'THE LOVE THAT TOOK AN EARLY ROOT.'
Several days had passed now since Cecil Falconer found himself fairly
installed as a guest at Eaglescraig.
Hew was still absent, and Falconer thought it strange, if he and Mary
were engaged, or lovers in fact, as many a casual remark from Hew had
led him to infer, to the great repression of his own secret hopes,
that the handsome Russia leather despatch-box, which was stamped with
the three _fleurs-de-lis_, and the three annulets of Montgomerie, and
which, with the regularity of clockwork, was brought in at
breakfast-time by Mr. Tunley, never contained an epistle from him to
her.
Cecil naturally supposed that lovers wrote each other daily; but here
was a pair who never wrote to each other at all! Cecil gathered a
little hope and confidence from the circumstance, till a tormenting
doubt suggested that they might have had a lovers' temporary quarrel.
The days passed, we say, and in all that time, while almost hourly
enjoying the society of Mary Montgomerie, Falconer had in no way
betrayed the growing emotions of his heart; and though markedly
attentive, there was nothing approaching loverhood in his conduct or
bearing; but it would have been very difficult to convince the absent
and vindictive Hew of that fact, as it was a fixed conviction of his,
that there was more in everything in this world than met the eye, and
that all still waters run deep.
Cecil's face brightened, and his tone softened more, when addressing
Mary Montgomerie than they did when he was with Miss Erroll, or other
ladies. There were no other signs; but her keener perception and
more subtle instinct told her intuitively that he felt a deeper
interest in her than he had yet avowed; and, though she had many
admirers, the consciousness of this made her heart beat happily, and
gave a little coquetry to her manner, that, when other men were
present, scarcely pleased Falconer, who thought that perhaps she was
only _amusing_ herself with him in the absence of her ungracious
_fiancé_.
She was quite a sister of charity, Mary Montgomerie, in that part of
the country, and sometimes Cecil drove her pony-carriage on her
missions--a tiny basket carriage, full of gifts for the poor, all of
which were bestowed upon them in a friendly rather than a charitable
way by the softly-eyed chatelaine of Eaglescraig, who loved to
cultivate thus a link, a bond, between the cottage and the great
house; and Falconer, no doubt to please her, never forgot the various
relationships and names of the recipients of her bounty, and
contrived to have always for each man or woman a packet of that
peculiar tobacco which they specially affected; thus he too became a
favourite with them all. He never forgot the joy of these little
drives, in the deep old lanes of Cunninghame, with such a companion
as Mary Montgomerie, nestled together in the tiny pony-carriage,
covered by the ample skin of a dreadful man-eater, whom the general's
gun had brought down in the swampy Terrai of Nepaul, and the
inevitable Snarley coiled up at her pretty feet; drives in the clear,
frosty winter afternoons, when the skies were blue and bright, or
flecked by golden cloud, when the distant hills were capped with
snow, and the smoke of the steamers in the Firth of Clyde towered
straight upward till lost in the pure and ambient air.
Already they felt quite like old friends, these two; they had a
thousand topics and views in common, and they became perfectly
unconstrained, familiar, and easy with each other--familiar with a
rapidity that surprised themselves.
Little by little Mary wound her way quickly round the heart of Cecil
Falconer; but dread of her relations with Hew Montgomerie tied up the
tongue of the former more than even the crushing knowledge of his own
meagre exchequer did.
She soon discovered that sentiment which every young officer
possesses--a pride in his regiment, and drew him out to talk
enthusiastically of its achievements and ancient history, and watched
with pleasure his animated face while he expatiated on a topic so
congenial; though, to her, in reality, the glories of Her Majesty's
Cameronians had been rendered long ago a worn-out household theme by
Sir Piers.
When Cecil touched her hand, ever so gently, she felt every nerve in
her body thrill with that exquisite sensibility which was a part of
her nature. She saw how his colour changed at times, and _he_ saw
how hers did so too; she felt in her own heart the hesitation that
was in _his_ voice, and, with the quick perception of a young girl,
thought to herself:
'Can it be that--that he loves me--loves me, and yet dare not say
so?' and then she would think of the sweet love song of Montrose,
about one who 'feared his fate too much.'
'I know that Cecil Falconer loves me!' she would whisper to Annabelle
Erroll, in the seclusion of their own particular sanctum; 'his eyes,
his voice, and his manner all begin to tell me so. Why does he not
speak out? I wish he had half the fluency and confidence of that oaf
Hew.'
'But Hew knows the wishes, and is backed by the authority of your
kinsman and guardian, Sir Piers,' replied Annabelle; 'and if any
contretemps occurs--you know----'
'Well--what then?'
'It will only be a thousand pities that young Falconer ever found his
way to Eaglescraig at all!'
There were more of this opinion than the soft, pretty blonde
Annabelle. A curious and subtle change had come over Mary--a change
detected only by Mrs. Garth; as for Hew, he had been too obtuse to
notice it; and over her fair, soft face, when she was alone, or sunk
in reverie, there shone a brighter light than of yore--a happier and
yet more thoughtful expression.
Whence was this? thought Mrs. Garth.
'Take care, Mary,' said the old lady one day, when caressingly
folding her to her motherly heart, as she was often wont to do; 'my
little pet-bird, be wary, for your own sake, and all our sakes.'
'Wary of what?' asked Mary, growing pale as she knew intuitively what
was coming.
'Need I tell you--of this young Cameronian.'
'Why, how? fiddlestick! dearest Mrs. Garth; what do you fear?'
'Only this, you seem to forget the intentions of your grand-uncle,
and the hope that your cousin Hew--for so we may call him--has for
the future.'
These injunctions and remarks alarmed and irritated Mary; but they
had the effect of rendering her somewhat shy or constrained when with
Falconer. The duets at the piano nearly ceased, then a cold, or a
headache, or some such reason was urged why the drives in the
pony-carriage should also cease, and they were abruptly relinquished.
There was a little change; Falconer felt it and was a little piqued;
he remembered her wealth, and the scene in the avenue, and strove to
crush out of his heart the thoughts he had been cherishing there.
His short term of leave would soon be at an end; but could he go back
to the dull routine of duty with this new secret of his soul untold?
Even if he won her love, his immediate idea of the future was vague
and shadowy. It seemed to be chiefly the desire to know that she was
his own, and would be so irrevocably; to have the sole right of
caressing, doting upon, and worshipping her; but when marriage and
fortune came to be considered, the deep gulf yawned again between
them, and the cold hardness of practical everyday life jarred
terribly with the soft suggestions of love, tenderness, and romance.
Should he consult Mrs. Garth, who seemed so kindly disposed towards
him, or should he first seek the consent of Sir Piers? No; he felt
very timid somehow, and shrunk from the too probable crushing
refusal, or biting inquiry as to the settlements he could make, his
family, and so forth; he thought that he would rather try his fate
with Mary herself, and 'put it to the touch to win or lose it all!'
He was already 'so far gone,' as Fotheringhame would have phrased it,
that his happiness or misery was now simply the question. He made up
his mind, or thought he did so, to declare his love to Mary, and he
passed several hours in flattering, and anon in torturing himself by
putting every imaginable construction on all that had ever passed
between him and her, and between her and Hew, and all that the latter
had said to him, suggested to him, and artfully led him to infer.
Luncheon--or 'tiffin' as the general always named it--was over, when
one day Cecil, his soul fraught with a declaration, rose to follow
Mary, who had gone into the library to look after the last parcel of
books from Edinburgh; but ere he could join her he was button-holed
by the inevitable general, and the opportunity was lost--perhaps
luckily so--who knows?
'One glass more of Lafitte ere you leave me, Falconer,' said Sir
Piers; 'are you going to take your gun?'
'No; I walked too far after the birds yesterday, and have rather
knocked myself up.'
'You are too young a soldier to say this, Falconer. Knocked up--by
Jove, sir!' exclaimed Sir Piers. 'Precisely this day twenty years
ago I too was knocked up, but it was not by tramping through covers.
It happened thus, you see. We were on the march from the banks of
the Chumbul in Malwah, and the rain was incessant--yes, as if the
windows of heaven were opened again. I was escorting prisoners, with
some native infantry, and had to push on without food or natural
rest, and exposed the while to incessant attacks from the Bheels, a
savage mountain banditti, who practise human sacrifices in secret,
and who were artfully incited to mischief by Holkar; and there was
the very devil to pay when we came to the Chumbul Nullah, a terrible
torrent, swollen by the rains--no rice for the men, no grain for the
horses, which left their shoes, when the nails declined to remain, in
the mud. Heavy firing on all hands, the infernal Bheels with their
matchlocks and jingals, and the elephants, under it all, trying to
carry over the troops; when wounded the brutes became furious, shook
prisoners and escort, soldiers' wives and soldiers' children,
baggage, treasure, and everything out of the howdahs into the foaming
torrent, and a horrible scene ensued--all who got ashore were
massacred, save myself, and I only escaped by a perfect miracle. It
happened this way, you see----'
How Sir Piers was saved Falconer never learned, for just then he
contrived to make his escape, as Mr. John Balderstone, with a bundle
of legal-looking documents, was announced on important business, and
arrested the attention of the narrator.
Partly worried by the general's prosy interruption, and thus partly
thwarted in his purpose, Cecil entered the library, unheard by its
occupant; its floor was covered by rare tiger skins, sent home from
India by the general, who had been a mighty hunter there, and had
transmitted home enough of them to stock a bazaar, with their claws
set in gold, as necklaces, ear-rings, and brooches to all the ladies
of his acquaintance.
After one brief glance at the stately room, with its curtained bay
windows, its walls covered by glittering volumes in splendid oak
cases, its marble busts, easy chairs, and reading tables littered
with papers, periodicals, prints, and drawing materials, Falconer's
eye rested upon Mary Montgomerie, and his heart, full of love though
it was, sank as he gazed--gazed on her in all her rare beauty.
She stood before the stately fireplace, looking intently into the
bright flame, seeing castles in the embers perhaps, and a sense,
momentarily akin to despair, stole over him; her graceful figure was
so elegantly and richly attired in a costume so perfect in all its
details and ornaments, from the tiny pearl comb that held up the
close silky coils of her dark-brown hair, to the beautifully
embroidered little slipper that rested on the fender--all indicated
the gulf, that, though love might span it, too surely lay between
them--a gulf formed by great wealth, by family and high position on
her side, and by the utter lack of these three important elements on
his own.
He had followed her here, fraught with a proposal, and now he could
but ask himself, Why had Fate brought him to Eaglescraig?
She turned suddenly, and welcomed him by a smile, a book in one white
hand, the other resting on the mantelpiece, and he was half
relieved--so unstable was he of purpose--when Annabelle Erroll issued
from the recess of a window, saying:
'Oh, Mr. Falconer, you are just come here when I wanted you--so
particularly, too.'
'I am glad of that--in what can I serve you?'
'By writing your autograph in my "Birthday Book,"' she replied,
producing one of the records with which young ladies are wont to bore
their friends--a handsomely bound little volume--a bijou freak of the
time, wherein a motto from a poet, or a text from Scripture, was
appended to each day of the twelve months. 'What is your birthday?'
'The fifth of November.'
'Gunpowder-plot day!' she exclaimed, laughing, as her quick little
hand selected the page. 'Here it is--November 5--St. Bertille's day;
and the motto is, "Man that is born of woman is of few days, and full
of trouble."'
'Scriptural--but rather uncomfortable,' said Falconer, smiling, as he
assumed a pen.
'Your days have not been days of trouble surely?' said Miss
Montgomerie to him softly.
'My past days have not been without it,' replied Falconer, as a shade
crossed his handsome face.
'And your future?'
'Heaven alone knows that--it depends upon another--not myself,' said
he, with a brief soft glance that made her colour deepen and her
eyelids droop, while he wrote his autograph immediately under that of
Sir Piers, whose natal day was also the 5th--dedicated to the memory
of Guy Fawkes and Inkermann.
'Cecil!' said Annabelle; 'such a pretty name it is--was it your
father's name too?'
'No--I am named from my mother, in a way; her name was Cecilia.'
'How strange?'
'There is nothing strange in it at all,' rejoined Falconer gravely,
and Mary could perceive that he coloured almost painfully, and the
subject was instantly changed by her; yet it impressed her so much,
that she mentioned the incident to her confidante and constant guide,
old Mrs. Garth.
'Named from his mother, and he has never been known to mention his
father,' thought Mrs. Garth; 'there is some painful mystery here--and
all mysteries are decidedly unpleasant! I must endeavour to arrest
the progress of this _affair_, for the sake of both, ere it is too
late! But how to do it, with sufficient tact and delicacy?'
And in this intention she had been further armed by the advice and
opinion of Mr. John Balderstone, an old and valued friend and
adherent of the Eaglescraig family, who had not been unobservant of
the matter in question.