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Sir Robert's Fortune
“Eh, man! but I’m only the auld minister nowadays,” cried the old gentleman, with a sudden outburst of natural bitterness to which he very seldom gave vent. He was delighted to have nothing to do, but did not love his supplanter any more on that account. “Ye must ask nothing from me; go your ways to my assistant and successor—he is your man.”
“I will go to nobody but you!” cried Ronald, with all the fervor of a temptation resisted. “Mr. Blythe, will you marry Lily to me?”
Mr. Blythe made a long pause. “If ye are rightly cried in the kirk, I have no choice but to marry ye,” he said.
“But I want it done at once, and very private, without any crying in the kirk.”
“That would be very irregular, Mr. Lumsden.”
“I know it would, but not so irregular as calling up Beenie and Dougal and Katrin, and saying before them: ‘This is my wife.’”
“No,” said the minister, “not just so bad as that, but very irregular. Do ye know, young man, I would be subject to censure by the Presbytery, and I canna tell what pains and penalties? And why should I do such a thing, to save you a month or two, or a year or two’s waiting, that is nothing, nothing at your age?”
“It is a great deal when people are in our circumstances,” cried Ronald. “Lily so lonely, not a creature near her, no pleasure in her life, no certainty about any thing: for Sir Robert might hear I had been seen about, and might just sweep her away, abroad, to the ends of the earth. You say she would forget, but she does not want to forget, nor do I, you may be sure, whereas, if you will just do this for us, you will make us both sure of each other forever, and I can never be taken from her, nor she from me.”
“Young man,” said the minister impressively, “I got my kirk from the Ramsays; they’re patrons o’ this parish, and I was a young man with little influence. I was tutor to Mr. James, but I had little chance of any thing grander than a parish school, where I might have just flourished as a stickit minister all my days, and it was the Ramsays that made me a placed minister, and set me above them a’: that was the old laird before Sir Robert’s days. But Sir Robert has been very ceevil the times he has been here. He has asked me whiles to my dinner, and other whiles he has sent me just as many grouse and paitricks as I could set my face to. Would it be a just return, think ye, to marry away his bonnie niece to a landless lad as ye confess ye are, with nothing but fees at the best, and not too many of them coming in?”
“Mr. Blythe,” cried Ronald, “if it was Mr. James you were tutor to, it is to Mr. James you owe all this, and Mr. James, had he been living, would never have gone against the happiness of his only child!”
“Eh! but who can tell that?” cried the minister. “Little was he thinking of that or of any kind of child. He was a young fellow, maybe as heedless, maybe more than ye are yourself. Na, there was no thought neither of wife nor bairn in his head.”
“But,” cried Ronald, “you must feel you have a double duty to one that is his child, and his only one, little as he knew of it at the time.”
“A double duty: and what is that?” said the minister, shaking his head. “The duty to keep her from any rash step, puir young unfriended thing, or to let her work out her silly will, which, maybe, in a year’s time she would rather have put her hand in the fire than have done?”
“You give a bonnie character of me,” Ronald said, with a harsh laugh.
“I am giving no character of you. I am thinking nothing of you. I am thinking of the bit lassie. It is her I am bound to protect, both for her father’s sake and her own. Most marriages that are made in haste are, as the proverb says, repented of at leisure. She might be heart-grieved at me that helped her to her will to-day when she knows more of life and what it means. Na, na, my young friend, take you your time and wait. Waiting is aye a salutary process. It brings out many a hidden virtue, it consolidates the character, and if you are diligent in your business it brings ye your reward, which ye enjoy more than if you had snatched it before your time.”
“I tell you, minister,” cried Ronald, “that we cannot wait, that it’s a matter of life and death to us, both to Lily and me!”
“What is that you are saying? I am hoping there is no meaning in it, but only words,” the old man said sharply in an altered tone.
The room had grown almost quite dark, the daffodil color had all faded away, and the heavy curtain of the coming snow was stretching over the last faint streak of light. The fire was smouldering and added little to the room, which lay in a ruddy dark, warmed rather than lighted up. Ronald stood with his elbow on the mantel-piece close to the old minister, whose face had been suddenly raised toward him with an expression of keen command and alarm. And who can tell what devil had stolen in with the dark to put words of shame into the mouth of the young man who had come down the frosty moorland road like a song of joy and youth? It was rapid as a dart. He stooped down and said something in the old minister’s ear.
The shameful lie! the shameful, shameful lie! The temptation, the fall, was so instantaneous that Ronald himself was scarcely conscious of it, or of what he had done in his haste. The old gentleman uttered into the darkness a sort of moan. And then he spoke briefly and sharply, with a keen tone of scorn in his words which stung his companion even through the confusion of the time.
“If that’s so, ye’re a disgraceful blackguard! but it’s not my part to speak. Be here at this house the morn, with her and your witnesses; I insist upon the witnesses, two of them, to sign the lines. I will send Eelen out of the way. Come before it’s dark, as ye came to-day; I am always alone at this hour. That’s enough, man, I hope. What are you wanting more?”
“I want only to say that you judge me very hastily, Mr. Blythe.”
“It’s a case in which least said is soonest mended,” said the minister. “To-morrow, just before the darkening, and, thank the Lord, there need not be another word said between you and me!”
CHAPTER XIX
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.
