The situation of the little party of strangers in the west wing of
Pitcomlie for the week after their arrival was strange enough. They were
in the house, but not of it. Partly on pretence of their fatigue, partly
because of the agitated condition of the family, they were not asked to
go down stairs, and it was the second day before Marjory even paid them
a visit. On the afternoon of their arrival Mr. Charles went solemnly
upstairs, and kissed the babies, and shook hands with his new niece.
Mrs. Charles had been carefully tutored by her sister, and she had so
many grievances on hand that she was ready to cry at a moment’s notice.
First and foremost of these was the cap, which had been found in the
village, a hideous head-dress indeed, made for some elderly village
matron, which drowned Matilda’s poor pretty face within its awful
circlet. She resisted with all her might, and cried, and struggled; but
having no one to back her, gave in to superior force at last, as was
inevitable.
“The uglier it is, the more they will feel that you are in earnest,”
said Verna, with an energy that carried everything before it.
And when Mr. Charles came in and paid his respects solemnly, his heart
smote him for all the evil things he had said about her, when he saw
the tears stealing from under Matilda’s long eyelashes, and that
piteous quiver of her lip.
“Some people do themselves much injustice by their style of writing
letters,” he said to Fanshawe, that evening. “She may not be very wise,
but she has plenty of feeling.”
She scarcely spoke at all during this interview, but cried and gave him
a look of hopeless yet affecting sorrow, which went direct to the old
man’s heart. The little boy was disobedient, but that was nothing to be
wondered at after a long sea-voyage and all that had happened; and as
clever Verna thought, the terrible widow’s cap intended for old Mrs.
Williamson at the post-office, gave the young widow worship in the eyes
of all who beheld her. Verna won herself worship in quite a different
way. She put on the most becoming hat she had, and strayed down in the
evening to get a little air. The first evening she saw no one. The
second, Mr. Fanshawe came out and walked with her round the lawn, where
she had seen Marjory first.
“How is Miss Heriot?” she asked, anxiously; “is she better? Was she so
much devoted to her father? I am very, very sorry for her; but my poor
Matty wants comfort too.”
“Miss Heriot has been ill,” said Fanshawe. “She has had so much to
bear--one shock after another.”
“Yes; Charlie’s death,” said Verna, watching him with keen eyes, “and
then Mr. Heriot’s--”
“And her elder brother--so very short a time before.”
“Her elder brother?”
“I forgot. You left India before the news could have reached you. Three
of them have been swept off one after another. Mr. Heriot died of grief;
he never got over poor Tom’s death. The shock to Miss Heriot was not so
much her father’s death, as her certainty that yesterday’s news would
kill him. All this has affected her deeply. We had almost to force her
to do nothing, to see nobody except ourselves--to allow herself to
rest.”
“You have a very deep interest in Miss Heriot?” Verna asked,
hesitatingly. She did not even know his name. “Or perhaps--I beg your
pardon, I am only a stranger--perhaps you are one of the family?”
Fanshawe had started slightly; he had looked up at her with a sudden
movement when she made that suggestion. It had brought the colour to his
face.
“I--take a deep interest in all the family,” he said. “No, I am not one
of them. My name is Fanshawe. I was with poor Tom Heriot when he died. I
am glad to be of use at this moment as far as I can.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to put embarrassing questions,”
she said. “Please forgive me; I am quite a stranger. Poor Matty does not
know much, never having been at home since she was married; and I know
nothing at all. We did not know Mr. Tom Heriot was dead. What a terrible
thing! father and two sons--all the sons--there are no more?”
“No more--the whole family--except Miss Heriot and her little sister,
and your sister’s boys--have been swept away.”
Verna’s heart was beating wildly. She could scarcely contain the sudden
flood of triumph that had poured into all her veins. At last she was
going to be a great lady. Everything would be in her hands. Marry! why,
what was marrying to this? But she restrained herself, to make assurance
sure.
“Poor little Tommy,” she said, with a demure and measured tone, which
was put on to hide her emotion, “only three years old; is it possible
that he is the master, of all this--that everything depends on him?”
“Poor child!” said Fanshawe.
What a farce these words seemed! Oh happy child, blessed child, most
fortunate baby, with eighteen years of a minority before him, and his
aunt, Inverna Bassett, the only clever one of the family to do
everything for him! But she dared not betray the exultation that coursed
through all her veins.
“I hope Miss Heriot will come to see us to-morrow,” she said. “It will
be better for--all of us--if she will be friendly and come.”
Somehow there was a change of inflection in this which caught Fanshawe’s
ear. He was quite incapable of defining what it meant. The rapid
revolution of sentiment, the change from humility and doubt into
superiority and certainty, the implied warning, too delicate to be a
threat, that it would be better “for all of us” that the daughter of the
house should visit its new mistress, all these gradations of thought
went beyond his capacity. He did not understand; but still his ear,
though not his intelligence, caught some change in the tone.
“I do not think,” he said, with some coldness, though he could not have
told why, “that we shall be able to persuade Miss Heriot to rest beyond
to-day.”
“I am glad of that,” said Verna. “I mean I shall be very glad to see
her. I saw her, it is true, yesterday, here, but she did not notice me.
Of course it was a terrible moment for her--and for all of us,” she
added, with a little meaning. “Matty’s first coming home--”
Was there a little emphasis on that last word? Certainly there was a
change of tone.
Fanshawe was confused; he could not quite tell why. As for Verna, her
little brain was in a whirl. She wanted to be alone to think. She put up
her eye-glass once more, and inspected the house with such a wild sense
of power that her faculties for the moment seemed taken from her.
“Good evening,” she said, hastily. “I think I will go back to my poor
sister, who has no one but me to take thought for her.”
How everything had changed! She had no need now to be civil to anybody;
no need to put on any mask, or restrain her real feelings. She rushed
into the house, and upstairs, full of her discovery; but before she
reached her sister’s room, her steps grew slower, and her thoughts less
eager. Verna was ignorant, very ignorant. How did she know that there
might not be some law, or some will, or something that would modify
this too delightful, too glorious state of affairs?
A little chill crept over her. Little Tommy’s heirship might not be
absolutely certain, after all. If it was certain, would not everything
have been turned over to Matilda at once? Would Miss Heriot still
venture to give herself airs as if she were the mistress of the house?
Would she not rather come humbly to them, and do her best to conciliate
and find favour in the eyes of the new mistress? Verna would have done
so; and it was hard for her to realise the emotions of so very different
a woman, whom, besides, she did not know. The result of all her musings,
however, was that she would for the present say nothing to Matilda. She
would leave her for the moment in her uncertainty, wondering what the
family meant to do with her. Matilda might be kept in the desirable
state of subjection so long as she was thus humble in her expectations;
but Verna knew that when she was mistress of Pitcomlie she would no
longer consent to cry and to abstain from talking.
Accordingly, she concluded to keep her news to herself. When she entered
the room where her sister still lay on the sofa, chatting with her
maids, and shrieking now and then an ineffectual remonstrance against
Tommy’s noisy proceedings, there came into Verna’s mind a sudden and
sharp conviction of the foolish mistakes which Providence is always
making in the management of the world.
She had made up her mind that it was she who was to reign in Pitcomlie
if Tommy turned out to be really the heir; but how would she have to do
it? By means of coaxing, frightening, humouring, and keeping in good
disposition this foolish sister, whom she had been half ashamed of for
her silliness all her life. Matilda would be the real possessor of all
these advantages. She herself would only enjoy them as Matilda’s deputy.
Oh! if the Powers above had but been judicious enough to bestow them
direct upon the person justly qualified! This sudden thought made her
sharp and angry as she went into the luxurious room, which Matilda had
turned into chaos.
“What a mess everything is in!” she cried. “Elvin, for Heaven’s sake get
those things cleared away, and try to be something like tidy. They will
think us a pack of savages. Matty, why don’t you exert yourself a
little? I declare it is an absolute disgrace to let everything go like
this. We are not in India, where one can’t move for the heat. And what
if Miss Heriot were to come up now and find you like this, all in a
muddle, baby crying, and Tommy rioting, and your cap off?”
“I have as good a right to do what I like as Miss Heriot has,” said
Matilda, pouting; “and I hate your odious cap.”
“You have got to wear it,” said the peremptory Verna, picking up the
unfortunate head-dress from the floor; “and if I were you I would rather
wear it clean than dirty. As it is so late, Elvin may put it away
carefully in a drawer; but, Matty, Miss Heriot--”
“Oh! how I do hate Miss Heriot!” said Matilda, ready to cry.
“You don’t know what she may have in her power,” said Verna, with a
curious enjoyment of the picture she was about to draw. “She may be able
to do everything for you, or perhaps nothing; how can we tell? But in
the meantime it is better to have her good opinion. Do as I told you;
talk as little as you can, and look as pitiful as you please. Probably
we shall have to go to the funeral; or if not to the funeral--we can say
you are not well enough--at least to the reading of the will, and that
will be very important. Nobody can expect you to do anything but cry.
Whatever you may hear, Matty, for God’s sake don’t commit yourself to
say anything. Leave it all to me. It will save you ever so much trouble,
and you may be sure it will succeed better. You know you are not so
quick as I am; you are a great deal prettier, but not so quick. Now do
promise, there’s a darling. Take your best handkerchief, and tie your
cap well round your face, and cry all the time; not noisily, but in a
nice ladylike way. It will have the very best effect; and if you
promise, it will leave my mind quite easy, and I can give my attention
to what is going on. Now, Matty dear, won’t you do as much as this for
Tommy’s sake and for me?”
“Is the funeral to be to-morrow?” said Matilda, putting off the
formality of the promise.
“Why, I tell you again this is not India, you silly child,” said Verna.
“It will not be, I suppose, till this day week, and there will be hosts
of people. I shall have quantities to do without looking after you. Now
promise, Matty! If you don’t, I can’t answer for what may happen; they
may send you back to papa--”
“I will do whatever is best,” said Matilda, moved by this horrible
threat. “Tell me what is best, and I will do it. Oh, they never could
think of that! They must give me so much a year at least, and some place
to live in. I could not go back to papa to be snubbed and treated like a
baby, and hear the dear children sworn at, and never dare venture to
speak to anyone. I would rather die.”
“If you are good, and do what I tell you, it will never happen,” said
Verna, kissing her. “I have a great deal in my head, Matty. I have heard
something--but never you mind. I will tell you when I have found it all
out. I should not wonder if we were to be very well off, and never to
require to do anything after this but please ourselves. Hush! don’t
agitate yourself. You can’t think what a deal I have to think of; but we
shall know all about it when the funeral is over, and how it is all to
be.”
This had to content Matilda for the moment, and she went to bed with her
head buzzing with all kinds of pleasant thoughts. Poor Charlie! it would
have been much “nicer” if he had lived; he gave her a great deal more of
her own way than Verna did; he was more of a comfort to her--and then a
woman is always of more consequence when there is a man behind her to be
appealed to. But still, now that poor Charlie was dead and gone, and no
thinking nor crying could bring him back, perhaps it might be for the
best. If the old gentleman had left him something very nice in his will,
as Verna seemed to expect, Matilda thought she would go to some bright
nice place where there would be good society, and bring up Tommy.
Perhaps she might be able to have a carriage, if it was as much as Verna
thought--and never would require to think twice about a new dress, or a
pretty bracelet, or anything she might fancy. These gentle fancies
lulled her as she went to sleep. Yes, it was a pious thought, such a
thought as ought to be cultivated in the bosom of every woman; perhaps
after all it might turn out that everything had been for the best.
Verna was not so pious. She sat at her open window half the night,
though the air was chill, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. She
could not quite persuade herself that it was possible. “If--” she said
to herself, before she set off on a wild canter of imagination through
all the glories that could be thought of. If--
What a thing it would be! To be virtual mistress of this house, to have
everything in her power, to be able to turn out “the family” if she
pleased, and make her own will superior everywhere! This hope
intoxicated the young woman. The instinct of managing everybody and
everything had been strong in her all her life; but it never had had
full scope. She had managed her father’s house, but that was little; and
he himself was a rough man, who despised women, and was not capable of
being managed. Now what unbounded opportunities would be hers--the
estate, the house, the village, nay, the county! Verna’s ambition
leaped at all. And she never intended to rule badly, unkindly, or do
anything but good; Matilda should be as happy as the day was long, she
said to herself; Tommy should be sent to the best of schools. She would
be as polite as possible to the Heriots, and beg them to consider
Pitcomlie as their home as long as it suited them.
She meant very well. She would get up coal clubs, and clothing clubs,
and all sorts of benevolence in the village. She would be a second
providence for the poor people. Never were there better intentions than
those which Verna formed as she sat at the window, her eyes shining with
anticipation, if--
That was the great thing. The foundations, perhaps, might fail under her
feet; it might all come to nothing; but if--
What a good ruler, how considerate of all the needs of her empire she
meant to be! People so often prospectively good in this world; whether
their goodness would come to nothing if they had the power, it is
impossible to tell; but hoping for it, looking forward to it, how good
they mean to be!
That these feelings should exist above stairs, while such very different
emotions were in the minds of the family below, where two deaths had
occurred, as it were, on one day, need not surprise any one. Verna had
been very sorry for the sufferers; but it was not in the nature of
things that she could be more than sorry. Her own affairs were nearest
to her. They and she inhabited different spheres.