It was curious how the aspect of everything had changed to Lewis when
he walked up the now familiar way to the old Castle of Murkley through
the sunshine of the July afternoon. It was still full summer, but
there seemed to him a cloud in the air--a cloud too subtle to show
upon the brightness of the unsympathetic blue, but which indicated
storm and change. The trees were almost black in the fulness of their
leafage, dark green, no tender tints of spring lingering among them,
as there had still been when he first came to the little village on
the river-side, and first saw those turrets sheltered among the trees.
What a difference since then! The unknown, with all its suggestions,
had disappeared; he was aware what he was likely to meet round
every corner. But the excitement of a life in suspense had only been
intensified. When he came to Murkley, with the virtuous intention
of bestowing himself and his fortune upon one of old Sir Patrick's
disinherited granddaughters, there had been no very entrancing
expectations in his mind. He had not thought of falling in love, but
of accomplishing his duty. That duty he would have been happy to
accomplish under the gentle auspices of Miss Jean. He would never have
grumbled at the twilight life he should have spent with her; no such
radiant vision as Lilias had ever flitted across his imagination, nor
had he expected, in case his suit should be rejected (a possibility
which at first, indeed, he had not taken into account), to return with
anything less agreeable than that calm sense of having done his duty
which consoles a man for most small disappointments. But now all this
was changed. In the case he had supposed beforehand, a refusal would
have been an emancipation. He would have felt that he had done all
he could, and was now free to enjoy unfettered what he had felt the
justice of sharing, should they please, with one of the natural heirs.
But Lewis felt now that the whole question had been opened, and did
not know where he might find himself, or what he might feel to be his
duty if he failed now. It had been easy to put all that aside when he
knew that Lilias was near him, that he had the same chance as all her
countrymen, and was free to speak to her, to exercise what charms he
might possess. Every decision was stopped naturally, every calculation,
even, until it appeared whether in this supreme quest he might have
good fortune. But when she should be gone, what would happen? When she
should be gone, the glory would be gone out of everything. Murkley
would turn into a dull little village, full of limited rural people,
and his own life would appear as it was, a mere exotic, without meaning
or rule. There was a meaning in it now, but then there would be none.
He walked up the village-street with that suddenly elongated
countenance, feeling that everything was crumbling about him. The
children with their lintwhite locks, the fowls sheltering beneath the
old cart turned up on the roadside, the slow, lumbering figures moving
about across the fields and dusty roads, struck him for the first
time with a sense of remoteness. What had he to do among them? It was
impossible to imagine anything more entirely unlike the previous tenor
of his life, and if he failed--if he did not succeed in the suit which,
as soon as he thought of it, seemed to him preposterous, what would his
life become? Whatever it was, it would be very different from Murkley,
and any existence that was possible there. Accordingly it was not only
his love that might be disappointed, but his life, which probably would
entirely change. Very few men have this to contemplate when they think
of putting their fortune to the touch, unless it is those men who take
up marriage as a profession, a class fortunately very few.
The ladies were all in, Simon said. He had made an alteration in his
appearance which revealed a high sense of the appropriate. He had an
apron upon his person, and several straws at his feet, which he stooped
to pick up.
"You'll excuse us, sir, if we're not just in our ordinary," Simon said.
"You see we're packing." A hope that he would be the first to tell it,
and that explanations might be demanded from him, gave vivacity to
Simon's looks. But he relapsed into gravity when Lewis, with that long
face, gravely replied that he was very sorry, and that it must have
been a sudden resolution. "Things is mostly sudden, sir," said Simon,
with a dignified sense of superiority, "in a lady's house. Miss Jean is
in the drawing-room, but Miss Margaret is up the stair."
Lewis stood, with his heart beating, under the old man's calm
inspection.
"I am going to see Miss Jean," he said, "but afterwards will you ask,
Simon, if Miss Murray will grant me an interview. There is something--I
wish to ask her."
"Lord bless us!" said Simon, "you'll no be meaning----"
And then he stopped short, eyeing Lewis, who stood half angry, half
amused under this inspection. The old servant's eyes had a twinkle in
them, and meant much, but he recollected himself in time.
"You'll be meaning Miss Margaret," he said. "I'll allow it's
ridiculous, with the two leddies here; but the one that is Miss Murray
according to all rights is Miss Lilias--for she is Miss Murray of
Murkley, and the other two leddies, they're just the Miss Murrays
of Gowanbrae. That was, maybe, the General's fault: or, maybe, just
his wisdom and far-seeingness; for he was a clever man, though few
saw it. Old Sir Patrick, the old man, he was just the very devil for
cleverness," Simon said.
This did not sound like a servant's indiscretion, but the somewhat
free opinion of a member of the family, which was how Simon considered
himself. He made a little pause, contemplating Lewis with a humorous
eye, and then he said,
"I'll take ye to Miss Jean, sir, and then I'll give your message to
Miss Margaret. I will say in half an hour or three-quarters of an hour,
that they may be sure not to clash."
"That will do very well," said Lewis, not knowing why it was that
Simon twinkled at him with so admiring an eye.
The old servant smote upon his thigh when he had introduced the visitor
into the drawing-room.
"If one will not do, he'll try the other. But, Lord save us, to tackle
Miss Margaret! Eh, but yon's a lad of spirit," Simon said. For the
little episode of the devotion of Lewis for Miss Jean had not passed
unobserved by the keen eyes of the domestic critics. They understood
what had happened as well as Lewis, and considerably better than Jean
did, though with consternation, not knowing what the young man's object
could be. No doubt he had thought that she was the one that had the
siller, they concluded, but his desire to have an interview with Miss
Margaret convulsed the house with wonder.
"Miss Margaret will soon give him his answer," said the cook,
indignant. "I would have turned him about his business, if it had been
me, and tellt him our ladies werena in."
"Would you have had me file my conscience with a lee?" said Simon;
and then he added, with a chuckle, "I wish the keyhole was an honest
method, or I could get below the table. I would sooner see them than
ony play."
"She will send him away with a flea in his lug," said the angry cook.
Meanwhile Lewis, unsuspecting that his designs were so evident, went
into the drawing-room, where Miss Jean sat as usual. She gave him her
usual gentle smile.
"Come away," she said, "Mr. Murray. I am very glad to see you. I should
have sent for you, if you had not come. For it will not be much longer
I will have the pleasure----We are going away from Murkley for a time.
It is sudden, you will think, but that is just because we have kept it
to ourselves. Murkley is just a terrible place for gossip," Miss Jean
said.
There was a little pause. It was one of those crises in which there is
much to say, but no legitimate means of saying it. "I am very sorry,"
said Lewis. Miss Jean, on her side, was much embarrassed, for somehow
it seemed to her that she had acted unkindly, and forgotten the claims
of this young man who threw himself in so strange, yet so trusting, a
way on her consideration. The events of the former interview, in which
there had been so much agitation, she had never formally explained
to herself. The shyness of her sweet old-maidenhood had eluded the
question. She had never asked herself what he meant, or why it was
that she had taken the extreme step of narrating to him the history of
her own love. She had done it by instinct at the moment, and the doing
of it had agitated and occupied her mind so much that she scarcely
thought of Lewis. But she had retained a warmer kindness for him, a
sense of having more to do with him than the others had, and she felt
now as if she had deserted him, almost betrayed his trust in her.
"You see," she said, a little anxiously, "we are not just free agents,
Margaret and me. There is always Lilias to think of. What is good for
her is the thing we are most guided by: and we think a change will be
good for her."
"And I am sure you are quite right in thinking so," said Lewis,
hastily. It was a thing he had no right to say. He reddened with
embarrassment and alarm when he had thus committed himself, and said,
hurriedly, "Everything, of course, must give way to that."
"You have thought her looking--pale? That is just what we have been
thinking, Margaret and me. And what is a very good thing is, that she's
fain, fain to go to Gowanbrae herself. That is our little place in the
south country, Mr. Murray. I am sure that if you were--passing that way
at any time, Margaret would be very glad to see you." Jean said this,
however, with but a half-assured air, and continued, hurriedly, "It
would be taking much upon ourselves to say you would perhaps miss us:
for you have many friends already in this country-side, and this house
is a very quiet house for you to find pleasure in; but it vexes me just
to cease to see you when we were beginning to know you."
"I will come to--the south country--with pleasure," said Lewis; then he
added, seeing her hesitation, "We shall meet, perhaps, in town."
"That will be the surest," said Miss Jean, brightening; "we will be
there by March, from all Margaret says. So far as she can hear, that
is the time when the drawing-rooms begin. If you are in London, that
will just be a great pleasure to look forward to, Mr. Murray. Dear me!
to think of meeting you among strangers, and hearing you play, and all
as if we were still at Murkley, in a great, vast, terrible place like
yon London! And where shall we hear of you? You will have a club, or
something. But, after all, what can that matter?" Miss Jean added, with
gentle dignity; "you will always be able to hear of the Miss Murrays of
Murkley; and you will tell me where I can hear good music, that is one
thing I am looking forward to."
"Are you too busy? or may I play to you now?" he said.
"Oh, no, I could never be too busy," said Miss Jean, "and, as a matter
of fact, I have nothing to take me up. Margaret is just a woman in a
thousand. She thinks nobody can do a thing right but herself. I would
be sitting with my hands before me but for this work that they all
laugh at. And never, never could I be too busy for music," she said,
with a little sigh of satisfaction, turning her face towards the piano.
Lewis was in that condition of suspense in which a man, with his mind
all directed to the near future, is scarcely conscious what he is doing
in the present. There had been a moment before in which his heart had
beat very anxiously in this same room, but with a very different kind
of anxiety from this. There lay before him then no dazzling possibility
of happiness, but now the hurry and tumult in all his veins was moved
by the knowledge that everything which was most beautiful in life was
before him. He did not expect that he was to get it. He had no hope
that Miss Margaret would open the doors of the house or the arms of
the family to him. But the mere idea of declaring himself, of making
the attempt, made his heart beat. It was almost certain, indeed, that
he would be rejected, but he had learned now to know that no such
injustice could be final. After Margaret, there was another tribunal.
Parents might frown, yet it was always possible in England that the
maiden herself would smile. He felt that, be the answer what it
might, when he opened his lips this day he would open up the supreme
question of his life. And yet, with this ferment in his being, he went
to the piano to play to the gentle listener who was never too busy
for music. He himself, though he was an enthusiast in his way, was
too busy for it now; he could not hear the sounds that came out from
under his fingers for the strong pulsations that beat in his heart and
made every other sound indifferent to him. In consequence of this, it
happened to Lewis to do what all artists have to do sometimes, whether
man or woman, seeing that life is more urgent than art. He played
with his hands not less skilfully, not less smoothly than usual, but
he did not play with his soul, and of all people in the world Miss
Jean was the most sensitive to the difference. She loved music not
for its technicalities, or for its execution, or for the grammar and
correctness of its construction. She loved it for the soul of it, by
instinct and not by purpose, and the fine dissatisfaction that arose
in her when she felt it came to her from his fingers only is more than
can be said. A veil of bewilderment came over her face. Was it her own
fault? was her mind taken up with the excitement of the journey, the
cares which she shared with her sister respecting Lilias? Miss Jean
placed herself at the bar with a sort of consternation. But it was
not she who was to blame. Had she received it as usual with serene
satisfaction and delight, he would have continued for some time at
least, anxious and excited though he was; but when the support of her
faith was withdrawn, this became impossible. He stopped abruptly when
he came to the end of the movement he was playing, broke into a wild
fantasia, and finally jumped up from his seat after a great jar and
shriek of outraged chords, holding out his hands in an appeal.
"Pardon!" he cried, "pardon! I cannot play a note--it is too strong for
me, and you have found me out."
"You are not well," she said, with ready sympathy, "or there is
something wrong."
"There is this wrong," he said, "that I think all my life is going to
be settled to-day. You, whom I have always revered and loved since I
first saw you, let me tell it to you. Oh! not the same as what happened
the other day when you stopped my mouth. I do not know what you will
think of me, but it was not falsehood one way or another. I had
scarcely seen her then. I have asked Miss Margaret for an interview,
and this time it is for life or for--no, I will not be fictitious, I
will not say death: for that is not how one dies."
"An interview with Margaret?" Jean repeated after him. She grew a
little pale in sympathy with his excitement. "My poor lad, my poor lad!
and what is that for?"
But she divined what it was for. For a moment it startled her indeed.
That gentle sense of property, of a sort of possession in him, which
was involuntary, which was the merest shadow of personal consciousness,
disturbed and bewildered her for a moment. Was this what he had
meant all along? It gave her a little shock of humiliation, not that
he should have changed his mind, but that she should have mistaken
him. How glad she was that she had stopped him at once, that she had
prevented all compromising words; but yet the possibility that she had
been so ridiculous as to mistake as addressed to herself what was meant
for Lilias, did touch Miss Jean's mind for a moment with a thrill of
pain; the next she was herself again.
"It is Lilias you mean?" she said, in a low and tremulous voice.
He made no reply except with his eyes, in which there was an appeal
to her for pardon and for help. He was too deeply moved and anxious,
fortunately, to realize the ludicrous element in the situation, and,
in his confusion and sense of guilt yet innocence, had no ridiculous
admixture of the comic in his thoughts. Perhaps people are slow to
see the humour in their own case: and Lewis had absolute trust in the
patroness whom he addressed. Even had he supposed her to have a feeling
of wrong in this quick transference of his suit, he would have opened
his heart to her all the same. But he had no reason to suppose that
Miss Jean could have any sense of wrong. She shook her head in reply to
his look of confusion and appeal.
"She is just the apple of Margaret's eye," she said.
"And I am--no one," said Lewis.
"You must not say that; but you are not a great man. And Margaret
thinks there is nobody good enough for her. I would not mind so much
myself; you are young, and have a kind, kind heart. But you have said
nothing to _her_?"
"What do you take me for?" said Lewis, with gentle indignation. Only a
few words had been said, and his former attitude towards Miss Jean had
not been one that would have seemed to make his present confidences
natural: but the fact was that he had utter confidence in her, and
she a soft, half-maternal compassion and sympathy for him which had
ranged her on his side in a moment. They were born to understand each
other. All that was confusing and embarrassing had blown away from
the thoughts of both. They sat together and talked for some minutes
longer, forgetting everything else in this entrancing subject; then she
sent him away, bidding God bless him, to the more important interview
which awaited him. Miss Jean dried her eyes, in which tears of sympathy
and emotion were standing, as she closed the door upon him. It was a
thing to stir the heart in her bosom. The first lover of Lilias! To
think that little thing newly out of the nursery, who had been a baby
but the other day, should have entered already upon this other stage
of existence! Miss Jean sat down in her window again and mused over
it with a tremor of profound sympathetic feeling in her heart. Bless
the darling! that she should have come to this already. But then,
what would Margaret say? He was not an earl nor a duke, but a simple
gentleman. Even when you came to that, nobody knew what Murrays he was
of; was there any hope that Margaret would yield her child to such a
one? Miss Jean shook her head all alone as she sat and mused; her heart
was sore for him, poor young man! but she did not think there was any
hope.
As for Lewis, he walked to the library, in which Miss Margaret awaited
him, with a sort of solemnity as men march to hear their sentence from
the court-martial that has been sitting upon them. He had not much more
hope than Miss Jean had, but he had less submission. He found Margaret
seated in a high-backed chair of the same order as that which she used
in the drawing-room--a commanding figure. She had no knitting nor
other familiar occupation to take off the edge of her dignity, but sat
expecting him, her hands folded upon her lap. She did not rise when he
came in, but gave him her hand with friendly stateliness.
"Simon tells me you were wanting to speak to me, Mr. Murray. It is most
likely our old man has made a mistake, and you were only coming to say
good-bye."
"He has made no mistake," Lewis said; "there is something I wanted to
say to you, to ask you. It is of the greatest importance to me, and, if
I could hope that you would give me a favourable answer, it would be of
importance to you too."
"Indeed!" she said, with a smile, in which there was some haughtiness
and a shade of derision. "I cannot think of any question in which our
interests could meet."
"But there is one," cried Lewis, anxiously. "And you will hear me--you
will hear me, at least? Miss Murray, I once said something to you--I
was confused and did not know--but I said something----"
"Not confused at all," said Miss Margaret. "You made your meaning very
clear, though it was a very strange meaning to me. It was in relation
to my sister Jean."
The young man bowed his head. He was confused now, if he had not been
so then. All that Miss Jean's gentle courtesy had smoothed over for him
he saw now in Margaret's smile.
"I hope," she said, pointedly, and with the derision more apparent than
ever, "that the answer you got then was of a satisfying kind."
"I got no answer," said Lewis, with a little agitation. "Your sister is
as kind as heaven; she would not let me put myself in the wrong. The
feeling I had was not fictitious; I would explain it to you if I dared.
She forgave me my presumption, and she stopped me. Miss Murray, it is a
different thing I have come to speak to you of to-day."
"I am glad of that," said Miss Margaret--"very glad of that; for I may
say, since you have thought better of it, that it was not a subject
that was pleasing to me."
Lewis rose up in his excitement; the little taunt in her tone, the
sternness behind her smile, the watchful way in which her eyes held
him, all made him feel the desperate character of the attempt he was
making, and desperation took away every restraint.
"It is very different," he said--"it is love. I did not intend it--I
had never thought of it--my mind was turned another way--but I saw
her by chance, and what else--what else was possible? Oh! it is very
different. Love is not like anything else. It forces to speak, it makes
you bold, it is more strong than I----"
"You are eloquent," said Miss Margaret. "Mr. Murray, that was very
well put. And who are you in love with that can concern us of the
house of Murkley, if I may ask the question? I will hope," she said,
with a laugh, "that it's not me you have chosen as the object of your
affection this time."
He looked at her with a pained look, reproachful and wistful. It did
him more good than if he had spoken volumes. A little quick colour,
like a reflection of some passing light, gleamed over Miss Margaret's
face.
"Mr. Murray," she said, "if that is your name, which you say yourself
is not your name--who are you, a stranger, to come like this to ladies
of a well-known family? I am not asking who is your object now. If
I seemed to jeer at you, I ask your pardon. I will say all I can--I
will say that I believe you mean no harm, but rather to be honourable,
according to what you think right. But I must tell you, you are not,
so far as I know, in the position of one with whom we could make
alliances. It is kindest to speak it plain out. It is just chance that
has thrown us in your way, and you take impressions far too seriously,"
she added, not without kindness. "There was my sister Jean, you know;
and now it is another. This will blow over too, if you will just wait a
little, and consider what is befitting."
She rose up from her high chair. She was more imposing seated in it
than standing, for her stature was not great. Lewis knew that this was
intended to give him his dismissal, but he was too much in earnest to
take it so easily.
"Let me speak one word," he said. "If I am not great, there is at least
one thing--I am rich. What she wishes to do, I could do it. It should
all be as if there had been no disinheriting. To me the family would
be as great an interest, as great a desire, as to her. Her palace of
dreams, it should be real. I would devote myself to it--it should be a
dream no longer. Listen to me, I could do it----"
"What you say is without meaning to me, Mr. Murray," Miss Margaret
said, with stern paleness. "It is better that no more should be said."
"Without any reference, without any appeal? how do you know," he said,
"that she might not herself think otherwise--that she might not, if
only for the sake of her dream----"
"A gentleman," said Miss Margaret, "will never force his plea upon
ladies when he sees it is not welcome. I will just bid you farewell,
Mr. Murray. We shall very likely not meet again."
She held out her hand, but he did not take it. He looked anxiously in
her face.
"Can I say nothing that will move you?" he said.
"I am thinking not, Mr. Murray. When two persons disagree so much as
we do upon a business so important, it is best to wish one another
good-bye. And it is lucky, as you will have heard, that we are going
away. I am offering you my hand, though you do not seem to see it. I
would not do that if I thought ill of you. Fare-you-well, and I wish
you every prosperity," Miss Margaret said.
He took her hand, and gave it one angry pressure. It was what he had
expected, but it hurt him more than he thought. The disappointment, the
sadness of leaving, the blank wall that seemed to rise before him, made
Lewis sad, and made him wroth. It did not seem to him that he deserved
so badly of Fate. He said "good-bye" almost in a sullen tone. But when
he reached the door he turned round and looked at her, standing where
he had left her, watching his departure.
"I must warn you. I do not accept this as final," he said.