old?” Then to the housekeeper: “You old monster, you wanted it for your Polly. Get out of my sight, the lot!”
Then, suddenly remembering how feeble she was, she sank instantly down, and turned piteously and languidly to Sir Charles. “They eat my bread, and rob me, and hate me,” said she, faintly. “I have but one friend on earth.” She leaned tenderly toward Sir Charles as that friend; but before she quite reached him she started back, her eyes filled with sudden horror. “And he forsakes me!” she cried; and so turned away from him despairingly, and began to cry bitterly, with head averted over the sofa, and one hand hanging by her side for Sir Charles to take and comfort her. He tried to take it. It resisted; and, under cover of that little disturbance, the other hand dexterously whipped two pins out of her hair. The long brown tresses—all her own—fell over her eyes and down to her waist, and the picture of distressed beauty was complete.
Even so did the women of antiquity conquer male pity—“solutis crinibus.”
The females interchanged a meaning glance, and retired; then the boy followed them with his basin, sore perplexed, but learning life in this admirable school.
Sir Charles then, with the utmost kindness, endeavored to reconcile the weeping and disheveled fair to that separation which circumstances rendered necessary. But she was inconsolable, and he left the house, perplexed and grieved; not but what it gratified his vanity a little to find himself beloved all in a moment, and the Somerset unvixened. He could not help thinking how wide must be the circle of his charms, which had won the affections of two beautiful women so opposite in character as Bella Bruce and La Somerset.
The passion of this latter seemed to grow. She wrote to him every day, and begged him to call on her.
She called on him—she who had never called on a man before.
She raged with jealousy; she melted with grief. She played on him with all a woman's artillery; and at last actually wrung from him what she called a reprieve.
Richard Bassett called on her, but she would not receive him; so then he wrote to her, urging co-operation, and she replied, frankly, that she took no interest in his affairs; but that she was devoted to Sir Charles, and should keep him for herself. Vanity tempted her to add that he (Sir Charles) was with her every day, and the wedding postponed.
This last seemed too good to be true, so Richard Bassett set his servant to talk to the servants in Portman Square. He learned that the wedding was now to be on the 15th of June, instead of the 31st of May.
Convinced that this postponement was only a blind, and that the marriage would never be, he breathed more freely at the news.
But the fact is, although Sir Charles had yielded so far to dread of scandal, he was ashamed of himself, and his shame became remorse when he detected a furtive tear in the dove-like eyes of her he really loved and esteemed.
He went and told his trouble to Mr. Oldfield. “I am afraid she will do something desperate,” he said.
Mr. Oldfield heard him out, and then asked him had he told Miss Somerset what he was going to settle on her.
“Not I. She is not in a condition to be influenced by that, at present.”
“Let me try her. The draft is ready. I'll call on her to-morrow.” He did call, and was told she did not know him.
“You tell her I am a lawyer, and it is very much to her interest to see me,” said Mr. Oldfield to the page.
He was admitted, but not to a tete-a-tete. Polly was kept in the room. The Somerset had peeped, and Oldfield was an old fellow, with white hair; if he had been a young fellow, with black hair, she might have thought that precaution less necessary. “First, madam,” said Oldfield, “I must beg you to accept my apologies for not coming sooner. Press of business, etc.”
“Why have you come at all? That is the question,” inquired the lady, bluntly.
“I bring the draft of a deed for your approval. Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes; if it is not very long.” He began to read it. The lady interrupted him characteristically.
“It's a beastly rigmarole. What does it mean—in three words?”
“Sir Charles Bassett secures to Rhoda Somerset four hundred pounds a year, while single; this is reduced to two hundred if you marry. The deed further assigns to you, without reserve, the beneficial lease of this house, and all the furniture and effects, plate, linen, wine, etc.”
“I see—a bribe.”
“Nothing of the kind, madam. When Sir Charles instructed me to prepare this deed he expected no opposition on your part to his marriage; but he thought it due to him and to yourself to mark his esteem for you, and his recollection of the pleasant hours he has spent in your company.”
Miss Somerset's eyes searched the lawyer's face. He stood the battery unflinchingly. She altered her tone, and asked, politely and almost respectfully, whether she might see that paper.
Mr. Oldfield gave it her. She took it, and ran her eye over it; in doing which, she raised it so that she could think behind it unobserved. She handed it back at last, with the remark that Sir Charles was a gentleman and had done the right thing.
“He has; and you will do the right thing too, will you not?”
“I don't know. I am just beginning to fall in love with him myself.”
“Jealousy, madam, not love,” said the old lawyer. “Come, now! I see you are a young lady of rare good sense; look the thing in the face: Sir Charles is a landed gentleman; he must marry, and, have heirs. He is over thirty, and his time has come. He has shown himself your friend; why not be his? He has given you the means to marry a gentleman of moderate income, or to marry beneath you, if you prefer it—”
“And most of us do—”
“Then why not make his path smooth? Why distress him with your tears and remonstrances?”
He continued in this strain for some time, appealing to her good sense and her better feelings.
When he had done she said, very quietly, “How about the ponies and my brown mare? Are they down in the deed?”
“I think not; but if you will do your part handsomely I'll guarantee you shall have them.”
“You are a good soul.” Then, after a pause, “Now just you tell me exactly what you want me to do for all this.”
Oldfield was pleased with this question. He said, “I wish you to abstain from writing to Sir Charles, and him to visit you only once more before his marriage, just to shake hands and part, with mutual friendship and good wishes.”
“You are right,” said she, softly; “best for us both, and only fair to the girl.” Then, with sudden and eager curiosity, “Is she very pretty?”
“I don't know.”
“What, hasn't he told you?”
“He says she is lovely, and every way adorable; but then he is in love. The chances are she is not half so handsome
