her calmness, which was not the stupor of grief, from this point onwards shocked her friend and disturbed her enemy in the house. the rector could not but feel it a slight upon his dead brother and an attitude most unbecoming to so young a widow; but mrs. james was made uncomfortable by an attitude for which she had not been prepared. whatever the girl’s faults may have been, she had never been brazen. why, then, was she brazen now? why almost—yes, indecent in her indifference? mary proposed nothing, objected to nothing; took no part in the funeral arrangements, answered no letters, read none, allowed her sister-in-law entire control, sank back, with evident contentment, to be the cipher in her own house, which, of course, she ought to have been from the first. there was something behind all this; mrs. james was far too intelligent to misread it. this did not mean that mary was over-whelmed—by grief, or shame, either; it did not mean that she felt herself in disgrace. no. this was impudence—colossal.
the rector, to whom this reading of the girl was propounded, could not deny it colour. “she’s very young to have such troubles upon her, and of course she’s still very ignorant. she can’t express herself. i don’t at all agree with you, constantia; but i own i should have preferred to see her in tears.”
“why should she cry, pray? she has all that she wants—a sure income and her liberty. at least, that is what she supposes; but we shall see.”
“you paint your devils so impossibly black, my dear,” said the rector, “that really they refute themselves. i am sorry to have to say it, but you are incapable of being just to this poor girl. however, as i own, tears had been a sign of grace.”
certainly she shed no tears, that any one could see. she was frequently in her room alone, and may have cried there. the rector made advances, by look, by gesture, even by words. he was not an effusive man; would sooner have died than have invited anybody to pray with him—but for all that he did put himself in her way, heart in hand, so to speak—and when she gently disregarded him he felt chilly.
she did not attend the funeral, nor did she choose, though she was urged, to be present at the reading of the will. she told the rector, who pressed this duty upon her, that she couldn’t oblige him. “please don’t ask me to do that. i have nothing to expect—and if he had left me anything i should have to think about it very seriously. he took me from nothing; i brought him nothing; he has done more for me, and allowed me to do more for my parents than i could ever have asked—even of him. i make no claims at all, and have no expectations. i have never thought about such things——”
“naturally, my child, naturally not. but—after such a shock as this—after the first pang of loss—it is wise to think of the future. you had no settlement, you know.”
“how could i?” she asked simply. he smiled at the question.
“well, my dear, well. your parents might reasonably have looked—my dear brother was very impulsive in some ways—i can’t doubt but that he intended to make proper provision. but he kept his affairs very much to himself—too much. however, at such a time—to judge the beloved dead—! no, no. for the same reason i can’t press you——”
“no—please do not,” she said, and turned to the window. he left her.
the will, then, was read before the rector and mrs. james, miss germain, and miss hester germain, and produced its effect. it bore the date of a month before the testator’s second marriage and was expressed to be made in view of that coming ceremony, and to take the place of any settlement. it left her porchfield house in farlingbridge, “otherwise known as the dowry house,” with all its furniture and household gear, and three thousand pounds a year charged upon his southover estate “so long as she remain chaste and unmarried.” mr. dockwra, solicitor, slurred his phrase, excusing it. mrs. james liked it extremely. in the case of remarriage, mary was to have five hundred pounds. that was all, said mr. dockwra, so far as mrs. germain was concerned; and he only said this much because he was asked by mrs. james germain if there was no further reference to her. for the rest the deceased gave handsome legacies to his sisters, though they were otherwise provided for, and liberal remembrances to his servants—annuities calculated upon their years of service; and referred to the fact that the southover property and the london property alike were in strict settlement upon his own children, should he have any, and, failing them, upon his brother james.
mr. dockwra then produced a small bundle of papers. “there was a codicil,” he said, “which bore date the 26th of august—a week before mr. germain’s wedding. by this document he left five hundred a year to “my cousin tristram duplessis,” so long as he remained unmarried.” thus tersely expressed, the rector started as if he had been shot, and his wife compressed her lips.
“i think that i should explain,” said mr. dockwra, “that this codicil was not drawn by me, and that i had no knowledge of its existence until the day after mr. germain’s death. mr. james germain, however, as executor, handed me then the sealed envelope containing it. that envelope contained one other paper—a telegram, which (as it has no obvious reference to the disposition) may have been put there by oversight. i shall hand it now to mr. germain.”
the rector took it, opened it, looked at it, and raised his eyebrows. presently he put it quietly on the table before him. mrs. james, without turning her head, read it. it was very short—middleham, hill-street, berkeley-square—look out. mrs. james smiled at her thoughts—and presently left the room.
mary must now be told what she had not cared to hear. the rector broke her the contents of the will but said nothing of the codicil. he had not asked his wife the meaning of that second document, and did not mean to. it pointed to a domestic mystery. without being a prude, all such matters were distasteful to him.
he was very kind, as he had always been. “you will be very comfortably left, you see, mary,” he said, “at any rate, let us say, while you are looking about you.”
mary had shown no more than a polite interest in his report. three thousand a year? porchfield? she may have been dazed, but she certainly was not dazzled. james germain reflected to himself on the ease with which one gets acclimatized. little more than two years ago this child was working hard for sixty pounds a year; now she hears that she is secured three thousand—without moving a muscle.
“i need not tell you,” he went on, “that your home is here or at southover for any length of time convenient to you. indeed, i am sure i might include the rectory in my general invitation. we have been so nearly related; i could not bear to think the tie severed by my dear brother’s death. apart from that, we have learned to love each other, i hope. i shall always look upon you as one of us—if you will let me; and your settlement at porchfield will be a reason the more to keep me at southover.”
“that is very kind of you, mr. germain,” mary said—but without enthusiasm. after a few more efforts, the worthy man left her alone.
it was then mrs. james’s turn. she came in, after knocking, with the telegram in her hand.
“this, i think, belongs to you,” she said.
mary took it, read it, and remembered. a quick flush of colour showed that she did.
“yes,” she said, “but it is of no importance now.” and she tore it across.
but mrs. james was not to be balked. “you must allow me to explain its importance. it was found in the envelope containing the codicil to my dear brother’s will—a codicil which he made within two days of your receiving it.”
mary, still looking out of the window, commented idly. “a codicil? was there a codicil? that meant that you changed your mind, didn’t it?”
“in this case,” said mrs. james, “it means, i think, that my dear brother explained his mind. i thought that the rector might have informed you.”
“no,” said mary. mrs. james cleared her throat and began to enjoy herself.
“by that he left five hundred a year to my cousin tristram duplessis—so long as he remained unmarried.”
mary was puzzled at first. she knew by the speaker’s tone that she was in disgrace—and connected it with duplessis at the mention of his name. she stared at the bitterly incisive lady. “mr. duplessis—five hundred—if he doesn’t marry? what has that to do with—?” she stopped—her eyes widened and deepened—showed fathomless. “ah!” she said, and picked up the torn paper. she read the date, august 24th. “what did you say was the date of the will?”
“it was a codicil,” said mrs. james.
“the date, please, the date,” mary asked her, fretfully.
“it was dated the 26th of august.”
jinny’s birthday! mary remembered it perfectly. he had had tea with the two of them, and she had clung to him afterwards, with a confession on the tip of her tongue. he had never been more loving to her than on that afternoon—and he had jinny’s telegram in his pocket—in his breast pocket—while she had clung sobbing to his breast! and he had left her that evening, full of love, as he had seemed to be, and gone home and tied tristram by the leg. ah—so he had known everything—always! before that night at exeter—he had known it from the beginning.
she sat very still—the telegram in her lap—and her eyes cast down, as she played idly with the pieces, lifting them up and letting them fall. the triumphant foe could see nothing but her heavy eyelids, and the fringe of her lashes curving upwards as they brushed her cheeks. if she expected victory she was to be disappointed.
“i am glad you sent him my telegram,” she said. “i am glad he knew about mr. duplessis and me.”
mrs. james lifted her head. “it was certainly advisable that he should be told. personally, i could not interfere. i told him nothing that may have presented itself to me——”
“no,” said mary, “of course not. it was no business of yours.” mrs. james jumped.
“it seems to me that it was very much a business of yours, if you will forgive me.”
“it was,” mary said. “and i told him all about it.”
mrs. james started. “i told him,” mary said, “on the night he died. he quite understood.”
“it is horrible to me,” cried mrs. james, “that he was kept in the dark so long.”
“he wasn’t at all in the dark,” mary said. “that is plain now. i wish that i had known it before.”
“you may well say so. apart from candour, apart from sincerity, surely it is the sacred duty of a married woman to have no secrets from her husband.”
mary looked up. she had the eyes of a woman acquainted with grief. “i am not a married woman,” she said. “i fancy that you must know it.”
