Had it not been for her friends at the Manor-house, she would certainly have pleaded the freedom of action which had always been accorded to her, and have left her home. Bat she loved the Otterbornes too well, and she loved her Janet too well, to tear them asunder; and the only perceptible effect of her increased dislike to her husband’s grandson was her spending more hours in the house of Lady Otterborne than in her own.
Yet notwithstanding all her caution and all her forbearance, Stephen Cornington knew that he was hated quite as well as if she had been in the daily habit of telling him so; and heartily did he repay her.
Nor was it long after the death of Mr. King, before the highly-talented and bold-spirited young man began to think that he should now be very lamentably wasting his time, if he continued as the permitted guest of an old woman whom he detested, instead of assuming’ the place which it was so perfectly evident that his grandfather was willing to accord him.
“There is nothing,” thought he, “that the old man would like so well as the seeing me sole lord and master of these goodly premises. As long as the other old fellow was alive, the case was different. The law made him master; and if he had been bed-ridden outright, and as blind as a mole, we could not have ventured upon making any very important alteration in the household: but now the ease is altered.
And truly the case was altered, and Mrs. Mathews very speedily became aware that she was pretty nearly a nonentity in her father’s house. The hour of breakfast was changed; the hour of dinner was changed. The man who for years had been Mr. King’s favourite groom, and who since his daughter’s marriage had been promoted to the place of coachman, was dismissed. The handsome hall was converted into a billiard-room — and worse still, a thousand times worse still, a favourite acquaintance or two in the billiard-playing line from Hertford became almost daily guests at the Grange.
Notwithstanding the sort of strict discipline established by Mrs. Mathews, respecting the uninterrupted disposal of her own time, she was not in other respects by any means a rigid or exacting mistress of a family. The same feeling which made her so very jealously keep guard over the uninterrupted disposal of her hours led her very greatly to prefer that all the members of her family should feel as independent as herself — this being by far the most effectual way of securing herself from interruption.
Moreover, like most other reading women, particularly when they happen to have no children, she was perhaps a little too indifferent concerning the routine of her “house affairs,” very rarely permitting them to call her from occupations more congenial to her taste.
The best excuse that can be offered for this is, that Sally Spicer was a very efficient substitute. Her mistress felt that she was safe in trusting to her, and therefore she indulged herself by doing it. At first, therefore, a good many of Master Stephen s less important innovations were achieved by means of making his adoring and docile grandfather address himself with the authority of a master to the prime-minister of the establishment; and for a time the prime-minister received his instructions and obeyed them, without troubling the lady in her den;” but at length Sally Spicer herself became so indignant at being told by her new master that his grandson preferred purée soup to all other, and therefore that it would be necessary to have purée soup every day, that she ventured to break in upon the sacred leisure of her mistress, in order to express her disapprobation.
If Sally Spicer had been less shocked at this, her mistress might have been more so; but the dislike of poor Mrs. Mathews to this detestable grandson was founded upon causes so much more important, that there was more of scorn than anger in her manner of listening to the remonstrance; and on perceiving this, Sally resolutely determined to let matters take their course — a system which her lady very perfectly approved; for there were heavier anxieties weighing on her mind than any which the reports of Sally Spicer could awaken.
It was now, and now only, that all the miserable consequences of her ill-advised marriage became fully apparent to her. As long as her father lived he not only continued to be the master of his own house, but he certainly continued to profit by the newspaper companionship of his son-in-law; neither had he ever changed his opinion upon the important fact, that men are more capable of looking after their property than women; so that he had constantly gone on to the very last expressing his entire satisfaction in the marriage; and this was quite enough to prevent her from confessing even to her own heart how very heartily she lamented it.
But now every feeling on the subject was altered; and poor Mrs. Mathews saw all the fearful, all the fatal difference between her actual situation, and what it would have been had she been still Mary King, in the strongest possible light.
She indulged herself in no complainings either to her adopted child or to the Otterbornes; for she felt that they had sorrows enough of their own, without her adding to them by expatiating on her own situation — the worst feature of which was her utter inability to assist them.
Mr. Cuthbridge was the only human being to whom, at this time, she opened her heart unreservedly. His conviction of the profound rascality of Stephen Cornington enabled him to comprehend all the unhappiness of her situation; and this was what no other individual could do.
She scrupled not to explain to him all the lamentable peculiarities of her marriage settlement, and made no secret of the engagement of her adopted child with Sir Herbert Otterborne, — which, as the embarrassed situation of his property was perfectly well known, was quite sufficient to explain how every way productive of misery this unfortunate settlement had become.
After one of these completely confidential conversations had lasted some time, and that the -worthy priest had risen to take his leave, he stood for a moment looking at her earnestly, and then he sat down again, and said, “An idea has just occurred to me, my good friend, which may be worth nothing; and yet in your situation it would be wrong, I think, to throw it aside without consideration.”
“God bless you for the interest you take in a miserable old woman, who, in honest truth, deserves a good deal of what she now suffers as a punishment for her self-willed folly. Let me hear what you would say, though I think you must have recourse to one of your Popish miracles before you can help me.”
“Why do you call yourself old, Mistress Mary?” said he. “Tell me exactly what your age is?”
“Nearly fifty-two,” she replied.
“And what is the age of your husband?” said he.
“He is fifteen years older, I believe,” was the reply.
“Then your case is not so utterly hopeless. In the course of nature you will survive your husband, and during that survivorship you will be in the receipt of the income that you enjoy together at present?” said the priest.
“Yes!” she replied— “and that is precisely the argument which occurred to me when this hateful settlement was under discussion; and it was upon the strength of this presumptuous argument that I proposed the terms which caused my poor father to shake his head so gravely, but which he afterwards acceded to, in order to content his wilful child.”
“Contingencies should never be trusted to, if we have the power to avoid it; but I cannot call the argument a presumptuous one,” returned Mr. Cuthbridge. “It is reasonable to suppose that you should survive your husband, and therefore it is reasonable to act upon the supposition. It is quite evident, from all you have said to me, that your present unhappiness chiefly arises from your inability to assist your adopted child, she having engaged herself to a man so poor as to be unable to marry her without assistance. Now, if you were a widow, Mrs. Mathews, the thing would be very easy.”
“Do you want to elicit a confession from me, Sir Priest, that I feel greatly desirous of being one?”
“No, my good friend,” he replied, gravely, “there could be no merit in such a confession as that. The fact is too self-evident. But all jesting apart, Mrs. Mathews, I feel very much disposed to advise that you should immediately act as nearly as possible as if you were alread
y a widow.”
“As how?” she said — endeavouring to preserve her usual look and manner, though her eye brightened, her cheek flushed, and even her voice trembled.
“Were I in your place,” he replied, “I would leave my husband and take up my residence with Sir Herbert and the two Lady Otterbornes, at the Manor-house.”
“A scheme which, as you well know, would be as full of pleasure, as my present existence is full of pain!” she replied; while the strong emotion produced by contemplating such a contrast, brought tears to her eyes.
“But what a strange position should I then hold in the opinion of my neighbours!” she added. “Even my kind friend, Lady Otterborne — do you really believe she would approve a household so strangely organised at the Manor-house, and so strangely disorganised at the Grange?”
“Under ordinary circumstances, decidedly not,” he replied; “but your circumstances are very far from ordinary.”
“As relates to my settlement, do you mean? As relates to my unfortunate inability of assisting my adopted daughter, excepting during my life? — This might indeed appear to us to be a very tempting argument for my leaving my husband’s house; but it could scarcely appear a satisfactory one in the opinion of the many who will sit in judgment on it,” said Mrs. Mathews, shaking her head very despondingly.
“But this is not the argument which you ought to plead, either to yourself or others. There is another much more obvious, and much more available,” replied Mr. Cuthbridge. “You would now, in the opinion of more people than you are aware of, be considered as justified in leaving your husband’s house, if he persists in making it the home of his extremely ill-conducted grandson,” he added.
“You forget, my good friend,” said Mrs. Mathews, — longing to hear every word she uttered, contradicted; “you forget that this hateful young man is not known to everybody as he is to you”..
“He is sufficiently known to justify you fully in telling Mr. Mathews that if Mr. Stephen Cornington is not sent out of the house, you and your young ward must leave it,” replied Mr. Cuthbridge.
“And if I did this, would he not say, and would not many others echo him, that my poor Janet is no relation at all to me, but that this Cornington is to him?”
“Under the circumstances of the relationship, I do not think that even this could be pleaded with much force,” said the priest; “but at any rate let me advise you to turn this proposal over in solitude. I will call again in a day or two, and then we will examine it together a little further.”
And having said this, Mr Cuthbridge rose again, — and this time took his leave without any more last words. But he had already said enough to set the thoughts of poor Mrs. Mathews into a most troublesome ferment.
CHAPTER LIV
NOT many hours had elapsed after the Catholic priest had taken his departure, before a circumstance occurred which seemed to Mrs. Mathews almost like the special intervention of providence in her favour: for by the early post a London letter readied Mr. Stephen; the purport of which he immediately communicated to his beloved grandfather, who in like manner communicated it, as in duty bound, to his beloved wife.
The purport of the letter, as communicated by Mr. Stephen, was to this effect; namely, that the writer, who subscribed his name, “William White,” being a dear and intimate friend of the said Stephen, and finding himself within easy distance of the abode which was become his home, had determined upon renouncing and setting aside for the time being every other object in life, whether of pleasure or of business, for the exceeding pleasure and delight of paying hint a visit; and that if he, William White, heard nothing to the contrary, he should transport himself by railroad on the following Monday, to the station called Weldon-station, — which, as he calculated, would enable him to reach the mansion called the Grange, before the worthy family who resided there would be likely to go to dinner.
This information was given by Stephen to his grandfather with the air of one who brought intelligence which must of necessity be welcome; nevertheless, a nice observer might have remarked that the young man’s complexion was heightened, and that there was an expression in his eye that looked as if he had been startled. It might have been terror, or it might have been anger which caused it, or it might have been a mixture of both; but Mr. Mathews only perceived a degree of eagerness, which caused him to reply without the delay of a moment, “Certainly, my dearest Stephen! Of course! any friend of yours, my dearest fellow! Of course, we shall be delighted to see him!”
But when this same interesting intelligence was communicated to the lady who still held the honoured post of mistress of the house, she betrayed very unequivocal symptoms of not being as much enchanted at hearing of this promised visit from the dear friend of Mr. Stephen, as his grandfather seemed to expect; whereupon Mr. Mathews, who had never felt himself to be quite so great a man as he liked to be during the lifetime of the owner and master of the mansion, ventured for the first time in his life to look rather fiercely in the face of his lady, while he said to her with very unequivocal authority of tone, —
“I flatter myself, Mrs. Mathews, that I am, at last, really master of my own house, and as such I must, and do insist upon it, that the friends of my grandson are received and treated here as MY friends, — as the friends, if you please to remember, of the master of the house.”
This style was new to Mrs. Mathews.
That she felt greatly irritated is very certain; but the only indication which she gave of not being well-pleased, was that she said nothing at all in reply.
Mr. Mathews felt that he was making an experiment, — and though sustained as he was by the consciousness of his power, and the noble spirit of his grandson to boot, he had no sort of doubt as to the final result of this struggle for power; yet, nevertheless, he looked with some slight feeling of anxiety in the face of his lady, wishing to ascertain, perhaps, the degree of opposition he might have to combat.
But there was a sort of profound stillness in the expression of her features which puzzled him; and well it might, for after feeling for an instant something approaching to an inclination to make him a speech in reply, she suddenly bethought her of the counsel she had received from the priest; and her husband’s present mode of announcing the approach of Mr. Stephen’s friend appeared to her to be one of the luckiest incidents imaginable.
Had Mr. Cuthbridge repeated his visit then, he would have found her in a much more courageous frame of mind than she had been when, for the first time, she heard the suggestion of a separation from her husband and his grandson as a thing possible.
The éclat of such a proceeding had then shocked her; but she now felt that it was very possible that there might be other things which would shock her more, and this threatened introduction of one of her grandson’s dear friends as an inmate and daily companion for herself and Janet was one of these.
Had her friend, Mr. Cuthbridge, happened to have returned to her as immediately as he had promised to do, he would have found her well-disposed to follow the advice he had given, but accident prevented this; and it was nearly a week before she saw him again.
And before this week was over, enough had happened to her, and enough had passed before her eyes, to render any doubt as to the following of this advice, impossible.
Mrs. Mathews and her Janet were seated together in the “Den” when Mr. White arrived; but the event was made known to them by the entrance of Sally Spicer, who was evidently suffering under a very vehement degree of excitement. She had prepared herself, poor woman, to bear a great deal before she would torment her unfortunate mistress any more, by discussing any of the various causes of vexation, which day by day increased upon her under the sharp rule of the Stephen dynasty. But now it was evident that something had occurred which was beyond her power of endurance.
“Do you mean to let them do it, ma’am?” said the panting Sally Spicer. “Do you mean to let this young villain run rampant over the house in this fashion?”
“What are you t
alking of, Sally?” said her mistress, with the sturdy composure of a person who has resolved upon strong measures, and who means not to idly waste any energy in talking about it. “Nothing lasts for ever, Sally; and for the present you had better keep yourself quiet.”
“But that is what I can’t do!” replied Sally. “The villain has, with his own great hands, forced open the door of my clear old master’s room, that his precious bully of a visitor may sleep there! I had prepared the little chintz-room, which was as nice and as neat as hands could make it, but no sooner was the door opened to let in this new-comer’s bags, boxes, and trunks, than the fellow who chose to call himself your grandson, Miss Mary, began swearing like a trooper because it was no bigger! It has been big enough for his betters, or I will never trust either my eyes, or my ears, again. But, no! It was a hole, and a box, our precious grandson said; and then he had the audacity to turn sharp round upon me, and to say, just as if he was a king speaking to a galley-slave, ‘Open old King’s door, Sally! Let us look at that, if you please, and see if it isn’t fitter to lodge a gentleman than this d — d crib,’
I will leave you to guess, ma’am, whether ‘Sally’ obeyed him; but whatever you may guess, Miss Mary, what I did do was to walk away without uttering a syllabic, good, bad, or indifferent. But before I had gone three steps, crash went something behind me; and when I turned to see what it was, there was my dear old master’s door, — by which none but them as set the room to rights has ever passed since he was carried through it, — there it stood wide open, with your old gentleman, ma’am, standing on one side and looking almost as much frightened as if he had been shot, and the two others holding their sides and laughing like mad. And then they set to, and dragged all this new fellow’s rubbish into the room, for neither of our two men put out a finger to help ’em, and I can’t but say that I think it does ’em honour.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 422