“He had died in his chair, quite calmly, before the news came.”
“You are sure—quite sure, he did not know?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then thank God!” said Marjory. “Oh, I am glad. Don’t say anything to me—I am glad. Milly, Milly, don’t cry, go and say your prayers. I can’t think of Charlie just now, I am so glad for papa.”
“Oh, my dear! she has gone mad with grief,” said Mr. Charles. “May, my bonnie May, cry, break your heart, anything would be better than this.”
“I am not mad, I am glad. Thank God!” repeated Marjory. She suffered them to take her in, with a calm which frightened them all. Thus the chief actors, in all the excitement of a terrible crisis, went their way off the scene like a tragic procession, carrying with them their atmosphere of pain and trouble; and like the change in a theatre, another set of sentiments, another group of persons, came uppermost.
Miss Bassett was left in possession of the lawn. She had received a shock, but she felt better already, and she was a curious little personage. She watched them go in, making her own observations, especially in respect to Fanshawe, whose presence struck her feminine eye at once. Who was he? engaged to Miss Heriot, she concluded; it was the most natural explanation. Then she went across the lawn to the edge of the cliff and looked over; then made a turn or two up and down, putting up an eye-glass to her eye, inspecting the house. The house was very satisfactory; it had an air of old establishment, wealth, and comfort that pleased her.
“Only I would clear away all these old ruins,” she said, turning her glass upon the tall old Manor-house of Pitcomlie, and Mr. Charles’s tower, “and throw out a new wing,” she added, putting her head a little on one side, “with a nice sheltered flower-garden and conservatories.” This notion pleased her still more. “What a different place it would look,” she continued musing, “if I had it in my hands; I would clear away all the old rubbish, I would make a handsome entrance with a portico and steps. I would soon make an end of all those little old-fashioned windows, and have plate-glass everywhere. Dear me, dear me, what a pity poor Charlie was not the eldest son!”
From this it will be apparent that the newcomer was not aware of what had happened in the family upon which she had arrived so suddenly. When she had examined the house quite at her leisure, she bethought herself of the helpless party she had left in the hall, and made her way to them round the front, finding the way by instinct with a cleverness which never forsook her. “I wonder what they will do with Matty,” she said to herself. “I wonder what the new Mr. Heriot is like. I have seen his photograph, but I don’t recollect. I wonder if he is married. If he is not married, Matty’s little boy will be the heir-apparent, or heir-presumptive, is it? and they will make much of him. Fancy grown people like Matty and myself being tacked on to little Tommy to give us importance! If he was not Charlie’s brother Matty might marry him. As for me, that does not seem my line; at least I have never done it yet, after being in India and all. It is droll how people differ. Matty is a fool and as selfish as a little cat; but she is the marrying one. Never mind, I shall do as well for myself. How awful that old man looked, to be sure—I shall dream of him all my life; but don’t let’s think of that. Oh, you poor dear Charlie, how nice it would have been if you had lived, and if you had been the eldest son!”
Fresh from this reverie she met at the door Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper, who had just cleared the frightened and excited servants out of the hall, and was closing the shutters with her own hands, and crying softly between whiles with many a murmured exclamation. Miss Bassett was very conciliatory, almost respectful to the old servants.