Page images
PDF
EPUB

But Mrs. Maddox, who had flown to her daughter's side, was perfectly cool and collected, smiled as pleasantly as ever, and said in a sharp and decisive, but playful man

ner,

"Don't be silly: give me that scent-bottle on the little table, that's a good man. Now go and have your ride, and when you come back you will find her quite well again: she has only fainted, that is all. Go-go-go!" and she gave him a gentle push.

[ocr errors]

Tomkins went for his solitary ride; and, as he rode, he thought; and his thoughts were far from cheerful. He appeared to himself to have got into what was called in his phraseology a "jolly mess." If these things were done in the green tree, what would be done in the dry? He had been given to understand by the poets that wooing-time was the golden time for youth of both sexes. If so, why faint? He wondered if the same sort of thing happened often during honeymoons; and, if it did, how glad he would be to get his honeymoon over, and have Mrs. Maddox to help him. He fancied he saw now how it is that mothersin-law get the thin end of the wedge in. He had found Annie all that was bright and sprightly until he had shown her unusual attention: then she had become ill, the doctor had been called in, and she had all at once taken to melancholy and fainting-fits. It was complimentary to him, perhaps, that the prospect of accepting or rejecting him should cause her such evidently serious consideration; but he was a plain man, who preferred comfort to compliments. He had elicited from her that there was no previous engagement, and he rather wished now that there had been he might then have got out of his scrape without having his dignity offended. As matters stood, he was in a position about which he would have liked to consult Mr. Gladstone; for he had that statesman's favorite number of three courses open. He might boldly but dishonorably "back out," and have a chance of discovering the pecuniary value attached by twelve British jurymen (fathers, perhaps, of lovely daughters) to the privilege of becoming Mrs. Tomkins; he might ride his horse desperately over the cliff and put an end to himself and his horse, and his fears and anxieties; and he might philosophically bide his time until the fatal week was over, and he was flatteringly accepted and a bond-slave, or ignominiously rejected and a free man. either the first or the second course he was not inclined; for he inherited a disposition which was incompatible with even a possible payment of damages, or with self-inflicted wounds or death; and, as to the third, he was upheld by a conviction, that, from what he knew of himself and his family, he was sufficiently elastic of nature and thick of skin to bear with cheerfulness the amount of ignominy that would fall to his lot, and to make up his mind never again to be in a similar predicament. If he were, contrary to his expectatation and even wishes, accepted, he would face the future like a man, and strive to atone by a life of devotion for the error he had committed in making a precipitate declaration. For, when he came to commune with himself alone, he could not help seeing that he had been precipitate. He had proposed simply because for three months he had been constantly thrown into the society of a charming girl, had arrived at the end of his stock of conversation, and could not plead to his conscience poverty as a reason why he should refrain from "coming up to the scratch." He now lamented that he had not, at least, waited to be sounded as to his intentions; for, even then, no more could have been wrung from him than he had voluntarily offered; and he would, probably, have gained an interval, during which some diversion might have been created in his favor. Such were the reflections, during his ride, of Tomkins, whose mind had been so seriously disturbed by the fainting fit, that he distorted and misrepresented facts, and tried disingenuously to convince himself that twenty-four hours ago he had not considered Annie and heaven synonymous. In the mean while, Annie had recovered from her swoon, and she and Mrs. Maddox were conversing freely.

[ocr errors]

To

'If he writes to me as usual,” the former said, "I shall feel bound for another year."

“He'll not write," was the confident reply.

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

Got by drugs," muttered Annie disparagingly.

My dear," rejoined Mrs. Maddox, "you speak as if they had been noxious drugs, and he had poisoned his father with them."

"He is dreadfully vulgar," observed Annie, "with his brandy and soda, and all that sort of thing. I heard what he recommended for me."

"My love," rejoined Mrs. Maddox, "recollect that the believing wife sanctifies the unbelieving husband; and in the same way the refined wife polishes the unrefined husband." "It will be a very difficult task, mamma."

"Patience, perseverance, and eight hundred a year will surmount all difficulties. It is not as if he were hideous in appearance, or likely to be rebellious."

Annie laughed, and rejoined, "I could put him in shafts, and drive him with a skein of silk."

"To be sure, my dear," replied Mrs. Maddox, in a tone of intense satisfaction; "and that is a great thing. It insures domestic peace, if not happiness."

"But I'm so young as yet, mamma; and Mr. Bushby might in a year or so

[ocr errors]

"Procrastination, my darling Annie, in such matters, is most dangerous. I always think of that foolish king, who refused the sibylline books, and was afterwards obliged to take a portion of them. You might find yourself at thirty years of age accepting an offer of three hundred a year, or getting no offer at all.”

"At any rate, Mr. Bushby is a gentleman," said Annie, with a sigh.

"Mr. Bushby's only drawback," rejoined Mrs. Maddox warmly, "is inability to maintain a wife. But that, you have already allowed, is fatal."

"Quite so, mamma," assented Annie disconsolately. "Poor Mr. Bushby!"

The last words smote upon the ear of Tomkins, as he entered the room on returning from his ride, and made him feel a little uncomfortable; for he had seen the superscription of the note which had been written by Mrs. Maddox ; and that fact, coupled with Annie's exclamation, had caused him to conceive sentiments of suspicion and hatred towards this unknown Bushby, whose name was beginning to appear portentously upon the scene. However, he was received with so much cordiality by both daughter and mother, that his perturbed spirit was soon at rest; and he took quite a poetical flight when Mrs. Maddox judiciously gave him and Annie an opportunity of an unobserved parting.

"In a week," said he, "I shall come back to hear my fate; and pray remember that 'yes' rhymes to 'bless,' and no to 'blow.' Your answer will make me happy forever, or strike me down into the dust of misery."

And so he departed, to spend a week of suspense in solitary travelling, and in wondering at intervals who the devil was Bushby.

"I'm afraid the man's an idiot, mamma," said Annie, after he was fairly gone, as she pondered on his farewell address.

"That is of no consequence, my dear," replied Mrs. Maddox complacently: "indeed, I'm not sure that it is not an advantage. Idiots are generally harmless, affectionate creatures; and it is only when they show their infirmity in outward and visible ungainliness, and so on, that their idiocy becomes distressing. Mr. Tomkins has nothing of

that sort."

"Oh! he is a very fair specimen of the animal," rejoined Annie.

"And he is a quiet, docile animal," said Mrs. Maddox ; "and he has eight hundred a year. It will be your own fault if you cannot make a tolerable husband out of such a combination."

And mother and daughter retired to rest.

Whilst they were slumbering, and Tomkins was dreaming of a fearful monster, more appalling than a sea-serpent, and in dreamland called a Bushby, the mail-train was swiftly carrying to London Mrs. Maddox's little missive, or, it were as correct to say, missile. And a deadly shaft it was. It reached its mark about ten o'clock the next morning, as Mr. Bushby sat down to a somewhat late breakfast, and prepared to whet his appetite by a perusal of his letter. Ile first took up the delicate little note, and read as follows:

"DEAR MR. BUSHBY,- The weather is lovely, and our cottage is more charming than ever. We heard from Tom the other day; and he inquired particularly after you, and said he would like to hear from you, and that I must tell you to write as soon as ever you could. His address is the same as before. He is getting on pretty well, and is not at all sorry he went to Ceylon. With united kind regards, "I remain, yours very sincerely,

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

"Yours very sincerely,

"JOHN BUSHBY."

He had no idea that he had begun to be regarded by Mrs. Maddox as 'that horrid Mr. Bushby," or his eyes would have been completely opened; and it is, perhaps, well for the general peace of society that we are for the most part wholly unconscious of the epithets applied, in our absence, by our friends to our names. As for Bushby,

though he was unable to construe to his own satisfaction the words of Mrs. Maddox, he had a glimmering perception of evil impending over him; and for a brief moment he harbored an idea of anticipating matters by a bold stroke. He took out from his desk seven little notes, of which each was signed "Annie Maddox." They were short, business-like acknowledgments of the annual congratulations addressed by him to her on her birthdays; but the most recent note, just a year old, contained a sentence over which he became absorbed. "You say you have heard that I am altered: all I know is, I feel exactly the same as ever." Why draw a line under that little verb, if there was no subtle and double meaning attached to it? It was clear to Bushby that she intended him to understand that every thing was unchanged on her part so far as they two were concerned: that he was still to be her brother Tom's most cherished friend, with whom she had as a mere child begun that annual interchange of letters which seemed so little, and which had at last come to mean so much. How much had never been said by either; but was fully though tacitly admitted, as could be gathered from outward and visible signs, not only by the pair most interested, but by Tom and by Mrs. Maddox, and by whoever spent a day at the pretty cottage, and saw how every thing seemed to fall out so that Annie and Bushby should be as much as possible together. Why Bushby had not attempted to draw her into a definite engagement was simply because he had no immediate prospects, and thought it would be unfair to fetter her for, perhaps, the best years of her life. And now, as a dark suspicion crossed his mind, he put back the

little notes in their accustomed place, and muttered, "Love or lucre: that is the question."

Friday came and went: Annie's birthday was over, and there had been no letter of congratulation from " that horril Mr. Bushby." And though Annie had been nervous and peevish and ill all the day, she was quite herself again on Saturday. For it is astonishing how small a quantity of salve will suffice to cure a wounded conscience, especially in she case of a marriageable young woman. Annie felt absolved from her curious, tacit, long-continued understanding with Bushby, so soon as he discontinued the only overt act which seemed to bind them together. He, not she, had broken the spell; and she laid that flattering unction to her soul. Had he written, she would have written back, and considered herself committed to their singular compact for another year. It may seem strange to those who take extremely elevated views of human nature, that she should not have inquired into the means taken for preventing Bushby from writing; but she had great confidence in her mother's tact, and was contented with results. She was now perfectly free, and intended to avail herself of her freedom. Let not sentimental persons cry out indignantly that Annie could not have behaved thus, for they will at once be confuted by facts. She actually did behave thus; and so there is an end of it. She was not at all sentimental: she was a practical girl. strongly impressed with the duty of getting advantageously married, to the man she liked best if it were possible, but, even at the cost of a serious fit of illness, at any rate to somebody. It is more than probable, that, if Bushby had asked her, she would have consented to wait until she was gray-headed; but his sense of justice would not allow him to do so, and consequently his first stool began to slip from him.

He almost felt it slipping; and was already turning his thoughts seriously towards his second when he made his remark about "love or lucre."

[blocks in formation]

"EMMA CARSON. She seems to

"P. S. — Ellen Parry is staying with us. have a very pleasant recollection of you."

Bushby appealed to his memory for information about Ellen Parry, but without any immediate response. At last the faithful organ became more communicative, and revealed to him certain facts which he had clean forgotten. He executed a crab-like movement backwards, until he became once more seven years old, and was walking in a garden with two or three girls. He was a pretty little boy; and they, who had up to the time of that very walk been complete strangers to him, after eying him carefully and approvingly, whispered together and giggled; and then one of them fell suddenly upon him and kissed him, saying, "You are a little darling!"

She was quite twelve years old, and her name was Ellen Parry. She had struck him as being frightful to look at; and he had resented the liberty she had taken with him in a manner which only made her laugh good-naturedly, and repeat her outrageous conduct. They had ultimately, however, become very good friends, when she went abroad with her parents; and he had never seen her since, nor even heard of her. She was his Aunt Carson's niece, and she had lately lost her father, who was his Aunt Carson's brother. must now be thirty-two years of age if she was a day; and, if she had fulfilled the promise of her girlhood, must have grown up to be hideous. However, he would be able to decide upon the question of her hideousness when Thursday

She

evening came. It came; and Bushby was punctual, and arrived at the door of his uncle's house, in a small square in the parish of Kensington, as the clock struck the half hour after six. Ellen and her mother gave him a hearty greeting: remembered him perfectly (they said); and showed the greatest interest in him and his pursuits, making their conversation during dinner turn thereon as often as they could. As for him, he was chiefly engaged in taking stock of Ellen. She looked quite her age, and even more than five years older than Bushby, who had the appearance of being younger than he was. She was not hideous, but she was decidedly plain; and in the manner in which she had arranged her hair, and in the style of her dress, there was displayed either an ignorance of or contempt for prevailing fashions. She wore an air of great determination, and she expressed her opinions with frankness and self-confidence ; though she listened with marked deference to what Bushby said, either agreeing with him cordially, or differing from him with evident reluctance. She expressed unbounded admiration for his profession (which was the bar); and she declared that the magazine to which he occasionally (it appeared) contributed articles was her favorite. After dinner she played some pieces, with considerable skill, on the piano; and it turned out that she and Bushby had the same taste in music.

Bushby's uncle never omitted to smoke tobacco in his study of an evening; and he, about half-past nine, carried off Bushby with him into the regions of smoke. As they sat face to face and puffed in unison, the uncle seemed buried in thought; but at last he said bruskly,

"That girl has thirty thousand pounds, John, if she has a penny."

"Miss Parry, you mean?" rejoined Bushby carelessly. "Of course I do," replied the uncle testily: "perhaps I ought to have said woman, for she is not any longer a girl," he added, with a short cough.

"No: she is not," assented Bushby dryly. His uncle eyed him keenly, and repeated, "She has thirty thousand pounds, though, if she has a penny."

"So you said before, sir," observed Bushby.

"And she has no nonsense about her," continued the uncle: "she has told your aunt that now her father is dead, and has left her well off, and she is no longer tied to home as she was by him, she wants to be married, and means to be too."

[ocr errors]

"She'll soon get picked up with thirty thousand pounds," remarked Bushby unconcernedly.

66

Suppose she doesn't want to be picked up?" sneered the uncle with angry emphasis.

66

Well, she'll soon pick somebody up, then," rejoined Bushby carelessly.

The uncle made no reply, but sat and regarded his nephew discontentedly; and his face assumed the appearance ascribed to the great Pan in the words:

“ ἐντὶ δὲ πικρὸς,

Καί οἱ ἀεὶ δριμεῖα χολὰ ποτὲ ῥινὶ καθῆται,”

for "bitter choler wrinkled round his nose."

But after a few moments' pause he asked sharply, — Any briefs this year, John?

[ocr errors]

66

No," answered Bushby lazily: "only three guineas' worth of soup."

"Soup! what d'ye mean?" snapped the uncle.

Bushby explained the meaning of barristers' soup; and his uncle continued,

"You've only your fellowship to live on, then?" "That's all," replied Bushby curtly.

"Two hundred a year, isn't it?"

"Two hundred and ten pounds fifteen shillings and twopence halfpenny it was last year," said the accurate Bushby.

"And, if you married, you would have to give it all up?" "To the very halfpenny."

"How long do you think it will be before you make as much at the bar?

[ocr errors]

"Do you allude to the halfpenny, sir?"

Pan's nose wrinkled once more with ire as he snarled, — "You know well enough I meant the fellowship."

66

Well, sir," rejoined Bushby, "I haven't sufficient data (that is, cases given to me) to calculate upon; but I should think about a century."

"It's quite clear, then," observed the uncle, "that you can't afford to marry a pretty fool without a sixpence."

"Or even a pretty sage with the like handsome dowry," assented Bushby.

"And yet I should think that to be married and to make a good appearance would assist you in your profes

sion."

"Undoubtedly."

"Ahem!" coughed the uncle, as if the smoke had tickled his throat.

"Ahem!" counter-coughed the nephew, as if he were in the same predicament.

At this juncture a tap was administered to the door of the study, and a voice was heard saying,

66

May I just come in and say good-night?”

Bushby, at a nod from his uncle, jumped up and opened the door; and with a little cough of suffocation, and a little scream of surprise, and a little sparring at the atmosphere, and a little snigger, partly contemptuous, partly compassionate, partly partronizing, partly deprecatory, partly goodhumored, in sailed Mrs. Parry, accompanied by Mrs. Carson.

Oh! dear me," gasped the former, "I really can hardly speak; but I didn't like to go away without saying goodnight; and, besides, I thought I might have the pleasure of Mr. Bushby's company: you know I go very near the Temple, and I could set him down within a few hundred yards."

Bushby would be "delighted and even grateful." So Mrs. Parry and he departed in the former's comfortable brougham; but Ellen Parry remained behind with the Carsons to complete her long visit.

Bushby, having been "dropped" in due time, walked his few hundred yards to the Temple in so brown a study that he had excellent opportunities of trying his weight and the sharpness of his elbows against opposing passengers, and of hearing some novelties in the way of bad language. But they "might as well have blessed him: "he "was deaf to blessing as to cursing;" and, not only as he made his way to his chambers but far into the small hours, as he lay sleepless in bed, he pondered over the conversation he had held with Mrs. Parry during their drive. They had talked of such friends and acquaintance as they had in common; and he had found himself cordially assenting when she had dwelt upon the wisdom of those who had shown commonsense rather than sentiment in their marriages, and when she had expressed her opinion that young men were apt to attach far too much importance to mere personal appearance. At last he fell into a fitful slumber; and as he slumbered, he saw in a dream a curious kind of sign-post, with arms pointing in two opposite directions. The posts bore the shape of two female figures, back to back; and the arms were like the arms of women. There were hands, too, connected with the arms; and on the open palms two words were plainly written: on one pair "Love," on the other "Lucre." But the roads towards which the fingers pointed were dark as Erebus.

Bushby received from his uncle and aunt, so long as Ellen Parry was staying with them, assiduous attention; and his uncle seemed never weary of impressing upon him that Ellen had "thirty thousand pounds, if she had a penny." As for Ellen, she was always discovered by Bushby with the magazine to which he contributed either in her hand or in some conspicuous place near her; she obtained all the music he expressed a favorable opinion of; she consulted him upon legal points, with which it was difficult to conceive that she could have any concern; and she never had so much as a headache to prevent her from accompanying her aunt and him to any entertainment for which he offered them tickets. And when she returned to her mother's house, to which Mrs. Parry had already more than once asked Bushby, he found that she was as partial as ever

to his magazine, and his music, and his law, and so on. Moreover, as Ellen was her mother's amanuensis, there grew to be an interchange of little notes, on various pretexts, between them; and just before he became so "horrid " to Mrs. Maddox that that excellent mother had to send him her note of warning, he had been obliged to refuse an invitation from Mrs. Parry (that is, from Ellen), on the plea of illness. The cause of the refusal elicited the following letter: —

"DEAR MR. BUSHBY,- We were so sorry to hear of your illness. Mamma is quite distressed to think you should be all alone, at such a time, with only a horrid laundress (isn't that what you call her?) to attend to you. Mamma says she has a great mind to come and fetch you away, and nurse you here herself; and you must not be surprised if she really does drive up to your chambers to inquire after you. She will be passing the Temple to-morrow. We do so hope you will soon be better.

"Yours very sincerely,

"ELLEN PARRY." And so Mrs. Parry really did call, and found Bushby suffering from a swelled face, which made him unpresentable in society, but otherwise as well as ever. This good news she said would be gladly heard by her daughter, who was waiting for her "in the brougham," and who had " pictured to herself all sorts of horrors," such as Bushby lying at the verge of death with no one but a not remarkably sober old woman to administer his medicine, which probably contained poison, and of which an over-dose would be fatal.

Now, Bushby, so far from being as blind as a bat, was not even short-sighted; and he saw distinctly whither things were tending. He had only to write a tender reply to Ellen Parry's letter and he might bring matters to a crisis. But he thought of Annie Maddox, and contented himself with expressing his fervent thanks by word of mouth to Mrs. Parry. And soon afterwards came that mysterious document from Mrs. Maddox, which caused him to waver seriously between love and lucre.

SLIPPING OFF BOTH STOOLS.

Tomkins's week of suspense was over, and he stood before Annie to hear his sentence. As will have been anticipated, it was favorable; and Tomkins bore it as well as he could. Annie was, perhaps, a little astonished and even nettled at his want of rapture; but then she had not been behind the scenes as we have, and knew nothing of his meditations during his solitary ride. She would have been completely re-assured by the extreme anxiety he displayed to have his happiness as speedily as possible secured by the marriage ceremony, only his manner, as he whimpered, "Let the happy day be soon, dear Annie," reminded her a little of Macbeth saying, "If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly." However, Mrs. Maddox was consulted; and she, considerate soul, having always been of opinion that short engagements are on every account the best, "when there are no pecuniary obstacles, and there is no object to be gained by waiting," saw no objection whatever to "that day six weeks." And so, on the night of "that day," two fond hearts went heavy to bed; the owner of one sobbed herself to sleep as she thought of Bushby; and the owner of the other kept muttering with a sigh, "Oh, dear! oh, dear! I'm in a deuce of a scrape." For night looks darkest just before dawn; and there are some things which it is better to begin with a little (but only a little) aversion. Red-hot lovers "marry in haste and repent at leisure;" but Annie and Tomkins were not red-hot lovers.

"That day six weeks" came at last: a young woman and a young man went into a pretty village church two, and came out one; and the ranks of the married were recruited by another couple called, Mr. and Mrs. Tomkins. And Bushby got cards.

He sat and glared at them as if his education had not included the spelling of dissyllables. And, even when he had spelt the name, it conveyed to his mind no idea of any

[ocr errors]

Who could the scoun

living creature he had ever seen. drel be? For, of course, he was a scoundrel. Perhaps he was an old gentleman, the old gentleman indeed. It had all come of Tom's going to Ceylon. For a mother and daughter living alone could not ask a young man to stay with them. If Tom had been at home, Bushby thought all would have been right. He would have paid Tom and the Maddoxes' cottage many a visit during the two years which had elapsed since Tom's departure; but he had, perforce, been absent; and the absent always pay the penalty for their absence. And yet he would not, under any circumstances, have tried to bind Annie to him until he had some prospects. No; but then he might have made things unpleasant for Tomkins (кaкûç ¿§oλéoelev aútòv ó Zɛiç). Well, one comfort was that Annie, and not he, had taken the decisive step; and he hoped (but by no means confidently) that she might never repent it.

For a good quarter of an hour Bushby sat with his head buried in his arms, which were folded upon the table; and it must not be considered discreditable to him if at the end of that time, when he once more looked up, there was a suspicious redness about his eyes. He again took out the little notes already alluded to, and, having lighted a taper, As the last became deliberately burned them, one by one.

a small twist of ashes, he sighed heavily; but soon recovering himself, he muttered, "So much for love: to-morrow for lucre."

The next day, about three, P.M., he sallied forth, carefully dressed, and with an air of great decision. He was determined that there should be no more shilly-shallying; and there was now nothing to prevent him from taking the goods the gods seemed to have provided for him, no small voice of conscience to whisper that he was sacrificing love for lucre.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

"Avoid them!" exclaimed Bushby: "the last people in the world."

But he colored slightly, recollecting how he had abstained from the chance of answering Ellen's letter, lest he should commit himself; for he had known by experience that she would have the last word, or, at any rate, that so long as he replied to her notes, she would find something to say in return, and would (in her mamma's name) ask him such questions as he could not take notice of without becoming a little tender; and then she would have made the positive comparative, and the comparative would have ended in the superlative and irrevocable.

"You haven't been to see us," resumed the uncle, "for about three months; and I suppose you've treated the Parrys in the same way."

"I called to thank them for their kindness," answered Bushby; "but I was told they were in the country, and it was quite uncertain when they would return: so I left a

card.

"It's a pity you haven't been to see us," rejoined the uncle: "we could have told you some news."

"Oh! indeed," rejoined Bushby: "something pleasant I hope."

"Oh, yes!" sneered the uncle: "Ellen Parry is engaged to be married. A great deal can be done in three months." Bushby made a great effort to appear unconcerned; and he was pretty successful.

"I told you," he said, laughing, but not quite on the right side of his mouth," that she would soon be picked up." "I can tell you something, John," rejoined his uncle savagely: "you are a born fool."

"Well, sir," replied Bushby, wincing a little, "we are closely related, you know."

"Go and ask your aunt what she thinks of you," said the uncle, not noticing the taunt. "Good-day to you, and more sense the next time: though you'll never have such a chance again, she has thirty thousand pounds, if she has a penny.

And the uncle departed, shaking his head sorrowfully, and repeating, "Ah! thirty thousand pounds, if a penny.'

Bushby thought he would give up the idea of calling upon the Parrys, and would call upon his aunt instead. She received him coldly.

"I thought you had quite forgotten us, John," she said petulantly.

"My profession takes me away from town a great deal," replied Bushby. "I've been "

"I'll tell you what you have been," burst in his aunt savagely "you have been a booby, John."

"Upon my word, aunt, you are as complimentary as my uncle was just now."

"Oh! have you seen him?"
"Yes, I met him in the street."
“And what did he say?"

"Well, I hardly like to repeat it, because of our near relationship; but he said I was a born fool."

"Ah! then you know about Ellen Parry," rejoined his aunt, as if the expression were thus fully accounted for. “Yes,” said Bushby with assumed sprightliness; pray, who is the fortunate man ?

[ocr errors]

66

and,

"O John!" exclaimed his aunt, not heeding the question, "you have been a booby: she would have had you, had you held up your little finger."

[ocr errors]

Well, well," said Bushby testily; "and who did hold up his little finger?

"He had to do more, I'll be bound," answered Mrs. Carson contemptuously: "he had to go down on his bended knees, you may depend."

"But who is he?"

"He felt her pulse, John," replied Mrs. Carson evasively; "and he soon discovered, I have no doubt, that there was nothing the matter with her but single blessedness." "Oh! then he is a doctor."

"Yes. I began to suspect something at the time you were laid up with your swelled face. Ellen complained of nervous depression; and a doctor was called in. I didn't know who he was at the time; but I soon found out. You know him, little Mr. Wilson."

"I know him," assented Bushby: "he hasn't much practice, but he is a clever man: writes scientific articles. He sings Scotch songs, too, almost as well as his namesake used to sing them, they say."

6

"He is no booby, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Carson significantly. "And it was very singular," she added, "that, as soon as he was called in, I never saw Eilen with that magazine of yours. She seemed to have taken quite a scientific turn, and was always reading (or appearing to read) something about chemistry. She quite lost her taste, too, for the Beethoven, and Songs without Words,' she used to be so fond of playing and you of hearing; and, oddly enough, she took to singing Scotch songs. And once, I must tell you, I saw amongst her music a vulgar thing called 'A Perfect Cure. I'm bound to say I never heard her play or sing it; but I think she must have got it under a mistaken idea that it referred in some way to the medical profession."

"She seems to have regularly thrown herself at the man's head," said Bushby with a sneer.

"My dear John," rejoined Mrs. Carson gently, "that is a very strong expression. She gave him quiet encouragement, no doubt; and he was wise enough to profit by it. Ellen does not want sense: she is perfectly aware that she has no personal attractions; and she, no doubt, felt that she was of an age at which, if she meant to be married at all to anybody better than a mere fortune-hunter, she could not afford to wait and hang back, as if she were a young girl and a beauty.”

"Then you don't think love is a necessary ingredient in such matters?" observed Bushby doubtfully.

66

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mrs. Carson. "My dear John, you are very romantic. At Ellen Parry's age I think it is quite enough to feel a liking, or even to feel no dislike. I can conceive," she continued with a gentle sigh and a look as of one who has a vision of the past, a case in which love should be every thing; but ours is a practical age, in which love is best left to novels and ballads. It is better for girls not to know what love is, until it arises as the natural consequence of a judiciously-chosen husband's tender treatment. It is quite sad to think how often lovematches, succeeding long engagements, during which the man is losing his strength and temper in frantic struggles to obtain a sufficiency for two, and the girl is wasting both in youth and sweetness, under the influence of hope deferred, end in disappointment, discontent, and dissension. I call it foolish and selfish for a man, who has no immediate prospects, to try a girl's love so far as to tie her down to an indefinite engagement."

"I can't see," observed Bushby, "that a definite engagement, to be considered over, if certain hopes have not been realized, at the expiration of a certain period, is any better. For just when the two hearts would, unless a coolness should have arisen, be more closely knit than ever, they are supposed to resume suddenly the condition of being unattached."

"An honorable man," said Mrs. Carson, "who really cared for a girl, and who had no prospects, would not seek to compromise her future by binding her to any kind of engagement. He would wait and hope."

"But, if he does not declare himself, how," asked Bushby, "is she to know the state of his feelings? And, if he does, where is the use, unless some engagement be entered into?"

"She would be sure to know: women, at least most women, especially if they reciprocate the feelings, are clairvoyantes in such matters.'

[ocr errors]
[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

Bushby sighed.

"And the poor man," he said, "who had no prospects, and who abstained from any attempt to hamper her, solely out of consideration for her, what of him?”

"Oh!" replied Mrs. Carson, laughing: "he might take his revenge when his prospects improved. It is different with a man and with a girl. What he has to consider is, when he can afford to propose; and she, when she can afford to decline, especially if she says, like the girl in the song, My face is my fortune, sir. Besides, he would never imagine how much she would have suffered before she determined to give him up; and his resentment would soon cure his love."

"And suppose," said Bushby moodily, "he had in the meanwhile preferred love to lucre, and, by remaining faithful to her to the very last, had lost both her, and a fortune he might have got by simply holding up his little finger? Mrs. Carson regarded him fixedly for a few moments, and then said softly, and even compassionately:

66

Why, John, you are a greater booby than I thought. I verily believe you have allowed yourself to slip betwixt two stools."

Bushby thanked her for her flattering opinion, and departed with precipitation.

As for both Mr. and Mrs. Tomkins, the honeymoon was as useful as it was agreeable to both. It relieved the mind

« PreviousContinue »