Vain Fortune Part 7

Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. But in the middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think.

She had never heard of anything so cruel before. That poor girl--she must go to her; she must not leave her alone any longer. But it would be well to avoid the subject as much as possible. She must think of something to distract her thoughts. The pony-chaise. It might be the last time they had a carriage to go out in. But they could not go out driving on the day of the funeral.

That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet, pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'Oh, to think of a common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid crowd of children. Oh, Julia, doesn't it seem impossible? And yet I suppose it is true. I cannot bear to think of it. I can see the horrid children tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will remember to feed the poor swans. Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take you with me.' And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him, kissing his dear old head. 'Dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can they? But do you think the swans belong to them or to us? I suppose it would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London. They couldn't live in a backyard.'

'But, dearest Emily, who are "they"? You don't know that he is married--literary men don't often marry. For all you know, he is a handsome young man, who will fall madly in love with you.'

'No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man--how I hate him, how I detest to think of it! I thought I should have died when he asked to marry me. The very memory of it is enough to make me hate all men, and prevent me from liking any one. I don't think I could like him; I should always see that wicked old man's h.o.a.ry, wrinkled face in his.'

'Oh, Emily, I cannot think how such ideas can come into your head. It is not right, indeed it isn't.' And this simple Englishwoman looked at this sensitive girl in sheer wonderment and alarm.

'I only say what I think. I am glad the old man did disinherit me. I'm glad we are leaving Ashwood; I cannot abide the place when I think of him....

There, that is his chair. I can see him sitting in it now. He is grinning at us; he is saying, "Ha! ha! I have made beggars of you both." You remember how we used to tremble when we met his terrible old face on the stairs; you remember how he used to sit glaring at us all through dinner?'

'Yes, Emily, I remember all that; but I do not think it natural that you should forget all the years of kindness; he was very good to you, and loved you very much, and if he forgot himself at the end of his life, we must remember the weakness of age.'

'The hideousness of age,' Emily replied, in a low tone. The conversation paused, and then Julia said--

'You are speaking wildly, Emily, and will live to regret your words. Let us speak no more of Mr. Burnett... I daresay you will find your cousin a charming young man. I should laugh if it were all to end in a marriage. And how glad I should be to see you off on your honeymoon, to bid you good-bye!'

'Oh, Julia, don't speak like that; you will never bid me good-bye. You will never leave me--promise me that--you are my only friend. Oh, Julia, promise me that you will never leave me.'

Tears rose in Julia's eyes, and taking the girl in her arms, she said, 'I'll never leave you, my dear girl, until you yourself wish it.'

'I wish it? Oh, Julia, you do not know me. I have lost everything, Julia, but I mustn't lose you... After all, it doesn't so much matter, so long as we are not separated. I don't care about money, and we can have a nice little house in London all to ourselves. And if we get too hard up, we'll both go out as daily governesses. I think I could teach a little music, to young children, you know; you'd teach the older ones.' Emily looked at Julia inquiringly, and going over to the piano, attempted to play her favourite polka. Julia, who had once worked for her daily bread, and earned it in a sort of way by giving music-lessons, smiled sadly at the girl's ignorance of life.

'I see,' said Emily, who was quick to divine every shade of sentiment pa.s.sing in the minds of those she loved; 'you don't think I could teach even the little children.'

'My dear Emily, I hope it will never come to your having to try.'

'I must do something to get a living,' she replied, looking vaguely and wistfully into the fire. 'How unfortunate all this is--that horrid, horrid old man. But supposing he had asked you to marry him--he wasn't nice, but you are older than I, and if you had married him you would have become, in a way, my stepmother. But what a charming stepmother! Oh, how I should have loved that!'

'Come, Emily, it is time to go to bed; you let your imagination run away with you.'

'Julia, you are not cross because----'

'No, dear, I'm not cross. I'm only a little tired. We have talked too long.'

Emily's allusion to music-teaching had revived in Julia all her most painful memories. If this man were to cast them penniless out of Ashwood!

Supposing, supposing that were to happen? Starving days, pale and haggard, rose up in her memory. What should she do, what should she do, and with that motherless girl dependent on her for food and clothes and shelter? She buried her face in the pillow and prayed that she might be saved from such a destiny.

If this man--this unknown creature--were to refuse to help them, she and Emily would have to go to London, and she would have to support Emily as best she might. She would hold to her and fight for her with all her strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and then? The same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that she fell asleep.

A few days after, the post brought a letter for Julia. After glancing hastily down the page she said: 'This is a letter from Mr. Grandly, and it is good news. Oh, what a relief!...'

'Read it.'

'"Dear Mrs. Bentley,--Immediately I arrived in London, I set to work to find out Mr. Price's address. It was the easiest matter in the world, for he has a play now running at one of the theatres. So I directed my letter to the theatre, and next morning I had a visit from him. After explaining to him the resources of the brilliant fortune he had come into, I told him of his uncle's intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year; I told him that this last will had left her entirely unprovided for. He said, at once, that he fully agreed with me, and that he would consider what was the most honourable course for him to take in regard to his 'cousin. This is exactly what he said, but his manner was such that before leaving he left no doubt in my mind whatever that he will act very generously indeed. I should not be surprised if he settled even more than the proposed three hundred a year on Miss Watson. He is a very quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or three and thirty. He looks poor, and I fancy he has lived through very hard times. He wears an air of sadness and disappointment which makes him attractive, and his manners are gentle and refined. I tell you these things, for I know they will interest you. I have not been able to find out if he is married, but I am sorry to say that his play has not succeeded. I should have found out more, but he was not in my office above ten minutes; he had to hurry away to keep an appointment at the theatre, for, as he explained, it was to be decided that very day if the play was to be taken out of the bills at the end of the week. He promised to call again, and our interview is fixed for eleven o'clock the day after to-morrow. In the meantime take heart, for I think I am justified in telling you I feel quite sanguine as to the result."'

'Well,' said Julia, laying down the letter, 'I don't think that anything could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old Mr. Grandly being able to describe a young man as well as that.'

'He doesn't say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.'

'No, he doesn't. I think he might have told us something about his personal appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the vulgar Bohemian we have always understood him to be. Mr. Grandly says his manners are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.'

'But you don't know that he isn't married. I suppose Mr. Grandly wasn't able to find that out. I should like to know--but not because I want to marry him or any one else; only I don't like the idea of a great, vulgar woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.'

'Do you dislike children so much, then, Emily?'

'I don't know that I ever thought about them; but I'm sure I shouldn't like his children. I dreamt of him last night. Do you believe in dreams?'

'What did you dream?'

'I cannot remember, but I woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than I ever felt in my life before. It is curious that I should dream of him last night, and that you should receive that letter this morning, isn't it?'

'I don't see anything strange in it. Nothing more natural than that you should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.'

'Then you believe what is in that letter--I don't. Something tells me that he will not act kindly, but I don't know how.'

'I'm quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have written this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all or more than he promised.'

'I can't see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.'

'My dear Emily, I'm cross with you: of course, if you will insist on always looking at the melancholy side.... Now I'm going; I've to see after the housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?'

'Yes, presently.'

Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of the window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the library. The quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned room recalled her childhood to her. It was here she used to learn her lessons. Here was the mahogany table, at which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table, where lay the old ill.u.s.trated editions of _Gulliver's Travels_ and _The Arabian Nights_, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the room. And at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so mysterious did they seem to her. And there was the book-cases full of the tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she recalled these childish imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coa.r.s.e drugget, she looked at the great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity.

Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, his hand for ever on his sword. She remembered how she used to wonder whom he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would grant his adversary his life. And close by was the picture of the wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the shepherd driving sheep in the foreground. Her whole life seemed drenched with tears at the thought of parting with these things. Every room was full of memories for her. She was a little girl when she came to live at Ashwood, and the room at the top of the stairs had been her nursery. There were the two beds; both were now dismantled and bare. It was in the little bed in the corner that she used to sleep; it was in the old four-poster that her nurse slept. And there was the very place, in front of the fire, where she used to have her tea. The table had disappeared, and the grate, how rusty it was! In the far corner, by the window, there used to be a press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar.

That press had been removed. The other press was there still, and throwing open the doors she surveyed the shelves. She remembered the very peg on which her hat and jacket used to hang. And the long walks in the great park, which was to her, then, a world of wonderment!

She wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all a.s.sociated with her childhood--quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she used to strive to divine. How their silence and mystery used to thrill her little soul! Faded rooms whose mystery had departed, but whose gloom was haunted with tenderest recollections. In one corner was the reading-chair in which Mr. Burnett used to sit. At that time she used to sit on his knee, and when the chair gave way beneath their weight, he had said she was too big a girl to sit on his knee any longer. The words had seemed to her a little cruel.

She had forgotten the old chair, but now she remembered the very moment when the servants came to take it away.

Under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had broken when quite a little child. There was a hoop-stick and the hoop which had been taken down to the blacksmith's to be mended. He had mended it, but she did not remember ever using it again. And there was an old box of water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in her picture-books. Emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. She would be able to find room for them in the little house in London where she and Julia were going to live.

A few days after, the post brought letters from Mr. Grandly, one for Emily and one for Julia. Julia's letter ran as follows:

'Dear Mrs. Bentley,---I write by this post to Miss Watson, advising her that her cousin, Mr. Price, is most anxious to make her acquaintance, and asking her to send the dog-cart to-morrow to meet him at the station. I must take upon myself the responsibility for this step. I have seen Mr.

Price again, and he has confirmed me in my good opinion of him. He seems most anxious, not only to do everything right, but to make matters as pleasant and agreeable as possible for his cousin. He has written me a letter recognising Miss Watson's claim upon him, and const.i.tuting himself her trustee. I have not had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there can be little doubt that Miss Watson's position is now quite secure. So far so good; but more than ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of this miserable business seem to me to be a marriage between Mr. Hubert Price and Miss Watson. I have already told you that he is a nice, refined young man, of gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, though a trifle shy and reserved; and, as I have since discovered that he is not married, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him to jump into a train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has come to regarding the will of the late Mr. Burnett. As I have said, he is a shy man, and it was some time before I could induce him to take so decisive a step; he wanted to meet Miss Watson in my office, but I succeeded in persuading him. He will go down to you to-morrow by the five o'clock, and I need not impress upon you the necessity that you should use your influence with Miss Watson, and that his reception should be as cordial as circ.u.mstances permit. I have only to add that I see no need that you should show this letter to Miss Watson, for the very fact of knowing that we desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her against this young man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find charming.'

Hearing some one at her door, Julia put the letter away. It was Emily.

'I've just received a letter from Mr. Grandly, saying that that man is coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.'

'Is not that the very best thing that----'

'We cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of that kind. I wouldn't remain here to meet him for worlds. I really couldn't, Julia.'