Маргарет Олифант
Sir Robert's Fortune
CHAPTER XLVII
Helen was in all her crape, and yet her upper garment was not “deep,” like that of a woman in her first woe. It was a cloak which suggested travelling rather than any formality. And it appeared that the bright countenance with which she came in was one of sympathy for Lily, rather than of any cheerfulness of her own. She came forward holding out both her hands, having first deposited her umbrella against the wall. “I am glad, glad,” she said, “of all this that I hear of you, Lily: that you have got your husband to take care of you, and, it appears, a delightful bairn. I knew there was something more than ordinary between you two,” she said, stopping to shake hands with Ronald in his turn. “And vexed, vexed was I to see that Mr. Lumsden disappeared when old Sir Robert came. It must have been a dreadful trial to you, my poor Lily. But I never knew it had gone so far. Married in my own parlor, by my dear father, and not a word to me—Lily, it was not kind!”
Lily had no reply to make to this. It carried her away into a region so far distant, so dim, like a fairy-tale.
“But my dear father,” said Helen, “had little confidence in my discretion, and he might think it better I should know nothing, in case I should betray myself—and you. Oh, how hard it must have been many a time to keep your secret; and when your child came, poor Lily, poor Lily! But I do not yet understand about the bonnie bairn. They tell me he is a darlin’. But did he come to you in a present, as we used to think the babies did when we were children, or by what witchcraft did you manage all that, Lily, my dear?”
“And where did you hear this story that you have on your fingers’ ends?” said Ronald, interrupting these troublesome questions.
“Well,” said Helen, half offended, “if I have it on my fingers’ ends, it is that I take so much interest in Lily and all that concerns her—and you, too,” she added, fearing that what she had said might sound severe. “You forget that there were two years when we saw you often, and then two years that we saw you not at all; and often and often my father would ask about you. ‘Where is that young Mr. Lumsden?’ ‘Have you no word of that young Mr. Lumsden?’ He was very much taken up about you, and why you did not come back, nor any word of you. To be sure, he had his reasons for that, knowing more than the like of me.”
“Those very reasons should have shown him how I could not come back!” said Ronald sharply. “But you have not told me where it was you got this story, which few know.”
“Well—not to do her any harm if you think she should have been more discreet—it was Katrin that told me. She is a kind, good, honest woman. She was just out of herself with joy at the coming of the dear bairn. You will let me see him, Lily?”
“You look as if you were going on a journey. Oh, Helen, where are you going?” cried Lily, glad to interrupt the questions, and to give herself also a moment’s time to breathe.
“Yes, I am going on a journey,” Helen said, steadfastly looking her friend in the face. Her eyes were clear; her color, as usual, softly bright, not paled by the crape, or by her genuine, but not excessive, grief. She had mourned for her father as truly as she had nursed him, but not without an acknowledgment that he had lived out his life and departed in the course of nature. By this time, though but ten days of common life had succeeded the excitement and commotion of Mr. Blythe’s funeral, at which the whole countryside had attended, Helen had returned to the ordinary of existence, and to the necessity of arranging her own life, upon which there was now no bond. The plea of the assistant and successor (now minister) of Kinloch-Rugas that there should be no breach in it at all, that she should accept his love and remain in the house where she was born as his wife, had not moved her mind for a moment. She had shaken her head quietly, but very decisively, sorry to hurt him or any creature, yet fully knowing her own mind; and, in so far as she could do so in the village, Helen had made her preparations. She had a little land and a little money, the one in the hands of a trustworthy tenant, the other very carefully, very safely, invested by her father with the infinite precautions of a man to whom his little fortune was a very great matter, affecting the very course of the spheres. Helen had boldly, with indeed an unspeakable hardihood, notwithstanding the horror and remonstrances of the man of business, taken immediate steps to withdraw her money and get it into her possession. All this was done very quietly, very quickly, and, by good luck, favorably enough. And then she made arrangements for her venture, the great voyage into the unknown.
“Yes,” she said, “I am going on a journey. You will perhaps guess where—or if not where, for I am not just clear on that point myself, you will at least know with what end. I have nothing to keep me back now”—a little moisture came into Helen’s eyes, but that did not affect her steady, small voice—“and only him in the world that needs me. I am going to Alick, Lily. You will tell me it’s rash, as every-body does, and maybe it is rash. If he has wearied at the last and given up all thoughts of me, I will never blame him; but that I cannot think, and it is borne in on my mind that he has more need of me than ever. So I am just taking my foot in my hand and going to him,” she said, looking at Lily, with a smile.
“Helen! oh, you will not do that! Go to him, to you know not where, to circumstances you are quite, quite ignorant of? Oh, Helen, you will not do that!”
“Indeed, and that will I,” said Helen, with the same calm and steady smile. “I am feared for nothing, but maybe that he might hear the news and start to come to me before I could get to him.”
“That is enough!” cried Lily. “Oh, wait till he comes; send for him! Rather any thing than go all that weary way across the sea alone.”
“I am feared for nothing,” Helen said, still smiling, “and who would meddle with me? I am not so very bonnie, and I am not so very young. I am just as safe, or safer, than half the women in the world that have to do things the other half do not understand.”
“Like myself, you think,” Lily said; and it was on her lips to add: “If you succeed no better than me!” But the bondage of life was upon her, and of the pride and the decorum of life. Ronald had taken no part in this conversation, but he was there all the time, standing against the window, looking out. He was very impatient that his conversation with his wife, so important in every way, should be interrupted. His own affairs were so full in his mind, as was natural, that any enforced pause in the discussion of them appeared to him as if the course of the world had been stopped. And this country girl’s insignificant little story, perfectly wild and foolish as it was, that it should take precedence of his own at so great a crisis! He turned round at last and said in a voice thrilling with impatience: “I hope, as Lily does, that you will do nothing rash, Miss Blythe. We have a great deal to do ourselves with our own arrangements.”
“And I am keeping Lily from you? You will excuse me,” cried Helen, wounded, “but I am going to do something very rash, as you say, and I may never come back; and I cannot leave a friend like Lily, and one my father was proud of, and thought upon on his death-bed, and one that knows where I am going and why, without a word. There is perhaps nobody but Lily in the world that knows what I mean, and what I am doing, and my reasons for it,” Helen said. She took her friend’s hands once more into her own. “But I will not keep you from him, Lily, when no doubt you have so much to say.”
“You shall not go,” said Lily, with something of her old petulance, “till you have seen what I have to show you, and till you have told me every thing there is to tell. Oil, my baby, my little bairn, my little flower! I could be angry that you have put him out of my head for a moment. Come, come, and see him now.”
Ronald paced up and down the room when he was left alone; his impatience was not, perhaps, without some excuse. He was very anxious to come to some ground of agreement with Lily, some basis upon which their life could be built. He had hoped much from the great coup of the morning, from the bringing back of the child, which he had intended to do himself, taking advantage of the first thrill of emotion, and identifying himself, its father, with the infant restored to her arms; but the women, with their folly, had spoiled that moment for him, and lost him the best of the opportunity, and now there was another woman thrusting her foolish story into the midst of that crisis in his life. Ronald was out of heart and out of temper. He began to see, as he had never done before, the difficulties that seemed to close up his path. He had feared, and yet not feared, the tempest of reproaches which no doubt Lily would pour upon him. He did not know her any better than this, but expected what the conventional woman would do in a book, or a malicious story, from his wife; and he had expected that there would be a great quarrel, a heaping up of every grievance, and then tears, and then reconciliation, as in every story of the kind that had ever been told. But even if she could resist the sight of him and of his pleading, Ronald felt a certainty that Lily could not resist the return of her child; for this she would forgive every thing. This link that held them together was one that never could be broken. He had calculated every thing with the greatest care, but he had not thought it necessary to go beyond that. When she had her child in her arms, Lily, he felt sure, would return to his, and no cloud should ever come between them more.
But now this delusion was over. She had not showered reproaches upon him. She had not done any thing he expected her to do. The dreadful, the astounding revelation that had been made to him was that this was not Lily any longer. It was another woman, older, graver, shaped by life and experience, without faith, with a mind too clear, with eyes too penetrating. Would she ever turn to him otherwise than with that look, which seemed to espy a new pretence, a new deception, in every thing he said? Ronald still loved his wife; he would have given a great deal, almost, perhaps, the half of Sir Robert’s fortune, to have his Lily back again as she had been; but he began now for the first time to feel that it would be necessary to give up that vision, to arrange his life on another footing. If she would but consent at least to fulfil the decorums of life, to remain under his roof, to be the mistress of his house, not to flaunt in the face of the world the division between these two who had made a love-marriage, who had not been able to keep apart when every thing was against their union, and now were rent asunder when every thing was in its favor! What ridicule would be poured upon him! What talk and discussion there would be! His mind flashed forward to a vision of himself alone in Sir Robert’s great house in George Square, and Lily probably here at Dalrugas with her child. Sir Robert’s house was his, and Sir Robert’s fortune was his. Except what he chose to give her, out of this much desired fortune—for which, indeed, it was he who had planned and suffered, not she—she had no right to any thing. There was so much natural justice in Ronald Lumsden’s mind that he did not like this, though, as it was the law, and he a lawyer, it cost him less than it might have done another man; but he meant to make the strongest and most effective use of it all the same. He meant to show her that she was entirely dependent upon him—she and her child; that she had nothing and no rights except what he chose to allow her: and that it was her interest and that of her child (whom, besides, he could take from her were he so minded) to keep on affectionate terms with him.
This, though it gave him a certain angry satisfaction, was a very different thing, it must be allowed, from what he had dreamed. He had thought of recovering Lily as she was in the freshness of her love and faith before even the first stroke of that disappointment about the house, the garret in Edinburgh, upon which her hopes had been fixed: full of brightness and variety, a companion of whom one never would or could tire, whose faith in him would make up for any failure of appreciation on the part of the rest of the world, nay, make an end of that—for would not such a faith have inspired him to believe in himself, to be all she believed him to be? Did he live a hundred years, and she by his side, Ronald now knew that he would never have that faith again. And the absence of it would be more than a mere negative: it would inspire him the wrong way, and make him in himself less and less worthy—a man of calculations and schemes—all that she most objected to, but of which he felt the principle in himself. It is not to be supposed that he himself called, or permitted himself to imagine, these calculations base. He thought them reasonable, sagacious, wise, the only way of getting on in the world. They had succeeded perfectly in the present instance. He was conscious, with a sort of pride, that he had thus fairly gained Sir Robert’s fortune, which he had set before him as an object so long ago. He had won it, as it were, with his bow and his spear, and it was such a gain to a young man as was unspeakable, helping him in every way, not only in present comfort, but in importance, in his profession, in the opinion of the solicitors, who had always more confidence in a man who had money of his own. Ah, yes, he had won in this struggle—but then something cold clutched at his heart. He was a young man still, and he loved his wife—he wanted her and happiness along with all those other possessions; but when he won Sir Robert’s money, he had lost Lily. Was this so? Must he consent that this should be so? Were they separated forever by the thing that ought to unite them? He said to himself: “No, no!” but in his heart he felt that cold shadow closing over him. They might be together as of old—more than of old—each other’s constant companions. But Lily would never be to him what she had been; they would be two, living side by side, unconsciously or consciously criticising each other, spying upon each other. They would no more be one!
To meet this, when one had expected the flush and assurance of success, has of all things in the world the most embittering and exasperating effect upon the mind. Ronald had looked for trouble with Lily—the ordinary kind of trouble, a quarrel, perhaps à outrance, involving many painful scenes—but he had never thought of the real effect of his conduct upon her mind, the tremendous revulsion of her feelings, the complete change of his aspect in her eyes, and of that which she presented to him. A moment of disgust with every thing—with himself, with her, with his success and all that it could produce—succeeded the other changes of feeling. It is not unnatural at such a moment to wish to do harm to somebody, to throw off something of that sense of the intolerable that is in one’s own mind upon another. And Ronald bethought himself of what Helen Blythe had said, her complete acquaintance with the story which had been so carefully concealed from her, and her confession that she had it from Katrin. A wave of wrath went over him. Katrin had been in the secret from the beginning, not by any desire of his, but because the circumstances rendered it inevitable that she should be so, and nothing could be done without her complicity. He said to himself that he had never liked her, nor her surly brute of a husband, who had looked at him with so much suspicion on many of his visits here. They thought themselves privileged persons, no doubt; faithful servants, who had been of use, to whom on that account every thing was to be forgiven; who would be in his own absence, as they had been in Sir Robert’s, a sort of master and mistress to Dalrugas, recounting to every-body, and to the child when he grew up, the history of his parents’ marriage, entertaining all the country neighbors with it—an intolerable suggestion. With them at least short work could be made. He rang the bell hastily and desired that Katrin should be sent to him at once, she and her husband, and awaited their appearance impatiently, forming sharp phrases in his mind to say to them, with the full purpose of pouring on their heads the full volume of his wrath.
Katrin received that summons without surprise. She had thought it likely that something would be said to her of gratitude for her faithful service, and for her care of Lily; perhaps a little present given, which Katrin did not want, but yet would have prized and guarded among her chief treasures. She called in Dougal from the stable, and hastily brushed the straws and dust from his rough coat. “But they ken you’re aye among the beasts!” she said. She herself put on a spotless white apron, and tied the strings of her cap, which in the heat of the kitchen were often flying loose. Dougal followed her, with no such look of pleasure on his face. To him Ronald was still “that birky from Edinburgh,” whose visits and absences, and all the mystery of his appearance and disappearance, had so often upset the house and wrought Miss Lily woe. The wish that he could just have got his two hands on him had not died out of his mind, and it was bitter to Dougal to feel that this man was to be henceforth his master, even though he believed he was about to receive nothing but compliments and gratification from his hand. Ronald was still walking up and down the room when the pair—Katrin with her most smiling and genial looks—appeared at the door.
“Oh, you are there!” he said hastily with a tone of careless disdain. “I wished to speak to you at once to let you know what I have settled, that you may have time to make your own arrangements. There are likely to be many changes in the house—and the way of living altered altogether. I think it best to tell you that, after Whit-Sunday, Mrs. Lumsden will have no further occasion for your services.”
He had not found it so easy as he thought, in face of Katrin’s changing face, which clouded a little with surprise and disappointment at his first words, then rose into flushed amazement, and then to consternation. “Sir!” she cried, when he paused, aghast, and without another word to say.
“I kent it would be that way,” Dougal muttered, behind her, in the opening of the door.
“Well!” said Ronald sharply, “have you any thing to say against it? I am aware you have for a long time considered this house your own, but that was simply because of the negligence of the master. That time is over, and it is in new hands. You will understand, though it is not the usual time for speaking, that I give you lawful notice to leave before the Whit-Sunday term in this current year.”
“Sir,” said Katrin again, “I’m thinking I canna rightly trust to my ears. Are you meaning to send me—me and Dougal, Sir Robert’s auld servants, and Miss Lily’s faithful servants—away? and take our places from us that we’ve held this twenty year? I think I maun be bewitched, for I canna believe my ears!”
“Let us have no more words on the subject,” said Ronald; “arguing will make it no better. You are Sir Robert’s old servants, no doubt, but Sir Robert is dead and buried; and how far you were faithful servants to him—after all that I know of my own experience—the less said of that the better, it seems to me.”
“Dougal,” said Katrin, with a gasp, “haud me, that I dinna burst! He is meaning the way we’ve behaved to him!”
“And he has good reason!” said Dougal, his shaggy brows meeting each other over two fiery sparks of red eyes. “’Od, if I had had my will, many’s the time, I would have kickit him out o’ the house!”
Dougal’s words were but as a muttering—the growl of a tempest—but the two people blocking the door, meeting him with sudden astonishment and a quick-rising fury of indignation which matched his own, wrought Ronald’s passion to a climax; he seized up his hat, which was on the table, and pushed past them, sending the solid figures to right and left. “That’s enough. I have nothing more to say to you!” he said.
It was Katrin that caught him by the arm. “Maister Lumsden,” she said, “ye’ll just satisfy me first! Is it because of what we did for you—takin’ ye in, makin’ ye maister and mair, keepin’ your secret, helpin’ a’ your plans—that you’re now turnin’ us out of our daily bread, out o’ our hame, out o’ your doors?”
“Cheating your master in every particular,” said Ronald, “as you will me, no doubt, whenever you have a chance. Yes; that is one of my reasons. What did you say?”
He raised the cane in his hand. The movement was involuntary, as if to strike at the excited and threatening countenance of Dougal behind. They were huddled in a little crowd on the top of the winding stair. Ronald had turned round, on his way out, at Katrin’s appeal, and stood with his back to the stair, close upon the upper step. “What did you say?” he cried again sharply. Dougal’s utterances were never clear. He said something again, in which “Go-d!” was the only articulate word, and made a large step forward, thrusting his wife violently out of the way.
It all happened in a moment, before they could draw breath. Roland, it is to be supposed, made a hasty, involuntary step backward before this threatening, furious figure, with his arm still lifted, and the cane in it ready to strike, but lost his footing, and thus plunged headforemost down the deep well of the spiral stair.
