“Oh mercy! to myself I said,If Lucy should be dead!”
“Oh mercy! to myself I said,If Lucy should be dead!”
“Oh mercy! to myself I said,If Lucy should be dead!”
The thought was natural enough, so far as Isabell was concerned, but it filled Marjory with remorse as she hurried forward. If Isabell were to die before, one way or other, this matter was cleared up!—it was but too likely she would; but the thought seemed to lend wings to Marjory’s feet.
In the little cottage chamber, however, which she thought so still, there was pain enough to demonstrate life, could she but have known. It was a dark little room at all times, for though there were two windows, these windows were little casements composed of very small and very dim panes of greenish glass—one in the front of the house towards the sea, and the other to the back. A smouldering fire burned in the grate, at which stood Isabell’s mother in her white mutch, making tea for her invalid. Isabell herself lay in the box, or press-bed, fitted into the wall, which is universal in such cottages. From the airless wooden enclosure her pale face looked out strangely, most unlike, in its pathetic beauty, to everything about. The mother’s back was turned, but between the fire and the bed sat Agnes, her ruddy, comely countenance overcast with vexation and care. She was doing nothing, her head was thrown back listlessly, and her hands laid in her lap. They were brown hands, bearing the traces of toil, and their idleness had a certain pathos in it. She sat, too, almost in the middle of the room, as if she had thrown herself down by chance, not knowing, or not caring where. As the mother went and came she stumbled over Agnes’s foot, or her chair, and uttered a little querulous exclamation: “Canna you sit in a corner? canna ye get something to do?” she said. “I canna bide to see a woman doing naething; take John’s stockings, if you’ll do nothing else.”
“I have nae heart for stockings, or anything else!” said Agnes with a sigh.
“Eh, woman! if I had been like that how could I have brought you all up?” said the mother. “Seven of a family, and no a penny nor a penny’s worth in the world. Do ye think I hadna often asair heart? and many a time darena sit down, for fear I should be ower tired to rise again. What are your bits of trouble to that?”
“Do you call yon a bit trouble?” said Agnes, pointing to her sister’s bed. The mother’s countenance darkened; she turned towards the fire again, turning her back on her sick daughter. “I dinna call that trouble at all,” she said; “that’s sin and shame.”
“Eh, mother, ye’re hard, hard! will ye never believe it—not even since you’ve seen Miss—her man’s sister. Will ye no believe her, even now?”
“Dinna speak to me of her man,” said the old woman indignantly, pouring the boiling water upon the tea with a certain vindictive movement. All this conversation was carried on in an undernote, that Isabell might not hear. “Her man has been a bonnie man to her; whatever was his meaning; he’s brought her naething but misery and shame. What had she to do, giving ear to ane o’ thae gentlemen with their false tongues? Gentlemen! I wouldna give an honest man for ten gentlemen—and so it’s seen. Give her her tea; I havena the heart to look at her white face,” said the mother, turning away; she went and sat down noiselessly in the room, and put up her apron to her eyes. How many different kinds of suffering were shut up there together, all separate, and keeping themselves apart!
The tea was made in silence—the one cordial of poor women’s lives—and then the little group subsided once more into their places.
“Have you any word from John?” said the mother, this time loud enough for all to hear.
“I have aye word from John,” said Agnes, with a tone of indignation; “whatever happens, he never misses his day.”
“But you’ve come to nae settlement yet about what’s to be done. It’s a wise bargain you’ve made, him and you—as wise almost as some other folk; to wait—till when?”
“Till I’m gone, mother!” said Isabell. “Oh, if you would have patience! I’ll no be long. I feel the wheel breaking at the fountain, and the silver chain being sundered, as the Bible says. When I’m gone, there will be nae motive for keeping up all this trouble. I’ve been making a terrible stir and commotion, I know that; no for me—and yet I mustna conceal the truth—I had some thought for myself, too; to die so young is sore enough without shame. But if God will have me bear shame, I must put up with it; and you must put up with it, Agnes. John’s a good man; he’ll never upbraid you with your poor sister, that ye did so much for; and you’ll take my bairn. He’ll never ken he had a mother but you—and you’ll be good—oh, you’ll be good to him! No, why should I greet?” she went on, looking with apparent surprise at a tiny drop that fell on her coverlet; “we must accept what God sends.”
“Oh, hold your tongue, hold your tongue!” cried the mother; “God never sent wickedness. I’ll no be contradictit in my own house—though, to be sure, it’s no my house, for that matter. We were a’ proud of your bonnie face, and your genty ways;and our pride’s had a fa’; yes, you may see, even your bonnie leddy that you were so sure of—your man’s sister, as ye say—has come back no more. She’s given ye up like a’ the rest; and everybody will give ye up—till you humble yourself, Bell, and put away all your pretences, and do what Magdalen did. But naebody in heaven or earth will show mercy to a lie.”
“Mother, you’re that hard that ye make me sick,” cried Agnes. “It’s no a lie.”
“Let her prove it, then!” said the mother solemnly. She was in accord with Mr. Charles, with Fanshawe, with all others except Marjory, who had heard the tale. As for Agnes, she started up from her seat as if unable to bear any more.
“I maun be away again,” she cried; “I canna stand it longer. If your grand leddies and your fine gentlemen will do nothing for her, I’ll take up my work again, myself—and I’ll clear ye yet, Bell. I’ll away to Edinburgh this very day, and see John; maybe him and me can think of something else. I’m ’maist glad they’ve failed ye!” cried the girl, with tears in her eyes; “for now I’ll never rest day or night till I’ve done it myself.”
“You’ll think first what you’re doing,” said the mother; “going to visit a man that has no heart to marry ye; mind what’s happened to your sister, and take heed for yourself.”
“Oh, woman!” cried Agnes, turning upon her wildly—while poor Isabell, struck by this unexpected assault, lay back upon her pillows feebly sobbing; and it was at this moment that Marjory knocked at the cottage door.
Therecould not have been a more striking welcome than the celestial glimmer of light which came over Isabell’s countenance at this sight. She stayed her weeping with an effort, she held out her thin hands; she looked at the new-comer with pathetic delight.
“Oh, you’ve come, you’ve come at last!” she cried with an unconscious reproach. She was so weak that the fit of weeping which she had restrained, interrupted her by an involuntary long-drawn sob now and then, like the sobbing of a child and Marjory thought that this sobbing too was her fault.
“I thought you would never come,” said Isabell, “it makes me nigh well to see you. Oh no, Miss Heriot, I’m no worse; I’m wearing away, wearing away, but no faster than everybody expected. Oh, it does me good to see you—to say your name.”
“Did you ever hear of me—from—Tom?” said Marjory with hesitation, yet with a generous desire to make up for her late failure in interest. She had not melted into any familiarity as a more gushing nature might have done. Poor Isabell! this gave her an excuse to weep quietly, to expend her half-shed tears.
“Oh, I never called him by that name,” shesaid, “I daredna’. It was aye his desire I should, but I never could say anything but Mr. Heriot. I liked to say it; it seemed like himself, grander than me, far above me—I was never anything but Isabell. Yes, Miss Heriot, he said once how good ye were, and that, whoever was hard, you would be kind. He called you May—is that your name?”
“Yes, that is my name.” Marjory could not unbend altogether, could not tell this girl, though her heart yearned towards her, to call her by that name, to call her sister, as so many effusive girls would have done. She answered quite simply and shortly without further expansion. Was it true that she would have been kind whoever had been cruel? Marjory had not much faith in herself so far as this was concerned. She remembered the horror which had taken possession of her when she had thought of this young woman becoming the mistress of Pitcomlie. All such feelings had fled away now; but yet she could not feel that Tom had any reason for his confidence in her. “I came to warn you, my poor Isabell,” she said, “my uncle is anxious to come, to speak to you about all this; you must know that it is a very important matter for us. He is the only one remaining who has any right to interfere, and he wishes to come, to question you. He is an old man, and very kind; but he will not be satisfied unless he sees you himself; if it is not too much for you—”
“Oh,” cried Isabell, with a long-drawn breath, “naething’s too much for me! I’ll be glad, glad to tell him all I can, to do anything I can to satisfyhim or you. It’s hard to tell the truth and find nobody to believe you; but all I can do is to tell him, and leave the rest to God, Miss Heriot. Eh, what cause I have to trust in Him! A while ago I thought I never would hear the name again; and now there will be Heriots a’ about me—you that are my kindest friend—and this gentleman. If it was not too much trouble, oh, might I see the bonnie little lady with the gold hair that Agnes says is like my baby? He’s a Heriot too,” said poor Isabell, with a wistful upward glance at Marjory’s face. She was trustful, but yet afraid. She made a little fluttering movement towards something beside her in the bed, something that Marjory had not seen till this moment, and only divined now. “He’s a Heriot too,” the young mother pleaded, “oh, may I let you see him? If I once saw him in your arms I would be happy—”
“Bell!” said Agnes, in a voice of angry warning, “you said the bairn was to be mine, John’s and mine—no an hour ago before this leddy came, you said it. It’s her mainner and her voice and her flattering ways that have taken your heart.”
“It’s no that,” said Isabell, “I’m doing you no wrong. You will be a mother to him, and he’ll ken no other mother; but I would like Miss Heriot to take him just once in her arms, just to give him a kiss for his father’s sake, just to see if he’s no like his father. If it was no more than that—no to take him from you that have the best right—”
“My daughters, mem, are not civil to me,” said the old woman coming forward for the first time.“You hear the one say that’s it the other that has the best right; yet this bairn was born under my auld roof, and put first into my auld arms, me that bore his mother, and bred her up by the toil of my hands and the sweat of my brow. They think I’ve naething to do with it; that I’m to sit by and hear him given away from one to another and never say a word.”
“It’s John and me,” said Agnes breaking in, “that can do best for the bairn.”
“And who will love him best?” said the old mother, “you will have bairns of your ain. You will push him by and make no account of him. He will have the orphan’s fate. He will eat the bread of tears, he will have to bide in his corner, and haud his tongue, and walk wary, wary, lest worst should befall him.”
Here Isabell turned with a cry to the unconscious infant at her side. They pierced her gentle soul with a hundred poisoned arrows without meaning it. Poor people do not build up foolish pictures of possible recovery round their dying up to the last moment, as some of us do. They never throw any sort of doubt upon that certain and near approaching termination. Not even a charitable suggestion that she might live to watch her child’s growth was made by any one; nor did Isabell expect it. Perhaps on the whole this was the most real kindness, and it was the only treatment she had ever been used to; but yet in her delicate soul, she felt the want of tenderness without knowing how it was.
Meanwhile Marjory sat by bewildered, and listened to this dispute in confusion. She tried to interrupt them more than once, but their eager voices were too much for her. The strife was a generous strife in its way; but was it possible that they did not know if his mother’s marriage was proved what the child must become at once? She interposed at last as calmly as she could.
“If all the proof is obtained that will be necessary,” she said, “if the marriage is proved, and everybody satisfied” (at these words Isabell turned round, took her hand and kissed it gratefully, while her mother retreated to the furthest corner, persistently shaking her head, and uttering sighs that were deep enough to be groans), “then I think our family will have to be consulted. It is not quite so simple as you think. There will be something also for us to do.”
The old woman came back from her corner of the room, and Isabell turned wistful, smiling, beaming upon the speaker.
“Oh,” she said, “it was what I aye hoped, but I daredna ask. My wee man will not have the hard life we’ve all been born to? Oh, I’m joyful, joyful of that! not for the money, Miss Heriot; but if you knew the difference of him and you, folk that have been gently nurtured as they say in books, from the like of us; gently nurtured, that’s what I would like—learned to speak soft, and think of others’ feelings, and move quiet and be like him and you. Without money that cannot be; if he’s to bebrought up to work for his living like the rest, that cannot be.”
“If you mean the rest of my bairns, Isabell,” said her mother, hotly, “your wean will be real well off if he’s like them. An honest working man may look any gentleman in the face. I’ve aye trained ye up to that.”
“Ay, mother,” said Isabell, “that’s very true; but a gentleman’s son is no like a ploughman’s son; and oh, if my boy might be like his father! They’ll no let me speak of his father; but Miss Heriot, I may to you.”
“Yes,” said Marjory, faintly. A fastidious cloud had come over her again. Tom, poor Tom, had not been to her an ideal being; it seemed to her that his education, and the result of it, might both be improved in a new human creature. But poor Isabell thought differently; a new world opened before her eyes, which were full of tears, grateful tears, made sweet by an unexpected and unlooked for gladness.
“Oh, if I could live to see it!” she sighed, with a quivering smile. It was the first time that such a possibility had occurred to her. She threw a wistful glance into the future, which she must never see, and for one moment longed to live. Then for another moment the tears turned salt and bitter. “But that mayna be,” she added, still more low. No, she could not live to see it; but still this sunset gleam had given a gentle radiance to her life.
“A little siller is aye a good thing. I’m veryglad the bairn’s provided for,” said the old woman, looking at Marjory keenly. Pride kept her from further inquiry; her ears were keenly open, and her mind intent to find out more fully what was meant; but she would have died sooner than ask a question. Somehow, however, this simple speech of Marjory’s changed the aspect of affairs to Isabell’s mother. It gave a probability to the story of the marriage, which it had never hitherto possessed in her eyes; the moment that money is involved it gives reality to everything. The old woman’s feeling was very different from that vague sense of beatitude with which Isabell herself regarded the possibility of her child’s future wealth; but Marjory was instantly aware of the deepened interest, the increased disposition to believe the story true. She went on to comment on what news she had of the search in which everything was involved.
“The gentleman you saw,” she said, addressing Agnes, and feeling, to her great annoyance, that she blushed, “has gone off in search of these people. He is to go to Guernsey; first and in the meantime we have put advertisements in all the papers for John Macgregor.”
“Adver-tisements!” said Agnes, with dismay. “To give him notice that he may get out of the way and hide himself.”
“Why should he get out of the way and hide himself?”
“It is how they aye do,” said Agnes, obstinately adhering to her own theory. “Whenever a man is wanted for anything, that’s what aye happens. AndI would do it myself. If there was an adver-tisement for me in the papers, I would leave my place, or change my lodgings in a moment. Eh, that would I! I would not let myself be taken in a net. And John Macgregor’s no a fool—no such a fool as to come for an advertisement. Na, Miss Heriot, it would have been better to have left it to me.”
The mother drew near, also interested in this question. It was the first time she had taken any distinct interest in it.
“I ken naething about it,” she said, “but putting a man’s name in the papers is like sending a hue and cry after him. I ken John Macgregor, though I put nae trust in him. Ye’ll never tell me that he’ll be brought back by that.”
“No,” said Agnes. They both came near, and stood by shaking their heads; while Isabell, with a face which gradually grew more and more keen with anxiety, raised her eyes to Marjory, and put her thin hands together.
“It’s my last hope,” she said.
Perhaps there was just enough of old-fashioned prejudice in Marjory’s own mind to agree with them a little, and she knew how strong that prejudice was amongst this class. But somehow the protest thus made against her proceedings roused in her again the fastidious and fanciful disgust which only occurred to her mind after she had thrown her whole heart into this effort.
“Well,” she said, somewhat coldly, “if what I do is unsuccessful, you can then take it back into your hands. We can only adopt the means wethink best. It is not my place to interfere at all; all my friends have told me as much.”
“Oh, dinna say that!” said Isabell, with appealing eyes. They all fought over this patient, unresisting creature. To all of them it was a secondary matter—to her it was life and death. In the pause that ensued she was driven almost to despair. All that her imagination could conceive she had already done. She had told her tale, she had opened her heart, she had thrown herself upon their sympathy, she had appealed to them by every argument in her power. The only thing yet remaining to her she did now. With a sudden movement, which was almost too much for her weakness, she lifted the infant by her side, and thrust it, without any warning, into Marjory’s arms. Partly it was a simple artifice to prevent the possibility of a refusal, and partly it was the hurry of weakness which made this act so rapid. “This is—his bairn,” said poor Isabell, falling back upon her pillow, and closing her pale eyelids. The tears stole softly out from under those lids, the hectic colour faded from her face. She turned her head aside, as if to avoid seeing the failure of her last experiment. And the others stood looking on with keen interest, with feelings vaguely quickened, with a sense of reality in the whole matter such as they had never felt before.
Marjory was disconcerted more than she could say. She was not used to young children. She had almost a repugnance to this morsel of humanity suddenly thrust into her arms—this creature, whichshould have come into the world amid the clamour of rejoicing, which should have been its mother’s pride, the hope of an old family, the inheritor of wealth and influence, and a kind of power. At the present moment it was its mother’s shame; it was the shame of the dead man who had made no provision for it in this world, who had allowed it to be supplanted in his heedlessness, and made its future insecure; and over the child’s existence a certain cloud of shame must always hover: legitimate indeed, but legitimate only by that expedient to make guilt less guilty—making only a hairbreadth escape from humiliation and ignominy. The baby was fast asleep; it was warm and downy like a little nestling taken suddenly out of the nest. Even the rapid movement did not disturb its utter calm. It lay on Marjory’s lap, among the circle of agitated spectators, rapt in an absolute tranquillity which went to the heart of these women. The old mother began to weep. Agnes stood by with hungry eyes, ready to snatch the child from the stranger, who was as closely related to it as she, but who was an interloper, having nothing to do with it, she felt; while Marjory sat still, without touching it, with the long white dress streaming over her black one, looking into its sleeping face. Another scene came over her with a flood of recollection, mingling itself somehow in this one, giving to it an added effect. Once before an infant like this had been placed in her arms by a dying mother. The child was Milly, who since then had been as her own child to the elder sister; and the tears rushed all at once like astream in flood to Marjory’s eyes as she recognised the likeness. It was as if Milly had been sent back again into babyhood; little rings of soft golden hair clustered about the baby head, the little face was waxen in its paleness, but every feature was like Milly. She kissed it with an enthusiasm which carried away all her repugnance.
“I will bring Milly to see you to-morrow,” she cried, hastily; and then as she looked other likenesses stole upon her. A shadow of her father’s face before suffering bowed him down, and of both “the boys,” in those nursery days which came up so clear and fresh like a picture before her. Both the boys! Charlie most, perhaps, whose own child was not like him. Marjory’s tears began to fall heavily on the little white nightdress made by poor Isabell’s failing fingers with all the nicety which love could suggest. She forgot how all three were watching her eagerly, waiting for every word she said. She held the child close as it lay in serenest sleep, unconscious of her scrutiny, its pearly little hands spread out in that ease of perfect repose which denotes at the same time perfect health and comfort. “He is a true Heriot,” she cried, “God bless him!”
“And God bless you!” said pale Isabell, from her bed, with a gleam of joy over her worn face, which looked like sunshine. Agnes walked away with a trembling thrill of jealousy and keen displeasure. But the mother drew nearer.
“If the bairn is provided for, it will aye be something,” she said.
Who could have divined what a strange little scene was going on in the dim cottage room, where so many different emotions surrounded that one passive and peaceful thing which slept through all—the little creature, possessing nothing in life but the soft, almost noiseless breath which rose and fell, regular, measured, unbroken, like a soft strain in music? Certainly the other group approaching the cottage thought nothing of it as they straggled across the rocks, each taking his own way, and occupied with his or her own thoughts. They reached the door just when Marjory had risen and was replacing the sleeping baby in the warm nest from which he had been taken. She was stooping over the homely bed. Nothing could be poorer or more humble; but Marjory had forgotten all this. Her pride and pangs of revulsion had all gone from her; so had any doubts or difficulties that had ever crossed her mind.
“You must live, you must live, Isabell!” she was saying, scarcely aware of what she said.
And the poor young mother lay back upon her pillows with the countenance of one beatified. She shook her head quietly, but a wavering light had come into her face like the far-off glimmer of some lamp of hope that flickered somewhere in the distance. She had given herself up to death with that gentle resignation which is peculiar to the young and the poor; but she was young, and perhaps a voice powerful enough, the voice of a great joy, might yet call her back from the dangerous brink.
It was at this moment that a loud summonscame to the door. It startled them all, and Agnes and her mother had a brief but earnest discussion as to whether the applicants should be admitted. Marjory paid but little attention for the first moment. She drew her shawl round her, and wiped the traces of tears from her eyes, and rose to go away before the visitors, if there were visitors, should appear. But her attention was roused when she heard what voice it was which asked admittance when the knocking had remained for some time unheeded.
“Is there any one in? Open the door, open the door!” said the new-comer.
It was Mr. Charles. A murmur of other voices with him came in like a faint chorus; and once more quickly and eagerly came the knocking at the door.
Mr. Charleshad been seated all alone in the library of his house, a room which confused him much, seeing that it was a library, full of books, such as they were, yet not his, nor like anything that could have been his. Had he been condemned to sit much in this room, it would have been impossible for him to rest without remodelling and changing it; but thanks to golf and the club, he was not tempted to remain for too long a time at one sitting. This day, however, accident, which interferes with golf as much as with other things, had broken up one of the most promising matches ever arranged, and left Mr. Charles disconsolate. He came home to seek Marjory, and found Marjory gone; even little Milly had her own engagements; and he was thus left to himself. It gave him a realization of the time which might come, if Marjory were to marry, for instance, and he childless, daughterless, with nobody to make any house feel like home, might be left to the cold comfort of George’s Square. He did not like the idea. He sat down in the library, as we have said, with a statistical work before him—dry reading, but he felt still more dry. He was out of his element, absent from his favourite surroundings, alone; andeverything was against him. How could he tell if he should ever again find himself comfortably established in his sunny old tower, in the room which he had garnished and arranged so carefully with all the accumulations of his life? “These young women” were about to pull down his old tower about his ears; or if they could be stopped in that, here was this other story, this strange marriage of Tom’s, this peasant aspiring to the name of Heriot, with her child, who would bring into the old house the unknown qualities of some nameless race. And Marjory, with her head full of this nonsense, leaving him just at the moment he wanted her most, to mix herself up with such a business! And Fanshawe, an English ne’er-do-weel—Tom’s friend, no doubt, and not a bad fellow, but far from the sort of person to match with Marjory—brought into it, head and shoulders! No wonder Mr. Charles was put out. The statistical book, too, indulged in statements about Fife which made every drop of blood in his body boil separately; statements which he could not absolutely contradict, yet which he felt were untrue, and would not have believed had an angel from Heaven proclaimed them. He was reading something particularly offensive about the fishers of the East Neuk itself, and fuming over it, when the maid came to the door to say that some one outside was asking for Miss Heriot.
“They’re awfu’ disappointed to hear she’s no in,” said the woman. “They have the look of decent folk, as if they had come a long way. Maybe you would see them, Sir, and no disappoint thepoor bodies? Miss Heriot is aye awfu’ polite and ceevil to poor folk.”
“Miss Heriot, I hope, is polite to everybody,” said Mr. Charles. “You may show them in if their business is urgent. But stop; if it’s only charity, or that sort of thing—”
“Eh, no, Sir; they’re no folk to want charity,” said the woman, dismayed at the suggestion.
And, half unwillingly, half pleased to get quit of himself and his loneliness, and the statistics, Mr. Charles closed his book, and prepared to receive the strangers. There was a little controversy at the door, as he could hear, as to which should enter first, which was quite audible. The woman would have yielded thepasto her lord; but while her modesty was slightly artificial, that of the man was perfectly genuine in its unalloyed loutishness.
“Gang you in, gang you in first; you’ve aye a word ready, right or wrong; and me, I canna speak,” the bass voice grumbled, as the little struggle ended in the most natural way, and the wife appeared at the door.
This amused Mr. Charles to start with; and it was with benevolent kindness in his look, that he invited his visitors to approach.
“Miss Heriot, my niece, is out. Come forward, come forward. You can tell me your business,” he said.
The pair came in accordingly; a rustic pair, she advancing with bashful self-possession, he hanging behind in her shadow. They were middle-aged people; the man grizzled and ruddy, the woman acomely housewife, with a cheerful countenance which belied her timid gait. She advanced to within a few paces of the library table, at which Mr. Charles sat.
“You see, Sir, we’ve come a long way. It’s no but what we would have waited for the leddy; but my man there was struck to hear it was a leddy, and thought maybe that in any case there would be mair comfort to his mind in seeing the maister—”
“Na, Jean; na Jean,” said the man; “that was nane of my thought; it was your ain.”
“And what matter which of us it was?” said the woman, “the gentleman no heeding about us; and it’s mair decent-like to put it on the man, the head of the house. He thought, Sir, it would be mair satisfaction to see you, being a responsible person, than a young leddy, that’s apt to take fancies in their heads.”
“That may be, that may be,” said Mr. Charles, not displeased; “though Miss Heriot is not one of that kind; but you were not to be expected to know. I’ll be glad to hear your story, and do what I can for you.”
“Oh, Sir, we’re no folk that are wanting anything,” said the woman; “we’re well enough off, for that matter. My man is gamekeeper with Mr. Eclles, of the Langholm, and much thought of; with a cottage and a coo, and as little to complain of as we can expect in this weary world. My eldest lass is in service, and the second lad, he helps his father; and as for him that’s out in the world——”
“Was it about them you wanted to speak to Miss Heriot?”
“No, Sir, I canna say it was,” she answered, with a slight air of offence. “It was something altogether different; no concern of ours, as my man says.”
Here the man interposed, plucking at her shawl.
“Jean, say it was in the papers, and be done wi’t. What’s the use of so many words?”
“Bravo!” said Mr. Charles; “you are a sensible man. Now, let us hear it; and be so good as to be brief, my good woman, for I must be on the Links at half-past four.”
Mr. Charles grew quite energetic and brisk as he spoke. There is nothing an idle man loves like this playing at business—those fictitious bonds of engagements, appointments, and all the pretences at an occupied life, which when they are real, constitute a heavy bondage. He seemed to feel himself a most important member of society as he specified the hour at which he must be gone. The man obeyed this suggestion, once more nudging his wife; but the woman, with livelier instinct, saw through it.
“We might come again,” she said; “another day, maybe, when the gentleman is no engaged.”
“I can give you my time till a quarter-past four,” said Mr. Charles; and then there followed a little consultation between his visitors, a controversy as to how to state their case.
“It was about an advertisement in the papers. There’s nae telling the meaning of an advertisement. It was something that was to be to the advantage of the person—”
“Ah! you are John Macgregor then,” Mr. Charles said, with instant brightening up of all faculties, and great internal contentment that he was the first to hear.
“I’m no saying that. It’s ane we have heard of—ane we ken, mair or less,” said the woman; “a poor man that’s aye busy, and has little time to spare. We were to find out for him what it was about. Hold your tongue!” she said, turning round upon her husband. “Am I the one to speak, or am I no?”
“Oh, ay! you’re the one to speak; but you’ve ower mony phrases,” said the husband, muttering.
The wife turned round upon Mr. Charles with an air of compassion.
“Ye’ll no mind his grumbling, Sir. It’s my man’s way. He has real sensible thoughts, but an ill way of expressing them. A’ that comes from me is really from my man; but the words aye fail him—”
“They don’t seem to fail you,” said Mr. Charles.
“Na, never!” muttered the husband behind backs.
“The Lord be praised!” said the woman; “what would become of the house and the bairns if there was not some person that had sense enough to speak when there was occasion for’t? But as I’m saying, this man in the advertisement—It’s a long way off for him to come, and as we were in the town for our ain concerns, we gave him our wordwe would ask. It’s maybe about some poaching business; though that’s a queer thing for a young leddy to take in hand.”
“Does not the young lady’s name suggest to you what the business may be?” said Mr. Charles, rousing up to this little conflict of wits, and feeling a sensible pleasure in thus being thrust as it were into the very front of the battle.
The two looked at each other.
“I told you so,” said the woman.
“Then speak out; I’ll no do it,” said the man.
“Well, Sir,” resumed the wife, “I ken just this much, that John Macgregor was ance in the service of a Mr. Heriot, a poor young gentleman that’s dead, I hear? Eh, Sirs, to think how the young and the goodly die, and auld dry sticks aye live on and flourish! There’s a man in our ain parish, sixty if he’s a day, married upon a young lass—”
“That is not the question,” said Mr. Charles with some heat, not liking the turn these remarks had taken. “If we were to keep to our business we’d get on all the quicker. This man was in the service of my nephew, Mr. Tom Heriot?”
“No altogether in his service. He keepit his dogs; he did an odd thing about the lodge now and then; he was just a serviceable person about the place.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Charles, “since you know so much about him, you will probably know that something is supposed to have happened in Mr. Heriot’s life there, about which his friends are anxious to have information.”
“Now what could that be?” said the woman, putting up her hand to her forehead, with that natural artifice which we call theatrical. It was exactly what commonplace actors would have done in the endeavour to look puzzled, and full of candid simplicity. “What could that be? I’m no so instructed in Mr. Heriot’s life as I might be. John, ye’ll may mind something? But if you’ll tell me what it is, Sir, I’ll tell our—friend; no that’s he just what you would call a friend.”
“Your memory is so good that I am sure you could recollect were you to try,” said Mr. Charles. “Of course, as it is my niece that wants to know, not me, I am not authorised to make any explanations.”
“Eh me, what a pity the young leddy’s no at hame!” said the woman with ingenuous regret.
“But,” resumed Mr. Charles, “you know that there are sometimes connections which a young man forms, unpleasant things for the family. Young men will be young men, you know—and what’s perhaps only the fancy of a day may leave results behind, and may bring great trouble into a family. If you had it in your power now to prevent a great deal of disturbance and heart-burning, and perhaps a law-suit, and the succession of an old estate from being disputed—I cannot tell—perhaps you know nothing at all about it—”
“Oh, my man kens a great deal more than he says. Now what can it be about, John?” said the wife.
In the meanwhile John was undergoing internal struggles of a very severe description. He was alarge brawny man, more slow in speech and heavy in aspect than men in his position, rubbed up into sharpness, at least, by contact with imperious sportsmen, generally are. He twisted his limbs so that he seemed all shoulder, he screwed up his features till he seemed all mouth.
“I’ll no do it,” he burst forth at length, “I’ll no do it! I’ll no wrong a poor lass, nor be mansworn!”
“What does the haverel mean?” cried Jean. “John!” shaking him violently, “you’re falling into ane of your ill turns. Lord save the man! if ye dare to lay a finger on me!”
“I’ll no do it!” cried John, stretching forth his arm with a clenched fist at the end of it, which might well have made the weaker creatures beside him tremble. Even Mr. Charles felt a nervous tremor go over him. Finesse and intellect grew pale in presence of brute force thus displayed.
“Gently, gently, my good man,” he said, “you’ll be forced to nothing. To tell what you know, that is all anybody wants of you. The law you know, if the worst comes to the worst, will make you do that; on the other hand, if you will give your information to the family and prevent going to law, it will be to your advantage; you see the difference; the court will give you nothing; that’s all I have to say.”
“Oh, dear me, dear me!” said the wife, wringing her hands. “Oh, John, is there nae way you can please the gentleman? You’ll no be mansworn, my bonnie man! you’ll no wrong the lass. Poor silly thing she’s nigh her last by this time; and if thegentleman is that anxious and was to make it worth our while? Often and often we’ve spoken of Canada, John. The lads would soon make their fortunes there with their talents. It would be to swear naething; it would be but to hold your tongue and that’s so easy to some folk! the gentleman would be content if ye were but to hold your tongue. And where’s the harm? Isabell, she canna live if she was to be made a queen—and it’s no for your auld wife that you would throw away all the bairns’ prospects? Oh, John, my bonnie man!”
The “bonnie man” paused irresolute; needless to say that the pair had entirely misconceived the object of the advertisement, and the service sought from them. They had not thought it possible, or rather Jean had not thought it possible—for John’s mind did not readily exercise itself on an abstract question—that “the family” could have any wish but to nullify, if possible, the irregular marriage; “no to get ourselves into trouble” had been the principle of the pair from beginning to end of the transaction, and they had kept themselves out of the way of Agnes, whose search after them they had heard of. “We’ll get ourselves into hot water, and you’ll lose your place, and muckle Agnes Jeffrey can do to make it up to us,” Jean had said. To swear falsely was a crime which neither of the two could have wound themselves up to; but to be silent! that was another matter. The tongue is an unruly member, doing much harm in the world; but to say nothing how good it is! Had Mr. Charles been a cynic he would have watched this self-controversy to an end, and no doubt enjoyed it, as knowing how it must infallibly end; but Mr. Charles was no cynic; he preferred to interrupt the struggle before it ended in the subjugation of John’s wavering virtue.
“Look here,” he said suddenly and sharply, “and hold you your tongue, Mrs. Macgregor, I’m speaking to your man. You were present when my nephew, Tom Heriot, married a girl up in Strathmore, Isabell—what was her name? They took each other as man and wife in your presence? Answer me aye or no, is that true?”
“I was there too,” cried Jean astonished. “I’m as sure a witness as him; we were both together in our ain kitchen, no heeding the two young fools. I said to Mr. Heriot, ’dinna do’t’—but wha was to make the young gentleman mind me?”
“Then it’s true? You’ve told me a lie to begin with, woman, and you were willing to tell me another. Man, it’s for you to answer. Your name is John Macgregor, and it’s true?”
“As sure as death, as true’s the Bible. I’m no a man of many words like her, but naething would have made me mansworn!” said John, in the pleasure of being personally appealed to. “And I’ll no deny my name. John Macgregor’s my name, ance gillie to the laird in Strathmore, then odd man about the Moors doing whatever turned up—then—”
“It’s a speat when it comes,” said Jean composedly, folding her hands upon her bosom and regarding Mr. Charles with a vindictive pleasure, “you’ve brought it on yoursel.”
“This then is what is wanted of you,” said Mr. Charles hastily. “To prove this; not to go away, as you thought, and hold your tongues, and dishonour a woman, and wrong a bairn; what you’ve got to do is to prove this. Hold your tongue, woman—”
“Eh, Mr. Heriot!” cried the irrepressible Jean, “I’ve heard of the Heriots that they were kind; but, oh, what a blessed family to uphaud the marriage and right the lass! And it’ll be something to our John’s advantage,” she added insinuatingly, “just the same? for though it’s hard to haud your tongue it’s sometimes just as hard to speak out and say a’ the truth; and if we were to get ourselves into trouble in our new place—”
“Make your wife hold her tongue, John!” said Mr. Charles. “You can go to the kitchen, both of you, and get something to eat; and then I’ll take you out to see the young woman—I’m meaning Mrs. Tom Heriot, my nephew’s wife; and we’ll settle this business—as it is not a pleasant business—once for all.”
“We’re to go and see—Isabell?” asked Mrs. Macgregor, faltering.
“I said Mrs. Tom Heriot, my nephew’s wife.”
“Come, Jean, haud your tongue; the gentleman wants none of your clavers!” said John, giving a vigorous tug to her shawl.
But Jean lingered; she took a few steps towards the door, and then turned back.
“Ye’ll no say naething to Isabell of what we were speaking o’—nor of the proposition to gang toCanada and hold our peace. Oh, Sir, you’ll no say anything?”
“It was your proposition, Mrs. Macgregor, not mine!” said Mr. Charles.
“Aweel, aweel, Sir, what does it maitter? How was I to know you were such a good gentleman? Eh, so few as is like you! but you’ll no say anything? It was a’ from a good motive—for my ain bairns’ sake, and to keep dissension out of a family, and to pleasure you—”
“Go away, go away!” said Mr. Charles with a smile, which he tried hard to conceal; and a short time after he set out with his two strange companions for the Spindle, to find the cottage where Isabell was. This was the interruption which broke in upon Marjory when deeply touched and half-weeping, she sat with Tom’s child upon her lap, and her heart going back into her own childhood—when Tom, too, was a child. The knocking at the cottage door was not a more harsh interruption of the stillness than was the other interruption, which was about to come into this sad yet exciting chapter of her life.
MeanwhileFanshawe had been passing his time very uncomfortably, on the whole, wandering about the Channel Islands the first part of his journey, and asking himself half dolefully, half with a certain rueful amusement whether his next stage should be Australia or New Zealand. He had written to Marjory from London, where he returned within three days of his precipitate departure; but he had not had courage enough to write to her since, having felt that he must wait for something to tell. It would be difficult to describe the effect produced upon Fanshawe’s mind by his late interview with her. She had disappointed him by her pre-occupation, wounded him by what he could not but feel to be indifference to himself, and by the almost harsh readiness to take advantage of him, and employ him in her service, which she had shown. A man may be very ready to say that he will go through fire and water to serve the lady of his affections, and may mean it; but when that lady sends for him abruptly, and lays her commands upon him, calling him frankly, not for his sake, but because he can be of use—not all the serviceableness in the world will prevent the man from feeling that this is hard upon him. That no woman can accept suchservices without—one way or other—paying for them, is a consolation which suggests itself only to the calculating and cold-blooded lover. The generous soul that offers itself without hire or reward is very apt to despair of remuneration; but even while taking the yoke upon him, it is disagreeable for a man to feel that it is not him, but the use of him, that a woman wants. This was Fanshawe’s feeling; he was glad to do all that man could do for her; but yet to be simply made use of was hard. And after all, Tom Heriot, and the Heriots generally, were so little to him in comparison with Marjory! But with these feelings there mingled some which were very different. He felt a respect for her, because she was able to resist all that vague fascination which subjugated himself; he admired her insensibility; it seemed well that a woman such as she, should be slow to be won—if ever she could be won by such a man as himself, which Fanshawe felt to be unlikely enough. Sometimes he had moments of great depression on this score, and felt that the idea was not one to be entertained or thought of; and then again the atmosphere of dreams would steal over him, that atmosphere which envelops everything in a sweet mist and uncertainty, where nothing is sure, and all is possible. Her very decision, her energy, the way in which she had sent him forth—though he did not like it—increased his admiration of her. It was so unlike himself; so much better than himself. And the little fluctuations of temper, the shades of offence, of withdrawal, of partial anger, which showed themselveswhen he did not agree with her, or was not rapid enough in following her conclusions, were sweet to him, sweeter than all her excellences. These imperfections gave him something to forgive in her, something to indulge, to throw the great golden mantle of Love over, and—no, not to forget. The flaws were the last thing he wanted to forget; but if there had been any chance for him of getting free of Marjory’s fetters, that last chance had floated away, when she sent him upon this unpalatable quest. It seemed to him needless, it was unpleasant; and yet how it bound him with chains, which he could not and did not wish to break!
Men do not like to feel themselves inferior to a woman; but there are kinds of inferiority which a man in love may put up with—and to Fanshawe it seemed that Marjory would be to him what the soul is to the body, what inspiration is to the soul. This was how he put it, saving his own pride. It was not that she would do anything for him, but that she would stimulate him into doing; she would inspire him, he felt; she would bring all his buds of meaning into flower, and work within him a realization of those intentions which arose so often in his mind, and came to nothing when they rose. Through all his journeys he kept thinking of her in this strain. She would be his inspiration. He could do something—something vague, he did not know what—but something worth doing, under the impulse which she would give him. What would she say? Would it be possible for her to accept a rôle in life which was so little encouraging as that of trying toput energy into him? Fanshawe did not ask himself this question—neither did he ask many more, which it would have been very well worth his while to ask. How, if she married him, they were to live; what he could do to make their marriage possible; where and how they were to establish themselves? these questions did not enter his mind—partly, perhaps, because he was still in the reverential stage of love, thinking of her vaguely as something better than all created things, yet impetuously too, as of something which could not be done without, which was necessary to existence. But perhaps it was, on the whole, because of his prevailing character of good-for-nothing that he was able to elude all the practical questions, and to let his love absorb him without any notion of how he could make the after-life possible. Besides, he said to himself, if ever the question crossed his mind, he could do nothing at this moment; she herself had made it impossible for him to do anything. Had she not sent him away from all the uses of life, from all the efforts which he might have been making towards something better—on this wild goose chase—for her? This afforded him an answer to every objection of his own thoughts, and with a certain humorous sense of the cleverness of such a response to all criticism, he used it in imagination even to herself. “What could I do? how could I do anything? You sent me away from rationality to hunt for a needle in a bottle of hay.” This was the imaginary reply which he made to her imaginary fault-finding. Ah, if the matter were but so far advanced as that! Then hewould find a hundred answers, a hundred excuses. The only thing he would not be able to find—though this part of the subject he managed to elude cleverly—was any reasonable ground upon which to ask Marjory Hay-Heriot to marry him, or any feasible way of providing for her, should she be willing to share his fortune.
With these thoughts in his mind, and those other thoughts carefully excluded from it, he wandered about the smiling isles which are enclosed in so wild a sea. He went, as he thought, to every inn over their whole extent—from the smallest to the largest—encountering endless experiences (which were not all disagreeable), and seeing a great deal of novel life. And he found nothing—no Scotch face nor Scotch accent even met his eyes or ears—or when by accident they did, they belonged to some one who denied the name of Macgregor, and was not to be identified in any way with the man he sought. He was retiring disconsolately from his last attempt to discover this undiscoverable personage, and questioning himself ruefully as to which was the nearest way to New Zealand, when some one came up to him on the pier where he waited for the steamer—a ruddy, red-haired young man or boy, not more than twenty, freckled up to the roots of his hair, and with a shrewd but innocent face. He was one of the porters on the pier, and Fanshawe instinctively stole his portmanteau out of the way, to keep it from the clutches of this predatory personage. He was very much astonished to see the individual in question pushing towards him,evidently with a purpose; and still more startled when the youth addressed him.
“You were asking, Sir, for ane of the name of Macgregor?” he said, interrogatively.
Fanshawe turned sharply round upon him.
“I was doing so,” he said; “what of that? Have you anything to tell me about him?”
“I’m him,” said the young man, “that’s a’.”
“You are he!” said Fanshawe, in dismay, gazing at the youthful countenance with a kind of horror. The lad put his hand to his hat with a comfortable smile, which told how far he was from any consciousness of offence.
“Ay, deed am I. I’m from Perthshire as my native place, and I’ve been here a year. Whatever you want wi’ me it can be nae harm, for I’ve a conscience vide of offence; and folk tell me you’ve been looking for me, Sir, all through the island. There’s no question ye can put that I winna answer. I’m feared for nothing. I have a conscience vide of offence.”
Fanshawe was amused in spite of himself. “You might perhaps suit my purpose better if you were not quite so blameless,” he said. “It cannot be anything so young as you that I want. Is your name John?”
“No,” said the lad, “my name’s Willie; but wait a bit, Sir, we’ll maybe shuit you yet, a’ the same. John’s no my name, but it’s my father’s; and he’s no so young nor so innocent as me. It might be him ye wanted?”
“Does he live here?”
“Na, he’s no sae foolish as that, or sae enterprising, if that’s a better word? He’s weel off at home, and has nae inducement. He’s one of the gamekeepers to Mr. Eccles, of the Langholm. Before that we used to live up in Strathmore, in the parish of Drumglen, no far from Stainbyers, where he was aye glad of a job to attend upon gentlemen, either fishing or any kind of sport, and to take the charge of their dogs when they had dogs, or of their horses—and keep guns and rods in order—or even to give a hand at the lodge.”
“That will do,” said Fanshawe, in sudden delight. “Give me your father’s address.”
But here the lad paused. “He’s in a responsible position now,” he said, “a man with a great trust; he’s risen in the world. If ye could tell me what you wanted with him, I’ll write. It might be something that wadna be consistent with his position. I’m but twenty; I’m no heeding what I do; but my father’s had a hard struggle with the world, and now he’s got the better o’t, he maunna compromise himself. I’ll write and get an answer if you’ll tell me what it is you want.”
Fanshawe had to exercise all his eloquence to overcome these delicate scruples. The lad was his mother’s son; but finally he got the information he wanted, and departed with a light heart in the steamer, carrying that precious address (already found out, though he did not know it) carefully enshrined in his pocket-book like a treasure. He was on his way to Marjory with this information on the very afternoon in which Mr. Charles trudgedalong the shore with his long legs, outstripping his companions. It would have been wiser, no doubt, to have gone and sought out the Macgregors at once, but Fanshawe, who was thinking little of the Macgregors, and much of Marjory, preferred to go to St. Andrews to let her know how promptly he had executed her commission. Travelling is not rapid in Fife; he had to make his impatient way through a network of railways, one interlacing the other, and leaving the unfortunate traveller an hour’s waiting here and there, at all sorts of out-of-the-way stations. His feelings during these delays need not be described; but he was compelled to submit, as all forlorn Britons are compelled to submit, to the vagaries of the railway companies. But for this he would have reached St. Andrews with his address, in time to join the party which had forestalled him. His information, of course, was not of the least importance by the time he reached his destination. He was just a few hours too late, as people so often are; but luckily he was unaware of the fact, and waited for Marjory in the room which was full of her presence, with a flutter at his heart, which prevented him from thinking very seriously of anything. He sat down by the window where he had seen her sitting, and looked out upon the sea and sky against which he had watched the outline of her features, thinking it like the picture of a saint; and all the surroundings, which were full of her, filled up the heart of the man with such a soft enchantment that for a long time he was not even impatient. She was not certain to be gracious to him, but thescene was gracious, full of her breath and influence, and permitted him to wrap himself in the shadow, as it were, of her presence, embracing him gently with all the corners and all the draperies that were fresh from her touch, enveloping him in all the nameless associations of the place in which she lived. For a long time he yielded himself up to this fascination, finding a subtle pleasure in it which stole all his strength from him, until the long shadows of the evening began to deepen, and the maids came to communicate their wonder to him. The dinner hour had arrived, and not even Mr. Charles had come home. They had gone by the shore towards the Spindle, both Miss Heriot and her uncle. Could anything have happened? Love is always fanciful, and takes fright upon any pretext. Could anything have happened? Fanshawe rushed out of the house in the subdued light of the evening, and set out over the cliffs at a pace which few people could have kept up with, fearing he knew not what, and not venturing to ask himself what he feared.
At the same hour, on the same afternoon, another visitor was entering St. Andrews, coming down from the higher ground inland upon the picturesque old town, and looking out anxiously for the first sight of its towers and ruins. Of all unaccustomed travellers this was Miss Jean Hay-Heriot, from the High Street of Comlie, in a black bonnet big enough to take in her lace “borders”—with her keen eyes noting everything along the unaccustomed road, which yet she knew so well. To visit St. Andrewsat all, was a wonderful effort on her part; but to visit it at so late an hour that she and her old horse and rusty coachman must be compelled to pass the night “in a strange place,” was more wonderful still. The reason of her visit was, however, natural enough. Mr. Charles’s mysterious intimations and hints of a mysterious something which was yet to be disclosed in his family, had already travelled over the length and breadth of Fife, with that amazing celerity which is peculiar to gossip of all kinds. It had reached Miss Jean’s ears that day after her early dinner, when the Minister himself had “stepped across” to communicate the strange news, which he had learned at a meeting of Presbytery, in the most direct manner, from the Reverend Simon Stutters, of Kinnucher, who had it from Mr. Morrison, of St. Rule’s, who had it from “auld Charlie” himself. The story, as was natural, had taken form and shape in these several transmissions, and now narrated circumstantially how Tom Heriot had been entrapped by the arts of a gamekeeper’s daughter in the Highlands; how this designing creature had flirted, and held off and on, till she wound him up to the pitch of consenting to marry her privately; how then he went off in disgust and misery, and though popularly believed to have died of an injury to the spine got in the hunting-field, had in reality succumbed to the severer malady of a broken heart; and how there was now a baby produced, who was said to be Tom’s heir, to the great trouble of the family.
“I hear there’s a great body of witnesses allready to swear to it,” said Dr. Murray; “but our old friend Charles, Miss Jean, as I need not tell you, is not of a very determined character, and perhaps if there was a bold front put upon it, we might hear another story. The worst is, there’s nobody that I know of, unless it was a man of business, that has energy to take the matter up.”
“Energy!” said Miss Jean, “it’s not energy that’s wanting. Marjory’s a young woman, and will think it’s not her place to interfere; but I’m not young to speak of, and I’ll not see the old house pass to a gamekeeper’s daughter without rhyme or reason. Hey, Bell! go and call John out of the kailyard, and bid him dress himself, and put to the horse. I’m going to St. Andrews; and put me up a change of linen, and a clean cap. Charlie’s an old fool! but I hope you’ll no say that I’m not a determined character, Doctor. I’ll know the rights of this before I’m a day older—and she’ll be a clever lass, cleverer than I have ever seen one of her kind, if she imposes upon me.”
“My dear Miss Jean,” said Dr. Murray, “we all bow to your sense and your experience; but these kind of cutties are often very clever. I would not encounter one of them myself unless it was strictly in the way of duty—and you know a lady—”
“Oh, ay! I know your opinion of a lady,” said Miss Jean, “which is very pleasant, and very fine, if we were all under five-and-twenty; but when a woman comes to be five-and-seventy, as I’m saying, that makes a difference. Johnnie Hepburn, this will be sore news for your friends up at Pitcomlie,” sheadded, quickly turning, with a gleam of enjoyment, to the other visitor, who had been listening with consternation to the strange story. “Ye’ll have a grand excuse to go and comfort Mrs. Chairles.”
“I don’t think my comfort is very much to Mrs. Charles,” said Hepburn, with rising colour; “but surely you don’t believe, for a moment, that such a story as this can be true.”
“Why should I no believe it?” said Miss Jean. She was profoundly sceptical, but she could not relinquish the opportunity of demolishing her adversaries, “these young women” at Pitcomlie. “We’re a great people, Johnnie, and Scotland, though she’s small, holds up her head with the best, and for my part I know none that can hold a candle to her—”
“That’s true—that’s very true,” said the Minister, “but when you think of all our spiritual advantages, and what Providence has done for us, it’s a terrible addition to our responsibility. That is what I always think of—a land that has been so favoured for generations—”
“But,” Miss Jean went on impatiently, “whether it is that some weakness is needful to show that we’re always human—these customs about private marriages are an awfu’ snare and burden. It’s a wonder to me that half the families in the land are no rent asunder with irregular marriages. There’s some special Providence, I’ve aye felt, that must watch over eldest sons. There never was one in our family that ever I heard of; and I ask your pardon, Dr. Murray, but Tom Heriot dying of abroken heart is beyond me; we’ve tough hearts in our family—they stand a good tug. He might have taken to drinking, or some other vice, to make himself amends; but to break his heart! Na—na—that’s more than I can believe.”
“I tell you what was told to me,” said Dr. Murray, “and no wonder, poor man. What would his father have said? and all his belongings? and the county that would never have taken any notice of him—and not the least, Miss Jean, you—”
“Me! He could have put up with the want of notice from me; the world, in general, is but little regardful of what’s said by a cankered auld maid. Most likely,” said Miss Jean with a twinkle of her bright eyes, “he would have said it was envy because I had never been married myself. But that’s neither here nor there. If it’s a determined character that’s wanting, Doctor, I’m away to St. Andrews. Chairlie is as weak as water, as you say—and Marjory will be a fool, and will not like to move.”
“Could I be of any use,” asked Hepburn eagerly.
“In the interests of the other heir? Johnnie, my man, you’re a fine lad,” said Miss Jean, “and very accomplished. I do not know another man like you in all Fife for the piano and the like of that; but for a determined character—na—na—I’ll go myself.”
“I don’t see what the piano has to do with it,” said Hepburn angrily.
“Nor I either,” said Miss Jean with a laugh, and she rang her bell, and gave her orders about herchange of linen in such simplicity of diction that her guests took their leave. “Half-a-dozen shifts, Bell, for you never know what may happen at my age. Lord bless me! am I to learn new-fangled words to save the Minister’s modesty, forsooth—and what’s more modest than a shift? As for Johnnie Hepburn, I don’t doubt that he calls all his clothing by nasty French names. Give me good Scotch that’s aye clean and wholesome; and bring me a cup of tea—and let the carriage be round in half-an-hour. I’m going on family business—you can say that to whoever wants to know.”
“Eh! it’s Miss May that’s to be married!” said Bell, clapping her hands.
“You think that’s something to be pleased at, you lightheaded taupie? When Miss May’s married, there will not be one person of the name of Hay-Heriot worth their salt upon this earth—except me,” said the old lady with moisture in her eyes, “and, oh! the old rag o’ flesh and blood that I am! Go quick, and make up my bundle, you gaping thing! Miss May’s no the fool to marry till she sees what’s she’s doing. I can see to that at the same time,” Miss Jean added briskly as the maid left her. And with these double intentions she set out, meaning to dine comfortably at the end of her journey, and to carry confusion to the unrightful claimants of the old lands. But Miss Jean arrived to find the house empty, the dinner-table spread but vacant, the servants full of consternation. Miss Heriot must have fallen over the cliff—she must have been blown off the Spindle Rock—and Mr.Charles, in the effort to save her, must have perished too. What so likely, it was known that they had gone in the same direction, and when no one came back for dinner, notwithstanding the well-known punctuality of the affrighted house?