WE INHERIT A FORTUNE
I have done with sadness forever.
Who could be sad on an afternoon such as this? Is the witchery of
spring with us once more? we ask; for it has rained for a week, and now
every faded green thing--leaf and grass and hedges--are chortling with
pride over their fresh, bright raiment. They are as maidens of fifteen
mincing in their new frocks.
The roses are holding up their heads and inviting you to bury your face
in the heart of their sweetness where some raindrops still remain. You
gladly do as you are bidden, and Amelia, who has brought them to you,
thinks you are an eccentric creature to go sighing and sniffing and
kissing their wet petals in such sentimental fashion.
"The sweetest flower that blows," you sing, and she says they are
nothing of the kind, that "vi'lets take the cake."
"The master will be home at half-past four," you tell her, and she says
you have mentioned this fact at least half a dozen times.
"Only twice, Amelia," I say. "You should learn to speak the truth."
And she steps deliberately on to the tortoise, which lies on the grass,
in order to teach me that I may allow it to stray once too often. I
tell her I am sorry, and she suggests that I should tie it round my
neck suspended from a ribbon, and people might take it for an enlarged
miniature of one of my relations.
I ignore her remark, and watch a thrush who is having a succulent feast
of worms after the rain. I wonder at the worms being so easily
deceived as to imagine that the stamping of the thrush's small feet is
an earthquake, bringing them out of their burrows with a run.
"Miniatures are fashionable," she continues.
I am still engrossed in the thrush.
"That one of you in the drawing-room is not bad, but a bit flattering."
"Miniature of me?" I say lazily, refusing to be interested in Amelia's
conversation. "I have never had a miniature painted in my life. The
one to which you are referring is the master's great-aunt, painted when
she was a girl."
She walks on high, sloping heels to the house with her head well up.
In about two minutes she returns with ill-concealed triumph written on
her face, and places a portrait of myself on my knees. In surprise I
pick it up and examine it closely. Yes, it is I, and--my heart
contracts painfully as I look at it. Have I that expression in my
eyes--now? Surely not. I put it down hastily, as Amelia is watching
me.
"Don't you like it, mum? I shouldn't be disappointed if it was my
portrait. Not but what I thinks it flatters you. The master was
starin' at it for half an hour this morning--never touched his
breakfast, and it was a fried sole, too."
I picked up a book. "It's not bad," I say carelessly. "Will you go to
the village, Amelia, and bring me some bull's-eyes--hot, pepperminty
ones. The master is very fond of bull's-eyes, and so am I." I evaded
her glance and searched for my purse.
"It's in your pocket, mum. I stitched one in last night after you had
gone to bed. Second seam, right-hand side. The house was being that
neglected while I was lookin' for things--purses and tortises--that I
took the liberty, mum."
Now I own to feeling excessively annoyed with Amelia. I had
particularly requested her not to stitch a pocket on to me--anywhere,
and she had disobeyed me. I had wondered what the hard, knobly thing I
was lying upon could be. It was my own purse. I should not search the
second right-hand seam. Amelia must be shown that she could not
disobey my commands with impunity.
I read my book carefully, and turned its pages assiduously.
"I am waiting for the money, mum." This in an injured voice.
"There is some in the jewel drawer in my dressing-table," I said
distantly. "And bring me my _crêpe de chine_ gown, and kindly remove
the pocket from this one to-night."
Amelia's prolonged stare almost broke down my gravity.
"Why, you're holding your book upside down!"
"And what if I am?" I retorted. "If I choose to read a book upside
down that is no concern of yours. Kindly go."
I smiled as she walked slowly to the house. She was a very good girl,
but must be kept in her place.
She was back in a minute.
"Here's your money, mum, and did you mean your grand new lavender gown
which your moth--I mean Mrs. Macintosh--sent you?"
"That is what I meant," I said.
"But it's like a bit of spider's web." She held it at arm's-length.
"It's that delikit and lovely, you'll crush it to pieces."
"That is your fault," I said quietly. "You have debarred me from
wearing the other till the pocket is removed. Now help me, please."
With dexterous hands she got me out of one gown and into the other, but
I was tired and spent when she had finished.
"You look like a pichir with your gold hair, mum, though it's not so
bright as it was. Lavender wouldn't suit me, now, scarlet's my colour,
but----" she broke off with a cry.
"Whatever's the matter now?" I asked.
"There's a pocket in _this_ one, mum," she gasped, pointing to a gaping
seam.
I looked and said nothing.
"Dressmakers is but human, mum. 'Ow was they to know that you had a
prejudice against----"
"Amelia, _will_ you hush," I almost shouted. "I am so tired of your
talking so much. Go and buy the bull's-eyes."
"Will you have this gown off first?" she asked placidly.
"No, I won't. I am not a load of hay to be pitched about from pillar
to post. And my gowns are not legion."
"There's the white serge, and the black heolian, and----"
"Amelia," I said, "if you don't go away I shall ring the tortoise for
help--help from a stranger passing down the lane. I am a pestered,
servant-driven creature, and I require as much help as a drowning man."
And she went without another word to me, but muttering softly to
herself, of which I caught a word or two: "Moidered with the heat!
Poor thing, I have known as sunstroke----" &c., &c. She disappeared
round the broom bush, and I laughed more than I have done for many days.
* * * * *
Dimbie brought great news with him. He flung himself down upon the
grass, tilted back his hat, wiped his brow, and said--
"I have retired from business, Marg."
"Well, that doesn't make sitting upon the damp grass an act to be
commended," I said severely.
An amused giggle came from behind me. It was Amelia crossing the lawn
with a lettuce in her hand.
"I thought you were getting tea."
"So I am, mum. This here lettuce is for it, and I just catched what
the master said, 'Retired from business!'" She put her hands to her
hips. "I'm thinkin' there'll be a power more work to do now two for
lunch and two for tea hevery day. And the master, beggin' his pardon,
will be makin' more mess with his tobacco ash than ever. It lies about
the carpets like bone manure on a flower-bed."
She continued her walk to the house, brandishing the lettuce and
squeaking with emotion, without giving us time to reply.
"Amelia is like a jack-in-the-box. She seems to spring from nowhere,"
said Dimbie depressedly.
"Well, never mind. Go on with what you were saying, and get up from
the grass, it's very damp, and you are sitting on a multitude of
worm-hills."
"Give me the end of the couch, then. Tuck up your toes. Did you hear
what I said? I have retired from business. I have done with the Stock
Exchange forever, Marg."
"This then, I suppose, will be our last meal. We have no private
means."
"I will feed you on oysters and champagne!"
"Bread-fruit and yams, more likely, on a desert island, where you can
obtain food for nothing."
"Marg, I am worth £3,000 a year," he said gravely, and with suppressed
eagerness.
I looked at him anxiously.
"Sunstroke too," I murmured.
"Do you hear? I am worth £3,000 a year. I can give you everything you
want."
He raised his voice excitedly. And of course Amelia, who was bringing
tea, tipped the hot-water jug over, and in endeavouring to catch it
dropped the tray, and then sat down among the ruins and began to weep.
"Don't be a fool!" said Dimbie. "Get up! it doesn't matter."
But Amelia remained rooted to the ground, sobbing her heart out.
"I shan't leave, I _shan't_ go," she wailed at length, looking at me as
though I were contradicting her.
"Of course you won't," I agreed. "It's not the best china. It doesn't
matter the least little bit in the world, Amelia."
"Oh, I don't mean that, mum. I mean that if the master's got £3,000 a
year--I couldn't help hearin'--there'll be no room for Amelia Cockles.
You won't want me. You'll keep cook, kitchenmaid, housemaid,
parlour-maid, butler, boots, and have hentries, hoary-doves,
cheese-straws, low dresses, and dessert every day of the week."
She reeled this off without apparently drawing breath, and I too was
breathless at the contemplation of such a truly awful prospect.
"Never!" I said.
She looked incredulous.
"Never!" I repeated.
She sat up on her heels and began to collect the broken pieces and pick
up the bread and butter.
"And were I ever to indulge--I mean saddle myself with the retinue of
servants you mention--there would always be room for you, Amelia."
"Thank you, mum," she sobbed, while eating a piece of sandy cake in
complete unconsciousness.
"You could be mistress of the robes," said Dimbie cheeringly.
Her sniffs became less frequent.
"You could be lady's maid," I said. "But no pockets, Amelia. You
understand."
She gave a watery smile.
"I could find the tortis and brush your hair all day long, mum."
"Thank you," I said; "and would you let me wear plaits?"
She hesitated, and then, like the boy who stood on the burning deck,
remained faithful to duty.
"People might call."
"And if they did?"
"Plaits is only proper for little girls and in bedrooms--I don't like
them there,--but if the master doesn't mind _I_ don't."
Dimbie broke into roars.
"Go and get some more tea," I commanded, "and make haste."
"She's a good, faithful soul," said Dimbie when she had gone, "and we
won't part with her."
"Part with her!" I repeated in astonishment. "I should think not
indeed. Why, if Amelia were to go I should be lost; and I should not
only lose myself, but the tortoise, my purse--everything I possess.
She is my guide, my comforter, my solace in my lonely hours, and tells
me entrancing stories about the Tompkinses. I could not do without
Amelia."
"And yet I don't know how she would agree with other servants."
"Dimbie, dear," I said petulantly, "don't joke any longer. I don't
feel like joking and Amelia dropping trays; they upset my silly nerves."
"I am not joking," he returned slowly. "Aunt Letitia has left me all
her money. She has lived simply, almost niggardly, the last few years,
poor old lady. The money has been accumulating at compound interest,
and we shall have an income of £3,000 a year and a house in Yorkshire.
What do you think of that, Marguerite?"
He put an arm around me and laughed like a happy schoolboy.
"We shall be able to buy you everything you want. We will take a house
by the sea, in the mountains, in the heart of one of your dearly-loved
pine woods--wherever you wish it, my princess. You've only to hold up
your little finger and your desire shall be gratified. We'll bring the
roses back to your pale cheeks in a more bracing climate. You might
even--get well--nearly well. This garden is too small and hot. Now
isn't it?"
"I love it better than any other spot in the world," I said earnestly.
He looked at me with disappointment chasing across his face.
Quickly I said, "Dimbie, dear, I am delighted at your good luck. It
will be too beautiful to have plenty of money. I can hardly believe it
yet. It seems too good to be true. And I think you deserve every
little bit of it. You have been to Aunt Letitia more than a son.
But--you won't take me away from here just yet. I--I don't want to go."
"You don't want to go to a jolly big house with nice grounds and smooth
lawns?"
"What lawn could be smoother than ours? It is like velvet."
He smiled.
"But it's only the size of a----"
"It's big enough to hold the apple tree and me," I interrupted.
"You shall have grand chestnuts, wind-torn oaks, and sit under a
weeping willow in our new garden."
"I want to sit under my own apple tree," I said querulously.
He surveyed it disdainfully.
"It is so beautifully gnarled and old." I disregarded the look. "And
you see it has seven apples on it, and I believe they are going to be
red."
"We shall be able to use them for cider, perhaps." His voice was
mocking.
"And I don't want to leave the ants; they're so interesting."
"I suppose no other garden contains ants?"
"And look at the roses! Have you ever seen trees bloom more freely?"
"Roses--in England--are, of course, extremely rare."
"Dimbie," I said, "if you mock me again I shall----"
"Kiss me, sweetheart," and he held his face to mine.
"I shall not kiss you until you promise faithfully you will not
transplant me to another garden. I--I don't want to go yet awhile,
Dimbie."
"But what shall we do with our money? There is nothing to spend it on
here," he argued.
"Oh, I could soon run through it, given the opportunity. I should
first of all buy new shoes for Amelia--lovely, respectable, black, kid
shoes, with neat bows and low heels."
"Would they cost seven and sixpence?" he asked ironically.
"Quite," I returned gravely.
He walked up and down the lawn impatiently.
"But tell me why," he said after a time, standing still in front of me,
"why, Marguerite, my poor white daisy, you are so anxious to remain
here?"
"Because----" I paused. Ah, no, I must not tell him _yet_; it is not
time. Besides, after all, it may only be my foolish fancy. "Because,"
I continued, "to take me away from the garden that I love, from our
pretty cottage, would be to tear out my heart-strings. Perhaps you
will think it sentiment, Dimbie, but I want to finish our year
here--our wonderful year. Into the branches and green lace-work of the
trees, into the dewy grass, into the sweet-peas and roses, into the
beech--which is always so kind and friendly--into the frog-pond, and,
above all, into our much-loved apple tree, are woven a thousand
beautiful associations and memories. The memories, you will say, will
remain with us, be with us wherever we go; but they are not yet
complete. This is only August. We have four months left to finish our
year. Into those four months may be crowded much happiness, much
simple, quiet joy, and the storehouse of our 'looking back' will be
full to the brim and running over. Let us finish our year here--you
and I and Amelia--and then----"
I turned away to hide my face.
"And then----?"
"Why then," I said softly, "I will do whatever is required of me."
He sat down beside me.
"Your will will always be mine, Marguerite."
[Illustration: YOUR WILL WILL ALWAYS BE MINE, MARGUERITE.]
I shook my head.
"You and everybody will turn me into the most selfish creature that
ever breathed if I let you have your way."
"And why not? There is not very much left to you now." His voice was
a little bitter, and a shadow crept across his face.
"Hush!" I said. "I have nearly everything a girl could possibly
want--husband, home, friends, and now riches. Why," I continued,
trying to divert his thoughts, "why didn't you tell me your most
important news on the day you returned home? Didn't you know?"
"Yes, I knew. The will was read after the funeral. I was going to
tell you. I kept it as a _bonne-bouche_ till the night fell, and then
there was your news----"
He broke off and did not finish.
"Afterwards," he said a little later, "I waited till my right to the
money was confirmed. My mother was inclined to dispute it. She was
Aunt Letitia's only sister, and considered she had the first claim,
though she had not been to see her for years. Yorkshire was too dull
for her after the gaieties of London. Still, she seemed to think the
money was hers by right." He slowly dissected a sweet-pea. "I hope
never again to see such a look on any woman's face as was on my
mother's when the will was being read. It was very ugly and--sad.
Poor mother, she has missed the best things of life." He sighed
deeply. Amelia's voice singing "I wouldn't leave my little wooden hut"
came through the pantry window.
"She too is evidently of the same opinion as I," I said, smiling. "She
doesn't want to leave."
"You are in collusion, that is quite clear. Two women are too much for
any one man, especially when one of the women is an Amelia. We will
stay here and see the old year out, Marg. Your wishes are but
commands. What is your desire now, my princess--to be wheeled nearer
the sweet-peas?" He stroked my cheek lovingly.
"Was there ever a husband like mine?" I asked myself. And aloud, "Go
and tell Amelia to sing less loudly, and inquire of her the size in
shoes she takes."