“PAPA,” cried Margaret, rushing in, her face bright with excitement and pleasure. Some one stood behind her on a lower step of the winding stair. They filled up that narrow ascent altogether with their youth and the importance of their presence, and of all they had to say and do. She went in lightly, her eyes dancing, her light figure full of eagerness, a large portfolio in her hands. She had no doubt either that this advent of something to break the tedium would be agreeable to her father too, or that he must feel, as she did, the influence of the falling rain and heaviness of the monotonous sky. She went in, taking him amusement, variety, all that she would herself have rejoiced to see coming. It was the best of introductions, she felt, for the new-comer. As for Rob, he stood behind, ready to follow, with a little tremor in him, wondering how he would be received. He had never been in the company of any one so dignified as Sir Ludovic before, never had addressed a titled personage, upon terms of anything like equality; and this of itself was enough to make him nervous.
It seemed like an introduction into a new world to Rob. Then Sir Ludovic had the name of being a great scholar, a man of learning as well as a man of rank and position, and in every way above the range of a farmer’s son; and, last of all, he was Margaret’s father, and much might depend on the way in which he allowed the new visitor, who felt himself out of place at Earl’s-hall, even while he felt himself “as good as” any one whom he might meet anywhere. Altogether it was an exciting moment. Rob was moved by the joyful welcome Margaret had given him, perhaps, to a higher idea of himself than he had ever entertained before. He had felt the flattery of it penetrate to his very heart. She had rushed out of the lower room, where she had been with Bell, almost meeting him at the door. She had spoken before he had time to say anything, exclaiming how glad she was to see him.
Rob had forgotten the rain. Notwithstanding that his mother had brought forth that very argument, bidding him “Go away with you; they would be glad to see you the day, if they never let you in again;” yet in the pleasure of being so received he had forgotten the very chiefest cause of his welcome. The brightened looks, the eager greeting, were too pleasant, too flattering, to be taken unmoved. It was not possible to believe that it was not for himself; and all these things had worked upon Rob to an extent he was scarcely aware of. He who had at first approached the young lady so respectfully, and with so little ulterior motive, and who had been half shocked, half amused at his mother’s treatment of the renewed acquaintance between them, came almost with a bound to his mother’s conclusion when he saw the brightness of Margaret’s eyes this particular rainy morning. There could be no doubt that she was glad to see him; he was here by her own invitation. She was eager to associate him with herself in the interests of the old house, and anxious to accept the lessons he offered, and to “put herself under an obligation” to him in this way.
Margaret, entirely unacquainted with money and the value of things, never thought of any “obligation;” but he did, who was accustomed to consider the price of lessons, and to whom money’s-worth would never be without importance. He was very willing, very anxious to confer this favor; but he could not help attaching a certain significance to her acceptance of it, a significance entirely unjustified by any idea in Margaret’s innocent mind. She was willing to accept the obligation; therefore, was it not at least permissible to think that some other way of clearing it, making up to him for his kindness, was in her mind? If she had any dawning thought of bestowing all she had upon him, of giving him herself and her money, her heiressship altogether, that would indeed be a very good reason for laying herself “under an obligation” to him. Thus Rob had come to think with a beating heart that there was meaning in the innocent girl’s happy reception of him, in her eagerness to introduce him to her father, and warm desire that he should please him. And thus the moment was very serious to him, like nothing he had experienced before.
But Sir Ludovic did not stir. He had dropped asleep again, and did not wake even at his daughter’s call. As he lay back in his chair, with his old ivory hands spread out upon its arms, and his white hair falling back, Rob thought he had never seen a more venerable appearance. If it were possible that things should so come about as that he should be familiar here, one of themselves, perhaps, calling this old man father (such things had been—and his mother thought were likely to be again—and what else could be the meaning in Margaret’s eyes?), Rob felt that he would have reason to be proud. Even the very idea swelled his heart. The room, upon the threshold of which he stood, was unlike anything else he had seen before. He had been in wealthy Glasgow houses where luxury abounded—he had seen dwellings much more wealthy, costly, and splendid than Earl’s-hall; but there was something in the aspect of the place, its gray noble stateliness outside, so poor, yet so dignified, its antique old-world grace within, the walls lined with books, the air of old establishment and duration that was in everything, which exercised the strongest influence over him. It was like a scene in a fairy tale—an old magician, and his fresh, fair young daughter, so liberal, so gentle, receiving him like a princess, opening wide the doors to him. He stood, as we have said, in a kind of enchantment. He was on the borders—was it of Paradise? certainly of some unknown country, more noble, more stately than anything he had known before.
This train of thought was interrupted by Margaret, who came back to him walking softly, and putting her finger to her lips. “Papa has fallen asleep again,” she said, half annoyed, half anxious, and she pushed open softly the door of the little west chamber. “Here, come here!” she said, and went in before him, pointing to a chair and clearing Lady Jean’s work and other obstacles with her own hands from the table. “Now let me see them,” she cried. How eager she was, how full of interest and admiration! She spread the portfolio open before him which she had herself snatched from his hands and carried to her father. In it was the drawing of the Kirkton which his mother had suggested he should give “in a present” to Margaret. She was not aware yet of this happiness; but she was as simple as Mrs. Glen in ready admiration, and it seemed to her that nothing ever was more beautiful. “Oh!” she cried, struck dumb with wonder and delight. She said nothing more at first, then suddenly burst into ecstasy. “Did you ever see it from the tower, Mr. Glen? Oh, it does not look like that, you are so high above it. But I know that look just as well; that might be from the wood. It would be in the morning when the dew was on the grass. It would be when everything was quiet, the men away to their work, the children in the school, the women in their houses—and the church standing against the sky: oh, how can you paint things that are not things?” cried Margaret—“the air, and the light, and the wind, and the shadows flying, and the clouds floating! Oh, how can you do it? how can you do it?”
Rob was carried away by this flood of delicious praise; he stood modest and blushing, deprecating, yet happy. He knew at the bottom of his heart that his drawing was not a poem like this, but only very ordinary water-color. He did not know what to say.
“You make me ashamed of my poor work. It ought to be a great deal better to deserve to be looked at at all. The beauty is in your eyes,” he said. But Margaret took no notice of this speech. She put that portfolio aside, and opened the other, and plunged into a world of amusement. These were his more finished works, the larger drawings which he had done from his sketches; and, indeed, Rob had spent a great deal of time and trouble upon them; they had occupied him when he was going through the squabbles and controversies of the last few months. They had been his refuge and shelter from a great deal of annoyance; and sometimes, when he looked at them, he had thought they might be worthy of exhibition, and perhaps might help to make his fortune—at least might open the door to him and put him in the way of making his fortune. But at other times he fell into gulfs of despair, and saw the truth, which was that they were only very tolerable studies of an amateur. He shook his head now while Margaret praised them. “Only daubs,” he said, “only scratches. Ah, you should see real artist work. I am only an amateur.”
“And so you ought to be,” said Margaret. “An amateur means a lover, a true lover, doesn’t it? I mean of pictures, you know,” she added, with her usual blush. “And if you do anything for love, it is sure to be better than what you do for—any other reason—for money. Could anybody paint a real beautiful picture for money? No,” cried the daring young theorist, “it must be for love.”
“I think so too,” said Rob. He reddened also, but with more conscious sentiment. “I think so too! and if I paint Earl’s-hall, it will be so.”
“Will you?” said Margaret, grateful and happy. Love of her was not what the girl was thinking of; nothing was farther from her mind, nor did it ever occur to her that the word had other meanings than that she gave it. Then she pushed the portfolio away from her, and changed the subject in a moment. “You cannot begin to make the picture, Mr. Glen; what shall we do now? Will I show you the house?” said Margaret, with her Scotch imperfection of grammar, “or will you begin me with the straight lines, or will you (that would be the best) draw something and let me watch. Draw papa! I will open the door, look, like this; and he never stirs, I know he will never stir for an hour at a time. Oh, that is the thing I should like you to do. Draw papa!”
Her voice sank into a softer cadence, not to disturb Sir Ludovic; but her face was more eager than ever. She put the door open, showing like a picture the other room within: the background of books in many tones of subdued color, with gleams of old gilding, giving a russet edge of light here and there. In the midst of the scene thus disclosed sat Sir Ludovic, his head, with its silver locks, leaning back upon his high chair.
“I cannot draw the figure,” Rob had said, with anxiety and alarm, feeling the task too much for him; but, after all, when he looked again there was not much of the figure visible. The wide old velvet coat was folded over the old student-sleepers’ knees; only his cheek was visible, still perfect in its fine oval, and the outline of his noble old head against the dark leather of the chair. It was a study of still life, not a portrait, that was wanted. Rob looked at the “subject” thus proposed to him, and Margaret looked at him with great anxiety, to see in his face what he was going to do. Would he consent? Would he refuse to her this thing, which, now that she had proposed it, she felt that she wanted more than anything else in the world? Recklessly Margaret threw herself “under obligations” to the young man.
“Oh, if you please, do it!” she cried, in a half whisper, putting her two pretty hands together in a pretty, spontaneous gesture of supplication. How could Rob resist, whose first desire was to please her, and to whom in pleasing her so many soft brightnesses of pleasure to himself opened up? Even without that motive, to do him justice, he would have been melted by her entreaty—he would have been proud to do anything for her.
“I don’t think I can do it; but if it will please you, Miss Margaret, I will try.”
“Oh, I know you can do it,” Margaret cried. “Oh, tell me what to bring for you—water? You have left your big book down-stairs, but I will run and fetch it, and the pencils, and—”
“Miss Margaret, I cannot let you wait upon me.”
“Oh, but I will, though; I like it. Fancy! when you are going to paint papa for me,” cried Margaret, flying down-stairs. She came up again, breathless, laughing and glowing, before he could think what was the right thing to do. “There it is,” she said, putting down the sketching-block before him, “and I will bring the water in a moment. You are not to stir. Oh, Mr. Glen, think what it will be to have a picture of papa!”
“But I cannot, indeed, make a picture of him. I cannot draw the figure; it is quite difficult. I am not so clever as you think,” cried Rob, with sudden fright. Margaret, carried away by the flutter of haste and pleasure, and half-childish familiar acquaintance, put up her hand as if to stop his mouth.
What wonder if Rob almost forgot himself. He half put out his hand to take hers, and he raised his eyes to hers with a look which somehow stopped the girl. She did not understand it, but it frightened her. She drew a little farther away, and her usual blush rushed over her face in a flood of color. “That will be the best place to sit,” she said, half abashed, she could not tell why. And Rob remembered himself, and took his place as she indicated. She stood by him, the most eager, watchful attendant. When she had got everything he could want, she put herself behind him, watching over his shoulder every line he drew. This was bad for the drawing; but it was wonderfully enchanting and inspiring for the young man thus elevated into an artist, a genius, a creator. He felt her hand upon his chair, he felt her breath as she bent over him, a kind of perfumed atmosphere of her enveloped him. Her eagerness grew as lines began to come on the paper, he hardly knew how, her voice ran on close by his ear with exclamations and broken notes of soft, subdued sound, half a whisper, half a cry. “Oh, is that how you begin?” Margaret cried; “me, I would have thought the chair first. Oh! that is his face and the line of the hair—yes; but what do you make that dot for in the middle? there is no spot there.”
“You know we must measure the lines, and see that one is in proportion with the other,” said Rob, holding up his pencil as a level; “it would not do to make one part larger than the other. I might take all my paper for one arm if I did not measure; and that is what beginners often do.”
“Oh!” said Margaret. She watched him with her head a little on one side, her lips just parted with eagerness and interest, her brown eyes all aglow. Sometimes her hand would touch his shoulder as she leaned more and more over him; her breath moved the hair on his temples, and went through and through the young man. And he was very open to this kind of influence. It did not require any mercenary hopes, any dazzling realization of an heiress, to send him into all the seductive beguilements of the love-dream. Jeanie had done it with her simple rural attractions—how much more her young mistress, with a whole romance about her, and so many charms, both visionary and real!
Rob was not a fortune-hunter, bent on an heiress. This was what his mother would have had him to be; but his nature was too susceptible for such a cold-blooded pursuit. He did what was far better, infinitely more likely to succeed, a greater stroke of genius than any skill of fortune-hunting—he fell simply over head and ears in love. He had done it before many times; it was not the intense and real passion which now and then carries a man out of himself, the love that has no room in its heart for more than one image. But still it was what he knew as that sentiment; and it was quite genuine. A little mist came into Rob’s eyes, through which he saw Sir Ludovic in his chair, the task he had set before him; his heart beat in his ears, a soft confusion and excitement seized him. He did not know what he was doing, as he sat there with Margaret looking over his shoulder. His experiences before of this same kind had been pleasant enough, but none of them had possessed the charm, the sweetness of this. Not only was she more charming than any of his former loves, but he himself was vaguely raised and elevated as to another sphere of being. In the dazzlement and tremor of the new crisis, the gratification of his vanity and self-regard, he seemed to himself only now to have attained his true sphere.
“Oh, how wonderful it is!” said Margaret; “two or three strokes with a lead-pencil, and there is papa! This is more wonderful than the views. Now his hand, Mr. Glen. How sleeping it is on the chair! You could tell he was sleeping only from the look of his hand. Hasn’t he a beautiful hand? I never saw one like it. My sister Jean’s is white, with dimples in it; they say she has a pretty hand; but then she has so many rings, and she never forgets them. But papa’s hand is beautiful, I think. Did you ever see one so fine? It has bones in it, but Jean’s has no bones. It is like himself in little. Don’t you think so, Mr. Glen?”
“You forget how little I know Sir Ludovic. I have not seen him since I was a boy. But very often the hand is like the owner of it, in little, as you say. Your own is, I have noticed that.”
“Mine?” Margaret raised the hand referred to, and looked at it, then laughed softly. “Mine is a brown thin thing, all fingers.”
“May I stop to look at it?” said Rob.
She laughed still more, and blushed, and held it out with a little tremor.
“It is nothing to look at—unless you know about the lines or can tell any one’s fortune. Can you tell any one’s fortune by their hand, Mr. Glen? Mine is as brown as a toad, and not soft and round like Jean’s, nor like papa’s. Oh, there is nothing to look at in my hand. It is so brown. I think shame when I see a lady’s; but then I always lose my gloves, or at least one of them,” said Margaret, half penitent, half laughing. While this dialogue was going on, a change had begun; Sir Ludovic had not stirred when she went to call him, but the subdued sound of the voices, and that sense of being looked at which is so sure a spell against sleep, began at last to affect him; he stirred slightly, then made a little change of position; then he said, drowsily, “Little Peggy! are you there, my little girl?”
She sprang away from Rob in a moment, leaving him somehow dazzled, disappointed, and impoverished, he could scarcely tell how. He would have caught at her dress to detain her, but dared not. He tried one whisper, however, very earnest and urgent.
“Stay, stay, Miss Margaret! He must not move till I have done. Do not answer, and he will doze again.”
She only shook her head in reply, and went to her father’s side lightly and rapidly like a bird.
“Yes,” she said, “I am here, papa; but keep still, you are not to move;” and she put her arms round him, standing behind, her pretty hands—still pretty, though they were brown—upon his breast. “Now, quick, quick, Mr. Glen,” she cried, not thinking how she had changed the group and the entire sentiment of the scene. All at once it became dramatic, and utterly beyond Rob, who had no gifts that way. He sat for a few moments vaguely gazing at her, lost in admiration and pleasure; but he shook his head. He could do no more.
“Eh, my Peggy? what has happened?” said Sir Ludovic, faintly struggling to wake himself. “Not to—move?—why am I not to move? I am—living, I think, still.”
“He is drawing you, papa. Oh, you will spoil it—you will spoil my picture!” cried Margaret. She took away her arms from his shoulders, provoked and ready to cry. “If you only would have stayed still two minutes longer—oh, papa! and if you only would have been quick—quick, Mr. Glen! But now my picture’s all spoiled,” cried the girl.
Sir Ludovic came to himself in a moment at the name.
“Where is your—Mr. Glen?” he said, and sat upright and looked round. Then Rob rose, very much embarrassed, and came forward slowly, feeling more and more awkward. He felt like a country lout when he was in presence of this fine old gentleman. He did not seem able even to walk as he ought with Sir Ludovic’s eyes upon him, and grew very red and very uncomfortable; he had not so much as a hat to occupy his uncultivated hands, and all his self-possession and powers of speech seemed to go from him. Margaret, too, now that the moment had come, felt a little afraid.
“We came while you were sleeping, papa,” she said, unconscious that she was thus identifying herself with her visitor; “and as it was wet, and nothing else was to be done, and you were sleeping, and I could not disturb you, I asked Mr. Glen to draw you; and he has been making a beautiful picture—just you, your very self, in your big chair—when you wakened. Why did you waken just at that moment to stop Mr. Glen’s beautiful picture, papa?”