A whole week had still to pass before the arrival of the _Aurungzebe_.
After such a revolution and catastrophe as had happened, there is always
a feeling in the mind that the stupendous change that is about to ensue
should come at once. But it is very rare indeed that it does so. There
is an inevitable time of waiting, which to some spirits clinging to the
old is a reprieve, but to others an intolerable delay. Katherine was one
of those to whom the delay was intolerable. She would have liked to get
it all over, to deposit the treasure, as it were, at her sister’s feet,
and so to get away, she did not know where, and think of it no more.
She was not herself, as she now assured herself, so very badly off. The
amount of her mother’s fortune was about five hundred a year--quite a
tolerable income for a woman alone, with nobody to think of but herself.
And as Katherine had not wanted the money, or at least more than a part
of it (for Mr. Tredgold had considered it right at all times that a girl
with an income of her own should pay for her own dress), a considerable
sum had accumulated as savings which would have been of great use to her
now, and built for her that cottage to which her father had doomed her,
had it not been that almost all of it had been taken during those five
years past for Stella, who was always in need, and had devoured the
greater part of Katherine’s income besides. She had thus no nest egg,
nothing to build the cottage, unless Stella paid her back, which was a
probability upon which Katherine did not much reckon. It was curious,
even to herself, to find that she instinctively did not reckon on Stella
at all. She was even angry with herself for this, and felt that she did
not do Stella justice, yet always recurred unconsciously to the idea
that there was nothing to look for, nothing to be reckoned on, but her
five hundred a year, which surely, she said to herself, would be quite
enough. She and old Hannah, from whom she did not wish to separate
herself, could live upon that, even with a residue for poor Robert
Tredgold, who had returned to his desk in the dreariest disappointment
and whose living was at Mr. Sturgeon’s mercy. Stella would not wish to
hear of that disreputable relation, and yet perhaps she might be got to
provide for him if only to secure that he should never cross her path.
Katherine’s thoughts were dreary enough as she lived through these days,
in the house that was no longer hers; but she had a still harder
discipline to go through in the visits of her neighbours, among whom the
wonderful story of Mr. Tredgold’s will began to circulate at once. They
had been very kind to her, according to the usual fashion of neighbourly
kindness. There had been incessant visits and inquiries ever since the
interest of the place had been quickened by the change for the worse in
the old man’s state, and on his death Katherine had received many offers
of help and companionship, even from people she knew slightly. The
ladies about were all anxious to be permitted to come and “sit with
her,” to take care of her for a day, or more than a day, to ensure her
from being alone. Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay, though neither of these
ladies liked to disturb themselves for a common occasion, were ready at
an hour’s notice to have gone to her, to have been with her during the
trying period of the funeral, and they were naturally among the first to
enter the house when its doors were open, its shutters unbarred, and the
broad light of the common day streamed once more into the rooms.
Everything looked so exactly as it used to do, they remarked to each
other as they went in, leaving the Midge considerably the worse for
wear, and Mr. Perkins, the driver, none the better at the door. Exactly
the same! The gilding of the furniture in the gorgeous drawing-room was
not tarnished, nor the satin dimmed of its lustre, by Mr. Tredgold’s
death. The servants, perhaps, were a little less confident, shades of
anxiety were on the countenance of the butler and the footman; they did
not know whether they would be servants good enough for Lady Somers.
Even Mrs. Simmons--who did not, of course, appear--was doubtful whether
Lady Somers would retain her, notwithstanding all the dainties which
Simmons had prepared for her youth; and a general sense of uneasiness
was in the house. But the great drawing-room, with all its glow and
glitter, did not show any sympathetic shadow. The two fireplaces shone
with polished brass and steel, and the reflection of the blazing fires,
though the windows were open--which was a very extravagant arrangement
the ladies thought, though quite in the Tredgold way. And yet the old
gentleman was gone! and Katherine, hitherto the dispenser of many good
things and accustomed all her life to costly housekeeping, was left like
any poor lady with an income of five hundred a year. Both Mrs. Shanks
and Miss Mildmay, who put firebricks in their fireplaces and were very
frugal in all their ways, and paid their visits in the Midge, had as
much as that. No one could be expected to keep up a house of her own and
a couple of servants on that. But Stella surely would do something for
her sister, Mrs. Shanks said. Miss Mildmay was still shaking her head in
reply to this when they entered the drawing-room, where Katherine
advanced to meet them in her black dress. She had ceased to sit behind
the screens in that part of the room which she had arranged for herself.
The screens were folded back, the room was again one large room all
shining with its gilded chairs and cabinets, its Florentine tables, its
miles of glowing Aubusson carpet. She was the only blot upon its
brightness, with her heavy crape and her pale face.
“My dear Katherine, my dearest Katherine,” the old ladies said,
enfolding her one after the other in the emphatic silence of a long
embrace. This was meant to express something more than words could
say--and, indeed, there were few words which could have adequately
expressed the feelings of the spectators. “So your old brute of a father
has gone at last, and a good riddance, and has cheated you out of every
penny he could take away from you, after making a slave of you all these
years!” Such words as these would have given but a feeble idea of the
feelings of these ladies, but it is needless to say that it would have
been impossible to say them except in some as yet undiscovered Palace of
Truth. But each old lady held the young one fast, and pressed a long
kiss upon her cheek, which answered the same purpose. When she emerged
from these embraces Katherine looked a little relieved, but still more
pale.
“Katherine, my dear, it is impossible not to speak of it,” said Mrs.
Shanks; “you know it must be in our minds all the while. Are you going
to do anything, my dear child, to dispute this dreadful will?”
“Jane Shanks and I,” said Miss Mildmay, “have talked of nothing else
since we heard of it; not that I believe you will do anything against
it, but I wish you had a near friend who would, Katherine. A near friend
is the thing. I have never been very much in favour of marrying, but I
should like you to marry for that.”
“In order to dispute my father’s will?” said Katherine. “Dear Miss
Mildmay, you know I don’t want to be rude, but I will not even hear it
discussed.”
“But Katherine, Katherine----”
“Please not a word! I am quite satisfied with papa’s will. I had
intended to do--something of the sort myself, if I had ever had the
power. You know, which is something pleasanter to talk of, that the
_Aurungzebe_ has been signalled, and I am going to meet Stella
to-morrow.”
The two old ladies looked at each other. “And I suppose,” said Mrs.
Shanks, “you will bring her home here.”
“Stella has seen a great deal since she was here,” said Miss Mildmay, “I
should not think she would come, Katherine, if that is what you wish.
She will like something more in the fashion--or perhaps more out of the
fashion--in the grand style, don’t you know, like her husband’s old
house. She will turn up her nose at all this, and at all of us, and
perhaps at you too. Stella was never like you, Katherine. If she falls
into a great fortune all at once there will be no bounds to her. She’ll
probably sell this place, and turn you out.”
“She may not like the place, and neither do I,” said Katherine like a
flash; “if she wishes to part with it I shall certainly not oppose her.
You must not speak so of my sister.”
“And what shall you do, Katherine, my dear?”
“I am going away,” cried Katherine; “I have always intended to go away.
I have a piece of land to build a cottage on.” She made a pause, for she
had never in words stated her intentions before. “Papa knew what I
should like,” she said, with the rising of a sob in her throat. The
sense of injury now and then overcame even her self-control. “In the
meantime perhaps we may go abroad, Hannah and I; isn’t it always the
right thing when you are in mourning and trouble to go abroad?”
“My dear girl,” said Miss Mildmay solemnly, “how far do you think you
can go abroad you and your maid--upon five hundred a year?”
“Can’t we?” said Katherine, confused; “oh, yes, we have very quiet ways.
I am not extravagant, I shall want no carriage or anything.”
“Do you know how much a hotel costs, Katherine? You and your maid
couldn’t possibly live for less than a pound a day--a pound a day means
three hundred and sixty-five pounds a year--and that without a pin,
without a shoe, without a bit of ribbon or a button for your clothes,
still less with anything new to put on. How could you go abroad on that?
It is impossible--and with the ideas you have been brought up on,
everything so extravagant and ample--I can’t imagine what you can be
thinking of, a practical girl like you.”
“She might go to a pension, Ruth Mildmay. Pensions are much cheaper than
hotels.”
“I think I see Katherine in a pension! With a napkin done up in a ring
to last a week, and tablecloths to match!”
“Well then,” said Katherine, with a feeble laugh, “if that is so I must
stay at home. Hannah and I will find a little house somewhere while my
cottage is building.”
“Hannah can never do all the work of a house,” said Miss Mildmay,
“Hannah has been accustomed to her ease as well as you. You would need
at least a good maid of all work who could cook, besides Hannah; and
then there are rent and taxes, and hundreds of things that you never
calculate upon. You could not live, my dear, even in a cottage with two
maids, on five hundred a year.”
“I think I had better not live at all!” cried Katherine, “if that is how
it is; and yet there must be a great many people who manage very well on
less than I have. Why, there are families who live on a pound a week!”
“But not, my dear, with a lady’s maid and another,” Miss Mildmay said.
Katherine was very glad when her friends went away. They would either of
them have received her into their own little houses with delight, for a
long visit--even with her maid, who, as everybody knows, upsets a little
house much more than the mistress. She might have sat for a month at a
time in either of the drawing-rooms under the green verandah, and looked
out upon the terrace gardens with the sea beyond, and thus have been
spared so much expense, a consideration which would have been fully in
the minds of her entertainers; but their conversation gave her an
entirely new view of the subject. Her little income had seemed to her to
mean plenty, even luxury. She had thought of travelling. She had thought
(with a little bitterness, yet amusement) of the cottage she would
build, a dainty little nest full of pretty things. It had never occurred
to her that she would not have money enough for all that, or that poor
old Hannah if she accompanied her mistress would have to descend from
the pleasant leisure to which she was accustomed. This new idea was not
a pleasant one. She tried to cast it away and to think that she would
not care, but the suggestion that even such a thing as the little
drawing-room, shadowed by the verandah, was above her reach gave her
undeniably a shock. It was not a pretty room; in the winter it was dark
and damp, the shabby carpet on a level with the leaf-strewn flags of the
verandah and the flower borders beyond. She had thought with compassion
of the inhabitants trying to be cheerful on a dull wintry day in the
corner between the window and the fire. And yet that was too fine--too
expensive for her now. Mrs. Shanks had two maids and a boy! and could
have the Midge when she liked in partnership with her friend. These
glories could not be for Katherine. Then she burst into a laugh of
ridicule at herself. Other women of her years in all the villages about
were working cheerfully for their husbands and babies, washing the
clothes and cooking the meals, busy and happy all day long. Katherine
could have done that she felt--but she did not know how she was to
vegetate cheerfully upon her five hundred a year. To be sure, as the
reader will perceive, who may here be indignant with Katherine, she knew
nothing about it, and was not so grateful as she ought to be for what
she had in comparison with what she had not.
Lady Jane came to see her the same day, and Lady Jane was over-awed
altogether by the news. She had a scared look in her face. “I can only
hope that Stella will show herself worthy of our confidence and put
things right between you at once,” she said; but her face did not
express the confidence which she put into words. She asked all about the
arrival, and about Katherine’s purpose of meeting her sister at
Gravesend. “Shall you bring them all down here?” she said.
“It will depend upon Stella. I should like to bring them all here. I
have had our old rooms prepared for the nurseries; and there are fires
everywhere to air the house. They will feel the cold very much, I
suppose. But if the fine weather lasts----. There is only one thing
against it, Stella may not care to come.”
“Oh, Stella will come,” said Lady Jane, “the island is the right place,
don’t you know, to have a house in, and everybody she used to know will
see her here in her glory--and then her husband will be able to run up
to town--and begin to squander the money away. Charlie Somers is my own
relation, Katherine, but I don’t put much faith in him. I wish it had
been as we anticipated, and everything had been in your hands.”
“You know what I should have done at once, Lady Jane, if it had----”
“I know--not this, however, anyhow. I hope you would have had sense
enough to keep your share. It would have been far better in the long run
for Stella, she would always have had you to fall back upon. My heart is
broken about it all, Katherine. I blame myself now more than at the
first. I should never have countenanced them; and I never should if I
had thought it would bring disaster upon you.”
“You need not blame yourself, Lady Jane, for this was the will of ’71;
and if you had never interfered at all, if there had been no Charles
Somers, and no elopement, it would have been just the same.”
“There is something in that,” Lady Jane said. “And now I hope, I do
hope, that Stella--she is not like you, my dear Katherine. She has never
been brought up to think of any one but herself.”
“She has been brought up exactly as I was,” Katherine said with a smile.
“Ah yes, but it is different, quite different; the foolish wicked
preference which was shown for her, did good to you--you are a different
creature, and most likely it is more or less owing to that. Katherine,
you know there are things in which I think you were wrong. When that
good, kind man wanted to marry you, as indeed he does now----”
“Not very much, I think, Lady Jane; which is all the better, as I do not
wish at all to marry him.”
“I think you are making a mistake,” said Lady Jane. “He is not so
ornamental perhaps as Charlie Somers, but he is a far better man. Well,
then, I suppose there is nothing more to be said; but I can’t help
thinking that if you had a man to stand by you they would never have
propounded that will.”
“Indeed,” said Katherine, “you must not think they had anything to do
with it; the will was propounded because it was the only one that was
there.”
“I know that women always are imposed upon in business, where it is
possible to do it,” Lady Jane said in tones of conviction. And it was
with great reluctance that she went away, still with a feeling that it
was somehow Katherine’s fault, if not at bottom her own, for having
secretly encouraged Stella’s runaway match. “She had never thought of
this,” she declared, for a moment. She had been strongly desirous that
Stella should have her share, and she knew that Katherine would have
given her her share. As for Stella’s actions, no one could answer for
them. She might have a generous impulse or she might not; and Charlie
Somers, he was always agape for money. If he had the Duke of
Westminster’s revenues he would still open his mouth for more. “But you
may be sure I shall put their duty very plainly before them,” she said.
“Oh, don’t, please don’t,” cried Katherine. “I do not want to have
anything from Stella’s pity--I am not to be pitied at all. I have a very
sufficient income of my own.”
“A very sufficient income--for Mr. Tredgold’s daughter!” cried Lady
Jane, and she hurried away biting her lips to prevent a string of evil
names as long as her arm bursting from them. The old wretch! the old
brute! the old curmudgeon! were a few of the things she would have liked
to say. But it does not do to scatter such expressions about a man’s
house before he has been buried a week. These are decorums which are
essential to the very preservation of life.
Then Katherine’s mind turned to the other side of the question, and she
thought of herself as Stella’s pensioner, of living on sufferance in
Stella’s house, with a portion of Stella’s money substracted from the
rest for her benefit. It would have been just the same had it been she
who had endowed Stella, as she had intended, and given her the house and
the half of the fortune. The same, and yet how different. Stella would
have taken everything her sister had given, and waited and craved for
more. But to Katherine it seemed impossible that she should take
anything from Stella. It would be charity, alms, a hundred ugly things;
it would have been mere and simple justice, as she would have felt it
had the doing of it been in her own hands.
But it was not with any of these feelings, it was with the happiness of
real affection in seeing her sister again, and the excitement of a great
novelty and change and of a new chapter of life quite different from all
that she had known before, and probably better, more happy, more
comforting than any of her anticipations, that she set out next day to
meet Stella and to bring her home.