THE TWO COUSINS.
THE SUPPER was as excellent as the dinner, and Tom, made hungry by his
exertions upon the river, enjoyed it.
By accident he found himself seated next to Mary Somers, the poor
cousin. The two conversed quite socially, rather to the disgust of
Imogene, who, hearing that Tom was rich, wished to monopolize him
herself. She was vexed to find that he was considerably more attentive
to her penniless cousin than he had been to herself.
If Mary had been homely, and she herself handsome, she could have been
quite friendly, but Mary’s fresh color and bright eyes showed to such
advantage compared with her own sallow complexion and dull eyes that she
envied and hated her.
“Did you have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Temple?” asked Mary.
“Very pleasant,” said Tom. “We had an adventure, too.”
“What was it?”
“We saved a little Irish boy from drowning.”
“That is new business for Cousin James,” said Mary, smiling.
“You needn’t lay it to me,” said James. “I didn’t have anything to do
with the little brat.”
“You speak as if it were discreditable,” said Tom. “I’ll stand the
blame.”
“I didn’t want him to drown,” said James, “but I am not partial to
ragged boys.”
“It is always well to be humane,” said Lawyer Davenport. “I am glad that
my boy was instrumental in preserving the life of a fellow-being.”
Mary and Tom continued their conversation, while Imogene grew more and
more vexed with her cousin, till she had the ill-breeding to say, in an
ill-natured tone:
“Really, Mary, you talk so much that nobody else gets a chance.”
“I am sorry,” said Mary blushing.
“I am just as much to blame,” said Tom good-naturedly. “I’ve been asking
your cousin questions.”
“I hate to see girls so forward,” said Imogene spitefully.
Mary looked pained, and there was some spirit in her answer.
“I didn’t think it would be polite to refuse answering Mr. Temple,” she
said.
“Imogene is right,” said Mrs. Davenport, who thoroughly sympathized with
her daughter. “You are too forward.”
Mary’s mouth quivered with mortification, but she said nothing. Neither
did Tom. He was indignant at the petty malice of Imogene, and
determined, if he could not speak to Mary, he would not speak at all. He
only answered the questions of the rest in monosyllables during the
remainder of the meal.
When supper was over, Mrs. Davenport said:
“We will go into the parlor. Imogene, can’t you play for Mr. Temple?”
“Do you like music, Mr. Temple?” asked Imogene.
“Pretty well,” said Tom, “but I am not much of a judge of it.”
“I have taken lessons for three years,” said Imogene complacently.
“Have you? Do you like it?”
“I am passionately fond of it,” said the young lady.
“Does your cousin play, too?”
“A little,” said Imogene ungraciously. “She hasn’t much taste for it,
but it is really necessary for her to learn.”
“Why?”
“Because she is to be a governess,” said Imogene. “She is very poor—in
fact she has nothing of her own. Pa kindly agreed to take her and give
her an education, so as to qualify her to earn her own living. She’ll be
a governess, or teach school, or something of the kind, when she’s old
enough.”
“Perhaps she won’t have to,” said Tom, who liked to annoy his companion.
“She has got to earn her living.”
“I mean she may get married.”
“Yes,” said Imogene, “but, of course, she can’t expect to make much of a
match. She may get a farmer, or mechanic, perhaps.”
“I suppose,” said Tom, “_you_ would not marry a farmer or mechanic?”
“I should think not,” said Imogene, tossing her head. “I have a right to
look higher. I may marry a lawyer like pa. What do you expect to be, Mr.
Temple?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” said Tom.
“I suppose you won’t have to do anything. You are rich, are you not?”
“I suppose so,” said Tom, who was not inclined to boast of his wealth,
“but I shouldn’t be willing to be idle.”
“You might buy an estate and take care of it, and live on your income.”
“Then I should be a farmer.”
“Oh, that’s different. You wouldn’t have to work yourself. What shall I
play for you?” asked the young lady, who was now seated at the piano.
“I’m not particular. I like songs best.”
Imogene sang a fashionable song, but her voice was thin and shrill, and
Tom could not in conscience praise the performance. He thanked her, but
did not ask for another. Imogene, however, played two other pieces, and
then rose from the piano.
“Miss Mary,” said Tom, “won’t you play something?”
“Shall I aunt?” asked Mary.
“If Mr. Temple wishes to hear you,” said Mrs. Davenport ungraciously.
“He will make allowances, as he can hardly expect you to perform as well
as Imogene.”
So Mary took her place at the piano.
“I do not play very much,” she said apologetically.
“I’m not a critic,” said Tom. “I sha’n’t find fault. Do you sing?”
“A few common songs, such as ‘Sweet Home.’”
“That’s just what I like.”
So Mary played and sang “Sweet Home.” Her voice was sweet and fresh, far
superior to her cousin’s, and her performance was wholly free from
affectation.
“Thank you,” said Tom, at the conclusion of the song. “I enjoyed it very
much.”
He was about to ask for another song, when Imogene said:
“Don’t bang away on the piano any more, Mary, I am sure Mr. Temple will
gladly excuse you.”
“You are mistaken,” said Tom, “I particularly enjoy your cousin’s
singing.”
“I want to show you some engravings,” said Imogene, determined to
separate the two.
Mary rose from the piano. It would be impossible to continue after such
a broad hint.
“I shall hope to hear you again,” said Tom, as he led her to a seat.
“Some other time I will sing to you, if you wish,” said Mary. “Imogene
doesn’t want me to now.”
“What a spiteful girl her cousin is!” thought Tom. “She’s a little more
disagreeable than James, if possible. If she expects to make any
impression on me, she’s very much mistaken.”
Tom had no further opportunity to converse with Mary Somers that
evening. Imogene laid herself out to entertain him, and at all events
succeeded in monopolizing his attention. Tom was not unaccustomed to
society, and although he was weary of his companion, he was too polite
to say so. He permitted her to show him several collections of
engravings, and forced himself to converse, though his eyes frequently
wandered to Mary, who was sitting at the other end of the room, wholly
neglected. Neither James nor Edwin thought it necessary to go near her,
but were playing a game of checkers, while Mr. Davenport was nodding
over his newspaper, and Mrs. Davenport was attending to some feminine
work.
Our hero was glad when the time came to go. He found the Middletons
curious to hear the particulars of his reception by the great man of the
place.
“What do you think of Miss Imogene?” asked Nathan.
“She’s thin and bony,” said Tom; “not at all good-looking.”
“Really,” said Nathan, rather shocked, “I think you are unjust. She is
considered a very stylish young lady.”
“Her cousin Mary is pretty,” said Tom.
“I suppose you know she is only a poor relation.”
“I know all about that,” said Tom, laughing. “Imogene told me. She
thought I was paying her too much attention.”
Mr. and Mrs. Middleton exchanged glances. They understood that the great
man’s daughter was pleased with Tom, and thought more of him
accordingly.
“Will you have some refreshments before you retire?” asked Mrs.
Middleton.
“No, thank you. I had a jolly supper at Mr. Davenport’s.”
Mrs. Middleton was relieved to hear this, and did not press her
invitation.
The next day Tom went on an exploring expedition. He was returning about
the middle of the afternoon, when he was startled by a young girl’s
shriek. Turning his head he saw a terrified figure pursued by a fierce
dog. A moment’s glance revealed to him that it was Mary Somers.
She recognized him at the same moment.
“Oh, save me, Mr. Temple!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands.
“I will,” said Tom resolutely.
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