CHAPTER XIX
WE INHERIT A FORTUNE
I have done with sadness forever.
Who could be sad on an afternoon such as this? Is the witchery of spring with us once more? we ask; for it has rained for a week, and now every faded green thing—leaf and grass and hedges—are chortling with pride over their fresh, bright raiment. They are as maidens of fifteen mincing in their new frocks.
The roses are holding up their heads and inviting you to bury your face in the heart of their sweetness where some raindrops still remain. You gladly do as you are bidden, and Amelia, who has brought them to you, thinks you are an eccentric creature to go sighing and sniffing and kissing their wet petals in such sentimental fashion.
"The sweetest flower that blows," you sing, and she says they are nothing of the kind, that "vi'lets take the cake."
"The master will be home at half-past four," you tell her, and she says you have mentioned this fact at least half a dozen times.
"Only twice, Amelia," I say. "You should learn to speak the truth." And she steps deliberately on to the tortoise, which lies on the grass, in order to teach me that I may allow it to stray once too often. I tell her I am sorry, and she suggests that I should tie it round my neck suspended from a ribbon, and people might take it for an enlarged miniature of one of my relations.
I ignore her remark, and watch a thrush who is having a succulent feast of worms after the rain. I wonder at the worms being so easily deceived as to imagine that the stamping of the thrush's small feet is an earthquake, bringing them out of their burrows with a run.
"Miniatures are fashionable," she continues.
I am still engrossed in the thrush.
"That one of you in the drawing-room is not bad, but a bit flattering."
"Miniature of me?" I say lazily, refusing to be interested in Amelia's conversation. "I have never had a miniature painted in my life. The one to which you are referring is the master's great-aunt, painted when she was a girl."
She walks on high, sloping heels to the house with her head well up.
In about two minutes she returns with ill-concealed triumph written on her face, and places a portrait of myself on my knees. In surprise I pick it up and examine it closely. Yes, it is I, and—my heart contracts painfully as I look at it. Have I that expression in my eyes—now? Surely not. I put it down hastily, as Amelia is watching me.
"Don't you like it, mum? I shouldn't be disappointed if it was my portrait. Not but what I thinks it flatters you. The master was starin' at it for half an hour this morning—never touched his breakfast, and it was a fried sole, too."
I picked up a book. "It's not bad," I say carelessly. "Will you go to the village, Amelia, and bring me some bull's-eyes—hot, pepperminty ones. The master is very fond of bull's-eyes, and so am I." I evaded her glance and searched for my purse.
"It's in your pocket, mum. I stitched one in last night after you had gone to bed. Second seam, right-hand side. The house was being that neglected while I was lookin' for things—purses and tortises—that I took the liberty, mum."
Now I own to feeling excessively annoyed with Amelia. I had particularly requested her not to stitch a pocket on to me—anywhere, and she had disobeyed me. I had wondered what the hard, knobly thing I was lying upon could be. It was my own purse. I should not search the second right-hand seam. Amelia must be shown that she could not disobey my commands with impunity.
I read my book carefully, and turned its pages assiduously.
"I am waiting for the money, mum." This in an injured voice.
"There is some in the jewel drawer in my dressing-table," I said distantly. "And bring me my crêpe de chine gown, and kindly remove the pocket from this one to-night."
Amelia's prolonged stare almost broke down my gravity.
"Why, you're holding your book upside down!"
"And what if I am?" I retorted. "If I choose to read a book upside down that is no concern of yours. Kindly go."
I smiled as she walked slowly to the house. She was a very good girl, but must be kept in her place.
She was back in a minute.
"Here's your money, mum, and did you mean your grand new lavender gown which your moth—I mean Mrs. Macintosh—sent you?"
"That is what I meant," I said.
"But it's like a bit of spider's web." She held it at arm's-length. "It's that delikit and lovely, you'll crush it to pieces."
"That is your fault," I said quietly. "You have debarred me from wearing the other till the pocket is removed. Now help me, please."
With dexterous hands she got me out of one gown and into the other, but I was tired and spent when she had finished.
"You look like a pichir with your gold hair, mum, though it's not so bright as it was. Lavender wouldn't suit me, now, scarlet's my colour, but——" she broke off with a cry.
"Whatever's the matter now?" I asked.
"There's a pocket in this one, mum," she gasped, pointing to a gaping seam.
I looked and said nothing.
"Dressmakers is but human, mum. 'Ow was they to know that you had a prejudice against——"
"Amelia, will you hush," I almost shouted. "I am so tired of your talking so much. Go and buy the bull's-eyes."
"Will you have this gown off first?" she asked placidly.
"No, I won't. I am not a load of hay to be pitched about from pillar to post. And my gowns are not legion."
"There's the white serge, and the black heolian, and——"
"Amelia," I said, "if you don't go away I shall ring the tortoise for help—help from a stranger passing down the lane. I am a pestered, servant-driven creature, and I require as much help as a drowning man."
And she went without another word to me, but muttering softly to herself, of which I caught a word or two: "Moidered with the heat! Poor thing, I have known as sunstroke——" &c., &c. She disappeared round the broom bush, and I laughed more than I have done for many days.
*****
Dimbie brought great news with him. He flung himself down upon the grass, tilted back his hat, wiped his brow, and said—
"I have retired from business, Marg."
"Well, that doesn't make sitting upon the damp grass an act to be commended," I said severely.
An amused giggle came from behind me. It was Amelia crossing the lawn with a lettuce in her hand.
"I thought you were getting tea."
"So I am, mum. This here lettuce is for it, and I just catched what the master said, 'Retired from business!'" She put her hands to her hips. "I'm thinkin' there'll be a power more work to do now two for lunch and two for tea hevery day. And the master, beggin' his pardon, will be makin' more mess with his tobacco ash than ever. It lies about the carpets like bone manure on a flower-bed."
She continued her walk to the house, brandishing the lettuce and squeaking with emotion, without giving us time to reply.
"Amelia is like a jack-in-the-box. She seems to spring from nowhere," said Dimbie depressedly.
"Well, never mind. Go on with what you were saying, and get up from the grass, it's very damp, and you are sitting on a multitude of worm-hills."
"Give me the end of the couch, then. Tuck up your toes. Did you hear what I said? I have retired from business. I have done with the Stock Exchange forever, Marg."
"This then, I suppose, will be our last meal. We have no private means."
"I will feed you on oysters and champagne!"
"Bread-fruit and yams, more likely, on a desert island, where you can obtain food for nothing."
"Marg, I am worth £3,000 a year," he said gravely, and with suppressed eagerness.
I looked at him anxiously.
"Sunstroke too," I murmured.
"Do you hear? I am worth £3,000 a year. I can give you everything you want."
He raised his voice excitedly. And of course Amelia, who was bringing tea, tipped the hot-water jug over, and in endeavouring to catch it dropped the tray, and then sat down among the ruins and began to weep.
"Don't be a fool!" said Dimbie. "Get up! it doesn't matter."
But Amelia remained rooted to the ground, sobbing her heart out.
"I shan't leave, I shan't go," she wailed at length, looking at me as though I were contradicting her.
"Of course you won't," I agreed. "It's not the best china. It doesn't matter the least little bit in the world, Amelia."
"Oh, I don't mean that, mum. I mean that if the master's got £3,000 a year—I couldn't help hearin'—there'll be no room for Amelia Cockles. You won't want me. You'll keep cook, kitchenmaid, housemaid, parlour-maid, butler, boots, and have hentries, hoary-doves, cheese-straws, low dresses, and dessert every day of the week."
She reeled this off without apparently drawing breath, and I too was breathless at the contemplation of such a truly awful prospect.
"Never!" I said.
She looked incredulous.
"Never!" I repeated.
She sat up on her heels and began to collect the broken pieces and pick up the bread and butter.
"And were I ever to indulge—I mean saddle myself with the retinue of servants you mention—there would always be room for you, Amelia."
"Thank you, mum," she sobbed, while eating a piece of sandy cake in complete unconsciousness.
"You could be mistress of the robes," said Dimbie cheeringly.
Her sniffs became less frequent.
"You could be lady's maid," I said. "But no pockets, Amelia. You understand."
She gave a watery smile.
"I could find the tortis and brush your hair all day long, mum."
"Thank you," I said; "and would you let me wear plaits?"
She hesitated, and then, like the boy who stood on the burning deck, remained faithful to duty.
"People might call."
"And if they did?"
"Plaits is only proper for little girls and in bedrooms—I don't like them there,—but if the master doesn't mind I don't."
Dimbie broke into roars.
"Go and get some more tea," I commanded, "and make haste."
"She's a good, faithful soul," said Dimbie when she had gone, "and we won't part with her."
"Part with her!" I repeated in astonishment. "I should think not indeed. Why, if Amelia were to go I should be lost; and I should not only lose myself, but the tortoise, my purse—everything I possess. She is my guide, my comforter, my solace in my lonely hours, and tells me entrancing stories about the Tompkinses. I could not do without Amelia."
"And yet I don't know how she would agree with other servants."
"Dimbie, dear," I said petulantly, "don't joke any longer. I don't feel like joking and Amelia dropping trays; they upset my silly nerves."
"I am not joking," he returned slowly. "Aunt Letitia has left me all her money. She has lived simply, almost niggardly, the last few years, poor old lady. The money has been accumulating at compound interest, and we shall have an income of £3,000 a year and a house in Yorkshire. What do you think of that, Marguerite?"
He put an arm around me and laughed like a happy schoolboy.
"We shall be able to buy you everything you want. We will take a house by the sea, in the mountains, in the heart of one of your dearly-loved pine woods—wherever you wish it, my princess. You've only to hold up your little finger and your desire shall be gratified. We'll bring the roses back to your pale cheeks in a more bracing climate. You might even—get well—nearly well. This garden is too small and hot. Now isn't it?"
"I love it better than any other spot in the world," I said earnestly.
He looked at me with disappointment chasing across his face.
Quickly I said, "Dimbie, dear, I am delighted at your good luck. It will be too beautiful to have plenty of money. I can hardly believe it yet. It seems too good to be true. And I think you deserve every little bit of it. You have been to Aunt Letitia more than a son. But—you won't take me away from here just yet. I—I don't want to go."
"You don't want to go to a jolly big house with nice grounds and smooth lawns?"
"What lawn could be smoother than ours? It is like velvet."
He smiled.
"But it's only the size of a——"
"It's big enough to hold the apple tree and me," I interrupted.
"You shall have grand chestnuts, wind-torn oaks, and sit under a weeping willow in our new garden."
"I want to sit under my own apple tree," I said querulously.
He surveyed it disdainfully.
"It is so beautifully gnarled and old." I disregarded the look. "And you see it has seven apples on it, and I believe they are going to be red."
"We shall be able to use them for cider, perhaps." His voice was mocking.
"And I don't want to leave the ants; they're so interesting."
"I suppose no other garden contains ants?"
"And look at the roses! Have you ever seen trees bloom more freely?"
"Roses—in England—are, of course, extremely rare."
"Dimbie," I said, "if you mock me again I shall——"
"Kiss me, sweetheart," and he held his face to mine.
"I shall not kiss you until you promise faithfully you will not transplant me to another garden. I—I don't want to go yet awhile, Dimbie."
"But what shall we do with our money? There is nothing to spend it on here," he argued.
"Oh, I could soon run through it, given the opportunity. I should first of all buy new shoes for Amelia—lovely, respectable, black, kid shoes, with neat bows and low heels."
"Would they cost seven and sixpence?" he asked ironically.
"Quite," I returned gravely.
He walked up and down the lawn impatiently.
"But tell me why," he said after a time, standing still in front of me, "why, Marguerite, my poor white daisy, you are so anxious to remain here?"
"Because——" I paused. Ah, no, I must not tell him yet; it is not time. Besides, after all, it may only be my foolish fancy. "Because," I continued, "to take me away from the garden that I love, from our pretty cottage, would be to tear out my heart-strings. Perhaps you will think it sentiment, Dimbie, but I want to finish our year here—our wonderful year. Into the branches and green lace-work of the trees, into the dewy grass, into the sweet-peas and roses, into the beech—which is always so kind and friendly—into the frog-pond, and, above all, into our much-loved apple tree, are woven a thousand beautiful associations and memories. The memories, you will say, will remain with us, be with us wherever we go; but they are not yet complete. This is only August. We have four months left to finish our year. Into those four months may be crowded much happiness, much simple, quiet joy, and the storehouse of our 'looking back' will be full to the brim and running over. Let us finish our year here—you and I and Amelia—and then——"
I turned away to hide my face.
"And then——?"
"Why then," I said softly, "I will do whatever is required of me."
He sat down beside me.
"Your will will always be mine, Marguerite."
YOUR WILL WILL ALWAYS BE MINE, MARGUERITE.
I shook my head.
"You and everybody will turn me into the most selfish creature that ever breathed if I let you have your way."
"And why not? There is not very much left to you now." His voice was a little bitter, and a shadow crept across his face.
"Hush!" I said. "I have nearly everything a girl could possibly want—husband, home, friends, and now riches. Why," I continued, trying to divert his thoughts, "why didn't you tell me your most important news on the day you returned home? Didn't you know?"
"Yes, I knew. The will was read after the funeral. I was going to tell you. I kept it as a bonne-bouche till the night fell, and then there was your news——"
He broke off and did not finish.
"Afterwards," he said a little later, "I waited till my right to the money was confirmed. My mother was inclined to dispute it. She was Aunt Letitia's only sister, and considered she had the first claim, though she had not been to see her for years. Yorkshire was too dull for her after the gaieties of London. Still, she seemed to think the money was hers by right." He slowly dissected a sweet-pea. "I hope never again to see such a look on any woman's face as was on my mother's when the will was being read. It was very ugly and—sad. Poor mother, she has missed the best things of life." He sighed deeply. Amelia's voice singing "I wouldn't leave my little wooden hut" came through the pantry window.
"She too is evidently of the same opinion as I," I said, smiling. "She doesn't want to leave."
"You are in collusion, that is quite clear. Two women are too much for any one man, especially when one of the women is an Amelia. We will stay here and see the old year out, Marg. Your wishes are but commands. What is your desire now, my princess—to be wheeled nearer the sweet-peas?" He stroked my cheek lovingly.
"Was there ever a husband like mine?" I asked myself. And aloud, "Go and tell Amelia to sing less loudly, and inquire of her the size in shoes she takes."