Sir Ludovic was not quite sure that he liked the sudden interposition
between his child and himself of this Rob Glen. He half forgot the
permission he had given that Rob Glen might come and teach drawing to
Margaret--that was how he put it to himself. He was altogether cross
and annoyed by the circumstances generally. The name of Rob Glen, and
the description of him as Mrs. Glen’s son at Earl’s-lee, had sounded
quite innocent, but the apparition of a good-looking young man had
quite a different effect upon Sir Ludovic. Perhaps he did not look
altogether a gentleman, but then he looked quite as much a gentleman as
various Fife potentates whom Sir Ludovic readily recalled to mind, and
whose claims to gentility were unquestionable. For that matter, young
Fallow of Greenshaw, with the best blood of the county in his veins,
looked a much greater lout than Rob Glen; so that was no safeguard.
And then he was half, or more than half, affronted by the advantage
they had taken of his doze. It might be Margaret’s fault, but then he
had no desire to blame his Peggy, and a great desire to find the young
fellow pushing and disagreeable. He ought not to have permitted himself
to take such a liberty as to make a drawing of a gentleman when he was
asleep, notwithstanding any request that a foolish girl might make to
him.
By-and-by Sir Ludovic was mollified toward Margaret by her delight in
having what she called “a picture” of him at any cost, and he would
not forbid that it should be finished sometime or other; but he did
not for that fully forgive the artist, nor, indeed, did it make much
difference that it was really a clever drawing, slight as it was. He
was determined to give no further facilities for its completion--not
to fall asleep again when Rob Glen was in the way. Perhaps if Sir
Ludovic had wanted amusement as much as his daughter did, Rob and his
portfolios would have afforded him so much relief on this wet day as
to earn forgiveness; but unfortunately Sir Ludovic did not care for
the rain. He was not depressed by it, nor were his other occupations
interfered with. Rain or shine, he sat in the same chair and read over
the same books, of which he was never tired. And what was a new little
event to him? if it were innocent, only a bore and interruption, and if
it were not innocent, an annoyance and trouble.
Margaret would have been grateful to anybody--a peddler, if no better
could be had; but Sir Ludovic felt no want, and therefore knew no
gratitude. He was civil. He looked at the portfolios and gave to their
contents a faint praise. He did not deny that the outline of himself,
just put in to be finished another time, was a clever drawing; but at
the same time he made Margaret a little sign with his eyebrows to take
the young man away. And though Sir Ludovic had been startled into alarm
on Margaret’s account at the sight of Rob Glen, it did not occur to him
that he was increasing all the dangers by thus requiring of her that
she should get him away. He threw his child farther and more intimately
into the young man’s society, though he felt it was not society for
her; but what then? he was too fine a gentleman to be rude even to the
farmer’s son, but was he to take the trouble to talk to him, making
conversation for a youth who did not amuse him, who bored him, who
kept him from his books? This was a thing which Sir Ludovic did not
understand. He gave Margaret that silent intimation of his will, and he
opened his book, which was another hint to the intruder. If the young
man would take the hint and go, so much the better--if not, then for
this once it was better that Margaret should entertain him, and leave
her father in peace.
“Perhaps we might go on with our lesson now, Mr. Glen,” said Margaret,
with one of her sudden suffusions of color. There was some meaning in
it this time, for she felt that her father was wanting in courtesy, and
was terrified lest Mr. Glen should think he was cavalierly treated. She
took up the great portfolio herself to carry it away, and would not let
Rob take it from her.
“Why should not I carry it?” she said. “You came to give us pleasure,
not to please yourself, Mr. Glen--and of course I will carry the book.
It is not at all heavy,” she said, lugging it along. Perhaps she
intended to convince Sir Ludovic of his own indifference to his visitor
and failure in the politeness necessary; and some idea of this kind
did cross the old man’s mind, but too lightly to make the impression
his daughter intended. It was not much to him to see her carrying big
books, and he was glad to get rid of the visitor. He drew a long breath
of relief when the young pair disappeared in the West Chamber. He could
not be troubled with Rob Glen. He had been civil enough. Sir Ludovic
was not capable of being uncivil under his own roof; but why should he
take more trouble? As for Margaret, the idea of any danger to her, or
impropriety in this companionship for her, died out of his mind when
put in comparison with his risk of being disturbed in his own person.
He was glad to get rid of the two. Had Margaret even been alone, he
would have said, “Run away, my little Peggy, run and play,” in those
habitual words which wounded Margaret’s pride of young womanhood so
much. He opened his book, and set it straight before him, and placed
himself at a more comfortable angle: and then--his eyelids began to
come together once more, his head drooped on his breast, then settled
on the back of his chair.
It was afternoon, and all was drowsy and still; very still was the long
room, now those younger creatures were gone. The rain streamed down
outside with a soft, continuous patter upon the trees. The skies were
all gray, the earth all silent. The faintest hum, no more than might
come from a beehive, might sometimes be audible from the West Chamber,
but the walls were thick and the doors fitted closely. If he heard
the voices at all, they fell into the subdued patter of the rain, the
general stillness. Afternoon--and seventy-five. What reason had he to
keep himself awake, to insist upon living instead of sleeping through
that heavy, silent, drowsy afternoon? And yet he did not like to think
he had been sleeping. When John came in behind the screen and began to
prepare for dinner, Sir Ludovic sat upright with very wide-open eyes.
He was always erect, but now he sat bolt-upright in his chair.
“Is that you, John?” he said, with unusual suavity, so that the old man
might entertain no doubt of his perfectly wide-awake condition.
“Ay, it’s just me, Sir Ludovic,” said John. No one could have been
more indifferent on this subject than John was. He knew very well that
his master was apt to doze the afternoon through--but what of that?
It was a privilege of his position, not a misfortune. Old John would
gladly have dozed too, and found it entirely natural. He himself took
a nap whenever he could get it, and though he would cling with natural
vehemence to the fact that he had “not slept a wink,” there was neither
shame nor annoyance in his mind at being caught in the act. The signs
of old age were not alarming nor troublesome to John; he had a distinct
pleasure in perceiving them in his master, and no objection to put them
forth for himself, to boast a little of what he still could do “at my
age,” and to claim all manner of little exemptions on this score. The
old master sat up very erect in his chair, with a great pretence of
interest and absorption in his book, to cheat the other’s observations,
but the old servant was not to be cheated. He said to himself quite
calmly, and to Bell when he went down-stairs, “Sir Ludovic’s getting an
auld man.”
“No so much aulder than yoursel’,” Bell retorted, promptly.
“Was I saying he was much aulder than mysel’? He’s nearer ten years
than five--and that makes a great difference; but you women are aye for
comparisons,” said John. “I said he was getting an auld man.”
How differently the same sentiment mingled with the great stillness in
the long room! Sir Ludovic did not want any change; he was well enough,
willing to last just as he was, hoping nothing different, satisfied if
he could only go on so. But here, creeping about him, irresistible,
not even to be kept at arm’s-length or regarded as something outside
of himself, were the symptoms of change coming. How erect he sat, how
wide-awake he forced himself to look! he would not own to the weakness,
and perhaps, who could tell, by mere ignoring, might vanquish--or,
at least, appear to vanquish it. But it was not to be forgotten, nor
even resisted very effectively. Even John’s movements, the passing of
himself or his shadow across the light, the sound of his heavy old
leisurely footsteps, the slight clang of the silver and tinkle of the
glass as it was put on the table, began to take a certain rhythm, and
to lull the listener once more. “There must be something the matter
with me,” Sir Ludovic said, as he roused himself once more with an
effort, and got up to shake himself free, by movement, from the spell.
Movement, that must be what he wanted--a little exercise, which he was
aware he had neglected sadly. But now, perhaps, it might be of use. He
had to go to prepare for dinner, which was always of use in charming
the drowsiness away.
Margaret came in a few minutes after with a little flutter and rustle
of roused life about her, which was very different from the slumbrous
atmosphere of old age, in which Sir Ludovic had discovered himself to
be sinking. She was very eager, and at the same time doubtful, as to
what he would say to her; he had not found her visitor so delightful
as she had done, she felt. To Margaret the afternoon had been full
of pleasure. The wet day, which in the morning had filled her with
despair, had become more attractive than the finest of weather: Rob’s
society, the novelty of talking to him, of pouring forth her own ideas
upon subjects with which Bell, for instance, had little sympathy, and
of hearing from him a great deal which, if not very new in itself, was
profoundly intellectual, brilliantly original to the little country
girl--had transported Margaret. How clever he was, how well he could
talk! She had never met with anybody like him. What worlds of books
he had read! not, perhaps, such learned books (but of this she was
not quite sure) as papa. But then papa did not talk of them; and Mr.
Glen was so willing to talk of them, mingling his own impressions
and ideas with hers, quoting his favorite poets and leading Margaret
herself, shyly, with glowing eyes and flaming cheeks, to quote hers,
and “say” verses out loud which she had said to herself with all the
sweet enthusiasm of youth in many a solitary place, but had never
found anybody to care for. Even Jeanie, Jeanie who was young, and full
of natural poetry too, when Margaret had tried to “say” her beloved
“pieces” to her, had dropped asleep, which had been one of the girl’s
great disappointments in life.
When she was younger, Bell, indeed, had listened with great complacency
to these “pieces,” as proving how clever the child was; but from that
time to this, when she suddenly found that Rob Glen knew them too, and
would say half, asking if she remembered the next--most delightful of
suggestions--she had found nobody who cared, nobody who would listen
and respond. Margaret’s eyes grew brighter and brighter, the ready
flush of feeling went and came over her face like the flying shadows on
a sunshiny landscape, as quick as those shadows fly upon the hills;
and a soft excitement got possession of her. She talked as she had
never talked in her life before, and impressed him as he impressed
her by that easy poetry of youth which can look almost like genius in
its early outpouring. A mutual admiration, a mutual interest, thus
sprang up between them: and how much your admiration of the superiority
of another is increased by the certainty that the other shows his
superiority by admiring you, who can doubt? Rob, too, felt all this.
He was dazzled himself by the pretty, simple strains of thinking and
feeling which Margaret showed unawares, and he dazzled her (wittingly
and of purpose) by his own eloquence, his theories, his deep thoughts,
his lofty fancies. How delightful it all was, and how the hours of
wetness out-of-doors, of slow-falling rain, and heavy clouds, and
drippings and patterings and overflowings, tedious to everybody else,
flew over the two young people in the little panelled room!
The drawing-lesson was not so happy; spite of all the master’s efforts,
it had been impossible to get Margaret’s wavering pencil to execute
the necessary straight line. This had been humbling; but it had
been partially sweetened by Rob’s assurance that many who could not
overcome such a commonplace difficulty became excellent in color, and
in a sense of the harmonies of Nature. What a lovely phrase this was,
“the harmonies of Nature!” Margaret felt instinctively that she would
understand them, though she could not make a straight line. Then she
took him over the house, showing him “the high room,” which was over
the long room, the vaulted gallery with its tapestries, which filled
him with wonder and admiration. Neither of them perceived another
figure, which retreated before them, getting out of their way as they
lingered at every point of interest, and which was poor Jeanie, who
finally took refuge behind the tapestry, with a forlorn wish to see
and hear again the faithless “freend” who had forgotten her. The two
stood close to that tapestry for some time, he talking, smiling upon
the young lady, giving her a great deal of information (of dubious
accuracy) about tapestry and art manufactures, while Jeanie, in great
terror of discovery, and still greater shame and horror of herself for
so mean an action as “listening,” lurked behind, scarlet with anxiety,
confusion, and wretchedness. Jeanie, however, it is needless to deny,
was a little comforted by what she heard.
Courtship goes quickly on the lower levels of society, and how Rob
should occupy the time in talking of the old hangings which were
just “an awfu’ place for dust,” if he really wished to make himself
agreeable to Miss Margaret, Jeanie could not understand. “No a word
but that the hale world might hear,” she said to herself, puzzled but
soothed, as she escaped to her little room in the top of the turret,
after the others had gone away. She could hear their voices, with
little breaks of laughter still going on, as they went down-stairs--the
same sound which was as the humming of bees to Sir Ludovic in his great
chair. Not so, Jeanie knew, had Rob made his advances to herself. These
approaches were much less abstract, far more rapid. Perhaps “he wasna
meaning onything,” perhaps it was but a polite visit, for abstract
reasons, occupied by abstract subjects. This thought consoled Jeanie,
and made her heart swell with a secret pride in Rob’s education and
capability to hold his place with the best.
But, after all this, Margaret, it may be supposed, did not present
herself quite so calmly as usual at the dinner-table. She had a little
rose-tint, which was very seldom permanent, upon her pretty cheek, and
her eyes glowed with unusual brightness. She was more resigned than
usual to the ceremony of being handed to her seat, and did not think
the two old men were making a fool of her, as she was apt to do; and
she did not say anything, but awaited her father’s questioning with
much suppressed excitement. Sir Ludovic for some time disappointed
her by saying nothing on the subject--which, when you expect to be
questioned, and, indeed, to be found fault with, and stand on the
defensive, is the most trying of all treatment. However, after a time,
Margaret’s pulses woke again to liveliest beating.
“Did your artist stay long, my Peggy?” she heard Sir Ludovic saying,
without any warning at all.
“Oh! n-not very long, papa,” said Margaret, slightly faltering.
Then--for she suddenly remembered that John, who knew everything that
went on, did by no means hesitate to contradict her when he thought
proper--she added, hastily, “But first he learned me to draw.”
“That was very clever of him,” said Sir Ludovic; “and did you learn,
as you say, to draw--all in one lesson, my little Peggy? That was very
clever of you, too.”
“Why should you always make a fool of me?” said Margaret, pathetically.
“You know I did not mean that, papa. But we tried; and then I let him
see the house, and the high room, and the tapestry. We could not go up
to the tower, because it was raining. He is to come another day,” said
Margaret, with the extreme of simple candor, “to see the view from the
tower. And he thought the tapestry was very fine, papa.”
“Did he, my little Peggy? Then I fear he cannot know very much about
it,” said Sir Ludovic. “He is rather a clumsy imitation of a hero, very
rustic and Fifish, your Mr. Glen.”
“You call _me_ Fifish too,” said Margaret, with a little laugh
which expressed a good deal of irritation. The finest and most
significant satire was implied in Margaret’s tone. “If _me_, then
anybody!” it seemed to say, with a mixture of wounded pride and sense
of absurdity. Sir Ludovic forgot the moral he had meant to draw in his
amusement. He laughed, with that tender laugh which is called from us
by the dear follies of our children.
“Did I call you Fifish too, my Peggy?--which shows I am a very
ignorant, ridiculous old man. But he should not have begun that drawing
of your old father while I--dozed. It is not often I doze,” said Sir
Ludovic, with the same uneasy feeling which Margaret had felt, that old
John behind his chair was quite capable of contradicting him; “and if
he had been a gentleman, I don’t think he would have done it.”
“Oh!” cried Margaret, clasping her hands, “it was all my fault-- I
assure you it was all my fault, papa.”
“Well, my little girl; but a gentleman would not have done it. He would
not have taken an advantage of a man he did not know. Friends may do
that kind of thing, but not a stranger, my little Peggy.”
“Oh, papa!” cried Margaret, the tears coming to her eyes, “why will you
always blame other people for what was my fault? He did not want to
do it (this was a fib, but perhaps a pardonable one); it was me that
wanted it, papa; and when I said to him, ‘Oh, Mr. Glen, I have not got
any picture of papa, not even a poor photograph--oh, draw me a picture
of papa!’ he did it; but it was me that wanted it--and how could he
refuse me?”
“He would have been a brute if he had,” said the old man, melted; “but
still it is true, my Peggy, your stranger should not have done that,
without my knowledge, the first time he ever saw me.”
“As if he had not known you all his life!” cried Margaret. “He knew you
as well as I did when we were little--when you used to walk about. He
wondered why you never walked about now; he asked me if you were ill,
and I told him you were not ill, only--”
“Only what, my little girl?--old and useless?” said Sir Ludovic, with a
pathetic undertone of protest, yet acquiescence, a wistful desire to be
contradicted in his faltering voice.
“No--oh, I beg your pardon, papa. I did not mean to be so--impudent. It
sounds so, but I did not mean it. I said you were only--lazy.”
Sir Ludovic laughed. What relief was in the laugh! what ease from the
pang which had struck him! His little girl, at least, did not see the
true state of affairs, and why should he not be able to look at this,
at least, through her eyes?
“Perhaps there is some truth in it,” he said. “You were always saucy,
my Peggy. If I were not so lazy, but moved about a little more, it
might be better for me. What have you to say against that?” he cried,
turning round half angrily to old John, who had given a significant
“Humph!” behind his chair.
“Oh, just nothing at all, Sir Ludovic. I wasna speaking. But exercise
is good for man and beast--when they’re no ower auld or ower frail.”
Sir Ludovic laughed again, though less pleasantly.
“I will defy the cleverest talker in the world,” he cried, “old John,
you old grumbler, to make anything of you.”
“I just aye say what I think, Sir Ludovic,” said the old man, without
a smile; but he chuckled when he went down-stairs and recounted the
incident to Bell. “Would he hev me say he was as souple as a laud o’
twenty?” said old John.
“Ye auld grumbler, as Sir Ludovic weel says. What for could you no say
a pleasant word to pleasure the maister?” cried the more sympathetic
Bell.