MOUNT was soon turned upside down with all the excitement of packing. It was a relief from the monotony which hangs about a house from which the world is shut out, and where the family life is still circling round one melancholy event. Days look like years in these circumstances; even when the grief is of the deepest those who are left behind must do something to keep the dulled wheels of life in motion, since not even the most truly bereaved can die of grief when they will. But in the case of the Mountfords the affliction was not excessive. Anne, whom her father had wronged, perhaps mourned most of all, not because of more love, but more depth of nature, which could not leave the old so lightly to turn to the new, and which felt more awe and reverence for those mysterious changes which alter the very face of life. Rose cried a great deal during the first few days, and Mrs. Mountford still went on performing little acts of devotion, going to look at her husband’s portrait, and thinking of him as a mournful duty; but there was a certain excitement of new existence in both their hearts. So long as he was there they were bound to Mount, and all the old habits of their life—indeed never thought of breaking them, or supposed it possible they could be broken; but now they were free, and their smiles came back involuntarily as they prepared for this exciting removal, the beginning of a new life. Anne’s mind was kept in a graver key by many causes. The nameless and causeless compunctions, remorses, which move the sensitive spirit in profound and awe-stricken sympathy with the dead, were for her alone in the house. She only tormented herself with thoughts of other possibilities, of things that might have been done and were not done; of words, nay even looks, which, had she but known how near her father was to the unseen world, might have been modified or withheld; and she only followed him, halting, uncertain, to the portals of the unseen existence, as she had followed him to his grave. What was he doing there? a man not heavenly, with qualities that were more suited for the common soil below than the celestial firmament above. It was she only who put these questions, not, perhaps as we have said, that she loved him more, but that she felt more deeply, and everything that happened was of more consequence to her. Besides, she had other causes of gravity. Her position was more serious altogether. Even the new-made widow had a straightforward path before her, lonely yet troubled by no uncertainty—but Anne was walking in darkness, and did not comprehend her lot.
Of all her surroundings the one who was most conscious of this was the Rector, who, getting no satisfaction, as he said, from his son, came out to Mount himself one of those wintry mornings to question Anne in person. ‘What have they settled?’ he had asked confidently, as soon as the Curate returned from the station where he had been seeing his friend off. ‘I don’t think they have settled anything, sir,’ said Charley, turning his back upon his father, not caring to betray more than was needful of his own feelings. ‘They are all going off to London—that is the only thing that seems to be decided.’ ‘God bless my soul!’ cried the Rector—which benediction was the good man’s oath; ‘but that has nothing to do with it. I want to know what is settled about Anne.’ Then poor Charley, out of the excess of his devotion and dissatisfaction, made a stand for his friend. ‘You know, sir, what a struggle a young barrister has to do anything,’ he said; ‘how can they—settle, when all the money is gone?’ ‘God bless my soul!’ the Rector said again; and after many thoughts he set off to Mount expressly to have it out, as he said, with Anne herself. He found her in the library, arranging with old Saymore what books were to be packed to take away, while Heathcote Mountford, looking very black and gloomy, sat at the further window pretending to read, and biting his nails furiously. The mild old Rector wondered for a moment what that sullen figure should have to do in the background, and why Heathcote did not go and leave his cousins free: but there was no time then to think of Heathcote. ‘So you are really going,’ the Rector said, ‘the whole family? It is very early days.’
‘Mamma thinks it will be better to make the change at once. She thinks it will do her good, and Rose——’
The Rector fidgeted about the room, pulling out one here and there of a long line of books, and pretending to inspect it. Then he said abruptly, ‘The fact was I wanted to speak to you, Anne.’
Heathcote Mountford was sitting some way off, and Mr. Ashley’s voice was a gentle one—but he stirred immediately. ‘If I am in the way——’ he said, getting up. Of course he was in the way; but his faculties must have been very sharp, and his attention very closely fixed on what was going on, to hear those words. The good Rector murmured some apology; but Heathcote strolled away carrying his book in his hand. It was not so easy to get rid of old Saymore, who had a thousand questions to ask; but he, too, went at last.
‘No, we are not taking all the books,’ said Anne, ‘we are taking scarcely anything. My cousin Heathcote does not wish to refurnish the house at present, and as we do not know what we may do eventually, mamma prefers to leave everything. It is a mutual convenience. In this way we may come back in summer, when I hope you will be glad to see us,’ she added with a smile.
‘Of course we shall be glad to see you—I don’t know what we shall do, or how we can get on without you. But that is not the immediate question,’ he said, with some energy. ‘I have come to ask you, now that you have seen Douglas, what is settled, Anne?’
This was the first time the question had been put formally into words. It gave her a little shock. The blood all rallied to her heart to give her strength to answer. She looked him in the face very steadily, that he might not think she was afraid. ‘Settled?’ she said, with a little air of surprise. ‘In present circumstances, and in our deep mourning, what could be settled? We have not even discussed the question.’
‘Then I say that is wrong, Anne,’ said the Rector in a querulous voice. ‘He is a young man, and I am an old one, but it is not a question I should leave undiscussed for an hour. It should be settled what you are going to do.’
‘So far it is settled,’ she said. ‘My duty is with mamma and Rose.’
‘What, Anne!’ cried Mr. Ashley. ‘God bless my soul! You are engaged to be married, and your duty is to your mother and sister? I don’t know what you young people mean.’
Anne did not answer just at once. ‘Did not Charley tell you,’ she said, after a pause, ‘that we were all going away?’
‘Yes, he told me—and I say nothing against that. It seems to be the way, now. Instead of bearing their grief at home, people flee from it as if it were a plague. Yes, Charley told me; but he could not tell me anything about the other question.’
‘Because there is nothing to tell. Dear Rector, don’t you know my father did leave me a great legacy, after all——’
‘What was that? What was that? Somethink that was not in the will. I thank God for it, Anne,’ cried Mr. Ashley. ‘It is the best news I have heard for many a day.’
‘Oh, don’t speak as if it were something new! Mr. Ashley, he left me the care of the property, and the charge of Rose. Can I do whatever I please with this on my hands?’
‘Is that all?’ the Rector said, in a tone of disappointment; ‘but this is exactly the work in which Douglas could help you. A man and a barrister, of course he knows all about it, much better than you can do. And do you mean to tell me that nothing has been settled, nothing, Anne?’ cried Mr. Ashley, with that vehemence to which mild men are subject. ‘Don’t talk to me of your mourning; I am not thinking of anything that is to happen to-day or to-morrow; but is it settled? That is what I want to know.’
‘There is nothing settled,’ she said—and they stood there for a minute facing each other, his countenance full of anxiety and distrust, hers very firm and pale, almost blank even with determined no meaning. She smiled. She would not let him think she was even disconcerted by his questions. And the Rector was baffled by this firmness. He turned away sighing, and wringing his hands. ‘God bless my soul!’ he said. For it was no use questioning Anne any further—that, at least, was very clear. But as he went away, he came across Heathcote Mountford who was walking about in the now abandoned hall like a handsome discontented ghost.
‘I am glad to see that you take a great interest in your cousins,’ the Rector said, with a conciliatory smile. He did not feel very friendly, to tell the truth, towards Heathcote Mountford, feeling that his existence was a kind of wrong to Anne and Rose; but yet he was the new lord of the manor, and this is a thing which the spiritual head of a parish is bound to remember, whatever his personal feelings may be. Even in this point of view, however, Heathcote was unsatisfactory—for a poor lord of the manor in the best of circumstances is a trial to a rector, especially one who has been used to a well-to-do squire with liberal ways.
‘My interest is not of much use,’ Heathcote said, ‘for you see, though I have protested, they are going away.’
Just then Mr. Loseby’s phaeton drew up at the door, and he himself got out, enveloped with greatcoats and mufflers from head to foot. He was continually coming and going, with an almost restless interest in everything that happened at Mount.
‘It is the very best thing they can do,’ he said. ‘Change of scene: it is the remedy for all trouble now-a-days. They have never seen anything, poor ladies; they have been buried in the country all their lives. And Anne, of course, will like to be in town. That anyone can see with half an eye.’
Here the Rector found another means, if not of satisfying his anxious curiosity, at least of sharing it with some one. He put his arm into Mr. Loseby’s and led him away to the big window. The idea of at least opening his heart to another friend of the family did him good. ‘Do you know,’ he said, with a gasp of excitement, ‘I have been questioning Anne, and she tells me there is nothing settled—nothing settled! I could not believe my ears.’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Mr. Loseby, who was not reverential, ‘what could be settled? A young couple with not a penny between them——’
‘We should not have thought of that, Loseby, in my young days.’
‘We were fools in our young days,’ said the lawyer, with a laugh—‘inexperienced idiots. That’s not the case now. They all know everything that can happen, and calculate the eventualities like a parcel of old women. No, no, the day of imprudent matches is over. Of course there is nothing settled. I never expected it for my part——’
‘But—but, Loseby, he could be of such use to her. They could manage better together than apart——’
‘And so he will be of use to her; he’s not at all a bad fellow; he’ll make himself very pleasant to the whole party. He’ll go with them to the opera, and dine with them three times a week, and be one in all their little expeditions; and he’ll keep his chambers and his club all the same, and have no self-denial forced upon him. He is a most sensible fellow,’ said Mr. Loseby, with a laugh.
The Rector had no great sense of humour. He looked sternly at the little round man all shining and smiling. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he said, severely, ‘that you approve of that?’ but the lawyer only laughed again, and would make no reply.
And thus the days went on, leaden-footed, yet getting done one after another, nay, getting shorter, swifter, as the preparations for departure went on. Mrs. Mountford did everything that could be expected of her. She left a sum of money in the Rector’s hands for the usual charities at Christmas, and all the requirements of the parish; and she left instructions with the sexton’s wife, who had once been a housemaid at Mount, and therefore ‘took an interest,’ to have a fresh wreath placed on her husband’s grave weekly on the day he died. So nobody was neglected, living or dead. And their hearts rose a little as the time of departure drew near. Cosmo had thrown his whole soul into the work of house-hunting. And he had found them, which was the most wonderful luck, a small house in Park Lane, which was too dear, Mrs. Mountford thought, yet so cheap as to be almost incredible to anyone who knew what Park Lane was. Even Anne felt a little exhilaration at the thought of windows which should look out upon the Park under the red wintry sunshine, and of all the sights and wonders that would be within reach.
All this time Heathcote stayed on. It was very bad taste, some people thought; and very silly, said other some. Yet still he remained. Of course it must be Rose that was the inducement, Anne being known to be engaged; and Fanny Woodhead did not hesitate to say that she really thought the man had no sense whatever of what was fitting, to stay on, and stay on, until the very last moment. But the household themselves did not object. They had got used to Heathcote. Even Anne liked him at those times when he did not look as if he were sitting in judgment upon Cosmo. Sometimes this was his aspect, and then she could not bear him. But generally he was very supportable. ‘You forget I live in London, too,’ he said. ‘I mean to see a great deal of you there. You may as well let me stay and take care of you on the journey.’ And Mrs. Mountford liked the proposal. For purposes of travelling and general caretaking she believed in men, and thought these among their principal uses. She even went so far as to say, ‘We shall be very well off in London with Mr. Douglas and your cousin Heathcote:’ so strangely had everything changed from the time when St. John Mountford disinherited his daughter because Cosmo was a nobody. Anne did not know what to think of this change of sentiment. Sometimes it seemed to make everything easier, sometimes to make all further changes impossible. Her heart beat with the idea of seeing him almost daily, looking for his constant visits, feeling the charm of his companionship round her: and then a mist would seem to gather between them, and she would foresee by instinct how Cosmo might, though very near, become very far. After this she would stop short and upbraid herself with folly. How could constant meeting and family companionship make them less near to each other? nothing could be more absurd: and yet the thought—but it was not a thought, scarcely a feeling, only an instinct—would come over her and give her a spiritual chill, a check in all her plans.
‘Mamma says she thinks we will be very well off in London,’ said Rose, ‘and we can go to concerts, and all those sorts of things. There is nothing in a concert contrary to mourning. Dances, of course, and gay parties are out of the question,’ she added, with a slight sigh of regret; ‘but it is just when we are going to public places that gentlemen are so useful. You will have your Douglas and I shall have Cousin Heathcote. We shall be very well off——’
To this Anne made no reply. She was taking her papers out of the drawers of her writing-table, arranging them in a large old despatch-box, in which they were henceforth to be carried about the world. Rose came and stood over her curiously, looking at every little bundle as it was taken out.
‘I can see Mr. Douglas’s writing,’ she said. ‘Have you got a great many letters from Mr. Douglas, Anne?’ She put out her hand to touch one that had strayed out of its place. ‘Oh, may I look at it? just one little peep. I want so much to know what a real love-letter is like.’
Anne took her letter up hastily and put it away with a blush and tremor. These sacred utterances in Rose’s hands would be profanation indeed. ‘Wait, Rosie,’ she said, ‘wait, dear: you will soon have letters of all kinds—of your very own.’
‘You mean,’ said Rose, ‘that now that I am the rich one people will like me the best? Anne, why didn’t you give up Mr. Douglas when papa told you? I should have, in a moment, if it had been me; but I suppose you never thought it would come to anything. I must say I think you have been very foolish; you ought to have given him up, and then, now, you would have been free to do as you pleased.’
‘I did not make any calculations, Rose. Don’t let us talk about it, dear, any more.’
‘But I want to talk of it. You see now you never can marry Mr. Douglas at all: so even for that it was silly of you. And you affronted papa—you that always were the clever one, the sensible one, and me the little goose. I can’t think how you could have made such a mistake, Anne!’
Anne did not make any answer. The words were childish, but she felt them like a shower of stones thrown at her. ‘Now you never can marry Mr. Douglas at all.’ Was this how it was going to be?
‘Mr. Loseby says,’ Rose continued, ‘that when I am of age I ought to make a fresh settlement. He says it is all wicked, and blames papa instead of you; but I think you are certainly to blame too. You always stand to a thing so, if you have once said it. A fresh settlement means a new will; it means that I am to give you back a large piece of what papa has left to me.’
‘I do not wish you to do so, Rose. If Mr. Loseby had told me first, I should not have let him speak on such a subject. Rose, remember, you are not to do it. I do not wish any fresh settlement made for me.’
‘If Mr. Loseby says it, and mamma says it, of course I must do it, whether you consent or not,’ said Rose. ‘And, besides, how can you ever marry Mr. Douglas unless there is a fresh settlement? Oh,’ cried Rose, ‘there is that sealed letter—that secret that you would not let me open—that is to be kept till I am twenty-one. Perhaps that will change everything. Look here: there are only you and me here, and I would never tell. I do so want to know what it is: it might show one what to do if one knew what was in it. Let me, let me open it, Anne!’
‘Rose! that is sacred. Rose! you must not touch it. I will never forgive you if you so much as break one seal,’ cried Anne.
‘Well, then, do it yourself. What can it matter if you break it to-day or in two years and a half? Papa never could mean that you were to keep it there and look at it, and never open it for two years and a half.’ All this time Rose turned over and over the little packet with its three red seals, playing with it as a cat plays with a mouse. ‘Perhaps it changes everything,’ she said; ‘perhaps there is a new will here without me having to make it. Why should we all be kept in such suspense, not knowing anything, and poor Mr. Douglas made so unhappy?’
‘Did Mr. Douglas tell you that he was unhappy?’ said Anne, humouring her tormentor, while she kept her eyes upon the letter. ‘Dear Rose, put it back again: here is the place for it. I have a great deal to do and to think of. Don’t worry me, dear, any more.’
Then Rose put it back, but with reluctance. ‘If it were addressed to me I should open it at once,’ she said. ‘It is far more important now than it will be after. Mr. Douglas did not tell me he was unhappy, but he let mamma guess it, which was much the same. Anne, if I were you, I would break the engagement; I would set him free. It must be dreadful to hold anyone like that bound up for life. And when you think—if nothing turns up, if this is to be the end, if you never have money enough to marry, why shouldn’t you do it now, and give yourselves, both of you, another chance?’
Anne rose up from her papers, thrusting them into the despatch-box pell-mell in the confusion of her thoughts. The little calm matter-of-fact voice which sounded so steadily, trilling on like a large cricket—was it speaking the truth? was this, perhaps, what it would have to come to? Her hands trembled as she shut the box hastily; her limbs shook under her. But Rose was no way disturbed. ‘You would be sure to get someone else with more money,’ she said serenely, ‘and so would he.’