‘I would not have thought,’ said Miss Catherine, looking steadily at
young Stapylton, who had gone to pay her a visit, ‘that the farming over
the hill was worth so long study. They must be wearying for you at
home.’
‘There are more things than the farming,’ said Horace; ‘there is the
grouse, for instance, and it will soon be September. The folks at home
have to make up their mind to it. A man is not like a girl.’
‘The Lord forbid!’ said Miss Catherine, ‘or fathers and mothers would
have little comfort of their lives. I hope there’s a pleasant young
sister to keep them company at home.’
‘Oh, there are three girls, thank you,’ said young Stapylton,
carelessly, ‘they are jolly enough. It’s against my principles to be
always turning up at the Hall. What is the good of being young if one is
not to have a little freedom? I suppose I shall settle down some time
like my father. It’s very respectable and all that, but it’s not
amusing. Women never can understand a man. You think we should be tied
down to all the old cut-and-dry habits like yourselves.’
‘No,’ said Miss Catherine, ‘it is not to be expected we should
understand you. We are creatures of a lower class, as is well known. But
still you know the very dogs come to a kind of comprehension of their
masters. I would think the Hall and the neighbours you have known all
your days, and the hunting and such like, would have as many charms as
Mr. Lothian and the grouse. It’s but a poor sphere for you here.’
‘Well, I suppose so long as I am content, that is enough,’ said Horace,
with a feeling that he was being laughed at; and then he added, with an
attempt at sarcasm, ‘Besides there are a great many superior people
here; and this movement is very interesting to a student of human
nature, you know.’
‘And what does a student of human nature make of the movement?’ said
Miss Catherine, grimly, looking at the young fellow with her penetrating
grey eyes. He was not the blasé young man of the present day,
experienced in everything and weary of all. He was not sufficiently
polished for the soft sneer and universal derision now current among us,
but he was the first rough sketch of that accomplished personage; the
fashion had come in, or at least had reached to his level. But it was a
rough species of the art, and only good as an essay.
‘Well,’ said Horace, with a certain grandeur, an air which had often
imposed upon Isabel, who knew no better, ‘I suppose it is just one of
the ordinary religious swindles. But the simplicity of the people makes
it look better than usual, to begin with. And it is only beginning. One
can’t tell at first what follies such a business may fall into. The
woman is mad, I suppose; or else she has taken this way of thrusting
herself into notice. She is rather pretty, too. Somebody might be fool
enough to marry her, if she was taken up by the better class. As for the
men, I suppose they have some motive: ambition to be first among their
neighbours, or love of excitement, or something. It is like whisky; and
then it don’t lead to trouble as whisky does.’
Miss Catherine was much opposed to ‘the movement’ herself; but her soul
was moved within her by this speech.
‘Do you tell them your opinions as frankly at the Glebe?’ she said,
quietly; and her companion changed colour somewhat at the question.
‘Well, you know, the eldest girl is of the same way of thinking,’ he
said. ‘It is quite natural she should be. She is very ill, and she must
come to that, sooner or later: and then they all think it’s a chance for
her to get better. I don’t wonder, in the least, at Margaret. The
other--don’t know what to think,’ he added, with a little reluctance:
‘but, of course, one would not shock the feelings of two girls.’
‘That’s good of you,’ said Miss Catherine; ‘and I see the force of what
you say. Religion is what we must all come to, sooner or later. It’s a
very fine way of putting it, and shows a perception of character--But,
my young friend, is it right of you to turn your steps night after night
towards the Glebe? I am never at my west window in the evening, but I
see you with your face that way. They are gentlewomen by the mother’s
side, and no farther off than fifth cousins from the family at Ardallan:
but their father was only a trooper, and they have little siller. Would
your father be pleased with such a bride as Isabel for his heir? Not but
what she is fit for a duke,’ said Miss Catherine, warmly, once more
fixing her companion with her eye.
‘Bride?’ said the young man, blushing violently, and gazing at her,
surprised; and then, for the first time, his tone changed. ‘She is sweet
enough, and pretty enough, for a queen,’ he said; and then added--‘if
that were all!’ with a sigh.
‘Yes, but it is not all,’ said Miss Catherine, somewhat melted. ‘There
are many things to be taken into consideration. Old folk and young folk
have different notions; and unless your people know what you’re doing,
Mr. Horace, my advice would be that you should go no more to the Glebe.’
‘Oh, that’s all nonsense!’ said Horace, recovering himself. ‘Things have
not gone so far as that. Poor little thing! she wants some amusement;
her sister is always ill, and nobody with her but that woman. She is a
pretty little thing, and I like to talk to her; and so, it appears, does
she to me.’
‘And that is all?’ said Miss Catherine, with a return of the grimness to
her face.
‘That is all,’ said Horace, lightly, ‘we may chatter to each other I
hope now and then without going to the last extremity. I know what you
are going to say, that there is somebody else ready to step in, and that
I am standing in the way of her prospects.--Such prospects!--a man old
enough to be her father, with a humdrum Manse to offer her. She ought to
do better than that. In short, I am a defence to keep Mr. Lothian off,’
he added, with a laugh, which his high colour and the contraction of his
forehead belied. ‘Confound the old inquisitor!’ he was saying to
himself, ‘what has she to do with it--am I bound to tell her
everything?’ Miss Catherine’s looks grew blacker and blacker as she
listened.
‘You give a bonnie account of yourself,’ she said, ‘if you want nothing
but to chatter with her, how dare ye stand between her and an honest man
that loves her? When Margaret dies--and we all know that calamity cannot
be long averted--is it your will, for the sake of your amusement, that a
bonnie, tender creature should be left without friend or guide in the
world? Yes, I know what you think,’ said Miss Catherine, growing hot;
‘you think she’s so soft and sweet, that you can play as you please. But
mind what I say, you may go too far with Isabel; she is young, and
younger than she might be, but she is not of a light nature to be guided
by you. If you play her false, be it in one way, be it in another,
you’ll get your punishment. Now you have heard what I have to say, and
you can go on your own way, and take your own course, like all your
kind; but you’ve got warning of what will follow. And now, Mr. Horace
Stapylton,’ said Miss Catherine, rising and making him a stately
curtsey, ‘I am obliged to bid you good day.’
Horace started to his feet amazed beyond description by this dismissal.
‘I am shocked to have intruded upon you,’ he said, angrily; ‘I shall
take care never to repeat the infliction.’
‘That shall be as you please,’ said Miss Catherine, with another
curtsey, and the young man found himself with artful incaution to
Isabel, when despite all that had occurred, he succeeded in meeting her
‘by accident’ on the hill: ‘and all for your sake. You are getting out
of the room and out of the house almost before he recovered his
consciousness. ‘Old hag!’ he said to himself, ‘old Scotch cat!--venomous
old maid!’ as he walked down the avenue. But he was worsted
notwithstanding, and felt his defeat.
‘She turned me out of the house,’ he said, afterwards, ‘me into disgrace
with everybody. They upbraid me for following you, for taking up your
time, for keeping others away; and the folk at home write to ask if I am
never coming back. People look glum at me wherever I go for your sake,
and you will do nothing for me: I must say it is rather too bad.’
‘I would do anything for you,’ said Isabel. ‘I would not mind what all
the world might say. They might gloom at me, and welcome; what would I
care? anything but one thing, Horace--and that you know--you see--I
could not do.’
‘Which, of course, is the only thing I want,’ said the young man,
sullenly. ‘That is always the way with girls.’
‘And why should you want it so?’ said Isabel, eagerly. ‘We’re young, and
we can wait. If all your folk were ready and willing, could I leave my
Margaret? Horace, you know as well as I do she has been my comfort a’ my
days; there is not one like her far or near. If you think, as other folk
think, that Ailie is nearer God than our Margaret, oh, it shows how
little you know,’ cried Isabel, with the hot colour rushing over her
face; ‘and could I forsake her that has been like a mother to me? What
is love, if it’s like that?’
‘I don’t think you know what love means,’ said Horace: ‘it is to give up
all for one; it is to forsake father and mother--and your past life--and
your prospects, as people call them--and good sense and caution and
prudence, and all your Scotch qualities;--that is what love is, Isabel;
to think of nobody, and care for nobody, but one; to give all your
heart, and not a bit of it. I don’t ask you for a bit of it; I want you
all--every thought, every feeling. I want you to give up everybody and
come to me--to me!’ and here the young man opened his arms and turned to
her with a look of passion which startled the girl. She made a sudden
sidelong step beyond one of the great heather clumps before she
answered. The colour changed from red to pale on her face; but she kept
her eyes fixed on him, with a look of eagerness and wistfulness, trying
to penetrate beneath the surface and see his heart.
‘Horace,’ she said, softly, ‘you and me are different--a man and a girl
are different, I suppose. That is not what it is to me. It is something
that makes life better, and stronger, and sweeter. I’m fonder of
Margaret, I’m better to the bairns. Don’t turn away like that. It is
like wine,’ cried the girl, with light rising in her eyes; ‘it gives you
strength for all you have to do. You’re at your work, you’re minding
your house, you’re vexed and wearied and troubled--and lo, you give a
glance out of the window, and you see _him_ pass, and all your trouble
rolls away! That’s love to me. When you turn round and give me a smile,
it’s like wine,’ cried Isabel once more; ‘I feel it all about my
heart--I go back to my work, and something sings within me. I am neither
tired nor troubled more. That’s love to me! And the world’s bonnier and
the sky’s brighter,’ she went on faltering, ‘Oh, Horace, surely you know
what I mean?’
‘No, I don’t know what you mean,’ cried the young man, with a kind of
brutality. ‘I never understand your Scotch. If this is the sort of
figure I am to cut, making you devote yourself more to Margaret and the
bairns, as you call them, I had better take myself off, it would seem. A
fellow is not to lose the best days of his life for such a reward as
that.’
Isabel looked at him with but partial comprehension; her point of view
was more elevated than his, but yet it was limited, like his, to her own
side of the question. She looked at his clouded brow and averted face
with a woman’s first violent effort to enter into a state of feeling
which was the antipodes of her own. Slowly it dawned upon her that it
might be as just as her own though so different. She clasped her arms
round the slender white stem of a young birch-tree, and leant against
it, gazing at her lover with dreamy eyes.
‘Maybe it’s all true,’ she said, slowly, ‘both what I think and what you
think, Horace. It will break my heart, but I can bear it if that is
best. Go away into the world, and please your own folk--and I’ll wait
for you; I’ll wait all my life; I’ll wait years and years. Why should
you lose your best days for me? Oh, I see well it is neither just nor
right; and me that has so little to give! It’s a sin to keep you here,’
she continued, tears, unthought of, dropping from her eyes. ‘Loch
Diarmid comes natural to me, and folk forget--But go, Horace, and think
on me sometimes; and my heart will go with you; and if you should ever
come back you’ll find me waiting here.’
‘Isabel, this is all folly and nonsense,’ cried young Stapylton. ‘What
are you crying about? am I talking of going away? It is all very easy
to send a fellow off and make a fuss, or to keep him hanging on, and
kicking his heels among this confounded heather. Can’t you do what I
want you instead? it’s simple enough. What’s the good of living in
Scotland if you can’t get married how you please? If I were to go away I
might never come back. They’d keep fast hold of me at home, or they’d
pack me off somewhere out of reach; and you would change, and I might
change. Who can undertake what would happen? I don’t believe in comings
back. I should find you Mrs. Somebody or other with half a dozen----
Hallo, where are you going now?’
‘I’m going home,’ said Isabel, drying her tears indignantly. ‘It’s late,
and I cannot enter into such questions. I am not one to change; but, Mr.
Stapylton, if that’s your way of thinking it’s far best it should all
come to an end. I don’t want to be married. I will never leave my
sister. If you will have an answer yes or no, there’s your answer.
Never, never, if she should live a dozen years!--and God send she may
live a dozen years, and a dozen more to that!’ cried Isabel with a sob.
‘My Margaret, that never has a thought but for me! And to bid me run
away and shame the house, and break her heart--and to call it love!’
said the girl, with an outburst of tears.
She had come back to the birch and leant her pretty head upon the
graceful young tree, which waved its tender branches over her with a
curious sympathetic resemblance to her own drooping form, while her
lover drew near her slowly, his heart melting, though his temper was
still ruffled. He was going to her to take her in his arms, to whisper
his final arguments, to woo her with his breath on her cheek. At such a
moment it did not occur to the young man to look around him, to guard
against interruption; and, perhaps, in the soft twilight he could
scarcely have perceived the lonely personage who was winding with a
noiseless step among the heather, full of her own thoughts.
The dew was falling among the slender birches, and on the heather and
gorse--the wild gale underfoot filled the air with sweetness, and with
this soft perfume came the soft stir of silence, the breath of the great
quiet, which gave a musical tone to the atmosphere. The shadows were
falling over the loch and the hills; points of view that had been
visible one moment were invisible the next; and all at once, up in the
blue heavens, stars were revealing themselves, here and there one, like
lamps among the clouds. A night to tempt anyone to linger in the open
air, in the quiet, sweet, soft, darkling, humid twilight, full of the
silences and splendours of nature, and unawares moved by some brooding
of God. The other figure which, veiled by night, and by abstracting
thought, was wandering devious on those hills, thinking little of where
she went or whom she met, was in her way a better embodiment of the
sentiment of the night than were the agitated lovers. It was Ailie
Macfarlane come out to roam at eventide like Isaac. She had a shawl over
her head after the primitive fashion common to all nations, her head
veiled because of the angels. Sometimes she stumbled among the heather,
not remarking whither her foot strayed. The darkling world in which
those solemn hills stood up each folded in his twilight mantle, with
stars about his head and a forehead wet with dew, was full of God to the
inspired maiden. Her eyes were moist, like all the earth, with dew. Her
mind was full, not of thought but of a quiet consciousness. The poetry
that was love to Isabel was to Ailie, God. She was in His presence, His
great eyes were upon her, at any moment she might hear His voice calling
to her, as Adam heard it in the cool of the garden. As she strayed upon
the hills alone with that great trembling, thrilling Nature which was
conscious, too, of His presence, the Lord had strayed communing with His
Father. He had passed the whole night there, as His servant was not able
to do. He had gone down the darkling slopes and set his foot, unaware of
the restrictions of nature, upon the gleaming silvery waters below as
she could have done on the loch had her faith been but strong enough.
‘More faith! more faith!’ she murmured to herself as she went, ‘O Lord,
increase my faith.’ Her young soul was burning within her with the
cravings which Margaret Diarmid had divined; not soft submission to Him
that rules Heaven and earth, but eager anticipations, restless energy, a
heart full of passion. Joan of Arc might so have strayed on her southern
moors; though it was from the yoke of Satan that Ailie longed to deliver
her people--from wickedness, and disease, and misery. Why should not
she? Had not the Lord promised _whatsoever ye ask_? Had not He granted
to all eyes authentic wonders? Was His arm shortened that it could not
save? or was there anything wanted but faith, more faith?
The sound of voices roused her from her abstraction, first to a sudden
flush of annoyance, and then, as she perceived the two figures before
her, to a warm thrill of zeal for their conversion. ‘The Lord has
delivered them into my hand,’ the enthusiast said to herself. Their
backs were turned to her, and their minds so much occupied that even the
crackle of the heather under her foot did not betray her approach. She
was close by their side, laying a sudden hand upon the shoulder of each
before they were even aware of her presence.
‘What do ye here?’ said Ailie, rising as it seemed to them like a ghost
out of the darkness. The two sprang apart and gazed at the intruder, but
Ailie was too much absorbed by her office to heed their looks. ‘Isabel
Diarmid,’ she repeated with solemnity, ‘what do you here?’
‘I was doing nothing,’ said Isabel, startled back into self-possession:
‘I might say what were you doing coming upon folk like a ghost?’
‘If ye mean a spirit,’ said Ailie, ‘it’s like that I wish to come. What
is this poor body that we should let it thrall us? If I had faith I
might fly upon angel’s wings: but oh! I’m feared it was not to serve the
Lord that you two came here. Na, stand apart, and let me speak. Can ye
see a’ this world round about ye, and no feel that you’re immortal?
Isabel, the Lord would fain have ye to be His servant--and you too,
young man.’
‘Oh, Ailie, I’m no like you,’ murmured Isabel, awed out of her first
self-assertion. As for Stapylton, he turned away with contemptuous
impatience.
‘What does she know about it?’ he said. ‘Isabel, don’t you give in to
this rubbish. Nobody has any right to intrude upon another. Tell her to
mind her own business.’ This was said in a low tone. ‘Come, I’ll see you
home. It is getting late,’ he said, aloud.
‘Ah!’ said Ailie, ‘it’s getting late, awfu’ late. The blackness of the
night is coming on afore the awfu’ dawn. Think what it will be when you
canna go home, nor find a place to hide yourself in from the brightness
of His coming. Worldly wisdom would bid you join yourselves to Him now.
But I’m no thinking of worldly wisdom. To stand up for Him in a dark
world; to go forth like the angels, and make the way clear; to love and
to bless, and to give life for death. O Isabel! O young man! I would
rather that than Heaven.’
Ailie, with her young face gleaming white in the twilight, her nervous
arm raised, her abstracted, humid eyes gazing into the vacant darkness,
was a creature whose influence it was hard to be altogether indifferent
to. Stapylton, though he was capable of laughter at this exhibition ten
minutes after, was, at least, silenced for the moment. He looked at her
with that curious stupidity, in which the ordinary mind loses its
faculties at the sight of such incomprehensible poetic exaltation. But
Isabel, already excited, gazed upon the young prophetess with the big
tears still standing in her eyes, drawn by one emotion more closely
within the reach of another than she had yet been.
‘I am not standing against Him! Oh, Ailie, dinna think it! Not for the
world!’ she cried, dropping those two great tears; and Nature gave a
little gasp and sob within her. To go forth with God’s servants on this
austere road, or to wander with her love in the primrose paths. If there
was a choice to be made, could anyone doubt for a moment which would be
the right choice? But Isabel felt herself so different from this
inspired creature, so different even from Margaret, so much slighter,
younger, more trifling, fond of praise and admiration, and amusement;
not able to give her mind to it. And yet she was the same age as
Margaret, and very little younger than Ailie. ‘I am not like you,’ she
added, with an exquisite sense of her own imperfection, which brought
other tears from those same sources. And then the feminine impulse of
excuse came upon her: ‘We were meaning nothing,’ she said, hurriedly and
humbly. ‘I met Mr. Stapylton here on the hill. And it’s a bonnie night.
You were walking yourself, Ailie. And I’m going home. It was no harm.’
‘Oh, Isabel, ye never mind how you weary the Lord with your
contradictions,’ said the prophetess. ‘I canna see your heart like Him;
but do you think I canna see what’s moved ye? No the bonnie night, nor
the bonnie hill, nor His presence that’s brooding ower a’ the world; but
a lad that says he loves you, Isabel. There’s nae true love that’s no in
Christ. If he’s true, let him come to the Lord with ye this moment,
afore this blessed hour is gane. Eh, my heart’s troubled,’ she cried,
suddenly raising her arms; ‘my heart’s sore for you. If he comes not
now, when the Lord is holding wide the door, it’s that he’ll never come;
and then there is nothing for you but tribulation and sorrow, and
lamentation and woe!’
Her voice sank as suddenly as it had risen. She pressed her hands upon
her eyes, with what seemed, to the terrified Isabel, the gesture of one
who shuts out something terrible from her vision.
‘It is the spirit that’s upon her,’ Isabel murmured to herself,
shivering. ‘Oh, Ailie, dinna lay any curse on us, that never did you
harm!’
‘Curse!’ she said, so low that they could scarcely hear her. ‘It’s no
for me to curse. He had no curses in His mind, and wherefore should I?
It was a cloud that passed. Isabel, bring yon lad to God, bring him to
God! or he’ll bring you to misery, and trouble, and pain. I am saying
the truth. It’s borne in on me that he’ll bring you awfu’ trouble. But
if he comes to the Lord, ye’ll break Satan’s spell.’
Stapylton had turned aside in impatience, and heard nothing of this; but
now he came forward and laid his hand on Isabel’s arm.
‘Your sister will want you,’ he said, almost roughly; ‘it is getting
late, and this is not the place for a prayer-meeting; let me take you
home.’
‘Oh, Ailie, I must go home to my Margaret,’ said Isabel, clasping her
hands. Nature was contending, with natural awe and reverence, in the
girl’s mind. She did not reject the authority of the holy maid for one
moment--she was ready to yield to its power; but as soon as the
possibility of escape became visible to her, she seized it anxiously.
‘She’ll be waiting and watching for me; and you know how ill she is, and
I must not keep her anxious,’ pleaded Isabel; ‘but I’ll think upon all
you say.’
‘Aye, gang your ways, gang your ways,’ said Ailie, turning her back upon
them and dismissing them with a wave of her hand. ‘Put it off to a
convenient season; wait till you’re hardened in your worldly thoughts,
and the Lord has shut-to the door; but dinna come then and say, Give us
of your oil, for there will be nane to give in that day--nane to give!
The market’s open the noo, and plenty to fill your vessels; but in that
day there will be nane. Gang your ways to Margret, and tell her she’s
but a faint heart, that will lie down and die, when the Lord has that
need of her for His work. I’m no saying she’s not a child of God, but
she has a faint heart. Gang your ways.’
‘If you knew my Margaret better, ye would never dare to speak like
this,’ said Isabel, flushing into opposition. Stapylton drew her hand
into his arm, and led her away.
‘Come now,’ he said, ‘come while she has turned her head. I want no more
sermons for my part. Your sister is waiting, Isabel--come! this is too
much for me.’
Isabel suffered herself to be led across the heather, scarcely aware, in
her excitement, of the close pressure with which her lover held her
hand. She was angry for Margaret’s sake. ‘Nobody understands,’ she
murmured to herself. ‘Nobody knows what they’re saying. Her to be blamed
that is the flower of all!’ and turned her head, notwithstanding
Stapylton’s opposition, to maintain her sister’s cause against her
rival. But Ailie had turned away. She was going back, moving slowly
among the heather, with her head bent and her eyes cast down, dreaming
after her fashion, though not dreams like those of Isabel. Ailie was
thinking--with much confusion of images and vagueness of apprehension,
but with the exalted glow of ascetic passion--of the love of God. Poor
Isabel was trembling with all the complications, the duties, and desires
going contradictory to each other which adhere to the love of man.
‘I suppose she must be mad,’ said Stapylton; ‘nothing but madness could
account for it. That is what comes of prayer-meetings and such stuff. Or
if she’s not mad, she’s cunning and likes the power.’
‘And how do you think you can judge?’ cried Isabel, turning upon him
with the ready irritation of excitement,--‘you that know nothing of
Ailie, nor of her way of living. If you were healed all in a moment and
raised out of your bed, who would you believe did it but God? and could
you stop to think and consider the question if you were mad or not,
before you spoke. Let them judge that know!’
‘Never mind,’ said the young man, caressing the hand he held, ‘you
little fury! I don’t know and I don’t care; but you never thanked me for
reminding you of your sister, and freeing you from that mad creature.
Now she is gone there is no hurry, Isabel. It is not late, after all.’
‘But Margaret will want me,’ said the girl. ‘No; I’ll not wait, I must
go home.’
‘Only half an hour,’ he pleaded; ‘she is gone, and we have all the
hill-side to ourselves.’
Isabel made no answer, but she drew her hand from his arm, and continued
on her way, quickening rather than delaying her progress. He walked by
her for some time, sullen and lowering. He had no comprehension of the
high spirit of the girl, though he loved her. After a while he drew
closer to her side, and laid his hand on her arm.
‘You must do as I said, my darling, now,’ he said, with real fervour.
‘She is going back to her meeting, and it will be all over the parish
to-morrow, that you and I were courting on the hill.’
This was the drop too much that made Isabel’s cup run over. She turned
upon him with eyes that flashed through her tears. ‘Do you reproach me
with it?’ she cried--‘you I did it for? Oh, if I had known! But, Mr.
Stapylton, it shall be the last time.’
‘Don’t turn my words against me,’ he said, ‘don’t be so peevish, so
foolish, Isabel! as if it was that I meant.’
‘No, I’ll not be foolish,’ she answered, in her heat, ‘nor think shame
of myself for any lad. After this ye may be sure, Mr. Stapylton, I’ll
never do it again.’
And then she hastened down, increasing her speed at every step, and
taking no time to think. And he went sullenly by her side, not quite
sure whether he loved or hated her most in her perversity. And they
parted with a curt, resentful good night at the very door of the Glebe
Cottage, he being too angry and she too proud to linger over the
parting. It was a parting which all the world might have witnessed. And
Isabel returned to her quiet home, and Horace proceeded on to the
village, each with the blaze of a lover’s quarrel quivering about them.
Such flames are too hot and sudden to last; but nothing had yet done so
much to separate them as had this unexpected meeting with Ailie on the
hill.