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“ . . . We shall be rich ere we depart If fairings come thus plentifully on.”

Love’s Labour’s Lost.

All through the five-and-twenty years of her daughter’s life Janie Dobie had striven to make plain paths for her feet, and Beatrice found that her mother, in dying, had not failed her. Plans had been carefully made so that everything would be as easy as possible.

It was to be a private funeral, with no flowers. “For,” as Mrs. Dobie had told her lawyer, “it’s no use bothering busy people to come to a funeral; ask the few that it would hurt not to be asked. As for flowers it would simply mean that numbers of people who couldn’t afford it would order wreaths; I hate a mass of decaying vegetation anyway. I know I have my friends’ good wishes on my journey and that’s all I want.”

On the evening of the funeral day Beatrice was ashamed to find herself conscious of a distinct feeling of relief. These dreadful days were past, days of drawn blinds and hushed voices, dressmaker’s boxes and masses of crinkling paper; herself standing before a mirror which reflected an unfamiliar black-clad figure with a blanched scared face; the arrival of her step-brother Samuel, the difficult conversation, the length of the meals; the terror of the nights when sleep kept far off and she lay and listened for she knew not what, thinking all the time of the voice that all her life had fallen so comfortably on her ears: “Are you all right, darling? Mother’s here.”

Surely, thought Beatrice, the worst was over. Samuel was going away in the morning, the blinds would be pulled up, life would begin again. There was even a vague feeling of anticipation, for now that she was on her own she would be able to do exactly what she pleased. Clothes, for instance. Her mother had always chosen things for her, or, at least, had advised, and sometimes Beatrice had not had the things she liked best. And her hair. Mrs. Dobie had thought it a pity to cut the wavy golden fleece. She had said, “It’s too soft, my dear; not thick enough to shingle, you’d look like a canary!” Beatrice had not believed it, and now she could make sure.

But even as she made up her mind to change things, desolation flooded over her at the thought of what she had lost. How could she find her way in a cold world, deprived of the personality that was like the sun in its warmth and cheer?

They sat together, Sir Samuel Dobie and his step-sister, at dinner. It was a good dinner, for the cook had been many years in the house, and knew exactly what her mistress would have ordered, the waiting was perfect, and Sir Samuel was feeling mellow. He looked at Beatrice in her black lace dress, with her shining hair smoothly combed into a loose knot, with approval. He told himself that she looked lady-like. Of course it was an absurd thing to look in these days—he had a highly-coloured wife and daughter at home, so he knew—but still, it was rather nice. Poor little thing! She must be feeling lonely. He had told Betha when the telegram came summoning him to Glasgow that he would have to ask his step-sister to come to them at Portland Place. Betha had replied, “Must you?” in no very cordial tone, and had rushed off to her next pressing engagement. But Betha must understand that in this matter he was master in his own house. After all, blood counted for something, and this was his father’s daughter; he was her trustee and nearest relative, and it wasn’t as if the girl was not well dowered; with her looks and the money she would soon be somebody else’s responsibility. . . . He thought kindly, sitting there, of his step-mother. A sensible woman. They had always got on well together. She had been no trouble to him in life, nor, as it happened, in death, for it suited him quite well to be in Glasgow at this time. Not, of course, that he would have grudged coming up on purpose, but still. . . . He was truly sorry that she should have died in the prime of life—why she was only five years older than he was!—but there was no blinking the fact that the money that would now come to him would be very welcome. True, he was a wealthy man, but these were anxious days, and he had an expensive household, a terribly expensive household. Really Betha seemed to have lost all sense of the value of money. It was ridiculous, because it wasn’t as if she had been brought up in luxury. Quite the reverse. He had rather stooped, he always felt, in his marriage, but Betha had had taking ways as a young girl, and he was only human after all. She had made a good wife too, up to her lights, but she had always insisted on over-indulging the children, and now the boy and girl absolutely ruled the house; the place was turned upside down at their pleasure. . . . He turned his head and studied the face of the lady in the velvet gown above the mantelpiece. What would his mother have thought of her granddaughter?

He sighed, then realised that he was eating an excellent bit of fish.

“Very good salmon,” he said.

Beatrice, deep in her own thoughts, started slightly.

“Yes,” she said, “we always get good fish.”

“The best of everything in Glasgow, eh?” said Sir Samuel jocularly. “Well, there are worse places. After London, of course, it’s provincial, but quite a good place to live in. The people are easy to know, and pleasant to deal with. Your poor mother seems to have been quite a personage. Yes, you would have been gratified at the tributes paid to her by old friends whom I spoke to at the funeral.”

“Yes,” said Beatrice, trying not to mind the condescending tone, “mother did a lot of public work. She liked it.”

“And was well fitted for it,” said Sir Samuel, handsomely. “Ah, yes, women are coming more and more into public life. It seems ungallant to object, but one wonders, one wonders.”

Beatrice looked rather hopelessly at the slice of roast beef on the plate laid before her, as she said, “Don’t you think women are as capable as men of doing most things?”

Sir Samuel was helping himself to mustard, and paused with the large Georgian silver pot in his hand, pursing his lips at his step-sister.

“I think not,” he said finally. “Many of them have a superficial cleverness, but they don’t last the course, if you understand the expression.”

“But,” Beatrice protested, not because she cared, but merely to keep the ball of conversation rolling, “surely there are many women who are much more than superficially clever. The Duchess of Atholl, for instance, Maude Royden, and, and, oh, dozens more.”

Sir Samuel smiled kindly. “Those are merely the exceptions that prove the rule. What, I ask you, have women done in the House of Commons?”

Beatrice was about to reply, but realising in time that it was a rhetorical question she laid down her knife and fork, drank a little water, and prepared to study her step-brother while he addressed her.

He was a tall man, with a large smooth face, a high, slightly receding forehead and a fluent-looking mouth with slightly protruding teeth. He was good-looking and very well dressed, and his appearance always predisposed an audience in his favour. As her mother had reminded Beatrice he was her nearest relative, almost, in fact, her only one. She sat, hardly listening, wondering what he was like, this large man, in his own house, what his wife thought of him, if his children believed in him. . . . She hardly knew Lady Dobie. There was nothing to bring the lady to Glasgow, and when Beatrice and her mother had passed through London it was generally holiday-time and the house in Portland Place was in the hands of caretakers. When the children were quite small they had been sent for several summers to Greenbraes, the house at the coast, and she, Beatrice, had adored the funny, sophisticated little Londoners, and had played with them by the hour. But that, she reminded herself, was years ago. They would be very different now. Why, Elaine was twenty and Stewart was at Oxford.

The dinner, which had seemed to Beatrice endless, was drawing to a conclusion. Sir Samuel, who had passed the sweet, was having a second helping of savoury, explaining as he did so, “I’ve no use for sweets; leave them to the ladies. Sweets to the sweet, as the immortal William said. . . . I hope you’re fond of poetry, Beatrice? I used to read reams. Poetry’s good for the young. Browning, now. I used to write papers on Browning. But the cares of the world, you know. Ah, yes, yes. ‘Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.’ I hope so, I’m sure, but really one has little time to think of anything but the things of the moment. . . . All week I rush between the office and the House; on Sundays I like a round at golf and a rest, but Betha and Elaine have generally other views. But tell me about yourself. Did you help your mother in her various activities? Or have you branched out on a line of your own?”

Beatrice shook her head. “I’m afraid,” she said, “that I’m not really much good at anything. I don’t seem to have been given any special talent, so I do the listening.”

“Delightful,” said Sir Samuel. “And so necessary! So many people want to talk and so few to listen. Your popularity must be great.”

“I haven’t noticed it,” said Beatrice. “No, I don’t think I’m a success in any way. It didn’t matter when I had mother. I helped her, and basked in her popularity, but now——”

Sir Samuel made a grave face. “Ah, yes, this is indeed a sad blow to you. . . . Have you thought at all what you would like to do? I don’t suppose you would care to stay on here? No, I thought not. I mean to sell this house, in fact I’ve had an offer for it. Yes, it’s remarkable in these days when large houses are going for an old song, but of course it’s a very good position, and your mother kept it in such a beautiful state of repair. As you know, Greenbraes is yours. Would you care to live there for a bit? No—no, there’s no hurry in making a decision. You must look on my house as home in the meantime. You will come to us when you finish up here. It will only be a case of packing your own belongings, and disposing of your mother’s personal effects. . . .” He looked round the room. “If there is anything that you have a special liking for just let me know and it’ll be arranged. I’ve forgotten what’s in the house. If you’re not too tired d’you mind if we go over it to-night? I shall have to leave after breakfast—and get my business done and catch the midday train to London. No, no,” as Beatrice sprang up, prepared at once to do as was suggested, “let’s have our coffee in comfort; the house won’t run away. . . . Yes, it really is exceedingly fortunate to find a purchaser just to my hand, so to speak. And did I tell you he’s willing to take the furniture if we can come to an arrangement? I gathered it was wanted for a club or something of that sort. It’s none of my business so long as the money’s forthcoming.”

He laughed, and Beatrice smiled as seemed required, but she was almost dazed at the sudden way things were happening.

When they had drunk their coffee Sir Samuel rose, saying, “Well, Beatrice, shall we go through the house now? If a thing’s got to be done get it done at once. That’s a good rule in life—whether it means getting out a tooth or an appendix, or anything else unpleasant.”

Sir Samuel laughed aloud at his little joke; and Beatrice politely echoed the laugh, while she said to herself: “Mother’s funeral day and I’m laughing!”

She rang the bell and told the maid who answered it that Fairlie was wanted, and presently Fairlie appeared.

She was a short, stout woman with a comely face and the manner of a privileged old servant.

Beatrice said, “You remember Fairlie, don’t you, Samuel? She knows what’s in the house much better than I do.”

“Oh, yes.” Sir Samuel beamed in his best “constituency” manner and shook hands heartily, remarking: “I remember you in my father’s time.”

“So you will,” said Fairlie, encouragingly. “I came here when Miss Be’trice was one month old, and Mrs. Dobie was the best friend I ever had or am like to have. What we’ve lost! And not only us but dozens of folk she kept on their feet; it’s as if we’d all lost a shelter and a support.”

Beatrice turned quickly away, and Sir Samuel said, “Quite so. Mrs. Dobie was a splendid person in every way. . . . Ahem . . . I was telling Miss Beatrice that I thought perhaps we should go through the house together while we have time. To-morrow I must get back to London. . . . It seems you can tell us about things. You’ll have an inventory?”

“No’ me,” said Fairlie. “We never had any use for such a thing; we never let the house. But I’ve looked after the napery and silver and everything for years, and I can tell you what’s in the house almost to a towel.”

“Ah, yes, but everything will have to be gone carefully over by a valuator. What about the silver? Is it any good? I’ve forgotten. We might look at that.”

“Ay,” Fairlie agreed. “It’s quite handy in the chest in the pantry. You just sit down and I’ll get some one to give me a hand with it.”

Beatrice and her step-brother sat down as directed, and Beatrice, looking across at the face of the first Mrs. Dobie over the fireplace, said, “You will take that picture, won’t you?”

Sir Samuel walked over and studied the portrait.

“It’s large,” he said, “and dull. I can’t think where I’d hang it in Portland Place. Elaine wouldn’t let it into the drawing-room, and it would be hopelessly out of place in the dining-room. It’s well painted though—that velvet. . . . If you’d care to have it, Beatrice . . . ?”

The girl hesitated, but before she could speak Sir Samuel hit on a plan.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Let’s send it down to Greenbraes. It would look very well in the dining-room there. That sort of large coast villa is the proper setting for that sort of portrait. Besides, I remember my mother was very fond of Greenbraes, so it’s quite fitting that her portrait should find a home there—I suppose you’ll let the place? There’s no point in having it stand empty.”

“It isn’t empty exactly,” Beatrice said. “A couple live in it as caretakers, and in the spring and autumn mother used to send people down who needed a rest. She called it her private holiday-home.”

Sir Samuel was looking at the other pictures. “Ah, yes,” he said, “that was very nice of your mother. She had a large heart and—I may add—a large income. My father left his widow exceedingly well provided for, and she had full control of everything.”

“I expect,” said Beatrice, flushing pink, “I expect he knew he could trust mother to use the money as he would have wished. He was generous too.”

“Quite, quite,” Sir Samuel’s tone was conciliatory. “They both belonged to a generous age. People could afford to give in my father’s day. Those were solid secure times. Now everything is uncertain. It’s no joke, I can tell you, Beatrice, to have large responsibilities in these days—Ah! here comes the family plate.”

Fairlie, assisted by a housemaid, carried in the chest, which she unlocked solemnly, and proceeded to exhibit its contents with pride.

Sir Samuel picked out a spoon. “About 1875,” he said, “when my father married.”

“There’s three dozen of each of these,” said Fairlie, “soup-spoons, dessert-spoons, forks, big and little, and further down there’s awful bonnie thin plain ones—Georgian, I think, my mistress called them. She liked them best, though of course they hav’na the look of the heavy ones. . . . And then there’s three tea-and-coffee services. Oh! and ongtray-dishes and a silver soup-tureen, and trays and salvers galore. I aye wanted the mistress to keep them in the bank, the world’s that lawless turned.”

“Yes—well, I might keep the Georgian stuff, but the rest had better be sold. Thank you, Fairlie; lock it up again. I’ll see that an inventory’s made at once. . . . Now, Beatrice, shall we go to the drawing-room? Excuse my going first,” and he ran like a boy up the stairs.

Beatrice followed slowly, wondering what her mother would have said to her stepson’s interest in his new possessions. She would have been amused, Beatrice thought. She wondered if her mother could see them now. Did she notice, perhaps, that the new black lace dress that Beatrice wore did not fit? It was part of the “mourning order” she had given to the shop where she and her mother had been in the habit of getting most of their clothes. The head dressmaker had come herself—tightly encased in black satin, and sniffing mournfully, for she had sincerely liked the cheerful, considerate customer who had been so easy to dress—and advised Beatrice as to what she would need.

“Just a nice morning frock, and mebbe a coat and skirt, and something for the evening is all you need to begin with. Black is not worn as it used to be. I remember when it was a year’s deep black for a parent, but now it’s black and white or grey from the very start, and every vestige off before the year’s out. But I’m sure, Miss Be’trice, you’ll want to wear real mourning for your Mamma, for she was a dear soul.” She slipped a frock over the girl’s head. “Yes, I used to feel that the sun had come out when she dropped in. She always asked after my mother, and wanted to know how my neuritis was keeping before she began about her own affairs. Ucha, that’s not bad, Miss Be’trice. You’re stock size and that’s a great help at a time like this. . . . Look in the glass. D’you like it yourself? You can wear black with your hair and skin, and you should be thankful, for some people look awful! Though it’s wonderful, too, what you can do with a touch of white, and there’s this about black, I always say it subdues ladies who are too what you might call rash in their colours. You’d be surprised at the trouble I have, to keep high-coloured, full figures away from puce, and even bright red. Some of them seem to have no control over themselves with regard to colour—just like some people with drink—so it’s a mercy in a way, though of course it’s a pity for the reason, when they’re compelled to wear black. Yes, I don’t think you could do better than that. Will you try this lace dress? I thought it would be nice and soft for you and younger than satin or crepe de chine. You suit the cape at the back. Isn’t it awful graceful?”

But it was the cape at the back that was the trouble, and Beatrice almost imagined she could feel the twitch her mother’s hand would have given it to make it hang properly.

Sir Samuel looked round the drawing-room with an appraising eye, and Beatrice watched him. This was the most familiar place in life to her. Here she had played as a child while her mother wrote letters, for she had never been kept strictly to the nursery. She had often done her lessons here too, and painted pictures, and made up stories and games. Here, later on, she had helped her mother to entertain, making anxious conversation with middle-aged gentlemen and their comfortable, complacent ladies. And what happy evenings they had had when they were alone, reading aloud, listening to the wireless, talking, laughing, never tiring for a moment of each other’s company.

“I remember this room when I was a child,” said Sir Samuel, “in my mother’s lifetime. It had a sort of terra-cotta silk panels then and was considered very magnificent. I’m afraid there’s nothing of any particular value in it.” He peered at the china in a cabinet. “There may be some good things here; we’ll know when they’re valued. I remember my father was keen about china. Some of these rugs might go to Portland Place; I wish I could find room for that bureau and those chairs, for there’s no market for antiques at present. . . . Anything here you’d like to have as a keepsake?”

Beatrice had an impulse to gather the room in her arms and cry, “You can’t take it from me; it’s mine because of its memories.” But what was a room when the spirit that had made it home was gone? So she replied, “I think not, thank you.”

“It seems you’re no sentimentalist,” said her step-brother. “Perhaps it’s as well. There’s no place for sentiment in the modern world. What a hard world it is I hope you’ll never know. I’ve been blessed—or cursed—with a feeling heart, and when I’ve got to tell men who’ve been all their lives in the business, who thought they were safe for life, and were educating their children well, and buying their little suburban villas, that we can’t afford to keep them on and must replace them by younger, cheaper men—I assure you, Beatrice, it makes me utterly wretched.”

“But must you dismiss them?” Beatrice asked. “Couldn’t you keep them on—perhaps at a lower salary—till you see if things improve? It’s too dreadful to think of those men and their wives and families left stranded—for how could they save when they had to buy their houses and keep their children at good schools? Clerks, too, who won’t easily get another job. And those are the people you can’t help, for they won’t speak. Sometimes—often, I’m afraid, it’s a case of the whole firm coming down, but if the heads of the business have still money to go on with, I do think it’s up to them to help on their men.”

Sir Samuel gave a short laugh as he said, “Ah, my dear girl, it’s easily seen that you know nothing about business questions; business isn’t a charitable institution. We can’t afford, as I said, to be sentimental. To keep going at all means the strictest attention to details; no leakage allowed anywhere. The same thing in my own house. I go over the books carefully myself. Of course economy in a house like ours is very difficult, for we entertain largely. Have to. My position, you know, and Betha has a wide circle of friends, Elaine, too, has her own. I can’t insist on economy as I would like, for servants have to be carefully considered. One daren’t disaffect them for they are more difficult to find than hid treasure. Fortunately we have a most efficient cook-housekeeper who runs things very well, for Betha hasn’t really time, and Elaine is taken up with her own affairs. But you will see for yourself when you come. Betha will write. . . . I see you have the wireless here—what time is it? We might listen to the news . . . a great invention, isn’t it?”