IT would be hopeless to describe the condition of Pitcomlie during the rest of that terrible day. In the hall was the young widow with her children, an important English nurse, and the Ayah with the baby—the children crying, the Ayah moaning, and Mrs. Charles wondering why no one came to receive her; while in the library the scene was occurring which we have described. Marjory was still seated on the steps of the sun-dial. She had not heard anything; or rather some dim perceptions that something had happened had penetrated her stupor without rousing her to think what it was. Her whole mind was absorbed with one thought. She had not even time to grieve. She had to tell her father. Of all that had ever fallen upon her in her life, this was the hardest to do. She allowed herself this interval of calm, because she was awaiting the return of her messenger. It was a pretext, she felt; but she took advantage of the pretext with such eagerness! and, perhaps, after all, he had gone out; perhaps she might have another moment of respite—perhaps—
Then she became vaguely aware of some commotion in the house. Milly was the first to rush out upon her.
“Oh! May, there’s such funny folk in the hall; a black woman! with a white thing over her head—and little babies. Come, come and see; they’re all asking for you; everybody wants you. Come, come and see.”
“Babies!” said Marjory; and then, in spite of herself, burst into sudden tears.
The thought made her heart sick. It seemed impossible to rise up and welcome them, to receive these strangers in this first hour of trouble. Then Fleming, looking very pale, hurried across the lawn. The old man was heart-broken, but he could not be otherwise than acrid.
“This is a fine time to sit here and divert yoursel’, Miss Marjory,” he said, “when the house is full of strange folk, and no a soul knows what to do first. They’ve come; and mair than that—you’ll know soon enough, soon enough; but Lordsake!” cried the old man, putting Milly aside almost roughly, “send that bairn away.”
Marjory rose up, dragging herself painfully back into the busy world which awaits all the living, whosoever may be gone or dead. Then Mr. Charles was seen hurrying through the open window.
“What is this, May? What is all this I hear?” he cried. The news had been told to him by the servants, without any preparation, thrown at him in a lump as servants are fond of doing, and he was stunned by the succession of events. It seemed to him impossible to believe in their reality till he had come to her, who was the centre of the family life. Little Milly crying out of sympathy, knowing nothing, clung to her sister’s dress—and Mr. Charles eager and anxious with his long lean person all in tremulous motion, put his hand on the sun-dial to steady himself, and with agitated and white lips asked again, “What is it, May?” And at the other side of the house there suddenly appeared Fanshawe, supporting a lady on his arm. Marjory’s bewildered mind fixed upon this. It was the only thing she did not understand. He placed the stranger on a seat and hurried across the lawn. “Give the lady a glass of wine,” he cried peremptorily to Fleming, and then took Marjory’s hand and drew it within his arm.
“Come in-doors,” he said briefly, almost sternly, “they all fly to you, and it is you who ought to be considered most. Come in-doors.”
“No,” she said, “no, I must do it first; if they have come I must do that first; he must hear it from me.”
“Come in,” said Fanshawe peremptorily; but before he could lead her away, the stranger, whom he had brought to the air, came forward to Marjory.
“I am better now,” she said. “I never fainted in my life before. It was such a shock. I know you are Miss Heriot, dear, and I know what you must be feeling. Don’t mind us; I can look after everything, I know how to make myself at home. Oh, poor thing, poor thing! father and brother in one day!”
“What does she mean?” said Marjory.
“My dear May, my dear May!” cried Mr. Charles. “Lord bless us! she does not know! Come in, come in, as Mr. Fanshawe says.”
“Father and brother in one day? then my father is dead,” said Marjory. She put both her hands on Fanshawe’s arm, holding herself up. “Did you tell him? did he hear?”
“He had died in his chair, quite calmly, before the news came.”
“You are sure—quite sure, he did not know?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then thank God!” said Marjory. “Oh, I am glad. Don’t say anything to me—I am glad. Milly, Milly, don’t cry, go and say your prayers. I can’t think of Charlie just now, I am so glad for papa.”
“Oh, my dear! she has gone mad with grief,” said Mr. Charles. “May, my bonnie May, cry, break your heart, anything would be better than this.”
“I am not mad, I am glad. Thank God!” repeated Marjory. She suffered them to take her in, with a calm which frightened them all. Thus the chief actors, in all the excitement of a terrible crisis, went their way off the scene like a tragic procession, carrying with them their atmosphere of pain and trouble; and like the change in a theatre, another set of sentiments, another group of persons, came uppermost.
Miss Bassett was left in possession of the lawn. She had received a shock, but she felt better already, and she was a curious little personage. She watched them go in, making her own observations, especially in respect to Fanshawe, whose presence struck her feminine eye at once. Who was he? engaged to Miss Heriot, she concluded; it was the most natural explanation. Then she went across the lawn to the edge of the cliff and looked over; then made a turn or two up and down, putting up an eye-glass to her eye, inspecting the house. The house was very satisfactory; it had an air of old establishment, wealth, and comfort that pleased her.
“Only I would clear away all these old ruins,” she said, turning her glass upon the tall old Manor-house of Pitcomlie, and Mr. Charles’s tower, “and throw out a new wing,” she added, putting her head a little on one side, “with a nice sheltered flower-garden and conservatories.” This notion pleased her still more. “What a different place it would look,” she continued musing, “if I had it in my hands; I would clear away all the old rubbish, I would make a handsome entrance with a portico and steps. I would soon make an end of all those little old-fashioned windows, and have plate-glass everywhere. Dear me, dear me, what a pity poor Charlie was not the eldest son!”
From this it will be apparent that the newcomer was not aware of what had happened in the family upon which she had arrived so suddenly. When she had examined the house quite at her leisure, she bethought herself of the helpless party she had left in the hall, and made her way to them round the front, finding the way by instinct with a cleverness which never forsook her. “I wonder what they will do with Matty,” she said to herself. “I wonder what the new Mr. Heriot is like. I have seen his photograph, but I don’t recollect. I wonder if he is married. If he is not married, Matty’s little boy will be the heir-apparent, or heir-presumptive, is it? and they will make much of him. Fancy grown people like Matty and myself being tacked on to little Tommy to give us importance! If he was not Charlie’s brother Matty might marry him. As for me, that does not seem my line; at least I have never done it yet, after being in India and all. It is droll how people differ. Matty is a fool and as selfish as a little cat; but she is the marrying one. Never mind, I shall do as well for myself. How awful that old man looked, to be sure—I shall dream of him all my life; but don’t let’s think of that. Oh, you poor dear Charlie, how nice it would have been if you had lived, and if you had been the eldest son!”
Fresh from this reverie she met at the door Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper, who had just cleared the frightened and excited servants out of the hall, and was closing the shutters with her own hands, and crying softly between whiles with many a murmured exclamation. Miss Bassett was very conciliatory, almost respectful to the old servants.
“Can you tell me, please, where I shall find my sister and the children?” she said. “What a dreadful day for us to come, the day of your poor dear master’s death! I am so sorry to give you so much more trouble on such a day.”
“Oh mem, never name the trouble,” said Mrs. Simpson, “if anything could be a comfort it would be the sight of thae dear bairns, that he didna live to see, poor man. Eh, it’s an awfu’ lesson to the rest of us, to be taken like that without a moment’s preparation, reading a common book, that could be of no use to his soul. Eh Sirs! In an ordinary way I’m no feared for death. It’s what must come to us all; but death like that—”
“I am sure though,” said Miss Bassett confidently, “by the look of his face that he was a good man. There was a believing look about him. I feel sure all is well with him, and if it is a loss to us, you know it is a gain to him.”
“Eh, what a pious good young lady,” said Mrs. Simpson to herself; “we maun aye hope so,” she said aloud, but with much less certainty. She was a Seceder, and not quite certain of her master’s salvation. “He didna take his troubles may be so well as he might have done. They say it’s a sure sign of the children of light when they’re resigned, whatever God sends; but oh, it’s no for us to judge,” said Mrs. Simpson, putting her apron to her eyes. “I hope you’re better, mem. It was a sore trial for a young lady, going in like that to the presence of death. I’ll show you upstairs where the other lady is, and if you’ll just ring there’s a maid will see to everything. Meals and hours will be all wrong the day in this mourning house; but you’re a considerate young lady and ye’ll look over it—for to-day.”
“Oh, don’t trouble about us,” said the newcomer, giving Mrs. Simpson one of her sweetest smiles, “I like you so much for being grieved for your master. Never think of us—” Miss Bassett was very popular among the servants wherever she went. She gave a little nod and smile to a housemaid she met on the stairs. She was very conciliatory. The youngest son’s wife’s sister has little reason to think herself an important personage in any house; and as she went up the great staircase through the long noiseless carpeted corridor which led to the west wing, her respect for the house rose higher. She noted that the carpet was Turkey carpet, that every corner was covered, no matting, no boards visible, nothing that showed the least desire for economy. She was not used to any English house except the very thrifty one in which Matilda and she had received their education, and these details of luxury were very pleasant to her. She sighed as she went into the pretty room where her sister and the children were already established. It was the largest room in the wing, the end room with two large windows looking over the peaceful sunshiny country, and one in the side which had a peep of the sea. There were large wardrobes, a great marble dressing-table, a succession of mirrors, a magnificent canopied bed, and more Turkey carpets, feeling like moss beneath the feet. The handsome room, however, was already made into a disorderly nursery. Matilda had thrown her hat down on the writing-table, where it lay among the pens and ink, covered over in its turn by the children’s hats and pelisses. She had thrown herself on the sofa, where she lay, tired and dishevelled, making ineffectual remonstrances with Tommy, who was belabouring the floor with an ivory-backed brush which he had found on the dressing-table. Baby was sprawling on the lap of the dark Ayah, who sat squatted on the floor near her mistress’s feet, and the English maid was unpacking all the boxes at once, finding all sorts of heterogeneous things in the different packages.
“Bother that black thing,” she said indignantly as Miss Bassett entered, “here’s baby’s short things all bundled up in mistress’s best shawl. There ain’t a thing where I can lay my hand on it, and all the place in a litter already.”
Miss Bassett did her best to remedy the muddle. She seized the brush out of Tommy’s hand, and put him spell-bound in the corner. She pulled off her sister’s shawl, which hung half over the arm of the sofa. She ranged the hats upon the bed and cleared the writing-table.
“Matty! for heaven’s sake,” she said, “we have come to a nice tidy place, and they seem disposed to treat you handsomely. This must be one of the best rooms, don’t make a pigsty of it the very first day.”
“I like that,” said Matilda languidly; she was a pretty, listless, fair young woman, with light hair, without any colour in it, and blue eyes, which were somewhat cold and steely. “Where have you been to, Verna? You went and left us all by ourselves, to get on as we could; and but for that nice fat woman who brought us upstairs, I do not know what we should have done. Of course, the children must be made comfortable. She said we were to have all the rooms in this end. When you can get them cleared away, and things put straight, I think I shall go to bed and have a good sleep.”
“Then you don’t want to know anything about the family?” said her sister.
“The family! oh, I suppose Marjory will come to see me by-and-by. I don’t want her till I have had a sleep, and I told the fat woman so. I shall cry when she comes, I know; and it tires me out to cry. I want a sleep first. I suppose you have seen them all; you always see everybody first. Are they nice? do they look good-natured? do you think they mean us to stay here, or what am I to do? Who is knocking at the door? Oh, I know; it is the fat woman with the tea.”
“Hush, for heaven’s sake!” said Verna; “do think for a moment; everything depends on how you behave. Elvin, don’t let anyone in just yet. Matty, listen; old Mr. Heriot—your father-in-law—Charlie’s father, died this morning. The house is all in confusion.”
“Died this morning!” Matilda’s lip began to quiver, her eyes filled suddenly with tears, her face acquired all at once the pitiful look of a child’s face in sudden trouble. “Oh,” she said, “must some one be always dying wherever we go? It is dreadful. I cannot bear to be in a house where there is some one dead. I never was so in my life. Verna, take the baby; take us away, take us away!”
“I will kill you!” cried her sister passionately, turning on her, clenching her little fist in Matilda’s face. “You fool! hold your ridiculous tongue when the servants come in; cry as much as you please; you can do that. It will make them think you can feel, though you have a heart as hard—Cry! if you can’t do anything else. Thank you very much,” she said, turning round suddenly and changing her tone in the twinkling of an eye. It was Mrs. Simpson herself who had entered, attended by a maid with a tray. The housekeeper was deeply in want of some counteracting excitement, and she knew that the two babies on the floor were the only representatives of the house, though their mother did not. She came in with a jug of cream in her hand, very solemn and tearful, ready to weep at a moment’s notice, yet eager to explain, and tell the sad story—full of natural womanly interest about the children, as well as anxiety touching the little heir and his mother. In short, the housekeeper was like most other people—she had good, maternal motives, and she had an alloy of interested ones. Had the young widow been a poor woman, Mrs. Simpson’s kindness would have been more disinterested; but in the present circumstances, it was impossible not to recollect that the young woman crying on the sofa, who looked so innocent and childish in her sorrow, might be the future mistress of the house, and have everything in her hand.
“Oh, mem!” said Mrs. Simpson; “what is there we wadna do—every one in the house—for poor Mr. Chairlie’s lady, and thae two bonnie bairns! Oh, Mistress Chairles! dinna break your heart like that! there’s plenty cause; but think on your two bonnie lads that will live to be a credit to everyone belonging to them, and a’ the hope now that we have in this distressed house. Oh, get her to take some tea; get her to lie down and rest! So young and so bonnie, and her man taken from her, and a home-coming like this!”
“My sister is very tired,” said Verna; “indeed, as you say, it is a very sad home-coming. She cannot thank you to-day, you kind woman; but to-morrow I hope she will be better. We have had a terrible journey. And she feels it so much,” added the quick-witted creature, seeing Mrs. Simpson’s eye linger upon Matilda’s coloured gown, “having no mourning to come in; no widow’s cap. You must tell me afterwards whether there is a dress-maker here whom we can have. What did you say, dear? will you try some tea? Cry! you fool!” she whispered fiercely, turning aside to her sister, “and don’t speak.”
“But, Verna—a cap!” Once more Matilda put on that piteous look; her lips quivered; large tears rolled down her cheek; she put her hand up to her pretty light hair.
“Yes, that is the first thing,” said the wiser sister. “Will you please send for the dress-maker? Perhaps we can get her a cap in the village. That is all she thinks of; she would not like to see dear Miss Heriot without her cap.”
“Miss Marjory is not in a state to see anybody,” said the housekeeper, shaking her head; “she’s taking her trouble hard—hard. She’s no resigned, as she ought to be. And this is the little heir? Eh, my bonnie man! but I’m glad, glad to see you here!”
“Yes, this is the eldest,” said Verna, puzzled; “he is called Tom, after his poor grandpapa. Then young Mr. Heriot is not married?”
The housekeeper shook her head solemnly. “Na, na! Mr. Tom wasna a man to marry; and oh, to think the auld house should depend upon a little bairn.”
Then the good woman put her apron to her eyes. Verna watched her every look and movement, and already her attention and curiosity were awakened; but she would not show her ignorance of the family affairs; and she was glad to get Mrs. Simpson out of the room, fearing the outburst which was coming. It came almost before she had closed the door upon the housekeeper’s ample gown.
“Oh you cruel, cruel Verna!” cried the young widow. “Oh you barbarous, unfeeling thing! a cap! I will never wear a cap; as if it was not bad enough to lose Charlie, and come home here like this, and cry my eyes out, and have to please everybody; instead of my own house, and being my own mistress, as I was while dear Charlie was living; but to put on a hideous cap—I will not, I will not! With light hair it is dreadful; I will rather die!”