Chapter Twenty Four.
Mrs Thorne Discourses.
“Ah, my child, when will you grow wise?” said Mrs Thorne one day when Hazel, making an effort to master her weariness, was bustling in and out of the room with an apron on, her dress pinned up, and her sleeves drawn up over her elbows, leaving her white arms bare.
“Grow wise, dear! What do you mean?”
“Leave off doing work like a charwoman day after day, when you might be riding in your carriage, as I told Mrs Chute only this afternoon.”
“You told Mrs Chute so this afternoon, mother! Has she been here?”
“Of course she has, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne with asperity. “Do you suppose because I am humbled in my position in life I am going to give up all society? Of course I look upon it as a degradation to have to associate with a woman like Mrs Chute—a very vulgar woman indeed; but if my daughter chooses to place me in such a position as this I must be amiable and kind to my neighbours. She is a very good sort of woman in her way, but I let her know the differences in our position, and—yes, of course I did—told her that my daughter might be riding in her carriage now if she liked, instead of drudging at her school; for I’m sure, though he did not say so, Edward Geringer would have kept a brougham for you at least, if you would only consent, even now, to be his wife. Why, only last week he said—”
“Mother, have you heard from Mr Geringer again?” cried Hazel, whose cheeks were crimsoning.
“Of course I have, my dear child. Why should I not hear from so old a friend? He said that if you would reconsider your determination he should be very, very glad.”
“But you did not write back, mother?”
“Indeed I did, my dear. Do you suppose I should ever forget that I am a lady? I wrote back to him, telling him that I thought adversity was softening your pride, and that, though I would promise nothing, still, if I were a man, I said, in his position, I should not banish hope.”
“O mother, mother! how could you write to him like that?” cried Hazel piteously.
“Because I thought it to be my duty,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity. “Young people do not always know their own minds.”
Hazel turned away to busy herself over some domestic task, so that her mother should not read the annoyance in her face.
“Mrs Chute is a very weak, silly woman, Hazel, and I feel it to be my duty to warn you against her, and—and her son.”
Hazel could not trust herself to speak, but went on working with her fingers trembling from agitation, and the tears dimming her eyes.
“She has been in here a good deal lately during school-hours, and she has got the idea into her head that you have taken a fancy to Mr Samuel Chute.”
The little milk jug that Hazel was wiping fell to the floor with a crash.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, do be more careful, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne angrily. “There’s that broken now, and, what with your breakages and those of the children, it is quite dreadful. Of course she owned that her son was very much attached to you; but that I knew.”
“You knew that, mother!” said Hazel, who was very pale now; and any one but the weak woman who was speaking would have understood the conflict between anger, shame, and duty going on in her breast.
“Of course I did, my dear. Do you suppose I do not know what men are, or that I am blind, I have not reached my years without being able to read men like a book,” she continued with complacency. “I have seen Master Chute’s looks and ways, and poppings into the girls’ school; but as soon as his mother spoke I let her know that she need not expect anything of that sort, for I told her that my daughter would look far higher than to a national schoolmaster for her husband.”
Hazel felt that she must rush out of the room and go upstairs to give free vent to the sobs that were struggling for exit, but making an effort to master the mortification from which she suffered, she stayed and listened as her mother prattled on with a quiet assumption of dignity.
“No, ‘my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said—and I must give the poor woman credit for receiving my quiet reproof with due submission and a proper sense of respect for me—‘no, my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said, ‘you have been very kind to me, and my child is most grateful to your son for his attentions and the help he has been to her in giving her hints about the school and the children. Friends we may continue, but your son must never think of anything more. He must,’ I told her, ‘see for himself that a young lady of my daughter’s position and personal attractions might look anywhere for a husband, and that already there were several who, even if they had not spoken, evidently were upon the point of doing so. Mr William Forth Burge was certainly very much taken by your ladylike manner; and that I had noticed several peculiar little advances made by the vicar; while a little bird told me that there were more impossible things than that Mr George Canninge might propose for your hand.’ I would not stoop to mention what I had seen in several of the tradespeople here, but either of those three would be an eligible match for my daughter, and therefore I said, ‘Mr Samuel Chute must, as a man full of common-sense, largely increased by education’—I said that, Hazel, as a stroke of diplomacy to soften the blow—‘Mr Samuel Chute must see that such an alliance as he was ready to propose would be impossible.’
“It is a great responsibility, a family,” said Mrs Thorne, lying back in her chair and gazing meditatively at her fingertips. “Percy is a great anxiety—he is always wanting money, and I am only too glad to keep on good terms with Mr Geringer, who really does keep the boy somewhat in order. Though certainly, Hazel, you might do worse than marry Edward Geringer. Perhaps he would be wiser if he married me,” she said with a simper; “but of course middle-aged men prefer young girls. Yes, Hazel, you might do worse than many Edward Geringer. He is not young; in fact, he is growing elderly. But he would leave you all his money; and a handsome young widow with a nice fortune and no incumbrances can marry again as soon as she pleases.
“Ah, dear me! dear me!” she went on with a sigh, “what a different fate mine might have been if you had not been so squeamish, Hazel, and I had had better health! But there, I will not murmur and repine. I have only one thought, and that is to see my children happy. By the way, it is of no use for you to make any opposition: those two girls must have new frocks and hats—I am quite ashamed to see them go out—and Percy wants five pounds. What in the world he can want five pounds for, I’m sure I don’t know; but he says I cannot understand a young fellow’s wants in a busy place like London. I’ve had—let me see—five and seven are twelve, and five are seventeen, and ten are twenty-seven, and ten are thirty-seven—thirty-seven pounds of Edward Geringer on purpose for that boy, and I hardly like to ask him for more. Percy is a very great anxiety to me, Hazel; and if Mr George Canninge should take it into his head to propose for you, my dear, he could so easily place your brother in some good post. He might make him his private secretary, and give him charge of his estates. Who knows? And—Bless the child, what is the matter?”
Matter enough: Hazel had sunk in a chair by the little side-table, her face bowed down into her hands, and she was weeping bitterly for her shame and degradation, as she silently sobbed forth an appeal to Heaven to give her strength to bear the troubles that seemed to grow thicker day by day.