Bettina had been left to the lonely idleness of her own reflections
but a few days when the monotony of her life was broken by one of
those sudden events which, by the vastness of their consequences,
seem not only to change the face of nature for us, and the aspect of
all the world without, but also to change ourselves, in our spirits
and minds, so that we can never be the same creatures that we were
before. She received a telegram announcing that Lord Hurdly had been
killed in the hunting-field.
Poor Bettina, with all her faults and limitations, had something of
her mother's noble nature in her, and this element of her somewhat
complicated individuality had been the part of her which had expanded
most of late. Her first feelings, therefore, were unmingled pity and
regret. She did not think of herself and of how all things would be
changed for her. Her whole thought was of him who so long had existed
in her mind as the image of pride and indomitable self-will, but who
had now become, in one moment, the object of her deepest pity. She
had scarcely ever thought of death in connection with him. He had
seemed as sound as steel. She had never heard him speak of the least
symptom of illness, and now the paper in her hand informed her that
he was dead.
How thankful she was that she had not spoken to him angrily in their
last talk! How she wished that she had said just one kind word to him
at parting! True, he had given her no opportunity; but if she had
known--
Suddenly she burst into violent weeping, and in this condition they
found her, with the telegram on the floor at her feet.
"Who would have thought my lady would have taken it so hard?" said
Mrs. Parlett, when the exciting news was heard down-stairs. "They was
that 'aughty to one another before people! But it's them as feels the
most, sometimes."
This remark was addressed to Nora, in the hope of eliciting a
response, but Nora excelled in the art of holding her tongue.
It was she alone who was admitted to her mistress's apartments, where
Bettina remained, in deep agitation, while the preparations for the
arrival of Lord Hurdly's body were being made. After her profound
emotion of pity for him, her next thought had been of Horace. He was
the heir and nearest of kin. It flashed upon her, with the suddenness
of surprise, that he was Lord Hurdly now.
How strange, how absolutely bewildering, this new state of things
seemed! Her mind seemed unable to grasp the strangeness of these new
conditions.
Bettina saw no one but the rector of the parish. All that had to be
done was so plain and simple, and there were so many capable hands to
do it, that there was little need to consult with her. She begged the
rector to act in her stead in giving all necessary directions. It was
with a deep sense of relief that she reflected on the impossibility
of Horace's arrival in time for the funeral. Perhaps she could get
away somewhere before he came.
Those days when her husband's body lay in the apartment near her, and
the relations and friends assembled to do it an honor which in his
lifetime they were scarcely suffered to express, marked the period of
the real awakening of Bettina's soul. The sense of freedom which her
position now secured to her, the power to do and be what she chose,
was like wings to her spirit, and for the first time in her
experience the woman and the hour were met.
When she had been free before to make her own life, her vision had
been so limited, her aspiration so low, her interest in the
heart-beats of the great humanity of which her little life was so
small a part had been so uncomprehending, that she had cared only for
the narrow issues which concerned herself. But now, in the hour which
saw her free again, she was another woman, and this woman had a
passionate purpose in her heart to make herself avail for the needs
of others.
She resolved that the moment her affairs were settled her new life
should begin. The period of her marriage had opened up before her
vast opportunities, of which she was eager to take advantage. These
would need money for their carrying out, but that she would have
money enough she had never doubted. Of course until the reading of
the will it would not be known what provision had been made for her,
but Lord Hurdly had always been extremely generous as to money, and
she had no misgivings on that score.
At last the funeral was over and the house was rid of guests.
Various cousins and friends had shown their willingness to remain and
bear her company, but Bettina, with the rector's aid, had managed to
get rid of these. She wanted to be alone and to think out some course
of future action, for she was still in a state of absolute
unadjustment to her new situation.
It had turned out that Lord Hurdly had left her an income of one
thousand pounds. Her first realization of the smallness of this
provision for her came from the rector's comment, which was spoken in
a tone as if reluctantly censorious.
"I should not have believed Lord Hurdly capable of such a thing," he
said. "I am sure that all who have cared for his honorable reputation
must regret this as much on his account as on yours."
"Is it so little?" said Bettina, too proud to show disappointment. "A
thousand pounds a year seems a sufficient sum for the support of one
woman."
"For some women, perhaps," was the answer, "but not for the woman who
has once held the position of mistress of Kingdon Hall. I repeat that
I would not have believed it of Lord Hurdly."
Bettina did not hear his last emphatic words, or, at all events,
took no conscious cognizance of them. She was absorbed in the
contemplation of her new condition. How strange it seemed!
It was something more than strange. She had been too long in
possession of the power and importance of being the reigning Lady
Hurdly, so to speak, not to feel a real revolt at the idea of seeing
herself laid on the shelf. It would not necessarily be so bad if she
had had ample means, for she had made a place for herself in the
world. But she was certain, from the air of commiseration with which
not only the rector but others had regarded her, that she would be
extremely curtailed in such opportunities as depended upon money; and
she had sufficient insight into social affairs to know how the
possession of money broadened opportunity, and the absence of it
limited power.
There was no denying to herself the pain that it gave her to
relinquish such a position. She had accommodated herself to greatness
so naturally that it seemed incredible that she was to sink back into
a life of obscurity. Frankly, she did not like it.
And yet, on the other hand, she felt an unfeigned gladness that
Horace was to come to his own. She rejoiced that no child of hers
would ever stand in his way. She had reason to hope that he would use
his great position to great ends, for the residuum of all her turbid
and agitating thoughts about him was an admiration for the man in his
attitude toward the world, no matter how much she still resented his
attitude toward herself. That this last was so, there needed no
stronger proof than her eager resolution to get away from Kingdon
Hall--out of the country, if possible--before the arrival of the man
whose place her husband had once taken, and who, in another sense,
was now to take his.