Lord Eskside was a homely representative of Scotch aristocracy. He was
as proud as Lucifer in his own way, but that way was quaint and
unsuspected by strangers; and his outward appearance and manners, and
the principles he professed, were even humorously homely and almost
democratical. Pretension of any kind moved him to an exaggeration of
this natural homeliness; though when his dignity was really touched
nobody could be more decided in his treatment of the vulgar, whom on
ordinary occasions he seemed to incline towards, and to whom, so long as
they made no fictitious claims to importance, he was whimsically
friendly and indulgent. He had many other paradoxical sentiments about
him. Being a high Tory by tradition and birth, it happened to him now
and then to take up a trenchant Radical theory, which he clung to with
the obstinacy of his race, and would carry out in the most
uncompromising manner. He was keenly intelligent when he chose; but when
he did not choose, no lout in the village could be more thickheaded than
the old lord, nor show greater need to have everything “summered and
wintered” to him, as Lady Eskside often impatiently said. He had strong
feelings, but they lay very deep, and were seldom exhibited to the
common eye, his own consciousness of their existence showing itself
chiefly in a testy determination to avoid all means of moving them,
which gave many ignorant persons the impression that our old lord was an
ill-tempered man. He was impatient, I allow, and resented all long and
slow explanations, except when it happened to be his caprice to put on
the air of requiring them; and many people were afraid of his sharp
retorts and ruthless questions. He was a little man, with keen hazel
eyes gleaming out from under overhanging eyebrows, which often gathered
into seeming frowns; not a man with whom, you may be sure, sentimental
considerations would weigh much--or at least who would permit it to be
seen how much they weighed.
He was very much startled when he heard what had happened--so much
startled that he received the tale in comparative silence, half
stupefied by the strange incident; and allowed himself to be led by his
wife to the side of the bed where the child slept profoundly, almost
without a word of remark. He stood and gazed at it, his keen eyes
twinkling from beneath their heavy eyebrows, and his under lip working,
as it habitually did when he was moved by any feeling which he did not
choose to show. But he uttered nothing more than an unintelligible
“humph!” and instead of sympathising with Lady Eskside’s excitement, her
tearful enthusiasm, and the tumult of agitation in which she was, turned
away almost without response, and went off to his study, where he had
been painfully busy with calculations and cogitations over the ‘Journal
of Agriculture;’ for he was a great farmer, and just then deeply
occupied with the question of manures, a study of thrilling and delicate
interest. He tried to resume these studies, but for this his philosophy
did not suffice. He sat down, however, by his table as before, and with
his periodical open before him--working his under lip, which projected
slightly, and bending his brows--gave his mind to this new problem,
which was more astounding than anything in agriculture. After a while he
rose and rang the bell. It was answered by Harding, the English butler,
who had been in Lord Eskside’s service for thirty years, and knew all
about the family as an old servant knows--that is, rather more than
there is to know. The fact, however, that Harding was English, gave a
certain peculiarity to the connection between himself and his old
master, who was equally ready to hold him up to admiration as “a good
solid Englishman, not troubling himself about whimsies,” or to denounce
him as “a doited English body, never understanding the one-half of what
you said to him.” Lord Eskside had a mingled trust in Harding and
contempt for him, which I do not think he could have entertained for a
countryman of his own.
“Harding,” he said, “come in and shut the door. I suppose you know all
that’s happened in the house to-night. You should have called me.
Haven’t I always told you to call me when anything out of the way
occurred?”
“My lord,” said Harding, not without agitation, “there has never nothing
happened much out of the way before. When I did call your lordship the
night of the fire in the laundry, your lordship said I was a doited old
fool--and how was I to know----?”
“That will do,” said Lord Eskside; “you needn’t recriminate. The thing I
want to know is about this child. How did it come? who brought it? My
lady has told me something, but I want your account. Now take your time,
and begin at the beginning. Who brought the boy here?”
“My lord, if I were to die this moment,” Harding began----
“Idiot! what would you die for this moment?” cried the old lord; “and if
you did die, what information would I get from that? Begin at the
beginning, I tell you: what happened? none of your adjurations. What do
you _know_?”
“If your lordship will let me speak,” said Harding, aggrieved. “I don’t
know from Adam who brought him. It was close upon dark, and the storm
raging. I thought it was nothing but the wind that swept in, and a blast
of rain that came full in my face. There hasn’t been such a wind that I
recollect since the year Mr Richard went first to college--when there
was a hawful storm, as your lordship may remember----”
“Never mind the storm,” said Lord Eskside, with an effort of patience,
“think a little.--When did this occur. Fix upon the hour. Now--that’s
something definite. We’ll get on from that.”
“_That_ there can be no doubt about, my lord,” said Harding, promptly.
“The bell was ringing for the servants’ hall supper--which made it a
little hard at first to hear the door-bell. We has our supper sharp at
nine----”
(“Trust him to mind his times of eating!” ejaculated Lord Eskside: “an
Englishman never forgets that.”)
“----And just then the door-bell rang. Not expecting nobody, I was a
little scared-like. I said to myself, ‘Who’s this a-coming at this time
of the night?’ and I called to Mrs ’Arding----”
“Lordsake, man, never mind your thoughts or your Mrs Hardings! get on.”
“I called to Mrs ’Arding, my lord,” said the butler, solemnly, “to wait
and see who it was afore they went into supper. It might have been
visitors unexpected, as I’ve known to arrive all in an ’eap and never a
room ready. It might have been Mr Richard, as is always particular. Beg
your lordship’s pardon, that was what passed through my ’ead. Then them
as was outside rang again. I’m a bit confused with all that’s ’appened.
It was that loud that it sounded like the day of judgment----”
“There are to be no bells that ever I heard of at the day of judgment,”
said his master; “leave metaphors, man, and give me facts--that’s all I
want.”
“Then they got to knocking on the door, my lord--not using the knocker
like people as knows. I ain’t superstitious, though I’ve heard tales
enough to make your hair stand up on your head since I’ve been in the
north--warnings and that sort. But I did say to myself, if so be it’s
for his lordship or my lady--spirits being in the family, so to
speak---- Was it something else your lordship was pleased to want?”
“Send for your wife,” growled Lord Eskside, who had rung the bell
violently, and now stood impatient on the hearth with his back to the
fire, working his projecting lip and shaggy eyebrows. This was so very
common an interruption of the more important interviews between master
and man, that Mrs Harding came without further call, not sorry of the
opportunity of getting rid of a little of her own excitement, and very
anxious to know, in a matter of so much moment, “what my lord would
say.”
“Look here,” said her master. “What did he see? Not a word can I get out
of him but havers. What did the man see? I suppose you were there too,
like all the rest of the house--like everybody, in short, except myself.
What did he see?”
“He saw naething, my lord, that I can make out,” said the housekeeper;
“just the door dung open in his face with the wind and a good push from
the outside. It’s been a wild night, and the sounds of the storm were
awfu’ confusing even to the like of me. So far as I can discover, there
was just something thrown inside, and a blast of weet, and the big door
snatched out of his hand and clashed to, and all in a moment before he
could say a word. That’s a’ that I can make out. I was in the servants’
passage myself listening and wondering, and a’ in a tremble with the
thoughts of visitors or waur. He didna say a word but gaed a kind of
skreigh, and I kent something had happened. When I ran into the hall,
and a’ the women after me--for ye ken the story of the Eskside warning,
my lord, as well as me--there was the wean standing up in the corner
against the wa’; and him there glow’ring at it, as if the bonnie bit
laddie was a ghaist.”
“And that’s all?”
“That’s all, my lord, as far as I can find out--he says he saw a figure,
but what kind of a figure----”
“It was a woman wrapped in a cloak,” said Harding, somewhat sullenly--“I
was coming to that; a tall figure of a woman, not like nobody I know--a
sort of a beggar--a tramp.”
“Would you know her again, if you saw her?” asked Lord Eskside.
“As for that, my lord--I see as she had black hair hanging down, and
something red twisted round her neck,--a roughish sort of a woman. She
caught hold of the door and shut it in my face,” said Harding, roused to
energy, “though she was the one as was outside and me in----”
“And said nothing--you are sure she said nothing?”
“Not a word, my lord. I called out to her, Hollo! ’old ’ard!” said
Harding; “but she didn’t pay no attention. She took hold of the door,
and dragged it out of my hand. It’s true as I was taken by surprise and
didn’t put out my strength.”
“A muckle strong randy of a woman,” said Mrs Harding. “I think I maun
have seen her the other day down by the lodge, with a bairn tied on her
back in a shawl:” then suddenly perceiving her mistake, she added, “no
that such a quean could have anything to do with--with our wee
gentleman, if my lady’s right; and she’s aye right,” the housekeeper
continued, in a lower tone, with keen eyes fixed on the old lord. Mrs
Harding knew her master and mistress, and flattered herself that she had
no small influence with them; but part of her power, like that of many
other popular oracles, consisted in her vivid perception of the
variations in the minds of her employers, whom she often seemed to lead
by means of prompt and instantaneous following. She was herself very
much excited, very doubtful and uncertain about this strange event; and
she watched her master with a sharpness of observation which proved the
urgency of the case. As for Lord Eskside, he stood knitting his brow,
and forgetting, or at least ignoring, the pair who stood, one sharply,
and one dully, attentive, awaiting his next observation. When he spoke,
his utterance was sharp and sudden--the abrupt issue of a long
deliberation.
“Have you any reason to suppose that this--person--this woman--has been
haunting the place? You say you saw her down at the lodge?”
“I saw a--beggar-wife,” said the housekeeper, subdued; “but on second
thoughts, my lord----”
“D---- second thoughts!” cried her master, impatiently; then turning to
her husband,--“and you, Harding, had you ever seen her before?”
Harding paused; he balanced himself first on one leg and then on the
other; he scratched his puzzled head, fixing his old master with his
eyes, in the hope that this precaution would guard him against an
outburst. “Seen her before, your lordship?” Harding said finally, with
caution; “I’ve seen--a many like her----”
“Fool! can’t you answer a plain question?” cried his master, furious.
“Had you seen _her_ before? could you recognise _her_ again?”
“My lord, I’m no wanting to interfere out of a woman’s sphere,” said the
housekeeper. “You ken better than me, both your lordship and _him_; but
if you’ll just consider---- He saw her one moment, nae mair. He was sair
taken by surprise; it was dark, and the wind blowing wild, and the rain
in his face. You should see the hall, a’ weet where it came in--and just
one moment, my lord! If it had been myself he would scarce have kent me.
And his een are no so shairp as they once were, your lordship well
knows.”
“Oh ay, Marg’ret, I know; you take his part whatever happens----”
“And wha but me should take his part, when he’s my man?” said the
housekeeper, triumphantly. As soon as she had brought that reluctant
impatient smile momentarily to her master’s face, she was safe, she
knew. Lord Eskside stood lost in his own thoughts for some time before
he dismissed them, forgetting their existence, though to them he was the
centre of the earth, and could not be forgotten. When at last, coming to
himself abruptly, he waved his hand and muttered something about the
night being too far spent for further action, the pair left the room
with very different sentiments. Harding, who had not yet recovered the
discomfort of his watch in the wet avenue, was too thankful to be spared
further trouble to disturb himself with any questions; but his wife,
more interested, partly from her deeper concern in all that affected the
family, and partly, perhaps, from mere feminine preoccupation with the
mystery, was by no means satisfied. “Is my lady right?” she kept saying
to herself; and put the evidence together with that strange ability and
clearheadedness which family servants, whose entire intelligence is
absorbed in the facts of a family history, so often show. My lady was
generally right--at least her opinions were generally approved and
adopted by the household, which comes to much the same thing; but there
was a huge gulf of doubt before her, which Mrs Harding contemplated with
a disquieted mind. How could this beggar’s brat be the heir of Eskside?
He was like the Rosses; he was called by their favourite name--“a
daftlike name, no doubt, and out of the common,” the housekeeper
acknowledged to herself; but yet the difficulties overbalanced the
probabilities in the judgment of this keen though homely observer. She
drove her husband nearly frantic by dwelling upon the subject all the
night long. “It ain’t none of our business,” said Harding; “trust my
lord and my lady to mind theirselves; it ain’t got nothing to say to
us.” He was very glad to get rid of so troublesome a question, and to
mind his work, as he said; for a better servant, as both his master and
mistress often declared, was not to be found in Scotland. His wife had
her faults; but she lay awake half the night pondering this strange
incident while he slept the sleep of the just, unburdened by any
anxieties. But he was more exact than she was (with her disturbed mind)
about the comfort of the household next morning. On the whole, it is
difficult to say which kind of service is the best.
Lord Eskside remained for some time longer in his study, and then he
went up-stairs to the drawing-room, to join the ladies. Lady Eskside,
however, was not to be found there, and a certain look of agitation was
in the place of which she was the natural soul. She had gone up to “the
nursery,”--long disused and unaccustomed words!--to sit by the child’s
bedside, and brood over his slumbers. Mary Percival was sitting by the
fire alone, with a book upon her lap, which she did not even pretend to
read. The fire was low, the lamp was low, the room was less bright than
usual, and everything told of some occurrence which had broken the
ordinary calm. Mary put her book aside and took up some knitting which
lay on the table, when the old lord entered and took his position on the
hearth-rug, with his back to the fire as usual; but her knitting was a
mere pretence, as her reading had been--the pretence of a pretence, for
she only held it vaguely in her hand. For some little time nothing was
said except a few commonplaces consequent on Lord Eskside’s curt
impatient remarks. How bad the lights were! it was the lamp that had run
down, Mary said; and went and screwed it up again, with a hand that
trembled. Where was my lady?--She had gone up-stairs; Mary did not know
if she meant to come down again; perhaps, having been a good deal
shaken, she had gone to bed. Humph! Lord Eskside said, working his under
lip, and bending his shaggy brows. Mary felt pained and embarrassed,
like a stranger involved in a family quarrel, and obliged to explain the
conduct of one member of a household to another; and she felt the
silence almost intolerable as she sat down again, and took her knitting
in her hand. At last the old lord rushed abruptly into the all-absorbing
subject, as was his way.
“What do _you_ think of all this, Mary? You’re a sensible girl. Is my
lady out of her mind? or what’s to be done about this--child?”
“Oh, Lord Eskside,” said Mary, with tremulous agitation, “how could she
be wrong on such a point? It is Richard’s child.”
“How should she not be wrong? how is any one to know? a nameless brat,
without sign or surety; probably some gipsy’s spawn or other. Right! It
could be but a guess at the best.”
“You did not see him,” said Mary, faltering. “He is like--his father.”
“Like his father!” cried Lord Eskside; and he began to pace up and down
the long, large, partially lighted room, a moving atom in it, yet
supreme in his disturbed and disturbing humanity; “like his
father!--very probably--but how can we tell who is his father? I think
my lady, poor soul, has gone out of her mind.”
“But you have not seen him,” said Mary, softly, not knowing what to
say.
“I have seen the creature, a little dark toad. Dick was always fair and
feeble like my mother’s family, a fusionless being. We must write for
him, and have his opinion. God bless me, Mary! if they both hold to it,
mother and son, and this foundling grows up as heir to the property, how
is he ever to establish his title? We’ll have Sandy Pringle down upon us
with all the Scots law at his finger-ends--and what am I, a reasonable
man, to do?”
“Oh, Lord Eskside, that is a long way off,” cried Mary, laying hold of
the first argument that occurred to her.
“Things are none the easier for being a long way off,” said the old
lord; and then he fell silent, pacing up and down the room, and finally
returned to his place on the hearth-rug, where he stood pondering and
waiting for his wife, whose hasty conclusions he so much objected to,
yet whose presence and energy bore him up. Had she been there to argue
with him, the strange thing that had occurred would have looked real.
But in her absence what could Lord Eskside do but fret and fume? Mary
and her gentle arguments were unsubstantial to him as any of the other
shadows that filled the silent and deserted room.