“Whatdid you think of them?” said Fanshawe.
“She cried a great deal; she is very young and pretty. Poor child!” said Marjory. “We did not say much to each other; how could we? Indeed, you know that I cannot talk.”
“I know—” said Fanshawe hastily, and then stopped short. He had done everything for them all during those sad days. It was the eve of the funeral now, and it was he who had taken every necessary care upon him; but I cannot explain how he had grown into the house. They were strangers to him a very short time before; even, it was not long since he had yawned and asked himself why he did not go away? But now it seemed to him that he had lived there all his life; that he had never had any warmer interests; that he could as soon separate himself from his life as from all that remained of the diminished family. He had brought Marjory out as her brother might have done on the eve of that melancholy ceremonial, to breathe the fresh evening breeze, and accustom herself a little to the outer world once more. He had led her, not to the cliff, but to the garden, where the associations were less overwhelming.
The flower-garden was at the other side of thehouse, sheltered from all the sea-winds by the old Manor-house on the East, and warmly nestling into the angles of the present mansion. It was an old-fashioned garden; there were no stiff flower-beds in it, no studies of colour in red and blue and yellow; no ribbons of brown leafage, or artificial lines. In summer, old roses, old lilies—the flowers that our grandfathers loved, stood about the borders, making the whole garden sweet; but at present, in the Spring, there was little except crisp lines of crocuses and snow-drops; at one side was an avenue of limes, which had, people supposed, been the avenue of the old house. These limes were not large trees, they were too near the sea for that; but they had begun to shake out their light silken green leaves in the soft April air.
It was here the two were walking on the eve of Mr. Heriot’s funeral. The gate of the old house was still standing, ornamented with the cognizance of the Heriots, at the end of the avenue, and here there was still an exit upon the cliff; close to it was the door of the kitchen-garden. I explain this to show how the circumstances, which were about to happen, came to pass. Marjory had walked up and down the avenue three or four times—leaning on Fanshawe’s arm. It had become natural to accept his arm, to take both physical and moral support from him. I do not know that either of them had ever gone further in their imaginations; Marjory, at least, had not. She had no time for any thoughts about herself. Ever since she had known Fanshawe, she had been absorbed in matters of avery different kind. She took his support, his kindness, his sympathy, almost, I fear, as a matter of course, forgetting that she had no right to it; not entering into the question at all; accepting the help which was at hand without questioning what it was.
And Fanshawe, for his part, thought badly of himself when other thoughts would gleam across his mind by turns. He shook himself, as it were, and was angry, asking himself, “Is this the time?—am I the sort of fellow?” He was as far from contemplating marriage as a possibility as any good-for-nothing could be. Marriage! out of Marjory’s presence how he would have laughed at the idea! But still there had been gleams of light which had passed across him, fitful glimpses of meaning, even of a kind of purpose, repressed instantly by a conviction of their utter vanity and foolishness. Sometimes, unawares, when he was thinking of other things, some sudden plan would come into his head, some vision would flit before his eyes; but they were always involuntary. He had not even recognised them so far as to struggle against them. They were stray visitants that came upon him without a moment’s notice unawares, and that were driven away as intruders, without a moment’s indulgence. But sometimes along with these visions, strange words would throw themselves in his way, and claim so urgently to be spoken, that it was very hard to resist them.
This was one of those occasions. In answer to her languid words, “You know I cannot talk,” somedevil or other (he thought) thrust a passionate, too expressive answer into his mind. And he had, so to speak, to stoop and pick it up, and throw it from him like a firebrand, before he could continue the calm conversation in which they had been engaged.
“You are getting tired, I think,” he said, anxiously. “Come and sit down here.”
“I am not tired,” said Marjory. “It is wrong to think that because the mind is worn out the body must be tired too. Does it not sometimes seem all the stronger? I think it would be best to be ill; but as I am not ill, what can I do? I can’t pretend. I am not tired, except of doing nothing, of being cooped up, of being good for nothing—”
“That is what I am,” he said, with a slight glance down upon her, and then turning his head away. “I am not of any use either to myself or to other people.”
“How can you say so, Mr. Fanshawe? To us you have been everything that the kindest friend could be.”
“For why? Because I liked it; because I have been so mixed up—pardon the homely word—with you and yours; not for any good reason; which I suppose, as I have been told often, is the only rule of value. Indeed, the great thing is that you have allowed me to stay, and made me, to my own surprise, good for something; not much even now. If I tried ever so often, in an ordinary way I should not know what to do.”
Marjory made no answer. He had seated her on a bench under the lime-trees. He had beenstanding opposite, but now he sat down by her. He had discovered before that she was not to be tempted into these personal discussions. She was twisting and untwisting her fingers vaguely, with a nervous habit, not thinking what she did.
“Life is so easy for some people,” she said, at last, “quite clearly marked out, with nothing strange or complicated in it. It has always been so with us. I don’t think it will be so in the future. I begin to feel as if the well-known, well-worn path had stopped, and I do not know what odd track may follow. I never understood the feeling before. Perhaps you, who have had more experience—you may understand it, I don’t.”
“That is what I mean,” he said, “only I never had any well-worn path to lose. Mine is like this little byway close to us. A big old stone gate, with shields and all the rest, and nothing opening from it, except that irregular line on the turf. One keeps to it because there is nothing else to keep to. This will never be your case, but it is mine. I am good for nothing. Nobody comes in by me, or goes out by me—”
“Not like the path then,” said Marjory, with a faint smile, “for there is some one knocking. Is it at the old gate or the garden door?”
It was twilight, and their bench, though completely hidden, was close to both entrances. In the little pause which followed, the knocking went on softly, and after a while the gardener was heard trudging along the gravel path with his heavy steps.
“Wha’s there?” he said.
“It’s me, Sir,” answered another voice; and then after a pause—“a stranger, if ye please, that wanted to ask a question. I’ll no keep you long. It’s a Mr. Heriot, is’t no, that lives here?”
“Ay, my woman,” said the voice of the old gardener. “You may say that. There’s been a Mr. Heriot here for as long as kirks have been standing or kailyards planted. But there’s nae Mr. Heriot the now, for he died on Tuesday, and he’s to be buried the morn.”
“Eh, poor man!” said the other, in a startled tone, and she added, in a lower voice, “I never saw him, but I’m real sorry. It would be him that had sons—two sons?”
“That’s the maist mysterious part of a’,” said the gardener, glad of a gossip. “He had two sons—bonnie lads, and strong lads, and like life. One of them went out to India, and married a wife; but the eldest wasna of that kind. They are both dead within three weeks, the one after the other, the father and the two sons.”
A cry, subdued, but strangely piercing and full of mingled awe and terror, rang into the air. Then the gardener spoke again.
“Does anything ail ye, lass? What’s the matter? They’re no a drap’s blood to you that you should be that vexed. What are ye saying? Ay, there was a Tammas, the auldest son. They are a’ Tammasses in this house—Tammasses and Charlies; but they’re baith dead and gone! Are you greeting, lass? And what do you ken about the family? Losh me! She’s greeting like to break her heart.”
“I kent—one of the—young gentlemen,” answered the stranger, with broken sobs.
“One o’ the young gentlemen? Maister Tom was wild, I aye said it. It would be Maister Tom. It’s no to your credit, my dear, no to your credit. A poor lass should have nothing to say to a young gentleman. Maybe it was away in England? but you’re no English. It might be in the Hielands. He was aye ranting about here and there, taking no thought. Now, my bonnie lass, was it in the Hielands? You needna distrust me.”
“It’s no matter to you nor to naebody,” said the other voice.
“Miss Heriot, where are you going?” Fanshawe said, in dismay.
Marjory had risen from his side in a noiseless ghostly way, and had crossed the path under the limes to a door in the wall, which led into the other garden. She disappeared in the darkness, while he sat wondering, and immediately after he heard her speak.
“You are asking after the family. You are sorry for us in our trouble. You may go, Sandy. I want to speak to her myself. Will you tell me if—you want anything?”
“Nothing,” said the other voice, with sudden and evident self-restraint. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, mem. I meant nothing but to ask a question on my road as I passed.”
“But you knew my poor brother?”
“I’ve seen a Maister Heriot, that was said to come frae Fife.”
“Will you come in?” said Marjory.
“I thank ye, mem, but I’ve nae time to waste. My errand’s dune. I’ve a long road before me.”
“If you will come with me I will let you out another way, which is shorter,” said Marjory, in a conciliatory tone.
There was a momentary pause, and after some hesitating answer, Fanshawe heard the door of the other garden shut, and saw two figures come back instead of one. The new-comer was shorter than Marjory. Her dress was tucked up as if for walking; but there was not light enough to distinguish her face. I think Marjory, in the new interest which possessed her, had forgotten Fanshawe. To his infinite surprise, he saw her grasp the hand of the country lass as she closed the little door in the wall, and heard her ask eagerly, in a half-whispering voice,
“Are you Isabell?”
The young woman drew back. She drew away her hand. She stood evidently on the defensive.
“I didna come here,” she said, “to tell wha or what I am. Naebody here has anything to do with me. If you’re Miss Heriot, I beg your pardon; but you’re taking too much upon you with a stranger lass, that wants naething from you.”
The listener rose to his feet; he was shocked and annoyed by what he thought the impertinence of the wayfarer, whose confidence Marjory had condescended to ask. But Marjory herself was not offended. She said hurriedly,
“Do not be afraid of me. I ask with no unkindmeaning. I would not hurt you for the world. What I want is that you should trust me, and tell me your story. I will do anything in the world for you, if you are Isabell.”
There was another pause, as of consideration, and then the stranger replied,
“I canna say, mem, what you may mean. It’s no for me to pry into your secrets, if you have secrets. There’s many Isabells in the world, and that might have been my name, and me know nothing about you or yours; but my name’s no Isabell, if that is any satisfaction. You said you would show me a short gait to Comlie—”
“I will,” said Marjory, tremulously. They were walking slowly past Fanshawe, taking no notice of him, and with feelings that were not altogether delightful, he perceived that she had forgotten his very existence. “But you asked about my brother,” she added, with soft tones of pleading, “and he is dead. Poor Tom! I want to know everybody he knew. Was it in—the Highlands? Will you tell me where you knew him? It is not for any harm—”
“Mem, I’m sorry to have put fancies in your head by my foolish question,” said the resolute young woman. “What could the like of me ken of the like of him? I’ve seen him maybe three or four times; he was kind to some poor folk in our parish; and hearing the name on a journey, I knockit at the garden-door to ask what had come of him. I didna ken,” she added, with a quiver of emotion, which she evidently did all she could to restrain, “that he was dead. I was struck to hear it, andI’m sorry for you and all the family, with such a sore trial. If you are the only leddy, mem, I’m maist sorry for you.”
“Thank you,” said Marjory. “I have lost my father and both my brothers. I have nothing more left me in the world but one dear little sister. There is not a more sorrowful woman in all Scotland.”
“Ah! but there is, though!” burst from the girl; and then she made a sudden pause, as if of obstinacy, and looked Marjory in the face defying her.
Once more Marjory took her hand. She wept as she spoke, pleading, crying, both at once, till Fanshawe, who was so close by, felt his heart melt within him, and could have cried too.
“Oh!” she said, “tell me who that is? I am sure you know something, though you will not tell. What can I say to show you that I am not an enemy. Do you mean Isabell?”
There was another painful pause, and once more the girl deliberated with herself.
“Wha is Isabell?” she said, at last, with a certain determination. “I ken many an Isabell that’s in no trouble, and some that are. How am I to ken wha you mean?”
“And I cannot tell you,” said Marjory, with despair. “That is all I know of her. She—knew—my brother; and so do you. She would be sorry for him, I am sure; and so are you.”
“I told you, mem,” said the other, resolutely, “my name’s no Isabell. I’m no responsible for a’ the folk that knew Mr. Heriot. I canna take upon me to answer for them. And if I said there wasin Scotland a mair sorrowful woman than you could be, oh, can the like of you ever be as sorrowful as a widow woman, a poor woman, a woman with hungry bairns, and no a morsel to give them? I’ve kent such: it goes against me to hear a young lady with plenty of siller and plenty of friends make such a moan; though I’m sorry for you,” she added, after a pause, “real sorry for you too. And now will you let me see the short gait, or will I turn back and go the gait I came? for it’s getting dark, and I dinna wish to be on a strange road at night by mysel, my lane.”
“Then you will not tell me anything?” said Marjory.
“I hae naething to tell you, mem,” said the girl.
This strange visitor entered and disappeared through the Pitcomlie garden, while Verna was sitting at her open window, plotting and preparing all the things she would do, if—. Verna knew nothing of her, and had she known, would have been full of maidenly indignation at the idea that Marjory could notice “such creatures.” Marjory, however, was of a very different mind. She led the girl through the flower-garden and through the house, anxiously guiding her to the light of the lamp in the hall, where she could see her face. She was but a comely country girl, nothing more, with fair hair twisted into a net, and a little brown hat with a plain ribbon. She might have been a respectable country servant, or a cotter’s daughter. There was nothing in any way remarkable about her. She hadblue eyes, very steady and serious in their expression, and a firm mouth, which at present was closed fast, as if in fear of self-betrayal. She dropped a rustic curtsey as Marjory opened to her the great hall-door, and directed her how to go.
“You’re very kind, mem, and I beg your pardon if I wasna civil,” she said, with penitence.
Marjory stood looking after her as she disappeared into the night. Perhaps after all it was but a whim of her own, a fancy that had nothing in it. She turned away from the door with a sigh, and then the gust of chilly air which caught her from the garden, reminded her that she had left Fanshawe there, and that he must have heard all. She went slowly back to seek him, and make her apology, her mind, like the night, dark and wistful, full of chill airs and many clouds.
IfTom Heriot’s funeral had called all the gentry of Fife to do the family honour, it may be supposed that his father’s, following so soon after, and in such circumstances of aggravated distress, brought out a still greater attendance. Mrs. Murray once more sat at the Manse window, with many tears, watching the mournful procession, and wondering much whether it would have been better for him had the Laird of Pitcomlie been “resigned,” or whether it was well for the old man to be thus removed quickly, that he might not have sorrow on sorrow. It seemed to her that his was the lot she would have chosen for herself, and she thought tremulously as she wept, of her daughter in India, and prayed for her as she cried for poor Charlie Heriot. Miss Jean had not ventured this time to join Mrs. Murray at her window. The old woman was peeping from behind her blinds in the white gable, with eyes that shone at sight of the many carriages.
“Thomas Heriot may be proud,” she said to herself, confused between the two deaths, and not feeling quite sure that her nephew was not in one of the mourning coaches enjoying the melancholy grandeur of which he was himself the object. All that was honourable in Fife was there, the old gentry, and the new people of wealth, and thetenantry, and the town—even the fishers, smelling of salt water, though arrayed in the suit of “blacks” which it is a point of honour with that class to keep in readiness for a funeral. The churchyard was quite full of people, intent upon showing their respect for Pitcomlie.
It was Mr. Charles who had received and arranged all this miscellaneous assemblage. People at his age do not mourn for each other very acutely, perhaps because the separation cannot be a long one, perhaps because that grand final event has become so ordinary an occurrence. To the young it is less familiar, less close at hand. The older one grows, the more one is disposed to represent death to one’s self as an every-day incident, and old men who are themselves approaching that verge are apt to dismiss somewhat summarily those who have preceded them. Besides, a week had elapsed between Mr. Heriot’s death and his funeral, and that long interval of seclusion, and absorption in one idea, is enough to take the edge of all but the most sensitive feelings. It was anxiety more than grief that sat heavy on the brow of Mr. Charles.
“We must think now of the living, not of the dead,” he had said on the previous evening.
And indeed there was reason enough to make that transference of solicitude, and to think of the living. For all the courses of nature had been driven out of trim, and no one of the party cared to confront the position, or ask themselves what was to come of it: except indeed Verna, who thoughtof nothing else; but her thoughts would have been far from pleasing to the others had they known.
It was a long business to get all the sympathizing friends away, and to thank and shake hands with the distant hereditary acquaintances who once more had come so far to do honour to the Heriots. The house was in a curious excitement during this interval. All round Pitcomlie many carriages were waiting, and profuse hospitality was being dispensed by Mrs. Simpson and her maids in the servants’ hall amid gossip, melancholy but consolatory.
Mr. Charles was doing his duty manfully in the dining-room, administering the excellent sherry, and making such serious remarks now and then as did not misbecome a mourner.
Marjory, with Milly at her feet, and Fanshawe, bearing her most sympathetic company, was in the drawing-room, where the shutters were still closed, letting in mournful lines of light through their interstices upon the group. She had felt herself “obliged” last night to tell him about Isabell. She was glad to feel herself obliged to do so, for her heart was aching with a desire for counsel and sympathy; and Fanshawe had taken her confidence very differently from Mr. Charles’s mode of taking it. He had been interested and touched by the letter. He had even suggested at once that this was what poor Tom had intended to speak of; and he agreed with Marjory that the visitor who had so totally declined to tell who she was, or why she came, must have been somehow connected with the unknown Isabell. The secret, which was now between them, added another delicate bond to their friendship. He sat beside her now, talking it all over; suggesting, now one way, now another, of finding out who and where Isabell was. Tom had never mentioned such a subject to him—
“Which makes me,” said Fanshawe, feeling abashed even in the gloom, “have all the more confidence that you are right, Miss Heriot. Had it been a—nothing, a—a mere levity—I don’t know what words to use—he would have spoken of it; but not a serious and honourable love.”
“Indeed, I am sure you do yourself injustice,” said Marjory, even in her languor of grief, discovering, with surprise, that she was capable of a blush.
“No,” he said, humbly; “men are ashamed of what is good oftener than of what is evil.”
They were speaking low, that Milly might not share any more of the secret than was inevitable, a precaution which was vain. Milly took in every word, along with the gloom of the room and the lines of strange, pale eerie light, and the heavy, sad, and painful excitement of the moment. The scene and the story never went out of her mind; but it did not make her much wiser.
There was something about poor Tom, and something about some one called Isabell, and partial darkness and transverse lines of light, themselves so pale and dark, that they made the gloom rather heavier. Milly sat close to Marjory’s knee, holding by her dress. The child could not bear to be without a hold upon something. When she let go, she seemed to sail away through some dark worldof shadows and misery, full of sounds of the distant wheels of the mourning coaches, and that solemn, dreary bustle which attends the last exit of every mortal from his earthly home. Twice in a few weeks this had occurred, and it gave a confused sense of permanency to the wretchedness, so far as the child was concerned.
To Marjory there was, perhaps—who can say?—a certain sense of fellowship and comfort in the companion with whom she could talk freely, and upon whose sympathy she could reckon, which made up for something. Little Milly, perhaps, who could not in reality feel all that happened half so deeply as her sister, was for the moment more cast down, enveloped in that vague dreariness of childhood which, while it lasts, is more deeply depressing than any maturer grief.
A very different scene was going on upstairs in the west wing, where the strangers were being clothed in their new mourning, in preparation for a solemn appearance at the reading of the will. Poor Matilda, covered with crape, and drowned in the big widow’s cap, was as woe-begone as her sister could have desired, and cried more and more every time she looked in the glass.
“It is hideous with light hair,” she said. “Oh! Verna, how cruel you are! They will think me eighty; they will not feel for me a bit. You know very well, when you have an unbecoming dress, men always find it out, though they never know what makes it unbecoming. And when everythingdepends on the impression I make, for the poor children—”
“Oh! you little fool!” said Verna, to whom it must be allowed the deep mourning, with the delicate broad hems of her collar and wrists, was very becoming; “the only impression you have to make is that you are a wretched widow, able to think of nothing but your poor dead husband. If you had the heart of a mouse, you would be thinking of him to-day, and not of anything else.”
“And so I am,” said Matilda, with real tears. “He would never have made me wear this horrible thing. He liked to see me look my best, and always thought of me, and what I would like, before everything. You may be sure that so long as I am with you, who are a little tyrant to me, I shall never, never forget poor dear Charlie. And, of course, I want to look decent, for his sake. What are they to think of him, dear fellow, when they see me look such a dowdy, and with no money, nor anything. It is for Charlie’s sake!”
Verna, however, was invincible even to this argument.
“There are a great many other things to think of to-day,” she said. “Now, just remember what I say to you. They can’t change what you are to have, because that will be settled by Mr. Heriot’s will; but if you don’t behave yourself as you ought, they can put you under trustees, or something, who will pay you out so much a month, or so much a year, and make you do exactly what they please. That’s what you have to be afraid of. If theythink you look as if you could ever enjoy yourself again, be sure that’s what they will do. I know them. If a woman looks as if she had not the heart to do a single thing, then they let her have her own way.”
“Do you really think so?” cried Matilda, stopping short suddenly in her tears, and looking up to her sister with round eyes, staggered by this new suggestion.
“I am certain of it,” said Verna. “And then, you know, poor Charlie’s will leaves that old uncle guardian along with you. If you want to have any freedom, you must look as if you cared for nothing of the sort. And, Matty, I have just one other word to say. If you hear anything to surprise you, whatever it is, don’t appear to take any notice. Now, recollect what I tell you. Don’t jump up, or cry out, or make a fuss, if you hear that you are either better off or worse off than you thought. If you are left better off than you expect, you’ll see these men will try to get the upper hand, and take away your freedom, unless you look as insensible as possible; and if you are left worse off, there are always ways of working upon them with a heartbroken widow. I don’t want you to be clever and understand, for you can’t; but you cancry. Here’s a lovely handkerchief I got for you expressly. It is just a little too pretty. There is a row of beautiful small work above the hemstitch—too small for other people to notice much—and it will be a comfort to you.”
“Well, itisa beauty,” said the disconsolatewidow. “But all the same,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “I don’t see why I should not understand my own business as well as you.”
“Do you?” said Verna, turning round upon her, with flashing eyes.
Matilda quailed, and fell back.
“Don’t look as if you were going to bite me,” she cried. “Did I ever say I did? But that is not my fault. You never will let me manage anything; even Charlie wouldn’t. But he did not tell me I was a fool, as you do. He said, ‘I won’t have my darling bothered!’ Oh! dear Charlie! what I lost when I lost you!”
“That was a pleasanter way of putting it,” said Verna, grimly; and then she, too, softened, and a glimmer of moisture came into the eyes which would have been fine eyes had they not been somewhat hard and beady. “He was a fool, too,” she said; “a fool about you, as men are; but hewasa dear fellow. You pink-and-white creatures have all the luck; you get men to be fond of you that are far too good for you, while people who could understand them—”
Matilda interrupted her with a low laugh.
“You were always envious of me,” she said; and with her complaisance restored, and her pretty handkerchief in her hand, she made herself comfortable on the sofa, waiting the summons to go downstairs.
Poor little Tommy wasaffublé, like the rest, with paramatta and crape. He had a large sash of the latter material, which had the air of a hump andtwo tails behind; and the paleness of the little Indian child came out with double effect from this heavy framework. Verna’s quick eye noticed this, and felt that much was to be made of Tommy. She posed him at his mother’s knee, and contemplated the group, and felt that no cruel trustee, no hard-hearted guardian, could stand against them. When she reflected that the guardian was only Mr. Charles, she felt triumphant. He certainly would never oppose her. And now the moment of fate approached; soon it would be decided whether Verna, by Tommy’s means, was to have it; or, if—
What a relief it would have been to her mind, had she known that the estate was entailed, and that even Mr. Heriot’s will could do nothing against that! but whether it is for want of education or not, certain it is that women know very little about such matters; and Verna’s fine intellect was hampered by her ignorance. She knew nothing about the laws of entail, or whether a man could change them at his will and pleasure. She felt that the possible gain was so great, that there must be some evil possibility in the way, which would make an end of it. And this sense of a tremendous decision about to be made, wound Verna up to the highest pitch of excitement. She looked handsome, though she was not regularly handsome—almost beautiful in her emotion; her eyes’ sparkled, her colour was high, and the smile, which usually was too complacent, was swept away from her face altogether, leaving only an animated readiness to change in a moment from grave to gay, from calm to triumphant.Her heart was beating under her new black gown as it had never beat in her life before. She had not lived till now, it is true, without some little movements of the heart—but none of them had at all approached in interest to this.
At last the summons came. With one final imploring supplication to Matilda to do nothing but cry, and to Tommy to be a good boy, she gave her sister her arm with every appearance of sympathy, and held out her other hand to be grasped by Tommy, who, being short, preferred her dress, to which he clung as for life and death. The maids stood admiring and sympathetic on the stairs, as this procession stole softly down. Tommy was whimpering with fright; Matilda put up her beautiful handkerchief to hide her face; only Verna was composed and sublime, supporting her widowed sister. In the darkened library, which was, like the drawing-room, full of lines of ghostly light from the joints of the shutters, everybody stood up as this group entered, and all hearts were filled with a certain thrill of sympathy. The chief places were given to the young widow and her sister. All the others seemed to group round them as a natural centre.
Mr. Charles stood with his back to the fire, interrupting the light which came from it by his long legs. He was very tired and very anxious, not knowing what the future was to bring forth for those most dear to him, and looking at the new-comers in the gloom which hid the expressions of their faces, with a wistful eagerness which was strongerthan curiosity. Nothing that happened could affect him personally, nor was he without the means to give Marjory a home; but there were more things involved than mere maintenance, and however things might turn out, it was certain that the whole family was on the eve of some painful change.
Marjory sat behind backs, very silent, not so much interested as any one else present, not caring much what happened. In no circumstances was it probable that she could have cared much for the mere personal consideration of how much was or was not left to her; and the idea of being compelled to leave Pitcomlie, and to give up all the habits and occupations of her life, had not occurred to her. I doubt whether, even had it occurred to her, the effect upon her mind would have been greater. The only thing that interested her specially was Tom’s secret, the unknown story to which she seemed to have been brought closer last evening; and it was this which was going dimly, vaguely through her mind, while the others were occupied with things so much more immediately present and real.
Milly, as usual, was on a stool by her feet, pressing her golden hair against her sister’s black dress; and Fanshawe stood near, behind the back of her chair, unseen, scarcely thought of, yet giving a certain subtle support. He had no right whatever to be here. The lawyer, Mr. Smeaton, from Edinburgh, had put on his spectacles to look at him, as he might have done had he been a big beetle conspicuously out of place. Even Mr. Charles hadhesitated a little before he said, “Are you coming with us, Mr. Fanshawe?”
Fanshawe would not have accepted so very uncordial an invitation to intrude into family mysteries in any other house; but this (he said to himself) was not like any other house; and Marjory had half turned round to look if he was following. Was not that reason enough? He felt somewhat uneasy when he found himself there, and in a false position. He got as far out of the way as possible, behind her chair. And then it gleamed across him that the others might inquire what right he had to stand behind Marjory’s chair? No right! not even the right of an honest intention, a real purpose. He meant nothing; the tie between the two was entirely fortuitous, without intention on either side. What right had he to be there?
Mr. Heriot’swill was an old one. As it was read, some of the listeners held their breaths with the strangest painful feeling of anachronism and sense of being suddenly plunged back into an ended world. Little Milly, wistful and dreary, cried at the merest mention that was made of her brothers’ names. She was the one of all who had least personal knowledge of her brothers; but their names had become symbols of grief to her. The others listened with much outward quietness and internal excitement, while all the stipulations of that will which the father had made in full certainty of being survived by his sons, was read in the light of the fact that both his sons had preceded him to the grave.
The will set forth that there was twenty thousand pounds to be divided between the younger children; but that little Milly being provided for in chief by her mother’s fortune, only three thousand was to be given to her, the rest being divided between the son Charles and the daughter Marjory of the testator. Mr. Smeaton paused to explain that this sum would not be fully realized, as some part of the property from which it was to be drawn hadmuch deteriorated in value; and went into further detailed descriptions of the property, and the cause of its deterioration, which tried Verna’s patience to the utmost, and made Mr. Charles cross and uncross his long legs in nervous impatience.
Even wills, however, come to an end some time. When this was ended there was a pause. There were no unexpected stipulations, no wrong done to any one; all was perfectly just, kind, and fatherly. But this was not all. Except Matilda, who knew nothing, everyone in the room stirred with uneasy expectation when the reading came to an end. Matilda, for her part, obeyed her sister’s directions closely; but that did not prevent her from making an anxious calculation in her mind how much was left of twenty thousand pounds when you subtracted three, and how much was the half of seventeen thousand. This was a mental operation which took her a long time and much thought, and she had not arrived at the other and more difficult and, in short, utterly insoluble question as to what income eight thousand five hundred pounds would produce, when Mr. Charles spoke.
“Is there no later will?” he said; “nothing made since the late sad changes in the family? no codicil? He might have made some memorandum, perhaps, of what he wanted to be done in the present melancholy case.”
“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Smeaton; “it was not a case to be foreseen. Such a thing, I daresay,never entered into his head. Since both are gone, this poor little fellow must, of course, be named heir of entail, and guardians appointed—unless his father has appointed guardians.”
“Not likely, not likely,” said Mr. Charles; and both of the gentlemen looked at Matilda, who, thinking that she had done something wrong, hid her face in her handkerchief. This produced, as Verna expected, the most excellent effect.
“Poor young creature!” they said to each other. “It is too much for her, and no wonder.”
“Miss Bassett,” Mr. Charles added, gently, “perhaps you could rouse your sister a little to the necessities of her position. You know that in consequence of the death of my two nephews, Tom and Charlie, all the bulk of the property goes to that poor infant at your feet. Poor little man! You understand me? I daresay you have not thought on the subject, either of you. Poor little Tommy is the actual proprietor of Pitcomlie. It will be a great responsibility for his mother. Do you think you can make her understand?”
Matilda’s handkerchief, which she held to her face, was violently jerked by the start she gave. There are some minds which are quick to self-interest, though dull to most things else. Mrs. Charles was of slow intelligence, but she heard and understood this. For a moment she made an effort to obey her sister; but then nature got the better of her. She flung the handkerchief on the floor, and appeared from under it, flushed and tearless.
“What!” she cried, with a suppressed but sharp scream.
The reality of her voice amid this subdued and conventional quiet, roused them all up like a flash of lightning; and Verna herself, for the moment, was too much overcome to interfere.
“Did she not know?” said Mr. Smeaton, aside, to Mr. Charles. “The fact is, the deaths of your brother-in-law and your husband, Mrs. Charles, have left your little boy the actual proprietor of Pitcomlie. Had I supposed that you did not know, I would have broken the news more gently—”
“Tommy!” cried his mother. “Tommy! Do you mean it all belongs to us—all? this house, and the money, and everything? Oh, Tommy! Are you sure—are you quite sure? Can’t you be making a mistake? These things so often turn out to be mistakes; I should not like to believe it, and then find out it was not true.”
Verna advanced with a warning air; but her sister pushed her away.
“Let me alone, Verna; it is my business and Tommy’s. Please go on, go on. I can understand everything. Oh! make haste and tell me! All Tommy’s!—and Tommy, of course, mine, being but a baby. Is it true?”
“It is true, so far as Tommy is concerned,” said the lawyer, with a smile; “but for his mother—”
“There is a paper,” cried Matilda; “Charliesigned a paper. Verna, you have it; where is it, that last paper Charlie signed? You made him do it. I remember I thought it was silly, for what could it matter? It is something about me and the children. Give it to Uncle Charles; he is in it, too. Dear me! you are quick enough sometimes,” said poor Matilda, in vulgar triumph. “Do not keep everybody waiting; where is it now?”
Verna put herself between her sister and the critical eyes that were, she supposed, inspecting her, and picking up the fallen handkerchief, restored it to its owner.
“Be quiet, for heaven’s sake,” she cried.
“Oh, why should I be quiet, I should like to know?” cried Matilda. “Don’t stand between me and the people. If I am mistress of the house, I mean to be so, and put up with no nonsense. She has got the paper all right. Tommy, my precious darling! You shall have the nicest things money can buy. You shall never go to school, my precious, like common little nasty boys. You shall have——”
“Oh, you fool!” shrieked Verna, in her ear.
At the sound of these familiar words, and the suppressed vehemence with which they were spoken, Matilda for the moment came to herself. She looked round, and saw the wondering faces turned towards her. She saw suddenly that she had abandoned herconsigne, and had got into deep waters, which she could not fathom; and with acertain natural cunning, which her sister blessed, she suddenly fell a crying in her excitement. Then Verna began to breathe; the ball was again in her hands.
“Poor Charlie was very anxious about his wife and his children before he died,” she said, “as was very natural, for he did not know if his father would approve of his coming home. He had not anything to leave, poor fellow, but he made his will. Here it is. It was partly his doing and partly mine, as my sister says. I brought it in case it should be wanted. Whatever Tommy—I mean the children—may have, he made her their guardian. My sister is very excitable”—Here Verna paused, as if forced to make some explanation. “She was afraid there would be nothing for the children. The revulsion has been too much——”
“Mrs. Charles seems, I think, quite able to speak for herself,” said Mr. Smeaton. “This is the will of Charles Heriot, dated at sea, the 21st March. It’s worth very little, I may tell you. It is quite informal. If the family choose to accept and act upon it, I have nothing to say; but otherwise it is good for nothing. It leaves everything of which he dies possessed to his widow, and appoints her and his uncle, Charles Hay-Heriot, of George Square, Edinburgh, the guardians of his children. That’s so far well; it is a judicious appointment enough—- unless,” stooping his head, and speaking lower, he added, “unless the family think it proper to dispute it, when it is a simple piece ofwaste paper. It all depends upon what you think, ay or no.”
There was a pause. Matilda’s interposition had made a painful impression upon Uncle Charles.
“What could we do?” he said, in an undertone.
“You could dispute this, and have guardians appointed by the court,” said Mr. Smeaton. “But as you’re named, and all’s right otherwise, I do not see much reason why——”
Matilda heard this low conversation, but she did not know what it was about. She thought, like every narrow intelligence, that what she did not understand must be against her. And her feelings overcame her prudence and her awe of Verna.
“What are you all talking about?” she said, vehemently, sitting up quite upright in the chair which she had been reclining in. “What are you doing, plotting and scheming against my boy? You cannot take his birthright from him. Do you think I will stay quiet, as Verna tells me. Verna, hold your tongue, it is I that am the mistress, when my Charlie’s will is being torn up, and our estate taken from us. No, I will not stay quiet. We must have our rights.”
“Do not mind her, gentlemen,” said Verna, piteously. “She is excited; she is never like this when she understands. Matilda, dear, no one is thinking of wronging you. It was this gentlemanwho explained how things are. They will appoint another guardian, and take away your authority, if you don’t mind. Be quiet, or they will take away your freedom. Matty! if they see you are excited and so forth, they will not let you have any of the power. Do you hear what I say? They cannot wrong you, but they will make you a slave; they will take away all your power.”
This was said in a passionate whisper, close to Matilda’s ear, who gazed at the speaker, open-eyed, first defiant, then gradually yielding.
“They are not to do anything against Tommy’s rights. I will not stand and see my child lose his rights,” she cried.
Verna sat down beside her, and took her hand, and carried on a close conversation in a whisper. It became half Hindustanee as it became vehement. The lawyer and Mr. Charles, after a moment’s pause, made themselves into a separate group, and talked over the papers; while Marjory and little Milly behind, with Fanshawe looking on, formed another. The central point of the scene was in the two young women, full of excitement and passion, who were strangers, whom the house knew nothing of, and who yet were its future mistresses, with the wondering little boy in crape standing between them, holding fast by each, and gazing out with round eyes upon the strangers who filled him with a frightened defiance. You will think it strange that Marjory had no yearning of the heart towards this baby, who was Charlie’s son; but, as childrenhave a perverse way of doing in such circumstances, little Tommy had not a feature which recalled Charlie. He was his mother’s little staring image, her face, her expression, the very repetition of her look. Milly’s heart was moved to him for the sole reason that he was “little”; but Marjory remained cold as the nether millstone to Charlie’s boy. She sat, indeed, very coldly during the whole discussion. It sounded to her like a storm going on at a distance, which disturbs no one—the thunder mere echo, the lightning nothing but reflection. She looked at the two who were moved by feelings so much stronger than her own with a vague surprise, which only the curious stupor which hung about her could explain. She did not enter into their feelings. She was antagonistic to them, yet saw that but faintly. The whole scene seemed a dream, which would float away, leaving—what? Marjory’s mind did not seem even active enough to inquire what it would leave behind.
Thus this strange scene ended, and everybody at Pitcomlie knew that a change—the greatest ever known in its records—had come about in the fortunes of the race. Other widowed ladies had reigned in the old house before now, but they had been kindly daughters of the country-side, trained in its traditions, and knowing what was expected of them. The new mistress was a stranger, knowing neither Fife nor Scotland, nor even English ways, knowing nothing about the family, nor what it demanded from her, and caring less than she knew. Mr. Charles, with care on his brow, took a “turn” with Mr. Smeaton on the cliff. They discussed the matter very seriously, but they did not make much of it one way or another.
“If young Charlie’s will stands, you will have to manage all the money matters,” Mr. Smeaton said, “which will be the best thing for the estate; and perhaps you’ll be able to get an influence over the widow. She’ll give you a great deal of trouble, that young woman; but, on the other hand, she will understand nothing about business, and you will get your own way; whereas, if the will is cancelled as informal, you’ll have another guardian appointed who may take different views; and she’ll give plenty of trouble all the same.”
“She’s young,” said Mr. Charles, with careful looks; “she’ll learn better; but I’m an old man—too old to manage a child’s property, that will not come of age for eighteen years.”
“Toots!” said Mr. Smeaton; “you’re not sixty. What ails you to live till the laddie’s of age? there’s plenty of your name have done it before you.”
“My brother was but sixty-one,” said Mr. Charles.
“Ay, ay; but the circumstances are different, they cannot occur again. On the whole, if I were in your place, I would stand by young Charlie’s will.”
This was the subject of conversation with the elders of the party, as the Spring afternoon came toan end; very different from their subdued doubtfulness and care were the feelings of Matilda and her sister as they went upstairs. Matilda, for her part, did not want to go upstairs at all.
“I want to see the house,” she said. “It is my own house now, and I have a right to see it. I don’t see why I should be shut up in a bedroom—the mistress of the house!”
“Come along for to-day; we are to go down to dinner!” said Verna. “How could you see the house when all the shutters are closed, and everything shut up?”
“Let them open it, then!” said Matilda. “It has been shut up long enough—a whole week. What would anyone think of that in India?” But finally she allowed herself to be persuaded to go back to her room, as Tommy wanted his tea. When she reached that sanctuary, she plucked the cap from her head, and tossed it to the other end of the room. “That shall never go on again!” she cried. “Now I am my own mistress, I don’t see why I should make myself hideous for anybody. You need not look shocked, Verna; you need not say a word. There are some things I won’t do. I mean to be a good sister to you, and give you everything you want, but I won’t have you sit upon me, and tell me what I am to do. You may be the cleverest, but I’m Tommy’s mother, and I have the power to do what I like—and I will, too!” she cried, letting down her bright locks, which had been simply fastened behind to admit of the covering of thecap. “Quick, Elvin, bring me all my pads and hairpins, and do up my hair decently. I won’t go down to dinner a fright; you can put it on if you like, since you are so fond of it,” she said, with a mocking laugh, as her sister picked up the unfortunate cap. Verna was not so happy as her sister; she had never been thus defied by Matilda before. Her brilliant hopes of sovereignty were overcast. If this rebellion was to continue, all her plans would be put out of joint. It was with a very rueful countenance that she picked up the discarded headgear, and looked on at the wonderful edifice of fair hair that was being built up over Matilda’s low but white forehead. “I have not felt so comfortable since we left Calcutta,” said that young woman, with a sigh of relief as she looked at herself in the glass. “Crape is not unbecoming when it is fresh; and, thank heaven, one can always have it fresh now.”
“You speak as if you were glad you were a widow; you never think of poor Charlie!” cried Verna, in her discomfiture—glad to have some means of inflicting a sting.
“Oh, you cruel, unkind thing! as if I did not miss him every hour,” said Matilda, with the ready tribute of tears which sprang up at a moment’s notice. “He never would have allowed you to bully me as you do; he never asked me to do anything I didn’t like; never called me a fool, as you do.”
“He must have thought it many a time,” said Verna spitefully.
“He did not; he was very fond of me—and I was fond of him, very fond of him!” cried Matilda; “but do you think he would have liked me to be tyrannized over, to make myself look hideous?—never. He would have liked to see me at the head of the table—”
Verna had not very fine or fastidious taste; but she had sense enough to perceive when anything was offensively out of harmony with the courtesies of life. She cried:
“For heaven’s sake, Matty—for Charlie’s sake, not to-night!”
“We shall see about that,” said Matilda, complacently nodding her head; “it is for Charlie’s sake, poor fellow; he married me without any money, or great connections, or anything. And I want them to see I am not such a dowdy, nor so plain, nor so insignificant as they think. For Charlie’s sake, and to do him credit, poor fellow, I am determined to be mistress in my own house.”
Verna was struck dumb; she was cast from her height of hope, and the fall stunned her. It was of no use now to call her sister a fool, though she was proving herself so in the most violent manner. Folly is not always obedient and submissive; there are times when it takes the upper hand, and then there is nothing so impossible as to move it one way or another. Poor Verna, in her little pride of cleverness, was actually cowed by the unexpected force of the heartless idiocy which she despised. It was stronger than she in that grand primitive powerof unreason, which is strong enough to confuse the best intellect, and break the stoutest heart in the world.
Thedrawing-room was but dimly lighted when the party at Pitcomlie assembled in it for dinner, and Matilda had been so little seen as yet, that the absence of her widow’s cap made but little impression upon the small silent company. She came in, feeling somewhat triumphant, with her pretty hair rising in billows from the low white brow, which people had told her was like that of a classic statue. There was very little that was classic about poor Matilda, but she liked this praise. It sounded lofty and elevated; nobody had ever called her clever—but this seemed to approach or even to exceed the point of cleverness. After a momentary pause, Mr. Charles offered her his arm. He was about to place her at his own right hand at the foot of the table, as became a visitor. Matilda, however, stood holding him fast until all the party had entered the room. Then she said, looking round upon the company, “To save inconvenience don’t you think I had better take my proper place at once?” and marched the unfortunate old uncle up to the head of the table. There she spread herself out complacent and delighted. “I always think when there is a change to be made it had better be done atonce,” she said, beaming with a triumphant smile, with her jet ornaments twinkling in the light, upon the astounded party.
They were so entirely taken by surprise that a moment’s confusion occurred, no one knowing where to place him or herself. Mr. Charles, helpless and amazed, was pinned to Matilda’s side. To her other hand, Mr. Smeaton quietly looking on and enjoying the joke, led Verna, who was crimson with painful blushes, and not daring to lift her eyes. Marjory was the last to perceive the alteration that had been made. She was about to pass on to her usual place, when Fanshawe quietly stopped her, and placed her at the foot of the table. She looked up with an astonished glance, and met the triumphant eyes of the new mistress from its head. I am doubtful whether Marjory at the moment fully realized what it was. She gave a surprised look round, and then a smile passed over her face—could anyone suppose she cared for this? It hurt her a great deal less than it did Verna, who was her natural antagonist; but who thought it the most dreadful “solecism,” and wondered what people would think. “They will think we are nobodies, and know nothing,” Verna said to herself, and scarcely ventured to hold up her head. The company in general, indeed, was taken by such surprise that there was no conversation for a few minutes. Fleming’s face as he placed himself behind Mrs. Charles’s chair was a study of consternation and dismay. He carried the dishes to Marjory first, and pulled her sleeve and whispered,
“You’ll no be heeding? the woman’s daft, Miss Marjory, you’re no heeding?” with an anxiety which regained him his character in Fanshawe’s eyes.
“It is quite right,” said Marjory in the same undertone. “She is the mistress of the house, she was quite right. It is best she should take her place at once.”
Fleming marched round the table, shaking his head. He groaned when he served the new mistress. He called her Mistress Chairles till her patience was exhausted.
“Please to call me Mrs. Heriot,” she said angrily.
“Oh aye, Mistress Chairles,” said Fleming, “will ye take some chicken or some mutton?”
“If you do not call me by my right name I will send you away,” cried Matilda. She was “daft,” as he said, or rather intoxicated with satisfaction and triumph.
“You can do that, Mistress Chairles,” said the old man indifferently, going on with his service. Deeper and deeper blushed poor Verna. Oh, what solecisms! what ignorance of the world! She did not know whether she should refrain from noticing, or whether she ought to excuse and explain her sister’s conduct. The first was the most difficult, especially as her companion, the lawyer, looked on with suppressed amusement, and noted everything. Then Matilda began to entertain her neighbours on her other side.
“Is that gentleman—I don’t know his name—at the foot of the table, a relation?” she asked.
“No,” said Mr. Charles, who was just now coming to the surface after his consternation, “his name is Fanshawe, he is a friend of poor Tom’s.”
“Then he is engaged to Marjory, I suppose?”
“No,” repeated Mr. Charles once more, still more blankly; and then he looked down to the other end of the table, where certainly Mr. Fanshawe was talking very eagerly to his niece, and added, “Not so far as I know.”
“Ah, young ladies are sometimes sly in those sort of affairs,” said Mrs. Charles. “I should think Marjory was one of the sly ones. Now I never can hide what I feel; but I suppose Marjory is a great deal cleverer than I.”
Mr. Charles made no reply. He glanced at her confounded, without a word to say. Was this the little thing that had looked so gentle, and cried so bitterly? He was at his wrong end of the table, everybody and everything were out of their proper places. He was suddenly made into a visitor, he who had been at home here all his life.
“Where do you live, Mr. Heriot?” said Mrs. Charles, “it is dreadful to know so little about the family; but I always was an ignorant little thing. It would be so kind if you would tell me about everybody.”
“Where do I live?” he said, “I have lived here most of my life—it is a difficult question to answer; though of course I have my house in George’s Square.”
“Where is that?” she asked; but waiting for no answer, added suddenly with an innocent look of curiosity, “and will Marjory live with you?”
“Matty!” cried Verna in an agony; nothing but solecisms! she thought.
“Would you think Verna was much older than I?” said Matilda, turning to the lawyer. “She thinks I ought to do everything she tells me; but when once a woman has been married, nobody has a right to tell her what to do except her husband. Don’t you think so? One always knows one’s own affairs best.”
“It is common to say so,” said the lawyer; “but for my part, I think we are all most clever in managing our neighbours’ affairs.”
This speech puzzled Matilda, who was silent for a moment. The party was so small, and the others talked so little, that these brilliant remarks were heard by everybody, except, perhaps, the questions about Fanshawe, which she had had the grace to make in a somewhat lower tone. Even Verna was so paralyzed by the whole proceeding, and by her sister’s unparalleled audacity, that she had entirely lost her conversational powers. She plucked up a little courage now, and made an effort to regain the lead which she had lost.
“It is such a loss to go to India so young as we did,” she said; “we make no acquaintance with our own country. Our ways are all Indian. We are as bad as the Americans for asking questions. The reason is that we are always meeting new people inIndia. We should not know anything about them if we did not ask.”
This speech raised Verna very much in the lawyer’s opinion. It was clever, he thought, and good-natured, shielding the fool of a sister.
“I am sure you will be able to be of great service to Mrs. Heriot,” he said, in an undertone. “Your good sense will show what is best. It may be a difficult business, and your brother-in-law’s will is not worth a snuff if the family choose to oppose it. So she must not try their patience, you see, for old Charles Heriot, though very pleasant in his manner, is an old Turk when he’s opposed. There is no saying what he might do,” said Mr. Smeaton, enjoying the slander which he was uttering within hearing almost of the person assailed, “if his blood was up; and if your sister was to show any—well, incivility is a hard word, but you know what I mean—to Miss Marjory, Charles Heriot would take fire. You must advise her, Miss Bassett; you must advise her. Hoolie and fairly, as we say in Scotland, or as the Italians have it,Chi va piano va sano.” These words Mr. Smeaton pronounced as if they were broad Scotch; but Verna did not understand them, so it made little difference to her. And he added, “Everything here is long established, and hard to root up. You’ll have to make your changes with great discretion, and take time to them. Everything will be made more difficult for you if auld Charles Heriot should take fire at any little affront, and flare up.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times for your advice!” cried Verna. “It is exactly my ownopinion, and what I have said to her over and over. But I did not know Mr. Charles Heriot was so hot-tempered; he looks mild enough.”
“The very deevil—if you’ll excuse the word,” said Mr. Smeaton, “when his blood’s up.”
Perhaps Verna was the only one who was sorry when that dinner was over. She was anxious for advice, and to be thus fortified seemed to her of the greatest importance; and she received with religious faith those valuable hints about Mr. Charles Heriot’s temper, among other things. When the ladies left the table, she tried hard to persuade Matilda to go to her room, under pretext of fatigue; but the young widow was obdurate.
“I want to see the house,” she said, making her way, sweeping and rustling in her crape, to the drawing-room. Marjory followed, still with very little feeling of what had happened. But even Marjory was conscious of some painful feeling when she saw her sister-in-law laid luxuriously upon the little sofa in the bow-window, which was her own particular seat.
“Indeed, it is very comfortable,” said Matilda. “You know how to be comfortable. This is your favourite place, is it not, Marjory? Poor Charlie used to tell me of the bow-window, and how it was made for you.”
“Yes, I was fond of it,” said Marjory.
“Then I hope you will always feel you have a right to it when you come to see me,” said Mrs. Charles. “We shall change some things, no doubt; but you will always be welcome, Marjory. I suppose you are to be married soon. You may think it would hurt my feelings to hear of a wedding, being a widow myself; but I am not so selfish. I am sure I congratulate you; he looks very nice indeed.”
“There is nothing to congratulate me about,” said Marjory.
It was hard upon her to hear the conversation between the sisters which followed, about new curtains and chairs that were necessary. It was not Verna’s fault, who gave piteous, conciliatory looks at the daughter of the house. She bore it all as long as she could, and then she went noiselessly outside upon the cliff. The Spring was very mild that year. This was again a lovely night, with a faint blue sky all sprinkled with stars, and the vague, half-seen sea beneath, which sent up long sighing waves upon the rocks, not loud, but full of pensive moaning. There was a young moon shining, a moon covered with fleecy white clouds like a veil. Through the softened night rose the white rock of the May, with its steady light; and the lighthouse further off which Marjory knew so well, and which had so often turned and thrown a pleasant gleam at her across the broad waters, gleamed out all at once as she strayed round the well-known path. It was, perhaps, only Mrs. Charles’s gracious intimation that she would always be welcome, which roused her to the sense that the time was approaching when she must leave this dear old home. It was not in Marjory’s nature to make a lesser grief into a great one; and she had endured so much, that this additional trouble was not heavy to her, as it would have been in othercircumstances. But it gave her a certain sore feeling of pain and loss in the midst of her heavier burdens. It seemed hard to have such a subject thrust all at once, without a moment’s notice, upon her. Her heart felt sore, as if a sudden new thrust had been made at it; sore with a feeling of resentment and impatient vexation. She strayed along the familiar round, the “turn” which she had taken so often, hearing now and then the voices through the half-open window; voices higher pitched and more shrill than any native to this locality. Even that difference of tone seemed somehow unreasonably offensive to her. She chid herself for the foolish feeling; but how could she help it? The moon gleamed softly upon the old Manor-house and on Mr. Charles’s tower; there was a glimmer of half-dying firelight making his windows visible. Had Marjory known that her successor, Verna, had already planned in her mind how to pull all those ruins down!
She had not been thinking of Fanshawe, nor of any one, when he joined her suddenly; her thoughts had been all vague, full of that soreness which was almost a relief from the heavy stupor of her grief. She had seemed to herself, not suffering actively, but stupid in sadness; sad, sad down to the bottom of her heart; a state of mind not without a certain repose in it, which this other sensation of being wounded and injured shot across, now and then, like a thrill of life. But it seemed very natural to her when Fanshawe came to her side, more natural even than if it had been Uncle Charles. He held out his arm, and she took it only half consciously,and with a kind of faint pleasure allowed him to lead her to the edge of the cliff, where the sea-line was visible, with the Isle of May rising well out of the waters, and the twinkling lights along Comlie shore marking out the length of the little town. Her heart was overwhelmed with this profound and gentle sadness; and yet there was a pleasure in it, too.
“Miss Heriot,” said Fanshawe; “I want to have you a little while to myself, to-night. This is no place for me any longer. I must go away.”
“It is no place for any of us,” said Marjory, instinctively adopting him into the number of those who belonged to her. They were so few now.
But he took no advantage of this inference. He took it for granted, simply as she did. Perhaps he pressed her hand a little closer to his side; but if so, the action was involuntary.
“No,” he said, “it is no place for you. This piece of impertinence to-night—”
“I never thought of it,” said Marjory; “it was nothing; that could not make any difference; but we must go.”
“It is selfish of me to say anything,” he said; “but it is I who must go first—not the same man who came here a month ago, Miss Heriot; just a month—though it might be an hour, or it might be a year. It has separated my life into two pieces. May I write to you after I have managed to take myself away?”
“Surely,” she said, in her gentlest tone.
“And will you write to me? I have no right to ask it; but you are—different, somehow. You knowhow little I am good for. I don’t mean to make any professions to you now—to say you have made me better. Perhaps I am past making better. I should like to try, first; but if you would write now and then, just three words—”
“Certainly I will write,” she said, looking frankly in his face. “How much you have been to us all this terrible time! Do you think I can ever forget it? And it is not only that we owe you a day in harvest—as we Scotch folk say—but people cannot feel with each other as we have done, and then cease and forget each other. Certainly I will write; it will be one of my pleasures.”