MRS. BROWNLOW.
There was a certain old Mrs. Brownlow, who inhabited a large
old-fashioned house on the Fulham Road, just beyond the fashionable
confines of Brompton, but nearer to town than the decidedly rural
district of Walham Green and Parson's Green. She was deeply
interested in the welfare of the Underwood girls, having been a first
cousin of their paternal grandmother, and was very unhappy because
their father would not go home and take care of them. She was an
excellent old woman, affectionate, charitable, and religious; but
she was rather behindhand in general matters, and did not clearly
understand much about anything in these latter days. She had heard
that Sir Thomas was accustomed to live away from his daughters, and
thought it very shocking;--but she knew that Sir Thomas either was
or had been in Parliament, and that he was a great lawyer and a
very clever man, and therefore she made excuses. She did not quite
understand it all, but she thought it expedient to befriend the young
ladies. She had heard, too, that Ralph Newton, who had been entrusted
to the care of Sir Thomas, was heir to an enormous property; and she
thought that the young man ought to marry one of the young ladies.
Consequently, whenever she would ask her cousins to tea, she would
also ask Mr. Ralph Newton. Sometimes he would come. More frequently
he would express his deep regret that a previous engagement prevented
him from having the pleasure of accepting Mrs. Brownlow's kind
invitation. On all these occasions Mrs. Brownlow invited Sir
Thomas;--but Sir Thomas never came. It could hardly have been
expected of him that he should do so. Bolsover House was the
old-fashioned name of Mrs. Brownlow's residence; and an invitation
for tea had been sent for a certain Tuesday in July,--Tuesday, July
the 18th. Mrs. Brownlow had of course been informed of the arrival
of Mary Bonner,--who was in truth as nearly related to her as the
Underwood girls,--and the invitation was given with the express
intention of doing honour to Mary. By the young ladies from Popham
Villa the invitation was accepted as a matter of course.
"Will he be there?" Clary said to her sister.
"I hope not, Clarissa."
"Why do you hope not? We are not to quarrel; are we, Patty?"
"No;--we need not quarrel. But I am afraid of him. He is not good
enough, Clary, for you to be unhappy about him. And I fear,--I fear,
he is--"
"Is what, Patty? Do speak it out. There is nothing I hate so much as
a mystery."
"I fear he is not genuine;--what people call honest. He would say
things without quite meaning what he says."
"I don't think it. I am sure he is not like that. I may have been a
fool--" Then she stopped herself, remembering the whole scene on the
lawn. Alas;--there had been no misunderstanding him. The crime had
been forgiven; but the crime had been a great fact. Since that she
had seen him only once, and then he had been so cold! But yet as he
left her he had not been quite cold. Surely that pressure of her hand
had meant something;--had meant something after that great crime! But
why did he not come to her; or why,--which would have been so far,
far better,--did he not go to her papa and tell everything to him?
Now, however, there was the chance that she would see him at Bolsover
House. That Mrs. Brownlow would ask him was quite a matter of course.
The great event of the evening was to be the introduction of Mrs.
Brownlow to the new cousin. They were to drink tea out in the
old-fashioned garden behind the house, from which Mrs. Brownlow could
retreat into her own room at the first touch of a breath of air. The
day was one of which the world at large would declare that there was
no breath of air, morning, noon, or night. There was to be quite a
party. That was evident from the first to our young ladies, who knew
the ways of the house, and who saw that the maids were very smart,
and that an extra young woman had been brought in; but they were the
first to come,--as was proper.
"My dear Mary," said the old woman to her new guest, "I am glad to
see you. I knew your mother and loved her well. I hope you will be
happy, my dear." Mrs. Brownlow was a very little old woman, very
pretty, very grey, very nicely dressed, and just a little deaf. Mary
Bonner kissed her, and murmured some word of thanks. The old woman
stood for a few seconds, looking at the beauty,--astounded like the
rest of the world. "Somebody told me she was good-looking," Mrs.
Brownlow said to Patience;--"but I did not expect to see her like
that."
"Is she not lovely?"
"She is a miracle, my dear! I hope she won't steal all the nice
young men away from you and your sister, eh? Yes;--yes. What does Mr.
Newton say to her?" Patience, however, knew that she need not answer
all the questions which Mrs. Brownlow asked, and she left this
question unanswered.
Two or three elderly ladies came in, and four or five young ladies,
and an old gentleman who sat close to Mrs. Brownlow and squeezed her
hand very often, and a middle-aged gentleman who was exceedingly
funny, and two young gentlemen who carried the tea and cakes about,
but did not talk much. Such were the guests, and the young ladies,
who no doubt were accustomed to Mrs. Brownlow's parties, took it all
as it was intended, and were not discontented. There was one young
lady, however, who longed to ask a question, but durst not. Had Ralph
Newton promised that he would come? Clary was sitting between the
old gentleman who seemed to be so fond of Mrs. Brownlow's hand and
her cousin Mary. She said not a word,--nor, indeed, was there much
talking among the guests in general. The merry, middle-aged gentleman
did the talking, combining with it a good deal of exhilarating
laughter at his own wit. The ladies sat round, and sipped their tea
and smiled. That middle-aged gentleman certainly earned his mild
refreshment;--for the party without him must have been very dull.
Then there came a breath of air,--or, as Mrs. Brownlow called it, a
keen north wind; and the old lady retreated into the house. "Don't
let me take anybody else in,--only I can't stand a wind like that."
The old gentleman accompanied her, and then the elderly ladies. The
young ladies came next, and the man of wit, with the silent young
gentlemen, followed, laden with scarfs, parasols, fans, and stray
teacups. "I don't think we used to have such cold winds in July,"
said Mrs. Brownlow. The old gentleman pressed her hand once more, and
whispered into her ear that there had certainly been a great change.
Suddenly Ralph Newton was among them. Clarissa had not heard him
announced, and to her it seemed as though he had come down from
the heavens,--as would have befitted his godship. He was a great
favourite with Mrs. Brownlow, who, having heard that he was heir
to a very large property, thought that his extravagance became him.
According to her views it was his duty to spend a good deal of money,
and his duty also to marry Clarissa Underwood. As he was as yet
unmarried to any one else, she hardly doubted that he would do his
duty. She was a sanguine old lady, who always believed that things
would go right. She bustled and fussed on the present occasion
with the very evident intention of getting a seat for him next to
Clarissa; but Clarissa was as active in avoiding such an arrangement,
and Ralph soon found himself placed between Mary Bonner and a very
deaf old lady, who was always present at Mrs. Brownlow's tea-parties.
"I suppose this has all been got up in your honour," he said to Mary.
She smiled, and shook her head. "Oh, but it has. I know the dear old
lady's ways so well! She would never allow a new Underwood to be at
the villa for a month without having a tea-party to consecrate the
event."
"Isn't she charming, Mr. Newton;--and so pretty?"
"No end of charming, and awfully pretty. Why are we all in here
instead of out in the garden?"
"Mrs. Brownlow thought that it was cold."
"With the thermometer at 80°! What do you think, who ought to know
what hot weather means? Are you chilly?"
"Not in the least. We West Indians never find this climate cold
the first year. Next year I don't doubt that I shall be full of
rheumatism all over, and begging to be taken back to the islands."
Clarissa watched them from over the way as though every word spoken
between them had been a treason to herself. And yet she had almost
been rude to old Mrs. Brownlow in the manner in which she had placed
herself on one side of the circle when the old lady had begged her to
sit on the other. Certainly, had she heard all that was said between
her lover and her cousin, there was nothing in the words to offend
her. She did not hear them; but she could see that Ralph looked into
Mary's beautiful face, and that Mary smiled in a demure, silent,
self-assured way which was already becoming odious to Clarissa.
Clarissa herself, when Ralph looked into her face, would blush and
turn away, and feel herself unable to bear the gaze of the god.
In a few minutes there came to be a sudden move, and all the young
people trooped back into the garden. It was Ralph Newton who did
it, and nobody quite understood how it was done. "Certainly, my
dears; certainly," said the old lady. "I dare say the moon is very
beautiful. Yes; I see Mr. Ralph. You are not going to take me out,
I can tell you. The moon is all very well, but I like to see it
through the window. Don't mind me. Mr. Truepeny will stay with me."
Mr. Truepeny, who was turned eighty, put out his hand and patted Mrs.
Brownlow's arm, and assured her that he wanted nothing better than
to stay with her for ever. The witty gentleman did not like the move,
because it had been brought about by a newcomer, who had, as it were,
taken the wind out of his sails. He lingered awhile, hoping to have
weight enough to control the multitude;--in which he failed, and at
last made one of the followers. And Clarissa lingered also, because
Ralph had been the first to stir. Ralph had gone out with Mary
Bonner, and therefore Clarissa had held back. So it came to pass
that she found herself walking round the garden with the witty,
exhilarating, middle-aged gentleman,--whom, for the present at least,
she most cordially hated. "I am not quite sure that our dear old
friend isn't right," said the witty man, whose name was Poojean;--"a
chair to sit down upon, and a wall or two around one, and a few
little knick-nacks about,--carpets and tables and those sort of
things,--are comfortable at times."
"I wonder you should leave them then," said Clarissa.
"Can there be a wonder that I leave them with such temptation as
this," said the gallant Poojean. Clarissa hated him worse than ever,
and would not look at him, or even make the faintest sign that she
heard him. The voice of Ralph Newton through the trees struck her
ears; and yet the voice wasn't loud,--as it would not be if it were
addressed with tenderness to Mary. And there was she bound by some
indissoluble knot to,--Mr. Poojean. "That Mr. Newton is a friend of
yours?" asked Mr. Poojean.
"Yes;--a friend of ours," said Clarissa.
"Then I will express my intense admiration for his wit, general
character, and personal appearance. Had he been a stranger to you, I
should, of course, have insinuated an opinion that he was a fool, a
coxcomb, and the very plainest young man I had ever seen. That is the
way of the world,--isn't it, Miss Underwood?"
"I don't know," said Clarissa.
"Oh, yes,--you do. That's the way we all go on. As he is your friend,
I can't dare to begin to abuse him till after the third time round
the garden."
"I beg, then, that there may be only two turns," said Clarissa.
But she did not know how to stop, or to get rid of her abominable
companion.
"If I mustn't abuse him after three turns, he must be a favourite,"
said the persevering Poojean. "I suppose he is a favourite.
By-the-bye, what a lovely girl that is with whom your favourite
was,--shall I say flirting?"
"That lady is my cousin, Mr. Poojean."
"I didn't say that she was flirting, mind. I wouldn't hint such a
thing of any young lady, let her be anybody's cousin. Young ladies
never flirt. But young men do sometimes;--don't they? After all, it
is the best fun going;--isn't it?"
"I don't know," said Clarissa. By this time they had got round to the
steps leading from the garden to the house. "I think I'll go in, Mr.
Poojean." She did go in, and Mr. Poojean was left looking at the moon
all alone, as though he had separated himself from all mirth and
society for that melancholy but pleasing occupation. He stood there
gazing upwards with his thumbs beneath his waistcoat. "Grand,--is it
not?" he said to the first couple that passed him.
"Awfully grand, and beautifully soft, and all the rest of it," said
Ralph, as he went on with Mary Bonner by his side.
"That fellow has got no touch of poetry in him!" said Poojean to
himself. In the meantime Clarissa, pausing a moment as she entered
through the open window, heard Ralph's cheery voice. How well she
knew its tones! And she still paused, with ears erect, striving to
catch some word from her cousin's mouth. But Mary's words, if they
were words spoken by her, were too low and soft to be caught.
"Oh,--if she should turn out to be sly!" Clarissa said to herself.
Was it true that Ralph had been flirting with her,--as that odious
man had said? And why, why, why had Ralph not come to her, if he
really loved her, as he had twice told her that he did? Of course
she had not thrown herself into his arms when old Mrs. Brownlow made
that foolish fuss. But still he might have come to her. He might
have waited for her in the garden. He might have saved her from the
"odious vulgarity" of that "abominable old wretch." For in such
language did Clarissa describe to herself the exertions to amuse her
which had been made by her late companion. But had the Sydney Smith
of the day been talking to her, he would have been dull, or the Count
D'Orsay of the day, he would have been vulgar, while the sound of
Ralph Newton's voice, as he walked with another girl, was reaching
her ears. And then, before she had seated herself in Mrs. Brownlow's
drawing-room, another idea had struck her. Could it be that Ralph did
not come to her because she had told him that she would never forgive
him for that crime? Was it possible that his own shame was so great
that he was afraid of her? If so, could she not let him know that he
was,--well, forgiven? Poor Clarissa! In the meantime the voices still
came to her from the garden, and she still thought that she could
distinguish Ralph's low murmurings.
It may be feared that Ralph had no such deep sense of his fault as
that suggested. He did remember well enough,--had reflected more
than once or twice,--on those words which he had spoken to Clary.
Having spoken them he had felt his crime to be their not unnatural
accompaniment. At that moment, when he was on the lawn at Fulham, he
had thought that it would be very sweet to devote himself to dear
Clary,--that Clary was the best and prettiest girl he knew, that, in
short, it might be well for him to love her and cherish her and make
her his wife. Had not Patience come upon the scene, and disturbed
them, he would probably then and there have offered to her his hand
and heart. But Patience had come upon the scene, and the offer had
not been, as he thought, made. Since all that, which had passed ages
ago,--weeks and weeks ago,--there had fallen upon him the prosaic
romance of Polly Neefit. He had actually gone down to Hendon to offer
himself as a husband to the breeches-maker's daughter. It is true he
had hitherto escaped in that quarter also,--or, at any rate, had not
as yet committed himself. But the train of incidents and thoughts
which had induced him to think seriously of marrying Polly, had
made him aware that he could not propose marriage to Sir Thomas
Underwood's daughter. From such delight as that he found, on calm
reflection, that he had debarred himself by the folly of his past
life. It was well that Patience had come upon the scene.
Such being the state of affairs with him, that little episode with
Clary being at an end,--or rather, as he thought, never having quite
come to a beginning,--and his little arrangement as to Polly Neefit
being in abeyance, he was free to amuse himself with this newcomer.
Miss Bonner was certainly the most lovely girl he had ever seen. He
could imagine no beauty to exceed hers. He knew well enough that her
loveliness could be nothing to him;--but a woman's beauty is in one
sense as free as the air in all Christian countries. It is a light
shed for the delight, not of one, but of many. There could be no
reason why he should not be among the admirers of Miss Bonner.
"I expect, you know, to be admitted quite on the terms of an old
friend," he said. "I shall call you Mary, and all that kind of
thing."
"I don't see your claim," said Miss Bonner.
"Oh yes, you do,--and must allow it. I was almost a sort of son of
Sir Thomas's,--till he turned me off when I came of age. And Patience
and Clarissa are just the same as sisters to me."
"You are not even a cousin, Mr. Newton."
"No;--I'm not a cousin. It's more like a foster-brother, you know. Of
course I shan't call you Mary if you tell me not. How is it to be?"
"Just for the present I'll be Miss Bonner."
"For a week or so?"
"Say for a couple of years, and then we'll see how it is."
"You'll be some lucky's fellow's wife long before that. Do you like
living at Fulham?"
"Very much. How should I not like it? They are so kind to me. And you
know, when I first resolved to come home, I thought I should have
to go out as a governess,--or, perhaps, as a nursery-maid, if they
didn't think me clever enough to teach. I did not expect my uncle to
be so good to me. I had never seen him, you know. Is it not odd that
my uncle is so little at home?"
"It is odd. He is writing a book, you see, and he finds that the air
of Fulham doesn't suit his brains."
"Oh, Mr. Newton!"
"And he likes to be quite alone. There isn't a better fellow going
than your uncle. I am sure I ought to say so. But he isn't just what
I should call,--sociable."
"I think him almost perfection;--but I do wish he was more at home
for their sakes. We'll go in now, Mr. Newton. Patience has gone in,
and I haven't seen Clarissa for ever so long."
Soon after this the guests began to go away. Mr. Truepeny gave Mrs.
Brownlow's hand the last squeeze, and Mr. Poojean remarked that
all terrestrial joys must have an end. "Not but that such hours as
these," said he, "have about them a dash of the celestial which
almost gives them a claim to eternity." "Horrible fool!" said
Clarissa to her sister, who was standing close to her.
"Mrs. Brownlow would, perhaps, prefer going to bed," said Ralph.
Then every one was gone except the Underwoods and Ralph Newton. The
girls had on their hats and shawls, and all was prepared for their
departure;--but there was some difficulty about the fly. The Fulham
fly which had brought them, and which always took them everywhere,
had hitherto omitted to return for them. It was ordered for half-past
ten, and now it was eleven. "Are you sure he was told?" said Clary.
Patience had told him herself,--twice. "Then he must be tipsy again,"
said Clary. Mrs. Brownlow bade them to sit still and wait; but when
the fly did not arrive by half-past eleven, it was necessary that
something should be done. There were omnibuses on the road, but they
might probably be full. "It is only two miles,--let us walk," said
Clary; and so it was decided.
Ralph insisted on walking with them till he should meet an omnibus or
a cab to take him back to London. Patience did her best to save him
from such labour, protesting that they would want no such escort. But
he would not be gainsayed, and would go with them at least a part
of the way. Of course he did not leave them till they had reached
the gate of Popham Villa. But when they were starting there arose a
difficulty as to the order in which they would marshal themselves;--a
difficulty as to which not a word could be spoken, but which was not
the less a difficulty. Clarissa hung back. Ralph had spoken hardly a
word to her all the evening. It had better continue so. She was sure
that he could not care for her. But she thought that she would be
better contented that he should walk with Patience than with Mary
Bonner. But Mary took the matter into her own hands, and started off
boldly with Patience. Patience hardly approved, but there would be
nothing so bad as seeming to disapprove. Clary's heart was in her
mouth as she found her arm within his. He had contrived that it
should be so, and she could not refuse. Her mind was changed again
now, and once more she wished that she could let him know that the
crime was forgiven.
"I am so glad to have a word with you at last," he said. "How do you
get on with the new cousin?"
"Very well;--and how have you got on with her?"
"You must ask her that. She is very beautiful,--what I call
wonderfully beautiful."
"Indeed she is," said Clary, withdrawing almost altogether the weight
of her hand from his arm.
"And clever, too,--very clever; but--"
"But what?" asked Clary, and the softest, gentlest half-ounce of
pressure was restored.
"Well;--nothing. I like her uncommonly;--but is she not
quite,--quite,--quite--"
"She is quite everything that she ought to be, Ralph."
"I'm sure of that;--an angel, you know, and all the rest of it. But
angels are cold, you know. I don't know that I ever admired a girl
so much in my life." The pressure was again lessened,--all but
annihilated. "But, somehow, I should never dream of falling in love
with your cousin."
"Perhaps you may do so without dreaming," said Clary, as
unconsciously she gave back the weight to her hand.
"No;--I know very well the sort of girl that makes me spoony." This
was not very encouraging to poor Clary, but still she presumed that
he meant to imply that she herself was a girl of the sort that so
acted upon him. And the conversation went on in this way throughout
the walk. There was not much encouragement to her, and certainly she
did not say a word to him that could make him feel that she wanted
encouragement. But still he had been with her, and she had been
happy; and when they parted at the gate, and he again pressed her
hand, she thought that things had gone well. "He must know that I
have forgiven him now!" she said to herself.