Meanwhile Fanshawe had been passing his time very uncomfortably, on the
whole, wandering about the Channel Islands the first part of his
journey, and asking himself half dolefully, half with a certain rueful
amusement whether his next stage should be Australia or New Zealand. He
had written to Marjory from London, where he returned within three days
of his precipitate departure; but he had not had courage enough to write
to her since, having felt that he must wait for something to tell. It
would be difficult to describe the effect produced upon Fanshawe’s mind
by his late interview with her. She had disappointed him by her
pre-occupation, wounded him by what he could not but feel to be
indifference to himself, and by the almost harsh readiness to take
advantage of him, and employ him in her service, which she had shown. A
man may be very ready to say that he will go through fire and water to
serve the lady of his affections, and may mean it; but when that lady
sends for him abruptly, and lays her commands upon him, calling him
frankly, not for his sake, but because he can be of use--not all the
serviceableness in the world will prevent the man from feeling that this
is hard upon him. That no woman can accept such services without--one
way or other--paying for them, is a consolation which suggests itself
only to the calculating and cold-blooded lover. The generous soul that
offers itself without hire or reward is very apt to despair of
remuneration; but even while taking the yoke upon him, it is
disagreeable for a man to feel that it is not him, but the use of him,
that a woman wants. This was Fanshawe’s feeling; he was glad to do all
that man could do for her; but yet to be simply made use of was hard.
And after all, Tom Heriot, and the Heriots generally, were so little to
him in comparison with Marjory! But with these feelings there mingled
some which were very different. He felt a respect for her, because she
was able to resist all that vague fascination which subjugated himself;
he admired her insensibility; it seemed well that a woman such as she,
should be slow to be won--if ever she could be won by such a man as
himself, which Fanshawe felt to be unlikely enough. Sometimes he had
moments of great depression on this score, and felt that the idea was
not one to be entertained or thought of; and then again the atmosphere
of dreams would steal over him, that atmosphere which envelops
everything in a sweet mist and uncertainty, where nothing is sure, and
all is possible. Her very decision, her energy, the way in which she had
sent him forth--though he did not like it--increased his admiration of
her. It was so unlike himself; so much better than himself. And the
little fluctuations of temper, the shades of offence, of withdrawal, of
partial anger, which showed themselves when he did not agree with her,
or was not rapid enough in following her conclusions, were sweet to him,
sweeter than all her excellences. These imperfections gave him something
to forgive in her, something to indulge, to throw the great golden
mantle of Love over, and--no, not to forget. The flaws were the last
thing he wanted to forget; but if there had been any chance for him of
getting free of Marjory’s fetters, that last chance had floated away,
when she sent him upon this unpalatable quest. It seemed to him
needless, it was unpleasant; and yet how it bound him with chains, which
he could not and did not wish to break!
Men do not like to feel themselves inferior to a woman; but there are
kinds of inferiority which a man in love may put up with--and to
Fanshawe it seemed that Marjory would be to him what the soul is to the
body, what inspiration is to the soul. This was how he put it, saving
his own pride. It was not that she would do anything for him, but that
she would stimulate him into doing; she would inspire him, he felt; she
would bring all his buds of meaning into flower, and work within him a
realization of those intentions which arose so often in his mind, and
came to nothing when they rose. Through all his journeys he kept
thinking of her in this strain. She would be his inspiration. He could
do something--something vague, he did not know what--but something worth
doing, under the impulse which she would give him. What would she say?
Would it be possible for her to accept a rôle in life which was so
little encouraging as that of trying to put energy into him? Fanshawe
did not ask himself this question--neither did he ask many more, which
it would have been very well worth his while to ask. How, if she married
him, they were to live; what he could do to make their marriage
possible; where and how they were to establish themselves? these
questions did not enter his mind--partly, perhaps, because he was still
in the reverential stage of love, thinking of her vaguely as something
better than all created things, yet impetuously too, as of something
which could not be done without, which was necessary to existence. But
perhaps it was, on the whole, because of his prevailing character of
good-for-nothing that he was able to elude all the practical questions,
and to let his love absorb him without any notion of how he could make
the after-life possible. Besides, he said to himself, if ever the
question crossed his mind, he could do nothing at this moment; she
herself had made it impossible for him to do anything. Had she not sent
him away from all the uses of life, from all the efforts which he might
have been making towards something better--on this wild goose chase--for
her? This afforded him an answer to every objection of his own thoughts,
and with a certain humorous sense of the cleverness of such a response
to all criticism, he used it in imagination even to herself. “What could
I do? how could I do anything? You sent me away from rationality to hunt
for a needle in a bottle of hay.” This was the imaginary reply which he
made to her imaginary fault-finding. Ah, if the matter were but so far
advanced as that! Then he would find a hundred answers, a hundred
excuses. The only thing he would not be able to find--though this part
of the subject he managed to elude cleverly--was any reasonable ground
upon which to ask Marjory Hay-Heriot to marry him, or any feasible way
of providing for her, should she be willing to share his fortune.
With these thoughts in his mind, and those other thoughts carefully
excluded from it, he wandered about the smiling isles which are enclosed
in so wild a sea. He went, as he thought, to every inn over their whole
extent--from the smallest to the largest--encountering endless
experiences (which were not all disagreeable), and seeing a great deal
of novel life. And he found nothing--no Scotch face nor Scotch accent
even met his eyes or ears--or when by accident they did, they belonged
to some one who denied the name of Macgregor, and was not to be
identified in any way with the man he sought. He was retiring
disconsolately from his last attempt to discover this undiscoverable
personage, and questioning himself ruefully as to which was the nearest
way to New Zealand, when some one came up to him on the pier where he
waited for the steamer--a ruddy, red-haired young man or boy, not more
than twenty, freckled up to the roots of his hair, and with a shrewd but
innocent face. He was one of the porters on the pier, and Fanshawe
instinctively stole his portmanteau out of the way, to keep it from the
clutches of this predatory personage. He was very much astonished to see
the individual in question pushing towards him, evidently with a
purpose; and still more startled when the youth addressed him.
“You were asking, Sir, for ane of the name of Macgregor?” he said,
interrogatively.
Fanshawe turned sharply round upon him.
“I was doing so,” he said; “what of that? Have you anything to tell me
about him?”
“I’m him,” said the young man, “that’s a’.”
“You are he!” said Fanshawe, in dismay, gazing at the youthful
countenance with a kind of horror. The lad put his hand to his hat with
a comfortable smile, which told how far he was from any consciousness of
offence.
“Ay, deed am I. I’m from Perthshire as my native place, and I’ve been
here a year. Whatever you want wi’ me it can be nae harm, for I’ve a
conscience vide of offence; and folk tell me you’ve been looking for me,
Sir, all through the island. There’s no question ye can put that I winna
answer. I’m feared for nothing. I have a conscience vide of offence.”
Fanshawe was amused in spite of himself. “You might perhaps suit my
purpose better if you were not quite so blameless,” he said. “It cannot
be anything so young as you that I want. Is your name John?”
“No,” said the lad, “my name’s Willie; but wait a bit, Sir, we’ll maybe
shuit you yet, a’ the same. John’s no my name, but it’s my father’s; and
he’s no so young nor so innocent as me. It might be him ye wanted?”
“Does he live here?”
“Na, he’s no sae foolish as that, or sae enterprising, if that’s a
better word? He’s weel off at home, and has nae inducement. He’s one of
the gamekeepers to Mr. Eccles, of the Langholm. Before that we used to
live up in Strathmore, in the parish of Drumglen, no far from
Stainbyers, where he was aye glad of a job to attend upon gentlemen,
either fishing or any kind of sport, and to take the charge of their
dogs when they had dogs, or of their horses--and keep guns and rods in
order--or even to give a hand at the lodge.”
“That will do,” said Fanshawe, in sudden delight. “Give me your father’s
address.”
But here the lad paused. “He’s in a responsible position now,” he said,
“a man with a great trust; he’s risen in the world. If ye could tell me
what you wanted with him, I’ll write. It might be something that wadna
be consistent with his position. I’m but twenty; I’m no heeding what I
do; but my father’s had a hard struggle with the world, and now he’s got
the better o’t, he maunna compromise himself. I’ll write and get an
answer if you’ll tell me what it is you want.”
Fanshawe had to exercise all his eloquence to overcome these delicate
scruples. The lad was his mother’s son; but finally he got the
information he wanted, and departed with a light heart in the steamer,
carrying that precious address (already found out, though he did not
know it) carefully enshrined in his pocket-book like a treasure. He was
on his way to Marjory with this information on the very afternoon in
which Mr. Charles trudged along the shore with his long legs,
outstripping his companions. It would have been wiser, no doubt, to have
gone and sought out the Macgregors at once, but Fanshawe, who was
thinking little of the Macgregors, and much of Marjory, preferred to go
to St. Andrews to let her know how promptly he had executed her
commission. Travelling is not rapid in Fife; he had to make his
impatient way through a network of railways, one interlacing the other,
and leaving the unfortunate traveller an hour’s waiting here and there,
at all sorts of out-of-the-way stations. His feelings during these
delays need not be described; but he was compelled to submit, as all
forlorn Britons are compelled to submit, to the vagaries of the railway
companies. But for this he would have reached St. Andrews with his
address, in time to join the party which had forestalled him. His
information, of course, was not of the least importance by the time he
reached his destination. He was just a few hours too late, as people so
often are; but luckily he was unaware of the fact, and waited for
Marjory in the room which was full of her presence, with a flutter at
his heart, which prevented him from thinking very seriously of anything.
He sat down by the window where he had seen her sitting, and looked out
upon the sea and sky against which he had watched the outline of her
features, thinking it like the picture of a saint; and all the
surroundings, which were full of her, filled up the heart of the man
with such a soft enchantment that for a long time he was not even
impatient. She was not certain to be gracious to him, but the scene was
gracious, full of her breath and influence, and permitted him to wrap
himself in the shadow, as it were, of her presence, embracing him gently
with all the corners and all the draperies that were fresh from her
touch, enveloping him in all the nameless associations of the place in
which she lived. For a long time he yielded himself up to this
fascination, finding a subtle pleasure in it which stole all his
strength from him, until the long shadows of the evening began to
deepen, and the maids came to communicate their wonder to him. The
dinner hour had arrived, and not even Mr. Charles had come home. They
had gone by the shore towards the Spindle, both Miss Heriot and her
uncle. Could anything have happened? Love is always fanciful, and takes
fright upon any pretext. Could anything have happened? Fanshawe rushed
out of the house in the subdued light of the evening, and set out over
the cliffs at a pace which few people could have kept up with, fearing
he knew not what, and not venturing to ask himself what he feared.
At the same hour, on the same afternoon, another visitor was entering
St. Andrews, coming down from the higher ground inland upon the
picturesque old town, and looking out anxiously for the first sight of
its towers and ruins. Of all unaccustomed travellers this was Miss Jean
Hay-Heriot, from the High Street of Comlie, in a black bonnet big enough
to take in her lace “borders”--with her keen eyes noting everything
along the unaccustomed road, which yet she knew so well. To visit St.
Andrews at all, was a wonderful effort on her part; but to visit it at
so late an hour that she and her old horse and rusty coachman must be
compelled to pass the night “in a strange place,” was more wonderful
still. The reason of her visit was, however, natural enough. Mr.
Charles’s mysterious intimations and hints of a mysterious something
which was yet to be disclosed in his family, had already travelled over
the length and breadth of Fife, with that amazing celerity which is
peculiar to gossip of all kinds. It had reached Miss Jean’s ears that
day after her early dinner, when the Minister himself had “stepped
across” to communicate the strange news, which he had learned at a
meeting of Presbytery, in the most direct manner, from the Reverend
Simon Stutters, of Kinnucher, who had it from Mr. Morrison, of St.
Rule’s, who had it from “auld Charlie” himself. The story, as was
natural, had taken form and shape in these several transmissions, and
now narrated circumstantially how Tom Heriot had been entrapped by the
arts of a gamekeeper’s daughter in the Highlands; how this designing
creature had flirted, and held off and on, till she wound him up to the
pitch of consenting to marry her privately; how then he went off in
disgust and misery, and though popularly believed to have died of an
injury to the spine got in the hunting-field, had in reality succumbed
to the severer malady of a broken heart; and how there was now a baby
produced, who was said to be Tom’s heir, to the great trouble of the
family.
“I hear there’s a great body of witnesses all ready to swear to it,”
said Dr. Murray; “but our old friend Charles, Miss Jean, as I need not
tell you, is not of a very determined character, and perhaps if there
was a bold front put upon it, we might hear another story. The worst is,
there’s nobody that I know of, unless it was a man of business, that has
energy to take the matter up.”
“Energy!” said Miss Jean, “it’s not energy that’s wanting. Marjory’s a
young woman, and will think it’s not her place to interfere; but I’m not
young to speak of, and I’ll not see the old house pass to a gamekeeper’s
daughter without rhyme or reason. Hey, Bell! go and call John out of the
kailyard, and bid him dress himself, and put to the horse. I’m going to
St. Andrews; and put me up a change of linen, and a clean cap. Charlie’s
an old fool! but I hope you’ll no say that I’m not a determined
character, Doctor. I’ll know the rights of this before I’m a day
older--and she’ll be a clever lass, cleverer than I have ever seen one
of her kind, if she imposes upon me.”
“My dear Miss Jean,” said Dr. Murray, “we all bow to your sense and your
experience; but these kind of cutties are often very clever. I would not
encounter one of them myself unless it was strictly in the way of
duty--and you know a lady--”
“Oh, ay! I know your opinion of a lady,” said Miss Jean, “which is very
pleasant, and very fine, if we were all under five-and-twenty; but when
a woman comes to be five-and-seventy, as I’m saying, that makes a
difference. Johnnie Hepburn, this will be sore news for your friends up
at Pitcomlie,” she added, quickly turning, with a gleam of enjoyment,
to the other visitor, who had been listening with consternation to the
strange story. “Ye’ll have a grand excuse to go and comfort Mrs.
Chairles.”
“I don’t think my comfort is very much to Mrs. Charles,” said Hepburn,
with rising colour; “but surely you don’t believe, for a moment, that
such a story as this can be true.”
“Why should I no believe it?” said Miss Jean. She was profoundly
sceptical, but she could not relinquish the opportunity of demolishing
her adversaries, “these young women” at Pitcomlie. “We’re a great
people, Johnnie, and Scotland, though she’s small, holds up her head
with the best, and for my part I know none that can hold a candle to
her--”
“That’s true--that’s very true,” said the Minister, “but when you think
of all our spiritual advantages, and what Providence has done for us,
it’s a terrible addition to our responsibility. That is what I always
think of--a land that has been so favoured for generations--”
“But,” Miss Jean went on impatiently, “whether it is that some weakness
is needful to show that we’re always human--these customs about private
marriages are an awfu’ snare and burden. It’s a wonder to me that half
the families in the land are no rent asunder with irregular marriages.
There’s some special Providence, I’ve aye felt, that must watch over
eldest sons. There never was one in our family that ever I heard of; and
I ask your pardon, Dr. Murray, but Tom Heriot dying of a broken heart
is beyond me; we’ve tough hearts in our family--they stand a good tug.
He might have taken to drinking, or some other vice, to make himself
amends; but to break his heart! Na--na--that’s more than I can believe.”
“I tell you what was told to me,” said Dr. Murray, “and no wonder, poor
man. What would his father have said? and all his belongings? and the
county that would never have taken any notice of him--and not the least,
Miss Jean, you--”
“Me! He could have put up with the want of notice from me; the world, in
general, is but little regardful of what’s said by a cankered auld maid.
Most likely,” said Miss Jean with a twinkle of her bright eyes, “he
would have said it was envy because I had never been married myself. But
that’s neither here nor there. If it’s a determined character that’s
wanting, Doctor, I’m away to St. Andrews. Chairlie is as weak as water,
as you say--and Marjory will be a fool, and will not like to move.”
“Could I be of any use,” asked Hepburn eagerly.
“In the interests of the other heir? Johnnie, my man, you’re a fine
lad,” said Miss Jean, “and very accomplished. I do not know another man
like you in all Fife for the piano and the like of that; but for a
determined character--na--na--I’ll go myself.”
“I don’t see what the piano has to do with it,” said Hepburn angrily.
“Nor I either,” said Miss Jean with a laugh, and she rang her bell, and
gave her orders about her change of linen in such simplicity of diction
that her guests took their leave. “Half-a-dozen shifts, Bell, for you
never know what may happen at my age. Lord bless me! am I to learn
new-fangled words to save the Minister’s modesty, forsooth--and what’s
more modest than a shift? As for Johnnie Hepburn, I don’t doubt that he
calls all his clothing by nasty French names. Give me good Scotch that’s
aye clean and wholesome; and bring me a cup of tea--and let the carriage
be round in half-an-hour. I’m going on family business--you can say that
to whoever wants to know.”
“Eh! it’s Miss May that’s to be married!” said Bell, clapping her hands.
“You think that’s something to be pleased at, you lightheaded taupie?
When Miss May’s married, there will not be one person of the name of
Hay-Heriot worth their salt upon this earth--except me,” said the old
lady with moisture in her eyes, “and, oh! the old rag o’ flesh and blood
that I am! Go quick, and make up my bundle, you gaping thing! Miss May’s
no the fool to marry till she sees what’s she’s doing. I can see to that
at the same time,” Miss Jean added briskly as the maid left her. And
with these double intentions she set out, meaning to dine comfortably at
the end of her journey, and to carry confusion to the unrightful
claimants of the old lands. But Miss Jean arrived to find the house
empty, the dinner-table spread but vacant, the servants full of
consternation. Miss Heriot must have fallen over the cliff--she must
have been blown off the Spindle Rock--and Mr. Charles, in the effort to
save her, must have perished too. What so likely, it was known that they
had gone in the same direction, and when no one came back for dinner,
notwithstanding the well-known punctuality of the affrighted house?