Hepburn amused Mrs. Charles very much, though that was not considered
one of his capabilities in Comlie. He roused her gradually from her
depressed state into general conversation. After he had delivered
Marjory’s message, he stayed and talked, feeling a quite novel
excitement and exhilaration in the fact of this social success, which
was unprecedented in his experience. To be appreciated is doubly
delightful to a man who is not used to much applause from his friends.
Matilda was the first pretty woman who had “understood” him, who had
permitted herself to be beguiled out of her private sorrows by his
agreeable society. He was not the less faithful to Marjory, who had
possessed all his thoughts as long as he could remember; but still it
was pleasant to be able to comfort the afflicted, and to feel that his
efforts for that end were successful. After a while, when the tears had
been cleared away, when a gentle smile had stolen upon the fair
countenance before him; when she had yielded to his fascination so far
as to talk a little, and to listen eagerly, and to look up to him with
those blue eyes, Hepburn could not but feel that Miss Heriot must have
been deceived somehow, and that so gentle a creature must be easy “to
get on with,” to those who would be good to her. For the first time in
his life, he felt that there was something to excuse in the idol of his
youth. Not a fault, indeed, but a failure of comprehension; and Marjory
had never failed before in any particular, so far as her adorer knew.
Perhaps the reason was that this gentle little widow was a totally
different kind of woman. Various things he had heard on this subject
occurred to Hepburn’s mind to account for Marjory’s failure. Women, even
the best and cleverest, did sometimes fail to understand each other, he
believed, upon points which offered no difficulty to an impartial
masculine intellect. This was not at all a disagreeable thought; it
raised him vaguely into a pleasant atmosphere of superiority which
elated him, and could not hurt anybody. He even seemed to himself to be
fonder of Marjory from the sense of elevation over her. Yes, no doubt
this was the explanation. Mrs. Charles had done or said something which
a man probably would never have noticed, but which had affected the more
delicate and sensitive, but less broad and liberal nature of the
sweetest of women; and Marjory, on her side, as he knew by experience,
uttered words now and then which were not destitute of the power to
sting. Hepburn thought that to bring these two together again would be a
very fine piece of work for the man who could accomplish it. A loving
blue-eyed creature like this could not but cling to Marjory’s strength,
and Marjory would derive beauty, too, from the fair being whom she
supported. Yes, he thought, as he looked at her, Matilda was the kind of
woman described in all the poets, the lovely parasite, the climbing
woodbine, a thing made up of tendrils, which would hang upon a man, and
hold him fast with dependent arms. Marjory was not of that nature. To be
sure, Marjory was the first of women; but there was a great deal to be
said for the other, who was, no doubt, inferior, but yet had her charm.
Hepburn felt that in the abstract it would be sweet to feel that some
one was dependent upon him. Somehow the idea crept to his heart, and
nestled there; but Marjory naturally would not have the same feelings.
Marjory would be disposed rather to push away the tendrils. It was a
different sort of thing altogether between the two women. Thus Hepburn
felt a delicious superiority creep over him as he sat and talked. He
received Mrs. Charles’s confidences about the servants after a time, and
was deeply sorry. Fleming and the rest seemed to him a set of savages,
taking advantage of this sweet young creature’s ignorance and innocence.
“Let me manage it for you,” he said, eagerly. “I am not very clever
about servants myself, but I will speak to my housekeeper, who knows
everybody. She will find you some one. Let me be of some use to you.”
“Oh, that will be so kind!” cried both the ladies. Johnnie Hepburn had
never felt himself such a man during his whole life.
When Verna had thus arranged matters for her sister’s comfort, she
herself withdrew to put the house once more in order, and to resume the
helm of state. She shrugged her shoulders when she left the room, in
which she left the new-comer quite happy, and Matilda in gentle good
spirits.
“No wonder we think men fools,” she said to herself; “and no wonder men
think us fools,” she added, philosophically, after a moment.
Thus it must have been decreed, she supposed, for the good of the
species; and a blessed dispensation it was, if it could be confined to
its present use of finding pleasant occupation for two incapables, and
leaving those to work who could. But unfortunately Verna knew the
process often went further than that. However, for the meantime she felt
it necessary to be content with the advantages secured to her by the
collapse of her sister’s authority, and the merciful and most
providential provision of some one to flirt with, thus accorded to her
at the moment of direst need. Verna employed her afternoon so well that
she even came to terms with Mrs. Simpson, who acknowledged the
difference of having to deal with a reasonable young lady, who knew what
was due--It was a pleasant afternoon for Miss Bassett; for the first
time she went over the house, and realized the character of the kingdom
which had come into her hands by deputy. She visited all the
linen-presses, all the store-rooms; she took a peep into the
plate-closet; she went and inspected the old wardrobes, where lay many
antique stores, old dresses, and piles of what Mrs. Simpson called
“body-linen,” and lace which made her mouth water. “This must belong to
Miss Heriot, I suppose,” she said, trying to recollect what was named in
the will. Verna had never known what an old house was till now. She
found oak cabinets and pieces of furniture which she knew to be of
value, heaped up in garrets and on the landings of the many-turning
stairs. She found drawers upon drawers full of _chiffons_, which she
could appreciate still better; and in every out-of-the-way cupboard
there was some piece of china, some curiosity such as Verna had vainly
longed for all her life. They were there unseen, lurking in corners, not
prized or thought of, and too many in number to be made visible; there
was enough to decorate half-a-dozen houses; old brocade gowns which
would cut up into the loveliest chair-covers, and old Dresden, which, if
gathered together, would fill a room by itself. Oh! only to have
half-a-dozen pieces of it in the house at Calcutta, or in any other
house which Verna might call her own! She was perfectly honest, and
would not have taken a penny from Tommy’s possessions for the world; but
the china went to her heart.
And then she put on her hat and went round the house outside. She took a
very comprehensive view, taking her double eyeglass, which she kept for
important moments, and studying the building thoroughly from every point
of view. Women are deeply conservative, it is common to say; but at the
same time there is no such iconoclast as an ignorant young woman longing
for perfection, and secure in her own opinion. Verna thought the old
house a most unnecessary adjunct to the new. The only useful part of it
was the tower occupied by Mr. Charles, which would no doubt accommodate
a visitor if the house was very much crowded--but then if a new wing was
built there would be a great deal more accommodation. Verna built the
wing in her imagination, drawing it along the further side of the lime
avenue, and planting long windows open to the ground in the new
drawing-room, which would be much “snugger,” she thought, than the old
drawing-room which opened upon the cliff. She made a nice room for
herself in the warmest corner facing to the south, for she was cold by
right of being Indian, and liked to bask in the sun. How delightful was
this sense of being supreme, this feeling of power, this capacity for
doing as she liked! It seemed to her that she had fairly subdued
Matilda, and that nothing would tempt that incapable person, after her
failure, to meddle any more with the affairs which she had so
mismanaged; besides Verna meant to make her sister very comfortable; she
liked people to be comfortable. She had no inclination to oppress, or to
be unkind. She meant to do more for Matilda than she would have done for
herself, indulging her to the top of her bent, and putting up with all
her weaknesses. Even to the length of providing somebody to flirt with,
of taking her to gaieties which they had both dreamt of as girls, and
had read about in books, without ever having it in their power to taste
their sweetness, Verna was willing to humour her sister; and so long as
she would consent to be quiet and enjoy herself, asked nothing more from
Matty. That she should enjoy herself was necessary, as this was the only
expedient Verna knew to keep her contented. Finally she sat down on the
steps of the sundial, where Marjory had sat so often, and turned over
all her plans in her mind with a satisfaction which it would be
difficult to describe in words. Nineteen years must elapse before Tommy
should be of age. Nineteen years! a lifetime; and during that time there
seemed no reason why she should not be virtual mistress of the place. To
be sure such a thing was possible as that she should marry; but Verna
knew herself well enough to feel that she could trust herself, and would
do nothing contrary to her own interests. If some one should by chance
turn up with an estate and house equal to Pitcomlie, who had sense
enough to see what an admirable mistress she would make for it, why
then, indeed, marriage might be attractive, and an improvement upon
present circumstances; but without an inducement of this kind, Verna
felt herself to be safe. What happy visions floated through her brain as
she sat on the steps of the sundial, and looked at the house which was
to be her kingdom! What a thing it is to come suddenly from poverty and
obscurity into wealth, and ease, and honour, and glory! Mr. Bassett out
in Calcutta was not badly off, but he had brought up his daughters very
economically, and he had not concealed his desire to get rid of them as
soon as possible. Verna had thwarted and provoked her father by not
marrying. He had sworn it was her fault, though she knew it was not her
fault. Surely he could not wish nor expect her to marry a subaltern in a
line regiment, which was all the Fates had sent in her way? But still
he had been dissatisfied, warmly asserting that the business of girls
who came to India was to marry--well, if they could, but anyhow to
marry--a view of the case which disgusted his daughter; and there were
complications about a second half-caste family of young Bassetts which
made her very glad to escape from her father’s paternal care. After all
the storms that had surrounded her existence, and all the shabbiness of
her beginning, and fear of future shabbiness in store, it may be
imagined what it was to Verna when her ship suddenly sailed into this
bay of plenty. She disliked cold winds generally, but the cold wind
to-day, though it blew from the east, did not affect her as she sat on
the base of the sundial and contemplated her empire. Not without a
struggle had that empire been attained. She had almost despaired when
she saw how her sister in the strength of her folly, had put to flight
the Heriots, and emptied the house; but still she had been patient and
bided her time, and that time had come at last.
Short-sighted young woman! She did not perceive, till she had put up her
eyeglass, that Johnnie Hepburn was leading Mrs. Charles out from the
open window to take the air upon the cliff. When she did see it, she
congratulated herself only on having found some one to amuse Matty--for
she had no eyeglass to remedy that short-sightedness so far as the
future is concerned, which is common to the human race.
Quite late in the same afternoon, when it was dark, and Miss Jean’s
house was pervaded with fragrant odours of dinner, young Hepburn came
in much out of breath, having walked very fast from Pitcomlie to fulfil
his commission. He brought Marjory the books she had sent him for, with
an excess of apologies for his delay, which, had she cared much about
it, would certainly have enlightened her. He had been detained in the
most remarkable ways, kept back by one thing after another. And he had
found Mrs. Charles very poorly, and her sister quite anxious about her.
“I am afraid she is very delicate,” he said, sitting in the dark in Miss
Jean’s drawing-room, where, as the family were nearly ready for dinner,
the candles had not yet been lighted. There was a glow of ruddy
firelight just where Miss Jean herself was sitting, but all the rest
were in shadow. And from somewhere in the room there came a “humph!”
which confused the young man; however, it could not be Marjory who
uttered that exclamation.
“I am sorry if she is ill,” said Marjory immediately after; and then
there was a pause, which Hepburn felt embarrassing. He wanted very much
to say something which would be mediating and conciliatory, but the
atmosphere certainly was against him; it was repelling and chilly. Women
certainly do not understand women, he said in his heart; both so
charming! what a thing that it is impossible to bring them together! and
then he cleared his voice and tried again.
“I am afraid she is not accustomed to our kind of life,” he said. “India
is so different. Old Fleming has left, and the housekeeper is leaving,
and they don’t know what to do. I promised to speak to Miss Jean--”
“Speak to anybody else, Johnnie, my man, before me!” said Miss Jean,
peremptorily; “I’ve seen the young leddy, and I was not struck with her.
She’s bonnie enough, I allow, to please a silly lad; but she’s not of
the kind for me.”
This was a very offensive speech to the amiable peacemaker. In the first
place, of itself, that “Johnnie” made an end of him from the beginning.
Of all names to apply to an aspiring young man intending to assume an
elevated position, and feeling himself a person of influence, it is,
perhaps, the cruellest title. Marjory smiled in spite of herself,
protected by the darkness; and Mr. Charles--for he it was who made up
the party, repeated that “humph!” which had broken in so disagreeably
before.
“Don’t sit in the corner and hum, hum, like that!” said Miss Jean
promptly; “if you have a cold, Charlie, go to your bed, and be taken
care of; but I cannot bide a hoasting man. We’re all in a hum, hum sort
of way, Johnnie Hepburn. Go away quick and change your clothes, and come
back to your dinner; we’ll be more amiable then; but come quick, for the
fish will spoil; and Jess’s temper is none of the best. Lord preserve us
all!” said Miss Jean, turning upon her companions with her hand
uplifted, when he was gone. “That woman’s turned the laddie’s head, the
first time he’s seen her! Now that’s the old-fashioned way that used to
be in my day; and I respect the lad!”
“You ought to respect the lady,” said Marjory. She was amused; but yet
not altogether amused. Johnnie Hepburn, for whom in himself she had a
sort of elderly sisterly regard, had been her slave since ever she could
remember. He had teased Marjory, and been very troublesome to her on
many occasions; but he had worshipped her at all times, never thinking
of any other woman. Miss Heriot was very much inclined to laugh at his
championship of Mrs. Charles; but her amusement was mingled with a
surprise which, perhaps, was not altogether agreeable. She had seldom
been more startled; and when he came back to dinner, and the lamplight
showed his youthful countenance considerably flushed with haste, or
emotion of some kind, the wonder grew. The half-pique of which she was
conscious, and which amused her too in its way, made Marjory somewhat
satirical. “So you found Mrs. Charles very nice?” she said, when they
were at table, looking up with a twinkle of laughter, which had been
long absent from them, in her eyes.
“Nice?” said Hepburn, with hesitation. “Well, I do not know if that is
the word I would use. It is touching to see a woman in her
circumstances, so young and so----. She is very delicate, I think.”
“She is very pretty, I think!” Marjory said, laughing.
Hepburn could not tell how it was that the laugh sounded so much less
pleasant to him than ordinary. Was she laughing at him? She had done so
before now, and he had only worshipped her the more. But now he had just
come from the spectacle of grief, borne in a becoming manner, and it
seemed almost wrong of Marjory to be able to laugh; it disturbed his
ideal. He took care to say as little as possible about Mrs. Charles for
the rest of the evening, but still he did manage to intimate that he
thought Marjory had not, perhaps, quite understood that delicate spirit.
And Marjory replied that it was quite possible, but laughed again. Bell,
the maid, was rather of Mr. Hepburn’s opinion--that Marjory’s capacity
for laughter showed itself too soon.
“If it had been but the auld gentleman, indeed!” said Bell; “but three
deaths, one after anither!” and Jess in the kitchen shook her head also,
and said Miss Marjory had aye thought too little of appearances. They
all kept a very close watch upon her, to make sure that she mourned
enough, and not too much. Resignation is an excellent thing, and always
to be encouraged; but resignation never was known to do more than smile.
And Marjory, I do not quite know why, wrote to Fanshawe that evening.
She had meant to write to him some day or other; but it is possible that
Johnnie Hepburn’s desertion (though she had never made any account of
Johnnie Hepburn), quickened her proceedings. She wrote him a most
matter-of-fact little note, filling one page only of a sheet of note
paper--without a word in it that would bear two meanings, or, indeed,
possessed any meaning at all to speak of.
“This will put a stop to any further nonsense,” she said to herself, as
she wrote his address at his club--and she did this with much decision
and promptitude. She was going with her uncle in a few days to St.
Andrews; she was about cutting off all the threads that bound her to her
old life. This was a bit of her old life, though it occupied the very
last chapter. Fanshawe too, perhaps, might come back to Pitcomlie, and
might think that she had not “understood” its new mistress. Marjory was
about to begin a different kind of existence; she snapt this thread
without, she thought, caring much about it; but it was better, certainly
better, that it should come to an end.