and turned to hasten and
part them; but even as she curved her stately neck to go, she caught the
lovers' parting; and a very pretty one too, if she could but have looked
at it, as these things ought always to be looked at: artistically.
Julia's head and lovely throat, unable to draw the rest of her away,
compromised: they turned, declined, drooped, and rested one half moment
on her captor's shoulder, like a settling dove: the next, she scudded
from him, and made for the house alone.
Mrs. Dodd, deeply indignant, but too wise to court a painful interview,
with her own heart beating high, went into the drawing-room, and there
sat down, to recover some little composure. But she was hardly seated
when Julia's innocent voice was heard calling “Mamma, mamma!” and soon
she came bounding into the drawing-room, brimful of good news, her
cheeks as red as fire and her eyes wet with happy tears; and there
confronted her mother, who had started up at her footstep, and now,
with one hand nipping the back of the chair convulsively, stood lofty,
looking strangely agitated and hostile.
The two ladies eyed one another, silent, yet expressive, like a picture
facing a statue; but soon the colour died out of Julia's face as well,
and she began to cower with vague fears before that stately figure, so
gentle and placid usually, but now so discomposed and stern.
“Where have you been, Julia?”
“Only at the school,” she faltered.
“Who was your companion home?”
“Oh, don't be angry with me! It was Alfred.”
“Alfred! His Christian name! You try my patience too hard.”
“Forgive me. I was not to blame this time, indeed! indeed! You frighten
me. What will become of me? What have I done for my own mamma to look at
me so?”
Mrs. Dodd groaned. “Was that young coquette I watched from my window
the child I have reared? No face on earth is to be trusted after this.
'What have you done' indeed? Only risked your own mother's esteem, and
nearly broken her heart!” And with these words her own courage began to
give way, and she sank into a chair with a deep sigh.
At this Julia screamed, and threw herself on her knees beside her, and
cried “Kill me! oh, pray kill me! but don't drive me to despair with
such cruel words and looks!” and fell to sobbing so wildly that Mrs.
Dodd altered her tone with almost ludicrous rapidity. “There, do not
terrify me with your impetuosity, after grieving me so. Be calm, child;
let me see whether I cannot remedy your sad imprudence; and, that I may,
pray tell me the whole truth. How did this come about?”
In reply to this question, which she somewhat mistook, Julia sobbed out,
“He met me c-coming out of the school, and asked to s-see me home. I
said 'No thank you,' because I th-thought of your warning. 'Oh yes!'
said he, and _would_ walk with me, and keep saying he loved me. So, to
stop him, I said, 'M-much ob-liged, but I was b-busy and had no time
to flirt.' 'Nor have I the in-inclination,' said he. 'That is not what
others say of you,' said I--you know what you t-told me, mamma--so at
last he said d-did ever he ask any lady to be his wife? 'I suppose
not,' said I, 'or you would be p-p-private property by now instead of
p-public.'”
“Now there was a foolish speech; as much as to say nobody could resist
him.”
“W-wasn't it? And n-no more they could. You have no idea how he makes
love; _so_ unladylike: keeps advancing and advancing, and never once
retreats, nor even st-ops. 'But I ask _you_ to be my wife,' said he.
Oh, mamma, I trembled so. Why did I tremble? I don't know. I made myself
cold and haughty; 'I should make no reply to such ridiculous questions;
say that to mamma, if you dare!' I said.”
Mrs. Dodd bit her lip, and said, “Was there ever such simplicity?”
“Simple! Why that was my cunning. You are the only creature he is afraid
of; so I thought to stop his mouth with you. But instead of that, my
lord said calmly, 'That was understood; he loved me too well to steal
me from her to whom he was indebted for me.' Oh, he has always an answer
ready. And that makes him such a p-pest.”
“It was an answer that did him credit.”
“Dear mamma! now did it not? Then at parting he said he would come
to-morrow, and ask you for my hand; but I must intercede with you first,
or you would be sure to say 'No.' So I declined to interfere: 'W-w-what
was it to me?' I said. He begged and prayed me: 'Was it likely you would
give him such a treasure as Me unless I stood his friend?' (For the
b-b-brazen Thing turns humble now and then.) And, oh, mamma, he did so
implore me to pity him, and kept saying no man ever loved as he
loved me, and with his begging and praying me so passionately--oh, so
passionately--I felt something warm drop from his poor eyes on my hand.
Oh! oh! oh! oh!--What could I do? And then, you know, I wanted to
get away from him. So I am afraid I did just say 'Yes.' But only in a
whisper. Mamma! my own, good, kind, darling mamma, have pity on him and
on me; we love one another so.”
A shower of tender tears gushed out in support of this appeal and in a
moment she was caught up with Love's mighty arms, and her head laid on
her mother's yearning bosom. No word was needed to reconcile these two.
After a long silence, Mrs. Dodd said this would be a warning never
to judge her sweet child from a distance again, nor unheard. “And
therefore,” said she, “let me hear from your own lips how so serious an
attachment could spring up. Why, it is scarcely a month since you were
first introduced at that ball.”
“Mamma,” murmured Julia, hanging her head, “you are mistaken; we knew
each other before.”
Mrs. Dodd looked all astonishment.
“Now I _will_ ease my heart,” said Julia, impetuously, addressing some
invisible obstacle. “I tell you I am sick of having secrets from my own
mother.” And with this out it all came. She told the story of her heart
better than I have; and, woman-like, dwelt on the depths of loyalty
and delicate love she had read in Alfred's moonlit face that night at
Henley. She said no eloquence could have touched her like it. “Mamma,
something said to me, 'Ay, look at him well, for that is your husband to
be.'” She even tried to solve the mystery of her _soi-disant_ sickness:
“I was disturbed by a feeling so new and so powerful,* but, above all,
by having a secret from you; the first--the last.”
*Perhaps even this faint attempt at self-analysis was due to
the influence of Dr. Whately. For, by nature, young ladies
of this age seldom turn the eye inward.
“Well, darling, then why have a secret? Why not trust me, your friend as
well as your mother?”
“Ah! why, indeed? I am a puzzle to myself. I wanted you to know, and yet
I could not tell you. I kept giving you hints, and hoped so you would
take them, and make me speak out. But when I tried to tell you plump,
something kept pull--pull--pulling me inside, and I couldn't. Mark my
words! some day it will turn out that I am neither more nor less than a
fool.”
Mrs. Dodd slighted this ingenious solution. She said, after a moment's
reflection, that the fault of this misunderstanding lay between the two.
“I remember now I have had many hints; my mind must surely have gone
to sleep. I was a poor simple woman who thought her daughter was to be
always a child. And you were very wrong to go and set a limit to your
mother's love: there is none--none whatever.” She added: “I must import
a little prudence and respect for the world's opinion into this new
connection; but whoever you love shall find no enemy in me.”
Next day Alfred came to know his fate. He was received with ceremonious
courtesy. At first he was a good deal embarrassed, but this was no
sooner seen than it was relieved by Mrs. Dodd with tact and gentleness.
When her turn came, she said, “Your papa? Of course you have
communicated this step to him?”
Alfred looked a little confused, and said, “No: he left for London two
days ago, as it happens.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Mrs. Dodd. “Your best plan would be to write
to him at once. I need hardly tell you that we shall enter no family
without an invitation from its head.”
Alfred replied that he was well aware of that, and that he knew his
father, and could answer for him. “No doubt,” said Mrs. Dodd, “but, as
a matter of reasonable form, I prefer he should answer for himself.”
Alfred would write by this post. “It is a mere form,” said he, “for
my father has but one answer to his children, 'Please yourselves.' He
sometimes adds, 'and how much money shall you want?' These are his two
formulae.”
He then delivered a glowing eulogy on his father; and Mrs. Dodd, to
whom the boy's character was now a grave and anxious study, saw with no
common satisfaction his cheek flush and his eyes moisten as he dwelt on
the calm, sober, unvarying affection, and reasonable indulgence he
and his sister had met with all their lives from the best of parents.
Returning to the topic of topics, he proposed an engagement. “I have a
ring in my pocket,” said this brisk wooer, looking down. But this Mrs.
Dodd thought premature and unnecessary. “You are nearly of age,” said
she, “and then you will be able to marry, if you are in the same mind.”
But, upon being warmly pressed, she half conceded even this. “Well,”
said she, “on receiving your father's consent, you can _propose_ an
engagement to Julia, and she shall use her own judgment; but, until
then, you will not even mention such a thing to her. May I count on so
much forbearance from you, sir?”
“Dear Mrs. Dodd,” said Alfred, “of course you may. I should indeed be
ungrateful if I could not wait a post for that. May I write to my father
here?” added he, naively.
Mrs. Dodd smiled, furnished him with writing materials, and left him,
with a polite excuse.
“ALBION VILLA, _September 29._
“MY DEAR FATHER,--You are too thorough a man of the world, and too
well versed in human nature, to be surprised at hearing that I, so long
invulnerable, have at last formed a devoted attachment to one whose
beauty, goodness, and accomplishments I will not now enlarge upon;
they are indescribable, and you will very soon see them and judge for
yourself. The attachment, though short in weeks and months, has been a
very long one in hopes, and fears, and devotion. I should have told you
of it before you left, but in truth I had no idea I was so near the goal
of all my earthly hopes; there were many difficulties: but these have
just cleared away almost miraculously, and nothing now is wanting to my
happiness but your consent. It would be affectation, or worse, in me to
doubt that you will grant it. But, in a matter so delicate, I venture to
ask you for something more: the mother of my ever and only beloved Julia
is a lady of high breeding and sentiments: she will not let her daughter
enter any family without a cordial invitation from its head. Indeed she
has just told me so. I ask, therefore, not your bare consent, of which
I am sure, since my happiness for life depends on it, but a consent so
gracefully worded--and who can do this better than you?--as to gratify
the just pride and sensibilities of the high-minded family about to
confide its brightest ornament to my care.
“My dear father, in the midst of felicity almost more than mortal, the
thought has come that this letter is my first step towards leaving the
paternal roof under which I have been so happy all my life, thanks to
you. I should indeed be unworthy of all your goodness if this thought
caused me no emotion.
“Yet I do but yield to Nature's universal law. And, should I be master
of my own destiny, I will not go far from you. I have been unjust to
Barkington: or rather I have echoed, without thought, Oxonian prejudices
and affectation. On mature reflection, I know no better residence for a
married man.
“Do you remember about a year ago you mentioned a Miss Lucy Fountain to
us as 'the most perfect gentlewoman you had ever met?' Well, strange to
say, it is that very lady's daughter; and I think when you see her you
will say the breed has anything but declined, in spite of Horace mind
his _'damnosa quid non.'_ Her brother is my dearest friend, and she is
Jenny's; so a more happy alliance for all parties was never projected.
“Write to me by return, dear father, and believe me, ever your dutiful
and grateful son,
“ALFRED HARDlE.”
As he concluded, Julia came in, and he insisted on her reading this
masterpiece. She hesitated. Then he told her with juvenile severity that
a good husband always shares his letters with his wife.
“His wife! Alfred!” and she coloured all over. “Don't call me _names,_”
said she, turning it off after her fashion. “I can't bear it: it makes
me tremble. With fury.”
“This will never do, sweet one,” said Alfred gravely. “You and I are
to have no separate existence now; you are to be I, and I am to be you.
Come!”
“No; you read me so much of it as is proper for me to hear. I shall not
like it so well from your lips: but never mind.”
When he came to read it, he appreciated the delicacy that had tempered
her curiosity. He did not read it all to her, but nearly.
“It is a beautiful letter,” said she; “a little pomposer than mamma
and I write. 'The paternal roof!' But all that becomes you; you are a
scholar: and, dear Alfred, if I should separate you from your papa,
I will never estrange you from him; oh, never, never. May I go for my
work? For methinks, O most erudite, the 'maternal dame,' on domestic
cares intent, hath confided to her offspring the recreation of your
highness.” The gay creature dropt him a curtsey, and fled to tell Mrs.
Dodd the substance of “the sweet letter the dear high-flown Thing had
written.”
By then he had folded and addressed it, she returned and brought her
work: charity children's great cloaks: her mother had cut them, and
in the height of the fashion, to Jane Hardie's dismay; and Julia was
binding, hooding, etcetering them.
How demurely she bent her lovely head over her charitable work, while
Alfred poured his tale into her ears! How careful she was not to speak,
when there was a chance of his speaking! How often she said one thing so
as to express its opposite, a process for which she might have taken out
a patent! How she and Alfred compared heart-notes, and their feelings
at each stage of their passion! Their hearts put forth tendril after
tendril, and so curled, and clung, round each other.
In the afternoon of the second blissful day, Julia suddenly remembered
that this was dull for her mother. To have such a thought was to fly
to her; and she flew so swiftly that she caught Mrs. Dodd in tears, and
trying adroitly and vainly to hide them.
“What is the matter? I am a wretch. I have left you alone.”
“Do not think me so peevish, love! you have but surprised the natural
regrets of a mother at the loss of her child.”
“Oh, mamma,” said Julia, warmly, “and do you think all the marriage in
the world can ever divide you and me--can make me lukewarm to my own
sweet, darling, beautiful, blessed, angel mother? Look at me: I am as
much your Julia as ever; and shall be while I live. Your son is your
son till he gets him a wife: but your daughter's your daughter,
ALL--THE----DAYS--OF HER LIFE.”
Divine power of native eloquence: with this trite distich you made
hexameters tame; it gushed from that great young heart with a sweet
infantine ardour, that even virtue can only pour when young, and youth
when virtuous; and, at the words I have emphasised by the poor device
of capitals, two lovely, supple arms flew wide out like a soaring
albatross's wings, and then went all round the sad mother, and gathered
every bit of her up to the generous young bosom.
“I know it, I know it!” cried Mrs. Dodd, kissing her; “I shall never
lose my daughter while she breathes. But I am losing my child. You are
turning to a woman visibly: and you were such a happy child. Hence my
misgivings, and these weak tears, which you have dried with a word:
see!” And she contrived to smile. “And now go down, dearest: he may be
impatient; men's love is so fiery.”
The next day Mrs. Dodd took Julia apart and asked her whether there was
an answer from Mr. Hardie. Julia replied, from Alfred, that Jane had
received a letter last night, and, to judge by the contents, Mr. Hardie
must have left London before Alfred's letter got there. “He is gone to
see poor Uncle Thomas.”
“Why do you call him 'poor?'”
“Oh, he is not very clever; has not much mind, Alfred says; indeed,
hardly any.”
“You alarm me, Julia!” cried Mrs. Dodd. “What? madness in the family you
propose to marry into?”
“Oh no, mamma,” said Julia, in a great hurry; “no madness; only a little
imbecility.”
Mrs. Dodd's lip curved at this Julian answer; but just then her mind
was more drawn to another topic. A serious doubt passed through her,
whether, if Mr. Hardie did not write soon, she ought not to limit his
son's attendance on her daughter. “He follows her about like a little
dog,” said she half fretfully.
Next day, by previous invitation, Dr. Sampson made Albion Villa his
head-quarters. Darting in from London, he found Alfred sitting very
close to Julia over a book.
“Lordsake!” cried he, “here's 'my puppy,' and 'm' enthusiast,' cheek
by chowl.” Julia turned scarlet, and Alfred ejaculated so loudly, that
Sampson inquired “what on airth was the matter now?”
“Oh, nothing; only here have I been jealous of my own shadow, and
pestering her who 'your puppy' was: and she never would tell me. All
I could get from her,” added he, turning suddenly from gratitude to
revenge, “was that he was no greater a puppy than yourself, doctor.”
“Oh, Alfred, no; I only said no vainer,” cried Julia in dismay.
“Well, it is true,” said Sampson contentedly, and proceeded to dissect
himself just as he would a stranger. “I am a vain man; a remarkably vain
man. But then I'm a man of great mirit.”
“All vain people are that,” suggested Alfred dryly.
“Who should know better than you, young Oxford? Y' have got a hidache.”
“No, indeed.”
“Don't tell lies now. Ye can't deceive me; man, I've an eye like a hawk.
And what's that ye're studying with her? Ovid, for a pound.”
“No; medicine; a treatise on your favourite organ, the brain, by one Dr.
Whately.”
“He is chaffing you, doctor,” said Edward; “it is logic. He is coaching
her; and then she will coach me.”
“Then I forbid the chaff-cutting, young Pidant. Logic is an ill plaster
to a sore head.”
“Oh, 'the labour we delight in, physics pain.'”
“Jinnyus, Jinnyus;
Take care o' your carkuss,”
retorted the master of doggrel. “And that is a profounder remark than
you seem to think, by your grinning, all of ye.”
Julia settled the question by putting away the book. And she murmured to
Alfred, “I wish I could steal your poor dear headaches: you might give
me half of them at least; you would, too, if you really loved me.”
This sound remonstrance escaped criticism by being nearly inaudible, and
by Mrs. Dodd entering at the same moment.
After the first greeting, Sampson asked her with merry arrogance, how
his prescription had worked? “Is her sleep broken still, ma'am? Are her
spirits up and down? Shall we have to go back t' old Short and his black
draught? How's her mookis membrin? And her biliary ducks? an'--she's off
like a flash.”
“And no wonder,” said Mrs. Dodd reproachfully.
Thus splashed Sampson among the ducks: one of them did not show her face
again till dinner.
Jane Hardie accompanied her brother by invitation. The general amity was
diversified and the mirth nowise lessened by constant passages of arms
between Messrs. Sampson and Alfred Hardie.
After tea came the first _contretemps._ Sampson liked a game of cards:
he could play, yet talk chronothermalism, as the fair can knit babies'
shoes and imbibe the poetasters of the day.
Mrs. Dodd had asked Edward to bring a fresh pack. He was seen by his
guardian angel to take them out of his pocket and undo them; presently
Sampson, in his rapid way, clutched hold of them; and found a slip of
paper curled round the ace of spades, with this written very clear in
pencil,
“REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH!”
“What is this?” cried Sampson, and read it out aloud. Jane Hardie
coloured, and so betrayed herself. Her “word in season” had strayed. It
was the young and comely Edward she wished to save from the diabolical
literature, the painted perdition, and not the uninteresting old sinner
Sampson, who proceeded to justify her preference by remarking that
“Remember not to trump your partner's best card, ladies,” would be more
to the point.
Everybody, except this hardened personage, was thoroughly uncomfortable.
As for Alfred, his face betrayed a degree of youthful mortification
little short of agony. Mrs. Dodd was profoundly disgusted, but
fortunately for the Hardies, caught sight of his burning cheeks and
compressed lips. “Dr. Sampson,” said she, with cold dignity, “you will,
I am sure, oblige me by making no more comments; sincerity is not always
discreet; but it is always respectable: it is one of your own titles to
esteem. I dare say,” added she with great sweetness, “our resources
are not so narrow that we need shock anybody's prejudices, and, as it
happens, I was just going to ask Julia to sing: open the piano, love,
and try if you can persuade Miss Hardie to join you in a duet.”
At this, Jane and Julia had an earnest conversation at the piano, and
their words, uttered in a low voice, were covered by a contemporaneous
discussion between Sampson and Mrs. Dodd.
_Jane._ No, you must not ask me: I have forsworn these vanities. I have
not opened my piano this two years.
_Julia._ Oh, what a pity; music is so beautiful; and surely we can
choose our songs, as easily as our words; ah, how much more easily.
_Jane._ Oh, I don't go so far as to call music wicked: but music in
society is _such_ a snare. At least I found it so; my playing was highly
praised, and that stirred up vanity: and so did my singing, with which I
had even more reason to be satisfied. Snares! snares!
_Julia._ Goodness me! I don't find them so. Now you mention it,
gentlemen do praise one; but, dear me, they praise every lady, even when
we have been singing every other note out of tune. The little unmeaning
compliments of society, can they catch anything so great as a soul?
_Jane._ I pray daily not to be led into temptation, and shall I go into
it of my own accord?
_Julia._ Not if you find it a temptation. At that rate I ought to
decline.
_Jane._ That doesn't follow. My conscience is not a law to yours.
Besides, your mamma said “sing:” and a parent is not to be disobeyed
upon a doubt. If papa were to insist on my going to a ball even, or
reading a novel, I think I should obey; and lay the whole case before
Him.
_Mrs. Dodd_ (from a distance). Come, my dears, Dr. Sampson is getting
_so_ impatient for your song.
_Sampson._ Hum! for all that, young ladies' singing is a poor substitute
for cards, and even for conversation.
_Mrs. Dodd._ That depends upon the singer, I presume.
_Sampson._ Mai--dear--madam, they all sing alike; just as they all write
alike. I can hardly tell one fashionable tune from another; and nobody
can tell one word from another, when they cut out all the consonants. N'
listen me. This is what I heard sung by a lady last night.
Eu un Da' ei u aa an oo. By oo eeeeyee aa Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee,
Vaullee, Vaullee om is igh eeaa An ellin in is ud.
_Mrs. Dodd._ That sounds like gibberish.
_Sampson._ It is gibberish, but it's Drydenish in articulating mouths.
It is--
He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen,
fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And wiltering in his blood.
_Mrs. Dodd._ I think you exaggerate. I will answer for Julia that she
shall speak as distinctly to music as you do in conversation.
_Sampson_ (all unconscious of the tap). Time will show, madam. At
prisent they seem to be in no hurry to spatter us with their word-jelly.
Does some spark of pity linger in their marble bos'ms? or do they prefer
inaud'ble chit-chat t' inarticulate mewing?
Julia, thus pressed, sang one of those songs that come and go every
season. She spoke the words clearly, and with such variety and
intelligence, that Sampson recanted, and broke in upon the--“very
pretty”--“how sweet”--and “who is it by?” of the others, by shouting,
“Very weak trash very cleanly sung. Now give us something worth the wear
and tear of your orgins. Immortal vairse widded t' immortal sounds; that
is what I understand b' a song.”
Alfred whispered, “No, no, dearest; sing something suitable to you and
me.”
“Out of the question. Then go farther away, dear; I shall have more
courage.”
He obeyed, and she turned over two or three music-books, and finally
sung from memory. She cultivated musical memory, having observed the
contempt with which men of sense visit the sorry pretenders to music,
who are tuneless and songless among the nightingales, and anywhere else
away from their books. How will they manage to sing in heaven? Answer me
that.
The song Julia Dodd sang on this happy occasion, to meet the humble but
heterogeneous views of Messrs. Sampson and Hardie, was a simple eloquent
Irish song called Aileen Aroon. Whose history, by-the-bye, was a curious
one. Early in this century it occurred to somebody to hymn a son of
George the Third for his double merit in having been born, and going to
a ball. People who thus apply the fine arts in modern days are seldom
artists; accordingly, this parasite could not invent a melody; so he
coolly stole Aileen Aroon, soiled it by inserting sordid and incongruous
jerks into the refrain, and called the stolen and adulterated article
Robin Adair. An artisan of the same kidney was soon found to write words
down to the degraded ditty: and, so strong is Flunkeyism, and so weak is
Criticism, in these islands, that the polluted tune actually superseded
the clean melody; and this sort of thing--
Who was in uniform at the ball?
Silly Billy,
smothered the immortal lines.
But Mrs. Dodd's severe taste in music rejected those ignoble jerks, and
her enthusiastic daughter having the option to hymn immortal Constancy
or mortal Fat, decided thus:--
When like the early rose,
Aileen aroon,
Beauty in childhood glows,
Aileen aroon,
When like a diadem,
Buds blush around the stem,
Which is the fairest gem?
Aileen aroon.
Is it the laughing eye?
Aileen aroon.
Is it the timid sigh?
Aileen aroon.
Is it the tender tone?
Soft as the string'd harp's mean?
No; it is Truth alone,
Aileen aroon.
I know a valley fair,
Aileen aroon.
I know a cottage there,
Aileen aroon.
Far in that valley's shade,
I know a gentle maid,
Flower of the hazel glade,
Aileen aroon.
Who in the song so sweet?
Aileen aroon,
Who in the dance so fleet?
Aileen aroon.
Dear are her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy.
Aileen aroon.
Youth must with time decay,
Aileen aroon,
Beauty must fade away,
Aileen aroon.
Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered far,
Truth is a fixed star,
Aileen areon.
The way the earnest singer sang these lines is beyond the conception of
ordinary singers, public or private. Here one of nature's orators spoke
poetry to music with an eloquence as fervid and delicate as ever rung in
the Forum. She gave each verse with the same just variety as if she had
been reciting, and, when she came to the last, where the thought rises
abruptly, and is truly noble, she sang it with the sudden pathos, the
weight, and the swelling majesty, of a truthful soul hymning truth with
all its powers.
All the hearers, even Sampson, were thrilled, astonished, spell-bound:
so can one wave of immortal music and immortal verse (alas! how seldom
they meet!) heave the inner man when genius interprets. Judge, then,
what it was to Alfred, to whom, with these great words and thrilling
tones of her rich, swelling, ringing voice, the darling of his own heart
vowed constancy, while her inspired face beamed on him like an angel's.
Even Mrs. Dodd, though acquainted with the song, and with her daughter's
rare powers, gazed at her now with some surprise, as well as admiration,
and kept a note Sarah had brought her, open, but unread, in her hand,
unable to take her eyes from the inspired songstress. However, just
before the song ended, she did just glance down, and saw it was signed
Richard Hardie. On this her eye devoured it; and in one moment she
saw that the writer declined, politely but peremptorily, the proposed
alliance between his son and her daughter.
The mother looked up from this paper at that living radiance and
incarnate melody in a sort of stupor: it seemed hardly possible to her
that a provincial banker could refuse an alliance with a creature
so peerless as that. But so it was; and despite her habitual
self-government, Mrs. Dodd's white hand clenched the note till her nails
dented it; and she reddened to the brow with anger and mortification.
Julia, whom she had trained never to monopolise attention in society,
now left the piano in spite of remonstrance, and soon noticed her
mother's face; for from red it had become paler than usual. “Are you
unwell, dear?” said she _sotto voce._
“No, love.”
“Is there anything the matter, then?”
“Hush! We have guests: our first duty is to them.” With this Mrs. Dodd
rose, and, endeavouring not to look at her daughter at all, went round
and drew each of her guests out in turn. It was the very heroism
of courtesy; for their presence was torture to her. At last, to her
infinite relief, they went, and she was left alone with her children.
She sent the servants to bed, saying she would undress Miss Dodd, and
accompanied her to her room. There the first thing she did was to lock
the door; and the next was to turn round and look at her full.
“I always thought you the most lovable child I ever saw; but I never
admired you as I have to-night, my noble, my beautiful daughter, who
would grace the highest family in England.” With this Mrs. Dodd began to
choke, and kissed Julia eagerly with the tears in her eyes, and drew her
with tender, eloquent defiance to her bosom.
“My own mamma,” said Julia softly, “what has happened?”
“My darling,” said Mrs. Dodd, trembling a little, “have you pride? have
you spirit?”
“I think I have.”
“I hope so: for you will need them both. Read that!”
And she held out Mr. Hardie's letter, but turned her own head away, not
to see her girl's face under the insult.