“What did you think of them?” said Fanshawe.
“She cried a great deal; she is very young and pretty. Poor child!” said
Marjory. “We did not say much to each other; how could we? Indeed, you
know that I cannot talk.”
“I know--” said Fanshawe hastily, and then stopped short. He had done
everything for them all during those sad days. It was the eve of the
funeral now, and it was he who had taken every necessary care upon him;
but I cannot explain how he had grown into the house. They were
strangers to him a very short time before; even, it was not long since
he had yawned and asked himself why he did not go away? But now it
seemed to him that he had lived there all his life; that he had never
had any warmer interests; that he could as soon separate himself from
his life as from all that remained of the diminished family. He had
brought Marjory out as her brother might have done on the eve of that
melancholy ceremonial, to breathe the fresh evening breeze, and accustom
herself a little to the outer world once more. He had led her, not to
the cliff, but to the garden, where the associations were less
overwhelming.
The flower-garden was at the other side of the house, sheltered from
all the sea-winds by the old Manor-house on the East, and warmly
nestling into the angles of the present mansion. It was an old-fashioned
garden; there were no stiff flower-beds in it, no studies of colour in
red and blue and yellow; no ribbons of brown leafage, or artificial
lines. In summer, old roses, old lilies--the flowers that our
grandfathers loved, stood about the borders, making the whole garden
sweet; but at present, in the Spring, there was little except crisp
lines of crocuses and snow-drops; at one side was an avenue of limes,
which had, people supposed, been the avenue of the old house. These
limes were not large trees, they were too near the sea for that; but
they had begun to shake out their light silken green leaves in the soft
April air.
It was here the two were walking on the eve of Mr. Heriot’s funeral. The
gate of the old house was still standing, ornamented with the cognizance
of the Heriots, at the end of the avenue, and here there was still an
exit upon the cliff; close to it was the door of the kitchen-garden. I
explain this to show how the circumstances, which were about to happen,
came to pass. Marjory had walked up and down the avenue three or four
times--leaning on Fanshawe’s arm. It had become natural to accept his
arm, to take both physical and moral support from him. I do not know
that either of them had ever gone further in their imaginations;
Marjory, at least, had not. She had no time for any thoughts about
herself. Ever since she had known Fanshawe, she had been absorbed in
matters of a very different kind. She took his support, his kindness,
his sympathy, almost, I fear, as a matter of course, forgetting that she
had no right to it; not entering into the question at all; accepting the
help which was at hand without questioning what it was.
And Fanshawe, for his part, thought badly of himself when other thoughts
would gleam across his mind by turns. He shook himself, as it were, and
was angry, asking himself, “Is this the time?--am I the sort of fellow?”
He was as far from contemplating marriage as a possibility as any
good-for-nothing could be. Marriage! out of Marjory’s presence how he
would have laughed at the idea! But still there had been gleams of light
which had passed across him, fitful glimpses of meaning, even of a kind
of purpose, repressed instantly by a conviction of their utter vanity
and foolishness. Sometimes, unawares, when he was thinking of other
things, some sudden plan would come into his head, some vision would
flit before his eyes; but they were always involuntary. He had not even
recognised them so far as to struggle against them. They were stray
visitants that came upon him without a moment’s notice unawares, and
that were driven away as intruders, without a moment’s indulgence. But
sometimes along with these visions, strange words would throw themselves
in his way, and claim so urgently to be spoken, that it was very hard to
resist them.
This was one of those occasions. In answer to her languid words, “You
know I cannot talk,” some devil or other (he thought) thrust a
passionate, too expressive answer into his mind. And he had, so to
speak, to stoop and pick it up, and throw it from him like a firebrand,
before he could continue the calm conversation in which they had been
engaged.
“You are getting tired, I think,” he said, anxiously. “Come and sit down
here.”
“I am not tired,” said Marjory. “It is wrong to think that because the
mind is worn out the body must be tired too. Does it not sometimes seem
all the stronger? I think it would be best to be ill; but as I am not
ill, what can I do? I can’t pretend. I am not tired, except of doing
nothing, of being cooped up, of being good for nothing--”
“That is what I am,” he said, with a slight glance down upon her, and
then turning his head away. “I am not of any use either to myself or to
other people.”
“How can you say so, Mr. Fanshawe? To us you have been everything that
the kindest friend could be.”
“For why? Because I liked it; because I have been so mixed up--pardon
the homely word--with you and yours; not for any good reason; which I
suppose, as I have been told often, is the only rule of value. Indeed,
the great thing is that you have allowed me to stay, and made me, to my
own surprise, good for something; not much even now. If I tried ever so
often, in an ordinary way I should not know what to do.”
Marjory made no answer. He had seated her on a bench under the
lime-trees. He had been standing opposite, but now he sat down by her.
He had discovered before that she was not to be tempted into these
personal discussions. She was twisting and untwisting her fingers
vaguely, with a nervous habit, not thinking what she did.
“Life is so easy for some people,” she said, at last, “quite clearly
marked out, with nothing strange or complicated in it. It has always
been so with us. I don’t think it will be so in the future. I begin to
feel as if the well-known, well-worn path had stopped, and I do not know
what odd track may follow. I never understood the feeling before.
Perhaps you, who have had more experience--you may understand it, I
don’t.”
“That is what I mean,” he said, “only I never had any well-worn path to
lose. Mine is like this little byway close to us. A big old stone gate,
with shields and all the rest, and nothing opening from it, except that
irregular line on the turf. One keeps to it because there is nothing
else to keep to. This will never be your case, but it is mine. I am good
for nothing. Nobody comes in by me, or goes out by me--”
“Not like the path then,” said Marjory, with a faint smile, “for there
is some one knocking. Is it at the old gate or the garden door?”
It was twilight, and their bench, though completely hidden, was close to
both entrances. In the little pause which followed, the knocking went on
softly, and after a while the gardener was heard trudging along the
gravel path with his heavy steps.
“Wha’s there?” he said.
“It’s me, Sir,” answered another voice; and then after a pause--“a
stranger, if ye please, that wanted to ask a question. I’ll no keep you
long. It’s a Mr. Heriot, is’t no, that lives here?”
“Ay, my woman,” said the voice of the old gardener. “You may say that.
There’s been a Mr. Heriot here for as long as kirks have been standing
or kailyards planted. But there’s nae Mr. Heriot the now, for he died on
Tuesday, and he’s to be buried the morn.”
“Eh, poor man!” said the other, in a startled tone, and she added, in a
lower voice, “I never saw him, but I’m real sorry. It would be him that
had sons--two sons?”
“That’s the maist mysterious part of a’,” said the gardener, glad of a
gossip. “He had two sons--bonnie lads, and strong lads, and like life.
One of them went out to India, and married a wife; but the eldest wasna
of that kind. They are both dead within three weeks, the one after the
other, the father and the two sons.”
A cry, subdued, but strangely piercing and full of mingled awe and
terror, rang into the air. Then the gardener spoke again.
“Does anything ail ye, lass? What’s the matter? They’re no a drap’s
blood to you that you should be that vexed. What are ye saying? Ay,
there was a Tammas, the auldest son. They are a’ Tammasses in this
house--Tammasses and Charlies; but they’re baith dead and gone! Are you
greeting, lass? And what do you ken about the family? Losh me! She’s
greeting like to break her heart.”
“I kent--one of the--young gentlemen,” answered the stranger, with
broken sobs.
“One o’ the young gentlemen? Maister Tom was wild, I aye said it. It
would be Maister Tom. It’s no to your credit, my dear, no to your
credit. A poor lass should have nothing to say to a young gentleman.
Maybe it was away in England? but you’re no English. It might be in the
Hielands. He was aye ranting about here and there, taking no thought.
Now, my bonnie lass, was it in the Hielands? You needna distrust me.”
“It’s no matter to you nor to naebody,” said the other voice.
“Miss Heriot, where are you going?” Fanshawe said, in dismay.
Marjory had risen from his side in a noiseless ghostly way, and had
crossed the path under the limes to a door in the wall, which led into
the other garden. She disappeared in the darkness, while he sat
wondering, and immediately after he heard her speak.
“You are asking after the family. You are sorry for us in our trouble.
You may go, Sandy. I want to speak to her myself. Will you tell me
if--you want anything?”
“Nothing,” said the other voice, with sudden and evident self-restraint.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, mem. I meant nothing but to ask a
question on my road as I passed.”
“But you knew my poor brother?”
“I’ve seen a Maister Heriot, that was said to come frae Fife.”
“Will you come in?” said Marjory.
“I thank ye, mem, but I’ve nae time to waste. My errand’s dune. I’ve a
long road before me.”
“If you will come with me I will let you out another way, which is
shorter,” said Marjory, in a conciliatory tone.
There was a momentary pause, and after some hesitating answer, Fanshawe
heard the door of the other garden shut, and saw two figures come back
instead of one. The new-comer was shorter than Marjory. Her dress was
tucked up as if for walking; but there was not light enough to
distinguish her face. I think Marjory, in the new interest which
possessed her, had forgotten Fanshawe. To his infinite surprise, he saw
her grasp the hand of the country lass as she closed the little door in
the wall, and heard her ask eagerly, in a half-whispering voice,
“Are you Isabell?”
The young woman drew back. She drew away her hand. She stood evidently
on the defensive.
“I didna come here,” she said, “to tell wha or what I am. Naebody here
has anything to do with me. If you’re Miss Heriot, I beg your pardon;
but you’re taking too much upon you with a stranger lass, that wants
naething from you.”
The listener rose to his feet; he was shocked and annoyed by what he
thought the impertinence of the wayfarer, whose confidence Marjory had
condescended to ask. But Marjory herself was not offended. She said
hurriedly,
“Do not be afraid of me. I ask with no unkind meaning. I would not hurt
you for the world. What I want is that you should trust me, and tell me
your story. I will do anything in the world for you, if you are
Isabell.”
There was another pause, as of consideration, and then the stranger
replied,
“I canna say, mem, what you may mean. It’s no for me to pry into your
secrets, if you have secrets. There’s many Isabells in the world, and
that might have been my name, and me know nothing about you or yours;
but my name’s no Isabell, if that is any satisfaction. You said you
would show me a short gait to Comlie--”
“I will,” said Marjory, tremulously. They were walking slowly past
Fanshawe, taking no notice of him, and with feelings that were not
altogether delightful, he perceived that she had forgotten his very
existence. “But you asked about my brother,” she added, with soft tones
of pleading, “and he is dead. Poor Tom! I want to know everybody he
knew. Was it in--the Highlands? Will you tell me where you knew him? It
is not for any harm--”
“Mem, I’m sorry to have put fancies in your head by my foolish
question,” said the resolute young woman. “What could the like of me ken
of the like of him? I’ve seen him maybe three or four times; he was kind
to some poor folk in our parish; and hearing the name on a journey, I
knockit at the garden-door to ask what had come of him. I didna ken,”
she added, with a quiver of emotion, which she evidently did all she
could to restrain, “that he was dead. I was struck to hear it, and I’m
sorry for you and all the family, with such a sore trial. If you are the
only leddy, mem, I’m maist sorry for you.”
“Thank you,” said Marjory. “I have lost my father and both my brothers.
I have nothing more left me in the world but one dear little sister.
There is not a more sorrowful woman in all Scotland.”
“Ah! but there is, though!” burst from the girl; and then she made a
sudden pause, as if of obstinacy, and looked Marjory in the face defying
her.
Once more Marjory took her hand. She wept as she spoke, pleading,
crying, both at once, till Fanshawe, who was so close by, felt his heart
melt within him, and could have cried too.
“Oh!” she said, “tell me who that is? I am sure you know something,
though you will not tell. What can I say to show you that I am not an
enemy. Do you mean Isabell?”
There was another painful pause, and once more the girl deliberated with
herself.
“Wha is Isabell?” she said, at last, with a certain determination. “I
ken many an Isabell that’s in no trouble, and some that are. How am I to
ken wha you mean?”
“And I cannot tell you,” said Marjory, with despair. “That is all I know
of her. She--knew--my brother; and so do you. She would be sorry for
him, I am sure; and so are you.”
“I told you, mem,” said the other, resolutely, “my name’s no Isabell.
I’m no responsible for a’ the folk that knew Mr. Heriot. I canna take
upon me to answer for them. And if I said there was in Scotland a mair
sorrowful woman than you could be, oh, can the like of you ever be as
sorrowful as a widow woman, a poor woman, a woman with hungry bairns,
and no a morsel to give them? I’ve kent such: it goes against me to hear
a young lady with plenty of siller and plenty of friends make such a
moan; though I’m sorry for you,” she added, after a pause, “real sorry
for you too. And now will you let me see the short gait, or will I turn
back and go the gait I came? for it’s getting dark, and I dinna wish to
be on a strange road at night by mysel, my lane.”
“Then you will not tell me anything?” said Marjory.
“I hae naething to tell you, mem,” said the girl.
This strange visitor entered and disappeared through the Pitcomlie
garden, while Verna was sitting at her open window, plotting and
preparing all the things she would do, if--. Verna knew nothing of her,
and had she known, would have been full of maidenly indignation at the
idea that Marjory could notice “such creatures.” Marjory, however, was
of a very different mind. She led the girl through the flower-garden and
through the house, anxiously guiding her to the light of the lamp in the
hall, where she could see her face. She was but a comely country girl,
nothing more, with fair hair twisted into a net, and a little brown hat
with a plain ribbon. She might have been a respectable country servant,
or a cotter’s daughter. There was nothing in any way remarkable about
her. She had blue eyes, very steady and serious in their expression,
and a firm mouth, which at present was closed fast, as if in fear of
self-betrayal. She dropped a rustic curtsey as Marjory opened to her the
great hall-door, and directed her how to go.
“You’re very kind, mem, and I beg your pardon if I wasna civil,” she
said, with penitence.
Marjory stood looking after her as she disappeared into the night.
Perhaps after all it was but a whim of her own, a fancy that had nothing
in it. She turned away from the door with a sigh, and then the gust of
chilly air which caught her from the garden, reminded her that she had
left Fanshawe there, and that he must have heard all. She went slowly
back to seek him, and make her apology, her mind, like the night, dark
and wistful, full of chill airs and many clouds.