Маргарет Олифант
Madam
CHAPTER XIX
Next day there was a great concourse of people at Highcourt, disturbing the echoes which had lain so silent during that week of gloom. Carriages with the finest blazons, quartered and coronetted; men of the greatest importance, peers, and those commoners who hold their heads higher than any recent peers—M.P.’s; the lord-lieutenant and his deputy, everything that was noted and eminent in those parts. The procession was endless, sweeping through the park towards the fine old thirteenth-century church which made the village notable, and in which the Trevanion chantry, though a century later in date, was the finest part; though the dark opening in the vault, canopied over with fine sculptured work, and all that pious art could do to make the last resting-place beautiful, opened black as any common grave for the passage of the departed. There was an unusual band of clergy gathered in their white robes to do honor to the man who had given half of them their livings, and all the villagers, and various visitors from the neighboring town, shopkeepers who had rejoiced in his patronage, and small gentry to whom Madam had given brevet rank by occasional notice. Before the procession approached, a little group of ladies, in crape from head to foot and closely veiled, were led in by the curate reverently through a side door. A murmur ran through the gathering crowd that it was Madam herself who walked first, with her head bowed, not seeing or desiring the curate’s anxiously offered arm. The village had heard a rumor of trouble at the great house, and something about Madam, which had made the elders shake their heads, and remind each other that she was a foreigner and not of these parts, which accounted for anything that might be wrong; while the strangers, who had also heard that there was a something, craned their necks to see her through the old ironwork of the chancel-screen, behind which the ladies were introduced. Many people paused in the midst of the service, and dropped their prayer-books to gaze again, and wonder what she was thinking now, if she had indeed, as people said, been guilty. How must she feel when she heard the deep tones of the priest, and the organ pealing out its Amens. Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. Had he forgiven her before he died? Was she broken down with remorse and shame, or was she rejoicing in her heart, behind her crape veil, in her freedom? It must not be supposed, because of this general curiosity, that Madam Trevanion had lost her place in the world, or would not have the cards of the county showered upon her, with inquiries after her health from all quarters; but only that there was “a something” which gave piquancy, such as does not usually belong to such a melancholy ceremonial, to the great function of the day. The most of the audience, in fact, sympathized entirely with Madam, and made remarks as to the character of the man so imposingly ushered into the realm of the dead, which did not fit in well with the funeral service. There were many who scoffed at the hymn which was sung by the choirs of the adjacent parishes, all in the late Mr. Trevanion’s gift, and which was very, perhaps unduly, favorable to the “dear saint” thus tenderly dismissed. He had not been a dear saint; perhaps, in such a case, the well-known deprecation of trop de zèle is specially appropriate. It made the scoffer blaspheme to hear so many beautiful qualities attributed to Mr. Trevanion. But perhaps it is best to err on the side of kindness. It was, at all events, a grand funeral. No man could have desired more.
The third lady who accompanied Mrs. Trevanion and her daughter was the Aunt Sophy to whom there had been some question of sending Rosalind. She was the only surviving sister of Mr. Trevanion, Mrs. Lennox, a wealthy widow, without any children, to whom the Highcourt family were especially dear. She was the softest and most good-natured person who had ever borne the name of Trevanion. It was supposed to be from her mother, whom the Trevanions in general had worried into her grave at a very early age, that Aunt Sophy got a character so unlike the rest of the family. But worrying had not been successful in the daughter’s case; or perhaps it was her early escape by her marriage that saved her. She was so apt to agree with the last person who spoke, that her opinion was not prized as it might have been by her connections generally; but everybody was confident in her kindness. She had arrived only the morning of the funeral, having come from the sickbed of a friend whom she was nursing, and to whom she considered it very necessary that she should get back; but it was quite possible that, being persuaded her sister-in-law or Rosalind had more need of her, she might remain at Highcourt, notwithstanding that it was so indispensable that she should leave that afternoon, for the rest of the year.
The shutters had been all opened, the blinds raised, the windows let in the light, the great doors stood wide when they came back. The house was no longer the house of the dead, but the house of the living. In Mr. Trevanion’s room, that chamber of state, the curtains were all pulled down already, the furniture turned topsy-turvy, the housemaids in possession. In proportion as the solemnity of the former mood had been, so was the anxiety now to clear away everything that belonged to death. The children, in their black frocks, came to meet their mother, half reluctant, half eager. The incident of papa’s death was worn out to them long ago, and they were anxious to be released, and to see something new. Here Aunt Sophy was of the greatest assistance. She cried over them, and smiled, and admired their new dresses, and cried again, and bade them be good and not spoil their clothes, and be a comfort to their dear mamma. The ladies kept together in the little morning-room till everybody was gone. It was very quiet there, out of the bustle; and they had been told that there was no need for their presence in the library where the gentlemen were, John Trevanion with the Messrs. Blake. There was no need, indeed, for any formal reading of the will. There could be little uncertainty about a man’s will whose estates were entailed, and who had a young family to provide for. Nobody had any doubt that he would deal justly with his children, and the will was quite safe in the hands of the executors. Refreshments were taken to them in the library, and the ladies shared the children’s simple dinner. It was all very serious, very quiet, but there could be no doubt that the weight and oppression were partially withdrawn.
The short afternoon had begun to darken, and Aunt Sophy had already asked if it were not nearly time for tea, when Dorrington, the butler, knocked at the door, and with a very solemn countenance delivered “Mr. John Trevanion’s compliments, and would Madam be so good as step into the library for a few minutes?”
The few minutes were Dorrington’s addition. The look of the gentlemen seated at the table close together, like criminals awaiting execution, and fearing that every moment would bring the headsman, had alarmed Dorrington. He was favorable to his mistress on the whole; and he thought this summons meant something. So unconsciously he softened his message. A few minutes had a reassuring sound. They all looked up at him as the message was given.
“They will want to consult you about something,” said Aunt Sophy; “you have managed everything for so long. He said only a few minutes. Make haste, dear, and we will wait for you for tea.”
“Shall I go with you, mamma?” said Rosalind, rising and following to the door.
Mrs. Trevanion hesitated for a moment. “Why should I be so foolish?” she said, with a faint smile. “I would say yes, come; but that it is too silly.”
“I will come, mamma.”
“No; it is absolute folly. As if I were a novice! Make your aunt comfortable, dear, and don’t let her wait for me.” She was going away when something in Rosalind’s face attracted her notice. The girl’s eyes were intent upon her with a pity and terror in them that was indescribable. Mrs. Trevanion made a step back again and kissed her. “You must not be frightened, Rosalind. There can be nothing bad enough for that; but don’t let your aunt wait,” she said; and closing the door quickly behind her, she left the peaceful protection of the women with whom she was safe, and went to meet her fate.
The library was naturally a dark room, heavy with books, with solemn curtains and sad-colored furniture. The three large windows were like shaded lines of vertical light in the breadth of the gloom. On the table some candles had been lighted, and flared with a sort of wild waving when the door was opened. Lighted up by them, against the dark background, were the pale faces of John Trevanion and old Mr. Blake. Both had a look of agitation, and even alarm, as if they were afraid of her. Behind them, only half visible, was the doctor, leaning against a corner of the mantelpiece, with his face hidden by his hand. John Trevanion rose without a word, and placed a chair for his sister-in-law close to where they sat. He drew nearer to his colleague when he sat down again, as if for protection, which, however, Mr. Blake, a most respectable, unheroic person, with his countenance like ashes, and looking as if he had seen a ghost, was very little qualified to give.
“My dear Grace,” said John, clearing his voice, which trembled, “we have taken the liberty to ask you to come here, instead of going to you.”
“I am very glad to come if you want me, John,” she said, simply, with a frankness and ease which confused them more and more.
“Because,” he went on, clearing his throat again, endeavoring to control his voice, “because we have something—very painful to say.”
“Very painful; more painful than anything I ever had to do with in all my life,” Mr. Blake added, in a husky voice.
She looked from one to another, questioning their faces, though neither of them would meet her eyes. The bitterness of death had passed from Mrs. Trevanion’s mind. The presentiment that had hung so heavily about her had blown away like a cloud. Sitting by the fire in the innocent company of Sophy, with Rosalind by her, the darkness had seemed to roll together and pass away. But when she looked from one of these men to the other, it came back and enveloped her like a shroud. She said “Yes?” quickly, her breath failing, and looked at them, who could not meet her eyes.
“It is so,” said John. “We must not mince our words. Whatever may have passed between you two, whatever he may have heard or found out, we can say nothing less than that it is most unjust and cruel.”
“Savage, barbarous! I should never have thought it, I should have refused to do it,” his colleague cried, in his high-pitched voice.
“But we have no alternative. We must carry his will out, and we are bound to let you know without delay.”
“This delay is already too much,” she said hurriedly. “Is it something in my husband’s will? Why try to frighten me? Tell me at once.”
“God knows we are not trying to frighten you. Nothing so terrible could occur to your mind, or any one’s, Grace,” said John Trevanion, with a nervous quivering of his voice. “The executioner used to ask pardon of those he was about to— I think I am going to give you your sentence of death.”
“Then I give you—my pardon—freely. What is it? Do not torture me any longer,” she said.
He thrust away his chair from the table, and covered his face with his hands. “Tell her, Blake; I cannot,” he cried.
Then there ensued a silence like death; no one seemed to breathe; when suddenly the high-pitched, shrill voice of the old lawyer came out like something visible, mingled with the flaring of the candles and the darkness all around.
“I will spare you the legal language,” said Mr. Blake. “It is this. The children are all provided for, as is natural and fit, but with this proviso—that their mother shall be at once and entirely separated from them. If Mrs. Trevanion remains with them, or takes any one of them to be with her, they are totally disinherited, and their money is left to various hospitals and charities. Either Mrs. Trevanion must leave them at once, and give up all communication with them, or they lose everything. That is in brief what we have to say.”
She sat listening without changing her position, with a dimness of confusion and amaze coming over her clear gaze. The intimation was so bewildering, so astounding, that her faculties failed to grasp it. Then she said, “To leave them—my children? To be separated from my children?” with a shrill tone of inquiry, rising into a sort of breathless cry.
John Trevanion took his hands from his face, and looked at her with a look which brought more certainty than words. The old lawyer clasped his hands upon the papers before him, without lifting his eyes, and mournfully nodded again and again his gray head. But she waited for an answer. She could not let herself believe it. “It is not that? My head is going round. I don’t understand the meaning of words. It is not that?”
And then she rose up suddenly to her feet, clasping her hands together, and cried out, “My God!” The men rose too, as with one impulse; and John Trevanion called out loudly to the doctor, who hurried to her. She put them away with a motion of her hands. “The doctor? What can the doctor do for me?” she cried, with the scorn of despair. “Go, go, go! I need no support.” The men had come close to her on either side, with that confused idea that the victim must faint or fall, or sustain some physical convulsion, which men naturally entertain in respect to a woman. She made a motion, as if to keep them away, with her arms, and stood there in the midst, her pale face, with the white surroundings of her distinctive dress, clearly defined against the other dusk and troubled countenances. They thought the moments of suspense endless, but to her they were imperceptible. Not all the wisest counsellors in the world could have helped her in that effort of desperation which her lonely soul was making to understand. There was so much that no one knew but herself. Her mind went through all the details of a history unthought of. She had to put together and follow the thread of events, and gather up a hundred indications which now came all flashing about her like marsh-lights, leading her swift thoughts here and there, through the hitherto undivined workings of her husband’s mind, and ripening of fate. Thus it was that she came slowly to perceive what it meant, and all that it meant, which nature, even when perceiving the sense of the words, had refused to believe. When she spoke they all started with a sort of panic and individual alarm, as if something might be coming which would be too terrible to listen to. But what she said had a strange composure, which was a relief, yet almost a horror, to them. “Will you tell me,” she asked, “exactly what it is, again?”
Old Mr. Blake sat down again at the table, fumbled for his spectacles, unfolded his papers. Meanwhile she stood and waited, with the others behind her, and listened without moving while he read, this time in its legal phraseology, the terrible sentence. She drew a long breath when it was over. This time there was no amaze or confusion. The words were like fire in her brain.
“Now I begin to understand. I suppose,” she said, “that there is nothing but public resistance, and perhaps bringing it before a court of law, that could annul that? Oh, do not fear. I will not try; but is that the only way?”
The old lawyer shook his head. “Not even that. He had the right; and though he has used it as no man should have used it, still, it is done, and cannot be undone.”
“Then there is no help for me,” she said. She was perfectly quiet, without a tear or sob or struggle. “No help for me,” she repeated, with a wan little smile about her mouth. “After seventeen years! He had the right, do you say? Oh, how strange a right! when I have been his wife for seventeen years.” Then she added, “Is it stipulated when I am to go? Is there any time given to prepare? And have you told my boy?”
“Not a word has been said, Grace—to any one,” John Trevanion said.
“Ah, I did not think of that. What is he to be told? A boy of that age. He will think his mother is— John, God help me! what will you say to my boy?”
“God help us all!” cried the strong man, entirely overcome. “Grace, I do not know.”
“The others are too young,” she said; “and Rosalind— Rosalind will trust me; but Rex—it will be better to tell him the simple truth, that it is his father’s will; and perhaps when he is a man he will understand.” She said this with a steady voice, like some queen making her last dispositions in full health and force before her execution—living, yet dying. Then there ensued another silence, which no one ventured to break, during which the doomed woman went back into her separate world of thought. She recovered herself after a moment, and, looking round, with once more that faint smile, asked, “Is there anything else I ought to hear?”
“There is this, Mrs. Trevanion,” said old Blake. “One thing is just among so much— What was settled on you is untouched. You have a right to—”
She threw her head high with an indignant motion, and turned away; but after she had made a few steps towards the door, paused and came back. “Look,” she said, “you gentlemen; here is something that is beyond you, which a woman has to bear. I must accept this humiliation, too. I cannot dig, and to beg I am ashamed.” She looked at them with a bitter dew in her eyes, not tears. “I must take his money and be thankful. God help me!” she said.
CHAPTER XX
Mrs. Trevanion appeared at dinner as usual, coming into the drawing-room at the last moment, to the great surprise of the gentlemen, who stared and started as if at a ghost as she came in, their concealed alarm and astonishment forming a strange contrast to the absolute calm of Mrs. Lennox, the slight boyish impatience of Reginald at being kept waiting for dinner, and the evident relief of Rosalind, who had been questioning them all with anxious eyes. Madam was very pale; but she smiled and made a brief apology. She took old Mr. Blake’s arm to go in to dinner, who, though he was a man who had seen a great deal in his life, shook “like as a leaf,” he said afterwards; but her arm was as steady as a rock, and supported him. The doctor said to her under his breath as they sat down, “You are doing too much. Remember, endurance is not boundless.” “Is it not?” she said aloud, looking at him with a smile. He was a man of composed and robust mind, but he ate no dinner that day. The dinner was indeed a farce for most of the company. Aunt Sophy, indeed, though with a shake of her head, and a sighing remark now and then, took full advantage of her meal, and Reginald cleared off everything that was set before him with the facility of his age; but the others made such attempts as they could to deceive the calm but keen penetration of Dorrington, who saw through all their pretences, and having served many meals in many houses after a funeral, knew that “something” must be “up,” more than Mr. Trevanion’s death, to account for the absence of appetite. There was not much conversation either. Aunt Sophy, indeed, to the relief of every one, took the position of spokeswoman. “I would not have troubled to come down-stairs this evening, Grace,” she said. “You always did too much. I am sure all the watching and nursing you have had would have killed ten ordinary people; but she never spared herself, did she, doctor? Well, it is a satisfaction now. You must feel that you neglected nothing, and that everything that could be thought of was done—everything! I am sure you and I, John, can bear witness to that, that a more devoted nurse no man ever had. Poor Reginald,” she added, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “if he did not always seem so grateful as he ought, you may be sure, dear, it was his illness that was to blame, not his heart.” No one dared to make any reply to this, till Madam herself said, after a pause, her voice sounding distinct through a hushed atmosphere of attention, “All that is over and forgotten; there is no blame.”
“Yes, my dear,” said innocent Sophy; “that is a most natural and beautiful sentiment for you. But John and I can never forget how patient you were. A king could not have been better taken care of.”
“Everybody,” said the doctor, with fervor, “knows that. I have never known such nursing;” and in the satisfaction of saying this he managed to dispose of the chicken on his plate. His very consumption of it was to Madam’s credit. He could not have swallowed a morsel, but for having had the opportunity for this ascription of praise.
“And if I were you,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I would not worry myself about taking up everything so soon again. I am sure you must want a thorough rest. I wish, indeed, you would just make up your mind to come home with me, for a change would do you good. I said to poor dear Maria Heathcote, when I left her this morning, ‘My dear, you may expect me confidently to-night; unless my poor dear sister-in-law wants me. But dear Grace has, of course, the first claim upon me,’ I said. And if I were you I would not try my strength too much. You should have stayed in your room to-night, and have had a tray with something light and trifling. You don’t eat a morsel,” Aunt Sophy said, with true regret. “And Rosalind and I would have come up-stairs and sat with you. I have more experience than you have in trouble,” added the good lady with a sigh (who, indeed, “had buried two dear husbands,” as she said), “and that has always been my experience. You must not do too much at first. To-morrow is always a new day.”
“To-morrow,” Mrs. Trevanion said, “there will be many things to think of.” She lingered on the word a little, with a tremulousness which all the men felt as if it had been a knife going into their hearts. Her voice got more steady as she went on. “You must go back to school on Monday, Rex,” she said; “that will be best. You must not lose any time now, but be a man as soon as you can, for all our sakes.”
“Oh, as for being a man,” said Reginald, “that doesn’t just depend on age, mother. My tutor would rather have me for his captain than Smith, who is nineteen. He said so. It depends upon a fellow’s character.”
“That is what I think too,” she said, with a smile upon her boy. “And, Sophy, if you will take Rosalind and your godchild instead of me, I think it will do them good. I—you may suppose I have a great many things to think of.”
“Leave them, dear, till you are stronger, that is my advice; and I know more about trouble than you do,” Mrs. Lennox said.
Mrs. Trevanion gave a glance around her. There was a faint smile upon her face. The three gentlemen sitting by did not know even that she looked at them, but they felt each like a culprit, guilty and responsible. Her eyes seemed to appeal speechlessly to earth and heaven, yet with an almost humorous consciousness of good Mrs. Lennox’s superiority in experience. “I should like Rosalind and Sophy to go with you for a change,” she said, quietly. “The little ones will be best at home. Russell is not good for Sophy, Rosalind; but for the little ones it does not matter so much. She is very kind and careful of them. That covers a multitude of sins. I think, for their sakes, she may stay.”
“I would not keep her, mamma. She is dangerous; she is wicked.”
“What do you mean by that, Rose? Russell! I should as soon think of mamma going as of Russell going,” cried Rex. “She says mamma hates her, but I say—”
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that you do not find yourself above nursery gossip, Rex, at your age. Never mind, it is a matter to be talked of afterwards. You are not going away immediately, John?”
“Not as long as—” He paused and looked at her wistfully, with eyes that said a thousand things. “As long as I can be of use,” he said.
“As long as— I think I know what you mean,” Mrs. Trevanion said.
The conversation was full of these sous-entendus. Except Mrs. Lennox and Rex, there was a sense of mystery and uncertainty in all the party. Rosalind followed every speaker with her eyes, inquiring what they could mean. Mrs. Trevanion was the most composed of the company, though meanings were found afterwards in every word she said. The servants had gone from the room while the latter part of this conversation went on. After a little while she rose, and all of them with her. She called Reginald, who followed reluctantly, feeling that he was much too important a person to retire with the ladies. As she went out, leaning upon his arm, she waved her hand to the other gentlemen. “Good-night,” she said. “I don’t think I am equal to the drawing-room to-night.”
“What do you want with me, mother? It isn’t right, it isn’t, indeed, to call me away like a child. I’m not a child; and I ought to be there to hear what they are going to settle. Don’t you see, mamma, it’s my concern?”
“You can go back presently, Rex; yes, my boy, it is your concern. I want you to think so, dear. And the little ones are your concern. Being the head of a house means a great deal. It means thinking of everything, taking care of the brothers and sisters, not only being a person of importance, Rex—”
“I know, I know. If this is all you wanted to say—”
“Almost all. That you must think of your duties, dear. It is unfortunate for you, oh, very unfortunate, to be left so young; but your Uncle John will be your true friend.”
“Well, that don’t matter much. Oh, I dare say he will be good enough. Then you know, mammy,” said the boy condescendingly, giving her a hurried kiss, and eager to get away, “when there’s anything very hard I can come and talk it over with you.”
She did not make any reply, but kissed him, holding his reluctant form close to her. He did not like to be hugged, and he wanted to be back among the men. “One moment,” she said. “Promise me you will be very good to the little ones, Rex.”
“Why, of course, mother,” said the boy; “you didn’t think I would beat them, did you? Good-night.”
“Good-bye, my own boy.” He had darted from her almost before she could withdraw her arm. She paused a moment to draw breath, and then followed to the door of the drawing-room, where the other ladies were gone. “I think, Sophy,” she said, “I will take your advice and go to my room; and you must arrange with Rosalind to take her home with you, and Sophy too.”
“That I will, with all my heart; and I don’t despair of getting you to come. Good-night, dear. Should you like me to come and sit with you a little when you have got to bed?”
“Not to-night,” said Mrs. Trevanion. “I am tired out. Good-night, Rosalind. God bless you, my darling!” She held the girl in her arms, and drew her towards the door. “I can give you no explanation about last night, and you will hear other things. Think of me as kindly as you can, my own, that are none of mine,” she said, bending over her with her eyes full of tears.
“Mother,” said the girl, flinging herself into Mrs. Trevanion’s arms with enthusiasm, “you can do no wrong.”
“God bless you, my own dear!”
This parting seemed sufficiently justified by the circumstances. The funeral day! Could it be otherwise than that their nerves were highly strung, and words of love and mutual support, which might have seemed exaggerated at other times, should now have seemed natural? Rosalind, with her heart bursting, went back to her aunt’s side, and sat down and listened to her placid talk. She would rather have been with her suffering mother, but for that worn-out woman there was nothing so good as rest.
Mrs. Trevanion went back to the nursery, where her little children were fast asleep in their cots, and Sophy preparing for bed. Sophy was still grumbling over the fact that she had not been allowed to go down to dessert. “Why shouldn’t I go down?” she cried, sitting on the floor, taking off her shoes. “Oh, here’s mamma! What difference could it have made? Grown-up people are nasty and cruel. I should not have done any harm going down-stairs. Reggie is dining down-stairs. He is always the one that is petted, because he is a boy, though he is only five years older than me.”
“Hush, Miss Sophy. It was your mamma’s doing, and mammas are always right.”
“You don’t think so, Russell. Oh, I don’t want to kiss you, mamma. It was so unkind, and Reggie going on Monday; and I have not been down to dessert—not for a week.”
“But I must kiss you, Sophy,” the mother said. “You are going away with your aunt and Rosalind, on a visit. Is not that better than coming down to dessert?”
“Oh, mamma!” The child jumped up with one shoe on, and threw herself against her mother’s breast. “Oh, I am so glad. Aunt Sophy lets us do whatever we please.” She gave a careless kiss in response to Mrs. Trevanion’s embrace. “I should like to stay there forever,” Sophy said.
There was a smile on the mother’s face as she withdrew it, as there had been a smile of strange wonder and wistfulness when she took leave of Rex. The little ones were asleep. She went and stood for a moment between the two white cots. Then all was done; and the hour had come to which, without knowing what awaited her, she had looked with so much terror on the previous night.
A dark night, with sudden blasts of rain, and a sighing wind which moaned about the house, and gave notes of warning of the dreary wintry weather to come. As Mrs. Lennox and Rosalind sat silent over the fire, there suddenly seemed to come in and pervade the luxurious house a blast, as if the night had entered bodily, a great draught of fresh, cold, odorous, rainy air, charged with the breath of the wet fields and earth. And then there was the muffled sound as of a closed door. “What is that?” said Aunt Sophy, pricking up her ears, “It cannot be visitors come so late, and on such a day as this.”
“It sounds like some one going out,” Rosalind said, with a shiver, thinking on what she had seen last night. “Perhaps,” she added eagerly, after a moment, with a great sense of relief, “Mr. Blake going away.”
