Next day there was a great concourse of people at Highcourt, disturbing
the echoes which had lain so silent during that week of gloom. Carriages
with the finest blazons, quartered and coronetted; men of the greatest
importance, peers, and those commoners who hold their heads higher than
any recent peers--M.P.’s; the lord-lieutenant and his deputy, everything
that was noted and eminent in those parts. The procession was endless,
sweeping through the park towards the fine old thirteenth-century church
which made the village notable, and in which the Trevanion chantry,
though a century later in date, was the finest part; though the dark
opening in the vault, canopied over with fine sculptured work, and all
that pious art could do to make the last resting-place beautiful, opened
black as any common grave for the passage of the departed. There was an
unusual band of clergy gathered in their white robes to do honor to the
man who had given half of them their livings, and all the villagers, and
various visitors from the neighboring town, shopkeepers who had rejoiced
in his patronage, and small gentry to whom Madam had given brevet rank
by occasional notice. Before the procession approached, a little group
of ladies, in crape from head to foot and closely veiled, were led in by
the curate reverently through a side door. A murmur ran through the
gathering crowd that it was Madam herself who walked first, with her
head bowed, not seeing or desiring the curate’s anxiously offered arm.
The village had heard a rumor of trouble at the great house, and
something about Madam, which had made the elders shake their heads, and
remind each other that she was a foreigner and not of these parts, which
accounted for anything that might be wrong; while the strangers, who had
also heard that there was a something, craned their necks to see her
through the old ironwork of the chancel-screen, behind which the ladies
were introduced. Many people paused in the midst of the service, and
dropped their prayer-books to gaze again, and wonder what she was
thinking now, if she had indeed, as people said, been guilty. How must
she feel when she heard the deep tones of the priest, and the organ
pealing out its Amens. Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. Had he
forgiven her before he died? Was she broken down with remorse and shame,
or was she rejoicing in her heart, behind her crape veil, in her
freedom? It must not be supposed, because of this general curiosity,
that Madam Trevanion had lost her place in the world, or would not have
the cards of the county showered upon her, with inquiries after her
health from all quarters; but only that there was “a something” which
gave piquancy, such as does not usually belong to such a melancholy
ceremonial, to the great function of the day. The most of the audience,
in fact, sympathized entirely with Madam, and made remarks as to the
character of the man so imposingly ushered into the realm of the dead,
which did not fit in well with the funeral service. There were many who
scoffed at the hymn which was sung by the choirs of the adjacent
parishes, all in the late Mr. Trevanion’s gift, and which was very,
perhaps unduly, favorable to the “dear saint” thus tenderly dismissed.
He had not been a dear saint; perhaps, in such a case, the well-known
deprecation of _trop de zèle_ is specially appropriate. It made the
scoffer blaspheme to hear so many beautiful qualities attributed to Mr.
Trevanion. But perhaps it is best to err on the side of kindness. It
was, at all events, a grand funeral. No man could have desired more.
The third lady who accompanied Mrs. Trevanion and her daughter was the
Aunt Sophy to whom there had been some question of sending Rosalind. She
was the only surviving sister of Mr. Trevanion, Mrs. Lennox, a wealthy
widow, without any children, to whom the Highcourt family were
especially dear. She was the softest and most good-natured person who
had ever borne the name of Trevanion. It was supposed to be from her
mother, whom the Trevanions in general had worried into her grave at a
very early age, that Aunt Sophy got a character so unlike the rest of
the family. But worrying had not been successful in the daughter’s case;
or perhaps it was her early escape by her marriage that saved her. She
was so apt to agree with the last person who spoke, that her opinion was
not prized as it might have been by her connections generally; but
everybody was confident in her kindness. She had arrived only the
morning of the funeral, having come from the sickbed of a friend whom
she was nursing, and to whom she considered it very necessary that she
should get back; but it was quite possible that, being persuaded her
sister-in-law or Rosalind had more need of her, she might remain at
Highcourt, notwithstanding that it was so indispensable that she should
leave that afternoon, for the rest of the year.
The shutters had been all opened, the blinds raised, the windows let in
the light, the great doors stood wide when they came back. The house was
no longer the house of the dead, but the house of the living. In Mr.
Trevanion’s room, that chamber of state, the curtains were all pulled
down already, the furniture turned topsy-turvy, the housemaids in
possession. In proportion as the solemnity of the former mood had been,
so was the anxiety now to clear away everything that belonged to death.
The children, in their black frocks, came to meet their mother, half
reluctant, half eager. The incident of papa’s death was worn out to them
long ago, and they were anxious to be released, and to see something
new. Here Aunt Sophy was of the greatest assistance. She cried over
them, and smiled, and admired their new dresses, and cried again, and
bade them be good and not spoil their clothes, and be a comfort to their
dear mamma. The ladies kept together in the little morning-room till
everybody was gone. It was very quiet there, out of the bustle; and they
had been told that there was no need for their presence in the library
where the gentlemen were, John Trevanion with the Messrs. Blake. There
was no need, indeed, for any formal reading of the will. There could be
little uncertainty about a man’s will whose estates were entailed, and
who had a young family to provide for. Nobody had any doubt that he
would deal justly with his children, and the will was quite safe in the
hands of the executors. Refreshments were taken to them in the library,
and the ladies shared the children’s simple dinner. It was all very
serious, very quiet, but there could be no doubt that the weight and
oppression were partially withdrawn.
The short afternoon had begun to darken, and Aunt Sophy had already
asked if it were not nearly time for tea, when Dorrington, the butler,
knocked at the door, and with a very solemn countenance delivered “Mr.
John Trevanion’s compliments, and would Madam be so good as step into
the library for a few minutes?”
The few minutes were Dorrington’s addition. The look of the gentlemen
seated at the table close together, like criminals awaiting execution,
and fearing that every moment would bring the headsman, had alarmed
Dorrington. He was favorable to his mistress on the whole; and he
thought this summons meant something. So unconsciously he softened his
message. A few minutes had a reassuring sound. They all looked up at him
as the message was given.
“They will want to consult you about something,” said Aunt Sophy; “you
have managed everything for so long. He said only a few minutes. Make
haste, dear, and we will wait for you for tea.”
“Shall I go with you, mamma?” said Rosalind, rising and following to the
door.
Mrs. Trevanion hesitated for a moment. “Why should I be so foolish?” she
said, with a faint smile. “I would say yes, come; but that it is too
silly.”
“I will come, mamma.”
“No; it is absolute folly. As if I were a novice! Make your aunt
comfortable, dear, and don’t let her wait for me.” She was going away
when something in Rosalind’s face attracted her notice. The girl’s eyes
were intent upon her with a pity and terror in them that was
indescribable. Mrs. Trevanion made a step back again and kissed her.
“You must not be frightened, Rosalind. There can be nothing bad enough
for that; but don’t let your aunt wait,” she said; and closing the door
quickly behind her, she left the peaceful protection of the women with
whom she was safe, and went to meet her fate.
The library was naturally a dark room, heavy with books, with solemn
curtains and sad-colored furniture. The three large windows were like
shaded lines of vertical light in the breadth of the gloom. On the table
some candles had been lighted, and flared with a sort of wild waving
when the door was opened. Lighted up by them, against the dark
background, were the pale faces of John Trevanion and old Mr. Blake.
Both had a look of agitation, and even alarm, as if they were afraid of
her. Behind them, only half visible, was the doctor, leaning against a
corner of the mantelpiece, with his face hidden by his hand. John
Trevanion rose without a word, and placed a chair for his sister-in-law
close to where they sat. He drew nearer to his colleague when he sat
down again, as if for protection, which, however, Mr. Blake, a most
respectable, unheroic person, with his countenance like ashes, and
looking as if he had seen a ghost, was very little qualified to give.
“My dear Grace,” said John, clearing his voice, which trembled, “we have
taken the liberty to ask you to come here, instead of going to you.”
“I am very glad to come if you want me, John,” she said, simply, with a
frankness and ease which confused them more and more.
“Because,” he went on, clearing his throat again, endeavoring to control
his voice, “because we have something--very painful to say.”
“Very painful; more painful than anything I ever had to do with in all
my life,” Mr. Blake added, in a husky voice.
She looked from one to another, questioning their faces, though neither
of them would meet her eyes. The bitterness of death had passed from
Mrs. Trevanion’s mind. The presentiment that had hung so heavily about
her had blown away like a cloud. Sitting by the fire in the innocent
company of Sophy, with Rosalind by her, the darkness had seemed to roll
together and pass away. But when she looked from one of these men to the
other, it came back and enveloped her like a shroud. She said “Yes?”
quickly, her breath failing, and looked at them, who could not meet her
eyes.
“It is so,” said John. “We must not mince our words. Whatever may have
passed between you two, whatever he may have heard or found out, we can
say nothing less than that it is most unjust and cruel.”
“Savage, barbarous! I should never have thought it, I should have
refused to do it,” his colleague cried, in his high-pitched voice.
“But we have no alternative. We must carry his will out, and we are
bound to let you know without delay.”
“This delay is already too much,” she said hurriedly. “Is it something
in my husband’s will? Why try to frighten me? Tell me at once.”
“God knows we are not trying to frighten you. Nothing so terrible could
occur to your mind, or any one’s, Grace,” said John Trevanion, with a
nervous quivering of his voice. “The executioner used to ask pardon of
those he was about to-- I think I am going to give you your sentence of
death.”
“Then I give you--my pardon--freely. What is it? Do not torture me any
longer,” she said.
He thrust away his chair from the table, and covered his face with his
hands. “Tell her, Blake; I cannot,” he cried.
Then there ensued a silence like death; no one seemed to breathe; when
suddenly the high-pitched, shrill voice of the old lawyer came out like
something visible, mingled with the flaring of the candles and the
darkness all around.
“I will spare you the legal language,” said Mr. Blake. “It is this. The
children are all provided for, as is natural and fit, but with this
proviso--that their mother shall be at once and entirely separated from
them. If Mrs. Trevanion remains with them, or takes any one of them to
be with her, they are totally disinherited, and their money is left to
various hospitals and charities. Either Mrs. Trevanion must leave them
at once, and give up all communication with them, or they lose
everything. That is in brief what we have to say.”
She sat listening without changing her position, with a dimness of
confusion and amaze coming over her clear gaze. The intimation was so
bewildering, so astounding, that her faculties failed to grasp it. Then
she said, “To leave them--my children? To be separated from my
children?” with a shrill tone of inquiry, rising into a sort of
breathless cry.
John Trevanion took his hands from his face, and looked at her with a
look which brought more certainty than words. The old lawyer clasped
his hands upon the papers before him, without lifting his eyes, and
mournfully nodded again and again his gray head. But she waited for an
answer. She could not let herself believe it. “It is not _that_? My head
is going round. I don’t understand the meaning of words. It is not
_that_?”
And then she rose up suddenly to her feet, clasping her hands together,
and cried out, “My God!” The men rose too, as with one impulse; and John
Trevanion called out loudly to the doctor, who hurried to her. She put
them away with a motion of her hands. “The doctor? What can the doctor
do for me?” she cried, with the scorn of despair. “Go, go, go! I need no
support.” The men had come close to her on either side, with that
confused idea that the victim must faint or fall, or sustain some
physical convulsion, which men naturally entertain in respect to a
woman. She made a motion, as if to keep them away, with her arms, and
stood there in the midst, her pale face, with the white surroundings of
her distinctive dress, clearly defined against the other dusk and
troubled countenances. They thought the moments of suspense endless, but
to her they were imperceptible. Not all the wisest counsellors in the
world could have helped her in that effort of desperation which her
lonely soul was making to understand. There was so much that no one knew
but herself. Her mind went through all the details of a history
unthought of. She had to put together and follow the thread of events,
and gather up a hundred indications which now came all flashing about
her like marsh-lights, leading her swift thoughts here and there,
through the hitherto undivined workings of her husband’s mind, and
ripening of fate. Thus it was that she came slowly to perceive what it
meant, and all that it meant, which nature, even when perceiving the
sense of the words, had refused to believe. When she spoke they all
started with a sort of panic and individual alarm, as if something might
be coming which would be too terrible to listen to. But what she said
had a strange composure, which was a relief, yet almost a horror, to
them. “Will you tell me,” she asked, “exactly what it is, again?”
Old Mr. Blake sat down again at the table, fumbled for his spectacles,
unfolded his papers. Meanwhile she stood and waited, with the others
behind her, and listened without moving while he read, this time in its
legal phraseology, the terrible sentence. She drew a long breath when it
was over. This time there was no amaze or confusion. The words were like
fire in her brain.
“Now I begin to understand. I suppose,” she said, “that there is nothing
but public resistance, and perhaps bringing it before a court of law,
that could annul _that_? Oh, do not fear. I will not try; but is that
the only way?”
The old lawyer shook his head. “Not even that. He had the right; and
though he has used it as no man should have used it, still, it is done,
and cannot be undone.”
“Then there is no help for me,” she said. She was perfectly quiet,
without a tear or sob or struggle. “No help for me,” she repeated, with
a wan little smile about her mouth. “After seventeen years! He had the
right, do you say? Oh, how strange a right! when I have been his wife
for seventeen years.” Then she added, “Is it stipulated when I am to go?
Is there any time given to prepare? And have you told my boy?”
“Not a word has been said, Grace--to any one,” John Trevanion said.
“Ah, I did not think of that. What is he to be told? A boy of that age.
He will think his mother is-- John, God help me! what will you say to my
boy?”
“God help us all!” cried the strong man, entirely overcome. “Grace, I do
not know.”
“The others are too young,” she said; “and Rosalind-- Rosalind will trust
me; but Rex--it will be better to tell him the simple truth, that it is
his father’s will; and perhaps when he is a man he will understand.” She
said this with a steady voice, like some queen making her last
dispositions in full health and force before her execution--living, yet
dying. Then there ensued another silence, which no one ventured to
break, during which the doomed woman went back into her separate world
of thought. She recovered herself after a moment, and, looking round,
with once more that faint smile, asked, “Is there anything else I ought
to hear?”
“There is this, Mrs. Trevanion,” said old Blake. “One thing is just
among so much-- What was settled on you is untouched. You have a right
to--”
She threw her head high with an indignant motion, and turned away; but
after she had made a few steps towards the door, paused and came back.
“Look,” she said, “you gentlemen; here is something that is beyond you,
which a woman has to bear. I must accept this humiliation, too. I cannot
dig, and to beg I am ashamed.” She looked at them with a bitter dew in
her eyes, not tears. “I must take his money and be thankful. God help
me!” she said.