“Good evening,” she said, hastily. “I think I will go back to my poor sister, who has no one but me to take thought for her.”
How everything had changed! She had no need now to be civil to anybody; no need to put on any mask, or restrain her real feelings. She rushed into the house, and upstairs, full of her discovery; but before she reached her sister’s room, her steps grew slower, and her thoughts less eager. Verna was ignorant, very ignorant. How did she know that there might not be some law, or some will, or something that would modify this too delightful, too glorious state of affairs?
A little chill crept over her. Little Tommy’s heirship might not be absolutely certain, after all. If it was certain, would not everything have been turned over to Matilda at once? Would Miss Heriot still venture to give herself airs as if she were the mistress of the house? Would she not rather come humbly to them, and do her best to conciliate and find favour in the eyes of the new mistress? Verna would have done so; and it was hard for her to realise the emotions of so very different a woman, whom, besides, she did not know. The result of all her musings, however, was that she would for the present say nothing to Matilda. She would leave her for the moment in her uncertainty, wondering what the family meant to do with her. Matilda might be kept in the desirable state of subjection so long as she was thus humble in her expectations; but Verna knew that when she was mistress of Pitcomlie she would no longer consent to cry and to abstain from talking.
Accordingly, she concluded to keep her news to herself. When she entered the room where her sister still lay on the sofa, chatting with her maids, and shrieking now and then an ineffectual remonstrance against Tommy’s noisy proceedings, there came into Verna’s mind a sudden and sharp conviction of the foolish mistakes which Providence is always making in the management of the world.
She had made up her mind that it was she who was to reign in Pitcomlie if Tommy turned out to be really the heir; but how would she have to do it? By means of coaxing, frightening, humouring, and keeping in good disposition this foolish sister, whom she had been half ashamed of for her silliness all her life. Matilda would be the real possessor of all these advantages. She herself would only enjoy them as Matilda’s deputy. Oh! if the Powers above had but been judicious enough to bestow them direct upon the person justly qualified! This sudden thought made her sharp and angry as she went into the luxurious room, which Matilda had turned into chaos.
“What a mess everything is in!” she cried. “Elvin, for Heaven’s sake get those things cleared away, and try to be something like tidy. They will think us a pack of savages. Matty, why don’t you exert yourself a little? I declare it is an absolute disgrace to let everything go like this. We are not in India, where one can’t move for the heat. And what if Miss Heriot were to come up now and find you like this, all in a muddle, baby crying, and Tommy rioting, and your cap off?”
“I have as good a right to do what I like as Miss Heriot has,” said Matilda, pouting; “and I hate your odious cap.”
“You have got to wear it,” said the peremptory Verna, picking up the unfortunate head-dress from the floor; “and if I were you I would rather wear it clean than dirty. As it is so late, Elvin may put it away carefully in a drawer; but, Matty, Miss Heriot—”
“Oh! how I do hate Miss Heriot!” said Matilda, ready to cry.
“You don’t know what she may have in her power,” said Verna, with a curious enjoyment of the picture she was about to draw. “She may be able to do everything for you, or perhaps nothing; how can we tell? But in the meantime it is better to have her good opinion. Do as I told you; talk as little as you can, and look as pitiful as you please. Probably we shall have to go to the funeral; or if not to the funeral—we can say you are not well enough—at least to the reading of the will, and that will be very important. Nobody can expect you to do anything but cry. Whatever you may hear, Matty, for God’s sake don’t commit yourself to say anything. Leave it all to me. It will save you ever so much trouble, and you may be sure it will succeed better. You know you are not so quick as I am; you are a great deal prettier, but not so quick. Now do promise, there’s a darling. Take your best handkerchief, and tie your cap well round your face, and cry all the time; not noisily, but in a nice ladylike way. It will have the very best effect; and if you promise, it will leave my mind quite easy, and I can give my attention to what is going on. Now, Matty dear, won’t you do as much as this for Tommy’s sake and for me?”