AUBREY JOINED THE travellers in London. It was very self-denying of him, very kind, to give up all the festivities at the Court, and all his many Christmas invitations, in order to accompany and take care of a party of ladies on a journey to Mentone, his aunt said; “I will not say that it is not a sacrifice to myself to give up Christmas at the Court. I don’t grudge the sacrifice, my dear, for your sake, and for the sake of your health; but I will not say it is nothing and does not matter, as Grace does. Don’t you believe, either, that it does not matter to Grace. She likes her amusement just as well as the rest of us, though, to be sure, our mourning would make a difference. But Aubrey is a young man, and has as many engagements as he can set his face to; and we are nothing but a couple of old aunts, and you a bit of a little girl. Yet when he can be of use he never hesitates. You ought to be very grateful, Margaret, for all he is doing for you.”
“And so I am,” said Margaret: it was very kind. And though Aubrey, when he arrived, scouted the notion, and declared that he would go anywhere to get rid of the festivities of the Court, this did not make any impression upon the ladies, who praised his self-denial to the echo. As for Margaret, there could be no doubt that his presence made the expedition very much more agreeable to her. Jean and Grace were very kind; but Jean was a little overpowering in her manifold arrangements, and Grace’s tenderness did not always fall in with the girl’s humor, who was apt to be impatient now and then. Margaret got better day by day; and there was so great a load lifted from her mind that she was able to enjoy everything as she had never done before. No chance now that she should be followed and pursued by any attendant of whom she would be afraid. Every step they took made that more impossible. She seemed to get out of the range of Rob Glen altogether when she crossed the Channel, not to say that Randal had already made her deliverance certain.
She dwelt upon this action of Randal in many a musing, with mingled admiration and gratitude. How clever it was of him to divine what she wanted to be done! The confusion of the moment had been partly to blame for the incoherent message she had sent; but it was not altogether the confusion of the moment. There had been, besides, a reluctance to mention the name of Rob Glen to Randal, a desire to imply, rather than to state distinctly, what she wanted him to do. The vagueness was at least partly voluntary, and partly she did not know what she wanted to be done. She wanted something, some one to interpose who should know better than herself, who should be able to see what was most expedient. What claim had she on Randal that he should have done so much for her? And what inspiration could it be that made him divine so exactly what she wanted — exactly what she wanted! — not to hurt Rob’s feelings? Oh no, very far from that. If she had not been unwilling to hurt Rob’s feelings, it would never have been in his power to give her so much alarm as he had done.
Margaret sat and thought over all this as they crossed the bit of sea between Dover and Calais. Jean and Grace had betaken themselves to a deck cabin, where they lay each on a sofa, scarcely venturing to congratulate each other that the sea was not quite so bad as usual, but prepared for every emergency, and Aubrey had gone to the other end to smoke a cigar. Margaret, in her excitement, had scorned the deck cabin, which both her sisters protested had been secured entirely for her. She was, though she did not as yet know it, one of those happy people who are excited, not prostrated, by the sea. She felt that she would like to walk about the decks with Aubrey; but all that had been permitted to her was to sit in the most sheltered corner, done up in shawls and wraps, so as to lessen all chances of taking cold. And after a while, when the first thrill of excitement calmed down, and she began to get accustomed to her own emotion, and the fact that she had left England, and the extraordinary certainty that these were the shores of France to which she was going, the extreme isolation of the moment drove Margaret back, as is so often the case, upon her most private thoughts. The exhilaration of her being, which was partly convalescence and partly change, she attributed entirely to the fact that, for the moment, she was free — delivered from the danger that had seemed about to overwhelm her.
This consciousness seemed to triumph over everything — her grief which was still so recent, her illness, all the ills her flesh was heir to. And as Margaret’s mind was growing amidst all this agitation, it was now, at this moment, in the middle of the Channel, that the thought suddenly occurred to her: if she had been a sensible girl — if she had not been a very foolish girl, how much better it would have been to pay no heed to Rob Glen’s feelings — to cut at once this bond which was all his making, which had been woven between them without any wish of hers — which she had always rebelled against, except those first nights when she had scarcely been aware what he was saying, or what doing — when she had received his declarations of love almost without hearing them, and allowed his kisses on her cheek with no more perception of their meaning than that he wanted to be “kind” and comfort her. There had been no lover’s interview between them in which Margaret had not — a little — shrank from him. She had held herself away as far as she could from his embracing arm. She had averted her cheek as much as possible; but it had been impossible for her to fling away from him, to deliver herself altogether at the cost of Rob’s feelings. This she had not strength of mind to do. But now she perceived that it would have been better had she done it — had she said plain No, when he declared his love with all the hyperbole of passion.
Margaret knew she did not love him, certainly not in that way; but how she had shrunk from saying it — from letting him feel that she did not care for him as he cared for her! How it would have hurt his feelings! Rather put up with some little excess of affection for herself, she thought, than humiliate him in this way! And now was the first time when she really asked herself, Would it not have been better to say the truth? The question flushed Margaret’s cheek with crimson, then sent back all her blood in a sudden flood upon her heart. She did not venture to contemplate the possibility of having done this — of having actually said to him, “It is a mistake; you are very — very kind, but I am not in love with you.”
The mere idea of it appalled her. How cruel it would have been! How he would have “thought shame!” How his feelings would have been hurt! But still — but still — perhaps it would have been better. She had just become pale and chill all over with the horrible possibility of having given such pain as this, when Aubrey’s voice startled her. He was saying, anxiously,
“I am afraid you are ill. I am afraid you are feeling cold. Won’t you go into the cabin and lie down? We shall be there in half an hour.”
“Oh no!” said Margaret, her paleness disappearing in another sudden blush. The days of her blushing — her changes of countenance, which were like the coming and going of the shadows — had come back. “Oh no! I am not cold; and I am not ill. I like it. But I — was thinking—”
“I wonder if I might offer you a penny for your thoughts? I dare say they are worth a great deal more than that. Would you like to have mine? They are not worth the half of a penny. I was thinking what poor creatures we all are — how unamiable we are on board of a steamboat (the most of us). Look what pictures of misery these people are! It is not rough, but they cannot believe that it may not be rough any moment: when there is a pitch — there — like that!” said Aubrey, himself looking a little queer. “They think, now it is coming! All their strength of mind, all their philosophy, if they have any, cannot resist one heave of that green water. Ugh — here’s another!” he cried, relapsing out of his fine moral tone into abject sensationalism. Margaret laughed as merrily, with her eyes dancing, as if there was no Rob Glen in the world.
“But I don’t care,” she cried. “I like it: when it seems to go from under your feet, and then bounds like a greyhound.”
“Don’t speak of it,” he said, faintly. “And why is it you are so superior to the rest of us? Not because you are so much brighter, and purer, and better—”
“Oh no!” cried Margaret, interrupting him, shaking her head and smiling. “Oh no! for I am not that—”
“You should not contradict people who are older than yourself — it is not good manners,” he said, solemnly. “You are all that, I allow; but that is not the reason. It is simply because of some little physical peculiarity, some excellence of digestion, or so forth, if one may venture to use such a word: not because it is you — which I should think quite a natural and proper reason. No, for I have seen a creature as fair and as good almost as you are, Margaret (our travellers’ names are Margaret and Aubrey, you know — that’s understood), I have seen a beautiful young girl, everything that was sweet and charming, lying dishevelled, speechless, a prey to nameless horrors. Ah! that was a bad one!” said the young man, unable to conceal that he himself had become extremely pale.
“Oh! I am very sorry for her,” said Margaret, forgetting the compliment in the interest of the story. “Who was she, Mr. Aubrey?” and she turned her sympathetic eyes full upon him, which was almost more than, in his present state of sensation, he could bear; but, happily, Calais was within a stone’s-throw; and that is a circumstance which steels the suffering to endurance. He got up, saying, “I think I must look after the aunts.”
Margaret looked after him with a warm gush of sympathy. Who was this beautiful young girl who had been so ill? Was poor Aubrey, too, “in love?” She felt disposed to laugh a little, as is natural in the circumstances; for does not every one laugh when a love-story is suddenly produced? But she was deeply interested, and at once felt a kindred sympathy and affectionate interest opening up in her bosom. Poor Aubrey! Had anything happened, she wondered, to the beautiful young girl who was everything that was sweet and charming? Was not that enough to make everybody take an interest in her at once?
Margaret got no immediate satisfaction, however, about that beautiful young girl, but she often thought of her; and when she saw any shadow come over Aubrey’s face, she immediately set it down to the credit of this anonymous young lady. For the moment, however, she was herself carried away by the excitement of being “abroad.” But, alas! is not the very first of all sensations “abroad” a bewildering sense that it is just the same world as at home, and that “foreigners” are nothing else than men and women very much like the rest of us? For the first hour Margaret was in a kind of wonderland. The new, unusual sound of the language, the different looks of the people, delighted her, and she could understand what they were saying; though both Jean and Grace declared it to be such bad French that they never attempted to understand. “Is it very bad French?” she whispered to Aubrey; “perhaps that is why I know what they mean.” And he gave her a comical look which made Margaret inarticulate with suppressed laughter. Thus the two young people became sworn allies, and understood each other. But, after the first hour, the old familiar lines of the world she had been previously acquainted with came back to Margaret. The people, though they were dressed differently and spoke French, were the same kind of men and women as she had always known. Indeed, the old women in their white caps looked as if they had just come from Fife.
“That is just what they were at home,” she said again to Aubrey; “the old wives — those that never mind the fashions — even Bell!” There were some of the old women on the French roads, and at the stations, so like Bell that the sight of them brought tears to Margaret’s eyes.
“Who is Bell? I have so often heard of Bell. Bell has been put forward again and again, till I am afraid of her. I am sure you are afraid of her; and Aunt Jean, too, though she will not say so.”
“Oh, not me!” cried Margaret, uncertain as ever about her pronouns; “Bell is — she is just Bell. She was our house-keeper; she was everything to me; she brought me up. I never recollect any one else. Afraid of Bell — oh! no, no. But I would not like Bell to know,” said Margaret, slowly, “if I did anything that was bad — anything that was real wrong—”
“You never will,” said Aubrey, “so it doesn’t matter; but I should call that being afraid of her. Now there are some people whom you only go to when you have done something that is real wrong.”
“Are there? I don’t know. It was Bell that brought me up, more than any one else. She is living now near — on the way to the Kirkton. But you will not take any interest in that.”
“I take the greatest interest,” said Aubrey; and it so chanced that this conversation, broken off in the railway, was renewed again when they were settled at Mentone, where again old women were to be found like Bell. They passed rapidly through Paris, and settled at once in the place that was supposed to be good for Margaret. But by the time they reached the sunny Riviera Margaret had thrown off all trace of indisposition, and evidently wanted nothing but air and sunshine, and a little petting, like other flowers. They had a little villa on the edge of that brightest sea; and there along a path bordered by a hedge of aloes, and with a great stone-pine at the end, its solemn dome of foliage and its great column of trunk relieved against the Mediterranean blue, the two young people took a great many walks together.
One of these evenings specially stamped itself on their memories; the sky was flushed rose-red with the sunset, and all the sounds in the air were soft, as summer only makes them in England: there was a tinkle going on close at hand from a convent-bell, and there was a soft sound of voices from the beach — voices, of which the inflections, the accents, were all dramatic, though they could not tell a word that was said. It was the enchanted hour, the time of natural magic and poetry; and Aubrey, though he was not at all poetical, felt it a little more than he could have believed possible. He had found out how pretty Margaret was — how much prettier, day by day. It was not that there was any striking beauty in her that conquered with a glance; but every morning when she appeared down-stairs, with her color coming and going, with her brown eyes full of such eagerness and lovely wonder, “she grew upon you,” Aubrey said. He had thought her very tolerable even at first — no particular drawback to her income and her estate. But by this time he took a great deal of interest in her. She was never the same; always changing from serious to gay, from red to white, from quiet to eagerness. He was interested, never wearied. He had not really found it much of a sacrifice to accompany the ladies, after all. The place was a bore; but then, fortunately, Margaret no longer required to be kept at this place; there was a reasonable hope of moving on to places in which there was more amusement; and Margaret was really amusing, very amusing, as girls go. There was a variety about her which kept your interest alive.
“Did you ever do anything that was real wrong?” said Margaret, dreamily, looking out toward the horizon where the rose of the sky met the blue of the sea. She was rather thinking aloud, than realizing the scope of what she said; and it is doubtful whether the girl ever realized the difference between a girl and a man — the very different sense that real wrong might have to him, or the equivocal meaning which such words might bear to a listener of so much more experience in the world.
He laughed, startling Margaret from her dreamy musing. “Alas!” he said, “a great many times, I am afraid. Did you? But I don’t suppose you know what wrong means.”
“Yes,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “I am not in fun; once: and it seems as if you never can get better of it. I don’t know if it is any excuse that I did it because I did not like to hurt a person’s feelings.”
“What was it?” he said, lightly; “a little fib — a statement that was not quite justified by fact? These are the angelical errors that count for wrong among creatures like you.”
“Then what do you call wrong, if that is not wrong? Aubrey, it was more wicked than that: but I am not going to tell you what it was. I have been dreadfully sorry ever since I did it. But I feel a little easier, a little happier now.”
“Perhaps you broke a bit of old Dresden?” he said, “or lost that Venice point Aunt Jean showed me. I should never forgive you for such sins, Margaret. No wonder you are reluctant to confess them. You are happier because nobody could be unhappy in this delicious evening, walking as we are. It is only in such a scene that I could look with complacency upon the heartless destroyer of china, the careless guardian of lace—”
“You are only laughing at me,” she said; “I think you are always laughing. Don’t you think there is anything in the world more serious than china and lace?”
“Very few things, Margaret. Few things so dear, which you will allow is very serious, and few things so easily injured.”
“But oh, Aubrey! I think that is almost wicked, to love a thing that cannot love you again, as much as — more than things that have life.”
“I don’t do that, Margaret.” He looked at her so earnestly that she was almost abashed, yet, fearing nothing, went on, moved by the flowing of her own newly awakened thoughts. “You and Jean, you talk as if a little bit of a cup or a plate — what we call pigs in Fife — was of more importance — What are you laughing at, Aubrey? — because I said pigs? But it is the common word.”
“My dear little Margaret,” he said, “don’t make me laugh, with your pigs. Lecture me. Let us go and sit under the pine and look out upon the sea, and do you preach me a little sermon about real right and real wrong. I am just in the mood to profit by it now.”
“You are doing what papa used to do,” said Margaret, half laughing, half crying; “he would always make a fool of me. And how should I lecture you? You must know much better than I do.”
“I ought, I suppose,” he said. The pine stood on a little point, one of those innumerable fairy headlands that line that lovely coast, the sea lapping softly, three parts round, the foot of the cliff on which it holds its place. The air was more fresh there than anywhere else. The pine held high its clump of big branches and sharp evergreen needles high over their heads: behind them was a bosquet of shrubs which almost hid them as they sat together. The blue sea thus softly whispering below upon the beach, the delicate rose that tinted the sky, the great pine isolated and splendid, how could they recall to Margaret the dark wood, all worn with the winds, the mossy knoll, the big elbows of the silver fir, the moan of the Northern sea with which she had been so familiar? The one scene, though made up of almost the same details, bore no more resemblance to the other than Aubrey Bellingham did to Rob Glen: and where could a greater difference be?
“Yes,” he said; “so far as wrong is concerned, I should suppose so. I must be better up in that than you are; but, all the same, I should like you to teach me. Let it be about the right; there you are strong. What must I do to cease to be a useless dilettante — as you say I am?”
“Me? I never said so, Aubrey — not such a word. I never said such a word.”
“But you meant it. Tell me, Margaret: if I can cease to be a dilettante and a trifling person, what would you have me be?”
He bent toward her, looking into her eyes, and half put out his hand to take hers; and Margaret, startled, saw once more what it had so much bewildered her to see in Mr. St. John, the same look which she knew in the eyes of Rob Glen. What an amount of experience she was acquiring, ever renewed and extended! This frightened her greatly. She drew away from him upon the garden-seat, and kept her hands clasped firmly together, and beyond the reach of any other hand.
“I do not want you to be anything,” she said, “you are very well as you are. You might think upon — perhaps you might think upon — the common folk a little more. When you came to Earl’s-hall we did not know what you meant; and sometimes even now Jean and you — I know most about the common folk, they are just as interesting as the others.”
“Ah,” he said, laughing, but a little discomfited, “you mean the poor. Must I take to visiting the poor?”
“I suppose you call them the poor, in England,” said Margaret, doubtfully, “but you know a great deal better than I do, Aubrey; for one thing, you are older. I think perhaps Jean will think I ought to go in now.”
“Certainly, I am a great deal older; but not so very much, either. I am twenty-five — just about the right age to go with eighteen. Yes, tell me a little more. I shall recollect about — what do you call them? the common people — not the poor. Go on, my moralist; I am ready to be taught.”
“I think I hear Grace calling,” she said, rising to her feet. “I am sure Jean will think the wind is getting cold, and that I should have gone in before.”
“The wind is as soft as summer,” he said, with a little excitement, “and the evening as sweet as — yourself. Wait a little, only a few minutes; there is something I wish so much to say to you.”
“Oh, Mr. Aubrey!” she said, frightened. “Do not say it! I would rather you did not say it. Once I did very wrong, not wishing to hurt a person’s feelings; but that is what I must never do any more.”
“Are you sure,” he said, rising too, with a sudden flush of anger, “that you know what I was going to say?”
Margaret paused, with an alarmed look at him, the color wavering in her cheeks, her eyes very anxious, her lips a little apart.
“What I was going to say,” he continued, pointedly, “was, that I fear I must soon leave the villa, and the fine weather, and your delightful society. This kind of holiday life cannot endure forever.”
“Oh!” She uttered her favorite exclamation with a look of distress and, he thought, disappointment. This was balm to Aubrey’s heart.
“Yes, I am sorry, too. But what can be done when duty calls? My office is getting clamorous, and there is nothing for a man to do here. Now, perhaps, we had better carry out your intention, and go back to Aunt Jean.”
And they walked through the garden back to the house, with scarcely a word spoken between them. One way or the other way, both were equally uncomfortable modes of managing such a crisis. She had hurt his feelings! It was better than all that followed the episode of Rob Glen; but still it was not a pleasant way.