Young Hepburn went out of Miss Jean’s door with a face full of offence
and a heart full of trouble. He was not thinking much of himself,
however, so that the offence was evanescent; he was thinking of _her_;
yes, of that Her, who, however hastily, unreasonably, and without
adequate cause, had come to be the representative of womankind to the
young man, superseding Marjory and all ideals. Matilda was not an ideal
woman; he could not worship her in that guise, nor put her into any
shrine. It is needless for me to pause and remark upon the curious
unsuitability of perhaps the majority of mortal unions, the way in which
young men or young women prefer the individual least calculated to make
them happy--and hold to that choice with an obstinacy worthy of the
original folly. Poor Hepburn had been seized with this too common form
of love-sickness; he was not blind; he saw well enough that Mrs. Charles
was unlike anything that he had set before himself, in his days of
imagination, as worthy of love; and already he had begun to say to
himself that an ideal standard was folly; that a real human creature was
above ideals; that to be genuine was best whatever the character of that
reality might be. This was the first stage--afterwards he went further,
and said to himself that women were different from men; that justice
was not to be expected from them, or an appreciation of anything above
the ordinary level of facts; that they were not capable of understanding
abstractions; that they were invincible to reason; and that after all,
it was because she was so undauntedly foolish, so delightfully under the
sway of her feelings, and had so different a way of judging--a method
quite her own, and independent of law and rule--that men worshipped a
woman; Yes, she was not as they are, she was a fool, and yet a
goddess--to be petted, put up with, laughed at, admired, thought more of
and less of than was possible to any other created thing. This was
Hepburn’s way, as it has been many another man’s, of making up to
himself for having given over his whole being to the sway of a foolish
woman. He made out that all women were foolish, and idealized her
meanness, not being able to fit her to the ancient ideal he had once
possessed. Women, perhaps, when they choose badly, do something of the
same kind; but they are seldom so general in their conclusions. For the
most part, they have a hankering after the ideal, which makes them
always capable of believing in a higher kind of man; but men make their
convenient theory into a general truth which, perhaps, is one result of
their superior power of understanding the abstract. To have loved a fool
is sufficient reason with them to conclude that all women are fools--and
so Hepburn did. No, Matilda was not an ideal woman; she was not like the
high feminine types of being which poets have created; but she was
real, and all women were like _her_; from the old theory to the new
there is but a step, and this step he had made unawares. He set off now
with a heavy heart to Pitcomlie, feeling that he knew exactly what she
would say, how she would burst out in denunciation of “the old family,”
and declare that it was all a plot to injure her and her child. And
strange as it seemed to him, he knew that Matilda would put real faith
in this; she would have no difficulty in believing that Mr. Charles and
Marjory had hatched an iniquitous plot, and that lawyers and judges, and
a crowd of honourable men, were accomplices in the scheme against her.
It was the way of women. What he should have to do would be to soothe
and to console--and he did not dislike the office. Her theories would be
idiotic, her rage unreasonable; but she would be so pretty in her anger,
so fascinating in her tears; and to soothe them away, to coax her back
to quietness, would be so pleasant! Thus the foolish lover justified
Providence, which provides silly women for the delectation of the world;
he liked it better than if she had been a reasonable creature, and he
said to himself that all women were alike, and that folly was the
sweetest thing between earth and heaven.
Matilda was reclining on the sofa when he went into that drawing-room at
Pitcomlie, which no longer bore the remotest resemblance to Marjory’s
drawing-room. The room was strewed with traces of the destructive
tendencies of the little heir. He had been brought down by Verna, who
felt it necessary, from time to time, to demonstrate how much the young
mother was devoted to her children; and it was Verna who had caused
Tommy’s gorgeous new rocking-horse to be placed in a corner of the
drawing-room. But on this particular afternoon the young Laird had given
decided indications of a will of his own; he had torn the mane of his
rocking-horse out in handfuls of horse-hair, which was scattered all
over the room. He had thrown about the sofa-cushions, and made ropes of
the anti-macassars; he had cast down several glass vases, and one of old
china, breaking them into millions of pieces. Finally, he had been sent
away in disgrace, howling so as to be audible half way down the Comlie
road, where Hepburn heard his shrieks; he hurried on in consequence,
fearing hysterics, and was consoled to find it was only Tommy. The
pretty mother lay on the sofa, fatigued with the passion which Tommy had
driven her into. There were two patches of rose-red on her
cheeks--traces of her excitement; and she held out her hand
half-irritably, half-languidly to her visitor. “Oh, you have come at
last;” she said, for he had not been at Pitcomlie the day before. Verna
was sitting by with her account-books; she was making up the bills, and
putting her affairs in order, and she was happy. The squabble with Tommy
had not affected her.
“I was obliged to go to Edinburgh yesterday,” said Hepburn humbly; “as I
told you--to see my sister’s trustees.”
“Oh yes, I know!” said Matilda. “Business is always so much more
important than anything else. You men will make any sacrifice to
business--and leave your friends in loneliness, without ever thinking
once--”
“Were you lonely?” whispered the gratified Johnnie; “how good, how sweet
of you to miss me! you never were out of my mind all day.”
“Oh, that is what all you gentlemen say,” said Matilda, with a little
toss of her head. “As for your Fifeshire people,” she went on, “I don’t
think much of them. But for a few cards that have been left, one would
imagine there was nobody in the county. I don’t know if it is their way
here, or if it is that odious Miss Jean.”
“I told you, Matty, when you were so rude to the Heriots--” said Verna.
“Oh, don’t talk to me any more about that!” cried Mrs. Charles;
“besides, I never was rude to the Heriots. They chose to take offence
and go away; but was that any blame of mine? Was I to put myself at
their feet, do you suppose, in my own house?”
“Have you heard anything of them lately?” asked Hepburn, with a certain
solemnity in his tone and manner, which he tried vainly to banish. Verna
looked up at him quickly, being more open to impression than her sister,
and was the first to reply.
“Is there anything to be heard?” she said, looking at him.
Matilda’s languor was a great deal more safe than the keen alertness of
the other.
He answered, “No, oh no!--I suppose not, since you have heard nothing,”
with some confusion. It was the very best way of broaching the subject;
but his confusion was real, and he did not think of that.
“Since we have heard nothing?” said Verna, raising herself to a very
upright position. She had never been perfectly easy since Dr. Murray had
thrown, quite inadvertently, into her mind that suggestion of another
heir.
“Well,” said Hepburn, with some impatience, “I have no double meaning. I
supposed there must be nothing to hear as you have not heard. Otherwise,
I have just been listening to a story--”
“What story?”
It was strange that Matilda kept silent so long; she was cowed, I
suppose, by Verna’s harsh and peremptory tone.
“They say,” said Hepburn, hesitating, and sinking his voice
involuntarily; “indeed, I do not believe it, I give no credence at all
to it. They say that Tom Heriot was married privately, and that there is
a child--”
“What is that?” said Matilda, rousing up. “Tom Heriot married--and a
child? Oh, what a wicked, wicked story! Oh, Mr. Hepburn, how can you say
so, when you know, as well as I do, that we heard quite different, that
it was all settled when the will was read, and that Tommy was the only
heir--the only, only heir, everybody said. How can you make up such a
story? It is only to frighten me, and make me unhappy. You know you
don’t mean what you say.”
“Indeed,” said poor Johnnie, abject in the penitence for which he had
no cause. “I would not make you unhappy for the world. I thought it
right to tell you as I heard--but I don’t believe it. It will turn out
to be a mere invention, of that I am sure; but as I had just heard, I
wanted to find out whether you knew.”
“Of course we know to the contrary,” said Matilda, laying herself back,
somewhat excited, upon her pillows, satisfied so far with the
explanation, and only angry with Johnnie in a coquettish tormenting way.
But Verna, who had no such confidence, restrained her feelings, keeping
her anxiety under. She was a great deal more anxious than her sister,
and understood much better all that was involved.
“For simple curiosity, Mr. Hepburn,” said Verna, “tell us what they
say.”
“Oh, it is just what is always said,” he answered. “Tom Heriot, they
say, was privately married--married irregularly, as sometimes happens in
Scotland--”
“What sort of a thing is that--before the registrar, or something?”
“Oh, not so formal. In Scotland,” said Hepburn, “if two people were to
say to each other, before us, for instance, ‘This is my husband, and
this is my wife,’ they would be supposed to be married.”
“Supposed! but what would that matter? It would be no marriage at all.”
“I thought there was always a blacksmith,” said Matilda, from her sofa,
laughing. “When there were Gretna Green marriages, there was always a
blacksmith. I have heard of that. It must have been such fun, much
greater fun than an ordinary wedding, with a breakfast, and just the
same things as everybody else has.”
“It would be no marriage at all,” repeated Verna, with a certain harsh
earnestness. “You hear me, Mr. Hepburn? No marriage at all!”
“Unfortunately, as much a marriage as though it had been done by an
Archbishop,” said Johnnie; “that is what they say; but I don’t think Tom
Heriot was the man to do it. I don’t think there is any fear. I feel
sure that, if there had been anything in it, they would have let you
know first of all. It would be only your right; for there is nobody so
deeply concerned.”
“Of course we should have been the first to hear,” said Verna, coldly.
She went back to her account-books, closing the subject, and adding up a
line of figures by way of proving to herself how calm she was. The
effort was successful so far as Hepburn was concerned; but Verna did not
convince herself. After a few minutes’ absorption in the books, she rose
in a fever of suppressed emotion, and went slowly out of the room,
wrapping herself, as it were, in a cloak of sudden self-restraint. How
she trembled! how cold she had grown suddenly, though it was a day in
Summer! The other two did not notice her, being absorbed in their own
comedy; but this was tragedy to Verna. The fact that she might have
spared herself the trouble of such energetic self-repression, and that
neither of her companions had taken the trouble to think of her at all,
did not affect her, as it might have affected a more sympathetic spirit.
What afflicted her was no sentimental sorrow, but real heavy
misfortune--the loss of a life. Yes, she felt that it was her life that
was threatened, not Matilda’s fortune, or the patrimony of naughty
little Tommy; it was she who was threatened, not they. She went out in a
kind of despair, and sat down in a corner of the rocks, from which she
could see the old house against which she had meditated such treason. It
seemed to her that some magical power must attend that wretched old
place. Had she ever prospered since she proposed to meddle with it? She
shivered as she looked at it, feeling as though it were a wizard, or a
wizard’s dwelling. Poor Verna! the tears came into her eyes, intense and
bitter. To be sure it was only a report; Hepburn did not put any faith
in it--nay, treated it as a simple piece of gossip; but to Verna, as to
many women, the pain of it was its best authority. It would be so
miserable a change, so dreadful a loss and misfortune, that somehow,
according to the nature of things, it must be true.
In the meantime Matilda, from her sofa, began to claim the sympathy of
her devoted admirer.
“Oh! Mr. Hepburn,” she said, “if this were true! What should I and my
poor children do if this were true? I should have nothing--nothing but
my pension and the two children to bring up--boys, too! And oh! my poor
little Tommy! my little heir! What should I do?”
It was on Hepburn’s lips to say that she would still have her husband’s
portion, the inheritance of the younger son, to fall back upon; but to
console this gentle, disconsolate creature with mercenary suggestions of
eight thousand pounds, seemed a miserable thing to do. He took her hand
instead, and comforted her, and bid her not to fear.
“There are many that would be but too proud, too happy to be of use to
you,” he said. “Everything I have in the world--everything! though it is
not much--”
“Oh, Mr. Hepburn! you are too good,” murmured Matilda, and then she
proceeded with her complaint. “Verna would leave me, I know,” she said,
“Verna has no feeling for anything above account-books. You saw how she
kept adding them up, even when you were telling me of this dreadful
report. That is her sphere--fussing about a house, and having the
control of the bills and all that. I have often said, what a pity it was
that we were not quite poor, for then Verna might have gone out as a
housekeeper and been happy. We never were rich,” she added, with that
frankness that went to Hepburn’s heart, “but still ladies can’t do such
things. It is a pity, though I don’t think I ever could be--a governess,
for instance, though I may perhaps require to do something for my poor
children. Oh, Mr. Hepburn! don’t be too kind to me. Don’t take my hand
and that. It isn’t--nice; for you know I am not a young girl, as some
people might think, to look at me; but a poor widow--with no one to
love me.”
Here Matilda’s tears overcame her--she covered her face with her
handkerchief. She suffered Johnnie to do what he liked with her hand;
and poor Johnnie moved beyond all control, overcome by her beauty and
her tears, and her helplessness; touched by love at once, and chivalrous
sympathy for her weakness and distress--Johnnie did what any such
tender-hearted soul was sure to do. He threw himself on his knees by the
side of the sofa--he laid himself and all his possessions at her
feet--he combated all her feeble protestations, that it was impossible
for her to love again--that it was far too soon to talk to her like
that--that she never, never could forget her Charlie. All these whispers
of resistance, he quenched by other whispers, ever more and more tender.
He would be a father to her children--he would watch over their
rights--he could not bear to hear her say that she had no one to love
her. Did not he love her? Had not he loved her from the first day he saw
her? Gradually Matilda’s protests sank lower and lower--and when the new
butler, who occupied Fleming’s place, opened the door to bring in his
mistress’s afternoon cup of tea, Hepburn rose from his knees, pledged to
a hundred things which the young man in his enthusiasm undertook with
rapture, but which were serious enough when he came to analyse them in
detail. Mrs. Charles smoothed the fair locks which were slightly ruffled
upon her forehead, and laughed a little laugh of bashful consciousness
becoming her new position. “And, oh! you dreadful man,” she said, when
they were left alone again, “to go and make me commit myself like this
before six months! I am so shocked, and so much ashamed of myself. It is
all your fault, coming every day and stealing into a poor little thing’s
heart. Oh, John! you must promise me--you must swear to me--never to say
a word to anyone for a year at least. I could not bear it. It is not my
fault that I am fond of you--but you must never, never, say a word--”
“How am I to go to St. Andrews then?” said the happy Johnnie, “to look
after the children’s rights? What pretence can I make, if I cannot speak
the truth?”
“Oh, I cannot let you go to St. Andrews,” said Matilda, “I want you
here, I can’t get on without you; and as soon as ever you see Marjory
you will forget me. Oh, yes, you may say what you like, but I know you
would forget me. And to be sure you could always say you were acting as
our friend,” she added, looking up into his face with a merry laugh, “a
gentleman may always be a lady’s friend. You are my friend, recollect,
in public--only my friend--until it is a year.”
She laughed and Johnnie laughed, though with an odd echo somehow about,
which seemed to mock him. But it was the way with women; dear, loving,
tender, soulless creatures, how were they to be expected to resist a
living lover for the sake of a dead husband? it was their way. It was
too delightful to have this lovely thing all to himself, to stop and
make a fuss about ideals. What folly they were! What ideal in the world
was equal to the soft warm touch of that hand which clung to his, and
that face which brightened as he bent over it? How happy he was as he
sat by her, and poured all manner of nonsense into her ear! She was
happy too; flattered, amused, satisfied, and full of a fluttering pride
in the thought that before six months she had again been wooed. To be
sure there were prejudices which might prevent this fact being made
public; but still she had the satisfaction of knowing it within
herself.