It need scarcely be said that the young Saumarez had been early made
acquainted with Rankin’s cottage in the wood, and with the wonderful
qualities of the “sma’” family which he kept about him. The humours of
Roy and Dhu were by this time among the most cheerful features of the
house at Rosmore. That little pair went tumbling over each other with
ferocious curiosity into every corner, sniffing and investigating: they
gave each other the word when, in the far distance, a carriage began to
grind, or a footstep to disturb the gravel approaching the door--and
flew like two balls of fur, with two little pairs of gleaming eyes and
no legs to speak of, helter-skelter, head-over-heels to defend the house
with ferocious, if infantile, barking. They walked out with Mrs. Rowland
when she went out upon the lawn, making futile efforts to get upon the
edge of her dress, and so be carried along as in a triumphal car on the
silken train that touched the ground. They superintended every setting
out and returning home, all but opening the door of the carriage when
their mistress appeared. Archie had given them up to her with a sort of
revulsion of feeling, kicking them from him when he found that the
doggies hung on to his stepmother’s skirts in spite of all other
blandishments. He addressed them only in kindly intercourse when she
was out of the way, but when she appeared, gave a kick to one and tossed
the other down out of his hands. They had this quality that they never
were hurt, always came up again in a jovial entanglement of legs and
hair, and were not too proud to talk to any one who would talk to them.
Even the solemn butler, of whom Archie always continued to stand in awe,
had been seen in a corner on his knees with a supply of biscuits,
endeavouring to teach them to beg; which was an unsuccessful effort,
since the little soft unformed backbones were as yet unfit for the
effort. The young visitors, it is needless to say, were at once
initiated into the worship of Roy and Dhu, and to become the happy
possessors of other members of the family had early become the ambition
of both Rosamond and Eddy--genuine on her part, perhaps only a pretext
on his. For the worship of the dog is a very widespreading and varied
rite, followed by some out of a real understanding of those faithful,
little-discriminating, and often puzzled retainers of humanity, but by
many out of pure vacancy and for love of the inferior company of grooms
and kennel-keepers, who are the retainers, in their turn, of the nobler
breed. It was natural that Eddy should gravitate towards a place where
the dull hours were to be got through by such means. And Rosamond liked
the little humorous creatures, and was amused by the old gamekeeper, and
had pleasure in the quaint unknown aspect of the cottage life. Besides
all these, when they escaped one morning together from the house, at a
moment when Marion was out of the way, and Archie occupied, there was a
little pleasure in the mere act of escaping and in the opportunity for
consultations of their own. More than half their month in Rosmore was
now over, and they had occasion for a little mutual understanding. It
was a crisp morning of late October, very still, hoar frost white in all
the hollows, and not yet melted into dew on the trees. Heaps of yellow
leaves had come down in the night, and lay like gold at the foot of the
now thin and trembling birches. The red trunks of the fir trees came out
warmly in the sharpness of the atmosphere, and the big branches of the
rowan berries drooped in consciousness of the approaching fall.
“What luck,” said Eddy, “to get off for once without those other two, as
old Rowland calls them, at our heels.”
Rosamond assented briefly, but added, by way of qualification, “It is
you generally who are at Marion’s heels.”
“Look here, Rose,” said the brother, “you know the governor better than
I do. What was his object in sending you and me here?”
“To get rid of us for a month, and have no responsibility,” said
Rosamond promptly.
“Oh, come, that’s not reason enough for him. Did he mean me to make up
to this little thing here? I suppose she’s made of money--at least the
father is; but what he’ll give her for her fortune is an unknown
quantity. I don’t think he is very fond of her; do you? And I say, how
old is Mrs. Rowland?--something would depend on that.”
“How should I know how old Mrs. Rowland is; and what would it matter if
she were as old as--father himself?”
“She must be near it,” said Eddy thoughtfully, “or he would not have
gone after her in his young days. Of course if she has no children,
don’t you see, it makes all the difference. Let’s assume that she’ll
have no children: then he must leave all his money between those two,
and that would not be bad. If I am to marry for money, I don’t mean to
let myself go cheap.”
“You would be worth so very much to any woman!” said Rosamond in high
disdain.
“I am worth a decent sum,” said Eddy, “which is more than you are, for
as much as you think of yourself; I and the old tumble-down house, which
is what silly people like you admire so much--when the Governor hops
off. If this new place does him a great deal of good, as he believes it
will, I shan’t have such a good chance.”
“Poor father!” said Rosamond, but with perfect composure, “it is a pity
to raise his hopes.”
“So I think,” said Eddy: “when you’ve had _that_ before you for so long,
you ought to be able to make up your mind to it. And it isn’t as if he
did not have his fling in his day. However, the question is, what did he
mean when he sent us here? Was it you or was it me?”
“What do you mean by me?” said Rosamond with irritation; “father knows
quite well what I am going to do.”
“Oh yes, I believe you!” said Eddy, “doctoring or something, isn’t it?
That is all bosh. You must just do like the rest. The question is, will
old Rowland divide the money? when the one would be as good as the
other, and I shouldn’t mind very much. But if the girl has only a little
bit of a fortune, and the boy all the rest--that indicates you, my dear;
and as you are always admiring the country, I suppose you are making up
your mind to your fate?”
“I would not marry Archie Rowland if there was not another man in the
world,” said Rosamond calmly. “Indeed, you may say there is not another
man in the world, for I have no intention of marrying at all.”
“Then you are treating him as badly as can be,” said Eddy, “and you
ought to be turned out of the house.”
“I!” said Rosamond, raising her calm eyebrows a little. “Why? It is only
men who are pulled up for behaving badly. I am bringing him into shape.
He is a great deal better already, and you will see he will behave quite
decently at the ball.”
“If we could only find out,” said Eddy, who after all was but moderately
interested in that side of the question which did not concern himself,
“whether old Rowland means to divide the money! I should think he would,
an old fellow with a sense of justice and who has made his own money.
Why shouldn’t the girl have as much as the boy?”
“Why shouldn’t I have Gilston as well as you? That,” said Rosamond,
“cuts both ways.”
“That’s quite a different thing,” said Eddy. “Gilston isn’t money, the
more’s the pity; I wish it was.”
“You may be very glad it is not; for it would soon be gone in that case,
and nothing would be left.”
“Well,” said Eddy, reflectively, “it’s always bait to catch a fish; no
money, but a fine old house in the country, and a good name. The
question is,” he said with much gravity, “whether it’s good enough to
spend all that upon this little girl here, and perhaps find out at the
end that she was no such prize after all? Why can’t one go honestly to
the man and ask him, ‘What do you mean to give your daughter?’”
“You might try,” said Rosamond, with a laugh.
“And get turned out of the house! They would do it in France and never
think twice; but in England it must be love, forsooth--Love!” said Eddy,
with great disdain. “What is there to love in a little chit like that?”
“She is a pretty little thing,” said Rosamond, philosophically, “and she
is quick enough. She would soon be just like other people, if she were
about in town for a little. But Eddy, what is the use of talking when
you are far too young to marry? At your age father could not have
intended that.”
“I shall soon be old enough to be pulled up,” said Eddy, “on my own
account. Don’t you know I’ll come of age in the beginning of the year?
After that no one can come on the governor for my infant wants, don’t
you know. I wish they would: he wouldn’t give them a farthing, and I
should get all the fun; but they are far too cute for that. This Johnson
fellow, don’t you know----”
“The don?” said Rosamond; “has he lent you money? I thought these men
had never any money to lend.”
“Oh, that depends!” said Eddy. He burst into a great laugh, but
immediately restrained himself. “He could get me into a pretty scrape if
he liked, so I must keep friends with him. I mean to get Mother Rowland
to ask him to the ball.”
“How dare you call her Mother Rowland?” said the girl, stamping her
foot.
“Oh, dare! I dare do--whatever suits me,” said the young man. “Look
here,” he added, “I don’t want you to dance with him all the same.”
Rosamond turned upon her brother and gave him a look of scorn. It was
not often that she condescended to look at any one to whom she was
talking; but her glance was very direct and keen when she took the
trouble. And she did not make any reply. They were by this time at the
entrance to the gamekeeper’s cottage, and she swept in at the always
open door. “May we come in?” she condescended to say, but did not pause
for an answer. Old Rankin was sitting up in bed, taking his forenoon
refreshment: which he himself described as “supping a wheen broth.”
“Oh you’re welcome, my young leddy. Ye will have come about the dowg;
but I think it is mair civil, in an ordinary way, if you would just chap
at the door.”
“That’s what I say,” said Eddy; “but she takes her own way. I hope
you’re better, Rankin, and no rheumatism. It’s not so cold, for there’s
no wind this morning; but the hoar frost is still lying under the
trees.”
“Ay,” said Rankin, “there will be rain the morn. These white frosts aye
brings rain, no to say that it’s ever sweered to come. I’m muckle
obliged to you for asking for me. You’re the only one of the young folk
at the House that ever minds I am a man. And a very ill man. They think
I’m some kind of a creature for producin’ dowgs.”
“I am very sorry for you,” said Rosamond; “my father is like you, he
cannot move; but he does not like people to ask him how he is.”
“Ay, ay, ye hae a father like me? Poor gentleman, I’m sure he has my
compassion,” said Rankin, “especially if he has no favourite purshoot
like mine that makes the time pass.”
“Well, let us see your favourite purshoot,” said Eddy; “let us see them.
They are great fun, the little beasts.”
“I am no reduced to that stage of intelligence,” said the gamekeeper,
“to call the breeding o’ dowgs a purshoot. I just leave that to nature.
What I really am, and I’m proud o’t, is an antiquary. There’s no many
things ye can bring to me in the way of antiquities that would puzzle
me. I’ve seen when half o’ this,” he laid his hand on a paper on the
bed, “was my writing--whiles questions and whiles answers. It’s maybe no
a profitable kind of study. I make nothing by it in the way of money;
but it’s real entertaining. I’m just as pleased when a number comes in
with me, answering a’ the scholars and putting them right, or them
answering me and putting me right, as if it was so much siller in my
pooch.”
“Oh ay,” said his wife, in the background, “you have had an awfu’ troke
with the papers, John Rankin; but it would have sert ye muckle better if
you had written something that would be of use, and got a little by it.
Good siller is out o’ place in nobody’s pooch.”
“Do you mean to say that you--write for the papers?” said Rosamond.
“That do I, my bonny leddy; and ye should just recommend a study like
mine to your father, poor gentleman. You’ll see many a thing from me
there. I’m Ros-beg, that’s the name I took; which means the little Ros,
just as Rosmore means the muckle Ros, and Ben Ros the hill. I’m grand
upon Hieland antiquities, and considered one o’ the first authorities.
Ye’ll see, ye’ll see,” said Rankin, waving his hand as he held out the
paper to his visitor. It was a very well-known paper, one in which a
great many questions are put and answered. The reader will not need to
be told its highly respectable name.
“Is it you that has written all this about some bard--Donald--I can’t
say his name? And there’s an answer from Ben Cruachan, and one from Mr.
Davies, and G. Johnson--oh, Eddy! St. Chad’s, Cambridge!”
“I say,” Eddy had begun, “hand us out some of the doggies, and don’t
talk;” but when he saw the page which Rosamond held out to him, he
laughed out till the cottage rang. “Oh ho,” he said, “Johnson! Here is
a lark! Johnson! Now we’ll have some fun. I say, gamekeeper! Johnson’s
here.”
“What is your will, sir?” said Rankin, with great dignity. The purveyor
of dogs could take a joke, but not the contributor to _Notes and
Queries_. In the latter capacity, John Rankin veiled his bonnet to none.
“Why, Johnson, I tell you. Johnson’s here! Don’t you know what I mean?
Johnson, the don,” and Eddy laughed again till the tears ran down his
cheeks. “I’ll bring him to see you, old fellow. You shall have your
fight out, and I’ll back you, old boy, to him, six to one.”
“My learned correspondent!” said Rankin, with a look of excitement. And
then he turned to Rosamond. “Your brother is a wild laddie, but I
suppose what he says is true?”
“I suppose so,” said Rosamond, with great gravity, while Eddy did his
best to subdue the convulsions of laughter into which he had fallen. His
sister was impatient of Eddy’s joke, and of the whole matter. “Let us,
please, see the little dogs,” she said.
“Yes; but I’m far more interested about the other thing,” said Rankin,
“for I would like well to put forth my views in a mair extended form.
The space of the paper is real limited. They will sometimes leave out
just your maist conclusive argument. Dod! but I’d like a crack with Mr.
Johnson fine.”
“I wish you would not laugh like a fool,” said Rosamond, frowning. “What
is there to laugh about? Mr. Johnson is not nearly so nice-looking as
Mr. Rankin, and I think he’ll be disappointed in him. But you need not
go on making a ridiculous noise in this way. I wish to have one of the
little dogs to give to a lady I know. She will be very kind to it. She
is my grandmamma. She likes her dogs better than anything else in the
world.”
“The dogues are fine creatures,” said Rankin; “but no to be made a first
objeck. I dinna agree with that. A leddy that likes her dogs better than
anything else will just probably spile them, baith their health and
their moral nature. Ye will observe, mem, that I am not wanting to sell
my dogues. I have aye plenty of customers for them: the first houses in
the land has my dogues. It’s no as if I was keen to sell. She will no
doubt feed them in a ridiculous way--sweet biscuits and made dishes,
instead of good porridge and a bone at a time. Na, I think I’ll no give
you one for your grandmammaw, though I dinna like to disappoint a bonnie
young leddy. If it was for yoursel’ now--”
“I would like to have this one for myself,” said Rosamond, as the little
half-blind puppy curled on her lap and nibbled at her fingers. “It will
be like little Roy at Rosmore.”
“That will it!” said old Rankin in the fervour of generous acquiescence,
“or may be even finer. And ye shall have it, ye shall have it! I will
give ye my directions, and ye’ll make a principle of carrying them out.
If ye do that, ye’ll keep the little beastie in good health, and aye
clean and pleasant--and he’ll be a pleasure to ye a’ his days. There are
no finer bred dogues in a’ Scotland, though I say it that maybe
shouldn’t. And if ye’ll be guided by me, ye’ll just call him Roy too. It
is a fine handy little name. I call them all the same, like Dandy
Dinmont’s terriers in Sir Walter, as maybe ye will remember. It’s a kind
of token of the race: and ye may make real pleasant acquaintances about
the world, or maybe, wha kens, be directed to a braw gentleman that will
make ye a fine partner for life--just by the circumstance of having twa
doggies by the name of Roy, baith from Rosmore!”
Rankin ended with a faint guffaw partly at his own humour, partly in the
emotion of giving up to a stranger one of his cherished infants. He
dived again into the mysterious receptacle in which the puppies feebly
squeeled and whined, within reach of his hand, and produced, all warm
and blurred from that nest, another ball of fur. “Ye can tak’ your
choice,” he said; “this ane is of the line of Roy as well as that ane.
It is the last I have, and I dinna see my way to pleasure Lady Jean till
maybe geyan weel on in the next year. If ye were to fancy the twa, I
wadna grudge them to ye: for I think you know what you’re about with
dogues. Would you like to have it? Oh, it’s not to please me but to
please you. I can dispose of the double of what I have got, or am like
to get. There’s not a person comes to Rosmore but is keen for one of
Rankin’s dogues. But I’m that pleased with you and your sense, that, if
ye like, I’ll let you have the twa.”
Rosamond accepted the favour in her stately way. “Have we any money,
Eddy?” she said. It did not in the least trouble her when her brother
for answer turned his pockets inside out “It does not matter in the
least,” she said. “I should like to have them both, and the money will
come somehow.” She was not touched with doubt as Archie had been about
the possibilities of paying. She was aware that she was poor, and had
not a penny; but most things she wanted were procured for her in one way
or another. This had been Rosamond’s experience since ever she
remembered, and naturally it gave her mind a great calm.
“And yon you were saying about Mr. Johnson?” said the gamekeeper,
turning to Eddy when the bargain was made.--“Wha’s that chapping at the
door?” he added impatiently. “Some gangrel body with an e’e to the
dogues, and muckle Roy out there just a senseless beast that bids a’
body welcome, and hasna a bark in him. Janet, woman! wha’s that chappin’
at the door?”
“It’s I,” said a voice that made Eddy start “It’s a friend--of your
master’s, my good man.”
“My maister’s!” said Rankin, “Wha’s that, I would like to ken? Janet,
just shut the door upon his nose, the uncivil person. My maister’s! It
will be some English towerist body that kens no better,” he added
condescendingly with a wave of his hand. “You may let him come in.”
“Why, Rankin,” cried Eddy, “you are in luck! This is the very
gentleman--of St Chad’s, Cambridge. Johnson, come in--you’re in luck
too, I can tell you. Here’s the champion that holds another view. You’re
on the Welsh side, aren’t you?--here’s the great authority, Ros-beg,
that takes the other view.”
“What?” said Johnson, coming in a little blinded from the winterly
sunshine outside into the comparative gloom of the cottage, where the
window was half covered with the drawn blind to keep out the sun. Mrs.
Rankin had a notion, shared by many simple housekeepers, that the sun
puts out the fire. “Eh--ah, who are you? I’ll swear that’s Eddy
Saumarez’s voice.”
Rosamond rose up from her place by the gamekeeper’s bedside, and put
back the puppy. The very sound of this man’s voice offended her. To be
sure it was the usual thing for everybody to say Eddy Saumarez. She had
seen him discussed by that name in the sporting papers, the horrible
crumpled things which he left about--there was nothing surprising in it;
but there was something exasperating in the sound of his voice.
“Oh, Miss Saumarez,” he said, stepping back a little. Her presence
startled him as much as his appearance exasperated her.
“I think,” she said, “as you’ve found your friend, I’ll go back by
myself, Eddy. And good-bye, Mr. Rankin. I will pay the greatest
attention to your instructions when you send me the dogs.”
Then without taking any notice of the intruder, except by the slightest
of bows, Rosamond turned and walked away. She waved her hand to Janet,
but Janet was accustomed to scant ceremony, and was not offended.
Rosamond was vaguely uneasy about this man and his frequent
re-appearance, and Eddy’s intention of having him asked to Rosmore. Of
course Mrs. Rowland would do it, if she were asked. Rosamond was not
aware of the impression he had already made on Evelyn’s mind. Nor had
she any doubts as to the truth of Eddy’s description. Everything, she
was aware, had changed at the University as at other places. There were
no tests, and anybody might become a don. Of course, if he was a don,
there was no reason why he should not be given an invitation for any
entertainment. But only she, Rosamond, would not countenance him. She
would neither dance with him nor talk with him. His appearance meant no
good to Eddy if he were a hundred times a don. Eddy was a boy whom it
was impossible to keep out of mischief, whatever happened. If anything
went wrong, she felt sure her father would hold her responsible, which
would be extremely unjust, for what could she do? Thus she reasoned with
herself as she walked very quickly through the woods, hurrying home.
Home! is was not home. In about ten days or so, this visit would be
over, and if Eddy played any tricks, probably Mrs. Rowland would never
ask them again. And Eddy was almost certain to play tricks of one kind
or another. His flirtation with Marion must come to some end. And what
_did_ father mean by sending him there? Was it intended that he should
marry Marion? was Marion rich enough to make father wish that Eddy
should marry her? These questions became disagreeably present with
Rosamond as she walked back to the house, and gave her a great feeling
of insecurity and discomfort of every kind. It really was not safe to go
anywhere with Eddy: he was sure to get himself into scrapes and have
disreputable acquaintances appearing after him. A curve of annoyance
came over Rosamond’s smooth brow. It did not occur to her, however, as a
thing possible, that any blame in any other way could turn upon herself.