"MY DEAR SIR,
"Your packet and enclosure were duly received by me, and I think it
right, having perhaps misjudged the young man, to begin by telling you
that I am now willing to allow I may have been prejudiced, and that
there was more to be said than I thought perhaps upon his side of the
question. We are all very dour and set upon our own way in this family.
Ladies like my sister Jean and me have many lessons to bring down
our pride, besides the gift of a judgment not so swayed by personal
circumstances as a man's. But Sir Patrick had ever had his own way,
and it had no doubt become a law to him. And it may be as you say, that
we that were his nearest kin made little effort to gain his confidence.
We were led to believe it would have been of little use. In all that,
it is just possible we may have been mistaken; and, though I cannot
for a moment allow any justification of his unnatural act in passing
over Lilias (though unacquainted with her, which is the only excuse,
but that too was his own blame), yet I will avow that to make some
provision for a companion that had been so attentive, as I am informed
Mr. Grantley was, giving up his entire time to him, was no more than
what was just. You will see that in admitting so much as this, I am
going far, farther than I ever thought to do; but his action in the
matter being so honourable, and you speaking so well of him, I am ready
to make this concession. The deed you enclosed to me is no more than
justice, according to my sentiments. I honour the young man for having
strength of mind to do it, but I think it was his duty to do it, and my
only surprise is that, being capable of that sacrifice now, he should
not have done it sooner, and thus remedied the wrong before further
harm could arise. Few persons, however, divine just the right moment
for an effort of this kind, and I am very willing for my part to give
the young man his due.
"There is, however, I am grieved to say, some difference of opinion
in this respect among us, always so united as we have been: and it is
in accordance with a desire on the part of my sisters that I have to
request you will inform Mr. Grantley that his deed is inadmissible,
but that we all think it might be possible to come to some better
understanding by a personal interview. If, therefore, he will come here
when it is convenient to him, we will receive him. He will be stopping
in London, no doubt, till the end of the season; but, having so many
friends, we cannot but think it more than likely that he will be coming
North to the moors about the 12th or sooner. He will no doubt find his
old quarters in the 'Murkley Arms' at his disposal, and a personal
conference would redd up many matters that we cannot allow to remain
as they are. You will therefore have the kindness to represent this
to him. I retain the paper in the mean time, but a glance at it, with
the commentaries that have been made upon it in this family, will let
him see at once that it is a thing which we could never accept nor
think of. You will perhaps say to him, in sending this message, that I
Margaret Murray of Gowanbrae (not of Murkley), respect his reasoning
and approve his action, which I should in all likelihood have accepted
without further comment, if it had been me only that was concerned.
But I will not go against the sense of the family, and I desire that he
should be acquainted with our determination.
"I hope you are returned in good health, and none the worse for your
London diversions. It seems to me that I have long arrears of sleeping
to make up, which is hard to do, seeing no person can sleep more than
the time they are used to, whatever the occasion may be. You will make
our compliments to Mrs. Allenerly and the young people, who, I hope,
are all in good health and giving you satisfaction.
"I remain, my dear Mr. Allenerly,
"Your faithful servant,
"MARGARET MURRAY (of Gowanbrae)."
Miss Margaret was, on the whole, pleased with the construction of
this letter. She smiled somewhat grimly to herself as she re-read
her sentence about the deed and the commentaries upon it. The one
emphatic commentary upon it was that of Lilias, and nothing could be
more conclusive. It lay torn in six pieces in Margaret's desk. It was
impossible to express an opinion more decisively. There had been a
pause of consternation after Lilias' self-betrayal. But the look the
sisters exchanged over her was one in which volumes were expressed.
Margaret's eyes were dim with trouble and astonishment. To her, as
to so many parents and caretakers, the young creature who had grown
up at her side was still a child. She had been vaguely alarmed about
her, afraid in the abstract lest she should love unwisely, prepared in
the abstract for suitors and "offers." But it had not occurred to her
that it was possible for Lilias, unassisted, uncompanioned, to leap
by herself into the greatest of decisions, and to entertain anything
like a passion in that youthful bosom. In some mysterious way, her
fears had never settled upon Lewis at all. She had seen her child
surrounded by other and more brilliant competitors for her favour. He,
discouraged, no doubt, by her own refusal to consider his claims, had
been too generous, too magnanimous, she thought, for a lover. And they
had parted with him without any harm done. Lilias had been cheerful
enough on the journey, not like a girl who had left her heart behind.
She had not drooped even when they reached home, though something
dreamy, something languid, had appeared in her. Margaret had been
entirely re-assured in this respect. But in a moment all this fabric
of consolation went to the winds. She looked at Jean with wonder and
dismay unspeakable, and met her eyes in which there was a subdued
satisfaction mingled with surprise. But there was no time to resent
that glimmer of triumph. The chief thing was that not the faintest
possibility remained between them of doubt or uncertainty. Without
a conflict the question was decided. Margaret might struggle as she
pleased, it was a foregone conclusion. The eyes of the sisters said to
each other, "This being so, then----"
There was no more to be said. Even Margaret, who would have stood to
the death under any other circumstances, felt the arms drop out of
her hands. What could be done against Lilias, against that sob, so
ungrammatical, so piteous? "And me that wanted him so!"
Long and troubled were the conferences held between Margaret and Jean
thereafter. One of the questions discussed was whether Lilias herself
should be called and examined on the subject, but this both decided was
a thing not to be done.
"To open her heart to you and me when they have never opened their
hearts to one another," Miss Jean said. "Could we ask it, Margaret?"
"You think you are further ben in such subjects than I am," said
Margaret. "But who thinks of asking it? Would I profane her thoughts,
the infant that she is? No me! Deep though I regret it, and hard though
I take it, she shall never think shame to look me in the face, whatever
happens."
"It is not just that she would think shame," said Jean, the better
informed.
But this expedient was rejected unanimously. They sat together till
late in the night discussing the subject in all its branches. It is
curious how easy of acceptance a decision becomes which may have
been resisted and struggled against with might and main, as soon as
it is seen beyond all question to be inevitable. Margaret on that
morning would have declared that a marriage between Lilias Murray and
her supplanter was a thing she would die to prevent. But, after her
little sister's self-betrayal, the impossibility shifted and changed
altogether, and Margaret found that the one thing which she would die
to prevent, was not Lilias' marriage, but Lilias' unhappiness. The
change was instantaneous.
"This being so, then----"
It was all over. There was no longer any ground upon which to struggle
and resist.
As for Lilias, she escaped to her room as soon as she had come to
herself and realized what had happened. The girl was two or three
different creatures in these days. She was a child ready to cry,
ready to commit herself on a sudden provocation, and a woman able
to stand upon the edge of the new world which she contemplated with
an astonished comprehension of its loftiness and greatness, and to
meet its higher requirements with a spirit as high. She felt able
to judge in her own small person, with an ideal sense of youthful
detachment from all sophistications, the greater question, and at the
same time unable to bear the smallest contrarieties without a burst
of superficial emotion, anger, or despair. Her development was but
half accomplished. Nobody understood this, neither did she herself
understand it. She escaped from the observation of her sisters with a
sense of impatience, which did not for some time deepen into the sense
of having betrayed herself. That indeed scarcely came at all. There was
so much else to think of. She went to her own room, and threw herself
down upon the sofa, with her heart beating and her head throbbing,
every pulse sounding, she thought, in her ears in the excitement that
possessed her. So that was what he had been doing! Not lingering, as
disappointment had begun to picture him, in London among his fine
friends, dancing, talking, as if Lilias had never been; but employing
his time, his thoughts, in transferring to her his fortune, all he had
in the world. Lilias tingled with impatience, with a desire to clench
her small fist in his face, as she had done to Margaret, and ask him
how dared he, how dared he! While underneath, in her growing soul,
there diffused itself that ennobling satisfaction in the consciousness
of a nobleness in him, which enables women to bear all the strokes
of fate, the loss of their heroes, of their sons, joyful that their
beloved have done well. By degrees this higher sentiment swallowed up
everything else in her. She sat up, and put back her ravelled hair,
and held her head high. There had been an injustice, and, at the cost
of everything he had, he had set it right. He had gone beyond all
duty, all necessity, and despoiled himself of everything, not, the
letter said, "for love, but for justice." She was a girl in love, and
it may be supposed would rather have believed that her lover had done
something partially wrong for love than altogether right for justice;
but those who think so have no knowledge of the ideal of youth. Her
heart swelled and rose with this thought. She felt that happiness, that
glory of approval which is the very crown of love. The colour came to
her cheeks. She jumped up with that elastic bound which was natural to
her, and stood in the middle of the room with her head high, smiling at
him through the distance and the unknown, approving him. At that moment
she felt with pride that the tie between them was not a mere empty
liking, a natural attraction towards youth and pleasant qualities, or
that still less profound but more enthralling charm of beauty, which so
often draws two young creatures together. Lewis had no beauty. There
were hundreds of others more gifted than he; but which of them all
could have done this, "not for love, but for justice!" She began to go
deep into it, this great action, and to set it forth and enhance it to
herself in every way. He had but to have come to her, to have spoken
to her as he had meant to do (she knew) that evening, when those two
nobodies, those two fools, had taken possession of the corner under the
palm-trees, and she would have accepted him, and this justice would
have been done in a roundabout way, not for justice, but for love. But
when it came to the point (oh! yes, oh! yes, it was something more than
the foolish couple under the palms) his mind had felt that this was
inadequate, he had shut his mouth in spite of himself and given over
his hopes, and determined that it must be justice and not love. The
other would have been the happier way: all this waiting, and suspense,
and the separation, and those lingering days without him would have
been spared; but this was the better! Lilias felt herself grow taller,
grander, in her approval of everything; he had done what was right, not
what was pleasant. The growing weariness, the gathering doubt, the film
which had seemed to be rising between them, were all made desirable,
noble by this issue. He would not have made her suffer, oh, not a day's
suspense, if he could have helped it; but it was inevitable, it was
better thus----
And now--Lilias caught her breath a little, and laughed for pleasure,
and blushed for shy shamefacedness. She would have liked to write
herself, and send him the torn up deed, and say, "What folly! is not
thine mine, and mine thine?" but she remembered with a blush that she
could not, that it would be "unwomanly," that word with which Margaret
had scared her all her life, that she must wait now till he came to
set everything right. The waiting brought a little pang with it not
altogether to be chased away. "Of course he will come at once," she
said to herself. But when there is distance, and separation, and all
the chances of the unknown between you and the person whom you love,
the "of course" has always a quaver in it. This was all. Her happy
excitement, her satisfaction, her triumph in his excellence, would have
made her perhaps too confident of every blessedness, but for this one
faint note of uncertainty which just trembled through it, and made it
perhaps more exquisite, though Lilias did not think so. The waiting,
which she thought the only pain in the matter, was the perfume, the
flavour of the whole.
Next day, Margaret wrote to Mr. Allenerly the letter above recorded;
by the time she did so, her mind had worked out the subject. She had
grudged the great match which it had always been on the cards that
Lilias might make; but, at all events, it was not a long-leggit lad
who had taken her eye, to be a disappointment and vexation to all her
future life.
"He is not a fool," she said, "that is a great thing, for a fool is the
most unmanageable of all the creatures on this earth; and he has plenty
of resources, he will not be on her hands for ever: and he must have
a kind nature, or he would never have taken such care of yon old man.
And he cannot be much heeding about money for its own sake; and he must
have a strong sense of justice. And on the whole, though I have set my
face against him, I have always liked him," Margaret said, with a sigh.
"He has just the tenderest heart and the best disposition that ever
was," cried Jean.
"Oh! yes, no doubt you will speak well of him: for he is in love with
you too," said Margaret.
"Oh! Margaret, that is what I like in him--he has no jealousy, as small
creatures have. He is just as fond as he can be of those that like her
best. He is in love with us all three."
Upon this Margaret shook her head.
"Not with me--that would be beyond nature--for I have scorned him and
denied him."
"Nevertheless," said Miss Jean, with the firmness that necessity had
developed in her, "he is in love with us all three."
The next morning there was a very different kind of scene in Mr.
Allenerly's office, where the excellent writer read Miss Margaret's
letter with a grin that was somewhat cynical.
"They may try as they like," he said to himself, "they will not get him
now. I said he was hasty, I said he was premature, but he would not be
guided by me." He stretched out his hand for the newspaper which lay on
one side of his table with his morning letters, and ran his finger down
a line of small paragraphs: then shook his head when he had found the
one he wanted, and, drawing his paper towards him, replied at once as
follows:--
"MY DEAR MADAM,
"Your communication I would have had much pleasure in forwarding to
my client, Mr. Lewis Grantley, sometimes calling himself Murray, but
I regret that that is not now in my power. You will easily understand
that, after despoiling himself of everything he had, it was no longer
possible for him to live like a gentleman, doing nothing, in an
expensive place like London. His friends were all very kind, but he has
a great deal of sense for so young a man, and saw that in that there
was nothing to trust to. So he took advantage of his opportunities,
and struck when the iron was hot. He had little difficulty in getting
an appointment as secretary to Sir Andrew Morton, the new Governor of
the Pharaway Islands. He was in good spirits, comparatively speaking,
and said the Governor was an old friend, and that he had every hope of
getting on well and enjoying the post--which I make no doubt he will,
being one of the people that always fall on their feet: which no doubt
is greatly due to his being of a very friendly kind of nature himself.
"It is a long voyage, and he did not expect to arrive till September;
but, any way, I will forward to him your letter, and he will no doubt
reply in good time. The appointment was either for two or three years.
It was strongly on his mind to go to Murkley before he left, but there
were delays about preparing the deed, for which I, I am afraid, am
partly responsible, and I discouraged him, remembering that you would
not hear of it. I imagine, by the tone of your letter, that you may
have more or less changed your mind; but, unfortunately, it is too late.
"If I hear anything of Mr. Murray during his voyage, I will let
you know. I am none the worse, I thank you kindly, for my London
diversions. I avoided late hours and hot rooms, which play the mischief
with the constitution. My wife warmly reciprocates your kind messages,
and I remain, my dear Miss Murray,
"Your obedient servant to command,
"A. ALLENERLY."
This letter fell like a thunderbolt on Murkley. They had anticipated
not only no such obstacle, but no obstacle at all. They had thought
that Lewis would arrive by the next train, throwing aside all his
engagements, too happy to be called upon to appear before them and
explain all that he intended and wished. Margaret for a time was
absolutely silenced by the news; it fell upon her like a stone.
Fortunately she was alone when it came, and was not besieged by the
anxious looks of the others, which would have been more than she
could bear. After she had fully realized it, she sent for Jean and
communicated the news to her.
"It will kill Lilias," Jean said.
"Lilias is not such a poor creature," cried Margaret, though her very
soul was quaking. "My poor Jean, I do not want to put you in mind of
your trouble--but you did not die."
"Ah! but it was different, very different," said Jean. "You cannot put
me in mind, Margaret, of what I never forget. It was settled between
us, and we understood each other; that takes the bitterness out of it."
"Some people would say that put the bitterness into it," said Margaret.
"Ah! but they would be ignorant folk; we were belonging the one to the
other; now Lilias, poor thing! has nothing to lean upon. She is just
nothing to him. If he were to die----"
"God forgive you for such thoughts! He is a young lad, and healthy, and
well-conditioned. Why should he die?"
"Others have done it before him," Miss Jean said; "but, living or
dying, she will feel that there is nothing in it. She has no right to
him nor he to her. It will just kill her."
"Hold your tongue, Jean, hold your tongue," Margaret cried in dismay.
In the mean time there was no appearance of anything killing Lilias.
She had come out of the dreamy state of expectation that had been
growing upon her into a cheerful energy. On this particular morning
she was as sunny as the day. She had been seen to look at the list of
trains, but it was too soon as yet to expect that he could come from
London. She did not speak of him or make any reference to what she
looked for; but when their daily walk led through the village, Lilias
lingered opposite the 'Murkley Arms' with an intuition which unhappily
brought its own fulfilment. Adam, with his creel over his shoulder,
came up as usual with his slow, lumbering tread, and Margaret was too
much interested in the trout not to cross the road to look at them. He
was turning them over for her inspection when Janet appeared at the
door as usual. Lilias thought that she had always been fond of Janet;
she said to herself that it was for that reason she had been anxious
to assure her that all the fable about Philip Stormont was untrue. She
was glad now to see her honest face, and it made her heart beat to
think that perhaps Janet might have some news. She responded to her
"Good day, Miss Lilias," by holding out her hand, an honour which the
good woman received as if this little country girl had been a princess,
curtseying as she touched it and making her little compliment.
"I am aye blithe to see ye passing; and ye are no looking white and
shilpit, as I feared, but just in grand health, and like a rose after
your season in London. Miss Margaret has always taken such good care
of you. Lady Eeda she is just like a ghost. They've come hame, maybe
you'll have heard."
"Lady Ida stays longer and goes out more than we did," said Lilias;
"but everybody," she added, with a little natural wile, "is leaving
London now."
"Oh ay, we'll soon be in August, and you'll no keep the gentlemen
after that," said Janet, with true appreciation. "It makes more stir
in the countryside, but it's little it does for us, and I'm wae, wae
for my gentleman that was here in the last year; ye may mind upon him,
Miss Lilias. I never could tell what brought him here. It wasna for
the fishing, for he was no hand at that, but as pleasant-spoken and as
good-hearted a lad as ever stepped. There was one of his portmanteaus
aye left here, and I hoped to have him back; but we had word to send it
to him a week since."
"And is that why you are _wae_? But perhaps there may be no occasion
for it, Janet," said Lilias, with a smile. "We saw him in London, and I
think he meant to come back."
"Eh, Miss Lilias, that would have been a good hearing; but maybe you
do not hear that he has lost his siller, poor lad--some o' thae banks,
I suppose," said Janet. "It's a braw thing to have nae siller and nae
trouble with the losing o't."
"I think that is a mistake too," said Lilias, her fair face glowing
with pleasure. "He has not lost so much as he thought."
"Well, Miss Lilias, no doubt you'll have ways of kennin'. I only judge
by his letter, and that was very doun. My heart was wae for him when I
read it, and they sailed yesterday. I hope he got his things in time."
"Sailed!--yesterday!" Lilias echoed, with a wondering face.
"And, losh me!" cried Janet, "they say it's away among the cannibals.
If they sent the sodgers to shoot them down, I would think nothing
o't--for them that feed upon their neighbours' flesh, Lord bless us!
they're fit for nothing better--but a fine, peaceable young gentleman,
with none of those warlike ways, what would they pit the like of him
forrit for, just to fa' a victim----"
"Lilias, it is time we were going home," said Margaret, turning round
quickly and surveying the blanched countenance and wondering eyes
aghast of her companion.
"Ye are just frichtening the ladies," said Adam; "there's nae mair
danger among the cannibals than at hame. They're no cannibal now; do
you think that could last, in the face of steam-engines and a' that,
and advancin' civileezation and British rule? But the ladies they have
mair sense. There's no such things now-a-days. We a' eat ane anither,
but it's in a mair modest way."
"I have no more time to speak to you, Adam; but ye'll just take that
trout up to the cook; and come away, Lilias--you have walked too far,
your face is just the colour of wax," said Margaret, anxiously drawing
her sister's arm within her own.
"It is not the walk--did you hear that, Margaret?"
"Did I hear what? I just heard that woman Janet havering, as she always
does."
"She said he sailed yesterday." Lilias made a pause and looked into her
sister's face. "Is it true?"
"Where would he sail to, I would like to know?" Margaret said; then,
with a sudden pressure of the girl's arm, "And supposing it were true?
It was what I would have done in his place, if it had been me."
Lilias' young figure swayed upon her arm, the light went out of her
eyes. She walked on mechanically for a few minutes, sustained by
Margaret, not seeing where she went. In those minutes everything
was dark to her, the out-door world, the inner horizon. Blackness
came up without and within, and covered earth and heaven. First
disappointment, and that terrible prolongation of suspense, the hope
deferred that maketh the heart sick; then an overwhelming sense of
uncertainty, of insecurity, of the earth failing beneath her feet. All
had seemed so easy before. To tear a piece of paper, to write a letter,
what more simple? But perhaps now what had seemed so easy might be
impossible--impossible! He might never have loved her, he might never
come back at all; it might be all a delusion. Lilias did not swoon or
lose consciousness; on the contrary, she remembered everything, saw
everything in the darkness like a horrid dream; her heart throbbed, her
blood all rushed to the brain to reinforce it, to give strength for the
emergency; all round her there was nothing but blackness. The sun was
shining full upon her, but where she was it was night.
All that Margaret saw outside was that Lilias said nothing, that she
clung to her arm, that she stumbled a little in walking, as if she did
not see any little obstacles in the way, and hurried on as if she were
pursued, bending her head, her feet twisting with a sort of headlong
impulse. She did not know what to think; she said, with a quaver of
profound anxiety in her voice,
"My darling, where are you going so fast, Lilias, my bonnie dear?"
These words penetrated the gloom, and brought Lilias in some degree
to herself. The darkness quivered and opened up. She slackened her
steps, leaning still more closely on her sister's arm, and gradually
the common day came back in widening circles, and she began to see
the light and the trees. The crisis had been terrible, but her heart
already rallied.
"What do you say--about going fast? Do you mean the ship?" she said.
"My bonnie dear!" was all Margaret's reply. And she held the girl up
with her strong arm, half carrying her, and hurrying her on the road
towards home. Margaret thought she was going to faint and fall, not
seeing that she was in fact recovering from the blow.
"Do not hold me so tight, Margaret; you are hurting me. Yes, I was
walking fast--I forgot: for I want to be home, home. Oh! never mind me,
Margaret; I am just a little giddy, but I am better." Lilias freed her
arm almost with impatience. "Why should you support me? Has anything
happened to me?" she said.
Then Margaret, who was always mistress, sank into humility.
"My darling, I don't know that anything has just--happened; but you are
not strong, and you are worried. I would like to get you home."
"I am going home," said Lilias, with dignity.
There was so much noise in her head still, as if all the wheels of her
being were working and turning, that she had not much power of speech.
But she walked with a certain stateliness, rejecting all aid. And
Margaret, who had been sovereign all her life and directed everybody,
accompanied little Lilias in the height and greatness of her passion,
without saying a word, with a pathetic humility, wondering at her as
the people of Camelot wondered at Elaine.