Ronald started back on his way to Dalrugas in the beginning of the
wintry night in a condition very different from that in which he came.
His head was dazed and swimming; something had happened to him; he had
taken a step such as he had never contemplated taking, a step which, did
Lily ever know or suspect it, would, he knew, open such a gulf between
them as nothing could ever bridge over. He was in a hundred minds to
turn back, to confess his sin before he had passed the last house in
the village. We do not call that a temptation when we are impelled to
do right, but it is the same thing, only the temptations to do right are
somehow less potent than those to do wrong. He was torn by a strong
impulse to go back and remedy what he had done: the temptation to commit
that fault had been momentary, but overwhelming; the temptation to go
back and confess was continuous, but evidently feeble, for he went
straight on through all its tuggings, and did not walk more slowly. But
yet it would have done him much good and probably no harm had he done
so: the minister would have forgiven a fault so soon repented of; he
would probably, in the natural feeling toward a penitent sinner, have
acceded to his wishes all the same. These thoughts went through Ronald’s
head without ever stopping his steady and quick walk into the dark. He
repented, if that had been enough, in sackcloth and ashes; he was so
deeply ashamed of what he had done that he felt his countenance flame in
the darkness where nobody could by any possibility see. But he did not
turn back. And presently by repetition the impulse weakened a little,
his brain cleared, and the world became steady once again. The thing was
done; it could not be undone. There was no possibility that Lily should
ever hear of it; nobody would ever know of it but old Blythe and
himself, and old Blythe would die. It would be a recollection which, in
the depth of the night, in moments of solitude, or when awakened by a
sudden touch of the past, would go on stinging him like a serpent all
the days of his life, but it would be otherwise innocuous. Lily would
never hear of it, that was the great thing; there was no chance that she
could ever hear. The old minister’s lips were sealed. It would be
contrary to every rule of honor if he were to betray what had been said
to him. Ronald said to himself that he must accept the stinging of that
recollection, which he would never get rid of all his life, as his
punishment; but no one else would suffer, Lily least of all.
These feelings were hot and strong in his mind as he set out; but a walk
of four miles against a cold wind, and with the snow threatening to
come down every moment, is a very good thing for dispersing troublous
thoughts: they gradually blew away as he went on, and the bridegroom’s
state of triumph and rapture came back, dimly at first, and as if he
dared not indulge it, but gaining strength every moment, until, before
he reached Dalrugas, from the first moment when he saw his love’s light
in her window shining far over the moor, it came back in full force,
driving every thing else away. He saw, first, the little star of light
hanging midway between earth and sky, and then the shape of the window,
and then Lily’s figure or shadow coming from time to time to look out;
and no lover’s heart could have risen higher or beat more warmly. He
entirely forgot how he had wronged her in the glory of having her, of
knowing her to be there waiting for him, and that she would be his wife
to-morrow. She came to the top of the stairs to meet him, while he
rushed up three steps at a time, rubbing against the narrow spiral of
the stair with such passion and force of feeling as the best man in the
world could not have surpassed. One does not require, it is evident, to
be the best man in the world, or even a true man at all, to love truly
and fervently, and with all the force of one’s being. One might say that
it was selfishness on Ronald’s part to appropriate at any cost the girl
he loved; but the fact remained, a fact far deeper than any explanation,
that he did love her as deeply, as warmly, as sincerely as any man
could. Their meeting was a moment of joy to both, like a poem, like a
song; their hearts beat as high as if it had been a first meeting after
years of absence, and yet it would have been less complete had they been
parted for more than the two or three hours which was its real period. I
need not go any further into this record. It did not matter what they
said; words are of little account at such moments. It is only to note
that a man who had just told a disgraceful lie, and put upon his bride a
stigma of the most false and cruel kind, and whose mind was already
shaping thoughts which were destined to work her woe, was at the moment
when he met her with the news that their marriage was to take place
next day as much, as tenderly in love with her as heart could desire.
The problem is one which I have no power to explain.
Next day being still one of the daft days, bright with the reflection of
the New Year, and the day of the weekly market in Kinloch-Rugas, Katrin
announced early her intention of going in to the toun in the course of
the day, an expedition which Beenie, with much modesty and reference to
Miss Lily, proposed to share. “I havena been in the toun, no to say in
the toun, ither than at the kirk, which is a different thing, since I
came to Dalrugas. I’ll maybe get ye a fairing, laddie, for the sake of
the New Year----”
“If he gangs very canny with the powny, and tak’s care of a’ our
bundles,” Katrin said.
“And me, I’m to be left my lane, to keep the hoose,” said Dougal, “like
Joan Tamson’s man.”
“Weel,” said Katrin, “ye’re in there mony a day and me at hame; it would
be a funny thing if I couldna gang to the market once at the New Year.”
“I’m saying nothing against you and your market. And here’s Miss Lily
away to her tea at the Manse, and maun have Rory no less to drive her in
the geeg with that lad from Edinburgh. I wish there was less of that lad
from Edinburgh; he’s nae ways agreeable to me.”
“Losh, man! it’s no you he’s running after,” cried Katrin, “nor me
neither. But he’s a fine lad for all that.”
“Fine or foul, I would like to see the back of him,” said Dougal; and
the women in their guilty consciences trembled. They had both been
brought to Ronald’s side. Both of them had a soft heart for true love,
and the fact of stealing a march upon Sir Robert was as pleasant to
Katrin as if she had been ten times his housekeeper. The house was full
of subdued excitement, hidden words exchanged between the women on the
stairs and in dark corners, as if they were conspirators or lovers. “Has
he any suspicion, do ye think?” Beenie whispered in Katrin’s ear.
“Him!” cried Katrin. “If it was put under his nose in black and white,
he would bring it to me to spell it out till him.” “Eh, but sometimes
these simple folks discern a thing when others that are wiser see
nothing.” “Wha said my man was simple? There’s no a simple bit about
him; but he knows I’m a woman to be trusted, and he’ll no gang a step
without Katrin!” It was not, perhaps, a moment when an anxious enquirer
could feel this trust justified. “Eh, Katrin,” cried Robina, “tell me
just what’s the worst that could happen to them if it was found out.”
“The worst is just that he would have to take his bride away, Beenie.”
“Eh! she would no be minding! That’s just what she wants most.” “And
lose her uncle’s siller,” Katrin added, with a deeper gravity of tone.
“That wouldna trouble her either,” said Beenie, shaking her head as over
a weakness of her mistress which she could not deny. “But I am feared,
feared,” said Katrin solemnly, with that repetition which makes an
utterance emphatic, “that it would be a sore trouble to him.” “Anyway,
it’s a’ settled now, and we’ll have to stick to them,” said Beenie
doubtfully. “Oh, I’ll stick to them as long as I can stand,” Katrin said
with vigor; and this was the last word.
It was clear enough that something was going to take place at the tower
of Dalrugas on that Thursday; but this was sufficiently accounted for by
the fact that Katrin was going to the market, a thing that did not
happen above twice or thrice a year. There were a great many
arrangements to make, and the black powny had begun his toilet, and the
little cart had been scrubbed and brushed before the sun was well up in
the sky to receive the two substantial forms, which, on their side, were
arrayed in their best gowns before the early dinner to which they sat
down, each with her heart in her mouth in all the excitement of the ripe
conspiracy. Only an hour or two now, and the signal would be given, the
cord would be pulled, and the great scene would open upon them. “Will
you and me ever forget this day, Katrin?” Beenie gasped, unable to
control herself. Katrin gave her a push with her shoulder, and took her
own place soberly at the board to dispense the dinner as usual. “There’s
an awfu’ fine piece of beef in the pot,” she said, “ower good for the
like of us; but it’ll mind ye, Dougal, of the day ye keepit the house,
and I gaed to the toun.”
“It’s no the first day I’ve keepit the house, and you been the one to
gang to the toun.”
“No, maybe, ye’ve done it four times since you and me were marriet. If
ye ever got better broth than thae broth, it’s no me that made them.
They’re that well boiled they just melt in your mouth with goodness,
with a piece of meat in them fit for the laird’s table. Have ye taken up
some of my broth, Beenie, to the young lady and her friend up the
stair?”
“You’re no taking much of them yourself,” said Dougal, “nor Beenie
either. Bless the women, your heads are just turned with the grand ploy
o’ going to the market. Me, I gang to the market and say naething about
it, nor ever lose a bite of a bannock on that account. But you’re queer
creatures, no to be faddomed by man. Are ye going to spend a lot o’
siller that ye’re in siccan a state? Beenie, now, she’ll be wanting a
new gown.”
“If ye think that I, that am used to a’ the grand shops in Edinburgh,
would buy a gown at Kinloch-Rugas----”
“Oh, when ye can get nae better, it’s aye grand to tak’ what ye can
get,” said Dougal. “As for Katrin, I canna tell what’s come over her.
Her hand’s shaking----”
“My hand’s no shakin’!” cried Katrin vehemently. “I’m just as steady as
any person. But I’ve been awfu’ busy this mornin’ putting every thing in
order, and I’ve very little appetite. I’m no a great eater at any time.”
“Nor me,” said Beenie, “and I’m tired too. I’ve just been turning over
and over Miss Lily’s things.”
“Ye had very little to do,” said Katrin, resenting the adoption of her
own argument. “Miss Lily’s things could easy wait. Sup up your broth,
and dinna keep us all waiting. Sandy, here’s a grand slice for you. It’s
seldom you’ve tasted the like of that. And as soon as you’re done,
laddie, hurry and put in the pony, for we must have a good sight o’ the
market, Beenie and me, before it gets dark.”
Dougal came out to the door to see them off, with his bonnet hanging
upon the side of his head by a hair. He felt the presence of something
in the atmosphere for which he could not account. What was it? It was
some “ploy” among the women, probably not worth a man’s trouble to
enquire into. And, as soon as they were off, he had Rory to put in, and
await the pleasure of “thae twa” upstairs. He could not refuse Lily any
thing, nor, indeed, had he any right to refuse to Sir Robert’s niece the
use of Rory, on whom she had already ridden about so often. But the lad
from Edinburgh was a trial to Dougal. He had an uneasy feeling that it
would not please his master to hear of this visitor, and that a strange
man about the house was not to be desired. “If it had but been a
lassie,” he said, in that case he would have been glad that Miss Lily
had some company to amuse her; but a gentleman, and a gentleman too that
was a stranger, not even of the same county--a lawyer lad from the
Parliament House. He did not willingly trust a long-leggit loon like
that to drive Rory. He was mair fit to carry Rory than Rory to carry
him. So that Dougal’s countenance was entirely overcast.
There had been some snow in the morning, a sprinkling just enough to
cover the ground more softly and deeply than the hoar frost, but that
was but preliminary--there was a great deal more to come. Dougal stood
when the pony was ready, pushing his cap from side to side and staring
at the sky. “Ye’ll do weel to bide but very short time, Miss Lily,” he
said; “the tea at the Manse is, maybe, very good, but the snow will be
coming down in handfu’s before you get hame.”
“We shall not stay long, Dougal, I promise you,” Lily said. There was a
tremble in her voice as there had been in Katrin’s and in Robina’s. “The
women are all clean gyte!” Dougal said to himself. He watched them go
away, criticising bitterly the pose of Ronald as he drove. “A man with
thae long legs has no mortal need for a pony,” he said; “they’re just a
yard longer than they ought to be. I’m about the figure of a man, or
just a thought too tall, for driving a sensitive beast like our Rory.
Puir beast, but he has come to base uses,” said Dougal. I don’t know
where he had picked up this phrase, but he was pleased with it, and
repeated it, chuckling to himself.
That evening, just before the darkening, when once more the sunset sky
was flushed with all kinds of color, and shone in graduated tints of
rose pink darkening to crimson, and blue melting into green, through the
Manse window, one homely figure after another stole into the Manse
parlor. Katrin had brought the minister a dozen of her own fresh eggs,
and what could he do less than call her in and say, “How is a’ with ye?”
at New Year’s time, when everybody had a word of good wishes to say?
“And this is Robina,” he added, with a touch of reserve and severity in
his tone. Beenie could not understand how to her, always so regular at
the kirk and known for a weel-living woman, the minister should be
severe; but it was easy to understand that on such an occasion he had a
great deal on his mind. There was a chair at either end of the great
sofa that stood against the wall; for in these days furniture was
arranged symmetrically, and it was not permitted that any thing should
be without its proper balance. The two women placed themselves there
modestly one at each end; the great arms of the sofa half hid them in
the slowly growing twilight. Katrin, who was nearest the door, was
blotted out altogether. Beenie, who was at the end nearest the window,
showed like a shadow against the light.
And then there was a pause; it was a very solemn pause indeed, like the
silence in church. The minister sat in his big chair in the darkest part
of the room, with the red glow of a low fire just marking that there was
something there, but not a word, not a movement, disturbing the dark.
The room after a while seemed to turn round to the two watchers, it was
so motionless. When Mr. Blythe drew a long breath, a sort of suppressed
scream came from both of them. Was it rather a death than a marriage
they had come to witness? They had never seen any living thing so still,
and the awe of the old man’s presence was overwhelming enough in itself.
“What’s the matter with you,” he said almost roughly. “Can I not draw my
breath in my own house?”
“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon,” cried Katrin, thankful to recover her
voice. “It was just so awfu’ quiet, and we’re no used to that. In our
bit houses there’s nobody but says whatever comes into his head, and
we’re awfu’ steering folk up at Dalrugas Tower.”
“Just in the way o’ kindness, and giving back an answer when you’re
spoken to,” said Beenie deferentially, in her soft, half-apologetic
voice. It was a great comfort to them in the circumstance, which was
very unusual and full of responsibility, to hear themselves speak.
“Ye must just try and possess your souls in patience till ye get back
again,” the minister said out of his dark corner. It was just a grand
lesson, both thought, and the kind of thing that the minister ought to
say. And the silence fell again with a slow diminution of the light, and
gradual fading of the yellow sky. To sit there without moving, without
breathing, with always the consciousness of the minister unseen, fixing
a penetrating look upon them, which probably showed him, so clever a
man, the very recesses of their hearts, became moment by moment more
than Katrin or Robina could bear.
“The young fools; I’ll throw it all up if they dinna put in an
appearance before that clock strikes!” cried Mr. Blythe at last. “Look
out of the window, one of you women, and see if ye can see them.”
“There’s nothing, minister, nothing, but a wheen country carts going
from the market,” said Beenie in the rôle of Sister Anne.
“The idiots!” said Mr. Blythe again with that force of language peculiar
to his country. “Not for their ain purposes, and them all but unlawful,
can they keep their time.”
“Oh, sir, ye mustna be hard upon them at siccan a moment!” cried Katrin,
rocking herself to and fro in anxiety.
“Eh, but I see the powny!” cried Beenie from the window; “there’s a wee
laddie holding Rory. And will I run and open the door no to disturb
Marget in the kitchen?” she said, not waiting for an answer. The spell
of the quiet had so gained upon Robina, and the still rising tide of
excitement, that she swept almost noiselessly into the narrow hall, and
opened the door mysteriously to the two other shadows who stole in, as
it seemed, out of the yellow light that filled up the doorway behind
into a darkness which, turning from that wistful illumination, seemed
complete.