Jeanie fled to her own room, and all that had been said went vaguely
rolling and sweeping through her mind like clouds blowing up for a
storm. A hundred things he had said came drifting up--singly they had no
meaning, and without something in her own soul to interpret them they
would have conveyed no enlightenment to the uninstructed Highland girl.
Even now, though aroused and frightened, it was very hard for Jeanie to
put in shape or to explain to herself, what were the suspicions and the
uneasiness she felt,--“they don’t think of that out there, they don’t
put you in chains out there,”--what did it mean? Jeanie knew that there
was a kind of _persiflage_--though she did not know the word nor yet
what it meant--in which marriage was spoken of as bondage, and it was
said of a man that he was going up for execution on his marriage day.
That was said “in fun” she knew. Was Lord John in fun? Was it a jest,
and no more? But there was something uncertain, something dissatisfied
in Jeanie’s heart which would not be calmed down by any such
explanation. What, oh, what did he mean? She was not to be taken to
court, nor even to see Kirsteen. She was to go to that Italian bower
where all was trusted to love. An Italian bower sounded like Paradise to
Jeanie. She had not the most remote idea what it was. She was prepared
to believe anything, to allow of any difference between the conditions
of life there and those she knew. That might be quite right in an
Italian bower which was not right in a Highland glen. She was bewildered
in her innocence and simplicity; and yet that very simplicity gave her
the sensation that all was not well.
After this there was a long interval in her intercourse with Lord John.
He wandered about the glen and the hillside, but she took care never to
fall in his way, the excitement of eluding him making a kind of
counterpoise for the absence of the excitement there used to be in
meeting him. And then he began to make frequent calls, to endure
interviews with Drumcarro and inquire into Mrs. Douglas’s ailments in
order to see Jeanie, to whom he directed the most appealing looks. And
the impression and suspicion gradually died away from her mind. When she
met him by accident after this interval out of doors, and he was free to
demand explanations, Jeanie hung her head and said nothing. How could
she explain? She had nothing to explain. And once more, though with
self-reproach, the daily walks and talks were resumed. In her dull life
it was the only relief. Her mother was growing more and more helpless
and wanted more and more attention. And when Jeanie stole out from her
long nursing for a breath of air no doubt it pleased and exhilarated her
to see him waiting, to receive his welcome and all the tender words he
could think of. Drumcarro himself saw them together, and made no remark.
Marg’ret saw them together and was glad and proud to see the favourite
of the house courted by the Duke’s son. Thus no one helped Jeanie, but
everything persuaded her against her own perception that all was not
well.
That perception, however, grew stronger and stronger, but with it a
longing of Jeanie’s forlorn youth for the only pleasure that remained in
her life. He flattered her so, he conveyed to her in every word and look
such evidence of her own delightfulness, of her power over him, and his
devotion to her! And all the rest of life was so overcast to Jeanie, so
dull and grey, so destitute of pleasure. It was like a momentary escape
into that Italian bower of which he spoke, to go out to him, to see his
eyes glowing with admiration, to hear of all the delightsome things
which were waiting for her. Day by day it became more clear to Jeanie
that Lord John’s love was not like that of those downright wooers at
whom she had once scoffed, who would have her answer yes or no, and left
nothing vague in respect to their wishes. It occurred to her too, though
she would not permit it to put itself into words, even in her mind, that
his love was not like that which she had been so sure of in Lewis
Gordon’s eyes, but which had never been spoken. Lord John was bold,
there was no timidity nor reverence in his look, he was confident,
excited, sure that he had her in his toils. All these the girl saw with
the perspicacity of despair--yet could not free herself or break away.
With him she divined there might be shame lying in wait for her, but
with him, too, was all that was brilliant and fair in life. A time of
splendour, of pleasure, of joy, if after that despair--while within her
own possibilities there was nothing but the given routine, the dull
existence in which nothing ever stirred, in which no pleasure was. Oh,
if only something would come, she cared not what. Death or a
saviour--what did it matter?--to carry Jeanie away.
And now Kirsteen had come and gone. Kirsteen who was her natural
saviour, the only one who could have done it. Kirsteen who knew _him_,
and said that he was true. The wail, “Take me with you!” had come from
Jeanie’s very heart. But Kirsteen had gone away, and every hope had
failed. And as for the party at home they were all elated by the visits
of Lord John, all expectant of a grand marriage, which would bring back
something of the old _prestige_ to Drumcarro. “When ye are so near the
head, Jeanie, I hope you’ll be mindful of the branches,” said Mary.
“It’s not just an invitation to the ball which everybody is asked to
that will satisfy me then.” No thought of possible wrong was in the
innocent fancies of all these people. They ought to have known, but they
did not. They ought to have taken fright, but no alarm came to them.
The man who would try to wrong a Douglas, Mary thought, could never be
born.
There had been again a pause during the time when the atmosphere of
death had surrounded the house. Jeanie had seen him pass from a window.
She had heard his voice at the door inquiring for the family. He had
sent some flowers, an unusual and unexpected compliment, to decorate the
death-chamber, for to put flowers on a coffin or a grave was not then
the habit in England and still less in Scotland. All these attentions
had added to the elation and pleasure of the others, but had not
silenced the terror in Jeanie’s heart. And now all was over, the pause
for her mother’s death, the visit of Kirsteen, the hope she had of
something or of some one, who would interfere to save her. Even to hear
of Lewis Gordon had added to the fire in Jeanie’s veins. She would not
have him come to find her at his disposal, to know how she had suffered
in the thought of his desertion. No! he should find that there was some
one else who did not hold back, some one who would not let her go, some
one--oh, hapless Jeanie!--whom she could no longer escape, towards whom
she was drifting without any power to stop herself though it should be
towards tears and shame. Better even that, Jeanie said to herself, than
to wait upon the leisure of a man who thought he could let her drop and
take her up again at his pleasure. Her mind was disturbed beyond
description, confused and miserable. She was afloat upon a dreadful
current which carried her away, from which some one outside could save
her, but not herself, against which she seemed now to have no force to
struggle more.
Jeanie made still another stand, lashing herself, as it were, against
the violence of that tide to the companions whom for the moment she had
in the house with her, even to Mary by whom she could hold, a little in
want of other help. Mary was not a very enlivening companion for the
girl--all she could talk about was her children, and the vicissitudes of
her household, and the wit and wisdom of little Colin. But Mary was not
exigeant as to her listeners. So long as she was allowed to go on in her
monologue her companion was called upon for no reply. And thus Jeanie’s
thoughts had full scope, and increased instead of softened the tension
of being in which she was; she seemed unable to escape that current
which drew her unwilling feet.
She met him again on the last day of the Glendocharts’ stay. Though Mary
gave her so little help, Jeanie regarded with terror the time of her
sister’s departure. She felt as if then her last hope would fail her.
There would be no longer anything to which to cling, any counterpoise to
the influence which was hurrying her to her destruction. She had gone
out in the afternoon with a bad headache, and a still worse tremor and
throbbing in her heart, feeling that need for the fresh air and the
stillness outside, and a moment’s exemption from the voices and the
questions within, which people in agitation and trouble so often feel.
She had not thought of Lord John at all, or of meeting him. She felt
only that she must breathe the outer air and be alone for a moment, or
else die.
She sat down upon the same fallen tree on which she had sat with
Kirsteen. The voice of the linn was softer than ever, stilled by the
frost into a soothing murmur. The bare trees stirred their many branches
over her head, as if to shield her from any penetrating look, whether
from earth or sky. “Oh, what am I to do?” she said to herself. How often
these words are said by people in mortal perplexity, in difficulty and
trouble. What to do, when you have no alternative but one, no temptation
but one? But everything was against Jeanie, and all, who ought to have
protected her, fought against her, and made it more and more difficult
to resist. She bent down her face into her hands, and repeated to
herself that question, “What am I to do?--What am I to do?” Jeanie did
not know how long she had been there, or how much time had elapsed
before with a start, and a sense of horror, her heart struggling to her
throat, she felt a pair of arms encircle her, and a voice in her ear:
“Crying, Jeanie! Why should you cry--you who should never have a care?
You would never have a care if you would trust yourself, as I am
imploring you to do, to me.”
Poor Jeanie’s heart was sick with conflicting emotions, with the
temptation and the strong recoil from it. She could make no reply, could
not lift her head, or escape from his arms, or control the sudden access
of sobbing that had come upon her. Her sobbing became audible in the
stillness of the wintry scene, through the sound of the linn and the
faint rustling of the trees. “Oh, go away and leave me! Oh, let me be!”
Jeanie said among her sobs. Perhaps she did not altogether mean it,
neither the one thing nor the other--neither that he should go nor stay.
He stayed, however, and talked more earnestly than he had ever done
before. Not of the Italian bower, but of the two living together,
sharing everything, never apart. He had the house all ready to which he
would take her, he said; a house fit for her, waiting for its
mistress--everything was ready but Jeanie. And why should she hold back?
Did she not know he loved her? Had she any doubt? She could not have any
doubt; all his study would be to make her happy. She knew that he had no
other thought. “Jeanie, Jeanie, only say yes; only yield that pride of
yours; you know you have yielded in your heart.”
“No,” cried Jeanie, sitting upright, drawing herself from him. “No, I
have not yielded. There is but one way. Go and ask my father, and then I
will go with you. I will go with you,” she repeated, one belated sob
coming in breaking her voice, “wherever you want me to go.”
“Speak to your father? But you know that is what I cannot do. I have
told you already I would have to speak to my father, too. And he--would
put me into a madhouse or a prison. You know, my sweet love, for I have
told you--but must we be parted by two old fathers with no feeling left
in them? Jeanie, if you will be ready by ten o’clock, or any hour you
please, I will have a postchaise waiting. Oh, Jeanie, come! Just a
little boldness, just one bold step, and then nothing can harm us more;
for we’ll be together--for ever!” said the young man in his fervour. She
had risen up, putting him away from her, but he pressed to her side
again. “You have gone too far to go back now,” he said. “Jeanie, I’ll
take no denial. To-night, to-night, my lovely dear.”
“No,” she said, her heart throbbing as if it would break, putting one
hand against his shoulder to push him away from her. “Oh, no, no!” but
her eyes met the glowing gaze of his, and the current was seizing her
feet.
“That means yes, yes--for two no’s make a consent,” cried Lord John,
seizing her again in his arms.
Drumcarro had scoffed at Kirsteen and her warning, but like many another
suspicious man, he had remembered the warning he scorned. He had kept an
eye upon all Jeanie’s movements since that day. On this afternoon he had
seen her steal out, and had cautiously followed her. It was not
difficult on the soft grass, doubly soft with the penetrating moisture
like a bank of green mossy sponge, to steal along without making any
noise; and the trees were thick enough to permit a wayfarer to steal
from trunk to trunk undiscovered, especially when those who were watched
were so altogether unafraid. Thus Drumcarro, his tall shadow mingled
with the trees, had come close to the log on which they sat, and had
heard everything. No scruple about listening moved his mind. With his
hand grasping a young birch, as if it were a staff, he stood grim and
fierce, and heard the lovers talk. His eyes gave forth a gleam that
might have set the wood on fire when he heard of the postchaise, and the
young tree shivered in his hand. Jeanie was at the end of her powers.
She put up her hand to her face to cover it from the storm of her
lover’s kisses. His passion carried her away. She murmured, _No, no!_
still, but it was in gasps, with her failing breath.
“You’ll come, you’re coming--to-night--and hurrah for love and freedom,”
cried Lord John.
At this moment he was seized from behind by the collar of his coat--a
furious hand full of force and passion caught him with sudden, wild,
overpowering strength--Lord John was young but not strong, his slim form
writhed in the sudden grasp. There was a moment’s struggle, yet scarcely
a struggle, as Drumcarro assumed his choking hold. And then something
dashed through the air with the speed and the force of a
thunderbolt--flung by sheer force of passion. A gasping cry, and an
answering roar of the linn as if to swallow down in its caves the object
tossed and spinning down--a flash far below. And in another moment all
was still.
What was it that had been done? Jeanie looking up to see her father’s
transformed and impassioned face, and finding herself free, had fled in
the first impulse of terror. And on the log where the lovers had been
seated, the old man sat down quivering with the strain he had made,
wiping the drops of moisture from his forehead. He was old, but not
beyond the strength of his prime; the unaccustomed effort had brought
out the muscles on his hands, the veins upon his forehead. The blood was
purple in his face. His capacious chest and shoulders heaved; he put his
hand, the hand that had done it, to his mouth, to blow upon it, to
relieve the strain. He sat down to recover his breath.
How still everything was!--as it is after a rock has fallen, after a
tree has been torn up, the silence arching over the void before any
whispering voice gets up to say where is it. The waters and the sighing
branches both seemed still--with horror. And Drumcarro blew upon his
hand which he had strained, and wiped the perspiration from his face.
After a while he rose, still panting a little, his feet sinking into the
spongy grass, and went homeward. He met nobody on the way, but seeing
Duncan in the yard where he was attending to the cattle, beckoned to him
with his hand. Duncan came at the master’s call, but not too quickly.
“Ye were wanting me, sir,” he said. “No--I was not wanting you.” “Ye
cried upon me, maister.” “No, I did not cry upon you--is it me that
knows best or you? Go back to your beasts.” Drumcarro stood for a moment
and watched the man turn back reluctantly, then he raised his voice:
“Hey, Duncan--go down yonder,” pointing his thumb over his
shoulder--“and see if anything’s happened. I’m thinking there’s a
man--tummult over the linn.” Having said this the master went quietly to
his own room and shut himself up there.