MARY'S PREPARATIONS.
Greatly to the chagrin of Lady Dunkeld, there seemed no chance of
extracting a proposal from Captain Colville, the rumour of whose
engagement to her daughter was simply provincial gossip, and as for
Sir Redmond Sleath, for certain cogent reasons of his own, perhaps he
dared not make one, even if dazzled by the fair Blanche Galloway.
The invitation to Craigmhor seemed to be a failure as yet, so far as
the former was concerned, for after the shooting began on the 12th of
August, when not on the moors, he spent much of his time most
provokingly immersed in correspondence concerning the property to
which he had succeeded and his peerage claim--both circumstances that
greatly enhanced his value in the eyes of such a match-making mother
as my Lady Dunkeld.
He was often found closeted in consultation with Doctor Wodrow, with
whom he seemed to stand high in favour, and it was noted that they
always separated in high good humour; so the supposition was, that
the latter was seeking the wealthy Guardsman's good offices for his
son Robert. What other matter could they have in hand?
Lady Dunkeld was therefore not sorry when Captain Colville took his
temporary departure to shoot in the forest of Alyth, trusting to a
change on his return.
If she had flattered herself that, amid the somewhat secluded life
all led at Craigmhor, any fancy Colville had for Blanche would
speedily manifest itself, she was doomed to disappointment--angry
disappointment, and worse; for, if the stories Mademoiselle Rosette
told were true, the captain had spent somewhat too much of his time
wandering, rod in hand, on the banks of the May, and tarrying for
afternoon tea at Birkwoodbrae.
The result of all this was that Mary and Ellinor had become painfully
conscious that many who were their friends before had now begun to
view them coldly and distantly, why or wherefore, in their innocence,
they knew not, because they were ignorant of malevolent hints
regarding them dropped to chance visitors at Craigmhor, by elevation
of the eyebrows, shrugs of the shoulder, or the impatient wave of a
fan, if their names were mentioned; the ladies there--mother and
daughter--were leaving nothing undone to injure them in the
estimation of all, and even spoke of them as 'young women who were
above doing their duty in that state of life to which Providence had
called them.'
A consciousness of all this added to their new mortification, and
increased their anxiety to be gone, and they worked away at their
arrangements in a species of suppressed excitement, and Dr. Wodrow
was still in Edinburgh.
It was neither a Sacramental Fast-day nor a Sunday at Birkwoodbrae,
yet a strange stillness, as if death were there again, brooded over
all the place; the house with its roses and creepers, the garden with
its now untended flowers, the empty meadow, and the lovely silver
birches; and poor Robert Wodrow, as sadly he approached the house for
the last time, felt conscious of this as he passed, and with a bitter
sigh looked around him.
Even Jack's bark was unheard; the scythe lay among the rich clover,
the gate that led to the highway stood wide open, and near it
lingered some cottar people, with mouths agape, old and young, with
grave and anxious faces, even with tears, for some of the young
girls' 'belongings' had already been sent away, the gazers knew not
where.
Something strange they thought had come to pass, yet the sunshine of
the first of September lay golden on the woods, the pastures, the
cattle, and the flower-gardens, though beneath was a great shadow
like that of death over all, and Robert Wodrow, impressionable at all
times, felt it; for the sisters were on the eve of departure, and
another day or two--so quickly had Mary's preparations been
made--would see all ended.
The bright sunshine of the autumn evening was touching, we have said,
with fiery light the smooth silver stems of the tall birch-trees, and
the birds still sang sweetly under the feather-like foliage that hung
gracefully downward, unstirred by the faintest breeze, when, looking
from an open window on the scene she loved so well, Mary Wellwood
paused in the bitter task of making up a list of their household
effects ere she left the roof of Birkwoodbrae for ever. After she
was fairly gone, a letter to Dr. Wodrow would inform him of all their
wishes, she was thinking, when suddenly Robert stood by her side, and
put an arm kindly round her.
'Why, you will kill yourself with all this work and anxiety; dear
Mary, let me help you,' said he.
'I am nearly done,' said she, wearily, and with a quivering lip;
'there are but a few relics, books and so forth, I wish to keep----'
'Leave it with me; save you, Mary, and the old folks at the manse, I
have no one left to care for now.'
'Poor Robert!' said she, kissing his cheek, for she knew his meaning
well.
No one can 'minister to a mind diseased' like a mother, it has been
said; but Mrs. Wodrow, to her sorrow, had signally failed to so
minister to her son Robert.
'And you have failed at the University, Robert?' said Mary, after a
pause.
'Utterly!'
'How--and why?'
'I don't know--at the last moment, somehow,' said he, despondently,
looking down on the carpet.
'Ellinor, no doubt, was the cause?' said Mary, softly.
He smiled bitterly, but made no reply.
'You will try again, Robert dear?' said Mary, patting his hand.
'Never, Mary,' he replied, in a low, husky voice; 'God only knows how
I toiled and toiled, at botany, anatomy, and chemistry--Balfour and
Quain and Miller, and with _what_ object; but I have taken my last
shot, and shall grind no more.'
'And what do you mean to do, Robert?'
'Heaven knows--you will hear in time, Mary.'
She eyed him wistfully and sorrowfully, and then said,
'After your quarrel with Ellinor----'
'Don't call it a quarrel, Mary--say coldness. Well?'
'It is very kind of you to take the trouble to come here now.'
'Kind--trouble; why, what has come to you, Mary, that you speak thus,
and to _me_? A farewell letter might have done, but I--I preferred
to come to the old place once again.'
'Pardon me, Robert, but I am so crushed--so confused--that I scarcely
know what I say.'
'But is the step you are about to take absolutely necessary, and in
such hot haste too?'
'What step?' asked Mary, as if to delay the bitterness of the
admission.
'Leaving Birkwoodbrae! I can't make out the mystery of it at all!'
'Alas! we must go; this house was never ours--we dwelt here on
sufferance; and the place is another's now--another whom we know only
by name and in family feud.'
'Can it be that God's world belongs only to rascals!' exclaimed young
Wodrow, bitterly.
'Well, the rich and cruel seem to thrive best, for a time at least,'
said Mary, a little infected by his mood.
'But to go away so far--so far as London?' he urged, with an air of
bewilderment.
'The further the better now, Robert.'
'But the idea of making your own livelihood in that awful human
wilderness, you and Ellinor, seems so strange--so perilous and
unnatural.'
'Why so--don't thousands work?'
'And starve and die of broken hearts!'
'Robert, you are not encouraging.'
'I would that I could be so.'
'We must make the attempt as others do and have done. We are
well-nigh penniless now; without Birkwoodbrae and its accessories we
could not live alone on the pittance poor papa left us, and here we
could not add a penny to it. I don't think I am fit for much,
Robert,' continued Mary, sadly and humbly, with tears in her soft,
sweet eyes. 'No one will give me a high-class situation, my
education has been so very simple, and beyond a little music'--her
voice broke fairly now--'and Ellinor's pencil, she is very clever,
you know----'
'I wish I could see this infernally grasping cousin of yours!'
surmised Robert, angrily and reflectively.
'Don't think of it--I would not accept a favour from his father's
son; for that father was--through life--the enemy of mine!'
'Why--and about what?' asked Robert.
'Some quarrel about a lady in their youth, as subalterns, I believe.'
'Oho--the old, old story!' said Robert, gnawing his nether lip, and
taking up his hat, but lingering still.
'You will see Ellinor, Robert dear,' said Mary, timidly and
pleadingly. 'I can call her from her room--it will be for the last
time.'
The cloud on young Wodrow's face deepened, as he said, in a low voice,
'No, Mary--thank you--I dare not--would rather not see her again.'
'Why?' asked Mary, taking his hands caressingly between her own.
'All my love for her might--nay, would break out for her with renewed
force, for I am in some ways weak and unstable of purpose. Better
not--better not--never again--never again,' he muttered, huskily, and
Mary kissed him with her eyes full of tears, for just then her heart
was very sore indeed.
'Besides, Mary, I have schooled myself for the future.'
'And that _future_, Robert.'
'You will learn in time. Curse that fellow,' he suddenly exclaimed,
his eyes flashing, as he referred to Sleath, 'what evil chance
brought him among us here? How I can recall his eyes, alternately
sleepy and shifty, and the air of would-be high-bred tolerance and
boredom with which he condescended to survey us all and everything
here!'
In the gust of jealous anger that now possessed him, Mary knew that
it was useless to urge again that he should see Ellinor, and after
making her all offers of assistance and proffers of kindness, he
strode suddenly away, muttering to himself the lines of Edmondstoune
Aytoun.
'Woman's love is writ in water,
Woman's faith is traced in sand,
Backwards, backwards let me wander,
To the noble northern land.'
The little money that Mary could spare from what she had been able to
realise by the hasty sale of two pet cows and the stock of her
fowl-yard, she bestowed, as far as she could, upon Elspat and other
old servants, all of whom were bowed down with wonder, grief and
alarm at movements and changes so unexpected; and she felt that she
would be glad when the parting with all--the final wrench--was over.
Between her and these subordinates there was a closer bond of
sympathy than usually exists between mistress and servant--even in
Scotland--now-a-days, and can scarcely be found south of the Tweed.
'My English readers,' says an English writer on this subject, 'will
probably ridicule such a feeling on the part of a servant, for the
majority of them are of the belief that money is the only connecting
link of a household. So long as wages are regularly paid and the
ordinary meals provided, a servant has only to do her duty properly,
and leaves it as utter a stranger as when she entered it. There is
no obligation on either side, and, if she goes, some one will be
found to take her place.'
But it is not quite so yet in the kindly north country, especially
the further north we go; for the influences of the old feudal system,
and of the still older and dearer ties of clanship, linger among the
hills and glens, knitting all ranks and conditions of men together,
and long, long may they continue to do so.