“They are not to do anything against Tommy’s rights. I will not stand and see my child lose his rights,” she cried.
Verna sat down beside her, and took her hand, and carried on a close conversation in a whisper. It became half Hindustanee as it became vehement. The lawyer and Mr. Charles, after a moment’s pause, made themselves into a separate group, and talked over the papers; while Marjory and little Milly behind, with Fanshawe looking on, formed another. The central point of the scene was in the two young women, full of excitement and passion, who were strangers, whom the house knew nothing of, and who yet were its future mistresses, with the wondering little boy in crape standing between them, holding fast by each, and gazing out with round eyes upon the strangers who filled him with a frightened defiance. You will think it strange that Marjory had no yearning of the heart towards this baby, who was Charlie’s son; but, as children have a perverse way of doing in such circumstances, little Tommy had not a feature which recalled Charlie. He was his mother’s little staring image, her face, her expression, the very repetition of her look. Milly’s heart was moved to him for the sole reason that he was “little”; but Marjory remained cold as the nether millstone to Charlie’s boy. She sat, indeed, very coldly during the whole discussion. It sounded to her like a storm going on at a distance, which disturbs no one—the thunder mere echo, the lightning nothing but reflection. She looked at the two who were moved by feelings so much stronger than her own with a vague surprise, which only the curious stupor which hung about her could explain. She did not enter into their feelings. She was antagonistic to them, yet saw that but faintly. The whole scene seemed a dream, which would float away, leaving—what? Marjory’s mind did not seem even active enough to inquire what it would leave behind.
Thus this strange scene ended, and everybody at Pitcomlie knew that a change—the greatest ever known in its records—had come about in the fortunes of the race. Other widowed ladies had reigned in the old house before now, but they had been kindly daughters of the country-side, trained in its traditions, and knowing what was expected of them. The new mistress was a stranger, knowing neither Fife nor Scotland, nor even English ways, knowing nothing about the family, nor what it demanded from her, and caring less than she knew. Mr. Charles, with care on his brow, took a “turn” with Mr. Smeaton on the cliff. They discussed the matter very seriously, but they did not make much of it one way or another.
“If young Charlie’s will stands, you will have to manage all the money matters,” Mr. Smeaton said, “which will be the best thing for the estate; and perhaps you’ll be able to get an influence over the widow. She’ll give you a great deal of trouble, that young woman; but, on the other hand, she will understand nothing about business, and you will get your own way; whereas, if the will is cancelled as informal, you’ll have another guardian appointed who may take different views; and she’ll give plenty of trouble all the same.”
“She’s young,” said Mr. Charles, with careful looks; “she’ll learn better; but I’m an old man—too old to manage a child’s property, that will not come of age for eighteen years.”
“Toots!” said Mr. Smeaton; “you’re not sixty. What ails you to live till the laddie’s of age? there’s plenty of your name have done it before you.”
“My brother was but sixty-one,” said Mr. Charles.
“Ay, ay; but the circumstances are different, they cannot occur again. On the whole, if I were in your place, I would stand by young Charlie’s will.”
This was the subject of conversation with the elders of the party, as the Spring afternoon came to an end; very different from their subdued doubtfulness and care were the feelings of Matilda and her sister as they went upstairs. Matilda, for her part, did not want to go upstairs at all.
“I want to see the house,” she said. “It is my own house now, and I have a right to see it. I don’t see why I should be shut up in a bedroom—the mistress of the house!”