papa’s curate, who was one of the guests, kept following me about and trying to talk to me; whenever I looked up I met his eyes. I did not admire him in the least, but it amused me very much, and pleased me, to see that he admired me. When I wanted anything he rushed to get it for me. It was very odd, but not at all disagreeable, and gave me a comfortable feeling about myself. When the people went away, papa stood a long time in the hall between the open doors, saying good-night to everybody. He went back into the parlour after they were all gone; he went up to the fireplace, I don’t know why, and stood there for a moment as if there had been a fire in the grate. Then he called “Mary!” I might have known it was not me he wanted. He held out his hand without turning round. “I never thought I could be happier than I was this day last year,” he said, “and yet I am happier to-night. What a delightful year you have given me, my darling – Oh, is it you? What did you mean by not telling me it was you, when you must have perceived that I thought I was talking to my wife?”
“There was no time to tell you,” I said. It gave me a pang I can scarcely describe when he thrust my hand away which I had held out to him. He was ashamed; he sat down suddenly in the big chair, and then all at once a fit of coughing came on, such a fit of coughing as I never saw before. It frightened me; and he looked so pale, and with such circles round his eyes! When he could speak he said, hurriedly, panting for his breath, “Be sure you do not tell her of this – .” That was all he thought of. It did not matter for me.
But, as it happened, it was not long possible to keep it from her. When I look back upon that evening, with its little follies, and the laughter, and the curate, and my new dress! O, how little one knows! That very night papa was taken ill. He had caught cold in the draught as he shook hands with the people. It was congestion of the lungs, and from the first the doctor looked very serious. The house changed in that night. The study and the parlour and the whole place turned into a vestibule to the sick room, which was the centre of everything. The very atmosphere was darkened; the sun did not seem to shine; the sounds outside came to us dulled and heavy. I was not allowed to be very much in the room. She took her place there and never left him, day or night; and if I were to spend pages in describing it I could not give you any idea of my dreariness, left alone down below, not allowed to help him or be near him while my father lay between living and dying. I could not do anything. I tried to read, but I could not read. To take up a novel, which was the only thing I could possibly have given my attention to, would have seemed like profanation at such a time. It would have been worse than reading a novel on Sunday, which I had always been brought up to think very wicked; and as for my dreams, they were worse even than the novels. I dared not carry them on while papa was so ill. I felt that if I allowed my thoughts to float away on such useless currents, I never could expect God to listen to my prayers. For this reason I made a dreadful effort to think “as one ought to think,” to think of religious things always and all day long – and this was very difficult; but I made the effort, because I thought God was more likely to listen to me if I showed that I wanted to do well.
But, oh the dreary days and the dreary nights! The three last nights I sat up in my dressing-gown, and dozed drearily and woke still more drearily, after dreaming the strangest dreams. Sometimes I thought it was the wedding-day again, and he was standing with her hand on his arm; sometimes it was the anniversary, and he was saying how happy he was; sometimes it was a funeral. I dreamed always about him, and always in different aspects. One morning I woke up suddenly and found Ellen standing by me in the grey dawning. She did not say anything; the tears were running down her face. But I got up and followed her quite silent, knowing what it was.
He died, after a week’s illness, in the morning, leaving us a whole horrible, light, bright day to get through with what patience we could; and then there was a dreary interval of silence, and he was carried away from us for ever and ever; and she and I, two creatures of different minds as ever were born, with but this one link of union between us, were left in the house alone.
CHAPTER III
SHE and I alone in the house! I do not think that I could express our desolation more fully were I to write a whole book. He who had brought us together was gone. The link between us was broken – we were two strangers, rather hostile to each other than otherwise. No pretence of love had ever existed between us. She had never had any occasion to be jealous of me; but she had known and must have felt that I was jealous of her, and grudged her position, her happiness, her very name. She knew this, and it had not mattered to her so long as he was alive; but now that he was gone, now that she and I, bearing the same name, supposed to belong to each other, were left within our dismal house alone —
We went together to the funeral. I was too much absorbed in my own feelings, I believe, to think of her; and yet I noticed everything, as people do when they are deeply excited. She walked by herself, and so did I. There was no one to support either of us, and we did not cling to each other. The churchwardens were there, and Spicer the grocer, to my annoyance. When I saw him all the conversation which I had once overheard came to my mind. Even as I stood by my father’s grave it came back to me. I understood it only partially, but it seemed to me as if the time had come on which he calculated, and which he had spoken of. I do not think it had ever recurred to me till that moment. She would be better off with a thousand pounds than with nothing. A thousand pounds – and – what had he said? I thought my heart had been too faint to feel at all, and yet it began to quicken now with excitement. I looked at her as she walked before me. What was to become of her? What was to become of me? But I did not think of myself.
When we got back to the house Spicer came in and the churchwardens with him; they came into the parlour. When I was going away Mr Turnham, who was one of them, called me back. “Miss Mary,” he said, “wait a little. It is hard upon you, but there is some business to be settled. Pray, come back.”
I went, of course. She had dropped into the chair my father used to sit in. He had given it up to her when they were married, but now death had unmarried them, and I could not bear to see her there. Spicer had gone to sit by her; they were at one side of the room, Mr Turnham and I at the other, as if we were opposite sides. The other churchwarden had shaken hands with us all and gone away.
“In the present melancholy circumstances it is our duty,” said Mr Turnham, “to inquire into our late dear friend’s monetary arrangements; there must have been some settlement or other – some explanation at least, as he married so short a time ago.”
Then Spicer cleared his throat, and edged still more on to the edge of his chair. Oh, heaven knows. I was as miserable as a girl could be – but yet I noticed all this as if I did not care.
“There was no settlement,” he said, “reason good, there wasn’t nothing to settle as was worth the while; but being Mrs Peveril’s only relation, and responsible like, he spoke very clear and honourable about his means to me. ‘I ain’t got no money, Mr Spicer,’ he said, ‘but I’ve insured my life for my daughter, and I’ll do as much for her. They’ll have a thousand pounds apiece, and that’s better than nothing,’ he said; ‘it will get them into some snug little way of business or something.’ He was a sensible man, Mr Peveril, and spoke up handsome when he saw as nothing was exacted of him. I don’t know what office it’s in, but I believe as what he said must be true.”
“Perhaps if we were to adjourn into the study, and if one of the ladies would get the keys, we might look in his desk if there was a will,” said Mr Turnham. “I am very sorry that our late lamented friend had so short an illness, and therefore was unable to say anything as to what he wished.”
“Stop, please,” Mrs Peveril said all at once. “Stop: neither of us is able to give you any help to-day; and afterwards we will try to manage for ourselves. We thank you very much, but it is best to leave us to ourselves. I speak for Mary too.”
“But, my dear Mrs Peveril, you will want some one to manage for you; it is painful, I know, but it is best to do it at once; you will want some one to manage – ”
“I
