Evelyn came fully up to her husband’s expectations, which were not
small, in the way of admiration. She had not, indeed, been thinking much
about the beauty of the country, her mind being fully occupied by
matters more important, so that the Clyde, and the loch, and Rosmore,
burst upon her more or less as a surprise. She delighted Rowland, whose
whole being was on the watch to see what she would say, by her
exclamations. “What a beautiful situation! What a lovely view the people
must have who live there. What is--Oh!” She broke off abruptly, seeing
the flush of pleasure and broad smile of happiness which came over his
face. “So that is Rosmore,” she added: “I can see it in your face!”
“Ay, that’s just Rosmore,” he said, with a thickness in his voice; “and
this is just the spot, if this confounded boat would stand still for a
moment, where I have watched for it appearing since ever I was a lad,
and wished and wondered if it would ever be mine.” He put his arm
through hers, as he had a way of doing, and held her close--“And now it
is mine; and you are mine, Evelyn, that was still more unlikely by far.”
“You must not flatter me by comparing me to that beautiful place; and I
pray God you may be very happy in it now you have got it. It is
certainly an ideal place.”
“Is it not?” cried Rowland, delighted. It is to be feared that he did
not at that moment remember his poor homely Mary, who had been with him
so often when he watched for the opening in the trees, and worshipped
his idol afar off. “Toots, nonsense,” Mary had said, with a laugh at his
absurdity, so many times. He did not think of her, but Evelyn did, with
a curious tenderness for the simple little woman who, probably, by this
time would have developed into a stout and matter-of-fact matron, and
disappointed her husband as much as his children had done, although the
love between them had been as true and full of natural poetry as any,
_dans les temps_. Evelyn was quite aware of her husband’s shortcomings,
and that there were various superficial failures in him which justified
the superficial judgment that he was “not a gentleman,” that most
damning of English criticism; but she knew at the same time how it was
that the fact of his son not appearing a gentleman was the source of
grief to him, and how critical his eyes would be, and how exacting his
demands in this respect. Poor little Mary! Perhaps it was as well that
she had died in the far-off poetical time. Evelyn felt a little moisture
in the corner of her eye, and made a promise in her heart to the wife of
James Rowland from the foundry, who was so different from James Rowland,
the great railway man from India. “I will do what I can for them, Mary!”
was what Evelyn said. Her husband saw the little glimmer on her eyelash,
and pressed her arm with fond delight and pride. “I can never be
thankful enough,” he said, “Evelyn, for the way you enter into your
rough husband’s feelings--my bonnie lady of Rosmore!” That was the very
foundry lad who spoke, the very poet of the ironworks whose imagination
ran in the ways of iron and steel, and who had attained for himself so
incalculable a triumph--everything, and more than everything, that heart
could desire--Rosmore, and its bonnie lady! His emotion touched his
wife, not displeased--as what woman would be?--to feel herself the very
crown of his acquisition; yet her heart went back all the more to poor
Mary, whose arm he had probably held in the same way while he glowered
with adoration at the white colonnade from the deck of this very
steamboat (if steamboats live so long), and who had said, “Toots, Jims,
what nonsense!” with her Glasgow accent, thinking that in that
particular her husband, who was so clever and soon might rise to be
foreman, was little better than a fool.
After this ecstatic moment was over, they both fell into silence, a
little anxious for the approaching meeting: he for what she would think
of his children: she for what the children would turn out to be. She had
begun to doubt a little whether the son would be an unkempt lad in a
kilt, like the nephew with whom Mrs. Reuben Butler, once of that same
parish, had made disastrous acquaintance. The shabby young men about
Glasgow and Greenock had not been of the kind of the Whistler, as
indeed, on second thoughts, her reason convinced her Archie was not the
least likely to be: nor would Marion probably have the red hair and the
short tartan frock, which had been her first idea of what was the
probable appearance of the girl with whom Rowland had been so much
disappointed. The sight in the distance of a white and a dark speck on
the Rosmore pier, as the boat crossed the shining loch, brought
Rowland’s heart to his mouth and made him almost incapable of speech.
“Yon will be them,” he said with a parched mouth, gripping her arm. And
Evelyn did not feel disposed to say anything, or to remark upon the
beauty of the hills, though they lighted up in all their purple hollows,
and threw out all their blue peaks, as if to catch her attention. Nature
has a wonderful charm, if there is not some human emotion before her to
pre-occupy both heart and eye. The range of mountains at the head of the
loch were after all not of half so much importance as the little white
figure on the pier head, of which scarcely the first fact of its
existence was as yet perceptible, or the taller one that already seemed
to sway and lounge with idle limbs beside her. Evelyn kept her eyes
fixed upon them as she drew nearer and nearer, and gradually a feeling
of relief stole into her heart. There was nothing so very alarming that
James should have made such a fuss! “My dear James,” she said turning to
him, “I suppose you did it for a joke: your Marion is a dear little
girl.” He pressed her arm close, but he could not say anything: his
middle-aged heart was beating. “Archie I must study more at leisure, but
he looks very nice too,” she added with more of an effort. Perhaps,
after all, the boy would have been better in a kilt, with his hair over
his eyes, like the Whistler in the “Heart of Midlothian.” She looked on
breathless as the steamboat drew to the pier. Certainly they would rush
on board to greet their father, to bring him home in triumph, even if
they were less anxious to make her acquaintance; but Marion and Archie
did not budge an inch. They stood there, on the defensive, a little
defiant, staring, waiting till they were spoken to; and in the bustle of
the arrival, the haste of the transference from the quickly departing
steamboat to the land, with all the baggage which Rowland, with his
habits of personal superintendence did not think the maid and man whom
they had brought able to deal with, Evelyn found herself flung upon the
two without any introduction. She put out her hand to her step-daughter.
“You are Marion, I am sure,” she said, drawing the girl towards her and
kissing her on both cheeks. “I am very glad to see you, my dear.”
“And so am I--to see you--mamma,” said the girl reddening and staring.
The name felt to Evelyn like a stone flung in her face.
“And this is Archie,” she said, transferring Marion’s somewhat unwilling
hot, little gloved hand to her left, and holding out the other to the
boy. He for his part made no answer, but gave her a quick look, and then
withdrew his eyes. “Your father is too busy to think about us till the
luggage is all right,” she said; “but I hope we are going to be, we
three, very great friends.”
“Oh, we’ll be all that,” said Marion with a laugh, working her hand out
of Evelyn’s hold. Archie made no reply; he too drew his hand away from
her as soon as she had shaken it, which was the only thing, so far as he
was aware, that any one could want to do with another person’s hand. He
gave her a second look as he did this, which Evelyn did not perceive,
but in which Mary’s eyes made a little, a very little essay of a reply
to her, had she but seen it. She stood by them a moment, not knowing how
to proceed further, with the little crowd of the pier pressing round,
and the wheelbarrow for the luggage knocking against the group. “Is that
our carriage?” said Evelyn. “Don’t you think the best thing you could do
would be to put your sister and me into it, until your father gets
through his troubles?” Put her into it! Archie had not an idea what she
meant. Was he to lift her up and set her down in it, like a doll? He
stared and hung about on those loose legs of his, which could not even
stand firm, and followed her awkwardly to the carriage, where the
footman stood opening the door. What was there for Archie to do? The
footman was there to help them in, if they needed to be helped in. He
followed them, and hung about, the most unnecessary personage. The
footman belonged to the turn-out, he was in his proper place; but where
was the need of Archie? Evelyn took pity upon him, when she saw his
helpless looks. “Go and see if you can be of use to your father,” she
said. Of use to his father! when there were two servants with his
father. It was their business, not Archie’s. He turned and went
reluctantly back again, with his idle legs and his hands in his pockets.
The Archie of Sauchiehall Road would have picked up a portmanteau and
carried it in with the greatest cheerfulness; but this was the Archie of
Rosmore.
“Well, there you are,” said Rowland, shaking hands with him cursorily.
“Just show Stanchion, will you, where the cart is for the luggage. I
suppose they’ve sent something to bring him up and Mrs. Rowland’s maid.”
Archie knew nothing about it, and said so. “You said you had given all
the directions.”
“So I did, but you might show the man the way at least,” said Rowland,
hurrying forward to the carriage. Archie stood among the crowd, with the
boxes and barrows bumping at his legs, for a full minute more, then, as
his better angel began to get the advantage, took one hand out of his
pocket, and made a step to the tall and fussy valet, who stood among a
mountain of boxes. “Yonder’s the cart from the House,” he said, pointing
to the highway, where the cart and dog-cart stood among the trees. “It’s
no use telling me yonder’s the cart. You’ll better lend a hand, young
man, or how are them boxes to get there?” said Mr. Rowland’s gentleman,
who prided himself in being a better gentleman than his master. To
understand the rage that boiled up in Archie’s breast, it would be
necessary to fathom the angry contempt with which a Scotch clerk of the
humbler kind, but capable of being a great merchant one day, or even the
Scotch artisan, regards a domestic servant, however magnificent. Archie
could have slain Mr. Stanchion where he stood. He did not laugh, as his
father’s son ought to have done, at the mistake. As he swung round on
his heel, his father called out from the carriage, “Hallo, Archie, Mrs.
Rowland wants to know if you’re coming with us: make haste.” He stared a
moment with a sullen countenance, and then, turning again, walked
quickly off without a word.
“He says he would rather walk,” said Evelyn, “which is what young men
generally do.”
“I did not hear him say a word.”
“Nor me, papa,” said Marion, with a laugh. She thought Archie’s “sulks”
were a good joke, and, to do her justice, saw no harm in them, nor
anticipated any consequences from his ill temper. “We just never mind,”
she added, feeling mistress of the position, “when he’s in an ill key.”
And Marion was very gracious to her father and his wife as they drove
home. She pointed out to Mrs. Rowland various points of view. “That’s
the Chieftain’s Leap, but it’s nothing to see, just a red scaur, and
trees growing all about; but a little further on is a good view of
Greenock and the docks and the big chimney smoking, and up there you can
see down upon Kilrossi, where everybody goes for the salt water--for the
sea-bathing, I mean.”
“The salt water is a very picturesque description,” said Evelyn, “and
full of local colour.” She laughed at herself for her own words, but it
was better to make talk of any kind, than to see that cloud settling
down on her husband’s face.
“And down there,” said Marion, “is Rankin’s cottage, the old gamekeeper
who has the dogues. He is a cripple creature himself since he had his
accident, but the dogues are very nice little things. Archie has bought
two. He says they will be good for watch-dogs about the House. And
Rankin himself is a very funny old man to talk to--but I do not care for
him, for he is always on about Lady Jean.”
“Who is Lady Jean?”
“Oh, she is the Earl’s sister; old, and not pretty, and not married. I
don’t know why they make such a fuss about her. There’s no interest in a
person like that.”
“Don’t you think you might let somebody get in a word from time to
time,” said Rowland; “I have heard nothing but your little voice since
ever we arrived.”
“Well, I hope my little voice is better than nothing, papa. And you will
not hear very much from Archie. He is just as sulky as he can be about
Aunty Jane. He thinks she should have come down here with us, to see us
settled, and make acquaintance with mamma, and all that. The very idea!
but boys have so little sense. That is not what Aunty Jane cares so much
about herself. She is more concerned in her mind about what she is to do
next.”
“Is Aunty Jane the lady who brought you up? Indeed, then, I do think,
James, that she has not been very nicely treated. She has been so
devoted to the children. It was the least thing you could do to ask her
to bring them home, and let me show how we appreciated her goodness and
affection. You must give me the address, Marion, and I will write
to-morrow.”
“Oh,” said Marion with a gasp, raising herself bolt upright, “that’s not
necessary--that’s not at all necessary. Aunty never expected----”
“I am afraid I must take upon myself to be the judge of what is
necessary,” said Mrs. Rowland with the sweetest smile in the world. Her
soft peremptoriness was for her husband as well as for his daughter. For
Rowland, too, had responded with a gasp to the suggestion of inviting
Jane, and his wife’s gentle assumption of supreme authority took him as
much by surprise as it did Marion. He began, too, with an anxious
“But----,” but got no farther. Jane at Rosmore was something which his
imagination could not reach.
“_But_ is not a word which exists in autocratic countries,” said Evelyn
laughing. “Constitutional surroundings alone encourage such expressions,
and I’ll have no dissent in Rosmore. Didn’t you hail me Lady as we came
over that glorious Firth?”--Evelyn would not perhaps have used the words
had she not meant to reduce her husband to instantaneous submission. She
thought, indeed, that the Firth was very fine, but her usual principles
were against hyperbole. It would be hard, however, to refuse to a good
woman the legitimate use of certain weapons because they are used to a
large extent by women who are not good. And the “glorious Firth” and his
wife’s smile together were far more than James Rowland could make head
against. I do not think indeed that such artillery was needed. He had
not the least objection, but on the contrary, the greatest pride and
pleasure in thinking of her as the autocrat and supreme mistress of
Rosmore, to ask any splendid visitor she liked, even Royalty, should it
cost him half his fortune. It was, however, a little bewildering when it
was not Royalty but Jane Brown.
“But I don’t think she can come,” said Marion’s little monotonous voice
coming in, “so you may put your mind at rest, papa, for she would not
like to leave the house with just Bell in it. She is thinking of selling
the things, for she will not want to keep up a big house like that when
there is nobody but herself, and no allowance; but she will have to take
care of them all the more not to let them be spoiled by a servant-lass.
And she will think she has not good enough clothes----.” Marion here
made a very perceptible examination of Mrs. Rowland’s dress, which was
not “a silk” nor “a satin,” but simple grey stuff and made in the most
unassuming way: “I don’t see that,” she continued with an obvious
comparison, “for she has some very nice silks, and she might come very
well, so far as that goes. But for another thing, she could not spend
the money. When it was for us, she never minded; but she always grudges
a railway ticket for herself.”
“What do you mean about selling her things, and no allowance?” said
Rowland hastily; but he added, “We need not discuss that here. But of
course, my dear, what you decide upon must be done.”
“So I intend,” said Mrs. Rowland, with a laughing bow to him, as of a
queen to a king. “We shall have a great deal to settle when we get home,
and I hope that everybody will be pleased with my despotism.”
“Oh, as for that,” said Marion, taking upon herself again the role of
expositor, “I’ve always read that a lady should be the mistress in her
own side; the gentleman, outside; and she’s not to meddle with him; but
the lady----”
“I assure you I shall meddle with him, Marion. The flower garden, for
instance, I shall take entirely into my hands. In short, I don’t know
the thing in which I shall not meddle.”
“The lady,” said Marion, raising her voice a little, “should have all
the house to manage, and the children, and all within her own sphere.
The books all say that woman’s sphere is Home.”
“With a great many capital letters.”
“You may be meaning some joke with your capital letters, but I’m saying
just what I’ve read. It’s nothing about politics nor business--not that
kind of thing; but to sit at the fireside and give her orders, and
everybody to be at her beck and call.”
“Excellent, Marion; you have said your lesson very well, and I hope you
mean to be at this lady’s beck and call.”
“I don’t know,” said Marion, “that it means the grown-up children: for
when you get to be eighteen or so, you are supposed to be able to judge
for yourself. But it was no lesson. It was just what I’ve read in books.
I have always been very fond of reading books.”
“You could not do better, my dear; and we must read some books
together,” said Evelyn. Then she thought there had been enough of Marion
for the moment. “The woods are beautiful,” she said, “and I see, James,
the mountains you told me of. Is that Ben Ros--that great shoulder
rising over the loch, or the peak in the distance that is so blue and
misty? You must tell me when we have time, every name. I think I should
prefer to stop the carriage and walk the rest of the way.”
“That is just what I would like you to do,” said her husband, “for every
step’s enchanted ground.”
Marion did not know what to do, whether to join them in this walk, as
curiosity suggested, or to drive home in state, as if it were she who
was the mistress of everything. The paths, however, were damp in places,
as they usually were, and she reflected that she could walk when she
pleased, but that if her pretty white dress was marked with mud, it
would have to be washed, and that nothing, not even a white dress,
looks so well after it is washed. And also her shoes were thin: they
were worked with beads, and she wore them over a pair of openwork
stockings. The boggy parts would be just ruination to her pretty shoes.
Mrs. Rowland had strong leather ones, and a grey dress that would take
no harm. “For my part,” she said, “I would be better in the house, for I
have a headache. I would like to come too, but if I got my feet wet, it
would give me a cold, and I might never get well.”
“By all means drive home,” said Evelyn. “Your shoes are much too thin
for walking, and see that tea is ready when we come in. Now, James.”
He took her away to the opening, from which the loch was visible, and
pointed out to her, hill by hill, the whole range, lying under the
evening sunshine and the flying shadows; now one peak coming out, now
another, now a sudden gleam, like some sun-signal calling forth an
unseen knoll into glory, among all the other unnoticed slopes, now a
deep purple mantle of royal wealth coming down over the great veiled
shoulder of a chosen mountain. During the few minutes they stood there
gazing, a hundred transformations took place upon those heights. At what
strange games were those Titans playing, veiling themselves, unveiling,
retiring into mist, breaking out as with a shout, into the sudden light.
Evelyn, for a moment, forgot everything as she gazed at this rapid drama
of the hills. She was recalled to herself by the tremble in Rowland’s
arm as he held hers. He had been as happy and proud in her enthusiasm
as if the beloved mountains were part of himself: but there was
something more important to him even than the hills. He gave her arm a
close pressure as she was silent for a moment, and said close in her
ear, with a tremor in his tone, “Evelyn, what do you think of them?”
The question brought her back to a prospect more near and important than
the hills, one that she had been glad to put aside for the moment in
favour of this wonderful and delightful scene. The moment at least was
something gained, and she said to herself that she never would forget
it--this first glimpse at the surroundings of her home. The other now
had to be faced again, the interior landscape, which was not so
delightful. “I think, dear James,” she said, “that they are both very
shy and very strange between us two. They don’t know me at all, and you
so little. Nature works, of course, on your side, but even Nature must
have a little time. And for me, Nature is rather against me than for me.
We must wait before we form any judgment.”
“But your first impression is--bad, or if not bad, yet----”
“It is not bad at all! Don’t take up false ideas. They are both so
shy----”
“Shy! Evelyn! do you think what you are saying? Marion shy!”
“It is because she is shy that she chatters, poor little girl! Did you
never know that was a form it took? Archie is silent, and she chatters.
He is a little--rude, and she is a little--talkative. It is all from
the same cause. You did not tell me what a pretty little thing she was,
James.”
“Pretty!--do you think she is pretty? She is not the least of your kind,
Evelyn.”
“I hope she is of a better kind. Next spring, when she has learned to
make her courtesy, and is dressed regardless of expense; for I will take
_carte blanche_, I warn you, so far as Marion is concerned--you shall
see! She will make a sensation at the drawing-room.”
A glow of beatitude came over James Rowland’s face. He almost hurt her
arm with the pressure he gave it. “You think so? You really think so,
Evelyn--before the Queen?” The warmth ran to his very heart, and came
back in a sort of dew of happiness to his eyes. His little girl before
the Queen! perhaps to be noted by that mother sovereign herself with a
kindly eye. _His_ child! and he there to look on, paying the homage it
would be more than his duty to pay. He stood for a moment clasping
Evelyn’s arm, too glad to speak. And then--for the pain is more
persistent than the pleasure--he added in a low confidential tone. “But
the boy--is just a lout, poor lad?” It sounded like an assertion, but it
was a question, and of the most anxious kind.
“He is no lout, you unjust, abominable parent. I see at once the eyes
you told me of--his mother’s eyes.”
“One would think, to hear you, that you had seen his mother!”
“I have through your eyes, James. I will never forget that first day.
And I thought of her as we came across the Clyde.”
“It was more than I did, Evelyn--with you there.”
“She must have been there with you often, and thought you were talking
nonsense; and now you have got all you ever dreamed of----”
“And more!” he said; “and more!” again pressing her arm.
“And now we have got to make it up,” said Evelyn, “to the two whom she
has left to you--and to me, through you, James.”
“She was an innocent, simple creature, Evelyn!”
“She was your wife, James. Don’t go into the house which you have
dreamed of for so long without thinking of her who never lived to be its
mistress.”
Rowland took off his hat. “I had a sore heart to lose my poor Mary,” he
said; “God bless her in Heaven, where she is; but I have got the best
blessing a man can have in Rosmore.”