Lily could not believe her eyes. That it was Ronald who approached the
house, leaping over the big bushes of ling, seeking none of the little
paths that ran here and there across the moor, did not occur to her. She
was afraid that it was some stranger or traveller, probably an
Englishman, who, seeing a woman’s head at a window, thought it an
appropriate occasion for impertinently attempting to attract her
attention. It was considered in those days that Englishmen and wanderers
unknown in the district were disposed to be jocularly uncivil when they
had a chance, and indeed the excellent Beenie, who had but few personal
attractions, had rarely gone out alone in Edinburgh, as Lily had often
been told, without being followed by some adventurous person eager to
make her acquaintance. Lily’s first thought was that here must be one of
Beenie’s many anonymous admirers, and after having watched breathlessly
up to a certain point she withdrew with a sense of offence, somewhat
haughtily, surprised that she, even at this height and distance, could
be taken for Beenie, or that any such methods should be adopted to
approach herself. But her heart had begun to beat, she knew not why, and
after a few minutes’ interval she returned cautiously to the window. She
did not see any one at first, and with a sigh of relief but
disappointment said to herself that it was nobody, not even a lover of
Beenie, who might have furnished her with a laugh, but only some
passer-by pursuing his indifferent way. Then she ventured to put out her
head to see where the passing figure had gone; and lo, at the foot of
the tower, immediately below the window, stood he whom she believed to
be so far away. There was a mutual cry of “Ronald” and “Lily,” and then
he cried, “Hush, hush!” in a thrilling whisper, and begged her to come
out. “Only for a moment, only for a word,” he cried through the pale air
of the twilight. “Has any thing happened?” cried Lily, bewildered. She
had no habit of the clandestine. She forgot that there was any sentence
against their meeting, and felt only that when he did not come to her,
but called to her to go to him, there must be something wrong.
But presently the sense of the position came back to her. Dougal and
Katrin had given no sign of consciousness that any restraint was to be
exercised, they had not opposed any desire of hers, or attempted to
prevent her from going out as she pleased; therefore the thought that
they were now themselves at supper and fully occupied, though it came
into her mind, did not affect her, nor did she feel it necessary to
whisper back in return. But he beckoned so eagerly that Lily yielded to
his urgency. She ran down stairs, catching up a plaid as she went, and
in a moment was on the moor and by Ronald’s side. “At last,” he said,
“at last!” when the first emotion of the meeting was over.
“Oh, it is me that should say ‘at last,’” said the girl; “it is not you
that have been alone for weeks and weeks, banished from every thing you
know: not a kent face, not a kind word, and not a letter by the post.”
“I gave a promise I would not write. Indeed, I wanted to give them no
handle against us, but to come the first moment I could without exciting
suspicion.”
“You are very feared of exciting suspicion,” she said, shaking her head.
“Have I not cause? Your uncle upbraided me that I was taking advantage
of your inexperience, persuading you to do things you would repent
after. Can I do this, Lily? Can I lay myself open to such a reproach?
Indeed, I do know the facts of things better than you.”
“I don’t know what you call the facts of things,” she said. “Do you know
the facts of this--the moor and nothing but the moor, and the two-three
servants, and the beasts? Could you contrive to get your diversion out
of the ways of a pony, and the cackle of the cocks and hens? Not but
they are very diverting sometimes,” said Lily, her heart rising. She was
impatient with him. She was even angry with him. He it was who was to
blame for her banishment, and he had been long, long in doing any thing
to enliven it; but still he was here, and the world was changed. Her
heart rose instinctively; even while she complained the things she
complained of grew attractive in her eyes. The pony’s humors brought
smiles to her face, the moor grew fair, the diversion which she had
almost resented when it was all she had now appeared to her in a happy
glow of amusement; though she was complaining in this same breath of the
colorlessness of her life, it now seemed to her colorless no more.
He drew her arm more closely through his. “And do you think I had more
diversion?” he asked, “feeling every street a desert and my rooms more
vacant than the moor? But that’s over, my Lily, Heaven be praised. I’m
thought to be fishing, and fish I will, hereaway and thereaway, to give
myself a countenance, but always within reach. And the moor will be
paradise when you and I meet here every day.”
“Oh, Ronald, if we can keep it up,” Lily murmured in spite of herself.
“Why shouldn’t we keep it up, as long, at least, as the Vacation lasts?
After that, it is true, I’ll have to go back to work; but it is a long
time before that, and I will go back with a light heart to do my best,
to make it possible to carry you off one day and laugh at Sir Robert,
for that is what it must come to, Lily. You may have objections, but you
must learn to get over them. If he stands out and will not give in to
us, we must just take it in our own hands. It must come to that. I would
not hurry or press a thing so displeasing if other means will do. And in
the meantime we’ll be very patient and try to get over your uncle by
fair means. But if he is obstinate, dear, that’s what it will have to
come to. No need to hurry you; we’re young enough. But you must prepare
your mind for it, Lily, for that is what will have to come if he does
not give way.”
Lily clung to her lover’s arm in a bewilderment of pleasure which was
yet confusion of thought, as if the world had suddenly turned upside
down. This was her own sentiment, which Ronald had never shared: how in
a moment had it become his, changing every thing, making the present
delightful and the future all hope and light? Sir Robert’s fortune had,
then, begun to appear to him what it had been to her, so secondary a
matter! and Sir Robert himself only a relative worthy of consideration
and deference, but not a tyrant obstructing all the developments of
life. She could not say: “This is how I have felt all through,” for,
indeed, it had never been possible to her to say to him: “Take me; let
us live poorly, but together,” as she had always felt. Was it he who had
felt this all through and not she at all? Lily was bewildered, her
standing-ground seemed to have changed, the whole position was
transformed. Surely it must have been she who held back, who wanted to
delay and temporize, not the lover, to whom the bolder way was more
natural. She did not seem to feel the ground beneath her, all had so
twisted and changed. “That is what it must come to; you must prepare
your mind for it, Lily.” Had that solid ground been cut from under her?
was she walking upon air? Her head felt a little giddy and sick in the
change of the world; yet what a change! all blessedness and happiness
and consolation, with no trouble in it at all.
“I have thought so sometimes myself,” she said in the great bewilderment
of her mind.
“But in the meantime we must be patient a little,” he said. “Of course I
am going to take my vacation here where we can be together. What kind of
people are those servants? Do they send him word about every thing and
spy upon all your movements? Never mind, I’ll find a way to baffle them;
I am here for the fishing, you know, and after a little while I’ll find
a lodging nearer, so that we may be the most of the time together while
pretending to fish. If we keep up in this direction, we will be out of
the reach of the windows, and you can set Beenie to keep watch and ward.
For I suppose you still tell Beenie every thing, and she is as faithful
to you as Sir Robert’s servants are to him?”
“I have no doubt they are faithful,” said Lily, a little chilled by this
speech, “but they are not spies at all. They never meddle with me. I am
sure they never write to him about what I am doing; besides, Sir Robert
is a gentleman; he would never spy upon a girl like me.”
“We must not be too sure of that. He sent you here to be spied upon, at
least to be kept out of every-body’s sight. I would not trust him, nor
yet his servants. And I am nearer to you than Sir Robert, Lily. I am
your husband that is going to be. It might be wrong for you to meet any
other man, which you would never think of doing, but there’s nothing
wrong in meeting me.”
“I never thought so,” said Lily, subdued. “I am very, very glad to have
you here. It will make every thing different. Only there is no need to
be alarmed about Dougal and Katrin. I think they are fonder of me than
of Uncle Robert. They are not hard upon me, they are sorry for me. But
never mind about that. Will you really, really give up your vacation and
your shooting, and all your pleasure at home, to come here and bide with
me?”
“That and a great deal more,” said Ronald fervently. He felt at that
moment that he could give every thing up for Lily. He was very much
pleased, elevated, gratified by what he himself had said. He had taken
the burden of the matter on his own shoulders, as it was fit that a man
should do. He had felt when they last parted that in some way, he could
not exactly say what, he had not come up to what was expected of him. He
had not reached the height of Lily’s ideal. But now every thing was
different. He had spoken out, he had assumed a virtue of which he had
not been quite sure whether he had it or not; but now he was sure. He
would not forsake her, he would never ask her to wait unduly or to
suffer for him now. To be sure, they would have to wait--they were young
enough, there was no harm in that--but not longer than was fit, not to
make her suffer. He drew her arm within his, leading her along through
the intricacies of the firm turf that formed a green network of softness
amid the heather. It was not for her to stumble among the big bushes of
ling or spring over the tufts. His business was to guard her from all
that, to lead her by the grassy paths, where her soft footsteps should
find no obstacle. There is a moment in a young man’s life when he thinks
of this mission of his with a certain enthusiasm. Whatever else he might
do, this was certainly his, to keep a woman’s foot from stumbling, to
smooth the way for her, to find out the easiest road. The more he did it
the more he felt sure that it was his to do, and should be, through all
the following years.
Lily was a long time out of doors that night. Robina came upstairs from
the lengthened supper, which was one of the pleasantest moments of the
day down stairs, when all the work was done, and all were free to talk
and linger without any thought of the beasts or the poultry. The cows
and the ponies were all suppered and put to bed. All the chickens,
mothers and children, had their heads under their wings. The
watchfullest of cocks was buried in sleep, the dogs were quiet on the
hearthstone. Then was the time for those “cracks” which the little party
loved. Beenie told her thrice-told tale of the wonders of Sir Robert’s
kitchen, and the goings on of Edinburgh servants, while Katrin gave
forth the chronicles of the countryside, and Dougal, not to be outdone,
poured forth rival recollections of things which he had seen when the
laird’s man, following his master afar, and of the tragedy of Mr. James,
Lily’s father, who had died far from home. They would sometimes talk all
together without observing it, carrying on each in his various strain.
And as there was nobody to interrupt, supper-time was long, and full of
varied interest. Sandy, the boy, sat at the foot of the table with
round and wondering eyes. But though he laid up many an image for future
admiration, his interest flagged after a while, and an oft-repeated
access of sleep made him the safest of listeners. “G’y way to your bed,
laddie,” Katrin would say, not without kindness. “Lord bless us!” cried
Dougal, giving his kick of dismissal under the table. “D’ye no hear what
the mistress tells ye?” But this was the only thing that disturbed the
little party. And Beenie usually came upstairs to find Lily with her
pale face, she who had no cronies, nor any one with whom to forget
herself in talk, “wearying” for her sole attendant.
But on this night Beenie found no one there when she came upstairs,
running, and a little guilty to think of the solitude of her little
mistress. For a moment Beenie had a great throb of terror in her breast:
the window was open, a faint and misty moon was shining forlorn over the
moor, there were no candles lighted, nor sign of any living thing.
Beenie coming in with her light was like a searcher for some dreadful
thing, entering a place of mystery to find she knew not what. She held
up her candle and cast a wild glance round the room, as if Lily might
have been lying in a heap in some corner; then, with a suppressed
scream, rushed into the adjacent bedroom, where the door stood open and
all was emptiness. Not there, not there! The distracted woman flew to
the open window with a wild apprehension that Lily, in her despair,
might have thrown herself over. “Oh, Miss Lily, Miss Lily!” she cried,
setting down her light and wringing her hands. Every horrible thing that
could have happened rushed through Beenie’s mind. “And what will they
say to me, that let her bide her lane and break her heart?” she moaned
within herself. And so strong was the certainty in her mind that
something dreadful had happened that when a sound struck her ear, and
she turned sharp round to see the little mistress, whom she had in
imagination seen laid out white and still upon her last bed, standing
all radiant in life and happiness behind her, the scream which burst
forth from Beenie’s lips was wilder than ever. Was it Lily who stood
there, smiling and shining, her eyes full of the dew of light, and every
line of her countenance beaming? or was it rather Lily’s glorified
ghost, the spirit that had overcome all troubles of the flesh? It was
the mischievous look in Lily’s eyes that convinced her faithful servant
that this last hypothesis could not be the explanation. For mischief
surely will not shine in glorified eyes, or the blessed amuse themselves
with the consternation of mortals. And Beenie’s soul, so suddenly
relieved of its terrors, burst out in an “Oh, Miss Lily!” the perennial
remonstrance with which the elder woman had all her life protested
against, yet condoned and permitted, the wayward humors of the girl.
“Well, Beenie! and how long do you think you will take to your supper
another time?” Lily said.
“Oh, Miss Lily, and where have you been? I’ve had a fright that will
make me need no more suppers as long as I live. Supper, did ye say? Me
that thought that you were out of the window, lying cauld and stark at
the foot of the tower. Oh, my bonnie dear, my heart’s beating like a
muckle drum. Where have ye been?”
“I have been on the moor,” said Lily dreamily. “I’ve had a fine walk,
half the way to the town, while you have been taken up with your
bannocks and your cheese and your cracks. I had a great mind to come
round to the window and put something white over my head and give you a
good fright, sitting there telling stories and thinking nothing of me.”
“Eh, I wasna telling stories--no me!”
Why Beenie made this asseveration I cannot tell, for she did nothing but
tell stories all the time that Dougal, Katrin, and she were together;
but it was natural to deny instinctively whatever accusation of neglect
was brought against her. “And eh,” she cried, with natural art, turning
the tables, “what a time of night to be out on that weary moor, a young
lady like you. Your feet will be wet with the dew, and no a thing upon
your shoulders to keep you from the cold. Eh, Miss Lily, Miss Lily!”
cried Robina, with all the fictitious indignation of a counter
accusation, “them that has to look after you and keep you out of
mischief has hard ado.”
“Perhaps you will get me a little supper now that you have had plenty
for yourself,” said Lily, keeping up the advantage on her side. But she
was another Lily from that pale flower which had looked so sadly over
the moor before Robina went down stairs to her prolonged meal, a radiant
creature with joy in every movement. What could it be that had happened
to Lily while her faithful woman was down stairs?