THE PRIMROSE PATH

            A Chapter in the Annals of the Kingdom of Fife

                           BY MRS. OLIPHANT

                               AUTHOR OF

 “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD” “AGNES” “A SON OF THE SOIL” “CARITÀ”
        “FOR LOVE AND LIFE” “MISS MARJORIBANKS” “INNOCENT” &c.

             “A violet in the youth of primy nature,
              Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
              The perfume and suppliance of a minute;
              No more.”

              --“the primrose path of dalliance!”
                      HAMLET, _Act I., Scene III._

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                                 1878


                           BY MRS. OLIPHANT.


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                                  TO

                   THE VERY REVEREND THE PRINCIPAL:

                          THE RIGHT REVEREND

                            THE MODERATOR:

            ONE OF THE CHIEF LIVING ILLUSTRATIONS OF FIFE:

                                 FROM

                 THE HUMBLE CHRONICLER OF THE KINGDOM

                               Greeting!

 JUNE, 1878.




                          THE PRIMROSE PATH.




CHAPTER I.


The old house of Earl’s-hall stands on a long strip of land between
two rivers, in that county affectionately known to its inhabitants as
the kingdom of Fife. It is not a great house, but neither is it an
insignificant one, though fortune has brought the family low which once
held some primitive state in it: a quaint, gray dwelling, not formed
for modern wants. To make an ordinary dining-room and drawing-room in
it would be as impossible as to content an ordinary band of modern
servants with the accommodation provided in the low vaulted chambers
below, which are all the old house possesses in the way of kitchen or
servants’ hall; but when you see its gray gable and turret projecting
from among a cloud of trees, the old Scotch manor-house looks as
imposing as any castle. The belt of wood round the little park, or what
in Scotland is called “the policy,” is old too, and as well-grown as
the winds will permit. It is true that a great turnip-field, reaching
up to the walls of the garden which lies on the southern side, has been
thrust in between the house and the wood, and the policy is as ragged
as a poor pony badly groomed and badly fed; but these are imperfections
which a little money could remedy very quickly. The house itself is
very peculiar in form, and consisted once of two buildings built on
two sides of a court, and united by a mere screen of wall, in which is
an arched door-way surmounted by a coat of arms. Probably, however,
the second of these buildings, which has now fallen into ruins, was a
modern addition, the other being the ancient body of the house. It is
of gray stone, three stories high, with a round turret at the western
side, which rises higher than the rest by one flight of the old winding
stone staircase, and has a little square battlement and terrace at the
top, from which you look abroad upon a wide landscape, not beautiful,
perhaps, but broad and breezy, rich fields and low hills and vacant
sea. To the right lies the village, with its church built upon a knoll
in the rich plain, and its houses, gray, red, and blue, as the topping
of chill bluish slate or rough-red generous tile predominates, clinging
about the little height. Cornfields wave and nestle round this centre
of rural population, and behind are the hills of Forfarshire, and a
farther line of the Grampians, half seen among the mists. The softly
swelling heights of the Lomonds lie in the nearer distance, and in the
foreground the Eden sweeps darkly blue, with a line of breakers showing
the bar at its mouth, toward the low sand-hills and stormy waters
of St. Andrews Bay, a place in which no ship likes to find itself;
while over the low sweep of the sands St. Andrews itself stands misty
and fine, its long line of cliff and tower and piled houses ending
in the jagged edge of the ruined castle, and the tall mystery of St.
Rule’s--the square tower which baffles archæology. Such is the scene,
rural and fresh and green, with a somewhat chill tone of color, and
many a token of the winds in the bare anatomy and shivering branches
of the trees, and with no great amount of beauty to boast of: yet ever
full of attraction and suggestion, as such a width of firmament, such
a great circle of horizon, such variety of sea and land and hills and
towers must ever be.

Through the door-way in the wall, which is rich with rough but
effective ornamentation, boldly cut string-courses, which look as if
there might once have been some kind of fortification to be supported,
you enter a little court, from which the house opens--a square court,
turfed and green, and containing a well and an old thorn-tree. The
ruined portion of the house, roofless and mouldering, is on the east
side; the habitable part on the west, an oblong block of building; and
at the well, on the day when this history opens, two figures, one old,
one young, both full in the gleam of westering sunshine which breaks
over the wall. One-half of the court is in deepest shade, but this all
bright, so bright that the girl shades her eyes with one hand, while
with the other she pumps water into the old woman’s pail, who stands
with arms a-kimbo, shaking her head, and giving vent to that murmur of
remonstrative disapproval, inarticulate yet very expressive, which is
made by the tongue against the palate.

“Tt-tt-tt,” says old Bell. “If ever there was a masterful miss and an
ill-willy, and ane that will have her ain way!”

“How can I be masterful and a miss too?” said the girl, laughing. Her
arm grew tired, however, with the pumping, and she left off before the
vessel was half full. “There!” she said, “I’ll cry on Jeanie to do the
rest for you. I’m tired now.”

“Oh, Miss Margret! but you need not cry upon Jeanie. I am fit enough,
though I’m old, to do that much for mysel’.”

“It’s the sun has got into my eyes,” said the girl; and she strayed
away into the shade, and seated herself upon a heavy old wooden chair
that had been placed close to the door. The sun would not have seemed
unbearably hot to any one accustomed to his warmer sway; but Margaret
Leslie was not used to overmuch sunshine, and what she called the
glare fatigued her. Such a mild glare as it was--a suffusion of soft
light, more regretful at giving so little than triumphant in delight
over its universal victory! It had been rainy weather, and the light
had a wistful suddenness in it, like a smile in wet eyes. Margaret
withdrew into the shade. She was a girl of seventeen or so, the only
daughter of this old gray house, the only blossom of youth about it
except Jeanie in the kitchen, whom she did not “cry on” to help old
Bell--not so much because old Bell declined the help, but because she
herself forgot next moment all about it. Margaret had no idea that to
say she would “cry upon” Jeanie was not the best English in the world.
She was as entirely and honestly of the soil as her maid was; a little
more careful, perhaps, of her dialect; not “broad” indeed, in her use
of the vernacular, because of the old father up-stairs, but with an
accent which would make a young lady of Fife of the present day shiver,
and a proud and determined aversion to the “high English” which only
disapproving visitors ever spoke--ladies who looked with alarm upon
her, suggesting schools and governesses. Nowhere could there have been
found a more utterly neglected girl than Margaret, whom nobody, except
old Bell, had ever taken any care of, all her life. Bell had been very
careful of her--had kept her feet warm and her head cool, had seen
that she ate her porridge all the mornings of her childhood, and that
there were no holes in her stockings; but what more could Bell do? She
discoursed her young mistress continually, putting all kinds of homely
wisdom into her head; but she could not teach her French, or to play
the “piany,” which were the only accomplishments of which Bell was even
aware.

“It’s no my fault,” the old woman said, putting out her open palms
with a natural gesture of mild despair. “If I were to speak till I was
hoarse (and so I have), what would that do to mend the maitter? The
maister he turns a deaf ear, though I was to charm ever so wisely; and
Miss Margret hersel’--oh, Miss Margret hersel’, if she could learn a’
that a young leddy should, in twa minutes by the clock, it might be
done; but hold her to one thing I canna--it wants somebody with more
authority than me; and a bonny creature like that, and with a fortune
coming till her from her mother! How is she ever to learn the piany, or
a word but broad Scots out here?”

Little Margaret cared for such lamentations. She sat softly swinging
the heavy chair against the wall, which was not an easy thing to
do. She had not the aspect or physiognomy adapted for a hoyden; her
features were small and refined; her color more pale than warm,
lighted up by evanescent rose-flushes, but never brilliant; her hair
singularly fine in texture and abundant in quantity, but of no tint
more pronounced than brown, the most ordinary and commonplace of
shades. Her face was a cloudy, shadowy little face, but possessed by
a smile which came and went in the suddenest way, brightening her and
everything about her. No particular art of the toilet aided or hindered
the prettiness of her little slight figure. If she was not as God
made her, she was at least as Miss Buist in the village made her--in
a dress of blue serge, as near the fashion as possible, of which the
peculiarity was that it was rather tight where it ought to be loose,
and loose where it ought to be tight. But Margaret’s soul had not been
awakened to the point of dress, and so long as it did not hurt, she
minded little. Her shoes were made, and strongly made, by the village
shoemaker; everything about her was of the soil. When she had swung
her chair to the wall, she let it drop back again to its place, and
swallowed a little yawn as she watched the water brim into the pail.

“What will I do, Bell?” she said. “What will I do next, Bell?”

(If any one thinks that Margaret ought to have said, “What shall I
do?” they are to remember that this is not how we use our verbs in the
kingdom of Fife.)

“Oh, Miss Margret! if you would but do one thing, just _wan_
thing, without changin’ for wan hour by the clock!”

“You’ve been saying that as long as I can mind. You, you never change,
and that’s why I like to be aye changing. There are so few things to do
in the afternoon. The morning’s better--there’s something in the air.
I’m always content in the morning.”

“Eh ay! you’re very content, flichterin’ about like the birds among the
trees, wan moment on this branch, the ither on that; but the afternoon,
Miss Margret, the afternoon’s the time for rest--if you’ve been doing
onything the fore part of the day.”

“If you want to rest,” said Margaret; “you, perhaps, Bell, that are
getting old, and papa-- I’ve seen _him_ sleepin’. Figure such a
thing! Sleepin’! with the sun in the sky!”

“I can figure it real well,” said Bell; “it’s no often a poor body gets
the chance: but just to close your eyes in the drowsy time, when a’s
well redd up, the fire burning steady, and the kettle near the boil,
and pussy bumming by your side, ah, that’s pleasant! it’s a kind o’
glimmer o’ heaven.”

“Heaven! the kettle on the boil, and pussy--that’s a funny heaven,”
said Margaret, with a laugh.

“Weel, maybe it’s ower mateerial an image; but we’re poor fleshly
creatures; and I was meaning a Sawbath afternoon, when you’ve come
hame from the kirk, your Bible at hand, and a’ sae quiet,” said Bell,
amending her first flight. “Jeanie stepping saft about the place,
waiting till it’s time to mask the tea, and auld John on the other
side of the fire, and nothing to do but to thank your Maker for a’ his
mercies and think upon the sermon--if it was a sound sermon,” Bell
added, after a pause, taking up her pail; “for I wouldna say they’re
a’ of the kind that ye would like to mind and think upon in a Sawbath
afternoon in the gloamin’. Miss Margret, what do you say to run up
the stair and see if your papaw’s wanting onything? That would aye be
something to do.”

“Oh, Bell, if you only had more imagination! You always tell me to
run and see if papa is wanting anything: and he never wants anything,
except, perhaps, a book from the high shelf, where they’re all Greek,
and I have to climb up upon the steps, and get no good.”

“And whase fault’s that?” said Bell, reproachfully. She had set down
the pail again and paused, looking with mournful eyes at the young
creature seventeen years old, who did not know what to do with herself.
“Whase fault’s that? Did I no beg ye on my bended knees to learn your
French book?--a’ wee words, as easy! I could have learned it mysel’;
and then ye would have had a’ the shelfs and a’ the books open to you,
and your papaw’s learnin’ at your finger’s-end.”

“Do you think French and Greek are the same?” cried Margaret. “Why,
they’re different print even--the a b c’s different; they are no more
like the same thing than you and me.”

“I’m no saying they’re just the same,” said Bell, a little discomfited.
“One thing’s aye different from another. When I was learnin’ it was aw,
bay, say that they learned me, no clip-pit and short like your English.
But the creature kens something after a’,” she said to herself as she
went in-doors with her pail. “A thing like that, with a’ her wits about
her, canna be near a learned man without learning something. But no a
note o’ the piany!” Bell said, with a real sense of humiliation. For
that want what could make up?

Margaret was left alone in the little court, and she soon tired of
being alone. When she had remained there for about five minutes,
watching the sun shine upon the ruin opposite to her, and print all
the irregularities of the wall which connected it with the house upon
the broken turf of the court, she got up suddenly and went up-stairs.
Musing and dreaming were the only things upon which she could spend
with pleasure more than “twa minutes by the clock,” as Bell said.
She would read, indeed, as long as any one pleased, but that was an
unprofitable exercise, and tended to nothing; for what was it all but
foolish stories and daft-like poetry, and play-acting and nonsense?
These things were naught in the estimation of the people in the house
who were anxious about Margaret’s education. The only member of the
household who took no thought of her education at all was the master,
who sat up-stairs in solitary state. Even Jeanie, the handmaiden in the
kitchen, was very anxious on Miss Peggy’s account. She wanted to see
her young mistress go to balls, and have pretty dresses from Edinburgh,
and enjoy herself. What was the use of being bonny and young if you
stayed aye in one auld house and nobody saw ye? Jeanie asked herself.
And this was a question which much disturbed and occupied her mind.
Old John, too, who was Bell’s husband, and the male factotum, as she
was the female, had his anxieties about Miss Peggy. When she began to
want to have pairties and young folk about her, what should they all
do? John demanded. He would be willing, and so would Bell, to “put
themselves about” to the utmost; but what was to be done for chiney and
plate? Wan dozen of everything might be enough for the family, but what
would that do for a pairty? So that John’s mind was disturbed also. But
old Sir Ludovic, what did he mind? Give him a book, and ye might mine
the cellars, and throw your best bomb-shells at the tower, and he would
never hear ye. Such was the general opinion of the house.

There was no entrance-hall in this primitive house; but only a
little space at the “stair-foot,” the bottom of the well through which
the spiral staircase wound its narrow way; but though it was dark, and
the twist of the unprotected steps a little alarming to a stranger,
Margaret ran up as lightly as a bird. At about half the height of an
ordinary flight of stairs there were two doors close to each other,
forming a little angle. One of these Margaret pushed open softly. It
led into a long room, running all the length of the building, panelled
wherever the wall was visible, and painted white, as in a French house:
one side, however, was covered entirely with book-shelves. The depth
of the recesses in which the small windows were embedded showed the
thickness of the wall. One at each end and one in the middle were all
that lighted the long room, two or three others which had belonged
to the original plan having been blocked up on account of the window
tax, that vexatious impost. In the centre of the room stood a large
old japanned screen, stretched almost across the whole breadth, and
dividing it into two. On the south side, into which the door opened, a
large writing-table was placed upon the old and much-worn Turkey-carpet
which covered the middle of the floor; and seated at this, but with
his back to the sunshine, which was pouring in, sat an old man in a
chair, reading. The window behind him and the window in the side each
poured its stream of sunshine between the deep cuttings of the ancient
walls, five or six feet thick, but neither of these rays of warmth
and light touched this solitary inhabitant. He was so much absorbed
in his reading that he did not hear the door open. Margaret came in
behind him and stood in the sunshine, the impersonation of youth--the
light catching her at all points, gleaming in her eyes, bringing color
to her cheek, making her collar and the edge of white round her hands
blaze against the darkness of her dress. But no ray touched the old
man in his chair. He was as still as if he had been cut out of gray
marble, his face motionless, the movement of his eyes as he read, the
unfrequent movement necessary to turn the page, being all the sign of
life about him. The book he was reading was a large old folio, propped
up upon a sort of reading-desk in front of him. A large wide garment,
something between a long coat and a dressing-gown, of dark-colored
and much-worn velvet, and wrapped round his thin person, gave it some
dignity; and he wore a little black velvet skull-cap, which made his
fine head and thin white locks imposing. Margaret stood breathless,
making no sound for a moment, and then said, suddenly, “You look like
Archimage in the cave, papa!”

The old man made a faint movement of surprise; a wrinkle of impatience
came into his forehead, a momentary smile to his lip. “Yes, yes, my
little Peggy; go and play,” he said. She stood for a moment behind him,
hesitating, looking round her with eager eyes in search of something,
anything, to interest her. She was neither surprised nor wounded to
find herself thus summarily disposed of: she was used to it. Finally,
seeing nothing likely to interest her, Margaret turned lightly away,
and disappeared through a second door which was close to the one by
which she had entered. This brought her into a small rounded room,
with one window, a little white-panelled Scotch-French boudoir, with
a high mantel-piece and small antique furniture--a little square of
Turkey-carpet on the floor, a pretty old marquetry cabinet, and some
high-backed chairs of the same covered with brocaded silk from some
great-grandmother’s gown. Margaret knew nothing about the value of
these old furnishings. She thought the walnut-wood table, with its
elaborate clustered legs, a much finer article, though it was often in
her way. There were some old pictures on the walls, some books, and
more ornament and grace than in all the rest of the house put together.
What did Margaret care? She sang an old tune to herself, drumming with
her fingers upon the window-sill, and thinking what she should do.
Then she drew open a drawer in the cabinet and took from it some old
fancy-work, faded but fine, with a bundle of wools and silks in the
same condition. It was the relic of some old lady’s industry (Lady
Jean, old Bell said; but how should she know?) which had been found
in one of the periodical routings out of old presses and drawers in
which Margaret delighted. The linen on which the work was half done
was yellow and the colors faded, but it had struck the girl’s fancy,
and she had carried it off with her to finish (this time a hundred
years, Bell said, satirically). Margaret took it out now and laid it on
the table; then she went flying up the stone stairs, and all over the
rooms, to find her thimble and her scissors, which were not to be found.

And while she tries to find these, what can we do better than let the
reader know who old Sir Ludovic was, and how he came to have so young
a child? Margaret’s foot flying up-stairs, and the sound she made of
doors and drawers opening, and now an impatient exclamation (for the
way thimbles hide themselves and refuse to be found!) and now a little
snatch of song, was all that was audible in the still old house. Bell
and John and Jeanie in the kitchen had their cracks, indeed, as they
took their tea; but sounds did not travel easily up the spiral stair,
and the long room with its one inhabitant was as void of all movement
as was the vacant little white-panelled chamber with Lady Jean’s old
work thrown on the table. All silence, languor, stillness; and yet one
creature in the house to whom stillness was as death.




CHAPTER II.


The Leslies had been settled at Earl’s-hall since before the memory of
man. Now they were related to other Leslies in Fife; and out of it, I
do not pretend to say. But this family itself was old enough to have
carried any amount of honors, much less the poor baronetcy which was
all it had got out of the sometimes lavish hand of fame. The family
was old enough to have supported a dukedom, but not rich enough. Sir
Ludovic had got but a moderate fortune from his father, and that which
he would transmit to his son would be considerably less than moderate.
Indeed, it was not worth calling a fortune at all. When the Baronet
began his life, the policy was a real policy, a pretty small park
enough, with its girdle of hardy trees. No turnip-field then thrust its
plebeian presence and odor between the house and its own woods; the
garden was kept up with care, the other part of the house was still
habitable and inhabited, and the greatest people in the country did
not scorn to dine and dance in the rooms so well adapted for either
purpose. But of all these good things, the rooms and old Sir Ludovic
were all that remained. He had not done any particular harm at any
time, nor had he wasted his means in lavish living, and nobody was
so much surprised as he when his money was found to have been spent.
“What have I done with it?” he had asked all his life. But nobody
could tell; he had no expensive tastes--indeed, he had no tastes at
all, except for books, and his own library was a very good one. It was
true, he had indulged in three wives and three families, which was
inconsiderate, but each of the wives had, greatly to the comfort of
her respective children, possessed something of her own. Time went and
came, however, taking these ladies away in succession, but leaving Sir
Ludovic still in his great high-backed chair, older, but otherwise not
much different from what he had ever been. The eldest son, also called
Ludovic, was the only one now surviving of the first marriage. He was
a man of forty-five, with a family of his own; a hard-working lawyer
in Edinburgh, with no great income to keep up his position, and little
disposed to welcome the burden of his father’s little title when it
should come. A baronetcy, and an old house altogether uninhabitable by
a family, and entirely out of modern fashion--what should he make of
these additions when his father died? He had made his own way as much
as if he had been a poor school-master’s son, instead of the heir of an
ancient and important family. He could not even take his children home
to the old place, or give them any associations with it, for there was
no room at Earl’s-hall. “Your father might as well be in Russia,” his
wife sometimes said when she wanted a change for a little boy who was
delicate. And privately, Mr. Leslie had made up his mind to sell the
place, though it had been so long in the family, when Sir Ludovic died.

Of the second family there were two remaining, two daughters, one of
whom had been married and had settled in England; the other, who had
not married, living with her. They were twins, and some five years
younger than their elder brother. And neither did they come often to
Earl’s-hall. The same objection was in everybody’s way--there was no
room for them. And Sir Ludovic disliked letter-writing. They came
occasionally to see their father, and to hold up their hands and shake
their heads at the way in which little Margaret was being brought up.
But what could these ladies do? To live at Earl’s-hall was impossible,
and to go and stay in a little cottage in the Kirkton, all for the
sake of a small step-sister, and without even any security that they
could really be of any use to her, was something more of a test than
their lukewarm family affection could bear. And they hesitated about
recommending a governess; for with an old gentleman so much addicted to
marriage, who could tell what might happen? Though he was seventy-five,
he was the same man as ever, and very fascinating when he chose to
exert himself; and to have a new Lady Leslie would be a still greater
horror than to have a young rustic for a step-sister. And then the
child would be rich. It does not require much learning, as Mrs.
Hardcastle says, to spend fifteen hundred a year.

So that Margaret was left alone. Her mother had been the richest of
all Sir Ludovic’s wives. She had been--more wonderful still--a young
beauty, courted and flattered, and how it was that she passed over all
her younger admirers and fixed upon a man of fifty-five, a poor old
Scotch baronet, nobody could divine. But she did so, and came home with
him to Earl’s-hall, and brightened it a while with her youth and her
wealth, and would have done wonders for the old house. Nothing less
had been intended than to rebuild the ruin, though Sir Ludovic himself
discouraged this, as the house, he reminded her, must pass into other
hands. But poor Lady Leslie’s fine projects came to a premature end,
by means of a bad cold which she caught just after her little girl was
born. She died, and the last gleam of prosperity died away with her.
Margaret, it was true, was rich, and the allowance her trustees made
her was no small help even now to the impoverished household; though,
indeed, the trouble these trustees gave, her father thought, was more
than the money was worth. They wrote to Sir Ludovic about her education
till he was roused to swear at, though not to profit by, the perpetual
remonstrance.

“Education! what would they have at her age? A mere child,” he said.

“Eh, Sir Ludovic! but she’s sixteen,” Bell said, who was the only one
in the house who ever ventured to keep up an argument with her old
master.

“Pshaw!” the old man said; for what is sixteen to seventy-five? And
besides, did he not see her before him a slim stripling of a girl,
flitting about in perpetual motion, a singing voice, a dancing step,
a creature never in the same place, as Bell said, for “twa minutes by
the clock?” What does that kind of small thing want with education? Sir
Ludovic liked her better without it, and so perhaps would most people;
for are not the fresh wonder, curiosity, and intelligent ignorance of
a child its most captivating qualities? If we could but venture to
take the good of them with a clear conscience and no thought of what
the child will say to us when it ceases to be a child! Sir Ludovic had
this courage. He did not think much of his duties to Margaret. She
had duties to him--to be always pretty and cheerful, not to speak too
broad Scotch, to get his books down for him when he wanted them, to put
everything ready on his table, pens, pencils, and note-book, in case
he should want to write something (which he never did), and to be neat
and in order at meal-times. In this one particular he certainly did his
duty. Margaret had not the privilege of being untidy, which is allowed
to most neglected heroines. Sir Ludovic required scrupulous neatness,
hair that shone, and garments that were spotless, and ribbons as fresh
as the day. Should not we all like just such a creature about us, fair
as a new-blown rose, with a voice so toned and harmonious, a step
with rhythm in it, a pair of eyes running over with understanding and
interest, and no education to speak of? If only the creature would not
arise upon us after and upbraid us for its want of knowledge! But of
this risk Sir Ludovic never dreamed. She could read, he supposed, for
he saw her reading; and she could write, he knew, for he had seen her
do it. What could they want more?

Thus they lived, not uncontented, from year to year. No one told
Margaret to read, but she did so, perhaps with all the more pleasure
because nobody told her. She read all the best poetry that is written
in English, and a great deal that was not the best. She was so great
in history that she had been a Lancastrian and taken an active, even
violent, part on the side of her namesake, Margaret of Anjou, as long
as she could remember--a more violent part even than she took for Queen
Mary, though to that also she was bound as a true Scot. She had read
Clarendon and Sir Thomas Brown, and Burton on “Melancholy” (not caring
much for that) and an old translation of Froissart, and “Paul and
Virginia,” and Madame Cottin’s “Elizabeth,” and “Don Quixote,” all in
translations; so that her range was tolerably wide; and everything came
natural to Margaret, the great and the small. Needless to say that all
Sir Walter was hers by nature, as what well-conditioned Scots person
of seventeen has not possessed our homelier Shakspeare from his or her
cradle? Whether she loved best the Spanish Don, or Lord Falkland, or
Sir Kenneth in the “Talisman,” was not to her mind perfectly clear.
In this respect she was not so sure about Shakspeare. His lovers and
heroes did not satisfy her youthful requirements; she loved Henry the
Fifth, and Faulcon-bridge, and Benedick, but was not at all satisfied
about the relations between Hamlet and Ophelia, naturally standing
by her own side, and thinking that poor maiden badly used: which is
as much as to say that the spell of story was still strong upon her,
though the poetry went to her head all the same. These were the books
Sir Ludovic saw her reading--but he took no notice and no oversight. He
did not think of her at all as a responsible creature to be affected
one way or other by what she read, or as undergoing any process of
training for the future. The future! what is that at seventy-five?
especially to a man who amiably and without evil intention has always
found himself the centre of the world! It is like the future of a
child--to-morrow. He did not want to pry any further. What was to
come, would come without any intervention of his. Had his child been
penniless, probably he would have thought it necessary to remember that
in all probability (as he expressed it) she would survive him. But
she was rich, and where was the need of thinking? The great thing was
that there was no room. The bedrooms in the house were so few. Where
could they put a governess, he asked Bell; and even Bell, though full
of resources, could not reply. There was one good-sized room which Sir
Ludovic himself occupied, and another quaint small panelled chamber in
which Margaret was very snug and cosy, but beyond these scarcely any
bedchamber in the house was in a proper state of repair. What could any
one say against so evident a fact? “We could dine fifty folk,” Bell
said, half proudly, half sadly, “and we could gie a grand ball after
that up the stair; but pit up one single gentleman that is no very
particular, that’s all we could do beside.” It was a curious state of
affairs. The two long rooms, one above the other, were the whole house.

Of the wealth which Margaret was to inherit, she knew absolutely
nothing. There was a house “in England,” a vague description which the
girl had never much inquired into, seeing that till her twenty-first
birthday it was very unlikely that she would have anything whatever to
do with it. In the mean time it served a very pleasant purpose in her
life. It was the scene of so many dreams and visions of that future
which was everything to Margaret, that it could not be said to be an
unknown place. She built it and furnished it, and planted trees and
invented glades about the unrevealed place, such as in reality it could
not boast of. Everything that she thought most beautiful in her small
experience of things, or which she found in her considerable experience
of books, she placed in this distant mansion, where all manner of
pleasant verdure was, which was not to be found in Scotland, flowers
and fruits, and green lawns, and abundant foliage, and sunshine such as
never shone in Fife. She made pictures of it, and dreamed dreams, but
no troublesome dash of reality disturbed the vision. She was the lady
of the manor, a title which pleased her fancy hugely, and which she
wove into many a fancy; but it was all as visionary as if she had found
the Grange in a novel and appropriated it.

If anything could have been more unlike an English manor-house than
the quaint old dwelling in which her childhood had been passed, it was
the dreams Margaret wove of her future home. Claude Melnotte’s palace
was more like that sunshiny fancy. No castle in Spain or in the air
was ever more unreal. There wants no education to teach a girl how to
dream, and the less she knows, so much the more gorgeous and delightful
becomes the imagination. But naturally this was a branch of her
training totally unknown to everybody connected with her. Sir Ludovic
knew a great deal, but had not a notion of that branch of human effort;
neither, it may well be supposed, did Bell, though her instincts were
clearer. When she saw her young mistress sit abstracted, her eyes far
away, a half smile on her lips, Bell knew that there must be something
going on within the small head. What was it? There were no young men,
or, as Bell called them, “lauds,” about that could have caught her
youthful eye. Bell knew that the romance of life begins early, and
had some glimmering of recollection that before any “lauds” appear on
the horizon in reality, there are flutters of anticipation in maiden
souls, dreams of being wooed like the rest, “respectit like the lave.”
But Margaret had seen none of the rural wooings which are a recognized
institution in Scotland, those knocks at the window and whispers at the
door, which add the charm of mystery to the never-ending romance. Bell
had taken care even that Jeanie’s “laud” and his evening visits should
be kept out of the young lady’s notice. But then, if it was not the
glimmer of poetic love that flickered on the horizon, what was it? And
except Bell, and perhaps Jeanie, no one had noticed the soft abstracted
look that sometimes stole into Margaret’s eyes, or knew her capacity
for dreams. Mr. Leslie, when he came, took but little notice of his
step-sister. He had a daughter who was older than she, indeed Margaret
had become a great-aunt, to the amusement of everybody, during the
previous winter. Her brother took very little notice of her. When he
looked at her, he breathed a private thanksgiving that she was provided
for, and would not be an additional burden upon him when his father
died. It was only when Sir Ludovic was ill or in difficulty, that Mr.
Leslie came, and the reflection, “Thank Heaven I have not the lassie to
think of,” was the foremost sentiment in his breast. He had plenty of
his own to exhaust all the fund of interest in his heart. She had no
business ever to have been, this young creature whose presence in the
old house made a certain difference naturally in all the arrangements;
but, being there, the chief fact was this fortunate one that she was
provided for. So far as Margaret was concerned, this was the only thing
in his thoughts.

As for Mrs. Bellingham and her sister, Miss Leslie, they lived a long
way from Fife. They were ladies who travelled a great deal, and spent
all they had to spend in making their life pleasant. Mrs. Bellingham
was childless, and a widow, so that her married life did not count
for much, though she herself regarded the elevation it gave her with
much contentment. Now and then, instead of going to Switzerland or the
Italian lakes, they would come to Scotland, making expeditions into
the Highlands, and preserving everywhere their character as British
tourists. Once there had been some question between them of inviting
Margaret to accompany them on one of these expeditions, which it was
thought might do her good and improve her manners, and give her a
little acquaintance with the world. But on more mature reflection,
it became apparent that the maid whom the two ladies shared between
them, when on their travels, was by no means disposed to undertake the
packing and toilet of a third.

“Many a girl would be glad to give a little assistance herself rather
than trouble, for the chance of such a treat,” Miss Leslie said, who
was the weak-minded sister; “and in that way I really think we might
manage--if dear Margaret was a sensible girl.”

“Margaret is not a sensible girl, and we could not manage at all, and
I won’t have Forrester put about,” Mrs. Bellingham said, who took the
management of everything upon her. “Besides, a girl--she would be an
endless trouble to you and me. We should have to change our route to
let her see this thing and that thing, and you would be afraid she did
not enjoy herself, and the Lord knows what besides. There are many
things in conversation even that have to be stopped before a girl. No,
no; it would never do.”

And thus one hope for Margaret’s improvement came to an end. A similar
failure happened about the same time in Edinburgh. When Mrs. Ludovic
got that German governess, who was at once her pride and her dread,
she was so much affected by the grandeur and superiority as to suggest
an arrangement to her husband by which his little sister might be
benefited.

“It appears to me that we, who have such advantages, ought, perhaps,
to share them a little with others that are not so well off. There is
little Margaret at the Hall. What do you think? Sir Ludovic might send
her to us to share the children’s lessons. Fräulein is an expensive
luxury, and a little help with her salary would be no harm. And if
Margaret had six months with our girls, it would do her a great deal of
good; if it was only to learn German--”

“What does she want with German? What good would it do her to learn
German?” said Ludovic, testily.

“Well, I’m sure, Ludovic, that’s not an easy question. I never thought
you were one to ask for an immediate result. I am sure you all say
learning anything is an advantage, whether the thing they learn is any
use or not. I do not always see it myself,” said Mrs. Leslie; “but many
is the time I’ve heard you all say so. And if we could do Margaret a
good turn, and at the same time save something on our own expenses--”

“Do Margaret a good turn! I do not see what claim she has on me. She
has plenty of people to look after her if they would do their duty.
Trustees of her money, and her mother’s relations, not to speak of
my father himself, who has plenty of energy left when you cross him.
Indeed, if you come to that, Jane and Grace are nearer to her than I.”

“Because the second is nearer the third than the first is,” Mrs.
Ludovic said, who had some sense of humor. But she added, “Well! I
never made any attempt to fathom you Leslies but I was baffled. I think
there was never a set of people like you. I hope I’ll never be so left
to myself as to try again.”

“We Leslies! The most of the Leslies nowadays are your own bairns.”

“That’s true, and more’s the pity,” said the lady, discharging an arrow
as she went away.

And thus another attempt to do something for Margaret came to nothing.
Everything failed. It was nobody’s business, perhaps. The trustees were
strangers who did not know. Her father was old, and did not care to be
troubled, and liked her best as she was. Her brothers and sisters, what
had they to do with it? They were not their little sister’s keeper. So
between them all she was left to grow as she pleased, like a flower
or a weed, nobody responsible for her, whatever might happen. Even a
School Board, had there been one in the parish, what right would it
have had to interfere?




CHAPTER III.


Margaret searched a whole half-hour for her thimble, which was found
at the end of that time in the pocket of a dress which she had not
worn for a week; but when she had found it, she no longer thought of
Lady Jean’s work. That purpose had faded altogether from her mind. She
forgot even what she wanted the thimble for, and being seized with a
sudden fancy for remedying the disorder of her drawers, immediately
set to work to do so, with a zeal more fervent than discreet; for as
soon as she had turned the top drawer out, scattering all her light
possessions, her collars and ribbons and bits of lace, out upon her
bed, she was summoned by the bell for dinner, and thought of them no
more. Margaret hastily arranged her hair, put on a bit of fresh ribbon,
and rushed down-stairs; for to keep Sir Ludovic waiting was a sin
beyond excuse. On the other side of the great japanned screen which
divided the room into two, stood the table, laid with scrupulous care,
and served by John in his rusty but trim and sober “blacks,” with a
gravity that would not have misbecome an archbishop. Sir Ludovic had
put down his book, he had washed his hands, and he was ready. He stood
dignified and serious, almost as serious as John himself in the centre
of the room, by the edge of the screen. _J’ai failli attendre_
might be read in the curve above his eyebrows; and yet he received his
erring child with perfect temper, which was more than could be said for
John, who gloomed at her from under his heavy eyebrows.

“Oh, papa, I am sorry,” Margaret began. “I was busy--”

“If you were busy, that is no reason for being sorry; but you should
not forget hours--they are our best guide in life,” said her father.
But he was not angry; he took her by the hand and led her in, handing
her to her seat with stately ceremony. This daily ceremonial, which
Margaret hated, and would have done anything to avoid, was the means
by which Sir Ludovic every day made his claim of high-breeding and
unforgotten courtliness of demeanor, in presence of men and angels.
Whosoever might think he had forgotten what was due to his daughter as
a young lady and a Leslie, and what was due to himself as a gentleman
of the old school, not a modern man of no manners, here was his answer.
John looked on at this solemnity with gloomy interest; but Margaret
hated it. She reddened all over her youthful countenance, brow and
throat. Between the two old men she moved, passive but resentful, to
her seat, and slid into it the moment her father released her, with
ungrateful haste to get done with the disagreeable ceremony. They were
“making a fool of her,” Margaret thought. Though it occurred every
evening, she never got less impatient of this formula. Then Sir Ludovic
took his own place. He was not tall, but of an imposing appearance, now
that he was fully visible. In the other half of the room, where all his
work was done, he sat invariably with his back to the light. But here
he was fully revealed. His white locks surrounded a fine and remarkable
face, in which every line seemed drawn on ivory. He had no color save
in his lips, and the wonderful undimmed dark eyes, darkly lashed and
eyebrowed, which shone in all the lustre of youth. With those eyes Sir
Ludovic could do anything--“wile a bird from the tree,” old Bell said;
and, indeed, it was his eyes which had beguiled Margaret’s mother, and
brought her to this old-world place. But Margaret was used to them;
perhaps she had not that adoring love for her father which many girls
have; and especially at dinner, after the little ceremony we have
recorded, she was more than indifferent to, she was resentful of his
attractions. At that age he might have known better than “to make a
fool,” before John, day after day, of his little girl.

This day, however, the dinner went on harmoniously enough; for Margaret
never ventured to show her resentment, except by the sudden angry
flush, which her father took for sensitiveness and quickly moved
feeling. He talked to her a little with kind condescension, as to a
child.

“You were busy, you said; let us hear, my little Peggy, what the
busy-ness was.”

“I was doing--a great many things, papa.”

“Ah! people who do a great many things all at once are apt to get into
confusion. I would do one thing, just one thing at a time, my Peggy, if
I were a little girl.”

“Papa!” said Margaret, with another wave of color passing over her,
“indeed, if you would look at me, you would see that I am not a little
girl.”

“Yes, you have grown a great deal lately, my dear. I beg your pardon.
It is hard to teach an old person like myself where babyhood ends. You
see, I like to think that you are a little girl. Eh, John? we like
something young in the house; the younger the better--”

“No me, Sir Ludovic,” said John.

He was very laconic, wasting no words; and Margaret felt that he
disapproved of her youth altogether. But this restored her to herself,
and she laughed. For John, though morose in outward aspect, was, as
she very well knew, her slave actually. This made her laugh, and the
two old men liked the laugh. It brought a corresponding light into Sir
Ludovic’s fine eyes, and it melted a little the morose muscles about
John’s closely shut mouth.

“But I am not so very young,” she said. “Jeanie’s sister, who is just
my age, has been in a place for a long time; and most people are
considered grown-up at my age. You ought not to make a fool of me.”

“My little Peggy,” said Sir Ludovic, “that is an incorrect expression.
Nobody could make a fool of you except yourself. It is Scotch, my dear,
very Scotch, which is a thing your sisters Jean and Grace have already
often warned me against. You are very Scotch, they tell me.”

“Set them up!” ejaculated old John, under his breath.

Margaret reddened with ready wrath.

“And I _am_ Scotch,” she said. “How could I speak otherwise? They
were always going on about something. Either it was my shoulders, or it
was my hair, or it was my tongue--”

“Your tongue! My Peggy, your idioms are strange, it must be allowed;
but never mind. What had they to say against your hair? It is very
pretty hair. I don’t see any ground to find fault there.”

“Oh, it was not in the fashion,” said Margaret. “You know, papa, you
like it smooth, and that is not the fashion now; it ought to be all
towzy, like my little dog, and hanging in my eyes.”

“The Lord preserve us!” said old John. He was in the habit of giving
utterance to his sentiments as constrained by some internal movement
_plus fort que lui_; and no one ever interfered with this habit
of his. “What next?” said the old man, with a shrug of his shoulders
behind his master’s chair.

“Then you must continue to be old-fashioned so long as I live,” said
Sir Ludovic. “Your sisters are very well-meaning women, my Peggy;
but even when you are as clever as Mrs. Bellingham and as wise as
Miss Leslie, you will not have fathomed everything. We’ll leave the
philosophy to them, my little woman, and you and I will manage the
hair-dressing. That is evidently the point in which our genius lies.”

Margaret looked up, somewhat jealously, to see whether she was again
being made “a fool of;” but as no such intention appeared in her
father’s face, she returned to the consideration of her dinner. It was
not a heavy meal. A little fish--“haddies,” such as were never found
but in the Firth, little milk-white flounders, the very favorites of
the sea, or the homely herring, commonest, cheapest, and best of fish.
But then, perhaps, they require to be cooked as Bell knew how to cook
them. No expensive exotic salmon, turbot, or other aristocrat of the
waters ever came to Sir Ludovic’s table. Let them be for the vulgar
rich, who knew no better. The native product of his own coasts was
good enough, he would say, in mock humility, for him. And then came
one savory dish of the old Scotch _cuisine_ now falling out of
knowledge; no vulgar dainty of the haggis kind, but stews and ragoûts
which the best of _chefs_ would not disdain. This was all; the
_plat doux_ has never been a regular concomitant of a Scotch
dinner; and Sir Ludovic was a small eater, and had his digestion to
consider. It was not, therefore, a very lengthened meal; and as six
o’clock was the dinner-hour at Earl’s-hall, there were still several
long hours of sunshine to be got through before night came.

Now was the time when Margaret felt what it was to be alone. The long
summer evening, loveliest, most wistful, and lingering hour of all
the day, when something in the heart demands happiness, demands that
which is unattainable one way or another--is it possible to be young,
to be void of care, to possess all the elements of happiness, without
wishing for something more, a visionary climax, another sweetness in
those soft, lingering, visionary hours? Margaret did not know what she
wanted, but she wanted something. She could not rest contented as her
father did, to sit over a book and see through the west window (when he
chanced to look up) the flush of the sunset glories. To feel that all
this was going on in the sky, and nothing going on within, nor anything
that concerned herself in earth and heaven, was not to be borne.

The little withdrawing-room--the East Chamber, as it was called, though
its window faced to the south--was already all dim, deserted by the
sunshine. Lady Jean’s work lay on the table, where Margaret had thrown
it in the afternoon, but nothing living, nothing that could return
glance for glance and word for word. It was but seven o’clock, and it
would be ten o’clock, ten at the earliest, before night began to fall.
Margaret got her hat and ran down-stairs. She did not know what she
should do, but something she must do. The little court was by this time
quite abandoned by the sunshine, the body of the house lying between it
and the west; but all the sky overhead was warm with pink and purple,
and Bell was seated outside, with her knitting dropped upon her lap.
Jeanie had gone out to milk the cow; and even old John had strolled
forth with his hands behind him, to see, he said, how the “pitawties”
were getting on. The “pitawties” would have got on just as well without
his supervision, but who could resist the loveliness of the evening
light?

“Our John he’s awa’, like Isaac, to meditate among the fields at
even-tide,” Bell said. “Eh, but it’s an auld custom that! and nae doubt
auld Sawra, the auld mither, would sit out at the ha’ door, and ponder
in her mind just like me.”

“But John is not your son, Bell,” said Margaret, with the literal
understanding of youth.

“Na, I never had a son, Miss Margret, naething but wan daughter, and
she’s been married and gone from me this twenty years. Eh, my dear, we
think muckle of our bairns, but they think little and little enough of
us. I might as well have had nane at all but for the thought.”

To this Margaret made no reply, her mind not taking in the maternal
relation. She stood musing, with her eyes afar, while Bell went on:

“They say a woman has no after-pain when her first bairn’s born,
because of the Virgin Mary, that had but wan. But ay me, I’ve had mony
an after-pain, and her too, poor woman, though no the same kind. I
think of her mony a day, Miss Margret, how she would sit and ponder
things in her heart. Eh, they would be so ill to understand--till the
time came.”

Still Margaret said nothing. The old woman pondered the past, but the
girl’s brain was all throbbing and thrilling with the future. The
sound of something coming was in her ears, a ringing, a singing, a
general movement and flutter of she knew not what. To Bell the quiet
was everything; to Margaret, she herself was the universe, and all the
horizon was not too big to hold the rustling pinions and approaching
foot-balls of the life to come.

“I think I will take a walk down the road,” she said, suddenly, over
Bell’s head.

“Take a hap with you, in case it should get cauld. Sometimes there’s a
wind gets up when the sun goes down. And you’ll no bide too long, Miss
Margret,” Bell called after her as she ran lightly away.

Margaret did not care for the wind getting up, nor foresee the
possibility of the evening chillness after the warmth of the day.
It was always chilly at night so near the sea; but seventeen years’
experience to the contrary had not dispelled Margaret’s conviction that
as the weather was at one bright moment, so would it always be.

The road down which Margaret went was not very attractive as a road.
The hedges were low and the country bare. It is true that even the
rigor of Fife farming had not cut down the wild roses, which made
two broken lines of exquisite bloom on either side of the way. Long
branches all bloomed to the very tips waved about in the soft air, and
concealed the fact that the landscape on either side was limited to a
potato-field on the right and a turnip-field on the left. But the wild
roses were enough for Margaret. Were they not repeated all over the
skies in those puffs of snowy vapor tinted to the same rose hue, and in
the girl’s cheeks, which bloomed as softly, when the exercise, and the
flowering of the flowers, and the reflection of the sunset reflections
had got into her young veins? The color and sweetness rapt her for a
moment in an ecstasy, mere beauty satisfying her as it does a child.
But human nature, even in a child, soon wants something more, and in
Margaret the demand came very quickly. She forgot the loveliness all
at once, and remembered the something that was wanted, the blank that
required filling up. She turned aside into a by-way, along the edge of
a cornfield, with a sigh. The corn was not high, as it was but June,
and when she turned her face away from the sunset, the world paled all
at once all around her.

Margaret went on more slowly, unconscious why. She went on hanging her
young head till she came to a brook at the end of the field, over which
there was but a plank for a bridge. The brook (she called it a burn)
ran between two fields, and on one side of it grew an old ash-tree,
its trunk lost among the bushes of the hedge. Here a post, which had
been driven into the ground to support the homely bridge, made a kind
of seat upon which the wayfarer might pause and look at the homely yet
pretty Kirkton, with its old church on the brae. Margaret herself had
intended to rest upon this seat. But when she was half-way across the
plank, a sudden sound so startled her that she lost her footing; and
though she saved herself from plunging into the burn altogether by a
despairing grasp at the bushes, yet she got her foot fast imbedded
in the damp bank, and there stuck, to her infinite embarrassment and
disgust. Some one started from the seat at the sound of the suppressed
cry she gave, and rushed to the rescue. It was, need it be said, a
young man? yet not exactly of heroic guise.

Margaret, crimson to the hair, and feeling herself the most gawky, the
most awkward, the most foolish of distressed damsels, her ungloved hand
all torn and pricked with the thorns of the branch which she had caught
at, her foot held fast in the tenacious clay, did not know what kind of
hoyden, what rude village girl, red and blowzy, she must have looked to
the stranger. She looked a nymph out of the poetic woods, a creature
out of the poets, a celestial vision to him. He sprang forward, his
heart beating, to offer his hand and his assistance. Was it his fault?
He feared it was his fault; he had startled her, moving just when she
was in the act of crossing the plank. He made her a thousand apologies.
It was all his doing; he hoped she would forgive him. He expended
himself so in apologies that Margaret felt it necessary to apologize
too.

“It was me that was silly,” she said. “Generally, I never mind a sudden
sound. What should it matter? Nobody would do me harm, and there’s no
wild beasts, that I should be so silly. Oh, it’s nothing; and it was
all my fault.”

“You are the queen in your own country. There should be nothing in your
path to startle you.”

“Oh no, I’m not the queen,” said Margaret, laughing. “I have to take
my chance like other folk. You are a stranger here,” she said, with
friendly innocence. The fact that she was, if not the queen, as she
said, yet at least a princess, the first young lady hereabouts, and
known to everybody as such, made her friendly and made her bold.
Supremacy has many agreeable accessories. The young man, who had
taken off his hat and held it in his hand, half in respect, half in
awkwardness, here blushed more deeply than she had done when she saw
him first.

“I am not a stranger, Miss Margaret. I am Robert Glen, whom you used
to play with when you were a little girl; but I cannot expect you to
remember me, for I have been long away.”

“Oh, Rob!” she cried. Margaret was delighted. The vivid color came
flushing back to her cheeks out of pure pleasure. She held out her hand
to him. He had not been so respectful when they had parted, which was
ten years ago. “Indeed, I mind you quite well, though I should not have
known you after all this long time; but how did you know me?”

“The first moment I saw you,” he said, “and there is nothing wonderful
in that. There are many like me, but only one Miss Margaret, here or
anywhere else.”

The last words he murmured in an undertone, but Margaret made them
out. She laughed, not in ridicule, but in pleasure, just touched with
amusement. How funny to see him again, and that he should know her; and
still more funny, though not disagreeable, that he should speak to her
so.

“I was vexed,” she said, “very vexed that a stranger should see me so,
my shoe all dirty and my hand all torn--it looked so strange; but I am
not vexed now, since it is only you, and not a stranger. Just look at
me--such a figure! and what will Bell say?”

“You have still Bell?”

“Still Bell! who should we have but Bell?” cried Margaret, the idea of
such a domestic change as the displacement of Bell never having so much
as crossed her fancy. Then she added, quickly, “But tell me, for I have
not heard of you for such a long, long time. You went to the college,
Rob?”

She said his name unadvisedly in the first impulse; but looking up at
him, and seeing him look at her in a way she was unused to, Margaret’s
countenance flamed once more with a momentary blush. She shrank a
little. She said to herself that he was not a little boy now as he used
to be, and that she would never call him Rob again.

“Yes, Miss Margaret, I went to the college. I went through all the
curriculum, and took my degree sometime ago.”

“Then are you a minister now?”

Margaret spoke with a little chill in her tone. She thought that to
be a minister implied a withdrawal from life of a very melancholy and
serious description, and that she might not be able to keep up easy
relations with poor Rob if he had passed that Rubicon. She looked at
him earnestly, with a great deal of gravity in her face. Margaret had
not known many ministers close at hand, and never any so nearly on a
level with her own youthful unimportance as Rob Glen.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. My poor mother! I will never give
her the pleasure I ought. I am not a minister, and never will be. I say
it with sorrow and shame.”

“Oh!” cried Margaret, growing so much interested that her breast heaved
and her breath came quick. “Oh! and what was that for, Mr.--Rob? You
have not done anything wrong?”

“No,” he said, with a smile; “nothing wicked, and yet perhaps you will
think it wicked. I cannot believe just what everybody else believes.
There are papers and things to sign, doctrines--”

Margaret put her hands together timidly and looked into his face.

“You are not an infidel?” she said, with a look of awe and pain.

“No; I am-- I don’t quite know what. I don’t examine too closely, Miss
Margaret. I believe as much as I can, and I don’t think anybody does
more; but I can’t sign papers, can I, when I do not know whether they
are true or not? I cannot do it. I may be wrong, but I cannot say I
believe what I don’t believe.”

“No,” said Margaret, doubtfully. This was something entirely out of
her way, and she did not know how to treat it. She made a hurried
sweep over her own experiences. “I always think it is because I don’t
understand,” she said; and then, after another pause, “When papa says
things I don’t understand, I just hold my tongue.”

“But I am obliged to say yes or no, and I can’t say yes. I hope you
will not blame me, Miss Margaret; that would make me very unhappy. I
have often thought you were one that would be sure to understand what
my position was.”

Margaret did not ask herself why it was that she was expected to
understand; but she was vaguely flattered that he should think her
approbation so important.

“Me! what do I know?” she said. “I have not been at the college,
like you. I have never learned anything;” and, for almost the first
time, it occurred to Margaret that there might be some reason in the
animadversions and lamentations over her ignorance, of her sisters
Grace and Jean.

“You know things without learning.”

“Oh!--but you are making a fool of me, like papa,” cried Margaret. “And
what are you doing now, if you are not a minister? You have never been
back again till now at the Farm?”

“I am doing just nothing, that is the worst of it. I cannot dig, and to
beg I am ashamed.”

“Beg!” She looked at him with a merry laugh. He was what Bell would
have called “very well put on.” Margaret saw, by instinct, though
she was without any experience, that Rob Glen could not have been a
gentleman; but yet he was well dressed, and very superior to everybody
else about the Kirkton. “I suppose you have come home on a visit, and
to rest.”

“Yes; but, Miss Margaret, all this time your foot is wet and your hand
is scratched. Will you come to the house? Shall I go and get you dry
shoes from Bell? What can I do?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Margaret; “do you think I never got my feet wet
before? I will change them when I get in. But I think I will go home
now. What have you been doing? Oh, drawing!” she exclaimed, with a cry
of delight. She seized the book which he half showed, half withdrew.
“Oh, I should like to see it--it is the Kirkton! Oh, I would like to
draw like that! Oh,” cried Margaret, with a deep-drawn breath, and all
her heart in it, “what I would give!” and then she remembered that she
had nothing to give, and stopped short, her lips half open, her eyes
aflame.

“Will you let me show you how to do it? It would make me so happy. It
is as easy as possible. You have only to try.”

Margaret did not make any reply in her eagerness. She turned over the
book with delight. The sketches were not badly done. There was the
Kirkton, breezy and sunny, with its cold tones of blue; there were all
the glimpses of Earl’s-hall that could be had at a distance; there was
the estuary and the sand-banks, and the old pale city on the headland.
But Margaret had never come across anything in the shape of an artist
before, and this new capability burst upon her as something more
enviable, more delightful than any occupation she had as yet ever known.

“I have a great many more,” said the young man. “If you will come to
the house, or here to the burn to-morrow, I will show you some that are
better than these.”

“Oh yes, I will come,” said Margaret, without hesitation. “I would
like to see them. I never saw anything so beautiful. The Kirkton its
very self, and Earl’s-hall, old Earl’s-hall. Papa says it will tumble
down about our ears; but it never can quite tumble down and come to an
end while there’s _that_!” the girl said. If the artist had been
Turner himself he could not have had finer praise.

And she let him walk the length of the field with her, telling her
about his wonderful art--then ran home, her heart beating, her mind
roused, and amused, and delighted. The slow twilight was just beginning
to draw a magical silvery veil over earth and sky. Margaret ran home
hurried and breathless, occupied to the full, conscious of no more
deficiencies.

“Have you been out all this time, Miss Margret?” said Bell, just rising
from her seat by the door, “and you’ve had your foot in the burn. Go
quick and change, my bonnie pet. I’ve been ower lang in the court, and
the dew’s falling, and a’ the stairch out o’ my cap. We’re twa fuils
for the bonny gloamin’, me and you.”




CHAPTER IV.


Margaret went up-stairs with her heart and her feet equally light.
She was full of excitement and pleasure. It was true that she had not
many excitements in her life, especially of a pleasurable kind; but
those she had encountered had not been straightway communicated to some
one, as the happy privilege of her age in most cases. Out of sheer
inability to contain her sentiments and sensations in one small bosom,
she had indeed often poured forth innocent disclosures into the ear of
Bell. And when these concerned anything that troubled her, specially
the remarks and criticisms of her sisters, Bell had been the best of
confidants, backing her up steadfastly, and increasing her indignation
by the sympathy of warm and strong resentment. But of other troubles
and pleasures, Bell had not been equally understanding. And she was the
last person, Margaret felt, to whom she could tell the story of this
evening’s encounter. Bell would not have been amused and interested
like Margaret. She would have opened great eyes of astonishment and
exclaimed upon the audacity of Rob Glen in venturing to approach Miss
Margaret. “Rob Glen! who was he to proffer his acquaintance to the
young lady of Earl’s-ha’?” Margaret knew as well how Bell would have
said this, as if she had actually delivered the tirade. Therefore
the girl made no mention of her new friend. She ran up-stairs, where
she found Jeanie lighting a pair of candles on the table in the East
Chamber.

“I’ve lighted Sir Ludovic’s lights, and will you want anything more the
nicht, Miss Margaret?” said Jeanie, her fair fresh face giving out more
light than did the candles.

“Oh, Jeanie!”--the girl began, but then she checked herself. No, she
would not tell any one, why should she? Better to keep it in her own
mind, and then there would be no harm. Margaret was not often scolded,
but she had a misgiving that she might come in the way of that unusual
discipline were she too communicative on the subject of her long
conversation with Rob Glen.

She sat down in the East Chamber alone, her face and her eyes glowing.
How pleasant it was to have an adventure! The little white-panelled
room was but poorly lighted by the two candles. The window still full
of twilight, clouds of gray here and there, with a lingering tinge
upon them of the sun or its reflections, hung like a great picture on
the wall. There were one or two actual pictures, but they were small,
and dark, and old, not very decipherable at any time, and entirely
invisible now. On the table, in the speck of light which formed the
centre of the room, of itself a picture had there been any one to see,
lay Lady Jean’s old work, with its faded colors, in pretty harmony
with all the scene around; and centre of the centre, Margaret’s face,
not faded, but so soft in its freshness, so delicate in girlish bloom.
She sat with her elbows on the table, her face set in the palms of her
hands, her eyes looking into the light, making the two little flames
of the candles into stars reflected in their clearness. A half-formed
smile played about the soft curve of her lips. How pleasant it was to
have an adventure at all! And how agreeable the kind of the adventure!
Rob Glen! yes, she remembered him quite well when she was seven years
old. He had been twelve, a big boy, and very kind to little Miss Peggy.

The farm, which was a small farm, not equal to the large farms of
wealthy Fife, a little bit of a place, which his mother had kept
up when she became a widow, was close to Earl’s-hall; and Margaret
recollected how “fond” she had been of her playfellow in these old
days, very fond of him! before he went into St. Andrews to school,
and then away to his uncle in Glasgow (it all came back upon her) to
college. She remembered even, now she came to think of it, the scoffs
she had heard directed by Bell and John at the Glens in general, who
had not thought St. Andrews good enough for their son, but had to
send him to Glasgow, to set him up! And here he was again. Margaret
remembered how he had carried her across the ditches and muddy places,
and how she had kissed him when he went away; she blushed at the
thought, and laughed a little. And now he had come back! and he could
draw! That was the most interesting of all. He could make beautiful
pictures of everything he saw.

The Kirkton, poor little place, had never looked so attractive before.
It had been only a little village of no interest, which sisters Jean
and Grace held in the utmost contempt, driving Margaret wild with
suppressed rage by the comparison they made between the Scotch hamlet
and their English villages; and now it was a picture! She wondered
what they would think of it now. Margaret gazed into the flame of the
candles and seemed to see it hanging upon a visionary background. A
beautiful picture: the gray old church with its rustic tombs, and all
the houses clustered below, where people were living, waiting their
advance and preferment into the grassy graves above. Here was the real
mission of art accomplished by the humblest artist--to make of the
common and well-known a dazzling undiscovered glory. Only the Kirkton,
yet a picture! and all the doing of the old friend equally glorified
and changed--Rob Glen. Margaret was more pleasantly excited, more
amused, more roused in mind and imagination than perhaps she had ever
been in her life.

A stirring in the long room close by roused her to a sense of her
duties. That windowful of sky had darkened; it was almost night: as
much as it ever is night in Scotland in June--a silvery night, with no
blackness in it but a vague whiteness, a soft celestial reflection of
the departed day. Evidently it was late, time to go to bed. Margaret
pushed the door open which led into the long room. Sir Ludovic was
closing his book. He kept early hours; for it was his habit to wake
very early in the morning, as is so usual to old people. He turned to
her with a smile upon his face.

“My Peggy, you are late; what has kept you amused so long to-night? It
is you generally who let me know when it is time for bed. What have you
been doing?”

“Nothing, papa;” but Margaret blushed. However, as she blushed so often
this was nothing to remark.

“Put it up upon the shelf,” he said; “I have done with that one. It is
heavy for you to lift, my dear. It is a sign that I am an old man, a
very old man, my little Peggy, that I allow you to do everything for
me; but at the same time there is a suitability in it. The young should
learn to serve. When you are a full-blown lady, it is then that all the
men you meet will serve you.”

“I want no men to serve me, papa. When I am middle-aged, as you say, I
will have no servants but women. Is not Jeanie better to hand you your
plate and fill you your wine than old John?”

“Old John and I have grown old together, my Peggy; but I think your
taste is very natural. A young woman is a pleasanter object than an old
man.”

“I did not mean that,” she cried, with compunction; “you, papa, you are
the handsomest of us all. There is no one to match you; but the like of
Jeanie looks so clean and fresh, and John in his black clothes--”

“Looks like an old Cameronian minister, that is true; but, my Peggy,
you must not judge by appearances. Before you are--middle-aged, as you
say, you will learn that appearances are not to be trusted to. And,
by-the-way, what is it to be middle-aged? For my instruction I would
like to know.”

Margaret paused to think. She stood looking at him with the big book
in her hand, leaning it against the table, embracing it with one arm;
then, naturally, as she moved, her eyes sought the uncovered window,
and went afar out into the silvery clouds to find her answer. As for
her father, he sat with his ivory hands spread out on the arms of his
chair, looking at her with a smile. Her slimness and gracefulness and
soft-breathing youth were a refreshment to him. It was like the dew
falling, like the morning breaking to the old man; and, besides the
sense of freshness and new life, it was a perpetual amusement to him
to watch the workings of her unaccustomed mind, and the thoughts that
welled up in the creature’s face. He had perhaps never watched the
growth of a young soul before, and he had never got over his first
surprise and amusement at the idea that such a little being, only
the other day a baby, only the other day running after a ball like a
kitten, should think or have opinions at all.

“Middle-aged,” said Margaret, with her pretty head upon one side, and
great gravity in her face. “Perhaps, papa, you will not have the same
idea as I have. Would it be twenty-five? That is not old, of course;
but then it is not young either. If you were going to have any sense, I
think you would have it by that age.”

“Do you think so, my Peggy? That is but a little way to travel to
get sense. Where is sense to be found, and can you tell me the place
of understanding? It would be easily learned if it could be got at
twenty-five.”

“Oh, but twenty-five is a very good age, papa. Me-- I am only seventeen.”

“And you think you have a good deal of sense already, and have found
out whereabouts wisdom dwells?” said Sir Ludovic; “then, to be sure, in
eight years more you will have gone a long way toward perfection.”

“Papa, you are making a fool of me again.”

“No, my dear, only admiring and wondering. It is such a long time since
I was twenty-five; and I am not half so sure about a great many things
as I was then. Perhaps you are right, my little Peggy; one changes
one’s opinions often after--but it may be that just then you are at the
crown of the brae. Far be it from me to pronounce a judgment. Dante
puts it ten years later.”

“But what Dante means,” said Margaret, boldly--for, ignorant as she
was, she had read translations of many things, even of the Divine
Comedy, not having, perhaps, anything more amusing to read, which was
the origin of most of the better knowledge she possessed--“what Dante
means was the half of life, when it was half done.”

“Ay, ay, that was it,” said the old man, “half done! yet you see here I
am, at seventy-five, still in everybody’s way.”

“Oh, papa,” she said, fixing upon him reproachful eyes which two tears
flooded, brimming the crystal vessels over--“oh, papa!”

“Well, my Peggy; I wonder if it is the better for you that your old
father should live on? Well, my dear, it’s better for some things.
The old nest is gray, but it’s warm. Though Jean and Grace, you
know--Jean and Grace, and even Mrs. Ludovic, my dear, all of them think
it’s very bad for you. You would be better, they tell me, in a fine
boarding-school in London.”

“Papa!”

“Oh, I’m not going to send you away, my little Peggy, not till the old
man’s gone--a selfish old man. You must be a good girl, and prove me
right to everybody concerned. Now, good-night, and run away to your
bed; and you can tell John.”

“Good-night, papa. I will be a good girl,” she said, half laughing,
with the tears in her eyes, as she had done when she was a child; and
she made a little pause when she kissed him, and asked herself whether
she should speak to him about Rob Glen, and ask if he would like to
see the pictures? Surely to see such pictures would be a pleasure to
anybody. But something kept Margaret silent. She could not tell what it
was; and in the end she went away to tell John, without a word about
her old acquaintance. Down-stairs she could hear Bell already fastening
the shutters, and Jeanie passed her on the stair, fresh and smiling,
though sleepy, with a “Gude-nicht, Miss Margret.”

“Good-night, Jeanie; and you’ll call me early?” she said; upon which
Jeanie shook her head with a soft smile.

“If you were aye as ready to rise as me to cry upon you!”

“I will rise to-morrow,” said Margaret. How good she was going to be
to-morrow! Light as a bird she ran down to the old couple down-stairs.
“John, papa is ready. You are to go to him this very minute. I stopped
on the stair to speak to Jeanie, and papa will be waiting.”

John answered with a grunt and groan. “And me, I’m to pay for it
because little miss tarries!”

Bell pushed him out of the kitchen with a laugh. “Gae away with you,”
she said. “Miss Margret, my man John would stand steady and be cut in
sma’ pieces with a pair o’ scissors sooner than that any harm should
come to you. But his bark is aye waur than his bite. And what have you
been doing all this night, my bonnie bird? I’ve neither seen your face
nor heard your fit upon the stair.”

“Oh, I was thinking,” said Margaret, after a pause; “thinking--”

“Lord bless us and save us, when the like of you begin thinking! And
what were you thinking upon, my bonnie dear?”

“Nothing,” said Margaret, musing. She had fallen back into the strain
of her usual fanciful thoughts.

“Naething? That’s just the maist dangerous subject you can think upon,”
said Bell, shaking her head; “that’s just what I dinna like. Think upon
whatever you please, but never upon naething, Miss Margret. Will I come
with you and see you to your bed? It’s lang since I’ve put a brush upon
your bonnie hair.”

“Oh, my hair is quite right, Bell. I brush it myself every night.”

“And think about naething all the time. Na, Miss Margret, you maunna do
that. I’ve gathered the fire, and shut the shutters, and put a’ thing
ready for Sir Ludovic’s tea in the morning. Is there onything mair? No,
not a thing, not a thing. Now come, my lamb, and I’ll put you to your
bed.”

Margaret made no objection. She could follow her own fancies just as
easily while Bell was talking as when all was silent round her. They
went together up the winding stair, Bell toiling along with a candle in
her hand, which flickered picturesquely, now here, now there, upon the
spiral steps. Margaret’s room was on the upper story, and to reach it
you had to traverse another long hall, running the whole length of the
building, like the long room below. This room was scarcely furnished at
all. It had some old tapestry hanging on the walls, an old harpsichord
in a corner, and bits of invalided furniture which were beyond use.

“Eh, the bonnie dances and the grand ladies I’ve seen in this room!”
Bell said, shaking her head, as she paused for breath. The light of
the one little candle scarcely showed the long line of the wall,
but displayed a quivering of the wind in the tapestry, as if the
figures on it had been set in motion. “Lord bless us!” said Bell.
“Oh, ay, I ken very well it’s naething but the wind; but I’ve never
got the better o’ my first fright. The first time I was in this grand
banqueting-hall--and oh, but it was a grand hall then! never onything
so grand had the like of me a chance to see. I thought the Queen’s
Grace herself could not possess a mair beautiful place.”

“If it was any use,” said Margaret, with a sigh.

“Oh, whisht, my bonnie bird. It’s use to show what great folk the
Leslies were wance upon a time, and that’s what makes us a’ proud.
There’s none in the county that should go out o’ the room or into the
room afore you, Miss Margret. You’ve the auldest blood.”

“But what good does that do if I am the youngest girl?” said Margaret,
half piqued, half laughing.

She was proud of her race, but the empty halls were chill. She did not
wait for any more remarks on Bell’s part, but led the way into her
room, which opened off this banqueting-hall, a turret room of a kind of
octagon shape, panelled like all the rest. It looked out through its
deepest window on entirely a different scene, on the moonlight rising
pale on the eastern side, and the whitening of the sea, the _tremolar
della marina_, was in the distance, the silvery glimmer and movement
of the great broad line of unpeopled water.

The girl stood and looked out while the old woman lighted the candles
on the table. How wide the world was, all full of infinite sky and sea,
not to speak of the steady ground under foot, which was so much less
great. Margaret looked out, her eyes straying far off to the horizon,
the limit beyond which there was more and more water, more and more
widening firmament. She was very reluctant to have it shut out. To draw
down a blind, and retire within the little round of those walls, what a
shrinking and lessening of everything ensued! “But it’s more sheltered
like; it’s no so cold and so far,” said Bell, with a little shiver.
She was not so fond of the horizon. The thick walls that kept out the
cold, the blind that shut out that blue opening into infinity, were
prospect enough for Bell. She made her young lady sit down, and undid
the loops of her silken hair. This hair was Bell’s pride; so fine, so
soft, so delicate in texture, not like the gold wire, all knotted and
curly, on Jeanie’s good-looking head, who was the other representative
of youth in the house. “Eh, it is a pleasure to get my hands among it,”
said Bell, letting the long soft tresses ripple over her old fingers.
How proud she was of its length and thickness! She stood and brushed
and talked over Margaret’s head, telling her a hundred stories, which
the girl, half hearing, half replying, yet wholly absorbed in her own
fancies, had yet a certain vague pleasure in as they floated over her.

It was good to have Bell there, to feel the touch of homely love about
her, and the sound of the voice which was as familiar as her own soft
breath. Bell was pleased too. She was not offended when she perceived
that her nursling answered somewhat at random. “What is she but a
bairn? and bairns’ ways are wonderful when their bit noddles begin
working,” Bell said, with the heavenly tolerance of wise affection.
She went out of the room afterward, with her Scotch delicacy, to give
Margaret time to say her prayers, then came back and covered her
carefully with her hard-working hand, softened miraculously by love.
“And the Lord bless my white doo,” the old woman said. There were no
kisses or caresses exchanged, which was not the habit of the reserved
Scotchwoman; but her hand lingered on the coverlet, “happing” her
darling. Summer nights are sweet in Fife, but not overwarm. And thus
ended the long midsummer day.




CHAPTER V.


Robert Glen, whose reappearance had so interested and excited the
innocent mind of Margaret Leslie, was no other than the farmer’s son,
in point of locality her nearest neighbor, but in every other respect,
childhood being fairly over, as far removed from her as if she had been
a princess, instead of the child of an impoverished country gentleman.
In childhood it had not been so. Little Margaret had played with Rob
in the hay-fields, and sat by him while he fished in the burn, and had
rides upon the horses he was leading to the water, many a day in that
innocent period. She had been as familiar about the farm “as if it
had belonged to her,” Mrs. Glen had said, and had shared the noonday
“piece” of her little cavalier often enough, as well as his sports.
Even Bell had found nothing to say against this intimacy.

The Glens were very decent folks, not on a level with the great farmers
of Fife, yet well to do and well doing; and Rob’s devoted care of
the little lady had saved Bell, as she herself expressed it, “many
a trail;” but in the ten years from seven to seventeen many changes
occur. Rob, who was the youngest, had been the clever boy of the family
at the farm. His mother, proud of his early achievements, had sent him
to St. Andrews to the excellent schools there, with vague notions of
advancement to come. That he should be a minister was, of course, her
chief desire, and the highest hope of her ambition; but at this early
period there was no absolute necessity for a decision. He might be a
writer if he proved to have no “call” for the ministry; or he might be
a doctor if his mind took that turn. However, when he had reached the
age at which in Scotland the college supplants the school (too early,
as everybody knows), Rob was quite of opinion that he had a call to be
a minister; and he would have gone on naturally to his college career
at St. Andrews, but for the arrival of an uncle, himself sonless,
from Glasgow, whose family pride was much excited by Rob’s prizes and
honors. This was his mother’s brother, like herself come of the most
respectable folk, “a decent, honest man,” which means everything in
Scottish moral phraseology. He was “a merchant” in Glasgow, meaning a
shopkeeper, and had a good business and money in the bank, and only one
little daughter--a fact which opened his heart to the handsome, bright
boy who was likely to bring so much credit to his family. Whether
Robert Hill (for the boy was his namesake) would have thought so highly
of his nephew without these prizes is another question; but as it was,
he took an immediate and most warm interest in him. Mr. Hill, however,
felt the usual contempt of a member of a large trading community for
every small and untrading place.

“St. An’rews!” he said; “send the boy to St. An’rews to sleep away his
time in an auld hole where there’s naething doing! Na, na, I’ll no hear
o’ that. Send him to me, and I’ll look after him. We know what we’re
about in Glasskie; nane o’ your dreamin’ and dozin’ there. We ken the
value o’ time and the value o’ brains, and how to make use o’ them.
There’s a room that’s never used at the tap o’ the house, and I’ll see
till ’im,” said the generous trader.

Mrs. Glen, though half offended at this depreciation of native
learning, was pleased and proud of her brother’s liberality.

“I’ll no hear a word against St. An’rews,” she said. “Mony a clever
man’s come out of it; but still I’m no blind to the advantages on the
other side. The lad’s at an age when it’s a grand thing to have a man
over him. No but what he’s biddable: but laddies will be laddies, and a
man in the house is aye an advantage. So if you’re in earnest, Robert
(and I’m much obliged to ye for your guid opinion of him), I’m no
saying but what I’ll take ye at your word.”

“You may be sure I mean it, or I wadna say it,” said her brother; and
so the bargain was made.

Rob went to Glasgow, half eager, half reluctant, as is the manner of
boys, and in due time went through his classes, and was entered at the
Divinity Hall. A Scotch student of his condition has seldom luxurious
or over-dainty life in his long vacations--six months long; and
calculated for this purpose, that the student may be self-supporting,
Rob did many things which kept him independent. He helped his uncle in
the shop at first with the placidity of use and wont, thinking a good
shop a fine thing, as who can doubt it is? But when Rob began to get on
in his learning, and was able to take a tutorship, he discovered with a
pang that a shop was not so fine a thing as he supposed.

Early, very early, the pangs of intellectual superiority came upon
him. He was clever, and loved reading, and thus got himself, as it
were, into society before he was aware of the process that was going on
within him, making friends of very different social position from his
own. Then the professors noticed him, found him what is easily called
“cultivated”--for he had read much in his little room over the shop,
with constantly growing ambition to escape from his lowly place and
find a higher--and one of them recommended him to a lady in the country
as tutor to her boys. This was a most anxious elevation at first, but
it trained him to the habits of a class superior to his own; and after
that the shop and its homely ways were anguish to Rob. Very soon he
found out that it was inconvenient to go so far to college; then he
found occupations in the evening, even during the college session,
and thus felt justified in separating himself from his kind uncle,
who accepted his excuses, though not without a shade of doubt. “Well,
laddie, well, laddie, we’re no the folk to keep you if you can do
better for yourself,” the good shopkeeper said, affronted yet placable.
The process is not uncommon; and, indeed, the young man meant no great
harm. He meant that his younger life was pushing out of the husk in
which it had been confined, that he was no longer altogether the same
as the people to whom he belonged. It was true enough, and if it was
hard, who could help that? It gave him more pain to take his plentiful
meal rudely in the room behind the shop than it could give them to take
it without him.

So he reasoned, and was right and wrong, as we all are, in every
revolutionary crisis. Had he been bred a shopkeeper or a farmer lad,
no such thoughts would have distracted his mind, and probably he would
have been happier; but then he had not been brought up either to the
shop or to the farm, and how could he help the natural development
which his circumstances and training brought with them? So by degrees
he dropped the shop. There was no quarrel, and he went to see them
sometimes on the wintry Sunday afternoons, and restrained all his
feelings of dismay and humiliation, and bore their “ways” as best he
could; but there is nobody so quick as a vulgar relation to find out
when a rising young man begins to be ashamed of him. The Hills were
sore and angry with the young man to whom they had been so kind. But
the next incident in Rob’s career was one that called all his relations
round him, out of sheer curiosity and astonishment, to see a prodigy
unprecedented in their lives.

After he had gone through all the Latin and Greek that Glasgow
could furnish, and he had time for, and had roamed through all the
philosophies and begun Hebrew, and passed two years at the Divinity
Hall, this crisis came. Six months more and Rob would have been ready
to begin his trials before the Presbytery for license as a probationer,
when he suddenly petrified all his friends, and drove his mother half
out of her senses, by the bewildering announcement that his conscience
made it impossible for him to enter the Scotch Church. The shock was
one which roused the entire family into life. Cousins unheard of
before aroused themselves to behold this extraordinary spectacle.
Such hesitations are not so common with the budding Scotch minister
as with the predestined English parson, and they are so rare in Rob’s
class, that this announcement on his part seemed to his relations to
upset the very balance of heaven and earth. Made up his mind not to
be a minister! The first sensation in their minds was one of absolute
incredulity, followed by angry astonishment when the “infatuated” young
fellow repeated and stood by his determination. Not to be a minister!
What would he be, then? what would satisfy him? Set him up! they all
cried. It was like a fresh assertion of superiority, a swagger and
flourish over them all, unbounded presumption and arrogance. Doubts! he
was a bonnie one to have doubts. As if many a better man had not signed
the Confession before him, ay, and been glad to have the Confession to
sign!

This at first was the only view which the kindred felt capable of
taking. But by-and-by, when it became apparent that this general
flutter of horror was to have no effect, and that Rob stood by his
resolution, other features in his enormity began to strike the family.
All the money spent upon him at the college, all the time he had
lost; what trade could he go into now with any chance of getting on?
Two-and-twenty, and all his time gone for nothing! His uncle, Robert
Hill, who had been as indignant as any, here interposed. He sent for
his sister, and begged her to compose herself. The lad’s head was
turned, he said. He had made friends that were not good for a lad in
his class of life, that had led him away in other ways, and had made
him neglectful of his real friends. But still the lad was a fine lad,
and not beyond the reach of hope. This placable sentiment was thought
by everybody to proceed from Uncle Robert’s only daughter, Anne, who
was supposed to regard her cousin with favorable eyes; but anyhow the
suggestion of the Hills was that “the minister,” their own minister,
should be got to “speak to” Rob. Glad was the mother of this or any
other suggestion, and the minister undertook the office with good-will.

“Perhaps I may be able to remove some of your difficulties,” he said,
and he called to himself a professor, one of those who had the young
man’s training in hand. Thus Rob became a hero once more among all
belonging to him. Had the minister spoken? What had the minister said?
Had he come to his right mind? the good people asked. And, indeed, the
minister did speak, and so did the professor, both of whom thought
Rob’s a most interesting case. They were most anxious to remove his
difficulties; nay, for that matter, to remove everything--doctrines
and all--to free the young man from his scruples. They spoke, but they
spoke with bated breath, scarcely able to express the full amount of
the “respect and sympathy” with which they regarded these difficulties
of his. “We too--” they said, in mysterious broken sentences, with
imperfect utterance of things too profound for the common ear. And they
did their best to show him how he might gulp down a great many things
without hurting his conscience, which the robust digestion of the past
had been able to assimilate, but which were not adapted for the modern
mind. “There is more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half
the creeds,” these gentlemen said. But Rob held out. He would have been
foolish, indeed, as well as rarely disinterested and unsusceptible to
the most delicate of flatteries, had he not held out. He had never been
of so much importance in the course of his life.

It may be doubtful, however, if it was his conscience alone which
stopped him short in his career. Rob had learned in his tutorships,
and among the acquaintances acquired at college, to know that a Scotch
minister did not possess so elevated a position as in rural Fife he
was thought to do. The young man had a large share of ambition in him,
and he had read of society and of the great world, that abstraction
which captivates inexperienced youth. A minister could no more reach
this than, indeed, could the country laird who was the highest
representative of greatness known to Rob; but literature could (he
thought), art could: and he could write (he flattered himself), and
he could draw. Why, then, should he bind himself to the restraints
necessary for that profession, when other means of success more easy
and glorious were in his power?

This was a very strong supplementary argument to strengthen the
resistance of his conscience. And he did not give in; he preferred to
go home with his mother, to take, as all his advisers entreated him,
time to think everything over. Rob had no objections to take a little
time. He wanted money to take him to London, to start him in life, even
to pay off the debts which he said nothing of, but which weighed quite
as heavily upon him as his troubles of conscience. This was how he came
to be, after such a long interval, once more living with his mother at
Earl’s-hall farm. He had come home in all the importance of a sceptical
hero, a position very dazzling to the simple mind, and very attractive
to many honest people. But it was not so pleasant at home. Instead
of being the centre of anxious solicitude, instead of being plied
by conciliatory arguments, coaxed and persuaded, and respected and
sympathized with, he found himself the object of his mother’s irony,
and treated with a contemptuous impatience which he fain would have
called bigotry and intolerance.

Mrs. Glen was not at all respectful of honest doubt, and she had a
thorough contempt for anything and everything that kept a man from
making his way in the world. She was not indeed a person of refinement
at all. She had lived a hard life, struggling to bring up her children
and to “push them forrit,” as she said. The expression was homely, and
the end to be obtained perhaps not very elevated. To “push forrit” your
son to be Lord Chancellor, or even a general officer, or a bishop, is
a fine thing, which strikes the spectator; but when all you can do is
to push him “forrit” to a shop in Dundee, is the struggle less noble?
It is less imposing, at all events. And the struggling mother who had
done her best to procure such rise in life and in comfort as was within
her reach for her children was not a person of noble mind or generous
understanding. When Rob came home, upon whom her highest hopes had been
set, not prosperous like the others, but a failure and disappointment,
doing nothing, earning nothing, and with no prospect before him of
either occupation or gain, her mortification made her bitter. Fury and
disappointment filled her heart. She kept silent for the first day,
only going about her household affairs with angry energy, scolding her
servants, and as they said, “dinging everything about.” “So lang as she
disna ding me!” said Jean the dairy-maid; but it was not to be expected
that any long time should pass before she began to “ding” some one, and
ere long the culprit himself began to feel the force of her trouble.

“What are you doing?” she cried; “do you call that doing
onything--drawing a crookit line with a pencil and filling it up with
paint? Paint! ye might paint the auld cart if that’s the trade you mean
to follow. It would aye be worth a shilling or twa, which is mair than
ever thae scarts and splashes will be.” Or when Rob escaped into the
seclusion of a book: “Read, oh ay, ye can read fast enough when it’s
for naething but diversion and to pass the time; but ye’ll ne’er gather
bawbees with your reading, nor be a credit to them that belong to you.”
This was the sting of the whole. He was no credit to those who belonged
to him, rather he was an implied shame; for who would believe, Mrs.
Glen asked, that this sudden return was by his own will? “Na, na,” she
said, “they’ll think it is for ill-doing, and that he’s turned away out
of the college. It’s what I would do mysel’. And to think of all I’ve
done, and all I’ve put up with, and a’ to come to naething! Eh, man! I
would soon, soon have put an end to your douts. I would have made ye
sure of ae thing, if it hadna been your uncle Robert and his ministers,
ye should hae had nae douts about that: that no idle lad should sit at
my fireside and devour the best o’ everything. If ye had the heart of a
mouse ye couldna do it. Me, I would starve first; me, I would sweep the
streets. I would go down a coal-pit, or work in a gawley chain afore I
would sorn on my ain mother, a widow-woman, and eat her out o’ house
and hame!”

Poor Rob! he was not very sensitive, and he had been used to his
mother’s ways and moods, or these reproaches would have been hard
upon him. No doubt, had he been the innocent sufferer for conscience’
sake which he half believed himself to be, life would have been
unendurable in these circumstances; but as it was, he only shrugged
his shoulders, or jibed in return and paid her back in her own coin.
They were both made of the same rough material, and were able to give
and take, playing with the blows which would have killed others. Rob
was not driven out of the house, out upon the world in despair, as a
more sensitive person might have been. He stayed doggedly, not minding
what was said, till he should succeed in extracting the money which
would be necessary for his start; and from this steady purpose a few
warm words were not likely to dissuade him. He, on his side, felt that
he was too much of a man for that. But it is not pleasant to have
your faults dinned into your ears, however much you may scorn the
infliction, and Rob had gone out on the day he met Margaret very much
cast down and discouraged. He had almost made up his mind to confront
fate rather than his mother. Almost--but he was not a rash young man,
notwithstanding all that had happened to him, and the discomfort of
issuing forth upon the world penniless was greater than putting up (he
said to himself) with an old wife’s flyting; but still the flyting was
not pleasant to bear.

“Wha’s that?” his mother said when he returned. “Oh, it’s you! bless
me, I thought it was some person with something to do. There was not
the draigh in the foot that I’m getting used to. Maybe something’s
happened! You’ve gotten something to do, or you’ve ta’en another
thought! and well I wot it’s time.”

“No,” he said, “nothing’s happened. I’m tired enough and ready enough
to take anything that offered, mother; but, worse luck, nothing has
happened. I don’t know what could happen here.”

“No, nor me neither,” said Mrs. Glen; “when a lad hangs on at hame
looking for luck like you, and never doing a hand’s turn, it’s far from
likely luck will ever come the side he’s on. Oh, pit away your trash,
and dinna trouble me with the sight o’t! Painting! paint the auld cart,
as I tell ye, if you’re that fond o’ painting, or the byre door.”

“Everybody is not of your mind,” said Rob, stung by this assault.
“There are some that think them worth looking at, and that not far off
either: somebody better worth pleasing than--” you, he had almost said;
but with better taste he added, “any one here.”

“And wha may it be that has such guid taste?” said the mother,
satirically; “a lass, I’ll wager. Some poor silly thing or other that
thinks Rob Glen’s a gentleman, and is proud of a word from ane sae
well put on. Eh, but it’s easy to be well put on when it comes out of
another person’s pocket. It would be some lass out of the Kirkton. How
dare ye stand there no saying a word, but smile-smiling at me?”

“Would you like it better if I cried?” he said; “smiling is not so easy
always. I have little enough to smile at; but it is good sometimes to
feel that all the world is not against me.”

“And wha is’t that’s on your side? Some fool of a lass,” repeated Mrs.
Glen, contemptuously. “They’re silly enough for onything when a young
lad’s in the case. Who was it?” she added, raising her voice; “eh, I
would just like to gie her my opinion. It’s muckle the like of them
know.”

“I doubt if your opinion would matter much,” he said, with an air of
superiority that drove her frantic, “_I_ respect it deeply, of
course; but she--a young lady, mother--may be allowed, perhaps, to
think herself the best judge.”

“Leddy!” said Mrs. Glen, surprised; and instinctively she searched
around her to find out who this could be. “You’ll be meaning Mary
Fleming, the dress-maker lass; some call _her_ Miss; or maybe the
bit governess at Sir Claud’s.”

Rob laughed; in the midst of his troubles this one gleam of triumph
was sweet. “I mean no stranger,” he said, “but an old friend--one that
was once my companion and playfellow; and now she’s grown up into the
prettiest fairy, and does not despise me even now.”

Mrs. Glen was completely nonplussed. She looked at him with an air
of imperious demand, which, gradually yielding to the force of
her curiosity, fell, as he made no reply, into a quite softened
interrogation. “An auld companion?” she said to herself, bewildered;
then added, in a gentler tone than she had used since his return, a
side remark to herself: “He’s no that auld himsel’.”

“No,” he said, “but she is younger, mother, and as beautiful as an
angel, I think; and she had not forgotten Rob Glen.”

His mother looked at him more and more perplexed. But with her
curiosity and with her perplexity her heart melted. Lives there a
mother so hard, even when her anger is hottest, as to be indifferent
to any one who cares for her boy? “I canna think who you’re meaning,”
she said; “auld companions are scarce even to the like o’ me-- I mind
upon nobody that you could name by that name, a callant like you. Auld
playfellow! there’s the minister’s son, as great a credit to his family
as you’re a trial; but he’s no a leddy--”

Again Rob laughed; he was indemnified for all his sufferings. “I will
not keep you in doubt,” he said, with a certain condescension. “It is
little Margaret Leslie; you cannot have forgotten _her_, mother.
If she is not a lady I don’t know who is, and,” he added, sinking his
voice with genuine feeling, and a tender rush of childish recollection,
“my little queen.”

“Little Margaret Leslie!” said his mother, looking at him stupefied,
“you’re no meaning Miss Margret at Earl’s-hall?” she cried, with a half
shriek of astonishment, and gazed at him open-mouthed, like one in a
dream.




CHAPTER VI.


Mrs. Glen was much more gentle with her son after this triumph of his.
Margaret Leslie was but a girl, and her approbation did not mean very
much; but it was astonishing how the farmer-woman calmed down, and
what a different aspect things began to take to her, after she heard
of this meeting. She said nothing more that night; but stared at her
son, and let him go, with a half-reluctant relinquishment of her prey,
for the moment. And many were the thoughts which crowded through her
mind during the night. She had a respect for talent, like all her
nation; but she did not admire the talent which was unpractical, and
which did not serve a purpose. A young man who was clever enough to
pass all his examinations with credit, to preach a good sermon, to
get a living, that was what she could understand, and she had been
proud by anticipation in her son’s ability to do all this; but when
it turned out that he did not mean to employ his talent so, and when
his cleverness dwindled down into something impalpable, something that
could neither be bought and sold, nor weighed and measured, something
which only made a difference between him and other men, without being
of any use to him or placing him in the way of any advantage--instead
of respecting it, Mrs. Glen scorned the miserable distinction. “Clever!
ay, and much good it did him. Tawlent! he would be better without it.”

Such unprofitable gifts exasperated her much more than stupidity would
have done. But when she heard of the interview with Margaret Leslie,
and the renewal of friendship, and the girl’s delight with those
“scarts,” of which she herself was so contemptuous, her practical mind
stopped short to consider. Perhaps, after all, though they would never
make a living for him, nor were of any earthly use that she could see,
these talents might be so directed by a wise and guiding hand as yet to
produce something, perhaps to bring him to fortune. A girl who was an
heiress might be almost as good a thing for Rob as a kirk. To do Mrs.
Glen justice, she did not put the heiress on a level with the kirk, or
sceptically allow the one to be as good as the other. She only seized
upon the idea as a _pis aller_, reflecting that, if the kirk was
not to be had, a lass with a tocher might make some amends.

Here, then, was something to be done, something practical, with meaning
and “an object” in it. Mrs. Glen dearly loved to have an object. It
made all the difference to her. It was like going somewhere on business
instead of merely taking a walk. The latter mode of exercise she could
not abide; but put “an object” into it, and it changed the whole aspect
of affairs. This was how her son Rob’s hitherto useless accomplishments
rose in her estimation now, when they began to appear no longer
useless, but possibly capable of fulfilling some certain kind of end,
if not a very exalted one. At once they acquired interest in her eyes.
He himself and his presence at home ceased to be aimless, useless,
almost disgraceful, as she had hitherto felt them to be. When she got
up next morning, it was with a sense of comfort and encouragement
greater than she had felt since the unhappy moment when he had declared
to her that it was not possible for him to be a minister. Even now,
she could not look back without exasperation on that sudden change and
downfall of her pride and comfort. But here at least was a prospect for
him, a something before him, a way in which his talents, unprofitable
as they seemed, might yet be made of practical use. The change in her
manner was instantly apparent to her household. “The mistress has
gotten word of something,” Jean, the dairy-maid, said, whose hope had
been that she herself might not be “dinged” like everything else in the
mistress’s way. She did not “ding” anything on that blissful morning.
She was even tolerant, though it cost her a struggle, when Rob was late
for breakfast. Her whole being seemed softened and ameliorated, the
world had opened out before her. Here was an object for exertion, an
aim to which she could look forward; and with this life could never be
quite without zest to the energetic disposition of Mrs. Glen.

The first sign of the improved condition of affairs that struck Rob
occurred after breakfast, when his mother, instead of flinging a jibe
at his uselessness, as she went off, bustling and hot-tempered, to
her own occupations, addressed him mildly enough, yet with a hasty
tone that sounded half shame and half offence. It was not to be
expected, was it, that she should now encourage him in the habits she
had despised and abused yesterday without some sense of embarrassment
and a certain shamefacedness? A weaker woman would not have done it
at all, but would have thought of her consistency, and kept silent at
least. But Mrs. Glen was far too consistent to have any fears for her
consistency. Her embarrassment only made her tone hasty, and made her
postpone her speech till she had reached the door. When she had opened
it, and was about to leave the room, she turned round to her son,
though without looking at him. She said,

“If you will draw, if you ca’ that drawing, there’s a very bonnie view
of the Kirkton from the west green. I’m no saying you’re to waste your
time on such nonsense, but if you will do’t, there’s the bonniest view.”

With this she disappeared, leaving Rob in a state of wonder which
almost reached the point of consternation. It made him superstitious.
His mother--_his mother!_ to pause and recommend to him the
bonniest view! Something must be going to happen. Never in his life had
he been so surprised. He got up, half stupefied, as if under a mystic
compulsion, and got his sketching-block and his colors, and went out to
the west green. It was as if some voice had come out of the sky above
him, or from the soil beneath his feet, commanding this work. What was
he that he should be disobedient to the heavenly vision? He went out
like a man in a dream, his feet turning mechanically to the indicated
spot.

It was a fresh yet sunny morning, the dew not yet off the grass, for
everything was early at the farm. The hills, far off, lay clear in
softest tints of blue, dark yet transparent, the very color of aerial
distance, while all the hues of the landscape between, the brown
ploughed land, the green corn, the faint yellowing of here and there a
prosperous field, the darkness of the trees and hedges, the pale gleams
of water, rose into fuller tones of color as they neared him, yet all
so heavenly clear. The morning was so clear that Jean, in the byre,
shook her head, and said there would be rain. The clearness of the
atmosphere brought everything near; you might have stretched out your
hands and touched the Sidlaws, and even the blue peaks of the Grampians
beyond; and in the centre of the landscape lay the Kirkton, glorified,
every red roof in it, every bit of gray-yellow thatch and dark brown
wall telling against the background of fields; the trees scarcely
ruffled by the light morning wind, the church rising like a citadel
upon its mound of green, flecked with the burial-places of the past,
the houses clustered round it, the smoke rising, a faint darkening, as
of breath in the air, to mark where human living was. What a scene! yet
nothing; the homeliest country, low hills, broad fields, a commonplace
village. For a moment Rob, though he had no genius, fell into a trance,
as of genius, before this wonderful, simple landscape. “A voice said
unto me, Write; and I said, What shall I write?” How put it into
words, into colors upon dull paper? His head was filled with a magical
confusion. For once in his life he approached the brink of genius--in
the sense of his incapacity. He sat down, gazed, and could do no more.

By-and-by Mrs. Glen came strolling out from the house, with that
assumed air of ease and leisure which is always so comically
transparent. She meant to assume that she had nothing to do, and was
taking a walk for pleasure, which was about as unlikely a thing as
could have happened, almost as unlikely as pure interest in Rob’s work,
which was her real motive. She wanted to see what he had done, whether
he had taken that bonniest view, how he was getting on with it, and if
it was a thing which could, by any possibility, dazzle and delight a
young lady who was an heiress. Assuredly she had not sent out her son
to dream over the landscape, to do anything but draw it there and then
without delay, as if he had been sent to plough a field. She came up to
him, elaborately unoccupied and at her ease, yet explanatory.

“I’ve just come out to look about me,” she said, with fictitious
jauntiness. “So you’re at it again! Eh, laddie, what a waste o’ time
and good paper, no to speak of thae colors that cost money! And how far
are you on by this time? are you near done?”

Rob had the presence of mind to shut his book hastily.

“I have just begun, mother; but, I did not think you took any interest
in my poor drawing.”

“Me--take an interest? No! But if you’re to waste my substance and your
ain time taking pictures, I may as well see what there is to see as
other folk.”

“You shall see it when it is done,” said Rob. “It is not in a condition
to show now. It is not a thing that can be done in a minute. There is a
great deal of thought necessary--the different harmonies of color, the
relation of one part to another--”

Mrs. Glen was overawed.

“Ane would think it was some grand affair. A bit scart upon the paper,
and a wheen greens and blues: and ye talk as if it was a battle to
fight or a grand law-plea.”

“My dear mother,” said Rob, “many a man could fight a battle that could
not draw the Kirkton, with all the hills behind it, and the clouds, and
the air.”

“Air! ye can paint air, ye clever lad!” cried Mrs. Glen, with a laugh.
“Maybe you can paint the coos mowing and the sheeps baaing? I would not
wonder. It’s as easy as the air, which every bairn kens is no a thing
you can see.”

“I don’t say I can do it myself,” said Rob; “but I’ve seen pictures
where you would think you heard the cows and the sheep--yes, and the
skylarks up in the sky, and the hare plashing about in the wet woods.”

“Just that,” said his mother, “and the country gomerel that believes
all you like to tell her. Among a’ thae bonnie things there should be
a place for the one that’s to be imposed upon; but you’ll no put me
there, I’ll warrant you,” she cried, flouncing away in sudden wrath.

This interruption roused Rob and put him upon his mettle. If it was
well to have thus dignified his work in her eyes so that she should
be concerned in its progress, the result was not an unmitigated good.
Hitherto he had worked as the spirit moved him, and when he was not
sufficiently stirred had let his pencil alone. But this would not do,
now that his labor had become a recognized industry. He betook himself
to his task with a sigh.

Rob’s artist-powers were not great. He drew like an amateur, not even
an amateur of a high order, and would not have impressed any spectator
who had much knowledge of art. But he had a certain amount of that
indescribable quality which artists call “feeling,” a quality which
sometimes makes the most imperfect of sketches more attractive than the
skilfullest piece of painting. This is a gift which is more dependent
upon moods and passing impulses than upon knowledge and skill; and no
doubt the subtlety of those flying shadows, the breadth of the infinite
morning light, so pure, so delicate, yet brilliant, put them beyond
the hand of the untrained craftsman. The consequence of this morning’s
work, the first undertaken with legitimate sanction and authority,
was accordingly a failure. Rob put the Kirkton upon his paper very
faithfully; he drew the church and the houses so that nobody could fail
to recognize them; but as for the air of which he had boasted! alas,
there was no air in it. He worked till the hour of the farm dinner;
worked on, getting more eager over it as he felt every line to fail,
and walked home, flushed and excited, when he heard his name called
through the mid-day brightness. The broth was on the table when he
went in, putting down his materials on a side-table; and Mrs. Glen was
impatient of the moment he spent in washing his hands.

“You have as many fykes as a fine leddy,” she said. It had not occurred
to her to make this preparation for her meal. She drew her chair to the
table, and said grace in the same breath with this reproach. “Bless
these mercies,” she said; and then, “Ye canna say but you’ve had a lang
morning, and naebody to disturb you. I hope you have something to show
for it now.”

“Not much,” said Rob.

“No much! It’s a pretence, then, like a’ the rest! Lord bless me,
I couldna spend the whole blessed day without doing a hand’s turn,
no, if you would pay me for it. Eh, but we’re deceived creatures,”
cried Mrs. Glen; “as glad when a bairn comes into the world as if it
brought a fortune with it! A bonnie fortune! anxiety and care; and if
there’s a moment’s pleasure, it’s aye ransomed by days of trouble. Sup
your broth; they’re very good broth, far better than the like of you
deserve; but maybe you think it’s no a grand enough dinner for such
a fine gentleman? Na, when I was just making up my mind to let you
take your will and see what you could do your ain way--and you set up
your face and tell me, no much! No much! if it’s not enough to anger a
saint!”

“There it is; you can judge for yourself,” cried Rob, with sudden
exasperation. He jumped up from the table so quickly that his mother
had no time to point out his want of manners in getting up in the midst
of his dinner. The words were stopped on her lips, when he suddenly
placed the block on which he had been drawing before her. Mrs. Glen
had not condescended to look at any of these performances before. It
would have seemed a sort of acceptance of his excuse had she taken any
notice of the “rubbitch” with which he “played himself,” and she had
really felt the contempt she expressed. Drawing pictures! it was a kind
of childish occupation, an amusement to be pursued on a wet day, when
nothing else was possible, or as a solace in the tedium of illness. But
when Rob put down before her, relieved against the white table-cloth,
the Kirkton itself in little, a very reproduction of the familiar scene
she had beheld every day for years, the words were stopped upon his
mother’s lips.

“Eh!” she cried, in mere excess of emotion, able for nothing but a
monosyllable. The very imperfection of it gave it weight in Mrs. Glen’s
unpractised eyes. “Losh me!” she cried, when she had recovered the
first shock of admiration. “Rob, was it you that did that? are you sure
it’s your ain doing?” She could not trust her own eyes.

“And poor enough too,” said Rob, but he liked the implied applause:
who would not? Praise of what we have done well may satisfy our
intellectual faculties, but praise of a failure, that is a thing which
really goes to the heart.

“Poor! I would like to ken what you mean by poor?” Mrs. Glen pushed
away the broth and took up the block in a rapture of surprise and
delight. “It’s the very Kirkton itself!” she said; “there’s Robert
Jamieson’s house, and there’s Hugh Macfarlane’s, and there’s the way
you go to the post, and there’s the Kilnelly burying-ground, and the
little road up to the kirk--no a thing missed out. And do you mean to
tell me it’s a’ your own doing? Oh, laddie, laddie, the talents you’ve
gotten frae Providence! and the little use you make o’ them,” added
his mother, with a sudden recollection of the burden of her prophecy
against her son, which could not be departed from even now.

Rob was so much encouraged that he ventured to laugh. “There is nothing
I wish so much as to make more use of them,” he said; “I ought to study
and have good teaching.”

“Teaching! what do you want with teaching? You were never one that
was easy satisfied; what mair would you have?” she cried. She could
not take her eyes from the drawing. She touched it lightly with her
finger to make sure that it was flat, and did not owe its perspective
to mechanical causes. “To think it’s naething but a cedar pencil and
a wheen paints! I never saw the like! and you to do it, a laddie like
you! It beats me! Ay, there’s Robert Jamieson’s house, and yon’s Hugh
Macfarlane’s, and the wee gate into the kirk-yard as natural! and Widow
Morrison’s small shop joining the kirk. I can ’most see the things in
the window. I would like the Minister to see it,” said Mrs. Glen.

“Not that one, it is not good enough; there are others, mother.”

She cast upon him a half-contemptuous glance. He was “no judge,” even
though it was he who had done it: how could he be a judge, when he had
so little appreciation of this great work?

“It’s a great deal you ken,” she said; “I will take it mysel’ and let
him see it. He would be awfu’ pleased. His ain kirk, and ye can just
see the Manse trees, though it’s no in the picture. And a’ done in one
forenoon! I suppose,” she added, suddenly, “the like of this brings in
siller. It’s a business, like any other trade?”

“When they are better than that, yes--pictures sell; but you should not
speak of it as a trade.”

“I wish it was half as honest and straightforward as many a trade.
Better than that! that’s aye your way. But you have not suppit your
broth. I would not say now,” said Mrs. Glen, in high good-humor “(sit
down and finish your dinner), but Miss Margret would like a look at
that.”

“It is not half good enough.”

“Hold your peace, you silly lad! I hope I ken what I’m saying. She’s
but lonely, poor thing--no a young person to speak to. It would divert
her to see it. I would not forbid you now to give the young leddy the
like o’ that in a present. Sir Ludovic’s our landlord, after a’. He’s
no an ill landlord, though he’s poor. It is aye a fine thing to be
civil, and ye never can tell but what a kind action will meet with its
reward. I see no reason why you should not take that to Miss Margret in
a present,” Mrs. Glen said.




CHAPTER VII.


Rob had not been so light of heart since he made that momentous
decision about his profession which had so strangely changed his life.
For the first time since then he felt himself an allowed and authorized
person, not in disgrace or under disapprobation of all men, as he had
hitherto been; and the permission to carry his drawing of the Kirkton
to Miss Margaret “in a present” amused him, while it gave at the same
time a certain sanction to his engagement to meet her, and show her the
other productions of his pencil. Rob had his wits about him more than
Margaret had, though not so much as his mother. He was aware that to
ask a young lady to meet him at the burn, for what purpose soever, was
not exactly what was becoming, and that the advantage he had taken of
their childish friendship was perhaps not quite so “like a gentleman”
as he wished to be. He could not, indeed, persuade himself that his
mother was any authority in such a question; but still the fact that
she thought it quite natural that he should carry on his old relations
with Margaret, and even encouraged him to make the young lady a
present, gave him a sort of fictitious satisfaction. He would affect to
take his mother’s opinion as his authority, if his conduct was called
in question, and thus her ignorance was a bulwark to him. He went out
again after his broth, and worked diligently all the afternoon, though
Mrs. Glen thought it very unnecessary.

“’Twill just spoil it,” she said. “The like of you never knows where to
stop: either you do nothing at all, or you do a hantle o’er much.”

But on this point Rob took his own way. Certainly, even when you
despise the opinion of those around, it is good to be thought well
off. The moral atmosphere was lighter round him, and there was the
pleasant prospect of meeting Margaret in the evening, and receiving the
delightful incense of her admiration; a more agreeable way of filling
up this interval of leisure could not have been devised, had his
leisure been the most legitimate, the most natural in the world.

While he sat at his drawing in the breezy afternoon, a further sign
of the rehabilitation he had undergone was accorded to him. Voices
approaching him through the garden, which lay between the house and
the west green, prepared him for visitors, and these voices were too
familiar to leave him in doubt who the visitors were. It was the
Minister, whom Mrs. Glen was leading to the spot where her son was at
work on his drawing. “I’ll no say that I expected much,” said Mrs.
Glen, “for I’m not one that thinks everything fine that’s done by my
ain. I think I’m a’ the mair hard to please; but, Doctor, when I saw
upon the paper the very Kirkton itsel’! Losh me! there wasn’t a house
but you would have kent it. Robert Jamieson’s and Hugh Macfarlane’s,
just as like as if you had been standing afore them. It clean beats me
how a lad can do that, that has had little time for anything but his
studies; for, Doctor, I never heard but that my Rob was a good student.
He hasna come to a good issue, which is awfu’ mysterious; but a good
student he aye was, and there’s no a man that kens who will say me nay.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Dr. Burnside. “It makes it all the more
mysterious, as you well say; but let us hope that time and thought
will work a change. I’m not one to condemn a young man because he has
troubles of mind. We’ve all had our experiences,” the good man said,
as he came through the opening in the hedge to the west green, which
was nothing more imposing than the “green,” technically so called, in
which the farmer’s household dried its clothes--a green, or, to speak
more circumstantially, “a washing green,” a square of grass on which
the linen could be bleached if necessary, and with posts at each corner
for the ropes on which it was suspended to dry, being a necessity of
every house in Fife, and throughout Scotland. There was no linen hung
out at present to share the breezy green with Rob. He sat on the grass
on a three-legged stool he had brought with him; a low hedge ran round
the little enclosure, with a little burn purling under its shadow, and
beyond were the green fields and the village, with all its reds and
blues. Behind him an old ash-tree fluttered its branches and sheltered
him from the sun.

“Well, Robert, and how do you do?” said Dr. Burnside. “I have come out
to see you, at your mother’s instance. She tells me you’ve developed a
great genius for painting. I am very happy to hear of it, but I hope
you will not let the siren art lead you away from better things.”

“What are better things?” said Rob; “I don’t know any,” and he got up
to respond to the Minister’s salutation. Dr. Burnside shook his head.

“That is what I feared,” he said. “You must not give up for painting,
or any other pleasure of this earth, the higher calling you were first
bound to, my good lad. You’ve served your time to the Church, and what
if you have passing clouds that trouble your spirit? Having put your
hand to the plough, you must not turn back.”

“Eh, that’s what I tell him every day o’ his life,” said Mrs. Glen.

“I came on purpose to have a long conversation with you,” said the
Minister. “Yes, very pretty, very pretty. I am no judge of paintings
myself, but I’ve no doubt it’s very well done. I need not tell you I’m
very sorry for all that’s come and gone; but I cannot give up the hope,
Robert, that you will see the error of your ways. I cannot think a
promising lad like you will continue in a wrong road.”

“If it is a wrong road,” said Rob.

“Whisht, lad, and hearken what the Minister says; but before I go in,
Doctor, look at the picture. Is’t no wonderful? There’s your ain very
trees, and the road we’ve ga’en to the kirk as long as I can mind, and
a’ the whigmaleeries of the auld steeple. Na, I put nae faith in it at
first, no me! but when I saw it, just a bit senseless paper, good for
nothin’ in itsel’! Take a good look at it, Doctor. It’s no like the
kind of thing ye’ll see every day.”

“Yes, Mrs. Glen,” said the Minister, “I do not doubt it is very pretty.
I am no judge myself. I would like to hear what Sir Claude would say;
he is a great connoisseur. But it was not about pictures, however
pretty, that I was wanting to speak to Robert. My good lad, put away
your bonnie view and all your paints for a moment, and take a walk down
to the Manse with me. I would like to satisfy myself how you stand, and
perhaps a little conversation might be of use. There is nothing so good
for clearing the cobwebs out of the mind, as just entering into the
state of the case with a competent person, one that understands you,
and knows what to advise.”

“That is what I aye said when all thae professors in Glasgow was
taighling at him; the Doctor at hame would understand far better, that
is what I aye said. Go with the Minister, Rob, and pay great attention.
I’ll carry in the things. But I wish ye would take a good look at the
picture, Doctor; and ye’ll no keep him too long, for he has a friend to
see, and two-three things to do. You’ll mind that, Rob, my man.”

Never since the fatal letter which disclosed his apostasy had his
mother addressed him before as “my man.” And Rob knew that the Doctor
was not strong in argument. He went with him across the fields he had
just been putting into his sketch, with an easy mind. He was fond of
discussion, like every true-born Scotsman, and here at least he was
pretty sure of having the victory. Mrs. Glen, for her part, carried in
“the paints” with a certain reverence. She put the sketch against the
wall of the parlor, and contemplated it with pride, which was a still
warmer sentiment than her pleasure. It was “our Rob” that had done
that; nobody else in the country-side was so clever. It was true that
Sir Claude was a connoisseur, as the Minister said, and was supposed
to know a great deal about art, but nobody had ever seen a picture of
his to be compared with this of “our Rob’s.” Mrs. Glen set the sketch
against the wall, and got her knitting and sat down opposite to it, not
to worship, but to build castles upon that foundation, which was not
much more satisfactory than Alnascher’s basket of eggs. The thought
passed through her mind, indeed, that he who could do so much in this
accidental and chance way, what might he not have done had he followed
out his original vocation? which was a grievous thought. But then it
never could have been in Rob’s way to be Archbishop of Canterbury,
or anything but a parish minister, like the Doctor himself; whereas,
perhaps, with this unsuspected new gift, and out of his very idleness
and do-nothingness, who could tell what might come? Mrs. Glen’s
imagination was of a vulgar kind, but it enabled her to follow out
a perfectly feasible and natural line of events, and to settle what
her own line of conduct was to be with admirable good sense: not to
press him, not to put herself forward as arranging anything, not to
interfere with the young lady, but to wait and see how things would
happen. Nothing could be more simple. The end was a mist of confusion
before the farmer-woman’s eyes. Perhaps she fell asleep, nodding over
her half-knitted stocking in the drowsiness of the afternoon; but if
so, a vague vision of “our Rob” turned into Sir Robert, and reigning
at Earl’s-hall, glistened at the end of that vista. How he could be
Sir Robert, by what crown matrimonial he could be invested with the
title and the lands of which Ludovic Leslie, and not Margaret, was the
heir, we need not try to explain. The dreamer herself could not have
explained it, nor did she try; and perhaps she had fallen asleep, and
was not accountable for the fancies that had got into her drowsy brain.

As for Rob, he had a long conversation with the Minister, and posed him
as he had intended and foreseen. Dr. Burnside’s theology was ponderous,
and his information a trifle out of date. Even in the ordinary way of
reasoning, his arguments were more apt to unsettle the minds of good
believers and make the adversary rejoice, than to produce any more
satisfactory result; and it may be supposed that he was not very well
prepared for the young sceptic, trained in new strongholds of learning
which the good Doctor knew but by name. Dr. Burnside shook his puzzled
head when he went into the Manse to tea. “Yon’s a clever lad,” he said
to his wife. “I sometimes think the devil always gets the cleverest.”

“Well, Doctor,” said Mrs. Burnside, who was a very strong theologian,
“have you forgotten that the foolish things of this earth are to
confound the strong?”

But the Doctor only shook his head. He did not like to think of himself
as one of the foolish things of this earth, even though by so doing
he might have a better hope of confounding the audacious strength of
Rob Glen. But he pondered much upon the subject, and polished up his
weapons in private, going through many an argument in his own mind,
which was more successful, and preparing snares and pitfalls for the
young heretic. He had patronized Rob when Rob was orthodox, but he
respected him now as he had never done before.

“I think I will preach my sermon on the fig-tree next Sabbath morning,”
he said to his wife after tea. “I think that will stagger him, if
anything can.”

“Well, Doctor,” Mrs. Burnside replied, “it will always be a pleasure
to hear it; but I fear Robert Glen is one of those whose ears are made
heavy, that they cannot hear.”

The Doctor shook his head again, out of respect to the Scriptures;
but he was not so hopeless. Perhaps he believed in his sermon on the
fig-tree more than his wife did, and he felt that to gain back the
young man who had baffled him would be indeed a crown of glory. He
spent an hour in his study that night looking up other sermons which
specially suited the case. It gave him an interest in his sermons
which he had not felt since Sir Claude gave up coming to the parish
church, and seceded to the Episcopal chapel in St. Rule’s. That had
been a distressing event to the good Doctor, but he had got over it,
and now providence had been kind enough to send him a young unbeliever
to convince. Perhaps the good folks of the Kirkton and the parish
generally would have heard of this looking up of the old discourses
with some apprehension; but the Doctor wrote a new introduction to the
sermon on the fig-tree, and that was some little gain at least.

Rob left his pastor with less respectfulness than the good Doctor
felt for him. After running the gauntlet of the professors, and
receiving all the attention he had received as the representative
of honest doubt, it is not to be supposed that Dr. Burnside could
impress him much, and he took up a great deal of time with his feeble
argumentations. When, however, the Minister invited him to come to the
Manse to tea, Rob made a very pretty speech about his mother. “She has
been very kind to me, though I know I have disappointed her,” he said,
“and I must not leave her alone. I don’t think I can leave her alone.”

“That’s the finest thing you’ve said, Robert,” said the Doctor. “I see
your heart is right, although your head is all wrong;” and with this
they parted, and the good man came in to look over his sermons. As
for Rob, he hurried home to collect some sketch-books for Margaret’s
benefit, and would not share his mother’s tea, notwithstanding his
pretty speech. But it was astonishing how tolerant Mrs. Glen had grown.
She shook her head, but she did not insist upon the bread-and-butter.

“I’ll have something ready for your supper if you havena time now,” she
said; and entreated him to take the block with to-day’s drawing, which
she thought might be offered “in a present” to the young lady.

“Not that, mother,” said Rob, “not till it is finished.”

“Finished!” she said, with a disdain which was complimentary; “what
would you have? You canna mend it. It’s just the Kirkton itsel’.”

And she would have liked him to put on his best black coat when he
went to meet Miss Margaret, and the tall hat he wore on Sundays. “When
you have good claes, why should ye no wear them? She should see that
you ken the fashion and can keep the fashion with the best--as my poor
purse will feel when the bill comes in,” she added, with a sigh. But
at last Rob managed to escape in his ordinary garments, and with the
sketches he had chosen. After the events of the day, which had been
a kind of crisis in his career, Rob’s mind was full of a pleasant
excitement; all things seemed once more to promise well for him--if
only this little lady of romance would keep her promise. Would she come
again? or had he been flattering himself, supposing a greater interest
in her mind than really existed, or a greater freedom in her movements?
He lingered about for some time, watching the sun as it lighted up
the west, and began to paint the sky with crimson and purple; and as
he watched it, Rob was natural enough and innocent enough to forget
most other things. Who could attempt to put that sky upon paper? There
was all the fervor of first love in his enthusiasm for art, and as
he pondered what color could give some feeble idea of such a sky, he
thought no more of Margaret. What impossible combination could do it?
And if it was done, who would believe in it? He looked at the growing
glory with that despair of the artist which is in itself a worship. Rob
was not an artist to speak of, yet he had something of the “feeling”
which makes one, and all the enthusiasm of a beginner just able to make
some expression of his delight in the beauty round him; and there is no
one who sees that beauty so clearly, and all the unimaginable glories
of the atmosphere, the clouds and shadows, the wonderful varieties of
color of which our northern heaven is capable, as the artist, however
humble. He was absorbed in this consideration, wondering how to do it,
wondering if he ever could succeed in catching that tone of visionary
light, that touch of green amidst the blue--or whether he would not
be condemned as an impostor if he tried, when suddenly his book of
sketches was softly drawn out of his hand. Looking round with a start,
he saw Margaret by his side. She had stolen upon him ere he was aware,
and her laugh at having taken him by surprise changed into her habitual
sudden blush as she caught his eye.

“You need not mind me,” she said, confused. “I am very happy, looking
at the pictures. Are you trying to make a picture out of that sky?”

“If I could,” he said; “but I don’t know how to do it; and if I did,
it would not be believed, though people see the sunset every day. Did
you ever see a Turner, Miss Margaret? Do you know he was the greatest
artist--one of the greatest artists?”

“I have heard his name; but I never saw any pictures, never one except
our own, and a few in other houses. I have heard, or rather I have read
that name. Did he paint landscapes like you?”

“Like me!” Rob laughed. “You don’t know what you are saying. I am a
poor creature, a beginner, a fellow that knows nothing. But he!--and
he is very fond of sunsets, and paints them; but he dared no more have
done that--”

Margaret looked up curiously into the western heavens. It was “all
aflame,” and the glow of it threw a warm reflection upon her as she
looked up wistfully, with a look of almost infantile, suddenly awakened
wonder. Her face was very grave, startled, and full of awe, like one
of Raphael’s child-angels. The idea was new to her. She, who thought
these sketches so much more interesting than the sunset, it gave her
a new sensation to hear of the great artist who had never dared to
represent that which the careless heavens accomplish every day. Some
floating conception of the greatness of that great globe of sky and
air which kept herself suspended a very atom in its vastness, and of
the littleness of any man’s attempt at representing it, came suddenly
upon her, then floated away again, leaving her as eager as ever over
Rob Glen’s poor little sketches. She turned them over with hurried
hands. Some were of scenes she did not know, the lochs and hills of the
West Highlands, which filled her with delight, and now and then an old
tumble-down house, which interested her less.

“Would you like to draw Earl’s-hall?” she said. “I know you have it
done in the distance. But it is grand in the distance, and close at
hand it is not so grand, it is only funny. Perhaps you could make a
picture, Mr.--Glen, of Earl’s-hall?”

“I should very much like to try. Might I try? Perhaps Sir Ludovic might
not like it.”

“Papa likes what I like,” said Margaret. But then she paused. “There is
Bell. You know Bell, Mr.--Glen.”

She made a little pause before his name, and he smiled. Perhaps it was
better that she should not be so easily familiar and call him Rob. The
touch of embarrassment was more attractive.

“Bell,” she added, with a little furtive smile, avoiding his look, “is
more troublesome than papa; and she will go and speak to papa when she
takes it into her head.”

“Then you do not like Bell? I am wrong, I am very wrong; I see it. You
did not mean that!”

“Not like--Bell? What would happen if you did not care for those that
belong to you?”

“But Bell is only your servant--only your house-keeper.”

Margaret closed the sketch-book, and looked at him with indignant eyes.

“I cannot tell you what Bell is,” she said. “She is just Bell. She took
care of my mother, and she takes care of me. Who would be like Bell
to me, if it were the Queen? But sometimes she scolds,” she added,
suddenly, coming down in a moment from her height of seriousness; “and
if you come to Earl’s-hall, you must make friends with Bell. I will
tell her you want to draw the house. She would like to see a picture
of the house, I am sure she would; and, Mr. Glen,” said Margaret,
timidly, looking up in his face, “you promised--but perhaps you have
forgotten--you promised to learn me--”

(Learn, by one of the curious turns of meaning not uncommon over the
Border, means teach in Scotch, just as to hire means to be hired.)

“Forgotten!” said Rob, his face, too, glowing with the sunset. “If you
will only let me! The worst is that you will soon find out how little I
know.”

“Not when I look at these beautiful pictures,” said Margaret, opening
the sketch-book again. “Tell me where this is. It is a little dark
loch, with hills rising and rising all round; here there is a point out
into the water with a castle upon it, all dim and dark; but up on the
hills the sun is shining. Oh, I would like, I would like to see it!
What bonnie places there must be in the world!”

“It is in the Highlands. I wish I could show you the place,” said Rob.
“The colors on the hills are far beyond a poor sketch of mine. They are
like a beautiful poem.”

Margaret looked up at him again with a misty sweetness in her eyes, a
recognition, earnest and happy, of another link of union.

“Do you like poetry _too_?” she said.




CHAPTER VIII.


Margaret went home that evening with her head more full than ever of
the new incident which had come into her life. More full of that,
but not quite so much occupied, perhaps, by the thought of her new
acquaintance. She had all the eagerness of a child to begin her
studies, to learn how to make pictures as he did, and this for the
moment took everything that was dangerous out of the new conjunction
of young man and young woman which was quite unfamiliar to her, but
which had vaguely impressed her on their first meeting. She came home
this time no longer in a dream of roused and novel feeling, but with
definite aims before her; and when she found Bell, as usual, seated
outside the door in the little court, Margaret lost no time in opening
the attack on the person whom she knew to be the most difficult and
unlikely to be convinced.

“Bell!” she cried, running in, breathless with eagerness, “something is
going to happen to me. Listen, Bell! I am going to learn to draw.”

“Bless me, bairn!” cried Bell, drawing back her chair in semi-alarm.
“Is that a’? I thought you were going to tell me the French were
coming. No that the French have ony thought of coming nowadays, puir
bodies; they’ve ower muckle to do with themselves.”

“Bell, you don’t take the trouble to think about me, and I am so happy
about it. There never was a time that I did not care for pictures. And
there’s a view of Earl’s-hall from the Kirkton, and I cannot tell how
many more. You know I always was fond of pictures, Bell.”

“No me! I never knew you had seen ony, Miss Margret,” said Bell,
placidly; “but for my part, I’m sure I’ve no objection. I would like
it far better if it was the piany; but education’s aye a grand thing,
however it comes. Can do is easy carried about.”

“And will you speak to papa?” said Margaret. “Bell, I wish you would
speak to papa; for he jokes at me, and calls me little Peggy, and you
know I am not little, but quite grown up.”

“Oh, ay, as auld as him or me--in your ain conceit,” said Bell; “but
whisht, my bonnie doo-- I wasna meaning to vex you. And what am I to
speak to Sir Ludovic about?”

A slight embarrassment came over Margaret. She began to fidget from
one foot to another, and a sudden wave of color flushed over her face.
It did not mean anything. Was it not the trouble of her life that she
blushed perpetually--blushed for nothing at all, with every fresh
thought that rushed upon her, with every new impulse? It was her way
of showing every emotion. Nevertheless this time it made her feel
uncomfortable, as if it might mean something more.

“I told you,” she said; “it is about learning to draw, and about
letting him come here to show me the way.”

“Letting _him_ come! that’s another story; and who’s him?”
said Bell. She made a rapid mental review of the county while she
spoke--puzzled, yet not disconcerted; there was nobody of whom the
severest duenna could be afraid. There was Sir Claude--known to be very
fond of pictures--but Sir Claude was a douce married man, who was very
unlikely to take the trouble, and, even if he did, would hurt nobody.
“Na, I canna think. Young Randal Burnside he’s away; that was the only
lad in the country-side like to be evened to our Miss Margret, and
him no half or quarter good enough. Na, ye maun tell me; there’s no
_him_ in the country that may not come and go free for anything I
care.”

“Why should you care?” said Margaret. “But I will tell you who it is.
It is Rob Glen--Mrs. Glen’s son, at Earl’s-lee. He used to play with me
when I was little, and I saw him drawing a picture. And then he told me
who he was, and then he said he would learn me to draw, if I liked to
learn--and you may be sure I would like to learn, Bell. Fancy! to take
a bit of paper out of a book, and put this house upon it or any other
house, and all the woods, and the hills, and the sky. Look at that puff
of cloud! it’s all rosy and like a flower; but in a moment it will be
gray, and next moment it will be gone; but if you draw it you have it
forever. It’s wonderful, wonderful, Bell!”

“Rob Glen,” said Bell, musing. She paid no attention to Margaret’s
poetical outburst. “Rob Glen--that’s him that was to be a minister; but
something’s happened to him; he’s no conductit himself as he ought, or
else he tired of the notion, and he’s at hame doing naething.” Bell
paused after this historical sketch. “He wasna an ill laddie. He was
very good to you, Miss Margret, when you were but a little troublesome
thing, greeting for drinks of water, and asking to be carried, and
wanting this and wanting that, just what puts a body wild with bairns.”

“Was I?” said Margaret, with wide-opened eyes. “No! Rob never thought
me a trouble. You might do so,” she added, with offence. “I cannot tell
for you, but I am sure Rob--”

“I weel believe he never said a word. He was great friends with you, I
mind well--oh, great friends. And so he wants to learn you to draw--or
you want him? I see nae great objection,” said Bell, doubtfully. “He’s
a young man, but then you’re a leddy far above him; and you’re old
friends, as you say. I will not say but what I would rather he was
marrit, Miss Margret; but I see nae great objection--”

“Married!” said Margaret, her eyes bigger than ever with wonder and
amusement--“married!” She laughed, though she could scarcely have told
why. The idea amused her beyond measure. There was something piquant
in it, something altogether absurd. Rob! But why the idea was so
ridiculous she could not say. Bell looked at her in her laughter with a
certain doubt.

“Why should he no be married?” she said; “lads of that kind marry
young--they’ve naething to wait for: the moment they get a kirk it’s
a’ they can look for--very different from some. I dinna ken what Sir
Ludovic may say,” she added, doubtfully. “Sir Ludovic has awfu’ high
notions; a farmer’s son to learn a Leslie. I canna tell how he’ll take
it.”

“Bell!” cried Margaret, with indignation, “when you know it’s you that
have the high notions! Papa would never think of anything of the kind;
but if you go and put them into his head, and tell him what to think--”

“Lord bless the bairn, me!” cried Bell, with the air of being deeply
shocked; and then she got up and went back into her kitchen, which was
her stronghold. Margaret, for her part, slightly discouraged, but still
eager, stole up-stairs. If Bell was against her, it did not matter very
much who was on her side. She went softly into the long room where her
father was reading. Would it ever happen to her, she wondered, to sit
still in one place and read, whatever might be going on--never thinking
what was happening outside, untroubled whether it rained or was
fine, whether it was summer or winter? Though she came in and roamed
about softly, in a kind of subdued restlessness, looking over the
book-shelves, and flitting from window to window, Sir Ludovic took no
notice. With her own life so warm in her, it was stranger and stranger
to Margaret to see that image of the calm of age; how strange it was!
He had not moved even, since she came into the room, while she was
so restless, so eager, thinking nothing in the world so important as
her present fancy. When she had fluttered about for some time without
attracting his notice, she grew impatient. “Papa, I want to speak to
you,” she said.

“Eh? Who is that--?” Sir Ludovic roused up as if he had been asleep;
“you, little Peggy?”

“Yes; were you sleeping? I wondered and wondered that you never saw me.”

“I don’t think I was asleep,” he said, with a little confusion. “To
tell the truth, I do get drowsy sometimes lately, and I don’t half like
it,” he added, in an undertone.

“You don’t like it?” said Margaret: she was not uneasy, but she was
sympathetic. “But then don’t do it, papa; come and take a little walk
with me”--(here she paused, remembering that to-night, for instance,
Sir Ludovic would have been much out of place), “or a turn in the
garden, like John.”

Sir Ludovic paid not much attention to what she said: he rubbed his
eyes, and raised his head, shaking himself with a determination to
overcome the drowsiness, which was a trouble to him. “You must sit
with me more, my little girl, and make a noise; a little sound is
life-like. This stillness gets like”--(he made a pause; was the first
word that occurred to him an unpleasant one, not such as was agreeable
to pronounce?)--“like sleep,” he added, after a moment, “and I have no
wish to go to sleep.”

“Sleeping is not pleasant in the daytime,” said Margaret,
unintentionally matter-of-fact. The old man gave a slight shiver, which
she did not understand. It was no longer the daytime with him, and
this was precisely why he disliked his unconscious doze; was it not a
sign that night was near? He raised himself in his chair, and with the
almost mechanical force of habit began to turn over the leaves of the
book before him. It was evident he had not heard her appeal. She stood
by for a moment not saying anything, then pulled his sleeve gently.

“Papa! it was something I had to say.”

“Ay, to be sure. You wanted something, my little Peggy? what was it?
There are not many things I can do, but if it is within my power--”

“Papa! how strange to speak to me so--you can do everything I want,”
said the girl. “And this is what it is: I want--don’t be very much
astonished--to learn to draw.”

“To draw? I am afraid I am no good in that respect, and cannot teach
you, my dear.”

“You? Oh no! But there is one that would learn me.”

“My little Peggy, you are too Scotch--say teach.”

“Very well, teach if you like, papa; what does the word matter? But may
he come to the house, and may I have lessons? I think it is the only
thing that is wanted to make me perfectly happy.”

Sir Ludovic smiled. “In that case you had better begin at once. Mr.
Ruskin himself ought to teach you, after such a sentiment. At once, my
Peggy! for I would have you perfectly happy if I could. Poor child, who
knows what may happen after,” he said, meditatively, putting his hand
upon her arm and smoothing the sleeve caressingly. Margaret, occupied
with her own thoughts, did not take in the meaning of this; but she was
vaguely discouraged by the tone.

“You are not like yourself, papa; what has happened?” she said, almost
impatiently. “You are not--ill? It is waking up, I suppose.”

“Just that--or going to sleep--one or the other. No, no, I am not ill;
yet-- And let us be comfortable, my little girl. Draw? Yes, you shall
learn to draw, and sit by me, quiet as a little mouse with bright eyes.”

“You said just now I was to make a noise.”

“To be sure, so I did. I say one thing one moment, and another the
next; but, after all, they are much the same. So you sit by me, you
may be quiet or make a noise--it will be all the same. Your noises are
quiet, my Peggy. Your sleeve rustling, your hand moving, and a little
impatience now and then, a start and a shake of your little head. These
are noises an old man likes when Providence has given him a little
girl.”

“But really,” said Margaret, with a crease in her forehead, “really! I
am grown-up-- I am not a little girl!”

“Well, my Peggy! it will be so much the better for you,” he said,
patting her sleeve. Margaret was vaguely chilled by this acquiescence,
she could scarcely tell why; and the slight pain made her impatient,
calling up a little auger, causeless and vague as itself.

“Don’t, papa,” she said. “You are not like yourself. I don’t know what
is the matter with you. Then, he may come?”

“Yes, yes, at once,” said Sir Ludovic, with a dreamy smile; then he
said, “But who is it?” as if this mattered little. Altogether, Margaret
felt he was not like himself.

“Do you remember Rob Glen, papa, the son of Mrs. Glen at Earl’s-lee? He
used to play with me when I was a child; he was always very kind to me.
Oh, don’t shake your head; you must mind him. Robert Glen at the farm?”

“I _mind_, as you say--Scotch, Scotch, little Peggy; you should
not be so Scotch--a Robert Glen who took the farm thirty or forty years
ago. By-the-bye, the lease must be almost out; but how you are to get
drawing or anything else out of a rough farmer--”

“Papa!”-- Margaret put her hand upon his shoulder with impatience--“how
could it be a Robert Glen of thirty or forty years ago? He is only a
little older than me. He played with me when I was a little girl. He is
perhaps the son, or he may be the grandson. He is a little older than
me.”

“Get your pronouns right, my little Peggy. Ah! the son; _va pour le
fils_,” said Sir Ludovic, with a drowsy smile, and turned back to
his book. Margaret stood for a moment with her hand on his shoulder,
looking at him with that irritation which is the earliest form of pain.
A vague uneasiness came into her mind, but it was so veiled in this
impatience that she did not recognize it for what it was. The only
conscious feeling she had was, how provoking of papa! not to take more
interest, not to ask more, not to say anything. Then she dropped her
hand from his shoulder and turned away, and went to sit in the window
with the first chance book she could pick up. She was not thinking much
about the book. She was half annoyed and disappointed to have got her
own way so easily. Had he understood her? Margaret did not feel quite
happy about this facile assent. It made of Rob Glen no wonder at all,
no disturbing individuality. He was something more, after all, than
Sir Ludovic thought. What was all her own tremor for, if it was to be
lightly met with a _va pour le fils_? She was not satisfied; and
indeed the little rustlings of her impatience, her subdued movements,
as she sat behind, did all for her father that he wanted. They kept
him awake. The drowsiness which comforted him, yet which he was afraid
of, fled before this little thrill of movement. Even if she had been
altogether quiet, is there not a thrill and reverberation in the air
about a thinking creature? Sir Ludovic was kept awake and alive by the
consciousness of another near him, living in every nerve, filling the
silence with a little thrill of independent being. This kept him, not
only from dozing, but even from active occupation with his book. After
a little while he too began to be restless, turned the pages hastily,
then himself turned half round toward her. “My Peggy!” he said. In a
moment she was standing by his side.

“What is it? Did you want me, papa?”

“No, it is nothing, only to see that you were there. I heard you, that
was all; and in the sound there was something strange, like a spirit
behind me--or a little mouse, as I said before.”

“Had I better go away? would you rather be without me?”

“No, my little girl; but sit in my sight, that I may not be puzzled.
The thing is that I can feel you thinking, my Peggy.”

“Papa! I was not thinking so much--not of anything in particular, not
to disturb you.”

“No, my dear, I am not complaining; they were very soft little
thoughts, but I heard them. Sit now where I can see you, and all will
go right.”

“Yes, papa. And you are sure you have no objections?” Margaret said,
after a moment’s pause, standing by him still.

“To what? to the teaching of the drawing? Oh, no objections--not the
least objection.”

“And you don’t mind him coming to the house-- I mean--Mr. Glen?”

“Is there any reason why I should mind?” the old man asked, quickly,
rousing into something like vigilance.

“Oh no, papa; but I thought perhaps because he was not--the same as
us--because he was only--the farmer’s son.”

“This is wisdom; this is social science: this is worthy of Jean and
Grace,” said Sir Ludovic. “My little Peggy! I do not know, my child. Is
this all out of your own head?”

At this Margaret drooped a little, with one of her usual overwhelming
blushes. “It was Bell,” she said; but was it indeed all Bell? Some
instinct in her had made a more penetrating suggestion, but she could
not tell this to her father. She waited with downcast eyes for his
reply.

“Ah, it was Bell. I am glad my little Peggy was not so clever and so
far-seeing; now run and play, my little girl, run away and play,” he
said, dismissing her in his usual tone. She had roused him at last to
his ordinary mood, and neither he nor she thought more of his desire
that she should stay in his sight. Margaret went away with her heart
beating to the west chamber, which was her legitimate sitting-room.
She was half ashamed of her own fears about Rob, which her father had
treated so lightly. Was it entirely Bell that had put it into her
head that this new visitor might be objected to? And was it entirely
because he was the farmer’s son? Margaret was too much puzzled and
confused to be able to answer these questions. She was like a little
ship setting out to sea without any pilot. An instinct in her whispered
the necessity for guidance, whispered some faint doubts whether this
step she was taking was a right one; but what could the little ship
do when the man at the helm was so tranquilly careless? At seventeen
is one wiser than at seventy-five? It is not only presumptuous, it is
irreligious to think so. And when her own faint doubt was laughed at by
her father as being of the order of the ideas of Jean and Grace, what
could Margaret do but be ashamed of it? Jean and Grace were emblems of
the conventional and artificial to Sir Ludovic. He could not speak of
them without a laugh, though they were his children; neither did they
approve of their father--with some reason it may be thought.

Thus it was settled that Rob Glen should have access to Earl’s-hall.
Bell shook her head, but she did not interfere. “It will divert the
bairn,” she said to herself, “and I can aye keep my eye upon him.” What
was the need of disturbing Sir Ludovic, honest man? The Leslies had
their faults, Bell reflected, but falling in love beneath them was not
their weakness. They were very friendly, but very proud. “As sweet and
as kind to the poorest body as if they were their own kith and kin;
but it’s hitherto mayst thou come, and no a step furder,” said Bell;
“that’s the way o’ them all. Even our Miss Margret, I would advise
nobody to go too far with her. She’s very young. She disna understand
herself; but as for the canailye, I would not counsel them to come near
by our young leddy, simple as she is; there’s just an instinck; it’s in
the Leslie blood.”

Thus all went smoothly in this first essay of wilfulness. Father
and old duenna both consented that the risk should be run. But in
Margaret’s own mind there was one pause of hesitation. Had there been
any opposition to her will she would have upheld Rob Glen to the
utmost, and insisted upon her drawing-lessons; but as it was, there
came a check to her eagerness which she did not understand, a subtle
sort of hinderance in her path, a hesitation--because no one else
hesitated. Was that all?

From this it will be seen that the ladies Jean and Grace were not so
wrong as was supposed at Earl’s-hall, when they shook their heads over
their father’s proceedings, and declared that he was not capable of
being trusted with the charge of a young girl. Any young girl would
have been rather unsafe in such hands, but a girl with money, a girl
who was an heiress! As for Sir Ludovic, he went on serenely with his
reading, or dozed over his book in the long room, and took no notice,
or thought no more of the new teacher Margaret had got for herself. He
was very glad she should do anything that pleased her. Now and then
he was anxious, and his mind was occupied, by the drowsiness which
came over him. He did not like this, it was not a good sign. It made
his mind uneasy, for he was an old man, and knew he could not go on
forever, and the idea of death was far from pleasant to him. This he
was anxious about, but about his child he was not anxious. She was not
going to die, or anything to happen to her. She had a long time before
her, in which, no doubt, many things would happen; and why should her
father begin so early to make himself uncomfortable about her? He did
not see the use.




CHAPTER IX.


While these events were going on in the long room, and up the spiral
stairs, thoughts not less important to her than those that moved
her young mistress were going on in the head of Jeanie, the young
maid-servant at Earl’s-hall. Jeanie had been chosen as her assistant
by Bell on account of her excellent character and antecedents, and the
credit and respectability of all belonging to her. “An honest man’s
daughter,” Bell said, “a man just by-ordinary;” and the girl herself
was so well spoken of, so pretty spoken in her own person, with such an
artless modesty in the soft chant of her voice, true Fife and of the
East Neuk, that there had been nothing to say against the wisdom of the
choice. Jeanie was always smiling, always good-humored, fresh as a rose
and as clean, singing softly about her work, with the natural freedom
yet sweet respectfulness which makes a Scotch lass so ingratiating an
attendant. Jeanie could not have waited even upon a stranger without
a certain tender anxiety and affectionate interest--a desire not only
to please, but to “pleasure” the object of her cares, _i. e._,
to give them pleasure with sympathetic divining of all they wanted.
Whether it was her “place” or not to do one thing or another, what
did it matter? Her own genuine pleasure in the cleanness and neatness
she spread round her, and in the comfort of those she served, reached
the length of an emotion. It did her heart good to bring order out of
chaos, to make dimness bright, and to clear away stain and spot out of
her way. She had been two years at Earl’s-hall, and before that had
been away as far as the west country, where her mother’s friends were.
Jeanie was her father’s only daughter, and great was his comfort and
rejoicing when she came back to be so near him; for John Robertson was
not well enough off to keep her with him at home, nor could he have
thought it good for Jeanie to keep her in his little cottage “learning
naething,” as he said. Perhaps there had risen upon Jeanie’s bright
countenance some cloud of uneasiness during these recent days; at least
it had occurred to Bell, she could scarcely tell how, that something
more than usual was in the girl’s mind. “It’ll do you good to go and
have a crack with your father,” she had said, the day after Margaret’s
second meeting with Rob Glen. Perhaps Bell wanted to have her young
lady all to herself--perhaps it was only consideration for Jeanie.

“You can go as soon as the dinner is up,” she said, “and take the old
man a print o’ our sweet butter and twa-three eggs. It’ll please him to
see you mind upon him.”

“No me, but you,” said Jeanie; “and I’m real obliged to you, Bell.”

Perhaps a rigid moralist would have said it was not Bell, but Sir
Ludovic, who had the right to send these twa-three eggs; but such
a critic would have met with little charity at Earl’s-hall, where,
indeed, Bell’s thrift and care, and notable management, as constant
and diligent as if the house-keeping had been her own, kept plenty as
well as order in the house; nor did it ever occur to the good woman
that she was not free to give as well as to increase this simple kind
of household wealth. Jeanie set out in the summer evening, after six
o’clock, when she had delivered the last dish into John’s hands. She
went along the country road with neither so light a step nor so light
a heart as those which had carried Margaret in dreamy pleasantness
between the same hedges, all blossomed with the sweet flaunting of the
wild rose.

Jeanie, as was natural, being three-and-twenty and a hard-working
woman, was more solid and substantial than the Laird’s daughter at
seventeen; but it would have been difficult to imagine a more pleasant
object, or one more entirely suiting and giving expression to the
rural road along which she moved, than was Jeanie, a true daughter of
the soil. She was not tall or slim, but of middle height, round and
neat and well proportioned, with a beautiful complexion, impaired by
nothing but a few freckles, and golden-brown hair, much more “in the
fashion,” with its crisp undulations and luxuriant growth, than the
brown silky locks of her young mistress. Dark eyes and eyelashes gave a
touch of higher beauty to the fair, fresh face, which had no particular
features, but an air of modesty, honesty, sweet good temper, and
kindness very delightful to behold. She was “a bonnie lass,” no more,
not the beauty or reigning princess of the neighborhood, or playing any
fatal _rôle_ in the country-side. Jeanie was too good, too simple
and kind, for any such position; but she was a bonnie lass, and “weel
respectit,” and had her suitors like another.

As she went along by herself in that perfect ease of solitude, unseen
by any eye, which subdues all instincts of pride and self-command, a
vague cloud became visible on her face. The smile with which she met
her little world, true always, yet true sometimes rather in the sense
of self-denial than of fact, faded away; her simple countenance grew
serious, a curve of anxiety came into her forehead, not deadly anxiety,
such as wrings the heart, but a wistfulness and longing for something
unattained; for something, perhaps, which ought to be attained, and
which might end in being a wrong if withheld from her. Nothing so
abstruse as this could be read in Jeanie’s face, which would besides
have cleared up and awoke into the soft sunshine of friendly response,
had any one met her; but as she went on alone, with nobody to see,
there was a gravity in her eyes, a wistfulness in the look which she
cast along the field-path which Margaret had followed so pleasantly,
which was not like Jeanie. Was she looking for some one who ought
to be coming along that green and flowery path? She breathed out a
soft little sigh as she went on. “My faither will ken,” Jeanie said
to herself; and though there was this anxiety in her face, a certain
languor was in her step, as of one by no means confident that the news
she is going to seek will be comforting to hear.

The Kirkton, to which Jeanie was bound, and of which Rob Glen had
made so many sketches, was, as already said, an irregular village
surrounding the kirk from which it took its name, and built upon a
mound, which stood eminent over the low rich fields of Stratheden.
The greater portion of the church was new, and quite in accordance
with the eighteenth-century idea of half-barn-half-meeting-house
which, unfortunately, in so many cases represents the parish church in
Scotland. But this was all the worse in the present case, from being
added on to a beautiful relic of the past, the chancel of an old Norman
church, still in perfect preservation, not resenting, but silently
indicating with all the force of fact, the incredible difference
between the work of the united and catholic past, and the expedient of
a Scotch heritor to house at the smallest possible cost, the national
worship which he himself is too fine to share. The little round apsis
of the original church, with its twisted arches and toothed ornaments,
brown with age and lichen, and graceful, natural decay, was the only
part of it visible from the road along which our Jeanie was coming.
Jeanie neither knew nor cared for the Norman arches, but the grassy
mound that rose above her head, with its grave-stones, and the high
steps which led up to it, upon which the children clustered, were dear
and familiar to her eyes.

At the foot of the kirk steps was a road which led to “the laigh toun,”
a little square or _place_--semi-French, as are so many things in
Scotland--surrounded by cottages; while the road, which wound round the
base of the elevation on which the church stood, took in “the laigh
toun,” in which was the post-office and the shop, and the “Leslie
Arms,” and two or three two-storied houses, vulgar and ugly in their
blue slates, which were the most important dwellings in the Kirkton.
Jeanie, however, had nothing to do with these respectable erections;
her steps were turned toward the high town, where her father’s cottage
was. Everybody knew her on the familiar road. “Is that you, Jeanie?”
the men said, going home from their work with long leisurely tread,
which looked slow, yet devoured the way. The children on the kirk steps
“cried upon her” with one voice, or rather with one chant, modulating
the long-drawn vowels with the native sing-song of Fife. Even Dr.
Burnside, walking stately down the brae, shedding a wholesome awe about
him, with hands under his coat-tails, stopped to speak to her.

“Your father is very well, honest man,” the Doctor said. When she
reached the little square beyond the church, where the women were
sitting at their doors in the soft evening air, or standing in groups,
each with her stocking, talking across the open space like one family,
a universal greeting arose.

“Eh, Jeanie, lass, you’re a sight for sair een!” they cried. “Eh, but
the auld man will be pleased to see you;” and “He’s real weel, Jeanie,
my woman,” was added by various voices. This was evidently the point on
which she was supposed to be anxious. The girl nodded to them all with
friendly salutations. They had their little bickerings, no doubt, now
and then; but were they not one family, each knowing everything that
concerned the others?

“I’m real pleased to see you a’, neebors,” Jeanie said; “but I maunna
bide. I’ve come to see my faither.”

“That’s right, Jeanie, lass,” the women said; “he’s been a good faither
to you, and weel he deserves it at your hand.” “Faither and mither
baith,” said another commentator; and Jeanie went on with a warm light
of pleasure and kindness in her face. Perhaps her name in the air had
caught her father’s ear, though no name was more common than Jeanie,
or more often heard in “the laigh toun;” or perhaps it was that more
subtle personal influence which heralds a new-comer--magnetical,
electrical, who can tell what? As she made her way to the end of the
square, where it communicated by a steep street with “the laigh toun”
below, he came out to his cottage door. He was a tall man, thin and
stooping, and very pale, his face sicklied o’er with more than thought.
He wore the sign of his trade, a shoemaker’s apron, and looked along
the line of houses with a wistful expression, like that which Jeanie
had worn when she was alone. He was a man “above the common,” everybody
said, for long years a widower, who had been “faither and mither
baith” to his children; and only some of them had repaid poor John.
Those of the lads who were good lads had emigrated and gone far out of
his neighborhood, and those who were within reach were not models of
virtue. But Jeanie had always been his support and stay. His wistful
inquiring look yielded to the tenderest pleasure as he perceived
her; but there was no enthusiasm of greeting between the father and
daughter. Few embracings are to be seen in Scotch peasant families. The
cobbler’s face lighted up; he said, “Is that you, Jeanie, my bonnie
woman?” with a tone that had more than endearment in it. The sight of
her brought a glow to his wan face. “You are as good as the blessed
sunshine, my lass--and eh, but I’m glad to see you!”

“And me too, faither,” said Jeanie. That was their greeting. “They tell
me you’re real well,” she added, as they went in-doors.

“A great deal they ken,” said John Robertson, with that natural dislike
to be pronounced well by the careless outside world which every invalid
shares. “But I’m no that bad either,” he added, “and muckle the better
for seeing you. Come in and sit you down.”

“I have but little time to stay,” said Jeanie.

As she went in before him the shade again returned to her face, though
only for that moment during which it was unseen. The small window of
the cottage gave but a dim greenish light, a sort of twilight after
the full glow and gladness outside. But they were used to this partial
gloom; and there seemed a consciousness on the father’s part as well
as the daughter’s of something serious that there might be to say. He
looked at her closely, yet half stealthily, with the vivacious, dark
eyes which lighted up his pale face; but he asked no question. And
Jeanie, for her part, said nothing about herself. She asked when he had
seen Willie, and if all was well with John, and he replied, shaking his
head,

“Oh, ay, weel enough, weel enough for such a ne’er-do-weel.”

“No a ne’er-do-weel, faither. Poor laddie! he’s so easy led away; but
by-and-by he’ll tak’ a thought and mend.”

“Like the de’il--at least, accordin’ to Robert Burns. Ay, ay, Jeanie,
by-and-by! But maybe he’ll break our hearts afore then.”

“And Willie, faither?”

“Since Willie ’listed, I try to think of him nae mair,” said the
cobbler, with a quiver in his lips; then he added, “But he’ll be held
weel under authority, as the centurion says in Scripture, and maybe
it’s the best thing that could have happened for himself.”

“That’s aye what Bell says--”

“Bell! and what does Bell ken about it--a woman that never had a son!
If I were to have my family over again, I would pray for a’ lasses,
Jeanie, my woman, like you.”

“Eh, faither! but you mustna forget Robin and Alick, though they’re far
away; and a’ the lasses are no like me,” said Jeanie, with a tear and a
smile. “I might have been marriet, and far from hame; or I might have
been licht-headed;” this she said, with a faith laugh at the idea, and
rising blush; for to be anything different from her modest self was
half incredible, half alarming. The cobbler shook his head.

“Another might, but no my Jean. But what is sent is the best, if we
could but see it, nae doubt, nae doubt.”

“And that minds me,” she said, abruptly, with a little gasp of rising
agitation. Then she stopped herself as quickly; “how is the work
getting on? have ye aye plenty jobs to keep ye going, faither?” she
added, as by an after-thought.

“No that bad,” said the shoemaker. “Plenty wark--pay’s no just the same
thing. There was three pair last week for Merran Linsay, you ken she’s
aye to be trusted.”

“Trusted!” said Jeanie, “ay, for kindness and a good heart, but for the
siller--”

“My heart’s wae for the poor decent woman,” said John Robertson, “with
aye the wolf at her door. The shoes thae bairns gang through! no to
speak of other things. How could I bid her depart, and get something
elsewhere to put on their feet when she came to me? Would you ca’ that
Christianity--no that I’m blaming them that can do it,” he added,
hastily. “Na, whiles I wish I could do it; but nature’s mair strong
than wishing--”

“You are aye the auld man,” said Jeanie, tenderly; “it’s real foolish,
faither, but I canna blame ye. I like ye a’ the better. You would make
shoes for a’ the parish, and never take a penny.”

“Na, na, lass! there you’re wrong,” he said, briskly. “I charged a
shilling mair than the price to auld Will Heriot, nae further gane than
Friday last. He was in an awfu’ hurry, and awfu’ ill tempered. I put on
a shilling,” said the cobbler, with a low laugh. “In the abstract it
wasna right, and I’ll no say but I may gie it back; but the auld Adam
is strong now and then.”

“No half strong enough,” said Jeanie. “I wouldna gie him back, no a
brass farden.” Then she paused, and her countenance changed again--that
scarcely perceptible darkening, paling, came over it, and this time
she spoke quickly, with a little almost impatient determination, as
if resolved not to allow herself any more to be crushed and silenced
by herself. “Faither,” she said, “you’ll ken he’s come back. Have you
heard anything of Rob Glen?”

“Not a word, Jeanie, no a word. I thought that was what you were coming
to tell me.”

There was a pause-- Jeanie said nothing. She turned her face away, and
made believe to look out at the dim little window, while the cobbler,
with the delicacy of a prince, turned in the other direction that he
might not seem to watch her.

“It’s a long time since the lad has been hame,” he said, with a slight
tremor in his voice. “He will have many things to take him up; and his
mother--his mother’s a proud woman; he knows neither you nor me would
welcome him against the will o’ his ain folk.”

“It’s no that, faither,” said Jeanie, with a low sound like a sob,
which escaped her unawares. “It’s no that. The like of that is nothing.
Am I one that would judge a hard judgment? It’s no that.”

“You would never mean it, Jeanie, my bonnie woman; but when the heart
is troubled the judgment’s n’ ajee. You maun possess your soul in
patience; maist things come right one way or anither to them that will
wait.”

Jeanie gave a weary sigh, the light dying out of her face. She kept
gazing out of the little window, in a strained attitude, with the tears
unseen, blinding her eyes. “It was just that I came for,” she said,
“to see if you could tell me what to do. He has made great friends,
I kenna how, with our Miss Margaret, and he’s coming to Earl’s-ha’;
maybe I’ll have to open the door till him, maybe I’ll have to show
him up the stair--to say Sir till him, and never let on he’s onything
to me.” Here a sob once more broke the hurrying current of Jeanie’s
words. “What will I do, faither--what will I do?” she cried, with an
intense undertone of pain, which made the words tragical in their
simplicity--smiling Jeanie, so fair and friendly, turning all at once
into a tragic representation (for the millionth time) of disappointed
love, and that aching loss which by reason of some lingering
possibility of redemption for it, is more hard to bear than despair.

“My bonnie woman!” said the cobbler; the same ring of pain was in his
voice; but the very delicacy of his sympathy, and its acuteness, kept
him silent. He made another pause: “Jeanie, my lass,” he said, “in a’
the trials o’ this life I’ve found that true that was said to them that
were first sent out to preach the Word. God’s awfu’ good, to give us
the same for the common need as is for the divine. ‘Tak’ nae thought
in that hour what ye will say.’ That’s aye the guide as long as you’re
innocent of harm. It will be put into your mouth what is best.”

Jeanie turned upon him wistfully. “Is that a’ you have to say to
me?--is that a’, faither? I want mair than that; will I take the thing
just as it comes, or will I haud out o’ the way? Will I let him see me,
or will I no let him see me? Will I throw it on him to acknowledge me
for--a friend: or will I take it on me? See how many things I have to
ask! It’s no just what to say.”

“I maun turn that ower in my mind,” said John; and there was a pause.
Jeanie, after this little outburst, sat still with her head turned
again toward the window, not looking at him, concealing the tears in
her eyes, and the agitation of her face, which even to her father
was not to be betrayed. As for John, he dropped naturally upon his
familiar bench, and took up unconsciously a shoe at which he had been
working. The little knock of the hammer was the natural accompaniment
to his thinking. Outside, the voices of the neighbors, softened by the
summer air, made a murmur of sound through which some word or two fell
articulate now and then through the silence. “She kens my mind; but
she will gang her ain gait,” one woman said to another; and then there
arose a cry of “Tak care o’ the bairn--it’ll fa’ and break its neck,”
and a rush of feet. All these sounds and a great deal more fell into
the silence of the dim cottage room, where nothing but the little tap
of the cobbler’s hammer disturbed the stillness. Jeanie sat very still,
her hands clasped in her lap, the moisture in her eyes, turning over
many thoughts in her mind. The time that had been! the day when they
met in Glasgow, she a fresh country lass, half friend, half servant, in
the house of her relation; he a student, half-gentleman, with his old
red gown, the sign of learning, on his arm.

How glad then had Rob been to see Jeanie! And even when he began to
have “grand friends,” and to eschew his uncle’s shop, her smiling
looks, her soft sympathy, had kept him always faithful. And Jeanie had
not thought very much of the two years of silence since she came back
to Fife. They were both young, and she knew that Rob’s mother was not
likely to smile upon so humble a daughter-in-law. But his return had
roused all the past, and the thought of meeting him again had stirred
Jeanie’s being to the depths. Even this visit had changed the aspect
of affairs for her. For it had not seemed possible that Rob could have
entirely neglected her father, whom everybody esteemed, and she had
come to the Kirkton--honestly to ask counsel in her difficulty, yet not
without hope of hearing something that might charm all difficulty away.

“Jeanie,” said her father, at last, “whatever we meet with in this
world there’s aye but one path for right-minded folk. You maun neither
flee from your duty nor gang beyond your duty. We’ve nae business to
rin away from trouble because its trouble, but we’ve nae call to put
oursels in its way. If it’s clear that no person can let the lad in but
you, open the door till him, take him up the stair--do it, my woman,
and never think twice; but if it’s no needfu’, forbear. And as for
leaving it on him to own you for a friend, you must not do that; it
would be untruthful on your part, for I hope you’re ower weel bred, my
bonnie woman, to pass any person you ken without a smile or a pleasant
word. You wouldna disown your friend if he turned poor, and why should
he, when he’s turned rich? or I should say grand in his ways, for
rich Rob Glen will never be. Sae it will be but honest when you see
the lad to say ‘How is a’ wi’ you, Robin,’ or ‘I hope you’re keeping
your health,’ or the like of that. Say nothing of other things. Let
no lad think you are seeking him; but neither should any lad think
you are feared to let it be seen you ken him. Na, I’ll hear o’ nae
concealments; my Jeanie must be as clear as the running water, aye
true, and scornin’ to deceive. ‘Ay,’ you’ll say, ‘Miss Margaret, I ken
Robert Glen.’”

“Ay,” said the poor girl, with a wistful echo, “I ken Robert Glen!”
she shook her head, and the tears with which her eyes were full,
brimmed over. “Ay, that do I, faither; I wish I had never kent him, I
wish I had never thought so weel of him. Eh, but it’s strange--awful
strange--to think ane ye _ken_ can deceive! Them ye dinna ken are
different. But to say a thing and no to mean it, faither--to give a
promise and forget--to mak’ a vow before the Lord and think nae mair
o’t! Can such things be?”

“Such things have been, Jeanie. I’m like you, I cannot believe in them;
but they have been. And a’ that you and me can do is to bear whatever
comes, and be aye faithful and steady, and wait till you see the end.”

“It’s sae lang waiting,” said Jeanie, with a smile in her wet eyes, as
she rose from her seat; “and it’s no as if it would be ony satisfaction
to see them punished for’t that do amiss. But fareyewell, faither; I’m
muckle the better o’ your good advice. Thinkna of me, I’ll win through.
It’s no like a thing that would make a person useless, no fit to do
their day’s work or get their living. I’ll win through.”

And the tears were all clear out of her brown eyes, and her smile
ready, to meet the world with, when she came out of the dimness of the
cottage door. John Robertson stood there watching her as she went along
by the neighbors’ doors, and it was more from the shadow on his face
than on hers that the women divined some trouble in the family.

“Is’t about Willie?” they said. “You should speak to your faither,
Jeanie, a sensible lass like you. Though he’s listed, what’s to hinder
but he may do real well yet?”

“I had an uncle, as decent a man as ever was, that listed in his young
days,” said another.

Jeanie received these consolations with her habitual smile.

“I think that too,” she said. “There wouldna be so muckle about good
sodgers in the Bible if they were all bad men that listed; and so I’ve
tellt him.”

So close to her heart did she wear it, that nobody suspected Jeanie’s
own private cincture of care.




CHAPTER X.


“Papa has no objections,” said Margaret, demurely; “he says if you will
come he will be--glad to see you.” This, however, being an addition
made on the spot, she faltered over it, not quite knowing how it was
to be supported by fact; and she added, timidly, “Will you really take
all that trouble for me? Perhaps I am stupid. I think very likely I am
stupid; for I cannot draw anything-- I have been trying,” she said, with
a great blush.

“You have been trying! I should like to see what you have done. If you
could have seen my stumbles and blunders, you would have had no respect
for me at all,” said Rob Glen; “and how I dare now to take upon me to
teach you, who probably know more than I do--”

“Oh, I know nothing at all--just nothing at all! What shall we do,
Mr.--Glen? I found a book and some pencils. I think there is everything
in the world up in the old presses in the high room. What shall we do
first? Might I begin with--the house? or a tree?”

“There are some preliminary exercises,” said Rob, “that are thought
necessary; very simple--drawing straight lines, and curves, and
corners. I am sure you will do them all--by instinct.”

“Oh!” said Margaret again. Her countenance fell. “But any child would
draw straight lines; a straight line is nothing--it is just that,”
she added, tracing a line in the soft, brown, upturned earth of the
ploughed field through which the path ran. But when Margaret looked at
it, she reddened and furtively attempted another. She had met Rob by
the burn as before, and he was walking back with her toward home. The
sky was overcast and lowering. The brief interval of lovely weather had
for the moment come to an end. Clouds were gathering on all the hills,
and the winds sighed about the hedges, heavy with coming rain.

“The furrow is straight,” said Rob, “straight as an arrow; that is the
ploughman’s pride; but it is not so easy to draw a straight line as you
think. I have known people who could never do it.”

Margaret was crimson with the failure.

“It’s me that am stupid!” she cried, in sudden rage with herself. “How
do the ploughmen learn to do it? There’s nobody to show them the way.”

“It’s their pride; and it’s their trade, Miss Margaret.”

“Oh!” cried Margaret, stamping her foot, “it shall be my pride, and my
trade too. I will begin to-night when I go home. I will never, never
rest till I can do it.”

“But it will never be your trade--nor mine,” said Rob Glen, with a
sigh. “I wish I knew what mine was. You are rich and a lady; but I am
a poor man, that must work for my living, and I don’t know what I must
do.”

“If I were you--” said Margaret. As she spoke she blushed, but only
because she always did, not with any special signification in it. Rob,
however, did not understand this. He saw the glow of color, the sudden
brightness, the droop and sensitive fall of the soft eyelids: all
things telling of emotion, he thought, as though the supposition, “if
I were you,” had thrilled the girl’s being; and his own heart gave a
leap. Did she--was it possible--feel like this for him already? “If I
were you,” said Margaret, musingly, “I would be a farmer; but no, not,
perhaps, if I were you. You could do other things; you could go into
the world, you could do something great--”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I? No, there is nothing great,
nothing grand about me.”

“How can you judge yourself?” said Margaret, with fine and flattering
scorn; “it is other people that can judge best. No; if I were you, I
would go away and paint and write, and be a great man; and then you
could come home and visit the place where you used to live, and see
your old friends; but just now I would go away. I would go to London,
into the world. I would let people see what I could do--only first I
would learn Margaret Leslie to draw,” she said, with a little laugh;
“that would be kind--for she never could find any one else to learn her
about here.”

“That would be the finest office of all,” said Rob, inspired. “To go to
London, every adventurer can do that; but to teach Miss Leslie is for
few. I would rather have that privilege than--”

“Oh,” cried Margaret, careless of the compliment, “and will you paint
a picture, a great picture of Earl’s-hall? I know we are poor. We are
not great people, like the Bruces, or the Lindsays, or Sir Claude. We
have not grand horses and carriages, and men in livery. That is just
why I should like poor old mossy Earl’s-hall to be in a bonnie picture,
to make folks ask where is that? what beautiful old house is that? You
see,” she added, laughing, “it is not just a beautiful house. It is
not what you would call comfortable, perhaps. Jean and Grace, that is,
my old sisters, Miss Leslie and Mrs. Bellingham, are never tired of
abusing it. It is quite true that we have not got a thing that can be
called a drawing-room--not a real drawing-room,” she said, shaking her
head. “You will wonder, but it is true. There is the long room, and
there is the high room; the one papa sits in; and we dine in it, and
he lives in it; and the other is empty, and full of--oh, everything
you can think of! But there is no drawing-room, only the little West
Chamber, such a little place. They say it was Lady Jean’s room, and
Lady Jean--is the only ghost we have.”

“Is she the lady with the silk gown?”

“She is the Rustle,” said Margaret, not disposed to treat the family
ghost lightly. “You never see her, you only hear as if a grand lady
walked by with her train sweeping. I think there is that very train in
the old aumrie, as Bell calls it. But what I was saying was, because it
is so old, Mr. Glen, because it’s not grand, nor even comfortable--oh,
I would like a bonnie picture, a real beautiful picture, of poor old
Earl’s-hall!”

“You must make one,” he said.

“Yes, if I can; but you must make one first. You must take a big
sheet of paper and draw it all out; I will show you the best view;
and you must paint in every bit of it, the tower and the view from
the tower (but, perhaps, after all, it would be difficult to put in
the view, you must make another picture of that); and you must put
it up in a beautiful frame, and write upon it ‘Old Earl’s-hall.’ Oh!
that will make Jean and Grace jump. They will say, ‘Who can have done
it? Earl’s-hall--papa’s place--that horrid, tumble-down old Scotch
crow’s-nest!’” Margaret was a mimic, without knowing it, and mouthed
this forth with the warmest relish in Mrs. Bellingham’s very tone. But
her own acting of her elder sister called forth lively indignation
in the girl’s warlike soul. “That’s what they dare to call it,” she
cried, stopping to stamp her foot. “_My_ Earl’s-hall! But this is
what you will do, Mr. Glen, if you want to please me. You will make a
picture--not a common thing--a _beautiful_ picture, that everybody
will talk about; and send it to the biggest place in London, in the
season when everybody is there, and hang it up for everybody to see.”

“To please you,” said Rob, “I would do a great deal--I would do--” he
went on, sinking his voice, “as much as man can do.” Margaret scarcely
turned to him as he began to speak; but when his voice sank lower, her
attention was caught. She raised her head with a little surprise, and,
catching his eye, blushed: and paused, arrested, and wondering-- What
did he mean? Her frank girlish astonishment was very discomposing; he
himself blushed and faltered, and stopped in the middle of his pretty
speech--“as much as man _can_ do!” but it was not so very much
she asked him for. It seemed necessary to Margaret to say this to make
things clear.

“Oh no,” she said, with a shake of her head, “not that; though there
are many men could not do what I want you to do, Mr. Glen; but you can
do it easy--quite easy. What will I want to begin with?” she added,
changing the subject abruptly, and with true Scotch disregard for the
difference between shall and will. This gentle indifference to his
protestations chilled Rob a little. She had been so sweet and gracious
to him that her demand upon his services only as something that he
could do “easy, quite easy,” brought him to a sudden stand-still. He
did not know how to reply.

“It may not be much,” he said; “but it will be all I can do. Miss
Margaret, I will begin to-morrow, to show that I want to please you;
and if it is not a good drawing it will not be my fault, nor for want
of trying.”

“I am sure it will be beautiful,” she said. “Oh, I would like to see
Grace and Jean jump when they see all the people, all the fine folk in
London, running to look at old Earl’s-hall.”

Alas! Rob knew the great London people were not very likely to run in
crowds to any performance of his. But the idea was delightful, however
unlikely. He suffered himself to laugh, too, though he shook his head.
He had never seen any one so sweet, so enchanting, or felt so near to
being transported and carried out of himself as by this gracious little
lady. Never before, he thought, had he known what such enthusiasm was.
He had not forgotten Jeanie, and perhaps others. He was a connoisseur
indeed in these soft emotions, the excitement of love-making, the
pleasure of pursuit, the flattering consciousness of being admired and
loved. All these sensations he knew well enough, not in any guilty
way, except in so far as multiplicity of affections implied guilt; but
this was not only something new, it was something altogether novel.
Margaret had much of the great lady in her, simple as she was. She
was not like his previous loves. Even in the little foolishnesses she
said, there were signs of a wider world, of something more than even
Rob himself, heretofore the oracle of his friends and sweethearts,
was acquainted with. All the Fife gentry, all the rural aristocracy,
all the great world, so fine at a distance, seemed to glide toward
him half caressingly, half mocking, in that girlish figure. It gave
him a new sensation. He was dazzled, enchanted, drawn out of himself.
Who could tell what this new influence might effect in a young man
avowedly “clever,” whose abilities everybody had acknowledged? Love
had inspired men who had no such eminence to start from. Love had made
the blacksmith a painter; why should it not make Rob Glen a painter.
To please her! she had put it on that ground. She was not like any of
those he had trifled with before. Love had done wonders in all ages,
and why not now--if perhaps this new sentiment, so mingled, yet so
strange, so dazzling, so bewildering, might be Love.

“If that is what will please you best,” he said, faltering a little
with something which felt to him like real emotion, “then it shall be
done, Miss Margaret, you must let me say so, if man can do it-- I mean,
if my skill can do it. But perhaps the two things can be done together.
I will begin to-morrow, and you can watch me. I will tell you all I
know, and you will see how I do it; that will be better, perhaps, than
the straight lines.”

“Oh, a great deal better,” cried Margaret, fervently. “Come early; be
sure you come early, Mr. Glen. I will be ready. I will be waiting. I
will let you see the best place for the view. And perhaps you would
like to see the house? And then I will go with you, and stand by you,
and hold your colors and your pencils, and watch the way you do it.
Oh!” cried Margaret, putting her hands together, and breathing forth an
earnest invocation of all the good spirits of the elements. “Oh, that
it may only be a fine day!”

This very prayer brought home to them both the too plain suggestion
conveyed by these gathering clouds, that it might not be a fine day,
and chilled their very souls within them. If it should rain! “I think,”
said Rob, but timidly, “that it is looking better. The sky is cloudy
here, but it’s clear in the quarter where the wind is, and a north wind
is seldom rainy. I think it will be a fine day.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Glen?” Margaret looked up at him very wistfully,
and then at the sky. Then she cleared up all at once, though the sky
did not. “Any way,” she said, “you will come? If it’s wet, I could let
you see the house. I think you would like to see the house. And bring
a great many pictures and sketch-books to let papa see. Even if it
is wet, it will be not so very bad,” said Margaret, throwing a smile
suddenly upon him like a light from a lantern. But then she recollected
herself, and blushed wildly and grew serious--for he was a man and a
stranger. Was he a stranger? No, she said to herself--and not even a
gentleman, only Robert Glen. What fury would have been in poor Rob’s
heart had he known this last consoling sentiment which kept Margaret
from feeling herself overbold. But she did not mean all the arrogance
and impertinence that appeared in the thought. Not all of it, nor half
of it. She meant no impertinence at all. She parted with him where the
by-way came out upon the road, and went along the flowery hedge-row
very demurely, thinking very kindly of Rob Glen. Margaret had not known
before what it was to have a companion of her own age. Youth loves
youth, all the more if youth has little experience of anything but
age. Rob was a great deal more amusing (to Margaret) than Bell. This,
perhaps, was a mistake, for Rob was not nearly so original as Bell was,
nor so well worth knowing. But Margaret did not know that Bell was
original. She knew all her stories, and was not too anxious to call
forth that homely philosophy which so often (or so the girl thought)
was subtly adapted for her own reproof and discouragement. Rob was a
novelty to Margaret, even more than she was to him. The prospect of his
visit made her feel that even a wet day would be endurable. He amused
her more than any one had ever done before. And then she comforted
herself that she could not be thought forward, or too bold, because,
after all, he was not a gentleman or a stranger, but only Rob Glen!

Jeanie had got in before her young mistress, before the clouds had
risen that threatened to cover the sky. What different thoughts were
hers on the same subject! She listened to Margaret’s voice talking to
Bell, as she moved about putting everything in order for the night.
What a sweet voice it was, Jeanie thought, speaking so softly, such
bonnie English! no like us common folk. The tones which were so
wofully Fifeish to Sir Ludovic, and which made Mrs. Bellingham cry,
seemed the very acme of refinement to Jeanie; and when a lady spoke
to him so sweetly, looked at him with such lovely een, would it be
wonderful if Rob forgot? And he was a gentleman himself, for what was
it that made a gentleman but just education? and nobody could say but
he had that. It gave Jeanie’s heart a pang, but she was too just and
candid not to see all this. How could he think of Jeanie Robertson
with Miss Margaret for a friend? Jeanie went away into the depths of
those low vaulted rooms, which formed the under-story of Earl’s-hall
in order to escape the sweet sound of Margaret’s voice. Here there was
a maze of rooms and cellars one within another, among which you might
escape very easily from sounds without. You might escape, even, which
was more difficult, from pursuers, even from persecutors, as had been
known, it was said, in the old times; but, ah me, in the very deepest
of recesses, how could poor Jeanie escape from herself?

Next day, next morning, Margaret looked at the sky long before any one
was up at Earl’s-hall. She looked out over the tree-tops to the sea,
which swept round in a semicircle as far as the eye carried. From the
Eden to the Tay the silvery line swept the horizon one dazzling curve
of light. St. Andrews lay on her right hand, with all its towers and
its ruins, and the glimmer of water beyond the headland on which it
stood. Not a trace of smoke or human breath came from the brown old
city, which stood there silent, with a homely majesty, in the profound
stillness of the early morning. Not a human creature was awake between
Margaret’s window and the old town of St. Rule, except, indeed, in
the fishing-boat, with its brown sail, out upon the dazzling line of
sea, which was bearing slowly toward the bar after a night’s fishing,
with scarce wind enough to move it. The birds were all up and awake,
but nothing else--not the ploughmen and laborers, so early was it, the
sun still low over the sea. The girl’s heart leaped at the beauty of
the sight, but sank again so far as her own interests were concerned.
Is it not a bad sign when it is so bright so early? And the light
which thus lavished itself upon the world with none to see it, had a
certain pale gleam which frightened the young observer, too much used
to atmospheric effects not to know something about them. “Oh, what a
lovely morning!” she said to herself; but even sanguine Margaret shook
her head, thinking it doubtful if the day would be as fine. And oh, if
she had but learned, if she could but make a picture of that old town
upon the headland, lying voiceless in the morning light, with the great
silver bow of the sea flashing round the vast horizon, all round to
the vague shores of Forfarshire, and the dazzling breadth of Tay! If
Rob were but here with his pencil and his colors! Margaret was in the
enthusiast stage of ignorant faith, believing all things possible to
Rob. He was to her the young Raphael, the Michael Angelo of the future.
Or perhaps it would be better to say (but Margaret at that stage knew
no difference) the Claude, the Turner of the new generation. She seemed
to see all that scene transferred to canvas--nay, not even to canvas,
to paper (but she knew no difference), dazzling, shining with early dew
and freshness, with the chirp of the birds in it, and the silence of
nature, fixed there never to die. Poor Rob and his box of water-colors!
He would himself, fortunately, at least when unintoxicated by the
firmness of her faith in him, have had sense enough not to try.

But when the common world was awake, and when the working day had
begun, the brilliancy did not last. First, mists crept over the sun,
then the silver bow of the sea paled and whitened, the old brown tower
turned gray, the blue sky disappeared. By eight o’clock everything was
the hue of mud--sky, sea, and land together, with blurred shades of
green and brown upon the last, but not an honest color; and lastly, it
began to rain, softly, slowly, persistently, at first scarcely audible
upon the leaves, then pattering with continuous sound, which filled all
the air. Nothing but rain! The very air was rain, not disagreeable, not
cruel, but constant.

“Well, it’s aye good for the turnips,” said Bell; “and I’ll get my
stocking done that’s been so long in hand.”

“And what do you say till the hay?” asked John, who was a pessimist,
“and a’ the low land about Eden in flood already.”

But he, too, comforted himself by getting out the oldest plate, and
giving it “a guid clean,” which was an occupation he kept for this
kind of weather; it is easier to endure a wet day when you are old
than when you are young. Jeanie was less well off. When her work was
done, she was not happy enough to take out the stocking, with which
every woman in Fife is provided against a moment’s leisure. To sit down
tranquilly and turn the heel was not in Jeanie’s power. She went up to
her little turret room, and began to turn over her little possessions,
and there found a keepsake or two from Rob, poor Jeanie! which filled
her already dewy eyes with tears. But even that was an occupation, and
Margaret, who had no occupation, was worst off of all. She flitted all
over the house, up-stairs and down, sometimes disturbing Sir Ludovic
with restless movements, taking down books and putting them up again,
then flying down-stairs to warm her hands by the fire and tease the
long-suffering Bell.

“Eh, Miss Margaret, if you would but try something to do! To see you
aye coming and going makes my head gang round and round.”

“How can you sit there with your stocking?” cried Margaret, “as if you
were a part of the day? Will nothing happen--will nothing ever happen?
Will it go on till dinner-time, and then till bed-time, and nobody
come?”

“Wha would come, or what should happen?” said Bell, startled. It was
a new idea to her that succor should come from without. “I ken nobody
that is such a fool as to come out of their ain house on such a day.
But, bless me! what is that?” And lo! in a moment as they listened,
making Bell wonder and Margaret clap her hands, there came--blessed
sound--a knock at the door!




CHAPTER XI.


“Papa,” cried Margaret, rushing in, her face bright with excitement and
pleasure. Some one stood behind her on a lower step of the winding
stair. They filled up that narrow ascent altogether with their youth
and the importance of their presence, and of all they had to say and
do. She went in lightly, her eyes dancing, her light figure full of
eagerness, a large portfolio in her hands. She had no doubt either
that this advent of something to break the tedium would be agreeable
to her father too, or that he must feel, as she did, the influence of
the falling rain and heaviness of the monotonous sky. She went in,
taking him amusement, variety, all that she would herself have rejoiced
to see coming. It was the best of introductions, she felt, for the
new-comer. As for Rob, he stood behind, ready to follow, with a little
tremor in him, wondering how he would be received. He had never been in
the company of any one so dignified as Sir Ludovic before, never had
addressed a titled personage, upon terms of anything like equality; and
this of itself was enough to make him nervous.

It seemed like an introduction into a new world to Rob. Then Sir
Ludovic had the name of being a great scholar, a man of learning as
well as a man of rank and position, and in every way above the range
of a farmer’s son; and, last of all, he was Margaret’s father, and
much might depend on the way in which he allowed the new visitor, who
felt himself out of place at Earl’s-hall, even while he felt himself
“as good as” any one whom he might meet anywhere. Altogether it was an
exciting moment. Rob was moved by the joyful welcome Margaret had given
him, perhaps, to a higher idea of himself than he had ever entertained
before. He had felt the flattery of it penetrate to his very heart. She
had rushed out of the lower room, where she had been with Bell, almost
meeting him at the door. She had spoken before he had time to say
anything, exclaiming how glad she was to see him.

Rob had forgotten the rain. Notwithstanding that his mother had brought
forth that very argument, bidding him “Go away with you; they would be
glad to see you the day, if they never let you in again;” yet in the
pleasure of being so received he had forgotten the very chiefest cause
of his welcome. The brightened looks, the eager greeting, were too
pleasant, too flattering, to be taken unmoved. It was not possible to
believe that it was not for himself; and all these things had worked
upon Rob to an extent he was scarcely aware of. He who had at first
approached the young lady so respectfully, and with so little ulterior
motive, and who had been half shocked, half amused at his mother’s
treatment of the renewed acquaintance between them, came almost
with a bound to his mother’s conclusion when he saw the brightness
of Margaret’s eyes this particular rainy morning. There could be no
doubt that she was glad to see him; he was here by her own invitation.
She was eager to associate him with herself in the interests of the
old house, and anxious to accept the lessons he offered, and to “put
herself under an obligation” to him in this way.

Margaret, entirely unacquainted with money and the value of things,
never thought of any “obligation;” but he did, who was accustomed to
consider the price of lessons, and to whom money’s-worth would never be
without importance. He was very willing, very anxious to confer this
favor; but he could not help attaching a certain significance to her
acceptance of it, a significance entirely unjustified by any idea in
Margaret’s innocent mind. She was willing to accept the obligation;
therefore, was it not at least permissible to think that some other
way of clearing it, making up to him for his kindness, was in her
mind? If she had any dawning thought of bestowing all she had upon
him, of giving him herself and her money, her heiressship altogether,
that would indeed be a very good reason for laying herself “under an
obligation” to him. Thus Rob had come to think with a beating heart
that there was meaning in the innocent girl’s happy reception of him,
in her eagerness to introduce him to her father, and warm desire that
he should please him. And thus the moment was very serious to him, like
nothing he had experienced before.

But Sir Ludovic did not stir. He had dropped asleep again, and did not
wake even at his daughter’s call. As he lay back in his chair, with his
old ivory hands spread out upon its arms, and his white hair falling
back, Rob thought he had never seen a more venerable appearance. If
it were possible that things should so come about as that he should
be familiar here, one of themselves, perhaps, calling this old man
father (such things had been--and his mother thought were likely to
be again--and what else could be the meaning in Margaret’s eyes?),
Rob felt that he would have reason to be proud. Even the very idea
swelled his heart. The room, upon the threshold of which he stood,
was unlike anything else he had seen before. He had been in wealthy
Glasgow houses where luxury abounded--he had seen dwellings much more
wealthy, costly, and splendid than Earl’s-hall; but there was something
in the aspect of the place, its gray noble stateliness outside, so
poor, yet so dignified, its antique old-world grace within, the walls
lined with books, the air of old establishment and duration that was
in everything, which exercised the strongest influence over him. It
was like a scene in a fairy tale--an old magician, and his fresh, fair
young daughter, so liberal, so gentle, receiving him like a princess,
opening wide the doors to him. He stood, as we have said, in a kind of
enchantment. He was on the borders--was it of Paradise? certainly of
some unknown country, more noble, more stately than anything he had
known before.

This train of thought was interrupted by Margaret, who came back to him
walking softly, and putting her finger to her lips. “Papa has fallen
asleep again,” she said, half annoyed, half anxious, and she pushed
open softly the door of the little west chamber. “Here, come here!” she
said, and went in before him, pointing to a chair and clearing Lady
Jean’s work and other obstacles with her own hands from the table. “Now
let me see them,” she cried. How eager she was, how full of interest
and admiration! She spread the portfolio open before him which she
had herself snatched from his hands and carried to her father. In
it was the drawing of the Kirkton which his mother had suggested he
should give “in a present” to Margaret. She was not aware yet of this
happiness; but she was as simple as Mrs. Glen in ready admiration,
and it seemed to her that nothing ever was more beautiful. “Oh!” she
cried, struck dumb with wonder and delight. She said nothing more at
first, then suddenly burst into ecstasy. “Did you ever see it from the
tower, Mr. Glen? Oh, it does not look like that, you are so high above
it. But I know that look just as well; that might be from the wood.
It would be in the morning when the dew was on the grass. It would be
when everything was quiet, the men away to their work, the children
in the school, the women in their houses--and the church standing
against the sky: oh, how can you paint things that are not things?”
cried Margaret--“the air, and the light, and the wind, and the shadows
flying, and the clouds floating! Oh, how can you do it? how can you do
it?”

Rob was carried away by this flood of delicious praise; he stood modest
and blushing, deprecating, yet happy. He knew at the bottom of his
heart that his drawing was not a poem like this, but only very ordinary
water-color. He did not know what to say.

“You make me ashamed of my poor work. It ought to be a great deal
better to deserve to be looked at at all. The beauty is in your eyes,”
he said. But Margaret took no notice of this speech. She put that
portfolio aside, and opened the other, and plunged into a world of
amusement. These were his more finished works, the larger drawings
which he had done from his sketches; and, indeed, Rob had spent a great
deal of time and trouble upon them; they had occupied him when he was
going through the squabbles and controversies of the last few months.
They had been his refuge and shelter from a great deal of annoyance;
and sometimes, when he looked at them, he had thought they might be
worthy of exhibition, and perhaps might help to make his fortune--at
least might open the door to him and put him in the way of making his
fortune. But at other times he fell into gulfs of despair, and saw
the truth, which was that they were only very tolerable studies of
an amateur. He shook his head now while Margaret praised them. “Only
daubs,” he said, “only scratches. Ah, you should see real artist work.
I am only an amateur.”

“And so you ought to be,” said Margaret. “An amateur means a lover, a
true lover, doesn’t it? I mean of pictures, you know,” she added, with
her usual blush. “And if you do anything for love, it is sure to be
better than what you do for--any other reason--for money. Could anybody
paint a real beautiful picture for money? No,” cried the daring young
theorist, “it must be for love.”

“I think so too,” said Rob. He reddened also, but with more conscious
sentiment. “I think so too! and if I paint Earl’s-hall, it will be so.”

“Will you?” said Margaret, grateful and happy. Love of her was not what
the girl was thinking of; nothing was farther from her mind, nor did
it ever occur to her that the word had other meanings than that she
gave it. Then she pushed the portfolio away from her, and changed the
subject in a moment. “You cannot begin to make the picture, Mr. Glen;
what shall we do now? Will I show you the house?” said Margaret, with
her Scotch imperfection of grammar, “or will you begin me with the
straight lines, or will you (that would be the best) draw something and
let me watch. Draw papa! I will open the door, look, like this; and he
never stirs, I know he will never stir for an hour at a time. Oh, that
is the thing I should like you to do. Draw papa!”

Her voice sank into a softer cadence, not to disturb Sir Ludovic; but
her face was more eager than ever. She put the door open, showing like
a picture the other room within: the background of books in many tones
of subdued color, with gleams of old gilding, giving a russet edge of
light here and there. In the midst of the scene thus disclosed sat Sir
Ludovic, his head, with its silver locks, leaning back upon his high
chair.

“I cannot draw the figure,” Rob had said, with anxiety and alarm,
feeling the task too much for him; but, after all, when he looked again
there was not much of the figure visible. The wide old velvet coat
was folded over the old student-sleepers’ knees; only his cheek was
visible, still perfect in its fine oval, and the outline of his noble
old head against the dark leather of the chair. It was a study of still
life, not a portrait, that was wanted. Rob looked at the “subject” thus
proposed to him, and Margaret looked at him with great anxiety, to see
in his face what he was going to do. Would he consent? Would he refuse
to her this thing, which, now that she had proposed it, she felt that
she wanted more than anything else in the world? Recklessly Margaret
threw herself “under obligations” to the young man.

“Oh, if you please, do it!” she cried, in a half whisper, putting
her two pretty hands together in a pretty, spontaneous gesture of
supplication. How could Rob resist, whose first desire was to please
her, and to whom in pleasing her so many soft brightnesses of pleasure
to himself opened up? Even without that motive, to do him justice, he
would have been melted by her entreaty--he would have been proud to do
anything for her.

“I don’t think I can do it; but if it will please you, Miss Margaret, I
will try.”

“Oh, I know you can do it,” Margaret cried. “Oh, tell me what to bring
for you--water? You have left your big book down-stairs, but I will run
and fetch it, and the pencils, and--”

“Miss Margaret, I cannot let you wait upon me.”

“Oh, but I will, though; I like it. Fancy! when you are going to
paint papa for me,” cried Margaret, flying down-stairs. She came up
again, breathless, laughing and glowing, before he could think what
was the right thing to do. “There it is,” she said, putting down the
sketching-block before him, “and I will bring the water in a moment.
You are not to stir. Oh, Mr. Glen, think what it will be to have a
picture of papa!”

“But I cannot, indeed, make a picture of him. I cannot draw the figure;
it is quite difficult. I am not so clever as you think,” cried Rob,
with sudden fright. Margaret, carried away by the flutter of haste and
pleasure, and half-childish familiar acquaintance, put up her hand as
if to stop his mouth.

What wonder if Rob almost forgot himself. He half put out his hand to
take hers, and he raised his eyes to hers with a look which somehow
stopped the girl. She did not understand it, but it frightened her. She
drew a little farther away, and her usual blush rushed over her face in
a flood of color. “That will be the best place to sit,” she said, half
abashed, she could not tell why. And Rob remembered himself, and took
his place as she indicated. She stood by him, the most eager, watchful
attendant. When she had got everything he could want, she put herself
behind him, watching over his shoulder every line he drew. This was
bad for the drawing; but it was wonderfully enchanting and inspiring
for the young man thus elevated into an artist, a genius, a creator.
He felt her hand upon his chair, he felt her breath as she bent over
him, a kind of perfumed atmosphere of her enveloped him. Her eagerness
grew as lines began to come on the paper, he hardly knew how, her voice
ran on close by his ear with exclamations and broken notes of soft,
subdued sound, half a whisper, half a cry. “Oh, is that how you begin?”
Margaret cried; “me, I would have thought the chair first. Oh! that is
his face and the line of the hair--yes; but what do you make that dot
for in the middle? there is no spot there.”

“You know we must measure the lines, and see that one is in proportion
with the other,” said Rob, holding up his pencil as a level; “it would
not do to make one part larger than the other. I might take all my
paper for one arm if I did not measure; and that is what beginners
often do.”

“Oh!” said Margaret. She watched him with her head a little on one
side, her lips just parted with eagerness and interest, her brown eyes
all aglow. Sometimes her hand would touch his shoulder as she leaned
more and more over him; her breath moved the hair on his temples,
and went through and through the young man. And he was very open to
this kind of influence. It did not require any mercenary hopes, any
dazzling realization of an heiress, to send him into all the seductive
beguilements of the love-dream. Jeanie had done it with her simple
rural attractions--how much more her young mistress, with a whole
romance about her, and so many charms, both visionary and real!

Rob was not a fortune-hunter, bent on an heiress. This was what his
mother would have had him to be; but his nature was too susceptible for
such a cold-blooded pursuit. He did what was far better, infinitely
more likely to succeed, a greater stroke of genius than any skill of
fortune-hunting--he fell simply over head and ears in love. He had done
it before many times; it was not the intense and real passion which
now and then carries a man out of himself, the love that has no room
in its heart for more than one image. But still it was what he knew
as that sentiment; and it was quite genuine. A little mist came into
Rob’s eyes, through which he saw Sir Ludovic in his chair, the task
he had set before him; his heart beat in his ears, a soft confusion
and excitement seized him. He did not know what he was doing, as he
sat there with Margaret looking over his shoulder. His experiences
before of this same kind had been pleasant enough, but none of them
had possessed the charm, the sweetness of this. Not only was she more
charming than any of his former loves, but he himself was vaguely
raised and elevated as to another sphere of being. In the dazzlement
and tremor of the new crisis, the gratification of his vanity and
self-regard, he seemed to himself only now to have attained his true
sphere.

“Oh, how wonderful it is!” said Margaret; “two or three strokes with a
lead-pencil, and there is papa! This is more wonderful than the views.
Now his hand, Mr. Glen. How sleeping it is on the chair! You could tell
he was sleeping only from the look of his hand. Hasn’t he a beautiful
hand? I never saw one like it. My sister Jean’s is white, with dimples
in it; they say she has a pretty hand; but then she has so many rings,
and she never forgets them. But papa’s hand is beautiful, I think. Did
you ever see one so fine? It has bones in it, but Jean’s has no bones.
It is like himself in little. Don’t you think so, Mr. Glen?”

“You forget how little I know Sir Ludovic. I have not seen him since I
was a boy. But very often the hand is like the owner of it, in little,
as you say. Your own is, I have noticed that.”

“Mine?” Margaret raised the hand referred to, and looked at it, then
laughed softly. “Mine is a brown thin thing, all fingers.”

“May I stop to look at it?” said Rob.

She laughed still more, and blushed, and held it out with a little
tremor.

“It is nothing to look at--unless you know about the lines or can tell
any one’s fortune. Can you tell any one’s fortune by their hand, Mr.
Glen? Mine is as brown as a toad, and not soft and round like Jean’s,
nor like papa’s. Oh, there is nothing to look at in my hand. It is so
brown. I think shame when I see a lady’s; but then I always lose my
gloves, or at least one of them,” said Margaret, half penitent, half
laughing. While this dialogue was going on, a change had begun; Sir
Ludovic had not stirred when she went to call him, but the subdued
sound of the voices, and that sense of being looked at which is so
sure a spell against sleep, began at last to affect him; he stirred
slightly, then made a little change of position; then he said,
drowsily, “Little Peggy! are you there, my little girl?”

She sprang away from Rob in a moment, leaving him somehow dazzled,
disappointed, and impoverished, he could scarcely tell how. He would
have caught at her dress to detain her, but dared not. He tried one
whisper, however, very earnest and urgent.

“Stay, stay, Miss Margaret! He must not move till I have done. Do not
answer, and he will doze again.”

She only shook her head in reply, and went to her father’s side lightly
and rapidly like a bird.

“Yes,” she said, “I am here, papa; but keep still, you are not to
move;” and she put her arms round him, standing behind, her pretty
hands--still pretty, though they were brown--upon his breast. “Now,
quick, quick, Mr. Glen,” she cried, not thinking how she had changed
the group and the entire sentiment of the scene. All at once it became
dramatic, and utterly beyond Rob, who had no gifts that way. He sat for
a few moments vaguely gazing at her, lost in admiration and pleasure;
but he shook his head. He could do no more.

“Eh, my Peggy? what has happened?” said Sir Ludovic, faintly struggling
to wake himself. “Not to--move?--why am I not to move? I am--living, I
think, still.”

“He is drawing you, papa. Oh, you will spoil it--you will spoil my
picture!” cried Margaret. She took away her arms from his shoulders,
provoked and ready to cry. “If you only would have stayed still two
minutes longer--oh, papa! and if you only would have been quick--quick,
Mr. Glen! But now my picture’s all spoiled,” cried the girl.

Sir Ludovic came to himself in a moment at the name.

“Where is your--Mr. Glen?” he said, and sat upright and looked round.
Then Rob rose, very much embarrassed, and came forward slowly, feeling
more and more awkward. He felt like a country lout when he was in
presence of this fine old gentleman. He did not seem able even to
walk as he ought with Sir Ludovic’s eyes upon him, and grew very red
and very uncomfortable; he had not so much as a hat to occupy his
uncultivated hands, and all his self-possession and powers of speech
seemed to go from him. Margaret, too, now that the moment had come,
felt a little afraid.

“We came while you were sleeping, papa,” she said, unconscious that
she was thus identifying herself with her visitor; “and as it was wet,
and nothing else was to be done, and you were sleeping, and I could
not disturb you, I asked Mr. Glen to draw you; and he has been making
a beautiful picture--just you, your very self, in your big chair--when
you wakened. Why did you waken just at that moment to stop Mr. Glen’s
beautiful picture, papa?”




CHAPTER XII.


Sir Ludovic was not quite sure that he liked the sudden interposition
between his child and himself of this Rob Glen. He half forgot the
permission he had given that Rob Glen might come and teach drawing to
Margaret--that was how he put it to himself. He was altogether cross
and annoyed by the circumstances generally. The name of Rob Glen, and
the description of him as Mrs. Glen’s son at Earl’s-lee, had sounded
quite innocent, but the apparition of a good-looking young man had
quite a different effect upon Sir Ludovic. Perhaps he did not look
altogether a gentleman, but then he looked quite as much a gentleman as
various Fife potentates whom Sir Ludovic readily recalled to mind, and
whose claims to gentility were unquestionable. For that matter, young
Fallow of Greenshaw, with the best blood of the county in his veins,
looked a much greater lout than Rob Glen; so that was no safeguard.
And then he was half, or more than half, affronted by the advantage
they had taken of his doze. It might be Margaret’s fault, but then he
had no desire to blame his Peggy, and a great desire to find the young
fellow pushing and disagreeable. He ought not to have permitted himself
to take such a liberty as to make a drawing of a gentleman when he was
asleep, notwithstanding any request that a foolish girl might make to
him.

By-and-by Sir Ludovic was mollified toward Margaret by her delight in
having what she called “a picture” of him at any cost, and he would
not forbid that it should be finished sometime or other; but he did
not for that fully forgive the artist, nor, indeed, did it make much
difference that it was really a clever drawing, slight as it was. He
was determined to give no further facilities for its completion--not
to fall asleep again when Rob Glen was in the way. Perhaps if Sir
Ludovic had wanted amusement as much as his daughter did, Rob and his
portfolios would have afforded him so much relief on this wet day as
to earn forgiveness; but unfortunately Sir Ludovic did not care for
the rain. He was not depressed by it, nor were his other occupations
interfered with. Rain or shine, he sat in the same chair and read over
the same books, of which he was never tired. And what was a new little
event to him? if it were innocent, only a bore and interruption, and if
it were not innocent, an annoyance and trouble.

Margaret would have been grateful to anybody--a peddler, if no better
could be had; but Sir Ludovic felt no want, and therefore knew no
gratitude. He was civil. He looked at the portfolios and gave to their
contents a faint praise. He did not deny that the outline of himself,
just put in to be finished another time, was a clever drawing; but at
the same time he made Margaret a little sign with his eyebrows to take
the young man away. And though Sir Ludovic had been startled into alarm
on Margaret’s account at the sight of Rob Glen, it did not occur to him
that he was increasing all the dangers by thus requiring of her that
she should get him away. He threw his child farther and more intimately
into the young man’s society, though he felt it was not society for
her; but what then? he was too fine a gentleman to be rude even to the
farmer’s son, but was he to take the trouble to talk to him, making
conversation for a youth who did not amuse him, who bored him, who
kept him from his books? This was a thing which Sir Ludovic did not
understand. He gave Margaret that silent intimation of his will, and he
opened his book, which was another hint to the intruder. If the young
man would take the hint and go, so much the better--if not, then for
this once it was better that Margaret should entertain him, and leave
her father in peace.

“Perhaps we might go on with our lesson now, Mr. Glen,” said Margaret,
with one of her sudden suffusions of color. There was some meaning in
it this time, for she felt that her father was wanting in courtesy, and
was terrified lest Mr. Glen should think he was cavalierly treated. She
took up the great portfolio herself to carry it away, and would not let
Rob take it from her.

“Why should not I carry it?” she said. “You came to give us pleasure,
not to please yourself, Mr. Glen--and of course I will carry the book.
It is not at all heavy,” she said, lugging it along. Perhaps she
intended to convince Sir Ludovic of his own indifference to his visitor
and failure in the politeness necessary; and some idea of this kind
did cross the old man’s mind, but too lightly to make the impression
his daughter intended. It was not much to him to see her carrying big
books, and he was glad to get rid of the visitor. He drew a long breath
of relief when the young pair disappeared in the West Chamber. He could
not be troubled with Rob Glen. He had been civil enough. Sir Ludovic
was not capable of being uncivil under his own roof; but why should he
take more trouble? As for Margaret, the idea of any danger to her, or
impropriety in this companionship for her, died out of his mind when
put in comparison with his risk of being disturbed in his own person.
He was glad to get rid of the two. Had Margaret even been alone, he
would have said, “Run away, my little Peggy, run and play,” in those
habitual words which wounded Margaret’s pride of young womanhood so
much. He opened his book, and set it straight before him, and placed
himself at a more comfortable angle: and then--his eyelids began to
come together once more, his head drooped on his breast, then settled
on the back of his chair.

It was afternoon, and all was drowsy and still; very still was the long
room, now those younger creatures were gone. The rain streamed down
outside with a soft, continuous patter upon the trees. The skies were
all gray, the earth all silent. The faintest hum, no more than might
come from a beehive, might sometimes be audible from the West Chamber,
but the walls were thick and the doors fitted closely. If he heard
the voices at all, they fell into the subdued patter of the rain, the
general stillness. Afternoon--and seventy-five. What reason had he to
keep himself awake, to insist upon living instead of sleeping through
that heavy, silent, drowsy afternoon? And yet he did not like to think
he had been sleeping. When John came in behind the screen and began to
prepare for dinner, Sir Ludovic sat upright with very wide-open eyes.
He was always erect, but now he sat bolt-upright in his chair.

“Is that you, John?” he said, with unusual suavity, so that the old man
might entertain no doubt of his perfectly wide-awake condition.

“Ay, it’s just me, Sir Ludovic,” said John. No one could have been
more indifferent on this subject than John was. He knew very well that
his master was apt to doze the afternoon through--but what of that?
It was a privilege of his position, not a misfortune. Old John would
gladly have dozed too, and found it entirely natural. He himself took
a nap whenever he could get it, and though he would cling with natural
vehemence to the fact that he had “not slept a wink,” there was neither
shame nor annoyance in his mind at being caught in the act. The signs
of old age were not alarming nor troublesome to John; he had a distinct
pleasure in perceiving them in his master, and no objection to put them
forth for himself, to boast a little of what he still could do “at my
age,” and to claim all manner of little exemptions on this score. The
old master sat up very erect in his chair, with a great pretence of
interest and absorption in his book, to cheat the other’s observations,
but the old servant was not to be cheated. He said to himself quite
calmly, and to Bell when he went down-stairs, “Sir Ludovic’s getting an
auld man.”

“No so much aulder than yoursel’,” Bell retorted, promptly.

“Was I saying he was much aulder than mysel’? He’s nearer ten years
than five--and that makes a great difference; but you women are aye for
comparisons,” said John. “I said he was getting an auld man.”

How differently the same sentiment mingled with the great stillness in
the long room! Sir Ludovic did not want any change; he was well enough,
willing to last just as he was, hoping nothing different, satisfied if
he could only go on so. But here, creeping about him, irresistible,
not even to be kept at arm’s-length or regarded as something outside
of himself, were the symptoms of change coming. How erect he sat, how
wide-awake he forced himself to look! he would not own to the weakness,
and perhaps, who could tell, by mere ignoring, might vanquish--or,
at least, appear to vanquish it. But it was not to be forgotten, nor
even resisted very effectively. Even John’s movements, the passing of
himself or his shadow across the light, the sound of his heavy old
leisurely footsteps, the slight clang of the silver and tinkle of the
glass as it was put on the table, began to take a certain rhythm, and
to lull the listener once more. “There must be something the matter
with me,” Sir Ludovic said, as he roused himself once more with an
effort, and got up to shake himself free, by movement, from the spell.
Movement, that must be what he wanted--a little exercise, which he was
aware he had neglected sadly. But now, perhaps, it might be of use. He
had to go to prepare for dinner, which was always of use in charming
the drowsiness away.

Margaret came in a few minutes after with a little flutter and rustle
of roused life about her, which was very different from the slumbrous
atmosphere of old age, in which Sir Ludovic had discovered himself to
be sinking. She was very eager, and at the same time doubtful, as to
what he would say to her; he had not found her visitor so delightful
as she had done, she felt. To Margaret the afternoon had been full
of pleasure. The wet day, which in the morning had filled her with
despair, had become more attractive than the finest of weather: Rob’s
society, the novelty of talking to him, of pouring forth her own ideas
upon subjects with which Bell, for instance, had little sympathy, and
of hearing from him a great deal which, if not very new in itself, was
profoundly intellectual, brilliantly original to the little country
girl--had transported Margaret. How clever he was, how well he could
talk! She had never met with anybody like him. What worlds of books
he had read! not, perhaps, such learned books (but of this she was
not quite sure) as papa. But then papa did not talk of them; and Mr.
Glen was so willing to talk of them, mingling his own impressions
and ideas with hers, quoting his favorite poets and leading Margaret
herself, shyly, with glowing eyes and flaming cheeks, to quote hers,
and “say” verses out loud which she had said to herself with all the
sweet enthusiasm of youth in many a solitary place, but had never
found anybody to care for. Even Jeanie, Jeanie who was young, and full
of natural poetry too, when Margaret had tried to “say” her beloved
“pieces” to her, had dropped asleep, which had been one of the girl’s
great disappointments in life.

When she was younger, Bell, indeed, had listened with great complacency
to these “pieces,” as proving how clever the child was; but from that
time to this, when she suddenly found that Rob Glen knew them too, and
would say half, asking if she remembered the next--most delightful of
suggestions--she had found nobody who cared, nobody who would listen
and respond. Margaret’s eyes grew brighter and brighter, the ready
flush of feeling went and came over her face like the flying shadows on
a sunshiny landscape, as quick as those shadows fly upon the hills;
and a soft excitement got possession of her. She talked as she had
never talked in her life before, and impressed him as he impressed
her by that easy poetry of youth which can look almost like genius in
its early outpouring. A mutual admiration, a mutual interest, thus
sprang up between them: and how much your admiration of the superiority
of another is increased by the certainty that the other shows his
superiority by admiring you, who can doubt? Rob, too, felt all this.
He was dazzled himself by the pretty, simple strains of thinking and
feeling which Margaret showed unawares, and he dazzled her (wittingly
and of purpose) by his own eloquence, his theories, his deep thoughts,
his lofty fancies. How delightful it all was, and how the hours of
wetness out-of-doors, of slow-falling rain, and heavy clouds, and
drippings and patterings and overflowings, tedious to everybody else,
flew over the two young people in the little panelled room!

The drawing-lesson was not so happy; spite of all the master’s efforts,
it had been impossible to get Margaret’s wavering pencil to execute
the necessary straight line. This had been humbling; but it had
been partially sweetened by Rob’s assurance that many who could not
overcome such a commonplace difficulty became excellent in color, and
in a sense of the harmonies of Nature. What a lovely phrase this was,
“the harmonies of Nature!” Margaret felt instinctively that she would
understand them, though she could not make a straight line. Then she
took him over the house, showing him “the high room,” which was over
the long room, the vaulted gallery with its tapestries, which filled
him with wonder and admiration. Neither of them perceived another
figure, which retreated before them, getting out of their way as they
lingered at every point of interest, and which was poor Jeanie, who
finally took refuge behind the tapestry, with a forlorn wish to see
and hear again the faithless “freend” who had forgotten her. The two
stood close to that tapestry for some time, he talking, smiling upon
the young lady, giving her a great deal of information (of dubious
accuracy) about tapestry and art manufactures, while Jeanie, in great
terror of discovery, and still greater shame and horror of herself for
so mean an action as “listening,” lurked behind, scarlet with anxiety,
confusion, and wretchedness. Jeanie, however, it is needless to deny,
was a little comforted by what she heard.

Courtship goes quickly on the lower levels of society, and how Rob
should occupy the time in talking of the old hangings which were
just “an awfu’ place for dust,” if he really wished to make himself
agreeable to Miss Margaret, Jeanie could not understand. “No a word
but that the hale world might hear,” she said to herself, puzzled but
soothed, as she escaped to her little room in the top of the turret,
after the others had gone away. She could hear their voices, with
little breaks of laughter still going on, as they went down-stairs--the
same sound which was as the humming of bees to Sir Ludovic in his great
chair. Not so, Jeanie knew, had Rob made his advances to herself. These
approaches were much less abstract, far more rapid. Perhaps “he wasna
meaning onything,” perhaps it was but a polite visit, for abstract
reasons, occupied by abstract subjects. This thought consoled Jeanie,
and made her heart swell with a secret pride in Rob’s education and
capability to hold his place with the best.

But, after all this, Margaret, it may be supposed, did not present
herself quite so calmly as usual at the dinner-table. She had a little
rose-tint, which was very seldom permanent, upon her pretty cheek, and
her eyes glowed with unusual brightness. She was more resigned than
usual to the ceremony of being handed to her seat, and did not think
the two old men were making a fool of her, as she was apt to do; and
she did not say anything, but awaited her father’s questioning with
much suppressed excitement. Sir Ludovic for some time disappointed
her by saying nothing on the subject--which, when you expect to be
questioned, and, indeed, to be found fault with, and stand on the
defensive, is the most trying of all treatment. However, after a time,
Margaret’s pulses woke again to liveliest beating.

“Did your artist stay long, my Peggy?” she heard Sir Ludovic saying,
without any warning at all.

“Oh! n-not very long, papa,” said Margaret, slightly faltering.
Then--for she suddenly remembered that John, who knew everything that
went on, did by no means hesitate to contradict her when he thought
proper--she added, hastily, “But first he learned me to draw.”

“That was very clever of him,” said Sir Ludovic; “and did you learn,
as you say, to draw--all in one lesson, my little Peggy? That was very
clever of you, too.”

“Why should you always make a fool of me?” said Margaret, pathetically.
“You know I did not mean that, papa. But we tried; and then I let him
see the house, and the high room, and the tapestry. We could not go up
to the tower, because it was raining. He is to come another day,” said
Margaret, with the extreme of simple candor, “to see the view from the
tower. And he thought the tapestry was very fine, papa.”

“Did he, my little Peggy? Then I fear he cannot know very much about
it,” said Sir Ludovic. “He is rather a clumsy imitation of a hero, very
rustic and Fifish, your Mr. Glen.”

“You call _me_ Fifish too,” said Margaret, with a little laugh
which expressed a good deal of irritation. The finest and most
significant satire was implied in Margaret’s tone. “If _me_, then
anybody!” it seemed to say, with a mixture of wounded pride and sense
of absurdity. Sir Ludovic forgot the moral he had meant to draw in his
amusement. He laughed, with that tender laugh which is called from us
by the dear follies of our children.

“Did I call you Fifish too, my Peggy?--which shows I am a very
ignorant, ridiculous old man. But he should not have begun that drawing
of your old father while I--dozed. It is not often I doze,” said Sir
Ludovic, with the same uneasy feeling which Margaret had felt, that old
John behind his chair was quite capable of contradicting him; “and if
he had been a gentleman, I don’t think he would have done it.”

“Oh!” cried Margaret, clasping her hands, “it was all my fault-- I
assure you it was all my fault, papa.”

“Well, my little girl; but a gentleman would not have done it. He would
not have taken an advantage of a man he did not know. Friends may do
that kind of thing, but not a stranger, my little Peggy.”

“Oh, papa!” cried Margaret, the tears coming to her eyes, “why will you
always blame other people for what was my fault? He did not want to
do it (this was a fib, but perhaps a pardonable one); it was me that
wanted it, papa; and when I said to him, ‘Oh, Mr. Glen, I have not got
any picture of papa, not even a poor photograph--oh, draw me a picture
of papa!’ he did it; but it was me that wanted it--and how could he
refuse me?”

“He would have been a brute if he had,” said the old man, melted; “but
still it is true, my Peggy, your stranger should not have done that,
without my knowledge, the first time he ever saw me.”

“As if he had not known you all his life!” cried Margaret. “He knew you
as well as I did when we were little--when you used to walk about. He
wondered why you never walked about now; he asked me if you were ill,
and I told him you were not ill, only--”

“Only what, my little girl?--old and useless?” said Sir Ludovic, with a
pathetic undertone of protest, yet acquiescence, a wistful desire to be
contradicted in his faltering voice.

“No--oh, I beg your pardon, papa. I did not mean to be so--impudent. It
sounds so, but I did not mean it. I said you were only--lazy.”

Sir Ludovic laughed. What relief was in the laugh! what ease from the
pang which had struck him! His little girl, at least, did not see the
true state of affairs, and why should he not be able to look at this,
at least, through her eyes?

“Perhaps there is some truth in it,” he said. “You were always saucy,
my Peggy. If I were not so lazy, but moved about a little more, it
might be better for me. What have you to say against that?” he cried,
turning round half angrily to old John, who had given a significant
“Humph!” behind his chair.

“Oh, just nothing at all, Sir Ludovic. I wasna speaking. But exercise
is good for man and beast--when they’re no ower auld or ower frail.”

Sir Ludovic laughed again, though less pleasantly.

“I will defy the cleverest talker in the world,” he cried, “old John,
you old grumbler, to make anything of you.”

“I just aye say what I think, Sir Ludovic,” said the old man, without
a smile; but he chuckled when he went down-stairs and recounted the
incident to Bell. “Would he hev me say he was as souple as a laud o’
twenty?” said old John.

“Ye auld grumbler, as Sir Ludovic weel says. What for could you no say
a pleasant word to pleasure the maister?” cried the more sympathetic
Bell.




CHAPTER XIII.


Sir Ludovic was reading a book which was of the greatest interest to
him, connected with a branch of study in which he was strong, and in
which he himself meant to leave his mark for other students; but he
could not fix his attention to it. Was it that he was drowsy again
this fresh morning? The rain and all the clouds had cleared away. The
whole earth was freshened and sweetened by the deluge of the previous
day, and everything was rejoicing in the return of the sun. The birds
chirped more loudly than usual, and a playful little wind, a kind of
baby-breeze, an elemental urchin, full of fun and mischief, was in the
wood, shaking the trees, and sending showers of glittering drops at
any moment upon the soaked and humid soil. The fragrance of the grass,
and “goodly smell” of the turned-up rich brown earth, that genial
mother soil out of which was not man made, and unto which he goes back
when the world is done with him? was in the air. Summer is so wide in
her common blessings; for everybody something; to those who have, the
joyful fruits of the earth, to those who have not, at least this goodly
smell.

The window was open; the wind came in fresh and sweet, ruffling such
papers as it could find about, and singing airy songs to Margaret
as she went and came. But it was an air of a different kind that it
breathed about Sir Ludovic in his chair. Drowsy?--no, he was not
drowsy, in the softness of the morning, but his mind was full of
thoughts which were not cheerful. He had lived for so long a time in
one steady, endless, unchanging routine, that it had seemed as if it
never would end. The more active pleasures and toils of life must end,
it is certain; but why should the gentle routine of a recluse life ever
be disturbed? Five years ago, when he had been seventy, thoughts of the
age he had attained and the crisis he had reached had been in his mind.
The full score of years had been accomplished, and what reason had he
to expect that they should be prolonged! But they had been prolonged,
and the old man had been lulled into absolute calm. He had good health;
nothing except

    “Those locks in silvery slips,
     This drooping gait, this altered size,”

to remind him how near he must be to the end. He had risen up
cheerfully in the morning, and gone to bed cheerfully at night; and
what was to hinder that it should be so forever? But now all at once
the old man seemed to hear the messenger knocking at the door. He was
knocking very softly as yet, only a confused, faint tapping, which
might be some chance passer-by, and not the emissary of the Great
King--tapping very softly, and the door had not yet been opened to him;
but how if it was he? This was the thought that assailed Sir Ludovic
with something like the same fretting, disturbing influence as actual
knocking at the old door, faintly persistent, though never violent,
might have had. He was impatient of it, but he had not been able to
get rid of it. After all, it was not wonderful that an old man should
get tired and be drowsy in the afternoon. He had not for a long time
acknowledged to himself that this was the case; but lately it had been
difficult to deny it, and the little event of yesterday had forced it,
with a deepened touch of the disagreeable, on his notice.

Rob Glen’s sketch, though it was so slight, had conveyed a stronger
impression to his own mind of his own agedness and feebleness than all
his other experiences of himself. The old figure reclining back in the
easy-chair, thin, with meagre limbs following the angles of the chair,
and languid, helpless hands stretched out upon its supports: the sight
of it had given Sir Ludovic a shock. He had been partially soothed
afterward by the natural desire of Margaret to have “a picture” of him,
as she said. “Not like the grand gentleman over the mantel-piece,” the
girl had said, “but in your chair, sitting there with your book, as
you have always, always been to me.” This “always, always,” had been a
comfort to him. It had breathed the very essence of that continuance
which had seemed to become the one quality of life that mattered much;
but notwithstanding Margaret’s “always,” the sketch had given him a
shock. He thought of it again this morning as he sat in the same spot
and felt now and then the soft puff of the fresh summer air. Was it,
perhaps, that even Margaret, his little Peggy, was already conscious of
that “afterward,” when it would be something for her to have even so
slight a sketch of her father? That bit of paper would last longer than
he should. When his chair had been set back against the wall, and his
books all dispersed to the ends of the earth, how well he could fancy
his little girl taking it out, crying, perhaps--then smiling, saying,
“This is the one I like best of poor papa; that was how he used to be
at the last.” She would cry at first, poor little girl--it would make
a great difference to his little Peggy; but after a while she would
smile, and be able to tell how like it was to poor papa.

So vivid was this imagination that Sir Ludovic almost seemed to see and
hear already all that he imagined; and the fancy gave him no pang. It
was only part of a confused discomfort of which he could not get rid.
This is so different from most of our disquietudes. In other matters
it is almost certain that the future which alarms us will come with a
difference at least. Our apprehensions will change, if no more, and we
will be able to persuade ourselves either that the evil we fear may not
come, or that it will not be so great an evil as we thought. But the
case is otherwise when it is death that is coming, whether to another
or to ourselves. That is the one thing which is not to be got rid of.
Poor human nature, so shifty, so clever at eluding its burdens, so
sanguine that to-morrow will not be as to-day, is brought to a stand
before this one approach which cannot be eluded. No use attempting to
escape from this, to say that something unforeseen may happen, that
things may turn out better. Better or worse than we think, it may be;
but there is no eluding it. Sir Ludovic could not steal past on one
side or the other to avoid the sight of Him who was approaching. This
was the inevitable in actual presence. If not to-day, then to-morrow,
next day; in any case, coming always nearer and more near.

These thoughts had been forced upon him by the progress of events,
chiefly by that drowsiness which he did not like, but could not ignore
nor yet resist. Why should he be so ready to sleep? it had never
been his way; and the thoughts it roused within him now, when it had
forced itself on his attention, were very confusing. He was rather
religious than otherwise, not a man of profane mind. True, he had not
of late, in the languor that had crept over him, been very regular
in his attendance at church; but he was not undevout--rather, on the
whole, disposed toward pious observances; and without going into any
minuteness of faith, a sound believer. The effect of these new thoughts
upon him in this respect was strange. He said to himself that it was
his duty to think of his latter end, to consider the things that
concerned his peace before they were forever hid from his eyes. Anyhow,
even if he was not going to die, this would be right. To think of his
latter end, to consider the things that concerned his everlasting
peace. Yes, yes, this was, there could be no doubt, the right thing
as well as the most expedient; but as soon as he had repeated this
suggestion to himself, the most trivial fancy would seize upon him, the
merest nothing would take possession of his mind, till, with a little
start as of awaking, he would come back to the recollection that he
had something else to do with his thoughts, that he must consider his
latter end. So easy it was to conclude that much, if that would do--but
so difficult to go farther! And all was so strange before him, far more
confusing than the thought of any other change in life. To go to India,
to go to China, would be troublesome for an old man--if such a thing
had been suggested to him, no doubt he would have said that he would
much prefer to die quietly at home--yet dying quietly, when you come to
think of it, is far more bewildering than going to China. It was not
that he felt afraid; judgment was not the thing that appalled him.

No doubt there were many things in his life that he might have done
better, that he would gladly have altered altogether, but these were
not the things that oppressed him. Nothing could be farther from the
old man’s mind than that thought of “an angry God” which is supposed
in so much simple-minded theology to be the great terror of death.
It was not an angry God that Sir Ludovic feared. He had that sort
of dumb confidence in God which perhaps would not satisfy any stern
religionist, but which is more like the sentiment of the relation which
God himself has chosen to express his position toward men than any
other--a kind of unquestioning certainty that what God would do with
him would be the right thing, the most just, the most kind; but then
he had no notion what kind of thing that would be, which made it very
confusing, very depressing to him.

An old man, by the time he has got to be seventy-five, has given over
theorizing about life; he has no longer courage enough to confront the
unknown--quiet continuance, without any break or interruption, is the
thing that seems best for him; but here was an ending about to come,
a breaking off--and only the unknown beyond; and no escaping from it,
no staving it off, no postponement. All so familiar here, so natural,
the well-known chair, the old cosy coat: and beyond--what? he could
not tell what: an end; that was all that was certain and clear. He
believed everything that a Christian should believe, not to say such
primary principles as the immortality of the soul; but imagination was
no longer lively nor hope strong in the old man, and what he believed
had not much to do with what he felt. This was not an elevated state
of mind, but it was true enough. He himself felt guilty, that he could
not realize something better, that he could not rise to some height of
contemplation which would make him glad of his removal into realms
above. This was how he ought to think of it, ought to realize it, he
knew.

But he could not be clear of anything except the stop which was
coming. To sit in his old chair with his old book, the fresh morning
air breathing in upon him, his little girl coming and going, these
were not much to have, of all the good things of which the world is
full; but they were enough for him. And to think that one of these
mornings he should no longer be there, the chair pushed away against
the wall, the books packed up on its shelf, or worse, sent off to some
dusty auction-room to be sold; and himself--himself: where would old
Sir Ludovic be? shivering, unclothed in some unknown being, perhaps
seeing wistfully, unable to help it, the dismantling of everything
here, and his little girl crying in a corner, but unable to console
her. He knew he ought to be thinking of high spiritual communion, of
the music of the spheres. But he could not; even of his little Peggy
crying for her old father and missing him, he did not think much: but
most of the dull, strange fact that he would be gone away, a thing so
strange and yet so certain that it gave him a vertigo and bewildering
giddiness--and sometimes, too, a kind of dreary impatience, a desire
to get it over and know the worst that could happen; though he was not
afraid of any worst. There was no Inferno in that vague world before
him, nothing but dimness; though, perhaps, that was almost worse than
an Inferno--a wide, vague, confusing desert of the unknown.

These thoughts were present with him even while he held playful
conversations with Margaret and talked to old John and Bell, always
with a certain kindly mockery in all he said to them. He laughed at
Bell, though she was so important a personage, just as he laughed at
his little Peggy: yet all the while, as he laughed, he remembered
that to-morrow, perhaps, he might laugh no more. One thing, however,
that he did not think it necessary to do was to send for the doctor,
to try what medical skill might be able to suggest toward a little
postponement of the end. What could the doctor do for him? there was
nothing the matter with him. He was only drowsy, falling asleep without
knowing why. Even now, while Sir Ludovic sat upright in his chair and
defied it, he felt his eyelids coming together, his head drooping in
spite of himself; and he felt a wondering curiosity in his mind, after
a momentary absence of this kind, whether other people noticed it, or
if it was only himself who knew.

“Do you want anything, papa?” said Margaret, at the door. She had her
hat in her hand, and stood at the door looking in, with little more
than her head visible and the outline of her light summer frock.

“Going out, my little Peggy?” He raised his head with a start, and the
young, fresh apparition seemed to float upon him through some door in
the visionary darkness about, as well as through that actual opening at
which she stood.

“I think so, papa: unless you want me. It is such a bonnie morning, and
Mr. Glen is going to begin his sketch. He thinks,” said Margaret, with
a little hesitation, “that it will be a better lesson for me to see him
drawing than doing the straight lines; they were not very straight,”
she added, with blushing candor, “I was not clever at them, though I
tried--”

“Mr. Glen,” he said, with a little annoyance. “Mr. Glen again; did you
not have enough of him yesterday?”

“Oh!” cried Margaret, half alarmed; “but yesterday it was to let you
see the pictures, and to-day it is to learn me--”

“I hope he will not learn you--as you call it--too much,” said the
old man. “I wish somebody would learn you English. I have a great
mind--” But here he stopped and looked at her, and seeing the alarm on
Margaret’s face, was melted by the effect which ought to have made him
stern. Perhaps it might be so short a time that she would have any one
to indulge her. “Well, my little Peggy! run, run away, since you wish
it, and learn.”

He ought to have been all the more determined because she wanted it so
much. This was a lesson which his daughters Jean and Grace could both
have taught him; but an old man with a young girl is proverbially weak.
It just crossed his mind, though, that he ought to write to Jean and
Grace, and invite them to hasten their usual visit. On the whole, they
would take more trouble about his little Peggy than Ludovic could, to
whom the old house would go. Sir Ludovic had no particular feeling one
way or another about these middle-aged people. They were people whom he
knew very well, of course, belonging to the family; but there was no
special sympathy between them and himself. Ludovic had a large family,
and “a good deal to do.” It was all he could manage to make his ends
meet, to keep up his position, to do the best he could for his own
children. And Jean and Grace would be very fussy, they would worry his
little girl out of her life; but still they would be kind to her, too
kind--no more of her own way for poor little Peggy. He could not but
smile as this aspect of the future rose before him; they would watch
her so that she would be unable to put in a pin that they did not know
of. And perhaps, in a way, it would be better for her; perhaps she
had done too much as seemed right in her own eyes. This Rob Glen, for
instance-- Sir Ludovic was by no means sure that he was doing exactly as
was right about Rob Glen. He would see to it, he would speak to Bell
about it; and with this he floated away again on his own vague stream
of thought, which was not thought.

Margaret came in, however, late in the afternoon, all aglow with
enthusiasm and delight. “Oh, papa!” she cried, “it will make the most
beautiful picture; he has taken it from the east, where you can see
the house best, how it is built. I never knew it was so fine before.
The tower all round, with that great ivy-tree, and then the side of
the house all in shade with the big windows that are shut up, the
windows there, you know, papa, that would look out upon the court if
you could see through them; and then the gable, and the round turret
with the stair in it, and all the little openings. But the sun would
not stay in one place,” said Margaret, laughing; “first it sent the
shadows one way and then another, and gave Mr. Glen a great deal of
trouble. I understand now about shadows,” she added, with a serious air
of importance. Sir Ludovic had been getting drowsy again. Her coming
woke him entirely, with a little pleased sensation of liveliness which
roused his spirits.

“Have you been about your picture all this time?” he said.

“Yes, papa, out there among the potatoes. You could have seen us from
the east window if you had liked to look. And Bell gave us ‘a piece’ at
one o’clock, just as she used to do when I was little. Often she would
give Rob a piece too-- I mean Mr. Glen,” said Margaret, blushing wildly;
“I forgot he was not a boy now.”

“My little Peggy,” said Sir Ludovic, looking grave, “there are some
things which you ought to be very careful not to forget.”

“I did not mean to be rude, papa,” said Margaret, half alarmed; “indeed
it was not that: I don’t think I ever could be rude and hurt people’s
feelings; indeed he said it himself; he said to Bell, ‘You often gave
me my lunch when I was a boy,’ and she said, ‘Ay, Rob Glen, many’s the
piece I’ve given you.’ I was rather shocked to hear her,” Margaret
acknowledged, “but he only laughed, he was not offended; and so--”

“And so you did the same? that was not like my little girl,” said
Sir Ludovic; “whatever happens, you must always be civil. So it is a
beautiful picture, is it--as good a picture of the old house as of the
old man it belongs to? Two old things, my Peggy, that you will miss,
that you will like to have pictures of when you go away.”

“Papa!”--Margaret looked at him with suddenly dilated eyes--“I am not
going away.”

“Not till I go first,” he said, with a sigh and a smile. “But that
will not be long, that will come sometime; and then, my little Peggy,
then--why, you must go too.”

Margaret came behind his chair and put her arm round him, and laid down
her head on his shoulder. The old man could have cried too. He too was
sorry for what was going to happen--very sorry; but he could not help
it. He patted the arm that had been thrown round him. “Poor little
Peggy, you will miss the old man and the old house. It is well you
should have pictures of them,” he said.

“I want no pictures now,” cried Margaret, weeping. “Oh, are you
ill--are you ill, papa?”

“No, I am just as usual. Don’t cry, my little girl. Whisht, now whisht,
you must not cry; I did not mean to vex you. But we must not have too
much of Rob Glen or Mr. Glen, whichever is his name. It might be bad
for him, my darling, as well as for you.”

“I don’t care anything about _him_ or _them_, or anything,” cried Margaret;
“all the pleasure is gone out of it. Will I send for the doctor? will I
cry upon Bell? You must be feeling ill, papa.”

“_Will_ you speak decent English?” said her father, with a smile;
her anxiety somehow restored himself to himself. “Cry upon Bell! what
does that mean, my little Peggy? You are too Fifish; you will not find
anything like that in books, not in Shakspeare, or in--”

“It is in the Bible, papa,” said Margaret, roused to a little
irritation in the midst of her emotion. “I am quite sure it is in the
Bible; and is not that the best rule.”

Sir Ludovic was a little puzzled. “Oh yes, certainly the best rule for
everything, my little girl; but the language, the English is perhaps a
little old-fashioned, a little out of use, a little--”

“Papa! is it not the Word of God?”

Sir Ludovic laughed in spite of himself.

“It was not first delivered in English, you know. It was not written
here; but still there is something to be said for your view. Now, my
Peggy, run away.”

But when she left him reluctantly, unwinding her arms from his
shoulders slowly, looking at him anxiously, with a new awakening of
feeling in her anxiety and terror, Sir Ludovic shook his head, looking
after her. He was not capable of crossing his little girl; but he
had his doubts that her position was dangerous, though she was far
too innocent to know it. Unless what he had said were to disgust her
altogether, how could he interfere to prevent the execution of this
picture which it would be so pleasant for her to have afterward?
“Decidedly,” he said to himself--“decidedly! I must write to Jean and
Grace.”




CHAPTER XIV.


As there was, however, no more said on this subject, and Sir Ludovic
was--probably having shaken off something of the heaviness of his
mind by putting it in words--as gay as usual at dinner and during the
evening, the impression on Margaret’s mind wore off. She had been very
unhappy for half an hour or so, then less wretched, then not wretched
at all; deciding that it was nothing particular, that it was only some
passing cloud or other, or a letter from her brother, or something
which had vexed him about “business,” that grand, mysterious source of
trouble. Instead of going out that evening, she went down-stairs to
where Bell sat in her chair “outside the door,” breathing the quiet of
the evening. Bell was full of the excitement of “the view.” “It will
be equal to ony picture in a museeum,” said Bell. “To think a creature
like _that_, that I mind just a little callant about the doors,
should have such a power.” Margaret, however, did not respond at first.
Her mind was still occupied with her father, notwithstanding that his
demeanor since had wiped much of the alarming impression away.

“Do you think papa is quite well?” she said. “Bell, will you tell me
true? Do you think anything is the matter with papa?”

“The matter with your papa? is he complaining?” said Bell, hastily
rising from her chair. “Na, no me, I’ve heard nothing; that’s just the
way in this world, the one that ought to ken never kens. Miss Margret,
what ails your papa?”

“It was me that was asking you, Bell: it was not him that complained;
he spoke of--going away: that some day I would leave Earl’s-hall, and
some day he--would be gone,” said Margaret, faltering, large tears
coming to her eyes.

“Was that a’?” said Bell, sitting down again on her chair. “Dyin’ is a
thing we a’ think of whiles. Sir Ludovic is just in his ordinary so far
as I ken, just as particular about his dinner. No, no, my bonnie dear,
you need not fash yoursel’ about what the like of us old folk says. We
say whiles mair than we mean; and other times it will come to us to
think without any particular occasion (as we aye ought to be thinking)
of our latter end.”

“Would that be all, Bell?”

“That would just be all. I havena heard a word of ony complaints. He
takes his meals aye in a way that’s maist satisfactory, and John he
would be the first to see if onything was wrang. Na, na, my bonnie doo,
you need not fash your head about Sir Ludovic. He’s hale and strong for
his age, and runs nae risks: and the Leslies are long-living folk. We
mustna count upon that for ourselves,” said Bell, seriously. “I would
not say sae to him; for to think of our latter end is what we should a’
be doing, even the like of yoursel’, young and bonnie, far mair auld
folk; but auld Sir Paitrick lived to be ninety. I mind him as weel as
I mind my ain faither; and every Sabbath in the kirk, rain or shine, a
grand-looking auld man with an ee like a hawk. Na, na, my bonnie dear,
troubles aye sune enough when it comes; we needna gang out to look for
it; but wait till it chaps at the ha’ door.”

This gave Margaret great comfort; the tension of her mind relaxed,
and even before Bell had done speaking her young mistress had done
thinking. She went back with a bound to the more agreeable subject.
“You are to be sitting here, Bell,” she said, “just here, when the
picture is done.”

“Bless my heart!” said Bell; the change was so sudden that she scarcely
could follow it; “the picture? I thought you had forgotten all about
the picture; but, Miss Margret, what would ye hae an auld wife for,
sitting here on her auld chair? Something young and bonnie, like
yoursel’ now--or even Jeanie--would be mair to the purpose in a picture
than an auld wife like me.”

“But it is you I want,” said Margaret, with pretty obstinacy. “What
should I care about myself? And Jeanie is very good, but not like you.
It must be you, Bell, or nobody. It would not be natural not to see you
with your stocking outside the door.”

“Weel, weel!” said Bell, with the air of yielding, half against her
will, “you were aye a wilfu’ miss, and would have your way, and few,
few have ever crossed you. If a’ your life be like the past, and ye win
to heaven at the end, ye may say you were never out of it; for you’ve
aye had your ain way.”

“Do they get their own way in heaven?” said Margaret, half laughing;
“but I wish you would not speak of the past like that, and my life.
Nothing’s past. It has always been just as it is now. Papa is only
seventy-five--that makes fifteen years before he can be as old as
grandpapa; and by that time I will be old myself. Why should there be
any change? I like things to be as they are: you at the door, and John
taking a look at the potatoes, and papa reading in the long room. And
the summer nights so long, so long, as if they would never end.”

“But this ane is ending, and you must go to your bed,” said Bell. “The
dew’s no so heavy to-night after the rain; but it’s time to go inbye
and go to all our beds; it’s near upon ten o’clock.”

Margaret lingered to look at the soft brightness of the skies, those
skies which never seemed to darken. And now that her mind was relieved,
there was something else she wished to look at and pass a final
judgment upon. Though it was ten o’clock and bedtime, she could still
see all there was to see in the little sketch-book which Rob had given
her to draw in. She had made a few scratches in the intervals of her
careful attendance upon the chief artist; and Rob had looked with
satisfaction upon these scraps, and said that this was good and that
better. Margaret, for her part, surveyed them now with mingled hope
and shame. They were not like the picture at all, though they were
intended to represent the same thing; but perhaps if she worked very
hard, if she gave her mind to it! Bell did not think very much of them,
as she came and looked over the young lady’s shoulder. She shook her
head. “He’s a clever lad, yon,” said old Bell, “but I wish he could
learn you the piany instead of drawing pictures. I canna think but you
would come more speed.” Margaret shut up her book hastily, with some
petulance, not liking the criticism, and this time she did not resist
the repeated call to go “inbye.” She could not but feel that a great
deal was wanting before she could draw like Rob; but as for the piano
which Bell brought up upon all occasions, what could Margaret do? She
had tried to puzzle out “a tune” upon the old spinnet in the high room
with indifferent success, and this had given Bell real pleasure. But
then that was apt to disturb papa; whereas these scratches of uneven
lines in the sketch-book disturbed nothing except her own self-esteem
and ease of mind.

Margaret said nothing about it next morning, learning prudence by dint
of experience, but was out among the potatoes arranging the artist’s
seat, and the little table to hold all his requirements, and the water
for his colors, in readiness for his appearance. The whole house
indeed, except Sir Ludovic among his books, who had fallen back into
his ordinary calm, externally at least, and asked no questions, was in
agitation about this picture. Jeanie, poor girl, kept in the background
altogether. She would not even come to look at the picture, though Bell
adjured her to do so.

“What makes you blate, you silly thing?” Bell said. “It’s no a
gentleman; it’s naebody but Rob Glen, Mrs. Glen’s son, at Earl’s-lee--a
neebor lad, so to speak. You must have been at the school with him.
Gang forward and see what’s doing, like the rest.” But nothing would
make Jeanie gang forward. She felt sure by this time that he did
not know she was here, and had begun to think that there was some
mistake, and that perhaps he was not to blame. It wrung her heart a
little, peeping from her turret-window, to see Miss Margaret hovering
about him, looking over his shoulder, waiting on him, a more graceful
handmaid than Jeanie; but at the same time a little forlorn pride was
in her mind. Miss Margaret understood about his painting, no doubt,
and could talk about things that were above her own range; but it
was not in that stiff polite way that Rob would have conducted his
intercourse with Jeanie. She watched them, herself unseen, with pain,
yet with consolation. Not like that; not with so many commonplace
witnesses--Bell lingering about looking on, even old John marching
heavily across the lines of potatoes to take a look--would Rob have
been content to pass the hours if she had been by, instead of Margaret.
But it was well for Rob to have such grand friends. She would not put
herself in the way to shame him or make him uncomfortable. Jeanie went
to her work magnanimously, and with a lightened heart. She would not
even sing as she put the rooms in order, lest her voice should reach
him through the open window, and he should ask who it was. She hid
herself in the depths of the old house that he might not see her; but
yet his presence made a difference in the atmosphere. She could not
blame him now that she had seen him. And she had waited long already,
and had not lost heart. After all, Jeanie reflected, nothing was
changed; and insensibly a little confidence and hope came back to her;
for it was very evident, for one thing, that he did not know she was
here.

As for Margaret, she was very happy in the fresh exhilaration of
the morning air, in the excitement of what was going on, and in the
society of her new friend. Nobody had so much amused her, occupied
her, filled her mind with novel thoughts as Rob Glen. To watch him as
he worked was an unceasing delight. He had chosen his place on the
edge of the little belt of wood which encircled Earl’s-hall. Had the
Leslies been well-to-do this would have been a mere flower-garden for
beauty and pleasure; but as the Leslies were poor, it was potatoes,
a more profitable if less lovely crop. The fir-trees, of which the
wood was chiefly composed--for that corner of Fife is not favorable
to foliage--sheltered them from the sun, which streamed full upon the
old house, with all its picturesque irregularities. The little court,
with its well and its old thorn-tree, which lay so deep in shadow in
the evening, was now full of light. The door standing open let in a
mass of sunshine into the little vaulted passage which led to the
lower story, and touched the winding stair with an edge of whiteness;
and the huge old “ivy-tree,” as Margaret called it, the branches of
which, against the wall which shut in the court on the west side, were
like architecture, great ribs of wood, dark, mossy, and ancient, as
if they had been carved out of stone--shone and glowed, and sent back
reflections from the heavy masses of blunt-leaved foliage, which clad
the tower completely from head to foot. Bell’s chair was placed in
front of this open door to show where the figure was to be.

“But to pit me there in the forenoon with the sun in my een, and a’
the work of the house lyin’ neglectit!” said Bell. “Well, I wat you’ll
never see me sae.”

“It might be Sunday,” suggested Rob, “the day of rest.”

“The Sabbath’s more than a day of rest,” said Bell, reprovingly. “In
the morning all right-minded folk are at the kirk, the only place for
them; and to gie a stranger to suppose that me, I was letting ony idle
lad draw my picture on the Lord’s-day!”

“Bell, Bell!” cried Margaret, horrified.

But Rob could afford to laugh.

“Never mind,” he said; “I am not offended. Bell can call me an idle lad
if she likes--so does my mother, for that matter. She thinks I might as
well swing on a gate all day, as do what I am doing now.”

“Poor body!” said Bell, with a deep sigh of sympathy. “I feel for her
with a’ my heart. But you’ll be wanting a piece,” she added, turning
to go in, “and, Miss Margret, there’s a cold air about. If I was you I
would slip on a bit of a jacket or something. The earth’s damp amang
the pitawties. I’ll send you out your piece.”

“I feel as if I were a boy again, fishing in the burn, when Bell speaks
of a piece,” said Rob, in an undertone.

“I hope you are not angry,” said Margaret, humbly. “Bell always says
whatever she pleases. She does not stand in awe of anybody--even my
sister Jean, who is a grand lady--at least, I am sure she thinks she is
very grand; but Bell never minds. You must not be angry, Mr. Glen.”

“Angry! I am pleased. I like to feel myself a boy again; then too,
if you will recollect, I had a beautiful little lady beside me, Miss
Margaret, who would hold the rod sometimes and watch for a nibble.”

“Don’t call me _that_” said Margaret, with momentary gravity.
“Yes--a funny little girl in a sun-bonnet. How glad I used to be when
you caught anything! It was not very often, Mr. Glen.”

“Not at all often, Miss Margaret; and sometimes you would take off
your little shoes, and dabble your little white feet in the water--how
white they were! I remember thinking the fishes would bite just to get
nearer, just to have a sight of them.”

“Indeed the fishes were not so silly,” cried the girl, blushing, and
half affronted, but too shy to venture on showing her offence. In such
matters as this Rob’s gentleman-breeding failed him. He did not know
in what he had gone wrong. “The sun is changing already,” she said,
hurriedly; “have you got your shadows right, Mr. Glen? I think you will
soon want the umbrella.”

“Not yet,” he said; “I can work for another hour; but here is old John
interfering with my foreground. Is this the ‘piece?’ It is not so
simple as that you used to share with me on the burn-side.”

“It is a picnic,” said Margaret, with a little awe, as John appeared,
slowly progressing among the potatoes, with a white-covered tray.
John’s approach was a solemnity under any circumstances, but across the
long lines of potatoes it was still more imposing.

“You’re to pit that on, Miss Margaret,” he said, after he had set down
his burden, with a sigh of relief, handing to her the little gray
jacket which he carried over his arm.

“But it is not cold. I don’t want it, the sun is shining; and, John,
will you bring the big umbrella, the great big one with the heavy
handle, to shelter Mr. Glen?”

“She said you were to pit it on. I maun finish one errant afore I begin
anither,” said the old man. “She said there was a cauld air, and that
you were to pit it on.”

“I will when I am cold. Oh, tell Bell she has sent us a great deal too
much. Chicken and cake, and white bread and cheese--and jam!” The last
pleased the critic, and subdued her remonstrance. “But it is too much.
I would like a little milk instead of the wine.”

“She said the wine was better for ye,” said the old man; “and she said
you were to pit _that_ on.”

“Oh, John! you are worse, you are a great deal worse than Bell is. You
never will hear any reason. She, if one speaks to her, one can make
her see what is sense,” cried Margaret, half crying; “but you, you are
a great deal worse--you are tyrannical!”

“I am doing what I’m bid,” said John. “It’s no me. Do I ken when
you should pit on your jaicket and when you should pit it off? But
_she_ said you were to pit that on.”

“And Bell is a very sensible woman,” said Rob. “It is cold this morning
after the rain; and, John, I hope you will tell her that her provision
is noble. I never saw such a ‘piece’ before.”

John made no reply. He gave a glance of surly disdain at the
interloper. What had Rob Glen to do here, beside “our young leddy?”
“And me to wait upon him--set him up!” the old man grumbled to himself
as he went back grimly to the house, having seen one, at least, of his
orders fulfilled. There were points upon which John was proud to think
he himself was “maister and mair;” but on ordinary domestic occasions
he was content to accept the _rôle_ of executor, and see that his
wife’s behests were carried out.

Margaret, in her gray jacket (which was not unacceptable, after all),
went away from Rob’s side and opened her sketch-book. She did not
choose to be laughed at, which she felt to be possible, and it was time
for her to try that gable again, which had eluded her so often. To
jump at the outline of a rugged Scotch gable, after having proved your
incapacity to draw a straight line, was, perhaps, a bold proceeding;
and there was a perplexing little round of masonry penetrated by
slits of little windows, and giving light, as Margaret knew, to the
second little spiral staircase, the one at the east end of the house,
which tried her ignorance dreadfully, but which she returned to
notwithstanding, again and again. Margaret was gazing up against the
sky, intently studying this, when her eyes were caught by a face at the
high window looking down as intently upon the group in the sunshine.

“Ah, Jeanie!” she said, with a nod and a smile; but Jeanie took no
notice of the little salutation.

“Did you speak, Miss Margaret?” said Rob Glen, busy over his drawing,
and not looking up.

“I was only nodding to Jeanie,” said the girl.

Jeanie! Rob did not budge. It was the commonest of names; there was
nothing in it to rouse his special attention. And even if he had
known that it was the one Jeanie with whom he had some concern, would
that have made any difference? He worked on quite calmly. But Jeanie
withdrew in haste, with a pang for which she could not account. She
had seen and heard, by the sound of the voices, that something was
said between them; but Rob never looked up to see who it was of whom
Miss Margaret spoke. When Jeanie came back to peep again, they were
sitting together at the little luncheon Bell had sent them, with much
talking and soft laughter, sharing the same meal, and reminding each
of humbler picnic meals eaten together in other years. As they grew
more at ease with each other, the doubtful taste of Rob’s compliments
ceased to offend Margaret; or perhaps in the greater intimacy of
this odd conjunction, so absolutely free, yet so entirely under
restraint, public to all the watchful eyes that guarded her, there was
something that made him avoid compliments. There is always much that
is suggestive in a meal thus shared by two, with no intrusive third to
break its completeness. A certain romance infolds the laughing pair;
the very matter-of-fact character of the conjunction, the domesticity,
the homeliness, increase their sense of union. It suggests everything
that is in life. The boy and girl over their “piece,” the youth and
the maiden over their impromptu repast: what was it but playing at
honey-mooning, a pleasant mockery, or essay at, or caricature of, the
most serious conjunction? Even Margaret felt a certain half delightful
shyness of her companion in this odd union, free as her mind was of
all embarrassing thoughts; and as for Rob, the suggestion gave him a
thrill of pride and pleasure not to be put into words. Jeanie stole to
the window to look at them again, while they were thus engaged, and the
sight went to her heart.

“If I were you, I wouldna let them bide ower lang philandering, they
twa,” said John. “I’m no that sure that I would have left them there
ava’. Like twa young marrit folk, the ane forenenst the ither--”

“Haud your tongue, you ill-thinking man!” cried Bell, with a
half-shriek. “How dare ye! But be a lassie the maist innocent that
ever was born, ye’ll aye put it upon her that she kens as muckle as
yoursel’.”

“It’s no what she kens I’m thinking o’: it’s a’ instinck,” said John.
“A lad and a lass--they’re drawn to ane anither; it’s nature. I wish it
was a gentleman that had come this gate instead o’ that laud. Plenty
gentlemen waste their time drawing pictures. There’s Sir Claude; he’s
auld and a married man? I kent you would say that. Was I meaning Sir
Claude? but he aye has his house fu’ o’ his ain kind; or even if it
had been Randal Burnside--yon’s a lad that will rise in the world; but
whatever evil spirit sent us Rob Glen--”

“John, my man, you’re no an ill man, and if you’ll haud to the things
ye understand--”

“I wuss there was one of ye a’ that understood that poor bairn’s
living, and what’s to come o’ her,” said John. “Sir Ludovic, he’s no
lang for this world.”

“He’s just in his ordinar, and his faither lived to ninety.”

“He’s no just in his ordinar. I havena likit the looks of him this
month past; and now he sees it himsel’.”

“Lord bless us, man!” cried Bell, in alarm; “and ye never said a word
to me!”

“What good would that have done if I had said a word to ye? You canna
keep out Death. If he’s coming, he’ll come, and no be hindered by you
or me. But now he’s found it out himsel’. Will I tell ye what he said
to me no an hour ago? But I’ll not tell you; maybe ye would think it
was just naething, and pit your jokes on me.”

“You may do just what you like,” said Bell: “speak or no speak, he
seems just in his ordinar to me.”

“Is this like his ordinar?” says John, indignantly. “He says to me no
an hour ago, ‘Are the horses busy, John?’ he said; and I says (for it
doesna do to let on when wark’s slack; you never ken what folk may take
into their head), ‘Oh ay, Sir Ludovic,’ I says, ‘they’re aye busy.’
‘Could we have them for the carriage on Sunday?’ he says. ‘Weel, Sir
Ludovic,’ says I, ‘it might be sae; but what would it be for? Miss
Margret, she aye walks, and wouldna thank ye for ony carriage; and
the ither leddies, they’re no here.’ Then he strikes his stick on the
floor. ‘Can I have the carriage on Sunday?’ he cries, him that’s aye
so quiet. Aweel! that’s a’; and if that doesna prove that he’s been
turning many a thing ower in his mind.”

“Was it to gang to the kirk?” said Bell, somewhat struck by awe; “he
hasna been at the kirk this year or more.”

“I tellt ye sae,” said John; “and Sir Ludovic, he’s no man to make a
careless end. He’ll do all decently and in order. He’ll no let the
minister think he’s neglectit. Ye’ll give me out my best claes, as if
it was a funeral. I ken what he means, if naebody else does; and syne
what is to become of that bairn?”

“Oh, man, haud your tongue, haud your tongue,” cried Bell. “Sir
Ludovic! that has aye been so steady and so weel in health. I canna
credit what you say. Your best claes! Put on your bonnet, mair like,
and gang and bid the doctor come this way, canny, the morn’s morning,
without saying a word to anybody. That’s the thing for you to do. And
now I’ll send that laud away,” she added, briskly. This was a little
outlet to her feelings; and to do Bell justice, she was glad to have a
moment alone after hearing this alarming news.




CHAPTER XV.


The doctor came, very careful to explain that he had come to call
out of friendship only, because it was so long since he had seen Sir
Ludovic. But he could perceive nothing to justify John’s alarm. Sir
Ludovic was glad to see the neighbor who was more intelligent than most
of his neighbors, and with whom he could have a little talk. The doctor
was a plain man of homely Scotch manners and speech; but he knew all
about the county and everybody in it, and was not unacquainted with
books. Sir Ludovic, who was glad to be delivered from himself, and who
found it easier to escape from the prospect which oppressed him, by
means of society than in any other way, detained the doctor as long as
he could, and listened with much more patience than usual to the gossip
of the parish, and smiled at the jokes which Dr. Hume carried about
from patient to patient to “give the poor bodies a laugh,” he said.

“Come back again soon,” the old man said, accompanying his visitor to
the door. The doctor was pleased, for he had seen Sir Ludovic much less
complaisant. He stepped into the vaulted kitchen before he left the
house, to tell Bell what he thought.

“I see no difference in him,” said Dr. Hume; “he’s an old man. We are
none of us so young as we once were, Bell; and an old man cannot live
forever. He’s bound to get an attack of bronchitis or something else
before long, and to slip through our fingers. But I see nothing to be
alarmed at to-day. There’s a little bit of a vacant look in his eyes;
but, Lord bless us! many of us have that all our lives, and never die a
day the sooner. He tells me the ladies are expected--”

“Na, but that’s news, doctor!” said Bell; “the ladies! it’s no their
time for three months yet, the Lord be thanked, and I’ve never heard a
word.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “now you’re warned, and you can take your
measures accordingly. He certainly said they were coming. They’re
no the wisest women on the face of the earth; but still, if you are
anxious, it would be a comfort, do you not think so, to have some of
the family in the house?”

“Ye dinna ken our ladies, doctor--ye dinna ken our ladies,” said Bell.

“Atweel, I ken a heap of ladies,” said the doctor, with a laugh.
He liked a joke at women when it was to be heard. “One’s very like
another; but if it was only for his little Peggy, as he calls her, I
should think he would be glad to have his daughters here.”

“He’s no a bit glad, no more nor the rest of us--nor Miss Margaret
either,” said Bell; and it was with a clouded countenance that she saw
the doctor mount his horse at the door of the court. And when John came
in to ask what Dr. Hume thought, she gave him an answer which was full
of sorrowful impatience. “He said nothing it was any pleasure to hear,”
said Bell, and it was only later that she unbosomed herself of her
vexation. “He says there’s nothing wrong; and syne he goes away telling
me that the ladies are coming, and that it will be a comfort to have
some of the family in the house. That means that a’s wrong, so far as
I’m equal to judging. Sir Ludovic in his bed wi’ a long illness and the
ladies here!”

Bell flung up her hands with a groan; the very idea was too much for
her; but John was obstinate in his preconceived certainty.

“Na,” he said, “Sir Ludovic will no have a long illness. He’ll just
fail, just in a moment; that’s what he’ll do. If I dinna ken him better
than a dizzen doctors, it would be a wonder--me that have been his
body-servant these twenty years.”

“I maun gang up the stair and see for mysel’” said Bell. She tied
on her clean apron with decision, and could not quite banish from
her countenance the look of a person who would stand no nonsense,
who was not to be taken in--but whose inspection would be final. And
Sir Ludovic was pleased to see Bell too. He was not annoyed to be
disturbed. He turned toward her with a vague smile, and gave his book a
scarcely perceptible push away from him. This little action made Bell’s
heart sink, as she confessed afterward. She would much rather have
seen him impatient, and been requested to cut her errand short. On the
contrary, her master was not displeased to talk. He let her tell him
about the drawing which was still going on, and her own wonder that one
who had been the other day “a callant about the doors” should possess
such a wonderful gift.

“Callants about the doors are very apt to surprise us as they grow up,”
Sir Ludovic said, “and Rob Glen is certainly clever; but you must not
let him lose his time here. It is certain that I cannot afford to buy
his picture, Bell.”

“But maybe the ladies would do it, Sir Ludovic,” said Bell, seeing
an opening; “maybe the ladies would like a picture of the auld
house--though me at the door (as Miss Margret will have me) would be
a drawback. I hear from the doctor, Sir Ludovic, that you’re expecting
the ladies? I didna think it was near their time.”

“To be sure,” said Sir Ludovic, “I wrote, but the letter has never been
posted. If you had not spoken I should have forgotten all about it.
Bell, I thought they might come a little sooner.”

“It’s very true,” said Bell, with a grave countenance, “that it’s
bonnie weather; and when they were here last, in September, we had
nothing but wind and rain; but for a’ that, when ladies have made their
plans, it’s a great deal of trouble to change them, and it’s aye in
September they come. Do you no think, Sir Ludovic, they would like it
better if you let them come at their ain time?”

“Do you suppose they would think it a trouble, Bell?” Sir Ludovic had
written his letter as a matter of duty for his little Peggy’s sake; but
he was not disinclined to get out of it, to allow a feasible reason for
not sending it, if such a one should present itself; for he did not
anticipate the arrival of his daughters with any pleasure.

“Weel, Sir Ludovic, you see they’ve all their plans made. They’re awfu’
leddies for plans. You ken yoursel’ it’s a’ laid out every day what
they’re to do; and Mrs. Bellingham, she canna bide being put out o’ her
way.”

“That’s true, Bell, that’s very true,” said Sir Ludovic, suddenly
remembering how his eldest daughter received any interference with her
projects. “I am very glad you reminded me,” said the old man; “after
all, perhaps, I had better let things take their course. I thought it
might be better, whatever happened, to have them here; but, as you say,
Jean does not like any interference with-- I think I will keep my letter
to myself, after all.”

“And nothing’s going to happen that I ken of, Sir Ludovic. We are all
in our ordinar.”

“That is very true, too,” he said, with a smile; “and now you can go
away and tell John to bring me my wine and my biscuit. The doctor and
you together have wasted my morning.” He drew his book toward him again
as he dismissed her. This was the only “good sign” that Bell saw in
her master; and her face was so grave when she went down-stairs that
John paused in his preparation for his master’s simple luncheon with a
sombre triumph.

“Aweel? You’ll not tell me I’m an auld fule again,” John said.

“Then I’ll tell you you’re an auld raven, a prophet o’ evil,” said
his wife, with vehemence. “Gang up the stairs this moment and gie the
maister his drop o’ wine; he’s crying for that and his biscuit, and
there he might sit, and you never take the trouble to gang near him. Oh
ay!” said Bell, dreamily--“oh ay! The bairn divined it, and the auld
man saw it, and the doctor sees it too, though he winna say sae; and
Bell’s the last to ken! In our ordinar, just in our ordinar! but them
that has een can see the end.”

However, though this foreboding gathered force by the adhesion of one
after another, it was not as yet any more than a foreboding, and the
days went on very quietly without any new event. The next Sunday, on
which Sir Ludovic had intended to go to church, was very wet, and
it was not until a fortnight after his first announcement of his
intention, that the old carriage was at last got out, and the horses,
which had been making themselves useful in the farm, harnessed. They
were not a very splendid or high-spirited pair, as may be conceived,
but they answered the purpose well enough. It was a true summer Sunday,
the sunshine more warm, the air more still, than on any other day. The
roses were fading off the hedge-rows, the green corn was beginning
to wave and rustle in the fields; the country groups that came from
afar on every visible road, not all to the kirk on the hill (for there
was a Free Church in the “laigh toun,” not to speak of “the chapel,”
which was Baptist, and had a dozen members, like the Apostles), were
sprinkled with light dresses in honor of the season, and all was still
in the villages save for this gathering and animated crowd. The big
old coach, with its old occupant, called forth much excitement in the
Kirkton. Carriages and fine people had failed to the parish church.

Perhaps it is one of the penalties which Scotland has paid for being
no longer unanimous, and dividing herself into different camps, that
her gentry should have deserted that old centre of local life, and left
the National Church which has played so large a part in Scotch history.
It is one of the least sensible as well as the least lovely features
of modern Scotland. Of all the squires in this division of Fife, not
one but old Sir Ludovic united in the national worship. The others
drove miles away to the “English Chapel” at the county town, which was
gay with their carriages and finery, like the corresponding “English
Chapel” in Florence or Rome; very like it, indeed, in more ways than
it is necessary to mention. Gentility poured thither, even the rich
shopkeepers, or at least the manufacturers of the second generation;
for to belong to the English Church gave a kind of brevet rank. Sir
Ludovic, perhaps, was too indifferent to change his ways in his old
age; and then neither he nor the world required any outward proof that
he was a very superior person. Why it was that he had set his mind on
going to church at all after this long gap in his attendance it would
be hard to tell. He could not have told himself. It was like a last
visit to court, a last parade to an old soldier, a thing to be done as
long as he could calculate upon his time, before the days had arrived,
which he could see advancing, when he would no longer have command of
his own movements.

Sir Ludovic felt a sensation of relief when he had fairly set out.
Of this thing, then, which he had determined to do, he was not to be
balked. He was to have power and time to accomplish this last duty. The
burial-place of the Leslies was close to the east end of the church,
the head of the vault touching the old chancel, a relic of the times
when to be near that sacred spot in the morning quarter, “toward the
sunrising,” was to be doubly safe. Here Sir Ludovic stood for a moment,
looking less at the familiar grave than at the still more familiar
landscape, the low hills round the horizon on three sides, the glimmer
of the sea that filled up the circle, the broad amphitheatre of fertile
fields that swept around. He did not care to turn from that wide and
liberal prospect, all sweet with summer air and warm with sunshine,
to the heavy mass of stone that shut in the remains of his kindred. He
gave one glance at it only, as he walked past, though it was that spot
he had chosen to view the landscape from. A faint smile came upon his
face as he looked at it. There was his place waiting and ready, and
soon to be filled. He asked himself, with a little thrill of strange
sensation, whether he would feel the breezes, such as were always rife
in Stratheden, or have any consciousness of the landscape, when he lay
there, as, by-and-by, he should be lying. He walked very steadily, yet
with a nervous tremor, of which he himself was conscious, if nobody
else, and kept his hand upon Margaret’s shoulder, scarcely to support
him--that was not necessary--but yet to give him a little prop. Some of
the people, the elders and the farmers who felt themselves sufficiently
important, threw themselves in his way, and took off their hats with
kindly respect.

“I’m real glad to see you out, Sir Ludovic,” and, “I hope you’re well
this fine morning, Sir Ludovic,” they said. The old man took off his
hat and made them all a sweeping bow.

“Good-morning to you all, my friends,” he said, and, with a little
additional tremor, hurried into church, to be safe from all these
greetings. The church, as we have already said, was a monstrous
compound, such as perhaps only Scotland could produce nowadays. The
old door opened into a noble but gloomy old Norman church, very small,
but lofty and symmetrical, in the corners of which some old monuments,
brass denuded of their metal (if that is not a bull), rude in Northern
art, but ancient, and looking, by dint of their imperfections, more
ancient than they were--were piled together. In the little round
basement of the tower, where there had been a tiny chapel behind the
altar in the old days, a man in his shirt-sleeves stood pulling the
rope, which moved a cracked and jingling bell; and the vast chancel
arch opposite was blocked up with a wooden partition, through which,
by means of a little door, you entered the new painted and varnished
pews of the modern building, which Sir Claude Morton had built for the
parish. The parish was quite contented, be it allowed, and Sir Claude
went to the English Chapel, and did not have his sins brought home to
him every Sunday; and among the higher classes you may be sure that it
was the old Reformers and John Knox who were supposed to be in fault,
and not an enlightened connoisseur like Sir Claude, who did so much
for the art-instruction of the world away from home. Sir Claude was
the chief “heritor” of the parish, for the lands of the Leslies had
dwindled almost to nothing.

We will not affirm that Sir Ludovic would have done much better, but
then, at least, he was not a connoisseur. He, for his part, made no
reflections upon this as he went in, and placed himself in the great
square pew, the only one of the kind in the new church, all lined with
red cloth, and filled with chairs instead of benches, which marked his
own importance in the parish. He thought of the difference between the
old and the new without troubling himself about art, and with a little
shiver acknowledged that the light and air and brightness of the wooden
barn were more comfortable than the stately grace and dampness of the
old building, which was, like himself, chilled and colorless with age.
But how many generations of old men like himself had passed under the
great gray arch that “swore,” as the French say, at the vulgar new
walls! A lifetime of threescore and fifteen years was as nothing in the
history of that ancient place. And there it would stand for generations
more, watching them come and go-- It, and he with it, lying so close
under the old stones. Would it be anything to Ludovic Leslie, once
placed there, who came and who might go? This thought gave him, as it
always did, a kind of vertigo and swimming of the brain. To fancy one’s
self--_one’s self_, not another, as insensible to everything in
life--

    “Whirled round in earth’s diurnal course,
     With rocks, and stories, and trees.”

Is that possible? Sir Ludovic tried, but could not do it. It made his
head swim round and round.

All the time the people were taking their places, clattering in with
much noise, and perhaps not much reverence. Ordinarily they waited
about, the men at least, until the bell stopped and the hour had
struck. But perhaps out of respect to old Sir Ludovic, who had not
been there for so long, and who might never--who could tell?--be there
again, for he was an old man, they came in after him, making a great
noise, shutting and fastening after them the doors of their pews. And
then Dr. Burnside walked into the pulpit, solemnly preceded by the
beadle with the big Bible, and the service began. Neither Sir Ludovic
nor his daughter paid any attention to the fact that the singing of
the old metrical psalms was very rough and tuneless. Margaret did not
know much better, having had no training, and heard no music; and Sir
Ludovic, it must be confessed, was full of his own thoughts, and paid
but little attention. He was scarcely caught even by the words of
that Psalm, known from their cradles to all Scots, which Dr. Burnside
hastily, and with some perturbation, on hearing of Sir Ludovic’s
presence, had changed for the one before chosen.

Dr. Burnside had not had it in his power for a long time now to set
Sir Ludovic’s duty before him. And when his wife brought him the news
that the old carriage from Earl’s-hall had passed, with the Leslies in
it, the minister had a moment of great excitement. His sermon had not
been at all adapted for such an occasion, but had been addressed very
generally to the parish world about its commonplace sins of gossip
and fibbing, and such-like. Dr. Burnside ran to his writing-table and
hastily chose a sermon of a different complexion. He had preached it
before, but he had a great and consoling consciousness that nobody
paid much attention, and certainly Sir Ludovic had never heard it. It
was about the conclusion of life. He did not think of it as touching
himself, and never had known the tremulous attempt to realize that
conclusion which made Sir Ludovic’s head turn round; but he knew that
an old man ought to think of his latter end, and that it was of great
importance not to neglect an opportunity that might not occur again.

“Will you tell the precentor, my dear, to wait a moment. I have some
changes to make,” the Doctor said, hastily; and thus it was that the
Psalm was altered, and the one now chosen sung to an unusual tune,
which had been intended for the former one, and which put the rude
singers out--

    “Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale,
       Yet will I fear none ill;
     For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
       And staff me comfort still,”

sang the rough, rural voices. They sang as if the object of their
worship was far away at sea, and required a hearty shout to catch his
ear. And Sir Ludovic did not pay much attention. He had known the words
by heart ever since he knew anything, which made them less striking to
him. Besides, he had no trouble on that point; he did not doubt the rod
and staff that would support him; he wanted rather dimly to know what
sort of place that dark valley was, and what--not whether it was bliss
or despair, but _what_--lay beyond.

Dr. Burnside preached his sermon with great feeling and great meaning,
so that everybody in church felt that it had a bearing upon Sir
Ludovic; but Sir Ludovic himself did not see it. He propped himself
in the corner and listened respectfully, sometimes asking himself,
however, how Burnside could keep on so long, and why the fact of being
in the pulpit should bring twaddle to the lips of a reasonable man.
Once when the good Doctor was moved by his own eloquence almost to
weeping, Sir Ludovic was quite roused too, and sat more upright, and
gave his whole attention to the speaker; but it was rather with an
amazed desire to know what could have so much moved his old friend
than from any mere personal motive. Even then he could not make it
out. He said to himself that what you say yourself may possibly seem
more striking than what another says; but still he could not see what
Burnside had to cry about. Notwithstanding those thoughts, which were
not visible, Sir Ludovic was a most respectful and devout worshipper.
Though prayer is supposed to be extempore in the Church of Scotland,
and the idea of reading their devotions out of a book would have
shocked the people beyond measure, yet Sir Ludovic having gone to
church regularly for a great many years, knew Dr. Burnside’s prayers
by heart, and was able to follow them as closely as if they had been
in a prayer-book. He knew where and how the habitual supplications
would come. He knew in what words the good minister would embody his
ascriptions of praise. All was familiar to him, as if it had been going
on forever, as if it would never come to an end.

By-and-by it was over, and the people all streamed out with equal noise
and no more reverence, putting on their hats before they were out
of church, and beginning to talk in loud whispers. It was over like
everything else--another thing ended--another something removed between
him and the end. This was the thought that came involuntarily to the
old man. He smiled to himself, but not with pleasure, with a kind of
amused pain or painful amusement, as the little roll of things to be
done was worked out. Here was another over and done with, though it had
begun only a moment since. Just so the philosopher might have watched
the hours stealing away that lay between him and that slave with the
hemlock, just so noticed the gradual development of the symptoms
afterward--the beginning of the death-cold, the rising gasp in the
throat. Sir Ludovic was like Socrates, yet with a curious sense that it
was somebody else he was watching, not, it could not be, himself. He
felt half inclined to laugh as the things to be got through lessened in
number; and now this church-going was over, which was one of the last
incidents of all.

    “Even though I walk in death’s dark vale,
      Yet will I fear none ill.”

No, no, not any ill; but _what_? That was the question; and in the
mean time this was ended too.

“I think we may go now, the crowd is gone, papa,” whispered Margaret;
and he assented with a smile. They came out again, once more through
the fine Norman arch, which had been there from time immemorial.

“Just there, my little Peggy, is where my place will be,” he said,
still smiling, pointing to the wall of the apse, and came out, with his
hand upon her shoulder, into the sunshine, his erect, delicate head,
with its white hair, held up with unconscious, gentle stateliness,
leaning upon the young creature in her white frock--leaning only a
very little, rather for love than for support. A great many people had
lingered about the church-yard, scattered among the graves, to look at
them. The parish that day had listened to the sermon much less drowsily
than usual. They had recognized by instinct that it was not themselves,
but Sir Ludovic, who was addressed, and they had all been interested
to hear what the Doctor had to say to Sir Ludovic. They stood with
friendly and shy curiosity, pretending to study the tombstones, to
look at him as he came out. It was a long time since he had been there
before, and who could tell if he would ever be there again?

And the sight of the pair touched the people. An old man leaning upon
his child is always a touching sight, and Margaret’s pretty, slim
figure, in her white frock, her head raised to him, a look of wistful
half-anxiety in her eyes, mixed with her pleasure in having him by her,
made a great impression upon the kindly neighbors. Some of the women
unfolded the handkerchiefs which they carried with their Bibles and put
them to their eyes. He was “sore failed” since he had been last seen
at the kirk--failed and frail, and no long for this world. And ah, how
well the Doctor had set his duty before him! The father and daughter
went softly round the east end of the old church; and it was when
they were passing the Leslie vault again, that Sir Ludovic suddenly
stumbled. It was not “a stroke,” nor any fainting on his part, as at
first the trembling yet eager spectators thought, but only a projecting
stone in his way, against which his foot caught. Margaret gave a cry of
distress.

“It is nothing, my Peggy, nothing,” said the old man. But the shock and
the shake affected him, and he turned very pale, and tottered as he
went on.

“Will he take my arm?--ask him to take my arm,” said some one close
by. Sir Ludovic did not wait to be entreated; he put forth his hand
eagerly and grasped the strong young arm, which he felt, without
knowing whom it belonged to, to be sustaining and steady.

“That is right, that is all I want,” he said, and walked along the rest
of the path to the carriage, leaning upon Rob Glen. Margaret was at his
other side. He smiled at her, and bade her not be frightened. “This is
all I want,” he said, leaning upon the young man. As for Margaret, she,
in her fright and anxiety, thought nothing of the words he was saying;
but who can describe with what a thrill the repeated assurance went
through the ambitious heart and glowing imagination of Rob Glen?




CHAPTER XVI.


There were a great many spectators of this scene in the church-yard.
Mrs. Burnside, the minister’s wife, had been detained most unwillingly
by some importunate “poor bodies” from the “laigh toun,” and was
hurrying round from the other end of the church, with her son Randal,
to speak to “the Earl’s-hall family,” when Rob Glen thus made himself
conspicuous. There were various people who held the opinion that he had
made himself conspicuous, and none more than Mrs. Burnside, who thought
the group very incongruous. Margaret on one side, and a young country
lad, Janet Glen’s son, on the other! It was quite out of the question.
But an old man was an ill guide for a young girl. She hastened round,
calling Randal to follow, and reached the gate just as John was putting
up the carriage steps.

“Margaret, my dear Margaret, will you not come to the Manse and get a
glass of wine? And, Sir Ludovic, I hope you’re not hurt. The Doctor
will be quite disappointed if he does not see you.”

Rob Glen stood at the carriage-door, but Mrs. Burnside took no notice
of him.

“Thank you,” said Sir Ludovic. “I’m not hurt; but I’ve got a shake, and
the best thing I can do is to get home. Tell the Doctor I will be glad
to see him, very glad to see him, whenever he will come so far--with my
thanks for a very good sermon.” He smiled, but he was still very pale,
and old John stood upon little ceremony. He took his seat beside the
coachman, and bade him in low tones “no to bide a moment if it was the
Queen, but to get hame, to get hame.” The consequence of this was that
the carriage was already in motion when Mrs. Burnside resumed.

“A glass of wine will do you good, Sir Ludovic; and here’s my son
Randal. Margaret, my dear, you’re not going like this, without a word!”
cried the Minister’s wife; but Margaret only waved her hand, and said
something that was inaudible in the rush of the carriage-wheels.

“I don’t call this civil,” said Mrs. Burnside, growing red. “I cannot
think it civil, Randal, either to you or to me.”

“It was not intended for incivility,” said Rob Glen. “But Sir Ludovic
was shaken. He was more shaken than you would have thought possible.
It was the best thing he could do to get home, and I think I will go
and tell the doctor. He has certainly grown much weaker within the last
month.”

How did Rob Glen know how Sir Ludovic had been for the last month? Mrs.
Burnside looked upon him with a disapproving countenance. He had made
himself a great deal too conspicuous. Janet Glen’s son, a lad of no
consideration! what right had he to put himself in the way?

“Sir Ludovic shows himself so little that there’s very few can be
able to judge,” she said, meaning to snub the forward young man. And
what should Randal do but neutralize all her dignity by making a step
forward with friendly hand outstretched?

“Why this,” he said, “must be Rob Glen?”

“Oh yes, it is Rob Glen,” said his annoyed mother; while Rob accepted
the overture graciously. Randal was a year or two older than Rob,
and had begun life in the company of the whole juvenile family at
the parish school; an early association which made all his father’s
parishioners his friends. He was a handsome young fellow, full of high
spirits and kindness, but so shy that the paths of society were pain
and grief to him. He had been absent for a long time, studying in
Germany, and had but lately returned, and taken his place in Edinburgh,
with every prospect of success at the bar; for he had a family
firm of Writers to the Signet behind him. Though Randal had an old
boyish kindness for little Margaret, her grown-up looks had somewhat
disconcerted him, and it was with more relief than regret that he had
seen the carriage turn away. But Randal’s shyness did not affect him in
respect to the people of the parish, to most of whom his notice was a
favor; and, indeed, at this moment he had no idea that it was anything
else than an honor to Rob Glen.

“You may as well tell your father, Randal, that Sir Ludovic has gone,”
said Mrs. Burnside, with a little nod to the intruder. “Good-morning,
Rob; I saw your mother, worthy woman, was out this morning. I am glad
her cold is better;” and, so saying, she went slowly away toward the
Manse in anything but a tranquil state of mind. She was not mercenary,
nor had she really engaged in any matrimonial speculations for her
son. But he was a young man, she well knew, who would be a credit
to everybody belonging to him; and if Margaret and he had met, and
if they had taken a fancy to each other, why then-- They had both a
little money; indeed, it was generally known that Margaret had more
than a little; but upon this point the minister’s wife assured herself
that she had no information; and they were both well-born (for the
Burnsides were as old as anything in the county), and it would have
been very suitable: he a rising young lawyer, with a good profession
and a good head, and the best of prospects before him. There was no
unworthy scheming in her desire to bring these two perfectly matched
young people together. The question in her eyes was not, was Randal
good enough for Margaret? but, was Margaret good enough for Randal? But
they had played together when they were children, and there was nobody
far or near so like Margaret as Randal, so like Randal as Margaret.
This was what Mrs. Burnside was thinking, as she walked very gently
toward the Manse. The children and the old women did not courtesy when
they met her, for such are not the habits of rural Scotland; but the
little things looked at her with shy smiles, and the women wished her
good-day, and were blithe to see Mr. Randal back. “And so am I, Jenny,”
she said; “more glad than words can say.”

“Eh, mem, ye hae nae need to say it; a’ the kirk,” said the old woman,
sympathetic, “could see it in your face.” And why should she not ask
herself, what was the very best thing to be had--the fairest and the
sweetest to get for her boy? But that intrusive Rob Glen making himself
so conspicuous! what was he, a country lad, nobody at all, not a
gentleman, to put himself in Randal’s way?

“And what have you been doing, Rob, all these years? I’ve heard of
you from time to time; but I’ve been wandering, as you know, and for
some time back I know nothing. Little Margaret Leslie, I thought her a
child, and lo! she’s a lovely lady. I thought I should have found you
in the pulpit preaching for my father; but here you are, without so
much as a black coat. What has happened to you?”

“Not much,” said Rob. He paused rather nervously, and looked at his
gray coat, wondering, perhaps, was it the proper dress to come to
church in, even when you have ceased to think of being a minister.
Randal’s coat was black, and he seemed to Rob a young man of fashion.
This thought made him very uncomfortable. “Indeed nothing at all has
happened to me. I am a failure, Mr. Burnside. Your father tries to set
me right; but I am afraid we don’t even agree as to the meaning of
words.”

“A failure?” said Randal, puzzled.

“Yes; the church is too exacting for me. I can’t sign a creed because
my great-grandfather believed it.”

“Ah! oh!” said the other young man. It meant that he had nothing to say
on the subject, and did not care to enter into it; but it meant at the
same time the slightest tone of disapproval, a gravity which would not
smile. Randal thought a man should stick to his colors, whatever they
were. “And what are you doing now?”

“Nothing; idling, drawing, dreaming, losing my time; absolutely
nothing;” then he added, for he did not want to conceal his privileges,
“I have been busy for the last fortnight with a picture of Earl’s-hall.”

“Are you turning artist, then? I did not think the parish had any
such possession. I hope I may come and see it,” said young Burnside,
wondering whether he might venture to ask his old school-fellow to
dinner. He would have done it instantly had he been alone. But his
mother was not to be trifled with. As he hesitated, however, his father
joined him, coming from the church.

“So Sir Ludovic has gone,” said the doctor; “I expected he would have
waited to see you, Randal, and perhaps gone on to the Manse; but he is
looking frail, and perhaps he was wearied. It’s an unusual exertion for
him, a very unusual exertion. Good-day, Rob; I am glad to see you have
resumed church-going; I hope it’s a good sign.”

“I don’t think it means much,” said Rob; “but perhaps it would be
a good thing if I were to go on to the doctor, and tell him of Sir
Ludovic’s stumble. It might be well that he should know at once.”

“What’s about Sir Ludovic’s stumble?” said the Minister; while Randal
called after the other as he went away, “I will come and see you
to-morrow.”

Rob Glen replied with an acquiescing nod and wave of his hand. But he
said within himself, “if you find me,” and went along with a jubilant
step and all kinds of dreams in his head. Sir Ludovic had not received
Rob with enthusiasm when he had gone to Earl’s-hall. He had not
applauded his drawings as Margaret did, who knew nothing about it,
though he allowed them to be clever. But at the same time he had always
tolerated Rob, never objected to his visits, nor to the hours which
Margaret had spent flitting about his encampment among the potatoes. If
he had disapproved of this association, surely he would have prevented
it; and what could those words mean, as the old man grasped at his
offered arm, “This is all I want?” Wonderful words! meaning all, and
more than all, that the brightest hopes could look for. “This is all I
want.” Margaret had taken no notice, but it did not seem possible to
Rob that she could have heard such words unmoved. It is astonishing how
easy it is to believe miracles on our own behalf. In any other case,
Rob Glen would have had enough of the shrewd good-sense of his class
to know how very unlikely it was that Sir Ludovic Leslie should choose
for his young daughter, who was an heiress, in addition to every other
advantage she possessed, an alliance with the son of a small farmer
in the neighborhood, a “stickit minister,” not at all successful or
satisfactory even to his own humble kith and kin. But the fact that it
was he himself, Rob Glen, who was the hero, dazzled him, and threw a
fictitious air of probability upon things the most unlikely. “This is
all I want.” What could the fond father, who has selected an Admirable
Crichton to insure his child’s happiness, say more?

“Oh ay,” said Mrs. Glen, on her way home from church. “The Earl’s-hall
family makes a great work with our Rob. He’s there morning, noon, and
nicht. I never see him, for my part. Either he’s drawing pictures of
the house, or he’s learning Miss Margret to draw them, or he’s doin’
something for Sir Ludovic. They take up a’ his time that he never does
a hand’s turn for his ain affairs. It’s an awfu’ waste of time; but
when there are young folk concerned, really you never can ken what’s
the maist profitable occupation; just nonsense, in that kind of way, is
sometimes mair for their advantage in the long-run; but that’s no my
way of judging in the general, far enough from my way.”

“That is just what I was thinking,” said Mrs. Cupar, of the Longriggs,
a neighboring farm, but a much more important one. If Mrs. Cupar
walked, it was because she chose to do so, not from any need to employ
this vulgar natural mode of locomotion; for, besides her husband’s
gig, there was a pony-chaise at her orders, and her dress was made
by one of the best _artistes_ in Edinburgh, and her daughters,
who came behind, were young ladies who might have walked through the
Park without remark, infinitely better dressed than Margaret Leslie.
They were better than Margaret in a great many ways; they could play
on the piano; and it was their mother’s determination to keep them
clear of Rob Glen, or any other suitor of his class, that made her so
“neighbor-like” with Rob Glen’s mother. If he had finished his studies
in an orthodox way, and become a “placed minister,” then, indeed, she
might have relaxed her vigilance; but as matters were, no fox could
have been more dangerous to the hen-roost than this idle young man of
education, who was only a sma’ farmer’s son. Small farmers, who cannot
be denied as part of the profession, yet who sink it down among the
ranks of the commonalty, are not liked by their larger neighbors in the
kingdom of Fife.

“That is just what I was thinking,” said Mrs. Cupar. “I did not imagine
you were one who would give in to idleness under any excuse.”

“No me,” said Mrs. Glen; “if my lad had taken up his head with foreign
travel, and wanderings about the world like that son of the minister’s,
Randal--no that it’s our place to judge our neighbors; but there is a
time for everything, as is said in Scripture, and I’ve confidence in
my Rob that it’s no just for nothing his stopping here so long. They
make a great work with him at Earl’s-hall. Sir Ludovic, you see for
yourself, is very frail. How he grippit to Rob’s arm! It’s a grand
thing for an auld man to find a young arm to lean upon, and a kind
person to be good to him.”

Mrs. Glen could not help bragging a little. She was as much elated as
Rob was, and as entirely blind to all the difficulties, though in any
other case, who would have seen more clearly? She had kept herself in
the background, having sense enough to see that Rob’s mother could not
further his pursuits; but she could not hold her tongue, or refrain
from waving her flag of triumph before her neighbors--these neighbors
who were themselves “upsetting,” and gave themselves airs much beyond
any possible at Earl’s-lee. Mrs. Glen was not by any means sure that
“the Misses” at Longriggs, and their mother had not designs of their
own upon her son, and, to tell the truth, either Bessie or Jessie Cupar
would have been an excellent match for Rob. If he had fulfilled his
fate and become “a placed minister,” what could have been better? But
Margaret Leslie and her fortune had intoxicated Mrs. Glen. She could
not help flourishing this sublime hope before her neighbors’ eyes.

“Then we need not be surprised if we hear of an engagement,” said Mrs.
Cupar, “in that quarter.” She thought the woman was daft, as she said
to the girls afterward. Miss Leslie! a beauty, and an heiress, and one
of the proudest families in Fife. Surely the woman was out of her wits!
But it was as well to give her her own way, and hear all that there was
to hear.

“Na, it’s no for me to say,” said Mrs. Glen. “I’m no saying just that.
I’m saying nothing, it’s no my part, and Rob, he’s no a lad to brag;
but I keep my een open, and I form my ain opinions for all that. My
son’s not just a common lad. Till something opens him up, he’s real
hard to divine. He’s more than ordinar clever, for one thing, and when
he gets with folk that can enter into his ways-- I’m free to confess I’m
no one of that kind mysel’. I’ve nae education to put me on a par with
him. There’s his pictures. You’ve no seen his pictures? I’m told, and I
can well believe it,” said the proud mother, “that there’s many a warse
in the National Gallery, though that’s considered the best collection
in a’ the world.”

“Dear me, now, to think of that!” said the other farmer’s wife. “Jessie
and Bessie are both very good at drawing. They were considered to have
a great taste for it; but for my part I’ve always thought for a man
that it was a great wastery of time.”

“No when it’s the best kind,” said Mrs. Glen, in her superior
knowledge. “I wouldna say for the young ladies’ bits of drawings; but
when it’s the right kind, there’s nothing I ken that brings in more
money.” Rob’s mother felt justly that this was the true test. “There’s
thousands on thousands o’ pounds to be made by it; but it wants a real
genius, and that’s just what Rob has shown.”

“Dear me,” said her listener again. Notwithstanding a natural
undercurrent of scorn, she could not help being impressed by so
positive an assertion. Had Jessie and Bessie shown real genius? There
was something deeply impressive, even though she scarcely believed in
it, in a thing by which thousands and thousands could be made.

“I must look out the girls’ sketches to-morrow,” she said, “and see
what your son thinks of them. It must be a great comfort for you, Mrs.
Glen, when he has made up his mind not to follow one thing, to find he
has a good prospect in another. It’s not often a young man has that
luck when he gives up what he’s been brought up to. But now I must
bid you good-day, for this is our nearest road; and I hope you’ll
let me hear when anything happens.” “The woman’s daft,” Mrs. Cupar
said, as she went on. “She thinks because Sir Ludovic, poor old frail
gentleman, gripped Rob’s arm, finding him the foremost, that he’s going
to give her son his daughter Margaret Leslie!--that thinks herself of
a different kind of flesh and blood from the like of you; and I would
think myself sore brought down in the world if I had to give one o’ you
to Rob Glen!”

“Well, mamma,” said one of the girls, “he is what the maids call a
bonnie lad.” “And very like a gentleman,” said the other. They both
gave a glance behind them as they spoke, not at all unwilling, if truth
were told, to be overtaken by Rob Glen.

“Jessie, Jessie, how often must I tell you not to be vulgar? There is
nothing so vulgar as that broad Scotch,” cried the genteel farmer’s
wife. She was more horrified than Sir Ludovic was with Margaret’s
idioms and Fifish confusion of grammar; but the girls were not nearly
so decided as to the folly of Mrs. Glen. They thought there was
something to say on the other side. Margaret Leslie had no education;
she had never been out of that old crow’s-nest of a house. She had
never had masters for anything, or seen the world. Family was not
everything, nor money either; and if there was a nice-looking,
handsome, well-educated young man who did not mind her want of
education-- Mrs. Cupar thought her own girls were almost as daft as Mrs.
Glen.

But there was another humble pedestrian coming after them, who was of
the same opinion as the girls. Jeanie had seen Mrs. Glen and her son
from a distance, but had not been seen by Rob, who had eyes only for
Margaret, and, under the shade of her book, the poor girl had watched
him, all unconscious of her observation. He had not been at church
before since he returned to his mother’s house, and all his thoughts
were bent, it seemed to Jeanie, upon the large, square, red-lined
pew which held her master and Miss Margaret. Even if Margaret were
not there, was it likely that he would have greeted her in the face
of day--he, a gentleman, and she but a servant-lass? Jeanie felt the
impossibility of the connection more than she had ever done before. She
had seen nothing, indeed, that was impossible in it when she had gone
to his uncle’s shop, or taken a Sunday walk with Rob out by Glasgow
Green and upon the waterside. But here the reality of the matter
burst upon her. She saw him walk past with Sir Ludovic leaning on his
arm, while she hung back while “the kirk skaaled.” She saw him shake
hands with Randal Burnside. And she was nothing but Bell’s helper, a
servant-lass. Her father had been one of the elders who stood at the
plate on this eventful day, and John Robertson understood the wistful
look his daughter gave him when the service was over.

“Ay, ay, he saw me weel enough--he could not help seeing me. He gave me
a little nod as he passed, quite civil: but-- I would think na mair of
such a whillie-wha,” said John.

“You must not ca’ names, faither,” said gentle Jeanie; but it was a
heavy heart which she carried along that same road, keeping far behind
Mrs. Glen and Mrs. Cupar and the young ladies. It was no wonder to
Jeanie, nor had she any doubt about Sir Ludovic. Who would not be
glad of such a lad as Rob? She was not angry with Margaret, nor even
with Rob himself, for that matter. It was her own fault ever to think
that she was his equal. What was he but a laddie, that did not know
his own mind, when he had pledged himself to her that ought to have
known better? She was younger than he was, yet she ought to have known
better. He was not a whillie-wha, as her father said, but only too
tender-hearted, liking to please those he was with. Only this could
ever have made him waste so much of his time and kindness upon John
Robertson’s daughter--a servant-lass--he that, at the least, would be
“a placed minister!” At last Jeanie saw clearly the absurdity of the
thought.




CHAPTER XVII.


Sir Ludovic was “none the worse” of his stumble, and next day all
things went on as before. Rob Glen was one of the first who came to
inquire, and he was asked to go up-stairs, and was thanked for his aid
with all ceremony, yet kindness, Margaret standing by, beaming upon
him, beaming with pleasure and gratitude. Rob, she felt, was her friend
much more than her father’s, and she was grateful to him for his succor
of her father, and grateful to Sir Ludovic for accepting the service.
She stood by and smiled upon the young man. “I am very thankful too,”
she said, “Mr. Glen,” and the look in Rob’s eyes made her blush. She
had always been given to blushing; but Margaret blushed more than
ever now, in the vague excitement of thought and feeling which these
last weeks had revived in her. They had been spent almost in Rob’s
constant companionship, so long had the sketching lasted; and the two
had been for hours together, alone, in close proximity, with unlimited
opportunities of conversation. He had told her a great deal about
himself, and she had revealed to him all the corners of her innocent
memory. They had become again as closely united as when little Margaret
sat by the big boy, with her little feet dabbling in the water,
spoiling his fishing, but filling him with vague delight.

He had indulged in various other loves since then; but, after all,
when you came to look back upon it, was not little Margaret his first
love? He got her to go with him one day to the burn, which they had
haunted as children, and told her he meant to make a picture of it.
This was just the spot, he said. It was nothing but a bit of grassy
bank, a ragged willow dipping into the brook, a great old hawthorn-bush
upon the slope. “You used to be so fond of the white hawthorn” (“And
so I am still,” Margaret said), “and here was where you sat with the
clear water running over your little feet. I think I can see them now.”
Margaret grew crimson, but that was an effect so easily produced; and
she too thought she could remember sitting on these summer afternoons,
with the soft ripple, like warm silk, playing over her feet, and the
scent of the hawthorn (we do not call it May in Fife) filling the air,
and flies and little fishes dimpling the surface of the pool. “I will
paint a picture of it,” said Rob; and the idea pleased her. Thus the
days went on; they were shorter than any days had ever been before to
Margaret, full of interest, full of pleasure. An atmosphere of soft
flattery, praise, too delicate to be put into words, a kind of unspoken
worship, surrounded her. She was amused, she was occupied, she was made
happy. And it did not occur to her to ask herself the reason of this
vague but delightful exhilaration. She felt it like an atmosphere all
round her, but did not ask herself, and did not know what it was.

And perhaps with this round of pleasant occupation going on outside,
she was not quite so much with her father, or so ready to note his ways
as she had been. On the Monday evening, Rob, by special invitation,
dined with them, and exerted himself to his utmost to amuse Sir
Ludovic; and after this beginning he came often. He did amuse Sir
Ludovic, sometimes by his knowledge, sometimes by his ignorance; by the
clever things he would say, and the foolish things he would say--the
one as much as the other.

“Let your friend come to dinner,” the old man would say, with a smile.
“John, you will put a plate for Mr. Glen.” And so it came about that
for a whole week Rob shared their meal every evening. When Sir Ludovic
got drowsy (as it is so natural to do after dinner, for every one,
not only for old men), the two young people would steal away into the
West Chamber and watch the sun setting, which also was a dangerous
amusement. Thus it will be seen poor little unprotected Margaret was in
a bad way.

During all this time, the old servants of the house watched their
master very closely. Even Bell had to give up the consideration of
Margaret and devote herself to Sir Ludovic. And they saw many signs and
tokens that they did not like, and had many consultations whether Mr.
Leslie or “the ladies” should be sent for. The ladies seemed the most
natural, for the young master was known to have his business to attend
to, and his family; but Bell “could not bide” calling for the ladies
before their time. And Sir Ludovic was just in his ordinar; there was
nothing more to be said; failing, but that was natural: nothing that
anybody could take notice of. It was well to have Rob Glen at night,
for that amused him; and when the Minister called, bringing his son
to be re-presented to his old friend, they were glad, for Sir Ludovic
was interested. When Dr. Burnside went away, he stopped at the door
expressly to tell Bell how glad he was to see the old gentleman look so
well.

“He’s taking out a new lease,” said the Doctor.

“Eh me.” Bell said, looking after him, “how little sense it takes to
make a minister!” But this was an utterance of hasty temper, for she
had in reality an exalted respect for Dr. Burnside, both as minister
and as man.

But it fell upon the house like a bomb-shell, when suddenly one
morning, after being unusually well the night before, Sir Ludovic
declined to get out of bed. No, he said, he was not ill, he was quite
comfortable; but he did not feel disposed to get up. Old John, upon
whose imagination this had an effect quite out of proportion to its
apparent importance as an incident, begged and entreated almost with
tears, and, finding his own remonstrances ineffectual, went to get Bell.

“I canna stand it,” the old man said. “Get you him out of his bed,
Bell. Pit it to me ony other way, and I’ll bear it; but to see him lie
yonder smiling, and think of a’ that’s to come!”

Bell put on a clean apron and went up-stairs.

“Sir Ludovic,” she said, “you’re no going to bide there as if you were
ill, and frighten my auld man out of his wits. Ye ken, John, he’s a
dour body on the outside, but within there’s no a baby has a softer
heart; and he canna bide to see you in your bed--nor me either!” cried
the old woman, suddenly, putting up her hands to her face.

Sir Ludovic lay quite placid, with his white head upon the white
pillows, his fine dark eyes full of light, and smiling. It was enough,
Bell thought, to break the heart of a stone.

“And why should I get up when I am comfortable here?” said Sir Ludovic,
“my good Bell. You’ve ruled over me so long that you think I am never
to have a will of my own; and, indeed, if I do not show a spark of
resolution now, when am I to show it?” he said, with a soft laugh.
“There is but little time.”

On this John made an inarticulate outburst, something between a sob and
a groan--a roar of grief and impatience such as an animal in extremity
might have uttered. He had stolen up behind his wife, not able to keep
away from his old master. Bell had long been her husband’s interpreter
when words failed him. She dried her eyes with her apron, and turned
again to the bedside.

“Sir Ludovic,” she said, solemnly, “he says you’ll break his heart.”

“My good friend,” said the old man, with a humorous twitch about his
mouth, “let us be honest. It must come some time, why shouldn’t it
come now? I’ve been trying, like the rest of you, to push it off, and
pretend I did not know. Come, you are not so young yourself, to be
frightened. It must come, sooner or later. What is the use of being
uncomfortable, trying to keep it at arm’s-length? I’m very well here. I
am quite at my ease. Let us go through with it,” said Sir Ludovic, with
a sparkle in his eye.

“You’re speaking Hebrew-Greek to me, Sir Ludovic. I canna tell no more
than the babe unborn what you’re going through with,” cried Bell; and
when she had said this she threw her apron over her head and sobbed
aloud.

“Well, this is a cheerful beginning,” said Sir Ludovic. “Call ye this
backing of your friends? Go away, you two old fools, and send me my
little Peggy; and none of your wailing to her, Bell. Leave the little
thing at peace as long as that may be.”

“I hope I ken my duty to Miss Margret,” said Bell, with an air of
offence, which was the easiest to put on in the circumstances. She
hurried out of the room with hasty steps, keeping up this little
fiction, and met Margaret coming down-stairs, fresh as the morning, in
her light dress, with her shining hair. “You’re to go to your papa,
Miss Margret,” said Bell, “in his ain room: where you’ll find him in
his bed--”

“He’s not ill, Bell?” cried Margaret, with quick anxiety.

“Ill! He’s just as obstinate and as ill-willy as the mule in the
Scriptures,” cried Bell, darting down the winding stair. She could not
bear it any more than John. Margaret, standing on the spiral steps, an
apparition of brightness, everything about her

                        “Drawn
    From morning and the cheerful dawn;”

her countenance all smiling, her eyes as soft and as happy as the
morning light-- Bell could not see her for tears. She seemed to see
the crape and blackness which so soon would envelop them all, and the
deeper darkness of the world, in which this young creature would soon
have no natural home. “No another moment to think upon it,” Bell said
to herself; “no a moment. The ladies maun come now.”

Margaret, surprised, went through the long room in which, by this hour,
her father’s chair was always occupied, but felt no superstitious
presentiment at seeing it desolate. Sir Ludovic’s rooms--there were two
of them, a larger and a smaller--opened off from the long room. He had
taken, quite lately, as his bedchamber, the smaller room of the two, an
octagon-shaped and panelled room, as being the warmest and most bright;
and there he was lying, smiling as when Bell saw him first, with the
morning light upon his face.

“You sent for me, papa,” said Margaret. “Are you ill that you are in
bed? I have never seen you in bed before.”

“Remember that, then, my Peggy, as a proof of the comfortable life I
have had, though I am so old. No, not ill, but very comfortable. Why
should I get up and give myself a great deal of trouble, when I am so
comfortable here?”

“Indeed, if you are so very comfortable--” said Margaret, a little
bewildered: “it must be only laziness, papa;” and she laughed, but
stopped in the middle of her laugh, and grew serious, she could not
tell why. “But it is very lazy of you,” she said. “I never heard of any
one who was quite well staying in bed because it was comfortable.”

“No? But then there are things in heaven and earth, my Peggy, and I
want you to do something for me. I want you to write a letter for me.
Bring your writing things here, and I will tell you what to say.”

She met John in the long room, coming in with various articles, as if
to provision a place which was about to be besieged. He had some wood
under his arm to light a fire, and a tray with cups and glasses, and a
hot-water bottle (called in Scotland a “pig”); and there was an air of
excitement about him, suppressed and sombre, which struck Margaret with
vague alarm. “Why are you taking in all these things?” she said; “he
did not say he was cold.”

“If he doesn’t want them the day, he may want them the morn,” said John.

“The morn! he is not going to lie in bed always because it is
comfortable; that would be too absurd,” said Margaret. “What is it?
There is not going to be--anything done to papa?--any--operation? What
is it? You look as if there was--something coming--”

“I have my work to do,” said John, hastily turning away. “I’ve nae time
to say ay and no to little misses that canna understand.”

“Oh, John, what an old bear you are!” said Margaret. He made her
uneasy. It seemed as if something must have happened during the night.
Was her father, perhaps, going to have a leg off, or an arm? She knew
this was nonsense; but John’s paraphernalia and his face both looked
so. She went to the West Chamber, where all her special possessions
were, and got her little writing-case, which one of her sisters had
given her. Last night before she went to bed she had set up a little
drawing she had done, and which she thought was more successful than
any hitherto attempted. She had set it up so that she might see it the
first thing in the morning, to judge how it bore the light of day. And
on the table was Rob’s block with the sketch he had made of Sir Ludovic
in his chair. He was to come again that very day, with her father’s
consent, to go on with it. All this looked somehow, she could not tell
how, a long way off to Margaret, as if something had happened to set
these simple plans aside. She felt, in the jargon of her new art, as
if the foreground had suddenly grown into such importance that all
that was behind it was thrown miles back. It was very strange; and yet
nothing had happened, only her father was lazy, and had not got out of
bed.

“Who is it for? And am I to write from myself, papa, or am I to write
for you?” she said, sitting down at the bedside and opening her
writing-case. He paused, and looked at her for a moment before he spoke.

“It is to your sisters, to Jean and Grace, my little Peggy.”

“To Jean and Grace!”

“To ask them, if it is quite convenient, to come here now, instead of
waiting till September, according to their general custom--”

“Oh, papa!” cried Margaret, suddenly realizing the change that was
coming in her life; the sketches and the drawing-lessons, and the
talks, and the confidences, and Rob Glen himself-- What would Jean
and Grace say to Rob? She felt as if in a moment all her little
structure of amusement and pleasure was falling to pieces. She closed
her writing-case again with a gesture of despair. “Oh, papa, is not
September soon enough? I don’t want them here now. In--the summer,”
said Margaret, hastily, blushing for herself at the little subtle
subterfuge to which she was resorting to conceal her real terror--“in
the summer there is always something-- I mean so many things to do.”

“Yes,” her father said, with a smile; “and for some of us, my little
girl, things we shall never do again.”

She did not realize the meaning of this, and perhaps Margaret may be
pardoned if, not knowing the sadder circumstances involved, her mind
was for the moment absorbed in her own disappointment and confusion;
the sudden sense of arrest and stoppage in all her pleasant ways which
overwhelmed her. “Why do you want them, papa?” she went on; “am I not
enough? You used to say you liked me best. You used to say, just you
and me, you and me, got on best in the old house.”

“And so I would say still,” said the old man, “my little Peggy, my
bonnie Peggy! Yes, it is enough to have you and me. (I forgive you the
grammar.) But however selfish I might be were there only myself to
think of, I must think now of you, my little girl.”

“And what is about me?” cried Margaret; “if you think I want Jean and
Grace, papa, what will they do but find fault? They are never satisfied
with anything we do. They find fault with everybody. They say John is
stupid--”

“And so he is, a doited old body--and, my Peggy, sometimes very far
from civil to you.”

“Old John, papa? To me? He is as fond of me as if I were his own. When
he scolds, I don’t pay any attention, any more than when _you_
scold.”

Sir Ludovic laughed.

“That is a pretty way of telling me how little authority I have,” he
said.

“Papa!” cried Margaret, impatiently, “you know very well that is not
what I mean. I would not vex you, not for the world--never you--and not
even John. I cannot bear him to be called names, and everything found
fault with. There’s not this and there’s not that; no drawing-room; and
the bedrooms are not big enough, and me not well enough dressed.”

“Perhaps they are right there, my Peggy. I fear you are dressed anyhow,
though I see nobody that looks so well.”

“Then why must they come before September?” said Margaret. “Let them
come, papa, at their own time.”

He laughed a little, lying there upon the white pillow, with a delicate
hue of life in his old cheek, and all the vigor of twenty in his dark
eyes. He did not look as if there was anything the matter with him. He
only looked comfortable, luxuriously comfortable, that was all. She
laughed, too, as she looked at him. “How lazy you are, papa!” she said;
“do you think it is right? What would Bell say to me if I did not get
up? You look so comfortable--and so happy.”

“Yes, very comfortable,” he said; but the laugh went off his face. “My
Peggy,” he went on, with sudden gravity, “don’t ask any questions, but
write to your sisters. Say I wish them to come, and to come now. No
more, my dear, no more. I am not joking. Say I will look for them as
soon as they can get here.”

She opened her writing-book again, and got her paper, and began to
write. When he took this tone, there was nothing to be done but to
obey. But when she had written a few lines, Margaret stopped suddenly
with a little start, as if all at once overtaken by a sense of the
meaning of what she was doing. “Papa,” she cried, the color leaving her
face, two big tears starting into her eyes, “you are hiding something
from me: you are ill!”

“No, no,” he said--“no, I am not at all ill; but, my Peggy, one never
knows what may be going to happen, and I want to have your sisters
here.”

“Oh,” cried Margaret, throwing away her book, “let them stay away--let
them stay away! I want you all to myself. I can take care of you better
than they can. Papa, I know you are ill, though you will not own it.”

“No, no,” he said, more feebly. “Run away and play, my little girl. I
am--tired, just a trifle tired: and come back in half an hour, in half
an hour, before post-time.”

“Here’s a cordial to ye, Sir Ludovic,” said John, and he made an
imperative sign to his young mistress. “Let him be--let him be! he’s no
weel enough to be teased about anything,” he whispered in her ear.

Margaret stood gazing at her father for a moment thunderstruck. Then
she snatched up the letter she had begun, and rushed rapidly, yet on
noiseless feet, out of the room. Oh, old John was cruel! Would she do
anything to tease her father? And, oh! _he_ was cruel not to tell
her--to wish for Jean and Grace, and to hide it from her. She went
down-stairs like the wind, her feet scarcely touching the steps, making
a brightness in the dim light of the stair, and a movement in the
stillness, to go to Bell, her referee in everything, and to ask what it
meant. “Oh, Bell, what does it mean?” was on her lips; when suddenly,
through the open door, Margaret saw two figures approaching, and
stopped short. They were young men both, both pleasant to behold; but
even at that agitated moment, and in the suddenness of the apparition,
the girl observed the difference between them without knowing that she
observed it. The difference was to the disadvantage of Rob, on whose
behalf all her prepossessions were engaged; and this gave her a faint
pang, the cause of which she was at the moment quite unconscious of.
“Oh!” she cried, not able to restrain her little outcry of trouble,
as she met their surprised and questioning looks--“oh, papa is ill; I
think he is very ill; and I don’t know what to do.”

The second of the visitors was Randal Burnside, who had met Rob Glen
at the door; and it was he who answered first, eagerly, “I passed Dr.
Hume’s carriage on the road, at a cottage door. Shall I go back and
tell him to come here?”

“Oh, will you?” cried Margaret, two big tears trembling out with a
great plash, like big rain-drops, from her anxious eyes. “Oh, will you?
That is what I want most.”

He did not stop to tell his errand, or to receive any greeting or
acknowledgment, but turned, with his hat in his hand, and sped away.
Rob had said nothing; he only stood gazing at her wistfully, and took
her hand when the other was gone. “I see what is the matter,” he said,
tenderly; “is there anything new? is there any cause for fear?”

In her excitement, Margaret was not like herself. The touch and the
tone of tenderness seemed to go through her with a strange, almost
guilty, sense of consolation; and yet she was angry that it was not
he who had gone to serve her practically. She drew her hand away,
frightened, angry, yet not displeased. “Why did you let him go?” she
cried, with a reproach that said more than confession.

Rob’s face brightened and glowed all over. “I wanted to stay with you
and comfort you,” he said; “I can think of no one else when you are in
trouble. Come in and rest, and tell me what it is. You must not overdo
yourself. You must not suffer. I want to take care of _you_!”

“Oh, what is about me?” said Margaret. But she suffered herself to be
persuaded, and went with him up to the West Chamber to tell him how it
all was.




CHAPTER XVIII.


Mrs. Bellingham and Miss Leslie arrived as soon as convenient trains
could bring them. The summons which Margaret wrote later that day,
taking down her father’s message from his lips, was not instant, though
as decided as he could make it without too much alarming the girl,
whose nerves were shaken, and who sat and gazed at him with a wistful
countenance, large-eyed and dismal, watching every look. When he spoke
to her, her eyes filled, and she did not seem able to keep that anxious
gaze from his face. But the doctor, when he came, was more consoling
than alarming. There was nothing to be frightened about, he said,
scolding Margaret, paternally. And by degrees the household calmed down
and accepted the new state of affairs, and began to think it natural
that Sir Ludovic should have taken to his bed. His son came and paid
him a visit from Edinburgh, staying a single night, and sitting for a
solemn hour or two by his father’s bedside, though he did not say much.
“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” he asked, and begged that he
might be written to daily with news of his father’s state, though he
could find so little to say to him. But the visit of Mr. Leslie was not
nearly so important as that of “the ladies,” to which everybody looked
forward with excitement. They arrived in the afternoon, having slept in
Edinburgh the previous night. Just at the right moment they arrived, at
the hour which is most proper for the arrival of a visitor at a country
house, leaving just time enough to dress for dinner. And they came in
with a rustle of silk into Sir Ludovic’s octagon room, where there was
scarcely room for them, and gave him each a delicate kiss, filling the
place with delicate odors.

“I hope you are a little better, dear papa,” Grace said; and Mrs. Jean,
who was large and round, and scarcely could pass between the bed and
the wall, cried out cheerily that it was a relief to her mind to see
him looking so well.

“I never should have found out he was ill at all, if I had not been
told,” Mrs. Bellingham said, whose voice was pitched higher than that
of the others. Sir Ludovic greeted them kindly, and allowed them to put
their faces against his for a moment without disturbing himself.

“Yes, I told you-- I am very comfortable,” he said to Margaret, who
stood behind, very eager to see what impression her father’s appearance
would make on her sisters. She was very happy, poor child, to hear
those cheerful words from Mrs. Bellingham’s high-pitched voice.

“Well, papa, now we have seen you, and I feel quite happy about you, we
will go and make ourselves comfortable too,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “I
hope you have a cup of tea for us, Margaret, after our journey? and you
must come and pour it out, for I want to look at you. Papa will spare
you a little. John is waiting in the next room, I see.”

“John will do very well,” said Sir Ludovic; “don’t derange yourselves,
my dears, from your usual habits for me.”

“I assure you, dear papa,” said Grace, “I do not care at all for being
put out of my usual habits. I will stay with you. What is there in
comparison with a dear father’s wishes? You go, dearest Jean; I am sure
you want some tea, and I will stay with dear papa. I can see in his
eyes,” she added, in an audible undertone, pushing her sister gently
toward the door, “that he wishes me to stay.”

“My dear,” said Sir Ludovic, “you must not begin your self-sacrifices
as soon as you enter the house. I am looking quite well, as you both
say. There is no reason why you shouldn’t have your tea in peace. My
eyes are very deceitful if they say anything about it except what I
have said. Go, and make yourselves quite comfortable.”

“Come, come,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “This is just your usual nonsense;
of course papa likes his old John, whom he can order about as he
pleases, better than you in that old silk that makes such a noise. We
shall come and sit with papa after dinner; good-bye for the moment,”
she said, kissing the tips of her fingers. Sir Ludovic laughed to
himself softly as they disappeared. They came back every year with all
their little peculiarities unchanged, all their little vanities and
_minauderies_--Grace self-sacrificing, Jean sensible. They were so
little like his children that he could laugh at their foibles without
any harshness, but without any pain. The constant reappearance of these
two ladies, always falling into their little genteel comedy as they
entered the room, exactly at the point where, on the previous year,
they left it off, made the interval of time appear as if it had never
been. John, who was coming in with one of the many additional adjuncts
to comfort which he was always bringing, caught the sound of the laugh.
John did not know if he approved of a laugh from a dying man, but he
could not help joining in with a faint chuckle.

“The ladies, Sir Ludovic, are aye just the same, a’ their little ways,”
he said.

Meanwhile Margaret followed them in a little flutter of excitement. She
had not wanted them to come; but now that they were here, the novelty
was always agreeable, and she had been grateful to them for thinking
so well of Sir Ludovic’s looks, which by dint of anxiety and watching
she had ceased to be satisfied with. Bell, who knew the ways and the
wants of the ladies, had sent up tea to the West Chamber, whither
they went, giving a sensation of company and fulness to the quiet old
house. The other voices in Earl’s-hall had a different sound; they
were lower, softer, with a little of the chant and modulation which
belongs to Fife, and did not make the air tingle as Mrs. Bellingham
did. Even down-stairs the women-servants could trace the movements of
the new-comers by the flow of what was chiefly a monologue on the part
of the elder lady. Miss Leslie had no objection to take her share;
but Mrs. Bellingham had most boldness and most perseverance, and left
little room for any one else. “Hear to her lang tongue,” Bell said;
“high English, and as sharp as the clipping of a pair of shears.” It
ran on from Sir Ludovic’s dressing-room, through the long room, which
was so vacant, and which Margaret could scarcely go through without
tears.

“I wish papa would have been advised about this room, it might have
been made so much more comfortable. A partition where that screen
is would have given a real dining-room and library, instead of this
ridiculous long wilderness. Oh, Margaret, why do you leave that huge
old chair standing out there, to break one’s legs against? It should be
put back out of the way,” said Mrs. Bellingham, advancing her hand to
put aside the chair.

“Oh, stop, stop! It is papa’s chair; it must not be moved!”

“Ah, to be sure, it is papa’s chair,” said Mrs. Bellingham. She stood
and looked at it for a moment, with her head on one side. “Well, do you
know it _is_ touching, this? Poor papa! I remember he always sat
here. It is affecting, like a soldier’s sword and his horse. But, my
dear little Margaret, my poor child, you cannot leave it always here
blocking up the way.”

“Dear papa’s chair!” said Miss Grace, putting her hand caressingly upon
it; and then she touched the back with her cheek, as she had touched
Sir Ludovic’s face. “Poor dear old chair! never again to be what it has
been, never again--”

“Yes, poor old thing, I should not like to see it sent away to a
lumber-room,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “But there will be so many changes,
that it is sad to contemplate! Now, Margaret, tell me all about it: how
was he seized? You did not say anything about a fit, and he does not
look as if there had been any fit. No sugar for me, dear. Were you with
him when it happened? or how did it come on? We must know all this, you
know, before we see the doctor. I shall make it a point of going fully
over the case with the doctor. One knows then what we have to expect,
and how long a course it is likely to run.”

“Jean!” cried Margaret, aghast with grief and horror; “I thought you
thought he was looking well! You said you would not have known there
was anything the matter. You said--”

“My dear child, did you expect me to tell _him_ that I saw death
in his face? Is that the sort of thing, do you think, to let the
patient know? Do you expect me to say to him-- Good gracious, child!
what is the matter? What are you going to do?”

“You must pour out your tea for yourselves,” said Margaret; “I am
going to papa. Oh, if you think he is so ill, how can you sit and take
your tea? How can you sit down and talk, and tell him you will come
after dinner, as if it was nothing? You cannot mean it!” said the poor
girl, “you cannot mean it! Oh! how can _you_ tell, that have
seen him only once? The doctor thinks he will soon be well again; and
Ludovic-- Ludovic is as old as you are--he never said a word to me.”

“Ludovic thought you were too young to be told; he thought it was best
for us to come first; and there are some doctors that will never tell
you the truth. I don’t hold with that. I would not blurt it out to the
patient to affect his spirits, but I would tell the family always.
Now, Margaret, you must not go to papa with that crying face. Sit down
and compose yourself. He is very well; he has got old John. You don’t
suppose that I am looking for anything immediate--”

“Take this; it will do you good,” said Miss Leslie, forcing upon
Margaret her own cup of tea. “I will pour out another for myself.”

Margaret put it away from her with outstretched hands. She turned from
them with an anguish of disgust and impatience which Jean and Grace had
done nothing to deserve, feeling only the justice of that one advice
not to go to her father with her countenance convulsed with weeping.
But where could she go? She had been frightened, and had recovered
from her fright; had taken comfort from what the doctor said, and
joyful consolation from the comments of her sisters on the old man’s
appearance: but where was she to seek any comfort now? With her heart
sick, and fluttering, tingling, with the stroke she had received
so unexpectedly, the girl turned to the window, where at least she
could conceal her “crying face,” and stood there gazing out, seeing
nothing, stunned with sudden misery, and not knowing what to do. But
the intolerable pain into which she had been plunged all at once did
not deaden her faculties. Though her mind was in such commotion, she
could not help hearing all that went on behind her. Jean and Grace
were quite free from any bewilderment of pain. They were glad to have
their tea after their journey, and they discussed everything with
a little excitement and expectation, just touched by solemnity. To
be thus summoned to their father’s death-bed, to be placed in the
foremost places at this tragic act which was about to be accomplished,
themselves sharing in the importance of it, and with a claim upon the
sympathy and respect of the world in consequence, gave Jean and Grace
a sense of solemn dignity. When the heart is not deeply affected,
and when, indeed, your connection with the dying is, as it were, an
official one, it is difficult not to feel thus advanced in moral
importance by attendance on a death-bed. It was Miss Leslie who felt
this most.

“How sad to think of poor dearest papa on that bed from which he will
never rise!” she said, shaking her head; “and when one remembers how
active he used to be! But we have nothing to murmur at. He has been
spared to us for so many years--”

“What are you thinking of, Grace?” said Mrs. Bellingham. “I am older
than you are, but I never can remember a time when papa was active;
and, to be sure, he is an old man, but not half so old as grandpapa,
whom I recollect quite distinctly. _He_ was active, if you like.”

“At such a time, dearest Jean, why should we dispute about words? Of
course, you are right; I am always making mistakes,” said Miss Grace;
“but all the same, we have no right to complain. Many, many years we
have had him longer than numbers of people I could mention. Indeed, to
have a father living is rare at our time of life.”

“That’s true, at least,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “I hope you are not
going to keep on that dress. I told you in Edinburgh that a silk gown
with a train was preposterous to travel in, and it is quite impossible
for a sick-room. I shall put on a soft merino, that does not make any
noise. Merino is never too warm, even in the height of summer, at
Earl’s-hall.”

“I have nothing but black, and I could not put on black to hurt poor
papa’s feelings,” said Grace. “He would think we were getting our
mourning already. Indeed, when you think how long we will have to wear
it without putting it on a day too soon--”

“As if he would remark what you are wearing! But I must go and see that
Steward has unpacked. It is true there will be black enough before we
are done with it, and once in mourning, I always say you never can
tell when you may take it off,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “but I will not
let you come into the sick-room in that rustling dress. He was always
fidgety at the best of times. He would not put up with it. There’s your
muslins, if you are not afraid of taking cold; but I won’t have silk,”
said the elder sister, peremptory and decided.

Miss Leslie came to Margaret, and put an arm round her where she stood
at the window, as the other went away.

“Dearest child, you must not cry so,” she said. “He is not suffering,
you know. What a blessing that there is no pain, that he is
comfortable, as he says. Dear Jean seems to be a little hard, but she
means it very well; and now that we are here, you will be able to rest;
you will not have so much responsibility.”

“Oh, do you think I want to rest? am I thinking of myself? It is
because you are all wrong--you are mistaken. The doctor did not say so.
It is not true!”

Miss Leslie shook her head, and gave a little moan.

“Dearest child!” she said, putting her cheek against Margaret’s wet
and tear-stained cheek. “But I must go and see about my things too,”
she said. “Steward never thinks of me till she has done everything for
Jean. I am very glad of that, of course; it is just what I like; but it
gives me a little more to do. Come with me, dear, and tell me what to
put on. It will amuse you a little to see my things, though I haven’t
got anything new--not a thing all this year. You see, dear Ludie told
us of dearest papa’s uncertain state of health, and what was the good?
There is nothing more provoking than having got a supply of colored
things just before a long mourning. Alas! it is bad enough without
that,” said Grace, with a deep sigh.

After they had made their toilet, the ladies dined, and not without
appetite, while Margaret sat unable to swallow a morsel, unable to
escape to her father’s room for the tears which she could not suppress.
In the mean time it was Bell that had taken the place of watcher.
Bell’s heart was heavy too; but she exerted herself to amuse her
patient, to tell him all the circumstances of his daughters’ arrival.

“They’ve but a box apiece,” said Bell, “and that’s wonderful for
our ladies. But they’ve minded this time that it’s not that easy to
get trunks up our stairs. They’ve minded and they’ve no minded, Sir
Ludovic: for Mrs. Bellin’am’s is that big that no mortal, let alone
John, could get it up the stair. Her woman has had a’ the things to
carry up in armfu’s. And oh, the heap o’ things a leddy wants when she
gangs about! It’s just a bondage--gowns for the mornin’ and gowns for
the evenin’, and gowns to put on when she’s dressing hersel’, and as
mony fykes of laces and collars, and caps for her head--if they ca’
thae vanities caps.”

Sir Ludovic laughed.

“Poor Jean and poor Grace!” he said. “I hope they think mourning is
becoming to them, Bell, for they will not stint me of a ribbon; I know
my daughters too well for that. They will give me everything that is
due to me, to the very last scrap of crape.”

“They’ll do that, Sir Ludovic,” said Bell, divided between her desire
to humor him and her wish to keep off painful subjects; “the ladies
have never shown any want o’ respect. But Miss Grace was aye fond
of bright colors. They’re no so young as I mind them, but they’re
weel-fa’ured women still. The Leslies were aye a handsome family. They
take it from yourself, Sir Ludovic, if I may make so bold.”

“Not entirely from me,” said Sir Ludovic, with a smile. He did not
dislike the allusion to his good looks, even though he was dying.
“Their mother, whom you scarcely remember, was a handsome woman. We
were not a bad-looking couple, people said. Ah! that’s a long time ago,
Bell.”

“Deed and it’s a long time, Sir Ludovic;” but Bell did not know what
to say on this subject, for the interpolation of a third Lady Leslie
no doubt made the matter somewhat more difficult. Probably this struck
Sir Ludovic too, and he was in the condition when human nature is glad
to seek a little help from another, or sympathy at least, no help being
possible. This time he sighed--which was a thing much more befitting
than laughter on a dying bed.

“That’s a strange subject altogether,” he said; “any meeting after so
long a time would be strange. If she had been at one end of the world
and I at the other, there would be many changes even then. Would we
understand each other?” Sir Ludovic had ceased to speak to Bell. He was
musing alone, talking with himself. “And the difference must be greater
than any mortal separation. Know each other? Of course we must know
each other, she and I; but the question is, will we understand each
other?”

“Eh, Sir Ludovic,” said Bell, “it was God’s will that parted you, not
your ain. There would be fault on one side or the other, if my lady had
been in, say America, a’ this time, and you at hame; but she’s been
in--heaven; that makes a’ the difference.”

“Does it?” he said; “that’s just what I want to be sure of, Bell. Time
has made great changes on me. If I find her just where she was when
she left me, I have gone long beyond that; and if she has gone on too,
where is she? and how shall we meet, each with our new experiences
which the other does not know?”

Bell was very much perplexed by this inquiry. It had not occurred to
her own mind. “Eh, Sir Ludovic,” she said, “I am no the one, the like
o’ me, to clear up sic mysteries. But what new things can the lady meet
with in heaven, but the praise o’ God and the love o’ God? and that
doesna distract the mind.”

“Ah, Bell! but I’ve met with a great many more things since I parted
with her; and then,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes which might
have been half comic in its embarrassment had the circumstances been
different, “there is--my little Peggy’s mother, poor thing.”

Bell sat down, in her confusion and bewilderment, by the bedside, and
pondered. “I’m thinking,” she said, “that my late leddy, Miss Margret’s
mother, will be the one that will maist cling to ye when a’s done.”

“Poor little thing!” he said, softly, with a smile on his face--“poor
little thing! She should have seen me safe out of the world, and then
had a life of her own. That would have made a balance; but how are we
to know what my wife thinks? You see, we know nothing--we know nothing.
And it is very hard to tell, when people have been parted so long, and
things have happened, how they are to get on when they meet again.”

(Sir Ludovic, perhaps, was a little confused in his mind as to which of
the Ladies Leslie he meant when he said “my wife;” but at all events it
was not the last one, the “poor little thing,” Margaret’s mother, who
was to him as a child.)

“Sir Ludovic, there’s neither marrying nor giving in marriage there,”
said Bell, solemnly. It had never occurred to herself certainly that
old John would not form part of her paradise; but then there was no
complication in their relations. “And you maunna think of things like
that,” she added, reverently, “eh, Sir Ludovic? There’s One we should
a’ think of. And if He’s pleased, what does it matter for anything else
in the wide world?”

“Ay, Bell; that’s very true, Bell,” he said, acquiescing, though
scarcely remarking what she said. But the dying will rarely see things
with the solemnity which the living feel to be appropriate to their
circumstances, neither does the approach of death concentrate our
thoughts on our most important concerns, as we all fondly hope it may,
without difficulty or struggle. “I would like to know--what my wife
thinks,” he said.

“What are you talking so much about?” said Mrs. Bellingham, coming
in. “I heard your tongues going all the time of dinner. Is that you,
Bell? How are you, Bell? I was wondering not to have seen you before;
but I don’t think you should let papa talk so much when he is so weak.
Indeed, I don’t think you should talk, papa. It is always exhausting
your strength. Just lie quiet and keep quite still, till you get your
strength back.”

Sir Ludovic turned round and looked at Bell with a glimmer of fun,
about which this time there could be no mistake, in his eyes. Bell did
not know what it meant. She did not see any fun in Mrs. Bellingham’s
orders, nor in the way in which she herself was speedily, noiselessly
displaced from the position she had taken. But so it was. Bell was put
out of the way very innocently and naturally, and, with a soft flood of
unrustling merino about her, Mrs. Bellingham took possession. She made
no sound; she was quite fresh in dress, in looks, in spirits.

“I have made Margaret tell me all about how it came on, and cheered her
up, the silly little thing. She has never seen any illness; she is like
to cry if you only look at her. But we must make her more practical,”
said the elder sister. Grace was in a blue gown with rose-colored
ribbons. She came in, stealing with noiseless feet, a much slimmer
shadow than her sister, and bent over the bed, and put her cheek to Sir
Ludovic’s again, and kissed his hand and murmured, “Dearest papa!” If
he had been in the article of death Sir Ludovic must have laughed.

But Margaret did not appear. She could not present herself with her
swollen eyes and pale cheeks. Oh! if Jean and Grace had but stayed
away--had they but left him to herself, to Bell, and John, who loved
him! But she could not creep into her corner in her father’s room,
while the ladies were there, filling it up, taking possession of him.
Her heart was as heavy as lead in her bosom; it lay there like a stone.
People will sometimes speak of the heart as if it were a figure of
speech. Margaret felt hers lying, broken, bleeding, heavy--a weight
that bent her to the ground.




CHAPTER XIX.


Margaret roamed about the house, unable to take any comfort or find
any. Jeanie found her crying in the long room when she went to remove
the remains of the dinner; for John had a hundred things to do, and
showed his excitement by an inability to keep to his ordinary work.

“Oh, Miss Margret, dinna be so cast down!” Jeanie said, with tender
sympathy, brushing the tears from her own eyes.

“What can I be but cast down,” she cried, “when papa is-- Oh, Jeanie,
what does Bell say? Does Bell think he is--” Dying, the girl meant to
say, but to pronounce the word was impossible to her.

“Oh, Miss Margret,” said Jeanie; “what does it matter what Bell says;
how can she ken? and the doctor he says quite different--”

This was a betrayal of all that Margaret had feared; Bell, too, was
then of the same opinion. The poor girl stole to the door of her
father’s room, and stood there for a moment listening to the easy flow
of Mrs. Bellingham’s dogmas, and Grace’s sigh of “Dearest papa!” and
she heard him laugh, and say something in his own natural tone. Would
he laugh if he were--dying?

“Come in, Miss Margret,” said John, coming through the dressing-room,
this time with some extra pillows (for he might want to have his head
higher, John thought).

“Oh, I cannot-- I cannot bear it!” cried Margaret, turning away. He put
his large old hand softly upon her arm.

“My bonnie leddy!” he said. He would not have said it, Margaret felt,
if there had been any hope. Then she went out in her despair, restless,
not knowing where to seek relief from the pain in her heart, which was
so sore, and which could not be shaken off. She said to herself that
she could not bear it. It was her first experience of the intolerable.
The fine weather had broken which had so favored the drawing, and the
wind was moaning about the old house, prophesying rain. With another
pang in her heart--not that she was thinking of Rob, but only of the
contrast between that light-heartedness and her present despair, she
stumbled through the potato furrows, past the place where she had
spent so many pleasant hours, thinking no evil--though the evil she
remembered must have been in existence all the same--and made her way
into the wood. There was shelter there, and no one would see her. The
trees were all vocal with those sighings of melancholy cadence that are
never long absent from the Scotch fir-woods. The wind came sweeping
over them, with one great sigh after another, like the waves of the
sea: and she sighed, too, in heaviness. Oh, if she could but sigh deep
enough, like the wind, to get that burden off her breast! Margaret
sat down on a damp knoll, with all the firs rising up round her like
a congregation of shadows, and the wind sweeping with long complaint,
sadder and sadder over their melancholy branches: and gazed at the gray
old house through her tears. How different it had looked in the morning
sunshine, with her father sitting among his books, and no evil near!
All the color and light had gone out of it now; it was gray as death,
pale, solemn--the old tower and gables rising against a sky scarcely
less gray than they were, the trees swaying wildly about, the clouds
rolling together in masses across the colorless sky.

It was not a time or a place to cheer any one. All the severity of
aspect, which melts so completely out of a Scotch landscape with the
shining of the sun, had come out in fullest force. The trees looked
darker in their leafage, the house paler in its grayness, than houses
and trees are anywhere else. But Margaret did not make any comparisons.
She knew no landscape half so well. She was not disposed to find fault
with it, or wish it more lovely. And for this moment she was not
thinking of the landscape, but of what was going on in that room, where
she could see a little glimmer of fire-light at the window. Both John
and Bell thought it natural and seemly, when there was illness in the
house, that there should be a fire. Dying! oh, the chill and mysterious
terror of the word; lying there smiling, but soon, perhaps at any
moment, Margaret thought, in her inexperience, to be gone out of reach,
out of sight! he who had always been at hand to be appealed to in
every difficulty, to be greeted morning and evening! he who was always
smiling at her, “making a fool of her,” as she had so often complained.
Perhaps there is no desolation so complete as the shrinking and gasp
of the young soul when it first comes thus within sight, within
realization, of death. If it had been she who had to die, Margaret
would not have found it so hard. She would have been ineffably,
childishly, consoled by the thought of the flowers with which she would
be covered, and the weeping of “all the house,” and the broken hearts
of those whom she would leave behind; but nothing of this comforted her
now. For the first time in her life, misery took hold upon her--a thing
that would not be shaken off, could not be staved aside. She sat at the
foot of the big fir-tree, gazing with wide eyes at the gray old house
which was like her father, who was dying. The tears gathered and fell,
minute by minute, from her eyes, blinding her, then showing clearer
than ever, as they fell, the old pale outline, the ruddy glimmer in
that window where he was lying. Why did she not rush to him, to be
with him every moment that remained? But she could not bear it. She
could not go and watch for _that_ coming. To have it over, to get
through the unimaginable anguish anyhow, at any cost, seemed the best
thing, the only thing that remained for her. She had not heard any one
coming, being too much rapt in her own thoughts to pay attention to
what was going on around her; and indeed the moaning of the trees and
the sweep of the wind were enough to silence all other sounds.

Thus Margaret was taken entirety by surprise, when a well-known voice
over her head suddenly addressed her.

“Miss Margaret!” Rob Glen said. He was greatly surprised and very glad,
having heard of the arrival, which he feared would put a stop to the
possibility of his visits. But then he added, in anxious tones, “What
is the matter? you are crying. What has happened?” He thought, so
miserable were her looks, that Sir Ludovic was dead, and it was with
a natural impulse of tenderness and pity that the young man suddenly
knelt down beside her and took her hand quietly between his own.

“Oh no,” said Margaret, with a sob; “not that, not yet! but they tell
me--they tell me--” She could not go any farther for tears.

Rob did not say anything, but he put his lips to her hand, and looked
anxiously in her face. Margaret could not look at him again--could not
speak. She was blind and inarticulate with tears. She only knew that he
wept too, and that seemed to make them one.

“Did _you_ hear _that_?” she said; “is that what everybody
says? I think it will kill me too!”

Rob Glen had no premeditated plan. His heart ached for her, so
desolate, so young, under the moaning firs. He put his arm round her
unconsciously, holding her fast.

“Oh, my poor darling!” he said, “my love! I would die to keep any
trouble from _you_!”

Margaret was entirely overpowered with the sorrow and the sympathy.
She leaned her head upon him unawares; she felt his arm support her,
and that there was a vague comfort in it. She cried and sobbed without
any attempt to restrain herself. No criticism was here, no formal
consolations, nothing to make her remember that now she was a woman,
and must not abandon herself like a child to her misery. He only wept
with her, and after a while began to kiss her hair and her pale cheeks,
murmuring over her, “My Margaret, my poor darling!” She did not hear
or heed what he said. She was conscious of nothing but anguish, with a
vague, faint relief in it, a lessening of the burden, a giving way of
the iron band that had seemed to be about her heart.

When this passion of weeping was spent, the evening had fallen into
dusk. The house had become grayer, paler than ever; the glimmer of the
window more red; the trees about were like ghosts, looming indistinctly
through the gloom; and Rob was kneeling by her with his arms round
her, her head pillowed against him, his face close to hers. There did
not seem anything strange in it to poor Margaret. He was very, very
kind; he had wept, too, breaking his heart like her; it seemed all so
natural, so simple. And she was a little relieved, a little consoled.

“Darling,” he was saying, “I don’t think it can be quite true. The
doctor would not deceive me, and he did not say so. Who should know
best--they who have just come, or we who have been here all the time?
Oh, my sweet, don’t break your dear heart!--that would break mine too.
I don’t think it can be so bad as they say.”

“Oh, do you think so? do you think there is any hope?” said Margaret.

This gave her strength to stir a little, to move from the warm shelter
in which she found herself. But he kept her close to him with a gentle
pressure of his arm.

“Yes, let us hope,” he said; “he is not so old, and he is not very ill.
You told me he was not suffering--”

“No--he ought to know better than they do; he said he was not ill. Oh,
I do not think it can be so bad,” said Margaret, raising herself up,
“and you--don’t think so, Mr. Glen?”

“Do you call me Mr. Glen _still_?” he said, with his lips close to
her ear. “Oh, my darling, don’t tempt me to wish harm to Sir Ludovic.
If I may only comfort you when you are in trouble--if I am to be
nothing to you when you are happy--”

“Oh!” said Margaret, with a deep sigh, “do you think I am happy yet? I
am not quite so wretched, perhaps; but I shall never be happy till papa
is out of danger, till he is well again, sitting in his chair with his
books. Oh, you do not say anything now! You think that will never be--”

“And I working at my drawing,” he said. He did not want to deceive
her, and his voice was husky; but he could not do other than humor
her, whatever shape her fancy might take. “I finishing my drawing,
and making it more like him; and my sweet Margaret sitting by me, not
trying to escape from me: and her kind father giving us his blessing--”

“Oh,” Margaret cried, starting away from him, “it is quite dark, it is
quite late, Mr. Glen.”

“Yes, darling,” he said, rising reluctantly, “I must take you in now;
it is too cold and too late for you, though it has been better than the
brightest day to me.”

“I thought you were sorry for me,” said Margaret. “I thought you were
unhappy too. Oh, were you only glad because I was in trouble, Mr. Glen?”

There was a poignant tone of pain in the question which encouraged Rob.
He caught her hand in his, and drew it through his arm and held her
fast.

“You don’t know,” he said, “because you are so young, and love is new
to you. You don’t know that a man can be happy in his worst misery if
it brings him close, close to the girl he loves.”

Margaret did not say a word. She did not understand: but yet did not
she feel, too, a vague bliss that overwhelmed her in the midst of her
sorrow? The relief that had stolen over her, was it real hope, or only
a vague sense that all must be well because something had come into
her life which made her happy? She was willing to go with Rob, when he
led her, the long way round, through the wood, and by the other side
of the house. He did not want to be circumscribed in his good-night by
the possible inspection of old John or Bell. “This is the best way for
you,” he said, leading her very tenderly along the margin of the wood.
All the way he talked to her in a whisper, saying, Margaret could not
tell what, caressing words that were sweet, though she did not realize
the meaning of them; nor did she in the least resist his “kindness.”
She suffered him to hold her hand and kiss it, and call her all the
tender names he could think of. It seemed all quite natural. She was
half stunned by her sorrow, half intoxicated by this strange sweet
opiate of tender reassurances and impassioned love. It did not occur to
her to make any response, but neither did she repulse him. She trembled
with the strangeness and the naturalness, the consolation, the tremor;
but her mind was so much confused between pain and relief that she
could not realize what this new thing was.

They had come round to the door in the court-yard wall, which was the
chief entrance to the house, and here Rob reluctantly parted with her,
saying a hundred good-byes, and venturing again, ere he let her go,
to kiss her cheek. Margaret was much more startled now than she had
been before, and made haste to draw her hands from his. Then she heard
him utter a little sharp, short exclamation, and he tried to hold her
back. But she was not thinking of spectators. She stepped on through
the door-way, which was open, and came straight upon some one who was
coming out. It did not occur to her to think that he had seen this
parting, or what he had seen. She did not look at the stranger at all,
but went on hurriedly into the court-yard. Rob had dropped her hand as
if it had been a stone. This surprised her a little, but nothing else.
Any necessity for concealment, any fear of being seen, had not entered
into Margaret’s confused and troubled mind, troubled with more than
grief now, with a kind of bewilderment, caused by this something new
which had come upon her unawares, and which she did not understand.

The two young men stood together outside. There was no possibility
of mistake, or chance that they might be unable to recognize each
other. There had been a moment’s intense suspense, and then Randal
Burnside, coming out from his evening inquiries after Sir Ludovic, had
discovered, in spite of himself, the discomfited and abashed lover.
Randal’s surprise was mingled with a momentary pang of disappointment
and pain to think so young a creature as Margaret, and so sweet a
creature, should have thus been found returning from a walk with,
evidently, her lover, and capable of dalliance at such a moment, when
her father was dying. It hurt his ideal sense of what was fit. He had
scarcely renewed his childish acquaintance with her, and had no right
to be disappointed. What did it matter to him whom she walked with, or
what was the fashion of her wooing? But it wounded him to class this
delicate Margaret with the village lasses and their “lads.” He tried
not to look at the fellow, not to surprise her secret. Heaven knows,
he had no desire to surprise anybody’s secret, much less such a vulgar
one as this. But his eyes were quicker than his will, and he had seen
Rob Glen before he was aware. This gave him a greater shock still. He
stared with a kind of consternation, then gave his old acquaintance
a hasty nod, and went on much disturbed, though why he should be
disturbed he could not tell. She was nothing to him--why should he
mind? Poor girl, she had been neglected; there had been no one to train
her, to tell what a lady should do. But Randal felt vexed as if she had
been his sister, that Margaret had not known by instinct how a lady
should behave. He went on more quickly than usual to drive it out of
his mind.

But Rob had the consciousness of guilt in him, and could not take it
so lightly. He thought Randal would betray him; no doubt Randal had
it in his power to betray him; and, on the whole, it might be better
to guard the discovered secret by a confidence. He went hastily after
the other, making his way among the trees; but he had called him two
or three times before Randal could be got to stop. When at last he
did so, he turned round with a half-angry “Well!” Randal did not want
the confidence; he did not care to play the part of convenient friend
to such a hero; he was angry to find himself in circumstances which
obliged him to listen to an explanation. Rob came panting after him
through the gathering dark.

“Mr. Burnside,” he said, breathless, “I must speak to you. I am sure
you could not help seeing who it was that went in as you came out, or
what was between her and me.” Rob could not help a movement of pride, a
little dilation and expansion of his breast.

“I had no wish to notice anything, or any one,” Randal said; “pray
believe me that I never pry into things which are no business of mine.”

“I am sure you are the soul of honor,” said Rob, “but it is better you
should know the circumstances. Don’t think she had come out to meet me.
She had been driven out by despair about her father, and I was in the
wood by chance-- I declare to you, by chance. I might have gone there to
see the light in her window, that was all. But she did not come with
any idea of meeting me.”

“This is quite unnecessary,” said Randal; “I expressed no opinion, and
have no right to form one. I didn’t want to see, and I don’t want to
know--”

“I perceive, however,” said Rob, “that you do not approve of me, and
won’t approve of me; that you think I had no right to do what I have
done, to speak to Mar--”

“Hold your tongue,” said Randal, savagely; “what do you mean by
bringing in a lady’s name?”

Rob blushed to his very shoes; that he should have done a thing which
evidently some private rule in that troublesome unwritten code of a
gentleman, which it was so difficult to master in all its details,
forbade, was worse to him than a crime. The annoyance with which he
felt this took away his resentment at Randal’s tone.

“Of course you are right,” he said; “I made a mistake; but, Mr.
Burnside, you must not judge us too harshly. We have been thrown in
each other’s way all day long, and almost every day. They have allowed
us to be together so much, that we were encouraged to go a little
farther. And she was very unhappy,” he added, with a little tremor in
his voice; “not to console her was beyond the strength of man.”

How Randal would have liked to pitch him over the hedge-row into a
flourishing bed of nettles which he knew to be thereabout! But he
restrained himself, and made a stiff bow instead.

“This is very interesting,” he said, “no doubt; but I fail to see what
I have to do with it. It was not my fault that my coming was at so
indiscreet a moment.”

“Then I may ask you not to betray us,” said Rob; “the circumstances are
peculiar, as you will easily perceive. I should not wish--”

“Really this is doubly unnecessary,” said Randal, angrily; “I am not a
gossip, nor would it occur to me to betray any one. Is not this enough?”

“I should have liked to take you into my confidence,” said Rob, “to ask
your advice--”

“My advice? It could not be of much use.” But why should he be
angry? Other love affairs had been confided to him, and he had not
rejected the confidence; but this fellow was not his friend, and it
was a dastardly thing to take advantage of a poor little girl in her
trouble. “I am no more a judge than I am a gossip,” he said; “take
my assurance that what I saw shall be precisely as if I had not seen
it. Good-night,” he added, abruptly, turning on his heel. Rob found
himself alone in the middle of the road, feeling somehow shrunken and
small, he could not tell why. But presently there burst upon him the
recollection, the realization of all that had happened, and Randal
Burnside’s implied contempt (if it was not rather envy) ceased to
affect him. He turned down the path across the fields where he had
first met Margaret, in a kind of half-delirious triumph. He was “in
love” too, and had that delight quite honestly, if also superficially,
to fill up the measure of his happiness. To be in love with the
girl who can make your fortune, who can set you above all slights
and scorns, and give you all the good things the world contains--is
not that the most astounding piece of good-fortune to a poor man? A
mercenary courtship is always despicable; but to woo the girl whom you
love, notwithstanding that she has the advantage of you in worldly
goods, is permissible, nay, laudable, since it shows you to have a
mind far above prejudice. Rob felt, too, that he had got this crowning
gift of fortune in the most innocent and disinterested way. Had it
been Jeanie whom he had met in trouble-- Jeanie, who was but a poor
servant-lass, and no heiress, and with whom he had been once in love,
as he was now in love with Margaret--his tenderness would all have
come back to him, and he would have exerted himself to console her in
the self-same way. He would have done it by instinct, by nature, out
of pure pity and affectionateness, and warm desire to make her happy,
if he had not done so out of love. The weeping girl would have been
irresistible to him. “And thus I won my Genevieve,” he said to himself,
as he turned homeward in an intoxication of happiness. His success
went to his head like wine. He could have danced, he could have sung,
as he went along the darkling path through the fields. He had won his
Margaret, the prettiest, the sweetest of all his loves. His heart was
all aglow with the thought of her, and melting with tenderness over
her tears and her grief. His beautiful little lady, Margaret! The
others had been but essays in love. He did not forget them; not one of
them but Rob had a kind thought for, and would have been kind to had
occasion served, Jeanie among the rest. He did not suppose for a moment
that it had ever occurred to him to marry Jeanie. She would have been
as unsuitable a wife for a minister as for a prince. He had not meant
very much one way or other; but he had been very fond of Jeanie, and
she of him. He was very fond of her still; and if he had seen her cry
would have been as ready to comfort her as if Margaret did not exist.
But Margaret! Margaret was the queen of all. That white, soft, lady’s
hand! Never any like it had lingered in Rob’s before. He was as happy
as kings very seldom are, if all tales be true, and was no more ashamed
of himself than if he had been a young monarch giving a throne to his
chosen, as soon as he had got clear of Randal Burnside.




CHAPTER XX.


Randal returned to the Manse preoccupied and abstracted, his mother
could not tell why. He brought her word that Sir Ludovic was in the
same condition as before, neither better nor worse, and that the ladies
had arrived; but he told no more.

“Did you see nobody?” Mrs. Burnside asked. Perhaps in her heart she had
hoped that her son might occupy some such post of comforter as Rob Glen
had assumed, if not quite in the same way.

“I saw old John,” said Randal; “the ladies were with their father, and
John was so gruff that I fear things must be looking badly. He grumbled
behind his hand, ‘What change could they expect in a day?’ as if your
inquiries irritated him. I don’t wonder if they do. I think I should be
worried too by constant questions, if any one was ill who belonged to
me.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Randal,” said Mrs. Burnside; “we must always pay
proper respect. You may depend upon it, Jean and Grace are capable of
saying that we paid no attention at all if we did not send twice a day.
One must be upon one’s p’s and q’s with such people. And Margaret--you
saw nothing of poor little Margaret? It is for her my heart bleeds. It
is more a ploy than anything else for Jean and Grace.”

The same remark had been made by Bell in the vaulted kitchen the very
same night. “It’s just a ploy for the leddies,” Bell said; “I heard
them say they were going to look out all the old things in the high
room. You’ll see they’ll have a’ out, and make their regulations, wha’s
to have this, and wha’s to have that; but I say it should all go to
Miss Margret. She’ll have little enough else on the Leslie side of the
house. I’ll speak to Mr. Leslie about it. He has not muckle to say, but
he’s a just man.”

“A wheen auld duds and rubbitsh,” said John, who was busy preparing
still another trayful of provisions for his beleaguered city up-stairs.

“Ay; but leddies think muckle o’ them,” said Bell. They had not
surmounted their sorrow, but already it had ceased to affect them as a
novelty, and all the inevitable arrangements had been brought nearer
by the arrival of the visitors. These arrangements, are they not the
saving of humanity, which without them must have suffered so much more
from the perpetual falling out of one after another familiar figure on
the way? Even now it occupied Bell a little, and the ladies a great
deal, to think of these stores, which must be arranged and disposed
of somehow, in the high room. Margaret’s wild grief and terror were
not within the range of any such consolation; but those who felt less
keenly found in them a great relief.

The day after their arrival, Mrs. Bellingham and her sister went
up-stairs with much solemnity of aspect, but great internal
satisfaction, to do their duty. Sir Ludovic was still “very
comfortable,” he said; but dozed a great deal, and even when he was not
dozing kept his eyes shut, while they were with him. They had remained
by his bedside all the previous evening with the most conscientious
discharge of duty, and Jean had done everything a woman could do to
keep up his spirits, assuring him that he would soon feel himself
again, and planning a hundred things which were to be done “as soon as
you are about.” To say that this never deceived Sir Ludovic, is little.
He listened to it all with a smile, knowing that she was as little
deceived as he was. If he had not been in bed and so feeble, he would
have shrugged his shoulders and said it was Jean’s way. Miss Grace had
not the opportunity to talk, had she wished it; but she did not take
the same line in any case. She stood by him on the other side, and from
time to time put down her face to touch his, and said, “Dearest papa!”
When he wanted anything, she was so anxious to be of use that she would
almost choke him by putting his drink to his lips as if he had been a
baby.

Poor Sir Ludovic was very patient; they amused him as if they had
been a scene in a comedy; but he was very tired when night came, and
this was one of the reasons why he kept his eyes closed next morning.
He woke up, however, when Margaret stole in--a pale little ghost,
large-eyed and trembling. She looked at him so piteously, scarcely able
to speak, that the old man was moved to the very heart, notwithstanding
the all-absorbing languor of his condition. “Are you better to-day,
papa?” she said, in a scarcely audible whisper. When he put out his
hand to her, she took it in both hers, and laid down her pretty head
upon it, and cried silently, her shoulders heaving with suppressed
sobs, though she tried her best, poor child, not to betray them.

“My little Peggy!” said her father, “why is this? Have I not told
you I am very comfortable? And by-and-by I shall be more than
comfortable--happy; so everybody says; and so I believe, too, though it
troubles me not to know a little better. And you will be--like all of
us who have lost our parents. It is a loss that must come, my little
girl.”

“Oh no, no, papa!” her voice was muffled and hoarse with crying. She
could not consent to her own desolation.

“Ah yes, my little girl, it must come; and so we go on to have children
of our own, and then to leave them _à la grace de Dieu_. My Peggy,
listen! If you were old like Jean and Grace, you would not care; and
then think this wonder to yourself: I am glad that my little girl is so
young and breaks her heart. Glad! think of that, my little Peggy. It
is good to see that your little heart is broken. It will mend, but it
warms my old one.”

“Oh, papa!” she cried, kissing his pale hand, “oh, papa!” but could not
lift her head or look him in the face.

“So now, my little girl,” he said, “we will not make believe, you and
I, but acknowledge that we are going to part for a long, long time,
my Peggy. I hope for a very long time; but probably,” he said, with a
smile, “if all is true that we fancy and believe, it will not be so
long for me as for you. I shall have the best of it. You would like
your old father to have the best of it, my little girl?”

At this she lifted her face and gave him a look which said Yes, yes, a
hundred times! but could not speak.

“I knew you would,” he said. “I, you see, will find myself among old
friends; and we will have our talks about what’s come and gone since we
parted, and there will be a great many people to make acquaintance with
that I have known only--in the spirit, as the Bible says;--and there
will be the One, you know, that you say your prayers to, my Peggy. When
you say your prayers, you can fancy (the best of life is fancy,” said
Sir Ludovic, with a faint smile,) “that I’m there somewhere, about
what the Bible calls His footstool, and that He, perhaps, being so
tender-hearted, may call to me and say, ‘Ludovic! here is your little
girl.’”

“Oh, papa! will you say something more, something more?”

“I would if I could, my Peggy; but I am tired again. I’ll have a little
doze now; but sit still and stay by me, my own little girl.”

And there Margaret sat almost all the day. Excessive weeping brought
its own cure, and she could not weep any more, but sat like a snow
statue, except that her eyes were swollen; and by-and-by fell into a
kind of torpor, a doze of the spirit, sitting in the warm stillness,
with no sound but the soft stir of the fire, and sometimes the
appearance of old John, who would open the door stealthily, and look
in with his long, grave, serious face to see if anything was wanted.
Margaret sat holding her father’s hand, stilled by exhaustion and
warmth, and quiet and grief: and Sir Ludovic dozed, opening his eyes
now and then, smiling, dozing again. So the long, still morning went
by.

A very different scene was going on in the high room, which was over
the long room, and as long and large, running the whole width of the
house. It had a vaulted roof, curiously painted with old coats of arms,
and was hung with old tapestry, gradually falling to pieces by process
of time. Several of the windows, which had originally lighted it, had
been built up in the days of the window-tax, and stretching across the
place where two of them had been was a great oak “aumory” or press,
full of those riches which John called “old rubbitsh,” but which were
prized by ladies, Bell knew. There were old clothes enough to have
set up several theatres, costumes of all kinds, sacques and pelisses,
brocade and velvets, feathers and lace. Mrs. Bellingham remembered
specially that there was a drawer full of lace; but Sir Ludovic
had never permitted these treasures to be ransacked when his elder
daughters were at Earl’s-hall. He would not tolerate any commotion over
his head, and accordingly they had been shut out from these delightful
hoards. It was with corresponding excitement now that they opened the
doors, their fingers trembling with eagerness. Mrs. Bellingham had
interpreted something he said into a desire that they should make this
investigation, and had immediately declared that his wish was a law to
her.

“Certainly, Grace,” she had said; “we will do it at whatever cost,
since papa wishes it.”

“Oh yes, if dearest papa wishes it,” said Grace. And Sir Ludovic
smiled, as usual, seeing the whole, with an amused toleration of their
weakness. Jean got out the drawer of lace with nervous anxiety. “It may
be nothing, it may be nothing,” she said, meaning to save herself from
disappointment. She took out the drawer altogether, and carried it to
the window where there was a good light, with her heart beating.

“Don’t be excited, Grace,” she said, “perhaps it is only modern; most
likely mere babies’ caps, Valenciennes and common stuff.” Then she made
a little pause, gave one hurried glance, and produced the one word
“Point!” with an almost shriek.

“Point?” said Miss Grace, pressing forward with the point of her nose;
she was short-sighted, and only thus could she inspect the treasure.
Mrs. Bellingham held her off with one hand, while with the other she
dived among the delicate yellow rags; the excitement grew to a height
when she brought out her hand garlanded with wreaths as of a fairy web.
There was a moment of silent adoration while the two ladies gazed at
it. Some sea-fairy, with curious knowledge of all the starry fishes and
twisted shells, and filmy fronds of weed at the bottom of the ocean,
must have woven this. “Venice! and I never saw finer; and not a thread
broken!” cried the finder, almost faint with delight.

“And enough to trim you from top to toe,” said Grace, solemnly. Bell
coming in jealously on some pretence, saw them, with their hands
uplifted and eyes gleaming, and approached to see what the cause of so
much emotion might be.

“Eh!” said Bell, “the heap o’ things that us poor folk miss for want
o’ kennin’. Is that something awfu’ grand now, leddies, that makes you
look so fain?”

“It is a most lovely piece of lace,” cried Mrs. Jean. “Venice point;
though I fear, Bell, you will not know what that means. Every little
bit done by the needle--you will understand that. Look at all those
little sprays.”

“Eh, leddies,” said Bell. “Ye ken what the fishwife says in ane o’ Sir
Walter’s novels--‘It’s no fish you’re buyin’, but men’s lives.’ Eh,
what heaps o’ poor women’s een must be workit into that auld rag. But
it was my late lady’s a’ the same. I’ve seen her wear it, and many a
time she’s told me the same story. So it will be Miss Margret’s part
o’ her fortune,” said the old house-keeper, with malicious demureness.
This discouraged the investigators considerably.

“I never saw it before,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “but then I knew but
little of the late Lady Leslie; of course, if it was her mother’s it
must be Margaret’s. Fold it up and put it aside, Grace. Was this Lady
Leslie’s too?”

“Na, I canna say; I never saw that before,” said Bell, overwhelmed.
“Eh, that was never made by woman’s fingers. It must be shaped out o’
the gossamer in the autumn mornings, or the foam of the sea.”

But Bell’s presence disturbed the inquiry; it was not until she was
called away to see to Sir Ludovic’s beef-tea that they fully rallied to
their work.

“I don’t believe a word of what that old woman says. Lady Leslie,
indeed! Lady Leslie was not five-and-twenty when she died, poor
thing. Stand out of the way, Grace, don’t come so close. You may be
sure you shall see it all--and no girl understands lace. It might be
her mother’s? Dear me, what a memory you have got, Grace! She had no
mother. She would never have married poor papa if there had been a
mother to look after her. Thank Providence, Margaret will be better
off. This affliction,” said Mrs. Bellingham, with solemnity, “which is
so sad for all of us, will not be without its good side for poor little
neglected Margaret. Though whether it is not too late to make any
change in her--”

“She is very nice-looking,” said Miss Grace, “and being pretty covers a
great deal--at least as long as you are young.”

“Pretty! None of the Leslies were ever ugly,” said her sister; “but
it breaks my heart to look at her. Neither education nor manners. She
might be a country lass at the meanest farm; she might be a fisher-girl
mending nets-- Grace, I wish you would sometimes let me get in a word!
It’s melancholy to see her running about in those cotton frocks, and
think that she is my father’s daughter. We will have our hands full
with chat girl. Now this is old Flanders--there is not very much of it.
I remember it as well as if I had seen it yesterday, on old Aunt Jean.”

“Then that should be yours, for you were her name-daughter--”

“Grace, how can you be so Scotch! Say godchild--you can always say
godchild--it sounds a great deal better!”

“But we were not English Church people when we were born, and there’s
no godmo--”

“I think there never was such a clatter in this world!” cried Mrs.
Bellingham. “Talk--talk--one cannot get in a word! I know papa’s
old-fashioned ways as well as you do, but why should we publish them?
What would anybody think at the Court if it was known that we were
Presbyterians--not that I ever was a Presbyterian after I was old
enough to think for myself.”

“It was being at school,” said Grace; “and a great trouble it was to
have to drive all the way to Fifetown on Sundays, instead of going to
Dr. Burnside. You were married, it didn’t matter for you; but--do you
mean to have Aubrey down, Jean, after all?”

“Of course I mean to have Aubrey,” said Mrs. Bellingham. She had been
carefully measuring on her finger and marking the lengths of the lace,
which was the reason Miss Leslie had been allowed to deliver herself
of so long a speech. “He will perhaps join us somewhere after this sad
time is over. It is not to be supposed that we will be able for much
company at first,” she said, with a sigh. “There are three yards of
the Flanders--too much for a bodice and too little for anything else,
and it would be wicked to cut it. After all we have gone through, of
course there will be a time when we will have no spirits for company;
but Aubrey is not like a stranger. Being my nephew, he will be a kind
of cousin to Margaret. Dear me, I wish I could think there was a good
chance that he would be something more; for the responsibility on you
and me of a young girl--”

“Oh, he will be very willing to be something more,” cried Miss Grace,
with alacrity; “a pretty young creature like Margaret, and a good
income.”

“Her income is but a small one to tempt a Bellingham; but I suppose
because he is my nephew you must have a fling at him. I have often
noticed that inclination in you, Grace. I am sure my family, by
marriage, have never but shown you the greatest attention, and Aubrey
never makes any difference between us. He calls you Aunt Grace, though
you are no more his Aunt Grace-- Here is a very nice piece, I don’t know
what it is. It is English, or perhaps it might be Argentan, or one of
the less known kinds. Would you like to have it? It is very pretty. So
here are three pieces to commence with: the Venice point for Margaret,
if it really was her mother’s--but I don’t believe it--and the Flanders
for me.”

Grace lifted the piece allotted to her now with but scant satisfaction.
It was Jean who had always the lion’s share; it was she who took the
management of everything, and put herself forward. Though Miss Leslie
was very willing to sacrifice herself when occasion offered, she did
not like to be sacrificed calmly by others, without deriving any glory
from it. But she said nothing. There was a great deal more still to
be looked over, and Jean could not always have so good an excuse for
appropriating the best, as she had when she secured Aunt Jean’s old
piece of Flanders lace.

While these very different scenes were going on within the walls of
Earl’s-hall, the old gray house in which so soon the last act of a life
was to be accomplished was the centre of many thoughts and discussions
outside. At the breakfast-table at the Manse Mrs. Burnside read aloud
a letter from Mrs. Ludovic in Edinburgh, asking whether the Minister’s
wife could receive her husband, who was uneasy about his father, and
anxious “to be on the spot,” whatever happened.

 “I thought of sending my Effie with Ludovic, if you would take her
 in,” Mrs. Leslie wrote. “Of course, Earl’s-hall, so little bedroom
 accommodation as they have, is quite full with Jean and Grace and
 their maid. It is very provoking that it should be such a fine old
 house, and one that we would be very unwilling to let go out of the
 family, and yet so little use. Ludovic has always such confidence in
 your kindness, dear Mrs. Burnside, that I thought I might ask you.
 Of course, you will say No _at once_, if it is not convenient.
 Effie is not very strong, and I would like her to have a change; and
 we thought it might be something for poor little Margaret, if anything
 happens, to have some one near her of her own age. She is the one to
 be pitied; and yet she has been sadly neglected, poor child--and I
 don’t doubt but in this, as in other matters, all things will work
 together for good.”

“That’s a sorely misused text,” said the Minister, shaking his head.

“Is this better?” said Randal: “‘Wheresoever the carcass is, there will
the eagles be gathered together.’ They seem all rushing upon their
prey.”

“No, no, you must not say that. Their own father--who should come to
his death-bed but his children? I’ll write and say, ‘Certainly, let
Ludovic come;’ and if you can do without that green room for your
old portmanteaux, Randal, I’ll find a place for them among the other
boxes; and we might take little Effie too. I am always glad to give a
town-child the advantage of good country air.”

“She cannot be such a child if she is the same age as Margaret--”

“And what is Margaret but a child? Poor thing, poor thing! Yes, she has
been neglected; she has not had the up-bringing a lady of her family
should have; but, dear me,” said Mrs. Burnside, who was of the old
school, “I’ve seen such things before, and what harm did it do them?
She cannot play the piano, or speak French, or draw, or even dance,
so far as I can tell; but she cannot but be a lady--it was born with
her--and the questions she asks are just extraordinary. I would not
make a stipulation for the piano myself everywhere; but still there’s
no doubt she has been neglected. Jean and Grace are far from being ill
women; but I don’t think I would like to change old Sir Ludovic, that
never said a harsh word to her, for the like of them.”

“Yes, mother, Margaret can draw. The young fellow who put Sir Ludovic
into his carriage last Sunday, whom you were so impatient of--”

“Me impatient! Randal, you take the very strangest ideas. Why should I
be disturbed, one way or other, by Rob Glen? What about Rob Glen?”

“Not much, except that he is giving her--lessons. It seems he is an
artist--”

“An artist--Rob Glen! But oh, did I not say Mrs. Ludovic was right? She
has been sorely neglected! Not that old Sir Ludovic meant any harm. He
was an old man and she a child; and he forgot she was growing up, and
that a girl is not a child so long as a boy. After all, perhaps, she
will be better in the hands of Grace and Jean.”

“And so the text is not misused, after all,” said the Minister, once
more shaking his head.




CHAPTER XXI.


Ludovic came accordingly, with his little daughter Effie--a sentimental
little maiden, with a likeness to her aunt Grace, and very anxious
to be “of use” to Margaret, who, though only six months older than
herself, was her aunt also. Ludovic himself was a serious, silent
man--not like the Leslies, everybody said, taking after his mother,
who had been a Montgomery, and of a more steady-going race. While Mrs.
Bellingham sat by her father’s side and talked to him about what was to
be done when he was better, saying, “Oh yes, you are mending--slowly,
making a little progress every day, though you will not believe it;”
and Grace stood, eager, too, to “be of use,” touching his cheek--most
generally, poor lady, with her nose, which was cold, and not agreeable
to the patient--and saying, “Dearest papa!” Ludovic, for his part,
would come and sit at the foot of the bed for an hour at a time, not
saying anything, but keeping his serious eyes upon the old man, who was
more glad than ever to doze, and keep his eyes shut, now that so many
affectionate watchers were round him. Now and then Sir Ludovic would
rouse up when they were all taking a rest from their anxious duties, as
Grace expressed it, and “was just his ain man again,” Bell would say.

“Oh, if my children would but neglect me!” he said, when one of these
blessed intervals came.

“There is nobody but me here now, papa,” said Margaret, like a little
shadow in the corner, with her red eyes.

“And that is just as it ought to be, my little Peggy; but who,” he
said, with that faint little laugh, which scarcely sounded now at all,
but abode in his eyes with all its old humor--“who will look after your
pronouns when I am away, my little girl?” But sometimes he moaned a
little, and complained that it was long. “Could you not give me a jog,
John?” he would say; “I’m keeping everybody waiting. Jean and Grace
will lose their usual holiday, and Ludovic has his business to think
of.”

“They’re paying you every respect, Sir Ludovic,” said John, not feeling
that his master was fully alive to the domestic virtue exhibited by
his children. Perhaps John, too, felt that to keep up all the forms of
anxious solicitude was hard for such a lengthened period, which made
the “respect” of the group around Sir Ludovic’s death-bed more striking
still. Sir Ludovic smiled, and repeated the sentiment with which he
began the conversation--“I wish my children would but neglect me.” But
he was always patient and grateful and polite. He never said anything
to Grace about her cold nose; he did not tell Ludovic that his steady
stare fretted him beyond measure; he let Jean prattle on as she would,
though he knew that what she said was all a fiction. Sir Ludovic was
never a more high-bred gentleman than in this last chapter of his life.
He was bored beyond measure, but he never showed it. Only when he was
alone with his little daughter, with the old servants who loved him,
who always understood him more or less, and always amused him, which
was, perhaps, as important, he would rouse up by moments and be his old
self.

As for Margaret, she led the strangest double life--a life which no
one suspected, which she did not herself realize. They made her go to
bed every night, though she came and went, a white apparition, all the
night through, to her father’s door to listen, lest anything should
happen while she was away from him; and in the evenings after dinner,
when the family were all about Sir Ludovic’s bed, she would steal out,
half reluctant, half eager, half guilty, half happy; guilty because of
the strange flutter of sick and troubled happiness that would come upon
her.

“Yes, my bonnie lamb, ye’ll get a moment to yoursel’; gang your ways
and get a breath of air,” Bell would say, all unwitting that something
else was waiting for Margaret besides the fresh air and soft soothing
of the night.

“I will be in the wood, Bell, where you can cry upon me. You will be
sure to cry upon me if there’s any need.”

“My bonnie doo! I’ll cry soon enough; but there will be no need,” said
the old woman, patting her shoulder as she dismissed her.

And Margaret would flit along the broken ground where the potatoes had
been, where her feet had made a path, and disappear into the sighing
of the firs, which swept round and hid her amidst the perplexing
crowd of their straight columns. There was one tree, beneath the
sweeping branches of which some one was always waiting for her. It
was a silver-fir, with great angular limbs, the biggest in the wood,
and the little mossy knoll between its great roots was soft and green
as velvet. There Rob Glen was always waiting, looking out anxiously
through the clear evenings, and with a great gray plaid ready to wrap
her in when it was cold or wet. They did not feel the rain under the
great horizontal branches of the firs, and the soft pattering it made
was more soothing than the wild sweep of the wind coming strong from
the sea. There the two would sit sheltered, and look out upon the gray
mass of Earl’s-hall, with that one ruddy lighted window.

Margaret leaned upon her lover, whom, in her trouble, she did not
think of as her lover, and cried and was comforted. He was the only
one, she felt, except, perhaps, Bell, who was really good to her, who
understood her, and did not want her to be composed and calm. He never
said she should not cry, but kissed her hands and her cheek, and said
soft caressing words: “My darling! my Margaret!” His heart was beating
much more loudly than she could understand; but Rob, if he was not all
good, had a certain tenderness of nature in him, and poetry of feeling
which kept him from anything which could shock or startle her. At
these moments, as the long summer day darkened and the soft gloaming
spread over them, he was as nearly her true and innocent and generous
lover as a man could be who was not always generous and true. He was
betraying her, but to what?--only to accept his love, the best thing
a man had to give; a gift, if you come to that, to give to a queen.
He was not feigning nor deceiving, but loved her as warmly as if he
had never loved any one before, nor meant to love any other again. And
then he would go toward the house with her, not so far as he went that
first night in over-boldness, when they were caught--an accident he
always remembered with shame and self-reproach, yet a certain pride,
as having proved to Randal Burnside, once for all, his own inferiority,
and that he, Rob Glen, had hopelessly distanced all competitors,
however they might build upon being gentlemen. He led her along the
edge of the wood always under cover, and stole with her, under shadow
of the garden-wall, to the corner, beyond which he did not venture.
Then he would take her into his arms unresisted, and they would linger
for a moment, while he lavished upon Margaret every tender name he
could think of--

“Remember that I am always thinking of you, always longing to be by
you, to support you, to comfort you, my darling.”

“Yes, I will remember,” Margaret said, meekly, and there fluttered a
little forlorn warmth and sweetness about her heart; and then he would
release her, and, more like a shadow than ever, would stand and watch
while she flitted along the wall to the great door.

And what thoughts were in Rob’s mind when she was gone! That almost
innocence, and nobleness and truth, which had existed in the emotion of
their meeting, disappeared with Margaret, leaving him in a tumult of
other and less noble thoughts. He knew very well that he had beguiled
her, though he meant nothing but love and devotion to her. He had
betrayed her, in the moment of her sorrow, into a tacit acceptance of
him, and committal of herself from which there was no escape. Rob knew
very well--no one better--that there were girls who took such love
passages lightly enough; but to a delicate little maiden, “a lady,”
like Margaret, he knew there could be but one meaning in this. Though
she had scarcely responded at all, she had accepted his tenderness,
and committed herself forever. And he knew he had betrayed her into
this, and was glad with a bounding sense of delight and triumph such
as made him almost spurn the earth. This occurrence gave him, not only
Margaret, whom he was in love with, and whose society was for the time
sweeter to him than anything in the world, but with her such a dazzling
flood of advantages as might well have turned any young man’s head:
a position such as he might toil all his life for, and never be able
to reach: money, such as would make him admired and looked up to by
everybody he knew: a life of intoxicating happiness and advancement,
with no need to do anything he did not care to do, or take any further
trouble about his living, one way or another. Rob’s organization was
not so fine as to make him unwilling to accept all these advantages
from his wife; in practical life there are indeed very few men who are
thus delicately organized; neither were his principles so high or so
honorable as to give him very much trouble about the manner in which he
had won all this, by surprise. He just felt it, just had a sense that
there was something here to be slurred over as much as possible--but it
did not spoil his pleasure. It was, however, terribly difficult to know
what it would be best to do in the circumstances, what step he should
next take: whether he should boldly face the family, on the chance that
Sir Ludovic would be glad before he died to see his daughter with a
protector and companion of her own, or whether it was wise to keep in
the background, and watch the progress of events, keeping that sure
hold upon Margaret herself, which he felt he could now trust to. He
had done her good; he had been more to her than any one else, and had
helped her to bear her burden; and he had thus woven himself in with
every association of her life, at its, as yet, most important period,
and made himself inseparable from her.

He had no fear of losing his hold of Margaret. But from the family,
the brother and sisters who were like uncle and aunts to the young
creature, Rob knew very well he should find little mercy. They would
all want to make their own out of her, he felt sure; for it is hard,
even when escaping from all sensation of vulgarity in one’s person, to
get rid of that deeply-rooted principle of vulgarity which shows itself
in attributing mean motives to other people. This birth-stain of the
meaner sort, not always confined to the lower classes, was strong in
him. He did not feel that it was her fortune and her importance which
made Margaret valuable in his own eyes (for was he not in love?), but
he had no hesitation in deciding that her family and all about her must
look at her in this mercenary light. They certainly would not let her
fortune slip through their fingers if they could help it. There might
be some hope of a legitimate sanction from Sir Ludovic, who was beyond
the reach of any advantage from his daughter’s money, and might like to
feel that she was “settled” and safe; but there could be no hope from
the others. They would have plans of their own for her. The Leslies
were known not to be rich, and an heiress was not a thing to be lightly
parted with. They would keep her to themselves; of that he was sure.
And at such a moment as this, what chance was there of reaching Sir
Ludovic’s bedside, and gaining his consent? It would be impossible to
do so without running the gauntlet of all the family; it would make a
scene, and probably hurt the old man or kill him.

Thus he was musing, as after an interval he followed Margaret’s course
under the shadow of the garden-wall, meaning to make his way out by
what was called the avenue, though it was merely a path opened through
the belt of wood, which was thin on that side, to the gate in the
high-road. But this spot was evidently unlucky to Rob. When he was
about to pass the door of Earl’s-hall, he met Mr. Leslie coming out.
Mr. Leslie was one of the men who are always more or less suspicious,
and he had just seen Margaret, with her hat in her hand and the fresh
night air still about her, going up the winding stair. Ludovic looked
at the man walking along under the wall with instinctive mistrust.

“Did you want anything?” he asked, hastily. “This path is private, I
think.”

“I think not,” said Rob; “at least everybody has been free to pass as
long as I can remember; but I was on my way,” he added, thinking it
good to try any means of conciliation, “to ask for Sir Ludovic.”

“There is no change,” said Mr. Leslie, stiffly. He was himself, to tell
the truth, very weary of this invariable answer, but there was nothing
else to be said; and he tried to see who the inquirer was, but was
unable to make him out in the late dusk. He had never seen him before,
for one thing. “You are from--”

“I am from nowhere,” said Rob. “I don’t suppose you know me at all, Mr.
Leslie, or even my name. I am Robert Glen; but Sir Ludovic has been
very kind to me. He has allowed me to come and sketch the house, and
latterly I have seen a great deal of him. His illness has grieved me as
much--as if I had a right to be grieved. He was very kind. Latterly I
saw a great deal of him.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Leslie. He had heard the people at the Manse talking
of Rob Glen, and he had seen Margaret’s return a minute before.
What connection there might be between these two things he did not
very clearly perceive; but there seemed to be something, and he was
suspicious, as indeed he had a right to be.

“Is he too ill--to ask to see him?” said Rob, with a sense that a
refusal would take all the responsibility off his shoulders. If he
could see Sir Ludovic it might be honorable to explain everything; but
if not--

“See him!” said Mr. Leslie; “I don’t know what your acquaintance
may be with my father, Mr. Glen, but he is much too ill to see
anybody--scarcely even his own children. I am leaving early, as you
perceive, because I feel that it is too much for him to have even all
of ourselves there.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” said Rob, with the proper expression in
his voice; but in reality he was relieved; no need now to say anything
to the family. He had Margaret only to deal with, and in her he could
fully trust, he thought. “I began a sketch of Sir Ludovic,” he said,
“for which he had promised me a second sitting; will you kindly ask
Miss Margaret Leslie to send it back to me, that I may finish it for
her as well as I can? Poor though my drawing was, it will have its
value now.”

“I will tell my sister,” said Mr. Leslie, and he swung open the gate
and waited till Rob passed through. “Good-night,” said the young man.
It was better in any case to be courteous and friendly, if they would
permit it, with “the family.” But Mr. Leslie only made an indistinct
murmur in the darkness. He gave no articulate response; there was no
cordiality on his side; and why, indeed, should he be cordial to the
farmer’s son? Rob went quickly homeward, forcing a smile of contempt,
though there was nobody to see. This haughty and distant personage
would yet learn to respond to any salutation his sister’s husband
might make; he would have to be civil, if nothing more, Rob said
within himself. What was he that he should be so high and mighty? An
Edinburgh advocate working for his living, a poor laird at the best,
with a ramshackle old house for all his inheritance. Thus the vulgar
came uppermost again in Rob’s heart; he scorned for his poverty the man
with whom he was indignant for scorning him, because he was unknown
and poor. He hurried home with this little fillip of additional energy
given to all his schemes. His mother was standing at the door as he
approached, looking out for him, or perhaps only looking to see the
last of the cows looming through the dusk coming in from the fields.
He was absent every night, and Mrs. Glen wanted to know where he went.
She was getting impatient on all points, and had determined to wait no
longer for any information he might have to give.

“Where have you been?” she asked, as he came in sight.

“To Earl’s-hall.”

“To Earl’s-hall! And what have you been doing at Earl’s-hall? No
drawing and fiddling while the poor auld man lies dying? Ye’re ill
enough, but surely you have not the heart for that?”

“I have neither been drawing nor fiddling--indeed I did not know that
I could fiddle; but, all the same, I have come from Earl’s-hall,” he
said. “Let me in, mother; I’ve been sitting in the wood, and the night
has got cold.”

“What have you been doing--sitting in the wood? There’s no light to
take your views--tell me,” said Mrs. Glen, with determination, “what
have you been doing, once for all.”

“I may as well tell you,” he said; “I have been sitting in the wood
with Margaret.”

“With--Margaret? you’re no blate to speak o’ a young lady like that.
Rob, my bonnie man, I aye thought you were to be the lucky bairn of my
family. Have ye naething mair to tell me about--Margaret? I would like
weel, real weel, to hear.”

“Can you keep a secret, mother?” he said. “I will tell you something if
you will swear to me never to repeat it, never to hint at it, never to
brag of what is coming, or to give the slightest ground for suspicion:
if you will promise me this--”

“I was never a tale-pyet,” said Mrs. Glen, offended, “nobody ever laid
tittle-tattle, or bragging of ony kind, to my door. But if you canna
trust your mother without promises, I see not why you should trust her
at all.”

“It is not that I doubt you, mother; but you know how difficult it is
not to mention a thing that is much in your mind. Margaret Leslie is my
own; it is all settled and fixed between us. She came out to me in her
trouble when she found her father was dying, and what could I do but
comfort her, and support her, and show my feeling--”

“Oh, ay, Rob,” his mother interpolated, “you were aye grand at that!”

“What could a man do else?--a sweet young creature like Margaret Leslie
crying by his side! I told her, what I suppose she knew very well
before, for I never hide my feelings, mother, as you say. And the issue
is, she’s mine. However it was done, you will not say but what it was
well done. I have been fond of her since ever I can remember.”

“And of twa-three mair,” said Mrs. Glen, “but no a word o’ that, Rob my
man. Eh, but I’m weel pleased! That’s what I’ve been thinking of since
the very week you came hame. ‘Now if Rob, with all his cleverness,
could get that bonnie Miss Margret,’ I said to mysel’. The Lord bless
ye, my man! I aye thought you were born to be the lucky one of my
family. Is it a’ in her ain disposition, or have the family ony power
over it, Rob? Eh, my bonnie man, what a down-sitting! and the bonniest
leddy in Fife of her years. You’re a lucky lad, if ever there was one.”

“Let me in, mother; I don’t want to tell this to any ears but yours.”

“Ay, ay, my man, I’ll let you in,” said his mother, standing aside from
the door. “Come in and welcome, my lucky lad. Is there anything you
would like for your supper? Naething in a’ the house is ower good for
such good news. We’ll take a bottle o’ wine out of the press, or maybe
ye would like a drap toddy just as well, which is mair wholesome. Come
in, come in, my bonnie man. A bonnie lass, and plenty wi’ her; and a
real auld family an honor to anybody to be connected with. My word, Rob
Glen, you’re a lucky lad! Wha will look down upon you now? Wha will
say a word about your opinions? I’ve never upbraided you mysel’; I saw
your talents, and felt ye could bide your time. Eh,” cried Mrs. Glen,
exultant, “wha will say now but that marriages are made in heaven? And
Rob, my bonnie man, when is it to be?”

“We are not so far as that, mother,” he said; “do you think she has
the heart to think of marrying, and poor old Sir Ludovic lying on his
death-bed? We must wait for all that. I’m too happy in the mean time to
think of more. She’s mine; and that is more than I could have hoped.”

“That’s very true, my man: but still something settled would have been
a grand stand-by,” said Mrs. Glen, slightly disappointed; “I would have
thought now it would have been a great comfort to Sir Ludovic to see
his daughter married and settled before he slips away. But the gentry’s
ways are not as our ways. I’m doubting you’ll have some trouble with
the family, if nothing’s settled afore the auld gentleman dies.”

“I doubt I will, mother,” said Rob; “but whatever trouble I may have,
Margaret’s mine, and she will never go back from her word.”




CHAPTER XXII.


At last the time came when old Sir Ludovic’s dozing and drowsiness,
his speculations, and the gleam of humor with which they were
all accompanied, and which most of those around him thought so
inappropriate to his circumstances, came to an end. All his affairs
were in order, his will made, though he had not much to leave, and Dr.
Burnside (which was a great satisfaction to the family) paid him a
daily visit for the last week of his life; so that everything was done
decently and in order. Dr. Burnside had not so very much to say to the
old man. He had no answer to give to his questions. He bade Sir Ludovic
believe. “And so I do,” he said; he could not be got to be frightened;
and now that he had got over the shock of it, and into that dreamy
slumbrous valley of the shadow, he did not even wish to avoid what was
coming. “It is not so bad as one thinks,” he said to old John, his
faithful servant, and to the good minister, who was approaching old age
too, though not so near as either of these old men. Dr. Burnside was a
little disturbed by the smile on his patient’s face, and hoped it did
not show any inclination toward levity; but he was glad to hear, having
that journey in view, that it was not so bad as one thought. “He is a
man of a very steady faith,” the Minister said, and he himself was wise
enough to let Sir Ludovic glide away out of the world with that smile
upon his face.

As for Jean and Grace, they did their best to disturb their father and
to unsettle him, and insinuated that Dr. Burnside’s instructions were
of an unsatisfactory kind. Even Bell held it unorthodox that, except in
cases of religious triumph and ecstasy, which no doubt were on record,
a human creature should leave this earth smiling, to appear in the
presence of his Maker, as she said. Mrs. Bellingham did all she could
to question her father on the subject, but was not successful. “Leave
him in peace,” his son said; but neither was Mr. Leslie satisfied. It
was very strange to them all. The old man did not even seem to feel
that anxiety for Margaret’s future which they expected, and never made
that solemn appeal to them to take care of her, to which both the
sisters were prepared to respond, and which even Ludovic expected,
though he felt that, with such a large family of his own, nothing much
could be looked for from him. But Sir Ludovic made no appeal. He said
“My little Peggy,” when all other words had failed him; and on the very
last day of his life a gleam as of laughter crossed his face, and he
shook his head faintly at her when she said “me” instead of “I,” and
thus faded quite gently and pleasantly away.

There was silence in Earl’s-hall that night, silence and quiet,
scarcely a whisper even between the sisters, who generally had a
meeting in Mrs. Bellingham’s room for a last discussion of everything
that had passed, notwithstanding that they were all the day together.
But on this evening nobody talked. Ludovic went away with the Minister
and ate a solemn late meal, having, as everybody said, eaten nothing
all day (but that was a mistake, for he had not been called to the last
ceremonial till after luncheon). And in Earl’s-hall everybody went to
bed. They had been keeping irregular hours, had sometimes sat late, and
sometimes been called early; and John and Bell, in particular, had not
for a week past kept any count which was night and which was day. A
few broken phrases about “him yonder,” a groan from John, a few tears
rubbed off, till her eyes were red, by Bell’s apron, and the sound of
“greeting” from Jeanie’s little turret-room, was almost all that could
be heard in the silent house. Margaret, for her part, could not “greet”
as Jeanie did. She was stunned, and did not know what had happened to
her. For the moment it was over; the worst had come, and a blank of
utter exhaustion came over the girl. She allowed herself to be put to
bed, and did nothing but sigh, long sighs which went to Bell’s heart,
sighs which seemed almost a physical necessity to the young bosom
oppressed with such an unknown burden. Mrs. Bellingham (though she was
not quite satisfied in her mind) said a few words to her maid that it
was a most peaceful end, that it was beautiful to see him lying there
at rest just as if he were asleep; and Miss Leslie cried copiously, and
said “Dearest papa!” They were all in bed by ten o’clock, and the old
gray house shut up and silent. A dark night, the wind sweeping through
the firs, everything silent and hushed in earth and heaven, and all
dark except the one window in which a faint watch-light burned palely,
but no longer the warm, inconstant glimmer of any cheerful fire.

But with the morning, what a flood of pent-up energy and activity was
let loose. They were all anxious to keep quiet in Margaret’s part of
the house, that she might sleep as long as possible and be kept out of
every one’s way. The arrangements into which everybody else plunged
were not for her. The first thing to be thought of, of course, Mrs.
Bellingham said, was the mourning, and there was not a moment’s time to
lose. Telegraphs were not universally prevalent in those days, and one
of the men from the farm had to be sent on horseback to Fifeton to send
a message to Edinburgh about the bombazine and the crape.

As Sir Ludovic had anticipated, his daughter Jean did not stint him
of a single fold; she meant to show “every respect.” Fortunately
Steward, their maid, was quite equal to the occasion, both the ladies
congratulated themselves. “Of course, we shall want no evening dresses,
nothing beyond the mere necessary here,” Mrs. Bellingham said. “One
for the morning and another to go out with, a little more trimmed,
that will be all.” But even for this little outfit a good deal of
trouble had to be taken. That very evening a man arrived from Edinburgh
with mountains of crape and boxes full of hemstitched cambric for
the collars and cuffs. There was crape all over the house--even Bell
and Jeanie had their share--no stint. When a man has been so much
thought of as Sir Ludovic, and has a respectable family whose credit
is involved in showing him every respect, a good deal of quiet bustle
becomes inevitable; the house was full of whispers, of consultations,
of measurements, and a great hurry and pressure to get done in time for
the funeral; though the funeral was delayed long, according to use and
wont in the country.

Mr. Leslie, on his part, went over all the house, and walked diligently
about the farm and inspected everything, though, being a silent man,
he said little about it. It was too early to say anything. When his
sisters put questions to him about what he was going to do, he said he
had not made up his mind; and it was only when the funeral was over,
and the shutters opened, and old Sir Ludovic’s chair put against the
wall, that he at all opened his mind. Nearly a week passed in this
melancholy interval; he had become Sir Ludovic himself, but nobody in
Earl’s-hall could give him the familiar title; old John ground his
teeth together (though he had not many left) and tried to get it out,
but the conclusion was a hurried exclamation,

“I canna do it! Pit me away, sir. Bell and me, we’re ready to gang
whenever ye please; but I canna ca’ ye your right name.”

The new Sir Ludovic, though he said little, had a kind heart. He said,
“Never mind, John; tell Bell never to mind;” but Mrs. Bellingham had no
such feeling. She said it was ridiculous in servants, when the family
themselves had to do it. “I hope I know what is due to the living as
well as to the dead,” she cried; “and if I can say it, why should not
John?”

But at first, no doubt, it was difficult enough. After the funeral,
however, the new Sir Ludovic went “home” to Earl’s-hall, where his wife
came and joined him. The eldest boy, too, arrived for the ceremony
itself, and walked with his father to the church-yard as one of the
chief mourners. The house was filled to overflowing with the family
as soon as the last act of old Sir Ludovic’s earthly history was
accomplished. Beds were put in the high room to accommodate the boys.
It was all novelty to them, who had not known very much of their
grandfather, and their mother liked being my lady. It was natural. She
had not known much of the old man any more than her children had, and
he was only her father-in-law--not a very tender relationship. Thus
the new tide rose at once, and new life came in. Had there been only
the elders in the house, no doubt they would have kept up a drowsy
appearance of gravity; but that was not to be done with young people in
the house.

As for Margaret, this period passed over her like a dream. While the
house was shut up, and everything went on in a pale twilight, she
wandered about like a ghost, not knowing what to do or say, unable
to take up any of her occupations. It seemed years to her, centuries
since the careless time when she went and came so lightly, fearing
no evil; trying to draw straight lines with an ineffectual pencil;
flitting out and in of her father’s room; getting out books for him;
searching for something she might read herself; taking up for half an
hour Lady Jean’s old work; knitting a bit of Bell’s stocking; roaming
everywhere about as light as the wind. All that, Margaret thought,
was over forever; but she did not “break her heart” altogether, as
she supposed she would. Sometimes, indeed, an aching sense of loss, a
horrible void about her would make her heart sick, and her whole being
giddy with pain; but in the intervals life went on, and she found that
it was possible to sit at table, to talk to the others, to have her
dresses fitted on. And when the children came, there were moments when
she felt inclined to smile at their curious little ways, even (was that
possible?) to laugh at little Loodie, who was the youngest of the boys,
and never, Heaven forbid! would be Sir Ludovic. Bell, too, found little
Loodie “a real diverting bairn.” “Eh, if his grandpapaw had but been
here to see him!” she said, with tears and smiles.

But Margaret, naturally, was more unwilling to be “diverted” than Bell
was. When she was beguiled into a smile at little Loodie, it was very
unwillingly, and she would recover herself with a sense of guilt; for
it was a terrible revelation to Margaret, a most painful discovery
to feel that a smile was possible even within a week of her father’s
death, and that her heart was not altogether broken. She wept for her
own heartlessness as well as for her dear father, of whom she had
thought beforehand that all she wished for would be to be buried in his
grave.

But she went out of the house only once between the death and the
funeral. Rob, for his part, roamed round about it, and stayed for hours
in the woods, looking for her; but it seemed to Margaret that for the
moment she shrank from Rob. Oh, how could she have thought of Rob, or
any one, while he lay dying? How could she have gone out and spent
those hours in the wood with him, which might have been spent with
Sir Ludovic? What would she give now, she said to herself, to be able
to steal up-stairs to him, to sit by his bedside, to hold his hand,
to hear him say “My little Peggy” again. Now that this was no longer
possible, she felt a kind of resentment against Rob, who had occupied
her at times when it was still possible. And the state of his mind
during this interval was not pleasant to contemplate. When he had asked
once or twice for the ladies, he had no further excuse for returning
openly, and he was afraid to be seen lest he should again meet some
one--perhaps the new Sir Ludovic himself--who had not been delighted
by his previous appearance, or some jealous spectator like Randal
Burnside.

Rob stood for hours behind the big fir-tree looking toward the house
in which there were more lights now, but no glimmer in that window
which had been his beacon for so long, and more voices audible--never
Margaret’s soft notes, like a bird. He was very fond of Margaret. Those
dreary evenings when she was kept from him, or kept herself from him,
Rob was wild with love, and fear, and disappointment. Could _they_
have found it out? could _they_ be keeping her away? He stood
under the fir-tree scarcely daring to move, and watched with his heart
beating in his ears. Sometimes John would loom heavily across the
vacant space, coming out again, according to his old habit, to “take
a look at the potatoes.” Sometimes Bell would appear at the opening
of the little court-yard to “cry upon” her husband when something was
wanted. “There’s aye something wanting now,” John would say, as he
turned back. Or Rob would see some one at the wall, drawing water,
under the shade of the thorn-tree, without knowing who it was, or
that there were any thoughts of himself, except those which might be
in Margaret’s bosom, within the gray shadow of those old walls. How
breathlessly he watched John’s lumbering steps about the potatoes, and
the whiteness of Bell’s aprons, and the clang of the water-pails!

But no one came. Had she accepted his consolations only because there
was no one else to comfort her, without caring for him who breathed
them in her ear? Were all his lofty hopes to end in nothing, and his
love to be rejected? Terror and anxiety thrilled through Rob as he
stood and watched, tantalized by all those sounds and half-seen sights.
Once only she came, and then she would say little or nothing to him:
she had never said much; but she shrank from his outstretched arms now,
crying, “Don’t, don’t!” in tones half of terror. That one meeting was
a greater disappointment than when she did not come at all. Had she
but been taking advantage of him, as great people, Rob knew, were so
ready to take advantage of small people? And now that she needed him
no longer, was she about to cast him off? In that case, all his fine
anticipations, all his triumph, would be like Alnascher’s hopes in
the story. His very heart quailed in terror. The disappointment, the
downfall, the decay of hopes and prospects would be more than he could
bear.

The truth was that Margaret, left all alone suddenly in the midst of
what to her was a crowd of people, all more or less strangers, seemed
to have lost the power of doing so much for herself as to go anywhere.
Though they amused her sometimes in spite of herself, they kept her in
a kind of subjugation which was very confusing and very novel.

“Where are you going, Margaret?” Mrs. Bellingham would say, if she went
across the room.

“Darling Margaret, don’t leave us,” Grace would add, next time she
moved. Even Effie, who was so anxious to be “of use,” would interfere,
throwing her arms about her youthful aunt, whispering, “You are not to
go to your own room and cry. Oh, come with me to the tower, and look at
the sunset.”

“Yes, my dear Margaret, go with Effie; it will take off your thoughts a
little,” said the new Lady Leslie.

Thus Margaret had weights of kindness hung round her on every side,
and was changed in every particular of her life from the light-hearted
creature who flitted about like the wind, in and out a hundred times a
day. Even Bell approved of this thraldom.

“Ah, my bonnie dear, keep wi’ Miss Effie. She’s your ain flesh and
blood. What would you do out your lane when you have sic company?”

“I always went out alone before,” Margaret said, mechanically turning
up-stairs again.

“Yes, my bonnie doo; but you hadna a bonnie young Miss, a cousin of
your ain (for niece is but a jest), to keep ye company.”

Thus Margaret was held fast. And by-and-by her habit of wandering out
would probably have been broken, and she might have been carried away
by her sisters safe out of all contact or reach of her lover. For the
lover, as will be seen, was not violently in Margaret’s mind. If she
missed him, there were so many other things that she missed more! He
was but part of the general privation, impoverishment of her life. She
had lost everything, she thought--her father, her careless sweetness of
living, her light heart, the sunshine of her morning. All these other
happinesses being gone, how could Margaret make an effort for Rob only?
She was not strong enough to do this. She was not even unwilling to let
him go with all the rest. Perhaps there was ingratitude in the feeling.
He had been very “kind” to her, had given her a little comfort of sweet
sympathy in her trouble. It was ungrateful to forget that now; and she
did not forget it, but was too languid, too weary, and had lost too
much already to be able to make any effort for this. Meanwhile, while
she sat in a kind of lethargy within, and followed the directions of
all about her, and let him drop from her, Rob roamed about outside,
gnashing his teeth, sometimes almost cursing her, sometimes almost
praying for her, watching every door and window, holding the post of a
most impatient sentinel under the great fir-tree.

It happened to Margaret, however, one evening to find herself alone.
Mrs. Bellingham had a headache, a thing which was not generally
regarded as a great calamity in places where Mrs. Bellingham paid
visits. It confined her to her room, and it was, on the whole, not a
disagreeable change for her friends. Her sister, who in weal and woe
was inseparable from her, though she would have been glad enough to
escape too, was, under Jean’s orders, writing letters for her in her
room. And the new proprietors of Earl’s-hall were glad enough for
once to be by themselves. They took a conjugal walk about the place,
examining into everything--the ruined part to see if anything could be
done to it; the stables, which had been made out of part of the ruin;
even the pigsty, which was John’s favorite spot in the demesne. The
subject of consideration in the mind of the pair was whether the old
place, with all its associations, should be sold, or whether anything
could be done with it, cheaply, to adapt it for the country residence
of the family. In its present state, certainly, it did not take much
to “keep up;” but, on the other hand, the rental of the little scraps
of estate which old Sir Ludovic had left scarcely justified the new
Sir Ludovic, with his large family, in “keeping up” any country place
at all. To decide upon this subject was the reason of Lady Leslie’s
presence here.

And Effie, whose mourning was less deep, and her mind less affected
by “the family loss” than Margaret, had gone to visit Mrs. Burnside.
Even little Loodie was being put to bed. Margaret, for the first time
since her father’s death, was alone. She had found that day, among a
collection of papers into which it had been shuffled heedlessly amidst
the confusion of the moment, the drawing of her father which Rob Glen
had begun on his first appearance at Earl’s-hall; and this had plunged
her back into all that fresh agitation of loss and loneliness which is,
in its way, a kind of pleasure to the mind, instead of the dull stupor
of habitual grief which follows upon the immediate passion of an event.
She had wept till her eyes and her strength were exhausted, but her
heart relieved a little; and then that heart yearned momentarily for
some one to comfort her. Where was _he_? She had not thought of
him in this aspect before--perhaps looking for her, perhaps waiting for
her, he who had been so “kind.” She put on her hat with the heavy gauze
veil which Jean had thought necessary. She was all hung and garlanded
with crape, the hat itself wrapped in a cloud of it, her dress covered
with it, so that Margaret’s very movements were hampered. The grass
always damp, more or less, the mossy underground beneath the firs,
the moist brown earth of the potato-ground, were all alike unsuitable
for this heavy and elaborate robe of mourning. Margaret gathered it
about her and put on her hat, with its thick black gauze veil--she did
not know herself in all this panoply of woe--and went out. There was
nobody about. John was showing the new Baronet his pigsty, and Bell,
more comforted and cheerful than she had yet felt, stood in the door
of the byre and talked to Lady Leslie about her favorite, her bonnie
brown cow. The old people were amused and pleased; they were more near
“getting over it” than they had felt yet; and even John began to feel
that it might be possible, after a while, to say Sir Ludovic again.

Margaret went out, hearing their voices, though she did not see them.
She had no feeling of bitterness toward her brother, though he was
assuming possession of her old home. He had not much to say, but he was
kind; and good Lady Leslie was a good mother, and could not but speak
softly and think gently of everybody. They were, perhaps, a humdrum
and somewhat care-worn couple, but no unkindness was in them. It gave
Margaret no pang to hear them talking about Bell’s beloved Brownie or
what they were to do with the stables, neither did it occur to her to
take any pains not to be seen by them. It was still light, but the
evening was waning, the sky glowing in the west, the shadows gathering
under the fir-trees in the woods which lay to eastward of the house.
She made her way to her usual haunt, her feet making no sound on the
soft path. Would he be there, waiting for her as in that dreadful
time? or would he have gone away? Margaret had not enough animation
left to feel that she would be disappointed if he were not there, but
yet her heart was a little lighter, for the first time relieved from
the dull burden of sorrow which is so intolerable to youth. And who
can say with what transport Rob Glen saw this slim black-clad figure
detach itself from the shadow of the house? He had come here, as he
said to himself, half indignantly, half sullenly, for the last time,
to wait for her--the last time he would come and wait--but not on that
account would he give up the pursuit of her. She was his--that he would
maintain with all his force. He would write to her next day, and ask
why she did not come. He would let her feel that he had a claim upon
her, that she could not cast him off when she pleased. But in his very
vehemence there was a tremor of fear, and it is impossible to describe
with what feelings of anxiety he had come, putting his fortune to the
touch, meaning that this vigil should be final before he proceeded to
“other steps.” And how had fortune, nay, providence, rewarded him! Not
John this time, not Bell smoothing down her apron, not Jeanie with her
pitcher at the well; but slim and fair as a lily in her envelope of
gloom, pale with grief and exhaustion, with wet eyes and a pitiful lip,
that quivered as she tried to smile at him, at last Margaret was here.




CHAPTER XXIII.


“At last!” He came out from the shadow of the firs and took her hands,
and drew her toward him. “At last! my Margaret, my own Margaret! Such a
weary time it has been waiting, but this repays all. Say that it is not
your doing, darling. You have been kept back; you have not forgotten
me, or that I was waiting here?”

“No,” she said; “but I did not know you were waiting here. I did not
know, even, if I would find you to-night.”

“It would have been strange, indeed, if you had not found me. Every
evening, as sure as the gloaming came, I have been here waiting for
you, Margaret. I did not think you would have kept me so long. But it
is not as it used to be between us, when I thought, perhaps, you might
cast me off at any moment. I a poor farmer’s son, you the young lady
of Earl’s-hall; but that could not be now; for you are mine, and I am
yours.”

“It would not have been at any time--for that reason,” said Margaret.
She was uneasy about the very close proximity he wished for, and
avoided his arm. In her great trouble she had not thought of this, but
now it troubled and partially shocked her, though she could scarcely
tell why. She was roused, however, by the idea that she could have
slighted him for any ignoble reason. “It is you that have always been
kind to me,” she said. “I, who am only a country-girl, and know nothing
at all.”

“You are a princess,” said Rob; “you are a queen to me. _My_
queen and my Margaret: but you will not keep me so long hungering and
thirsting out here, far from the light of your sweet countenance? you
will not leave me so long again?”

“Oh, Mr. Glen!” said Margaret, “I ought to let you know at once, we are
going away.”

“Do not, for Heaven’s sake, call me Mr. Glen! Do you want to make me
very unhappy, to take away all pleasures from me? Surely the time is
over in which you should call me Mr. Glen. You cannot want to play with
me and make me wretched, Margaret?”

“No,” she said, with a tremor in her voice; “I will call you by your
name, as I used to do when I was little. But it is quite true that I
said--we are going away.”

“Going away? Where are you going, and who are we? Oh yes, I knew it was
not likely they would stay here,” cried Rob, with mingled irritation
and despair. “Where are they going to take you, my Margaret?--nowhere
that I cannot come and see you, nowhere that I will not follow you, my
darling. I would go after you to the world’s-end.”

“I am going with my sisters, Jean and Grace. They are my guardians
now. I am to live with them till--for three years at least, till I am
twenty-one; then they say I can do what I like. What does it matter now
about doing what I like? I do not think I care what becomes of me, now
that I have no one, no one that has a right to me! and they will not
even let me cry.”

She began to weep, and he did not stop her, though his mind was full of
impatience. He drew her to him close, and this time she did not resist
him.

“Cry there,” he said, “Margaret--my Margaret! I will never try to keep
you from crying. Oh! he deserved it well. He loved you better than
all the earth. You were the light of his eyes, as you are of mine.
They! what does it matter to them? They will bother you; they will
make you do what they like; they will not worship you as he did, and
as I do. But, Margaret, there is still one that has a right to you.
Had he known, had I but had the courage to go and tell him everything,
he would have given you to me; I am certain he would. He would have
thought, like you, that it was better, far better for you, to have some
one of your very own. The others! what are you to them? But to him you
were everything, and to me you are everything. Margaret! say this,
darling! Say, Rob, I am yours; I will always be yours, as you are mine!”

Margaret looked in his face with her wet eyes. But she did not say the
words he dictated to her. Her heart was full of emotion of another
kind. She was thankful to Rob for his kindness, and he was not
like--any one else; he had a special standing-ground of his own with
her. To nobody else could she talk as she was talking, on nobody else
would she lean; but still it did not occur to her to obey him, to say
what he asked her to say.

“I found that picture you made,” she said, “only to-day. It is him,
just himself. I took it away to my own room that nobody might see it.
It must have been some angel that put it into your mind to do that.”

“Yes, Margaret,” he said, “it was an angel, for it was you. And it was
not I that did it, but love that did it; but if you will give it to me,
I will make it still more like him. I will never forget how he looked,
and how you looked--and my heart all full, and running over with love,
which I dared not say.”

Alas! there was this peculiarity in the conversation, that while Rob
was eager to speak of himself and his love, Margaret, in the most
innocent and unwitting way, made it apparent that this was not the
subject that interested her most. She was too polite not to listen to
him, too grateful and sensitively affected by the curious link between
them to show any opposition; but when she could, she turned aside from
this subject, which to him was the most interesting subject in heaven
or earth; and it is impossible to say how this fact moved Rob, who had
never met with anything of the kind before. It piqued him, and it made
him more eager. He watched her with an anxiety and impatience which he
could scarcely keep in check, while she, with downcast eyes full of
tears, pursued that part of the subject which interested her most.

“I should not like it touched,” she said; “I would not give it for all
the pictures in the world! If I gave it to you, it would be only that
it might be put into some case that would preserve it. I have folded
it in paper, but that is not enough. I would not give it for all the
pictures in the world!”

“Thank you, my darling,” he said. “It is something to have done a thing
that so pleases you. If you will bring it to me, I will get it put in
a case for you. Indeed, it was an angel that put that scene before me;
for now when you look at that, and think of _him_, you will think
of me too.”

“Oh no, Mr. Glen,” said Margaret--then she stopped, confused: “I mean,
Rob-- I am very, very thankful to you. But when I look at that, all the
world goes away, and there is only papa leaning back, sleeping. I am
glad he was sleeping. He slept a great deal, do you know, before he
died. But it was better to see him in his chair, as he used always to
be, than in his bed. I don’t want any one to see it but myself--other
people do not understand it. They would hand it about from one to
another, and say, ‘Is it not like?’ and talk. I could not bear that; I
prefer to keep it to myself.”

“But you don’t mind me seeing it?” he said. “I should not be so
unfeeling. Many a time when we are together--when we are married,
darling--we will look at it together; and I will make a picture from
it, a real picture, with you at my elbow, and it shall be hung in the
best place in our house.”

At this Margaret winced slightly, but made no remark. She had not the
courage to contradict him, to say anything against this strange view;
but it disturbed her all the same. Probably it would have to be some
time. There seemed a necessity for it, though she could not quite tell
why: but as it could not be now, nor for a long time, why should it be
spoken of, or brought in to disturb everything? She said, not knowing
how to put aside this subject gently, yet to say something all the
same: “Jean and Grace are going to take me to the Grange--to my house.”

“To _your_ house!” Rob felt the blood flush to his face with the
excitement of this thought. “I did not know you had a house of your
own, Margaret.”

“Oh yes; it was my mother’s. It is away in England, where I never was.
I have seen a picture of it. They say it is very English, with creepers
hanging about the walls, roses and honeysuckle, and beautiful great
trees. Jean thinks everything in England is better than anything in
Scotland. However pretty it may be, it will never, never be like old
gray Earl’s-hall.”

Rob dropped his arm from her, and hung his head. “What am I thinking
of?” he said; “you a great lady, with beautiful houses and lands, and
I a poor man, with nothing. I must be mad to think that you could care
for me--that you would even think of me at all.”

“Mr.--Rob! oh, what must you think of me that you say so? Do I care for
money or for a house? Are you going away? Are you going to--leave me?
oh!” cried Margaret, penitent, clasping her hands; “did you not know I
had a fortune? But what does that matter? You have been kind, very kind
to me, thinking I was poor--Rob! are you going to cry, you!--no, don’t,
don’t; you will break my heart! I am calling you by your name now,” she
said, anxiously, with one hand upon his arm, and with the other pulling
down the hand which covered his face. She put her own face close to his
in her generous, foolish earnestness--“I am calling you by your name
now, Rob; don’t hide your face from me, don’t go away and leave me. If
I am rich, is it not all the better? There will be plenty for us both.”

“It makes a difference,” he said; and indeed he was able to play his
part very well, for never before in his life had Rob been so entirely
ashamed of himself. Her very earnestness, she who had been so cool
and calm before, her generous trouble and importunity humbled him to
the very depths. A man may do a great many things that will not bear
examination before he finds himself out; but to act such a falsehood
as this--to pretend that he did not know what he knew so much more
definitely than she did--to pretend to resist her generous anxiety--to
avert his face, and let her woo him, she who had taken his hot wooing
with such shy coldness! This made Rob feel himself the most wretched
creature, the most despicable, miserable, mercenary wretch. He could
not endure himself. Well might he hide his face for a poor swindler
and cheat, worse, far worse than he had ever known himself before! To
breathe deceitful vows, to say more than he meant, to promise more
than he intended to perform, all this was not a thousandth part so
bad; for indeed he had always been “in love,” when he made love; and a
promise more or less, what is that? The common coin of young deceivers.
Hitherto Rob had not been bad, only fickle and false. But what was he
now? A cheat, a liar, a traitor, unfit to breathe where such innocent
creatures were. Thus he played his part very well; his misery was not
dissembled; and when he allowed himself to yield to her entreaties, to
be moved by the eager eloquence of that soft lip which was so ready to
quiver, what vows he made in his heart to be to Margaret something more
than ever man had been before!

After this their intercourse was more easy, and by-and-by Rob came to
feel that perhaps the momentary fear of losing him (which was how, in
his native vulgarity and self-importance, he put it, after a while, to
himself) had been a good thing. More than ever now she had committed
herself. They wandered about among the trees and talked. They talked
of her departure, and of how he could write to her--which Margaret
was half shy again to think of, yet half happy too, a novelty as it
was. But she could not tell him how this was to be managed, or how he
could come to see her; all was strange, and Jean and Grace were very
different from anything she had known in all her previous life.

“They tell me to sit down when I am standing, and to stand up when I
am sitting down; they will always have me doing something different,”
she avowed, though gently, and with a faint sense of humor. But this
made it very evident that the life before her would be quite unlike
the past. And it did not occur to Margaret that Jean and Grace ought
perhaps to be informed of Rob, and the understanding between him and
herself. Rob naturally said nothing about this, and to Margaret the
thought did not occur. She had no idea of concealment, but simply
did not think of her sisters in connection with this “secret,” which
was something too strange and confusing to herself to be capable of
explanation to others, who could not know how it had come about.

“Will you come up to the tower?” said Effie Leslie to Randal Burnside,
who had walked home with her from the Manse. Randal had been much
about Earl’s-hall since Sir Ludovic’s death. He had been ready to do
anything for the family, and the family had been very willing to employ
him. It was a kindness to give him something to do, his mother said,
who was glad to throw him in Margaret’s way; and the decorousness of
the grief which made Mrs. Bellingham and Miss Leslie quite unable to
see anybody was put aside on his behalf as well as on his father’s.
And Margaret and he had grown friends, though she was almost the only
one in the house who never gave him any commissions in that moment of
bustle. She had never ceased to be grateful to him for calling the
doctor when her father’s illness began, but she was too independent
to have any personal wants to which he could minister, and too shy to
have asked his aid if she had. Effie was much more disposed to make
use of the young man. She was not unhappy--why should she be, having
seen so little of grandpapa? She was a little elated, indeed, to think
that mamma was now my lady, and she herself entitled to precedence as a
baronet’s daughter, and she was very glad to have some one to speak to
who did not melt into tears in the middle of the conversation, or say,
“Hush, child! remember that this is a house of mourning.” The Manse
was not a house of mourning, and she liked to go there, and she liked
Randal to walk home with her and talk. Lady Leslie was still looking at
the brown cow and John’s pigsty, and Mrs. Bellingham, as has been said,
had a headache. Effie peeped into the West Chamber and the long room,
and saw nobody. And then she said, “Have you ever been on the tower,
Mr. Burnside? Oh, do come up to the tower.”

Randal had climbed the tower a hundred times in former days. He went
up the winding stair very willingly, thinking he would have all the
better chance of seeing “the others,” when the falling night drove
them in from their walks. Perhaps “the others” meant only the new Sir
Ludovic; perhaps it had another significance. He was interested about
Margaret, he allowed to himself--more interested than he dared let
any one know; for had he not almost seen a lover’s parting between
her and Rob Glen?--a secret knowledge which made him very uneasy.
Randal felt that he could not betray them; it would be a base thing in
their contemporary--or so, at least, he thought; but he was uneasy.
Many thoughts had gone through his mind on this subject. He did not
know what to do. The only thing that seemed to him possible was to
speak to Rob Glen himself, to represent to him that it was not manly
or honorable to engage a girl in Margaret’s position, without the
knowledge and consent of her friends. But to make such a statement to
a young man of your own age, with whom you have not the warrant of
friendship for your interference, nor even the warrant of equality, is
a difficult thing to do. If Rob, resenting it, could have called him
out, there would have been less harm; but that was ridiculous, and what
could be done to expiate such an affront? There was nothing to be done,
unless he permitted Rob to knock him down, and he did not feel that
his forbearance was equal to that. So that Randal remained very uneasy
on this subject, and did not know what to do. To let Margaret fall
into the hands of a--of Rob Glen, seemed desolation and sacrilege; but
what could Randal--who had known them both from his cradle--what could
he do between them. Was it his part to _tell_--most despicable
of all offices in the opinion of youth? This train of uneasy thought
was brought back when Effie looked into the little white-panelled
sitting-room, the West Chamber, where Margaret, he knew, spent most
of her time. She liked it better than the long room, every nook of
which was so full of her father’s memory; and the ladies humored her,
and, small as it was, made the West Chamber their centre. Where was
she, if she was not there? Possibly out-of-doors in the soft evening,
confiding all her griefs to Rob Glen. Possibly it was the thought that
Randal himself would have liked to have those griefs confided to him,
and to act the part of comforter, that made his blood burn at this
imagination. So soon after her father’s death! He felt disposed to
despise Margaret too.

“Go softly just here,” said Effie, whispering; “for there is Aunt
Jean’s room, and we must not do anything to disturb her headache. It is
a very good thing, you know, that she has a headache sometimes: even
Aunt Grace says so--for otherwise she would wear herself out. Perhaps
it is a little too late for the view, but the sky was still full of
glow when we came in. Ah! it is very dark up here; but now there is
only another flight. Oh no, it is not too late for the view,” Effie
cried, her young voice coming out soft yet ringing, as they emerged
into the open air. “Nobody can hear us here,” she said, with a laugh;
for at seventeen it is not easy to be serious all day, especially when
it is only a grandfather, nothing more, who is dead.

It was not too late for the view, and the view was not a view to be
despised. There does not seem much beauty to spare in the east of Fife.
Low hills, great breadths of level fields: the sea a great expanse
of blue or leaden gray, fringed with low reefs of dark rocks, like
the teeth of some hungry monster, dangerous and grim without being
picturesque, without a ship to break its monotony. But yet, with those
limitless breadths of sky and cloud, the wistful clearness and golden
after-glow, and all the varying blueness of the hills, it would have
been difficult to surpass the effect of the great amphitheatre of sea
and land of which this solitary gray old house formed the centre. The
hill, behind which the sun had set, is scarcely considerable enough
to have a name; but it threw up its outline against the wonderful
greenness, blueness, goldenness of the sky with a grandeur which would
not have misbecome an Alp. Underneath its shelter, gray and sweet, lay
the soft levels of Stratheden in all their varying hues of color--green
corn, and brown earth, and red fields of clover, and dark belts of
wood. Behind were the two paps of the Lomonds, rising green against
the clear serene, and on the other side entwining lines of hills, with
gleams of golden light breaking through the mists, clearing here and
there as far as the mysterious Grampians, far off under Highland skies.

This was one side of the circle; and the other was the sea, a sea still
blue under the faint evening skies, in which the young moon was rising;
the yellow sands of Forfarshire on one hand, stretching downward
from the mouth of the Tay--the low brown cliffs and green headlands
bending away on the other toward Fifeness--and the great bow of water
reaching to the horizon between. Nearer the eye, showing half against
the slope of the coast and half against the water, rose St. Andrews on
its cliff, the fine dark tower of the College Church poised over the
little city, the jagged ruins of the Castle marking the outline, the
Cathedral rising majestic in naked pathos; and old St. Rule, homely and
weather-beaten, oldest venerable pilgrim of all, standing strong and
steady, at watch upon the younger centuries. This was the view at that
time from Earl’s-hall. It is a little less noble now, because of the
fine, vulgar, comfortable gray stone houses which have got themselves
built everywhere since, and spoiled one part of the picture; but all
the rest will remain forever, Heaven be praised. The little wood of
Earls-hall, pinched and ragged with the wind, lay immediately below,
and the flat Eden, with its homely green lines of bank on either side,
lighted up by here and there a sand-bank; but the tide was out, and the
Eden meandered in a desert of wet brown sand, and was not lovely. The
two young people did not speak for a moment. They were moved, in spite
of themselves, by all this perfect vault of sky, and perfect round of
earth and sea. It is not often that you can see the great world in
little, field and mountain, sunset and moonrise, land and sea, at one
glance. They were silenced for sixty seconds; and then Effie Leslie
drew a long breath and began to chatter again.

“Well!” she said, with as much expression as the simple word was
capable of bearing, “I don’t think I should like to sell this old house
where the family has been so long, if I were papa!”

“I would not sell it, if it were mine, for anything that could be
offered me!” cried Randal, in the enthusiasm of the moment. Effie shook
her head.

“Perhaps not, Mr. Burnside; but then you would not have ten
children--or nine at least; for now Gracie is married she does not
count. But oh, I wish we could keep Earl’s-hall! It must be very
pleasant to live where everybody knows you, and knows exactly what you
are--that is, if you are anybody. Poor Margaret will not like leaving,
but then she is a lucky girl; she is an heiress; she has a house of her
own; and I dare say she will get very fond of that when she knows it.
Do you think I ought to call her _Aunt_ Margaret, Mr. Burnside?”

Effie’s laugh rang out so merrily as she said this, that she checked
herself with a little alarm.

“Suppose Aunt Jean should hear me!” she said; and then, after a pause,
“Oh! look straight down, straight down under the fir-trees, Mr.
Burnside. Oh, this is more interesting than the view! A pair of--”

“Do you think it is quite honorable to look at them?” said Randal. He
had a presentiment who it must be.

“Oh, it can’t be anybody we know,” said light-hearted Effie.

Far down in the wood, under the firs, no doubt the lovers felt
themselves perfectly safe; but there were treacherous groups of trees,
whose branches had been swept in one direction by the wind, laying bare
the two who stood beneath. They were standing close together, holding
each other’s hands.

“The girl is crying, I think,” said Effie, “and leaning against the
man. What can be the matter? can they have quarrelled? and she is all
in black, with a thick veil--”

“Come to this side,” said Randal, hastily, “there is a break in the
mist. I think I can show you Schehallion.”

“I like this better than Schehallion,” said Effie; and then she started
and cried, “O-oh!” with a long breath; and suddenly blushing all over,
looked Randal in the face.

“I think Schehallion is much the most interesting to look at,” he said,
and, touching her elbow with his hand, endeavored to lead her away. But
Effie was too much startled to conceal her wonder and alarm.

“Oh, Mr. Burnside! you are not thinking of Schehallion, you only want
to get me away. I believe you know who _he_ is.”

“I don’t know who either is, and I don’t want to know,” cried Randal;
“and I think, Miss Leslie, I must bid you good-night.”

That was easy enough; but Effie did not budge, though Randal went away.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Effie was not a tell-tale, and she was fond of her young aunt; but
still this was such a revelation as made the blood stand still in
her veins. She was deeply, profoundly interested, and strained her
eyes to make out “the gentleman.” Who could he be? Effie felt almost
certain Mr. Burnside knew, and almost certain Mr. Burnside had seen
them before, and was their confidant, or he would not have been so
anxious to call her attention to Schehallion. Schehallion! nothing but
a hill--whereas this was a romance! She leaned over the parapet of
the tower till the night grew so dark that she took fright and felt
disposed to cry for help, never thinking, unaccustomed to it as she
was, that she could grope her way in safety down the spiral stair. But
she did manage it, partly fortified by a generous determination not to
make any noise near Aunt Jean’s room, which might end in a betrayal of
the lovers. Effie would have gone to the stake rather than betray the
lovers to Aunt Jean. But her mother was a different matter. She knew
she could not go to bed with a secret from her mother; and perhaps
it was not right, was it quite right, of Margaret? Effie reflected,
however, as she stumbled down in the dark to the West Chamber, where
John had just placed candles (the inspection of the pigsty being over),
that perhaps grandpapa had known all about it; most likely Margaret
had told him--and she had no need to tell any one else. But to meet
a--gentleman, in the wood! It was the most strange, and most exciting,
and most wonderful thing in real life which Effie had ever seen with
her own eyes. She crept in to the West Chamber, where Miss Leslie had
just come, relieved of her attendance on her sister.

“Your dear Aunt Jean is a little better,” she said, “dear Effie; and
where is dearest Margaret, and your dear papa and mamma? Dear Jean has
gone to bed, she will not come down to-night. And had you a pleasant
walk, my love? And how is dear Mrs. Burnside?”

All these dears put Effie out of breath; and she had been out of
breath before, with the shock she had got, and with her progress
down-stairs: for a very narrow spiral stair which you are not familiar
with is rather alarming, when it is quite dark. Effie, however, made
what breathless answer she could, and sat down in a corner, getting
some work to conceal her burning cheeks from Aunt Grace’s gaze, and
forgetting altogether that Aunt Grace was short-sighted, and saw
nothing when she had not her spectacles on, which she did not wear when
she was knitting. Miss Leslie, however, very glad to have a listener,
and to have _la parole_ in the absence of her sister, talked,
without requiring any answer, straight on, flowing in a gentle stream,
and gave Effie no trouble; and the girl sat turning her back to the
light, and watching very keenly who should come in next. The first was
her mother, placid and fresh from the cool air, saying it was very
pleasant out-of-doors after having been in the house all day; and then,
after an interval, Margaret followed, very pale, with her eyes red, and
her hat, with its heavy veil, in her hand.

“Have you been out too, my dear?” said Lady Leslie. “I wonder we did
not see you; your brother and I have been taking a walk.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “I saw you; I was in the wood. I always go to the
wood.”

“I don’t think it is at all a good place,” said Aunt Grace, “a damp
place; and no doubt you will have been standing about, or even sitting
down upon the moss and grass. Your dear Aunt Jean--no, I forgot, she is
not your dear aunt, darling Margaret, but your dear sister--it is so
strange to have a dear sister so young-- She is better, but she has gone
to bed; that is why you see me here alone. Dear Effie has been a good
child; she has been sitting, talking to me, while you have been out,
dear Mary, with dearest Ludovic, and while dear Margaret has been out.
But about the wood, darling Margaret; you must go and change your shoes
directly. Dear Jean would never forgive me if I did not make you go
and change your shoes.”

“They are not wet,” cried Margaret, going to the other corner opposite
to Effie, who gazed at her with the eagerest curiosity; but Effie was
much more like the heroine of a love-story than Margaret, and the
little girl’s heart was sore for her young aunt. She had no mother to
go to and tell, and how could she tell Aunt Jean? As for Aunt Grace,
that might be possible, perhaps; but then Aunt Jean would be told
directly, and there would be no fun. These were Effie’s thoughts,
sitting with her back to the light, so that nobody might see the
excitement in her scarlet cheeks; but Margaret did not seem excited
at all. She was quite quiet and still, though she was obstinate about
changing her shoes. Oh, Effie thought, if I could only lend her mamma!
but then you cannot lend a mother. There was nothing to be done but to
pity the poor girl, who had nobody to breathe the secret of her heart
to, except Aunt Jean and Aunt Grace.

That night, however, after all the ladies had gone up-stairs, Lady
Leslie appeared again in her dressing-gown in the long room, where her
husband was sitting at his father’s table. The room was dark, except
in the small space lighted by his lamp; and if the good man, though he
had not much imagination, was startled by the sight of the white figure
coming toward him through the dimness, he may be forgiven, so soon
after a death in the family. When he saw who it was, he recovered his
calm, and drew a chair for her to the table.

“Is it you, my dear?” he said; “you gave me a fright for the moment.”
He thought she had some new light on the subject of the house; and as
it was a matter of great thought to him, and they had not been able
to come to any decision on the subject, he was very glad to see her.
“I hope you have thought of some other expedient,” he said, “I can
make neither head nor tail of it.” How was it likely he could think of
anything but this very troublesome and knotty problem of their own?

“No indeed, Ludovic,” said Lady Leslie, “I have no new light; and
what I came to speak about is a new fash for you. No, nothing about
the children, they are all right, thank God! But when I went to say
good-night to Effie, I found her with red cheeks and such bright eyes,
that I felt sure something was the matter.”

“Not fever?” he said. “It was all quite right, in a sanitary point of
view--far better than most old houses, the surveyor told me.”

“No, no, not fever: when I told you it was nothing about the children!
But I don’t know what to do about it, Ludovic. It is poor little
Margaret. Effie told me--the monkey to know anything about such things!
that standing by accident on the tower, looking down upon the wood, she
saw--”

“You and me, my dear, taking our walk; that was simple enough.”

“No, not you and me; but two people under the big silver fir--Margaret
and--a gentleman; there is no use mincing the matter. By what Effie
saw, a lover, Ludovic! Well, you need not get up in a passion, it
may be no harm. It may be somebody your father knew of. We are all
strangers to her, poor little thing. There may be nothing to blame in
it. Only I don’t know what gentleman it can be near this, for it was
not Randal Burnside.”

“How do you know it was not Randal Burnside?” said Sir Ludovic, rising
and pacing about the room, in much fuss and fret, as his wife had
feared. “No, but it could not be. He is too honorable a fellow.”

“Mind, Ludovic, we don’t know it is not as honorable as anything can
be; your father might have sanctioned it. I would lay my life upon
Margaret that she is a good girl. It cannot be more than imprudent at
the worst, if it is that.”

“She should be whipped,” said her brother; “a little light-headed
thing! not a fortnight since my father died!”

Sir Ludovic, though his blood was as good as any king’s, was a homely
Scotsman, and the dialect of his childhood returned to him when his
mind was disturbed, as happens sometimes even in this cosmopolitan age.

“Whisht, whisht, Loodie!” said his wife. “She is a poor little
motherless girl, and my heart bleeds for her--and I cannot bear to say
anything to Jean. Jean would interfere with a strong hand, and make
everything worse. If we only knew who it was! for I can think of no
gentleman of these parts, unless it was one of the young men that are
always staying with Sir Claude.”

At this her husband started and gave a long whew-w! of suspicion and
consternation. “I know who it is,” he said--“I know who it is!” and
began to walk about the room more than ever. Then he told his wife of
his encounter with Rob Glen; and the circumstances seemed to fit so
exactly that Lady Leslie could but hold up her hands in pain and horror.

“No doubt my father was foolish about it,” said Sir Ludovic. “It is
true that he used to have him here to dinner; it is true that he made
a sketch of the house, spending days upon it. John says he always
disapproved, but my father had taken a fancy to the young man. Rob
Glen-- I know all about him--the widow’s son that has the little farm
at Earl’s-lee: a stickit minister, John says, an artist--a forward,
confident fellow, as I saw from the way he addressed me; and,
by-the-way, I met Margaret coming in just before I met him. That makes
it certain. It is just Rob Glen, and no gentleman of these parts: not
even an artist of the better sort from Sir Claude’s--a clodpole, a
lout, a common lad--”

“Oh, Ludovic!” Lady Leslie shivered, and covered her face with her
hands; “but if your father took him up and had him about the house,
Margaret was not to blame. If he is, as you say, ‘a stickit minister,’
he must have some education; and if he could draw your poor father, he
must be clever. And probably he has the air of a gentleman--”

“I took him for a pushing forward fellow.”

“And how was the child to know? Good-looking, very likely, and plenty
of confidence, as you say; and she a poor little innocent girl knowing
nothing, with nobody to look after her! Oh, Ludovic, you will not
deserve to have so many sweet daughters of your own, if you are not
very tender to poor Margaret; and if you can, oh, say nothing to Jean!”

“It is Jean’s business,” said Ludovic but he was pleased that his wife
should think him more capable than his sister. “Jean thinks she can do
everything better than anybody else,” he said; “but what is to be done?
I will speak to _him_. I will tell him he has taken a most unfair
advantage of an ignorant girl. I will tell him it’s a most dishonorable
action--”

“Oh, Ludovic, listen to me a little! How do you know that it is
dishonorable? I incline to think your father sanctioned it. But speak
to Margaret first. You are her brother, though you might be her father;
and remember, poor thing, she has never had a mother. Speak to her
gently; you have too kind a heart to be harsh. Tell her how unsuitable
it is, and how young she is, not able to judge for herself. But don’t
abuse him, or she will take his part. Tell her--”

“I wish you would tell her yourself, Mary. You could manage that part
of the matter much better than I.”

“But she is not my flesh and blood,” said Lady Leslie. “She might not
think I had any right to interfere.”

And the decision they came to, after a lengthened consultation, was
that Sir Ludovic should have a conversation with Margaret next morning,
and ascertain how far things had gone, and persuade her to give up so
unsuitable a connection; but that if she were obdurate, he should try
his powers upon Rob, who might, perhaps, be brought to see that the
transaction was not to his credit; and in any case the affair was to be
kept, if possible, from the knowledge of the aunts, who henceforward
would have the charge of Margaret. Sir Ludovic’s calculations were
all put out, however, by this troublesome piece of business, and Lady
Leslie shook her head as she went away through the long room and up the
dark stair, a white figure, with her candle in her hand.

“Papa will speak to Margaret to-morrow,” she said, going into her
daughter’s room as she passed, “and we hope she will see what is right.
But you must take great care never to breathe a word of this, Effie,
for I am most anxious to keep it all from Aunt Jean.”

“But oh, mamma, what will happen if she will not give him up? and who
can it be?” said Effie. Lady Leslie did not think it necessary to
make any further revelations to her daughter. She said, “Go to sleep,
dear,” and gave her a kiss, and took away the light. And shortly after,
Ludovic, disturbed in all his thoughts (though they were much more
important, he could not but feel, than any nonsense about a lassie
and her sweetheart), tramped heavily up-stairs, also with his candle,
shedding glimmers of light through all the window-slits as he passed;
and silence and darkness fell once more over the house.

But Sir Ludovic had a face of care when he made his appearance next
day. The sense of what he had got to do hung heavy on his soul. Though
his wife had entreated him not to be harsh, it was not of cruelty, but
of weak indulgence, that the good man felt himself most capable. He
almost hoped the girl would be saucy and impertinent, to put him on
his mettle; but one glance at Margaret’s pale, subdued child’s face,
which had been so happy and bright a little while ago, made this appear
impossible. If only his wife could have done it! But he supposed Mary
was right, and that it was “his place” to do it. How many disagreeable
things, he reflected, it is a man’s “place” to do when he is the head
of a family! He did not feel that the dignity of the place made up for
its troubles. If Mary would only do it herself! And Mrs. Bellingham
had emerged as fresh as ever after the little retirement of yesterday.
Her headache was quite gone, she was glad to say. It was so much
better just to give in at once, and go to bed, and then you were as
right as possible next day. She was able for anything now, Jean said.
Sir Ludovic gave his wife an appealing glance across the table. Jean
would enjoy doing this, she would do it a great deal better than he
should; but Lady Leslie paid no attention to these covert appeals. Mrs.
Bellingham was in better spirits, she allowed, than she had been since
papa’s death. “Indeed, it would be wicked for us to grieve over that
very bitterly, though great allowance must be made for Margaret; for he
was an old man, and life had ceased to be any pleasure to him.”

“Dearest papa!” said Miss Leslie, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

“But here is a letter from my nephew, Aubrey Bellingham,” said Jean.
“I think you have met him, Ludovic--a very fine young fellow, and one
I put the greatest trust in. He is to be at Edinburgh to-day, and
to-morrow he is coming on here. I am sure good Mrs. Burnside will not
mind giving him a bed. He has come to take us home, or to go anywhere
with us, if we prefer that. It is such a comfort on a long, troublesome
journey, with a languid party, to have a gentleman.”

“I should have thought you were very well used to the journey,” said
Lady Leslie.

“So I am; and it is nothing with only Grace and myself; but three
ladies, and one a very inexperienced traveller-- I am too glad to have
Aubrey’s help. My spirits might not be equal to it, and my strength is
not what it once was--”

“No, indeed, dear Jean,” said Miss Grace; “those who knew you a few
years ago would scarcely recog--”

“And Aubrey is invaluable about travelling. I never saw a man so good;
for one thing I have very much trained him myself; he has gone about
with me since he was quite a little fellow. I used to make him take the
tickets, and then he got advanced to looking after the luggage. To be
sure, he once made us a present of his beautiful new umbrella, letting
the guard put it into our carriage; but that was a trifle. I think,
as he has come, we must settle to go in a day or two, Mary. This just
gives me the courage to go. I should have lingered on, not able to make
up my mind to tear ourselves away from a spot--”

“Where we have been so unhappy.” Miss Leslie took advantage of the
moment when Mrs. Bellingham took up her cup of coffee. A mouthful of
anything, especially when it is hot, is an interruption perforce of the
most eloquent speech.

“It will be better for us all, and better for Margaret, not to linger
here,” said Jean. “Poor child! she will never do any good till we get
her away. Yes, you will suffer, Margaret, but believe me, it is real
consideration for your good--real anxiety for you. Ask Mary; she will
tell you the same thing. Earl’s-hall will never be the same to you
again. You must begin your new life sometime or other, and the sooner
the better, Margaret. Would you like to go to the Highlands and see a
little of the country? or shall we go straight to the Grange at once?
Now that Aubrey is to be with us, it is quite the same for my comfort;
and we will do, my love, what you like best.”

“Oh, I do not care about anything,” said Margaret, “whatever, whatever
you please.”

“That is very natural, my dear,” said Lady Leslie, “and Jean is right,
though perhaps it sounds hard. Effie and I will miss you dreadfully,
Margaret, but the change is the best thing for you. If you go to the
Highlands, would you like Effie to go too, for company?” said the kind
woman. But Margaret could not speak for crying, and Jean and Grace did
not seem delighted with the suggestion.

“It will be best for her to make the break at once,” said Mrs.
Bellingham. “Effie can come after; we shall be most happy to see her
when we are settled at the Grange.”

“I dare say you are right,” said Effie’s mother; but this rejection
of the offer, which she knew to be so kind on her own part, of her
daughter’s company made her heart colder to poor Margaret than all the
story about Rob Glen.

Ludovic put his hand on his little sister’s shoulder as she was leaving
the breakfast-table.

“Will you come out with me and take a little walk about the place,
Margaret? I want to say something to you,” he said.

“What is that?” said Mrs. Bellingham. “I suppose, Ludovic, you would
like me to come too? I will get on my hat in a moment; indeed Margaret
can fetch it when she brings her own. A turn in the morning is always
pleasant. Run away, my dear, and bring our hats; the air will do us
both good.”

“But I wanted your advice,” said Lady Leslie--“yours and Grace’s; there
are still some things to settle. These laces, for instance, which we
were to look over.”

“That is true,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “But I am afraid it will be a
disappointment to Ludovic; and then, of course, it is necessary I
should be there if he has really something to say to Margaret.”

“Let me go, dear Jean,” said Grace; “I will not mind, indeed I will
not mind _much_, being away, and the lace could never be settled
without you. I am not so clever about knowing the kinds, and I am sure
you will not forget that I am fond of it _too_.”

“Does Margaret want a chaperon when she goes out with me?” said
Ludovic. “It is only to put a little color in her cheeks.” But he was
not clever at these little social artifices, and looked once more at
his wife.

“Leave him alone with his girls,” said Lady Leslie; “a man is always
fond of a walk with girls. Get your hat, Margaret, my dear, and you
too, Effie, and take a run with him. He will like that a great deal
better than you and me, Jean. We are very well in our way, but he likes
the young things, and who will blame him? and we will settle about the
lace before they come in.”

“There is no accounting for tastes,” Mrs. Bellingham said; “but if
there is anything particular, it will be better to wait till I can be
with you, Ludovic; and, Margaret, put on your galoches, for it rained
last night.”

“You can take mine, dear,” whispered Grace, who knew that Margaret did
not possess these necessary articles. And thus, at last, the party got
under way. Effie, warned by her mother, deserted them as soon as her
aunts were safe in the high room, and Margaret, without any foreboding
of evil, went out with her brother peacefully into the morning. It was
very damp after the rain, as Mrs. Bellingham had divined, and cost her
some trouble to keep her crape unsoiled. But except for that care,
and that there was some excitement in her mind to hear of the speedy
departure from Earl’s-hall, Margaret went out with Ludovic, with great
confidence in his kindness and without any fear.




CHAPTER XXV.


“I said to Jean it was nothing, for I did not care to mix her up with
it; but I have something very serious to say to you, Margaret,” said
Sir Ludovic.

She looked up at him with eyes wistful, yet candid, fearing nothing
still. The character of Margaret’s face seemed to have changed within
the last month. What she was in June was not like what she was in
July. The trouble she had gone through had not seemed to develop, but
to subdue her. She had been full of variety, animation, and energy
before. Now the life seemed to have sunk to so low an ebb in her paled
being, exhausted with tears, that there was little remaining but simple
consciousness and intelligence. She did not seem able to originate
anything on her own side, not even a question. A half smile, the
reflection of a smile, came to her face, and she looked up, without any
alarm, for what her brother had to say.

“Margaret,” he said (how hard it was! harder even than he thought.
He cleared his throat, and a rush of uncomfortable color came to his
middle-aged countenance, though she took it so calmly, and did not
blush at all)--“Margaret, I have found out something, my dear, that
gives me a great deal of pain--something about you.”

But even this solemn preamble seemed to convey no thrill of conscious
guilt to Margaret’s mind. She only looked at him again a little more
earnestly. “Have I lost my--money?” she said.

“No, it is not that. What made you think of losing your money?”

“It often happens, does it not?” she said. “I am sure I should not
care.”

“Oh yes, you would care--we should all care; but your money is safe
enough. I wish you yourself were as safe. Margaret, my dear, give me
your full attention; you were seen last night in the wood.”

“Yes!” she said, a little alarmed.

“With a--gentleman; or at least, let us hope he was a gentleman,” said
Ludovic. “You know that it is not--usual, nor perhaps--right. I want
you to tell me all about it: and first of all, who was the man?”

Margaret was taken entirely by surprise. It had not occurred to her
to think of Rob Glen as one about whom she could be questioned. He
had grown so familiar while her father lived, and he had been so kind.
There was no sort of novelty about it--nothing to be thus solemnly
questioned about. But she looked up at her brother with startled eyes.

“Oh, Ludovic, the gentleman--”

“Yes; don’t be frightened for me, my poor little sister, I will not be
unkind; but tell me truly, everything. You must not keep back anything,
Margaret.”

“I don’t know, perhaps, if--you would call him a gentleman,” said
Margaret, the color beginning to rise in her pale face. Keep back
nothing! Would she have to tell him all they had said? Her heart began
to beat faster. “It is Rob Glen, Ludovic; perhaps you remember him long
ago, when he was a boy. I used to go fishing with him; he was very kind
to me. Bell always says--”

“Yes--yes; it does not matter about children; but you are not a child
now, Margaret. Have you always kept on such--intimate terms with Rob
Glen?”

Margaret winced, and her face began to burn. He seemed to himself to be
speaking brutally to her; but what else could he say?

“I did not see him at all for a long time,” she said; “and then he came
back. He always said he was not--as good as we were. But do you think
it all depends upon where you are born? You can’t help where you are
born.”

“No; but you must be content with it, and keep to your own place,” said
Ludovic, an argument which did not make much impression on his own mind.

“But he is very clever; he can draw most beautifully,” said Margaret.
“The first time he came-- It was--papa that said he might come.”

The name brought with it, as was natural, a sob; and Ludovic, horribly
compunctious, patted his little sister on the shoulder with a kind and
lingering hand.

“He made a picture of _him_,” cried Margaret, half inarticulate,
struggling with the “climbing sorrow.” “Oh, Loodie! I found it just
yesterday; it is _him_, his very self.”

“My poor little Margaret! don’t think me cruel,” said the good man,
with a break in his voice. “I _must_ hear.”

“Yes, Ludovic. He used to come often, and sometimes would cheer him up
and make him laugh. And he grew--a great friend. Then, when _he_
was ill, when I went out to cry-- I could not cry when everybody was
there.”

“My poor child!”

“That was the first time I met him in the wood. He was very, very kind.
I--could do nothing but cry.”

Ludovic took her hand into his, and held it between his own. He was
beginning to understand.

“I see how it was,” he said, his voice not so steady as at first. “I
see exactly how it was; and I don’t blame you, my dear. But, Margaret,
has he taken advantage of this? Has he got you to promise--to marry
him? Is that what he talks to you about? Forget I am an old man, old to
the like of you--or rather think that I am your father, Margaret.”

“No, no,” she said, “you are not that; no one will ever be that again;
but you are very kind. My father--would have been pleased to see how
kind you are.”

“God knows--and my poor father too, if he knows anything of what he’s
left behind him--that I want to be kind to you, as kind as he could
have been, my poor little Margaret. Tell me then, dear, has this young
man spoken of marriage to you, and love?”

“Of love? oh yes!” said Margaret, drooping her head. “I am not sure
about the other. He was for going away yesterday when I told him I had
a fortune; and I had to tell him myself that was no reason for going
away, that there would be plenty for us both.”

“Does that mean that you promised to marry him, Margaret?”

“I do not know,” she said, slowly; “I did not think of that. I suppose,
when you come to think of it”--the color had all gone out of her face,
and she was quite pale again, and letting the words fall more and more
slowly--“when you come to think of it, though I never did stop to
think--that is what it would mean.”

There was a touch of regret in her tone, a weary acknowledgment of
necessity, but no blushing pride or fervor. It had not occurred to her
before; but being put to her, it must, no doubt, mean that. She did not
look at her brother, but at the ground; but not to hide any happy flush
of consciousness. Ludovic was half bewildered, half irritated by her
calm.

“But, Margaret,” he cried, “you cannot think what you are saying. This
must be put a stop to; it must be brought to an end! it is monstrous;
it is impossible! My dear, you cannot really have the least idea what
you are doing. Giving yourself up to the first fortune-hunter that
appears--a vulgar fellow without a penny, without even the position
of a gentleman. He has taken a base advantage of your youth and your
trouble. It must be put a stop to,” he said. He had dropped her hand
and withdrawn from her side, and was crushing the damp grass under
his feet with all those frettings and fidgetings of embarrassment and
irritation of which his wife was afraid.

Margaret had looked up at him again. She was quite quiet, but as steady
as a statue.

“How can it be put a stop to?” she said. “He is not what you say,
Ludovic; he is very kind.”

“Margaret! are you in love with him?” cried her brother; “is that what
you mean?”

A slight color wavered over Margaret’s face.

“It is he that is--_that_,” she said, softly.

This gave Ludovic, ignorant man, courage.

“Heaven be praised if it is only he! I would make short work with him.
The only difficulty would be to make you unhappy. My dear, I will see
him this very day, and you shall never be troubled with him any more.”

“He has not been a trouble at all, Ludovic. I cannot tell you how kind
he was; and yesterday again he was very kind. He would have gone away
if I had let him, but I would not let him.”

“Now that you see how serious it is, my dear,” said Ludovic, “you will
let him now? I will go and see him at once. I will lose no time. Go you
back to the house, and don’t say anything to Jean. Speak to Mary, if
you like, but not to Jean; and don’t give yourself any more trouble
about it, my dear; I will manage it all.”

But Margaret did not move; she stood very steadily, all the trembling
gone away from her, the tears dried from her cheeks, and her eyes
shining. These eyes were still fixed on the ground, and her head was
drooping, but she showed no other signs of emotion.

“Ludovic,” she said, slowly, “it is a mistake you are making; it cannot
be settled so easily. Indeed, it would be better just to let it alone,”
she added, after a pause.

“Let it alone!” cried Sir Ludovic; “that is just the thing that cannot
be done.”

Margaret put out her hand and touched his arm. She raised her head with
a slight, proud elevation, unlike anything that had been seen in it
before.

“You must not meddle with me,” she said, with a wistful look, half
warning, half entreating.

“But I must meddle with you, my dear. You must not go to your ruin; you
cannot be allowed to go.”

“Don’t meddle with me, Ludovic! I have never been meddled with. You
need not think I will do anything wrong.”

“I must act according to my judgment, Margaret. You are too young to
know what you are doing. I must save you from this adventurer. You do
not even care about him. I know how a girl looks when she is in love:
not as you do, Margaret, thank God for it; and that is the one thing of
any importance. I must interfere.”

“I do not want to be disobedient,” she said; “but, Ludovic, you know
there must be some things that are my own. You cannot judge for me
always, nor Jean either. And whatever you may say about this, I will
not do it; anything else! but about this I will not do it. It is very,
very difficult to say so, when you are so kind; but I cannot, and do
not bid me, Ludovic; oh, do not bid me, for I will not!” she said.

“But if I tell you you must!” He was entirely out of patience. What
fantastic piece of folly was this that had made her set herself against
him like a rock? He was beyond his own control with impatience and
irritation. “I hope you will not drive me to say something I will be
sorry for,” he said. “_You_, Margaret, who have always been a good
girl, and you don’t even care for this young man!”

“_He_ cares,” said Margaret, under her breath.

“Is that why you resist me?” cried her brother. “_He_ cares! yes,
for your money, you foolish girl--for what you have got; because he
will be able to live and think himself a gentleman!”

“Ludovic!” she cried, her face growing crimson; “but you are only
angry; you don’t mean to be so unkind.”

And then he stopped short, touched, in the midst of his anger, by the
simplicity of her confidence.

“Do you mean to tell me--that you are really going to marry--Rob Glen,
Margaret?”

“Oh! but not for such a long, long time!” she said.

What was he to say to her--a girl so simple, so almost childish, so
unyielding? If Mary had only done it herself! probably she would have
had some means of insight into this strange, subtle girl’s mechanism
which was out of his way. What was reason, argument, common-sense, to
a creature like this, who refused to abandon her lover, and yet drew
a long breath of relief at the thought that it must be “a long, long
time” before he could claim her? Sir Ludovic was at his wit’s end.
They had been walking up and down in front of the house, where, out
of reach of all the windows, their conversation was quite safe. The
grassy path was damp, but it was noiseless, affording no interruption
to their talk. On the ruined gable the tall wall-flowers were nodding,
and the ivy threw a little shower of rain-drops over them whenever the
wind blew. Looking up at that ruined gable reminded him of all his
own cares, so much more important than this love nonsense. Should he
ever be able to rebuild it? But in the mean time he must not think of
this question at all, but address himself to the still more difficult
subject of Rob Glen.

When the conversation, however, had come to this pass, beyond which it
seemed so difficult to carry it, an interruption occurred. A lumbering
old hackney-carriage, well known in the country, which carried
everybody to and from the station, of the few who wanted any other
means of conveyance but their own legs or their own carriage--and there
were not many people of this intermediate class in Stratheden--suddenly
swung in heavily at the gate, and sinking deep in the rut, which it
went to Ludovic’s heart to see, disfiguring the muddy road through
the scanty trees, which called itself the avenue--came laboring
toward them. There was a portmanteau on the outside of this vehicle,
and somebody within, who thrust out his head as he approached,
reconnoitring the curious old gray house. When he saw the two figures
advancing from the other side, he called to the driver and leaped out.
It was a young man, fair and fashionable, and spotless in apparel,
with a beardless but not boyish face, an eyeglass in his eye and a
great-coat on his arm.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I am sure that I am speaking to--”

While at the same time Ludovic Leslie, leaving Margaret, upon whom the
stranger had already fixed a very decided gaze, went forward, saying,

“Aubrey Bellingham--how do you do? My sister told us she expected you
to-day.”

“Yes,” said the young man, “here I am. I came up as soon as I got
her summons. It is a fine thing to have nothing to do, for then one
is always at the call of one’s friends. May I be presented to--Miss
Leslie? whom I have heard of so often. As I am about to enter her
service, don’t you think I should know her at once when good-fortune
throws me in her way?”

“Only Miss Margaret Leslie, Bellingham. You understand, Margaret, that
this is Jean’s nephew, whom she was speaking of this morning. I don’t
know what he means by entering your service, but perhaps he can explain
that himself.”

The stranger gave Margaret a very keen look of examination--not the
chance glance of an ordinary meeting, nor yet the complimentary
surprise of sudden admiration of a pretty face. The look meant a great
deal more than this, and might have confused Margaret if she had not
been far beyond noticing anything of the kind. He seemed to look,
try, judge all in a moment, and the keen, sudden inspection struck
Sir Ludovic, though he was not very swift to mark such undercurrents
of meaning. It seemed to take a long time, so searching and thorough
was it; and yet almost before Ludovic’s voice had ceased to vibrate,
Bellingham replied,

“I believe I am to be the courier of the party, which is the same as
entering Miss Leslie’s service. My aunts are used to me. Miss Leslie,
it is a very quaint relationship this of yours to my aunts. I call both
your sisters by that endearing title.”

“I hope you don’t mean to make my little sister into Aunt Margaret,”
said Sir Ludovic. “Perhaps, my dear, you had better go and tell Jean of
Mr. Bellingham’s arrival. I don’t know what you will think,” he added,
escaping with some relief, as Margaret hurried away, into the more
habitual current of his thoughts, “of my tumble-down old house.”

“It is a most curious old house,” said the stranger; “I can see that
already. I have been studying it all the time; fifteenth century, do
you suppose? Domestic architecture is always a little bewildering.
I know there are people who can read it like a church, but I don’t
pretend to be clever about it. It always puzzles me.”

“No doubt it is puzzling, when you know only a little about it,” said
Ludovic, who knew nothing at all.

“That is just my case,” said the other, cheerfully. “I have been taught
just a little of most things. It is very unsatisfactory. Indeed, to
have the reputation of a handy man in a large family party is ruin to
everything. You can neither work nor study: and when you are cursed, in
addition, with a little good-nature--”

“A large share of that,” Sir Ludovic said, chiefly because it seemed to
him the only thing to say; and it was very good-natured, indeed, for
a young man, a man so entirely _comme il faut_, and looking more
like Pall Mall than Earl’s-hall, to come when his aunt called him so
readily. Ludovic knew he himself would not have done it for any number
of old ladies, but then he had always had his profession to think of;
and how many things he had at this moment to think of! Thank Heaven, at
least he had got rid of Margaret’s affairs for the moment. Let Mary put
her own brains to work and see what she could make of it. For himself,
there was a certain relief in the sight of a new face. In the mean
time, while Sir Ludovic’s mind was thus condoling with itself, the new
arrival had paid his cab, and seen his portmanteau handed over to John,
who had made his appearance at the sound of the wheels.

“For some things, sir,” said young Bellingham, peering at John through
his eyeglass, “this is a delightful country. Fancy your old butler, who
looks an archbishop at least, meekly carrying off my portmanteau! If
he had been on the other side of the Tweed, he would have looked at it
helplessly, and requested to know what he was supposed to have to do
with such an article.”

“John is not used to much grandeur,” said Sir Ludovic, not knowing
whether this was compliment or depreciation; “a man-of-all-work about a
homely Scotch country-house is not like one of your pampered menials in
the South. Did you have a good crossing at the Ferry?”

There are times when the Ferry at Burntisland is not much more
agreeable than the worse ferry at Dover, and it was always a civil
question--though privately he thought that a little tossing, or even
a little sea-sickness, would not have done any harm to this spruce
gentleman. Ludovic felt plainer, rustier, in his old black coat, which
had seen much service at his office, since this carefully dressed
young hero had dawned upon the horizon. He felt instinctively that he
did not like him; though nothing could be more cheerful or friendly
than Mr. Aubrey Bellingham. He was good enough to explain the house to
its master as they went in, and told him why the screen wall between
the two blocks of building existed, and all about it. Ludovic was so
startled that he found nothing to reply; he had even a little heraldic
lecture upon his own coat-of-arms over the door.




CHAPTER XXVI.


There was quite a cheerful flutter of talk at the luncheon-table in
the long room. Sir Ludovic had never much to say, and his wife was
very anxious to know the result of his interview with Margaret, and
Effie was shy, and Margaret herself perfectly silent. But the rapid
interchange of question and answer between Mrs. Bellingham and her
nephew made the most lively commotion, and stirred all the echoes in
the quiet place, where nobody as yet had ventured upon a laugh. It was
not to be supposed that Aubrey Bellingham, who was a stranger and had
never seen the old Sir Ludovic, could be much subdued in his tone by
“what had happened”--and Jean had already begun to feel that there was
really no reason to regret such a happy release.

“I am just beginning to be able to look people in the face again,” she
said. “I need not tell you, Aubrey, it has been a dreadful time. My
sister and I have had a great deal to do, and naturally, though it may
not tell at the time, one feels it afterward. I did not leave my room
yesterday at all. Grace will tell you I had one of my bad headaches.
But what with seeing you to-day, and being obliged to bestir myself in
the morning about some business, a piece of work quite after your own
heart, Aubrey, arranging some lace.”

“If it is fine, I quite understand the improvement in your health,” he
said. “What kind? and who is the happy possessor? I hope some of it has
fallen to your share.”

“Oh, a little,” said Mrs. Bellingham; and Grace echoed “a little” with
some dolefulness.

This division of the stores of the house into three portions had not
been so successful as was hoped; and when it was again gone over, some
scraps naturally fell to Lady Leslie and her daughters. It was Miss
Leslie upon whom the loss chiefly fell, and there was accordingly in
her tone a tinge of melancholy. She was not sorry that dear Mary and
the dear girls should have it, but still it was notorious that she was
generally the sufferer when any one had to suffer.

“Margaret is the most fortunate; Margaret has a piece of point de
Venise. I never saw such a lovely piece. It will go to your very heart.
After lunch you shall see it all, and I know you will think Margaret
a lucky girl--too lucky! She will not appreciate it for a dozen years,
and by that time she will have grown familiar with it, and it will not
impress her,” said Mrs. Bellingham, regretfully. “You don’t think half
so much of things you have had since you were a girl. But tell me,
Aubrey, how is everybody? Had you heard from the Court before you left?
What were they all doing? I declare it seems about a year since we came
here in such a hurry. I dare say you have heard all about us, and the
sad way in which we have been spending our time? I have had a great
deal of flying neuralgia, and yesterday it quite settled in my head.
Scotland does not suit me, I always say. It does very well for Grace,
who is as strong as a pony, though she does not look it--”

“Dearest Jean!” said Miss Leslie, touched to the quick, and this time
insisting upon a hearing. “I strong? Dear Aubrey knows better than to
believe--”

“Oh yes, we all know, my dear, you are strong at bottom, though you
have your little ailments; and with me it is just the other way. I am
kept up by my spirit. Now, Aubrey, you have not given us one single
piece of news. Tell us something about the Court.”

“I appeal to your candor, Aunt Jean; what can I tell you about the
Court when I am fresh from town?--unless you mean the other kind of
a court, the royal one, or the Club. You shall hear, if you please,
about the Club. You know about that trial that was so much talked of?
It is to be all hushed up, I believe. _She_ is to be condoned, and
_he_ is to have his debts paid, and they are all to live happy
ever after. You should hear Mountfort on the subject. He says it will
not be six months before it is all on again, and the detectives at
work.”

“Is it possible?” cried Mrs. Bellingham. “I thought Lady Arabella had
really taken the last step and run off, you know, in the yacht; and
that Lord Fred--”

“No names, my dear aunt, I entreat. Of course, everybody knows who
is meant, but it is better not to bandy names about. Oh no; my lady
would have done it, I don’t doubt for a moment, but Fred is a fellow
who knows very well how far the world will permit you to go, and he
wouldn’t hear of it; so it is all hushed up. There is something very
piquant, however, going on in another quarter, where you would never
suspect it. It sounds just like a romance. A couple that have always
been one of the most devoted couples, and a friend who has been the
most devoted friend--husband’s school-fellow, you know, and saved his
life in India, or something--and there they are, the three of them;
everybody sees it, except the silly fellow himself. It’s as good as
a play to watch them; you know whom I mean. They have a place not a
hundred miles from us; wife the most innocent, smiling creature--”

“Ah!” cried Miss Leslie, holding up her hands, “I can see who you me--”

“Of course, anybody can see,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “The A.’s, of
course, of A. C. Do you really mean it, Aubrey? and the man? Goodness
gracious! why, of course it must be!--no--not that, don’t say
so--Algy--? I never heard of such a complication in all my life.”

“Exactly,” said the new-comer; “that is what everybody says. Algy, of
all men in the world, with a character to lose! But in this sort of
affair you never can trust any one; and still waters run deep, you
know. It is the woman that puzzles me, smiling and looking so innocent.
Happily Sir Cresswell Cresswell does not want a jury, for no jury would
ever go against such an innocent-looking little woman.”

Effie had been taking all this mysterious talk in with the most rapt
attention. She did not understand a word of it, but still a lively
discussion of other people, even when you don’t know who they are, and
don’t know what they are accused of, has a certain interest. But Sir
Cresswell Cresswell’s well-known name roused Lady Leslie, who had been
longing to interfere before, and woke up even Ludovic, who had been
eating his luncheon steadily, and thinking how the avenue could be put
in order at the least expense. What did he care for their chatter? But
this name woke the good man up.

“You will think me very stupid,” said Lady Leslie, “but we are only
plain Scotch people, you know, and very seldom go to England, and don’t
know about your friends. I dare say Mr. Aubrey would be so kind as to
tell us something about the Court, as he said--not Bellingham Court,
but the Queen’s Court. Effie would like to hear about the princes and
princesses, and so would Margaret. They say we are going to have one of
them up here.”

“Oh, surely,” said Aubrey, “there is always plenty of talk on that
subject. Most of them are going a frightful pace. I am not posted up in
the very last scandals, for, you know, I have never been a favorite.
But there is a very pretty story current about a pretty Galician or
Wallachian, or some of those savage tribes. The lady, of course, was
quite civilized enough to know all about the proprieties--or perhaps it
would be better to say the improprieties--of our princely society, and
she thought, I suppose, that an English Royalty--”

“Oh!” said Lady Leslie; “but I feel sure half these stories are
nonsense, or worse than nonsense. I know you gentlemen are fond of a
little gossip at your club, and I suppose you don’t mean the half of
what you say. Were the pictures fine this year, Mr. Bellingham? That is
one thing I regret never going to London for; one sees so few pictures.”

“I think everybody who has seen them will agree with me in saying the
fewer the better,” said Bellingham, ready for all subjects. “The dinner
this year was as great bosh as usual. But there is a very good story
about an R.A. who asked a great lady he happened to meet with how she
liked the portrait of her husband. It was her Grace of X., or Y., or
Z.--never mind who; I dare say you will all guess. She stared at him,
as you may suppose. But he insisted. ‘Oh yes, he had finished it a
month before; and he always understood it was the Duchess herself who
had suggested that pose which was so successful!’ Fancy the unfortunate
fellow’s feelings when he saw what he had done! And I hope her Grace
gave it hot and hot to the Duke.”

“There, Aubrey, that will do; that is enough of your funny stories.
They are not pretty stories at all, though sometimes they make one
laugh when one oughtn’t,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “Those clubs of yours
are not at all nice places, as my sister-in-law says--and talk of
women’s gossip! But now and then it is like a sniff of salts, you know,
or a vinaigrette, which is not nice in itself, but wakes one up. Now
we must be going to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow; and I think,
as you are here, Aubrey, we might as well go to Perth, and then make a
little round through the Highlands. I dare say you are going somewhere
shooting as soon as the moors are open. We cannot do much mountain
work, because of the sad circumstances and our crape; but we might
stay for a week in one place and a week in another, and so make our
way to the Grange about the end of August. That would be a very good
time. The very hot weather will be over, and it will be best not to try
Margaret too much with the heat of an English summer. I wish you would
not always interrupt me, Grace. There is never any heat in Scotland.
It is rather fine now, and warmish, and quite pleasant; but as for a
scorching sun, and that sort of thing-- You are very quiet, Margaret.
Has Ludovic been scolding you? You ought to leave that to me, Ludovic;
a man has always a heavier hand. I always said, if I had been blessed
with children, I never should have let their father correct them. Men
mean very well, but they have a heavy hand.”

“But not dearest Loodie!” cried Miss Leslie; “he always was the
kindest! and dear Jean knows as well as any of us--”

“Yes, I know that a man’s hand is always heavier than he thinks,
whether it is a simple scolding or something more serious. Margaret
looks like a little mouse, with all the spirits out of her. If she
comes in like that after walks with you, Ludovic, I don’t think I will
trust her with you again.”

“Margaret has not been very lively lately,” said kind Lady Leslie. “She
has not been keeping us all in amusement, like Mrs. Bellingham. I think
I will take the two girls away with me this afternoon, if you have no
objections, Jean. I am going to the Manse to see Mrs. Burnside, and the
walk will do Margaret good.”

“Will you speak to Mrs. Burnside, please, about giving Aubrey a
bed?” Mrs. Bellingham said; and Lady Leslie, who was anxious about
her husband’s interview with his sister, and not at all anxious to
cultivate Aubrey’s acquaintance, hurried them away. She had a hasty
interview with Ludovic before she went out, who was very anxious she
should take the business into her own hands. What was to be done? Would
it be better to say nothing at all about it, but trust to the “long,
long time,” and the distance, and the development of the girl’s mind?

“But it would be better for her to marry Rob Glen than Aubrey
Bellingham, with all his nasty stories,” Lady Leslie said, indignantly.

“What was the fellow talking about?” asked Ludovic. He had not paid any
attention, save for one moment, at the sound of that too remarkable
name; but it had not come to anything except “havers,” and he had
resumed his own thoughts. Lady Leslie, however, did not let her victim
off so easily. She insisted that he should see Rob Glen, and warn him
of the disapproval of the family; and this at last, with many sighs and
groans, the unfortunate head of the family consented to do.

“I have been watching her all the time,” said the stranger, when he had
been taken by the two ladies to the West Chamber, “and I approve. She
is not very lively, and I dare say she will never be amusing (begging
your pardons, my dear aunts, for so plain a speech); but she is very
pretty, and what you call interesting; and a little money, though
it is not much, is always acceptable. I have not come off hitherto,
notwithstanding my merits. You put me up at too high a price, you
ladies; and I have gone through a good many seasons without ever
fetching that fancy price. So if you think I have any chance, really I
don’t mind. I will go in for Miss Margaret seriously, and I will not
tell her naughty stories, but bring her up in the way she should go.”

“No; you must be more careful how you talk before young ladies,” said
Mrs. Bellingham. “People here are not used to it. My sister-in-law is
a very good little body, but quite untrained, as you would see. Yes,
Aubrey, it would make me happy to see dear Margaret in your hands. I
am sure you would always be kind to her. And it is a very nice little
property, and could be improved; and she would make you a very nice
little wife. It would just be the kind of thing to make me feel I had
all I wished for, if I could provide for my little sister and for you,
Aubrey, my husband’s godchild, at the same time.”

“Oh, we can’t have you take the Nunc Dimittis view,” he said, “that
is out of the question; but I am quite willing, if _she_ is; and
if she isn’t after a while, with all my opportunities, I shall be a
precious fool, Aunt Jean. By-the-way, it is a little odd, if you come
to think of it, marrying into a previous generation, as I should be
doing if she’d have me--marrying my aunt, isn’t it? I think it’s within
the forbidden degrees.”

“Margaret your aunt, dear Aubrey? Darling Margaret is not quite
eighteen; so how could that be?” said Miss Leslie; “and do you mean
that _this_ is what you were thinking of? Oh, I wondered what
dear Jean, with her own clever head, wanted Aubrey for--Jean, who can
manage everything. But how can you tell whether you will love her, dear
Aubrey? You cannot always love where you wish to; and I never would
give my consent, never for a moment, to a match which was not--”

“What nonsense is she talking?” said Mrs. Bellingham. She had gone
to get Margaret’s lace to exhibit, and this was why Grace had found
the occasion to address Aubrey at such length, “a match which was
not--something or other; I am sure, Aubrey, you will fall in love, as
everybody does before they marry. I suppose you don’t want to shut up
little Margaret in a prison with you and me, Grace, and keep her money,
that her husband might not get the use of it? That would be just like
you old maids. But I mean Margaret to have a good husband, and live a
happy life.”

“Dearest Jean!” said Miss Grace, with tears, “_I_ keep dear
Margaret unmarried, or want her money! She shall have all I have when I
die; and as for being an old maid--”

This was a very unkind cut indeed, and Miss Leslie was unable to
resist the impulse to cry. Her tears were not so interesting as
Margaret’s, for her nose became red, and her short-sighted eyes muddy.
“I am sure I have not done anything to deserve this,” she said, and
sobbed; while Jean told her not to be so silly, and, without paying
any more attention, held up the point de Venise, which had belonged to
Margaret’s mother, in her plump hands.

“Look at that, Aubrey! If all goes well, you may have a wife with
_that_ upon her wedding-dress. Dear me, I think I would almost
marry myself to have it. Is it not lovely? But Margaret will not
care a bit; no one does at her age. She would think a bit of common
Valenciennes from a shop just as pretty, or perhaps, Lord knows,
imitation would please her. I had a piece myself in my trousseau not
half so good as that, nor half so much of it, but still _lace_,
you know, real lace; and I let it lie about, and wore net ruffs and
things. Even I! so you may fancy what Margaret will do. But if it was
her mother’s (and Bell swears it was), she has a right to it,” Mrs.
Bellingham said, with integrity beyond praise.

“It is very nice, Aunt Jean,” said Aubrey, holding it to the light;
“but I think you are a little too enthusiastic. If it is point de
Venise, it is very late work--not the best. I should be disposed to say
it was point de France--very pretty all the same, and valuable in its
way. Now look at that stitch: I don’t think you would find that in real
old Venetian. I think that is a French stitch. But it is very nice,”
he added, looking at it critically, “very nice: on a dark velvet or
brocade, it would look very well. As for putting it over white satin,
I never should consent to such a thing. Light point de Flandres, or
modern Brussels, or Malines, I shouldn’t mind; but Venetian point, no.
You ladies have your own ideas; but I wouldn’t allow it, not if my
opinion was asked.”

“You see, you allow it is Venetian, after all.”

“Or point de France. It is very much the same thing. Sometimes you can
scarcely tell that it has travelled over the Alps. But I think I have
an eye for lace. Any china?” said Aubrey, walking to a door in the
panelling and opening it coolly. “Ay, I thought it was a cupboard. But
here’s only common stuff.”

“The best tea-things!” said Miss Grace, with a little shriek, “that
have always been kept there ever since I was a child.”

“In that case, perhaps they are better than they appear,” said Aubrey,
calmly; and after a closer inspection, he decided that this was the
case. They were Chelsea, “but not much.” From this it will be seen
that young Mr. Bellingham was a young man of extended and various
information. He went up-stairs to the high room with them, and was
really excited by the old clothes. The house, though he appreciated its
curiousness, did not otherwise attract the young man. “If one could
spend a few thousands on old oak and tapestry, it might be made very
nice,” he acknowledged; but there were some old cups and saucers here
and there in the various rooms which pleased him. And as he accompanied
the ladies up and down, and examined everything, he gave an occasional
thought to Margaret, which ought to have made her proud, had she been
aware of the distinction. She would do very well. She was not at all
the kind of person whom, in such circumstances, it would have been
natural to see. A red-haired young woman, with high cheek-bones--was
not that the recognized type of a Scotch heiress? Aubrey knew that the
conventional type does not always hold; but he had thought of Miss
Leslie’s nose and her short sight, and he had also thought of his
aunt’s plumpness, and that peculiarity of tone which many Scotchwomen
in England attain, with the proud consciousness of having lost all
their native accent.

There are few things so disagreeably provincial as this tone, which
is not Scotch, which is the very triumph and proclaimed conviction of
having shaken off Scotch and acquired the finest of Southern speech.
Aubrey had been afraid of all these things; but Margaret had not come
up to the conventional requirements of her position. Her soft native
Fife, even with its modulations, did not alarm him like Aunt Jean’s
high English, and her nose would never be like that of Aunt Grace.
Altogether, she was an unexceptionable heiress, sweet and sorrowful,
and “interesting.” It was a commonplace sort of word, but yet even a
superfine young man is sometimes obliged to use such ordinary mediums
of expression. For a man who, previously set up at much too high a
figure (to quote his own metaphor), and commanding no offers, was ready
to accept a moderate fortune even under disadvantageous conditions, the
thought of a nice little property, weighted only by Margaret, was very
consolatory indeed.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Next day was Sunday, the last day that Margaret was to spend at home;
not like the brilliant Sunday on which old Sir Ludovic, for the last
time, attended “a diet of worship” in the parish church, and was
reminded of his latter end by good Dr. Burnside; but gray, and dull,
and cloudy, with no light on the horizon, and the whole landscape, hill
and valley and sea, all expressed in different tones of a flat lead
color, the change of all others which most affects the landscape. In
Fife, as has been candidly allowed, the features of the country have
no splendor or native nobleness; and accordingly there is no power in
them to resist this invasion of grayness. Mr. Aubrey Bellingham, though
he did pretend to “go in” for the beauties of nature, intimated very
plainly his discontent with the scene before him.

“Anything poorer in the way of landscape I don’t know that I ever
saw,” he said, and sighed, when he was made to take his place in the
old carriage to be driven to Fifeton, to the “English Chapel.” It was
six miles off; whereas the parish church, with the Norman chancel, was
scarcely one. But, as Mrs. Bellingham said, if you do not hold by your
church, what is to become of you?

“Only the common people go there,” she said--“the farmers, and so
forth. The gentry are _all_ Episcopalian. My brother, Sir Ludovic,
may go now and then for the sake of example, and because Dr. Burnside
is an old family friend; but Sir Claude, and everybody of importance,
you will find at our church. All the _elite_ go there. I can’t
think what the gentry were thinking of, to allow the Presbyterians to
seize the endowments. It is quite the other way in England, where it
is the common people who are dissenters, and _we_ have a church
which is really fit for ladies and gentlemen to go to. But things are
all very queer in Scotland, Aubrey. That is one thing, I suppose, that
gives the common people such very independent ways.”

“Well, Aunt Jean, let us be thankful we were not born to set it right,”
said Aubrey, reconciled to see that his six-miles’ drive was to be in
company with Margaret. But she, in her deep mourning, did not afford
much good diversion during the drive. The fact that it was the last
day--the last day! had at length penetrated her mind; and a vague
horror of what might happen, of something hanging over her which she
did not understand, of leave-takings, and engagements to be entered
into and promises to be made, had come over Margaret like a cloud. She
had passively obeyed her sisters’ orders, and followed them into the
carriage, though not without an acute recollection of her last drive in
that carriage by her father’s side at a time when she was not passive
at all, but liked her own way and had it, and was not aware how happy
she was.

Margaret took all the other changes as secondary to the one great
change, and did not feel them as an old man’s darling, a somewhat
spoiled child, accustomed to unlimited indulgence for all her fancies,
might have been expected to do. But her individuality came back to
her, and with it a sense of unknown troubles to be encountered, as she
leaned back in her corner, saying nothing. She drew herself as far
as possible away from Aubrey Bellingham, and she let her veil drop,
with its heavy burden of crape, and took refuge within herself. She
had to part with her home, and Bell and John, the attendants of her
life, but, more alarming still and strange, she had to part with Rob
Glen. Ludovic’s interposition had increased tenfold the importance of
everything about Rob Glen, the circumstances of which she had thought
so little when the first step had been taken. How could she have
thought of the young man’s position, or of any consequences that might
follow, at the moment when her father lay dying? Rob had been very
kind; his tenderness, his caresses, had gone to her heart. There were
indeed moments, after the first, when they no longer impressed her
with such a sense of kindness, when she would have been glad enough to
avoid the close contact, and when the touch of his arm round her gave
Margaret a sense of shy shrinking, rather than of the utter confidence
and soothing which she had felt at first--and when she had not liked to
vex him by resistance, but had edged and shrunk away, and made herself
as small as possible to avoid the embarrassing pressure.

But all this vague shyness and shrinking had changed at their last
interview, when Margaret, in generous impetuosity, and terror lest he
should think she considered herself raised above him by her fortune,
had taken the matter into her own hands and made all the vague ties
definite. What an extraordinary sensation it was to feel that she
belonged to him--she, Margaret Leslie, to him, Rob Glen! She could not
realize or understand it, but felt, with a sense of giddiness through
her whole being, that something existed which bound her to him forever.
Yes, no doubt, when you came to think of it, that was what it meant.
She had not been aware of it at first, but this no doubt was how it
was. And Ludovic’s questioning had made it all so much more real. After
what her brother had said, there was no avoiding the certainty.

Between Rob Glen and herself was an invisible link, woven so closely
that nothing could undo it. How changed all the world was! Once it lay
free and bright and open before her, with but one restriction, and that
her natural obedience to her father and loyalty to her home. Now, with
a giddiness and dazzling in her eyes, she felt how different it all
was. She had no longer any home, and the world was closed up to her by
that figure of Rob Glen. She did not know that she objected to him, or
disliked his presence, but it made everything different. And chiefly
it made her giddy, so that she herself and the whole universe seemed
to be going round and round--Rob Glen. She was not sure, even--but all
was confusion in her mind--that she thought of him now just as she
had thought of him in those old, old times, when he had sat among the
potatoes and made his picture; when he had seemed so clever, such a
genius, such a poet, making a common bit of paper into a landscape, in
which the sun would shine and the wind blow forever.

That side of the subject was dim to her now. Rob was no longer an
artist doing wonders before her eyes, but a man whose touch made her
shrink, yet held her fast; one whom she was more shy of, yet more bound
to, than to anybody else in the world; from whom she would like to
steal a little farther off, if she could do it unnoticed, yet move a
step nearer to, should he find her out. This strange jumble of feeling
seemed to be brought to a climax by the thought that she was going away
to-morrow. To-night--there was no avoiding the necessity--she must go
again and meet him, and explain everything to him, and part with him.
What might he say, or make her do and say? She could not wound his
feelings by refusing, by letting him see that she shrank from him. She
felt that she must yield to him, not to hurt his feelings. A mingled
sense of sympathy and gratitude, and (though the word is so inadequate)
politeness, made it seem terrible to Margaret to withdraw from her
lover.

To betray to a person who loves you that his gaze, his touch, his close
vicinity is distasteful, what a dreadful thing to do--what a wound to
his feelings, and his pride, and his fondness! If he would not do it;
if he would keep a little farther off, and keep his arms by his side
like other people, how much more pleasant; but to be so unsympathetic,
so unfeeling, as to show him that you did not like what he meant in
such great kindness! this was more than Margaret could do. As she sat
back in the carriage and was carried along through the gray landscape,
with a whiff of Mrs. Bellingham’s _mille-fleurs_ pervading the
atmosphere, and a sea of crape all about her, and the voices of the
others flowing on, Margaret, whom they thought so impassive, was
turning over this question, with flushes of strange confusion and
trouble. What would he say? what would he ask of her? what promises
would she have to make, and pledges to give? To give him up was a thing
that did not enter into her mind; she could not have done anything so
cruel; but she looked forward to the next meeting with an alarm which
was very vivid, while at the same time she was aware that it was quite
inevitable that she must see him, and that in all likelihood she would
do what he wanted her to do.

This pervading consciousness confused Margaret much in respect to the
morning’s service, and the people who came up to her and pressed her
hand, and said things they meant to be kind. It was a little chapel,
very like, as Mrs. Bellingham said indignantly, the chapels which
the dissenters had in England; and to see all the common folk going
to the big church with the steeple, to which they were called by all
the discordancy of loudly clanging bells, while the carriages drew up
before that little non-conforming tabernacle, was very offensive to all
right-minded people.

“Things must have been dreadfully mismanaged, Aubrey, at the time when
all was settled,” Mrs. Bellingham said, very seriously; “for you see
for yourself all the best people were there. One advantage is that it
is much pleasanter sitting among a congregation that is _all_
ladies and gentlemen; but surely, surely, taking the most liberal
view of it, it is more suitable that we should have the churches, and
the common people be dissenters, as they are in England? I would not
prevent them-- I would let them have their way; but naturally it is not
we that should give place to them, but they to us.”

“But, dearest Jean, we were all once--”

“And when you think--Grace, I wish you would let me get in a word--that
we really cannot get a very good set of clergy because there is no
money to give them, while the Presbyterians have got it all, though
it comes out of our pockets! I have never studied history as I ought
to have done, for really education was not so much attended to in our
days; but I am sure the Scots gentry must have been very badly treated.
For that John Knox, you know, sprang of the common people himself, and
they were all he cared about, and no pains were taken, none at all,
to suit the Church to the better classes. But Margaret has been more
seen to-day; and we have had more condolences and sympathy from our own
kind of people at this one service than we would have had at the parish
church in twenty years.”

These shakings of hands, however, and the words of sympathy were too
much for Margaret, who was not perhaps in the best condition for being
inspected and condoled with, after all the secret agitation of this
long, silent drive, and who had to be sent home, finally, alone, while
her sisters and their attendant stopped half-way to take luncheon with
Sir Claude.

“You will send back the carriage for us, Margaret, since you don’t feel
equal to staying? Of course, it is a very different thing to her, who
never was away from him, to what it is to us, who had not been with
him for years,” Mrs. Bellingham said, while Miss Leslie lingered at
the carriage-door, and could not make up her mind to leave her dearest
Margaret.

“I think I ought to go with her, dear child. Don’t you think so, dear
Aubrey? But then Sir Claude and Lady Jane are so kind; and then it will
be such a trouble sending back the carriage. Darling Margaret, are you
sure, are you quite sure you don’t mind going alone? for I will come
with you in a minute. I don’t really care to stay at all, but for Jean,
who always likes a change; and dear Sir Claude is so kind; and it will
be a change, you know, for dear Aubrey--the chief people in Fife!” she
added, anxiously putting her nose into the carriage, “if you are quite
sure, dearest Margaret, that you don’t mind.”

Free of the crape, and of that sense of a multitude which belongs
to a closely packed carriage, Margaret went home very much more
tranquilly in her corner, and cried, and was relieved as the heavy
old vehicle rolled along between the well-known hedge-rows, and
passed the well-known church upon its mound where her old father lay
sleeping the sleep of the weary and the just. She gazed out wistfully
through her tears at the path round the old apse of the church where
she had walked with him so lately, and close to which he was now
laid. In these days no idea of floral decorations had visited Scotch
grave-yards, and the great gray stone-work of the Leslie tomb, rearing
its seventeenth-century skulls and crossbones against the old twisted
Norman arches, was not favorable to any loving deposit of this kind.
But a rose-bush that grew by the side door had thrown a long tendril
round the gray wall, which was drooping with a single half-opened rose
upon it straight across those melancholy emblems, pointing, as it
seemed to Margaret, to the very spot where old Sir Ludovic lay. This
went to her heart, poor child. They were taking her away, but the rose
would remain and shed its leaves over the place, and make it sweet;
and kind eyes would look at it, and kind people would talk of old Sir
Ludovic, and be sorry for his poor little Peggy, whose life was so
changed.

There is something in the pang of self-pity in a young mind which is
more poignant, and yet more sweet, than any other sorrow. There is
nothing so ready to bring the tears that give relief. They would talk
about her, all the kind poor people; not the ladies and the gentlemen,
perhaps, who went to the English chapel, and of whom Jean was so fond,
but a great many people in the high town and the “laigh toun” whom
Margaret knew intimately, and the family in the Manse, Dr. Burnside and
his wife and Randal. Randal had been kind too. How he had run for the
doctor that day, though it was of no use! and how many things he had
done after, not stopping, Margaret thought, to talk to her, but always
doing what was most wanted! Ah!--this thought brought her to the other
end of the circle again with a spring. It was always herself, Margaret
remembered, that Rob had thought of, always her first. She began to go
over all the course of events as the carriage rolled on, too quickly
now, to Earl’s-hall. Had she forgotten, she asked herself, that time
when he came to her father’s aid on the church-yard path--how careful
he had been of the old man--and how much trouble he had taken to
please him afterward? Thinking of her own troubles, she had forgotten
half that Rob had done. How kind he had been! and Sir Ludovic had
liked him--he had got to be fond of him; surely he had been fond of
him! He had allowed her to be with Rob, drawing, talking, as much as
she pleased. He had never said “You must give up Rob Glen.” Perhaps,
indeed, _that_ was what her father meant. What did it matter about
being what people called a gentleman? Sir Claude was all that; but
except when he sent a servant to ask how Sir Ludovic was, what had he
ever done, though Grace said he was so kind? The great people had all
been the same. They had sent a servant; they had sent their carriages
to the funeral. But Rob had held up her father when he stumbled, and
had come to talk to him and amuse him, and had made a picture of him
which was more to Margaret than all the National Gallery. Oh, that was
what it was to be kind! The carriage heaving horribly as it turned into
the rut inside the gate, stopped Margaret in the full current of these
thoughts. But they were a great support to her in the prospect that
lay before her, the farewell scene that she knew she would have to go
through, when he would be so sorry, and she would not know what to say.

The Leslies, like so many kind people, dined earlier than usual on
Sundays. They dined at five, to the great discomfort of the party who
had lunched with Sir Claude, and who arrived just in time for this
second meal. Mr. Aubrey Bellingham thought it was done in deference to
the national desire to be uncomfortable on Sunday, and submitted with
a shrug of his shoulders; but Mrs. Bellingham, having more right to
express an opinion, did so frankly, and with much indignation. She said:

“I know it’s Mary’s way in Edinburgh; and there may be excuses where
there is a young family, and servants have to be considered. Of course
they are not rich, and servants insist on being considered when they
know they have you in their power; but at Earl’s-hall, and when we are
here! I think it is very unnecessary. Last Sunday we were not thinking
of dinner, and I am sure I cannot tell you when we had it; but just
when people are recovering their spirits, and when a cheerful meal is
your best restorative! It may be very good of Mary to consider her
servants, but I must say she might just as well, for once in a way,
have considered you and me.”

“But, dearest Jean! dear Mary is the most unselfish! She does not mind
any inconvenience--”

“Oh, inconvenience! don’t speak to me--she _likes_ it!” cried
Mrs. Jean, indignant. “She is just the kind of woman that relishes a
tea-dinner, and all that sort of thing; and if she can make out that
she saves sixpence, what a thing that is! And Ludovic just lets her
do what she likes. She is getting him into all her huggermugger ways.
If a woman has not more self-respect, she ought, at least, to have
some respect for her husband. But everything is made to give in to the
children and the servants, in that house. I could have put up with it,
not that I ever like it, in Edinburgh, for there one knows what one has
to expect. But here, where Bell and John were so used to my father--and
when _we_ are in the house, and without even asking my opinion,
and the excellent luncheon we have just had! she might have thought
of Aubrey, who is not accustomed to any nonsense of consideration
for servants; but I always said, though she is a good enough wife to
Ludovic, that she was a woman of no perception,” Mrs. Bellingham said.

After this little storm, the untimely dinner was marred by some
sulkiness on Jean’s part, as was perhaps natural. And though Aubrey
made himself very agreeable, with the most noble and Christian
forgiveness of injuries, devoting himself to little Effie, whom he
regaled with historiettes of a less piquant description than those of
his _début_, yet there was a general irritability about the simple
meal which, it must be allowed, often attends that well-meant expedient
for the keeping of Sunday. The company dispersed early, flocking off
to their rooms, where Mrs. Bellingham, with her feet up, instructed
her maid as to her packing, and once more turned over the packet of
lace which had fallen to her share. Margaret, when she had seen the
rest of the party go away, fled too, to escape another interview with
her brother, who looked, she thought, as if meditating a renewal of
his remonstrances, and, having watched her opportunity, stole softly
down-stairs. Even Bell was still busy after the dinner. Her chair stood
in the court outside the door, but she had not yet come out to enjoy
her favorite seat. And Bell’s heart was so heavy that her work went but
slowly. She had no thought of anything but Miss Margaret, who to-morrow
was to be taken away.

Margaret stole out like one who had learned that she was guilty. Never
before had she emerged so stealthily from the shadow of the old house.
She did not go the usual way, to run the risk of being seen, but crept
round by the garden-wall, as she had done sometimes when returning,
when Rob was with her. There was a feeble attempt at a sunset, though
the sun had not shone all day, and consequently had no right to his
usual pomps, but in the west there was a redness breaking through
the gray, which brightened the face of the country, and changed the
character of the landscape. Under the trees it fell like lamps of rich
gold, escaping here and there through broken openings in the clouds,
and warming the wood with gleams of color which had looked so dark and
wind-scathed in the morning. Margaret went softly, threading through
the colonnades of the great fir trunks, and sat down on the little
mossy knoll under the silver-fir. She placed herself so that she could
not be seen from the house, but yet could spy through the branches the
approach of any danger from that side.

It was the first time she had been first at the place of meeting, and
her heart beat as she sat and waited. She, who had shrunk from the
prospect of this meeting, she became alarmed now lest he should not
come, and longed for him with a kind of sick anxiety. Oh that he would
come, that she might get it over! She did not know what it was to be,
but instinctively felt that there must be something painful in this
last meeting. The last! She would not be sorry to have met, perhaps,
when she was away and had no longer any chance of seeing him. She would
understand better what he meant, and what she herself meant; and there
is something which subdues the pride in thus waiting for one who does
not come. She did not seem so sure that it was he who cared, that it
was he only who would break his heart, as she sat there alone; and
she had almost lost herself in fancies more bitter than any she had
yet known--in dreamy realization of her loneliness and a sense that no
one, perhaps, would care much when she went away. Who did care? Not
Ludovic, who wished her to do well, but would not have suffered much
had Margaret died with her father; nor his wife, who was very kind, but
had so many girls of her own; nor Effie, though she would cry and think
she was sorry. Nobody would care; and Jean and Grace would often find
her a trouble; and nobody in the world belonged to Margaret, cared for
her above everything else, was happy when she was happy, and grieved
when she was sorry;--nobody--except, perhaps, him alone.

“Margaret!” A low eager voice that seemed the very essence of subdued
delight, trembling with satisfaction and happiness, and he suddenly
made a spring to her side from under the trees, through which he had
been threading his way to the place of meeting. He threw himself on his
knees by her, and seized and kissed her hands a hundred times. “You
here before me! waiting for _me_! To think I should have lost a
moment of the little time I may have you! I shall never forgive myself;
but I thought it was too early for you, even now.”

“Oh, I have not been waiting long,” she said. “It was because we dined
so early; and then they were all--tired.”

“Except my Margaret. God bless my Margaret, that came out and took the
trouble to wait for me! How often I have sat here and watched for the
sweep of your dress at the corner of the house, for the least sign of
you! And to think that _you_ should have been first to-night, and
waiting--”

“Why should not I wait,” she said, “as well as you? And to-morrow I am
going away.”

“To-morrow!” he cried, in a voice of despair. “How am I to endure it?
how am I to go on without you? I am afraid to think of it, my darling.
Margaret! Margaret! what are you going to say to me to give me strength
to get through to-morrow, and all the days after it, till we meet
again?”

Now it has come! said Margaret to herself; and she felt with
astonishment that the emergency seemed to give her possession of her
faculties.

“I do not know,” she said, steadily, “what you want me to do or say. I
shall be very sorry to go away and to--part from you. But what can I
do? My sisters have the right to do what they think proper with me; and
I think I ought, too, to go and see my own house. I would like to take
Bell or somebody, but they will not let me. And now that Ludovic is
here and his family, it is natural that I should go away.”

“Yes; but first say something to comfort me, Margaret. I did not
suppose you could stay here forever: but tell me you love me, and will
be faithful to me. Tell me when I may come after you?”

“Come after me?” she exclaimed, with a certain dismay.

“Did you not think I would come after you? Did you think I could stay
in one country while you were in another-- I, who have had the happiness
of seeing you every day? But it is better this should end, though it is
like to break my heart, for we should have lost time, and been content
just with seeing each other; and now, Margaret, my darling, we must
settle something. Tell me what I may do? To wait till you are of age is
a lifetime. If I come to England after you in about three months, when
you are in your own house, will you receive me and tell your sisters
what I am to you? Margaret! you are not frightened, darling? You did
not think I would let my love go away and carry my heart with her
without settling something? You could not have been so cruel!”

“I do not want to be cruel,” she said; “but oh! wouldn’t it do to
wait--to wait a little? It is only three years; I am very near
eighteen. I shall be eighteen in November; and three years go so
quickly. Why do you look at me like that? I am not unkind. It is only
that I think; it is only that--oh! I am sure that would be the best!”

“Three years!” he said; “you might as well bid me wait thirty years.
How can I be sure you will not forget _me_ long before three years
are out? What! live without knowing anything of you--without seeing
you, for three centuries--it would be all the same. Tell me to go out
into St. Andrew’s Bay in a storm, and be cast away on the rocks--tell
me to drown myself in the Eden--as you please, Margaret! I think it is
in me to do it if you bid me; but wait for three years and never see
you--never know what you are thinking, never hear the sound of your
voice? I had rather go and hang myself at once!” cried Rob. He was
walking up and down under the shadow of the trees. He was very much
excited. After coming so far, after holding her in his hand, as he
thought, was he going to lose her at the last?

“I did not mean that”--she stood leaning against the fir, very much
troubled--“what can I do? Oh, what am I to do?”

“You must not ask me to be content without you,” he said, “for I
cannot-- I cannot. It is not possible for me to give you up and
live without you now. If you had sent me away at the very first,
perhaps-- But after all that has passed, Margaret, after feeling that
you were mine, to ask me to go away and give you up--now!”

“I did not say give me up; I said--”

“You said three years, darling--three lifetimes; you could not mean
anything so dreadful! You would not kill me, would you? It is like
taking my heart out of my breast. What good would there be in the world
for me? What could I do? What would I be fit for? Margaret, Margaret!
you could not have the heart to treat me so!”

“What can I do?” she said, trembling. “Ludovic has found out about
you, and he asked me to give you up. I did not mean to tell you, but
I cannot help it. He says they will never, never consent. And what am
_I_ to do? How can I fight with them? I said I would not give you
up. I said it would break your heart.”

“And so it would, my darling!” he cried, coming to her side, putting
his arm round her; “and, oh, my Margaret, yours too!”

Margaret made no reply to this. She withdrew the least little step--but
how could she hurt his feelings?

“That was why I said three years,” she said; “three years is not so
very long. Poor Jeanie in the house, did you ever see Jeanie? She
is--very fond of some one; and she has not heard of him at all or seen
him, for two years. It would pass very fast. You would become a great
painter--and then; but Jeanie does not know if she will ever see him
again; and his name is Rob, too, like you.”

“What has Jeanie to do with it?” he cried, with a look of dismay. Then
he caught her arm and drew her away. “There is some one coming from the
house; let us not wait here, but come down the other side of the wood.
I must not be interrupted now. I have a great deal more to say to you,
Margaret, my Margaret, this last night before we part.”




CHAPTER XXVIII.


Rob had a great deal to say, but it was chiefly repetition of what he
had said before. He drew her arm within his, and they wandered down by
the edge of the wood and into the fields. That last little accidental
outbreak of sunshine was over, and all once more was grayness and
monotones. There was nobody about; the evening was not tempting enough
to bring out walkers. In the kirktown people were out “about the
doors,” sitting on the kirk steps, keeping up a confused little hum
of conversation, quieter than usual as suited the Sabbath night; and
the people who had gardens strolled about them in domestic stillness,
and commented upon the coming apples; but it was not the fashion in
Stratheden to take walks on Sunday evening. The fields were very silent
and still; and so absorbed were the two in their conversation that
they wandered far out of the woods of Earl’s-hall, and were skirting
the fields about the farm before they were aware. Rob’s plan was to go
to London, to make what progress he could with his drawing, to study
and work, and achieve success; the last went without saying. Margaret
was as certain of it as that the sun would rise to-morrow. But she was
not equally certain of the other part of the programme, which was that
he should go to the Grange--her house where she was to live--and be
produced there as her betrothed husband, and introduced to her sisters.

This prospect alarmed her more than she could say. She did not want him
to come to the Grange. She did not know what to say about writing to
him. The idea brought a hot blush to her face. Margaret was not quite
sure that she could write a letter that she would like Rob Glen to see.
He was very clever, and she did not think she could write a very pretty
letter. In short, she was unpractical and unmanageable to the last
degree, and Rob had some excuse for being impatient. She had no idea
what could be done, except that she might perhaps come to Earl’s-hall
and see him there, and that three years was not so very long. He lost
himself in arguments, in eloquent appeals to her; and she had nothing
very eloquent to say in return. After a while she was silenced, and
made very little answer at all, but walked along by his side demurely,
with her thick gauze veil drooping over her face, and heard all he had
to say, saying yes now and then, and sometimes no. Her position was
very simple; and though he proved to her that it was untenable by a
hundred arguments, and showed her that some other plan was necessary,
he did not drive Margaret out of it.

What could she do? she asked, wringing her hands. Ludovic was against
them, and Jean would be much more against them. She dared not let Jean
know. Even her brother himself had said that Jean must not know. And,
to tell the truth, Rob himself was of the opinion that it would be
better to keep this secret from Mrs. Bellingham; but yet he thought he
might at least be allowed to visit at the Grange, as an old friend,
if nothing more. They got through a series of by-ways into the field
path, where their first meeting had been, and Rob was trying, for the
hundredth time, to obtain some promise of intercourse from Margaret,
when suddenly some one coming behind them laid a hand upon a shoulder
of each. Rob gave a violent start and turned round, while Margaret,
with a little cry, shrank back into the shadow of the hedge-row.

“My certy!” said the intruder; “this is a fine occupation, Rob, my man,
for a Sabbath nicht!” And then she, too, gave a cry of surprise, more
pretended than real, but in which there was a little genuine fright.
“Eh, bless me, it’s Miss Margret, and so far from hame!” she cried.

“Mother! what are _you_ doing here?” cried Rob. But as for
Margaret she was relieved. She had thought nothing less for the moment
than that Jean was upon her, or, at the very least, Bell coming out to
seek and bring her back. Mrs. Glen was not a person of whom she stood
in any fear, and she would not tell or interfere to let Jean know, for
Rob’s sake. So that Margaret turned round from the hedge-row with a
relieved soul, and said,

“Oh, is it you, Mrs. Glen?” with a new sense of ease in her tone.

“Deed and it is just me, my bonnie young lady. I hear you are going
away, Miss Margret, and many a sore heart you will leave in the
country-side. You’re so near the farm, you must come in and I will make
you a cup of tea in a moment. It’s real gray and dull, and there’s a
feel in the air like rain. Come your ways to the farm, Miss Margret, my
bonnie dear; and after that Rob will take you home.”

Margaret made no resistance to this proposal. She had been walking
for some time, and she was tired, and even the idea of the tea was
welcome. She went in after Mrs. Glen with some misgivings as to the
length of her absence, but a sense of relief on that point too; for it
had always been a good excuse to Bell, and even to her father, that
she had accepted the civility of one of their humbler neighbors. “It
pleases them; and so long as they are decent folk they will never but
be awfu’ keen to take care of Miss Margret: and she knows none but
decent folk,” Bell had said. The cup of tea in the farm-parlor would be
as good a reason for Margaret’s absence as Sir Claude’s luncheon-table
was for her sisters’. To be sure, in former days there had been no son
at Mrs. Glen’s to make such visits dangerous. She went in with a sense
of unexpected relief and sat down, very glad to find herself at rest in
the parlor, where a little fire was burning. To be sure, Rob would walk
home with her and renew his entreaties; but he could not, she thought,
continue them in his mother’s presence, and the relief was great.

“Mony a time have you come in here to get your tea, Miss Margret. I’ve
seen Rob come ben carrying ye in his arms. I mind one time you were
greeting for tiredness, a poor wee missie, and your shoe lost in the
burn; that lad was aye your slave, Miss Margret, from the time you were
no bigger than the table.”

“Oh, I remember,” said Margaret; “I thought Bell would scold me, and I
did not know how I was to go home without my shoe.”

“You went home in that lad’s arms, my bonnie dear, for all he stands
there so blate, looking at ye as if you were an angel; he wasna aye sae
blate. You went home in his arms, and gave him a good kiss, and thought
no shame. But you were only six then, and now you’re eighteen. Oh ay,
my dear, I can tell your age to a day. You were born the same week as
my youngest that died, a cauld November, and that sent your bonnie
young mother to her grave. It was an awfu’ draughty house, and no a
place for a delicate young woman, that auld house at Earl’s-hall. Fine,
I mind; and Rob there he’s five years older. From the time you could
toddle he aye thought you the chief wonder o’ the world.”

“Mother, you that know so much you had better know all,” said Rob. “I
think her the chief wonder of the world still.”

“You need not tell me that, my bonnie man; as if I could not see it
in your een!” Margaret stirred uneasily while this conversation went
on over her head. She had never thought of having this engagement
told to anybody, of being talked about to anybody. She got up with a
little gasp, feeling as if there was not air enough to breathe. If they
would not surround her so, close her up, all these people; oh, if they
would only let her alone! She tried to turn away to escape before Rob
should have said any more--but, before she clearly understood what was
passing, found herself suddenly in the arms of Mrs. Glen.

“Oh, my pretty miss! my bonnie young lady! is this all true that I
hear?” Rob’s mother cried, with effusive surprise and delight. “Did I
ever think, when I rose out of my bed this morning, that I was to hear
such wonderful news afore the night? Eh, Miss Margret, my dear, I wish
ye much joy, and I think ye’ll have it, for he’s a good lad; and you,
ye smiling loon, I need not wish you joy, for you’re just leaping out
of yourself with happiness and content.”

“And I think I have good reason,” cried Rob, coming up in his turn and
receiving her out of his mother’s embrace. Oh, how horribly out of
place Margaret felt between them! Never in her life had she felt the
dignity of being Margaret Leslie, old Sir Ludovic’s daughter, as she
did at that moment. Her cheeks burned crimson; she shrank into herself,
to escape from the embracing arms. What had she to do here? How had she
strayed so far from home? It was all she could do not to break forth
into passionate tears of disgust and repugnance. Oh, Margaret thought,
if she could but get away! if she could but run home all the way and
never stop! if she could but beg Jean to leave Earl’s-hall instantly
that very night! But she could not do any of these things. She had to
stand still, with eyes cast down and crimson cheeks, hearing them talk
of her. It was to them she seemed to belong now; and how could she get
away?

“Now give us your advice, mother,” said Rob, “we cannot tell what to
do. The Leslies are prejudiced, as may easily be supposed, especially
the old ladies (oh that Jean and Grace had but heard themselves called
old ladies!), and Margaret wants me to wait the three years till she
comes of age. She wants me to trust to chances of seeing her and
hearing of her--not even to have any regular correspondence. I would
cut off my right hand to please her, but how am I to live without
seeing her, mother? We had been talking and consulting, and wandering
on, a little farther and a little farther, till we did not know where
we were going. But now that we are here, give us your advice. Will you
be for me, I wonder, or on Margaret’s side?”

He had called her Margaret often before, and she was quite used to it;
why did it suddenly become so offensive and insupportable now?

“You see,” said Mrs. Glen, “there is a great deal to be said on both
sides.” Mrs. Glen was very much excited, her eyes gleaming, her heart
beating. It seemed to her that she had the fate of these two young
people in her hands, and might now clinch the matter and establish her
son’s good-fortune if Providence would but inspire her with the right
thing to say. “There is this for our bonnie Miss Margret, that she
would be all her lane to bear the opposition o’ thae ladies, and hard
it would be for a delicate young thing no used to struggle for herself;
and there’s that for you, Rob, that nae doubt it would be a terrible
trial to worship the ground she treads on as you do, and never to see
her for three lang years. Now let me think a moment, bairns, while this
dear lassie takes her cup of tea.”

Margaret could not refuse the cup of tea. How could she assert herself
and withdraw from them, and let them know that she was not to be taken
possession of and called a dear lassie by Mrs. Glen? Her heart was
in revolt; but she was far too shy, far too polite to make a visible
resistance. She drew back into the room as far as she could out of the
fitful gleams of the fire-light, and she shrank from Rob’s arm, which
was on the back of her chair; but still she took the tea and sat still,
bearing with all they said and did. It was the last time; but oh, what
trouble she had got into without meaning it! Suddenly it had come to be
salvation and deliverance to Margaret that she was going away.

“Now, bairns,” said Mrs. Glen, “listen to me. I think I have found what
you want. The grand thing is that you should be faithful to each other,
and mind upon each other. It’s no being parted that does harm. Three
years will flee away like three days, and you will be young, young,
ower young to be married at the end; and you would do more than that,
Rob Glen, for your bonnie Margaret; weel I ken that. So here is just
what you must do. You must give each other a bit writing, saying that
ye’ll marry at the end of three years--you to her, Rob, and her to you.
And then you will be out of all doubt, and troth-plight, the one to the
other, before God and man.”

“Mother!” cried Rob, starting up from where he had been bending over
Margaret, with a wild glow of mingled rage, terror, and hope in his
eyes. The suggestion gave him a shock. He did not know anything about
the law on that point, nor whether there was more validity in such a
promise than in any other love-pledge. But he was struck with sudden
alarm at the idea of doing something which might afterward be brought
against him, and a certain generosity and honor not extinguished in his
mind made him realize Margaret’s helpless condition between his mother
and himself, and her ignorance and her youth; while at the same time,
to secure her, to make certain of her, gave him a tug of temptation, a
wild sensation of delight. “No, no,” he cried, hoarsely, “I could not
make her do it;” then paused, and looked at her with the eager wildness
of passion in his eyes.

But Margaret was perfectly calm. No passion was woke in her--scarcely
any understanding of what this meant. A bit writing? Oh yes, what would
that matter, so long as she could get away?

“It is getting dark,” she said; “they will not know where I am; they
will be wondering. Will I do it now, whatever you want me to do, and go
home?”

“Margaret, my love!” he cried, “I thought you were frightened; I
thought you were shrinking from me; and here is your sweet consent more
ready than even mine!”

“Oh, it is not that,” she said, a little alarmed by the praise and by
the demonstrations that accompanied it. “But it is getting dark, and it
is late; and oh, I am so anxious to get home.”

Rob wrung his hands. “She doesn’t understand what we mean, mother; I
can’t take advantage of her. She thinks of nothing but to get home.”

“You gomerel!” said his mother, between her teeth; and then she turned
a smiling face upon Margaret. “Just that, my bonnie miss,” she said; “a
woman’s heart’s aye ready to save sorrow to them that’s fond of her.
It’s time you were home, my sweet lady. Just you write it down to make
him easy in his mind, and then he will take you back to Earl’s-hall.”

“Must I write it myself?” Margaret said; and it came across her with a
wave of blushing that she did not write at all nicely--not so well as
she ought. “And what am I to say? I don’t know what to say.” Then she
gave another glance at the window, which showed the night drawing near,
the darkness increasing every moment, with that noiseless, breathless
pleasure which the night seems to take in getting dark when we are far
from home. She got up with a sudden, hasty impulse. “Oh, if you please,
Mrs. Glen, if you will be as quick as ever you can! for I must run all
the way.”

“That will I, my darlin’ lady,” said the delighted mother. It was she
who had the whole doing of it, and the pride of having suggested it.
Rob stood by, quite pale, his eyes blazing with excitement, his mind
half paralyzed with trouble and terror, hope to have, reluctance to
take, fear of something unmanly, something dishonorable, intensified
by the eagerness of expectation, with which he looked for what was to
come. He stood “like a stock stane,” his mother said afterward, his
lips parted, his eyes staring, in her way as she rushed to the desk
at the other side of the room to find what was wanted. “You eedeeot!”
she said, as she pushed him aside, in an angry undertone. Had he not
the sense even to help in what was all for his own advantage? Margaret
pulled off her black glove and took the pen in her hand. She knew she
would write it very badly, very unevenly--not even in a straight line;
but if she had to do it before she could run home, it was better to get
it over.

“Oh, but I never wrote anything before,” she said; “Mrs. Glen, what
must I say?”

“Nor me. I never wrote the like of that before,” cried Mrs. Glen; “and
there’s Rob even--too happy to help us.” She had meant to use another
word to describe his spasm of irresolution and apprehension, but
remembered in time that he must not be contemned in Margaret’s eyes.
“It will be just this, my bonnie dear: ‘I, Margaret Leslie, give my
word before God and man, to marry Robert Glen as soon as I come of age.
So help me God. Amen.’”

“Don’t put that,” cried Rob, making a hasty step toward her. “Don’t let
her put that.” But then he turned away in such passion and transport of
shame, satisfaction, horror, and disgust as no words could tell, and
covered his face with his hands.

“Not that last,” said Margaret, stumbling, in her eagerness, over
the words, and glad to leave out whatever she could. “Oh, it is very
badly-written. I never could write well. Mrs. Glen, will that do?”

“And now your bonnie name here,” said the originator of the scheme,
scarcely able to restrain her triumph. And as Margaret, with a
trembling hand, crossed the last t, and put a blot for a dot over the
i, in her distracted signature, she received a resounding kiss upon her
cheek which was as the report of a pistol to her. She gave a little cry
of terror, and threw down the pen, and turned away. “Oh, good-bye!” she
cried, “good-bye. I must not stay another moment. I must run all the
way.”

Rob did not say a word--he hurried after her, with long strides,
keeping up with her as she flew along, in her fright, by the hedge-row.
“Oh, they must have missed me by this time. They will be wondering
where I have been,” she said, breathless. Rob set his teeth in the
dark. Never in his life had he been so humiliated. Though she had
pledged herself to him, she was not thinking of him; and in all
the experiences of his life he had never yet known this supreme
mortification. He had been loved where he had wooed. The other girls
whom Rob had addressed had forgotten everything for him. He half hated
her, though he loved her, and felt a fierce eagerness to have her--to
make her his altogether--to snatch her from the great people who looked
down upon him--to make himself master of her fate. But this furious
kind of love was only the excitement of the moment. At the bottom of
his heart he was fond of Margaret (as he had been of other Margarets
before). He could not bear the idea of losing her, of parting from her
like this, in wild haste, without any of the lingering caresses of
parting.

“Is this how you are going away from me, Margaret,” he cried,
“flying--as if you were glad to part, not sorry, when we don’t know
when we may meet again?”

“Oh, it is not that I am glad; it is only that they will wonder--they
will not know where I have been.”

“Will you ever be as breathless running to me as you are to run away
from me?” he cried. “Stop, Margaret! one moment before we come near the
gate, and say good-bye.”

She yielded with panting breath. That sacred kiss of parting--which, to
do him justice, he gave with all the fervor that became the occasion,
giving, as he felt, his very heart with it--how glad she was to escape
from it, and run on!

“Oh no! I will not forget-- I could not forget!” she cried.

Who was this, once more in the lovers’ way? A dark figure, who, they
could see, by the movement of his head, turned to look at them, but;
went on without taking any notice. Margaret, anxious as she was,
recognized Randal Burnside, and wondered that he did not notice her,
then was glad to think that he could not know her. Rob had other
thoughts. “Again found out--and by the same fellow!” he said to
himself, and gnashed his teeth. Randal was going over to Earl’s-hall,
a familiar visitor, while he, the betrothed husband of the daughter of
Earl’s-hall, had to skulk about the house in the dark, and take leave
of his love under cover of the night. Not without bitter humiliations
was this hour of his triumph.

“We must wait till he is out of sight,” he said, hoarsely, holding
her back. It was like holding an eager greyhound in the leash. “Oh,
Margaret,” he said, and despite and vexation filled his heart, “you are
not thinking of me at all--and here we have to part! You were not in
such a hurry when you used to cry upon my shoulder, and take a little
comfort from my love!”

This, and the necessity of keeping back till Randal had passed, touched
the girl’s heart.

“It is not my fault that I am in such a hurry,” she said. “Oh, you were
kind--kind--kinder than any one. I will never forget it, Rob.”

“It was not kindness,” he said, “it was love.”

“Yes, Rob.” She put her soft cheek to his with compunction in her
heart. She had been so eager to get away, and yet how kind he had
been--kinder than any one! Thus there came a little comfort for him
after all.

But just then, with a sudden flutter, as of a bird roused from the
branches, some one came out through the gate, which Randal had not
closed behind him--a figure of a woman indistinguishable against the
dimness of the twilight, with a little thrill and tremor about her,
which somehow made itself felt though she could not be seen.

“Is that you, Miss Margret? Bell sent me to look for you,” she said,
with the same thrill and quiver in her voice.

Rob Glen started violently. It was a new shock to him, and he had
already met with many shocks to his nerves that night. Her name came
to his lips with a cry; but he had sufficient sense of the position
to stop himself. Jeanie! was it possible, in the malice of fate, that
this was the Jeanie of whom Margaret had told him? He grasped her in
his arms for a moment with vehemence, partly because of that sudden
startling interruption, and, with one quickly breathed farewell on her
cheek, turned and went away.

“Oh, Jeanie, yes, it is me. I am very, very sorry. I did not want to be
so late. Have they found out that I was away? have they been looking
for me?” cried Margaret. It was not, perhaps, in the nature of things
that Jeanie should be unmoved in her reply.

“You’re no looking after the gentleman,” she said. “He’s gone and left
you, feared for me; and you’ve given him no good-bye. You needna be
feared for me, Miss Margret. Cry him back, and bid him farewell, as
a lass should to her lad. I’m nae traitor. You needna be feared that
Jeanie will betray ye. It’s no in my heart.”

“Oh, but he’s gone, Jeanie,” said Margaret, with a ring of relief in
her voice. “And oh, I’m glad to be at home! They made me stay when I
wanted to be back. Oh, how dark it is! Give me your hand, Jeanie, for I
cannot see where you are among the trees.”

Jeanie held out her hand in silence and reluctantly, and Margaret,
groping, found it, and took hold of it.

“You are all trembling,” she said.

“And if I am all trembling, it’s easy enough to ken why. Standing out
in the dark among the black trees, and thinking of them that’s gone to
their rest, and waiting for one that was not wanting me. Eh, it’s no so
long since you had other things in your head, Miss Margret--your old
papa, that was as kind as ever father was. But nobody thinks muckle
about old Sir Ludovic now.”

“Oh, Jeanie! I think upon him night and day!” cried Margaret; and what
with the reproach, and what with her weariness and the past excitement,
she fell into sudden tears.

“Is that you, my bonnie lamb?” said another voice; and Bell came out of
the gloom, where she, too, had been on the watch. “It’s cold and it’s
dreary, and you’re worn to death,” she said. “Oh, Miss Margret, where
have you been, my bonnie doo, wandering about the house, and greeting
till your bit heart is sair? Weel, I ken your heart is sair, and mine
too. What will we do without you, John and me? You are just the light
of our eyes, as you were to the auld maister, auld Sir Ludovic, that
was a guid maister to him and to me. Eh, to think this should be the
last night, after sae many years!”

“But, Bell,” said Margaret, calmed by this sense of lawful protection
and the shadow of home, “it is not the last night for you?”

“Ay, my bonnie pet, it’s that or little else. When you’re gane, Miss
Margret, a’ will be gane. And my lady’s a good woman; but I couldna put
up with her, and she couldna put up with me. We’re no fit for ither
service, neither me nor John--na, no even in your house, my bonnie
lamb, for I know that’s what you’re gaun to say. Nae new house nor
new ways for John and me. We’re to flit into a bit cot o’ our ain,
and there we’ll bide till the Lord calls, and we gang east to the
kirk-yard. God bless ye, my bonnie bairn. Run up the stairs; nobody
kens you were away; for weel I divined,” said Bell, with an earnestness
that filled Margaret’s soul with the sense of guilt--“weel I divined
that ye would have little heart for company this sorrowful night.”




CHAPTER XXIX.


When Margaret stole into the long room, where the family were assembled
that evening, she heard a little discussion going on about herself.
Ludovic had risen up, and was standing with an uneasy look upon his
face, preparing to go in search of her, while Jean was asking who had
seen Margaret last. Randal Burnside had come in only a few minutes
before, and was still standing with his hat in his hand; and he it was
who was explaining when Margaret entered.

“I saw her with Bell as I came in,” he said (which was so far true that
he lingered till Bell had met her). “I fear she has been making some
sad pilgrimages about the house. Has she ever left Earl’s-hall before?”

“Never--not for a single day,” said kind Lady Leslie; and there, was a
little pause of commiseration. “Poor Margaret!” they all said, in their
various tones.

They were seated at one end of the long room, two lamps making a
partial illumination about them, while the surrounding space lay in
gloom. The books on the walls shone dimly in the ineffectual light,
the dim sky glimmered darkly through the windows, opening this little
in-door world to the world without. Mrs. Bellingham had got her feet up
on a second chair, for there were no sofas in the long room. Sunday was
a tiring day, and Lady Leslie had yawned several times, and would have
liked had it been bedtime. She was a woman of very good principles,
and she did not like to think of worldly affairs on Sundays; but it
was very hard, at the same time, to get them out of her head. As for
Miss Leslie, she had got a volume of sacred poetry, which had many
beautiful pieces. She remembered to have said some of them to her dear
papa on the Sunday evenings of old, between thirty and forty years
ago, and though it was a long time since, she had been crying a little
to herself over the thought. Effie was, perhaps, the only thoroughly
awake member of the family; for it had just been intimated to her that
her aunt Jean, after all, had invited her to go to the Highlands to be
Margaret’s companion, and her heart was beating high with pleasure.
Aubrey had whispered to her his satisfaction too. “Thank Heaven you are
coming,” he said; “we shall not be so very funereal after all.” It was
while she was still full of smiles from this whisper, and while Randal
stood with his hat in his hand, giving that little explanation about
Margaret, that Margaret herself stole in, with a little involuntary
swing of the door of the West Chamber, through which she came, which
made them all start. Margaret was very pale and worn out, with dark
lines under her eyes; and she came at an opportune time, when they were
all sorry for her. Instead of scolding, Lady Leslie came up and kissed
her.

“My dear,” she said, “we all know how hard it must be for you
to-night;” and when the ready tears brimmed up to the girl’s heavy
eyes, the good woman nearly cried too. Her heart yearned over the
motherless creature thus going away from all she had ever known.

This kiss, and the little murmur of sympathy, and the kind looks they
all cast upon her, had the strangest effect upon Margaret. She gave
a little startled cry, and looked round upon them with a momentary
impulse of desperation. It had never occurred to her that she was
deceiving any one before. But now, coming in worn with excitement and
trouble of so different a kind, all at once there burst upon Margaret
a sense of the wickedness, the guiltiness, the falsehood she was
practising. She had never thought of it before. But now when she gave
that startled look round, crying “Oh!” with a pang of compunction and
wondering self-accusation, the whole enormity of it rushed on her mind.
She felt that she ought to have stood up in the midst of the group in
the centre of the room, even “before the gentlemen,” and have owned
the truth. “I am not innocent as you think me, it is not poor papa I
am crying for. I was not so much as thinking of papa,” was what she
ought to have said. But there was only one individual present who had
the least understanding of her, or even guessed what the start and the
exclamation could mean. When she opened those great eyes wide in her
sudden horror of what she was doing, Lady Leslie, a little frightened
lest grief should be taking the wilder form of passion, unknown to the
placid mind, in this poor little uneducated, undisciplined girl, did
all she could to soothe her with gentle words. “We are all a little
dull to-night,” she said. “My dear, I am sure the best thing you can do
is to go to bed.”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Bellingham, “we are all going to bed. Though it is
not a day when one is supposed to do very much, yet there is no day in
the week more tiring than Sunday. We always keep early hours on Sunday.
By all means, Margaret, go to your room and get a good rest before
to-morrow. You have been making a figure of yourself, crying, and you
are not fit to be seen; though, indeed, we might all have been crying
if we had not felt that it would never do to give way. When you think,”
said Jean, sitting back majestically, with her feet upon the second
chair, “of all that has happened since we came here, and that nobody
can tell whether we will ever meet under this old roof again!”

“Let us hope that Margaret will come back often; and I am sure she
will always find her brother’s house a home,” said Lady Leslie, still
holding her hand and patting her shoulder kindly. All these words
came into her mind in a confusion which prevented her from realizing
what they meant. She saw Jean shake her head, and demand sadly how
that could be, if Ludovic were to sell the house, as he had just been
saying? But even this extraordinary suggestion did not wake Margaret’s
preoccupied mind. They all said “Hush!” looking at her. It was supposed
among them that the only one who would really suffer by the sale of
Earl’s-hall was Margaret, and that to hear of the idea would be more
than she could bear. But in her confused condition she took no notice
of anything. She did not seem to care for Earl’s-hall, or for the
family trouble, or for anything in the world except this strange thing
which absorbed her, and which none of them knew. The lamps and the
circle of faces were like a phantasmagoria before her eyes, a wreath
of white sparks in the darkness, all pale, all indistinct against the
dim background. Randal only became a little more real to her by dint of
what seemed to her the reproachful look he gave her. She thought it was
a reproachful look. He had seen her out-of-doors, though he had not
taken any notice of her. She remembered now that he had not even showed
her the civility of taking off his hat.

“He has no respect for me any more,” Margaret said to herself; and this
thought went deep, with a pang, to her very heart.

Bell was waiting for her in her room, where already her boxes were
packed, and most of her preparations made; and poor Margaret, her mind
all confused with a sense that what was supposed to occupy and engross
her was scarcely in her thoughts at all, gave herself up into the old
woman’s hard yet tender hands, as passive as a child, with all the ease
that perfect confidence gives. She was not afraid of Bell, nor did she
feel the guilt of keeping from her that uncomfortable secret which was
no happiness to her, poor child, and which she would so gladly have
pushed aside from her own mind had it been possible. “Eh, I wonder if
onybody will over take the pride in it that I have done,” Bell said,
taking down her young mistress’s hair, and letting it fall in long,
soft undulation of silky brown over her hands. She turned her head away
while she brushed, that no tear might drop upon it. “Na, naebody will
take the same pride in it as me: for I’ve been a’ ye’ve had to bring
ye up from a bairn, my bonnie, bonnie darlin’: and nae ither woman can
ever be that. It’s like taking the heart out o’ my breast to see you
turn your back on Earl’s-hall.”

The same words had been said to her not very long before, and in a way
which ought to have touched her more deeply. Margaret trembled a little
with the recollection. “But I will come back again, Bell, and see you,”
she said, with a far more ready response. She pulled down the old
woman’s arms about her neck, and clung to her. “Oh, I will come back!”
she cried; “Bell, there will never be anybody in the world like you.”

“You maunna say that, my bonnie lamb. Many, many there are in the world
better worth thinking upon than the like o’ me. I am no sae selfish
a creature as that; but you’ll keep a corner for your old Bell, Miss
Margret, ay, and auld John too. He’s just speechless with greetin’:
but he canna yield to shed a tear--and a temper like the auld enemy
himsel’. But it’s no temper, it’s his heart that’s breaking. You’ll no
forget the auld man? and whiles ye’ll write us a word to say you’re
well and happy, and getting up your heart?”

“How will I ever get up my heart,” cried Margaret, “in a strange place,
with nobody, nobody--not one that cares for me?”

“Whisht, whisht, my darling! You’ll find plenty that will care for
you--maybe ower many, my bonnie doo--for you’ll be a rich lady and have
a grand house, far finer than puir Earl’s-ha’. And oh, Miss Margret,
above a’ take you great care wha you set your heart on. There’s some
that are fair to see and little good at the heart, and a young creature
is easy deceived. You mustna go by looks, and you mustna let your heart
be tangled with the first that comes. Eh, if Sir Ludovic had but lived
a little longer, and gotten you a good man afore he slippit away!”

Margaret was silenced, and could not say a word. If he had known
_this_, what would he have thought of it? Would he have handed his
little Peggy over to the first that came? Would he have chosen for her,
and made this confusing harassing bondage into something legitimate and
holy? Margaret received the thought of that possibility with a gasp,
not of wishing, but of terror. It seemed to her as if she had escaped
something from which there could have been no escape.

“But that’s far from your thoughts as yet,” said Bell, “and it’s no me
that will trouble your bonnie head with the like o’ that before the
time; and the ladies will take great care-- I’m no feared but what they
will take great care. They will keep poor lads away, and poor lads are
aye the maist danger. Here I’m just doing what I said I wouldna do! But
eh, we’re silly folk; we canna see how the bairns are to be guided that
gang from us: as if God would bide in Fife as well as the like o’ me:
as if he wasna aye there to hand my darlin’ by the hand!”

Bell paused to dry her eyes, and to twist in a knot for the night the
long locks of the pretty hair in which nobody again would ever take so
much pride.

“And, Miss Margret,” she said, “you’ll no let some light-headed thing
of a maid tear thae bonnie locks out o’ your head with her curlings and
frizzings? Sir Ludovic couldna endure them. He would aye have it like
silk, shining in the sun. He never could bide to see it neglected. The
ladies even, though they’re no so young as they once were, did you ever
see such heads? But yours is as God made it, and as bonnie as a flower.
And you’ll aye mind your duty, my bonnie darlin’, and your prayers, and
remember your Creator in the days o’ your youth. And dinna think ower
muckle about your dresses, nor about lads. That will come in its time.
I’m just beginning again, though I said I wouldna do it! But oh, to
think it’s the last night, and I’ll never put you to your bed again,
nor gie you good advice, nor keep you from the cauld, nor take it upon
me to find fault with my bonnie young lady! I canna tell what will be
the use of me mair when my bonnie bird flies away.”

“Oh, Bell, I will come back; I will come back!”

“Ay, you’ll come back, my darlin’ bairn; but if you come a hundred
times, and a hundred to that, you’ll never be the same, Miss Margret.
The Lord bless you, my bonnie lamb--but you’ll never be the same.”

Whether this was a very good preparation for the long night’s rest
which Mrs. Bellingham thought necessary for travellers, may perhaps be
doubted. But Margaret soon cried herself to sleep when Bell withdrew.
She was too much exhausted with excitement to be further excited, and
this gentle chapter of domestic life, the return of the faces and
voices, and looks and feelings familiar to her, gave some comfort to
the girl’s overworn brain. They interfered between her and that strange
scene in the farm-house. They formed a new event, a something which
had happened since, to soften to her the trouble and commotion of that
strange interruption of her life. She slept, and woke in the morning
with a sense of relief which at first she could scarcely account for.
What was it of comfort and amelioration that had happened to her? Was
it all a dream that her father was dead, that her youthful existence
was closed? No, it was that she was going away. Margaret shuddered
and trembled with wonder to think that it was possible this could be
a relief to her. But yet it was so. She could not doubt it, she could
not deny it to herself. When she ought to have been broken-hearted,
she was glad. To go away, to escape from all that was so secret and so
strange was so much a comfort to her, that she had almost forgotten
that she was leaving home at the same time, going out upon a strange
and unrealized existence, leaving the friends of her infancy, the house
she was born in, all the familiar circumstances of her life, and her
father’s grave, where he had been laid so lately.

Margaret felt vaguely with her mind that all these farewells ought to
have broken her heart, and she shed a few tears because Bell did so,
because old John, speechless and lowering like a thunder-cloud, turned
his back upon her and could not say good-bye. John had tossed her
trunks on to the cart with the rest with absolute violence, as if he
would have liked to break them to pieces; his face was dark with woe
which wore the semblance of wrath. He turned his back upon her when
she went to shake hands with him, and Margaret turned from the door of
the old gray house with tears dropping like rain, but oh! for her hard
heart! with an unreasonable, unfeeling sensation of relief, glad to get
away from Earl’s-hall and Rob Glen, and all that might follow. They
thought it was perhaps the society of Effie which had “made it so much
easier” for her; and Mrs. Bellingham congratulated herself on her own
discrimination in having thus pleased Ludovic and consoled Margaret.

Dr. Burnside and his wife, who came to the railway to see the party
off, applauded her tenderly, and bade God bless her for a brave girl
who was bearing her burden as a Christian ought. Did Randal know better
what it was that supported her, and made even the sight of the grave,
high up upon the mound, a possible thing to bear? Did he know why it
was that she went away almost eagerly, glad to be free? She gave him a
wistful, inquiring look, as he stood by himself a little apart, looking
at the group with serious eyes. Randal was the last to divine what her
real feelings were, but how could Margaret tell this? He thought she
was calmed and stilled by the consciousness of a new bond formed, and
a new love that was her own, and was grieved for her, feeling all the
vexations she must encounter before this love could be acknowledged,
and doubting in his heart whether Rob Glen, he who could press his suit
at such a moment and keep his secret, was a lover worth acknowledging.
But Randal had no right to interfere. He looked at her with pity in his
eyes, and thought he understood, and was very sorry, while she, looking
at him wistfully, wondered, did not he know?

Thus Margaret went away from her home and her childhood, and from those
bonds which she had bound upon herself without understanding them,
and which still, without understanding, she was afraid of and uneasy
under. Sir Ludovic and his wife left Earl’s-hall at the same time to
join their children in Edinburgh, and there to make other calculations
of all they could, and all they could not, do. Perhaps when they were
at a distance, the problem would seem less difficult. Earl’s-hall was
left silent and solitary, standing up gray against the light, the old
windows wide open, the chambers all empty, nobody stirring but Jeanie,
who was putting all things into the order and rigidness of death.
Bell, for her part, sat down-stairs in her vaulted room, with her
apron thrown over her head; and John had gone out, though it was still
morning, “to look at the pitawties,” with a lowering brow, but eyes
that saw nothing through the mist of unwilling tears.

That very night Rob Glen came back to his seat under the silver fir,
and gazed at the vacant house with eager and restless eyes. He was
not serene, like his mother, but unhappy and dissatisfied, and with a
great doubt as to the efficacy of all that had been done. Margaret had
mortified him to the heart, even in giving him her promise. He was a
man who had been loved; and to be thus accepted with reluctance gave a
stab to his pride which it was hard to bear. And perhaps it was this
sentiment which brought him, angry and impatient and mortified, back
to the neighborhood of the house from which his new love had just gone
away, but where, he could not but recollect, his old love still was.
Jeanie had gone about her work all day with that arrow in her heart.
She had known very well what was coming, had watched it even as it
came, and sadly contemplated the transference to her young mistress
of all that had been so dear to herself. She had followed the course
of the story almost as distinctly as if she had been present at all
their interviews; seeing something, for her turret had glimpses of the
wood, and guessing more, for did not Jeanie know? But yet to see them
together had been for the moment more than Jeanie could bear. It had
seemed an insult to her that Rob should come, leading her successor,
to the very house in which she was; and her more charitable certainty
that he did not know of her presence there had gone out of her mind
in the sharpness of the shock. And when her work was over, Jeanie too
went out, with a natural impulse of misery, to the same spot where
she had seen them together. “No fear that he’ll come here the night,”
Jeanie said to herself, bitterly; and lo! before the thought had been
more than formed in her mind, Rob was by her side. She gave a cry, and
sprang from him in anger; but Rob was not the man to let a girl fly
from him over whom he had ancient rights of wooing. His countenance
was downcast enough before. He put into it a look of contrition and
melancholy patience now.

“Jeanie,” he said, “will you say nothing, not a word of forgiveness, to
an old friend?”

“What can the like of me say that could be pleasant?” said Jeanie;
“you’re far ower grand a gentleman, Maister Glen, to have anything to
say to the like of me.”

“You know very well that you are doing me a great deal of injustice,”
he said, sadly; “but I will not defend myself. If I had but known that
you were here--but I did not know.”

“I never heard that you took much trouble to ask,” said Jeanie; “and
wherefore should you? You were aye far above me. There was a time when
I was silly, and thought little of that; but I ken better now.”

“I don’t know that I am above anybody; there are many people that are
above me,” he said, with a sigh, and a look of dreary vacancy beyond
her, which deeply provoked yet interested the girl in spite of herself.

“Ay,” she said, “you will feel for other folk now; you will ken what
it means now. But I’ve naething to say to you, Maister Glen, and I’m
wishing ye nae harm. A’s lang ended that ever was between you and me.”

“Are you sure of that, Jeanie?” he said.

It was not in Rob’s nature to let any one escape from him upon whom he
had ever had a hold.

“Ay, I’m sure of it,” she cried; “and you are but a leer and a deceiver
if you dare speak to me in that voice, after what I’ve seen with my ain
een--after the way I’ve seen ye with Miss Margret! Oh, she’s ower good
for you, ower innocent for one that hasna a true heart! Last night, no
further gane, I saw you here with my bonnie young lady; and now, if I
would let you, that’s how you would speak to me.”

“Jeanie,” he said, “it’s all just that you are saying; but how do you
know how I was led to it? You could not see that. She came out, in her
trouble, to cry here, and I was here when she came. Could I see her cry
and not try to comfort her? I don’t pretend to be strong, to be able
to resist temptation. I should have thought of you, but you were not
here; I did not know where you were. And she, poor child, was in great
need of some one to rest upon, some one to console her. That was how it
came about. You know me. I did not forget you; but she was there, and
in want of some one to be a comfort to her. I am confessing to you like
a Catholic to his priest; for all that you say there is nothing between
us now.”

“Oh!” she cried, “speak to me no more, Rob Glen. I canna tell what’s
ill and what’s well, when you talk and talk, with that voice that would
wile a bird from the tree.”

“Why do you find such fault with my voice?” he said, coming a little
nearer. “It may be as you say, Jeanie, that all is ended; but, at
least, your good heart will do me justice. You were away, and here was
a poor young creature in sore trouble. Say I’ve been foolish, say my
life has gone away from me into another’s hands; but do not say that I
forgot my Jeanie; that I never did--that I will never do.”

“Oh, dinna speak to me!” cried the girl--“dinna speak to me! I’m
neither your Jeanie, nor I will not give an ear to anything you can
say.”

“Then I will wait till you change your mind,” he said; and as she
turned hastily toward the house, Rob went with her, gentle as a woman,
respectful, with a sort of deprecation and melancholy softness. Perhaps
she was right, he would allow, with a soft tone of sorrow. Life might
be changed, the die was cast; but still it was not in Rob’s nature to
let any one drop. He talked to her with a tone of studious gentleness
and quiet. “At least we may be friends,” he said.




CHAPTER XXX.


The party of travellers went to Perth, and from thence wandered among
the hills and woods, and by the wild and lonely glens, to which that
gate of the Highlands gives an entrance. It was all new to Margaret. In
all her life she had seen nothing more imposing than the lion crest of
Arthur’s Seat, as seen across the stately breadth of the Firth, the low
twin heads of the Lomonds, or, in the far distance among the mists, the
long withdrawing line of the Grampians. When she saw these misty hills
nearer, when she watched the clouds at play upon them, and counted
the flying shadows, and shared the instantaneous brightening of the
sun-glints, what wonder that Margaret felt her heart rise in her breast
notwithstanding all the trouble there. She had not thought it possible
that the world could be so lovely. The weather was fine, with now and
then a rainy day, and the days were still long, though midsummer was
past.

Mrs. Bellingham and Miss Leslie were good travellers. Given two
comfortable places in a carriage, and weather at all tolerable, and
they were ready to drive anywhere, and to go on from morning to
night. A bag fitted, with all manner of conveniences, a novel, a
piece of knitting, and plenty of shawls, was all they demanded. Even
when it rained they could make themselves very comfortable in the
hotels, finding out who everybody was--and did not object even to
walking within limits. And they knew about everything: which were the
best routes, and how much the carriages ought to cost in which they
preferred travelling; for it did not suit these ladies to go in coaches
or other public vehicles along with the raskal multitude--and indeed,
as it was still only July, the raskal multitude had as yet scarcely
started on its peregrinations. As soon as they felt that their crape
was safe under the shelter of large water-proofs they were happy. Mrs.
Bellingham took the best seat with undaunted composure; but Miss Leslie
thought it necessary to go through a good many processes of explanation
or apology before she placed herself by her sister’s side.

“Oh no! I cannot think of always taking that place: really, Margaret,
you must have it to-day. You can see the view so much better. Dearest
Jean, do make dear Margaret take my place. She sat all yesterday with
her back to the horses; and I don’t mind, not in the very least. I
would much rather sit with my back to the horses. I never have been
used to monopolize the best place.”

“Hold your tongue, Grace, and get in,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “I suppose
you mean that I do--and I think, at my age, it is my place to have
the best seat. You are only wasting our time, now that we really have
a fine day. Now this is very comfortable. It is the kind of thing I
always enjoy: a decent carriage, and horses that are not bad-- I have
seen better, but we might have a great deal worse--and two nice girls
opposite, and a gentleman at hand whatever happens, and as lovely
a drive before us as heart could desire. We will stop for lunch at
Kenmore, Aubrey; do you know Kenmore? It is close to Taymouth, which
is as beautiful a place as any you could see. It always reminds me of
Windsor Castle, except that it lies low, and Windsor is on a hill. We
go by the side of Loch Tay, which is a beautiful loch, Margaret; not
so picturesque as some you will see farther west, but beautiful for
all that. Now, Grace, the girls have settled themselves, and Aubrey is
on the box. Are we to wait for you all day? You always keep us waiting
when every one is ready to start.”

“It is only because I wanted some one to have this seat,” said Miss
Grace, anxiously. “I have been this way before, and the dear girls have
not; or Aubrey, perhaps, dear Aubrey would rather be here than on the
box? It would be much more amusing for you all, dear Jean, than to have
me. Oh!” said the trembling lady, as her more energetic sister dragged
her in with a grip of her arm, and the door was closed upon her. She
kept asking Margaret and Effie all the day to change places with her,
and kept the party in a fidget; “for, you see, I have been this way
before,” she said. It was a bright day, and Loch Tay lay before them, a
sheet of light, between pale and golden, its fringe of trees wet with
past rain, and big Ben Lawers rising huge into the blue air.

Margaret felt that she had to make an effort to retain the sadness that
she had kept round her like a mantle. How could she laugh? how could
she let them talk, and chime in with irrestrainable reply and remark,
when only such a little while ago--not yet a month ago?--she said to
herself. But when things had come so far as this, it was not to be
supposed that the little veil of natural sentiment could keep her eyes
always drooping. Her face began to glow again, to change from white to
red, and back into that delicate paleness which was habitual to her.
The clouds and the mists cleared away from her brown eyes. The scent
of the young birches, the plash of the water on the shore, the soft
shower of rain-drops now and then shaken out over their heads by some
mischievous breeze as they passed; the atmosphere so heavenly clear,
the sun so gay and friendly, beguiled her out of her trouble.

In grief, as in sickness, there is a moment when the burden is sensibly
lightened, the bonds relax for the first time. This moment came to
Margaret now. She was terrified to feel how light her heart was, and
what an involuntary glow of exhilaration had come over her. Nothing
had happened to make her glad. She was only rising again, in spite
of herself, into the beauty of the common day, into the light and
brightness of her youth. And indeed, but for the sense that she ought
not to be happy, Margaret might well have felt the well-being of the
moment enough for her. The fresh air, and the pleasant progress, and
all the beautiful sights around her, were brightened by Effie’s bright
countenance, full of smiles and delight, and by the other companion on
the box, who leaned over them to shower down a flood of comments upon
everything--comments which were generally amusing enough, and often
witty to Margaret’s simple ears. And even the self-contented comfort
of Jean, sitting well back in her corner, with her eau-de-cologne, her
purse, her little paper-knife, her novel lest the drive should get
dull, and Miss Grace’s anxious regret to have the best side, and desire
that some one would “change seats with her,” were full of fun, full of
amusement to the inexperienced girl. Nature betrayed her into laughter
now and then, into smiles between times.

It was only a month yet, not quite a month, since old Sir Ludovic died;
but was it Margaret’s fault that she was only eighteen? These four
weeks had lasted the length of generations. Now they were creeping into
their natural length again, into mornings and evenings, soft and swift
as the passage of the clouds. And the country was so fresh and sweet,
and all the world so amusing in its varied humors. Her heart came back
again into renewed life, with a little thrill and tremor of unconscious
yet half-guilty pleasure. She could not be churlish enough to close
herself up against all the seductions of nature and gentle persuasions
of her youth.

Killin was one of the places where the party had arranged to stay, or,
rather, where Mrs. Bellingham had arranged to stay. To have one person
with a decided will and taste, and all the rest obedient in natural
subjection or good-humored ease, is the grand necessity for such an
expedition. Mrs. Bellingham fulfilled all these requirements. She
knew what she herself liked, and was very well disposed to make other
people accept that, as the standard of beauty. And luckily Jean had
been on Loch Tay before, and had arbitrarily decided, like a despot
of intelligence, that on Loch Tay Killin was the place to stay. She
sat up in her carriage with a pleased importance as they drove in
through the homely cottages, thatched, and tiled, and mossy, through
the genial odor of peat in the blue air, past the swift flowing of the
brown golden stream which winds its way into the loch round that island
where the dead Campbells have their mansion as lordly as Taymouth,
and how much more safe and sweet. Jean sat up in her place with a
pleased relaxation of her countenance as the carriage drove round to
the inn-door where Steward, her maid, who had gone by the coach with
all the boxes of the party, stood in attendance behind the smiling
landlord, but heading the homely waiters and chamber-maids. Steward
knew her place. To be mistress of a Highland inn would not at all have
displeased her; but she knew very well that she was of a different and
higher order of being from those smiling Highland maids with their
doubtful English, and the anxious waiter who had so many parties to
look after, and lost his wits now and then when the coach was crowded.
A party taking so many rooms, and not illiberal in their way, though
Mrs. Bellingham looked sharply after the bills, gave importance to
everybody connected with them.

“You got my letter, Mr. MacGillivray?” said Mrs. Bellingham.

“Ay, my leddy; oh, ay, my leddy; and I hope ye’ll find everything to
your satisfaction,” said the landlord, opening the door with anxious
obsequiousness, as if Jean had been the Queen herself, Miss Leslie
could not but remark. It was a pleasant moment. The sun was declining
westward; the roar of the waterfall above the bridge came fitfully upon
the air; the rush of the nearer stream sounded clear and close at hand;
the cottage children ran in picturesque little russet groups to gaze at
the new-comers. On the other hand, Ben Lawers, clumsy but grand, heaved
upward against the sky and cut its arch in two. The trees filled in all
the crevices about, and in the distance Glen Dochart glimmered far
away, opening up between the hills a golden path into the west.

“Make haste, children,” said Mrs. Bellingham, “for we will have to dine
at the _table-d’hôte_; and that I know by experience waits for
nobody, and a very funny business it is. But it’s a great pity we’re a
month too early, and you’ll get no grouse.”

“That is a mistake indeed,” said Aubrey; “but, after all, we are only
a fortnight too early, and the time may come when we shall have better
luck.”

“And oh, darling Margaret,” said Miss Leslie, “I have had such a
beautiful view! I am so sorry, I cannot tell you how sorry, I am that
neither you nor dear Effie would take my seat!”

It had been a most successful day, with no clang or bustle of railways,
but only the horses’ measured trot; the roll of the wheels; the flash
of the sunshiny loch; the honest Highland sunshine, sweet as heavenly
light can be, but never scorching, only kindly warming, cheering,
smiling, upon the wayfarer. And now it was very pleasant to see the
friendly people at their doors: the Highland maids, happy to please
you, with their kind voices and looks of friendly interest; the waiter,
bothered to death, poor man, but anxious, too, that you should eat and
show an appetite. Nowhere else is there such homely interest in the
chance guest. Perhaps the bill is a trifle high: is it a trifle high?
Not any higher than in England, though perhaps just a little more than
in the big, inhuman Swiss caravansary where all the Cockney world is
crowding. There are caravansaries in the Highlands too, but not at
Killin. There, still, the maids smile kindly, and cannot bide that you
should not be happy; and the waiter (though drawn three ways at the
same moment) is troubled if you do not “enjoy your dinner.” And the
peat smoke rises in aromatic wreaths into the clear blue air, and the
river flows golden in the sunshine, but above the bridge tumbles in
foaming cataracts; and broad and large, with a homely magnificence, the
loch spreads out its waters under the sun or moon.

After the meal, grandly entitled a _table-d’hôte_, to which
our party sat down in friendly conjunction with a stranger pair,
whom Mrs. Bellingham was very condescending to, and whom it was odd
not to know intimately, as they did to each other all the honors of
the family dinner, Jean retired to the most comfortable room, where
Steward brought her writing things, and her books and knitting. “I
will put up my feet a little,” she said, “but I advise the rest of
you to go out for a walk. You should never lose a fine evening in the
Highlands, Aubrey, for you never know what to-morrow may be. I know
the place as well as I know my Bible. Go up to the bridge and look at
the water-fall, for it is considered very fine; and there is a man,
where the boats lie, who sells Scotch pearls; you can tell him to bring
them up to show us after you come in again. But go out and take a walk
first, and get the good of the fine evening. I will just put up my
feet.”

“And, dearest Jean, as Aubrey is a kind of cousin--or perhaps it is a
kind of nephew--to darling Margaret, don’t you think I may stay with
you? for it would be very selfish of me, dear Effie, and dear Margaret,
to leave dearest Aunt Jean alone.”

The younger people strayed out without waiting for the conclusion of
the controversy which was thus opened between the ladies; for Mrs.
Bellingham was quite able to dispense with her sister’s society, though
kind Miss Grace, with many a whisper behind her back, declared that
she did not at all mind, but that it would never do to leave dear Jean
alone. They went out discussing their own curious relationships with a
great deal of natural amusement; for there was no doubt that Effie at
seventeen and a half was the unquestionable niece of Margaret, who had
not yet arrived at her eighteenth birthday. “And as Miss Leslie is my
aunt Grace, it is unquestionable that Miss Margaret Leslie must be my
aunt Margaret, most venerable of titles,” said Aubrey, taking off his
hat and making her a reverential bow. He protested that no Christian
name could be added to the title of aunt which could produce so
profound an impression of age and awe. Aunt Grace might sound skittish
and youthful, and Aunt Jean be no more than matronly; but nothing less
than a white-haired grandmother could do justice (they all allowed)
to the name of Aunt Margaret. Effie, who was a great novel-reader,
reckoned upon her fingers how many there were to be found in books.

Thus discussing, they went lightly along through the soft Highland
evening all scented with the peat. The sky was still blue and clear,
but in the village street it was almost dark, glimmers of the
never-extinguished fires shining cheerfully from the cottage-windows,
and the few passengers about looking at each other with puckered
eyelids, “as an old tailor looks at the eye of his needle,” according
to Dante. Some one contemplating them thus, with contracted pupils and
projected head, attracted the notice of the girls as they went along,
in a little pause after their laughter--some one with a fishing-basket
over his shoulder--and came to a sudden pause before them.

“Randal Burnside!” Margaret cried, with a little start. And Randal
made a very elaborate explanation as to how he had been under an old
engagement to come here to fish, and how much surprised he was to see
them arriving whom he had parted from only about ten days before.

“I could not believe my eyes,” he said.

Why should not he believe his eyes? Mrs. Bellingham, when told of this
explanation, declared indignantly that she had herself told him of her
intention to stay a few days at Killin.

“What should he be surprised at?” she asked; but this was a question to
which nobody could reply.

He turned with them, as was natural, and they all continued their walk
together. There were no lamps nor other worldly vulgarities in Killin;
there was no railway even, in those days, invading the silence of the
hills--nothing but the cottages, low, homely places, in pleasant tones
of gray, and red, and brown, with soft blue pennons of the aromatic
peat-reek floating over them, and clouds of white convolvulus threaded
up and down their homely walls--and the big shadows of the hills
forming the background, or, when you reached higher ground, the silver
brightness of the loch. And how quiet it was! the distant roar of the
wild water only heightening, as with a great abstract voice of nature,
taking no note of humanity, the tranquillity and softened dimness
of the village. The little group took in the stranger and increased
itself, then unconsciously sundered and formed into two and two.

Was it not the merest accident that the two in advance were merry Effie
and the gay Englishman, and the two behind Randal and Margaret? Nothing
could have been more natural. But Margaret’s hesitating laughter was
quenched henceforward. She was half ashamed of it, as not befitting
her orphanhood and her black dress: and then she could not but think
of the other evening, not so very long ago, when Randal’s appearance
had startled her before: the time when he had not taken any notice, not
even taken off his hat. Margaret had never got over the humiliation of
that greeting withheld. He had seen her, for she had heard him say so:
but then and there, she felt, Randal must have lost his respect for
her-- Randal, who had known her all her life. Even in the excitement of
the moment this had given Margaret a wound; and she had not got over
it, though that evening had so many recollections that were painful to
her. Two or three times now in the soft gloom, as they walked along
side by side, she raised her head and gave him a furtive, timid glance,
with the words on her lips, “Why did you take no notice that night?”
But though her mind was full of it, she had not the courage to ask the
question. Effie and Aubrey went on before, their voices sounding softly
through the night; but Randal did not say very much, and Margaret
nothing at all. The spell of the momentary gayety was broken. A little
moisture even stole into her eyes under cover of the night; and yet she
was not unhappy, if only she could have had the courage to ask why it
was that he “took no notice.” They went as far as the bridge and stood
there, looking at the torrent as it foamed down, leaping and dashing in
white clouds over the rocks.

Margaret had never seen such a scene; even the brawling cataracts
of the Tummel and Garry, which had been her first experience of the
kind, were not like this. In the midst of the wild commotion a knot of
stately firs held themselves aloof, intrenched in a citadel of rock
amidst all the rage of the torrents, the wild water raging on every
side, but the tree-island, coldly proud, scarcely owning, by a quiver
of its leaflets, the influence of so much passion roused. Randal said
something to her as he stood by her, but she could not hear a syllable.
She looked up at him and shook her head, and he smiled. Somehow he did
not look (though it was so dark that she could scarcely see) as if he
had lost his respect for her, after all.

“What a row,” said Aubrey, as they came away, “for such a cupful of
water! If it had been Niagara, there might have been some excuse.”

“That is just like the Highlands,” said Randal, with that partial
offence which always moves a Scotsman when it is suggested by any
impertinent stranger that his country is not the equal in every respect
of every other country under the sun. “It is not Niagara, and Ben
Lawers is not Mont Blanc; but they impose upon us all the same.”

“Hush!” said Margaret; “don’t talk; one is enough.” What she said was
not very intelligible, but, indeed, the one voice _was_ enough in
the air. It seemed to her to declaim some great poem, some wild chant,
like a sublime Ossian. The others went chattering on before, delighted
with themselves and their jokes. And when the rush of the wild stream
had sunk into a murmur, Margaret herself began again to wonder. “Why
did he take no notice _that_ night?”

Next day Randal joined them quite early. It was not a good day for
fishing, he said. It was too bright. Besides, if they were only going
to stay a day or two, he could make up for his idleness afterward. He
had got a boat ready, and was bent on taking the ladies to Finlarig,
and afterward upon the loch.

“Of course, we are going to Finlarig, Randal,” said Mrs. Bellingham.
“Do you think I have never been here before? Good-morning, Duncan
Macgregor. Have you any of your pearls to-day? Oh yes! I should like
to look at them. The little ones are beautiful, but the big ones are
too milky. I like the small size best. You can come up and see us after
dinner to-night, and bring them with you. Duncan and I are old friends.
Many a pearl I have got from him, and had them set afterward at
Sanderson’s, in Princes Street. I invented the setting myself, and it
was very much admired--just a gold thread twisted round them. Margaret,
you don’t wear any rings. I must have one made for you. Duncan
Macgregor had much better come with us, Randal. I have no confidence in
gentlemen rowers. You will go off with the girls as soon as we get to
Finlarig, and then where shall we be?”

“You will have your devoted nephew, Aunt Jean. My aunts are the aim and
object of my life. I never think of anything else, sleeping or waking.
How can you talk of being left alone so long as you have _me_?”

“I prefer Duncan Macgregor,” said Aunt Jean; “and as for your aunts, as
you call them, you have only one. And I don’t want to see you pushed
out of your place by that lad, Randal Burnside,” she added, in a
whisper. “Just you keep your eyes upon him, Aubrey. I can’t think what
business he has here.”

Mrs. Bellingham’s prophecy was so far fulfilled that the young men and
the girls did somehow, as is their use and wont, manage to separate
themselves from their elder companions, one of whom, at least, had
every desire to further this separation. It was Randal who was the
cicerone of the party, and who led them through the winding path to
that secluded, sheltered palace of peace where the dead Campbells
rest. They were not thinking much about the Campbells. Who, indeed,
thinks of the silent occupants, be they Pharaohs, be they Highland
caterans, of those still dwellings of the dead? The Campbells lie in
lordly guardianship of their loch and their trees, with their clan
within call, and their castle scarcely out of hearing, and all kinds of
Highland bravery--honeysuckles and wild roses in the summer, barberries
and rowans in the autumn, flaunting upon the half-ruined wall that
surrounds their tomb.

The young people strayed that way--two of them full of talk and
laughter, two of them quiet enough. Why it was that Effie and Aubrey
fell together it would be difficult (yet not very difficult) to say;
but the reason why Margaret stayed her steps for those of Randal was
easy enough. She wanted, constantly wanted, to ask him why he took
no notice _that_ night. For this reason she lingered while the
others went on, looking at him now and then with a shy, eager look,
which at once puzzled the young man, and filled his heart with a
dangerous interest. She wanted to ask him something--what was it she
wanted to ask him? Randal was on his guard, he felt. He had been warned
effectually enough. Margaret was not for him. Even if he had wanted her
(which he did not, he said to himself with a little indignation), was
not he forestalled? Had not her heart been caught in its first flight?
He might be sorry, but that did not matter much: the deed was done.
And he was fully warned, completely forestalled, even if he had wished
for anything else. But what was it she wanted to say? Probably, in the
innocence of her heart, something about _that_ fellow, for whom,
poor thing, she must fancy--she who knew nobody, because she loved
him--that every one cared.

They came at last to a little sheltered glade close to the little
river, with its golden brown water. There was a beautiful barberry
growing in a corner, which Margaret had caught sight of. She wanted a
branch of it to put in her hat, she said--until she remembered that her
hat was covered with crape. But Randal was cutting the scarlet grapes
before that evident incongruity had occurred to her. She sat alone upon
a bit of the broken wall close by, among ferns and ivy, and watched him.

“Oh,” she said, “I am so sorry I have given you the trouble. I forgot
that it was crape I was wearing. It is very strange that one should
ever be able to forget.”

“But you are--by moments.”

“Yes; it shows how little one knows. I thought I would die.”

“But that could not be,” said Randal, kindly. “The world would come to
an end very quickly if grief killed; but it does not, even the most
terrible.”

“And you will think mine was not like that,” said Margaret. “But I do
not forget him! oh, I do not forget him! only-- I do not know how it
is--my mind will not keep to one thing. I suppose,” she said, with a
deep sigh, “it is because I have not very much mind at all.”

“Nay, you accuse yourself unjustly,” he said, with a half smile; “after
the shock of a great event, a great trouble, there comes a time of
quiet--”

“Oh!” she said, finding herself, by no doing of hers, brought to the
point she desired, and turning to him with a sudden start, “Randal, I
would like to tell you something. I thought I should have told them all
_that_ night when I came in, but I had not the courage.”

“What is it?” Randal threw a twig of his barberries into the stream and
watched it carried along, tossing on the swift current. She was going
to speak to him of her love, the poor child; and his heart revolted
against such a confidence. He could not look at her. Girls receive the
confidences of men with interest, but it is very seldom indeed that a
young man plays the same part to a girl.

“When I came in _that_ night you all thought my heart was breaking
because I was going away, and I did not dare to say otherwise. But oh,
Randal! it was not _that_!”

“I understand.” He threw in another branch of the barberries and
watched it intently, turning his head away from her. “It was another
kind of parting that made you cry; you were thinking of--”

“Oh, I was thinking--how glad, how glad I would be just to get away,
only to get away!”

“Margaret!” he turned round and looked at her quickly now. She was
not embarrassed nor blushing, as if the words could bear some happier
meaning, but quite pale and serious, looking at the water as he had
been doing. Though he had known her all her life, he had of late given
up calling her by her Christian name. It was the surprise that forced
it from his lips.

“It sounds like wickedness,” she said, fervently. “I can see that,
but I do not mean any ill. I could not help it; things had been so
strange. How could I help trembling and crying? All had gone wrong,
some way. And oh, I was glad, so glad to get away, to be free! But if I
had said so you would all have thought me-- I don’t know what you would
have thought me. But it came into my head that perhaps you guessed my
true meaning, and thought it was a lie I was telling, and had no more
respect for me.”

“Respect for you! That is not the word I would have used, Margaret. I
have always--liked you--taken an interest in you ever since you were a
little baby. How could I lose what you call respect?”

“But you looked like it, Randal. Why did you pass me in the gloaming
and never say a word, nor even nod your head, or take off your hat?”

“Margaret!” he cried, in great confusion, “I-- I thought you did not
want to be recognized. I--thought you would like to think I had not
seen you-- I thought--”

“How could I do that?” said Margaret, seriously; “for that could not
have been true. I have wondered ever since if you thought me--a--a--bad
girl, Randal? Oh! I think I have no heart! I can laugh, though papa
has only been gone a month. I--almost--forget sometimes that I am so
unhappy; but I am not a bad girl, Randal. You might always take off
your hat to me. You need not think shame to speak to me--”

“Margaret, for Heaven’s sake! who could have imagined you would take it
so? I thought you had some one with you whom you cared for more than
any one else, and that you would rather I took no notice. I did not
think I had any right to interfere between him and you.”

“No,” said Margaret, with a deep sigh, “I suppose nobody could do
that;” and after a pause she resumed, half smiling--“But you should not
look as if you thought shame of your friends, Randal; you should take
off your hat, even when a girl is not very wise. I thought you had no
respect for me after that night.”

Margaret pronounced the word _wise_ as if it had been written
_wice_, which the reader who is Scotch will be aware is a word
with a quite distinct meaning of its own; a girl who is not _wise_
means a girl who is wildly silly, without any sense--perhaps with not
all her wits about her. What would Sir Ludovic have thought had he
heard a speech so outrageously Scotch from his little Peggy? How he
would have smiled, how he would have scolded! Randal remembered the old
man’s amused reproofs; but his heart was too much troubled to permit
him to smile. And the inference that lay in Margaret’s words was more
than his intelligence could fathom. He was thrown into the wildest
commotion of curiosity, anxiety, and wonder. Was it possible that there
was no love, after all, between her and Rob Glen? or what did her joy
in escaping, her sigh at the thought that no one could interfere, mean?
He answered her at last in a strain quite confused and wide of the
purpose, like a man in a dream.

“If I should ever be able to do anything for you, to be of any use to
you, Margaret, will you send for me? will you let me know? Whatever it
may be, and wherever I may be,” he cried, in his confusion, “if you
ever tell me you want me, I will come to you if I am at the end of the
world!”

She looked up at him with faint surprise, yet gratitude. “Yes, Randal,”
she said; “now I know that you have not lost your respect for me. But
how should I ever want anything?” she added, with a smile; “there is
Jean always to take care of me, you know.”




CHAPTER XXXI.


Mrs. Bellingham did not stay long at Killin. How it came about could
never be discovered; but wherever the party went, in whatsoever
admirable order they set out, it was discovered on their return that
Aubrey was somehow at the side, not of Margaret, but of Effie Leslie.
His aunt took him severely to task when this dereliction from all
the rules of duty had been made evident by the experience of several
successive days. Aubrey did not deny or defy his aunt’s lawful
authority. “It is all that fellow,” he said, “continually poking in
before me, wherever we go, with his Margaret, Margaret! as if she
belonged to him. I hate these men who have known a nice girl from the
time she was _that_ high. They are always in the way.”

“And do you really allow yourself to be put off your plans so
easily--you, Aubrey, a man of the world? If I were you, I would soon
let Mr. Randal Burnside find his proper place. Let him take care of
Effie. Effie would do for him very well. She is the second daughter,
and they are not very rich, and her sister has made but a poorish sort
of marriage. Effie might do worse than put up with Randal Burnside. It
would be doing them all a good turn if you would be firm, Aubrey, and
insist on doing what we all wish.”

“Surely,” said Aubrey, “nothing can be more easy. I hope I know as
well as anybody how to keep a presuming fellow in his right place.”
But, comforting as this assurance was, the very same thing happened
the next day, and Mrs. Bellingham was not only angry, but disturbed by
it. She called Aubrey into her room at quite a late hour, when she was
sitting in all the sanctity of her dressing-gown. Perhaps their tempers
were a little disturbed by the fact that they were both chilly--he
with his walk by the side of the loch to finish a cigar, she in the
before-mentioned dressing-gown, which, being but muslin, was a little
too light for the latitude of Killin.

“The same thing over again, Aubrey,” she said; “always that little
flirt of an Effie. I declare I never see you pay the slightest
attention to Margaret; and when you know how much all your friends wish
you to settle--”

“All right, Aunt Jean,” said Aubrey, with a tone of injury. “It is all
those girls that will derange the most careful calculations. They are
both of a height, they are both all black; it is only when you hear
their voices that you can tell which is which: and if one will go off
in one direction while you have settled all your plans for the other--”

“Ah, Aubrey, I am afraid it is just the old story,” said Mrs.
Bellingham, shaking her head; “you like the wrong one the best.”

“That is a trifle,” said the dutiful nephew; “we were not born to
follow our inclinations. The wrong always suits the best, that goes
without saying; but I hope I am not quite a fool, and I was not born
yesterday. Your Effie may be all very well to chatter with, but what
should I do with her? I should _not choose_ to starve for her
sake, nor I don’t suppose she would for mine. It is Margaret for my
money; or perhaps the other way would be more like the fact: it is
her money for me. But what can a fellow do with the best intentions,
if the other three make a point of thwarting him? The only thing to
be done is this: send the little one home, and turn that other man
about his business: when there are only two of us, we are bound to be
civil to each other,” Aubrey said, with fine ease, turning over the
bottles on his aunt’s toilet-table. Mrs. Bellingham was struck by the
thorough-going honesty of this suggestion.

“Well, that sounds very fair, Aubrey,” she said. “I would not expect
you to say more. And, to be sure, when a girl makes a dead set at you,
it is very difficult for a young man to keep quite clear. We must not
do anything violent, you know, and it makes me much more comfortable to
hear you speak so sensibly. Randal Burnside, of course, will be left
behind here, and Effie can go home from Stirling or Glasgow. And as we
leave in two days, there will be no great harm done. But after that, my
dear boy, I do hope you will not lose your time.”

“Trust me for that!” he said. “Do you really use such an antediluvian
cosmetic as Kalydor, Aunt Jean--you whom I always believed to be in
advance of the age? _Crême de thé_ is a great deal better. Without
it I could never have made up my mind to face the rude winds of the
North. Have a little of mine and try; I am sure you will never use the
other again.”

“Oh, thank you, Aubrey; but I am very well satisfied with my own,” said
Mrs. Bellingham, who did not choose that anything belonging to her
should be called antediluvian. “It is more refreshing than anything
when one has been a long time in the air. Then that is settled, and
I shall not have to speak of it again, I hope. But if I were you--a
university man and a club man-- I would show that I was more than a
match for Randal Burnside, who never was at anything but a Scotch
college, and can’t belong to anything better than one of those places
in Princes Street. I would not allow myself to be put out of my way by
a provincial. I should be ashamed to give in like that, if I was such a
young man as you.”

Aubrey shrugged his shoulders, and offered no further defence; and the
remaining two days were passed happily enough, Margaret and Randal
remaining upon terms of confidential intimacy, without any word on
either side to make the situation more plain. _She_ felt that she
had committed her secret to his trust, and was partially supported
in consequence in the bearing of it--and encouraged to forget it,
which she did accordingly with a secret ease and relief beyond all
words--while he, too, felt that something had been confided to him,
something far more serious than she seemed to be aware of; and yet
did not know what it was. Thus, while she was perfectly at her ease
with him, Randal was not so happy. He could not ask her a question,
could not even let her see that he remembered the half-involuntary
confidence, yet felt the most eager desire to know fully what it was
which had been confided to him. How could he help her, how could he
be of use to her if he did not know? This pleasant fiction of being
“of use,” and the eager prayer he had made to her to call him whenever
and wherever she wanted him, was it not the natural protest of honest
affection against the premature bond which had forestalled itself,
which had no right to have come in the way of the real hero? He did not
himself know that this was the origin of his anxiety about Margaret,
his strong wish “to be of use.” How could he be of use? how interfere
between the girl and her lover--he whose only possible standing-ground
by Margaret’s side would be that of a lover too?

But Randal, though he was very clear-sighted in general, had but a
confused vision of things relating to himself, and deluded himself
with the idea that he might “be of use,” might help her, and do a
great deal for her--if he only knew! And he did know that some kind
of tie existed between her and Rob Glen, but no more. Whether it was
wholly clandestine, as it appeared, whether “the fellow” had secured
her to himself under any vow of secrecy, whether anybody belonging to
her knew, or suspected, Randal could not tell. And the frankness with
which she had admitted himself to some sort of participation in the
mystery made it more confusing and bewildering still. He could not put
any question to her on the subject, but shrank from the very thought
of such an interrogation with a mixture of pain and shame, feeling
his own delicacy wounded. That Margaret should have a secret at all
was intolerable. He could not bear to be her confidant, to hear her
acknowledge anything that marred the simple ideal of her maidenhood;
and yet how was he “to be of use,” if he did not know?

She, for her part, was greatly relieved by the little snatch of
conversation which had conveyed so much. He had not lost his respect
for her. He did not “think shame” of her. This was very comforting to
Margaret. She had made it all quite clear, she thought, how things
had gone wrong, and how it was a relief more than a sorrow to leave
her home; and now she could be quite at her ease with Randal, who
_knew_. Having thus spoken of it, too, made the burden of it very
much lighter. The thing itself was over for the present; and it must be
a long time, a very long time, before she would be forced to return to
that matter. Perhaps, some time or other, she might be forced to return
to it; but not for such a long, long time.

Thus all seemed easy for the moment, and Margaret thrust her
foolishness behind her, and managed to forget. They had two more
cheerful days. They took long walks into Glen Dochart, and went out on
the loch in the evenings; and Effie sang, who had a pretty voice and
had been taught; whereas Margaret had a pretty voice, but had not been
taught, and was fired with great ambition. And Aubrey took upon him
to make researches into the crockery-ware in the cottages, by way of
looking for old china, of which, he assured them, he often “picked up”
interesting “bits,” at next to no price at all, in the neighborhood of
Bellingham Court. It did not answer, however, in Perthshire, and Randal
and the two girls being Scotch, had to interfere to rescue him from
Janet Campbell, at the post-office, who thought nothing less than that
the man was mad, and intended to break her “pigs,” which is the genuine
name of crockery in Scotland.

All these things amused them mightily, and filled up the days,
which were not invariably fine, but checkered by showers and even
storms--which latter amused the party as much as anything, since
there was a perpetual necessity for consultations of all kinds, and
for pilgrimages in twos and threes to the window, and to the door, to
see if it was going to be fine. During all this time Mrs. Bellingham
persistently labored to control fate, and to pair her young people
according to her previous determination. That Randal and Effie should
have taken to each other would have been a perfectly reasonable and
suitable arrangement, and Jean felt that she could meet her brother
and his wife with a pleasant sense of triumph, had she been the means
under Providence of arranging so very suitable a match. He was a very
pleasant young man, well educated, sufficiently well-born, with a
little money and a good profession--what could a girl’s parents ask for
more? But it is inconceivable how blind such creatures are, how little
disposed to see what is best for them. With all the pains that she took
to prevent it, the wrong two were always finding themselves in each
other’s way.

And perhaps it helped this result that Miss Leslie, all unconsciously,
and in the finest spirit of self-sacrifice, did everything she could to
thwart her sister, and to throw the wrong person in the way. It went
so to her heart to see Margaret smiling, as she talked to Randal, that
she walked all the way home from the bridge by herself, though it was
getting dark, and she was nervous to leave the two to themselves. “They
will like their own company better than mine,” Miss Leslie said to
herself. And when Jean asked sharply what had become of Aubrey, Grace
quaked, but did not reply that she had seen him taking Effie down the
river in the gleam of compunctious brightness, after the afternoon’s
rain.

“Dear Jean,” she said, “you must not be anxious. I am sure he will be
back directly, almost directly.”

“Anxious!” cried Mrs. Bellingham. It was hard upon so sensible a woman
to have to deal with persons so entirely unreasonable. Then Randal let
fall various intimations that he had a great fancy for seeing Loch
Katrine again.

“The fishing here is not so good as I expected,” he said. “I think I
shall go further west.”

“I would not do that if I were you,” Mrs. Bellingham said, with a
very serious face. “I would not be so long away from your good father
and mother. Of course you will be going somewhere to shoot after the
12th. So is Aubrey. Ladies have not much chance in comparison with the
grouse. And, do you know, I thought them very much _failed_, both
of them. They are getting old people, Randal. I am sure you are a good
son, and would do anything you can to please them; and I could see that
your good mother did not like you to come away for the fishing, though
she would not say anything. As for Loch Katrine, I don’t think it all
likely that we shall be able to make it out.”

Randal was at no loss to understand what this meant. He smiled to
himself to think how mistaken she was, and how little it really
mattered who went or stayed, so far as Margaret was concerned; but,
after all, why should he follow Margaret? why should he run the risk
of making himself hate Rob Glen, and wonder at his “luck” more than he
did now? However, he said to himself, there ought not to be any danger
of that. He did not think there was any danger. What danger could there
be when there was a clear understanding that some one else was master
of the field? But still, he could not suppose that the moment of fate,
the tragical moment at which he could be of use to Margaret, was coming
now. And why should he insist upon going where he was not wanted? So
he yielded and sighed, and took his dismissal, though both the girls
protested.

“Oh, why will you go and spoil the party?” cried Effie.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Bellingham, “I am afraid there will not be much
more of the party, for your papa is going to meet us in Glasgow to take
you home.”

This threw a cloud over poor little Effie, who went to her own room
in tears. Was it over, then, this beautiful holiday? Margaret said
good-bye to Randal with a cloudy look between smiles and tears.

“You will never pass me by again as if I was not good enough to be
spoken to?” she said, with a little broken laugh; and he once more
hurriedly adjured her “if she should ever want anything,” “if she
should want a friend to stand by her.” Margaret smiled, and gave him
her hand like a young princess. “But how can I ever want anybody,” she
said, “when there is Jean?” which was not so satisfactory. He felt more
lonely, more dismal, more altogether out of place than there was any
reason for, when, finally, Mrs. Bellingham packed her little comforts
into the carriage, and Miss Grace entreated everybody to take her
place, and the travellers rolled away, waving their hands to him as he
stood at the inn door.

It is always a dismal thing to stand at the door of an inn and see the
greater part of the party who have been rambling, walking, talking,
laughing, and crying together, drive away. Randal felt his heart sink
in his breast. To be sure, Margaret Leslie was nothing to him, except
a child whom he had known all his life. He stood there and fell a
thinking, while the landlord nodded and winked to the waiter, and the
maids behind pitied the poor young gentleman. How well he remembered
the little motherless baby in her black ribbons, whom his mother had
once placed in his astonished arms! He had told Margaret of it only
yesterday; but he did not tell her what Mrs. Burnside said. “It will
be time enough for you to marry, Randal, when she is old enough to be
your wife,” the prudent mother had said. She would never be his wife
now, nor anybody’s who could understand her who was worthy of her. To
think of that creature falling to the lot of Rob Glen! The blood rushed
to Randal’s face, and he clenched his hands unawares; then, coming to
himself, seized his fishing-tackle, which had been of so little use,
and hurried away.

And Margaret was very quiet all the day after, leaving Effie to respond
to Aubrey’s witticisms from the box. It had come to be the habit that
Effie should reply. Mrs. Bellingham was just as comfortably placed as
usual, and had her eau-de-cologne, and her paper-knife, and plenty of
shillings in her purse for the Highland tolls, and everything as she
liked it; but she was not so amiable as in the earlier part of the
journey. For one thing, there was not at all a satisfactory place for
luncheon, and the wind was cold, and she had not the kind of large pin
she liked to fasten her shawl.

“We are going to have a wet August,” she said. “When August is wet, the
best thing to do is to get out of Scotland. It is bad enough anywhere,
but it is abominable in the Highlands. There are the same sort of
looking tourists you find in Chamouni, only poorer, and it is cold,
which it is not in Switzerland; at least, it is not always cold in
Switzerland. Your papa, Effie, is to meet us in Glasgow on Tuesday, and
then I think we shall go South.”

Nobody said anything against this sentence. There are days when the
wind is more keen than usual, when the rain is wetter, and the mud
muddier. This was one of these days. It came down in torrents in the
middle of the journey; and before the hood of the carriage could be got
up a large piece of Mrs. Bellingham’s crape on the side next the wind
had been soaked and ruined forever. This, her sister thought, was her
own fault, in that she had incautiously thrown aside her water-proof;
but she herself held it to be Effie’s, who had thrown a shawl over
that water-proof, “carefully concealing it,” the aggrieved lady said.
To have your crape ruined when you have just gone into mourning is a
grievance enough to upset any lady’s temper, and it cannot be said that
any of the party enjoyed the drive on this ill-fated day.

After this the pleasure of the expedition grew less and less. Sir
Ludovic, who met the party in Glasgow, took an opportunity to take
Margaret aside, and talked to her with a grave face.

“I hope you will see how wrong you are, Margaret,” he said, “about
that lad. I have seen him, and he is as firm as a rock because of your
encouragement. Do you think it is a right thing for a young girl like
you to give such a man encouragement, and dispose of yourself without
the knowledge of one of your friends? I told him I would never give my
consent; but he as good as said he did not care a pin for my consent;
that he had got yours, and that was all he wanted. But there is one
thing I must insist upon, Margaret, and that is that you will hold no
clandestine intercourse with him. It would not be--delicate, and it
would not be honorable. It is only to save you that I don’t tell Jean.
Jean would be neither to hold nor to bind. I don’t know what Jean
might not do; but unless you will promise me that there shall be no
correspondence, it is my duty to tell Jean.”

“I don’t wish to have any correspondence,” said Margaret, drooping her
head, with a burning blush. Oh, if they would but let her forget it
all! But this was what they would not do.

“If you will give me your promise to that”--he said; and in his
pleasure at what seemed to him his little sister’s dutifulness,
Sir Ludovic took her hand into his and gave a fatherly kiss on her
forehead; all which his sisters contemplated with wondering eyes.

“Dear Ludovic, how kind you are to darling Margaret!” cried Miss Grace,
running to him and bestowing a kiss of her own by way of thanks.

“I see no need for all this kissing,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “what is
the meaning of it? I hope, Ludovic, you are not encouraging Margaret to
make you her confessor, and to have secrets and mysteries from Grace
and me, who are her natural guardians and her best friends!”




CHAPTER XXXII.


It was on a bright day in the end of August that Margaret Leslie
arrived at the Grange, which was her own house, her mother’s
birthplace, and her future home. They had been rather more than a
month on the way, and had last come from Mrs. Bellingham’s house,
which was in the neighborhood of Bellingham Court--not the great house
of her district, but very near and closely related to that reigning
mansion. Mrs. Bellingham had not been without grievances in her life.
Indeed, had one of two events happened which she had every reason to
expect would happen, her present position would have been different
and much more satisfactory. Had her husband lived only a year longer,
she would have been Lady Bellingham of the Court, the foremost lady in
the county; and had she been the mother of a son, that son would have
been Sir Somebody, and his mother would still have been--during his
inevitably long minority at least--the mistress of the great house. But
these two natural events did not happen. Jean was the mother of neither
son nor daughter, and her husband, the eldest son--old Sir Anthony’s
heir--had cheated her effectually out of all share in the splendors of
the house--which splendors, indeed, had been much more attractive than
himself--by dying most spitefully a year before his father. If it had
been a year after, she would not have minded so much. But as it was,
there was nothing for it but to retire to the Dower House, and to see
her next sister-in-law, with whom she had not been on very affectionate
terms, become Lady Bellingham, and enter into possession of everything.
It may be supposed that this was no slight trial; but Jean, every
one allowed, had behaved like a heroine. In the moment of deep and
real affliction which followed old Sir Anthony’s death, she had taken
the situation under review, and considered it very deeply. The first
suggestion naturally had been that she should return home, or at least
settle in the neighborhood of her father’s house. But Jean reflected
that her father was not only old but poor, that his house was very
limited in accommodation, and that when her present gloom and crape
were over, there was neither amusement nor occupation to be had at
Earl’s-hall, such as might oil the wheels of life and enable everything
to go smoothly. Fife was not lively, nor was Earl’s-hall attractive;
whereas in the neighborhood of the Court, though it would be hard
to see another woman reigning there, there was always likely to be
something going on, and the family was of the first consequence in the
district, not shabby and worn-out like the poor Leslies. Having come
to this decision, Mrs. Bellingham had taken her measures accordingly.
She had thrown off at once the natural air of grievance which everybody
had excused in her after such disappointments. Instead of troubling
the new Lady Bellingham in her arrangements, she had thrown herself
heartily into the work, and aided her in every way in her power. “I
don’t mean to say that it is not a disappointment,” she said; “I hoped,
of course-- I don’t deny it--to be mistress here myself. I have worked
for it: through all Sir Anthony’s illness, I am sure, I never was less
attentive to him because I knew I should be turned out as soon as he
was released from his sufferings.”

“No, I am sure you never were,” said the new Sir Anthony, warmly.

“And I should have liked to be my lady, I don’t deny it. If my poor
Aubrey had lived, I should have enjoyed the position quite as much as
you I hope will enjoy it, my dear.”

“Oh, enjoy it! think of the responsibility!” cried the new Lady
Bellingham.

“I should not have minded the responsibility; but Providence has
settled otherwise--you have it, and I have not. But don’t think I am
going to be disagreeable on that account. I will move into the Dower
House as soon as you please, and I will do everything I can to help
you in settling down. I know how to struggle for my rights when it is
necessary,” Mrs. Bellingham had said, not without a warning glance at
Sir Anthony, “but, thank Heaven, I also know how to submit.”

In this spirit she had begun her life, and with the same noble meaning
had lived many years a kind of secondary star in the Bellingham
firmament, shining independently, but never in opposition. A close
connection with the Court made the Dower House important, and she kept
up that connection. She was always serviceable, giving as well as
receiving, maintaining her own position, even while she magnified it
by that of the great house; and, in short, nothing, all her friends
allowed, could be more perfect than her behavior, which was everything
a sister’s ought to be, and everything that could be desired in an
aunt. The Dower House was a pretty house, and Mrs. Bellingham’s
jointure was sufficient to permit her a comfortable little carriage, a
nice little establishment, with the means of giving excellent dinners
when she chose, and enjoying life in a dignified and most comfortable
way. On the other hand, she dined very often at the Court, and had the
use of their superfluous luxuries, and a share in everything that was
going on, which increased at once her comfort and her consequence. This
was the position in which she stood to her relations and neighbors. She
felt now that she was about to repay them a hundred-fold for all the
little advantages they had thrown in her way by providing for Aubrey,
who was her husband’s godson, and the least successful member of the
family. Aubrey was very accomplished, very charming, very idle. He
could not be got to do anything, except make himself agreeable, and he
had never even done that to any purpose. When Mrs. Bellingham heard
that her father was dying, her first thought was of this. But she was
a woman who could keep her own counsel. She sent Aubrey a check, and
directions for his route: she threw facilities in his way, of which he
did not, perhaps, quite make the use she expected; but still things
had mended in the latter part of their journey, and Margaret and he
had been very good friends when they parted, and all was well in train
in pursuit of this purpose. Mrs. Bellingham carried her young sister
to the Dower House, and showed her the greatness of the Court. It
was vacant for the moment, but its imposing size and splendor filled
Margaret with admiration.

“All this would have been mine, Margaret, if my poor dear Aubrey had
lived. You may think what a grief it was to me to lose him,” said Jean,
with a sigh. “And that is why I take such deep interest in Aubrey, who
was his godson, you know. This is Aubrey’s home.”

“Dearest Jean! how much more we ought to think of her, and try to
please her, darling Margaret,” said Miss Leslie; “when we see how much
she has lost.”

And when they had gone over all the empty stately rooms, and looked
at all the portraits--docile Margaret receiving the tale of family
grandeur with unquestioning assent--and had made acquaintance with
the lesser world of the Dower House, its paddock, its gardens, its
conservatory, all the little comforts and elegancies which were so dear
to the sisters, it was time to set out for the Grange, that Margaret
might see her own house. It had been settled that Mrs. Bellingham
and Miss Leslie should go there with her to take possession of it,
and to see what changes would require to be made, to fit it for
occupation--and that they were to remain with her there as long as
the fine weather lasted, going back to the Dower House for winter and
Christmas. The Grange lay in another county, and was some distance
from the house of the Bellingham’s, with which it communicated only by
a very circuitous route. In old days, when the ladies would have been
obliged to post, it would have taken days instead of hours to get to
it, and yet it would have proved a nearer way. They had to go to the
nearest town and then take a train going north, in order to find at
the junction a train going south, in which they could proceed to the
end of their journey. And what between the changes, and the waiting
here and there, this journey occupied most part of the day. It was
dark when they drove from the little town where the railway ended,
through a succession of dim roads and lanes and under overshadowing
trees that made the twilight dimness greater, to the Grange: which
presented no recognizable feature, but was merely a large shadow in
the gloom surrounded by shadows less solid--ghosts of waving trees and
high hedge-rows. There was a woman visible at the little lodge, who
came out and opened the gate and courtesied to the strangers, leaving
her cottage door open and showing a cheerful glow of fire-light, and a
tiny little girl of three or four years old, standing against the light
and gazing at the carriage; but this was the only gleam of cheerfulness
that dwelt in Margaret’s mind. The child’s face was scarcely visible,
but its little sturdy figure against the fire-light, with two small
feet well apart, and the most wondering curiosity in its entire pose,
made the forlorn little mistress of the place smile as she went through
those gates which led to her home. After this there was a long avenue
to drive through, with great trees overshadowing the carriage, and
tossing their branches about in the night wind. It had been a very
hot day, and the breeze which had sprung up was very grateful, but
the moaning it made in the branches was very melancholy, and affected
poor Margaret’s imagination. “How the wind _soughs_,” she said,
with full use of the dreary guttural. She was sitting in the front
seat of the cab as it jolted along amidst all those waving shadows,
and Margaret felt very sad, she did not know why. She had been curious
about her sister’s house, and interested, and had liked the novelty
and perpetual change; but she did not feel any curiosity, nothing but
sadness, in coming to this place, which was her own, though there was
nobody here to welcome her. How the wind soughed! no other word could
express so well the wild moan and wailing, which is an exaggeration by
nature of the sound which the French call tears in the voice. It went
to Margaret’s heart: the tears came into her voice, too, and filled her
eyes in the darkness. All was melancholy in this home-coming to nothing
but darkness and the unknown--the wind tossing about the branches and
complaining to the night, the sound of water somewhere, complaining
too, with a feeble tinkle--the sky invisible, except in a speck here
and there, just light enough to show how the branches were tossing
overhead. The young traveller drooped her head in her corner, and felt
her courage and her heart fail.

“Margaret,” said Jean’s voice out of the darkness, from the other side
of the carriage, “you must learn to remember now that you are not a
Scotch country girl in Fife, but an English young lady with a character
to keep up--a landed proprietor. Don’t talk that vulgar Scotch. If you
use such language here nobody will understand you; and they will think
you a girl without any education, which would be most painful for all
your relatives, and a slur upon poor papa’s memory. Therefore remember,
no Scotch.”

This altogether completed Margaret’s downfall. The gloom, the sobbing
wind, the contrast between this home-coming and all that is ordinarily
implied in the word, were enough in themselves to overwhelm so young
a creature, still so short a way removed from the first grief of her
life; but the reproof was of a kind which made the contrast still more
poignant. Nothing in all his intercourse with his favorite child had
been so tender or so characteristic as Sir Ludovic’s soft, laughing
animadversions upon that very point--“My little Peggy, you must not
be so Scotch!” How often had he said it, his face lighted up with
tenderest laughter, his reproof more sweet than other people’s praise.
But how different it sounded when Jean said it! Something came climbing
into Margaret’s throat and choked her. When the carriage stopped with a
jar and a crash, as it did at that moment at the scarcely discernible
door, she could not wait for its opening, or till the coachman should
scramble from his perch, but flung the carriage door open, and jumped
out, eager for movement of any kind; her forehead throbbing with
pain over her eyebrows, the sob in her throat, and a sudden gush of
salt-water, hot and bitter, blinding her eyes. What could be more
unlucky than to alight thus before the closed door and not be able
to see it for tears? It opened, however, while Margaret began to
help Steward, who had groped her way from the box, to get out the
innumerable small articles with which the cab was crowded. The country
girl, who appeared at the door with a candle protected by a long glass
shade in her hand, did not imagine for a moment that the slim creature
not so big as herself, with the armful of cloaks and shawls, was her
mistress. She addressed herself to the ladies in the carriage, as was
natural.

“If you please, ma’am,” she said, making a courtesy, “Miss Parker have
gone to bed with a bad headache; but please there’s tea in the parlor,
and all your rooms is ready.”

Margaret, however, scarcely saw the dark wainscoted room into which
she followed her sisters, hearing their voices and exclamations as
in a dream. It only seemed to Margaret to look very dark, very cold,
with its gleams of reflections. Her little white-panelled room at home
was far more cheerful than this dark place. She heard them say it was
lovely! perfect! in such good keeping! without paying any attention.
It was not in keeping with Margaret. In all her life she had never
felt such a poor little melancholy stranger, such a desolate childish
atom in an unknown world, as during this first hour in the house which
belonged to her, the place where she was absolute mistress.

Finding that there was nothing to be made of her, that she would
neither eat the plentiful fare on the table, nor admire the china in
the great open cupboards, nor make herself amiable in any way, Mrs.
Bellingham gave her a cup of warm tea and sent her to bed; where
Steward, with a little pity, deferring her mistress’s unpacking,
benevolently followed to help her to undress. They had put her into a
large, low, many-latticed room, with that mixture in it of venerable
mansion and homely cottage which is the dream of such rural houses; but
in the darkness made visible by two poor candles, even that was little
more cheerful than the dark parlor with its wainscot. At Earl’s-hall,
even in August, there might have been a little friendly fire to make a
stranger at home; but in “the South--!” How many a pang of cold have
we all supported in much warmer latitudes than England, for very shame
because of “the South!”

Naturally, however, Margaret could not sleep, though she was glad
to be alone. She kept her candle lighted, to bear her company with
something of a child’s dread of the darkness, and lay thinking with
eyes preternaturally awake, now that the tears had been all wept out.
She thought of everything--of Earl’s-hall, and the rhythm of the pines
which were not like that rainy melancholy _sough_, and of those
moments in the wood when she had gone out with her eyes just so hot
with tears unshed, and just such a fiery throbbing of pain in her
forehead, and choking in her throat. And oh, how kind _he_ had
been! he had not thought of himself, but only of comforting her. How he
had drawn her to him, made her lean upon him, taken off the weight of
her sorrow. How hard-hearted she had been to poor Rob, never thinking
of him all these days, glad to escape from the thought of him. And he
had been so kind! A great compunction came into her mind. How much he
had been mingled in the twist of her life at that time which of all
other times had been the most momentous in it! and how was it possible
that when that crisis was over her very fancy should have so fled from
him, her thoughts thrust him away? Poor Rob! and he had been so kind!
Margaret begged his pardon in her heart with great self-reproach, but
it did not occur to her to make him any amends. She had no desire to
call him back to her, to see him again, to write to him. Oh no! she
drew her breath hard, with a sudden panic: why should she write to him?
It was not necessary. She could not write at all a nice letter such as
would be a pleasure to any one. But the thought seemed to catch her
very breath, her heart began to thump again, and her brow to burn and
throb.

“Are you asleep, dear Margaret?” said Grace, coming in. “I just ran
up-stairs for a moment to see. Dearest Jean is going over the rooms,
to see what sort of rooms they are--not that we can see very much at
night; and, of course, darling Margaret, I should like much better,
and so would dear Jean, to wait till you were with us yourself; and
if you would like me to stay with you, I would much rather stay. I
shouldn’t at all mind giving it up. So far as one can see, it is the
dearest old place, so old-fashioned! and such china, and old armor in
the hall!--real armor, just as delightful as what you see in Wardour
Street. Dear Jean is so pleased. Now do go to sleep, darling Margaret,
go to sleep. The wainscot parlor is the dearest old room, just like a
picture. I am to go out and join dear Jean on the stairs when I hear
her coming up. She is talking to Steward about unpacking, for dear Jean
is very particular about her unpacking. Are you asleep, darling?--not
yet? but you must really go to sleep, and be quite fresh for to-morrow.
That is right, shut your eyes, and I will shade the candle; or perhaps
it would be better to have a night-light; I think I must try to get
you a night-light. There is dear Jean coming up the stairs. She enjoys
anything like this. That is her voice coming up. You can always hear
dear Jean’s voice, walking about a house. At the Dower House, when I
am in my room, I always hear her at night starting to see that all
the doors and windows are safe. She begins with the scullery and goes
everywhere. Dear Jean is energetic to a fault. She does not mind what
trouble she takes. Now you are asleep, darling Margaret, quite fast:
hush--hush!” said Miss Grace, patting her shoulder softly. It was not a
very sensible proceeding, but it soothed Margaret. She turned round her
cheek, still wet with tears, with a soft laugh, which was half derision
and half pleasure.

“I am fast asleep; now run, Grace, run, or Jean will scold you.”

“Oh, it is not that I am afraid! but really, really if you are going to
sleep, and don’t want me to stay-- I will stay in a moment if you would
like it, darling Margaret; but perhaps I should only keep you from
sleeping, and dear Jean--”

“Where has she run to now?” they could hear Jean’s voice saying at a
distance, and Miss Grace gave her young sister a hasty kiss and hurried
away. Margaret lay still and listened for a long time while Jean’s
voice perambulated the house, going everywhere. It gave a new sort of
brisk activity to the dark and cold place. Up and down and about the
passages went the high-pitched tones, commenting on everything. It was
seldom that Margaret could make out what they said. But the sound made
a cheer and comfort, a sense of society and protection. By-and-by she
got drowsy with those cheerful echoes in her ears, and dropped at last
into the deep sleep of youth, with a sense of this peaceful patrolling
all about her, the darkness lighted by gleams of the candles they
carried, and by Jean’s voice.

And in the morning what a flood of sunshine filled the room! lavish,
extravagant sunshine pouring in, as if it had nothing else to do; which
indeed was pretty nearly the case, as all the harvest was housed about
the Grange, and there was not much, except light matters of fruit, for
that magnificent sun to do, nothing but to ripen the peaches on the
walls and the apples on the trees, and wake for a joke, with a blaze
and illumination which might have done for a king, a little bit of a
slim girl in the low-roofed chamber with its many windows. Margaret
woke all in a moment, as you wake with a start when some one stands and
looks at you fixedly, penetrating the strongest bond of drowsiness. She
sprang up, her mind already full of excitement as she recollected where
she was: in the Grange, in her own house! a curious thrill of pleasure,
and wonder, and eager curiosity came over her. She got up and dressed
hastily in her eagerness to see her surroundings.

From her windows she looked out upon nothing but trees, a walled garden
on one side, a little park on the other, a glimpse of a small stream
with a little wooden bridge over it, and trees, and more trees as
far as the eye could go. Her eye went as far as eye could go in that
unconscious appeal for something to rest upon which is instinctively
made by all who are accustomed to hills; but there was no blue line
upon the horizon, no undulation to relieve her. The only inequality was
in the trees, which were some lower and some more lofty--in tufts of
rich foliage everywhere, shading the landscape like a delicate drawing.
Though it would not be September till next day, yet there were already
traces here and there that autumn had tinted the woods with that “fiery
finger.” It was nothing more than a touch; but it brightened the
picture. How different from the parched elms and oaks all bare with the
wind, and the dark unchanging firs in the Earl’s-hall woods!

The house was still asleep when she stole down-stairs, half afraid
of herself, down the oak staircase, with its heavy balustrade. She
was the only thing waking in the silent house, which still was so
full of living, waking sunshine. She seemed to herself to be the last
survivor--the only inhabitant. Timorously she stole down, finding
shutters at all the windows, bolts at all the doors. At Earl’s-hall
who ever dreamed of a bolt or a bar! The door was “snecked” when John
thought of it, but often enough was left on the latch, so that any
one might have come in; but very different were the precautions here.
She stole about on tiptoe, peeping here and there, feeling herself an
intruder, totally unable to believe that all this was hers; and very
much frightened by the noise she made, undid the heavy fastenings and
opened the great door, which creaked and clanged as if calling for help
against some invader.

The dew was still sparkling on the flowers when she issued forth into
the fresh air of the morning, doubly refreshed with last night’s
showers. The birds were singing, nations and tribes of them, in every
tree. They made such a din round her as she stepped out that she could
scarcely hear herself thinking. Instinctively Margaret ran down to
the little brook, which she called (to herself) the burn. And there,
looking back, she stood entranced with a novel delight. She had never
before seen anything like it. A great old rambling simple-minded
English house, of old brick with a bloom on it, and touches of lichen,
golden and gray: covered with verdure, nothing new or petty; the
very honeysuckles grown into huge trees, forests of the simplest
white clematis, the traveller’s joy, with its wild wreaths and sweet
clusters of flowers, roses in their second bloom mounting up to the old
chimneys, which had retreated into great bushes of ivy; and everywhere
through a hundred folds and wreaths of green--everywhere the mellow
redness of the old house itself peeping through. Margaret clasped her
hands in delight. The landscape was nothing but trees, and had little
interest for her; but the house! It was itself like a great flower,
all warm and strong. And this was hers! She could not believe it. She
stood rapt, and gazed at the perfect place--a mass of flowers and
leafage, and bloomy old walls. It was a poem in homely red and brown,
an autumnal sonnet. And this was hers! She could not believe it--it was
too beautiful to be true.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


After this there ensued a moment of great quiet and pleasant domestic
life. Miss Parker, who was the house-keeper, was a very legitimate
member of the class which nobody had then thought of calling Lady-help,
but which flourished in the shadow and protection of a family as Poor
Relation. She was a distant cousin of Margaret’s mother, who, having no
money and no talents of any serviceable sort, had been kindly provided
for in this very natural domestic office; and the good woman took a
great deal of interest in Margaret, and would not have at all disliked
to inspire her with rebellion, and persuade her to make a stand for
“her own place” in her own house. That the other family, the other
side of the house, should be regnant at the Grange, making Margaret
appear like the daughter rather than the mistress, offended her in
every point; but as she was not a wicked woman, and Margaret not a
rebellious girl, these little intentions of malice came to nothing, and
Jean commenced an unquestioned and on the whole beneficent sway with
little resistance. As for Margaret herself, the novelty of everything
filled her life with fresh springs of enjoyment, and gave her a genuine
new beginning, not counter to the natural, nor in any way antagonistic,
but yet genuinely novel, fresh, and unconnected with any painful or
disturbing recollection.

The soft unlikeness of the leafy English landscape round, to all she
had been used to, was not more marked than the other differences of her
life. When she went along the rural road the little girls courtesied to
her, and so did the women at the cottage-doors; they stood obsequious
in their own houses, when she went to see them, as if she had been the
Queen; not like the cottagers about Earl’s-hall, to whom she was only
Miss Margaret, who courtesied to nobody, and who were more likely to
offer the little girl “a piece” or a “drink of milk” than to take the
surreptitious shillings which Margaret at the Grange was so delighted
to find herself able to give. “But they will be affronted!” she said,
in horror, when this liberality was first suggested to her; such a
difference was there between Fife and “the South.” Then, within reach,
there lay a beautiful little church, in which there were monuments
and memorial marbles without number to the Sedleys, the family of her
mother, the owners of the Grange, and where an anxious new incumbent
had established daily service, to which he was very anxious the
Leslies at the Grange should come by way of setting a good example. To
this admirable man, who thought that within the four seas there was
no salvation except in the Anglican Communion, Margaret unguardedly
avowed, knowing no harm in it, that she had been brought up in the
Church of Scotland, and was not very familiar with the prayer-book. Oh,
what daggers Jean looked at her, poor Margaret not knowing why! Mrs.
Bellingham made haste to explain.

“My father was old-fashioned, Mr. St. John, and never would give up
the old kirk. I think he thought it was right to go, to countenance
the common people. I always say it is a disgrace, that it is they who
have the parish churches in Scotland, just the set of people who are
dissenters here; but I assure you all the gentry go to the English
Church.”

Mr. St. John, though he was a little appalled by that generalization,
and did not like to learn that “the common people” were dissenters,
or that any church but the Anglican could be called “old,” yet
nevertheless was not so shocked as he might have been, thinking, good
man, that the common people in Fife probably spoke Gaelic, and that
this was the reason why they had their service separate from the
gentry. He began immediately to talk to Margaret about the beauty and
pathos of Celtic music, which bewildered her extremely, for naturally
Margaret Leslie, who had scarcely ever been out of the East Neuk till
her father’s death, had never heard a word of Gaelic in her life.

And now at last Bell’s fondest desires were carried out. The little
town which was near, and which the lessening limits of this history
forbid us to touch upon, was a cathedral town full of music and with
many educational advantages; for there were numerous schools in the
neighborhood, and masters came from town to supply the demand two or
three times a week. Margaret began to play upon the “piany,” as Bell
had always longed to have her do, and to speak French. We cannot assert
that she made very much progress in the former accomplishment with her
untrained fingers and brief patience; but she had a pretty voice and
learned to sing, which is perhaps a rarer gift, though it cannot be
denied that she abused this privilege and went about the house and the
garden, and even the park, singing at the top of her voice, till her
sisters were provoked into expostulation. “What is the use of teaching
you,” Jean cried, “when you go singing, singing--skirling they would
call it in Fife--straining all your high notes? When I was a girl like
you, I was never allowed to open my mouth except for practising, and
when there was an occasion for it. It is all gone now, but I assure you
when I was twenty I was considered to have a very pretty voice. I wish
yours may ever be as good. It will not be so long if you go straining
it in this way. Do you think the birds want to hear you singing?” cried
Mrs. Bellingham, with scorn.

“Oh, dearest Jean! but dear Margaret has much more of a voice than we
ever had. We used to sing duets--”

“Yes, Grace had a little chirp of a second--just what you will come
to, Margaret,” said Mrs. Bellingham, “if you go on as you are doing,
straining all your high tones.”

As for the French, they found fault with her pronunciation, which was
natural enough; but perhaps it was not so natural that Mrs. Bellingham
should find fault with the irreproachable accent of Monsieur Dubois,
a Parisian, _pur sang_, who had taught princesses in his day.
“No, Margaret, my dear; you may go on with him, for any kind of French
is better than none, when you are so far behind with your education.
But I am sure he is taking all these good people in with his fine
certificates and testimonials. His French cannot be good, _for I
don’t understand a word he says_!” Thus the autumn went on: the
trees about the Grange got aglow, and began to blaze with glorious
colors, and Margaret with her crape getting shabby (crape gets shabby
so soon, heaven be praised!) ran about the house, the park, the country
roads, and the village, scolded, petted, taken care of, watched over,
teased and worried, and made much of, as she had never been before.
She had been the child at Earl’s-hall, whose innocent faults everybody
had smiled at, whose innocent virtues had met the same fate, who was
indeed the spring of everybody’s happiness, the most cherished, the
most beloved--but yet, so to speak, of no importance at all. Here it
was different; here everything hinged on Margaret. Jean, though she was
a despot, insisted loudly on the fact that she was but a despot-regent,
and Margaret’s name was put to everything, and Margaret’s supremacy
upheld, though Margaret herself was scolded.

What difference it might have made in this State of affairs, had little
Margaret, Sir Ludovic’s orphan child, been dependent upon her sisters,
as, but for that mother of hers of whom Margaret knew nothing, she well
might have been, it would be impossible to say. They would have done
her “every justice;” they would have taught her to sing and scolded
her for singing; they would have called in Monsieur Dubois, and then
declared his French could not be good; all these things would have
happened all the same, and they would have meddled with and dictated
to, and teased, and tried, their little sister. But whether the process
would have been as bearable as it was under the present circumstances,
who can tell? The dependent might have felt that insupportable which
tempted the heiress into laughter, and disclosed a fund of mirth within
which she did not know she possessed.

One thing, however, Jean would not have done had Margaret been
penniless, which she did for Margaret as the young lady of the Grange.
She certainly would not have invited Aubrey, after his return from
Scotland, to come and see the new horse that had been bought for
Margaret, and to superintend her instructions in that kind. The girl
had ridden at home, cantering about the country, all unattended, on a
gray pony, in a gray garment, which bore but a faint resemblance to the
pretty habit in which she was now clothed; but she had never mounted
anything like the prancing steed which was now to be called hers. The
sisters were a great deal too careful of her to allow this fiery steed
to be mounted until after Margaret and the horse had received all kinds
of preparation for the conjunction; but when the ladies came out to
superintend the start, and watched while Aubrey, newly arrived, put
the slim light creature upon her horse, Jean and Grace felt a movement
of pride in her, which made the more emotional sister cry, and swelled
Mrs. Bellingham’s bosom with triumph. “Take care of her,” she said to
her nephew with a meaning glance, “for you will not find many like her.”

“I will take care,” said Aubrey, returning the look. This Mrs.
Bellingham would not have done had Margaret been only her little sister
without any fortune, instead of the young lady of the Grange.

It was a very pleasant ride, and it was so different from all her
former exercises of the kind that it became one of those points in
Margaret’s life which tell like milestones when one looks back. She
did not talk very much after the first delighted outbreak of pleasure;
but in her heart went back to the stage of the gray pony, and with a
startled sense of the change in everything round her, contemplated
herself. What change had passed upon her? Was it only that she was a
little taller, a little older, transplanted into new surroundings,
separated altogether by death and distance from the group of old people
who had been all her world? Not altogether that: there were other
changes too important to be fully fathomed during a ride through the
green lanes, and under the falling leaves. She rode along, hearing
vaguely what Aubrey said to her, making only what response was
necessary, wondering over this being who was, yet was not, herself.
She had forgotten all about herself so far as that was possible in the
novelty of this new chapter of her career. She had lived only from day
to day, from moment to moment, not asking herself what she was doing,
how she was changing; and lo she was changed. She found it out all in a
moment. It bewildered and turned her head, and made her so giddy, that
her companion thought she had taken a panic and was going to fall. He
started and put out his hand to hold her.

“Oh, it is nothing,” Margaret said; “it is over now; it was all so
strange.”

“What was strange? You are ill, you are giddy, you have got nervous.”

“Yes, I am giddy; but neither ill nor nervous. I am giddy to think--oh,
how strange it is! Do you remember, Mr. Aubrey, when we were in the
Highlands in August?”

“Nearly three months ago. Indeed, I remember very well. Do you think it
is likely I should forget?”

“Oh, I don’t suppose it was much to you,” said Margaret, with an
abstraction of tone which prevented him, though very willing, from
accepting this as provocative of something like flirtation. “It was
myself that I was thinking of, and it made me giddy. Since that time I
am quite different. Since then I have grown up.”

“I don’t see very much difference,” said Aubrey, contemplating her with
those pleased looks of unspoken admiration which he knew did not in
general afford an ungrateful mode of homage.

“Oh! perhaps I have not grown much taller; but this is more than
tallness. Do you remember Earl’s-hall, Mr. Aubrey? It is not really, is
it, so very far away?”

“I should not say so--about fifteen or sixteen hours’ journey, if the
railway went straight, without that horrid interval of the Firth.”

“Oh, that was not what I was meaning!” said Margaret, turning her head
away a little coldly. And though he went on talking, she did not pay
much attention. She came home with dreamy eyes, and suffered him to
lift her off her horse, and went straight up to her room, leaving him.
They had not ridden quite so far as they intended, and the ladies had
not got home from their drive.

As Margaret went up-stairs, carrying her train over her arm, she met
Miss Parker, her poor relation, on the stairs, who gave a jump at the
sight of her, and uttered a cry.

“Oh, my dear, I thought you were a ghost!” she said.

“Why should I be a ghost? I don’t feel like a ghost. Come in and tell
me,” said Margaret, opening the door of her room. Miss Parker had
palpitations, and this was quite enough to bring one of them on.

“I never thought you were like your poor mamma before,” cried the
house-keeper in her agitation, “not a bit like. You are just like the
Leslies, not her features at all; but in that habit, and in the very
same hat and feathers!” Margaret took off her hat at these words, and
Miss Parker breathed a little more freely. “Ah, that is better, that is
not so startling. You were as like her, as like her--”

“Why should not I be like her? Poor mamma, it is hard upon her having
nothing but me to leave in the world, that I should be so unkind as not
to be like her,” said Margaret, musing, half thinking through the midst
of this conversation how strange it was that Earl’s-hall should seem so
very far away.

“I remember her as well as if it were yesterday,” said Miss Parker,
“coming up that very stair after her last ride with--oh, I should not
speak of him to you! It was before she had ever seen Sir Ludovic, your
papa.”

“Her last ride with--whom?” Margaret’s cheeks grew crimson. Somehow it
seemed to be half herself about whom she was hearing--herself in her
mother.

“Oh, my dear! I don’t know if I ought to tell you all that story. They
were a sort of cousins, as I was to them both. He had no money, poor
fellow; but otherwise so suitable! just of an age, brought up much the
same--and she was an heiress, if he had nothing. They tried to put it
into her head that he was not good enough for her. And then they put it
into his head (they succeeded there) that a man ought not to owe his
living to his wife. So he would go away, let her say what she pleased.
Oh, I remember that night when they took their last ride together. She
came up-stairs and met me in her riding-habit, in just such a hat and
feathers, and her face pale with thinking, like yours, my dear. She
changed color, too, like you (ah, there it goes!), all in a moment
changing from white to red.”

“And what happened,” cried Margaret, breathless.

“Well, my dear, nothing more than this happened-- He went away. He went
to India with his regiment; he thought he might get on there, perhaps,
and get his promotion, and come back for her (she was not of age then).
But he never came back, poor fellow--he died in less than a year.”

“And she--she?” Margaret became breathless with anxiety and interest.
She had not known her mother had any story; and how strange it
was--half as if it might be herself!

“She felt it very much, my dear. She put on mourning for him--indeed,
she had to do that, for he was her cousin. Memorial windows were just
coming into fashion, and she put up a window to his memory in the
church. Well, then! after a while, she went to Scotland, and met with
Sir Ludovic. He was not young, but he was a most striking-looking
gentleman--and--well, I need not tell you any more. You know, as well
as I can tell you, that _he_ was your papa.”

“Poor papa!” said Margaret, her eyes filling, though she had said “poor
mamma” a moment before. “Did she care for him at all?”

“Oh, my dear! she was in _love_ with him, a great deal more in
love with him than she ever was with poor Edward. She _would_ have
him. Of course it was pointed out to her that he was poor, too, and
living so far away, and a Scotchman, which is almost like a foreigner,
and quantities of poor relations. She must have liked him more than she
did poor Edward, for she would not listen, not for a moment; even when
it was said that he was old, she cried, ‘What do I care?’ Oh, you must
not think there was any doubt on that point. She was very fond of your
papa. That is poor Edward’s picture in the corner,” said Miss Parker,
crying a little, “he never had eyes for any one when she was there; but
he was my cousin too.”

Margaret got up tremulously, and went to look at the portrait. It was
a feeble little water-color: a young man in a coat which had once been
intended to be red, but which had become the palest of pink. When she
looked at his insignificant good-looking features, she could not but
remember her father’s with a glow of pride. But Miss Parker was crying
softly in the corner of the sofa. Why does it always happen that people
are at cross-purposes in loving? Miss Parker would have been very happy
with Edward: why was it not she but the other whom the young soldier
loved? It made Margaret sad to think of it. And then all at once there
came into her mind, like a pebble cast into tranquil water, Rob Glen.
Something in the features of poor Edward, who had died in the jungle,
recalled Rob to her mind. Her heart began to beat. Perhaps, no doubt,
there was some one who would be very happy to have Rob, who would
think him the noblest man in existence. And Margaret gave a little
shiver. Suddenly it came to her mind with overpowering force that,
notwithstanding all these changes, notwithstanding the difference
in herself, notwithstanding the Grange and all its novel life, she,
this new Margaret, who was so different from the old Margaret, was
bound to Rob Glen. It seemed to her that she had never understood the
position before. Miss Parker had gone away crying, poor, sentimental,
middle-aged lady! and Margaret sat down on the sofa when she had left
it, with dismay in her heart, and gazed at Edward’s water-color with
blank discomfiture. There seemed to rise before her the little parlor
in the farm--every detail of its homely aspect; the red and blue cloth
on the table, the uncomfortable scratching of the pen with which she
wrote her promise, the bit of paper smoothed out by Mrs. Glen’s hand,
the little common earthenware ink-bottle.

She had not been aware before that she remembered all these things; but
now they started to the light, as if they were things of importance,
all visible before her, remade. How was it possible that she could have
put them all away out of her memory so long? She had thought of him
now and then, chiefly with compunctions, feeling herself ungrateful to
him who had been so kind. But it was not with any compunction now that
she remembered him, but with sudden alarm and sense of an incongruity
beyond all words. Supposing Edward had not died, but had come back
from the jungle after her mother had met Sir Ludovic, what would she
have thought? how would she have felt? would she have welcomed him or
fled from him? But then I--have never seen--any one, Margaret said
to herself. She blushed, though she was alone. There was nothing in
that--her color was always coming and going--and even this momentary
change of sentiment relieved her a little. The horror was to have
remembered, all of a sudden, in this calm and quiet--Rob Glen.

When such a sudden revelation as this occurs, it is astonishing how
heaven and earth concur to keep the impression up. Next evening their
dinner was more lively than usual. To keep Aubrey company over his
wine, Mrs. Bellingham had invited Mr. St. John, the young rector
(though they were in such deep mourning, your parish clergyman is never
out of place, he is not company), to dine with them; and there was
a little more care than usual about the flowers on the table (since
the garden-flowers were exhausted, Jean had restricted the article
of flowers), and a more elaborate meal than was ever put upon the
table for the three ladies. Mr. St. John was High-Church, and had been
supposed to incline toward celibacy for the clergy, but of late his
principles had been wavering. The elder ladies at the Grange had given
him no rest on the subject; they had declared the idea to be Popish,
infidelistic, heathen. Not marry? Grace in particular had almost wept
over this strange theory. What was to become of a parish without a lady
to look after it; and by this time Mr. St. John had been considerably
moved by one of two things, either by the arguments of Mrs. Bellingham
and Miss Leslie, or by the consideration that the Grange was very near
the rectory; that it was a very nice little property, the largest
house in the parish, its inhabitants the most important family; and
that its heiress was eighteen, and very pretty, though brought up a
Presbyterian, and probably, therefore, quite unregenerate, and as good
as unbaptized. He sat opposite Margaret at the table, while Aubrey
Bellingham sat by her, and the young priest felt an unchristian warmth
of enmity arise in his bosom toward the stranger. But this put him on
his mettle, and the talk was very lively and sometimes amusing; it made
Margaret forget the fright of recollection that had seized her. The two
young men remained but a very short time in the dining-room after the
ladies had left, and Mr. St. John had just managed to get possession of
a seat beside Margaret and to resume the question of the Celtic music,
which he had so skilfully hit upon at one of their earlier meetings, as
a subject sure to interest her, when an incident occurred that threw
back all her thoughts vividly into their former channel.

“Don’t you think that the invariably pathetic character of their music
reflects the leading tendency of the race?” Mr. St. John had just said;
and she was actually making what she felt to be a very foolish answer.

“I have heard the pipes playing,” she was saying, “but not often; and
except reels, I don’t know any-- Did you call me, Jean?”

“Here is a parcel for you, a large parcel by the railway,” said Mrs.
Bellingham. “Yes, really; it is not for me, as I thought, but for you,
Margaret. What can it be, I wonder? It has got Edinburgh on the ticket,
and a great many other marks. Bland, will you please undo it carefully,
and take away all the brown paper and wrappings. I dare say it is a
present, Margaret; it looks to me like a present. I should say it was a
picture; perhaps something Ludovic may have sent you from Earl’s-hall.
Was there any picture you were fond of that can have been sent to you
from Earl’s-hall?”

“Dearest Margaret, it will be one of the portraits. How kind of dear
Ludovic to think of you. Surely you have a right to it,” said Miss
Leslie; and even the young men drew near with the lively curiosity
which such an arrival always creates. The very name of picture
made Margaret tremble; she approached the large white square which
Bland--Jean’s most respectable servant--had carefully freed from the
rough sheets of card-board and brown paper in which it had been so
carefully packed, with the thrill of a presentiment. Miss Leslie’s
fingers quivered with impatience to cut the last string, to unfold the
last enclosure, but a heroic sense of duty to Margaret kept her back.
It was Margaret’s parcel: she it was who had the right to disclose the
secret, to have the first exquisite flutter of discovery. Grace knew
the value of these little sensations against the gray background of
monotonous life. But it seemed to Margaret that she knew what it was,
even although she had no recollection for the moment what it could be.
She unfolded the last cover with a trembling hand.

Ah! It was Earl’s-hall, the old house, exactly as it had been that
sunshiny morning before any trouble came--when little Margaret,
thinking no evil, went skimming over the furrows of the potatoes,
running up and down as light as air, hovering about the artist whose
work seemed to her so divine. What an ocean of time and change had
swept over her since then! She gave a tremulous cry full of wonder and
anguish, as she saw at a glance what it was. They all gathered round
her, looking over her shoulder. There it stood, with the sun shining
full upon it, the old gray house: the big ivy leaves giving out gleams
of reflection, the light blazing upon Bell’s white apron--for Bell,
too, was there: he had forgotten nothing. Margaret’s heart gave a beat
so wild that the little group round her must have heard it, she thought.

“Earl’s-hall!” said both the ladies together. “And, dear me, Margaret,
where has this come from?” said Mrs. Bellingham; “Ludovic had no
picture like this. It is beautifully mounted, and quite fresh and new;
it must be just finished. It is very pretty. There is the terrace in
the tower, you can just make it out--and there are the windows of the
long room; and there, I declare, is my room, just a corner of it, and
somebody sitting at the door--why, it is something like Bell! Who can
have sent you such a beautiful present, Margaret? Who can it be from?”

Margaret gained a little time while her sister spoke; but she was
almost too much agitated to be able to say anything, and she did not
know what to say.

“It was a friend,” she said, with trembling lips. “It was
done--before-- It was not finished.” And then, taking courage from
desperation, she added, “May I take it up-stairs?”

What so natural as that she should be overwhelmed by the sudden sight
of her old home? Grace rushed to her with open arms. “Let me carry
it for you; let me go with you, darling Margaret,” she said. But the
girl fled from her, almost pushing her away in the nervous impatience
of agitation. Even Jean was moved. She called back her sister
imperatively, yet with a softened voice.

“Let her alone; let her carry it herself. Come here, Grace, and let the
child alone,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “The sight of the old place has
been too much for her, coming so suddenly--and not much wonder. After
all, it is but four months. But I should like to know who did it, and
who sent it,” she added. That was the thought that was foremost with
Aubrey too.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


This incident completed the painful process which was going on in
Margaret’s mind. The little visionary link of kindness, tenderness,
gratitude, which had existed between herself and Rob Glen had been
really broken by the shock administered to her on the evening when she
pledged herself to him forever; but she had never attempted to realize
her feelings, or inquire into them--rather had been glad to forget
them, to push away from her and postpone all consideration of the
subject which all at once had become so painful, so full of difficulty
and confusion. She had avoided even the idea of any communication
with him. When Ludovic spoke to her of correspondence, it had seemed
impossible that the pledge he asked for could be necessary, or that
there should be any question of correspondence. She had never thought
of it, never meant it. There was her promise against her which sometime
or other must be redeemed. There was the fact that Rob had parted
from her like a lover, a thing which it now made her blush hotly to
recollect, but which then had seemed part of the confused strangeness
of everything--a proof of his “kindness,” that kindness for which
she had never been so grateful as she ought to have been. These were
appalling certainties which overshadowed her life; but then, nothing
could come of them for a long time, that was certain; three immense
lifetimes of years stood between her and anything that could be done to
her in consequence.

And how familiar we all become with the Damocles sword of an impending,
but uncertain event!-- Margaret had been able to escape for a long
time, and had put all thought of it aside. But her mother’s story had
recalled one aspect of her own, and here was another, bursting upon
her distinct and vivid, which could not be pushed aside, which must
be faced, and even explained. Heaven help her! She carried away the
big drawing in her arms, her heart thumping against the card-board
wildly with suffocating force, her head throbbing, her mind in the most
violent commotion. Had there been nothing else, no doubt the sudden
recalling of all her thoughts to her old home, without any warning,
in a moment, must have had a certain effect upon her. Even Jean had
fully acknowledged this. It was natural that she should feel it. But
something much more agitating, something more even than the bewildering
thought of all that had happened in the last few weeks of her stay
at Earl’s-hall, came upon her with the first glimpse of the picture.
Recollections rushed upon her like a torrent, recollections even more
confusing, more painful than these. The drawing itself was a memorial
of the time when there was no trouble at all involved, when Rob, newly
discovered, was a curiosity and delight to the young creature in quest
of something new, to whom he was a godsend; and this it was which
suddenly came before her now.

There is no such anguish of retrospection as that with which the
very young look back upon moments in which they feel they have made
themselves ridiculous, and given their fellow-creatures an inferior,
inadequate representation of them. This it was which overwhelmed
Margaret now. She had acquired a little knowledge, if from nothing
else, from the conversation of Mrs. Bellingham, which had modified her
innocence. She had heard of girls who “flung themselves at the heads”
of men. She had heard of those who gave too much “encouragement,” who
“led on” reluctant wooers. This talk had passed lightly enough over her
head, always full of dreams; but yet it had left a deposit as so much
light talk does.

When first her eyes fell upon the picture, this was the thought that
rushed upon her. Almost before the ready tear had formed which came
at the sight of Earl’s-hall, before the quick pang of grief for the
loss of all which the old house represented to her, before the sense
of fatal bondage and entanglement which was her special burden, had
time to make itself felt--came, with a flood of agony and shame, a
realization of herself as she had been when Rob Glen had seated himself
at the end of the potato field to make this drawing.

Other things that had happened to her had not involved any fault of
hers; she did not even feel that she was seriously to blame for the
forging of the chain that bound her--but this, this had been her own
doing. She it was who had wooed him to Earl’s-hall; she had asked him
to come, and to come again; she had persuaded him to a hundred things
he never would have thought of by himself. But for her he would not
have returned day by day, getting more and more familiar. When she
rushed about everywhere for the things he wanted, when she admired
everything he did with such passionate enthusiasm, when she could hang
over his shoulder watching every line he drew, what had she been doing?
“Flinging herself at his head,” “leading him on,” “encouraging him,”
oh, and more than encouraging him! as Ludovic had said. This was worse
even than the bondage in which it had resulted. Her face was covered
with burning blushes; her soul overflowed with shame.

Oh, how well she recollected the ridiculous ardor with which she had
taken up her old playfellow; the sense of some new delightful event
which had come into her life when she met him, and discovered his
sketches, and appropriated him, as it were, to her own amusement and
pleasure! What a change he had made in the childish monotony and
quiet! She remembered how she had brought him to the house, how she
had coaxed her father for him, how she had fluttered about him as he
sat there beginning his drawing. If he said he wanted anything, how
she flew to get it. How she watched every line over his shoulder; how
she praised him with all simple sincerity. (Margaret still thought the
picture beautiful, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen.)
She seemed to see herself, oh, so over-eager, over-bold, unmaidenly!
Was it wonderful that he should think her ready to do everything he
asked her--ready to make any sacrifice, to separate herself from all
belonging to her for his sake?

There is always a certain consolation, a certain power which upholds
and supports, in the consciousness of suffering for something which
is not one’s own fault. To have been the victim of some wonderful
combination of circumstances, to have been caught in some snare, which
all your skill was not able to elude, that is far from being the worst
that can befall any one. But to see in your conduct the germ of all
your sufferings, to perceive how you have yourself led lightly up,
dancing and singing, to the precipice over which you are about to be
pitched--this is the most appalling ordeal of all. Margaret grew hot
all over, with a blush that tingled to her finger points, and seemed to
scorch her from head to foot. Whose fault was it, all the self-betrayal
that followed, the horrible bond that bound her soul, and which she did
not even venture to think of; whose fault was it but her own?

“Margaret, dear Margaret, dearest Jean has sent me to ask, are you not
coming down-stairs again? We all feel for you, darling--and oh, do you
think it is nothing to us? Dear Jean puts great force upon herself, she
has such a strong will, and commands it; but we all feel the same. Oh,
what a beautiful picture it is! What a dear, dear old house! How it
brings back our youth, and dearest, dearest papa!”

Miss Leslie put her nose to the picture as if she would have kissed
it. She felt in the depths of her artless soul that this was her duty
to old Sir Ludovic, of whom poor Grace had known little enough for
twenty years before. The tear came quite easily, which she dried with
her white handkerchief, pressing it to her eyes. Not for anything in
the world would she have failed of this duty to her dearest papa. Jean
thought chiefly of crape, and was content with that way of expressing
her sentiments; but within the first year, within, indeed, the first
six months, to mention her father without the tear he had a right to,
would have been to Grace a cruel dereliction from natural duty. After
a twelve-month, when the family put off crape, it would no doubt cease
to be necessary--though always, she felt, a right thing--to pay that
tribute of tears.

Margaret stood by, and looked on with a dreary helplessness. She had
no tears for her father, no room for him even in her overladen and
guilty soul. And this she felt acutely, with a pang the more, feeling
as if all love had died out of her heart, and nothing but darkness and
confusion, and ingratitude and insensibility, was in her and about her.
She took up the picture with a slight shudder, as she touched it, and
put it away in the corner where hung the faded portrait of her mother’s
young lover.

This touch of contact with the story of one who had gone before her,
whom somehow--she scarcely knew how--she could not help identifying
with herself, gave her a little fanciful consolation. Margaret did not
long, as so many girls have done, to have a mother to flee to, and
in whom to confide all her troubles; but it seemed to her, in some
confused way, that it must have been but a previous chapter in her own
life, which had passed under this same roof, in this same house, twenty
years ago. She seemed almost dimly to recollect it, as she recollected
(but far more vividly) that time of folly in which she had “encouraged”
and “led on” Rob Glen.

It was better for her to obey Jean’s call, to go down-stairs and try
to forget it all, for a moment, than to stay here and drive herself
wild, wondering what he might do next, and what, oh what! it would
be necessary for her to do. Grace, who was a little disappointed not
to find her dissolved in tears, recommended that she should bathe
her eyes, and brought her some water, and took a great deal of pains
to obliterate the traces of weeping which did not exist. She tucked
Margaret’s hand under her arm, and patted it and held it fast.

“My poor darling!” she said, cooing over the unresponsive girl. Jean,
too, who was not given to much exhibition of feeling, received her,
when she came back, with something like tenderness.

“Put a chair for Margaret by the fire, Aubrey,” she said, “the child
will be cold coming through all those passages; that is the worst of an
old house, there are so many passages, and a draught in every one of
them. I would not say a word against old houses, which are of course
all the fashion, and very picturesque, and all that; but I must say I
think you suffer from draughts. And what good is the fireplace in the
hall? the heat all goes up that big chimney. It does not come into
the house at all. I would like hot-water pipes, but they are a great
expense, and of course you would all tell me they were out of keeping.
So is gas out of keeping. Oh, you need not cry out; I don’t mean in the
drawing-room, of course, which is a thing only done in Scotland, and
quite out of the question; but to wander about those passages in the
dark, and never to stir a step without a candle in your hand! I think
it a great trouble, I must allow.”

“Your ancestral home, Miss Leslie,” said Mr. St. John, who had secured
a place in front of the fire, “must be a true mediæval monument. I am
very much interested in domestic architecture. And so I am sure you
must be, familiar with two such houses--”

“People who possess old houses seldom care for them,” said Aubrey,
taking up a position on the other side. “You know what my aunt says
about gas and hot-water pipes. Tell me,” he said, half whispering,
stooping over her, to the great indignation of the clergyman, “what
I must call you. I must reserve the endearing title of aunt for the
family circle, but I can’t say Miss Leslie, you knew, for you are not
Miss Leslie; and Margaret, _tout court_, would be a presumption.”

“Everybody calls me Margaret,” she said.

“That man did at Killin. I felt disposed to pitch him into the loch
when I heard him; but probably,” said Aubrey, laughing, “there might
have been two words to that, don’t you think? Perhaps, if it had come
to a struggle, it would have been I who was most likely to taste the
waters of the loch.”

“Oh, Randal is very good-natured,” said Margaret, making an effort to
recover herself, “and perhaps he would not have known what you meant if
you had spoken about a loch. I never saw this house till just a little
while ago,” she added to Mr. St. John, anxious to be civil. “I never
was out of Fife.”

“And the Northern architecture is different from ours; more rude, is it
not? I have heard that people often get confused, and attach an earlier
date to a building than it really has any right to.”

“It is kind of you to say the man at Killin was good-natured,” said
Aubrey, on the other side; “of course, you think _I_ would not
have given him much trouble. It seemed to me that everybody showed an
extraordinary amount of confidence in that man at Killin. He pretended
to be fishing, but he never fished. I suspect his fishing related
to--who shall we say--your little cousin? Nay, I am making a mistake
again; I always forget that you belong to the previous generation--your
niece.”

“Effie!” cried Margaret, completely roused, so great was her surprise.
“Oh! but it was always--it was never--Effie--” Here she made a pause,
bewildered, and caught Mr. St. John’s eye. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she
cried, with a sudden blush; “I--don’t know about architecture. I have
not had--very much education,” she answered, looking piteously at her
sisters for aid.

“Oh, dearest Jean! I think I must really go and tell Mr. St. John--”

“Hold your tongue!” said Mrs. Bellingham, holding her sister fast by
her dress; “let the child make it out for herself. Do you think they
mind about her education? Who cares for education? Men always like a
girl to know nothing. Just keep out of the way and stop meddling.”

This aside was inaudible to the group round the fire; though Mr. St.
John’s admirable enunciation made all he said quite distinct to them,
and Mrs. Bellingham’s sharp ears were very conscious of Aubrey’s
whispering--which was ill-bred, but of no effect--on the other side of
Margaret’s chair.

Mr. St. John gave a little laugh of respectful derision and flattery.

“In the present age of learned ladies it is quite a relief to hear such
a statement,” he said, “though I should not like to trust in your want
of education. But this country is very rich architecturally, and I
should be delighted to offer my humble services as cicerone. I should
like to convert you to the pure English Elizabethan--”

“It must have been Miss Effie,” said Aubrey; “who else? for Aunt Grace,
though charming-- And it stands to reason that a man who says he has
gone to a certain place for fishing, yet never touches a rod, must have
ulterior motives. And Aunt Jean is of opinion that these two would make
a very pretty pair.”

Why Aubrey said this it would be hard to tell; whether from malice, as
meaning to prick her into annoyance, or whether out of simple mischief,
anyhow it roused Margaret.

“Oh, I do not know if Jean would care-- I am sure you are--very kind,”
she said, vacantly, to Mr. St. John; then more rapidly to the other
hand: “I am almost sure you are mistaken. Neither Jean nor Effie knew
Randal--that is, to call knowing; he was--quite a stranger. I don’t
think he knew Effie at all.”

“These are just the most favorable circumstances for a flirtation,”
said Aubrey; “but look, they are all on the alert, and Aunt Jean is
making signs to me. It is evident they mean you to talk to _him_,
not me. When he goes away, let us return to Miss Effie and the man at
Killin.”

“Oh, I don’t want to talk about them!” cried Margaret--here at least
there was nothing to make her shrink from Jean’s inspection; she said
this quite out loud, so that all the company heard. Because she had one
thing to conceal, was it not natural that she should take particular
pains to show that there was nothing to conceal? She did not want any
one to whisper to her. And there was besides, there could be no doubt,
a certain tone of pique and provoked annoyance in Margaret’s voice.

“I was saying,” said Mr. St. John, mildly, “that in our own church
there is a great deal that is interesting; and if you would allow me
to take you over it some day, you and Mrs. Bellingham or Miss Leslie,
I should not despair of interesting you. Besides, there are so many of
your ancestors commemorated there. I hope we may succeed in making your
mother-country very interesting to you,” he said, lowering his tone. It
was a great relief to the young clergyman when “that fellow” went away
from the heiress’s side.

“Oh, I like it very well,” Margaret said.

“But I am very ambitious, Miss Leslie; very well is indifferent. I
want you to like it more than that; I want you to love it, to prefer
it to the other,” he said, with fervor in his voice. “And now I
must say good-night.” He held out his hand bending toward her, and
Margaret, looking up, caught his eye: she gave a little start, and
shrank backward at the very moment of giving him her hand. Why should
he look like that--like _him_ whom she was so anxious to forget?
She dropped his hand almost before she touched it, in the nervous
tremor which came over her. Why should he look like Rob Glen? Was he
in the conspiracy against her to make her remember? She could scarcely
keep in a little cry which rose to her lips in her sudden pain. Poor
Mr. St. John! anything farther from his mind than to make her think
of any other suitor could not be. But Mrs. Bellingham, who was more
clear-sighted, saw the look, and put an interpretation upon it of a
different kind. When Mr. St. John had gone, attended to the door by
Aubrey at his aunt’s earnest request, Mrs. Bellingham came and placed
herself where Mr. St. John had been, in front of the fire.

“That man,” she said, solemnly, when he was gone, “is after Margaret
too. Oh! you need not make such signs to me, Grace; I know perfectly
well what I am saying. I never would speak about lovers to girls in
an ordinary way; the monkeys find out all that for themselves quite
fast enough--do you think there is anything that I could teach Effie
on that point? But Margaret’s is a peculiar case: she ought to know
how to distinguish those who are sincere--she ought to know that it is
not entirely for herself that men make those eyes at her. Oh, I saw
him very well; I perceived what he meant by it. You have a very nice
fortune, my dear, and a very nice house, and you will have to pay the
penalty like others. You will very soon know the signs as well as I do;
and I can tell you that _that_ man is after you too.”

“Dearest Jean!” said Grace, “he may be a little High-Church, more high
than I approve, but he is a very nice young man. Whom could Margaret
have better than a good, nice-looking, young clergyman? They are more
domestic and more at home, and more with their wives--”

“Fiddle-faddling eternally in a drawing-room,” said Mrs. Bellingham;
“always in a woman’s way wherever she turns. No, my dear, whoever
you marry, Margaret, don’t marry a clergyman; a man like that always
purring about the fireside would drive me mad in a month.”

“Is it St. John who is in question?” said Aubrey, coming back. “Was he
provided for my amusement? or is he daily bread at the Grange already?
I don’t see how so pretty-behaved a person could drive any one mad; he
is a great deal safer than your last _protégé_, the man at Killin.”

“I don’t mean to discuss such questions with you, Aubrey,” said Mrs.
Bellingham; “it is late, and I think if you will light our candles for
us, we will say good-night. And I will go with you, Margaret, and look
at that picture again; it was a very pretty picture. I must have it
framed for you; there is a place in the wainscot parlor where it would
hang very well. Who did you say sent it to you? or did you tell me? I
did not know that there ever was anybody at Earl’s-hall that could draw
so well.”

“Dear Jean,” said Grace, thinking it a good opportunity to appear in
Margaret’s defence, “let her alone, let the poor child alone to-night;
she is too tired for anything. Are you not too tired, darling Margaret?
I am sure you want to go to bed.”

“I hope I know better than to overtire her,” said Jean, with some
offence; “there is no need for you to come, Grace. Where have you put
the picture, Margaret? Why, you have put it with its face to the wall!
Is that to save it from the dust, or because you don’t like to see it?
My dear, I don’t want to be unkind, but this is really carrying things
too far. You don’t mean to say you have taken a dislike to Earl’s-hall?”

“No,” Margaret said, under her breath; though it seemed to her that to
look at the picture again was more than she could bear.

“And it is a very pretty picture,” said Jean, turning it round and
sitting down on the sofa to look at it--“a very pretty picture!
By-and-by you will be very glad to have it. And who was it you said did
it? I never thought Randal Burnside was an artist. Perhaps he got one
of the people to do it who are always at Sir Claude’s. But, my dear, if
that is so, I can’t let you take a present from a young man like Randal
Burnside.”

“It was not Randal”-- Margaret was eager to clear him: “he never sent me
anything in a present; he would not think of me at all. It was--once
when he came to make a picture of papa, which is beautiful-- He was a
young man from the farm.”

“A young man from the farm!”

“Rob Glen,” said Margaret, almost choked, yet forcing herself to speak.
“Papa said he might do it. I did not know anything about it, but I
suppose he must have finished it; and here it is.” It seemed a simple
statement enough, if she had not been so breathless, and changed color
so continually, and looked so haggard about the eyes.

Mrs. Bellingham heard this account with a blank face.

“Rob Glen!” she said; “Rob Glen! where have I heard the name before?
Was it the servants at Earl’s-hall, or was it Ludovic, or--who was
it? Papa said he might do it? Dear me! papa might have known better,
Margaret, though I am sure I don’t want to blame him. It will have
to be paid for, I suppose; and how very strange it should have been
sent like this, without a word! He will send a bill, most likely. How
strange I should not have heard anything about this artist! Was there
any price mentioned that you remember, Margaret? They ask such sums
of money for one of those trifling sketches. It is nice enough, but
I am sure it is not worth the half of what we shall have to give for
it. When there is no bargain made beforehand, it is astonishing the
charges they will make; and papa really had no money for such nonsense:
he ought not to have ordered it; but perhaps he thought it would be a
gratification to you. Can you remember at all, Margaret, if anything
was said about the price?”

“Oh no, no--there was to be no price. It was not like that. He asked to
do it, and papa let him do it. Nobody thought of any money.”

“But, my dear!” said Jean--“my dear! you are a little simpleton; but
you could not think, I hope, of taking the man’s work and giving him
_nothing_ for it? That is out of the question--quite out of the
question. I never heard of such a thing,” said Mrs. Bellingham. The
words seemed to penetrate through all Margaret’s being. She trembled,
notwithstanding all her efforts to control herself. What could she
reply? Take a man’s work and give him _nothing_ for it; but it was
not money that Rob would take.

“Of course it could not be expected that you should know anything of
business,” said Jean, “and poor papa was already feeling ill, perhaps,
and out of his ordinary way. I dare say a letter will come by the
next post to explain it. And if not, you must give me the young man’s
address, and I will write and ask, or we might send word to Ludovic.
Aubrey is a very good judge of such things; we can ask Aubrey to-morrow
what he thinks the value should be. Now, Margaret, you are trembling
from head to foot--you are as white as a sheet; you have a nervous look
about your eyes that it always frightens me to see. My dear, what is to
become of you,” cried Jean, “if you let every little thing upset you?
It was in the course of nature that we should lose papa--he was an old
man; and, I believe, though he was never a man who talked much about
religion, that he was well prepared. And as for Earl’s-hall, you would
not grudge that to Ludovic? It is his right as the only son. It shows
great weakness, my dear, both of body and mind, that you should be
upset like this only by a picture of Earl’s-hall.”

Margaret listened with all that struggle of conflicting feelings which
produces hysteria in people unused to control themselves. The choking
in the throat, the burning of those unshed tears about her eyes, the
trouble in her heart, was more than she could bear. She could not make
any reply. She could not even see her sister’s face; the room reeled
round with her; everything grew dark. To save her balance, she threw
herself suddenly upon the firm figure before her, clutching at Jean’s
support, throwing her arms round her with a movement of desperation.
Few people had ever clung wildly to Mrs. Bellingham in moments of
insufferable emotion. She was quite overcome by this involuntary appeal
to her. She took her young sister into her arms, all unconscious of the
cause of her misery, and caressed and soothed her, and stayed by her
till she had calmed down, and was able to escape from her trouble in
bed. Jean believed in bed as a cure for most evils.

“You must not give way,” she said--“indeed, my dear, you must not give
way; but a good night’s sleep will be the best thing for you; lie still
and rest.”

“What a tender-hearted thing it is!” she said, going down-stairs again
for a last word with Aubrey, after this agitating task was over. “I
declare she has quite upset me, too; though it is scarcely possible,
after being so long away from home, that I could feel as she does. She
is a great deal too feeling for her own comfort. But, Aubrey, you must
not lose your time, my dear boy; you must push on. It would be the
greatest ‘divert’ to her, as they say in Scotland, if you could only
get her to fall in love with you. I have the greatest confidence in
falling in love.”

“And so have I--when they will do it,” said Aubrey, puffing out a long
plume of smoke from his cigar.




CHAPTER XXXV.


Curiously enough, Margaret’s first thought, when she woke in the
morning, was not of the picture nor of all the consequences which it
seemed to threaten. Sometimes the most trifling matter will thrust
itself in, before those giant cares, which generally wait by our
bedsides, to surprise us when we first open our eyes. And the first
thing she thought of, strangely enough, was Aubrey’s suggestion of
last night--Effie! What could he mean by it? Effie had been his own
companion, not Randal’s. Randal had not walked or talked with, or
sought any one, except-- It was very strange, indeed, how any one could
suppose that Effie-- He did not _know_ her. Of all the party, the
one he knew best was certainly herself. She must certainly be best
aware of what his feelings were--of what he had been thinking about!
It annoyed her to think that Aubrey should have so little perception,
should know so little about it, though Jean had such confidence in
him. There was a little irritation in her mind about this point, which
quite pushed to the front and made itself appear more important than it
was. She could not help making a little survey of the circumstances,
of all that had happened--and it had just occurred to her to recollect
the offer of service and help that Randal had made her. This had made
her half smile at the moment, and since then she had smiled more than
once at the idea that she could want his help. She had said, “Jean will
manage everything;” and yet he had said it with fervid meaning, with a
look of anxious concern.

Ah! she sprang up in her bed, and clasped her hands together. The
occasion had come; but she could not consult Randal, nor any one. She
must struggle through it by herself, as best she could, holding her
peace, saying nothing. That was the only safety for her. But Margaret
was surprised to find that when she turned the picture round again,
and looked at it trembling, as though it had been capable of doing her
bodily harm, she did not feel so much power in it as she had done the
day before. It did not sting her the second time. She looked at it
almost tranquilly, seeing in it no dreadful accuser, bringing before
her all her own past levity and folly, but only a memorial of a time
and a place which indeed made her heart beat with keen emotion and with
pain, but not with the overwhelming, sickening passion of misery which
had been like death to her last night.

She could not understand how this was, for the circumstances had not
changed in any way; and there was still evidently before her the
difficulty of making Jean understand how it was that this picture could
be accepted without payment, and keeping her, energetic as she was,
from interfering in her own person. There was still this difficulty;
and all that made the future so alarming, the dread of other surprises
that might follow this, was undiminished; but yet, instead of turning
the picture to the wall again, in sick horror of it and fear of it as
of a ghost, Margaret left it in the recess, uncovered, the corner of
the broad rim of white touching the little faded water-color portrait.
That touch gave her a certain soothing and consolation. It was not the
same kind of trouble as her own; probably the other girl who had been
engaged to that poor fellow without loving him had not been at all to
blame; but yet there his portrait stood, a memorial of other uneasy
thoughts that had gone on in this same chamber. Probably _she_
blamed herself too, though not as Margaret was doing. But certainly,
anyhow, she must have sat thinking, and cried in the same corner of
that sofa, and looked at the pale painted face. Margaret leaned the
cause of her trouble against the frame of that dead and gone one, which
the other girl had lived through, and felt that there was consolation
in the tomb. What so visionary, so painful, so foolish even, that will
not console at eighteen when it happens to offer a parallel to our own
distresses?

And it was with renewed courage and a great deal more composure than
she could have hoped for, that Margaret went down-stairs. They all
came to meet her with kindly questions how she was. “But I, for one,
think it quite unnecessary to put any such question,” said Aubrey. He
looked at her with a lingering look of pleasure. He did not object
to Margaret. She was not “his style;” but still he did not object to
her, and this morning he admired her, as she came down-stairs in her
morning freshness, her black dress bringing out the delicate tints of
her complexion. Jean had told him that he had better lose no time; and
the fact of Mr. St. John’s evident intentions had quickened Aubrey’s.
The good which another man was trying to secure became more valuable in
his eyes. She was certainly very pretty, he said to himself, a delicate
little creature, like a pale rose--not altogether a white rose, but
that delicate blush which is not definable by any vulgar name of color;
and her silky hair was piquant among all the frizzy unkempt heads that
were more fashionable. On the whole, he had not the least objection to
make what “running” he could for Margaret. She was worth winning, with
her beautiful old house, and her pretty little income, though she was
not quite his style.

“Here is a fat letter for you,” he said; “we have all been grumbling
over our letters. Aunt Jean, I think, would like to read them all, to
see if they were fit to be delivered to us; she takes all the charge
of our moral as well as of our physical well-being. I saw her look at
this very narrowly, as if she had the greatest mind to break the seal.
_That_ is of course a figure of speech nowadays. I mean to open
the envelope; it is very fat and tempting to the curious spectator. I
should like myself to know what was in it; it must be from some dear
confidential young lady friend.”

Margaret looked at the letter with a little thrill of alarm. She did
not get many letters, and every one that came was a slight excitement;
but when she had looked at it she laid it down very calmly. “It is from
Bell,” she said. She knew very well what Bell would say to her. She
would tell her about the brown cow and the chickens, and how John was
with his rheumatism; and there was no great hurry to read it for a few
minutes, until they had ceased to take so much notice of her. Margaret
knew that after a minute or two her sisters would be fully occupied
with their own concerns.

“Aubrey is talking nonsense, Margaret, as he generally does,” said Mrs.
Bellingham. “The idea that I would open anybody’s letter! not but what
I think it a very right thing of young people to show their letters
to their parents, or to those who stand in the place of parents; it
shows a right sort of confidence, and I confess, for my part, I always
like to see it; but I am not the sort of person that would ever force
confidence. It is nothing, I always say, unless it comes spontaneously.
I wonder if Bell will tell you anything about that picture that arrived
last night, Margaret! I saw your letter was from Bell, and that is
what made me look at it, as Aubrey says, though he always exaggerates.
Of course, I knew Bell and you had no secrets, Margaret. I really
think if you had been out of the way I should have done violence to my
own feelings and gone the length of opening it, just to see if there
was anything to explain what that young man could mean by sending it
without a word.”

“Oh!” said Aubrey, “it was a young man, then, was it, who made the
drawing? it is satisfactory to know that it was a young man.”

“Why is it satisfactory to know that he is a young man? I can’t say
that I see that at all; it is neither satisfactory nor unsatisfactory:
it is not a person in our condition of life, so that it does not matter
in the least to Margaret. Why do you say it is satisfactory to know
that he is a young man?”

“Well, because then there is hope that he will do better when he is
older,” said Aubrey. “You all seemed to like it so much that I did not
venture to say anything; but it is not great in point of art. I have
no doubt it is a most faithful representation of the place, but it is
nothing to speak of, you know, in the point of art.”

“Oh, really, do you think so?” cried Mrs. Bellingham; “then you would
not think it worth a very high price, Aubrey? I am very glad of
that--for I thought we might be obliged to offer a large sum--”

“It is a beautiful picture,” said Margaret, hotly; she could not bear
anything to be said against this rooted belief of hers: its presence
alarmed and troubled her, but she would not have it undervalued. “If
it were to be sold it would be worth a great deal of money--it is a
beautiful picture; but there is nothing about selling it,” she cried,
a flush rising into her cheeks. “It was done for--papa: money would
not buy it--and him that painted it was not thinking about money.” Her
pronouns, poor child, were wrong, but her heart was right. Rob Glen was
her greatest terror on earth, but she would be just to him all the same.

“But that is just what I cannot be satisfied about,” said Jean. “If you
pay a man for his work, why there you are! but if you don’t pay him, or
give him anything as an equivalent, why where are you? Every man must
be paid one way or another. Open Bell’s letter, Margaret, and tell me
if she says anything about it. I shall have to write to Ludovic, or to
the young man himself, if we do not know what he means.”

Margaret opened Bell’s letter with a hand that trembled a little. She
did not expect to find anything there on the subject which had so
deeply occupied her; but still, to open this thick enclosure before
Jean, whose mind was so much set upon it that something was to be found
there, and who would watch her while she read it, and ask to see Bell’s
humble epistle, was very alarming. She opened it with a tremulousness
which she could scarcely disguise. Bell had folded her letter, which
was written on a large sheet of paper, in the way in which letters had
been folded before the days of envelopes, and consequently it was with
some little delay and difficulty that a trembling hand opened the big
folds. But Margaret was suddenly petrified, frozen to her very heart
with terror, when she saw another letter lying enclosed--a tiny letter
of a very different aspect from Bell’s. She dared not move--she dared
not do anything to show the greatness of the shock she had received.
The danger was not of a kind that she dared disclose. The paper shook
in her hands convulsively, and then they became preternaturally still
and steady. She did not know Rob Glen’s handwriting, but she knew that
this was from him by instinct, by inspiration of her terror. What was
she to do? Her face she felt grow crimson, then fell into a chill of
paleness; and when she lifted her eyes in a momentary glance of panic
to see if Jean was looking at her, she met the eyes of Aubrey, and
without knowing what she did, in a kind of delirium made a terrified,
instantaneous appeal to him. Her thoughts were too hurried, her
desperation too complete even to make her conscious that the appeal was
unreasonable, or, indeed, aware that she had made it, till the thing
was done; and next moment all became dim before her eyes, though she
still kept her balance desperately upon her seat, and held the papers
firmly in her hands.

Aubrey was not insensible or unkind: he was startled by the look; for
whatever Margaret’s emotion might mean it was evidently something very
real and terrible for the young, inexperienced creature who put this
involuntary trust in him. He said instantly:

“Have you finished breakfast, Aunt Jean?--for if so, I want you to look
at some things of mine--a parcel I received this morning. Christmas is
coming, and with all that crew of children at the Court, a man is put
to his wit’s end: come into my room and give me your advice about them.
Oh yes, of course they are rubbish; what can I buy but rubbish on my
little scrap of money? But come and give me your opinion.”

“Wait a minute, my dear boy, wait a minute; you shall have my opinion
with the greatest of pleasure; but I want to hear what Bell says.”

Upon this he got up, and walking solemnly to her, offered his arm. “Who
is Bell? I decline to yield the _pas_ to Bell. Come now with me,
and Bell will do afterward; if it takes so long to read as it promises
from the size of it, I should have to wait till to-morrow, and that
does not suit me at all. Whisper! there is a scrap of Sèvres, Rose du
Barri, and one or two small rags of lace.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Bellingham uttered a cry. She made a little dart toward
Margaret to inspect the letter over her shoulder, thus hoping to
secure both the advantages offered; but before she could carry out her
intention, her hand was caught fast in Aubrey’s arm. “I want _you_
to see them all _first_,” he whispered in her ear.

“I do think dear Aubrey might have asked me too,” said Miss Grace,
querulously; “I don’t know that there is so much difference, though it
is Jean, to be sure, who is his real aunt. But then, perhaps, dearest
Margaret, you know, he might not like to ask me, an unmarried lady,
to go into his room. Yes, yes, dear Aubrey, I see exactly what he
meant--he gave me a look as he went away, as much as to say, I will
explain it all afterward. Naturally, you know, he would not ask me,
being an unmarried lady, to go into his room. Where are you going,
my dear--where are you going? You have not eaten anything, darling
Margaret; you have not even taken your tea.”

But it was not difficult to escape from Grace; and Margaret, with a
sense of desperation, snatched a cloak from the hall and stole out,
wending her way among the shrubbery to the most retired spot she
could think of. She would not go to her room, where her sister would
inevitably come after her. She had thrust Bell’s big letter--innocent
production, penned out of the fulness of Bell’s heart, which was as big
as the letter--into her pocket. And she dared not look at the other
till she had got safe into some corner where nobody would see her, some
covert where she would be free from inspection. The cold wind revived
her, and a little spiteful rain came damp upon her face, bringing back
a little of its color; but she was unconscious of both wind and rain.
She went to a little breezy summer-house in a corner of the grounds;
and then she bethought herself that the gravel-paths were dry there,
and Jean might easily follow; so she retraced her steps hurriedly, and
pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, and ran across the little
bridge over the stream, to the park, where all the ground was still
thickly sprinkled with the autumn carpet of yellow leaves. The grass
was wet, the rain came spitefully in her face, but she did not mind.
When she was in the midst of the big clump of elms, where the leaves
were almost gone, she stopped and paused a moment to rest, with her
back against a tree. Jean would never follow her there; the wet grass
and universal dampness spreading round her made her safe. She opened
her fingers in which she had held it fast, the innocent-looking little
missive. With what a beating heart she opened it! Oh, how foolish,
foolish she had been to bind all her life, for ever and ever, and she
not eighteen! And here it was that she read her first love-letter--her
heart beating, but not with pleasure; her bosom heaving with terror,
and dismay, and pain.

“Margaret, my own darling, where have you gone from me? Why do you not
send me a word in charity? It is three months since you went away! Is
it possible that in all that time you have never thought of me, nor
thought how miserable I was, deprived of you and of all knowledge of
you? You have put my love to a tremendous test, though it is strong
enough to bear that, and a great deal more. But oh, my love, don’t
make me so unhappy! Shake me off, you cannot; make me forget, you
cannot. My love is too tender and too constant to fail; but you can
make me very wretched, Margaret, and that is what you are doing. I
have waited and waited, and looked every day for a letter--the merest
little scrap would have made me happy. I knew you could not write often
or much; but one word, surely I might have had one word. I am just
finishing the drawing you liked, the view of Earl’s-hall, hoping that,
notwithstanding all changes, you may like it still, and that it may
remind you of the happy time when we first knew each other, when nobody
thought of parting us. Your dear old father would never have parted
us; he would have preferred your happiness to everything. He would
rather have chosen a loving husband to take care of his little Peggy,
than all the world could give her. Your brother thinks otherwise,
my darling, and I don’t blame him; but I know what old Sir Ludovic
would have thought. And you will not let them turn you against me, my
sweetest Margaret? you will not give me up because I am poor? That is
a thing I would scarcely believe, if you said it with your own dear
lips. Margaret Leslie give up her betrothed husband because he had
nothing! I never would believe it. But I know your delicate sense of
honor, my own dear girl. You do not like to write to me in secret for
the sake of the people you are living among. I understand how you feel,
and you are right-- I know you are right; but, my sweet love, remember
that to please them you are killing me, and I don’t feel that I can
bear it much longer. The silence is becoming too much; it is making an
end of me. One word--one sweet loving word, my own Margaret, just to
keep me alive! I feel that I am getting desperate. If I do not have
one word from you I cannot answer for myself, even if it be for my own
destruction: if I do not hear of you, I must come and see you. I must
get sight of you. Three months without a word--without a message, is
enough to kill any one who loves as I do. I say to myself, she cannot
have forgotten me, she cannot have forsaken me, she is too true, too
faithful to her word; and then another day comes, and I get desperate.
Half a dozen times I have been ready to start off to go after you, to
watch about your house, only to get a glimpse of you. Write to me, my
Margaret, put me out of my misery--only one word--!”

Then, in a postscript, it was added that he had asked Bell to send this
for once, in order that her friends, her unkind friends, who wanted
to separate her from him, might not find out he had written, and that
he had sent the drawing--and that once more he begged for one word,
only one word in reply. It was written under two dates, one some weeks
before the other. Margaret stood with her back against the elm-tree,
and read it with a flatter of terror. Oh, what would she do if he were
to carry out his threat, if he were to come and watch about the house,
and look for her! Was that a thing that might happen any time, when she
was walking through the lanes, even here in her own little park under
her elm-trees? Might he come at any moment and do as he used to do at
Earl’s-hall? Oh! Margaret started from her shelter and clinched her
hands, and stamped her foot on the wet, yielding grass! Oh! should it
ever have to be gone through again, all that it made her blush so hotly
to think of? The blush that was usually so evanescent got fixed in hot
crimson of excitement on her cheek. If he came, it seemed to her that
it was she who must fly--anywhere--to the end of the world: but yet he
had a right to come, and some time he would come, and she would not be
able to say a word against it. “Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?”
cried Margaret to herself. Would he not let her even have her three
years to herself? He might wait, surely he might wait for three years!

But it would be impossible to give any idea of the confused muddle
of pain and helpless, instinctive resistance in her thoughts. A hot
flush of resentment against him for daring to use the name her father
had ever called her by--a kind of speechless fury and indignation,
burst out in the midst of all her other excitements. How dared he do
it, Rob Glen, who was nobody, who was not even a gentleman? And then
she covered her face with her hands, and cried out with horror and
bewilderment to think that this was her opinion of one to whom she
had pledged herself, to whom she would belong almost more than to her
father himself. And she had no one to go to, no one she could confide
in, no one whose help she could ask. And what help would avail her? She
must keep her word, she must fulfil her promise--at the end of three
years.

She never even contemplated the possibility of breaking her word; but
at present why could he not let her alone? Had she not begged him to
let her alone? She sank down by the foot of the elm, not even noting
the wet, and cried. Crying could do no good, she knew that; but yet
it relieved her mind. She was hemmed in and encompassed with danger.
Perhaps he might come, might appear suddenly in her path, with arms
ready to take hold of her, with those caresses which made her shrink,
even in imagination, with shame and pain. There had never been a
time--except the first moment when she was too broken-hearted, too
miserable to care what happened to her--that she had not shrunk from
his tenderness. And how could she bear it now? Terror came upon her
breathless and speechless; here even, under these very trees, he might
appear suddenly. A stifled shriek came out of her oppressed heart at
the thought. It seemed to her that she could never move anywhere with
safety, without a sense of terror again.

And then there were lesser but very apparent dangers. Jean would ask
her what Bell had said; she would ask, perhaps, to see Bell’s letter,
in which there was a sentence which was as bad as telling all. Bell
wrote: “I am sending to you, my dear Miss Margret, a note that Rob
Glen--him that you had to come so much to Earl’s-hall before my dear
old maister died--has asked me to send. Lothe, lothe was I to do it!
It may be something misbecoming the like of you to receive. But I will
send it this one time. For a young lady like you to be writing of
letters with a young gentleman of her own kind is a thing I would not
encourage; but Rob Glen is more a match for your maid, Miss Margret,
than he is for you. And it’s real impudent of him to ask me; but as he
says it’s something about one of his pictures, I do it for this one
time.” If Jean asked to see Bell’s letter, would not this betray her?
So that her path was surrounded by perils both great and small. After
a while, weary, wet, and draggled, with her dress clinging to her, and
her cloak dripping, she returned across the sodden grass. Jean, she
knew, would be busy for the moment with household cares, and it seemed
to Margaret that, if she lost no time, she might still make an attempt
to avert the fate that threatened. She went to her own room, holding
up as best she could her poor black dress with its spoiled crape, and,
still crimson and hot with her excitement, wrote two letters in the
time which she ordinarily took to arrange the preliminaries of one. She
wrote to Rob as follows, with a terseness of expression partly dictated
by the terror of him that had taken possession of her mind, partly by
the headstrong haste in which she wrote.

 “DEAR ROB,-- I could not write, and I cannot now, because I
 promised to Ludovic. You must not come; oh don’t come, if you have any
 pity for me! My life would be made miserable. How is it possible I
 could forget you? You don’t forget anything in such a short time--and
 how could I _ever_ forget? Oh, it has cost me too much! Please,
 please do not come. I am quite well, and you must not--indeed you must
 not--mind my not writing, for I promised Ludovic. Good-bye, dear Rob;
 I do not want to hurt you. I always knew that you were very kind; but
 you must not--indeed, indeed, you must not--think of coming to me
 here.”

Her wet dress, her spoiled crape, clung about her limbs; her wet shoes
were like two pools, in which her cold little feet were soaked. As is
usual at such moments of excitement, her head was burning but her feet
cold. Nevertheless, she wrote another little note to Bell, telling her
that she was quite right not to send any letters, and begging that if
she saw Mr. Randal Burnside she would ask him to speak to Mr. Glen.
Bell was to say that Margaret had told her to make this extraordinary
request--and Mr. Randal Burnside would understand. Nothing could be
more incoherent than this last letter, for Margaret did not half know
what she meant Randal to do or say; but he had promised to help her;
he had told her to call him whenever she wanted him. Was her poor
little head getting feverish and light? She went out again, stealing,
in her wet garments, once more down-stairs, leaving a dimness upon the
polished wood, and walked all the way through the gradually increasing
rain to the post-office in the village, where she put in her two
letters. She was aching all over, her head hot and light, her feet cold
and heavy, her crape all soaked and ruined, her hands too feeble to
hold up her dress, which clung about her ankles, and made her stumble
at every step, before she got home.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


The time that had passed so peacefully over Margaret, bringing so many
new experiences, new scenes, and enlarged acquaintance with her own
circumstances and advantages, had not gone with equal satisfaction over
Rob Glen. Margaret’s pledge to him--that pledge which she had given
so easily, and which his mother prized so deeply--had been nothing
but painful and shameful to him. Conscience has curious varieties in
different persons, even in persons so nearly related as mother and son.
Rob felt no sting in his moral consciousness from the fact that he had
led Margaret to commit herself in her moment of trouble, and had taken
advantage of the very abandonment of her grief to assume the position
of a lover, the mere fact of which gave him a hold over her which
nothing else could have given. To do him justice, he would have taken
the same position with any comely poor girl whom he had encountered in
equal distress; but the poor lass would probably have thought little
of it, whereas to Margaret’s more delicate nature there was all the
reality of an unbreakable bond in the embrace and kiss with which he
had taken possession of her, before she was aware. But Rob felt no
trouble in his conscience in this respect. It did not occur to him that
he had surprised her, and taken advantage of her sorrow and loneliness
and bewilderment; but in respect to the pledge which his mother
had with so little trouble got from her, his conscience did speak.
Margaret, it was true, had thought nothing of it; she had felt that all
was done already, that her fate was fixed and irrevocable, that she
could not go back--and what did her name on a piece of paper signify?
But here was where Rob’s honor, such as it was, came in; he hated that
piece of paper. He was deeply mortified by Margaret’s readiness to
consent to everything so long as she could get free from his mother and
himself. The written bond seemed to put him in a false position, to
lessen him in his own eyes. He would have nothing to say to it.

“Keep it yourself, if you like it, now that you have got it--it is none
of my doing,” he had said, throwing it from him. Mrs. Glen secured it
with a cry of dismay, as it was fluttering toward the fire.

“Ay, I’ll keep it,” she said; “and ye’ll be fain some day to come
questing to me for your bit o’ paper, as ye call it, that you never
would have had if your mother had been as thoughtless as yoursel’.”

“Mother!” he said, furious, “do you think I would hold a girl to her
written promise, if she did not want to keep her word?”

“I canna say what you would do,” said Mrs. Glen; “you’re just a great
gomerel, that’s what you are. Ye have mair confidence in her being in
love with ye, a lang leggit ne’er-do-weel, than in onything that’s
reasonable: but, Robbie, my man, love comes and love goes. You’re
no bad-looking, and you have the gift of the gab, which goes a lang
way--and maybe she’ll stick to ye, as you think, against a’ her friends
can say; but for me, I’ve aye a great confidence in what’s put down in
black and white, and I wouldna say but you would be fain to come to me
for my bit o’ paper, for a’ so muckle as you despise it now.”

“Never will I build my faith on such a foundation--never will I hold
Margaret to her bond!” cried Rob; but his mother locked the precious
bit of paper in the old secretary which stood in the parlor, with a
cynical disregard to his protestations.

“It’s there in the left-hand drawer, if anything should happen to me;
if you should ever want it, you’ll ken where to find it,” she said.

And several weeks went on without any impatience on the part of either
in respect to Margaret; even the conversation which Rob had with the
new Sir Ludovic, who summoned him curtly to give up all idea of his
sister, had rather encouraged than depressed him; for it was evident
that Margaret had showed no signs of yielding, and her brother was not
even her guardian, and had no power whatever over her. When he thus
ascertained from Sir Ludovic’s inadvertent admission that Margaret had
remained steadfast, Rob had metaphorically snapped his fingers at the
Baronet. He had been perfectly civil, but he had given Sir Ludovic to
understand that he cared little enough for his disapprobation. “If I
was in your position I should no doubt feel the same,” he had said with
fierce candor; “I should think that Margaret was about to throw herself
away; but she does not think so, which is the great matter.”

“She will think so when she comes to her senses--when she is fit to
form an opinion,” Sir Ludovic cried; and Rob had smilingly assured him
that he was contented to wait and put this to the proof. But after
that interview, when Earl’s-hall was dismantled and left vacant, and
everything belonging to the Leslies seemed about to disappear, and
not a word came out of the distance in which Margaret was, both Rob
and his mother began to be uneasy. Rob had not calculated upon any
correspondence; but yet he had felt that somehow or other she would
manage to communicate with him, and to find some means by which he
could communicate with her. Girls of Margaret’s condition do not submit
to entire separation as those of Jeanie’s do; and when day after day
passed, and week after week, it was natural that he should become
uneasy. Nor was the anxiety which he felt as a lover unshared by the
cooler spectator. Mrs. Glen began to ply him with questions, anxious,
fretful, scornful, derisive.

“Ony word to-day, Rob?” she would say; “I saw you gang out to meet
the lassie with the post.” “Dear, dear, Rob, I hope our bonnie young
lady may be well!” would be the burden of the next inquiry--and then
came sharper utterances: “Lord! if I was a lad like you, I wouldna
stick there waiting and waiting, but I would ken the reason.” “Do you
think that’s the way to court a lass, even if she be a lady? I would
give her no peace if it were me; I would let her see that I wasna
the one to play fast and loose with.” These repeated assaults were
followed by practical consequences quite as disagreeable. Instead of
the indulgence with which he had been for some time treated, the tacit
consent given to his do-nothingness, the patience of his mother, though
it went sorely against the grain, with an existence which produced no
profit and was of no use--he began to be once more the object of those
bitter criticisms and flying insults which she knew so well how to make
use of, to the exasperation of the compelled listener. “What it is to
be a man and a good scholar!” she would say. “I couldna sit hand-idle,
looking at other folk working--no! if it were to save my life. Eh, ay,
there’s a wonderful difference atween them that are born to earn their
living, and them that are content to live on their friends. I hope the
time will never come when that will be my lot. But no one of a’ my
friends would help me, that’s one thing, certain, though there are some
that have aye the luck to get somebody to toil and moil, while they
live pleasantly and gang lightly. It is the way of the world.”

Another time she would burst out with all the fervor of roused temper.
“Lord, man, how can ye sit there and see every creature in the house
working but yoursel’? I would sooner weed the turnips or frichten the
craws--but you’re of less use than a bairn of three years auld.”

Rob steeled himself as best he could against these blighting words. He
would stroll forth whistling by way of defiance and be absent the whole
day, absent at meal-times when his mother exacted punctuality, and
late of returning at night. It was a struggle of constant exasperation
between them. He had no money and no means of getting any, or he would
gladly have left the farm, where there was no longer even anything to
amuse him, anything to give him the semblance of a pursuit. To be sure,
he worked languidly at his drawings still, and resumed the interrupted
sketch of Earl’s-hall which had occupied so important a place in his
recent history.

To have before you the hope of being rich in three years, of being
able to enter another sphere and cast away from you all those vulgar
necessities of work which fill the lives of most people--to have ease
before you, happiness, social elevation, but only on the other side
of that long chasm of time, which for the moment you can see no way
of getting through--it is impossible to imagine a more tantalizing
position. Say that it is utterly mean and miserable of any man to fix
his entire hopes upon an elevation procured in such a way; but Rob was
not conscious of this. A rich wife, who was also pretty and young,
seemed to him a most satisfactory way of making a fortune. Had she been
old and ugly the case would have been different; but he had no more
hesitation about enriching himself by means of Margaret, than he had
felt in securing Margaret to himself in the incaution and prostration
of her grief. His conscience and his honor had in these particulars
nothing to say. But as day after day went on and he received nothing
from Margaret to prove his power over her, no stolen letter, no secret
assurance of her love and faithfulness, Rob’s mind became more and
more uneasy, and his thoughts more and more anxious. She was the
sheet-anchor of his safety, without which he must return into a chaos
all the more dark that it had been irradiated by such a hope.

And this suspense, while it made his position at home more and more
uncomfortable every day, did not improve his mental condition, as may
be easily supposed. He had entertained plans, before he had perceived
how easily he might step upward by aid of Margaret’s hand, of seeking
his fortune in London, and either by means of pen or pencil, or both
together, making out some kind of future for himself. But why should
he take this trouble, and expose himself to the rich man’s contumely,
etc., when, by-and-by, he might himself appear among the best (as
his ignorant fancy suggested), a patron of art instead of a feeble
professor of it--a fine amateur, with all the condescension toward
artists which it is in the power of the wealthy to show? This was an
ignoble thought, and he was partially conscious that it was so; but
there was a latent love of indolence in him which is always fostered
by such prospects of undeserved and unearned aggrandizement as now
flaunted before his eyes. Why should he work laboriously to gain a
little advancement for himself, when by mere patience and waiting he
might reach to such advancement as the most Herculean work of his could
not bring him to? And the suspense in which he was worked upon his mind
and led him on in this evil path. He could do nothing till he had heard
from her; and she would write, she must write, any day.

These motives altogether, and the want of money to do anything for
himself, and even the reproaches of his mother, who denounced him
for eating the bread of idleness without affording him any means to
attempt a better existence--which latter acted by hardening his heart
and making him feel a defiant satisfaction in thwarting her--all
drove him deeper and deeper into the slipshod habits of an unoccupied
life. He got up late, happy to escape a _tête-à-tête_ breakfast
with his mother, and her sneers and reproaches, at the cost of
Jenny’s integrity, who smuggled him in a much better breakfast than
his mother’s while the mistress was busy about her dairy or in her
poultry-yard; he dawdled over his sketches, doing a little dilettante
work as pleased him; then he would stroll out and perhaps walk across
the country to some other farm-house, where he was sure of a hospitable
invitation to share the family dinner, and an excellent reception
from the mother and daughters, to whom it was no trouble to make
himself agreeable; or he would go to the Manse, and resume the often
interrupted discussion about his “difficulties” with Dr. Burnside, who
was anxious to be “of use” to Rob, and to be instrumental, as he said,
in bringing him back to the right way.

These discussions amused both parties greatly--the Minister, as
affording him a means of bringing forth from their ancient armory those
polemical weapons in which every man who has ever attempted to wield
them, takes a secret pride--and the young sceptic, by reason of the
delightful sense of superiority with which he felt able to see through
his adversary’s weakness, and sense of power in being able to crush him
when he wished to do so. Often these controversies, too, which were
continually renewed and never-ending, got Rob a dinner, and saved him
from the domestic horrors of the farm. And by-and-by there happened
another accident which threw him still more into the way of mischief,
as happens so often to those who dally with temptation. He had made his
peace with Jeanie on that melancholy night after Margaret’s departure.
She had been angry; but she had been persuaded to hear his story--to
understand him, to see how it was that he had been “drawn into” the
present circumstances of his life--and finally to be sorry for him who
had gone astray because unaware that she was near, and because of poor
little Margaret’s need of comfort and solace.

Did not Jeanie know how he could console a poor girl in trouble with
that tongue of his, that would wile a bird from a tree? She had
forgiven him, and they had parted in melancholy kindness, recognizing
that fate, not any fault of theirs, had separated them. When the
household at Earl’s-hall was broken up, Jeanie had returned to her
father; and not long after she had, as was most natural, encountered
Rob in a lonely lane, where she was taking a melancholy evening walk.
What could be more natural? She could not sit and talk with the wives
at their doors, when the soft autumn twilight, so full of wistful
suggestion, dropped softly over the “laigh toun.” Jeanie was too
much in the midst of her own life, too much absorbed by the dramatic
uncertainties of fate, to be capable of that tranquil amusement. There
were not many people in the Kirkton who cared for the exercise of a
walk. The men might stray out a hundred yards beyond the village, on
one side or the other, with their evening pipe, but the women kept at
“the doors;” they had enough of exercise in the care of their families
and in “redding up the hoose.”

Thus Jeanie, even if she had wanted a companion, would have been
unlikely to find one; and indeed it was much more to her mind to stray
forth alone, very melancholy, with her head full of Rob, and all her
old anger and indignation softened into indulgence and pity. He was
made like that, could he help it? He could not see trouble anywhere
without doing what he could to console the sufferer. Jeanie knew this
well--and how tender a comforter he was. And poor Miss Margaret was so
young and so bonnie, and in such sore trouble; and oh, it was easy to
see, Jeanie thought to herself, how soft her heart was to _him_!
No wonder; he would wile a bird from the tree. They met while she
was in this softened mood; and Rob was one who never neglected the
good the gods provided of this sort. He in his turn had recourse to
Jeanie for consolation, throwing himself upon that feminine mercy and
sympathy which never had yet failed him. And Jeanie cried, and was
dismally flattered by his confidence in the midst of her suffering,
and told him all she had heard from Bell about Margaret’s movements,
and forgot herself, poor girl, in the intensity of fellow-feeling and
understanding.

Next time they met it was not by accident; and Rob, while growing more
and more anxious about the new love, which meant more than happiness
to him, which meant likewise fortune and an altogether elevated and
loftier life, took the comfort of the old love which was thus thrown
in his way, and found life much more tolerable from the fact that he
could talk over his distresses with Jeanie. He could confide to her
his mother’s taunts, and the hardness of his life at home, till Jeanie
almost felt that to see him married to Margaret would be an advantage
to herself, though she cried over it bitterly enough when she was
alone. But what did _she_ matter, after all, a poor lass? Jeanie
thought she could put up with anything to see him happy.

“A bonnie end your drawing and your painting and a’ your idleness is
coming to,” said Mrs. Glen, one November morning, while Rob obscured
all the light in the little parlor window, putting the last touches to
that drawing of Earl’s-hall. “A bonnie way of spending your life. Eh,
man! I would sooner sweep the house, or clean the rooms! What is the
good o’ a’ this fyking and splairging? and what is to be the end of
your bonnie miss that a’ this idle work was to win? I’ll warrant she
thinks she’s gotten clear off, and got a’ she wanted, and no need to do
a hand’s turn for you, in recompense of a’ that you have thrown away
upon her.”

“You have a very poor opinion of Margaret,” he said, “if you think so
little of her. You can scarcely want her for a daughter-in-law.”

“Me!” said Mrs. Glen; “am I wanting her? I hope I have mair sense than
to put my trust in daughters-in-law. ‘A gude green turf’s a fine gude
mither,’ that’s a’ the most of them are thinking. Na! she might gang
to--Jerusalem for me, if it wasna that her siller is the only way I can
think of to get you bread, ye weirdless lad. When you have no mother
to keep a roof over your head, what is to become of you? The Lord be
thanked there’s no a weirdless one in my family but yoursel’. Do I want
the lass or her siller--no me! But I’m real glad I’ve got _yon_
bond over her, for you and no for me.”

He frowned as he always did at the mention of this. “I am going to pack
up this drawing and send it to Miss Leslie,” he said.

“The picter! in a present!” Mrs. Glen stood for a moment taken by
surprise, and a little bewildered by the suddenness of the suggestion.
“I’m no that sure but what it’s a good notion,” she said, slowly; “them
that dinna ken might say it was throwing good money after bad; but I’m
no that sure. In a present? What might you get for that now if you were
to sell it? for there’s plenty folk, I hear, that are fuilish enough
to give good solid siller for a wheen scarts upon paper.” She had the
most exalted idea of her son’s skill, and secretly admired his work
with enthusiasm--with all the naïve appreciation of a “picture” which
is natural to the uninstructed but not dull understanding--though she
would not have betrayed her admiration for the world.

“What might I get for it?” said Rob, looking critically yet
complacently, with his head a little upon one side, at the finished
drawing. “Well--if I were known, if I had got a connection among the
picture-dealers, perhaps--let us say twenty pounds.”

“Twenty pound!” (she drew a long breath of awe and wonder); “and you’ll
go and give that light-headed lassie, in a present, a thing that might
bring you in twenty pound!”

Rob did not explain that the bringing in of twenty pounds was an
extremely problematical event. He got up with a little thrill of
excitement and easy superficial feeling. “I would give her,” he said,
“just to hear from her--just to have her back again--just to have her
hand in mine-- I would give her everything I have in the world!”

“Ay, ay, my bonnie man,” said his mother, impressed for the moment by
this little flourish of trumpets. But she added, “And it would not be
that hard to do it, if she’ll only return you back your compliment,
Rob, and do as muckle for you!”

This was how the sending of the picture “in a present” was decided
upon, as a touching, if dumb appeal, to Margaret’s recollection--not to
say as “laying her under an obligation,” which it would be necessary
to take some notice of; for both mother and son fully appreciated
this side of the question, which also forced itself at once upon Mrs.
Bellingham’s practical and sensible eyes. Mrs. Glen, for her part,
entertained a secret hope that Margaret would have sense enough to
see the necessity of giving not only thanks and renewed affection,
but perhaps something else “in a present,” which would make a not
inadequate balance to Rob’s gift. This was how things were managed by
all reasonable people, that neither side might be “under an obligation”
of too serious a character. But she was wise enough to say nothing
of this to her son, though it is just possible that the thought may
have glanced across his mind too. And about the letter which he sent
immediately afterward, through Bell, and which produced such results
for Margaret, Rob, on his side, said nothing at all.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


Bell had left Earl’s-hall when the house was dismantled, a melancholy
operation, which was proceeded with soon after the departure of the
ladies. Old Sir Ludovic’s library was sent over to Edinburgh, where
the greater part had been sold and dispersed. It was, in its way, a
valuable library, containing many rare editions and old works of price,
a costly taste, which the present Sir Ludovic did not share. Whatever
was done with the old house, his wife and he agreed that to get rid of
the books would be always an advantage. If they kept it, the long room
must be either divided into two, or at least arranged, for the comfort
of the family, in a manner impossible at present while it was blocked
up with shelves in every corner, and a succession of heavy bookcases.

In these innocent regions it was not necessary to keep servants in
charge of an empty house out of alarm for the safety of its contents.
Is it not the simple custom, even of householders in Edinburgh, secure
in the honesty of their population, to lock their doors for all
precaution, and leave emptiness to take care of itself? There was not
much fear for Earl’s-hall. If Aubrey Bellingham had known, indeed, that
the various “bits” of china that he admired, and the old dresses in the
“aumie” in the high room, and the bits of forlorn old tapestry that
wantoned in the wind, were thus left without any protection, it is very
possible that he might have organized a gang of æsthetic cracksmen to
seize upon those treasures; but they were not in danger from any one in
Fife.

Bell and John, or rather, to speak correctly, John and Bell, taking
with them their brown cow and all the chickens, removed into a cottage
which they had acquired some years before, on the road to the Kirkton,
with one or two fields attached to it, and a neat little barn, byre,
and poultry-yard. This had been for a long time past the object of
their hopes, their Land of Promise, to which they looked forward as
their recompense for years of long labor; and it was pleasant, there
could be no doubt, to establish the brown cow in the byre and see
her “like my leddy in her drawin’-room,” Bell said, making herself
comfortable in her new habitation. But it is a very different thing
to have only “a but and a ben,” when you have been virtual mistress
of a fine old house like Earl’s-hall; and although Bell had always
prided herself upon her willingness “to turn her hand to anything,”
it did not quite please her to do all the little sweepings and
dustings, and fulfil every duty of her little _ménage_, after
having Jeanie under her, to whom she could refer all the rougher
work which did not please herself. But above all, it was hard upon
Bell that she had no longer “the family” to occupy her thoughts, to
call forth her criticisms, and rouse her temper now and then, and
give her a never-failing subject of interest and animadversion. Bell
had a daughter of her own, who had been married as long as she could
remember, it appeared to the old woman, and who had no children to give
her mother a new hold upon life; and when she had finished her work
and sat down in the evening “outside the door,” but with a totally
different prospect from that she had been familiar with so long, Bell
would talk to any neighbor that chanced to pass that way, and paused to
cheer her up--about “my family” and even about “my ladies,” though they
were the same whom she had talked of a little while ago with nothing
but the definite article to distinguish them, and of whom she had never
been fond, though they had risen so much in her estimation now, and she
generally concluded the audience by a sudden relapse into crying on the
subject of “my Miss Margaret” which filled the Kirkton half with pity
for “the poor old body that had been so long in one place, and couldna
bide to be parted from them,” and half with indignation that she should
“think mair o’ a young lady that wasna a drap’s blood to her, than
of her ain.” Mrs. Dreghorn, Bell’s daughter, who kept the “grocery
shop” in the “laigh toun,” was strongly of this opinion. “My mother
thinks nothing o’ me in comparison with her Miss Margret--aye her
Miss Margret!” said this good woman; but as Mrs. Dreghorn was forty,
it may perhaps be allowed to be a different sentiment which Margaret
called forth, from that steady-going affection on equal, or nearly
equal terms, which subsisted between herself and her mother. Bell could
not speak of her child without a moistening of the eyes. “My bonnie
bairn!” she was never tired of talking of her, and of the letters
Margaret wrote to her; Bell was perhaps the only one of Margaret’s
correspondents of whom she was not at all afraid.

Bell, however, was very much bewildered by the hasty, incoherent little
epistle which she received in reply to hers, which had contained the
letter of Rob Glen. “If you see Mr. Randal Burnside, will you ask him
to speak to Mr. Glen? Say I told you to ask him, dear Bell; oh, be
sure I said you were to ask him! and Mr. Randal will understand.”
What did this mean? Bell grew frightened, and for her part could not
understand. The first step in the matter had been strange enough: that
Rob Glen should have ventured to forward a letter to Miss Margaret,
was of itself a strange and inexplicable fact. But it might be, as he
said, about his picture; it might be about some price which old Sir
Ludovic had offered. In such circumstances writing might be necessary,
and he might not like, perhaps, to write to “the ladies themselves.”
But Margaret’s message made the mystery more mysterious still. It
confounded Bell so much that she said nothing about it to John, but
wrote with much trouble and pain another letter, begging her young lady
“not to trouble her bonnie head about young men; but to leave them to
themselves, as being another kind of God’s creatures, innocent enough
in their way, but not the best of company for bonnie young ladies like
her darling.”

When, however, Bell had entered this protest, she immediately bent
her mind to the due carrying out of Margaret’s request. Randal had
adopted the habit of coming over from Edinburgh in the end of the week
and staying till Monday, a praiseworthy habit which his mother much
encouraged, and of which she too spoke with tears in her eyes (so weak
are women!) as proving her son to be the very best son in the world,
and the very prop and staff of old age to “the doctor and me.” It was
true enough that he was the delight and support of the old couple in
the Manse, of whom one was as yet not particularly old. And if Randal
was fond of golf, and arranged “a foursome” for all the Saturdays of
his visits, upon the Links which were within reach, in what respect did
that affect the matter? A man may be a “keen golfer,” let us hope, and
a very good son as well.

“Is there ony news at the Kirkton?” Bell said, when John came in,
throwing off an old furred coat that had been old Sir Ludovic’s; for
John’s bones were getting cranky with rheumatism, and his blood thin,
as happens to every man. The fur glistened as he came into the warm
room with his breath, which the cold without had fixed like beads upon
every little hair. John put it away carefully on its peg, and came
“into” the fire, and put himself into his big wooden arm-chair before
he replied--

“Naething of consequence; there’s a change o’ the ministry looked for
afore lang, but that’s been maistly aye the case as lang as I can mind.
Either they’re gaun out, or they’re coming in; they’re a’ much alike as
far as I can see.”

“I wouldna say that,” said Bell, who was more of a partisan than her
husband. “There’s our ain side--and there’s the tither side, and our
ain’s muckle the best. It’s them I would stand by through thick and
thin-- I’m nane o’ your indifferent masses,” said the old woman; “but it
wasna politics I was thinking of. Did you see naebody that you and me
kens?”

“Naebody that you and me kens? I saw _a’_ body that you and me
kens,” said John, taking a very large mouthful of the vowel, which he
pronounced aw--“first Katie and her man, just in their ordinar; and
syne John Robertson at his door, complaining that he never could find
Jeanie; and syne John Armstrong at the smiddy, very strang, shoeing ane
of Sir Claude’s horses that’s to hunt the morn; and syne--”

“Touts, I dinna want a dictionary,” said Bell, probably meaning
directory; “naebody mair particular than John here and John there? as
if I was wanting a list o’ a’ the Johns! Weel I wat there’s plenty o’
ye, young and auld, and great and sma’.”

“Is’t the wives you’re so keen about? I can tell ye naething o’ the
women; there were few about the doors at this time o’ the night, and
them just taupies, that would have been mair in their place, getting
ready their man’s supper, or putting their bairns to their beds.”

“Eh, man John, but ye’ve awfu’ little invention,” said Bell. “If it had
been me that had been to the Kirkton, I would have heard some story or
other to divert you with that were biding at hame. But ye canna get
mair out of a man than Providence has put intill him,” she said, with a
sigh of resignation; then added, as by a sudden thought, “You wouldna
see ony of the Manse family about?”

“Ay did I,” said John, provoked to hear any doubt thrown upon his
capacity of seeing the Manse family. “I saw the gig trundling up the
bit little avenue with Mr. Randal and his little portmanteau that I
could have carried in ae hand. But Robert’s just a useless creature
that will have out a horse for naething, sooner than up with a bit
small affair upon his shoulder and carry ’t. It’s bad for the horse and
it’s worse for the man, to let him go on in such weirdless ways.”

“So Randal Burnside’s back again?” said Bell. She did not pay much
attention to John’s further animadversions upon Robert, who was the
man-of-all-work at the Manse. Having at last got at the scrap of
information she wanted, she got up and bestirred herself about the
supper, and listened to just as much as interested her and no more. In
this way at his own fireside, without even Jeanie to disturb him, and
no bell to break the thread of his discourse, John loved to talk.

The next day was Saturday, which Bell allowed to pass without any
attempt to execute her commission; but when Sunday came, after the
service was over, the sermon ended, and the kirk “skailing,” in all
decency and good order, she seized her opportunity. “Will you speak a
word, Mr. Randal?” she said, lingering behind the rest. “Na, no afore
a’ the folk; but if you’ll come round to me at poor Sir Ludovic’s tomb
yonder, where I’m gaun to see if ony weeding’s wanted.”

Randal gave a hasty assent. His heart began to beat, in sympathy,
perhaps, with Margaret’s heart, which had beat so wildly when she gave
the commission now about to be communicated to him. He got free of
the people, doubly tiresome at this moment, who insisted on shaking
hands with the Minister’s son as part of the performance, “Eh, what a
sermon the Doctor’s given us!” the kind women said. Perhaps Randal had
not been so much impressed by his father’s eloquence; but he was very
eager to make an end of these weekly salutations and congratulations.
He hurried back to Bell, with such an increase and quickening of all
the currents of his blood, that the old woman looked with surprise
upon his glorified countenance. “I never thought he was such a bonnie
lad,” Bell said to herself. As for Randal, he tried very hard, but
with no success, to persuade himself that what she wanted with him
must be some trifling business of her own. But his heart travelled on
to Margaret, and to some chance message from her, with a determination
which he could not resist.

“Well, Bell, what is it?” he said.

“I am real obliged to you, Mr. Randal. It’s no my business, and it’s a
thing I canna approve of, that maun be said to begin with. Mr. Randal,
I was writing to my young lady, to Miss Margret--”

“Yes?” said Randal, a little breathless, and impatient of the suspense.

“Ay, just that--and ye’ll no guess what happened. Rob Glen, that’s him
that is Mrs. Glen’s son at Earl’s-lee farm, a lad that was to be a
minister--you’ll ken him by name at least--Rob Glen?”

“Yes, I know him;” Randal felt as if she had thrown a deluge of cold
water upon him; his very heart was chilled. “Oh yes,” he said, coldly,
“I know Rob Glen.”

“Well, sir, what does that lad do but come to me with a bit letter
in his hand. ‘When ye’re writing to Miss Margret, will ye send her
that for me?’ he said. You may think how I glowered at him. ‘For Miss
Margret!’ I said. He gave me a kind of fierce look, and ‘Just for Miss
Margret,’ he says. You might have laid me on the floor with a puff o’
your breath. Miss Margret! so young as she is, far ower young to get
letters from ony man, far less a lad like Rob Glen.”

“But why are you telling me this?” said Randal, half angry, half
miserable. “I hope you will not tell it to any one else.”

“I will tell it to no one else, Mr. Randal; I’m no one to talk. I
have to tell you because I’m bidden to tell you. When I looked like
that at the lad, he said it was about a picture that he had drawn of
auld Earl’s-ha’. And weel I minded the drawing of that picture, and
the work my bonnie lady made about it. Well, I sent the letter, and
yesterday morning, nae farther gane, I got twa-three lines from her, a’
blotted and blurred, poor lamb. I’m thinking the ladies maun have been
at her--her that never had a hard word from man or woman! ‘Bell,’ she
says, ‘if you see Mr. Randal Burnside, will you tell him to speak to
Mr. Glen? Say it was me that bade ye, and then he’ll ken fine what I
mean.’ I hope ye do ken what she means, Mr. Randal, far it’s mair than
I do; and I canna approve for a young lady, and such a young thing as
Miss Margret, ony such troke with young men.”

Randal’s face had been almost as changeable as Margaret’s while these
words floated on. He reddened, and paled, and brightened, and was
overshadowed, one change following another like the clouds on the sky.
Finally, the last result was a mixture of confusion and bewilderment,
with eager interest, which it is difficult to describe. “I fear I don’t
understand at all, Bell,” he cried. “Was that all? Was there no more
than that?”

“No another word; but a’ blurred and blotted, as if she had been in an
awfu’ hurry. And ye canna understand? She said you would ken fine.”

“I think I understand a little,” Randal said, ruefully. He had asked
her to call upon him whenever there was anything in which she wanted
help, and here it was evident she wanted help; but of what kind? Was
he to help her lover, or to discourage him? But of this Margaret gave
no intimation. The office in itself was embarrassing enough, and what
man ever received a more mysterious commission? She had appealed to him
for aid, and who so willing to give it? But what kind of aid it was
she wanted he could not tell. “I know in a way,” he said, “I know she
wants me to do something, but what? Never mind, I will do my best to
find out; and when you write to her, Bell, my good woman, will you tell
her--”

“Na, na,” said Bell, briskly, “no a word. I’ve had enough to do with
that kind of thing. I’ll carry no message, nor I’ll take charge o’ no
letters; na, na, lads are a destruction to everything. And no a lad
even that might be evened to the like of her. Na, na, Mr. Randal, it
might be the maist innocent message in the world; I’m no blaming you,
but I canna undertake no more.”

“And I think you are quite right,” he said, confusedly; “but--what did
she want him to do?” He went away in great perplexity and excitement,
which it was very difficult to shut up within his own bosom. To speak
to Glen--that was his commission; but with what object? To help
Margaret, poor little Margaret caught in the toils, and who had no one
to help her; but what did she want him to do?

Randal went out after afternoon church was over, the “second diet of
worship,” as his father called it. It was not a promising evening for
a walk. The short November day was closing in; the foggy atmosphere
was heavy and chill--the clouds so low that they seemed within the
reach of his hand. Hedge-rows and trees were all coated with a chill
dew which soon would whiten with the night’s frost; everything was wet
underfoot. Even in the “laigh toun” few of the people were “about the
doors.” Gleams of ruddy fire-light showed through the cottage windows,
often over a moving mass of heads, of different sizes, the children
sitting about “reading their books” as became a Sabbath evening, and
the elders on either side of the fire carrying on solemn “cracks,”
each individual furnishing a remark in slow succession. In-doors there
was something drowsy and Sabbatical in the air; but there was nothing
drowsy or comfortable out-of-doors. Randal walked toward the farm in
the grim gray winterly twilight, wondering whether he could make any
plausible errand to the house, or how he was to make sure of seeing
Rob. But Fortune favored him in this respect, as indeed Fortune could
scarcely help favoring any one who, wanting Rob Glen, walked in the
twilight toward Earl’s-lee. When he was within a field or two of the
farm-house. Randal became aware of two figures in the shadow of a
hedge-row, and of a murmur of voices. He divined that it was a “lad and
lass.” Lads and lasses are nowhere more common spectacles, “courting”
nowhere a more clearly recognized fact than in Fife. Randal took care
not to look at them or disturb them; and by-and-by he saw a little
figure detach itself out of the shadows and run across the field. Who
could it be? Their fervor of love-making must be warm indeed to enable
them to bear the miseries of this “drear-nighted November.” He went on
with a certain sympathy and a little sigh. Randal did not feel as if
there could ever be any occasion for “courting” on his part. He was
vaguely excited; but sadness, more than any other feeling, filled his
mind; if he saw Rob before him, what was he to say to him? “Ah, Glen!”
he exclaimed, “is that you?” while yet this question was fresh in his
mind.

Rob came forward from the shadow with evident discomfiture. He
recognized the new-comer sooner than Randal knew him. Was he, then,
the man who had been whispering behind the hedge, from whose side that
little female figure, not, he thought, unknown to Randal either, had
flitted so hurriedly away? Hot indignation rose in Randal’s veins.

“Can it be you?” he said, with a sudden mingling of displeasure and
contempt with the surprise in his voice.

“Not a pleasant evening for a walk,” said Rob. He was uneasy too,
but he did not see what he could do better than talk, and forestall
if possible any objection the other might seem disposed to make. “I
dropped something in the ditch,” he said, accusing as he excused
himself, “but it is evidently too dark to hope to find it now.”

“You are still staying here?” said Randal, still more contemptuous of
the lie, and feeling a secret desire, which almost mastered him, to
push his companion into the chill ooze under the hedge-row. “Though the
country,” he added, “has not the same attraction as when we met last.”

“No,” said Rob, with a slight falter, “that is true; but necessity has
no law. I am here because-- I have nothing to do elsewhere. I am not so
lucky as you, to be able to hold by and follow out the trade to which I
have been bred.”

“That is a misfortune, certainly.”

“Yes, it is a misfortune--and such a misfortune in my case as you can
scarcely realize. I have disappointed my friends and put them out of
temper. There could be no harm in abandoning the law, but there is
great harm in abandoning the Church.”

“There is always harm, I suppose,” said Randal, “in throwing up the
career in which our training can tell. Church or law, it does not so
much matter; there is always disappointment in such a drawing back.”

“Perhaps that is true; but most in the first, and most of all in my
class. Yes,” said Rob, suddenly, “you may say there is less attraction
now. The last night we met, it was just before the Leslies left
Earl’s-hall.”

“I remember the night,” said Randal, with some irrestrainable
bitterness in his tone.

“I am sure you do. I felt it in your tone to-night. You disapproved of
me then; and now,” said Rob, with an air almost of derision, and he
laughed a little nervous, self-conscious laugh.

“I don’t pretend to any right either of approval or disapproval,” said
Randal. Anger was rising hotter and hotter within him; but what was it
she wanted him to do?

“No right; but people don’t wait for that,” said Rob. He was not
comfortable nor happy about his good-fortune. He had got Margaret’s
note, and it had stung him deeply. And here was one who could
communicate with her, though he could not--who belonged to her sphere,
which he did not. “We all approve or disapprove by instinct, whatever
right we may have. If you had felt more sympathy with me, I might have
found a friend in you,” Rob went on, after a pause. “When two people,
so different in external circumstances as Margaret and myself, love
each other, a mutual friend is of the greatest advantage to both.”

The blood rushed to Randal’s face in the darkness. He felt the veins
fill and throb upon his forehead, and fury took possession of his
heart. He could have seized the fellow by the throat who thus wantonly
and without necessity had introduced Margaret’s name. But then--who
could tell?--this office of mutual friend might be the very thing she
had intended him to take.

“I cannot see what use I could be--”

“You could be of the greatest use. You could find out for me, without
suspicion, a hundred things I want to know; or, if you fell under
the suspicion of being after Margaret yourself,” said Rob, with the
unconscious vulgarity which he had never been able to get over, “there
would be no harm done. They would not turn _you_ to the door for
it. You see our correspondence has to be of a very limited character
till she is of age.”

“Do you think,” said Randal, hotly, “that to carry on such a
correspondence at all is right or honorable without the sanction of
the friends? No creature so young” (he kept to words as impersonal as
possible, not feeling able to use a pronoun to indicate Margaret, whose
sacred name ought never to have been breathed) “can understand what
such a correspondence is. Glen, since you ask me, as a man of honor you
ought not to do it. I am sure you ought not to do it.”

“It is all very well talking,” said Rob, “but what am I to do? Lose
sight of her altogether--for three long years?”

“Is that the time fixed?” said Randal, with dismay.

“When she comes of age. Then, whatever happens, I have sufficient faith
that all will go merry as a marriage-bell. But in the mean time--” Rob
said, half-bragging, half-mournfully: he was in reality in the lowest
depths of discouragement; but the last person to whom he would have
confided this was Randal Burnside.

Randal was struck with a sudden thought. “Look here,” he said, somewhat
hoarsely, “I have given you my opinion, which I have no right to do;
but you may make some use of me in return, if you like. Look here,
Glen; I’ll get you something to do in my uncle’s office in Edinburgh,
which will be better than hanging on here, if you’ll have patience and
wait till the time you mention, and take my advice.”

Was this what she wanted him to do? The effort was a great one; for
Randal felt a loathing grow over him for the under-bred fellow to whom
such celestial good-fortune and unexampled happiness had fallen. To
annoy and harass himself with the constant sight of him in order to
leave her free and unmolested, it was a sacrifice of which Margaret
would never know the full difficulty. Was this what she wanted him to
do?




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


Aubrey Bellingham was in the hall at the Grange when Margaret, all wet
and weary, came in from that journey to the post-office. She was very
anxious to get to the shelter of her own room, not only because she was
feeling ill and wretched, but for the more immediately important reason
that she was feverishly anxious to get rid of her wet dress before Jean
should see her; for Margaret knew that Jean would more easily forgive a
slight moral backsliding than her dishevelled appearance, blown about
by the wind and soaked by the rain, and not without traces of the mud.
She was ashamed of her own plight, though she had been too tired and
had felt too miserable the latter half of the road, to keep up the
struggle with the elements. Her feet made a splashing noise upon the
tiles as she came in, and were cold as two pieces of lead; so were
the hands, with one of which she had tried to keep up her umbrella,
till it was blown inside out, when she gave up the struggle. A faint
glimmer of anger rose in her when she saw Aubrey, all trim and dry and
_point devise_ as he always was, evidently waiting for her with
the intention of speaking to her in the hall.

“How wet you are!” he said; “I could not believe my eyes when I saw you
out in this rain. Could nobody have gone to the village instead of you?
Why did you not send me?”

“Oh, _you_, Mr. Aubrey? It would have been worse for you than
me,” said Margaret. “_I_ never thought much of the weather; but
I cannot wait now to talk. I must run and change my dress. Jean,” she
added, ruefully looking at her spoiled trimmings, “will be angry about
the crape.”

“I hope I managed rightly,” he said, following her to the stair. “I
hope I did what you wanted?”

Margaret gazed at him with blank, wide-open eyes. What had he done? She
had forgotten the silent appeal she had made to him in her pain. Aubrey
was a man of sense, and he perceived that to insist upon this good
office which he had in reality done out of pure good-nature, without
any thought of interest, was more likely to hurt than to help him now;
so he added hurriedly, “I did not see how wet you are; I cannot detain
you an instant longer. Why didn’t you send me? You will be ill after
this.”

“Oh! I never take cold,” said Margaret; but how glad she was to
struggle up-stairs, holding up the clinging skirts of her wet dress.
Fortunately, Mrs. Bellingham, who had a thorough instinct of comfort,
kept fires in all the bedrooms, so that Margaret had the glimmer of a
little brightness to console her in the bodily misery which for the
moment prevailed over all the distresses of her mind. She took off
her wet clothing with great haste, and with an impulse to hide it,
to keep it from Jean’s keen eyes; and when she “was fit to be seen,”
she sat down to think how she could explain that hurried errand to
Jean. The post-bag went from the Grange twice a day, in a regular
and orderly manner, as it ought. What need had she to rush through
the rain with her letters? But this problem proved too much for poor
Margaret’s brain: her head kept getting hotter and hotter; her feet,
notwithstanding the fire, would not get warm; her bosom seemed bound
as by an iron chain; she could not get her breath. What could be
the matter with her? Jean had said she had a cold on the previous
night; she supposed it must be that--a bad cold; how stupid and how
wretched she felt! She sank back into the corner of the sofa which
was opposite the fire; it was very lazy of her to do so, she knew,
in broad daylight, when there was all the day’s work to do. Margaret
planned to herself that she would do it to-morrow--her practising and
her French exercises, and all the little studies with which, under Mrs.
Bellingham’s energetic guidance, she was making up for her neglected
education. She would do them to-morrow--yes, to-morrow; but was not
to-morrow Sunday, when you cannot work? Was not night coming, in which
you could do no work? Was not-- Here Margaret seemed to break off with
a start, and found that she had been dozing, dozing in the middle of
the day, in broad daylight! It seemed impossible. She woke wretched, as
young and healthy creatures do after such a feverish sleep. How could
anybody sleep in the day? and how, of all wonders, was it that Margaret
herself had slept in the day? It seemed something incredible; but
before she knew what was coming, in those troubled wanderings, she had
dropped again into another snatch of uncanny sleep. She did not hear
the luncheon bell, nor if she had heard it would she have had energy
enough to go down-stairs, or, indeed, to get up from her seat; and when
Miss Leslie, coming up, hurried into the room, in wonder and alarm, to
call her, Margaret was found propped up in the corner of the sofa, all
flushed and confused, her pretty hair falling out of its fastenings,
her hands hot and feverish. She woke with a start when her sister
opened the door. “Oh! where am I? where am I?” she cried.

After this there was nothing but alarm in the house. The doctor
was sent for, and Miss Grace, who had cried herself almost into
hysterics, and could do nothing but kiss her little sister, and ask,
in a melancholy voice, “Are you better--do you think you are a little
better, darling Margaret?” was turned out and sent away, while Jean
hastily took the place of nurse. If Jean had a fault as a nurse, it
was that she required so many preparations. She assured Margaret it
was nothing at all but a feverish cold, and that it would be better
to-morrow; but she provisioned the room, as John had provisioned old
Sir Ludovic’s, as for a siege of six weeks at least, and took her place
in a dressing-gown and large cap by the bedside, like a woman who
had made up her mind to hold out to the end. Margaret, however, was
too ill to be alarmed by these precautions; she was too ill to mind
anything except the pain which had her by the throat, and checked her
breathing and filled her veins with fire. It was not a bad cold only,
but that sublimation and intensification of cold which carries death
and destruction under the name of congestion of the lungs. She was
very ill for a week, during which time Mrs. Bellingham kept heroically
by her bedside, resolute to keep out Grace and to fight the malady in
the correct and enlightened way. Aubrey had to search through all the
adjoining town, from shop to shop, for a thermometer good enough to
satisfy his aunt, which she received from his hands in all the mingled
solemnity and familiarity of her nursing-dress.

“I am sure the Red Cross has nothing half so imposing,” he said, in
his flippant way; “you would strike an army with awe.” He himself
had but a dull time of it down-stairs. He remained till Margaret was
out of danger--very kindly solicitous--but when the crisis was over
he withdrew. “You see I can make no progress now,” he said, on the
occasion of an interview which Mrs. Bellingham awarded him, when the
good news was proclaimed; “but perhaps a week or two hence I may come
in with the chicken and champagne, and help to amuse the convalescent.
One may make a great deal of running with a convalescent, Aunt Jean.”

“I wonder how you can talk so lightly, when we have just escaped such a
danger,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “Not only Margaret, poor dear, but the
property would have gone to quite a distant branch of the family, and
even the savings of the minority. I can’t bear to think what might have
happened. But you can do nothing now, it is true; you may as well go
and return when you will be of use. But mind and go to the very best
shop you can find in town, and get me a really good thermometer. I put
no faith in anything that is bought in the country.” And that night,
for the first time, Mrs. Bellingham permitted herself to go to bed.

It would be needless to follow Margaret through all the feverish
thoughts that assailed her, or even those more coherent ones that came
after the first stupor of illness. She recovered the power of thought
now and then by intervals, as the fever abated, and then, no doubt,
soft, dreamy musings, half dismal, half pleasant, of a pretty grave
somewhere which would cut all the knots that bound her, and make all
things clear, came into her mind. If she were to die, how little would
it matter whether Jean was angry, whether Ludovic scolded! They would
all forgive her, even if she had been silly. And though poor Rob, to
whom her heart melted, as the one person whom she felt sure (besides
Bell) to be very fond of her, would, no doubt, “break his heart” over
that grave of hers, it would, she thought, be less hard for him, than
to find out how little pleasure she took in the bond between them, and
to bear the brunt of that struggle which she had so little heart to
encounter--the struggle with Ludovic and Jean. And then another thing:
what would it matter if Aubrey were right after all, and it was really
Effie, _Effie_ that Randal Burnside cared about? They would be
happy, no doubt; and they would sometimes give a sigh to poor little
Margaret, and tell each other that they never thought she would live
long.

This wrung Margaret’s heart with an exquisite pity for her poor young
tender self, cut down like a flower. And as the fever recurred, she
would lose herself in wonderings where they would bury her; if they
would take her down to the Kirkton, and lay her with her father in
the breezy mound where she would be able to see her own hills, and
hear, on stormy nights, the moaning of the sea? And then it would
seem to Margaret that she was being rolled and jolted through a
vast darkness going toward that last home of the Leslies--dead at
eighteen, but yet feeling and seeing everything, and half pleased with
the universal pity. Over all these wanderings of sick and feverish
fancy Jean presided in her big cap, the shadow of which against the
wall--sometimes rigidly steady, with a steadiness that only Jean could
possess, sometimes nodding so that Margaret trembled, feeling that
nothing could survive so great a downfall--ran through them all. Jean,
in her big cap, was very tender to the girl. She was very quiet in her
movements, and, notwithstanding the nodding of the cap, very vigilant,
never forgetting an hour or dose.

The strangest week it was!--the time sometimes looking not an hour,
since she had begun to doze in the corner of the sofa, sometimes
looking like a year, during which she had been wandering through
dreariest wilds of confusion and pain. When she came to herself at
last, without any choking, without any suffering, but utterly weak and
passive, Margaret did not quite know whether she was glad that she was
better, or disappointed to feel that everything outside her was just of
as much consequence as ever; that she would have to marry Rob Glen, and
submit to Jean’s scolding, and wonder if it was true about Randal and
Effie--just the same.

But she did not recover in the speedy and satisfactory way which was
desired. When she got what her anxious attendants called almost well,
and got up and with an effort got herself dressed, it was astonishing
to find how few wishes she had. She did not want anything. She did not
care about going down-stairs, did not want to get out, and was quite
content to be let alone in her corner of the sofa, reading sometimes,
still oftener doing nothing at all. At this point of her convalescence
it was that Jean had retired, leaving the remainder of the nursing
to Grace, who, with a great grievance at her heart on the score of
being shut out of the sick-room, took the place now offered her with
enthusiasm, and did her best to administer the wines and jellies, the
beef-tea, the concentrated nourishment of all kinds which were wanted
to make her charge strong again. One day, however, Jean, returning
from some outside occupation, found the sick-room in a grievous state
of agitation. Margaret had fainted, for no particular cause that any
one knew; and Grace and Miss Parker stood weeping over her, scarcely
capable of doing anything but weep.

“Her mother, bless her, was just like that,” Miss Parker was saying. “I
often thought afterward if we had taken her abroad for the winter it
might have been the saving of her. The doctor said so, but no one would
believe it. Oh, if we had only taken her abroad!”

This was said in the intervals of fanning Margaret, who lay extended
on the sofa as pale as marble, while Grace held salts to her nose.
Margaret came to herself as her sister came into the room, with a
shiver and long sigh, and Jean, rushing in, cleared away the two
incapable persons and resumed the charge of affairs. But, like a
wise woman, she took a hint even from her inferiors. When she had
restored poor Margaret and made all quiet and comfortable round her,
and ordained that she was not to talk or be talked to, Jean’s heart
throbbed with terror. Not only did Margaret herself seem in renewed
danger, but there was the estate to be considered, which would go away
to a distant cousin, and do no one (as Mrs. Bellingham said) any good.
When the doctor came, she consulted him with great anxiety on the
subject. “Yes,” the doctor said; “no doubt it would be very good for
her to go to Mentone for the winter.” He would not say she was in any
particular danger now, but delicate, very delicate; all the Sedleys had
been delicate, and it must not be forgotten that her mother died young.
All this made Jean tremble. The girl herself, though she had been
almost a stranger to her a little while ago, had got hold of her fussy
but kind nature. She had nursed Margaret successfully through a serious
illness; was she to submit to have her snatched out of her hands now
for no reason at all, with no disease to justify the catastrophe? Jean
said No stoutly. She would not submit.

“My dear, I am going to take you to Mentone,” she said. “I hope you
will like it. It is very pretty, you know, and all that. There are a
great many invalids; but, poor things, they can’t help being invalids.
I am very sorry we sha’n’t enjoy Christmas at the Court; that is a
thing that would have done you good. But, to be sure, as we are still
wearing deep mourning, we could only have gone to the family parties,
which are not very amusing. Grace, you may as well begin your packing;
you always take such a time. I am going to take Margaret to Mentone.”

“Oh!” cried Grace, ready to cry, “dearest Jean! then the doctor thought
that dear Margaret--”

“The doctor thought nothing about Margaret,” cried Mrs. Bellingham.
“The doctor thought what I told him. I said Mentone would do the child
good after her illness, and all that has happened, and he agreed, of
course. That is all they can do. They tell you to go if they think you
will like it. If they think you will not like it, they recommend you to
stay at home. I’ll take Aubrey with me: he will always amuse Margaret.”

“And, dearest Margaret, how good it is of dear Jean to settle it all!
Do you think you will like--”

“Like! of course she will like it,” said Jean. “We shall start in a
week; so you had better speak to Steward about your packing. A day will
do for Margaret and me.”

“Mentone? that is Italy!” said pale Margaret, with a little glow rising
upon her face; and then she put her pale little hands together, which
were as small as a child’s, and said to herself, inaudibly, “That is
_away_!”

She got a little better from that hour. All the circumstances of her
bondage, all the risk of discovery, the chance of agitating letters,
such as those which had been the cause of the exposure that had ended
in her illness, had come rushing back upon her memory. And it was a
sudden intimation of some letters that had been put aside for her that
had caused her faint, overpowering her, in her weakness, with sudden
agitation. Letters! What might they be? She dared not ask for them.
She dared not say anything about them in case of questions which she
could not answer. He might be coming, for aught she knew, to haunt the
neighborhood of the house, to watch for her, to waylay her, to claim
and take possession of her, whether she liked or not. It is not to be
described what a soft gush of ease and relief and quiet came over her,
when she realized that she was now to be taken _away_. Away! out
of reach of all painful visitors, where it would be too far for him
to come after her, where she would be safe. Margaret mended from that
hour. And when, by means of Miss Parker, of whom she was not afraid,
she managed that evening, while Jean and Grace were at dinner, to get
possession of the letters, and found one from Bell giving an account
of the execution of her commission, and another from Randal, her heart
threw off its burden, although Randal’s letter filled her with strange
yet pleasant excitement. She was not frightened by it as she had been
by Rob’s letter, but felt, on the contrary, a great thrill of eagerness
and wonder. Would he say anything about Effie? This, however, was all
Randal said:

 “DEAR MARGARET,-- If I may call my old playfellow so, I got
 your message, and thank you most cordially for it. I understood it,
 though I did not know what you wanted me to do. But I will tell you
 what I did. I saw him: he was anxious and complaining. I advised him
 to have patience, not to attempt to write, which would probably put
 you in a false position, and offered him a place in my uncle’s office.
 He has accepted, and he will take my advice. If this is not what you
 meant, let me know by one word. I thought it was for the best; but if
 silence is disagreeable to you, it is I that am to be blamed, not any
 one else. Thank you, with all my heart, for understanding that I would
 serve you, if there was any need, with my life. Yours ever,

                                                     “RANDAL BURNSIDE.”

How her heart bounded! She seemed to have found some one who would set
things right, who would manage those disturbed affairs for her. It
did not occur to her that she had no right to put such a charge upon
Randal, or make him her agent. That idea never entered her mind. How
well he had divined what she wanted! The way in which he told her of it
was very curt and brief, it is true, and she felt disposed to wonder
why he had put it in such few words; but it relieved her of all her
fears. It was in Randal’s hands now. Randal would not let _him_
come to worry her. Randal would save her from all this trouble. Jean
heard her laugh, as she was coming up-stairs--heard her laugh, the
little monkey! and Mrs. Bellingham was so glad that she could not be
angry, though had this outburst happened twenty-four hours sooner, she
probably would not have taken her away.

And she was quite equal to the journey when the day came, though she
was still weak and white. One incident occurred, however, before they
started, which very much surprised Margaret. She was in the wainscot
parlor, alone, reclining among her cushions, when Mr. St. John came in.
The elder ladies were out, and Margaret had been left alone. Perhaps it
was Miss Grace who had suggested this to the gentle Anglican. He came
in and sat down beside her, with eyes enlarged by emotion and anxiety;
and after he had told her how much sympathy her illness had brought
out, and how many people had asked for her, and how fervently they had
all thought of her when the prayer for sick persons came in the Litany,
Mr. St. John startled Margaret beyond measure by suddenly telling her
that he loved her, and asking if she would be his wife. “Me?” she
cried, with wondering, questioning eyes, in profoundest bewilderment
and surprise, and with her usual Scotch indifference to her pronouns.
She grew paler than ever with horror. “Oh, it cannot be me!” she said,
shaking her head. But this gave her a shock of surprise and pain. She
did not want to hurt anybody’s feelings. Could it be anything in her
that made this painful thing happen over again?




CHAPTER XXXIX.


Aubrey joined the travellers in London. It was very self-denying of
him, very kind, to give up all the festivities at the Court, and all
his many Christmas invitations, in order to accompany and take care
of a party of ladies on a journey to Mentone, his aunt said; “I will
not say that it is not a sacrifice to myself to give up Christmas at
the Court. I don’t grudge the sacrifice, my dear, for your sake, and
for the sake of your health; but I will not say it is nothing and does
not matter, as Grace does. Don’t you believe, either, that it does
not matter to Grace. She likes her amusement just as well as the rest
of us, though, to be sure, our mourning would make a difference. But
Aubrey is a young man, and has as many engagements as he can set his
face to; and we are nothing but a couple of old aunts, and you a bit of
a little girl. Yet when he can be of use he never hesitates. You ought
to be very grateful, Margaret, for all he is doing for you.”

“And so I am,” said Margaret: it was very kind. And though Aubrey, when
he arrived, scouted the notion, and declared that he would go anywhere
to get rid of the festivities of the Court, this did not make any
impression upon the ladies, who praised his self-denial to the echo.
As for Margaret, there could be no doubt that his presence made the
expedition very much more agreeable to her. Jean and Grace were very
kind; but Jean was a little overpowering in her manifold arrangements,
and Grace’s tenderness did not always fall in with the girl’s humor,
who was apt to be impatient now and then. Margaret got better day by
day; and there was so great a load lifted from her mind that she was
able to enjoy everything as she had never done before. No chance now
that she should be followed and pursued by any attendant of whom she
would be afraid. Every step they took made that more impossible. She
seemed to get out of the range of Rob Glen altogether when she crossed
the Channel, not to say that Randal had already made her deliverance
certain.

She dwelt upon this action of Randal in many a musing, with mingled
admiration and gratitude. How clever it was of him to divine what she
wanted to be done! The confusion of the moment had been partly to blame
for the incoherent message she had sent; but it was not altogether
the confusion of the moment. There had been, besides, a reluctance to
mention the name of Rob Glen to Randal, a desire to imply, rather than
to state distinctly, what she wanted him to do. The vagueness was at
least partly voluntary, and partly she did not know what she wanted to
be done. She wanted something, some one to interpose who should know
better than herself, who should be able to see what was most expedient.
What claim had she on Randal that he should have done so much for her?
And what inspiration could it be that made him divine so exactly what
she wanted--exactly what she wanted!--not to hurt Rob’s feelings? Oh
no, very far from that. If she had not been unwilling to hurt Rob’s
feelings, it would never have been in his power to give her so much
alarm as he had done.

Margaret sat and thought over all this as they crossed the bit of sea
between Dover and Calais. Jean and Grace had betaken themselves to
a deck cabin, where they lay each on a sofa, scarcely venturing to
congratulate each other that the sea was not quite so bad as usual, but
prepared for every emergency, and Aubrey had gone to the other end to
smoke a cigar. Margaret, in her excitement, had scorned the deck cabin,
which both her sisters protested had been secured entirely for her. She
was, though she did not as yet know it, one of those happy people who
are excited, not prostrated, by the sea. She felt that she would like
to walk about the decks with Aubrey; but all that had been permitted
to her was to sit in the most sheltered corner, done up in shawls and
wraps, so as to lessen all chances of taking cold. And after a while,
when the first thrill of excitement calmed down, and she began to get
accustomed to her own emotion, and the fact that she had left England,
and the extraordinary certainty that these were the shores of France to
which she was going, the extreme isolation of the moment drove Margaret
back, as is so often the case, upon her most private thoughts. The
exhilaration of her being, which was partly convalescence and partly
change, she attributed entirely to the fact that, for the moment, she
was free--delivered from the danger that had seemed about to overwhelm
her.

This consciousness seemed to triumph over everything--her grief which
was still so recent, her illness, all the ills her flesh was heir to.
And as Margaret’s mind was growing amidst all this agitation, it was
now, at this moment, in the middle of the Channel, that the thought
suddenly occurred to her: if she had been a sensible girl--if she had
not been a very foolish girl, how much better it would have been to
pay no heed to Rob Glen’s feelings--to cut at once this bond which
was all his making, which had been woven between them without any
wish of hers--which she had always rebelled against, except those
first nights when she had scarcely been aware what he was saying, or
what doing--when she had received his declarations of love almost
without hearing them, and allowed his kisses on her cheek with no
more perception of their meaning than that he wanted to be “kind” and
comfort her. There had been no lover’s interview between them in which
Margaret had not--a little--shrank from him. She had held herself away
as far as she could from his embracing arm. She had averted her cheek
as much as possible; but it had been impossible for her to fling away
from him, to deliver herself altogether at the cost of Rob’s feelings.
This she had not strength of mind to do. But now she perceived that it
would have been better had she done it--had she said plain No, when he
declared his love with all the hyperbole of passion.

Margaret knew she did not love him, certainly not in that way; but how
she had shrunk from saying it--from letting him feel that she did not
care for him as he cared for her! How it would have hurt his feelings!
Rather put up with some little excess of affection for herself, she
thought, than humiliate him in this way! And now was the first time
when she really asked herself, Would it not have been better to say
the truth? The question flushed Margaret’s cheek with crimson, then
sent back all her blood in a sudden flood upon her heart. She did not
venture to contemplate the possibility of having done this--of having
actually said to him, “It is a mistake; you are very--very kind, but I
am not in love with you.”

The mere idea of it appalled her. How cruel it would have been! How
he would have “thought shame!” How his feelings would have been hurt!
But still--but still--perhaps it would have been better. She had just
become pale and chill all over with the horrible possibility of having
given such pain as this, when Aubrey’s voice startled her. He was
saying, anxiously,

“I am afraid you are ill. I am afraid you are feeling cold. Won’t you
go into the cabin and lie down? We shall be there in half an hour.”

“Oh no!” said Margaret, her paleness disappearing in another sudden
blush. The days of her blushing--her changes of countenance, which were
like the coming and going of the shadows--had come back. “Oh no! I am
not cold; and I am not ill. I like it. But I--was thinking--”

“I wonder if I might offer you a penny for your thoughts? I dare say
they are worth a great deal more than that. Would you like to have
mine? They are not worth the half of a penny. I was thinking what poor
creatures we all are--how unamiable we are on board of a steamboat (the
most of us). Look what pictures of misery these people are! It is not
rough, but they cannot believe that it may not be rough any moment:
when there is a pitch--there--like that!” said Aubrey, himself looking
a little queer. “They think, now it is coming! All their strength of
mind, all their philosophy, if they have any, cannot resist one heave
of that green water. Ugh--here’s another!” he cried, relapsing out of
his fine moral tone into abject sensationalism. Margaret laughed as
merrily, with her eyes dancing, as if there was no Rob Glen in the
world.

“But I don’t care,” she cried. “I like it: when it seems to go from
under your feet, and then bounds like a greyhound.”

“Don’t speak of it,” he said, faintly. “And why is it you are so
superior to the rest of us? Not because you are so much brighter, and
purer, and better--”

“Oh no!” cried Margaret, interrupting him, shaking her head and
smiling. “Oh no! for I am not that--”

“You should not contradict people who are older than yourself--it is
not good manners,” he said, solemnly. “You are all that, I allow; but
that is not the reason. It is simply because of some little physical
peculiarity, some excellence of digestion, or so forth, if one may
venture to use such a word: not because it is _you_--which
I should think quite a natural and proper reason. No, for I have
seen a creature as fair and as good almost as you are, Margaret
(our travellers’ names are Margaret and Aubrey, you know--that’s
understood), I have seen a beautiful young girl, everything that was
sweet and charming, lying dishevelled, speechless, a prey to nameless
horrors. Ah! that was a bad one!” said the young man, unable to conceal
that he himself had become extremely pale.

“Oh! I am very sorry for her,” said Margaret, forgetting the compliment
in the interest of the story. “Who was she, Mr. Aubrey?” and she turned
her sympathetic eyes full upon him, which was almost more than, in his
present state of sensation, he could bear; but, happily, Calais was
within a stone’s-throw; and that is a circumstance which steels the
suffering to endurance. He got up, saying, “I think I must look after
the aunts.”

Margaret looked after him with a warm gush of sympathy. Who was this
beautiful young girl who had been so ill? Was poor Aubrey, too, “in
love?” She felt disposed to laugh a little, as is natural in the
circumstances; for does not every one laugh when a love-story is
suddenly produced? But she was deeply interested, and at once felt a
kindred sympathy and affectionate interest opening up in her bosom.
Poor Aubrey! Had anything happened, she wondered, to the beautiful
young girl who was everything that was sweet and charming? Was not that
enough to make everybody take an interest in her at once?

Margaret got no immediate satisfaction, however, about that beautiful
young girl, but she often thought of her; and when she saw any shadow
come over Aubrey’s face, she immediately set it down to the credit of
this anonymous young lady. For the moment, however, she was herself
carried away by the excitement of being “abroad.” But, alas! is not
the very first of all sensations “abroad” a bewildering sense that it
is just the same world as at home, and that “foreigners” are nothing
else than men and women very much like the rest of us? For the first
hour Margaret was in a kind of wonderland. The new, unusual sound
of the language, the different looks of the people, delighted her,
and she could understand what they were saying; though both Jean and
Grace declared it to be such bad French that they never attempted to
understand. “Is it very bad French?” she whispered to Aubrey; “perhaps
that is why I know what they mean.” And he gave her a comical look
which made Margaret inarticulate with suppressed laughter. Thus the
two young people became sworn allies, and understood each other. But,
after the first hour, the old familiar lines of the world she had been
previously acquainted with came back to Margaret. The people, though
they were dressed differently and spoke French, were the same kind of
men and women as she had always known. Indeed, the old women in their
white caps looked as if they had just come from Fife.

“That is just what they were at home,” she said again to Aubrey; “the
old wives--those that never mind the fashions--even Bell!” There were
some of the old women on the French roads, and at the stations, so like
Bell that the sight of them brought tears to Margaret’s eyes.

“Who is Bell? I have so often heard of Bell. Bell has been put forward
again and again, till I am afraid of her. I am sure you are afraid of
her; and Aunt Jean, too, though she will not say so.”

“Oh, not me!” cried Margaret, uncertain as ever about her pronouns;
“Bell is--she is just _Bell_. She was our house-keeper; she was
everything to me; she brought me up. I never recollect any one else.
Afraid of Bell--oh! no, no. But I would not like Bell to know,” said
Margaret, slowly, “if I did anything that was bad--anything that was
_real_ wrong--”

“You never will,” said Aubrey, “so it doesn’t matter; but I should call
that being afraid of her. Now there are some people whom you only go to
when you _have_ done something that is _real wrong_.”

“Are there? I don’t know. It was Bell that brought me up, more than any
one else. She is living now near--on the way to the Kirkton. But you
will not take any interest in that.”

“I take the greatest interest,” said Aubrey; and it so chanced that
this conversation, broken off in the railway, was renewed again when
they were settled at Mentone, where again old women were to be found
like Bell. They passed rapidly through Paris, and settled at once in
the place that was supposed to be good for Margaret. But by the time
they reached the sunny Riviera Margaret had thrown off all trace of
indisposition, and evidently wanted nothing but air and sunshine,
and a little petting, like other flowers. They had a little villa on
the edge of that brightest sea; and there along a path bordered by a
hedge of aloes, and with a great stone-pine at the end, its solemn
dome of foliage and its great column of trunk relieved against the
Mediterranean blue, the two young people took a great many walks
together.

One of these evenings specially stamped itself on their memories;
the sky was flushed rose-red with the sunset, and all the sounds in
the air were soft, as summer only makes them in England: there was a
tinkle going on close at hand from a convent-bell, and there was a soft
sound of voices from the beach--voices, of which the inflections, the
accents, were all dramatic, though they could not tell a word that was
said. It was the enchanted hour, the time of natural magic and poetry;
and Aubrey, though he was not at all poetical, felt it a little more
than he could have believed possible. He had found out how pretty
Margaret was--how much prettier, day by day. It was not that there was
any striking beauty in her that conquered with a glance; but every
morning when she appeared down-stairs, with her color coming and going,
with her brown eyes full of such eagerness and lovely wonder, “she
grew upon you,” Aubrey said. He had thought her very tolerable even at
first--no particular drawback to her income and her estate. But by this
time he took a great deal of interest in her. She was never the same;
always changing from serious to gay, from red to white, from quiet to
eagerness. He was interested, never wearied. He had not really found it
much of a sacrifice to accompany the ladies, after all. The place was
a bore; but then, fortunately, Margaret no longer required to be kept
at this place; there was a reasonable hope of moving on to places in
which there was more amusement; and Margaret was really amusing, very
amusing, as girls go. There was a variety about her which kept your
interest alive.

“Did you ever do anything that was real wrong?” said Margaret,
dreamily, looking out toward the horizon where the rose of the sky met
the blue of the sea. She was rather thinking aloud, than realizing
the scope of what she said; and it is doubtful whether the girl ever
realized the difference between a girl and a man--the very different
sense that _real wrong_ might have to him, or the equivocal
meaning which such words might bear to a listener of so much more
experience in the world.

He laughed, startling Margaret from her dreamy musing. “Alas!” he said,
“a great many times, I am afraid. Did you? But I don’t suppose you know
what wrong means.”

“Yes,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “I am not in fun; once: and
it seems as if you never can get better of it. I don’t know if it is
any excuse that I did it because I did not like to hurt a person’s
feelings.”

“What was it?” he said, lightly; “a little fib--a statement that was
not quite justified by fact? These are the angelical errors that count
for wrong among creatures like you.”

“Then what do you call wrong, if that is not wrong? Aubrey, it was more
wicked than that: but I am not going to tell you what it was. I have
been dreadfully sorry ever since I did it. But I feel a little easier,
a little happier now.”

“Perhaps you broke a bit of old Dresden?” he said, “or lost that Venice
point Aunt Jean showed me. I should never forgive you for such sins,
Margaret. No wonder you are reluctant to confess them. You are happier
because nobody could be unhappy in this delicious evening, walking as
we are. It is only in such a scene that I could look with complacency
upon the heartless destroyer of china, the careless guardian of lace--”

“You are only laughing at me,” she said; “I think you are always
laughing. Don’t you think there is anything in the world more serious
than china and lace?”

“Very few things, Margaret. Few things so dear, which you will allow is
very serious, and few things so easily injured.”

“But oh, Aubrey! I think that is almost wicked, to love a thing that
cannot love you again, as much as--more than things that have life.”

“I don’t do that, Margaret.” He looked at her so earnestly that she was
almost abashed, yet, fearing nothing, went on, moved by the flowing
of her own newly awakened thoughts. “You and Jean, you talk as if a
little bit of a cup or a plate--what we call pigs in Fife--was of more
importance-- What are you laughing at, Aubrey?--because I said pigs? But
it is the common word.”

“My dear little Margaret,” he said, “don’t make me laugh, with your
pigs. Lecture me. Let us go and sit under the pine and look out upon
the sea, and do you preach me a little sermon about real right and real
wrong. I am just in the mood to profit by it now.”

“You are doing what papa used to do,” said Margaret, half laughing,
half crying; “he would always make a fool of me. And how should I
lecture you? You must know much better than I do.”

“I ought, I suppose,” he said. The pine stood on a little point, one of
those innumerable fairy headlands that line that lovely coast, the sea
lapping softly, three parts round, the foot of the cliff on which it
holds its place. The air was more fresh there than anywhere else. The
pine held high its clump of big branches and sharp evergreen needles
high over their heads: behind them was a bosquet of shrubs which almost
hid them as they sat together. The blue sea thus softly whispering
below upon the beach, the delicate rose that tinted the sky, the great
pine isolated and splendid, how could they recall to Margaret the dark
wood, all worn with the winds, the mossy knoll, the big elbows of the
silver fir, the moan of the Northern sea with which she had been so
familiar? The one scene, though made up of almost the same details,
bore no more resemblance to the other than Aubrey Bellingham did to Rob
Glen: and where could a greater difference be?

“Yes,” he said; “so far as wrong is concerned, I should suppose so. I
must be better up in that than you are; but, all the same, I should
like you to teach me. Let it be about the right; there you are strong.
What must I do to cease to be a useless dilettante--as you say I am?”

“Me? I never said so, Aubrey--not such a word. I never said such a
word.”

“But you meant it. Tell me, Margaret: if I can cease to be a dilettante
and a trifling person, what would you have me be?”

He bent toward her, looking into her eyes, and half put out his hand to
take hers; and Margaret, startled, saw once more what it had so much
bewildered her to see in Mr. St. John, the same look which she knew in
the eyes of Rob Glen. What an amount of experience she was acquiring,
ever renewed and extended! This frightened her greatly. She drew away
from him upon the garden-seat, and kept her hands clasped firmly
together, and beyond the reach of any other hand.

“I do not want you to be anything,” she said, “you are very well as you
are. You might think upon--perhaps you might think upon--the common
folk a little more. When you came to Earl’s-hall we did not know what
you meant; and sometimes even now Jean and you-- I know most about the
common folk, they are just as interesting as the others.”

“Ah,” he said, laughing, but a little discomfited, “you mean the poor.
Must I take to visiting the poor?”

“I suppose you call them the poor, in England,” said Margaret,
doubtfully, “but you know a great deal better than I do, Aubrey; for
one thing, you are older. I think perhaps Jean will think I ought to go
in now.”

“Certainly, I am a great deal older; but not so very much, either. I
am twenty-five--just about the right age to go with eighteen. Yes,
tell me a little more. I shall recollect about--what do you call them?
the common people--not the poor. Go on, my moralist; I am ready to be
taught.”

“I think I hear Grace calling,” she said, rising to her feet. “I am
sure Jean will think the wind is getting cold, and that I should have
gone in before.”

“The wind is as soft as summer,” he said, with a little excitement,
“and the evening as sweet as--yourself. Wait a little, only a few
minutes; there is something I wish so much to say to you.”

“Oh, Mr. Aubrey!” she said, frightened. “Do not say it! I would rather
you did not say it. Once I did very wrong, not wishing to hurt a
person’s feelings; but that is what I must never do any more.”

“Are you sure,” he said, rising too, with a sudden flush of anger,
“that you know what I was going to say?”

Margaret paused, with an alarmed look at him, the color wavering in her
cheeks, her eyes very anxious, her lips a little apart.

“What I was going to say,” he continued, pointedly, “was, that I fear
I must soon leave the villa, and the fine weather, and your delightful
society. This kind of holiday life cannot endure forever.”

“Oh!” She uttered her favorite exclamation with a look of distress and,
he thought, disappointment. This was balm to Aubrey’s heart.

“Yes, I am sorry, too. But what can be done when duty calls? My office
is getting clamorous, and there is nothing for a man to do here. Now,
perhaps, we had better carry out your intention, and go back to Aunt
Jean.”

And they walked through the garden back to the house, with scarcely a
word spoken between them. One way or the other way, both were equally
uncomfortable modes of managing such a crisis. She had hurt his
feelings! It was better than all that followed the episode of Rob Glen;
but still it was not a pleasant way.




CHAPTER XL.


And it was true that the very next morning Aubrey declared his
intention of going away. “My chief finds that the office cannot
get on without me,” he said, pretending to have had letters by the
morning mail; while Margaret sat, not daring to look up, feeling more
guilty than she could say. Her consciousness that she was to blame
even carried the day over her determined belief in the sincerity and
absolute truthfulness of every one about her. Twenty-four hours since
she would have accepted Aubrey’s statement as a matter-of-fact which
left no room for doubt or comment. But now she could not but feel that
she had something to do with it, that she had hurt his feelings, which
made Margaret feel very guilty and wretched. He had been so kind to
them, to her and her sisters, and sacrificed a great many pleasant
things to come with them: and this was all her gratitude! She did not
like to lift her eyes. When Jean and Grace both rushed into wailing and
lamentations, she said nothing. She tried to swallow her tea, though it
nearly choked her, but she could not speak.

As for Mrs. Bellingham, she said not half so much to her nephew then as
she did after breakfast, when she had him to herself.

“You can’t be going to do anything so foolish, Aubrey, my dear Aubrey!”
she said; “why, you are making progress day by day! If ever a girl was
delighted with a young man, and pleased to be with him, and happy in
his society, Margaret is that girl. And you know how anxious I am, and
how it would please everybody at the Court to see you provided for.”

“You are very kind, Aunt Jean,” he said, with a flush of angry color.
“I know you mean nothing that is not amiable and kind; but I think, all
the same, I might be provided for in some other way.”

Jean, though she was so strong-minded, felt very much disposed to cry
at this failure of all her wishes.

“I don’t understand you at all,” she said; “I am sure there was nothing
meant that was the least disagreeable to your feelings. Margaret,
though I say it that perhaps shouldn’t, is as nice a girl as you will
find anywhere; and though her education has been neglected, nobody need
be ashamed of her. And you seemed to be quite pleased; and I am sure
she is really fond of you.”

“Yes, that is one of your Scotticisms,” he said; “you mean that as long
as I am serviceable, and don’t ask too much, Margaret likes me well
enough. I don’t say anything against that--”

This time Mrs. Bellingham really did put up her handkerchief to her
eyes. “I never expected to hear of my Scotticisms from you, Aubrey,”
she said. “Of course I am Scotch--there is no doubt about it--and I
would never be one to deny my country. But I did think that, after
spending by far the greater part of my life in England, I might have
been free of any such abuse as that.”

“My dear Aunt Jean, do you think I meant abuse? I mean that Margaret
likes me well enough as a friend--which you call being fond of me. I
shouldn’t wonder if she would herself say, with all the innocence in
the world, that she was fond of me, knowing perfectly what she means;
but then I should put a different meaning on such words. She will never
be fond of me in my sense; and so, as I have still a little pride left
(though you might not think so), it is clear that I cannot be provided
for, as you say, in that way.”

“What is the matter with you, Aubrey? Has anything happened between
Margaret and you. Have you said anything, or has she said anything?”

Aubrey saw he had gone too far, and had almost committed himself;
and he did not want any one to think that a mere _ingénue_, a
bread-and-butter girl like Margaret, had repulsed or discouraged so
accomplished a gentleman as himself. He said, with a little laugh,
“My dear aunt, what are you thinking of? That has not been at all
necessary. Margaret and I are the best friends in the world. I am ‘very
fond of her,’ as you say. She is a charming little girl. But your
scheme will not do; that is all. Was not I quite willing to be provided
for? But it will never come to anything. Oh yes, I suppose the chief
might be smoothed down; there is nothing so very important going on at
the office: but what is the good of it? Margaret and I will stroll up
and down the beach, and listen to the band, and all that, and be very
fond of each other; but we will never get a step farther than we are
now.”

“I know what it is,” said Mrs. Bellingham--“you are bored; that is the
whole business; and I don’t wonder. To see all the poor things about,
with their sick faces, is enough to make anybody ill. And Margaret, the
little monkey, after giving us such a fright, is just as well as I am.
Some one was speaking to me the other day about the villa. I dare say
we could get it off our hands quite easily; and in that case, if we go
on to some place which is more amusing, will you change your mind--or,
let us say, reconsider your decision?”

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, and then he remembered
his interests like a young man of sense. “Well, perhaps I will
reconsider my decision,” he said.

After this the party went on into Italy, and saw a great many things
that filled Margaret with delight and wonder. She expanded like a
flower, as the spring came on--that Italian spring which is as youth to
whosoever can receive it with an unburdened soul. And to Margaret, who
already possessed youth, it was not only delight, but mental growth and
expansion of the whole being. Aubrey left them for a time, but returned
again to escort them home in that month of May which is the climax of
all the splendors of spring. The interval between his going and his
coming back did a great deal more for Aubrey than any attentions of his
could have done. They were in Florence when he left them, where Mrs.
Bellingham and Miss Leslie had already found a number of acquaintances,
and where soon they were deep in afternoon teas and social evenings, as
if they had been at home.

Margaret had no education which fitted her for the delights of this
life, and she could not run about alone in the solemn Italian city
as she had done at home; and she missed her companion, who, though
he was not clever nor particularly well-informed, understood how to
set afloat those half-thoughtful, half-bantering conversations which
youth loves, and in which young talkers can soar to heights of wise or
foolish speculation, or drop into nonsense, at their pleasure: an art
in which, it is needless to say, neither Mrs. Jean nor Miss Grace was
skilled; and now and then he had an _accès_ of enthusiasm equally
beyond the range of the ladies, who walked about, guide-book in hand,
and insisted that nothing should be omitted. “Margaret, Margaret! you
are running away without seeing half of the pictures. I am only at No.
310,” Mrs. Bellingham would say. But when Aubrey was there, the girl
was emancipated, and allowed to gaze her soul away upon what she liked
and what he liked. How she missed him! She was quite ready, as he said,
to declare with fervor that she was “very fond” of Aubrey, and welcomed
him when he came back with genuine pleasure. “Oh, how glad I am you are
to be with us now till we get home!” she said.

Aubrey looked at her with a glance which was half angry and half
affectionate. “You are a little deceiver,” he said; “you like me to be
with you only so long as I am useful. I am a kind of courier; that is
all the good of me.”

“Oh no,” cried Margaret, “I cannot tell you how much I missed you. It
is because you are so kind.”

“It is because of me, not because of you,” he said, with a frown and a
laugh; “and so it always will be, women are so”--he was going to say
selfish; but when he caught Margaret’s eyes puckered with emotion and
wistfulness, looking anxiously at him, he stopped short and changed
the word--“ridiculous,” he added, not knowing what she meant, and
feeling a little, just a very little, prick in his heart that it was
so, and that Margaret only found him agreeable for his good qualities,
and not from any inclination toward him within her own being. Her eager
reception of him, however, woke a sentiment in him which was not unlike
love; he was pleased by the brightness of her welcome: and to be unable
to make a girl fall in love with you, a simple girl of eighteen who has
never seen anybody, after months of companionship--a girl, too, whom
to marry would be to provide for yourself for life--this, there can be
no doubt, is humbling to a man of accomplishment and experience. So
Aubrey made up his mind to another effort, with more determination, if
with less lively hope. He would not quarrel with her if in the long-run
she still refused to fall in love with him, but he began to hope that
a different result might be attained. He liked Margaret, and Margaret
liked him, without any disguise; and, after all, there was no telling:
perhaps perseverance on his part, and the habit of referring to him
perpetually, and getting a great deal of her pleasure through him,
might bring about a satisfactory state of things at the last.

They reached London in the beginning of June, when everything looked
at its brightest. What a change Margaret felt in herself! She was no
longer the little girl who had been allowed to grow up in all the
simplicity of a country maiden, untaught and unsophisticated, at
Earl’s-hall. She had seen a great many things and places, though that
mere fact does not make very much difference. She had learned to think;
and there had grown about her that little subtle atmosphere of personal
experience which can rarely be acquired in the little world of home.
It was not possible for her to identify herself with her old sisters
as she might have done with her mother. From the first they had been
separate existences, detached from her, though in close incidental
conjunction, and so kind to her. She was grateful to them, and loved
them as she could, but she was very conscious of the isolations of her
existence; and how could she help the little criticisms, the little
laughters, the amusement which their “ways” could afford only to one
whose life was not involved in theirs, and whose duty to them was less
than the most sacred? Such detachedness has much to do with the energy
of personal existence. Margaret had begun to feel herself, and to know
what her life was, during the hours of solitude that were inevitable;
and through the long period of partial companionship in which she went
and came, docile and quiet in the train of Jean and Grace, without
feeling herself ever identified with them, her own being was slowly
developing within her. She had begun to see what the position was that
she was born to occupy, and to foresee dimly duties which she had no
natural guide to instruct her in, no natural representative to do for
her, but which would have to be done otherwise than as Jean and Grace
would bid.

These grave foreshadowings of the future came, however, but by glimpses
upon Margaret. She had no desire to think of the future: over it there
was a shadow which she did not know how to meet. She held it as much as
she could at arm’s-length, still with a dumb faith in circumstances,
in something which might still happen to deliver her. So entirely had
she succeeded in this, that the alarming image of Rob Glen, which every
time she thought of him had more and more terrors for her, had not
even troubled her in any vision for weeks before the party recrossed
the Channel on their way home. But on that passage, as they came back,
Margaret suddenly remembered the thought that had occurred to her there
as she went away. It was a breezy day, and the sea was not smooth: Jean
and Grace lay on sofas in the deck cabin, indifferent to Margaret, and
everything else in earth and heaven. Aubrey, not much more strong in
this particular, had taken himself and his miseries out of the way.
Margaret, in happy exemption, sat alone. But this was not a happy
exemption, as it happened; for suddenly there leaped into her mind a
recollection of the question she had asked herself first, in this very
steamboat, on this very ocean, five months ago-- Would it not have been
better to disregard Rob Glen’s feelings and tell him the truth? “Yes,”
she said now to herself, firmly, though with pale lips, and a shadow
immediately fell over the brightness: the time was coming when her
fortitude would be put to the test, when she must meet him and decide
what was to be the course of her life--and every tick of her watch,
every throb of her pulse, every bound of the boat, was bringing her
nearer--nearer to this terrible moment, and to Rob Glen.

They stopped in London for a few days to “do some shopping”--perennial
necessity which haunts every mortal--and “to see the exhibitions.” This
was a thing which Mrs. Bellingham considered absolutely necessary. She
had not failed to go through the Royal Academy, with her catalogue
in her hand, marking the pictures she liked, once in the last twenty
years. Nobody in society could avoid doing this. Whether you cared for
them or not, it was indispensable that you should see them--they are
always a topic of conversation afterward; and Mrs. Bellingham had seen
a dull party redeemed, quite redeemed, by a little knowledge of the
exhibitions.

“Oh yes, dearest Margaret, we must stay; dear Jean never misses the
pictures, and you and dear Aubrey must see them. Dearest Jean says that
all young people should see them; certainly they are very beautiful and
humanizing, and will do us all a great deal of good. We are to start
as soon as we have had our luncheon. I should have liked to go in the
morning, but dear Jean likes to see the people as well as the pictures;
and, darling Margaret, you that have never seen anything, that will be
so good for you too.”

“Not your hat, Margaret, your _bonnet_!” said Mrs. Bellingham; “we
are in town: it is not like Florence or Paris, or any of those foreign
places where we were visitors. Here you must understand that we are
in _town_. Next year we will come up for the season, when we are
out of mourning (or almost out of mourning), and you must be presented
and all that; but there is nothing to be done in crape; it would be
altogether out of the question, and a disrespect to papa. But, such as
it is, put on your bonnet, my dear Margaret. We shall see nobody--but
we may see a good many people; and you must never forget that you are
in _town_ now.”

The bonnet was put on accordingly, and the ladies went to the Academy,
with Aubrey in attendance as usual. Perhaps he did not like it so well
as in foreign places, for they were a little travel-worn, and their
crape not so fresh as it ought to be; but still the faithful Aubrey
was faithful, and went. He knew that if anybody saw him (and of course
somebody would see him), it would be supposed that he had expectations
from the old aunt in her imperfect crape; or the truth would creep out
about Margaret, and he would be forgiven everything when it was known
that it was an heiress upon whom he was in attendance. Such facts as
these change the external aspect of affairs.

It was a bright day, warm and cheerful, and the Academy, of course,
was crowded. Aubrey did not consider that it was his duty to follow
Mrs. Bellingham while she made her conscientious round; but he kept
close by Margaret, who was half frightened by the jostling and crowd,
and could not see anything, and had a vague sense of dread she could
not tell why. “I am afraid you have a headache,” Aubrey said; but
Margaret did not feel that it would be honest to take refuge in that
common safeguard of a headache. It was something more like a heartache
that she had, though she could not tell why. She was standing looking
round her vaguely enough, tired and waiting for a seat, in the great
room, in a corner not so crowded as the rest, and Aubrey was coming up
hurriedly to tell her of a sudden vacancy on one of the benches, when
he was arrested by the sudden change in her countenance. Her eyes,
which had been wandering vaguely over a prospect which afforded her but
little interest, suddenly cleared and kindled; her face, which had been
so pale, was suddenly lighted by one of those flushes of color which
changed Margaret’s aspect so completely; her lips, which had been so
serious, parted with the brightest of smiles. She made a step forward,
all lighted up with pleasure, and held out her hand. Aubrey stopped
suddenly short in his advance, and looked suspiciously, keenly at the
new-comer who produced this change on her. He was not a man who was
addicted even to the most innocent of oaths; but this time his feelings
were too much for him. “By Jove! the man of Killin,” he said; and he
was so much startled that the words were uttered half aloud.

“Randal!” Margaret said, all smiling, holding out her hand. “Oh! I did
not think I should see any one I knew--much less you. How little one
can tell! I had been wanting to go away.”

The simplicity of pleasure with which she said this took Randal by
surprise. He clasped her hand and held it in his own for a moment
with a corresponding self-betrayal. “It seemed too good to be true,”
he said; and they stood together for a moment so completely absorbed
in this sudden delight of seeing each other, that Aubrey gave way to
another vulgarism quite unlike his good-breeding: he made as though he
would have whistled that long note of wonder and discovery which is one
of the primeval signs invented before language. “When did this come
about?” Aubrey said to himself; and his surprise was so genuine that he
could do nothing but stand half petrified, and watch the course of this
singular interview going on in all simplicity before his eyes.

“Jean and Grace are both here,” said Margaret, “and Aubrey--Aubrey,
whom you saw with us last summer. Oh, Randal, have you just come from
home? Are they all quite well? Is it long since you saw Bell? Is
Earl’s-hall very dreary, standing empty? Oh! I would like to hear about
everything. Will you come and see us? But tell me, now, are you staying
in London, and what was it that brought you here, just this very
afternoon, when I was coming too?”

“My good angel, I think,” said Randal, fervently; and again the color
rushed over her face, and she smiled--as Aubrey thought he had never
seen her smile before.

“Let us say a kind fairy,” said Margaret; “but will you come and see us
where we are living? For here there is no quiet place to talk. Don’t go
away though, Randal: Jean and Grace would like to see you--and I too.”

“Is it likely that I should want to go away?” he said; and then his
face paled a little, and he added: “There is some one else you want
to ask me about, Margaret. You will not need to trust to me for
information at second-hand.” Then he lowered his voice, and said,
bending toward her, “Glen is here.”

“Oh!” Aubrey could see the usual little exclamation prolonged almost
into a cry. She grew quite pale with a dead pallor of fright. “Oh,
Randal, take him away; or take me away. What shall I do?” she cried.

“Do you not wish to see him, Margaret?”

“Oh no, no, Randal! Turn round; pretend to be looking at the pictures.
What shall I do? Oh, do not let him know I am here! It was that made
me ill before. It was--all a mistake, Randal. Oh, I felt sure when I
came out to-day something was going to happen; and then when I saw you
I thought how silly I had been--that it was something good that had
happened: now here is the right reading of it. Oh, Randal, you helped
me before; can you not help me again now?”

“I will do anything, whatever you wish,” he said; “but, Margaret, if
this is your feeling, it is scarcely fair to Glen; I think he ought to
know.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, but in too great a panic to know what she was
saying; “which will be the best? Should I stay here while you take
him away, Randal? I could stand close to the pictures and put down
my veil; or will you take me away? Oh, think, please, for I do not
seem able to think! But he would be sure to know me if he saw me
with you. Aubrey--oh, here is Aubrey,” she said, seizing his arm as
he approached; “he will take me; and, Randal, come--will you come
to-night?”

“Where?” said Randal, putting out his hand to detain her. Aubrey,
with a somewhat surly nod of recognition which the other was scarcely
aware of, gave him the address; and almost dragged through the
crowd by Margaret’s eagerness, went away with her, not ill-pleased,
notwithstanding this disagreeable evidence of some mystery he did
not understand, to carry her off from the man she had smiled upon so
brightly. She had dropped her veil, which was half crape, over her
face, and, holding her head down and clinging to his arm, drew him
through the crowd.

“Are you ill?” he said; “what is the matter, Margaret?” But she made
no reply; and it was only when he had found Mrs. Bellingham’s hired
carriage, which was waiting outside, and put her into it, that she
seemed to be able to speak. Even then she would not let him go.

“Will you come home with me?” she said, with a sweetness of appeal and
a wistful look which Aubrey, with some indignation, felt to be false,
after the reception she had given to “that Scotch fellow,” yet could
not resist.

“I am afraid you must be ill,” he said, half sullenly--“yes, if you
wish it, I will go with you; but Aunt Jean, I am afraid, will think
this very strange.”

“There was some one that I did not want to see. Ah!” she cried,
putting up her hands to her face and sinking back into a corner of the
carriage. Aubrey, looking out where her terrified glance had fallen,
saw a man turn round and stare after them as they drove away; but he
could not see who or what kind of man this was.




CHAPTER XLI.


When Rob Glen accepted the offer that Randal made him and agreed to the
conditions, it was done partly in despite, partly in impatience, partly
because the novelty tempted him, in the state of discouragement and
irritation which Margaret’s troubled response had thrown him into. He
had not ceased to be “in love” with her, nor was the impassioned letter
he had addressed to her really false, notwithstanding his constant
confidential interviews with Jeanie, which would have been the direst
offence to Margaret had they been known, or had she really cared for
him as he supposed and hoped her to do. Had she been within reach,
Rob would have been really as much in love with Margaret as ever; but
he was angry and hurt by her indifference, and humiliated, he who had
won so much love in his day, that she did not receive his letter with
pleasure. Even if she had seen the inexpediency or impossibility of
continuing the correspondence, he could not forgive her that she had
no word of thanks to send him for the letter, which might have made a
girl happy, no breathing of soft response to its impassioned strain. He
was pleased to punish her, to revenge himself by the hasty pledge not
to write again. Yes, he would punish her. Next time she received one
of these letters it should be after months of weary waiting, when she
would thank him as she ought.

It was absolutely impossible for Rob to realize that it would be
a relief to Margaret not to hear from him at all. The idea was
incredible. Never before in all his experience had he met with a girl
who was quite insensible to his wooing, and Margaret, who was so
young, so artless! She might be afraid to snatch that painful joy;
the perils of a clandestine correspondence might alarm instead of
exciting her; but that she should not _like_ it, was beyond all
Rob’s acquaintance with human nature, and altogether incredible to
him. And thus he would punish her. Edinburgh too would no doubt be
more cheerful than the farm in the depth of winter, when his mother’s
ill-humor and the absence of all amusement would aggravate the short
days and long, cold nights, in which even a stroll with Jeanie was no
longer practicable. Mrs. Glen, too, looked favorably on the idea. It
would “pass the time.” “And you’ll be in the way of seeing a good kind
of folk,” his mother said; “plenty of gentry is aye about thae lawyers’
offices. They’re in want o’ siller, or they’re wanting to get rid o’
their siller; and I wouldna lose a chance of a good acquaintance. Then,
when the time comes, and when you set up in your ain house with your
lady-wife, you’ll no be without friends.”

“Friends made in an Edinburgh writer’s office, of what use will they be
in the heart of England?” said Rob, with lofty superiority; but he was
not displeased by the suggestion. He no more thought it possible that,
with his talents, he could fail to “win forward,” as his mother said,
than he thought it possible that Margaret could really be indifferent
to such a glowing composition as the love-letter he had sent her. The
only thing in the whole matter that he felt any reluctance about was,
how he was to break it to Jeanie, whose sweetness, as his confidential
friend and adviser, had been very soothing and consolatory to him. As
the decision had to be made at once, there was not even much time in
which to break it to Jeanie. He strolled past her father’s cottage in
the high toun on one of the nights when Margaret lay at her worst in
a haze of fever, with her life apparently hanging on a thread. But
none of all the little knot of people at the Kirkton, whose lives were
tangled with hers, were as yet aware of anything that had occurred
to her. Rob went slowly past the little window, all glowing with
fire-light, where John Robertson sat tired with his work, while Jeanie
put away the cups and saucers after their tea. By-and-by it would be
necessary to light “the candle,” for he had still a job to finish
before bedtime; but what did they want with the candle when they were
at their tea? Fire-light was quite enough for the scanty meal and the
conversation which went on, not without a divided attention on Jeanie’s
part; for she could not but think that she heard a step outside which
she knew.

“I think I will run out for two or three minutes and see Katie Dewar,
when you are settled to your work, faither,” Jeanie said; “she is
always complaining, and it’s a fine night,” she added, with a little
compunction, looking out through the uncurtained window. The sense of
deceiving, however, was not at all strong or urgent in her, for such
little deceits about a lover’s meeting are leniently dealt with in
Jeanie’s sphere.

“You’ll no be very long, Jeanie.” Her father had a sufficiently good
notion of what was going on, and, as he was quite unconscious of any
complication in Rob Glen’s affections, and quite confident in his
daughter’s purity and goodness, it did not disturb him much. “Mind that
it’s a cold night, and dinna loiter about.”

“I’ll no be very long, faither.” Jeanie threw a shawl round her, but
left her pretty head, with its golden-brown curling hair, uncovered.
If it was very cold it was always easy to throw a fold of the shawl
over her head. She went out, with her heart beating--not altogether
with pleasure. To be with _him_ was still a kind of happiness,
and it was better even to be the confidant of his engagement with
another--which Rob had so cunningly implied would never have existed
had Jeanie’s presence hereabouts been known--than to have nothing at
all to do with him. She stole along, half flying, in the shadow of the
houses, and finally came out into the cold moonlight, at the corner
beyond the little square, where she could see some one waiting. Poor
Jeanie! her pleasure and her sadness, and the mixture of the sweet
with the bitter which was in these interviews, had become a kind of
essential elixir to her life.

“Jeanie,” he said, after their first greetings were over, “I am going
away.”

“Going away!” She had to grasp at his arm to support herself. “Ay,” she
said, drearily, after a pause, “nae doubt; I aye kent that was how it
would have to be.”

“I only knew it myself yesterday,” he said; “I have not lost a moment
in telling you. How did you know that this was how it would be?”

“Oh, I kent it,” she said, holding her hands clasped to support
herself; “it was easy to divine--it was no such a mystery. Weel,
Maister Glen, ye’ll go to her ye’ve chosen, and ye’ll be--real happy
with her. She’s bonnie, and she’s good, and she’ll give ye more, far
more, than the like of us could give you. I wish ye luck with a’ my
heart. Ay, a’ my heart! baith her and you.”

Jeanie withdrew a step from his side as she spoke, and her voice
took something of the soft wail of the dove in the inflections and
modulations which mark the native tongue of Fife. It was in a kind of
soft cadence that she spoke--too soft to be tragic, but pitiful and
wailing, the most pathetic of utterances. Jeanie did not rebel--it was
natural, it was right; but the blow went to her heart.

“My foolish Jeanie,” he said; “what are you thinking of? Do you think
it is Margaret that has sent for me? Do you think she is going to
acknowledge me all at once, and that all our troubles are over? No,
my dear; you are too simple and too good, my bonnie Jeanie. It is not
that. Margaret takes no notice of me. I am going to Edinburgh--to a
situation, not for ease, not very far away--and not to her, Jeanie. You
must not give me up so soon.”

He put his arm round her, and drew her close to him; and Jeanie, though
full of better resolutions, was weak with the shock she had just
received. She was thankful to lean against him for a moment.

“No that--not to her? when she could settle a’ if she pleased. Eh, Rob,
ladies are no like--they’re no like--”

“You, Jeanie? No; who is like you? Always kind--whatever happens,
always ready to forgive. What is that in the Bible, ‘Suffereth long,
and is kind.’ I think that must have been made for you.”

“Oh!” said Jeanie--like Margaret, in the soft long breath of that
ejaculation--“we shouldna quote Scripture, you and me! for what we are
doing is a’ wrang. Oh, Rob, it’s a’wrang! You that are troth-plighted
to another lass--though she is a lady--and me, that--”

“Yes, you that--what of you, Jeanie? not pledged, you must not say so,
to another man.”

“And if I was,” she cried, “what would you have to do with it? it would
be but justice. Na, na, that’s no what I’m meaning, as weel ye ken. My
heart has never had room but for ane. No--me that should ken better.
Oh, dinna, dinna, I canna have it! Me that should have kent better was
what I meant to say.”

“Why should you know better? How can we tell what will happen in three
years? And till three years are over nothing is settled,” he said, with
a secret thrill of anxiety and pain in his heart to remember that this,
unlike much that he said, was altogether true.

“It’s true,” she said, shaking her head. “My heart’s that heavy I can
think of nothing but harm; we may a’ be dead in three years; and oh, I
wish it might be over with me!”

“I cannot have you speak like this,” he said. “I am going to
Edinburgh--you don’t seem to care to hear--to a situation Randal
Burnside has offered me. I don’t know that I will stay in it long. Very
likely it will only be a stepping-stone to something better. I will see
you when I come back, which will be often, Jeanie; and indeed I think
you might come over to see your friends in Edinburgh--you must have
friends in Edinburgh--and see me.”

“I’ll not do that,” said Jeanie, decidedly.

“You’ll not do that? I don’t think that is quite kind. But never mind,
I will come home--often--on Saturday, like Randal Burnside.”

“Will you be in the same line as Maister Randal, Rob?”

“I think not just the same line. He pleads, you know, Jeanie, in the
Parliament House, before the judges, and I will have to manage cases
before they get there. It is a very important business. Failing what I
was brought up to--the pulpit, and all that I was trained for-- I think
my people will be more pleased with the law than anything else. It is
always respectable; it is one of the learned professions. I will not
deny that it is a very good opening, Jeanie.”

“And when do you go away?”

“This week,” he said. “I don’t want to lose any more time; I have lost
all my summer. It would have been better for me if I had never come
home. I would have missed you, Jeanie; but then I might have avoided
other things that can never be got rid of now.”

“Oh!” she said, her heart wrung with the suggestion, pleased with the
regret, wounded with the comparison; “I wonder if you would say just
the same of me to her as of her to me?”

“How could I, when you are so little like each other?” he said. “But,
Jeanie, let us think of ourselves; let us not bring in _her_, or
any one. My bonnie Jeanie, when I come back I shall always find you
here?”

“I canna tell--the cobbling’s no just a grand trade, and what will feed
ane does not aye serve two. I think I will maybe take a new place--at
the New-Year.”

“But not to take you from the Kirkton, Jeanie--not to take you away
from me?”

“If it was to take me far, far away--to London, or to America, or New
Zealand, where so many are going--and I wish my faither would think of
it,” she said, softly. “Oh! I’ve great reason to pray, ‘Lead me not
into temptation,’ for I would be far, far better away.”

“You are not like yourself to-night, Jeanie. Why should you lecture
me to-night, just when you have to say good-bye to me--good-bye for a
little while?”

“It would be far, far better if it was good-bye forever,” she said;
“but eh, Rob, I canna understand mysel’. I would be glad if it was me
that was to go--ay would I. I would go to New Zealand, if my faither
would but come, the morn; but when it’s you, a’ my strength fails me,
my heart goes sinking away from me, my head begins to turn round. I
know it’s right, but I canna bide it, Rob!”

“My poor little Jeanie,” he said, caressingly. “And I cannot bide it,
if you speak of what a man likes; but it is better for me that I should
not be wasting my time. I should be doing some work that will be worth
a man’s while. What is money, Jeanie? I shall have plenty of money. But
I ought to be known, I ought to think of my name.”

“Oh, that’s true,” she said. “I know well you’re no a lad to spend your
life in a quiet country place. And that just shows me more and more the
difference between you and me, Rob. I shouldna call you Rob-- I should
say Maister Glen.”

“Will you write to me, Jeanie? That was why we lost sight of each
other. I did not know where you were; but now I will often send you
a letter, and then, on the Saturdays, I will probably come over with
Randal Burnside.”

“Rob, Mr. Randal is a gentleman, and so will you be a gentleman. No,
oh no; you and me should say farewell. I’ll aye think upon you. I’ll
pray for you night and morning; but dinna speak about you and me. We’re
like the twa roads at Earl’s-ha’ that creep thegither under the trees,
and then pairt, ane west, the ither east. Oh, Rob!” said Jeanie, with
streaming eyes, “no good will ever come of this. Let us summon up a
good courage and pairt. Here we should pairt. No, I’ll no grudge you a
kiss, for it will be the last. It’s a’ been meesery and confusion, but
if we pairt the warst will be past. Say Farewell, and God bless you,
Jeanie!--and ah! with all my heart, I’ll say the same to you.”

“You are trembling so that you can scarcely stand,” he said. “Do you
think I will let you leave me like this? I cannot part from you,
Jeanie, and why should I? It would break my heart.”

“It has broken mine,” said Jeanie, fervently; “but rather a broken
heart as a false life. Rob, Rob, hand me nae longer, but let me gang to
my faither. I’m safe when I’m with him.”

But it was not for a long hour after this that Jeanie returned to her
father, conducted as near as he could venture to go by her lover, who
grew more and more earnest the more he was resisted. She went in very
softly, with a flushed and glowing cheek, stealing into the cottage not
to disturb the solitary inmate who sat working on by the light of his
dim candle.

“Is that you, Jeanie?” he said, placidly; “and how is Katie Dewar, poor
body?” This question went to the bottom of her guilty heart.

“I’ll no tell you a lie, faither; I wasna near Katie Dewar. It’s a fine
night, and the moon shining; I gaed down the road, and then a little up
the road, and then--”

“Oh, ay, my lass, I ken weel what that means,” he said; “but I can
trust my Jeanie, the Lord be praised for it. I’m just done with my job,
and it’s been a lang job. When the supper’s ready I’ll blow out the
candle, and then if you’ve onything to tell me--”

“I have naething to tell you,” she cried. But as they sat together
over their supper, which was of “stoved” potatoes, a savory dish
unknown to richer tables, Jeanie pressed upon her father once more with
incomprehensible energy and earnestness the idea of New Zealand, which
had already two or three times been talked of between them before.

Rob, however, left her with little alarm as to New Zealand. He was
deeply gratified by that attachment to himself which made her ready
to put up with everything, even the bond which bound him to another;
and the struggle in Jeanie’s mind between what she wished and what she
thought right, which ended in the triumph of himself, Rob, over all
other powers and arguments, was very sweet and consolatory to him. It
healed the wounds of his _amour propre_. If Margaret did not give
him the devotion he deserved, Jeanie gave him a devotion which he did
not hesitate to confess he had not deserved, and this reconciled him to
himself. The maid made up for the short-comings of the mistress, and
perhaps Jeanie’s simple worship even gave a little license to Margaret
as to the great lady, from whom, in her ladyhood and greatness, the
same kind of love was not to be expected. She had things in her power
to bestow more substantial than Jeanie’s tenderness, and with these
she had vowed in due time to crown this favorite of fortune. Rob was a
sort of Sultan in his way, and liked the idea of getting from these two
women the best they had. He went away from Stratheden a few days after,
with his heart quite soft and tender to his Jeanie. He would not forget
her this time. He would write to her and say to her what he could not
say to Margaret. He would keep a refuge for himself in her soft heart,
whatever happened. And, indeed, who could tell what might happen in
three years?

While he thus made a settlement which quite pleased him in his affairs
of the heart, the other part of his life was not quite so satisfactory.
The position which he took in the office of Randal’s uncle in Edinburgh
was naturally that of a beginner, and he did not “win forward” as he
had hoped. When clients came, they preferred to see the principal of
the office, and instead of making acquaintance among the gentry, Rob
found that all he had to do with them was opening the door to them when
they came in, or showing them the way out when they left the office.

He did not say much about this, nor did he reveal his discontent to
Randal, having sufficient good-sense to learn by experience, and
perceiving that this was indeed quite natural and the only thing to
be expected, as soon as circumstances had impressed it upon him.
But struggles with reason and circumstances of this kind, if they
invariably end in an increase of hardly acquired knowledge, and are
thus, perhaps, instructive in the highest degree, are not pleasant.
And Rob having made no advance in “position,” and having no important
work confided to him, but only, as was natural, the most elementary
and routine business, soon became heartily sick of the office and of
himself. He returned more hotly to his former hopes, as he felt the
folly of this, and soon began to be conscious of the utter incongruity
between his prospects and his present position. He tried to console
himself like any child, by imagining to himself scenes of delightful
revenge for all those “spurns which patient merit of the unworthy
takes.” When he was Margaret’s husband, and the possessor of her
fortune, he planned to himself how he too would become a client of the
employers who now treated him so coolly. What piece of business would
he intrust to them? He would make them buy in Earl’s-hall if it ever
came to be sold. He would consult them about the investment of the long
accumulations of Margaret’s minority. But in the mean time, while these
grandeurs were not his, the office became more and more irksome to him.

He had lost the habit of work during those idle months at home, where
love-making had been his only serious occupation, and indeed he had
never had the habits of work necessary here, the routine of certain
hours and clearly defined duties, which the more free and less regular
work of education is in general so little akin to. He had not been
what is called idle in his studies; but then these are always vague,
and a young man may make up the defective work of the day at night
or at odd moments, which a clerk in an office never can do. After a
while, Rob had become so entirely disgusted with the humbleness of his
position and the character of his work--so deeply impressed by the
incongruity of his present with the future he looked forward to--and
so indignantly conscious of powers within him which were capable of
something better than this, that he threw up the situation which
it had taken Randal no small trouble to get for him, and, without
warning, suddenly set out for London, carrying with him his sketches
and some slight and frothy literary essays which he had written, with
the full intention of becoming a painter and an author, and taking
the world by storm. The payment of three months’ salary had given him
the means for this; and he felt that it was the only way, and that he
had known all along it was the only way, to acquire for himself fame
and fortune. He had by this time heard of Margaret’s illness, and of
her absence; but even had he thought of doing so, he had no means of
following her into the expense and mystery of that unknown world which
the ignorant know as “abroad.” Indeed, to do him justice, he went to
London with no intention of molesting Margaret, but only with a very
fixed determination of making himself known--of coming to some personal
glory or profit which should make up to him for the personal failure
of the past. Rob had been in London for about a month on that eventful
day when Randal Burnside, who was in town upon business, had met him in
the Exhibition. They had met not without a certain friendliness; and
Randal, curious to know what he was doing, and still more curious to
ascertain how much he knew about Margaret, and if he was keeping his
promise in respect to her, had engaged Rob to dine with him, and had
parted from him only a few minutes before he met Margaret herself.

Meantime Rob, having finished his inspection of the pictures, and
convinced himself that there were many there much inferior to his own,
though he could find no purchasers for them, was issuing somewhat
moodily forth, when a slight figure in black hurrying down the steps
before him, and clinging closely to the arm of a man whom he thought he
had seen before, yet did not recognize, caught his eye. He stood and
looked after them while the carriage was called, his curiosity awakened
he could scarcely tell why. He had followed them down to the pavement,
and had just reached it when Aubrey put Margaret into the carriage; and
all at once a vision of that well-known face, all tremulous and eager,
avoiding, as he thought, his suddenly excited gaze, rose before him.
In another moment the carriage was dashing along more quickly than is
usual in the streets of London. Rob stood with a gasp gazing after it,
and did not come to himself till it was too late to attempt the frantic
expedient of jumping into a hansom and rushing after it. He did so when
he realized what it was that had happened; but by this time it was too
late, and he had not remarked the appearance of the carriage, but only
the face in it. Margaret! The sight put sudden fire into his veins. He
must see her; he must claim her. It was irrational and monstrous that a
girl who was his promised wife should be entirely separated from him.
Whether it was her own will or that of her friends, he would not submit
to it any more.




CHAPTER XLII.


It was Rob, perhaps, who had the most right to be excited by this
unexpected vision; but Randal, who had no right, was also driven
half wild by it, and altogether lost his head as he stood gazing
blankly about him, and saw Margaret, rather dragging Aubrey after
her than being conducted by him, thread through the crowd with such
an eager impulse of flight. Few young men could have refused to be
a little biassed and shaken from their equilibrium by the sweetness
of such a reception as he had just received. The brightening of her
countenance, the look of pleasure that overspread her face, the gleam
of sweet friendliness and welcome would have been pleasant from any
one; but from her who had already touched his fancy and interested his
heart--from her to whom already he had given a devotion which was of
the nature of friendship rather than love--it was more than pleasant,
it set every nerve tingling. His devotion had borne a kind of character
of friendship, he thought; for was not love hopeless on her side,
pledged as she was? And yet he could not do less than serve her for
the sake of her childhood, for the sake of all the associations of the
past, but chiefly for the sake of herself, so sweet as she was, so
tender, and lovely, and young--the kind of creature whom it would be
sweet to shield from all trouble.

It had wrung his heart before now to think how little he could do
for Margaret, having no right to stand by her. What right had he to
interfere? He was not even a connection like Aubrey, whom he called
“that English fellow,” just as Aubrey called him “that Scotch fellow”
and “the man of Killin.” He had to stand by and see her go out into
the world with nobody who understood her, her life already fettered
by bonds so unsuitable, so foolishly formed, but beyond all power of
his to interfere. And now to receive such a welcome from her, to see
her face so lit up with pleasure to greet him, went to Randal’s very
heart. It seemed to send a corresponding light over his whole being:
he did not ask himself what it meant; but it was not possible that
Margaret’s sudden unaffected lighting up at sight of himself, and her
unaccountable horror and terror and flight at the name of Glen, should
not have stirred all manner of strange emotions in Randal. He made
a virtue of patience for an hour or two until he thought it certain
that her sisters would also have gone home, and then he hastened to
the address Aubrey had unwillingly given him, missing, by so doing,
an excited visit from Rob Glen, who, after driving wildly through the
bewildering streets in hopeless confusion, bethought himself that
Randal might know where Margaret was likely to be found. They missed
each other on the crowded way, and Randal went on, with his head full
of dreams, in a kind of intoxication of beatitude and wonder. What a
change since this morning had come over the young man’s life!

When, however, he reached the place where the ladies were staying,
it was into the midst of confusion and excitement that Randal found
himself suddenly thrown. Mrs. Bellingham was walking about the room in
great commotion, Miss Grace crying softly on a sofa. They received him
without surprise as people already too much excited to find any new
event unexpected or strange.

“How do you do, Randal?” said Mrs. Bellingham; “I am sorry to say we
have scarcely time to receive you as we should like. We had settled
ourselves for a week in town, and got very nice rooms and everything;
and I had quantities of things to do--the work of a year, I may say.
We have no clothes, not an article to put on, and there were a hundred
things I wanted. But all is thrown into disorder, all is unsettled, and
I sha’n’t be able to do anything. We must go back to the Grange at once
without a moment’s delay.”

“Dearest Jean!” said Miss Grace, with streaming eyes, “you know you
said we must just give ourselves up to dear Margaret; and if it makes
her ill to stay in London, how can it be helped? Let me go with dearest
Margaret, and do you stay and do your shopping--”

“As if I would trust her out of my hands! especially if she is going to
be ill again. But here is the thing that puzzles me. Did you ever hear
of Margaret being ill, Randal, at Earl’s-hall? But here is a girl that
was as strong as--as strong as a little pony--in Fife, and she gets
congestion of the lungs as soon as she comes to the South, and cannot
stay two days in London! I never heard anything like it--of course I am
very sorry for Margaret. What have I been doing but devoting myself to
her for the last five months? And she was just blooming--would you not
have called her blooming, Aubrey? But London does not agree with her.
Fancy London not agreeing with a girl! I don’t know when I have been so
much put out in all my life.”

“Is-- Miss Leslie--ill?” said Randal, not knowing how to shape the
question.

“Yes; she grew faint and ill just after we met you,” said Aubrey,
looking at him with steady composure. “I thought the best thing to do
was to get her out of that beastly atmosphere at once.”

“Oh, you did quite right, Aubrey; I am not in the least blaming
you. Much better, in such a case, to leave at once; for if she had
fainted outright, in the middle of the crowd, that would have been a
pretty business! I never was used to girls who fainted,” said Mrs.
Bellingham, plaintively. “I have known them to get bad headaches when
there was nothing going on; but fainting, just when we were all amusing
ourselves--and we have got a box at the opera to-night! it really is
enough to send one out of one’s wits--a box at the opera! and you know
what a chance that is.”

“But, dearest Jean! do you go; I will stay with dear Margaret. I shall
not mind it; indeed, I shall not mind it _much_; and you know she
has been persuaded; she has given up the idea of going home to-night.”

“Going to-night was simply impossible! we are not all born idiots!”
said Mrs. Bellingham, with a vigor of language which betrayed her
nationality. Then, calming down a little, she seated herself and began
to pour out the tea, which had been neglected. “I am sure I beg your
pardon, Randal, for letting you see me in such a ‘fuff.’ But it is
provoking, you will allow. And as for going to the opera by myself, or
with only Grace, instead of having a pretty, fresh young girl by our
side that everybody would remark! I declare one would need to have the
patience of a saint not to feel it. Oh, ill? No, I don’t think she is
very ill; just upset, you know. Indeed, I should have said it was more
like a fright than anything else; but Aubrey says there was nothing--no
accident, nor runaway horse, nor man killed. I’ve seen that happen in
London streets, and very awful it was.”

“No,” said Aubrey, steadily, “there was nothing of that sort; but the
atmosphere was bad enough for anything; and then the fatigue of the
journey--”

“Do you take sugar in your tea, Randal? So many people take no sugar,
it is always a trouble to recollect what you young people take and what
you don’t take. Well, I suppose we will just have to make up our minds
to it. Steward can stay with Margaret to-night, and we will go. It is
no use throwing away a box at the height of the season.”

“But, dearest Jean, let me stay with dear Margaret. I don’t really
mind. I am sure I don’t mind--”

“And to-morrow we must just go back,” said Mrs. Bellingham, sweeping
on in the larger current of her discourse. “You must remember me very
kindly to your excellent father and mother, Randal. I hope we shall see
them in the autumn. We are pretty sure to be in Fife in the autumn.
Margaret will be distressed not to see you; but, after all that has
happened, I thought the best place for her was just her bed; so I
made her lie down, and I don’t like to disturb her. She will be quite
distressed not to see you, when you have been so kind as to take up
your time calling--which really is a thing, with people only up in town
for a few days, that I never expect. You must have so many things to
do.”

This Randal took as a hint that he had at present “taken up his time”
and hers long enough, and he went away horribly disappointed, tingling
with pain as he had done with pleasure and excitement when he came,
yet, but for the disappointment, not so entirely cast down as he might
have been. Margaret’s determined flight, her abandonment of the place
where Rob Glen was, even though that place was London--large enough, it
might be supposed, to permit two strangers to inhabit it at the same
time without meeting--and her evident horror of the engagement between
them, made Randal’s spirits rise more than his disappointment subdued
them. This bondage once cleared away, and Rob Glen dropped back again
into the regions to which he belonged, who could tell what might happen?

There was but one thing that abode a prominent alarm in his mind,
after the first sting of disappointment was over, and that was “the
other fellow,” who lied so calmly on Margaret’s behalf. Was he in
her confidence too? Randal felt that to possess her confidence as
he himself did was as great a privilege as any man could have; but
somehow, curiously enough, it did not seem to him either so sacred
or so seemly that Aubrey should possess it too. He felt that the
suggestion of this wounded him for Margaret’s sake. She ought not to
take a young man into her confidence--it was not quite delicate, quite
like the perfection of Margaret. This was the only thing that really
and permanently troubled him as he went away.

And he had not been long back in his hotel when, a little before the
dinner hour at which he expected Rob to appear, the chief hero of the
whole entanglement suddenly made his appearance in a very evident
state of excitement. Rob was pale, his eyes wild with anxiety, his
hair hanging dishevelled over his forehead, as he wiped it with his
handkerchief, and his coat covered with dust. He looked eagerly round,
though he did not know himself what he expected to see. He waited till
the door was closed, and then he said hurriedly, “Burnside, I have
seen Margaret; I saw her coming out of the Academy when I met you this
morning. I have been rushing about half over London after her, and I
cannot find her. Have you heard anything or seen anything, or can you
guess where she is likely to be?”

“Sit down, Glen.”

“Sit down!--that is no answer. I don’t feel as if I could sit down
until I have spoken to her. Tell me where you think she can be.”

“Glen, I want to speak to you. I have something to say to you. They
are gone, or going away, that much I heard. I saw Mrs. Bellingham this
afternoon, and she told me that her sister was ill again, and that they
were off at once. She found that London did not agree with her.”

“Ill again?--gone away!” said Rob, hoarsely: then he threw down his hat
upon the table with an exclamation of annoyance and pain. “It is not
treating me fairly. I ought to see her,” he cried, and threw himself,
weary and angry, upon the nearest chair.

“I think so too,” said Randal, seriously. “I think you ought to see
her. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Glen; but I think you should
see her, and make her tell you candidly the state of affairs.”

“What do you mean by the state of affairs? If it is that her family are
opposed to the existence of any tie between her and me, that is no new
discovery. I know that, and _she_ knows that I know it.”

“That was not all I meant, Glen--that is bad enough. You know my
opinion. As a man of honor, I think you have a duty even to the family;
but this is different. She is not happy. I think you ought to have a
full explanation, and--set things on a right footing.”

“What does setting things on a right footing mean?” Rob said, with an
attempt at a sneer, which was more like a snarl of despair. He had
not found it such easy work “making his way” in London. His money was
running short, and he had nothing to do, and no prospect of being able
to support himself much longer. Margaret was his sheet-anchor, his sole
hope in the future. He thought, too, that the rapid dash away of the
carriage was not accidental, that she had seen him and driven him wild;
and this bitter reflection embittered him, and made him ready to take
offence at anything or nothing. He was miserable altogether, excited,
distracted, anxious--and tired to death besides. He had taken nothing
since the morning, having rushed off in wild pursuit of her instead
of getting his usual mid-day meal. He bent down his head upon his
folded arms, after that angry question, and thus defeated all Randal’s
disposition to find fault or blame him, if there had been any such
disposition in Randal’s mind.

On the contrary, however, the young man’s heart, softened by the
gleam of brightness that had seemed to come upon his own life out of
Margaret’s eyes, melted altogether over the unlucky presumptuous lover,
the fool who had rushed in “where angels might fear to tread,” the
unfortunate one who had lost all chance of that prize at which he had
snatched too quickly and too roughly. Randal forgot to think of his
presumption, of his doubtful conduct, and all his offences against good
taste and the highest standard of honor, in sheer pity for the downfall
of him who had soared so high. He laid his hand upon the other’s
shoulder.

“Glen,” he said, “you are not the first who has made a mistake, or who
has been the victim of a mistake. That is no disparagement to you:
it is only continuing in the mistake that would be blamable. You and
she--let her name be sacred-- I do not like even to refer to her--”

“Who? Margaret?” said Rob, defiant. He would have his way, whatever
the other might think. “I have no reason to be so shy about her name.
Advice is very seldom palatable in the best of circumstances; but
between me and Margaret--” Because Randal had deprecated the use of her
name, he insisted on using it. He had a kind of insolent satisfaction
in turning it over and over. “Between me and Margaret,” he said, with a
laugh, “there is no need of advice, that I know of--we understand each
other. Mistake there is none between Margaret and me.”

Randal bowed very gravely--he did not smile. The color wavered over his
face--then departed. “In that case there is nothing to be said.”

“Not a word; Margaret and I understand each other. Margaret-- I suppose
I can wash my hands somewhere before dinner. I am as dusty as a
lamplighter with rushing about.”

And they dined together, talking of everything in the world except
Margaret, and thinking of nothing else. It was a relief to Randal that
her name was no longer on the lips of his uncongenial companion; but
yet the silence brought in a more eager and painful wonder as to what
he was going to do. But Randal could not renew the subject, and Rob
did not. He went away early, without having once again referred to the
matter which occupied both their thoughts.

He lived in a humble room in one of the streets which run from the
Strand to the river--not an unpleasant place, for his window commanded
the Thames; but it was a very long walk from Randal’s hotel. He went
slowly through the streets, through all the loitering crowds of the
summer evening, which were no longer bustling and busy, but had an
air of repose and enjoyment about them. Rob loitered too, but not
from any sense of the pleasantness of the air, or the season. He had
no one to care whether he came in or not, and it was easier to think,
and think again, over this difficult question which must be decided
one way or another, in the open air, than it was within-doors, shut
up with a question which he had debated so often. If Margaret was
weary of the bargain, if she shrank from him and avoided him, what
should he do? One moment he thought of casting her off proudly, of
showing her what he thought of her fickleness, and taunting her with
her Englishman, “that fellow” who was always with her. This would have
been the most consolatory to his feelings. But, on the other hand, to
point out to her the cowardice, the dishonor of breaking her word, the
strength of the pledge which she could not escape from, was better
in another sense. Why should she be permitted to forsake him because
she had changed her mind? What right had she to change her mind? Was
it a less sin in a woman than in a man to break a promise, to think
nothing of a vow? A man would not be allowed to escape scathless from
such a perjury, why should a girl? And as he walked along the street,
mortified, humbled, breathing forth fumes of anger and pain, there even
gleamed before Rob’s eyes the scrap of paper, the promise on which his
mother counted, which was locked in the secretary in the farm-parlor.
He had hated the vulgar sharpness which had exacted that promise from
Margaret, he had scouted it as a means of keeping any hold upon her.
But now, when he felt so strong a desire to punish her, such an eager,
vindictive determination not to let her go free, even this came into
his mind. Not to secure her by it--which was his mother’s thought, but
at least to punish her by it. He would send for it, he thought; he
would keep it by him as a scourge, not as a compulsion. He would let
all her friends see at least how far she had gone, how she had pledged
herself, and how she was forsworn.

While he was pursuing these thoughts, loitering along through the soft
summer night, jostled by the sauntering crowds who could not walk,
even in the London streets, at that soft hour as they did during the
day, his ear was suddenly caught by the intonations, so different from
those around, the low-pitched, lingering vowels, and half chanting
measure of his natural tongue. Not only Scotch but Fife were the
sounds that reached his ears: now the heavy rolling bass of a man,
then a softer voice. Good heavens! who was it? A tall, feeble-looking,
large-boned man, a trim little figure by his side, moving lightly and
yet languidly, like her voice, which had caught Rob’s ear by reason of
something pathetic in it. The words she said were words of ordinary
wonder and curiosity, such as became a country lass in the street of
London; but the tone was sad and went to the heart, notwithstanding
the little laugh with which it was sometimes interrupted. Was it
possible? He turned round and followed them eagerly, growing more and
more certain of their identity, scheming to get a glimpse of their
faces, and make certainty sure. Jeanie! how came she here? He stepped
forward as soon as he was certain of her, and laid his hand lightly
on her shoulder. She started and turned round with a low cry. A gleam
of delight came over her face. Her soft eyes lighted up with sudden
warmth and gladness. It was the same change that had taken place on
Margaret’s face while Aubrey Bellingham--who was not the cause--watched
it with disagreeable surprise; but this was warmer and more brilliant,
more evanescent too; for Jeanie’s countenance fell the next moment, and
trouble, like a gray shadow, came over her face.

“Jeanie!” cried Rob, “how on earth have you come here? What has brought
you here? Where are you staying? What are you going to do? I cannot
believe my eyes!”

She stood trembling before him, unable to raise her eyes, overcome
by the happiness of seeing him, the wretchedness of parting--a
wretchedness which she thought, poor girl, she had eluded, with all the
conflict of feeling it must have brought. She tried to speak, but she
could only smile at him faintly, and begin to cry.

“Maister Glen,” said her father, “you maun speak to me; Jeanie has had
enough of fash and sorrow. We are on our way--to please her, no for ony
wish of mine--on a lang voyage. We’re strangers and pilgrims here in
this muckle London, as I never realized the state before.”

“On a long voyage!” Rob, though he had got through so much emotion
one time and another, felt his heart stand still and a cold sensation
of dismay steal over him. Had he not been keeping himself a refuge in
Jeanie’s heart, whatever might happen? He said, “This is a terrible
surprise. I never thought you would have taken such a step as this,
Jeanie, without letting me know.”

“Maister Glen,” said Jeanie, adopting her father’s solemn mode of
address, and hastily brushing the tears from her cheek, “wherever I
gang, what’s that to you?” Her voice was scarcely audible; he had half
to guess at what she said.

“It is a great deal to me,” he cried; “I never thought you would treat
me so: going away without a word of warning, without saying good-bye,
without letting me know you had any thought of it!”

A thrill of pain penetrated Rob’s heart. It was half ludicrous, but he
did not see anything ludicrous in it. They were both flying from him,
one on either side, the two girls with whom his fate was woven--one
for want of love, the other for too much love. Rob saw no humor in the
position, but he felt the poignancy and sting of it piercing through
and through his heart. Should he be abandoned altogether, then; left
entirely alone, without any love at all? But his whole nature rose up
fiercely against this. He would not submit to it. If not one, then the
other. “It cannot be, it cannot be. I will not let you go,” he said.

“Maister Glen,” said her father, “I canna rightly tell what has been
between Jeanie and you. You’re better off than she is in this world,
and your friends might have reason to complain if you bound yourself to
a poor cobbler’s daughter. But this I ken, you have brought my Jeanie
more trouble than pleasure. Gang your ways, my man, and let us gang
ours. Jeanie, bid Mr. Glen farewell.”

“I will say no farewell till I know more about it,” he said. “Where are
you staying? I must see more of you, I must hear all about it. We are
old friends at least, John Robertson; you cannot deny me that.”

“Old enough friends; but what o’ that? It’s no years, but kindness,
that I look to. We’re biding up west a bittie, with a decent woman from
Cupar. I’m putting no force upon Jeanie to take her away. It’s a’ her
ain doing; and if her and you have onything you want to say, I’ll no
forbid the saying of it; but I dinna advise thae last words and thae
lang farewells,” said John Robertson, shaking his head. Jeanie looked
up at him wistfully, with a sad smile in her wet eyes.

“Let him come this ae night, faither--this ae night,” she said, in her
plaintive voice; “maist likely it will be the last.”




CHAPTER XLIII.


Randal Burnside was found at the station in the morning, though
the train was an early one, to see the ladies away; which, as the
travellers were only Margaret and Grace, and as this was one of the
things impossible to Aubrey, who could not get up in the morning, was
a kindness very much appreciated. It had finally been decided, after
much consultation, that as nothing ever happened at the Grange, and as
even Mr. St. John was absent, Grace might be sufficient guardian for
Margaret for the few days longer which Mrs. Bellingham was compelled
by her shopping to remain in town. There was Miss Parker, who would
keep her right on one hand, and there was Bland, the most respectable
of butlers, on the other, to guide her steps. So, with a flutter of
mingled disappointment and exhilaration, Miss Leslie had assumed the
charge of her young sister. It was a great relief to Grace’s mind to
see “a gentleman” at the station, ready to relieve her of all anxieties
in respect to the luggage, and she thought it “a great attention”
on his part. He was very useful, as she always said afterward. Not
only did he secure them in a carriage in the very centre of the train
(which was such a safeguard in case of accidents) and look after the
luggage, but he waited till the very last moment, though it was wasting
his time sadly; and young men, when they are in London only for a few
days, really have no time, as Miss Grace knew. She smiled upon him most
sweetly, and entreated him not to wait; but he kept his post; it was a
great attention.

“And if you should want anything,” Randal said, with great meaning,
“I shall be in town, at the Wrangham, for ten days longer.” This was
repeated as he stood with his hand upon the carriage door just before
the train started.

“I am sure, Randal, we are very much obliged,” said Miss Leslie;
“but you see dear Jean is in town behind us, and she will do all our
commissions, if there is anything wanted. Dearest Margaret and I will
not want very much, and dear Jean knows about everything; but I am sure
it is very kind of you, and a great attention--” And as the train was
gliding away out of the station, she put out her head again to beg that
he would give her very kind regards, when he saw them, to his dear papa
and mamma.

Margaret’s mind had been preoccupied with a dread of seeing some one
else waiting to prevent her escape, and it was not till the train was
in motion that she felt safe, and sufficiently relieved to wave her
hand in answer to Randal’s parting salutation. What a thing it is to
be out of pain when you have been suffering, and out of anxiety when
you have been racked with that torture! Margaret leaned back in the
corner, feeling the relief to the bottom of her heart. And it was a
beautiful day, the country still all bright with the green of the early
summer. When they had got a little way out of town, the faint little
shade of disappointment in Miss Leslie’s mind over lost shopping and
relinquished operas gave way to a sense of unusual exhilaration in
being her own mistress, and even more than that, having an important
trust in her hands.

“After all,” she said, “dearest Margaret, I think it will be very nice
to get back to the country, though dear Jean always says a week or
two in town is very reviving at this time of the year; but you must
not think I am unhappy about coming away, for I really do not mind it
_much_--nothing at all to speak of. I shall always say it was a
great attention on the part of Randal Burnside, and I am sure dear Jean
will feel it. But how could he think we should want him, or anything
he could do for us, when dear Jean is in town? Did you hear him give
me his address, dearest Margaret? He said he would be at the Wrangham
for ten days more. My word, but that must cost him a pretty penny! The
Burnsides must be very well off, when Randal can afford to live at the
Wrangham, for it cannot be expected that he can be getting much by his
profession yet. We once went to the Wrangham ourselves, but it was too
expensive. I think you never go there without finding some Fife person
or other. I wonder how they have got their Fife connection. But it
amuses me to think that Randal Burnside should give us his address.”

Margaret listened to this monologue with but slight attention;
neither did she attach any importance to Randal’s parting words.
She was languid in the great relief of her mind, and quite content
to rest in her corner, and listen to Grace’s soft ripple of talk,
which flowed only with a fulness most delightful to herself, the
speaker, who had not for many a long day had such an opportunity of
expressing, uninterrupted, her gentle sentiments. She was pleased
with her companion, who neither interrupted, nor contradicted, nor
did anything but contribute a monosyllable now and then, such as was
necessary to carry on what Grace called the conversation. The Grange
was as bright and sweet to the eyes when they got there, as it had been
dark and melancholy on their first arrival. Everything was beginning
to bloom--the early roses on the walls, the starry blossoms of the
little mountain clematis threading along the old dark-red wall, the
honeysuckle preparing its big blooms, and the garden borders gay with
flowers.

Miss Parker met them smiling upon the steps, and all the servants of
the household, which Jean had organized liberally, courtesying behind
her, while Bland, as affable as his name, with his own hands opened the
carriage door. And to be consulted about everything was very delightful
to Miss Leslie. She seized the opportunity to make a few little
changes in the garden, which she had long set her heart upon, and
even corrected one or two things in-doors, which she had not ventured
to touch before. And she wrote to dearest Jean that Miss Parker was
very kind, and studied their comfort in every way, and that Cook was
behaving very well indeed, and Bland was _most_ attentive. All her
report was thoroughly satisfactory; and she could not help expressing
a hope that dearest Jean would not hurry, but would enjoy herself.
And Miss Leslie found Margaret a very pleasant companion, giving “no
trouble,” and ready to listen for the whole day, if her sister pleased,
and Grace was very well pleased to go on. She was very well pleased,
too, to go on in her viceroyalty, and very liberal to the old women in
the cottages, where Margaret and she paid a great many kindly visits.
And, in short, Miss Leslie’s feelings were of the most comfortable
kind, and her rule, though probably it would have been much less
successful in the long-run, and consequently less popular, was for a
time, to all the dependants who were permitted to have their own way, a
very delightful sway in comparison with that of her sister; and it was
very pleasant to herself to be looked up to, more or less, instead of
being looked down upon.

“I was always fond of you, dearest Margaret, but I never did you full
justice till now,” she said, half crying, as it was so natural for
her to do when she was moved either happily or otherwise. Dear Jean,
no doubt, was a great loss; but then dear Jean was enjoying herself
_too_. Thus the beginning of this exile and retreat was very
pleasant to both the ladies; and Margaret, with her expanded being,
took real possession--with a sense of security and calm which sank into
her heart like a benediction--of her own house.

On the third day after their arrival she had gone out into the park
alone. It was the afternoon, and very bright and warm--too warm, Grace
thought, for walking; but Margaret, in all the ardor of her young
strength, found nothing too cold or too hot. She strayed across the
park in the full sunshine: her broad straw hat was shade enough, and
the long, black gauze veil, which Jean still insisted upon, hung
floating behind her. Her dress, though black, was thin and light. She
had recovered all the soft splendor of health, though in Margaret it
could scarcely be called bloom or glow. A faint rose-tint like the
flowers, as delicate and as sweet, was on her cheek going and coming;
she had a book clasped under her arm, but she was not at all sure that
she meant to read. She made her way through the blaze of the sunshine,
defying it, as foolish girls do, to the clump of trees where she had
rushed, in her despair, to read Rob Glen’s letter on the wet wintry day
when she had caught her illness.

Without premeditation she had started for this shelter; but as she
gained the shade and sat down at the foot of the great elm, the whole
scene came back to her. Her heart woke, and seemed to echo the frantic
beating which had been in it then. What a difference! Winter then,
all weeping and dreary; yellow leaves scattered on the grass, naked
branches waving in the dank air, against the mud-colored clouds; now
nothing but summer--the grass covered with flickering gleams of gold
and soft masses of grateful shade, the sky so blue and the leaves so
green; and, what was more wonderful still, her heart then so agitated
and miserable, now so tranquil and calm. Yes, she said to herself, with
a little tremor, but why should she be so tranquil and calm? Nothing
was changed; three days ago she had dashed through the London streets
in the same frantic flight and horror. Nothing was changed. What did
the distance matter, a hundred miles or a thousand, when in fact and
reality everything was the same? And distance could not settle it
one way or another: running away could not settle it. By word or by
letter, must she not make up her mind to do it--absolutely to meet the
difficulty herself, to confront the danger, not to run away?

Her book dropped down upon the warm, delicious turf beside her. In any
case this, in all likelihood, would have been its fate; but it fell
from her hand now with a kind of violence. Yes! it must be settled--not
by running away--it must be done somehow, beyond all chance of undoing.
Margaret was a child no longer: she had learned at least the rudiments
of that great lesson; she had found that those evils which we have
brought on ourselves cannot be undone by chance or good-fortune. If she
was to reclaim herself, it must be by a conscious struggle and effort;
and how was it possible that she could encounter this boldly, forestall
the next danger, go out to meet the trouble? If he would but leave her
alone, it would not matter so much. She thought she could thrust it
away from her and be happy--too grateful to let the days drift by, to
enjoy her life till the inevitable moment when the long-dreaded fate
must come; and then--?

Margaret’s heart began once more to sing wildly in her ears. Then!
What was it she must do? She was not as she had been a year ago, when
nothing but a frightened acquiescence, compulsion yet submission,
to something against which there seemed no possibility of effectual
resistance, a dreadful fate which she must make the best of when it
came, seemed before her. Now she could no longer contemplate the future
so; she would not be passive, but must act, must make some effort for
her own emancipation: but not yet! not yet! her fluttering heart seemed
to say: though something sterner in her, something stronger, protested
and held another strain. “If ’twere done, when ’tis done, then it were
well it were done quickly.” If a struggle was inevitable, one desperate
effort must be made to get herself free, why should she delay and
suffer so many agonies in the mean time?

A flutter of daring, a sinking of despair, combated in her: and then
arose the horrible question-- If she did summon courage enough to parley
with her fate and ask for her freedom, would he grant it? She had not
come so far as to think anything was possible without his consent.
Would he let her go free? If she could but dare to tell him that she
did not love him, that it was all a mistake, would he believe her, and
be persuaded, and let her go? Awful question to which it was impossible
to give an answer. Margaret felt like a criminal dependent on the
clemency of a monarch, before whom she could only kneel, and weep, and
pray. Would he hear her? Would he waive his claims--the claims which
she could not deny--and let her go free?

When she was in the midst of these thoughts, too much engrossed to heed
what might be going on round her, and secure that here nothing could
be going on, the creaking of a branch, as under a footstep, caught
Margaret’s ear. She looked up, but saw nothing to alarm her, and with
that curious deliverance from all fears or suspicions, and simplicity
of trust which is apt to precede a catastrophe, returned to her fancies
and questions and took no further notice. What harm could come near her
there? She was in the middle of the park, in an island of shade in the
midst of the blaze of sunshine, out of sight of the house, out of reach
of the gate, a place shut up and sacred, where no one interfered with
the freedom of the young mistress of all. It might be a squirrel, it
might be a rabbit; what could it be else? She did not even go so far
as to ask herself what it was; there was not the break of a moment in
her thoughts. Would he let her free? Her word was pledged to him. How
could she release herself from that solemn promise? He was her master
by reason of this pledge. Would he be merciful? would he have pity upon
her? would he set her free?

What was that? A voice: “Margaret!” She seemed to hear it somehow
before it really sounded, so that when the word was uttered it felt
like a repetition. She looked up with a sudden cry. The voice was close
over her head, and the very air seemed to tremble with it--repeating
it, “Margaret!” She sprang to her feet with a wild impulse of flight,
requiring no second glance, no second hearing, to tell her that the
moment of fate had come. She had even made one hurrying, flying step,
with terror in her looks, her throat suddenly dry and gasping, her
strength and courage gone. Was it he? what was it that caught at her
dress? She darted away in terror indescribable; but just as she did so
all the desperation of her case flashed upon Margaret. She stopped,
and, turning round, looked him in the face.

There he stood looking at her, leaning against the tree, holding out
his hands--“Margaret!” he cried. His face was all glowing and moving
with emotion--unquestionably with genuine emotion. No cheat ever got by
guile such an expression into his lying face. Rob was not lying. There
was great emotion in his mind. He who could not look at a girl without
trying to please her felt his first glance at Margaret reillumine all
the first fire of loving in his heart. He had never seen her look half
so beautiful. The health that was in her cheeks, the development that
had come to her whole being, all tended to make her fairer; and even
the improvement of her dress under her sister’s careful supervision
increased her charm to Rob. He was keenly alive to all those signs
of ladyhood which separated Margaret from his own sphere, and which
proved not only her superiority, but his who loved her. She shone
upon him like a new revelation of beauty and grace, tempting in
herself--irresistible in that she was so much above him. But if she had
not been at all above him, Rob still would not have let her go without
the most strenuous effort to retain her. His face shone with the
very enthusiasm of admiration and happiness. “Margaret! my beautiful
darling!” he cried; and he held out his hands, inviting, wooing her to
him. “Do not be afraid of me,” he said, with real pathos in his voice.
“Margaret! I will not come a step nearer till you give me leave--to
look at you seems happiness enough.”

Oh, what a reproach that look was to the poor girl, who, frightened
and desperate, had yet intelligence enough left to see that there was
no safety in flight! Happiness enough to look at her! while she--she,
ungrateful--she, hard-hearted, shrunk from the sight of him! She could
not bear the delight and the petition in his eyes. Instead of being a
supplicant to him for her freedom, it was he who, for his happiness,
was a supplicant to her.

“Oh, do not speak so,” she said, wringing her hands; “do not speak so
well of me-- I do not deserve it. Oh, why have you come here?”

“Why should I have come? To see you, my only love. How do you suppose
I could keep away from you? Margaret, do you think I am made of stone?
do you think I only pretend to love you? You did not think so once at
Earl’s-hall,” he said, coming very softly a step nearer to her. His
look was wistful, his voice so soft that Margaret’s heart was pierced
with a thousand compunctions. She shrank, without venturing to step
farther back, bending her pliant, slight young figure away from him;
and thus he got her hand before she was aware. Margaret shrank still
farther from his touch, her whole frame contracting; but the instinct
of constancy and the sense of guilt were too much for her. She could
not withdraw her hand.

“Oh, Mr. Glen,” she said--“oh, Rob,” for he gave her a startled look of
wonder and pain, “what can I say to you? I do not want to be unkind,
and oh, I hope-- I hope you don’t care so much, not so very much! Oh,”
she cried, breaking out suddenly into the appeal she had premeditated,
“don’t you think we have made a mistake--a great mistake?”

“What mistake, Margaret? Is it because you are so much richer than we
ever thought, and I so poor? Yes, it was a mistake. I had no right to
lift my hopes so high. But do you think I remembered that? It was you I
was thinking of--not what you had!”

“What does it matter what I have?” she said, sadly. “Do you think that
was what _I_ was thinking of? Rich or poor, has that anything
to do with it? But oh, it is true-- I cannot help it--we have made a
mistake.”

“I have made no mistake,” he said; “I thought you the sweetest and the
fairest creature that ever crossed my path, and so you are. And I
loved you, Margaret, and so I do now. A king could not do more. I have
not made any mistake.”

“Oh!” she cried, with a shiver of desperation running through her,
drawing her hand from his, “you may scorn me, you may despise me, but
I must say it. It is I, then. Oh, Rob, do not be angry! You have been
kind, very kind, as good as an angel to me; but I-- I am ungrateful, I
have no heart. I cannot, cannot--” Here Margaret, entirely overcome,
broke forth into sudden weeping, and covered her face with her hands.

Then he took the step too far, which was all that was wanted. How could
he tell it was too far? He would have done it had she been no beautiful
lady at all, but a country girl who had been once fond of him, whom he
could not allow to escape. He put his arm tenderly round her, and tried
to draw her toward him.

Margaret sprang from his side with a quick cry, putting him away with
her hands. “Oh no, no, no!” she cried, “that cannot be, that can never
be! Do not touch me; do not come near me, Mr. Glen!”

“Margaret!” his tone was full of astonishment and pain; “what does this
mean? It seems like a bad dream. It cannot be you that are speaking to
me.”

And then there was a pause. She could say nothing, her very breathing
was choked by the struggling sobs. Oh, how cruel she was, how
barbarous, how guilty! And he so tender, so struck with wonder and
dismay, gazing at her with eyes full of surprise and sudden misery!
Would it not have been better to bear anything, to put up with
anything, rather than inflict such cruel pain?

It was Rob who was the first to speak. There was no make-believe
in him; it was indeed cruel pain, bitter to his heart and to his
self-love. He was mortified and wounded beyond measure. He could not
understand how he could be repulsed so. “If this is true,” he said,
“if it is not some nightmare--if I am not dreaming--what is to become
of me? My God! the girl I love, without whom I don’t care for my life,
my betrothed, my wife that was to be, tells me not to come near her,
not to touch her! What does it mean--what does it mean, Margaret? You
have been hearing something of me that is false, some slander, some ill
stories--”

“No, no! oh no, no! not that, not a word.”

“Then what is it, Margaret? If you have any pity, tell me what it is.
I have done something to displease you. I have offended you, though
Heaven knows I would sooner offend the whole world.”

“It is not that: oh, can you not understand, will you not understand? I
was so young. I did not know what it meant. Oh, forgive me, Mr. Glen.
It is not that I want to be unkind. My heart is broken _too_. I
was never--oh, how can I say it?-- I was never--never--but do not be
angry!--never so--fond of you as you thought.”

She raised her eyes to him as the dreadful truth was said, with the
awed and troubled gaze of a child, not knowing what horror of suffering
she might see, or what denunciation might blast her where she stood.
But Margaret was not prepared for something which was much more
difficult to encounter. He listened to her, and a smile came over his
face.

“My darling,” he said, softly, “never mind; I have love enough for the
two of us. We have been parted for a long time, and you have forgotten
what you thought once. I think I know better, dear, than you. I was
content, and so shall I be again, and quite happy when all these
cobwebs are blown away. I will take my chance that you will be fond of
me,” he said.

This was a turn of the tables for which she was absolutely unprepared.
She could do nothing but gaze at him blankly, not finding a single word
to reply.

“And you shall be humored, my darling,” he said. “I am not such a clown
as you think. Do you suppose I don’t understand your delicacy, your
shyness, my Lady Margaret? Oh, I am not such a clown as you think.
I will wait till you give me that dear little hand again. I will be
patient till you come to my arms again. Oh no, I will not hurry you,
darling. I will wait for you; but you must not ask me,” he cried, “you
must not expect me, to give up my betrothed wife.”

“Dearest Margaret,” said another voice behind, which made Margaret
start, “I have been looking for you everywhere. Here is a letter from
dearest Jean, saying that dear Ludovic is in town, and that she will
bring him with her when she comes. Is this gentleman a friend of yours,
darling Margaret? You must introduce him to me,” Miss Grace said.




CHAPTER XLIV.


Miss Leslie was hospitality itself. This national virtue belonged to
all the Leslies, even when they had little means of exercising it;
and it was intensified in Grace’s case by the fact that she had so
seldom any power of independent action. She was like a school-girl
suddenly placed at the head of a household, and made absolute mistress
in a place where hitherto even her personal freedom had been limited.
And the pleasure of making a new acquaintance was doubled by the
consciousness that there was no brisk ruler behind her to limit her
kindness to the stranger. She insisted that he should come to dinner
that evening, since she heard that he was staying in the village. “Of
course dear Margaret will like to be able to talk to you about home,”
she said. It was not often that she had the opportunity of entertaining
any one; and though Rob, to do him justice, hesitated for a moment,
feeling that his acceptance of the unlooked-for opportunity should
depend upon Margaret, still it was scarcely to be expected that he
could refuse an invitation so manifestly advantageous to him. Margaret
said nothing. She would not reply to his look. She gave Grace a glance
of mingled horror and entreaty; but Grace scarcely noticed this, and
did not understand it. Margaret walked silently by their side to the
house, as if in a dream. She heard them talk, the voices coming to her
as through a mist of excitement and pain; but what could she do? When
Grace suggested that she should show Mr. Glen the house, she shrank
away and declared that she was tired, and was going to her room to
rest; but the only result of her defection was, that Grace herself took
the part of cicerone, and that Margaret, shutting herself up in her
room, heard them going up and down stairs, Grace’s voice leading the
way, as Mrs. Bellingham’s had done on the first night of their arrival.

“Dearest Margaret, do you know you are almost rude to Mr. Glen?” her
sister said, before dinner; “and such a pleasant young man, and so
clever and so agreeable. I am sure dear Jean will think him quite an
acquisition.”

“I hate him!” cried Margaret, with the fervor of despair. When she
heard the words which she had uttered in her impatience, a chill of
horror came over her. Was it true that she hated him, to whom she was
bound by her promise, who loved her and expected her to love him?
She went away to the other end of the room, pretending to look for
something, and shed a few hot and bitter tears. It was horrible, but in
the passion of the moment it seemed true. What was she to do to deliver
herself?

“I don’t want to see him,” she said, coming back, “and Jean would not
like to have him here: I know she would not like to have him here.”

“You will forgive me, darling Margaret,” said Miss Leslie, “but I think
I know what dear Jean would like: she would not neglect a stranger. She
is always very kind to strangers. How do you do again, Mr. Glen?”

And the evening that followed was dreadful to Margaret. Grace, who
liked to study what her companions would like, made a great many
little efforts to bring these two together. “They will like to have a
little talk,” she said, running up-stairs to consult Miss Parker about
something imaginary. “They are old friends, and they will like to have
a little talk.”

Margaret, thus left alone with Rob, grew desperate. She turned to him
with a pale face and flashing eyes, taking the initiative for the first
time.

“Oh, why did you come?” she cried; “do you think it is like a man to
drive a poor girl wild--when I told you that I wanted you to go away?
that it was all a mistake--all a mistake!”

“It was no mistake so far as I am concerned,” he said. “Margaret, you
have given me your hand and your promise; how can you be so cruel as to
deny me your heart now?”

“I did not give you anything; I was distracted. I did not know what you
were saying,” she said; “I did not give you anything. Whatever there
was, you took. It was not I--it was not I!”

“Margaret, my darling!” he said, coming close to her, “you cannot mean
to be so unkind. Do not let us spend all these precious moments in
quarrelling. Will you let me tell her when she comes back?”

Margaret’s voice seemed to fail in her throat, and a wild panic came
into her eyes. She was afraid of his vicinity; she could not bear any
appearance of intimacy, any betrayal of their previous relations. And
just then Miss Grace came back, profuse in apologies.

“I had something to say to the house-keeper, Mr. Glen. I thought that
dear Margaret, as an old friend, would be able to entertain you for a
little while, for I heard you were old friends.”

“From our cradles, I think,” said Rob, significantly. “Miss Margaret
used to go fishing with me when I was a boy, and she a tiny little
fairy, whom I thought the most wonderful creature on earth. There are
traditions of childhood to which one holds all one’s life.”

“Ah!” said Grace, “childish friendships are very sweet. At dear
Margaret’s age they are sometimes not so much appreciated; but as one
grows older, one understands the value of them. Are you going to stay
for some time in our village, Mr. Glen? And are you making some pretty
sketches? That was beautiful, that one of Earl’s-hall, that you sent to
dear Margaret, Dearest Jean was so much struck by it. I am sure it is a
great gift to be able to give so much pleasure.”

“I will make a companion sketch of the Grange for you, if you would
like it,” said Rob; “nothing would give me more pleasure. It is a
beautiful old house.”

“Oh, Mr. Glen! But you are a great deal too good--much too good! And
how could I ever repay--how could I ever thank you!”

Margaret rushed from the room while these compliments were being
exchanged. It seemed to her like a scene from some old play which
she had seen played before, save that the interest was too sharp and
intense, too close to herself, for any play. She felt herself insulted
and defied, provoked and wounded. What did he care for her or her
feelings? Had he felt the least real consideration for her, he could
not have done it. She rushed up the half-lighted stairs to her room,
with passion throbbing in her heart. Oh, that Jean were here to send
him away! though there was, in reality, nobody whom Margaret was more
alarmed for than Jean. Oh, that there was some one whom she could trust
in--whom she might dare to speak to! But to whom could she speak? If
she did betray this secret, would not she be thought badly of, as of
a girl who was not a good girl? How well she remembered the sense of
humiliation which had come over her when Randal Burnside took no notice
of her presence, and did not even take off his hat! Randal Burnside!
The name seemed to go through and through her, tingling in every vein.
Ah! was it because of this that he had looked at her so wistfully, when
he put her into the railway-carriage, to warn her perhaps of what was
coming? Could it be for this that he had told Grace where he was to be
found?

The breath seemed to stop on Margaret’s lips when this idea occurred
to her. She had appealed to Randal before, in her despair, and Randal
had helped her; should she appeal to him again? There was a moment’s
confusion in her brain, everything going round with her, a sound of
ringing in her ears. What right had she to call upon Randal? But yet
she knew that Randal would reply to her appeal; he would do what he
could for her; he would not betray, and, above all, he would not
blame her. That was a great deal to say, but it was true. Perhaps
(she thought) he would be more sorry than any one else in the world;
but he would not blame her. The only other person who _knew_ was
Ludovic; but to Ludovic she dared not appeal. He would think it was all
her own fault; but Randal would not think it was her fault. He would
_understand_. She stood for a moment undecided, feeling that she
must do something at once, that there was no time to lose; and then
she made a sudden dash at her writing-table, scattering the papers
on it, in her confusion. She must not think any longer; she must do
something, whatever it might be. And how could she write an ordinary
letter in such a crisis, with an ordinary beginning and ending, as if
there was nothing in it out of the common? She plunged at it, putting
nothing but what she was obliged to say.

 “He has come here, and I don’t know what to do. Oh, could you get him
 to leave me in peace, as you did before? I have no right to trouble
 you; but if you have any power over him, oh, will you help me? will
 you get him to go away? I know I ought not to write to you about this;
 but I am very unhappy, and who can I go to Oh, Randal, if you have any
 power over him, get him to go away!”

At first she did not sign this at all; then she reflected that he
might not know her handwriting, though she knew his. And then she
signed it timidly with an M. L. But perhaps he might not know who M.
L. was; other names began with the same letters. At last she wrote,
very tremulously, her whole name, the Leslie dying into illegibility.
She did not, however, think it necessary to carry this herself to the
post-office, as she had done the letter to Bell. Grace was not so
alarming as Jean, and the post-bag was safe enough, she felt. When she
had thus stretched out her hand for help, Margaret was guilty of the
first act of positive rebellion she had ever ventured upon. She refused
to go down-stairs. The maid who took her message said, apologetically,
that she had a headache; but Margaret herself made no such pretence.
She could not keep up any fiction of gentle disability when the crisis
was coming so near. And though she so shrank from confiding her griefs
to any one, the girl, in her desperation, felt that the moment was
coming in which, if need were, she would have strength to defy all the
world.

All was dark in Margaret’s room, when Grace, having parted from her
visitor, who had done his very best to be amusing, notwithstanding the
unsatisfactory circumstances, came softly into her little sister’s room
and bent over the bed.

“Poor darling!” Miss Leslie said, “how provoking, just when your old
friend was here. But he is coming again, dearest Margaret, to-morrow,
to begin his sketch. How nice of him to offer to make a sketch--and for
me! I never knew anything so kind; for he scarcely knows _me_.”

Thus fate made another coil round her helpless feet.

As for Rob, he went back to the inn in the village scarcely less
disturbed than Margaret. He had come to a new chapter in his history.
Her coldness, her manifest terror of him, her flight from the room in
which he was, provoked him to the utmost. He was less cast down than
exasperated by her desire to avoid him. He was not a man, he said to
himself, from whom girls generally desired to escape, nor was he one
with whom they could play fast and loose. He had not been used to
failure. Jeanie, who had a hundred times more reason to be dissatisfied
with him than Margaret could have, had been won over by his pleading
even at the last moment, and was waiting now in London for the last
interview, which he had insisted upon. And did Margaret think herself
so much better than everybody else that _she_ was to continue to
fly from him? He was determined to subdue her. She should not cast him
off when she pleased, or escape from her word. In the fervor of his
feelings he forgot even his own horror at the vulgar expedient his
mother had contrived, to bind the girl more effectually. Even that he
had made up his mind to use, if need were, to hold as a whip over her.
It was no fault of his, but entirely her own fault, if he was thus
driven to use every weapon in his armory. He had written to his mother
to send it to him before he came to the village, and now expected it
every day. Perhaps to-morrow, before he set out for the Grange, it
would arrive, and Margaret would see he was not to be trifled with. All
this did not make him cease to be “in love with” her. He was prepared
to be as fond, nay, more fond than ever, if she would but respond as
she ought. No one had ever so used him before, and he would not be
beaten by a slip of a girl. If he could not win her back as he had
won Jeanie, then he would force her back. She should not beat him.
Thus the struggle between them, which had been existing passive and
unacknowledged for some time back, had to his consciousness, as well as
Margaret’s, come to a crisis now.

Next morning she kept out of the way, remaining in her own room, though
without any pretence of illness. Margaret was too highly strung, too
sensible of the greatness of the emergency, to take refuge in that
headache which is always so convenient an excuse; she would not set
up such a feeble plea. She kept up-stairs in her room in so great a
fever of mental excitement that she seemed to hear and see and feel
everything that happened, notwithstanding her withdrawal. She heard
him arrive, and she heard Grace’s twitterings of welcome; and then she
heard the voices outside again, moving about, and divined that they
were in search of the best point of view. They found it at last, in
sight of Margaret’s window, where Rob established himself and all his
paraphernalia fully in her view. It was for this reason, indeed, that
he had chosen the spot, meaning, with one of his curious failures of
perception, to touch her heart by the familiar sight, and call her back
to him by the recollection of those early days at Earl’s-hall.

The attempt exasperated her; it was like the repetition of a familiar
trick--the sort of thing he did everywhere. She looked out from behind
the curtain with dislike and annoyance which increased every moment.
It seemed incredible to her, as she looked out upon him, how she could
ever have regarded him as she knew she had once done. All that was
commonplace in him, lightly veiled by his cleverness, his skill, his
desire to please, appeared now to her disenchanted eyes. The thought
that he should ever have addressed her in the tenderest words that one
human creature, can use to another; that he should ever have held her
close to him and kissed her, made her cheek burn, and her very veins
fill and swell with shame. But, notwithstanding all her reluctance, she
had to go down to luncheon, partly compelled by circumstances, partly
by the strange attraction of hostility, and partly by the distress of
Grace at the possibility of having to take her lunch “alone with a
gentleman!” Margaret went down; but she kept herself aloof, sitting up
stately and silent, all unlike her girlish self, at the table, where
Miss Leslie did the honors with anxious hospitality, pressing her guest
to eat, and, happily, leaving no room for any words but her own. Grace,
however, was too anxious that the young people should enjoy themselves,
not to perceive how very little intercourse there was between them,
and, after vain attempts to induce Margaret to show Mr. Glen the
wainscot parlor, she adopted the old expedient of running out of the
room and leaving them together as soon as their meal was over.

“I must just speak to Bland,” she said, hurriedly, “I shall not be a
moment. Margaret, you will take care of Mr. Glen till I come back.”

Margaret, who was herself in the very act of flight, was obliged to
stay. She rose from her chair and stood stiffly by it, while Grace
ran along the passage. Her heart had begun to beat so loudly that she
could scarcely speak, but speak she must; and before the sound of
her sister’s footsteps had died out of hearing, she turned upon the
companion she had accepted so reluctantly, with breathless excitement.

“Mr. Glen,” she said, trembling, “I must speak to you. We cannot go
on like this. Oh, why will you not go away? If you will not go away,
I must. I will not see you again; I cannot, I cannot do it. For God’s
sake go away!”

“Why should you be so urgent, Margaret?” he said. “What harm am I
doing? It is hard enough to consent to see so little of you; but even a
little is better than nothing at all.”

“Oh!” she cried, in her desperation, “do not stop to argue about it.
Don’t you see--but you must see--that you are making me miserable? If
there is anything you want, tell me; but oh, do not stay here!”

“What I want is easily enough divined. I want _you_, Margaret,”
he said; “and why should you turn me away? Let us not spend the little
time we have together in quarrelling. You are offended about something.
Somebody has been speaking ill of me--”

“No one has been speaking ill of you,” she cried, indignantly. “Oh, Mr.
Glen, even if I liked you to be here, it would be dishonorable to come
when my sister Jean was away, and to impose upon poor Grace, who knows
nothing, who does not understand--”

“Let me tell her,” he said, eagerly; “she will be a friend to us;
she is kind-hearted. Let me tell her. It is not I that wish for
concealment; I should like the whole world to know. I will go and tell
her--”

“No!” Margaret cried, almost with a scream of terror. She stopped him
as he made a step toward the door. “What would you tell her, or any
one?--that I--care for you, Mr. Glen? Oh, listen to me! It is not
that I have deceived you, for I never said anything; I only let you
speak-- But if I have done wrong, I am very sorry; if you told her that,
it would not be true!”

“Margaret,” he said, with forced calmness, “take care what you are
saying. Do you forget that you are my promised wife? Is that nothing
to tell her? Do you think that I will let you break your vow without
a word. There is more than love concerned, more than caring for each
other, as you call it--there is our whole life!”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice sank to a whisper, in her extreme emotion;
her face grew pallid, as if she were going to faint. She clasped her
hands together and looked at him piteously, with wide-open eyes. “Yes,”
she said, “I know; I promised, and I am false to it. Oh, will you
forgive me, and let me go free? Oh, Mr. Glen, let me go free!”

“Is this all I have for my love?” he said, with not unnatural
exasperation. “Let you go free! that is all you care for. What I feel
is nothing to you; my hopes, and my prospects, and my happiness--”

Margaret could not speak. She made a supplicating gesture with her
clasped hands, and kept her eyes fixed upon him. Rob did not know
what to do. He paced up and down the room in unfeigned agitation;
outraged pride and disappointed feeling, and an impulse which was half
generosity and half mortification tempting him on one side, while the
rage of failure and the force of self-interest held him fast on the
other. He could not give up so much without another struggle. He made a
hasty step toward her and caught her hands in his.

“Margaret!” he cried, “how can I give you up? This hand is mine, and
I will not let it go. Is there nothing in your promise--nothing in
the love that has been between us? Let you go free? Is that all the
question that remains between you and me?”

They stood thus, making a mutual appeal to each other, he holding her
hand, she endeavoring to draw it away, when the sound of a steady and
solemn step startled them suddenly.

“If you please, miss,” said Bland, at the door, “there is a gentleman
in the hall asking for Mr. Glen; and there is a person as says she’s
just come off a journey, and wants Mr. Glen too. Shall I show them into
the library, or shall I bring them here?”

Rob had dropped her hand hastily at the first sound of Bland’s
appearance; and Margaret, scarcely knowing what she did, her head
swimming, her heart throbbing, struggled back into a kind of artificial
consciousness by means of this sudden return of the commonplace and
ordinary, though she was scarcely aware what the man said.

“I am coming,” she answered, faintly; the singing in her ears sounded
like an echo of voices calling her. All the world seemed calling her,
assembling to the crisis of her fate. She did not so much as look at
Rob, from whom she was thus liberated all at once, but turned and
followed Bland with all the speed and quiet of great excitement,
feeling herself carried along almost without any will of hers.

The hall at the Grange was a sight to see, that brilliant summer day.
The door was wide open, framing a picture of blue sky and flowering
shrubs at one end; and the sunshine, which poured in through the
south window, caught the wainscot panels and the bits of old armor,
converting them into dull yet magical mirrors full of confused
reflections. There were two strangers standing here, as far apart as
the space would allow, both full of excitement to find themselves
there, and each full of wonder to find the other. They both turned
toward Margaret as she came in, pale as a ghost in her black dress.
Her eye was first caught by him who had come at her call, her only
confidant, the friend in whom she had most perfect trust. The sight of
him woke her out of her abstraction of terror and helplessness.

“Randal!” she cried, with a gleam of hope and pleasure lighting up her
face.

Then she stopped short and paled again, with a horrible relapse into
her former panic. Her voice changed into that pitiful “oh!” of wonder
and consternation, which the sight of a mortal passenger called forth,
as Dante tells us, from the spirits in purgatory. The second stranger
was a woman; no other than Mrs. Glen, from Earl’s-lee, in her best
clothes, with a warm Paisley shawl enveloping her substantial person,
who stood fanning herself with a large white handkerchief in the only
shady corner. These were the two seconds whom, half consciously, half
willingly, yet in one case not consciously or willingly at all, the two
chief belligerents in this strange duel had summoned to their aid.




CHAPTER XLV.


The strangers made their salutations very briefly; as for Randal, he
did not approach Margaret at all. He made her a somewhat stiff bow,
which once more, in her simplicity, wounded her, though the sight of
him was such a relief; but even the comfort she had in his presence
was sadly neutralized by this apparent evidence that he did not
think so charitably of her as she had hoped. Amidst all the pain and
bewilderment of the moment, it was a pang the more to feel thus driven
back upon herself by Randal’s disapproval. She gave him an anxious,
questioning look, but he only bowed, looking beyond her at Rob Glen;
and it was Mrs. Glen who hurried forward with demonstration to take and
shake between both her own Margaret’s reluctant hand.

“Eh, but I’m glad to see you, Miss Margret!” Mrs. Glen said. “What a
heat! I thought I would be melted, coming from the station, but a’s
weel, now I’m safe here.”

“Will you forgive me, Miss Leslie,” said Randal, “if I ask leave
to speak to Glen on business? I took the liberty of coming when I
heard he was here. I should not have ventured to disturb you but for
urgent business. Glen, I have heard of something that may be of great
importance to you. Will you walk back with me to the station, and let
me tell you what it is? I have not a moment to spare.”

“Na, na, ye’ll gang wi’ nobody to the station. How’s a’ with ye, Rob,
my man?” cried Mrs. Glen; “you’re no going to leave me the first moment
I’m here?”

Rob stood and gazed, first at one, then at the other. The conjunction
did not seem to bode him any good, though he did not know how it could
harm him. He looked at them as if they had dropped from the clouds, and
a dull sense that his path was suddenly obstructed, and that he was
being hemmed in by friends as well as by foes, came over him. “What do
you want?” he said, hoarsely. The question was addressed chiefly to his
mother, to whom he could relieve himself by a savage tone not to be
endured by any stranger.

“Me?” said Mrs. Glen; “I want nothing but a kindly welcome from you
and your bonnie young lady; that’s a’ I’m wanting. But I couldna trust
_yon_ intil a letter,” she added, in a lower tone--“I thought it
was a great deal safer just to bring it myself.”

“But I,” said Randal, quickly, “have come upon business, Glen. Miss
Leslie will excuse me for bringing it here, though I had not meant to
do so. I have a very advantageous offer to tell you of. It was made to
me, but it will suit you better. There is pleasant work and good pay,
and a good opening. Could you not put off this happy meeting for a
little, and listen to what I have to say?”

“Good pay, and a good opening? Rob, my man,” said Mrs. Glen, “leave you
me with Miss Margret--we were aye real good friends--and listen like a
good lad to what Mr. Randal says. A good opening, and good pay--eh! but
you’re a kind lad when there’s good going no to keep it to yourself.”

“If Glen will not give me his attention, I may be tempted to keep it
to myself,” said Randal, with a smile--“and there is not a moment to
lose.” He had meant what he said when he pledged himself to serve
her, to do anything for her that his power could reach. Nobody but
himself knew what a sacrifice it was that he was prepared to make.
And there was not a moment to lose. It was evident by the look of all
parties, and by the unexplained appearance of Mrs. Glen, that the
crisis was even more alarming, more urgent than he thought. The only
thing he could do was to insist upon the prior urgency of _his_
business. Could he but get Rob away! Randal knew that Margaret’s
natural protectors were on the way to take charge of her: he made
another anxious appeal. “Pardon me if I have no time for explanations
or apologies,” he said; “you may see how important it is, when I have
come from London to tell you of it. Glen, you ought not to neglect such
an opportunity. Miss Leslie will excuse you--it may make your fortune.
Won’t you come with me, and let me tell you? I can’t explain everything
here--”

“Eh, Rob,” said Mrs. Glen, who had pressed forward anxiously to listen.
“What’s half an hour, one way or another? I would gang with him, and I
would hear what he’s got to say. We’re none so pressed for time, you
and me. What’s half an hour? and me and your bonnie Miss Margret will
have our cracks till ye come back. Gang away, my man, gang away!”

Rob stood undecided between them, looking from one to another,
distrusting them all, even his mother. Why had she come here? They
seemed all in a plot to get him away from this spot, where alone (he
thought) he could insist upon his rights. “How did he know I was here?”
he said, between his teeth.

As for Margaret, everything was in a confusion about her. She did
not comprehend why Randal should stand there without a word to her,
scarcely looking at her. Was this the way to serve her? And yet was it
not for her sake that he was trying to take the other claimant--this
too urgent suitor--away? As she stood there, passive, confused, and
wondering, Margaret, standing with her face to the door, was the first
to perceive, all at once detaching themselves from the background of
the sky, two figures outside, whose appearance brought a climax to all
the confusion within. In the pause within-doors, while they all waited
to see what Rob would do, a brisk voice outside suddenly took up and
occupied the silence:

“I think most likely they don’t expect us at all. You never can be
sure of Grace. Her very letters go astray as other people’s letters
never do. The post itself goes wrong with her. If they had expected
me, they would have sent the carriage. But I declare, there are
people in the hall! I wonder,” said Mrs. Bellingham, in a tone of
wonder, not unmingled with indignation, “if they have been having
visitors--_visitors_, Grace and Margaret, while I have been away?”

No one said a word. Randal, who had been standing with his back to the
door, turned round hastily, and the others stood startled, not knowing
what was about to happen, but with a consciousness that the end of
all things was drawing near. Mrs. Bellingham marched in, with mingled
curiosity and resolution in her face. She came in, as the head of a
house had a right to come, into a place where very high jinks had been
enacted in his or her absence. She looked curiously at Rob Glen and his
mother, who faced her first, and said “Oh!” with a slight swing of her
person--a half bow, a half courtesy, less of courtesy than suspicion;
but Jean was always aware what was due to herself, and could not be
rude. When the third stranger caught her eye, she gave way to a little
outcry of genuine surprise--“You here, Randal Burnside!”

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “You must think it very strange; but I will
explain everything to you afterward.”

“Oh, I am sure there is no need for explanations; your father’s son can
never be unwelcome,” said Mrs. Bellingham, guardedly. “Well, Margaret,
my dear, so this is you! I think either you or Grace might have thought
of sending the carriage; but you have been having company, I see--where
is Grace?”

“Oh, dearest Jean!” cried Miss Leslie, rushing forward, “to think that
you should arrive like this without any one expecting you! And oh, dear
Ludovic, you too! I am sure--”

“You have been having company, I see,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “I trust
we are not interrupting anything. I will take a seat here for a little;
I think it is the coolest place in the house. You had better ask your
friends to take chairs, Grace.”

“Oh, dearest Jean, it is Mr. Glen, the clever artist, you know,
who--but I don’t know the--the--” What should Miss Leslie have said? To
call Mrs. Glen a lady was not practicable, and to call her a woman was
evidently an offence against politeness. “I assure you,” she said in
her sister’s ear, “I don’t know in the least who she is.”

Mrs. Bellingham sat down in the great chair which stood by the
fireplace, a great old carved throne in black wood, which looked like a
chief-justice’s at least. It was close to the door, and served to bar
all exit. Sir Ludovic had come in a minute after her, and he had been
engaged in greeting his little sister Margaret, and shaking hands with
Randal Burnside, whom he was very glad to see, with a little surprise,
but without _arrière-pensée_. But when the salutations were over
he looked round him, and with a sudden, sharp exclamation, discovered
Rob Glen by his side.

“Margaret,” he said at once, “you had better retire; my dear, you had
better retire. I don’t think this is a place for you.”

“I beg your pardon, Ludovic,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “where her brother
and her sisters are is just the right place for Margaret. I have not
the pleasure of knowing the Miss Leslies’ friends--neither do you,
I suppose; but Margaret will just remain, and I dare say everything
will be cleared up. It is a very fine day,” Jean said, with a gracious
attempt to conciliate everybody, “and very good for bringing on the
hay.”

After this there was a slight pause again; but Mrs. Glen felt that this
was a tribute to her own professional knowledge; and as no one else
took up the rôle of reply, she came forward a step, with a little cough
and clearing of her throat.

“England’s a great deal forwarder in that respeck than we are in our
part of the world,” she said. “It’s no muckle mair than the spring
season wi’ us, and here it’s perfit simmer. We’ll no be thinking o’ the
hay for this month to come; but I wouldna wonder if it was near cutting
here.”

Meanwhile, Sir Ludovic had gone up to Rob Glen in great agitation.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “Why did you come here? I never
thought you would have taken such a step as this. I gave you credit for
more straightforwardness, more gentlemanly feeling--”

“There has been enough of this!” cried Rob. Exasperation is of kin to
despair. Amidst all these bewildered faces looking at him, not one was
friendly--not one looked at him as the future master of the house,
as the man who was one day to be Margaret’s husband should have been
looked at. And Margaret herself had no thought of standing by him. She
had shrunk away from him into the background, as if she would have
seized the opportunity to escape. “There has been enough of this,” he
said; “I do not see any reason why I should put up with it. If I am
here, it is because there is no other place in the world where I have
so much right to be. I have come to claim my rights. Margaret can tell
you what right I have to be here.”

“Margaret!” repeated Mrs. Bellingham, wondering, in her high-pitched
voice.

“Glen!” cried Randal, interrupting him with nervous haste--“I told you
I had an important proposal to make to you. When you know that I came
down expressly to bring it, I think I might have your attention at
least. Will you come with, me and hear what it is? I beg your pardon,
Mrs. Bellingham; I do not want to interfere with any other explanation;
but I came down on purpose, and Glen ought to give me an answer, while
I have time to stay--”

“Eh, bide a moment, bide a moment, Mr. Randal; gie him but a
half-hour’s grace,” cried Mrs. Glen. “Speak up, Rob, my bonnie man.”

Randal, though he felt his intervention useless, made one last effort.
“I must have my answer at once,” he cried, impatient. “I tell you it is
for your interest, Glen--”

“I don’t think, gentlemen,” said Sir Ludovic, “that this is a place to
carry on an argument between yourselves, with which the ladies of this
house, at least, have nothing to do.”

“If you will not come, I at least must go!” Randal cried, with great
excitement. He gave her an anxious glance, which she did not even see,
and threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. “I can do no good
here,” he said.

Rob glared round upon them all--all looking at him--all hostile, he
thought. He had it in his power, at least, to frighten these people who
looked down upon him, who would think him not good enough to mate with
them. He turned toward Margaret, who still stood behind him, trembling,
and called out her name in a voice that made the hall ring.

“Margaret! it is you that have the first right to be consulted. Sir
Ludovic, you know as well as I do that Margaret is pledged to be my
wife.”

“His wife!” Mrs. Bellingham sat bolt-upright in her chair, and Miss
Leslie, with a little shriek, ran to Margaret’s side, with the instinct
of supporting what seemed to her the side of sentiment against tyranny.
“Darling Margaret! lean upon me--let me support you; I will never
forsake you!” she breathed, fervently, in her young sister’s ear.

“Silence!” cried Sir Ludovic; “how dare you, sir, make such a claim
upon a young lady under age? If you had the feelings of a gentleman--”

At this moment. Mrs. Glen stepped forward to do battle for her son.

“You may think it fine manners, Sir Ludovic, to cast up to my Rob
that he’s no a gentleman; but it doesna seem fine manners to me. Ay,
that she is! troth-plighted till him, as I can bear witness, and by a
document, my ladies and gentlemen, that ye’ll find to be good in law.”

“Mother, hold your tongue!” cried Rob. A suppressed fury was growing in
him; he felt himself an alien among these people whom he was claiming
to belong to, but of whom nobody belonged to him, except the mother,
whose homeliness and inferiority was so very apparent to his eyes. He
was growing hoarse with excitement and passion. “Sir Ludovic knows so
well what my position is,” he said, with dry lips, “that he has asked
me to give it up; he has tried before now to persuade me that I was
required to prove myself a gentleman by giving it up. A gentleman! what
does that mean?” cried Rob. “How many gentlemen would there be left if
they were required to give up everything that is most dear to them,
to prove the empty title? Do gentlemen sacrifice their interests and
their hopes for nothing?--or do you count it honorable in a gentleman
to abandon the woman he loves? If so, I am no gentleman, as you say.
I will not give up Margaret. She chose me as much as I chose her. She
is frightened, and you may force her into abandoning her betrothed and
breaking her word. Women are fickle, and she is afraid of you all; but
she is mine, and I will never give her up.”

“Margaret,” said Sir Ludovic, taking her hand and drawing her forward,
“give this man his answer. Tell him you will have none of him. You may
have been imprudent--”

“But she can be prudent now,” said Rob Glen, with a smile; “she can
give up, now that she is rich, the man that loved her when she was
poor. Margaret! yes, you can please them and leave me because I have
nothing to offer you. They say such lessons are easily learned; but I
would not have looked for it from you.”

Margaret stood in the centre, in face of them all, with her brain
reeling and her heart wrung. She had a consciousness that Randal was
there too, looking at her, which was a mistake, for he had left the
hall hastily when his attempt was foiled; but all the others were round
her, making a spectacle of her confusion, searching her with their
eyes. What had she to do but to repeat the vehement denial which she
had given to Rob himself not half an hour ago? She wrung her hands. The
case was different: here he was alone, contending with them all for
her. Her heart ached for him, though she shrank from him. She gave a
low cry and hid her face in her hands: how could she desert him? how
could she cast him off, when he stood thus alone?

“You see,” said Rob, triumphantly, with a wonderful sense of relief,
“she will not cast me off as you bid her. She is mine. You will never
be able to separate us if we are true to each other. Margaret, my
darling, lift your sweet face and look at me. All the brothers in the
world cannot separate us. Give me your hand, darling, for it is mine.”

“Stand off, sir!” cried Sir Ludovic, furious; and Mrs. Bellingham,
coming down from her chair as from a throne, came and stood between
them, putting out her hand to put the intruder away. Jean was all but
speechless with wonder and rage. She put her other hand upon Margaret’s
shoulder and pushed her from her, giving her a shake, as she did so, of
irrepressible wrath. “What is the meaning of all this? Put those people
out, Ludovic! put this strange woman, I tell you, to the door!”

“Put us out!” cried Mrs. Glen. “I’ll daur ye to do that at your peril!
Look at what I’ve got here. I have come straight from my ain house to
bring this, that has never left my hands since that frightened lassie
there wrote it out. It’s her promise and vow before God, that is as
good as marriage in Scots law, as everybody kens. Na, you’ll no get it
out of my hands. There it is! You may look till you’re tired. You’ll
find no cheatery here.”

“Did you write this, Margaret?” said her brother, in tones of awful
judicial severity, as it seemed to her despairing ears. They all
gathered round, with a murmur of excitement.

“Marriage in Scots law! good Lord, anything is marriage in Scots law,”
Mrs. Bellingham said, under her breath, in a tone of horror. Grace
burst out into a little scream of excitement, wringing her hands.

“Did you write this, Margaret?” still more solemnly Sir Ludovic asked
again. Margaret uncovered her face. She looked at them all with her
heart sinking. Here was the final moment that must seal her fate.
It seemed to her that after she had made her confession there would
be nothing for her to do but to go forth, away from all she cared
for, with the two strangers who had her in their power. She clasped
her hands together, and looked at the group, which was all blurred
and indistinct in her eyes. She could not defend herself, or explain
herself at such a moment, but breathed out from her very soul a dismal,
reluctant, almost inaudible “Yes!” which seemed the very utterance of
despair.

“Ay, my bonnie lady,” said Mrs. Glen, triumphant, “you never were the
one to go against your ain act and deed. Me and my Rob, we ken you
better than all your grand friends. Weel I kent that whatever they
might say, you would never go against your ain hand of write.”

Rob had been standing passive all this time, with such a keen sense
of the terror in Margaret’s eyes, and the contempt that lay under
the serious trouble of the others, as stung him to the very centre
of his being. The unworthiness of his own position, the bewildered
misery of the girl whom he was persecuting, the seriousness of the
crisis as shown by the troubled looks of the brother and sister who
were bending their heads over the paper which his mother held out
so triumphantly--all this smote the young man with a sudden, sharp
perception. He was not of a mean nature altogether. The quick impulses
which swayed him turned as often to generosity as to self-interest; and
all this while there had been films about this pursuit of the young
heiress which had partially deceived him as to its true nature.

What is there in the world more hard than to see ourselves as we appear
to those on the other side? A sudden momentary overwhelming revelation
of this came upon him now. He did not hear the whispers of “compromise
it”--“offer him something--offer him any thing,” which Jean, utterly
frightened, was pouring into her brother’s ear. He saw only the utter
abandonment of misery in Margaret’s face, the vulgar triumph in his
mother’s, the odious position in which he himself stood between them.
In a moment his sudden resolution was taken: he pushed in roughly
into the group, in passionate preoccupation, scarcely seeing them,
and snatched the scrap of paper she held out of his mother’s hands.
“Margaret!” he cried, loudly, in his excitement, “look here! and here!
and here!” tearing it into a thousand fragments. He pushed his mother
aside, who rushed with a shriek upon him to save them, and tossed the
little white atoms into the air. “I asked for your love,” he said, his
eyes moistening, his face glowing, “not for papers or promises. Give me
that, or nothing at all.”

Sudden tears rushed to Margaret’s eyes; she did not know what had
happened, but she felt that she was saved.

“Oh, Rob!” she cried, turning to him, putting out her hands.

Sir Ludovic sprang forward and took both these hands into his.

“Margaret, do you want to marry him?” he cried.

“Oh no, no, no; but anything else!” the girl said. “It was never he
that did _that_. He was always kind--kinder than anybody in the
world: I am his friend! Let me go, Ludovic! Rob,” she said, going up
to him, giving him her hand, the tears dropping from her eyes, “not
_that_; but I am your friend; I will always be your friend,
whatever may happen, wherever we may be. I will never forget you, Rob.
Good-bye! You are kind again, you are like yourself; you are my old Rob
that always was my friend.”

Rob took her hands into his. He stooped over her and kissed her on the
forehead: he would not give in without a demonstration of his power.
Then he flung her hands away from him almost with violence, and turned
to the door.

“It seems my fate never to be able to do what is best for myself,” he
said, looking back with a wave of his hand and an irrepressible burst
of self-assertion, as he turned and disappeared among the flowering
bushes outside the open door.




CHAPTER XLVI.


Rob issued forth out of the Grange discomfited and beaten, but without
the sense of moral downfall which had been bowing him to the ground.
His heart was melted, his spirit softened. He was defeated, but he
was not humiliated. He had come off with all the honors of war--not
an insulted coward, but a magnanimous hero. “All is lost but honor,”
he said to himself, with an expansion of his breast. His eyes were
still wet with the dew of generous feeling: he had not been forced
into renunciation; he had himself evacuated the untenable position.
There was a little braggadocio in this self-consciousness--a little
even of what in school-boy English is called swagger; but still he had
a certain right to his swagger. He had taken the only possible way of
coming out with honor from the dilemma in which he had placed himself.
He said to himself that it was a great sacrifice he had made. All the
hopes upon which he had dwelt so long and fondly were gone; he was all
at sea again for his future, and did not know what to do. What was
he to do? He could not return to the aimless life he had pursued in
his mother’s house; and by this time he had found out that it was by
no means so easy as he had supposed to get fortune and reputation in
London. What should he do? He could hope nothing from his mother. He
knew well with what reproaches she would overwhelm him, what taunts
she would have in her power. He must do something to secure himself
independence, though for so long he had hoped that independence was
coming to him in the easiest way--a rich wife--not only rich, but
fair--the “position of a gentleman,” most dearly cherished of all
the gifts of fortune--a handsome house, leisure and happiness, and
everything that heart of man could desire. The breaking up of this
dream called forth a sigh when the first elation of his victory over
himself was over, and then he began to droop as he walked on. No
elevation in the social scale was likely to come now. Rob Glen, the
son of a small farmer, he was, and would remain; not the happy hero
of a romance, not the great artist undeveloped, not the genius he had
thought. Thus the brag and the swagger gradually melted away; the
sense of moral satisfaction ceased to give him as much support as at
first--even the generous sentiment sank into a sense of failure. What
was to become of him? He walked on, dull but dogged, going steadily
forward, but scarcely knowing where he was going; and thus came upon
Randal Burnside walking along the same road before him, more anxious
and excited, and not much less discouraged and melancholy than he.

Randal’s face brightened slightly at the sight of him.

“You have come, after all, Glen,” he said; “I had almost given you up.”

“I gave myself up before I came,” said Rob.

“What do you mean? I suppose they were hard upon you--perhaps you could
scarcely expect it to be otherwise; but with your good-fortune you may
easily bear more than that,” said Randal: then he checked himself,
remembering that Margaret’s horror of her lover’s presence pointed to
not much good-fortune. “Let me tell you now what my business was,”
he said, with a sigh. He was too loyal to depart from his purpose;
but though (he thought) he would have given up life itself to serve
Margaret, yet he could not make this sacrifice without a sigh. He
told his companion very briefly what it was. It was an offer from a
newspaper to investigate a subject of great popular interest, requiring
some knowledge of Scotch law. “But that I could easily coach you in,”
Randal said. He went into it in detail, showing all its advantages, as
they walked along the country road. The first necessity it involved was
a speedy start to the depths of Scotland, close work for three months,
good pay, and possible reputation. Rob listened to the whole with
scarcely a remark. When Randal paused, he turned upon him hastily:

“This was offered not to me, but to yourself,” he said.

“Yes; but you know a little of the law, and I could easily coach you in
all you require.”

“And why do you offer it to me?”

“Come,” said Randal, with a laugh, “there is no question of motive; I
don’t offer it to you from any wish to harm you. To tell the truth, it
would suit me very well myself.”

“And you would give it to me, to relieve _her_ of my presence?”
cried Rob. “I see it now! Burnside, will you tell me honestly, what is
your reward to be?”

“I have neither reward nor hope of reward,” cried Randal; “evidently
not even a thank-you. I would not answer such a question, but that I
see you are excited--”

“Yes, I am excited-- I have good cause. I have given her up, and every
hope connected with her; so there is no more need to bribe me,” said
Rob, with a harsh laugh. “Keep your appointment to yourself.”

“Will you take it, or will you leave it, Glen? What may have happened
otherwise is nothing to me--”

“There is the train,” said Rob. “No! I’ll take nothing, either from her
dislike or your friendship--nothing! There are still some in the world
that care more for me than charity. Good-bye.”

He made a dash up the bank, where a train was visible, puffing and
pulling up at the little station--the legitimate road being a quarter
of a mile round, and hopeless.

“Come back!” cried Randal; “you will break your neck. There is another
train--”

Rob made no reply, but waved his hand, and dashed in wild haste over
ditch and paling. Randal stood breathless, and saw him reach the height
and spring into a carriage at the last moment, as the train puffed and
fretted on its way. The spectator did not move--what was the use? He
had no wish to take the same wild road: he stood and looked after the
long white plume as it coursed across the country.

“He has got it, and I have lost it,” he said; but Randal smiled to
himself. A sense of ease, of relief, and pleasure after so much pain,
came over him. There was no longer any hurry. Should he go forward?
should he turn back?--it did not much matter; he had two or three hours
on his hands before he could get away.

The rush and noise of the train was a relief, on the other hand, to
the traveller. As it pounded along, with roll and clang, and shrill
whistle, the sudden hurry of his thoughts kept time. He had not a
moment to lose. Now and then, when its speed slackened, he got up and
paced about the narrow space of the carriage, as if the continued
movement got him on the faster. When he reached London, he jumped into
a hansom and dashed through the crowded Strand to one of the little
streets leading down toward the river. Arrived there, he thundered at
a door and rushed up-stairs, three steps at a time, till he came to a
little room at the top of the house, where the sole occupant, a young
woman, had been sitting, looking wistfully out upon a glimpse of the
river, which showed in dim twilight reflections at the foot of the
street, for it was almost night. Her father was out, and Jeanie sat
alone. She had “nae heart” to walk about the streets, to look in at the
dazzling shop-windows, to take any pleasure in the sight of London.
She was thinking--would she see him again? would he come and bid her
farewell, as he said, “The day after the morn, the day after the morn?”
she was saying to herself, sometimes putting up her hand to brush away
a furtive tear from the corner of her eyes. That was the final day;
after which, in this world, she should see Rob’s face no more.

“Jeanie,” he cried, coming in breathless, “I have come back to you
as I said.” Jeanie stumbled up to her feet, and fell a crying with a
tremulous smile about her lips.

“Oh, I’m glad, glad to see you,” she cried, “once mair, once mair,
though it’s naething but to say farewell! We’re to sail the day after
the morn.”

“The day after the morn.” He took Jeanie’s hands, which gave themselves
up to his as Margaret’s shrinking fingers had never done, and looked
into her pretty, rustic face, all quivering with love and the anguish
of parting. Jeanie had made her little pretences of pride, her stand
of maidenly dignity against him; but at this moment all these defences
were forgotten. He had come so suddenly; and it was this once and never
more, never more in all the world again. “The day after the morn,”
repeated Rob; “then there will just be time. I am coming with you; and
if you will have a man without a penny, Jeanie, it shall be as man and
wife that you and I will go.”

She gave a cry of sharp pain and drew her hands out of his. “How dare
you speak like that to me that means no harm? How dare you speak like
that to me--and you another lass’s lad, and never mine?”

“I am nobody’s but yours,” he said, “and, Jeanie, you need not try to
deceive me. You never were but mine.”

“But that’s nae reason,” she cried, wildly, “to come and make a fool of
me to my face, Rob Glen. Oh, go, go to them you belong to! I thought
I might have said farewell to you without another word; but even that
canna be.”

“There will never be farewell said between you and me, Jeanie,” said
Rob, seriously, “never from this moment till death does us part.”

When Rob Glen, stung at once by the kindness and severity of which he
had been the object, took this sudden resolution, and with a wild dash
of energy, and without a pause, thus carried it out, Randal was left
alone upon the country road, all strange and unfamiliar to him, but
with which he seemed all at once to have formed so many associations,
with two or three hours at his disposal. He stood and watched the train
till it was out of sight, idly, with the most singular sense of leisure
in opposition to that hurry and rush. From the moment when Rob had
dashed up the bank, Randal had felt no longer in any hurry or anxiety
about the train. It did not matter if he lost his train--nothing,
indeed, seemed to matter very much for the moment. He saw the carriage
that contained Rob rush out of sight while he was standing in the same
place: if he chose to spend an hour in the same place, thinking over
the causes which had carried Rob away, what would it matter? He had
plenty of time for that or anything else--no hurry or care--the whole
afternoon before him. Would it not be better, more civil to go back,
and pay his respects at the Grange as he ought? He had rushed into the
house like a savage, and rushed out again without a word to say for
himself. Evidently this was not the way to treat ladies to whom he owed
the utmost respect. He would go back. He turned accordingly, and went
back; still at the most perfect leisure. Plenty of time; no hurry one
way or another.

He had not gone far, however, before he met a curiously-matched pair
coming up along the road together--Mrs. Glen talking loudly and
angrily, Sir Ludovic walking beside her, sometimes saying a word, but
for the most part passive, listening, and taking no notice. Randal
heard her long before he saw the pair on the windings of the road. Mrs.
Glen did not know whether to abuse or defend her son. She did both by
turns. “A fine son, to leave me, that has aye thought far ower muckle
of him, to find my way home as best I can, after making a fool of
himself and a’ belanging to him! But where was he to gang, poor lad?
abused on a’ hands--even by those that led him into his trouble,” she
cried. There was no pause in her angry monologue. And, indeed, the poor
woman, in her great Paisley shawl, with the hot sun playing upon her
head, her temper exasperated, her body fatigued, her hopes baffled,
might have something forgiven to her. “Gentry!” she cried, as she began
to ascend the slope which led to the station, and which Randal was
coming down; “a great deal the gentry have done for my family or me!
Beguiled my Rob, the cleverest lad in a’ Fife, till he’s made a fool o’
himself and ruined a’ his prospects; and brought me trailing after him
to a country where there’s nae kindness nor hospitality--among people
that never offer you so much as a stool to rest your weary limbs upon,
or a cup o’ tea to refresh you. Eh! if that’s gentry, I would rather
have the colliers’ wives or the fisher bodies in Fife, let alone a good
farm-house, and that’s my ain.”

“Mrs. Glen,” said Sir Ludovic, “I am sure my sisters would have wished
you to rest and refresh yourself.”

“Ay, among their servant-women, no doubt--if I would have bowed myself
to that. I’ve paid rent to the Leslies for the last thirty years--nae
doubt but they durstna have refused me a cup of tea; but I would have
you to ken, Sir Ludovic, though you’re a Sir, and I’m a plain farmer,
that the like o’ your servant-women are nae neebors for me.”

“My good woman!”

“I’m nae good woman to be misca’ed by ane of your race! Good woman,
quo’ he! as I would say to some gangrel body. You’re sair mistaken, Sir
Ludovic, if that’s what you think of the like of me, that has paid you
rent, as I was saying, and held up my head with any in the parish, and
given my bairns as good an education as you or yours could set your
face to. If ye think, after a’ that I’ve put up with, that I’m to take
a ‘good woman’ from the laird, as if I wasna to the full as guid a
tenant as he is a landlord, or maybe mair to lippen to.”

“Would you have me say ‘ill woman?’” said Sir Ludovic, with momentary
peevishness, yet with a gleam of humor. “You are quite right, Mrs.
Glen; you are better off, being a tenant, than I am as a landlord. The
Leslies never were rich, that I heard tell of; and if we were proud, it
never was to our neighbors, the people on our own land.”

“Well, I wouldna say but that’s true,” said Mrs. Glen, softened. “Auld
Sir Ludovic, your father, had aye a pleasant word for gentle and
simple; and if it was not for that lang-tongued wife down bye yonder--”

Sir Ludovic, though he was a serious man, felt a momentary inclination
to chuckle when he heard his sister Jean, the managing person of the
family, described as a lang-tongued wife. But he said, gravely,

“In such a question, Mrs. Glen, there is a great deal to be considered.
You would not have liked it yourself, had one of your daughters been
courted without your knowledge by a penniless lover. When you see your
son, if I can do anything for him, if I can advance his interests, let
me know, and I will do it. He behaved like a man at the last.”

“Oh ay; when a lad plays into your hands, it’s easy to say that he’s
behaving like a man,” she said. But she was mollified by the praise,
and her wrath had begun to wear itself out. “I’ll gie you a word o’
warning, Sir Ludovic, though you’ve little title to it from my hands,”
she added. “Here’s Randal Burnside coming back. If you’ve saved your
little Miss from ae wooer, here’s another; and my word, I would sooner
have a bonnie lad like my Rob, with real genius in his head, than a
minister’s son, neither ae thing nor another, like Randal Burnside.”

They met a moment afterward, and Randal recounted what had happened;
how Rob had caught the train, but he himself, being too late, had
intended to return to the Grange for the interval, and was now on
his way there. Mrs. Glen, however, would not return; she was too
glad to be deposited in a shady room where she could loose her shawl
and bonnet-strings, and fan herself with her large handkerchief. Sir
Ludovic, who had “a warm heart for Fife,” as he himself expressed
it, and who had been touched by Rob’s final self-vindication, did
everything that could be done for her comfort, before he turned back
with Randal. But they had no sooner left her, than he fell to talking
with an appearance of relief.

“Thank God, that’s done with!” he said. “It was very foolish of poor
little Margaret; but, after all, it was nothing--nothing in law. My
sister Jean got a terrible fright. There is a panic abroad in the world
about Scotch marriages; but a promise that is only on one side can
never be anything. You don’t seem to know what I am talking of.”

“No,” said Randal, who had gone out of the hall before the climax came.
He looked with bewildered curiosity in his companion’s face.

“You should have told me, you should have told me--what did you know
about it, then? And what were you doing there, Randal? Excuse me, but I
have a right to know.”

“You have a perfect right to know. I knew that Glen had, by some means,
engaged--her--to himself,” said Randal, not knowing how to express
what he meant, reddening and faltering, as if he himself had been the
culprit. “I saw them together twice at Earl’s-hall; and once she was
good enough to speak to me about it. I had taken no notice of her when
I saw them, thinking, as one does brutally, that she understood what
she was doing, as I did. And in her innocence she asked me why? What
could I say but that I was a brute, and a fool--and that if I could
ever serve her I would do it, should it cost me my life.”

“That is the way you young idiots speak,” said Sir Ludovic, with an
impatient gesture. “Your life: how could it affect your life? But you
were neither a fool nor brutal, that I can see. Poor little silly
thing, she thought you were rude to pass her, did she? and what then?
Innocent! oh yes, she’s innocent enough.”

“And then,” said Randal, “she sent to beg me to help her, to keep him
away from her. I managed it that time; and this morning she sent to me
again. She must have seen her mistake very soon, Sir Ludovic, and what
it has cost her. But I hope it is all over now.”

“And you came down here, ane’s errand, as we say in Scotland, for
nothing but to relieve her mind? How did you mean to do it? What was
the business you were so anxious to tell him about? I thought it was a
strange business that you were so anxious to talk over with Rob Glen.”

“It was very simple,” said Randal, coloring high under this
examination. “He is a clever fellow; he can write and draw, and has a
great deal of talent. I wanted to send him off on a piece of work that
had been offered to me--”

“To relieve her?”

“Because I thought he could do it--and for other reasons.”

“I understand.” Sir Ludovic went on in silence for some time while
Randal’s heart beat quick in his breast. He had said nothing to betray
himself, and yet he felt himself betrayed.

After a while, Sir Ludovic turned and laid his hand kindly, but
gravely, on Randal’s shoulder.

“Tell me the simple truth,” he said; “has it ever been breathed between
you that you should succeed to the vacant place?”

“Never!” cried Randal, indignantly; “nor is there any vacant place,”
he added. “Glen took advantage of a child’s ignorance. She thought him
kind to her. She was grateful to him, no more; and he took advantage of
it. There is no vacant place.”

“I see,” said Sir Ludovic; then, after a pause: “Randal, you will act a
man’s part, and a friend’s, if you will leave her to come to herself,
with Jean to look after her. Jean may be ‘a lang-tongued wife,’” he
said, not able to repress a smile, “but she’s a good woman in her way.
She will take good care of our little sister. What is she but a child
still? You will act an honorable part if you leave her to the women:
leave her to be quiet and come to herself.”

“I will follow your advice faithfully, as you give it in good faith,
Sir Ludovic,” said Randal, “if I can do so; but I warn you frankly that
I will never be happy till I have told her what is in my heart.”

“Oh yes, it needs no warlock to see what’s coming,” said Sir Ludovic,
shaking his head; “and there’s Jean’s nephew, that young haverel of an
Englishman--and probably two or three more, for anything I can tell.
But let her alone, let her alone, Randal, I beseech you, till the poor
little silly thing comes to herself.”

It would be impossible to describe what hot resentment against such
a disparaging title mingled with the softened state of sentiment and
amiable friendliness with which Randal felt disposed to regard all the
world, and especially this paternal brother, who was so much more like
a father. “I will remember what you say, and attend to it--as far as I
can,” he said.

“That means, as far as it may happen to suit you, and not a step
farther,” said Sir Ludovic, once more shaking his head.

Margaret was not visible when they got to the Grange. She was supposed
to be in her own room, and unable to see any one; and, what was more
extraordinary, Miss Grace was actually in her own room, and unable to
see any one--having wept herself blind, and made her nose scarlet with
grief, over the separation of the two lovers, and all the domestic
tragedy that had occurred, as Mrs. Bellingham declared, entirely by her
fault. If ever there was a woman to whom the separation of true lovers
was distressful and terrible, Grace Leslie was that woman; and Jean
said it was all her fault! “When I would give my life to make darling
Margaret happy!” cried the innocent offender. “They should have my
money, every penny; I would not care how I lived, or what I put on, so
long as dearest Margaret was happy!” and she had retired speechless and
sobbing, feeling the calamity too cruel. As for Mrs. Bellingham, she
was in sole possession of the drawing-room, where the gentlemen found
her, walking about and fanning herself, bursting with a thousand things
to say. The sight of an audience within reach calmed her more than
anything else could have done.

“What have you done with that woman, Ludovic?” she said. “She was an
impertinent woman; but I’m sorry for her if you walked her all that
way to the station as you walked me. Did ever anybody hear such a
tongue--and the temper of a demon! But I hope I have some Christian
feeling; and after the young man was gone, if you had not been in such
a hurry, as she is a Fife woman, and a tenant, I would have ordered
her a cup of tea.”

“I told her so,” said Sir Ludovic; “but she is comfortable enough at
the station, and I ordered the people at the inn to send her one.”

“I would have done nothing of the kind,” said Jean; “a randy, nothing
but a randy; and just as likely as not to enter into the whole
question, and make a talk about the family. And the way news spreads
in an English village is just marvellous! Fife is bad enough, but Fife
is nothing to it! So you have come back, Randal Burnside--oh yes, you
young men are always missing your train. There’s Aubrey would have been
here with me and of some use, but that he could not get out of his bed
soon enough in the morning. I am very glad Aubrey’s coming; he will be
a change from all this. And I never saw a young man with so much tact.
Are you going up by the next train, Randal, or are you going to stay?
Oh well, if you will not think it uncivil, I am glad for one thing
that you’re going; for I came away in such a hurry, and forgot one of
the things I wanted most. If you would go to Simpson’s--not Simpson’s,
you know, in Sloane Street, nor the one in the Burlington Arcade, but
Simpson’s in Wigmore Street, the great shop for artificial flowers--”

“You need not be at so much trouble to conceal our family commotions,”
said Sir Ludovic; “Randal knows all about it better than either you or
me.”

“Then I would just like to hear what he knows!” said Mrs. Bellingham.
“I don’t know anything about it myself, and I don’t think I want to
know. Randal, what time is your train? Will you be able to stay till
dinner, or can I give you some tea? The tea will be here directly,
but dinner may be a little late for Aubrey, who is coming by quite a
late afternoon train. He said he had business; but you young men you
have always got business. To hear you, one would think you never had a
moment. And, Ludovic, just sit down and be quiet, and not fuss about
and put me out of my senses. Now I will give you your tea.”

Randal, however, did not stay until it was time for his train. Signs of
the past excitement were too strong in the house to make it pleasant
to a stranger; and Margaret being absent, he had small interest in the
Grange. He took his leave, saying he would take a stroll and look at
the grounds--a notion much encouraged by Mrs. Bellingham. “Do that,
Randal,” she said; “I wish I were not so tired, I would go with you
myself, and let you see everything. And I’ll tell Grace and Margaret
you were very sorry not to see them, but time and trains wait for no
man. You’ll give my kind regards to your excellent father and mother,
and you’ll not forget the wreaths at Simpson’s--plain white for
Margaret. No, I’ll not keep you, for my mind is occupied, and I know
I’m not an amusing companion. Good-bye; I hope you will come another
time, Randal, _when we expect you_, and when we will be able to
show a little attention. Good-bye!”

Randal went away with a smile at the meaning that lay beneath Mrs.
Bellingham’s significant words. Should he ever come here as one who
was expected, and who had a claim upon the attention she promised him?
He looked wistfully up the oak staircase and at the winding passages,
by some of which Margaret must have gone. Perhaps she would never know
that he had been here. And at the same time, perhaps, it was better
that he should not see her. She was rich, while as yet he was not rich,
and he had no right to say anything to her; while, perhaps, if they
met at this moment of agitation, it might be difficult to refrain from
saying something. Thus sadly disappointed, but trying to represent to
himself that he was not disappointed, he went through the shrubbery and
out into the little park.

How different it was from old Earl’s-hall! Glimpses of the old red
house, glowing at every corner in some wealth of blossom, early roses
climbing everywhere, wreaths of starry clematis twisted about the
walls, and clusters of honeysuckle up to the very eaves, came to
him through the trees at every turn he took. So full of color and
warmth, and set in the brilliant sunshine of this June day, warm as no
midsummer ever attains to be in Fife--the contrast between Margaret’s
old home and her new one struck him strangely. The old solemn gray
walls, the keener, clearer tones of the landscape, the dark masses of
ivy about the half-ruinous tower of Earl’s-hall, came suddenly before
his eyes. The scene was grayer and colder, but the central figure had
been all life and color there. Here it was the landscape that was warm,
in its wealthy background, and she that was pale, in her dress of
mourning.

He was thinking this, musing of her and nothing else, when he suddenly
saw a shadow glide softly through the trees and stand for a moment upon
a little rustic bridge over the small stream which flowed at a distance
from the house. He started and hurried that way, striding along over
the grass that made his steps noiseless. And, sure enough, it was
Margaret. The fresh air was a more familiar restorative than “lying
down,” which was Jean’s panacea for agitation as for toothache. She was
standing watching the clear running water, wondering at all that had
happened--her sob scarcely sobbed out, and apt to come back; her eyes
not yet dry, and her lips still parted with that quick breath which
told the unstilled beating of her heart. Poor Rob! would he be unhappy?
Her heart gave a special ache for him, then quivered with another
question: Was Randal angry? Did he think badly of her, that he would
not speak?

She looked up hastily, when a step sounded close to her on the path,
and that same fluttering heart gave a leap of terror. Then it stilled
into sudden relief and repose. “Oh, Randal! you have not gone away!”
she cried; and her face, that had been so passive, lighted up.

“I came back,” he said; and the two stood looking at each other for a
moment--he on one side of the tinkling water, she on the bridge. “But I
am going away,” he added: “Rob has gone.”

“Oh, poor Rob!--he was very kind after all: it was a mistake, only
a mistake. It was my fault. I did not like--to hurt his feelings.
You should never let any one think a thing is true that is not true,
Randal. It is as bad as telling a lie. It is all over now,” she said,
looking at him wistfully, with a faint smile.

“And you are glad?” He grudged her moistened eyes and the sob that
broke, in spite of her, into her voice, and the tone with which she
said “poor Rob!”

Margaret did not make any reply to this question; she looked at him
once more wistfully.

“Were you angry,” she said, “that you would not speak? I should not
have troubled you, Randal, but my heart was broken. I was nearly out of
my wits with terror. I did not know how to stand out and keep my own
part. Were you angry, Randal, that you would not speak?”

“Margaret,” he said, “why should you ask me such questions? I am never
angry with you; or, if I am angry, it is for love; because I would do
anything you ask me, even against myself.”

Margaret smiled. Her eyes filled with something that was half light and
half tears. “And me too!” she said.

Thus, without any grammar, and without any explanation, a great deal
was said. Randal went to his train, and Margaret, smiling to herself,
went home across the bridge. Both Jean and Grace heard her singing
softly as she went up the oak staircase, and could not believe their
ears. Grace cried more bitterly still to think that her darling
Margaret should show so little feeling, and Jean was dumfounded that
she should not be ashamed of herself--a girl just escaped from such a
danger, and so nearly mixed up in a horrible story! Sir Ludovic, who
had girls of his own, only laughed and shook his head. “She will have
seen the right one,” he said, with a gleam of amusement to himself.
Perhaps he was all the more indulgent that Aubrey, who was clearly
Jean’s candidate, and far too much a man of society for plain Sir
Ludovic, arrived with the cream of current scandal, and a most piquant
story about Lady Grandton and a certain Duke--“the same man, you
know--all come on again, as everybody prophesied,” that very night.

Rob Glen set off within forty-eight hours for the other side of the
world, with Jeanie as his wife. He had not much more money than would
buy the license that made this possible, and pay his passage, and
would have faced the voyage and the New World without either outfit or
preparation but for a timely present of a hundred pounds that reached
him the night before he sailed. But he never spoke of this even to his
wife, though his mother was aware of it, who--though she would not see
Jeanie--saw him, and dismissed him with a stormy farewell.

“Sir Ludovic, honest man, might well say it was a heart-break to see
your bairn throw himsel’ away--little we kent, him and me, how sooth
he was speaking,” Mrs. Glen said. When it was all over, it gave her a
little consolation to quote Sir Ludovic, what “he said to me, and I
said to him,” when she met him “in the South.”

On the other hand, it cannot be denied that it was a great shock to
Margaret to hear what had happened, and how soon and how completely
the baffled suitor had consoled himself. “All the time it was Jeanie’s
Rob,” she said to herself, with a scorching blush; and for the moment
felt as deeply shamed and humbled as Rob himself had been by her
indifference. And when Jean heard of these two or three words with
Randal, which, indeed, as Mrs. Bellingham said indignantly, “settled
nothing--for after an affair of that kind what is to hinder her having
a dozen?” she was very angry, and planted thorns in Margaret’s pillow.
But Jean will not be supreme forever over her little sister’s life.


THE END.