MR. HERIOT’S will was an old one. As it was read, some of the listeners held their breaths with the strangest painful feeling of anachronism and sense of being suddenly plunged back into an ended world. Little Milly, wistful and dreary, cried at the merest mention that was made of her brothers’ names. She was the one of all who had least personal knowledge of her brothers; but their names had become symbols of grief to her. The others listened with much outward quietness and internal excitement, while all the stipulations of that will which the father had made in full certainty of being survived by his sons, was read in the light of the fact that both his sons had preceded him to the grave.
The will set forth that there was twenty thousand pounds to be divided between the younger children; but that little Milly being provided for in chief by her mother’s fortune, only three thousand was to be given to her, the rest being divided between the son Charles and the daughter Marjory of the testator. Mr. Smeaton paused to explain that this sum would not be fully realized, as some part of the property from which it was to be drawn had much deteriorated in value; and went into further detailed descriptions of the property, and the cause of its deterioration, which tried Verna’s patience to the utmost, and made Mr. Charles cross and uncross his long legs in nervous impatience.
Even wills, however, come to an end some time. When this was ended there was a pause. There were no unexpected stipulations, no wrong done to any one; all was perfectly just, kind, and fatherly. But this was not all. Except Matilda, who knew nothing, everyone in the room stirred with uneasy expectation when the reading came to an end. Matilda, for her part, obeyed her sister’s directions closely; but that did not prevent her from making an anxious calculation in her mind how much was left of twenty thousand pounds when you subtracted three, and how much was the half of seventeen thousand. This was a mental operation which took her a long time and much thought, and she had not arrived at the other and more difficult and, in short, utterly insoluble question as to what income eight thousand five hundred pounds would produce, when Mr. Charles spoke.
“Is there no later will?” he said; “nothing made since the late sad changes in the family? no codicil? He might have made some memorandum, perhaps, of what he wanted to be done in the present melancholy case.”
“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Smeaton; “it was not a case to be foreseen. Such a thing, I daresay, never entered into his head. Since both are gone, this poor little fellow must, of course, be named heir of entail, and guardians appointed—unless his father has appointed guardians.”
“Not likely, not likely,” said Mr. Charles; and both of the gentlemen looked at Matilda, who, thinking that she had done something wrong, hid her face in her handkerchief. This produced, as Verna expected, the most excellent effect.
“Poor young creature!” they said to each other. “It is too much for her, and no wonder.”
“Miss Bassett,” Mr. Charles added, gently, “perhaps you could rouse your sister a little to the necessities of her position. You know that in consequence of the death of my two nephews, Tom and Charlie, all the bulk of the property goes to that poor infant at your feet. Poor little man! You understand me? I daresay you have not thought on the subject, either of you. Poor little Tommy is the actual proprietor of Pitcomlie. It will be a great responsibility for his mother. Do you think you can make her understand?”
Matilda’s handkerchief, which she held to her face, was violently jerked by the start she gave. There are some minds which are quick to self-interest, though dull to most things else. Mrs. Charles was of slow intelligence, but she heard and understood this. For a moment she made an effort to obey her sister; but then nature got the better of her. She flung the handkerchief on the floor, and appeared from under it, flushed and tearless.
“What!” she cried, with a suppressed but sharp scream.
The reality of her voice amid this subdued and conventional quiet, roused them all up like a flash of lightning; and Verna herself, for the moment, was too much overcome to interfere.
“Did she not know?” said Mr. Smeaton, aside, to Mr. Charles. “The fact is, the deaths of your brother-in-law and your husband, Mrs. Charles, have left your little boy the actual proprietor of Pitcomlie. Had I supposed that you did not know, I would have broken the news more gently—”
“Tommy!” cried his mother. “Tommy! Do you mean it all belongs to us—all? this house, and the money, and everything? Oh, Tommy! Are you sure—are you quite sure? Can’t you be making a mistake? These things so often turn out to be mistakes; I should not like to believe it, and then find out it was not true.”
Verna advanced with a warning air; but her sister pushed her away.
“Let me alone, Verna; it is my business and Tommy’s. Please go on, go on. I can understand everything. Oh! make haste and tell me! All Tommy’s!—and Tommy, of course, mine, being but a baby. Is it true?”
“It is true, so far as Tommy is concerned,” said the lawyer, with a smile; “but for his mother—”
“There is a paper,” cried Matilda; “Charlie signed a paper. Verna, you have it; where is it, that last paper Charlie signed? You made him do it. I remember I thought it was silly, for what could it matter? It is something about me and the children. Give it to Uncle Charles; he is in it, too. Dear me! you are quick enough sometimes,” said poor Matilda, in vulgar triumph. “Do not keep everybody waiting; where is it now?”
Verna put herself between her sister and the critical eyes that were, she supposed, inspecting her, and picking up the fallen handkerchief, restored it to its owner.
“Be quiet, for heaven’s sake,” she cried.
“Oh, why should I be quiet, I should like to know?” cried Matilda. “Don’t stand between me and the people. If I am mistress of the house, I mean to be so, and put up with no nonsense. She has got the paper all right. Tommy, my precious darling! You shall have the nicest things money can buy. You shall never go to school, my precious, like common little nasty boys. You shall have——”
“Oh, you fool!” shrieked Verna, in her ear.
At the sound of these familiar words, and the suppressed vehemence with which they were spoken, Matilda for the moment came to herself. She looked round, and saw the wondering faces turned towards her. She saw suddenly that she had abandoned her consigne, and had got into deep waters, which she could not fathom; and with a certain natural cunning, which her sister blessed, she suddenly fell a crying in her excitement. Then Verna began to breathe; the ball was again in her hands.
“Poor Charlie was very anxious about his wife and his children before he died,” she said, “as was very natural, for he did not know if his father would approve of his coming home. He had not anything to leave, poor fellow, but he made his will. Here it is. It was partly his doing and partly mine, as my sister says. I brought it in case it should be wanted. Whatever Tommy—I mean the children—may have, he made her their guardian. My sister is very excitable”—Here Verna paused, as if forced to make some explanation. “She was afraid there would be nothing for the children. The revulsion has been too much——”
“Mrs. Charles seems, I think, quite able to speak for herself,” said Mr. Smeaton. “This is the will of Charles Heriot, dated at sea, the 21st March. It’s worth very little, I may tell you. It is quite informal. If the family choose to accept and act upon it, I have nothing to say; but otherwise it is good for nothing. It leaves everything of which he dies possessed to his widow, and appoints her and his uncle, Charles Hay-Heriot, of George Square, Edinburgh, the guardians of his children. That’s so far well; it is a judicious appointment enough—- unless,” stooping his head, and speaking lower, he added, “unless the family think it proper to dispute it, when it is a simple piece of waste paper. It all depends upon what you think, ay or no.”
There was a pause. Matilda’s interposition had made a painful impression upon Uncle Charles.
“What could we do?” he said, in an undertone.
“You could dispute this, and have guardians appointed by the court,” said Mr. Smeaton. “But as you’re named, and all’s right otherwise, I do not see much reason why——”
Matilda heard this low conversation, but she did not know what it was about. She thought, like every narrow intelligence, that what she did not understand must be against her. And her feelings overcame her prudence and her awe of Verna.
“What are you all talking about?” she said, vehemently, sitting up quite upright in the chair which she had been reclining in. “What are you doing, plotting and scheming against my boy? You cannot take his birthright from him. Do you think I will stay quiet, as Verna tells me. Verna, hold your tongue, it is I that am the mistress, when my Charlie’s will is being torn up, and our estate taken from us. No, I will not stay quiet. We must have our rights.”
“Do not mind her, gentlemen,” said Verna, piteously. “She is excited; she is never like this when she understands. Matilda, dear, no one is thinking of wronging you. It was this gentleman who explained how things are. They will appoint another guardian, and take away your authority, if you don’t mind. Be quiet, or they will take away your freedom. Matty! if they see you are excited and so forth, they will not let you have any of the power. Do you hear what I say? They cannot wrong you, but they will make you a slave; they will take away all your power.”
This was said in a passionate whisper, close to Matilda’s ear, who gazed at the speaker, open-eyed, first defiant, then gradually yielding.
“They are not to do anything against Tommy’s rights. I will not stand and see my child lose his rights,” she cried.
Verna sat down beside her, and took her hand, and carried on a close conversation in a whisper. It became half Hindustanee as it became vehement. The lawyer and Mr. Charles, after a moment’s pause, made themselves into a separate group, and talked over the papers; while Marjory and little Milly behind, with Fanshawe looking on, formed another. The central point of the scene was in the two young women, full of excitement and passion, who were strangers, whom the house knew nothing of, and who yet were its future mistresses, with the wondering little boy in crape standing between them, holding fast by each, and gazing out with round eyes upon the strangers who filled him with a frightened defiance. You will think it strange that Marjory had no yearning of the heart towards this baby, who was Charlie’s son; but, as children have a perverse way of doing in such circumstances, little Tommy had not a feature which recalled Charlie. He was his mother’s little staring image, her face, her expression, the very repetition of her look. Milly’s heart was moved to him for the sole reason that he was “little”; but Marjory remained cold as the nether millstone to Charlie’s boy. She sat, indeed, very coldly during the whole discussion. It sounded to her like a storm going on at a distance, which disturbs no one—the thunder mere echo, the lightning nothing but reflection. She looked at the two who were moved by feelings so much stronger than her own with a vague surprise, which only the curious stupor which hung about her could explain. She did not enter into their feelings. She was antagonistic to them, yet saw that but faintly. The whole scene seemed a dream, which would float away, leaving—what? Marjory’s mind did not seem even active enough to inquire what it would leave behind.
Thus this strange scene ended, and everybody at Pitcomlie knew that a change—the greatest ever known in its records—had come about in the fortunes of the race. Other widowed ladies had reigned in the old house before now, but they had been kindly daughters of the country-side, trained in its traditions, and knowing what was expected of them. The new mistress was a stranger, knowing neither Fife nor Scotland, nor even English ways, knowing nothing about the family, nor what it demanded from her, and caring less than she knew. Mr. Charles, with care on his brow, took a “turn” with Mr. Smeaton on the cliff. They discussed the matter very seriously, but they did not make much of it one way or another.
“If young Charlie’s will stands, you will have to manage all the money matters,” Mr. Smeaton said, “which will be the best thing for the estate; and perhaps you’ll be able to get an influence over the widow. She’ll give you a great deal of trouble, that young woman; but, on the other hand, she will understand nothing about business, and you will get your own way; whereas, if the will is cancelled as informal, you’ll have another guardian appointed who may take different views; and she’ll give plenty of trouble all the same.”
“She’s young,” said Mr. Charles, with careful looks; “she’ll learn better; but I’m an old man—too old to manage a child’s property, that will not come of age for eighteen years.”
“Toots!” said Mr. Smeaton; “you’re not sixty. What ails you to live till the laddie’s of age? there’s plenty of your name have done it before you.”
“My brother was but sixty-one,” said Mr. Charles.
“Ay, ay; but the circumstances are different, they cannot occur again. On the whole, if I were in your place, I would stand by young Charlie’s will.”
This was the subject of conversation with the elders of the party, as the Spring afternoon came to an end; very different from their subdued doubtfulness and care were the feelings of Matilda and her sister as they went upstairs. Matilda, for her part, did not want to go upstairs at all.
“I want to see the house,” she said. “It is my own house now, and I have a right to see it. I don’t see why I should be shut up in a bedroom—the mistress of the house!”
“Come along for to-day; we are to go down to dinner!” said Verna. “How could you see the house when all the shutters are closed, and everything shut up?”
“Let them open it, then!” said Matilda. “It has been shut up long enough—a whole week. What would anyone think of that in India?” But finally she allowed herself to be persuaded to go back to her room, as Tommy wanted his tea. When she reached that sanctuary, she plucked the cap from her head, and tossed it to the other end of the room. “That shall never go on again!” she cried. “Now I am my own mistress, I don’t see why I should make myself hideous for anybody. You need not look shocked, Verna; you need not say a word. There are some things I won’t do. I mean to be a good sister to you, and give you everything you want, but I won’t have you sit upon me, and tell me what I am to do. You may be the cleverest, but I’m Tommy’s mother, and I have the power to do what I like—and I will, too!” she cried, letting down her bright locks, which had been simply fastened behind to admit of the covering of the cap. “Quick, Elvin, bring me all my pads and hairpins, and do up my hair decently. I won’t go down to dinner a fright; you can put it on if you like, since you are so fond of it,” she said, with a mocking laugh, as her sister picked up the unfortunate cap. Verna was not so happy as her sister; she had never been thus defied by Matilda before. Her brilliant hopes of sovereignty were overcast. If this rebellion was to continue, all her plans would be put out of joint. It was with a very rueful countenance that she picked up the discarded headgear, and looked on at the wonderful edifice of fair hair that was being built up over Matilda’s low but white forehead. “I have not felt so comfortable since we left Calcutta,” said that young woman, with a sigh of relief as she looked at herself in the glass. “Crape is not unbecoming when it is fresh; and, thank heaven, one can always have it fresh now.”
“You speak as if you were glad you were a widow; you never think of poor Charlie!” cried Verna, in her discomfiture—glad to have some means of inflicting a sting.
“Oh, you cruel, unkind thing! as if I did not miss him every hour,” said Matilda, with the ready tribute of tears which sprang up at a moment’s notice. “He never would have allowed you to bully me as you do; he never asked me to do anything I didn’t like; never called me a fool, as you do.”
“He must have thought it many a time,” said Verna spitefully.
“He did not; he was very fond of me—and I was fond of him, very fond of him!” cried Matilda; “but do you think he would have liked me to be tyrannized over, to make myself look hideous?—never. He would have liked to see me at the head of the table—”
Verna had not very fine or fastidious taste; but she had sense enough to perceive when anything was offensively out of harmony with the courtesies of life. She cried:
“For heaven’s sake, Matty—for Charlie’s sake, not to-night!”
“We shall see about that,” said Matilda, complacently nodding her head; “it is for Charlie’s sake, poor fellow; he married me without any money, or great connections, or anything. And I want them to see I am not such a dowdy, nor so plain, nor so insignificant as they think. For Charlie’s sake, and to do him credit, poor fellow, I am determined to be mistress in my own house.”
Verna was struck dumb; she was cast from her height of hope, and the fall stunned her. It was of no use now to call her sister a fool, though she was proving herself so in the most violent manner. Folly is not always obedient and submissive; there are times when it takes the upper hand, and then there is nothing so impossible as to move it one way or another. Poor Verna, in her little pride of cleverness, was actually cowed by the unexpected force of the heartless idiocy which she despised. It was stronger than she in that grand primitive power of unreason, which is strong enough to confuse the best intellect, and break the stoutest heart in the world.