WHAT AUNT SARAH LEFT FOR DOLLY.
...One that was a woman, sir;
But, rest her soul--she's dead!
--Shakspeare.
For an hour Frank kept watch alone in the empty rooms below. The doctor
had come and gone. He said, as they knew he would, that all was over,
there was nothing more to be done for Sarah Francis.
Frank had been for the doctor. He had sent a telegram to Mrs. Palmer;
then he came back and waited below in the twilight room, out of which
the mistress was gone for ever.
When death enters a house there is a moment's silence; then comes the
silent tumult that follows death, everybody scared and bustling to the
door, acquaintances leave their own names on bits of pasteboard, friends
write notes, relations encamp in the dining-room, the pale faces of the
living come and look at the place out of which a life has passed away.
Servants come and go, busy with the fussy paraphernalia. It means
kindness and honour to the dead, but it seems all contrived to make
sorrow grotesque and horrible instead of only sorrowful.
When the rush of strangers and of neighbours came, it pushed in between
Frank and the solemn silence up above. 'How had he come there?' they
asked him. 'What had the doctor said?' 'How old was Lady Sarah?' 'Was it
known how things were left?' Then Frank heard Mrs. Morgan sending out
for black-edged paper in a whisper, and he started up and left them, for
it all jarred upon him and he could bear it no longer.
He went up and stood for a minute at the door of the room where he had
left Dolly in her first burst of grief. At the moment the door opened
softly, and Marker came out. Frank turned away, but in that instant he
saw it all again. The light had passed away, but some stars were shining
through a mist, and Dolly was kneeling in the silver shadow, with a pale
upturned face.
There was no sound. As Frank walked away he thought of two peaceful
faces in that upper chamber. Death might be in that room, but sorrow
waited abashed for a time in the presence of the Peace of Peace.
Alas! though Dolly's friend was faithful and strong, and would gladly
have saved her from all sorrow and wiped all tears from her eyes, it was
in vain he wished her good wishes; poor Dolly's cup that day was filled
to the very brim with a draught more bitter than she knew of as she
knelt in that silent room.
The sun had set upon a day long to be remembered, when a great victory
was won. Since mid-day the guns had been thundering along the heights,
the waters of the Alma were crimson in the sunset. The long day was over
now, the heights were won, the dreadful guns were silent; but all that
night men were awake and at work upon the battle-field, sailors from the
fleet and others bringing help to the wounded, carrying them to the
shore, and burying the dead.
* * * * *
They laid Lady Sarah in her grave one quiet autumn day, and came away
silently. The blinds were drawn up when they got back to Church House,
all the windows were open, the people who had not loved her came and
went freely now; it struck Dolly strangely to hear Mrs. Palmer calling
Julie over the stairs. There was a little water-colour of Lady Sarah in
her youth, with a dislocated arm and a harp, that George and Dolly had
often laughed over together. Now, as she took it down from the niche by
the window in the oak room, a sudden burst of longing tears came raining
over her hands and the glass, dimming the simpering lady in
water-colours. Dolly felt at that minute how much she would have given
to have had a fuller explanation with her aunt. A complete clearing up
between them had never come in words, and yet the look of Lady Sarah's
tender eyes following her about the room, the clasp of that silent hand
seemed to say, 'I understand, I trust you,' more plainly than words. 'I
have done as you wished,' she had said. Was George forgiven too?
And now at least there were no more hidden things between them, and all
was peace in that troubled life. It seemed hard to Dolly at this parting
time to be separated from the two she most loved--from Robert and from
George--who would have shared her grief. Her long watch had told upon
her strength and spirits; every sound made her start, and seemed the
harbinger of bad news. She had a longing fancy, of which John Morgan
told Frank one day: she wanted to go off to the East, to be allowed to
nurse her brother on the spot, and she would learn as others had done if
need be. John Morgan spoke of a friend, Mrs. Fane, who had a home for
training nurses; would he not take her there one day? John Morgan agreed
to take Dolly to Mrs. Fane's if she wished it. He was glad to do
anything she told him, but as for her scheme, they were all opposed to
it. She was not strong enough to bear much fatigue. And so, as the
kindest people do, they condemned her to ease, to rest of body, to
wearing trouble of mind.
'We should have her laid up, sir, if we let her go,' said John Morgan;
'and she is a good girl, and has promised to wait patiently until she
hears from George. Robert, I am sure, would greatly disapprove of such a
plan.'
'I have been thinking of going to the East myself,' said Frank, who had
made up his mind for about two seconds. 'Some men I know are taking out
stores in a yacht, and want me to join them. If you see Miss
Vanborough--I never see her--will you tell her I am going, and will find
out her brother...?'
'You had better tell her yourself,' said John Morgan. 'I am sure she
would like to know it from you.' Frank only shook his head.
Frank Raban used to come to Church House every day; he saw Sir Thomas,
who had come up; he saw Mrs. Palmer, but, except once, he never saw
Dolly. Sometimes he could hear her step turn at the door, once he saw
her black dress as she walked away. One day, having gone upstairs,
summoned by Mrs. Palmer, he looked through a window and caught sight of
Dolly in the distance, sitting wrapped in a shawl, on the bench at the
garden-end, alone, by the pond where she and George used to go together.
She knew Raban was in the house. She waited there until he was gone.
What strange feeling was it that made her avoid Frank Raban of all the
people that came to the house? Was she not generous enough to forget
what had passed that day by the fountain?
'You are quite cold, my dear child,' said her mother, when Dolly came in
pale and shivering. 'Why did you not come in before?'
She had asked herself that very question that day. It was one she could
not answer. It was no want of trust in him, no want of gratitude for his
kindness, that made her unkind. This much she told herself. She acted by
an instinct, and she was right to follow it. She belonged to Robert. She
had deliberately given him her word, her love, her trust. It was not a
half fidelity, a half love that she had promised, and she would be true
to her word and to herself. Only it seemed to be her fate, and to come
round again and again in her life, short as it was, that what she loved
should be at variance with what she felt; that, loving truth, and
longing for one simple and uncomplicated response and sympathy, she
found herself hesitating, fearing to look forward, living from day to
day with a secret consciousness of something that she would not face.
This was the saddest time of Dolly's life. Brighter days were to come;
hours that she had not yet dreamt of were in store for her; but the
present was cold and drear: and though chill winds of spring help to
ripen a heart for happiness in later life as well as the warm summer
rays, Dolly could not know this yet.
One thing remained to be done. It interested no one less than those
principally concerned. Lady Sarah's will was to be read; and Frank
received a note from Mr. Tapeall, inviting him to come to Church House
at a certain time. To-day, thanks to the lawyer's letter, he met Dolly
at last. She was coming downstairs as he was crossing the hall. Her
black dress made her look older, more stately. She seemed to him to
change every time he met her now; and yet when she spoke she was herself
again. She smiled a little, gave him her hand. She seemed inclined to
say something, but she stopped short, and walked on into the
drawing-room, where the others were already waiting. The Morgans were
there, and Rhoda, all sitting silently round the room.
It was a dull and dismal afternoon: the rain splashed, the sky came down
in gray, vaporous glooms; the red tape was the most cheerful thing in
the room. Mr. Tapeall sat untying his parcels at the table; Sir Thomas,
with a silver pencil-case and crossed legs, was prepared to listen
attentively, and make notes, if necessary. Mr. Tapeall looked round. 'We
are all here,' he said, drawing in his chair. 'It is unfortunate that
Admiral Palmer should not have been able to arrive in time.'
As Mr. Tapeall looked round, Mrs. Palmer replied, with a languid shrug,
'We are used to do without him, Mr. Tapeall. I had proposed that he
should meet me at Paris, but of course he makes his usual difficulties.
What a climate!' she said. 'Just look at the atmosphere! And yet the
Admiral wishes to keep us in this dreadful country!'
'Dear Philippa, this is not the moment. If you will kindly listen to our
excellent--to Mr. Tapeall,' Sir Thomas began, in his oratorical voice.
Mrs. Palmer put on the resigned air, and murmured something about the
climate, with an expressive glance at the window; Dolly sat listening,
looking down, and quite silent; Frank thought of the first time he had
seen her sitting by the fire. Mr. Tapeall began. 'Lady Sarah had
intended to execute a more formal document, which I have had prepared
from the memorandum in my possession,' said he, 'of which I will, with
your permission, at once proceed to read the contents.'
And so in the silence, by Mr. Tapeall's voice, Sarah Francis spoke for
the last time in a strange jargon that in her life time she had never
used. Her house at Kensington, in the county of Middlesex; her house in
Yorkshire, in the parish of Pebblesthwaite; all other her messuages,
tenements; all her personal property, monies invested in Government or
landed securities, her foreign bonds, &c. &c., she left to her nephew,
George Francis Vanborough, of All Saints' College, Cambridge. If he
should die without issue or a will, it was to revert to Dorothea Jane
Vanborough, of Church House, in the parish of Kensington, to whom she
left her blessing, and, at the said Dorothea's own wish, nothing but the
picture in the dining-room, as a token of affection, confidence, and
most loving remembrance, and her trinkets. There were also
legacies:--250_l._ to the Rev. John Morgan, 275_l._ to Frank Raban,
Esq.; and, to Philippa's utter amazement and surprise, the sum of
5,000_l._ to Philippa, the wife of Admiral Hawtry Palmer, which was to
revert to Dolly at her mother's death. There were legacies to Marker and
old Sam. Mr. Tapeall and Frank Raban were appointed trustees and
executors.
'But the will is not signed,' said Sir Thomas, making a note.
'The memorandum is signed and attested,' said Mr. Tapeall. 'Lady Sarah
had proposed making me sole trustee, but to that I objected; she then
suggested Mr. Raban.'
'I _quite_ understand,' said Dolly, starting up and looking suddenly
bright and beaming. 'I am so glad,' she said, and her eyes filled with
tears.
'My dear child, we deeply feel for you,' said Mrs. Morgan, stepping
forward with a heavy foot.
Raban too glanced rather anxiously; but he was reassured: there was no
mistaking the look of relief and content in the girl's face. It was as
if her aunt had spoken; a sign to Dolly that she had forgiven the past;
and George must come home now, he must be happy now; all was as she
wished, his long disgrace was over; she clasped her two hands together.
Mr. Tapeall continued--'The whole thing has been complicated by previous
trusts and claims, making it desirable that the estate should be
administered by a business man. This was Lady Sarah's reason for making
me trustee,' said Mr. Tapeall. 'For the present my co-trustee's presence
will not be necessary,' and he politely bowed to Frank Raban.
'Thomas, did you hear? 5,000_l._!' cried Mrs. Palmer. 'The poor dear
extraordinary old thing must have lost her head. Why, we _detested_ each
other. However, it is quite right; yes, it would have been a thousand
pities to dwell upon trifles. As for my poor Dolly, I must say I do not
at all see why George is to have all those things and Dolly nothing at
all. Dolly, what _will_ Robert say, poor fellow? _How_ disappointing.
Come here, dearest, and let me give you a kiss.'
Dolly smiled as she bent over her mother. 'I did not want it, mamma; you
will let me live with you.' And then, as she raised her head, her eyes
met Raban's anxious glance with a frank smiling answer.
Rhoda sat perfectly bewildered and amazed. Was George heir after all?
Was this a part that Dolly was acting? Everything to George. Rhoda began
to think vaguely that there was George's chair, his carpet, his four
walls, and there might have been her carpet, her chair. It might have
been hers. Her head seemed going round; she was in a rage with herself,
with her Aunt Morgan, with everybody. As for Dolly, she did not know
about poverty. How admiringly Mr. Raban had looked at her. How strangely
Dolly was behaving. After all, thought Rhoda enviously, hearing Mrs.
Palmer chatter on to Mr. Tapeall, Dolly would be cared for.
'Certainly, winter abroad,' Mrs. Palmer was saying. 'I require change
and rest and a warmer clime; Mr. Raban. You must bring George back to us
at Paris. So you really go to-morrow! What a curious sum she has left
you; really the poor dear seems peculiar to the last. How much did you
say, Mr. Tapeall--5,000_l._--is it only 200_l._ a year?'
'Mr. Vanborough should be communicated with at once,' said Mr. Tapeall.
'I presume he has left no instructions?'
Mrs. Palmer here began shaking her head emphatically. 'He had nothing to
leave,' she cried. 'Nonsense, Dolly: that paper you have is nothing at
all. Yes, Mr. Raban, we must meet at Paris,' she continued, changing the
subject, 'when you come back, as you say, to see to poor Sarah's
affairs. It is, however, quite enough that I should be attached to any
one or any thing----'
'Philippa,' said Sir Thomas, coming up with a note he had just made,
'Tapeall wishes to know something more about this paper of George's. Do
you know anything of it?'
'Oh! you may tell Tapeall to burn it,' said Mrs. Palmer, indifferently.
'It is nothing.'
'I think it is a will, mamma,' said Dolly, steadily. 'I will give it to
Mr. Tapeall, and he can judge.' And she left the room to fetch the
paper.
'You know nothing of business, my dear Philippa,' said the baronet, with
a grim smile. 'Tapeall must not burn wills that are sent to him to
keep.'
'Shall I ask him to give it back to me?' said Mrs. Palmer, rapidly, in a
low voice. 'It is only some whim of the boy's. He could not know of poor
Sarah's extraordinary arrangements, putting everything out. How childish
of Dolly to have spoken of the paper to Tapeall. Pray don't make so much
noise with your fingers,' for the baronet, who had many restless little
tricks, was drubbing the table energetically.
Frank came up to take leave, and no more was said at the time. He was to
be away for two months, and meanwhile Mr. Tapeall had promised to act
for him.
Mrs. Palmer was very much annoyed with Dolly. She treated her with great
coldness, and, to show her displeasure, invited Rhoda to come out with
her for a drive every day. As they went along she used to ask Rhoda a
great many inconsistent questions, which Rhoda could not in the least
understand. Rhoda wondered what she meant.
One day they drove to Gray's Inn. Mrs. Palmer said she liked to explore
odd nooks. Then she had a chance idea, and stopped the carriage at Mr.
Tapeall's office, and went up to see him. She came down smiling,
flushed, and yet almost affectionate in her manner to the grim,
bald-headed lawyer, who followed her to the door.
'Do as you like, dear Mr. Tapeall. As a mother, I should have treasured
the memorandum. Of course, your scruples do you the greatest credit.
Good-morning.'
'A complete fool, my dear,' said she, with a sudden change of manner to
Rhoda, as the carriage drove off; 'and as for your friend Dolly, she has
not common sense.'
'Would he not do what you wanted?' said Rhoda, wonderingly. 'What a
stupid, tiresome man. But oh, Mrs. Palmer, I'm afraid he heard what you
said.'
'I do not care if he did. He would do nothing but bob his vulgar bald
head,' cried Mrs. Palmer, more and more irate. 'Coachman, drive to Hyde
Park Gardens; coachman, go to Marshall and Snellgrove's. I suppose,
Rhoda, you would not know your way home from here on foot?' said Mrs.
Palmer, very crossly. 'Of course I must take you back, but it is quite
out of the way. What is that they are crying in the street? It ought to
be forbidden. Those wretched creatures make one quite nervous.'
As Rhoda waited at the shop door, she heard them still crying the news;
but two people passing by said, 'It is nothing. There is no news;' and
she paid no more heed to the voices. But this time there was truth in
the lying voices. News had come, and the terrible details of the battle
were all in the paper next day.
Sir Thomas came to the house early, before any one was up, and carried
off the papers, desiring the servants to let no one in until his return.
He came back in a couple of hours, looking fagged and wearied. He heard
with dismay that Dolly had gone out. Mrs. Palmer was still in her room.
Terrible news had come, and words failed him to tell it.