CHAPTER I.—THE LADIES’ OPINION.

“You don’t mean to say she’s going to be married—not Mary? I don’t believe a word of it. She was too fond of her poor husband who put such trust in her. No, no, child—don’t tell such nonsense to me.”

So said old Miss Harwood when the dreadful intelligence was first communicated to her. The two old sisters, who were both charitable old souls, and liked to think the best of everybody, were equally distressed about this piece of village scandal. “I don’t say anything about her poor husband—he was a fool to trust so much to a woman of her age,” said Miss Amelia; “but in my opinion Mary Clifford has sense to know when she’s well off.” The very idea made the sisters angry: a woman with five thousand a-year, with five fine children, with the handsomest house and most perfect little establishment within twenty miles of Summerhayes; a widow, with nobody to cross or contradict her, with her own way and will to her heart’s content—young enough to be still admired and paid attention to, and old enough to indulge in those female pleasures without any harm coming of it; to think of a woman in such exceptionally blessed circumstances stooping her head under the yoke, and yielding a second time to the subjection of marriage, was more than either of the Miss Harwoods could believe.

“But I believe it’s quite true—indeed, I _know_ it’s quite true,” said the curate’s little wife. “Mr Spencer heard it first from the Miss Summerhayes, who did not know what to think—their own brother, you know; and yet they couldn’t forget that poor dear Mr Clifford was their cousin; and then they are neither of them married themselves, poor dears, which makes them harder upon her.”

“We have never been married,” said Miss Amelia; “I don’t see what difference that makes. It is amusing to see the airs you little creatures give yourselves on the strength of being married. I suppose _you_ think it’s all right—it’s a compliment to her first husband, eh? and shows she was happy with him?—that’s what the men say when they take a second wife; that’s how you would do I suppose, if——”

“Oh, Miss Amelia, don’t be so cruel,” cried the little wife. “I should die. Do you think I could ever endure to live without Julius? I don’t understand what people’s hearts are made of that can do such things: but then,” added the little woman, wiping her bright eyes, “Mr Clifford was not like my husband. He was very good, I daresay, and all that—but he wasn’t ——. Well, I don’t think he was a taking man. He used to sit such a long time after dinner. He used to——it’s very wicked to be unkind to the dead—but he wasn’t the sort of man a woman could break her heart for, you know.”

“I should like to know who is,” said Miss Amelia. “He left her everything, without making provision for one of the children. He gave her the entire power, like a fool, at her age. He did not deserve anything better; but it appears to me that Mary Clifford has the sense to know when she’s well off.”

“Well, well!” said old Miss Harwood, “I couldn’t have believed it, but now as you go on discussing, I daresay it’ll turn out true. When a thing comes so far as to be discussed, it’s going to happen. I’ve always found it so. Well, well! love has gone out of fashion nowadays. When I was a girl things were different. We did not talk about it half so much, nor read novels. But we had the right feelings. I daresay she will just be as affectionate to Tom Summerhayes as she was to her poor dear husband. Oh, my dear, it’s very sad—I think it’s very sad—five fine children, and she can’t be content with that. It’ll turn out badly, dear, and that you’ll see.”

“He’ll swindle her out of all her money,” said Miss Amelia.

“Oh, don’t say such dreadful things,” cried the curate’s little wife, getting up hastily. “I am sure I hope they’ll be happy—that is, as happy as they _can_ be,” she added, with a touch of candid disapproval. “I must run away to baby now; the poor dear children!—I must say I am sorry for them—to have another man brought in in their poor papa’s place; but oh, I must run away, else I shall be saying cruel things too.”

The two Miss Harwoods discussed this interesting subject largely after Mrs Spencer had gone. The Summerhayes people had been, on the whole, wonderfully merciful to Mrs Clifford during her five years’ solitary reign at Fontanel. She had been an affectionate wife—she was a good mother—she had worn the weeds of her widowhood seriously, and had not plunged into any indiscreet gaieties when she took them off; while, at the same time, she had emerged sufficiently from her seclusion to restore Fontanel to its old position as one of the pleasantest houses in the county. What could woman do more? Tom Summerhayes was her husband’s cousin; he had been brought up to the law, and naturally understood affairs in general better than she did. Everybody knew that he was an idle fellow. After old Mr Summerhayes died, everybody quite expected that Tom would settle down in the old manor, and live an agreeable useless life, instead of toiling himself to death in hopes of one day being Lord Chancellor—a very unlikely chance at the best; and events came about exactly as everybody had predicted. At the same time, the entire neighbourhood allowed that Tom had exerted himself quite beyond all precedent on behalf of his cousin’s widow. Poor Mary Clifford had a great deal too much on her hands, he was always saying. It was a selfish sort of kindness to crush down a poor little woman under all that weight of wealth and responsibility; and so, at last, here was what had come of it. The Miss Harwoods sat and talked it all over that cold day in the drawing-room of Woodbine Cottage, which had one window looking to the village-green, and another, a large, round, bright bow-window, opening to the garden. The fire was more agreeable than the garden that day. Miss Harwood sat knitting in her easy-chair, while Miss Amelia occupied herself in ticketing all that miscellaneous basket of articles destined for the bazaar of ladies’ work to be held in Summerhayes in February; but work advanced slowly under the influence of such an inducement to talk. The old ladies, as may be supposed, came to a sudden pause and looked confused and guilty when the door opened and the Miss Summerhayes were announced. Perhaps the new visitors might even have heard something of the conversation which was going on with so much animation. Certainly it came to a most abrupt conclusion, and the Miss Harwoods looked consciously into each other’s faces when the ladies of the manor-house came to the door.

These ladies were no longer young, but they were far from having reached the venerable certainty of old-maidenhood which possessed the atmosphere of Woodbine Cottage. They were still in the fidgety unsettled stage of unweddedness—women who had fallen out of their occupation, and were subject to little tempers and vapours, not from real ill-humour or sourness, but simply by reason of the vacancy and unsatisfaction of their lives. The Miss Summerhayes often enough did not know what to do with themselves; and being unphilosophical, as women naturally are, they set down this restless condition of mind, not to the account of human nature generally, and of female impatience in particular, but to their own single and unwedded condition—a matter which still seemed capable of remedy; so that the fact must be admitted, that Miss Laura and Miss Lydia were sometimes a little flighty and uncertain in their temper; sometimes a little harsh in their judgments; and, in short, in most matters, betrayed a certain unsettledness and impatience in their minds, as people generally do, in every condition of existence, when they are discontented with their lot. The chances are that nothing would have pleased them better than to have plunged into an immediate discussion of all the circumstances of this strange piece of news with which Summerhayes was ringing; but the position was complicated by the fact that they were accompanied by little Louisa Clifford, who was old enough to understand all that was said, and quick enough to guess at any allusion which might be made to her mother, however skilfully veiled; so that, on the whole, the situation was as difficult a one for the four ladies, burning to speak but yet incapable of utterance, as can well be conceived.

“Oh, how far on _you_ are,” cried Miss Laura; “I have not got in half the work that has been promised to me; but you always are first with everything—first in gardening, first in working, first in——”

“All the news, I am sure,” said Miss Lydia; “we, of course, never hear anything till it has happened. Provoking! Loo, shouldn’t you like to go to Miss Harwood’s maid, and ask her to show you the chickens? She has a perfect genius for poultry, though she is such a little thing; and Miss Amelia has such loves of dorkings. We shan’t be leaving for half an hour; now go, there’s a dear!”

“Thank you, cousin Lydia, I’d rather look at the things for the bazaar,” returned Loo, lifting a pair of acute suspicious eyes; a pale-faced little creature, sharp-witted and vigilant, instinctively conscious why her amusement was thus carefully provided for—Loo did not choose to go.

“Such a nuisance!” said Miss Laura; “I say we are just far enough off at the manor to be out of reach of everything except the bores and the troubles. You always think of us when you have stupid visitors, but you keep all that’s exciting to yourselves. Loo, darling! the Miss Harwoods’ violets are always out earlier than any one else’s. I have such a passion for violets! Do run out, dear, and see if you can find one for me yonder under the hedge.”

“I will ask mamma to send you some to-morrow, cousin Laura,” said the determined little Loo.

“Did you ever hear anything like it?” said Miss Lydia, in a half whisper. “Loo!”

“Loo will carry this basket up-stairs for me to my room,” said Miss Harwood, “and ask Harriet to show you the things in my cupboard, dear. All the prettiest things are there, and such a very grand cushion that I mean to make your mamma buy. Tell Harriet to show you everything; there’s a darling! That is a very bright little girl, my dears,” said the old lady, when Loo withdrew, reluctant but dutiful. “I hope nothing will ever be done to crush her spirit. I suppose you must have both come to tell us it’s not true.”

“Oh, you mean about my brother and Mary Clifford,” cried out both sisters in a breath. “Oh, Miss Harwood, did you ever hear of such a thing! Did you ever know anything so dreadful! Tom, that might have married anybody!” cried Miss Lydia; “and Mary Clifford, that was so inconsolable, and pretended to have broken her heart!” cried the younger sister. They were both in a flutter of eagerness, neither permitting the other to speak.

“Oh dear, dear, it does come so hard upon us,” said Miss Laura, “we that have always had such a prejudice against second marriages; and a cousin’s widow—it’s almost like a brother; and if poor Harry could rise from his grave, what would he say!” concluded Miss Lydia, who took up the strain without any intervals of punctuation. “I begin to think it’s all true the gentlemen say about women’s inconstancy; that is, your common style of women,” ran on the elder without any pause; “and poor dear Tom, who might have married any one,” cried the younger, out of breath.

“Then I perceive,” said Miss Amelia Harwood, “it’s true? Well, I don’t see much harm, for my part, if they have everything properly settled first. Poor Harry was all very well, I daresay, but he was a great fool not to provide for his children. Your brother said so at the time; but I did think, for my part, that Mary Clifford had the sense to know when she was well off.”

“Oh, she shows that,” cried Lydia Summerhayes, with a little toss of her head; “widows are so designing; they know the ways of men, and how to manage them, very differently from any of us—if _we_ could stoop to such a thing, which of course, we wouldn’t. Oh yes, Mary Clifford knows _very_ well what she’s about. I am sure I have told Tom he was her honorary secretary for many a day. I thought she was just making use of him to serve her own purpose; I never thought how far her wiles went. If it had been her lawyer, or the curate, or any humble person; but Tom! He might have done so much better,” said Laura, chiming in at some imperceptible point, so that it was impossible to tell where one voice ended and the other began.

“Well, I must say I am disappointed in Mary Clifford,” said Miss Harwood, “she was always such an affectionate creature. That’s why it is, I daresay. These affectionate people can’t do without an object; but her five children——”

“Ah! yes, her five children,” exclaimed the Miss Summerhayes; “only imagine dear Tom making such a marriage! Why, Charley Clifford has been at Eton ever so long; he is fifteen. And dear Tom is quite a young man, and might have married anybody,” said the last of the two, taking up the chorus: “it is too dreadful to think of it—such a cutting blow to us.”

“I can’t see how it is so very bad for you,” said Miss Amelia Harwood; “of course they will live at Fontanel, and you will still keep the manor-house. I think it’s rather a good thing for you for my part. Hush! there’s the child again—clever little thing—she knows quite well what we’ve been talking of. My dear, I hope Harriet showed you all the things—and isn’t that a pretty cushion? Tell your mamma I mean to make her buy it, as she is the richest lady I know.”

“Are you going, my dears?” said the elder old lady. “I am sorry you have so little time to stay—I hope you will find things arrange themselves comfortably, and that everybody will be happy. Don’t get excited—it’s astonishing how everything settles down. You want to speak to me, Loo,” said Miss Harwood, starting a little when she had just reseated herself in her easy-chair after dismissing her visitors. “Certainly, dear; I suppose you have set your little heart on one of the pretty pincushions up-stairs.”

“No, indeed, nothing of the sort—I hope I know better than to care for such trumpery,” said Loo, with an angry glow on her little pale face. “I stopped behind to say, that whatever mamma pleases to do, we mean to stand by her,” cried poor Mary Clifford’s only champion. “I’m not sure whether I shall like it or not for myself—but we have made up our minds to stand by mamma, and so we will, as long as we live; and she shall do what she likes!” cried the little heroine. Two big tears were in those brown eyes, which looked twice as bright and as big through those great dew-drops which Loo would not for the world have allowed to fall. She opened her eyelids wider and wider to re-absorb the untimely tears, and looked full, with childish defiance, in Miss Harwood’s face.

“Loo, you are a dear!” said prompt Miss Amelia, kissing the child; “you shall have the prettiest pincushion in all my basket.” The little girl vanished suddenly after this speech, half in indignation at the promise, half because the tears would not be disposed of otherwise, and it was necessary to rush outside to conceal their dropping. “Ah! Amelia,” said kind old Miss Harwood, “I’m sorry for poor Mary in my heart—but I’d rather have that child’s love than Tom Summerhayes.”

“_Poor_ Mary! for my part, I have no patience with her,” said the practical Miss Amelia; “a woman come to her time of life ought to have the sense to know when she’s well off.”

Such was the character of the comments made upon Mrs Clifford’s marriage when it was first talked of, in Woodbine Cottage, and generally among all the female portion of society as it existed in Summerhayes.