It was on a bright day in the end of August that Margaret Leslie
arrived at the Grange, which was her own house, her mother’s
birthplace, and her future home. They had been rather more than a
month on the way, and had last come from Mrs. Bellingham’s house,
which was in the neighborhood of Bellingham Court--not the great house
of her district, but very near and closely related to that reigning
mansion. Mrs. Bellingham had not been without grievances in her life.
Indeed, had one of two events happened which she had every reason to
expect would happen, her present position would have been different
and much more satisfactory. Had her husband lived only a year longer,
she would have been Lady Bellingham of the Court, the foremost lady in
the county; and had she been the mother of a son, that son would have
been Sir Somebody, and his mother would still have been--during his
inevitably long minority at least--the mistress of the great house. But
these two natural events did not happen. Jean was the mother of neither
son nor daughter, and her husband, the eldest son--old Sir Anthony’s
heir--had cheated her effectually out of all share in the splendors of
the house--which splendors, indeed, had been much more attractive than
himself--by dying most spitefully a year before his father. If it had
been a year after, she would not have minded so much. But as it was,
there was nothing for it but to retire to the Dower House, and to see
her next sister-in-law, with whom she had not been on very affectionate
terms, become Lady Bellingham, and enter into possession of everything.
It may be supposed that this was no slight trial; but Jean, every
one allowed, had behaved like a heroine. In the moment of deep and
real affliction which followed old Sir Anthony’s death, she had taken
the situation under review, and considered it very deeply. The first
suggestion naturally had been that she should return home, or at least
settle in the neighborhood of her father’s house. But Jean reflected
that her father was not only old but poor, that his house was very
limited in accommodation, and that when her present gloom and crape
were over, there was neither amusement nor occupation to be had at
Earl’s-hall, such as might oil the wheels of life and enable everything
to go smoothly. Fife was not lively, nor was Earl’s-hall attractive;
whereas in the neighborhood of the Court, though it would be hard
to see another woman reigning there, there was always likely to be
something going on, and the family was of the first consequence in the
district, not shabby and worn-out like the poor Leslies. Having come
to this decision, Mrs. Bellingham had taken her measures accordingly.
She had thrown off at once the natural air of grievance which everybody
had excused in her after such disappointments. Instead of troubling
the new Lady Bellingham in her arrangements, she had thrown herself
heartily into the work, and aided her in every way in her power. “I
don’t mean to say that it is not a disappointment,” she said; “I hoped,
of course-- I don’t deny it--to be mistress here myself. I have worked
for it: through all Sir Anthony’s illness, I am sure, I never was less
attentive to him because I knew I should be turned out as soon as he
was released from his sufferings.”
“No, I am sure you never were,” said the new Sir Anthony, warmly.
“And I should have liked to be my lady, I don’t deny it. If my poor
Aubrey had lived, I should have enjoyed the position quite as much as
you I hope will enjoy it, my dear.”
“Oh, enjoy it! think of the responsibility!” cried the new Lady
Bellingham.
“I should not have minded the responsibility; but Providence has
settled otherwise--you have it, and I have not. But don’t think I am
going to be disagreeable on that account. I will move into the Dower
House as soon as you please, and I will do everything I can to help
you in settling down. I know how to struggle for my rights when it is
necessary,” Mrs. Bellingham had said, not without a warning glance at
Sir Anthony, “but, thank Heaven, I also know how to submit.”
In this spirit she had begun her life, and with the same noble meaning
had lived many years a kind of secondary star in the Bellingham
firmament, shining independently, but never in opposition. A close
connection with the Court made the Dower House important, and she kept
up that connection. She was always serviceable, giving as well as
receiving, maintaining her own position, even while she magnified it
by that of the great house; and, in short, nothing, all her friends
allowed, could be more perfect than her behavior, which was everything
a sister’s ought to be, and everything that could be desired in an
aunt. The Dower House was a pretty house, and Mrs. Bellingham’s
jointure was sufficient to permit her a comfortable little carriage, a
nice little establishment, with the means of giving excellent dinners
when she chose, and enjoying life in a dignified and most comfortable
way. On the other hand, she dined very often at the Court, and had the
use of their superfluous luxuries, and a share in everything that was
going on, which increased at once her comfort and her consequence. This
was the position in which she stood to her relations and neighbors. She
felt now that she was about to repay them a hundred-fold for all the
little advantages they had thrown in her way by providing for Aubrey,
who was her husband’s godson, and the least successful member of the
family. Aubrey was very accomplished, very charming, very idle. He
could not be got to do anything, except make himself agreeable, and he
had never even done that to any purpose. When Mrs. Bellingham heard
that her father was dying, her first thought was of this. But she was
a woman who could keep her own counsel. She sent Aubrey a check, and
directions for his route: she threw facilities in his way, of which he
did not, perhaps, quite make the use she expected; but still things
had mended in the latter part of their journey, and Margaret and he
had been very good friends when they parted, and all was well in train
in pursuit of this purpose. Mrs. Bellingham carried her young sister
to the Dower House, and showed her the greatness of the Court. It
was vacant for the moment, but its imposing size and splendor filled
Margaret with admiration.
“All this would have been mine, Margaret, if my poor dear Aubrey had
lived. You may think what a grief it was to me to lose him,” said Jean,
with a sigh. “And that is why I take such deep interest in Aubrey, who
was his godson, you know. This is Aubrey’s home.”
“Dearest Jean! how much more we ought to think of her, and try to
please her, darling Margaret,” said Miss Leslie; “when we see how much
she has lost.”
And when they had gone over all the empty stately rooms, and looked
at all the portraits--docile Margaret receiving the tale of family
grandeur with unquestioning assent--and had made acquaintance with
the lesser world of the Dower House, its paddock, its gardens, its
conservatory, all the little comforts and elegancies which were so dear
to the sisters, it was time to set out for the Grange, that Margaret
might see her own house. It had been settled that Mrs. Bellingham
and Miss Leslie should go there with her to take possession of it,
and to see what changes would require to be made, to fit it for
occupation--and that they were to remain with her there as long as
the fine weather lasted, going back to the Dower House for winter and
Christmas. The Grange lay in another county, and was some distance
from the house of the Bellingham’s, with which it communicated only by
a very circuitous route. In old days, when the ladies would have been
obliged to post, it would have taken days instead of hours to get to
it, and yet it would have proved a nearer way. They had to go to the
nearest town and then take a train going north, in order to find at
the junction a train going south, in which they could proceed to the
end of their journey. And what between the changes, and the waiting
here and there, this journey occupied most part of the day. It was
dark when they drove from the little town where the railway ended,
through a succession of dim roads and lanes and under overshadowing
trees that made the twilight dimness greater, to the Grange: which
presented no recognizable feature, but was merely a large shadow in
the gloom surrounded by shadows less solid--ghosts of waving trees and
high hedge-rows. There was a woman visible at the little lodge, who
came out and opened the gate and courtesied to the strangers, leaving
her cottage door open and showing a cheerful glow of fire-light, and a
tiny little girl of three or four years old, standing against the light
and gazing at the carriage; but this was the only gleam of cheerfulness
that dwelt in Margaret’s mind. The child’s face was scarcely visible,
but its little sturdy figure against the fire-light, with two small
feet well apart, and the most wondering curiosity in its entire pose,
made the forlorn little mistress of the place smile as she went through
those gates which led to her home. After this there was a long avenue
to drive through, with great trees overshadowing the carriage, and
tossing their branches about in the night wind. It had been a very
hot day, and the breeze which had sprung up was very grateful, but
the moaning it made in the branches was very melancholy, and affected
poor Margaret’s imagination. “How the wind _soughs_,” she said,
with full use of the dreary guttural. She was sitting in the front
seat of the cab as it jolted along amidst all those waving shadows,
and Margaret felt very sad, she did not know why. She had been curious
about her sister’s house, and interested, and had liked the novelty
and perpetual change; but she did not feel any curiosity, nothing but
sadness, in coming to this place, which was her own, though there was
nobody here to welcome her. How the wind soughed! no other word could
express so well the wild moan and wailing, which is an exaggeration by
nature of the sound which the French call tears in the voice. It went
to Margaret’s heart: the tears came into her voice, too, and filled her
eyes in the darkness. All was melancholy in this home-coming to nothing
but darkness and the unknown--the wind tossing about the branches and
complaining to the night, the sound of water somewhere, complaining
too, with a feeble tinkle--the sky invisible, except in a speck here
and there, just light enough to show how the branches were tossing
overhead. The young traveller drooped her head in her corner, and felt
her courage and her heart fail.
“Margaret,” said Jean’s voice out of the darkness, from the other side
of the carriage, “you must learn to remember now that you are not a
Scotch country girl in Fife, but an English young lady with a character
to keep up--a landed proprietor. Don’t talk that vulgar Scotch. If you
use such language here nobody will understand you; and they will think
you a girl without any education, which would be most painful for all
your relatives, and a slur upon poor papa’s memory. Therefore remember,
no Scotch.”
This altogether completed Margaret’s downfall. The gloom, the sobbing
wind, the contrast between this home-coming and all that is ordinarily
implied in the word, were enough in themselves to overwhelm so young
a creature, still so short a way removed from the first grief of her
life; but the reproof was of a kind which made the contrast still more
poignant. Nothing in all his intercourse with his favorite child had
been so tender or so characteristic as Sir Ludovic’s soft, laughing
animadversions upon that very point--“My little Peggy, you must not
be so Scotch!” How often had he said it, his face lighted up with
tenderest laughter, his reproof more sweet than other people’s praise.
But how different it sounded when Jean said it! Something came climbing
into Margaret’s throat and choked her. When the carriage stopped with a
jar and a crash, as it did at that moment at the scarcely discernible
door, she could not wait for its opening, or till the coachman should
scramble from his perch, but flung the carriage door open, and jumped
out, eager for movement of any kind; her forehead throbbing with
pain over her eyebrows, the sob in her throat, and a sudden gush of
salt-water, hot and bitter, blinding her eyes. What could be more
unlucky than to alight thus before the closed door and not be able
to see it for tears? It opened, however, while Margaret began to
help Steward, who had groped her way from the box, to get out the
innumerable small articles with which the cab was crowded. The country
girl, who appeared at the door with a candle protected by a long glass
shade in her hand, did not imagine for a moment that the slim creature
not so big as herself, with the armful of cloaks and shawls, was her
mistress. She addressed herself to the ladies in the carriage, as was
natural.
“If you please, ma’am,” she said, making a courtesy, “Miss Parker have
gone to bed with a bad headache; but please there’s tea in the parlor,
and all your rooms is ready.”
Margaret, however, scarcely saw the dark wainscoted room into which
she followed her sisters, hearing their voices and exclamations as
in a dream. It only seemed to Margaret to look very dark, very cold,
with its gleams of reflections. Her little white-panelled room at home
was far more cheerful than this dark place. She heard them say it was
lovely! perfect! in such good keeping! without paying any attention.
It was not in keeping with Margaret. In all her life she had never
felt such a poor little melancholy stranger, such a desolate childish
atom in an unknown world, as during this first hour in the house which
belonged to her, the place where she was absolute mistress.
Finding that there was nothing to be made of her, that she would
neither eat the plentiful fare on the table, nor admire the china in
the great open cupboards, nor make herself amiable in any way, Mrs.
Bellingham gave her a cup of warm tea and sent her to bed; where
Steward, with a little pity, deferring her mistress’s unpacking,
benevolently followed to help her to undress. They had put her into a
large, low, many-latticed room, with that mixture in it of venerable
mansion and homely cottage which is the dream of such rural houses; but
in the darkness made visible by two poor candles, even that was little
more cheerful than the dark parlor with its wainscot. At Earl’s-hall,
even in August, there might have been a little friendly fire to make a
stranger at home; but in “the South--!” How many a pang of cold have
we all supported in much warmer latitudes than England, for very shame
because of “the South!”
Naturally, however, Margaret could not sleep, though she was glad
to be alone. She kept her candle lighted, to bear her company with
something of a child’s dread of the darkness, and lay thinking with
eyes preternaturally awake, now that the tears had been all wept out.
She thought of everything--of Earl’s-hall, and the rhythm of the pines
which were not like that rainy melancholy _sough_, and of those
moments in the wood when she had gone out with her eyes just so hot
with tears unshed, and just such a fiery throbbing of pain in her
forehead, and choking in her throat. And oh, how kind _he_ had
been! he had not thought of himself, but only of comforting her. How he
had drawn her to him, made her lean upon him, taken off the weight of
her sorrow. How hard-hearted she had been to poor Rob, never thinking
of him all these days, glad to escape from the thought of him. And he
had been so kind! A great compunction came into her mind. How much he
had been mingled in the twist of her life at that time which of all
other times had been the most momentous in it! and how was it possible
that when that crisis was over her very fancy should have so fled from
him, her thoughts thrust him away? Poor Rob! and he had been so kind!
Margaret begged his pardon in her heart with great self-reproach, but
it did not occur to her to make him any amends. She had no desire to
call him back to her, to see him again, to write to him. Oh no! she
drew her breath hard, with a sudden panic: why should she write to him?
It was not necessary. She could not write at all a nice letter such as
would be a pleasure to any one. But the thought seemed to catch her
very breath, her heart began to thump again, and her brow to burn and
throb.
“Are you asleep, dear Margaret?” said Grace, coming in. “I just ran
up-stairs for a moment to see. Dearest Jean is going over the rooms,
to see what sort of rooms they are--not that we can see very much at
night; and, of course, darling Margaret, I should like much better,
and so would dear Jean, to wait till you were with us yourself; and
if you would like me to stay with you, I would much rather stay. I
shouldn’t at all mind giving it up. So far as one can see, it is the
dearest old place, so old-fashioned! and such china, and old armor in
the hall!--real armor, just as delightful as what you see in Wardour
Street. Dear Jean is so pleased. Now do go to sleep, darling Margaret,
go to sleep. The wainscot parlor is the dearest old room, just like a
picture. I am to go out and join dear Jean on the stairs when I hear
her coming up. She is talking to Steward about unpacking, for dear Jean
is very particular about her unpacking. Are you asleep, darling?--not
yet? but you must really go to sleep, and be quite fresh for to-morrow.
That is right, shut your eyes, and I will shade the candle; or perhaps
it would be better to have a night-light; I think I must try to get
you a night-light. There is dear Jean coming up the stairs. She enjoys
anything like this. That is her voice coming up. You can always hear
dear Jean’s voice, walking about a house. At the Dower House, when I
am in my room, I always hear her at night starting to see that all
the doors and windows are safe. She begins with the scullery and goes
everywhere. Dear Jean is energetic to a fault. She does not mind what
trouble she takes. Now you are asleep, darling Margaret, quite fast:
hush--hush!” said Miss Grace, patting her shoulder softly. It was not a
very sensible proceeding, but it soothed Margaret. She turned round her
cheek, still wet with tears, with a soft laugh, which was half derision
and half pleasure.
“I am fast asleep; now run, Grace, run, or Jean will scold you.”
“Oh, it is not that I am afraid! but really, really if you are going to
sleep, and don’t want me to stay-- I will stay in a moment if you would
like it, darling Margaret; but perhaps I should only keep you from
sleeping, and dear Jean--”
“Where has she run to now?” they could hear Jean’s voice saying at a
distance, and Miss Grace gave her young sister a hasty kiss and hurried
away. Margaret lay still and listened for a long time while Jean’s
voice perambulated the house, going everywhere. It gave a new sort of
brisk activity to the dark and cold place. Up and down and about the
passages went the high-pitched tones, commenting on everything. It was
seldom that Margaret could make out what they said. But the sound made
a cheer and comfort, a sense of society and protection. By-and-by she
got drowsy with those cheerful echoes in her ears, and dropped at last
into the deep sleep of youth, with a sense of this peaceful patrolling
all about her, the darkness lighted by gleams of the candles they
carried, and by Jean’s voice.
And in the morning what a flood of sunshine filled the room! lavish,
extravagant sunshine pouring in, as if it had nothing else to do; which
indeed was pretty nearly the case, as all the harvest was housed about
the Grange, and there was not much, except light matters of fruit, for
that magnificent sun to do, nothing but to ripen the peaches on the
walls and the apples on the trees, and wake for a joke, with a blaze
and illumination which might have done for a king, a little bit of a
slim girl in the low-roofed chamber with its many windows. Margaret
woke all in a moment, as you wake with a start when some one stands and
looks at you fixedly, penetrating the strongest bond of drowsiness. She
sprang up, her mind already full of excitement as she recollected where
she was: in the Grange, in her own house! a curious thrill of pleasure,
and wonder, and eager curiosity came over her. She got up and dressed
hastily in her eagerness to see her surroundings.
From her windows she looked out upon nothing but trees, a walled garden
on one side, a little park on the other, a glimpse of a small stream
with a little wooden bridge over it, and trees, and more trees as
far as the eye could go. Her eye went as far as eye could go in that
unconscious appeal for something to rest upon which is instinctively
made by all who are accustomed to hills; but there was no blue line
upon the horizon, no undulation to relieve her. The only inequality was
in the trees, which were some lower and some more lofty--in tufts of
rich foliage everywhere, shading the landscape like a delicate drawing.
Though it would not be September till next day, yet there were already
traces here and there that autumn had tinted the woods with that “fiery
finger.” It was nothing more than a touch; but it brightened the
picture. How different from the parched elms and oaks all bare with the
wind, and the dark unchanging firs in the Earl’s-hall woods!
The house was still asleep when she stole down-stairs, half afraid
of herself, down the oak staircase, with its heavy balustrade. She
was the only thing waking in the silent house, which still was so
full of living, waking sunshine. She seemed to herself to be the last
survivor--the only inhabitant. Timorously she stole down, finding
shutters at all the windows, bolts at all the doors. At Earl’s-hall
who ever dreamed of a bolt or a bar! The door was “snecked” when John
thought of it, but often enough was left on the latch, so that any
one might have come in; but very different were the precautions here.
She stole about on tiptoe, peeping here and there, feeling herself an
intruder, totally unable to believe that all this was hers; and very
much frightened by the noise she made, undid the heavy fastenings and
opened the great door, which creaked and clanged as if calling for help
against some invader.
The dew was still sparkling on the flowers when she issued forth into
the fresh air of the morning, doubly refreshed with last night’s
showers. The birds were singing, nations and tribes of them, in every
tree. They made such a din round her as she stepped out that she could
scarcely hear herself thinking. Instinctively Margaret ran down to
the little brook, which she called (to herself) the burn. And there,
looking back, she stood entranced with a novel delight. She had never
before seen anything like it. A great old rambling simple-minded
English house, of old brick with a bloom on it, and touches of lichen,
golden and gray: covered with verdure, nothing new or petty; the
very honeysuckles grown into huge trees, forests of the simplest
white clematis, the traveller’s joy, with its wild wreaths and sweet
clusters of flowers, roses in their second bloom mounting up to the old
chimneys, which had retreated into great bushes of ivy; and everywhere
through a hundred folds and wreaths of green--everywhere the mellow
redness of the old house itself peeping through. Margaret clasped her
hands in delight. The landscape was nothing but trees, and had little
interest for her; but the house! It was itself like a great flower,
all warm and strong. And this was hers! She could not believe it. She
stood rapt, and gazed at the perfect place--a mass of flowers and
leafage, and bloomy old walls. It was a poem in homely red and brown,
an autumnal sonnet. And this was hers! She could not believe it--it was
too beautiful to be true.