It would be hopeless to describe the condition of Pitcomlie during the
rest of that terrible day. In the hall was the young widow with her
children, an important English nurse, and the Ayah with the baby--the
children crying, the Ayah moaning, and Mrs. Charles wondering why no one
came to receive her; while in the library the scene was occurring which
we have described. Marjory was still seated on the steps of the
sun-dial. She had not heard anything; or rather some dim perceptions
that something had happened had penetrated her stupor without rousing
her to think what it was. Her whole mind was absorbed with one thought.
She had not even time to grieve. She had to tell her father. Of all that
had ever fallen upon her in her life, this was the hardest to do. She
allowed herself this interval of calm, because she was awaiting the
return of her messenger. It was a pretext, she felt; but she took
advantage of the pretext with such eagerness! and, perhaps, after all,
he had gone out; perhaps she might have another moment of
respite--perhaps--
Then she became vaguely aware of some commotion in the house. Milly was
the first to rush out upon her.
“Oh! May, there’s such funny folk in the hall; a black woman! with a
white thing over her head--and little babies. Come, come and see;
they’re all asking for you; everybody wants you. Come, come and see.”
“Babies!” said Marjory; and then, in spite of herself, burst into sudden
tears.
The thought made her heart sick. It seemed impossible to rise up and
welcome them, to receive these strangers in this first hour of trouble.
Then Fleming, looking very pale, hurried across the lawn. The old man
was heart-broken, but he could not be otherwise than acrid.
“This is a fine time to sit here and divert yoursel’, Miss Marjory,” he
said, “when the house is full of strange folk, and no a soul knows what
to do first. They’ve come; and mair than that--you’ll know soon enough,
soon enough; but Lordsake!” cried the old man, putting Milly aside
almost roughly, “send that bairn away.”
Marjory rose up, dragging herself painfully back into the busy world
which awaits all the living, whosoever may be gone or dead. Then Mr.
Charles was seen hurrying through the open window.
“What is this, May? What is all this I hear?” he cried. The news had
been told to him by the servants, without any preparation, thrown at him
in a lump as servants are fond of doing, and he was stunned by the
succession of events. It seemed to him impossible to believe in their
reality till he had come to her, who was the centre of the family life.
Little Milly crying out of sympathy, knowing nothing, clung to her
sister’s dress--and Mr. Charles eager and anxious with his long lean
person all in tremulous motion, put his hand on the sun-dial to steady
himself, and with agitated and white lips asked again, “What is it,
May?” And at the other side of the house there suddenly appeared
Fanshawe, supporting a lady on his arm. Marjory’s bewildered mind fixed
upon this. It was the only thing she did not understand. He placed the
stranger on a seat and hurried across the lawn. “Give the lady a glass
of wine,” he cried peremptorily to Fleming, and then took Marjory’s hand
and drew it within his arm.
“Come in-doors,” he said briefly, almost sternly, “they all fly to you,
and it is you who ought to be considered most. Come in-doors.”
“No,” she said, “no, I must do it first; if they have come I must do
that first; he must hear it from me.”
“Come in,” said Fanshawe peremptorily; but before he could lead her
away, the stranger, whom he had brought to the air, came forward to
Marjory.
“I am better now,” she said. “I never fainted in my life before. It was
such a shock. I know you are Miss Heriot, dear, and I know what you must
be feeling. Don’t mind us; I can look after everything, I know how to
make myself at home. Oh, poor thing, poor thing! father and brother in
one day!”
“What does she mean?” said Marjory.
“My dear May, my dear May!” cried Mr. Charles. “Lord bless us! she does
not know! Come in, come in, as Mr. Fanshawe says.”
“Father and brother in one day? then my father is dead,” said Marjory.
She put both her hands on Fanshawe’s arm, holding herself up. “Did you
tell him? did he hear?”
“He had died in his chair, quite calmly, before the news came.”
“You are sure--quite sure, he did not know?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then thank God!” said Marjory. “Oh, I am glad. Don’t say anything to
me--I am glad. Milly, Milly, don’t cry, go and say your prayers. I can’t
think of Charlie just now, I am so glad for papa.”
“Oh, my dear! she has gone mad with grief,” said Mr. Charles. “May, my
bonnie May, cry, break your heart, anything would be better than this.”
“I am not mad, I am glad. Thank God!” repeated Marjory. She suffered
them to take her in, with a calm which frightened them all. Thus the
chief actors, in all the excitement of a terrible crisis, went their way
off the scene like a tragic procession, carrying with them their
atmosphere of pain and trouble; and like the change in a theatre,
another set of sentiments, another group of persons, came uppermost.
Miss Bassett was left in possession of the lawn. She had received a
shock, but she felt better already, and she was a curious little
personage. She watched them go in, making her own observations,
especially in respect to Fanshawe, whose presence struck her feminine
eye at once. Who was he? engaged to Miss Heriot, she concluded; it was
the most natural explanation. Then she went across the lawn to the edge
of the cliff and looked over; then made a turn or two up and down,
putting up an eye-glass to her eye, inspecting the house. The house was
very satisfactory; it had an air of old establishment, wealth, and
comfort that pleased her.
“Only I would clear away all these old ruins,” she said, turning her
glass upon the tall old Manor-house of Pitcomlie, and Mr. Charles’s
tower, “and throw out a new wing,” she added, putting her head a little
on one side, “with a nice sheltered flower-garden and conservatories.”
This notion pleased her still more. “What a different place it would
look,” she continued musing, “if I had it in my hands; I would clear
away all the old rubbish, I would make a handsome entrance with a
portico and steps. I would soon make an end of all those little
old-fashioned windows, and have plate-glass everywhere. Dear me, dear
me, what a pity poor Charlie was not the eldest son!”
From this it will be apparent that the newcomer was not aware of what
had happened in the family upon which she had arrived so suddenly. When
she had examined the house quite at her leisure, she bethought herself
of the helpless party she had left in the hall, and made her way to them
round the front, finding the way by instinct with a cleverness which
never forsook her. “I wonder what they will do with Matty,” she said to
herself. “I wonder what the new Mr. Heriot is like. I have seen his
photograph, but I don’t recollect. I wonder if he is married. If he is
not married, Matty’s little boy will be the heir-apparent, or
heir-presumptive, is it? and they will make much of him. Fancy grown
people like Matty and myself being tacked on to little Tommy to give us
importance! If he was not Charlie’s brother Matty might marry him. As
for me, that does not seem my line; at least I have never done it yet,
after being in India and all. It is droll how people differ. Matty is a
fool and as selfish as a little cat; but she is the marrying one. Never
mind, I shall do as well for myself. How awful that old man looked, to
be sure--I shall dream of him all my life; but don’t let’s think of
that. Oh, you poor dear Charlie, how nice it would have been if you had
lived, and if you had been the eldest son!”
Fresh from this reverie she met at the door Mrs. Simpson, the
housekeeper, who had just cleared the frightened and excited servants
out of the hall, and was closing the shutters with her own hands, and
crying softly between whiles with many a murmured exclamation. Miss
Bassett was very conciliatory, almost respectful to the old servants.
“Can you tell me, please, where I shall find my sister and the
children?” she said. “What a dreadful day for us to come, the day of
your poor dear master’s death! I am so sorry to give you so much more
trouble on such a day.”
“Oh mem, never name the trouble,” said Mrs. Simpson, “if anything could
be a comfort it would be the sight of thae dear bairns, that he didna
live to see, poor man. Eh, it’s an awfu’ lesson to the rest of us, to
be taken like that without a moment’s preparation, reading a common
book, that could be of no use to his soul. Eh Sirs! In an ordinary way
I’m no feared for death. It’s what must come to us all; but death like
that--”
“I am sure though,” said Miss Bassett confidently, “by the look of his
face that he was a good man. There was a believing look about him. I
feel sure all is well with him, and if it is a loss to us, you know it
is a gain to him.”
“Eh, what a pious good young lady,” said Mrs. Simpson to herself; “we
maun aye hope so,” she said aloud, but with much less certainty. She was
a Seceder, and not quite certain of her master’s salvation. “He didna
take his troubles may be so well as he might have done. They say it’s a
sure sign of the children of light when they’re resigned, whatever God
sends; but oh, it’s no for us to judge,” said Mrs. Simpson, putting her
apron to her eyes. “I hope you’re better, mem. It was a sore trial for a
young lady, going in like that to the presence of death. I’ll show you
upstairs where the other lady is, and if you’ll just ring there’s a maid
will see to everything. Meals and hours will be all wrong the day in
this mourning house; but you’re a considerate young lady and ye’ll look
over it--for to-day.”
“Oh, don’t trouble about us,” said the newcomer, giving Mrs. Simpson one
of her sweetest smiles, “I like you so much for being grieved for your
master. Never think of us--” Miss Bassett was very popular among the
servants wherever she went. She gave a little nod and smile to a
housemaid she met on the stairs. She was very conciliatory. The youngest
son’s wife’s sister has little reason to think herself an important
personage in any house; and as she went up the great staircase through
the long noiseless carpeted corridor which led to the west wing, her
respect for the house rose higher. She noted that the carpet was Turkey
carpet, that every corner was covered, no matting, no boards visible,
nothing that showed the least desire for economy. She was not used to
any English house except the very thrifty one in which Matilda and she
had received their education, and these details of luxury were very
pleasant to her. She sighed as she went into the pretty room where her
sister and the children were already established. It was the largest
room in the wing, the end room with two large windows looking over the
peaceful sunshiny country, and one in the side which had a peep of the
sea. There were large wardrobes, a great marble dressing-table, a
succession of mirrors, a magnificent canopied bed, and more Turkey
carpets, feeling like moss beneath the feet. The handsome room, however,
was already made into a disorderly nursery. Matilda had thrown her hat
down on the writing-table, where it lay among the pens and ink, covered
over in its turn by the children’s hats and pelisses. She had thrown
herself on the sofa, where she lay, tired and dishevelled, making
ineffectual remonstrances with Tommy, who was belabouring the floor with
an ivory-backed brush which he had found on the dressing-table. Baby
was sprawling on the lap of the dark Ayah, who sat squatted on the floor
near her mistress’s feet, and the English maid was unpacking all the
boxes at once, finding all sorts of heterogeneous things in the
different packages.
“Bother that black thing,” she said indignantly as Miss Bassett entered,
“here’s baby’s short things all bundled up in mistress’s best shawl.
There ain’t a thing where I can lay my hand on it, and all the place in
a litter already.”
Miss Bassett did her best to remedy the muddle. She seized the brush out
of Tommy’s hand, and put him spell-bound in the corner. She pulled off
her sister’s shawl, which hung half over the arm of the sofa. She ranged
the hats upon the bed and cleared the writing-table.
“Matty! for heaven’s sake,” she said, “we have come to a nice tidy
place, and they seem disposed to treat you handsomely. This must be one
of the best rooms, don’t make a pigsty of it the very first day.”
“I like that,” said Matilda languidly; she was a pretty, listless, fair
young woman, with light hair, without any colour in it, and blue eyes,
which were somewhat cold and steely. “Where have you been to, Verna? You
went and left us all by ourselves, to get on as we could; and but for
that nice fat woman who brought us upstairs, I do not know what we
should have done. Of course, the children must be made comfortable. She
said we were to have all the rooms in this end. When you can get them
cleared away, and things put straight, I think I shall go to bed and
have a good sleep.”
“Then you don’t want to know anything about the family?” said her
sister.
“The family! oh, I suppose Marjory will come to see me by-and-by. I
don’t want her till I have had a sleep, and I told the fat woman so. I
shall cry when she comes, I know; and it tires me out to cry. I want a
sleep first. I suppose you have seen them all; you always see everybody
first. Are they nice? do they look good-natured? do you think they mean
us to stay here, or what am I to do? Who is knocking at the door? Oh, I
know; it is the fat woman with the tea.”
“Hush, for heaven’s sake!” said Verna; “do think for a moment;
everything depends on how you behave. Elvin, don’t let anyone in just
yet. Matty, listen; old Mr. Heriot--your father-in-law--Charlie’s
father, died this morning. The house is all in confusion.”
“Died this morning!” Matilda’s lip began to quiver, her eyes filled
suddenly with tears, her face acquired all at once the pitiful look of a
child’s face in sudden trouble. “Oh,” she said, “must some one be always
dying wherever we go? It is dreadful. I cannot bear to be in a house
where there is some one dead. I never was so in my life. Verna, take the
baby; take us away, take us away!”
“I will kill you!” cried her sister passionately, turning on her,
clenching her little fist in Matilda’s face. “You fool! hold your
ridiculous tongue when the servants come in; cry as much as you please;
you can do that. It will make them think you can feel, though you have a
heart as hard--Cry! if you can’t do anything else. Thank you very much,”
she said, turning round suddenly and changing her tone in the twinkling
of an eye. It was Mrs. Simpson herself who had entered, attended by a
maid with a tray. The housekeeper was deeply in want of some
counteracting excitement, and she knew that the two babies on the floor
were the only representatives of the house, though their mother did not.
She came in with a jug of cream in her hand, very solemn and tearful,
ready to weep at a moment’s notice, yet eager to explain, and tell the
sad story--full of natural womanly interest about the children, as well
as anxiety touching the little heir and his mother. In short, the
housekeeper was like most other people--she had good, maternal motives,
and she had an alloy of interested ones. Had the young widow been a poor
woman, Mrs. Simpson’s kindness would have been more disinterested; but
in the present circumstances, it was impossible not to recollect that
the young woman crying on the sofa, who looked so innocent and childish
in her sorrow, might be the future mistress of the house, and have
everything in her hand.
“Oh, mem!” said Mrs. Simpson; “what is there we wadna do--every one in
the house--for poor Mr. Chairlie’s lady, and thae two bonnie bairns! Oh,
Mistress Chairles! dinna break your heart like that! there’s plenty
cause; but think on your two bonnie lads that will live to be a credit
to everyone belonging to them, and a’ the hope now that we have in this
distressed house. Oh, get her to take some tea; get her to lie down and
rest! So young and so bonnie, and her man taken from her, and a
home-coming like this!”
“My sister is very tired,” said Verna; “indeed, as you say, it is a very
sad home-coming. She cannot thank you to-day, you kind woman; but
to-morrow I hope she will be better. We have had a terrible journey. And
she feels it so much,” added the quick-witted creature, seeing Mrs.
Simpson’s eye linger upon Matilda’s coloured gown, “having no mourning
to come in; no widow’s cap. You must tell me afterwards whether there is
a dress-maker here whom we can have. What did you say, dear? will you
try some tea? Cry! you fool!” she whispered fiercely, turning aside to
her sister, “and don’t speak.”
“But, Verna--a cap!” Once more Matilda put on that piteous look; her
lips quivered; large tears rolled down her cheek; she put her hand up to
her pretty light hair.
“Yes, that is the first thing,” said the wiser sister. “Will you please
send for the dress-maker? Perhaps we can get her a cap in the village.
That is all she thinks of; she would not like to see dear Miss Heriot
without her cap.”
“Miss Marjory is not in a state to see anybody,” said the housekeeper,
shaking her head; “she’s taking her trouble hard--hard. She’s no
resigned, as she ought to be. And this is the little heir? Eh, my bonnie
man! but I’m glad, glad to see you here!”
“Yes, this is the eldest,” said Verna, puzzled; “he is called Tom, after
his poor grandpapa. Then young Mr. Heriot is not married?”
The housekeeper shook her head solemnly. “Na, na! Mr. Tom wasna a man to
marry; and oh, to think the auld house should depend upon a little
bairn.”
Then the good woman put her apron to her eyes. Verna watched her every
look and movement, and already her attention and curiosity were
awakened; but she would not show her ignorance of the family affairs;
and she was glad to get Mrs. Simpson out of the room, fearing the
outburst which was coming. It came almost before she had closed the door
upon the housekeeper’s ample gown.
“Oh you cruel, cruel Verna!” cried the young widow. “Oh you barbarous,
unfeeling thing! a cap! I will never wear a cap; as if it was not bad
enough to lose Charlie, and come home here like this, and cry my eyes
out, and have to please everybody; instead of my own house, and being my
own mistress, as I was while dear Charlie was living; but to put on a
hideous cap--I will not, I will not! With light hair it is dreadful; I
will rather die!”