Old Rolls had been butler at Dalrulzian since John Erskine was a child.
He had "stayed on" after Mrs Erskine's second marriage with reluctance,
objecting seriously to a step-master at all, and still more to one that
was an "English minister;" but the house had many attractions for him.
He liked the place; his sister was the cook, a very stationary sort of
woman, who had the greatest disinclination to move. She was a sort of
human cat, large and smooth and good-natured, almost always purring,
satisfied with herself and all who were moderately good to her; and, as
was natural, she made the butler very comfortable, and was extremely
attentive to all his little ways. When Colonel Barrington took the
house, Rolls once more expressed his determination to leave. "What for?"
said the placid Bauby; "the gentleman was keen to have a' the
servants--a' the servants that would bide." "A' the servants! there's so
many of us," said Rolls, derisively. There was indeed only himself, the
cook, and one housemaid; the other, who had charge of John in his
earlier days, and still was attached to him more or less, had gone with
the family--and so, of course, had Mrs Kingsford's maid. "We'll mak' a
grand show in the servants' hall--we're just a garrison," Rolls said.
"We're plenty for a' the work there is the now," said the mild woman,
"and they'll bring some with them. What ails ye to bide? You're real
well aff--and me that kens exactly how you like your meat. Where would
you be studied as I study you? You may just be thankful it's in your
power." "It was with the Erskines I took service," said Rolls. "I'm no
sure that I could put up with strangers, and them just travelling
English. Besides, I've never been clear that service is my vocation. A
kent family is one thing, a foreign master another. Him and me would
very likely no get on--or them and me would no get on. All went very
well in the last reign. Hairy Erskine was a gentleman, like all his
forebears before him; but how am I to tell who is this Cornel, or
whatever they ca' him--a man I never heard tell of before? I'll give
them over the keys, and maybe I'll wait till they're suited, but nobody
can ask me to do more."
"Hoot, Tammas!" said his sister: which was the highest height of
remonstrance she ever reached. Notwithstanding this, however, year after
year Rolls had "stayed on." He was very distinct in pointing out to
"the Cornel" the superiority of his native masters, and the disadvantage
to Scotland of having so many of the travelling English taking up the
houses of the gentry; but he was an excellent servant, and his qualities
in this way made up for his defects in the other--if, indeed, those
defects did not tell in his favour; for a Scotch servant who is a
character is, like a ghost, a credit to any old and respectable house.
The Barringtons were proud of old Rolls. They laid temptations in his
way and made him talk whenever they had visitors; and his criticisms on
the English, and the opinions which he freely enunciated on all
subjects, had often kept the party in amusement. Rolls, however, had not
been able to defend himself against a certain weakness for the children,
specially for Nora, who was very small when the family came to
Dalrulzian, and whom he had brought up, as he flattered himself,
regretting much all the time that she was not an Erskine and
natural-born daughter of the house. Rolls did not by any means see the
departure of the Barringtons unmoved, notwithstanding that he hurried
them away. He stood for a long time looking after the "coach," which was
a sort of rude omnibus, as it jolted down the avenue. The old servant
stood in the clear morning air, through which every creak of the
jingling harness and every jolt of the wheels sounded so distinctly,
and the voice of Jock Beaton apostrophising his worn-out horse, and
watched the lingering departure with feelings of a very mingled
description. "There's _feenis_ put to that chapter," he said to himself
aloud. "We're well rid of them." But he lingered as long as the yellow
panels could be seen gleaming through the trees at the turn of the road,
without any of the jubilation in his face which he expressed in his
words. At that last turn, just when the "coach" reached the highroad,
something white was waved from the window, which very nearly made an end
of Rolls. He uttered something which at first sounded like a sob, but
was turned into a laugh, so to speak, before it fell into that tell-tale
air which preserved every gradation of sound. "It's that bit thing!"
Rolls said, more sentimental than perhaps he had ever been in his life.
His fine feeling was, however, checked abruptly. "You're greetin'
yourself, Tammas," said a soft round voice, interrupted by sobs, over
his shoulder. "Me greetin'!"--he turned round upon her with a violence
that, if Bauby had been less substantial and less calm, would have
driven her to the other end of the house; "I'm just laughin' to see the
nonsense you women-folk indulge in: but it's paardonable in the case of
a bit creature like Miss Nora. And I allow they have a right to feel it.
Where will they find a bonnie place like Dalrulzian, and next to nothing
in the way of rent or keeping up? But I'm thankful mysel' to see the
nest cleared out, and the real man in it. What are you whimpering about?
It's little you've seen of them, aye in your kitchen." "Me seen little
of them!" cried Bauby, roused to a kind of soft indignation; "the best
part of an hour with the mistress every day of my life, and as kind a
sympathising woman! There'll be nae leddy now to order the dinners--and
that's a great responsibility, let alone anything else." "Go away with
your responsibility. I'll order your dinners," said Rolls. "Well," said
Bauby, not without resignation, "to be a servant, and no born a
gentleman, you've aye been awfu' particular about your meat." And she
withdrew consoled, though drying her eyes, to wonder if Mr John would be
"awfu' particular about his meat," or take whatever was offered to him,
after the fashion of some young men. Meat, it must be explained, to
Bauby Rolls meant food of all descriptions--not only that which she
would herself have correctly and distinctly distinguished as "butcher's
meat."
The house was very empty and desolate after all the din and bustle. The
furniture had faded in the quarter of a century and more which had
elapsed since Harry Erskine furnished his drawing-room for his bride.
That had not been a good period for furniture, according to our present
lights, and everything looked dingy and faded. The few cosy articles
with which the late tenants had changed its character had been removed;
the ornaments and prettinesses were all gone. The gay limp old chintzes,
the faded carpet, the walls in sad want of renewal, obtruded themselves
even upon the accustomed eye of Rolls. The nest might be cleared, but it
looked a somewhat forlorn and empty nest. He stood upon the threshold of
the drawing-room, contemplating it mournfully. A little of that "cheeney
and nonsense" which he had been highly indignant with Mrs Barrington for
bringing, would have been of the greatest consequence now to brighten
the walls; and a shawl or a hat thrown on a chair, which had called
forth from old Rolls many a grumble in the past, would have appeared to
him now something like a sign of humanity in the desert. But all that
was over, and the old servant, painfully sensible of the difference in
the aspect of the place, began to grow afraid of its effect upon the
young master. If, after all, John should not be "struck with" his home!
if, terrible to think of, he might prefer some house "in the South" to
Dalrulzian! "But it's no possible," said Rolls to himself. He made a
survey of all the rooms in the new anxiety that dawned upon him. The
library was better; there were a good many books on the shelves, and it
had not to Rolls the air of desertion the other rooms had. He lighted a
fire in it, though it was the first week in May, and took great pains to
restore by it an air of comfort and habitation. Then he took a walk
down the avenue in order to make a critical examination of the house
from a little distance, to see how it would look to the new-comer. And
Rolls could not but think it a most creditable-looking house. The
fir-trees on the top of the hill threw up their sombre fan of foliage
against the sky; the birches were breathing forth a spring
sweetness--the thin young foliage softly washed in with that tenderest
of greens against the darker background, seemed to appeal to the
spectator, forbidding any hasty judgment, with the promise of something
beautiful to come. The ash-trees were backward, no doubt, but they are
always backward. In the wood the primroses were appearing in great
clusters, and the parterres under the terrace were gay with the same.
Rolls took comfort as he gazed. The avenue was all green, the leaves in
some sunny corners quite shaken out of their husks, in all bursting
hopefully. "It's a bonnie place," Rolls said to himself, with a sigh of
excitement and anxiety. Bauby, who shared his feelings in a softened,
fat, comfortable way of her own, was standing in the doorway, with her
little shawl pinned over her broad chest, and a great white apron
blazing in the light of the morning sun. She had a round face, like a
full moon, and a quantity of yellow hair smoothed under the white cap,
which was decorously tied under her chin. She did not take any of the
dignity of a housekeeper-cook upon her, but she was a comfortable
creature to behold, folding her round arms, with the sleeves rolled up a
little, and looking out with a slight curve, like a shadow of the pucker
on her brother's brows, in her freckled forehead. She was ready to cry
for joy when Mr John appeared, just as she had cried for sorrow when the
Barringtons went away. Neither of these effusions of sentiment would
disturb her greatly, but they were quite genuine all the same. Rolls
felt that the whiteness of her apron and the good-humour of her face lit
up the seriousness of the house. He began to give her her instructions
as he advanced across the open space at the top of the avenue. "Bauby,"
he said, "when ye hear the wheels ye'll come, and the lasses with you;
and Andrew, he can stand behind; and me, naturally I'll be in the front:
and we'll have no whingeing, if _you_ please, but the best curtsey you
can make, and 'We're glad to see you home, sir,' or something cheery
like that. He's been long away, and he was but a boy when he went. We'll
have to take care that he gets a good impression of his ain house."
"That's true," said Bauby. "Tammas, I've heard of them that after a long
absence have just taken a kind o' scunner----"
"Hold your tongue with your nonsense. A scunner at Dalrulzian!" cried
Rolls; but the word sank into the depths of his heart. A scunner--for
we scorn a footnote--is a sudden sickening and disgust with an object
not necessarily disagreeable--a sort of fantastic prejudice, which there
is no struggling against. But Rolls repeated his directions, and would
not allow himself to entertain such a fear.
It was not, however, with any sound of wheels, triumphal or otherwise,
that young Erskine approached his father's house. It was all new and
strange to him; the hills--the broad and wealthy carses through which he
had passed--the noble Firth, half sea half river, which he had crossed
over in his way,--all appeared to him like landscapes in a dream, places
he had seen before, though he could not tell how or when. It was
afternoon when he reached Dunearn, which was the nearest place of any
importance. He had chosen to stop there instead of at the little country
station a few miles farther on, which was proper for Dalrulzian. This
caprice had moved him, much in the same way as a prince had sometimes
been moved to wander about _incognito_, and glean the opinions of his
public as to his own character and proceedings. Princes in fiction are
fond of this diversion; why not a young Scotch laird just coming into
his kingdom, whose person was quite unknown to his future vassals? It
amused and gently excited him to think of thus arriving unknown, and
finding out with what eyes he was looked upon: for he had very little
doubt that he was important enough to be discussed and talked of, and
that the opinions of the people would throw a great deal of light to him
upon the circumstances and peculiarities of the place. He was curious
about everything,--the little grey Scotch town, clinging to its
hillside--the freshness of the spring colour--the width of the wistful
blue sky, banked and flecked with white clouds, and never free, with all
its brightness, from a suspicion of possible rain. He thought he
recollected them all like things he had seen in a dream; and that sense
of travelling _incognito_ and arriving without any warning in the midst
of a little world, all eagerly looking for his arrival, but which should
be innocently deceived by his unpretending appearance, tickled his fancy
greatly. He was five-and-twenty, and ought to have known better; but
there was something in the circumstances which justified his excitement.
He skimmed lightly along the quiet country road, saying to himself that
he thought he remembered the few clusters of houses that were visible
here and there, one of them only big enough to be called a village,
where there was "a merchant's" shop, repository of every kind of ware,
and a blacksmith's smithy. Two or three times he stopped to ask the way
to Dalrulzian out of pure pleasure in the question! for he never lost
sight of that line of fir-trees against the horizon, which indicated
his native hill; but after he had put this question once or twice, it
must be added that young Erskine's satisfaction in it failed a little.
He ceased to feel the excitement of his _incognito_, the pleasure of
entering his dominions like a young prince in disguise. The imagination
of the women at the village doors, the chance passengers on the way,
were not occupied with the return of John Erskine; they were much more
disposed to think and talk of the others who had no right, it seemed to
him, to occupy their thoughts.
"Dalrulzian! you'll find nobody there the day," said a countryman whom
he overtook and accosted on the road. "The family's away this morning,
and a great loss they will be to the country-side."
"The family!" said John, and he felt that his tone was querulous in
spite of himself. "I did not understand that there was a family."
"Ay was there, and one that will be missed sore; both gentle and simple
will miss them. Not the real family, but as good, or maybe better," the
man said, with a little emphasis, as if he meant offence, and knew who
his questioner was.
The young man reddened in spite of himself. This was not the kind of
popular report which in his _incognito_ he had hoped to hear.
"The laird is what they call in Ireland an absentee," said his
companion. "We're no minding muckle in Scotland if they're absentees or
no; they can please themsels. But there's nae family of the
Erskines--nothing but a young lad; and the Cornel that's had the house
was a fine, hearty, weel-spoken man, with a good word for everybody; and
the ladies very kind, and pleasant, and neighbour-like. Young Erskine
must be a young laird past the ordinar if he can fill their place."
"But, so far as I understand, the estate belongs to him, does it not?"
Erskine asked, with an involuntary sharpness in his voice.
"Oh ay, it belongs to him; that makes but sma' difference. Ye're no
bound to be a fine fellow," said the roadside philosopher, with great
calmness, "because ye're the laird of a bit sma' country place----"
"Is it such a small place?" cried the poor young prince _incognito_,
appalled by this revelation. He felt almost childishly annoyed and
mortified. His companion eyed him with a cool half-satirical gaze.
"You're maybe a friend of the young man? Na, I'm saying nae ill of the
place nor of him. Dalrulzian's a fine little property, and a' in good
order, thanks to auld Monypenny in Dunearn. Maybe you're from Dunearn?
It's a place that thinks muckle of itself; but nae doubt it would seem
but a poor bit town to you coming from the South?"
"How do you know I come from the South?" said John.
"Oh, I ken the cut of ye fine," said the man. "I'm no easy deceived. And
I daur to say you could tell us something about this new laird. There's
different opinions about him. Some thinks him a lad with brains, that
could be put up for the county and spite the Earl. I've no great
objection mysel to the Earl or his opinions, but to tak' another man's
nominee, if he was an angel out of heaven, is little credit to an
enlightened constituency. So there's been twa-three words. You'll no
know if he has ony turn for politics, or if he's a clever lad, or----"
"You don't seem to mind what his politics are," said the unwary young
man.
His new friend gave him another keen glance. "The Erskines," he answered
quietly, "are a' on the right side."
Now John Erskine was aware that he did not himself possess political
opinions sufficiently strenuous to be acknowledged by either side. He
agreed sometimes with one party, sometimes with another, which,
politically speaking, is the most untenable of all positions. And so
ignorant was he of the immediate traditions of his family, that he could
not divine which was "the right side" on which the Erskines were sure to
be. It was not a question upon which his mother could have informed
him. As Mr Kingsford's wife, an orthodox Church of England clergywoman,
she was, of course, soundly Conservative, and thought she hated
everything that called itself Liberal--which word she devoutly believed
to include all kinds of Radical, revolutionary, and atheistical
sentiments. John himself had been a good Tory too when he was at Eton,
but at Oxford had veered considerably, running at one time into extreme
opinions on the other side, then veering back, and finally settling into
a hopeless eclectic, who by turns sympathised with everybody, but agreed
wholly with nobody. Still it was whimsical not even to know the side on
which the Erskines were declared with so much certainty to be. It
pleased him at least to find that they had character enough to have
traditionary politics at all.
"You must excuse me as a stranger," he said, "if I don't quite know what
side you regard as the--right side."
His friend looked at him with a sarcastic gaze--a look John felt which
set him down not only as devoid of ordinary intelligence, but of common
feeling. "It's clear to see you are not of that way of thinking," he
said.
As he uttered this contemptuous verdict they came opposite to a gate,
guarded by a pretty thatched cottage which did duty for a lodge. John
felt his heart give a jump, notwithstanding the abashed yet amused
sensation with which he felt himself put down. It was the gate of
Dalrulzian: he remembered it as if he had left it yesterday. A woman
came to the gate and looked out, shielding her eyes with her hand from
the level afternoon sun that shone into them. "Have you seen anything of
our young master, John Tamson?" she said. "I'm aye thinking it's him
every sound I hear."
"There's the road," said the rural politician, briefly addressing John;
then he turned to the woman at the gate. "If it's no him, I reckon it's
a friend. Ye had better pit your questions here," he said.
"John Thomson," said John, with some vague gleam of recollection. "Are
you one of the farmers?" The man looked at him with angry, the woman
with astonished, eyes.
"My freend," said John Thomson, indignantly, "I wouldna wonder but you
have plenty of book-learning; but you're an ignorant young fop for a'
that, if you were twenty times the laird's freend."
John for his part was too much startled and amused to be angry. "Am I an
ignorant young fop?" he said. "Well, it is possible--but why in this
particular case----"
"Noo, noo," said the woman, who left the lodge, coming forward with her
hands spread out, and a tone of anxious conciliation. "Dear bless me!
what are you bickering about? He's no a farmer, but he's just as decent
a man--nobody better thought of for miles about. And, John Tamson, I'm
astonished at you! Can you no let the young gentleman have his joke
without taking offence like this, that was never meent?"
"I like nae such jokes," said John Tamson, angrily; and he went off
swinging down the road at a great pace. John stood looking after him for
a moment greatly perplexed. The man did not touch his hat nor the woman
curtsey as they certainly would have done at Milton Magna. He passed her
mechanically without thinking of her, and went in at his own gate--not
thinking of that either, though it was an event in his life. This little
occurrence had given an impulse in another direction to his thoughts.
But the woman of the lodge called after him. She had made a slightly
surprised objection to his entrance, which he did not notice in his
preoccupation. "Sir, sir!" she cried--"you're welcome to walk up the
avenue, which is a bonnie walk; but you'll find nobody in the house. The
young laird, if it was him you was wanting to see, is expected every
minute; but there's no signs of him as yet--and he canna come now till
the four o'clock train."
"Thank you. I'll walk up the avenue," said John, and then he turned
back. "Why did you think I was making a joke? and why was your friend
offended when I asked if he was one of the farmers?--it was no insult, I
hope."
"He's a very decent man, sir," said the woman; "but I wouldna just take
it upon me to say that he was my freend."
"That's not the question!" cried John, exasperated--and he felt some
gibe about Scotch caution trembling on the tip of his tongue; but he
remembered in time that he was himself a Scot and among his own people,
and he held that unruly member still.
"Weel, sir," said the woman, "if ye will ken--but, bless me! it's easy
to see for yourself. The farmers about here are just as well put on and
mounted and a' that as you are. John Tamson! he's a very decent man, as
good as any of them--but he's just the joiner after a', and a cotter's
son. He thought you were making a fool of him, and he's not a man to be
made a fool o'. We're no so civil-like--nor may be so humble-minded, for
anything I can tell--as the English, sir. Baith the Cornel and his lady
used to tell me that."
It was with a mixture of irritation and amusement that John pursued his
way after this little encounter. And an uncomfortable sensation, a
chill, seemed to creep over his mind, and arrest his pleasurable
expectations as he went on. The avenue was not so fine a thing as its
name implied. It was not lined with noble trees, nor did it sweep across
a green universe of parks and lawns like many he had known. It led
instead up the slope of the hill, through shrubberies which were not
more than copsewood in some places, and under lightly arching trees not
grand enough or thick enough to afford continuous shade. And yet it was
sweet in the brightness of the spring tints, the half-clothed branches
relieved against that variable yet smiling sky, the birds in
full-throated chorus, singing welcome with a hundred voices,--no
nightingales there, but whole tribes of the "mavis and the merle,"
north-country birds and kindly. His heart and mind were touched alike
with that half-pathetic pleasure, that mixture of vague recollections
and forgetfulness, with which we meet the half-remembered faces, and put
out our hands to meet the grasp of old friends still faithful though
scarcely known. A shadow of the childish delight with which he had once
explored these scanty yet fresh and friendly woods came breathing about
him: "The winds came to me from the fields of sleep." He felt himself
like two people: one, a happy boy at home, familiar with every corner;
the other a man, a spectator, sympathetically excited, faltering upon
the forgotten way, wondering what lay round the next curve of the road.
It was the strangest blending of the known and the unknown.
But when John Erskine came suddenly, as he turned the corner of that
great group of ash-trees, in sight of his house, these vague sensations,
which were full of sweetness, came to an end with a sharp jar and shock
of the real. Dalrulzian was a fact of the most solid dimensions, and
dispersed in a moment all his dreams. He felt himself come down suddenly
through the magical air, with a sensation of falling, with his feet upon
the common soil. So that was his home! He felt in a moment that he
remembered it perfectly,--that there had never been any illusions about
it in his mind,--that he had known all along every line of it, every
step of the gables, the number of the little windows, the slopes of the
grey roof. But it is impossible to describe the keen sense of
disenchantment which went through his mind as he said this to himself.
It was not only that the solid reality dispersed his vision, but that it
afforded a measure by which to judge himself and his fortunes, till now
vaguely and pleasantly exaggerated in his eyes. It is seldom indeed that
the dim image of what was great and splendid to us in our childhood does
not seem ludicrously exaggerated when we compare it with the reality. He
who had felt himself a young prince in disguise, approaching his domains
_incognito_, in order to enjoy at his leisure the incense of universal
interest, curiosity, and expectation! John Erskine blushed crimson
though nobody saw him, as he stood alone at the corner of his own
avenue and recognised the mistake he had made, and his own unimportance,
and all the folly of his simple over-estimate. Fortunately, indeed, he
had brought nobody with him to share in the glories of his entry upon
his kingdom. He thanked heaven for that, with a gasp of horror at the
thought of the crowning ridicule he had escaped. It was quite hard
enough to get over the first startling sensation of reality alone.
And yet it was the same house upon which the Barringtons had looked back
so affectionately a few hours before--which the county regarded with
approval, and which was visited by the best families. It would be hard
to say what its young master had expected,--a dream-castle, a habitation
graceful and stately, a something built out of clouds, not out of old
Scotch rubble-work and grey stone. It was not looking its best, it must
be added. The _corps du logis_ lay in gloom, thrown into shade by the
projecting rustic gable, upon the other side of which the setting sun
still played; the yellowish walls, discoloured here and there by damp,
had no light upon them to throw a fictitious glow over their
imperfections. The door stood open, showing the hall with its faded
fittings, gloomy and unattractive, and, what was more, deserted, as if
the house had been abandoned to dreariness and decay--not so much as a
dog to give some sign of life. When the young man, rousing himself with
an effort, shook off the stupor of his disappointment and vexation, and
went on to the open door, his foot on the gravel seemed to wake a
hundred unaccustomed echoes: and nobody appeared. He walked in
unchallenged, unwelcomed, going from room to room, finding all equally
desolate. Was there ever a more dismal coming home? When he reached the
library, where a little fire was burning, this token of human life quite
went to the young fellow's heart. He was standing on the hearth very
gloomy, gazing wistfully at the portrait of a gentleman in a periwig
over the mantelpiece, when the door was pushed open and old Rolls
appeared with his coat off, carrying a basket of wood. Rolls was as much
startled as his master was disappointed, and he was vexed to be seen by
a stranger in so unworthy an occupation. He put down his basket and
glanced at his shirt-sleeves with confusion. "I was expecting nobody,"
he said in his own defence. "And wha may ye be," he added, "that comes
into the mansion-house of Dalrulzian without speering permission, or
ringing a bell, or chapping at a door?" John smiled at the old man's
perplexity, but said nothing. "You'll be a friend of our young
master's?" he said, tentatively; then after an interval, in a voice with
a quiver in it, "Your no meaning, sir, that you're the laird himself?"
"For want of a better," said John, amused in spite of himself. "And
you're old Rolls. I should have known you anywhere. Shake hands, man,
and say you're glad to see me. It's like a house of the dead."
"Na, sir, no such things; there's no death here. Lord bless us! wha was
to think you would come in stealing like a thief in the night, as the
Bible says?" said Rolls, aggrieved. He felt that it was he who was the
injured person. "It was all settled how you were to be received as soon
as the wheels were heard in the avenue,--me on the steps, and the women
behind, and Andrew,--the haill household, to wit. If there's any want of
respect, it's your ain fault. And if you'll just go back to the avenue
now and give us warning, I'll cry up the women in a moment," the old
servant said.