THE situation of the little party of strangers in the west wing of Pitcomlie for the week after their arrival was strange enough. They were in the house, but not of it. Partly on pretence of their fatigue, partly because of the agitated condition of the family, they were not asked to go down stairs, and it was the second day before Marjory even paid them a visit. On the afternoon of their arrival Mr. Charles went solemnly upstairs, and kissed the babies, and shook hands with his new niece. Mrs. Charles had been carefully tutored by her sister, and she had so many grievances on hand that she was ready to cry at a moment’s notice. First and foremost of these was the cap, which had been found in the village, a hideous head-dress indeed, made for some elderly village matron, which drowned Matilda’s poor pretty face within its awful circlet. She resisted with all her might, and cried, and struggled; but having no one to back her, gave in to superior force at last, as was inevitable.
“The uglier it is, the more they will feel that you are in earnest,” said Verna, with an energy that carried everything before it.
And when Mr. Charles came in and paid his respects solemnly, his heart smote him for all the evil things he had said about her, when he saw the tears stealing from under Matilda’s long eyelashes, and that piteous quiver of her lip.
“Some people do themselves much injustice by their style of writing letters,” he said to Fanshawe, that evening. “She may not be very wise, but she has plenty of feeling.”
She scarcely spoke at all during this interview, but cried and gave him a look of hopeless yet affecting sorrow, which went direct to the old man’s heart. The little boy was disobedient, but that was nothing to be wondered at after a long sea-voyage and all that had happened; and as clever Verna thought, the terrible widow’s cap intended for old Mrs. Williamson at the post-office, gave the young widow worship in the eyes of all who beheld her. Verna won herself worship in quite a different way. She put on the most becoming hat she had, and strayed down in the evening to get a little air. The first evening she saw no one. The second, Mr. Fanshawe came out and walked with her round the lawn, where she had seen Marjory first.
“How is Miss Heriot?” she asked, anxiously; “is she better? Was she so much devoted to her father? I am very, very sorry for her; but my poor Matty wants comfort too.”
“Miss Heriot has been ill,” said Fanshawe. “She has had so much to bear—one shock after another.”
“Yes; Charlie’s death,” said Verna, watching him with keen eyes, “and then Mr. Heriot’s—”
“And her elder brother—so very short a time before.”
“Her elder brother?”
“I forgot. You left India before the news could have reached you. Three of them have been swept off one after another. Mr. Heriot died of grief; he never got over poor Tom’s death. The shock to Miss Heriot was not so much her father’s death, as her certainty that yesterday’s news would kill him. All this has affected her deeply. We had almost to force her to do nothing, to see nobody except ourselves—to allow herself to rest.”
“You have a very deep interest in Miss Heriot?” Verna asked, hesitatingly. She did not even know his name. “Or perhaps—I beg your pardon, I am only a stranger—perhaps you are one of the family?”
Fanshawe had started slightly; he had looked up at her with a sudden movement when she made that suggestion. It had brought the colour to his face.
“I—take a deep interest in all the family,” he said. “No, I am not one of them. My name is Fanshawe. I was with poor Tom Heriot when he died. I am glad to be of use at this moment as far as I can.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to put embarrassing questions,” she said. “Please forgive me; I am quite a stranger. Poor Matty does not know much, never having been at home since she was married; and I know nothing at all. We did not know Mr. Tom Heriot was dead. What a terrible thing! father and two sons—all the sons—there are no more?”
“No more—the whole family—except Miss Heriot and her little sister, and your sister’s boys—have been swept away.”
Verna’s heart was beating wildly. She could scarcely contain the sudden flood of triumph that had poured into all her veins. At last she was going to be a great lady. Everything would be in her hands. Marry! why, what was marrying to this? But she restrained herself, to make assurance sure.
“Poor little Tommy,” she said, with a demure and measured tone, which was put on to hide her emotion, “only three years old; is it possible that he is the master, of all this—that everything depends on him?”
“Poor child!” said Fanshawe.
What a farce these words seemed! Oh happy child, blessed child, most fortunate baby, with eighteen years of a minority before him, and his aunt, Inverna Bassett, the only clever one of the family to do everything for him! But she dared not betray the exultation that coursed through all her veins.
“I hope Miss Heriot will come to see us to-morrow,” she said. “It will be better for—all of us—if she will be friendly and come.”
Somehow there was a change of inflection in this which caught Fanshawe’s ear. He was quite incapable of defining what it meant. The rapid revolution of sentiment, the change from humility and doubt into superiority and certainty, the implied warning, too delicate to be a threat, that it would be better “for all of us” that the daughter of the house should visit its new mistress, all these gradations of thought went beyond his capacity. He did not understand; but still his ear, though not his intelligence, caught some change in the tone.
“I do not think,” he said, with some coldness, though he could not have told why, “that we shall be able to persuade Miss Heriot to rest beyond to-day.”
“I am glad of that,” said Verna. “I mean I shall be very glad to see her. I saw her, it is true, yesterday, here, but she did not notice me. Of course it was a terrible moment for her—and for all of us,” she added, with a little meaning. “Matty’s first coming home—”
Was there a little emphasis on that last word? Certainly there was a change of tone.
Fanshawe was confused; he could not quite tell why. As for Verna, her little brain was in a whirl. She wanted to be alone to think. She put up her eye-glass once more, and inspected the house with such a wild sense of power that her faculties for the moment seemed taken from her.
“Good evening,” she said, hastily. “I think I will go back to my poor sister, who has no one but me to take thought for her.”
How everything had changed! She had no need now to be civil to anybody; no need to put on any mask, or restrain her real feelings. She rushed into the house, and upstairs, full of her discovery; but before she reached her sister’s room, her steps grew slower, and her thoughts less eager. Verna was ignorant, very ignorant. How did she know that there might not be some law, or some will, or something that would modify this too delightful, too glorious state of affairs?
A little chill crept over her. Little Tommy’s heirship might not be absolutely certain, after all. If it was certain, would not everything have been turned over to Matilda at once? Would Miss Heriot still venture to give herself airs as if she were the mistress of the house? Would she not rather come humbly to them, and do her best to conciliate and find favour in the eyes of the new mistress? Verna would have done so; and it was hard for her to realise the emotions of so very different a woman, whom, besides, she did not know. The result of all her musings, however, was that she would for the present say nothing to Matilda. She would leave her for the moment in her uncertainty, wondering what the family meant to do with her. Matilda might be kept in the desirable state of subjection so long as she was thus humble in her expectations; but Verna knew that when she was mistress of Pitcomlie she would no longer consent to cry and to abstain from talking.
Accordingly, she concluded to keep her news to herself. When she entered the room where her sister still lay on the sofa, chatting with her maids, and shrieking now and then an ineffectual remonstrance against Tommy’s noisy proceedings, there came into Verna’s mind a sudden and sharp conviction of the foolish mistakes which Providence is always making in the management of the world.
She had made up her mind that it was she who was to reign in Pitcomlie if Tommy turned out to be really the heir; but how would she have to do it? By means of coaxing, frightening, humouring, and keeping in good disposition this foolish sister, whom she had been half ashamed of for her silliness all her life. Matilda would be the real possessor of all these advantages. She herself would only enjoy them as Matilda’s deputy. Oh! if the Powers above had but been judicious enough to bestow them direct upon the person justly qualified! This sudden thought made her sharp and angry as she went into the luxurious room, which Matilda had turned into chaos.
“What a mess everything is in!” she cried. “Elvin, for Heaven’s sake get those things cleared away, and try to be something like tidy. They will think us a pack of savages. Matty, why don’t you exert yourself a little? I declare it is an absolute disgrace to let everything go like this. We are not in India, where one can’t move for the heat. And what if Miss Heriot were to come up now and find you like this, all in a muddle, baby crying, and Tommy rioting, and your cap off?”
“I have as good a right to do what I like as Miss Heriot has,” said Matilda, pouting; “and I hate your odious cap.”
“You have got to wear it,” said the peremptory Verna, picking up the unfortunate head-dress from the floor; “and if I were you I would rather wear it clean than dirty. As it is so late, Elvin may put it away carefully in a drawer; but, Matty, Miss Heriot—”
“Oh! how I do hate Miss Heriot!” said Matilda, ready to cry.
“You don’t know what she may have in her power,” said Verna, with a curious enjoyment of the picture she was about to draw. “She may be able to do everything for you, or perhaps nothing; how can we tell? But in the meantime it is better to have her good opinion. Do as I told you; talk as little as you can, and look as pitiful as you please. Probably we shall have to go to the funeral; or if not to the funeral—we can say you are not well enough—at least to the reading of the will, and that will be very important. Nobody can expect you to do anything but cry. Whatever you may hear, Matty, for God’s sake don’t commit yourself to say anything. Leave it all to me. It will save you ever so much trouble, and you may be sure it will succeed better. You know you are not so quick as I am; you are a great deal prettier, but not so quick. Now do promise, there’s a darling. Take your best handkerchief, and tie your cap well round your face, and cry all the time; not noisily, but in a nice ladylike way. It will have the very best effect; and if you promise, it will leave my mind quite easy, and I can give my attention to what is going on. Now, Matty dear, won’t you do as much as this for Tommy’s sake and for me?”
“Is the funeral to be to-morrow?” said Matilda, putting off the formality of the promise.
“Why, I tell you again this is not India, you silly child,” said Verna. “It will not be, I suppose, till this day week, and there will be hosts of people. I shall have quantities to do without looking after you. Now promise, Matty! If you don’t, I can’t answer for what may happen; they may send you back to papa—”
“I will do whatever is best,” said Matilda, moved by this horrible threat. “Tell me what is best, and I will do it. Oh, they never could think of that! They must give me so much a year at least, and some place to live in. I could not go back to papa to be snubbed and treated like a baby, and hear the dear children sworn at, and never dare venture to speak to anyone. I would rather die.”
“If you are good, and do what I tell you, it will never happen,” said Verna, kissing her. “I have a great deal in my head, Matty. I have heard something—but never you mind. I will tell you when I have found it all out. I should not wonder if we were to be very well off, and never to require to do anything after this but please ourselves. Hush! don’t agitate yourself. You can’t think what a deal I have to think of; but we shall know all about it when the funeral is over, and how it is all to be.”
This had to content Matilda for the moment, and she went to bed with her head buzzing with all kinds of pleasant thoughts. Poor Charlie! it would have been much “nicer” if he had lived; he gave her a great deal more of her own way than Verna did; he was more of a comfort to her—and then a woman is always of more consequence when there is a man behind her to be appealed to. But still, now that poor Charlie was dead and gone, and no thinking nor crying could bring him back, perhaps it might be for the best. If the old gentleman had left him something very nice in his will, as Verna seemed to expect, Matilda thought she would go to some bright nice place where there would be good society, and bring up Tommy. Perhaps she might be able to have a carriage, if it was as much as Verna thought—and never would require to think twice about a new dress, or a pretty bracelet, or anything she might fancy. These gentle fancies lulled her as she went to sleep. Yes, it was a pious thought, such a thought as ought to be cultivated in the bosom of every woman; perhaps after all it might turn out that everything had been for the best.
Verna was not so pious. She sat at her open window half the night, though the air was chill, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. She could not quite persuade herself that it was possible. “If—” she said to herself, before she set off on a wild canter of imagination through all the glories that could be thought of. If—
What a thing it would be! To be virtual mistress of this house, to have everything in her power, to be able to turn out “the family” if she pleased, and make her own will superior everywhere! This hope intoxicated the young woman. The instinct of managing everybody and everything had been strong in her all her life; but it never had had full scope. She had managed her father’s house, but that was little; and he himself was a rough man, who despised women, and was not capable of being managed. Now what unbounded opportunities would be hers—the estate, the house, the village, nay, the county! Verna’s ambition leaped at all. And she never intended to rule badly, unkindly, or do anything but good; Matilda should be as happy as the day was long, she said to herself; Tommy should be sent to the best of schools. She would be as polite as possible to the Heriots, and beg them to consider Pitcomlie as their home as long as it suited them.
She meant very well. She would get up coal clubs, and clothing clubs, and all sorts of benevolence in the village. She would be a second providence for the poor people. Never were there better intentions than those which Verna formed as she sat at the window, her eyes shining with anticipation, if—
That was the great thing. The foundations, perhaps, might fail under her feet; it might all come to nothing; but if—
What a good ruler, how considerate of all the needs of her empire she meant to be! People so often prospectively good in this world; whether their goodness would come to nothing if they had the power, it is impossible to tell; but hoping for it, looking forward to it, how good they mean to be!
That these feelings should exist above stairs, while such very different emotions were in the minds of the family below, where two deaths had occurred, as it were, on one day, need not surprise any one. Verna had been very sorry for the sufferers; but it was not in the nature of things that she could be more than sorry. Her own affairs were nearest to her. They and she inhabited different spheres.