“Oh dear, that’s just what the men say,” cried Miss Louisa, with indignation, unable even at this crisis to resist the temptation; “for she always was a gentleman’s beauty,” added Miss Lydia, half under her breath. They were not in the least malignant, and both of them secretly liked Mary in their hearts; but they could not resist the opportunity of throwing a little javelin at her, which certainly did her no harm.
Mary did not reach the door until her sisters-in-law had put themselves in order by the help of the mirror in the back drawing-room. All this time Miss Amelia stood by the window making her comments. “Of course there is a basket to be taken out of the pony-carriage,” said that mollified observer, who was nodding and smiling all the time to the new arrivals, “with a quantity of forced things in it, no doubt; for there’s nothing else to be had at this time of the year. I think I can see strawberries through the lid, which, considering it is only March, is flying in the face of nature, I think. And here is Loo. Well, I am not sure that poor Loo is not as much forced as the strawberries; she looks a long way older than her mother, it appears to me. Poor thing! perhaps it’s not wonderful under the circumstances; and I think Loo would be pretty if she was free in her mind, or had time for anything but brooding over affairs. She is, let me see, eighteen at her next birthday——”
“Hush, Amelia! My dear Mary, it makes me very happy to see you,” said old Miss Harwood, rising from her comfortable chair, with the slow motion of an old woman, to meet the kiss of the mistress of Fontanel. Perhaps it was the contrast of true old age which made Mary, though convicted of having been born in the year ‘14, appear then, in ‘57, so blooming and fresh and youthful. She had lived, on the whole, a quiet life. She had little in her constitution of that rabid selfishness which people call a sensitive temperament. She bore her troubles meekly, and got over them; and even the anxieties and uneasiness of recent years had added but few wrinkles to the fair face of a woman who always believed that everything would turn out well, and heartily hoped for the best. She came in, well-dressed, well-conditioned, sweet to look at and to listen to, in easy matronly fulness and expansion, into the pretty but strait and limited room where the two old sisters lived their life; and when she had kissed them, kissed also the two younger maidens, who were, however, of Mary’s own standing—no younger than herself. They all looked grey, and relapsed into the shade in presence of her sweet looks and natural graciousness. Even Loo, who stood behind her mother’s chair—a tall girl, still with great brown eyes, which counted for twice as much as their real size in her pale face—looked, as Miss Amelia said, old beside Mrs Summerhayes. Hers were the bright but softened tints, the round outlines, the affectionate, tender, unimpassioned heart, which confers perpetual youth.
“How nice it is to see you looking so well!” said Mary. “I don’t think you have grown a bit older, dear Miss Harwood, for twenty years. Loo and I have come down on purpose to ask you to come to Fontanel for Charley’s birthday. He comes of age, dear fellow, next month, you know; and as it is a very very great occasion, we thought a three weeks’ invitation was not too much. You must come to us the day before—the carriage will come for you—and stay at least till the day after, so that you may not be the least fatigued. We are going to have all sorts of pleasures and rejoicing; and I am sure, though I am a foolish old mother to say so,” said the smiling, blooming woman, in whom light and sunshine seemed to have entered Miss Harwood’s drawing-room, “that nobody has more reason to rejoice over a son than I—than we have,—he has always been such a dear boy; he has never given me any anxiety all his life.”
“Well, he’s only just beginning his life,” said Miss Amelia. “What anxiety could he give you, except about the measles and so forth? To be sure he might have been plucked at the university, or rusticated, or something dreadful; but I allow he’s a good boy, and not too good a boy either—which is a great comfort. I am glad you are not going to stint him at his fête: an eldest son has a right to that, I suppose; but I hope you mean to let him have something to do, my dear, after he comes of age.”
“To do? Oh, I daresay he will ynd quite enough to do, for a few fiears, amusing himself,” said Mary, perceptibly growing paler for the moment. “Of course I am calculating upon both of you, Louisa and Liddy,” she said, turning round with an air of making her escape. “To ask such near friends formally would be nonsense, you know; but you must not forget the twenty-fifth; and I hope you will come early, too, and see the preparations, and the tenants’ dinner, and all that is to go on out of doors.”
“Oh, we have got an invitation already,” said Miss Laura. “Not that we would have come unless you had asked us besides, dear Mary,” chimed in Miss Lydia; “but dear Tom called this morning to tell us it was all decided upon,” they both ran on together. “Such a comfort to our minds; for I am sure Liddy and I cannot bear to hear you ever have any difference of opinion,” cried Miss Laura, as her solo broke upon the course of the duet. “And dear Tom is always so glad to do what will please you, dear Mary,” chimed Miss Lydia, as it came to her turn.
Mary turned red and then turned pale in spite of herself. Most people have some specially sensitive spot about them, and this was Mary’s: she could not endure to think that her husband consulted his sisters about things that occurred at Fontanel.
“I was not aware we had any difference of opinion,” she said, with dignity; “things always have to be discussed, and Mr Summerhayes likes to consider everything well before he takes it in hand; but, of course, we can have but one mind about Charlie, who really is the owner of the estate, or at least will be after the twenty-fifth. He is so popular already,” continued the mother, returning to the Miss Harwoods. The tears came to poor Mary’s eyes, notwithstanding all her efforts. She felt they were all watching her, and that to do justice both to her son and her husband was all but impossible; and, besides, at that moment she was under the influence of a little irritation. Mr Summerhayes did not consult his sisters, for whose judgment he had a much greater contempt than it had ever entered into the mind of Mary to entertain for any one in the world; but when he was annoyed or irritated he occasionally took the benefit of their unreasoning sympathy and partisanship, as he had done this morning—and there was nothing in all the business which so galled and exasperated his wife.
“He always was a dear boy,” said kind old Miss Harwood; “and such a sweet baby as he was, my dear. I remember when he was born as if it were yesterday. I was just saying so before you came in. I never saw any people so happy as you, and—hem—it seems foolish, to be sure, talking of what he was as a baby now he’s a man,” she concluded, hurriedly stumbling over that unlucky allusion. Mary again grew a little pale, poor soul. She could not escape from her troubles anyhow—they hemmed her in on every side.