And for all these things Effie cared nothing. This forms always a tragic
element in the most ordinary love-making, where one gives what the other
does not appreciate, or will not accept, yet the giver cannot be
persuaded to withdraw the gift, or to follow the impulse of that natural
resentment which comes from kindness disdained.
There was nothing tragical, however, in the present circumstances, which
were largely composed of lawn tennis at Allonby, afternoon tea in the
dimness of an unnecessarily shaded room, or walks along the side of the
little stream. When Effie came for the favourite afternoon game, the
sisters and their brother would escort her home, sometimes all the way,
sometimes only as far as the little churchyard where the path struck off
and climbed the high river bank.
Nothing could be more pleasant than this walk. The days were often gray
and dim; but the walkers were young, and not too thinly clad; the damp
in the air did not affect them, and the breezes stirred their veins. The
stream was small but lively, brown, full of golden lights. So far as the
park went the bank was low on the Allonby side, though on the other
picturesque, with rising cliffs and a screen of trees. In the lower
hollows of these cliffs the red of the rowan berries and the graceful
bunches of the barberry anticipated the autumnal tints, and waving
bracken below, and a host of tiny ferns in every crevice, gave an air of
luxuriance. The grass was doubly green with that emerald brightness
which comes from damp, and when the sun shone everything lighted up with
almost an artificial glow of excessive colour, greenness, and growth.
The little party would stroll along filling the quiet with their young
voices, putting even the birds to silence.
But it was not Effie who talked. She was the audience, sometimes a
little shocked, sometimes bewildered, but always amused more or less;
wondering at them, at their cleverness, at their simplicity, at what the
country girl thought their ignorance, and at what she knew to be their
superior wisdom.
Fred too was remarkable on these points, but not so remarkable as his
sisters; and he did not talk so much. He walked when he could by Effie’s
side, and made little remarks to her, which Effie accounted for by the
conviction that he was very polite, and thought it right to show her
those regards which were due to a young lady. She lent but a dull ear to
what he said, and gave her chief attention to Phyllis and Doris, whose
talk was more wonderful than anything else that Effie knew.
“It is curious,” Miss Phyllis said, “that there never are two
picturesque banks to a river. Nature provides herself a theatre, don’t
you know. Here are we in the auditorium.”
“Only there is nothing to hear,” said Doris, “except the birds--well,
that’s something. But music over there would have a fine effect. It
would be rather nice to try it, if it ever was warm enough here for an
open air party. You could have the orchestra hidden: the strings there,
the wind instruments here, don’t you see, violas in the foreground, and
the big ’cello booming out of that juniper.”
“By Jove!” cried Fred from where he strolled behind with Effie, “how
astounded the blackbirds would be.”
“It would be interesting to know what they thought. Now, what do you
suppose they would do? Stop and listen? or else be struck by the force
of the circumstances and set up an opposition?”
“Burst their little throats against the strings.”
“Or be deafened with your vulgar trombones. Fancy a brass band on the
side of the wan water!”
“It would be very nice, though,” said Doris. “I said nothing about
trombones. It would be quite eighteenth century. And here on the lawn we
could sit and drink syllabubs. What are syllabubs? Probably most people
would prefer tea. Effie, what do you think? you never say a word. Shall
we have a garden party, and music over there under the cliff?”
Effie had walked on softly, taking in everything with a mingled sense of
admiration and ridicule. She was quite apart, a spectator, listening to
the artificial talk about nothing at all, the conversation made up with
a distinct idea of being brilliant and interesting, which yet was
natural enough to these young people, themselves artificial, who made up
their talk as they made up their life, out of nothing. Effie laughed
within herself with involuntary criticism, yet was half impressed at the
same time, feeling that it was like something out of a book.
“Oh, me?” she said in surprise at being consulted. “I have not any
opinion, indeed. I never thought of it at all.”
“Then think now, and let us hear; for you should know best how the
people here would like it.”
“Don’t you see, Dor, that she thinks us very silly, and would not talk
such nonsense as we are talking for the world? There is no sense in it,
and Effie is full of sense.”
“Miss Ogilvie has both sense and sympathy,” said Fred.
This discussion over her alarmed Effie. She grew red and pale; half
affronted, half pleased, wholly shy and uncomfortable.
“No,” she said, “I couldn’t talk like you. I never talk except
when--except when--I have got something to say; that is, of course, I
mean something that is--something--not merely out of my head, like you.
I am not clever enough for that.”
“Is she making fun of us, Phyll?”
“I think so, Dor. She is fact, and we are--well, what are we?--not
fiction altogether, because we’re real enough in flesh and blood.”
Effie was moved to defend herself.
“You are like two young ladies in a book,” she said, “and I am just a
girl like anybody else. I say How-do-you-do? and Do you think it will be
a fine day? or I can tell you if anything has happened in the village,
and that Dr. Jardine was called away this morning to Fairyknowe, so that
somebody there must be ill. But you make up what is very nice to listen
to, and yet it makes one laugh, because it is about nothing at all.”
“That is quite true,” said Doris; “that is our way. We don’t go in for
fact. We belong to the speculative side. We have nothing real to do, so
we have to imagine things to talk about.”
“And I hope you think we do it well,” said Phyllis with a laugh.
Effie was encouraged to laugh too; but her feelings were very
complicated; she was respectful and yet she was a little contemptuous.
It was all new to her, and out of her experience; yet the great house,
the darkened rooms, the luxury and ease, the way in which life went on,
apparently without any effort on the part of this cluster of people, who
had everything they wanted without even the trouble of asking for it, as
in a fairy tale, harmonized with the artificial talk, the speculations,
the studies which were entirely voluntary, without any use as Effie
thought, without any call for them.
She herself was not indeed compelled to work as poor girls were, as
governesses were, even as the daughters of people within her own range,
who made their own dresses, and taught their little brothers and
sisters, had to do. But still there were certain needs which she
supplied, and cases in which she had a necessary office to fulfil. There
were the flowers for instance. Old Pirie always brought her in a
basketful whenever she wanted them; but if Pirie had to be trusted to
arrange the flowers!
In Allonby, however, even that was done; the vases refilled themselves
somehow, as if by help of the fairies; the table was always magnificent,
but nobody knew when it was done or who did it--nobody, that is, of the
family. Phyllis and Doris decided, it was to be supposed, what they
should wear, but that was all the trouble they took even about their
dress. Numbers of men and women worked in the background to provide for
all their wants, but they themselves had nothing to do with it. And
they talked as they lived.
Effie did not put all this into words, but she perceived it, by means of
a little humorous perception which was in her eyes though she did not
know it. And though they were so much finer than she was, knew so much
more, and possessed so much more, yet these young ladies were as the
comedians of life to little Effie, performing their drawing-room drama
for her amusement. They talked over the little churchyard which lay at
the opening of the glen in the same way.
“The Americans have not found out Allonby yet,” they said to each other.
“We must ask Miss Greenwood up here--or, oh! let us have Henry Holland.
But no, he will not go into any raptures. He has gone through everything
in that way. He is more _blasé_ than the most _blasé_ of Englishmen; let
us have some one fresh. How they will hang over the _Hic jacet_! And we
must have some one who knows the ballad. Do you know the ballad, Effie?
but perhaps you never heard of it, as you were born here.”
“Do you mean about Helen?” said Effie. And in her shyness she grew red,
up to her hair.
“Oh Helen fair beyond compare,
I’ll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for ever mair.”
“How delightful! the rural muse, the very genius of the country. Effie,
you shall recite it to us standing by the stone with a shepherd’s maud
thrown over you, and that sweet Scotch accent which is simply
delicious.”
“And the blush, dear, just as it is,” said Phyllis, clapping her hands
softly; “you will have the most enormous success.”
“Indeed, I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Effie, her soft colour of
shyness and resentment turning into the hot red of shame. “I wish you
would not try to make a fool of me, as well as of the place.”
“To make a fool of you! Don’t be angry, Effie, the phrase is enchanting.
Make a fool of--that is Scotch too. You know I am beginning to make a
collection of Scoticisms; they are one nicer than another. I only wish I
had the accent and the voice.”
“And the blush, Dor; it would not be half so effective without that.
Could you pick up those little particulars which Effie doesn’t
appreciate, with your dramatic instinct into the bargain----”
“Should I be able to recite Fair Helen as well as Effie? Oh no,” said
Doris, and she began, “Oh Helen fair beyond compare,” with an imitation
of that accent which Effie fondly hoped she was free of, which entirely
overcame the girl’s self-control. Her blush grew hotter and hotter till
she felt herself fiery red with anger, and unable to bear any more.
“If I spoke like that,” she cried, “I should be ashamed ever to open my
mouth!” then she added with a wave of her hand, “Goodbye, I am going
home,” for she could not trust herself further.
“Oh, Effie, Effie! Why goodness, the child’s offended,” cried Phyllis.
“And I had just caught her tone!” said the other.
Then they both turned upon Fred. “Why don’t you go after her? Why don’t
you catch her up? Why do you stand there staring?”
“Why are you both so--disagreeable?” cried Fred, who had hurried on
while they spoke, and turned back to fling at them this very innocent
missile as he ran; nothing stronger occurred to him to say. He had not
the vocabulary of his sisters. They watched him while he rushed along
and saw him overtake the little fugitive. It was a sight which
interested these two young ladies. They became contemplative spectators
once more.
“I wonder if he will know what to say?” Doris inquired of herself. “It
should be a capital opportunity for Fred if he knows how to take
advantage of it. He ought to throw us both overboard at once, and say we
were a couple of idiots, who did not know what we were talking about. I
should, in Fred’s place.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be the right way; but a man does naturally
throw over his sisters,” said Phyllis. “You need not be afraid. It was
fine to see her blaze up. Fury is not pretty generally--in papa, for
instance.”
“Ah, that’s beyond a sentiment. But in Effie it will only be a flare and
all over. She will be penitent. After a little while she will be awfully
sweet to Fred.”
“And do you really want him to--propose to her, Dor?”
“That is a strong step,” said the young lady, “because if he did he
would have to stick to it. I don’t see that I am called upon to consider
contingencies. In the meantime it’s very amusing to see Fred in love.”
“In the absence,” said Phyllis, “of more exciting preoccupations.”
“Ah! that’s true; you’re a marrying woman yourself,” was the remark her
sister made.
Meanwhile Fred had overtaken Effie, who was already beginning to feel
ashamed and remorseful, and to say in her own ear that it was she who
was making a fool of herself. How could she have been so silly? People
always make themselves ridiculous when they take offence, and, of
course, they would only laugh at her for being so touchy, so absurd. But
nobody likes to be mocked, or to be mimicked, which comes to the same
thing, Effie said to herself.
A hot tear had gathered into each eye, but the flush was softening down,
and compunction was more and more getting possession of her bosom, when
Fred, anxious, devoted, panting, came up to her. It was a moment or two
before he could get breath to speak.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Miss Ogilvie. That is just my
difficulty with the girls,” said Fred, promptly throwing his sisters
over as they had divined. “They have so little perception. Not a bad
sort in themselves, and devoted to you: but without tact--without your
delicacy of feeling--without----”
“Oh,” cried Effie, “you must not compare them with me; they are far, far
cleverer--far more instructed--far---- It was so silly of me to be
vexed----”
“Not silly at all; just what you would naturally be with your refined
taste. I can’t tell you how I felt it,” said Fred, giving himself credit
for the perception that was wanting in his sisters. “But you will
forgive them, Miss Ogilvie? they will be so unhappy.”
“Oh no,” cried Effie, with once more a sense of the ludicrous in this
assertion. But Fred was as grave as an owl, and meant every word he
said.
“Yes, indeed, and they deserve to be so; but if I may tell them that you
forgive them----”
“It is not worth speaking about, Mr. Dirom; I was foolish too. And are
you really going to have Americans here? I never saw any Americans. What
interest would they take in our old churchyard, and Adam Fleming’s
broken old gravestone?”
“They take more interest in that sort of thing than we do whom it
belongs to; that is to say, it doesn’t belong to us. I am as much a new
man as any Yankee, and have as little right. We are mere interlopers,
you know.”
Fred said this with a charming smile he had, a smile full of frank
candour and openness, which forestalled criticism. Effie had heard the
same sentiment expressed by others with a very different effect. When
Fred said it, it seemed a delightful absurdity. He laughed a little, and
so, carried away by sympathetic feeling, did she, shame-faced and
feeling guilty in her heart at the remembrance of the many times in
which, without any sense of absurdity, she had heard the same words
said.
“We are a queer family,” he continued in his pleasant explanatory way.
“My father is the money-maker, and he thinks a great deal of it; but we
make no money, and I think we are really as indifferent about it as if
we had been born in the backwoods. If anything happened at the office I
should take to my studio, and I hope I should not enjoy myself too much,
but there would be the danger. ‘Ah, freedom is a noble thing,’ as old
Barbour says.”
Effie did not know who old Barbour was, and she was uncertain how to
reply. She said at last timidly, “But you could not do without a great
deal of money, Mr. Dirom. You have everything you want, and you don’t
know how it comes. It is like a fairy tale.”
Fred smiled again with an acquiescence which had pleasure in it. Though
he made so little of his advantages, he liked to hear them recognized.
“You are right,” he said, “as you always are, Miss Ogilvie. You seem to
know things by instinct. But all the same we don’t stand on these
things; we are a little Bohemian, all of us young ones. I suppose you
would think it something dreadful if you had to turn out of Gilston. But
we should rather like any such twist of the whirligig of fortune. The
girls would think it fun.”
To this Effie did not make any reply. To be turned out of Gilston was an
impossibility, for the family at least, whatever it might be for
individuals. And she did not understand about Bohemians. She made no
answer at all. When one is in doubt it is the safest way. But Fred
walked with her all the way home, and his conversation was certainly
more amusing than that with which she was generally entertained. There
ran through it a little vein of flattery. There was in his eyes a light
of admiration, a gleam from time to time of something which dazzled her,
which she could not meet, yet furtively caught under her drooping
eyelashes, and which roused a curious pleasure mixed with amusement, and
a comical sense of guilt and wickedness on her own part.
She was flattered and dazzled, and yet something of the same laughter
with which she listened to Phyllis and Doris was in her eyes. Did he
mean it all? or what did he mean? Was he making conversation like his
sisters, saying things that he meant to be pretty? Effie, though she was
so simple, so inexperienced, in comparison with those clever young
people, wondered, yet kept her balance, steadied by that native instinct
of humour, and not carried away by any of these fine things.