John Erskine woke with the singing of the birds on the morning of
Midsummer-day. It was early--far before any civilised hour of waking.
When he suddenly opened his eyes in the sweet strangeness of that
unearthly moment, the sensation came back to his mind of childish
wakings in summer mornings long departed; of getting up in the
unutterable stillness with the sense of being the first adventurer into
an unknown world; of stealing down-stairs through the silent visionary
house all full of unseen sleepers, like ghosts behind the closed doors;
of finding, with heart beating and little hands trembling, half with
alarm, half with delight, the bolt low down on some easily opened door;
and of stepping out into the sweet dews, into the ineffable glory of
sunshine in which there was no shadow but that little one which was his
own. Nobody alive, nobody awake, except that riot of the birds in every
tree which wounded the ideal sense of unearthly calm, yet gave a
consolatory consciousness of life and motion in the strange quiet,
though a life incomprehensible, a language unknown. Strange that this
was the first recollection brought to him in his waking--for the next
was very different. The next was a confused sweet tumult in the air, a
sound in his ears, an echo in his heart: "They are coming, they are
coming!" He could not feel sure that somewhere or other in the words
there were not joy-bells ringing--a tinkle of chimes, now rising, now
falling, "as if a door were shut between us and the sound." "They are
coming," everything seemed to say. The air of the morning blowing in by
the open window puffed it at him with playful sweetness. The birds sang
it, the trees shaped their rustlings to the words, "They are coming."
Well, it was perfectly true. The Earl and Countess of Lindores, and
their daughter, Lady Edith Lindores, and perhaps their son Lord Rintoul,
and it might be other noble persons in their train, were certainly
expected to arrive that day; but what was that to John Erskine of
Dalrulzian, a country gentleman of the most moderate pretensions, with
nothing about him above mediocrity, and no claim to any part or share in
the life led by these great people? For the moment John did not ask
himself that question. He only felt after this long interval of solitude
and abandonment that they were coming back. He had been as it were
shipwrecked in this country with which he was so little acquainted,
though it was his own country: and the time of their absence had
appeared very long to him. He said to himself their absence--but it will
be understood that the absence of Lord Lindores, for example, had very
little importance to the young man. He would not have been deeply
concerned if that nobleman had been induced to serve his country and his
party in any other sphere. But it was safer, easier to say _their_, and
to make to himself a little picture of the reopening of the house, the
feeling of population and warmth that would breathe about it, the chance
even of meeting any day or hour smiles and pleasant looks on the very
road, and a sense of society in the atmosphere. He tried to persuade
himself that this was what he was thinking of, or rather he refused to
enter into any analysis of his feelings at all, and allowed his mind to
float upon a vague and delightful current of anticipations, which he
preferred not to examine too closely, or put into any certain and
definite form.
John had not seen either Lady Caroline or her husband since that unlucky
evening. When he returned home and took out once more Beaufort's letter,
it seemed to him that he could now read between the lines enough to have
enlightened him as to the real state of affairs. Why should Beaufort
hesitate to accept Lord Lindores's invitation, and ask to be received
into a much humbler house, if there had been no stringent reason for
such a preference? Beaufort had been very cautious in the wording of his
letter. He said that it was entirely uncertain whether he could make up
his mind to come at all; whether, indeed, in the circumstances he ought
to come. He explained the position in which he stood to Lord
Millefleurs,--not his tutor, which would have been ridiculous, but his
friend, to whom, to please his father, the young man paid a certain
deference. The control which he thus exercised was merely nominal,
Beaufort added, and quite unnecessary, since nobody could be more
capable of taking care of himself than Millefleurs; but it was a
satisfaction to the Duke--and as his future prospects depended upon the
Duke's favour, Beaufort did not need to point out to his friend the
expediency on his part of doing what that potentate required. He was
unwilling to relinquish all these prospects, and the permanent
appointment which he could confidently expect from the Duke's favour:
but still, at the same time, there were reasons which might make him do
so, and he was not at all sure that it would not be better to make this
sacrifice than to intrude himself where he was not wanted in the
capacity of attendant on Lord Millefleurs. Thus, he explained
elaborately twice over, his coming at all was quite uncertain; but if he
did decide to come, it would be an advantage and ease to him in every
way, to be sure of a _pied-à-terre_ in his friend's house, instead of
being forced to thrust himself into a party where his presence was only
invited as an appendage to his charge. It had occurred to John to wonder
why there was so much hesitation in Beaufort's mind as to an ordinary
visit; but he had accepted it, as a susceptibility natural enough to
such a mind--with perhaps a little inconvenient recollection of those
far-past days in which he had been admitted so entirely into the
intimacy of the family, which it was possible enough he might dislike to
visit on another standing. But now he saw what was the true meaning of
the anxious, cautious letter. Beaufort's object had been to ascertain
from him how the circumstances stood; whether he ought or ought not to
show himself among people who once held to him such very different
relations. The light of poor Carry's haggard face threw illumination
upon the whole matter. And what was he to reply?
It might give the reader but a poor idea of John's intellect if I were
to tell how long it took him to concoct his reply. Never had a task so
difficult fallen into his hands. It was not his part to betray Carry's
alarm and distress, or her husband's fierce and vindictive
gratification in this new way of humbling her. He assured Beaufort
diplomatically that Dalrulzian was at his entire command then and
always, but owned that he saw all the difficulties of the position, and
felt that his friend had a delicate part to play. To appear as
bear-leader to Millefleurs among people who had known him in different
circumstances would of itself be disagreeable, and all the more that the
position was nominal, and he had in reality nothing to do. John had
known Millefleurs at Eton, where he was always the drollest little
beggar, but quite able to take care of himself. It was too funny to find
him cropping up again. "But to waste such talents as yours," he cried,
with the greatest sincerity, "looking after Millefleurs!" The Duke ought
indeed to show his gratitude for such self-abnegation. Thus John went on
for a page or two, allowing it to be seen that he thought the position
undesirable, and that he did not encourage Beaufort's appearance in it.
"Of course you know beforehand that my house is yours in all
circumstances," he repeated--"that goes without saying;" but even this
was so put that it seemed to say, not "come," but "stay away." It was
not a pleasant office to John. To be inhospitable, to shut his doors
upon a friend, was unspeakably painful to him. It was something of which
he had thought that he never could be guilty. He longed to modify this
coldness by some explanation of what he meant, but he dared not. He had
promised to be a brother to Carry, and was it possible that he should
betray her? It seemed to him that he was betraying Beaufort instead, who
was more to him than Carry had ever been--pretending to open his doors
to him with one hand while he closed them with another. In such
circumstances a letter is very hard to write. Two or three copies of it
were written before one was produced good enough to be sent. At last he
put together the best version of his plea which he could accomplish, and
sent it off, very doubtfully. He might be losing his friend. Beaufort
could not fail to see the want of welcome in it, and he could not be
sure that it would save Carry after all.
All this had passed some time before the day of the return, and John was
convinced at heart that the purpose of his letter had been accomplished;
that Beaufort had understood him, and intended rather to sacrifice his
prospects than to make his appearance in a false position. John was
satisfied, and yet he was wounded to think that he had been the means of
wounding his friend. This, however, and all connected with it--all the
painful part of his life and of theirs, so far as he was acquainted with
it--passed out of his mind in the excitement and elation of the
consciousness that this day he should see "them" again. John spent the
morning in a kind of suppressed ecstasy, altogether out of reason. He
did not even ask himself what their return was to him. What it was to
him! a change of heaven and earth, a filling up of the veins of life and
quickening of every faculty. He did all he had to do in the morning,
with the consciousness of this coming event running through everything,
filling up every moment with that altogether foolish elation and
rapture. For this it was: a kind of subtle penetration of every thought
by something which was nothing--by an air, a breath, as from the
celestial fields. They were to arrive about three o'clock, and John's
foolish ecstasy lasted till about the moment when, if he were going to
meet them, it was time to set off for the station. He had taken his hat
in his hand, with a vague smile about the corners of his mouth, a light
in his eyes, and was just about to step forth for this happy purpose,
when there suddenly struck him, like a blow, this question,--"What right
have you to go to meet them?" He was so entirely taken aback by it, that
he retreated a step as if some one in actual bodily presence had put the
question to him, and opposed his exit. He gazed round him once,
appalled, to see where it came from; but, alas! it came from
nowhere,--from a monitor more intimate than any intruder could be--from
his own judgment, which seemed to have been lying dormant while his
imagination and heart were at work. What right had he to go to meet
them? Was he a relative, a retainer, a member of the family in any way?
What was he to the Lindores, or they to him? Everything, but nothing: a
neighbour in the county, a friend that they were so good as to be very
kind to; but this gave him nothing as a right,--only the position of
gratitude--no more.
He stood in a confusion of doubt and pain for ten minutes in his own
hall. There seemed an invisible barrier before his feet, something which
prevented him from moving. His smile turned to a sort of deprecating,
appealing gaze--to whom? to nobody--to himself; for was it not indeed
he, and only he, that stopped his own steps? At last he stepped out
boldly, flinging scruples to the winds. Why should he say to any one,
even himself, that he was going to meet them? Nobody could prevent him
walking along the highroad where everybody walked; and if they came that
way, and he by chance encountered them?--The smile returned to John's
mouth, lurking behind his soft, young, silky moustache. In that case it
would be ludicrous to think that there could be anything wrong. Saying
which to himself he hurried down the avenue, feeling that the ten
minutes' delay was enough to have made him late. He walked on quickly,
like a man with a serious object, his heart beating, his pulse going at
full speed. For a long way off he watched a white plume of steam
floating across the landscape. He could see it creeping along for miles,
stopping now and then, taking little runs as if to amuse itself. No,
that was not the train, but only one of those stray locomotives which
torment expectant spectators by wandering wildly up and down like
spirits of mischief. Before he reached the station, Lady Caroline's
carriage drove past, and she bent forward to smile and wave her hand to
John. But this encouraging gesture brought back all his personal doubts:
she was going by right of nature. And even Torrance had a right to come,
though he had no affection for any of them, nor they for him. Once more
John lingered and delayed. He knew very well they would be pleased to
see him, and if an extreme desire to see them and welcome them justified
his going, then surely he had that right. But the Earl would look
politely surprised; and Rintoul, if Rintoul was there, would look
broadly at him with that stony British stare which petrifies an
intruder. John did not at all like the idea of Rintoul. If there is a
natural sense of opposition (as people say) between women who may be
considered rival beauties, the sentiment is so natural a one that it is
shared by that sex which is so much the nobler; and as a woman sees
through a woman's wiles, so does a man see through the instincts of
another man. John felt that Rintoul would see through him--that he would
set up an instant opposition and hostility--that he would let him
perceive that where Edith was, a small country squire, a little Scotch
laird, had no business to push himself in. Rintoul, when John knew him,
had been an innocent little lieutenant--as innocent as a lieutenant
could be expected to be; yet he knew very well by instinct that this was
what was to be expected from him. And what if he were there to change
the character of the group?
John's pace slackened at the thought. From the moment when Lady
Caroline's carriage passed him he went slower and slower--still, indeed,
turning his face towards the station, but almost hoping that the train
would arrive before he did. However, country trains are not of that
expeditious character. They do not anticipate the hour, nor the
appearance of those who are coming to meet them. When he reached the
entrance of the station it was not yet in sight, and he had no further
excuse for dallying. But he did not go in. He walked up behind to a spot
where he could see without being seen, and there waited, with a sense of
humiliation, yet eagerness. It was a very undignified position. If he
meant to meet them, he should have done it openly: if he did not intend
to do so, he ought to have gone away. But John did neither: he watched
them coming with his heart in his mouth; but he did not go forward to
greet them when they came. He saw them get out of the carriage one by
one. He saw the hurried embrace and greeting of Lady Car to her mother
and sister. Then there could not be any doubt about it. Edith gave a
searching glance all about, sweeping the highway with her glance both up
and down. She was looking for some one. Who was it? Something of the
elation of the morning came back into his mind. For whom was she
looking? She even stood for a moment shading her eyes with her hand
before she followed her mother to the carriage, to cast another glance
round her. Could it be that she was looking for--oh, never mind who she
was looking for, John cried to himself, springing over a wall or two,
and speeding along by all the turns he could think of, till he reached a
point of the road where he turned and came quickly back. He had
resolution enough to forego the greeting at that first moment of
arrival; but the chance of still seeing them, and thus saving both his
pride and his pleasure, seduced him from all higher thoughts of
self-abnegation. He walked on slowly, but with his heart beating, and at
length heard the roll of the wheels coming towards him, the sound of
voices in the air. The family were all together in one carriage, all
joyful and beaming in the reunion. Even Lady Car's pale face was
lighted with smiles; and Lord Lindores, if he did not take much part in
the family talk, did not frown upon it. The coachman drew up of himself
as John appeared, and Lady Lindores called to him almost before the
carriage stopped. "Late, Mr Erskine, late!" she cried. "Carry told us
you were coming to meet us." John was half wounded, half consoled by the
accusation; he could not hear himself blamed without an impulse of
self-defence. "Indeed I was not late; I saw you arrive; but I
thought--you might think--it seemed presumptuous to thrust myself in."
"Why, here is chivalry!" said Lady Lindores with a smile, giving him her
hand. And then the flutter of conversation was resumed, one voice
interrupting another, putting questions to which there was no answer,
and making statements to which nobody paid any attention. John stood and
nodded and smiled by the side of the carriage for a minute or two. And
then that moving little world of expressive faces, of hasty words,
understood _à demi-mot_, of hearts so closely united, yet so different,
swept past him again with ringing of the horses' hoofs and jingle of the
harness, and lively murmur of the voices. It swept past, and John was
left,--why, just as he had been before--just as he knew he would be
left,--out of it--altogether out of it! as he knew very well he should
be. He walked along the way he had been going, away from his own house,
away from anywhere that he could possibly want to go, plodding very
silently and solemnly along, as if he had some serious purpose, but
meaning nothing--thinking of nothing. What a fool he was! Had he even
for a moment expected to be taken away with them, to follow them up to
Lindores, to be admitted into all their first talk and confidence? Not
he: he had known well enough that his place was outside,--that a
roadside greeting, a genial smile, a kindly hand held out, was all the
share he could have in the pleasure of the homecoming. Nothing
more--what could there be more? He knew all that as well as he knew
anything. Why then was he such an idiot as to walk on mile after mile he
did not know where, with his head down, and the most deadly seriousness
depicted on his countenance? At length he burst into a sudden short
laugh, and turning back went home slowly. Never had his house looked so
dreary, so secluded, so shut in before. He went in and ate his dinner
humbly, without a word (so people say) to throw at a dog. He had been
quite aware that he was to dine alone; he knew exactly the dimensions of
the room, the shabby air of the old furniture, the lowness of the
roof,--why then should he have been so depressed by all these familiar
objects? There was nothing at all to account for it, except that event
which had filled him with such delightful anticipations, and brightened
earth and heaven to him this morning. They were coming home. They had
come home. This, which was enough to change the very temperature, and
turn earth into heaven, was now the cause of a depth of moral depression
which seemed to cloud the very skies; and this without any unkindness,
any offence, anything that he had not fully expected, and been certain
would happen. But human nature is very fantastic, and so it was.
"You would hear, sir," said old Rolls, "that my lord and her ladyship,
they've come home."
"Oh yes; I have just met them; all very well and very bright," said
John, trying to assume an air of satisfaction. What he did succeed in
putting on was a look of jaunty and defiant discontent.
"They would naturally be bright coming out of that weary London to their
own place," said Rolls, with grave approbation. And then he added, after
a pause, "You'll be thinking now, sir, of making some return of a' the
ceevilities that's been shown you."
"Making a return!" this was a new idea to John. He looked up at the
Mentor who condescended to wait upon him, with alarm and almost awe. "To
be sure--you are quite right, Rolls," he said, with humility; "I wonder
I did not think of it before. But can we?" John looked round ruefully at
his old walls.
"Can we?" cried Rolls in high disdain. "You neither ken me, nor Bauby,
nor yet yourself, to ask such a question. If we can! That can we! If
you'll take my advice, ye'll include a' classes, sir. Ye'll have the
elders to their denner; and the youngsters, ye'll give a ball to them."
"A ball!" cried John, opening his eyes. The boldness of the suggestion,
the determined air with which Rolls faced his master, setting down his
foot as one who was ready to face all dangers for the carrying out of a
great design, touched the humorous sense in the young man's mind. He
laughed, forgetting the previous burden of his desolation. "But how to
give a ball, Rolls," he said, "in this small house?"
"I ask your pardon, sir," said Rolls, gravely. "In the light o' Tinto,
maybe it's a small house; but Tinto never was a popular place. Oh ay,
there were balls there, when he was a Seeker himsel'--I'm meaning when
he was looking out for a wife, before he married her ladyship, poor
thing! But this is not a small house if ye consider the other houses,
where everything that's lightsome goes on. And it's you that's the
Seeker now. You're wanting a leddy yoursel',--that stands to reason."
Here John felt that he ought to be angry, and shut the mouth of so
inappropriate a counsellor. But Rolls had no sense of his own
inappropriateness. He went on calmly, notwithstanding the laugh and
exclamation with which his master interrupted him.
"That's aye an attraction," said the old servant. "I'm not saying, sir,
though I think far more of you in a moral point of view--that ye're the
equal of Tinto as a worldly question. Na, we must keep a hold of reason.
Ye're no' a grand catch like the like o' him. But ye're far better;
ye're a son-in-law any gentleman in the country-side might be proud o';
and any lady, which is far mair important----"
"Come, Rolls, no more of this," cried John. "A joke is a joke; but you
know you are going too far."
"Me joking! I'm most serious in earnest, sir, if you'll believe me. I
served the house before you were born. I was here when your father
brought his wife home. Na, I'm not joking. I'm thinking what's best for
my maister and the credit of the house. The haill county will come; and
if ye think we're not enough to wait upon them, there's Andrew will put
on his blacks; and that sma' groom of yours--I would have likit him
bigger--is a smart lad, though he's little. The three of us will do
fine. I would recommend a denner, say the Wednesday. I'm fond of the
middle of the week, no' too near the Sabbath-day, neither one side nor
the other. The denner on Wednesday; and syne on Thursday night the ball.
There would be cauld things left that would eke out the supper, and it
would all be like one expense. The fiddlers you could have from Dundee,
or even Edinburgh. And the eatables--there would be no difficulty about
that. We mostly have them within ourselves. Chickens is aye the staple
at a supper. And I make bold to say, sir, though she is my sister, that
there's no person can tell what Bauby Rolls is capable of till they've
seen her try."
"Rolls," cried John, "you're ideas are too magnificent; you take away my
breath."
"No' a bit, sir; no' a bit," said Rolls, encouragingly; "if ye'll leave
it to me, I'll take all the trouble. We have always said--Bauby and
me--that if we were just left to ourselves--You will make out the list,
sir, and settle the day, and send the invitations; and if I might
advise, I would say to consult with Miss Barbara, who naturally would
come over for the occasion, as being your next friend, and take the
place of the mistress; and to send for some of your friends (I would
recommend officers for choice) would not be a bad thing; for young men
are aye scarce in the country, mair especially at this time of the year.
We could put up half-a-dozen," Rolls proceeded, "and trouble nobody; and
that would be a great help if they were good dancers, and fine
lads--which I make no doubt, sir," he added, with a little inclination
of his head, "friends o' yours would be."
This unexpected new idea was of great service to John in the dreariness
of the long summer evening. He laughed loud and long, and was infinitely
tickled by the gravity of the project in which Rolls saw no laughing
matter; but when he strolled listlessly along the Walk in the long,
long, endless light, with no better companion than a cigar, with wistful
eyes which sought the clear wistful horizon far away, and thoughts that
seemed to fill the whole wide atmosphere with an unreal yet
unconquerable sadness, the idea of making this silence gay, and seeing
_her_ here who had come home, who had changed the world, but not for
him; but who yet for him--who could tell?--might still turn earth into
heaven,--seized upon him with a curious charm. A ball at Dalrulzian
would not be a very magnificent entertainment, nor was there anything
very elevated or poetical in the idea. But there are certain conditions
of mind and moments of life in which that vague terrestrial paradise
which belongs to youth is always very close at hand, and ready to
descend by the humblest means, by almost any machinery, out of the
skies, making of the commonest territory enchanted ground.