“Oh, no,” said Katherine, “not for the world. I couldn’t keep it up, and I should not like to have it—not for the world.”
“I am afraid all this is dreadfully unjust. There should be a—partition, there should be some arrangement. It isn’t fair. You were always with the old man, and nursed him, and took care of him, and all that——”
“No,” said Katherine; “my father was a little peculiar—he liked to have the nurse who was paid, as he said, for that. I have not any claim on that ground. And then I have always had my own money, as Stella told you. I am much obliged to you, but you really do not need to trouble yourself about me.”
“Are you really sure that is so?” he said in a tone between doubt and relief. Then he looked round, shivering a little at the mist, and said that Stella was looking for her sister, and that he thought it would be much more comfortable if they went in to tea.
CHAPTER XLIII.
The public of Sliplin gave Lady Jane the pas. Though every individual who had the least right of acquaintance with Lady Somers longed to call, to see how she was looking, to see how she was taking it, to see the dear babies, &c., &c., yet there was a universal consent, given tacitly, that Lady Jane, not only as the head of the local society, but as having been so deeply involved in Stella’s marriage, should come first; and, accordingly, for two whole days the neighbours had refrained, even Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay holding back. When Lady Jane’s carriage appeared at last, there was a little rustle of interest and excitement through the place. The Stanhopes of the old Leigh House, who were half-way between Steephill and Sliplin, saw it sweep past their lodge gates, and ran in in a body to say to their mother, “Now, to-morrow we can call!” and the same sentiment flew over the place from one house to another. “Lady Jane has just driven down to the Cliff. I have just seen Lady Jane’s carriage pass on her way to see Lady Somers.” “Well, that will be a meeting!” some ladies said. It appeared to a number of them somehow that it must have been Lady Jane’s machinations that secured Mr. Tredgold’s fortune for his undutiful child—though, indeed, they could not have told how.
These days of seclusion would have been very dreary to Stella had she not been occupied with her dressmaker, a visitor who is always more exciting and delightful than any other. Louise, who had insisted so on the payment of her little bill in Stella’s days of humiliation, was now all obsequiousness, coming down herself to receive Lady Somers’ orders, to fit Lady Somers’ mourning, to suggest everything that could be done in the way of lightening it now, and changing it at the earliest opportunity. Hours of delightful consultation as to Stella’s figure, which she discussed as gravely as if it had been a matter of national importance—as well as the stuffs which were to clothe it, and the fashion in which they were to be made—flew over her head, during which time her husband mooned about the stables, generally with little Job upon his shoulder, and finally, unable to endure it any longer, went up to town, where no doubt he was happy—though the wail of the little boy left behind did not add to the peace of the house. The dressmaker had been dismissed by the time that Lady Jane arrived, and Stella sat contemplating her crape in all the mirrors round, and assuring herself that when it was perfectly fresh as now, it was not so bad, and unquestionably becoming to a very fair complexion. “I can’t say you look very well in it, Kate; you are darker, and then yours is not quite fresh. To be quite fresh is indispensable. If one was a widow, for instance, and obliged to wear it, it ought to be renewed every week; but I do think it’s becoming to me. It throws up one’s whiteness, don’t you think, and brings out the colour,” said Stella standing before the glass. “Oh, Kate, you are so unsympathetic; come and see what I mean,” she cried.
“Yes, I see—you look very nice, Stella. The black is becoming to you—but, after all, we don’t wear crape to be becoming.”
“Oh, Fudge!” cried Stella, “what do you wear it for? Because it’s the custom, and you can’t help yourself. What does it matter to poor papa what we wear? He always liked to see me in gay colours—he had too florid a taste, if the truth must be told. If I hadn’t known better by instinct (for I’m sure I never had any teaching), and if we hadn’t been so fortunate as to fall into the hands of Louise, I should have been dressed like ‘Arriet out for a holiday. It’s curious,” said Stella reflectively, “taste is just born in some people and others you can’t teach it to. I am so glad the first was my case. We labour under disadvantages, you know, being our father’s daughters—that is, not me, now everything has come straight, but you will, Kate, especially as you have not got the money. To be papa’s daughter and yet not his heiress, you know, is a kind of injury to people that might come after you. You will be going into the world upon false pretences. I wonder now that you did not marry somebody before it was all known.”
“It was only known on the night of papa’s funeral, Stella. I could not have married many people between then and now,” said Katherine, trying to take this speech as lightly as it was made.