Old Mr. Tredgold

Then Katherine began to try to take back the thread of the thoughts which had been in her mind before she was called downstairs to speak to those men. Her first trial resulted merely in a strong sensation of dislike to “those men” and resentment, which was absurd, for, after all, it was not they who had done it. She recalled them to her mind, or rather the image of them came into it, with a feeling of angry displeasure. Mr. Sturgeon, the solicitor, had in no way been offensive to Katherine. He had been indignant, he had been sorry, he had been, in fact, on her side; but she gave him no credit for that. And the bald head of the other seemed to her to have a sort of twinkle as of mockery in it, though, to tell the truth, poor Mr. Turny’s face underneath was much troubled and almost ashamed to look at Katherine after being instrumental in doing her so much harm. She wondered with an intuitive perception whether he were not very glad now that she had refused Fred. And then with a leap her mind went back to other things. Would they all be very glad now? Would the Rector piously thank heaven, which for his good had subjected him to so small a pang, by way of saving him later from so great a disappointment? Would the doctor be glad? Even though he had made that very nice speech to her—that generous and faithful profession of attachment still—must not the doctor, too, be a little glad? And then Katherine’s mind for a moment went circling back into space, as it were—into an unknown world to which she had no clue. He who had disappeared there, leaving no sign, would he ever hear, would he ever think, could it touch him one way or another? Probably it would not touch him in any way. He might be married to some woman; he might have a family of children round him. He might say, “Oh, the Tredgolds! I used to see a good deal of them. And so Lady Somers has the money after all? I always thought that was how it would end.” And perhaps he would be glad, too, that Katherine, who was the unlucky one, the one always left in the cold shade, whatever happened, had never been anything more to him than a passing fancy—a figure flitting by as in a dream.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A whole week had still to pass before the arrival of the Aurungzebe. After such a revolution and catastrophe as had happened, there is always a feeling in the mind that the stupendous change that is about to ensue should come at once. But it is very rare indeed that it does so. There is an inevitable time of waiting, which to some spirits clinging to the old is a reprieve, but to others an intolerable delay. Katherine was one of those to whom the delay was intolerable. She would have liked to get it all over, to deposit the treasure, as it were, at her sister’s feet, and so to get away, she did not know where, and think of it no more.

She was not herself, as she now assured herself, so very badly off. The amount of her mother’s fortune was about five hundred a year—quite a tolerable income for a woman alone, with nobody to think of but herself. And as Katherine had not wanted the money, or at least more than a part of it (for Mr. Tredgold had considered it right at all times that a girl with an income of her own should pay for her own dress), a considerable sum had accumulated as savings which would have been of great use to her now, and built for her that cottage to which her father had doomed her, had it not been that almost all of it had been taken during those five years past for Stella, who was always in need, and had devoured the greater part of Katherine’s income besides. She had thus no nest egg, nothing to build the cottage, unless Stella paid her back, which was a probability upon which Katherine did not much reckon. It was curious, even to herself, to find that she instinctively did not reckon on Stella at all. She was even angry with herself for this, and felt that she did not do Stella justice, yet always recurred unconsciously to the idea that there was nothing to look for, nothing to be reckoned on, but her five hundred a year, which surely, she said to herself, would be quite enough. She and old Hannah, from whom she did not wish to separate herself, could live upon that, even with a residue for poor Robert Tredgold, who had returned to his desk in the dreariest disappointment and whose living was at Mr. Sturgeon’s mercy. Stella would not wish to hear of that disreputable relation, and yet perhaps she might be got to provide for him if only to secure that he should never cross her path.

Katherine’s thoughts were dreary enough as she lived through these days, in the house that was no longer hers; but she had a still harder discipline to go through in the visits of her neighbours, among whom the wonderful story of Mr. Tredgold’s will began to circulate at once. They had been very kind to her, according to the usual fashion of neighbourly kindness. There had been incessant visits and inquiries ever since the interest of the place had been quickened by the change for the worse in the old man’s state, and on his death Katherine had received many offers of help and companionship, even from people she knew slightly. The ladies about were all anxious to be permitted to come and “sit with her,” to take care of her for a day, or more than a day, to ensure her from being alone. Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay, though neither of these ladies liked to disturb themselves for a common occasion, were ready at an hour’s notice to have gone to her, to have been with her during the trying period of the funeral, and they were naturally among the first to enter the house when its doors were open, its shutters unbarred, and the broad light of the common day streamed once more into the rooms. Everything looked so exactly as it used to do, they remarked to each other as they went in, leaving the Midge considerably the worse for wear, and Mr. Perkins, the driver, none the better at the door. Exactly the same! The gilding of the furniture in the gorgeous drawing-room was not tarnished, nor the satin dimmed of its lustre, by Mr. Tredgold’s death. The servants, perhaps, were a little less confident, shades of anxiety were on the countenance of the butler and the footman; they did not know whether they would be servants good enough for Lady Somers. Even Mrs. Simmons—who did not, of course, appear—was doubtful whether Lady Somers would retain her, notwithstanding all the dainties which Simmons had prepared for her youth; and a general sense of uneasiness was in the house. But the great drawing-room, with all its glow and glitter, did not show any sympathetic shadow. The two fireplaces shone with polished brass and steel, and the reflection of the blazing fires, though the windows were open—which was a very extravagant arrangement the ladies thought, though quite in the Tredgold way. And yet the old gentleman was gone! and Katherine, hitherto the dispenser of many good things and accustomed all her life to costly housekeeping, was left like any poor lady with an income of five hundred a year. Both Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay, who put firebricks in their fireplaces and were very frugal in all their ways, and paid their visits in the Midge, had as much as that. No one could be expected to keep up a house of her own and a couple of servants on that. But Stella surely would do something for her sister, Mrs. Shanks said. Miss Mildmay was still shaking her head in reply to this when they entered the drawing-room, where Katherine advanced to meet them in her black dress. She had ceased to sit behind the screens in that part of the room which she had arranged for herself. The screens were folded back, the room was again one large room all shining with its gilded chairs and cabinets, its Florentine tables, its miles of glowing Aubusson carpet. She was the only blot upon its brightness, with her heavy crape and her pale face.

“My dear Katherine, my dearest Katherine,” the old ladies said, enfolding her one after the other in the emphatic silence of a long embrace. This was meant to express something more than words could say—and, indeed, there were few words which could have adequately expressed the feelings of the spectators. “So your old brute of a father has gone at last, and a good riddance, and has cheated you out of every penny he could take away from you, after making a slave of you all these years!” Such words as these would have given but a feeble idea of the feelings of these ladies, but it is needless to say that it would have been impossible to say them except in some as yet undiscovered Palace of Truth. But each old lady held the young one fast, and pressed a long kiss upon her cheek, which answered the same purpose. When she emerged from these embraces Katherine looked a little relieved, but still more pale.

“Katherine, my dear, it is impossible not to speak of it,” said Mrs. Shanks; “you know it must be in our minds all the while. Are you going to do anything, my dear child, to dispute this dreadful will?”

“Jane Shanks and I,” said Miss Mildmay, “have talked of nothing else since we heard of it; not that I believe you will do anything against it, but I wish you had a near friend who would, Katherine. A near friend is the thing. I have never been very much in favour of marrying, but I should like you to marry for that.”

“In order to dispute my father’s will?” said Katherine. “Dear Miss Mildmay, you know I don’t want to be rude, but I will not even hear it discussed.”

“But Katherine, Katherine–”

“Please not a word! I am quite satisfied with papa’s will. I had intended to do—something of the sort myself, if I had ever had the power. You know, which is something pleasanter to talk of, that the Aurungzebe has been signalled, and I am going to meet Stella to-morrow.”

The two old ladies looked at each other. “And I suppose,” said Mrs. Shanks, “you will bring her home here.”

“Stella has seen a great deal since she was here,” said Miss Mildmay, “I should not think she would come, Katherine, if that is what you wish. She will like something more in the fashion—or perhaps more out of the fashion—in the grand style, don’t you know, like her husband’s old house. She will turn up her nose at all this, and at all of us, and perhaps at you too. Stella was never like you, Katherine. If she falls into a great fortune all at once there will be no bounds to her. She’ll probably sell this place, and turn you out.”

“She may not like the place, and neither do I,” said Katherine like a flash; “if she wishes to part with it I shall certainly not oppose her. You must not speak so of my sister.”

“And what shall you do, Katherine, my dear?”

“I am going away,” cried Katherine; “I have always intended to go away. I have a piece of land to build a cottage on.” She made a pause, for she had never in words stated her intentions before. “Papa knew what I should like,” she said, with the rising of a sob in her throat. The sense of injury now and then overcame even her self-control. “In the meantime perhaps we may go abroad, Hannah and I; isn’t it always the right thing when you are in mourning and trouble to go abroad?”

“My dear girl,” said Miss Mildmay solemnly, “how far do you think you can go abroad you and your maid—upon five hundred a year?”

“Can’t we?” said Katherine, confused; “oh, yes, we have very quiet ways. I am not extravagant, I shall want no carriage or anything.”

“Do you know how much a hotel costs, Katherine? You and your maid couldn’t possibly live for less than a pound a day—a pound a day means three hundred and sixty-five pounds a year—and that without a pin, without a shoe, without a bit of ribbon or a button for your clothes, still less with anything new to put on. How could you go abroad on that? It is impossible—and with the ideas you have been brought up on, everything so extravagant and ample—I can’t imagine what you can be thinking of, a practical girl like you.”

“She might go to a pension, Ruth Mildmay. Pensions are much cheaper than hotels.”

“I think I see Katherine in a pension! With a napkin done up in a ring to last a week, and tablecloths to match!”

“Well then,” said Katherine, with a feeble laugh, “if that is so I must stay at home. Hannah and I will find a little house somewhere while my cottage is building.”

“Hannah can never do all the work of a house,” said Miss Mildmay, “Hannah has been accustomed to her ease as well as you. You would need at least a good maid of all work who could cook, besides Hannah; and then there are rent and taxes, and hundreds of things that you never calculate upon. You could not live, my dear, even in a cottage with two maids, on five hundred a year.”

“I think I had better not live at all!” cried Katherine, “if that is how it is; and yet there must be a great many people who manage very well on less than I have. Why, there are families who live on a pound a week!”

“But not, my dear, with a lady’s maid and another,” Miss Mildmay said.

Katherine was very glad when her friends went away. They would either of them have received her into their own little houses with delight, for a long visit—even with her maid, who, as everybody knows, upsets a little house much more than the mistress. She might have sat for a month at a time in either of the drawing-rooms under the green verandah, and looked out upon the terrace gardens with the sea beyond, and thus have been spared so much expense, a consideration which would have been fully in the minds of her entertainers; but their conversation gave her an entirely new view of the subject. Her little income had seemed to her to mean plenty, even luxury. She had thought of travelling. She had thought (with a little bitterness, yet amusement) of the cottage she would build, a dainty little nest full of pretty things. It had never occurred to her that she would not have money enough for all that, or that poor old Hannah if she accompanied her mistress would have to descend from the pleasant leisure to which she was accustomed. This new idea was not a pleasant one. She tried to cast it away and to think that she would not care, but the suggestion that even such a thing as the little drawing-room, shadowed by the verandah, was above her reach gave her undeniably a shock. It was not a pretty room; in the winter it was dark and damp, the shabby carpet on a level with the leaf-strewn flags of the verandah and the flower borders beyond. She had thought with compassion of the inhabitants trying to be cheerful on a dull wintry day in the corner between the window and the fire. And yet that was too fine—too expensive for her now. Mrs. Shanks had two maids and a boy! and could have the Midge when she liked in partnership with her friend. These glories could not be for Katherine. Then she burst into a laugh of ridicule at herself. Other women of her years in all the villages about were working cheerfully for their husbands and babies, washing the clothes and cooking the meals, busy and happy all day long. Katherine could have done that she felt—but she did not know how she was to vegetate cheerfully upon her five hundred a year. To be sure, as the reader will perceive, who may here be indignant with Katherine, she knew nothing about it, and was not so grateful as she ought to be for what she had in comparison with what she had not.

Lady Jane came to see her the same day, and Lady Jane was over-awed altogether by the news. She had a scared look in her face. “I can only hope that Stella will show herself worthy of our confidence and put things right between you at once,” she said; but her face did not express the confidence which she put into words. She asked all about the arrival, and about Katherine’s purpose of meeting her sister at Gravesend. “Shall you bring them all down here?” she said.

“It will depend upon Stella. I should like to bring them all here. I have had our old rooms prepared for the nurseries; and there are fires everywhere to air the house. They will feel the cold very much, I suppose. But if the fine weather lasts–. There is only one thing against it, Stella may not care to come.”

“Oh, Stella will come,” said Lady Jane, “the island is the right place, don’t you know, to have a house in, and everybody she used to know will see her here in her glory—and then her husband will be able to run up to town—and begin to squander the money away. Charlie Somers is my own relation, Katherine, but I don’t put much faith in him. I wish it had been as we anticipated, and everything had been in your hands.”

“You know what I should have done at once, Lady Jane, if it had–”

“I know—not this, however, anyhow. I hope you would have had sense enough to keep your share. It would have been far better in the long run for Stella, she would always have had you to fall back upon. My heart is broken about it all, Katherine. I blame myself now more than at the first. I should never have countenanced them; and I never should if I had thought it would bring disaster upon you.”

“You need not blame yourself, Lady Jane, for this was the will of ’71; and if you had never interfered at all, if there had been no Charles Somers, and no elopement, it would have been just the same.”

“There is something in that,” Lady Jane said. “And now I hope, I do hope, that Stella—she is not like you, my dear Katherine. She has never been brought up to think of any one but herself.”

“She has been brought up exactly as I was,” Katherine said with a smile.

“Ah yes, but it is different, quite different; the foolish wicked preference which was shown for her, did good to you—you are a different creature, and most likely it is more or less owing to that. Katherine, you know there are things in which I think you were wrong. When that good, kind man wanted to marry you, as indeed he does now–”

“Not very much, I think, Lady Jane; which is all the better, as I do not wish at all to marry him.”

“I think you are making a mistake,” said Lady Jane. “He is not so ornamental perhaps as Charlie Somers, but he is a far better man. Well, then, I suppose there is nothing more to be said; but I can’t help thinking that if you had a man to stand by you they would never have propounded that will.”

“Indeed,” said Katherine, “you must not think they had anything to do with it; the will was propounded because it was the only one that was there.”

“I know that women always are imposed upon in business, where it is possible to do it,” Lady Jane said in tones of conviction. And it was with great reluctance that she went away, still with a feeling that it was somehow Katherine’s fault, if not at bottom her own, for having secretly encouraged Stella’s runaway match. “She had never thought of this,” she declared, for a moment. She had been strongly desirous that Stella should have her share, and she knew that Katherine would have given her her share. As for Stella’s actions, no one could answer for them. She might have a generous impulse or she might not; and Charlie Somers, he was always agape for money. If he had the Duke of Westminster’s revenues he would still open his mouth for more. “But you may be sure I shall put their duty very plainly before them,” she said.

“Oh, don’t, please don’t,” cried Katherine. “I do not want to have anything from Stella’s pity—I am not to be pitied at all. I have a very sufficient income of my own.”

“A very sufficient income—for Mr. Tredgold’s daughter!” cried Lady Jane, and she hurried away biting her lips to prevent a string of evil names as long as her arm bursting from them. The old wretch! the old brute! the old curmudgeon! were a few of the things she would have liked to say. But it does not do to scatter such expressions about a man’s house before he has been buried a week. These are decorums which are essential to the very preservation of life.

Then Katherine’s mind turned to the other side of the question, and she thought of herself as Stella’s pensioner, of living on sufferance in Stella’s house, with a portion of Stella’s money substracted from the rest for her benefit. It would have been just the same had it been she who had endowed Stella, as she had intended, and given her the house and the half of the fortune. The same, and yet how different. Stella would have taken everything her sister had given, and waited and craved for more. But to Katherine it seemed impossible that she should take anything from Stella. It would be charity, alms, a hundred ugly things; it would have been mere and simple justice, as she would have felt it had the doing of it been in her own hands.

But it was not with any of these feelings, it was with the happiness of real affection in seeing her sister again, and the excitement of a great novelty and change and of a new chapter of life quite different from all that she had known before, and probably better, more happy, more comforting than any of her anticipations, that she set out next day to meet Stella and to bring her home.

CHAPTER XXXIX

A river-sea between two widely separated banks, so calm that it was like a sea of oil bulging towards the centre from over-fullness; a big ship upon an even keel, moving along with almost imperceptible progress, the distant hazy banks gliding slowly past; the ease and relief of a long voyage over, not only on every face, but on every line of cordage; a bustle of happy people rushing up upon deck to see how near home they were, and of other people below crowding, bustling over portmanteaux to be packed, and all the paraphernalia of the voyage to be put away. It was a very curious scene to Katherine’s eyes, not to speak of the swarming dark figures everywhere—the Lascars, who were the crew, the gliding ayhas in their white wrappings. She was led to the cabin in which Stella, half-dressed, was standing in the midst of piles of clothes and other belongings, all thrown about in a confusion which it seemed impossible ever to reduce to order, with a box or two open and ready to receive the mass which never could be got in. She was so busy that she could not at first be got to understand that somebody from shore had come for her. And even then, though she gave a little cry and made a little plunge at Katherine, it was in the midst of a torrent of directions, addressed sometimes in English, sometimes in Hindostanee, to an English maid and a Hindoo woman who encumbered the small cabin with their presence. A pink-and-white—yet more white than pink—baby lay sprawling, half out of its garments, upon the red velvet steamboat couch. Katherine stood confused, disappointed, longing to take her sister to her heart, and longing to snatch up the little creature who was so new and so strange an element, yet suddenly caught, stopped, set down, in the exaltation of her love and eagerness by the deadly commonplace of the scene. Stella cried, with almost a shriek:

“You, Katherine! Is it possible?” and gave her a hurried kiss; and then, without drawing breath, called out to the women: “For goodness’ sake take care what you’re doing. That’s my best lace. And put all the muslins at the bottom—I sha’n’t want them here,” with a torrent of other directions in a strange tongue to the white-robed ayah in the background. Then—“Only wait,” Stella cried, “till I get a dress on. But there is never anything ready when I want it. Give me that gown—any gown—and look sharp, can’t you? I am never ready till half an hour after everybody. I never can get a thing to put on.”

“Don’t mind for to-day, Stella; anything will do for to-day. I have so much to tell you.”

“Oh!” said Stella, looking at her again, “I see. Your crape’s enough, Kate, without a word. So it’s all over? Well, perhaps it is for the best. It would have made me miserable if he had refused to see me. And Charlie would have insisted—and– Poor papa! so he’s gone—really gone. Give me a handkerchief, quick! I was, of course, partly prepared. It’s not such a shock as it might have been.” A tear fell from Stella’s eyes upon the dress which her maid was arranging. She wiped it off carefully, and then her eyes. “You see how careful I have to be now-a-days,” she said; “I can’t have my dress spotted, I haven’t too many of them now. Poor papa! Well, it is a good thing it has happened when I have all the distractions of the journey to take off my mind. Have you done now fumbling? Pin my veil properly. Now I’ll go on deck with you, Katherine, and we’ll watch the ship getting in, and have our talk.”

“Mayn’t I kiss the baby first?” Katherine said. She had been looking at that new and wonderful thing over the chaos of the baggage, unable to get further than the cabin door.

“Oh, you’ll see the baby after. Already you’re beginning to think of the baby and not of me. I knew that was how it would be,” said Stella, pettishly. She stepped over an open box, dragging down a pile of muslins as she moved. “There’s no room to turn round here. Thank heaven we’ve done with it at last. Now, Kate—Kate, tell me; it will be the first thing Charlie will want to know. Did he relent to me at the last?”