THIS was one of the days when Mrs. Douglas thought she felt a little better, and certainly knew it was very dull in her bed-room, where it was not possible to keep even Kirsteen stationary all day, so she had ventured to come down stairs after the heavy midday dinner which filled the house with odours. A little broth, served with what was considered great delicacy in Drumcarro in a china dish on a white napkin, had sufficed for her small appetite; and when everything was still in the house, in partial somnolence after the meal, she had been brought to the parlour with all her shawls and cushions, and established by the fire. The news of the great ball at the Castle which had moved Marg’ret to the desperate step she had just taken had its effect in the parlour too. Kirsteen who had said at first proudly, “What am I heeding?” had, notwithstanding everything, begun to wake up a little to the more usual sensations of a girl of twenty when any great event of this description is about to take place. It would be bonny to see—it would be fine just for once to be in grand company like the old Douglases her forbears, and to see how the lords and ladies behaved themselves, if they were really so different from common folk. And then Kirsteen began to think of the music and the sound of the dancers’ feet upon the floor, in spite of herself—and the imaginary strains went to her head. She was caught in the measure of her dreams, swaying a little involuntarily to keep time, and interjecting a real step, a dozen nimble twinklings of her feet in their strong country shoes as she went across the room to fetch a new clew for her mother’s knitting.
“What’s that you’re doing, Kirsteen, to shake the whole place?” said Mrs. Douglas.
“Oh, it’s just nothing, mother.”
“She’s practising her steps,” said Mary, “for the grand ball.”
“Dear me, dear me,” Mrs. Douglas said. “How well I know by myself! Many’s the time I’ve danced about the house so that nothing would keep me still—but ye see what it all comes to. It’s just vanity and maybe worse than vanity—and fades away like the morning dew.”
“But, mother,” said Kirsteen, “it was not your dancing nor the pleasure you’ve had that made you ill; so we cannot say that’s what it comes to.”
“Pleasure!” said her mother. “It’s very little pleasure I have had in my life since I marriet your father and came to this quiet place. Na, na, it’s no pleasure—I was very light-hearted in my nature though you would not think it. But that’s a thing that cannot last.”
“But you had it, mother,” said Mary, “even if it was short. There was that ball you went to when you were sixteen, and the spangled muslin you had on, and the officer that tore it with his spurs.”
Mrs. Douglas’s eyes lit up with a faint reflection of bygone fire. “Eh, that spangled muslin,” she said, “I’ll never forget it, and what they all said to me when I came home. It was not like the grand gowns that are the fashion now. It was one of the last of the old mode before those awfu’ doings at the French Revolution that changed everything. My mother wore a hoop under her gown standing out round her like a cart-wheel. I was not old enough for that; but there was enough muslin in my petticoat to have made three of these bit skimpit things.”
“I just wish,” said Mary with a sigh, “that we had it now.”
“It would be clean out of the fashion if ye had it; and what would ye do with a spangled muslin here? Ye must have parties to go to, before ye have any need for fine cla’es.”
Mary breathed again that profound sigh. “There’s the ball at the Castle,” she said.
“Lord keep us!” cried her mother. “Your faither would take our heads off our shoulders if ye breathed a word of that.”
“But they say the whole country’s going,” said Kirsteen; “it’s like as if we were just nobody to be always held back.”
“Your father thinks of nothing but the boys,” said Mrs. Douglas, with a feeble wail; “it’s aye for them he’s planning. Ye’ll bring nothing in, he says, and he’ll have you take little out.”
There was a pause after this—indignation was strong in Kirsteen’s heart, but there was also a natural piety which arrested her speech. The injustice, the humiliation and hard bondage of the iron rule under which she had been brought up, but which she had only now begun to look upon as anything more than the rule of nature, was what was uppermost in her thoughts. Mary’s mind was not speculative. She did not consider humiliation or injustice. The practical affected her more, which no doubt was in every way a more potent argument. “I just wonder,” she said, “that he has not more sense—for if we were away altogether we would take nothing out—and that cannot be if nobody knows that we are here.”
“Your father’s a strange man,” said Mrs. Douglas. “You are old enough to see that for yourselves. When there are men coming about a house, there’s more expense. Many’s the dinner he got off my father’s table before he married me—and to have your lads about the house would never please him. Many is the thought I take about it when ye think I have nothing in my head but my own trouble. He would never put up with your lads about the house.”
“Mother!” cried Kirsteen, with indignation, “we are not servant lasses with men coming courting. Who would dare to speak like that of us?”
Mary laughed a little over her work. She was darning the stockings of the household, with a large basket before her, and her hand and arm buried in a large leg of grey-blue worsted. She did not blush as Kirsteen did, but with a little simper accepted her mother’s suggestion. “If we are ever to get away from here, there will have to be lads about the house,” she said, with practical wisdom; “if we’re not to do it Anne’s way.”
“Lord bless us, what are you saying? If your father heard you, he would turn us all to the door,” said Mrs. Douglas, in dismay. “I’ve promised him on my bended knees I will never name the name of that—poor thing, poor thing,” the mother cried suddenly, with a change of voice, falling into trembling and tears.
“I’ve heard she was real well off,” said Mary, “and a good man, and two servant maids keepit for her. And it’s just an old fashion thinking so much of your family. The old Douglases might be fine folk, but what did they ever do for us?”
“Mary! hold your peace,” cried Kirsteen, flaming with scorn and wrath. “Would ye deny your good blood, and a grand race that were as good as kings in their day? And what have we to stand upon if it’s not them? We would be no more than common folk.”
The conviction of Kirsteen’s indignant tones, the disdainful certainty of being, on the natural elevation of that grand race, something very different from common folk, over-awed the less convinced and less visionary pair. Mrs. Douglas continued to weep, silently rocking herself to and fro, while Mary made what explanations she could to her fiery assailant.
“I was meaning nothing,” she said, “but just that they’re all dead and gone, and their grandeur with them. And the fashion’s aye changing, and folk that have plenty are more thought upon than them that have nothing, whatever may be their name.”
“Do you think,” said Kirsteen, “if we had my mother’s old gown to cut down for you and me, or even new gowns fresh from the shop—do you think we would be asked to the Castle or any other place if it were not for the old Douglases that ye jeer at? It’s not a spangled muslin but an old name that will carry us there.”
“There’s something in that,” said Mary, cowed a little. “But,” she added with a sigh, “as we’re not going it’s no thanks to them nor any person. When the ladies and gentlemen are going to the ball we’ll be sitting with our seams with one candle between us. And we may just spend our lives so, for anything I can see—and the old Douglases will never fash their heads.”
“Lord bless us! there’s your father!” cried Mrs. Douglas with a start, hastily drying her eyes. Her ear was keener for that alarming sound than the girls’, who were caught almost in the midst of their talk. The laird came in, pushing open the door with a violent swing which was like a gale of wind, and the suspicious silence that succeeded his entrance, his wife having recourse to her knitting in sudden desperation, and the daughters bending over their various tasks with devotion, betrayed in a moment what they desired to hide from his jealous eye.
“What were ye colleaguing and planning, laying your heads together—that you’re all so still when I come in?”
“We were planning nothing, Neil, just nothing,” said Mrs. Douglas eagerly. “I was telling the bairns a bit of an auld story—just to pass the time.”
“They’ll pass the time better doing their work,” said their father. He came first to the fireside round which they were sitting, and stared into the glowing peat with eyes almost as red: then he strode towards the only window, and stood there shutting out the light with his back towards them. There was not too much light at any time from that narrow and primitive opening, and his solid person filled it up almost entirely. Kirsteen laid down her work upon her lap. It was of a finer kind than Mary’s, being no less than the hemming of the frills of Drumcarro’s shirts, about which he was very particular. He had certain aristocratic habits, if not much luxury, and the fineness of his linen was one of these. Kirsteen’s hemming was almost invisible, so small were the stitches and the thread so delicate. She was accomplished with her needle according to the formula of that day.
“Drumcarro,” said his wife timidly after a few minutes of this eclipse, “I am not wanting to disturb ye—but Kirsteen cannot see to do her work—it’s little matter for Mary and me.”
“What ails Kirsteen that she cannot do her work?” he said roughly, turning round but keeping his position. “Kirsteen here and Kirsteen there, I’m sick of the name of her. She’s making some cursed nonsense I’ll be bound for her ain back.”
“It’s for your breast, father,” said Kirsteen; “but I’ll stop if you like, and put it by.”
He eyed her for a moment with sullen opposition, then stepped away from the window without a word. He had an uneasy sensation that when Kirsteen was his opponent the case did not always go his way. “A great deal ye care, any of ye, for me and my wishes,” he said. “Who was it sent that deevil of a woman to my own business-room, where, if any place, a man may expect to be left in peace? No to disturb me! Ye would disturb me if I was on my deathbed for any confounded nonsense of your ain.”
“I am sure, Drumcarro,” his wife replied, beginning to cry.
“Sure—you’re sure of nothing but what she tells ye. If it were not for one thing more than another I would turn her out of my house.”
“Dinna do that—oh, dinna do that, if it’s Marg’ret you’re meaning,” cried Mrs. Douglas, clasping her hands. “She’s just a stand-by for everything about the place, and the best cook that ever was—and thinks of your interest, Drumcarro, though maybe ye will not believe it, far above her own. And if you take away Marg’ret I’ll just lie down and die—for there will be no comfort more.”
“You’re very keen to die—in words; but I never see any signs in you of keeping to it,” he said; then drawing forward a chair to the fire, pushing against Kirsteen, who drew back hurriedly, he threw himself down in it, in the midst of the women who moved their seats hastily on either side to give him room. “What’s this,” he said, “about some nonsense down at the Castle that is turning all your silly heads? and what does it mean?”
Mrs. Douglas was too frightened to speak, and as for Kirsteen she was very little disposed to take advantage of the milder frame of mind in which her father seemed to be to wheedle or persuade him into a consent.
It was Mary who profited by the unusual opportunity. “It’s just the ball, father,—that the Duke gives when he comes home.”
“The Duke,” said he. “The Duke is as auld a man as I am, and balls or any other foolishness, honest man, I reckon they’re but little in his way.”
“He does not do it for himself, father—there’s the young lords and ladies that like a little diversion. And all the folk besides from far and near—that are good enough,” Mary said adroitly. “There are some that say he’s too particular and keeps many out.”
“Nobody can be too particular, if he’s a duke or if he’s a commoner,” said Mr. Douglas. “A good pedigree is just your only safeguard—and not always that,” he added after a moment, looking at her steadily. “You’ll be one that likes a little diversion too?”
“And that I am, father,” said Mary, suddenly grown into the boldest of the party, exhilarated and stimulated, she could scarcely tell how, by a sentiment of success that seemed to have got into the air. Mrs. Douglas here interposed, anxious apparently lest her daughter should go too far.
“No beyond measure, Drumcarro—just in reason, as once I liked it well myself.”
“You,” said Drumcarro hastily, “ye were never an example. Let them speak for themselves. I’ve heard all the story from beginning to end. They’re weary of their life here, and they think if they went to this folly, they might maybe each get a man to deliver them.”
“Father!” cried Kirsteen springing to her feet, with blazing eyes. To her who knew better, who had not only the pride of her young womanhood to make that suggestion terrible, but the secret in her heart which made it blasphemy—there was something intolerable in the words and laugh and jibe, which roused her mother to a wondering and tremulous confidence, and made Mary’s heart bound with anticipated delight. But no notice was taken of Kirsteen’s outcry. The laird’s harsh laugh drew forth a tremulous accompaniment, which was half nervous astonishment and half a desire to please him, from his more subservient womankind.
“Well, Drumcarro,” said his wife timidly, “it would just be the course of nature; and I’m sure if it was men that would make them happy, it’s no me that would ever say them nay.”
“You!” said her husband again. “Ye would not say nay to a goose if ye saw him waddlin’ ben. It’s not to your judgment I’m meaning to trust. What’s Kirsteen after there, with her red head and her e’en on fire? Sit down on your chair and keep silent if ye have nothing pleasant to say. I’m not a man for weirdless nonsense and promiscuous dancing and good money thrown away on idle feasts and useless claes. But if there’s a serious meaning at the bottom of it, that’s just another matter. Eelen, I suppose, that’s in all the folly of the place, and well known to the Duke and his family, as she has a good right to be from her name, will understand all about it, and how to put them forth and set them out to the best advantage. It must be well done, if it’s done at all.”
“There’s a great many things that they will want, Drumcarro; none of mine are fit to wear, and the fashion’s all changed since my time. They will want——”
“Oh, mother, not half what you think; I’ve my cairngorms that Aunt Mary left me. And Kirsteen, she has a very white skin that needs nothing. It’s just a piece of muslin for our gowns——”
“Eh, me,” said Mrs. Douglas, “when I mind all my bonny dyes, and my pearlins and ribbons, and high-heeled shoes, and my fan as long as your arm; and washes for my skin and cushions for my hair!” She sat up in her chair forgetting her weakness, a colour rising in her pale cheeks, her spirit rising to the unaccustomed delightful anticipation which was half regret and recollection, so that for once in her life she forgot her husband and escaped from his power. “Ah!” she exclaimed again with a little outcry of pain, “if I had but thought upon the time I might have lasses of my ain and keepit them for my bairns——”
“Ye may make yourself easy on that point,” said Drumcarro, pushing back the chair he had taken, “for ye never had a thing but was rubbish, nothing fit for a daughter of mine.”
“It’s not the case, it’s not the case,” said the poor lady, touched in the tenderest point. “I had my mother’s garnets, as bonny a set as ever was seen, and I had a brooch with a real diamant inside it, and a pearl pin—and—oh, I’m no meaning to say a word to blame your father, but what do men ken of such things? And it’s not the case! It’s not the case! Ye’re not to believe him,” she said, with a feverish flush upon her cheeks.
“Bits of red glass and bits of white, and a small paste head on the end of a brass preen,” said Drumcarro, with a mocking laugh.
“Father, let her be,” cried Kirsteen. “I’ll not have her crossed, my bonny minnie, not for all the balls that ever were.”
“You’ll not have her crossed! You’re a bonny one to lift your face to your father. If you say another word ye shall not go.”
“I care not if I should never go—I will not have my mother vexed, not for the Duke nor the Castle nor a’ Scotland,” cried Kirsteen, with fire gleaming in her hazel eyes.
“Oh, ye fool, ye fool! and him for once in a good key,” cried Mary, in her sister’s ear.