V.

The night which Lady Mary had been conscious of, in a momentary glimpse

full of the exaggeration of fever, had not indeed been so expeditious

as she believed. The doctor, it is true, had been pronouncing her

death-warrant when she saw him holding her wrist, and wondered what he

did there in the middle of the night; but she had been very ill before

this, and the conclusion of her life had been watched with many tears.

Then there had risen up a wonderful commotion in the house, of which

little Mary, her godchild, was very little sensible. Had she left any

will, any instructions, the slightest indication of what she wished to be

done after her death? Mr. Furnival, who had been very anxious to be

allowed to see her, even in the last days of her illness, said

emphatically, no. She had never executed any will, never made any

disposition of her affairs, he said, almost with bitterness, in the

tone of one who is ready to weep with vexation and distress. The vicar

took a more hopeful view. He said it was impossible that so considerate

a person could have done this, and that there must, he was sure, be

found somewhere, if close examination was made, a memorandum, a

letter,--something which should show what she wished; for she must have

known very well, notwithstanding all flatteries and compliments upon her

good looks, that from day to day her existence was never to be calculated

upon. The doctor did not share this last opinion. He said that there was

no fathoming the extraordinary views that people took of their own case;

and that it was quite possible, though it seemed incredible, that Lady

Mary might really be as little expectant of death, on the way to

ninety, as a girl of seventeen; but still he was of opinion that she

might have left a memorandum somewhere.

These three gentlemen were in the foreground of affairs; because she had

no relations to step in and take the management. The earl, her grandson,

was abroad, and there were only his solicitors to interfere on his

behalf, men to whom Lady Mary's fortune was quite unimportant, although

it was against their principles to let anything slip out of their hands

that could aggrandize their client; but who knew nothing about the

circumstances,--about little Mary, about the old lady's peculiarities, in

any way. Therefore the persons who had surrounded her in her life, and

Mr. Furnival, her man of business, were the persons who really had the

management of everything. Their wives interfered a little too, or rather

the one wife who only could do so,--the wife of the vicar, who came in

beneficently at once, and took poor little Mary, in her first desolation,

out of the melancholy house. Mrs. Vicar did this without any hesitation,

knowing very well that, in all probability, Lady Mary had made no will,

and consequently that the poor girl was destitute. A great deal is said

about the hardness of the world, and the small consideration that is

shown for a destitute dependent in such circumstances. But this is not

true; and, as a matter of fact, there is never, or very rarely, such

profound need in the world, without a great deal of kindness and much

pity. The three gentlemen all along had been entirely in Mary's interest.

They had not expected legacies from the old lady, or any advantage to

themselves. It was of the girl that they had thought. And when now they

examined everything and inquired into all her ways and what she had done,

it was of Mary they were thinking. But Mr. Furnival was very certain of

his point. He knew that Lady Mary had made no will; time after time he

had pressed it upon her. He was very sure, even while he examined her

writing-table, and turned out all the drawers, that nothing would be

found. The little Italian cabinet had _chiffons_ in its drawers,

fragments of old lace, pieces of ribbon, little nothings of all sorts.

Nobody thought of the secret drawer; and if they had thought of it, where

could a place have been found less likely? If she had ever made a will,

she could have had no reason for concealing it. To be sure, they did

not reason in this way, being simply unaware of any place of concealment

at all. And Mary knew nothing about this search they were making. She did

not know how she was herself "left." When the first misery of grief was

exhausted, she began, indeed, to have troubled thoughts in her own

mind,--to expect that the vicar would speak to her, or Mr. Furnival send

for her, and tell her what she was to do. But nothing was said to her.

The vicar's wife had asked her to come for a long visit; and the anxious

people, who were forever talking over this subject and consulting what

was best for her, had come to no decision as yet, as to what must be said

to the person chiefly concerned. It was too heart-rending to have to put

the real state of affairs before her.

The doctor had no wife; but he had an anxious mother, who, though she

would not for the world have been unkind to the poor girl, yet was very

anxious that she should be disposed of and out of her son's way. It is

true that the doctor was forty and Mary only eighteen,--but what then?

Matches of that kind were seen every day; and his heart was so soft to

the child that his mother never knew from one day to another what might

happen. She had naturally no doubt at all that Mary would seize the first

hand held out to her; and as time went on, held many an anxious

consultation with the vicar's wife on the subject. "You cannot have her

with you forever," she said. "She must know one time or another how she

is left, and that she must learn to do something for herself."

"Oh," said the vicar's wife, "how is she to be told? It is heart-rending

to look at her and to think,--nothing but luxury all her life, and now,

in a moment, destitution. I am very glad to have her with me: she is a

dear little thing, and so nice with the children. And if some good

man would only step in--"

The doctor's mother trembled; for that a good man should step in was

exactly what she feared. "That is a thing that can never be depended

upon," she said; "and marriages made out of compassion are just as bad as

mercenary marriages. Oh no, my dear Mrs. Bowyer, Mary has a great deal of

character. You should put more confidence in her than that. No doubt she

will be much cast down at first, but when she knows, she will rise to the

occasion and show what is in her."

"Poor little thing! what is in a girl of eighteen, and one that has lain

on the roses and fed on the lilies all her life? Oh, I could find it in

my heart to say a great deal about old Lady Mary that would not be

pleasant! Why did she bring her up so if she did not mean to provide for

her? I think she must have been at heart a wicked old woman."

"Oh no! we must not say that. I dare say, as my son says, she always

meant to do it sometime-"

"Sometime! how long did she expect to live, I wonder?"

"Well," said the doctor's mother, "it is wonderful how little old one

feels sometimes within one's self, even when one is well up in years."

She was of the faction of the old, instead of being like Mrs. Bowyer, who

was not much over thirty, of the faction of the young. She could make

excuses for Lady Mary; but she thought that it was unkind to bring the

poor little girl here in ignorance of her real position, and in the way

of men who, though old enough to know better, were still capable of

folly,--as what man is not, when a girl of eighteen is concerned? "I

hope," she added, "that the earl will do something for her. Certainly he

ought to, when he knows all that his grandmother did, and what her

intentions must have been. He ought to make her a little allowance; that

is the least he can do,--not, to be sure, such a provision as we all

hoped Lady Mary was going to make for her, but enough to live upon. Mr.

Furnival, I believe, has written to him to that effect."

"Hush!" cried the vicar's wife; indeed she had been making signs to the

other lady, who stood with her back to the door, for some moments. Mary

had come in while this conversation was going on. She had not paid any

attention to it; and yet her ear had been caught by the names of Lady

Mary, and the earl, and Mr. Furnival. For whom was it that the earl

should make an allowance enough to live upon? whom Lady Mary had not

provided for, and whom Mr. Furnival had written about? When she sat down

to the needle-work in which she was helping Mrs. Vicar, it was not to be

supposed that she should not ponder these words,--for some time very

vaguely, not perceiving the meaning of them; and then with a start she

woke up to perceive that there must be something meant, some one,--even

some one she knew. And then the needle dropped out of the girl's hand,

and the pinafore she was making fell on the floor. Some one! it must be

herself they meant! Who but she could be the subject of that earnest

conversation? She began to remember a great many conversations as

earnest, which had been stopped when she came into the room, and the

looks of pity which had been bent upon her. She had thought in her

innocence that this was because she had lost her godmother, her

protectress,--and had been very grateful for the kindness of her friends.

But now another meaning came into everything. Mrs. Bowyer had accompanied

her visitor to the door, still talking, and when she returned her face

was very grave. But she smiled when she met Mary's look, and said

cheerfully,--

"How kind of you, my dear, to make all those pinafores for me! The little

ones will not know themselves. They never were so fine before."

"Oh, Mrs. Bowyer," cried the girl, "I have guessed something! and I want

you to tell me! Are you keeping me for charity, and is it I that am

left--without any provision, and that Mr. Furnival has written--"

She could not finish her sentence, for it was very bitter to her, as may

be supposed.

"I don't know what you mean, my dear," cried the vicar's wife.

"Charity,--well, I suppose that is the same as love,--at least it is so in

the 13th chapter of 1st Corinthians. You are staying with us, I hope, for

love, if that is what you mean."

Upon which she took the girl in her arms and kissed her, and cried, as

women must. "My dearest," she said, "as you have guessed the worst, it is

better to tell you. Lady Mary--I don't know why; oh, I don't wish to

blame her--has left no will; and, my dear, my dear, you who have been

brought up in luxury, you have not a penny." Here the vicar's wife gave

Mary a closer hug, and kissed her once more. "We love you all the

better,--if that was possible," she said.

How many thoughts will fly through a girl's mind while her head rests on

some kind shoulder, and she is being consoled for the first calamity that

has touched her life! She was neither ungrateful nor unresponsive; but

as Mrs. Bowyer pressed her close to her kind breast and cried over her,

Mary did not cry, but thought,--seeing in a moment a succession of

scenes, and realizing in a moment so complete a new world, that all her

pain was quelled by the hurry and rush in her brain as her forces rallied

to sustain her. She withdrew from her kind support after a moment, with

eyes tearless and shining, the color mounting to her face, and not a sign

of discouragement in her, nor yet of sentiment, though she grasped her

kind friend's hands with a pressure which her innocent small fingers

seemed incapable of giving. "One has read of such things--in books," she

said, with a faint courageous smile; "and I suppose they happen,--in

life."

"Oh, my dear, too often in life. Though how people can be so cruel, so

indifferent, so careless of the happiness of those they love--"

Here Mary pressed her friend's hands till they hurt, and cried, "Not

cruel, not indifferent. I cannot hear a word--"

"Well, dear, it is like you to feel so,--I knew you would; and I will not

say a word. Oh, Mary, if she ever thinks of such things now--"

"I hope she will not--I hope she cannot!" cried the girl, with once more

a vehement pressure of her friend's hands.

"What is that?" Mrs. Bowyer said, looking round. "It is somebody in the

next room, I suppose. No, dear, I hope so too, for she would not be happy

if she remembered. Mary, dry your eyes, my dear. Try not to think of

this. I am sure there is some one in the next room. And you must try not

to look wretched, for all our sakes--"

"Wretched!" cried Mary, springing up. "I am not wretched." And she turned

with a countenance glowing and full of courage to the door. But there was

no one there,--no visitor lingering in the smaller room as sometimes

happened.

"I thought I heard some one come in," said the vicar's wife. "Didn't you

hear something, Mary? I suppose it is because I am so agitated with all

this, but I could have sworn I heard some one come in."

"There is nobody," said Mary, who, in the shock of the calamity which had

so suddenly changed the world to her, was perfectly calm. She did not

feel at all disposed to cry or "give way." It went to her head with a

thrill of pain, which was excitement as well, like a strong stimulant

suddenly applied; and she added, "I should like to go out a little, if

you don't mind, just to get used to the idea."

"My dear, I will get my hat in a moment--"

"No, please. It is not unkindness; but I must think it over by

myself,--by myself," Mary cried. She hurried away, while Mrs. Bowyer took

another survey of the outer room, and called the servant to know who had

been calling. Nobody had been calling, the maid said; but her mistress

still shook her head.

"It must have been some one who does not ring, who just opens the door,"

she said to herself. "That is the worst of the country. It might be Mrs.

Blunt, or Sophia Blackburn, or the curate, or half-a-dozen people,--and

they have just gone away when they heard me crying. How could I help

crying? But I wonder how much they heard, whoever it was."