Effiewas not a tell-tale, and she was fond of her young aunt; but still this was such a revelation as made the blood stand still in her veins. She was deeply, profoundly interested, and strained her eyes to make out “the gentleman.” Who could he be? Effie felt almost certain Mr. Burnside knew, and almost certain Mr. Burnside had seen them before, and was their confidant, or he would not have been so anxious to call her attention to Schehallion. Schehallion! nothing but a hill—whereas this was a romance! She leaned over the parapet of the tower till the night grew so dark that she took fright and felt disposed to cry for help, never thinking, unaccustomed to it as she was, that she could grope her way in safety down the spiral stair. But she did manage it, partly fortified by a generous determination not to make any noise near Aunt Jean’s room, which might end in a betrayal of the lovers. Effie would have gone to the stake rather than betray the lovers to Aunt Jean. But her mother was a different matter. She knew she could not go to bed with a secret from her mother; and perhaps it was not right, was it quite right, of Margaret? Effie reflected, however, as she stumbled down in the dark to the West Chamber, where John had just placed candles (the inspection of the pigsty being over), that perhaps grandpapa had known all about it; most likely Margaret had told him—and she had no need to tell any one else. But to meet a—gentleman, in the wood! It was the most strange, and most exciting, and most wonderful thing in real life which Effie had ever seen with her own eyes. She crept in to the West Chamber, where Miss Leslie had just come, relieved of her attendance on her sister.
“Your dear Aunt Jean is a little better,” she said, “dear Effie; and where is dearest Margaret, and your dear papa and mamma? Dear Jean has gone to bed, she will not come down to-night. And had you a pleasant walk, my love? And how is dear Mrs. Burnside?”
All these dears put Effie out of breath; and she had been out of breath before, with the shock she had got, and with her progress down-stairs: for a very narrow spiral stair which you are not familiar with is rather alarming, when it is quite dark. Effie, however, made what breathless answer she could, and sat down in a corner, getting some work to conceal her burning cheeks from Aunt Grace’s gaze, and forgetting altogether that Aunt Grace was short-sighted, and saw nothing when she had not her spectacles on, which she did not wear when she was knitting. Miss Leslie, however, very glad to have a listener, and to havela parolein the absence of her sister, talked, without requiring any answer, straight on, flowing in a gentle stream, and gave Effie no trouble; and the girl sat turning her back to the light, and watching very keenly who should come in next. The first was her mother, placid and fresh from the cool air, saying it was very pleasant out-of-doors after having been in the house all day; and then, after an interval, Margaret followed, very pale, with her eyes red, and her hat, with its heavy veil, in her hand.
“Have you been out too, my dear?” said Lady Leslie. “I wonder we did not see you; your brother and I have been taking a walk.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “I saw you; I was in the wood. I always go to the wood.”
“I don’t think it is at all a good place,” said Aunt Grace, “a damp place; and no doubt you will have been standing about, or even sitting down upon the moss and grass. Your dear Aunt Jean—no, I forgot, she is not your dear aunt, darling Margaret, but your dear sister—it is so strange to have a dear sister so young— She is better, but she has gone to bed; that is why you see me here alone. Dear Effie has been a good child; she has been sitting, talking to me, while you have been out, dear Mary, with dearest Ludovic, and while dear Margaret has been out. But about the wood, darling Margaret; you must go and change your shoes directly. Dear Jean would never forgive me if I did not make you go and change your shoes.”
“They are not wet,” cried Margaret, going to the other corner opposite to Effie, who gazed at her with the eagerest curiosity; but Effie was much more like the heroine of a love-story than Margaret, and the little girl’s heart was sore for her young aunt. She had no mother to go to and tell, and how could she tell Aunt Jean? As for Aunt Grace, that might be possible, perhaps; but then Aunt Jean would be told directly, and there would be no fun. These were Effie’s thoughts, sitting with her back to the light, so that nobody might see the excitement in her scarlet cheeks; but Margaret did not seem excited at all. She was quite quiet and still, though she was obstinate about changing her shoes. Oh, Effie thought, if I could only lend her mamma! but then you cannot lend a mother. There was nothing to be done but to pity the poor girl, who had nobody to breathe the secret of her heart to, except Aunt Jean and Aunt Grace.
That night, however, after all the ladies had gone up-stairs, Lady Leslie appeared again in her dressing-gown in the long room, where her husband was sitting at his father’s table. The room was dark, except in the small space lighted by his lamp; and if the good man, though he had not much imagination, was startled by the sight of the white figure coming toward him through the dimness, he may be forgiven, so soon after a death in the family. When he saw who it was, he recovered his calm, and drew a chair for her to the table.
“Is it you, my dear?” he said; “you gave me a fright for the moment.” He thought she had some new light on the subject of the house; and as it was a matter of great thought to him, and they had not been able to come to any decision on the subject, he was very glad to see her. “I hope you have thought of some other expedient,” he said, “I can make neither head nor tail of it.” How was it likely he could think of anything but this very troublesome and knotty problem of their own?
“No indeed, Ludovic,” said Lady Leslie, “I have no new light; and what I came to speak about is a new fash for you. No, nothing about the children, they are all right, thank God! But when I went to say good-night to Effie, I found her with red cheeks and such bright eyes, that I felt sure something was the matter.”
“Not fever?” he said. “It was all quite right, in a sanitary point of view—far better than most old houses, the surveyor told me.”
“No, no, not fever: when I told you it was nothing about the children! But I don’t know what to do about it, Ludovic. It is poor little Margaret. Effie told me—the monkey to know anything about such things! that standing by accident on the tower, looking down upon the wood, she saw—”
“You and me, my dear, taking our walk; that was simple enough.”
“No, not you and me; but two people under the big silver fir—Margaret and—a gentleman; there is no use mincing the matter. By what Effie saw, a lover, Ludovic! Well, you need not get up in a passion, it may be no harm. It may be somebody your father knew of. We are all strangers to her, poor little thing. There may be nothing to blame in it. Only I don’t know what gentleman it can be near this, for it was not Randal Burnside.”
“How do you know it was not Randal Burnside?” said Sir Ludovic, rising and pacing about the room, in much fuss and fret, as his wife had feared. “No, but it could not be. He is too honorable a fellow.”
“Mind, Ludovic, we don’t know it is not as honorable as anything can be; your father might have sanctioned it. I would lay my life upon Margaret that she is a good girl. It cannot be more than imprudent at the worst, if it is that.”
“She should be whipped,” said her brother; “a little light-headed thing! not a fortnight since my father died!”
Sir Ludovic, though his blood was as good as any king’s, was a homely Scotsman, and the dialect of his childhood returned to him when his mind was disturbed, as happens sometimes even in this cosmopolitan age.
“Whisht, whisht, Loodie!” said his wife. “She is a poor little motherless girl, and my heart bleeds for her—and I cannot bear to say anything to Jean. Jean would interfere with a strong hand, and make everything worse. If we only knew who it was! for I can think of no gentleman of these parts, unless it was one of the young men that are always staying with Sir Claude.”
At this her husband started and gave a long whew-w! of suspicion and consternation. “I know who it is,” he said—“I know who it is!” and began to walk about the room more than ever. Then he told his wife of his encounter with Rob Glen; and the circumstances seemed to fit so exactly that Lady Leslie could but hold up her hands in pain and horror.
“No doubt my father was foolish about it,” said Sir Ludovic. “It is true that he used to have him here to dinner; it is true that he made a sketch of the house, spending days upon it. John says he always disapproved, but my father had taken a fancy to the young man. Rob Glen— I know all about him—the widow’s son that has the little farm at Earl’s-lee: a stickit minister, John says, an artist—a forward, confident fellow, as I saw from the way he addressed me; and, by-the-way, I met Margaret coming in just before I met him. That makes it certain. It is just Rob Glen, and no gentleman of these parts: not even an artist of the better sort from Sir Claude’s—a clodpole, a lout, a common lad—”
“Oh, Ludovic!” Lady Leslie shivered, and covered her face with her hands; “but if your father took him up and had him about the house, Margaret was not to blame. If he is, as you say, ‘a stickit minister,’ he must have some education; and if he could draw your poor father, he must be clever. And probably he has the air of a gentleman—”
“I took him for a pushing forward fellow.”
“And how was the child to know? Good-looking, very likely, and plenty of confidence, as you say; and she a poor little innocent girl knowing nothing, with nobody to look after her! Oh, Ludovic, you will not deserve to have so many sweet daughters of your own, if you are not very tender to poor Margaret; and if you can, oh, say nothing to Jean!”
“It is Jean’s business,” said Ludovic but hewas pleased that his wife should think him more capable than his sister. “Jean thinks she can do everything better than anybody else,” he said; “but what is to be done? I will speak tohim. I will tell him he has taken a most unfair advantage of an ignorant girl. I will tell him it’s a most dishonorable action—”
“Oh, Ludovic, listen to me a little! How do you know that it is dishonorable? I incline to think your father sanctioned it. But speak to Margaret first. You are her brother, though you might be her father; and remember, poor thing, she has never had a mother. Speak to her gently; you have too kind a heart to be harsh. Tell her how unsuitable it is, and how young she is, not able to judge for herself. But don’t abuse him, or she will take his part. Tell her—”
“I wish you would tell her yourself, Mary. You could manage that part of the matter much better than I.”
“But she is not my flesh and blood,” said Lady Leslie. “She might not think I had any right to interfere.”
And the decision they came to, after a lengthened consultation, was that Sir Ludovic should have a conversation with Margaret next morning, and ascertain how far things had gone, and persuade her to give up so unsuitable a connection; but that if she were obdurate, he should try his powers upon Rob, who might, perhaps, be brought to see that the transaction was not to his credit; and in any case the affair was to be kept, if possible, from the knowledge of the aunts, who henceforward would have the charge of Margaret. Sir Ludovic’s calculations were all put out, however, by this troublesome piece of business, and Lady Leslie shook her head as she went away through the long room and up the dark stair, a white figure, with her candle in her hand.
“Papa will speak to Margaret to-morrow,” she said, going into her daughter’s room as she passed, “and we hope she will see what is right. But you must take great care never to breathe a word of this, Effie, for I am most anxious to keep it all from Aunt Jean.”
“But oh, mamma, what will happen if she will not give him up? and who can it be?” said Effie. Lady Leslie did not think it necessary to make any further revelations to her daughter. She said, “Go to sleep, dear,” and gave her a kiss, and took away the light. And shortly after, Ludovic, disturbed in all his thoughts (though they were much more important, he could not but feel, than any nonsense about a lassie and her sweetheart), tramped heavily up-stairs, also with his candle, shedding glimmers of light through all the window-slits as he passed; and silence and darkness fell once more over the house.
But Sir Ludovic had a face of care when he made his appearance next day. The sense of what he had got to do hung heavy on his soul. Though his wife had entreated him not to be harsh, it was not of cruelty, but of weak indulgence, that the good man felt himself most capable. He almost hoped the girl would be saucy and impertinent, to put him on his mettle; but one glance at Margaret’s pale, subdued child’s face, which had been so happy and bright a little while ago, made this appear impossible. If only his wife could have done it! But he supposed Mary was right, and that it was “his place” to do it. How many disagreeable things, he reflected, it is a man’s “place” to do when he is the head of a family! He did not feel that the dignity of the place made up for its troubles. If Mary would only do it herself! And Mrs. Bellingham had emerged as fresh as ever after the little retirement of yesterday. Her headache was quite gone, she was glad to say. It was so much better just to give in at once, and go to bed, and then you were as right as possible next day. She was able for anything now, Jean said. Sir Ludovic gave his wife an appealing glance across the table. Jean would enjoy doing this, she would do it a great deal better than he should; but Lady Leslie paid no attention to these covert appeals. Mrs. Bellingham was in better spirits, she allowed, than she had been since papa’s death. “Indeed, it would be wicked for us to grieve over that very bitterly, though great allowance must be made for Margaret; for he was an old man, and life had ceased to be any pleasure to him.”
“Dearest papa!” said Miss Leslie, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
“But here is a letter from my nephew, Aubrey Bellingham,” said Jean. “I think you have met him, Ludovic—a very fine young fellow, and one I put the greatest trust in. He is to be at Edinburgh to-day, and to-morrow he is coming on here. I am sure good Mrs. Burnside will not mind giving him a bed. He has come to take us home, or to go anywhere with us, if we prefer that. It is such a comfort on a long, troublesome journey, with a languid party, to have a gentleman.”
“I should have thought you were very well used to the journey,” said Lady Leslie.
“So I am; and it is nothing with only Grace and myself; but three ladies, and one a very inexperienced traveller— I am too glad to have Aubrey’s help. My spirits might not be equal to it, and my strength is not what it once was—”
“No, indeed, dear Jean,” said Miss Grace; “those who knew you a few years ago would scarcely recog—”
“And Aubrey is invaluable about travelling. I never saw a man so good; for one thing I have very much trained him myself; he has gone about with me since he was quite a little fellow. I used to make him take the tickets, and then he got advanced to looking after the luggage. To be sure, he once made us a present of his beautiful new umbrella, letting the guard put it into our carriage; but that was a trifle. I think, as he has come, we must settle to go in a day or two, Mary. This just gives me the courage to go. I should have lingered on, not able to make up my mind to tear ourselves away from a spot—”
“Where we have been so unhappy.” Miss Leslie took advantage of the moment when Mrs. Bellingham took up her cup of coffee. A mouthful of anything, especially when it is hot, is an interruption perforce of the most eloquent speech.
“It will be better for us all, and better for Margaret, not to linger here,” said Jean. “Poor child! she will never do any good till we get her away. Yes, you will suffer, Margaret, but believe me, it is real consideration for your good—real anxiety for you. Ask Mary; she will tell you the same thing. Earl’s-hall will never be the same to you again. You must begin yournew life sometime or other, and the sooner the better, Margaret. Would you like to go to the Highlands and see a little of the country? or shall we go straight to the Grange at once? Now that Aubrey is to be with us, it is quite the same for my comfort; and we will do, my love, what you like best.”
“Oh, I do not care about anything,” said Margaret, “whatever, whatever you please.”
“That is very natural, my dear,” said Lady Leslie, “and Jean is right, though perhaps it sounds hard. Effie and I will miss you dreadfully, Margaret, but the change is the best thing for you. If you go to the Highlands, would you like Effie to go too, for company?” said the kind woman. But Margaret could not speak for crying, and Jean and Grace did not seem delighted with the suggestion.
“It will be best for her to make the break at once,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “Effie can come after; we shall be most happy to see her when we are settled at the Grange.”
“I dare say you are right,” said Effie’s mother; but this rejection of the offer, which she knew to be so kind on her own part, of her daughter’s company made her heart colder to poor Margaret than all the story about Rob Glen.
Ludovic put his hand on his little sister’s shoulder as she was leaving the breakfast-table.
“Will you come out with me and take a little walk about the place, Margaret? I want to say something to you,” he said.
“What is that?” said Mrs. Bellingham. “I suppose, Ludovic, you would like me to come too? I will get on my hat in a moment; indeed Margaret can fetch it when she brings her own. A turn in the morning is always pleasant. Run away, my dear, and bring our hats; the air will do us both good.”
“But I wanted your advice,” said Lady Leslie—“yours and Grace’s; there are still some things to settle. These laces, for instance, which we were to look over.”
“That is true,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “But I am afraid it will be a disappointment to Ludovic; and then, of course, it is necessary I should be there if he has really something to say to Margaret.”
“Let me go, dear Jean,” said Grace; “I will not mind, indeed I will not mindmuch, being away, and the lace could never be settled without you. I am not so clever about knowing the kinds, and I am sure you will not forget that I am fond of ittoo.”
“Does Margaret want a chaperon when she goes out with me?” said Ludovic. “It is only to put a little color in her cheeks.” But he was not clever at these little social artifices, and looked once more at his wife.
“Leave him alone with his girls,” said Lady Leslie; “a man is always fond of a walk with girls. Get your hat, Margaret, my dear, and you too, Effie, and take a run with him. He will like that a great deal better than you and me, Jean. We are very well in our way, but he likes the young things, and who will blame him? and we will settle about the lace before they come in.”
“There is no accounting for tastes,” Mrs. Bellingham said; “but if there is anything particular, it will be better to wait till I can be with you, Ludovic; and, Margaret, put on your galoches, for it rained last night.”
“You can take mine, dear,” whispered Grace, who knew that Margaret did not possess these necessary articles. And thus, at last, the party got under way. Effie, warned by her mother, deserted them as soon as her aunts were safe in the high room, and Margaret, without any foreboding of evil, went out with her brother peacefully into the morning. It was very damp after the rain, as Mrs. Bellingham had divined, and cost her some trouble to keep her crape unsoiled. But except for that care, and that there was some excitement in her mind to hear of the speedy departure from Earl’s-hall, Margaret went out with Ludovic, with great confidence in his kindness and without any fear.
“I said to Jean it was nothing, for I did not care to mix her up with it; but I have something very serious to say to you, Margaret,” said Sir Ludovic.
She looked up at him with eyes wistful, yet candid, fearing nothing still. The character of Margaret’s face seemed to have changed within the last month. What she was in June was not like what she was in July. The trouble she had gone through had not seemed to develop, but to subdue her. She had been full of variety, animation, and energy before. Now the life seemed to have sunk to so low an ebb in her paled being, exhausted with tears, that there was little remaining but simple consciousness and intelligence. She did not seem able to originate anything on her own side, not even a question. A half smile, the reflection of a smile, came to her face, and she looked up, without any alarm, for what her brother had to say.
“Margaret,” he said (how hard it was! harder even than he thought. He cleared his throat, and a rush of uncomfortable color came to his middle-aged countenance, though she took it so calmly, and did not blush at all)—“Margaret, I have found out something, my dear, that gives me a great deal of pain—something about you.”
But even this solemn preamble seemed to convey no thrill of conscious guilt to Margaret’s mind. She only looked at him again a little more earnestly. “Have I lost my—money?” she said.
“No, it is not that. What made you think of losing your money?”
“It often happens, does it not?” she said. “I am sure I should not care.”
“Oh yes, you would care—we should all care; but your money is safe enough. I wish you yourself were as safe. Margaret, my dear, give me your full attention; you were seen last night in the wood.”
“Yes!” she said, a little alarmed.
“With a—gentleman; or at least, let us hope he was a gentleman,” said Ludovic. “You know that it is not—usual, nor perhaps—right. I want you to tell me all about it: and first of all, who was the man?”
Margaret was taken entirely by surprise. It had not occurred to her to think of Rob Glen as one about whom she could be questioned. Hehad grown so familiar while her father lived, and he had been so kind. There was no sort of novelty about it—nothing to be thus solemnly questioned about. But she looked up at her brother with startled eyes.
“Oh, Ludovic, the gentleman—”
“Yes; don’t be frightened for me, my poor little sister, I will not be unkind; but tell me truly, everything. You must not keep back anything, Margaret.”
“I don’t know, perhaps, if—you would call him a gentleman,” said Margaret, the color beginning to rise in her pale face. Keep back nothing! Would she have to tell him all they had said? Her heart began to beat faster. “It is Rob Glen, Ludovic; perhaps you remember him long ago, when he was a boy. I used to go fishing with him; he was very kind to me. Bell always says—”
“Yes—yes; it does not matter about children; but you are not a child now, Margaret. Have you always kept on such—intimate terms with Rob Glen?”
Margaret winced, and her face began to burn. He seemed to himself to be speaking brutally to her; but what else could he say?
“I did not see him at all for a long time,” she said; “and then he came back. He always said he was not—as good as we were. But do you think it all depends upon where you are born? You can’t help where you are born.”
“No; but you must be content with it, and keep to your own place,” said Ludovic, an argument which did not make much impression on his own mind.
“But he is very clever; he can draw most beautifully,” said Margaret. “The first time he came— It was—papa that said he might come.”
The name brought with it, as was natural, a sob; and Ludovic, horribly compunctious, patted his little sister on the shoulder with a kind and lingering hand.
“He made a picture ofhim,” cried Margaret, half inarticulate, struggling with the “climbing sorrow.” “Oh, Loodie! I found it just yesterday; it ishim, his very self.”
“My poor little Margaret! don’t think me cruel,” said the good man, with a break in his voice. “Imusthear.”
“Yes, Ludovic. He used to come often, and sometimes would cheer him up and make him laugh. And he grew—a great friend. Then, whenhewas ill, when I went out to cry— I could not cry when everybody was there.”
“My poor child!”
“That was the first time I met him in the wood. He was very, very kind. I—could do nothing but cry.”
Ludovic took her hand into his, and held it between his own. He was beginning to understand.
“I see how it was,” he said, his voice not so steady as at first. “I see exactly how it was; and I don’t blame you, my dear. But, Margaret, has he taken advantage of this? Has he got you to promise—to marry him? Is that what he talks to you about? Forget I am an old man, old to the like of you—or rather think that I am your father, Margaret.”
“No, no,” she said, “you are not that; no one will ever be that again; but you are very kind. My father—would have been pleased to see how kind you are.”
“God knows—and my poor father too, if he knows anything of what he’s left behind him—that I want to be kind to you, as kind as he could have been, my poor little Margaret. Tell me then, dear, has this young man spoken of marriage to you, and love?”
“Of love? oh yes!” said Margaret, drooping her head. “I am not sure about the other. He was for going away yesterday when I told him I had a fortune; and I had to tell him myself that was no reason for going away, that there would be plenty for us both.”
“Does that mean that you promised to marry him, Margaret?”
“I do not know,” she said, slowly; “I did not think of that. I suppose, when you come to think of it”—the color had all gone out of her face, and she was quite pale again, and letting the words fall more and more slowly—“when you come to think of it, though I never did stop to think—that is what it would mean.”
There was a touch of regret in her tone, a weary acknowledgment of necessity, but no blushing pride or fervor. It had not occurred to her before; but being put to her, it must, no doubt, mean that. She did not look at her brother, but at the ground; but not to hide any happy flush of consciousness. Ludovic was half bewildered, half irritated by her calm.
“But, Margaret,” he cried, “you cannot think what you are saying. This must be put a stop to; it must be brought to an end! it is monstrous; it is impossible! My dear, you cannot really have the least idea what you are doing. Giving yourself up to the first fortune-hunter that appears—a vulgar fellow without a penny, without even the position of a gentleman. He has taken a base advantage of your youth and your trouble. It must be put a stop to,” he said. He had dropped her hand and withdrawn from her side, and was crushing the damp grass under his feet with all those frettings and fidgetings of embarrassment and irritation of which his wife was afraid.
Margaret had looked up at him again. She was quite quiet, but as steady as a statue.
“How can it be put a stop to?” she said. “He is not what you say, Ludovic; he is very kind.”
“Margaret! are you in love with him?” cried her brother; “is that what you mean?”
A slight color wavered over Margaret’s face.
“It is he that is—that,” she said, softly.
This gave Ludovic, ignorant man, courage.
“Heaven be praised if it is only he! I would make short work with him. The only difficulty would be to make you unhappy. My dear, I will see him this very day, and you shall never be troubled with him any more.”
“He has not been a trouble at all, Ludovic. I cannot tell you how kind he was; and yesterday again he was very kind. He would have gone away if I had let him, but I would not let him.”
“Now that you see how serious it is, my dear,” said Ludovic, “you will let him now? I will go and see him at once. I will lose no time. Go you back to the house, and don’t say anything to Jean. Speak to Mary, if you like, but not to Jean; and don’t give yourself anymore trouble about it, my dear; I will manage it all.”
But Margaret did not move; she stood very steadily, all the trembling gone away from her, the tears dried from her cheeks, and her eyes shining. These eyes were still fixed on the ground, and her head was drooping, but she showed no other signs of emotion.
“Ludovic,” she said, slowly, “it is a mistake you are making; it cannot be settled so easily. Indeed, it would be better just to let it alone,” she added, after a pause.
“Let it alone!” cried Sir Ludovic; “that is just the thing that cannot be done.”
Margaret put out her hand and touched his arm. She raised her head with a slight, proud elevation, unlike anything that had been seen in it before.
“You must not meddle with me,” she said, with a wistful look, half warning, half entreating.
“But I must meddle with you, my dear. You must not go to your ruin; you cannot be allowed to go.”
“Don’t meddle with me, Ludovic! I have never been meddled with. You need not think I will do anything wrong.”
“I must act according to my judgment, Margaret. You are too young to know what you are doing. I must save you from this adventurer. You do not even care about him. I know how a girl looks when she is in love: not as you do, Margaret, thank God for it; and that is the one thing of any importance. I must interfere.”
“I do not want to be disobedient,” she said; “but, Ludovic, you know there must be some things that are my own. You cannot judge for me always, nor Jean either. And whatever you may say about this, I will not do it; anything else! but about this I will not do it. It is very, very difficult to say so, when you are so kind; but I cannot, and do not bid me, Ludovic; oh, do not bid me, for I will not!” she said.
“But if I tell you you must!” He was entirely out of patience. What fantastic piece of folly was this that had made her set herself against him like a rock? He was beyond his own control with impatience and irritation. “I hope you will not drive me to say something I will be sorry for,” he said. “You, Margaret, who have always been a good girl, and you don’t even care for this young man!”
“Hecares,” said Margaret, under her breath.
“Is that why you resist me?” cried her brother. “Hecares! yes, for your money, you foolish girl—for what you have got; because he will be able to live and think himself a gentleman!”
“Ludovic!” she cried, her face growing crimson; “but you are only angry; you don’t mean to be so unkind.”
And then he stopped short, touched, in the midst of his anger, by the simplicity of her confidence.
“Do you mean to tell me—that you are really going to marry—Rob Glen, Margaret?”
“Oh! but not for such a long, long time!” she said.
What was he to say to her—a girl so simple, so almost childish, so unyielding? If Mary had only done it herself! probably she would have had some means of insight into this strange, subtle girl’s mechanism which was out of his way. What was reason, argument, common-sense, to a creature like this, who refused to abandon her lover, and yet drew a long breath of relief at the thought that it must be “a long, long time” before he could claim her? Sir Ludovic was at his wit’s end. They had been walking up and down in front of the house, where, out of reach of all the windows, their conversation was quite safe. The grassy path was damp, but it was noiseless, affording no interruption to their talk. On the ruined gable the tall wall-flowers were nodding, and the ivy threw a little shower of rain-drops over them whenever the wind blew. Looking up at that ruined gable reminded him of all his own cares, so much more important than this love nonsense. Should he ever be able to rebuild it? But in the mean time he must not think of this question at all, but address himself to the still more difficult subject of Rob Glen.
When the conversation, however, had come to this pass, beyond which it seemed so difficult to carry it, an interruption occurred. A lumbering old hackney-carriage, well known in the country, which carried everybody to and from the station, of the few who wanted any other means of conveyance but their own legs or their own carriage—and there were not many people of this intermediate class in Stratheden—suddenly swung in heavily at the gate, and sinking deep in the rut, which it went to Ludovic’s heart to see, disfiguring the muddy road through the scanty trees, which called itself the avenue—came laboring toward them. There was a portmanteau on the outside of this vehicle, and somebody within, who thrust out his head as he approached, reconnoitring the curious old gray house. When he saw the two figures advancing from the other side, he called to the driver and leaped out. It was a young man, fair and fashionable, and spotless in apparel, with a beardless but not boyish face, an eyeglass in his eye and a great-coat on his arm.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I am sure that I am speaking to—”
While at the same time Ludovic Leslie, leaving Margaret, upon whom the stranger had already fixed a very decided gaze, went forward, saying,
“Aubrey Bellingham—how do you do? My sister told us she expected you to-day.”
“Yes,” said the young man, “here I am. I came up as soon as I got her summons. It is a fine thing to have nothing to do, for then one is always at the call of one’s friends. May I be presented to—Miss Leslie? whom I have heard of so often. As I am about to enter her service, don’t you think I should know her at once when good-fortune throws me in her way?”
“Only Miss Margaret Leslie, Bellingham. You understand, Margaret, that this is Jean’s nephew, whom she was speaking of this morning. I don’t know what he means by entering your service, but perhaps he can explain that himself.”
The stranger gave Margaret a very keen look of examination—not the chance glance of an ordinary meeting, nor yet the complimentary surprise of sudden admiration of a pretty face. The look meant a great deal more than this, and might have confused Margaret if she had not been far beyond noticing anything of the kind. He seemed to look, try, judge all in a moment, and the keen, sudden inspection struck Sir Ludovic, though he was not very swift to mark suchundercurrents of meaning. It seemed to take a long time, so searching and thorough was it; and yet almost before Ludovic’s voice had ceased to vibrate, Bellingham replied,
“I believe I am to be the courier of the party, which is the same as entering Miss Leslie’s service. My aunts are used to me. Miss Leslie, it is a very quaint relationship this of yours to my aunts. I call both your sisters by that endearing title.”
“I hope you don’t mean to make my little sister into Aunt Margaret,” said Sir Ludovic. “Perhaps, my dear, you had better go and tell Jean of Mr. Bellingham’s arrival. I don’t know what you will think,” he added, escaping with some relief, as Margaret hurried away, into the more habitual current of his thoughts, “of my tumble-down old house.”
“It is a most curious old house,” said the stranger; “I can see that already. I have been studying it all the time; fifteenth century, do you suppose? Domestic architecture is always a little bewildering. I know there are people who can read it like a church, but I don’t pretend to be clever about it. It always puzzles me.”
“No doubt it is puzzling, when you know only a little about it,” said Ludovic, who knew nothing at all.
“That is just my case,” said the other, cheerfully. “I have been taught just a little of most things. It is very unsatisfactory. Indeed, to have the reputation of a handy man in a large family party is ruin to everything. You can neither work nor study: and when you are cursed, in addition, with a little good-nature—”
“A large share of that,” Sir Ludovic said, chiefly because it seemed to him the only thing to say; and it was very good-natured, indeed, for a young man, a man so entirelycomme il faut, and looking more like Pall Mall than Earl’s-hall, to come when his aunt called him so readily. Ludovic knew he himself would not have done it for any number of old ladies, but then he had always had his profession to think of; and how many things he had at this moment to think of! Thank Heaven, at least he had got rid of Margaret’s affairs for the moment. Let Mary put her own brains to work and see what she could make of it. For himself, there was a certain relief in the sight of a new face. In the mean time, while Sir Ludovic’s mind was thus condoling with itself, the new arrival had paid his cab, and seen his portmanteau handed over to John, who had made his appearance at the sound of the wheels.
“For some things, sir,” said young Bellingham, peering at John through his eyeglass, “this is a delightful country. Fancy your old butler, who looks an archbishop at least, meekly carrying off my portmanteau! If he had been on the other side of the Tweed, he would have looked at it helplessly, and requested to know what he was supposed to have to do with such an article.”
“John is not used to much grandeur,” said Sir Ludovic, not knowing whether this was compliment or depreciation; “a man-of-all-work about a homely Scotch country-house is not like one of your pampered menials in the South. Did you have a good crossing at the Ferry?”
There are times when the Ferry at Burntisland is not much more agreeable than the worse ferry at Dover, and it was always a civil question—though privately he thought that a little tossing, or even a little sea-sickness, would not have done any harm to this spruce gentleman. Ludovic felt plainer, rustier, in his old black coat, which had seen much service at his office, since this carefully dressed young hero had dawned upon the horizon. He felt instinctively that he did not like him; though nothing could be more cheerful or friendly than Mr. Aubrey Bellingham. He was good enough to explain the house to its master as they went in, and told him why the screen wall between the two blocks of building existed, and all about it. Ludovic was so startled that he found nothing to reply; he had even a little heraldic lecture upon his own coat-of-arms over the door.
Therewas quite a cheerful flutter of talk at the luncheon-table in the long room. Sir Ludovic had never much to say, and his wife was very anxious to know the result of his interview with Margaret, and Effie was shy, and Margaret herself perfectly silent. But the rapid interchange of question and answer between Mrs. Bellingham and her nephew made the most lively commotion, and stirred all the echoes in the quiet place, where nobody as yet had ventured upon a laugh. It was not to be supposed that Aubrey Bellingham, who was a stranger and had never seen the old Sir Ludovic, could be much subdued in his tone by “what had happened”—and Jean had already begun to feel that there was really no reason to regret such a happy release.
“I am just beginning to be able to look people in the face again,” she said. “I need not tell you, Aubrey, it has been a dreadful time. My sister and I have had a great deal to do, and naturally, though it may not tell at the time, one feels it afterward. I did not leave my room yesterday at all. Grace will tell you I had one of my bad headaches. But what with seeing you to-day, and being obliged to bestir myself in the morning about some business, a piece of work quite after your own heart, Aubrey, arranging some lace.”
“If it is fine, I quite understand the improvement in your health,” he said. “What kind? and who is the happy possessor? I hope some of it has fallen to your share.”
“Oh, a little,” said Mrs. Bellingham; and Grace echoed “a little” with some dolefulness.
This division of the stores of the house into three portions had not been so successful as was hoped; and when it was again gone over, some scraps naturally fell to Lady Leslie and her daughters. It was Miss Leslie upon whom the loss chiefly fell, and there was accordingly in her tone a tinge of melancholy. She was not sorry that dear Mary and the dear girls should have it, but still it was notorious that she was generally the sufferer when any one had to suffer.
“Margaret is the most fortunate; Margaret has a piece of point de Venise. I never saw such a lovely piece. It will go to your very heart. After lunch you shall see it all, and Iknow you will think Margaret a lucky girl—too lucky! She will not appreciate it for a dozen years, and by that time she will have grown familiar with it, and it will not impress her,” said Mrs. Bellingham, regretfully. “You don’t think half so much of things you have had since you were a girl. But tell me, Aubrey, how is everybody? Had you heard from the Court before you left? What were they all doing? I declare it seems about a year since we came here in such a hurry. I dare say you have heard all about us, and the sad way in which we have been spending our time? I have had a great deal of flying neuralgia, and yesterday it quite settled in my head. Scotland does not suit me, I always say. It does very well for Grace, who is as strong as a pony, though she does not look it—”
“Dearest Jean!” said Miss Leslie, touched to the quick, and this time insisting upon a hearing. “I strong? Dear Aubrey knows better than to believe—”
“Oh yes, we all know, my dear, you are strong at bottom, though you have your little ailments; and with me it is just the other way. I am kept up by my spirit. Now, Aubrey, you have not given us one single piece of news. Tell us something about the Court.”
“I appeal to your candor, Aunt Jean; what can I tell you about the Court when I am fresh from town?—unless you mean the other kind of a court, the royal one, or the Club. You shall hear, if you please, about the Club. You know about that trial that was so much talked of? It is to be all hushed up, I believe.Sheis to be condoned, andheis to have his debts paid, and they are all to live happy ever after. You should hear Mountfort on the subject. He says it will not be six months before it is all on again, and the detectives at work.”
“Is it possible?” cried Mrs. Bellingham. “I thought Lady Arabella had really taken the last step and run off, you know, in the yacht; and that Lord Fred—”
“No names, my dear aunt, I entreat. Of course, everybody knows who is meant, but it is better not to bandy names about. Oh no; my lady would have done it, I don’t doubt for a moment, but Fred is a fellow who knows very well how far the world will permit you to go, and he wouldn’t hear of it; so it is all hushed up. There is something very piquant, however, going on in another quarter, where you would never suspect it. It sounds just like a romance. A couple that have always been one of the most devoted couples, and a friend who has been the most devoted friend—husband’s school-fellow, you know, and saved his life in India, or something—and there they are, the three of them; everybody sees it, except the silly fellow himself. It’s as good as a play to watch them; you know whom I mean. They have a place not a hundred miles from us; wife the most innocent, smiling creature—”
“Ah!” cried Miss Leslie, holding up her hands, “I can see who you me—”
“Of course, anybody can see,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “The A.’s, of course, of A. C. Do you really mean it, Aubrey? and the man? Goodness gracious! why, of course it must be!—no—not that, don’t say so—Algy—? I never heard of such a complication in all my life.”
“Exactly,” said the new-comer; “that is what everybody says. Algy, of all men in the world, with a character to lose! But in this sort of affair you never can trust any one; and still waters run deep, you know. It is the woman that puzzles me, smiling and looking so innocent. Happily Sir Cresswell Cresswell does not want a jury, for no jury would ever go against such an innocent-looking little woman.”
Effie had been taking all this mysterious talk in with the most rapt attention. She did not understand a word of it, but still a lively discussion of other people, even when you don’t know who they are, and don’t know what they are accused of, has a certain interest. But Sir Cresswell Cresswell’s well-known name roused Lady Leslie, who had been longing to interfere before, and woke up even Ludovic, who had been eating his luncheon steadily, and thinking how the avenue could be put in order at the least expense. What did he care for their chatter? But this name woke the good man up.
“You will think me very stupid,” said Lady Leslie, “but we are only plain Scotch people, you know, and very seldom go to England, and don’t know about your friends. I dare say Mr. Aubrey would be so kind as to tell us something about the Court, as he said—not Bellingham Court, but the Queen’s Court. Effie would like to hear about the princes and princesses, and so would Margaret. They say we are going to have one of them up here.”
“Oh, surely,” said Aubrey, “there is always plenty of talk on that subject. Most of them are going a frightful pace. I am not posted up in the very last scandals, for, you know, I have never been a favorite. But there is a very pretty story current about a pretty Galician or Wallachian, or some of those savage tribes. The lady, of course, was quite civilized enough to know all about the proprieties—or perhaps it would be better to say the improprieties—of our princely society, and she thought, I suppose, that an English Royalty—”
“Oh!” said Lady Leslie; “but I feel sure half these stories are nonsense, or worse than nonsense. I know you gentlemen are fond of a little gossip at your club, and I suppose you don’t mean the half of what you say. Were the pictures fine this year, Mr. Bellingham? That is one thing I regret never going to London for; one sees so few pictures.”
“I think everybody who has seen them will agree with me in saying the fewer the better,” said Bellingham, ready for all subjects. “The dinner this year was as great bosh as usual. But there is a very good story about an R.A. who asked a great lady he happened to meet with how she liked the portrait of her husband. It was her Grace of X., or Y., or Z.—never mind who; I dare say you will all guess. She stared at him, as you may suppose. But he insisted. ‘Oh yes, he had finished it a month before; and he always understood it was the Duchess herself who had suggested that pose which was so successful!’ Fancy the unfortunate fellow’s feelings when he saw what he had done! And I hope her Grace gave it hot and hot to the Duke.”
“There, Aubrey, that will do; that is enough of your funny stories. They are not pretty stories at all, though sometimes they make onelaugh when one oughtn’t,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “Those clubs of yours are not at all nice places, as my sister-in-law says—and talk of women’s gossip! But now and then it is like a sniff of salts, you know, or a vinaigrette, which is not nice in itself, but wakes one up. Now we must be going to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow; and I think, as you are here, Aubrey, we might as well go to Perth, and then make a little round through the Highlands. I dare say you are going somewhere shooting as soon as the moors are open. We cannot do much mountain work, because of the sad circumstances and our crape; but we might stay for a week in one place and a week in another, and so make our way to the Grange about the end of August. That would be a very good time. The very hot weather will be over, and it will be best not to try Margaret too much with the heat of an English summer. I wish you would not always interrupt me, Grace. There is never any heat in Scotland. It is rather fine now, and warmish, and quite pleasant; but as for a scorching sun, and that sort of thing— You are very quiet, Margaret. Has Ludovic been scolding you? You ought to leave that to me, Ludovic; a man has always a heavier hand. I always said, if I had been blessed with children, I never should have let their father correct them. Men mean very well, but they have a heavy hand.”
“But not dearest Loodie!” cried Miss Leslie; “he always was the kindest! and dear Jean knows as well as any of us—”
“Yes, I know that a man’s hand is always heavier than he thinks, whether it is a simple scolding or something more serious. Margaret looks like a little mouse, with all the spirits out of her. If she comes in like that after walks with you, Ludovic, I don’t think I will trust her with you again.”
“Margaret has not been very lively lately,” said kind Lady Leslie. “She has not been keeping us all in amusement, like Mrs. Bellingham. I think I will take the two girls away with me this afternoon, if you have no objections, Jean. I am going to the Manse to see Mrs. Burnside, and the walk will do Margaret good.”
“Will you speak to Mrs. Burnside, please, about giving Aubrey a bed?” Mrs. Bellingham said; and Lady Leslie, who was anxious about her husband’s interview with his sister, and not at all anxious to cultivate Aubrey’s acquaintance, hurried them away. She had a hasty interview with Ludovic before she went out, who was very anxious she should take the business into her own hands. What was to be done? Would it be better to say nothing at all about it, but trust to the “long, long time,” and the distance, and the development of the girl’s mind?
“But it would be better for her to marry Rob Glen than Aubrey Bellingham, with all his nasty stories,” Lady Leslie said, indignantly.
“What was the fellow talking about?” asked Ludovic. He had not paid any attention, save for one moment, at the sound of that too remarkable name; but it had not come to anything except “havers,” and he had resumed his own thoughts. Lady Leslie, however, did not let her victim off so easily. She insisted that he should see Rob Glen, and warn him of the disapproval of the family; and this at last, with many sighs and groans, the unfortunate head of the family consented to do.
“I have been watching her all the time,” said the stranger, when he had been taken by the two ladies to the West Chamber, “and I approve. She is not very lively, and I dare say she will never be amusing (begging your pardons, my dear aunts, for so plain a speech); but she is very pretty, and what you call interesting; and a little money, though it is not much, is always acceptable. I have not come off hitherto, notwithstanding my merits. You put me up at too high a price, you ladies; and I have gone through a good many seasons without ever fetching that fancy price. So if you think I have any chance, really I don’t mind. I will go in for Miss Margaret seriously, and I will not tell her naughty stories, but bring her up in the way she should go.”
“No; you must be more careful how you talk before young ladies,” said Mrs. Bellingham. “People here are not used to it. My sister-in-law is a very good little body, but quite untrained, as you would see. Yes, Aubrey, it would make me happy to see dear Margaret in your hands. I am sure you would always be kind to her. And it is a very nice little property, and could be improved; and she would make you a very nice little wife. It would just be the kind of thing to make me feel I had all I wished for, if I could provide for my little sister and for you, Aubrey, my husband’s godchild, at the same time.”
“Oh, we can’t have you take the Nunc Dimittis view,” he said, “that is out of the question; but I am quite willing, ifsheis; and if she isn’t after a while, with all my opportunities, I shall be a precious fool, Aunt Jean. By-the-way, it is a little odd, if you come to think of it, marrying into a previous generation, as I should be doing if she’d have me—marrying my aunt, isn’t it? I think it’s within the forbidden degrees.”
“Margaret your aunt, dear Aubrey? Darling Margaret is not quite eighteen; so how could that be?” said Miss Leslie; “and do you mean thatthisis what you were thinking of? Oh, I wondered what dear Jean, with her own clever head, wanted Aubrey for—Jean, who can manage everything. But how can you tell whether you will love her, dear Aubrey? You cannot always love where you wish to; and I never would give my consent, never for a moment, to a match which was not—”
“What nonsense is she talking?” said Mrs. Bellingham. She had gone to get Margaret’s lace to exhibit, and this was why Grace had found the occasion to address Aubrey at such length, “a match which was not—something or other; I am sure, Aubrey, you will fall in love, as everybody does before they marry. I suppose you don’t want to shut up little Margaret in a prison with you and me, Grace, and keep her money, that her husband might not get the use of it? That would be just like you old maids. But I mean Margaret to have a good husband, and live a happy life.”
“Dearest Jean!” said Miss Grace, with tears, “Ikeep dear Margaret unmarried, or want her money! She shall have all I have when I die; and as for being an old maid—”
This was a very unkind cut indeed, and Miss Leslie was unable to resist the impulse to cry.Her tears were not so interesting as Margaret’s, for her nose became red, and her short-sighted eyes muddy. “I am sure I have not done anything to deserve this,” she said, and sobbed; while Jean told her not to be so silly, and, without paying any more attention, held up the point de Venise, which had belonged to Margaret’s mother, in her plump hands.
“Look at that, Aubrey! If all goes well, you may have a wife withthatupon her wedding-dress. Dear me, I think I would almost marry myself to have it. Is it not lovely? But Margaret will not care a bit; no one does at her age. She would think a bit of common Valenciennes from a shop just as pretty, or perhaps, Lord knows, imitation would please her. I had a piece myself in my trousseau not half so good as that, nor half so much of it, but stilllace, you know, real lace; and I let it lie about, and wore net ruffs and things. Even I! so you may fancy what Margaret will do. But if it was her mother’s (and Bell swears it was), she has a right to it,” Mrs. Bellingham said, with integrity beyond praise.
“It is very nice, Aunt Jean,” said Aubrey, holding it to the light; “but I think you are a little too enthusiastic. If it is point de Venise, it is very late work—not the best. I should be disposed to say it was point de France—very pretty all the same, and valuable in its way. Now look at that stitch: I don’t think you would find that in real old Venetian. I think that is a French stitch. But it is very nice,” he added, looking at it critically, “very nice: on a dark velvet or brocade, it would look very well. As for putting it over white satin, I never should consent to such a thing. Light point de Flandres, or modern Brussels, or Malines, I shouldn’t mind; but Venetian point, no. You ladies have your own ideas; but I wouldn’t allow it, not if my opinion was asked.”
“You see, you allow it is Venetian, after all.”
“Or point de France. It is very much the same thing. Sometimes you can scarcely tell that it has travelled over the Alps. But I think I have an eye for lace. Any china?” said Aubrey, walking to a door in the panelling and opening it coolly. “Ay, I thought it was a cupboard. But here’s only common stuff.”
“The best tea-things!” said Miss Grace, with a little shriek, “that have always been kept there ever since I was a child.”
“In that case, perhaps they are better than they appear,” said Aubrey, calmly; and after a closer inspection, he decided that this was the case. They were Chelsea, “but not much.” From this it will be seen that young Mr. Bellingham was a young man of extended and various information. He went up-stairs to the high room with them, and was really excited by the old clothes. The house, though he appreciated its curiousness, did not otherwise attract the young man. “If one could spend a few thousands on old oak and tapestry, it might be made very nice,” he acknowledged; but there were some old cups and saucers here and there in the various rooms which pleased him. And as he accompanied the ladies up and down, and examined everything, he gave an occasional thought to Margaret, which ought to have made her proud, had she been aware of the distinction. She would do very well. She was not at all the kind of person whom, in such circumstances, it would have been natural to see. A red-haired young woman, with high cheek-bones—was not that the recognized type of a Scotch heiress? Aubrey knew that the conventional type does not always hold; but he had thought of Miss Leslie’s nose and her short sight, and he had also thought of his aunt’s plumpness, and that peculiarity of tone which many Scotchwomen in England attain, with the proud consciousness of having lost all their native accent.
There are few things so disagreeably provincial as this tone, which is not Scotch, which is the very triumph and proclaimed conviction of having shaken off Scotch and acquired the finest of Southern speech. Aubrey had been afraid of all these things; but Margaret had not come up to the conventional requirements of her position. Her soft native Fife, even with its modulations, did not alarm him like Aunt Jean’s high English, and her nose would never be like that of Aunt Grace. Altogether, she was an unexceptionable heiress, sweet and sorrowful, and “interesting.” It was a commonplace sort of word, but yet even a superfine young man is sometimes obliged to use such ordinary mediums of expression. For a man who, previously set up at much too high a figure (to quote his own metaphor), and commanding no offers, was ready to accept a moderate fortune even under disadvantageous conditions, the thought of a nice little property, weighted only by Margaret, was very consolatory indeed.
Nextday was Sunday, the last day that Margaret was to spend at home; not like the brilliant Sunday on which old Sir Ludovic, for the last time, attended “a diet of worship” in the parish church, and was reminded of his latter end by good Dr. Burnside; but gray, and dull, and cloudy, with no light on the horizon, and the whole landscape, hill and valley and sea, all expressed in different tones of a flat lead color, the change of all others which most affects the landscape. In Fife, as has been candidly allowed, the features of the country have no splendor or native nobleness; and accordingly there is no power in them to resist this invasion of grayness. Mr. Aubrey Bellingham, though he did pretend to “go in” for the beauties of nature, intimated very plainly his discontent with the scene before him.
“Anything poorer in the way of landscape I don’t know that I ever saw,” he said, and sighed, when he was made to take his place in the old carriage to be driven to Fifeton, to the “English Chapel.” It was six miles off; whereas the parish church, with the Norman chancel, was scarcely one. But, as Mrs. Bellingham said, if you do not hold by your church, what is to become of you?
“Only the common people go there,” she said—“the farmers, and so forth. The gentry areallEpiscopalian. My brother, Sir Ludovic, may go now and then for the sake of example, and because Dr. Burnside is an old family friend; but Sir Claude, and everybody of importance, you will find at our church. All theelitegothere. I can’t think what the gentry were thinking of, to allow the Presbyterians to seize the endowments. It is quite the other way in England, where it is the common people who are dissenters, andwehave a church which is really fit for ladies and gentlemen to go to. But things are all very queer in Scotland, Aubrey. That is one thing, I suppose, that gives the common people such very independent ways.”
“Well, Aunt Jean, let us be thankful we were not born to set it right,” said Aubrey, reconciled to see that his six-miles’ drive was to be in company with Margaret. But she, in her deep mourning, did not afford much good diversion during the drive. The fact that it was the last day—the last day! had at length penetrated her mind; and a vague horror of what might happen, of something hanging over her which she did not understand, of leave-takings, and engagements to be entered into and promises to be made, had come over Margaret like a cloud. She had passively obeyed her sisters’ orders, and followed them into the carriage, though not without an acute recollection of her last drive in that carriage by her father’s side at a time when she was not passive at all, but liked her own way and had it, and was not aware how happy she was.
Margaret took all the other changes as secondary to the one great change, and did not feel them as an old man’s darling, a somewhat spoiled child, accustomed to unlimited indulgence for all her fancies, might have been expected to do. But her individuality came back to her, and with it a sense of unknown troubles to be encountered, as she leaned back in her corner, saying nothing. She drew herself as far as possible away from Aubrey Bellingham, and she let her veil drop, with its heavy burden of crape, and took refuge within herself. She had to part with her home, and Bell and John, the attendants of her life, but, more alarming still and strange, she had to part with Rob Glen. Ludovic’s interposition had increased tenfold the importance of everything about Rob Glen, the circumstances of which she had thought so little when the first step had been taken. How could she have thought of the young man’s position, or of any consequences that might follow, at the moment when her father lay dying? Rob had been very kind; his tenderness, his caresses, had gone to her heart. There were indeed moments, after the first, when they no longer impressed her with such a sense of kindness, when she would have been glad enough to avoid the close contact, and when the touch of his arm round her gave Margaret a sense of shy shrinking, rather than of the utter confidence and soothing which she had felt at first—and when she had not liked to vex him by resistance, but had edged and shrunk away, and made herself as small as possible to avoid the embarrassing pressure.
But all this vague shyness and shrinking had changed at their last interview, when Margaret, in generous impetuosity, and terror lest he should think she considered herself raised above him by her fortune, had taken the matter into her own hands and made all the vague ties definite. What an extraordinary sensation it was to feel that she belonged to him—she, Margaret Leslie, to him, Rob Glen! She could not realize or understand it, but felt, with a sense of giddiness through her whole being, that something existed which bound her to him forever. Yes, no doubt, when you came to think of it, that was what it meant. She had not been aware of it at first, but this no doubt was how it was. And Ludovic’s questioning had made it all so much more real. After what her brother had said, there was no avoiding the certainty.
Between Rob Glen and herself was an invisible link, woven so closely that nothing could undo it. How changed all the world was! Once it lay free and bright and open before her, with but one restriction, and that her natural obedience to her father and loyalty to her home. Now, with a giddiness and dazzling in her eyes, she felt how different it all was. She had no longer any home, and the world was closed up to her by that figure of Rob Glen. She did not know that she objected to him, or disliked his presence, but it made everything different. And chiefly it made her giddy, so that she herself and the whole universe seemed to be going round and round—Rob Glen. She was not sure, even—but all was confusion in her mind—that she thought of him now just as she had thought of him in those old, old times, when he had sat among the potatoes and made his picture; when he had seemed so clever, such a genius, such a poet, making a common bit of paper into a landscape, in which the sun would shine and the wind blow forever.
That side of the subject was dim to her now. Rob was no longer an artist doing wonders before her eyes, but a man whose touch made her shrink, yet held her fast; one whom she was more shy of, yet more bound to, than to anybody else in the world; from whom she would like to steal a little farther off, if she could do it unnoticed, yet move a step nearer to, should he find her out. This strange jumble of feeling seemed to be brought to a climax by the thought that she was going away to-morrow. To-night—there was no avoiding the necessity—she must go again and meet him, and explain everything to him, and part with him. What might he say, or make her do and say? She could not wound his feelings by refusing, by letting him see that she shrank from him. She felt that she must yield to him, not to hurt his feelings. A mingled sense of sympathy and gratitude, and (though the word is so inadequate) politeness, made it seem terrible to Margaret to withdraw from her lover.
To betray to a person who loves you that his gaze, his touch, his close vicinity is distasteful, what a dreadful thing to do—what a wound to his feelings, and his pride, and his fondness! If he would not do it; if he would keep a little farther off, and keep his arms by his side like other people, how much more pleasant; but to be so unsympathetic, so unfeeling, as to show him that you did not like what he meant in such great kindness! this was more than Margaret could do. As she sat back in the carriage and was carried along through the gray landscape, with a whiff of Mrs. Bellingham’smille-fleurspervading the atmosphere, and a sea of crape all about her, and the voices of the others flowing on, Margaret, whom they thought so impassive, was turning over this question, with flushes of strange confusion and trouble. What would he say? whatwould he ask of her? what promises would she have to make, and pledges to give? To give him up was a thing that did not enter into her mind; she could not have done anything so cruel; but she looked forward to the next meeting with an alarm which was very vivid, while at the same time she was aware that it was quite inevitable that she must see him, and that in all likelihood she would do what he wanted her to do.
This pervading consciousness confused Margaret much in respect to the morning’s service, and the people who came up to her and pressed her hand, and said things they meant to be kind. It was a little chapel, very like, as Mrs. Bellingham said indignantly, the chapels which the dissenters had in England; and to see all the common folk going to the big church with the steeple, to which they were called by all the discordancy of loudly clanging bells, while the carriages drew up before that little non-conforming tabernacle, was very offensive to all right-minded people.
“Things must have been dreadfully mismanaged, Aubrey, at the time when all was settled,” Mrs. Bellingham said, very seriously; “for you see for yourself all the best people were there. One advantage is that it is much pleasanter sitting among a congregation that isallladies and gentlemen; but surely, surely, taking the most liberal view of it, it is more suitable that we should have the churches, and the common people be dissenters, as they are in England? I would not prevent them— I would let them have their way; but naturally it is not we that should give place to them, but they to us.”
“But, dearest Jean, we were all once—”
“And when you think—Grace, I wish you would let me get in a word—that we really cannot get a very good set of clergy because there is no money to give them, while the Presbyterians have got it all, though it comes out of our pockets! I have never studied history as I ought to have done, for really education was not so much attended to in our days; but I am sure the Scots gentry must have been very badly treated. For that John Knox, you know, sprang of the common people himself, and they were all he cared about, and no pains were taken, none at all, to suit the Church to the better classes. But Margaret has been more seen to-day; and we have had more condolences and sympathy from our own kind of people at this one service than we would have had at the parish church in twenty years.”
These shakings of hands, however, and the words of sympathy were too much for Margaret, who was not perhaps in the best condition for being inspected and condoled with, after all the secret agitation of this long, silent drive, and who had to be sent home, finally, alone, while her sisters and their attendant stopped half-way to take luncheon with Sir Claude.
“You will send back the carriage for us, Margaret, since you don’t feel equal to staying? Of course, it is a very different thing to her, who never was away from him, to what it is to us, who had not been with him for years,” Mrs. Bellingham said, while Miss Leslie lingered at the carriage-door, and could not make up her mind to leave her dearest Margaret.
“I think I ought to go with her, dear child. Don’t you think so, dear Aubrey? But then Sir Claude and Lady Jane are so kind; and then it will be such a trouble sending back the carriage. Darling Margaret, are you sure, are you quite sure you don’t mind going alone? for I will come with you in a minute. I don’t really care to stay at all, but for Jean, who always likes a change; and dear Sir Claude is so kind; and it will be a change, you know, for dear Aubrey—the chief people in Fife!” she added, anxiously putting her nose into the carriage, “if you are quite sure, dearest Margaret, that you don’t mind.”
Free of the crape, and of that sense of a multitude which belongs to a closely packed carriage, Margaret went home very much more tranquilly in her corner, and cried, and was relieved as the heavy old vehicle rolled along between the well-known hedge-rows, and passed the well-known church upon its mound where her old father lay sleeping the sleep of the weary and the just. She gazed out wistfully through her tears at the path round the old apse of the church where she had walked with him so lately, and close to which he was now laid. In these days no idea of floral decorations had visited Scotch grave-yards, and the great gray stone-work of the Leslie tomb, rearing its seventeenth-century skulls and crossbones against the old twisted Norman arches, was not favorable to any loving deposit of this kind. But a rose-bush that grew by the side door had thrown a long tendril round the gray wall, which was drooping with a single half-opened rose upon it straight across those melancholy emblems, pointing, as it seemed to Margaret, to the very spot where old Sir Ludovic lay. This went to her heart, poor child. They were taking her away, but the rose would remain and shed its leaves over the place, and make it sweet; and kind eyes would look at it, and kind people would talk of old Sir Ludovic, and be sorry for his poor little Peggy, whose life was so changed.