Lewis left the Castle like a man in a dream. There was an
intoxication about him which affected his whole being vaguely, as
actual intoxication might do, in which there was not the slightest
self-reproach or sense of doing wrong. He was elated, delighted, happy;
a sort of suffusion of sweetness and brightness was in his veins,
filling up everything. It affected him like a new sensation, a new
event, a revelation of new possibilities. It never had occurred to him
that the world could be so sweet, or any mortal creature so happy. Why
was he so happy? Because there was in existence a creature so young,
so fair, so sweet, as to make life itself look beautiful. What reason
was that for the happiness of one who had nothing to do with her,
whose life could not be affected one way or other by her existence?
But he did not at first ask himself that question. It made him glad
without any reason; it affected him foolishly. He could have laughed
for pleasure; he thought better of everything for her sake. She seemed
to fill the fresh country with a reflection of herself. He thought of
nothing else as he walked down to his inn in the afternoon. She had
not cared for his society, but disappeared immediately after dinner
on a sign from her sister, turning and making him a salutation which
was half a curtsey and half a smiling nod of familiarity. She too,
perhaps, had felt the youth in him, and had not felt herself capable
of curtseying ceremoniously as she had been taught. There was a merry
glimmer in her eyes, though the rest of her was so demure, and this
conjunction was delightful to him. He had not known what the other
ladies said to him after; a kind of golden mist had seemed to him to
fill the air. The place was not desolate when she went out of it,
because she left it full of herself, full of vibrations and echoes. He
had heard the kind elder voices in his ears, with their long sentences
and the responsive waves of their talk, and had been aware that he
took some share in it, had answered them when they spoke, and was not
without comprehension of their meaning. But he had felt that he was
in haste to get away, to be alone, to think over this new thing. And
accordingly he did think it over, or rather he walked into the unbroken
enjoyment of it, into the contemplation of Lilias, when he walked out
of those old-fashioned doors into the afternoon sunshine. He did not
think of her, he only moved along in a current which was her, in air
which was full of her. He did not understand the sensation; it was as
new to him as she was--new and delightful, entrancing his soul.
Lewis moved along down the country-road and through the village with
his heart full of this strange and novel flood of feeling. Her look,
as, turning his head suddenly in the midst of the genuine fervour of
his address to Miss Jean, he had caught sight of her, and the words had
gone out on his lips: the turn of her head, the going and coming of her
smile as she sat opposite to him at table, the few words she said, the
simplicity of appearance and movements, only a little girl, and yet the
queen of all--these were before him as he walked, and not the features
of the landscape. Now it was one recollection, now another; the manner
in which she turned to go out of the room, the half curtsey, the half
laugh, full of a sweet malice, the glance of her blue eyes, half
mocking, half ceremonious. Never had drama been so full of interest for
a spectator. He went over everything. Then he went into his parlour and
threw himself down upon his hard angular sofa, and went over it all
again--every look, every movement, every raising of the eyelids. He
seemed to himself not to have forgotten a single movement, or step, or
word, or almost breath. She came in with him to the dingy room just as
she had come along the road. It was all a revelation, and so full of
dazzling light that it confused his mind and everything about him; the
sun was not so bright, nor the world so fair, as this new creature who
had suddenly made of herself a new centre to the universe.
Lewis had never in his life been so happy as he was in that curious
ecstasy. He did not ask himself why he went into details, he did not
say to himself that to have her, to appropriate her to himself, was
henceforward to be the object of his life. Many men have declared in
a moment, "This of all maids is the one maid for me." But Lewis did
not go so far as this; he had not thought as yet of appropriation.
What he felt was that here, in the world, was a creature more sweet,
more beautiful than he had ever dreamt of, and that the place was
transfigured, and mere living made into a delight because she was
there. This made the blood course through his veins with a warmth and
fulness he had never known before; he felt as if some great happiness
had come to him. But even when he paused and asked himself what was the
meaning of it, what good could come to him from it, he found no answer
to give to that question. He pushed it aside indeed; he had nothing to
do with it in his present mood.
Later, as it began to approach evening, Lewis met Mr. Seton on the
river-side, and, having nothing better to do, walked with him for a
mile or two on his way to some piece of parochial duty. The minister
complained a little of his work, as everybody is apt to do.
"They expect to be visited, however far-off they may be," he said, with
a pucker in his forehead and a quiver of complaint in his voice, "and
instead of bringing their children to church, as is their duty, they
will find some reason for a private christening. It is far too much
the way in these parts. Of course, the session might make a stand on
the subject, and some of my elders would be very well inclined, but
what is the use of making a commotion? I am fond of peace. I always say
just for this once--and that is how they come over me--rather that than
make a disturbance. I am always for yielding--when the question is not
vital--when the question is not vital! Of course, I make my stand upon
that."
"To be sure," said Lewis, vaguely, though he had only the faintest idea
what was meant.
"Better be baptized privately than not be baptized at all," said the
minister, solemnly. "But, to do the people justice, they are not so bad
as that. They will go to the Free Kirk, or the U. P., but they will not
leave a child unchristened. It is in the great towns that you find that
kind of heathenism, not in the country. The country, there is little
question, is better in some ways. There is not so much scepticism.
Perhaps you will say there is more indifference on all subjects, and
that our ploughmen just take things for granted?"
"Oh, no," said Lewis, more vague than ever, "I certainly should not say
that."
"You think not? Well, there are just very curious intellects among
them, I must allow that--strange bits of thought, you know, but seldom
sceptical." Mr. Seton spoke with a certain regret, for he felt himself
qualified to meet the legions of infidelity, and longed for nothing
so much as the opportunity of converting an unbeliever. "The doubts
they entertain are upon high points of doctrine which probably a young
man like you would never have heard of; but they make nothing of what
is often a great difficulty to a cultivated spirit--the standards,
Mr. Murray. You will sympathize with that difficulty. The Westminster
confession may be a stumbling-block to me, and the like of me, but as
for these ploughmen they will put-to their hand to the confession,
or to a dozen confessions. They swallow the longer and the shorter
catechisms without even wishing--they have very strong stomachs in
the way of doctrine. It is not on that point you will ever find them
wanting. The difficulties and dangers of more delicate minds----" Mr.
Seton said, bending upon Lewis a benignant eye.
"I suppose go with more delicate bodies," said that young man, with
a laugh, which was profoundly inappropriate. And he had to laugh
alone at his own jest, the minister looking upon him with gravity and
disapproval, both shocked and disappointed that he should show so
little appreciation. "But the ploughmen," he said, hastily and humbly,
"are not the most interesting part of the people?"
"If you think a small country-gentleman, such as we have here, is more
interesting, Mr. Murray, in an intellectual point of view----"
"No, no," said Lewis, half abashed, half amused. "You must not think so
badly of me; I was thinking of--some of the ladies."
At this the minister paused, and gave him a doubtful look, apprehensive
that the stranger was indulging in a little satire; but as Lewis
laughed with ingratiating simplicity and blushed a little, and added,
"I own they are more interesting to me," the minister too unbended, and
joined in the laugh, and shook his head the while.
"Ah! if we were all young men. But, to be sure, we must make allowance
for those that are. And which of the ladies is it that you find so
interesting, if it is not indiscreet to inquire?"
This question brought Lewis back to a perception that he was on
delicate ground.
"All whom I have met with," he said. "The intercourse is different,
very different from what I have been used to. The young ladies, who are
so frank, who meet us so--simply."
"Ah, that is your foreign way of thinking," said Mr. Seton. "No doubt
it seems strange to you, but we have every confidence in our daughters.
It is rarely, very rarely that it is found to be an undeserved
confidence."
"But some are not so," said Lewis. He had thought a few minutes before
that it would be impossible to bring the conversation to this subject,
and he could scarcely believe now in the easy success of his own bold
attempt. "Some are not so. I think there is one young lady who is
guarded as people do abroad. I have been here so long, and I saw her
but for the first time to-day."
"How long have you been here--three weeks? That is not a lifetime,"
said the minister. "And who may this be that is taken such care of? I
cannot call to mind----"
"It is the ladies at the Castle who interest me so much," said Lewis,
"especially the less old one, she whom you call Miss Jean, and who is
so susceptible to music. I have seen no one who is more susceptible. It
takes possession of her; it carries her away. To see it is beautiful,"
cried Lewis. "I am very much interested in Miss Jean; but there is
one, much more young, whom I have only seen for the first time----"
"Indeed!" said Mr. Seton. "Who could that be?" And then his tone
changed in a moment. "Oh, Lilias! Yes, to be sure. The old sisters, you
see, they are two old maids; they have got I don't know what ideas in
their heads. Poor little thing! they will make an old maid of her like
themselves. I hear my wife and Katie say that she sees nobody. Poor
girl! But then the old ladies are peculiar," the minister said.
"Are they such very old ladies?" said Lewis, somewhat piqued. "I think
that, on the whole, I like that--to have a lovely young lady, like a
flower, kept apart from the world, that pleases me. Perhaps it is that
I, too, am old-fashioned."
"Is she so lovely?" said the minister with a laugh. "Well, well,
perhaps she is so. I am saying nothing against it. She is just little
Lilias Murray to me. I've seen her grow up like my own. She is older
though than Katie. And so you admire her very much? I must tell my
wife. My wife will be very much amused to hear that somebody has seen
her after all, and that she is thought to be lovely, poor little
thing!" Mr. Seton repeated, with a laugh of amusement.
This annoyed Lewis more than he could say.
"It is a very distinguished family," he said, with gravity. "I find it
so. The two ladies like châtelaines of the old time; and the younger
one so beautiful, like a young princess who is in their charge."
"Well, that is very poetical," said Mr. Seton, but it was evident that
he felt it very difficult to restrain his sense of the ludicrous. "You
see we are too familiar with them," he said. "Familiarity, you know,
breeds contempt. No, not contempt in the ordinary sense of the word,
for two more respectable women don't exist; but I'm not sure that I
would just use the word distinguished. It is a very good old family,
the Murrays of Murkley--but distinguished, no."
"I used the word in another sense. It is their appearance--and manner
that is distinguished: as they say in France."
Upon this the minister broke forth again into a low laugh.
"They are just two very respectable, elderly women," he said.
Lewis made no reply. It appeared to him that here for the first time
he had encountered in his idyllic village the spirit of detraction,
the petty scorn of limited minds for people superior to themselves. He
felt that, if he spoke, it would only be to call forth the minister's
laughter more and more, and raise that feeling of ungenerous opposition
in his mind. Lewis did not leave Mr. Seton, as was his first impulse,
for he still felt the charm of being able to talk of them, and of
probably learning something more about Lilias, even though it were not
in a favourable sense, to be worth lingering for. He walked on by Mr.
Seton's side, saying as little as possible, and unaware that there was
in his aspect that air of slightly-injured dignity which, more than
anything else, amuses those who have been engaged in the congenial work
of pulling down idols, and making them appear to their worshippers in a
proper light. But the minister was infinitely tickled by Lewis's look.
And that anybody should contemplate the Misses Murray in an exalted
light was delightfully ridiculous to their neighbour, who had laughed
at them and their ways, and criticised their actions more or less for
years of his life.
"The ladies," he said, after a pause, "have been rather hard upon the
little one, or so my wife says--and women understand each other best.
They will never let her come out to a young party even at the manse. I
hear they are very ambitious for Lilias, and are reserving her, poor
innocent women--reserving her," Mr. Seton said, shaking his head with
an expression of amused pity, "for some grand match."
"For--some--" Lewis felt as if for one moment the wheels of his being
stood still; the earth was arrested in its progress. What could it
mean? he asked himself vaguely. A grand match! The words made a
wonderful commotion in his ears, but he said to himself that he did not
understand what they meant.
"That is it," said the minister, shaking his head, and with that smile
always on his face. "Poor things! they want her to build up the family
again. I hear they are going to take her to court, and make a great
fuss, all in the hopes that she will marry some great potentate or
other, and restore the credit of the Murrays. Well, since you think her
so lovely as all that," he added, with a little burst of laughter, as
if overcome with the ridicule of the idea, "it may be that it's us that
are the idiots after all, and that the ladies are right."
Lewis scarcely heard these remarks; his whole being was in a ferment.
Up to this moment it had not occurred to him what was the natural way
in which to regard this new apparition which had come into his life.
He had been wooing (so to speak) her sister, the old sister who was
as a mother to Lilias, when this wonder appeared to him, and it was
not that his mind changed about Miss Jean, but only that something
entirely new and extraordinary burst upon him, something he had never
dreamt of before. His words, his thoughts, the very action of his mind
was arrested. He had no longer the power of fixing upon that project
or any other, his mind being entirely engrossed and occupied by the
new thing presented to it. But his feelings had been entirely those
of joy and delight in his discovery. It was something that lighted
up the earth and made the whole world more sweet; but it had not yet
occurred to him to appropriate this lovely creature to himself, or to
make her the centre of his individual enjoyment. Now there burst upon
him another revelation, something of an entirely different nature.
That she was sweet, but not for him; that her beauty was not intended
only to make the whole world happier, but to be a special fountain of
joy to one, but that not himself, but some one else. Lewis did not
himself understand, in the rush and hurry of his feelings, what was
the sentiment which succeeded that vague sensation of happiness in his
mind. But he understood that in a moment the minister whom he had been
accompanying with so much friendliness on the way became intolerable,
and that the very sound of his voice was irritating, and not to be
borne. For the sake of appearances he went on with him to a cross-road
which they were approaching, that led Lewis did not know whither; but
anything was better than to go on with so heartless a companion. He
broke off abruptly when he came to this unknown path, saying something
about letters to write, and the necessity of getting back to his inn.
"You'll not get back to your inn that way," Mr. Seton said; but Lewis
paid no attention, indeed scarcely heard him as he hurried on.
He sped along this lonely road in a totally different direction from
that he was acquainted with, till he had entirely lost himself and worn
himself out, which perhaps in the circumstances was as wise a thing as
he could have done. For his mind was agitated with a wonderful variety
of new thoughts. He became aware of what that lovely figure was which
had glided across his vision, and in a moment swept everything else
out of his thoughts. She was more than youth, more than mere beauty
and brightness. She was love. The thoughts of last night, that sudden
curious contrast which had struck him between the plans and purposes
of his own life and those of Philip Stormont, flashed back again and
made the situation clear to him in a moment. Here was nature, here was
the secret of the world. The broken scenes and visions which had been
passing before his eyes since ever he saw her took a different form;
instead of only seeing her, he saw himself beside her. He saw the group
of last night changed from Stormont and Katie to Lilias and himself.
He walked by her side as he had walked by her sister's; but how
differently! He talked to her as he had talked to Miss Jean, but oh! in
how changed a tone.
All this went through his mind as he walked mile after mile, always
trying a new direction, always failing to recover his ground, or come
near any landmark he knew. The sun had been long set, and in any other
but these northern skies night would have set in, when he found himself
at last approaching the village. He could see that there was a little
commotion in the street as he came along, sadly weary and dusty, and
beginning to come down from those celestial circles of the imagination,
and to remember that he was very hungry, and had not dined. A little
group of children broke up and dashed down the road in front of him
towards the 'Murkley Arms.'
"Eh, yonder he's coming!" they cried.
Janet, with a very anxious countenance, was standing in the doorway.
"Eh, sir," she said, "is this you? And what has keepit ye frae your
dinner? We have had a maist anxious night looking out for ye, and
wondering what could have happened. Adam's away doun to the water-side,
and I've sent to the manse and the Castle, and every place I could
think of, we were that alarmed."
"Why should you be alarmed?" said Lewis. "The fact is, I lost my way."
"I'm real glad to see it's nae waur," said Janet. "There's been ane
here frae Kilmorley keen, keen to see ye. It was just the writer's
clerk, and that gied us a fright; and he didna seem that sure about
your name, and he said he had instructions just to bide and no to leave
till he had seen ye. But I sent him away with a flea in his lug," said
Janet. "I said you were just real respectable, as we've found you, sir,
and one of the Murrays, kent folk, and taken a hantle notice of by the
Murkley ladies, and how daured he come here to set your friends against
ye? But for a' that I got a terrible fright, Mr. Murray. I thought
maybe ye had got wit o' his coming, and had just slippit away, and we
would never have heard tell of ye again."
"Why should I slip away?" cried Lewis, astonished, his conviction of
innocence being too strong to permit him to entertain at the moment any
alarm as to the consequences that might follow if he were found to have
presented himself under a name which was not his own.
Janet gave him a confused, repentant, yet penetrating look.
"Deed, I canna tell," she said, somewhat abashed; "but how was I to
ken that there mightna be reasons, and the man so awfu' curious about
you, and him the writer's clerk? Gentlemen are whiles overtaken, just
the same as poor folk. It might have been siller, or it might have
been----But, dear bless me, what is the use of speakin', when here ye
are, just your ain sel', and no put aboot at a'; and the dinner's
spoilt, but nae mair harm done."
"My good Mrs. Janet," said Lewis, "I am much obliged to you, but you
need not entertain any fears about me. I am not afraid of any writer's
clerk. What is a writer, by the way?" he said, smiling, pausing as he
was about to enter.
She gazed at him with round eyes of amazement.
"What is a writer? Well, I always said you were an innocent young
man--I was aye sure there would be nothing in it--but you must ken very
little indeed, sir, if you have never come across a writer. He's just
a--well, maybe sometimes a terror to evil-doers, I would not say--but a
great fyke and trouble mony a time to them that do well. He is one that
will gather in the siller that's owin' ye, that ye canna get yoursel',
and pretend it's a' for your gude, syne take his percentage and his
profit, till there's more of it gangs into his pocket than yours. He is
one that----"
"I see--a lawyer of some sort. You thought I was perhaps running away
from my creditors," Lewis said, with a laugh.
Janet gave him a guilty glance. "Mony a grand gentleman has done that,
and lived to pay them a' to the last farden, and never been a preen the
waur."
Lewis laughed till all the attendant children, who had been looking
on, waiting for the penny promised them for intimating his approach,
laughed too in sympathy.
"I owe you more than I owe anybody else," he said; "but we'll talk of
that after dinner, for I'm famishing now."