Two days after, Mrs. Methven arrived at Kinloch Houran by the afternoon
coach, alone.
She had interpreted very literally the telegram which had brought such a
tremor yet such a movement of joy to her heart. Her son wanted her.
Perhaps he might be ill, certainly it must be for something serious and
painful that she was called; yet he wanted her! She had been very quiet
and patient, waiting if perhaps his heart might be touched and he might
recall the tie of nature and his own promises, feeling with a sad pride
that she wanted nothing of him but his love, and that without that the
fine houses and the new wealth were nothing to her. She was pleased even
to stand aloof, to be conscious of having in no way profited by Walter's
advancement. She had gained nothing by it, she wished to gain nothing by
it. If Walter were well, then there was no need for more. She had enough
for herself without troubling him. So long as all was well! But this is
at the best a forlorn line of argument, and it cannot be doubted that
Mrs. Methven's bosom throbbed with a great pang of disappointment when
she sat and smiled to conceal it, and answered questions about Walter,
yet could not say that she had seen him or any of his "places in
Scotland," or knew much more than her questioners did. When his message
arrived her heart leapt in her breast. There were no explanations, no
reason given, but that imperative call, such as mothers love to have
addressed to them: "Come;" all considerations of her own comfort set
aside in the necessity for her which had arisen at last. Another might
have resented so complete an indifference to what might happen to suit
herself. But there are connections and relationships in which this is
the highest compliment. He knew that it did not matter to her what her
own convenience was, as long as he wanted her. She got up from her chair
at once, and proceeded to put her things together to get ready for the
journey. With a smiling countenance she prepared herself for the night
train. She would not even take a maid. "He says, alone. He must have
some reason for it, I suppose," she said to Miss Merivale. "I am the
reason," said Cousin Sophy: "He doesn't want me. You can tell him, with
my love, that to travel all night is not at all in my way, and he need
have had no fear on that subject." But Mrs. Methven would not agree to
this, and departed hurriedly without any maid. She was surprised a
little, yet would not allow herself to be displeased, that no one came
to meet her: but it was somewhat forlorn to be set down on the side of
the loch in the wintry afternoon, with the cold, gleaming water before
her, and no apparent way of getting to the end of her journey.
"Oh yes, mem, you might drive round the head of the loch: but it's a
long way," the landlady of the little inn said, smoothing down her apron
at the door, "and far simpler just crossing the water, as everybody does
in these parts."
Mrs. Methven was a little nervous about crossing the water. She was
tired and disappointed, and a chill had crept to her heart. While she
stood hesitating a young lady came up, whose boat waited for her on the
beach, a man in a red shirt standing at the bow.
"It is a lady for Auchnasheen, Miss Oona," said the landlady, "and no
boat. Duncan is away, and for the moment I have not a person to send:
and his lordship will maybe be out on the hill, or he will have
forgotten, or maybe he wasna sure when to expect you, mem?"
"No, he did not know when to expect me. I hope there is no illness,"
said Mrs. Methven, with a thrill of apprehension.
At this the young lady came forward with a shy yet frank grace.
"If you will let me take you across," she said, "my boat is ready. I am
Oona Forrester. Lord Erradeen is quite well I think, and I heard that he
expected--his mother."
"Yes," said Mrs. Methven. She gave the young stranger a penetrating
look. Her own aspect was perhaps a little severe, for her heart had
been starved and repressed, and she wore it very warm and low down in
her bosom, never upon her sleeve. There rose over Oona's countenance a
soft and delicate flush under the eyes of Walter's mother. She had
nothing in the world to blush for, and probably that was why the colour
rose. They were of infinite interest to each other, two souls meeting,
as it were, in the dark, quite unknown to each other and yet--who could
tell?--to be very near perhaps in times to come. The look they
interchanged was a mutual question. Then Mrs. Methven felt herself bound
to take up her invariable defence of her son.
"He did not, most likely, think that I could arrive so soon. I was wrong
not to let him know. If I accept your kindness will it be an
inconvenience to you?"
This question was drowned in Oona's immediate response and in the louder
protest of Mrs. Macfarlane. "Bless me, mem, you canna know the loch! for
there is nobody but would put themselves about to help a traveller: and
above all Miss Oona, that just has no other thought. Colin, put in the
lady's box intill the boat, and Hamish, he will give ye a hand."
Thus it was settled without farther delay. It seemed to the elder lady
like a dream when she found herself afloat upon this unknown water, the
mountains standing round, with their heads all clear and pale in the
wonderful atmosphere from which the last rays of the sunset had but
lately faded, while down below in this twilight scene the colour had
begun to go out of the autumn trees and red walls of the ruined castle,
at which she looked with a curiosity full of excitement. "That is----?"
she said pointing with a strange sensation of eagerness.
"That is Kinloch Houran," said Oona, to whose sympathetic mind, she
could not tell how, there came a tender, pitying comprehension of the
feelings of the mother, thus thrust alone and without any guide into the
other life of her son.
"It is very strange to me--to see the place where Walter----You know
perhaps that neither my son nor I were ever here until he----"
"Oh yes," Oona said hastily, interrupting the embarrassed speech; and
she added, "My mother and I have been here always, and everybody on the
loch knows everybody else. We were aware----"
And then she paused too; but her companion took no notice, her mind
being fully occupied. "I feel," she said, "like a woman in a dream."
It was very still on the loch, scarcely a breath stirring (which was
very fortunate, for Mrs. Methven, unaccustomed, had a little tremor for
the dark water even though so smooth). The autumnal trees alone, not
quite put out by the falling darkness, seemed to lend a little light as
they hung, reflected, over the loch--a redder cluster here and there
looking like a fairy lamp below the water. A thousand suggestions were
in the air, and previsions of she knew not what, a hidden life
surrounding her on every side. Her brain was giddy, her heart full.
By-and-by she turned to her young companion, who was so sympathetically
silent, and whose soft voice when she spoke, with the little cadence of
an accent unfamiliar yet sweet, had a half-caressing sound which touched
the solitary woman. "You say your mother and you," she said. "Are you
too an only child?"
"Oh no! there are eight of us: but I am the youngest, the only one left.
All the boys are away. We live on the isle. I hope you will come and see
us. My mother will be glad----"
"And she is not afraid to trust you--by yourself? It must be a happy
thing for a woman to have a daughter," Mrs. Methven said, with a sigh.
"The boys, as you say, go away."
"Nobody here is afraid of the loch," said Oona. "Accidents happen--oh,
very rarely. Mamma is a little nervous about yachting, for the winds
come down from the hills in gusts; but Hamish is the steadiest oar, and
there is no fear. Do you see now the lights at Auchnasheen? There is
some one waiting, at the landing-place. It will be Lord Erradeen, or
some one from the house. Hamish, mind the current. You know how it
sweeps the boat up the loch?"
"It will just be the wash of that confounded steam-boat," Hamish said.
The voices bounded in the air without conveying any sense to her mind.
Was that Walter, the vague line of darker shadow upon the shade? Was it
his house she was going to, his life that she was entering once more?
All doubts were put to an end speedily by Walter's voice.
"Is it Hamish?" he cried out.
"Oh, Lord Erradeen, it is me," cried Oona, in her soft Scotch. "And I am
bringing you your mother."
The boat grated on the bank as she spoke, and this disguised the tremor
in her voice, which Mrs. Methven, quite incapable of distinguishing
anything else, was yet fully sensible of. She stepped out tremulously
into her son's arms.
"Mother," he cried, "what must you think of me for not coming to meet
you? I never thought you could be here so soon."
"I should have come by telegraph if I could," she said, with an agitated
laugh: so tired, so tremulous, so happy, the strangest combination of
feelings overwhelming her. But still she was aware of a something, a
tremor, a tingle in Oona's voice. The boat receded over the water almost
without a pause, Hamish under impulsion of a whispered word, having
pushed off again as soon as the traveller and her box were landed.
Walter paused to call out his thanks over the water, and then he drew
his mother's arm within his, and led her up the bank.
"Where is Jane?" he said. "Have you no one with you? Have you travelled
all night, and alone, mother, for me?"
"For whom should I do it, but for you? And did you think I would lose a
minute after your message, Walter? But you are well, there is nothing
wrong with your health?"
"Nothing wrong with my health," he said, with a half-laugh. "No, that is
safe enough. I have not deserved that you should come to me, mother----"
"There is no such word as deserving between mother and son," she said
tremulously, "so long as you want me, Walter."
"Take care of those steps," was all he said. "We are close now to the
house. I hope you will find your rooms comfortable. I fear they have not
been occupied for some time. But what shall you do without a maid?
Perhaps the housekeeper----"
"You said to come alone, Walter."
"Oh yes. I was afraid of Cousin Sophy; but you could not think I wanted
to impair your comfort, mother? Here we are at the door, and here is
Symington, very glad to receive his lady."
"But you must not let him call me so."
"Why not? You are our lady to all of us. You are the lady of the house,
and I bid you welcome to it, mother," he said, pausing to kiss her. She
had a thousand things to forgive, but in that moment they were as though
they had not been.
And there was not much more said until she had settled down into
possession of the library, which answered instead of a drawing-room: had
dined, and been brought back to the glowing peat fire which gave an
aromatic breath of warmth and character to a Highland house. When all
the business of the arrival had thus been gone through, there came a
moment when it was apparent that subjects of more importance must be
entered upon. There was a pause, and an interval of complete silence
which seemed much longer than it really was. Walter stood before the
fire for some time, while she sat close by, her hands clasped in her
lap, ready to attend. Then he began to move about uneasily, feeling the
compulsion of the moment, yet unprepared with anything to say. At length
it was she who began.
"You sent for me, Walter?" she said.
"Yes, mother."
Was there nothing more to tell her? He threw into disorder the books on
the table, and then he came back again, and once more faced her,
standing with his back to the fire.
"My dear," she said hesitating, "it is with no reproach I speak, but
only----There was some reason for sending for me?"
He gave once more a nervous laugh.
"You have good reason to be angry if you will; but I'll tell you the
truth, mother. I made use of you to get rid of Underwood. He followed me
here, and I told him you were coming, and that he could not stay
against the will of the mistress of the house. Then I was bound to ask
you----"
The poor lady drew back a little, and instinctively put her hand to her
heart, in which there was a hot thrill of sensation, as if an arrow had
gone in. And then, in the pang of it, she laughed too, and cried--
"You were bound, to be sure, to fulfil your threat. And this is
why--this is why, Walter----"
She could not say more without being hysterical, and departing from
every rule she had made for herself.
Meanwhile, Walter stood before her, feeling in his own heart the twang
of that arrow which had gone through hers, and the pity of it and wonder
of it, with a poignant realisation of all; and yet found nothing to say.
After a while Mrs. Methven regained her composure, and spoke with a
smile that was almost more pathetic than tears.
"After all, it was a very good reason. I am glad you used me to get rid
of that man."
"I always told you, mother," he said, "that you had a most absurd
prejudice against that man. There is no particular harm in the man. I
had got tired of him. He is well enough in his own way, but he was out
of place here."
"Well, Walter, we need not discuss Captain Underwood. But don't you see
it is natural that I should exaggerate his importance by way of giving
myself the better reason for having come?"
The touch of bitterness and sarcasm that was in her words made Walter
start from his place again, and once more turn over the books on the
table. She was not a perfect woman to dismiss all feeling from what she
said, and her heart was wrung.
After a while he returned to her again.
"Mother, I acknowledge you have a good right to be displeased. But that
is not all. I am glad, anyhow--heartily glad to have you here."
She looked up at him with her eyes full, and quivering lips. Everything
went by impulse in the young man's mind, and this look--in which for
once in his life he read the truth, the eagerness to forgive, the
willingness to forget, the possibility, even in the moment of her
deepest pain, of giving her happiness--went to his heart. After all it
is a wonderful thing to have a human creature thus altogether dependent
upon your words, your smile, ready to encounter all things for you,
without hesitation, without a grudge. And why should she? What had he
ever done for her? And she was no fool. These thoughts had already
passed through his mind with a realisation of the wonder of it all,
which seldom strikes the young at sight of the devotion of the old. All
these things flashed back upon him at the sight of the dumb anguish yet
forgiveness in her eyes.
"Mother," he cried, "there's enough of this between you and me. I want
you not for Underwood, but for everything. Why should you care for a cad
like me? but you do----"
"Care for you? Oh, my boy!"
"I know; there you sit that have travelled night and day because I held
up my finger: and would give me your life if you could, and bear
everything, and never change and never tire. Why, in the name of God,
why?" he cried with an outburst. "What have I ever done that you should
do this for me? You are worth a score of such as I am, and yet you make
yourself a slave--"
"Oh, Walter, my dear! how vain are all these words. I am your mother,"
she said.
Presently he drew a chair close to her and sat down beside her.
"All these things have been put before me," he said, "to drive me to
despair. I have tried to say that it was this vile lordship, and the
burden of the family, that has made me bad, mother. But you know better
than that," he said, looking up at her with a stormy gleam in his face
that could not be called a smile, "and so do I."
"Walter, God forbid that I should ever have thought you bad. You have
been led astray."
"To do--what I wanted to do," he said with another smile, "that is what
is called leading astray between a man and those who stand between him
and the devil; but I have talked with one who thinks of no such
punctilios. Mother, vice deserves damnation; isn't that your creed?"
"Walter!"
"Oh, I know; but listen to me. If that were so, would a woman like you
stand by the wretch still?"
"My dearest boy! you are talking wildly. There are no circumstances,
none! in which I should not stand by you."
"That is what I thought," he said, "you and--But they say that you don't
know, you women, how bad a man can be: and that if you knew--And then as
for God----"
"God knows everything, Walter."
"Ay: and knows that never in my life did I care for or appeal to Him,
till in despair. If you think of it, these are not things a man can do,
mother: take refuge with women who would loathe him if they knew; or
with God, who does know that only in desperation, only when nothing else
is left to him, he calls out that name like a spell. Yes, that is all;
like an incantation, to get rid of the fiend."
The veins were swollen on Walter's forehead; great drops of moisture
hung upon it; on the other hand his lips were parched and dry, his eyes
gleaming with a hot treacherous lustre. Mrs. Methven, as she looked at
him, grew sick with terror. She began to think that his brain was giving
way.
"What am I to say to you?" she cried; "who has been speaking so? It
cannot be a friend, Walter. That is not the way to bring back a soul."
He laughed, and the sound alarmed her still more.
"There was no friendship intended," he said, "nor reformation either.
It was intended--to make me a slave."
"To whom, oh! to whom?"
He had relieved his mind by talking thus; but it was by putting his
burden upon her. She was agitated beyond measure by these partial
confidences. She took his hands in hers, and pleaded with him--
"Oh, Walter, my darling, what has happened to you? Tell me what you
mean."
"I am not mad, mother, if that is what you think."
"I don't think so, Walter. I don't know what to think. Tell me. Oh, my
boy, have pity upon me; tell me."
"You will do me more good, mother, if you will tell me--how I am to get
this burden off, and be a free man."
"The burden of--what? Sin? Oh, my son!" she cried, rising to her feet,
with tears of joy streaming from her eyes. She put her hands upon his
head and bade God bless him. God bless him! "There is no doubt about
that; no difficulty about that," she said; "for everything else in the
world there may be uncertainty, but for this none. God is more ready to
forgive than we are to ask. If you wish it sincerely with all your
heart, it is done. He is never far from any of us. He is here,
Walter--here, ready to pardon!"
He took her hands which she had put upon him, and looked at her, shaking
his head.
"Mother, you are going too fast," he said. "I want deliverance, it is
true; but I don't know if it is _that_ I mean."
"That is at the bottom of all, Walter."
He put her softly into her chair, and calmed her agitation; then he
began to walk up and down the room.
"That is religion," he said. "I suppose it is at the bottom of all. What
was it you used to teach me, mother, about a new heart? Can a man enter
a second time--and be born? That seems all so visionary when one is
living one's life. You think of hundreds of expedients first. To thrust
it away from you, and forget all about it; but that does not answer; to
defy it and go the other way out of misery and spite. Then to try
compromises; marriage, for instance, with a wife perhaps, one
thinks----"
"My dear," said Mrs. Methven, with a sad sinking of disappointment in
her heart after her previous exultation, yet determined that her
sympathy should not fail, "if you had a good wife no one would be so
happy as I--a good girl who would help you to live a good life."
Here he came up to her again, and, leaning against the table, burst into
a laugh. But there was no mirth in it. A sense of the ludicrous is not
always mirthful.
"A girl," he said, "mother, who would bring another fortune to the
family: who would deluge us with money, and fill out the lines of the
estates, and make peace--peace between me and--And not a bad girl
either," he added with a softening tone, "far too good for me. An
honest, upright little soul, only not--the best; only not the one
who--would hate me if she knew----"
"Walter," said Mrs. Methven, trembling, "I don't understand you. Your
words seem very wild to me. I am all confused with them, and my brain
seems to be going. What is it you mean? Oh, if you would tell me all you
mean and not only a part which I cannot understand!"
There never happens in any house a conversation of a vital kind, which
is not interrupted at a critical moment by the entrance of the servants,
those legitimate intruders who can never be staved off. It was Symington
now who came in with tea, which, with a woman's natural desire to
prevent any suspicion of agitation in the family, she accepted. When he
had gone the whole atmosphere was changed. Walter had seated himself by
the fire with the newspapers which had just come in, and all the emotion
and _attendrissement_ were over. He said to her, looking up from his
reading--
"By-the-bye, mother, Julia Herbert is here with some cousins; they will
be sure to call on you. But I don't want to have any more to do with
them than we can help. You will manage that?"
"Julia Herbert," she said. The countenance which had melted into so much
softness, froze again and grew severe. "Here! why should she be here?
Indeed, I hope I shall be able to manage that, as you say."
But oh, what ignoble offices for a woman who would have given her life
for him as he knew! To frighten away Underwood, to "manage" Julia.
Patience! so long as it was for her boy.