The Young Lady CHAPTER 4.
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"You look upon Mrs. Melrose as a very particular friend, I presume," Uncle Peter remarked to Cecilia, a few days after his plain talk about her babe.
"Indeed I do, Uncle, one of my most particular friends."
"And I look upon her as your worst enemy," was the old man's emphatic reply.
"How can you say that?" Cecilia rejoined, in a half offended tone. "I am sure she is a lady, in every sense of the word."
"As to the lady part," Uncle Peter retorted, somewhat contemptuously, "I must beg permission to differ a little. So far from having any claims to that title, she doesn't know even the meaning of the word. A lady, indeed! Let me tell you, child, that a lady is quite another kind of character. I have seen and known a few ladies in my time, but they were about as much like Mrs. Melrose in mind and manners — as she is like a Hottentot! If it is because you have an idea that she is a lady, that you make an intimate friend of her, give her the slip, as we vulgar people say, for I can assure you that she never was, is not now, and never can be a lady, or even the smallest beginning of one."
"It is unkind in you, Uncle Peter, to talk to me in such a way about those you know to be my most intimate friends. Indeed, it seems only necessary for me to have a preferencefor anyone — for you to dislike her. This was not the case a few years ago. But I believe you have had a prejudice against me, ever since I went away to boarding-school."
The old man heard Cecilia out patiently, and then said —
"I never disliked Flora Henry."
"Flora Henry!" ejaculated Cecilia, the color mounting to her cheek.
"Yes, Flora Henry. I never disliked her, and yet you were intimate friends."
"As mere girls, we were. Flora, you know, was only a juvenile acquaintance, set aside, as such usually are, long ago."
"Was she not, as a girl, innocent, pure-minded, and companionable?"
"She was a very good sort of a person, I believe, and I liked her very much when we were girls together."
"Then why was she set aside?"
"Because I wished to choose my companions from among my equals."
"Equals in what?"
"Equals in station — or rank — or standing in society — whichever you wish to call it."
"Rank and station — rank nonsense! Among all your companions, if I have seen a fair sample of them, there is not one who will compare with Flora Henry, as to intelligence,moral worth, and all that constitutes the true lady. I know her well, and am proud to number her among my friends, even though you have cut her acquaintance. And as to your Mrs. Melrose, she will compare with Flora about as well as a piece of cheap glass will compare with a diamond. That's my opinion fairly stated."
"But Flora's father is only a clerk in a bank, on a limited salary."
"And your father is only a dealer in foreign wares. Please, what is the difference which makes the superiority?"
"My father is rich — and we move in a very different circle from what her family does."
"But I can remember when your father was not a sliver better off than Mr. Henry now is; — nor, indeed, so well. I wonder if he was a gentleman then, and your mother a lady?"
"But I don't see, Uncle Peter, that allusions to what my father was when he started in life, have anything to do with the matter. If he has gained a higher position in society by his own energy, why seek to drag both himself and family down from it, and compel them to associate with vulgar people?"
"Then it is money which makes you all so much better than you were?"
"It is my father's wealth, certainly, which has given us a place in the highest circles."
"Suppose, by some sudden reverses in business, such as too frequently occur, your father were to lose his wealth — what then?"
"I do not suppose that any such thing is going to take place. My father is rich."
"Very many rich people, richer by far than your father — have been brought down to poverty. It may be your case. Who, then, will be your associates?
"If such a circumstance were to take place, though I have no fear of it, I do not believe that I have a single intimate friend who would recede from me."
"Not even Mrs. Melrose?"
"No indeed! She least of all."
"She, first of all, I am ready to affirm."
"Why have you such a prejudice against Mrs. Melrose?" Cecilia asked, with a half offended, half curious air.
"Because I know her to be a selfish, heartless woman; one, too, who has no ideas of right and wrong, except conventional ones. For you I don't believe she has any more sincere regard for you, than she has for a stranger. You are a fashionable acquaintance, with whom she can idle away her time, and gratify her love of gossip and tittle-tattle. I know her, and all her family from beginning to end, and know just what she is morally worth."
"It's all prejudice, Uncle."
"Don't believe a word of it, child. I never hold mere idle prejudices against anyone."
"But I am sure you do against Mrs. Melrose, who is a general favorite."
"Wasn't it through her influence that little Cecilia lost her place upon her mother's bosom?"
"Uncle Peter!"
"I ask a simple question. Cannot you give me a true answer?"
"I don't wish to talk about that, Uncle."
"But I do; and mean to talk about it whenever I come to see you."
"Then I wish you would never — "
Cecilia stopped suddenly, colored deeply, and looked confused.
"Come to see me! That finishes what you were saying," Uncle Peter said, knitting his brow, and compressing his lips tightly, as he arose from his chair.
"I didn't say any such thing, Uncle."
"But you thought so, and that is all the same to me." As he said this, the old man took his hat and cane, and began moving towards the door.
"Now don't go, Uncle Peter! Let me beg of you not to go!" urged Cecilia, coming quickly to his side, and laying her hand upon his arm, while the tears were in her eyes.
For a moment, and only for a moment, did the old man pause; then he said with a firm voice —
"Two like Mrs. Melrose and myself cannot hold a place in the same regard — that is clear. The plain, sincere, affectionate old man — has been set aside for the heartless flatterer, whose subtle poison has already infected a once innocent bosom with an almost incurable malady. No, Cecilia, one heart cannot hold us both. You have said the word — and I go!"
Uncle Peter turned quickly away, and closed the door after him with a heavy jar. Cecilia yet stood, pained and confounded at the effect of her half spoken thought, when the door partly reopened, arid Uncle Peter stood in the narrow aperture. His face wore an aspect of sterner severity than it had exhibited a few moments before.
"Your dear, cast-off babe, the forsaken offspring of an unnatural mother, I shall still call and see. It will need the watchful care of someone who can love it for its own sake. As for you, it matters not whether we ever meet again."
The old man's tones were even more cutting than his words. As soon as he had uttered this slowly and deliberately, he again withdrew.
Its effect upon Cecilia was painful in the extreme. With all his peculiarities and steady opposition, she was attached to her uncle. His affection for her in earlier days had been so constantly manifested, and in so many forms, that it could not be forgotten, or the tenderness which it had awakened in her bosom, obliterated. From the commencement of his opposition, as she began to emerge into an atmosphere of artificial social life — she had not only felt annoyed, but had experienced a sensation of uneasiness, and lack of full self-approbation, whenever she acted in a way, or expressed sentiments which he did not approve. And yet she, at all times, endeavored to confirm herself in the idea that she was right — and he wrong. What he had said about her babe, had in it so much that was rational, that, argue with herself as she would in the effort to approve her own course — she was far from feeling easy in mind.
His present bitter, and, as she felt, cruel and unfeeling remarks, coming upon this topic, wounded her deeply. For nearly a minute after he had left her the second time, Cecilia stood, half stupefied, with the hope in her mind that he would not go away from the house under the influence of the feelings he had manifested. The loud jar of the street door awoke her from this dreamy, bewildered idea — when she sunk into a chair, and gave way to a gush of tears.
As this tumult of feeling began to subside, came a review of her conduct towards her child, which had so particularly offended Uncle Peter. It did not, she could not help confessing to herself, look right. But that, she argued, was a mere appearance. Little Cecilia was as well, nay, better cared for, than if one so young and inexperienced as she, were to take charge of her. Still, so much impression had her uncle's harsh words made upon her, that she could not feel right, until she had sent for her babe from the nursery. Taking it in her arms, and letting its little head lie upon her bosom, while its innocent face was upturned to hers, and her own countenance mirrored in the clear depths of its azure eyes — she felt a sweet thrill of maternal delight all unknown before. For nearly an hour had she held her babe thus, unwearied, and feeling a new emotion of pleasure with each passing minute, when Mrs. Melrose, her very particular friend, called in, and in her familiar way, proceeded at once to Cecilia's chamber.
We grieve to say, that Cecilia felt something like shame arising in her bosom, at being detected by her fashionable friend in fondling her babe. The color heightened on her cheek, and her eye looked slightly confused. Ringing instantly for the nurse, she transferred the charge of little Cecilia at once to her.
"Ah, my dear," began Mrs. Melrose, the moment she came in, shaking her head, and looking a little grave, "that will never do. You'll spoil both the nurse and your child. She will be trouble enough by-and-by. So take your comfort now while you can."
"I was only holding it for a few minutes, while the nurse did something for me," Cecilia replied, blushing for the falsehood, in spite of herself.
"Take my advice, dear, and don't call upon your nurse for any service that will require her to resign the babe for a moment. If you want anything done, direct your chambermaid to do it; or let her take charge of the babe, if it is anything that you particularly wish the nurse to do. That is my way, and I have no trouble. But if you keep taking the babe every now and then, of your own accord, it will soon be expected of you; and then, if it does not happen to suit your ease or convenience to be troubled with a child when nurse wants to get rid of it, she will, ten chances to one, get pouty. I've seen too much of these things."
Cecilia did not reply to this; but it had its effect upon her. Not so decided, however, in its character — as it would have been if she had not seen Uncle Peter that morning.
"You look a little serious," was the remark of Mrs. Melrose, after they had chatted for about a quarter of an hour. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing in particular," Cecilia replied. But the thought of why she looked a little serious, caused her to look much more sober.
"You really seem troubled, my dear. What does ail you?" Mrs. Melrose now said with some concern in her voice.
"Nothing, only that old Uncle of mine has been worrying me again."
"Too bad! too bad!" ejaculated the friend. "I wonder that you tolerate him around you. If I were in your place, I would soon send him about his business."
"But he is my mother's brother, remember."
"What of that? If he were my own brother, and meddled in my affairs as he meddles in yours — I would snub him up in short order. You are a woman, and ought to know what is right to do in things that concern yourself. And you do know a thousand times better than such old fogies as he is, ever prying about, and putting their noses into things that don't concern them. Now, I'll venture to bet two to one, that it was the effect of something that he said this morning, which made you go to baby-nursing. Wasn't it?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I may have been a little influenced by him."
"So I thought. Now do, Cecilia, maintain your own rights and your own independence. Don't let that obsolete old fellow, with his notions fifty years behind the times, influence you a single iota. Be a woman in your own place, and fill your right position in social life. He would tie you down in the nursery, and never let you see outside of the house once in a month, except to go to church on Sunday, if he had his way. But don't, let me again beg of you — be influenced by him, in the slightest degree."
"That danger is pretty well passed now, I believe," Cecilia said, with something more cheerful in her voice. "I offended him deeply this morning."
"Indeed! I am truly glad to hear it. And do you think he will stay away?"
"I presume so. He is always set in his own determinations; and he says that he shall visit little Cecilia, but not me."
"Good riddance! That's all I have to say. But come, I want you to make a few calls with me."
Ever ready to answer such an invitation, Mrs. Merlin speedily attired herself, and the two very particular friends started out to pay a few social visits.
When Uncle Peter turned from the door of his niece, it was with feelings deeply wounded. Mrs. Melrose he knew to be a woman of neither true feelings, true perceptions of right, nor true principles. A woman, too, who had a strong love of dominion, evinced in her persevering efforts to bring others under the influence of her particular notions, to do which she usually left no stone unturned. The influence of such a woman upon his niece, young, ignorant of the world, and easily led by others — he dreaded exceedingly. Already he could detect sad evidences in Cecilia's opinions and acts — of the power she was exercising over her. In his own way, he had endeavored to counteract this evil influence, but saw, with pain, all his efforts prove unavailing. Cecilia was going with the tide.
It was nearly a month before the old man again met his niece, although he saw her babe, for whom his affection grew stronger and stronger, every two or three days. He managed always to call at a time when Cecilia was out. Notwithstanding Mrs. Melrose's frequent and disparaging allusions to Uncle Peter, Cecilia felt troubled with self-accusationswhenever she thought of him. They had parted in anger. Notwithstanding his ultra, old-fashioned ideas, and annoying system of fault-finding — she could but give him the credit of meaning well. And more than that, she acknowledged him to be right in much that he stickled for, in the abstract — though wrong in opposing simple right to conventional customs. As week after week passed away, and she saw nothing of him, but heard of his having called frequently in her absence, she began to have a strong desire to see him again, and to offer some apology for the offence she had given, even if he did not soften his tone toward her in the least.
One day, about a month after their angry contention and separation, on coming home from paying a round of visits earlier than usual, she went into the nursery to satisfy a yearning desire to see little Cecilia, who was growing finely, and beginning to hold up her head and take some notice. As she stepped lightly in, her eye rested upon Uncle Peter, who sat with his back towards the door, holding the babe in his arms and looking down intently into its little face. She paused only for a moment, and then went up to the old man, and placed her hand familiarly on his shoulder, saying, as she did so —
"I am glad to see you, Uncle Peter."
The old man startled at the sound of her voice, and looked up with a stern expression on his face.
"Don't look at me so angrily," Cecilia said, her voice trembling, and her countenance changing. "I have forgiven you — cannot you forgive me?"
"I have nothing for which to ask forgiveness, and nothing to forgive in you. Better ask forgiveness of this sweet innocent babe," was the uncompromising reply of the old man, made in a low tone, and after glancing towards the nurse to see if she were beyond the reach of his voice. Then rising up, he called to the latter, and resigned, after kissing it tenderly, her charge into her arms.
A cold and formal 'good day' followed this, and the old man turned and proceeded down stairs, on his way from the house. He had taken his hat from the rack in the hall, and was placing it upon his head, when his niece, who had, after a moment's hesitation, followed after him, put her hand upon his arm and said —
"You must not go away, Uncle Peter, and leave me, feeling as you now do."
There were tears in her eyes as she looked him steadily in the face.
She saw not the violent struggle that took place in the old man's bosom between his strong affection for her — and his displeasure at what he esteemed unnatural conduct towards her child. She saw only his stern countenance, as he turned from her and left the house without a word.
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