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Title: May; vol. II
Author: Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "May; vol. II" ***
EACH VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 1324.
MAY BY MRS. OLIPHANT
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. 2.
LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
PARIS: C. REINWALD & Cⁱᵉ, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES.
_This Collection is published with copyright for Continental
circulation, but all purchasers are earnestly requested not to
introduce the volumes into England or into any British Colony._
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 vols.
MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol.
AGNES 2 vols.
MADONNA MARY 2 vols.
THE MINISTER’S WIFE 2 vols.
THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 1 vol.
SALEM CHAPEL 2 vols.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE 2 vols.
MISS MARJORIBANKS 2 vols.
OMBRA 2 vols.
MEMOIR OF COUNT MONTALEMBERT 2 vols.
MAY.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“THE MINISTER’S WIFE,” ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION._
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1873.
_The Right of Translation is reserved._
MAY.
CHAPTER I.
Marjory, as may be supposed, heard nothing of the tragi-comic commotion
which she had left behind her. Her drive in the old carriage, the sight
of many familiar things and places for the first time, after so much had
passed which had separated her from her old world, roused her half
painfully, half pleasantly. Every corner of the peaceful road, every
cottage on the way, made its separate stab at her; so many remembrances
which had fallen dormant in her mind, remembrances of “the boys,” which
from sheer familiarity and easiness of recollection had fallen out of
recollection, started up in new life before her. She seemed to hear the
shouts of their school time, and to see them, not men but lads, in their
innocence and foolishness, about every turning. This wounded her sore,
and yet gave her a sort of happiness. It was not like the drear blank of
disappearance, the superseding of them, and calm passing on of the
unconcerned world, which had stupefied her mind. Thus the change did her
good as people say; and perhaps the sight of Miss Jean did her good, and
the harsh yet true kindness which spoke so despotically and acted so
gently. But when she was safely housed in the High Street, a great
reaction set in. So long as daylight lasted, Marjory turned her wistful
eyes along the line of the coast towards the east, where the mansion
house of Pitcomlie stood out on its headland, with something of the
feelings which moved her on her drive. She sat there and recalled
stories of her youth, feats which “the boys” had done, hairbreadth
escapes, old dead jokes of the past, pitifullest of recollections. All
these came up and buzzed about her. She smiled and wondered to find
herself amused by memories which ought, she felt, to have been anything
but amusing. These realizations of the past were sharp and poignant in
the pain of their sorrow; but at the same time they were sweet.
It was only when night fell, when the silence of the small house fell
round her, when the few people about were all asleep, and the street,
upon which her room looked out, was quiet as the grave, that the
pleasure of these recollections failed. She got chilled in the mournful
silence. It was a still night, and the sound from the sea came very
softly upon her ear, like a cadence measured and gentle. All was very
still in Miss Jean’s maiden habitation. The two maids slept down stairs
at a distance from the other rooms. They went to bed at ten o’clock, as
indeed did the little town with very few exceptions. Looking out from
her window, as Marjory did by habit, being used to look out every night
upon the sea, she saw opposite to her, in place of the intermittent
gleam of the lighthouse to which she was accustomed, a steady glimmer
in young Hepburn’s window, which was opposite. That was the only sign of
fellowship in all the shadowy silent little town, where there was a
sense of the presence of others without any sign of friendliness from
them. This light roused in Marjory a vague uneasiness in the midst of so
many other heavy thoughts. What was it that it recalled to her? Some
other kind of light, some other sympathy. She dropped the blind and went
in, and sat down wearily. A stifling sense of loss and dreary vacancy
came upon her.
All her life long Pitcomlie and its interests had been her first
thought. She had become the mistress of the house at a very early age,
when she was little more than a child; and through all her subsequent
life this care and occupation was all to her that a man’s purpose is to
him, filling her mind and mixing itself with all her expectations.
Marjory had never loved any man with that strong and personal affection
which overcomes all hindrances; but she had been loved and wooed, and no
doubt, but for this, might have married one of her suitors or another.
She had not, however, found herself able--she had not “had time” to let
such an idea seize hold upon her mind. It had seemed so impossible that
Pitcomlie, her father, her uncle, her baby-sister, and in the earlier
period of her incumbency, “the boys,” could do without her. It was
impossible, quite impossible, she had said, when any dawn of inclination
seemed rising within her. Thus she set herself and her own life aside as
a secondary thing, and gave herself up to duties which an illness or an
accident might terminate at any moment, without help or warning, leaving
her stranded high and dry upon the shore. Women are trained to make such
sacrifices, and make them daily, with the reward of being smiled at as
old maids a little later, by their juniors who have known no such bond
of duty. Marjory was far beyond the possibility of feeling such a
penalty. She was thinking nothing of the consequences, nor of what her
future life should be. What she felt was that the use of her was over,
that her duties were finally done, that Pitcomlie wanted her no more,
nor anyone, nor any place; her work in the world seemed accomplished.
She had no longer anything to do for her family whom she had served with
loyal devotion for so long. She had been their servant, and yet in a
certain sense their mistress; but the duties of both offices were over.
She was cast adrift; look where she might, she saw in the blank world
before her nothing more to be done, which in any way resembled the
office she had filled all her life. The only charge remaining to her was
Milly; but after all to superintend the education of a child is very
different from the many and various occupations which belong to the
guidance of a family, the regulation of all domestic affairs, the
interests moral and material with which she had been accustomed to deal.
A general deprived of his command, a sailor with his ship taken from
him, could not have been more at a loss than this young woman, suddenly
deprived of the occupations which had given character and meaning to
all her past existence. She sat down drearily in Miss Jean’s best room,
amid all the dark old furniture, leaning her elbows upon an old
escritoire which had belonged to her great-grandfather, and fixing her
eyes unaware upon a portrait of that great-grandfather’s mother. All
around her was old, shadowy, still. It seemed to her that she herself
had glided into the midst of those shadows to take a permanent place
among them. The long silent procession of ancestors and ancestresses
seemed to take possession of her, to draw her, a silent follower into
their silent train. The very house and room seemed to exercise a certain
fascination over her. They seemed to put their veto upon all change,
novelty, movement of every kind. The High Street of Comlie, grass-grown
and silent, the monotonous continued cadence of the sea, the little
round of occupations which were no occupations, the position of
spectator, sometimes bitterly, always disapprovingly critical of
everything that went on at the house she had once ruled--was this all
that remained for Marjory Hay-Heriot at twenty-five, as it was all that
had fallen to the lot of Jean Hay-Heriot, and of many a proud silent
gentlewoman besides, who had lived and died so, and scorned to complain?
Perhaps a milder and meeker woman would have seen a point of duty still
remaining, which Marjory did not recognise. I am aware that, especially
in books, there are sisters who would have devoted themselves to the
self-denying task of watching over the new household at Pitcomlie,
guiding the young widow in the way in which she should go, and helping
to train up a new and worthy representative of the family in the person
of little Tommy, the future Laird. This, however, was an aspect of the
matter which did not occur to Marjory. The fact that these new people
were Charlie’s wife and connections, I am afraid, exercised a repelling
rather than attractive effect upon her. Their existence seemed almost a
wrong to Charlie. Marjory made haste to separate his memory, poor
fellow, from that of the strangers who had come in by accident, as it
were, and snatched the home of her fathers out of her hands. She was too
proud to say a word of complaint, and too sensible not to recognize
fully the right of the new-comers. Nay, she was even impartial enough to
compel herself to understand how Matilda’s impatience to take possession
of her new rights might be justified. But the reason often recognizes
what the heart does not admit; and to range herself on the side of Mrs.
Charles was utterly impossible to Charlie’s sister. The best thing she
could now do was to forget Pitcomlie altogether, she said to herself.
The worst thing, and unfortunately the most likely, was that she should
become, like Miss Jean, the critic of Pitcomlie, half-consciously on the
outlook for its follies, and judging it severely, perceiving all its
mistakes, and scarcely sorry for them. Marjory, who was no model of
womankind, felt within herself all the capability for doing this. She
felt that it was possible to her, and shrank with dismay from the
thoughts.
Thus her heart was sick with more than grief--with the sense as of a
heavy curtain which had fallen over her life, an ending put to all that
was worthy of being called life in it. Her existence had stopped, but
she continued. How many of us have felt this! and what poor expedients
some are put to, to invent for themselves such excuses for living as may
cheat the vacancy into some reasonable semblance! This cannot happen,
fortunately, at twenty-five; but Marjory felt, as was natural, that
twenty-five was a great age, and that she had outlived all the new
openings, all the possibilities of youthful existence. Miss Hay-Heriot,
of the High Street of Comlie, like her great-aunt Jean, and many
great-aunts before that, with all the use died out of her, and nothing
to do but live. If she had been brought up to it, Marjory thought to
herself, she would have minded less; but what a strange and dismal
contrast from the life she had been brought up to--the busy existence
full of care which she had lived only a fortnight since, appealed to on
every side, found fault with, looked up to, with so many disagreeable
offices thrust upon her, and work which she would gladly have got rid
of! Now she had got rid of all her work at a stroke, and the cares
seemed happiness to her in comparison with the blank which their absence
left.
When her thoughts came to this point, however, they changed with a
sudden start and spring. For there was something she had to do which no
one now would dream of interfering with. It was late by this time, the
middle of the night in Comlie, where everybody was up by six o’clock,
and Marjory was half afraid to move about the old room, where every
board creaked under her foot. But she opened her box, which was near
her, and took from it poor Tom’s little desk, in which she had found his
bills and his useless treasures. From thence she took out the packet
which she had made up so carefully with the list and calculations which
had given her so much trouble, and which it had grieved her so much to
think of explaining to her father. Her father had got off without
hearing of them, without any posthumous stab from his dead son. The stab
had gone into Marjory’s breast to have the edge blunted, and there it
remained. Surely, she thought, with some natural tears, some good angel
had watched over him, to give him an easy dismissal out of this hard
world. He had never known that Tom had deceived him; he had never known
that Charlie had died. But some one must always pay the penalty for such
exemptions. Marjory took out her own calculations in the middle of the
night, in the stillness, among all the shadows, and looked at the list
ruefully enough. There was nobody now but herself to do it. Tom’s memory
was nothing to the new possessors of Pitcomlie, to no one, indeed,
except herself, and perhaps one other, one helpless creature, who was
breaking her heart it might be, somewhere, with no right to mourn, no
power to vindicate. It gave Marjory, however, a little shock to feel the
vulgar aspect of this sole thing which it remained to her to do for the
family. It put Isabell out of her mind, so potent is the force of a bit
of harsh reality over all gentler thoughts. To pay Tom’s debts; that
was what she had to do. She almost smiled by herself at the difference
between her theoretical sense of high devotion to her own people, and
the perfectly prosaic yet disagreeable form which that devotion must
take. There was nothing lofty in it to swell her heart, or give her the
elevating consciousness of a noble duty. It would only make her so much
the poorer, abridge her capabilities, and perhaps procure for her some
irritating and troublesome discussions with the “man of business,” who
would not understand the necessity. But still it had to be done. Marjory
swept all the papers impatiently back, when this fact made itself
apparent to her. She was more sick than ever of everything about her. I
don’t know if a little annoyance at the absolute loss of so much money
had anything to do with this feeling. I doubt very much whether it had,
for money was little more than a symbol to Marjory. But a certain
whimsical sense of an anti-climax--of a mean necessity following a grand
intention--crossed her mind, disposing her half to laugh, and half to
cry. Yes, it seemed dismal beyond measure to have come to an end of all
her duties, to have nothing now to do for her family, whose prime
minister she had been all her life; but to be roused from the painful
depression of that thought to a consciousness of still having Tom’s
debts to pay! This sordid claim upon her, enveloped in a cloud of petty
misery, of meanness, and unworthiness, and shifts, and falsehood, what
otherwise was the mournfullest tragedy. Marjory pushed all the papers
away, almost throwing them into the escritoire in the movement of her
impatience--and went to bed. The most sensible thing to do, no doubt;
but meaning an amount of provoked temper, annoyance, vexation, and half
ludicrous despair, which we will not attempt to describe.
During the next week, the half of Fife drove into the High Street to
leave cards and pay visits of condolence. Such of them as were received
in Miss Jean’s old-fashioned drawing-room, were edified with an account
of the shortcomings of Mrs. Chairles which made it difficult for these
ladies to maintain the gravity proper to the occasion. But as for
Marjory, she had the cards for her share; Miss Jean concluded that for a
young woman who had lost her father and two brothers in so short a space
of time, to be able to see any one, was an idea which was almost
indecent--not to say criminal. Miss Jean was strong on this point,
though her social code was lax on others; she spoke of her niece in
subdued tones, as of an invalid; she was, “poor thing, as well as you
could expect--not able for much, but resigned, and trying to bear her
trouble like a Christian woman.” This was her old aunt’s description of
poor Marjory’s half-stupefied, half-excited state, and of the
superabundant life and energy which she felt within her. The old lady
ordered her old carriage daily for a drive, which Marjory took with
resignation, through the roads which were so familiar to her, where she
seemed to know not only every turn, but every leaf upon every tree, and
every blade of green corn which began to rise in the fields. After
taking this exercise, which was her duty, Marjory had to resign herself
to remain indoors; her longing for the beach, where the measured rising
and falling of the sea was soothing to her, was considered by Miss Jean
an illegitimate craving not to be encouraged.
“It’s all imagination, all imagination. What good could the sea do ye?
Sit at the back window, and ye’ll hear it, sometimes more than ye wish,”
she said, with a shiver, thinking of the stormy wintry nights.
Sometimes, however, Marjory was permitted to stray round the churchyard,
and renew the flowers which, with a weakness which Miss Jean denounced,
yet gave in to, she had placed upon the graves. She did this in the
evening, when Comlie was beginning to close its windows, and few people
saw her glide across the road in her black dress. On one of these
occasions, however, Marjory found other people before her in the
churchyard. Generally it was very quiet, the loneliest place, with its
old sixteenth century monuments standing up around, guarding it from the
approach of anything more novel. The two figures before her attracted
little attention from her at first, till she perceived that the corner
which attracted them was that which contained the Pitcomlie vault. They
came back again and again to that spot, the man diverging now and then,
the woman ever returning. When Marjory’s attention was fully roused by
this, it seemed to her that she recollected the woman’s figure. She was
of the middle size, of very ordinary dress and appearance, like a
hundred others who might have been met in Comlie High Street; but there
was something in her outline and the little gestures she made as she
called back her companion, which attracted Marjory’s attention.
“Come back, John, come back; there is nothing I care for here but one
thing,” she said, leaning upon the very railing where Miss Heriot’s own
steps were bound. Marjory went up to her lightly and swiftly, and laid
her hand on her shoulder. She turned round with a suppressed cry. It was
the same young woman, round, ruddy, and commonplace, but with a serious
look in her eyes which gave her a certain dignity, whom Marjory had
spoken with at Pitcomlie the night before her father’s funeral. The girl
gave a visible start, changed colour, and called again, “Come back,
John!” with an air of something like fright. Then she made an effort,
and recovered command of herself. She made Marjory a slight curtsey, and
confronted her steadily. “Were you wanting something with me, mem?” she
said.
“I want to know what you have to do at my brother’s grave?” said
Marjory, breathless; “what you have to do with him? Won’t you tell me?
There is nothing I would not give to know. Oh! tell me! I do not blame
you. I mean no harm of any kind; but I want to know.”
“Wha said I had anything to do with either him or his grave?” said the
young woman.
Her companion, attracted by the voices, drew near suddenly, and stood as
if to stop further conversation between the two. The stranger gave one
indifferent glance up at him, and then went on:
“I’ll no pretend I don’t know ye. You’re Miss Heriot, and I’m but a poor
lass; but I’ve a right to walk in a place like this, if I like--to read
the gravestones, if I like.”
“Oh, tell me!” said Marjory, too much excited to notice the air which
her companion attempted to give to the discussion. “I mean no harm; tell
me only who you are, and if you belong to Isabell.”
“What does the lady know about Isabell?” asked the man, interrupting
suddenly.
“Nothing but her name,” said Marjory; “nothing but her name! and that
she cared for my brother. I am not blaming her, or you. I mean no
unkindness. I only want to know--to see her--to find out--”
“Miss Heriot,” said the young woman, “you’ll find out nothing with my
will; you’re naething to us, and we’re naething that I ken of to you. If
ever there was anything to tell, you would hear, like others. But dinna
interfere with us. Poor folk have rights as well as their betters. I
will answer nae questions, and neither shall any that belongs to me.”
She turned away abruptly; but the man hesitated. He brought her back,
plucking at her shawl.
“The lady means no harm,” he said. “She says so; and if there’s nothing
to be ashamed of--”
“Oh, hold your tongue!” cried the girl, in a tone of exasperation. “It
is me that has to judge, and I’ve made up my mind. Hold your peace,
man! You would believe whatever was told you with a soft voice and a
pleasant look. She stands up for her ain, and we stand for ours. There’s
nae fellowship nor friendship between us. Good night to ye, mem; we’ll
disturb you no longer. Man! cannot you hold your tongue?”
“If there was just reason--” he said, still hesitating.
The young woman clutched at his arm, and turned him away almost
violently. Marjory watched them with a tumult of feelings which she
scarcely understood. It seemed to her strange that she, too, could not
turn to some one--tell some one what had happened. But there was no one
to tell; and for that matter, nothing had happened. She watched them as
they withdrew hastily, driven away by her presence. She stood with her
hand upon the rail that encircled the family vault, with all the tablets
inscribed with kindred names glimmering behind her. An imaginative
observer might have supposed her to be guarding these graves from
profanation. She stood as if she had driven off an attack upon them; but
what attack was it? who were they? what did it mean? To these questions
she could give no answer. She stood and leaned upon the cold rail, and
shed a few dreary tears on the marble beneath. There seemed to be
nothing left to her but that marble, the iron railing, the chill graves
that gave no response.
When she went in again, she had to close up her tears, her wondering
pangs of curiosity, her dreary sense of loneliness, within herself. Was
there no one in the world, no one left to whom ever again she could say
all she was thinking; whom she could consult, who would help her even in
such a hopeless inquiry as this? Not Miss Jean, certainly, who looked up
with her keen eyes from the tea-table, and said something about wet
feet, and needless exposure, and the need to be resigned; nor little
Milly, who was ready to cry and kiss her sister, but could do no more to
aid her; nor even Uncle Charles, who had arrived suddenly with news of
his own to occupy him, and who was impatient if she did not give him her
entire attention for his particular business. These were all who
belonged to Marjory, now, here or anywhere. Had she dreamt somehow? had
she seen a vision? had there been revealed to her in a break of the
stormy clouds--some one else?
CHAPTER II.
Fanshawe left Pitcomlie with his head in a maze, affected as he had
never been in his life, and had never supposed himself capable of being
affected. He had been in love--as who has not, who has lived to be
thirty?--but without feeling in the least as he felt now. In the
feverish fits of that malady which he had experienced hitherto it was
she, the heroine of the moment, that was foremost in his thoughts. He
had been full of nothing but how to see her, how to have opportunities
of talking to her, how to dance, or ride, or walk with her, according as
the occasion favoured. In short, she had always belonged to some holiday
version of life, and had been enshrined in a glittering framework of
society, in which alone he knew her, and through which alone he could
seek her presence. Half a dozen such loves at least, on a moderate
computation, Fanshawe had experienced, and after having been made happy
and miserable for a certain number of days or weeks, as it happened,
society which brought her to him had swept her away again, and he had
heard with resignation some time later that the temporary lady of his
thoughts had become Mrs. or Lady Somebody Else. Sometimes a passing jar,
of what is poetically called the heart-strings, hailed this information,
and for a day or so he would be very sorry for himself as a poor devil
who could never hope to marry; but there it had ended, and in a week
after he had felt better, and decided that, on the whole, everything was
for the best. This, however, was not at all the state of his feelings
now. He did not know whether he was in love with Marjory Hay-Heriot.
Sometimes he did not think he was; but one thing he was sure of, which
was that he was very much out of love with himself. None of those
complacent self-compassionating plaints of the poor devil order occurred
to him. His thoughts were of a kind much less easily managed. He was
dissatisfied with himself and everything round him, with his means, his
habits, his former life, his want of any actual existence worth speaking
of, his complete unimportance to the world. He was young, strong, not
badly endowed either in body or mind, with enough to live on, and no
cares or trammels of any kind; and yet the fact was certain that, if he
died to-morrow it would be no loss to any one; nobody would miss him;
nothing would come to a stop. How many men would find themselves in the
same position did they inquire into it? He had enough to live on, enough
to keep a horse and a servant, to do whatever he pleased, to travel, to
surround himself with such luxuries as he cared for, to get most things
that he wanted. Except in that matter of a wife, which, to tell the
truth, was a thing he had never very warmly wanted, there was nothing
which he had denied himself. To be sure he was generally more or less in
debt, but never so much that he could not set his affairs right by an
effort, if he had a strong enough motive for doing so. He had not thus
the burden on his conscience that many other men have. He was a
good-for-nothing, if we may use the expression, without being a
scapegrace like Tom Heriot. He injured nobody. One time or other, though
often considerably after date, he paid his bills. No man, or woman
either, so far as he knew, was the worse for his existence, and yet----
There are a great many people who go harmlessly, pleasantly, through the
world, who, if it ever occurred to them to place themselves by the side
of a really useful member of society, and compare their lives with his
or hers, would find themselves as much embarrassed by the contrast as
Fanshawe was. But fortunately for the idlers of humanity, the contrast
seldom strikes them with all the sharp distinctions of light and shadow
which existed in this case. The _élégant_ smiles complacently over the
comparison, and finds in his own case a host of extraordinary
circumstances which he feels to be really superiorities, and which raise
him to a level very much higher than that of the plodding fellow by his
side, who, like Atlas, carries a world on his shoulders. The race-horse
is less useful than the dray-horse, but how different! This consolation
generally lays the most flattering unction to the souls of the
ornamental portion of society. How is it possible that the fine lady
could feel herself anything but superior to the domestic dowdy who does
so much more than she, and is of such inferior importance in
everybody’s estimation? The butterflies of existence have always this
comfort, or at least they take it in most cases; and no doubt Fanshawe,
like other men of his acquaintance, had smiled and hugged himself on his
superiority to the occasional industrial of his acquaintance who had
toiled himself up into reputation at the bar, or made a slave of himself
in parliament, while his schoolfellow lounged at his club, or fluttered
in the Row, or (which was the most serious of his occupations) hunted or
shot, or went fishing in strange waters. The comparison which had been
suggested to him now, however, and the moral standard to which he had
been suddenly forced to fit himself, was of a very different kind from
that of the successful barrister or rising politician. And the effect
upon his mind was complicated by the creation of so many new sentiments
and necessities in himself, that the comparison went much further than a
mere external contrast could have done. Ambition--a thing he had never
known in his life--had sprung up within him; acquisitiveness--a desire
to have, to possess, and to enjoy; an impatience of the present aspect
and conditions of life; a sense of disgust with himself and his
circumstances. These were not moral qualities, let us allow, nor
amiable, nor in any way an improvement upon the gentle and light-hearted
contentedness of the past. I am simply stating facts, and not demanding
any approval of them. This was the new development to which Fanshawe had
come. His past easy life was odious to him; he wanted to become on the
spot something totally different--something which seemed to him better,
though morally it might not perhaps be so. Certainly at the first offset
it was not a moral improvement. To substitute dissatisfaction for
content, uneasiness for calm, care and mental restlessness for the happy
_insouciance_ of a man undisturbed by any thought of his career, was
neither an advantage to himself, nor to anybody near him. He who had
been the most good-natured, easy-going, well-conditioned fellow known to
his friends, became all at once moody, uncertain, unmanageable. He had
resolved to “make a change,” and he was pre-occupied, to the exclusion
of everything else, with thoughts of what that change must be.
For it is a great deal easier to decide that you must turn over a new
leaf, and that henceforward, instead of being useless, your life must be
profitable to yourself and the world, than it is to decide how this
change is to be accomplished. If every man when he begins to take
thought of the more serious duties of life could immediately settle
himself down as a landed proprietor, with an estate to manage, cottages
to improve, farmers to influence, a seat on the bench, and a vote for
the county, how many men would see their duty more clearly than they
have ever as yet seen it! But we cannot attain all this simply by
resolving upon it, and Fanshawe did not know what else to do. He would
have made a very creditable squire, and so would hosts of men who don’t
make much of their lives in any other way; but he could not dig, nor did
he know how to employ his existence so as to fulfill his own wishes,
and be of some use to others. He was too old for many things, too old
for the army, even could he have done any good in it, too old for the
bar, too old for business; for although men in novels can turn their
minds to commerce whenever a blank comes in their career, and succeed in
it--yet men in common life are usually trained to that branch of
activity as to every other, and begin by an apprentice period, in which
they earn nothing and do little. Even for the public offices he was too
old, and what, Fanshawe asked himself, could he do in a public office?
He ran all these things over in his mind till he was in despair. He was
willing to do anything; but when he came to particulars, he found that
his education had trained him to nothing except those duties of a great
proprietor which he had no hope of ever being able to exercise. Nothing
is more difficult than thus to begin a new chapter in life. Had he
required to earn his living, no doubt the energy which necessity would
have given to his quest for employment might have found him something to
do; but he had not that stimulus--and he had not the stimulus of
aptitude for, or knowledge of, any special kind of occupation. He would
have “done anything.” Was that but another way of saying that he was
good for nothing? he asked himself sometimes, in partial despair.
And then putting all these new fancies aside, he had really so much to
do in the early Summer. He had to look after his sick horse, to see a
great number of friends, to answer invitations, to make some ordinary
necessary preparations for the Derby and Ascot, and all sorts of other
engagements. He had quite enough to fill his life with this ordinary
round of trivial occupation, as it had been filled for all these years;
and when he had returned to the usual circle of that life, it must be
allowed that it was not disagreeable to him. It felt natural; and yet it
was nothing--no good to him, no good to those among whom it was lived.
No progress, either internal or external, was possible, so long as he
continued in it. But what was he to do? What even did he want to do?
Something, certainly--something that would restore him to the credit he
had lost in his own eyes, that would make him worthy in Marjory’s, that
would improve his position, and help him to that natural growth and
increase and elevation in life which had become so essential; but yet
nothing that he knew of--nothing that he saw other people doing. Poor
good-for-nothing! He wanted to “better himself,” to be of some sort of
use, to double his means, to make what was called establishment in life
possible, to change himself, in short, from a nobody and nothing, into a
man of some importance and consideration--a man fit to be trusted with
the life and welfare of others. This was what he wanted; but he had not
the smallest inkling of how it was to be brought about.
One thing however he did, and at once--he availed himself of the
permission which Marjory had so unhesitatingly accorded to him, and
wrote to her. He did this only a few days after he left Pitcomlie;
indeed, he began his letter on the very morning of the day on which he
left, when he was no further off than Edinburgh--but destroyed that
first letter and various others before he produced the following, which
at last, after many doubts, he sent. How to begin it was a puzzle to
him. The only thing he had any right to say was “Dear Miss Heriot;” but,
somehow, that sober and correct address did not seem to suit the
circumstances. This cost him a great deal of thought; he could think
deeply, connectedly on such a subject, though he could not think to any
purpose, in respect to the occupation which he was so anxious for. His
letter kept running through his mind during all the interval--four
days--which elapsed before he made up his mind to send it; and at last,
as will be seen, he began abruptly, with no formal start at all, which
seemed to him, somehow, more congenial than “Dear Miss Heriot.” The
letter was finished at midnight, but he left it open and read it over,
and added something to it next morning before he sent it off; and after
he had fastened up the envelope, was in a dozen minds whether or not to
open it again and revise it once more. No new beginner in literature was
ever half so careful and anxious for the success of his first work.
“I avail myself very eagerly of the permission you gave me to
recall myself to your recollection. It is not that I am worth your
recollection, but because I cannot bear the idea of falling out of
it. How can I sufficiently tell you what it has been to me to have
felt myself one of the household of Pitcomlie, to have grown into
its ways, to have been part of its life at so sad a moment? I feel
almost as if you must think me unfeeling, unsympathetic in your
sorrows, when I say that I am glad I was there at this time, rather
than at another. I wonder if you will know what I mean? I grieve
for you to the bottom of my heart, and yet I am glad that I was
there. Life outside, life here in London, where, people say, and I
suppose believe, there is so much movement and excitement, seems to
me very tame and vacant. I can’t think how my old friends can
endure the mill-horse round of engagements, all so null, so
monotonous, and like each other;--because they have not been in
Fife, I suppose. And yet Pitcomlie is very quiet, you will tell me?
I wonder if you are there; or if the recent events have made it
insupportable to you; or what you are doing? I keep thinking and
wondering over this, and whether you will remember me again, or be
so good, so very good as to tell me all I want to know, and answer
me half of the flood of questions which are ready to be poured out
upon you. May I ask them? I am sure at heart you are too good not
to say yes or no. I want to know about Mr. Charles; whether he has
left his tower, and his papers, and all those treasures which he
was so kind as to show me; and about dear little Milly, whom I can
no longer tempt to laugh at an unbecoming moment. How I should like
to try! and to see her look of fright, which is her own, at her
wickedness; and then that delightful gravity, which is yours,
settling over her small face. I want to know everything about her,
and about your uncle;--and anything you will tell me; any little
scrap or crumb from your table--about you.
“There are a great many things I should like to tell you about
myself, if it did not seem abominable impertinence to hope that you
would take any interest in such an indifferent personage. Nobody
can be more thoroughly aware than I am how little there is to say
about me, that would be pleasant to your ear. I have had one kind
of dubious good quality in my past life, and that has been content;
now I have lost that even. What a poor sort of affair is the life
we live without thinking of it, we wretched fellows who are, I
suppose, the scum, and float on the surface of the stream, going
wherever it carries us, in a helpless, hopeless sort of way, that
must appal and disgust any one who has ever known better. Having
had a glimpse of the better, I am disgusted too, and begin to make
a fuss among the other atoms, and long to cling to something, to
oppose the power of the tide, and get some kind of independent
action into me. I wonder if you will know what I mean? How often I
find myself wondering this--asking myself if it would be
comprehensible to you; or if you would simply scorn the poorer sort
of being whose existence has been so long without plan, or purpose,
or pilot? This would be very natural; but I like to think that you
would rather try to understand, knowing what a great thing it would
be for me if you would take so much trouble. I am no theologian,
and dare not pretend to speak on such subjects; but yet, if the
angels would take the trouble to enter a little into our mortal
concerns, how much good it would do us! Do not you think so too? or
do you think I am talking nonsense? which very likely is the case,
since I want to talk the best of sense, and mean a great deal,
which I am not clever enough to say.
“May I write again soon? and will you give me a line--just a
line--three or four words, if no more, to tell me that you still
remember the existence of one who is always
“Your faithful servant,
“E. F.”
This letter Marjory read at the breakfast-table, seated between Aunt
Jean and Uncle Charles, with little Milly opposite to her, and all the
commonplaces of ordinary talk going on. How bewildered would those good
folks have been could they have read it over her shoulder! How
bewildered did she feel reading it, moved to an interest which made her
half indignant with herself, and feeling impatient with the writer for
that restrained glow of feeling, which notwithstanding communicated to
her a sympathetic thrill. “Ridiculous!” she said, and felt her cheeks
glow, and her heart move a little, notwithstanding all she did to
control it.
“That’s a long letter, May,” said Mr. Charles, looking at it with some
curiosity as she put it carefully back into its envelope.
“It is from Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, with a consciousness for which she
could have taken instant vengeance on herself; “he has gone to London.
He said he would let me know where he had gone.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Charles; and Miss Jean’s eyes lighted up.
Marjory let the letter lie by her plate as if it was of no importance,
but felt her cheeks grow hotter and hotter. Ridiculous! She determined
to write him a most matter-of-fact reply, which should make an end of
this discursive nonsense. If he thought she had leisure for a
sentimental correspondence, she must convince him to the contrary; how
absurd it was! And yet to be thus put upon a pedestal of absolute
superiority, and worshipped in this covert way, is not in itself
disagreeable. A little weakness stole about her heart; insensibly it
occurred to her during the forenoon that there were several things she
would like to consult him about. She slid the letter quietly into her
pocket before she left the table. It happened to her to look at it again
during the course of the day, just “to see what he had said” about his
present occupations. As it happened he had not said anything. But how
was Marjory to recollect that?
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Charles Heriot had not come to the High Street without an object. He
had left Pitcomlie on the morning after Marjory left it, and had
proceeded straight to his house in Edinburgh to review the capabilities
of George Square; and he had not been very well satisfied with those
capabilities. The house had not been inhabited since it had been in his
possession. It was an excellent old-fashioned house, worth a dozen of
the ordinary habitations which fall to your lot and mine, dear reader;
but it was furnished with mere chairs and tables, bookcases and
side-boards, not with any associations or kindly customs of use and
wont. There was some old spindle-legged furniture, which had belonged to
some Leddy Pitcomlie in the beginning of last century, with which
Marjory could have made a quaint corner to live in, in one part, at
least, of the chilly, uninhabited drawing-room, converting it all at
once into such a chamber as some Jacobite lady might have received the
Chevalier in, or where Mrs. Anne Keith might have discoursed to young
Walter Scott. But Mr. Charles’s imagination was dulled by the vexations
and embarrassments that possessed him, and he could not realize this;
and his decision about George Square was that it would not do. The chain
of habit was very hard to break with Mr. Charles; but when once broken,
he was impatient, and almost lawless, rushing into any novelty that
presented itself. The novelty in this case, however, was not
extravagant. What he did was simply to take a house in St. Andrew’s for
the summer; and it was this which he had come to intimate to the
household in the High Street.
“Not but what Marjory would be very happy with you, poor thing,” he said
to Aunt Jean; “perhaps more happy than I can hope to see her; but still
it will be more of a change. After griefs like hers, and all that has
happened, I have always heard that a change was the best thing; and as
she’s used to me and my ways--”
“You need not apologize, Chairles Heriot,” said the old lady. “If I ever
deluded myself I was to get a companion, it’s best to undeceive me; but
I did not delude myself. I’m used to live alone, and no doubt after the
first I would have gone back to my crabbed ways. But there’s one thing I
must say. I’m fond of the girl, though she maybe does not give me credit
for it, and she shall have all I’ve got to leave; I said in my haste she
was my natural heir, and too natural, and a Miss Heriot doomed, all her
days, like me. But mind this, if you take May away, I’ll no have her
back. I give her to you on one condition, and that is, that you’ll marry
her well. Marry that girrl, and marry her well, and you’ll have my
blessing, and I’ll think better of ye, Chairles, than I’ve ever thought
all your days.”
“Marry her, and marry her well!” cried Mr. Charles, in dismay; “and how
am I to do that? I have never married myself, and neither have you.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” said Miss Jean, promptly. “The more
reason that Marjory should; there’s enough of us poor dry trees, with
nothing to leave behind. If you have any respect for the past
generation, of which I’m the last representative, Charlie Heriot, you’ll
do what I say. Marry her well; she’s worthy the trouble. She’ll make
such a man’s wife as few men deserve, that’s my opinion. Mind, I’m not
saying but what she might be mended; but marry her, and marry her well,
Charlie, or you’ll get nothing from me.”
“Perhaps you would tell me how I’m to do it?” said Mr. Charles, with
sarcastic seriousness.
“If you cannot find that out for yourself, you’ll never do it by my
teaching,” said Miss Jean. “Well I know ye have but little sense, you
useless men; but ye know other men, if you do nothing else. If it was a
wife, now, that I wanted for a likely lad, do ye think I could not lay
my hand on one? aye, and bring it to pass, too, if there was not
something sore against me. Keep your eyes open, and when ye see a man
that’s worth the trouble, take him to your house--since ye are to have a
house; and meddle no more, Charlie Heriot, after ye have done that;
meddle no more. The first step is in your power; but the rest they must
do themselves, or it will never be done. That’s my advice. Friends can
do a great deal, but there’s a leemit which they must never pass. Once
let May see what you have in your head, and there’s an end of it all.
Without judgment, ye’ll never succeed in that, nor, indeed, in anything
else, as ye might have learned from the family letters ye are so fond
of. But the Heriots have never minded their daughters; they have left
the poor things to themselves. There’s me, for example; not that I’m
regretting my lot. A man would have been a terrible trouble to me; I
could not have been fashed with a creature aye on my hands. But
Marjory’s young enough to accustom herself to her fate, whatever that
may be.”
“I hope so,” said Mr. Charles, with some impatience; “but if you think
that I am going to take home every man about the Links to see whether
our May is good enough for him--”
“That’s just like one of your interpretations,” said Miss Jean, with
quiet scorn. “‘Any man that’s worth the trouble,’ said I; ‘every man
upon the Links,’ says he; it’s just what a woman has to expect. And
Marjory may have settled for herself, so far as I know. There was that
English lad, that you and poor Thomas, like two wise men, had so much
about the house--”
“Fanshawe? I don’t think he has a penny,” said Mr. Charles.
“Most likely no, or ye would not have taken such pains to throw him in
the girrl’s way. He was not ill-looking, and he had a taking manner, and
when the heart’s soft it’s easy to make an impression; she has a kind of
absent look at times. And there’s Johnnie Hepburn, not a great match,
but well off, that would give his two e’en if she would but look at
him--”
“Johnnie Hepburn is not an ill lad,” said Mr. Charles, inclining for the
moment, if Marjory’s marriage was to be brought into the foreground, to
seize on the easiest way of deciding it; “but in the meantime,” he
added, recalling his thoughts, “neither marrying nor giving in marriage
is in her head--or mine either--with three deaths in the family.”
“Oh aye!” said Miss Jean; “ye need not tell me the importance of what’s
happened. Both to us now living and to all the race, it’s a terrible
thing to think of, that both sons should be swept away, and a poor
little bairn with a strange woman of a mother, a mindless creature that
kens none of our ways, should be all that’s left to succeed. Never since
I mind has anything happened like it. However, we must all die; but
there’s no the same necessity in marriage, and that’s why I’m speaking.
I’m old, older than all them that’s gone. Before ye see me again, I may
be on the road to Comlie kirkyard, beside the rest--which is one good
thing,” Miss Jean added, with her sharp eyes twinkling, “of a maiden
state like yours and mine, Charlie. No other family has any share in us.
We are sure, at least, to lie with our own at the last.”
“Ay, to be sure,” said Mr. Charles, who was not thinking of any such
consolation, and who was glad to recur to his original subject. “We’ll
live very quietly, and see no company. St. Andrews is one of the places
where you can see many people, or few, according to your inclination;
and I’ll have my quiet game, and May will have her sister to take up
her mind. For the time being, Aunt Jean, I cannot see that we could do
better; and I will always be at hand in case of that foolish young woman
at Pitcomlie going wrong altogether.”
“I would let her go as wrong as she likes,” said Miss Jean. “It’s aye
shortest in the end to leave folks free to their own devices. When she’s
done all the harm she can to herself and other folk, she will yield to
them that knows better. But I must go and look after your dinners.
You’ll miss your grand cook with all her made dishes, Charlie. I hear it
was you that settled yon woman at Pitcomlie, and they tell me she’s to
be married upon Fleming (the auld fool) and they’re to set up in some
way of business. I cannot abide waste for my part, and when a woman that
can cook--which she could do, I say it to your credit, though I hate a
man that’s aye thinking of what he puts into him--goes and gives up her
profession and marries a poor man that wants nothing but broth, or maybe
a stoved potatoe----”
“They should take up a tavern--they should take up a tavern,” said Mr.
Charles, with some excitement. “Bless me! her collops are just
excellent; and I know nobody that can serve you up a dish of fish and
sauce, or salmon steak, or a tender young trout stewed in wine, followed
with a delicate dish of friar’s chicken----”
“The Lord preserve us from these greedy men!” said Miss Jean. “The
water’s in his e’en over his friar’s chicken; which is as wasteful a
dish and as extravagant as any I know. You must try to put up with my
poor Jess’s plain roast and boiled. It will be a trial, no doubt; but I
must go and give her her orders,” said the old lady, marching downstairs
with her cane tapping on every step. She went to the kitchen, and
stirred up the artist there, whose powers were anything but
contemptible, by sarcastic descriptions of her nephew’s tastes. “You
would think to hear him that nobody could dress a decent dish but yon
woman at Pitcomlie,” Miss Jean said, artfully, “and he’s very great on
fish, and thinks none of us know how to put a haddie on the table. It’s
not pleasant for an honest woman like you that have been born among
haddies, so to speak, Jess; but you must not mind what an epicure like
that may say. For my part, I’m always very well pleased with your simple
dishes.”
“Simple dishes! my certy!” said Jess to herself, when her mistress had
withdrawn; and being thus pitted against her important rival at
Pitcomlie, the _cordon-bleu_ of the High Street went to work with such a
will, that Mr. Charles was smitten with wonderment and humiliation.
“It is wonderful the talent that is hidden in out-of-the-way places,” he
said afterwards, when describing this feast; and when you reflect that
he did not know what sort of cook was awaiting him in St. Andrews, and
did know that the good woman in George Square was good for nothing
beyond an occasional chop, it may be supposed that his pretensions in
presence of Miss Jean were considerably lessened. This gave Mr. Charles
more thought than that other matter of the necessity of marrying
Marjory. Now that Marjory belonged as it were to himself, forming indeed
the very first of his conditions of existence, he did not see the
necessity of any change. He said to himself, as her father had once
said, “No husband would be so considerate of her as I am. She will never
get so much of her own way again,” and felt that the suggestion that
Marjory should be married was an impertinence especially offensive to
himself. That could be dismissed, however, with little ceremony. It was
a more serious matter about the cook.
Some weeks, however, elapsed before the removal to St. Andrews was
effected, and in those weeks things went very badly with the household
at Pitcomlie. Fleming, being further aggravated after Mr. Charles’s
departure, decided upon leaving at once instead of waiting for the term,
which had been his first intention.
“A man may argufy with a man,” he said, when he announced his final
decision to Mrs. Simpson, “but to put up with a wheen woman is mair than
I’m equal to. Stay you, my dear, if you think proper; but I’m auld
enough to take my ain way, and I’ll no stay to be driven about by these
new leddies. If it had been Miss Marjory, it would have been another
kind of thing; but, by George, to put up with all their tantrums, me an
auldish man, and used to my ain way and very little contradiction, and a
man engaged to be married into the bargain! I’ll no do’t.”
This was a serious blow to the house. The footman, who had been
thereupon elevated by Matilda to Fleming’s place, was elated by his
advancement, and conducted himself towards the maids in a way which
produced notice of resignation from several of the women. And Mrs.
Simpson, when it came to her turn to bear, unsupported by her Fleming,
the daily burden of the “new leddy’s” unsatisfactory manners, struck
work too, and decided that it was not worth her while to struggle on
even for the short time that remained.
“I’m weel aware, mem,” she said to Verna, who had attempted a private
remonstrance, “that we should act, no as ithers act to us, but as we
would that they should do. That’s awfu’ true; but I canna but think He
would have made a difference Himself, if it had been put to Him, in the
case of a servant. You see, naturally we look up to them that are above
us for an example; we dinna set up to give them an example, which would
be terrible conceited. And a woman like me, with a’ the care of the
house on her head, and slaving over the fire, dressing dishes that I
have no heart to touch by the time they come to me--Na, na! it’s no from
the like of me that a Christian example should be expectit. And then you
must mind it’s said in the Bible as weel, ‘I will be good to him that is
good, and froward to him that is froward.’ I humbly hope I’m a Christian
woman, but I canna go beyond Scripture. And what is a month’s wages to
me? I’ve been long in good service, and I’ve put by some siller, and I
dinna doubt but you’ve heard, mem, that though I’m no so young as I once
was, I have--ither prospects; and ane that will no see me want. So as
for the month’s wages, I’ve made mair sacrifices than that.”
“The money is not much,” said Verna; “but the character, Mrs. Simpson.
My sister will be very much put out, and she forms very strong opinions,
and she might say----”
“Your sister, mem!” the housekeeper answered in a blaze of passion; but
then feeling her superiority, paused and controlled herself. “When
Mistress Chairles is as well kent in the countryside as I am, it will be
time to speak about characters,” she said. “Characters, Lord preserve
us! am I like a young lass wanting a character? You’re a stranger, Miss
Bassett, and a weel meaning young leddie, that has nae intention to give
offence, I ken that; and I think no worse of you for judging according
to your lights; but when it’s said that Mrs. Simpson, housekeeper for
ten years at Pitcomlie, has left her situation, who do you think will
stand most in need of an explanation--Mistress Chairles, or me? If I
wanted a new place, it would not be to her I would come to recommend me.
And as it happens,” said the housekeeper with modest pride, “I’m no
wanting a new place; I’m going home to my ain house.”
“But, dear Mrs. Simpson, it will be so very, very inconvenient for us;
what shall we do?” cried Verna, driven to her last standing-ground.
“I’m no blaming you, mem,” said Mrs. Simpson, with dignity; “but
Mistress Chairles should have taken mair thought what she was saying to
a decent woman--that has never been used to ill language. If she wanted
me to consider her, she should have shown me a good example and
considered me.”
“This is what you have made of it in one month,” cried Verna, rushing
into the room in which her sister sat. “She’s going to-morrow; she will
not stay an hour longer. By coaxing, I got her to consent not to go
to-night. This is what your management has come to. Every servant in the
house is leaving at this horrid term, as they call it; and you, who
don’t know anything of English housekeeping, nor the customs of the
place, nor what you ought to do--”
“Oh, Verna; but _you_ know!” cried Matilda, frightened at last by the
universal desertion, and taking refuge--as was her wont--in tears.
“I know! you have refused my advice, and laughed at all my
remonstrances; you have never listened to a single word I have said
since that day when the will was read. I have made up my mind to give
up, like the rest.”
“Oh, Verna, don’t! oh don’t forsake me; what shall I do? If I am a
little quick-tempered, is that my fault? I am always sorry, and beg your
pardon. I will beg your pardon on my knees. Oh, Verna! and the Ayah
going, and everybody. I shall get no sleep with baby, and no rest with
all these worries. If you go and forsake me, I shall die!”
“You treat me just like one of the servants,” said Verna; “except that
I have no wages. I don’t know why I should stay to be bullied and made
miserable. I will go too. I can have the Ayah to take care of me, and
poor papa will be glad enough to see me again.”
“Oh, Verna, for heaven’s sake! for pity’s sake, for the sake of my poor,
poor unfortunate babies! You shall have everything you can think of;
everything you would like--”
“Yes, all that is unpleasant!” said Verna; “the kicks, but not the
halfpence; the battles with the servants, and everything that is
disagreeable--”
“Verna! if I promise never to do anything but what you like, never to
say anything you don’t approve of--to do always what you advise me? Oh,
Verna! if I say I will be your slave!” cried Matilda, throwing herself
upon her sister’s neck.
Then Verna allowed herself to be softened.
“I didn’t want to come,” she said. “I came for your sake, and poor
Charlie’s. I don’t want to stay; it’s cold and wretched here; I like
India a great deal better; but if I should try a little while longer,
and make an attempt to keep you straight, will you promise to take my
advice, and do what I tell you? It is of no use my staying otherwise. I
am quite ready to pack up and go back to India; make up your mind what
you will do.”
“I will do whatever you please,” said Matilda, dissolved in tears.
“For you know you are a fool,” said Verna calmly; “you always were; when
you came out a girl, and gave us all that trouble about the cadets in
the ship--when you married poor Charlie, and led him such a life--when
you came back here and insulted Miss Heriot, and made the house
miserable; you have always been a fool, and I suppose you cannot be
different; but, at least, you ought to know.”
“Oh, Verna, I will!” cried the penitent; and it was thus with her blue
eyes running over with tears, with her lips quivering, and her pretty
face melting into its most piteous aspect, that Mr. Hepburn found the
young mistress of the house when he went to Pitcomlie, charged with a
message, which Marjory, wearied by his importunate desire to serve her,
had invented for the purpose. He had not been thinking of Mrs. Charles.
She was Marjory’s supplanter to him, and a thoroughly objectionable
personage. But when he came suddenly into the room, and saw this weeping
creature with her fair hair ruffled by her emotion, tears hanging on her
eyelashes, her piteous little pretty mouth trembling and quivering, the
sight went to the young man’s susceptible heart. No secondary trouble,
such as quarrels with her servants, or the desolation consequent upon
that amusement occurred to him as the possible cause for the state in
which he found her; no doubt crossed his mind that it was the woe of her
widowhood that was overwhelming her. He stopped short at the door out of
respect for the sorrow into which he had intruded unawares. He explained
with perturbation that he was the bearer of a message; he begged pardon
metaphorically upon his knees. “Pray, pray assure your sister that I
would not have intruded for the world; that I feel for her most
deeply,” he said, the sympathetic tears coming to his own eyes.
“She will be better presently,” said wise Verna; “and it will do her
good to see some one. She indulges her feelings too much. Poor child!
perhaps it is not wonderful in her circumstances--”
“How could she do otherwise? I remember Charlie so well; may I speak of
him to her?” said this sympathetic visitor.
Verna received this prayer very graciously; she said, “It will do her
good;” and now she will have something to amuse her, she added, in her
heart.
CHAPTER IV.
Hepburn amused Mrs. Charles very much, though that was not considered
one of his capabilities in Comlie. He roused her gradually from her
depressed state into general conversation. After he had delivered
Marjory’s message, he stayed and talked, feeling a quite novel
excitement and exhilaration in the fact of this social success, which
was unprecedented in his experience. To be appreciated is doubly
delightful to a man who is not used to much applause from his friends.
Matilda was the first pretty woman who had “understood” him, who had
permitted herself to be beguiled out of her private sorrows by his
agreeable society. He was not the less faithful to Marjory, who had
possessed all his thoughts as long as he could remember; but still it
was pleasant to be able to comfort the afflicted, and to feel that his
efforts for that end were successful. After a while, when the tears had
been cleared away, when a gentle smile had stolen upon the fair
countenance before him; when she had yielded to his fascination so far
as to talk a little, and to listen eagerly, and to look up to him with
those blue eyes, Hepburn could not but feel that Miss Heriot must have
been deceived somehow, and that so gentle a creature must be easy “to
get on with,” to those who would be good to her. For the first time in
his life, he felt that there was something to excuse in the idol of his
youth. Not a fault, indeed, but a failure of comprehension; and Marjory
had never failed before in any particular, so far as her adorer knew.
Perhaps the reason was that this gentle little widow was a totally
different kind of woman. Various things he had heard on this subject
occurred to Hepburn’s mind to account for Marjory’s failure. Women, even
the best and cleverest, did sometimes fail to understand each other, he
believed, upon points which offered no difficulty to an impartial
masculine intellect. This was not at all a disagreeable thought; it
raised him vaguely into a pleasant atmosphere of superiority which
elated him, and could not hurt anybody. He even seemed to himself to be
fonder of Marjory from the sense of elevation over her. Yes, no doubt
this was the explanation. Mrs. Charles had done or said something which
a man probably would never have noticed, but which had affected the more
delicate and sensitive, but less broad and liberal nature of the
sweetest of women; and Marjory, on her side, as he knew by experience,
uttered words now and then which were not destitute of the power to
sting. Hepburn thought that to bring these two together again would be a
very fine piece of work for the man who could accomplish it. A loving
blue-eyed creature like this could not but cling to Marjory’s strength,
and Marjory would derive beauty, too, from the fair being whom she
supported. Yes, he thought, as he looked at her, Matilda was the kind of
woman described in all the poets, the lovely parasite, the climbing
woodbine, a thing made up of tendrils, which would hang upon a man, and
hold him fast with dependent arms. Marjory was not of that nature. To be
sure, Marjory was the first of women; but there was a great deal to be
said for the other, who was, no doubt, inferior, but yet had her charm.
Hepburn felt that in the abstract it would be sweet to feel that some
one was dependent upon him. Somehow the idea crept to his heart, and
nestled there; but Marjory naturally would not have the same feelings.
Marjory would be disposed rather to push away the tendrils. It was a
different sort of thing altogether between the two women. Thus Hepburn
felt a delicious superiority creep over him as he sat and talked. He
received Mrs. Charles’s confidences about the servants after a time, and
was deeply sorry. Fleming and the rest seemed to him a set of savages,
taking advantage of this sweet young creature’s ignorance and innocence.
“Let me manage it for you,” he said, eagerly. “I am not very clever
about servants myself, but I will speak to my housekeeper, who knows
everybody. She will find you some one. Let me be of some use to you.”
“Oh, that will be so kind!” cried both the ladies. Johnnie Hepburn had
never felt himself such a man during his whole life.
When Verna had thus arranged matters for her sister’s comfort, she
herself withdrew to put the house once more in order, and to resume the
helm of state. She shrugged her shoulders when she left the room, in
which she left the new-comer quite happy, and Matilda in gentle good
spirits.
“No wonder we think men fools,” she said to herself; “and no wonder men
think us fools,” she added, philosophically, after a moment.
Thus it must have been decreed, she supposed, for the good of the
species; and a blessed dispensation it was, if it could be confined to
its present use of finding pleasant occupation for two incapables, and
leaving those to work who could. But unfortunately Verna knew the
process often went further than that. However, for the meantime she felt
it necessary to be content with the advantages secured to her by the
collapse of her sister’s authority, and the merciful and most
providential provision of some one to flirt with, thus accorded to her
at the moment of direst need. Verna employed her afternoon so well that
she even came to terms with Mrs. Simpson, who acknowledged the
difference of having to deal with a reasonable young lady, who knew what
was due--It was a pleasant afternoon for Miss Bassett; for the first
time she went over the house, and realized the character of the kingdom
which had come into her hands by deputy. She visited all the
linen-presses, all the store-rooms; she took a peep into the
plate-closet; she went and inspected the old wardrobes, where lay many
antique stores, old dresses, and piles of what Mrs. Simpson called
“body-linen,” and lace which made her mouth water. “This must belong to
Miss Heriot, I suppose,” she said, trying to recollect what was named in
the will. Verna had never known what an old house was till now. She
found oak cabinets and pieces of furniture which she knew to be of
value, heaped up in garrets and on the landings of the many-turning
stairs. She found drawers upon drawers full of _chiffons_, which she
could appreciate still better; and in every out-of-the-way cupboard
there was some piece of china, some curiosity such as Verna had vainly
longed for all her life. They were there unseen, lurking in corners, not
prized or thought of, and too many in number to be made visible; there
was enough to decorate half-a-dozen houses; old brocade gowns which
would cut up into the loveliest chair-covers, and old Dresden, which, if
gathered together, would fill a room by itself. Oh! only to have
half-a-dozen pieces of it in the house at Calcutta, or in any other
house which Verna might call her own! She was perfectly honest, and
would not have taken a penny from Tommy’s possessions for the world; but
the china went to her heart.
And then she put on her hat and went round the house outside. She took a
very comprehensive view, taking her double eyeglass, which she kept for
important moments, and studying the building thoroughly from every point
of view. Women are deeply conservative, it is common to say; but at the
same time there is no such iconoclast as an ignorant young woman longing
for perfection, and secure in her own opinion. Verna thought the old
house a most unnecessary adjunct to the new. The only useful part of it
was the tower occupied by Mr. Charles, which would no doubt accommodate
a visitor if the house was very much crowded--but then if a new wing was
built there would be a great deal more accommodation. Verna built the
wing in her imagination, drawing it along the further side of the lime
avenue, and planting long windows open to the ground in the new
drawing-room, which would be much “snugger,” she thought, than the old
drawing-room which opened upon the cliff. She made a nice room for
herself in the warmest corner facing to the south, for she was cold by
right of being Indian, and liked to bask in the sun. How delightful was
this sense of being supreme, this feeling of power, this capacity for
doing as she liked! It seemed to her that she had fairly subdued
Matilda, and that nothing would tempt that incapable person, after her
failure, to meddle any more with the affairs which she had so
mismanaged; besides Verna meant to make her sister very comfortable; she
liked people to be comfortable. She had no inclination to oppress, or to
be unkind. She meant to do more for Matilda than she would have done for
herself, indulging her to the top of her bent, and putting up with all
her weaknesses. Even to the length of providing somebody to flirt with,
of taking her to gaieties which they had both dreamt of as girls, and
had read about in books, without ever having it in their power to taste
their sweetness, Verna was willing to humour her sister; and so long as
she would consent to be quiet and enjoy herself, asked nothing more from
Matty. That she should enjoy herself was necessary, as this was the only
expedient Verna knew to keep her contented. Finally she sat down on the
steps of the sundial, where Marjory had sat so often, and turned over
all her plans in her mind with a satisfaction which it would be
difficult to describe in words. Nineteen years must elapse before Tommy
should be of age. Nineteen years! a lifetime; and during that time there
seemed no reason why she should not be virtual mistress of the place. To
be sure such a thing was possible as that she should marry; but Verna
knew herself well enough to feel that she could trust herself, and would
do nothing contrary to her own interests. If some one should by chance
turn up with an estate and house equal to Pitcomlie, who had sense
enough to see what an admirable mistress she would make for it, why
then, indeed, marriage might be attractive, and an improvement upon
present circumstances; but without an inducement of this kind, Verna
felt herself to be safe. What happy visions floated through her brain as
she sat on the steps of the sundial, and looked at the house which was
to be her kingdom! What a thing it is to come suddenly from poverty and
obscurity into wealth, and ease, and honour, and glory! Mr. Bassett out
in Calcutta was not badly off, but he had brought up his daughters very
economically, and he had not concealed his desire to get rid of them as
soon as possible. Verna had thwarted and provoked her father by not
marrying. He had sworn it was her fault, though she knew it was not her
fault. Surely he could not wish nor expect her to marry a subaltern in a
line regiment, which was all the Fates had sent in her way? But still
he had been dissatisfied, warmly asserting that the business of girls
who came to India was to marry--well, if they could, but anyhow to
marry--a view of the case which disgusted his daughter; and there were
complications about a second half-caste family of young Bassetts which
made her very glad to escape from her father’s paternal care. After all
the storms that had surrounded her existence, and all the shabbiness of
her beginning, and fear of future shabbiness in store, it may be
imagined what it was to Verna when her ship suddenly sailed into this
bay of plenty. She disliked cold winds generally, but the cold wind
to-day, though it blew from the east, did not affect her as she sat on
the base of the sundial and contemplated her empire. Not without a
struggle had that empire been attained. She had almost despaired when
she saw how her sister in the strength of her folly, had put to flight
the Heriots, and emptied the house; but still she had been patient and
bided her time, and that time had come at last.
Short-sighted young woman! She did not perceive, till she had put up her
eyeglass, that Johnnie Hepburn was leading Mrs. Charles out from the
open window to take the air upon the cliff. When she did see it, she
congratulated herself only on having found some one to amuse Matty--for
she had no eyeglass to remedy that short-sightedness so far as the
future is concerned, which is common to the human race.
Quite late in the same afternoon, when it was dark, and Miss Jean’s
house was pervaded with fragrant odours of dinner, young Hepburn came
in much out of breath, having walked very fast from Pitcomlie to fulfil
his commission. He brought Marjory the books she had sent him for, with
an excess of apologies for his delay, which, had she cared much about
it, would certainly have enlightened her. He had been detained in the
most remarkable ways, kept back by one thing after another. And he had
found Mrs. Charles very poorly, and her sister quite anxious about her.
“I am afraid she is very delicate,” he said, sitting in the dark in Miss
Jean’s drawing-room, where, as the family were nearly ready for dinner,
the candles had not yet been lighted. There was a glow of ruddy
firelight just where Miss Jean herself was sitting, but all the rest
were in shadow. And from somewhere in the room there came a “humph!”
which confused the young man; however, it could not be Marjory who
uttered that exclamation.
“I am sorry if she is ill,” said Marjory immediately after; and then
there was a pause, which Hepburn felt embarrassing. He wanted very much
to say something which would be mediating and conciliatory, but the
atmosphere certainly was against him; it was repelling and chilly. Women
certainly do not understand women, he said in his heart; both so
charming! what a thing that it is impossible to bring them together! and
then he cleared his voice and tried again.
“I am afraid she is not accustomed to our kind of life,” he said. “India
is so different. Old Fleming has left, and the housekeeper is leaving,
and they don’t know what to do. I promised to speak to Miss Jean--”
“Speak to anybody else, Johnnie, my man, before me!” said Miss Jean,
peremptorily; “I’ve seen the young leddy, and I was not struck with her.
She’s bonnie enough, I allow, to please a silly lad; but she’s not of
the kind for me.”
This was a very offensive speech to the amiable peacemaker. In the first
place, of itself, that “Johnnie” made an end of him from the beginning.
Of all names to apply to an aspiring young man intending to assume an
elevated position, and feeling himself a person of influence, it is,
perhaps, the cruellest title. Marjory smiled in spite of herself,
protected by the darkness; and Mr. Charles--for he it was who made up
the party, repeated that “humph!” which had broken in so disagreeably
before.
“Don’t sit in the corner and hum, hum, like that!” said Miss Jean
promptly; “if you have a cold, Charlie, go to your bed, and be taken
care of; but I cannot bide a hoasting man. We’re all in a hum, hum sort
of way, Johnnie Hepburn. Go away quick and change your clothes, and come
back to your dinner; we’ll be more amiable then; but come quick, for the
fish will spoil; and Jess’s temper is none of the best. Lord preserve us
all!” said Miss Jean, turning upon her companions with her hand
uplifted, when he was gone. “That woman’s turned the laddie’s head, the
first time he’s seen her! Now that’s the old-fashioned way that used to
be in my day; and I respect the lad!”
“You ought to respect the lady,” said Marjory. She was amused; but yet
not altogether amused. Johnnie Hepburn, for whom in himself she had a
sort of elderly sisterly regard, had been her slave since ever she could
remember. He had teased Marjory, and been very troublesome to her on
many occasions; but he had worshipped her at all times, never thinking
of any other woman. Miss Heriot was very much inclined to laugh at his
championship of Mrs. Charles; but her amusement was mingled with a
surprise which, perhaps, was not altogether agreeable. She had seldom
been more startled; and when he came back to dinner, and the lamplight
showed his youthful countenance considerably flushed with haste, or
emotion of some kind, the wonder grew. The half-pique of which she was
conscious, and which amused her too in its way, made Marjory somewhat
satirical. “So you found Mrs. Charles very nice?” she said, when they
were at table, looking up with a twinkle of laughter, which had been
long absent from them, in her eyes.
“Nice?” said Hepburn, with hesitation. “Well, I do not know if that is
the word I would use. It is touching to see a woman in her
circumstances, so young and so----. She is very delicate, I think.”
“She is very pretty, I think!” Marjory said, laughing.
Hepburn could not tell how it was that the laugh sounded so much less
pleasant to him than ordinary. Was she laughing at him? She had done so
before now, and he had only worshipped her the more. But now he had just
come from the spectacle of grief, borne in a becoming manner, and it
seemed almost wrong of Marjory to be able to laugh; it disturbed his
ideal. He took care to say as little as possible about Mrs. Charles for
the rest of the evening, but still he did manage to intimate that he
thought Marjory had not, perhaps, quite understood that delicate spirit.
And Marjory replied that it was quite possible, but laughed again. Bell,
the maid, was rather of Mr. Hepburn’s opinion--that Marjory’s capacity
for laughter showed itself too soon.
“If it had been but the auld gentleman, indeed!” said Bell; “but three
deaths, one after anither!” and Jess in the kitchen shook her head also,
and said Miss Marjory had aye thought too little of appearances. They
all kept a very close watch upon her, to make sure that she mourned
enough, and not too much. Resignation is an excellent thing, and always
to be encouraged; but resignation never was known to do more than smile.
And Marjory, I do not quite know why, wrote to Fanshawe that evening.
She had meant to write to him some day or other; but it is possible that
Johnnie Hepburn’s desertion (though she had never made any account of
Johnnie Hepburn), quickened her proceedings. She wrote him a most
matter-of-fact little note, filling one page only of a sheet of note
paper--without a word in it that would bear two meanings, or, indeed,
possessed any meaning at all to speak of.
“This will put a stop to any further nonsense,” she said to herself, as
she wrote his address at his club--and she did this with much decision
and promptitude. She was going with her uncle in a few days to St.
Andrews; she was about cutting off all the threads that bound her to her
old life. This was a bit of her old life, though it occupied the very
last chapter. Fanshawe too, perhaps, might come back to Pitcomlie, and
might think that she had not “understood” its new mistress. Marjory was
about to begin a different kind of existence; she snapt this thread
without, she thought, caring much about it; but it was better, certainly
better, that it should come to an end.
CHAPTER V.
The house which Mr. Charles Heriot had taken in St. Andrews was one of
the oldest in that old town. The rooms were somewhat low and the windows
small, and its aspect outside was, perhaps, just a little prison-like
and closed up. You entered by a little door in the wall, which seemed
made for clandestine stealing out and in, for ladies veiled and muffled,
and gallant gentlemen disguised in the cloaks of romance. This small and
jealous entrance, however, admitted the visitor into an old court all
bowery on one side with jasmine and roses, and affording on the other a
pleasant peep of a velvet lawn and old-fashioned garden. The third side
of the square was filled up by the old house itself, upon which the
sculptured arms of an old Fife family shone, over the door. This door
was approached by high outside steps, under the shade of which appeared
a lower door, which showed a red-tiled passage traversing the house, and
another gleam of light and garden greenness at the other end. The
sitting-rooms of the house were thus raised to a considerable height,
and looked out from their small and deep-set windows on the ruins of the
Cathedral and the blue sea beyond. Never were ruins more complete in
their sunny annihilation of the past than the ruins of St. Andrews.
They have a sort of typical character for the students of Scottish
history. Here the noble, rich, and splendid Middle Ages, which have
conferred upon other nations their finest monuments and recollections,
lie buried, as it were, in utter effacement, not scorned any longer--on
the contrary, reverently preserved and taken care of--but blotted out
from all possibility of use, and even from all meaning. But yet there is
one monument of the past which still stands fast and sure as ever, the
old homely, inarticulate tower of St. Regulus, belonging to a past which
has no voice, a dark world which leaves everything to the fancy, and
which has stood there through all changes for centuries, appealing by
very absence of suggestiveness to that profound imagination which lies
at the bottom of the Scottish character. The graceful clustered piers,
the lovely decorated windows, the lordly breadth and majesty of aisle
and nave, are too suggestive for that reticent and deep-seated faculty;
but against the mysterious simplicity of that tower, which discloses
nothing, no sacrilegious hand has ever been raised. It stands there in
primitive gravity, plainness, lack of grace, as it might have stood in
those days when the “pure Culdee, was Albyn’s earliest priest of God;”
flattering the mind of the nation with a subtle sense of its antiquity,
consistency, unity in all ages. These reflections, however, are ours,
and not those of Marjory Hay-Heriot, as she stood at the narrow window
of her new dwelling-place, and looked out upon the same sea which washed
her native headland. Her eye sought that first, as is natural to the
eyes of those who have been born upon its margin. Over the old ruins
she looked to the older, everlasting thing, which is never antiquated,
but keeps its youth continually. She could hear the sea dashing over the
pier, and see how it rose, marking with a white line of surf the sweep
of the bay beyond. That was enough to satisfy Marjory, even though the
intermediate foreground was filled up by ruins and graves. Nature is
always consolatory; but Art not always, not even the pathetic art of
antiquity and decay.
In this old house the diminished family settled down, not without some
sense of comfort. Mr. Charles had his golf, and Milly all the fresh
delights of the Links and the sands, the shops and the streets, all of
which were sweet to her unsophisticated intelligence. She thought the
shops very fine indeed, and liked nothing so much as to go with her
sister to buy a ribbon or a handkerchief; and the Links, with the
flutter of gay colours about, the red-coats scattered here and there
among the groups of golfers, the dresses of the ladies in their sacred
corner, or fluttering about the outskirts of the ground devoted to the
graver game, dazzled little Milly as with the pageant of an endless
theatre, the thing most glorious to her eyes of anything on earth. Far
be it from me to attempt to describe the ancient and royal game of golf.
How shall a feeble feminine hand attempt to depict its delights and
triumphs? St. Andrews is the metropolis of this--let us not call it
game, but science. Here its professionals congregate, and its amateurs
are happy. Twice round the Links in a day is the whole duty of man; and
one round maintains him in that decent condition of moral
respectability, falling short of excellence, but above mediocrity, which
is in some respects a more comfortable state than that of supreme
excellence itself. Mr. Charles fell into this pleasant duty the very
first day of his arrival. He was one of the oldest members of that club
which has seated itself at the entrance of the Links, like a watchful
mother, with bow-windows from which it contemplates benignantly all the
out-going and in-coming groups, and tables at which matches are made up,
and stories told of the prowess of Tom Morris and Bob Kirk, and how the
General halved a game with the Captain, and how Mr. Innesmackie gave Dr.
Boothby an odd a hole, and beat him. In these pieces of news everybody
is as much, nay more, deeply interested than in all the affairs of the
State. Mr. Charles went down to the club on the evening of his arrival.
He was a little doubtful for the first half-hour whether, in his
melancholy circumstances, after “three deaths in the family,” it would
be decorous for him to play; but these scruples were soon overruled.
“If there was anything fast or dissipated about it,” said the Reverend
Mr. Morrison, of St. Rule’s, a member of the family which had had its
blood vitiated by the introduction of the whaling captain, “I could
understand your hesitation; but I play my game every day of my life,
without its ever interfering with my duties as a parish Minister; and
your good brother, poor Pitcomlie, is the last man in the world that
would have thought of such a thing. No, no, my dear Sir; play your
game, and be thankful to Providence, that gives us such a wholesome and
innocent amusement. It’s just one of our many privileges,” said piously
the excellent divine.
“That’s true,” said Mr. Charles, still a little doubtfully, “but if it
could be supposed for a moment to show any want, on my part, of
respect----”
“Nonsense, nonsense, Heriot; nonsense, man,” said Major Borthwick (there
is a great collection of heroes on half-pay at St. Andrews.) “We cannot
turn ourselves into tombstones, however willing we may be. I had a
foursome all settled for to-morrow with old Tom and another professional
against General Maclasher and myself. The General is suddenly called to
Edinburgh on some business about his son, who is going out to Bombay by
the next mail, and the match will be spoilt. I was making up my mind to
send round and tell Tom; but you’re just about as strong as the General,
as good and no more. You’ll come in, in his place? You would not, I am
sure, fail an old friend.”
“I would not like to do that, certainly,” said Mr. Charles, “if you are
sure you can find nobody better?”
“Have I time?” said the valiant Major. “It’s ten o’clock, and by eleven
to-morrow we ought to start--unless you would like me to stay up all
night?”
“No, no, certainly not; if it’s a real service to you,” said Mr.
Charles; and thus he was “led into it,” as he said, to the relief of his
conscience, and great satisfaction generally of his being. Shut out
from his papers and collections at Pitcomlie, golf gave him new life, as
indeed it seems to do to many personages whom the reader may see on that
busy stretch of seaside grass, should he ever travel to St. Andrews. I
dare not go further into details, neither dare I tell very much about
the life of this lively sober place, which is the oldest metropolis of
learning in Scotland as well as of golf. For did I enter into the
subject fully, not the most scrupulous care to avoid personalities could
save me from the reproach of being guilty of them. Did I place an
“atomy” in the chair filled by a certain Jove-like presence, I should
still be believed to be putting the Principal in a book; and did I turn
the gallantest of ancient gentlemen into an Orson, I should still be
supposed guilty of sketching the Lord of the Manor. Far from me be such
impertinencies. If you wish to become acquainted with the St. Andrews of
social life, dear reader, go there and see for yourself.
As for Marjory, she was not permitted to sit in loneliness by her deep
window, looking out upon the little homely pier and great magnificent
sea, over the foreground of the ruins. Lady Castlemount called on the
first practicable day, and so did all the ladies with territorial
designations in the neighbourhood, such as Mrs. Haigh, of Highbarns;
Lady Walker, of Berbo; Mrs. Home, of Strath, and many more--not to speak
of the learned matrons of the University, and all in St. Andrews’ town
that was worthy of presenting itself to Miss Heriot, of Pitcomlie.
Everybody came who was anybody; and if Marjory could have been
persuaded, like her uncle, that the mild form of golf practised by
ladies was necessary to her health and comfort, abundant means of
availing herself of the advantage of the Ladies’ Links would have been
presented to her. But Marjory was not inclined towards ‘the Ladies’
Links. She preferred the bold cliff at the old castle, the long sweep of
the East Sands and the downs beyond. The East coast has never been, so
far as we are aware, distinguished for beauty or picturesque qualities,
but the bold line of those cliffs, bound at their feet by black ribs of
half-visible reefs, iron corrugations of nature running far out, low and
dangerous, into the sea--but bordered above high-water mark by the
softest verdure of fine grass, mossy and velvety, mantling every height
and hollow--has a homely yet wild and free beauty of its own, which,
with all the endless varieties of colour upon the broad sea and broader
heavens, makes up a scene worthy alike of painter and of poet. Here and
there the rocks which line the dangerous coast rise into weird masses,
like towers of defence. One of these, the Maiden’s Rock, has actually
taken the form of a mediæval tower; further on is a more fantastic
erection, where time and water have worn the living stone into a huge
resemblance of a spindle. This quaint mass towers over a bay full of
broken rocks, among and over which the German Ocean dashes its stormy
surf by times--while at other times it kisses softly, with many a
twinkle of light and sheen of reflection, the stern stone which it has
been undermining for ages, with apparently so little effect. The Spindle
Rock was the favourite end of Marjory’s pilgrimage. The most sensitive
organizations do not always fall sick after those great mental
whirlwinds of grief and excitement which are the milestones of our
lives. But there comes to them a moment when quiet and repose are
necessary, when the mind lies still like a hushed child, refusing to
think more or suffer more, opening itself to some certain fashion of
natural sound and sight, and getting healing from that pause of all
efforts or processes of its own. Marjory, unknowing, adopted this
fashion of cure. She walked out to the Spindle (a long way) and would
sit there alone day by day among the rocks, gazing half consciously over
the broad level surface of the familiar sea, now and then crisped by
soft winds, and overarched by the broad vault of sky, which softened
down in endless variations of blues and greens, widening and fading to
the horizon line, where sea and sky met in colourless brightness. The
water lapped softly among the rocks, which here and there rose like
pinnacles of some fantastic architecture over the brown uneven masses
below. Among these rocks there were miniature oceans, crystal sea-pools
lined with softest green sea-weed like a nest, where some cunning crab
lived secure, or where those bloodless, boneless things, which are half
animal and half plant, spread out their antennæ, pink, or creamy white,
or silver green, upon the water. The shining of the sea, the
ever-consolatory sound of its murmurous voice upon the rocks, the
occasional gliding past of a heavy fishing-boat with high brown sail,
or the white butterfly wing of a rare pleasure-yacht, was enough to give
occupation to the fatigued mind, which found healing in every hum of
well-known sound, in every familiar motion of that native sea. Hush!
said the soft long rustle of the water searching into every corner,
rising and falling like the breath of some watcher. Hush! said the soft
wind with a musical murmur about the lofty rocks; hush! said the dreamy
whirr of insect life upon the grass beyond. The sun shone warm, and
little flecks of white clouds floated across the sky with the wind as
the scattered sails did below. Soft motion, sound, murmur of life
filling the whole vast sphere--nothing that seemed like ending, dying,
sorrow. Marjory, who loved the sea like one to the manner born, accepted
this tranquil hush without remarking how fatal were its other voices,
and opened herself to the sunshine and had her wounds slowly healed.
One day, however, going a little further than the Spindle, she found
herself in front of a very homely thatched cottage, one of those odd
little green-brown erections so extremely objectionable in a sanitary
point of view, yet so satisfactory to the eye, which grow out of
Scottish soil wherever improvement has not banished them, like the
creation of nature. The walls were built of rough stone covered with the
mosses of many years. The thatch was patched and ancient, bright bits of
straw recently put in peeping out from the dark surface. The cottage
consisted of a “but and a ben,” no more, that is a room on each side of
the low and narrow doorway--with one small window in each, facing to the
sea, and a rude bit of so-called garden, surrounded by a little rough
wooden paling enclosing the door. This cottage lay in a hollow between
two cliffs, and was sheltered from the wind on each side; the short rich
grass, like a warm cloak thrown over the sunny nook, mantled up to the
very walls; and the cottage had all the sunshine, and as little of the
chill as was possible. Marjory had vaguely noticed a figure seated near
the door for two or three days before she approached it, and a certain
curiosity had risen in her mind--nay, a something more than curiosity, a
sympathetic feeling, that the other unknown woman was like herself
resting after some convulsion of nature, and seeking restoration from
the calm, and the sunshine, and the salt sea. This feeling grew to a
strength which surprised her, when she saw the same figure languidly
seated on the same spot the second day; and on the third some natural
affinity drew the two together.
The girl at the cottage-door was younger than Marjory--very young, with
fair hair folded back from a pale little face, and knotted loosely
behind, as used to be the custom years ago. A rusty black gown, with
long close sleeves down to her slight wrists, made in the plainest
fashion, threw out, into still further relief, the colourless face and
locks, out of which illness seemed to have driven the tone of colour
which had enlivened their paleness. There were little rings of pale gold
upon her white temples, but the mass of her hair had lost its
brightness. Her face was one of those pathetic faces which it is
difficult to realize in the glow of happiness. Her eyes were grey,
large, and lucid, with that liquid softened light which is like
moonlight in a face. Her features were delicate and worn, the nostrils
somewhat pinched with suffering, the very lips pale. Intense capacity
for pain was in the face, and at the same time a quiet patience and
power of suffering. She met the eye of the stranger who looked at her
sympathetically, with a faint but friendly smile, and gave her the usual
country salutation, “It’s a fine day,” with a softness of tone which
touched Marjory, she could scarcely tell how. It was Marjory who made
the first advance; but the response was to her look, rather than to
anything she said. The girl did not rise and curtsey, as an English girl
of similar condition would most likely have done to greet the lady. But
in her gentle attempt at acquaintance, and the soft little evanescent
smile, with which it was accompanied, there was an appeal which only a
hard heart could have resisted; and Marjory had a rural lady’s habit of
constant intercourse with her social inferiors.
“Yes,” she said, “the weather is very fine for this time of the year.
(It was June, but in Scotland it is difficult to calculate upon the
weather so early in the summer). But I am afraid you are ill. Do you
live always here?”
“Ay, mem, I’m not well,” said the girl. “They have brought me here for
change. It pleases them; and I like to hear the sound of the sea--not
that it will do me any good. I am too far gone for that.”
“You must not think so,” said Marjory, with that instinctive denial of
the plainest fact, which is human nature’s first idea in the presence of
approaching death. “You are very young, and the sea always does good.
Will you tell me what is the matter?”
The girl smiled again. “It’s nothing,” she said, “and everything--it’s a
failing; some doctors say it’s decline--but it’s no decline, it’s just a
failing. I’m thinking the chief thing is that I’m weary, weary of this
life, and I would like to go--”
“But that is wrong,” said Marjory, shocked. “At your age it is
unnatural. You ought to resist such a feeling.”
“What for?” said the girl, very gently. “They all say that; but I’ve
gone over my Bible from end to end, and there is nothing against it.
You’re no to think I would do myself harm, for that would be a sin and a
shame to them that’s left behind. But Paul was wiser, far wiser than me,
and he says, ‘that to depart is better.’”
“To be with Christ,” said Marjory, unconsciously correcting, and feeling
somehow a certain consolation in the fact, that it was not Paul’s
saintly longing, but only human weariness that spoke.
“I’m meaning that,” said the girl, gently; and then with a sadder tone,
“and to make sure that they are safe and well that have gone before.”
These words brought Marjory to a pause. The upraised face beside her,
with those lucid eyes turned to the sky, seemed to be penetrating that
blue veil with an anxiety only tempered by weakness. Marjory looked at
her till tears came into her own eyes.
“Don’t you think we may trust God far that?” she said. “You have
lost--friends?”
“And you are in black, too,” said the girl, quickly, “and I’m sure you
sit about the rocks, as if you had no heart. Oh, I’m ready to trust God!
but if you heard how our folk speak! and if one was taken suddenly--no
thinking, in the middle of his days--one that had never made any
profession, nor showed any concern about his soul--would you say then,
‘Trust God?’ That’s the question I’m aye asking myself.”
“I lost a brother so,” cried Marjory, moved to open her heart, she could
not tell why.
“Ah!” The girl looked at her fixedly for a moment, and pressed her thin
hands together. The cry had burst from her lips like an outcry of fear
and pain.
“And I do trust God,” Marjory resumed. “God saw all he meant, not only
what he did. Were you never misunderstood? We are better in our hearts
than we are in our deeds; but God never misunderstands.”
“That’s true,” said the girl, clasping her hands again, “that’s very
true. Oh, if you but kent what misunderstanding there is in this world?
and whiles them that are most fond of you; but as you say, mem, never
with God; that’s a great comfort. Sometimes I think my heart will
break--”
“I am a stranger to you,” said Marjory, “but I should like to help you
if I could. Is it anything you could confide to me?”
The girl’s face, so calm in its sorrowfulness, grew agitated. She gave
one anxious look into Marjory’s face. She cast her eyes around, watching
if anyone was visible. “No to-day, no to-day!” she exclaimed. “A
stranger--what could I say to a stranger? But I’m tired, tired, and the
wind is cold. I must go into the house--to-day.”
She rose as if in terror, and stumbled in her weakness. “I will go
away,” said Marjory, “do not let me drive you in-doors. I am going back
to St. Andrews--”
Then the girl turned, holding out her two thin hands; a little hectic
flush had come on either cheek. “I’m so weakly,” she said, with a
pathetic smile; “no fit for anything; but, oh, you’ll come again?”
CHAPTER VI.
The weather changed that evening, as was natural after three or four
heavenly days. The East coast is not rainy like the West; but the soft
continuous rain of the Western Highlands is scarcely so terrible as the
westerly haar, which wraps everything up in white wool, and blots out
sea and sky, and chokes the depressed wayfarer--not to speak of the
penetrating chill which even in June goes down into the marrow of your
bones, and makes the scrap of standing-ground, which is all that is left
you in the misty world, as lonely as an alp, and as dull as a fen. Even
the golfers at St. Andrews feel this miserable influence. When those
bright links are reduced to so many dark sepia blots, when the sky can
be expressed only by the same woeful colour, when the surf on the sands
seems to send up a blinding woolly steam over the faint and limp yellow
of the cliffs; when his very red coat hangs limp and damp upon the
hero’s back, who goes out, notwithstanding the weather, and the best
“driver” on the links cannot get his ball across the burn--then the very
golfer is discouraged. But the population is accustomed to the
infliction, and the matches still go on, and new fights are arranged in
the club; and in the town, business and amusement proceed as usual, and
the good people walk about the streets, and pay each other visits to
keep their hearts from sinking. It is scarcely possible, however, though
your heart may be stout, and your chest sound, to walk out to the
Spindle in an easterly haar; so that Marjory did not see the new
acquaintance who had interested her so deeply for some days. She saw,
however, a sight which interested her almost as much, though in a
different way--the young woman who had visited Pitcomlie the evening
before her father’s funeral, and whom she had afterwards met at the
family grave. It was in the chief street of St. Andrews that this
meeting took place--a broad and handsome street, lined with old houses
at the lower end, and terminating at the upper in an old gateway, one of
the few perfect relics of the past that remain among so many ruins.
Marjory was walking with little Milly, as usual, by her side, pressing
into her very steps--her golden hair asserting itself as a point of
colour, even in the persistent greyness of the street and the mist of
the atmosphere.
“May, May!” Milly was saying; “there is a lady bowing to you from the
carriage-window yonder; there is a gentleman taking off his hat. Why
don’t you pay any attention? If it was me, you would say it was not
manners.”
“Come in and look for a book at Mrs. Fletcher’s,” said Marjory, by way
of repelling this attack. Milly was already a prodigious novel-reader,
and instantly caught at the bait. Her sister stood at the door of the
shop, while the little girl ran in eager to survey the many antiquated
volumes, and the few fresh ones which form the circulating library of a
country town. Of the many passers-by who went ghost-like through the
mist, a great many knew and saluted Miss Heriot, of Pitcomlie; but it
was on one who did not salute her that Marjory’s attention was fixed.
The dress was precisely the same as that of half the other women moving
about the town, but yet the little brown hat and cotton gown suddenly
grew individual and remarkable, as Marjory recognized the wearer. She
was walking briskly along, with the air of one profoundly occupied,
looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. Suddenly she raised
her head as she passed in front of the shop door where Marjory stood,
and their eyes met. The young woman grew suddenly red; she gave Miss
Heriot a quick, defiant look, and would have passed on without any
recognition. Marjory was startled and excited, but she did not lose her
presence of mind; she made a step out from the door. “Surely you know
me,” she said quietly. The young woman paused, as if perforce, but held
her ground.
“Yes, Miss Heriot, I know you very well; you’ve spoken to me twice
before--when I was not wanting,” she added doggedly, “to speak to you.”
Marjory had some difficulty in keeping her temper, for this persistent
resistance was provoking, to say the least. She said with some haste:
“There can be very little reason why I should insist upon speaking to
you.”
“I ken none, Miss Heriot.”
“Well!” said Marjory, with an impatient sigh, “neither do I. You know, I
am sure, a great deal more than I do. But remember--you may be sorry
some day for having refused to tell me what you wanted at my father’s
house; and by that time it may be too late.”
She turned away, disturbed vaguely, as she had always been, by the
appearance of this strange woman; but her withdrawal seemed to affect
the other more than her questions had done. Before Marjory had
re-entered the shop, the stranger spoke in a hesitating tone: “Miss
Heriot, I am meaning no harm to you; there is, may be, something that I
may come and tell you--that concerns you and yours, as well as me and
mine; but I canna do it now. I thought you were artful and proud, but
now I think you’re true. Maybe there is nothing in it; if there is, I
will tell you the first. But I will say nothing till I hear the truth.”
“What truth? Then tell me your name, at least!” cried Marjory, her heart
beginning to beat loud with wonder and excitement.
“No, Miss Heriot, I’ll no tell you my name.”
“Do you know you are very rude, very uncivil?” cried Marjory, stepping
back with a flush on her face.
“Maybe!” said the other, recovering her self-possession, which had been
momentarily impaired. “I’m no a good judge what’s civil and what is
uncivil; but I’ll no tell you my name--nor anything about me; unless it
is true.”
And with these words the stranger walked away, not pausing to hear what
Marjory had to say. This meeting had a painful effect upon her. She
pondered over it for the next few nights and days, wondering, with a
bewildered sense that her wonder was vain, what it could mean. If what
was true? or what did it, what could it matter to the Heriots whether
something known to this girl was true or not? She tried to scorn it, as
some vulgar bugbear, probably concerning something quite unimportant;
but she could not succeed. What was it? she kept saying to herself. She
could not mention it to her uncle; she could not confide anything so
serious to little Milly. What could it be? And the more a mystery of
this kind, however petty, is kept to its original possessor, the more it
vexes the mind, and becomes a daily annoyance. If Fanshawe had but been
there! Him she could have consulted; with him she could have talked it
over, and wondered aloud, and received strength from the wonderings of
another. Probably between them, they might have come to some reasonable
conclusion, to some explanation of the mystery. She was almost
half-tempted to write to him, as the only person who knew about
Isabell’s letter, the only one who could understand what she meant.
Almost, but not quite; a hundred reasons of womanly reluctance, shyness,
disinclination to avow her dependence on the opinion of another, came in
to prevent the imprudence; but yet it was something strange in Marjory’s
history, something new in her mind, that such an idea should have arisen
in her. She quenched it with a certain shame.
And oddly enough, one of these days, Mr. Charles brought home a friend
with him to dinner, who knew Fanshawe. I do not pretend to disclose
exactly the sentiments which moved Mr. Charles. Miss Jean’s advice had
never quite gone out of his mind. He was of the kind of man to whom an
injunction, of whatever character, carries weight, and who feels that
when a charge of any sort is laid upon him, whether accepted or not, it
becomes a duty, and must be fulfilled. His good sense and his feeling of
propriety struggled vainly against the prejudice of doing what he had
been told. Instinctively, he looked about the links for men who were
worthy of being introduced to Marjory. He made a little mental cross
against the names of those who were specially endowed by any of the
gifts of Providence, who were handsome, or wealthy, or well-spoken of.
“Would So-and-So please her, I wonder?” the old man said to himself,
with a comical terror of the older woman, who had given him this
commission; and with a faltering heart he had obeyed her behest, and
under the most transparent pretence of accidentalness, had already taken
home with him two or three of the best men he could find. On such
occasions, Mr. Charles did his best to look perfectly innocent and at
his ease. He made in private many and voluble apologies to Marjory.
“I sometimes feel the want of a little conversation, my dear. Not but
what I am perfectly happy in you, that are a far better talker than most
folk. But a little change, you know; and it is good for you, too,
Marjory. You may think not, and even you may not care for it at the
moment; but depend upon it, it is good for you. It’s a break upon the
monotony. It prevents you from falling out of the way of society. And I
know you are too good a housekeeper, May, ever to be taken unawares in
respect of the dinner.”
“You mean you are too particular about good eating to make it possible,”
said Marjory, smiling. “But, Uncle Charles, of course you must see your
friends when you please. You do not require to make excuses to me.”
“It is not that, not quite that, my dear,” said Mr. Charles, perplexed,
not knowing how to avow that he would gladly have done without those
friends; and the same little epilogue had been performed several times
without the least apparent effect produced either upon Marjory or the
eligible persons thus brought to see her. Marjory, perhaps, was somewhat
disposed to retreat into her mourning on these occasions. She was
perfectly civil and friendly to her uncle’s friends; but she kept them
in that category, and never allowed them to become her own; and as Miss
Jean had made the express condition that Mr. Charles was to interfere
only so far as the first step was concerned, the poor man was still more
confused and perplexed by the utter failure of his expedient. He had no
head for such delicate negotiations; he never asked the same person a
second time, nor took any steps to promote intimacy. That was not in his
instructions. However, for once he did succeed in rousing Marjory to
energy at last. The guest who knew Fanshawe was a Scotch squire, who
had been a friend of Tom’s, and whom Marjory, too, had known in former
days. There were reasons for inviting him of a perfectly feasible
character, and which required no apologies from Mr. Charles.
“I’ve brought Walter Seton to see you; we’ll give him some dinner,” he
said, as he knocked at the door of Marjory’s dressing-room, without
thinking it necessary to apologize; and Marjory was more open, more
friendly than usual to the old friend. It was not till after dinner that
the conversation took place which moved her out of her friendly calm.
Milly had come in, as the fashion of the house was, and taken her place
by her sister’s side. It had been the old fashion in the days when Milly
was the light of her father’s eyes. The little girl’s chair was drawn as
close to Marjory’s as the conditions of chairs would permit. She stole
her hand into her sister’s under the table. Milly, indeed, had no
independent being when Marjory was by. She was a bloom growing on the
stem of the elder flower.
“I hear you had Fanshawe at Pitcomlie,” said Mr. Seton, with complacent
calmness, and without a suspicion that he was about to make himself
intensely disagreeable. “Is he any steadier than he was, I wonder? You
had him for some time at Pitcomlie? Somebody told me he was on a long
visit.”
“Ah, yes. We had him for a week or two. Is he not steady, then?” asked
Mr. Charles.
Marjory had pricked up her ears, and so did little Milly, to whom
Fanshawe was an example of everything admirable in man.
“Well,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders, “I know nothing bad of
him; but he’s a sad unsettled fellow; amiable, and all that, but, I
fear, a good-for-nothing--a ne’er-do-well, as we say in Scotland. It is
odd how many agreeable men belong to that species. For he’s a nice
fellow, a pleasant fellow. Didn’t you think so, Miss Heriot? All ladies
do.”
“He was good for a great deal when he was at Pitcomlie,” said Marjory,
feeling her cheek flush in spite of herself. “A kinder friend never
appeared in a melancholy house.”
“He was all that--all that,” said Mr. Charles, hastily.
“That is exactly what I should have expected to hear,” said Seton. “You
have hit off his character in a word. Ready to do anything for anybody;
always serviceable; good for other people’s concerns, but letting his
own, you know, go to the dogs. When I said good-for-nothing, I ought to
have said good for everybody but himself.”
“That’s a fatal kind of amiability,” said Mr. Charles, falling into this
depreciatory estimate with a readiness which disgusted the two feminine
partizans, to whom it was impossible to see their friend assailed
without striking a blow in his defence. “I have known many men like
that, nobody’s enemy but their own--”
“I think you would speak a little more warmly, Uncle Charles,” said
Marjory, with a burst of which she was herself ashamed, “if you
remembered all that Mr. Fanshawe did for us. Amiability does not make a
man do what he did. Have you forgotten poor Tom’s bedside? and all his
kindness to my father, and after--I beg your pardon; it is bad taste to
introduce our private matters. But, Mr. Seton, I should be a wretch if I
allowed anyone to speak disparagingly of Mr. Fanshawe without telling
what I know.”
“Yes, yes; I quite understand,” said Seton, with a suppressed smile.
“Ladies always give him that character. He is the most serviceable
fellow. But I speak of his own concerns; he is a very unsatisfactory man
to have anything to do with in business, for example. He is as ignorant
as a woman--begging your pardon again, Miss Heriot. He is a nice fellow,
but thoroughly unsatisfactory; as unsettled as a man can be; a complete
rover, here to-day and gone to-morrow. I like him very much myself. I
don’t know any pleasanter companion; but that’s his character. Socially,
of course, it doesn’t matter; but it’s a great pity for himself.”
“No doubt about that,” said Mr. Charles; “a great pity. What are his
means, now? That would be a kind of a way of judging.”
“I do not see that we are the people who ought to judge him,” said
Marjory, rising from the table; while little Milly, with all her golden
locks on end, holding by her sister’s dress, and turning looks of fire
and flame upon the calumniator, rose too, in a flush of childish fury.
“Oh! how I would have liked to have done something to him!” cried Milly,
as soon as they had got to the safe shelter of the drawing-room. “If I
had been a man, I would have fought him, May! Our Mr. Fanshawe, that is
good for everything! I hope Uncle Charles will never, never as long as I
live, bring that man here again!”
“I hope so, too, Milly,” said Marjory, breathing quick in her suppressed
excitement; and she seated herself at the deep window overlooking the
Cathedral ruins and the sea beyond, with her arm round her little
sister. Milly’s hair spread over their black dresses like sprinkled
gold; Milly’s little heart beat against the bosom in which another heart
was beating still more warmly; with indignation--only with indignation,
and generous resistance to wrong.
It was the longest day of the year. What lingering silvery light, what
soft tints of pale celestial colour, what opal radiance of enchanted
hours that are neither day nor night, is involved in that description! I
do not know what these evenings may be in the region of the midnight
sun; but they cannot possess such mystic, poetic light as do the long
Summer nights in Scotland, too poetic for any weird glory of unnatural
shining. The young woman and the child sat enshrined in this visionary
radiance long after Milly ought (I allow) to have been in bed. Mr. Seton
had an engagement at the Club, and did not, fortunately, return to the
drawing-room. His presence would not have been appreciated there.
CHAPTER VII.
It was according to all the rules of that condition into which Marjory
was gliding unawares that next morning she should receive another letter
from Fanshawe, which, however, was not the second nor the third. The
incident had lost all its novelty, and become common enough in her
experience. And there could be little doubt that these letters conveyed
to her, with all the subtle difference which exists between a man’s
self-accusations and the censures of another man, very much the same
tale which had been told by the visitor of last night. Fanshawe allowed
in so many words that he was good-for-nothing; he told her in covert
language, but still plain enough, that he had been roused by meeting her
into thoughts of, and dreams after, better things. But he did not tell
her what better thing he was doing, what attempt he was making to attain
a career worthy of a man. And probably had she been able to see him as
he was at that moment, dropped back into all his old habits, occupied
with his old busy round of idleness, and keeping up just enough of his
nobler discontent as found utterance in his letters to her, Marjory
would have felt with a pang that Seton was right and she herself wrong.
She had a vague uneasy feeling to this effect, even while she read the
unintentionally deceptive and skilful sentences by which he appealed to
her sympathy, and by which he secured that sympathy, notwithstanding the
sense of something unreal which floated vaguely over the surface as it
were, stopping her in the full course of interest and belief. She said
to herself uneasily, why does he not do something? or why, if he cannot
do anything, should he lament over it? Had he been silent, Marjory would
not have thought upon the subject; but Fanshawe, who knew no other means
by which to recommend himself to her, unconsciously followed Mr. Seton’s
lead. He abased himself, hoping to be exalted. He mourned over his
uselessness, expecting her to receive these lamentations as virtue. And
Marjory indeed, though she faintly perceived a certain hollowness in the
lamentations, did accept them as such. She took a rapid survey of the
position, and asked herself, if it was all true, wherein he was inferior
to other men? Seton, who had accused him, how was he better? He had an
estate to look after, which gave him a certain anchor, and object in
life; “and I have no doubt he manages it very badly,” Marjory said to
herself, with a certain spitefulness. And her uncle, for example, who
had given up Fanshawe’s cause, and had shaken his head over the idea
that he was nobody’s enemy but his own, of what practical use was his
life that he should shake his head at another man? Marjory grew hot upon
this subject in her private thoughts. The Pitcomlie papers, the
portfolios of prints, and the golf at St. Andrews! Did these serious
occupations give one man a right to erect himself in superiority as
fulfilling all the duties of life over another? Marjory walked down to
the Links in her fervour, and watched all the men going out for their
game. Some of them were hardworking men taking their relaxation; but a
great many of them were gentlemen living at home at ease, and
considering, as we have before said, that two rounds of the Links was
the whole duty of man. A meritorious individual who had won his game
before luncheon, came sailing up to her with satisfaction beaming from
every wrinkle. He had no sense of being a useless member of society; but
probably he would shake his head at Fanshawe, who played no golf, and
who could be, when occasion served, the truest, most self-denying of
friends. Nobody’s enemy but his own! And whose enemies, then, were the
busy groups on the Links? extremely busy--at what? Such were Marjory’s
bitter feminine thoughts--thoughts which probably would never have
crossed her mind had they not been provoked by injudicious criticism.
“I have not time to speak to you, May,” said Mr. Charles, waving his
hand to her. “I am engaged for a foursome; and if I am late for dinner
you must not be surprised, for I am very busy to-day.”
“Oh, very busy, I see,” cried Marjory, “and most usefully employed,
uncle.”
“Yes, my dear, there is nothing in the world so good for the health,” he
said, hurrying off with his long legs, and a countenance of the utmost
importance and seriousness. And it was he who had said of Fanshawe that
he was nobody’s enemy but his own!
Little Milly was golfing too, at the Ladies’ Links, whither some
youthful companions had beguiled her from her constant clinging to her
sister’s side. “But I’ll come with you directly, May, if you want me,”
cried youthful Milly, ready to throw down her club at a moment’s notice.
What a pretty sight it was!--groups of pretty girls (the girls are all
pretty in St. Andrews) in the picturesque dresses of the period, looped
up at every available corner, with bright flying ribbons,
bright-coloured petticoats, a patch-work of brilliant colours--and such
quantities of bright locks ruffled by the breeze, as might have set up a
hair-market on the spot--were scattered in knots of two or three over
the smooth slippery velvet of the grass. Across the burn on the other
side, were the darker groups of the men, relieved by, here and there, a
red coat. Yellow heaps of sand, upturned by the sea, which was little
seen but much heard, and great rough whin-bushes scattered about the
“bent,” or rougher edge of the Links, with a background of blue hills,
and enough trees to swear by on one side--and on the other St. Andrews,
on its headland, the sun shining full upon it, upon its grey towers and
white houses, and the stretch of sea which filled in the landscape. The
prettiest scene! Marjory was half softened by it, yet turned away with a
certain scorn that did not belong to her nature. These were the people
who found Fanshawe a good-for-nothing, nobody’s enemy but his own!
She made a long course to the Spindle after this, and I avow that it was
a long walk for a young lady alone; but then she was in a condition in
which our own thoughts are our best companions; and she liked the soft
silence, the long meditative walk, the murmur of the sea. The day was
fine, and shone with that pathetic brightness which a Scotch summer day
so often has after a storm--as if Nature made anxious amends to her
children for those frequent interruptions which she could not prevent.
The sea was full, washing up to the very foot of the grey fantastic
rock. Little blue wavelets, fairy curls of foam, crept about it, as if
trying to soften the silent giant. They came up in little child-like
rushes, as of glee irrepressible, to the very edge of the mossy grass;
and Marjory had not been long there before she perceived the girl in,
whom she had been so much interested, wrapped in a shawl, and seated in
her former place before the door of the cottage. An old woman, with the
old “mutch,” bound with a black ribbon, which has almost fallen out of
use in Scotland, stood in the doorway. She had just placed a pillow to
support the sick girl, and was looking at her wistfully, with an evident
love, which had seriousness, and even severity, in it. Marjory went up
to her with some eagerness. She was welcomed with a smile from the girl,
who rose faltering in her pleasure. “Eh! but I’m glad to see you!” she
cried; then dropped into her chair, too weak to stand. She seemed to
Marjory to look even feebler than on the previous day.
“Good day!” said Marjory, addressing the old woman at the door; “I am
afraid she is very weak; has the storm harmed her? and will you let me
ask if she has the wine and strengthening food she requires? I beg your
pardon if I am taking a liberty.”
Scotch cottagers are not always to be depended on in such particulars.
Marjory knew that she might be speaking to some one as proud as a
grand-duchess, though arrayed in an ancient mutch.
“I thank ye kindly, mem,” said the old woman, “we need nothing; but it
was a kind thought. Na, she’s wanting for nothing, nothing; except an
easy conscience, and the comfort of them that tell the truth.”
“Poor child,” said Marjory; “I am sure she tells the truth.”
“And that I do!” said the girl. “Oh, leddy, you said God never
misunderstood; bless you for that; but whiles the best in this world do,
and the kindest--Oh, mother, dinna speak. This lady’s heart speaks for
me; she does not blame me. Tell her nothing but what I tell her. And if
you would be real good and kind, mother dear, let me speak to her in
peace.”
“I’ll do that!” said the mother, with a movement of anger; but in
another moment she called Marjory aside with a sudden gesture, and
whispered to her. “This lass,” she said, solemnly, “God help her; she’ll
never be better; she’s my youngest, and she dying before my very ein.
But she’s dying with something on her conscience; she tells me one
story, and this horrible world believes another. She’s taken a great
fancy to you. Oh, my bonnie leddy, take pity upon a poor family that’s
heart-broken; bid her no go down to the grave with a lie in her right
hand. I’ll forgive all the meesery and the shame if she’ll tell the
truth.”
Tears were glittering in the woman’s eyes; tears which did not fall, but
moistened the eyelids with a painful dew--though the eyes were red, as
if they had wept much.
“If I were in your place I would believe her,” said Marjory. “Did she
ever tell you lies before?”
“Never, never! never till now!” cried the mother; and two tears fell on
the apron which she raised to her eyes hastily; but she added: “She
never had any occasion; she never did a thing to be ashamed of--my poor,
poor bairn!--till now.”
“I would believe her now,” said Marjory, who thus suddenly found herself
involved in a family tragedy. The girl was looking uneasily towards her;
the mother shook her head.
“Oh, if I could!” she said; “but go to her, go to her, my bonny leddy;
and if you would speak a word!”
Marjory seated herself on the grass by the invalid’s feet; she was
beginning to say something about the storm, and the interruption of her
walks, but the sick girl was too much interested in subjects more
important. She looked down upon the young lady with a sickening anxiety
in her pathetic eyes. “Did she say anything?--anything to make ye leave
me--anything to turn your heart?” she said, wistfully taking hold of
Marjory’s dress.
“Nothing!” said Marjory. “She said you had something on your conscience.
My poor girl, I believe all you said to me; but if you could relieve
your mother by telling her anything you have not told her?”
“Oh! no, no!” cried the girl; “there is nothing I have not told her. It
is all true--as true as the Holy Gospel. I would bear shame if I
deserved it. I would na’ shrink from my just recompense. I’m bearing it
now, and falsely, and it’s killing me; but the truth, and that alone, I
will say.”
Marjory looked up at her with a strong and yearning pity, which she
herself scarcely understood. It seemed to her that she would like to
take the matter in hand, and clear the truthfulness of this delicate
ailing creature, who looked so shadowy and worn, and pale. Whatever her
fault might be, it appeared hard to pursue her to the edge of the grave
with reproaches, as her mother seemed doing. She was young enough to be
forgiven, Marjory thought, almost whatever she had done; young enough to
be pardoned for maintaining some fiction of self-defence, whatever it
might be. So young--and yet so near, it seemed, to those gates of death
which shut upon everything, making an end of all pretences. “Poor
child!” Marjory said, unconsciously, as she looked at her. The sight of
such a creature dropping slowly, visibly into the grave at her age, was
enough to move a heart of stone, without any addition to the sadness of
the sight.
“I am twenty,” said the girl; “you think me younger than I am; and I’ve
lived a long life, though I am not auld. I have had sad changes, hope
and fear, and then a bit blink that was bright, bright, and then
darkness, darkness, wherever the eye could see. It is hard enough to
bear that when your own folk stand by you; but when they are turned
against ye--and dinna believe ye--”
“Does no one stand by you?” asked Marjory.
“My sister,” said the girl. “She’s good, good, better than anyone I ever
knew. She has given up her place to be near me. She puts her trust in
me--which is a great strength when you have to face doubt. Oh, if I
could be sure I would live till it’s all cleared up! But it would be
hard, hard, to die before--though I can do that too--if the Lord
will--But oh, seeing it’s the triumph o’ truth and right I’m
wanting--seeing it’s no for mysel’, for I must die sooner or later--do
you no think He’s sure to grant it before I die?”
“I do not know what it is,” said Marjory; and then feeling as if what
she said was unkind and cold, she added quickly, “I hope you will live
long, and see better days. You are so young--”
The girl shook her head. She held up her thin hand, interrupting the
words. “I have no wish for length of days,” she said. “Many a time I’ve
wondered how it was that long life was made so much of in the very Bible
itsel’. But that was in the old days, before our Lord’s time, when folks
knew little about it, or where they were going to. I mind, aye, a verse
of a poem that runs in my head,
“‘The saints are dead, the martyrs dead,
And Mary, and our Lord, and I
Would follow with humility.’
that’s bonnie. Are you fond of poetry?”
“Yes,” said Marjory, in her surprise.
“You wonder to hear me say it? but we aye liked reading at home--though
maybe not the like of that--and there were many things that I tried to
learn.”
“I see that you have had a very different education from most girls,”
said Marjory, with a certain buzzing and confusion of wonder in her
mind, which puzzled herself. Some curious broken lights seemed to
glimmer into her thoughts. She could not tell what they were, or what
they meant; but a sensation of pain came over her in the midst of her
wonder, pain for which she was quite unable to account.
“No--no that,” said the girl. “I liked it for itself, and so I tried;
but oh, it’s a’ past now--a’ past and ended. I read my Bible most. My
mother says the other books put things in my head. And oh, what wonders
and mysteries there are in the Bible, more than anything in the other
books.”
“But your sister always trusts you, and is good to you?” said Marjory.
Her mind was disturbed, and her curiosity most warmly awakened. She
would gladly have put some leading question to procure further
information, but this seemed all that it was possible for her to say.
“Oh, ay, very good,” cried the sufferer. And she wandered off into those
religious speculations, founded upon strong and child-like faith, yet
having the appearance of doubts and questionings, which are so familiar
to young and gentle souls chiefly occupied with the other world and its
concerns. Marjory sat and listened, and interposed now and then a word.
And thus a simple sad young soul unfolded itself before her, full of
deep wonder, and pain, and sorrow, recognizing God’s hand in all the
events of earth, and longing for an explanation of them--as only the
truest faith can long. The poor girl thought herself wicked in some of
her questionings--she thought no one had ever entertained such theories
before. She poured forth all her chaos of pious difficulty upon
Marjory’s ears, and it seemed to the hearer, who was so much more
accustomed to the world, that these doubts and difficulties were more
devout than anything she had ever heard in her life. As they thus sat,
another woman, this time the mistress of the cottage, came out, and
suggested that the invalid had been already long enough out of doors.
She was an honest country-woman, with an anxious expression in her face,
and she made signs apart to Marjory, begging her to wait. After the girl
had gone in, which she did reluctantly, and with many entreaties to her
new friend to come again, this good woman hurried after Marjory. She
came up to her breathless, with heightened colour and anxious eyes. “Eh,
mem, you’re a real leddy, and real good to poor folk, it’s easy to see
that. I wanted to ask just one question. What do you think of her? I can
see you’ll tell me the truth.”
“I am afraid she is very ill,” said Marjory, gravely; “and very weak.”
“Oh, it’s no her health I’m thinking of. She’s all that; but though
Death is awful in a house, I’m no one that would put a dying creature to
the door. It’s other things. We’re decent folk--and never have had a
clash or a story about one of us, as long as I can mind. Am I right in
keeping the like of her in my house?”
“But why the like of her?” said Marjory. “She seems to me a little
saint.” She thought for the moment that the poor girl’s most innocent
“doubts” had affected, perhaps, some one of Scotland’s rigidly orthodox
critics, and that this was the result.
“Oh, dinna say it--dinna say that! I think so myself when I look at her,
and when I hear her speak; but oh, mem, though she’s very good in
words--the thing I cannot get over is--that bairn.”
“What bairn?” cried Marjory, aghast.
“Did they no tell you? I thought they would; for it’s no right to let a
leddy come without hearing. It’s like deceiving a minister. Ay, mem,
that’s just it. Poor thing, she has had a bairn.”
It would be impossible to tell the revulsion of feeling with which
Marjory received this news. She gazed aghast at her questioner, she
coloured as deeply as if she herself had been the guilty person, and
finally she turned and fled homeward without reply. To such a question,
what answer could be made.
“I cannot advise you, I cannot advise you!” she cried. She put her hands
to her ears, that she might not hear more. She quickened her steps,
stumbling over the grass. Was there then nothing in the world which
could be accepted honestly, as pure and true, without horrors of
questioning and investigation? When she had gone half the way, Marjory
sank down on the turf, and covered her face with her hands, and wept
bitter tears of grief and mortification. Her very heart was sick. After
all her new friend was nothing to her--the chance acquaintance of an
hour--a girl in a totally different sphere, where such sins were
differently thought of; and yet, this new disappointment seemed somehow
to chime in with the irritation of the previous night. Perhaps it was
her nerves which were affected. Pain and shame, and a sensation of
wounded and outraged feeling, such as she had never known before,
overwhelmed her being. Was there nothing real--nothing reliable--nothing
to be trusted in this whole miserable, sinful world?
CHAPTER VIII.
Marjory did not leave the house for some days. She was disgusted with
everything. She had no heart to encounter the shining of the ceaseless
sunshine out of doors, and the gay scenes upon the Links--gay yet sober,
with a Northern brightness. They seemed to tantalise and mock her in the
heaviness of her heart. And yet when she considered calmly (or tried to
do so) she had so little foundation for this excessive and fantastic
feeling. So far as Fanshawe went, she might never, she said to herself,
see him again; and though of course she could not help having a certain
feeling of friendship for him, considering the circumstances in which
they had been drawn together, yet, after all, whether he was a
good-for-nothing, or the most useful and admirable member of society, it
mattered very little to Marjory. And in so far as respected this unknown
girl, it mattered less still--it mattered absolutely nothing. Marjory
knew, as all who know the peasant population of Scotland are compelled
to admit, however reluctantly, that deviations of such a kind are
unfortunately much too common, and in general much too leniently judged.
Such painful incidents of rural life had come in her way before, and
shocked and disturbed her without having this paralyzing and sickening
effect. Why was it? Was it her nerves, her bodily health, one of those
simple physical reasons which disagreeable philosophers represent as at
the bottom of all our supposed moral sentiments? This was an explanation
which Marjory hated and scorned, as was natural, and which vexed her
already wounded mind all the more that she could not absolutely put it
out of the question. It might be that suffering and exhaustion had given
to events, which would have affected her little under other
circumstances, a special power to sting. She had to account for her
gloom to her uncle by a headache, that most plausible excuse for all
unrevealable griefs, and she overcame Milly by a quick prayer for
silence--
“Never mind me, dear,” she said. “I am worried; my head aches--don’t ask
me any questions.”
Obedient Milly asked no more, but she crept to her sister’s side, and
kept looking at her with wistful glances, which were more inquisitive
than the questions themselves. Marjory was a person of too much
importance to be allowed to be out of temper, or out of heart, with
impunity.
“Your headache is lasting a long time, my dear,” Mr. Charles said, after
vainly suggesting “a turn on the Links” by way of remedy. “Don’t you
think it would be well to see the doctor?”
And Milly wept a few ready tears at the idea that May might be ill. Thus
Marjory was compelled to give up her headache; but her heartache, which
nobody knew of, was more difficult to get rid of. She went no more to
the Spindle, but strayed listlessly along the country roads, which are
not interesting, and tried her best to forget all about an encounter
which had interested her so much at first, and had wounded her so
unduly. Both the interest and the vexation were, she felt, excessive--a
trick of the nerves, a weakness of the body, a tendency to emotion,
produced by the strain she had sustained for so long.
A whole week had elapsed in this way, when one day she was told that a
woman wanted to see her; “a decent woman, but a poor body,” was the
description of the maid. Marjory went down to the court to see this
visitor, expecting some applicant from the poor quarter of the town, or
other petitioner. She was surprised and excited to see that it was the
woman who had caused her so much vexation, the mistress of the cottage
at the Spindle, who stood with an anxious face, expecting her approach.
“Oh, mem,” she cried, almost as soon as Marjory came in sight. “Come
back, come back, and see yon poor lass! She’s breaking her heart. She’s
been worse than ever, crying for you night and day, and since she heard
that I had tell’t ye, she’s had no peace in her mind. All her cry is,
‘Bring back the leddy, bring back the leddy! I canna die till I’ve seen
the leddy.’ We’ve tried to pacify her a’ we could. We’ve said nae doubt
you were gane away; folk come to St. Andrews for the sea-bathing, and
then they go away; or we said nae doubt the leddy finds it’s ower long a
walk; but naething would content her; and at last I came away, seeing it
was my fault, to try if I could find you. And oh, mem, maybe I was
hard-hearted yon day. We mauna be unforgiving. She’s but a bairn, so to
speak, and it was a gentleman that deluded her with his flattering
tongue. When it’s a gentleman it’s a’ the harder on a poor lass; and
they have such deceiving ways. When I was young myself, there was a
student lad, a minister’s son, no less----”
“What does she want with me?” said Marjory, coldly.
“Oh, mem, how can I tell ye? whiles a poor creature like that will take
a yearning; it may be for one thing, it may be for another. Sometimes
it’s for meat and drink; but this poor thing is no of that kind. You’ve
spoken to her soft and kindly, as I dinna doubt is your nature, and she
canna bide that you should think ill of her.”
“How can I do other than think ill of her,” said Marjory, “after what
you said?”
“Well, mem, I canna tell. You maun hear her story; one says one thing,
and another another. I canna tell the rights of it; but this I maun say
that she’s no just a common lass. If there are any excuses that a lady
like you would think excuses, you may be sure she has them; and it would
break a heart of stone to see her there, whiles in her bed, whiles on
her chair, greeting and praying, ‘Oh, bring the leddy back!’ I canna
stand it, mem,” said the woman, wiping her eyes, “I canna stand it, and
if you saw her, neither could you.”
Then a curious sensation came over the proud young lady, who had been so
deeply disgusted. It was as if some frozen spring in her had suddenly
melted; her whole heart seemed to give way. A kind of yearning desire to
obey the call thus made upon her, overcame all other feelings in her
mind. She made a brief, ineffectual stand against this flood of
unaccountable emotion.
“I do not see what good I can do her,” she said. “I have no right to
judge her, and I don’t judge her; but what can I do? If I can help her
in any way, you have only to tell me; but I, whom she scarcely knows,
who know nothing of her, why should I go to her? What good could I do?”
“Na, mem,” said the woman earnestly, “that’s mair than I can tell. It’s
just a fancy. I’m no saying it’s more than a fancy; but ah, you ken
yourself, sometimes all the world is no so much good to us as just
something we have wished for and wanted; some bit thing that was nae
solid advantage. Oh! if you would but come! You’re a leddy well kent and
much thought o’, that can take no harm. It could not harm you; and oh!
the comfort it would be to her!”
“Did you know me?” said Marjory, not knowing how to delay a little
longer, and to make a last effort to stifle the melting of the heart in
her own breast; “or did she know me? How did you trace me here?”
“Poor thing, she knows nobody,” said the woman; “and neither did I ken
ye, mem. I ken few strangers. I found ye out by your description. I
spoke to a friend of mine, a fisher’s wife, that comes whiles with her
creel to the door; and as soon as she had heard me out, she said,
‘Unless I’m sair mista’en, I ken the young leddy;’ and, sure enough,
she brought me to this door; but now I ken ye, Miss Heriot. My man has a
cousin that lives at Comlie, and mony a time I’ve heard of the Laird’s
family. Oh! Miss Heriot, come out with me! She’s in her bed, yon poor
lass. Come and give her a little life, and hear her story. The sight of
her would melt a heart of stone.”
Marjory’s was not a heart of stone, and it pled with her, more strongly
than did this intercessor. She had seen the girl only three or four
times, and had spoken to her but twice; though that had been enough to
rouse in her a vague but powerful sentiment, for which she felt there
was no adequate foundation. Now, however, this sentiment rose into a
certain passionate force; she dismissed her visitor with a vague promise
to go some time or other; but the moment the woman was gone, the
pleading voice within awoke with double force, and gave her no rest. It
interfered with her inevitable duties; it made her silent and
pre-occupied, unable to respond to her little sister’s constant
questions, and the remarks of Mr. Charles, who chose to come home for
luncheon upon that day of all others, and was full of the doings of the
new ladies at Pitcomlie, whom somebody he had met had been telling him
doleful stories about. Mr. Charles’s brow was puckered with anxiety, and
his niece did not give him the sympathy he hoped for. “I do not know
what is to come of the old house, or what I can do,” he cried. “No doubt
I am joint guardian; but how I am to fight against these two young
women, or keep them from having their way--it’s a position I never
anticipated, never anticipated, May.”
“No doubt.” She was thinking she heard the cry “bring back the leddy!”
and Matilda and her sister had no interest for Marjory, even though they
were turning upside down her father’s house.
“For you see,” said Mr. Charles, with his perplexed look; “though I am
joint guardian, so is she; and you may say what you please, May, when it
comes to be judged between two people, and one of them a pretty young
woman, there’s no tribunal yet invented that will hold the scales of
justice altogether even. I might do the best for the boy and his
inheritance; but she’s his mother, and has nature on her side. The
claims of nature might not tell so much if she were not bonnie; but the
two together are irresistible. I do not know if I have your attention--”
“Oh yes, uncle!” said Marjory. But she was not, in reality, paying any
attention. Her mind was away, speeding along the coast towards the
Spindle Rock, and the lowly cottage under its shadow. Mr. Charles went
back to his golf somewhat disappointed at the want of interest with
which his plaints had been heard, and with a secret uneasiness in his
mind as to the cause of Marjory’s abstraction. He ran over all the list
of men whom he had asked to dinner, in the accidental manner suggested
by Miss Jean, with an anxious self-inquiry whether any of them might
have to do with it. The idea was not a pleasant one. He had obeyed the
old woman’s suggestion because he could not help himself, and with a
secret certainty that nothing would come of it; but the thought that
something might come of it was not agreeable. It confused him in his
playing that afternoon; he made such a failure on the putting green as
had not been known to be made by an experienced player for many a day,
and covered himself with confusion. “It’s all these young women,” Mr.
Charles said to himself ruefully; as, indeed, many another man has felt,
if not said.
“May I come with you, May?” said little Milly wistfully. This was
another difficulty to be got over. “I never go with you now; and at
Pitcomlie I never was away from you.”
“At Pitcomlie there were no links,” said Marjory, smiling; and with a
promise to walk with her in the evening, she disposed of her little
sister. The afternoon sunshine was blazing over the coast when she set
out finally on her long walk. A whole fleet of red-sailed fishing-boats
were out at sea, and dropping forth from the sheltered embrace of the
little harbour; a brisk little wind was blowing from the west, a genial
breeze which never disturbs the Firth, or brings up foaming waters in
the bay. The sun shone with that soft and tempered light which rejoices
the heart, without affecting unpleasantly the physical frame. Marjory
hastened on, tracing the turnings of the coast, ascending and
descending, now on the crest of the cliffs, now at their feet. She had
no eyes for the landscape, no ear for the soft splash and murmur of the
waves; her heart beat with anticipations for which it was impossible to
give, even in imagination, any reasonable motive. Nothing that she could
hear could affect her personally, and yet the emotion which possessed
her was too strong to be entirely sympathetic. She said to herself that
it must be some tale of pathetic shame for sin at the best, which
awaited her; some story which might rouse her pity, but which would
probably repel and disgust her at the same time. What better could she
look for? But she hastened as if to hear news of the greatest personal
importance, with a thrill in her veins, and a quite unusual palpitation
in her heart.
Just before she came in sight of the Spindle, a very unlooked-for
encounter happened to Marjory; she had heard steps following her for
some time, but was too much pre-occupied to notice them; nor was it
until she heard a voice from behind addressing her that she thought at
all on the subject. When she heard herself called, she turned round
hastily, and to her great surprise found herself face to face with the
young woman whom she had seen at Pitcomlie, and at the family
burying-place. Her aspect, however, was changed; she it was now who
accosted Marjory; and there was an amount of anxiety in her round face
which changed its expression entirely; she kept calling, as if this
anxiety had excited her beyond all ordinary habits of self-control.
“Miss Heriot, Miss Heriot!” she cried, as she came forward, stumbling
among the whin-bushes in her excitement. “Where are you going, where are
you going?” A certain sharp sense of amusement, mingled with anger, a
perception of the ludicrous inappropriateness of the question, as
addressed to herself by a person who had steadily refused to afford her
any information as to her own movements, struck Marjory, amid all her
impatience. She smiled as she turned round, and waited for a moment, in
answer to the urgent appeal.
“Where am I going?” she said.
“Ay, Miss Heriot, where are you going? You may think I’ve nae right to
ask!” cried the girl, breathless; “but you’re a leddy, and I’m but an
ignorant lass. Maybe I have something to hide, but you have nothing. Oh,
for the sake o’ a’ that’s merciful, tell me! it’s straightforward and
simple to you, but no’ to me. You’re going for your diversion, or for
kindness, or for I kenna what; but me, I’m travailing and working for
life and death; for the life or death of a poor sorrowful creature
that’s perishing of grief and shame, and has done nothing, nothing to be
so sore punished!” she cried, with sudden tears.
Marjory had stopped, arrested, in spite of herself, by the passion in
the girl’s voice. Her heart softened unawares towards this penitent
opponent, who had refused all explanation on her own part, and yet
demanded it with such confidence. “I am going to the cottage at the
Spindle,” she said. “You have no right to ask, nor to interfere; but I
tell you because you are in trouble; because you seem to think I have
something to do with it.”
“No!” said the girl, pausing in her breathless course; “no you; but them
that belong to you. Oh, dinna be angry, dinna upbraid me! It maun be
God that’s brought you here. When I heard of the leddy, something told
me it was you; but I wouldna believe it. I wanted to do a’, a’ mysel’;
to bring her up from the gates o’ the grave, to give her back her good
name, to be her Saviour in this world. Eh, the Lord’s hard upon us
whiles! He’ll let you do all the foolishness you please; but if there’s
one great thing, one good thing that ye would like to do, and then
die--oh me, oh me! He brings in other folk; when your heart’s full of
hope, and ye see your way clear before ye--He brings in other folk!”
Here she sat down and covered her face and wept. That these tears sprung
from some disappointment connected with herself, Marjory divined, though
she could not understand how this could be. She stood by for some time,
respecting the strong emotion which she did not understand. At last,
however, she went up to her, and laid her hand softly on the young
woman’s shoulder.
“If I am to help you in anything,” she said, with a sudden inspiration,
as unaccountable to herself as all the rest, “do not stop and cry, and
lose precious time; but come, like a brave girl, as I am sure you are,
and show me the way.”
“I will!” cried the girl, springing suddenly to her feet. “I will! there
is enough for both you and me.”
The cottage door stood half open; everything was still about; there was
at first no one to be seen. A lonely place, musical with ripple of
waves, with soft sough of the quiet winds, with those mysterious
breathings of nature which make for themselves a language in solitary
places. The two anxious and excited human creatures, one full of a
sorrow and enthusiasm which had taken possession of her whole being--the
other almost as much excited with that suspense of uncertainty,
curiosity, and wonder which is equally enthralling--brought their
painful life into the stillness, like creatures of another sphere,
dispersing the natural sentiment of the place.
“There is no one here,” said Marjory, unawares; but her voice produced a
strange echo, a low cry from the half open door, and immediately after
the figure of the sick girl appeared, holding herself up by the door,
and gazed out eagerly. Her face was suddenly suffused with colour and
life as she saw them.
“Oh, come in! oh, come in!” she cried, with pathetic entreaty, tottering
forward with extended hands. The other young woman brushed past Marjory
without a word, and threw her arm round her sister.
“Bell, you’ll kill yourself!” she cried.
“And what if I did?” said the other, softly; “if you will but let me
tell the lady. I must tell the lady. Oh, come in, come in! do not pass
by the door.”
“I am coming,” said Marjory; her heart strangely divided between
sympathy and the involuntary repugnance which again made itself felt
within her as she approached the girl who had “gone astray.” It is hard
for a delicate-minded woman, brought up in all feminine traditions, to
overcome, without long training and some strong motive, this
involuntary shrinking. She followed the sisters into the cottage with a
strong thrill of repulsion, which almost tempted her to turn her back
upon the sufferer. But she restrained herself, and entered after them
into the dim little room. The sick girl had been seated near the open
door, in a chair with pillows. Here her sister placed her again,
propping her up. She was breathless with her exertions, but,
notwithstanding her weakness, kept her anxious eye fixed upon Marjory,
with an anguish of eagerness which fascinated the other, and held her
fast. When Marjory sat down by her, this anxious gaze somewhat softened;
the terror went out of it; she looked at her more calmly, her eyes
lingering on her face.
“You do not come near me to-day,” she said. “You’re kind, but I can see
the difference. You have come for Christian duty, but no so soft, no so
sweet as when you came last and knew nothing. Oh, lady! you’ve judged me
in your heart, and it’s no just. You have not waited to hear what I had
to say.”
“No,” said Marjory, “that is true; but I don’t judge you. It is not for
me to judge you, or any one. I have been disappointed--but God knows
your excuses; how can I know them? I am very sorry for you,” Marjory
added, sympathetic tears coming into her eyes as she saw the large drops
that veiled the luminous dying brightness of the other’s.
“Oh, my bonnie Bell,” cried the other girl. “Never heed her; they’re
all hard, hard, there’s nobody that understands but me.”
Bell did not make any answer. She fumbled with a black ribbon round her
neck, pulling out slowly, with an effort which showed how great her
weakness was, something which was hidden within her dress.
“I’ve never taken it from its place,” she said, “because he put it there
himself. He hung it round my neck, and he said, ‘Some day, Isabell, some
day I’ll put it on your finger.’ It’s aye been there since. Why should I
put it on my finger when he’s no here to do it? Rings and ornaments are
no for me. Oh, lady, your heart’s moved! Agnes, she’s saying something.
My heart beats, and I canna hear.”
“She’s saying nothing but your name,” said Agnes, almost harshly,
watching with a keenness that lost not a gesture or motion of the lips,
the proceedings of the visitor. And, indeed, all that Marjory felt able
to say was a startled wondering repetition of the name, “Isabell,
Isabell, Isabell!”
“Here it is,” said the poor girl, panting with the effort, and holding
out in the palm of her worn hand, with a piteous mingling of tears and
pride, a ring attached to her ribbon. “Naebody has seen it till now.
I’ve carried it next my heart. He was not the one, oh, he was never the
one to bring shame on them he loved! I wasna his equal--him a gentleman
that made the heart glad to see him, and me an ignorant creature that
knew nothing. But I took his fancy. Oh, lady, maybe it’s because you
are a lady and kind, that I think you’re sometimes like him, the turns
of your voice and the way you put your hands. I took his fancy. When you
came and sat under the Spindle Rock, and saw me sitting at my door--some
way, oh, mem,” she cried, with a pathetic apology, “I took your fancy
too!”
“Go on, go on!” cried Marjory.
But Isabell knew no reason for haste. She looked at the others
wondering. They were excited, but she, poor soul, had ceased to be
excited. A kind of pensive shadow of happiness stole over her as she
traced out the story of her love, and sought that simple apology for her
lover.
“I took your fancy too,” she repeated, softly. “I watched, and watched,
and wished you would speak, but it was you that came the first. That was
just as he did; but men are no made like us. Yours was kindness, but his
was love. Oh, lady, dinna hurry me; my heart’s fluttering as if it would
break forth; it’s like a bird in my breast. I’m his marriet wife.”
“Whose wife?” cried Marjory, rising up. She came forward in her
excitement, her tall figure towering over the others. Her passion of
anxiety and wonder took almost the form of anger. “Whose wife?” she
repeated, involuntarily taking hold of the ring. “Is this all you have
to make you so? Oh, woman, do not make me curse the dead in his grave!
Is this all? Did he deceive you so?”
“What does she say--what does she say? Oh, my heart’s fluttering! Was
that all? I am his marriet wife,” cried the girl. “I am his marriet
wife!”
Marjory turned her eager eyes to the other, breathless, unable to speak.
Agnes had her arm round her sister, supporting her. She was defiant, as
always, but somewhat subdued by the command in the eyes of the lady,
whom she felt to be her rival.
“It was a private marriage,” she said, hurriedly. “No the minister; poor
folk are no like leddies. It wasna right, but it’s nae shame. They were
marriet--before witnesses. He took her, and she took him. It’s a thing
that’s done among the like of us.”
Marjory stood stupefied in the centre of the little dim room, faintly
lighted by its green windows. It seemed to her that she could neither
move nor speak. Was it a dream? or was it possible? Could it be? All her
old thoughts at the reading of Tom’s letter swept over her mind like a
gust. If this was Isabell, then what was her real position? and what
changes might be involved of which nobody had dreamed? Marjory’s heart
began to flutter like the sick girl’s. A cloud of confusion seemed to
float round her. She saw the others but dimly out of her hot excited
eyes. Isabell--his wife! “God help us,” she stammered, not knowing what
she said. “I don’t understand it--I don’t understand it! Whose wife?”
Isabell raised her pathetic eyes, wondering and appealing, to her
visitor’s face. Agnes looked at her steadily with an uncommunicating
defiance. The one knew nothing of the confusion in Marjory’s mind, but
only felt with a painful anguish such as sometimes rends the hearts of
the dying, that this sympathy which she longed for, had failed her--the
other knew, and confronted the lady who was her rival, daring her to
avoid the revelation which was impending, but altogether unconscious and
incapable of comprehending Marjory’s thoughts. Neither of them spoke.
And in the moment everything that had happened during the last four
months whirled through Marjory’s brain, passed before her eyes like a
panorama. Poor Tom on his death-bed, playing with the something that he
would and would not tell her--then in the last hurried scene of all
believing he had told her, thanking God that he had done it. Oh! the
pitifulness of that thanksgiving for a confession never made! Had he
made it, where would this girl have been now? It might have been life to
her instead of death, it might have saved the life of the old father who
broke his heart for Tom. It might have--God knows what mazes of sudden
fancy she plunged into;--then all in a moment, came back to find herself
crouching down for support in her chair, holding by it, looking at
Isabell’s pale alarmed face through a darkness that slowly dispersed.
“What has happened?” she heard herself saying as she came out of the
darkness. She had not fainted nor fallen; but a mist had come about her,
parting her from reality, and engrossing her faculties at the very
moment when the secret she had sought so long looked at her out of her
companions’ eyes.
As Isabell’s face, however, slowly appeared to her out of that mist,
and she saw the intense expression of suffering and anxiety in it, the
weakness, every blue vein showing, the large circle round those too
luminous eyes, the wistful look in which her whole soul was--Marjory’s
heart was touched so suddenly that one impulse swept all other feelings
away.
“Poor Isabell, poor Isabell!” she said with a cry unawares. “He tried to
tell me on his death-bed. It was not his wish to leave you so. He
thought he had told me;” and with an effusion of pity and tenderness
which overcame all doubt, she took the girl’s wasted hands into her own.
Wonder overcast poor Isabell’s face. She began to cry softly,
overpowered by the sweetness of this accost, but not knowing what it
meant. “Oh, did you know him?” she murmured. “Oh, weel I ken he meant no
harm. Lady, lady, did you know my Mr. Heriot--my man, my dear, dear
man?”
“Bell,” cried Agnes, whispering in her ear. “Bell! it’s Miss Heriot her
very sel’!”
That evening Marjory sent a hurried anxious note to Fanshawe, calling
upon him to come and help her. She did it by a sudden impulse, carried
away by feelings which she felt incapable of expressing to any one else.
Him only she could confide in, he only could help her in the struggle
that was to come.
CHAPTER IX.
In the meantime, the young women at Pitcomlie, as they were entitled by
Mr. Charles, had been spending their time very agreeably. Verna had got
the house well in hand. She had re-arranged everything. The very
furniture had been changed from one room to another. “We must at once
give the house a character,” she said, “so that it may be seen to be
your house, Matty, and not the old Heriots’. There are a great many
old-fashioned things which must be cleared away. We must give it a
character;” and she went about the rooms, pulling the furniture hither
and thither. Verna, unfortunately, though she had zeal, had no
knowledge; she thought the results of a modern upholsterer’s work, spick
and span new tables, chairs, and carpets, all ordered without
consideration of expense, would produce something infinitely better than
the present aspect of the room, which had been lived in, loved in,
suffered in, for so many years, and had acquired a human character of
sympathy which makes even wood and velvet poetical. She did not
understand the old inlaid cabinets, which had been Marjory’s pride, any
more than she could understand that insane desire for “a view,” which
apparently had tempted “the old family” to open its windows so to the
stormy sea.
“One cannot escape the sea at such a place as this,” Verna said; “we
must put up with it, though I don’t care for it; but to turn all the
windows that way, _on purpose_, when there is quite a pretty garden
behind, and a sheltered corner, with flower-beds, and all that. I have
written to Mr. Freestone, and he is coming down on Saturday to see about
a new wing.”
This talk was carried on for the advantage of young Hepburn, who had
come, as he now did daily, to ask how the ladies were; and if he could
do anything for them.
“A new wing!” he said; “but you will find that highly expensive; and the
house has always been thought a large house.”
“Always been thought!” said Verna, with some scorn. “By those who don’t
know what sort of a house my sister has set her heart upon. I do not
think it a large house; but it is a very good sort of foundation
to work upon. By the time Tommy is of age, he is sure to be Master
of the Hounds, High Sheriff of the county, or, perhaps, even
Lord-Lieutenant--for I suppose the Heriots are well known to be one of
the best families in Fifeshire; and then, of course, he will require
room to give balls and other entertainments; he will be very grateful to
me, you may be certain. My plan is to pull down the old house--”
“To pull down the old house!” Hepburn repeated, in growing
consternation.
“And to build on the additions there,” Verna continued calmly. “I have
it all in my head. Unfortunately, I can’t draw very well, but I have
made a kind of an elevation, as they call it. The end of the new wing
will come just where the old tower does; and the new drawing-room, which
will be fifty feet by forty, will look out upon the lime-tree avenue. It
will be delightfully shady, and we can have the flower-beds close under
the windows. Then upstairs we can have some new rooms; it will be a
great improvement. The drawing-room here is not a bad room, but it is
dingy; and so are the dining-room, and library. In short, I don’t doubt
it was very nice for the old people, Mr. Hepburn--the old gentleman,
who, I suppose, never saw much society; but my sister is young, and, of
course, will recover her spirits--”
“Do you think she will?” said the sympathetic Johnnie. “Are there not
some gentle natures that mourn for ever?”
Verna looked at him with a doubtful glance, dubious for the moment
whether she should help him to a little real insight into her sister’s
inclinations, or whether she should keep up the pathetic aspect of
affairs. And it appeared to her that the latter was so very much the
most advantageous mode of action, that, though the temptation to reveal
the truth had come strongly upon her for a moment, she hastily repelled
it. “Yes, indeed,” she said, shaking her head; “that is very true; but,
dear Mr. Hepburn, my sister is very young; we cannot expect that she
will always be as she is now.”
“Ah!” said Johnnie; “but we may hope, at least--I mean, she can never
be more perfect than with that sweet air of resignation; that look as of
one whose existence has already passed into another world.”
Oh, what a temptation it was for Verna to give him a little sketch--such
as she could so well have done--of the real Matty! Anyone who has had to
sit by and hear a fool elevated into a saint by some still more foolish
worshipper, will understand her secret exasperation. But there were a
great many things to be taken into consideration. In the first place,
Matilda’s melancholy aspect was much her best one--when she cried she
did not require to talk and commit herself, as otherwise she must have
done infallibly; and, in the second place, Verna knew that to attempt to
keep her sister in subjection, without affording her the relief of a
worshipper, was hopeless, and young Hepburn ranked high in her list of
ways and means. She shook her head accordingly, subduing herself, and
acquiesced in this noble picture of Matty; but added: “You must
remember, Mr. Hepburn, how young she is; and even if she should not care
for society for herself, she must, some time or other, see the advantage
for her children. And we all have a taste for fine rooms and handsome
furniture,” Verna added, with a princely air. “It is a weakness, no
doubt; but the Bassetts are all famed for it. Matilda will never be
happy till she has given a character to the house.”
All this would have been infinitely comic to any man who had not been
captivated by Mrs. Charles Heriot’s afflicted beauty. But young Hepburn
was like most people in that condition; he accepted, as the most
dignified truth, what would have appeared the most transparent nonsense
in other circumstances. He did more than this; he allowed Marjory’s home
and kingdom, in which he had worshipped her since ever he could
remember, to be spoken of as “good enough for the old people,” and
acquiesced in the fact that the Bassetts required something more
magnificent, and that the house must have a character given to it,
before it could become a fit habitation for Mrs. Charles and her sister.
He was not a fool, nor unfaithful to his traditions; he was a great
lover of poetry, the most intellectual person, by a long way (except the
Minister, whose intellect took, as was right and natural, a Biblical
form,) in the neighbourhood of Comlie. Few men in the East Neuk were to
be compared to him in the way of accomplishments and general
cultivation; but yet he was guilty of this foolishness and meanness
without in the least being aware of it--or, at least, with an uneasy
consciousness which he would not permit himself to be aware of. And yet
his heart was not false to the ideal which had been his highest vision
of excellence all his life. Had he spoken of Marjory, it would still
have been with enthusiasm--though with that servility, which is common
to men in love, he allowed it to be necessary that Mrs. Charles should
“give a character” to her house. When Mrs. Charles appeared, however,
and he had the honour so often accorded to him of escorting her round
the garden (which Matilda, too, much preferred to the cliff) he made a
gentle remonstrance against Verna’s energetic measures.
“I hear that there are to be several changes,” he said, timidly. “Miss
Bassett has been telling me about a new wing.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Charles. “That is Verna’s way. She always likes to be
pulling things about. I declare I think she was quite pleased to see
that ugly old ruin, that she might pull it down and make everything
tidy. It is a fancy she has.”
“But--do you think the old house--ugly?” said Hepburn, still more
timidly.
Mrs. Charles was leaning on his arm; she was looking up at him with
those pretty blue eyes, into which tears were ready to come at a
moment’s notice--a sweet dependent creature, seeking support and
sympathy. Johnnie Hepburn knew a great deal better on this point than
she did. Had the old house of Pitcomlie been his, he would have
worshipped every stone of it. He knew all its associations, historical
and otherwise, to the family; but yet he dared go no further than to ask
humbly whether she too thought it--ugly? His mental servility was such
that, if Matilda had said “Yes,” boldly, no doubt he would have
acquiesced.
“Well, isn’t it?” said Matilda, with a momentary feeling that she might
be committing herself. “Verna thinks so, I’m sure. And then it is of no
use; and what is the good of keeping an old place without a roof, or
windows, or anything, full of rats, and I daresay snakes, and all sorts
of creatures. That is what I hate about ruins. I suppose there are no
scorpions in this country?”
“No, nor snakes either,” said Hepburn, relieved. “I see now why you
dislike it. There is nothing of the kind indeed; and old Mr. Charles
Heriot used to keep the ruins in capital order. The old house has so
many associations, you know--to the family.”
“Oh yes, to the old family, I daresay,” said Matilda; “but I don’t know
anything about their mouldy old ancestors. Verna has such a pretty plan
that she drew herself--a beautiful long drawing-room, with a nice range
of windows opening into the garden, and those new ribbon flower-beds
that are so pretty, just like the border of a shawl, close under them.
You must see the plan. Verna has quite a genius for that sort of thing,
and she says it would give such character to the house.”
“But then Miss Bassett is not the lady of the house,” said Hepburn. “She
cannot feel as you do, who are the representative of the Heriots. Of
course she does not care about the associations as you must do.”
“Oh no; she can’t do anything at all unless I like it,” said Matilda,
“of course. I let her do a great many things, because she likes fuss and
bustle, and I don’t. I let her manage the servants, and order the
dinner, and all that. But of course it is only because she is my sister.
She has no power over anything unless I say she may have it. Everybody
must know that.”
“It is like you,” said Johnnie, admiringly, “to put yourself aside so
as to indulge your sister. It is exactly what one might expect from you;
but perhaps in happier circumstances, when you feel a little more
interest in these secondary matters----”
“Do you think she takes too much upon her?” asked Matilda, quickly. “Oh,
you need not be afraid to speak! She is my sister, to be sure, but we
have been separated so much, and I quite know Verna’s faults. It is
quite her way to take too much upon her. If you think she is setting
herself up as the lady of the house, or anything like that, I shall put
a stop to it at once.”
This put Johnnie into an unfortunate position, for he could not allow it
to be supposed that he was finding fault with Verna, or undermining her
with her sister. He said hastily:
“Oh, no, I had no such meaning. I thought perhaps--if you were to
exercise your own judgment you would be kind to the old house. We are
fond of all traces of antiquity here; and I have a special love for
those old gables, and the roofless walls, and narrow windows--”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Charles, archly, “we know why that is. Because you were
so fond of the old family. And of course Marjory was devoted to all that
old stuff.”
“No, indeed!” said Hepburn, blushing and stumbling in his words; “indeed
you misunderstand me. I admire the ruin for itself, and I like it for
its associations, without--Of course I have the highest respect for Miss
Heriot.”
“Oh yes, indeed--the highest respect! I like that!” said Mrs. Charles.
“I wonder what Marjory would say if she heard you? Oh, yes, even if you
did not blush and look so conscious, we have heard all about it, Mr.
Hepburn. When is it to be? And I wonder if she likes you being here so
much? If I were in her place I shouldn’t, I tell you frankly. If I were
in her place----”
“Pray don’t speak so,” cried poor Hepburn, really distressed. “I am not
so fortunate as to be able to hope that Miss Heriot takes any interest
in what I do. Very much the reverse. She has always been like the moon
and the stars, quite above my sphere.”
“Oh, you are a great deal too humble,” said Matilda, quite excited with
this congenial subject, “but you ought not to come here so much if you
want to please Marjory. I am sure she hates _me_. That sort of superior
solemn kind of woman always hates us little things. Perhaps because the
gentlemen like us,” Mrs. Charles added, with a momentary giggle. Then
remembering her _rôle_, “Dear, dear,” she said, with a sigh, “to think I
should talk such nonsense! as if what gentlemen thought mattered any
more to me.”
Hepburn could not but press gently to his side the soft little hand that
rested on his arm. How charming her simplicity was, her naturalness, the
light-heartedness of her youth cropping up in spite of her grief!
“I hope, however,” he said, “that you do not think us quite unworthy of
consideration--for that would be hard, very hard upon us.”
“Oh, no,” said Matilda, “indeed I always say frankly that I like
gentlemen’s society much the best. Women are so jealous of you, and so
nasty in their ways. I don’t pretend to be very clever, but I do like to
be with some one who is clever. And one feels at once the superiority
when one hears gentlemen talk. It is so different from our
chitter-chatter. Isn’t it now? I like to have some one I can look up
to,” said the woman, who was a fool, looking up, with all the skill of
her folly, into the face of the foolish young man who was intellectual.
Oh, poor Johnnie! He had a dim notion in some corner of his mind that
what she said was silly, and yet he was ready to fall down at her feet
and worship her. The silliness quite achieved his downfall. He had been
wavering, all but conquered; but now the final _coup_ was given to him.
He murmured something in sudden delirium, he did not quite know what.
Neither did Matilda know what it was; but she knew that she might
henceforward guide him at her pleasure through all the ways of
imbecility. She had snatched him from Marjory, too, which was a great
addition to the pleasure. Marjory was clever, and Verna was clever; but
here was something they could not do.
The conversation was interrupted at this beatific moment by the
appearance of Verna, important and full of business as usual.
“Dr. Murray is in the drawing-room,” she said, “and you must come and
see him, Matty. They are the first people that have done more than leave
cards; and you would not see them when they called last time. He is the
clergyman. You must come now.”
“Clergyman? I suppose you mean the Scotch Minister,” said Matilda. “Why
should I go? I have nothing to do with him. You don’t suppose I shall go
to his miserable old conventicle. Go and see him yourself, Verna. You
understand that sort of people. I am engaged; am not I engaged, Mr.
Hepburn?” she said, smiling upon her new slave. But Johnnie was not
destitute of the prejudices of a man born in the East Neuk.
“Don’t you think you could see him?” he asked with hesitation. “He is a
man of some distinction. He is a very well-known man, and he was a great
friend of Mr. Heriot’s--”
“Oh, one never will hear an end of the old family,” said Matilda, “but
if he is such a great person I suppose I must go. I always thought a
Scotch Minister was a kind of Dissenter--oh, do tell me, Mr.
Hepburn!--just for the poor people, a sort of man that would not take
the liberty of calling. I am so ignorant, don’t be disgusted. I know I
am silly; but I will pay such attention to what you say.”
Johnnie led her in, and expounded to her how matters stood. He gave her
a sketch of Scotch ecclesiastical history, which was quite brilliant, so
eager was he to make himself understood; and Mrs. Charles clung to his
arm, and looked up at him, and said “Yes!” with little notes of
admiration. What a quick pupil she was! he thought. Needless to add that
Matilda was just as wise at the end as at the beginning, and, in short,
paid not the slightest attention. It was thus that they entered the
drawing-room. Verna followed closely behind. When Matilda appealed so
sweetly to her companion, “Am not I engaged, Mr. Hepburn?” a thrill of
alarm had passed through Verna’s soul. Could it be possible that the
word meant more than met the ear? Had the flirtation which Verna had
encouraged, by way of diverting Matilda and keeping her occupied,
already come to a serious issue? It was incredible. Charlie was not yet
six months dead, poor fellow; but the sister, who knew Matty, was
alarmed, and followed closely, with all her senses about her, watching
and listening. A mixture of wonder, admiration, contempt, and partial
envy, filled her mind. Nobody knew so well as she what Matilda was; to
think that any man should be such a fool! Verna, it must be remembered,
used very plain expressions. And yet she admired her sister for this one
thing which she could do, and which Verna herself could not do. She
admired, and wondered, and half envied. How did she do it? And how was
it that other people could not do it? And oh! what a fool the man was!
CHAPTER X.
Mrs. Murray was standing in the middle of the drawing-room in a state of
dismay. The change which had come over it was greater than the actual
transformation. One soul had gone out of the place, and another, a
totally different soul, had come in. I suppose if this could be done
with our bodies, we should cease to recognise even those familiar
garments of flesh and blood. The furniture was the same, the old walls
were the same, and yet the place was different. The Minister had found
on the table, spread out to invite attention, Verna’s new plan, made out
in very bright colours, which caught the eye--and was reading to his
wife the words “new wing, on the site of old tower,” with a tone of
consternation impossible to reproduce. The good people had come with
friendly meaning to do what they could for the two young strangers, whom
they were sorry for as having been thus suddenly thrown into a new
country without any knowledge of its habits and traditions.
“Depend upon it, my dear, it is chiefly _gaucheréé_,” Dr. Murray had
said, with a very broad accent on the last syllable. “Half of what is
called rudeness is just shyness--and so it must have been in this case.”
The excellent Doctor said this as a compliment to Mrs. Charles’s
beauty, which precluded the idea of impertinence on her part. Mrs.
Murray had not seen Mrs. Charles, and therefore was unaffected by her
beauty, but she accepted the suggestion as possible. Marjory was no
doubt hasty, and Miss Jean crabbed, and very likely “the young women at
Pitcomlie” were only _gauches_--not intentionally disagreeable. But when
Matilda entered, leaning on young Hepburn’s arm, Mrs. Murray was
confounded. Johnnie Hepburn! he whose hopeless devotion to Marjory had
been known over all the country--who had written verses under so thin a
disguise that no one could possibly mistake it, to her, in the
“Fifeshire Journal”--who had tormented all her friends with offers of
service, and who finally had come here upon Marjory’s business a
messenger from her! Matilda did not relinquish his arm till she had
reached the centre of the room, when she performed a curtsey to her
guests.
“Excuse me if I put up my feet,” she said, as she placed herself on a
sofa. The Minister’s wife could do nothing but sit and look at her, so
entirely was she taken by surprise. Naturally it was Dr. Murray, as the
most important person, who spoke first.
“I hope you have quite recovered from the fatigues of your journey, Mrs.
Charles Heriot?” he said. “Sad as it was, and sore as this home-coming
must have been, I hope you have now settled down. It is a favourable
time of year for this part of the country, and I may say, under
Providence, that it’s a very good season. We have had more bright
weather than ordinary, and everything is looking very well. I hope you
are beginning to like your new home?”
“Yes, I suppose it has been good weather for Scotland; but not at all
like what we have been used to. I think sometimes I shall die of the
cold,” and she muffled herself closely in the shawl which she had thrown
off on coming in, “and the children feel it so very much.”
“Oh, but it’s new life to the children, my dear! You’ll soon find that,”
cried good Mrs. Murray, “though yours are very young to be sure. My
eldest daughter’s children have just come to the Manse, from the Bombay
Presidency. Poor things, they were white enough and miserable enough
when they came, but since then they have flourished every day.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Matilda, with a stare; “but my children have always
been taken such care of; and they feel the cold very much.”
As if our bairns were not well taken care of! Mrs. Murray said to
herself, and she was wroth in her heart, and concluded that this was
more than _gaucheréé_, whatever the Doctor might say. The Doctor was not
quite so easily discouraged.
“When you have been here a little longer,” he said, “and have got used
to our ways, you will find it a pleasant neighbourhood--a very pleasant
neighbourhood. St. Andrews is not too far for a drive, and there are a
great many very agreeable families--”
“Oh, I shall never care for the Fifeshire society. They must be so
stiff and so dry,” said Matilda; “and then they are all such friends of
the old family, and set against us--”
“My sister means,” said Verna, “that people have not been very nice
since we came. We have had a great many cards, but nobody has really
paid us a visit, except yourselves.”
“They would think she was seeing nobody,” said Mrs. Murray, softly, “and
very natural;” but once more the Doctor made himself the spokesman,
drowning the gentle voice of his wife.
“I have always heard,” he said, “that there was a natural stiffness
about our Scotch manners; but Mrs. Charles may be assured, and I take it
upon me to say so, though I’m not a rash man by nature, that all that
will soon disappear before her face. I hope it was not impertinent to
look at the plans on the table. They are, perhaps, for some house in
England?”
“Oh, no, indeed, for this house,” cried Verna, delighted. “This
drawing-room, you see, is not much of a room, and that horrible old ruin
close to us does so frighten my sister.”
“Frighten her! why should it frighten her?” cried Mrs. Murray. “You’re
not meaning the old house?”
She turned to Hepburn with a look of dismayed inquiry, and he dared not
say anything. How could he say a word that would cross that beautiful
sensitive creature? but at the same time he had the fear of ridicule
before him, and of the two people both looking at him, before whom he
did not wish to show how foolish he was. He compromised, and fell
between two stools, as was natural.
“Mrs. Charles has taken a--repugnance to it. I have been telling her it
was on a mistaken idea. Snakes and scorpions don’t exist in ruins here.
That is why she is nervous,” faltered Hepburn.
“Oh you naughty Mr. Hepburn,” cried Matilda; “you know you confessed you
did not care a bit about the ruin, except for----. But I will not tell
upon you--you confessed it was nothing but association; and as I never
associated with anybody here----”
Dr. Murray was too much absorbed to notice this last speech; he was
solemn, and not to be trifled with.
“Do you know, Madam,” he said, “that this is a very serious thing you
are thinking of doing, a very serious thing indeed. Father and son have
preserved the old house of Pitcomlie as long as I can remember. It was
habitable in my young days--”
“That’s true,” said Mrs. Murray. “When I came here a bride, the old
Laird--not the late Mr. Heriot, but his father, who died soon after--led
me on his own arm to the best room, that was over the great door. The
old lady of Pitcomlie was dead, and he had no woman-person, except the
servants, in his house. It was a very handsome room, and but for its old
age it’s that still; and I would do a great deal myself before I would
see it pulled down.”
“I assure you,” said Verna, “there is no other way of doing--and then to
us, as my sister says, it has no associations; besides, it is not
beautiful, and of no use; and it is there the new wing must be built.”
“Does Mr. Charles know?” asked the Doctor solemnly.
“Oh, please don’t talk of Mr. Charles!” cried Matilda, vaguely
perceiving that her side was having the worst, and beginning to cry; “it
reminds me so of my poor dear Charlie. I cannot bear to hear the name.
Please call him old Mr. Heriot, or something. When I think how I am left
alone to struggle with everything, and poor, poor dear Charlie, who
never would let the wind blow upon me! Please don’t talk of the old man
by his name--please!”
Mrs. Murray’s kind eyes were quite moistened by this appeal.
“No, my dear!” she said soothingly; “no, my dear! Well, well do I know
the feeling; and when I mind that dear boy--what a fine fellow he
was--just the age of my Robert! Many and many a time I have held him in
my arms. Oh, my dear, I beg your pardon!” cried the kind old woman,
rising--with the tears dropping from her eyes, to kiss the young widow
on her sofa. Matilda did not know what compunctions were expressed in
this caress; and, to tell the truth, she submitted with a very bad grace
to the salute, which she rather thought was a piece of presumptuous
familiarity on the part of the Minister’s wife towards herself, a lady
of property. The Doctor, however, this time resisted the beauty and the
tears, and was less easily moved than his wife proved herself. Beauty
is a fine thing, and tears are touching; but an assault upon
property--property which, to a certain extent, is national, the
antiquities which give importance to a parish--is not to be permitted
even on such considerations. Dr. Murray was alarmed. If this was done in
the green tree, what would be done in the dry? The Heriots of Pitcomlie
were the chief heritors in the parish; and what if they should take upon
them to interfere with the church or churchyard?
“I am sorry,” he said stiffly, “to have roused such very painful but
natural feelings. I will endeavour to be more guarded again; but what I
would ask is, does he--of whom we speak--know about this proceeding--or
rather, I should say, this intention on your part? If he does not, I
fear it would be my duty to tell him--”
“Could he do anything to us? he has no right,” cried Verna, “to
interfere.”
“I hope he could; I hope he has!” said the Doctor. “He is joint guardian
with the mother; and it will be my duty to let him know.”
“I will not have old Mr. Heriot interfering!” cried Matilda. “He has
nothing to do with us. Poor Charlie put him in his will only out of
compliment--”
“Hush!” said Verna softly, giving her a look; “do you think really he
would mind? Do you know I thought they would have been sure to do it
themselves, but for money, or something? I hear that old Mr. Heriot was
for ever paying his eldest son’s debts; and I thought, probably, that
was the reason why the ruins were allowed to stand. But if you are sure
he would object, why then I will put all the plans aside,” said Verna
magnanimously; “and wait until he comes.”
“Why, Verna, your heart was set on it!” cried her sister.
“Not so much set on that as on keeping right with the other guardian,
and keeping you right!” said the magnanimous Verna, whose eyes sparkled
with resolution. Dr. Murray was somewhat stiff in his response, but
still he was very laudatory; and Verna bowed and smiled, and accepted
his praises.
“It is better in every way to take no rash step,” said the Doctor; “if
by any accident--which Heaven forbid--the lands should pass to another
heir--”
“How could that be?” said Verna, suddenly turning pale to her very lips.
It did not occur to her that the fragile lives of her little nephews
were the slight threads that bound her to this kingdom, which she had
been assuming should be hers for life. A sudden precipice seemed to open
at her feet; she stood aghast for the moment, gazing at him with eyes
dilating, and pale cheeks. Then she recovered herself, and said hastily,
glancing at Matilda: “Ah, I understand! but you should not suggest such
a thing before their mother;” and placed her hand upon her beating
heart.
“It is a thing that must always be taken into consideration,” said Dr.
Murray. “You forget, my dear young lady, that one in a succession is
quite different from the possessor of independent property, which,
perhaps, he has acquired for himself; he can alienate nothing, and he
has no right to destroy anything. The next heir--”
“Oh, please,” cried Verna, with unaffected alarm, raising her hands in
an attitude of supplication; “don’t make me unhappy with your next heir!
I shall do nothing more--indeed I shan’t--till Mr. Charles comes. It was
not my sister; it was I who wanted it. Please, please don’t say any
more!”
But even after the visitors were gone, Verna could not shake off this
uncomfortable impression. She went about all day with the words echoing
through her head, and filling her with a hundred fancies. As it
happened, both the children were ailing with some innocent baby-ailment.
Verna went to look at them a dozen times in the course of the evening;
she felt their foreheads and their pulses, and gave them their medicine
with her own hands. Their father and uncle, both vigorous young men, had
been cut off within a few weeks of each other; and why should these tiny
children escape the dangers to which so many stronger people succumbed?
The next heir! What loss, what misery and ruin, was in the suggestion!
The poor little babies themselves and their mother seemed to Verna to
have but a secondary part in it; but to herself, it would be
destruction--an end of all her hopes--at once of the actual and of the
ideal. She put the plans in the fire that very night with heroic
resolution, and blotted out from her mind those dreams of a great
drawing-room, and even of a snug bed-chamber, sheltered from all the
winds, in which she had indulged. These were glorious visions, but they
were not worth the risking of her power and influence. She said to
herself that she knew when to draw back, as well as when to advance, and
spoke of them no more.
Meanwhile young Hepburn, much against his will, had felt that decorum
bound him to take his departure when the Murrays did; and
notwithstanding various signs from Matilda, propriety prevailed. He
walked down towards Comlie with the Minister and his wife; and, as usual
in such cases, his virtue was very indifferently rewarded.
“I hear you are a great deal at Pitcomlie, Mr. Hepburn,” Mrs. Murray
said, looking at him.
She had never addressed him so formally before. That painful attempt to
convert Johnnie into John, which we have all of us made when the
Johnnies of our acquaintance grew into men, had been her greatest effort
hitherto; but now she looked him in the face with a disapproval which
there could be no mistake about; and he felt the chill, being highly
sympathetic and susceptible to all the risings and fallings of the
spiritual thermometer.
“Yes,” he said, uneasily; annoyed to find himself blush, and with a
desperate attempt at carelessness. “Sometimes I can do little things for
them; they don’t know anybody, nor the ways of the country--”
“That is very well seen,” said Mrs. Murray, with emphasis; “but Mrs.
Charles is very pretty,” she added; “a bonnie creature! and that goes
further than anything else with some folk. Men are so easily led away,”
she went on, reflectively; “even my old Doctor, that is a very wise man
in his generation, and should know better--”
“What are you saying about me, Mary?”
“I was saying you were wiser than most men, Doctor,” said the Minister’s
wife, “and yet not so wise but what you are led away by a bonnie face,
like other men.”
“It is not, however, the bonnie face in this instance,” said Hepburn,
feeling his mind much lightened by being united with the Doctor in a
broad and general accusation. “It is the sad position, the melancholy
circumstances. To see so young a creature left solitary; arriving among
strangers, with little children dependent on her, and no one to sustain
her--”
Mrs. Murray was too tender-hearted to resist the pathos of this picture.
“And that’s true!” she said; “that’s true. Poor thing! She may be a
little carried away by her new position; but I cannot think she’s
without feeling. No, she’s not without feeling. What she said about old
Mr. Charles was very true.”
“That is all very well,” said the Doctor; “but we cannot allow such
proceedings as these young women contemplate--not if I had to appeal
myself for an interdict to the Court of Session. An admirable specimen
of old domestic architecture, really in very good preservation, though
the roof is gone in some places--and fully described in my account of
the parish. No, no; it will never do. If you have any influence with
them, John (the Doctor had never said Johnnie in his life), you should
let them know seriously that this kind of thing is quite out of
character--quite out of character! I have always defended the mother’s
rights in the way of guardianship; but an attempt like this makes me
doubt.”
“Well, Doctor, I must say I wonder at you,” said Mrs. Murray; “because a
young woman does not understand your domestic architecture, as you call
it, you begin to doubt whether she should have the care of her own
bairns! I cannot see the connection.”
“Perhaps not, perhaps not, my dear,” said Dr. Murray; “but it’s very
reasonable, for all that.”
Hepburn felt with secret content that he had escaped in the midst of
this discussion, and he came boldly to a pause at the next corner, to
take leave of his companions. But he was not so safe as he supposed.
“I am going to write to St. Andrews to-day,” said Mrs. Murray, as she
gave him her hand. “I will tell Marjory that you are very kind to Mrs.
Charles, and go to see her every day. It is very kind, though it is,
perhaps, a little dangerous; but then, to be sure, you have a great deal
of idle time on your hands.”
This shot was double, hitting both ways, and sent the unfortunate young
man away in a fever of indignation, suppressed wrath, and uneasiness.
There could be no doubt that he had a great deal of spare time on his
hands; but few people like to be told this. And he was not anxious that
Marjory should be made aware of his daily devotions at Pitcomlie. He did
not return there, as he had intended to do, but took a long walk in a
contrary direction, and reflected with much annoyance upon this unlucky
encounter, and all the comments of which he would be the object.
“After all, I have a right to go where I please,” he said to
himself--which was as true as anything could be, yet did not reveal a
comfortable state of mind. “And I do not know how they could get on
without me,” he added, also to himself, a whole hour after, with a gleam
of complacency in the midst of his uneasiness. But he was not prepared
to give up his allegiance to Marjory, or to meet again even in
imagination the smile with which she had recognised his first
infidelity. He wanted still, like so many other people, to keep both
delights, his ideal and his foolish fancy, both together. Indeed, it may
be said that Mrs. Murray’s threat had as serious an effect upon Johnnie
Hepburn as that other appalling threat of another heir had upon Verna.
Both of them felt, with a thrill of alarm, that their position was an
assailable--nay, a dangerous--one, and that it was impossible to tell
what an hour might bring forth. And both of them were moved
instantaneously to the adoption of a more prudent course. Verna
sacrificed her plans for the new wing, and Johnnie sacrificed the
enervating delight of another hour’s philandering. Thus they propitiated
Fate; which, however, seldom accepts such sacrifices. The chief sufferer
by these prudential measures was Matilda, who, being impervious at once
to reason and to sentiment, did not understand her sister, and was much
annoyed by the withdrawal of her attendant, who amused her, if nothing
more. She was the person really sacrificed, and that without seeing any
reason for it. She yawned through the afternoon, until benign Providence
sent her a soft slumber, which carried her through the time till dinner;
and certainly it was hard, though natural, that she, the only one who
had no responsibility, should thus be made the principal victim.
CHAPTER XI.
Marjory’s letter was brought to Fanshawe before he had left his room in
the morning. This room was in the Albany, and though a most comfortable
chamber, was not luxurious, nor of a character to have called forth the
strictures of any reasonable Mentor. There were no opera-dancers on the
walls. Fanshawe had long got over the period of artistic taste which
delights in opera-dancers, if indeed he had ever gone through it. The
few prints on his walls were good. To be sure there was a racehorse or
two, but of these, of late days, he had the grace to be ashamed; and
over his mantel-piece he had quite lately hung a print of one of
Raphael’s Madonnas, in which he thought he saw a resemblance to Marjory.
It was a fantastic resemblance, wholly existing in the imagination of
the beholder; but such compliments of the heart have been paid before
now even to plain women, and Marjory was not plain. It seemed to
Fanshawe--to carry out the fantastical character of the idea--that it
was only in his best moments that he saw this likeness. Sometimes he
looked for it vainly, and called himself a fool to have entertained such
a notion; but at other times it would shine out upon him, filling him
with a kind of heavenly pleasure--that pleasure which glows in a man’s
heart, and makes him feel his own nature exalted in a consciousness of
the excellence of his love. Marjory’s little notes were very rare
delights, and this all the more so for being utterly unexpected. He had
written to her a long letter only two days before, and he had expected
no reply. Was it possible that this could be the answer? The question
was all the more interesting to him because he had delicately implied in
his letter an inclination to visit St. Andrews. He had heard so much of
that ancient borough; he had been quite excited by the account some of
his friends had given him (he said) of the charms of the place; and
London was empty, void, null, and unprofitable; he had never seen it so
vacant, so uninteresting; he could not believe that he had ever found
any pleasure in such a mental and moral desert. So he wrote, not without
a certain eloquence. The centre of the world had shifted; it was no
longer in London, but in St. Andrews; this, however, though he implied
it, he did not say. And to receive so rapid an answer seemed to him a
fortunate sign. He jumped out of bed in haste, and clothed himself, that
he might read it with due respect. But soon the vague delight of
anticipation on his face changed into something more serious. Marjory’s
note was singularly different from the diffuse and much implying
epistles which he was in the constant habit of addressing to her. In
this there was not a word more than was absolutely necessary. It ran as
follows:--
“I have made a discovery which is of the very deepest importance
to us, and to the memory of my poor brother Tom, who was your
friend. I have no right to ask your help, but I do, knowing you
will not refuse me. Come to me, I beg of you, for Tom’s sake. I
write in great haste to save the post. Oh, Mr. Fanshawe, come!
“M. H. H.”
Across this brief letter was written, very much blotted, a single line.
“I have found----” He made out as much as this, but the last letters
were so blotted that he could not decipher them. It looked like a name.
Whom had she found? or what could have happened to excite her so? But he
scarcely paused to ask himself these questions. He was too late for the
day mail to Scotland--how he cursed himself for his indolence!--and had
to wait the whole day through till the evening. At one time he thought
of telegraphing to her; but there lingered a hope in Fanshawe’s mind
that perhaps she had sent for him of her own impulse, and that
“everybody” was not in the secret, a hope which he loved to cherish. He
waited accordingly, most drearily, trying to get through the time as he
best could, and finding it drag so that the day seemed to him as long as
all the preceding year. He went from one club to another, by way of
getting through the time; he went and made all sorts of ridiculous
purchases; he looked at his watch about a million times; indeed, he kept
dragging it in and out of his pocket, and watching the slow fluctuations
of light in the afternoon, like a man possessed by one sole idea--which
was a perpetual calculation how soon it would be nine o’clock.
Fanshawe arrived next day at St. Andrews, with a mist of excitement
about him, through which he seemed to see but dimly the actual features
of the place. He watched the long lines of the Links flying past the
windows of the railway carriage, as he had seen all the intermediate
plains and hills of the Scotch border and Midland counties since
daybreak, with a strange sense that he himself was making no progress,
but that they were rushing past and away from him. When he saw at last
the group of spires which ended those long lines of grass, and stepped
out upon ground which did not fly under his foot, it was as if he had
dropped from the clouds into some mystic country which could not but
bring him the uttermost weal or woe, yet was unknown to him as
fairyland. He felt a tremour in his very frame as he stepped into that
strange world, where it seemed impossible to him to conceive of the
common accidents of every day, where there could be nothing, he felt,
but great emotions, passions, excitement--events which he could not
foresee, changes which he dared not anticipate. To fall into the
ordinary stream of people arriving at a railway, calmed him down to some
extent, and he set out to walk into the town without any self-betrayal.
But he had not gone far before he saw a slight tall figure, clothed in
black, detaching itself from the groups on the Links, and coming towards
him with a step and bearing which he could not mistake. He stood still,
restraining himself with difficulty from the cry of joy that seemed
ready to burst from his lips. They say that love is but an accident in a
man’s life, while it is everything in a woman’s; but it would be nearer
the truth to say that a man’s absorption in this dream cannot last,
while a woman’s may. Nothing could be more absolute than Fanshawe’s
absorption at this moment in thought of the woman thus approaching him.
Adam, when he saw Eve, the only human companion for him, could not have
been more entirely bound and limited to the one being. This man saw
nothing else, heard nothing else, felt nothing else in heaven or earth.
He had asked himself sometimes whether he was at all, what is called, in
love with Marjory Hay-Heriot. He asked himself no questions now. He did
not care for what she was going to tell him, for what her business was,
for the discovery affecting her family, for his friend’s memory, or
anything else. He felt, saw, heard nothing but her. He did not seem even
to have strength enough in himself to go to meet her. The very sight of
her had caught him as in a trance of rapture. He felt that he could have
wept over the hand she held out to him, like a baby, and mumbled it like
an idol-worshipper. That he did neither, but only grasped it, and gazed
at her with eyes full of speechless joy, seemed to him the most
wonderful power of self-control. But Marjory’s eagerness was of a very
different kind. As always, one of the two was at a disadvantage. He
thought first and only of her; she thought of a great many other things,
and then finally of him. Common consent allots this state of feeling to
the man, but common consent is often wrong. It depends upon which of the
two, man or woman, is the most deeply in earnest. “_L’un qui se laisse
aimer_” is not always of the masculine gender, as a great many people
know.
Marjory came up to him with an eagerness and satisfaction which would
have been--oh! how delightful--had there not been other causes for it.
She held out her hand to him, and then took his arm as if he had been
her--brother. Yes, a great deal too much as if he had been her brother;
but let that pass; it was very pleasant all the same, and then she said,
“How good of you to come! but I knew you would come. I felt myself safe
in appealing to you.”
She had thought then of appealing to some one else! This was not
satisfactory; but Fanshawe was too happy at that moment to insist upon
having everything his own way.
“Could there be any question about that?” he said, smiling at her with
that look of imbecile emotion which no woman can mistake. Marjory,
however, was too deeply absorbed with her own private anxieties to pay
much heed to his looks. She said nothing more that could give him an
opening for the disclosure of any personal feeling; but rushed into her
story at once, a proceeding which was flattering, yet unsatisfactory. It
was with an effort that he brought himself to attend. Even though it was
the voice which most interested him in the world which spoke, herself,
her presence, the sensation of her vicinity, the glimpse of a new world
about him--a world entirely identified with her, a new scene of which he
knew nothing save through her, strange people passing who sent her
greetings from over the way, smiles as she passed them--did so entirely
occupy and bewilder the new-comer, that it cost him as serious an effort
as he had ever made in his life to understand what Marjory was saying to
him, or even to listen to what she said. She told him such a story as
might have caught the ear of any man capable of listening, but yet
somehow it did not catch Fanshawe’s. Her hand on his arm, her head bent
forward, so much more eagerly than he had ever seen it before, even the
fall of her dress, the very hanging sleeve that touched him, the veil
that once fluttered across his face, all and every one of these things
dissipated his mind. He had no intellect at all to speak of at that
moment, and hers was in the liveliest action. By moments, a half comic
sense of his incapacity to come up to her requirements seized upon him.
He grew rueful and humble as he was compelled over and over again to ask
for new explanations.
“Forgive me, I did not quite catch what you said. Will you tell me that
again, Miss Heriot? I am stupid. I did not quite make out--”
After a great many of these interruptions, Marjory began to feel a
little check upon her enthusiasm, and to grow chilled in her warm
expectation of sympathy.
“I fear I am making too great a call upon you,” she said coldly,
drawing back with a perceptible diminution of warmth; and there can be
no doubt that for that moment the accusations against Fanshawe which she
had opposed so warmly rushed back upon her mind all at once, though with
a generous effort she thrust them away from her. The light failed all in
a moment out of her eager upturned face, her head returned to its
ordinary pose of quiet and proud decorum, something changed even in the
touch with which her hand held his arm. Fanshawe woke up to this with
sudden alarm. He roused himself in a moment from the haze and torpor of
happiness in which he had not known what he was doing--or rather he
leapt out of it suddenly, startled by the sense that his happiness, if
he did not rouse himself, might slip out of his hands.
“You find me very stupid?” he said, “I am sure you must think so; but I
have some excuses I cannot tell you of--and there is one that I can tell
you; I have been travelling all night.”
“To be sure, I should have thought of that,” said Marjory, but she did
not resume her former tone; and poor Fanshawe, knowing it was so
different a reason which had made him dull of comprehension, had to
accept the excuse which he had given for himself, of being weary, though
he felt it the most miserable of excuses. He had to put up with it,
though he felt that it gave her quite a false impression of him, and
brought him low in her eyes, a thing which people are compelled to do
often, yet which is always hard. They walked on together accordingly,
Marjory, with a little impatient sigh of submission, giving up her great
subject for the moment; and talked of the journey and its fatigues, and
the time occupied, and what the traveller thought of the country he had
passed through, &c., &c. He was perfectly able to understand whatever
she said to him now; fully roused up, with his intellect restored to
him, and all his senses. But she was courteously, gently silent,
accepting what he chose to say to her--to the poor wretch’s infinite
misery and confusion, need it be said?
Mr. Charles caught a glimpse of them from the window of the club. He was
sitting quietly discussing a match; but when he saw this sudden
apparition, he started up and went to the window.
“Bless me! that’s very like Fanshawe,” he said to himself; and after a
long gaze, which assured him that it was Fanshawe, and no one else, he
retired, much perplexed, to his chair, and henceforward left the most
exciting game that had been played for years to be discussed by the
other speakers. “It’s not that I have any objection to him personally,”
Mr. Charles mused, not knowing what to make of it; and then he asked
himself what it was he had heard of Fanshawe?--that he drank, or
gambled, or something? What was it? Thus a lively scandal had crept up
in Mr. Charles’s mind by means of the very simple and passive one
promulgated by Mr. Seton. He was much troubled. If Marjory should really
show a liking for one whose reputation was compromised in any such way,
what was he, her uncle and guardian, to do? To be sure, she was old
enough to judge for herself, which was a great relief to his mind; and
the chances were very strong that she would prefer her own opinion to
his, in any circumstances. But still Mr. Charles saw very stormy waters
before him, on the supposition that Marjory liked Fanshawe, and that
Fanshawe gambled or drank. He took his way home in an anxious state of
mind, and found that his fears were so far justified. Mr. Fanshawe had
sent his bag to the “Royal,” but he had walked across with Miss Heriot
to dinner. He was very conciliatory, asking many questions about golf,
and doing his very best to make himself agreeable. If he had not been
such a faulty person, he would have been a great acquisition to the
little party. But then, Mr. Charles asked himself, was it right to
countenance the introduction into Marjory’s society of a man who gambled
or drank? What would Miss Jean say? He felt himself so weak in this
respect, that he instinctively resorted to her judgment, as the only
standard he knew of. If it was on Marjory’s account (and what more
likely?) that Fanshawe had come--and if Marjory liked him, what then was
Mr. Charles to do? He had not (he said to himself) a father’s authority;
he would not for the world make the girl unhappy; and yet how far would
this be from marrying her well? “Confound marrying!” Mr. Charles said,
with unusual emphasis, when he found himself left alone after
dinner--the unexpected, and, so far as he knew, uninvited guest having
left him “to join the ladies,” at a very early period. He had never
married himself; and Marjory was very well off, and had everything her
own way--far more, probably, than she would have with a husband. If she
did anything to change this beatific state of affairs, the blame would
be on her own head. Mr. Charles washed his hands of it for his part. But
yet he could not wash his hands of Marjory, nor of Miss Jean and her
requirements; and there never was old bachelor disposed to a quiet life,
yet anxious to please everybody, whose mind was more painfully
bewildered and held in suspense.
Fanshawe hastened to the drawing-room, more anxious to regain his lost
ground than even to conciliate the uncle, though that, too, seemed to
him very necessary. He found Marjory seated in her usual place in the
deep, narrow window, with a background made up of pale sky, a gleam of
deeper-coloured blue, which was the sea, and a pale shaft of the ruin
between, as graceful and light as Gothic art could make it. Her profile
was marked out against these deepening tones of blue, and the grey
time-bleached canopy work of the old Cathedral enclosed it like the
picture of a saint. This was how he felt it, being, as the reader
perceives, in an excited and exalted condition of mind; for in reality,
Marjory was neither like a Saint nor a Madonna, being too human, too
modern a woman for any abstractions. But if men in love did not fancy
such things, what would become of poetry? He drew a chair to her side,
approaching as near as he dared venture, or rather as near as he could;
for little Milly, her sister’s shadow, sat on her foot-stool with her
golden locks in a glory round her, leaning upon Marjory’s lap, and
dividing her from all new-comers.
“I am not so stupid as I seem,” said Fanshawe. “I have my wits about me
now. Will you tell me all about it again?”
“Not all,” said Marjory, laying her hand upon little Milly’s head. Poor
little Milly! She had been in the highest spirits about Fanshawe’s
arrival; and the wretch felt her so dreadfully in his way! He restrained
his impatience, however, as he best could, with a sigh which roused a
certain sense of the humour of the situation in Marjory’s mind.
“I hope you have quite recovered from your fatigue,” she said.
“Do not be too hard upon me,” said poor Fanshawe. “It was not fatigue.
My head was turned with being here, and seeing you again. But tell me,
now? I have shaken myself up, and come back to ordinary life. We are
still mortal; we have to tie white ties, and dine on fish and mutton, as
if we were on common unenchanted soil, and not in Fife at all;
therefore, I am capable now of listening and understanding. Tell me as
much as you can.”
This speech roused Marjory to a certain girlish levity, notwithstanding
the seriousness of the situation.
“It is a new thing to hear Fife spoken of as if it could be enchanted
soil,” she said, with a smile, which felt to Fanshawe like a stray ray
of sunshine. And then her face grew graver, like that of the Virgin
Mother in his picture. “All I have to say is--about _her_,” she added,
her voice sinking almost into a whisper; so low as to tantalize Milly,
who was listening with all her ears.
“About whom?”
“You did not understand me? I feared so, Mr. Fanshawe, I know now what
poor Tom meant when he was dying, when he thought he had told me. I have
found Isabell!”
CHAPTER XII.
“Agnes, this gentleman was one of my brother’s friends; you may say
everything to him that you have said to me.”
This Marjory said in her own drawing-room in St. Andrews, where she
stood between Fanshawe and the homely stranger, who had attracted so
much of her attention and curiosity before she knew why it was. The
girl’s appearance was unchanged; she stood with a certain suppressed
defiance still in her aspect, before the lady whom she had distrusted,
and whom even now she felt disposed to approach with caution. She was
Isabell’s sister, but she was not like Isabell. The refinement and grace
of the other were altogether wanting to her; she was in perfect keeping
with her homely dress, her rustic manners--even the air of
half-irritated, half-distressed antagonism with which she looked at her
novel companions. Agnes Jeffery was in no way superior to her condition,
except in so far as she was superior to all conditions in the force of a
vigorous and loyal nature; she looked from one to the other with
doubtful eyes.
“You may ken the gentleman, Miss Heriot, but I don’t; I dinna feel
justified in disclosin’ the affairs of my folk to every new person that
may come in. It’s no our way; maybe when folk are more frank, and tell
everything, it’s easier for them; but it’s no our way.”
“You trusted me,” said Marjory; “and this gentleman is as I am” (she did
not think of the meaning that might be put upon her words--not at least
till long afterwards, when they filled her with confusion; but Fanshawe
did, being more interested in these words than in any revelation the
stranger could make to him). “He saw my poor brother Tom die; he heard
him--as I told you--make an effort to reveal all this to me; he has done
everything for us, and he will help us now. You may tell him as you told
me.”
“Is he anything to you?” said Agnes gravely, searching Marjory’s face
with her eyes.
And that young woman, utterly disconcerted, caught another glance at the
same moment--a look which was full of the most wistful entreaty, yet
just touched with fun, and an involuntary sense of all that was
laughable in the question. Fanshawe felt as if life and death were
involved for him in the reply; and yet he could not quench that twinkle
of mischievous consciousness, which poor Marjory felt, too,
notwithstanding the gravity of all the surrounding circumstances, and
the solemnity of the question. Her eyes fell before the double look
fixed upon her; her face flushed deeply; she cleared her throat, and
faltered in uttermost confusion. It required all his anxiety,
supplemented by all his self-control, to keep down the laugh which
almost mastered Fanshawe’s muscles and faculties. If he had laughed, woe
betide him; for in moments of emotion, no one likes the idea of being
laughed at; and Marjory’s temper was something less than angelic. She
conquered herself with an effort, and answered at last steadily.
“Mr. Fanshawe is my friend,” she said; “he is the friend of the family;
he is (this Marjory said proudly, remembering Seton’s report of him,
remembering Mr. Charles, and bearing her testimony with a certain
consciousness of doing something to set him right with the world), one
of those men who will work and suffer, if need be, for their friends--as
you have worked and suffered, Agnes. He will not weigh what is enough or
too much to do. Of all my friends, and we have many, he was the only one
whom I felt I could appeal to--who would pause at nothing. Is that
enough for you? It ought to be; for it is what you have done yourself.”
Agnes looked at him with growing surprise, and at Marjory’s excitement,
which reflected itself in Fanshawe’s astonished face. The girl divined,
as Marjory herself did not, that he was bewildered, abashed, even
humbled by this praise. He stole round to her side, and took her hand
and kissed it humbly.
“What can I have done to make you say this?” he cried; “how have I
deceived you? I did not mean it. I have done nothing to deserve this.”
The girl’s eyes were very sharp, enlightened by the habit of observing
others. And she was not sympathetic enough to care for the natural
emotion which she was clever enough to perceive. She said with that
disregard for them, as soon as she was herself satisfied, which is
common to the uncultivated mind:
“Miss Heriot, I’ll ask no more questions. If you’ll sit down, and let me
speak, I’ll tell you all there is to tell. Maybe I would not have come
had I known what you wanted; but I’ll tell you now.”
This brought the others to a very abrupt stop. Fanshawe withdrew,
feeling himself somewhat snubbed, if truth must be told, and in a state
of mind--in respect to this girl and her sister--very different from the
attitude of enthusiastic devotion in which Marjory had depicted him. But
he listened, nevertheless, feeling himself pledged to an interest which
was more deep than he really felt. What was Tom Heriot to him? But
Marjory was everything; therefore he made an effort, and threw all his
attention into the new tale.
“I take it for granted,” said Agnes, with that _brusque_ tone of
suppressed excitement, sometimes scantly courteous, which often
characterizes the Scotch peasant, “that you have told the gentleman all
that my poor Bell told you; she did not do it with my will; but since
it’s done, and she’s called in the help of others to right her, instead
of her ain folk, I have no further call to resist. You have told the
gentleman how they were married--”
“Married!” said Fanshawe, with a slight start.
“What did you think else?” said the girl, turning upon him with sudden
defiance. “Did you think it was a light lass, of no account, that you
were to hear of? for if sae, I’ll go away and trouble you no further.
It is clear that you have not been prepared to hear of my sister Bell.”
“Agnes, you must not be so hasty,” said Marjory, humbly. “Mr.
Fanshawe--I told you--have you forgotten--last night--”
Fanshawe had not forgotten last night, and was not likely to forget it;
but he had, it must be allowed, received the information given him with
less seriousness than it deserved. He had to make the humblest and most
abject apologies to both of the somewhat stern judges before whom he
stood--Marjory, who was abashed by the dullness of her pupil, and Agnes
who was all in arms. After this interruption, however, he was on his
guard, and the narrative proceeded more smoothly. It was not of a very
novel character. Tom Heriot had married Isabell Jeffrey, not entirely as
the heir of Pitcomlie should have married its future mistress, but yet
lawfully, according to the customs of the country, and to traditions
fully accepted in the class to which she belonged. They had pledged
themselves to each other as man and wife in the presence of the people
in whose house they had met, a man whom Heriot had employed to take
charge of his dogs while shooting in the district from which the sisters
came, a mountain village in Perthshire. The marriage had been concealed,
as such marriages generally are, until the last moment, when it had been
necessary to avow it for the sake of poor Isabell’s character. But by
that time Tom Heriot was dead, and could no longer be appealed to--and
even the mother, utterly cast down by the shame of her favourite child,
had refused to believe the unlikely story.
“There was nobody but me, nobody but me,” said Agnes, warming with her
tale, “that kent my poor Bell would never lie. My mother; my mother is a
decent woman, of a decent honest family. Lightheadedness or shame never
was heard of in her kith or kin; all douce, steady folk, constant at the
kirk, and mair thought of than the very Minister himsel’. It made her
wild. From no believing at first that anything was wrang--which was
natural--for wha could believe it? she went off in a mad way to no
believing Bell. I can excuse her, for my part. If I had not trusted Bell
from the very first, I would have killed her with my hands. John
Macgregor and his wife had gone away, nobody kent where. There was no a
creature to stand by her to say it was true. Oh, Miss Heriot! you’ve
heard Bell’s story, but no mine. You can never ken the days that passed,
and the weary nights--her in a way to want a’ the comfort that kindness
could give her, and lifting up her white face a’ the time without
support or help, to say to them that would na believe her, ‘The bairn is
my man’s lawful bairn, and I’m his wife.’ Oh, I’m no heeding,” cried
Agnes, “though there’s a man here! I’m no one to speak o’ such things
before a gentleman. But to see her in her trouble, aye crying out in her
pains, ‘I’ve naething to think shame of, mother, there’s naething to
think shame of!’ I’m hard,” said Agnes, stopping suddenly, “but no so
hard as to withstand that.”
“You were always her support and comfort,” said Marjory, taking her
hand, and with tears in her eyes.
“Was anything else possible? I kent our Bell, ay, better than my mother.
She was aye delicate. She never could stand what I could stand. She
would aye read her book when she had a moment--no like me that am just a
country lass--and oh, so bonnie! When gentlemen came by, they would make
errands for a drink of water, or to warm their feet, or to light a
cigar, or the like of that, just for the sake of a good look at her. Mr.
Heriot was a pleasant gentleman. He had aye a good excuse. He would have
this question and that to ask my mother, as if it was her he was
wanting. The Lord forgive him,” cried Agnes, “if he meant to deceive!
for he is dead and gone, and canna be punished--and I wouldna wish him
to be damned for ever and ever, though he would weel deserve it, richly
deserve it--if he wanted to deceive!”
Notwithstanding all her interest and all her sympathy, this was hard for
Marjory’s proud spirit. She moved uneasily in her chair, she grew hot
and flushed, her brow contracted, her foot beat upon the carpet.
“He did not mean to deceive,” she cried, impatiently. “I know he did
not. He thought he had told me. Such a thing was not possible--”
“I hope so,” said Agnes, composing herself. “But he kept Bell without a
written word, not so much as a ‘wife’ in his letters, nor signing
himself her husband--no a single word. They had good reason to think
she was deceived. And the little bairn was no sooner born--ye havena
seen him, Miss Heriot; he’s like your bonnie little sister with the gold
hair--than a friend saw in the papers that Mr. Heriot was dead in
England. Oh, that terrible time! Sickness is ill, and grief’s warse, and
shame the warst of a’; but a’ three at once upon one bit delicate head,
a’ three! and neither consolation nor support, neither pity nor
fellow-feeling! Ye may think I’m whiles no very civil nor respectful to
them that’s above me. I canna help it; my heart’s bitter at you
a’--bitter! bitter!--at them that lead the poor and simple astray, and
leave them to bear the wyte--them that go away and enjoy themselves, and
live--or even that go and die--and leave other folk behind to pay the
price. It’s them I hate.”
“But the people who could have proved all this?” said Fanshawe. “Surely
you speak too strongly. If there are people who can prove it, why blame
Mr. Heriot? He was snatched away from this life; he had not time for
anything. But if it rests on the testimony of witnesses--”
Agnes turned round to look at him, with the colour gradually rising over
her face. The look of defiance was still there, but over it, as it were,
like another surface, was a flutter of painful hesitation and
humility--humility which was compulsory, and all the harder on that
account. She looked at him with a dilation of the eyes expressive of
such mental strain and painful exertion, as he had scarcely ever been
conscious of witnessing before, and with a thrill in her voice,
answered him steadily, looking him all the time in the face.
“It rests on my sister’s word, Sir, which is as the word of an angel out
of heaven; for we’ve nae testimony--nae testimony! It rests upon
Isabell’s word.”
Fanshawe’s countenance changed. He could not help it; he was not used to
conceal his sentiments; but almost before he was capable of realizing
this new and strange avowal, the girl had started to her feet.
“I am going home, Miss Heriot!” she cried. “You meant nae harm, but
ye’ve given me another stroke--and we’ve borne enough from you and
yours--”
“Agnes,” cried Marjory, arresting her. “You cannot go away from me;
whatever happens, we must work this out together. What has any one
done?”
“Look at him!” cried the girl, with pale indignation. “Oh, this is what
I kent would happen if I was made to leave my ain way--to go among
gentles, and make them believe, and summer and winter every word! He
thinks it’s a lie. What does he care for our Isabell and her bairn? He
cares for you; and he thinks that what I’m telling you is a lie!”
Fanshawe did not contradict her. He looked at Marjory gravely, with a
certain anxiety in his glance. He thought, as was natural enough, and as
men so often think in respect to a woman’s judgment, that she had been
led away by her feelings. He made her a little warning sign with his
head.
“If, as you tell me, her own mother did not believe this story, is it
wonderful that I should hesitate?” he said. “I do not think it is a lie;
but I fear she may have been deceived.”
“By Tom?” said Marjory. She was almost as indignant as the other. “If
Isabell has been deceived, then Tom--my brother, has been a---- What can
I say? Is there a word bad enough--vile enough?”
He was cowed between these two young women. He dared not say, as he
might have said elsewhere, that men do not form the same harsh judgment
of such deceptions. He made a gesture of deprecation, holding up his
hands in entreaty.
“You are too hard upon me”, he said. “I did not mean to blame either
side; but if this is so, why cannot these people--the witnesses--be
produced?”
“Let me speak to him, Miss Heriot,” said Agnes. “Maybe the gentleman
thinks it’s a’ my invention from beginning to end? and it’s me that must
speak. I’ve been to seek them, Sir, a’ over Scotland, from one end to
another. I’ve been directed here, and I’ve been directed there. I’ve
gone after them night and day. I’ve written letters to them. I’ve sought
out their friends. The little infant is three months auld, and all that
time I’ve been on the road. I had left my place for Isabell’s sake; she
didna tell me why, but since I’ve found it was for him, that it might
not be said he had a near friend in service. All the little siller I
had, I’ve spent seeking them; and, oh, I canna find them, I canna find
them!” cried the girl, suddenly breaking down, and bursting into
passionate weeping. “I’ve prayed the Lord on my knees, and He’ll no send
them; and I cannot find them; and my bonnie Bell will die before I can
clear her name!”
Her voice had risen loud and shrill in the height of her emotion, and
now she sat down and covered her face, struggling with her sobs. It was
not in Fanshawe’s heart to remain insensible to this outburst. He sat
looking at her with a guilty face, as if he were the author of her
distress.
“Can I do anything?” he said. “Is there any way of helping her to find
them if they are to be found?”
But there was not in his tone the enthusiasm for the search which
Marjory had expected to move him. The very sound of his voice chilled
instead of invigorating her. While Agnes slowly recovered her composure,
Marjory informed him in detail of the inquiries which had been made.
These were very primitive, unskilful inquiries. The girl knowing of few
means of procuring information except the simple one of going to ask for
it, had wasted a great deal of time and much labour on a comparatively
narrow round. She had indeed written to various people whom she believed
to be Macgregor’s relations to ask information about him, but the idea
that he and his wife might be reluctant witnesses, or adverse altogether
to the establishment of the truth, had made her distrustful of letters.
“How could I tell that they would not get out o’ my way, if I sent them
word I was coming?” she said. “How was I to ken that they werena
enemies? And even if they were friends, they mightna like to take that
trouble, or their maisters mightna like it. Few folk like to take
trouble; and when you just send them a letter--Na, na, I went mysel. I
would never trust to that.”
In short, poor Agnes had distrusted everybody. She had distrusted Miss
Heriot up to the last moment. She distrusted her still, notwithstanding
Isabell’s better instinct. She looked at the two together at the present
moment with a watchful eye, not half sure that they were not plotting
something against, rather than in favour of her search. When she heard
them speak of the loss of time, her heart swelled within her. She who
had done everything so carefully, so warily, letting nobody know,
treating everybody as enemies, making so many subtle, simple schemes to
entrap the missing witnesses, was it possible that, after all, she had
been letting the precious moments slip out of her hand, the last days of
her sister’s life? Agnes was glad to go away, leaving the last and only
possible traces of the missing Macgregors in Marjory’s hands, to go out
to the silence of the long seaside walk, and to cast her troubled mind
abroad to seek out new means of working. She knelt down under the shadow
of the Maiden’s Rock, in a crevice of that natural tower, and poured out
all her passionate heart in an impassioned prayer. “Oh, bring them to
me--bring them!” she prayed, demanding a miracle with pathetic
earnestness. There are circumstances in which it is more painful to
receive help than to be kept without it. Agnes, poor girl, endured the
aid which had fallen upon her with a proud agony of submission, feeling
that her heart was torn asunder by the necessity. She had so set her
heart upon doing it all herself; she had taken pleasure in her hardships
and wanderings, her long walks up and down, and the painful inquiries
that never came to anything. And oh, if all this had been but a loss of
time! She tried to contradict the thought, though a consciousness that
it was true would keep creeping chill upon her. But oh, if the Lord
would but step in and direct her, and make her find them now! If He
would but prove that the race was not to the swift nor the battle to the
strong! If He, the last resort, the final resource in everything, would
but bring them to her--put them, as it were, in her hand! Agnes opened
her eyes, and clambered down from the rocks, her heart aching with the
hope that she might yet meet with strangers on the way, and find that
her prayer had been answered. But there was no one to be seen on the
long stretch of seaside path, not a soul anywhere. And thus in her
humiliation she went slowly home, feeling as if this work, the work that
might save Isabell’s life, was taken out of her hands.
CHAPTER XIII.
The two who were left behind were not much more comfortable than Agnes.
Marjory, for her part, could not but feel somewhat humiliated too. She
had appealed to Fanshawe in the fervour and exultation of her heart,
just after she had been roused by the blame she had heard of him, into,
perhaps, an unjustifiable adoption of his cause. When he had been
blamed, she had asserted his good qualities so indignantly, that faith
in what she had herself said had moved her to put him to the test, with
a generous and proud confidence. He might be good for nothing, so far as
himself was concerned; but he was good for everything to his friends.
And lo! at the very first touch, he had been found wanting. He had taken
twenty-four hours even to understand the story; and now, when he
understood it, he displayed no desire to take up the cause of the
injured, no readiness of belief in her, no wish to exert himself in her
service. She could not but see that to secure her own society, to be
near her and associated with her, Fanshawe would interest himself in
almost anything; but that was a very different matter from the generous
interest she had expected, and the active help she had desired. She had
thought nothing less than that he would go off instantly, scarcely
asking a moment to breathe and repose himself, in search of the missing
witnesses; and lo! he never suggested the possibility of looking for
them at all; he did not even seem to consider himself involved in any
way in the matter--as, indeed, he was not, Marjory proudly confessed to
herself. She was disappointed, mortified, cut down in her own
estimation; though why she should have been so, simply because he had
failed her, it is difficult to say. Marjory did not utter her
disappointment in words, but she adopted a still more effectual way of
showing it. She ascended into regions of lofty politeness which froze
the very soul of the visitor within him. She addressed him as she might
have done a potentate who had paid to an inferior power the unexpected
honour of a visit. She carefully banished all allusion to the business,
which yesterday had occupied and excited her so much, from her
conversation--and turned that upon trivial subjects, upon the passing
events which figured in the newspapers, upon St. Andrews, and the ruins,
and golf. Poor Fanshawe was utterly and dismally crushed by this
treatment. For an hour after Agnes’s hasty departure, when it had been
put in force, he held out under it as best he could, pretending to wish
to hear about the Cathedral, and the Castle, and the old town of St.
Rule. It was when she suggested a visit to the antiquities after lunch,
in company with Dr. Smith, who knew so well how to explain them, that
his fortitude failed. He went up to her side with something like
timidity.
“It was not for the ruins,” he said, half reproachfully, half timidly,
“that I came.”
“Well, perhaps not,” said Marjory; “but when you are in a place where
there are interesting ruins, you are bound to visit them, don’t you
think?”
Fanshawe made no direct reply; but slightly encouraged by her tone, drew
a chair near her.
“And it was not for golf I came.”
“I suppose not, seeing you do not know anything about it. Nothing but
utter ignorance,” said Marjory, beguiled to a smile in spite of herself,
“could have excused the extraordinary questions you put to my uncle last
night.”
“Were they extraordinary questions?” he said, still more encouraged.
“No, I did not come for the golf, nor for the sea, nor for St. Andrews,
nor for society. I came, because you sent for me; an inducement which
would have taken me to the end of the world.”
“Pray don’t remind me how presumptuous I have been, and foolish,” said
Marjory, reddening, “to send for you, without considering whether you
would agree with me about the importance of the cause.”
“Miss Heriot, I agree with enthusiasm that I am at your service, always
and everywhere.”
“Pray, pray, Mr. Fanshawe! don’t make me feel more ridiculous than I do
already. Let us talk of other things.”
“Why should not we talk of the one that interests you most--of that you
sent for me about?”
“Because, simply, it does not interest you,” said Marjory, looking at
him with a smile--that steady, forcibly kept-up smile of incipient
quarrel which is so far from agreeable to encounter.
Poor Fanshawe was in despair. He ought to have been pleased, on the
contrary, had he had his wits about him; for such quarrels never arise
between indifferent persons. He started up from his chair, and made a
rapid course round the room, and seized upon the brief notes of address
and reference which Agnes had left.
“I will go away, then, and execute your commission,” he said, in an
altered voice; “since that is all you wanted me for. It is too good for
me, I allow, that you should employ me at all, and for that I am
grateful. But I think you are a little hard upon me,” he went on. “You
make no allowance for the feeling I have in seeing you drawn into such a
connection; placed in the position of sister to a girl who--and brought
into constant contact with this sister. I have that to get over before I
can approach the subject dispassionately. You do not know what sort of
people such women are.”
“Do you?”
“God forgive me, Miss Heriot--I have been as other men!” he said,
reddening like a girl. “No, by Heaven! I don’t know, except by report
and common acceptation; not much--”
“I do,” said Marjory, calmly; “I know these two women, and I know the
class from which they spring; but that is not the question. I have
formed my opinion strongly on the subject. I do not ask you to make it
yours.”
“It is mine, with all my heart--anything you believe,” said Fanshawe,
very wretched, and yet once more with that glimmering of fun which
spoilt the pathos of so many a fine situation. Marjory, at this moment,
was not inclined to see any humour in it. She went on severely, and with
a tremendous courtesy which shrivelled him up.
“I could not, of course, ask you, whose experience in every way is much
greater than mine, to adopt my opinion; and nothing but a momentary
hallucination, which I hope you will be so very kind as to excuse, could
have made me think of transferring to you my work. I beg your pardon for
it. It is the absurd way in which we are accustomed to have things done
for us--the difficulty a woman finds in moving anywhere without a host
of explanations. But pray forgive me; feeling as I do, it is my business
to complete poor Agnes’s work, and clear up the matter, whatever it may
cost me. Of course, there is no reason in the world why I should not do
it myself.”
“You reject my assistance, then!” said Fanshawe, ruefully. “You take it
out of my hands? Miss Heriot, is that fair?”
“I do nothing of the kind,” she said; “it is a very important question
to me; but not, as stands to reason, with you. You had never heard of
the Heriots six months ago, Mr. Fanshawe. It is the most absurd thing in
the world to suppose that their interests could be of supreme importance
to you.”
And she held out her hand once more with that steady smile of polite
offence and mortification, for the papers which he still held. He stood
for a moment irresolute, looking at her; then he drew out his watch.
“Yes,” he said; “I see I have just half an hour to catch the next train.
I am off, Miss Heriot. The notes are vague enough, but still possible.
‘Suspected to have gone into service as a porter at one of the hotels in
one of the Channel Islands; but may have gone to Australia or New
Zealand.’ That was a puzzler, I allow, for our friend, who did her
journeys on foot. You shall hear from the nearest of these places as
soon as possible; and in the meantime, I may as well, I think, send
advertisements to all the papers for John Macgregor--that is worth
trying.”
“But, Mr. Fanshawe, I must not--I cannot--accept such a sacrifice.”
“You will say good-bye to me,” he said, holding her hand; “and think of
me--say once a day, will you, Miss Heriot? Let me see, the best time
would be in the afternoon, when one is apt to get low. Think of me
then--say from four to half-past four,” he said, with once more that
gleam of fun in his eye. “And I hope I shall not have to go to
Australia.” Then he made a momentary pause, and looked at her wistfully
again. “Will you come to meet me?” he said. “When I come back?”
“Mr. Fanshawe! I beg, I entreat!”
“But you must promise,” he said, with a short laugh. “Good-bye; till we
meet again.”
What was till they met again? the kiss on her hand? This question, the
imbecility of which can only be explained by her extreme agitation, was
the only thing that fluttered through Marjory’s mind in that hasty
moment, which was over like a dream. She ran to the window and threw it
open, and gazed after him. He was gone, actually gone--upon his
errand--which might lead him heaven knows where; no doubt she had sent
for him with this very purpose; but though she had felt the most
sensible mortification when he appeared unwilling to undertake it, yet,
nevertheless, his sudden departure quite stupefied Marjory. It put
Isabell and Agnes, and their whole story, completely out of her head.
She sat down at the open window and watched him as long as he was in
sight, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from going
after him in the strange state of excitement into which his sudden
departure threw her. All this was without any action of her mind at
all--a sudden whirl of involuntary feeling, nothing more.
But it is impossible to describe the consternation of Mr. Charles when
he heard of the departure of their visitor. This was when he returned to
luncheon, which he did at the cost of some personal inconvenience--for
he had to return to the Links for a match at three o’clock. It was sheer
benevolence that brought him, and fear least Marjory should feel herself
uncomfortable--thus receiving a stranger, “and no man in the house.” The
announcement, however, took him entirely by surprise. “Mr. Fanshawe
away!” he said; “bless me, Marjory, what has taken him away? What did
the man come for, if he was to go away so soon? I was just saying to
myself to-day, if he was the same as he was at Pitcomlie, we might have
a difficulty in getting rid of him; and here I find he’s off! Maybe, my
dear, it was your fault?”
She was annoyed with herself for blushing; but she answered calmly
enough: “I do not think so, uncle; he took me very much by surprise.”
“Well, my dear,” said Uncle Charles, “you must manage your own affairs,
and no doubt you’ll do it well; but you must mind that though he’s a
very pleasant person, and was very serviceable, we’ve heard but a poor
account of Mr. Fanshawe. I cannot say I recollect, just at this moment,
what it was I heard--”
“Whatever it was,” said Marjory, with some heat, “I do not believe it,
Uncle Charles.”
“Well, well!” said Mr. Charles once more, in a tone of soothing; “I do
not bid you believe all you hear, my dear; still it should not be
altogether neglected; that’s not wise; in short, far from wise. To tell
the truth, if he is not away in a pet about something I know nothing of,
I’m not sorry, for my part, to be alone to-day. I am vexed by some news
I have from good Dr. Murray. I will have to go over there.”
“Has anything gone wrong?”
“These young women,” said Mr. Charles, shaking his head; “I doubted it
from the appearance of them. These young women are behaving themselves
very strangely, my dear; they are turning everything upside down. From
what I hear, they are meditating meddling with the house; pulling
something down, or putting something up, I cannot tell which; but it’s
a thing that must not be allowed--nay--so far as I’m aware--guardians
have no such power. I mean to speak to Mungo Barmaster this afternoon,
and see what he says. But the end of it will be, that I shall have to go
over myself,” said Mr. Charles, as if there was in that suggestion
something very terrible and decisive. He knitted his gentle brows, and
repeated once more, with a wavering swing upon his long legs, “I will
have to go over myself.”
Here another impulse seized upon Marjory, which she obeyed suddenly in
her excitement, by way of relieving her own highly wrought feelings.
“Uncle Charles,” she said, “there is something on my mind which I would
like to tell you. I do not know what you may think of it, whether it may
trouble you or please you; but anyhow, it is not a thing we can be
indifferent to. I once showed you a letter I had found among poor Tom’s
papers.”
“Among Tom’s papers! Ay! do you say so? I’ve no recollection--”
“Yes, uncle; think! you must remember. It was from a woman.”
Mr. Charles roused himself at once.
“A thing that should never have come under your eyes! I said so at the
time. Try to forget it, May. Some women I have seen have a morbid sort
of curiosity about such persons; but not you, my dear. Try to put it out
of your mind.”
“You mistake, uncle,” said Marjory, gently. “I thought you were mistaken
at the time. It is more important than you think, I have seen her--”
“You!” cried Mr. Charles, stammering with sudden anger. “You! Now this
beats all! If your brother was coarse enough to think of such a thing,
you, Marjory, a delicate young woman, you should have had more feeling.”
The implied blame brought the colour warmly to Marjory’s cheeks.
“Hush! Uncle Charles. I knew at the time you were mistaken.”
“Which is likely to know best, you or I?” said Mr. Charles, with not
unnatural exasperation. “May, I am not your father, and I have no real
authority; but still you obeyed me when you were a little bairn, and I
am your nearest friend. There must be no more of this, no more of this!
A young woman has no right to compromise herself.”
“Wait, uncle, till you hear me; it is more important than you think. I
met her by chance, not knowing who she was. She is very ill--dying. She
did not know me any more than I knew her; but I have come to know her
story. Hush! wait, Uncle Charles--She was Tom’s wife; and she has--a
son--”
Mr. Charles turned pale; his lower lip dropped in his surprise, as if he
had been struck by sudden illness. He shook so that that pencil he held
between his fingers dropped.
“What--what?” he said. “Nonsense! it’s raving, it’s madness! I’ll not
credit a word of it; it’s some story made up. May, May, tell me it all
over again; what does this mean?”
“It means,” said Marjory, with sudden composure, which came to her she
could not tell how, “that unless we take care to clear it all up, and
prove the truth or falsehood of this story, there will be a disputed
succession in our family to be fought out; perhaps when we are no longer
living; but, one day or other, it will certainly be fought out.”
“Bless me! bless me!” said Mr. Charles, walking about the room in great
agitation. “What is this? what is this? A disputed succession, a wife
and a child--did you say a child, or a son? And, God bless me! if it’s
true, what kind of a woman must she be that he never dared acknowledge
her? He knew how his father wanted him to marry--and a son! Did you say
a son? This is the most astonishing piece of news, Marjory,” Mr. Charles
added, coming up to her, “if it can be relied upon, that I ever heard in
all my life.”
“I thought it would startle you; but you do not think now I could have
helped taking an interest, Uncle Charles? When I heard of the child----”
“God bless us!” said the pious philosopher again. He was too much
excited to remain still. He walked up and down the room, repeating
broken sentences to himself. “But the mother must be come of very
indifferent folk; she must have little to recommend her; she must be
some girl that has known how to take care of herself. And then the story
may not be true; you must take into account, May, that it’s very likely
it may not be true.”
“That is exactly what I think we must find out--without sparing either
money or trouble, Uncle Charles.”
“Lord preserve us!” said the old man; “and in that case the other little
bairn would have nothing to do with it? and these young women--Marjory,
my dear, I see the hand of Providence in this. Does she give full
particulars? has she proof? I would not say a word, nor interfere one
way or another, without strong and clear evidence. Has she proof?”
“Yes,” said Marjory, out of the fulness of her heart. She had no need
herself of any proof of Isabell’s story. Her face was guarantee of that;
and she had a second visionary confidence, as strong or stronger than
her trust in Isabell--which was that Fanshawe would find all that was
wanted. Thus she took upon herself to answer, as it were, for both of
these persons, in her warm affirmation, rather than for the abstract
truth. As a matter of fact, the evidence, she knew, was not forthcoming;
but Marjory believed in _her_, and she believed also in _him_.
“And these young women at Pitcomlie;” said Mr. Charles, with a gleam of
momentary triumph. He was ashamed, however, of his emotion almost before
he had expressed it. “That is, my dear,” he said, “if there is any truth
in the story; which is a thing I scarcely believe.”
CHAPTER XIV.
The confidence which Marjory thus injudiciously, and on the impulse of
the moment, shared with her uncle, was premature and indiscreet. No
doubt it is hard to shut up a discovery of importance in one’s own
bosom, and for a woman accustomed to all the continual intercourse and
confidence of domestic life, to carry on a series of secret operations,
is almost impossible; but the relief afforded was not so great as she
had hoped. Mr. Charles could think of nothing else. He questioned and
cross-questioned--who was Isabell? what were her people? where did they
come from? how did Marjory know that they were respectable or
trustworthy? how had she made acquaintance with them? To these questions
she could give but scanty answers. Mr. Charles groaned when he heard of
the irregular marriage. He shook his head till it ached with the
movement.
“In all our records,” he said, in piteous tones, “I do not believe, May,
that such a scandal has ever happened before. We’ve had none but
virtuous women, my dear, none but good women, and clever women, May. It
has always been our strong point. God bless us! and all to end in two
fools like these young women at Pitcomlie, and a---- I humbly beg your
pardon, my dear.”
“Uncle, this girl, who is dying, is like a saint.”
Once more Mr. Charles shook his head.
“I never heard yet of a saint that made an irregular marriage,” he said,
“and as for her dying, my dear, if she’s really the heir’s mother, far
the best thing she can do will be to die. A woman like that would be a
dreadful sort of apparition at Pitcomlie. Whatever her people are, they
cannot be in a position that would do the infant any credit. Lord
preserve us! am I speaking of my own family?” cried Mr. Charles, feeling
the wound go to his heart. “One a fool, and the other a---- Poor
fellows, they’ve gone to their account--but there must have been some
imperfection in those two lads, my dear, though they were your brothers;
there must have been some imperfection. They say the wife a man chooses
is the best revelation of his own character. You need not be angry, my
dear; I am saying nothing against the poor boys.”
“Let us say nothing at all about it, uncle, till we know.”
“That’s easy said, that’s easy said, my dear. You may be able to put it
out of your mind, but I cannot. The whole future of the family! Perhaps
I had better see the girl, May, and examine her myself?”
“Uncle, she is ill.”
“I’ll do her no harm, my dear,” said Uncle Charles; and he resumed the
subject in the morning, to Marjory’s dread. He had been brought up to
the law, and he had some faith, as was natural, in his own knowledge.
“If I once hear her story, I will see at once what is to be made of
it,” he said; and as he had been further stimulated by another letter
about the proceedings, or intended proceedings of Miss Bassett, the old
man was much in earnest. It was the agent of the Bank in Pitcomlie who
had sent him this information, and Mr. Charles had come down to
breakfast with his hair standing on end, at all the audacities that were
contemplated. “I know no precedent--no precedent,” he said, with his
forehead puckered into a hundred lines. “They say women are
conservatives; but I never heard of rebels like them, when they take
that lawless turn. A man would think twice before he would meddle with
an old-established house; he would think that the past might have its
rights, no to speak of the future.”
“I don’t think folly is of either sex,” said Marjory, who was not fond
of hearing her own side assailed; “though Verna is not a fool----”
“Verna!” cried Mr. Charles, in his indignation, “she is out of the
question, May. I might stand something from your brother’s wife. She’s a
foolish creature, but she’s not without good points--at all events she’s
pretty, which is aye something; and she is poor Charlie’s widow; but the
other young woman! Do you know, my dear, it’s my duty to see this girl,
and hear her story myself?”
All that Marjory could do was to effect a compromise--to go herself and
prepare poor Isabell, putting off Mr. Charles’s visit for another day.
Mr. Charles accordingly went out, though late, and hung about the Club
all the morning, talking with every lounger who came in his way (and
their name was legion). He told nothing, he was quite convinced; and
yet, oddly enough, a vague impression that some story about the House of
Pitcomlie--some romance in real life, such as now and then fills every
county with lively interest and delight--was about to be made known to
the world--came into existence. There were various versions of it
instantly created by the conversationalists of the Golf Club.
“I don’t know what’s afloat among the Heriots,” said Mr. Morrison, of
St. Rule’s; “auld Charlie is going about like a clucking hen; he has
some mystery under his wing, that’s sure. Either it’s some new claimant
turned up from Australia, like the one they’re making so great a fuss
about in London, or----”
“I don’t see how that can be,” said Major Vee or Captain Eff. “All the
Heriots and all their comings and goings are too well known in Fife, and
besides, there never was one that disappeared, or did anything he
oughtn’t to have done.”
“They’re a fearfully respectable family,” said another golfer, with a
great emphasis on the adjective; “but Tom Heriot was thrown away upon
them. He was not of that mould. If anything’s gone wrong, or there’s a
chance of revelations, I back Tom to be the hero. He was never one of
your cut and dry men, foredoomed to be a Laird, and do his duty.”
“He was a simple ne’er-do-weel,” said Mr. Seton, “like his friend
Fanshawe, whom I saw in the town the other day, by the bye. They were
an excellent pair. And there’s a sympathy among that sort of people.
Miss Heriot, who is as proud as Lucifer, and looks down upon most
people, was hanging upon that fellow’s arm. If it’s some peccadillo of
Tom’s, no doubt Fanshawe was in it.”
“I don’t see what Miss Heriot could have to do with any peccadillo of
Tom’s,” said another speaker. “Whatever you may say against women,
toleration of their brother’s peccadillos is not one of their faults.
But Mrs. Charles, I hear, is making a bonny business at Pitcomlie,
pulling down the house to build some fine castle or other. That’s
enough, I should say, to account for old Charlie’s troubles. He’s like a
hen on a hot girdle, fluttering about everywhere. God be praised, he’s
engaged for a foursome at three o’clock with old Adam of St. Edgar’s,
and the two Wolffs. A bonny time they will have of it. I saw him lose a
putt yesterday that an infant might have played. And talk of
putting----”
Here the speaker went off into golf, and left the Heriots. Mr. Charles,
however, fulfilled the prophecy in every respect. He produced the most
unchristian temper in the partner of his game, and gave his opponents an
opportunity for gibes innumerable. Up to this present date a description
of the worse putt ever made on the Links, as perpetrated on that unhappy
day by Mr. Charles Hay-Heriot of the Pitcomlie family, is told for the
edification of beginners. The reader, who knows the reason why, will not
blame Mr. Charles. He could not, as he acknowledged, get all these
complications out of his head. His placid soul was torn by so many
unforeseen calamities. The existing state of affairs was bad enough, and
the personal contentions which lay before him, the struggle with “these
young women,” in which Mr. Charles felt it quite possible that he might
be worsted, would, had there been nothing else, have been enough to
embitter his peaceful days. The other question, however, came into it
with a painful excitement. It did not obliterate the first, as it ought
reasonably to have done, since, if the second story was true, Mrs.
Charles could have no authority or place at Pitcomlie. Some minds have a
faculty for getting all the annoyance possible out of their
surroundings, just as some others get all the sweetness possible. Mr.
Charles hugged both to his bosom. He groaned over the possibility of
having to insert a name never heard of before, and the record of an
irregular marriage into the genealogical papers of the Heriots, which
had not known such profanation from the time of the Jameses. Talk of the
whaling captain, indeed, who had vitiated the blood of the Morrisons!
perhaps it was a judgment upon Mr. Charles for his remarks on that flaw;
for this was a thousand times worse than any whaling captain. And yet
while he groaned over the prospective humiliation, he afflicted his soul
at the same time with thoughts of how he was to manage Mrs. Charles and
her impertinent sister, who took so much upon her, and yet was not so
much as related to the Heriots. The one misery was incompatible with
the other; but yet he took the good, or rather the evil, of them both.
The existence of this doubting, questioning, perplexed, and perplexing
companion by her side was no addition to Marjory’s comfort. She
postponed her visit to the cottage for motives which she scarcely
ventured to define--foremost among which was a vague reluctance to meet
Agnes again, and to discuss with her the work which she had taken out of
her hands. In every such enterprise there comes a moment of
discouragement, of painful difficulty, of disgust even, with
circumstances which at first filled the mind only with pity and
fellow-feeling. Marjory felt that she would gladly have turned her back
on the matter altogether; she would fain have forgotten all about it
from the day when she first saw the patient face of the sick girl at the
cottage door. What had she to do with it? Such an intruder is usually
rejected, or at least held at arm’s length by “the family.” A
_mésalliance_ is seldom acknowledged or insisted upon by the sister of
the man who has made it. Sometimes it occurred to her that it was even
unmaidenly on her part to have interfered in the matter; after all, such
a marriage was, she said to herself, no marriage at all--unblessed by
religion, unhonoured by publicity, a secret expedient to make guilt less
guilty--was not that all that could be said for it? and yet what a
difference this poor formula made! Without it the girl was a lost
creature, covered with shame; with it she was surrounded by the sanctity
of a woman wronged, almost a martyr; and yet it was nothing, nothing! a
mere expedient to make guilt less guilty. This was only one of a
hundred ways in which Marjory contemplated the subject; and hers was a
woman’s view of the matter altogether, though not less forcible on that
account. The sting of these thoughts was that they had never occurred to
her before. She had committed herself in many ways--to Isabell; and
still more, to Fanshawe; she had filled the girl with false hopes, and,
perhaps, still falser hopes had been raised in the man’s mind by her
appeal to him. She had sent him out against his will, against his own
idea of what was needful--and now she repented! This is the danger of
possessing an impulsive temperament. Such disgust and discouragement
seldom come until the world has been set on fire by the hasty spirit.
Marjory felt (for the moment) that she would gladly have turned her back
upon it all now; she would have liked to go away to the end of the
world, and get out of sight and hearing of everybody who could remind
her of this chapter of her existence. So she thought; and the fact that
she could not have taken three steps in her flight before compunction
and a revival of all her anxious interest would have seized her,
dragging her back again, had really nothing to do with the question. She
kept away from the cottage, fearing any intercourse with the sisters,
whose cause, for the moment, she felt herself to have abandoned. And it
was not until she was roused from this curious discouragement, by the
sight of an advertisement in the second column of the “Times,” calling
upon John Macgregor to disclose himself, that she was roused to
something of her former feeling. This took her by surprise; to her
consciousness all progress had been arrested, and everything stayed by
the change in her mind; she had done nothing, and she had concluded that
nothing was being done. But the sight of the advertisement roused her;
she saw that she had set forces in action that could not be stopped, and
whatever her own languor might be, she had no longer any right to keep
still. As soon as she had realized this, her disgust evaporated like the
dew on the grass, and good sense and judgment regained the upper hand.
John Macgregor might still be in Scotland, notwithstanding Agnes’s
failure, and in that case, the “Times” was a very unlikely vehicle of
communication with him. She bestirred herself instantly, with a glow at
her heart, which, after all, was not immediately caused either by
devotion to her brother’s memory or regard for Isabell. Who was it that
had called Fanshawe good-for-nothing? Marjory laughed softly by herself
at the ludicrous inappropriateness of the word--good-for-nothing! She
had heard his voice as it were in the dark, calling out to her, telling
her he was at work, encouraging her to go on. Marjory filled all the
Scotch papers with advertisements during the next week; she demanded
John Macgregor from all the winds; but still she did not go to the
cottage. Now that she had fairly re-commenced work, it seemed to her
that she must wait until she had something to tell.
One day, however, a sudden thought came to her of Isabell’s dying
condition, and of the possible consequences of suspense, unbroken by
any ray of hope. She set out towards the Spindle on a dreary afternoon,
when the clouds hung low, and the sea was black with rising wind. It was
the heaviest time of the day--that hour when life runs lowest--when
Fanshawe had bidden her think of him. The few vessels visible were
struggling between two dark leaden lines of sky and sea; nothing was
cheerful or encouraging in the external surroundings. The waves came in
with a threatening rush round the Spindle; the wind sighed with a sound
of rain; and though she had not expected Isabell to be outside on such a
day, yet a sense of unreasonable disappointment arose in Marjory’s mind
at the absence of the well-known figure from the cottage-door. The door
was closed, and no one was visible about. In all the earth and air there
seemed no living thing, except in the few ships--big and little, which
struggled across the horizon.
“Oh mercy! to myself I said,
If Lucy should be dead!”
The thought was natural enough, so far as Isabell was concerned, but it
filled Marjory with remorse as she hurried forward. If Isabell were to
die before, one way or other, this matter was cleared up!--it was but
too likely she would; but the thought seemed to lend wings to Marjory’s
feet.
In the little cottage chamber, however, which she thought so still,
there was pain enough to demonstrate life, could she but have known. It
was a dark little room at all times, for though there were two windows,
these windows were little casements composed of very small and very dim
panes of greenish glass--one in the front of the house towards the sea,
and the other to the back. A smouldering fire burned in the grate, at
which stood Isabell’s mother in her white mutch, making tea for her
invalid. Isabell herself lay in the box, or press-bed, fitted into the
wall, which is universal in such cottages. From the airless wooden
enclosure her pale face looked out strangely, most unlike, in its
pathetic beauty, to everything about. The mother’s back was turned, but
between the fire and the bed sat Agnes, her ruddy, comely countenance
overcast with vexation and care. She was doing nothing, her head was
thrown back listlessly, and her hands laid in her lap. They were brown
hands, bearing the traces of toil, and their idleness had a certain
pathos in it. She sat, too, almost in the middle of the room, as if she
had thrown herself down by chance, not knowing, or not caring where. As
the mother went and came she stumbled over Agnes’s foot, or her chair,
and uttered a little querulous exclamation: “Canna you sit in a corner?
canna ye get something to do?” she said. “I canna bide to see a woman
doing naething; take John’s stockings, if you’ll do nothing else.”
“I have nae heart for stockings, or anything else!” said Agnes with a
sigh.
“Eh, woman! if I had been like that how could I have brought you all
up?” said the mother. “Seven of a family, and no a penny nor a penny’s
worth in the world. Do ye think I hadna often a sair heart? and many a
time darena sit down, for fear I should be ower tired to rise again.
What are your bits of trouble to that?”
“Do you call yon a bit trouble?” said Agnes, pointing to her sister’s
bed. The mother’s countenance darkened; she turned towards the fire
again, turning her back on her sick daughter. “I dinna call that trouble
at all,” she said; “that’s sin and shame.”
“Eh, mother, ye’re hard, hard! will ye never believe it--not even since
you’ve seen Miss--her man’s sister. Will ye no believe her, even now?”
“Dinna speak to me of her man,” said the old woman indignantly, pouring
the boiling water upon the tea with a certain vindictive movement. All
this conversation was carried on in an undernote, that Isabell might not
hear. “Her man has been a bonnie man to her; whatever was his meaning;
he’s brought her naething but misery and shame. What had she to do,
giving ear to ane o’ thae gentlemen with their false tongues? Gentlemen!
I wouldna give an honest man for ten gentlemen--and so it’s seen. Give
her her tea; I havena the heart to look at her white face,” said the
mother, turning away; she went and sat down noiselessly in the room, and
put up her apron to her eyes. How many different kinds of suffering were
shut up there together, all separate, and keeping themselves apart!
The tea was made in silence--the one cordial of poor women’s lives--and
then the little group subsided once more into their places.
“Have you any word from John?” said the mother, this time loud enough
for all to hear.
“I have aye word from John,” said Agnes, with a tone of indignation;
“whatever happens, he never misses his day.”
“But you’ve come to nae settlement yet about what’s to be done. It’s a
wise bargain you’ve made, him and you--as wise almost as some other
folk; to wait--till when?”
“Till I’m gone, mother!” said Isabell. “Oh, if you would have patience!
I’ll no be long. I feel the wheel breaking at the fountain, and the
silver chain being sundered, as the Bible says. When I’m gone, there
will be nae motive for keeping up all this trouble. I’ve been making a
terrible stir and commotion, I know that; no for me--and yet I mustna
conceal the truth--I had some thought for myself, too; to die so young
is sore enough without shame. But if God will have me bear shame, I must
put up with it; and you must put up with it, Agnes. John’s a good man;
he’ll never upbraid you with your poor sister, that ye did so much for;
and you’ll take my bairn. He’ll never ken he had a mother but you--and
you’ll be good--oh, you’ll be good to him! No, why should I greet?” she
went on, looking with apparent surprise at a tiny drop that fell on her
coverlet; “we must accept what God sends.”
“Oh, hold your tongue, hold your tongue!” cried the mother; “God never
sent wickedness. I’ll no be contradictit in my own house--though, to be
sure, it’s no my house, for that matter. We were a’ proud of your bonnie
face, and your genty ways; and our pride’s had a fa’; yes, you may see,
even your bonnie leddy that you were so sure of--your man’s sister, as
ye say--has come back no more. She’s given ye up like a’ the rest; and
everybody will give ye up--till you humble yourself, Bell, and put away
all your pretences, and do what Magdalen did. But naebody in heaven or
earth will show mercy to a lie.”
“Mother, you’re that hard that ye make me sick,” cried Agnes. “It’s no a
lie.”
“Let her prove it, then!” said the mother solemnly. She was in accord
with Mr. Charles, with Fanshawe, with all others except Marjory, who had
heard the tale. As for Agnes, she started up from her seat as if unable
to bear any more.
“I maun be away again,” she cried; “I canna stand it longer. If your
grand leddies and your fine gentlemen will do nothing for her, I’ll take
up my work again, myself--and I’ll clear ye yet, Bell. I’ll away to
Edinburgh this very day, and see John; maybe him and me can think of
something else. I’m ’maist glad they’ve failed ye!” cried the girl, with
tears in her eyes; “for now I’ll never rest day or night till I’ve done
it myself.”
“You’ll think first what you’re doing,” said the mother; “going to visit
a man that has no heart to marry ye; mind what’s happened to your
sister, and take heed for yourself.”
“Oh, woman!” cried Agnes, turning upon her wildly--while poor Isabell,
struck by this unexpected assault, lay back upon her pillows feebly
sobbing; and it was at this moment that Marjory knocked at the cottage
door.
CHAPTER XV.
There could not have been a more striking welcome than the celestial
glimmer of light which came over Isabell’s countenance at this sight.
She stayed her weeping with an effort, she held out her thin hands; she
looked at the new-comer with pathetic delight.
“Oh, you’ve come, you’ve come at last!” she cried with an unconscious
reproach. She was so weak that the fit of weeping which she had
restrained, interrupted her by an involuntary long-drawn sob now and
then, like the sobbing of a child and Marjory thought that this sobbing
too was her fault.
“I thought you would never come,” said Isabell, “it makes me nigh well
to see you. Oh no, Miss Heriot, I’m no worse; I’m wearing away, wearing
away, but no faster than everybody expected. Oh, it does me good to see
you--to say your name.”
“Did you ever hear of me--from--Tom?” said Marjory with hesitation, yet
with a generous desire to make up for her late failure in interest. She
had not melted into any familiarity as a more gushing nature might have
done. Poor Isabell! this gave her an excuse to weep quietly, to expend
her half-shed tears.
“Oh, I never called him by that name,” she said, “I daredna’. It was
aye his desire I should, but I never could say anything but Mr. Heriot.
I liked to say it; it seemed like himself, grander than me, far above
me--I was never anything but Isabell. Yes, Miss Heriot, he said once how
good ye were, and that, whoever was hard, you would be kind. He called
you May--is that your name?”
“Yes, that is my name.” Marjory could not unbend altogether, could not
tell this girl, though her heart yearned towards her, to call her by
that name, to call her sister, as so many effusive girls would have
done. She answered quite simply and shortly without further expansion.
Was it true that she would have been kind whoever had been cruel?
Marjory had not much faith in herself so far as this was concerned. She
remembered the horror which had taken possession of her when she had
thought of this young woman becoming the mistress of Pitcomlie. All such
feelings had fled away now; but yet she could not feel that Tom had any
reason for his confidence in her. “I came to warn you, my poor Isabell,”
she said, “my uncle is anxious to come, to speak to you about all this;
you must know that it is a very important matter for us. He is the only
one remaining who has any right to interfere, and he wishes to come, to
question you. He is an old man, and very kind; but he will not be
satisfied unless he sees you himself; if it is not too much for you--”
“Oh,” cried Isabell, with a long-drawn breath, “naething’s too much for
me! I’ll be glad, glad to tell him all I can, to do anything I can to
satisfy him or you. It’s hard to tell the truth and find nobody to
believe you; but all I can do is to tell him, and leave the rest to God,
Miss Heriot. Eh, what cause I have to trust in Him! A while ago I
thought I never would hear the name again; and now there will be Heriots
a’ about me--you that are my kindest friend--and this gentleman. If it
was not too much trouble, oh, might I see the bonnie little lady with
the gold hair that Agnes says is like my baby? He’s a Heriot too,” said
poor Isabell, with a wistful upward glance at Marjory’s face. She was
trustful, but yet afraid. She made a little fluttering movement towards
something beside her in the bed, something that Marjory had not seen
till this moment, and only divined now. “He’s a Heriot too,” the young
mother pleaded, “oh, may I let you see him? If I once saw him in your
arms I would be happy--”
“Bell!” said Agnes, in a voice of angry warning, “you said the bairn was
to be mine, John’s and mine--no an hour ago before this leddy came, you
said it. It’s her mainner and her voice and her flattering ways that
have taken your heart.”
“It’s no that,” said Isabell, “I’m doing you no wrong. You will be a
mother to him, and he’ll ken no other mother; but I would like Miss
Heriot to take him just once in her arms, just to give him a kiss for
his father’s sake, just to see if he’s no like his father. If it was no
more than that--no to take him from you that have the best right--”
“My daughters, mem, are not civil to me,” said the old woman coming
forward for the first time. “You hear the one say that’s it the other
that has the best right; yet this bairn was born under my auld roof, and
put first into my auld arms, me that bore his mother, and bred her up by
the toil of my hands and the sweat of my brow. They think I’ve naething
to do with it; that I’m to sit by and hear him given away from one to
another and never say a word.”
“It’s John and me,” said Agnes breaking in, “that can do best for the
bairn.”
“And who will love him best?” said the old mother, “you will have bairns
of your ain. You will push him by and make no account of him. He will
have the orphan’s fate. He will eat the bread of tears, he will have to
bide in his corner, and haud his tongue, and walk wary, wary, lest worst
should befall him.”
Here Isabell turned with a cry to the unconscious infant at her side.
They pierced her gentle soul with a hundred poisoned arrows without
meaning it. Poor people do not build up foolish pictures of possible
recovery round their dying up to the last moment, as some of us do. They
never throw any sort of doubt upon that certain and near approaching
termination. Not even a charitable suggestion that she might live to
watch her child’s growth was made by any one; nor did Isabell expect it.
Perhaps on the whole this was the most real kindness, and it was the
only treatment she had ever been used to; but yet in her delicate soul,
she felt the want of tenderness without knowing how it was.
Meanwhile Marjory sat by bewildered, and listened to this dispute in
confusion. She tried to interrupt them more than once, but their eager
voices were too much for her. The strife was a generous strife in its
way; but was it possible that they did not know if his mother’s marriage
was proved what the child must become at once? She interposed at last as
calmly as she could.
“If all the proof is obtained that will be necessary,” she said, “if the
marriage is proved, and everybody satisfied” (at these words Isabell
turned round, took her hand and kissed it gratefully, while her mother
retreated to the furthest corner, persistently shaking her head, and
uttering sighs that were deep enough to be groans), “then I think our
family will have to be consulted. It is not quite so simple as you
think. There will be something also for us to do.”
The old woman came back from her corner of the room, and Isabell turned
wistful, smiling, beaming upon the speaker.
“Oh,” she said, “it was what I aye hoped, but I daredna ask. My wee man
will not have the hard life we’ve all been born to? Oh, I’m joyful,
joyful of that! not for the money, Miss Heriot; but if you knew the
difference of him and you, folk that have been gently nurtured as they
say in books, from the like of us; gently nurtured, that’s what I would
like--learned to speak soft, and think of others’ feelings, and move
quiet and be like him and you. Without money that cannot be; if he’s to
be brought up to work for his living like the rest, that cannot be.”
“If you mean the rest of my bairns, Isabell,” said her mother, hotly,
“your wean will be real well off if he’s like them. An honest working
man may look any gentleman in the face. I’ve aye trained ye up to that.”
“Ay, mother,” said Isabell, “that’s very true; but a gentleman’s son is
no like a ploughman’s son; and oh, if my boy might be like his father!
They’ll no let me speak of his father; but Miss Heriot, I may to you.”
“Yes,” said Marjory, faintly. A fastidious cloud had come over her
again. Tom, poor Tom, had not been to her an ideal being; it seemed to
her that his education, and the result of it, might both be improved in
a new human creature. But poor Isabell thought differently; a new world
opened before her eyes, which were full of tears, grateful tears, made
sweet by an unexpected and unlooked for gladness.
“Oh, if I could live to see it!” she sighed, with a quivering smile. It
was the first time that such a possibility had occurred to her. She
threw a wistful glance into the future, which she must never see, and
for one moment longed to live. Then for another moment the tears turned
salt and bitter. “But that mayna be,” she added, still more low. No, she
could not live to see it; but still this sunset gleam had given a gentle
radiance to her life.
“A little siller is aye a good thing. I’m very glad the bairn’s
provided for,” said the old woman, looking at Marjory keenly. Pride kept
her from further inquiry; her ears were keenly open, and her mind intent
to find out more fully what was meant; but she would have died sooner
than ask a question. Somehow, however, this simple speech of Marjory’s
changed the aspect of affairs to Isabell’s mother. It gave a probability
to the story of the marriage, which it had never hitherto possessed in
her eyes; the moment that money is involved it gives reality to
everything. The old woman’s feeling was very different from that vague
sense of beatitude with which Isabell herself regarded the possibility
of her child’s future wealth; but Marjory was instantly aware of the
deepened interest, the increased disposition to believe the story true.
She went on to comment on what news she had of the search in which
everything was involved.
“The gentleman you saw,” she said, addressing Agnes, and feeling, to her
great annoyance, that she blushed, “has gone off in search of these
people. He is to go to Guernsey; first and in the meantime we have put
advertisements in all the papers for John Macgregor.”
“Adver-tisements!” said Agnes, with dismay. “To give him notice that he
may get out of the way and hide himself.”
“Why should he get out of the way and hide himself?”
“It is how they aye do,” said Agnes, obstinately adhering to her own
theory. “Whenever a man is wanted for anything, that’s what aye happens.
And I would do it myself. If there was an adver-tisement for me in the
papers, I would leave my place, or change my lodgings in a moment. Eh,
that would I! I would not let myself be taken in a net. And John
Macgregor’s no a fool--no such a fool as to come for an advertisement.
Na, Miss Heriot, it would have been better to have left it to me.”
The mother drew near, also interested in this question. It was the first
time she had taken any distinct interest in it.
“I ken naething about it,” she said, “but putting a man’s name in the
papers is like sending a hue and cry after him. I ken John Macgregor,
though I put nae trust in him. Ye’ll never tell me that he’ll be brought
back by that.”
“No,” said Agnes. They both came near, and stood by shaking their heads;
while Isabell, with a face which gradually grew more and more keen with
anxiety, raised her eyes to Marjory, and put her thin hands together.
“It’s my last hope,” she said.
Perhaps there was just enough of old-fashioned prejudice in Marjory’s
own mind to agree with them a little, and she knew how strong that
prejudice was amongst this class. But somehow the protest thus made
against her proceedings roused in her again the fastidious and fanciful
disgust which only occurred to her mind after she had thrown her whole
heart into this effort.
“Well,” she said, somewhat coldly, “if what I do is unsuccessful, you
can then take it back into your hands. We can only adopt the means we
think best. It is not my place to interfere at all; all my friends have
told me as much.”
“Oh, dinna say that!” said Isabell, with appealing eyes. They all fought
over this patient, unresisting creature. To all of them it was a
secondary matter--to her it was life and death. In the pause that ensued
she was driven almost to despair. All that her imagination could
conceive she had already done. She had told her tale, she had opened her
heart, she had thrown herself upon their sympathy, she had appealed to
them by every argument in her power. The only thing yet remaining to her
she did now. With a sudden movement, which was almost too much for her
weakness, she lifted the infant by her side, and thrust it, without any
warning, into Marjory’s arms. Partly it was a simple artifice to prevent
the possibility of a refusal, and partly it was the hurry of weakness
which made this act so rapid. “This is--his bairn,” said poor Isabell,
falling back upon her pillow, and closing her pale eyelids. The tears
stole softly out from under those lids, the hectic colour faded from her
face. She turned her head aside, as if to avoid seeing the failure of
her last experiment. And the others stood looking on with keen interest,
with feelings vaguely quickened, with a sense of reality in the whole
matter such as they had never felt before.
Marjory was disconcerted more than she could say. She was not used to
young children. She had almost a repugnance to this morsel of humanity
suddenly thrust into her arms--this creature, which should have come
into the world amid the clamour of rejoicing, which should have been its
mother’s pride, the hope of an old family, the inheritor of wealth and
influence, and a kind of power. At the present moment it was its
mother’s shame; it was the shame of the dead man who had made no
provision for it in this world, who had allowed it to be supplanted in
his heedlessness, and made its future insecure; and over the child’s
existence a certain cloud of shame must always hover: legitimate indeed,
but legitimate only by that expedient to make guilt less guilty--making
only a hairbreadth escape from humiliation and ignominy. The baby was
fast asleep; it was warm and downy like a little nestling taken suddenly
out of the nest. Even the rapid movement did not disturb its utter calm.
It lay on Marjory’s lap, among the circle of agitated spectators, rapt
in an absolute tranquillity which went to the heart of these women. The
old mother began to weep. Agnes stood by with hungry eyes, ready to
snatch the child from the stranger, who was as closely related to it as
she, but who was an interloper, having nothing to do with it, she felt;
while Marjory sat still, without touching it, with the long white dress
streaming over her black one, looking into its sleeping face. Another
scene came over her with a flood of recollection, mingling itself
somehow in this one, giving to it an added effect. Once before an infant
like this had been placed in her arms by a dying mother. The child was
Milly, who since then had been as her own child to the elder sister; and
the tears rushed all at once like a stream in flood to Marjory’s eyes
as she recognised the likeness. It was as if Milly had been sent back
again into babyhood; little rings of soft golden hair clustered about
the baby head, the little face was waxen in its paleness, but every
feature was like Milly. She kissed it with an enthusiasm which carried
away all her repugnance.
“I will bring Milly to see you to-morrow,” she cried, hastily; and then
as she looked other likenesses stole upon her. A shadow of her father’s
face before suffering bowed him down, and of both “the boys,” in those
nursery days which came up so clear and fresh like a picture before her.
Both the boys! Charlie most, perhaps, whose own child was not like him.
Marjory’s tears began to fall heavily on the little white nightdress
made by poor Isabell’s failing fingers with all the nicety which love
could suggest. She forgot how all three were watching her eagerly,
waiting for every word she said. She held the child close as it lay in
serenest sleep, unconscious of her scrutiny, its pearly little hands
spread out in that ease of perfect repose which denotes at the same time
perfect health and comfort. “He is a true Heriot,” she cried, “God bless
him!”
“And God bless you!” said pale Isabell, from her bed, with a gleam of
joy over her worn face, which looked like sunshine. Agnes walked away
with a trembling thrill of jealousy and keen displeasure. But the mother
drew nearer.
“If the bairn is provided for, it will aye be something,” she said.
Who could have divined what a strange little scene was going on in the
dim cottage room, where so many different emotions surrounded that one
passive and peaceful thing which slept through all--the little creature,
possessing nothing in life but the soft, almost noiseless breath which
rose and fell, regular, measured, unbroken, like a soft strain in music?
Certainly the other group approaching the cottage thought nothing of it
as they straggled across the rocks, each taking his own way, and
occupied with his or her own thoughts. They reached the door just when
Marjory had risen and was replacing the sleeping baby in the warm nest
from which he had been taken. She was stooping over the homely bed.
Nothing could be poorer or more humble; but Marjory had forgotten all
this. Her pride and pangs of revulsion had all gone from her; so had any
doubts or difficulties that had ever crossed her mind.
“You must live, you must live, Isabell!” she was saying, scarcely aware
of what she said.
And the poor young mother lay back upon her pillows with the countenance
of one beatified. She shook her head quietly, but a wavering light had
come into her face like the far-off glimmer of some lamp of hope that
flickered somewhere in the distance. She had given herself up to death
with that gentle resignation which is peculiar to the young and the
poor; but she was young, and perhaps a voice powerful enough, the voice
of a great joy, might yet call her back from the dangerous brink.
It was at this moment that a loud summons came to the door. It startled
them all, and Agnes and her mother had a brief but earnest discussion as
to whether the applicants should be admitted. Marjory paid but little
attention for the first moment. She drew her shawl round her, and wiped
the traces of tears from her eyes, and rose to go away before the
visitors, if there were visitors, should appear. But her attention was
roused when she heard what voice it was which asked admittance when the
knocking had remained for some time unheeded.
“Is there any one in? Open the door, open the door!” said the new-comer.
It was Mr. Charles. A murmur of other voices with him came in like a
faint chorus; and once more quickly and eagerly came the knocking at the
door.
CHAPTER XVI.
Mr. Charles had been seated all alone in the library of his house, a
room which confused him much, seeing that it was a library, full of
books, such as they were, yet not his, nor like anything that could have
been his. Had he been condemned to sit much in this room, it would have
been impossible for him to rest without remodelling and changing it; but
thanks to golf and the club, he was not tempted to remain for too long a
time at one sitting. This day, however, accident, which interferes with
golf as much as with other things, had broken up one of the most
promising matches ever arranged, and left Mr. Charles disconsolate. He
came home to seek Marjory, and found Marjory gone; even little Milly had
her own engagements; and he was thus left to himself. It gave him a
realization of the time which might come, if Marjory were to marry, for
instance, and he childless, daughterless, with nobody to make any house
feel like home, might be left to the cold comfort of George’s Square. He
did not like the idea. He sat down in the library, as we have said, with
a statistical work before him--dry reading, but he felt still more dry.
He was out of his element, absent from his favourite surroundings,
alone; and everything was against him. How could he tell if he should
ever again find himself comfortably established in his sunny old tower,
in the room which he had garnished and arranged so carefully with all
the accumulations of his life? “These young women” were about to pull
down his old tower about his ears; or if they could be stopped in that,
here was this other story, this strange marriage of Tom’s, this peasant
aspiring to the name of Heriot, with her child, who would bring into the
old house the unknown qualities of some nameless race. And Marjory, with
her head full of this nonsense, leaving him just at the moment he wanted
her most, to mix herself up with such a business! And Fanshawe, an
English ne’er-do-weel--Tom’s friend, no doubt, and not a bad fellow, but
far from the sort of person to match with Marjory--brought into it, head
and shoulders! No wonder Mr. Charles was put out. The statistical book,
too, indulged in statements about Fife which made every drop of blood in
his body boil separately; statements which he could not absolutely
contradict, yet which he felt were untrue, and would not have believed
had an angel from Heaven proclaimed them. He was reading something
particularly offensive about the fishers of the East Neuk itself, and
fuming over it, when the maid came to the door to say that some one
outside was asking for Miss Heriot.
“They’re awfu’ disappointed to hear she’s no in,” said the woman. “They
have the look of decent folk, as if they had come a long way. Maybe you
would see them, Sir, and no disappoint the poor bodies? Miss Heriot is
aye awfu’ polite and ceevil to poor folk.”
“Miss Heriot, I hope, is polite to everybody,” said Mr. Charles. “You
may show them in if their business is urgent. But stop; if it’s only
charity, or that sort of thing--”
“Eh, no, Sir; they’re no folk to want charity,” said the woman, dismayed
at the suggestion.
And, half unwillingly, half pleased to get quit of himself and his
loneliness, and the statistics, Mr. Charles closed his book, and
prepared to receive the strangers. There was a little controversy at the
door, as he could hear, as to which should enter first, which was quite
audible. The woman would have yielded the _pas_ to her lord; but while
her modesty was slightly artificial, that of the man was perfectly
genuine in its unalloyed loutishness.
“Gang you in, gang you in first; you’ve aye a word ready, right or
wrong; and me, I canna speak,” the bass voice grumbled, as the little
struggle ended in the most natural way, and the wife appeared at the
door.
This amused Mr. Charles to start with; and it was with benevolent
kindness in his look, that he invited his visitors to approach.
“Miss Heriot, my niece, is out. Come forward, come forward. You can tell
me your business,” he said.
The pair came in accordingly; a rustic pair, she advancing with bashful
self-possession, he hanging behind in her shadow. They were middle-aged
people; the man grizzled and ruddy, the woman a comely housewife, with
a cheerful countenance which belied her timid gait. She advanced to
within a few paces of the library table, at which Mr. Charles sat.
“You see, Sir, we’ve come a long way. It’s no but what we would have
waited for the leddy; but my man there was struck to hear it was a
leddy, and thought maybe that in any case there would be mair comfort to
his mind in seeing the maister--”
“Na, Jean; na Jean,” said the man; “that was nane of my thought; it was
your ain.”
“And what matter which of us it was?” said the woman, “the gentleman no
heeding about us; and it’s mair decent-like to put it on the man, the
head of the house. He thought, Sir, it would be mair satisfaction to see
you, being a responsible person, than a young leddy, that’s apt to take
fancies in their heads.”
“That may be, that may be,” said Mr. Charles, not displeased; “though
Miss Heriot is not one of that kind; but you were not to be expected to
know. I’ll be glad to hear your story, and do what I can for you.”
“Oh, Sir, we’re no folk that are wanting anything,” said the woman;
“we’re well enough off, for that matter. My man is gamekeeper with Mr.
Eclles, of the Langholm, and much thought of; with a cottage and a coo,
and as little to complain of as we can expect in this weary world. My
eldest lass is in service, and the second lad, he helps his father; and
as for him that’s out in the world----”
“Was it about them you wanted to speak to Miss Heriot?”
“No, Sir, I canna say it was,” she answered, with a slight air of
offence. “It was something altogether different; no concern of ours, as
my man says.”
Here the man interposed, plucking at her shawl.
“Jean, say it was in the papers, and be done wi’t. What’s the use of so
many words?”
“Bravo!” said Mr. Charles; “you are a sensible man. Now, let us hear it;
and be so good as to be brief, my good woman, for I must be on the Links
at half-past four.”
Mr. Charles grew quite energetic and brisk as he spoke. There is nothing
an idle man loves like this playing at business--those fictitious bonds
of engagements, appointments, and all the pretences at an occupied life,
which when they are real, constitute a heavy bondage. He seemed to feel
himself a most important member of society as he specified the hour at
which he must be gone. The man obeyed this suggestion, once more nudging
his wife; but the woman, with livelier instinct, saw through it.
“We might come again,” she said; “another day, maybe, when the gentleman
is no engaged.”
“I can give you my time till a quarter-past four,” said Mr. Charles; and
then there followed a little consultation between his visitors, a
controversy as to how to state their case.
“It was about an advertisement in the papers. There’s nae telling the
meaning of an advertisement. It was something that was to be to the
advantage of the person--”
“Ah! you are John Macgregor then,” Mr. Charles said, with instant
brightening up of all faculties, and great internal contentment that he
was the first to hear.
“I’m no saying that. It’s ane we have heard of--ane we ken, mair or
less,” said the woman; “a poor man that’s aye busy, and has little time
to spare. We were to find out for him what it was about. Hold your
tongue!” she said, turning round upon her husband. “Am I the one to
speak, or am I no?”
“Oh, ay! you’re the one to speak; but you’ve ower mony phrases,” said
the husband, muttering.
The wife turned round upon Mr. Charles with an air of compassion.
“Ye’ll no mind his grumbling, Sir. It’s my man’s way. He has real
sensible thoughts, but an ill way of expressing them. A’ that comes from
me is really from my man; but the words aye fail him--”
“They don’t seem to fail you,” said Mr. Charles.
“Na, never!” muttered the husband behind backs.
“The Lord be praised!” said the woman; “what would become of the house
and the bairns if there was not some person that had sense enough to
speak when there was occasion for’t? But as I’m saying, this man in the
advertisement--It’s a long way off for him to come, and as we were in
the town for our ain concerns, we gave him our word we would ask. It’s
maybe about some poaching business; though that’s a queer thing for a
young leddy to take in hand.”
“Does not the young lady’s name suggest to you what the business may
be?” said Mr. Charles, rousing up to this little conflict of wits, and
feeling a sensible pleasure in thus being thrust as it were into the
very front of the battle.
The two looked at each other.
“I told you so,” said the woman.
“Then speak out; I’ll no do it,” said the man.
“Well, Sir,” resumed the wife, “I ken just this much, that John
Macgregor was ance in the service of a Mr. Heriot, a poor young
gentleman that’s dead, I hear? Eh, Sirs, to think how the young and the
goodly die, and auld dry sticks aye live on and flourish! There’s a man
in our ain parish, sixty if he’s a day, married upon a young lass--”
“That is not the question,” said Mr. Charles with some heat, not liking
the turn these remarks had taken. “If we were to keep to our business
we’d get on all the quicker. This man was in the service of my nephew,
Mr. Tom Heriot?”
“No altogether in his service. He keepit his dogs; he did an odd thing
about the lodge now and then; he was just a serviceable person about the
place.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Charles, “since you know so much about him, you
will probably know that something is supposed to have happened in Mr.
Heriot’s life there, about which his friends are anxious to have
information.”
“Now what could that be?” said the woman, putting up her hand to her
forehead, with that natural artifice which we call theatrical. It was
exactly what commonplace actors would have done in the endeavour to look
puzzled, and full of candid simplicity. “What could that be? I’m no so
instructed in Mr. Heriot’s life as I might be. John, ye’ll may mind
something? But if you’ll tell me what it is, Sir, I’ll tell our--friend;
no that’s he just what you would call a friend.”
“Your memory is so good that I am sure you could recollect were you to
try,” said Mr. Charles. “Of course, as it is my niece that wants to
know, not me, I am not authorised to make any explanations.”
“Eh me, what a pity the young leddy’s no at hame!” said the woman with
ingenuous regret.
“But,” resumed Mr. Charles, “you know that there are sometimes
connections which a young man forms, unpleasant things for the family.
Young men will be young men, you know--and what’s perhaps only the fancy
of a day may leave results behind, and may bring great trouble into a
family. If you had it in your power now to prevent a great deal of
disturbance and heart-burning, and perhaps a law-suit, and the
succession of an old estate from being disputed--I cannot tell--perhaps
you know nothing at all about it--”
“Oh, my man kens a great deal more than he says. Now what can it be
about, John?” said the wife.
In the meanwhile John was undergoing internal struggles of a very severe
description. He was a large brawny man, more slow in speech and heavy
in aspect than men in his position, rubbed up into sharpness, at least,
by contact with imperious sportsmen, generally are. He twisted his limbs
so that he seemed all shoulder, he screwed up his features till he
seemed all mouth.
“I’ll no do it,” he burst forth at length, “I’ll no do it! I’ll no wrong
a poor lass, nor be mansworn!”
“What does the haverel mean?” cried Jean. “John!” shaking him violently,
“you’re falling into ane of your ill turns. Lord save the man! if ye
dare to lay a finger on me!”
“I’ll no do it!” cried John, stretching forth his arm with a clenched
fist at the end of it, which might well have made the weaker creatures
beside him tremble. Even Mr. Charles felt a nervous tremor go over him.
Finesse and intellect grew pale in presence of brute force thus
displayed.
“Gently, gently, my good man,” he said, “you’ll be forced to nothing. To
tell what you know, that is all anybody wants of you. The law you know,
if the worst comes to the worst, will make you do that; on the other
hand, if you will give your information to the family and prevent going
to law, it will be to your advantage; you see the difference; the court
will give you nothing; that’s all I have to say.”
“Oh, dear me, dear me!” said the wife, wringing her hands. “Oh, John, is
there nae way you can please the gentleman? You’ll no be mansworn, my
bonnie man! you’ll no wrong the lass. Poor silly thing she’s nigh her
last by this time; and if the gentleman is that anxious and was to make
it worth our while? Often and often we’ve spoken of Canada, John. The
lads would soon make their fortunes there with their talents. It would
be to swear naething; it would be but to hold your tongue and that’s so
easy to some folk! the gentleman would be content if ye were but to hold
your tongue. And where’s the harm? Isabell, she canna live if she was to
be made a queen--and it’s no for your auld wife that you would throw
away all the bairns’ prospects? Oh, John, my bonnie man!”
The “bonnie man” paused irresolute; needless to say that the pair had
entirely misconceived the object of the advertisement, and the service
sought from them. They had not thought it possible, or rather Jean had
not thought it possible--for John’s mind did not readily exercise itself
on an abstract question--that “the family” could have any wish but to
nullify, if possible, the irregular marriage; “no to get ourselves into
trouble” had been the principle of the pair from beginning to end of the
transaction, and they had kept themselves out of the way of Agnes, whose
search after them they had heard of. “We’ll get ourselves into hot
water, and you’ll lose your place, and muckle Agnes Jeffrey can do to
make it up to us,” Jean had said. To swear falsely was a crime which
neither of the two could have wound themselves up to; but to be silent!
that was another matter. The tongue is an unruly member, doing much harm
in the world; but to say nothing how good it is! Had Mr. Charles been a
cynic he would have watched this self-controversy to an end, and no
doubt enjoyed it, as knowing how it must infallibly end; but Mr. Charles
was no cynic; he preferred to interrupt the struggle before it ended in
the subjugation of John’s wavering virtue.
“Look here,” he said suddenly and sharply, “and hold you your tongue,
Mrs. Macgregor, I’m speaking to your man. You were present when my
nephew, Tom Heriot, married a girl up in Strathmore, Isabell--what was
her name? They took each other as man and wife in your presence? Answer
me aye or no, is that true?”
“I was there too,” cried Jean astonished. “I’m as sure a witness as him;
we were both together in our ain kitchen, no heeding the two young
fools. I said to Mr. Heriot, ’dinna do’t’--but wha was to make the young
gentleman mind me?”
“Then it’s true? You’ve told me a lie to begin with, woman, and you were
willing to tell me another. Man, it’s for you to answer. Your name is
John Macgregor, and it’s true?”
“As sure as death, as true’s the Bible. I’m no a man of many words like
her, but naething would have made me mansworn!” said John, in the
pleasure of being personally appealed to. “And I’ll no deny my name.
John Macgregor’s my name, ance gillie to the laird in Strathmore, then
odd man about the Moors doing whatever turned up--then--”
“It’s a speat when it comes,” said Jean composedly, folding her hands
upon her bosom and regarding Mr. Charles with a vindictive pleasure,
“you’ve brought it on yoursel.”
“This then is what is wanted of you,” said Mr. Charles hastily. “To
prove this; not to go away, as you thought, and hold your tongues, and
dishonour a woman, and wrong a bairn; what you’ve got to do is to prove
this. Hold your tongue, woman--”
“Eh, Mr. Heriot!” cried the irrepressible Jean, “I’ve heard of the
Heriots that they were kind; but, oh, what a blessed family to uphaud
the marriage and right the lass! And it’ll be something to our John’s
advantage,” she added insinuatingly, “just the same? for though it’s
hard to haud your tongue it’s sometimes just as hard to speak out and
say a’ the truth; and if we were to get ourselves into trouble in our
new place--”
“Make your wife hold her tongue, John!” said Mr. Charles. “You can go to
the kitchen, both of you, and get something to eat; and then I’ll take
you out to see the young woman--I’m meaning Mrs. Tom Heriot, my nephew’s
wife; and we’ll settle this business--as it is not a pleasant
business--once for all.”
“We’re to go and see--Isabell?” asked Mrs. Macgregor, faltering.
“I said Mrs. Tom Heriot, my nephew’s wife.”
“Come, Jean, haud your tongue; the gentleman wants none of your
clavers!” said John, giving a vigorous tug to her shawl.
But Jean lingered; she took a few steps towards the door, and then
turned back.
“Ye’ll no say naething to Isabell of what we were speaking o’--nor of
the proposition to gang to Canada and hold our peace. Oh, Sir, you’ll
no say anything?”
“It was your proposition, Mrs. Macgregor, not mine!” said Mr. Charles.
“Aweel, aweel, Sir, what does it maitter? How was I to know you were
such a good gentleman? Eh, so few as is like you! but you’ll no say
anything? It was a’ from a good motive--for my ain bairns’ sake, and to
keep dissension out of a family, and to pleasure you--”
“Go away, go away!” said Mr. Charles with a smile, which he tried hard
to conceal; and a short time after he set out with his two strange
companions for the Spindle, to find the cottage where Isabell was. This
was the interruption which broke in upon Marjory when deeply touched and
half-weeping, she sat with Tom’s child upon her lap, and her heart going
back into her own childhood--when Tom, too, was a child. The knocking at
the cottage door was not a more harsh interruption of the stillness than
was the other interruption, which was about to come into this sad yet
exciting chapter of her life.
CHAPTER XVII.
Meanwhile Fanshawe had been passing his time very uncomfortably, on the
whole, wandering about the Channel Islands the first part of his
journey, and asking himself half dolefully, half with a certain rueful
amusement whether his next stage should be Australia or New Zealand. He
had written to Marjory from London, where he returned within three days
of his precipitate departure; but he had not had courage enough to write
to her since, having felt that he must wait for something to tell. It
would be difficult to describe the effect produced upon Fanshawe’s mind
by his late interview with her. She had disappointed him by her
pre-occupation, wounded him by what he could not but feel to be
indifference to himself, and by the almost harsh readiness to take
advantage of him, and employ him in her service, which she had shown. A
man may be very ready to say that he will go through fire and water to
serve the lady of his affections, and may mean it; but when that lady
sends for him abruptly, and lays her commands upon him, calling him
frankly, not for his sake, but because he can be of use--not all the
serviceableness in the world will prevent the man from feeling that this
is hard upon him. That no woman can accept such services without--one
way or other--paying for them, is a consolation which suggests itself
only to the calculating and cold-blooded lover. The generous soul that
offers itself without hire or reward is very apt to despair of
remuneration; but even while taking the yoke upon him, it is
disagreeable for a man to feel that it is not him, but the use of him,
that a woman wants. This was Fanshawe’s feeling; he was glad to do all
that man could do for her; but yet to be simply made use of was hard.
And after all, Tom Heriot, and the Heriots generally, were so little to
him in comparison with Marjory! But with these feelings there mingled
some which were very different. He felt a respect for her, because she
was able to resist all that vague fascination which subjugated himself;
he admired her insensibility; it seemed well that a woman such as she,
should be slow to be won--if ever she could be won by such a man as
himself, which Fanshawe felt to be unlikely enough. Sometimes he had
moments of great depression on this score, and felt that the idea was
not one to be entertained or thought of; and then again the atmosphere
of dreams would steal over him, that atmosphere which envelops
everything in a sweet mist and uncertainty, where nothing is sure, and
all is possible. Her very decision, her energy, the way in which she had
sent him forth--though he did not like it--increased his admiration of
her. It was so unlike himself; so much better than himself. And the
little fluctuations of temper, the shades of offence, of withdrawal, of
partial anger, which showed themselves when he did not agree with her,
or was not rapid enough in following her conclusions, were sweet to him,
sweeter than all her excellences. These imperfections gave him something
to forgive in her, something to indulge, to throw the great golden
mantle of Love over, and--no, not to forget. The flaws were the last
thing he wanted to forget; but if there had been any chance for him of
getting free of Marjory’s fetters, that last chance had floated away,
when she sent him upon this unpalatable quest. It seemed to him
needless, it was unpleasant; and yet how it bound him with chains, which
he could not and did not wish to break!
Men do not like to feel themselves inferior to a woman; but there are
kinds of inferiority which a man in love may put up with--and to
Fanshawe it seemed that Marjory would be to him what the soul is to the
body, what inspiration is to the soul. This was how he put it, saving
his own pride. It was not that she would do anything for him, but that
she would stimulate him into doing; she would inspire him, he felt; she
would bring all his buds of meaning into flower, and work within him a
realization of those intentions which arose so often in his mind, and
came to nothing when they rose. Through all his journeys he kept
thinking of her in this strain. She would be his inspiration. He could
do something--something vague, he did not know what--but something worth
doing, under the impulse which she would give him. What would she say?
Would it be possible for her to accept a rôle in life which was so
little encouraging as that of trying to put energy into him? Fanshawe
did not ask himself this question--neither did he ask many more, which
it would have been very well worth his while to ask. How, if she married
him, they were to live; what he could do to make their marriage
possible; where and how they were to establish themselves? these
questions did not enter his mind--partly, perhaps, because he was still
in the reverential stage of love, thinking of her vaguely as something
better than all created things, yet impetuously too, as of something
which could not be done without, which was necessary to existence. But
perhaps it was, on the whole, because of his prevailing character of
good-for-nothing that he was able to elude all the practical questions,
and to let his love absorb him without any notion of how he could make
the after-life possible. Besides, he said to himself, if ever the
question crossed his mind, he could do nothing at this moment; she
herself had made it impossible for him to do anything. Had she not sent
him away from all the uses of life, from all the efforts which he might
have been making towards something better--on this wild goose chase--for
her? This afforded him an answer to every objection of his own thoughts,
and with a certain humorous sense of the cleverness of such a response
to all criticism, he used it in imagination even to herself. “What could
I do? how could I do anything? You sent me away from rationality to hunt
for a needle in a bottle of hay.” This was the imaginary reply which he
made to her imaginary fault-finding. Ah, if the matter were but so far
advanced as that! Then he would find a hundred answers, a hundred
excuses. The only thing he would not be able to find--though this part
of the subject he managed to elude cleverly--was any reasonable ground
upon which to ask Marjory Hay-Heriot to marry him, or any feasible way
of providing for her, should she be willing to share his fortune.
With these thoughts in his mind, and those other thoughts carefully
excluded from it, he wandered about the smiling isles which are enclosed
in so wild a sea. He went, as he thought, to every inn over their whole
extent--from the smallest to the largest--encountering endless
experiences (which were not all disagreeable), and seeing a great deal
of novel life. And he found nothing--no Scotch face nor Scotch accent
even met his eyes or ears--or when by accident they did, they belonged
to some one who denied the name of Macgregor, and was not to be
identified in any way with the man he sought. He was retiring
disconsolately from his last attempt to discover this undiscoverable
personage, and questioning himself ruefully as to which was the nearest
way to New Zealand, when some one came up to him on the pier where he
waited for the steamer--a ruddy, red-haired young man or boy, not more
than twenty, freckled up to the roots of his hair, and with a shrewd but
innocent face. He was one of the porters on the pier, and Fanshawe
instinctively stole his portmanteau out of the way, to keep it from the
clutches of this predatory personage. He was very much astonished to see
the individual in question pushing towards him, evidently with a
purpose; and still more startled when the youth addressed him.
“You were asking, Sir, for ane of the name of Macgregor?” he said,
interrogatively.
Fanshawe turned sharply round upon him.
“I was doing so,” he said; “what of that? Have you anything to tell me
about him?”
“I’m him,” said the young man, “that’s a’.”
“You are he!” said Fanshawe, in dismay, gazing at the youthful
countenance with a kind of horror. The lad put his hand to his hat with
a comfortable smile, which told how far he was from any consciousness of
offence.
“Ay, deed am I. I’m from Perthshire as my native place, and I’ve been
here a year. Whatever you want wi’ me it can be nae harm, for I’ve a
conscience vide of offence; and folk tell me you’ve been looking for me,
Sir, all through the island. There’s no question ye can put that I winna
answer. I’m feared for nothing. I have a conscience vide of offence.”
Fanshawe was amused in spite of himself. “You might perhaps suit my
purpose better if you were not quite so blameless,” he said. “It cannot
be anything so young as you that I want. Is your name John?”
“No,” said the lad, “my name’s Willie; but wait a bit, Sir, we’ll maybe
shuit you yet, a’ the same. John’s no my name, but it’s my father’s; and
he’s no so young nor so innocent as me. It might be him ye wanted?”
“Does he live here?”
“Na, he’s no sae foolish as that, or sae enterprising, if that’s a
better word? He’s weel off at home, and has nae inducement. He’s one of
the gamekeepers to Mr. Eccles, of the Langholm. Before that we used to
live up in Strathmore, in the parish of Drumglen, no far from
Stainbyers, where he was aye glad of a job to attend upon gentlemen,
either fishing or any kind of sport, and to take the charge of their
dogs when they had dogs, or of their horses--and keep guns and rods in
order--or even to give a hand at the lodge.”
“That will do,” said Fanshawe, in sudden delight. “Give me your father’s
address.”
But here the lad paused. “He’s in a responsible position now,” he said,
“a man with a great trust; he’s risen in the world. If ye could tell me
what you wanted with him, I’ll write. It might be something that wadna
be consistent with his position. I’m but twenty; I’m no heeding what I
do; but my father’s had a hard struggle with the world, and now he’s got
the better o’t, he maunna compromise himself. I’ll write and get an
answer if you’ll tell me what it is you want.”
Fanshawe had to exercise all his eloquence to overcome these delicate
scruples. The lad was his mother’s son; but finally he got the
information he wanted, and departed with a light heart in the steamer,
carrying that precious address (already found out, though he did not
know it) carefully enshrined in his pocket-book like a treasure. He was
on his way to Marjory with this information on the very afternoon in
which Mr. Charles trudged along the shore with his long legs,
outstripping his companions. It would have been wiser, no doubt, to have
gone and sought out the Macgregors at once, but Fanshawe, who was
thinking little of the Macgregors, and much of Marjory, preferred to go
to St. Andrews to let her know how promptly he had executed her
commission. Travelling is not rapid in Fife; he had to make his
impatient way through a network of railways, one interlacing the other,
and leaving the unfortunate traveller an hour’s waiting here and there,
at all sorts of out-of-the-way stations. His feelings during these
delays need not be described; but he was compelled to submit, as all
forlorn Britons are compelled to submit, to the vagaries of the railway
companies. But for this he would have reached St. Andrews with his
address, in time to join the party which had forestalled him. His
information, of course, was not of the least importance by the time he
reached his destination. He was just a few hours too late, as people so
often are; but luckily he was unaware of the fact, and waited for
Marjory in the room which was full of her presence, with a flutter at
his heart, which prevented him from thinking very seriously of anything.
He sat down by the window where he had seen her sitting, and looked out
upon the sea and sky against which he had watched the outline of her
features, thinking it like the picture of a saint; and all the
surroundings, which were full of her, filled up the heart of the man
with such a soft enchantment that for a long time he was not even
impatient. She was not certain to be gracious to him, but the scene was
gracious, full of her breath and influence, and permitted him to wrap
himself in the shadow, as it were, of her presence, embracing him gently
with all the corners and all the draperies that were fresh from her
touch, enveloping him in all the nameless associations of the place in
which she lived. For a long time he yielded himself up to this
fascination, finding a subtle pleasure in it which stole all his
strength from him, until the long shadows of the evening began to
deepen, and the maids came to communicate their wonder to him. The
dinner hour had arrived, and not even Mr. Charles had come home. They
had gone by the shore towards the Spindle, both Miss Heriot and her
uncle. Could anything have happened? Love is always fanciful, and takes
fright upon any pretext. Could anything have happened? Fanshawe rushed
out of the house in the subdued light of the evening, and set out over
the cliffs at a pace which few people could have kept up with, fearing
he knew not what, and not venturing to ask himself what he feared.
At the same hour, on the same afternoon, another visitor was entering
St. Andrews, coming down from the higher ground inland upon the
picturesque old town, and looking out anxiously for the first sight of
its towers and ruins. Of all unaccustomed travellers this was Miss Jean
Hay-Heriot, from the High Street of Comlie, in a black bonnet big enough
to take in her lace “borders”--with her keen eyes noting everything
along the unaccustomed road, which yet she knew so well. To visit St.
Andrews at all, was a wonderful effort on her part; but to visit it at
so late an hour that she and her old horse and rusty coachman must be
compelled to pass the night “in a strange place,” was more wonderful
still. The reason of her visit was, however, natural enough. Mr.
Charles’s mysterious intimations and hints of a mysterious something
which was yet to be disclosed in his family, had already travelled over
the length and breadth of Fife, with that amazing celerity which is
peculiar to gossip of all kinds. It had reached Miss Jean’s ears that
day after her early dinner, when the Minister himself had “stepped
across” to communicate the strange news, which he had learned at a
meeting of Presbytery, in the most direct manner, from the Reverend
Simon Stutters, of Kinnucher, who had it from Mr. Morrison, of St.
Rule’s, who had it from “auld Charlie” himself. The story, as was
natural, had taken form and shape in these several transmissions, and
now narrated circumstantially how Tom Heriot had been entrapped by the
arts of a gamekeeper’s daughter in the Highlands; how this designing
creature had flirted, and held off and on, till she wound him up to the
pitch of consenting to marry her privately; how then he went off in
disgust and misery, and though popularly believed to have died of an
injury to the spine got in the hunting-field, had in reality succumbed
to the severer malady of a broken heart; and how there was now a baby
produced, who was said to be Tom’s heir, to the great trouble of the
family.
“I hear there’s a great body of witnesses all ready to swear to it,”
said Dr. Murray; “but our old friend Charles, Miss Jean, as I need not
tell you, is not of a very determined character, and perhaps if there
was a bold front put upon it, we might hear another story. The worst is,
there’s nobody that I know of, unless it was a man of business, that has
energy to take the matter up.”
“Energy!” said Miss Jean, “it’s not energy that’s wanting. Marjory’s a
young woman, and will think it’s not her place to interfere; but I’m not
young to speak of, and I’ll not see the old house pass to a gamekeeper’s
daughter without rhyme or reason. Hey, Bell! go and call John out of the
kailyard, and bid him dress himself, and put to the horse. I’m going to
St. Andrews; and put me up a change of linen, and a clean cap. Charlie’s
an old fool! but I hope you’ll no say that I’m not a determined
character, Doctor. I’ll know the rights of this before I’m a day
older--and she’ll be a clever lass, cleverer than I have ever seen one
of her kind, if she imposes upon me.”
“My dear Miss Jean,” said Dr. Murray, “we all bow to your sense and your
experience; but these kind of cutties are often very clever. I would not
encounter one of them myself unless it was strictly in the way of
duty--and you know a lady--”
“Oh, ay! I know your opinion of a lady,” said Miss Jean, “which is very
pleasant, and very fine, if we were all under five-and-twenty; but when
a woman comes to be five-and-seventy, as I’m saying, that makes a
difference. Johnnie Hepburn, this will be sore news for your friends up
at Pitcomlie,” she added, quickly turning, with a gleam of enjoyment,
to the other visitor, who had been listening with consternation to the
strange story. “Ye’ll have a grand excuse to go and comfort Mrs.
Chairles.”
“I don’t think my comfort is very much to Mrs. Charles,” said Hepburn,
with rising colour; “but surely you don’t believe, for a moment, that
such a story as this can be true.”
“Why should I no believe it?” said Miss Jean. She was profoundly
sceptical, but she could not relinquish the opportunity of demolishing
her adversaries, “these young women” at Pitcomlie. “We’re a great
people, Johnnie, and Scotland, though she’s small, holds up her head
with the best, and for my part I know none that can hold a candle to
her--”
“That’s true--that’s very true,” said the Minister, “but when you think
of all our spiritual advantages, and what Providence has done for us,
it’s a terrible addition to our responsibility. That is what I always
think of--a land that has been so favoured for generations--”
“But,” Miss Jean went on impatiently, “whether it is that some weakness
is needful to show that we’re always human--these customs about private
marriages are an awfu’ snare and burden. It’s a wonder to me that half
the families in the land are no rent asunder with irregular marriages.
There’s some special Providence, I’ve aye felt, that must watch over
eldest sons. There never was one in our family that ever I heard of; and
I ask your pardon, Dr. Murray, but Tom Heriot dying of a broken heart
is beyond me; we’ve tough hearts in our family--they stand a good tug.
He might have taken to drinking, or some other vice, to make himself
amends; but to break his heart! Na--na--that’s more than I can believe.”
“I tell you what was told to me,” said Dr. Murray, “and no wonder, poor
man. What would his father have said? and all his belongings? and the
county that would never have taken any notice of him--and not the least,
Miss Jean, you--”
“Me! He could have put up with the want of notice from me; the world, in
general, is but little regardful of what’s said by a cankered auld maid.
Most likely,” said Miss Jean with a twinkle of her bright eyes, “he
would have said it was envy because I had never been married myself. But
that’s neither here nor there. If it’s a determined character that’s
wanting, Doctor, I’m away to St. Andrews. Chairlie is as weak as water,
as you say--and Marjory will be a fool, and will not like to move.”
“Could I be of any use,” asked Hepburn eagerly.
“In the interests of the other heir? Johnnie, my man, you’re a fine
lad,” said Miss Jean, “and very accomplished. I do not know another man
like you in all Fife for the piano and the like of that; but for a
determined character--na--na--I’ll go myself.”
“I don’t see what the piano has to do with it,” said Hepburn angrily.
“Nor I either,” said Miss Jean with a laugh, and she rang her bell, and
gave her orders about her change of linen in such simplicity of diction
that her guests took their leave. “Half-a-dozen shifts, Bell, for you
never know what may happen at my age. Lord bless me! am I to learn
new-fangled words to save the Minister’s modesty, forsooth--and what’s
more modest than a shift? As for Johnnie Hepburn, I don’t doubt that he
calls all his clothing by nasty French names. Give me good Scotch that’s
aye clean and wholesome; and bring me a cup of tea--and let the carriage
be round in half-an-hour. I’m going on family business--you can say that
to whoever wants to know.”
“Eh! it’s Miss May that’s to be married!” said Bell, clapping her hands.
“You think that’s something to be pleased at, you lightheaded taupie?
When Miss May’s married, there will not be one person of the name of
Hay-Heriot worth their salt upon this earth--except me,” said the old
lady with moisture in her eyes, “and, oh! the old rag o’ flesh and blood
that I am! Go quick, and make up my bundle, you gaping thing! Miss May’s
no the fool to marry till she sees what’s she’s doing. I can see to that
at the same time,” Miss Jean added briskly as the maid left her. And
with these double intentions she set out, meaning to dine comfortably at
the end of her journey, and to carry confusion to the unrightful
claimants of the old lands. But Miss Jean arrived to find the house
empty, the dinner-table spread but vacant, the servants full of
consternation. Miss Heriot must have fallen over the cliff--she must
have been blown off the Spindle Rock--and Mr. Charles, in the effort to
save her, must have perished too. What so likely, it was known that they
had gone in the same direction, and when no one came back for dinner,
notwithstanding the well-known punctuality of the affrighted house?
CHAPTER XVIII.
Young Hepburn went out of Miss Jean’s door with a face full of offence
and a heart full of trouble. He was not thinking much of himself,
however, so that the offence was evanescent; he was thinking of _her_;
yes, of that Her, who, however hastily, unreasonably, and without
adequate cause, had come to be the representative of womankind to the
young man, superseding Marjory and all ideals. Matilda was not an ideal
woman; he could not worship her in that guise, nor put her into any
shrine. It is needless for me to pause and remark upon the curious
unsuitability of perhaps the majority of mortal unions, the way in which
young men or young women prefer the individual least calculated to make
them happy--and hold to that choice with an obstinacy worthy of the
original folly. Poor Hepburn had been seized with this too common form
of love-sickness; he was not blind; he saw well enough that Mrs. Charles
was unlike anything that he had set before himself, in his days of
imagination, as worthy of love; and already he had begun to say to
himself that an ideal standard was folly; that a real human creature was
above ideals; that to be genuine was best whatever the character of that
reality might be. This was the first stage--afterwards he went further,
and said to himself that women were different from men; that justice
was not to be expected from them, or an appreciation of anything above
the ordinary level of facts; that they were not capable of understanding
abstractions; that they were invincible to reason; and that after all,
it was because she was so undauntedly foolish, so delightfully under the
sway of her feelings, and had so different a way of judging--a method
quite her own, and independent of law and rule--that men worshipped a
woman; Yes, she was not as they are, she was a fool, and yet a
goddess--to be petted, put up with, laughed at, admired, thought more of
and less of than was possible to any other created thing. This was
Hepburn’s way, as it has been many another man’s, of making up to
himself for having given over his whole being to the sway of a foolish
woman. He made out that all women were foolish, and idealized her
meanness, not being able to fit her to the ancient ideal he had once
possessed. Women, perhaps, when they choose badly, do something of the
same kind; but they are seldom so general in their conclusions. For the
most part, they have a hankering after the ideal, which makes them
always capable of believing in a higher kind of man; but men make their
convenient theory into a general truth which, perhaps, is one result of
their superior power of understanding the abstract. To have loved a fool
is sufficient reason with them to conclude that all women are fools--and
so Hepburn did. No, Matilda was not an ideal woman; she was not like the
high feminine types of being which poets have created; but she was
real, and all women were like _her_; from the old theory to the new
there is but a step, and this step he had made unawares. He set off now
with a heavy heart to Pitcomlie, feeling that he knew exactly what she
would say, how she would burst out in denunciation of “the old family,”
and declare that it was all a plot to injure her and her child. And
strange as it seemed to him, he knew that Matilda would put real faith
in this; she would have no difficulty in believing that Mr. Charles and
Marjory had hatched an iniquitous plot, and that lawyers and judges, and
a crowd of honourable men, were accomplices in the scheme against her.
It was the way of women. What he should have to do would be to soothe
and to console--and he did not dislike the office. Her theories would be
idiotic, her rage unreasonable; but she would be so pretty in her anger,
so fascinating in her tears; and to soothe them away, to coax her back
to quietness, would be so pleasant! Thus the foolish lover justified
Providence, which provides silly women for the delectation of the world;
he liked it better than if she had been a reasonable creature, and he
said to himself that all women were alike, and that folly was the
sweetest thing between earth and heaven.
Matilda was reclining on the sofa when he went into that drawing-room at
Pitcomlie, which no longer bore the remotest resemblance to Marjory’s
drawing-room. The room was strewed with traces of the destructive
tendencies of the little heir. He had been brought down by Verna, who
felt it necessary, from time to time, to demonstrate how much the young
mother was devoted to her children; and it was Verna who had caused
Tommy’s gorgeous new rocking-horse to be placed in a corner of the
drawing-room. But on this particular afternoon the young Laird had given
decided indications of a will of his own; he had torn the mane of his
rocking-horse out in handfuls of horse-hair, which was scattered all
over the room. He had thrown about the sofa-cushions, and made ropes of
the anti-macassars; he had cast down several glass vases, and one of old
china, breaking them into millions of pieces. Finally, he had been sent
away in disgrace, howling so as to be audible half way down the Comlie
road, where Hepburn heard his shrieks; he hurried on in consequence,
fearing hysterics, and was consoled to find it was only Tommy. The
pretty mother lay on the sofa, fatigued with the passion which Tommy had
driven her into. There were two patches of rose-red on her
cheeks--traces of her excitement; and she held out her hand
half-irritably, half-languidly to her visitor. “Oh, you have come at
last;” she said, for he had not been at Pitcomlie the day before. Verna
was sitting by with her account-books; she was making up the bills, and
putting her affairs in order, and she was happy. The squabble with Tommy
had not affected her.
“I was obliged to go to Edinburgh yesterday,” said Hepburn humbly; “as I
told you--to see my sister’s trustees.”
“Oh yes, I know!” said Matilda. “Business is always so much more
important than anything else. You men will make any sacrifice to
business--and leave your friends in loneliness, without ever thinking
once--”
“Were you lonely?” whispered the gratified Johnnie; “how good, how sweet
of you to miss me! you never were out of my mind all day.”
“Oh, that is what all you gentlemen say,” said Matilda, with a little
toss of her head. “As for your Fifeshire people,” she went on, “I don’t
think much of them. But for a few cards that have been left, one would
imagine there was nobody in the county. I don’t know if it is their way
here, or if it is that odious Miss Jean.”
“I told you, Matty, when you were so rude to the Heriots--” said Verna.
“Oh, don’t talk to me any more about that!” cried Mrs. Charles;
“besides, I never was rude to the Heriots. They chose to take offence
and go away; but was that any blame of mine? Was I to put myself at
their feet, do you suppose, in my own house?”
“Have you heard anything of them lately?” asked Hepburn, with a certain
solemnity in his tone and manner, which he tried vainly to banish. Verna
looked up at him quickly, being more open to impression than her sister,
and was the first to reply.
“Is there anything to be heard?” she said, looking at him.
Matilda’s languor was a great deal more safe than the keen alertness of
the other.
He answered, “No, oh no!--I suppose not, since you have heard nothing,”
with some confusion. It was the very best way of broaching the subject;
but his confusion was real, and he did not think of that.
“Since we have heard nothing?” said Verna, raising herself to a very
upright position. She had never been perfectly easy since Dr. Murray had
thrown, quite inadvertently, into her mind that suggestion of another
heir.
“Well,” said Hepburn, with some impatience, “I have no double meaning. I
supposed there must be nothing to hear as you have not heard. Otherwise,
I have just been listening to a story--”
“What story?”
It was strange that Matilda kept silent so long; she was cowed, I
suppose, by Verna’s harsh and peremptory tone.
“They say,” said Hepburn, hesitating, and sinking his voice
involuntarily; “indeed, I do not believe it, I give no credence at all
to it. They say that Tom Heriot was married privately, and that there is
a child--”
“What is that?” said Matilda, rousing up. “Tom Heriot married--and a
child? Oh, what a wicked, wicked story! Oh, Mr. Hepburn, how can you say
so, when you know, as well as I do, that we heard quite different, that
it was all settled when the will was read, and that Tommy was the only
heir--the only, only heir, everybody said. How can you make up such a
story? It is only to frighten me, and make me unhappy. You know you
don’t mean what you say.”
“Indeed,” said poor Johnnie, abject in the penitence for which he had
no cause. “I would not make you unhappy for the world. I thought it
right to tell you as I heard--but I don’t believe it. It will turn out
to be a mere invention, of that I am sure; but as I had just heard, I
wanted to find out whether you knew.”
“Of course we know to the contrary,” said Matilda, laying herself back,
somewhat excited, upon her pillows, satisfied so far with the
explanation, and only angry with Johnnie in a coquettish tormenting way.
But Verna, who had no such confidence, restrained her feelings, keeping
her anxiety under. She was a great deal more anxious than her sister,
and understood much better all that was involved.
“For simple curiosity, Mr. Hepburn,” said Verna, “tell us what they
say.”
“Oh, it is just what is always said,” he answered. “Tom Heriot, they
say, was privately married--married irregularly, as sometimes happens in
Scotland--”
“What sort of a thing is that--before the registrar, or something?”
“Oh, not so formal. In Scotland,” said Hepburn, “if two people were to
say to each other, before us, for instance, ‘This is my husband, and
this is my wife,’ they would be supposed to be married.”
“Supposed! but what would that matter? It would be no marriage at all.”
“I thought there was always a blacksmith,” said Matilda, from her sofa,
laughing. “When there were Gretna Green marriages, there was always a
blacksmith. I have heard of that. It must have been such fun, much
greater fun than an ordinary wedding, with a breakfast, and just the
same things as everybody else has.”
“It would be no marriage at all,” repeated Verna, with a certain harsh
earnestness. “You hear me, Mr. Hepburn? No marriage at all!”
“Unfortunately, as much a marriage as though it had been done by an
Archbishop,” said Johnnie; “that is what they say; but I don’t think Tom
Heriot was the man to do it. I don’t think there is any fear. I feel
sure that, if there had been anything in it, they would have let you
know first of all. It would be only your right; for there is nobody so
deeply concerned.”
“Of course we should have been the first to hear,” said Verna, coldly.
She went back to her account-books, closing the subject, and adding up a
line of figures by way of proving to herself how calm she was. The
effort was successful so far as Hepburn was concerned; but Verna did not
convince herself. After a few minutes’ absorption in the books, she rose
in a fever of suppressed emotion, and went slowly out of the room,
wrapping herself, as it were, in a cloak of sudden self-restraint. How
she trembled! how cold she had grown suddenly, though it was a day in
Summer! The other two did not notice her, being absorbed in their own
comedy; but this was tragedy to Verna. The fact that she might have
spared herself the trouble of such energetic self-repression, and that
neither of her companions had taken the trouble to think of her at all,
did not affect her, as it might have affected a more sympathetic spirit.
What afflicted her was no sentimental sorrow, but real heavy
misfortune--the loss of a life. Yes, she felt that it was her life that
was threatened, not Matilda’s fortune, or the patrimony of naughty
little Tommy; it was she who was threatened, not they. She went out in a
kind of despair, and sat down in a corner of the rocks, from which she
could see the old house against which she had meditated such treason. It
seemed to her that some magical power must attend that wretched old
place. Had she ever prospered since she proposed to meddle with it? She
shivered as she looked at it, feeling as though it were a wizard, or a
wizard’s dwelling. Poor Verna! the tears came into her eyes, intense and
bitter. To be sure it was only a report; Hepburn did not put any faith
in it--nay, treated it as a simple piece of gossip; but to Verna, as to
many women, the pain of it was its best authority. It would be so
miserable a change, so dreadful a loss and misfortune, that somehow,
according to the nature of things, it must be true.
In the meantime Matilda, from her sofa, began to claim the sympathy of
her devoted admirer.
“Oh! Mr. Hepburn,” she said, “if this were true! What should I and my
poor children do if this were true? I should have nothing--nothing but
my pension and the two children to bring up--boys, too! And oh! my poor
little Tommy! my little heir! What should I do?”
It was on Hepburn’s lips to say that she would still have her husband’s
portion, the inheritance of the younger son, to fall back upon; but to
console this gentle, disconsolate creature with mercenary suggestions of
eight thousand pounds, seemed a miserable thing to do. He took her hand
instead, and comforted her, and bid her not to fear.
“There are many that would be but too proud, too happy to be of use to
you,” he said. “Everything I have in the world--everything! though it is
not much--”
“Oh, Mr. Hepburn! you are too good,” murmured Matilda, and then she
proceeded with her complaint. “Verna would leave me, I know,” she said,
“Verna has no feeling for anything above account-books. You saw how she
kept adding them up, even when you were telling me of this dreadful
report. That is her sphere--fussing about a house, and having the
control of the bills and all that. I have often said, what a pity it was
that we were not quite poor, for then Verna might have gone out as a
housekeeper and been happy. We never were rich,” she added, with that
frankness that went to Hepburn’s heart, “but still ladies can’t do such
things. It is a pity, though I don’t think I ever could be--a governess,
for instance, though I may perhaps require to do something for my poor
children. Oh, Mr. Hepburn! don’t be too kind to me. Don’t take my hand
and that. It isn’t--nice; for you know I am not a young girl, as some
people might think, to look at me; but a poor widow--with no one to
love me.”
Here Matilda’s tears overcame her--she covered her face with her
handkerchief. She suffered Johnnie to do what he liked with her hand;
and poor Johnnie moved beyond all control, overcome by her beauty and
her tears, and her helplessness; touched by love at once, and chivalrous
sympathy for her weakness and distress--Johnnie did what any such
tender-hearted soul was sure to do. He threw himself on his knees by the
side of the sofa--he laid himself and all his possessions at her
feet--he combated all her feeble protestations, that it was impossible
for her to love again--that it was far too soon to talk to her like
that--that she never, never could forget her Charlie. All these whispers
of resistance, he quenched by other whispers, ever more and more tender.
He would be a father to her children--he would watch over their
rights--he could not bear to hear her say that she had no one to love
her. Did not he love her? Had not he loved her from the first day he saw
her? Gradually Matilda’s protests sank lower and lower--and when the new
butler, who occupied Fleming’s place, opened the door to bring in his
mistress’s afternoon cup of tea, Hepburn rose from his knees, pledged to
a hundred things which the young man in his enthusiasm undertook with
rapture, but which were serious enough when he came to analyse them in
detail. Mrs. Charles smoothed the fair locks which were slightly ruffled
upon her forehead, and laughed a little laugh of bashful consciousness
becoming her new position. “And, oh! you dreadful man,” she said, when
they were left alone again, “to go and make me commit myself like this
before six months! I am so shocked, and so much ashamed of myself. It is
all your fault, coming every day and stealing into a poor little thing’s
heart. Oh, John! you must promise me--you must swear to me--never to say
a word to anyone for a year at least. I could not bear it. It is not my
fault that I am fond of you--but you must never, never, say a word--”
“How am I to go to St. Andrews then?” said the happy Johnnie, “to look
after the children’s rights? What pretence can I make, if I cannot speak
the truth?”
“Oh, I cannot let you go to St. Andrews,” said Matilda, “I want you
here, I can’t get on without you; and as soon as ever you see Marjory
you will forget me. Oh, yes, you may say what you like, but I know you
would forget me. And to be sure you could always say you were acting as
our friend,” she added, looking up into his face with a merry laugh, “a
gentleman may always be a lady’s friend. You are my friend, recollect,
in public--only my friend--until it is a year.”
She laughed and Johnnie laughed, though with an odd echo somehow about,
which seemed to mock him. But it was the way with women; dear, loving,
tender, soulless creatures, how were they to be expected to resist a
living lover for the sake of a dead husband? it was their way. It was
too delightful to have this lovely thing all to himself, to stop and
make a fuss about ideals. What folly they were! What ideal in the world
was equal to the soft warm touch of that hand which clung to his, and
that face which brightened as he bent over it? How happy he was as he
sat by her, and poured all manner of nonsense into her ear! She was
happy too; flattered, amused, satisfied, and full of a fluttering pride
in the thought that before six months she had again been wooed. To be
sure there were prejudices which might prevent this fact being made
public; but still she had the satisfaction of knowing it within
herself.
CHAPTER XIX.
Marjory was standing by Isabell’s bed, putting back the infant into its
place by her side when her uncle and his attendants were admitted into
the cottage. She did not see the start of amazement with which Agnes and
her mother recognised the strangers. She herself did not even remark
their presence. Her mind was full of emotion much too warm and strong to
be easily disturbed from the thoughts that occupied her, and her only
feeling towards her uncle was that of impatience that he had followed
her so quickly. That he should wish to examine into the whole matter
personally was simple enough, and he had even insisted upon it, in his
conversations with herself; consequently she was not surprised at his
appearance, but only annoyed by his haste and want of consideration for
the invalid. If it had been a lady he would never have broke in upon her
so, Marjory said to herself. And she showed her displeasure by taking no
notice of his arrival. She bent over Isabell, smoothing her pillows, and
arranging the white coverlet over her.
“My uncle has come,” she said, “you will not mind? He is an old man and
very kind at heart. If he seems a little abrupt it is only his manner.
He is our only relative, he has a right to inquire; you will not be
frightened? Answer his questions as you have answered me. He will be a
good friend to--the child--and to you.”
“My friends must be in a better place,” said Isabell, with a faint
smile.
“Yes, but we want the other too, for the child’s sake,” said Marjory.
She was more excited than the dying girl. She began to picture to
herself disagreeable questions which Mr. Charles might ask, suggestions
he might make. He was kind, but he had a different code of civility for
“a country lass” from that which would rule his utterances to a lady.
Perhaps in general he was not wrong in this; but Isabell was not a mere
country lass as he supposed. With a sense of anxiety which was stronger
than seemed called for by the occasion, Marjory stood aside, and allowed
her uncle to approach. Then, for the first time, she noticed the homely
pair who accompanied him, and saw Agnes, flushed with excitement,
standing back in a corner watching them, forcibly keeping herself
silent, but with an eagerness of eye and look which meant something. The
old mother, too, was gazing at them with open mouth and eyes, saying at
intervals, “Lord preserve us a’!” with mingled anxiety and surprise.
This curious consciousness, on the part of the spectators, disclosed to
Marjory that the strange visitors were not mere neighbours, as she had
thought. And she, too, gazed at them eagerly--but ignorantly--without
being any the wiser. Their real identity strangely enough never occurred
to her. She had associated the finding of them with Fanshawe, and with
him alone. It is, perhaps, too much to say that she did not want them
to be found except by him; but certainly she had set her heart upon his
accomplishment of this commission. It would be, she felt, a proof to
heaven and earth that his real character was very different from his
reputation--that he was a true friend--a man to trust and rely upon. She
had “no object” (as she said to herself) in her wish to prove this--but
yet abstractly she did wish to prove it. It was a foregone conclusion in
her own mind. Therefore she had no desire that these should be the
missing witnesses, and the idea did not occur to her, eager and anxious
as her interest was.
“Yes, yes, May, my dear,” said Mr. Charles. “I see, this is the young
woman. How are you to-day? I hear you are not so well as could be
wished. My niece, Miss Heriot, has told me a great deal about you. I am
not wanting to be uncivil, my poor girl; but I cannot conceal from you
that your story is very unlikely--very unlikely; without strong proof I
cannot see how it could ever be believed.”
He said this standing in the place which Marjory had given up to him,
taking in everything around, the homely scene, the group which filled
the room, rather than the individual whom he was addressing. When,
however, he turned to her at the conclusion of his little speech, Mr.
Charles gave a perceptible start. What Isabell might have been, in rude
health like her sister, it would have been difficult to say, or whether
the refinement and melancholy beauty of her face was purchased chiefly
by grief and suffering; but certainly there was nothing in this pale and
fragile creature, which answered to Mr. Charles’s idea of a country
lass. He stammered a little in his confusion. He said, stumbling over
his words, “I--beg your pardon; I am afraid you are--not so well--as I
thought--”
“I will never be well in this world,” said Isabell. “I’m going fast,
fast to a better, where a’body will understand. It was Miss Heriot put
that first into my head--where there will be nobody that will not
understand. I’m weak, weak, no able to tell it all over again; and oh,
Sir, what for should I take all that pain, no to be believed? What
matter is it whether God clear my good name or no? He will do it some
time--and right my little bairn. I’m tired, tired--oh, mother, I’m
tired, my heart’s beating; and my head’s throbbing. Dinna ask me any
questions. I want to rest--”
“Oh, Bell!” cried the mother, coming forward. “Oh, my Bell! tell the
gentleman. Now is the time to say the truth, whatever it may be. And now
I’ll believe you, my bairn! I’ve been hard, and shut my heart.
Now--now--if you’ll say it again, I will believe you, Bell!”
The girl closed her eyes, and shook her head gently. “How often have I
told you, and you wouldna believe me, mother? Why now, when my strength
is failing, and my heart sinking?”
“Isabell!” cried Agnes, “speak to them--oh, for God’s sake--look at me
upon my knees to you,” and she rushed forward into the midst of the
room, and threw herself upon her knees, with tears bursting from her
blue eyes and her hands raised in passionate supplication, “for the
man’s sake that’s dead, that never loved you half so well as I’ve
done--for the bairn’s sake that I’ll be a mother to--Isabell! for the
last time.”
Wearily Isabell opened her eyes. “Am I dying then?” she said, with a
feeble smile. “Eh, that would be good news! You would not put it to me
so solemn if I was not dying. I’m wearied, sore wearied; but if it’s the
last time I must not think of mysel. My breath’s going, mother, and my
heart’s fluttering; come and hold me by the hand, and Miss Heriot--where
is Miss Heriot? Must I say it all over--every word? Sir, stand you there
that I may see you. I was a foolish creature, and ignorant--knowing
nothing. I didna pay attention when I should--I was fond of foolish
things and dreaming.”
“Bell, you were the best of my bairns; you never gave me an hour’s
trouble--till _that_ time--”
“Whisht, mother, let me speak! Then I met with a gentleman--he was like
_her_ there--yon bonnie leddy, that has come to me and comforted me, and
been my stay. By her ye may judge him. He said I should be his wife
before God and man. Never a thought of harm, no a thought was in his
mind. I’m dying and going till him. My man! no his sister there, a lady,
could think less harm. Maybe I would have done what he said, good or
ill; for he was like a god to me--a gentleman--no like common lads--but
never a word of ill said he, mother, never a word. He said he wouldna go
before the Minister, for it would be his ruin; but before decent folk.”
Here the sound of a sob broke poor Isabell’s interrupted monologue, a
rude outbreak of emotion, sounding like a sudden discord. It came from
the man who stood behind-backs, whose eyes had been gradually getting
redder. The woman by him laid her hand upon him to restrain him; she had
her handkerchief to her eyes; but was watching keenly through it,
keeping her senses about her. Isabell was vaguely disturbed by this
interruption; but after a moment’s pause began again; her voice more and
more broken by the struggling breath.
“They were decent folk; they would say the truth if they were
found--John Macgregor and his wife--they wouldna have countenanced any
sin; you may believe that, mother. Folk like them would never have
countenanced what was a shame to think of. I told nobody, because he
said it--no one, not even Agnes. I aye hoped, and he aye hoped. But then
there came the terrible news--the awfu’ news; it was in the papers. If
it was not that I’m going--to him--I couldna speak of that day. Dinna
ask me more. I mind nothing more, till I wakened up, and my bairn was
born; and I was a disgrace and a shame!”
“No, no, Bell; no a disgrace!” cried the mother, with tears streaming
from her eyes. “It was a’ for the truth that I fought--the truth. I born
minded nothing more.”
“And ye believe me now, because I’m dying! there’s no other reason. I
was as true then as I am now. Oh, if these decent folk were but here,
that ken a’,” she cried with an effort. Another abrupt outbreak of
sudden sobbing came from the other end of the room; Isabell raised
herself up--partly it was the beating of her heart that forced her into
an erect position, partly a curiosity, which was stronger than her
self-restraint. When she saw the strangers, she uttered a sudden cry;
excitement blazed up like flame, over her delicate face, lighting wild
lamps in her eyes, and bringing colour to her cheeks; a gleam as of
stormy sunshine came over her. “They’re here!” she cried, with an
infantile laugh of pleasure, the last utterance of weakness. “Oh, make
them speak! is it no true?”
“It’s Gospel,” cried the man, sobbing. “Oh, Bell, my bonnie woman, to
see you come to this! it’s a’ Gospel truth. Speak out, Jean, if you’re a
woman, and no a stone; speak out, I tell you! It’s true, Sir--as sure as
death--as true as the Bible. God! woman, will ye no speak?”
“I’ll speak if ye’ll leave me time,” said Jean. “I’m no to be pushed
that gate, and pushed the other, and never left to mysel’. She was never
an ill lass. I’ve kent her since she was this height; a bit genty
creature, never just like other folk. Ye ken yourself, Sir, I said we
could never swear against Bell--she’s a good lass. There was some
nonsense of the kind went on atween her and young Mr. Heriot--”
Isabell raised herself almost erect in her bed. Her fragile white figure
shook with the heavings of her heart. But for this the flush upon her
face, the overwhelming brightness of her eyes, might have banished even
from the spectator most deeply interested, any idea of mortal sickness.
She looked at the woman with a smile.
“I’m dying!” she said, in a voice that was strangely sweet and strong.
“Answer, before God--and me. Ye’ll never see me mair--till the last day.
Ye’ve my name and my bairn’s in your hands. Speak out! I ask you nae
favour; speak the truth--- before God, and me.”
“Oh, Bell!” cried the woman, terrified, raising her hand to her face;
“oh, dinna look at me with those blazing e’en! Sir, we meant nae
harm--John and me. We never made our house a tryst, with an ill meaning.
He went on his knees to me to let him see her. We wer’na the folk to
lead gentlemen astray, nor lasses neither; it was not our blame.”
“Speak, ye deevil!” cried the man, furious; “or let me speak. It comes
better from a woman. Who thinks of you and me? Sir, Sir! it’s a’ true.”
The tears were running down his rough face. With his stumbling, awkward
step, too big for the place, he pushed forward. “If we didna come forrit
before, it was for the fear o’ man,” he said. “She thought it was a
story that would lose me my place--like as if we was entrapping lads to
marry. Oh, Bell, forgive me! it was the fear of man.”
“Mother, you hear!” said Isabell. She had forgotten all the others. A
glow of gentle contentment stole over her face. The strength of
excitement failed her; she sank back upon the pillows, which Marjory
stealing in, had raised to support her. “Now I can depart in peace; now
I’m clear; now I can go to my man. Oh, God be praised--that sent the
decent folk, just in time.”
“Isabell!” cried Agnes, throwing herself on the bed; “you’re no so ill
as that? It wasna that I thought you dying; you’re no dying. I bad ye
speak because they were here.”
“Ay, ay! and I’ve spoken; and it’s a’ clear. The night’s coming on, I
canna see. Mother, you were saying--what was somebody saying? I hear a
sound in my ears; it’s the sea, or the wind--or maybe something more.”
“Bell! what is it? oh, my Bell! It’s her heart. Raise her up, to get
breath; open the window. She’s aye speaking, speaking. Bell, speak to
your mother. My darlin’ it’s a’ clear.”
“It’s voices,” she said, with an effort; “voices--like in the
Bible--like the sound--o’ a great multitude; grander than the sea, or
the wind. Do ye no hear?--and one that says ‘Isabell!’ among all the
angels, and the saved that cry day and night, ‘Honour to the Lamb!’ Oh,
hearken. One’s stopped, and it cries ‘Isabell!’ Ay, my man! I’m
here--I’m here!”
Then a great silence suddenly fell over the cottage, a stifled sound of
feet moving, faint rustling of dresses, tinkling of the glass in which
they tried to administer something to revive her, and afterwards low
sobs, broken cries, but not another articulate word. The conflict of
wills and voices had ended. Without a word, another brief ineffectual
struggle took place round the bed--the last struggle with death--vain,
passionate, hopeless effort. Isabell did not die all at once; this hard
life, which is so bitter to live, so hard to begin, is hard too to end.
She could not drop it from her so easily. For hours after they moved
about that bed, saying nothing to each other, hiding their faces by
times, stopping their ears not to hear the painful thrill of those last
breathings, which seemed to shake the cottage. The doctor had time to
come all the way from St. Andrews, and look at her, pitiful and
helpless, shaking his head, and whispering that she did not suffer, that
consciousness was gone and pain. But it was the middle of the night
before the last breath died upon poor Isabell’s lips. No one of all the
awe-stricken party left the cottage at first. Marjory was with the
mother and sister by the bed. Mr. Charles, pale as a ghost, sat in a
chair in a corner, looking on with a wondering countenance of sorrow.
Had any one suggested it to him, he would have gone away; but he was
absorbed like all the rest, and thought of nothing but of the wonderful
act that was being accomplished before him. John Macgregor was standing
on the threshold outside, his great person heaving with sobs. His wife,
crying, but still with her wits about her, prepared with ghastly matter
of fact composure to make herself of use. This was the scene upon which
Fanshawe arrived, in the early darkening of the summer night. The baby,
whom everybody had forgotten, had just awoke with a cry by the side of
its insensible mother. Somehow this sudden protest of life against the
pre-occupation of all the attendants on the dying, gave a touch almost
of humour to the tragic scene. Marjory lifted the infant, and it was
into Fanshawe’s arms that she thrust it, scarcely seeing what she did.
“Take it to the woman,” she said, turning away from him. Where was he to
take it? He held the helpless thing in his arms, no one finding it
ludicrous, or even strange, till Jean relieved him of it. And then he
went and stood with John Macgregor, not knowing who he was; or what had
happened, outside the door. But after all, notwithstanding his ignorance
and dismay, it was Fanshawe who brought so much common sense and
understanding to the scene as to send Mr. Charles home, and Macgregor,
both of whom were in the way. He understood, by instinct, a great deal
of what had passed, and though he did not divine who the man was, by
whose side he had been standing, yet it was impossible not to perceive
that some preceding agitation, in which this man had been more or less
involved, had taken place in the humble room, which now the presence of
death filled to over-flowing. Fanshawe sent the other men away, and
remained himself to see what was to be done. Strangely enough this
seemed perfectly natural both to himself and Mr. Charles. He went
outside, and sat down on the rocks which hedged in the bit of velvet
greensward on which the cottage stood. It was a strange vigil. He
watched the last rays of the evening light die out, the revealing of the
stars among the clouds, the gleam of living radiance which woke in them
from the edges of those masses of vapour; and then gradually, slowly,
the pale lightening over the Eastern horizon--the promise of dawn. He
sat with the waves plashing up to his very feet, carried by the high
tide which came in just about the time he took his place there--then
ebbing slowly down among the rocks, further and further off, moving the
gleaming, living line ever lower down. The pale variations of sea and
sky, the gathering midnight darkness that shut out both, all the
mysterious sounds of Night and Nature went on around him; and death was
overshadowing behind him, and a silent awe seemed over everything. To
watch a whole night so, is such an experience as few forget; and to
watch outside as Fanshawe was doing--with all the ghosts of the past and
shadows of the future combining to increase the impression, was more
wonderful still. And yet he felt it but little, his mind and soul being
closed to external impressions by a pre-occupation which is more
absorbing than any other on earth.
The faint grey of morning had begun to dawn when all at once he felt a
soft touch upon his shoulder, and turned round, saw Marjory standing by
him, like a ghost in the dimness.
“All is over;” she said, quietly; and then, “Have you watched with us
all night?”
“All night,” he said. “I could do nothing more. Can I do anything now?”
“Take me home,” said Marjory. “I am too weary and sad to go alone. It is
all over. She has got away at last. Oh, how hard it is to get rid of
life!”
Her tears fell upon his hands, which held hers. He looked at her
wistfully, eagerly, in the dim light, by which he could scarcely see her
face. How high life was beating in his heart as he listened to these
words. Hard to get rid of life! as if it were not something priceless,
full of happiness, full of possibility, which a man would do anything,
bear anything, rather than be rid of. He put her cloak round her while
she stood passively by him, worn out, with those tears on her
cheeks--and then drew her hand within his arm, and led her away silently
along the dim sea-shore with all its mysterious sounds. The light
increased slowly, dimly, the pale morning broke as they moved along. To
Marjory it was all like a dream. To him, what was it? Every moment he
could see her more plainly, and feel her, leaning on him. Rid of life!
Who would be rid of that which held such prizes still?
CHAPTER XX.
No house possessed by the Hay-Heriots had ever gone through such a night
as that house by the Cathedral in St. Andrews had just passed. First
there had been the blank dinner hour, with no one at home to eat the
food, no one but little Milly who stood at the window and cried, and
imagined misfortunes unutterable which must have befallen “my May.” The
crying of the child infected the whole house. One of the maids had
joined her at the window, another climbed to the top of the house to an
attic which commanded the road “east the town,” leading to the Spindle,
another had stolen outside to the door in the wall, where she stood
watching all comers and goers, with the wind blowing her ribbons about,
and ruffling her hair. In the very midst of this suspense, Miss Jean’s
old coach, like a family hearse, came jolting heavily over the
stones--for all the world, the excited listeners thought, like the
Phantom Coach, which, as is well known, drives along the streets of St.
Andrews at midnight, after a storm, carrying the drowned to the hallowed
soil round the Cathedral ruins. Had it been dark, this resemblance would
have been more than the nerves of the women could have borne, and the
impression was scarcely lessened when Miss Jean herself, tired yet
alert, with her sharp eyes looking out from the shelter of her broad
“borders” and big black bonnet, got out briskly tapping upon the
pavement with her cane. Milly stayed her crying, out of very excitement,
to explain her sister’s absence, and was then held silent by fear while
the old lady remarked upon it. “A bonny like way to leave a house with a
wheen maids and one bairn!” she said. “May Hay-Heriot must be out of her
senses. Out of the house at seven o’clock--the hour ye dine--did ye say
it was the hour ye dine? Then it’s worse than madness, it must be
wickedness. Do not look at me as if ye would eat me, ye little spirit--”
“Then do not speak of May like that!” said the child passionately,
smothering her sobs. “Oh! what has become of her--what has become of
her? Something has happened; oh, Aunt Jean! let you and me go and seek
her out. She never left us like this before. Oh my May! my May!”
“Hold your tongue you little haverel,” said Miss Jean, “she is out to
her dinner or something. Do you think Miss Heriot will leave her friends
or her business because the table-maid is out at the door watching, or
her own woman greeting at the window? Go in to your work this moment.
Where is Mr. Charles? He will come in to his dinner and find nothing
ready, and send ye about your business--or I would if it was me.”
Then it was explained to her, by three speaking at once, that Mr.
Charles too had gone out mysteriously towards the Spindle, accompanied
by two strangers; and Milly, whose tears had been stayed, began again
to cry more piteously than before, and the maids to rush to the windows.
Miss Jean gave some decisive taps of her cane upon the floor--“Fools!”
she said, “have you not sense enough to see that they’re both together
with some sudden engagement they had no time to tell of? Stop this
nonsense and bring ben the dinner--I’m hungry with my drive, and Milly,
you’re hungry with crying--”
“Oh, Aunt Jean, I could not eat a morsel. Oh, what will I do if there is
anything wrong with May?”
“You’re hungry with crying,” said Miss Jean, “we’ll wait for them no
longer; bring ben the dinner. Is all the house to be turned upside down
because they did not leave word where they were going? Help me off with
my bonnet, woman, and dinna stand gaping. Milly, hold your tongue; is
that the way to give me a welcome? You’ve let the child get low, you
taupies, keeping her waiting. Bring ben the dinner, I tell you, we’ll
wait for them no longer. Shut the doors and the windows, and get the
spare room ready. I’ve come about business, Milly, and I mean to stay
all night.”
By these decisive means Miss Jean brought the house into composure and
subordination, and put a stop to the growing romance which the maids had
begun to build up. They said in the kitchen that Miss Heriot could not
be going so much to the Spindle for nothing, that it was fine to talk
about a sick lass, but that more inducement was necessary to take a
young leddy there in all weathers, and that Mr. Chairles had found it
out. This invention Miss Jean so far nipped in the bud, that she gave
them all work to do, which occupied them fully and diverted their
thoughts from this delightful fiction. The old lady had the spare room
prepared for herself, and a fire lighted, a luxury never much out of
place in St. Andrews, though it was but August, and the flush of Summer
still ought to have been over the world. It was a gloomy night, dark
clouds and darker sea, everything that was dismal and discouraging out
of doors, and not much that was cheery within. Miss Jean herself, with
many thoughts in her mind, established herself in the drawing-room after
dinner--having sent Milly, much against her will, to bed--to wait for
some news of her relations who had thus left the house empty to receive
her. She sat in the unfamiliar room, looking out upon the old pinnacles
of the cathedral ruins which were associated with many an early passage
of her youth--and going back into her life, lived in it as old people
do, feeling it present with her, notwithstanding the lively threads of
present interest which crossed each other like a network over that
landscape peculiarly her own which lay behind. Her quick mind darted in
a moment from recollections of an evening fifty years ago, when she had
wandered, not uncompanioned, through these ruins, to many a speculation
as to how her grand-niece, Marjory, her representative, might be
occupying herself, and what manner of interference “auld Charlie” might
be making in some possible complication of affairs.
For her nephew was “auld Charlie” to Miss Jean as well as to the
youngest scoffer who called him by that name. The old maiden was
contemptuous of the old bachelor. His age was an object of greater scorn
to her than it was to the young men who on the whole liked “auld
Charlie.” “A poor creature, a poor feeble old creature, with no
character to speak of,” she said of him. She scorned him for being what
he was, nobody’s husband, nobody’s father, and amid the openings of her
old dream, while still she seemed to herself to be straying down the
vast nave traced out by its old pillars, with her hand upon some one’s
arm, who was dead and gone years ago--there recurred to her, now and
then, a sarcastic criticism upon the old man who was so much younger
than herself. She herself was two persons in one, difficult to identify
in their separate characters: young Jean Hay-Heriot among the ruins,
fresh and sweet as the youngest rose in the garden: old Miss Jean with
her shrivelled face surrounded by her “borders,” her wrinkled hand
leaning on her cane. But as for Mr. Charles he had never been but one,
the same figure throughout, always lean, long, dried up, occupied about
nick-nacks, buried in old books, unbending to nothing but golf. “And now
he’s meddling with Marjory,” Miss Jean said to herself with a vindictive
gleam of her black eye, “him that knows no more about it than a man of
wood! But I’ll see to that, I’ll see to that;” and then the sweep of the
great west window caught her eye, and she was young Jean again, looking
up at it to hide her confused sweet girlish face from some one who
would gaze too closely. Which was the real one between these two? which
the most true, the past that lives for ever, or the present that is but
for a moment? The old woman sat absorbed in this bewilderment of mingled
memory and observation, and did not think the dim hours long as they
stole past her. She would not have the lamp brought in till late. She
sat at the window as Marjory had done, her old head framed in by the
delicate crown of the broken arch, perfect on one side, an exquisite
flowing shaft of ancient stone, with canopy work fit for a queen of
heaven--on the other nothing but gloomy sky and sea. The darkness closed
over her but Miss Jean noted it not. The scene before her eyes had
brought all her life back to her; in that very room she had danced a
girl. What need had she of lights, of books, something to divert her? as
the sympathetic maid suggested who found the old lady in the dark and
was sorry for her.
“Go away, and bring me the lamp in an hour. I like the gloaming,” said
Miss Jean in a softened tone.
“Gloaming! it was mirk as midnicht, and her an old witch, sitting in the
dark,” said the woman, reporting the circumstance below; and this
further aggravation of a weird old woman seated by herself unseen at the
window, seeing nobody could tell how far or how keenly, carried a still
further element of mystery into the vague wonder and suspense of the
house.
The arrival of Mr. Charles, which took place late, about ten o’clock,
when it was quite dark, was the first thing that roused the old lady. He
came in very unsteady on his long legs, with a somewhat dazed and
pre-occupied look--too much absorbed by all the events of the evening to
be much startled by anything that might happen, even by a visitor so
unexpected. He came in and made some sort of greeting, taking her
presence for granted in a way which bewildered her, and then threw
himself upon a chair in the dim room. “She’s dying,” he said in that
dull tone of spent excitement which expresses so much.
“Who’s dying?” cried Miss Jean in alarm, starting from her seat at the
window. “Not our May?”
“May?” Mr. Charles said with a kind of dull wonder. “May? She’s yonder,”
pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “as she was at Tom’s side, poor
fellow! God be praised, no--it’s not her; but that poor thing--”
“The--gamekeeper’s daughter;--the--lass--? but that’s too good news.”
Mr. Charles looked at her with reproof in his eyes. “You know nothing
about it. She is far from a common kind of lass; but that is a thing
women never can understand,” he added, taking a certain vigour from his
opposition. “How those that are on the other side, should have any title
to respect--that is a thing you can never understand.”
“Maybe not,” said Miss Jean with lively and instant assumption of the
quarrel. “We’re no so clever as you. You can aye discriminate; ye see
at a glance, and tell the good from the evil. We’re weaker vessels;
but, perhaps, if ye were to tell me some of the arguments that convinced
your strong mind--”
Mr. Charles jumped up, galled at this speech and the tone in which it
was uttered; but his weariness overcame him, and he sat down again,
somewhat humbled. “No argument--no argument,” he said, “the sight of
her--that is all. I’ve left Marjory there. She’ll not leave the bedside
so long as life remains. I thought she might have come away now, for the
poor thing is no longer conscious; but May feels it her duty to Tom.”
“And you left her--a lady--a young woman--to come home alone.”
“Ay,” said Mr. Charles, and then paused, “I am meaning, not quite alone.
There is that lad Fanshawe,” he added in a deprecating tone.
“Fanshawe! him that was at Pitcomlie before--the English lad?”
“Yes, the English lad--I never thought of it till this moment; but he
has a way of turning up when he’s wanted that is very
extraordinary--very extraordinary! To see him appear, like a ghost, at
that cottage door--and not one of us surprised within. To be sure,” Mr.
Charles added with sudden gravity, “all our thoughts were turned another
way.”
“But my thoughts are not turned any other way,” said Miss Jean. “I don’t
know what folly you’re thinking of, her and you; but Marjory is my first
thought. All this about your cottage doors, and your thoughts turned
other ways, is not intelligible to me. I would like to know what you
mean, Charlie. Who is this lad, and what has he to do with Marjory?
You’ve left him to bring her home--in the middle of the night.”
“No--no,” said Mr. Charles, deprecating, “not so bad as that--not the
middle of the night. And how could I help it? It was no place for me--a
man that could be of little use. I came away by his advice. It’s a long
walk, and I’ve eaten nothing. And, perhaps,” he said, pausing with his
hand on the bell, “I should bid them get a room ready for Fanshawe--he
must stop somewhere. So far as I know, the beds at The Royal may all be
taken. I suppose I must give him a bed in this house.”
“You know best who to take in, and who to leave out,” said Miss Jean. “I
never interfere with the arrangements of the house. Perhaps you would
like me to go to The Royal? For otherwise, I have my boxes in the spare
room.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Charles, waving his hand; and he gave
his orders with a degree of explanatoriness to which Miss Jean listened
with grim impatience. “There’s a gentleman, Mr. Fanshawe, that may be
coming in late--with Miss Heriot; not that he’s with Miss Heriot now, or
more than just in the neighbourhood. But she may be kept late, and at my
request he will bring her home--you understand?”
“Oh ay, Sir, I understand!” said the maid cheerfully; “the English
gentleman; he was here the day already, waiting long, and very anxious
about Miss Heriot. He went off after you to the Spindle, when he heard
ye had gone that gait; he was just off a journey; but he would take no
refreshment, no so much as a glass of wine;” but aye, “where was Miss
Heriot? where was Miss Heriot? that was all that was in his head.”
“It was me he wanted, in reality,” said Mr. Charles, looking anxiously
towards Miss Jean; “on business. We have a great many business
transactions, him and me; and put some cold meat or something in the
dining-room. If Mr. Fanshawe is kept very late--as he may be, waiting at
my request for Miss Heriot (for he is a young man, Aunt Jean, and I am
an old one--he was more able to wait than me); he will have to sleep
here.”
“And will Miss Heriot be late, Sir?” said the maid.
“She’s waiting upon a poor young woman that’s dying,” said Mr. Charles,
with solemnity. “You’re amused, Aunt Jean? I’m sorry that I cannot join
you, after the scene I’ve been going through--nor see the cause.”
“Oh, you blind auld beetle!” said Miss Jean; “putting it into the lass’s
head every word you said, to mix up May’s name with this lad’s! Who is
the lad?--is he worthy of her? or does he want her? or have you paid any
attention, ye doited auld body, to what I took the trouble to say?”
“I have taken your advice,” said Mr. Charles shortly; “much to my own
discomfort; but nothing has ever come of it, that I can see.”
“That’s no answer to my question,” cried the old lady peremptorily. “Is
he worthy of her? and who is the lad?”
“So far as I can make out,” said Mr. Charles; “he is very little to brag
of; a good-natured ne’er-do-weel--nobody’s enemy but his own.”
“And that’s just the bitterest foe of everybody that belongs to him,”
said Miss Jean; “and it’s a man like that that you leave to bring May
home; to wait for her, and feel for her, and bring her along a lonely
road, and take advantage of all his opportunities--”
“The young man is a gentleman,” said Mr. Charles eagerly, with an
indignant flush on his face.
“And you’re a fool, Charlie Heriot!” cried the old lady, growing red--as
a woman of seventy-five could scarcely be expected to do. She was angry
and ashamed at his interpretation of her words; she got up hastily to
retire to her room, every fold of her shawl quivering with indignation.
“Judging by what you say, it is little use sitting up for her, I
suppose,” she said. “To think of a young woman like Marjory left to come
home with a strange man in the middle of the night! You’re a bonnie
guardian, Chairlie Heriot; you give us all great encouragement to trust
the young women of the family to you.”
To tell the truth, something of the same feeling crept into Mr. Charles’
own mind, mingled with shame, as he went down to the dining-room to eat
his long postponed dinner, and refresh himself with a little bodily
comfort. He began to feel much discontented, and ashamed. To leave
Fanshawe to take care of her had seemed very natural in the midst of the
excitement at the cottage, as soon as he had recognised that his own
presence there was uncalled for. But in the light of Miss Jean’s
comments it had a very different appearance. He had put Marjory into
Fanshawe’s hands; he had accepted him as in some sort her natural
protector and companion. This thought entirely drove from his mind the
real event of the night; the occurrence which had absorbed him so short
a time before. Now that he was out of the shadow of the death-chamber,
all that belonged to it flitted away from him. The same feeling was
strong in both of the old people; they pushed death aside almost rudely,
as a thing which once completed, should be thought as little of as
possible--and plunged into the concerns of life again with eagerness.
The scene had been solemn, the moment touching; but these were over, and
life and its necessities were not over. Mr. Charles put himself upon
three chairs in the dining-room, after he had eaten his late refection,
and declared his intention of waiting there till Miss Heriot returned.
He fell asleep very uncomfortably, waking up now and then with a crick
in his neck, with pins and needles in his feet or his fingers, with an
indescribable sense of discomfort penetrating even into his sleep. When
he woke from a painful doze on his three chairs, he decided with himself
that now he might venture to go to bed--that she would not now come till
the morning, when no one could make any remark. Accordingly, when
Marjory, half dead with fatigue and emotion, reached the house, there
was no one up to receive her. She had scarcely uttered a single word the
whole way, and sometimes Fanshawe, holding her fast with her hand pulled
through his arm, had half fancied she must have fainted or fallen into
some stupefying trance, though the mechanical motion continued and she
kept walking on, like one galvanized. When at last a sleepy maid was
roused to admit them, the early morning sunshine was lying warm upon the
silent streets and houses. As she entered, and he after her, on the
strenuous invitation of the maid, who was partly hospitable and partly
afraid lest anyone, “from our house” should be seen making his way to
The Royal “at such an hour”--the stillness of the house came over them
both with a strange half-alarming sensation. At the top of the stairs in
the bright solemn early daylight Miss Jean stood, in her broad-bordered
nightcap, and with curious flannel draperies wrapped about her, looking
down upon them as they mounted the stairs. Marjory was too weary to feel
much surprise.
“Is it you, Aunt Jean?” she asked languidly.
“Is this the way you treat your visitors, coming in at this hour of the
morning?” said Miss Jean, “and with so little regard to what folk may
think? Let the young man bide below till I’m out of the way. I’ll see
you to your room, Marjory. You want some woman-person to see after you,
and that taupie of a maid is snoring, disturbing my slumbers for hours
past.”
“I am sorry you waited for me,” Marjory said in her strange stupor, “but
when you know the cause--”
“Oh, ay, I know the cause,” said Miss Jean, throwing a jealous glance
over her shoulder at Fanshawe, who hesitated and lingered on the stairs.
“I know the cause,” she repeated, following Marjory into her room and
closing the door with much severity, “but for my part I’m a great deal
more interested, to tell the truth, in what may be the result.”
Thus with one consent the elder members of the party--the ones who had
lived longest and were nearest the ending--thrust the death-scene away
from them, and went on with the threads of life as if there had been no
interruption of its ordinary course. This was what they cared for--the
living, not the dead.
And Fanshawe, dazed too with his watching, with his strange long walk
through the unnatural yet fresh and lovely morning, which had seemed to
spy upon them all the way, with wondering looks, like a child, went into
the room prepared for him--having added that picture of Miss Jean in her
dressing-gown to all the others, of which his mind was full. He did not
hear what she said, but he made out her sharp look of disapproval, and
the jealousy of her watch over Marjory, thus peremptorily parted from
him, and taken out of his keeping the moment she crossed the threshold.
She had been so absolutely confided to him before, that the contrast was
all the more remarkable. When he was safe in his room, the
ludicrousness of the old lady’s appearance came before him so strongly,
that he laughed in spite of himself--and then was intensely ashamed of
himself, and crept to bed, feeling guilty in the daylight, feeling as if
he had been doing something he ought not to have done. How strange to
glide into the stillness of an orderly sleeping-room after an exciting
night! And he was dizzy with his journey, with fatigue, and long waking.
But still, of all the memories of the night, Miss Jean at the top of the
stairs was the one that lingered most in his memory. He dreamed of her,
and laughed in his sleep, and woke with a half-hysterical mixture of
laughter and emotion, as much moved by that momentary comic glimpse as
by all that had happened. But this levity, fortunately, nobody knew.
CHAPTER XXI.
The party which met in the morning after this vigil regarded each other
strangely, feeling the fever of their excitement still about them.
Marjory did not appear, and it was from Mr. Charles that Fanshawe learnt
that his own mission had failed, and that the missing witness had
already appeared, a fact which he had guessed from all he saw, but had
not been informed of. There was a long discussion over the breakfast
table about this strange change in the family affairs, and all the
revolutions it must bring about.
“An application must be made at once to the Court of Session to appoint
tutors,” Mr. Charles said, who was full of suppressed excitement, “and
these young women at Pitcomlie must be informed. It will be hard upon
them, poor things, after all.”
“They had nothing to do with the house or the family,” said Miss Jean,
briskly. “Strangers, all strangers; neither one nor another has any pity
from me. Eight thousand pounds is not a bad provision for a younger
son’s widow, with nothing of her own; but take you my advice, Charlie
Heriot, and be very clear in your mind about this bairn. I’m not fond of
chance bairns coming in when nobody expects them. This lass, that you
all think so much of, may have been everything that’s good; but I would
have the court to sit upon it, and make sure. I would trust nothing to
chance, if it was me.”
“We’ll take every precaution--every precaution,” said Mr. Charles; and
then he fell into a reverie, from which he roused up slowly, with a look
of satisfaction in his face, rubbing his hands. “I am glad,” he said,
“that I never began to dismantle my old room. I’ve thought of doing it
more than once. If I could suppose,” added Mr. Charles, changing
countenance, “that leaving Pitcomlie would be any heart-break to these
young women; if they had had time to get attached to the place--But as
one house or another is the same to them, and Mrs. Charles is not badly
provided for, on the whole, with her pension and all--I hope it’s not
any way hard-hearted on my part.”
“But you’re old, Charlie Heriot,” said Miss Jean, “old to be tutor to a
little bairn. Granting that you may live as long as I have done, for
instance, that’s about fifteen years--and nobody can calculate on
more--that would leave the boy just at the worst age. You’re spare and
thin, and I would not wonder if ye were one of the long-lived ones of
the family; but granting even that you were spared to be as old as me--”
“You’ll live twenty years yet, Aunt Jean,” said Mr. Charles, who did not
like the turn the conversation was taking.
“That may be, or may not be,” said Miss Jean. “I’m very indifferent; a
year sooner or a year later matters very little. To be sure when you’re
well over your threescore and ten, there’s no saying--but it’s never to
be calculated on. If this bairn is young Tom’s lawful son, as you say,
and but three months old, poor bit thing, he must have young guardians.
The like of Mr. Fanshawe here now; or as women are coming into fashion,
Marjory--”
Mr. Charles gave an alarmed look at the audacious proposer of such a
conjunction. He was fairly frightened by it. He looked up with a certain
consternation, to meet the bold response of Miss Jean’s black eyes,
twinkling with satisfaction at the thought of having thus bewildered
him.
“Ye need not look at me in that alarmed manner, Charlie Heriot,” she
said. “There’s nothing but what is strictly reasonable in what I say.”
“If I were thought worthy of such a charge,” said Fanshawe, startled
too. “I should, of course, do my very best to acquit myself of the
trust; but I have, at present, no connection with Fife--I have no claim
to such a distinction; there must be many others much better
qualified--”
“It’s not a thing we can discuss,” said Mr. Charles, hurriedly; “it is
not in our hands; there are a great many preliminaries. And in the first
place there is one that’s not pleasant. These young women, how are they
to be told? They must be told. What would you say, Aunt Jean, would be
the best thing to do? Perhaps as you are going that way, if you were to
see them and break it in a quiet way? a lady is always the best to do
that; there’s more delicacy, and more sympathy, and understanding, and
so forth. Some clergymen have a gift that way; but a lady is always the
best.”
“I am much obliged to you, Charlie Heriot,” said Miss Jean, “but in my
opinion you’re the only bearer of the news that’s possible. Nobody can
do it but you.”
“Do you really think so?” said Mr. Charles. “Now I cannot help thinking
a stranger would be better--or perhaps a letter--that might be the best
of all--a letter now. Unless Mr. Fanshawe here, that could bring no
painful recollections to their minds, a young man quite unconnected with
everything--and pleasant manners, and all that--would be so obliging as
to drive out, and just prepare them a little. My niece Marjory has so
much confidence in Mr. Fanshawe. It is not a long drive, and the country
is looking its very best. Would it be too much to ask, as a friend of
the family?” Mr. Charles said, with an insinuating look.
Miss Jean’s chuckle, and the look she gave him out of her sharp black
eyes, overcame Fanshawe’s gravity more than the proposal thus anxiously
made. Even Mr. Charles saw the fun, and relieved himself and his anxiety
with a long low laugh, under protest as it were--for laughing was far
from appropriate at this juncture of the family affairs. But the most
amusing thing of all was that, though they laughed at the idea of
entrusting Fanshawe with this mission, after much talk and many
suggestions, and a great deal of comic remark, it was after all he who
went. He consented--because it was his fate, because it was propitiating
Marjory’s friends, because it was a proof to her of his readiness to
serve all connected with her; but chiefly, it must be allowed, because
it was his fate. This was what he was born into the world for; to do
what people asked him, to serve others, to be good for much so far as
other people were concerned, but good for little to himself. Miss Jean
looked on with a certain grim amusement while it was all being settled.
She gave her opinion on the subject with her usual frankness.
“I would not have gone had I been you,” she said. “I would have let old
Charlie do his nasty errands for himself.”
Fanshawe laughed with some conscious shame, feeling indeed that he had
been somewhat weak; and the old lady resumed--
“Nobody thinks the more of you for being too kind. A willing horse is
aye over-ridden; but that’s not all. In this world folk take you at your
own word, Mr. Fanshawe. They think little of a man that holds himself
cheap. It’s no advantage--either with man or woman. The best thing ye
can do is to let folk see that a favour from you is a real favour, not
easy to get, not given to everybody--”
“Miss Jean, you speak like Solomon himself,” said Fanshawe, with mock
reverence and real confusion, “or rather like the Queen of Sheba,--which
is the next wisest, I suppose.”
“Maybe I am like the Queen of Sheba,” said Miss Jean; “but it’s men far
from Solomon that I’ve come to see. You like Fife, I suppose, Mr.
Fanshawe, that I find you back here?”
“I suppose so too,” he said, with a rueful comic sense that he was by no
means a free agent, “since you find me here, Miss Jean--as you say--”
“You should not repeat another person’s words, it’s not civil. And yet
Fife has but small attractions for a young man. You’re fond of golf, I
suppose, like all the rest?”
“Probably I might be,” he said, laughing, “if I had the chance; but I
have never tried yet--”
“Oh, then you’re one of those archæ-somethings, that make the old stones
speak?” said Miss Jean. “Oh, but the like of me could make them speak
better, if we were to tell all we mind and all we have seen.”
“I am not an archæ-anything,” said Fanshawe.
“Then it’s very strange to me--very strange,” said the old lady, looking
him in the face, “what pleasure you can find in staying here?”
He laughed--this time an uneasy laugh, and felt himself redden
uncomfortably. Why, indeed, should he stay here? To go on Mr. Charles’s
errands, to have all sorts of disagreeable offices thrust upon him, to
be sent off, perhaps, at a moment’s notice, to be made use of on all
hands. This was what his past experience had been, and why should it be
different in the future? The old woman’s two black eyes, set deep in
their shrivelled sockets, looked knowingly, not unkindly at him, with a
gleam of amusement, but also with a certain sympathy. “There does not
seem much reason, does there, why I should stay?” he said, and got up
and went to the window to look out, avoiding her keen eyes.
“Young man,” said Miss Jean, “I don’t know much about you, and what I
know is not the best that might be; but you’re not an ill young man as
men go. On the whole, I’m inclined to be on your side. And take you my
advice. Don’t make too little of yourself; don’t be at everybody’s call;
stand up for yourself, if you would have other folk stand up for you. So
far as I’ve seen, your fault is that you’re better than most folk. Don’t
be that, that’s the worst of all mistakes.”
“You mean that I am a yielding fool, and cannot say ‘No,’” said
Fanshawe; “but that, after all is scarcely the case. There are
circumstances, perhaps, if I could tell them to you, that justify me--”
“No circumstances, but a man’s nature account for that kind of conduct,”
said Miss Jean, briskly; “but if it’s any comfort to you, I’m inclined
to be on your side.”
Whatever comfort there might be in this, Fanshawe had it to console him
on his drive. He set out without seeing Marjory. When he found himself
driving not too quickly over those long country roads, on the business
which was not his, and realised the disagreeable mission he had
undertaken, he felt more weak and foolish than even Miss Jean had
represented him to himself. For what was all this? To commend himself to
Marjory? or because it was his nature and his fate? He was thoroughly
discontented with himself. Was he, who was thus driven hither and
thither by the will of others, who seemed to have no business of his own
in the world, but always and only the business of others--was he the
kind of man to step boldly out of his groove, to begin an independent
life, to ask any woman to share that existence? Nobody but those who are
over-persuadable, ready to be over-borne by the appeals made to them by
their more indolent neighbours, and to take upon their shoulders burdens
which are none of theirs, can understand how ashamed Fanshawe felt of
his own amiability in the business which he had at present in hand--or
how disgusted with the piece of work which Mr. Charles had basely thrust
upon his shoulders. As he approached Pitcomlie, he realized more and
more clearly how disagreeable it was. The sight of the house which had
filled so important a chapter in his life made his heart beat. There it
was that he had been roused out of the equanimity of his placid,
easy-going existence; and what good had that awakening done? None but to
make him a dissatisfied instead of a very contented, happy sort of
fellow; to show him the evil without opening the way to any remedy; to
fill him with longings after the unattainable without conferring upon
him the strength necessary to struggle and attain it. Marjory! the whole
place was full of her; the cliff, with its velvet coverlet of green
sward, round which so often by her side he had taken his “turn;” the
sundial by which he seemed to see her seated; the roofless old house,
against the grey walls of which he had watched her figure so often, and
which formed so fit a background for her; everything was full of
Marjory. The presence of her image there made it somehow more easy for
him to do what he was going to do. He marched into the well-known
drawing-room, almost regardless of the servant who rushed after, pulling
on his coat, to announce him. He saw with a certain sharp sense of
sarcastic pleasure somebody rise hastily from Mrs. Charles’s side, and
retire into a distant corner. Somebody--that sentimental personage
called Johnnie, whose presence had once made him furiously jealous. He
was ready to laugh now at the sight of this young man, whom he
recognised at once with that attraction of jealousy and dislike which is
as strong as love. Why was he so pleased to see Johnnie Hepburn start
disconcerted from Mrs. Charles’s side? It pleased him to think of
telling it to Marjory; the power of discrediting her old admirer in her
eyes was quite grateful to him; he was spitefully delighted--there is no
other word that can describe his feelings. If Fanshawe had but thought
of it, he might have felt himself quite delivered from the danger of
being too amiable by this vigorous outburst of dislike and feelings
quite un-evangelical. But somehow it did not occur to him to judge his
own sentiments in that uncompromising way.
He had a hostile reception; from the moment of his appearance the ladies
at Pitcomlie made sure that he was coming on no friendly errand. Verna
came in from the cliff through the open window, having caught a glimpse
of him; she was very pale, with a scared look which Fanshawe could not
understand. They both looked at him with a stare of something like
defiance, but took no other notice of his presence. This was very
embarrassing at first. He faltered a little as he drew near, being very
pervious to incivility, and all the smaller pricks by which the mind can
be assailed.
“I have come to execute a commission from Mr. Charles Hay-Heriot,” he
said, looking round him almost pitifully for support. Johnnie Hepburn
afforded none. He even turned his back and gazed out of one of the
windows. He did not stand by a brother in distress. He was too much
frightened for the women, if truth must be told.
“Oh, yes; to be sure; and I think we could guess what it was,” said
Matilda. “Pray speak out. Don’t be afraid. You need not have too much
consideration, or that sort of thing, for me.”
“Indeed, I was told to have every consideration,” said Fanshawe,
perplexed. “Mr. Charles----”
“Oh, why keep up the farce of Mr. Charles?” cried Matilda. “Say Marjory
at once. We know it is all her hatching, this conspiracy; and oh! you
may be quite sure whatever can be done, by law, against conspiracy--”
“Hold your tongue, Matty,” said Verna, in a sharp whisper. “You fool!
don’t be always showing your hand.”
“As if I cared!” cried Matilda; “as if I did not see Marjory’s hand!
Besides, it is well known that she keeps him to run errands for her, and
do whatever she tells him. Oh! say it out! We are prepared for
everything you have to say.”
“Then my errand may be all the shorter,” said Fanshawe. “It is only to
tell you, from Mr. Hay-Heriot, that a discovery has been made about your
brother-in-law, Tom Heriot. It has been found out that he was married,
and has left a son--”
Here he was interrupted by a defiant peal of laughter, and looking up,
surprised, saw both ladies laughing almost violently, as at the most
excellent joke.
“Oh! this is too good,” the one said to the other; “too good; just what
we expected. But Marjory might have invented something better,” said
Matilda. “I could have made up a better story myself.”
Fanshawe stood, struck dumb, as a man of his breeding and character
could not fail to be by such a rude and foolish reception of his
message. He did not know how to reply. They spoke, as it were, another
language, of which he had no comprehension.
“I had better withdraw, I think,” he said. “I don’t know what I can add,
or reply; there is nothing, so far as I know, that I can say more.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt Marjory entrusted you with a great deal more to say!”
cried Mrs. Charles. “She wanted to humble us; but you may tell her she
sha’n’t humble us. We are people who can defend ourselves. If she isn’t
clever enough even to make up a better story than this--”
“I think,” said Fanshawe, “it would be well to leave Miss Heriot out of
the discussion; she has nothing to do with it--and, as it is evident,
that you do not in the least understand her--”
“What do you mean, Sir, by saying Mrs. Charles does not understand?”
said Hepburn, coming from his window. A burning flush covered the young
man’s face; his eyes looked hot and bloodshot, and the veins were
knotted upon his forehead; he was suffering such agonies of shame and
pain as few people, perhaps, have gone through; shame for the woman whom
he loved. Yes, though he was ashamed of her, though he perceived her
meanness, her prettiness, her folly, still he loved her. He had stood
aloof as long as he could; now, when the tugging at his heart, as well
as her impatient looks, called him to her side--when very shame impelled
him to come to her defence, to save her from her own folly, to hide from
himself the gnawing pangs of his own shame--that shame took the fiercer
form of passion. If he had worn a sword he would have drawn it; if there
had been any other foolish way of rushing into mortal conflict he would
have adopted it. It was the writhing of his own pain which excited him,
but he tried to make it look like indignation. “If you have anything to
say to Mrs. Charles, Sir,” he added fiercely, “or any objections to
make, be so good as to address yourself to me.”
“To you! why should I?” cried Fanshawe, more amazed than ever.
“Because she has given me the privilege of standing between her and all
impertinent intruders,” cried the unhappy young man, taking her hand in
an agony of self-humiliation. Poor boy! he identified himself with her
publicly at the moment when he saw most distinctly and suffered most
sharply from the revelation of her character, which, to do her justice,
she had never meant to withhold from him. He almost hated her in the
vehemence of his love; hated her for not being what he would have had
her, with a hatred which somehow intensified his passion. The sight was
so strange and painful that it subdued the impulse of anger in
Fanshawe’s mind.
“In that case,” he said gravely, “since I can neither fight with you,
nor argue with you, I will withdraw, Mr. Hepburn; and Mr. Heriot’s
communication can be made officially--if necessary, to you. Good
morning, I have no more to say.”
Verna rushed forward as he opened the door. Already her better sense had
perceived the folly of her sister’s words.
“Mr. Fanshawe, Matilda is always ridiculous!” she cried, breathless;
“but we will not yield a step till we are forced--not a step!”
“So be it!” said Fanshawe; “though I hope your advisers will counsel you
less foolishly. At all events, I have said what I had to say.”
“Forget Matilda’s nonsense, at least!” cried the sister. Matilda had
thrown herself back upon her sofa, where the unfortunate Johnnie was
kneeling by her, soothing her. “But I will not give up, I cannot give
up!” she said passionately, under her breath, clasping her hands. She
was not aware she had said it; her face, which was very pale, took a
strange character of force and high purpose,--yes, of high purpose, such
as it was. She did not wish to defraud anyone; but she was struggling
for bare life; she followed Fanshawe out, going with him to the door,
with rising uneasiness--the more generous part of her character waking
with her better judgment. “All that about Miss Heriot,” she said,
gasping, “was ridiculous; and Mr. Fanshawe, I am sure she did not mean
to be rude to you; I never meant to be rude to you; it was only temper
and surprise. And oh, when a blow like this is coming, it seems so much
easier when you can feel it is somebody’s fault!”
“But you are much too sensible to believe so?” said Fanshawe, “who
could--or would--attempt to deceive you in such a matter? Do you think
an invention of this kind could ever stand the eye of day?”
“It is--it must be an invention!” cried Verna; and then, poor soul, she
had recourse to that expedient which women employ by instinct, and
which, did they but know it, always ruins their cause, though it may
gain them a momentary triumph. She appealed to her companion, as if that
could serve her. “Oh, Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, “we should do well if we
were but left alone. The place would soon be got into order. I have
given up all my plans about the house. I should see that Tommy was
brought up as he ought to be. Why cannot they let us alone?”
“Do you think it possible,” he said, with some impatience, “that people
like the Heriots are framing a lie in order to harm you?”
She looked at him with dilating eyes, in which the tears gradually rose.
She had no understanding of the question. It came natural to her to
think that somebody must have done it. “I would try to do what they
wished,” she faltered, looking at him with a pathetic desire to
understand. “I should be very glad to take their advice--I would do
anything--”
“Miss Bassett,” said Fanshawe; “supposing it could affect the question
in any way--which it could not--but supposing, for the sake of argument,
that these good resolutions of yours could affect the question; how long
will you be able to do anything if this piece of news Mr. Hepburn has
told me is true?”
“What piece of news?” She looked so scared that he was almost frightened
by the impression his words had produced. “Oh, you think there is
something between--? But that is unjust to poor Matilda. She could not
think of such a thing so soon. She is only amusing herself. You are very
cruel to my sister,” cried Verna, turning her back upon him without
another word. He went out with a smile, and jumped into his dog-cart,
glad to get clear of the whole business. It was nothing to him; but she,
poor soul, fled to her own room--so passionately excited that she could
scarcely keep still as she rushed up those warm, noiseless, carpeted
stairs which had seemed to her like the very path to Elysium, a little
while before. There, at least, howsoever things might turn out, her
power and reign were over. She could have torn her hair or her dress, or
anything that came within her reach, in her passion. It was all over. A
mean and small life of dependence and servility was all that now
remained to her. To be turned out one way or another, what did it
matter? Nay, it would be better to be turned out with Matilda than by
her; better to share her downfall than to be crushed by her triumphant
prosperity. Thus of the three people affected by Fanshawe’s message,
there was but one person whom it affected mildly, and that the one most
concerned. Matilda, after her fit of abuse of Marjory and the old
family, shed a few angry tears, and then was comfortable again, and
ready for such dalliance with her lover, interspersed by quarrels, as
was her only fashion of mental amusement. But it would be hard to
describe the mingled passions in Hepburn’s mind, as he knelt by the
sofa, scorning, hating, adoring, the pretty, miserable, beautiful
creature who had bewitched him. It was not her fault; all women were so;
did not every sage bear testimony to it, from Solomon downwards? And the
poor young fellow, in the revulsion of his feelings, took to admiring
her more and more, dwelling upon her beauty, her movements, her glances,
all the outward part of her. These were what women possessed to make men
mad and happy--nothing more.
And Verna up-stairs sobbed in an hysterical passion. She had lost her
very life.
CHAPTER XXII.
It is needless to trace all the steps by which the real heir of the
Heriots was placed in such possession of his rights as a poor little
orphan baby of three months’ old could attain. Before his young mother
was carried to the family grave, where she was laid, under silent
protest from her humble family, who stood aloof with a pride familiar to
the Scotch peasant, giving up the child with a certain grim and
indignant reluctance--the infant was taken to St. Andrews, and placed
under Marjory’s care. This was done by Agnes, who all along had regarded
Tom Heriot’s sister as her rival and enemy. She carried the child
herself, scorning all aid, to Mr. Charles Heriot’s house. If possible,
her peasant appearance--the air of a respectable maidservant, which was
natural to her--was more manifest than ever. She would not allow it to
be supposed that she wished to approach herself, by ever so little, to
the “gentles,” with whom her sister had been connected.
“I’ve brought you the bairn,” she said, confronting Marjory, with that
defiant look which had never quite left her face; and she unfolded the
sleeping baby from the shawl in which he was muffled, and laid him down
upon the sofa, sternly repressing all sign of emotion. “He was to be
mine,” she said, briefly, “I promised to be a mother to him, but it’s
reasonable now that he should be in your hands. My sister, up to her
last day,” and here a spasm crossed the resolute features, “never knew
that he was the heir--nor my mother. They thought the bairn would be
provided for, that was a’. I knew well enough--but why should I have
troubled her innocent mind, that heeded no such vanities? And I allow
that a bairn like this, born the heir, should be in the hands of the
family. You and me will, maybe, never meet again--”
“Agnes,” said Marjory, “you cannot think that I would wish to separate
you like this from Isabell’s child?”
Again Agnes’s comely face was swept as by a wind of emotion, and again
she banished all trace of feeling. “I know you are kind,” she said. “It
is your nature; but I’m of the nature that I canna bide kindness. I’ll
take it from my equals--but no from you--and nothing else can be between
us--- though I respect ye--I respect ye,” she added, hurriedly. “I’ve no
a word to say. If I had been to choose, I would have chosen different. I
would rather he had been a poor lad’s son, with little siller. I would
have bred him up, and watched him night and day, and put my hope and my
heart on him; but oh, being otherwise, it’s a blessing of Providence
that it’s come to light now, and no later. Time makes no marks upon a
helpless infant, as it would do upon a grown lad. It’s best to part with
him now.”
Here two tears, big and bitter, fell upon the child’s white frock,
making two large spots, which Agnes, taking out her handkerchief, did
her best to wipe away.
“He shall know all that you did for his mother--all that you would have
done for him,” said Marjory. “He will grow up to reward you, at least,
with his love.”
“Reward me!” said Agnes, with a hot flush on her cheeks.
“I said, with his love,” said Marjory, gently, “which is what no one
would scorn, not the Queen.”
“No, no the Queen. She’s a good leddy,” said Agnes; “but ye can take
many a thing from them below you that you canna take from them above
you. Love’s no love unless you’re a kind of equals. I would rather he
kent nothing about us. We’re no of his condition, and never can be. Eh,
my poor Bell! my poor Bell! that was so pleased he should be a
gentleman’s son, without thinking that it parted him from all belonging
to her,” cried Agnes, the tears rushing down her face in a sudden
tempest. Then she dried her eyes hurriedly. “Miss Heriot, I ken he’s in
good hands. We’ll never trouble you, and you’ll no breed him up to
despise us. I must away now; there’s aye plenty to do, God be praised.”
“But, Agnes, I shall see you again? You will not go away without coming
to see the child and me?”
“It would serve no purpose,” she said. “I’ll see you where I once saw
you before, in the churchyard.” “Oh, little did I think how I was to go
there next! I grudge her to you, I grudge her to you! though I do not
deny it’s an honour, a’ the honour that can be shown now--”
“All that we have ever had it in our power to show,” said Marjory.
“I’m saying nothing against that,” said Agnes, with her unquenchable
look of rivalry, of unsuccessful rivalry, compelled to yield to superior
power. She bent over the child, who slept peacefully on the sofa, for a
moment, and then she turned and left the room with scant ceremony. Her
heart was too sore for politeness, and politeness is not the cardinal
virtue of her kind. Thus she passed away out of Marjory’s life. The
strange interlude of her connection with the Heriots must have looked
like a dream to her in after-days. She never interfered, never claimed
to see the child, never asserted any right to him. Partly with that
stoicism which belongs to her class and nation, and partly for very
love’s sake, she gave him up, making the sacrifice absolute and perfect,
as only a powerful nature can do. How could she? many a feeble critic
said afterwards. The peasant-girl could, because of love, and because
she was tenderer and stronger than most; the effort rent her heart, but
she did it, feeling the fitness of the sacrifice.
And the baby who had been born amid the peat-smoke in a Highland
cottage, who had been frantically concealed at first, a shame to
everybody belonging to him, entered upon another kind of existence
without knowing it, in equal ignorance of his cloudy entry into life,
and of this sudden revolution. He lay on the soft sofa, softly
sleeping, placid as if he had not been laid in a hard bed, and pillowed
on dying arms. He never knew any existence but that which he thus began,
as it were, for the second time under Marjory’s shadow. He had no
surroundings but those that belonged to the natural level on which he
was to spend his life.
Fanshawe remained in St. Andrews while all these steps were being taken.
His conduct was quite in accordance with his character. He intended to
go away daily, but every day found some pretext to detain him. He
lingered, and was ready to aid in everything required, and bade himself
begone at night, only to feel that to go was impossible every morning.
People made a hundred comments on him. He was gibed at, gravely
questioned, made the object of many a conjecture, but nothing moved him.
He stayed through the Autumn, with now and then a divergence into the
Highlands for a day’s shooting; he saw the Autumn steal into Winter, and
never budged. Mr. Charles became so used to him that he received the
suggestion of his departure with indignation at last.
“Go away! why should he go away? Where could he be better?” Mr. Charles
said; and did his best to teach him golf, and initiate him into all the
delights of the place. It was Fanshawe who stood by Marjory in the
disagreeable assault she sustained from Mrs. Charles, who drove into St.
Andrews in the Pitcomlie carriage, and stormed so loudly against her
husband’s family, that the wanderers in the ruined Cathedral heard the
sound through the open windows, and came gaping and wondering to
listen. Matilda denounced every kind of vengeance upon the heads of
those who had got up this conspiracy against her, and were about to hunt
her and her orphan boy from their home.
“But do not think you will get rid of me,” she said. “I am not the
outcast you think. Providence has given me another home, where I shall
be able to watch and find you out when you are not thinking. Oh, don’t
imagine you are rid of me!”
Poor Johnnie Hepburn stood by during this objurgation, shrinking from
Marjory’s eye, looking on, now red with shame, now pale with distress,
while his future wife made this exhibition of herself. He stood between
the ideal he had worshipped all his life, and the real upon which he had
fallen, poor fellow, breaking not his bones, but his heart, by the fall.
He was too much cowed to say a word. And neither of the others said
much; they allowed the young widow to drive off triumphant with the
sense that she had humbled them all, and vindicated her superiority.
“That must have done her a deal of good,” Fanshawe said when it was
over, “and it has not done you much harm.”
“It has done me a great deal of harm,” said Marjory, paling out of her
flush of excitement, and looking ready to cry; and then after a while,
she said softly, “Poor Johnnie!” These were not the words of a woman who
had entertained any very elevated feeling for the man whom she thus
pitied; but they were enough to make Fanshawe quite unhappy.
“Idiot!” he said to himself without any pity; and spent that evening
mournfully by himself to the wonder of the Heriot household, and the
consternation of Marjory, who felt that he had been her best support;
and who had not an idea what he could mean by absenting himself on that
particular evening when she was so grateful to him.
They were brought together also by another duty, not of an agreeable
kind. Mrs. Charles gave her sister a summary dismissal when she herself
left Pitcomlie. It was Spring when this occurred, and Matilda was to go
to Edinburgh, her year of mourning being nearly out, to prepare for her
second marriage. But Verna, whose courage and temper had both given way
under the failure of all her hopes, protested so warmly and so
injudiciously against this precipitate marriage, that there was a
violent quarrel, and the weaker sister was turned out to find her way
back to India, or where she pleased. She went to St. Andrews, not
knowing why, and threw herself upon Marjory’s compassion. She had
nowhere to go to but India, where her father did not want her. Nobody in
the world wanted poor Verna. While they were trying to arrange for her
return voyage, she fell ill of a brain-fever, and lay between life and
death for weeks. When she got better, somehow she had acquired a niche
in the household of which she had intended to be the most active enemy.
She stayed in her loneliness as Milly’s governess, or in any other
capacity that could be invented for her; and finally married Dr.
Murray’s successor, and made an admirable parish Minister’s wife,
interfering too much with the poor people, but gradually learning their
character. She and Mrs. John Hepburn were sometimes friends--when the
latter was in want of help; and sometimes enemies, when Matilda felt
well enough to be insolent; but Verna’s vicinity made poor Johnnie’s
life less miserable, and his home less hopeless, than in her absence
they could have been.
This, however, is an incursion into the future which we are scarcely
warranted in making, seeing that the fate of the two principal persons
of this history still remains unsettled. Fanshawe lingered at St.
Andrews through all the Winter and Spring. He made himself of use to
everybody, and was deeply ashamed of his own absolute uselessness. Never
had he been so conscious of the good-for-nothing existence which he did
not seem able to shake himself clear of. It closed his mouth in
Marjory’s presence. What could he say for himself? how could he
recommend himself to her? He would go and sit by her, or walk by her
side when permitted, silent, embarrassed; doing nothing to win her
attention, wondering if she despised him, or if she pitied him, or if
she thought him worth thinking of at all? His feelings grew exaggerated
and unreal in the profound consciousness he had of his own helpless
unimportance, and in his constant surmises as to what she thought of
him, and the questions concerning him which must arise in her mind. One
half of these questions, however, never arose in Marjory’s mind at all,
and the other half appeared to her in a different light, and affected
her differently; but the man was in love and humble, and never divined
this. He lingered on, hoping for he knew not what; that something might
break the ice between them, that she might offer herself to him, or
something else equally improbable. Marjory’s sentiments were of a very
different character. She did not feel herself to stand on that vast
pinnacle of superiority which was so visible to him; her eyes were not
so clear as he supposed them. To be sure, he was not at all her ideal of
what a man ought to be; but I am not sure that she liked him less on
that account. Probably Marjory, like many other young women, supposed
herself to prefer that glorious being of romance whom romantic girls
dream of, whom they can look up to, upon whom they can hang in sweet but
abject inferiority, and who is to them, as Mr. Trollope says, a god. I
say probably she supposed that she would have liked this; but I doubt
much whether she would have liked it; for men like gods seldom appear to
the visual organs of any but very susceptible feminine adorers, after
five-and-twenty, and Marjory had reached that ripe age. But I fear she
liked Fanshawe all the better for not being a god. She liked him for the
very qualities which he felt she must despise him for. To her the vague
and unsettled character of his life appeared but dimly, while his
generosities shone out very bright. All her good sense and
discrimination failed her in this point, as such qualities invariably do
just at the moment when they might be of practical use. In matters so
closely concerning personal happiness they never are of the slightest
use; as soon as the heart is touched, such poor bulwarks of the mind
yield as if they were made of broken reeds. She saw nothing ignoble,
nothing unworthy in the life full of so many kindly uses, of which
Fanshawe thought with so much shame, yet felt himself incapable of
changing.
“Most people come here for golf,” she would say, when his long lingering
was remarked. “Why should he not stay--for his own pleasure--if he likes
it? Is golf such an elevating occupation?”
This was said, not because she despised golf, but because of him whom
she felt herself bound to defend, and who had not even golf--who had
only herself, for his excuse.
The way in which all this ended was as follows: Marjory had gone out to
the Spindle on a bright Winter day to pay a farewell visit to that spot
which had occupied so important a place in her past life. Who does not
know the keen and radiant brightness of a sunny day in Winter, when
there is no wind to chill the still air, no clouds upon the deepened
blue, none of the languid softening of Summer, but every outline sharp,
and every tint brought out by the radiant sun and clear atmosphere? The
rocks unfolded all their glittering veins, all their ruddy stains of
colour under the sunshine. There were no trees to keep the fact of decay
before the spectator by means of fallen leaves and bare anatomy of
branches. The sea was like a great blue mirror, except where the crisped
surface, still, though ruffled, betrayed some breath of wandering air.
The sails of the fishing boats rose brown out of this dazzling surface,
and in the distance some far white ships glided like great sea-birds
along the bright broad line of the horizon to which both sky and sea
went out widening and paling. The sun was warm, and Marjory seated
herself, for a few moments, on a dry rock from which the sea had long
ebbed. This stillness was more intense than it ever is on a Summer
day--the brightness almost more intense too. She sat and thought of all
that had passed there--of Isabell and her death-bed--of the strange way
in which this corner of rocky beach had been thrust into her own story.
She was disturbed and annoyed when she heard a step approaching,
scattering the pebbles, and sounding through the Winter’s stillness. She
was still more disturbed, but perhaps not annoyed, when she saw that the
intruder was Fanshawe. He was the only intruder whose presence she could
have endured; and when she saw him, she rose and went to meet him,
taking the path towards home, which somehow made the encounter less
embarrassing. He turned and accompanied her. It is a long walk, winding
up and down by many a fold of the bold coast, now at the foot of the
cliffs, now above--an endless walk to people who are embarrassed by
finding themselves together; and yet not disagreeable--one of those
opportunities of pleasant pain which few have the courage to avoid; and
which may become, who knows, all pleasure, and no pain, by the chance of
a sudden word.
“Do you know,” said Fanshawe suddenly, after some vague conversation
about nothing, “that I know what a poor wretch I am, Miss Heriot? If I
was good for anything--if I was of the least consequence in the world,
or knew how to make myself so, I should go away.”
“Should you?” said Marjory; “I do not see the necessity. Do you know
that I think you talk a great deal of nonsense on this point. You cannot
expect me to agree with you, seeing what a friend you have been to us;
how much you have done for us ever since we knew you. You have been good
for everything--”
“And yet,” he said, “it is odd if you will think of it--that I have been
of no real service whatsoever. I don’t mean to say I had not the best
intentions--but there is nothing so feeble as good intentions. About
these Macgregors, for instance; they were found before I got back from
my wild-goose chase. I meant well, but I did nothing.”
“That is not the question,” said Marjory loftily; “their coming was a
mere accident. You did everything--the accident came in and balked you.
I was half disappointed myself.”
“Were you?” he said, looking at her with those melting, glowing eyes
which betray secrets. And then he added quite abruptly: “The road is
rough, will you take my arm?”
Marjory laughed. “I do not see how that follows,” she said, amused.
“No, it does not follow; nothing follows in life--except that the road
is rough, you know, and facts count for something. They do count for
something--not for much, perhaps you will say--”
“Indeed, I am not such an infidel; they count for a great deal,” she
said, and though she needed no support, she accepted it to give him
pleasure. But such was the fantastical nature of the man that, after the
first gleam of delight that came across him at the touch of her hand,
his brow clouded over.
“How good you are, Miss Heriot! too good. You drive me to despair when
you are kind to me. Often, do you know, I have wanted to ask you
whether, by any chance--people take odd fancies sometimes--you would
have me, to try what you could make of me? and then you have been kind,
and driven me to despair. It is no use, is it, telling you that I have
been a greater fool than usual to-day? Do you know,” he went on, holding
her hand tightly in his arm, “if you would have had me, I think
something might have come of me, perhaps--”
He looked at her so that she could not bear his eyes. It was a curious
kind of love-tale; but not, I suppose, less embarrassing than another.
She withdrew her hand from his arm with difficulty, and with a little
impatience. “Mr. Fanshawe, you vex me when you say such things--of
yourself.”
Each word as she said it was lower than the preceding one; and the last
two were quite inaudible to poor Fanshawe. He gave a huge sigh that came
from the bottom of his heart. “Well!” he said, “I knew how it would be;
I felt sure that was about what you would say. And it is quite right--I
am not good enough to look at you, much less to hope. But, Miss Heriot,
I am done for now, and I don’t care what becomes of me. Don’t be kind to
me any more.”
Marjory looked up, and saw, to her wonder, the darkness that had come
over his face. There was no time to be lost in trifling. She put her
hand within his arm again--she looked at him smiling. “But I will,” she
said.
“You will--what?”
The question was foolish--the answer unnecessary. So are many questions,
and many answers at that crisis of life. They got home somehow, and
told the others what had happened. “But I have nothing,” Fanshawe said
ruefully when he recounted the matter to Mr. Charles.
“We must make some arrangement--some arrangement,” said that troubled
sage, with many puckers in his forehead. Anyhow, it was a way of solving
the question of Marjory’s marriage, and that was worth a sacrifice.
The Fanshawes are now settled at Pitcomlie, the guardians of the baby
heir. The useless man has become the most useful of men in that work
which so many useless men could shine in, the management of an estate.
He has found what he can do, and does it. And Mr. Charles sits in his
room in the old Tower, and has come to the second volume of the family
history. It will be a long time before he comes to the entry of “Thomas
Heriot, married June 16, 18--, to Isabell Jeffrey,” nobody’s daughter,
which it goes to his very heart to think of. Perhaps he will not live
long enough to be obliged to record that there was once an irregular
marriage and a nameless wife among the Heriots; but in the meantime the
others keep the name of poor Isabell always sacred; and her boy, after
his long minority, will be the richest Heriot that has reigned for many
a generation in the East Neuk of Fife.
THE END.
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