Mr. Heriot did not come to luncheon. A tray carefully piled with
everything that old Fleming could think of to tempt his master’s
appetite was carried to him in the library; but before the rest of the
party had left the table, Fleming came back disconsolate, bearing his
tray untouched.
“In case ye shouldna believe me, I’ve brought it back, Miss Marjory,” he
said, with an injured air, approaching the young mistress of the house.
“Look at it with your ain e’en, and maybe then ye’ll believe me. No a
thing tasted, no more nor he did yesterday, and me sent away for an auld
bletherin’ scoondrel. An auld bletherin’ scoondrel! Man and boy I’ve
been in the house o’ Pitcomlie forty years, and it’s the first time such
a name was ever applied to me.”
“Fleming, you must not mind,” said Marjory. “My father did not mean it.
It was his grief that spoke, and not he.”
“Nae doubt ye ken better than me, Miss Marjory; the bairns we’ve brought
up on our knees are aye wiser than us old folk; but he means _that_, I
suppose?” said old Fleming, holding up his tray triumphantly. “And what
kind of a meaning is that for the father of a family? No to take his
good food that’s been prepared wi’ a’ the care and pains of a clean and
Christian woman, that sud have been accepted wi’ a grace and eaten with
thanksgiving. When I mind the luncheons the Laird used to eat, the good
dinners he made, the fine nat’rel appetite!” cried Fleming, almost with
tears in his eyes, holding up his tray as an eloquent witness of his
case, “and now to be sent away with a flea in my lug for a bletherin’
scoondrel,--because I was fain to see him eat a morsel of wholesome
meat!”
“Go away to your pantry, Sir, and say no more about it,” said Mr.
Charles, authoritatively. “Miss Marjory has plenty to put up with,
without your nonsense. Your father, my dear, has been in the house for
days together. He has not so much as taken a walk, he that was always
afoot. That’s the reason why he cannot eat; for my part, I am not
surprised. He’ll be better, I hope, when Charlie comes back.”
“I would get the doctor,” said Fleming, with stout self-assertion. “Mr.
Charlie may be kept back by ill winds, or many a thing beside. I would
have the doctor if it was me.”
Fanshawe looked at this scene with mingled amusement and surprise; but
though Mr. Charles stood up in defence of his niece, neither of them
thought it strange that the old butler should have his word to say. The
old man even emitted extraordinary murmurs, which were almost like
groans, as he continued his attendance at table.
“I’ve seen death in the house afore. I’ve seen plenty of sore trouble;
but I never saw the Laird as he is now. Waes me! waes me!” said
Fleming; and the conversation, such as it was, was interrupted by this
monologue.
They all went into the drawing-room together, glad to escape from it.
Mr. Charles took his three-cornered seat by the fire, and his newspaper,
which he had left lying upon it. Marjory seated herself at the
writing-table in the bow-window. They had their natural occupations, the
things they did habitually every day; but as for Fanshawe, he had no
occupation to turn to. He turned over all the books on the tables, and
then he went and stood at the window. The weather had changed since
yesterday, which was much too bright to last. It was a true Spring day
on the East coast, with a white mist closing in over land and sea, and a
chill wind blowing. Was he to spend that whole long afternoon gazing at
the tumbling, leaden waves, and the choking white vapour that lay heavy
like a coverlet over them, and clung to the edges of the cliff like a
fringe of woolly whiteness, and shut out both earth and sky?
Just then Mr. Heriot put in his head, and asked sharply,
“Have you written to Charlie?”
“Yes, papa,” said Marjory, with a little start; and a minute after,
Fanshawe, at the window, saw the old man go out, with his head upon his
breast, to the misty cliff that lay before the windows.
He stood still there for some moments, with his tall figure relieved
against the forlorn blackness of the waves and the woolly mist, his
white hair and the skirts of his coat blowing in the wind; and then he
took the rocky path down the side of the cliff, which led to the beach.
It seemed to be natural that he should choose such a day to go abroad
in, a hopeless day, when the sun and the light were obscured, when the
wind searched to the marrow of the bones, and the mist crept into the
throat, and the sea moaned and complained among its rocks.
Fanshawe stood and watched him as long as he could see him. The very air
and water seemed to sigh “Waes me!” like the old serving-man who loved
the house.
“Mr. Fanshawe,” said Marjory, from the recess, “is there anything to be
done for you? We are dull, and we cannot help it. None of us are good
for anything. I should like to ask you to walk with us; but it is an
easterly haar, and that is bad on our coast; and riding would be still
worse; and it is too late, even if the weather were not so bad, to go to
St. Andrews, as Uncle Charles proposed--”
“Never mind me,” said Fanshawe, with some shame. “You must think me a
man of few resources, and so, I fear, I am. I am good for nothing. I
have got out of the way of reading. It is a horrible confession, but it
is true. The only thing that suggests itself to me on such a day is, if
not to walk, yet to talk.”
“Let us talk, then,” said Marjory, closing the blotting-book in which
she had been writing her letters.
She said it, he thought, with a sort of half contempt, as if this
insignificant occupation of talk was a kind of idleness, and beneath
her ordinary activity; and then, as was natural after such a conclusion
had been come to, a dead silence supervened. Mr. Fanshawe broke it with
a laugh.
“I fear you despise talking,” he said; “and conversation is a thing
which cannot be done of _malice prepense_. May we have some music
instead? There is music enough there in your case to last a life-time,
much less an afternoon.”
“Music!” said Marjory, somewhat startled. “To be sure,” she added, with
a smile, “music is not merry-making, as our poor folk fancy. It does not
need to be the voice of mirth; and now you suggest it, there are few
things that would express one’s feelings so well--the forlorn, confused,
oppressed--” She paused, with tears rising, which got into her throat
and her eyes, and stifled her words. “But I must not, Mr. Fanshawe. It
would shock everybody. My poor father would think me mad, and I cannot
tell what the servants would say. It would seem to them the very height
of heartlessness.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Charles, from his corner; “no, May, my dear; no
music. I could not put up with that.”
Fanshawe turned away, dismayed. He felt himself the most profane,
secular, troublesome intruder. Poor Tom’s shadow seemed to stop up all
the ordinary currents of life, and create a fictitious existence, full
of impossible laws of its own for the mourners. Little Milly sat in a
corner, reading--not her favourite stories, or the fairy tales which had
been her constant companions, but a good book about a little boy who
died in the odour of sanctity. She was reading it with the corners of
her mouth turned down, and every soft, wavy line about her stilled into
angles and gravity.
Fanshawe went and sat down by her, and began to talk of that voyage,
which he had once proposed, to the Isle of May. He led the child so far
out of herself, that at the end of five minutes she laughed, a sound
which frightened her to death, and which made both her uncle and her
sister raise their eyes, as if something dreadful had happened. May said
nothing, and her eyes, tearful though they were, smiled at the little
creature; but Mr. Charles said in a voice which was harsh for him:--
“You forget that this is a house of mourning.”
Poor Milly cried a little by way of expiating that weakness of nature,
and relapsed into her good book; but Fanshawe could not cry, and had no
good book to retire into. He yawned visibly, as he lay back in his low
chair and contemplated his companions. He was a good-for-nothing; he had
no letters to write, no studies to carry on. When he was not amused or
occupied, he yawned. What else was there to do?
There is nothing which more piques a woman than this frank and
unblushing _ennui_, when it makes itself visible within reach of her.
Marjory felt half-insulted, half-stimulated to exertion.
“Is there nothing we can show Mr. Fanshawe?” she said, in a tone of
semi-irritation. “I fear our pictures are only family-portraits, and we
possess nothing that is curious. Uncle Charles has all the rarities in
the house, and those you have seen already. Should you like to go over
the old hall--the ruinous part? There is not much to see.”
“I should like it very much,” said Fanshawe.
He did not care two straws about the old ruined Manor-house; but the
thought of a _tête-à-tête_ with May was pleasant to him, partly because
of the vague attraction which a handsome young woman has for a young
man, and partly because he was curious about her individually. She was a
new species to him; he had not made her out, and the study was an
agreeable kind of study. With a slight flush of impatience on her face,
she had risen to lead the way; and he, secretly delighted, but perfectly
demure and serious, was following, when all his satisfaction was
suddenly turned into discomfiture. The door opened, and, with a tone of
solemnity, Fleming entered and announced,
“Doctor and Mistress Murray.”
When he had solemnly pronounced the names, giving full weight to every
syllable, the old servant ranged himself by the wall, to see the effect
of his announcement; he watched complacently while the visitors entered
after him in panoply of woe, with looks wrought up to the requisite
pitch of sympathetic solemnity. It was, as Fleming said afterwards, as
good as a sermon to see the Doctor. He had come to condole, and he was
fully prepared to do so. Resignation and submission--that comfortable
resignation which can support with so much dignity the losses of
others--was in every fold of his dress, in the lines of his composed
countenance, decently sad, but not gloomy, as became a man who sorrowed
not without hope. To old Fleming, the Minister’s aspect was a thorough
enjoyment. It was the sort of thing which was befitting to a house of
mourning; not the hot grief which refused to be comforted, and abjured
food and carnal consolation, like that passion of sorrow which possessed
his master; but a legitimate and subdued sentiment, which fulfilled all
proprieties, and was an example to all beholders.
Mrs. Murray was not so satisfactory. She came in crying softly, and took
Marjory into her arms, who--thus caught on the very verge of going out,
and making an effort after amusement, was confused, as if she had been
doing something amiss.
“My poor Marjory! my poor bairn!” said Mrs. Murray; while May, though
the tears started from her eyes, felt as if she must cry out in
self-accusation, and confess that for that moment she had not been
thinking of Tom.
Then they all sat down in a circle, of which Dr. Murray was the centre.
Mr. Charles had shuffled hastily out of his fireside corner, and had
come forward to shake hands, with a certain solemn _empressement_, which
was the proper way in which members of the family should receive such a
visit. Fanshawe stole away behind backs, and sat down again by little
Milly; but Milly, with a dreadful recollection of that laugh, avoided
him, and fixed her eyes upon the Minister--for what would happen if,
under sore press of temptation, she was to make such a terrible mistake
again?
“And how is your father, Miss Marjory?” said the Doctor; “far from well,
I fear? He had a shaken look yesterday at church that grieved my heart
to see. No doubt it is a great affliction, a very sore stroke from the
Almighty; but we must remember that it is the Almighty, and that it is
not our place to repine.”
“No doubt, no doubt; that is true,” said Mr. Charles, acquiescing
solemnly.
It was a thing incumbent on him in his representative position as the
only man of the house.
“I don’t think my father means to repine,” said Marjory. “His heart is
just broken; he never thought of it--never expected such a thing as that
he should live, and poor Tom be taken away!”
“And the heir, too,” said the Doctor. “The ways of the Lord are very
inscrutable. Just those lives that seem to us most valuable are taken.
When I look round upon the world,” added Dr. Murray, “and see how many
people are struck just in the way that was most unexpected, most
unlikely! But he has other children left, and you must do what you can
to keep him from brooding. My dear Miss Marjory, a great deal is in your
hands.”
“I can do so little,” said Marjory, with tears. “My poor father! his
heart is broken. There does not seem anything that we can do.”
“You must tell him to be resigned,” said Dr. Murray. “I am very sorry
that he is out. I should have been glad if I had been able to speak a
word of comfort to my old friend and respected heritor. You must remind
him how much we have all to bear. Not one of us is without his cross.
Sometimes it falls heavier on one than on another. It is his turn
to-day, and it may be ours to-morrow; but none of us escape. The only
one thing certain is that there must have been need of it. This
mysterious and terrible dispensation has not been sent without some good
end.”
“No doubt, no doubt; it must be for a good purpose,” said Mr. Charles.
“I cannot say how sorry I am that Mr. Heriot is not in,” continued the
Doctor. “I might have timed my visit differently. I had not thought it
likely that he would be well enough to go out.”
“He has gone down to the rocks,” said Marjory, feeling that her father
was put on his defence. “It is not a day to tempt any one. I think the
moaning of the sea soothes him. He cannot bear conversation; we are none
of us capable of much--”
“My poor child! as if anything was to be expected,” said kind Mrs.
Murray, drawing her aside. “I would not even have had the Doctor come so
soon. I thought I might have come myself first, to give you a kiss, my
dear. Oh! May, I know what it is! Tell your father my heart just bleeds
for him. I’m glad he’s out to take the air, though it’s a dreary, dreary
day; but, perhaps, in grief like his, a dreary day is the best. When
it’s bright, Nature seems to have no heart. The Doctor thought it was
his duty to come, though it’s so soon. And, my dear, tell me, has any
change been thought of? what are you going to do?”
“We have sent for Charlie; that is all. What other change is there
possible? I hope perhaps my father may take some comfort when Charlie
comes home.”
“Now that is just what I said,” said Mrs. Murray, growing a little more
cheerful on this argument. “Doctor, I told you they would send for
Charlie. He should be home now with his bairns, to bring them up in
their own country; and India’s a weary place for children. You can never
be happy about them. I am looking for my Mary’s two eldest, poor things!
It will break their mother’s heart to part with them; but what can she
do? Oh, yes, my dear; it will be a great happiness to me; but I cannot
expect you to take any interest in that, and you in such trouble. Miss
Jean is coming to-morrow to pay you her visit, May. I will say nothing
to her about Charles; she will like best to hear that from you herself.”
“It is quite the right thing to do,” said the Doctor; “and we may be
thankful that your brother Charles has always been very steady, and a
married man, and all that. He will be a great comfort to you all, and a
help to his father about the estate. Your father has got a great shake,
Miss Marjory, and I doubt if he will ever be as strong to go about as he
has been. Charles’s arrival is the very best thing that could happen.
Always a steady lad, and able to take his part in the management of the
property. He will be a comfort to you all.”
It was on Marjory’s lips to say that she wanted no comfort, and that the
substitution of one brother for another gave her, on the contrary, an
additional pang; but she restrained herself, and acquiesced silently,
while Mr. Charles answered,
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Charlie will be a comfort when he comes.”
And then Marjory was once more folded in Mrs. Murray’s kind arms, and
the doctor, with concentrated woe in his face, laid his hand upon her
shoulder, and exhorted her to be resigned, as he took his leave. As the
door opened, Fleming’s voice was heard exhorting another visitor to
enter.
“Come in, sir, come this way,” said Fleming.
And Fanshawe, who stood in the recess of the bow-window, watching the
whole proceedings, saw a young man enter shyly and with reluctance,
whose appearance somehow entirely changed the placid feelings with which
he had watched the Minister and the Minister’s wife. The new-comer came
up to Marjory with eager, though hesitating, steps; he took her hand and
held it, bowing over it so deeply that the spectator asked himself, in
scorn, whether the fellow meant to kiss it. He had kissed that same hand
himself in respect and sympathy not very long before; but the
presumption of the stranger struck him as something inexcusable.
The visitor was a slim young man, with large dark eyes, and that
“interesting” look which women are said to admire, and which men regard
with savage scorn. Fanshawe was not handsome himself; his eyes were of
no particular colour, and he was more muscular than interesting.
Therefore his scorn was intensified. Instinctive dislike and enmity
filled his mind, when he saw young Hepburn’s head bent so low over
Marjory’s hand.
“I thought I might come to ask,” said Hepburn, hurriedly. “I did not
hope to see you. I came in only because Fleming insisted, without any
wish to thrust myself--Miss Heriot, you will be good and kind, as you
always are. You got my note?”
She did not sit down, but received her visitor standing, which was a
kind of satisfaction to the looker-on.
“Yes. I got your note. It is very kind, very friendly of you--”
“Oh, hush! don’t say so. Kind of me! But if you will make use of
me--anyhow, Miss Heriot! only that I may feel I am doing something. Let
me run errands, write letters--anything. What is the use of my life but
for your service?” said the young man, in his emotion and excitement.
Fanshawe, fortunately, did not hear these last words.
“Thanks,” said Marjory, with a cold yet gentle graciousness. The word
sounded to the one as if it had come out of the snows of the Arctic
region; but to the other, the distant spectator, it sounded warm and
sweet. “We do not require any help, Mr. Hepburn. All that we wished has
been done. Everybody has been very kind. How can I thank you? We have
felt the kindness of our friends to the bottom of our hearts.”
“How can you speak of kindness? There are some who would give
anything in the world to take a single burden from you. You will
think of me, then--as the greatest favour, Miss Heriot--if there is
anything--anything you think me worthy to do? That is all. I will not
say another word except that my whole heart is with you in your grief. I
can think of nothing else.”
“Nay,” said Marjory, drawing back a step like a queen, as she gave him
her hand again. “You are too kind to say so.”
“Confound these old friends!” Fanshawe said to himself, thinking this
double hand-shaking a quite undue and unnecessary familiarity, while
poor young Hepburn withdrew, feeling as if she had spoken to him from
the top of a mountain--from some chill and impassable distance. “My own
fault for intruding so soon,” he said to himself, sadly, as he went
away.
Thus the brief interview made a totally different impression upon two
persons present. Hepburn had not noticed Fanshawe, had scarcely seen,
indeed, that there was any one in the room but Marjory herself.
“Is that Johnnie Hepburn?” said Uncle Charles, as he went away. “What a
nice-looking young fellow the boy has grown.”
“He looks like a Johnnie,” said Fanshawe, with a laugh.
It was unpardonably impertinent, he felt, the next moment; but his
feelings demanded some relief.
“He is very good and very kind,” said Marjory, majestically, casting a
look upon him which avenged poor Johnnie. Fanshawe grew meek as a child
in a moment, and begged pardon as humbly as Milly herself could have
done.
“And now we can go to the old house,” he said, going after her with
intense satisfaction, as she went to the door.
“Not now; I am too tired. I cannot do more to-day,” said Marjory; and he
heard the sound of a low sob as she escaped, little Milly rushing after
her.
“It is all that fellow’s fault,” was Fanshawe’s comment, as he went back
to his bow-window, and sat down and looked out disconsolately upon the
leaden sea and the white choking mist. What was it to him whose fault it
was? But Marjory Heriot was the only thing he had to interest him, and
he took a great interest in all that affected her--for the moment at
least.