MR. PENROSE was the uncle of Mary and Winnie, their mother’s only brother. Mrs. Seton had come from Liverpool originally, and though herself very “nice,” had not been, according to Aunt Agatha’s opinion, “of a nice class.” And her brother shared the evil conditions, without sharing the good. He was of his class, soul and body, and it was not a nice class—and, to tell the truth, his nieces had been brought up to ignore rather than to take any pleasure in him. He was not a man out of whom, under the best circumstances, much satisfaction could be got. He was one of the men who always turn up when something about money is going on in the house. He had had to do with all the wills and settlements in the family, though they were of a very limited description; but Mr. Penrose did not despise small things, and was of opinion, that even if you had only a hundred pounds; you ought to know all about it, and how to take care of it. And he had once been very kind to Aunt Agatha, who was always defective1 in her arithmetic, and who, in earlier days, while she still thought of a possible change in her condition, had gone beyond the just limit of her income, and got into difficulties. Mr. Penrose had interfered2 at that period, and had been very kind, and set her straight, and had given her a very telling address upon the value of money; and though Miss Seton was not one of the people who take a favour as an injury, still she could have forgiven him a great many ill turns sooner than that good one. He had been very kind to her, and had ruffled3 all her soft plumes4, and rushed up against her at all her tender points; and the very sound of his name was a lively irritant to Aunt Agatha. But he had to be acquainted with Winnie’s engagement, and when he received the information, he lost no time in coming to see about it. He was a large, portly, well-to-do man, with one of his hands always in his pocket, and seemed somehow to breathe money, and to have no ideas which did not centre in it; and yet he had a good many ideas, and was a clever man in his way. With him, as with many people in the world, there was one thing needful, and that one thing was money. He thought it was a duty to possess something—a duty which a man owed absolutely to himself, and to all who belonged to him—and if he did not acquit5 himself well on this point, he was, in Mr. Penrose’s opinion, a very indifferent sort of person. There is something immoral6 to most people in the fact of being poor, but to Mr. Penrose it was a crime. He was very well off himself, but he was not a man to communicate of his goods as he did of his advice; and then he had himself a family, and could not be expected to give anything except advice to his nieces—and as for that one good thing, it was at their command in the most liberal way. He came to the Cottage, which was so especially a lady’s house, and pervaded7 the whole place with his large male person, diffusing8 through it that moral fragrance9 which still betrays the Englishman, the man of business, the Liverpool man, wherever he may happen to bless the earth. Perhaps in that sweet-smelling dainty place, the perfume which breathed from Mr. Penrose told more decidedly than in the common air. As soon as you went in at the garden-gate you became sensible that the atmosphere was changed, and that a Man was there. Perhaps it may be thought that the presence of a man in Aunt Agatha’s maiden11 bower12 was not what might be called strictly13 proper, and Miss Seton herself had doubts on the subject; but then, Mr. Penrose never asked for any invitation, and it would have been very difficult to turn him out; and Mary was there, who at least was a married lady. He came without any invitation, and asked which was his room as if it had been his own house—and he complained of what he called “the smell” of the roses, and declared he would tear down all the sickly jasmine from the side of the house if it belonged to him. All this Miss Seton endured silently, feeling it her duty, for Winnie’s sake, to keep all her connexions in good humour; but the poor lady suffered terribly under the process, as everybody could see.
“I hope it is only a conditional14 sort of engagement,” Mr. Penrose said, after he had made himself comfortable, and had had a good dinner, and came into the drawing-room the first evening. The lovers had seized the opportunity to escape to Kirtell-side, and Mary was with her boys in the garden, and poor Aunt Agatha, a martyr15 of civility, was seated alone, awaiting the reappearance of her guest, and smiling upon him with anxious politeness. He threw himself into the largest and most solid chair he could find, and spread himself, as it seemed, all over the room—a Man, coarse and undisguised, in that soft feminine paradise. Poor Sir Edward’s graceful16 presence, and the elegant figure of Captain Percival, made no such impression. “I hope you have not settled it all without consulting anybody. To be sure, that don’t matter very much; but I know you ladies have a summary way of settling such affairs.”
“Indeed, I—I am afraid—I—I hope—it is all settled,” said Aunt Agatha, with tremulous dignity. “It is not as if there was a great deal of money to settle. They are not—not rich, you know,” she added, nervously17. This was the chief thing to tell, and she was anxious to get it over at once.
“Not rich?” said Mr. Penrose. “No, I suppose not. A rich fellow would not have been such a fool as to entangle18 himself with Winnie, who has only her pretty face; but he has something, of course. The first thing to ascertain19 is, what they will have to live on, and what he can settle upon her. I suppose you have not let it go so far without having a kind of idea on these points?”
“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Agatha, with a very poor pretence20 at composure; “oh, yes, Mr. Penrose, that is all quite right. He has very nice expectations. I have always heard that Mrs. Percival had a charming little property; and Sir Edward is his godfather, and very fond of him. You will see it will come all right about that.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Penrose, who was nursing one of his legs—a colossal21 member, nearly as big as his hostess—in a meditative22 way, “I hope it will when I come to look into it. But we must have something more than expectations. What has he of his own?—and what do his mother and Sir Edward mean to do for him? We must have it in pounds, shillings, and pence, or he shan’t have Winnie. It is best that he should make up his mind about that.”
Aunt Agatha drew a frightened, panting breath; but she did not say anything. She had known what she would have to brave, and she was aware that Winnie would not brave it, and that to prevent a breach23 with her darling’s only rich relation, it was necessary and expedient24 as long as she was alone to have it all out.
“Let me see,” said Mr. Penrose, “you told me what he was in your letter—Captain, ain’t he? As for his pay, that don’t count. Let us go systematically25 to work if we are to do any good. I know ladies are very vague about business matters, but still you must know something. What sort of a fellow is he, and what has he got of his own?”
“Oh, he is very nice,” cried Aunt Agatha, consoled to find a question she could answer; “very, very nice. I do think you will like him very much; such a fine young fellow, and with what you gentlemen call no nonsense about him,” said the anxious woman; “and with excellent connexions,” she added, faltering26 again, for her enthusiasm awoke no answer in Mr. Penrose’s face.
“My dear Miss Agatha,” he said in his offensive way—and he always called her Miss Agatha, which was very trying to her feelings—“you need not take the trouble to assure me that a handsome young fellow who pays her a little attention, is always very nice to a lady. I was not asking whether he was nice; I was asking what were his means—which is a very much more important part of the subject, though you may not think so,” Mr. Penrose added. “A charming little house like this, for instance, where you can have everything within yourself, and can live on honey and dew I suppose, may be kept on nothing—though you and I, to be sure, know a little different——”
“Mr. Penrose,” said Aunt Agatha, trembling with indignation, “if you mean that the dinner was not particular enough——”
“It was a charming little dinner,” said Mr. Penrose, “just what it ought to have been. Nothing could have been nicer than that white soup; and I think I am a judge. I was speaking of something to live on; a pretty house like this, I was saying, is not an analogous27 case. You have everything within yourself—eggs, and vegetables, and fruit, and your butter and milk so cheap. I wish we could get it like that in Liverpool; and—pardon me—no increase of family likely, you know.”
“My niece Mary and her three children have come to the Cottage since you were last here, Mr. Penrose,” said Aunt Agatha, with a blush of shame and displeasure. “It was the only house of all her relations that she could come to with any comfort, poor dear—perhaps you don’t call that an increase of family; and as for the milk and butter——”
“She must pay you board,” said Mr. Penrose, decisively; “there can be no question about that; your little money has not always been enough for yourself, as we both know. But all this is merely an illustration I was giving. It has nothing to do with the main subject. If these young people marry, my dear Miss Agatha, their family may be increased by inmates28 who will pay no board.”
This was what he had the assurance to say to an unmarried lady in her own house—and to laugh and chuckle29 at it afterwards, as if he thought it a capital joke. Aunt Agatha was struck dumb with horror and indignation. Such eventualities might indeed, perhaps must, be discussed by the lawyers where there are settlements to make; but to talk of them to a maiden lady when alone, was enough to make her drop through the very floor with consternation30. She made no attempt to answer, but she did succeed in keeping her seat, and to a certain extent her self-possession, for Winnie’s sake.
“It is a different sort of thing altogether,” said the family adviser31. “Things may be kept square in a quiet lady’s house—though even that is not always the case, as we are both aware; but two young married people, who are just as likely as not to be extravagant32 and all that—— If he has not something to settle on her, I don’t see how I can have anything to do with it,” Mr. Penrose continued; “and you will not answer me as to what he has of his own.”
“He has his—his pay,” said poor Aunt Agatha. “I am told it is a great deal better than it used to be; and he has, I think, some—some money in the Funds. I am sure he will be glad to settle that on Winnie; and then his mother, and Sir Edward. I have no doubt myself, though really they are too young to marry, that they will do very well on the whole.”
“Do you know what living means, Miss Agatha?” asked Mr. Penrose, solemnly, “when you can speak in this loose way? Butchers’ bills are not so vague as your statements, I can tell you; and a pretty girl like that ought to do very well, even though she has no money. It is not her fault, poor thing,” the rich uncle added, with momentary33 compassion34; and then............