Therewas not very much conversation between the two young men as they went to Glasgow. Eddy, indeed, would talk for a few minutes from time to time in his usual way, but presently would fall into silence, from which he roused up feverishly with suppressed excitement in his eyes, to rattle on once more for a brief time, asking hasty and often absurd questions, and making fun of the answers which Archie in puzzled seriousness made. Humour had not much share in Archie’s constitution. He had been light-hearted enough in his earlier development, and joked like the rest in the rather noisy fun of the class to which he belonged; but his father’s return, and the revolution that had taken place in his existence, had taken all the fun out of Archie, and made life very serious to him. Eddy’s “chaff,” the light art of turning everything into ridicule, which, when there is no sympathetic ear to hear, falls so flat and sounds so dreary, perplexed his grave companion. Archie concluded charitably and not untruly that it was excitement that produced this varying behaviour, the dead silence and the chatter of speech. He believed that Eddy’s troubles about money and the relief he was himself about to bring to them were the cause. He himself thought that a hundred and fifty pounds was an immense sum, and that there was scarcely any embarrassment possible to a youth of his own age which could not be amply covered by that. Archiehad known “fellows in debt” often enough, but a ten-pound note, or twenty at the outside, would have made their hearts dance. And he thought with a sense that he himself was acting the part of providence, that a complete and perfect deliverance must result in this case. He said to himself, that when Eddy had actually the money in his hands—which he intended to draw out himself and hand over in notes to his companion—his mind would be more calm.
The transaction at the bank was managed quite satisfactorily. Archie would not even permit Eddy to accompany him inside, but left him gazing vacantly into the shop-windows while he accomplished his business. Very little passed between them when it was completed. Archie thrust the little packet of notes into Eddy’s hand. “They’re small one’s,” he said, “I thought that was best.” And Eddy grasped Archie’s hand and gave him a look in which gratitude was blended with what Archie imagined to be joy—in his salvation so to speak: but which was in reality a delightful consciousness of the possession of money, and of the great joke involved in his benefactor’s conviction that he was doing a great thing. Eddy did not think so much of the hundred and fifty pounds. He concluded that it was the merest trifle to the millionaire’s son, who, of course, had only got to ask his father for more if he wanted it. Eddy put it into his pocket carelessly, though with much pleasure. It did not mean the payment of debt, which to him was but a mediocre satisfaction; it meant various things much more agreeable—the spending of money, which is an inexhaustible pleasure so long as the wherewithal lasts.
After this they went to see various of the sights of Glasgow, in which Eddy, it must be allowed, was not very much interested—the Cathedral, for one, which Archie looked upon as the most glorious building in the world, but which young Saumarez cared about as little for as he would have cared for any other cathedral under the sun. Eddy yawned as he walked about the aisles and investigated the crypt. He cared neither for the architecture nor the antiquity, nor for the painted glass, nor even for Rob Roy, which latter interest poor Archie considered infallible. Nor were the other sights more exciting to him. He suggested luncheon as far more interesting either than the Necropolis, the College, or the Broomielaw: and after the luncheon, which he did not consider highly satisfactory, asked with much languor and fatigue of expression, whether Rowland had not some one he wanted to call on instead of bothering about any more Glasgow sights?
Archie coloured high at this question, not on Eddy’s account, but with a curious feeling of shame, which was also a feeling of guilt. To be in Glasgow without going to see his aunt would be, he was aware, an unpardonable and heartless thing. It would wound her deeply if she knew, and even if she never knew, it would be no less a mean and abominable thing to do. Nevertheless the presence of Eddy had been enough to make him put this from his mind as an impossibility. “I was not thinking of calling anywhere,” he said.
“But you must have people that you want to see.Let’s go and see somebody,” Eddy said. “I like people. I’m not a fellow for seeing sights.”
“I might take you to see the football at the Westpark—if you are fond of football.”
“Oh I don’t mind it,” said Eddy; “let’s go and see the football. It is better than staring at things neither you nor I care about.”
“Oh, I care about that,” said Archie: and as he thought of the old field in which his old companions used to meet, a certain warmth from the old times came over his heart. He had been rather a fine performer at football in his day, and the Westpark men had meant to play the College that very season, he recollected. He had not appeared at the field since the season began. His place there knew him no more. Nevertheless, to see them at their practice would be something, and he might meet some of the fellows between whom and himself there was now such a gulf fixed. Saumarez would be startled no doubt by their noisy ways, and their broad Scotch: but what did it matter after all what Saumarez thought? They went accordingly to the Westpark where, with pleasure but alarm, he had conducted his father four months ago, when cricket was going on. Happy lads! they had but changed from cricket into football, while Archie—What changes, what changes his life had undergone!
They got to the field before the play had begun, and Archie was loudly welcomed by several of his old friends. “What’s come of ye, man, all this time!” “Eh, Archie! you’re a sight for sair een.” “Are ye back in Glaskie, or are ye just on a visit?” Archie shookhands with a whole band, and replied that he was only up for the day, but that he felt he must come and see them, and hear what was going on; and he had a friend with him—a friend from England. The young athletes clustered round, delighted to see any friend of Archie’s. They asked Eddy questions about the game “in the South.” “But I don’t know much about the South,” he said. “Harrow’s the farthest South I know.” Archie’s friends, though they were but Glasgow lads, knew enough to know that Harrow merited respectful treatment, and they led the stranger to the best place to see the game which was just beginning. The two young men stood and watched with great interest for some time, and then in this new springing of kindly associations, Archie felt it was impossible to go back without seeing his aunt. To come here and not to go to Aunt Jane, to run the risk of wounding her to the heart: for some one would be sure to tell her he had been seen at Westpark—he felt that it was impossible he should do this thing. He touched Eddy on the shoulder at the very crisis of the interest and whispered, “I’m going to run away for ten minutes to see an old friend. I’ll come back for you here.”
“Not a bit,” said Eddy, promptly. “I’ll go with you. My interest is not overwhelming in the match. I’d much rather go——”
“Oh, it is not a place you will care for,” said Archie, much embarrassed.
“Never mind: I’ll come with you,” said his companion, and what could Archie say? He made a hurried explanation to one of the performers that hewas compelled to go, and the two left the field. Even then Archie made another attempt to throw off this too close companion.
“It’s a pity,” he said, “to take you away. I’m not going to see anybody that’s interesting. It is an old body, an old—relation; nothing that will please you.”
“You don’t do me justice,” said Eddy. “I tell you people are what I care for; and you know my taste for ladies. Old ladies are my favourite study—when there are no young ones in the way.”
“There are no young ones,” said Archie, in despair; “and I don’t want to take you away.”
“Oh, I like it,” said Eddy, and thrust his hand through the other’s arm.
There was, therefore, nothing to be done but to accept the leading of fate. How strange and wonderful now were all these familiar ways that led to the Sauchiehall Road! Already the work of time and change had operated upon them. They were narrow, and mean, and grey, not comfortable and friendly as they had once looked. The houses small and poor, the streets confined and filthy, the whole complexion of the place altered. He had not known what a homely, poor part of the town it was: he saw it now as if it were a new place with which he was making acquaintance for the first time.
And when he came in sight of the house in Sauchiehall Road, the familiar house with its front door, so dignified a feature, and the big elderberry tree filling up the little space before the door! The blinds were drawn carefully half over the window, except in thelittle parlour downstairs, where everything was open, the little muslin curtain over the lower part of the window tucked up that Mrs. Brown might see—who was sitting there at her knitting, carefully looking out upon the street, for something new. What a changed life it was for Mrs. Brown; no young people running out and in, no merry companions, no little vanities to minister to, no little quarrels and frettings, but a dead load of solitary comfort, good things which she ate alone, and new dresses which nobody saw. She gave “a skreigh,” as she herself would have said, as she saw Archie coming up the path, and flew herself to open the door for him. “Eh, my bonnie man!” cried Mrs. Brown. She did not fling herself on his neck and kiss him, for that was not according to her reserved Scotch ways, but she held both his hands, and swayed him slightly by them, gazing into his face with eyes full of ecstacy and tears. “Eh, Archie, but it’s a pleasure to see ye. Eh, my bonnie man!”
“I am glad to see you again, Aunty Jane,” said Archie. “I was in Glasgow for the day, and I’ve come to see you; and I’ve got a friend with me—a friend from England.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Brown, perceiving Eddy’s not very distinguished figure behind. She made him something between a curtesy and a bow. “I am sure,” she said, “any friend of Archie’s is welcome to me, sir. Come in and take a seat. I’m glad to see ye—But oh, Archie, my man! the sight of my own laddie is just light to my een. And how is a’ wi’ you, my bonnie boy?—and Mey? And are ye getting on well at Rosmore?And is your father well? and the leddy? I have so many questions to ask I dinna know when to stop. Eh, Archie, how I have missed you—life itself is not the same—and Mey! I just sit dowie all the day, and care for nothing, looking out at my window as if I might see ye pass, and sitting by the fireside and listening as if I might hear ye coming down the stair. Eh, but life’s a different thing when there’s naething but an old wife sitting her lane by her fire side——”
And here Mrs. Brown broke down and cried; but looking up smiling, in the midst of her tears, bade them to tell her if they had got their dinner, or what she could give them. “I will have mince-collops ready in a moment,” she said.
“I told Rowland so,” said Eddy, “that he should have come and asked you for some dinner instead of going to that queer place in—what do you call the street? but he thought it would be giving you too much trouble. That’s the worst of that modest sort of dreadfully proud fellow. He can’t be got to see that you would like to take the trouble—for him.”
“Eh, laddie,” cried Mrs. Brown, her face lighting up through the half-dried tears; “are ye a warlock, or how do ye ken? That’s just heaven’s truth; and though he’s blate, he’s awfu’ proud: and ye must be a lad of uncommon sense to ken.”
“Yes,” said Eddy, modestly, “I’ve always been noted for my sense; but I am not at all proud, and I think if you were to make some of your nice tea for us—I am quite sure that you make delightful tea.”
“Hear to him!” said Mrs. Brown, delighted. “Yeshall have your tea, my young gentleman, and a pleasure it will be to serve ye. I will just ask Bell if the kettle is boiling; and Archie, ye can show your friend the pictures of Mey and you when you were bairns, and the views your father sent home from India, and anything you can find to amuse him. I’ll no be a minute.” She left the two young men alone together while she hurried to the kitchen to see after the tea.
“Let me see the picture of your sister and you, not the views from India, Rowland,” said Eddy.
“Saumarez,” cried Archie, clearing his throat; “I told you this was a—relation. She brought us up, and she was very kind to us. I can’t have her laughed at, you know.”
“Laughed at?” cried Eddy; “how you misunderstand! I found out all that in the twinkling of an eye. And as for being disrespectful to your aunt, it is not I that will ever be disrespectful; besides which, I delight in an old lady like that—was the kettle boiling, Mrs. Brown?”
“’Deed it was,” said Mrs. Brown, “and Bell will bring the tea ben in a minute or two, as soon as it has had time to mask. I never let it stand long after I have maskit the tea. And how are ye getting on Archie, my bonnie lad, at Rosmore? Are ye getting more familiar! are ye liking it better? And Mey? Ye are such poor letter writers, I must take my chance of hearing all I can when you’re at hand. Four months, Archie, and neither the one nor the ither of you has been near. That’s no what you ought to have done. You that were just like bairns of my ain.”
“It is not my fault, aunty. We have not been in Glasgow since we left. There has been always something to do. Either my father has wanted me, or May has been busy, or something has been in the way. We have had people visiting in the house.” Archie looked instinctively at Eddy to help him out.
“We have been there for a long time,” said Eddy. “People very hard to keep amused, always making claims upon them. Of course we had not the pleasure of knowing you, dear Mrs. Brown; and we have been the greatest bother——”
“Oh, dinna say so,” cried Aunt Jane; “sure am I they were very glad of the bother, and real pleased to have ye there. And so am I delighted that Archie should have such a friend as you. No, I’m not so unreasonable. I was giving a bit jeer at them to see what they would say for themselves, and what excuse they would give. But I was wanting no excuse. I’m just overjoyed that they have such friends. And if they werena coming about me every day, well I kent the reason. I would rather see them doing their duty in their father’s house, and taking their proper place, than fiddling and fyking about me.”
“We’ve been neglectful, Aunt Jane,” said Archie, “but we’ll do better after this.” The sense that he had been good to one, in one direction, made his heart all the softer in every way. “It’s all been so new, and there is so much to learn; but it will never happen again.”
“Na, na, ye must not take me in earnest like that,” said Jane. “I gie a girn, but—I’ve no evil meaning.And here’s the tea. Just draw in your chair and come near the table, Mr. ——, but I didn’t rightly catch your name.”
“Most people call me Eddy,” said the young man with a laugh.
“And a very good name too. You’ll be from the south? though I have kent many Adies in our ain country. But ye have a grand way of speaking, and I hope Archie ye’ll take an example. I’m no fond of knapping English, but it’s a’ the fashion, and mair does it than has ony right.”
“I will just speak as I was born to speak,” said Archie, with a taste of his native obstinacy.
“Weel, weel, it’s no for me to interfere. But ye havena said a word aboot Mey? She might have come with ye, to look in upon her auld aunt. But it was aye oot of sight oot of mind with Mey. Ye are mair faithful, Archie. Have you heard of the great changes in the Road? (Mrs. Brown said Rod). Lizzie White, that was once out and in of the house every day, she is married upon Mr. Wright, a watchmaker in Buchanan Street—just a very excellent match. Oh yes, ye must mind very well, for I used to think that if ye wasna both so young—. And then the Cowcaddens, that made just a great show, with cabs at their door every day, and pairties and dancing and I dinna ken all what—has failed, poor man, and the house roupit, and them living in some poor close somewhere, just as miserable as they can be, which shows what prideful wasting and high living must come to. And oh, Archie, there is another thing I just want to speak to you about.You mind Colin Jamieson that was at the College, and meaning to be a minister—poor lad! he’s fallen into a dwining and an ill way, and they say he maun go to Egypt or some of thae places. And his folk are poor folk, and he just smiles and says ‘they might as well tell me to gang to the moon.’ Archie, I had the pen in my hand yesterday to write you a letter. Eh, laddie, ye aye had an open hand. If ye would maybe spare out of your abundance a little siller to help this poor lad! He would never ask it, but from an auld comrade that was so well off, there could be nae reason for refusing. Archie, if your heart were to speak.”
There was a dead pause, and it seemed to poor Archie that heaven was against him. He who would have been so ready, so anxious to offer anything he had—and he had nothing! He could not speak; and that this demand should have been made before Eddy made it more dreadful still. But Eddy did not take it in that point of view. He was not called upon to say anything. He sat calmly eating the cake with which Mrs. Brown had supplied him. Eddy was not embarrassed at all; he was much interested in a half-comic way to know how Rowland would get out of it. To a fellow like that it would be hard to refuse, and Eddy felt that it was a very good thing he had got all the money, or else to a certainty the fool would have given it to this other man, who probably would do much better to stay at home. He ate his cake, therefore, and drank his tea with an amused and interested mind, looking on with a perfectly tranquil perception of all that was involved.
“Aunt Jane,” said Archie, stammering and blushing, “I am more sorry than words can say—but I have not got the money. I would give it—or my heart’s blood if I could—to an old friend like Colin. But I haven’t it. I haven’t it! If it would do at the New Year—”
“He will likely be in his grave by the New Year,” said Mrs. Brown, “if he canna get away.” Jane had drawn herself within herself, so to speak. She rose a head taller as she sat, over her tea-tray, her portly person seemed to draw in, the beaming expression departed from her face. To be refused! and by her own boy! and before a stranger! and with a lee! for how could he be without money. He that had got a twenty pound note as she herself knew, only four months before, just a fortune for a callant like Archie? besides more no doubt where that came from, Jims Rowland being just too liberal. It was to Mrs. Brown as if all the waves of the Clyde had dashed into her face. For a moment she could make no reply.
“Archie,” she said at last solemnly, “I’m no fond of much troke about money between friends. It’s very likely to lead to ill-blood. But I thought for Colin, that ye once were so fond of, if I might speak—you have maybe,” she said with keen irony, “forgotten who he was. I’ve often seen that folk have but short memories that rise in the world. He’s the lad who got you into your grand club. Ye may not think much of it now, but ‘twas a grand thing for ye then. It was him ye used to consult about your debating and all that, and that was sae good at the footba’, and that learnt ye—”
“Do you think I have forgotten, auntie? I have forgotten nothing,” cried Archie, starting up from the table. “It’s just despair,” he said, under his breath. “I havena got it. I havena got it!” He began to pace about the room as his father did with his hands thrust into the depths of his empty pockets, and his shoulders up to his ears. As for Eddy, he turned aside a little and took up the paper Mrs. Brown had been reading, by way of relieving them of the embarrassment of his presence as much as possible during this family dispute.
“Well!” said Mrs. Brown, “it is the first time I have askit anything of ye, and it will be the last time, Archie Rowland. Let’s say no more about it. I thought it was just a thing ye would have made no hesitation about, but been mair ready to give than me to ask.”
“And so I would,” he cried, “and so I would!” with a sort of groan out of his very heart.
“We will just say no more about it,” said Mrs. Brown, with dignity. “Sit down and take your tea.”
“I am wanting no tea,” said Archie.
“Ye will sit down and bide quiet at any rate, and not disturb other folk. Mr. Adie, I am very glad that ye like your tea; it’s aye a good sign in a young man if he likes his tea. It shows he’s no thinking of ither beverages that are mair to the taste of so many unfortunate lads in this world. Ye’ll maybe be from London, which is a muckle place, I have always heard, and full o’ temptation. Eh, laddies, but ye should be awfu’ careful not to put yourselves in temptation. A very little thing will do it. Ye will maybe think,” saidMrs. Brown, making a desperate attempt to fathom the cause of Archie’s behaviour, and explain its enormity, “that to take an interest in racing horses or even in playin’ cards or dice or the like of that, is no just a cardinal crime. But oh, it leads to a’ the rest! Ye will maybe think nothing of losing a shilling or twa, or even a pound or twa upon a game. That’s bad enough, oh it’s bad enough! It may keep ye from doing a good turn to a neighbour in time of need, it may make ye powerless for good, just as it makes ye an instrument for evil; but that’s not all. It leads from bad to worse. It’s like the daughter o’ the horse-leech, it’s aye crying ‘Give, give.’ It’s like a whummel down a hill, the longer ye go the faster ye go. Oh, laddies! when I think how young ye are, and a’ the dangers in your way, and what soft hearts some of ye had, and how soon they harden when ye think of nothing but yoursel—”
“Aunty,” said Archie, “we have got the train to catch, and the boat to catch, and we will have to go.”
“I will not detain ye, Archie,” said Mrs. Brown, with the air of a duchess, “so long as ye give Mr. Adie the time to finish his tea. Good morning to you, sir, and I am very glad to have seen ye in my poor bit place. Ye will maybe give my love to my niece, Mey. And good-bye to ye, Archie. I hope that everything good will be aye in your path, and that ye may never want a kind friend nor one to succour ye in time of need.”
To tell the feelings with which Archie heard the door of his childhood shut upon him with a decisiveclash as if for ever, is more than I have words or power to do. He was shamed, abandoned, given up—and without any fault of his. Eddy was extremely entertaining all the way home. He had of course too much good taste and good breeding to refer in any way to the family quarrel of which he had been so unlucky as to be the witness. To ignore it altogether and do his best to divert his companion’s mind, and make him forget, was of course the thing which in the circumstances a man of good feeling would do.
Therewas great curiosity at Rosmore to hear what the young men had done and what they had seen in Glasgow: in the chief place, no doubt on account of the decorations for the ball, which were of so much importance, and in which Eddy’s taste was expected to accomplish such great things. Eddy had so much to say on this point, that the brief interval in the drawing-room before dinner was wholly taken up with his account of his arrangements and purchases.
“If it all succeeds as I expect,” said Eddy, “I know what I shall do, Mrs. Rowland. It will make a revolution in my life. I will follow the example of otherfils de familleand set myself up as a decorator. Don’t you know? Algy Fergusson makes heaps of money by it. When you are going to give a ball, he takes everything in hand, charges you a certain sum, and supplies whatever you want, from the flowers onthe stairs to a few dancing men in the best society, if that is wanted. I shall follow him in humble imitation. No, I’m not going to tell you too much. Mrs. Rowland has given mecarte blanche. Wait till you see.”
“It’s a queer trade,” said Rowland; “but something might be made of it. I would advise you, however, Eddy, to look out for something more like a man.”
“Oh, it is very like my kind of man,” said Eddy; “not yours, sir: but there’s not very much of me.”
Rowland, like everybody else, had learned to call young Saumarez, according to the fashion of the day, by hispetit nom. And he laughed with great good humour at this self-description. The young man was the most entertaining study of what he considered the manners of the best society to the master of Rosmore. Eddy’s lightness and ease and imperturbability amused him more than he could say, and at the same time filled him with respect. It was all the more evident in comparison with Archie’s easily roused temper and irritable self-consciousness, which saw in everything a shadow of blame, and never was at ease, or able to take anything lightly. Rowland watched the effect upon his son of intercourse with the other light-hearted lad with the greatest secret anxiety. He thought with pleasure that Eddy had “taken to” his uncultured uneasy boy, and that Archie would “learn manners” from contact with the other youth, who, though so little to look at, not such a nice-looking fellow as Archie, was yet so much more a man of the world. Eddy’s cheerful admission of his own defects, and that there was not very much of him, delighted Rowland. How it disarmed criticism! Would Archie, he wondered, ever attain to that easy mind, and unembarrassed faculty of taking the sting out of any jibe by tranquil pre-assertion of his own deficiencies? It was not a thing which Mr. Rowland could himself have attained, but he saw its advantages. It did not seem, however, in the meantime that Archie had made much progress in acquiring this gift. He took little part in the conversation which young Saumarez kept up so lightly. It was Eddy who told the story of their day in Glasgow, and owned to having yawned in the Cathedral. Archie was silent, as was his wont. He kept a little apart, and said nothing. Sometimes he cast a glance of strange meaning at the lively conversationalist, who made their expedition sound so amusing. What was it that look meant? It was Archie’s usual way—his inability to understand the happier natures. They all noted that occasional glance, and all gave the same interpretation to it: for what, indeed, could it mean else? There was nothing else to arouse his surprise, the wondering, half-question in his eyes.
Archie’s wonder, indeed, was beyond words. To think that, with such a light heart, the transaction which had already cost himself so much should be taken by the other, without a thought of the penalty involved, or the shame it had already brought. Perhaps Eddy did not realise that shame, or what it was to the young man to be suspected of unkindness, of selfishness, of wasting upon miserable pursuits of his own the money that might have saved the life of another. A year ago nothing could have made Archie himself realise such aposition, for he had never possessed money, and could not in the nature of things have been asked for it, and this probably was why Saumarez was so obtuse. There was another thing, however, which Archie could not understand, but which he was deeply grateful for: and that was that Eddy made not the slightest reference in his lively narrative of the day’s proceedings, to the visit to Mrs. Brown. Why? But Archie could not tell—it only vaguely increased the trouble in his mind, while more or less soothing it externally: and he did not know whether it was not his duty to mention it himself. They might think him ashamed of Aunt Jane if he said nothing, and yet the recollection of that visit was so painful that he preferred not to speak of it, and was grateful to his companion for leaving it out of his easy and amusing tale. After dinner Eddy was as much the hero of the moment as he had been before. He had various experiments to make as to the lights, as to the flowers, and all the details of the ball-room, for the due regulation of which the group of admiring spectators followed him up and down, hanging upon his words. Archie followed at the end of the train, still wondering, saying to himself, that no doubt the money, which apparently was to cost himself so dear, had so relieved Eddy’s mind that he could not restrain himself, that he felt a new man: that was no doubt the cause of his vivacity, the lightness of his heart. Archie remembered how he had himself felt when relieved of the burden of the debt to Rankin for the little dogs, and other small matters which had been on his mind before he had received his father’s first gift of twentypounds. That gift had come to him amid painful circumstances, but when the first effect produced by them had died away, how glad he had been to have it, to clear himself from the small burdens which were as lead upon his soul! Eddy was much more a man of the world than he, and his liabilities were far greater, but he thought he could understand how he must feel from those sensations of his own. He could not but think, however, that in Eddy’s place he would have said something—he would have given a look or a grasp of the hand to his benefactor to show him that he appreciated and felt what he had done, especially if that benefactor had been likely to get into trouble for it. Then Archie, pondering behind backs, while all that lively chatter was going on, remembered himself that he had not said a word of gratitude to his father for the twenty pounds, had neither felt nor spoken any gratitude. Ah, but I am not his father, Archie said to himself. With this thought, however, came another reflection, that up to this moment he had never shown any thankfulness to his father, who had bestowed so many gifts upon him. He had been embarrassed and awkward, and had taken everything for granted. Who was he to blame another for the same sentiment which was so strong in himself? Only just I am not his father, Archie said.
It was when the party was breaking up for the night that Marion seized upon her brother, drawing him into a corner of the hall where the lights were extinguished, and where in the recess of a window there was a sheltered place beyond the reach of observation.She caught him by the arm and drew him aside there, until the others had dispersed, and then a piece of inquiry which he had not anticipated burst upon Archie. “Were you at Aunty Jane’s? Did you take him to Aunty Jane’s?” Marion exclaimed breathlessly, holding his arm with her hands as if in a vice.
“You heard him,” said Archie, avoiding the question, “telling all where we had been.”
“Were you not there? Did you not go there? He never said a word, but he could not speak if you didn’t. Archie, tell me on your word—were you not there?”
Archie saw that her eyes were gleaming, and her face pale. He did not know what to make of this sudden assault, nor what it could matter to Marion whether he had or had not gone to see Aunty Jane. He answered at last, however, with reluctance.
“Yes, we were there.”
“You were there! you took him there!” cried the girl, her eyes in the dark shooting out sparks of fire. She seized him again by the arm and shook him violently. “Oh, I knew you would do it! What do you care for keeping up our name? If it had been anybody else you might have done what you pleased—but him!”
“Why him?” said Archie; “what is he? Do you think I could neglect an old friend, not to speak of my nearest kin, and her that brought us up—”
“Oh, what’s in that?—brought us up! She was well paid for it,” cried Marion, “and now established forher life, and everything provided, because papa thinks she was kind to us.”
“She was very kind.”
“She was not unkind,” said Marion. “She just made us serve her purpose and keep her in an easy life. If she had been unkind it would have been the same as killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. And now you’ve exposed us, and showed just what we were, and where we came from, to Eddy Saumarez! Oh, Archie, man! could you not have said she was an old nurse, or something like that, and then there could have been no objection? I would have had my wits about me if I had been in such an emergency. You might so easy have said she was our old nurse; but that’s what you could never do, to take thought for our credit and not to expose us.”
“I don’t know what you mean by exposing us,” said Archie indignantly, “and as for disowning our Aunt Jane——”
“Oh, disowning is just a grand word! I mean nothing of the kind. I could just be as fond of aunty in private as you. And what could she expect more? It would show she was self-seeking and full of her own pride if she wanted us to expose ourselves for her. What does that mean? It just means that we have our position to keep up. We belong to the upper classes and not to Sauchiehall Road. I would not have let the like of Eddy Saumarez know that we had any connection with Sauchiehall Road, except with an old nurse or the like of that. An old nurse explains everything,” said Marion. “I will just let him understand that’s how it is, and that we call her aunty because we are fond of her. You may do that and no harm—just for kindness. And what is she more than an old nurse? You know yourself she would not come to Rosmore for that—not to expose us. Her and me we both understand. I will just explain it all.”
“One would think,” said Archie, “that Saumarez was of great importance, and what he thought. And most likely he thinks nothing about it. His mind is full of his own affairs.”
“And what are his own affairs?” said Marion scornfully. “Maybe that is one of his own affairs,” she added with a faint blush, as Archie turned upon her in surprise. “You never can tell what may turn out to be important and what not. Eddy is just nothing in himself. But though he will have no money, he will have a good property and a fine house, and a position and all that. And we have plenty of money and nothing more. It might be a thing to be taken into consideration on both sides. But you will never understand that, nor perhaps papa either, and I will just have all the responsibility thrown upon myself.”
“What responsibility?” said Archie, more and more astonished.
“Oh!” she cried, with a little stamp of her foot, “as if the like of you would ever understand!” She gave him a little indignant push from her in the impatience of her soul; but turned to him again after a moment’s interval. “I am not saying, mind,” said Marion, “that there is anything in it. There may be nothing in it. It may just pass over, and be of noconsequence. I will maybe be in a much better position when I have gone to court, and have been seen in society and all that. But you should remember, Archie, that we’re just very new people. Papa is a new man. His name is known, but except for our money we are just nobody. Now mamma is different. I was angry at the time to think that papa had married again and brought in a grand lady that would look down upon you and me; but I’ve come to a different way of thinking now. I just study her and take a lesson by her, and I can see if we are to get on in the world that she is the one to help us most.”
“I don’t want her help,” cried Archie, “and if that’s what you call getting on in the world——”
“Oh,” cried Marion, with a sigh of impatience, “you are just like a bairn. To think that you cannot see for yourself, you that are a man! What are we to do if we don’t get into society? You would rather be back in the Sauchiehall Road, with your football and your friends, than in a grand house like this, with nobody that cares for you, and nothing that you can do.”
“May,” said the young man, sadly, “many a time I have thought that myself,—far rather! It was a kind of living, and this is none—to be waited on hand and foot when you’re not used to it, and feel like a fool, and have nothing to do. But that’s not all the harm it’s done. When I went back to the Sauchiehall Road, I was just as much out of place there! That’s ended: and the other is begun, and there’s no satisfaction anywhere. I will be faithful to Aunty Jane, poor body, that was so kind to us, while I have a breath to draw,” he exclaimed with energy. Then sinking into despondency, “But I cannot go back there, and I am out of place here; and there is no good that I can see in a world that’s all a vain show, both for the rich and the poor.”
“Well,” said Marion, with a certain satisfaction, “you see then, just as I do. We must get ourselves well into what we have, for we never can go back to what we were. And the only way that we can do it is by——” She broke off with a little laugh. “You can find it out for yourself, but you need not put a spoke into another person’s wheel. I am not saying that Eddy Saumarez will be of any consequence in the end. Maybe I will not care to know them after I have been to court. I will not commit myself, you may be sure. I will aye have a way of escape, if I should change my mind. But it was just silly beyond measure to give him a story about Aunty Jane. He will take her off, and make everybody laugh. You can see yourself how he makes fun, and takes everybody off. That is what amuses people, and makes them ask him. He could make it very funny about Aunty Jane. Oh, I know all they say, and I’m getting to understand. If you can tell them stories, and keep them laughing, it’s all they think of. And you to give him the occasion with poor Aunty Jane!”
“He had better not let me hear him say a word about Aunty Jane,” said Archie, between his closed teeth.
“Oh, he’ll not let you hear him,” said Marion. She was altogether unconscious of the fact that Eddytook herself off with perfect effect, so that even Mrs. Rowland had difficulty in looking severe enough.
Archie went to join the party in the smoking-room after this conversation, with more uneasiness than ever. He was not quite clear about his sister’s meaning. Marion was too far-seeing, too full of calculations for her brother. He had himself his own thoughts: but they were of a very different turn from hers. Rosamond Saumarez was to Archie a being of a different species from himself or any one belonging to him. It had not occurred to him that he could appropriate this beautiful lady, and make life more possible by her means. She was still upon her pedestal, a thing apart, a being to be remotely admired, scarcely even as yet worshipped: for in worship itself there is a certain appropriation, and his imagination had not gone so far as that, had not ventured to use any pronoun of possession, even with goddess attached to it. In no way had he imagined that she could ever be his, but always something beyond reach, as superior to him as heaven is to earth. The impression she produced upon him was subduing, rather than exciting. To think that there could be such a distance between him and any other human creature, as there was between him and Rosamond, doubled the mystery and awe of the world on the threshold of which he was standing, to the disturbed and unsatisfied mind of the boy-man, so rudely shaken out of all his old habitudes, so little at home in his new. At no time could Marion’s frank calculations of how she could help herself up the ascent she meant to climb, by grasping a chance hand, this man’s or another’s, as happened to suit her best, have been possible to her brother. He faintly apprehended what she meant, but found it so uncongenial that his mind declined to look into it. There are some who feel themselves forced, in the course of nature, to investigate, and come to the bottom of such questions; and there are some who shake themselves uneasily free of an examination which could end in nothing but pain.
Archie had no wish to think badly of Marion, to bring down the ideal of his sister: so he shook off the question of her meaning, and left it alone. There was not much pleasure to him in the sitting in the smoking-room, where he found his father and Eddy in full discussion, the latter bearing all thefraisof the conversation, and making his host laugh with his lively descriptions and sketches. Archie was conscious that he presented a complete foil and contrast to Eddy, as he went in and seated himself a little in the background, notwithstanding the invitations of both the gentlemen to draw his chair nearer to the fire. He liked to skulk behind, Rowland thought angrily, with vexation, to himself—never could take his place simply, always kept behind backs. Perhaps young Saumarez was not any more than Archie the son he would have chosen. But yet what a difference there was!
The day of the ball was approaching apace, and everything in the house began to feel the excitement of the coming event. There was less than a week to go, when Eddy broached the subject of Johnson—of Chads—and the possibility of procuring him an invitation.
“Oh,” he said, “there is that—friend of mine up at the head of the loch.” (Naturally, Eddy, however much he might endeavour to conceal the fact, said “lock,” but I need not spoil my orthography by repeating his error.) “I wonder if you would be inclined to let me bring him, Mrs. Rowland. I scarcely like to ask; but he’s all alone, you know, and knows nobody, and looks wistful when one sees him.”
“You should bring him in to dinner, Eddy,” said the ever-hospitable Rowland.
“No, sir, I don’t think I should like to do that. He has not paid the extra twopence for manners. In a crowd he might pass muster, but at your table——”
There was the faintest emphasis on the words, which inferred a delicate compliment. And Rowland was pleased.
“Mr. Johnson?” said Evelyn, doubtfully. “I did not feel quite sure about him. He was a little—odd.”
“College dons are generally odd,” said the unblushing Eddy.
“Are you quite certain, my dear boy, that he is a college don?”
“For my own part,” said Eddy presently, “I should probably like him much better if he were not. But I suppose there can’t be two Johnsons—of Chads.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Evelyn, still doubtfully. “At the same time,” she added, “one would have thought if there was one thing you could be sure of in a college don it would be grammar—and his——and that they should talk like gentlemen.”
“I don’t know,” said Eddy, reflectively, “that onecan be so very sure of that; now that everything goes by competition, you can’t tell by his profession that any man is a gentleman. Besides, they speak Latin between themselves,” said the young man, with an unmoved countenance.
“Eddy!” cried Rosamond.
“Well, they do. I allow it’s queer, but I have heard themavec mes propres oreilles, va!and Latin grammar is quite different from English—far more elaborate, and that sort of thing. English translated out of Latin would naturally sound a little strange.”
Even Evelyn looked at him with a little surprise, uncertain whether to laugh or not. She was but little interested in the ways of college dons. She had a kind of belief that there was something in what he said about competition. The gardener’s son was at college, and if he came to be a don he would no doubt remain a little inelegant in point of grammar.
While she was thus pondering, her husband took the matter in hand.
“Send him an invitation as Eddy’s friend,” he said, in his large and liberal way; “if he were a coal-heaver what does it matter, so long as he is Eddy’s friend? And I don’t suppose the young ladies will think of his conversation; they will be more interested in his dancing. It’s a question of heel and toe, and not of hs.”
“I don’t know that he dances much,” said Eddy; “but he could always prop up a doorway, and it would please him awfully to come and look on.”
“You’ll ask him, of course, Evelyn,” Mr. Rowland said.
And he was asked, of course; and the invitation was handed to him next day on the hillside, where he met Archie and Eddy and the gamekeeper, and was supplied with a gun, to the great disdain of the latter functionary.
“That man has never had a gun in his hands till this day,” said Roderick, aside; “keep out of his road, for any sake, Mr. Airchie: he will never hit a grouse, but he might put a wheen shots into you or me.”
“I was not very much better myself,” said Archie. “I can feel for him, Roderick.”
“Oh you,” said the gamekeeper. It was his young master he was speaking to, and that has a wonderfully mollifying influence. “You were maybe no to call experienced, but you were neither frightened for your gun nor sweerd to use her. Keep you to that side, Mr. Airchie, and if the other gentleman gets it, it’s just his ain friend, and he maun bear the brunt.”
“I thought you liked Mr. Saumarez, Roderick.”
“So I do like him, though he has an awfu’ funny name. He has a good eye for a bird, and will make a fine shot when he’s come to his prime, and just makes you lose your manners with his fun and nonsense. But if he brings out a stick like this upon the moor, he must just rin the risk of him. Come you, Mr. Airchie, to this side.”
Eddy, on his hand, had something to say to his guest. “Have you got me that thing?” he said.
“They won’t give it up till they see the money, Master Eddy. I’ve told you so before.”
“Very well, Johnson. I have an invitation for you,in my pocket, to the ball—and I have a cheque in my pocket, which is better than money. You shall neither have the one nor the other till I have that paper in my own hands.”
“Give and take then, Master Eddy,” said the other.
“You ass, keep down the muzzle of your gun! No. I must have it in my hands to see it’s all right before I let you touch the other. Oh, just as you please! but that’s my last word.”
“You don’t suppose I carry it about in my pocket,” said Johnson.
“I suppose nothing. I only tell you what I’ll do. Give it me that I may see its right and the genuine thing, and you shall have the cheque, which is as good a cheque as any in the world, whatever the other may be.”
“You might play me some tricks, or stop it at the bank,” said Johnson.
“By Jove, that’s an idea. I’ll do so, if you don’t look sharp with that other thing.”
“Well,” said Johnson, “if that’s how it is to be, I’ll bring it up to you to-morrow morning to the house—and then you can introduce me to the ladies. I ought to know them first, before I come to the dance.”
“No,” said Eddy, “you can come to the ball, where it will be fun: but if you come near the house till the night of the ball, I’ll let off my gun by accident, as you’ll do presently if you don’t mind, and take your wretched life. Now, you hear. You can come to old Rankin’s cottage in the wood to-morrow,if you like, at twelve. You can say you want a dog—he’ll not let you have it, for he never sells them to cads; but it will do for an excuse.”
“By Jove,” said Johnson, “if you don’t mind what you say, I’ve got a gun, and I can have an accident too.”
“Put it down, you ass!” cried Eddy, striking down the muzzle of the gun, which, in the confusion, went off, nearly knocking down by the concussion the unfortunate Johnson, and ploughing into the heather and mossy soil. The neophyte thought he had killed somebody, and fell down on his wretched knees. “I swear to God I never meant nothing. I never meant to ‘it any man,” he cried.
“Oh, get up, you brute, and hold your tongue,” cried Eddy. He added, shaking him by the shoulder, “if you talk when you’re at Rosmore, you’ll be turned out of the house. I’ve told them you speak nothing but Latin—mind you hold your tongue if you don’t want to do for both yourself and me.”
Eddytook his morning walk to Rankin’s cottage next day; but he did not meet any one there. He went in and endeavoured to treat with the old gamekeeper for a dog, but found the old man quite indisposed for any such negotiation.
“Na, na,” he said, “I have nae dogues that I can part with. They’re a’ bespoken. Lady Jean has mostlyfriends that want them, and I have but few this year. I canna part with one o’ them. Mr. Archie from Rosmore House, he came and picked up my best. I couldna well refuse the son o’ the place—but that’s thrown me far behind. Ye’ll excuse me for saying it, but you’re a stranger, my young gentleman, and I’m my lord’s auld servant, and Lady Jean’s. I must think o’ them first.”
“Do you think I would not be kind to it, you old sceptic,” said Eddy.
“I wasna saying ye would not be kind to it. There’s few folk wicked to dogues. I was saying I have none to dispose of. Ye will not be staying very lang at the Hoose? Ye’ve been here a good while, the young lady and you. Few visitors bide as lang now-a-days. I canna tell whether its the faut of having so many enjoyments, or if its the faut of the hosts that dinna give a sufficient welcome; but I notice that its three days, and that kind of a veesit that’s popular now. No time to turn yoursel’ round in. Just the day of coming and the day of going, and one or at the most twa days between.”
“We are not like that,” said Eddy, “we have come for a visitation, don’t you see: but I am sorry you think that we are staying too long.”
“Oh, it is none o’ my business,” said Rankin, with a serious face. “I’m thinking ye will be taking the road after this ball? they’re a’ talking about it. To hear what they say you would think it was ane o’ the Queen’s balls.”
“Well,” said Eddy, “I flatter myself it will be quiteas pretty. By the way, Rankin, have you had any more encounters with that great scholar, don’t you know—the college man from Oxford—that I saw here.”
“I’m glad,” said Rankin, “that you’ve given me an occasion of speaking. Sir, ye’re young, and your experience is no great, though you have a real good opinion of yourself. Yon’s nae college man—or, if maybe in these times he may have gotten himself to be a college man—at least I can say this of him that he’s nae gentleman. Just you be awfu’ careful what you’re about wi’ yon man. I would not trust him a foot’s length out of my sight. He has nae root o’ the matter in him: neither ceevility, which is little thought upon, I allow, in the training of a college—nor learning. He is awfu’ cautious no to open his mouth on sich subjects; but my impression is that he has naething to say, and he’s nae mair a gentleman than yon doug. Mair! I’m meaning far less. Rover’s a real gentleman. He’ll make place for ye by the fire, and he’ll give you his best attention when you speak, and thank ye when ye do him a pleasure. A good doug of a good breed might learn manners to a prince; but as for yon friend of yours—”
“I never said he was a friend of mine,” said Eddy, “but you are too severe, Rankin. How should you be such a judge, not being a gentleman yourself?”
The old gamekeeper’s ruddy colour deepened a little.
“Sir,” he said, “I’ve aye found the best sign of a well-bred man was that he gave credit to other folk ofbeing as good as himself—if no better. Them that fail in that will never come up to my standard. Ye think nae doubt that ye ken better than me—but just you take warning from an auld man. I’ve seen a’ kinds. Maybe you are no aware that I was much about the world in my younger years with my lord—and my lord wasna very particular in these days, though he’s a douce man now. I’ve seen a’ kinds; but a worse kind than yon Johnson man—”
“Johnson of St. Chad’s, Rankin—mind what you’re saying.”
“He’s nae mair of St. Chad’s than I am! There’s both a note and a query in my paper from the real man—on a subject, it is true that he doesna understand—he goes clean against my reasoning, which to any unprejudiced mind would be mair than conclusive; but it’s dated from a place away in Wales, or somewhere far to the south of this. Na, na, yon man is nae scholar, and if ye’ll take my word for it, nae gentleman either. His name may be Johnson, but he’s just masqueradin’ in another’s local designation, and I wouldna trust him, no a fit beyond what I could see him. Ye are a very clever lad, but ye canna have the experience of the like o’ me.”
“Here he is, Rankin; you may be right, but you must be civil,” Eddy said.
“Ceevil! in my ain house. He kens John Rankin little that thinks it needful to tell me that. Good-morning to ye, sir,” said the gamekeeper raising his voice. “Come ben without hesitation, there’s naebody but freends here.”
“Oh, friends! I don’t seek my friends in a hole like this,” said Johnson, evidently bent on showing his quality. “I’ve nearly been blown away coming along your infernal lock, and I’ve been in the mud up to my ankles on what you call the paths in the wood.”
“It’s a pity,” said Rankin grimly, “that the maker of them was not mair careful to suit baith land and water to your needs.”
“The maker of them,” said Johnson, “could have understood nothing about making roads—some of your country fellows that are behind in everything. Oh, you are here, Master Eddy. I’ve come to see after one of these little dogs you talk so much about.”
“And what may you be wanting with a little dogue?” said Rankin, with scrupulous politeness.
“I?—just what other people want I suppose. Let’s see, old gentleman, what sort you have got.”
“I have no little dogues,” said the gamekeeper, folding his hands on his chest. The impulse was so strong upon him to dip into the nest, where their small conversation as they tumbled over each other was quite audible, that he had to grasp his coat with his hands, in order to refrain.
“I can hear them squeaking,” said Johnson.
Rankin turned a serene glance upon Eddy. “Ye see,” he said, “what I tellt ye. What kind of a person would use a word like that? My dogues, sir,” he added, “are all bespoke. I have certain ladies and gentlemen, great friends of mine, that get a’ I can spare. Ye hear naething squeaking here, but just a few remarks madeatween themselves by a sma’ family, that are of as good blood and race as any here.”
“Oh, come my man,” said Johnson, “I’m not a softy to be cheated out of my money like that. I’ll give a fair price, but you needn’t think to take me in, with your ladies and gentlemen. I know what a dog is worth.”
“Hold hard, Johnson,” said Eddy. “It’s a monopoly, don’t you know, and Rankin can do what he likes. He knows a lot, I can tell you. He knows you’re in South Wales or somewhere and not here—”
“I?” cried Johnson again. “I never was in Wales in my life.”
“I tellt ye sae, sir,” said Rankin significantly; “and that being proved, I hope you will mind the rest of my advice.”
“What is he saying, Master Eddy? What has he been advising you? Something about me? I’ll trouble you, my man, to keep your advice where you keep your dogs, and not to interfere with me.”
“I am no man o’ yours,” said Rankin, “any more than you are a man o’ mine. I advise my friends for their good just when I please. Ye are in my poor bit dwelling, and that gives ye a privilege: but I must do my duty by a young gentleman that is a veesitor at the Hoose, and therefore more or less under what I may call my protection when he comes to see me.”
“You are no match for him, Johnson,” said Eddy laughing. “You needn’t try. Come along, old fellow. I’ll show you that business I told you of. Don’t be afraid, Rankin. Whatever I do that’s wrong it will bemy own fault and not his. I’m young, but I know a thing or two for all that.”
“Mair than you should—mair than you should!” cried the gamekeeper; “but come soon again and see me, sir; there’s a hantle mair advice I would like to give ye. Janet,” said Rankin solemnly to his wife as the door was closed, “if there’s any devilry comes to your ears, mind you it’s that man.”
“Hoots, John,” said Mrs. Rankin, who had come “ben” with her glistening arms wrapped in her apron, from the midst of her washing, at the sound of the opening door: it was almost all that good woman ever said.
In about half an hour from this time Eddy Saumarez reached Rosmore, and made his way to his room in much haste. He was drenched with the rain which for some time had been coming down small and soft, but persistent, after the fashion of the west country, and only waved his hand to the party collected over the great fire in the hall, where the decorations were already being put up. “I am so wet, I must change before I can be of any use,” he said, as he passed: but before he succeeded in gaining the shelter of his room, his sister came out upon him from hers, where she seemed to have been keeping watch. She put her hand upon his wet sleeve and detained him.
“Eddy,” she said, “what have you been doing? You have got into some scrape? For goodness sake remember where you are, and all that depends upon it.” Rosamond was very serious, she had even a pucker of anxiety on her usually smooth brow.
“I have got very wet,” said Eddy, “if that’s what you mean: and probably a bad cold depends on it, which would be pleasant on the eve of a ball. If you’ve got a sermon to preach you can do it after. I must change my clothes now.”
“Oh, what does getting wet matter,” said Rosamond, “or catching cold either? Who is this man you have made them ask? If it’s any one that ought not to come, and father hears of it——”
“It’s Johnson—of St. Chad’s,” said Eddy, pausing to laugh at his joke, which had already prospered so much beyond his hopes.
“What do you know of St. Chad’s? And father, who set me to keep you straight? Eddy, I didn’t mind any humbugging with grandmamma, she deserves it, and you had a great deal of provocation: but they’re good people here——”
“Who are good people? my little girl, or your fellow that you can turn round your finger? I’ll answer for them, my child. And the father, with his money——”
“He has been very kind to us,” said Rosamond. “I will not have him mystified. Tell me who this man is, or I will go straight to Mrs. Rowland and tell her not to let him come.”
“Oh, he’ll come fast enough,” said Eddy, “he’s got his invitation; all the country couldn’t keep him from coming. But if you have any bravos at your disposition, and can have him waylaid and thrown into the loch, do it, my dear, with my blessing; I shan’t mind.”
“Then why, why did you make them ask him,” cried Rosamond.
Eddy laughed; there was excitement in his laugh, but there was also amusement. “Why?” he said, “for fun! isn’t that reason enough. To watch him will be the best joke that ever was. I’m to introduce him to all the bigwigs, and shan’t I do it, too! Find me a title for Miss Eliza, Rose. How he’ll listen to her!—and lend the nephews money——”
“Eddy, it’s some wretched money-lender——”
“Well,” said Eddy, with a laugh, “there are many worse trades; they must have it, or they couldn’t lend it. Go away and let me change my wet clothes.”
Rosamond went away as she was bidden, partially satisfied. She was a girl of great experience in many ways. She knew the shifts of living when there is very little money to live on, and yet all the luxuries of existence have to be secured. She was not acquainted with the expedient of doing without what you cannot afford to buy, but all the other manners of doing it were tolerably familiar to her. She had none of that shrinking from a money-lender which people, who know nothing about them, are apt to suffer from. She even appreciated the advantage of keeping on good terms with members of that fraternity. It was one of their weaknesses to be eager about getting into society, putting on a semblance of gentility. Rosamond went back to her room, with that air of a princess which was natural to her, shaking her head a little over Eddy’s joke, but not so disturbed by it as she had been. Her only hope was that Johnson would not come to the ball covered with jewellery, that he would understand the wisdom of holding his tongue and refrainingfrom the dance. She herself knew very well how to defend herself from the penalty of dancing with him. Rosamond was not out, but yet she was aware of those guiles by which girls, obliged to accept any partner that offers, defend themselves from carrying out their engagements when that is necessary. She was in no uneasiness on her own account, and a faint sense that it would be fun to see the money-lender floundering among people who after all, whatever airs they might give themselves, were not, Rosamond reflected, in society, stole through her mind. It does not matter so much when people are not in society who they associate with. Who thinks of their lesser distinctions? You are in society or you are not; and if the latter is the case what does it matter? This was the thought in her mind. She hoped that Johnson was not too Hebraic, that his nose was less pronounced than usual, and his eyes less shining. Indeed, as she endeavoured to recall his appearance, he had no speciality in the way of nose, so that on the whole there would be little harm done. If any society man happened to be there who recognised the money-lender, he could either divine the real state of the case or suppose that the Rowlands were not so well off as they looked. And in neither case, would that do any harm.
Eddy, for his part, locked his door behind him when he got inside his own room: and he risked the cold which would be so awkward on the eve of the ball, by remaining still for some time in his wet clothes. What he did was to take a paper from his pocket, which he carried to the light of the window, examiningit closely, holding it up to the daylight which was subdued by the overhanging shadow of the trees, and the clouds of rain sweeping up from the sea. Then after reading it over line by line, he took it, holding it very closely in both hands as if he had been afraid that it might take wings to itself and flee away, to the smouldering fire—for it was nearly the end of October and fires were very necessary to combat the damp of the place. Then Eddy put the paper carefully into the centre of the fire, where it curled up and blackened and began to smoke, but did not burst into flame until he had seized the box of matches on the mantelpiece and had strewed a handful upon it. Then there was a series of small distinct reports like minute guns, and the whole flamed up. His clothes steamed as he stood before the fire, but he was not aware of it, nor that the damp was meantime penetrating into every muscle and limb.
After this Eddy dressed himself cheerfully in dry clothes and went downstairs. He had never been more lively or entertaining. He went down to find the whole party occupied with their letters, which came in before lunch, making that meal either a joyful feast or a meal of anxiety. Rowland it was who knitted his brows most keenly after he had received his letters. Over one of them he lingered long, casting glances occasionally at Archie, who had no letters, and who was amusing himself furtively with the two dogs, Roy and Dhu, which he had abandoned on discovering that they took to his stepmother more than to himself. Such a preference is always irritating to the legitimate owner of dogor man. He could not forgive them for their bad taste: nevertheless, when Mrs. Rowland was out of the way, the infantile graces of the two puppies were more than flesh and blood could stand out against. He had withdrawn into a deep recess of the hall in which there was a window, and where he considered himself free from inspection, and there was rolling over the two little balls, with their waving limbs and the gleams of fun that were visible under the tufts of hair that fell over their eyes. Though they were rolling over and over each other in the height of play, attacking and retreating before Archie’s hands, with which he pulled their ears and tails, now lifting one, now another, by some illegitimate portion of hair, each little dog kept an eye upon where the Mistress sat, retired in a large chair, reading her letters, waiting till she moved or looked, and ready at a moment to pick themselves up, get upon their respective legs, and run out of the recess, one after the other, as if they had been anxiously awaiting the moment when her attention might relax and she would have leisure to bestow upon her faithful retainers. It was not, however, Mrs. Rowland, but her husband, who disturbed the pastime. He looked up from his letter and called “Archie!” in a voice which meant mischief. Archie looked up startled.
“Yes,” he said, “I am here.”
“How was it you never mentioned that you had gone to see Mrs. Brown the other day when you were in Glasgow?”
Archie raised himself up, pushing the puppies away from him. “I—scarcely could have been in Glasgow,” he said, though with a slight faltering in his voice, it was so little true; “without going to see Aunt Jane.”
“That is true enough,” said his father, in a slightly softened tone. “It was of course your first duty: but—is this story she tells me true?”
“She is very little likely,” said Archie, “to tell anything that is not true; but I don’t know what she has told you.”
“She says—that she asked you to help a poor comrade of yours who is ill, and must go away to save his life, and that you refused—is that true?”
Archie stood in the vacant space formed by the recess, turning his face towards his father—pale, miserable, half-defiant, without a word to say.
“Is that true?” said Rowland, his voice pealing through the hall. It disturbed the whole party, drawing their attention from their letters. Mrs. Rowland looked up with an air half of terror, half of compassion. “James, James!” she said in a low voice.
“Let alone, Evelyn! you don’t understand. Do you hear me, sir? come forward; don’t skulk, as you are always doing. Is it true?”
Archie made a step forward, his brows bent over his eyes, his head sunk between his shoulders. He saw them all turning to him—his stepmother, with a compassionate look, which he could tolerate less than if it had been the triumph and satisfaction which he believed she felt; Rosamond raising her head from the letter she was reading with a half-contemptuous surprise; and Eddy! Eddy in the background, unseen by any, sending over their heads a look of half-amused,half-sympathetic comment, opening his eyes wide and raising his eyebrows. Eddy looked—not as if he had anything to do with it, but as if partly indignant, partly astonished, yet as good as saying—that is just as they all do.
“Yes,” said Archie, at last; “it is true.”