In Trust: The Story of a Lady and Her Lover by Mrs. Oliphant - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXXVI.
 THE LAST.

ROSE’S behaviour had been a trouble and a puzzle to her family during the latter part of the year. Whether it was that the change from the dissipation of London and the variety of their wanderings ‘abroad’ to the dead quiet of country life, in which the young heiress became again little Rose and nothing more, was a change beyond the powers of endurance, or whether it was some new spring of life in her, nobody could tell. She became fretful and uncertain in temper, cross to her mother, and absolutely rebellious against Anne, to whom she spoke in a way which even Mrs. Mountford was moved to declare ‘very unbecoming.’

‘You ought to remember that Anne is your elder sister, at least, whatever else,’ the mother said, who had always been a little aggrieved by the fact that, even in making her poor, her father had given to Anne a position of such authority in the house.

‘Mamma!’ Rose had cried, flushed and furious, ‘she may manage my property, but she shall not manage me.’

The little girl talked a great deal about her property in those days, except when Mr. Loseby was present, who was the only person, her mother said, who seemed to exercise any control over her. By-and-by, however, this disturbed condition of mind calmed down. She gave Willie Ashley a great deal of ‘encouragement’ during the Christmas holidays; then turned round upon him at Easter, and scarcely knew him. But this was Rose’s way, and nobody minded very much. In short, the Curate was cruelly consoled by his brother’s misadventure. It is a sad confession to have to make; but, good Christian as he was, Charley Ashley felt better when he found that Willie had tumbled down from confidence to despair.

‘I told you you were a fool all the time,’ he said, with that fraternal frankness which is common among brothers; and he felt it less hard afterwards to endure the entire abandonment in his own person of any sort of hope.

And thus the time went on. Routine reasserted those inalienable rights which are more potent than anything else on earth, and everybody yielded to them. The Mountfords, like the rest, owned that salutary bondage. They half forgot the things that had happened to them—Anne her disenchantments, Rose her discovery, and Mrs. Mountford that life had ever differed much from its present aspect. All things pass away except dinner-time and bed-time, the day’s business, and the servants’ meals.

But when the third year was nearly completed from Mr. Mountford’s death, the agitation of past times began to return again. Rose’s temper began to give more trouble than ever, and Mr. Loseby’s visits were more frequent, and even Anne showed a disturbance of mind unusual to her. She explained this to her kinsman Heathcote one autumn afternoon, a few days before Rose’s birthday. He had asked the party to go and see the last batch of the cottages, which had been completed—a compliment which went to Anne’s heart—according to her plans. But Heathcote had stopped to point out some special features to his cousin, and these two came along some way after the others. The afternoon was soft and balmy, though it was late in the year. The trees stood out in great tufts of yellow and crimson against the sky, which had begun to emulate their hues. The paths were strewed, as for a religious procession, with leaves of russet and gold, and the low sun threw level lights over the slopes of the park, which were pathetically green with the wet and damp of approaching winter.

‘The season is all stillness and completion,’ Anne said; ‘but I am restless. I don’t know what is the matter with me. I want to be in motion—to do something—from morning to night.’

‘You have had too much of the monotony of our quiet life.’

‘No: you forget I have always been used to the country; it is not monotonous to me. Indeed, I know well enough what it is,’ said Anne, with a smile. ‘It is Rose’s birthday coming so near. I will lose my occupation, which I am fond of—and what shall I do?’

‘I could tell you some things to do.’

‘Oh, no doubt I shall find something,’ said Anne, with heightened colour. ‘I cannot find out from Rose what she intends. It must be a curious sensation for a little girl who—has never been anything but a little girl—to come into such a responsibility all at once.’

‘But you were no older than she—when you came into—’ said Heathcote, watching her countenance—‘all this responsibility, and other things as well.’

‘I was older, a great deal, when I was born,’ said Anne, with a laugh. ‘It is so different—even to be the eldest makes a difference. I think I shall ask Rose to keep me on as land-agent. She must have someone.’

‘On your own property; on the land which your mother brought into the family; on what would have been yours but for——’

‘Hu-ush!’ said Anne, with a prolonged soft utterance, lifting her hand as if to put it on his mouth; and, with a smile, ‘never say anything of that—it is over—it is all over. I don’t mind it now; I am rather glad,’ she said resolutely, ‘if it must be faced, and we must talk of it—rather glad that it is for nothing that I have paid the price: without any compensation. I dare say it is unreasonable, but I don’t think there is any bitterness in my mind. Don’t bring it up——’

‘I will not—God forbid!’ he said, ‘bring bitterness to your sweetness—not for anything in the world, Anne; but think, now you are free from your three years’ work, now your time will be your own, your hands empty——’

‘Think! why that is what I am thinking all day long: and I don’t like it. I will ask Rose to appoint me her land-agent.’

‘I will appoint you mine,’ he said. ‘Anne, we have been coming to this moment all these three years. Don’t send me away without thinking it over again. Do you remember all that long time ago how I complained that I had been forestalled; that I had not been given a chance? And for two years I have not dared to say a word. But see the change in my life. I have given up all I used to care for. I have thought of nothing but Mount and you—you and Mount. It does not matter which name comes first; it means one thing. Now that you are free, it is not Rose’s land-agent but mine that you ought to be. I am not your love,’ he said, a deep colour rising over his face, ‘but you are mine, Anne. And, though it sounds blasphemy to say so, love is not everything; life is something; and there is plenty for us to do—together.’

His voice broke off, full of emotion, and for a moment or two she could not command hers. Then she said, with a tremor in her tone—‘Heathcote—you are poor and I am poor. Two poverties together will not do the old place much good.’

‘Is that all you know, Anne——still? They will make the old place holy; they will make it the beginning of better things to come. But if it is not possible still to sacrifice those other thoughts—I can wait, dear,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘I can wait.’

Then there was a little pause, full of fate. After a time she answered him clearly, steadily. ‘There is no question of sacrifice: but wait a little, Heathcote, wait still a little.’ Then she said with something that tried to be a laugh, ‘You are like the Rector; you are frightened lest I should be an old maid.’

And then in his agitation he uttered a cry of alarm as genuine as the Rector’s, but more practical. ‘That you shall not be!’ he cried suddenly, grasping her arm in both his hands. Anne did not know whether to be amused or offended. But after awhile they went on quietly together talking, if not of love, yet of what Heathcote called life—which perhaps was not so very different in the sense in which the word was at present employed.

Two days after was Rose’s birthday. Mr. Loseby came over in great state from Hunston, and the friends of the family were all gathered early, the Ashleys and Heathcote coming to luncheon, with Fanny Woodhead and her sister, while a great party was to assemble in the evening. Rose herself, oddly enough, had resisted this party, and done everything she could against it, which her mother had set down to simple perversity, with much reason on her side. ‘Of course we must have a party,’ Mrs. Mountford said. ‘Could anything be more ridiculous? A coming of age and no rejoicing! We should have had a party under any circumstances, even if you had not been so important a person.’ Rose cried when the invitations were sent out. There were traces of tears and a feverish agitation about her as the days went on. Two or three times she was found in close conversation with Mr. Loseby, and once or twice he had the look of urging something upon her which she resisted. Mrs. Mountford thought she knew all about this. It was, no doubt his constant appeal about the provision to be made for Anne. This was a point upon which the sentiments of Rose’s mother had undergone several changes. At one time she had been very willing that a division of the property should take place, not, perhaps, a quite equal division, but sufficiently so to content the world, and give everybody the impression that Rose ‘had behaved very handsomely!’ but at another time it had appeared to her that to settle upon Anne the five hundred a year which had been her allowance as the guardian of her sister’s interests, would be a very sufficient provision. She had, as she said, kept herself aloof from these discussions latterly, declaring that she would not influence her daughter’s mind—that Rose must decide for herself. And this, no doubt, was the subject upon which Mr. Loseby dwelt with so much insistence. Mrs. Mountford did not hesitate to say that she had no patience with him. ‘I suppose it is always the same subject,’ she said. ‘My darling child, I won’t interfere. You must consult your own heart, which will be your best guide. I might be biassed, and I have made up my mind not to interfere.’ Rose was excited and impatient, and would scarcely listen to her mother. ‘I wish nobody would interfere,’ she cried; ‘I wish they would leave us alone, and let us settle it our own way.’

At last the all-important day arrived. The bells were rung in the little church at Lilford very early, and woke Rose with a sound of congratulation, to a day which was as bright as her life, full of sunshine and freshness, the sky all blue and shining, the country gay with its autumn robes, every tree in a holiday dress. Presents poured in upon her on all sides. All her friends, far and near, had remembered, even those who were out of the way, too far off to be invited for the evening festivities, what a great day it was in Rose’s life. But she herself did not present the same peaceful and brilliant aspect. Mrs. Worth had not this time been successful about her dress. She was in a flutter of many ribbons as happened to be the fashion of the moment, and her round and blooming face was full of agitation, quite uncongenial to its character. There were lines of anxiety in her soft forehead, and a hot feverish flush upon her cheeks. When the Ashleys arrived they were called into the library where the family had assembled—a large sunny room filled at one end with a great bow-window, opening upon the lawn, which was the favourite morning-room of the family. At the upper end, at the big writing-table which was generally Anne’s throne of serious occupation, both the sisters were seated with Mr. Loseby and his blue bag. Mr. Loseby had been going over his accounts, and Anne had brought her big books, while Rose between them, like a poor little boat bobbing up and down helplessly on this troubled sea of business, gave an agitated attention to all they said to her. Mrs. Mountford sat at the nearest window with her worsted work, as usual counting her stitches, and doing her best to look calm and at her ease, though there was a throb of anxiety which she did not understand in her mind, for what was there to be anxious about? The strangers felt themselves out of place at this serious moment, all except the old Rector, whose interest was so strong and genuine that he went up quite naturally to the table, and drew his chair towards it, as if he had a right to know all about it. Heathcote Mountford stood against the wall, near Mrs. Mountford, and made a solemn remark to her now and then about nothing at all, while Charley and Willie stood about against the light in the bow-window, mentally leaning against each other, and wishing themselves a hundred miles away.

The group at the table was a peculiar one: little Rose in the centre, restless, uneasy, a flush on her face, clasping and unclasping her hands, turning helplessly from one to the other: Mr. Loseby’s shining bald head stooped over the papers, its polished crown turned towards the company as he ran on in an unbroken stream of explanation and instruction, while Anne on the other side, serene and fair, sat listening with far more attention than her sister. Anne had never looked so much herself since all these troubles arose. Her countenance was tranquil and shining as the day. She had on (the Curate thought) the very same dress of white cashmere, easy and graceful in its long sweeping folds, which she wore at Lady Meadowlands’ party; but as that was three years ago, I need not say the gown was not identically the same. A great quietness was in Anne’s mind. She was pleased, for one thing, with the approbation she had received. Mr. Loseby had declared that her books were kept as no clerk in his office could have kept them. Perhaps this was exaggerated praise, and bookkeeping is not an heroic gift, but yet the approbation pleased her. And she had executed her father’s trust. Whatever might be the next step in her career, this, at least, was well ended, and peace was in her face and her heart. She made a little sign of salutation to Charley and Willie as they came in, smiling at them with the ease that befitted their fraternal relations. A soft repose was about her. Her time of probation, her lonely work, was over. Was there now, perhaps, a brighter epoch, a happier life to begin?

But Rose was neither happy nor serene; her hot hands kept on a perpetual manœuvring, her face grew more and more painfully red, her ribbons fluttered with the nervous trembling in her—now and then the light seemed to fail from her eyes. She could scarcely contain herself while Mr. Loseby’s voice went on. Rose scarcely knew what she wanted or wished. Straight in front of her lay the packet directed in her father’s hand to Mr. Loseby, the contents of which she knew, but nobody else knew. Fifty times over she was on the point of covering it with her sleeve, slipping it into her pocket. What was the use of going on with all this farce of making over her fortune to her, if that was to be produced at the end? or was it possible, perhaps, that it was not to be produced? that this nightmare, which had oppressed her all the time, had meant nothing after all? Rose was gradually growing beyond her own control. The room went round and round with her; she saw the figures surrounding her darkly, scarcely knowing who they were. Mr. Loseby’s voice running on seemed like an iron screw going through and through her head. If she waited a moment longer everything would be over. She clutched at Anne’s arm for something to hold fast by—her hour had come.

They were all roused up in a moment by the interruption of some unusual sound, and suddenly Rose was heard speaking in tones which were sharp and urgent in confused passion. ‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ she said; ‘what is the use of it all? Oh, Mr. Loseby, please be quiet for one moment and let me speak! The first thing is to make a new will.

‘To make your will—there is plenty of time for that,’ said the old lawyer, astonished, pushing his spectacles as usual out of his way; while Mrs. Mountford said with a glance up from her worsted-work, ‘My pet! that is not work for to-day.’

‘Not my will—but papa’s!’ she cried. ‘Mr. Loseby, you know; you have always said I must change the will. Anne is to have the half—I settled it long ago. We are to put it all right. I want Anne to have the half—or nearly the half!’ she cried, with momentary hesitation, ‘before it is too late. Put it all down, and I will sign; the half, or as near the half as—— Quick! I want it all to be settled before it is too late!’

What did she mean by too late? Anne put her arm behind her sister to support her, and kissed her with trembling lips. ‘My Rosie!’ she cried, ‘my little sister!’ with tears brimming over. Mrs. Mountford threw down all her wools and rushed to her child’s side. They all drew close, thinking that ‘too late’ could only mean some fatal impression on the girl’s mind that she was going to die.

‘Yes, half: half is a great deal!’ said Rose, stammering, ‘nearly half, you know—I have always meant it. Why should I have all and she none? And she has not married Mr. Douglas—I don’t know why. I think—but it hasn’t come about—I want everybody to know, papa made a mistake; but I give it to her, I give it to her! Mr. Loseby, make a new will, and say that half—or nearly half—is to be for Anne. And oh! please, no more business—that will do for to-day.’

She got up and sat down as she was speaking, feverishly. She shook off her mother’s hand on her shoulder, gave up her hold upon Anne, drew her hand out of the Rector’s, who had clasped it, bidding God bless her, with tears running down his old cheeks. She scarcely even submitted to the pressure of Anne’s arm, which was round her, and did not seem to understand when her sister spoke. ‘Rose!’ Anne was saying, making an appeal to all the bystanders, ‘Do you know what she says? She is giving me everything back. Do you hear her—the child! My little Rosie! I don’t care—I don’t care for the money; but it is everything that she is giving me. What a heart she has! do you hear, do you all hear?—everything!’ Anne’s voice of surprise and generous joy went to all their hearts.

Mrs. Mountford made an effort to draw Rose towards herself. ‘There had better be no exaggeration—she said the half—and it is a great thing to do,’ said the mother thoughtfully. There was nothing to be said against it; still half was a great deal, and even Rose, though almost wild with excitement, felt this too.

‘Yes, half—I did not mean all, as Anne seems to think; half is—a great deal! Mr. Loseby, write it all down and I will sign it. Isn’t that enough—enough for to-day?’

‘Only one thing else,’ Mr. Loseby said. He put out his hand and took up the letter that was lying innocently among the other papers. ‘This letter,’ he said—but he was not allowed to go any further. Rose turned upon him all feverish and excited, and tore it out of his hands. ‘Anne!’ she cried, with a gasp, ‘Anne! I can’t hear any more to-day.’

‘No more, no more,’ said Anne, soothingly; ‘what do we want more, Mr. Loseby? She is quite right. If you were to secure the crown to me, you could not make me more happy. My little Rose! I am richer than the Queen!’ Anne cried, her voice breaking. But then, to the astonishment of everybody, Rose burst from her, threw down the letter on the table, and covered her face, with a cry shrill and sharp as if called forth by bodily pain.

‘You can read it, if you please,’ the girl cried; ‘but if you read it, I will die!’

Mr. Loseby looked at Anne and she at him. Something passed between them in that look, which the others did not understand. A sudden flush of colour covered her face. She said softly ‘My trust is not over yet. What can it matter to anyone but ourselves what is in the letter? We have had business enough for one day.’

And Rose did not appear at lunch. She had been overwrought, everybody said. She lay down in a dark room all the afternoon with a great deal of eau de Cologne about, and her mother sitting by. Mrs. Mountford believed in bed, and the pulling down of the blinds. It was a very strange day: after the luncheon, at which the queen of the feast was absent, and no one knew what to say, the familiar guests walked about the grounds for a little, not knowing what to think, and then judiciously took themselves away till the evening, while Mr. Loseby disappeared with Anne, and Mrs. Mountford soothed her daughter. In the evening Rose appeared in a very pretty dress, though with pale cheeks. Anne, who was far more serious now than she had been in the morning, kissed her little sister tenderly, but they did not say anything to each other. Neither from that time to this has the subject ever been mentioned by one to the other. The money was divided exactly between them, and Anne gave no explanations even to her most intimate friends. Whether it was Rose who shared with her, or she with Rose, nobody knew. The news stole out, and for a little while everybody celebrated Rose to the echo; but then another whisper got abroad, and no one knew what to think. As a matter of fact, however, Mr. Mountford’s two daughters divided everything he left behind. The only indication Anne ever received that the facts of the case had oozed out beyond the circle of the family, was in the following strange letter, which she received some time after, when her approaching marriage to Heathcote Mountford, of Mount, was made known:—

‘You will be surprised to receive a letter from me. Perhaps it is an impertinence on my part to write. But I will never forget the past, though I may take it for granted that you have done so. Your father’s letter, which I hear was read on your sister’s birthday, will explain many things to you and, perhaps, myself among the many. I do not pretend that I was aware of it, but I may say that I divined it; and divining it, what but one thing in the face of all misconstructions, remained for me to do? Perhaps you will understand me and do me a little justice now. Pardon me, at least, for having troubled even so small a portion of your life. I try to rejoice that it has been but a small portion. In mine you stand where you always did. The altar may be veiled and the worshipper say his litanies unheard. He is a nonjuror, and his rites are licensed by no authority, civil or sacred: nor can he sing mass for any new king. Yet in darkness and silence and humiliation, for your welfare, happiness, and prosperity does ever pray—C. D.’

Anne was moved by this letter more than it deserved, and wondered if, perhaps——? But it did not shake her happiness as, possibly, it was intended to do.

And then followed one of the most remarkable events in this story. Rose, who had always been more or less worldly-minded, and who would never have hesitated to say that to better yourself was the most legitimate object in life—Rose—no longer a great heiress, but a little person with a very good fortune, and quite capable of making what she, herself, would have called a good marriage—Rose married Willie Ashley, to the astonishment and consternation of everybody. Mrs. Mountford, though she lives with them and is on the whole fond of her son-in-law, has not even yet got over her surprise. And as for the old Rector, it did more than surprise, it bewildered him. A shade of alarm comes over his countenance still, when he speaks of it. ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he is always ready to say. With the Curate the feeling is still deeper and more sombre. In the depths of his heart he cannot forgive his brother. That Rose should have been the one to appreciate modest merit and give it its reward, Rose and not her sister—seems like blasphemy to Charley. Nevertheless, there are hopes that Lucy Woodhead, who is growing up a very nice girl, and prettier than her sister, may induce even the faithful Curate to change the current of his thoughts and ways.

THE END.