The days that succeeded were very much like this first day. In the
morning Lily went out “among the beasts,” and visited, with all the
interest she could manage to excite in herself, the byre and the stable,
the ponies and the cows. She persuaded herself into a certain amusement
in contrasting the very different characters of Rory, the spoiled and
superior, with that little sturdy performer of duty without vagary, who
had not even a name to bless himself with, but was to all and sundry the
black powny and no more. Poor little black powny, he supported Rory’s
airs without a word; he gave in to the fact that he was the servant and
his stable companion the gentleman. He went to the moor for peat, and to
the howe for potatoes, and to the town for whatever was wanted, without
so much as a toss of his shaggy head. Nothing tired the black powny, any
more than any thing ever tired the “buoy” who drove and fed and groomed
him, as much grooming as he ever had. Sandy was the “buoy,” just as his
charge was the black powny. They went everywhere together, lived
together, it was thought even slept together; and though the “buoy” in
reality occupied the room above the stable, which was entered by a
ladder--the loft, in common parlance--the two shaggy creatures were as
one. All these particulars Lily learned, and tried to find a little fun,
a little diversion in them. But it was a thin vein and soon exhausted,
at least by her preoccupied mind.
The post came seldom to this place at the end of the world. It never
indeed came at all. When there were other errands to do in the village,
the buoy and the black powny called at the post-office to ask for
letters--when they remembered; but very often Sandy did not mind, _i.
e._, recollect, to do this, and it did not matter much. Sir Robert,
indeed, had made known his will that there were to be no letters, and
correspondence was sluggish in those days. Lily had not bowed her spirit
to the point of promising that she would not write to whomsoever she
pleased, but she was too proud to be the first to do so, and, save a few
girl epistles for which, poor child, she did not care, and which secured
her only a succession of disappointments, nothing came to lighten her
solitude. No, she would not write first, she would not tell him her
address. He could soon find that out if he wanted to find it. Sir Robert
Ramsay was not nobody, that there should be any trouble in finding out
where his house was, however far off it might be. Poor Lily, when she
said this to herself, did not really entertain a doubt that Ronald would
manage to write to her. But he did not do so. The post came in at
intervals, the powny and the boy went to the town, and minded or did
not mind to call for the letters: but what did it matter when no letters
ever came? Ah, one from Sir Robert, hoping she found the air of the moor
beneficial; one from a light-hearted school-fellow, narrating all the
dances there had been since Lily went away, and the last new fashion,
and how like Alice Scott it was to be the first to appear in it. But no
more. This foolish little epistle, at first dashed on the ground in her
disappointment, Lily went over again, through every line, to see whether
somewhere in a corner there did not lurk the name which she was sick
with longing to see. It might so easily have been here: “I danced with
Ronald Lumsden and he was telling me,” or, “Ronald Lumsden called and
was asking about you.” Such a crumb of refreshment as that Lily would
have been glad of; but it never came.
Yet she struggled bravely to keep up her heart. One of those early days,
after sundry attempts on the moor, where she gradually vanquished him,
Lily rode Rory into Kinloch-Rugas with only a few controversies on the
way. She was light and she was quiet, making no clattering at his heels
as the gig did, and by degrees Rory habituated himself to the light
burden and the moderate amount of control which she exercised over him.
It amused him after a while to see the whisk of her habit, which proved
to be no unknown drag or other mechanism, but really a harmless thing,
not heavy at all, and as she gave him much of his own way and lumps of
sugar and no whip to speak of, he became very soon docile--as docile as
his nature permitted--and gave her only as much trouble as amused Lily.
They went all the way to the toun together, an incongruous but friendly
pair, he pausing occasionally when a very tempting mouthful of
emerald-green grass appeared among the bunches of ling, she addressing
him with amiable remonstrances as Dougal did, and eventually touching
his point of honor or sense of shame, so that he made a little burst of
unaccustomed speed, and got over a good deal of ground in the stimulus
thus applied. He was not like the trim and glossy steeds on which, with
her long habit reaching half-way to the ground, and a careful groom
behind, Lily had ridden out with Sir Robert in the days of her grandeur,
which already seemed so far off. But she was, perhaps, quite as
comfortable in the tweed skirt, in which she could spring unfettered
from Rory’s back and move about easily without yards of heavy cloth to
carry. The long habit and the sleek steed and the groom turned out to
perfection would have been out of place on the moor; but Rory, jogging
along with his rough coat, and his young mistress in homespun were
entirely appropriate to the landscape.
It required a good many efforts, however, before the final code of amity
was established between them, the rule of bearing and forbearing, which
encouraged Lily to so long a ride. When she slipped off his back at the
Manse door, Rory tossed his shaggy head with an air of relief, and
looked as if he might have set off home immediately to save himself
further trouble; but he thought better of it after a moment and a few
lumps of sugar, and was soon in the careful hands of the minister’s man,
who was an old and intimate friend, and on the frankest terms of
remonstrance and advice. Lily was not by any means so familiar in the
minister’s house. She went through the little ragged shrubbery where the
big straggling lilac bushes were all bare and brown, and the berries of
the rowan-trees beginning to redden, but every thing unkempt and
ungracious, the stems burned, and the leaves blown away before their
time by an unfriendly wind. The monthly rose upon the house made a good
show with its delicate blossoms, looking far too fragile for such a
place, yet triumphant in its weakness over more robust flowers; and a
still more fragile-looking but tenacious and indestructible plant, the
great white bindweed or wild convolvulus, covered the little porch with
its graceful trails of green, and delicate flowers, which last so short
a time, yet form so common a decoration of the humblest Highland
cottages. Lily paused to look through the light lines of the climbing
verdure as she knocked at the Manse door. It was so unlike any thing
that could be expected to bloom and flourish in the keen northern air.
It gave her a sort of consoling sense that other things as unlike the
sternness of the surroundings might be awaiting her, even here, at the
end of the world.
And nothing could have been more like the monthly rose on the dark gray
wall of the Manse than Helen Blythe, who came out of the homely parlor
to greet Lily when she heard who the visitor was. “Miss Eelen” was
Lily’s senior by even more than had been supposed, but she did not show
any sign of mature years. She was very light of figure and quick of
movement, with a clear little morning face extremely delicate in color,
mild brown eyes that looked full of dew and freshness, and soft brown
hair. She came out eagerly, her “seam” in her hand, a mass of whiteness
against her dark dress, saying, “Miss Ramsay, Dalrugas?” with a quick
interrogative note, and then Helen threw down her work and held out both
her hands. “Oh, my bonnie little Lily,” she cried in sweet familiar
tones. “And is it you? and is it really you?”
“I think I should have known you anywhere,” said Lily. “You are not
changed, not changed a bit; but I am not little Lily any longer. I am a
great deal bigger than you.”
“You always were, I think,” said Helen, “though you were only a bairn
and me a little, little woman, nearly a woman, when you were here last.
Come ben, my dear, come ben and see papa. He does not move about much or
he would have come to welcome you. But wait a moment till I get my seam,
and till I find my thimble; it’s fallen off my finger in the fulness of
my heart, for I could not bide to think about that when I saw it was
you. And, oh, stand still, my dear, or you’ll tramp upon it! and it’s my
silver thimble and not another nearer than Aberdeen.”
“I’ve got one,” cried Lily, “and you shall have it, Helen, for I fear, I
fear it is not so very much use to me.”
“Oh, whisht, my dear. You must not tell me you don’t like your seam.
How would the house go on, and what would folk do without somebody to
sew? For my part I could not live without my seam. Canny, canny, my
bonnie woman, there it is! They are just dreadful things for running
into corners--almost as bad as a ring. But there is a mischief about a
ring that is not in a thimble,” said Helen, rising, with her soft cheeks
flushed, having rescued the errant thimble from the floor.
“And are you always at your seam,” said Lily, “just as you were when I
was little, and you used to come to Dalrugas to play?”
“I don’t think you were ever so little as me,” said Helen with her
rustic idiom and accent, her low voice and her sweet look, both as fresh
as the air upon the moor. She did not reach much higher than Lily’s
shoulder. She had the most serene and smiling face, full, one would have
said, of genuine ease of heart. Was this so? or was her mind full, as
Katrin had said, of unhappy love and anxious thoughts? But it was
impossible to believe so, looking at this soft countenance, the mouth
which had not a line, and the eyes which had not a care.
Nowadays the humblest dwelling which boasts two rooms to sit in
possesses a dining-room and drawing-room, but at that period
drawing-rooms were for grand houses only, and the parlor was the name of
the family dwelling-place. It was very dingy, if truth must be told. The
furniture was of heavy mahogany, with black hair-cloth. Though it was
still high summer, there was a fire in the old-fashioned black grate,
and close beside, in his black easy chair, was the minister, a heavy old
man with a bad leg, who was no longer able to get about, and indeed did
very little save criticise the actions of his assistant and successor, a
man of new-fangled ways and ideas unlike his own. He had an old plaid
over his shoulders, for he was chilly, and a good deal of snuff hanging
about the lapels of his coat. His countenance was large and
fresh-colored, and his hair white. In those days it was not the fashion
to wear a beard.
“So that’s Miss Lily from the town,” he said. “Come away ben, come ben.
Set a chair by the fire for the young lady, Eelen, for she’ll be cold
coming off the moor. It’s always a cold bit, the moor. Many a cough I’ve
catched there when I was more about the countryside than I am now. Old
age and a meeserable body are sore hindrances to getting about. Ye know
neither of them, my young friend, and I hope you’ll never know.”
“Well, papa, it is to be hoped Lily will live to be old, for most folk
desires it,” said Helen. _Papaw_, a harsh reporter would have considered
her to say, but it was not so broad as a _w_; it was more like two
_a’s_--_papaa_--which she really said. She smiled very benignantly upon
the old gentleman and the young creature whom he accosted. The name of
gout was never mentioned, was, indeed, considered an unholy thing, the
product of port-wine and made dishes, and not to be laid to the account
of a clergyman. But Mr. Blythe contemplated with emotion, supported on
his footstool, the dimensions of a much swollen toe.
“Well,” said he, “I hope she’ll never live to have the rose in her foot,
or any other ailment of the kind. And how’s Sir Robert, my dear? Him and
me are neighbor-like; there is not very much between us. Is he coming
North this year to have a pop at the birds, or is he thinking like me, I
wonder, that a good easy chair by the fire is the best thing for an auld
man? and a brace of grouse well cooked and laid upon a toast more
admirable than any number of them on the moor?”
“I don’t think he is coming for the shooting,” said Lily, doubtful. Sir
Robert was in many respects what was then called a dandy, and any thing
more unlike the exquisite arrangements for his comfort, carried out by
his valet, than the old clergyman’s black cushion and footstool and
smouldering fire could not be.
“You’ll have had an illness yourself,” said the minister, “though you do
not look like it, I must say. Does she, now, Eelen, with a color like
that? But your uncle would have done better, my dear, to take you
travelling, or some place where ye would have seen a little society and
young persons like yourself, than to send you here. He’ll maybe have
forgotten what a quiet place it is, and no fit for the like of you. But
I’ll let him know, I’ll let him know as soon as he comes up among us,
which no doubt he will soon do now.”
“Now, papa,” said Helen, “you will just let Sir Robert alone, and no
plot with him to carry Lily away from me: for I am counting very much
upon her for company, and it will do her no harm to get the air of the
moor for a while and forget all the dissipations of Edinburgh. You will
have to tell me all about them, Lily, for I’m the country mouse that has
never been away from home. Eh,” said Helen, “I have no doubt every thing
is far grander when you’re far off from it than when you’re near. I dare
say you were tired of the Edinburgh parties, and I would just give a
great deal to see one of them. And most likely you thought the Tower
would be delightful, while we are only thinking how dull it will be for
you. That is aye the way; what we have we think little of, and what we
have not we desire.”
“I was not tired,” said Lily, “except sometimes of the grand dinners
that Uncle Robert is so fond of, and I cannot say that I expected the
Tower to be delightful; but you know I have no father of my own, and I
must just do what I am told.”
“My dear,” said the old minister, “I see you have a fine judgment; for
if you had a father of your own, like Eelen there, you would just turn
him round your little finger; and I’m much surprised you don’t do the
same, a fine creature like you, with your uncle too.”
“Whisht, papa,” said Helen; “we’ll have in the tea, which you know
you’re always fond of to get a cup when you can, and it’ll be a
refreshment to Lily after her ride. And in the meantime you can tell her
some of your stories to make her laugh, for a laugh’s a fine thing for a
young creature whatsoever it’s about, if it’s only havers.”
“Which my auld stories are, ye think?” said the minister. “Go away, go
away and mask your tea. Miss Lily and me will get on very well without
you. I’ll tell ye no stories. They are all very old, and the most of
them are printed. If I were to entertain ye with my anecdotes of auld
ministers and beadles and the like, ye would perhaps find them again in
a book, and ye would say to yourself, ‘Eh, there’s the story Mr. Blythe
told me, as if it was out of his own head,’ and you would never believe
in me more. But for all that it’s no test being in a book; most of mine
are in books, and yet they are mine, and it was me that put them
together all the same. But I have remarked that our own concerns are
more interesting to us than the best of stories, and I’m a kind of
spiritual father to you, my dear. If I did not christen you, I
christened your father. Tell me, now that Eelen’s out of the way, what
is it that brought ye here? Is it something about a bonnie lad, my
bonnie young lass? for that’s the commonest cause of banishment, and as
it cannot be carried out with the young man, it’s the poor wee lassies
that have the brunt to bear----”
“I never said,” cried Lily, angry tears coming to her eyes, “that there
was any reason or that it was for punishment. I just came here
because--because Uncle Robert wanted me to come,” she added in a little
burst of indignation, yet dignity; “and nobody that I know has a right
to say a word.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Blythe; “he wanted you, no doubt, to give an eye to
Dougal and Katrin, who might be taking in lodgers or shooting the moors
for their own profit for any thing that he can tell. He’s an
auld-farrant chield, Sir Robert. He would not say a word to you, but he
would reckon that you would find out.”
“Mr. Blythe,” cried Lily with fresh indignation, “if you think my uncle
sent me here for a spy, to find out things that do not exist----”
“No, my dear, I don’t, I don’t,” said the minister. “I am satisfied he
has a mind above that, and you too. But he’s not without a thread of
suspicion in him; indeed, he’s like most men of his years and
experience, and believes in nobody. No, no, Dougal does not put the moor
to profit, which might be a temptation to many men; but he has plenty of
sport himself in a canny way, and there’s a great deal of good game just
wasted. You may tell Sir Robert that from his old friend. Just a great
deal of good game wasted. He should come and bring a few nice lads to
divert you, and shoot the moor himself.”
“That’s just one of papa’s crazes,” said Helen, returning with her
teapot in her hand, the tray, with all its jingling cups and saucers,
having been put on the table in the meantime. “He thinks the gentlemen
should come back from wherever they are, or whatever they may be doing,
to shoot the moors. It would certainly be far more cheery for the
countryside, but very likely Sir Robert cares nothing about the moor,
and is just content with the few brace of grouse that Dougal sends him.
I believe it’s considered a luxury and something grand to put on the
table in other places, but we have just too much of it here. Now draw to
the table and take your tea. The scones are just made, and I can
recommend the shortbread, and you must be wanting something after your
ride. I have told John to give the powny a feed, and you will feel all
the better, the two of you, for a little rest and refreshment. Draw in
to the table, my bonnie dear.”
These were before the days of afternoon tea; but the institution existed
more or less, though not in name, and “the tea” was administered before
its proper time or repeated with a sense of guilt in many houses, where
the long afternoon was the portion of the day which it was least easy to
get through--when life was most languid, and occupation at a lull. Lily
ate her shortbread with a girl’s appetite, and took pleasure in her
visit. When she mounted Rory again and set forth on her return, she
asked herself with great wonder whether it was possible that there could
be any thing under that soft aspect of Helen Blythe, her serene
countenance and delicate color, which could in any way correspond with
the trouble and commotion in her own young bosom? Helen had, indeed, her
father to care for, she was at home, and had, no doubt, friends; but was
it possible that a thought of some one who was not there lay at the
bottom of all?
Lily confessed to Robina when she got home that she had been much
enlivened by her visit, and that Helen was coming to see her, and that
all would go well; but when Beenie, much cheered, went down stairs to
her tea, Lily unconsciously drew once more to that window, that
watchtower, from which nobody was ever visible. The moor lay in all the
glory of the evening, already beginning to warm and glow with the
heather, every bud of which awoke to brightness in the long rays of the
setting sun. It was as if it came to life as the summer days wore toward
autumn. The mountains stood round, blue and purple, in their unbroken
veil of distance and visionary greatness, but the moor was becoming
alive and full of color, warming out of all bleakness and grayness into
life and light. The corner of the road under the trees showed like a
peep into a real world, not a dreary vacancy from which no one came.
There was a cart slowly toiling its way up the slope, its homely sound
as it came on informing the silence of something moving, neighborly,
living. Lily smiled unconsciously as if it had been a friend. And when
the cart had passed, there appeared a figure, alone, walking quickly,
not with the slow wading, as if among the heather, of the rare, ordinary
passer-by. Lily’s interest quickened in spite of herself as she saw the
wayfarer breasting the hill. Who could he be, she wondered. Some
sportsman, come for the grouse--some gentleman, trained not only to
moorland walking, but to quick progress over smoother roads. He skimmed
along under the fir-trees at the corner, up the little visible ascent.
Lily almost thought she could hear his steps sounding so lightly, like a
half-forgotten music that she was glad, glad to hear again; but he
disappeared soon under the rising bank, as every thing did, and she was
once more alone in the world. The sun sank, the horizon turned gray,
the moor became once more a wilderness in which no life or movement was.
No!--what a jump her heart gave!--it was no wilderness: there was the
same figure again, stepping out on the moor. It had left the road, it
was coming on with springs and leaps over the heather toward the house.
Who was it? Who was it? And then he, he! held up his hand and beckoned,
beckoned to Lily in the wilderness. Who was he? Nobody--a wandering
traveller, a sportsman, a stranger. Her heart beat so wildly that the
whole house seemed to shake with it. And there he stood among the
heather, his hat off, waving it, and beckoning to her with his hand.