Chapter I

“A little girl!--oh! goodness me!” exclaimed an old gentleman to himself as he sat at breakfast.

An old gentleman, so he was called, and called himself, but he was only fifty-eight, and hale and healthy. He was seated on a high-backed chair with a tray before him. One muffin and four thin bits of toast composed his breakfast this day, and every day. He was thin and spare; his complexion was drab, his hair speckled drab and grey. His brows were shaggy, his mouth was large, and his nose ended in a knob. Yet this ungainly old gentleman--for ungainly he certainly was--had a kind of attraction about him. He was so ugly that the fact of ugliness was accepted as inevitable, and then came the surprise of a charm. Wherein lay the charm it was hard to say. He was, and he looked, peevish, and crabbed, and sour, and yet the kind heart that was buried beneath all these human infirmities found a means of peering out.

Mr. Smythe, for this was his name, was a London merchant. He had a fortune which people who liked to use large words called princely; and because he made but little show with this princely fortune, people who liked to use hard words called him a miser. But these last were few. As the kind heart gleamed out of the ugly face, so did the generous nature out of a cold kind of life. He was one of those who so hated show, who were so innately modest in their charity, that they tried to deceive with an appearance of niggardliness; exulting when they could deceive, and most of all trying to deceive themselves. He therefore did good irregularly; by stealth, by snatches; at every fresh act of charity assuring himself it was for the last time.

To return to the beginning of the chapter. On each side of the breakfast-tray, this morning and every morning, letters and papers were laid. Letters on one side, printed papers on the other. Never was Mr. Smythe’s face more peevish than at this moment of the day. He touched his letters as if they burnt him, and some were laid apart with a look which may be seen on board a steamer. These were the begging letters, from individuals known or unknown, and it was to resist these that he put on his sour morning face.

The letter that caused his exclamation was not a regular begging letter. It contained a request, indeed, and from almost a stranger; but it was not a begging letter. In some of Mr. Smythe’s mercantile transactions he had made the acquaintance of a gentleman living abroad, and had had a good deal of communication with him. They had met only once. Their acquaintance, such as it was, was by letter, and was not on subjects which reveal the affectionate cast of a character. Nevertheless, it was to Mr. Smythe that the gentleman from a death-bed bequeathed his daughter. Somehow or other, through the rugged face, and the hard crust of the shrewd merchant’s correspondence, he had discovered that soft place on which he might build his hope.

The request was a bold one. It was that Mr. Smythe would receive into his house and watch over the interests of a young girl of eighteen or nineteen, with whom he had no connection. A bold request, and one which most men would have looked upon as an impossible one. After making his request, the gentleman proceeded to tell his reasons.

“I was married under peculiar circumstances--such circumstances as induce me to cast myself and my child on your compassion. About twenty years ago, I, then a mature bachelor of five-and-forty, was travelling in the Midland Counties of England. I was taken ill at a small country inn; my illness was almost to death, and that it was not to death was, the physician said, solely owing to the presence of mind and to the care of my landlady. My gratitude was naturally great, and I cast about in my mind what manner of reward I should proffer her.

“During my convalescence I could not help perceiving that she often brought her daughter into my room, and sometimes needlessly employed her in the little attentions an invalid is compelled to receive. There was nothing remarkable in the girl, but she was handy and neat, and tolerably good-looking; and gradually my thoughts submitted themselves as to a doom to the fate which I saw was being prepared for me. I remembered the story of Hooker; but, like him, I felt helpless in my landlady’s hands. I submitted to my doom. I write lightly on the subject; God knows I do not lightly think of my weakness or my mistake. Not that I had any reason to complain, as far as I myself was concerned. My wife was a good, useful wife to me, and when she died I regretted her. If she were now alive I should fearlessly entrust her child to her guardianship, knowing she would protect her in that point where protection is needed. But she is dead, and my daughter may become in consequence a prey to covetousness and be doomed to misery. She has a number of relatives in a different rank of life from that in which she has been brought up. Some are sensible, respectable people, and, aware of the difference between them in education and nurture, will not molest her. Others are less respectably-minded, and my daughter’s fortune, though small, is an object to them. One family in particular--that is to say, one young man, the only son of this family, at this present time a smart young man in a haberdasher’s shop--has persecuted her with his attentions. My daughter is a weak, soft-natured girl, ill-fitted to contend, and likely to fall a prey to persecutions; but a docile, dutiful girl, with a sense of right, and a trust in those who protect her.

“I know not on whom to cast her but on you. Your kindness in two cases which have come to my knowledge”--here he specified them, and as he read the words, Mr. Smythe winced and shivered, for he had supposed that no human eye had seen his weakness--“emboldens me to come to you. You have a large house, and my daughter has a fortune, which I have left in your hands until her marriage. I ask nothing for her, nor desire it, but that she may have the shelter of your house, the benefit of your advice, and the protection of your name.”

The rest of the letter became pathetic in its entreaties, its gratitude and its trust, and though he fought against the conviction through every sentence of the letter, Mr. Smythe knew from the first that he should give way.

When he laid the letter down, he said that he would not answer it that day; but even while he said it, he knew he was saying what was false. He knew that he should not sleep in peace until he had relieved the anxiety of the dying man; and so it was that the post carried out a letter of acquiescence. Thus it was that Mr. Smythe, the old bachelor, who had lived alone for twenty-eight years, was doomed to receive the most troublesome of guests, a young lady, into his house.

As soon as the weakness of his compassion,--so he called it,--was relieved by the departure of the letter, his peace was gone. He could not get his future troubles out of his thoughts. Every time the servant came into the room he blushed; and night and day revolved the terms in which he should make known, to that sedate and respectable man, the event that was about to occur.

The nightmare of this dread became intolerable, and after four days the disclosure was abruptly made.

“Stephens, I am going to have a little girl here.”

Stephens stood still to hear; making no reply, nor suffering any expression whatever to appear on his face.

That mute, impassive countenance was a relief to Mr. Smythe. He took courage, and went on with a tone of indifference.

“I don’t know when she will come; but she will live here for a time. Tell Mrs. Ratcliffe a room or so will be wanted, and don’t let me be bothered any more.”

The last words had lost their tone of calm indifference. There was a tremulous, pathetic peevishness, that touched the heart of the attached servant.

He merely bowed, asked no questions, and left the room.

Mr. Smythe sighed a sigh of relief, rolled his troubles off, slept that night in peace, and dismissed the idea from his mind.

That their master would some day be taken in, was an idea which Mr. Smythe’s servants had long entertained. That the time was come, was the idea they entertained on this occasion. Nevertheless, the stir and bustle of the preparation for, and the marvelling over, the event was not displeasing to them.

They made ready a room or so; that is, interpreting the order largely, they got ready the drawing floor, and the floor above, neither of which had been inhabited during Mr. Smythe’s abode in the house. Good furniture which had stood safely stowed against the walls, was dragged out. A few pictures were hung, some Turkey carpets, old, yet good, were laid down, and the rooms presented a very tolerable appearance. All this was completed in a few days, and they then waited in patient curiosity for further disclosures.

A month passed away, and then Mr. Smythe observed to Stephens, in a voice of uncontrolled pettishness,

“The little girl will be here to-morrow. Have you got a room ready.”

Stephens bowed. “All ready, sir.”

“Tell Mrs. Ratcliffe she must put her to bed when she comes. I won’t have anything to do with it.”

“No, sir.”

Nothing more passed, and from early dawn on the following day, Mrs. Ratcliffe, in her best cap, awaited the arrival. Whether a small child was to come in a bundle, or a little girl was to be deposited from a splendid coach, she had not a guess. From the expression that she was to be put to bed, she inclined to the first opinion.

Late in the evening a cab stopped at the door, and two women in deep mourning got out. Mrs. Ratcliffe anxiously inspected them, until one, in poor English, asked if this was Mr. Smythe’s.

“_Voici donc_,” she said, pointing to the other. “Miss Maxwell.”

Mrs. Ratcliffe soon saw she had been mistaken in her anticipations; but she was a woman equal to all situations, and she addressed herself with respectful courtesy to the young lady. She invited her to follow her, and as soon as she had led her to the drawing-room, where candles were lit, and a fire blazed, gave her a very proper message from her master. He could not see her that night, but he hoped she would make herself comfortable. And she then laid herself out to insure that she should be so; with kind motherly ways leading the young stranger to express her wishes, and confide in her.

It did not seem a difficult task. Miss Maxwell was very soft and weak, and inclined to cling; and Mrs. Ratcliffe’s manners had the conscious dignity of her position. The young lady yielded easily to her kindness, and in an hour or two had acquired a friend. She told her of her father’s death, and her sea-sickness; and shed tears over both events. She told her that she had very few real friends, and then directing her attention to a dreadful tear in her new crape, asked her advice about it. She said how kind it was of Mr. Smythe to have her, and she wondered whether he would think she had brought too many trunks.

To some persons her irrelevant discoursing might have seemed singular; but Mrs. Ratcliffe, though a wise woman in her way, was not given to severe scrutiny.

The young stranger was pretty, soft, childish, and confiding, and her heart was completely won. Whether or not her mind was of a high order, was a matter of indifference. She took her under her protection, and became bold in her behalf.

The following morning she presented herself before her lord, and stated her opinion that he ought to come and speak to his charge. He sighed, but followed with docility. The appearance of the drawing-room into which she ushered him startled him; but again he sighed and resigned himself, feeling so it was ordained to be.

He walked shyly up to the young person, who rose from her seat to receive him; and with a movement of his hands behind him, as if to preclude the possibility of being shaken hands with, said,

“How d’ye do, my dear? Your poor father asked me to let you live here, and I am--ready to do it. But you can’t expect me to notice you much, for I am not used to the sort of thing.”

Here his voice fell into pathos.

“Oh! no, sir,” said the young lady, with great earnestness.

Her earnestness affected him, and he said with kindness,

“I beg you will make yourself comfortable. Ask Mrs. Ratcliffe for whatever you want, and she will give it you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good morning, my dear,” and he stood for a moment doubtful whether or no he should shake hands.

“I am so much obliged to you, sir, for having me,” the young lady then took courage to say; “and I _hope_,” she added, for this had weighed on her mind, “that you will not think I have brought too many trunks. I had so many pretty gowns, that it seemed a pity to leave them behind.”

Mrs. Ratcliffe had taken good care that no trunks should meet his eye; he was therefore quite unprepared for the appeal, and much touched by it.

“Oh! no, my dear; pray have as many trunks as you like. Good morning,” and he held out a shy stiff hand in mark of approval and compassion.

He then hastened to his library, relieved himself with a deep sigh, and banishing the recollection of the inroad upon his peace, thought he had put away his troubles, and went to business.

But he little knew himself if he thought his troubles were put away. He could not rid himself of the remembrance that he was now a guardian. Compassion for the young stranger’s desolate lot pursued him whenever he intermitted his attention to business. It even made him dream, a thing he usually scorned; and after two days he desired Stephens to send Mrs. Ratcliffe to him.

She came.

“How’s the little girl?” he asked peevishly.

“Miss Maxwell is quite well, sir, and hopes you are quite well.”

“You must get somebody, a governess, I suppose, to look after her. I suppose the poor thing will like to see the Tower and the British Museum, and she must have somebody, I suppose, to look after her.”

Mrs. Ratcliffe acquiesced, and was then desired to find a proper person.

She discharged her task with discretion. A widow lady was found, and for a week after she had inhabited the house Mr. Smythe was at peace. His ward was under the protection of a respectable matron. He might roll her off his mind; he might forget her existence.

But in one week Mrs. Rogers asked an interview, and the purport was the destruction of all his newly-acquired calm.

Mrs. Rogers had to report that a young man appeared to watch the comings and goings of Miss Maxwell; and had once had the audacity to address her. Mrs. Rogers was a fussy person, and she made the most of her tale, and ended by a pathetic hint that she had not been treated with confidence, and a request to be told who the young man was.

“Hang me, Madam!” cried the astonished and irritated auditor of her wordy narrative, “how should I know?”

But it would not do. The words were no sooner said than his conscience pricked him with the recollection that this must be the very young man, as a protector against whom he had been invested with his office. He humbled himself to confess the fact; and having put Mrs. Rogers in possession of all he knew, and constituted her anew a duenna armed with authority, dismissed her and tried to be at peace.

But responsibility weighed upon him, and when ten days afterwards he heard in a fresh interview that, although meetings could not take place, nosegays and other small presents were constantly sent, he roused himself up to consider the case, and act like a guardian and a man.

His determination was to institute inquiries about the young man; if he found him good, respectable, and willing to improve himself, to give him means of improvement, and, after telling his ward of her father’s wishes and opinions, to allow the cousins to meet occasionally under his roof, as kinsfolk might. This plan, formed with considerable judgment, was, however, frustrated, for his inquiries were not satisfactorily answered.

Mr. Maxwell had given him a true report. The young man was the son of a small country dealer, and eight years before, being a sharp-witted, brisk-looking lad, had been apprenticed by his aunt, Mrs. Maxwell, to a great London haberdasher, in whose house he still remained, receiving a good salary--in whose house, at least, he had remained, until the more advantageous speculation of winning his cousin had caused him to give it up.

His late master, when questioned by Mr. Smythe, owned that he had not a good opinion of him. He was too eager, he said, to make money, to allow himself to fall into irregular habits; but he certainly considered him a low-minded fellow, and one who could under no circumstances be a gentleman. He said he had trusted him to a certain degree, because he saw that to get on was the ruling passion of his mind; but as far as he had observed he had no other principle to guide him.

“He’s a sharp, smart fellow, though,” he added, “and is popular with many ladies who come to my establishment.”

These last words made Mr. Smythe the more uneasy, and his plan having failed, and unable to resolve upon any other, he was obliged to rely on the precautions taken by Mrs. Rogers, against the prosecutions of the young man’s suit.

For three months he led a life of misery. A week never passed without the demand of an interview, in which Mrs. Rogers detailed the persecutions which Miss Maxwell had endured during the week, and her counter-schemes to outwit the schemes of the young man. To her the affair was evidently not without enjoyment; but to him it was misery. He lived in hourly dread of his ward being carried off, and of the wound which would be made in his conscience, should such an event happen, for ever.

At length on two successive days Mrs. Rogers brought into his study two letters, well-written, and almost pathetic in their complaints and protestations. These were from the young man to his cousin.

Mr. Smythe said but little, but when Mrs. Rogers left him on the second morning he came to a sudden resolution. He rang the bell, and desired Stephens to fetch Miss Maxwell.

Mr. Smythe’s intercourse with his ward had been but slight. Every now and then, once or twice in a month, he forced himself to go up and ask her if she wanted anything, and to beg her to make any request she pleased. She generally thanked him, and said she was quite happy, and so the interview ended. On the last occasion she had said she had a great favour to ask. He, anticipating a request for his sanction to her cousin’s courtship, had gathered up his powers to argue or to withstand, but the request was less momentous.

“Would he be so good as to allow her to have a little bird?”

He stared at her in his surprise, and she hurried on--

“I promise you you shall not hear it sing. Mrs. Ratcliffe says it would annoy you to hear it sing; but indeed, sir, I would not annoy you for the world.”

“My poor little girl,” he said, patting her shoulder with a most unconscious expression of kindly feeling, “have as many birds as you please.”

Though their intercourse was slight, the terms of the ward and guardian were therefore such as were most to be desired. She trusted and respected him, and her awe had nothing painful about it. She came to him on this occasion without trepidation, and stood patiently to hear his will.

“My dear,” he began in his peevish voice, “this state of things cannot go on. You must end it. You must marry somebody.”

“I would, sir, indeed, if I could,” she replied, “but I don’t know whom.”

“My dear, this state of things can’t go on. It will kill me if it does. You must marry somebody; and, as we have nobody else, it must be either your cousin or me. Now tell me which it shall be?”

“Oh! sir, I would much rather it were you;” and she seemed as little startled as if he had asked her to sit down.

“Very well, my dear, but only think well about it. I am a very old fellow, and your cousin is a young man.”

“But, sir, you are good and kind, and you would always take care of me. I don’t like my cousin, nor more did poor papa. If you please, sir, I would much rather marry you.”

“Very well, my dear, then we had better set about it at once. Shall it be in a fortnight or so?”

“Whenever you please, sir.”

“Then tell Mrs. Ratcliffe to get everything ready, and ask her for whatever you want.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But, my dear,” and here his voice put on its most pathetic and querulous tone, “you must not bother me much when we are married. I am not at all used to the sort of thing, and I can’t be pestered with a wife all day long.”

“Indeed, sir, I will always do just what you tell me,” she said, with an earnestness equal to his own.

And this was the history of the marriage of the old bachelor Mr. Smythe, an event which caused a good deal of amusement and a good deal of dismay in the small world to which he belonged.