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VOL. 1324.
MAY BY MRS. OLIPHANT
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VOL. 2.
LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
PARIS: C. REINWALD & Cⁱᵉ, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES.
_This Collection is published with copyright for Continental
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introduce the volumes into England or into any British Colony._
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 vols.
MARGARET MAITLAND 1 vol.
AGNES 2 vols.
MADONNA MARY 2 vols.
THE MINISTER’S WIFE 2 vols.
THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 1 vol.
SALEM CHAPEL 2 vols.
THE PERPETUAL CURATE 2 vols.
MISS MARJORIBANKS 2 vols.
OMBRA 2 vols.
MEMOIR OF COUNT MONTALEMBERT 2 vols.
MAY.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“THE MINISTER’S WIFE,” ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION._
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1873.
_The Right of Translation is reserved._
MAY.
CHAPTER I.
Marjory, as may be supposed, heard nothing of the tragi-comic commotion
which she had left behind her. Her drive in the old carriage, the sight
of many familiar things and places for the first time, after so much had
passed which had separated her from her old world, roused her half
painfully, half pleasantly. Every corner of the peaceful road, every
cottage on the way, made its separate stab at her; so many remembrances
which had fallen dormant in her mind, remembrances of “the boys,” which
from sheer familiarity and easiness of recollection had fallen out of
recollection, started up in new life before her. She seemed to hear the
shouts of their school time, and to see them, not men but lads, in their
innocence and foolishness, about every turning. This wounded her sore,
and yet gave her a sort of happiness. It was not like the drear blank of
disappearance, the superseding of them, and calm passing on of the
unconcerned world, which had stupefied her mind. Thus the change did her
good as people say; and perhaps the sight of Miss Jean did her good, and
the harsh yet true kindness which spoke so despotically and acted so
gently. But when she was safely housed in the High Street, a great
reaction set in. So long as daylight lasted, Marjory turned her wistful
eyes along the line of the coast towards the east, where the mansion
house of Pitcomlie stood out on its headland, with something of the
feelings which moved her on her drive. She sat there and recalled
stories of her youth, feats which “the boys” had done, hairbreadth
escapes, old dead jokes of the past, pitifullest of recollections. All
these came up and buzzed about her. She smiled and wondered to find
herself amused by memories which ought, she felt, to have been anything
but amusing. These realizations of the past were sharp and poignant in
the pain of their sorrow; but at the same time they were sweet.
It was only when night fell, when the silence of the small house fell
round her, when the few people about were all asleep, and the street,
upon which her room looked out, was quiet as the grave, that the
pleasure of these recollections failed. She got chilled in the mournful
silence. It was a still night, and the sound from the sea came very
softly upon her ear, like a cadence measured and gentle. All was very
still in Miss Jean’s maiden habitation. The two maids slept down stairs
at a distance from the other rooms. They went to bed at ten o’clock, as
indeed did the little town with very few exceptions. Looking out from
her window, as Marjory did by habit, being used to look out every night
upon the sea, she saw opposite to her, in place of the intermittent
gleam of the lighthouse to which she was accustomed, a steady glimmer
in young Hepburn’s window, which was opposite. That was the only sign of
fellowship in all the shadowy silent little town, where there was a
sense of the presence of others without any sign of friendliness from
them. This light roused in Marjory a vague uneasiness in the midst of so
many other heavy thoughts. What was it that it recalled to her? Some
other kind of light, some other sympathy. She dropped the blind and went
in, and sat down wearily. A stifling sense of loss and dreary vacancy
came upon her.
All her life long Pitcomlie and its interests had been her first
thought. She had become the mistress of the house at a very early age,
when she was little more than a child; and through all her subsequent
life this care and occupation was all to her that a man’s purpose is to
him, filling her mind and mixing itself with all her expectations.
Marjory had never loved any man with that strong and personal affection
which overcomes all hindrances; but she had been loved and wooed, and no
doubt, but for this, might have married one of her suitors or another.
She had not, however, found herself able--she had not “had time” to let
such an idea seize hold upon her mind. It had seemed so impossible that
Pitcomlie, her father, her uncle, her baby-sister, and in the earlier
period of her incumbency, “the boys,” could do without her. It was
impossible, quite impossible, she had said, when any dawn of inclination
seemed rising within her. Thus she set herself and her own life aside as
a secondary thing, and gave herself up to duties which an illness or an
accident might terminate at any moment, without help or warning, leaving
her stranded high and dry upon the shore. Women are trained to make such
sacrifices, and make them daily, with the reward of being smiled at as
old maids a little later, by their juniors who have known no such bond
of duty. Marjory was far beyond the possibility of feeling such a
penalty. She was thinking nothing of the consequences, nor of what her
future life should be. What she felt was that the use of her was over,
that her duties were finally done, that Pitcomlie wanted her no more,
nor anyone, nor any place; her work in the world seemed accomplished.
She had no longer anything to do for her family whom she had served with
loyal devotion for so long. She had been their servant, and yet in a
certain sense their mistress; but the duties of both offices were over.
She was cast adrift; look where she might, she saw in the blank world
before her nothing more to be done, which in any way resembled the
office she had filled all her life. The only charge remaining to her was
Milly; but after all to superintend the education of a child is very
different from the many and various occupations which belong to the
guidance of a family, the regulation of all domestic affairs, the
interests moral and material with which she had been accustomed to deal.
A general deprived of his command, a sailor with his ship taken from
him, could not have been more at a loss than this young woman, suddenly
deprived of the occupations which had given character and meaning to
all her past existence. She sat down drearily in Miss Jean’s best room,
amid all the dark old furniture, leaning her elbows upon an old
escritoire which had belonged to her great-grandfather, and fixing her
eyes unaware upon a portrait of that great-grandfather’s mother. All
around her was old, shadowy, still. It seemed to her that she herself
had glided into the midst of those shadows to take a permanent place
among them. The long silent procession of ancestors and ancestresses
seemed to take possession of her, to draw her, a silent follower into
their silent train. The very house and room seemed to exercise a certain
fascination over her. They seemed to put their veto upon all change,
novelty, movement of every kind. The High Street of Comlie, grass-grown
and silent, the monotonous continued cadence of the sea, the little
round of occupations which were no occupations, the position of
spectator, sometimes bitterly, always disapprovingly critical of
everything that went on at the house she had once ruled--was this all
that remained for Marjory Hay-Heriot at twenty-five, as it was all that
had fallen to the lot of Jean Hay-Heriot, and of many a proud silent
gentlewoman besides, who had lived and died so, and scorned to complain?
Perhaps a milder and meeker woman would have seen a point of duty still
remaining, which Marjory did not recognise. I am aware that, especially
in books, there are sisters who would have devoted themselves to the
self-denying task of watching over the new household at Pitcomlie,
guiding the young widow in the way in which she should go, and helping
to train up a new and worthy representative of the family in the person
of little Tommy, the future Laird. This, however, was an aspect of the
matter which did not occur to Marjory. The fact that these new people
were Charlie’s wife and connections, I am afraid, exercised a repelling
rather than attractive effect upon her. Their existence seemed almost a
wrong to Charlie. Marjory made haste to separate his memory, poor
fellow, from that of the strangers who had come in by accident, as it
were, and snatched the home of her fathers out of her hands. She was too
proud to say a word of complaint, and too sensible not to recognize
fully the right of the new-comers. Nay, she was even impartial enough to
compel herself to understand how Matilda’s impatience to take possession
of her new rights might be justified. But the reason often recognizes
what the heart does not admit; and to range herself on the side of Mrs.
Charles was utterly impossible to Charlie’s sister. The best thing she
could now do was to forget Pitcomlie altogether, she said to herself.
The worst thing, and unfortunately the most likely, was that she should
become, like Miss Jean, the critic of Pitcomlie, half-consciously on the
outlook for its follies, and judging it severely, perceiving all its
mistakes, and scarcely sorry for them. Marjory, who was no model of
womankind, felt within herself all the capability for doing this. She
felt that it was possible to her, and shrank with dismay from the
thoughts.
Thus her heart was sick with more than grief--with the sense as of a
heavy curtain which had fallen over her life, an ending put to all that
was worthy of being called life in it. Her existence had stopped, but
she continued. How many of us have felt this! and what poor expedients
some are put to, to invent for themselves such excuses for living as may
cheat the vacancy into some reasonable semblance! This cannot happen,
fortunately, at twenty-five; but Marjory felt, as was natural, that
twenty-five was a great age, and that she had outlived all the new
openings, all the possibilities of youthful existence. Miss Hay-Heriot,
of the High Street of Comlie, like her great-aunt Jean, and many
great-aunts before that, with all the use died out of her, and nothing
to do but live. If she had been brought up to it, Marjory thought to
herself, she would have minded less; but what a strange and dismal
contrast from the life she had been brought up to--the busy existence
full of care which she had lived only a fortnight since, appealed to on
every side, found fault with, looked up to, with so many disagreeable
offices thrust upon her, and work which she would gladly have got rid
of! Now she had got rid of all her work at a stroke, and the cares
seemed happiness to her in comparison with the blank which their absence
left.
When her thoughts came to this point, however, they changed with a
sudden start and spring. For there was something she had to do which no
one now would dream of interfering with. It was late by this time, the
middle of the night in Comlie, where everybody was up by six o’clock,
and Marjory was half afraid to move about the old room, where every
board creaked under her foot. But she opened her box, which was near
her, and took from it poor Tom’s little desk, in which she had found his
bills and his useless treasures. From thence she took out the packet
which she had made up so carefully with the list and calculations which
had given her so much trouble, and which it had grieved her so much to
think of explaining to her father. Her father had got off without
hearing of them, without any posthumous stab from his dead son. The stab
had gone into Marjory’s breast to have the edge blunted, and there it
remained. Surely, she thought, with some natural tears, some good angel
had watched over him, to give him an easy dismissal out of this hard
world. He had never known that Tom had deceived him; he had never known
that Charlie had died. But some one must always pay the penalty for such
exemptions. Marjory took out her own calculations in the middle of the
night, in the stillness, among all the shadows, and looked at the list
ruefully enough. There was nobody now but herself to do it. Tom’s memory
was nothing to the new possessors of Pitcomlie, to no one, indeed,
except herself, and perhaps one other, one helpless creature, who was
breaking her heart it might be, somewhere, with no right to mourn, no
power to vindicate. It gave Marjory, however, a little shock to feel the
vulgar aspect of this sole thing which it remained to her to do for the
family. It put Isabell out of her mind, so potent is the force of a bit
of harsh reality over all gentler thoughts. To pay Tom’s debts; that
was what she had to do. She almost smiled by herself at the difference
between her theoretical sense of high devotion to her own people, and
the perfectly prosaic yet disagreeable form which that devotion must
take. There was nothing lofty in it to swell her heart, or give her the
elevating consciousness of a noble duty. It would only make her so much
the poorer, abridge her capabilities, and perhaps procure for her some
irritating and troublesome discussions with the “man of business,” who
would not understand the necessity. But still it had to be done. Marjory
swept all the papers impatiently back, when this fact made itself
apparent to her. She was more sick than ever of everything about her. I
don’t know if a little annoyance at the absolute loss of so much money
had anything to do with this feeling. I doubt very much whether it had,
for money was little more than a symbol to Marjory. But a certain
whimsical sense of an anti-climax--of a mean necessity following a grand
intention--crossed her mind, disposing her half to laugh, and half to
cry. Yes, it seemed dismal beyond measure to have come to an end of all
her duties, to have nothing now to do for her family, whose prime
minister she had been all her life; but to be roused from the painful
depression of that thought to a consciousness of still having Tom’s
debts to pay! This sordid claim upon her, enveloped in a cloud of petty
misery, of meanness, and unworthiness, and shifts, and falsehood, what
otherwise was the mournfullest tragedy. Marjory pushed all the papers
away, almost throwing them into the escritoire in the movement of her
impatience--and went to bed. The most sensible thing to do, no doubt;
but meaning an amount of provoked temper, annoyance, vexation, and half
ludicrous despair, which we will not attempt to describe.
During the next week, the half of Fife drove into the High Street to
leave cards and pay visits of condolence. Such of them as were received
in Miss Jean’s old-fashioned drawing-room, were edified with an account
of the shortcomings of Mrs. Chairles which made it difficult for these
ladies to maintain the gravity proper to the occasion. But as for
Marjory, she had the cards for her share; Miss Jean concluded that for a
young woman who had lost her father and two brothers in so short a space
of time, to be able to see any one, was an idea which was almost
indecent--not to say criminal. Miss Jean was strong on this point,
though her social code was lax on others; she spoke of her niece in
subdued tones, as of an invalid; she was, “poor thing, as well as you
could expect--not able for much, but resigned, and trying to bear her
trouble like a Christian woman.” This was her old aunt’s description of
poor Marjory’s half-stupefied, half-excited state, and of the
superabundant life and energy which she felt within her. The old lady
ordered her old carriage daily for a drive, which Marjory took with
resignation, through the roads which were so familiar to her, where she
seemed to know not only every turn, but every leaf upon every tree, and
every blade of green corn which began to rise in the fields. After
taking this exercise, which was her duty, Marjory had to resign herself
to remain indoors; her longing for the beach, where the measured rising
and falling of the sea was soothing to her, was considered by Miss Jean
an illegitimate craving not to be encouraged.
“It’s all imagination, all imagination. What good could the sea do ye?
Sit at the back window, and ye’ll hear it, sometimes more than ye wish,”
she said, with a shiver, thinking of the stormy wintry nights.
Sometimes, however, Marjory was permitted to stray round the churchyard,
and renew the flowers which, with a weakness which Miss Jean denounced,
yet gave in to, she had placed upon the graves. She did this in the
evening, when Comlie was beginning to close its windows, and few people
saw her glide across the road in her black dress. On one of these
occasions, however, Marjory found other people before her in the
churchyard. Generally it was very quiet, the loneliest place, with its
old sixteenth century monuments standing up around, guarding it from the
approach of anything more novel. The two figures before her attracted
little attention from her at first, till she perceived that the corner
which attracted them was that which contained the Pitcomlie vault. They
came back again and again to that spot, the man diverging now and then,
the woman ever returning. When Marjory’s attention was fully roused by
this, it seemed to her that she recollected the woman’s figure. She was
of the middle size, of very ordinary dress and appearance, like a
hundred others who might have been met in Comlie High Street; but there
was something in her outline and the little gestures she made as she
called back her companion, which attracted Marjory’s attention.
“Come back, John, come back; there is nothing I care for here but one
thing,” she said, leaning upon the very railing where Miss Heriot’s own
steps were bound. Marjory went up to her lightly and swiftly, and laid
her hand on her shoulder. She turned round with a suppressed cry. It was
the same young woman, round, ruddy, and commonplace, but with a serious
look in her eyes which gave her a certain dignity, whom Marjory had
spoken with at Pitcomlie the night before her father’s funeral. The girl
gave a visible start, changed colour, and called again, “Come back,
John!” with an air of something like fright. Then she made an effort,
and recovered command of herself. She made Marjory a slight curtsey, and
confronted her steadily. “Were you wanting something with me, mem?” she
said.
“I want to know what you have to do at my brother’s grave?” said
Marjory, breathless; “what you have to do with him? Won’t you tell me?
There is nothing I would not give to know. Oh! tell me! I do not blame
you. I mean no harm of any kind; but I want to know.”
“Wha said I had anything to do with either him or his grave?” said the
young woman.
Her companion, attracted by the voices, drew near suddenly, and stood as
if to stop further conversation between the two. The stranger gave one
indifferent glance up at him, and then went on:
“I’ll no pretend I don’t know ye. You’re Miss Heriot, and I’m but a poor
lass; but I’ve a right to walk in a place like this, if I like--to read
the gravestones, if I like.”
“Oh, tell me!” said Marjory, too much excited to notice the air which
her companion attempted to give to the discussion. “I mean no harm; tell
me only who you are, and if you belong to Isabell.”
“What does the lady know about Isabell?” asked the man, interrupting
suddenly.
“Nothing but her name,” said Marjory; “nothing but her name! and that
she cared for my brother. I am not blaming her, or you. I mean no
unkindness. I only want to know--to see her--to find out--”
“Miss Heriot,” said the young woman, “you’ll find out nothing with my
will; you’re naething to us, and we’re naething that I ken of to you. If
ever there was anything to tell, you would hear, like others. But dinna
interfere with us. Poor folk have rights as well as their betters. I
will answer nae questions, and neither shall any that belongs to me.”
She turned away abruptly; but the man hesitated. He brought her back,
plucking at her shawl.
“The lady means no harm,” he said. “She says so; and if there’s nothing
to be ashamed of--”
“Oh, hold your tongue!” cried the girl, in a tone of exasperation. “It
is me that has to judge, and I’ve made up my mind. Hold your peace,
man! You would believe whatever was told you with a soft voice and a
pleasant look. She stands up for her ain, and we stand for ours. There’s
nae fellowship nor friendship between us. Good night to ye, mem; we’ll
disturb you no longer. Man! cannot you hold your tongue?”
“If there was just reason--” he said, still hesitating.
The young woman clutched at his arm, and turned him away almost
violently. Marjory watched them with a tumult of feelings which she
scarcely understood. It seemed to her strange that she, too, could not
turn to some one--tell some one what had happened. But there was no one
to tell; and for that matter, nothing had happened. She watched them as
they withdrew hastily, driven away by her presence. She stood with her
hand upon the rail that encircled the family vault, with all the tablets
inscribed with kindred names glimmering behind her. An imaginative
observer might have supposed her to be guarding these graves from
profanation. She stood as if she had driven off an attack upon them; but
what attack was it? who were they? what did it mean? To these questions
she could give no answer. She stood and leaned upon the cold rail, and
shed a few dreary tears on the marble beneath. There seemed to be
nothing left to her but that marble, the iron railing, the chill graves
that gave no response.
When she went in again, she had to close up her tears, her wondering
pangs of curiosity, her dreary sense of loneliness, within herself. Was
there no one in the world, no one left to whom ever again she could say
all she was thinking; whom she could consult, who would help her even in
such a hopeless inquiry as this? Not Miss Jean, certainly, who looked up
with her keen eyes from the tea-table, and said something about wet
feet, and needless exposure, and the need to be resigned; nor little
Milly, who was ready to cry and kiss her sister, but could do no more to
aid her; nor even Uncle Charles, who had arrived suddenly with news of
his own to occupy him, and who was impatient if she did not give him her
entire attention for his particular business. These were all who
belonged to Marjory, now, here or anywhere. Had she dreamt somehow? had
she seen a vision? had there been revealed to her in a break of the
stormy clouds--some one else?