Rob issued forth out of the Grange discomfited and beaten, but without
the sense of moral downfall which had been bowing him to the ground.
His heart was melted, his spirit softened. He was defeated, but he
was not humiliated. He had come off with all the honors of war--not
an insulted coward, but a magnanimous hero. “All is lost but honor,”
he said to himself, with an expansion of his breast. His eyes were
still wet with the dew of generous feeling: he had not been forced
into renunciation; he had himself evacuated the untenable position.
There was a little braggadocio in this self-consciousness--a little
even of what in school-boy English is called swagger; but still he had
a certain right to his swagger. He had taken the only possible way of
coming out with honor from the dilemma in which he had placed himself.
He said to himself that it was a great sacrifice he had made. All the
hopes upon which he had dwelt so long and fondly were gone; he was all
at sea again for his future, and did not know what to do. What was
he to do? He could not return to the aimless life he had pursued in
his mother’s house; and by this time he had found out that it was by
no means so easy as he had supposed to get fortune and reputation in
London. What should he do? He could hope nothing from his mother. He
knew well with what reproaches she would overwhelm him, what taunts
she would have in her power. He must do something to secure himself
independence, though for so long he had hoped that independence was
coming to him in the easiest way--a rich wife--not only rich, but
fair--the “position of a gentleman,” most dearly cherished of all
the gifts of fortune--a handsome house, leisure and happiness, and
everything that heart of man could desire. The breaking up of this
dream called forth a sigh when the first elation of his victory over
himself was over, and then he began to droop as he walked on. No
elevation in the social scale was likely to come now. Rob Glen, the
son of a small farmer, he was, and would remain; not the happy hero
of a romance, not the great artist undeveloped, not the genius he had
thought. Thus the brag and the swagger gradually melted away; the
sense of moral satisfaction ceased to give him as much support as at
first--even the generous sentiment sank into a sense of failure. What
was to become of him? He walked on, dull but dogged, going steadily
forward, but scarcely knowing where he was going; and thus came upon
Randal Burnside walking along the same road before him, more anxious
and excited, and not much less discouraged and melancholy than he.
Randal’s face brightened slightly at the sight of him.
“You have come, after all, Glen,” he said; “I had almost given you up.”
“I gave myself up before I came,” said Rob.
“What do you mean? I suppose they were hard upon you--perhaps you could
scarcely expect it to be otherwise; but with your good-fortune you may
easily bear more than that,” said Randal: then he checked himself,
remembering that Margaret’s horror of her lover’s presence pointed to
not much good-fortune. “Let me tell you now what my business was,”
he said, with a sigh. He was too loyal to depart from his purpose;
but though (he thought) he would have given up life itself to serve
Margaret, yet he could not make this sacrifice without a sigh. He
told his companion very briefly what it was. It was an offer from a
newspaper to investigate a subject of great popular interest, requiring
some knowledge of Scotch law. “But that I could easily coach you in,”
Randal said. He went into it in detail, showing all its advantages, as
they walked along the country road. The first necessity it involved was
a speedy start to the depths of Scotland, close work for three months,
good pay, and possible reputation. Rob listened to the whole with
scarcely a remark. When Randal paused, he turned upon him hastily:
“This was offered not to me, but to yourself,” he said.
“Yes; but you know a little of the law, and I could easily coach you in
all you require.”
“And why do you offer it to me?”
“Come,” said Randal, with a laugh, “there is no question of motive; I
don’t offer it to you from any wish to harm you. To tell the truth, it
would suit me very well myself.”
“And you would give it to me, to relieve _her_ of my presence?”
cried Rob. “I see it now! Burnside, will you tell me honestly, what is
your reward to be?”
“I have neither reward nor hope of reward,” cried Randal; “evidently
not even a thank-you. I would not answer such a question, but that I
see you are excited--”
“Yes, I am excited-- I have good cause. I have given her up, and every
hope connected with her; so there is no more need to bribe me,” said
Rob, with a harsh laugh. “Keep your appointment to yourself.”
“Will you take it, or will you leave it, Glen? What may have happened
otherwise is nothing to me--”
“There is the train,” said Rob. “No! I’ll take nothing, either from her
dislike or your friendship--nothing! There are still some in the world
that care more for me than charity. Good-bye.”
He made a dash up the bank, where a train was visible, puffing and
pulling up at the little station--the legitimate road being a quarter
of a mile round, and hopeless.
“Come back!” cried Randal; “you will break your neck. There is another
train--”
Rob made no reply, but waved his hand, and dashed in wild haste over
ditch and paling. Randal stood breathless, and saw him reach the height
and spring into a carriage at the last moment, as the train puffed and
fretted on its way. The spectator did not move--what was the use? He
had no wish to take the same wild road: he stood and looked after the
long white plume as it coursed across the country.
“He has got it, and I have lost it,” he said; but Randal smiled to
himself. A sense of ease, of relief, and pleasure after so much pain,
came over him. There was no longer any hurry. Should he go forward?
should he turn back?--it did not much matter; he had two or three hours
on his hands before he could get away.
The rush and noise of the train was a relief, on the other hand, to
the traveller. As it pounded along, with roll and clang, and shrill
whistle, the sudden hurry of his thoughts kept time. He had not a
moment to lose. Now and then, when its speed slackened, he got up and
paced about the narrow space of the carriage, as if the continued
movement got him on the faster. When he reached London, he jumped into
a hansom and dashed through the crowded Strand to one of the little
streets leading down toward the river. Arrived there, he thundered at
a door and rushed up-stairs, three steps at a time, till he came to a
little room at the top of the house, where the sole occupant, a young
woman, had been sitting, looking wistfully out upon a glimpse of the
river, which showed in dim twilight reflections at the foot of the
street, for it was almost night. Her father was out, and Jeanie sat
alone. She had “nae heart” to walk about the streets, to look in at the
dazzling shop-windows, to take any pleasure in the sight of London.
She was thinking--would she see him again? would he come and bid her
farewell, as he said, “The day after the morn, the day after the morn?”
she was saying to herself, sometimes putting up her hand to brush away
a furtive tear from the corner of her eyes. That was the final day;
after which, in this world, she should see Rob’s face no more.
“Jeanie,” he cried, coming in breathless, “I have come back to you
as I said.” Jeanie stumbled up to her feet, and fell a crying with a
tremulous smile about her lips.
“Oh, I’m glad, glad to see you,” she cried, “once mair, once mair,
though it’s naething but to say farewell! We’re to sail the day after
the morn.”
“The day after the morn.” He took Jeanie’s hands, which gave themselves
up to his as Margaret’s shrinking fingers had never done, and looked
into her pretty, rustic face, all quivering with love and the anguish
of parting. Jeanie had made her little pretences of pride, her stand
of maidenly dignity against him; but at this moment all these defences
were forgotten. He had come so suddenly; and it was this once and never
more, never more in all the world again. “The day after the morn,”
repeated Rob; “then there will just be time. I am coming with you; and
if you will have a man without a penny, Jeanie, it shall be as man and
wife that you and I will go.”
She gave a cry of sharp pain and drew her hands out of his. “How dare
you speak like that to me that means no harm? How dare you speak like
that to me--and you another lass’s lad, and never mine?”
“I am nobody’s but yours,” he said, “and, Jeanie, you need not try to
deceive me. You never were but mine.”
“But that’s nae reason,” she cried, wildly, “to come and make a fool of
me to my face, Rob Glen. Oh, go, go to them you belong to! I thought
I might have said farewell to you without another word; but even that
canna be.”
“There will never be farewell said between you and me, Jeanie,” said
Rob, seriously, “never from this moment till death does us part.”
When Rob Glen, stung at once by the kindness and severity of which he
had been the object, took this sudden resolution, and with a wild dash
of energy, and without a pause, thus carried it out, Randal was left
alone upon the country road, all strange and unfamiliar to him, but
with which he seemed all at once to have formed so many associations,
with two or three hours at his disposal. He stood and watched the train
till it was out of sight, idly, with the most singular sense of leisure
in opposition to that hurry and rush. From the moment when Rob had
dashed up the bank, Randal had felt no longer in any hurry or anxiety
about the train. It did not matter if he lost his train--nothing,
indeed, seemed to matter very much for the moment. He saw the carriage
that contained Rob rush out of sight while he was standing in the same
place: if he chose to spend an hour in the same place, thinking over
the causes which had carried Rob away, what would it matter? He had
plenty of time for that or anything else--no hurry or care--the whole
afternoon before him. Would it not be better, more civil to go back,
and pay his respects at the Grange as he ought? He had rushed into the
house like a savage, and rushed out again without a word to say for
himself. Evidently this was not the way to treat ladies to whom he owed
the utmost respect. He would go back. He turned accordingly, and went
back; still at the most perfect leisure. Plenty of time; no hurry one
way or another.
He had not gone far, however, before he met a curiously-matched pair
coming up along the road together--Mrs. Glen talking loudly and
angrily, Sir Ludovic walking beside her, sometimes saying a word, but
for the most part passive, listening, and taking no notice. Randal
heard her long before he saw the pair on the windings of the road. Mrs.
Glen did not know whether to abuse or defend her son. She did both by
turns. “A fine son, to leave me, that has aye thought far ower muckle
of him, to find my way home as best I can, after making a fool of
himself and a’ belanging to him! But where was he to gang, poor lad?
abused on a’ hands--even by those that led him into his trouble,” she
cried. There was no pause in her angry monologue. And, indeed, the poor
woman, in her great Paisley shawl, with the hot sun playing upon her
head, her temper exasperated, her body fatigued, her hopes baffled,
might have something forgiven to her. “Gentry!” she cried, as she began
to ascend the slope which led to the station, and which Randal was
coming down; “a great deal the gentry have done for my family or me!
Beguiled my Rob, the cleverest lad in a’ Fife, till he’s made a fool o’
himself and ruined a’ his prospects; and brought me trailing after him
to a country where there’s nae kindness nor hospitality--among people
that never offer you so much as a stool to rest your weary limbs upon,
or a cup o’ tea to refresh you. Eh! if that’s gentry, I would rather
have the colliers’ wives or the fisher bodies in Fife, let alone a good
farm-house, and that’s my ain.”
“Mrs. Glen,” said Sir Ludovic, “I am sure my sisters would have wished
you to rest and refresh yourself.”
“Ay, among their servant-women, no doubt--if I would have bowed myself
to that. I’ve paid rent to the Leslies for the last thirty years--nae
doubt but they durstna have refused me a cup of tea; but I would have
you to ken, Sir Ludovic, though you’re a Sir, and I’m a plain farmer,
that the like o’ your servant-women are nae neebors for me.”
“My good woman!”
“I’m nae good woman to be misca’ed by ane of your race! Good woman,
quo’ he! as I would say to some gangrel body. You’re sair mistaken, Sir
Ludovic, if that’s what you think of the like of me, that has paid you
rent, as I was saying, and held up my head with any in the parish, and
given my bairns as good an education as you or yours could set your
face to. If ye think, after a’ that I’ve put up with, that I’m to take
a ‘good woman’ from the laird, as if I wasna to the full as guid a
tenant as he is a landlord, or maybe mair to lippen to.”
“Would you have me say ‘ill woman?’” said Sir Ludovic, with momentary
peevishness, yet with a gleam of humor. “You are quite right, Mrs.
Glen; you are better off, being a tenant, than I am as a landlord. The
Leslies never were rich, that I heard tell of; and if we were proud, it
never was to our neighbors, the people on our own land.”
“Well, I wouldna say but that’s true,” said Mrs. Glen, softened. “Auld
Sir Ludovic, your father, had aye a pleasant word for gentle and
simple; and if it was not for that lang-tongued wife down bye yonder--”
Sir Ludovic, though he was a serious man, felt a momentary inclination
to chuckle when he heard his sister Jean, the managing person of the
family, described as a lang-tongued wife. But he said, gravely,
“In such a question, Mrs. Glen, there is a great deal to be considered.
You would not have liked it yourself, had one of your daughters been
courted without your knowledge by a penniless lover. When you see your
son, if I can do anything for him, if I can advance his interests, let
me know, and I will do it. He behaved like a man at the last.”
“Oh ay; when a lad plays into your hands, it’s easy to say that he’s
behaving like a man,” she said. But she was mollified by the praise,
and her wrath had begun to wear itself out. “I’ll gie you a word o’
warning, Sir Ludovic, though you’ve little title to it from my hands,”
she added. “Here’s Randal Burnside coming back. If you’ve saved your
little Miss from ae wooer, here’s another; and my word, I would sooner
have a bonnie lad like my Rob, with real genius in his head, than a
minister’s son, neither ae thing nor another, like Randal Burnside.”
They met a moment afterward, and Randal recounted what had happened;
how Rob had caught the train, but he himself, being too late, had
intended to return to the Grange for the interval, and was now on
his way there. Mrs. Glen, however, would not return; she was too
glad to be deposited in a shady room where she could loose her shawl
and bonnet-strings, and fan herself with her large handkerchief. Sir
Ludovic, who had “a warm heart for Fife,” as he himself expressed
it, and who had been touched by Rob’s final self-vindication, did
everything that could be done for her comfort, before he turned back
with Randal. But they had no sooner left her, than he fell to talking
with an appearance of relief.
“Thank God, that’s done with!” he said. “It was very foolish of poor
little Margaret; but, after all, it was nothing--nothing in law. My
sister Jean got a terrible fright. There is a panic abroad in the world
about Scotch marriages; but a promise that is only on one side can
never be anything. You don’t seem to know what I am talking of.”
“No,” said Randal, who had gone out of the hall before the climax came.
He looked with bewildered curiosity in his companion’s face.
“You should have told me, you should have told me--what did you know
about it, then? And what were you doing there, Randal? Excuse me, but I
have a right to know.”
“You have a perfect right to know. I knew that Glen had, by some means,
engaged--her--to himself,” said Randal, not knowing how to express
what he meant, reddening and faltering, as if he himself had been the
culprit. “I saw them together twice at Earl’s-hall; and once she was
good enough to speak to me about it. I had taken no notice of her when
I saw them, thinking, as one does brutally, that she understood what
she was doing, as I did. And in her innocence she asked me why? What
could I say but that I was a brute, and a fool--and that if I could
ever serve her I would do it, should it cost me my life.”
“That is the way you young idiots speak,” said Sir Ludovic, with an
impatient gesture. “Your life: how could it affect your life? But you
were neither a fool nor brutal, that I can see. Poor little silly
thing, she thought you were rude to pass her, did she? and what then?
Innocent! oh yes, she’s innocent enough.”
“And then,” said Randal, “she sent to beg me to help her, to keep him
away from her. I managed it that time; and this morning she sent to me
again. She must have seen her mistake very soon, Sir Ludovic, and what
it has cost her. But I hope it is all over now.”
“And you came down here, ane’s errand, as we say in Scotland, for
nothing but to relieve her mind? How did you mean to do it? What was
the business you were so anxious to tell him about? I thought it was a
strange business that you were so anxious to talk over with Rob Glen.”
“It was very simple,” said Randal, coloring high under this
examination. “He is a clever fellow; he can write and draw, and has a
great deal of talent. I wanted to send him off on a piece of work that
had been offered to me--”
“To relieve her?”
“Because I thought he could do it--and for other reasons.”
“I understand.” Sir Ludovic went on in silence for some time while
Randal’s heart beat quick in his breast. He had said nothing to betray
himself, and yet he felt himself betrayed.
After a while, Sir Ludovic turned and laid his hand kindly, but
gravely, on Randal’s shoulder.
“Tell me the simple truth,” he said; “has it ever been breathed between
you that you should succeed to the vacant place?”
“Never!” cried Randal, indignantly; “nor is there any vacant place,”
he added. “Glen took advantage of a child’s ignorance. She thought him
kind to her. She was grateful to him, no more; and he took advantage of
it. There is no vacant place.”
“I see,” said Sir Ludovic; then, after a pause: “Randal, you will act a
man’s part, and a friend’s, if you will leave her to come to herself,
with Jean to look after her. Jean may be ‘a lang-tongued wife,’” he
said, not able to repress a smile, “but she’s a good woman in her way.
She will take good care of our little sister. What is she but a child
still? You will act an honorable part if you leave her to the women:
leave her to be quiet and come to herself.”
“I will follow your advice faithfully, as you give it in good faith,
Sir Ludovic,” said Randal, “if I can do so; but I warn you frankly that
I will never be happy till I have told her what is in my heart.”
“Oh yes, it needs no warlock to see what’s coming,” said Sir Ludovic,
shaking his head; “and there’s Jean’s nephew, that young haverel of an
Englishman--and probably two or three more, for anything I can tell.
But let her alone, let her alone, Randal, I beseech you, till the poor
little silly thing comes to herself.”
It would be impossible to describe what hot resentment against such
a disparaging title mingled with the softened state of sentiment and
amiable friendliness with which Randal felt disposed to regard all the
world, and especially this paternal brother, who was so much more like
a father. “I will remember what you say, and attend to it--as far as I
can,” he said.
“That means, as far as it may happen to suit you, and not a step
farther,” said Sir Ludovic, once more shaking his head.
Margaret was not visible when they got to the Grange. She was supposed
to be in her own room, and unable to see any one; and, what was more
extraordinary, Miss Grace was actually in her own room, and unable to
see any one--having wept herself blind, and made her nose scarlet with
grief, over the separation of the two lovers, and all the domestic
tragedy that had occurred, as Mrs. Bellingham declared, entirely by her
fault. If ever there was a woman to whom the separation of true lovers
was distressful and terrible, Grace Leslie was that woman; and Jean
said it was all her fault! “When I would give my life to make darling
Margaret happy!” cried the innocent offender. “They should have my
money, every penny; I would not care how I lived, or what I put on, so
long as dearest Margaret was happy!” and she had retired speechless and
sobbing, feeling the calamity too cruel. As for Mrs. Bellingham, she
was in sole possession of the drawing-room, where the gentlemen found
her, walking about and fanning herself, bursting with a thousand things
to say. The sight of an audience within reach calmed her more than
anything else could have done.
“What have you done with that woman, Ludovic?” she said. “She was an
impertinent woman; but I’m sorry for her if you walked her all that
way to the station as you walked me. Did ever anybody hear such a
tongue--and the temper of a demon! But I hope I have some Christian
feeling; and after the young man was gone, if you had not been in such
a hurry, as she is a Fife woman, and a tenant, I would have ordered
her a cup of tea.”
“I told her so,” said Sir Ludovic; “but she is comfortable enough at
the station, and I ordered the people at the inn to send her one.”
“I would have done nothing of the kind,” said Jean; “a randy, nothing
but a randy; and just as likely as not to enter into the whole
question, and make a talk about the family. And the way news spreads
in an English village is just marvellous! Fife is bad enough, but Fife
is nothing to it! So you have come back, Randal Burnside--oh yes, you
young men are always missing your train. There’s Aubrey would have been
here with me and of some use, but that he could not get out of his bed
soon enough in the morning. I am very glad Aubrey’s coming; he will be
a change from all this. And I never saw a young man with so much tact.
Are you going up by the next train, Randal, or are you going to stay?
Oh well, if you will not think it uncivil, I am glad for one thing
that you’re going; for I came away in such a hurry, and forgot one of
the things I wanted most. If you would go to Simpson’s--not Simpson’s,
you know, in Sloane Street, nor the one in the Burlington Arcade, but
Simpson’s in Wigmore Street, the great shop for artificial flowers--”
“You need not be at so much trouble to conceal our family commotions,”
said Sir Ludovic; “Randal knows all about it better than either you or
me.”
“Then I would just like to hear what he knows!” said Mrs. Bellingham.
“I don’t know anything about it myself, and I don’t think I want to
know. Randal, what time is your train? Will you be able to stay till
dinner, or can I give you some tea? The tea will be here directly,
but dinner may be a little late for Aubrey, who is coming by quite a
late afternoon train. He said he had business; but you young men you
have always got business. To hear you, one would think you never had a
moment. And, Ludovic, just sit down and be quiet, and not fuss about
and put me out of my senses. Now I will give you your tea.”
Randal, however, did not stay until it was time for his train. Signs of
the past excitement were too strong in the house to make it pleasant
to a stranger; and Margaret being absent, he had small interest in the
Grange. He took his leave, saying he would take a stroll and look at
the grounds--a notion much encouraged by Mrs. Bellingham. “Do that,
Randal,” she said; “I wish I were not so tired, I would go with you
myself, and let you see everything. And I’ll tell Grace and Margaret
you were very sorry not to see them, but time and trains wait for no
man. You’ll give my kind regards to your excellent father and mother,
and you’ll not forget the wreaths at Simpson’s--plain white for
Margaret. No, I’ll not keep you, for my mind is occupied, and I know
I’m not an amusing companion. Good-bye; I hope you will come another
time, Randal, _when we expect you_, and when we will be able to
show a little attention. Good-bye!”
Randal went away with a smile at the meaning that lay beneath Mrs.
Bellingham’s significant words. Should he ever come here as one who
was expected, and who had a claim upon the attention she promised him?
He looked wistfully up the oak staircase and at the winding passages,
by some of which Margaret must have gone. Perhaps she would never know
that he had been here. And at the same time, perhaps, it was better
that he should not see her. She was rich, while as yet he was not rich,
and he had no right to say anything to her; while, perhaps, if they
met at this moment of agitation, it might be difficult to refrain from
saying something. Thus sadly disappointed, but trying to represent to
himself that he was not disappointed, he went through the shrubbery and
out into the little park.
How different it was from old Earl’s-hall! Glimpses of the old red
house, glowing at every corner in some wealth of blossom, early roses
climbing everywhere, wreaths of starry clematis twisted about the
walls, and clusters of honeysuckle up to the very eaves, came to
him through the trees at every turn he took. So full of color and
warmth, and set in the brilliant sunshine of this June day, warm as no
midsummer ever attains to be in Fife--the contrast between Margaret’s
old home and her new one struck him strangely. The old solemn gray
walls, the keener, clearer tones of the landscape, the dark masses of
ivy about the half-ruinous tower of Earl’s-hall, came suddenly before
his eyes. The scene was grayer and colder, but the central figure had
been all life and color there. Here it was the landscape that was warm,
in its wealthy background, and she that was pale, in her dress of
mourning.
He was thinking this, musing of her and nothing else, when he suddenly
saw a shadow glide softly through the trees and stand for a moment upon
a little rustic bridge over the small stream which flowed at a distance
from the house. He started and hurried that way, striding along over
the grass that made his steps noiseless. And, sure enough, it was
Margaret. The fresh air was a more familiar restorative than “lying
down,” which was Jean’s panacea for agitation as for toothache. She was
standing watching the clear running water, wondering at all that had
happened--her sob scarcely sobbed out, and apt to come back; her eyes
not yet dry, and her lips still parted with that quick breath which
told the unstilled beating of her heart. Poor Rob! would he be unhappy?
Her heart gave a special ache for him, then quivered with another
question: Was Randal angry? Did he think badly of her, that he would
not speak?
She looked up hastily, when a step sounded close to her on the path,
and that same fluttering heart gave a leap of terror. Then it stilled
into sudden relief and repose. “Oh, Randal! you have not gone away!”
she cried; and her face, that had been so passive, lighted up.
“I came back,” he said; and the two stood looking at each other for a
moment--he on one side of the tinkling water, she on the bridge. “But I
am going away,” he added: “Rob has gone.”
“Oh, poor Rob!--he was very kind after all: it was a mistake, only
a mistake. It was my fault. I did not like--to hurt his feelings.
You should never let any one think a thing is true that is not true,
Randal. It is as bad as telling a lie. It is all over now,” she said,
looking at him wistfully, with a faint smile.
“And you are glad?” He grudged her moistened eyes and the sob that
broke, in spite of her, into her voice, and the tone with which she
said “poor Rob!”
Margaret did not make any reply to this question; she looked at him
once more wistfully.
“Were you angry,” she said, “that you would not speak? I should not
have troubled you, Randal, but my heart was broken. I was nearly out of
my wits with terror. I did not know how to stand out and keep my own
part. Were you angry, Randal, that you would not speak?”
“Margaret,” he said, “why should you ask me such questions? I am never
angry with you; or, if I am angry, it is for love; because I would do
anything you ask me, even against myself.”
Margaret smiled. Her eyes filled with something that was half light and
half tears. “And me too!” she said.
Thus, without any grammar, and without any explanation, a great deal
was said. Randal went to his train, and Margaret, smiling to herself,
went home across the bridge. Both Jean and Grace heard her singing
softly as she went up the oak staircase, and could not believe their
ears. Grace cried more bitterly still to think that her darling
Margaret should show so little feeling, and Jean was dumfounded that
she should not be ashamed of herself--a girl just escaped from such a
danger, and so nearly mixed up in a horrible story! Sir Ludovic, who
had girls of his own, only laughed and shook his head. “She will have
seen the right one,” he said, with a gleam of amusement to himself.
Perhaps he was all the more indulgent that Aubrey, who was clearly
Jean’s candidate, and far too much a man of society for plain Sir
Ludovic, arrived with the cream of current scandal, and a most piquant
story about Lady Grandton and a certain Duke--“the same man, you
know--all come on again, as everybody prophesied,” that very night.
Rob Glen set off within forty-eight hours for the other side of the
world, with Jeanie as his wife. He had not much more money than would
buy the license that made this possible, and pay his passage, and
would have faced the voyage and the New World without either outfit or
preparation but for a timely present of a hundred pounds that reached
him the night before he sailed. But he never spoke of this even to his
wife, though his mother was aware of it, who--though she would not see
Jeanie--saw him, and dismissed him with a stormy farewell.
“Sir Ludovic, honest man, might well say it was a heart-break to see
your bairn throw himsel’ away--little we kent, him and me, how sooth
he was speaking,” Mrs. Glen said. When it was all over, it gave her a
little consolation to quote Sir Ludovic, what “he said to me, and I
said to him,” when she met him “in the South.”
On the other hand, it cannot be denied that it was a great shock to
Margaret to hear what had happened, and how soon and how completely
the baffled suitor had consoled himself. “All the time it was Jeanie’s
Rob,” she said to herself, with a scorching blush; and for the moment
felt as deeply shamed and humbled as Rob himself had been by her
indifference. And when Jean heard of these two or three words with
Randal, which, indeed, as Mrs. Bellingham said indignantly, “settled
nothing--for after an affair of that kind what is to hinder her having
a dozen?” she was very angry, and planted thorns in Margaret’s pillow.
But Jean will not be supreme forever over her little sister’s life.
THE END.