The party which met in the morning after this vigil regarded each other
strangely, feeling the fever of their excitement still about them.
Marjory did not appear, and it was from Mr. Charles that Fanshawe learnt
that his own mission had failed, and that the missing witness had
already appeared, a fact which he had guessed from all he saw, but had
not been informed of. There was a long discussion over the breakfast
table about this strange change in the family affairs, and all the
revolutions it must bring about.
“An application must be made at once to the Court of Session to appoint
tutors,” Mr. Charles said, who was full of suppressed excitement, “and
these young women at Pitcomlie must be informed. It will be hard upon
them, poor things, after all.”
“They had nothing to do with the house or the family,” said Miss Jean,
briskly. “Strangers, all strangers; neither one nor another has any pity
from me. Eight thousand pounds is not a bad provision for a younger
son’s widow, with nothing of her own; but take you my advice, Charlie
Heriot, and be very clear in your mind about this bairn. I’m not fond of
chance bairns coming in when nobody expects them. This lass, that you
all think so much of, may have been everything that’s good; but I would
have the court to sit upon it, and make sure. I would trust nothing to
chance, if it was me.”
“We’ll take every precaution--every precaution,” said Mr. Charles; and
then he fell into a reverie, from which he roused up slowly, with a look
of satisfaction in his face, rubbing his hands. “I am glad,” he said,
“that I never began to dismantle my old room. I’ve thought of doing it
more than once. If I could suppose,” added Mr. Charles, changing
countenance, “that leaving Pitcomlie would be any heart-break to these
young women; if they had had time to get attached to the place--But as
one house or another is the same to them, and Mrs. Charles is not badly
provided for, on the whole, with her pension and all--I hope it’s not
any way hard-hearted on my part.”
“But you’re old, Charlie Heriot,” said Miss Jean, “old to be tutor to a
little bairn. Granting that you may live as long as I have done, for
instance, that’s about fifteen years--and nobody can calculate on
more--that would leave the boy just at the worst age. You’re spare and
thin, and I would not wonder if ye were one of the long-lived ones of
the family; but granting even that you were spared to be as old as me--”
“You’ll live twenty years yet, Aunt Jean,” said Mr. Charles, who did not
like the turn the conversation was taking.
“That may be, or may not be,” said Miss Jean. “I’m very indifferent; a
year sooner or a year later matters very little. To be sure when you’re
well over your threescore and ten, there’s no saying--but it’s never to
be calculated on. If this bairn is young Tom’s lawful son, as you say,
and but three months old, poor bit thing, he must have young guardians.
The like of Mr. Fanshawe here now; or as women are coming into fashion,
Marjory--”
Mr. Charles gave an alarmed look at the audacious proposer of such a
conjunction. He was fairly frightened by it. He looked up with a certain
consternation, to meet the bold response of Miss Jean’s black eyes,
twinkling with satisfaction at the thought of having thus bewildered
him.
“Ye need not look at me in that alarmed manner, Charlie Heriot,” she
said. “There’s nothing but what is strictly reasonable in what I say.”
“If I were thought worthy of such a charge,” said Fanshawe, startled
too. “I should, of course, do my very best to acquit myself of the
trust; but I have, at present, no connection with Fife--I have no claim
to such a distinction; there must be many others much better
qualified--”
“It’s not a thing we can discuss,” said Mr. Charles, hurriedly; “it is
not in our hands; there are a great many preliminaries. And in the first
place there is one that’s not pleasant. These young women, how are they
to be told? They must be told. What would you say, Aunt Jean, would be
the best thing to do? Perhaps as you are going that way, if you were to
see them and break it in a quiet way? a lady is always the best to do
that; there’s more delicacy, and more sympathy, and understanding, and
so forth. Some clergymen have a gift that way; but a lady is always the
best.”
“I am much obliged to you, Charlie Heriot,” said Miss Jean, “but in my
opinion you’re the only bearer of the news that’s possible. Nobody can
do it but you.”
“Do you really think so?” said Mr. Charles. “Now I cannot help thinking
a stranger would be better--or perhaps a letter--that might be the best
of all--a letter now. Unless Mr. Fanshawe here, that could bring no
painful recollections to their minds, a young man quite unconnected with
everything--and pleasant manners, and all that--would be so obliging as
to drive out, and just prepare them a little. My niece Marjory has so
much confidence in Mr. Fanshawe. It is not a long drive, and the country
is looking its very best. Would it be too much to ask, as a friend of
the family?” Mr. Charles said, with an insinuating look.
Miss Jean’s chuckle, and the look she gave him out of her sharp black
eyes, overcame Fanshawe’s gravity more than the proposal thus anxiously
made. Even Mr. Charles saw the fun, and relieved himself and his anxiety
with a long low laugh, under protest as it were--for laughing was far
from appropriate at this juncture of the family affairs. But the most
amusing thing of all was that, though they laughed at the idea of
entrusting Fanshawe with this mission, after much talk and many
suggestions, and a great deal of comic remark, it was after all he who
went. He consented--because it was his fate, because it was propitiating
Marjory’s friends, because it was a proof to her of his readiness to
serve all connected with her; but chiefly, it must be allowed, because
it was his fate. This was what he was born into the world for; to do
what people asked him, to serve others, to be good for much so far as
other people were concerned, but good for little to himself. Miss Jean
looked on with a certain grim amusement while it was all being settled.
She gave her opinion on the subject with her usual frankness.
“I would not have gone had I been you,” she said. “I would have let old
Charlie do his nasty errands for himself.”
Fanshawe laughed with some conscious shame, feeling indeed that he had
been somewhat weak; and the old lady resumed--
“Nobody thinks the more of you for being too kind. A willing horse is
aye over-ridden; but that’s not all. In this world folk take you at your
own word, Mr. Fanshawe. They think little of a man that holds himself
cheap. It’s no advantage--either with man or woman. The best thing ye
can do is to let folk see that a favour from you is a real favour, not
easy to get, not given to everybody--”
“Miss Jean, you speak like Solomon himself,” said Fanshawe, with mock
reverence and real confusion, “or rather like the Queen of Sheba,--which
is the next wisest, I suppose.”
“Maybe I am like the Queen of Sheba,” said Miss Jean; “but it’s men far
from Solomon that I’ve come to see. You like Fife, I suppose, Mr.
Fanshawe, that I find you back here?”
“I suppose so too,” he said, with a rueful comic sense that he was by no
means a free agent, “since you find me here, Miss Jean--as you say--”
“You should not repeat another person’s words, it’s not civil. And yet
Fife has but small attractions for a young man. You’re fond of golf, I
suppose, like all the rest?”
“Probably I might be,” he said, laughing, “if I had the chance; but I
have never tried yet--”
“Oh, then you’re one of those archæ-somethings, that make the old stones
speak?” said Miss Jean. “Oh, but the like of me could make them speak
better, if we were to tell all we mind and all we have seen.”
“I am not an archæ-anything,” said Fanshawe.
“Then it’s very strange to me--very strange,” said the old lady, looking
him in the face, “what pleasure you can find in staying here?”
He laughed--this time an uneasy laugh, and felt himself redden
uncomfortably. Why, indeed, should he stay here? To go on Mr. Charles’s
errands, to have all sorts of disagreeable offices thrust upon him, to
be sent off, perhaps, at a moment’s notice, to be made use of on all
hands. This was what his past experience had been, and why should it be
different in the future? The old woman’s two black eyes, set deep in
their shrivelled sockets, looked knowingly, not unkindly at him, with a
gleam of amusement, but also with a certain sympathy. “There does not
seem much reason, does there, why I should stay?” he said, and got up
and went to the window to look out, avoiding her keen eyes.
“Young man,” said Miss Jean, “I don’t know much about you, and what I
know is not the best that might be; but you’re not an ill young man as
men go. On the whole, I’m inclined to be on your side. And take you my
advice. Don’t make too little of yourself; don’t be at everybody’s call;
stand up for yourself, if you would have other folk stand up for you. So
far as I’ve seen, your fault is that you’re better than most folk. Don’t
be that, that’s the worst of all mistakes.”
“You mean that I am a yielding fool, and cannot say ‘No,’” said
Fanshawe; “but that, after all is scarcely the case. There are
circumstances, perhaps, if I could tell them to you, that justify me--”
“No circumstances, but a man’s nature account for that kind of conduct,”
said Miss Jean, briskly; “but if it’s any comfort to you, I’m inclined
to be on your side.”
Whatever comfort there might be in this, Fanshawe had it to console him
on his drive. He set out without seeing Marjory. When he found himself
driving not too quickly over those long country roads, on the business
which was not his, and realised the disagreeable mission he had
undertaken, he felt more weak and foolish than even Miss Jean had
represented him to himself. For what was all this? To commend himself to
Marjory? or because it was his nature and his fate? He was thoroughly
discontented with himself. Was he, who was thus driven hither and
thither by the will of others, who seemed to have no business of his own
in the world, but always and only the business of others--was he the
kind of man to step boldly out of his groove, to begin an independent
life, to ask any woman to share that existence? Nobody but those who are
over-persuadable, ready to be over-borne by the appeals made to them by
their more indolent neighbours, and to take upon their shoulders burdens
which are none of theirs, can understand how ashamed Fanshawe felt of
his own amiability in the business which he had at present in hand--or
how disgusted with the piece of work which Mr. Charles had basely thrust
upon his shoulders. As he approached Pitcomlie, he realized more and
more clearly how disagreeable it was. The sight of the house which had
filled so important a chapter in his life made his heart beat. There it
was that he had been roused out of the equanimity of his placid,
easy-going existence; and what good had that awakening done? None but to
make him a dissatisfied instead of a very contented, happy sort of
fellow; to show him the evil without opening the way to any remedy; to
fill him with longings after the unattainable without conferring upon
him the strength necessary to struggle and attain it. Marjory! the whole
place was full of her; the cliff, with its velvet coverlet of green
sward, round which so often by her side he had taken his “turn;” the
sundial by which he seemed to see her seated; the roofless old house,
against the grey walls of which he had watched her figure so often, and
which formed so fit a background for her; everything was full of
Marjory. The presence of her image there made it somehow more easy for
him to do what he was going to do. He marched into the well-known
drawing-room, almost regardless of the servant who rushed after, pulling
on his coat, to announce him. He saw with a certain sharp sense of
sarcastic pleasure somebody rise hastily from Mrs. Charles’s side, and
retire into a distant corner. Somebody--that sentimental personage
called Johnnie, whose presence had once made him furiously jealous. He
was ready to laugh now at the sight of this young man, whom he
recognised at once with that attraction of jealousy and dislike which is
as strong as love. Why was he so pleased to see Johnnie Hepburn start
disconcerted from Mrs. Charles’s side? It pleased him to think of
telling it to Marjory; the power of discrediting her old admirer in her
eyes was quite grateful to him; he was spitefully delighted--there is no
other word that can describe his feelings. If Fanshawe had but thought
of it, he might have felt himself quite delivered from the danger of
being too amiable by this vigorous outburst of dislike and feelings
quite un-evangelical. But somehow it did not occur to him to judge his
own sentiments in that uncompromising way.
He had a hostile reception; from the moment of his appearance the ladies
at Pitcomlie made sure that he was coming on no friendly errand. Verna
came in from the cliff through the open window, having caught a glimpse
of him; she was very pale, with a scared look which Fanshawe could not
understand. They both looked at him with a stare of something like
defiance, but took no other notice of his presence. This was very
embarrassing at first. He faltered a little as he drew near, being very
pervious to incivility, and all the smaller pricks by which the mind can
be assailed.
“I have come to execute a commission from Mr. Charles Hay-Heriot,” he
said, looking round him almost pitifully for support. Johnnie Hepburn
afforded none. He even turned his back and gazed out of one of the
windows. He did not stand by a brother in distress. He was too much
frightened for the women, if truth must be told.
“Oh, yes; to be sure; and I think we could guess what it was,” said
Matilda. “Pray speak out. Don’t be afraid. You need not have too much
consideration, or that sort of thing, for me.”
“Indeed, I was told to have every consideration,” said Fanshawe,
perplexed. “Mr. Charles----”
“Oh, why keep up the farce of Mr. Charles?” cried Matilda. “Say Marjory
at once. We know it is all her hatching, this conspiracy; and oh! you
may be quite sure whatever can be done, by law, against conspiracy--”
“Hold your tongue, Matty,” said Verna, in a sharp whisper. “You fool!
don’t be always showing your hand.”
“As if I cared!” cried Matilda; “as if I did not see Marjory’s hand!
Besides, it is well known that she keeps him to run errands for her, and
do whatever she tells him. Oh! say it out! We are prepared for
everything you have to say.”
“Then my errand may be all the shorter,” said Fanshawe. “It is only to
tell you, from Mr. Hay-Heriot, that a discovery has been made about your
brother-in-law, Tom Heriot. It has been found out that he was married,
and has left a son--”
Here he was interrupted by a defiant peal of laughter, and looking up,
surprised, saw both ladies laughing almost violently, as at the most
excellent joke.
“Oh! this is too good,” the one said to the other; “too good; just what
we expected. But Marjory might have invented something better,” said
Matilda. “I could have made up a better story myself.”
Fanshawe stood, struck dumb, as a man of his breeding and character
could not fail to be by such a rude and foolish reception of his
message. He did not know how to reply. They spoke, as it were, another
language, of which he had no comprehension.
“I had better withdraw, I think,” he said. “I don’t know what I can add,
or reply; there is nothing, so far as I know, that I can say more.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt Marjory entrusted you with a great deal more to say!”
cried Mrs. Charles. “She wanted to humble us; but you may tell her she
sha’n’t humble us. We are people who can defend ourselves. If she isn’t
clever enough even to make up a better story than this--”
“I think,” said Fanshawe, “it would be well to leave Miss Heriot out of
the discussion; she has nothing to do with it--and, as it is evident,
that you do not in the least understand her--”
“What do you mean, Sir, by saying Mrs. Charles does not understand?”
said Hepburn, coming from his window. A burning flush covered the young
man’s face; his eyes looked hot and bloodshot, and the veins were
knotted upon his forehead; he was suffering such agonies of shame and
pain as few people, perhaps, have gone through; shame for the woman whom
he loved. Yes, though he was ashamed of her, though he perceived her
meanness, her prettiness, her folly, still he loved her. He had stood
aloof as long as he could; now, when the tugging at his heart, as well
as her impatient looks, called him to her side--when very shame impelled
him to come to her defence, to save her from her own folly, to hide from
himself the gnawing pangs of his own shame--that shame took the fiercer
form of passion. If he had worn a sword he would have drawn it; if there
had been any other foolish way of rushing into mortal conflict he would
have adopted it. It was the writhing of his own pain which excited him,
but he tried to make it look like indignation. “If you have anything to
say to Mrs. Charles, Sir,” he added fiercely, “or any objections to
make, be so good as to address yourself to me.”
“To you! why should I?” cried Fanshawe, more amazed than ever.
“Because she has given me the privilege of standing between her and all
impertinent intruders,” cried the unhappy young man, taking her hand in
an agony of self-humiliation. Poor boy! he identified himself with her
publicly at the moment when he saw most distinctly and suffered most
sharply from the revelation of her character, which, to do her justice,
she had never meant to withhold from him. He almost hated her in the
vehemence of his love; hated her for not being what he would have had
her, with a hatred which somehow intensified his passion. The sight was
so strange and painful that it subdued the impulse of anger in
Fanshawe’s mind.
“In that case,” he said gravely, “since I can neither fight with you,
nor argue with you, I will withdraw, Mr. Hepburn; and Mr. Heriot’s
communication can be made officially--if necessary, to you. Good
morning, I have no more to say.”
Verna rushed forward as he opened the door. Already her better sense had
perceived the folly of her sister’s words.
“Mr. Fanshawe, Matilda is always ridiculous!” she cried, breathless;
“but we will not yield a step till we are forced--not a step!”
“So be it!” said Fanshawe; “though I hope your advisers will counsel you
less foolishly. At all events, I have said what I had to say.”
“Forget Matilda’s nonsense, at least!” cried the sister. Matilda had
thrown herself back upon her sofa, where the unfortunate Johnnie was
kneeling by her, soothing her. “But I will not give up, I cannot give
up!” she said passionately, under her breath, clasping her hands. She
was not aware she had said it; her face, which was very pale, took a
strange character of force and high purpose,--yes, of high purpose, such
as it was. She did not wish to defraud anyone; but she was struggling
for bare life; she followed Fanshawe out, going with him to the door,
with rising uneasiness--the more generous part of her character waking
with her better judgment. “All that about Miss Heriot,” she said,
gasping, “was ridiculous; and Mr. Fanshawe, I am sure she did not mean
to be rude to you; I never meant to be rude to you; it was only temper
and surprise. And oh, when a blow like this is coming, it seems so much
easier when you can feel it is somebody’s fault!”
“But you are much too sensible to believe so?” said Fanshawe, “who
could--or would--attempt to deceive you in such a matter? Do you think
an invention of this kind could ever stand the eye of day?”
“It is--it must be an invention!” cried Verna; and then, poor soul, she
had recourse to that expedient which women employ by instinct, and
which, did they but know it, always ruins their cause, though it may
gain them a momentary triumph. She appealed to her companion, as if that
could serve her. “Oh, Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, “we should do well if we
were but left alone. The place would soon be got into order. I have
given up all my plans about the house. I should see that Tommy was
brought up as he ought to be. Why cannot they let us alone?”
“Do you think it possible,” he said, with some impatience, “that people
like the Heriots are framing a lie in order to harm you?”
She looked at him with dilating eyes, in which the tears gradually rose.
She had no understanding of the question. It came natural to her to
think that somebody must have done it. “I would try to do what they
wished,” she faltered, looking at him with a pathetic desire to
understand. “I should be very glad to take their advice--I would do
anything--”
“Miss Bassett,” said Fanshawe; “supposing it could affect the question
in any way--which it could not--but supposing, for the sake of argument,
that these good resolutions of yours could affect the question; how long
will you be able to do anything if this piece of news Mr. Hepburn has
told me is true?”
“What piece of news?” She looked so scared that he was almost frightened
by the impression his words had produced. “Oh, you think there is
something between--? But that is unjust to poor Matilda. She could not
think of such a thing so soon. She is only amusing herself. You are very
cruel to my sister,” cried Verna, turning her back upon him without
another word. He went out with a smile, and jumped into his dog-cart,
glad to get clear of the whole business. It was nothing to him; but she,
poor soul, fled to her own room--so passionately excited that she could
scarcely keep still as she rushed up those warm, noiseless, carpeted
stairs which had seemed to her like the very path to Elysium, a little
while before. There, at least, howsoever things might turn out, her
power and reign were over. She could have torn her hair or her dress, or
anything that came within her reach, in her passion. It was all over. A
mean and small life of dependence and servility was all that now
remained to her. To be turned out one way or another, what did it
matter? Nay, it would be better to be turned out with Matilda than by
her; better to share her downfall than to be crushed by her triumphant
prosperity. Thus of the three people affected by Fanshawe’s message,
there was but one person whom it affected mildly, and that the one most
concerned. Matilda, after her fit of abuse of Marjory and the old
family, shed a few angry tears, and then was comfortable again, and
ready for such dalliance with her lover, interspersed by quarrels, as
was her only fashion of mental amusement. But it would be hard to
describe the mingled passions in Hepburn’s mind, as he knelt by the
sofa, scorning, hating, adoring, the pretty, miserable, beautiful
creature who had bewitched him. It was not her fault; all women were so;
did not every sage bear testimony to it, from Solomon downwards? And the
poor young fellow, in the revulsion of his feelings, took to admiring
her more and more, dwelling upon her beauty, her movements, her glances,
all the outward part of her. These were what women possessed to make men
mad and happy--nothing more.
And Verna up-stairs sobbed in an hysterical passion. She had lost her
very life.