CHAPTER XXXII.
ROSE ON HER DEFENCE.
ALL the country was stirred by the news of the return of the Mountfords, and the knowledge that they were, of all places in the world, at the ‘Black Bull’ at Hunston, which was the strangest place to go to, some people thought, though others were of opinion that Anne Mountford ‘showed her sense’ by taking the party there. It was Anne who got the credit of all the family arrangements, and sometimes without fully deserving it. Lady Meadowlands and Fanny Woodhead, though at the opposite ends of the social scale, both concurred in the opinion that it was the best thing they could have done. Why not go back to Mount? some people said, since it was well known that the bachelor cousin had put the house at their disposal, and the furniture there still belonged to Mrs. Mountford. But how could Anne go to Mount, both these ladies asked, when it was clear as daylight that Heathcote Mountford, the new master, was as much in love with her as a man could be? Very silly of him, no doubt, and she engaged: but oh dear, oh dear, Fanny Woodhead cried, what a waste of good material that all these people should be in love with Anne! why should they all be in love with Anne, when it was clear she could not marry more than one of them? Lady Meadowlands took a higher view, as was natural, being altogether unaffected by the competition which is so hard upon unmarried ladies in the country. She said it was a thousand pities that Anne had not seen Heathcote Mountford, a very good-looking man, and one with all his wits about him, and with a great deal of conversation, before she had been carried away with the tattle of that Mr. Douglas, who had no looks and no family, and was only the first man (not a clergyman) whom she had ever seen. In this particular, it will be observed, her ladyship agreed with Mr. Loseby, who had so often lamented over the lateness of Heathcote’s arrival on the field. All these good people ordered their carriages to drive to Hunston and call at the ‘Black Bull.’ The Miss Woodheads went in their little pony cart, and Lady Meadowlands in a fine London carriage, her town chariot, which was only taken out on great occasions: and the Rector was driven in by Charley very soberly in the vehicle which the younger son of the family, with all the impertinence of Oxford, profanely called a shandrydan. With each successive visitor Anne’s looks were, above all things, the most interesting subject. ‘I think it suits her,’ Lady Meadowlands said thoughtfully—which was a matter the others did not take into consideration. ‘Don’t you think so, Mr. Mountford?’ she said with deliberate cruelty to Heathcote, who rode back part of the way by her carriage door. ‘I am not a judge,’ he said; ‘I have a great deal of family feeling. I think most things suit my cousin Anne. If she were flushed and florid, most likely I should think the same.’
‘And you would be perfectly right,’ said the first lady in the county. ‘Whatever she does, you’d have her do so ever. You and I are of the same opinion, Mr. Mountford; but if I were you I would not leave a stone unturned to get her back to Mount.’ ‘If will would do it!’ he said. ‘Will can do everything,’ cried the great lady, waving her hand to him as she turned the corner. He stood still and gazed after her, shaking his head, while the beautiful bays devoured the way.
The most agitating of all these visitors to Anne were the Ashleys, who knew more about her, she felt, than all the rest put together. The Rector came in with an elaborately unconcerned countenance, paying his respects to the stepmother and commending the bloom of Rose—but, as soon as he could get an opportunity, came back to Anne and took her by the arm, as was his usual way. ‘Did you send it?’ he said in her ear, leading her toward the further window. It was a large broad bow-window with round sashes and old-fashioned panes, looking down the High Street of Hunston. They did not look at each other, but looked out upon the street as they stood there, the old man holding the girl close to him with his arm through hers.
‘Yes—I sent it—that very day——’
‘And he sent you an answer?’
A tremor ran through Anne’s frame which the Rector was very sensible of; but he did not spare her, though he pitied her.
‘I—suppose so: there was a letter; it is all over now, if that is what you mean. Don’t talk about it any more.’
Mr. Ashley held her close by the arm, which he caressed with the pressure of his own. ‘He took it, then, quietly—he did not make any resistance?’ he said.
‘Mr. Ashley,’ said Anne, with a shiver running over her, ‘don’t let us talk of it any more.’
‘As you please, as you please, my dear,’ said the old man; but it was with reluctance that he let her go; he had a hundred questions to ask. He wanted to have satisfied himself about Cosmo, why he had done it, how he had done it, and everything about it. The Rector was confused. He remembered the letter to Cosmo, which she had given him to read, and which had bewildered him at the time by its apparent calm. And yet now she seemed to mind! he did not understand it. He wanted to hear everything about it, but she would not let him ask. His questions, which he was not permitted to give vent to, lay heavy upon his heart as he went back. ‘She would not open her mind to me,’ he said to Charley. ‘Whatever has happened, it must have been a comfort to her to open her mind. That is what is making her so pale. To shut it all up in her own heart cannot be good for her. But she would not open her mind to me.’
‘It would have been difficult to do it with all those people present,’ the Curate said, and this gave his father a little consolation. For his own part Charley had never been so out of spirits. So long as she was happy, what did it matter? he had said so often to himself. And now she was no longer happy and there was nothing anyone could do to make her so. He for one had to stand by and consent to it, that Anne should suffer. To suffer himself would have been a hundred times more easy, but he could not do anything. He could not punish the man who had been at the bottom of it all. He could not even permit himself the gratification of telling that fellow what he thought of him. He must be dumb and inactive, whatever happened, for Anne’s sake. While the good Rector told out his regrets and disappointment, and distress because of Anne’s silence, and certainty that to open her heart would do her good, the Curate was wondering sadly over this one among the enigmas of life. He himself, and Heathcote Mountford, either of them, would have given half they had (all they had in the world, Charley put it) to be permitted to be Anne’s companion and comforter through the world. But Anne did not want either of them. She wanted Cosmo, who would not risk his own comfort by taking the hand she held out to him, or sacrifice a scrap of his own life for hers. How strange it was, and yet so common—to be met with everywhere! And nobody could do anything to mend it. He scarcely ventured to allow, when he was in his parish, that there were a great many things of this kind which it was impossible to him to understand: he had to be very sure that everything that befell his poor people was ‘for their good;’ but in the recesses of his own bosom he allowed himself more latitude. He did not see how this, for instance, could be for anyone’s good. But there is very little consolation in such a view, even less than in the other way of looking at things. And he was very ‘low,’ sad to the bottom of his good heart. He had not said anything to Anne. He had only ventured to press her hand, perhaps a little more warmly than usual, and he had felt, poor fellow, that for that silent sympathy she had not been grateful. She had drawn her hand away impatiently; she had refused to meet his eye. She had not wanted any of his sympathy. Perhaps it was natural, but it was a little hard to bear.
Rose had her own grievances while all this was going on. If her sister, worked into high irritation by the questions and significant looks to which she had been exposed, had found it almost intolerable to live through the succession of visits, and to meet everybody with genial indifference, and give an account of all they had been doing, and all that they were about to do—Rose was much displeased, for her part, to find herself set down again out of the importance to which she had attained, and made into the little girl of old, the young sister, the nobody whom no one cared to notice particularly while Anne was by. It was not Rose’s fault, certainly, that her father had made that will which changed the positions of herself and her sister: but Lady Meadowlands, for one, had always treated her as if it was her fault. Even that, however, was less disrespectful than the indifference of the others, who made no account of her at all, and to whom she was still little Rose, her sister’s shadow—nothing at all to speak of in her own person. They did not even notice her dress, which she herself thought a masterpiece, and which, was certainly such a work of art as had never been seen in Hunston before. And when all these people went away, Rose, for her part, sought Mrs. Keziah, who was always ready to admire. She was so condescending that she went downstairs to the parlour in which old Saymore and his young wife spent most of their lives, and went in for a talk. It was a thing Rose was fond of doing, to visit her humble friends and dependents in their own habitations. But there were a great many reasons why she should do what she liked in Saymore’s house: first, because she was one of ‘his young ladies’ whom he had taken care of all their lives; second, because she was an important member of the party who were bringing success and prosperity to Saymore’s house. She was queen of all that was in the ‘Black Bull.’ Miss Anne might be first in Saymore’s allegiance, as was the case with all the old friends of the family; but, on the other hand, Anne was not a person to skip about through the house and come in for a talk to the parlour, as Rose did lightly, with no excuse at all. ‘I am so sick of all those people,’ she cried; ‘I wish they would not all come and be sympathetic; I don’t want any one to be sympathetic! Besides, it is such a long, long time since. One must have found some way of living, some way of keeping on, since then. I wish they would not be so awfully sorry for us. I don’t think now that even mamma is so sorry for herself.’
‘Your mamma is a Christian, Miss Rose,’ said old Saymore, getting up, though with a little reluctance, from his comfortable arm-chair as she came in. ‘She knows that what can’t be cured must be endured; but, at the same time, it is a great pleasure and an honour to see all the carriages of the gentry round my door. I know for certain, Miss Rose, that Lady Meadowlands never takes out that carriage for anybody below a title, which shows the opinion she has of our family. Your papa was wonderfully respected in the county. It was a great loss; a loss to everything. There is not a gentleman left like him for the trouble he used to take at Quarter Sessions and all that. It was a dreadful loss to the county, not to speak of his family. And a young man, comparatively speaking,’ said Saymore, with a respectful sigh.
‘Poor dear papa! I am sure I felt it as much as anyone—at the time,’ said Rose; ‘don’t you remember, Keziah, how awful that week was? I did nothing but cry; but for a young man, Saymore, you know that is nonsense. He was not the least young; he was as old, as old——’
Here Rose stopped and looked at him, conscious that the words she had intended to say were, perhaps, not quite such as her companions would like to hear. Keziah was sitting by, sewing. She might have taken it amiss if her young mistress had held up this new husband of hers as a Methuselah. Rose looked from one to the other, confused, yet hardly able to keep from laughing. And probably old Saymore divined what she was going to say.
‘Not old, Miss Rose,’ he said, with the steady pertinacity which had always been one of his characteristics; ‘a gentleman in the very prime of life. When you’ve lived virtuous and sober, saving your presence, Miss, and never done nothing to wear yourself out, sixty is nothing but the prime of life. Young fools, as has nothing but their youth to recommend them, may say different, but from them as has a right to give an opinion, you’ll never hear nothing else said. He was as healthy a man, your late dear papa, as ever I wish to see; and as hearty, and as full of life. And all his wits about him, Miss. I signed a document not longer than the very last day before he was taken—me and John Gardiner—and he was as clear as any judge, that’s what he was. “It’s not my will,” he said to me, “Saymore—or you couldn’t sign, as you’re one of the legatees; for a bit of a thing like this it don’t matter.” I never see him more joky nor more pleasant, Miss Rose. He wasn’t joky not in his ordinary, but that day he was poking his fun at you all the time. “It’s a small bit of a thing to want witnessing, ain’t it?” he said; “and it’s not a new will, for you couldn’t witness that, being both legatees.”’
Rose was a good deal startled by this speech. Suddenly there came before her a vision of the sealed-up packet in Anne’s desk—the seals of which she had been so anxious to break. ‘What a funny thing that he should have made you sign a paper!’ she said.
‘Bless you, they’re always having papers to sign,’ said Saymore; ‘sometimes it’s one thing, sometimes it’s another. A deal of money is a deal of trouble, Miss Rose. You don’t know that as yet, seeing as you’ve got Miss Anne to do everything for you.’
‘I shan’t always have Miss Anne,’ Rose said, not knowing well what were the words she used; her mind was away, busy in other ways, very busy in other thoughts. She had always been curious, as she said to herself, from the first moment she saw that packet. What was in it? could it be the paper that Saymore signed? Could it be?—but Rose did not know what to think.
‘When you have not got Miss Anne, you’ll have a gentleman,’ Saymore said. ‘We ain’t in no sort of doubt about that, Miss Rose, Keziah and me. There are ladies as always gets their gentleman, whatever happens; and one like you, cut out by nature, and a deal of money besides—there’s not no question about that. The thing will be as you’ll have too many to choose from. It’s a deal of responsibility for a young creature at your age.’
‘I will come and ask your advice, Saymore,’ said Rose, her head still busy about other things. ‘Keziah asked my advice, you know.’
‘Did she, Miss Rose? Then I hope as you’ll never repent the good advice you gave her,’ said old Saymore, drawing himself up and putting out his chest, as is the manner of man when he plumes himself. Rose looked at him with eyes of supreme ridicule, and even his little wife gave a glance up from her sewing with a strong inclination to titter; but he did not perceive this, which was fortunate. Neither had Saymore any idea that the advice the young lady had given had ever been against him.
‘And you might do worse,’ he added, ‘than consult me. Servants see many a thing that other folks don’t notice. You take my word, Miss Rose, there’s nowhere that you’ll hear the truth of a gentleman’s temper and his goings on, better than in the servants’ hall.’
‘I wonder if it was a law paper that had to have two witnesses?’ said Rose, irrelevantly. ‘I wonder if it was something about the estate? Anne never has anything to sign that wants witnesses; was it a big paper, like one of Mr. Loseby’s? I should so like to know what it was.’
‘It wasn’t his will; that is all I can tell you, Miss Rose. How joky he was, to be sure, that day! I may say it was the last time as I ever saw master in life. It was before they started—him and Mr. Heathcote, for their ride. He never was better in his life than that afternoon when they started. I helped him on with his great-coat myself. He wouldn’t have his heavy coat that he always wore when he was driving. “The other one, Saymore,” he said, “the other one; I ain’t a rheumatic old fogey like you,” master said. Queer how it all comes back upon me! I think I can see him, standing as it might be there, Miss Rose, helping him on with his coat; and to think as he was carried back insensible and never opened his lips more!’
Rose was awed in spite of herself; and Keziah wiped her eyes. ‘He spoke to me that day more than he had done for ever so long,’ she said. ‘I met him in the long corridor, and I was that frightened I didn’t know what to do; but he stopped as kind as possible. “Is that you, little Keziah?” he said. “How is the mother getting on and the children?” Mother was that pleased when I told her. She cried, and we all cried. Oh, I don’t wonder as it is a trial to come back, losing a kind father like that and your nice ‘ome!’
Now this was the kind of sympathy which Rose had particularly announced she did not wish to receive. She did not in the least regret ‘her nice ‘ome,’ but looked back upon Mount with unfeigned relief to have escaped from the dull old world of its surroundings. But she was a little touched by these reminiscences of her father, and a great curiosity was excited within her upon other matters. She herself was a very different person from the little girl—the second daughter, altogether subject and dependent—which she had been on that fatal day. She looked back upon it with awe, but without any longing that it should be undone and everything restored to its previous order. If Mr. Mountford could come back, and everything be as before, the change would not be a comfortable one for Rose. No change, she thought, would be pleasant. What could papa mean, signing papers on that very last day? What did he want witnesses for, after his will was signed and all done? Rose did not know what to think of it. Perhaps, indeed, it was true, as old Saymore said, that gentlemen always had papers to sign; but it was odd, all the same. She went away with her head full of it upstairs to the room where her mother and sister were sitting. They were both a little languid, sitting at different ends of the room. Mrs. Mountford had been making much use of her handkerchief, and it was a little damp after so many hours. She had felt that if she were not really crying she ought to be. To see all the old people and hear so many words of welcome, and regret that things were not as they used to be, had moved her. She was seated in this subdued state, feeling that she ought to be very much affected. She felt, indeed, that she ought not to be able to eat any dinner—that she ought to be good for nothing but bed. However, it was summer, when it is more difficult to retire there. Mrs. Mountford made great use of her handkerchief. Anne was seated in the bow-window, looking out upon the few passengers of the High Street. In reality she did not see them; but this was her outside aspect. Her book was upon her knees. She had given herself up to her own thoughts, and these, it was evident, were not over-bright. Rose’s coming in was a relief to both, for, happily, Rose was not given to thinking. On most occasions she occupied herself with what was before her, and took no trouble about what might lie beneath.
‘Isn’t it time to dress for dinner?’ Rose said.
‘To be sure,’ cried Mrs. Mountford gratefully. To make a movement of any kind was a good thing; ‘it must be time to dress for dinner. One feels quite out here, with no bell to tell us what to do. I suppose it wouldn’t do for Saymore, with other people in the house, to ring a dressing-bell. One is lost without a dressing-bell,’ the good lady said. She had her work and her wools all scattered about, though in the emotion of the moment she had not been working. Now she gathered them all in her arms, and, with much content that the afternoon was over, went away.
‘Do you ever have things to sign that want witnesses, Anne?’
‘No,’ said Anne, looking up surprised. ‘Why do you ask? Sometimes a lease, or something of that sort,’ she said.
‘Then perhaps it was a lease,’ said Rose to herself. She did not utter this audibly, or give any clue to her thoughts, except the ‘Oh, nothing,’ which is a girl’s usual answer when she is asked what she means. And then they all went to dress for dinner, and nothing more could be said.
Nothing more was said that night. As soon as it was dusk, Mrs. Mountford retired to her room. It had been a fatiguing day, and everything had been brought back, she said. Certainly her handkerchief was quite damp. Worth was very sympathetic as she put her mistress to bed.
‘Strangers is safest,’ Worth said; ‘I always did say so. There’s no need to keep up before them, and nothing to be pushed back upon you. Trouble is always nigh enough, without being forced back.’
And Rose, too, went to bed early. She had a great deal of her mother in her. She recognised the advantage of getting rid of herself, if not in any more pleasant way, then in that. But she could not sleep when she wished, which is quite a different thing from going to bed. She seemed to see as plainly as possible, dangling before her, with all its red seals, the packet which was to be opened on her twenty-first birthday. Why shouldn’t it be opened now? What could it matter to anyone, and especially to papa, whether it was read now or two years hence? Rose was nineteen; from nineteen is not a long step to one-and-twenty. And what if that packet contained the paper that Saymore had witnessed? She had told Anne she ought to open it. She had almost opened it herself while Anne looked on. If she only could get at it now!
Next morning a remarkable event occurred. Anne drove out with Mr. Loseby to see the Dower-house at Lilford, and report upon it. The old lawyer was very proud as she took her seat by him in his high phaeton.
‘I hope everybody will see us,’ he said. ‘I should like all the people in the county to see Queen Anne Mountford in the old solicitor’s shay. I know some young fellows that would give their ears to be me, baldness and all. Every dog has his day, and some of us have to wait till we are very old dogs before we get it.’
‘Remember, Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘that if it is the least damp I will have nothing to do with it.’
Rose watched from the old bow-window with the round panes to see them drive away. She waved her hand to Anne, but she was scarcely conscious what she was doing, her heart beat so much. She sent her maid out to match some ribbon, which she knew would take a long time to match, and then Rose made a general survey of the rooms. They all opened off a square vestibule, or, more correctly, an antechamber. She went through her mother’s first, carelessly, as if looking for something; then through her own; and only went to Anne’s as the last. Her heart beat high, but she had no feeling that she was going to do anything that was wrong. How could it be wrong? to read a letter a little earlier than the time appointed for reading it. If there had been anything to say that Rose was not to read it at all, then it might have been wrong; but what could it possibly matter whether it was read now or in two years? To be sure, it was not addressed to Rose, but what of that? Except Cosmo’s letters, which of course were exceptional, being love-letters, all correspondence of the family was in common—and especially, of all things in the world, a letter from poor papa! But nevertheless Rose’s heart beat as she went into Anne’s room. The despatch-box generally stood by the writing-table, open, with all its contents ready for reference. The lid was shut down to-day, which gave her a great fright. But it was not locked, as she had feared. She got down on her knees before it and peeped in. There was the little drawer in which it had been placed, a drawer scarcely big enough to contain it. The red seals crackled as she took it out with trembling hands. One bit of the wax came off of itself. Had Anne been taking a peep too, though she would not permit Rose to do so? No; there was no abrasion of the paper, no break of the seal. Rose suddenly remembered that the very seal her father had used was at this moment on her mother’s desk. She got up hastily to get it, but then, remembering, took out the packet and carried it with her. She could lock the door of her own room, but not of Anne’s, and it would not do to scatter scraps of the red wax about Anne’s room and betray herself. She carried it away stealthily as a mouse, whisking out and in of the doors. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands trembling. Now, whatever it was, in a minute more she would know all about it. Never in her life had Rose’s little being been in such a commotion. Not when her father’s will was read; not when that gentleman at Cannes made her her first proposal; for at neither of these moments had there been any alarm in her mind for what was coming. The others might have suffered, perhaps, but not she.
Mrs. Mountford complained afterwards that she had not seen Rose all day. ‘Where is Rose?’ Anne asked when she came back full of the Dower-house, and anxious to recommend it to all concerned. After inquiries everywhere it was found that Rose was lying down in her room with a bad headache. She had made the maid, when she returned from her fruitless quest for the ribbon, which could not be matched, draw down the blinds: and there she lay in great state, just as Mrs. Mountford herself did in similar circumstances. Anne, who went up to see her, came down with a half-smile on her lips.
‘She says it is like one of your headaches, mamma; and she will keep still till dinner.’
‘That is the best thing she can do,’ said Mrs. Mountford. ‘If she can get a little sleep she will be all right.’
Secretly it must be allowed that Anne was more amused than alarmed by her little sister’s indisposition. Mrs. Mountford had been subject to such retirements as long as anyone could remember; and Rose’s get-up was a very careful imitation of her mother’s—eau de Cologne and water on a chair beside her sofa, a wet handkerchief spread upon her head, her hair let down and streaming on the pillow.
‘Don’t let anyone take any notice,’ she said in a faint little voice. ‘If I am let alone I shall soon be better.’
‘Nobody shall meddle with you,’ said Anne, half laughing. And then she retired downstairs to discuss the house with Mrs. Mountford, who was only half an authority when Rose was not by.
But if anyone could have known the thoughts that were going on under the wet handkerchief and the dishevelled locks! Rose’s head was aching, not with fever, but with thinking. She had adopted this expedient to gain time, because she could not make up her mind what to do. The packet re-sealed, though with considerably more expenditure of wax than the original, was safely returned to the despatch-box. But Rose had been so startled by the information she had received that further action had become impossible to her. What was she to do? She was not going to sit down under that, not going to submit to it, and live on for two years knowing all about it. How could she do that? This was a drawback that she had not foreseen: information clandestinely obtained is always a dreadful burden to carry about. How was she to live for two years knowing that, and pretending not to know it? Never before in her life had the current of thought run so hot in her little brain. What was she to do? Was there nothing she could do? She lay still for some minutes after Anne had left her. To be in such a dilemma, and not to be able to tell anybody—not to ask anybody’s advice! She thought once of rushing to Keziah, putting the case to her us of someone else. But how could Keziah tell her what to do? At last a sudden gleam of suggestion shot through Rose’s brain; she sprang half up on her sofa, forgetting the headache. At this period she was in a kind of irresponsible unmoral condition, not aware that she meant any harm, thinking only of defending herself from a danger which she had just discovered, which nobody else knew. She must defend herself. If a robber is after you in the dark, and you strike out wildly and hurt someone who is on your side, who is trying to defend you—is that your fault? Self-defence was the first thing, the only thing, that occurred to Rose. After it came into her mind in the sole way in which it was possible she took no time to think, but rushed at it, and did it without a moment’s pause. She wrote a letter, composing it hurriedly, but with great care. It was not long, but it meant a great deal. It was addressed, as Anne’s letter, which was also of so much importance, had been addressed, to ‘Cosmo Douglas, Esq., Middle Temple.’ What could little Rose be writing to Cosmo Douglas about? She slid it into her pocket when, still very much flushed and excited, she went down to dinner, and carried it about with her till quite late in the evening, when, meeting Saymore with the bag which he was about to send off to the post office, she stopped him on the stairs, and put it in with her own hand.
This was the history of Rose’s day—the day when she had that feverish attack which alarmed all the inhabitants of the ‘Black Bull.’ She herself always said it was nothing, and happily it came to nothing. But who could prevent a mother from being alarmed, when her child suddenly appeared with cheeks so flushed, and a pulse that was positively racing, Mrs. Mountford said. However, fortunately, as the patient herself always predicted, a night’s rest set it all right.