LIFE had become a new thing altogether for Harry Thornleigh. Up to this time his existence had been that of his immediate surroundings, an outward life so to speak. The history of the visible day in any household of which he formed a part would have been his history, not much more nor less; but this easy external existence was over for him. He began to have a double being from the moment he saw Margaret. All that he was most conscious of, was within him, a life of thought, of recollection, of musing, and imagination; and external matters affected him but vaguely through the cloud of this more intimate consciousness. Yet his faculties were at the same time quickened, and the qualities of his mind brought out—or so at least he felt. He had been very angry with Lady Mary for her mirth over Mrs. Smith’s name; but his new feelings (though they originated this anger) seemed to give him prudence and cleverness enough to make an instrument of the very jest he detested. He began to speak of Mrs. Smith the morning after his visit to her, restraining his temper admirably, and opening the subject in the most good-humoured way.
“I delivered your note, Aunt Mary,” he said; “you are right after all, about the name. It is ridiculous. Mrs. Smith! after being Miss Murray, as I suppose she was. She ought to change back again.”
“There are other ways of changing,” said Lady Mary, “and I daresay such a pretty woman could easily do it if she wished. Yes, I got a very nice little note from her, thanking me. Though I am disappointed in the brother, I must show them some civility. Did you hear when they were to get into their house?”
Harry had not heard; but he propitiated his aunt by telling her what was Dr. Murray’s opinion of his predecessor, an opinion which greatly comforted Lady Mary, and made her feel herself quite justified in the part she had taken in the matter.
“There must be more in him than I thought,” she said, in high good-humour; and then Harry felt bold to make his request.
“The sister,” he said, toning down the superlatives in which he felt disposed to speak of that peerless being, with an astuteness of which he felt half-ashamed, half-proud, “is rather lonely, I should think, in that poky little place; and she has a nice little girl about Molly’s age.” (This was a very wild shot, for Harry had about as much idea of their relative ages as he had about the distances between two stars). “They don’t know any one, and I don’t think she’s very strong. Without asking them formally, Aunt Mary, don’t you think you might have her and the child up to luncheon or something, to see the conservatories and all that? it would be a little change for them. They looked rather dismal in Mrs. Sims’ parlour, far from everything they know.”
“How considerate and kind of you, Harry!” cried Lady Mary. “I am ashamed of myself for not having thought of it. Of course, poor thing, she must be lonely—nothing to do, and probably not even any books. The Scotch all read; they are better educated a great deal than we are. To be sure, you are quite right. I might drive down to-morrow, and fetch her to lunch. But, by-the-by, I have Herr Hartstong coming to-morrow, who is to give the botany lecture—”
“An extra lady and a little girl would not hurt Herr Hartstong.”
“There is no telling,” said Lady Mary, with a laugh, “such a pretty creature as she is. But I think he has a wife already. I only meant I could not go to fetch her. But to be sure she’s a married woman, and I don’t see what harm there would be. You might do that.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” cried Harry, trying with all his might to keep down his exultation, and not let it show too much in his face and voice.
“Then we’ll settle it so. You can take the ponies, and a fur cloak to wrap her in, as she’s delicate; and Herr Hartstong must take his chance. But, by the way,” Lady Mary added, pausing, turning round and looking at him—“by the way, you are of a great deal more importance. You must take care she does not harm you.”
“Me!” said Harry, with a wild flutter at his heart, forcing to his lips a smile of contempt. “I am a likely person, don’t you think, to be harmed by anybody belonging to the country doctor? I thought, Aunt Mary, you had more knowledge of character.”
“Your class exclusivism is revolting, Harry,” cried Lady Mary, severely. “A young man with such notions is an anachronism; I can’t understand how you and I can come of the same race. But perhaps it’s just as well in this case,” she added, gliding back into her easier tone. “Your mother would go mad at the thought of any such danger for you.”
“I hope I can take care of myself by this time, without my mother’s help,” said Harry, doing his best to laugh. He was white with rage and self-restraint; and the very sound of that laugh ought to have put the heedless aunt, who was thus helping him on the way to destruction, on her guard. But Lady Mary’s mind was occupied by so many things, that she had no attention to bestow on Harry; besides the high confidence she felt in him as an unimpressionable blockhead and heart-hardened young man of the world.
To-morrow, however—this bliss was only to come to-morrow—and twenty-four hours had to be got through somehow without seeing her. Harry once more threw himself in the way persistently. He went down to the village, and called upon all his old acquaintances; he kept about the Green the whole afternoon; but Margaret did not appear. At last, when his patience would hold out no longer, he called at the cottage, saying to himself, that in case Lady Mary had forgotten to write, it would be kind to let her know what was in store for her. But, alas! she was not to be found at the cottage. How she had been able to go out without being seen, Harry could not tell, but he had to go back drearily at night without even a glimpse of her. What progress his imagination had made in three or four days! The very evening seemed darker, the stars less divine, the faint glimmers of the Aurora which kept shooting across the sky had become paltry and unmeaning. If that was all electricity could do, Harry felt it had better not make an exhibition of itself. Was it worth while to make confusion among the elements for so little? was it worth while to suffer the bondage of society, to go through luncheons and dinners, and all the common action of life without even a glance or a smile to make a man feel that he had a soul in him and a heaven above him? Thus wildly visionary had poor Harry become all in a moment, who had never of his own free will read a line of poetry in his life.
“I am so sorry to give you the trouble, Harry,” said Lady Mary, pausing for a moment in her conversation with Herr Hartstong (whose lecture was to be given next morning) to see the ponies go off.
“Oh! I don’t mind it once in a way,” said the young man, scarcely able to restrain the laughter with which, partly from sheer delight, partly from a sense of the ludicrous inappropriateness of her apology, he was bursting. He went down the avenue like an arrow, the ponies tossing their heads, and ringing their bells, the wintry sunshine gleaming on him through the long lines of naked trees. Margaret, to whom Lady Mary had written, was waiting for him with a flush of pleasure upon her pale face, and a look of soft grateful friendliness in her beautiful eyes.
“It was kind of you to come for us,” she said, looking up at him.
“I am so glad to come,” said Harry, with all his heart in his voice. He wrapt her in the warm furs, feeling somehow, with a delicious sense of calm and security, that, for the moment, she belonged to him. “The morning is so fine, and the ponies are so fresh, that I think we might take a turn round the park,” he said. “You are not afraid of them?”
“Oh no! the bonnie little beasties,” cried Margaret, leaning back with languid enjoyment. She had often harnessed the rough pony at Loch Arroch with her own hands, and driven him to the head of the loch without thinking of fear, though she looked now so dainty and delicate; but she did not feel inclined to tell Harry this, or even to recall to herself so homely a recollection. Margaret had been intended by nature for a fine lady. She lay back in the luxurious little carriage, wrapped in the furred mantle, and felt herself whisked through the sunny wintry air to the admiration of all beholders, with a profound sense of enjoyment. She liked the comfort dearly. She liked the dreamy pleasure which was half of the mind, and half of the body. She liked the curtseys of the gatekeepers, and the glances of the stray walkers, who looked after her, she thought, with envy. She felt it natural that she should thus be surrounded by things worthy, and pleasant, and comfortable. Even the supreme gratification of the young attendant by her side, whose infatuation began to shew itself so clearly in his eyes, was a climax of pleasure to Margaret, which she accepted easily without fear of the consequences.
Yes, she thought, he was falling in love with her, poor boy; and it is seldom unpleasant to be fallen in love with. Most probably his people would put a stop, to it, and as she did not mean to give him what she called “any encouragement,” there would be no harm done. Whereas, on the other hand, if his people did not interfere, there was always the chance that it might come to something. Margaret did not mean any harm—she was only disposed to take the Scriptural injunction as her rule, and to let the morrow care for the things of itself.
She lay back in the little carriage with the grey feather in her hat swaying like her slight figure, and Sibby held fast in her arms.
“I feel as if I were in a nest,” she said, when Harry asked tenderly if she felt the cold; and thus they flew round the park, where a little stir of Spring was visible in the rough buds, and where here and there one dewy primrose peeped forth in a sheltered nook—the ponies’ hoofs ringing, and their heads tossing, and their bells tinkling—Harry lost in a foolish joy beyond expression, and she wrapped in delicious comfort. He was thinking altogether of her, she almost altogether of herself—and of her child, who was another self.
“I have enjoyed it so much,” she said softly, as he helped her to get out in front of the hall door.
“I do not think I ever spent so happy a morning,” Harry said very low.
Margaret made no sign of having heard him. She walked upstairs without any reply, leaving him without ceremony. “He is going too fast,” she said to herself. And Harry was a little, just a little, mortified, but soon got over that, and went after her, and was happy once more—happy as the day was long. Indeed, the visit altogether was very successful. Margaret was full of adaptability, very ready to accept any tone which such a personage as Lady Mary chose to give to the conversation, and with, in reality, a lively and open intelligence, easily roused to interest. Besides, though an eager young admirer like Harry was pleasant enough, and might possibly become important, she never for a moment deceived herself as to the great unlikelihood that his friends would permit him to carry out his fancy; and the chance that, instead of bringing advantage, she might bring harm to herself and her brother if she gave any one a right to say that she had “encouraged” him. Whereas nothing but unmingled good could come from pleasing Lady Mary, who was, in every way, the more important person. This being the principle of Margaret’s conduct, it is almost unnecessary to say that Lady Mary found it perfect, and felt that nothing could be in better taste than the way in which the young Scotchwoman kept Harry’s attentions down, and accorded the fullest attention to her own observations. She even took her nephew aside after luncheon, to impress upon him a greater respect for their guest.
“This Mrs. Smith is evidently a very superior person,” said Lady Mary, “and I am sorry to see, Harry, that you are rather disposed to treat her simply as a very pretty young woman. I am not at all sure that you have not been trying to flirt with her during lunch.”
“I—flirt!—Aunt Mary,” stammered Harry, “you altogether mistake—”
“Oh, of course, you never did such a thing in your life,” she said mocking, “but this is not quite an ordinary young lady. The Scotch are so well educated—we can see at a glance that she has read a great deal, and thought as well—which is by no means common. If you take her round the conservatories, you must recollect that it is not a mere pretty girl you are with, Harry. She will not understand your nonsense,” said Lady Mary with a little warmth.
She, herself, had some final arrangements to make with Herr Hartstong, who was also very much interested in the graceful listener, from whom he had received such flattering attention. He made her his best bow, and hoped he should see her next day at the lecture, when Harry, doing his best to suppress all manifestations of feeling, led her away.
“It is so kind of you to let me treat you without ceremony,” said Lady Mary. “Show Mrs. Smith the orchids, Harry. Before you get to the palm tree, I shall be with you—” and then Harry was free and alone with his enchantress. He could not talk to her—he was so happy—he led her away quickly out of sight of his aunt—who had seated herself in a corner of the big drawing-room, to settle all her final arrangements with the botanist—and of Herr Hartstong’s big yellow eyes, which looked after him with suspicion. Harry was eager to get her to himself, to have her alone, out of sight of everybody; but when he had secured this isolation, he could not make much use of it. He was dumb with bliss and excitement—he took her into the fairy palace of flowers where summer reigned in the midst of winter; and instead of making use of his opportunities in this still perfumy place, where everything suited the occasion, found that he had nothing to say. He had talked, laboriously it is true, but still he had talked, when he had called on her at the cottage; he had made a few remarks while he drove her round the park; but on this, the first opportunity he had of being alone with her, he felt his tongue tied. Instead of taking her to the orchids as Lady Mary had suggested, he conducted her straight to the palm tree, and there placed her on the sofa, and stood by, gazing at her, concealing his agitation by cutting sprays of Cape jasmine, of which there happened to be a great velvety cluster in front of her seat.
“It is like something in a book,” said Margaret, with a sigh. “What a fine thing it is to be very rich! I never was in such a beautiful place.”
“Yes, it’s nice to be well off,” said Harry; “but heaps of people are well off who never could invent anything so pretty. You see Tottenham was very much in love with Aunt Mary. She’s a nice little woman,” he added, parenthetically. “A man in love will do a deal to please the woman he likes.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Margaret, feeling somewhat disposed to laugh; “and that makes it all the more interesting. Is Mr. Tottenham very poetical and romantic? I have not seen him yet.”
“Tottenham poetical!” cried Harry, with a laugh; “no, not exactly. And that’s an old affair now, since they’ve been married about a century; but it shows what even a dull man can do. Don’t you think love’s a very rum thing?” said the young man, cutting the Cape jasmine all to pieces; “don’t you think so? A fellow doesn’t seem to know what he is doing.”
“Does Lady Mary let you cut her plants to pieces, Mr. Thornleigh?” said Margaret, feeling her voice quaver with amusement. Upon which Harry stopped short, and looked sheepishly down at the bunch of flowers in his hand.
“I meant to get you a nosegay, and here is a great sheaf like a coachman’s bouquet on a drawing-room day,” cried Harry, half conscious of this very distinct commentary upon his words. “Never mind, I’ll tell the gardener. I suppose there are heaps more.”
“How delightful to have heaps more!” said Margaret. “I don’t think poor folk should ever be brought into such fairy places. I used to think myself so lucky with a half-a-dozen plants.”
“Then you are fond of flowers?” said Harry.
What woman, nay, what civilised person of the present age, ever made but one answer to such a question? There are a few people left in the world, and only a few, who still dare to say they are not fond of music; but fond of flowers!
“I do so wish you would let me keep you supplied,” said Harry, eagerly. “Trouble! it would be the very reverse of trouble; it would be the very greatest pleasure—and I could do it so easily—”
“Are you a cultivator, then?” said Margaret, “a great florist?” she said it with a half-consciousness of the absurdity, yet half deceived by his earnestness. Harry himself was startled for the moment by the question.
“A florist! Oh, yes, in a kind of a way,” he said, trying to restrain an abrupt momentary laugh. A florist? yes; by means of Covent Garden, or some ruinous London nurseryman. But Margaret knew little of such refinements. “It would be such a pleasure to me,” he said, anxiously. “May I do it? And then you will not be able quite to forget my very existence.”
Margaret got up, feeling the conversation had gone far enough. “May not I see the—orchids? It was the orchids I think that Lady Mary said.”
“This is the way,” said Harry, almost sullen, feeling that he had fallen from a great height. He went after her with his huge handful of velvety jasmine flowers. He did not like to offer them, he did not dare to strew them at her feet that she might walk upon them, which was what he would have liked best. He flung them aside into a corner in despite and vexation. Was he angry with her? If such a sentiment had been possible, that would have been, he felt, the feeling in his mind. But Margaret was not angry nor annoyed, though she had stopped the conversation, feeling it had gone far enough. To “give him encouragement,” she felt, was the very last thing that, in her position, she dared to do. She liked the boy, all the same, for liking her. It gave her a soothing consciousness of personal well-being. She was glad to please everybody, partly because it pleased herself, partly because she was of a kindly and amiable character. She had no objection to his admiration, to his love, if the foolish boy went so far, so long as no one had it in his power to say that she had given him encouragement; that was the one thing upon which her mind was fully made up; and then, whatever came of it, she would have nothing with which to reproach herself. If his people made a disturbance, as they probably would, and put a stop to his passion, why, then, Margaret would not be to blame; and if, on the contrary, he had strength of mind to persevere, or they, by some wonderful chance, did not oppose, why then Margaret would reap the benefit. This seems a somewhat selfish principle, looking at it from outside, but I don’t think that Margaret had what is commonly called a selfish nature. She was a perfectly sober-minded unimpassioned woman, very affectionate in her way, very kind, loving comfort and ease, but liking to partake these pleasures with those who surrounded her. If fate had decreed that she should marry Harry Thornleigh, she knew very well that she would make him an admirable wife, and she would have been quite disposed to adapt herself to the position. But in the meantime she would do nothing to commit herself, or to bring this end, however desirable it might be in itself, about.