“After this,” said Mrs. Rowland, “I must tell you what the children want, James. I was opposing it as in duty bound, but their little performance, I am sure,has thrown you on their side: they want us to give a ball.”
“A ball!” said Mr. Rowland with many notes of interrogation, and then he added with the broad smile, which in its warmth and ruddiness breathed a little intimation of being after dinner, “Why not?”
“Ah, I knew you would be on their side. I have been resisting as in duty bound——”
“And why in duty bound? In your heart,” said Rowland, “it is you who are always on their side. I may have my little moments of fatherly wrath. A father is nothing, you know, Ledgen, if he does not find fault.”
“That’s quite so,” said the great ironmaster, who had been dining with the great railway man. “We must keep up our authority, and discipline must always be preserved.”
“But she stands up for them through thick and thin,” said the happy man. “I cannot wallop my own niggers, so to speak, meaning to give my boy a wigging, but she pushes in, standing up for two. To hear her speak, you would think my two were angels, and I an old curmudgeon always finding fault: that’s the beauty of a wife.”
“Well,” said Evelyn, “never mind; I am to give in, I suppose. You know, James, it will turn the whole house upside down.”
“We’ll put it right again,” he said.
“And probably make a revolution among the servants.”
“We’ll crush the revolution, or get other servants in their places.”
“And you will have no comfort in your life for at least three days—the day before the performance, the day of the performance, and the day after the performance.”
“Hoot!” said Rowland, and he said no more.
“It will not be a bad plan at all if ye think anything of my opinion,” said the ironmaster. “I’m but new in my place myself, a matter of two or three years. And one of the first things I did was to give a ball. It was a very popular thing—we just got in everybody. The young folk, who are very important, who just give you a great lift in reconciling a place where they are pleased, and the mothers that come with them, and all the intermediate ones that are neither young nor old, that are hanging at a loose thread. If your house is a good size, you can ask anybody; and this is a very fair size,” said the other rich man, looking condescendingly round the drawing-room, which was certainly not so immense as his great new-built castle down the Clyde.
“Oh, it’s big enough,” said Rowland, a little wounded in his feelings. To compare Rosmore to any bran new house with fictitious battlements and towers, was at once a brutality and a bad joke. “We will get in a good number here,” he said, looking round him complacently, “and as we have nothing but Eastern carpets, there will be the less trouble. Well, my dear, that is settled. I am not such a stern parent as I get the credit of being, and the bairns shall have their will.”
“I told you I could make her do it,” said Eddy to Marion behind the shelter of the book of pictures which she had taken up again.
“It was neither you nor her that did it,” said Marion: “it was papa.”
“It was because she put it to him so cleverly. You will see Mrs. Rowland will always follow my lead. She can’t forget that I am my father’s son.”
“Will you tell me that story?” said Marion, whose curiosity he had raised and allowed to drop a dozen times.
“Some time or other,” said Eddy. “I like to keep you on the tenter hooks. You look prettier than ever when you have a fit of curiosity which makes your eyes shine. Do you know your eyes give out sparks when you look at me like that?”
“Like a cat?” said Marion, “that is no compliment.”
“Yes, just like a cat, torturing the poor little mouse that she has fascinated with her big shining eyes.” He opened his own eyes wide with a threatening movement of his hand, at which they both laughed. “Before she devours him, she tortures him,” he said. Which was it? he or she? But poor little Marion had not the faintest idea that she was in the way of being devoured. She did not require very fine methods; but accepted the compliments and the badinage in her simplicity. It amused her extremely to “tease” him, as she thought, to make little rude speeches and show her innocent power. After all it was innocent enough, and artless, if without much delicacy or dignity. So much meaning as was in it was all on Eddy’s side.
There was no question of cat or mouse between the other two, who stood by each other’s side without movement, without looking at each other, while the question of the ball was discussed. Rosamond at last said to her partner, speaking as usual from her full height, and without even turning her head his way: “You do not dance so very badly, if you would take time and not be flurried.” It was the same advice which Evelyn had given him about his shooting, and which he had resented then, as he resented this counsel now.
“You are very kind to encourage me. I have no desire to learn,” he said.
“Oh, that’s silly,” said Rosamond “Why shouldn’t you learn? Why shouldn’t you make yourself a little agreeable, Mr. Rowland? No, of course it is nothing to me. I see you for a few weeks, a great deal of you, and then perhaps I never see you again. It does not matter to me in the very least. Still it is a pity to see a man sitting as you do—not speaking, not taking an interest in anything. What is the good of being a man at all?”
Archie was very much taken aback by this onslaught. He stared at her for a moment helplessly. His wit was not quick enough to make any lively rejoinder as he might have done. All he could say was rather vulgar, and said with an injured, offended air—“I did not make myself.”
“You ought to make yourself,” said the severe young judge, “if you are not made properly to begin with; but that is not the question. Don’t you know itmakes everybody uncomfortable to see the son of the house sitting behind never saying anything. I hate to be made uncomfortable,” said Rosamond, “it makes me think all sorts of horrid things. But there is nothing the matter with you. You are not deformed or bad in your head, or out of health, or badly snubbed. Mrs. Rowland keeps looking at you: she does not know what to do; and you makemehorribly uncomfortable,” said Rosamond with energy; “that was why I made you get up and dance.”
“It wasn’t very successful,” said Archie, with a grim smile; “don’t you wish you had let it alone?”
“No, I don’t wish I had let it alone. I should like to take you by the shoulders and shake you. Oh, if I were your sister!” She broke off with a suggestive grind of her white teeth. “Eddy is bad enough,” she added after a moment. “He’s a little ape: I can do nothing with him; but I could put up with even Eddy better than I could put up with you—if I were your sister.”
“But fortunately you are not my sister.”
“No, nor your stepmother either,” said Rosamond with energy, “or I don’t know what I should do. Can’t you talk a little, can’t you try to dance a bit, can’t you be like other people? Usually I don’t advise other people so very much: they chatter for ever and ever, and talk a great deal of nonsense. But it reconciles one to them. When one sees you—”
“Perhaps I had better take myself off,” said Archie; “and then you will not have that annoyance any more.”
“You want to try to make me out to be a meddlerand a busybody,” said Rosamond; “but I am not that. I only say what I feel. Why,youshould be the one to make the house pleasant! You are going out to shoot to-morrow, you and Eddy, and we are to bring you your luncheon out on the hill. You ought to be all full ofpetits soucis, and make it pleasant for us; but you will not. I know what you will do. You will sit down on a stone as far away as you can go, and you will bend down your brow, and perhaps turn your back, and never say one word.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Archie, red with rage, especially as she shrugged up her shoulders, and put down her chin, and contracted her forehead in a manner which he felt to be more or less like himself.
“Yes, you will,” said Rosamond, with the point-blank contradiction of youth.
“No, I will not,” cried the boy, forgetting everything but his wrongs. A hot moisture came to his eyes. “I hate shooting,” he said; “I hate company. I hate all those antics I was not brought up to. What business have you to come here and want London manners from me?”
“You poor boy,” said Rosamond, shaking her highly poised head. “London manners,” she said, in a tone of the mildest philosophy, “are often just what yours are. Men in London ape being rude like you. They pretend to care for nothing; not to hear what people say to them. It is smart to be uncivil, don’t you know? If you keep it up, you will be the fashion when you go to town.”
Archie clenched his fist in the height of his passion; not, of course, to hit out at Rowland, but at somebody—at the London men—at the detestable world.
“Oh, you may be angry,” said the young lady, “but it is quite true. Should you like to dance with me again, Mr. Rowland, for you see Eddy and Marion are off once more? and Mrs. Rowland plays very well—really very nicely, for such an old-fashioned thing as she is playing. If you do not choose to dance, as there is nobody else to take me out, perhaps you will kindly say so, and then we need not continue standing here.”
Said Archie, with a gasp, with sudden humility, “I can’t dance at all; do you want to make a fool of me! If you think it is my fault, you are quite mistaken. I don’t want to be ridiculous. I would talk and do things if I could——”
“Come along then and try,” said the girl. “Don’t be flurried and nervous. Let us make for the other end of the room, where there is not much light—and do remember not to knock against your father. That was not bad at all; now, one turn more, and then make for the window, and take me out.”
“You will catch cold,” said Archie, breathlessly.
“Oh, I’m not afraid; and it will make an end of it. Here we are,” she cried, as they emerged suddenly into the moonlight. “Now give me your arm, please, and take me round to the back door. Eddy will be after us in a moment; it will be just the chance for him. That was all very well for ten minutes, but itwould not do to carry it on all night. Oh!” she said, suddenly, “look! look!”
They had come out suddenly upon the colonnade, and in a moment stood in another world. Far below the Clyde lay like molten silver, in a ripple of glistening movement, with the mass of trees, wholly denuded of their leaves, paving it in on either side. Into the opening glided in a moment a little pleasure boat, with a white sail catching the white blaze of the moon. It was wafted by in a moment, as they stood, appearing and disappearing like a bird across the silver tide. The sky, a wide, vast vault of blue, flaked with little white clouds, seemed to envelop and hold that little vignette of earth and sky. In the far distance was the darkness of heaven’s vault, the smoke of the town on the other side, with a few lights appearing out of it here and there. Rosamond, forgetting herself in the sudden sensation, pressed his arm with her fingers to call his attention. “Did you ever see it like that before?” she said.
“Never!” said Archie, with a fervour of which he was not himself conscious, feeling as if all the evil conditions of life had vanished and paradise come.
Was this another version of the cat and the mouse?
END OF VOL. I.PRINTED BY F. A. BROCKHAUS, LEIPZIG.
The English LibraryNo. 77THE RAILWAY MAN ANDHIS CHILDRENBy Mrs.OLIPHANTIN TWO VOLUMESVOLUMES BY THE SAME AUTHORPUBLISHED INThe English Library(In the Press)The Marriage of Elinor2 Vols.
Copyright Edition
BYMrs.OLIPHANTAUTHOR OF“KIRSTEEN,” “WITHIN THE PRECINCTS,” “AT HIS GATES,”ETC.IN TWO VOLUMESVOLUME II.LEIPZIGHEINEMANN AND BALESTIERLIMITED, LONDON1892
THE RAILWAY MANAND HIS CHILDREN
Theluncheon on the hill-side would have been probably as successful as these parties ever are, had it not been for one incident. In the train of the little pony cart, which carried the food, and which had to be led over the rougher parts by Sandy the groom, there appeared a stranger whom Mrs. Rowland and her visitors had seen at two or three corners on the way, so long as it was possible to drive: supposed a tourist—which was a being very little esteemed at Rosmore, where tourists were divided into two sections, one labelled as being “from Glasgow,” who was at once the most innocent and the most objectionable; while the other, in the slang of the district, was called B.T. or British tourist, and was presumably “from the south,” a flattering appellation which means England in these regions. This man had been persistently making his way with much toil, but apparent inoffensiveness to the top of the hill, and the ladies had not interfered withhis freedom. I may say, however (which is a view not perhaps popularly taken), that there are two ways of regarding the indiscriminate presence of tourists everywhere as exemplified in the question of foot-paths. The tourist ought to know that wherever he appears he is objectionable to the natives of a country, save to those who sell him provisions, and take him in to lodge; and that his undesired presence upon private property, is regarded by all who possess any, whether it be a grass plot or a hillside, with unmitigated aversion. It is at least as hard for the proprietor to put up with him, as it is for him to be shut out from one particular view—which is no better than other views which are to be procured on other people’s property, or even from the highroad. If it were then fully understood that there was a hardship on both sides, it might be easier to come to an understanding. Mrs. Rowland and the young ladies regarded the figure of the tourist toiling upwards with natural hostility. “What right has any man on our hill!” Marion said; and there was one occasion on which Rosamond had actually extended a foot, with the intention of jumping out of the pony carriage and warning off the intruder.
“I do not mind in the least telling him that he is on private property, if you wish it, Mrs. Rowland.”
“My dear, though it is private property, it is only the wild side of a mountain,” said Evelyn; “the poor man is doing harm to nothing but our feelings.”
“If he was to be shot,” said the persistent Marion, “we would be blamed for not warning him.”
Perhaps Mrs. Rowland thought it would not be abad thing if the stranger was shot (very slightly), as the best way of proving the peril of such unauthorised wanderings. But she said nothing and drove on, until the path was lost in the moor, and the ladies had to get out and walk.
It was too much of a good thing, however, they all felt, when the same man was seen to reappear, following closely in the footsteps of Sandy, who led the pony with the luncheon. They had reached by this time the appointed spot on the hill, which was high above the loch, a sort of natural platform, where a circle of grass broke the darker surface of the heather and underwood. Great bushes of high-growing ling, with the faded bells all stiffened into russet upon them, stood round this oasis, which was kept green, and in a wet season something more than green, by the burn, which made half a circuit round it, leaping downwards from little ridge to ridge of its course. All around among the heather grew the sweet gale, or bog-myrtle, sending up a grateful sweetness when any one crushed a self-sacrificing plant. The sky was of the triumphant yet not too well assured brightness, which is peculiar to Highland skies—a sort of heavenly triumph over difficulties, chastened by the sense that the conquered clouds may blow back at any moment. Deep down, the loch lay like a blue mirror, with all the little clouds floating upon it like boats, in reflections, among the grey willows and the yellow autumnal foliage. Was the grass so velvet, mossy, and beautiful of this little circle—slightly wet, perhaps boggy, “saft,” as Sandy said? Far from us be the thought: besides itwas heaped with shawls and plaids, and what did it matter? The only members of the party who thought of the view were Evelyn and Rosamond. The others were satiated with views. And what did Eddy and Marion care for anything but their eternal war of words, their little mutual rudenesses and compliments? About Archie’s sentiments nobody knew. Sometimes he turned his back to the loch, sometimes would be seen with his eyes intent, as if he were watching something on the opposite side.
“Oh!” said Marion suddenly, with a long-drawn breath, “there is that man again!”
“What man?”
They had all been seated on the dry ridge of the ling, rustling and stiff with its dessicated flowers, above the less trustworthy level of the grass, and were watching with interest the broken hobble of the cart with the baskets, over the uneven ground.
“Roderick will tell him—” said Mrs. Rowland, “and persuade him to go away.”
“Ay will I, mem,” said the gamekeeper, jocund but grim. “I’ll persuade him—in the drawing of a breath.”
Here an exclamation from Eddy startled everybody. “Oh, hold on!” was all the young man said; but his tone had an expression which somehow roused the attention of every one. He made a spring among the heather towards the objectionable visitor. “Is it you, Johnson? I thought you were gone,” he was heard to say. And then it appeared that he had something private to add to the intruder, for he drew him awayunder the shelter of the clump of rowan trees, which lent an illumination of red berries to the scene.
The luncheon had been spread out, and everything was ready to begin upon when Eddy, certainly under the circumstances the most useful member of the party, came back. He was slowly followed by the tourist, and bore a somewhat embarrassed look. “Mrs. Rowland, may I introduce a friend of mine, Johnson of—St. Chad’s?” His countenance had been full of perplexity, but in the momentary pause which preceded the utterance of the last words, he suddenly recovered himself. “Distinguished don,” he added, “no end of a scholar. Came up here for a reading party; but some of them have not arrived yet.”
Mr. Johnson did not come up to Evelyn’s ideas of a distinguished don; but Mrs. Rowland was aware that appearances are often deceptive in the case of such great personages, and it did not occur to her that October was an unlikely moment for a reading party. She was perhaps the only one who attached any significance at all to the words. She begged Mr. Johnson to find a seat for himself, and share their luncheon. He was an insignificant person, with furtive eyes and a sallow complexion, clothed in the usual tweeds. “I am sure, madam, I am much obliged to you,” he said; which was somewhat startling; but dons are often very old-fashioned, as Evelyn was aware.
The conversation went on as if he were not there. He was a taciturn person, but gave a great and concentrated attention to the basket. To see him eatingand drinking recalled to Evelyn stories which everybody in her youth had been fond of telling to the disadvantage of the dons.
“You have very little in your bag. I would have killed more myself,” said Marion.
“Ah, I dare say,” Eddy replied; “you’ve no heart and no conscience, and what would you care what you killed? A man or two in the bag would have made it much heavier.”
“As if I would take the trouble to shoot men!”
“And a woman can’t be tried for manslaughter,” said Eddy: and they both laughed as if, except their own rather poor fun, there was nothing that was of any interest in the world.
Rosamond kept her stately pose, her lofty manner of treating the subject under discussion, but she was perhaps scarcely more elevated in her aim. “Can you tell me the names of the mountains, now?” she said, with an emphasis which only Archie understood.
And he woke up from that self-absorbed dullness which was the aspect he presented in general, and pointed out to her peak after peak, not without an occasional glance at Roderick in the background, who gave him a nod back again over the young lady’s head. Evelyn looked on, perceiving all these little details with an unembarrassed attention. It was seldom she was so free to observe what was going on about her: the business of a large household, to which she was yet unaccustomed, the calls of her husband upon her attention, the cares of the mistress of the house to keep everything going, had lessened her possibilities ofobservation. But the position of an elder woman in the midst of a little company of this description is sometimes almost uncomfortably free. There is no pretence made of any particular regard to her amusement, and she is allowed to observe at her leisure. Evelyn perceived, with a little alarm, the position of affairs. Was it perhaps accidental—a mere fortuitous conjunction of the two who most attracted each other? Was it perhaps a plan, a scheme? She had been so long out of the world of social scheming that she had forgotten its ways. She observed for a little with a half benign amusement the skirmishing of Marion and Eddy, the little onslaughts and withdrawals, provocations not much more refined than a milkmaid’s jibes, responses not in better taste. Mrs. Rowland had not thought much of the “style” of Edward Saumarez, the younger, from the beginning—an old-fashioned word, which in the language of the present day would mean that she thought him “bad form.” Words change, and so do all forms of expression, but the actual fact does not alter. As she mentally compared this commonplace young man whose manners she thought bad and whose person was so entirely without distinction, with his father—the love of her own youth, the handsome, distinguished, courtly Saumarez of another day, a sudden rush of painful feeling came over Evelyn. Was this what he intended? Was it to be so done that she herself should seem the schemer, the matchmaker, promoting the advantage of his son and daughter above that of her husband’s children? Nobody remarked how Evelyn was looking, or inquired what it was that gaveoccasion for that sudden flush and paleness. Was this what it meant—his eagerness to connect his children with her, that she should invite them, assume the responsibility of them? Evelyn saw everything that might have been is his mind as with the flash of a sudden light. He had jilted her, but she had never ceased to care for him, people would say; as witness the results. Had she not thrown her husband’s boy and girl, inexperienced, suspecting nothing, made of money, into the grip of those clever Saumarez?
Evelyn got up from her seat in the horror of the thought that thus came into her mind, and with the sensation that she must do something at once to put an end to it. But nobody even remarked her movement, and she sat down again with a pant of baffled eagerness. Rosamond and Archie sat with their backs to her, full of their own subject: the dull boy was awakening under that siren’s touch; while Marion and Eddy kept up a deafening chatter about something much more interesting than the mountains or waters—themselves; each moving on the lines that answered best. Was the plan laid out in all its details? Had they come with their constructions to captivate these two homely Rowlands before the other harpies had so much as got note of them, to anticipate all competition? It was just such a heartless scheme as he might have conceived in his unsoftened, unchastened suffering. And Madeline Leighton’s words came back upon Evelyn’s mind with a sudden horror: “He will compromise you, if he can, with your husband.” How angry she had been, thinking only of the ordinary sense of these words.Ah! here was another sense—a sense she had never dreamt of! If Eddy Saumarez with his bad little record, his short story of as much folly as could be crammed into a life of twenty, asked Marion’s father for her hand and fortune—and Archie, with the power of sullen opposition which was in him, proclaimed his intention of marrying Rosamond, to whom would her husband turn as the cause of these premature engagements? Who would be blamed by the world? Would any one believe that she had not thought of such a contingency? Would James——James, whose soul trusted in her? Oh, villain and traitor! was this his way of punishing her for having escaped from his influence, for the late happiness that had made her so much better off than he was? Madeline’s warning had not been strong enough or clear enough to save her. Evelyn clasped her hands in her lap till the pressure hurt her, and looked on helpless at the work which was going so briskly on at her side, the work which she would be believed to have planned—with eyes which could scarcely endure the sight.
“I have always observed,” Rosamond was saying, with the air of a sage, “that the more you take an interest in anything, the more amused you are. Everything is tiresome when you don’t take an interest. My father is an instance. He is never out of his chair: he can’t do anything without Rogers, not even raise himself up. You would think he had a dreadful life: but he has not: he watches the people, and knows everything that happens. I am a little like that myself. Now Eddy has no such interest in anything. Helikes horses and billiards and that sort of thing, and bad company generally.” Rosamond gave a glance behind at Eddy’s acquaintance, who was making a perfectly good luncheon, and keeping up a furtive observation of everybody round him. “I don’t like,” she said, “the looks of that man. Do you think he belongs to any college? I don’t.”
“He is not like the college men I have seen,” Archie ventured to say.
“No, of course he is not: he is more like a scout out on a holiday.—As you are so kind as to pay some attention to what I say, Mr. Rowland, please remember that Eddy is not at all to be relied upon. He would think it was quite a good joke to bring in a man like that. Don’t let him, whatever you do, have an invitation to the ball.”
“If your brother asks for it—” said Archie.
“Never mind my brother: you will do a great deal better if you trust me,” said Rosamond. There was a little pause, and then a murmur from Archie, which Evelyn could not hear; but she drew her own conclusions. It was: “And am I not doing that with all my heart!”
“Oh!” Rosamond said, elevating her eyebrows slightly, casting for almost the first time a glance down upon him. It seemed to give her some surprise, not unmingled with apprehension, and she drew a little further off from the heather, and caught a branch of the gale, as if disturbed for once in her composure. The scent of it, as the girl crushed it in her hand, rose to Mrs. Rowland and remained in her consciousness ever after as something associated with anxiety and care.
Meanwhile Marion and Eddy were chatting so continuously, sometimes in confidential whispers, sometimes with outbursts of sound and laughter, that no one could be any the wiser as to what they said. “He is no more a don than I am,” Eddy was confessing; “it was the first thing I could think of to give him a countenance. There never was a more villainous one than he has by nature. No, I won’t tell you what he is: he’s mixed up with all sorts of people. What a lark to have him asked to the ball! Do you think she would do it? To introduce him everywhere as Johnson of Chad’s, and see how he would behave! I shall not let you dance with him though, or any nice girl I know.”
“Oh, I would dance with him if he asked me,” said Marion. “If you think that I would be guided by you!”
“I know more about that than you do,” said Eddy. “You shan’t, I can tell you: for one thing, I mean to dance with you myself all the night. We go so well together, you and I. And I know how to square the chaperons—especially withher. She won’t dare to say anything against me.”
“If you think that I would let her interfere!” said Marion; “but you are not to get things all your own way. I’ll just dance with whom I please—and maybe not with you at all.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Eddy.
“Yes, we’ll see about it,” cried the girl, and thenthere was a great laugh, as if this had been the wittiest observation in the world.
If Evelyn did not hear this, she saw it, with all the advantages of spectatorship seeing more in the game than the actors themselves were aware of, probably more (which is the drawback of spectatorship), than had any existence. Would James think she was in the plot? Would he believe it was of her invention, or that she had carried it out consciously for the advantage of the others? In her first hurried discovery of this aspect of affairs, it did not occur to Evelyn that James was a man of an old-fashioned type, who believed in true love, and might sympathize with his children if they were impressed by such an influence, more than with any wise counsel or hesitation as to means. She herself, whatever her sentiments might be, belonged to a world more moved by conventional laws. She thought that she saw him with reproach in his face, looking at her as he never had done, severely, reproachfully—he to whom she owed so much, not only wealth and consideration, but tenderness and kindness, and absolute trust—Trust! that was the greatest of all: and he would think that she had betrayed him.
Mr. Johnson, so-called of St. Chad’s, finished the substantial part of his banquet about this moment, and with a glance at the pastry which was visible, laid out upon the white cloth, stirred a little in his nest of heather, making the long spikes of the ling rustle, and calling forth again that pungent sweetness of the gale. Mrs. Rowland, to whom incivility was impossible, and who, though doubtful, still felt it more comprehensiblethat a distinguished don might be of evil appearance than that Eddy Saumarez could have told her a lie, turned towards him to see what were his wants. He was not without an ambition to shine in polite conversation, and Evelyn’s was not the aspect to discourage such attempts. He said, waving his hand as if to include the whole party, “This is a very cheerful way, if you will let me say so, of meeting for the first time.”
“Yes?” said Evelyn, interrogatively.
“It’s a beautiful scene,” said the stranger, “and the pie was excellent. What a nice way for ladies to join in sport, when the men’s tired and ready to be tumbled over at the first shot—ha, ha,—as seems to be the case, ma’am, in your vicinity.”
“Sir?” said Mrs. Rowland.
“I don’t want to give offence,” said Johnson of St. Chad’s, “but I should say, if ever there was one, that there is a case.” He indicated with his eyebrows the chatting pair, too busy to pay attention to their neighbours, on Mrs. Rowland’s other side.
“A case? I do not really know what you mean,” she said hurriedly.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said the man, “if I remark what I oughtn’t. These sort of things are generally remarked—but some people takes them very serious,” he added, nodding his head confidentially.
“Takes them serious!” If this was a college don, he had certainly a very strange way of speaking.
“I think you are mistaken,” said Mrs. Rowland, “I don’t know of anything that is going on—except luncheon. May I offer you some of these, as yourfriend is too busy to see that you have what you want.”
“Ah, he is a fellow that knows whathewants,” said the don admiringly, “and doesn’t trouble himself what other people thinks. Thank you very much, I’ll take some grateful—” he added “ly,” after he had drawn a breath, making a little choke over the word—“gratefully, that’s what I mean. A man gets out of his manners never seeing a lady for—a whole term sometimes,” he said.
Was he a college don? More and more puzzled was poor Evelyn, who could believe in anything rather than that she had been told what was not true. But whatever it was, she felt that it was better not to leave this person to his false ideas in respect to the young people. “Perhaps I ought to tell you,” she said, “that you are making a mistake. There is no case, if that means an—engagement, or anything of that sort. My son and daughter are very young, and so are their friends. They are boys and girls together—no one, on either side, would hear of anything of the kind.”
“Oh!” said the man, who was certainly not a gentleman, whatever else he might be. He put down his plate and gave a keen look across Mrs. Rowland to Eddy, who was far too much engaged to notice anything. “Oh!” he said again; then after a pause: “I’m an old hand,” he added, “it may be you that are mistaken, ma’am, and not me.”
Mrs. Rowland did not think proper to say more. One way or other it must, she thought, be a matterof entire indifference to this disreputable looking stranger what were the circumstances of Eddy Saumarez. She rose from her throne of heather, taking no further notice of the visitor, and disturbing the party altogether, to the resentment of everybody. “I have only just begun to have my lunch,” said Marion—and “Is it really time to be going?” Rosamond asked with a fine tone of surprise. The young men said little; but their faces showed their feelings. “That is the worst of it,” said Eddy, in an audible whisper, “a chaperon is sure to spoil sport. She doesn’t mean any harm, but she does it by instinct.” And of the two pairs no one budged. Evelyn was alone among these young conspirators, and the vulgar commentator who had sought to make himself agreeable by putting her terrors into words. She wandered a little further upon the hillside, and gathered a handful of the white Grass of Parnassus, and the little blue orchid which is to be found on these hills, to give herself a countenance, not knowing how to act or what to do; whether to speak to her husband or to endeavour in her own person to divide the bonds which had grown up so fast. But how could she do this? What did they care for what she said, these independent young people? What hold had she over them, one way or another? And yet it would be said that she had been the chief actor in everything, that it was she who had thrown them together; she who had plotted to throw James Rowland’s wealth into the hands and house of the Saumarez. The thought was intolerable; her whole mind cried out against it,protesting that it was not to be borne; but how was she to free herself from this knot in which she was enveloped? What was she to do?
Itneed scarcely be said that the young Saumarez had been early made acquainted with Rankin’s cottage in the wood, and with the wonderful qualities of the “sma’”family which he kept about him. The humours of Roy and Dhu were by this time among the most cheerful features of the house at Rosmore. That little pair went tumbling over each other with ferocious curiosity into every corner, sniffing and investigating: they gave each other the word when, in the far distance, a carriage began to grind, or a footstep to disturb the gravel approaching the door—and flew like two balls of fur, with two little pairs of gleaming eyes and no legs to speak of, helter-skelter, head-over-heels to defend the house with ferocious, if infantile, barking. They walked out with Mrs. Rowland when she went out upon the lawn, making futile efforts to get upon the edge of her dress, and so be carried along as in a triumphal car on the silken train that touched the ground. They superintended every setting out and returning home, all but opening the door of the carriage when their mistress appeared. Archie had given them up to her with a sort of revulsion of feeling, kicking them from him when he found that the doggies hung on to his stepmother’s skirts in spite of all other blandishments.He addressed them only in kindly intercourse when she was out of the way, but when she appeared, gave a kick to one and tossed the other down out of his hands. They had this quality that they never were hurt, always came up again in a jovial entanglement of legs and hair, and were not too proud to talk to any one who would talk to them. Even the solemn butler, of whom Archie always continued to stand in awe, had been seen in a corner on his knees with a supply of biscuits, endeavouring to teach them to beg; which was an unsuccessful effort, since the little soft unformed backbones were as yet unfit for the effort. The young visitors, it is needless to say, were at once initiated into the worship of Roy and Dhu, and to become the happy possessors of other members of the family had early become the ambition of both Rosamond and Eddy—genuine on her part, perhaps only a pretext on his. For the worship of the dog is a very widespreading and varied rite, followed by some out of a real understanding of those faithful, little-discriminating, and often puzzled retainers of humanity, but by many out of pure vacancy and for love of the inferior company of grooms and kennel-keepers, who are the retainers, in their turn, of the nobler breed. It was natural that Eddy should gravitate towards a place where the dull hours were to be got through by such means. And Rosamond liked the little humorous creatures, and was amused by the old gamekeeper, and had pleasure in the quaint unknown aspect of the cottage life. Besides all these, when they escaped one morning together from the house, at a moment whenMarion was out of the way, and Archie occupied, there was a little pleasure in the mere act of escaping and in the opportunity for consultations of their own. More than half their month in Rosmore was now over, and they had occasion for a little mutual understanding. It was a crisp morning of late October, very still, hoar frost white in all the hollows, and not yet melted into dew on the trees. Heaps of yellow leaves had come down in the night, and lay like gold at the foot of the now thin and trembling birches. The red trunks of the fir trees came out warmly in the sharpness of the atmosphere, and the big branches of the rowan berries drooped in consciousness of the approaching fall.
“What luck,” said Eddy, “to get off for once without those other two, as old Rowland calls them, at our heels.”
Rosamond assented briefly, but added, by way of qualification, “It is you generally who are at Marion’s heels.”
“Look here, Rose,” said the brother, “you know the governor better than I do. What was his object in sending you and me here?”
“To get rid of us for a month, and have no responsibility,” said Rosamond promptly.
“Oh, come, that’s not reason enough for him. Did he mean me to make up to this little thing here? I suppose she’s made of money—at least the father is; but what he’ll give her for her fortune is an unknown quantity. I don’t think he is very fond of her; do you? And I say, how old is Mrs. Rowland?—something would depend on that.”
“How should I know how old Mrs. Rowland is; and what would it matter if she were as old as—father himself?”
“She must be near it,” said Eddy thoughtfully, “or he would not have gone after her in his young days. Of course if she has no children, don’t you see, it makes all the difference. Let’s assume that she’ll have no children: then he must leave all his money between those two, and that would not be bad. If I am to marry for money, I don’t mean to let myself go cheap.”
“You would be worth so very much to any woman!” said Rosamond in high disdain.
“I am worth a decent sum,” said Eddy, “which is more than you are, for as much as you think of yourself; I and the old tumble-down house, which is what silly people like you admire so much—when the Governor hops off. If this new place does him a great deal of good, as he believes it will, I shan’t have such a good chance.”
“Poor father!” said Rosamond, but with perfect composure, “it is a pity to raise his hopes.”
“So I think,” said Eddy: “when you’ve hadthatbefore you for so long, you ought to be able to make up your mind to it. And it isn’t as if he did not have his fling in his day. However, the question is, what did he mean when he sent us here? Was it you or was it me?”
“What do you mean by me?” said Rosamond with irritation; “father knows quite well what I am going to do.”
“Oh yes, I believe you!” said Eddy, “doctoring orsomething, isn’t it? That is all bosh. You must just do like the rest. The question is, will old Rowland divide the money? when the one would be as good as the other, and I shouldn’t mind very much. But if the girl has only a little bit of a fortune, and the boy all the rest—that indicates you, my dear; and as you are always admiring the country, I suppose you are making up your mind to your fate?”
“I would not marry Archie Rowland if there was not another man in the world,” said Rosamond calmly. “Indeed, you may say there is not another man in the world, for I have no intention of marrying at all.”
“Then you are treating him as badly as can be,” said Eddy, “and you ought to be turned out of the house.”
“I!” said Rosamond, raising her calm eyebrows a little. “Why? It is only men who are pulled up for behaving badly. I am bringing him into shape. He is a great deal better already, and you will see he will behave quite decently at the ball.”
“If we could only find out,” said Eddy, who after all was but moderately interested in that side of the question which did not concern himself, “whether old Rowland means to divide the money! I should think he would, an old fellow with a sense of justice and who has made his own money. Why shouldn’t the girl have as much as the boy?”
“Why shouldn’t I have Gilston as well as you? That,” said Rosamond, “cuts both ways.”
“That’s quite a different thing,” said Eddy. “Gilston isn’t money, the more’s the pity; I wish it was.”
“You may be very glad it is not; for it would soon be gone in that case, and nothing would be left.”
“Well,” said Eddy, reflectively, “it’s always bait to catch a fish; no money, but a fine old house in the country, and a good name. The question is,” he said with much gravity, “whether it’s good enough to spend all that upon this little girl here, and perhaps find out at the end that she was no such prize after all? Why can’t one go honestly to the man and ask him, ‘What do you mean to give your daughter?’”
“You might try,” said Rosamond, with a laugh.
“And get turned out of the house! They would do it in France and never think twice; but in England it must be love, forsooth—Love!” said Eddy, with great disdain. “What is there to love in a little chit like that?”
“She is a pretty little thing,” said Rosamond, philosophically, “and she is quick enough. She would soon be just like other people, if she were about in town for a little. But Eddy, what is the use of talking when you are far too young to marry? At your age father could not have intended that.”
“I shall soon be old enough to be pulled up,” said Eddy, “on my own account. Don’t you know I’ll come of age in the beginning of the year? After that no one can come on the governor for my infant wants, don’t you know. I wish they would: he wouldn’t give them a farthing, and I should get all the fun; but they are far too cute for that. This Johnson fellow, don’t you know——”
“The don?” said Rosamond; “has he lent you money? I thought these men had never any money to lend.”
“Oh, that depends!” said Eddy. He burst into a great laugh, but immediately restrained himself. “He could get me into a pretty scrape if he liked, so I must keep friends with him. I mean to get Mother Rowland to ask him to the ball.”
“How dare you call her Mother Rowland?” said the girl, stamping her foot.
“Oh, dare! I dare do—whatever suits me,” said the young man. “Look here,” he added, “I don’t want you to dance with him all the same.”
Rosamond turned upon her brother and gave him a look of scorn. It was not often that she condescended to look at any one to whom she was talking; but her glance was very direct and keen when she took the trouble. And she did not make any reply. They were by this time at the entrance to the gamekeeper’s cottage, and she swept in at the always open door. “May we come in?” she condescended to say, but did not pause for an answer. Old Rankin was sitting up in bed, taking his forenoon refreshment: which he himself described as “supping a wheen broth.”
“Oh you’re welcome, my young leddy. Ye will have come about the dowg; but I think it is mair civil, in an ordinary way, if you would just chap at the door.”
“That’s what I say,” said Eddy; “but she takes her own way. I hope you’re better, Rankin, and no rheumatism. It’s not so cold, for there’s no wind thismorning; but the hoar frost is still lying under the trees.”
“Ay,” said Rankin, “there will be rain the morn. These white frosts aye brings rain, no to say that it’s ever sweered to come. I’m muckle obliged to you for asking for me. You’re the only one of the young folk at the House that ever minds I am a man. And a very ill man. They think I’m some kind of a creature for producin’ dowgs.”
“I am very sorry for you,” said Rosamond; “my father is like you, he cannot move; but he does not like people to ask him how he is.”
“Ay, ay, ye hae a father like me? Poor gentleman, I’m sure he has my compassion,” said Rankin, “especially if he has no favourite purshoot like mine that makes the time pass.”
“Well, let us see your favourite purshoot,” said Eddy; “let us see them. They are great fun, the little beasts.”
“I am no reduced to that stage of intelligence,” said the gamekeeper, “to call the breeding o’ dowgs a purshoot. I just leave that to nature. What I really am, and I’m proud o’t, is an antiquary. There’s no many things ye can bring to me in the way of antiquities that would puzzle me. I’ve seen when half o’ this,” he laid his hand on a paper on the bed, “was my writing—whiles questions and whiles answers. It’s maybe no a profitable kind of study. I make nothing by it in the way of money; but it’s real entertaining. I’m just as pleased when a number comes in with me, answering a’ the scholars and putting them right, orthem answering me and putting me right, as if it was so much siller in my pooch.”
“Oh ay,” said his wife, in the background, “you have had an awfu’ troke with the papers, John Rankin; but it would have sert ye muckle better if you had written something that would be of use, and got a little by it. Good siller is out o’ place in nobody’s pooch.”
“Do you mean to say that you—write for the papers?” said Rosamond.
“That do I, my bonny leddy; and ye should just recommend a study like mine to your father, poor gentleman. You’ll see many a thing from me there. I’m Ros-beg, that’s the name I took; which means the little Ros, just as Rosmore means the muckle Ros, and Ben Ros the hill. I’m grand upon Hieland antiquities, and considered one o’ the first authorities. Ye’ll see, ye’ll see,” said Rankin, waving his hand as he held out the paper to his visitor. It was a very well-known paper, one in which a great many questions are put and answered. The reader will not need to be told its highly respectable name.
“Is it you that has written all this about some bard—Donald—I can’t say his name? And there’s an answer from Ben Cruachan, and one from Mr. Davies, and G. Johnson—oh, Eddy! St. Chad’s, Cambridge!”
“I say,” Eddy had begun, “hand us out some of the doggies, and don’t talk;” but when he saw the page which Rosamond held out to him, he laughed out till the cottage rang. “Oh ho,” he said, “Johnson!Here is a lark! Johnson! Now we’ll have some fun. I say, gamekeeper! Johnson’s here.”
“What is your will, sir?” said Rankin, with great dignity. The purveyor of dogs could take a joke, but not the contributor toNotes and Queries. In the latter capacity, John Rankin veiled his bonnet to none.
“Why, Johnson, I tell you. Johnson’s here! Don’t you know what I mean? Johnson, the don,” and Eddy laughed again till the tears ran down his cheeks. “I’ll bring him to see you, old fellow. You shall have your fight out, and I’ll back you, old boy, to him, six to one.”
“My learned correspondent!” said Rankin, with a look of excitement. And then he turned to Rosamond. “Your brother is a wild laddie, but I suppose what he says is true?”
“I suppose so,” said Rosamond, with great gravity, while Eddy did his best to subdue the convulsions of laughter into which he had fallen. His sister was impatient of Eddy’s joke, and of the whole matter. “Let us, please, see the little dogs,” she said.
“Yes; but I’m far more interested about the other thing,” said Rankin, “for I would like well to put forth my views in a mair extended form. The space of the paper is real limited. They will sometimes leave out just your maist conclusive argument. Dod! but I’d like a crack with Mr. Johnson fine.”
“I wish you would not laugh like a fool,” said Rosamond, frowning. “What is there to laugh about? Mr. Johnson is not nearly so nice-looking as Mr.Rankin, and I think he’ll be disappointed in him. But you need not go on making a ridiculous noise in this way. I wish to have one of the little dogs to give to a lady I know. She will be very kind to it. She is my grandmamma. She likes her dogs better than anything else in the world.”
“The dogues are fine creatures,” said Rankin; “but no to be made a first objeck. I dinna agree with that. A leddy that likes her dogs better than anything else will just probably spile them, baith their health and their moral nature. Ye will observe, mem, that I am not wanting to sell my dogues. I have aye plenty of customers for them: the first houses in the land has my dogues. It’s no as if I was keen to sell. She will no doubt feed them in a ridiculous way—sweet biscuits and made dishes, instead of good porridge and a bone at a time. Na, I think I’ll no give you one for your grandmammaw, though I dinna like to disappoint a bonnie young leddy. If it was for yoursel’ now—”
“I would like to have this one for myself,” said Rosamond, as the little half-blind puppy curled on her lap and nibbled at her fingers. “It will be like little Roy at Rosmore.”
“That will it!” said old Rankin in the fervour of generous acquiescence, “or may be even finer. And ye shall have it, ye shall have it! I will give ye my directions, and ye’ll make a principle of carrying them out. If ye do that, ye’ll keep the little beastie in good health, and aye clean and pleasant—and he’ll be a pleasure to ye a’ his days. There are no finer bred dogues in a’ Scotland, though I say it that maybeshouldn’t. And if ye’ll be guided by me, ye’ll just call him Roy too. It is a fine handy little name. I call them all the same, like Dandy Dinmont’s terriers in Sir Walter, as maybe ye will remember. It’s a kind of token of the race: and ye may make real pleasant acquaintances about the world, or maybe, wha kens, be directed to a braw gentleman that will make ye a fine partner for life—just by the circumstance of having twa doggies by the name of Roy, baith from Rosmore!”
Rankin ended with a faint guffaw partly at his own humour, partly in the emotion of giving up to a stranger one of his cherished infants. He dived again into the mysterious receptacle in which the puppies feebly squeeled and whined, within reach of his hand, and produced, all warm and blurred from that nest, another ball of fur. “Ye can tak’ your choice,” he said; “this ane is of the line of Roy as well as that ane. It is the last I have, and I dinna see my way to pleasure Lady Jean till maybe geyan weel on in the next year. If ye were to fancy the twa, I wadna grudge them to ye: for I think you know what you’re about with dogues. Would you like to have it? Oh, it’s not to please me but to please you. I can dispose of the double of what I have got, or am like to get. There’s not a person comes to Rosmore but is keen for one of Rankin’s dogues. But I’m that pleased with you and your sense, that, if ye like, I’ll let you have the twa.”
Rosamond accepted the favour in her stately way. “Have we any money, Eddy?” she said. It did not in the least trouble her when her brother for answerturned his pockets inside out “It does not matter in the least,” she said. “I should like to have them both, and the money will come somehow.” She was not touched with doubt as Archie had been about the possibilities of paying. She was aware that she was poor, and had not a penny; but most things she wanted were procured for her in one way or another. This had been Rosamond’s experience since ever she remembered, and naturally it gave her mind a great calm.
“And yon you were saying about Mr. Johnson?” said the gamekeeper, turning to Eddy when the bargain was made.—“Wha’s that chapping at the door?” he added impatiently. “Some gangrel body with an e’e to the dogues, and muckle Roy out there just a senseless beast that bids a’ body welcome, and hasna a bark in him. Janet, woman! wha’s that chappin’ at the door?”
“It’s I,” said a voice that made Eddy start “It’s a friend—of your master’s, my good man.”
“My maister’s!” said Rankin, “Wha’s that, I would like to ken? Janet, just shut the door upon his nose, the uncivil person. My maister’s! It will be some English towerist body that kens no better,” he added condescendingly with a wave of his hand. “You may let him come in.”
“Why, Rankin,” cried Eddy, “you are in luck! This is the very gentleman—of St Chad’s, Cambridge. Johnson, come in—you’re in luck too, I can tell you. Here’s the champion that holds another view. You’re on the Welsh side, aren’t you?—here’s the great authority, Ros-beg, that takes the other view.”
“What?” said Johnson, coming in a little blinded from the winterly sunshine outside into the comparative gloom of the cottage, where the window was half covered with the drawn blind to keep out the sun. Mrs. Rankin had a notion, shared by many simple housekeepers, that the sun puts out the fire. “Eh—ah, who are you? I’ll swear that’s Eddy Saumarez’s voice.”
Rosamond rose up from her place by the gamekeeper’s bedside, and put back the puppy. The very sound of this man’s voice offended her. To be sure it was the usual thing for everybody to say Eddy Saumarez. She had seen him discussed by that name in the sporting papers, the horrible crumpled things which he left about—there was nothing surprising in it; but there was something exasperating in the sound of his voice.
“Oh, Miss Saumarez,” he said, stepping back a little. Her presence startled him as much as his appearance exasperated her.
“I think,” she said, “as you’ve found your friend, I’ll go back by myself, Eddy. And good-bye, Mr. Rankin. I will pay the greatest attention to your instructions when you send me the dogs.”
Then without taking any notice of the intruder, except by the slightest of bows, Rosamond turned and walked away. She waved her hand to Janet, but Janet was accustomed to scant ceremony, and was not offended. Rosamond was vaguely uneasy about this man and his frequent re-appearance, and Eddy’s intention of having him asked to Rosmore. Of course Mrs. Rowland would do it, if she were asked. Rosamondwas not aware of the impression he had already made on Evelyn’s mind. Nor had she any doubts as to the truth of Eddy’s description. Everything, she was aware, had changed at the University as at other places. There were no tests, and anybody might become a don. Of course, if he was a don, there was no reason why he should not be given an invitation for any entertainment. But only she, Rosamond, would not countenance him. She would neither dance with him nor talk with him. His appearance meant no good to Eddy if he were a hundred times a don. Eddy was a boy whom it was impossible to keep out of mischief, whatever happened. If anything went wrong, she felt sure her father would hold her responsible, which would be extremely unjust, for what could she do? Thus she reasoned with herself as she walked very quickly through the woods, hurrying home. Home! is was not home. In about ten days or so, this visit would be over, and if Eddy played any tricks, probably Mrs. Rowland would never ask them again. And Eddy was almost certain to play tricks of one kind or another. His flirtation with Marion must come to some end. And whatdidfather mean by sending him there? Was it intended that he should marry Marion? was Marion rich enough to make father wish that Eddy should marry her? These questions became disagreeably present with Rosamond as she walked back to the house, and gave her a great feeling of insecurity and discomfort of every kind. It really was not safe to go anywhere with Eddy: he was sure to get himself into scrapes and have disreputable acquaintances appearingafter him. A curve of annoyance came over Rosamond’s smooth brow. It did not occur to her, however, as a thing possible, that any blame in any other way could turn upon herself.
“Comealong, Johnson,” said Eddy; “don’t be shy. The nature of great scholars, Rankin, is that they’re dreadfully shy, don’t you know. A man that you couldn’t put out by the heaviest argument will give in at the sight of a young lady. That’s like our friend here: he thinks every woman he sees is going to bite him, or—marry him, perhaps, out of hand, as you do in Scotland, don’t you know.”
“There is a great deal o’ nonsense prevalent about Scotch marriages,” said Rankin. “It’s nothing of the kind. Come away ben, Mr. Johnson, I’m real glad to see you. Dod! he’s no so lo’esome in his ain person that he should be frichtened for the leddies; but study’s mair embellishin’ for the mind than the body. Come in by, sir, and gi’e me a shake o’ your hand. You and me’s had mony a controversy, but nane sae bitter but that we may meet as friends.”
“Eh! what’s the man saying? What have I got to do with him?” cried Johnson, stumbling in, with eyes as yet unaccustomed to the light.
“I tell you,” said Eddy, “of course you never expected to find here the great Ros-beg, your opponenton the question of—What question was it, Rankin? Don’t attempt to hide your honours, Johnson, my boy. Everybody here knows you’re Johnson of St. Chad’s. You have only got to behave yourself as such, and recognise the power of learning wherever you see it. This, I tell you, is Ros-beg, your adversary on——”
“I say, Eddy, none of your humbug! I’ve got to talk to you on serious business, and here you are agoing on with your pranks to drive a man out of his senses.”
“I have nothing to do with it,” said Eddy. “This gentleman here in the bed, though you mightn’t think it, is a great scholar, Johnson. He’s driven you into a corner and holds you there. We know what you mean when you pretend ignorance. It’s because you’re shut up. You might find an argument if you were in your own study among all your books at St. Chad’s; but here, face to face with the great Ros-beg, you’ve not got a word to say.”
“Be canny with him, be canny with him, sir,” said Rankin, a glow of complacency on his face. “A man’s no to be expected to be ready wi’ his weepons just at a moment’s notice. Coming into a Highland cottage, how was he to think he was to be confronted by an adversary? Na, na; great allowances must be made. Sit down, sir, and tak’ time and come to yourself.”
“By Jove!” said Johnson, with most un-don-like force, “I think you mean to drive me mad, Eddy Saumarez! One day it’s with your ladies, and another day it’s with this old——”
“Let him get it oot, let him get it oot,” cried Rankin. “Oh, ay! it’s easier to abuse your opponentthan to answer him; that’s a trick weel kent in controversy. An auld—what, sir?—get it oot; it will ease your mind, and it will do me nae hairm.”
“Johnson, you fool, can’t you see that you’ve got a character to keep up,” cried Eddy, half-choking with laughter. The youth was full of mischievous delight in his mystification, but he was not without a meaning behind it, which was the thing most interesting to his present victim.
“I see your game, Mr. Eddy,” said Johnson: “but you aint going to get the better of me. Be done with that stuff, and come out and let us have a bit of serious talk. You know as well as I do what’s hanging over your head. If you can’t bring him something to stop his mouth, that old cove will—— or give him security as you’re to be married before a certain day. I don’t mind who I speak before. If you’ll not listen to me one time, you’ll have to listen another!” cried Johnson, working himself up into energy. Eddy stood facing the light with the ruddy glow of the flames playing over him, his somewhat worn and pale young face broadened with laughter. The effect of his youth, and perhaps a special impishness of nature, gave him a delight in mischief which the most serious emergency could not destroy.
“I told you,” he said, “this man’s always got his thoughts filled with marrying—especially in Scotland, where you can always do it at a moment’s notice. When he’s not in terror for himself he’s in terror for me.”
“Ye may deliver your soul o’ a’ such terrors,” saidRankin angrily. “There’s naebody will marry ye here but the minister, and him no afore a’ inquiry’s made. There’s an awfu’ deal o’ nonsense prevalent about Scotch marriages. It’s a question I would have no objection to argue oot with ye, if ye prefer that to a mair learned subject,” said the gamekeeper with a disdainful wave of his hand.
“I argue!” cried Johnson; “I’ll not argue; it aint my line. I’m not a parson, nor I aint a lawyer; I’m a plain man, by Jove! I’ve got my own business, and I know how to do it; and this I tell you, Master Eddy, if you aint ready with that cash, and before the month’s out, come by it as ye will——”
“Can’t you hold your d——d tongue! Can’t you see what’s expected of you!” said Eddy in a rapid whisper.—“Rankin,” he said, raising his voice, “I’m ashamed of my man. He hasn’t pluck enough to come up to the scratch. The sight of you has routed him hand and foot. There’s no spirit left in him at all.”
“He never said a truer word,” said Rankin, “than when he said he couldna argue. I’m glad he has that much knowledge o’ himsel’. It was aye a wonder to me that the editor let him in wi’ hisdisjectae membraeand hotchpotch o’ reasoning. I’m no surprised, for my pairt; but after this exheebition, I’m thinking it would be just as weel to tak’ the cratur away. It’s a’e thing to ha’e the gift o’ sound argument, which is no given to everybody, and it’s anither thing to be ceevil to a man in his ain house. Maybe, however, he thinks because I’m here in a cottage and no able for any exertion, that it’s no me. But I can gi’e him evidence thatit’s me.” Rankin put up his hand to a box of papers fastened within his reach by the wall, and dived into it, much as, on the other hand, he dived into the nest of his dogs. “There’s the editor’s ain hand of write addressed to John Rankin, Esquire, which will maybe convince him. No that it matters a brass bodle to me, if a man, when he’s worsted in arguments, forgets his mainners. It’s just of as little consequence as the yelping of thae beasties of dogues.” Rankin took the puppies, who had been stumbling, with little whines and sniffs, over the heights and hollows of his own person, and dropped them one after another into what seemed some invisible pocket, their disappearance acting as a sort of energetic punctuation to his words. The letter, which he had flung towards the stranger, was indeed directed as he had said, and disclosed as it fell on the bed a number of proof-sheets or cuttings, very conclusive to the instructed eye. But Mr. Johnson did not look at them at all. He said, “What have I to do with the old—gentleman’s letters,” substituting that word for “fool,” which he had intended to use, on the compulsion of Eddy’s eye.
“Then, good-bye, Rankin, I’ll soon come back,” said Eddy, shaking the old gamekeeper’s hand; “but, look here, I’ll bring no more of my grand friends to see you from the Universities, if you are going to crumple them up like this.”
Rankin laughed the satisfied laugh of the controversialist who has demolished his adversary. “He hadna a word to say for himself, no’ a word. It’s one thing compiling nonsense out o’ books in a library, andmeeting a man face to face. Ye just saw for yoursel’ that the beggar hadna a word to say.”
“Eh me,” said Janet, who had gone out to the door to see the visitors fairly off, “that was an awfu’ like man to be one of your great scholars, as ye call them. I’ve seen the college gentlemen in my young days, and fine lads some o’ them were. I wadna have believed that was a college gentleman if it had been tell’t to me.”
“And what do you know about it?” said Rankin, scornfully. “There’s the evidence that he just would not face me, the moment he heard who I was. I never thought he had the root of the maitter in him. Just a blethering retailer o’ other men’s opinions, no fit to haud his ain in any real controversy. I’m a wee disappointed, for it would have been a grand sensation to have it oot with ane of those Oxford ignoramuses in my ain house; but ye see he could not put out a finger without his authorities at his back.—I think I’ll maybe take a pickle mair broth.”
“If yon’s a college man and a gentleman,” said Janet, “I’ll just allow that I never was mair deceivit in my life.”
Eddy took his friend’s arm as they issued out from the shadow of the cottage. “Why didn’t you show fight?” he said, “you fool! You can act well enough when you like. Why didn’t you be civil and draw him out? He’d have done all the talk himself, and you’d have saved your character as a college fellow and a don.”
“There’s been enough of this nonsense,” said Johnson. “I tried it on with the lady the other day, and I put my foot into it. She didn’t believe I was a don, as you call it, any more—than any other person would. What was I to say to that old fool? I didn’t know what he was talking about. Look here, we must have some talk serious, none of your humbug. I have my orders as clear as daylight. If he can’t pay up—”