“That is a very strange business of these Mannerings, Gilchrist,” said
Miss Bethune to her maid, when Dora, excited by praise and admiration,
and forgetting all her troubles, had retired to her own habitation
upstairs, escorted, she and her dress, by Gilchrist, who could not find
it in her heart, as she said, to let a young thing like that spoil her
bonnie new frock by not putting it properly away. Gilchrist laid the
pretty dress lovingly in a roomy drawer, smoothing out all its creases
by soft pats of her accustomed hands, and then returned to her mistress
to talk over the little incident of the evening.
Miss Bethune’s spirits were improved also by that little exhibition.
What a thing it is to be able to draw a woman softly out of her troubles
by the sight of a pretty child in a pretty new dress! Contemptible the
love of clothes, the love of finery, and so forth, let the philosophers
say. To me there is something touching in that natural instinct which
relieves for a moment now and then the heaviest pressure. Dora’s new
frock had nothing to do with any gratification of Miss Bethune’s vanity;
but it brought a little dawning ray of momentary light into her room,
and a little distraction from the train of thoughts that were not over
bright. No man could feel the same for the most beautiful youth ever
introduced in raiment like the day. Let us be thankful among all our
disabilities for a little simple pleasure, now and then, that is common
to women only. Boy or girl, it scarcely matters which, when they come in
dressed in their best, all fresh and new, the sight pleases the oldest,
the saddest of us--a little unconsidered angel-gift, amid the dimness
and the darkness of the every-day world. Miss Bethune to outward aspect
was a little grim, an old maid, as people said, apart from the
sympathies of life. But the dull evening and the pressure of many
thoughts had been made bright to her by Dora’s new frock.
“What business, mem?” asked Gilchrist.
“If ever there was a living creature slow at the uptake, and that could
not see a pikestaff when it is set before your eyes!” cried Miss
Bethune. “What’s the meaning of it all, you stupid woman? Who’s that
away in the unknown that sends all these bonnie things to that
motherless bairn?--and remembers the age she is, and when she’s grown
too big for dolls, and when she wants a frock that will set her off,
that she could dance in and sing in, and make her little curtesy to the
world? No, she’s too young for that; but still the time’s coming, and
fancy goes always a little before.”
“Eh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “that is just what I have askit
mysel’--that’s just what I was saying. It’s some woman, that’s the wan
thing; but what woman could be so thoughtful as that, aye minding just
what was wanted?” She made a gesture with her hands as if in utter
inability to divine, but her eyes were fixed all the time very wistfully
on her mistress’s face.
“You need not look at me like that,” the lady said.
“I was looking at you, mem, not in any particklar way.”
“If you think you can make a fool of me at the present period of our
history, you’re far mistaken,” said Miss Bethune. “I know what you were
meaning. You were comparing her with me, not knowing either the one or
the other of us--though you have been my woman, and more near me than
anybody on earth these five-and-twenty long years.”
“And more, mem, and more!” cried Gilchrist, with a flow of tears, which
were as natural to her as her spirit. “Eh, I was but a young, young
lass, and you a bonnie ----”
“Hold your peace!” said Miss Bethune, with an angry raising of her hand;
and then her voice wavered and shook a little, and a tremulous laugh
came forth. “I was never a bonnie--anything, ye auld fool! and that you
know as well as me.”
“But, mem----”
“Hold your peace, Gilchrist! We were never anything to brag of, either
you or me. Look in your glass, woman, if you don’t believe me. A couple
of plain women, very plain women, mistress and maid.”
This was said with a flash of hazel eyes which gave a half-humorous
contradiction at the same moment to the assertion. Gilchrist began to
fold hems upon the apron with which she had just dried her tears.
“I never said,” she murmured, with a downcast head, “a word about
mysel’,--that’s no’ a woman’s part. If there’s nobody that speaks up for
her she has just to keep silence, if she was the bonniest woman in the
world.”
“The auld fool! because there was once a silly lad that had nobody else
to come courting to! No, Gilchrist, my woman, you were never bonnie. A
white skin, I allow, to go with your red hair, and a kind of innocent
look in your eyes,--nothing, nothing more! We were both plain women, you
and me, not adapted to please the eyes of men.”
“They might have waited long afore we would have tried, either the wan
or the other of us,” cried Gilchrist, with a flash of self-assertion.
“No’ that I would even mysel’ to you, mem,” she added in an after
breath.
“As for that, it’s a metaphysical question,” said Miss Bethune. “I will
not attempt to enter into it. But try or no’, it is clear we did not
succeed. And what it is that succeeds is just more than I can tell. It’s
not beauty, it’s a kind of natural attraction.” She paused a moment in
this deep philosophical inquiry, and then said quickly: “All this does
not help us to find out what is this story about the Mannerings. Who is
the woman? Is it somebody that loves the man, or somebody that loves the
girl?”
“If you would take my opinion, mem, I would say that the man--if ye call
Mr. Mannering, honest gentleman, the man, that has just every air of
being a well-born person, and well-bred, and not a common person at
all----”
“You haveral! The king himself, if there was a king, could be no more
than a man.”
“I would say, mem, that it was not for him--oh, no’ for him, except
maybe in opposition, if you could fancy that. Supposing,” said
Gilchrist, raising her arm in natural eloquence, “supposin’ such a thing
as that there should be a bonnie bairn like Miss Dora between two folk
that had broken with one another--and it was the man, not the woman,
that had her. I could just fancy,” said the maid, her brown eyes
lighting, her milky yet freckled complexion flushing over,--“I could
just fancy that woman pouring out everything at the bairn’s feet--gold
and silver and grand presents, and a’ the pomps of this world, partly
out of an adoration for her hersel’, partly just to make the man set his
teeth at her that was away--maybe, in the desert--unknown!”
Gilchrist stood like a sibyl making this picture flash and gleam before
her own inward vision with a heat and passion that seemed quite uncalled
for in the circumstances. What was Hecuba to her, or she to Hecuba, that
she should be so inspired by the possibilities of a mystery with which
she had nothing to do? Her eloquence brought a corresponding glow, yet
cloud, over the countenance of her mistress, who sat and listened with
her head leaning on her hand, and for some time said nothing. She broke
the silence at last with a laugh in which there was very little sound of
mirth.
“You are a limited woman,” she said--“a very limited woman. You can
think of no state of affairs but one, and that so uncommon that perhaps
there never was a case in the world like it. You will never be done, I
know that, taking up your lesson out of it--all to learn one that has
neither need to learn nor wish to learn--a thing that is impossible.
Mind you what I say, and be done with this vain endeavour. Whatever may
be the meaning of this Mannering business, it has no likeness to the
other. And I am not a person to be schooled by the like of you, or to be
taught in parables by my own woman, as if I was a person of no
understanding, and her a mistress of every knowledge.”
Miss Bethune rose hurriedly from her seat, and made a turn about the
room with an air of high excitement and almost passion. Then she came
and stood before the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece, looking down upon
the blaze with a face that seemed to be coloured by the reflection.
Finally, she put out a long arm, caught Gilchrist by the shoulders, who
stood softly crying, as was her wont, within reach, and drew her close.
“You’ve been with me through it all,” she said suddenly; “there’s nobody
that knows me but you. Whatever you say, it’s you only that knows what
is in my heart. I bear you no ill-will for any word you say, no’ for any
word you say; and the Lord forgive me if maybe all this time it is you
that has been right and me that has been wrong!” Only a moment, scarcely
so much, Miss Bethune leant her head upon Gilchrist’s shoulder, then
she suddenly pushed her away. And not a second too soon, for at that
moment a knock came to the door. They both started a little; and Miss
Bethune, with the speed of thought, returned to the chair shaded by a
screen from the lamplight and firelight in which she had been sitting,
“not in good spirits,” at the time of the interruption of Dora. “Go and
see who it is,” she said, half in words, half by the action of her hand.
Nothing could have been more instantaneous than this rapid change.
When Gilchrist, scarcely less rapid though so much heavier than her
mistress, opened the door, there stood before it a little man very
carefully dressed, though in morning costume, in a solemn frock coat,
with his hat in his hand. Though professional costume no longer exists
among us, it was impossible not to feel and recognise in a moment that
nothing but a medical man, a doctor to the tips of his fingers, could
have appeared in just that perfect neatness of dress, so well brushed,
so exactly buttoned, so gravely clothed in garments which, though free
of any peculiarity of art or colour, such as that which distinguishes
the garb of a clergyman, were yet so completely and seriously
professional. His whiskers, for it was in the days when these ornaments
were still worn, his hair, brown, with a slight crisp and upturning,
like lining, of grey, the watch-chain that crossed his waistcoat, as
well as the accurate chronometer of a watch to which so many eager and
so many languid pulses had beat, were all in perfect keeping; even his
boots--but we must not pursue too far this discussion of Dr. Roland’s
personal appearance. His boots were not the polished leather of the
evening; but they were the spotless boots of a man who rarely walked,
and whose careful step from his carriage to a patient’s door never
carried in any soil of the outside to the most delicate carpet. Why,
being one of the inhabitants of this same house in Bloomsbury, he should
have carried his hat in his hand when he came to the door of Miss
Bethune’s drawing-room from his own sitting-room downstairs, is a
mystery upon which I can throw no light.
The ideas of a man in respect to his hat are indeed unfathomable.
Whether he carries it as a protection or a shield of pretence, whether
to convey to you that he is anxiously expected somewhere else, and that
you are not to calculate upon anything but a short appearance upon your
individual scene, whether to make it apparent by its gloss and sheen how
carefully he has prepared for this interview, whether it is to keep
undue familiarity at arm’s length, or provide a becoming occupation for
those hands with which many persons, while in repose, do not know what
to do, it is impossible to tell. Certain it is that a large number of
men find consolation and support in the possession of that article of
apparel; and though they may freely abuse it in other circumstances,
cling to it on social occasions as to an instrument of salvation. Dr.
Roland held it fast, and bowed over it with a little formality, as he
came into his neighbour’s presence. They met on the stairs or in the
hall sometimes three or four times in a day, but they were not the less
particular in going through all the forms of civility when the doctor
came to pay a call, as if they had not seen each other for a week
before. He was a man of very great observation, and he did not miss a
single particular of the scene. The screen drawn round the lady,
defending her not only from the fire but from inspection, and a slight
glistening upon the cheek of Gilchrist, which, as she did not paint or
use any cosmetic, had but one explanation. That he formed a completely
wrong conclusion was not Dr. Roland’s fault. He did so sometimes from
lack of material on which to form his judgment, but not often. He said
to himself, “There has been a row,” which, as the reader is aware, was
not the case; but then he set himself to work to smooth down all
agitation with a kindness and skill which the gentlest reader, knowing
all about it, could not have surpassed.
“We have just been doing a very wrong thing, Gilchrist and me,” said
Miss Bethune; “a thing which you will say, doctor, is the way of ladies
and their maids; but that is just one of your generalisings, and not
true--except now and then. We have been wondering what is the strange
story of our bonnie little Dora and that quiet, learned father of hers
upstairs.”
“Very natural, I should say,” said the doctor. “But why should there be
any story at all? I don’t wonder at the discussion, but why should there
be any cause for it? A quiet, learned man, as you say, and one fair
daughter and no more, whom he loves passing well.”
“Ah, doctor,” said Miss Bethune, “you know a great deal about human
nature. You know better than that.”
The doctor put down his hat, and drew his chair nearer the fire. “Should
you like to hear the story of poor Mannering?” he said.