Theday of the party at Allonby had been a day of pleasure to Effie, but of pleasure she was half afraid of and only half understood. The atmosphere about her had been touched by something beyond her experience,—softened, brightened, glorified, she could not tell how. She did not understand it, and yet she did understand it, and this soft conflict between knowing and not knowing increased its magical effect. She was surrounded by that atmosphere of admiration, of adoration, which is the first romantic aspect of a love-making. Everything in her and about her was so beautiful and lovely in the eyes of her young and undeclared lover, that somehow in spite of herselfthis atmosphere got into her own eyes and affected her conception of herself. It was all an effect of fancy, unreal, not meaning, even to Fred Dirom, what it had seemed to mean.
When love came to its perfection, when he had told it, and made sure of a return (if he was to have a return), then Fred too, or any, the most romantic of lovers, would so far return to common earth as to become aware that it was a woman and not a poetical angel whom he was about to marry.
But at present fancy was supreme, and Effie was as no real creature ever had been, lit up with the effulgence of a tender imagination, even in her own consciousness. She was not vain, nor apt to take much upon herself; neither was she by any means prepared to respond to the sentiment with which Fred regarded her. She did not look at him through that glorifying medium. But she became aware of herself through it in a bewildering, dazzling, incomprehensible way.Her feet trod the air, a suffusion of light seemed to be about her. It was a merely sympathetic effect, although she was the glorified object; but for the moment it was very remarkable and even sweet.
“Well! it appears you were the queen of the entertainment, Effie, for all so simple as you sit there,” said her stepmother. “I hope you were content.”
“Me!” said Effie, in those half bewildered tones, conscious of it, yet incapable of acknowledging it, not knowing how it could be. She added in a subdued voice: “They were all very kind,” blushing so deeply that her countenance and throat rose red out of her white frock.
“Her!” cried Mr. Ogilvie, still a little confused with the truffles; “what would she be the queen of the feast for, a little thing like that? I have nothing to say against you, Effie; but there were many finer women there.”
“Hold your tongue, Robert,” said his wife. “There may be some things on which you’re qualified to speak: but the looks of his own daughter, and her just turning out of a girl into a woman, is what no man can judge. You just can’t realize Effie as anything more than Effie. But I’ve seen it for a long time. That’s not the point of view from which she is regarded there.”
“I know no other point of view,” he said in his sleepy voice. “You are putting rank nonsense into her head.”
“Just you lean back in your corner and take a rest,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you’ve been exposed to the sun, and you’ve had heating viands and drinks instead of your good cup of tea; and leave Effie’s head to me. I’ll put nothing into it that should not be there.”
“I think Effie’s head can take care of itself,” said the subject of the discussion, though indeed if she had said the truth she would have acknowledged that the little headin question was in the condition which is popularly described as “turned,” and not in a very fit condition to judge of itself.
“It is easy to see that Mr. Dirom is a most liberal person,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “and spares nothing. I would not wonder if we were to see him at Gilston to-morrow. What for? Oh, just for civility, and to see your father. There might be business questions arising between them; who can tell? And, Effie, I hope you’ll be reasonable, and not set yourself against anything that would be for your good.”
“I hope not,” said Effie, “but I don’t know what it is that you think would be for my good.”
“That is just what I am afraid of,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, “that’s what young folk are always doing. I can remember myself in my young days the chances I threw away. Instead of seeing what’s in it as a real serious matter, you will just consider it as a joke, asa thing to amuse yourself with. That is not what a reasonable person would do. You’re young, to be sure, but you will not be always young; and it is just silly to treat in that light way what might be such a grand settlement for life.”
“I wish,” cried Effie, reddening now with sudden anger,—“oh, I wish you would——”
“Mind my own business? But it is my own business. When I married your father it was one of the first of my duties to look after you, and consider your best interests. I hope I’ve always done my duty by you, Effie. From seeing that your hair was cut regularly, which was just in a heart-breaking tangle about your shoulders when I came home to Gilston, to seeing you well settled, there is nothing I have had so much in my mind. Now don’t you make me any answer, for you will just say something you will regret. I shall never have grown-up daughters of my own, and if I were not to think of youI would be a most reprehensible person. All I have to ask of you is that you will not be a fool and throw away your advantages. You need not stir a finger. Just take things pleasantly and make a nice answer to them that ask, and everything else will come to your hand. Lucky girl that you are! Yes, my dear, you are just a very lucky girl. Scarcely nineteen, and everything you can desire ready to drop into your lap. There is not one in a hundred that has a lot like that. There are many that might do not amiss but for some circumstances that’s against them; but there is no circumstance against you, and nothing that can harm you, unless just some nonsense fancy that you may take up at your own hand.”
Thus Mrs. Ogilvie ran on during the drive home. After one or two murmurs of protest Effie fell into silence, preferring, as she often did, the soft current of her own thoughts to the weary words of her stepmother, whoindeed was by no means unaccustomed to carry on a monologue of this description, in which she gave forth a great many sentiments that were a credit to her, and gave full intimation, had any attention been paid to her, of various plans which were hotly but ineffectually objected to when she carried them out.
Mr. Ogilvie in his corner, what with his truffles and the unusual fatigue of an afternoon spent in the midst of a crowd, and the familiar lullaby of his wife’s voice, and the swift motion of the horses glad to get home, had got happily and composedly to sleep. And if Effie did not sleep, she did what was better. She allowed herself to float away on a dreamy tide of feeling, which indeed was partly caused by Fred Dirom’s devotion, yet was not responsive to it, nor implied any enchantment of her own in which he held a leading place. She mused, but not of Fred. The pleasure of life, of youth, of the love shown to her, of perhaps, thoughit is a less admirable sentiment, gratified vanity, buoyed her up and carried her along.
No doubt it was gratified vanity; yet it was something more. The feeling that we are admired and beloved has a subtle delight in it, breathing soft and warm into the heart, which is more than a vain gratification. It brings a conviction that the world, so good to us, is good and kind to its core—that there is a delightful communication with all lovely things possible to humanity to which we now have got the key, that we are entering into our heritage, and that the beautiful days are dawning for us that dawn upon all in their time, in their hour and place.
This, perhaps, has much to do with the elevation and ecstasy even of true love. Without love at all on her own part, but only the reflected glow of that which shone from her young lover, who had not as yet breathed a word to her of hopes or of wishes, this soft uprising tide, this consciousness ofa new existence, caught Effie now. She ceased to pay any attention to her stepmother, whose wise words floated away upon the breezes, and perhaps got diffused into nature, and helped to replenish that stock of wisdom which the quiet and silence garner up to transmit to fit listeners in their time. Some other country girl, perhaps, going out into the fields to ask herself what she should do in similar circumstances, got the benefit of those counsels, adjuring her to abandon fancy and follow the paths of prudence, though they floated over Effie’s head and made no impression on her dreaming soul.
This vague and delightful period lasted without being broken by anything definite for some time longer. The Dirom family in general had been checked and startled, they could scarcely tell how, by the visit of the father. Not that its abruptness surprised them, or its brevity, to both of which things they were accustomed. No one indeed coulddefine what was the cause, or indeed what was exactly the effect. It did not reach the length of anxiety or alarm, and it was not produced by any special thing which he had done or said; but yet they were checked, made uncomfortable, they could not tell why.
Mrs. Dirom herself retired to her room and cried, though she would not or could not give any reason for it; and the young people, though none of their pursuits had been blamed by their father, tacitly by one impulse paused in them, renouncing their most cherished habits, though with no cause they knew.
The same indefinite check weighed upon Fred. He had received, to his own surprise, full license from his father to do as he pleased, and make his own choice, a permission indeed which he had fully calculated upon—for Mr. Dirom’s sentiment of wealth was such that he had always persistentlyscoffed at the idea of a wife’s fortune being any special object on the part of his sons—but which he had not expected to receive without asking for it, without putting forth his reasons, in this prodigal way.
But Fred did not at once take advantage of this permission to please himself. Perhaps the mere fact that his father took it so entirely for granted, gave the subject greater gravity and difficulty in the eyes of the son, and he became doubtful in proportion as the difficulties seemed smoothed away. He did not even see Effie for some days after. The first touch of winter came with the beginning of October, and tennis became a thing of the past. Neither was there much pleasure to be had either in walks or rides. The outside world grew dark, and to the discouraged and disturbed family it was almost an advantage to shut themselves up for a day or two, to gather round the fire, and either mutely or by implication consult witheach other, and question that Sphinx of the future which gives no reply.
When this impression began to wear off, and the natural course of life was resumed, Fred found another obstacle to the promotion of his suit. Effie gave him no rebuff, showed no signs of dislike or displeasure, but smiled to meet him, with a soft colour rising over her face, which many a lover would have interpreted to mean the most flattering things. But with all this, Fred felt a certain atmosphere of abstraction about her which affected him, though his feelings were far from abstract. He had a glimmering of the truth in respect to her, such as only a fairly sympathetic nature and the perfect sincerity of his mind could have conveyed to him.
The girl was moved, he felt, by love, by something in the air, by an ethereal sentiment—but not by him. She felt his love, thrilling somehow sympathetically the delicate strings of her being, but did not share thepassion. This stopped him in the strangest way, re-acting upon him, taking the words from his lips. It was too delicate for words. It seemed to him that even a definite breath of purpose, much more the vulgar question, Will you marry me? would have broken the spell. And thus a little interval passed which was not without its sweetness. The nature of their intercourse changed a little. It became less easy, yet almost more familiar; instead of the lawns, the tennis, the walk through the glen, the talk of Doris and Phyllis for a background, it was now in Gilston chiefly that he met Effie. He came upon all possible and impossible errands, to bring books or to borrow them, to bring flowers from the conservatories, or grapes and peaches, or grouse; to consult Mr. Ogilvie about the little farm, of which he knew nothing; or any other pretext that occurred to him. And then he would sit in the homely drawing-room at Gilston the wholeafternoon through, while Effie did her needlework, or arranged the flowers, or brought out the dessert dishes for the fruit, or carried him, a pretty handmaiden, his cup of tea.
“Now just sit still,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, “and let Effie serve you. A woman should always hand the tea. You’re fine for heavier things, but tea is a girl’s business.”
And Fred sat in bliss, and took that domestic nectar from the hand of Effie, standing sweetly with a smile before him, and felt himself grow nearer and nearer, and yet still farther and farther away.
This state of affairs did not satisfy Mrs. Ogilvie at all. She asked herself sometimes whether Fred after all was trifling with Effie? whether it was possible that he might be amusing himself? whether her father should interfere? This excellent woman was well aware that to get Effie’s father to interfere was about as likely as that good Glen, sweeping his mighty tail, should stop Fred uponthe threshold, and ask him what were his intentions. But then “her father” meant, of course, her father’s wife, and the lady herself felt no reluctance, if Effie’s interest required it, to take this step.
Her objects were various. In the first place, as a matter of principle, she had a rooted objection to shilly-shally in a question of this kind. She had the feeling that her own prospects had suffered from it, as many women have; and though Mrs. Ogilvie had not suffered much, and was very well satisfied on the whole with her life, still she might, she felt, have married earlier and married better but for the senseless delays of the man in more cases than one.
From a less abstract point of view she desired the question to be settled in Effie’s interests, feeling sure both that Fred was an excellentparti, and that he was that highly desirable thing—a good young man. Perhaps a sense that to have the house toherself, without the perpetual presence of a grown-up stepdaughter, might be an advantage, had a certain weight with her; but a motive which had much greater weight, was the thought of the triumph of thus marrying Effie—who was not even her own, and for whom her exertions would be recognized as disinterested—in this brilliant manner at nineteen—a triumph greater than any which had been achieved by any mother in the county since the time when May Caerlaverock married an English duke. None of these, it will be perceived, were sordid reasons, and Mrs. Ogilvie had no need to be ashamed of any of them. The advantage of her husband’s daughter was foremost in her thoughts.
But with all this in her, it may well be believed that Mrs. Ogilvie was very impatient of the young people’s delays, of the hours that Fred wasted in the Gilston drawing-room without ever coming to the point,and of the total want of any anxiety or desire that he should come to the point, on the part of Effie.
“He will just let the moment pass,” this excellent woman said to herself as she sat and frowned, feeling that she gave them a hundred opportunities of which they took no heed, which they did not even seem to be conscious of.
It was all she could do, she said afterwards, to keep her hands off them! the two silly things! just playing with their fate. She was moved almost beyond her power of self-control, and would sit quivering with the desire to hasten matters, ready every time she opened her lips to address them on the subject, while Fred took his tea with every appearance of calm, and Effie served him as if in a dream.
“Oh ye two silly things!”—this was what was on her lips twenty times in an afternoon; and she would get up and go outof the room, partly lest she should betray herself, partly that he might have an opportunity. But it was not till about the end of October, on a dusky afternoon after a day of storm and rain, that Fred found his opportunity, not when Mrs. Ogilvie, but when Effie happened to be absent, for it was, after all, to the elder lady, not to the younger, that he at length found courage to speak.
“Mrs. Ogilvie, may I say a word to you?” he asked.
“Dear me, Mr. Fred, a hundred if you like. I am just always most ready to listen to what my friends have to say.”
Which was true enough but with limitations, and implied the possibility of finding an opening, a somewhat difficult process. She made a very brief pause, looking at him, and then continued, “It will be something of importance? I am sure I am flattered that you should make a confidant of me.”
“It is something of a great deal of importance—to me. I am going to ask you as akind friend, which you have always shown yourself——”
“Hoots,” said the lady, “I’ve had nothing in my power. But what will it be? for though I have the best will in the world, and would do anything to serve you, I cannot think what power I have to be of any use, or what I can do.”
“Oh, of the greatest use. Tell me first,” cried the young man, who had risen up and was standing before her with an evident tremor about him. “Shall I have time to tell you everything? is Miss Effie coming back directly? will she soon be here?”
Mrs. Ogilvie felt as if her senses were abandoning her. It was evident he wanted Effie to stay away in order that he might reveal something toher. Dear, what could it be? Was it possible that she had been mistaken all through? was it possible—? Mrs. Ogilvie was not a vain woman, butthe circumstances were such as to confuse the clearest head.
“She has gone up to the manse to her Uncle John’s. Well, I would not wonder if she was half-an-hour away. But, Mr. Dirom, you will excuse me, I would sooner have believed you wanted me out of the way than Effie. I could have imagined you had something to say to her: but me!”
“Ah, that is just it,” said Fred, “I feel as if I dared not. I want you to tell me, dear Mrs. Ogilvie, if it is any good. She is—well, not cold—she is always sweetness itself. But I feel as if I were kept at a distance, as if nothing of that sort had ever approached her—no idea—— Other girls laugh about marriage and lovers and so forth, but she never. I feel as if I should shock her, as if——”
“Then itisabout Effie that you want to speak?”
He was so full of emotion that it wasonly by a nod of his head that he could reply.
“You know this is just an extraordinary kind of proceeding, Mr. Fred. It’s a thing nobody thinks of doing. She will perhaps not like it, for she has a great deal of spirit—that you should first have spoken to me.”
“It is in many parts of the world the right thing to do. I—didn’t know——”
“Oh, it is just a very right thing, no doubt, in principle; but a girl would perhaps think—Well, you must just say your mind, and I will help you if I can. It may be something different from what I expect.”
“What could it be, Mrs. Ogilvie? I have loved her since the first moment I saw her. When I lifted the curtain and my eyes fell upon that fair creature, so innocent, so gentle! I have never thought of any one in the same way. My fate was decided inthat moment. Do you think there is any hope for me?”
“Hope!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “well, I must say I think you are a very humble-minded young man.”
He came up to her and took her hand and kissed it. He was full of agitation.
“I am in no way worthy of such happiness. Humble-minded—oh no, I am not humble-minded. But Effie—tell me! has she ever spoken of me, has she said anything to make you think—has she——”
“My dear Mr. Fred, of course we have spoken of you many a time; not that I would say she ever said anything—oh no, she would not say anything. She is shy by nature, and shyer than I could wish with me. But, dear me, how is it likely she would be insensible? You’ve been so devoted that everybody has seen it. Oh, yes, I expected.—And how could she help but see? She has never met with anybody else,she is just fresh from the nursery and the schoolroom, and has never had such a notion presented to her mind. It would be very strange to me, just out of all possibility, that she should refuse such an offer.”
The pang of pleasure which had penetrated Fred’s being was here modified by a pang of pain. He shrank a little from these words. This was not how he regarded his love. He cried anxiously, “Don’t say that. If you think it is possible that she may learn to—love me——”
“And why not?” said this representative of all that was straightforward and commonplace. “There is nobody before you, that is one thing I can tell you. There was a young man—a boy I might say—but I would never allow her to hear a word about it. No, no, there is nobody—you may feel quite free to speak.”
“You make me—very happy,” he said, but in a tone by no means so assured ashis words. Then he added, hesitating, “Perhaps I should not ask more; but if she had ever shown—oh, I am sure you must know what I mean—any interest—any——”
“Toots!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “am I going to betray a bit girlie’s secrets, even if I knew them. One thing, she will not perhaps be pleased that you have spoken to me. I am but her stepmother when all is said. Her father is in the library, and he is the right person. Just you step across the passage and have a word with him. That will be far more to the purpose than trying to get poor Effie’s little secrets out of me.”
“But, Mrs. Ogilvie,” cried Fred—
“I will just show you the way. It would be awkward if she found you here with me with that disturbed look; but her father is another matter altogether. Now, don’t be blate, as we say here. Don’t be too modest. Just go straight in and tell him—Robert,here is Mr. Fred Dirom that is wishful to have a word with you.”
Fred followed, altogether taken by surprise. He was not in the least “wishful” to have a word with Mr. Ogilvie. He wanted to find out from a sympathetic spectator whether Effie’s virginal thoughts had ever turned towards him, whether he might tell his tale without alarming her, without perhaps compromising his own interests; but his ideas had not taken the practical form of definite proposals, or an interview with the father. Not that Fred had the slightest intention of declaring his love without offering himself fully for Effie’s acceptance; but to speak of his proposal, and to commit him to a meeting of this sort before he knew anything of Effie’s sentiments, threw a business air, which was half ludicrous and half horrible, over the little tender romance. But what can a young man do in such absurd circumstances? Mrs. Ogilvie did not ask hisopinion. She led the way, talking in her usual full round voice, which filled the house.
“Just come away,” she said. “To go to headquarters is always the best, and then your mind will be at ease. As for objections on her part, I will not give them a thought. You may be sure a young creature of that age, that has never had a word said to her, is very little likely to object. And ye can just settle with her father. Robert, I am saying this is Mr. Dirom come to say a word to you. Just leave Rory to himself; he can amuse himself very well if you take no notice. And he is as safe as the kirk steeple, and will take no notice of you.”
“I’m sure I’m very glad to see Mr. Dirom—at any time,” said Mr. Ogilvie; but it was not a propitious moment. The room in which he sat, and which was called the library, was a dreary dark gray room with a few bookcases, and furniture of a dingy kind.The old armchairs, when they were discarded from other regions, found their way there, and stood about harshly, like so many old gentlemen, with an air of twirling their thumbs and frowning at intruders. But to-day these old fogeys in mahogany were put to a use to which indeed they were not unaccustomed, but which deranged all the previous habitudes of a lifetime. They were collected in the middle of the room to form an imaginary stage-coach with its steeds, four in hand, driven with much cracking of his whip and pulling of the cords attached to the unyielding old backs, by Master Rory, seated on high in his white pinafore, and gee-wo-ing and chirruping like an experienced coachman. Mr. Ogilvie himself, with much appropriate gesture, was at the moment of Fred’s entry riding as postilion the leader, which had got disorderly. The little drama required that he should manifest all the alarm of a rider about to be thrown off,and this he was doing with much demonstration when the door opened.
Fred thought that if anything could have added to the absurdity of his own position it was this. Mr. Ogilvie was on ordinary occasions very undemonstrative, a grave leathern-jawed senior, who spoke little and looked somewhat frowningly upon the levities of existence. He got off his horse, so to speak, with much confusion as the stranger came in.
“You see,” he said, apologetically—but for the moment said no more.
“Oh yes, we see. Rory, ye’ll tumble off that high seat; how have ye got so high a seat? Bless me, ye’ll have a fall if ye don’t take care.”
“You see,” continued Mr. Ogilvie, “the weather has been wet and the little fellow has not got his usual exercise. At that age they must have exercise. You’ll think it’s not very becoming for a man of my age——”
“Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “what does it matter about your age? You are just a father whatever age you are, and Mr. Dirom will think no worse of you for playing with your own little child. Come, Rory, come, my wee man, and leave papa to his business.”
“No, I’ll no go,” shouted the child. “We’re thust coming in to the inn, and all the passengers will get out o’ the coach. Pappa, pappa, the off leader, she’s runned away. Get hold o’ her, get hold o’ her; she’ll upset the coach.”
Fred looked on with unsympathetic eyes while the elderly pseudo-postilion, very shamefaced, made pretence of arresting the runaway steed, which bore the sedate form of a mahogany arm-chair.
“You will just excuse me,” he said, “till the play’s played out. There, now, Rory, fling your reins to the hostler, and go in and get your dram—which means a chocolate sweetie,” he added, to forestall any reproof.
If Rory’s father had been a great personage, or even if being only Mr. Ogilvie of Gilston he had been Rory’s grandfather, the situation would have been charming; but as he was neither, and very commonplace and elderly, the tableau was spoiled. (“Old idiot,” the Miss Dempsters would have said, “making a fool of a bairn that should have been his son’s bairn, and neglecting his own lawful children, at his age!” The sentiment was absurd, but Fred shared it.) Perhaps it was the unrelaxing countenance of the young man, as Mrs. Ogilvie seized and carried off the charioteer which made the poor papa so ill at ease. He pulled the chairs apart with an uneasy smile and gave one to his visitor.
“No, I am not ashamed of it,” he said, “but I daresay I would look ridiculous enough to a stranger:” and with this he sat down before his table, on which, amid the writing things, were a child’s trumpet andother articles belonging to a person of very tender years. “And in what can I be of use to you?” he asked.
It was Fred’s turn to grow red. He had been led into this snare against his will. He felt rather disgusted, rather angry.
“I don’t know,” he said, “that it was anything calling for your attention to-day. It was a matter—still undecided. I should not have disturbed you—at a moment of relaxation.”
“Oh, if that is all,” said Mr. Ogilvie with a smile, “I have Rory always, you know. The little pickle is for ever on my hands. He likes me better than the weemen, because I spoil him more, my wife says.”
Having said this with effusion, the good man awoke once more to the fact that his audience was not with him, and grew dully red.
“I am entirely at your service now,” he said; “would it be anything about thewheat? Your grieve is, no doubt, a very trustworthy man, but I would not leave your fields longer uncut if I was you. There is no sun now to do them any good.”
“Thanks, very much,” said Fred, “it was not about the wheat——”
“Or perhaps the state of the woods? There will be a good deal of pruning required, but it will be safest to have the factor over, and do nothing but what he approves.”
“It was not about the woods. It was an entirely personal question. Perhaps another day would be more appropriate. I—have lost the thread of what I was going to say.”
“Dear me,” said the good man, “that’s a pity. Is there nothing that I can suggest, I wonder, to bring it back to your mind?”
He looked so honestly solicitous to know what the difficulty was, that Fred’s irritation was stayed. An embarrassment of another kind took possession of him.
“Mr. Ogilvie,” he said, “I don’t know why I should have come to you, for indeed I have no authority. I have come to ask you for—what I am sure you will not give, unless I have another consent first. It is about—your daughter that I want to speak.”
Mr. Ogilvie opened his eyes a little and raised himself in his seat.
“Ay!” he said, “and what will it be about Effie?”
He had observed nothing, seeing his mind was but little occupied with Effie. To be sure, his wife had worried him with talk about this young fellow, but he had long accustomed himself to hear a great deal that his wife said without paying any attention. He had an understanding that there could be only one way in which Fred Dirom could have anything to say to him about his daughter: but still, though he hadheard a good deal of talk on the subject, it was a surprise.
“Sir,” said Fred, collecting himself, “I have loved her since the first time I saw her. I want to know whether I have your permission to speak to Miss Ogilvie—to tell her——”
Poor Fred was very truly and sincerely in love. It was horrible to him to have to discourse on the subject and speak these words which he should have breathed into Effie’s ear to this dull old gentleman. So strange a travesty of the scene which he had so often tenderly figured to himself filled him with confusion, and took from him all power of expressing himself.
“This is very important, Mr. Dirom,” said Effie’s father, straightening himself out.
“It is very important to me,” cried the young man; “all my hopes are involved in it, my happiness for life.”
“Yes, it’s very important,” said Mr.Ogilvie, “if I’m to take this, as I suppose, as a proposal of marriage to Effie. She is young, and you are but young for that responsibility; and you will understand, of course, that I would never force her inclinations.”
“Good heavens, sir,” cried the young fellow, starting to his feet, “what do you take me for?—do you think that I—I——”
“No, no,” said Mr. Ogilvie, shaking his gray head. “Sit down, my young friend. There could be no such thing as forcing her inclinations; but otherwise if your good father and mother approve, there would not, so far as I can see, be any objections on our part. No, so far as I can see, there need be no objection. I should like to have an opportunity of talking it over with my wife. And Effie herself would naturally require to be consulted: but with these little preliminaries—I have heard nothing but good of you, and I cannot see thatthere would be any objections on our part.”
At this point the door opened quickly, and Mrs. Ogilvie came in.
“Well,” she said, “I hope ye have got it over and settled everything: for, Mr. Fred, Effie is just coming down from the manse, and I thought you would perhaps like to see her, not under my nose, as people say, but where ye could have a little freedom. If ye hurry you will meet her where the road strikes off into the little wood—and that’s a nice little roundabout, where a great deal can be got through. But come away, ye must not lose a moment; and afterwards ye can finish your talk with papa.”
If Fred could have disappeared through the dingy old carpet, if he could have melted into thin air, there would have been no more seen of him in Gilston house that day. But he could not escape his fate. He was hurried along to a side door, whereMrs. Ogilvie pointed out to him the little path by which Effie would certainly return home. She almost pushed him out into the waning afternoon to go and tell his love.
When he heard the door close behind him and felt himself free and in the open world, Fred for a moment had the strongest impulse on his mind to fly. The enthusiasm of his youthful love had been desecrated by all these odious prefaces, his tender dreams had been dispelled. How could he say to Effie in words fit for her hearing what he had been compelled to say to those horrible people to whom she belonged, and to hear resaid by them in their still more horrible way? He stood for a moment uncertain whether to go on or turn and fly—feeling ashamed, outraged, irritated. It seemed an insult to Effie to carry that soiled and desecrated story for her hearing now.
But just then she appeared at the opening of the road, unconscious, coming sweetly along, in maiden meditation, a little touched with dreams. The sight of her produced another revolution in Fred’s thoughts. Could it be for him that soft mist that was in her eyes? He went forward, with his heart beating, to meet her and his fate.
END OF VOLUME I.ROBERT MACLEHOSE, UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW
BYMRS. OLIPHANT,AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.IN TWO VOLUMES.COMPLETEGLASGOW:JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS,Publishers to the University.LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO.1 8 8 6.All rights reserved.
VOL. II.
Effiecame towards him smiling, without apprehension. The atmosphere out of doors had not the same consciousness, the same suggestion in it which was inside. A young man’s looks, which may be alarming within the concentration of four walls, convey no fear and not so much impression in the fresh wind blowing from the moors and the openness of the country road. To be sure it was afternoon and twilight coming on, which is always a witching hour.
He stood at the corner of the byewaywaiting for her as she came along, light-footed, in her close-fitting tweed dress, which made a dim setting to the brightness of her countenance. She had a little basket in her hand. She had been carrying a dainty of some kind to somebody who was ill. The wind in her face had brightened everything, her colour, her eyes, and even had, by a little tossing, found out some gleams of gold in the brownness of her hair. She was altogether sweet and fair in Fred’s eyes—a creature embodying everything good and wholesome, everything that was simple and pure. She had a single rose in her hand, which she held up as she advanced.
“We are not like you, we don’t get roses all the year round; but here is one, the last,” she said, “from Uncle John’s south wall.”
It was not a highly-cultivated, scentless rose, such as the gardens at Allonby produced by the hundred, but one that was full offragrance, sweet as all roses once were. The outer leaves had been a little caught by the frost, but the heart was warm with life and sweetness. She held it up to him, but did not give it to him, as at first he thought she was going to do.
“I would rather have that one,” he cried, “than all the roses which we get all the year round.”
“Because it is so sweet?” said Effie. “Yes, that is a thing that revenges the poor folk. You can make the roses as big as a child’s head, but for sweetness the little old ones in the cottage gardens are always the best.”
“Everything is sweet, I think, that is native here.”
“Oh!” said Effie, with a deep breath of pleasure, taking the compliment as it sounded, not thinking of herself in it. “I am glad to hear you say that! for I think so too—the clover, and the heather, and the hawthorn, and the meadow-sweet. There is a sweet-brier hedge at the manse that Uncle John is very proud of. When it is in blossom he always brings a little rose of it to me.”
“Then I wish I might have that rose,” the young lover said.
“From the sweet-brier? They are all dead long ago; and I cannot give you this one, because it is the last. Does winter come round sooner here, Mr. Dirom, than in—the South?”
What Effie meant by the South was no more than England—a country, according to her imagination, in which the sun blazed, and where the climate in summer was almost more than honest Scots veins could bear. That was not Fred’s conception of the South.
He smiled in a somewhat imbecile way, and replied, “Everything is best here. Dark, and true, and tender is the North: no, not dark, that is a mistake of the poet. Fair,and sweet, and true—is what he ought to have said.”
“There are many dark people as well as fair in Scotland,” said Effie; “people think we have all yellow hair. There is Uncle John, he is dark, and true, and tender—and our Eric. You don’t know our Eric, Mr. Dirom?”
“I hope I shall some day. I am looking forward to it. Is he like you, Miss Effie?”
“Oh, he is dark. I was telling you: and Ronald—I think we are just divided like other people, some fair—some——”
“And who is Ronald?—another brother?”
“Oh, no—only a friend, in the same regiment.”
Effie’s colour rose a little, not that she meant anything, for what was Ronald to her? But yet there had been that reference of the Miss Dempsters which she had not understood, and which somehow threw Ronald into competition with Fred Dirom, so that Effie,without knowing it, blushed. Then she said, with a vague idea of making up to him for some imperceptible injury, “Have you ever gone through our little wood?”
“I am hoping,” said Fred, “that you will take me there now.”
“But the gloaming is coming on,” said Effie, “and the wind will be wild among the trees—the leaves are half off already, and the winds seem to shriek and tear them, till every branch shivers. In the autumn it is a little eerie in the wood.”
“What does eerie mean? but I think I know; and nothing could be eerie,” said Fred half to himself, “while you are there.”
Effie only half heard the words: she was opening the little postern gate, and could at least pretend to herself that she had not heard them. She had no apprehensions, and the young man’s society was pleasant enough. To be worshipped is pleasant. It makes oneso much more disposed to think well of one’s self.
“Then come away,” she said, holding the gate open, turning to him with a smile of invitation. Her bright face looked brighter against the background of the trees, which were being dashed about against an ominous colourless sky. All was threatening in the heavens, dark and sinister, as if a catastrophe were coming, which made the girl’s bright tranquil face all the more delightful. How was it that she did not see his agitation? At the crisis of a long alarm there comes a moment when fear goes altogether out of the mind.
If Effie had been a philosopher she might have divined that danger was near merely from the curious serenity and quiet of her heart. The wooden gate swung behind them. They walked into the dimness of the wood side by side. The wind made a great sighing high up in the branches of the fir-trees, like a sort of instrument—an Eolian harp of deeper compass than any shrieking strings could be. The branches of the lower trees blew about. There was neither the calm nor the sentiment that were conformable to a love tale. On the contrary, hurry and storm were in the air, a passion more akin to anger than to love. Effie liked those great vibrations and the rushing flood of sound. But Fred did not hear them. He was carried along by an impulse which was stronger than the wind.
“Miss Ogilvie,” he said, “I have been talking to your father—I have been asking his permission—— Perhaps I should not have gone to him first. Perhaps—It was not by my own impulse altogether. I should have wished first to—— But it appears that here, as in foreign countries, it is considered—the best way.”
Effie looked up at him with great surprise, her pretty eyebrows arched, but no sense ofspecial meaning as yet dawning in her eyes.
“My father?” she said, wondering.
Fred was not skilled in love-making. It had always been a thing he had wished, to feel himself under the influence of a grand passion: but he had never arrived at it till now; and all the little speeches which no doubt he had prepared failed him in the genuine force of feeling.
He stammered a little, looked at her glowing with tremulous emotion, then burst forth suddenly, “O Effie, forgive me; I cannot go on in that way. This is just all, that I’ve loved you ever since that first moment at Allonby when the room was so dark. I could scarcely see you in your white dress. Effie! it is not that I mean to be bold, to presume—I can’t help it. It has been from the first moment. I shall never be happy unless—unless——”
He put his hand quickly, furtively, witha momentary touch upon hers which held the rose, and then stood trembling to receive his sentence. Effie understood at last. She stood still for a moment panic-stricken, raising bewildered eyes to his. When he touched her hand she started and drew a step away from him, but found nothing better to say than a low frightened exclamation, “O Mr. Fred!”
“I have startled you. I know I ought to have begun differently, not to have brought it out all at once. But how could I help it? Effie! won’t you give me a little hope? Don’t you know what I mean? Don’t you know what I want? O Effie! I am much older than you are, and I have been about the world a long time, but I have never loved any one but you.”
Effie did not look at him now. She took her rose in both her hands and fixed her eyes upon that.
“You are very kind, you are too, too—— I have done nothing that you should think so much of me,” she said.
“Done nothing? I don’t want you to do anything; you are yourself, that is all. I want you to let me do everything for you. Effie, you understand, don’t you, what I mean?”
“Yes,” she said, “I think I understand: but I have not thought of it like that. I have only thought of you as a——”
Here she stopped, and her voice sank, getting lower and lower as she breathed out the last monosyllable. As a friend, was that what she was going to say? And was it true? Effie was too sincere to finish the sentence. It had not been quite as a friend: there had been something in the air—But she was in no position to reply to this demand he made upon her. It was true that she had not thought of it. It had been about her in the atmosphere, that was all.
“I know,” he said, breaking in eagerly. “I did not expect you to feel as I do. There was nothing in me to seize your attention. Oh, I am not disappointed—I expected no more. You thought of me as a friend. Well! and I want to be the closest of friends. Isn’t that reasonable? Only let me go on trying to please you. Only, only try to love me a little, Effie. Don’t you think you could like a poor fellow who wants nothing so much as to please you?”
Fred was very much in earnest: there was a glimmer in his eyes, his face worked a little: there was a smile of deprecating, pleading tenderness about his mouth which made his lip quiver. He was eloquent in being so sincere. Effie gave a furtive glance up at him and was moved. But it was love and not Fred that moved her. She was profoundly affected, almost awe-stricken at the sight of that, but not at the sight of him.
“Oh,” she said, “I like you already very much: but that is not—that is not—it is not—the same——”
“No,” he said, “it is not the same—it is very different; but I shall be thankful for that, hoping for more. If you will only let me go on, and let me hope?”
Effie knew no reply to make; her heart was beating, her head swimming: they went on softly under the waving boughs a few steps, as in a dream. Then he suddenly took her hand with the rose in it, and kissed it, and took the flower from her fingers, which trembled under the novelty of that touch.
“You will give it to me now—for a token,” he said, with a catching of his breath.
Effie drew away her hand, but she left him the rose. She was in a tremor of sympathetic excitement and emotion. How could she refuse to feel when he felt somuch? but she had nothing to say to him. So long as he asked no more than this, there seemed no reason to thwart him, to refuse—what? he had not asked for anything, only that she should like him, which indeed she did; and that he might try to please her. To please her! She was not so hard to please. She scarcely heard what he went on to say, in a flood of hasty words, with many breaks, and looks which she was conscious of, but did not resent. He seemed to be telling her about herself, how sweet she was, how true and good, what a happiness to know her, to be near her, to be permitted to walk by her side as he was doing. Effie heard it and did not hear, walking on in her dream, feeling that it was not possible any one could form such extravagant ideas of her, inclined to laugh, half-inclined to cry, in a strange enchantment which she could not break.
She heard her own voice say after a while, “Oh no, no—oh no, no—that is all wrong. I am not like that, it cannot be me you are meaning.” But this protest floated away upon the air, and was unreal like all the rest. As for Fred, he was in an enchantment more potent still. Her half-distressed, half-subdued listening, her little protestation, her surprise, yet half-consent, and above all the privilege of pouring forth upon her the full tide of passionate words which surprised himself by their fluency and force, entirely satisfied him. Her youth, her gentle ignorance and innocence, which were so sweet, fully accounted for the absence of response.
He felt instinctively that it was sweeter that she should allow herself to be worshipped, that she should not be ready to meet him, but have to be wooed and entreated before she found a reply. These were all additional charms. He felt no want, nor was conscious of any drawback. The noise inthe tops of the fir-trees, the waving of the branches overhead, the rushing of the wind, were to Fred more sweet than any sound of hidden brooks, or all the tender rustling of the foliage of June.
Presently, however, there came a shock of awakening to this rapture, when the young pair reached the little gate which admitted into the garden of Gilston. Fred saw the house suddenly rising before him above the shrubberies, gray and solid and real, and the sight of it brought him back out of that magic circle. They both stopped short outside the door with a consciousness of reality which silenced the one and roused the other. In any other circumstances Effie would have asked him to come in. She stopped now with her hand on the gate, with a sense of the impossibility of inviting him now to cross that threshold. And Fred too stopped short. To go farther would be to risk the entire fabric of this sudden happiness.
He took her hand again, “Dear Effie, dearest Effie; good-night, darling, good-night.”
“O Mr. Fred! but you must not call me these names, you must not think—— It is all such a surprise, and I have let you say too much. You must not think——”
“That I am to you what you are to me? Oh no, I do not think it; but you will let me love you? that is all I ask: and you will try to think of me a little. Effie, you will think of me—just a little—and of this sweet moment, and of the flower you have given me.”
“Oh, I will not be able to help thinking,” cried Effie. “But, Mr. Fred, I am just bewildered; I do not know what you have been saying. And I did not give it you. Don’t suppose—oh don’t suppose—— You must not go away thinking——”
“I think only that you will let me love you and try to please you. Good-night, darling, good-night.”
Effie went through the garden falling back into her dream. She scarcely knew what she was treading on, the garden paths all dim in the fading light, or the flower-beds with their dahlias. She heard his footstep hurrying along towards the road, and the sound of his voice seemed to linger in the air—Darling! had any one ever called her by that name before? There was nobody to call her so. She was Uncle John’s darling, but he did not use such words: and there was no one else to do it.
Darling! now that she was alone she felt the hot blush come up enveloping her from head to foot—was it Fred Dirom who had called her that, a man, a stranger! A sudden fright and panic seized her. His darling! what did that mean? To what had she bound herself? She could not be his darling without something in return. Effie paused half-way across the garden with a sudden impulse to run after him, to tell himit was a mistake, that he must not think—But then she remembered that she had already told him that he must not think—and that he had said no, oh no, but that she was his darling. A confused sense that a great deal had happened to her, though she scarcely knew how, and that she had done something which she did not understand, without meaning it, without desiring it, came over her like a gust of the wind which suddenly seemed to have become chill, and blew straight upon her out of the colourless sky which was all white and black with its flying clouds. She stood still to think, but she could not think: her thoughts began to hurry like the wind, flying across the surface of her mind, leaving no trace.
There were lights in the windows of the drawing-room, and Effie could hear through the stillness the voice of her stepmother running on in her usual strain, and little Rory shouting and driving his coach in thebig easy-chair. She could not bear to go into the lighted room, to expose her agitated countenance to the comments which she knew would attend her, the questions, where she had been, and why she was so late? Effie had not a suspicion that her coming was eagerly looked for, and that Mrs. Ogilvie was waiting with congratulations; but she could not meet any eye with her story written so clearly in her face. She hurried up to her own room, and there sat in the dark pondering and wondering. “Think of me a little.” Oh! should she ever be able to think of anything else all her life?
Effiecame down to dinner late—with eyes that betrayed themselves by unusual shining, and a colour that wavered from red to pale. She had put on her white frock hurriedly, forgetting her usual little ornaments in the confusion of her mind. To her astonishment Mrs. Ogilvie, who was waiting at the drawing-room door looking out for her, instead of the word of reproof which her lateness generally called forth, met her with a beaming countenance.
“Well, Miss Effie!” she said, “so you’re too grand to mind that it’s dinner-time. I suppose you’ve just had your little head turned with flattery and nonsense.” Andto the consternation of her stepdaughter, Mrs. Ogilvie took her by the shoulders and gave her a hearty kiss upon her cheek. “I am just as glad as if I had come into a fortune,” she said.
Mr. Ogilvie added a “humph!” as he moved on to the dining-room. And he shot a glance which was not an angry glance (as it generally was when he was kept waiting for his dinner) at his child.
“You need not keep the dinner waiting now that she has come,” he said. Effie did not know what to make of this extraordinary kindness of everybody. Even old George did not look daggers at her as he took off the cover of the tureen. It was inconceivable; never in her life had her sin of being late received this kind of notice before.
When they sat down at table Mrs. Ogilvie gave a little shriek of surprise, “Why, where are your beads, Effie? Ye haveneither a bow, nor a bracelet, nor one single thing, but your white frock. I might well say your head was turned, but I never expected it in this way. And why did you not keep him to his dinner? You would have minded your ribbons that are so becoming to you, if he had been here.”
“Let her alone,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “she is well enough as she is.”
“Oh yes, she’s well enough, and more than well enough, considering how she has managed her little affairs. Take some of this trout, Effie. It’s a very fine fish. It’s just too good a dinner to eat all by ourselves. I was thinking we were sure to have had company. Why didn’t you bring him in to his dinner, you shy little thing? You would think shame: as if there was any reason to think shame! Poor young man! I will take him into my own hands another time, and I will see he is not snubbed. Give Miss Effie a little of thatclaret, George. She is just a little done out—what with her walk, and what with——”
“I am not tired at all,” said Effie with indignation. “I don’t want any wine.”
“You are just very cross and thrawn,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, making pretence to threaten the girl with her finger. “You will have your own way. But to be sure there is only one time in the world when a woman is sure of having her own way, and I don’t grudge it to you, my dear. Robert, just you let Rory be in his little chair till nurse comes for him. No, no, I will not have him given things to eat. It’s very bad manners, and it keeps his little stomach out of order. Let him be. You are just making a fool of the bairn.”
“Guide your side of the house as well as I do mine,” said Mr. Ogilvie, aggrieved. He was feeding his little son furtively, with an expression of beatitude impossible todescribe. Effie was a young woman in whom it was true he took a certain interest; but her marrying or any other nonsense that she might take into her head, what were they to him? He had never taken much to do with the woman’s side of the house. But his little Rory, that was a different thing. A splendid little fellow, just a little king. And what harm could a little bit of fish, or just a snap of grouse, do him? It was all women’s nonsense thinking that slops and puddings and that kind of thing were best for a boy.
“My side of the house!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with a little shriek; “and what might that be? If Rory is not my side of the house, whose side does he belong to? And don’t you think that I would ever let you have the guiding of him. Oh, nurse, here you are! I am just thankful to see you; for Mr. Ogilvie will have his own way, and as sure as we’re all living, that boywill have an attack before to-morrow morning. Take him away and give him a little——. Yes, yes, just something simple of that kind. Good-night, my bonnie little man. I would like to know what is my side if it isn’t Rory? You are meaning the female side. Well, and if I had not more consideration for your daughter than you have for my son——”
“Listen to her!” said Mr. Ogilvie, “her son! I like that.”
“And whose son may he be? But you’ll not make me quarrel whatever you do—and on this night of all others. Effie, here is your health, my dear, and I wish you every good. We will have to write to Eric, and perhaps he might get home in time. What was that Eric said, Robert, about getting short leave? It is a very wasteful thing coming all the way from India, and only six weeks or so to spend at home. Still, if there was a good reason for it——”
“Is Eric coming home? have you got a letter? But you could not have got a letter since the morning,” cried Effie.
“No; but other things may have happened since the morning,” said Mrs. Ogilvie with a nod and a smile. Effie could not understand the allusions which rained upon her. She retreated more and more into herself, merely listening to the talk that went on across her. She sat at her usual side of the table, eating little, taking no notice. It did not occur to her that what had happened in the wood concerned any one but herself. After all, what was it? Nothing to disturb anybody, not a thing to be talked about. To try to please her—that was all he had asked, and who could have refused him a boon so simple? It was silly of her even, she said to herself, to be so confused by it, so absorbed thinking about it, growing white and red, as if something had happened; when nothing hadhappened except that he was to try to please her—as if she were so hard to please!
But Effie was more and more disturbed when her stepmother turned upon her as soon as the dining-room door was closed, and took her by the shoulders again.
“You little bit thing, you little quiet thing!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “To think you should have got the prize that never took any thought of it, whereas many another nice girl!—I am just as proud as if it was myself: and he is good as well as rich, and by no means ill-looking, and a very pleasant young man. I have always felt like a mother to you, Effie, and always done my duty, I hope. Just you trust in me as if I were your real mother. Where did ye meet him? And were you very much surprised? and what did he say?”
Effie grew red from the soles of her feet, she thought, to the crown of her head, shame or rather shamefacedness, its innocentcounterpart, enveloping her like a mantle. Her eyes fell before her stepmother’s, but she shook herself free of Mrs. Ogilvie’s hold.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh fie, Effie, fie! You may not intend to show me any confidence, which will be very ill done on your part: but you cannot pretend not to know what I mean. It was me that had pity upon the lad, and showed him the way you were coming. I have always been your well-wisher, doing whatever I could. And to tell me that you don’t know what I mean!”
Effie had her little obstinacies as well as another. She was not so perfect as Fred Dirom thought. She went and got her knitting,—a little stocking for Rory,—work which she was by no means devoted to on ordinary occasions. But she got it out now, and sat down in a corner at a distance from the table and the light, and began to knit as if her life depended upon it.
“I must get this little stocking finished. It has been so long in hand,” she said.
“Well, that is true,” said Mrs, Ogilvie, who had watched all Effie’s proceedings with a sort of vexed amusement; “very true, and I will not deny it. You have had other things in your mind; still, to take a month to a bit little thing like that, that I could do in two evenings! But you’re very industrious all at once. Will you not come nearer to the light?”
“I can see very well where I am,” said Effie shortly.
“I have no doubt you can see very well where you are, for there is little light wanted for knitting a stocking. Still you would be more sociable if you would come nearer. Effie Ogilvie!” she cried suddenly, “you will never tell me that you have sent him away?”
Effie looked at her with defiance in her eyes, but she made no reply.
“Lord bless us!” said her stepmother; “you will not tell me you have done such a thing? Effie, are you in your senses, girl? Mr. Fred Dirom, the best match in the county, that might just have who he liked,—that has all London to pick and choose from,—and yet comes out of his way to offer himself to a—to a—just a child like you. Robert,” she said, addressing her husband, who was coming in tranquilly for his usual cup of tea, “Robert! grant us patience! I’m beginning to think she has sent Fred Dirom away!”
“Where has she sent him to?” said Mr. Ogilvie with a glance half angry, half contemptuous from under his shaggy eyebrows. Then he added, “But that will never do, for I have given the young man my word.”
Effie had done her best to go on with her knitting, but the needles had gone all wrong in her hands: she had slipped her stitches, her wool had got tangled. She could not see what she was doing. She gotup, letting the little stocking drop at her feet, and stood between the two, who were both eyeing her so anxiously.
“I wish,” she said, “that you would let me alone. I am doing nothing to anybody. I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that. What have I done? I have done nothing that is wrong. Oh, I wish—I wish Uncle John was here!” she exclaimed suddenly, and in spite of herself and all her pride and defensive instincts, suddenly began to cry, like the child she still was.
“It would be a very good thing if he were here; he would perhaps bring you to your senses. A young man that you have kept dancing about you all the summer, and let him think you liked his society, and was pleased to see him when he came, and never a thought in your head of turning him from the door. And now when he has spoken to your father, and offered himself and all, in the most honourable way.Dear bless me, Effie, what has the young man done to you that you have led him on like this, and made a fool of him, and then to send him away?”
“I have never led him on,” cried Effie through her tears. “I have not made a fool of him. If he liked to come, that was nothing to anybody, and I never—never——”
“It is very easy to speak. Perhaps you think a young man has no pride? when they are just made up of it! Yes—you have led him on: and now he will be made a fool of before all the county. For everybody has seen it; it will run through the whole countryside; and the poor young man will just be scorned everywhere, that has done no harm but to think more of you than you deserve.”