Happiest of all, in that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed.
Merchant of Venice.
“It is our melancholy duty to record the demise of James Barnes, Esq.,
which took place at his residence at Belforest Park, near Kenminster,
on the 20th of December. The lamented gentleman had long been in failing
health, and an attack of paralysis, which took place on the 19th,
terminated fatally. The vast property which the deceased had
accumulated, chiefly by steamboat and railway speculations in the West
Indies, rendered him one of the richest proprietors in the county.
We understand that the entire fortune is bequeathed solely to his
grand-niece, Mrs. Caroline Otway Brownlow, widow of the late Joseph
Brownlow, Esq., and at present resident in the Pagoda, Kenminster Hill.
Her eldest son, Allen Brownlow, Esq., is being educated at Eton.”
That was the paragraph which David Ogilvie placed before the eyes of
his sister in a newspaper lent to him in the train by a courteous
fellow-traveller.
“Poor Caroline!” said Mary.
They said no more till the next day, when, after the English service at
Florence, they were strolling together towards San Miniato, and feeling
themselves entirely alone.
“I wonder whether this is true,” began Mary at last.
“Why not true?”
“I thought Mr. Barnes had threatened the boys that they should remember
the Midas escapade.”
“It must have been only a threat. It could only lie between her and
the Spanish child; and, if report be true, even the half would be an
enormous fortune.”
“Will it be fortune or misfortune, I wonder?”
“At any rate, it puts an end to my chances of being of any service to
her. Be it the half or the whole, she is equally beyond my reach.”
“As she was before.”
“Don’t misinterpret me, Mary. I mean out of reach of helping her in any
way. I was of little use to her before. I could not save little Armine
from those brutal bullies, and never suspected the abuse that engulphed
Bobus. I am not fit for a schoolmaster.”
“To tell the truth, I doubt whether you have enough high spirits or
geniality.”
“That’s the very thing! I can’t get into the boys, or prevent
their thinking me a Don. I had hoped there was improvement, but the
revelations of the half-year have convinced me that I knew just nothing
at all about it.”
“Have you thought what you will do?”
“As soon as I get home, I shall send in my notice of resignation at
Midsummer. That will see out her last boy, if he stays even so long.”
“And then?”
“I shall go for a year to a theological college, and test my fitness to
offer myself for Holy Orders.”
A look of satisfaction on his sister’s part made him add, “Perhaps you
were disappointed that I was not ordained on my fellowship seven years
ago.”
“Certainly I was; but I was in Russia, and I thought you knew best, so I
said nothing.”
“You were right. You would only have heard what would have made you
anxious. Not that there was much to alarm you, but it is not good for
any one to be left so entirely without home influences as I was all the
time you spent abroad. I fell among a set of daring talkers, who thought
themselves daring thinkers; and though the foundations were never
disturbed with me, I was not disposed to bind myself more closely to
what might not bear investigation, and I did not like the aspect of
clerical squabbles on minutiae. There was a tide against the life that
carried me along with it, half from sound, half from unsound, motives,
and I shrank from the restraint, outward and inward.”
“Very likely it was wise, and the best thing in the end. But what has
brought you to it?”
“I hope not as the resource of a shelved schoolmaster.”
“Oh, no; you are not shelved. See how you have improved the school. Look
at the numbers.”
“That is no test of my real influence over the boys. I teach them, I
keep them in external order, but I do not get into them. The religious
life is at a low ebb.”
“No wonder, with that vicar; but you have done your best.”
“Even if my attempts are a layman’s best, they always get quenched by
the cold water of the Rigby element. It is hard for boys to feel the
reality of what is treated with such business-like indifference, and set
forth so feebly, not to say absurdly.”
“I know. It is a terrible disadvantage.”
“Listening to Rigby, has, I must say, done a good deal to bring about my
present intention.”
“By force of contradiction.”
“If that means of longing to be in his place and put the thing as it
ought to be put.”
“It is a contradiction in which I most sincerely rejoice, David,” she
said; “one of the wishes of my heart fulfilled when I had given it up.”
“You do not know that it will be fulfilled.”
“I think it will, though you are right to take time, in case the
decision should be partly due to disappointment.”
“If there can be disappointment where hope has never existed. But if
a man finds he can’t have his great good, it may make him look for the
greater.”
Mary sighed a mute and thankful acquiescence.
“The worst of it is about you, Mary. It is throwing you over just as you
were coming to make me a home.”
“Never mind, Davie. It is only deferred, and at any rate we can keep
together till Midsummer. Then I can go out again for a year or two, and
perhaps you will settle somewhere where the curate’s sister could get a
daily engagement.”
The next day they found the following letter at the post office:--
“The Folly, Jan. 3rd.
“My Dear Mary,--I suppose you may have attained the blessed realms that
lie beyond the borders of Gossip, and may not have heard the nine days’
wonder that Belforest had descended on the Folly, and that poor old Mr.
Barnes has left his whole property to me. My dear, it would be something
awful even if he had done his duty and halved it between Elvira and
me, and he has ingeniously tied it up with trustees so as to make
restitution impossible. As it is, my income will be not less than forty
thousand pounds a year, and when divided among the children they will
all be richer than perhaps is good for them.
“And now, my dear old dragon, will you come and keep me in order under
the title of governess to Barbara and Elvira? For, of course, the child
will go on living with us, and will have it made up to her as far as
possible. You know that I shall do all manner of foolish things, but
I think they will be rather fewer if you will only come and take me in
hand. My trustees are the Colonel and an old solicitor, and will both
look after the estate; but as for the rest, all that the Colonel can say
is, that it is a frightful responsibility, and her Serene Highness is
awe-struck. I could not have conceived that such a thing could have made
so much difference in so really good a woman. Now I don’t think you will
be subject to gold dust in the eyes, and, I believe, you will still see
the same little wild goose, or stormy petrel, that you used to bully at
Bath, and will be even more willing to perform the process. As I should
have begun by saying, on the very first evening Babie showed her sense
by proposing you as governess, and you were unanimously elected in full
and free parliament. It really was the child’s own thought and proposal,
and what I want is to have those two children made wiser and better
than I can make them, as well as that you should be the dear comrade and
friend I need more than ever. You will see more of your brother than you
could otherwise, for Belforest will be our chief home, and I need not
say how welcome he will always be there. It is not habitable at present,
so I mean to stay on in the Folly till Easter, and then give Janet the
London lectures and classes she has been raving for these two years, and
take Jessie also for music lessons, if she can be spared.
“I’m afraid it is a come down for a finisher like you to condescend to
my little Babie, but she is really worth teaching, and I would say, make
your own terms, but that I am afraid you would not ask enough. Please
let it be one hundred and fifty pounds, there’s a good Mary! I think
you would come if you knew what a relief it would be. Ever since that
terrible August, two years and a half ago, I have felt as if I were
drifting in an endless mist, with all the children depending on me, and
nobody to take my hand and lead me. You are one of the straws I grasp
at. Not very complimentary after all, but when I thought of the strong,
warm, guiding hands that are gone, I could not put it otherwise. Do,
Mary, come, I do need you so.
“Your affectionate
“C. O. BROWNLOW.”
“May I see it?” asked David.
“If you will; but I don’t think it will do you any good. My poor Carey!”
“Few women would have written such a letter in all the first flush of
wealth.”
“No; there’s great sweetness and humility and generosity in it, dear
child.”
“It changes the face of affairs.”
“I’m engaged to you.”
“Nonsense! As if that would stand in the way. Besides, she will be at
Kenminster till Easter. You are not hesitating, Mary?”
“I don’t think I am, and yet I believe I ought to do so.”
“You are not imagining that I--”
“I was not thinking of you; but I am not certain that it would not be
better for our old friendship if I did not accept the part poor Carey
proposes to me. I might make myself more disagreeable than could be
endured by forty thousand a year.”
“You do yourself and her equal injustice.”
“I shall settle nothing till I have seen her.”
“Then you will be fixed,” he said, in a tone of conviction.
So she expected, though believing that it would be the ruin of her
pleasant old friendship. Her nineteen years of governess-ship had shown
her more of the shady side of high life than was known to her brother or
her friend. She knew that, whatever the owner may be at the outset,
it is the tendency of wealth and power to lead to arbitrariness and
impatience of contradiction and censure, and to exact approval
and adulation. Even if Caroline Brownlow’s own nature should, at
five-and-thirty, be too much confirmed in sweetness and generosity to
succumb to such temptation, her children would only too probably resent
any counter-influence, and set themselves against their mother’s
friend, and guide, under the title of governess. Moreover, Mary was
too clear-sighted not to feel that there was a lack in the Brownlow
household of what alone could give her confidence in the charming
qualities of its mistress. Yet she knew that her brother would never
forgive her for refusing, and that she should hardly forgive herself for
following--not so much her better, as her more prudent, judgment. For
she was infinitely touched and attracted by that warmhearted letter,
and could not bear to meet it with a refusal. She hoped, for a time at
least, to be a comfort, and to make suggestions, with some chance
of being attended to. Such aid seemed due from the old friendship at
whatever peril thereto, and she would leave her final answer till she
should see whether her friend’s letter had been written only on the
impulse of the moment, and half retracted immediately after.
The brother and sister crossed the Channel at night, and arrived at
Kenminster at noon, on a miserably wet day. At the station they were
met by Jock and a little yellow dog. His salutation, as he capped his
master, was--
“Please, mother sent me up to see if you were come by this train,
because if you’d come to early dinner, she would be glad, because
there’s a builder or somebody coming with Uncle Robert about the repairs
afterwards. Mother sent the carriage because of the rain. I say, isn’t
it jolly cats and dogs?”
Mary was an old traveller, who could sleep anywhere, and had made her
toilet on landing, so as to be fresh and ready; but David was yellow
and languid enough to add force to his virtuous resolution to take no
advantage of the invitation, but leave his sister to settle her affairs
her own way, thinking perhaps she might trust his future discretion the
more for his present abstinence, so he went off in the omnibus. Jock,
with the unfailing courtesy of the Brood, handed Miss Ogilvie into a
large closed waggonette, explaining, “We have this for the present, and
a couple of job horses; but Uncle Robert is looking out for some
real good ones, and ponies for all of us. I am going over with him to
Woolmarston to-morrow to try some.”
It was said rather magnificently, and Mary answered, “You must be glad
to get back into the Belforest grounds.”
“Ain’t we? It was just in time for the skating,” said Jock. “Only the
worst of it is, everybody will come to the lake, and so mother won’t
learn to skate. We thought we had found a jolly little place in the
wood, where we could have had some fun with her, but they found it out,
though we halloed as loud as ever we could to keep them off.”
“Can your mother skate?”
“No, you see she never had a chance at home. Father was so busy, and we
were so little; but she’d learn. Mother Carey can learn anything, if
one could hinder her Serene Highness from pitching into her. I say,
Miss Ogilvie, you’ll give her leave to skate, won’t you?” he asked in an
insinuating tone.
“I give her leave!”
“She always says she’ll ask you when we want her to be jolly and not
mind her Serene Highness.”
Mary avoided pledging herself, and Jock’s attention was diverted to the
dog, who was rising on his hind legs, vainly trying to look out of the
window; and his history, told with great gusto by Jock, lasted till they
reached home.
The drawing-room was full of girls about their lessons as usual--sums,
exercises, music, and grammar all going on at once! but Caroline put an
end to them, and sent the Kencroft party home at once in the carriage.
“So you have not dropped the old trade?” said Mary.
“I couldn’t. Ellen is not strong enough yet to have the children on her
hands all day. I said I’d be responsible for them till Easter, and
I dare say you won’t mind helping me through it as the beginning of
everything. Will you condescend? You know I want to be your pupil too.”
“You can be no one’s pupil but your own, my dear! no one’s on earth, I
mean.”
“Oh, don’t! I know that, Mary. I’m trying and trying to be their pupil
still. Indeed I am! It makes me patient of Robert, and his fearful
responsibility, and his good little sister, to know that my husband
always thought him right, and meant him to look after me. But as one
lives on, those dear voices seem to get farther and farther away, as if
one was drifting more out of reach in the fog. I do hate myself for it,
but I can’t help it.”
“Is there not a voice that can never go out of reach, and that brings
you nearer to them?”
“You dear old Piety, Prudence, and Charity all in one! That is if you
have the charity to come and infuse a little of your piety and prudence
into me. You know you could always make me mind you, and you’ll make
me--what is it that Mrs. Coffinkey says?--a credit to my position before
you’ve done. I’ve had your room got ready; won’t you come and take off
your things?”
“I think, if you don’t object, I had better sleep at the schoolhouse,
and come up here after David’s breakfast.”
“Very well; I won’t try to rob him of you more than can be helped.
Though you know he would be welcome here every evening if he liked.”
“Thank you very much, I can help him more at home; but I’ll come for the
whole day, for I am sure you must have a great deal on your hands.”
“Well! I’ve almost as many classes as pupils, and then there are so many
interruptions. The Colonel is always bringing something to be signed,
and then people will come and offer themselves, though I’m sure I never
asked them. Yesterday there was a stupendous butler and house-steward
who could also act as courier, and would do himself the honour of
arranging my household in a truly ducal style. Just as I got rid of him,
came a man with a future history of the landed gentry in quest of my
coat of arms and genealogy, also three wine merchants, a landscape
gardener, and a woman with a pitcher of goldfish. Emma is so soft
she thinks everybody is a gentleman. I am trying to get the good old
man-servant we had in our old home to come and defend me; not that he
is old, for he was a boy whom Joe trained. Oh Mary, the bewilderment
of it!” and she pushed back the little stray curly rings of hair on her
forehead, while a peal at the bell was heard and a card was brought in.
“Oh! Emma! don’t bring me any more! Is it a gentleman?”
“Y--es, ma’am. Leastways it is a clergyman.”
The clergyman turned out to be a Dissenting minister seeking
subscriptions, and he was sent off with a sovereign.
“I know it was very weak,” she said; “but it was the only way to stop
his mouth, and I must have time to talk to you, so don’t begin your
mission by scolding me.”
Terms were settled; Mary would remain at the schoolhouse, but daily
come to the Pagoda till the removal to London, when her residence was to
begin in earnest.
She took up her line from the first as governess, dropping her friend’s
Christian name, and causing her pupils to address herself as Miss
Ogilvie, a formality which was evidently approved by Mrs. Robert
Brownlow, and likewise by Janet.
That young lady was wonderfully improved by prosperity. She had lost
her caustic manner and air of defiance, so that her cleverness and
originality made her amusing instead of disagreeable. She piqued herself
on taking her good fortune sensibly, and, though fully seventeen,
professed not to know or care whether she was out or not, but threw
herself into hard study, with a view to her classes, and gladly availed
herself of Miss Ogilvie’s knowledge of foreign languages.
Mrs. Coffinkey supposed that she would be presented at court with her
dear mamma; but she laughed at courts and ceremonies, and her mother
said that the first presentation in the family would be of Allen’s wife
when he was a member of parliament. But Janet was no longer at war with
Kenminster. She laughed good-humouredly, and was not always struggling
for self-assertion, since the humiliations of going about as the poor,
plain cousin of the pretty Miss Brownlow were over. Now that she was the
rich Miss Brownlow, she was not likely to feel that she was the plain
one.
The sense of exile was over when the house in London was taken, and so
Janet could afford to be kind to Kenminster; and she was like the Janet
of old times, without her slough of captious disdain. Even then there
was a sense that the girl was not fathomed; she never seemed to pour out
her inner self, but only to talk from the surface, and certainly not to
have any full confidence with her mother--nay, rather to hold her cheap.
Mary Ogilvie detected this disloyal spirit, and was at a loss whether
to ascribe it to modern hatred of control, to the fact that Caroline had
been in her old home more like the favourite child than the mother, or
to her own eager naturalness of demeanour, and total lack of assumption.
She was anything but weak, yet she could not be dignified, and was
quite ready to laugh at herself with her children. Janet could hardly
be overawed by a mother who had been challenged by her own gamekeeper
creeping down a ditch, with the two Johns, to see a wild duck on her
nest, and with her hat half off, and her hair disordered by the bushes.
The “Folly” laughed till its sides ached at the adventure, and Caroline
asked Mary if she were not longing to scold her.
“No, I think you will soon grow more cautious about getting into
ridiculous positions.”
“Isn’t laughing a wholesome pastime?”
“Not when it is at those who ought to be looked up to.”
“Oh! I’m not made to be looked up to. I’m not going to be a hero to my
valet de chambre, or to anybody else, my dear, if that’s what you want
of me!”
Mary secretly hoped that a little more dignity would come in the London
life, and was relieved when the time came for the move. The new abode
was a charming house, with the park behind it, and the space between
nearly all glass. Great ferns, tall citrons, fragrant shrubs, brilliant
flowers, grew there; a stone-lined pool, with water-lilies above,
gold-fish below, and a cool, sparkling, babbling fountain in the middle.
There was an open space round it, with low chairs and tables, and the
parrot on her perch. Indeed, Popinjay Parlour was the family title of
this delightful abode; but it might almost as well have been called
Mother Carey’s bower. Here, after an audience with the housekeeper,
who was even more overpowering than her Serene Highness, would Caroline
retreat to write notes, keep accounts, and hear Armine’s lessons, secure
before luncheon from all unnecessary interruption; and here was her
special afternoon and evening court.
This first summer she was free to take her own course as to society, for
Janet cared for the Cambridge examination far more than for gaiety, and
thus she had no call, and no heart for “going out,” even if she had as
yet been more known. Some morning calls were exchanged, but she sent
refusals on mourning cards to invitations to evening parties, though she
took her young people to plays, concerts, and operas, and all that was
pleasant. Her young people included Jessie. Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow
made her a visit as soon as she was settled, and were so much edified
by the absence of display and extravagance, that they did not scruple to
trust their daughter to her for the long-desired music-lessons.
Caroline had indeed made no attempt to win her way into the great world;
but she had brought together as much as possible of the old society
of her former home. On two evenings in the week, the habitues of Joe
Brownlow’s house were secure of finding her either in the drawing-room
or conservatory; beautiful things, and new books and papers on the
tables, good music on the piano, sometimes acted charades, or paper
games, according to the humour or taste of the party. If she had been
a beautiful duchess, Popinjay Parlour would have been a sort of salon
bleu; but it was really a kind of paradise to a good many clever,
hardworked men and women. Those of the upper world, such as Kenminster
county folks, old acquaintances of her husband, or natural adherents of
Midas, who found their way to these receptions, either thought them odd
but charming, or else regretted that Mrs. Brownlow should get such queer
people together, and turn Hyde Corner House into another Folly.
Mary Ogilvie enjoyed, but not without misgivings. It was delightful,
and yet, what with Joe Brownlow and his mother had been guarded, might
become less safe with no leader older or of more weight than Carey, who
could easily be carried along by what they would have checked. The older
and more intimate friends always acted as a wholesome restraint; but
when they were not present there was sometimes a tone that jarred on
the reverent ear, or dealt with life and its mysteries in a sneering,
mocking style. This was chiefly among new-comers, introduced by former
acquaintances, and it never went far; but Mary was distressed by seeing
Janet’s relish for such conversation. Nita Ray was the chief female
offender in this way, and this was the more unfortunate as Sunday was
her only free day.
Those Sundays vexed Mary’s secret soul. No one interfered with her way
of spending them; but that was the very cause of misgiving. Everybody
went to Church in the morning, but just where, and as, they pleased,
meeting at luncheon, with odd anecdotes of their adventures, and
criticisms of music or of sermons. It was an easy-going meal, lasting
long, and haunted by many acquaintances, for whose sake the table was
always at its full length, and spread with varieties of delicacies that
would endure waiting.
People dropped in, helped themselves, ate and drank, and then adjourned
to Popinjay Parlour, where the afternoon was spent in an easy-going,
loitering way, more like a foreign than an English Sunday. Miss Ogilvie
used to go to the Litany at one of the Churches near; Armine always came
with her, and often brought Babie, and Jessie came too, as soon as that
good girl had swallowed the fact that the Litany could stand alone.
Janet was apt to be walking with Nita, or else in some eager and
amusing conversation in the conservatory; and as to Elvira, she was the
prettiest, most amusing plaything that Mrs. Brownlow’s house afforded, a
great favourite, and a continual study to the artist friends. Mary used
to find her chattering, coquetting, and romping on coming in to the
afternoon tea, which she would fain have herself missed; but that her
absence gave pain, and as much offence as one so kind as Mrs. Brownlow
could take.
Carey argued that most of her guests were people who seldom had leisure
to enjoy rest, conversation, and variety of pretty things, and that it
would be mere Puritan crabbedness to deny them the pleasures of Popinjay
Parlour on the only day they could be happy there. It was not easy to
answer the argument, though the strong feeling remained that it was
not keeping Sunday as the true Lord’s Day. While abstinence from such
enjoyments created mere negative dulness, there must be something wrong.
Otherwise, Mary was on the happiest terms, made her own laws and duties,
and was treated like a sister by Caroline, while the children were
heartily fond of her, all except Elvira, who made a fierce struggle
against her authority, and then, finding that it was all in vain,
conformed as far as her innate idleness and excitability permitted.
She behaved better to Miss Ogilvie than to Janet, with whom she kept up
a perpetual petty warfare, sometimes, Mary thought, with the pertinacity
of a spiteful elf, making a noise when Janet wanted quiet, losing no
opportunity of upsetting her books or papers, and laughing boisterously
at any little mishap that befell her. The only reason she ever gave
when pushed hard, was that “Janet was so ugly, she could not help it,” a
reason so utterly ridiculous, that there was no going any further.
Janet, on the whole, behaved much better under the annoyance than could
have been expected. She entered enough into the state of affairs to see
that the troublesome child could hardly be expelled, and she was too
happy and too much amused to care much about the annoyance. There was
magnanimity enough about her not to mind midge bites, and certainly this
summer was exceptionally delightful with all the pleasures of wealth,
and very few of its drawbacks.
By the time the holidays were coming round, Belforest was not half
habitable, and they had to return to the Pagoda. A tenant had been found
for it, and such of the old furniture as was too precious to be parted
with was to be removed to Belforest. Things were sufficiently advanced
there for the rooms to be chosen, and orders given as to the decoration
and furniture, and then, gathering up her sons, Caroline meant to start
for the Rhine, Switzerland, and Italy. Old nurse was settled in a small
pair of rooms, with Emma to wait on her, and promises from Jessie to
attend to her comforts; but the old woman had failed so much in their
absence, and had fretted so much after “Mrs. Joseph” and the children,
that it was hard to leave her again.
Everything that good taste and wealth could do to make a place
delightful was at work. The “butcher’s shop” was relegated to a dim
corner of the gallery, and its place supplied from the brushes of the
artists whom Caroline viewed with loving respect; the drawing-room was
renovated, a forlorn old library resuscitated into vigorous life, a
museum fitted with shelves, drawers, and glass cases which Caroline said
would be as dangerous to the vigorous spirit of natural history as new
clothes to a Brownie, and a billiard and gun room were ceded to the
representations of Allen, who comported himself as befitted the son and
heir.
Caroline would not part with her room-mate, little Barbara, and was to
have for herself a charming bedroom and dressing-room, with a balcony
and parapet overlooking the garden and park, and a tiny room besides,
for Babie to call her own.
Janet chose the apartments which had been Mr. Barnes’, and which being
in the oldest part of the house, and wainscoted with dark oak, she could
take possession of at once. There was one room down stairs with very
ugly caryatides, supporting the wooden mantelpiece, and dividing the
panels, one of which had a secret door leading by an odd little stair to
the bedroom above--that in which Mr. Barnes had died.
It had of course another door opening into the corridor, and it was
on these rooms that Janet set her affections. To the general surprise,
Elvira declared that this was the very room she had chosen, with the red
velvet curtains and gold crown, the day they went over the house, and
that Mother Carey had promised it to her, and she would have it.
No one could remember any such promise, and the curtains of crimson
moreen did not answer Elfie’s description; but she would not be denied,
and actually put all her possessions into the room.
Janet, without a word, quietly turned them out into the passage, and
Elfie flew into one of those furious kicking and screaming passions
which always ended in her being sent to bed. Caroline felt quite shaken
by it, but stood firm, though, as she said, it went to her heart to deny
the child who ought to have had equal shares with herself, and she would
have been thankful if Janet would have given way.
Of this, however, Janet had no thoughts, strong in the conviction that
the child could not make the same reasonable use of the fittings of the
room as she could herself, and by no means disposed not “to seek her
own.”
She had numerous papers, notes of lectures, returned essays from her
society, and the like to dispose of, and she rejoiced in placing them in
the compartments of the great bureau, in the lower room. The lawyers had
cleared all before her, and the space was delightful. All personals must
have been carried off by the servants as perquisites, for she found no
traces of the former occupant till she came to a little bed-side table.
The drawer was not locked, but did not open without difficulty, being
choked with notes and letters in envelopes, directed to J. Barnes,
Esquire. This perhaps accounted for the drawer not having been observed
and emptied. Janet shook the contents out into a basket, and was going
to take them to her uncle, but thought it could do no harm first to see
whether there were anything curious or interesting in them.
Several were receipted bills; but then she came to her mother’s
handwriting, and read her conciliatory note, which whetted her
curiosity; and looking further she got some amusement out of the polite
notes and offers of service, claims to old family friendship, and
congratulations which had greeted Mr. Barnes, and he had treated with
grim disregard.
Presently, thrust into an envelope with another letter, and written on
a piece of note-paper, was something that made her start as if at the
sting of a viper. No! it could not be a will! She knew what wills were
like. They were sheets of foolscap, written by lawyers, while this was
only an old man’s cramped and crooked writing. Perhaps, when he was in
a rage, he had so far carried out his threat, that Allen should remember
King Midas as to make a rough draft of a will, leaving everything to
Elvira de Menella, for there at the top was the date, plainly visible,
the very April when the confession had been made. But no doubt he had
never carried out his purpose so far as to get it legally drawn out and
attested. As Mr. Richards had said, he had never been in health to take
any active measures, and probably he had rested satisfied with this
relief to his feelings.
Should she show it to her mother and uncle, and let them know their
narrow escape? No. Mother Carey and Allen made quite fuss enough already
about that little vixen, and if they discovered how nearly she had been
the sole heiress, they would be far worse. Besides, her mother might
have misgivings, as to this unhappy document being morally though not
legally, binding. Suppose she were seized with a fit of generosity,
and gave all up! or even half. Elfie, the little shrew, to have equal
rights! The sweets of wealth only just tasted to be resigned, and the
child, overweening enough already, to be set in their newly-gained
place!
The sagacity of seventeen decided that mother had better not be worried
about it for her own sake, and that of everyone else. So what was to
be done. No means of burning it were at hand, and to ask for them might
excite suspicion. The safest way was to place it in one of the drawers
of the bureau, lock it up, and keep the key.