IT would be vain to attempt to trace the manner in which this revulsion of feeling came about. Marjory had gone through the whole gamut of emotions in respect to the letter which she had found in Tom’s desk. First shame, indignation, and the hardest sentence with which women can damn a woman. Then a wavering of the balance, a protestation of justice against the hasty verdict which might have no foundation. Then a sense of escape and gratitude that no harm had come of it; and last of all, a tremulous feeling of pity, perhaps the first Christian sentiment of the whole, but the only one of which Marjory was ashamed. The thing, however, which all at once had made this pity into sudden sympathy was the letter of Mrs. Charles—a woman about whom there could be no controversy. Charlie’s equal—Charlie’s most lawful wife, under all the regulations and safeguards that law and religion could give. When she placed the one letter by the other, Marjory’s heart swelled with a sudden indignant vindication of the poor unknown girl who had loved her brother. All at once Isabell became a distinct individual, almost a friend. A sudden protest against all her own suspicions arose in her mind; she acquitted the girl of everything as she had accused her of everything. The process of thought was easy enough—its very suddenness was natural. She went to the quietness of her room in which she had first read Isabell’s letter with such a tempest of shame and humiliation, with very different feelings, contrasting Matilda’s letter with this other one, and asking herself, with a vehemence of indignation which surprised her, which of them was the least womanly—which the more true and real. Her emotion, however, though she was not aware of it, was not all founded upon this contrast. In point of fact, it afforded a certain outlet to her excitement, and solaced her in the misery of her suspense. She locked up the letters in her jewel case, with a fantastic sense of their importance; she turned the little silver key upon them, as if she had been imprisoning two potent spirits. Some day or other, the prisoners would be liberated, and come forth, each to fight her own battle. Marjory was sane enough still to smile at her own fantastic force of imagination as this thought crossed her mind—to smile at it momentarily, as a kind of tribute to her reason; but without any real sense of ridicule. How her interest had shifted since yesterday, since this morning! Poor Tom’s papers lying there, carefully made up, seemed to her a year old at least, something done with and over. But Charlie, Charlie! was he being carried home to them over the sea, breathing in health and restoration from every breeze, coming to his natural place, the only son, the heir, the future head of the house? Or was he?—Marjory clasped her hands tightly together with a low cry of pain. Of all miseries on earth, I think suspense is the hardest to bear. To think that something may be happening that very moment, while you are far off, and for good or for evil can do nothing. To think that something may have happened—that the dread calm of certainty may have followed the excitement of a terrible event to the others who know; and to be unable to go out to meet the news you long for—to have nothing to do but to wait for it. There is no more common misery in the experience, at least, of women; and there is none more hard to bear.
Marjory passed that dreary, restless afternoon in hourly expectation of a call from her father, but Mr. Heriot did not call her. He took no notice of the subject which he had spoken of so angrily at breakfast, when they met at dinner. When that meal was almost over, old Fleming carried to her, with voluble explanations, another letter.
“Mistress Williamson has sent up to say that by some accident this was putten in to the Carslogie bag,” said Fleming. “It’s an Indian letter, and it’s come back with a man and horse, being markit ‘Immediate,’ as you’ll see, Miss Marjory. Mistress Williamson, poor body, is terrible vexed; and being an Indian letter, and markit ‘Immediate’——”
“Thank you; that will do, Fleming,” said Marjory, seizing it.
Oh, if she could but have rushed from the table to make herself mistress of this second message! Her heart sank down, down to the very depths. All hope seemed to die in her; yet she threw her handkerchief over it, and tried to control herself. There had been a pause, as there so often was now at that cheerless table; and Mr. Charles, who was not very quick of hearing, had put his hand to his ear, and asked, “What is it?” which called his brother’s attention to the occurrence. Mr. Heriot, who had been very silent, turned to his daughter with the angry tone which he now always employed when he spoke to her.
“Why don’t you read your letter? There are no strangers here but Mr. Fanshawe, and he, I suppose, does not stand on ceremony. From India, did that blockhead say?”
“Ay, Sir; that was what the blockhead said,” answered Fleming, who was behind his chair. “I’m no minding what you call me. It was a bletterin’ scoondrel yesterday, and it may be a good fellow the morn. I hope I know how to do my duty, whatever happens; if you’ll but eat some dinner,” the old man added, dropping his voice with an inflection which was almost tender.
This little interruption directed Mr. Heriot’s thoughts from Marjory’s letter. He bade Fleming begone for an old rogue, and emptied the dish he offered. Something had softened the heart-broken father in his passion of grief; or else the high-pressure, the immediate violence of his feelings, was wearing out. It was only after some minutes that, still harsh and sharp in his tone to her, though softened to others, he looked down the table to Marjory, and asked quickly,
“Was your letter from Charlie? Does he say when he’s coming? What is it about?”
“It is a letter from Matilda’s sister,” said Marjory, in a voice tremulous with suppressed feeling. “We do not know her, papa—a Miss Bassett. She tells me she was to join them at Calcutta, to come home with them, and something about hoping to make my acquaintance. That is all.”
“That is not much,” said Mr. Heriot; “but to know he is on the way is something. If I but see my boy back—Fleming, there’s that claret with the yellow seal—”
“Is Charlie—?” began Mr. Charles.
He was going to say was Charlie better. To him, as to all the others, it seemed so long since this morning, when the news of Charlie’s illness came, that the arrival of further news did not seem impossible. The same strange feeling of the long duration of these few sorrowful days dulled Mr. Heriot’s mind to the recollection that it was a very short time since Charlie had been called home, and that no reply to that call could have come so soon. He accepted Marjory’s explanation without any more questions, while Mr. Charles stopped, trembling, in his question, appalled by the look which she had given him. Mr. Heriot took no notice; a little gleam of happier feeling seemed to wake in him. He entered into a little dispute with Fleming, as to how much was left of the yellow seal. And when Marjory left the room soon after, he even stopped her, with some return of gentleness, to give her directions about Charlie’s rooms.
“If you are thinking what rooms to give them, May,” he said, hastily, “put them in the west wing. It will be warmest for the bairns.”
It was the first time he had called her by her name since the funeral. Poor Marjory hurried away, choking, afraid to trust herself to speak, assenting only with a movement of her head.
“Oh, papa’s better! don’t you think he’s better? He kissed me, May,” cried little Milly, as they went hand in hand along the passage which led to the drawing-room.
Marjory made no answer. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to think it all over. She placed herself in the corner of a sofa which commanded the great bow-window, and from which she could see so much of the pale grey blue sky and wistful half-twilight atmosphere. A nervous thrill was upon her. She had heard nothing; and yet was not this letter confirmation of her worst fears?
The lamp burnt steadily and clear upon the table; the firelight flickered from the fireplace. A comfortable interior, warm, and safe, and calm, full of homely luxury, but so strangely connected with the outside world by that uncovered window, and the pale sky that looked in. It was symbolical, Marjory thought. What might be going on beneath that chilly heaven, beneath the great pale vault which roofed the sea, where, dead or living, Charlie was? Her heart ached with the burden of that suspense. How hard it was to bear it, and say nothing—and to let her father take fallacious comfort, only to be the more deeply overthrown!
She had been only a few minutes here when some one followed hastily from the dining-room. She thought it was her uncle, and turned to him, holding out her hand. But the hand was taken with a warmth of sympathy, which Uncle Charles would scarcely have shown.
“Pardon me,” said Fanshawe; “I was so anxious. I came to ask what your news really is. You don’t think me impertinent? I wanted so much to know.”
This sudden touch of sympathy moved Marjory, as the unexpected always does. It was so much warmer, and more ready than Uncle Charles’ slow effort to follow her quicker feelings; his search for spectacles, both physical and mental; his reproofs of needless anxiety. She was overcome for the moment, and gave way to sudden tears, which relieved her. “Thanks,” she said, with a half sob; “there is nothing in it; at least I think there is nothing in it; read it and tell me what you think.”
He had to go to the lamp, which was on the centre table, where Milly, confused and wondering to find herself without any share in her sister’s thoughts, had seated herself in forlorn virtue “to read her book.” Many a look Milly threw at Marjory upon the distant sofa in the dark, looking at that window where the shutters were not shut, nor the curtains drawn, and which frightened the child with eerie suggestions of some one who might be looking in upon her. She looked up at Mr. Fanshawe, too, as he stood over her, unconscious of her existence, reading that letter. What was it about? and why should he know about it, while Milly did not know? She read a sentence in her book between each of these glances, and was divided in her mind between the intent of this present drama, which she did not understand, and that of the story of the poor little boy, who died because he was good. The story itself made the child’s heart ache, and the other strange mystery confused her. Fanshawe read the letter anxiously, as if he had something to do with it; he thought he had for the moment. Marjory’s confidence in him, her appeal to him that morning, the subtle effect of feeling himself a member, even temporarily, of this household, and becoming penetrated with its atmosphere, all wrought in him. He had no intention of appearing more interested than he was; he was quite honest in the warmth and depth of his sympathetic feelings. And this was a letter of a very different character from the other; it was very short, and quite unemotional.
“I hear from my sister that she is going home with her husband and the children; and I hear from others that he is very ill. I have made up my mind, with my father’s consent, to go with Matty, who, I need not tell you, is very unfit for any such responsibility. I have heard of you from poor Charles, and I think you may perhaps be glad to know that there is some one of some sense with them, whatever happens. I hope you will kindly allow me to go to you for a few days, to see them safely settled; but anyhow, I shall be with them, to take care of them to the best of my power.
“Believe me, dear Miss Heriot,
“Sincerely yours,
“INVERNA BASSET.”
“What a strange name, and what a strange little letter!” said Fanshawe, drawing a chair in front of Marjory’s sofa, and seating himself there; “but there is nothing in this, Miss Heriot, to alarm you—more—”
Marjory had felt her heart lighten—until he came to that last word, which he said with hesitation, after a pause. For the moment it had appeared to her that the stranger’s eye, cooler than her own, had seen something re-assuring in the letter; but all the more for this momentary relief did her heart sink. “More!” she echoed, with a forlorn voice. “I could not be more alarmed than I am. I am almost more than alarmed. I am—.”
“Hush,” he said softly, putting out his hand to touch hers, with a momentary soothing, caressing touch. “Hush! don’t say anything to make your terrors worse. You are very anxious; and it is natural. But think, he is young; he will have two anxious nurses. He will have quiet and the sea-air, and the knowledge that he is coming home. After all, everything is in his favour. I do not ask you not to be anxious; but try to think of the good as well as the evil.”
“The evil is so much more likely than the good,” said Marjory. “He is weakened with fever; one of his nurses will be taken up with herself and her baby; the other is almost a stranger to him. Then the sea-air will be neutralized by the close cabin, the wearisome confinement; and he does not even know that his father will be glad to see him. Had he come home sick a month ago, only a month ago, he would not have been very welcome, perhaps. All this has to be considered, and poor Charlie knows it. Mr. Fanshawe, I do not mean to blame my poor father—”
“I know,” said Fanshawe, still with the same soothing tone and gesture. “You must not think me so dull and stupid. I am not much of a fellow—I am not worthy of your confidence; but at least I am capable of understanding. I see all that is passing—”
Marjory was half touched, half repelled; touched by his humility and by his sympathy; but so sensitive was her condition, almost turned from him by that position of spectator, that very faculty of seeing everything, of which he made a plea for her favour. She drew back from him slightly, without explaining to herself why.
“Yes,” she said; “but you must remember that a stranger sees more, sometimes, than there is to see; and less, less a great deal than he thinks. My father has always been a most kind father to all of us. At this present moment our loss has absorbed him in one thought; but he has always considered all our interests, and a month ago Charlie’s return would have meant a great loss to Charlie, which my father, with his sense of justice to the rest of us, would not have felt himself justified in making up.”
Marjory gave forth this piece of special pleading with a calm air of abstract justice, which moved Fanshawe at once to a smile and a tear. He dared not for his life have shown his inclination to the first; and, indeed, he was sufficiently attendri by his position to make the other more natural.
“I know, I know,” he said, hastily; and then added, “Nevertheless, I think you may put some confidence in the writer of this letter. Who is she—do you know her? It seems as if she would not talk, but do.”
“Charlie speaks of her as the strong-minded sister,” said Marjory. “He has mentioned her two or three times. Their father is a Civil servant in Calcutta, and she keeps his house. They have no mother. She takes care of everything, I have always heard. Charlie laughs at her, but I think he likes her. She does everything. Perhaps that is why the other sister is so helpless—I mean; Mr. Fanshawe, you hear everything as if you were one of the family. I have never seen Charlie’s wife; most likely my idea of her is wrong. You will forget it; you will not think of it again.”
“I hope I shall be worthy of your confidence,” said Fanshawe. “I think I almost am. It seems to me that I must be another man since I knew you. I have never thought much of anything; but now if thinking would do any good—”
“I don’t believe it does,” said Marjory, with a smile. It was very faint and momentary, but yet it was a smile. “The less one thinks and the more one can do, that is the best.”
“But you do not approve of simple want of thought,” he said, cunningly drawing her into those superficial metaphysics which take such a large place in serious flirtations. He was not consciously thinking of flirtation, but he thought he had a right to take advantage of his opportunities. Marjory, however, divined without perceiving, the trap.
“Had my father left the dining-room, Mr. Fanshawe? He looked better to-night. I see you are surprised at old Fleming’s freedom, and how he talks. He is an old servant; he has seen us all come into the world. We could not speak to him as to an ordinary servant. Ah! here is Uncle Charles at last!”
This exclamation was not agreeable to her present companion. He repeated the “At last!” to himself with a sense of failure which was very irritating. Surely he was as good as Uncle Charles, at least.