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PETER AND JANE
Or The Missing Heir
by
S. MACNAUGHTAN
Author of
'The Fortune of Christina M'nab'
Sixth Edition
Methuen & Co. Ltd.
36 Essex Street W.C.
London
First Issued in this Cheap Form (Fourth
Edition) . . . . . . . . . . . . July 2nd 1914
Fifth Edition . . . . . . . . . . . May 1916
Sixth Edition . . . . . . . . . . . 1919
First Published (Crown 8vo) . . . . September 14th 1911
Second Edition . . . . . . . . . . . September 1911
Third Edition . . . . . . . . . . . November 1911
TO
CATHERINE
PETER AND JANE
CHAPTER I
Mrs. Ogilvie, red-haired according to the exact shade then in fashion,
and dressed by Paquin, sat in her drawing-room reading the _Court
Journal_. She was a woman who thought on the lines of Aristotle,
despised most other women except Charlotte Corday, Judith, Joan of Arc,
and a few more, and she dyed her hair and read the _Court Journal_.
People who did not know her sometimes alluded to her as an overdressed
woman with a wig. Those who had met her even but once admitted the
power of her personality. Perhaps if any one had known her very well
he or she would have been bewildered by the many-sided complexities of
her character, and would have failed to discover any sort of unity
behind its surprising differences. But then, as a matter of fact, no
one did know her well.
Those who cared to remember such an old story used to tell how, as a
girl of eighteen, she had been deeply in love with a cousin of hers,
Greville Monsen by name, and how almost on the eve of her marriage she
had thrown him over and had married Colonel Ogilvie the explorer, a man
twenty years older than herself, with an enormous fortune, and
accounted something of a hero at the time.
Colonel Ogilvie married late in life, and his brother's wife had long
ago decided that it would be better if he should never marry at all.
Mrs. Lionel Ogilvie was an ambitious woman with a fine family of sons
and daughters to whom Colonel Ogilvie's large estates and immense
fortune would have been wholly appropriate. She had always been civil
to her brother-in-law, although the estates and the money were entailed
upon his brother, and she weighed in the balance the disinterested
affection which she showed him against her feeling of satisfaction in
the fact that he was a daring and indefatigable traveller; one,
moreover, who was seldom quite happy unless he was in danger, and who
never thoroughly enjoyed a journey if any other white man had trodden
the ground before he himself visited it.
Mrs. Lionel Ogilvie was indignant at the news of Colonel Ogilvie's
marriage. Being a very wise woman she would probably in time have
controlled her temper, and by a little judicious management she might
have secured a considerable fortune for herself and her children. But,
alas! there was a necessity within her of exploding to some one when,
as in this instance, her heart was hot and her head not quite cool.
And so, with some sense of justice, venting her spleen upon the cause
of it, Mrs. Lionel Ogilvie said certain very unwise and unkind things
about her brother-in-law's fiancée and her cousin, Greville Monsen. Of
course the heated and uncontrolled words of the disappointed woman were
repeated, and there was a terrible and stormy interview between the two
brothers, who parted that same day and never spoke to each other again.
Mrs. Francis Ogilvie bore the character of being a cold and
dispassionate woman. And this was the more remarkable because on the
distaff-side she was of Spanish descent, and might reasonably have been
supposed to have inherited the instincts of that passionate and
hot-tempered nation. She never quarrelled as the brothers had done,
but her eyes narrowed for an instant with a trick that was
characteristic of her when she heard Mrs. Lionel Ogilvie's tale. And
when, in the quieter moments that followed her husband's outburst of
anger, he asked her with a tone of question in his voice whether Lionel
and that odious wife of his could possibly expect to be forgiven, Mrs.
Ogilvie raised her eyebrows and said simply, 'I do not know what
forgiveness means.' She paid no attention to the vulgar gossip which
her sister-in-law tried to attach to her name, and Greville Monsen had
either got over his disappointment, or was sufficiently attached to his
former fiancée to forgive her her treatment of him. He came to the
house on terms of intimate friendship, and continued to do so even
after Mrs. Lionel Ogilvie's busy tongue had spoken.
Mrs. Ogilvie was not affected by gossip, nor moved by public opinion.
To have altered her conduct, even by a hair's-breadth, because it was
not generally approved would have seemed to her an absurdity; but those
who offended her were not given the opportunity of doing so twice. To
have had small quarrels followed by reconciliations would have been
impossible to her. Very few things were worth quarrelling about at
all, still fewer worth forgiving! Mrs. Ogilvie was cynically
indifferent to transgressions against herself; but when she sat in
judgment she always gave a life-sentence.
When Lionel died the feud between the brothers would probably have been
forgotten had it not been for the lamentable fact that his eldest son,
who had grown up into a faithful likeness of his worldly and
commonplace mother, took it into his head at the time of his father's
death to write to his uncle in a way which showed as much greed as
ill-breeding. The foolish young man's letter might have been put into
the fire and forgotten, for Colonel Ogilvie had loved his brother long
ago, and his death affected him deeply; but young Lionel made a mistake
when he referred to the fact that Colonel and Mrs. Ogilvie were
childless, and alluded to his own prospects. This put an end for ever
to all friendly intercourse between the uncle and nephew; Mrs. Ogilvie,
on her part, lifted her eyebrows again and said, 'The commercial mind
is very droll!' But just for one moment she locked her hands together
with an impulsive movement that had a whole life's tragedy and
disappointment in it.
It meant all the world to her and her husband that they should have
children. But Fate, who had prospered them in every other respect, had
denied them what they most desired. A son and heir, who was born a
year after the marriage, had died the same day. Two years later a
little girl was born who lived a few weeks, and then she also died.
Since then there had been no children. Many women would have claimed
sympathy for their sorrow, most women would at least have accepted it.
Mrs. Ogilvie, with her health somewhat impaired, came back to the world
and assumed her place in it without any expressions of regret for her
disappointment. Probably not even her husband knew whether she felt
her loss deeply or not. No one else was ever permitted to speak of it.
Colonel Ogilvie's own disappointment was never expressed. He had too
much tenderness for his wife to say anything about it.
'If ever I am to be a mother again,' Mrs. Ogilvie said once, 'my child
shall be born out of reach of kind inquiries or deep sympathy. If he
lives, let those rejoice with me who will. But pity is always
offensive, and is generally meant to be so.'
As the years came and went Colonel Ogilvie lost interest in his
property, and handed over the care of the greater part of it to agents
and stewards, and came very near to hating the lands which some day
would go to his nephew. A queer restlessness was upon him, and his
wife watched him and said nothing; until one day, seeing him reading a
certain paragraph in a newspaper, she said to him, smiling slightly, as
they stood together on the broad stone terrace at Bowshott, 'Why don't
you go with them on this exploring expedition?'
Colonel Ogilvie protested. He was a married man, he said, and his
travelling days were over. It is probable, however, that never was a
suggestion more welcome. The past years, in spite of his deep love for
his wife, had been full of fret and shadowed by disappointment, and he
longed, with a traveller's intensity of longing, for the wild
untroubled places of the world, the primitive life, and if possible
some dangers on the road. An exploring party sent out by the British
Government to discover a lost missionary and to punish a warlike tribe
was exactly the thing to suit his adventurous disposition. In spirit
he was already in the dangerous places of Central Africa, far from
human habitation, and with very often his own right hand the sole thing
between him and a barbarous death. Even while he protested with
conscientious emphasis against his wife's proposal, he already saw the
dim forests of Africa, the line of bearers on the difficult march, the
tents struck at nightfall, and all the paraphernalia of an interesting
campaign.
He was away for eighteen months, beyond the reach of letters and
telegrams for the greater part of the time; and during his absence Mrs.
Ogilvie, whose health for some months had been feeble, went to her
native land of Spain for warmth and sunshine, travelling by sea to
Lisbon for the sake of the voyage. From her Spanish mother she had
inherited a property at Granada, and it was from there that she was
able to write and tell her husband that she was the mother of a son.
Colonel Ogilvie was in an inaccessible region when that event happened,
and it was not until he was on his return journey home that he heard
the good news. Two years later another child, Peter, was born; and,
ardently as her firstborn had been desired, Mrs. Ogilvie showered by
far the greater part of her affection upon the younger child.
Everything had to give way to Peter, and she resented that even such
baby privileges as a child of tender years can receive were bestowed
upon the elder son and heir. Her health gave cause for anxiety for
some time after Peter was born, and her mental state and the condition
of her nerves accounted for the partiality which she showed for her
younger child.
The colonel, however, was always a little jealous for the fair-haired
boy who had come to his mother while he was far away; and by his will,
which he made at this time, he secured an almost extravagant provision
for Edward. He could well-nigh forgive his nephews now for their
obtrusive existence in the world, and he settled down to enjoy his
property with the happy knowledge that he had two fine sturdy boys to
whom to leave it. He was still in the prime of life, and not all the
dangers and privations which he had suffered seemed to have undermined
his splendid constitution. But a drive home in an open dogcart, after;
speaking in an overheated hall at a political meeting, brought on a
chill and pneumonia of which very suddenly he died. His loss was
sincerely and deeply regretted in a neighbourhood where he was both
admired and loved for his many good qualities, and a monument in
Culversham parish church tells of his excellence as a landlord and his
intrepid courage as an explorer.
Mrs. Ogilvie's health being still precarious, she went abroad for the
winter after her husband's death to look into some matters concerning
her own property, and to try to court health in the sunny vine-growing
country. And there, in a little remote Spanish village by the sea
which she loved to visit, little Edward Ogilvie, the elder of the two
children, died; and not until six years later did Mrs. Ogilvie return
to England. To all outward seeming she was as emotionless and reserved
as she had ever been, and she spoke no word of her double sorrow and
her irreparable loss. Her love for her remaining child never showed
itself in caresses, and was not even discernible in her speech; but in
spite of her reserve there was an undefined feeling in most people's
minds that Mrs. Ogilvie idolized her son. Of the two who were dead no
one ever heard her speak. Whatever she thought of them seemed to be
buried in her heart as deeply as though that heart had been their
graves. And there remained only cheery, popular Peter Ogilvie, with
his mind as open as the day, and not a secret upon his soul, and with
as much reserve as a schoolboy, to inherit the fortune which a prince
might have envied, and a property which was unique in a county rich in
beautiful houses.
The gardens of Bowshott were the admiration of the countryside, and
Mrs. Ogilvie rarely entered them. The picture gallery was visited by
foreigners from every part of the world. Mrs. Ogilvie frequently
showed the works of the great masters herself, strolling along the
polished floor of the gallery, and telling the story of this picture
and that with the inimitable grace of manner which was vaguely resented
by her country neighbours, delighting the distinguished foreigners who
came to see the pictures. She herself hardly ever glanced at the old
masters for her own pleasure; although full of technical knowledge on
the subject she had no love of art. It used to weary her when she had
to listen to enthusiasm, generally only half-sincere, about her
Botticellis or her Raphaels. Music never stirred her, and she regarded
the society of the country neighbourhood where she lived with a sense
of uncomprehension which she sometimes found difficult to conceal.
'Why were such people born?' she used to say to herself at the sight of
some rural gathering. On the rare occasions when she went to a party
she was always the first to leave; boredom seemed to overtake her
before she had been anywhere very long. Entertainments, so-called,
were horribly wearisome to her, and she never for an instant believed
those people who professed to have enjoyed a pleasant party. Parties
were all stupid, she thought; just as most people were stupid, and most
food was badly cooked. Therefore, why meet in somebody else's most
probably hideous room, and eat impossible dishes and talk to impossible
people? Her own chef had been famous even in Paris, and every evening,
according to the custom of the house, an extravagant _menu_ was
prepared, at which, when she was alone, she hardly glanced.
Mrs. Ogilvie discussed all things in heaven or earth with a baffling
lightness, turned philosophy into a witty jest and made a sort of slang
of classical terminology. Amongst a clever set in London she reigned
supreme when she chose; but a false note or a pose offended her
immediately, and the poseur or the insincere person would generally
receive one of her exquisite snubs which cut like acid into tender
skins. The pretentiousness of the so-called cultured set was a
vulgarism in the eyes of this woman who could be rude with the air of a
princess, and could give a snub as some people offer a compliment.
Inferior persons sometimes wondered how she had a friend left. To be
popular, they argued, one had to be civil, whereas Mrs. Ogilvie was
often daringly disagreeable. There was indeed something almost fine in
her splendid disdain of the civility of the so-called popular person.
She could wound; but she did it with the grace of a duellist of old
days, who wiped his rapier with a handkerchief of cambric and lace when
he had killed his opponent, and would probably expect a man to die as
he himself would die, with a jest on his lips and a light laugh at the
flowing blood. Mrs. Ogilvie slew exquisitely, and she never hated her
opponent. She smiled at enthusiasm and thought it bizarre and rather
delightful; but towards vulgarity, especially in its pompous form, she
presented her poniard-point sharply tipped and deadly. 'Why should
people take themselves seriously?' she would say, with a shrug of her
shoulders. 'Surely, we are a common enough species!' And then the
green-grey eyes would narrow themselves in their shortsighted way, and
Mrs. Ogilvie's voice, charmingly refined and well-bred, would with a
few words lightly prick the falsely sentimental and self-inflated
wind-bag of oratory that had presented its unprotected surface to her
shaft.
Towards religion her attitude was the well-bred one. She took off her
hat to it, as a gentleman removes his hat in church whatever his creed
may be. Her own beliefs were as daring and as nearly as possible
uninfluenced by outward opinion or by the accepted systems as it is
possible for a creed to be. She never tried to force them upon any one
else; possibly she did not believe in them herself sufficiently to wish
to do so; but like her queer gowns and her dyed red hair her creed
suited Mrs. Ogilvie. There was a congruous incongruity about her which
set many people puzzling to find out her real character. Pompous
persons and snobs detested her. Stupid or vapid people saw nothing in
her, or saw merely that she dyed her hair and was dressed by Paquin.
Narrow-minded people disapproved of her, and clever people considered
her one of the most striking, if not one of the most agreeable
personalities of the day. Women hardly ever understood her; but they
respected any one who dressed as well as she did, and they had an
undeclared admiration for a woman who could hold so lightly possessions
which they believed to be all-important, and which Mrs. Ogilvie seemed
to find so trivial.
The house and its gardens were open once a week to visitors, and the
country neighbours brought their guests and strangers to see it, their
pleasure in showing off Mrs. Ogilvie's possessions being somewhat
tempered by timidity; while those who came to pay a call on the chance
of finding her at home would sometimes say with an air of courage and
independence to a friend, 'Mrs. Ogilvie is considered rather alarming,
you know, but it really is only her manner.' She played her part as
country neighbour conscientiously. Once a year she gave a sumptuous
garden-party, all other garden-parties in the neighbourhood being dated
by it. And when Peter was a little boy there were children asked to
the house to play games with him, and later there were dances and balls.
Peter accepted his mother, his property, and his position on what he
himself would probably have called their most cheery side. He valued
Bowshott because there was excellent hunting to be got there; just as
he loved his place in Scotland because of the stalking and the fishing
and the shooting, but that they were magnificent or enviable never
entered his head. Fate had dealt very kindly with him, and its
kindliness had provoked a charming geniality in the character of the
young man whom it had treated with such lavish good fortune. Taking it
all round, Peter considered this world an excellent one, and most of
the people in it very good sorts indeed. He accepted his mother as he
accepted everything else, with a simple-heartedness which never looked
below the surface nor concerned itself with motives; and if any one had
suggested to him that she was inexplicable he would have considered
such a judgment quite unintelligible. He enjoyed a visit to her more
than almost anything else in the world. She had always been devoted to
him ever since he was a boy, and for the life of him he could not see
that she was difficult to understand.
It was the fashion to say that Mrs. Ogilvie had altered greatly since
the death of Colonel Ogilvie and the little boy. People who remembered
all the circumstances of that sad time thought always that in her own
way Mrs. Ogilvie was the victim of remorse for not having loved her
dead child better. But, after all, there was nothing that a child of
three or four years old could have felt seriously in his mother's
conduct, and his father's affection must have consoled him for any
coldness on her part. After the colonel's death there were those who
said it would have been better if Mrs. Ogilvie had married again, or
even if she had had a daughter--some one who would have been always at
home, and who, to use the common phrase, might have taken Mrs. Ogilvie
out of herself. Peter was too much away from home to be a real
companion to his mother, and there were never guests at Bowshott unless
he was there. It would surely have been in reason if the widow had
taken a fancy to some nice girl and had had her to live in the house.
But Mrs. Ogilvie did not take fancies to nice girls. She loved Jane
Erskine, but disguised the feeling under a sort of whimsical
indifference. And the friendship seemed incongruous enough if one came
to think of it. Jane, with her wholesome love of outdoor life, her
fresh beauty, her heedlessness of learning and ignorance of books--what
had Jane in common with Mrs. Ogilvie in her Parisian gowns and with her
dyed hair, sitting in the vast drawing-room at Bowshott reading the
_Court Journal_ and thinking on the lines of the speculative
philosophers?
And even to Jane Erskine her manner was cold. Her chilling philosophy
would soon have quenched a less happy and impulsive nature. No one but
Jane would have bothered her head about Mrs. Ogilvie, the kindly
neighbours said, envying, nevertheless, the girl's intimacy at the
great house. But as a matter of fact Jane expended a wealth of honest
affection on Mrs. Ogilvie, and not only thought her the cleverest woman
she had ever met, but had even been heard to affirm that her hair was
not dyed. She called her 'such a really good sort'; and the words were
as inappropriate as the words of Peter Ogilvie and Jane Erskine usually
were.