Margaret went home that evening with her head more full than ever of
the new incident which had come into her life. More full of that,
but not quite so much occupied, perhaps, by the thought of her new
acquaintance. She had all the eagerness of a child to begin her
studies, to learn how to make pictures as he did, and this for the
moment took everything that was dangerous out of the new conjunction
of young man and young woman which was quite unfamiliar to her, but
which had vaguely impressed her on their first meeting. She came home
this time no longer in a dream of roused and novel feeling, but with
definite aims before her; and when she found Bell, as usual, seated
outside the door in the little court, Margaret lost no time in opening
the attack on the person whom she knew to be the most difficult and
unlikely to be convinced.
“Bell!” she cried, running in, breathless with eagerness, “something is
going to happen to me. Listen, Bell! I am going to learn to draw.”
“Bless me, bairn!” cried Bell, drawing back her chair in semi-alarm.
“Is that a’? I thought you were going to tell me the French were
coming. No that the French have ony thought of coming nowadays, puir
bodies; they’ve ower muckle to do with themselves.”
“Bell, you don’t take the trouble to think about me, and I am so happy
about it. There never was a time that I did not care for pictures. And
there’s a view of Earl’s-hall from the Kirkton, and I cannot tell how
many more. You know I always was fond of pictures, Bell.”
“No me! I never knew you had seen ony, Miss Margret,” said Bell,
placidly; “but for my part, I’m sure I’ve no objection. I would like
it far better if it was the piany; but education’s aye a grand thing,
however it comes. Can do is easy carried about.”
“And will you speak to papa?” said Margaret. “Bell, I wish you would
speak to papa; for he jokes at me, and calls me little Peggy, and you
know I am not little, but quite grown up.”
“Oh, ay, as auld as him or me--in your ain conceit,” said Bell; “but
whisht, my bonnie doo-- I wasna meaning to vex you. And what am I to
speak to Sir Ludovic about?”
A slight embarrassment came over Margaret. She began to fidget from
one foot to another, and a sudden wave of color flushed over her face.
It did not mean anything. Was it not the trouble of her life that she
blushed perpetually--blushed for nothing at all, with every fresh
thought that rushed upon her, with every new impulse? It was her way
of showing every emotion. Nevertheless this time it made her feel
uncomfortable, as if it might mean something more.
“I told you,” she said; “it is about learning to draw, and about
letting him come here to show me the way.”
“Letting _him_ come! that’s another story; and who’s him?”
said Bell. She made a rapid mental review of the county while she
spoke--puzzled, yet not disconcerted; there was nobody of whom the
severest duenna could be afraid. There was Sir Claude--known to be very
fond of pictures--but Sir Claude was a douce married man, who was very
unlikely to take the trouble, and, even if he did, would hurt nobody.
“Na, I canna think. Young Randal Burnside he’s away; that was the only
lad in the country-side like to be evened to our Miss Margret, and
him no half or quarter good enough. Na, ye maun tell me; there’s no
_him_ in the country that may not come and go free for anything I
care.”
“Why should you care?” said Margaret. “But I will tell you who it is.
It is Rob Glen--Mrs. Glen’s son, at Earl’s-lee. He used to play with me
when I was little, and I saw him drawing a picture. And then he told me
who he was, and then he said he would learn me to draw, if I liked to
learn--and you may be sure I would like to learn, Bell. Fancy! to take
a bit of paper out of a book, and put this house upon it or any other
house, and all the woods, and the hills, and the sky. Look at that puff
of cloud! it’s all rosy and like a flower; but in a moment it will be
gray, and next moment it will be gone; but if you draw it you have it
forever. It’s wonderful, wonderful, Bell!”
“Rob Glen,” said Bell, musing. She paid no attention to Margaret’s
poetical outburst. “Rob Glen--that’s him that was to be a minister; but
something’s happened to him; he’s no conductit himself as he ought, or
else he tired of the notion, and he’s at hame doing naething.” Bell
paused after this historical sketch. “He wasna an ill laddie. He was
very good to you, Miss Margret, when you were but a little troublesome
thing, greeting for drinks of water, and asking to be carried, and
wanting this and wanting that, just what puts a body wild with bairns.”
“Was I?” said Margaret, with wide-opened eyes. “No! Rob never thought
me a trouble. You might do so,” she added, with offence. “I cannot tell
for you, but I am sure Rob--”
“I weel believe he never said a word. He was great friends with you, I
mind well--oh, great friends. And so he wants to learn you to draw--or
you want him? I see nae great objection,” said Bell, doubtfully. “He’s
a young man, but then you’re a leddy far above him; and you’re old
friends, as you say. I will not say but what I would rather he was
marrit, Miss Margret; but I see nae great objection--”
“Married!” said Margaret, her eyes bigger than ever with wonder and
amusement--“married!” She laughed, though she could scarcely have told
why. The idea amused her beyond measure. There was something piquant
in it, something altogether absurd. Rob! But why the idea was so
ridiculous she could not say. Bell looked at her in her laughter with a
certain doubt.
“Why should he no be married?” she said; “lads of that kind marry
young--they’ve naething to wait for: the moment they get a kirk it’s
a’ they can look for--very different from some. I dinna ken what Sir
Ludovic may say,” she added, doubtfully. “Sir Ludovic has awfu’ high
notions; a farmer’s son to learn a Leslie. I canna tell how he’ll take
it.”
“Bell!” cried Margaret, with indignation, “when you know it’s you that
have the high notions! Papa would never think of anything of the kind;
but if you go and put them into his head, and tell him what to think--”
“Lord bless the bairn, me!” cried Bell, with the air of being deeply
shocked; and then she got up and went back into her kitchen, which was
her stronghold. Margaret, for her part, slightly discouraged, but still
eager, stole up-stairs. If Bell was against her, it did not matter very
much who was on her side. She went softly into the long room where her
father was reading. Would it ever happen to her, she wondered, to sit
still in one place and read, whatever might be going on--never thinking
what was happening outside, untroubled whether it rained or was
fine, whether it was summer or winter? Though she came in and roamed
about softly, in a kind of subdued restlessness, looking over the
book-shelves, and flitting from window to window, Sir Ludovic took no
notice. With her own life so warm in her, it was stranger and stranger
to Margaret to see that image of the calm of age; how strange it was!
He had not moved even, since she came into the room, while she was
so restless, so eager, thinking nothing in the world so important as
her present fancy. When she had fluttered about for some time without
attracting his notice, she grew impatient. “Papa, I want to speak to
you,” she said.
“Eh? Who is that--?” Sir Ludovic roused up as if he had been asleep;
“you, little Peggy?”
“Yes; were you sleeping? I wondered and wondered that you never saw me.”
“I don’t think I was asleep,” he said, with a little confusion. “To
tell the truth, I do get drowsy sometimes lately, and I don’t half like
it,” he added, in an undertone.
“You don’t like it?” said Margaret: she was not uneasy, but she was
sympathetic. “But then don’t do it, papa; come and take a little walk
with me”--(here she paused, remembering that to-night, for instance,
Sir Ludovic would have been much out of place), “or a turn in the
garden, like John.”
Sir Ludovic paid not much attention to what she said: he rubbed his
eyes, and raised his head, shaking himself with a determination to
overcome the drowsiness, which was a trouble to him. “You must sit
with me more, my little girl, and make a noise; a little sound is
life-like. This stillness gets like”--(he made a pause; was the first
word that occurred to him an unpleasant one, not such as was agreeable
to pronounce?)--“like sleep,” he added, after a moment, “and I have no
wish to go to sleep.”
“Sleeping is not pleasant in the daytime,” said Margaret,
unintentionally matter-of-fact. The old man gave a slight shiver, which
she did not understand. It was no longer the daytime with him, and
this was precisely why he disliked his unconscious doze; was it not a
sign that night was near? He raised himself in his chair, and with the
almost mechanical force of habit began to turn over the leaves of the
book before him. It was evident he had not heard her appeal. She stood
by for a moment not saying anything, then pulled his sleeve gently.
“Papa! it was something I had to say.”
“Ay, to be sure. You wanted something, my little Peggy? what was it?
There are not many things I can do, but if it is within my power--”
“Papa! how strange to speak to me so--you can do everything I want,”
said the girl. “And this is what it is: I want--don’t be very much
astonished--to learn to draw.”
“To draw? I am afraid I am no good in that respect, and cannot teach
you, my dear.”
“You? Oh no! But there is one that would learn me.”
“My little Peggy, you are too Scotch--say teach.”
“Very well, teach if you like, papa; what does the word matter? But may
he come to the house, and may I have lessons? I think it is the only
thing that is wanted to make me perfectly happy.”
Sir Ludovic smiled. “In that case you had better begin at once. Mr.
Ruskin himself ought to teach you, after such a sentiment. At once, my
Peggy! for I would have you perfectly happy if I could. Poor child, who
knows what may happen after,” he said, meditatively, putting his hand
upon her arm and smoothing the sleeve caressingly. Margaret, occupied
with her own thoughts, did not take in the meaning of this; but she was
vaguely discouraged by the tone.
“You are not like yourself, papa; what has happened?” she said, almost
impatiently. “You are not--ill? It is waking up, I suppose.”
“Just that--or going to sleep--one or the other. No, no, I am not ill;
yet-- And let us be comfortable, my little girl. Draw? Yes, you shall
learn to draw, and sit by me, quiet as a little mouse with bright eyes.”
“You said just now I was to make a noise.”
“To be sure, so I did. I say one thing one moment, and another the
next; but, after all, they are much the same. So you sit by me, you
may be quiet or make a noise--it will be all the same. Your noises are
quiet, my Peggy. Your sleeve rustling, your hand moving, and a little
impatience now and then, a start and a shake of your little head. These
are noises an old man likes when Providence has given him a little
girl.”
“But really,” said Margaret, with a crease in her forehead, “really! I
am grown-up-- I am not a little girl!”
“Well, my Peggy! it will be so much the better for you,” he said,
patting her sleeve. Margaret was vaguely chilled by this acquiescence,
she could scarcely tell why; and the slight pain made her impatient,
calling up a little auger, causeless and vague as itself.
“Don’t, papa,” she said. “You are not like yourself. I don’t know what
is the matter with you. Then, he may come?”
“Yes, yes, at once,” said Sir Ludovic, with a dreamy smile; then he
said, “But who is it?” as if this mattered little. Altogether, Margaret
felt he was not like himself.
“Do you remember Rob Glen, papa, the son of Mrs. Glen at Earl’s-lee? He
used to play with me when I was a child; he was always very kind to me.
Oh, don’t shake your head; you must mind him. Robert Glen at the farm?”
“I _mind_, as you say--Scotch, Scotch, little Peggy; you should
not be so Scotch--a Robert Glen who took the farm thirty or forty years
ago. By-the-bye, the lease must be almost out; but how you are to get
drawing or anything else out of a rough farmer--”
“Papa!”-- Margaret put her hand upon his shoulder with impatience--“how
could it be a Robert Glen of thirty or forty years ago? He is only a
little older than me. He played with me when I was a little girl. He is
perhaps the son, or he may be the grandson. He is a little older than
me.”
“Get your pronouns right, my little Peggy. Ah! the son; _va pour le
fils_,” said Sir Ludovic, with a drowsy smile, and turned back to
his book. Margaret stood for a moment with her hand on his shoulder,
looking at him with that irritation which is the earliest form of pain.
A vague uneasiness came into her mind, but it was so veiled in this
impatience that she did not recognize it for what it was. The only
conscious feeling she had was, how provoking of papa! not to take more
interest, not to ask more, not to say anything. Then she dropped her
hand from his shoulder and turned away, and went to sit in the window
with the first chance book she could pick up. She was not thinking much
about the book. She was half annoyed and disappointed to have got her
own way so easily. Had he understood her? Margaret did not feel quite
happy about this facile assent. It made of Rob Glen no wonder at all,
no disturbing individuality. He was something more, after all, than
Sir Ludovic thought. What was all her own tremor for, if it was to be
lightly met with a _va pour le fils_? She was not satisfied; and
indeed the little rustlings of her impatience, her subdued movements,
as she sat behind, did all for her father that he wanted. They kept
him awake. The drowsiness which comforted him, yet which he was afraid
of, fled before this little thrill of movement. Even if she had been
altogether quiet, is there not a thrill and reverberation in the air
about a thinking creature? Sir Ludovic was kept awake and alive by the
consciousness of another near him, living in every nerve, filling the
silence with a little thrill of independent being. This kept him, not
only from dozing, but even from active occupation with his book. After
a little while he too began to be restless, turned the pages hastily,
then himself turned half round toward her. “My Peggy!” he said. In a
moment she was standing by his side.
“What is it? Did you want me, papa?”
“No, it is nothing, only to see that you were there. I heard you, that
was all; and in the sound there was something strange, like a spirit
behind me--or a little mouse, as I said before.”
“Had I better go away? would you rather be without me?”
“No, my little girl; but sit in my sight, that I may not be puzzled.
The thing is that I can feel you thinking, my Peggy.”
“Papa! I was not thinking so much--not of anything in particular, not
to disturb you.”
“No, my dear, I am not complaining; they were very soft little
thoughts, but I heard them. Sit now where I can see you, and all will
go right.”
“Yes, papa. And you are sure you have no objections?” Margaret said,
after a moment’s pause, standing by him still.
“To what? to the teaching of the drawing? Oh, no objections--not the
least objection.”
“And you don’t mind him coming to the house-- I mean--Mr. Glen?”
“Is there any reason why I should mind?” the old man asked, quickly,
rousing into something like vigilance.
“Oh no, papa; but I thought perhaps because he was not--the same as
us--because he was only--the farmer’s son.”
“This is wisdom; this is social science: this is worthy of Jean and
Grace,” said Sir Ludovic. “My little Peggy! I do not know, my child. Is
this all out of your own head?”
At this Margaret drooped a little, with one of her usual overwhelming
blushes. “It was Bell,” she said; but was it indeed all Bell? Some
instinct in her had made a more penetrating suggestion, but she could
not tell this to her father. She waited with downcast eyes for his
reply.
“Ah, it was Bell. I am glad my little Peggy was not so clever and so
far-seeing; now run and play, my little girl, run away and play,” he
said, dismissing her in his usual tone. She had roused him at last to
his ordinary mood, and neither he nor she thought more of his desire
that she should stay in his sight. Margaret went away with her heart
beating to the west chamber, which was her legitimate sitting-room.
She was half ashamed of her own fears about Rob, which her father had
treated so lightly. Was it entirely Bell that had put it into her
head that this new visitor might be objected to? And was it entirely
because he was the farmer’s son? Margaret was too much puzzled and
confused to be able to answer these questions. She was like a little
ship setting out to sea without any pilot. An instinct in her whispered
the necessity for guidance, whispered some faint doubts whether this
step she was taking was a right one; but what could the little ship
do when the man at the helm was so tranquilly careless? At seventeen
is one wiser than at seventy-five? It is not only presumptuous, it is
irreligious to think so. And when her own faint doubt was laughed at by
her father as being of the order of the ideas of Jean and Grace, what
could Margaret do but be ashamed of it? Jean and Grace were emblems of
the conventional and artificial to Sir Ludovic. He could not speak of
them without a laugh, though they were his children; neither did they
approve of their father--with some reason it may be thought.
Thus it was settled that Rob Glen should have access to Earl’s-hall.
Bell shook her head, but she did not interfere. “It will divert the
bairn,” she said to herself, “and I can aye keep my eye upon him.” What
was the need of disturbing Sir Ludovic, honest man? The Leslies had
their faults, Bell reflected, but falling in love beneath them was not
their weakness. They were very friendly, but very proud. “As sweet and
as kind to the poorest body as if they were their own kith and kin;
but it’s hitherto mayst thou come, and no a step furder,” said Bell;
“that’s the way o’ them all. Even our Miss Margret, I would advise
nobody to go too far with her. She’s very young. She disna understand
herself; but as for the canailye, I would not counsel them to come near
by our young leddy, simple as she is; there’s just an instinck; it’s in
the Leslie blood.”
Thus all went smoothly in this first essay of wilfulness. Father
and old duenna both consented that the risk should be run. But in
Margaret’s own mind there was one pause of hesitation. Had there been
any opposition to her will she would have upheld Rob Glen to the
utmost, and insisted upon her drawing-lessons; but as it was, there
came a check to her eagerness which she did not understand, a subtle
sort of hinderance in her path, a hesitation--because no one else
hesitated. Was that all?
From this it will be seen that the ladies Jean and Grace were not so
wrong as was supposed at Earl’s-hall, when they shook their heads over
their father’s proceedings, and declared that he was not capable of
being trusted with the charge of a young girl. Any young girl would
have been rather unsafe in such hands, but a girl with money, a girl
who was an heiress! As for Sir Ludovic, he went on serenely with his
reading, or dozed over his book in the long room, and took no notice,
or thought no more of the new teacher Margaret had got for herself. He
was very glad she should do anything that pleased her. Now and then
he was anxious, and his mind was occupied, by the drowsiness which
came over him. He did not like this, it was not a good sign. It made
his mind uneasy, for he was an old man, and knew he could not go on
forever, and the idea of death was far from pleasant to him. This he
was anxious about, but about his child he was not anxious. She was not
going to die, or anything to happen to her. She had a long time before
her, in which, no doubt, many things would happen; and why should her
father begin so early to make himself uncomfortable about her? He did
not see the use.