“Can you tell me, please, where I shall find my sister and the children?” she said. “What a dreadful day for us to come, the day of your poor dear master’s death! I am so sorry to give you so much more trouble on such a day.”
“Oh mem, never name the trouble,” said Mrs. Simpson, “if anything could be a comfort it would be the sight of thae dear bairns, that he didna live to see, poor man. Eh, it’s an awfu’ lesson to the rest of us, to be taken like that without a moment’s preparation, reading a common book, that could be of no use to his soul. Eh Sirs! In an ordinary way I’m no feared for death. It’s what must come to us all; but death like that—”
“I am sure though,” said Miss Bassett confidently, “by the look of his face that he was a good man. There was a believing look about him. I feel sure all is well with him, and if it is a loss to us, you know it is a gain to him.”
“Eh, what a pious good young lady,” said Mrs. Simpson to herself; “we maun aye hope so,” she said aloud, but with much less certainty. She was a Seceder, and not quite certain of her master’s salvation. “He didna take his troubles may be so well as he might have done. They say it’s a sure sign of the children of light when they’re resigned, whatever God sends; but oh, it’s no for us to judge,” said Mrs. Simpson, putting her apron to her eyes. “I hope you’re better, mem. It was a sore trial for a young lady, going in like that to the presence of death. I’ll show you upstairs where the other lady is, and if you’ll just ring there’s a maid will see to everything. Meals and hours will be all wrong the day in this mourning house; but you’re a considerate young lady and ye’ll look over it—for to-day.”
“Oh, don’t trouble about us,” said the newcomer, giving Mrs. Simpson one of her sweetest smiles, “I like you so much for being grieved for your master. Never think of us—” Miss Bassett was very popular among the servants wherever she went. She gave a little nod and smile to a housemaid she met on the stairs. She was very conciliatory. The youngest son’s wife’s sister has little reason to think herself an important personage in any house; and as she went up the great staircase through the long noiseless carpeted corridor which led to the west wing, her respect for the house rose higher. She noted that the carpet was Turkey carpet, that every corner was covered, no matting, no boards visible, nothing that showed the least desire for economy. She was not used to any English house except the very thrifty one in which Matilda and she had received their education, and these details of luxury were very pleasant to her. She sighed as she went into the pretty room where her sister and the children were already established. It was the largest room in the wing, the end room with two large windows looking over the peaceful sunshiny country, and one in the side which had a peep of the sea. There were large wardrobes, a great marble dressing-table, a succession of mirrors, a magnificent canopied bed, and more Turkey carpets, feeling like moss beneath the feet. The handsome room, however, was already made into a disorderly nursery. Matilda had thrown her hat down on the writing-table, where it lay among the pens and ink, covered over in its turn by the children’s hats and pelisses. She had thrown herself on the sofa, where she lay, tired and dishevelled, making ineffectual remonstrances with Tommy, who was belabouring the floor with an ivory-backed brush which he had found on the dressing-table. Baby was sprawling on the lap of the dark Ayah, who sat squatted on the floor near her mistress’s feet, and the English maid was unpacking all the boxes at once, finding all sorts of heterogeneous things in the different packages.
“Bother that black thing,” she said indignantly as Miss Bassett entered, “here’s baby’s short things all bundled up in mistress’s best shawl. There ain’t a thing where I can lay my hand on it, and all the place in a litter already.”
Miss Bassett did her best to remedy the muddle. She seized the brush out of Tommy’s hand, and put him spell-bound in the corner. She pulled off her sister’s shawl, which hung half over the arm of the sofa. She ranged the hats upon the bed and cleared the writing-table.
“Matty! for heaven’s sake,” she said, “we have come to a nice tidy place, and they seem disposed to treat you handsomely. This must be one of the best rooms, don’t make a pigsty of it the very first day.”
“I like that,” said Matilda languidly; she was a pretty, listless, fair young woman, with light hair, without any colour in it, and blue eyes, which were somewhat cold and steely. “Where have you been to, Verna? You went and left us all by ourselves, to get on as we could; and but for that nice fat woman who brought us upstairs, I do not know what we should have done. Of course, the children must be made comfortable. She said we were to have all the rooms in this end. When you can get them cleared away, and things put straight, I think I shall go to bed and have a good sleep.”
“Then you don’t want to know anything about the family?” said her sister.