Old Mr. Tredgold

“There is so much to tell you, Stella.”

“Yes—yes—about his illness and all. Poor papa! I am sure I am just as sorry as if I knew all about it already. But Kate, dear, just one word. Am I cut off in the will? That is what I want to know.”

“No,” said Katherine, “you are not cut off in the will.”

“Hurrah!” cried Stella, clapping her hands. It was but for one second, and then she quieted down. “Oh, we have had such a time,” she cried, “and Charlie always insinuating, when he didn’t say it outright, that it was my fault, for, of course, we never, never believed, neither he nor I, that papa would have held out. And so he did come to at the end? Well, it is very hard, very hard to have been kept out of it so long but I am glad we are to have what belongs to us now. Oh—h!” cried Stella, drawing a long breath as she emerged on deck, leading the way, “here’s the old Thames again, bless it, and the fat banks; and we’re at home, and have come into our money. Hurrah!”

“What are you so pleased about, Lady Somers? The first sight of ugly old England and her grey skies,” said someone who met them. The encounter sobered Stella, who paused a moment with a glance from her own coloured dress to Katherine’s crape, and a sudden sense of the necessities of the position.

“They aren’t very much to be pleased about, are they?” she said. “Will you find Charlie for me, please. Tell him my sister has come to meet us, and that there’s news which he will like to hear.”

“Stella,” cried Katherine, “there may not be much sorrow in your heart, yet I don’t think you should describe your own father’s death as something your husband will like to hear.”

“It is not papa’s death, bless you,” cried Stella, lightly. “Oh, look, they are getting out the ropes. We shall soon be there now—it is the money, to be sure. You have never been hard up for money, Kate, or you would know what it was. Look, there’s Charlie on the bridge with little Job; we call him Job because he’s always been such a peepy-weepy little fellow, always crying and cross for nothing at all; they say it was because I was in such a temper and misery when he was coming, about having no money, and papa’s cruelty. Charlie! That silly man has never found him, though he might have known he was on the bridge. Cha—arlie!” Stella made a tube of her two hands and shouted, and Katherine saw a tall man on the bridge over their heads turn and look down. He did not move, however, for some minutes till Stella’s gestures seemed to have awakened his curiosity. He came down then, very slowly, leading with much care an extremely small child, so small that it was curious to see him on his legs at all, who clung to his hand, and whom he lifted down the steep ladder stairs.

“Well,” he said, “what’s the matter now?” when he came within speaking distance. Katherine had scarcely known her sister’s husband in the days of his courtship. She had not seen him more than three or four times, and his image had not remained in her mind. She saw now a tall man a little the worse for wear, with a drooping moustache, and lips which drooped, too, at the corners under the moustache, with a look which was slightly morose—the air of a discontented, perhaps disappointed, man. His clothes were slightly shabby, perhaps because they were old clothes worn for the voyage, his hair and moustache had that rusty dryness which comes to hair which does not grow grey, and which gives a shabby air, also as of old clothes, to those natural appendages. The only attractive point about him was the child, the very, very small child which seemed to walk between his feet—so close did it cling to him, and so very low down.

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Stella. “Here is Kate come to bid us welcome home.”

“O—oh,” he said, and lifted his limp hat by the crown; “it’s a long time since we have met; I don’t know that I should have recognised you.” His eyes went from her hat to her feet with a curious inspection of her dress.

“Yes,” said Katherine, “you are right; it is so. My father is dead.”

A sudden glimmer sprang into his eyes and a redness to his face; it was as if some light had flashed up over them; he gave his wife a keen look. But decorum seemed more present with him than with Stella. He did not put any question. He said mechanically, “I am sorry,” and stood waiting, giving once more a glance at his wife.

“All Kate has condescended to tell me,” said Stella, “is that I am not out of the will. That’s the great thing, isn’t it? How much there’s for us she doesn’t say, but there’s something for us. Tell him, Kate.”

“There is a great deal for you,” Katherine said, quietly, “and a great deal to say and to tell you; but it is very public and very noisy here.”

The red light glowed up in Somers’ face. He lifted instinctively, as it seemed, the little boy at his feet into his arms, as if to control and sober himself. “We owe this,” he said, “no doubt to you, Miss Tredgold.”

“You would have owed it to me had it been in my power,” said Katherine, with one little flash of self-assertion, “but as it happens,” she added hastily, “you do not owe anything to me. Stella will be as rich as her heart can desire. Oh, can’t we go somewhere out of this noise, where I can tell you, Stella? Or, if we cannot, wait please, wait for the explanations. You have it; isn’t that enough? And may I not make acquaintance with the children? And oh, Stella, haven’t you a word for me?”

Stella turned round lightly and putting her arms round Katherine kissed her on both cheeks. “You dear old thing!” she said. And then, disengaging herself, “I hope you ordered me some mourning, Kate. How can I go anywhere in this coloured gown? Not to say that it is quite out of fashion and shabby besides. I suppose I must have crape—not so deep as yours, though, which is like a widow’s mourning. But crape is becoming to a fair complexion. Oh, he won’t have anything to say to you, don’t think it. He is a very cross, bad-tempered, uncomfortable little boy.”

“Job fader’s little boy,” said the pale little creature perched upon his father’s shoulder and dangling his small thin legs on Somers’ breast. He would indeed have nothing to say to Katherine’s overtures. When she put out her arms to him he turned round, and, clasping his arms round his father’s head, hid his own behind it. Meanwhile a look of something which looked like vanity—a sort of sublimated self-complacence—stole over Sir Charles’ face. He was very fond of the child; also, he was very proud of the fact that the child preferred him to everybody else in the world.

It was with the most tremendous exertion that the party at last was disembarked, the little boy still on his father’s shoulder, the baby in the arms of the ayah. The countless packages and boxes, which to the last moment the aggrieved and distracted maid continued to pack with items forgotten, came slowly to light one after another, and were disposed of in the train, or at least on shore. Stella had forgotten everything except the exhilaration of knowing that she had come into her fortune as she made her farewells all round. “Oh, do you know? We have had great news; we have come into our money,” she told several of her dearest friends. She was in a whirl of excitement, delight, and regrets. “We have had such a good time, and I’m so sorry to part; you must come and see us,” she said to one after another. Everybody in the ship was Stella’s friend. She had not done anything for them, but she had been good-humoured and willing to please, and she was Stella! This was Katherine’s involuntary reflection as she stood like a shadow watching the crowd of friends, the goodbyes and hopes of future meeting, the kisses of the ladies and close hand-clasping of the men. Nobody was so popular as Stella. She was Stella, she was born to please; wherever she went, whatever she did, it was always the same. Katherine felt proud of her sister and subdued by her, and a little amused at the same time. Stella—with her husband by her side, the pale baby crowing in its dark nurse’s arms, and the little boy clinging round his father, the worried English maid, the serene white-robed ayah, the soldier-servant curt and wooden, expressing no feeling, and the heaps of indiscriminate baggage which formed a sort of entrenchment round her—was a far more important personage than Katherine could ever be. Stella did not require the wealth which was now to be poured down at her feet to make her of consequence. Without it, in her present poverty, was she not the admired of all beholders—the centre of a world of her own? Her sister looked on with a smile, with a certain admiration, half pleased with the impartiality (after all) of the world, half jarred by the partiality of nature. Her present want of wealth did not discredit Stella, but nature somehow discredited Katherine and put her aside, whatever her qualities might be. She looked on without any active feeling in these shades of sentiment, neutral tinted, like the sky and the oily river, and the greyness of the air, with a thread of interest and amusement running through, as if she were looking on at the progress of a story—a story in which the actors interested her, but in which there was no close concern of her own.

“Kate!” she heard Stella call suddenly, her voice ringing out (she had never had a low voice) over the noise and bustle. “Kate, I forgot to tell you, here’s an old friend of yours. There she is, there she is, Mr.–. Go and speak to her for yourself.”

Katherine did not hear the name, and had not an idea who the old friend was. She turned round with a faint smile on her face.

Well! There was nothing wonderful in the fact that he had come home with them. He had, it turned out afterwards, taken his passage in the Aurungzebe without knowing that the Somers were going by it, or anything about them. It would be vain to deny that Katherine was startled, but she did not cling to anything for support, nor—except by a sudden change of colour, for which she was extremely angry with herself—betray any emotion. Her heart gave a jump, but then it became quite quiet again. “We seem fated to meet in travelling,” she said, “and nowhere else.” Afterwards she was very angry with herself for these last words. She did not know why she said them—to round off her sentence perhaps, as a writer often puts in words which he does not precisely mean. They seemed to convey a complaint or a reproach which she did not intend at all.

“I have been hoping,” he said, “since ever I knew your sister was on board that perhaps you might come, but–” He looked at Katherine in her mourning, and then over the crowd to Stella, talking, laughing, full of spirit and movement. “I was going to say that I—feared some sorrow had come your way, but when I look at Lady Somers–”

“It is that she does not realise it,” said Katherine. “It is true—my father is dead.”

He stood looking at her again, his countenance changing from red to brown (which was now its natural colour). He seemed to have a hundred things to say, but nothing would come to his lips. At last he stammered forth, with a little difficulty it appeared, “I am—sorry—that anything could happen to bring sorrow to you.”

Katherine only answered him with a little bow. He was not sorry, nor was Stella sorry, nor anyone else involved. She felt with a keen compunction that to make up for this universal satisfaction over her father’s death she ought to be sorry—more sorry than words could say.

“It makes a great difference in my life,” she said simply, and while he was still apparently struggling for something to say, the Somers party got into motion and came towards the gangway, by which most of the passengers had now landed. The little army pushed forward, various porters first with numberless small packets and bags, then the man and worried maid with more, then the ayah with the baby, then Lady Somers, who caught Katherine by the arm and pushed through with her, putting her sister in front, with the tall figure of the husband and the little boy seated on his shoulder bringing up the rear. Job’s little dangling legs were on a level with Stanford’s shoulder, and kicked him with a friendly farewell as they passed, while Job’s father stretched out a large hand and said, “Goodbye, old fellow; we’re going to the old place in the Isle of Wight. Look us up some time.” Katherine heard these words as she landed, with Stella’s hand holding fast to her arm. She was amused, too, faintly to hear her sister’s husband’s instant adoption of the old place in the Isle of Wight. Sir Charles did not as yet know any more than that Stella was not cut off, that a great deal was coming to her. Stella had not required any further information. She had managed to say to him that of course to go to the Cliff would be the best thing, now that it was Katherine’s. It would be a handy headquarters and save money, and not be too far from town.

The party was not fatigued as from an inland journey. They had all bathed and breakfasted in such comfort as a steamship affords, so that there was no need for any delay in proceeding to their journey’s end. And the bustle and the confusion, and the orders to the servants, and the arrangements about the luggage, and the whining of Job on his father’s shoulder, and the screams of the baby when it was for a moment moved from its nurse’s arms, and the sharp remarks of Sir Charles and the continual talk of Stella—so occupied every moment that Katherine found herself at home again with this large and exigent party before another word on the important subject which was growing larger and larger in her mind could be said.

CHAPTER XL

The evening passed in a whirl, such as Katherine, altogether unused to the strange mingled life of family occupations and self-indulgence, could not understand. There was not a tranquil moment for the talk and the explanations. Stella ran from room to room, approving and objecting. She liked the state apartment with its smart furniture in which she had herself been placed, but she did not like the choice of the rooms for the babies, and had them transferred to others, and the furniture altered and pulled about to suit their needs. The house had put on a gala air for the new guests; there were fires blazing everywhere, flowers everywhere, such as could be got at that advanced season. Stella sent the chrysanthemums away, which were the chief point in the decorations. “They have such a horrid smell. They make my head ache—they remind me,” she said, “of everything that’s dreadful.” And she stood over the worried maid while she opened the boxes, dragging out the dresses by a corner and flinging them about on the floors. “I shall not want any of those old things. Isn’t there a rag of a black that I can wear now? Kate, you were dreadfully remiss not to order me some things. How can I go downstairs and show myself in all my blues and greens? Oh, yes, of course I require to be fitted on, but I’d rather have an ill-fitting gown than none at all. I could wear one of yours, it is true, but my figure is different from yours. I’m not all one straight line from head to foot, as you are; and you’re covered over with crape, which is quite unnecessary—nobody thinks of such a thing now. I’ll wear that,” she added, giving a little kick to a white dress, which was one of those she had dragged out by a flounce and flung on the floor. “You can put some black ribbons to it, Pearson. Oh, how glad I shall be to get rid of all those old things, and get something fit to wear, even if it’s black. I shall telegraph at once to London to send someone down about my things to-morrow, but I warn you I’m not going to wear mourning for a whole year, Kate. No one thinks of such a thing now.”

“You always look well in black, my lady, with your complexion,” said Pearson, the maid.

“Well, perhaps I do,” said Stella mollified. “Please run down and send off the telegram, Kate; there is such a crowd of things to do.”

And thus the day went on. At dinner there was perforce a little time during which the trio were together; but then the servants were present, making any intimate conversation impossible, and the talk that was was entirely about the dishes, which did not please either Sir Charles or his wife. Poor Mrs. Simmons, anxious to please, had with great care compounded what she called and thought to be a curry, upon which both of them looked with disgust. “Take it away,” they both said, after a contemptuous examination of the dish, turning over its contents with the end of a fork, one after the other. “Kate, why do you let that woman try things she knows nothing about?” said Stella severely. “But you never care what you eat, and you think that’s fine, I know. Old Simmons never could do much but what English people call roast and boil—what any savage could do! and you’ve kept her on all these years! I suppose you have eaten meekly whatever she chose to set before you ever since I went away.”

“I think,” said Sir Charles in his moustache, “if I am to be here much there will certainly have to be a change in the cook.”

“You can do what you please, Stella—as soon as everything is settled,” Katherine said. Her sister had taken her place without any question at the head of the table; and Somers, perhaps unconsciously, had placed himself opposite. Katherine had taken with some surprise and a momentary hesitation a seat at the side, as if she were their guest—which indeed she was, she said to herself. But she had never occupied that place before; even in the time of Stella’s undoubted ascendancy, Katherine had always sat at the head of the table. She felt this as one feels the minor pricks of one’s great troubles. After dinner, when she had calculated upon having time for her explanation, Sir Charles took out his cigar case before the servants had left the room. Stella interrupted him with a little scream. “Oh, Charles, Kate isn’t used to smoke! She will be thinking of her curtains and all sorts of things.”

“If Kate objects, of course,” he said, cutting the end off his cigar and looking up from the operation.

Katherine objected, as many women do, not to the cigar but to the disrespect. She said, “Stella is mistress. I take no authority upon me,” with as easy an air as she could assume.

“Come along and see the children,” Stella cried, jumping up, “you’ll like that, or else you’ll pretend to like it,” she said as they went out of the room together, “to please me. Now, you needn’t trouble to please me in that way. I’m not silly about the children. There they are, and one has to make the best of them, but it’s rather hard to have the boy a teeny weeny thing like Job. The girl’s strong enough, but it don’t matter so much for a girl. And Charlie is an idiot about Job. Ten to one he will be upstairs as soon as we are, snatching the little wretch out of his bed and carrying him off. They sit and croon for hours together when there’s no one else to amuse Charlie. And I’m sure I don’t know what is to become of him, for there will be nobody to amuse him here.”

“But it must be so bad for the child, Stella. How can he be well if you allow that to go on?”

“Oh,” cried Stella, clapping her hands, “I knew you would be the very model of a maiden aunt! Now you’ve found your real rôle in life, Kate. But don’t go crossing the ayah, for she won’t understand you, and you’ll come to dreadful grief. Oh, the children! We should only disturb them if we went in. I said that for an excuse to get you away. Come into my room, and let’s look over my clothes. I am sure I have a black gown somewhere. There was a royal mourning, don’t you know, and I had to get one in a hurry to go to Government House in—unless Pearson has taken it for herself. Black is becoming to my complexion, I know—but I don’t like it all the same—it shows every mark, and it’s hot, and if you wear crape it should always be quite fresh. This of yours is crumpled a little. You’ll look like an old woman from the workhouse directly if you wear crumpled crape—it is the most expensive, the most–”

“You need not mind that now, Stella; and for papa’s sake–”

“Good gracious! what a thing that is to say! I need never mind it! Charlie will say I should always mind it. He says no income could stand me. Are you there, Pearson? Well, it is just as well she isn’t; we can look them over at our ease without her greedy eyes watching what she is to have. She’ll have to get them all, I suppose, for they will be old-fashioned before I could put them on again. Look here,” cried Stella, opening the great wardrobe and pulling down in the most careless way the things which the maid had placed there. She flung them on the floor as before, one above the other. “This is one I invented myself,” she said. “Don’t you think that grey with the silver is good? It had a great succès. They say it looked like moonlight. By the bye,” she added, “that might come in again. Grey with silver is mourning! What a good thing I thought of that! It must have been an inspiration. I’ve only worn it once, and it’s so fantastic it’s independent of the fashion. It will come in quite well again.”

“Stella, I do wish you would let me tell you how things are, and how it all happened, and–”

“Yes, yes,” cried Lady Somers, “another time! Here’s one, again, that I’ve only worn once; but that will be of no use, for it’s pink—unless we could make out somehow that it was mauve, there is very little difference—a sort of blue shade cast upon it, which might be done by a little draping, and it would make such a pretty mauve. There is very little difference between the two, only mauve is mourning and pink is—frivolity, don’t you know. Oh, Pearson, here you are! I suppose you have been down at your supper? What you can do to keep you so long at your supper I never can tell. I suppose you flirt with all the gentlemen in the servants’ hall. Look here, don’t you think this pink, which I have only worn once, could be made with a little trouble to look mauve? I am sure it does already a little by this light.”

“It is a very bright rose-pink, my lady,” said Pearson, not at all disposed to see one of the freshest of her mistress’s dresses taken out of her hands.

“You say that because you think you will get it for yourself,” said Lady Somers, “but I am certain with a little blue carefully arranged to throw a shade it would make a beautiful mauve.”

“Blue-and-pink are the Watteau mixture,” said Pearson, holding her ground, “which is always considered the brightest thing you can wear.”

“Oh, if you are obstinate about it!” cried the mistress. “But recollect I am not at your mercy here, Pearson, and I shall refer it to Louise. Kate, I’m dreadfully tired; I think I’ll go to bed. Remember I haven’t been on solid ground for ever so long. I feel the motion of the boat as if I were going up and down. You do go on feeling it, I believe, for weeks after. Take off this tight dress, Pearson, quick, and let me get to bed.”

“Shall I sit by you a little after, and tell you, Stella?”

“Oh goodness, no! Tell me about a death and all that happened, in the very same house where it was, to make me nervous and take away my rest! You quite forget that I am delicate, Kate! I never could bear the things that you, a great, robust, middle-aged woman, that have never had any drain on your strength, can go through. Do let me have a quiet night, my first night after a sea voyage. Go and talk to Charlie, if you like, he has got no nerves; and Pearson, put the lemonade by my bed, and turn down the light.”

Katherine left her sister’s room with the most curious sensations. She was foiled at every point by Stella’s lightness, by her self-occupation, the rapidity of her loose and shallow thoughts, and their devotion to one subject. She recognised in a half-angry way the potency and influence of this self-occupation. It was so sincere that it was almost interesting. Stella found her own concerns full of interest; she had no amiable delusions about them. She spoke out quite simply what she felt, even about her children. She did not claim anything except boundless indulgence for herself. And then it struck Katherine very strangely, it must be allowed, to hear herself described as a great, robust, middle-aged woman. Was that how Stella saw her—was she that, probably, to other people? She laughed a little to herself, but it was not a happy laugh. How misguided was the poet when he prayed that we might see ourselves as others see us! Would not that be a dreadful coming down to almost everybody, even to the fairest and the wisest. The words kept flitting through Katherine’s mind without any will of hers. “A great, robust, middle-aged woman.” She passed a long mirror in the corridor (there were mirrors everywhere in Mr. Tredgold’s much decorated house), and started a little involuntarily to see the slim black figure in it gliding forward as if to meet her. Was this herself, Katherine, or was it the ghost of what she had thought she was, a girl at home, although twenty-nine? After all, middle-age does begin with the thirties, Katherine said to herself. Dante was thirty-five only when he described himself as at the mezzo del cammin. Perhaps Stella was right. She was three years younger. As she went towards the stairs occupied by these thoughts, she suddenly saw Sir Charles, a tall shadow, still more ghost-like than herself, in the mirror, with a little white figure seated on his shoulder. It was the little Job, the delicate boy, his little feet held in his father’s hand to keep them warm, his arms clinging round his father’s head as he sat upon his shoulder. Katherine started when she came upon the group, and made out the little boy’s small face and staring eyes up on those heights. Her brother-in-law greeted her with a laugh: “You wouldn’t stop with me to smoke a cigar, so I have found a companion who never objects. You like the smoke, don’t you, Job?”