“Would you think Verna was much older than I?” said Matilda, turning to the lawyer. “She thinks I ought to do everything she tells me; but when once a woman has been married, nobody has a right to tell her what to do except her husband. Don’t you think so? One always knows one’s own affairs best.”
“It is common to say so,” said the lawyer; “but for my part, I think we are all most clever in managing our neighbours’ affairs.”
This speech puzzled Matilda, who was silent for a moment. The party was so small, and the others talked so little, that these brilliant remarks were heard by everybody, except, perhaps, the questions about Fanshawe, which she had had the grace to make in a somewhat lower tone. Even Verna was so paralyzed by the whole proceeding, and by her sister’s unparalleled audacity, that she had entirely lost her conversational powers. She plucked up a little courage now, and made an effort to regain the lead which she had lost.
“It is such a loss to go to India so young as we did,” she said; “we make no acquaintance with our own country. Our ways are all Indian. We are as bad as the Americans for asking questions. The reason is that we are always meeting new people in India. We should not know anything about them if we did not ask.”
This speech raised Verna very much in the lawyer’s opinion. It was clever, he thought, and good-natured, shielding the fool of a sister.
“I am sure you will be able to be of great service to Mrs. Heriot,” he said, in an undertone. “Your good sense will show what is best. It may be a difficult business, and your brother-in-law’s will is not worth a snuff if the family choose to oppose it. So she must not try their patience, you see, for old Charles Heriot, though very pleasant in his manner, is an old Turk when he’s opposed. There is no saying what he might do,” said Mr. Smeaton, enjoying the slander which he was uttering within hearing almost of the person assailed, “if his blood was up; and if your sister was to show any—well, incivility is a hard word, but you know what I mean—to Miss Marjory, Charles Heriot would take fire. You must advise her, Miss Bassett; you must advise her. Hoolie and fairly, as we say in Scotland, or as the Italians have it, Chi va piano va sano.” These words Mr. Smeaton pronounced as if they were broad Scotch; but Verna did not understand them, so it made little difference to her. And he added, “Everything here is long established, and hard to root up. You’ll have to make your changes with great discretion, and take time to them. Everything will be made more difficult for you if auld Charles Heriot should take fire at any little affront, and flare up.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times for your advice!” cried Verna. “It is exactly my own opinion, and what I have said to her over and over. But I did not know Mr. Charles Heriot was so hot-tempered; he looks mild enough.”
“The very deevil—if you’ll excuse the word,” said Mr. Smeaton, “when his blood’s up.”
Perhaps Verna was the only one who was sorry when that dinner was over. She was anxious for advice, and to be thus fortified seemed to her of the greatest importance; and she received with religious faith those valuable hints about Mr. Charles Heriot’s temper, among other things. When the ladies left the table, she tried hard to persuade Matilda to go to her room, under pretext of fatigue; but the young widow was obdurate.
“I want to see the house,” she said, making her way, sweeping and rustling in her crape, to the drawing-room. Marjory followed, still with very little feeling of what had happened. But even Marjory was conscious of some painful feeling when she saw her sister-in-law laid luxuriously upon the little sofa in the bow-window, which was her own particular seat.