MARGET HOWE'S CONFESSIONAL.
When the General and Kate were loitering over breakfast the morning
after the ovation, they heard the sound of a horse's feet on the
gravel, and Donald came in with more his usual importance.
"It iss a messenger from Muirtown Castle, and he iss waiting to know
whether there will be any answer." And Donald put one letter before
the father and another before the daughter, both showing the Hay crest.
Kate's face whitened as she recognised the handwriting on her envelope,
and she went over to the window seat of a turret in the corner of the
room, while the General opened his letter, standing on a tiger-skin,
with his back to the fireplace in the great hall. This is what he read:
MY DEAR CARNEGIE,--When men have fought together in the trenches before
Sebastopol, as their ancestors have ridden side by side with Prince
Charlie, I hope you will agree with me they need not stand on ceremony.
If I seem guilty of any indiscretion in what I am going to say, then
you will pardon me for "Auld Lang Syne."
You have one daughter and I have one son, and so I do not need to tell
you that he is very dear to me, and that I have often thought of his
marriage, on which not only his own happiness so much depends, but also
the future of our house and name. Very likely you have had some such
thoughts about Kate, with this difference, that you would rather keep
so winsome a girl with you, while I want even so good a son as Hay to
be married whenever he can meet with one whom he loves, and who is
worthy of him.
Hay never gave me an hour's anxiety, and has no entanglements of any
kind, but on the subject of marriage I could make no impression. "Time
enough," he would say, or "The other person has not turned up," and I
was getting uneasy, for you and I are not so young as once we were.
You may fancy my satisfaction, therefore, when George came down from
Drumtochty last August and told me he had found the "other person," and
that she was my old friend Jack Carnegie's daughter. Of course I urged
him to make sure of himself, but now he has had ample opportunities
during your two visits, and he is quite determined that his wife is to
be Kate or nobody.
It goes without saying that the Countess and I heartily approve Hay's
choice and are charmed with Kate, who is as bonnie as she is
high-spirited. She sustains the old traditions of her family, who were
ever strong and true, and she has a clever tongue, which neither you
nor I have, Jack, nor Hay either, good fellow though he be, and that is
not a bad thing for a woman nowadays. They would make a handsome pair,
as they ought, with such good-looking fathers, eh?
Well, I am coming to my point, for in those circumstances I want your
help. What Miss Carnegie thinks of Hay we don't know, and unless I 'm
much mistaken she will decide for herself, but is it too much to ask
you--if you can--to say a word for him? You are quite right to think
that no man is worthy of Kate, but she is bound to marry some day--I
can't conceive how you have kept her so long--and I am certain Hay will
make a good husband, and he is simply devoted to her. If she refuses
him, I am afraid he will not marry, and then--well, grant I'm selfish,
but it would be a calamity to us.
Don't you think that it looks like an arrangement of Providence to
unite two families that have shared common dangers and common faith in
the past, and to establish a Carnegie once more as lady of Drumtochty?
Now that is all, and it's a long screed, but the matter lies near my
heart, and we shall wait the answers from you both with anxiety.
Yours faithfully,
KILSPINDIE.
Kate's letter was much shorter, and was written in big schoolboy hand
with great care.
DEAR MISS CARNEGIE,--They say that a woman always knows when a man
loves her, and if so you will not be astonished at this letter. From
that day I saw you in Drumtochty Kirk I have loved you, and every week
I love you more. My mother is the only other woman I have ever cared
for, and that is different. Will you be my wife? I often wanted to
ask you when you were with us in November and last month, but my heart
failed me. Can you love me a little, enough to say yes? I am not
clever, and I am afraid I shall never do anything to make you proud of
me, but you will have all my heart, and I 'll do my best to make you
happy.
I am, yours very sincerely,
HAY.
Carnegie could see Kate's face from his place, who was looking out of
the window with a kindly expression, and her father, who was of a
simple mind, and knew little of women, was encouraged by such visible
friendliness. He was about to go over, when her face changed. She
dropped the letter on the seat, and became very thoughtful, knitting
her brows and resting her chin on her hand. In a little, something
stung her--like a person recalling an injury--and she flushed with
anger, drumming with her fingers on the sill of the window. Then anger
gave place to sadness, as if she had resolved to do something that was
inevitable, but less than the best. Kate glanced in her father's
direction, and read Lord Hay's letter again; then she seemed to have
made up her mind.
"Father," as she joined him on the skin beneath those loyal Carnegies
on the wall, "there is Lord Hay's letter, and he is a . . . worthy
gentleman. Perhaps I did not give him so much encouragement as he
took, but that does not matter. This is a . . . serious decision, and
ought not to be made on the spur of the moment. Will you let the
messenger go with a note to say that an answer will be sent on Monday?
You might write to Lord Kilspindie."
She was still standing in the place when he returned, and had been
studying the proud, determined face of Black John's mother, who had not
spared her only son for the good cause.
"Did you ever hear of any Carnegie, dad, who married beneath her,
or . . . loved one on the other side?"
"Never," said her father. "Our women all married into loyal families
of their own rank, which is best for comfort; but why do you ask? Hay
is a . . ."
"Yes, I know; it was only . . . curiosity made me ask, and I suppose
some of our women must have made sacrifices for their . . . cause?"
"Far more than the men ever did, for, see you, a man is just shot, and
all is over, and before he falls he 's had some good fighting, but his
wife suffers all her days, when he is living and when he is dead. Yet
our women were the first to send their men to the field. Heavens! what
women do suffer--they ought to have their reward."
"They have," said Kate, with emphasis, "if they help those whom they
love. . . . Father, would you be quite satisfied with Lord Hay for a
son-in-law, and . . . would you let us live with you here as much as we
could?"
"Kate, if you are to marry--and I knew it must come some day--I have
not seen a more honest man; but you are forgetting that Tochty Lodge
will soon be out of our hands; I 'll have to get a bungalow somewhere,
not too far away from Muirtown, I hope."
"If I marry Lord Hay, Tochty Lodge will not be sold, and you will never
be disturbed, dad. We shall not be separated more than we can help,"
and Kate caressed the General.
"Do you mean, lassie," said the General, with a sudden suspicion,
lilting her face till he saw her eyes, "that you are going to accept
Hay in order to keep the old home? You must not do this, for it would
not . . . don't you see that I . . . could not accept this at your
hands?"
"You cannot prevent your daughter marrying Lord Hay if your daughter so
decides, but as yet she is in doubt, very great doubt, and so I am
going for a long walk on the big moor, and you . . . well, why not take
lunch with the Padre at the manse?"
"Hay is a straight young fellow, and Kate would supply what he wants--a
dash of go, you know"--so the General was summing up the situation to
his old friend; "but my girl is not to marry Hay or any other man for
my sake, and that is what she thinks of doing."
"Did it ever occur to you, Carnegie, that Kate had a . . . well, kindly
feeling for any other man?"
"Plenty of fellows tried their luck: first subalterns, then
aides-de-camp, and at last commissioners; it was no easy affair to be
her father," and Carnegie gave Davidson a comic look. "I used to scold
her, but upon my word I don't know she was to blame, and I am certain
she did not care for one of them; in fact, she laughed at them all
till--well, in fact, I had to interfere."
"And since you came to the Lodge"--the Doctor spoke with
meaning--"besides Lord Hay?"
"Why, there is just yourself"--the Doctor nodded with much
appreciation--"and that Free Kirkman. . . . Davidson, do you mean
that--oh, nonsense, man; she was quite angry one day when I suggested a
parson. Kate has always said that was the last man she would marry."
"That is an evidence she will."
The General stared at the oracle, and went on:
"She has made his life miserable at the Lodge with her tongue; she
delighted in teasing him. Your idea is quite absurd."
"Carnegie, did you ever hear the classical couplet--
"Scarting and biting
Mak Scots fouk's 'ooing;"
and although I admit the description applies in the first instance to
milkmaids, yet there is a fair share of national character in the
Carnegies."
"Do you really think that Kate is in . . . has, well, a, eh, tenderness
to Carmichael? it would never have occurred to me."
"How would you look on Carmichael as a suitor?"
"Well, if Kate is to marry--and mind you I always prepared myself for
that--I would of course prefer Hay, not because he is a lord, or rich,
or any snobbery of that kind--you know me better than that, Sandie--but
because he 's . . . you know . . . belongs to our own set.
"Don't you think there is something in that?" and the General tried to
explain his honest mind, in which lived no unworthy or uncharitable
thought. "I have not one word to say against Carmichael; he 's
good-looking, and monstrous clever, and he has always made himself very
agreeable, very, and the people swear by him in the Glen; but . . . you
must understand what I mean, Davidson," and the General was in despair.
"You mean that though he 's a first-rate young fellow for a clergyman,
he does not belong to your world--has a different set of friends, has
different habits of living, has a different way of thinking and
speaking--is, in fact, an outsider."
"That's it--just what I was 'ettling' after--lucky fellows we Scots
with such words," and the General was immensely delighted to be
delivered of his idea in an inoffensive form.
"It is my own belief, Carnegie--and you can laugh at me afterwards if I
be wrong--that this will be the end of it, however. Yes, putting it
plainly, that Kate is in love with Carmichael, as he is certainly with
her; and you will have to make the best of the situation."
"You don't like the idea any more than I do, Davidson?"
"Speaking in perfect confidence and frankness, I do not. I look at the
matter this way"--the Doctor stood on the hearth-rug in a judicial
attitude, pulling down his waistcoat with his two hands, his legs
apart, and his eye-glass on his nose--"Carmichael has been brought up
among . . . plain, respectable people, and theological books, and
church courts, and Free Kirk society, all of which is excellent,
but . . . secluded"--the Doctor liked the word, which gave his mind
without offence--"secluded. Kate is a Carnegie, was educated in
France, has travelled in India, and has lived in the most exciting
circumstances. She loves soldiers, war, gaiety, sport, besides many
other . . . eh, good things, and is a . . . lovely girl. Love laughs
at rules, but if you ask me my candid opinion, the marriage would not
be . . . in fact, congruous. If it is to be, it must be, and God bless
them both, say I, and so will everybody say; but it will be an
experiment, a distinct and . . . interesting experiment."
"Kate is not to marry any one for my sake, to save Tochty, but I do
wish she had fancied Lord Hay," said the General, ruefully.
"The Free Kirk folk in the depths of their hearts consider me a worldly
old clergyman, and perhaps I am, for, Jack, I would dearly like to see
our Kate Viscountess Hay, and to think that one day, when we three old
fellows are gone, she would be Countess of Kilspindie." That was the
first conference of the day on Kate's love affairs, and this is how it
ended.
Meanwhile the young woman herself had gone up the road to the high Glen
and made her way over dykes and through fields to Whinny Knowe, which
she had often visited since the August Sacrament. Whinny came out from
the kitchen door in corduroy trousers, much stained with soil, and grey
shirt--wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after a hearty
dinner--and went to the barn for his midday sleep before he went again
to the sowing. Marget met her at the garden gate, dressed in her
week-day clothes and fresh from a morning's churning, but ever refined
and spiritual, as one whose soul is shining through the veil of common
circumstances.
"It's a benison tae see ye on this bricht day, Miss Carnegie, an' ye
'll come tae the garden-seat, for the spring flooers are bloomin'
bonnie and sweet the noo, an' fillin' 's a' wi' hope.
"Gin there be ony sun shinin'," as she spread a plaid, "the heat fa's
here, an' save when the snow is heavy on the Glen, there 's aye some
blossoms here tae mind us o' oor Father's love an' the world that isna
seen."
"Marget," began Kate, not with a blush, but rather a richening of
colour, "you have been awfully good to me, and have helped me in lots
of ways, far more than you could dream of. Do you know you 've made me
almost good at times, with just enough badness to keep me still myself,
as when I flounced out from the Free Kirk."
[Illustration: "You have been awfully good to me."]
Marget only smiled deprecation and affection, for her heart went out to
this motherless, undisciplined girl, whom she respected, like a true
Scot, because, although Kate had made her a friend, she was still a
Carnegie; whom she loved, because, although Kate might be very
provoking, she was honest to the core.
"To-day," Kate resumed, after a pause, and speaking with an unusual
nervousness, "I want your advice on a serious matter, which I must
decide, and which . . . concerns other people as well as myself. In
fact, I would like to ask a question," and she paused to frame her case.
It was a just testimony to Marget Howe that Kate never thought of
pledging her to secrecy, for there are people whom to suspect of
dishonour is a sin.
"Suppose that a man . . . loved a woman, and that he was honourable,
brave, gentle, true, in fact . . . a gentleman, and made her a proposal
of marriage."
Marget was looking before her with calm, attentive face, never once
glancing at Kate to supplement what was told.
"If . . . the girl accepted him, she would have a high position, and be
rich, so that she could . . . save her . . . family from ruin, and
keep . . . them in the house they loved."
Marget listened with earnest intelligence.
"She respects this man, and is grateful to him. She is certain that he
would be . . . kind to her, and give her everything she wanted. And
she thinks that he . . . would be happy."
Marget waited for the end.
"But she does not love him--that is all."
As the tale was being told in, brief, clear, slow sentences, Marget's
eyes became luminous, and her lips opened as one ready to speak from an
inner knowledge.
"Ye hev let me see a piece o' life, an' it is sacred, for naethin' on
earth is sae near God as luve, an' a 'll no deny that ma woman's heart
is wi' that honest gentleman, an' a' the mair gin he dinna win his
prize.
"But a man often comes tae his heicht through disappointment, and a
woman, she hes tae learn that there is that which she hes the richt tae
give for gratitude or friendship's sake, and that which can only be
bestowed by the hand o' luve.
"It will maybe help ye gin a' tell ye anither tale, an' though it be o'
humble life, yet oor hearts are the same in the castle and the cottar's
hoose, wi' the same cup o' sorrow tae drink an' the same croon o' joy
tae wear, an' the same dividin' o' roads for oor trial.
"There wes a man showed a wumman muckle kindness, and to her fouk also,
an' he wes simple an' honest, an' for what he hed done an' because
there wes nae evil in him she married him."
"And what has happened?" Kate, being half Highland, had less patience
than Marget.
"He hes been a gude man tae her through the dark an' through the licht,
an' she hes tried tae repay him as a puir imperfect wumman can, an' her
hert is warm to him, but there hes aye been ae thing wantin'--an' it
hes been that wife's cross a' her life--there wes nae ither man, but
her husband wesna, isna, canna be her ain a'thegither an' for ever--for
the want o' luve--that luve o' luve that maks marriage."
Her voice was laden with feeling, and it was plain that she had given
of her own and deepest for the guiding of another.
"Marget, I can never be grateful enough to you for what you have shown
me this day." As she passed Whinny with his bag of seed, he apologised
for his wife.
"A 'm dootin', Miss Carnegie, the gude-wife hes keepit ye ower lang in
the gairden haiverin' awa' aboot the flooers an' her ither trokes. But
she 's michty prood for a' that aboot yir comin' up tae veesit us."
Such was the second conference on Kate's affairs on that day.
No place could be more thoroughly cleansed from vulgar curiosity than
our Glen, or have a finer contempt for "clatters," but the atmosphere
was electrical in the diffusion of information. What happened at
Burnbrae was known at the foot of Glen Urtach by evening, and the visit
of spiritual consolation which Milton, in the days of his Pharisaism,
paid to Jamie Soutar on his deathbed was the joy of every fireside in
Drumtochty within twenty-four hours. Perhaps it was not, therefore,
remarkable that the arrival of Lord Kilspindie's groom at Tochty Lodge
post haste with two letters on Saturday morning--one for the General
from his Lordship, and one from his son for Miss Kate--should have been
rightly interpreted, and the news spread with such rapidity that
Hillocks--a man not distinguished above his fellows for tact--was able
to inform Carmichael in the early afternoon that the marriage between
the young lord and the "Miss" at Tochty was now practically arranged.
"It's been aff and on a' winter, an' the second veesit tae the Castle
settled it, but a 'm hearin' it wes the loss o' the Lodge brocht the
fast offer this mornin'. She 's an able wumman, an' cairried her gear
tae the best market. Ma certes," and Hillocks contemplated Kate's
achievement with sympathetic admiration, "but she 'll set her place
weel, an' haud her ain wi' the Duchess o' Athole."
Carmichael ought perhaps to have taken his beating like a man, and said
nothing to any one, but instead thereof he betook himself for
consolation to Marget, a better counsellor in a crisis than Janet, with
all her Celtic wiles, and Marget set him in the very seat where Kate
had put her case.
"It has, I suppose, been all a dream, and now I have awaked, but it
was . . . a pleasant dream, and one finds the morning light a little
chill. One must just learn to forget, and be as if one had never . . .
dreamed," but Carmichael looked at Marget wistfully.
"Ye canna be the same again, for a' coont, gin ony man loves a wumman
wi' a leal hert, whether she answer or no, or whether she even kens, he
's been the gainer, an' the harvest will be his for ever.
"It hes seemed to me that nae luve is proved an' crooned for eternity
onless the man hes forgotten himsel' an' is willin' tae live alane gin
the wumman he luves sees prosperity. He only is the perfect lover, and
for him God hes the best gifts.
"Yes, a 've seen it wi' ma ain eyes,"--for indeed this seemed to
Carmichael an impossible height of self-abnegation,--"a man who loved
an' served a wumman wi' his best an' at a great cost, an' yet for whom
there cud be no reward but his ain luve." Marget's face grew so
beautiful as she told of the constancy of this unknown, unrewarded
lover that Carmichael left without further speech, but with a purer
vision of love than had ever before visited his soul. Marget watched
him go down the same path by which Kate went, and she said to herself,
"Whether or no he win is in the will of God, but already luve hes given
his blessin' tae man and maid."
Kate did not go to kirk on Sunday, but lived all day in the woods, and
in the evening she kissed her father and laid this answer in his
hands:--
DEAR LORD HAY,--You have done me the greatest honour any woman can
receive at your hands, and for two days I have thought of nothing else.
If it were enough that your wife should like and respect you, then I
would at once accept you as my betrothed, but as it is plain to me that
no woman ought to marry any one unless she also loves him, I am obliged
to refuse one of the truest men I have ever met, for whom I have a very
kindly place in my heart, and whose happiness I shall always
desire.--Believe me, yours sincerely,
KATE CARNEGIE.
"You could do nothing else, Kit, and you have done right to close the
matter . . . but I 'm sorry for Hay."