When a pair of lovers are finally delivered from all those terrible
obstacles that fret the current of true love, and are at last married
and settled, what more is there to be said about them? One phase of life
is happily terminated,--the chapter which human instinct has chosen as
the subject of romance, the one in which all classes are
interested,--those to whom it is still in the future, with all the happy
interest of happiness to come,--those to whom it is in the past, with
perhaps a sigh, perhaps a smile of compassion, a softening recollection,
even when their hopes have not been fulfilled, of what was and what
might have been. The happinesses and the miseries of that early
struggle, how they dwindle in importance as we get older,--how little we
think now of the crisis which seemed final then--things for which heaven
and earth stood still; yet there will never come a time in which human
interest will fall away from the perennial story, continually going on,
ever changing, yet ever the same.
Before proceeding to the knotting up of other threads, we must first
recount here what happened to Lord Millefleurs. He did not take any
immediate steps in respect to Miss Sallie Field. They corresponded
largely and fully at all times, and he told her of the little incident
respecting Edith Lindores in full confidence of her sympathy and
approval. Perhaps he gave the episode a turn of a slightly modified
kind, representing that his proposal was rather a matter of politeness
than of passion, and that it was a relief to both parties when it was
discovered that Edith, as well as himself, considered fraternal much
better than matrimonial relations. Miss Sallie's reply to this was very
uncompromising. She said: "I think you have behaved like a couple of
fools. You ought to have married. You can tell her from me that she
would have found you very nice, though your height may leave something
to be desired. I don't myself care for girls--they are generally stupid;
but it would have been exceedingly suitable, and pleased your parents--a
duty which I wish I saw you more concerned about." Lord Millefleurs, in
his reply, acknowledged the weight and sense "as always" of his
correspondent's opinion. "I told dear Edith at once what you said; but
it did not perhaps make so much impression on her as it would otherwise
have done, since she has got engaged to John Erskine, a country
gentleman in the neighbourhood, which does not please her parents half
so well as a certain other union would have done. Pleasing one's parents
after all, though it is a duty, is not paramount to all other
considerations. Besides, I have never thought it was a commandment to
which great attention was paid _chez nous_." Miss Field's reply was
still more succinct and decided: "I don't know what you mean by _chez
nous_. I hate French phrases when simple American will do as well. If
you think we don't love our fathers and mothers, it just shows how far
popular fallacy can go, and how easily you bigoted Englishmen are taken
in. Who was it that first opened your eyes to the necessity of
considering your mother's feelings?" Peace was established after this,
but on the whole Lord Millefleurs decided to await the progress of
circumstances, and not startle and horrify those parents whom Miss
Sallie was so urgent he should please. Some time after she informed him
that she was coming to Europe in charge of a beautiful young niece, who
would have a large fortune. "Money makes a great deal of difference in
the way in which dukes and duchesses consider matters," she wrote,
enigmatically, "and so far as I can make out from your papers and
novels (if there is any faith to be put in them), American girls are the
fashion." Lord Millefleurs informed his mother of this approaching
arrival, and with some difficulty procured from her an invitation to Ess
Castle for his Transatlantic friends. "I wish there was not that girl
though," her Grace said; but Lady Reseda, for her part, was delighted.
"She will go to Paris first and bring the very newest fashions," that
young lady cried. The ducal mansion was a little excited by the
anticipation. They looked for a lovely creature dressed to just a little
more than perfection, who would come to breakfast in a diamond necklace,
and amuse them more than anybody had amused them in the memory of man.
And they were not disappointed in this hope. Miss Nellie F. Field was a
charming little creature, and her "things" were divine. Lady Reseda
thought her very like Daisy Miller; and the Duchess allowed, with a
sigh, that American girls were the fashion, and that if Millefleurs
_would_ have something out of the way----.
But in the meanwhile Millefleurs left this lovely little impersonation
of Freedom to his mother and sister, and walked about with her aunt.
Miss Sallie was about eight or nine and thirty, an age at which women
have not ceased to be pleasant--when they choose--to the eye as well as
to the heart. But the uncompromising character of her advice was
nothing to that of her toilette and appearance. She wore short skirts in
which she could move about freely when everybody else had them long. She
wore a bonnet when everybody else had a hat. Her hair was thin, but she
was scrupulous never to add a tress, or even a cushion. She was not
exactly plain, for her features were good, and her eyes full of
intelligence; but as for complexion, she had none, and no figure to
speak of. She assumed the entire spiritual charge of Millefleurs from
the moment they met, and he was never absent from her side a moment
longer than he could help. It amused the family beyond measure, at first
almost more than Nellie. But by and by the smile began to be forced, and
confusion to take the part of hilarity. It was Miss Sallie Field herself
at last who took the bull by the horns, if that is not too profane a
simile. She took the Duke apart one fine evening, when the whole party
had strolled out upon the lawn after dinner--"Your son," she said, "is
tormenting me to marry him," and she fixed upon the Duke her intelligent
eyes. His Grace was confounded, as may be supposed. He stood aghast at
this middle-aged woman with her Transatlantic accent and air. He did not
want to be uncivil. "You!" he said, in consternation, then blushed for
his bad manners, and added, suavely, "I beg you a thousand pardons--you
mean--your niece." That of itself would be bad enough. "No," said Miss
Sallie, with an air of regret, "it does not concern Nellie. I have told
him that would be more reasonable. Nellie is very pretty, and has a
quantity of money; but he doesn't seem to see it. Perhaps you don't know
that this was what he wanted when I sent him home to his mother? I
thought he would have got over it when he came home. I consider him
quite unsuitable for me, but I am a little uneasy about the moral
consequences. I am thirty-eight, and I have a moderate competency, not a
fortune, like Nellie. I thought it better to talk it over with you
before it went any further," Miss Sallie said.
And when he took this middle-aged and plain-spoken bride to Dalrulzian
to visit the young people there, Millefleurs did not attempt to conceal
his consciousness of the objections which his friends would no doubt
make. "I told you it was quite unsuitable," he said, turning up his
little eyes and clasping his plump hands. "We were both perfectly aware
of that; but it is _chic_, don't you know, if you will allow me to use a
vulgar word." Edith clasped the arm of John when the Marquis and
Marchioness of Millefleurs had retired, and these two young people
indulged in subdued bursts of laughter. They stepped out upon the
terrace walk to laugh, that they might not be heard, feeling the
delightful contrast of their own well-assorted youth and illimitable
happiness. The most delightful vanity mingled with their mirth--that
vanity in each other which feels like a virtue. It was summer, and the
air was soft, the moon shining full over the far sweep of the undulating
country, blending with a silvery remnant of daylight which lingered far
into the night. The hills in the far distance shone against the
lightness of the horizon, and the crest of fir-trees on Dalrulzian hill
stood out against the sky, every twig distinct. It was such a night as
the lovers babbled of on that bank on which the moonbeams lay at
Belmont, but more spiritual than any Italian night because of that soft
heavenly lingering of the day which belongs to the north. This young
pair had not been married very long, and had not ceased to think their
happiness the chief and most reasonable subject of interest to all
around them. They were still comparing themselves with everything in
earth, and almost in heaven, to the advantage of their own blessedness.
They were amused beyond description by the noble couple who had come to
visit them. "Confess, now, that you feel a pang of regret," John
said--and they stood closer and closer together, and laughed under their
breath as at the most delightful joke in the world. Up-stairs the
Marchioness shut the window, remarking that the air was very cold. "What
a fool that little thing was not to have you," she said; "you would
have done very well together." "Dear Edith!" said Millefleurs, folding
his hands, "it is very pretty, don't you know, to see her so happy."
The observations made down-stairs, upon the actors in this little drama,
were very free, as was natural. Rolls himself, who had held a more
important _rôle_ than any one knew, was perhaps apt to exaggerate the
greatness of his own part, but with an amiable and benevolent effect.
His master, indeed, he looked upon with benevolent indulgence, as
knowing no more than a child of the chief incident. If Rolls had not
been already bound to the house of Dalrulzian by lifelong fidelity and
by that identification of himself and all his interests, his pride and
self-regard, with his "family," which is something even more tenacious
and real than faithfulness, he would have been made so by the fact that
John, without in the slightest degree realising that Rolls was suffering
for him, had given orders to Mr Monypenny to secure the most expensive
assistance for his trial. The pride, contempt, satire, and keen
suppressed emotion with which this act filled the old servant's bosom,
were beyond description. "It was just downright extravagance," he said
to Bauby; "they're a' fuils, thae Erskines, frae father to son. Laying
out all that siller upon me; and no' a glimmer o' insight a' the time.
An' he had had the sense to see, it would have been natural; but how
could he divine my meaning when there was no conscience in himsel'? and
giving out his money all the same as if notes were things ye could
gather on the roadside?" "He mightna understand ye, Tammas, but he ken't
your meaning was good," said Bauby. Their position was changed by all
the changes that had happened, to the increase of their grandeur if not
of their happiness. Rolls had now a tall and respectful youth under his
orders, and Bauby was relieved, in so far as she would allow herself to
be relieved, of the duties of the kitchen. It was gratifying to their
pride, but there is little doubt that they sighed occasionally for the
freedom of the time when Rolls was alone in his glory, dictator of the
feminine household, and Bauby's highest effort of toilette was to tie a
clean apron round her ample waist. She had to wear a silk gown now, and
endeavour to be happy in it. Rolls's importance, however, was now
publicly acknowledged both out of doors and in. He was looked upon with
a kind of admiring awe by the population generally, as a man who had
been, as it were, like Dante, in hell, and came out unsinged--or in
prison, which was nearly as bad, issuing forth in a sort of halo of
innocence and suffering. It might have been possible that John Erskine
or any of the gentlemen of the country-side had quarrelled with Tinto
and meant mischief; but Rolls could not have meant anything. The very
moment that the eyes of the rural world were directed to him, it was
established that accident only could be the cause of death, and
everybody felt it necessary to testify their sympathy to the unwilling
instrument of such an event. The greatest people in the county would
stop to speak to him when occasion offered, to show him that they
thought no worse of him. Even Lord Lindores would do this; but there was
one exception. Rintoul was the one man who had never offered any
sympathy. He turned his head the other way when Rolls approached
him,--would not look at him when they were, perforce, brought into
contact. While Rolls, for his part, regarded Lord Rintoul with a cool
and cynical air of observation that was infinitely galling to the object
of it. "Yon lord!" he said, when he spoke of him, contemptuous, with a
scoff always in his tone. And Rolls had grown to be a great authority in
legal matters, the only person in the neighbourhood, as was supposed,
that knew the mysteries of judicial procedure. But his elevation, as we
have said, was modified by domestic drawbacks. Instead of giving forth
his sentiments in native freedom as he went and came with the dishes,
direct from one table to another, it was necessary to wait until the
other servants of the household were disposed of before the butler and
the housekeeper could express confidentially their feelings to each
other. And Bauby, seated in her silk gown, doing the honours to the
Marquis's man, of whom she stood in great awe, and the Marchioness's
woman, whom she thought a "cutty," was not half so happy as Bauby,
glowing and proud in the praises of a successful dinner, with her clean
white apron folded over her arms.
"This is the lord that my leddy would have been married upon, had all
gone as was intended," Rolls said. "He's my Lord Marquis at present, and
will be my Lord Duke in time."
"Such a bit creature for a' thae grand titles," said Bauby, yawning
freely over the stocking which she was supposed to be knitting. "Eh,
Tammas, my man, do ye hear that clatter? We'll no' have an ashet left in
the house."
"It's a peety she didna take him--it would have pleased a' pairties,"
said Rolls. "I had other views mysel', as is well known, for our maister
here, poor lad. Woman, cannot ye bide still when a person is speaking to
ye? The ashets are no' your concern."
"Eh, and wha's concern should they be?" cried Bauby; "would I let the
family suffer and me sit still? My lady's just a sweet young thing, and
I'm more fond of her every day. She may not just be very clever about
ordering the dinner, but what does that maitter as lang as I'm to the
fore? And she's an awfu' comfort to my mind in respect to Mr John. It
takes off the responsibility. Me that was always thinking what would I
say to his mammaw!"
"I have nothing to say against my lady," said Rolls, "but just that I
had ither views. It's a credit to the house that she should have refused
a grand match for _our_ sake. But it will be a fine ploy for an observer
like me that kens human nature to see them a' about my table at their
dinner the morn. There will be the Earl himsel', just girning with spite
and politeness--and her that would have been my ain choice, maybe
beginning to see, poor thing, the mistake she's made. Poor thing!
Marriages, in my opinion, is what most shakes your faith in Providence.
It's just the devil that's at the bottom o' them, so far as I can see."
"Hoot, Tammas--it's true love that's at the bottom o' them," Bauby said.
"Love!" Rolls cried with contempt: and then he added with a grin of
malice--"I'm awfu' entertained to see _yon lord_ at our table-end. He
will not look the side I'm on. It's like poison to him to hear my voice.
And I take great pains to serve him mysel'," he said with a chuckle.
"I'm just extraordinar attentive to him. There's no person that I take
half as much charge of. I'm thinking his dinner will choke him some day,
for he canna bide the sight o' me."
"Him that should go upon his knees to ye every day of his life!" cried
Bauby indignant.
"We'll say nothing about that; but I get my diversion out o' him," said
Rolls grimly, "though he's a lord, and I'm but a common man!"
* * * * *
The marriage of Lady Car took place a little more than a year after
Torrance's death. It was accomplished in London, whither she had gone
some time before, with scarcely any one to witness the ceremony but her
mother. She preferred it so. She was happy and she was miserable, with
the strangest mingling of emotions. Lady Lindores made vain efforts to
penetrate into the mind which was no longer open to her as her own.
Carry had gone far away from her mother, who knew none of the passions
which had swept her soul, yet could divine that the love in which she
was so absorbed, the postponed and interrupted happiness which seemed at
last to be within her grasp, was not like the love and happiness that
might have been. When Beaufort was not with her, her pale countenance,
that thoughtful face with its air of _distinction_, and sensitive
delicacy, which had never been beautiful, would fall into a wan shadow
and fixedness which were wonderful to see. When he was with her, it
lighted up with gleams of ineffable feeling, yet would waver and change
like a stormy sky, sometimes with a lightning-flash of impatience,
sometimes with a wistful questioning glance, which gave it to Lady
Lindores all the interest of a poem united to the far deeper, trembling
interest of observation with which a mother watches her child on the
brink of new possibilities. Were they for good or evil?--was it a life
of hope fulfilled, or of ever increasing and deepening disappointment,
which lay before Carry's tremulous feet? They were not the assured feet
of a believing and confident bride. What is love without faith and
confidence and trust? It is the strangest, the saddest, the most
terrible, the most divine of human passions. It is seldom that a woman
begins with such enlightenment in her eyes. Usually it is the growth of
slow and much-resisted experience, the growing revelation of years. How
sweet, how heavenly, how delightful, when love is blind! How wise the
ancients were to make him a child--a thing of caprice and sweet
confusion, taking everything for granted! But this to Carry was
impossible. When her mother took her into her arms on her wedding
morning, dressed in the soft grey gown which was the substitute for
bridal white, they kissed each other with a certain solemnity. At such a
moment so much is divined between kindred hearts which words can never
say. "I want you to remember," said Carry, "mother dear--that whatever
comes of it, this is what is best." "I hope all that is most happy will
come of it, my darling," said Lady Lindores. "And I too--and I too----"
She paused, raising a little her slender throat, her face, that was like
a wistful pale sky, clear-shining after the rain--"But let it be what it
may, it is the only good--the only way for me." These were the sole
words explanatory that passed between them. Lady Lindores parted with
the bridal pair afterwards with an anxious heart. She went home that
night, travelling far in the dark through the unseen country, feeling
the unknown all about her. Life had not been perfect to her any more
than to others. She had known many disappointments, and seen through
many illusions: but she had preserved through all the sweetness of a
heart that can be deceived, that can forget to-day's griefs and hope
again in to-morrow as if to-day had never been. As she drew near her
home, her heart lightened without any reason at all. Her husband was not
a perfect mate for her--her son had failed to her hopes. But she did not
dwell on these disenchantments. After all, how dear they were! after
all, there was to-morrow to come, which perhaps, most likely, would yet
be the perfect day.
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[The end of _The Ladies Lindores, Volume 3_ by Margaret Oliphant]