In Love.
Life had become a new thing altogether for Harry Thornleigh. Up to this
time his existence had been that of his immediate surroundings, an
outward life so to speak. The history of the visible day in any
household of which he formed a part would have been his history, not
much more nor less; but this easy external existence was over for him.
He began to have a double being from the moment he saw Margaret. All
that he was most conscious of, was within him, a life of thought, of
recollection, of musing, and imagination; and external matters affected
him but vaguely through the cloud of this more intimate consciousness.
Yet his faculties were at the same time quickened, and the qualities of
his mind brought out--or so at least he felt. He had been very angry
with Lady Mary for her mirth over Mrs. Smith’s name; but his new
feelings (though they originated this anger) seemed to give him prudence
and cleverness enough to make an instrument of the very jest he
detested. He began to speak of Mrs. Smith the morning after his visit to
her, restraining his temper admirably, and opening the subject in the
most good-humoured way.
“I delivered your note, Aunt Mary,” he said; “you are right after all,
about the name. It is ridiculous. Mrs. Smith! after being Miss Murray,
as I suppose she was. She ought to change back again.”
“There are other ways of changing,” said Lady Mary, “and I daresay such
a pretty woman could easily do it if she wished. Yes, I got a very nice
little note from her, thanking me. Though I am disappointed in the
brother, I must show them some civility. Did you hear when they were to
get into their house?”
Harry had not heard; but he propitiated his aunt by telling her what was
Dr. Murray’s opinion of his predecessor, an opinion which greatly
comforted Lady Mary, and made her feel herself quite justified in the
part she had taken in the matter.
“There must be more in him than I thought,” she said, in high
good-humour; and then Harry felt bold to make his request.
“The sister,” he said, toning down the superlatives in which he felt
disposed to speak of that peerless being, with an astuteness of which he
felt half-ashamed, half-proud, “is rather lonely, I should think, in
that poky little place; and she has a nice little girl about Molly’s
age.” (This was a very wild shot, for Harry had about as much idea of
their relative ages as he had about the distances between two stars).
“They don’t know any one, and I don’t think she’s very strong. Without
asking them formally, Aunt Mary, don’t you think you might have her and
the child up to luncheon or something, to see the conservatories and all
that? it would be a little change for them. They looked rather dismal in
Mrs. Sims’ parlour, far from everything they know.”
“How considerate and kind of you, Harry!” cried Lady Mary. “I am ashamed
of myself for not having thought of it. Of course, poor thing, she must
be lonely--nothing to do, and probably not even any books. The Scotch
all read; they are better educated a great deal than we are. To be sure,
you are quite right. I might drive down to-morrow, and fetch her to
lunch. But, by-the-by, I have Herr Hartstong coming to-morrow, who is to
give the botany lecture--”
“An extra lady and a little girl would not hurt Herr Hartstong.”
“There is no telling,” said Lady Mary, with a laugh, “such a pretty
creature as she is. But I think he has a wife already. I only meant I
could not go to fetch her. But to be sure she’s a married woman, and I
don’t see what harm there would be. _You_ might do that.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” cried Harry, trying with all his might to
keep down his exultation, and not let it show too much in his face and
voice.
“Then we’ll settle it so. You can take the ponies, and a fur cloak to
wrap her in, as she’s delicate; and Herr Hartstong must take his chance.
But, by the way,” Lady Mary added, pausing, turning round and looking at
him--“by the way, you are of a great deal more importance. You must
take care she does not harm _you_.”
“Me!” said Harry, with a wild flutter at his heart, forcing to his lips
a smile of contempt. “I am a likely person, don’t you think, to be
harmed by anybody belonging to the country doctor? I thought, Aunt Mary,
you had more knowledge of character.”
“Your class exclusivism is revolting, Harry,” cried Lady Mary, severely.
“A young man with such notions is an anachronism; I can’t understand how
you and I can come of the same race. But perhaps it’s just as well in
this case,” she added, gliding back into her easier tone. “Your mother
would go mad at the thought of any such danger for you.”
“I hope I can take care of myself by this time, without my mother’s
help,” said Harry, doing his best to laugh. He was white with rage and
self-restraint; and the very sound of that laugh ought to have put the
heedless aunt, who was thus helping him on the way to destruction, on
her guard. But Lady Mary’s mind was occupied by so many things, that she
had no attention to bestow on Harry; besides the high confidence she
felt in him as an unimpressionable blockhead and heart-hardened young
man of the world.
To-morrow, however--this bliss was only to come to-morrow--and
twenty-four hours had to be got through somehow without seeing her.
Harry once more threw himself in the way persistently. He went down to
the village, and called upon all his old acquaintances; he kept about
the Green the whole afternoon; but Margaret did not appear. At last,
when his patience would hold out no longer, he called at the cottage,
saying to himself, that in case Lady Mary had forgotten to write, it
would be kind to let her know what was in store for her. But, alas! she
was not to be found at the cottage. How she had been able to go out
without being seen, Harry could not tell, but he had to go back drearily
at night without even a glimpse of her. What progress his imagination
had made in three or four days! The very evening seemed darker, the
stars less divine, the faint glimmers of the Aurora which kept shooting
across the sky had become paltry and unmeaning. If that was all
electricity could do, Harry felt it had better not make an exhibition of
itself. Was it worth while to make confusion among the elements for so
little? was it worth while to suffer the bondage of society, to go
through luncheons and dinners, and all the common action of life without
even a glance or a smile to make a man feel that he had a soul in him
and a heaven above him? Thus wildly visionary had poor Harry become all
in a moment, who had never of his own free will read a line of poetry in
his life.
“I am so sorry to give you the trouble, Harry,” said Lady Mary, pausing
for a moment in her conversation with Herr Hartstong (whose lecture was
to be given next morning) to see the ponies go off.
“Oh! I don’t mind it once in a way,” said the young man, scarcely able
to restrain the laughter with which, partly from sheer delight, partly
from a sense of the ludicrous inappropriateness of her apology, he was
bursting. He went down the avenue like an arrow, the ponies tossing
their heads, and ringing their bells, the wintry sunshine gleaming on
him through the long lines of naked trees. Margaret, to whom Lady Mary
had written, was waiting for him with a flush of pleasure upon her pale
face, and a look of soft grateful friendliness in her beautiful eyes.
“It was kind of you to come for us,” she said, looking up at him.
“I am so glad to come,” said Harry, with all his heart in his voice. He
wrapt her in the warm furs, feeling somehow, with a delicious sense of
calm and security, that, for the moment, she belonged to him. “The
morning is so fine, and the ponies are so fresh, that I think we might
take a turn round the park,” he said. “You are not afraid of them?”
“Oh no! the bonnie little beasties,” cried Margaret, leaning back with
languid enjoyment. She had often harnessed the rough pony at Loch Arroch
with her own hands, and driven him to the head of the loch without
thinking of fear, though she looked now so dainty and delicate; but she
did not feel inclined to tell Harry this, or even to recall to herself
so homely a recollection. Margaret had been intended by nature for a
fine lady. She lay back in the luxurious little carriage, wrapped in the
furred mantle, and felt herself whisked through the sunny wintry air to
the admiration of all beholders, with a profound sense of enjoyment.
She liked the comfort dearly. She liked the dreamy pleasure which was
half of the mind, and half of the body. She liked the curtseys of the
gatekeepers, and the glances of the stray walkers, who looked after her,
she thought, with envy. She felt it natural that she should thus be
surrounded by things worthy, and pleasant, and comfortable. Even the
supreme gratification of the young attendant by her side, whose
infatuation began to shew itself so clearly in his eyes, was a climax of
pleasure to Margaret, which she accepted easily without fear of the
consequences.
Yes, she thought, he was falling in love with her, poor boy; and it is
seldom unpleasant to be fallen in love with. Most probably his people
would put a stop, to it, and as she did not mean to give him what she
called “any encouragement,” there would be no harm done. Whereas, on the
other hand, if his people did not interfere, there was always the chance
that it might come to something. Margaret did not mean any harm--she was
only disposed to take the Scriptural injunction as her rule, and to let
the morrow care for the things of itself.
She lay back in the little carriage with the grey feather in her hat
swaying like her slight figure, and Sibby held fast in her arms.
“I feel as if I were in a nest,” she said, when Harry asked tenderly if
she felt the cold; and thus they flew round the park, where a little
stir of Spring was visible in the rough buds, and where here and there
one dewy primrose peeped forth in a sheltered nook--the ponies’ hoofs
ringing, and their heads tossing, and their bells tinkling--Harry lost
in a foolish joy beyond expression, and she wrapped in delicious
comfort. He was thinking altogether of her, she almost altogether of
herself--and of her child, who was another self.
“I have enjoyed it so much,” she said softly, as he helped her to get
out in front of the hall door.
“I do not think I ever spent so happy a morning,” Harry said very low.
Margaret made no sign of having heard him. She walked upstairs without
any reply, leaving him without ceremony. “He is going too fast,” she
said to herself. And Harry was a little, just a little, mortified, but
soon got over that, and went after her, and was happy once more--happy
as the day was long. Indeed, the visit altogether was very successful.
Margaret was full of adaptability, very ready to accept any tone which
such a personage as Lady Mary chose to give to the conversation, and
with, in reality, a lively and open intelligence, easily roused to
interest. Besides, though an eager young admirer like Harry was pleasant
enough, and might possibly become important, she never for a moment
deceived herself as to the great unlikelihood that his friends would
permit him to carry out his fancy; and the chance that, instead of
bringing advantage, she might bring harm to herself and her brother if
she gave any one a right to say that she had “encouraged” him. Whereas
nothing but unmingled good could come from pleasing Lady Mary, who was,
in every way, the more important person. This being the principle of
Margaret’s conduct, it is almost unnecessary to say that Lady Mary found
it perfect, and felt that nothing could be in better taste than the way
in which the young Scotchwoman kept Harry’s attentions down, and
accorded the fullest attention to her own observations. She even took
her nephew aside after luncheon, to impress upon him a greater respect
for their guest.
“This Mrs. Smith is evidently a very superior person,” said Lady Mary,
“and I am sorry to see, Harry, that you are rather disposed to treat her
simply as a very pretty young woman. I am not at all sure that you have
not been trying to flirt with her during lunch.”
“I--flirt!--Aunt Mary,” stammered Harry, “you altogether mistake--”
“Oh, of course, you never did such a thing in your life,” she said
mocking, “but this is not quite an ordinary young lady. The Scotch are
so well educated--we can see at a glance that she has read a great deal,
and thought as well--which is by no means common. If you take her round
the conservatories, you must recollect that it is not a mere pretty girl
you are with, Harry. She will not understand your nonsense,” said Lady
Mary with a little warmth.
She, herself, had some final arrangements to make with Herr Hartstong,
who was also very much interested in the graceful listener, from whom he
had received such flattering attention. He made her his best bow, and
hoped he should see her next day at the lecture, when Harry, doing his
best to suppress all manifestations of feeling, led her away.
“It is so kind of you to let me treat you without ceremony,” said Lady
Mary. “Show Mrs. Smith the orchids, Harry. Before you get to the palm
tree, I shall be with you--” and then Harry was free and alone with his
enchantress. He could not talk to her--he was so happy--he led her away
quickly out of sight of his aunt--who had seated herself in a corner of
the big drawing-room, to settle all her final arrangements with the
botanist--and of Herr Hartstong’s big yellow eyes, which looked after
him with suspicion. Harry was eager to get her to himself, to have her
alone, out of sight of everybody; but when he had secured this
isolation, he could not make much use of it. He was dumb with bliss and
excitement--he took her into the fairy palace of flowers where summer
reigned in the midst of winter; and instead of making use of his
opportunities in this still perfumy place, where everything suited the
occasion, found that he had nothing to say. He had talked, laboriously
it is true, but still he had talked, when he had called on her at the
cottage; he had made a few remarks while he drove her round the park;
but on this, the first opportunity he had of being alone with her, he
felt his tongue tied. Instead of taking her to the orchids as Lady Mary
had suggested, he conducted her straight to the palm tree, and there
placed her on the sofa, and stood by, gazing at her, concealing his
agitation by cutting sprays of Cape jasmine, of which there happened to
be a great velvety cluster in front of her seat.
“It is like something in a book,” said Margaret, with a sigh. “What a
fine thing it is to be very rich! I never was in such a beautiful
place.”
“Yes, it’s nice to be well off,” said Harry; “but heaps of people are
well off who never could invent anything so pretty. You see Tottenham
was very much in love with Aunt Mary. She’s a nice little woman,” he
added, parenthetically. “A man in love will do a deal to please the
woman he likes.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Margaret, feeling somewhat disposed to laugh;
“and that makes it all the more interesting. Is Mr. Tottenham very
poetical and romantic? I have not seen him yet.”
“Tottenham poetical!” cried Harry, with a laugh; “no, not exactly. And
that’s an old affair now, since they’ve been married about a century;
but it shows what even a dull man can do. Don’t you think love’s a very
rum thing?” said the young man, cutting the Cape jasmine all to pieces;
“don’t you think so? A fellow doesn’t seem to know what he is doing.”
“Does Lady Mary let you cut her plants to pieces, Mr. Thornleigh?” said
Margaret, feeling her voice quaver with amusement. Upon which Harry
stopped short, and looked sheepishly down at the bunch of flowers in his
hand.
“I meant to get you a nosegay, and here is a great sheaf like a
coachman’s bouquet on a drawing-room day,” cried Harry, half conscious
of this very distinct commentary upon his words. “Never mind, I’ll tell
the gardener. I suppose there are heaps more.”
“How delightful to have heaps more!” said Margaret. “I don’t think poor
folk should ever be brought into such fairy places. I used to think
myself so lucky with a half-a-dozen plants.”
“Then you are fond of flowers?” said Harry.
What woman, nay, what civilised person of the present age, ever made but
one answer to such a question? There are a few people left in the world,
and only a few, who still dare to say they are not fond of music; but
fond of flowers!
“I do so wish you would let me keep you supplied,” said Harry, eagerly.
“Trouble! it would be the very reverse of trouble; it would be the very
greatest pleasure--and I could do it so easily--”
“Are you a cultivator, then?” said Margaret, “a great florist?” she said
it with a half-consciousness of the absurdity, yet half deceived by his
earnestness. Harry himself was startled for the moment by the question.
“A florist! Oh, yes, in a kind of a way,” he said, trying to restrain an
abrupt momentary laugh. A florist? yes; by means of Covent Garden, or
some ruinous London nurseryman. But Margaret knew little of such
refinements. “It would be such a pleasure to me,” he said, anxiously.
“May I do it? And then you will not be able quite to forget my very
existence.”
Margaret got up, feeling the conversation had gone far enough. “May not
I see the--orchids? It was the orchids I think that Lady Mary said.”
“This is the way,” said Harry, almost sullen, feeling that he had fallen
from a great height. He went after her with his huge handful of velvety
jasmine flowers. He did not like to offer them, he did not dare to strew
them at her feet that she might walk upon them, which was what he would
have liked best. He flung them aside into a corner in despite and
vexation. Was he angry with her? If such a sentiment had been possible,
that would have been, he felt, the feeling in his mind. But Margaret was
not angry nor annoyed, though she had stopped the conversation, feeling
it had gone far enough. To “give him encouragement,” she felt, was the
very last thing that, in her position, she dared to do. She liked the
boy, all the same, for liking her. It gave her a soothing consciousness
of personal well-being. She was glad to please everybody, partly because
it pleased herself, partly because she was of a kindly and amiable
character. She had no objection to his admiration, to his love, if the
foolish boy went so far, so long as no one had it in his power to say
that she had given him encouragement; that was the one thing upon which
her mind was fully made up; and then, whatever came of it, she would
have nothing with which to reproach herself. If his people made a
disturbance, as they probably would, and put a stop to his passion, why,
then, Margaret would not be to blame; and if, on the contrary, he had
strength of mind to persevere, or they, by some wonderful chance, did
not oppose, why then Margaret would reap the benefit. This seems a
somewhat selfish principle, looking at it from outside, but I don’t
think that Margaret had what is commonly called a selfish nature. She
was a perfectly sober-minded unimpassioned woman, very affectionate in
her way, very kind, loving comfort and ease, but liking to partake these
pleasures with those who surrounded her. If fate had decreed that she
should marry Harry Thornleigh, she knew very well that she would make
him an admirable wife, and she would have been quite disposed to adapt
herself to the position. But in the meantime she would do nothing to
commit herself, or to bring this end, however desirable it might be in
itself, about.