Hugh, and partly, perhaps, by finding that the young woman’s manner to herself was both gentle and sprightly. She knew well that gentleness alone, without some backbone of strength under it, would not long succeed with Miss Stanbury. “As far as I can judge, ma’am, she’s a sweet young lady,” said Martha, when she reported her arrival to her mistress, who had retired upstairs to her own room, in order that she might thus hear a word of tidings from her lieutenant, before she showed herself on the field of action.
“Sweet! I hate your sweets,” said Miss Stanbury.
“Then why did you send for her, ma’am?”
“Because I was an old fool. But I must go down and receive her, I suppose.”
Then Miss Stanbury went down, almost trembling as she went. The matter to her was one of vital importance. She was going to change the whole tenour of her life for the sake,—as she told herself,—of doing her duty by a relative whom she did not even know. But we may fairly suppose that there had in truth been a feeling beyond that, which taught her to desire to have some one near her to whom she might not only do her duty as guardian, but whom she might also love. She had tried this with her nephew; but her nephew had been too strong for her, too far from her, too unlike to herself. When he came to see her he had smoked a short pipe,—which had been shocking to her,—and he had spoken of Reform, and Trades’ Unions, and meetings in the parks, as though they had not been Devil’s ordinances. And he was very shy of going to church,—utterly refusing to be taken there twice on the same Sunday. And he had told his aunt that owing to a peculiar and unfortunate weakness in his constitution he could not listen to the reading of sermons. And then she was almost certain that he had once kissed one of the maids! She had found it impossible to manage him in any way; and when he positively declared himself as permanently devoted to the degrading iniquities of penny newspapers, she had thought it best to cast him off altogether. Now, thus late in life, she was going to make another venture, to try an altogether new mode of living,—in order, as she said to herself, that she might be of some use to somebody,—but, no doubt, with a further unexpressed hope in her bosom, that the solitude of her life might be relieved by the companionship of some one whom she might love. She had arrayed herself in a clean cap and her evening gown, and she went downstairs looking sternly, with a fully-developed idea that she must initiate her new duties by assuming a mastery at once. But inwardly she trembled, and was intensely anxious as to the first appearance of her niece. Of course there would be a little morsel of a bonnet. She hated those vile patches,—dirty flat daubs of millinery as she called them; but they had become too general for her to refuse admittance for such a thing within her doors. But a chignon, a bandbox behind the noddle,—she would not endure. And then there were other details of feminine gear, which shall not be specified, as to which she was painfully anxious,—almost forgetting in her anxiety that the dress of this young woman whom she was about to see must have ever been regulated by the closest possible economy.
The first thing she saw on entering the room was a dark straw hat, a straw hat with a strong penthouse flap to it, and her heart was immediately softened.
“My dear,” she said, “I am glad to see you.”
Dorothy, who, on her part, was trembling also, whose position was one to justify most intense anxiety, murmured some reply.
“Take off your hat,” said the aunt, “and let me give you a kiss.”
The hat was taken off and the kiss was given. There was certainly no chignon there. Dorothy Stanbury was light haired, with almost flaxen ringlets, worn after the old-fashioned way which we used to think so pretty when we were young. She had very soft grey eyes, which ever seemed to beseech you to do something when they looked at you, and her mouth was a beseeching mouth. There are women who, even amidst their strongest efforts at giving assistance to others, always look as though they were asking aid themselves, and such a one was Dorothy Stanbury. Her complexion was pale, but there was always present in it a tint of pink running here and there, changing with every word she spoke, changing indeed with every pulse of her heart. Nothing ever was softer than her cheek; but her hands were thin and hard, and almost fibrous with the working of the thread upon them. She was rather tall than otherwise, but that extreme look of feminine dependence which always accompanied her, took away something even from the appearance of her height.
“These are all real, at any rate,” said her aunt, taking hold of the curls, “and won’t be hurt by a little cold water.”
Dorothy smiled but said nothing, and was then taken up to her bedroom. Indeed, when the aunt and niece sat down to dinner together Dorothy had hardly spoken. But Miss Stanbury had spoken, and things upon the whole had gone very well.
“I hope you like roast chicken, my dear?” said Miss Stanbury.
“Oh, thank you.”
“And bread sauce? Jane, I do hope the bread sauce is hot.”
If the reader thinks that Miss Stanbury was indifferent to considerations of the table, the reader is altogether ignorant of Miss Stanbury’s character. When Miss Stanbury gave her niece the liver-wing, and picked out from the attendant sausages one that had been well browned and properly broken in the frying, she meant to do a real kindness.
“And now, my dear, there are mashed potatoes and bread sauce. As for green vegetables, I don’t know what has become of them. They tell me I may have green peas from France at a shilling a quart; but if I can’t have English green peas, I won’t have any.”
Miss Stanbury was standing up as she said this,—as she always did on such occasions, liking to have a full mastery over the dish.
“I hope you like it, my dear?”
“Everything is so very nice.”
“That’s right. I like to see a young woman with an appetite. Remember that God sends the good things for us to eat; and as long as we don’t take more than our share, and give away something to those who haven’t a fair share of their own, I for one think it quite right to enjoy my victuals. Jane, this bread sauce isn’t hot. It never is hot. Don’t tell me; I know what hot is!”
Dorothy thought that her aunt was very angry; but Jane knew Miss Stanbury better, and bore the scolding without shaking in her shoes.
“And now, my dear, you must take a glass of port wine. It will do you good after your journey.”
Dorothy attempted to explain that she never did drink any wine, but her aunt talked down her scruples at once.
“One glass of port wine never did anybody any harm, and as there is port wine, it must be intended that somebody should drink it.”
Miss Stanbury, as she sipped hers out very slowly, seemed to enjoy it much. Although May had come, there was a fire in the grate, and she sat with her toes on the fender, and her silk dress folded up above her knees. She sat quite silent in this position for a quarter of an hour, every now and then raising her glass to her lips. Dorothy sat silent also. To her, in the newness of her condition, speech was impossible.
“I think it will do,” said Miss Stanbury at last.
As Dorothy had no idea what would do, she could make no reply to this.
“I’m sure it will do,” said Miss Stanbury, after another short interval. “You’re as like my poor sister as two eggs. You don’t have headaches, do you?”
Dorothy said that she was not ordinarily affected in that way.
“When
