LADY WILLIAM was still a little disturbed next morning, her usual composure gone, her countenance clouded. She had not forgiven little Patty, who in consequence went about her work watering with tears, instead of damp tea-leaves as usual, the carpet in the drawing-room which it was her business to sweep. Patty entertained the idea which, alas! is so little general among servant-girls, that her mistress was an angel, or something even more than that; for angels to Patty’s consciousness were generally little boys with wings and without any clothes, to whom it would have been profane to compare a lady. It may be imagined how hollow the world was, and how little satisfactory the routine of work when Lady William frowned; everything went badly with Patty. She broke a china bowl and received from Miss Mab—Miss Mab always so bon camarade, if Patty had known the qualification—a very sharp and decided scolding, not to say that Anne—old Anne, whom Patty considered almost too old to live, and whose work she was conscious of doing in great part—fell upon her and nagged till the poor girl nearly ran away. Lady William was not busy this lovely spring morning which ought to have put new heart into everything. She said very little even to Mab. She was evidently thinking of something with which even Mab had but little to do. But when the girl talked of her own afternoon’s occupation, her mother interposed quickly. ‘I think you had better come up with me to the Hall, Mab.’
‘Then you are going, mother? in obedience to a call like that——’
‘In obedience to nothing; because I hate it, and want to get it over.’
‘Do you hate Mrs. Swinford, mother?’
‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Lady William, the tears starting to her eyes; ‘don’t ask me such questions. I hope not: I don’t want to hate any one. I would rather not think of her. But I hate going into a house that has so many memories—into a house where I have known so much——’
‘It was there you met my father,’ said Mab.
‘Yes;’ the monosyllable dropped from Lady William’s closed lips as if dropped out against her will.
‘But that ought not to be altogether a painful recollection, mother.’ Mab had never heard anything of her father who was so long dead; there was no portrait of him that she had ever seen. Her idea of him was not precisely a happy one. Other people talked of the husbands they had lost, especially the poor women who liked to enlarge upon the good or bad qualities of the departed—but Mab knew nothing of her father, whether he had been bad or good. And she had a great curiosity, if no more, to know something of him. It was seldom, very seldom, that an opportunity occurred even for a question.
‘I cannot enter into the past,’ said Lady William; ‘there is a great deal that is very painful in it. I would rather not tell you the story, Mab. It would do you no good, nor any one. I had forgotten a great deal till this lady appeared again. So far as I can see now, she is determined that I shall no longer forget.’
‘Is she your enemy, mother?’
‘I don’t believe in enemies, it is too melodramatic; and probably she means no harm; only she likes to stir up things which I prefer to forget. Do you understand the difference? Perhaps it keeps up her interest, but to me it spoils everything. Death is very dreadful to you, Mab; but it’s very merciful, too. It makes you forget many things, when they are not forcibly brought back to your mind.’
Mab eyed her mother very curiously with a hundred questions on her lips: but Lady William’s face was not encouraging, and with a sigh the girl gave up her intended inquiry. She added, after some time: ‘The only thing, mother, is that Mrs. Swinford may want to speak to you of things that you don’t wish me to know.’
‘That is very possible, Mab: and it is for that I want you to go with me, to protect me. She would never bring up old stories which would be painful, before you.’
‘Mother,’ said Mab, and then paused.
‘What is it?’
‘I want to know—if I am perhaps at the mercy of a stranger like Mrs. Swinford to tell me things that would be painful—about my father—whether it would not be better for you, mother, who would do it in love and quietly, to tell me yourself and put me beyond her power?’
‘Mab, you are very sensible, very reasonable.’
‘I don’t know if I’m that: but it seems to me the better way.’
Lady William began to speak: then hesitated, became husky, and paused a moment to steady her voice. ‘There is nothing to tell about your father, Mab, that could affect you; nothing that would hurt his name in the world; only private matters between him and me, in which unfortunately Mrs. Swinford was mixed up. There is no such thing,’ she went on after a pause, with a sort of painful smile, ‘as trouble—without faults on both sides. I was to blame as much as any one else. You would not think the better of either of your parents if you were to be told all that there is to tell. Will you take my word for that? and that there is nothing which it is at all necessary for you to hear?’
‘Certainly, I will take your word, mother. But I don’t believe you were so much wrong. You are hasty sometimes, but you never keep on or nag. And sometimes you are so patient; if there were quarrels I know it was not your fault.’
The girl came to her mother’s side and gave her a kiss, putting down her soft young cheek upon Lady William’s, which was as soft, though no longer young. The mother took the kiss with a smile. It was not wholly a smile of pleasure at Mab’s approval and vindication of her—innocent Mab that knew of nothing but a quarrel, a difference of opinion, a nagging. Mab thought it was a great pity, that perhaps her father had troubles of temper which she was conscious herself of possessing, and that no doubt Mrs. Swinford had interfered and made things worse. It brought her father even a little nearer to her to learn that he had been cross. Poor father! he had been long forgiven and his tempers forgotten, when they were not thrust back upon the memory: and poor mother, who perhaps blamed herself more than was just, and thought now how often she might have answered with a soft word! Lady William smiled, reading in the child’s mind as in a book, so easy was that young interpretation, so desirable, so strange to the woman who knew all.
The afternoon was radiant: sky and air had been washed clean, as Mab said, by frequent showers, and there did not seem an atom of impurity, not even a cloudlet that was not white and shining, in the whole expanse of atmosphere. Lady William was grave, but had recovered her composure, and Mab was gay with an unusual freshness, ready to gambol about the path like the large loose-limbed puppy from the lodge who was fond of taking walks with visitors, and who came up and offered himself as guide and companion as soon as the two ladies had entered the gate. Mab was acquainted with the puppy’s family for several generations, and knew his mother upon intimate terms, so that there was no need of ceremony. He and she had gone up the avenue to the point at which the house becomes visible, rising high above the little lake and among the trees, when Lady William called her daughter back. ‘You have had enough of the puppy,’ she said; ‘now you must turn into a young lady, Mab.’
‘It is not half so amusing, mother; but, oh, look at the violets, how thick they are under the trees!’
‘About the ashen roots the violets blow,’ said Lady William.
‘I never knew any one have so many bits of poetry ready for all occasions,’ said Mab admiringly. ‘It’s a pity they’re only dog-violets, and not sweet at all; but they are pretty like that all the same.’
‘Why, I wonder, should one speak of dog-violets, and dog-roses, and dog-daisies?’ said Lady William. ‘I suppose it is in contempt of things that grow wild.’
‘A dog is the wisest thing that lives,’ said Mab; ‘there’s no contempt in such a name. Puppy! puppy! where are you going? I must run after him, mother, and keep him from frightening those ducks.’
‘There’s contempt, if you please! The famous Swinford wild fowl!’
‘Oh, I can’t bear them, the stupid things. Puppy! puppy! oh, don’t be a fool, they are not worth your while.’
‘Nor yours either, puppy mine. You will be as red as a peony next, and what will Mrs. Swinford say?’
‘I hate Mrs. Swinford,’ said Mab; but she walked soberly the rest of the way. Mrs. Swinford was in the same room and chair as she had occupied on the previous night: with flowers piled in the jardinières, on the tables, everywhere; a wood fire blazing very bright, but more bright than warm, and the mistress of the house arrayed, as always, in dark velvet, with a crimson tone in the lights, but without the lace which had softened at once her features and her age. Her hair, in which there was not a thread of white, was dressed high on her head; her back was, as usual, to the light.
‘Oh, you have brought your little girl,’ she said, in a tone almost of displeasure. ‘You are very perverse and contradictory, my dear, as you always were. I had something to say to you, alone.’
‘Oh, as for that,’ said Mab, angry, ‘I can go away.’
Her mother gave her a restraining look. ‘There is so little,’ she said, ‘in my life that requires to be talked about en tête-à-tête, and Mab goes wherever I go.’
‘That is to say, you bring her with you as young women sometimes bring their babies, in defence.’ Mrs. Swinford laughed, and, holding out her hand, added, ‘Come here and let me see you, little girl.’
‘I am not a little girl,’ said Mab, still angry; but another glance from her mother to the lady of the house restored that reasonableness in which the girl was so strong. ‘And I am not much to look at,’ she added steadily, ‘but, as it does not much matter, here I am.’
Mrs. Swinford took her by the hand, and, drawing her forward, looked at her closely. Then she dropped the girl’s hand and laughed. ‘She proves her parentage, at least,’ she said; ‘no doubt upon that subject; she is a Pakenham all over. And she is like them, Emily, in temper and intellect, too.’
Mab, unfortunately, did not understand the whole weight of the insinuation in this remark, and she did not see her mother’s face behind her. She answered quickly for herself. ‘I have not a very good temper, Mrs. Swinford. When people say nasty things to me, I can be nasty too.’
‘So I presume,’ said the lady of the house.
‘Or to my mother,’ said Mab; ‘she is too patient and too much a lady; but I’m not.’
‘Mab!’ said her mother’s warning voice behind.
‘It is that I think this lady wants to provoke me,’ said Mab, ‘and I don’t see——’
‘My dear, you will show your superiority best by not suffering yourself to be provoked.’
Mab went off to one of the jardinières with a little toss of her head, and it was at this moment that Leo came in, a little hurried and not without agitation. He came in saying quickly, ‘I have just heard that you had visitors, mother.’
‘Leo,’ said Mrs. Swinford, ‘I have something to say to Emily here. I did not expect her to bring her daughter, and I did not desire my son’s company. You can go and show the young lady the pictures; it is a young man’s business; and you ought to thank me for giving you the opportunity. Now, Emily, à nous deux.’
‘I was not aware,’ said Lady William, pale but steadfast, ‘that what you wanted to say to me was of particular importance.’
‘You thought I only sent for you to say I love you,’ said Mrs. Swinford. ‘Well, you knew that already; but I had something much more serious to say. And I am glad, after all, you brought your little girl, Emily; for she is the strongest argument I can bring forward to make you do what I want you to do.’
‘And what is that?’ said Lady William. ‘I must warn you that I am not very open to advice.’
‘As if I did not know you were not open to advice! except, my dear, you will recollect, when you wished to take a certain course which was advised.’
‘Did I wish to take it?’ said Lady William; ‘that is what has never been clear.’
‘Oh, did you wish it?’ cried Mrs. Swinford, with a laugh. ‘However, that is old ground; but if I have any responsibility for that first step, Emily, I have the more right to speak now. For that child’s sake you must make overtures to the family. Whatever they may do or say, it is for you to put your pride in your pocket, and make friends with them, if they like it or not. Your claims must be fully established.’
‘My claims?’ said Lady William; ‘there has never been any question made of my claims.’
‘Probably not, so long as you live; but look at that child. You must make everything certain for her; I must press it upon you with all my might, Emily. Life is uncertain, and you have nothing of your own.’
‘Not much, that is true.’
‘And what would she have to depend upon if you died? You don’t even know what questions might arise. They might ask her what her proofs were, what evidence she had.’
‘Of what?’ said Lady William, wondering. ‘What evidence does Mab require to prove that she is my daughter? But all the parish could prove that, with the Rector at their head.’
‘Oh, so far as that goes; but it does not suffice to be proved to be her mother’s daughter when the money is on the father’s side.’
‘What do you mean, Mrs. Swinford?’ Lady William had grown red and a little angry. She fixed her eyes upon her adviser, ‘There is something in what you say that I do not understand.’
‘Nevertheless it is very true,’ said Mrs. Swinford; ‘the money is, you know, on the father’s side, and the father’s family have a right to know everything about it. It should be put quite out of their power to say afterwards that they never had any proof.’
‘Of what? You mean something that has not been suggested to me before. I have been told I ought to make overtures; but what is this? Please to tell me,’ she said, almost sharply, ‘what you mean.’
‘You must surely have thought of it yourself. Here you are, a widow, not very young, with an only child. They call you Lady William, and you enjoy the rank. Oh, you need not wave your hand as if to say no; I know you better than you know yourself; you enjoy your rank.’
‘For the sake of argument it may be allowed that I enjoy my rank, such as it is.’
‘Well, you do, I know, whether you choose to allow it or refuse. Emily Plowden, it is your first business to prove your claim to it, and your child’s to her name.’
‘I am not Emily Plowden,’ said Lady William; ‘you mistake that, to begin with; and I can only repeat that my claim, which I have never required to prove, has been doubted by no one, nor my child’s right. Is it for pure insult you say this? My movements have always been open as the day.’
‘What! when you left this house in the dark, in the middle of the night! I have never questioned your claims till now. My motive is not to insult you, but to help you. Where were you married, Emily Plowden? Who married you? Have you your certificates all in order? You disappeared, and then you came back, and I never asked, but took it all for granted. It is only when I see your little girl that I begin to ask myself, Emily, have you got your papers, whatever they may be? Emily Plowden, are you sure that you have any right to another name?’