The End of a Drama.
Mrs. Murray lived two days longer. They were weary days to Edgar. It
seems hard to grudge another hour, another moment to the dying, but how
hard are those last lingerings, when hope is over, when all work is
suspended, and a whole little world visibly standing still, till the
lingerer can make up his mind to go! The sufferer herself was too human,
too deeply experienced in life, not to feel the heavy interval as much
as they did. “I’m grieved, grieved,” she said, with that emphatic
repetition which the Scotch peasant uses in common with all naturally
eloquent races, “to keep you waiting, bairns.” Sometimes she said this
with a wistful smile, as claiming their indulgence; sometimes with a
pang of consciousness that they were as weary as she was. She had kissed
and blessed her prodigal returned, and owned to herself with a groan,
which was, however, breathed into her own breast, and of which no one
was the wiser, that Willie, too, was “no more than common folk.”
I cannot explain more than the words themselves do how this high soul in
homely guise felt the pang of her oft-repeated disappointment. Children
and grandchildren, she had fed them not with common food, the bread
earned with ordinary labours, but with her blood, like the pelican; with
the toil of man and woman, of ploughman and hero, all mingled into one.
High heart, heroic in her weakness as in her strength! They had turned
out but “common folk,” and, at each successive failure, that pang had
gone through and through her which common folk could not comprehend. She
looked at Willie the last, with a mingled pleasure and anguish in her
dying mind--I say pleasure, and not joy, for the signs of his face were
not such as to give that last benediction of happiness. Nature was glad
in her to see the boy back whom she had long believed at the bottom of
the sea; but her dying eyes looked at him wistfully, trying to penetrate
his heart, and reach its excuses.
“You should have written, to ease our minds,” she said gently.
“How was I to know you would take it to heart so? Many a man has stayed
away longer, and no harm come of it,” cried Willie, self-defending.
The old woman put her hand upon his bended head, as he sat by her
bedside, half sullen, half sorry. She stroked his thick curling locks
softly, saying nothing for a few long silent moments. She did not blame
him further, nor justify him, but simply was silent. Then she said,
“You will take care of your sister, Willie, as I have taken care of her?
She has suffered a great deal for you.”
“But oh!” cried Jeanie, when they were alone together--kneeling by the
bedside, with her face upon her grandmother’s hand, “you never called
him but Willie--you never spoke to him soft and kind, as you used to
do.”
“Was I no kind?” said the dying woman, with a mingled smile and sigh;
but she kept “My bonnie man!” her one expression of homely fondness, for
Edgar’s ear alone.
They had more than one long conversation before her end came. Edgar was
always glad to volunteer to relieve the watchers in her room, feeling
infinitely more at home there than with the others below. On the night
before her death, she told him of the arrangements she had made.
“You gave me your fortune, Edgar, ower rashly, my bonnie man. Your deed
was so worded, they tell me, that I might have willed your siller away
from you, had I no been an honest woman.”
“And so I meant,” said Edgar, though he was not very clear that at the
time he had any meaning at all. “And there is Jeanie----”
“You will not take Jeanie upon you,” said the old woman--“I charge ye
not to do it. The best thing her brother can have to steady him and keep
him right, is the thought of Jeanie on his hands--Jeanie to look for him
when he comes home. You’ll mind what I say. Meddling with nature is aye
wrong; I’ve done it in my day, and I’ve repented. To make a’ sure, I’ve
left a will, Edgar, giving everything to you--everything. What is it? My
auld napery, and the auld, auld remains of my mother’s--most of it her
spinning and mine. Give it to your aunts, Edgar, for they’ll think it
their due; but keep a something--what are the auld rags worth to
you?--keep a little piece to mind me by--a bit of the fine auld
damask--so proud as I was of it once! I’ve nae rings nor bonny-dies,
like a grand leddy, to keep you in mind of me.”
She spoke so slowly that these words took her a long time to say, and
they were interrupted by frequent pauses; but her voice had not the
painful labouring which is so common at such a moment; it was very low,
but still sweet and clear. Then she put out her hand, still so fine, and
soft, and shapely, though the nervous force had gone out of it, upon
Edgar’s arm.
“I’m going where I’ll hear nothing of you, maybe, for long,” she said.
“I would like to take all the news with me--for there’s them to meet
yonder that will want to hear. There’s something in your eye, my bonnie
man, that makes me glad. You’re no just as you were--there’s more light
and more life. Edgar, you’re seeing your way?”
Then, in the silence of the night, he told her all his tale. The
curtains had been drawn aside, that she might see the moon shining over
the hills. The clearest still night had succeeded many days of rain; the
soft “hus-sh” of the loch lapping upon the beach was the only sound that
broke the great calm. He sat between her and that vision of blue sky and
silvered hill which was framed in by the window; by his side a little
table, with a candle on it, which lighted one side of his face; behind
him the shadowy dimness of the death-chamber; above him that gleam of
midnight sky. He saw nothing but her face; she looked wistfully,
fondly, as on a picture she might never see more, upon all the
circumstances of this scene. He told her everything--more than he ever
told to mortal after her--how he had been able to serve Clare, and how
she had been saved from humiliation and shame; how he had met Gussy, and
found her faithful; and how he was happy at the present moment, already
loved and trusted, but happier still in the life that lay before him,
and the woman who was to share it. She listened to every word with
minute attention, following him with little exclamations, and all the
interest of youth.
“And oh! now I’m glad!” cried the old woman, making feeble efforts,
which wasted almost all the little breath left to her, to draw something
from under her pillow--“I’m glad I have something that I never would
part with. You’ll take her this, Edgar--you’ll give her my blessing.
Tell her my man brought me this when I was a bride. It’s marked out mony
a weary hour and mony a light one; it’s marked the time of births and of
deaths. When my John died, my man, it stoppit at the moment, and it was
long, long or I had the heart to wind it again and set it going. It’s
worn now, like me; but you’ll bid her keep it, Edgar, my bonnie man!
You’ll give her my blessing, and you’ll bid her to keep it, for your old
mother’s sake.”
Trembling, she put into his hand an old watch, which he had often seen,
but never before so near. It was large and heavy, in an old case of
coppery gold, half hid under partially-effaced enamel, wanting
everything that a modern watch should have, but precious as an antiquity
and work of art.
“A trumpery thing that cost five pounds would please _them_ better,” she
said. “It’s nae value, but it’s old, old, and came to John from a
far-off forbear. You’ll give it to her with my blessing. Ay, blessings
on her!--blessings on her sweet face!--for sweet it’s bound to be; and
blessings on her wise heart, that’s judged weel! eh, but I’m glad to
have one thing to send her. And, Edgar, now I’ve said all my say, turn
me a little, that I may see the moon. Heaven’s but a step on such a
bonnie night. If I’m away before the morning, you’ll shed nae tear, but
praise the Lord the going’s done. No, dinna leave it; take it away. Put
it into your breast-pocket, where you canna lose it. And now say
fare-ye-weel to your old mother, my bonnie man.”
These were the last words she said to him alone. When some one came to
relieve him, Edgar went out with a full heart into the silvery night.
Not a sound of humanity broke the still air, which yet had in it a
sharpness of the spring frosts. The loch rose and fell upon its pebbles,
as if it hushed its own very waves in sorrow. The moon shone as if with
a purpose--as if holding her lovely lamp to light some beloved wayfarer
up the shining slope.
“Heaven’s but a step on such a night,” he said to himself, with tears of
which his manhood was not ashamed. And so the moon lighted the traveller
home.
With the very next morning the distractions of common earth returned.
Behind the closed shutters, the women began to examine the old napery,
and the men to calculate what the furniture, the cow, the cocks and hens
would bring. James Murray valued it all, pencil and notebook in hand.
Nothing would have induced the family to show so little respect as to
shorten the six or seven days’ interval before the funeral, but it was a
very tedious interval for them all. Mrs. Campbell drove off with her
husband to her own house on the second day, and James Murray returned to
Greenock; but the MacColls stayed, and Margaret, and made their “blacks”
in the darkened room below, and spoke under their breath, and wearied
for the funeral day which should release them.
Margaret, perhaps, was the one on whom this interval fell most lightly;
but yet Margaret had her private sorrows, less easy to bear than the
natural grief which justified her tears. The sailor Willie paid but
little attention to her beauty and her pathetic looks. He was full of
plans about his little sister, about taking her with him on his next
voyage, to strengthen her and “divert” her; and poor Margaret, whose
heart had gone out of her breast at first sight of him, as it had done
in her early girlhood, felt her heart sicken with the neglect, yet could
not believe in it. She could not believe in his indifference, in his
want of sympathy with those feelings which had outlived so many other
things in her mind. She went to Edgar a few days after their
grandmother’s death with a letter in her hand. She went to him for
advice, and I cannot tell what it was she wished him to advise her. She
did not know herself; she wanted to do two things, and she could but
with difficulty and at a risk to herself do one.
“This is a letter I have got from Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, with
downcast looks. “Oh! Cousin Edgar, my heart is breaking! Will you tell
me what to do?”
Harry’s letter was hot and desperate, as was his mind. He implored her,
with abject entreaties, to marry him, not to cast him off; to remember
that for a time she had smiled upon him, or seemed to smile upon him,
and not to listen now to what anyone might say who should seek to
prejudice her against him. “What does my family matter when I adore
you?” cried poor Harry, unwittingly betraying himself. And he begged her
to send him one word, only one word--permission to come down and speak
for himself. Edgar felt, as he read this piteous epistle, like the wolf
into whose fangs a lamb had thrust its unsuspecting head.
“How can I advise you how to answer?” he said, giving her back the
letter, glad to get it out of his hands. “You must answer according to
what is in your heart.”
Upon this Margaret wept, wringing her lily hands.
“Mr. Edgar,” she said, “you cannot think that I am not moved by such a
letter. Oh! I’m not mercenary, I don’t think I am mercenary! but to have
all this put at my feet, to feel that it would be for Charles’s good
and for Sibby’s good, if I could make up my mind!”
Here she stopped, and cast a glance back at the house again. Edgar had
been taking a melancholy walk along the side of the loch, where she had
joined him. Her heart was wrung by a private conflict, which she could
not put into words, but which he divined. He felt sure of it, from all
he had seen and heard since they came, as well as from the impression
conveyed to his mind the moment she had named the sailor Willie’s name.
I do not know why it should be humbling for a woman to love without
return, when it is not humbling for a man; but it is certain that for
nothing in the world would Margaret have breathed the cause of her
lingering unwillingness to do anything which should separate her from
Willie; and that Edgar felt hot and ashamed for her, and turned away his
eyes, that she might not see any insight in them. At the same time,
however, the question had another side for him, and involved his own
fortunes. He tried to dismiss this thought altogether out of his mind,
but it was hard to do so. Had she loved Harry Thornleigh, Edgar would
have felt himself all the more pledged to impartiality, because this
union would seriously endanger his own; but to help to ruin himself by
encouraging a mercenary marriage, this would be hard indeed!
“Are you sure that you would get so many advantages?--to Charles and to
Sibby?” he cried, with a coldness impossible to conceal.
She looked at him startled, the tears arrested in her blue eyes. She
had never doubted upon this point. Could she make up her mind to marry
Harry, every external advantage that heart could desire she felt would
be secured. This first doubt filled her with dismay.
“Would I no?” she cried faltering. “He is a rich man’s heir, Lady Mary’s
nephew--a rich gentleman. Oh! Cousin Edgar, what will you think of me? I
have always been poor, and Charles is poor--how can I put that out of my
mind?”
“I do not blame you,” said Edgar, feeling ashamed both of himself and
her. And then he added, “He is a rich man’s son, but his father is not
old; and he would not receive you gladly into his family. Forgive me
that I say so--I ought to tell you that I am not a fair judge. I am
going to marry Harry’s sister, and they object very much to me.”
“Object to _you_!--they are ill to please,” cried Margaret, with simple
natural indignation. “But if you were in the family, that would make
things easier for us,” she added, wistfully, looking up in his face.
“You have made up your mind, then, to run the risk?” said Edgar, feeling
his heart sink.
“I did not say that.” She gave another glance at the house again. Willie
was standing at the door, in the morning sunshine, and beckoned to her
to come back. She turned to him, as a flower turns to the sun. “No, I am
far, far from saying that,” said the young woman, with a mixture of
sadness and gladness, turning to obey the summons.
Edgar stood still, looking after her with wondering gaze. The
good-looking sailor, whose likeness to himself did not make him proud,
was a poor creature enough to be as the sun in the heavens to this
beautiful, stately young woman, who looked as if she had been born to be
a princess. What a strange world it is, and how doubly strange is human
nature! Willie had but to hold up a finger, and Margaret would follow
him to the end of the earth; though the rest of his friends judged him
rightly enough, and though even little Jeanie, though she loved, could
scarcely approve her brother, Margaret was ready to give up even her
hope of wealth and state, which she loved, for this Sultan’s notice.
Strange influence, which no man could calculate upon, which no prudence
restrained, nor higher nor lower sentiment could quite subdue!
Edgar followed his beautiful cousin to the house with pitying eyes. He
did not want her to marry Harry Thornleigh, but even to marry Harry
Thornleigh, though she did not love him, seemed less degrading than to
hang upon the smile, the careless whistle to his hand, of a man so
inferior to her. I don’t know if, in reality, Willie was inferior to
Margaret. She, for one, would have been quite satisfied with him; but
great beauty creates an atmosphere about it which dazzles the beholder.
It was not fit, Edgar felt, in spite of himself, that a woman so lovely
should thus be thrown away.
As this is but an episode in my story, I may here follow Margaret’s
uncomfortable wooing to its end. Poor Harry, tantalized and driven
desperate by a letter, which seemed, to Margaret, the most gently
temporising in the world, and which was intended to keep him from
despair, and to retain her hold upon him until Willie’s purposes were
fully manifested, at last made his appearance at Loch Arroch Head, where
she was paying the Campbells a visit, on the day after Edgar left the
loch. He came determined to hear his fate decided one way or another,
almost ill with the excitement in which he had been kept, wilder than
ever in the sudden passion which had seized upon him like an evil
spirit. He met her, on his unexpected arrival, walking with Willie, who,
having nothing else to do, did not object to amuse his leisure with his
beautiful cousin, whose devotion to him, I fear, he knew. Poor Margaret!
I know her behaviour was ignoble, but I regret--as I have confessed to
the reader--that she did not become the great lady she might have been;
and, notwithstanding that Edgar’s position would have been deeply
complicated thereby, I wish the field had been left clear for Harry
Thornleigh, who would have made her a good enough husband, and to whom
she would have made, in the end, a very sweet wife. Forgive me, young
romancist, I cannot help this regret. Even at that moment Margaret did
not want to lose her young English Squire, and her friends were so far
from wanting to lose him that Harry, driven to dire disgust, hated them
ever after with a strenuous hatred, which he transferred to their nation
generally, not knowing any better. He lingered for a day or more,
waiting for the answer which Margaret was unwilling to give, and
tortured by Willie, who, seeing the state of affairs, felt his vanity
involved, and was more and more loverlike to his cousin. The issue was
that Harry rushed away at last half mad, and went abroad, and wasted his
substance more than he had ever done up to that moment, damaged his
reputation, and encumbered his patrimony, and fell into that state of
cynical disbelief in everybody, which, bad as are its effects even upon
the cleverest and brightest intelligence, has a worse influence still
upon the stupid, to whom there is no possibility of escape from its
withering power.
When Harry was fairly off the scene, his rival slackened in his
attentions; and after a while Margaret returned to her brother, and they
did their best to retrieve their standing at Tottenham’s, and to make
the position of the doctor’s family at Harbour Green a pleasant one. But
Lady Mary, superior to ordinary prejudices as she was, was not so
superior as to be altogether just to Margaret, who, though she deserved
blame, got more blame than she deserved. The Thornleighs all believed
that she had “laid herself out” to “entrap” Harry--which was not the
case; and Lady Mary looked coldly upon the woman who had permitted
herself to be loved by a man so far above her sphere. And then Lady Mary
disliked the doctor, who never could think even of the most interesting
“case” so much as to be indifferent to what people were thinking of
himself. So Harbour Green proved unsuccessful, as their other
experiments had proved, and the brother and sister drifted off again
into the world, where they drift still, from place to place, always
needy, anxious, afraid of their gentility, yet with that link of
fraternal love between them, and with that toleration of each other and
mutual support, which gives a certain beauty, wherever they go, to the
family group formed by this handsome brother and sister, and the
beautiful child, whom her uncle cherishes almost as dearly as her mother
does.
Ah, me! if Margaret had made that “good match,” though it was not all
for love, would it not have been better for everybody concerned?