Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/150

. 11, 1860.] had the decency! She never set her foot in the house before—and right enough too! What can she want now? I decidedly would refuse to see her, aunt!”

The widow’s reply was simply, “Don’t be a fool, Ann!”

Rising, she said: “Here, take poor Jacko, and comfort him till I come back.”

Jacko was a middle-sized South American monkey, and had been a pet of her husband’s. He was supposed to be mourning now with the rest of the family. Mrs. Fiske received him on a shrinking lap, and had found time to correct one of his indiscretions before she could sigh and say, in the rear of her aunt’s retreating figure, “I certainly never would let myself down so;” but Mrs. Harrington took her own counsel, and Jacko was of her persuasion, for he quickly released himself from Mrs. Fiske’s dispassionate embrace, and was slinging his body up the balusters after his mistress.

“Mrs. Harrington,” said Lady Roseley, very sweetly swimming to meet her as she entered the room, “I have intruded upon you, I fear, in venturing to call upon you at such a time?”

The widow bowed to her, and begged her to be seated.

Lady Roseley was an exquisitely silken dame, in whose face a winning smile was cut, and she was still sufficiently youthful not to be accused of wearing a flower too artificial.

“It was so sudden! so sad!” she continued. “We esteemed him so much. I thought you might be in need of sympathy, and hoped I might— Dear Mrs. Harrington! can you bear to speak of it?”

“I can tell you anything you wish to hear, my lady,” the widow replied.

Lady Roseley had expected to meet a woman much more like what she conceived a tradesman’s wife would be; and the grave reception of her proffer of sympathy slightly confused her. She said:

“I should not have come, at least not so early, but Sir Jackson, my husband, thought, and indeed I imagined— You have a son, Mrs. Harrington? I think his name is—”

“Evan, my lady.”

“Evan. It was of him we have been speaking. I imagined, that is, we thought, Sir Jackson might—you will be writing to him, and will let him know we will use our best efforts to assist him in obtaining some position worthy of his—superior to—something that will secure him from the harassing embarrassments of an uncongenial employment.”

The widow listened to this tender allusion to the shears without a smile of gratitude. She replied: “I hope my son will return in time to bury his father, and he will thank you himself, my lady.”

“He has no taste for—a—for anything in the shape of trade, has he, Mrs. Harrington?”

“I am afraid not, my lady.”

“Any position—a situation—that of a clerk even—would be so much better for him!”

The widow remained impassive.

“And many young gentlemen I know, who are clerks, and are enabled to live comfortably, and make a modest appearance in society; and your son, Mrs. Harrington, he would find it surely an improvement upon—many would think it a step for him.”

“I am bound to thank you for the interest you take in my son, my lady.”

“Does it not quite suit your views, Mrs. Harrington?” Lady Roseley was surprised at the widow’s manner.

“If my son had only to think of himself, my lady.”

“Oh! but of course,”—the lady understood her now—“of course! You cannot suppose, Mrs. Harrington, but that I should anticipate he would have you to live with him, and behave to you in every way as a dutiful son, surely?”

“A clerk’s income is not very large, my lady.”

“No; but enough, as I have said, and with the management you would bring, Mrs. Harrington, to produce a modest, respectable maintenance. My respect for your husband, Mrs. Harrington, makes me anxious to press my services upon you.” Lady Roseley could not avoid feeling hurt at the widow’s want of common gratitude.

“A clerk’s income would not be more than 100l. a year, my lady.”

“To begin with, no; certainly not more.” The lady was growing brief.

“If my son puts by the half of that yearly, he can hardly support himself and his mother, my lady.”

“Half of that yearly, Mrs. Harrington?”

“He would have to do so, and be saddled till he dies, my lady.”

“I really cannot see why.”

Lady Roseley had a notion of some excessive niggardly thrift in the widow, which was arousing symptoms of disgust.

Mrs. Harrington quietly said: “There are his father’s debts to pay, my lady.”

“His father’s debts!”

“Under 5000l., but above 4000l., my lady.”

“Five thousand pounds! Mrs. Harrington!” The lady’s delicately gloved hand gently rose and fell. “And this poor young man—” she pursued.

“My son will have to pay it, my lady.”

For a moment the lady had not a word to instance. Presently she remarked: “But, Mrs. Harrington, he is surely under no legal obligation?”

“He is only under the obligation not to cast disrespect on his father’s memory, my lady; and to be honest, while he can.”

“But, Mrs. Harrington! surely! what can the poor young man do?”

“He will pay it, my lady.”

“But how, Mrs. Harrington?”

“There is his father’s business, my lady.”

His father’s business! Then must the young man become a tradesman in order to show respect for his father? Preposterous! That was the lady’s natural inward exclamation. She said, rather shrewdly, for one who knew nothing of such things: “But a business which produces debts so enormous, Mrs. Harrington!”

The widow replied: “My son will have to conduct it in a different way. It would be a very good business, conducted properly, my lady.”