Eddy had gone, and a silence, that seemed to radiate round the house
like a special atmosphere, fell upon Rosmore. Winter, which had been
only threatening, dropped all at once in torrents of sweeping rain and
wild winds that shook the house. It requires a lively spirit at any time
to stand up against the pale downpour which falls in sheets from the
colourless sky between the large dull windows and the cowering trees,
and shuts out every other prospect: but when there is misery within, the
climax afforded by that dismal monotony without is appalling. The two
girls scarcely knew what it was; it was the re-action after the ball,
which had been such a great thing to look forward to, and now was over,
and everything connected with it: no more preparations or
consultations--everything swept away and ended. It was the departure of
everybody, even “the boys,” as Marion called them, Archie and Eddy, who
had been the constant companions of “the girls” in all their walks and
talks: quite enough to account for the dismal dullness which fell over
these two unfortunate young women like a pall. Rosamond had not gone
with her brother, partly because she was under her father’s orders to
remain, and partly because a great fear of some discovery, she did not
know what, which might be made after Eddy was gone, and for which he
would need an advocate and champion on the spot, was in her mind. Eddy
had so often wanted a defender; there had been so often discoveries made
after he had got himself out of reach of censure; and it was so much
more likely in this particular matter, which was disturbing the house,
whatever it might be, that it was Eddy and not Archie who was to blame.
Rosamond thought, with a little contempt of Archie, that it was so
little likely he would be to blame. He had not spirit enough to go
wrong. He was so tame, so unaccustomed to do anything--and to do
something, even if it were wrong, seemed so much better than the nullity
of such a limited life. It seemed to Rosamond that Eddy, who was always
in scrapes, always doing something, and mostly wrong things, was twenty
times more interesting than the other, but far more likely to be the
author of this trouble which hung so heavy on the house than Archie was.
It seemed to the experienced sister that something was sure to happen in
a day or two to prove this; to bring back Archie and place her in her
accustomed position as her brother’s defender. That anticipation, and a
deep knowledge of the dreariness of the London house, all shut up and
dusty, with the dreadful ministrations of the charwoman, and the gloom
of the closed rooms from which she could not escape to any cheerfulness
of a club, kept her in Rosmore, though she was exceedingly tired of it
and of the society of Marion, now her chief companion. They were as
unlike each other as girls could be. Rosamond’s aspirations were not
perhaps very lofty, but that hope of departing from all the
conventionality (as she thought) of life, and setting up with Mabel
Leighton in lodgings like two young men, to work together at whatever
fantasy might be uppermost, was an opening at least to the imagination
which Marion’s limited commonplace had no conception of. Marion thought
of the glories of the coming spring, of going to Court and the dress she
should wear, and the suitors who would come to her feet. That duke!--she
had not made acquaintance with any dukes, and wondered whether there was
one young enough and free, so as to realize Eddy’s prophecy. She did
not even know that all that information could be acquired from
_Debrett_, nor was there a _Debrett_ in the house, had she been aware of
its qualities. The duke was a sort of Prince Charming,--always possible.
If it could only come about by any combination of fortune that Eddy
should turn out to be one! but that was a contingency which Marion knew
to be impossible, and upon which she did not suffer herself to dwell.
It was in reality a sign of her simplicity and unsophisticated mind that
she gave herself up so unhesitatingly to this dream. Rosamond knew a
great deal better: she knew for one thing that there was no duke in the
market--a fact hidden from poor Marion--and that suitors do not
precipitate themselves at the feet even of a rich young woman in
society, unless she is a fabulously rich young woman. Rosamond was also
much too experienced to imagine for a moment, as the simple Marion did,
that whatever Archie had done he would be summarily disinherited and all
his advantages handed over to his sister. There had been a row, Rosamond
was aware, but it would pass over as rows did in families, and the son
would have his natural place, and May would but be a prettyish underbred
girl the more, with a good deal of money, but not that fabulous fortune
which alone works miracles. Rosamond did not think very highly of
Marion’s chances; and all that she thought about Archie was a hope that
her father might not see him and build any plans upon him in respect to
herself.
While, however, the girls, in waterproofs, took occasional walks
together, not knowing how to make conversation, two creatures speaking
different languages, and found time hang very heavy on their
hands--indoors the elder pair also passed the days heavily, with an
absence of all meaning and motive in their life, such as aggravates
every trouble. It is always a difficult matter for a man who has led a
busy life, full of work and its excitements, to settle down in the
country, especially if he has no estate to manage,--nothing to do, as
people say, but enjoy himself. And no doubt this first setting in of
winter and the virtual separation from the world caused by the
persistent bad weather, would have been, under any circumstances, a
trial of James Rowland’s cheerfulness and patience. But enhanced as this
was by the horror and shame of such a discovery--one that turned the
wavering balance of disappointment and hope, sometimes swaying to one
side and sometimes to the other, into an immovable bar of sharp despair
and bitter rage against his only son, the unworthy and shameless boy who
had left him so little in doubt as to his character and qualities--the
effect was terrible. Sometimes Evelyn persuaded him to go out with her
down the glistening gravel paths towards the woods, or even to the Manse
and the village: for he now loathed “the view” which he had loved, and
avoided that favourite peep of Clyde, as if it had a voice to taunt him
with the disappointment of his hopes. The minister and his wife received
them indeed with open arms, with the cordial “Come away in” of Scotch
hospitality, and brewed, or rather “masked” (or perhaps Mrs. Dean, an
advanced person, “infused”) the genial tea, and spread the steaming
scones, which are a simple (and inexpensive) substitute for the fatted
calf, gone out of fashion, for those rare guests. “Indeed, I thought we
were never to see you again,” said the minister’s wife, not without a
touch of offence. And when Evelyn put forward a hesitating excuse as to
the bad weather, the west-country lady took her up a little sharply.
“Lady Jean used never to mind. We are well used to the rain here, and it
does no harm. You just put on a waterproof and you are quite safe.
Indeed, I have heard people from the South say that though we have a
great deal of rain, it’s very rare to find a day that you can’t go out
sooner or later.”
“Mrs. Rowland will think, my dear,” said the minister, “that you are
less glad to see her now than to upbraid her with not coming before.”
“That means that I am interfering with his department,” said Mrs. Dean.
“I will not do that; and indeed, I have not seen you since the ball.
Such a success as it was! I have seen very grand doings in the old
times, when Lord Clydesdale had more heart to make a stir.”
“What was it that took away his heart?” said Rowland; “the old
reason--want of money, I suppose?” It revived a little spirit in him,
and the impulse of wealth to plume itself on its own advantages when he
heard of this. It pleased him to think that he could do so easily
without feeling it at all, what had cost Lord Clydesdale an effort which
he no longer cared to take.
The Deans, husband and wife, regarded the other pair before them with
that mild disdain which people in society feel for those who do not know
everything that everybody knows about the families and persons who form
the “world.” They were not perhaps exactly in society themselves, but
they did know at least about the Clydesdale family and all that had
happened to them. “It was not precisely want of money,” Mr. Dean said
cautiously, “though we all know, more’s the pity, that they are not
rich.”
“Oh! nonsense, Alexander,” said his wife, “as if everybody didn’t know
the whole story! It might be a struggle, but they always held up their
heads, and never made a poor mouth. What it was that took the heart out
of the Earl was a great disappointment in his family. Young Lord Gourock
was a very fine boy: you would never have thought it of him, but he just
fell into the hands of some woman. That’s the great danger with young
lads of family. You must surely have heard of it?”
“You forget that we have been in India, both of us, for years,” Evelyn
said quickly.
“Ah! that would account for it: but even in India these things are
known, among----” Mrs. Dean was about to say the right kind of
people--but she remembered to have heard that Mrs. Rowland _was_ a
lady--one of the Somethings of Northamptonshire--and forbore. “At all
events,” she said, “it was well known here. I wonder you have not heard
the whole story from Miss Eliza. She is a very clever person at finding
out, and she always knows every detail, but all in the kindest spirit. I
have always had a warm heart for poor young Gourock myself. He was such
a nice boy! I believe his father and Lady Jean don’t even know where he
is,” she added in a lower voice.
“Oh,” said the minister, “they will easily find out where he is when he
is wanted. You can always trace a man with a handle to his name.”
“When he has to come to take up the succession--which will be great
comfort to his poor father!” said Mrs. Dean scornfully. “But this,” she
added, “is but a melancholy kind of conversation; and your ball was just
beyond everything--such luxury--and the decorations--and the
band--and----”
Even Evelyn could scarcely bear any more, and Rowland did not even
pretend to pay any attention; he put away the scones (though they were
excellent) with a gesture that looked like disgust, and listened most
impatiently to something the minister had to say about the Teinds, and
the earnest need of an augmentation, and the objections of the heritors
to do anything. He had a vague sense that money was wanted, and that he
himself might get free if he made a large offer. “If there is anything I
can do, command me,” he said. “I may not be of much use in other ways,
but so far as money goes--Evelyn, don’t you think we should go before
the rain comes on?”
“But you have had no tea!” said the minister’s wife, “and the sky is
clearing beautifully over the hills, which is just the quarter the rain
comes from. Let Mrs. Rowland finish her tea.”
“We must be going,” said Rowland, and he went out first, leaving his
wife to follow. He said nothing till they had walked far along the edge
of the bay, and were once more in Rosmore woods, in a path overhung with
low trees, from which occasionally came a big cold drop on their faces
or on their shoulders. He had put his arm within his wife’s according to
his usual fashion, and half-pushed her before him in the preoccupation
of his thoughts. At last he spoke. He had made little or no reply to her
remarks, scarcely wishing, it seemed, to hear them as they came along.
“It will just be some vile woman that has got possession of him,” he
said abruptly, “like yon young lord.”
“Oh, James, we know nothing. I don’t believe that he is guilty at all.”
“Some vile woman,” he repeated, “just like yon young lord.” It seemed to
give him a sort of comfort that it was like the young lord. Is it not
indeed a kind of terrible comfort always to hear of other cases worse
than our own?
“I won’t repeat what I said,” said Evelyn, “but you know what I think.”
“Think!--think!” he said impatiently, “of what use is thinking? The
thing’s done: it was not done without hands. It will perhaps be
something in the house.”
“Something in the house!”
“Well!” he said querulously, “you need not repeat what I say. I have
heard of a curse upon a house, and that nothing throve that ever was in
it.” He paused with an effort, and then said with his hard laugh, “I am
speaking like a fool, but people used to believe in that in the old
times. What’s that fellow wanting?” he added angrily, “a man from the
stables! What right has he to speak to you?”
It was Sandy the groom, who touched his cap, and stood on the edge of
the path, desiring an audience. Sandy had no fear of being supposed
impertinent. He had spoken to Lady Jean, wherever he had met her, with
the familiarity of a respect which required no proof, and he regarded
Mrs. Rowland, who had shown claims to a similar treatment, with much of
the same confident and friendly feeling. Accordingly, he paid no
attention to his master’s threatening looks (“The auld man was in a very
ill key: he was giving it to her, het and strong, puir leddy,” was his
after-comment). “It’s just auld Rankin, mem,” said Sandy, who spoke a
little thick, turning over his words like a sweet morsel under his
tongue, as the minister said in his prayer, “he’s awfu’ anxious just to
have a word wi’ your leddyship.”
“Old Rankin!” said Evelyn surprised, “a word with me?”
“What do you want with Mrs. Rowland,” cried Rowland angrily, “do you
think she has time to go after every fool in the place? You can tell
your wants to me.”
“Oh, ay, sir, I could do that,” said Sandy, “but it’s no you he’s
wanting, it’s the leddy,--he’s terrible keen to see the leddy. We wad be
nae satisfaction to him, neither you nor me.”
“Tell him I’ll come and see him,” said Evelyn hurriedly. “You know he is
a very uncommon person, James. I will just walk with you as far as the
house, and then I will come back.”
“You had better go now,” he said loosing his arm. “You are getting like
all the other Rosmore people, taking every crow for a dove. I can go
home very well by myself.”
“But James!--”
He waved his hand to her, walking quickly away. Her company was a
consolation; and then to be without her company was a relief. He had got
to that restless stage.
“It’s just the gospel truth,” said Sandy, “the maister would have been
nae comfort to the auld man. It’s just the leddy, the leddy, he’s been
deaving us a’ with the haill day.”
“Is he ill, Sandy?”
“Na, nae waur than usual. He’s very frail, but nae waur nor usual. Hey,
Janet, here’s the leddy. She’s just coming, and I had nae trouble with
her ava.”
The cold drops on the trees came in a little deluge over Evelyn as she
crossed the little glen under the ash tree: she was half amused in the
midst of her trouble by the summons, thinking it might be a demand for
some comfort, or a complaint of some inconvenience which was about to be
made to her, things to which she had been accustomed in the country life
of old. Rankin lay as usual with his picturesque head and beard rising
from the mass of covering. He held out the large hand with which he
fished in the nest beside him for puppies, and gave it to Evelyn to
shake.
“I am sorry to hear you are not well,” she said.
“Oh, I’m just in my ordinary’,” said Rankin, “naething to brag of, but
naething to find fault with either--just warstling on as pleases the
Lord, and I dinna complain. Give the leddy a chair, Janet woman, and
just go ben the house yoursel, and bring me particular word what the
thermometer was last night. You can take a pencil and a bit of paper and
write it down, for I’m very particular to have the figures exact.”
“Oh, you needna make any of your fuil’s errands for me,” said Janet. “I
ken what you mean weel enough,” and the brisk little wife went away,
carefully shutting the door behind her. What did he mean? Evelyn grew a
little alarmed in spite of herself.
“I hear, mem,” said Rankin, confidentially leaning towards her out of
his bed, “that you’re in some trouble at the Hoose?”
“You hear--that we’re in trouble!” cried Evelyn in the last
astonishment. “If we are,” she said, “which I don’t allow, you would not
expect me to come and speak of it to you.”
“Wherefore no?” said Rankin. “Do you think, madam, that because I’m held
fast here, I’m no a man with sympathies, and a heart to feel for my
neebours? You’ll maybe think I’m taking too much upon me, calling the
like of you my neebours. But it was One greater than any of us that did
that. We’re a’ neebours in the sight of God.”
“That is quite true, no doubt,” said Evelyn, with a gleam of faint
amusement in the midst of her trouble, “but I don’t know--”
“Madam,” said Rankin, “I would take it very ill if ye kent something to
my advantage or that would maybe save a heart-break, and keepit it to
yoursel’.”
“I hope I would not do so in any circumstance,” said Evelyn.
“I think you wad not, and therefore I’m fain to speak. I’m a real
observant person, and given to muckle study of my fellow-creatures. I’ve
taken a great notion of you, Mistress Rowland. My opinion is that you’re
no the stepmother familiar to us in fiction, but a person with a real
good meaning towards your good gentleman and all belonging to him.”
“I hope so,” said Evelyn, half-amused, half-disturbed, by this strange
address.
“And we’ve heard you’re in trouble up bye, and Mr. Archie, a fine quiet
lad, sent out o’ the house in disgrace.”
“Mr. Rankin,” said Evelyn, “you really must excuse me for saying that
any gossip about my house----”
He held up his hand, bidding her to silence, and made a gesture as of
putting her back in her chair. “Whisht,” he said, “never mind that;”
then bending forward, in a tone so low as to be almost a whisper: “It’s
a’ lees,” he said, “it’s not true; it’s just a’ a parcel of lees.”
“What do you know about it?” cried Evelyn, greatly excited. “For God’s
sake, if you know anything, tell me,” she added, forgetting her
precautions in the shock. What use was there in pretending that his
information was not correct? He did not ask anything: he knew.
“I will do that,” said Rankin. “There is a young gentleman at the house
that is called Mr. Sawmaries, a very queer name.”
“Saumarez--yes--but he is gone.”
“Oh, he is gone? to rejoin the ither no doubt. I might have expected
that.”
“What other?” cried Evelyn, in great excitement.
“There was another,” said Rankin, “but not at the house; not a person,
maadam, to be presented to you--though I was muckle astonished to hear
of him at the ball: but nae doubt he just slippit in, favoured by yon
lad, when nobody was looking. Well, as I was saying, there was another,
a shabby creature, just a bit little disreputable Jew, or something of
that kind. What gave me a kind of insight into the Saumarez lad (that
was a clever laddie and no an ill callant, but ill guided) was his
trying to foist off this creature upon me as Maister Johnson of St.
Chad’s--a mistaken man and very confused in his philology, but still, I
have nae reason to doubt, a gentleman, and maybe a kind of a scholar
too, in his way.”
“Johnson! yes: but I have seen him; he was asked to the ball; I never
doubted--”
“Na, mem,” said Rankin, “I could swear ye doubted; but being a real
lady, and no suspicious as the like of me is always, you couldna believe
he was cheating. He might mean it only as a kind of a joke, ye never can
tell with these callants. But, madam, this is all very indifferent and
not to the purpose; what I’m wanting to tell is, that there was
something going on that was no building kirks between these young men.”
Evelyn was not acquainted with the figurative language of the humble
Scot, but she divined what he meant. She made a hurried gesture of
entreaty that he would go on: “Well! that’s just about all I know; there
was something the one wanted and the other was loathe to give. The
shabby body was just full of threats, and no blate about saying them
before me, a stranger; and young Saumarez, he was holding off, trying
his jokes, and to take his attention with the dowgs and various devices.
And syne they went out of my house in close colloquy. The wife is not a
woman of much book-learning, but she has a wonderful judgment. She said
to me, when she came in from showing them to the door. ‘Take you my
word, John Rankin,’ says she, ‘if there’s ony mischief comes to pass,
thae twa will have the wyte of it,’ which agreed entirely with my ain
precognition. I wouldna say but we thought of mair vulgar crimes, being
of the practical order ourselves. And I hear the trouble’s about a
cheque, whether stolen or what I cannot tell. But my advice to you,
maadam, as one educated person with another, is--just look for it
there.”
“Eddy!” Evelyn said below her breath, “Eddy!” Long before Rankin’s
speech had come to an end, her quick mind had realized the shock, felt
it to the bottom of her heart, staggered out of the course of her
thoughts for a moment in sheer dismay and horror; then with the sudden
spring of intellectual power quickened by pain had returned to the
simple question. Eddy! Eddy! who had been so sympathetic, so
affectionate, such true feeling in his eyes, such real zeal for the
house, so good to James, so generous about Archie. Ah! generous! then
she began to think and remember. If Rankin was right, he had introduced
that man on a false pretence to her house, and it had been difficult to
her to realize that Eddy was really so sympathetic. And surely there
were things he had said! Her head began to buzz and ache with the rapid
throng of thoughts, thoughts half understood, half seen only in the
hurry and rush of bewildering and confusing suggestion. The old
gamekeeper went on talking, but she did not hear him, and he perceived
what processes he had set in motion, and for a moment was silent too.
“There is just one thing, mem,” he said, “before you go,”--when Evelyn
rose, still bewildered, wading through the chaos of her own thoughts.
“The night o’ the ball--there’s aye een on the watch in a house like
yours--the body Johnson disappeared as soon as the gentleman arrived
that came from the bank, him that arrived in a coach all the way round
the land road. There was one that saw him leave go of the leddy that was
dancing with him--the nasty toad to daur to ask a leddy to dance!--and
jump out of the window behind the curtain, and was never seen more. And
Mr. Archie to get the wyte of it, a fine, ceevil, well-spoken young man!
Na, na, we will not bide that. Just you look in that direction, Mistress
Rowland, for there the true culprit’s to be found.”
“I will--I will think of what you say,” cried Evelyn, faltering. “It is
a dreadful light, but if it is a light--You are proud people, you
Scotch, you don’t like your own secrets to be exposed to all the world.
And you don’t know all the story, Rankin, only a bit of it. Stop these
people talking! you can surely do it, you who are so clever; think how
you would like it. And my husband, my poor husband!”
“I feel for Maister Rowland,” said Rankin, “but a house with a score of
servants a’ on the watch, how are ye to keep a thing secret? There are
nae secrets in this world. If there’s a thing ye wish to keep quiet,
that’s just the thing the haill countryside will jabber about. I’ll do
what I can. I’ll do what I can,” he added hurriedly, “but the only thing
to stop it is to bring the lad hame.”