IT WAS ROB, perhaps, who had the most right to be excited by this unexpected vision; but Randal, who had no right, was also driven half wild by it, and altogether lost his head as he stood gazing blankly about him, and saw Margaret, rather dragging Aubrey after her than being conducted by him, thread through the crowd with such an eager impulse of flight. Few young men could have refused to be a little biassed and shaken from their equilibrium by the sweetness of such a reception as he had just received. The brightening of her countenance, the look of pleasure that overspread her face, the gleam of sweet friendliness and welcome would have been pleasant from any one; but from her who had already touched his fancy and interested his heart — from her to whom already he had given a devotion which was of the nature of friendship rather than love — it was more than pleasant, it set every nerve tingling. His devotion had borne a kind of character of friendship, he thought; for was not love hopeless on her side, pledged as she was? And yet he could not do less than serve her for the sake of her childhood, for the sake of all the associations of the past, but chiefly for the sake of herself, so sweet as she was, so tender, and lovely, and young — the kind of creature whom it would be sweet to shield from all trouble.
It had wrung his heart before now to think how little he could do for Margaret, having no right to stand by her. What right had he to interfere? He was not even a connection like Aubrey, whom he called “that English fellow,” just as Aubrey called him “that Scotch fellow” and “the man of Killin.” He had to stand by and see her go out into the world with nobody who understood her, her life already fettered by bonds so unsuitable, so foolishly formed, but beyond all power of his to interfere. And now to receive such a welcome from her, to see her face so lit up with pleasure to greet him, went to Randal’s very heart. It seemed to send a corresponding light over his whole being: he did not ask himself what it meant; but it was not possible that Margaret’s sudden unaffected lighting up at sight of himself, and her unaccountable horror and terror and flight at the name of Glen, should not have stirred all manner of strange emotions in Randal. He made a virtue of patience for an hour or two until he thought it certain that her sisters would also have gone home, and then he hastened to the address Aubrey had unwillingly given him, missing, by so doing, an excited visit from Rob Glen, who, after driving wildly through the bewildering streets in hopeless confusion, bethought himself that Randal might know where Margaret was likely to be found. They missed each other on the crowded way, and Randal went on, with his head full of dreams, in a kind of intoxication of beatitude and wonder. What a change since this morning had come over the young man’s life!
When, however, he reached the place where the ladies were staying, it was into the midst of confusion and excitement that Randal found himself suddenly thrown. Mrs. Bellingham was walking about the room in great commotion, Miss Grace crying softly on a sofa. They received him without surprise as people already too much excited to find any new event unexpected or strange.
“How do you do, Randal?” said Mrs. Bellingham; “I am sorry to say we have scarcely time to receive you as we should like. We had settled ourselves for a week in town, and got very nice rooms and everything; and I had quantities of things to do — the work of a year, I may say. We have no clothes, not an article to put on, and there were a hundred things I wanted. But all is thrown into disorder, all is unsettled, and I sha’n’t be able to do anything. We must go back to the Grange at once without a moment’s delay.”
“Dearest Jean!” said Miss Grace, with streaming eyes, “you know you said we must just give ourselves up to dear Margaret; and if it makes her ill to stay in London, how can it be helped? Let me go with dearest Margaret, and do you stay and do your shopping—”
“As if I would trust her out of my hands! especially if she is going to be ill again. But here is the thing that puzzles me. Did you ever hear of Margaret being ill, Randal, at Earl’s-hall? But here is a girl that was as strong as — as strong as a little pony — in Fife, and she gets congestion of the lungs as soon as she comes to the South, and cannot stay two days in London! I never heard anything like it — of course I am very sorry for Margaret. What have I been doing but devoting myself to her for the last five months? And she was just blooming — would you not have called her blooming, Aubrey? But London does not agree with her. Fancy London not agreeing with a girl! I don’t know when I have been so much put out in all my life.”
“Is — Miss Leslie — ill?” said Randal, not knowing how to shape the question.
“Yes; she grew faint and ill just after we met you,” said Aubrey, looking at him with steady composure. “I thought the best thing to do was to get her out of that beastly atmosphere at once.”
“Oh, you did quite right, Aubrey; I am not in the least blaming you. Much better, in such a case, to leave at once; for if she had fainted outright, in the middle of the crowd, that would have been a pretty business! I never was used to girls who fainted,” said Mrs. Bellingham, plaintively. “I have known them to get bad headaches when there was nothing going on; but fainting, just when we were all amusing ourselves — and we have got a box at the opera to-night! it really is enough to send one out of one’s wits — a box at the opera! and you know what a chance that is.”
“But, dearest Jean! do you go; I will stay with dear Margaret. I shall not mind it; indeed, I shall not mind it much; and you know she has been persuaded; she has given up the idea of going home to-night.”
“Going to-night was simply impossible! we are not all born idiots!” said Mrs. Bellingham, with a vigor of language which betrayed her nationality. Then, calming down a little, she seated herself and began to pour out the tea, which had been neglected. “I am sure I beg your pardon, Randal, for letting you see me in such a ‘fuff.’ But it is provoking, you will allow. And as for going to the opera by myself, or with only Grace, instead of having a pretty, fresh young girl by our side that everybody would remark! I declare one would need to have the patience of a saint not to feel it. Oh, ill? No, I don’t think she is very ill; just upset, you know. Indeed, I should have said it was more like a fright than anything else; but Aubrey says there was nothing — no accident, nor runaway horse, nor man killed. I’ve seen that happen in London streets, and very awful it was.”
“No,” said Aubrey, steadily, “there was nothing of that sort; but the atmosphere was bad enough for anything; and then the fatigue of the journey—”
“Do you take sugar in your tea, Randal? So many people take no sugar, it is always a trouble to recollect what you young people take and what you don’t take. Well, I suppose we will just have to make up our minds to it. Steward can stay with Margaret to-night, and we will go. It is no use throwing away a box at the height of the season.”
“But, dearest Jean, let me stay with dear Margaret. I don’t really mind. I am sure I don’t mind—”
“And to-morrow we must just go back,” said Mrs. Bellingham, sweeping on in the larger current of her discourse. “You must remember me very kindly to your excellent father and mother, Randal. I hope we shall see them in the autumn. We are pretty sure to be in Fife in the autumn. Margaret will be distressed not to see you; but, after all that has happened, I thought the best place for her was just her bed; so I made her lie down, and I don’t like to disturb her. She will be quite distressed not to see you, when you have been so kind as to take up your time calling — which really is a thing, with people only up in town for a few days, that I never expect. You must have so many things to do.”
This Randal took as a hint that he had at present “taken up his time” and hers long enough, and he went away horribly disappointed, tingling with pain as he had done with pleasure and excitement when he came, yet, but for the disappointment, not so entirely cast down as he might have been. Margaret’s determined flight, her abandonment of the place where Rob Glen was, even though that place was London — large enough, it might be supposed, to permit two strangers to inhabit it at the same time without meeting — and her evident horror of the engagement between them, made Randal’s spirits rise more than his disappointment subdued them. This bondage once cleared away, and Rob Glen dropped back again into the regions to which he belonged, who could tell what might happen?
There was but one thing that abode a prominent alarm in his mind, after the first sting of disappointment was over, and that was “the other fellow,” who lied so calmly on Margaret’s behalf. Was he in her confidence too? Randal felt that to possess her confidence as he himself did was as great a privilege as any man could have; but somehow, curiously enough, it did not seem to him either so sacred or so seemly that Aubrey should possess it too. He felt that the suggestion of this wounded him for Margaret’s sake. She ought not to take a young man into her confidence — it was not quite delicate, quite like the perfection of Margaret. This was the only thing that really and permanently troubled him as he went away.
And he had not been long back in his hotel when, a little before the dinner hour at which he expected Rob to appear, the chief hero of the whole entanglement suddenly made his appearance in a very evident state of excitement. Rob was pale, his eyes wild with anxiety, his hair hanging dishevelled over his forehead, as he wiped it with his handkerchief, and his coat covered with dust. He looked eagerly round, though he did not know himself what he expected to see. He waited till the door was closed, and then he said hurriedly, “Burnside, I have seen Margaret; I saw her coming out of the Academy when I met you this morning. I have been rushing about half over London after her, and I cannot find her. Have you heard anything or seen anything, or can you guess where she is likely to be?”
“Sit down, Glen.”
“Sit down! — that is no answer. I don’t feel as if I could sit down until I have spoken to her. Tell me where you think she can be.”
“Glen, I want to speak to you. I have something to say to you. They are gone, or going away, that much I heard. I saw Mrs. Bellingham this afternoon, and she told me that her sister was ill again, and that they were off at once. She found that London did not agree with her.”
“Ill again? — gone away!” said Rob, hoarsely: then he threw down his hat upon the table with an exclamation of annoyance and pain. “It is not treating me fairly. I ought to see her,” he cried, and threw himself, weary and angry, upon the nearest chair.
“I think so too,” said Randal, seriously. “I think you ought to see her. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Glen; but I think you should see her, and make her tell you candidly the state of affairs.”
“What do you mean by the state of affairs? If it is that her family are opposed to the existence of any tie between her and me, that is no new discovery. I know that, and she knows that I know it.”
“That was not all I meant, Glen — that is bad enough. You know my opinion. As a man of honor, I think you have a duty even to the family; but this is different. She is not happy. I think you ought to have a full explanation, and — set things on a right footing.”
“What does setting things on a right footing mean?” Rob said, with an attempt at a sneer, which was more like a snarl of despair. He had not found it such easy work “making his way” in London. His money was running short, and he had nothing to do, and no prospect of being able to support himself much longer. Margaret was his sheet-anchor, his sole hope in the future. He thought, too, that the rapid dash away of the carriage was not accidental, that she had seen him and driven him wild; and this bitter reflection embittered him, and made him ready to take offence at anything or nothing. He was miserable altogether, excited, distracted, anxious — and tired to death besides. He had taken nothing since the morning, having rushed off in wild pursuit of her instead of getting his usual mid-day meal. He bent down his head upon his folded arms, after that angry question, and thus defeated all Randal’s disposition to find fault or blame him, if there had been any such disposition in Randal’s mind.
On the contrary, however, the young man’s heart, softened by the gleam of brightness that had seemed to come upon his own life out of Margaret’s eyes, melted altogether over the unlucky presumptuous lover, the fool who had rushed in “where angels might fear to tread,” the unfortunate one who had lost all chance of that prize at which he had snatched too quickly and too roughly. Randal forgot to think of his presumption, of his doubtful conduct, and all his offences against good taste and the highest standard of honor, in sheer pity for the downfall of him who had soared so high. He laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder.
“Glen,” he said, “you are not the first who has made a mistake, or who has been the victim of a mistake. That is no disparagement to you: it is only continuing in the mistake that would be blamable. You and she — let her name be sacred — I do not like even to refer to her—”
“Who? Margaret?” said Rob, defiant. He would have his way, whatever the other might think. “I have no reason to be so shy about her name. Advice is very seldom palatable in the best of circumstances; but between me and Margaret—” Because Randal had deprecated the use of her name, he insisted on using it. He had a kind of insolent satisfaction in turning it over and over. “Between me and Margaret,” he said, with a laugh, “there is no need of advice, that I know of — we understand each other. Mistake there is none between Margaret and me.”
Randal bowed very gravely — he did not smile. The color wavered over his face — then departed. “In that case there is nothing to be said.”
“Not a word; Margaret and I understand each other. Margaret — I suppose I can wash my hands somewhere before dinner. I am as dusty as a lamplighter with rushing about.”
And they dined together, talking of everything in the world except Margaret, and thinking of nothing else. It was a relief to Randal that her name was no longer on the lips of his uncongenial companion; but yet the silence brought in a more eager and painful wonder as to what he was going to do. But Randal could not renew the subject, and Rob did not. He went away early, without having once again referred to the matter which occupied both their thoughts.
He lived in a humble room in one of the streets which run from the Strand to the river — not an unpleasant place, for his window commanded the Thames; but it was a very long walk from Randal’s hotel. He went slowly through the streets, through all the loitering crowds of the summer evening, which were no longer bustling and busy, but had an air of repose and enjoyment about them. Rob loitered too, but not from any sense of the pleasantness of the air, or the season. He had no one to care whether he came in or not, and it was easier to think, and think again, over this difficult question which must be decided one way or another, in the open air, than it was within-doors, shut up with a question which he had debated so often. If Margaret was weary of the bargain, if she shrank from him and avoided him, what should he do? One moment he thought of casting her off proudly, of showing her what he thought of her fickleness, and taunting her with her Englishman, “that fellow” who was always with her. This would have been the most consolatory to his feelings. But, on the other hand, to point out to her the cowardice, the dishonor of breaking her word, the strength of the pledge which she could not escape from, was better in another sense. Why should she be permitted to forsake him because she had changed her mind? What right had she to change her mind? Was it a less sin in a woman than in a man to break a promise, to think nothing of a vow? A man would not be allowed to escape scathless from such a perjury, why should a girl? And as he walked along the street, mortified, humbled, breathing forth fumes of anger and pain, there even gleamed before Rob’s eyes the scrap of paper, the promise on which his mother counted, which was locked in the secretary in the farm-parlor. He had hated the vulgar sharpness which had exacted that promise from Margaret, he had scouted it as a means of keeping any hold upon her. But now, when he felt so strong a desire to punish her, such an eager, vindictive determination not to let her go free, even this came into his mind. Not to secure her by it — which was his mother’s thought, but at least to punish her by it. He would send for it, he thought; he would keep it by him as a scourge, not as a compulsion. He would let all her friends see at least how far she had gone, how she had pledged herself, and how she was forsworn.
While he was pursuing these thoughts, loitering along through the soft summer night, jostled by the sauntering crowds who could not walk, even in the London streets, at that soft hour as they did during the day, his ear was suddenly caught by the intonations, so different from those around, the low-pitched, lingering vowels, and half chanting measure of his natural tongue. Not only Scotch but Fife were the sounds that reached his ears: now the heavy rolling bass of a man, then a softer voice. Good heavens! who was it? A tall, feeble-looking, large-boned man, a trim little figure by his side, moving lightly and yet languidly, like her voice, which had caught Rob’s ear by reason of something pathetic in it. The words she said were words of ordinary wonder and curiosity, such as became a country lass in the street of London; but the tone was sad and went to the heart, notwithstanding the little laugh with which it was sometimes interrupted. Was it possible? He turned round and followed them eagerly, growing more and more certain of their identity, scheming to get a glimpse of their faces, and make certainty sure. Jeanie! how came she here? He stepped forward as soon as he was certain of her, and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. She started and turned round with a low cry. A gleam of delight came over her face. Her soft eyes lighted up with sudden warmth and gladness. It was the same change that had taken place on Margaret’s face while Aubrey Bellingham — who was not the cause — watched it with disagreeable surprise; but this was warmer and more brilliant, more evanescent too; for Jeanie’s countenance fell the next moment, and trouble, like a gray shadow, came over her face.
“Jeanie!” cried Rob, “how on earth have you come here? What has brought you here? Where are you staying? What are you going to do? I cannot believe my eyes!”
She stood trembling before him, unable to raise her eyes, overcome by the happiness of seeing him, the wretchedness of parting — a wretchedness which she thought, poor girl, she had eluded, with all the conflict of feeling it must have brought. She tried to speak, but she could only smile at him faintly, and begin to cry.
“Maister Glen,” said her father, “you maun speak to me; Jeanie has had enough of fash and sorrow. We are on our way — to please her, no for ony wish of mine — on a lang voyage. We’re strangers and pilgrims here in this muckle London, as I never realized the state before.”
“On a long voyage!” Rob, though he had got through so much emotion one time and another, felt his heart stand still and a cold sensation of dismay steal over him. Had he not been keeping himself a refuge in Jeanie’s heart, whatever might happen? He said, “This is a terrible surprise. I never thought you would have taken such a step as this, Jeanie, without letting me know.”
“Maister Glen,” said Jeanie, adopting her father’s solemn mode of address, and hastily brushing the tears from her cheek, “wherever I gang, what’s that to you?” Her voice was scarcely audible; he had half to guess at what she said.
“It is a great deal to me,” he cried; “I never thought you would treat me so: going away without a word of warning, without saying good-bye, without letting me know you had any thought of it!”
A thrill of pain penetrated Rob’s heart. It was half ludicrous, but he did not see anything ludicrous in it. They were both flying from him, one on either side, the two girls with whom his fate was woven — one for want of love, the other for too much love. Rob saw no humor in the position, but he felt the poignancy and sting of it piercing through and through his heart. Should he be abandoned altogether, then; left entirely alone, without any love at all? But his whole nature rose up fiercely against this. He would not submit to it. If not one, then the other. “It cannot be, it cannot be. I will not let you go,” he said.
“Maister Glen,” said her father, “I canna rightly tell what has been between Jeanie and you. You’re better off than she is in this world, and your friends might have reason to complain if you bound yourself to a poor cobbler’s daughter. But this I ken, you have brought my Jeanie more trouble than pleasure. Gang your ways, my man, and let us gang ours. Jeanie, bid Mr. Glen farewell.”
“I will say no farewell till I know more about it,” he said. “Where are you staying? I must see more of you, I must hear all about it. We are old friends at least, John Robertson; you cannot deny me that.”
“Old enough friends; but what o’ that? It’s no years, but kindness, that I look to. We’re biding up west a bittie, with a decent woman from Cupar. I’m putting no force upon Jeanie to take her away. It’s a’ her ain doing; and if her and you have onything you want to say, I’ll no forbid the saying of it; but I dinna advise thae last words and thae lang farewells,” said John Robertson, shaking his head. Jeanie looked up at him wistfully, with a sad smile in her wet eyes.
“Let him come this ae night, faither — this ae night,” she said, in her plaintive voice; “maist likely it will be the last.”