“And this,” said Marjory, hastily interrupting her, to stop some farther interchange of courtesies, “is Miss Bassett, Mrs. Charles’s sister.”
Verna came forward with a curtsey of deep deference.
“I hope you will forgive my sister,” she said; “she is very much fatigued with her journey, and all she has had to bear since. It is not very long, not three months, since her baby was born; and with all her trials—”
Miss Jean looked somewhat contemptuously towards the sofa, and then she said, abruptly,
“Where’s your Uncle Chairles? He’s a born haverel, but he’s a man, and, therefore, trusted. Send for him, that I may hear his mind. I’ve not come this long way for nothing, and I want to know what you are all going to do.”
Marjory rang the bell. She did not even understand the look with which Mrs. Charles from the sofa watched her. When she was about to give her orders, however, Matilda interrupted her.
“You can give Mr. Heriot my compliments,” she said, addressing Fleming, “and say that his aunt is here, and that I wish him to come, please. I beg your pardon, Marjory; I prefer to give him all the orders myself. If I don’t, he never will get used to me; and Charlie used to say I was always too humble, letting everybody get the better of me. I should not have said Mr. Heriot, though. Fancy, Verna! it is little Tommy that is Mr. Heriot, and his old uncle is only Mr. Charles. What fun it is!”
Miss Jean looked on with keen eyes. If Marjory had shown any signs of discomfiture, probably she would have enjoyed it; for she too, in her antediluvian experience, she who had once been the Laird of Pitcomlie’s daughter, and dethroned by a sister-in-law, could recall some scenes very similar, which had driven her nearly frantic with rage. But Marjory was still so dull and dead, that this incident scarcely affected her. A slight smile came upon her face when Matilda stopped her, and she drew a chair beside her visitor without making any remark. Miss Jean, however, made a great many remarks. Her keen eyes travelled about the room, from one corner to another, noticing everything in the new arrangements which had already crept in; the displacing of a chair, the sofa drawn forward. She was not very familiar with the Pitcomlie drawing-room, and yet she recognised the changes with her keen eyes.
“That used to be your favourite place?” she said, pointing to the spot where Mrs. Charles’s sofa had replaced Marjory’s chair.
“Yes, I liked the window,” said Marjory, making the best of it.