It was Rob, perhaps, who had the most right to be excited by this
unexpected vision; but Randal, who had no right, was also driven
half wild by it, and altogether lost his head as he stood gazing
blankly about him, and saw Margaret, rather dragging Aubrey after
her than being conducted by him, thread through the crowd with such
an eager impulse of flight. Few young men could have refused to be
a little biassed and shaken from their equilibrium by the sweetness
of such a reception as he had just received. The brightening of her
countenance, the look of pleasure that overspread her face, the gleam
of sweet friendliness and welcome would have been pleasant from any
one; but from her who had already touched his fancy and interested his
heart--from her to whom already he had given a devotion which was of
the nature of friendship rather than love--it was more than pleasant,
it set every nerve tingling. His devotion had borne a kind of character
of friendship, he thought; for was not love hopeless on her side,
pledged as she was? And yet he could not do less than serve her for
the sake of her childhood, for the sake of all the associations of the
past, but chiefly for the sake of herself, so sweet as she was, so
tender, and lovely, and young--the kind of creature whom it would be
sweet to shield from all trouble.
It had wrung his heart before now to think how little he could do
for Margaret, having no right to stand by her. What right had he to
interfere? He was not even a connection like Aubrey, whom he called
“that English fellow,” just as Aubrey called him “that Scotch fellow”
and “the man of Killin.” He had to stand by and see her go out into
the world with nobody who understood her, her life already fettered
by bonds so unsuitable, so foolishly formed, but beyond all power of
his to interfere. And now to receive such a welcome from her, to see
her face so lit up with pleasure to greet him, went to Randal’s very
heart. It seemed to send a corresponding light over his whole being:
he did not ask himself what it meant; but it was not possible that
Margaret’s sudden unaffected lighting up at sight of himself, and her
unaccountable horror and terror and flight at the name of Glen, should
not have stirred all manner of strange emotions in Randal. He made
a virtue of patience for an hour or two until he thought it certain
that her sisters would also have gone home, and then he hastened to
the address Aubrey had unwillingly given him, missing, by so doing,
an excited visit from Rob Glen, who, after driving wildly through the
bewildering streets in hopeless confusion, bethought himself that
Randal might know where Margaret was likely to be found. They missed
each other on the crowded way, and Randal went on, with his head full
of dreams, in a kind of intoxication of beatitude and wonder. What a
change since this morning had come over the young man’s life!
When, however, he reached the place where the ladies were staying,
it was into the midst of confusion and excitement that Randal found
himself suddenly thrown. Mrs. Bellingham was walking about the room in
great commotion, Miss Grace crying softly on a sofa. They received him
without surprise as people already too much excited to find any new
event unexpected or strange.
“How do you do, Randal?” said Mrs. Bellingham; “I am sorry to say we
have scarcely time to receive you as we should like. We had settled
ourselves for a week in town, and got very nice rooms and everything;
and I had quantities of things to do--the work of a year, I may say.
We have no clothes, not an article to put on, and there were a hundred
things I wanted. But all is thrown into disorder, all is unsettled, and
I sha’n’t be able to do anything. We must go back to the Grange at once
without a moment’s delay.”
“Dearest Jean!” said Miss Grace, with streaming eyes, “you know you
said we must just give ourselves up to dear Margaret; and if it makes
her ill to stay in London, how can it be helped? Let me go with dearest
Margaret, and do you stay and do your shopping--”
“As if I would trust her out of my hands! especially if she is going to
be ill again. But here is the thing that puzzles me. Did you ever hear
of Margaret being ill, Randal, at Earl’s-hall? But here is a girl that
was as strong as--as strong as a little pony--in Fife, and she gets
congestion of the lungs as soon as she comes to the South, and cannot
stay two days in London! I never heard anything like it--of course I am
very sorry for Margaret. What have I been doing but devoting myself to
her for the last five months? And she was just blooming--would you not
have called her blooming, Aubrey? But London does not agree with her.
Fancy London not agreeing with a girl! I don’t know when I have been so
much put out in all my life.”
“Is-- Miss Leslie--ill?” said Randal, not knowing how to shape the
question.
“Yes; she grew faint and ill just after we met you,” said Aubrey,
looking at him with steady composure. “I thought the best thing to do
was to get her out of that beastly atmosphere at once.”
“Oh, you did quite right, Aubrey; I am not in the least blaming
you. Much better, in such a case, to leave at once; for if she had
fainted outright, in the middle of the crowd, that would have been a
pretty business! I never was used to girls who fainted,” said Mrs.
Bellingham, plaintively. “I have known them to get bad headaches when
there was nothing going on; but fainting, just when we were all amusing
ourselves--and we have got a box at the opera to-night! it really is
enough to send one out of one’s wits--a box at the opera! and you know
what a chance that is.”
“But, dearest Jean! do you go; I will stay with dear Margaret. I shall
not mind it; indeed, I shall not mind it _much_; and you know she
has been persuaded; she has given up the idea of going home to-night.”
“Going to-night was simply impossible! we are not all born idiots!”
said Mrs. Bellingham, with a vigor of language which betrayed her
nationality. Then, calming down a little, she seated herself and began
to pour out the tea, which had been neglected. “I am sure I beg your
pardon, Randal, for letting you see me in such a ‘fuff.’ But it is
provoking, you will allow. And as for going to the opera by myself, or
with only Grace, instead of having a pretty, fresh young girl by our
side that everybody would remark! I declare one would need to have the
patience of a saint not to feel it. Oh, ill? No, I don’t think she is
very ill; just upset, you know. Indeed, I should have said it was more
like a fright than anything else; but Aubrey says there was nothing--no
accident, nor runaway horse, nor man killed. I’ve seen that happen in
London streets, and very awful it was.”
“No,” said Aubrey, steadily, “there was nothing of that sort; but the
atmosphere was bad enough for anything; and then the fatigue of the
journey--”
“Do you take sugar in your tea, Randal? So many people take no sugar,
it is always a trouble to recollect what you young people take and what
you don’t take. Well, I suppose we will just have to make up our minds
to it. Steward can stay with Margaret to-night, and we will go. It is
no use throwing away a box at the height of the season.”
“But, dearest Jean, let me stay with dear Margaret. I don’t really
mind. I am sure I don’t mind--”
“And to-morrow we must just go back,” said Mrs. Bellingham, sweeping
on in the larger current of her discourse. “You must remember me very
kindly to your excellent father and mother, Randal. I hope we shall see
them in the autumn. We are pretty sure to be in Fife in the autumn.
Margaret will be distressed not to see you; but, after all that has
happened, I thought the best place for her was just her bed; so I
made her lie down, and I don’t like to disturb her. She will be quite
distressed not to see you, when you have been so kind as to take up
your time calling--which really is a thing, with people only up in town
for a few days, that I never expect. You must have so many things to
do.”
This Randal took as a hint that he had at present “taken up his time”
and hers long enough, and he went away horribly disappointed, tingling
with pain as he had done with pleasure and excitement when he came,
yet, but for the disappointment, not so entirely cast down as he might
have been. Margaret’s determined flight, her abandonment of the place
where Rob Glen was, even though that place was London--large enough, it
might be supposed, to permit two strangers to inhabit it at the same
time without meeting--and her evident horror of the engagement between
them, made Randal’s spirits rise more than his disappointment subdued
them. This bondage once cleared away, and Rob Glen dropped back again
into the regions to which he belonged, who could tell what might happen?
There was but one thing that abode a prominent alarm in his mind,
after the first sting of disappointment was over, and that was “the
other fellow,” who lied so calmly on Margaret’s behalf. Was he in
her confidence too? Randal felt that to possess her confidence as
he himself did was as great a privilege as any man could have; but
somehow, curiously enough, it did not seem to him either so sacred
or so seemly that Aubrey should possess it too. He felt that the
suggestion of this wounded him for Margaret’s sake. She ought not to
take a young man into her confidence--it was not quite delicate, quite
like the perfection of Margaret. This was the only thing that really
and permanently troubled him as he went away.
And he had not been long back in his hotel when, a little before the
dinner hour at which he expected Rob to appear, the chief hero of the
whole entanglement suddenly made his appearance in a very evident
state of excitement. Rob was pale, his eyes wild with anxiety, his
hair hanging dishevelled over his forehead, as he wiped it with his
handkerchief, and his coat covered with dust. He looked eagerly round,
though he did not know himself what he expected to see. He waited till
the door was closed, and then he said hurriedly, “Burnside, I have
seen Margaret; I saw her coming out of the Academy when I met you this
morning. I have been rushing about half over London after her, and I
cannot find her. Have you heard anything or seen anything, or can you
guess where she is likely to be?”
“Sit down, Glen.”
“Sit down!--that is no answer. I don’t feel as if I could sit down
until I have spoken to her. Tell me where you think she can be.”
“Glen, I want to speak to you. I have something to say to you. They
are gone, or going away, that much I heard. I saw Mrs. Bellingham this
afternoon, and she told me that her sister was ill again, and that they
were off at once. She found that London did not agree with her.”
“Ill again?--gone away!” said Rob, hoarsely: then he threw down his hat
upon the table with an exclamation of annoyance and pain. “It is not
treating me fairly. I ought to see her,” he cried, and threw himself,
weary and angry, upon the nearest chair.
“I think so too,” said Randal, seriously. “I think you ought to see
her. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Glen; but I think you should
see her, and make her tell you candidly the state of affairs.”
“What do you mean by the state of affairs? If it is that her family are
opposed to the existence of any tie between her and me, that is no new
discovery. I know that, and _she_ knows that I know it.”
“That was not all I meant, Glen--that is bad enough. You know my
opinion. As a man of honor, I think you have a duty even to the family;
but this is different. She is not happy. I think you ought to have a
full explanation, and--set things on a right footing.”
“What does setting things on a right footing mean?” Rob said, with an
attempt at a sneer, which was more like a snarl of despair. He had
not found it such easy work “making his way” in London. His money was
running short, and he had nothing to do, and no prospect of being able
to support himself much longer. Margaret was his sheet-anchor, his sole
hope in the future. He thought, too, that the rapid dash away of the
carriage was not accidental, that she had seen him and driven him wild;
and this bitter reflection embittered him, and made him ready to take
offence at anything or nothing. He was miserable altogether, excited,
distracted, anxious--and tired to death besides. He had taken nothing
since the morning, having rushed off in wild pursuit of her instead
of getting his usual mid-day meal. He bent down his head upon his
folded arms, after that angry question, and thus defeated all Randal’s
disposition to find fault or blame him, if there had been any such
disposition in Randal’s mind.
On the contrary, however, the young man’s heart, softened by the
gleam of brightness that had seemed to come upon his own life out of
Margaret’s eyes, melted altogether over the unlucky presumptuous lover,
the fool who had rushed in “where angels might fear to tread,” the
unfortunate one who had lost all chance of that prize at which he had
snatched too quickly and too roughly. Randal forgot to think of his
presumption, of his doubtful conduct, and all his offences against good
taste and the highest standard of honor, in sheer pity for the downfall
of him who had soared so high. He laid his hand upon the other’s
shoulder.
“Glen,” he said, “you are not the first who has made a mistake, or who
has been the victim of a mistake. That is no disparagement to you:
it is only continuing in the mistake that would be blamable. You and
she--let her name be sacred-- I do not like even to refer to her--”
“Who? Margaret?” said Rob, defiant. He would have his way, whatever
the other might think. “I have no reason to be so shy about her name.
Advice is very seldom palatable in the best of circumstances; but
between me and Margaret--” Because Randal had deprecated the use of her
name, he insisted on using it. He had a kind of insolent satisfaction
in turning it over and over. “Between me and Margaret,” he said, with a
laugh, “there is no need of advice, that I know of--we understand each
other. Mistake there is none between Margaret and me.”
Randal bowed very gravely--he did not smile. The color wavered over his
face--then departed. “In that case there is nothing to be said.”
“Not a word; Margaret and I understand each other. Margaret-- I suppose
I can wash my hands somewhere before dinner. I am as dusty as a
lamplighter with rushing about.”
And they dined together, talking of everything in the world except
Margaret, and thinking of nothing else. It was a relief to Randal that
her name was no longer on the lips of his uncongenial companion; but
yet the silence brought in a more eager and painful wonder as to what
he was going to do. But Randal could not renew the subject, and Rob
did not. He went away early, without having once again referred to the
matter which occupied both their thoughts.
He lived in a humble room in one of the streets which run from the
Strand to the river--not an unpleasant place, for his window commanded
the Thames; but it was a very long walk from Randal’s hotel. He went
slowly through the streets, through all the loitering crowds of the
summer evening, which were no longer bustling and busy, but had an
air of repose and enjoyment about them. Rob loitered too, but not
from any sense of the pleasantness of the air, or the season. He had
no one to care whether he came in or not, and it was easier to think,
and think again, over this difficult question which must be decided
one way or another, in the open air, than it was within-doors, shut
up with a question which he had debated so often. If Margaret was
weary of the bargain, if she shrank from him and avoided him, what
should he do? One moment he thought of casting her off proudly, of
showing her what he thought of her fickleness, and taunting her with
her Englishman, “that fellow” who was always with her. This would have
been the most consolatory to his feelings. But, on the other hand, to
point out to her the cowardice, the dishonor of breaking her word, the
strength of the pledge which she could not escape from, was better
in another sense. Why should she be permitted to forsake him because
she had changed her mind? What right had she to change her mind? Was
it a less sin in a woman than in a man to break a promise, to think
nothing of a vow? A man would not be allowed to escape scathless from
such a perjury, why should a girl? And as he walked along the street,
mortified, humbled, breathing forth fumes of anger and pain, there even
gleamed before Rob’s eyes the scrap of paper, the promise on which his
mother counted, which was locked in the secretary in the farm-parlor.
He had hated the vulgar sharpness which had exacted that promise from
Margaret, he had scouted it as a means of keeping any hold upon her.
But now, when he felt so strong a desire to punish her, such an eager,
vindictive determination not to let her go free, even this came into
his mind. Not to secure her by it--which was his mother’s thought, but
at least to punish her by it. He would send for it, he thought; he
would keep it by him as a scourge, not as a compulsion. He would let
all her friends see at least how far she had gone, how she had pledged
herself, and how she was forsworn.
While he was pursuing these thoughts, loitering along through the soft
summer night, jostled by the sauntering crowds who could not walk,
even in the London streets, at that soft hour as they did during the
day, his ear was suddenly caught by the intonations, so different from
those around, the low-pitched, lingering vowels, and half chanting
measure of his natural tongue. Not only Scotch but Fife were the
sounds that reached his ears: now the heavy rolling bass of a man,
then a softer voice. Good heavens! who was it? A tall, feeble-looking,
large-boned man, a trim little figure by his side, moving lightly and
yet languidly, like her voice, which had caught Rob’s ear by reason of
something pathetic in it. The words she said were words of ordinary
wonder and curiosity, such as became a country lass in the street of
London; but the tone was sad and went to the heart, notwithstanding
the little laugh with which it was sometimes interrupted. Was it
possible? He turned round and followed them eagerly, growing more and
more certain of their identity, scheming to get a glimpse of their
faces, and make certainty sure. Jeanie! how came she here? He stepped
forward as soon as he was certain of her, and laid his hand lightly
on her shoulder. She started and turned round with a low cry. A gleam
of delight came over her face. Her soft eyes lighted up with sudden
warmth and gladness. It was the same change that had taken place on
Margaret’s face while Aubrey Bellingham--who was not the cause--watched
it with disagreeable surprise; but this was warmer and more brilliant,
more evanescent too; for Jeanie’s countenance fell the next moment, and
trouble, like a gray shadow, came over her face.
“Jeanie!” cried Rob, “how on earth have you come here? What has brought
you here? Where are you staying? What are you going to do? I cannot
believe my eyes!”
She stood trembling before him, unable to raise her eyes, overcome
by the happiness of seeing him, the wretchedness of parting--a
wretchedness which she thought, poor girl, she had eluded, with all the
conflict of feeling it must have brought. She tried to speak, but she
could only smile at him faintly, and begin to cry.
“Maister Glen,” said her father, “you maun speak to me; Jeanie has had
enough of fash and sorrow. We are on our way--to please her, no for ony
wish of mine--on a lang voyage. We’re strangers and pilgrims here in
this muckle London, as I never realized the state before.”
“On a long voyage!” Rob, though he had got through so much emotion
one time and another, felt his heart stand still and a cold sensation
of dismay steal over him. Had he not been keeping himself a refuge in
Jeanie’s heart, whatever might happen? He said, “This is a terrible
surprise. I never thought you would have taken such a step as this,
Jeanie, without letting me know.”
“Maister Glen,” said Jeanie, adopting her father’s solemn mode of
address, and hastily brushing the tears from her cheek, “wherever I
gang, what’s that to you?” Her voice was scarcely audible; he had half
to guess at what she said.
“It is a great deal to me,” he cried; “I never thought you would treat
me so: going away without a word of warning, without saying good-bye,
without letting me know you had any thought of it!”
A thrill of pain penetrated Rob’s heart. It was half ludicrous, but he
did not see anything ludicrous in it. They were both flying from him,
one on either side, the two girls with whom his fate was woven--one
for want of love, the other for too much love. Rob saw no humor in the
position, but he felt the poignancy and sting of it piercing through
and through his heart. Should he be abandoned altogether, then; left
entirely alone, without any love at all? But his whole nature rose up
fiercely against this. He would not submit to it. If not one, then the
other. “It cannot be, it cannot be. I will not let you go,” he said.
“Maister Glen,” said her father, “I canna rightly tell what has been
between Jeanie and you. You’re better off than she is in this world,
and your friends might have reason to complain if you bound yourself to
a poor cobbler’s daughter. But this I ken, you have brought my Jeanie
more trouble than pleasure. Gang your ways, my man, and let us gang
ours. Jeanie, bid Mr. Glen farewell.”
“I will say no farewell till I know more about it,” he said. “Where are
you staying? I must see more of you, I must hear all about it. We are
old friends at least, John Robertson; you cannot deny me that.”
“Old enough friends; but what o’ that? It’s no years, but kindness,
that I look to. We’re biding up west a bittie, with a decent woman from
Cupar. I’m putting no force upon Jeanie to take her away. It’s a’ her
ain doing; and if her and you have onything you want to say, I’ll no
forbid the saying of it; but I dinna advise thae last words and thae
lang farewells,” said John Robertson, shaking his head. Jeanie looked
up at him wistfully, with a sad smile in her wet eyes.
“Let him come this ae night, faither--this ae night,” she said, in her
plaintive voice; “maist likely it will be the last.”