BELL HAD LEFT Earl’s-hall when the house was dismantled, a melancholy operation, which was proceeded with soon after the departure of the ladies. Old Sir Ludovic’s library was sent over to Edinburgh, where the greater part had been sold and dispersed. It was, in its way, a valuable library, containing many rare editions and old works of price, a costly taste, which the present Sir Ludovic did not share. Whatever was done with the old house, his wife and he agreed that to get rid of the books would be always an advantage. If they kept it, the long room must be either divided into two, or at least arranged, for the comfort of the family, in a manner impossible at present while it was blocked up with shelves in every corner, and a succession of heavy bookcases.
In these innocent regions it was not necessary to keep servants in charge of an empty house out of alarm for the safety of its contents. Is it not the simple custom, even of householders in Edinburgh, secure in the honesty of their population, to lock their doors for all precaution, and leave emptiness to take care of itself? There was not much fear for Earl’s-hall. If Aubrey Bellingham had known, indeed, that the various “bits” of china that he admired, and the old dresses in the “aumie” in the high room, and the bits of forlorn old tapestry that wantoned in the wind, were thus left without any protection, it is very possible that he might have organized a gang of æsthetic cracksmen to seize upon those treasures; but they were not in danger from any one in Fife.
Bell and John, or rather, to speak correctly, John and Bell, taking with them their brown cow and all the chickens, removed into a cottage which they had acquired some years before, on the road to the Kirkton, with one or two fields attached to it, and a neat little barn, byre, and poultry-yard. This had been for a long time past the object of their hopes, their Land of Promise, to which they looked forward as their recompense for years of long labor; and it was pleasant, there could be no doubt, to establish the brown cow in the byre and see her “like my leddy in her drawin’-room,” Bell said, making herself comfortable in her new habitation. But it is a very different thing to have only “a but and a ben,” when you have been virtual mistress of a fine old house like Earl’s-hall; and although Bell had always prided herself upon her willingness “to turn her hand to anything,” it did not quite please her to do all the little sweepings and dustings, and fulfil every duty of her little ménage, after having Jeanie under her, to whom she could refer all the rougher work which did not please herself. But above all, it was hard upon Bell that she had no longer “the family” to occupy her thoughts, to call forth her criticisms, and rouse her temper now and then, and give her a never-failing subject of interest and animadversion. Bell had a daughter of her own, who had been married as long as she could remember, it appeared to the old woman, and who had no children to give her mother a new hold upon life; and when she had finished her work and sat down in the evening “outside the door,” but with a totally different prospect from that she had been familiar with so long, Bell would talk to any neighbor that chanced to pass that way, and paused to cheer her up — about “my family” and even about “my ladies,” though they were the same whom she had talked of a little while ago with nothing but the definite article to distinguish them, and of whom she had never been fond, though they had risen so much in her estimation now, and she generally concluded the audience by a sudden relapse into crying on the subject of “my Miss Margaret” which filled the Kirkton half with pity for “the poor old body that had been so long in one place, and couldna bide to be parted from them,” and half with indignation that she should “think mair o’ a young lady that wasna a drap’s blood to her, than of her ain.” Mrs. Dreghorn, Bell’s daughter, who kept the “grocery shop” in the “laigh toun,” was strongly of this opinion. “My mother thinks nothing o’ me in comparison with her Miss Margret — aye her Miss Margret!” said this good woman; but as Mrs. Dreghorn was forty, it may perhaps be allowed to be a different sentiment which Margaret called forth, from that steady-going affection on equal, or nearly equal terms, which subsisted between herself and her mother. Bell could not speak of her child without a moistening of the eyes. “My bonnie bairn!” she was never tired of talking of her, and of the letters Margaret wrote to her; Bell was perhaps the only one of Margaret’s correspondents of whom she was not at all afraid.
Bell, however, was very much bewildered by the hasty, incoherent little epistle which she received in reply to hers, which had contained the letter of Rob Glen. “If you see Mr. Randal Burnside, will you ask him to speak to Mr. Glen? Say I told you to ask him, dear Bell; oh, be sure I said you were to ask him! and Mr. Randal will understand.” What did this mean? Bell grew frightened, and for her part could not understand. The first step in the matter had been strange enough: that Rob Glen should have ventured to forward a letter to Miss Margaret, was of itself a strange and inexplicable fact. But it might be, as he said, about his picture; it might be about some price which old Sir Ludovic had offered. In such circumstances writing might be necessary, and he might not like, perhaps, to write to “the ladies themselves.” But Margaret’s message made the mystery more mysterious still. It confounded Bell so much that she said nothing about it to John, but wrote with much trouble and pain another letter, begging her young lady “not to trouble her bonnie head about young men; but to leave them to themselves, as being another kind of God’s creatures, innocent enough in their way, but not the best of company for bonnie young ladies like her darling.”
When, however, Bell had entered this protest, she immediately bent her mind to the due carrying out of Margaret’s request. Randal had adopted the habit of coming over from Edinburgh in the end of the week and staying till Monday, a praiseworthy habit which his mother much encouraged, and of which she too spoke with tears in her eyes (so weak are women!) as proving her son to be the very best son in the world, and the very prop and staff of old age to “the doctor and me.” It was true enough that he was the delight and support of the old couple in the Manse, of whom one was as yet not particularly old. And if Randal was fond of golf, and arranged “a foursome” for all the Saturdays of his visits, upon the Links which were within reach, in what respect did that affect the matter? A man may be a “keen golfer,” let us hope, and a very good son as well.
“Is there ony news at the Kirkton?” Bell said, when John came in, throwing off an old furred coat that had been old Sir Ludovic’s; for John’s bones were getting cranky with rheumatism, and his blood thin, as happens to every man. The fur glistened as he came into the warm room with his breath, which the cold without had fixed like beads upon every little hair. John put it away carefully on its peg, and came “into” the fire, and put himself into his big wooden arm-chair before he replied —
“Naething of consequence; there’s a change o’ the ministry looked for afore lang, but that’s been maistly aye the case as lang as I can mind. Either they’re gaun out, or they’re coming in; they’re a’ much alike as far as I can see.”
“I wouldna say that,” said Bell, who was more of a partisan than her husband. “There’s our ain side — and there’s the tither side, and our ain’s muckle the best. It’s them I would stand by through thick and thin — I’m nane o’ your indifferent masses,” said the old woman; “but it wasna politics I was thinking of. Did you see naebody that you and me kens?”
“Naebody that you and me kens? I saw a’ body that you and me kens,” said John, taking a very large mouthful of the vowel, which he pronounced aw— “first Katie and her man, just in their ordinar; and syne John Robertson at his door, complaining that he never could find Jeanie; and syne John Armstrong at the smiddy, very strang, shoeing ane of Sir Claude’s horses that’s to hunt the morn; and syne—”
“Touts, I dinna want a dictionary,” said Bell, probably meaning directory; “naebody mair particular than John here and John there? as if I was wanting a list o’ a’ the Johns! Weel I wat there’s plenty o’ ye, young and auld, and great and sma’.”
“Is’t the wives you’re so keen about? I can tell ye naething o’ the women; there were few about the doors at this time o’ the night, and them just taupies, that would have been mair in their place, getting ready their man’s supper, or putting their bairns to their beds.”
“Eh, man John, but ye’ve awfu’ little invention,” said Bell. “If it had been me that had been to the Kirkton, I would have heard some story or other to divert you with that were biding at hame. But ye canna get mair out of a man than Providence has put intill him,” she said, with a sigh of resignation; then added, as by a sudden thought, “You wouldna see ony of the Manse family about?”
“Ay did I,” said John, provoked to hear any doubt thrown upon his capacity of seeing the Manse family. “I saw the gig trundling up the bit little avenue with Mr. Randal and his little portmanteau that I could have carried in ae hand. But Robert’s just a useless creature that will have out a horse for naething, sooner than up with a bit small affair upon his shoulder and carry ‘t. It’s bad for the horse and it’s worse for the man, to let him go on in such weirdless ways.”
“So Randal Burnside’s back again?” said Bell. She did not pay much attention to John’s further animadversions upon Robert, who was the man-of-all-work at the Manse. Having at last got at the scrap of information she wanted, she got up and bestirred herself about the supper, and listened to just as much as interested her and no more. In this way at his own fireside, without even Jeanie to disturb him, and no bell to break the thread of his discourse, John loved to talk.
The next day was Saturday, which Bell allowed to pass without any attempt to execute her commission; but when Sunday came, after the service was over, the sermon ended, and the kirk “skailing,” in all decency and good order, she seized her opportunity. “Will you speak a word, Mr. Randal?” she said, lingering behind the rest. “Na, no afore a’ the folk; but if you’ll come round to me at poor Sir Ludovic’s tomb yonder, where I’m gaun to see if ony weeding’s wanted.”
Randal gave a hasty assent. His heart began to beat, in sympathy, perhaps, with Margaret’s heart, which had beat so wildly when she gave the commission now about to be communicated to him. He got free of the people, doubly tiresome at this moment, who insisted on shaking hands with the Minister’s son as part of the performance, “Eh, what a sermon the Doctor’s given us!” the kind women said. Perhaps Randal had not been so much impressed by his father’s eloquence; but he was very eager to make an end of these weekly salutations and congratulations. He hurried back to Bell, with such an increase and quickening of all the currents of his blood, that the old woman looked with surprise upon his glorified countenance. “I never thought he was such a bonnie lad,” Bell said to herself. As for Randal, he tried very hard, but with no success, to persuade himself that what she wanted with him must be some trifling business of her own. But his heart travelled on to Margaret, and to some chance message from her, with a determination which he could not resist.
“Well, Bell, what is it?” he said.
“I am real obliged to you, Mr. Randal. It’s no my business, and it’s a thing I canna approve of, that maun be said to begin with. Mr. Randal, I was writing to my young lady, to Miss Margret—”
“Yes?” said Randal, a little breathless, and impatient of the suspense.
“Ay, just that — and ye’ll no guess what happened. Rob Glen, that’s him that is Mrs. Glen’s son at Earl’s-lee farm, a lad that was to be a minister — you’ll ken him by name at least — Rob Glen?”
“Yes, I know him;” Randal felt as if she had thrown a deluge of cold water upon him; his very heart was chilled. “Oh yes,” he said, coldly, “I know Rob Glen.”
“Well, sir, what does that lad do but come to me with a bit letter in his hand. ‘When ye’re writing to Miss Margret, will ye send her that for me?’ he said. You may think how I glowered at him. ‘For Miss Margret!’ I said. He gave me a kind of fierce look, and ‘Just for Miss Margret,’ he says. You might have laid me on the floor with a puff o’ your breath. Miss Margret! so young as she is, far ower young to get letters from ony man, far less a lad like Rob Glen.”
“But why are you telling me this?” said Randal, half angry, half miserable. “I hope you will not tell it to any one else.”
“I will tell it to no one else, Mr. Randal; I’m no one to talk. I have to tell you because I’m bidden to tell you. When I looked like that at the lad, he said it was about a picture that he had drawn of auld Earl’s-ha’. And weel I minded the drawing of that picture, and the work my bonnie lady made about it. Well, I sent the letter, and yesterday morning, nae farther gane, I got twa-three lines from her, a’ blotted and blurred, poor lamb. I’m thinking the ladies maun have been at her — her that never had a hard word from man or woman! ‘Bell,’ she says, ‘if you see Mr. Randal Burnside, will you tell him to speak to Mr. Glen? Say it was me that bade ye, and then he’ll ken fine what I mean.’ I hope ye do ken what she means, Mr. Randal, far it’s mair than I do; and I canna approve for a young lady, and such a young thing as Miss Margret, ony such troke with young men.”
Randal’s face had been almost as changeable as Margaret’s while these words floated on. He reddened, and paled, and brightened, and was overshadowed, one change following another like the clouds on the sky. Finally, the last result was a mixture of confusion and bewilderment, with eager interest, which it is difficult to describe. “I fear I don’t understand at all, Bell,” he cried. “Was that all? Was there no more than that?”
“No another word; but a’ blurred and blotted, as if she had been in an awfu’ hurry. And ye canna understand? She said you would ken fine.”
“I think I understand a little,” Randal said, ruefully. He had asked her to call upon him whenever there was anything in which she wanted help, and here it was evident she wanted help; but of what kind? Was he to help her lover, or to discourage him? But of this Margaret gave no intimation. The office in itself was embarrassing enough, and what man ever received a more mysterious commission? She had appealed to him for aid, and who so willing to give it? But what kind of aid it was she wanted he could not tell. “I know in a way,” he said, “I know she wants me to do something, but what? Never mind, I will do my best to find out; and when you write to her, Bell, my good woman, will you tell her—”
“Na, na,” said Bell, briskly, “no a word. I’ve had enough to do with that kind of thing. I’ll carry no message, nor I’ll take charge o’ no letters; na, na, lads are a destruction to everything. And no a lad even that might be evened to the like of her. Na, na, Mr. Randal, it might be the maist innocent message in the world; I’m no blaming you, but I canna undertake no more.”
“And I think you are quite right,” he said, confusedly; “but — what did she want him to do?” He went away in great perplexity and excitement, which it was very difficult to shut up within his own bosom. To speak to Glen — that was his commission; but with what object? To help Margaret, poor little Margaret caught in the toils, and who had no one to help her; but what did she want him to do?
Randal went out after afternoon church was over, the “second diet of worship,” as his father called it. It was not a promising evening for a walk. The short November day was closing in; the foggy atmosphere was heavy and chill — the clouds so low that they seemed within the reach of his hand. Hedge-rows and trees were all coated with a chill dew which soon would whiten with the night’s frost; everything was wet underfoot. Even in the “laigh toun” few of the people were “about the doors.” Gleams of ruddy fire-light showed through the cottage windows, often over a moving mass of heads, of different sizes, the children sitting about “reading their books” as became a Sabbath evening, and the elders on either side of the fire carrying on solemn “cracks,” each individual furnishing a remark in slow succession. In-doors there was something drowsy and Sabbatical in the air; but there was nothing drowsy or comfortable out-of-doors. Randal walked toward the farm in the grim gray winterly twilight, wondering whether he could make any plausible errand to the house, or how he was to make sure of seeing Rob. But Fortune favored him in this respect, as indeed Fortune could scarcely help favoring any one who, wanting Rob Glen, walked in the twilight toward Earl’s-lee. When he was within a field or two of the farm-house. Randal became aware of two figures in the shadow of a hedge-row, and of a murmur of voices. He divined that it was a “lad and lass.” Lads and lasses are nowhere more common spectacles, “courting” nowhere a more clearly recognized fact than in Fife. Randal took care not to look at them or disturb them; and by-and-by he saw a little figure detach itself out of the shadows and run across the field. Who could it be? Their fervor of love-making must be warm indeed to enable them to bear the miseries of this “drear-nighted November.” He went on with a certain sympathy and a little sigh. Randal did not feel as if there could ever be any occasion for “courting” on his part. He was vaguely excited; but sadness, more than any other feeling, filled his mind; if he saw Rob before him, what was he to say to him? “Ah, Glen!” he exclaimed, “is that you?” while yet this question was fresh in his mind.
Rob came forward from the shadow with evident discomfiture. He recognized the new-comer sooner than Randal knew him. Was he, then, the man who had been whispering behind the hedge, from whose side that little female figure, not, he thought, unknown to Randal either, had flitted so hurriedly away? Hot indignation rose in Randal’s veins.
“Can it be you?” he said, with a sudden mingling of displeasure and contempt with the surprise in his voice.
“Not a pleasant evening for a walk,” said Rob. He was uneasy too, but he did not see what he could do better than talk, and forestall if possible any objection the other might seem disposed to make. “I dropped something in the ditch,” he said, accusing as he excused himself, “but it is evidently too dark to hope to find it now.”
“You are still staying here?” said Randal, still more contemptuous of the lie, and feeling a secret desire, which almost mastered him, to push his companion into the chill ooze under the hedge-row. “Though the country,” he added, “has not the same attraction as when we met last.”
“No,” said Rob, with a slight falter, “that is true; but necessity has no law. I am here because — I have nothing to do elsewhere. I am not so lucky as you, to be able to hold by and follow out the trade to which I have been bred.”
“That is a misfortune, certainly.”
“Yes, it is a misfortune — and such a misfortune in my case as you can scarcely realize. I have disappointed my friends and put them out of temper. There could be no harm in abandoning the law, but there is great harm in abandoning the Church.”
“There is always harm, I suppose,” said Randal, “in throwing up the career in which our training can tell. Church or law, it does not so much matter; there is always disappointment in such a drawing back.”
“Perhaps that is true; but most in the first, and most of all in my class. Yes,” said Rob, suddenly, “you may say there is less attraction now. The last night we met, it was just before the Leslies left Earl’s-hall.”
“I remember the night,” said Randal, with some irrestrainable bitterness in his tone.
“I am sure you do. I felt it in your tone to-night. You disapproved of me then; and now,” said Rob, with an air almost of derision, and he laughed a little nervous, self-conscious laugh.
“I don’t pretend to any right either of approval or disapproval,” said Randal. Anger was rising hotter and hotter within him; but what was it she wanted him to do?
“No right; but people don’t wait for that,” said Rob. He was not comfortable nor happy about his good-fortune. He had got Margaret’s note, and it had stung him deeply. And here was one who could communicate with her, though he could not — who belonged to her sphere, which he did not. “We all approve or disapprove by instinct, whatever right we may have. If you had felt more sympathy with me, I might have found a friend in you,” Rob went on, after a pause. “When two people, so different in external circumstances as Margaret and myself, love each other, a mutual friend is of the greatest advantage to both.”
The blood rushed to Randal’s face in the darkness. He felt the veins fill and throb upon his forehead, and fury took possession of his heart. He could have seized the fellow by the throat who thus wantonly and without necessity had introduced Margaret’s name. But then — who could tell? — this office of mutual friend might be the very thing she had intended him to take.
“I cannot see what use I could be—”
“You could be of the greatest use. You could find out for me, without suspicion, a hundred things I want to know; or, if you fell under the suspicion of being after Margaret yourself,” said Rob, with the unconscious vulgarity which he had never been able to get over, “there would be no harm done. They would not turn you to the door for it. You see our correspondence has to be of a very limited character till she is of age.”
“Do you think,” said Randal, hotly, “that to carry on such a correspondence at all is right or honorable without the sanction of the friends? No creature so young” (he kept to words as impersonal as possible, not feeling able to use a pronoun to indicate Margaret, whose sacred name ought never to have been breathed) “can understand what such a correspondence is. Glen, since you ask me, as a man of honor you ought not to do it. I am sure you ought not to do it.”
“It is all very well talking,” said Rob, “but what am I to do? Lose sight of her altogether — for three long years?”
“Is that the time fixed?” said Randal, with dismay.
“When she comes of age. Then, whatever happens, I have sufficient faith that all will go merry as a marriage-bell. But in the mean time—” Rob said, half-bragging, half-mournfully: he was in reality in the lowest depths of discouragement; but the last person to whom he would have confided this was Randal Burnside.
Randal was struck with a sudden thought. “Look here,” he said, somewhat hoarsely, “I have given you my opinion, which I have no right to do; but you may make some use of me in return, if you like. Look here, Glen; I’ll get you something to do in my uncle’s office in Edinburgh, which will be better than hanging on here, if you’ll have patience and wait till the time you mention, and take my advice.”
Was this what she wanted him to do? The effort was a great one; for Randal felt a loathing grow over him for the under-bred fellow to whom such celestial good-fortune and unexampled happiness had fallen. To annoy and harass himself with the constant sight of him in order to leave her free and unmolested, it was a sacrifice of which Margaret would never know the full difficulty. Was this what she wanted him to do?