Steamboats were novel luxuries in those days; but the West of Scotland
was in the van of such improvements, and Loch Diarmid had secured for
itself one of the earliest of those little fussy agents of civilisation
and trade. The steamboat fretted its silvery bosom daily, opening up the
world to the hill folk, to whom, in former days, the means of descent to
the ordinary level of humanity were difficult. The steamboat fussed its
little way from point to point, touching at the little piers on each
side of the Loch, and at less populous corners approached by boats, the
universal means of communication throughout the district. The Lochhead
was its terminus and starting-point, and the little party from the House
were installed in the best places and received with that rustic Scotch
courtesy which, though not deferential, is so cordial and friendly. Thus
they went gliding along, alive to all the interests around them, when
the steamer slackened its course opposite Brandon and waited for the
ferry-boat. The ladies did not take much notice of the ferry-boat. Their
attention was fully fixed on Ardnamore. It was a homely, old-fashioned,
whitewashed house, standing high on the brae, with a steep green slope
surrounded by trees, cleared in front of it, and the white walls
nestling into the darker heather of the summit above. The gable window
was in a projecting wing, and all the rest of the house was still
closed, which made it more remarkable still to see a human figure there.
‘Can they have come home?’ said Miss Catherine.
‘Oh, no--never that,’ said Isabel; ‘perhaps it is only the housekeeper.
She might be putting the house in order for the fine weather.’
‘Or they may have had sense enough to let it, if they cannot take the
good of it,’ said Miss Catherine; ‘it is a good house. There are--let me
see--five, six, nine bedrooms, if I mind rightly; two in that wing, and
one on the ground-floor, and the rest at the back, looking out on the
hill. And the drawing-room is a pretty room, painted in panels, and all
the length of the house. Oh me--if Magdalene Diarmid could have lived to
see her only son wandering about the world as he is doing----’
‘But that is better than what went before,’ said Isabel. Her eyes had
been fixed on the house, which already began to grow dim in the
distance, as the steamer continued its course. And then she turned her
head, with a little natural sigh, thinking of Ailie and all that had
happened since the two prophets disappeared into the world. She turned
round, thinking of nothing beyond that limited local circle, and,
raising her calm eyes suddenly, all at once encountered another pair,
which were gazing at her. She started so that it seemed to her the very
vessel staggered and thrilled, and gave a low suppressed cry. For the
moment ‘all that had happened,’ and even the child she held in her arms,
grew into a mist round Isabel. The eyes she had so suddenly looked up
into unawares, and which were gazing upon her with extraordinary
intensity, were those of the man she had once loved. Stapylton, from
whom she was, without knowing it, flying, stood within half a dozen
paces of her, on the narrow deck.
Miss Catherine heard the cry, low as it was, and felt the start with
which her companion made this discovery; and turning round, saw, with
feelings indescribable, the man from whose very shadow she was escaping,
standing by her, taking off his hat, and claiming recognition as an
acquaintance. She grew pale, and then crimson, with consternation and
excitement, and in that awful moment ran over all the possibilities in
her mind. Should she land at the next landing-place, thus betraying her
motives to Isabel, and proceed on their journey by some other route?
Should she turn back and go home, now the dreaded meeting had been
accomplished? Should she admit the claims of civility, or refuse to know
him altogether? But Isabel was a free agent. She was not indifferent to
the sight of him. Her start had been sufficiently evident to attract the
attention of any bystander. He must have seen it himself, so near as he
was, and with all his attention fixed upon them. Therefore, if it were
but to shield Isabel, Miss Catherine felt that civility was her only
policy. It cost her an effort to bow her proud old head in answer to his
salutation; but she did it, taking the conversation and all the burdens
of politeness upon herself.
‘It is something quite unexpected seeing you,’ she said, ‘Mr. Stapylton;
are you here on a visit, or have you come to stay?’
‘I am going away,’ he said, half-indicating with his hand a little pile
of luggage. Miss Catherine ventured to take breath. If that were all,
things might not turn out so badly; and she felt able to note his looks,
and the changes that time had wrought in him. The first thing she
observed was, that he was intensely pale, and that he looked at Isabel,
in her mourning-dress, with a trembling about the muscles of his mouth,
and nervous movement of his hands, which betrayed some very strong
feeling. Why should he be moved like that to see her, after abandoning
her, leaving her to be wooed by the minister, showing no sign of
recollection for all these years? And yet the indications of feeling
about him were too marked to be unreal; and Miss Catherine, hard as she
felt it her duty to be, could not but feel a certain womanish compassion
for him in her heart.
‘You can have made but a short stay, since we have heard nothing of
you,’ she said; ‘you were at Archie Smeaton’s, I suppose, over the
hill.’
‘For some little time,’ he said, ‘and I heard from him,’ lowering his
voice, with a glance at Isabel, who had betrayed her recollection of him
only by a slight movement of her head--‘of many things which grieved me
much.’
Was this the old flippant, arrogant, unsympathetic ‘English lad?’ He had
grown much thinner Miss Catherine decided, looking at him. His voice was
subdued; the very lines of his face refined and altered. His aspect,
long ago, had been that of a somewhat surly, self-sufficient youth,
careless of what anybody thought of him, ready to meet reproval half
way; now everything seemed softened, toned down, and improved. Yes,
improved. She could not deny it to herself.
‘Yes,’ she said, hastily, ‘there have been changes; but no doubt you
would hear of the chief of them at the time they happened. We will not
go over an old story. You have been in distress yourself, if I am to
judge by your dress.’
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘my father is dead; but he lingered long after the time
I left the Loch so hurriedly. I was kept in close attendance upon him
for nearly a year. He had a tedious illness. But for that I should have
returned sooner; and, I am sorry to say,’ he added, ‘my position is not
quite so good as I had hoped.’
When he paused, inviting sympathy, Miss Catherine found herself obliged
to show some sign of interest. Isabel had not spoken. She was busy with
the baby, whispering to it, encouraging its play with old Marion, the
maid, who had come to her other side, with a perfect understanding of
the position, ‘to take off her attention.’ But yet Isabel had betrayed
that his affairs were not indifferent to her. At this point she raised
her brown eyes to him with a questioning look, much more significant
than words. It asked, more plainly than her lips could have done, what
it was, and all about it? And then the eyes sank confused--becoming
conscious. All this pantomime Miss Catherine saw and noted with an ache
in her heart.
‘I have been in America this last year, looking about,’ he said. ‘I am
cut off, if not with a shilling, still with a very poor remnant of what
I ought to have had. What with my mother and sisters, and all the
rest--but I cannot expect you to be interested in this,’ he added,
looking at her pointedly, and then at Isabel.
‘I am sorry you’ve been disappointed,’ said Miss Catherine. ‘I hope you
have good prospects now.’
He shrugged his shoulders and then he stretched out his hand for one of
the folding-stools which stood about the deck, and sat down in front of
the little party, commanding it. ‘I am thinking of settling in America,’
he said.
‘I have heard it is a very fine thing to do,’ Miss Catherine answered
with alacrity, ‘for a young man.’
And then there was a pause--Isabel did not even look up this time; but
her absorbed face as she arranged her child’s dress, the nervous twitch
of her fingers, her apparent blank of inattention, told their own tale
to the anxious observer at her elbow. Did he observe it too? He did not
seem to look at Isabel, but--‘it cannot be for me he is coming so close,
and staying so long,’ Miss Catherine said to herself.
‘I had thought of Scotland once,’ he said; ‘I have let my own place; no
chance of keeping that up at present--and if I could hear of a good
farm----’
‘Dear me, I would think that was a poor business for the like of you,’
said Miss Catherine: ‘farming makes no fortunes nowadays. For a young
active man, with no encumbrance, I would say America was the thing.’
‘I suppose it is,’ he said, with a little sigh; and looked at Isabel
with eyes that were almost wistful. She took no notice of him. She
behaved in every respect as Miss Catherine would have had her behave,
had she instructed her previously in the matter, holding up little
Margaret to old Marion, taking share in the play, and when that was no
longer necessary, giving her attention to her baby’s dress, keeping her
eyes and hands and mind occupied. Just as she ought to have behaved, but
yet, in the very perfection of this conduct, there was something which
alarmed her guardian. The calmness was too elaborate, the composure too
carefully put on; after the first start too, and anxious look of her
appealing eyes.
But it was clear there was nothing more to be made of this. He pushed
his seat away from them a little as if owning himself discomfited. ‘And
you are going away?’ he said.
‘Only for a day or so--only--not for long I mean--to pay a visit,’ said
Miss Catherine, feeling the warfare carried into her own country; and
then there was another embarrassed pause. ‘You will excuse us, I am
sure, Mr. Stapylton,’ she went on taking courage. ‘But you see Mrs.
Lothian has scarcely gone at all into society--I mean has seen nobody
since. And you will perceive that here in public, with all these folk
about, and seeing any stranger for the first time----’
‘I understand,’ said Stapylton. The sound of the name, _Mrs. Lothian_,
had given him evidently a painful thrill. He rose to his feet when he
heard it, and grew once more quite pale. Mrs. Lothian! He took off his
hat and withdrew with a delicacy of feeling for which she had not given
him credit. Was it possible that she could have done Stapylton injustice
after all?
And he kept apart as long as they remained together in the steamer. When
they were landing at Maryburgh he did indeed approach for an instant to
make himself of use to them, but without a word or look, so far as she
was aware, which a saint could have censured. She did not hear, it is
true, the five words which somehow dropped into Isabel’s ear when she
found herself standing dizzy and agitated on the pier, ‘I shall see you
again;’ that was all. But Miss Catherine did not hear them, or perhaps
she would have been less softened in respect to Stapylton, and less
satisfied that he was finally got rid of, and to be seen no more.
Isabel was a perplexity to her friend for all the rest of the journey.
Instead of the cheerful stir there had been about her when she started,
she had fallen back upon herself. Her eyes looked heavy, a _sourd_
excitement seemed to hang about her, which her anxious companion could
not explain. It was not the natural thrill of recollection which might
have moved a young woman under such circumstances, she thought, but a
certain suppressed painful tumult of mind to which Miss Catherine had no
clue. But for one thing, she was more absorbed than ever, if that were
possible, in her baby. She scarcely spoke, except to little Margaret, to
whom she pointed out everything, as if the child could understand her,
fidgeting about her dress, fastening and unfastening the wraps round
her, inventing a hundred little occupations to fix her attention to her
child. She would not allow Marion, who had been looking forward to the
delight of assuming the management of the baby, to touch her, but left
Miss Catherine at once on their arrival to put little Margaret to bed.
‘Marion will do that; the bairn knows her,’ said Miss Catherine, but
Isabel only shook her head. ‘No, I cannot part with my baby,’ she said,
and went away burying herself with the child in her own room, where,
after a long interval, she was found hugging it in her arms, having as
yet made no progress in its toilette. Then Miss Catherine began to get
alarmed.
‘My dear,’ she said, ‘the tea is waiting. I came to look at her in her
bed, the darling! You’re thinking of the time we were here before,
Isabel; but you must not give way to your feelings, and such a treasure
in your arms. You must think of the bairn.’
‘And so I do think of her,’ cried Isabel, straining the child so
passionately to her breast that little Margaret, unused to such
violence, began to whimper with fright, and put out her baby arms to
Miss Catherine. Then Isabel’s excitement broke forth in weeping. She
almost thrust the child into Miss Catherine’s arms, and covered her face
with her hands. ‘_She_ turns from me too,’ she cried, with floods of
sudden burning tears. And little Margaret, half for sympathy, out of an
infant’s strange forlorn consciousness of something unusual in the air,
cried too, and the scene altogether became so painful that Miss
Catherine lost heart.
‘I cannot understand you, Isabel,’ she said. ‘There are no memories here
to make you heart-broken like this, and nobody is turning from you that
I know of. I have come away with you myself, though I’ve plenty to do at
home. And there is not one of your friends but would make a sacrifice to
see you happy. What is the matter? You have always been happy with your
baby. Why should you change now?’
‘I have not changed.’ said Isabel, under her breath.
‘I hope not, my dear,’ said Miss Catherine, giving back the child into
her arms. ‘I suppose it is coming out into the world for the first time,
and seeing--strangers; and coming to a new place. I would not wonder,
for my part; but you have ay been so good, and so reasonable and
patient--since _she_ came.’
‘And so I shall be,’ said Isabel, hastily drying her eyes; ‘as long as
she is well, oh, what can harm me? I want nothing but my lamb.’ And then
she began, with a thousand caresses, to undress the little weary
creature, kissing its round limbs and dimples with a kind of passion.
Miss Catherine sat looking on somewhat grimly, not understanding this
outbreak of feeling more than the other, but unable in any way to
connect either Isabel’s tears or her demonstrations of maternal
adoration with that unlucky encounter in the boat. She did not
understand, and she could not sympathise, but sat looking on with that
grim air of observation and criticism which winds an excited mind up to
almost delirium. Isabel finished her task under those severe, yet
kindly eyes, growing more and more agitated and nervous. She was in the
state so common to women, when tears are the only practicable utterance.
Tears, meaningless words in Margaret’s ear, who could soothe but not
understand, and such quietness as she might have had in her own house,
would have composed her after the shock she had received; but Miss
Catherine’s steady presence, restraining the tears and compelling a
certain amount of external self-control, prolonged the inward pain, and
the evening passed like a painful dream.
‘It cannot be the recollections of the place,’ said Miss Catherine to
her maid, when Isabel had escaped to her room, ‘for I cannot recollect
that the poor minister was ever here; and it cannot be any fright about
the bairn. There’s neither measles nor whooping-cough that we know of in
this place.’
‘And neither was there at home,’ said Marion. ‘Oh, mem, it’s no for me
to be the judge--but it’s like flying in the very face of Providence and
tempting God.’
‘I was not asking your advice on the subject,’ said Miss Catherine,
sharply. She was not, indeed, in the way of asking anyone’s advice. But
anger towards her old maid was impossible, and the next moment she had
again begun to discuss the troublesome matter, talking not so much with
Marion as aloud with herself.
‘It’s near a year now,’ she said; ‘poor thing! it would have been hard
for her to have been at that quiet Glebe with nothing to take off her
thoughts the very time it happened. The change will make it pass easier;
the measles and the rest was but an excuse to get her away.’
‘And do you think, mem, she was that fond of the minister?’ said Marion,
with respectful scepticism.
‘She was his wife, woman.’ said her mistress, indignantly; what would
you have more?’
‘But, ah, far more like his daughter,’ said Marion. ‘Nae doubt it was an
awfu’ end; but when it’s no just heart’s love---- Do ye think there
could be onything in the meeting with yon young English lad to-day?’
‘What do you mean by anything?’ said Miss Catherine, sharply.
‘Eh, I wasna setting up my ain puir judgment; but I thought you looked a
wee anxious yourself. And as for Mrs. Lothian, poor lassie, she was
shaking like an aspen leaf----’
‘Marion, I request you’ll speak no more such nonsense to me,’ said Miss
Catherine, with indignation. ‘What is he to her, think ye?--a stranger
that has not been seen in the parish for three or four years?’
‘And that’s true, Miss Catherine,’ said Marion, with a cough expressive
of much doubt and general uncertainty. Her mistress lost her temper, and
immediately fell upon Marion, not on this subject, but on some other
totally unconnected with it; but the experienced handmaiden was in
little doubt as to the real occasion of her wrath. ‘As if I didna ken
the Captain’s Isabel cared more for that lad’s little finger than for
the minister and a’ he could do for her!’ she said to herself, as she
retired to her rest.