In the meantime, the young women at Pitcomlie, as they were entitled by
Mr. Charles, had been spending their time very agreeably. Verna had got
the house well in hand. She had re-arranged everything. The very
furniture had been changed from one room to another. “We must at once
give the house a character,” she said, “so that it may be seen to be
your house, Matty, and not the old Heriots’. There are a great many
old-fashioned things which must be cleared away. We must give it a
character;” and she went about the rooms, pulling the furniture hither
and thither. Verna, unfortunately, though she had zeal, had no
knowledge; she thought the results of a modern upholsterer’s work, spick
and span new tables, chairs, and carpets, all ordered without
consideration of expense, would produce something infinitely better than
the present aspect of the room, which had been lived in, loved in,
suffered in, for so many years, and had acquired a human character of
sympathy which makes even wood and velvet poetical. She did not
understand the old inlaid cabinets, which had been Marjory’s pride, any
more than she could understand that insane desire for “a view,” which
apparently had tempted “the old family” to open its windows so to the
stormy sea.
“One cannot escape the sea at such a place as this,” Verna said; “we
must put up with it, though I don’t care for it; but to turn all the
windows that way, _on purpose_, when there is quite a pretty garden
behind, and a sheltered corner, with flower-beds, and all that. I have
written to Mr. Freestone, and he is coming down on Saturday to see about
a new wing.”
This talk was carried on for the advantage of young Hepburn, who had
come, as he now did daily, to ask how the ladies were; and if he could
do anything for them.
“A new wing!” he said; “but you will find that highly expensive; and the
house has always been thought a large house.”
“Always been thought!” said Verna, with some scorn. “By those who don’t
know what sort of a house my sister has set her heart upon. I do not
think it a large house; but it is a very good sort of foundation
to work upon. By the time Tommy is of age, he is sure to be Master
of the Hounds, High Sheriff of the county, or, perhaps, even
Lord-Lieutenant--for I suppose the Heriots are well known to be one of
the best families in Fifeshire; and then, of course, he will require
room to give balls and other entertainments; he will be very grateful to
me, you may be certain. My plan is to pull down the old house--”
“To pull down the old house!” Hepburn repeated, in growing
consternation.
“And to build on the additions there,” Verna continued calmly. “I have
it all in my head. Unfortunately, I can’t draw very well, but I have
made a kind of an elevation, as they call it. The end of the new wing
will come just where the old tower does; and the new drawing-room, which
will be fifty feet by forty, will look out upon the lime-tree avenue. It
will be delightfully shady, and we can have the flower-beds close under
the windows. Then upstairs we can have some new rooms; it will be a
great improvement. The drawing-room here is not a bad room, but it is
dingy; and so are the dining-room, and library. In short, I don’t doubt
it was very nice for the old people, Mr. Hepburn--the old gentleman,
who, I suppose, never saw much society; but my sister is young, and, of
course, will recover her spirits--”
“Do you think she will?” said the sympathetic Johnnie. “Are there not
some gentle natures that mourn for ever?”
Verna looked at him with a doubtful glance, dubious for the moment
whether she should help him to a little real insight into her sister’s
inclinations, or whether she should keep up the pathetic aspect of
affairs. And it appeared to her that the latter was so very much the
most advantageous mode of action, that, though the temptation to reveal
the truth had come strongly upon her for a moment, she hastily repelled
it. “Yes, indeed,” she said, shaking her head; “that is very true; but,
dear Mr. Hepburn, my sister is very young; we cannot expect that she
will always be as she is now.”
“Ah!” said Johnnie; “but we may hope, at least--I mean, she can never
be more perfect than with that sweet air of resignation; that look as of
one whose existence has already passed into another world.”
Oh, what a temptation it was for Verna to give him a little sketch--such
as she could so well have done--of the real Matty! Anyone who has had to
sit by and hear a fool elevated into a saint by some still more foolish
worshipper, will understand her secret exasperation. But there were a
great many things to be taken into consideration. In the first place,
Matilda’s melancholy aspect was much her best one--when she cried she
did not require to talk and commit herself, as otherwise she must have
done infallibly; and, in the second place, Verna knew that to attempt to
keep her sister in subjection, without affording her the relief of a
worshipper, was hopeless, and young Hepburn ranked high in her list of
ways and means. She shook her head accordingly, subduing herself, and
acquiesced in this noble picture of Matty; but added: “You must
remember, Mr. Hepburn, how young she is; and even if she should not care
for society for herself, she must, some time or other, see the advantage
for her children. And we all have a taste for fine rooms and handsome
furniture,” Verna added, with a princely air. “It is a weakness, no
doubt; but the Bassetts are all famed for it. Matilda will never be
happy till she has given a character to the house.”
All this would have been infinitely comic to any man who had not been
captivated by Mrs. Charles Heriot’s afflicted beauty. But young Hepburn
was like most people in that condition; he accepted, as the most
dignified truth, what would have appeared the most transparent nonsense
in other circumstances. He did more than this; he allowed Marjory’s home
and kingdom, in which he had worshipped her since ever he could
remember, to be spoken of as “good enough for the old people,” and
acquiesced in the fact that the Bassetts required something more
magnificent, and that the house must have a character given to it,
before it could become a fit habitation for Mrs. Charles and her sister.
He was not a fool, nor unfaithful to his traditions; he was a great
lover of poetry, the most intellectual person, by a long way (except the
Minister, whose intellect took, as was right and natural, a Biblical
form,) in the neighbourhood of Comlie. Few men in the East Neuk were to
be compared to him in the way of accomplishments and general
cultivation; but yet he was guilty of this foolishness and meanness
without in the least being aware of it--or, at least, with an uneasy
consciousness which he would not permit himself to be aware of. And yet
his heart was not false to the ideal which had been his highest vision
of excellence all his life. Had he spoken of Marjory, it would still
have been with enthusiasm--though with that servility, which is common
to men in love, he allowed it to be necessary that Mrs. Charles should
“give a character” to her house. When Mrs. Charles appeared, however,
and he had the honour so often accorded to him of escorting her round
the garden (which Matilda, too, much preferred to the cliff) he made a
gentle remonstrance against Verna’s energetic measures.
“I hear that there are to be several changes,” he said, timidly. “Miss
Bassett has been telling me about a new wing.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Charles. “That is Verna’s way. She always likes to be
pulling things about. I declare I think she was quite pleased to see
that ugly old ruin, that she might pull it down and make everything
tidy. It is a fancy she has.”
“But--do you think the old house--ugly?” said Hepburn, still more
timidly.
Mrs. Charles was leaning on his arm; she was looking up at him with
those pretty blue eyes, into which tears were ready to come at a
moment’s notice--a sweet dependent creature, seeking support and
sympathy. Johnnie Hepburn knew a great deal better on this point than
she did. Had the old house of Pitcomlie been his, he would have
worshipped every stone of it. He knew all its associations, historical
and otherwise, to the family; but yet he dared go no further than to ask
humbly whether she too thought it--ugly? His mental servility was such
that, if Matilda had said “Yes,” boldly, no doubt he would have
acquiesced.
“Well, isn’t it?” said Matilda, with a momentary feeling that she might
be committing herself. “Verna thinks so, I’m sure. And then it is of no
use; and what is the good of keeping an old place without a roof, or
windows, or anything, full of rats, and I daresay snakes, and all sorts
of creatures. That is what I hate about ruins. I suppose there are no
scorpions in this country?”
“No, nor snakes either,” said Hepburn, relieved. “I see now why you
dislike it. There is nothing of the kind indeed; and old Mr. Charles
Heriot used to keep the ruins in capital order. The old house has so
many associations, you know--to the family.”
“Oh yes, to the old family, I daresay,” said Matilda; “but I don’t know
anything about their mouldy old ancestors. Verna has such a pretty plan
that she drew herself--a beautiful long drawing-room, with a nice range
of windows opening into the garden, and those new ribbon flower-beds
that are so pretty, just like the border of a shawl, close under them.
You must see the plan. Verna has quite a genius for that sort of thing,
and she says it would give such character to the house.”
“But then Miss Bassett is not the lady of the house,” said Hepburn. “She
cannot feel as you do, who are the representative of the Heriots. Of
course she does not care about the associations as you must do.”
“Oh no; she can’t do anything at all unless I like it,” said Matilda,
“of course. I let her do a great many things, because she likes fuss and
bustle, and I don’t. I let her manage the servants, and order the
dinner, and all that. But of course it is only because she is my sister.
She has no power over anything unless I say she may have it. Everybody
must know that.”
“It is like you,” said Johnnie, admiringly, “to put yourself aside so
as to indulge your sister. It is exactly what one might expect from you;
but perhaps in happier circumstances, when you feel a little more
interest in these secondary matters----”
“Do you think she takes too much upon her?” asked Matilda, quickly. “Oh,
you need not be afraid to speak! She is my sister, to be sure, but we
have been separated so much, and I quite know Verna’s faults. It is
quite her way to take too much upon her. If you think she is setting
herself up as the lady of the house, or anything like that, I shall put
a stop to it at once.”
This put Johnnie into an unfortunate position, for he could not allow it
to be supposed that he was finding fault with Verna, or undermining her
with her sister. He said hastily:
“Oh, no, I had no such meaning. I thought perhaps--if you were to
exercise your own judgment you would be kind to the old house. We are
fond of all traces of antiquity here; and I have a special love for
those old gables, and the roofless walls, and narrow windows--”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Charles, archly, “we know why that is. Because you were
so fond of the old family. And of course Marjory was devoted to all that
old stuff.”
“No, indeed!” said Hepburn, blushing and stumbling in his words; “indeed
you misunderstand me. I admire the ruin for itself, and I like it for
its associations, without--Of course I have the highest respect for Miss
Heriot.”
“Oh yes, indeed--the highest respect! I like that!” said Mrs. Charles.
“I wonder what Marjory would say if she heard you? Oh, yes, even if you
did not blush and look so conscious, we have heard all about it, Mr.
Hepburn. When is it to be? And I wonder if she likes you being here so
much? If I were in her place I shouldn’t, I tell you frankly. If I were
in her place----”
“Pray don’t speak so,” cried poor Hepburn, really distressed. “I am not
so fortunate as to be able to hope that Miss Heriot takes any interest
in what I do. Very much the reverse. She has always been like the moon
and the stars, quite above my sphere.”
“Oh, you are a great deal too humble,” said Matilda, quite excited with
this congenial subject, “but you ought not to come here so much if you
want to please Marjory. I am sure she hates _me_. That sort of superior
solemn kind of woman always hates us little things. Perhaps because the
gentlemen like us,” Mrs. Charles added, with a momentary giggle. Then
remembering her _rôle_, “Dear, dear,” she said, with a sigh, “to think I
should talk such nonsense! as if what gentlemen thought mattered any
more to me.”
Hepburn could not but press gently to his side the soft little hand that
rested on his arm. How charming her simplicity was, her naturalness, the
light-heartedness of her youth cropping up in spite of her grief!
“I hope, however,” he said, “that you do not think us quite unworthy of
consideration--for that would be hard, very hard upon us.”
“Oh, no,” said Matilda, “indeed I always say frankly that I like
gentlemen’s society much the best. Women are so jealous of you, and so
nasty in their ways. I don’t pretend to be very clever, but I do like to
be with some one who is clever. And one feels at once the superiority
when one hears gentlemen talk. It is so different from our
chitter-chatter. Isn’t it now? I like to have some one I can look up
to,” said the woman, who was a fool, looking up, with all the skill of
her folly, into the face of the foolish young man who was intellectual.
Oh, poor Johnnie! He had a dim notion in some corner of his mind that
what she said was silly, and yet he was ready to fall down at her feet
and worship her. The silliness quite achieved his downfall. He had been
wavering, all but conquered; but now the final _coup_ was given to him.
He murmured something in sudden delirium, he did not quite know what.
Neither did Matilda know what it was; but she knew that she might
henceforward guide him at her pleasure through all the ways of
imbecility. She had snatched him from Marjory, too, which was a great
addition to the pleasure. Marjory was clever, and Verna was clever; but
here was something they could not do.
The conversation was interrupted at this beatific moment by the
appearance of Verna, important and full of business as usual.
“Dr. Murray is in the drawing-room,” she said, “and you must come and
see him, Matty. They are the first people that have done more than leave
cards; and you would not see them when they called last time. He is the
clergyman. You must come now.”
“Clergyman? I suppose you mean the Scotch Minister,” said Matilda. “Why
should I go? I have nothing to do with him. You don’t suppose I shall go
to his miserable old conventicle. Go and see him yourself, Verna. You
understand that sort of people. I am engaged; am not I engaged, Mr.
Hepburn?” she said, smiling upon her new slave. But Johnnie was not
destitute of the prejudices of a man born in the East Neuk.
“Don’t you think you could see him?” he asked with hesitation. “He is a
man of some distinction. He is a very well-known man, and he was a great
friend of Mr. Heriot’s--”
“Oh, one never will hear an end of the old family,” said Matilda, “but
if he is such a great person I suppose I must go. I always thought a
Scotch Minister was a kind of Dissenter--oh, do tell me, Mr.
Hepburn!--just for the poor people, a sort of man that would not take
the liberty of calling. I am so ignorant, don’t be disgusted. I know I
am silly; but I will pay such attention to what you say.”
Johnnie led her in, and expounded to her how matters stood. He gave her
a sketch of Scotch ecclesiastical history, which was quite brilliant, so
eager was he to make himself understood; and Mrs. Charles clung to his
arm, and looked up at him, and said “Yes!” with little notes of
admiration. What a quick pupil she was! he thought. Needless to add that
Matilda was just as wise at the end as at the beginning, and, in short,
paid not the slightest attention. It was thus that they entered the
drawing-room. Verna followed closely behind. When Matilda appealed so
sweetly to her companion, “Am not I engaged, Mr. Hepburn?” a thrill of
alarm had passed through Verna’s soul. Could it be possible that the
word meant more than met the ear? Had the flirtation which Verna had
encouraged, by way of diverting Matilda and keeping her occupied,
already come to a serious issue? It was incredible. Charlie was not yet
six months dead, poor fellow; but the sister, who knew Matty, was
alarmed, and followed closely, with all her senses about her, watching
and listening. A mixture of wonder, admiration, contempt, and partial
envy, filled her mind. Nobody knew so well as she what Matilda was; to
think that any man should be such a fool! Verna, it must be remembered,
used very plain expressions. And yet she admired her sister for this one
thing which she could do, and which Verna herself could not do. She
admired, and wondered, and half envied. How did she do it? And how was
it that other people could not do it? And oh! what a fool the man was!