To describe the blank which fell upon the successful man as he went
briskly up through the woods, which in his heart he called his own,
reflecting upon his success and how he had won it all unaided, his happy
selection of a house, his still happier luck in a wife, and saw the pair
of limp young figures without interest in anything, vaguely standing
about in front of the colonnade, would be too much for words. They stood
a little apart, Archie with his hands in his pockets, Marion drawing
lines in the ground with the end of her parasol. They were not even
looking at “the view.” The air of caring for nothing, finding no
interest in anything, was so strong in them both that they might have
been taken as impersonations of ennui, that most hopeless of all the
immoralities. They did not know what to do with themselves--they would
never know what to do with themselves, Rowland thought in despair. They
would stand about his life as they were doing about the vacant space in
front of the house, empty, indifferent, uninterested. Going wrong, he
said to himself (heaven forgive him!) was almost better than
that--anything is better than nullity, the state of doing and being
nothing. The outline of them against the light struck him as he came up
to them like a dull blow.
“Well,” he said, “what have you been doing since I saw you last?”
“Nothing,” said Marion, with a slight look up at him, and a yawn, “for
there is nothing to do.”
“No--thing,” said Archie with hesitation and a less assured, more
anxious look. He wanted to speak to his father about those puppies, if
he could only venture: but he did not dare.
“You might have explored the woods,” said Rowland, “or gone down to the
loch, or taken a boat, or rambled up the hill--there’s a hundred things
to do.”
“The woods are very damp: I would have spoiled my shoes: and the hills
very craggy: it would have torn my frock: and Archie, he is too lazy to
row a boat, and too grumpy to speak. Will it soon be time to go back to
Glasgow? You might have taken me with you, papa.”
“It is a pity I did not: for there was company at the Manse, and I have
an invitation for you.”
“Oh papa!”
Archie too looked up with a certain lightning of his preoccupied face.
“Yes--if you are not too fine for it. It is to go to some place that is
called the Burn, to a lady whose name is Miss Eliza, who has a number of
nieces and nephews, and something always going on, tennis, or boating,
or dancing.”
“Oh, papa!” Marion’s eyes shone; but presently a little cloud came over
her. “I have not had much chance of learning tennis. The MacColls can
play, they’ve got a nice ground of their own--they have just everything!
But there’s no club you can get into out of the Sauchiehall Road, and
you want shoes and things. I never was in the way of learning.” A little
furtive moisture glistened in Marion’s eyes.
“I could let you see the way,” said Archie.
“Oh yes, laddies learn everything,” said his sister with an offended
air; and then she perceived that she had been guilty of an unauthorised
word. “I mean young gentlemen,” she cried.
“For heaven’s sake, whatever you mean, don’t say that,” said Rowland
hastily. “However it is not a desert, as you thought: there is balm in
Gilead. When you come back and settle down, you must make friends with
Miss Eliza.”
“Is she a lady, papa? I would not, not for anything, make friends out of
our own sphere.”
Rowland laughed loud and long. He said, “I am glad you have such an
exalted idea of your sphere; but how about the MacColls?”
“I am not meaning,” said Marion, with dignity, “to keep up with the
MacColls. They’re just acquaintances, not to call friends. They never
even ask me to their grandest parties. If they were friends, they would
have let me learn tennies and all that. I have always meant to let them
know that when my papa came home, they were not good enough for me.”
“Well--perhaps it’s legitimate--if they thought you not good enough for
their grand parties, and no question of friendship in the matter. But
you, Archie, you’ve got some friends?”
“Yes,” said the lad with hesitation. He had no friend whom he would not
have sacrificed on the altar of the puppies. “There are some of the
students--but I perhaps will have little chance of seeing them
after----”
“If you please,” said Sandy, the groom, who had been loitering near,
“will I put in the horse? for yonder’s the steamer leaving the loch
head, and she’ll sune be here.”
“Never mind the horse: we’ll walk,” said Rowland, at which Marion gave
him a look of wonder and reproach. Walk! a dog-cart was not much, but it
was always a more dignified thing than to think a young lady like
herself capable of walking like a common person to the pier.
“And, sir,” said Sandy, “about the little dougs--Rankin would be glad to
know.”
“The little dougs?”
“The young gentleman will have tell’t ye. It’s Rankin’s little dougs
that are kent for a grand breed--and there’s aye somebody wanting them.
He would like to ken one way or anither afore the young gentleman goes
away.”
“It’s some little terriers,” said Archie, coming forward a step, “we
were looking at them. They’re very bonnie little beasts. I thought that
maybe--there would be watch-dogs wanted about the house--or--just for
the fun of them--they’re--fine little things. I--I--thought it might
be--a good thing.”
Rowland looked severely at his son as he stammered and hesitated. He
replied coldly, “If you want the dogs, I suppose that is enough.” He
waved his hand to Sandy, dismissing him. “Now Marion, are you ready, for
your walk?”
Marion pouted and protested that she was sure she could not walk so far,
but Rowland was inflexible. “It will be something to do,” he said
grimly. And with a troubled countenance and trembling limbs Archie
followed.
A more beautiful walk could scarcely have been conceived. Here and
there, as they descended the hill, they came out upon an open space
where the lovely loch, with the great range of hills at the head lying
full in the western sun, stretched out before them. Its surface
glistened with gleams of reflection, repeating everything from the white
scattered houses on its banks to the whiter clouds that goated on the
surface of the sky. A boat or two, between the dazzling atmosphere above
and the still more dazzling reflection below, lay like a thing
beatified. Woods and hills and shining water--there was nothing wanting
to the perfection of the scene. “Every prospect pleases, and only man is
vile:” and troubled--troubled, full of care--wanting for something
wherever he is.
The successful man marched along with his head high, his pretty little
daughter running with her short steps by his side, the house of his
choice behind him, the wife of his choice awaiting him, and so well off,
able to do whatever he pleased, the admiring, curious people said.
Whatever he pleased! yes, to buy furniture of the rarest description,
horses and carriages, even Rosmore itself, if he could by any means
procure that it should be brought to market; but not with all his wealth
able to expand the little vulgar nature of the girl, or open the
disturbed heart of the boy beside him. Poor rich man! to whom his wealth
could give no pleasure while this constant irritation gnawed at his
heart.
He took them back to Sauchiehall Road, not exhilarated by their day’s
outing; and while Marion recovered her fatigue and began really to enjoy
Rosmore in describing its grandeur to her aunt, he took Archie aside for
a few brief words. “What was that about the dogs?” he said. “Did you pay
for them, or have they to be paid for, or what did the groom mean? I
won’t have any familiarity with the grooms. Why should I be consulted as
if you couldn’t settle such a matter for yourself?”
“I never wanted you to be consulted,” said the boy, retiring within
himself.
“What did it mean then? Remember I consider you old enough to take the
responsibility of your own actions. If you want anything, get it: if I
don’t approve, I’ll let you know my opinion. If I find you spending too
much, I’ll put a stop to it. But I am not to be consulted about every
trifle as if you were a child.”
Archie was so struck with the irony of this address as applied to
himself, that his wounded feelings and strained temper burst out into a
harsh laugh. “As for spending,” he said, “much or little, you may set
your mind at rest, for I’ve nothing to spend.”
Rowland took out his pocket-book with a look of doubt, glancing from
Archie to Mrs. Brown. “You must have your allowance of course,” he said.
“You’ve had it, I suppose, for years past?”
“A shilling a week or sometimes half-a-crown,” said Archie, prolonging
the laugh which was the only witness of emotion his boyish pride and
shyness permitted him to indulge in. “But I’m not asking you for money,”
he said harshly. The puppies flitted in vision before his eyes, and
counselled a softer tone, but he could not, in spite of the puppies, put
forward a finger to touch the crisp piece of paper which his father held
out to him.
“I’ll see about that,” said Rowland. “Here, in the meantime.”
“I am not wanting your money.”
“You young ass! take what I give you. I’ll see that you have at your
command in future, a proper sum.--Here!” Rowland, who was much out of
temper too, flung the note at the boy, who let it drop upon the floor.
“And try to behave like a gentleman,” he said, exasperated, “and not
like a sullen dog, as you’re doing now.”
He did not mean to be so severe. He was tired and sick of it all, as he
said to himself as he hurried away. The boy was not true, he was not
genuine, not frank nor open. The father was very angry, disappointed:
yet in the dark, as he walked back to the hotel, there gleamed somehow
upon him, he did not know how, a reflection, a gleam from poor Mary’s
blue eyes, that had so long been hidden in the grave.
Meanwhile, the party in Mrs. Brown’s parlour had been disturbed by a
sense of something sulphurous in the air, and by the flutter of the
piece of paper which had been thrown at Archie like a blow. All demand
for explanation or possibility of interference had been stopped by the
rapid leave-taking and departure of Rowland. “Are you not going to stay
to your supper? and me prepared the table for you, and everything
ready!” Mrs. Brown had said in great disappointment and dismay; but
Rowland had not yielded. He had letters to write, he said, that
unanswerable reason for everything. When the sound of his quick steps
had died out upon the pavement, Mrs. Brown came back with a blank
countenance into the parlour, where Archie still sat with the bit of
white crisp paper at his feet.
“There’s been some quarrel atween you,” she said. “Tell me no lees:
you’ve been setting up your face to your father, that’s just a gentleman
and far above ye, as ye whiles do to me.”
“I tell no lies,” said the boy.
“That means ye just acknowledge to it, ye thrawn, vexatious callant?
What’s that bit of paper lying at your feet?”
“Its of no consequence,” said Archie.
“But it is of consequence when I say so. Give it to me!”
“I will not touch it,” said the boy.
“Then I’ll touch it!” She stooped suddenly with a nimbleness for which
Archie was unprepared and snatched the paper.
Then she gave a loud scream. “Preserve us a’! It’s nae less than a
twenty-pound note. Lord, laddie, what did you say to him that he’s given
you a twenty-pound note?”
“Give me the note!” said Archie hoarsely, holding out his hand.
“Atweel and I’ll do nothing of the kind. What was it for? Twenty pound!
to the like of you that never had twenty pence! Archie Rowland, what is
the meaning of this? It’s a thing I will no put up with to have notes
(nots Mrs. Brown called them) lying about my carpet and naebody
condescending to lift them up.”
“Let him be, aunty,” said Marion; “he’s in one of his ill keys; he was
real disagreeable to-day, and would do nothing. I have had just a very
dismal day because he would never rouse himself up.”
“He may rouse himself or not as he likes,” said Jane; “but I’ve gotten
possession of the not, and I’ll just keep it till I find out what it’s
for.”
“It’s my note,” said Archie.
“And ye leave it lying at your feet! Twenty pounds! that would put pith
into many a man’s arm, and courage in his heart. Besides, what would ye
do with all that siller? I’ll give ye a shilling or twa, and I’ll just
put it by. Your father must be clean gyte to put the like o’ that in the
power of a callant like you.--Come ben to your supper. I’ll wager ye
havena had a decent bite nor sup the haill day.”
“I’m wanting no supper. I’m wanting my note,” Archie said.
“Ye can have the one but no the other. The table’s a’ set and ready.
Come in, ye fool, and take your supper. We’ll no wait for you, neither
Mey nor me.”
Archie sat by himself with his head in his hands for some moments after
they had gone away. Mrs. Brown had carried the lamp with her, but it was
not dark. The days are long in June, and the soft visionary light, which
was neither night nor day, came through the bars of the Venetian blinds,
making the little shabby room faintly visible. He was tired, he was even
hungry, but he would not stoop to the degradation of owning it, now that
he had said he would have no supper. This added to the general sum of
wretchedness in Archie’s mind. It had all ended so miserably, the day
which began so well. He was aware that he had been a fool. He had been
tempted with the puppies--which even now, when he thought of them,
tempted him still, filling him with a sort of forlorn pleasure in the
recollection, and making him feel how silly it was to have let his “not”
be taken from him--though he knew he had no money to pay for them. And
then he had not had the courage to tell his father that he wanted them.
Surely he who had bought May so many things would have given this little
gratification to Archie, had he gone rightly about it. But he had been a
fool. What was he always but a fool? He had got himself into several
scrapes because he had not had the courage to ask anything from Aunty
Jane. And now when he had gotten the opportunity--the note that was his
own, that nobody else had any right to, to think that he had let that
be taken out of his hand! He would never get a penny of it, Archie knew;
yes, a shilling perhaps, or maybe half-a-crown, like a little bairn. And
what good were they to him, when he had twenty pounds--twenty whole
pounds of his own--to get the little dogs with, and many another luxury
besides, and pay up his subscriptions to his clubs, which were always in
arrears, and maybe treat some of the lads to a dinner without having to
account for every penny? But he had let it be taken from him, and
farewell to the doggies and everything else that was pleasant. Oh what a
fool he was, what a fool! He went up to his room, and tumbled as he was
upon his bed, in his best clothes, though he was hungry, and smelt the
supper, and wanted it, with all his vigorous young appetite. Happily for
Archie, in this painful complication of circumstances, it was not very
long before he fell asleep.
Next morning Mrs. Brown received Rowland in the parlour above. “I am
wanting to speak to you, Jims,” she said, “you’re no used to the charge
of young folk, and I maun speak out my mind. Ye mayna take it well of
me, but at any rate I will have delivered my soul.”
“Well,” said Rowland, “I hope that will be for your comfort, however
little it may be for mine.”
“It will be for baith our goods, if ye will take my advice. Jims, what
was that you threw at Archie last night before you went away?”
“Did I throw it at him? That was a curious thing to do; but I don’t
suppose it was intentional on my part.”
“What was it, Jims? Answer me that.”
“And may I ask what it matters to you, whatever it was?”
“It matters a great deal to me. I have been like a mother to him, and
I’ll no have the laddie to be led away. I know very well what it was. It
was an English note, and I’ve got it here. Eh, Jims Rowland, knowing the
world as ye must know it, how daur ye put the means of evil in that
boy’s innocent hands!”
“This is very strange,” said Rowland, “to be brought to book because I
give my son a little money.”
“Do ye ca’ twenty pounds a little money! My patience! a sma’ fortune,”
said Mrs. Brown.
“My dear Jane, this is one of the things, unfortunately, that we have
made a great mistake about. My boy should have been accustomed to a
little freedom, a little money of his own. It is all very unfortunate.
He will be plunged into spending money when he is quite unacquainted
with the use of it. It is the very worst thing.”
“And that’s a’ my faut ye’ll be thinking,” said Jane, grimly.
“I don’t say it is your fault. It is my fault as much as yours. I
thought of securing them kindness and motherly care. I should have
remembered there was something more necessary. You have been very kind
to them, Jane.”
“Kind!” the good woman flushed with a high angry colour; “Kind! that’s a
bonny word to use to me. A stranger’s kind that says a pleasant word.
The first person in the street that’s taken with their winnin’ ways is
kind, if you please. But me! that has given them a’ the love of my
heart, that has been a mother to them and mair----!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Rowland, “I am very much obliged to you: I
know you have been all that.”
“A mother, and mair,” said Mrs. Brown. “No mony mothers would have done
for them what I’ve done, watching every step they took, that ye might
find them good bairns, no spendthrifts, nor wasters of your substance,
but knowing the value of money, and using their discretion. I’ve given
him the siller for his clubs and things, for I’m told that’s the fashion
now-a-days, and he’s aye had a shilling in his pouch for an occasion. If
he had been my own I would never have held him with half as tight a
hand, for he would have been making his week’s wages if he had been a
son of mine, and wouldna have been depending upon either you or me.”
“That’s just the pity of it,” said Rowland. “He has fallen between two
stools, neither a working lad nor a gentleman’s son. That proves, Jane,
we have both been in the wrong, and I, more than you, for I should have
known better. We have made a terrible mistake.”
“I’ve made nae mistake,” said Mrs. Brown. The tears were near which
would soon choke her voice, and she spoke quickly to get out as much as
she could before the storm came. “You may be in the wrang, Maister
Rowland, but I’m no in the wrang. I’ve just acted on principle from
beginning to end, to save him from the temptation of riches. They’re a
great temptation. If he had been learned to dash his way about like
young MacColl, or the most of the lads that have had a father before
them, what would ye have said to me? You will see that laddie dashing
about a’ Glesco in his phaeton, or whatever ye ca’t; and his grandmother
was just a howdie in the High Street, nae mair. Would ye have likit
that, Jims Rowland? folk saying ‘set a beggar on horseback,’ and a’ the
rest, to a son of yours, and calling to mind the stock he came of, that
was just working folk, though aye respectable. I’m no the one to bring
up a lad to that. If ye had wanted him made a prodigal o’, ye should
have pit him in other hands. I’ve just keeped him in his right place.
And ye tell me it’s a mistake, and my fault and terrible wrong. Lord
forgive ye, Jims Rowland! How dare ye say it’s a mistake to me, that has
been a mother to them--and mair!”
Rowland, like other men, was made very uncomfortable by the sight of the
woman crying, but he held his ground. “I am very sorry to seem
ungrateful, Jane. I am not ungrateful. You’ve given them a happy
childhood, which is everything. But we must try a different system now.
I can’t have a young man stumbling and stammering before me, as if he
had something on his conscience. I am not going to watch every step he
takes. He must learn to take steps on his own account, and understand
that he’s a responsible creature. If you have taken his money from
him----”
Mrs. Brown jumped up as if she had received a blow. She rushed to the
door of the room, which she flung open, calling upon “Archie! Archie!”
in a voice broken by angry sobs. The lad came stumbling downstairs not
knowing what was wrong, and appeared with his still somewhat sullen
face, asking “What’s the matter?” in a tone which was half-alarmed and
half-defiant. She seized him by the arm and dragged him into the room,
then flying to a little desk, opened it, flinging back the lid, and
seizing the unfortunate bit of paper, flung it again in Archie’s face.
“Hae;” she said, “there it’s till ye. Me taken his money? Me that have
just done everything for them, and never thought of mysel’. Me! taken
his money!” Mrs. Brown’s voice rose to a shriek, and then she fell into
a chair and burst into a more renewed and violent passion of tears.
“What have ye been saying to her to make her like that?” said Archie,
turning to his father. “I was not wanting your money, and if she put it
away it was no harm. Her take your money! She cares nothing for money
but to get things for May and me. Aunty,” he said, going up to her,
putting his hand on her shoulder, “I’ll just put a notice in the
_Herald_ to-morrow. If he is my father, I’ll not be dependent upon him.
What right has he to fling his dirty money in a man’s face, and come
into this house like a wild beast and make you cry. He made his money
himself, and he can spend it himself. I’ll make what I want for mysel’.”
But oh the puppies, barking with their ridiculous noses in his hand,
sprawling over old Rankin’s bed! They suddenly came before Archie’s
mental vision, and made his voice waver. No such luxuries as Rankin’s
puppies could be in the lot of a poor young clerk in an office, making
perhaps a pound a week--and he the great railway man’s son that was
rolling in wealth!--a sense of the great injustice of it made Archie’s
voice harsh. Who should all that money be for but for him? And the rich
father, the hoped for incarnation of wealth, was there scolding about a
miserable note, accusing Aunty Jane of having taken the money! The lad
went and stood at the back of her chair, putting himself on her side,
defying the other who thought so much of his filthy siller! Let him keep
his siller! he had made it himself and he could spend it on himself.
Archie for his part would do the same. But as he uttered these noble
sentiments, an almost overwhelming sense of the wickedness of it, of the
cruelty of the unjust father, and of the unimaginable wrong to himself
flooded Archie’s mind. He could have cried too with anger and the
intolerable sense of wrong.
Rowland stood for a minute or two contemplating the scene, and then he
burst into a laugh. The climax was too ridiculous, he said to himself,
for any serious feeling. And yet it was not a pleasant climax to come
to, after so many years.