Randal Burnside was found at the station in the morning, though
the train was an early one, to see the ladies away; which, as the
travellers were only Margaret and Grace, and as this was one of the
things impossible to Aubrey, who could not get up in the morning, was
a kindness very much appreciated. It had finally been decided, after
much consultation, that as nothing ever happened at the Grange, and as
even Mr. St. John was absent, Grace might be sufficient guardian for
Margaret for the few days longer which Mrs. Bellingham was compelled
by her shopping to remain in town. There was Miss Parker, who would
keep her right on one hand, and there was Bland, the most respectable
of butlers, on the other, to guide her steps. So, with a flutter of
mingled disappointment and exhilaration, Miss Leslie had assumed the
charge of her young sister. It was a great relief to Grace’s mind to
see “a gentleman” at the station, ready to relieve her of all anxieties
in respect to the luggage, and she thought it “a great attention”
on his part. He was very useful, as she always said afterward. Not
only did he secure them in a carriage in the very centre of the train
(which was such a safeguard in case of accidents) and look after the
luggage, but he waited till the very last moment, though it was wasting
his time sadly; and young men, when they are in London only for a few
days, really have no time, as Miss Grace knew. She smiled upon him most
sweetly, and entreated him not to wait; but he kept his post; it was a
great attention.
“And if you should want anything,” Randal said, with great meaning,
“I shall be in town, at the Wrangham, for ten days longer.” This was
repeated as he stood with his hand upon the carriage door just before
the train started.
“I am sure, Randal, we are very much obliged,” said Miss Leslie;
“but you see dear Jean is in town behind us, and she will do all our
commissions, if there is anything wanted. Dearest Margaret and I will
not want very much, and dear Jean knows about everything; but I am sure
it is very kind of you, and a great attention--” And as the train was
gliding away out of the station, she put out her head again to beg that
he would give her very kind regards, when he saw them, to his dear papa
and mamma.
Margaret’s mind had been preoccupied with a dread of seeing some one
else waiting to prevent her escape, and it was not till the train was
in motion that she felt safe, and sufficiently relieved to wave her
hand in answer to Randal’s parting salutation. What a thing it is to
be out of pain when you have been suffering, and out of anxiety when
you have been racked with that torture! Margaret leaned back in the
corner, feeling the relief to the bottom of her heart. And it was a
beautiful day, the country still all bright with the green of the early
summer. When they had got a little way out of town, the faint little
shade of disappointment in Miss Leslie’s mind over lost shopping and
relinquished operas gave way to a sense of unusual exhilaration in
being her own mistress, and even more than that, having an important
trust in her hands.
“After all,” she said, “dearest Margaret, I think it will be very nice
to get back to the country, though dear Jean always says a week or
two in town is very reviving at this time of the year; but you must
not think I am unhappy about coming away, for I really do not mind it
_much_--nothing at all to speak of. I shall always say it was a
great attention on the part of Randal Burnside, and I am sure dear Jean
will feel it. But how could he think we should want him, or anything
he could do for us, when dear Jean is in town? Did you hear him give
me his address, dearest Margaret? He said he would be at the Wrangham
for ten days more. My word, but that must cost him a pretty penny! The
Burnsides must be very well off, when Randal can afford to live at the
Wrangham, for it cannot be expected that he can be getting much by his
profession yet. We once went to the Wrangham ourselves, but it was too
expensive. I think you never go there without finding some Fife person
or other. I wonder how they have got their Fife connection. But it
amuses me to think that Randal Burnside should give us his address.”
Margaret listened to this monologue with but slight attention;
neither did she attach any importance to Randal’s parting words.
She was languid in the great relief of her mind, and quite content
to rest in her corner, and listen to Grace’s soft ripple of talk,
which flowed only with a fulness most delightful to herself, the
speaker, who had not for many a long day had such an opportunity of
expressing, uninterrupted, her gentle sentiments. She was pleased
with her companion, who neither interrupted, nor contradicted, nor
did anything but contribute a monosyllable now and then, such as was
necessary to carry on what Grace called the conversation. The Grange
was as bright and sweet to the eyes when they got there, as it had been
dark and melancholy on their first arrival. Everything was beginning
to bloom--the early roses on the walls, the starry blossoms of the
little mountain clematis threading along the old dark-red wall, the
honeysuckle preparing its big blooms, and the garden borders gay with
flowers.
Miss Parker met them smiling upon the steps, and all the servants of
the household, which Jean had organized liberally, courtesying behind
her, while Bland, as affable as his name, with his own hands opened the
carriage door. And to be consulted about everything was very delightful
to Miss Leslie. She seized the opportunity to make a few little
changes in the garden, which she had long set her heart upon, and
even corrected one or two things in-doors, which she had not ventured
to touch before. And she wrote to dearest Jean that Miss Parker was
very kind, and studied their comfort in every way, and that Cook was
behaving very well indeed, and Bland was _most_ attentive. All her
report was thoroughly satisfactory; and she could not help expressing
a hope that dearest Jean would not hurry, but would enjoy herself.
And Miss Leslie found Margaret a very pleasant companion, giving “no
trouble,” and ready to listen for the whole day, if her sister pleased,
and Grace was very well pleased to go on. She was very well pleased,
too, to go on in her viceroyalty, and very liberal to the old women in
the cottages, where Margaret and she paid a great many kindly visits.
And, in short, Miss Leslie’s feelings were of the most comfortable
kind, and her rule, though probably it would have been much less
successful in the long-run, and consequently less popular, was for a
time, to all the dependants who were permitted to have their own way, a
very delightful sway in comparison with that of her sister; and it was
very pleasant to herself to be looked up to, more or less, instead of
being looked down upon.
“I was always fond of you, dearest Margaret, but I never did you full
justice till now,” she said, half crying, as it was so natural for
her to do when she was moved either happily or otherwise. Dear Jean,
no doubt, was a great loss; but then dear Jean was enjoying herself
_too_. Thus the beginning of this exile and retreat was very
pleasant to both the ladies; and Margaret, with her expanded being,
took real possession--with a sense of security and calm which sank into
her heart like a benediction--of her own house.
On the third day after their arrival she had gone out into the park
alone. It was the afternoon, and very bright and warm--too warm, Grace
thought, for walking; but Margaret, in all the ardor of her young
strength, found nothing too cold or too hot. She strayed across the
park in the full sunshine: her broad straw hat was shade enough, and
the long, black gauze veil, which Jean still insisted upon, hung
floating behind her. Her dress, though black, was thin and light. She
had recovered all the soft splendor of health, though in Margaret it
could scarcely be called bloom or glow. A faint rose-tint like the
flowers, as delicate and as sweet, was on her cheek going and coming;
she had a book clasped under her arm, but she was not at all sure that
she meant to read. She made her way through the blaze of the sunshine,
defying it, as foolish girls do, to the clump of trees where she had
rushed, in her despair, to read Rob Glen’s letter on the wet wintry day
when she had caught her illness.
Without premeditation she had started for this shelter; but as she
gained the shade and sat down at the foot of the great elm, the whole
scene came back to her. Her heart woke, and seemed to echo the frantic
beating which had been in it then. What a difference! Winter then,
all weeping and dreary; yellow leaves scattered on the grass, naked
branches waving in the dank air, against the mud-colored clouds; now
nothing but summer--the grass covered with flickering gleams of gold
and soft masses of grateful shade, the sky so blue and the leaves so
green; and, what was more wonderful still, her heart then so agitated
and miserable, now so tranquil and calm. Yes, she said to herself, with
a little tremor, but why should she be so tranquil and calm? Nothing
was changed; three days ago she had dashed through the London streets
in the same frantic flight and horror. Nothing was changed. What did
the distance matter, a hundred miles or a thousand, when in fact and
reality everything was the same? And distance could not settle it
one way or another: running away could not settle it. By word or by
letter, must she not make up her mind to do it--absolutely to meet the
difficulty herself, to confront the danger, not to run away?
Her book dropped down upon the warm, delicious turf beside her. In any
case this, in all likelihood, would have been its fate; but it fell
from her hand now with a kind of violence. Yes! it must be settled--not
by running away--it must be done somehow, beyond all chance of undoing.
Margaret was a child no longer: she had learned at least the rudiments
of that great lesson; she had found that those evils which we have
brought on ourselves cannot be undone by chance or good-fortune. If she
was to reclaim herself, it must be by a conscious struggle and effort;
and how was it possible that she could encounter this boldly, forestall
the next danger, go out to meet the trouble? If he would but leave her
alone, it would not matter so much. She thought she could thrust it
away from her and be happy--too grateful to let the days drift by, to
enjoy her life till the inevitable moment when the long-dreaded fate
must come; and then--?
Margaret’s heart began once more to sing wildly in her ears. Then!
What was it she must do? She was not as she had been a year ago, when
nothing but a frightened acquiescence, compulsion yet submission,
to something against which there seemed no possibility of effectual
resistance, a dreadful fate which she must make the best of when it
came, seemed before her. Now she could no longer contemplate the future
so; she would not be passive, but must act, must make some effort for
her own emancipation: but not yet! not yet! her fluttering heart seemed
to say: though something sterner in her, something stronger, protested
and held another strain. “If ’twere done, when ’tis done, then it were
well it were done quickly.” If a struggle was inevitable, one desperate
effort must be made to get herself free, why should she delay and
suffer so many agonies in the mean time?
A flutter of daring, a sinking of despair, combated in her: and then
arose the horrible question-- If she did summon courage enough to parley
with her fate and ask for her freedom, would he grant it? She had not
come so far as to think anything was possible without his consent.
Would he let her go free? If she could but dare to tell him that she
did not love him, that it was all a mistake, would he believe her, and
be persuaded, and let her go? Awful question to which it was impossible
to give an answer. Margaret felt like a criminal dependent on the
clemency of a monarch, before whom she could only kneel, and weep, and
pray. Would he hear her? Would he waive his claims--the claims which
she could not deny--and let her go free?
When she was in the midst of these thoughts, too much engrossed to heed
what might be going on round her, and secure that here nothing could
be going on, the creaking of a branch, as under a footstep, caught
Margaret’s ear. She looked up, but saw nothing to alarm her, and with
that curious deliverance from all fears or suspicions, and simplicity
of trust which is apt to precede a catastrophe, returned to her fancies
and questions and took no further notice. What harm could come near her
there? She was in the middle of the park, in an island of shade in the
midst of the blaze of sunshine, out of sight of the house, out of reach
of the gate, a place shut up and sacred, where no one interfered with
the freedom of the young mistress of all. It might be a squirrel, it
might be a rabbit; what could it be else? She did not even go so far
as to ask herself what it was; there was not the break of a moment in
her thoughts. Would he let her free? Her word was pledged to him. How
could she release herself from that solemn promise? He was her master
by reason of this pledge. Would he be merciful? would he have pity upon
her? would he set her free?
What was that? A voice: “Margaret!” She seemed to hear it somehow
before it really sounded, so that when the word was uttered it felt
like a repetition. She looked up with a sudden cry. The voice was close
over her head, and the very air seemed to tremble with it--repeating
it, “Margaret!” She sprang to her feet with a wild impulse of flight,
requiring no second glance, no second hearing, to tell her that the
moment of fate had come. She had even made one hurrying, flying step,
with terror in her looks, her throat suddenly dry and gasping, her
strength and courage gone. Was it he? what was it that caught at her
dress? She darted away in terror indescribable; but just as she did so
all the desperation of her case flashed upon Margaret. She stopped,
and, turning round, looked him in the face.
There he stood looking at her, leaning against the tree, holding out
his hands--“Margaret!” he cried. His face was all glowing and moving
with emotion--unquestionably with genuine emotion. No cheat ever got by
guile such an expression into his lying face. Rob was not lying. There
was great emotion in his mind. He who could not look at a girl without
trying to please her felt his first glance at Margaret reillumine all
the first fire of loving in his heart. He had never seen her look half
so beautiful. The health that was in her cheeks, the development that
had come to her whole being, all tended to make her fairer; and even
the improvement of her dress under her sister’s careful supervision
increased her charm to Rob. He was keenly alive to all those signs
of ladyhood which separated Margaret from his own sphere, and which
proved not only her superiority, but his who loved her. She shone
upon him like a new revelation of beauty and grace, tempting in
herself--irresistible in that she was so much above him. But if she had
not been at all above him, Rob still would not have let her go without
the most strenuous effort to retain her. His face shone with the
very enthusiasm of admiration and happiness. “Margaret! my beautiful
darling!” he cried; and he held out his hands, inviting, wooing her to
him. “Do not be afraid of me,” he said, with real pathos in his voice.
“Margaret! I will not come a step nearer till you give me leave--to
look at you seems happiness enough.”
Oh, what a reproach that look was to the poor girl, who, frightened
and desperate, had yet intelligence enough left to see that there was
no safety in flight! Happiness enough to look at her! while she--she,
ungrateful--she, hard-hearted, shrunk from the sight of him! She could
not bear the delight and the petition in his eyes. Instead of being a
supplicant to him for her freedom, it was he who, for his happiness,
was a supplicant to her.
“Oh, do not speak so,” she said, wringing her hands; “do not speak so
well of me-- I do not deserve it. Oh, why have you come here?”
“Why should I have come? To see you, my only love. How do you suppose
I could keep away from you? Margaret, do you think I am made of stone?
do you think I only pretend to love you? You did not think so once at
Earl’s-hall,” he said, coming very softly a step nearer to her. His
look was wistful, his voice so soft that Margaret’s heart was pierced
with a thousand compunctions. She shrank, without venturing to step
farther back, bending her pliant, slight young figure away from him;
and thus he got her hand before she was aware. Margaret shrank still
farther from his touch, her whole frame contracting; but the instinct
of constancy and the sense of guilt were too much for her. She could
not withdraw her hand.
“Oh, Mr. Glen,” she said--“oh, Rob,” for he gave her a startled look of
wonder and pain, “what can I say to you? I do not want to be unkind,
and oh, I hope-- I hope you don’t care so much, not so very much! Oh,”
she cried, breaking out suddenly into the appeal she had premeditated,
“don’t you think we have made a mistake--a great mistake?”
“What mistake, Margaret? Is it because you are so much richer than we
ever thought, and I so poor? Yes, it was a mistake. I had no right to
lift my hopes so high. But do you think I remembered that? It was you I
was thinking of--not what you had!”
“What does it matter what I have?” she said, sadly. “Do you think that
was what _I_ was thinking of? Rich or poor, has that anything
to do with it? But oh, it is true-- I cannot help it--we have made a
mistake.”
“I have made no mistake,” he said; “I thought you the sweetest and the
fairest creature that ever crossed my path, and so you are. And I
loved you, Margaret, and so I do now. A king could not do more. I have
not made any mistake.”
“Oh!” she cried, with a shiver of desperation running through her,
drawing her hand from his, “you may scorn me, you may despise me, but
I must say it. It is I, then. Oh, Rob, do not be angry! You have been
kind, very kind, as good as an angel to me; but I-- I am ungrateful, I
have no heart. I cannot, cannot--” Here Margaret, entirely overcome,
broke forth into sudden weeping, and covered her face with her hands.
Then he took the step too far, which was all that was wanted. How could
he tell it was too far? He would have done it had she been no beautiful
lady at all, but a country girl who had been once fond of him, whom he
could not allow to escape. He put his arm tenderly round her, and tried
to draw her toward him.
Margaret sprang from his side with a quick cry, putting him away with
her hands. “Oh no, no, no!” she cried, “that cannot be, that can never
be! Do not touch me; do not come near me, Mr. Glen!”
“Margaret!” his tone was full of astonishment and pain; “what does this
mean? It seems like a bad dream. It cannot be you that are speaking to
me.”
And then there was a pause. She could say nothing, her very breathing
was choked by the struggling sobs. Oh, how cruel she was, how
barbarous, how guilty! And he so tender, so struck with wonder and
dismay, gazing at her with eyes full of surprise and sudden misery!
Would it not have been better to bear anything, to put up with
anything, rather than inflict such cruel pain?
It was Rob who was the first to speak. There was no make-believe
in him; it was indeed cruel pain, bitter to his heart and to his
self-love. He was mortified and wounded beyond measure. He could not
understand how he could be repulsed so. “If this is true,” he said,
“if it is not some nightmare--if I am not dreaming--what is to become
of me? My God! the girl I love, without whom I don’t care for my life,
my betrothed, my wife that was to be, tells me not to come near her,
not to touch her! What does it mean--what does it mean, Margaret? You
have been hearing something of me that is false, some slander, some ill
stories--”
“No, no! oh no, no! not that, not a word.”
“Then what is it, Margaret? If you have any pity, tell me what it is.
I have done something to displease you. I have offended you, though
Heaven knows I would sooner offend the whole world.”
“It is not that: oh, can you not understand, will you not understand? I
was so young. I did not know what it meant. Oh, forgive me, Mr. Glen.
It is not that I want to be unkind. My heart is broken _too_. I
was never--oh, how can I say it?-- I was never--never--but do not be
angry!--never so--fond of you as you thought.”
She raised her eyes to him as the dreadful truth was said, with the
awed and troubled gaze of a child, not knowing what horror of suffering
she might see, or what denunciation might blast her where she stood.
But Margaret was not prepared for something which was much more
difficult to encounter. He listened to her, and a smile came over his
face.
“My darling,” he said, softly, “never mind; I have love enough for the
two of us. We have been parted for a long time, and you have forgotten
what you thought once. I think I know better, dear, than you. I was
content, and so shall I be again, and quite happy when all these
cobwebs are blown away. I will take my chance that you will be fond of
me,” he said.
This was a turn of the tables for which she was absolutely unprepared.
She could do nothing but gaze at him blankly, not finding a single word
to reply.
“And you shall be humored, my darling,” he said. “I am not such a clown
as you think. Do you suppose I don’t understand your delicacy, your
shyness, my Lady Margaret? Oh, I am not such a clown as you think.
I will wait till you give me that dear little hand again. I will be
patient till you come to my arms again. Oh no, I will not hurry you,
darling. I will wait for you; but you must not ask me,” he cried, “you
must not expect me, to give up my betrothed wife.”
“Dearest Margaret,” said another voice behind, which made Margaret
start, “I have been looking for you everywhere. Here is a letter from
dearest Jean, saying that dear Ludovic is in town, and that she will
bring him with her when she comes. Is this gentleman a friend of yours,
darling Margaret? You must introduce him to me,” Miss Grace said.