SOME days passed on in a noiseless calm of suspense; suspense which dwelt chiefly in Marjory’s mind, and did not hang heavily upon anyone else. Mr. Charles, with the placidity of his age and character, settled the question beforehand with sanguine confidence.
“Depend upon it, my dear, we’ll have him home all right and well,” he said; “quite well. There is nothing like a sea-voyage for fever; it’s self-evident. That little woman, that sister-in-law, will take good care of him. What an energetic bit creature it must be! Why do I say bit creature? She may be as tall as you are? No, no, that’s impossible. It was a small creature that wrote that letter; a little woman, probably no so young as she once was, but a kind of capable being, that will make him do as she pleases. You may be sure she has a will of her own. She will guide him like a boy at school, which will be the best thing for him. Depend upon it, my dear, she’ll bring him to us safe and sound.”
Marjory did not depend upon it, but she kept silence, and the slow days crept on. Fanshawe lingered, he could scarcely have told why. No one asked him to stay. He was accepted by all as part of the family, with a quiet composure which is sometimes more grateful to a man than protestations of cordiality; but that was not his reason for remaining at Pitcomlie. He stayed—because he said to himself he wanted to see it out. It was a chapter of family history into which he had been thrust unwittingly, and he must see what would be the end of it—if the other brother would come back, and poor Tom’s place be filled up—or if—
It had the excitement of a drama to him; and Marjory’s face, day after day, varying as the weather varied, brightening into hope sometimes under the influence of the sunshine, falling blank and pale into despondency with every cloud, interested him as nothing had ever interested him before. This passion of suspense which possessed her whole soul, purified and elevated her beauty somehow. It made her features finer, the outline of her face more perfect, and gave a hundred pathetic meanings to her eyes. For she was not selfishly absorbed nor dead to other things. Through the veil of that preoccupation which wrapped her about like a mist, nature would struggle forth now and then, coming to the surface, as it were, with smiles and outbreaks of lighter feeling or of independent thought. Anxious as she was, she was too true and natural to be always thinking even of her brother. And Marjory could not be monotonous even in her gloom. She changed from one phase to another, so that the spectator seemed to grow in knowledge of humanity, and wondered to himself how one emotion could put on so many semblances.
And she was relieved on her father’s account, though disturbed on Charlie’s. Mr. Heriot had never again asked for Tom’s papers. He had relaxed a little in his passionate misery. Sometimes, instead of snarling at his family, he would soften and throw himself upon their sympathy. He would take Milly with him when he went out to walk, holding her hand tenderly, supporting himself by her, as it seemed.
“Papa never speaks to me, May,” Milly said, who was half-frightened, half-flattered by being thus chosen for her father’s companion. “He never says anything but ‘My bonnie bairn!’ And sometimes, ‘May will be kind to her—May will be kind to her.’ That is all he ever says.”
“You must try and get him to talk, my dear,” said Uncle Charles. “Make remarks, if it was only upon the sea and the rocks, or the fishing-boats, and the way they hang about in-shore. If he but said, ‘Hoots! hold your tongue, Milly,’ it would be something gained.”
“Oh, Uncle Charles, what remarks can I make,” said Milly, “and me so little? Only when he says May will be kind to me, I greet—I mean I cry; and then he pats me on the head. As if I ever expected any other thing of May!”
“My little darling!” Marjory said, holding her close, “as if there was anybody, but a monster, that would not be kind to you.”
Another time it would be Fleming who would be the expositor.
“Mr. Charlie should hurry hame,” the old servant said, shaking his head. “I’m no a man of many words; but, Miss Marjory, he should hurry hame.”
“I hope he is coming, Fleming, as fast as winds and waves can bring him.”
“Lord! what’s the good of that telegraph?” said Fleming. “If a body could travel by’t, when they’re sair wanted, it would be worth having—instead o’ thae blackguard messages that plunge a hail house in trouble without a why or a wherefore. Ay, he should hurry hame.”
“Why do you say so?” asked Marjory, more anxious than the others.
“Because—humph!” said Fleming, pausing, and looking round upon them. “Miss Marjory, a’ the world’s no young like you, and heedless. I have my reasons. You ken nothing about it—nothing about it. Eh, but I hope he’ll hurry hame!”
“He thinks my father is growing weaker,” said Marjory to Fanshawe, as they continued their walk round that bit of velvet turf which crowned the cliff, “and I think so too.”
“Not more than he has been always—that is since I came,” said Fanshawe.
“Yes, more. And he has grown so gentle too—so gentle. Think of his saying I would be kind to Milly—making a merit of it! It goes to my heart.”
“He was very cross this morning,” said Fanshawe, off his guard.
“Cross! I am sorry I trouble you with such subjects,” Marjory replied at once, with intense dignity. “Of course family details are always unimportant to strangers. Have you heard of a boat that will do for yachting? We do so little boating on the Firth, for ornament; it is all for very use.”
“You would not have me make myself useful to the world in a fishing coble?” said Fanshawe, ruefully, making a hundred apologies with his looks.
And then Marjory would laugh both at herself and him, and there would gather a dangerous blob of moisture in either eye.
Thus it will be seen this moment of waiting was not a solitary moment. It had come to be habitual with them to take that “turn” two or three times round the lawn, after breakfast, and again in the twilight after dinner, when the evenings were mild. It had been Mr. Heriot’s custom always. His “turn” was part of the comfort of his meal. He had given it up, but somehow the others had resumed the habit. Mr. Charles would go once round with Milly before he disappeared to his tower, and then Milly would steal into her favourite corner by the open window, and the other two, sometimes not quite amicably, sometimes indifferently, sometimes with absent talk of all that might be coming, strayed round and round the mossy turf again. Insensibly to herself Marjory had come to look forward to that “turn.”
Fanshawe was a stranger; he offended her sometimes, sometimes he was in the way. She said to herself that she would be glad if he were gone, and wondered why he stayed. Yet there were things which he could understand better than Uncle Charles understood them. Whether he provoked her, or felt for her, somehow there was always an understanding beneath all. He was near her own age; he could enter into her feelings. Marjory did not often go so far as to discuss this question with herself, yet, without knowing it, she would say a great deal to the stranger as they took that turn round the lawn.
It was one morning after breakfast that the end of this long suspense came. They were on the cliff as usual, and as usual Mr. Charles and Milly had gone in. The letters were late that day. How is it that they are always late when they bring important news? Fanshawe by her side recognised Miss Bassett’s writing on an English letter the moment that Marjory took it from the tray. He had seen the writing but once before, and he knew it. So did she. She trembled so that the other letters were scattered all about on the turf, where they lay, no one caring for them. Once more Marjory sat down on the mossy step of the sun-dial. She looked up at him pitifully as she tore open the envelope. He, scarcely less excited, leant over her. He was a stranger, and yet he read the letter over her shoulder, as if he had been her brother, feeling in that moment as her brother might have felt.
“I did not telegraph. I thought this would bring you the news soon enough. I am starting to come to you with poor Matty and her fatherless boys.”
Marjory turned and raised her eyes to the anxious face leaning over her.
“Is that how you read it?” she asked, making a pitiful appeal. “I—I cannot see. Her fatherless boys. Charlie! Oh, my God! I cannot see any more.”
The letter dropped from her hand. She put down her head upon her lap. She did not sob, or faint, but held herself fast, as it were, crushing herself in her own arms. Poor Marjory! The man by her side dared not put his arm round her to support her, and there was no one else to do so. While he stood by her, with his heart full of pity, not knowing what to say or do, she made a sudden movement, and lifted the letter, thrusting it into his hand.
“Read it to me,” she said, “read it—every word.”
He sat down beside her upon the steps of the sun-dial. No thought of anything beyond the deepest and tenderest sympathy was in his mind. It was his impulse to draw her close to him, to shelter her as much as his arm could, to make himself her prop and support; and this for love, yet not for love—as her brother might have done it, not her lover. But he dared not make this instinctive demonstration of tender pity and fellow-feeling. He sat by her, and read the letter, while she listened with her head bent down upon her knees, and her face covered with her hands. In the cheerful morning sunshine, within shelter of the old house which was so deeply concerned, he read as follows, his voice sounding solemnly and awe-stricken, like a funeral service, but so low as to be audible only to her ear.
“I did not telegraph; I thought this would reach you soon enough. I am starting to come to you with poor Matty, and her fatherless boys. I wish I knew how to tell you that it might be easier than the plain facts; but I do not know what else to say. Your brother died at sea soon after we left. I had got to be very fond of him. I will tell you all he said when I come. And I hope you will try to look over Matty’s little faults—for he was very fond of her to the last.
“We shall arrive soon after you receive this. I am very, very sorry. I do not know what more to say.
“VERNA.”
There was a long pause. She did not move or speak; she had to get over her grief as best she could, at once—to gulp it down, and think of the future, and how to tell her father he had no son. It was a hard effort, and this was the only moment she dared take to herself. As for Fanshawe, he sat beside her very sadly, looking at her, wondering if he ought to say anything—trying to think of something to say. What could he say? not anything about resignation; nor that it was better for Charlie. How did he know whether or not it was better for Charlie? He felt sad himself to the bottom of his heart, as if it was he who had lost a brother. Tears had come to his eyes, which did not feel like tears of sympathy. Then he touched her shoulder, her dress, softly with the ends of his fingers—so lightly that it might have been the dropping of a leaf; it was all he dared to do. Marjory started all at once at this touch—light though it was.
“Yes,” she said; “it is true; there is no time to sit and think. I must give orders about their rooms—and—my father must know.”
“Miss Heriot, my heart aches for you. Tell me, what can I do?”
“Yes,” said Marjory; “I know it; you are as kind as—a brother. Oh me! oh me!—but stop me, please; I must not cry. The first thing is—my father must know. Mr. Fanshawe, will you go and see where he is?—if he is in the library? It is cowardly; but I seem to want a moment first; a moment—all to myself—before I tell him. Will you see if he is there?”
“Let me take you in first. Yes, yes, I will go.”
“Never mind me; do not think of me,” said Marjory, nervously twining and untwining her hands. “And tell my uncle, please—and Fleming. Tell them; all except papa. God help him! it will kill him. It is I who must tell papa.”
She looked so wild and woe-begone that he hesitated a moment; but she waved her hand to him almost with impatience. He looked back before he went into the house, and saw her sitting where he had left her—gazing into the vacant air before her, shedding no tears, twisting her fingers together; half crazed with the weight of trouble, which was more than she could bear.
Fanshawe went softly into the house; he felt, but more strongly, as Marjory herself had felt when she went into Pitcomlie with the news of Tom’s illness. This secret, which was in his keeping, made him almost a traitor; he stole through the drawing-room, along the silent passage—nothing but sunshine seemed in the house—soft sunshine of the Spring, and fresh air, a little chilled by the sea, full of invigoration and sweet life. He knocked softly at the library-door, feeling his heart beat, as if in his very look the poor father must read the secret. There was no answer; he knocked again; how still it was! Just as a traveller might have gone into an enchanted palace, seeing signs of life about, careful order and guardianship, but no living thing; just so had he come in. The rooms were empty, swept and garnished; there was not a sound to be heard but the steady ticking of the great old clock, which stood in the hall, and the throbs of his own heart; and still no answer to the knock. Persuaded that Mr. Heriot must have gone out, Fanshawe opened the door softly to peep in, and make certain before he returned to Marjory. To his surprise, the first thing he saw was that Mr. Heriot was in his usual place, in his usual chair, calmly seated at his writing table, paying no attention. The opening of the door, and Fanshawe’s suppressed exclamation, “I did not know you were here, Sir,” disturbed him apparently as little as the knocking had done. Fanshawe had no message to give; he had forgotten even to make up any pretext for his visit; he said hastily, now feeling half ashamed of himself: “There is a book here I want to consult, if you will permit me,” and without waiting for an answer, he went hastily to the shelf, where stood a number of tall county histories—books which Mr. Heriot prized. Turning his back on the old man at his table, he hastily selected one of these books. “I fear I disturb you, Sir,” he said, in the easiest tone he could assume; “but in the first place, I thought you had gone out; and in the second place, I knew my business would not occupy a moment. I will put it safely back.”
Somehow, it seemed to Fanshawe that a tone of levity had crept into his own voice; he spoke jauntily, as a man who is playing a part is so apt to do, and the light-minded tone came out all the more distinctly because this speech, like the others, received no answer. No answer; how still the room was! the fire burning brightly, but noiselessly, the sunshine coming in through the great window, nothing stirring, nothing breathing. Mr. Heriot had not moved; he had never even raised his head to look at his visitor; through all the fretfulness of his temper to the others he had never been but polite and friendly to Tom’s friend; and this strange rudeness struck the intruder all the more.
It seemed to Fanshawe as if a cold air began to blow fitfully in his face; and still Mr. Heriot did not move; he had not even raised his head to look at his visitor. Fanshawe stood still in the middle of the room hesitating; and then a curious moral impression, conveyed by the stillness, or by a subtle something more than the stillness, crept over him, he could not tell how; an icy chill went through him. It was cold he supposed, though why it should be cold in that warm room, with the fire burning and the sun shining, he could not tell. He approached a step nearer to the master of the house. “Mr. Heriot!” he said.
No answer still; not a word, not a movement. Was he asleep? Fanshawe drew nearer still with a shuddering curiosity. The old man’s elbows were leaning on the table; one hand was extended flat out, every finger at its full length. The other held by a book which was supported on a reading-stand. His eyes were fixed upon this book with a heavy, dull stare, his chin dropped a little. Had he fainted? Fanshawe drew closer and closer with a certain fascination. The long, listless hand upon the table lay grey and motionless, like something dead. Good God! was it death? But how could it be death? He had not heard the news. There was no reason why he should die in that tranquil brightness, everything so still around him, no murmur in the air of what was coming. It was impossible. In his certainty of this, Fanshawe touched the motionless hand. He withdrew instantly, with a hoarse and broken scream; the unexpected touch unmanned him. He called aloud for Marjory in his awe and terror—yes, terror, though he was a brave man. Marjory was seated, hopeless, in the sunshine, trying to subdue her own misery, trying to think how she could tell her father. But her father had stolen peacefully away, out of reach of that miserable news. He had gone out of hearing; nothing that could be said to him would move him more for ever.
Fanshawe stood in an agony of momentary uncertainty behind the chair. What should he do? It seemed to him terrible to leave this ice-figure propped up here, without human watcher near. He called for Fleming with a paralysed sense of helplessness, without even the hope of being heard; and it seemed to him that the moments which passed were years. At length he was relieved in the strangest way. The door opened softly, and some one came in. He thought at the first glance it was one of the women-servants.
“Call Fleming to me; call Fleming, quick!” he cried.
The new-comer took no notice. She made no immediate reply. A small figure dressed in black, with curls clustering about her head, and a sweet but gently-complacent smile. She advanced towards the table smiling, making a sweeping curtsey. She did not look at Fanshawe, but at the figure in the chair, which to her was not awful. It was terrible to see this smooth little woman, in all the confidence of one who knew herself sure to please, with her conventional salutation, her company smile, coming calmly up, knowing nothing. She addressed herself to him who sat there with deaf ears, not seeing her.