It was with a mixture of indignation and somewhat grim humour that
Miss Margaret gave the permission and sanction to Lewis's addresses
which have been above recorded. There was a smile upon her face as she
left him and went indoors, which burst forth in a short laugh as she
entered--a laugh of derision and mockery, yet of anger as well, mingled
with a sort of satisfaction in the idea of luring this presumptuous
young man to his fate. Jean to be made love to at this time of day
by a young man who might have been her son! (this, of course, was an
exaggeration, but exaggeration is inevitable in such circumstances).
The purely comic light in which she had at first contemplated the idea
gradually changed into an angry appreciation of the absurdity which
seemed to involve her sister too, and a lively desire to punish the
offender. That would be best done by giving him unlimited opportunity
to compromise himself, she decided, and it was with this vindictive
meaning, and not anything softer or more friendly, that she had so
pointedly indicated to Lewis the best time and manner of approaching
Miss Jean. He partially divined the satire and fierce gleam in her
eyes, but only partially, for to him there was no absurdity in the
matter.
Miss Margaret's heart almost smote her as he stood with his hat off,
and his genial young countenance smiling and glowing, thanking her
for what she had said; but this was only a momentary sensation, and
when she went in she laughed with derision and the anticipation of a
speedy end to a piece of folly which seemed to her beyond parallel.
Such things had been heard of as that a young man who was poor, should
basely and sordidly decide upon marrying, if he could, an old woman who
was rich; but when there was no such motive possible--when, instead of
being rich, the suitor was aware that the woman he sought was poor,
then the matter was beyond comprehension altogether.
Miss Margaret was not sufficiently impartial to pause and think of this
now, but as the day went on, and especially as she sat silent in the
evening, and heard Lilias prattling to Jean, there were various points
which returned to her mind with wonder. Why should he wish to marry
Jean? Miss Margaret glanced at her, then looked steadily, then began to
contemplate her sister with changed eyes. Something was different in
Jean--was it that she looked younger?--something like what she used to
look fifteen years ago? Was it that new hopes, new plans were rising in
her mind? For the first time there breathed across Miss Margaret a cold
and chilling breath of doubt--was it so sure that Jean would teach him
his place, would reject all his overtures? The thought of anything else
filled her with horror and shame. A young man, young enough to be her
son--was it, could it be possible that she would listen to him? A groan
came from Miss Margaret's breast in spite of herself.
"What is the matter?" cried Miss Jean, wondering.
"Oh, just nothing's the matter--an idea that came into my mind--nothing
that you could be interested in," said Miss Margaret.
"Am I not interested in everything that can make you sigh or make you
think?" said Miss Jean, with her soft voice.
"Yes, tell us--tell us what it is," said Lilias.
And then Miss Margaret laughed.
"You will know sooner or later, if it comes to anything," she said,
getting up with a little impatience and leaving them.
The new turn which her thoughts had taken filled her with dismay. She
went out to the lime-tree walk which lay between the house and the
high wall, all clothed with ivy, with bunches of honeysuckle hanging
from its embattled height. This was the walk that was considered to
be haunted, though no one was afraid of the gentle ghost that dwelt
there. Miss Margaret came out hastily to cool her cheeks, which were
burning, and divert her mind, which was full of uncomfortable thoughts.
It was still light, though it was nearly bed-time; the trees, so
silken green, kept their colour, though in a sort of spiritualized
tint, in the pale clear light. The sound of footsteps (which no doubt
a scientific inquirer would have decided to come from some entirely
natural phenomena of acoustics quite explainable and commonplace) was
more distinct than usual in the complete stillness of the evening. It
was said to be a lady who had died for love--one of the daughters of
Murkley in a distant age, who was the ghost of this pensive walk. She
was never visible; her steps softly sounding upon the path in a regular
cadence, coming and going, was all that was known of her. Sometimes,
when the family was in difficulty or danger, it had been reported that
a sigh was heard. But no one living had heard the sigh. And even the
maids were not afraid to walk in daylight in this visionary place.
There was a certain green line close by the trees which was never
encroached upon, and which was coloured by patches of mosses. It was
there the lady walked, so people said, without considering that no
footsteps could have sounded clear from that natural velvet. Miss
Margaret threw her little shawl over her cap, and went out into the
mysterious stillness, broken by those still more mysterious sounds
which she had been accustomed to from her childhood. It soothed her
to be there, and she took herself to task with a little indignation.
That she should suspect her sister! that she should think it possible
that Jean could "make a fool of herself!" When she had spent half an
hour in the walk, slowly pacing up and down, hearing the steps of that
other mysterious passenger going and coming, she returned to the house
subdued. But she did not go back to the drawing-room where Jean was.
Her fears on the subject of Lilias had altogether departed from her
mind with Lewis' extraordinary announcement; but even the risk of an
entanglement for Lilias, though more likely, and perhaps more serious,
would have been in the course of nature. It would not have affected her
with a sense of shame and intolerant passion like any short-coming on
the part of Jean.
As for Lewis, he went home to his inn pleased, but not agitated, like
Miss Margaret. He was very much satisfied with the sanction thus
accorded to him, and with the approval implied in it, as he thought. If
the elder sister had been disposed to oppose him, or, indeed, if she
had not approved of what he was about to do, she would not have gone
so far as to indicate to him when he might come. Miss Margaret's angry
enjoyment of the idea of his discomfiture, her eagerness to lead him
to the point so that he might be crushed at once, never occurred to
Lewis. There was nothing in his own honest intentions to throw light
upon such a meaning. For his own part, he did not contemplate the idea
of failure at all. He thought that Miss Jean, though she might be
surprised at his proposal, could have no reason to be offended by it,
and he believed that he would be successful. It seemed to him entirely
to her advantage, modest as he was. Her age, he thought, would make
the idea of a husband not less, but more agreeable to her. It was an
advancement in life of which she had probably given up all hopes. This
was his idea in an economical point of view, so to speak, and not from
any overweening opinion of himself. Marriage, he had been trained to
believe, was often irksome and disagreeable to a man, but for a woman
it was a necessity of well-being, of dignity, almost of self-respect.
It was this that gave him the calm confidence he had in respect to Miss
Jean. She would be startled, no doubt. It would take away her breath to
find herself, after all, still within the brighter circle of existence;
but she would not throw away this last and probably unexpected chance.
Personal vanity had nothing to do with Lewis' calm conviction. It was
not he that would be irresistible to her; but the fact of having a step
in existence offered to her--a higher place.
It was about noon next day when he set out for the Castle; and when he
was shown into the drawing-room, he found Miss Jean, as before, seated
over her table-cover, with all her silks arranged upon her table, and
her carnation in a glass being copied. She did not get up to greet him,
as she had done before. Even her old-fashioned ideas of politeness,
which were more rigorous than anything in the present day, yielded to
the friendly familiarity with which she was beginning to regard him.
She gave him her hand with a kind smile.
"This is very good of you, Mr. Murray," she said, "to give up a bonny
morning to me;" her eyes went instinctively to the piano as she spoke.
This piqued Lewis a very little; but he loved music too well to
disappoint her.
"The finer the morning," he said, "the more congenial it is to music."
There was time enough to indulge himself and her before beginning the
serious business of the matter between them, and indeed it was not even
necessary that there should be anything said upon that serious matter
to-day.
"And that is true," said Miss Jean, fervently; "the evening perhaps is
the best of all; the fading of the daylight, and the hushing of the
world, and the coming on of rest--that is beautiful with music. I like
it in the dusk, and I like it in the dark, when ye can only hear, not
see, and your soul goes upon the sound. But I like it as well in the
day, in the brightness, in the middle of life, at all times; it is
never out of season," she added, with an enthusiasm which elevated her
simple countenance.
Lewis felt a sensation of pride and happiness as he looked at her. No
one could say she was unworthy a man's choice or affections. It would
do him honour among all who were qualified to judge that he had made
such a choice. Miss Jean was somewhat astonished by the way in which he
turned upon her. It half confused, half pleased her. For a long time no
man had looked so intently upon her tranquil, middle-aged countenance.
She thought he was "an affectionate lad," probably being without mother
or sister to spend his natural kindness upon, and therefore eager to
respond to it wherever he found it. His compliments on their former
meeting she had put away out of her mind, though they had startled
and almost abashed her for the moment; but then compliments were the
common-places of foreigners, everybody knew that they meant nothing,
certainly no harm. It was just the same, she thought, as if a Scotchman
had said, "I am glad to see you looking well," no more than that.
And then he began to play. He chose Mozart after their talk about the
times and seasons. Lewis was not naturally given to much exercise of
the fancy, but he was very sympathetic, and readily took his cue from
any mind which was congenial to him. He thought that the splendour of
this great composer was appropriate to the richness and fulness of the
noon. Themes more dreamy, more visionary, more simply sweet would be
the language of the evening. And once more he watched, with an interest
and sympathy which he thought must be as nearly like love as possible,
the gradual forgetfulness of everything but the music which came over
Miss Jean. First her work flagged, then she pushed away the carnation
which she was copying to one side, and let her table-cover drop on her
knees; then she leant forward on the little table, her head in her
hands, her eyes fixed upon him; then those eyes filled with tears, and
saw nothing, neither him nor any accessory, but only a mystic world of
sweetness and emotion which she was utterly incapable of describing,
but which shone through her face with an eloquence which was beyond
words. Lewis, as he looked at her in this ecstatic state, which he had
the power of throwing her into, knew very well that, though he was the
performer and she only the listener, the music was not half to him
what it was to her. It filled her soul, it carried her away above the
world, and all that was in it. When he paused she sank back in her
chair overwhelmed, unable to say anything. He was fond of applause, but
applause was not necessary here.
"I wish," he said, rising, and coming towards her, full of a genuine
warmth and enthusiasm, "that I could play to you for ever."
She did not speak for a little, but smiled, and dried her soft eyes.
"No--no--that would be too much," she said.
"It would be too much to continue always, oh, yes--but I do not mean
that. To play to you whenever you pleased, as often as you pleased;
when you wished to come out of the common, to be happy; for it makes
you happy?"
"I think it must be like Heaven," said Miss Jean, fervently; "that is
all I can think of--the skies opening, and the angels singing."
"That is beautiful," he cried, "to open Heaven. That is what I should
like to do for you--always. To have it ready for you when you pleased."
"You have a kind heart," said Miss Jean; "oh, you have a kind heart.
But, if it cannot be always," she said, with a tender smile, "you must
just let it be as often as you can, as long as you are here."
"I am going to stay here," said Lewis, "that is, if you will let me."
"Me! Let you! But it is little I can have to do with it: and you may be
sure I would let you--and kindly welcome, kindly welcome," said Miss
Jean, recovering herself.
She was a little ashamed of feeling so deeply, but the beauty of the
music so completely occupied her mind that, save as "a kind lad," she
did not think of Lewis at all.
"If you will make me welcome, then I will stay. It depends upon you
altogether; I will stay or I will go away, as you please. It is you
that must decide," the young man said.
He was standing on the other side of the little table, his face lit
up with the enthusiasm of sympathy and pleasure. It was sweet to
him to have made so profound an impression, and the emotion in Miss
Jean's mind reflected itself in him. He admired her, he loved her for
feeling so much. It threw a tender light upon everything about her;
there was no effort wanting to look tenderly and speak tenderly with
all the emotion of a genuine sentiment. His eyes glowed with softness
and warmth, his voice took a pleading tone, he was ready to have put
himself at her feet, actually as well as metaphorically, so much was he
touched and moved by this sympathetic strain of feeling. Miss Jean, for
her part, gathering her work into her hand, and recovering her self
slowly, looked up with eyes of simple surprise at the extraordinary
aspect of the young stranger.
"You are meaning--? to be sure, we will be very glad, very happy to
have you for a neighbour; but, knowing so little of the circumstances,
how can we, that are but strangers----"
They were both so pre-occupied that they had not heard anything but the
sound of their own voices, and, when another suddenly interposed, they
started as if a shot had been fired beside them.
"Jean, Margaret sent me to tell you dinner was on the table," was the
peaceful intimation this voice made.
Lewis turned round with a nervous impatience, finding the interruption
vexatious. He turned round and found himself suddenly in a presence he
had never been clearly conscious of before. What was it? To external
appearance a young, slight girl, fair as Scottish beauty ought to be,
with light locks just tinged here and there with the brighter light
which makes them golden, a complexion of the most dazzling purity,
eyes, somewhat astonished, of deep blue, and features perhaps not equal
in quality to all the rest, but harmonious enough in their youth and
softness. This was what she was in actual flesh and blood; but as she
appeared to Lewis, at that moment actually feeling, and with all his
might endeavouring to impress upon a middle-aged woman, the fervour
of his devotion, and his dependence upon her fiat, she was something
more. She was Youth in person, she was Love, and Hope, and a sort of
incarnate delight. He looked at her, and the words he had been speaking
died from his lips, the enthusiasm he had been feeling was blown out
as if it had been the flame of a candle. He forgot himself and good
manners, and his position as a stranger, and stood, his lips apart, his
eyes wide opened, gazing at her at once in amazement and admiration.
Lilias looked at him too with much astonishment and a good deal of
curiosity. Was this the person whom Margaret had suggested to be the
man from Kilmorley come to tune the piano? Though she was a very docile
little girl, there were moments when she could be wilful. She made
Lewis a little curtsey, and gave him a smile which went to his head
like wine.
"And Margaret hopes the gentleman will come too," Lilias said.
"Oh!" cried Miss Jean with a tremor of conscience, and a questioning
look towards her little sister. Could it be possible that Margaret--"I
am sure," she said, "we will all be pleased if you will come and eat
something with us; it is our dinner, as we are only ladies, without a
man in the house; but it will do for luncheon for you."
"If you will permit me," said Lewis, with that profound bow which they
all thought foreign.
He drew away from the little table, so as to leave Miss Jean room to
gather together her embroidery before she rose from her chair, and
waited, ready to follow the ladies. The proposal was delightful to him.
He did not pause to ask whether the message had really come from Miss
Margaret; he had none of Miss Jean's tremor. He thought only that he
was ready to follow this nymph, this vision, to the end of the world if
she pleased. Had he ever seen anything so beautiful? he asked himself:
and, as may easily be supposed, said "No" with hasty readiness. Lilias
was in the perfection of youthful bloom and freshness, with the down
upon her like a peach, untouched by anything that could impair that
dazzling, morning glory; the dark old house, and the companionship of
the two sisters who in her presence became old and faded, threw up her
bloom all the more, and so did her simple frock, the girlish fashion of
her hair, her school-room apron, her position as Margaret's messenger.
"Come along, then," she said, lightly, and ran off in advance.
Lewis offered his arm to Miss Jean. She was very nervous, he thought,
because of what he had been saying to her--but Miss Jean had by no
means taken up, as he meant them, the things he had been saying to her,
and was nervous because of her doubt whether Margaret really meant
this invitation. What if it was a sudden thought of Lilias alone? The
girl did wicked things now and then of this sort, little rebellions
"in fun," audacities which sometimes vexed Margaret. But Miss Jean's
instincts of hospitality would have tempted her, even without this
proceeding on the part of Lilias, to invite her visitor, towards whom
she felt kindly. She put her arm within his with a little tremor: and
Lewis felt the quiver, and thought that he had been successful in
his suit. He pressed her hand softly against his side. Though he had
been so startled, shaken out of his previous thoughts by this sudden
apparition, yet it did not occur to him to be unfaithful. Nothing
yet occurred to him except that here was a new thing, a new glory
and beauty returned into life. This fairy creature glided out of the
room before them, ran downstairs like a ray of sunshine, making the
dark old oak staircase bright, and darted in at the open door of the
dining-room, where she evidently announced their coming with a laugh.
The laugh made Lewis smile in sympathy, but it made Miss Jean tremble,
for it proved that her alarm was justified, and so did the sudden,
startled sound of Miss Margaret's deeper voice. What Lilias said was,
with that laugh,
"Margaret, I have asked the music man to come too."
"The music man! He is no music man," cried Miss Margaret, and then she
said, "Quick, Simon, quick, lay another place." There was no time for
further explanations now.
Lewis thought this meal was the most delightful he had ever eaten
in his life. The two elder sisters sat at the head and foot of the
table, and opposite to him was Lilias, with a little flush of triumph
in her face, and a mischievous smile about the corners of her mouth.
She did not talk very much, and to him not at all. The other ladies
maintained the conversation chiefly between them. For his own part he
was content to say very little, to confine himself to replying when
they spoke to him, and listening eagerly to their talk, and watching
the beautiful girl whom he could not raise his eyes without seeing,
and whose glance he met now and then with something of the freemasonry
of youth. He did not know her, nor she him, while he was acquainted
with both the other ladies, and felt himself already in a position of
intimacy and sympathetic friendship, if no more, with Miss Jean; but
yet instinctively, and in a moment, they two, he felt, constituted a
faction, a party, youth against age.
While the elders talked, she would shoot a little glance at him
across the table, a glimmer of a smile would go over her face, in
which there was an appeal to him for an answering smile; a sort of
unconscious telegraph of mutual understanding was set up between them.
When Miss Margaret questioned him, he replied with a look to Lilias
first to see if she were listening. When she spoke, though it was
only a monosyllable, he paused to listen. After, when it was over,
the whole scene appeared to him like a dream; the dark wainscot of
the room, with the bloom of that young face against it, Miss Margaret
against the light, Miss Jean, with her sweet but faded face in the full
illumination of the window, old Simon making slow circles round the
table. His own heart was beating with pleasure, with suspense, with
excitement, the feeling that something had happened to him, something
new which he scarcely understood. He did not realize that he had been
suddenly stopped in his love-making to Miss Jean by this apparition,
nor that it had taken from him all desire to carry on that love-making.
Indeed, his mind had not taken in the new occurrence at all; he was
still in this state of sensation, knowing that here was a new event
which had suddenly happened to him, but not knowing what it was.