The next day after any thing, whether happiness or disaster, is
different from the day on which the event took place. The secondary
comes in to complicate and confuse the original question more or less,
and the abstract ends under that compulsion. Nothing is exactly as it
seems, nor, indeed, as it is; it takes a color from the next morning,
however opaque that morning may be. This was especially the case with
Lily, whom so many of these secondary thoughts had already visited, and
who had now to go back from the dream of that eight days in which every
thing had been put to flight by that extraordinary invasion of the new
and unrealized which comes to every girl with her marriage, and amid
which it is so difficult to keep the footing of ordinary life. She was
that morning, however, not any longer the parted lover, the mourning
bride, but again, more or less, “her own woman,” the creature, full of
energy and life, and thoughts and purposes of her own, who had not
blindly loved or worshipped, but to whom, at all times, it had been
apparent that Ronald’s way of loving, though it was to her the only way,
was not the way she would have chosen or which she would have adopted
herself had she been the man. A very different man Lily would have made,
much less prudent, no doubt, but how decisive in the beginning of that
youthful career! how determined to have no secrets, but every thing as
open as the day! to involve the woman beloved in no devious paths, but
to preserve her name and her honor above all dictates of worldly wisdom!
Lily would have had her lover vindicate her at once from her uncle’s
tyranny. She would have had him provide the humble home for which she
longed, without even suffering his lady to bear the ignominy of that
banishment to the moor. And now! with what a flame of youthful love and
hope Lily would have had him carry off his bride, snapping his fingers
with a Highland shout at all the powers of evil, who would have had no
chance to touch them in their honest love and honorable union. Oh, if
she had been the man! Oh, if she could have showed him what to do!
And all these thoughts, intensified and increased, came back to Lily the
day after her husband left her. She was not drooping and longing now for
her departed lover. Her energies, her clear sense of what should have
been, her objection to all that was, came back upon her like a flood.
She sat no longer at the window gazing out upon the expanse of snow,
which shrank more and more, and showed greater and blacker crevasses in
its wide expanse every hour, but walked up and down the room, pausing
now and then to poke the fire with energy, though the glowing peats were
not adapted to that treatment, and flew in tiny morsels about, requiring
Beenie’s swift and careful ministrations. Lily felt, however, for one
thing, that her position was far better now for expounding her views
than it had ever been. A girl cannot press upon her lover the necessity
of action. She has to wait for him to take the first step, to urge it
upon her, however strongly she may feel the pressure of circumstances,
the inexpediency of delay. But now she could plead her own cause, she
could make her own claim of right, her statement of what she thought
best. She said to herself that she had never yet tried this way. She had
been compelled to wait for him to do it, but perhaps it was no wrong
thing in him, perhaps it was only exaggerated tenderness for her, desire
to save her from privations, or what he thought privations, that had
prevented any bolder action, and made him think first of all of saving
her from any discomfort. It was possible to think that, and it was very
possible to show him now that she cared for no discomfort, that her only
desire was to be with him, that it was far, far better for Lily to meet
the gaze of the world in her own little house, however small it might
be, than hide in the solitude as if there was something about her that
should be concealed. This thought made Lily’s countenance blaze like the
glowing peat. Something about her that should be concealed! a secret
hidden away in the heart of the moor, in the midst of the snow, which
he, going away from her, would keep silent about, silent as if it were a
shame! Lily threw herself into the chair beside her writing-table with
impetuosity, feeling that not a moment should be lost in putting this
impossible case before him and making her claims. She was no fair
Rosamond, but his wife. A thing to be concealed? Oh, no, no! She would
rather die.
In any case she would have written him a long letter, seizing the first
possible moment of communicating with him, carrying out the first
instinct of her heart to continue the long love-interview which had made
this week the centre of all her days. But Lily threw even more than this
into her letter. She said more, naturally, than she intended to say, and
brought forth a hundred arguments, each more eloquent, more urgent than
the other, to show cause why she should join him immediately, why she
should not be left, nobody knowing any thing about her, in this Highland
hermitage. The lines poured from her pen; she was herself so moved by
her own pleas that she got up once or twice and walked about to
dissipate the impulse which she had to set out at once, to walk if it
were needful to Edinburgh, to claim her proper place. And it was not
till the long, glowing, fervent letter was written that she paused a
little and asked herself if Ronald had really only left her behind
because it was impossible to get a house between the terms, if his first
business was to look out for a house, so as to have it ready for her by
the next term, by Whit-Sunday, was it right to argue with him and
upbraid him as if he intended the separation to go on forever? Lily
threw down her pen which she had dipped in fire--not the fire of anger,
but of love just sharpened and pointed with a little indignation--and
her countenance fell. No, if that were so, she must not address him in
this heroic way. After all it was quite reasonable what he had said: it
was extremely difficult to get a house between the terms. And perhaps he
would not have been justified in engaging one at Michaelmas, before any
thing was decided what to do. He could not have done that; and what,
then, could he do but wait till Whit-Sunday? and, for a man like him,
with his own ways of action, not, unfortunately, though she loved him,
like Lily’s, it was perhaps natural that there should be no premature
disclosure, that as they were parted by circumstances it should remain
so, without taking the world into their confidence, or summoning Sir
Robert to cast his niece who had deceived him out of the shelter which
her husband did not think unbecoming for her now. Lily threw down her
pen, making a splash of ink upon the table--not a large one, to spoil
it, but a mark, which would always remind her of what she had done or
had been about to do.
And then there fell a pause upon her spirit, and tears were the only
relief for her. To take the heroic way, to walk to Edinburgh through the
snow, or even to think of doing so, to pour forth an eloquent appeal
against the cruel fate of her isolation and concealment as if it were to
last forever, was an easier method than to wait patiently until
Whit-Sunday and make the best of every thing, which would really be the
wise thing; for what could Ronald do more than that which he could of
course begin to do as soon as he arrived, to look for a house? And how
could it have been expected of him when every thing was so vague, and he
did not know what might happen, to have provided one, months in advance,
on the mere chance that he could persuade her into that strange
marriage, and the minister into doing it? It would be strange and
embarrassing after that scene to see the minister again, and Lily fell
a-wondering how Ronald had persuaded him, what he had said. Mr. Blythe
was not a very amiable man, ready to do what was asked of him. He made
objections about most things and hated trouble. But Ronald could
persuade any body; he could wile a bird from the tree. And what a grand
quality that was for an advocate! and how proud she would be hereafter
to go to the court and hear him make his grand speeches. Perhaps now he
would talk over some man that wanted to get rid of his house, and make
him see that it would be better to do it now than to wait for the term.
There was, indeed, nothing that Ronald could not persuade a man into if
he tried. Lily felt that her own periods were more fiery, those eloquent
sentences which her good sense had already condemned, but Ronald’s
arguments were beyond reply, there was no getting the better of them.
You might not be sure that they were always sound, you might feel that
there was a flaw somewhere; but to find out what it was, or to get your
answer properly formed, or to convict him of error was more than any
one, certainly more than Lily, could do.
She had risen up, and was stretching her arms above her head in that
natural protest against the languor and solitude which take the form of
weariness, when she saw a dark speck approaching on the road, and
rushed to the window with the wild hope, which she knew was quite vain,
that it might by some possibility be Ronald coming back. But it was only
a rural geeg from Kinloch-Rugas or some other hamlet, or one of the
farms in the neighborhood, creeping up the road against the wind and the
slippery, thawing snow, with a woman in it beside the driver
undistinguishable in her wraps. While Lily looked out and wondered if by
any chance it might be a visitor, Beenie came in with a look of
importance. “Eh, Miss Lily, do you see who that is?” Robina said.
“It is a woman, that is all I know, and keen upon her business to come
out on such a day.”
“Her business?” said Robina. “It’s the Manse geeg, and it’s Miss Eelen
in it, and as far as I can tell she has nae business, but just to spy
out, if she can, the nakedness of the land.”
“There is no nakedness in the land, and nothing to spy out!” cried Lily,
with a flush. “Have we done any thing to be ashamed of that we should be
feared of a neighbor’s eye?”
“Bless me, no, Miss Lily!” cried Robina; but she added: “Eh, my bonnie
bairn, there’s many a thing that’s no expedient, though it’s no wrong. I
wouldna just say any thing to Miss Eelen if I was you. She’s maybe no to
be trusted with a story. The minister had sent her out o’ the road yon
evening in the Manse. Baith me and Katrin remarked it, for she’s his
right hand and he can do nothing without her in a common way, but yon
time she just didna appear.”
“Did he think I was not good enough----” Lily began in a flutter, but
stopped immediately. “What a silly creature I am! as if there could be
any thing in that. Do you think I have such a long tongue that I want to
go and publish to every-body every thing that happens?”
“Oh, Miss Lily, no me! never such a thought was in my head; but it would
be real natural, and you no a person to speak to except Katrin and me,
that are servants baith, though we would go through fire and water for
you. But you see she wasna there, and if I were you, Miss Lily----”
“You happen not to be me,” cried Lily, with eyes blazing, glad of an
opportunity to shed upon Beenie something of the vague irritation in her
heart, “and since we are speaking of that, what do you mean, both Katrin
and you, that were both present, in calling me Miss Lily, Miss Lily, as
if I were a small thing in the nursery, when you know I am a married
woman?” Lily cried, throwing back her head.
“Oh, Miss Lily!” cried Robina, with a suppressed shriek, running to the
door. She looked out with a little alarm, and then came back
apologetically. “You never ken who may be about. That Dougal man might
have been passing, though he has nothing ado up the stair.”
“And what if he had been passing?” Lily said in high disdain.
“Oh, Miss Lily!” cried Robina, again giving the girl a troubled look.
“Do you mean to say that Dougal does not know? Do you mean he
thinks--that man that is my servant, that lives in the house---- Oh,
what can he think?” cried Lily, clasping her hands together in the
vehemence of her horror and shame.
“He just thinks nothing at a’. He’s no a man to trouble any body with
what he thinks. He’s keepit very weel in order, and if he daured to fash
his head with what he has nae business with! He just guesses you twa are
troth-plighted lovers, Miss Lily, and glad he was to get our young
maister away.”
Lily covered her face with her hands. “Am I a secret, then, a secret!”
she cried. “Something that’s hidden, just a lie, no true woman! How
dared you let me do it, then--you that have been with me all my days?
Why did ye not step in and say: ‘Lily, Lily, it’s all deceiving. It’s a
secret, something to be hidden!’ Would I ever have bound myself to a
secret, to be a man’s wife and never to say it? Oh, Beenie, I thought
you cared, that you were fond of me, and me not a creature to tell me
what I was doing! No mother, no friend, nobody but you.”
“Miss Lily, Miss Lily, we thought it was for the best. Oh, we thought it
was for the best, both Katrin and me! For God’s sake dinna make an
exhibition before Miss Eelen! Here she is, coming up the stair. For
peety’s sake, Miss Lily, for a’ body’s sake, if ye have ainy
consideration----”
“Go away from me, you ill woman!” cried Lily, stamping her foot on the
ground. She stood in the middle of the room, wild and flushed and
indignant, while Beenie disappeared into the bedchamber within. Helen
Blythe, coming up a little breathless from the spiral staircase, paused
with astonishment to see her friend’s excited aspect, and the sounds of
tempest in the air.
“Dear me! have I come in at a wrong time?” Helen said.
“Oh, no,” cried Lily, with a laugh of fierce emotion, “at the very best
time, just to bring me back to myself. I’ve been having a quarrel with
Beenie just for a little diversion. We’ve been at it hammer and tongs,
calling each other all the bonnie names--or perhaps it was me that
called her all the names. How do you think we could live out here in the
quiet and the snow if we did not have a quarrel sometimes to keep up our
hearts?”
“Lily, you are a strange lassie,” said Helen, sitting down by the fire
and loosening her cloak. “You just say whatever comes into your head.
Poor Beenie! how could you have the heart to call her names? She is just
given up to ye, my dear, body and soul.”
“She is no better than a cheat and a deceiver!” cried Lily. “She makes
folk believe that she does what I tell her, and never opposes me, when
she just sets herself against her mistress to do every thing I hate and
nothing I like, as if she were a black enemy and ill-wisher instead of a
friend!”
This speech was delivered with great fervor, and emphasized by the sound
of a sob from the inner room.
“Poor Beenie!” cried Helen with mingled amusement and concern, “how is
she to take all that from you, Lily? But you do not mean it in your
heart?”
“No, I don’t mean a word of it,” cried Lily, “and it’s just an old goose
she is if she thinks I do! But for all that she is the most exasperating
woman! I never saw any body like her to be faithful as all the twelve
apostles, and yet make you dance for rage half the time.”
A faint “Oh, Miss Lily!” was heard from the inner room, and then a door
was softly opened and shut, and it was evident that Beenie had slipped
away.
“I heard ye were down at the Manse one day that I was away. It’s seldom,
seldom I am from home, and at that hour above all. But I had to see some
new folk at the Mill, and it was a good thing I went, for there has not
been an open day since then. And I heard ye had a visitor with you,
Lily.”
Lily’s heart seemed to stand still, but she made a great effort and
mastered herself. “Yes,” she said, “it was Mr. Lumsden [many married
persons call their husbands Mr. So-and-So] that had come in quite
suddenly with the guisards on the last night of the year.”
“I understand,” said Helen, with a smile; “he wanted--and I cannot blame
him--to be your first foot.”
The first person who comes into a house in the New Year is called the
first foot in Scotland, and there are rules of good luck and bad
dependent upon who that is.
“It might be so,” said Lily dreamily, “and I think he was, if that was
what he wanted; but the kitchen was full of dancing and singing, the
guisards making a great noise, as it was Hogmanay night.”
“That was to be expected,” said Helen, “and I am glad you had a man, and
a young man, and a weel-wisher, or I am sore mistaken, for your first
foot. It brings luck to the New Year.”
A “weel-wisher” means a lover in Scotland, just as in Italy a girl will
say, _Mi vuol bene_, when she means to say that some one loves her.
“He was here after, twice or thrice, and he wanted to thank the minister
for all his kindness, and as I was at the market with Beenie and Katrin,
and he had offered to drive the pony, I went too. I thought I would have
seen you, but you were not there.”
“Oh, how sorry I was, Lily! but a sight of the market would aye be
something. It’s not like your grand ploys in Edinburgh, but it’s
diverting too.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lily, with great gravity, “it is diverting too.”
“And you had need of something to divert you. What have you been doing,
my bonnie wee lady, all this dreadful storm? I hope at least they have
kept you warm. It is a dreadful thing a winter in the country when you
are not used to it. But now the snow is over and the roads open: you and
me must take a little comfort in each other, Lily. I’m too old for you,
and not so cheery as I might be.”
Lily, suddenly looking at her visitor, saw that Helen’s mild eyes were
full of tears, and with one of her sudden impulsive movements, flung
herself down on her knees at her friend’s feet. “Oh, why are you not
cheery, Helen? you that do every thing you should do, and are so good.”
“Oh, I’m far, far from good! It’s little you know!” said Helen. “My
heart just turns from all the good folk, whiles out of a yearning I take
for those that are the other way.”
“You have some trouble, Helen, some real trouble!” cried Lily with a
tone of compassion. “Will you tell me what it is?”
“Maybe another time, maybe another time,” said Helen, “for my heart’s
too full to-day, and I can hear your poor Robina, that you have been so
cruel to, coming up the stair, the kind creature, with a cup of tea.”