MARY BONNER.
While Clarissa Underwood was being kissed on the lawn at Popham
Villa, Sir Thomas was sitting, very disconsolate, in a private
room at the Dolphin, in Southampton. It had required no great
consideration to induce him to resolve that a home should be given
by him to his niece. Though he was a man so weak that he could
allow himself to shun from day to day his daily duty,--and to do
this so constantly as to make up out of various omissions, small in
themselves, a vast aggregate of misconduct,--still he was one who
would certainly do what his conscience prompted him to be right in
any great matter as to which the right and the wrong appeared to him
to be clearly defined. Though he loved his daughters dearly, he could
leave them from day to day almost without protection,--because each
day's fault in so doing was of itself but small. This new niece of
his he certainly did not love at all. He had never seen her. He was
almost morbidly fearful of new responsibilities. He expected nothing
but trouble in thus annexing a new unknown member to his family. And
yet he had decided upon doing it, because the duty to be done was
great enough to be clearly marked,--demanding an immediate resolve,
and capable of no postponement. But, as he thought of it, sitting
alone on the eve of the girl's coming, he was very uneasy. What was
he to do with her if he found her to be one difficult to manage,
self-willed, vexatious, or,--worse again,--ill-conditioned as to
conduct, and hurtful to his own children? Should it even become
imperative upon him to be rid of her, how should riddance be
effected? And then what would she think of him and his habits of
life?
And this brought him to other reflections. Might it not be possible
utterly to break up that establishment of his in Southampton
Buildings, so that he would be forced by the necessity of things to
live at his home,--at some home which he would share with the girls?
He knew himself well enough to be sure that while those chambers
remained in his possession, as long as that bedroom and bed were at
his command, he could not extricate himself from the dilemma. Day
after day the temptation was too great for him. And he hated the
villa. There was nothing there that he could do. He had no books at
the villa; and,--so he averred,--there was something in the air of
Fulham which prevented him from reading books when he brought them
there. No! He must break altogether fresh ground, and set up a new
establishment. One thing was clear; he could not now do this before
Mary Bonner's arrival, and therefore there was nothing to create any
special urgency. He had hoped that his girls would marry, so that
he might be left to live alone in his chambers,--waited upon by old
Stemm,--without sin on his part; but he was beginning to discover
that girls do not always get married out of the way in their first
bloom. And now he was taking to himself another girl! He must, he
knew, give over all hope of escape in that direction. He was very
uneasy; and when quite late at night,--or rather, early in the
morning,--he took himself to bed, his slumbers were not refreshing.
The truth was that no air suited him for sleeping except the air of
Southampton Buildings.
The packet from St. Thomas was to be in the harbour at eight o'clock
the next morning,--telegrams from Cape Clear, The Lizard, Eddystone
Lighthouse, and where not, having made all that as certain as
sun-rising. At eight o'clock he was down on the quay, and there was
the travelling city of the Royal Atlantic Steam Mail Packet Company
at that moment being warped into the harbour. The ship as he walked
along the jetty was so near to him that he could plainly see the
faces of the passengers on deck,--men and women, girls and children,
all dressed up to meet their friends on shore, crowding the sides of
the vessel in their eagerness to be among the first to get on shore.
He anxiously scanned the faces of the ladies that he might guess
which was to be the lady that was to be to him almost the same as a
daughter. He saw not one as to whom he could say that he had a hope.
Some there were in the crowd, some three or four, as to whom he
acknowledged that he had a fear. At last he remembered that his girl
would necessarily be in deep mourning. He saw two young women in
black;--but there was nothing to prepossess him about either of them.
One of them was insignificant and very plain. The other was fat and
untidy. They neither of them looked like ladies. What if fate should
have sent to him as a daughter,--as a companion for his girls,--that
fat, untidy, ill-bred looking young woman! As it happened, the
ill-bred looking young woman whom he feared, was a cook who had
married a ship-steward, had gone out among the islands with her
husband, had found that the speculation did not answer, and was now
returning in the hope of earning her bread in her old vocation. Of
this woman Sir Thomas Underwood was in great dread.
But at last he was on board, and whispered his question to the
purser. Miss Bonner! Oh, yes; Miss Bonner was on board. Was he Sir
Thomas Underwood, Miss Bonner's uncle? The purser evidently knew all
about it, and there was something in his tone which seemed to assure
Sir Thomas that the fat, untidy woman and his niece could not be
one and the same person. The purser had just raised his cap to Sir
Thomas, and had turned towards the cabin-stairs to go in search of
the lady herself; but he was stopped immediately by Miss Bonner
herself. The purser did his task very well,--said some slightest word
to introduce the uncle and the niece together, and then vanished. Sir
Thomas blushed, shuffled with his feet, and put out both his hands.
He was shy, astonished, and frightened,--and did not know what to
say. The girl came up to him, took his hand in hers, holding it
for a moment, and then kissed it. "I did not think you would come
yourself," she said.
"Of course I have come myself. My girls are at home, and will receive
you to-night." She said nothing further then, but again raised his
hand and kissed it.
It is hardly too much to say that Sir Thomas Underwood was in a
tremble as he gazed upon his niece. Had she been on the deck as
he walked along the quay, and had he noted her, he would not have
dared to think that such a girl as that was coming to his house. He
declared to himself at once that she was the most lovely young woman
he had ever seen. She was tall and somewhat large, with fair hair, of
which now but very little could be seen, with dark eyes, and perfect
eyebrows, and a face which, either for colour or lines of beauty,
might have been taken as a model for any female saint or martyr.
There was a perfection of symmetry about it,--and an assertion of
intelligence combined with the loveliness which almost frightened her
uncle. For there was something there, also, beyond intelligence and
loveliness. We have heard of "an eye to threaten and command." Sir
Thomas did not at this moment tell himself that Mary Bonner had such
an eye, but he did involuntarily and unconsciously acknowledge to
himself that over such a young lady as this whom he now saw before
him, it would be very difficult for him to exercise parental control.
He had heard that she was nineteen, but it certainly seemed to him
that she was older than his own daughters. As to Clary, there could
be no question between the two girls as to which of them would
exercise authority over the other,--not by force of age,--but by dint
of character, will, and fitness. And this Mary Bonner, who now shone
before him as a goddess almost, a young woman to whom no ordinary
man would speak without that kind of trepidation which goddesses do
inflict on ordinary men, had proposed to herself,--to go out as a
governess! Indeed, at this very moment such, probably, was her own
idea. As yet she had received no reply to the letter she had written
other than that which was now conveyed by her uncle's presence.
A few questions were asked as to the voyage. No;--she had not been
at all ill. "I have almost feared," she said, "to reach England,
thinking I should be so desolate." "We will not let you be desolate,"
said Sir Thomas, brightening up a little under the graciousness of
the goddess's demeanour. "My girls are looking forward to your coming
with the greatest delight." Then she asked some question as to her
cousins, and Sir Thomas thought that there was majesty even in her
voice. It was low, soft, and musical; but yet, even in that as in her
eye, there was something that indicated a power of command.
He had no servant with him to assist in looking after her luggage.
Old Stemm was the only man in his employment, and he could hardly
have brought Stemm down to Southampton on such an errand. But he
soon found that everybody about the ship was ready to wait upon Miss
Bonner. Even the captain came to take a special farewell of her, and
the second officer seemed to have nothing to do but to look after
her. The doctor was at her elbow to the last;--and all her boxes and
trunks seemed to extricate themselves from the general mass with a
readiness which is certainly not experienced by ordinary passengers.
There are certain favours in life which are very charming,--but very
unjust to others, and which we may perhaps lump under the name of
priority of service. Money will hardly buy it. When money does buy
it, there is no injustice. When priority of service is had, like a
coach-and-four, by the man who can afford to pay for it, industry,
which is the source of wealth, receives its fitting reward. Rank
will often procure it; most unjustly,--as we, who have no rank, feel
sometimes with great soreness. Position other than that of rank,
official position or commercial position, will secure it in certain
cases. A railway train is stopped at a wrong place for a railway
director, or a post-office manager gets his letters taken after time.
These, too, are grievances. But priority of service is perhaps more
readily accorded to feminine beauty, and especially to unprotected
feminine beauty, than to any other form of claim. Whether or no this
is ever felt as a grievance, ladies who are not beautiful may perhaps
be able to say. There flits across our memory at the present moment
some reminiscence of angry glances at the too speedy attendance
given by custom-house officers to pretty women. But this priority of
service is, we think, if not deserved, at least so natural, as to
take it out of the catalogue of evils of which complaint should be
made. One might complain with as much avail that men will fall in
love with pretty girls instead of with those who are ugly! On the
present occasion Sir Thomas was well contented. He was out of the
ship, and through the Custom House, and at the railway station, and
back at the inn before the struggling mass of passengers had found
out whether their longed-for boxes had or had not come with them
in the ship. And then Miss Bonner took it all,--not arrogantly, as
though it were her due; but just as the grass takes rain or the
flowers sunshine. These good things came to her from heaven, and
no doubt she was thankful. But they came to her so customarily, as
does a man's dinner to him, or his bed, that she could not manifest
surprise at what was done for her.
[Illustration: Even the captain came to take a special farewell of
her . . .]
Sir Thomas hardly spoke to her except about her journey and her
luggage till they were down together in the sitting-room at the inn.
Then he communicated to her his proposal as to her future life. It
was right, he thought, that she should know at once what he intended.
Two hours ago, before he had seen her, he had thought of telling her
simply where she was to live, and of saying that he would find a home
for her. Now he found it expedient to place the matter in a different
light. He would offer her the shelter of his roof as though she were
a queen who might choose among her various palaces. "Mary," he said,
"we hope that you will stay with us altogether."
"To live with you,--do you mean?"
"Certainly to live with us."
"I have no right to expect such an offer as that."
"But every right to accept it, my dear, when it is made. That is if
it suits you."
"I had not dreamed of that. I thought that perhaps you would let me
come to you for a few weeks,--till I should know what to do."
"You shall come and be one of us altogether, my dear, if you think
that you will like it. My girls have no nearer relative than you. And
we are not so barbarous as to turn our backs on a new-found cousin."
She again kissed his hand, and then turned away from him and wept.
"You feel it all strange now," he said, "but I hope we shall be able
to make you comfortable."
"I have been so lonely," she sobbed out amidst her tears.
He had not dared to say a word to her about her father, whose
death had taken place not yet three months since. Of his late
brother-in-law he had known little or nothing, except that the
General had been a man who always found it difficult to make
both ends meet, and who had troubled him frequently, not exactly
for loans, but in regard to money arrangements which had been
disagreeable to him. Whether General Bonner had or had not been an
affectionate father he had never heard. There are men who, in Sir
Thomas's position, would have known all about such a niece after a
few hours' acquaintance; but our lawyer was not such a man. Though
the girl seemed to him to be everything that was charming, he did not
dare to question her; and when they arrived at the station in London,
no word had as yet been said about the General.
As they were having the luggage piled on the top of a cab, the fat
cook passed along the platform. "I hope you are more comfortable now,
Mrs. Woods," said Mary Bonner, with a smile as sweet as May, while
she gave her hand to the woman.
"Thank'ee, Miss; I'm better; but it's only a moil of trouble, one
thing as well as t'other." Mrs. Woods was evidently very melancholy
at the contemplation of her prospects.
"I hope you'll find yourself comfortable now." Then she whispered to
Sir Thomas;--"She is a poor young woman whose husband has ill used
her, and she lost her only child, and has now come here to earn her
bread. She isn't nice looking, but she is so good!" Sir Thomas did
not dare to tell Mary Bonner that he had already noticed Mrs. Wood,
and that he had conceived the idea that Mrs. Wood was the niece of
whom he had come in search.
They made the journey at once to Fulham in the cab, and Sir Thomas
found it to be very long. He was proud of his new niece, but he did
not know what to say to her. And he felt that she, though he was sure
that she was clever, gave him no encouragement to speak. It was all
very well while, with her beautiful eyes full of tears, she had gone
through the ceremony of kissing his hand in token of her respect and
gratitude;--but that had been done often enough, and could not very
well be repeated in the cab. So they sat silent, and he was rejoiced
when he saw those offensive words, Popham Villa, on the posts of his
gateway. "We have only a humble little house, my dear," he said, as
they turned in. She looked at him and smiled. "I believe you West
Indians generally are lodged very sumptuously."
"Papa had a large straggling place up in the hills, but it was
anything but sumptuous. I do love the idea of an English home, where
things are neat and nice. Oh, dear;--how lovely! That is the River
Thames;--isn't it? How very beautiful!" Then the two girls were at
the door of the cab, and the newcomer was enveloped in the embraces
of her cousins.
Sir Thomas, as he walked along the banks of the river while the young
ladies prepared each other for dinner, reflected that he had never in
his life done such a day's work before as he had just accomplished.
When he had married a wife, that indeed had been a great piece of
business; but it had been done slowly,--for he had been engaged four
years,--and he had of course been much younger at that period. Now he
had brought into his family a new inmate who would force him in his
old age to change all his habits of life. He did not think that he
would dare to neglect Mary Bonner, and to stay in London while she
lived at the villa. He was almost sorry that he had ever heard of
Mary Bonner, in spite of her beauty, and although he had as yet been
able to find in her no cause of complaint. She was ladylike and
quiet;--but yet he was afraid of her. When she came down into the
drawing-room with her hand clasped in that of Clarissa, he was still
more afraid of her. She was dressed all in black, with the utmost
simplicity,--with nothing on her by way of ornament beyond a few
large black beads; but yet she seemed to him to be splendid. There
was a grace of motion about her that was almost majestic. Clary was
very pretty,--very pretty, indeed; but Clary was just the girl that
an old gentleman likes to fetch him his slippers and give him his
tea. Sir Thomas felt that, old as he was, it would certainly be his
business to give Mary Bonner her tea.
The two girls contrived to say a few words to their father that night
before they joined Mary amidst her trunks in her bedroom. "Papa,
isn't she lovely?" said Clarissa.
"She certainly is a very handsome young woman."
"And not a bit like what I expected," continued Clary. "Of course
I knew she was good-looking. I had always heard that. But I thought
that she would have been a sort of West Indian girl, dark, and lazy,
and selfish. Ralph was saying that is what they are out there."
"I don't suppose that Ralph knows anything about it," said Sir
Thomas. "And what do you say of your new cousin, Patience?"
"I think I shall love her dearly. She is so gentle and sweet."
"But she is not at all what you expected?" demanded Clarissa.
"I hardly know what I expected," replied the prudent Patience. "But
certainly I did not expect anything so lovely as she is. Of course,
we can't know her yet; but as far as one can judge, I think I shall
like her."
"But she is so magnificently beautiful!" said the energetic Clarissa.
"I think she is," said Sir Thomas. "And I quite admit that it is a
kind of beauty to surprise one. It did surprise me. Had not one of
you better go up-stairs to her?" Then both the girls bounded off to
assist their cousin in her chamber.