The Gowdy family was jogging slowly down the valley, which looked
brilliant in the early morning. The impetuous river raced alongside
its companion, a steady, rutty road, twisting and swirling, foaming
and flashing, rippling under rowan-beeches and tossing between great
boulders its white locks on high. Maggie and the river had one impulse
in common: they were both eager to escape from the glen; one drawn
by the world--the other by the sea. Halfway to the highway the party
encountered a boy with a telegram in his hand, which he held up as he
announced:
"It's for Mistress Gowdy."
A horrible idea instantly occurred to the four travellers--it might
contain something to put an end to their prospects! Telegrams in their
experience invariably brought tidings of ruin, accidents or death.
"Give it here," cried Mrs. Gowdy in a hoarse key.
"There'll be six shillings to pay!"
"Yer daft!" screamed the thrifty matron, "yer telling a lee."
"It's no lee--it's the post-office, and I came awa' at six this
morning. If yer going yonder ye can ask. But ye mun pay me the noo."
"Then giv it to me," said Mrs. Gowdy, and with tremulous fingers she
tore open the envelope and read aloud:
"Hope you received letter respecting Mrs. James Gowdy's death and
are coming to London immediately. Telegraph reply.--MIDDLEMASS."
"Oh, well"--with a sigh of relief--"so it's all right. But sax
shillings--to think of it!" and to tell the truth, for the remainder of
the drive (such is the force of habit), those poor six shillings had
a more prominent position in Jean Gowdy's thoughts than the splendid
prospect of thousands of pounds.
The very next forenoon a four-wheeled cab drove up to the office of
Middlemass and Son, and from it descended the Gowdy party--who, after a
long and protracted altercation with the cabman, dismissed him routed
and grumbling, and then proceeded to enter the office, and present
themselves to their man of business.
The widow in her decent black, her sons, with clever Scotch faces and
the hands of hard-working men--clad in homespun and embarrassment,
the daughter gay and complacent, with sparkling eyes and red cheeks,
arrayed in a sailor hat and a gown of hunting tartan. Yes, they had
all come with one consent to enter on their inheritance. Their papers
were duly produced, and found to be in order--marriage and baptismal
certificates had been registered in proper form, but the family were
not prepared for the law's delays, and certain irritating formalities
which must ensue before they could seize upon the Gowdy fortune. Mr.
Middlemass soon realised that in Mrs. Andy Gowdy he had to deal with a
sharp and capable woman of business. Her mind was clear; her questions
were to the point, and she soon laid bare the fact that Miss Chandos
was, to all purposes, now living luxuriously in a grand hotel, at their
expense!
"She will, of course, leave after the funeral to-morrow," explained the
attorney in a tone of apology, "I believe the suite was taken by the
week."
For the Gowdys themselves, rooms were engaged at a temperance hotel--a
sum of money was advanced for present expenses and mourning, and that
night, for the first time in their lives, they dined under the glare of
electric light, and were waited upon by brisk Germans.
The funeral of Madame de Godez was a pitiful affair for a woman who
had such an immense circle of notable friends. There were only three
mourning coaches, three private carriages, and about a dozen cheap
wreaths.
The heirs-at-law occupied the first coach (and had never before
driven behind a pair of horses). Verona and Mrs. Melville occupied the
second vehicle, the doctor and man of business the third; the private
carriages were empty!
At the cemetery the Gowdys for the first time beheld Miss Chandos. She
was tall, and wore a long, black veil, and really appeared to be in
grief!
They stood at opposite sides of the open grave--the penniless adopted
daughter, with her air of refinement and delicate breeding, and the
rough-looking farmer folk who were now so wealthy. The same afternoon
Mrs. Gowdy and her family made a formal call upon the girl they had so
unexpectedly supplanted, and were shown into a luxurious sitting-room,
for which, whilst they waited, Maggie remarked, "they were paying good
money."
In a few minutes Miss Chandos entered, unveiled. Her personality
was so striking that Mrs. Gowdy so far forgot herself as to stand
up and drop a half-curtsey, but Maggie never moved, merely sat and
stared impassively. What was it, she wondered, that made this girl
so different to herself? Her low voice, her long white throat, the
delicacy of her hands, the natural dignity of her movements! Miss
Chandos had something that she could never possess, and that never
could be taken from her! Maggie realised the fact, with an increasing
degree of stolid hatred.
"It is very kind of you to come and see me, Mrs. Gowdy," said the girl
gently.
"Oh, well, we thought we would just call for you, as we are idle folk
the noo--and see what like ye wer! It will be a sore change for ye, I'm
thinking," she added.
"Yes, it was very sudden."
"And she made no will--nor left you a penny piece."
"No; but she meant to do so."
"There's justice in the Lord's sight!" declared this daughter of the
Covenanters with a lifted hand, "and He cut her off before she could
will the whole of my children's heritage to a stranger!"
This was not a gracious speech. Her listener coloured vividly, but made
no reply.
"I'm real sorry for you, but you have had a good day and a fine
education, and I suppose ye have gran' acquaintance?"
"Yes, I have some friends."
"And ye have plans, maybe?"
"Yes; I shall remain with Mrs. Melville for a time, and then join my
own family in India."
"Oh, so you are an Indian!" exclaimed Mrs. Gowdy. "Well, to think of
that, now, and you so fair! Mrs. James, I've always heard, was awfu'
swarthy."
"My parents are English. I was brought home when I was quite small."
"Aye, aye; so ye were," assented her visitor. "I mind it all. Mr.
Middlemass has been talking to me, and he wants us to make you an
allowance. But you have your own folk, and I see no call to that!"
Verona was about to speak. "Whist, now," interrupted her visitor, "of
course your clothes and jewels and presents are your own." Then she
paused and added: "Mrs. James Gowdy had gran' gowns and laces and
diamonds, and her belongings will be coming to _me_." Verona assented
with a bow. "I've agreed to pay your passage out, and give you three
hundred pounds."
Verona could not immediately trust her voice. She would have rejoiced
to decline this liberal charity, but was keenly aware that it would be
her sole means of joining her parents.
Should she refuse the dole? "No," urged common-sense, "accept the
crumb." And again she bowed in acquiescence.
Maggie, who had never once opened her lips, sat glowering at this
English girl with a gaze of hard enmity, endeavouring to impress on her
memory her manner of doing her hair, of moving, speaking and looking.
Yes, she might for all the world be some great lady, and yet she was
nothing but a beggar, on whom her mother had just bestowed a fortune.
"And now I think we must be going," said Mrs. Gowdy as she rose
stiffly, shook out her gown, and offered a large, black-gloved member,
the fingers of which were at least an inch too long.
Jean Gowdy was a kind-hearted, motherly soul, and as she held Verona's
hand she squeezed it and said:
"Good-bye, miss; I know it's an awful come-down for you, and an uprise
for _us_. You have a lucky face, and I wish you well."
Maggie merely bestowed a quick nod of condescension, the two men a
couple of admiring stares as they shuffled out of the room in the wake
of their women-folk.
Exit the Gowdys! Their accession to wealth, their sudden emergence from
obscurity to social prominence, the success of Jock and the marriage of
Maggie would fill a volume, and this history is exclusively concerned
with the affairs and fortunes of another family.