idea was funny, and I laughed. The notion of the West-end home amused me; but I could not help observing that Mary, who was always ready to sympathise with me, did not smile. Her head was bent over her work. She did not even say anything more on the subject, but let Mrs Stephens go on and make all the arrangements for coming next day. I thought of this after; and even at the time I noticed it, and with some surprise.
Next day, just as we were going out for our walk, Mary, who had been at the window, started back, and went hurriedly into the little room behind, which had once been papa’s study. “Mary,” she said, “there is Mrs Stephens and – her friend. Go with them, please, to see the rooms. I am not quite well: I would rather not appear.”
“I am so stupid; I shall not know what to say,” I began.
“You will do very well,” said Mary, and disappeared and shut the door. I had no time to think more of this, for the stranger came in directly with Mrs Stephens; and in my shyness I blushed and stammered while I explained. “She is not very well,” I said; “I am to show you. Will you please – sit down; will you come upstairs?”
“You will do very well,” said Mrs Stephens, patting me on the shoulder. “This is Mr Durham, Mary, and I don’t think he will eat any of us. It is a nice light, airy staircase,” she said, as she went up, not to lose any opportunity of commending the house. “A capital staircase,” said Mr Durham, with a cheery laugh. I had scarcely ventured to look at him yet, but somehow there was a feeling of satisfactoriness diffused through the air about him. I cannot explain quite what I mean, but I am sure others must have felt the same thing. Some people seem to make the very air pleasant: they give you a sense that all is well, that there is nothing but what is good and honest in the place where they are. This is what I felt now; and when we got upstairs I ventured to look at him. He was tall and strong and ruddy, not at all like any hero whom I had ever read of or imagined. There was nothing “interesting” about him. He looked “a good fellow,” cheery, and smiling, and active, and kind. He settled at once about the rooms. He laughed out when Mrs Stephens said something about their homeliness. “They are as good as a palace,” he said; “I don’t see what a man could want more.” The sitting-room was the room papa died in, and it cost me a little pang to see them walking about and looking at the furniture; but when people are poor they cannot indulge such feelings. We learn to say nothing about them, and perhaps that helps to subdue them. At all events, I made no show of what I was thinking, and it was all settled in a few minutes. He was to come in on Saturday, and Ellen was to work for him and wait upon him. I could not help thinking it would be pleasant to have him in the house.
And thus there commenced another period of my life, which I must speak of very briefly, – which indeed I do not care to speak of at all, but which I will think about as long as I live. I did not see very much of him at first. I was nearly seventeen now, and very shy; and Mary watched over me, and took great pains not to expose me to chance meetings with the stranger, or any unnecessary trouble. Ellen managed everything between us. She was a good, trustworthy woman, and we did not require to interfere; she was full of praises of Mr Durham, who never gave any trouble he could help. But one night, when I was taking tea with Mrs Stephens, he happened to come in, and we had the pleasantest evening. He knew a song I had just learned, and sang a second to it in the most delightful deep voice. He talked and rattled about everything. He made Mrs Stephens laugh and he made me laugh, and he told us his adventures abroad till we were nearly crying. When it was time for me to go he got up too, and said he would go with me. “Oh, it is only next door; I can go alone,” I said, in my shyness. “It is only next door, but I live there too, and I am going to work now,” he said. “To work! when all the rest of the world are going to bed?” said Mrs Stephens; “you will make yourself ill.” How he laughed at that! his laugh sounded like a cheery trumpet. He did not mean to kill himself with work. “But I hope you will let me come to tea again,” he said. How pleased Mrs Stephens was! She always says she likes young people, and we had spent such a pleasant night.
Many more of these pleasant evenings followed. Sometimes when we were sitting quiet after tea, she would send for me suddenly; sometimes she would write a little note in the afternoon. This expectation filled my life with something quite new. I had never had many invitations or pleasures before: I had never expected them. When we sat down to work after tea I had known that it was for the whole evening, and that no pleasant interruption would disturb us. But now a little thrill of excitement ran through my whole life. I wondered, would a note come in the afternoon? If it did not come, I wondered whether the bell would ring after tea, and Ellen come in saying, “If you please, ma’am, Mrs Stephens’s compliments, and would Miss Mary go in, and take her music?” Mary never interfered; never said “Don’t go.” She looked at me sometimes very wistfully; sometimes she smiled and shook her head at me, and said I was getting dissipated. Once or twice she looked anxious, and told me a story, which I only half understood, of girls who met with people they liked, and were very happy, and then lost sight of them ever after. Mary was very clever at telling stories, and I was fond of listening; but she did it so well and delicately that I fear I never thought of the moral – never, at least, till all the harm was done and it was too late.
I would not have any one think, however, that Mr Durham either meant or did any harm. To say so would be very wrong. It was as imperceptible with him as with me. He went quite innocently, as I did, to cheer up Mrs Stephens, and because an evening’s chatter with a little music was pleasant; and by degrees we thought less and less of Mrs Stephens and more and more of each other. If any one meant anything beyond this, it was she who was the guilty person. She would nod off to sleep in her easy-chair while we were talking. She would say, with a sleepy smile, “Don’t mind me, my dears. The light is a little strong for my eyes. That is why I close them – but I like the sound of your voices even when I don’t hear what you say.” Alas, if she had heard everything that had been said it might have been better. After a while he began to say strange things to me while she had her doze. He talked about his family to me. He said he hoped I should know them some day. He said his mother was very kind and wise – “a wise woman.” These were the very words he used. And then he said – other things; but that was not till the very, very last.
One morning we met in the little hall. It was raining, and it was a holiday, and when he insisted on following me into the schoolroom, what could I do – I could not shut him out. He seemed to fill the whole room, and make it warm and bright. I do not think we had ever been quite alone before. He came to the window and stood there looking out upon the bare bit of smoky grass and the water-butt. And then all at once he came to me and took my hand. “If I had a nice little house out in the country, with flowers and trees about it, a bright little house – Mary – would you come and be my little wife, and take care of it and me?”
Oh, what a thing to have said to you, all at once, without warning, in the heart of your own dull little life, when you thought you were to work, and pinch, and put up with things, for ever! It was different from my old fancy. But how poor a thing to have been found out to be Lady Mary in comparison with this! What I said is neither here nor there. We stood together in the little old study, among the forms where we had our little scholars, as if we had been in a fairy palace. I was not seventeen. I had no experience. I thought of nothing but him, and what he said. It was not my part to think of his father and mother, and what he would do, and what he wouldn’t do. He was a great deal older than I was; about thirty, I believe. Of course, I thought of nothing but him.
“Do you know,” he said, after a long time, “I have never seen your stepmother, Mary? I have been three months in the house, and I have never seen her. I must go and see her now.”
“Oh, wait a little,” I said; “wait a day. Let us have a secret all to ourselves one day.” How foolish I was! – but how was I to know?
He consented after a while; and then he made me promise to bring her out at a certain hour in the afternoon, that he might meet us at the door and see her. I made all the arrangements for this with a light heart. Though it was very difficult to hide from her what had happened,
