The two who were left behind were not much more comfortable than Agnes.
Marjory, for her part, could not but feel somewhat humiliated too. She
had appealed to Fanshawe in the fervour and exultation of her heart,
just after she had been roused by the blame she had heard of him, into,
perhaps, an unjustifiable adoption of his cause. When he had been
blamed, she had asserted his good qualities so indignantly, that faith
in what she had herself said had moved her to put him to the test, with
a generous and proud confidence. He might be good for nothing, so far as
himself was concerned; but he was good for everything to his friends.
And lo! at the very first touch, he had been found wanting. He had taken
twenty-four hours even to understand the story; and now, when he
understood it, he displayed no desire to take up the cause of the
injured, no readiness of belief in her, no wish to exert himself in her
service. She could not but see that to secure her own society, to be
near her and associated with her, Fanshawe would interest himself in
almost anything; but that was a very different matter from the generous
interest she had expected, and the active help she had desired. She had
thought nothing less than that he would go off instantly, scarcely
asking a moment to breathe and repose himself, in search of the missing
witnesses; and lo! he never suggested the possibility of looking for
them at all; he did not even seem to consider himself involved in any
way in the matter--as, indeed, he was not, Marjory proudly confessed to
herself. She was disappointed, mortified, cut down in her own
estimation; though why she should have been so, simply because he had
failed her, it is difficult to say. Marjory did not utter her
disappointment in words, but she adopted a still more effectual way of
showing it. She ascended into regions of lofty politeness which froze
the very soul of the visitor within him. She addressed him as she might
have done a potentate who had paid to an inferior power the unexpected
honour of a visit. She carefully banished all allusion to the business,
which yesterday had occupied and excited her so much, from her
conversation--and turned that upon trivial subjects, upon the passing
events which figured in the newspapers, upon St. Andrews, and the ruins,
and golf. Poor Fanshawe was utterly and dismally crushed by this
treatment. For an hour after Agnes’s hasty departure, when it had been
put in force, he held out under it as best he could, pretending to wish
to hear about the Cathedral, and the Castle, and the old town of St.
Rule. It was when she suggested a visit to the antiquities after lunch,
in company with Dr. Smith, who knew so well how to explain them, that
his fortitude failed. He went up to her side with something like
timidity.
“It was not for the ruins,” he said, half reproachfully, half timidly,
“that I came.”
“Well, perhaps not,” said Marjory; “but when you are in a place where
there are interesting ruins, you are bound to visit them, don’t you
think?”
Fanshawe made no direct reply; but slightly encouraged by her tone, drew
a chair near her.
“And it was not for golf I came.”
“I suppose not, seeing you do not know anything about it. Nothing but
utter ignorance,” said Marjory, beguiled to a smile in spite of herself,
“could have excused the extraordinary questions you put to my uncle last
night.”
“Were they extraordinary questions?” he said, still more encouraged.
“No, I did not come for the golf, nor for the sea, nor for St. Andrews,
nor for society. I came, because you sent for me; an inducement which
would have taken me to the end of the world.”
“Pray don’t remind me how presumptuous I have been, and foolish,” said
Marjory, reddening, “to send for you, without considering whether you
would agree with me about the importance of the cause.”
“Miss Heriot, I agree with enthusiasm that I am at your service, always
and everywhere.”
“Pray, pray, Mr. Fanshawe! don’t make me feel more ridiculous than I do
already. Let us talk of other things.”
“Why should not we talk of the one that interests you most--of that you
sent for me about?”
“Because, simply, it does not interest you,” said Marjory, looking at
him with a smile--that steady, forcibly kept-up smile of incipient
quarrel which is so far from agreeable to encounter.
Poor Fanshawe was in despair. He ought to have been pleased, on the
contrary, had he had his wits about him; for such quarrels never arise
between indifferent persons. He started up from his chair, and made a
rapid course round the room, and seized upon the brief notes of address
and reference which Agnes had left.
“I will go away, then, and execute your commission,” he said, in an
altered voice; “since that is all you wanted me for. It is too good for
me, I allow, that you should employ me at all, and for that I am
grateful. But I think you are a little hard upon me,” he went on. “You
make no allowance for the feeling I have in seeing you drawn into such a
connection; placed in the position of sister to a girl who--and brought
into constant contact with this sister. I have that to get over before I
can approach the subject dispassionately. You do not know what sort of
people such women are.”
“Do you?”
“God forgive me, Miss Heriot--I have been as other men!” he said,
reddening like a girl. “No, by Heaven! I don’t know, except by report
and common acceptation; not much--”
“I do,” said Marjory, calmly; “I know these two women, and I know the
class from which they spring; but that is not the question. I have
formed my opinion strongly on the subject. I do not ask you to make it
yours.”
“It is mine, with all my heart--anything you believe,” said Fanshawe,
very wretched, and yet once more with that glimmering of fun which
spoilt the pathos of so many a fine situation. Marjory, at this moment,
was not inclined to see any humour in it. She went on severely, and with
a tremendous courtesy which shrivelled him up.
“I could not, of course, ask you, whose experience in every way is much
greater than mine, to adopt my opinion; and nothing but a momentary
hallucination, which I hope you will be so very kind as to excuse, could
have made me think of transferring to you my work. I beg your pardon for
it. It is the absurd way in which we are accustomed to have things done
for us--the difficulty a woman finds in moving anywhere without a host
of explanations. But pray forgive me; feeling as I do, it is my business
to complete poor Agnes’s work, and clear up the matter, whatever it may
cost me. Of course, there is no reason in the world why I should not do
it myself.”
“You reject my assistance, then!” said Fanshawe, ruefully. “You take it
out of my hands? Miss Heriot, is that fair?”
“I do nothing of the kind,” she said; “it is a very important question
to me; but not, as stands to reason, with you. You had never heard of
the Heriots six months ago, Mr. Fanshawe. It is the most absurd thing in
the world to suppose that their interests could be of supreme importance
to you.”
And she held out her hand once more with that steady smile of polite
offence and mortification, for the papers which he still held. He stood
for a moment irresolute, looking at her; then he drew out his watch.
“Yes,” he said; “I see I have just half an hour to catch the next train.
I am off, Miss Heriot. The notes are vague enough, but still possible.
‘Suspected to have gone into service as a porter at one of the hotels in
one of the Channel Islands; but may have gone to Australia or New
Zealand.’ That was a puzzler, I allow, for our friend, who did her
journeys on foot. You shall hear from the nearest of these places as
soon as possible; and in the meantime, I may as well, I think, send
advertisements to all the papers for John Macgregor--that is worth
trying.”
“But, Mr. Fanshawe, I must not--I cannot--accept such a sacrifice.”
“You will say good-bye to me,” he said, holding her hand; “and think of
me--say once a day, will you, Miss Heriot? Let me see, the best time
would be in the afternoon, when one is apt to get low. Think of me
then--say from four to half-past four,” he said, with once more that
gleam of fun in his eye. “And I hope I shall not have to go to
Australia.” Then he made a momentary pause, and looked at her wistfully
again. “Will you come to meet me?” he said. “When I come back?”
“Mr. Fanshawe! I beg, I entreat!”
“But you must promise,” he said, with a short laugh. “Good-bye; till we
meet again.”
What was till they met again? the kiss on her hand? This question, the
imbecility of which can only be explained by her extreme agitation, was
the only thing that fluttered through Marjory’s mind in that hasty
moment, which was over like a dream. She ran to the window and threw it
open, and gazed after him. He was gone, actually gone--upon his
errand--which might lead him heaven knows where; no doubt she had sent
for him with this very purpose; but though she had felt the most
sensible mortification when he appeared unwilling to undertake it, yet,
nevertheless, his sudden departure quite stupefied Marjory. It put
Isabell and Agnes, and their whole story, completely out of her head.
She sat down at the open window and watched him as long as he was in
sight, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from going
after him in the strange state of excitement into which his sudden
departure threw her. All this was without any action of her mind at
all--a sudden whirl of involuntary feeling, nothing more.
But it is impossible to describe the consternation of Mr. Charles when
he heard of the departure of their visitor. This was when he returned to
luncheon, which he did at the cost of some personal inconvenience--for
he had to return to the Links for a match at three o’clock. It was sheer
benevolence that brought him, and fear least Marjory should feel herself
uncomfortable--thus receiving a stranger, “and no man in the house.” The
announcement, however, took him entirely by surprise. “Mr. Fanshawe
away!” he said; “bless me, Marjory, what has taken him away? What did
the man come for, if he was to go away so soon? I was just saying to
myself to-day, if he was the same as he was at Pitcomlie, we might have
a difficulty in getting rid of him; and here I find he’s off! Maybe, my
dear, it was your fault?”
She was annoyed with herself for blushing; but she answered calmly
enough: “I do not think so, uncle; he took me very much by surprise.”
“Well, my dear,” said Uncle Charles, “you must manage your own affairs,
and no doubt you’ll do it well; but you must mind that though he’s a
very pleasant person, and was very serviceable, we’ve heard but a poor
account of Mr. Fanshawe. I cannot say I recollect, just at this moment,
what it was I heard--”
“Whatever it was,” said Marjory, with some heat, “I do not believe it,
Uncle Charles.”
“Well, well!” said Mr. Charles once more, in a tone of soothing; “I do
not bid you believe all you hear, my dear; still it should not be
altogether neglected; that’s not wise; in short, far from wise. To tell
the truth, if he is not away in a pet about something I know nothing of,
I’m not sorry, for my part, to be alone to-day. I am vexed by some news
I have from good Dr. Murray. I will have to go over there.”
“Has anything gone wrong?”
“These young women,” said Mr. Charles, shaking his head; “I doubted it
from the appearance of them. These young women are behaving themselves
very strangely, my dear; they are turning everything upside down. From
what I hear, they are meditating meddling with the house; pulling
something down, or putting something up, I cannot tell which; but it’s
a thing that must not be allowed--nay--so far as I’m aware--guardians
have no such power. I mean to speak to Mungo Barmaster this afternoon,
and see what he says. But the end of it will be, that I shall have to go
over myself,” said Mr. Charles, as if there was in that suggestion
something very terrible and decisive. He knitted his gentle brows, and
repeated once more, with a wavering swing upon his long legs, “I will
have to go over myself.”
Here another impulse seized upon Marjory, which she obeyed suddenly in
her excitement, by way of relieving her own highly wrought feelings.
“Uncle Charles,” she said, “there is something on my mind which I would
like to tell you. I do not know what you may think of it, whether it may
trouble you or please you; but anyhow, it is not a thing we can be
indifferent to. I once showed you a letter I had found among poor Tom’s
papers.”
“Among Tom’s papers! Ay! do you say so? I’ve no recollection--”
“Yes, uncle; think! you must remember. It was from a woman.”
Mr. Charles roused himself at once.
“A thing that should never have come under your eyes! I said so at the
time. Try to forget it, May. Some women I have seen have a morbid sort
of curiosity about such persons; but not you, my dear. Try to put it out
of your mind.”
“You mistake, uncle,” said Marjory, gently. “I thought you were mistaken
at the time. It is more important than you think, I have seen her--”
“You!” cried Mr. Charles, stammering with sudden anger. “You! Now this
beats all! If your brother was coarse enough to think of such a thing,
you, Marjory, a delicate young woman, you should have had more feeling.”
The implied blame brought the colour warmly to Marjory’s cheeks.
“Hush! Uncle Charles. I knew at the time you were mistaken.”
“Which is likely to know best, you or I?” said Mr. Charles, with not
unnatural exasperation. “May, I am not your father, and I have no real
authority; but still you obeyed me when you were a little bairn, and I
am your nearest friend. There must be no more of this, no more of this!
A young woman has no right to compromise herself.”
“Wait, uncle, till you hear me; it is more important than you think. I
met her by chance, not knowing who she was. She is very ill--dying. She
did not know me any more than I knew her; but I have come to know her
story. Hush! wait, Uncle Charles--She was Tom’s wife; and she has--a
son--”
Mr. Charles turned pale; his lower lip dropped in his surprise, as if he
had been struck by sudden illness. He shook so that that pencil he held
between his fingers dropped.
“What--what?” he said. “Nonsense! it’s raving, it’s madness! I’ll not
credit a word of it; it’s some story made up. May, May, tell me it all
over again; what does this mean?”
“It means,” said Marjory, with sudden composure, which came to her she
could not tell how, “that unless we take care to clear it all up, and
prove the truth or falsehood of this story, there will be a disputed
succession in our family to be fought out; perhaps when we are no longer
living; but, one day or other, it will certainly be fought out.”
“Bless me! bless me!” said Mr. Charles, walking about the room in great
agitation. “What is this? what is this? A disputed succession, a wife
and a child--did you say a child, or a son? And, God bless me! if it’s
true, what kind of a woman must she be that he never dared acknowledge
her? He knew how his father wanted him to marry--and a son! Did you say
a son? This is the most astonishing piece of news, Marjory,” Mr. Charles
added, coming up to her, “if it can be relied upon, that I ever heard in
all my life.”
“I thought it would startle you; but you do not think now I could have
helped taking an interest, Uncle Charles? When I heard of the child----”
“God bless us!” said the pious philosopher again. He was too much
excited to remain still. He walked up and down the room, repeating
broken sentences to himself. “But the mother must be come of very
indifferent folk; she must have little to recommend her; she must be
some girl that has known how to take care of herself. And then the story
may not be true; you must take into account, May, that it’s very likely
it may not be true.”
“That is exactly what I think we must find out--without sparing either
money or trouble, Uncle Charles.”
“Lord preserve us!” said the old man; “and in that case the other little
bairn would have nothing to do with it? and these young women--Marjory,
my dear, I see the hand of Providence in this. Does she give full
particulars? has she proof? I would not say a word, nor interfere one
way or another, without strong and clear evidence. Has she proof?”
“Yes,” said Marjory, out of the fulness of her heart. She had no need
herself of any proof of Isabell’s story. Her face was guarantee of that;
and she had a second visionary confidence, as strong or stronger than
her trust in Isabell--which was that Fanshawe would find all that was
wanted. Thus she took upon herself to answer, as it were, for both of
these persons, in her warm affirmation, rather than for the abstract
truth. As a matter of fact, the evidence, she knew, was not forthcoming;
but Marjory believed in _her_, and she believed also in _him_.
“And these young women at Pitcomlie;” said Mr. Charles, with a gleam of
momentary triumph. He was ashamed, however, of his emotion almost before
he had expressed it. “That is, my dear,” he said, “if there is any truth
in the story; which is a thing I scarcely believe.”