The only thing which had shaken Lilias in the virginal calm of her
thoughts was the example of little Katie Seton, a younger girl than
herself, and whose system of education had been so different. While
Lilias had been kept under the wing of her sisters, apart from any
encounter, Katie had been introduced to everything their little
world contained of wild sensation and adventure. She had entered
upon the agitations of love-making almost as soon as she was in her
teens, and her sixteenth birthday was scarcely past when she appeared
one afternoon, as Lilias put away her books, evidently in all the
excitement of some great news to communicate, which Miss Margaret's
presence kept in, though Katie was bursting with it. Miss Margaret, as
was natural, stayed in the school-room, which was still the special
haunt of Lilias, much longer than was usual. It was a rainy day, and
no walk was possible. Is it from perversity and desire to interfere
with the pleasures of the young--pleasures now out of their own
reach--that the elder people will linger and keep girls and boys on the
rack when they have things to say to each other not intended for elder
ears? Katie thought so as she sat biting her lips, hardly able to keep
still, brimming over with her news; and Lilias, who divined that there
was something unusual, almost was tempted to think so too, as Miss
Margaret considered over the book-shelves, looking for she did not know
what, and opened all the drawers to find an old exercise-book which was
of no interest at the moment.
"Oh! if you will just leave it to me, I will find it, Margaret," Lilias
cried.
"You would find it the easier for knowing what it is," said Margaret,
grimly, "which is almost more than I do myself. I will know it by
head-mark when I see it."
"Let me turn out the drawer," cried Katie, officiously.
Miss Margaret looked at the girl with humorous perversity.
"What nonsense are you plotting between you?" she said. "Katie, your
eyes are just leaping out of your head, and you have not been still a
moment since you came into this room, every flounce in motion----"
"Could anybody help it?" cried Katie. "Such a day!--and me just wanting
Lilias to come out and see the garden. The lilacs are all out, and
everything so sweet: and now this pouring rain will spoil them all. I
am just like to cry," said Katie, the corners of her mouth drooping.
But Miss Margaret knew very well it was not for the lilacs or the rain,
but for excitement and impatience, that Katie was like to cry.
"Well, well," she said, "I suppose you must have your bits of secrets
at your age; there will be no great harm in them. I will find my book
another time. But mind you don't stay too long in this room, which is
cold when there is no sun, but come into the drawing-room to your tea.
You will find me there, and Jean--and sense," said Miss Margaret, with
her back turned to them, calmly selecting a book from the shelves--"if
you should happen to stand in any need of that last----"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Katie, when at last Miss Margaret went away,
running to shut the door after her, and make sure at least of being
alone with her friend, "we stand in no need of that. Oh, Lilias!" she
said, rushing up to her companion and flinging her arms round her with
such vehemence that the slight girl swayed with the sudden shock.
"What is it, Katie!" Lilias cried. "What is it? Tell me, but do not
knock me down."
"Oh, it is you that are sense," cried Katie, with a sort of fury,
pushing her friend into the big chair, and falling down herself at
the side of it, with her arms on Lilias' knee. There was a degree of
violence in these preliminaries; for Katie, though full of a woman's
secret, was still half girl, half boy in her early development, as the
sister of many brothers is apt to be. Lilias, so much more delicate
and dainty, took hold of the hands which had numberless scratches upon
them, nails cut to the quick, and other indications of having been put
to boyish uses, and held them in her own white fingers closely clasped.
"I am as anxious to hear as you are to tell," she said. "Quick, quick,
tell me! What is the matter? Have they sent him away?"
"Oh, Lily! Something far more wonderful. There is no knowing what they
may do. They will do something dreadful--they will do anything to part
us. Oh, Lily! you'll never, never tell anybody, not even Miss Jean--not
a word! I'll never, never speak to you all my life, if you tell upon me
now!"
"I tell upon you! Did I ever tell upon you?" said Lilias, indignant.
"That about Robbie Bairnsfather was found out. It was never me."
"I know you will not tell," said Katie. "You are just my own Lily.
You will never say a word. Lilias! I'm----oh, can't you guess? We
are--engaged--It is quite true. Look," the girl cried, with a glowing
countenance, opening a button of her boddice and drawing forth from
under it a little ring, attached to a ribbon. Her hand trembled, though
it was the hand of a tom-boy. Her face shone; tears were in the eyes
which were, as Miss Margaret said, "leaping out of her head."
"Engaged!" cried Lilias. "Oh, you gave me such a fright. When I saw the
ring, I thought you were going to say you were--married. Let me get my
breath."
"Married!" Katie said, with a certain contempt. To be married would
be the prose of the transaction. She felt herself upon a higher, more
ethereal altitude. "That would be nothing," she said. "There would be
no secret then. Oh, Lily, isn't it wonderful? This is a ring that is
his very own, that an old lady gave him when he was a boy. Look at it!
It's all turquoise, and turquoise means happiness. He put it on my
finger, but I dare not wear it on my finger, for mamma would be sure
to notice. She notices everything. Old people," said Katie, aggrieved,
"pretend to wear spectacles, and all that, as if they couldn't see: but
nothing escapes them! I can't put a pin in my collar, but mamma will
see it. 'Katie, Katie!' she always says; and I know in a moment what
it is. Oh, but she would say, 'Katie, Katie!' twice as loud, if she
saw this! So I wear it round my neck: but I may put it on here," Katie
said. "Look, Lilias! Isn't it bonnie? I always wanted a ring, but I
never thought I would get the engaged ring the very first of all."
There was a little triumph in Katie's tone. Not only was Lilias far,
very far, from being the proud possessor of an "engaged" ring, but she
had scarcely been allowed "to speak to a gentleman"--a thing Mrs. Seton
thought the worst policy--in all her life.
"But never mind the ring. Tell me about--what happened," said Lilias.
"You have not even told me who it is."
"Oh!" cried Katie, red with indignation, "who could it be but _him_? I
am sure I have never said a word, or even thought of anybody but him
for--for ages," she added, with a little vagueness, sinking from the
assumed superiority of her former tone.
"Well, dear," said Lilias, soothingly, "but then, you know, there was
Mr. Dunlop."
"I never cared a bit about him. He was only just in the way. You have
to let a gentleman speak to you when he is in your way."
"I suppose so," said Lilias, with a faint sigh. Such an experience
had never happened to herself. "But how was I to know? And it is not
very long since--but it _is_ Philip? Oh, yes, I supposed so all along,
especially as it is such a secret. If it had been Mr. Dunlop it would
have been no secret--or Robbie--or--"
"I wish you would not speak such nonsense. I never, never thought--it
was only just for fun. I never in all my life cared for anybody but
him! Oh, never; you may say what you please, but it's only me that can
know."
"That is true," said Lilias, with gentle conviction. "But tell me how
it happened, and when--and what he said, and what you said. It will be
like a story, but only far, far more interesting," Lilias said.
"It was not like a story at all," said Katie, with some indignation.
"Am I that kind of person? We just happened to meet down by the
waterside. Oh yes, I am fond of walking there; and the boys were after
a water-rat, as they always are, and the little girls were somewhere--I
am sure I never can tell where they go. Mamma scolds me when they tear
their frocks, but is it likely I can run into all their hiding holes
with them at my age?"
"And then?" said Lilias, conducting her penitent skilfully over this
obstacle.
"And then--oh, well, nothing particular. He happens often to be that
way himself. It is the prettiest walk. I was rather glad to see
him coming; for, you know, neither the boys nor the girls are just
companions for me. And then I asked him when he was going away, and he
said would I be sorry? and I said, oh yes, I would be sorry; for he was
always somebody to speak to. And he said, was that all? And I said, oh,
you know that we danced the same step, and that was always nice. And
then he said--oh, just nonsense; that _I_ was always nice, or something
like that; and then he said he would never go away, if he could help
it. And I said, what was he going for, then? And he said, because he
was too fond of somebody that never thought upon him. Of course I knew
well enough what he meant, but I pretended to be very sorry, and said,
who could that be?"
Katie made a very pretty picture as she told her story. She was leaning
her elbows on Lilias' lap, and playing with the long chain which
Lilias, after the fashion of the time, wore to her watch, and which was
the object of Katie's warmest admiration. She was twisting this in her
fingers, tying knots in it, occupying her eyes with it, and escaping
her friend's gaze, though she sometimes paused for a moment and gave
a glance upward. Her little blooming face was in a glow of colour and
excitement, ready to laugh, ready to cry. As for Lilias, she was full
of attention, bending forward, her face following every variation of
her friend's.
"But," Lilias said, "I thought it was not he that wanted to go away,
but Mrs. Stormont that was sending him."
"Oh," cried Katie, "I wish you would not insist upon everything like a
printed book. I am telling you what he said--I was never saying it was
all true. They never tell exactly the truth," Katie interrupted herself
to say, with conviction. "There is always a little more--or just a
little twist to make you believe----But you can understand that, if you
have any sense. I said--who could that be? and he said, 'Oh, Katie!'
just like mamma."
"And then?" cried Lilias, breathless.
"Oh, there was nothing particular then," said Katie, all one blush,
"but just nonsense, you know; and fancy, he had been carrying _this_
about all the time, always wanting to give it to me! He just put it on,
and then we were engaged," Katie said.
"Oh, Katie, what a terrible thing to happen! And then did you just go
home as usual, and never say a word?"
"What could I say? I would not tell mamma for all the world. She would
want to make a business of it, and tell Mrs. Stormont, and get it
all settled. She would want us to be married; but I don't want to be
married--I want to have my fun."
"Oh, Katie!"
"Everybody says 'Oh, Katie!'" said the girl, plaintively; "but that
does not make any difference. It is not dreadful at all--it is very
nice. I belong to him, and he belongs to me; he tells me everything,
and I tell him everything. But we don't want to make a fuss; we are
quite happy as we are. Mrs. Stormont would just go daft, you know. She
knows quite well that is what it is coming to--oh, I can see it in her
eyes! I think she would like to send me to prison, if she could, to get
me out of Philip's way."
"But, Katie, if you think that----"
"Oh, it does not make any difference to me; perhaps I would do the same
myself. There's our Robbie, if he wanted to be married, I would think
he was mad, and mamma would be--I don't know what mamma wouldn't do. I
suppose it's natural. Everybody wants their own people to do well for
themselves, and I have no money, not a penny. Mrs. Stormont would have
been quite pleased, Lilias, if it had been you."
"Me!" said Lilias, with a blush, but a slight erection of her head; she
laughed to carry off the slight shock of offence. "But that would not
have done at all," she said.
"Oh, no, it is just the same thing; you are too good, and I'm not good
enough. If it had been you, Miss Margaret would have tried to have
_him_ sent to prison; and perhaps, when there is somebody found grand
enough for you, Lilias, _his_ folk will not be pleased. That is always
the way," said the shrewd Katie, shaking her head; "but it happens, all
the same. Isn't it bonnie?" she added, returning to the former subject,
and holding up her hand with the ring on it. "Turquoise is the right
thing for an engaged ring; but, when your one comes, never let him give
you an opal, Lilias--that is such bad luck."
"Oh! if anyone were to come--as you say: I should think of something
else than rings," Lilias said, and blushed at the thought. It seemed
to her a little breach of modesty even to speak of any such incident.
When, in the fulness of time, it came, with a strange and wonderful
event! but not to be profaned by anticipation. Her heart gave a throb,
then left the subject in silence. "But it will have to be known some
time," she said.
Katie shrugged her little shoulders.
"It will not be through me," she said. "They say a girl can't keep a
secret, but just you try me. He can do what he likes, but I will never
tell--never, not if I were to be put on the rack."
"But, Katie, do you think it is right? To live at home and see your
father and mother every day, and not tell them--you could not do it!"
"Just you try me," said Katie. "Do you think in the persecuting days I
would have told where they were hidden--or Prince Charlie?" cried the
girl, with pardonable confusion. "Never!--I would never have minded
either the thumbscrew or the boot."
"But I don't think this is the same," said Lilias, doubtfully. "You
will be always seeing him, meeting him, and they will not know; and you
will have secrets, and he will tell you things, and you will tell him
things, and yet at home they will not know."
"That is just the fun of it," Katie cried.
"Oh, I cannot see any fun in that. And it will be so difficult; you
will forget, you will say something when you do not intend----"
"Not me," cried Katie. "I hope I have my wits about me. I will never
betray him; whoever is not true, I will always be true."
Lilias was somewhat staggered by this view of the subject, but she was
not convinced. She shook her head.
"I could not do it," she said.
"Oh, you! No, you could not do it; but then you could not do any of
it," cried Katie. "You have been brought up by old maids; you are never
let speak to a gentleman at all; it never could happen to you," she
cried, with a little triumph.
And Lilias, for her part, had to allow to herself, with a certain sense
of humiliation, that Katie was right. It never would happen to her.
No Orlando would ever be able to hang verses on the trees at Murkley,
even no Philip meet her out walking by the river-side, and woo her
in Katie's artless way. She wondered how it ever could be permitted
to happen at all--or would it never happen, and she herself live and
die without any other experience, like Jean and Margaret? Her heart
fluttered in her maiden bosom with the strangeness of the question. She
did not believe in the depths of her heart that it never could happen.
In some miraculous way, as it happened to the ladies of romance,
it would come to her. But it would be very different from Katie's
story--everything about it would be different. The news roused her
mind and affected her dreams in spite of herself. That night, in her
maiden sleep, never interrupted heretofore by such visions, she dreamed
that some one took her hand and put a ring upon it--a big blob of
blue, far bigger than Katie's turquoise, which changed as she looked
at it into the strange changing tints of an opal. She thought it very
strange that she should dream of this just after Katie's disquisition
on the subject. The two things did not present themselves to Lilias'
mind under the semblance of cause and effect. But it vexed her that
she could not in the least make out who it was that put the ring upon
her hand. She was not destitute of jewellery as Katie was, though Miss
Margaret discouraged ornaments; but she had neither a turquoise nor an
opal in her stones.
And there were other ways in which Katie's story affected Lilias. She
could not help thinking of the meetings of the lovers. She had herself
gone sometimes when she was younger, with Katie to the walk by the
water-side, when the boys went after water-rats or rabbits, and the
little girls made "little housies" in the sand of the old quarry. In
those days Lilias and Katie strolled up and down, superior to the
children, talking of a hundred things. Lilias knew how it would all
be. She went out herself into the Ghost's Walk, where it was always
permitted her to walk when she pleased, and thought wistfully, with a
little sigh, of the water-side and all its freedom, the children busy,
their voices softened in the distance, and the two in the centre of
the landscape, whose whispering would be--something different. What
it would be, Lilias did not know. In the very secretest corner of
her imagination little broken dialogues had gone on between herself
and--another. But they had been too secret, too vague even to come
into the legitimate and acknowledged land of visions in which the old
Australian cousin had played so large a part. Katie's story dismissed
that benevolent old man with his full purse from Lilias' imagination,
and brought those far less perfect germs of dreaming into prominence
instead.
The sunset was still blazing over the river, when it was already
twilight in the Ghost's Walk, which lay on the other side of the
house, and saw no sunshine later than noon. Lilias paced about under
the silken foliage of the limes in the still air, which was full of
dreams, and felt herself left outside of life, looking at it from a
distance with a visionary pensive sadness. There was something in the
air, the subdued light, the sense of evening all about, which chimed
in with this mood. It was curious to think of Katie, so much younger
than herself, enjoying everything, the flush of youthful sunshine,
while she was thus left out. But Lilias felt at the same time a certain
gentle superiority, the elevation of the pensive vestal, in delicate
solitude and retirement, over the common ways of the world. She walked
about in a soft dream, with a sigh, yet with a sensation of gentle
grandeur which made up for and was enhanced by the sadness. As she
paused under the great old lime-tree which was in the centre of the
walk, the soft sounds which distinguished the family spectre were very
audible. She knew the story of that gentle lady who had died for love.
None of the Murrays were afraid of her. To have seen her would have
been a distinction--they had heard her from generation to generation.
There was even a tradition in the family that one time or other, when
the wedded mistress of the house should be at the same time a daughter
of the house, a Murray born, the lady of the walk would appear to her,
and pace by her side, and tell her something that would be well for the
race.
Lilias paused, and looked about her with pride, and tenderness, and a
thrill of anticipation. She had thought often that she herself might
be that destined lady; but the thought had never moved her as now. It
awoke a little tumult in her bosom as she stood there in the subdued
evening air full of the recollection of the love-tale that had been
told her. Margaret and Jean walked in the Ghost's Walk without any such
movements or beatings of the heart. Lilias felt a great awe come over
her as she stood and listened. If ever these soft steps that had paced
about under the limes for two hundred years should turn aside from
their habitual walk, and the air above them shape into a vision, what
wonderful events must happen first? She stood silent, almost without
breathing for a moment, and then she drew the skirt of her dress over
her arm, and fled into the house as if something had been pursuing her.
It was not that she was afraid of any ghostly appearance; but she was
afraid of the rustling of the wings of the coming years, and of the
events that were approaching her through the silence, the things that
were to shape her life. What were they?--perhaps patience, perhaps
sorrow, such as women so often have to dwell with. Perhaps, who could
tell, Love, the unknown, the greatest of all. She fled from them and
the thought of them, whatever they might be.