“The mother might have managed better, Rosie—why wasn’t I sent for? I’m the eldest and the heir, and I ought to have been here. Poor old papa—he would miss me, I know. He was fond of me because I was the biggest. He used to tell me things, I ought to have been sent for. Why didn’t she send for me, Rosalind?”

“I have told you before, Rex. We did not know. When I went out in the afternoon he was better and all going well; and when I came back— I had only been in the park—he was dying. Oh, you should be rather glad you were not there. He took no notice of any one, and death is terrible. I never understood what it was—”

Reginald was silent for a little. He was sufficiently awestricken even now by the sensation of the closed shutters and darkened house. “That may be,” he said, in a softened voice, “but though you did not know, she would know, Rosie. Do you think she wanted me not to be there? Russell says—”

“Don’t speak to me of that woman, Rex. She killed my father—”

“Oh, come, Rosie, don’t talk nonsense, you know. How could she kill him? She wanted to tell him something that apparently he ought to have known. It was that that killed him,” said the boy, with decision.

They were sitting together in one of the dark rooms; Reginald in the restless state of querulous and petulant unhappiness into which enforced seclusion, darkness, and the cessation of all active occupation warp natural sorrow in the mind of a young creature full of life and movement; Rosalind in the partially soothed exhaustion of strong but simple natural feeling. When she spoke of her father the tears came; but yet already this great event was over, and her mind was besieged, by moments, with thoughts of the new life to come. There were many things to think of. Would everything go on as before under the familiar roof, or would there be some change? And as for herself, what was to be done with her? Would they try to take her from the side of her mother and send her away among strangers? Mrs. Trevanion had retired after her husband’s death to take the rest she wanted so much. For twenty-four hours no one had seen her, and Jane had not allowed even Rosalind to disturb the perfect quiet. Since then she had appeared again, but very silent and self-absorbed. She was not less affectionate to Rosalind, but seemed further away from her, as if something great and terrible divided them. When even the children were taken to their mother they were frightened and chilled by the dark room and the cap which she had put on over her beautiful hair, and were glad when the visit was over and they could escape to their nursery, where there was light, and many things to play with. Sometimes children are the most sympathetic of all living creatures; but when it is not so, they can be the most hard-hearted. In this case they were impatient of the quiet, and for a long time past had been little accustomed to be with their mother. When she took the two little ones into her arms, they resigned themselves with looks half of fright at each other, but were very glad, after they had hugged her, to slip down and steal away. Sophy, who was too old for that, paced about and turned over everything. “Are those what are called widow’s caps, mamma? Shall you always wear them all your life, like old Widow Harvey, or will it only be just for a little while?” In this way Sophy made herself a comfort to her mother. The poor lady would turn her face to the wall and weep, when they hurried away, pleased to get free of her. And when Reginald came home, he had, after the first burst of childish tears, taken something of the high tone of the head of the house, resentful of not having been called in time, and disposed to resist the authority of Uncle John, who was only a younger brother. Madam had not got much comfort from her children, and between her and Rosalind there was a distance which wrung the girl’s heart, but which she did not know how to surmount.

“Don’t you know,” Reginald said, “that there was something that Russell had to tell him? She will not tell me what it was; but if it was her duty to tell him, how could it be her fault?”

“As soon as mamma is well enough to think of anything, Russell must go away.”

“You are so prejudiced, Rosalind. It does not matter to me; it is a long time since I had anything to do with her,” said the boy, who was so conscious of being the heir. “But for the sake of the little ones I shall object to that.”

“You!” cried Rosalind, with amazement.

“You must remember,” said the boy, “that things are changed now. The mother, of course, will have it all in her hands (I suppose) for a time. But it is I who am the head. And when she knows that I object—”

“Reginald,” his sister cried; “oh, how dare you speak so? What have you to do with it?—a boy at school.”

A flush came over his face. He was half ashamed of himself, yet uplifted by his new honors. “I may be at school—and not—very old; but I am Trevanion of Highcourt now. I am the head of the family, whatever Uncle John may say.”

Rosalind looked at her young brother for some time without saying anything, with an air of surprise. She said at last with a sigh, “You are very disappointing, Rex. I think most people are. One looks for something so different. I thought you would be sorry for mamma and think of her above everything, but it is of yourself you are thinking. Trevanion of Highcourt! I thought people had the decency to wait at least until— Papa is in the house still,” she added, with an overflow of tears.

At this Reginald, who was not without heart, felt a sudden constriction in his throat, and his eyes filled too. “I didn’t mean,” he said, faltering, “to forget papa.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Mamma, after all, won’t be so very much cut up, Rosie. He—bullied her awfully. I wouldn’t say a word, but he did, you know. And so I thought, perhaps, she might get over it—easier—”

To this argument what could Rosalind reply? It was not a moment to say it, yet it was true. She was confused between the claims of veracity and that most natural superstition of the heart which is wounded by any censure of the dead. She cried a little; she could not make any reply. Mrs. Trevanion did not show any sign of taking it easily. The occupation of her life was gone. That which had filled all her time and thoughts had been removed entirely from her. If love had survived in her through all that selfishness and cruelty could do to destroy it, such miracles have been known. At all events, the change was one to which it was hard to adapt herself, and the difficulty, the pain, the disruption of all her habits, even, perhaps, the unaccustomed thrill of freedom, had such a confusing and painful effect upon her as produced all the appearances of grief. This was what Rosalind felt, wondering within herself whether, after all she had borne, her mother would in reality “get over it easier,” as Reginald said—a suggestion which plunged her into fresh fields of unaccustomed thought when Reginald left her to make a half-clandestine visit to the stables; for neither grief nor decorum could quench in the boy’s heart the natural need of something to do. Rosalind longed to go and throw herself at her mother’s feet, and claim her old place as closest counsellor and confidante. But then she paused, feeling that there was a natural barrier between them. If it should prove true that her father’s death was a relief to his oppressed and insulted wife, that was a secret which never, never could be breathed in Rosalind’s ear. It seemed to the girl, in the absoluteness of her youth, as if this must always stand between them, a bar to their intercourse, which once had no barrier, no subjects that might not be freely discussed. When she came to think of it, she remembered that her father never had been touched upon as a subject of discussion between them; but that, indeed, was only natural. For Rosalind had known no other phase of fatherhood, and had grown up to believe that this was the natural development. When men were strong and well, no doubt they were more genial; but sick and suffering, what so natural as that wives and daughters, and more especially wives, should be subject to all their caprices? These were the conditions under which life had appeared to her from her earliest consciousness, and she had never learned to criticise them. She had been indignant at times and taken violently Mrs. Trevanion’s side; but with the principle of the life Rosalind had never quarrelled. She had known nothing else. Now, however, in the light of these revelations, and the penetration of ordinary light into the conditions of her own existence, she had begun to understand better. But the awakening had been very painful. Life itself had stopped short and its thread was broken. She could not tell in what way it was to be pieced together again.

Nothing could be more profoundly serious than the aspect of Uncle John as he went and came. It is not cheerful work at any time to make all the dismal arrangements, to provide for the clearing away of a life with all its remains, and make room for the new on the top of the old. But something more than this was in John Trevanion’s face. He was one of the executors of his brother’s will; he and old Mr. Blake, the lawyer, who had come over to Highcourt, and held what seemed a very agitating consultation in the library, from which the old lawyer came forth “looking as if he had been crying,” Sophy had reported to her sister. “Do gentlemen ever cry?” that inquisitive young person had added. Mr. Blake would see none of the family, would not take luncheon, or pause for a moment after he had completed his business, but kept his dog-cart standing at the door, and hurried off as soon as ever the conference was over, which seemed to make John Trevanion’s countenance still more solemn. As Reginald went out, Uncle John came into the room in which Rosalind was sitting. There was about him, too, a little querulousness, produced by the darkened windows and the atmosphere of the shut-up house.

“Where is that boy?” he said, with a little impatience. “Couldn’t you keep him with you for once in a way, Rosalind? There is no keeping him still or out of mischief. I did hope that you could have exercised a little influence over him—at this moment at least.”

“I wish I knew what to do, Uncle John. Unless I amuse him I cannot do anything; and how am I to amuse him just now?”

“My dear,” said Uncle John, in the causeless irritation of the moment, “a woman must learn to do that whether it is possible or not. Better that you should exert yourself a little than that he should drift among the grooms, and amuse himself in that way. If this was a time to philosophize, I might say that’s why women in general have such hard lives, for we always expect the girls to keep the boys out of mischief, without asking how they are to do it.” When he had said this, he came and threw himself down wearily in a chair close to the little table at which Rosalind was sitting. “Rosie,” he said, in a changed voice, “we have got a terrible business before us. I don’t know how we are to get out of it. My heart fails me when I think—”

Here his voice stopped, and he threw himself forward upon the table, leaning his elbow on it, and covering his face with his hand.

“You mean— Wednesday, Uncle John?” She put out her hand and slid it into his, which rested on the table, or rather placed it, small and white, upon the brown, clinched hand, with the veins standing out upon it, with which he had almost struck the table. Wednesday was the day appointed for the funeral, to which, as a matter of course, half the county was coming. She pressed her uncle’s hand softly with hers. There was a faint movement of surprise in her mind that he, so strong, so capable of everything that had to be done, should feel it so.

He gave a groan. “Of what comes after,” he said, “I can’t tell you what a terrible thing we have to do. God help that poor woman! God forgive her if she has done wrong, for she has a cruel punishment to bear.”

“Mamma?” cried Rosalind, with blanched lips.

He made no distinct reply, but sat there silent, with a sort of despair in the pose of every limb. “God knows what we are all to do,” he said, “for it will affect us all. You, poor child, you will have to judge for yourself. I don’t mean to say or suggest anything. You will have to show what mettle is in you, Rosalind; you as well as the rest.”

“What is this terrible thing?” said Rosalind. “Oh, Uncle John, can’t you tell me? You make me wretched; I fancy I don’t know what.”

John Trevanion raised himself from the table. His face was quite colorless. “Nothing that you can fear will be so bad as the reality,” he said. “I cannot tell you now. It would be wrong to say anything till she knows; but I am as weak as a child, Rosie. I want your hand to help me; poor little thing, there is not much strength in it. That hour with old Blake this morning has been too much both for him and me.”

“Is it something in the will?” cried Rosalind, almost in a whisper. He gave a little nod of assent, and got up and began to pace about the room, as if he had lost power to control himself.

“Charley Blake will not show. He is ashamed of his share in it; but I suppose he could do nothing. It has made him ill, the father says. There’s something—in Dante, is it?—about men being possessed by an evil spirit after their real soul is gone. I wonder if that is true. It would almost be a sort of relief to believe—”

“Uncle John, you are not speaking of my father?”

“Don’t ask any questions, Rosalind. Haven’t I told you I can’t answer you? The fact is, I am distracted with one thing and another, all the business coming upon me, and I can’t tell what I am saying. Where is that boy?”

“I think he has gone to the stables, Uncle John. It is hard upon him, being always used to the open air. He doesn’t know what to do. There is nothing to amuse him.”

“Oh, to be sure, it is necessary that his young lordship should be amused,” cried John, with something like a snarl of disgust. “Can’t you manage to keep him in the house at least, with your feminine influence that we hear so much of? Better anywhere than among those grooms, hearing tales, perhaps— Rosie, forgive me,” he cried, coming up to her suddenly, stooping over her and kissing her, “if I snap and snarl even at you, my dear; but I am altogether distracted, and don’t know what I am saying or doing. Only, for God’s sake, dance or sing, or play cards, or anything, it does not matter what you do, it will be a pious office; only keep him in-doors, where he will hear no gossip; that would be the last aggravation; or go and take him out for a walk, it will be better for you both to get into the fresh air.”