James Rowland left his wife in London with a certain satisfaction which
was very unlike the great affection he had for her, and the delight
which day by day he had learned more and more to take in her society. He
was a man full of intelligence and quickness of mind notwithstanding
various roughnesses of manner; and he never had known before what it was
to have such a companion; a woman who understood almost all he meant,
and meant a good deal which he was delightfully learning to understand:
bringing illustrations to their life which his imperfect education had
kept from him, and making him aware of a hundred new sources of
satisfaction and pleasure. But his very admiration for Evelyn had
deepened in his mind the first stab of anxiety which her hand had
involuntarily given. He had never got over the shock of finding out that
his children, instead of being the little things he had invariably gone
on thinking them to be, had reached the age of early manhood and
womanhood, and that he knew nothing whatever about them. He had tried at
first to laugh at this as a simple evidence of his own folly, but the
little puncture of that first wound had gone on deepening and deepening.
He felt it only in occasional thrills at first, when it had given him
about as much annoyance as a stray pang of rheumatism; but as he
travelled home, every day’s nearer approach made the ache a little
keener. It was the only thing in his experience of which he had said
nothing to Evelyn--although from the day of their arrival in London it
had begun to gnaw him like the proverbial fox under his mantle. He grew
restless, unable to settle to anything, continually wondering what they
would be like, how they would receive him, if they would be a credit to
him or the reverse, how Evelyn would receive them, and how they would
take to Evelyn. Their stiff little letters about his marriage, which
were almost the first letters of theirs which he had read with any
attention, had been received at Suez on the way home. And they had
redoubled his anxiety and his restlessness. He did not show them to
Evelyn, which was very significant of their unsatisfactory character to
himself. Had they been “nice” letters, he would have been too anxious to
place them in her hands, to see her face light up with interest. But
they were not, alas, nice letters. They were very stiff formal
productions. They acknowledged that their father had a right to please
himself, and that they had no claim to be taken into consideration.
“What we expected was different, but it is you, as aunt Jane says, that
are the master, and we hope that your lady will not look down upon us,
or keep us away from you.” This was not the sort of thing which he could
show to Evelyn, anxious as she was to do everything a mother could do
for his children. And all this made him very restless: he wanted to
escape from her, to go and inspect them before she saw them, to try
even, if that were possible, to lick them into shape before they came
under her eyes. He had not been afraid of the venture of his new
marriage, nor of the perils by land and sea to which he was continually
exposed; but he was very much afraid of the effect of the boy and girl
whom he felt himself to have neglected, and who were now rising up as
giants in his path. In these circumstances Rowland snatched anxiously at
the pretext of going to see Rosmore and prepare it for his wife’s
reception. What he really wanted was to see the children and decide what
could be done to prepare them.
It was consequently with a sense of escape that he waved his hand to
Evelyn from the carriage window, thinking, with a touch of pride, what a
lady she looked in her plain dress, standing there upon the platform to
see him off, among the crowd, not one of whom was like her. He was very
proud of his wife. He thought she looked like a princess standing there
so simple, with no outward sign to show what she was, but a look, to
which any one would bow down. But, as the train rushed away into
distance, and the long lines of the houses and streets flew past, James
Rowland laid himself back, and thanked Heaven that he had escaped, that
he had found a pretence to get away, and that he would thus be able to
see the worst for himself. Dwelling upon this view of the subject so
long had made him scarcely conscious of any pleasure in the anticipation
of meeting his children. Had he not been married, had he come back
without any special direction of his thoughts towards them, he would no
doubt have looked forward with a certain pleasure to meeting his two
little things, and perhaps the disenchantment of finding them grown up
would have amused him, and paternal feeling excused the imperfections
which he now so much feared to find. It never, however, could have
pleased Rowland to find in his son a half-educated lout, or in his
daughter a pert little girl, on the original level of the foundry, which
was the haunting fear in his mind now; so that in any case a great
disappointment would in all probability have awaited him. His
apprehensions became stronger and stronger as he approached the end of
his journey, when they would be proved right or wrong. He recalled to
himself what the aunt had been, whom in his foolishness he had been so
glad to confide them to, as one who would cherish them as if they were
her own--a rosy-cheeked, cheerful lass, with a jest for any lad who
addressed her; perfectly modest and good, but with the freedom of the
overflowing young community, which above all things loved its fun--not
equal to his Mary, who had always showed a little shrinking from the
fun, and never kept company with any one but with him alone. Jane
appeared very clearly before him as he searched the memories of his
youth--a trig, comely, clever lass, full of health and spirits. She
would be, no doubt, buxom now, terribly well off by means of the lavish
cheques he had sent, and his daughter would be much as she had been. Oh,
she had been a good steady lass, there had been nothing to find fault
with; but to think of a daughter like Jane filled the good man with
horror. What could he do with her? What could Evelyn do with her? Cold
beads of perspiration came out on his forehead. And then the lout of a
boy! This was how he had got to think of them who ought to have been
the stars of his horizon. And it would not be their fault, it would be
his fault. He was thankful to the bottom of his heart that he would see
them first, and get the shock over, and have time to think how it could
be broken to Evelyn. But he was not the less afraid of the first sight
of them, afraid of proving all his prognostications true.
He had not warned his sister-in-law of his arrival, and it was again an
escape to him to postpone the meeting till next day, and in the meantime
to go to the best hotel he could find. This was many years ago, and I
don’t know what may be the case now: but then the hotels in Glasgow were
not very excellent, that great city being, I suppose, too much occupied
with its manifold business to make preparation for tourists and idle
visitors as Edinburgh does; and Mr. Rowland did not find himself in the
lap of luxury to which that masterful rich man was accustomed. This
probably discouraged him still more, for it must be said that next
morning, instead of going to see his children, he took an early train
and went down to Rosmore, thus putting off for another day the
possibility of ascertaining definitely what there was to fear. He was
conscious that it was a cowardly thing to do: and it was an unnatural
thing--heartless, even, some people might say; but then his terrors for
the moment had taken the place of his merely instinctive and quite
undeveloped paternal love.
Rosmore was not disappointing, that was certain! He took a steamer from
the opposite side of the Clyde, in order that he might see it first, as
he had been used to do when he was a young man, and all such
advancement seemed as far above him as the throne. His heart beat as the
rustling, bustling, crowded steamboat came to the spot where the white
colonnade had always been visible among the noble groups of trees, which
withdrew a little just there, and stood about in clumps and gatherings
to let the view be seen. There it stood upon its green knoll unchanged,
the sloping greensward stretching down towards the salt, dazzling,
water, the windows caught and shining out in the sun. It was by good
fortune--which everybody knows is not invariable in these regions--a
beautiful day, and to Rowland it seemed paradise to see the heavy clouds
of the foliage open, and the white pillars come in view. He landed upon
the side of the peninsula, where a little salt water loch runs up into
the bosom of the hills. It is characteristic of a Scot in all countries
that he never sees a landscape which does not remind him, to its own
disadvantage, of some landscape at home. But Rowland, who had been a
great deal about the world, went a step further and declared to himself
that he had never seen anything to equal that “silver streak” of
sea-water, with the noble line of mountains stretching across the upper
end. They were beautiful in themselves, their outlines as grand against
the sky and intense sunshine as if they had been as lofty as the
Himalayas; but this was only half their fascination. It was the
capricious Northern lights and shadows that made them so delightful, so
unlike anything but themselves. In the East the sunshine drags and
becomes tedious: it goes on blazing all day long without change. But
the North is dramatic, individual, full of vicissitude, making a new
combination every minute, never for half an hour the same. He stood and
watched the clouds flying over the hills, like the breath of some
spell-bound giant, now one point and now another coming into light; and
the little waves dancing, and the soft banks reflected like another
enchanted country under the surface of the water. The sight uplifted in
his bosom the heart of the homely man who had no raptures to express,
but felt the beauty to the depths of his being. “I’ve travelled far, but
I never saw anything like it,” he said to the agent, who had met him on
the little pier, and who backed him up with enthusiasm, partly because
he was of the district too, and prone to believe that there was nothing
equal to Rosmore in the world, and partly because he was a good man of
business, and liked to see a wealthy tenant in such a good frame of
mind.
But it would be difficult to describe the emotions of James Rowland as
he walked through the beautiful woods and entered the house. He had
never been in the house before. Naturally, at the time when he first
conceived his passion for it, the young foundry man, however clever,
could never have had any means of entering into such a place; and to
tell the truth, he did not much know what was required by a family of
condition in an English or rather Scotch house. He knew the luxury of
the East, and how to make a bungalow comfortable, but the arrangements
of a mansion at home were strange to him.
He followed the agent accordingly with a little awe, which he carefully
concealed, through the suites of rooms, libraries, morning rooms,
boudoirs, all sorts of lavish accommodation, with the uses of which he
was practically unacquainted. But he did not betray his ignorance. On
the contrary he was very critical, finding out the defects in the
old-fashioned furniture as if he had been accustomed to such things all
his life.
“This looks as old as Methuselah,” he said. “Why, the things must be
mouldy. I should think they can’t have been touched for a hundred
years.”
“More than that,” said the agent, “and that’s just why the ladies like
it. It is called Countess Jean’s boudoir. Everything is just as it was
when she came home a bride. The ladies will not have it touched.”
“Oh, I know that decayed style is the fashion,” said Mr. Rowland without
winking an eyelid: “but you can’t imagine we will put up with these old
hangings? You must have them cleared away.”
“Well do that, if it’s your desire; but the hangings are real
tapestry--the oldest in Scotland. The Earl will be just delighted to
have them back.”
“Now I look at them,” said Rowland, “I believe my wife will like them.
For my part I like fresh colours and rich stuffs. I like to have bright
things about me, I find it all a little dingy, Mr. Campbell. You must
put your best foot forward and have it put in complete order. And a
great many other things will be wanted. We have got a boat load,” said
the engineer with exhilaration, “of Indian toys and stuff. My wife’s
fond of all that sort of thing. We have curios enough to set up a
shop.”
“Ah,” said the agent respectfully, “you have had unusual opportunities,
Mr. Rowland: and ladies are so fond of picking things up.”
“Yes,” said Rowland, “my wife has wonderful taste--she knows a good
thing when she sees it.”
“Which is very far from being a general quality,” said the appreciative
agent “Mrs. Rowland, I make no doubt, will turn Rosmore into a beautiful
place.”
“It is a beautiful place to begin with,” said the new tenant; “and it
would be a strange place that would not be improved when my wife got it
into her hands,” he added with a glow of pride. He wanted much to
confide to the agent that she was a lady of one of the best English
families, and full of every accomplishment; but his better sense
restrained him.
What exultation he felt in his bosom as he stood under the white
colonnade and gazed at the great Clyde rushing upon the beach at the
foot of the knoll, and the steamer crossing (which it did by the
influence of some good fairy just at this moment) the shining surface,
and all the specks of passengers turning in one direction to catch that
glimpse of Rosmore. So many times had he gazed at it so--and now for the
first time, in the other sense, here he was looking down upon the
landscape from his own door. It was not the satisfied appetite of
acquisition--it was something finer and more ethereal--a youthful ideal
and boyish sentiment carried through a whole life. He had dreamed of
this long before there had been any conscious aim at all in his mind;
and now he had actually attained the thing which had so pleased his
boyish thoughts. James Rowland took off his hat as he stood under the
white colonnade. The agent thought he was saluting somebody in the
passing steamer, and murmured, “They’ll not see you; it’s farther off
than it looks;” but Rowland was saluting One who always sees, and who
does not so often as ought to be receive thanks thus warm and glowing
from a grateful heart. “And for Evelyn too, who is the best of all!” he
said within himself.
The agent gleaned enough to perceive that Mr. Rowland was exceedingly
proud of his wife, and formed an exaggerated, and consequently rather
unfavourable opinion of this unknown lady. He thought she must be a
_connoisseuse_ with her boat load of curiosities, which indeed, to tell
the truth, were things that Rowland had “picked up” himself in many
advantageous ways, before he had even seen his wife, and which Evelyn
was not acquainted with at all. Mr. Campbell thought she must be a
fantastic woman, and would, as he said, transmogrify the good honest old
house, and turn it into a curiosity shop, or “chiney” warehouse--which
was an idea he did not contemplate with pleasure. However, this was no
reason why he should undervalue so rich and so easily pleased a tenant.
He made the most ample promises as to what should be done, and the
expedition with which everything should be accomplished--and accompanied
Rowland to the boat, introducing him to the minister and to various
local authorities on the way. “This is Mr. Rowland that has taken
Rosmore. Ye’ll likely see a great deal of him, for he means to make his
principal residence here.--It’s the great Rowland, the Indian engineer
and railway man,” he said aside, but not quite inaudibly, in each
new-comer’s ear.
The local potentates looked with admiration and interest at the
new-comer. Any possible inmate of Rosmore would have been interesting to
the minister, who had not much society in the parish, and had a natural
confidence in the social qualities of a man who was so rich. The
“merchant” who had long dreamt of a railway up the side of the loch,
which would bring Glasgow excursionists in their thousands to Rosmore,
gazed with awe on the new inhabitant who had but to look upon a country
destitute of means of locomotion, and lo, the iron way was there. Other
points of interest abounded in the new inhabitant. He would quicken life
in the parish in every way: probably his very name would secure that
second delivery of letters for which the whole peninsula had been
agitating so long. The steamboat would certainly call summer and winter
at the pier, now that the House would be occupied and visitors always
coming and going; and the decoration of the church, which was so much
wanted, would, the minister thought, be secured now that such a wealthy
inhabitant had been added to the resources of the parish. They all gave
him a welcome which was as flattering as if he had been a royal prince.
“It’s been a distress to us a’ to see the House standing empty so long,
and I’m very glad to make Mr. Rowland’s acquaintance. It will be good
for us a’ to have a man like him among us.” How did they know what
manner of man he was, except that he was rich? But James Rowland did
not ask himself that question. In his present mood he was very ready to
believe that, as he was delighted to come, so his new neighbours would
be delighted to have him there; and he knew as well as they did that it
would be a good thing for them to have a rich and liberal new
parishioner at hand. He liked the looks of the minister, and the
schoolmaster, and the merchant, and he was pleased that they should like
him. He walked down to the pier attended by a little train; and it was
quite a feather in the cap of Mr. Foggo of Pitarrow, one of the smaller
heritors of the parish, that he happened to be going across to the other
side, and would consequently travel with the great man. “I’ll talk to
him about the kirk and see what he’s willing to give,” said this
gentleman, exhilarated by the thought that a good subscription from the
newcomer would save a good deal of money to the heritors. “But only
don’t be hasty; don’t be rash; don’t let him think that his siller is
the first thing we are thinking of,” said the minister. “Gangrel body!
what would we be thinking of _but_ his siller,” said the laird. But
this, which was the only thing that was not complimentary, was not said
aloud.
Thus Rowland was escorted to the boat, the frequent messenger between
that solitude and the busy world, while Pitarrow followed, giving way to
him as if he had been the Earl himself. The boat already felt as if it
partially belonged to him, the crew, too, being all interested and
impressed. He looked back from the deck upon the line of the Rosmore
woods, and the profile of the house, which showed itself through them,
a different view yet a delightful one: and listened with affability
while the different places on the loch were pointed out to him. The
evening was perfect as the day had been. The light had died off the deep
waters of the loch, though it still played upon the hills, and its low
rays struck full in the eyes, so to speak, of the white colonnade,
bathing the house in a dazzle of light. What a place to come home to, to
settle down in, to see from afar as he approached, and recognise as his
own! He figured to himself returning from an absence, hastening through
the woods, received by Evelyn at the door. What a beautiful dream to be
fulfilled at last! What a refuge from all the labours and the tumults of
life! He listened vaguely to what Pitarrow was saying, and granted
cordially that it would henceforward be his duty to come to the aid of
the parish and to help to beautify the church, and would have given him
a cheque on the spot, had there been pen and ink handy. But of course he
had not taken his cheque-book with him upon that day’s excursion,
important as it was.
He got to the railway in this blissful state of mind, uplifted, his feet
scarcely touching the ground. And then all at once his face grew sad and
set. The light went out of it and a blank came in place of the animated
and lively expression. He had done all that he wanted to do for the
moment at Rosmore. Now another duty awaited him, a duty he should have
turned to first, which was indeed the most important duty of all. Now
there was no longer any escape for him: he must see his children, and
that without any further delay.