“What’s the matter, mother?” said I.
“Oh! my child, my child!” replied my mother, wringing her hands, “you are an orphan, and I am a lonely widow.”
“How’s that?” said I.
“How’s that?” said my grandmother, “why, are you such a fool, as not to understand that your father is dead?”
“Father’s dead, is he?” replied I, “I’ll go and tell Aunt Milly;” and away I went out of the parlour to Milly, whom I found reading the newspaper.
“Aunt,” said I, “father’s dead, only to think! I wonder how he died!”
“He was killed in action, dear,” said my aunt; “look here, here is the account, and the list of killed and wounded. D’ye see your father’s name—Benjamin Keene, marine?”
“Let me read all about it, Aunt Milly,” replied I, taking the paper from her; and I was soon very busy with the account of the action.
My readers must not suppose that I had no feeling, because I showed none at my father’s death; if they call to mind the humble position in which I had always seen my father, who dared not even intrude upon the presence of those with whom my mother and I were on familiar terms, and that he was ordered about just like a servant by my mother, who set me no example of fear or love for him, they will easily imagine that I felt less for his death than I should have for that of Captain Bridgeman, or many others with whom I was on intimate terms.
What did puzzle me was, that my mother should show so much feeling on the occasion. I did not know the world then, and that decency required a certain display of grief. Aunt Milly appeared to be very unconcerned about it, although, occasionally, she was in deep thought. I put down the paper as soon as I had read the despatch, and said to her, “Well, I suppose I must go to school now, aunt?”
“Oh no, dear,” replied she, “you can’t go to school for a few days now—it wouldn’t be proper; you must remain at home and wait till you have put on mourning.”
“I’m glad of that, at all events,” replied I; “I wonder where Captain Delmar is, and why he don’t send for me; I begin to hate school.”
“I dare say it won’t be long before you hear from him, dear,” replied my aunt; “stay here and mind the shop, while I go in to your mother.”
If the truth was told, I am afraid that the death of Ben was a source of congratulation to all parties who were then in the parlour. As for me, I was very glad to have a few days’ holiday, being perfectly indifferent as to whether he was dead or alive.
When I went in I found them in consultation as to the mourning: my mother did not, in the first place, wish to make any a parade about a husband of whom she was ashamed; in the second, she did not like widow’s weeds, and the unbecoming cap. So it was decided, as Ben had been dead six months, and if they had known it before they would have been in mourning for him all that time, that half-mourning was all that was requisite for them; and that, as for me, there was no reason for my going into mourning at all.
Three days after the intelligence, my mother re-appeared in the shop; the reason why she did not appear before was, that her dress was not ready—she looked very pretty indeed in half-mourning, so did my Aunt Milly; and the attentions of the marine corps, especially Captain Bridgeman and Lieutenant Flat, were more unremitting than ever.
It appeared that, as the death of Ben had removed the great difficulty to my aunt’s being married to an officer, my grandmother had resolved to ascertain the intentions of Captain Bridgeman, and if she found that he cried off, to persuade Milly to consent to become Mrs. Flat. Whether she consulted my mother or my aunt on this occasion, I cannot positively say, but I rather think not.
My mother and my aunt were walking out one evening, when Captain Bridgeman came in, and my grandmother, who remained in the shop whenever my mother and Milly went out together, which was very seldom, requested him to walk into the back parlour, desiring me to remain in the shop, and let her know if she was wanted.
Now when they went into the parlour, the door was left ajar, and, as I remained at the back part of the shop, I could not help over-hearing every word which was said; for my grandmother being very deaf, as most deaf people do, talked quite as loud as Captain Bridgeman was compelled to do, to make her hear him.
“I wish, Captain Bridgeman, as a friend, to ask your advice relative to my daughter Amelia,” said the old lady. “Please to take a chair.”
“If there is any opinion that I can offer on the subject, madam, I shall be most happy to give it,” replied the captain, sitting down as requested.
“You see, my daughter Amelia has been well brought up, and carefully educated, as was, indeed, my daughter, Arabella, through the kindness of my old patron, Mrs. Delmar, the aunt of the Honourable Captain Delmar, whom you have often met here, and who is heir to the title of de Versely; that is to say, his eldest brother has no children. I have been nearly fifty years in the family as a confidential, Captain Bridgeman; the old lord was very fond of my husband, who was his steward, but he died, poor man, a long while ago; I am sure it would have broken his heart, if, in his lifetime, my daughter Arabella had made the foolish marriage which she did with a private marine—however, what’s done can’t be helped, as the saying is—that’s all over now.”
“It was certainly a great pity that Mrs. Keene should have been so foolish,” replied Captain Bridgeman, “but, as you say, that is all over now.”
“Yes; God’s will be done, Captain Bridgeman; now you see, sir, that this marriage of Bella’s has done no good to the prospects of her sister Amelia, who, nevertheless, is a good and pretty girl though I say it, who am her mother; and moreover, she will bring a pretty penny to her husband whoever he may be; for you see, Captain Bridgeman, my husband was not idle during the time that he was in the family of the Delmars, and as her sister is so well to do, why little Amelia will come into a greater share than she otherwise would—that is, if she marries well, and according to the wishes of her mother.”
At this interesting part of the conversation Captain Bridgeman leant more earnestly towards my grandmother.
“A pretty penny, madam, you said; I never heard the expression before; what may a pretty penny mean?”
“It means, first and last, 4,000 pounds, Captain Bridgeman; part down, and the other when I die.”
“Indeed,” replied Captain Bridgeman; “I certainly never thought that Miss Amelia would ever have any fortune; indeed, she’s too pretty and accomplished to require any.”
“Now, sir,” continued my grandmother, “the point on which I wish to consult you is this: you know that Lieutenant Flat is very often here, and for a long while has been very attentive to my daughter; he has, I believe, almost as much as proposed—that is, in his sort of way; but my daughter does not seem to care for him. Now, Captain Bridgeman, Mr. Flat may not be very clever, but I believe him to be a very worthy young man; still one must be cautious, and what I wish to know before I interfere and persuade my daughter to marry him is, whether you think that Mr. Flat is of a disposition which would make the marriage state a happy one; for you see, Captain Bridgeman, love before marriage is very apt to fly away, but love that comes after marriage will last out your life.”
“Well, madam,” replied the captain, “I will be candid with you; I do not think that
