Lady William was still a little disturbed next morning, her usual
composure gone, her countenance clouded. She had not forgiven little
Patty, who in consequence went about her work watering with tears,
instead of damp tea-leaves as usual, the carpet in the drawing-room
which it was her business to sweep. Patty entertained the idea which,
alas! is so little general among servant-girls, that her mistress was an
angel, or something even more than that; for angels to Patty’s
consciousness were generally little boys with wings and without any
clothes, to whom it would have been profane to compare a lady. It may be
imagined how hollow the world was, and how little satisfactory the
routine of work when Lady William frowned; everything went badly with
Patty. She broke a china bowl and received from Miss Mab--Miss Mab
always so _bon camarade_, if Patty had known the qualification--a very
sharp and decided scolding, not to say that Anne--old Anne, whom Patty
considered almost too old to live, and whose work she was conscious of
doing in great part--fell upon her and nagged till the poor girl nearly
ran away. Lady William was not busy this lovely spring morning which
ought to have put new heart into everything. She said very little even
to Mab. She was evidently thinking of something with which even Mab had
but little to do. But when the girl talked of her own afternoon’s
occupation, her mother interposed quickly. ‘I think you had better come
up with me to the Hall, Mab.’
‘Then you are going, mother? in obedience to a call like that----’
‘In obedience to nothing; because I hate it, and want to get it over.’
‘Do you hate Mrs. Swinford, mother?’
‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Lady William, the tears starting to her eyes;
‘don’t ask me such questions. I hope not: I don’t want to hate any one.
I would rather not think of her. But I hate going into a house that has
so many memories--into a house where I have known so much----’
‘It was there you met my father,’ said Mab.
‘Yes;’ the monosyllable dropped from Lady William’s closed lips as if
dropped out against her will.
‘But that ought not to be altogether a painful recollection, mother.’
Mab had never heard anything of her father who was so long dead; there
was no portrait of him that she had ever seen. Her idea of him was not
precisely a happy one. Other people talked of the husbands they had
lost, especially the poor women who liked to enlarge upon the good or
bad qualities of the departed--but Mab knew nothing of her father,
whether he had been bad or good. And she had a great curiosity, if no
more, to know something of him. It was seldom, very seldom, that an
opportunity occurred even for a question.
‘I cannot enter into the past,’ said Lady William; ‘there is a great
deal that is very painful in it. I would rather not tell you the story,
Mab. It would do you no good, nor any one. I had forgotten a great deal
till this lady appeared again. So far as I can see now, she is
determined that I shall no longer forget.’
‘Is she your enemy, mother?’
‘I don’t believe in enemies, it is too melodramatic; and probably she
means no harm; only she likes to stir up things which I prefer to
forget. Do you understand the difference? Perhaps it keeps up her
interest, but to me it spoils everything. Death is very dreadful to you,
Mab; but it’s very merciful, too. It makes you forget many things, when
they are not forcibly brought back to your mind.’
Mab eyed her mother very curiously with a hundred questions on her lips:
but Lady William’s face was not encouraging, and with a sigh the girl
gave up her intended inquiry. She added, after some time: ‘The only
thing, mother, is that Mrs. Swinford may want to speak to you of things
that you don’t wish me to know.’
‘That is very possible, Mab: and it is for that I want you to go with
me, to protect me. She would never bring up old stories which would be
painful, before you.’
‘Mother,’ said Mab, and then paused.
‘What is it?’
‘I want to know--if I am perhaps at the mercy of a stranger like Mrs.
Swinford to tell me things that would be painful--about my
father--whether it would not be better for you, mother, who would do it
in love and quietly, to tell me yourself and put me beyond her power?’
‘Mab, you are very sensible, very reasonable.’
‘I don’t know if I’m that: but it seems to me the better way.’
Lady William began to speak: then hesitated, became husky, and paused a
moment to steady her voice. ‘There is nothing to tell about your father,
Mab, that could affect you; nothing that would hurt his name in the
world; only private matters between him and me, in which unfortunately
Mrs. Swinford was mixed up. There is no such thing,’ she went on after a
pause, with a sort of painful smile, ‘as trouble--without faults on both
sides. I was to blame as much as any one else. You would not think the
better of either of your parents if you were to be told all that there
is to tell. Will you take my word for that? and that there is nothing
which it is at all necessary for you to hear?’
‘Certainly, I will take your word, mother. But I don’t believe you were
so much wrong. You are hasty sometimes, but you never keep on or nag.
And sometimes you are so patient; if there were quarrels I know it was
not your fault.’
The girl came to her mother’s side and gave her a kiss, putting down her
soft young cheek upon Lady William’s, which was as soft, though no
longer young. The mother took the kiss with a smile. It was not wholly a
smile of pleasure at Mab’s approval and vindication of her--innocent Mab
that knew of nothing but a quarrel, a difference of opinion, a nagging.
Mab thought it was a great pity, that perhaps her father had troubles of
temper which she was conscious herself of possessing, and that no doubt
Mrs. Swinford had interfered and made things worse. It brought her
father even a little nearer to her to learn that he had been cross. Poor
father! he had been long forgiven and his tempers forgotten, when they
were not thrust back upon the memory: and poor mother, who perhaps
blamed herself more than was just, and thought now how often she might
have answered with a soft word! Lady William smiled, reading in the
child’s mind as in a book, so easy was that young interpretation, so
desirable, so strange to the woman who knew all.
The afternoon was radiant: sky and air had been washed clean, as Mab
said, by frequent showers, and there did not seem an atom of impurity,
not even a cloudlet that was not white and shining, in the whole expanse
of atmosphere. Lady William was grave, but had recovered her composure,
and Mab was gay with an unusual freshness, ready to gambol about the
path like the large loose-limbed puppy from the lodge who was fond of
taking walks with visitors, and who came up and offered himself as
guide and companion as soon as the two ladies had entered the gate. Mab
was acquainted with the puppy’s family for several generations, and knew
his mother upon intimate terms, so that there was no need of ceremony.
He and she had gone up the avenue to the point at which the house
becomes visible, rising high above the little lake and among the trees,
when Lady William called her daughter back. ‘You have had enough of the
puppy,’ she said; ‘now you must turn into a young lady, Mab.’
‘It is not half so amusing, mother; but, oh, look at the violets, how
thick they are under the trees!’
‘About the ashen roots the violets blow,’ said Lady William.
‘I never knew any one have so many bits of poetry ready for all
occasions,’ said Mab admiringly. ‘It’s a pity they’re only dog-violets,
and not sweet at all; but they are pretty like that all the same.’
‘Why, I wonder, should one speak of dog-violets, and dog-roses, and
dog-daisies?’ said Lady William. ‘I suppose it is in contempt of things
that grow wild.’
‘A dog is the wisest thing that lives,’ said Mab; ‘there’s no contempt
in such a name. Puppy! puppy! where are you going? I must run after him,
mother, and keep him from frightening those ducks.’
‘There’s contempt, if you please! The famous Swinford wild fowl!’
‘Oh, I can’t bear them, the stupid things. Puppy! puppy! oh, don’t be a
fool, they are not worth your while.’
‘Nor yours either, puppy mine. You will be as red as a peony next, and
what will Mrs. Swinford say?’
‘I hate Mrs. Swinford,’ said Mab; but she walked soberly the rest of the
way. Mrs. Swinford was in the same room and chair as she had occupied on
the previous night: with flowers piled in the jardinières, on the
tables, everywhere; a wood fire blazing very bright, but more bright
than warm, and the mistress of the house arrayed, as always, in dark
velvet, with a crimson tone in the lights, but without the lace which
had softened at once her features and her age. Her hair, in which there
was not a thread of white, was dressed high on her head; her back was,
as usual, to the light.
‘Oh, you have brought your little girl,’ she said, in a tone almost of
displeasure. ‘You are very perverse and contradictory, my dear, as you
always were. I had something to say to you, alone.’
‘Oh, as for that,’ said Mab, angry, ‘I can go away.’
Her mother gave her a restraining look. ‘There is so little,’ she said,
‘in my life that requires to be talked about _en tête-à-tête_, and Mab
goes wherever I go.’
‘That is to say, you bring her with you as young women sometimes bring
their babies, in defence.’ Mrs. Swinford laughed, and, holding out her
hand, added, ‘Come here and let me see you, little girl.’
‘I am not a little girl,’ said Mab, still angry; but another glance from
her mother to the lady of the house restored that reasonableness in
which the girl was so strong. ‘And I am not much to look at,’ she added
steadily, ‘but, as it does not much matter, here I am.’
Mrs. Swinford took her by the hand, and, drawing her forward, looked at
her closely. Then she dropped the girl’s hand and laughed. ‘She proves
her parentage, at least,’ she said; ‘no doubt upon that subject; she is
a Pakenham all over. And she is like them, Emily, in temper and
intellect, too.’
Mab, unfortunately, did not understand the whole weight of the
insinuation in this remark, and she did not see her mother’s face behind
her. She answered quickly for herself. ‘I have not a very good temper,
Mrs. Swinford. When people say nasty things to me, I can be nasty too.’
‘So I presume,’ said the lady of the house.
‘Or to my mother,’ said Mab; ‘she is too patient and too much a lady;
but I’m not.’
‘Mab!’ said her mother’s warning voice behind.
‘It is that I think this lady wants to provoke me,’ said Mab, ‘and I
don’t see----’
‘My dear, you will show your superiority best by not suffering yourself
to be provoked.’
Mab went off to one of the jardinières with a little toss of her head,
and it was at this moment that Leo came in, a little hurried and not
without agitation. He came in saying quickly, ‘I have just heard that
you had visitors, mother.’
‘Leo,’ said Mrs. Swinford, ‘I have something to say to Emily here. I did
not expect her to bring her daughter, and I did not desire my son’s
company. You can go and show the young lady the pictures; it is a young
man’s business; and you ought to thank me for giving you the
opportunity. Now, Emily, _à nous deux_.’
‘I was not aware,’ said Lady William, pale but steadfast, ‘that what you
wanted to say to me was of particular importance.’
‘You thought I only sent for you to say I love you,’ said Mrs. Swinford.
‘Well, you knew that already; but I had something much more serious to
say. And I am glad, after all, you brought your little girl, Emily; for
she is the strongest argument I can bring forward to make you do what I
want you to do.’
‘And what is that?’ said Lady William. ‘I must warn you that I am not
very open to advice.’
‘As if I did not know you were not open to advice! except, my dear, you
will recollect, when you wished to take a certain course which was
advised.’
‘Did I wish to take it?’ said Lady William; ‘that is what has never been
clear.’
‘Oh, did you wish it?’ cried Mrs. Swinford, with a laugh. ‘However, that
is old ground; but if I have any responsibility for that first step,
Emily, I have the more right to speak now. For that child’s sake you
must make overtures to the family. Whatever they may do or say, it is
for you to put your pride in your pocket, and make friends with them, if
they like it or not. Your claims must be fully established.’
‘My claims?’ said Lady William; ‘there has never been any question made
of my claims.’
‘Probably not, so long as you live; but look at that child. You must
make everything certain for her; I must press it upon you with all my
might, Emily. Life is uncertain, and you have nothing of your own.’
‘Not much, that is true.’
‘And what would she have to depend upon if you died? You don’t even know
what questions might arise. They might ask her what her proofs were,
what evidence she had.’
‘Of what?’ said Lady William, wondering. ‘What evidence does Mab require
to prove that she is my daughter? But all the parish could prove that,
with the Rector at their head.’
‘Oh, so far as that goes; but it does not suffice to be proved to be her
mother’s daughter when the money is on the father’s side.’
‘What do you mean, Mrs. Swinford?’ Lady William had grown red and a
little angry. She fixed her eyes upon her adviser, ‘There is something
in what you say that I do not understand.’
‘Nevertheless it is very true,’ said Mrs. Swinford; ‘the money is, you
know, on the father’s side, and the father’s family have a right to know
everything about it. It should be put quite out of their power to say
afterwards that they never had any proof.’
‘Of what? You mean something that has not been suggested to me before. I
have been told I ought to make overtures; but what is this? Please to
tell me,’ she said, almost sharply, ‘what you mean.’
‘You must surely have thought of it yourself. Here you are, a widow, not
very young, with an only child. They call you Lady William, and you
enjoy the rank. Oh, you need not wave your hand as if to say no; I know
you better than you know yourself; you enjoy your rank.’
‘For the sake of argument it may be allowed that I enjoy my rank, such
as it is.’
‘Well, you do, I know, whether you choose to allow it or refuse. Emily
Plowden, it is your first business to prove your claim to it, and your
child’s to her name.’
‘I am not Emily Plowden,’ said Lady William; ‘you mistake that, to begin
with; and I can only repeat that my claim, which I have never required
to prove, has been doubted by no one, nor my child’s right. Is it for
pure insult you say this? My movements have always been open as the
day.’
‘What! when you left this house in the dark, in the middle of the night!
I have never questioned your claims till now. My motive is not to insult
you, but to help you. Where were you married, Emily Plowden? Who married
you? Have you your certificates all in order? You disappeared, and then
you came back, and I never asked, but took it all for granted. It is
only when I see your little girl that I begin to ask myself, Emily, have
you got your papers, whatever they may be? Emily Plowden, are you sure
that you have any right to another name?’