CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE WIDOW.
The full particulars of Mr. Meredith’s death and Mr. Meredith’s will came by the next mail; and this information acted as a kind of funeral ceremony and conclusion to the melancholy period. All his affairs were in order; his will unassailable, the provisions sufficiently just. There was more money than anyone expected, and it was divided into three unequal shares—the largest for his eldest son, the second for Edward, the least of all for their mother. This arrangement took them all by surprise, and it was with some little difficulty that Mrs. Meredith was brought to see how it affected herself. That there would be any difference to her had not occurred to her. She had thought only of her children. ‘They certainly will not be worse off than they have been,’ she said five minutes before the contents of the will were communicated to her; but any question as to how she herself would be affected had not entered her mind. Even after she had heard it she did not realise it.
‘I am afraid you will scarcely be able to keep up this house unless the boys stay with you, which is not to be expected,’ said old Mr. Sommerville.
She looked at him, taking her handkerchief from her eyes. ‘My house?’ she said, faltering. Mr. Beresford was present and one or two other old friends.
Oswald was playing with a paperknife, balancing it on his finger, and paying no attention. He was thinking of something else with a vague smile on his face. He was as rich almost as he had hoped—made an ‘eldest son’ of, in so far at least that his portion was the biggest; and he was thinking of a house of his own, taking no thought for his mother, and a wife of his own soon to be beguiled out of poke-bonnets and convent cloaks, yet all the more piquant from the comparison. Naturally this was more interesting to him than his mother, and the house that he had been used to for years. But Edward, who, whatever he was himself doing, managed somehow to see what Oswald was about, and who thought he knew what that preoccupation and absorption meant, interposed hastily. ‘Of course my mother will keep her house. It is quite unnecessary to enter into such questions. The economy of the household is unchanged,’ he said.
‘But, my lad, I don’t agree with you,’ said old Sommerville. ‘You may both take to chambers, your brother and you. Most young men do now-a-days, so far as I can see. I will not say whether it’s better for them, or worse for them. Anyhow, your mother must be on her own footing. You must not be dependent on the whimsies of a boy. I would advise you, my dear madam, to look out for a smaller house.’
‘A smaller house?’ she repeated again, in dismay. ‘Why a smaller house?’ Then her eyes fell upon Oswald. ‘Yes, I understand. Oswald will perhaps—marry. It is quite true; but I have lived in this house so long—I am used to it. I do not wish to change.’
‘You will not be able to afford it—on your income, madam,’ said old Sommerville, watching her keenly. He was fond of studying mankind, and to see how a fellow-creature encountered a change of fortune was keenly interesting to the old man.
She looked at him, opening her eyes wider with a curious gaze of surprise; then paused a moment, looking round her as if for some explanation. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I begin to understand.’ Nobody spoke to her; the other two old friends who were present turned aside and talked to each other. Mr. Beresford looked over a photograph book as earnestly as if he hoped to find a fortune between the pages; only the old spy watched the new-made widow, the admired and beloved woman to whom in this distinct way it was becoming apparent that she had not been so much beloved after all.
And her face was worth a little study—there came over it a momentary gloom. She had been thinking with so much tender kindness of him; but he, it was evident, had been less tender in his thoughts of her. But then, he had died, and she lived. No doubt, if it had been she who had died, his mind too would have been softened, and his heart grown tender. The cloud lightened, a soft smile came into her eyes; and then two tears sprang quickly over the smile, because he had slighted her publicly in these last settlements; he had put her down willingly and consciously out of the position she had held as his wife. She felt this sting, for love and honour were the things she prized most. Then her courageous spirit roused up, and this time the smile descended softly, seriously, to touch her mouth.