MARG’RET had said with truth that the troubles of her young favourite had often been smoothed away after a consultation with herself. The best of us have our weak points, and the excellent Marg’ret was perhaps a little vain of the faculty of “seeing a way out of it,” which she believed herself to possess. She had seen a way out of it in many family tribulations which had a way of appearing less desperate when she took them in hand. And her last grand success in respect to the ball at the Castle had no doubt added to her confidence in herself. But after having turned it over in her mind for the best part of the night Marg’ret found that even her courage did not sustain her when she thought of confronting Drumcarro and requiring of him that he should give up the marriage on which he had evidently set his heart. Marg’ret was conscious that she was herself partly to blame: had she not set before him in the famous argument about the ball the fact that in no other way was there any likelihood of finding “a man” for either of his daughters? Alas, the man had been too easy to find, and how was she to confront him now and bid him let go his prize? Marg’ret’s heart sank, though it was not given to sinking. She lay awake half the night turning it over and over in her mind, first representing to herself under every light the possible argument with Drumcarro and what he would say, and what she would say. She heard herself remonstrating, “Sir, ye canna force your ain bairn, to make her meeserable,” and the response, “What the deevil have you to do with it, if I make her meeserable or no?” She had been dans son droit when she had interfered about the muslin gowns and the ball, and the necessity of letting the young ladies be seen in the world—but who was she to meddle with a marriage when everybody was pleased but just the poor lassie herself? A poor lassie will change her mind as Marg’ret knew, and will sometimes be very thankful to those who opposed her foolish youth, and made her do what turned out to be so good for her. There was nothing so little to be calculated upon, as the sentiments of a girl whose position would be unspeakably improved by marriage, and whose silly bits of feeling might change at any moment. It is true that Kirsteen was not silly but full of sense far beyond her years. But even she might change her mind, and who could doubt that Drumcarro’s daughter would be far better off as Glendochart’s wife?
All this “dautoned” Marg’ret as she would herself have said. She began even to glide away from her conviction that the master must be wrong. This is a fine working sentiment, and helps to surmount many difficulties, but when a reasonable soul is smitten by hesitation and feels that it is possible for even a habitual wrongdoer to be for once in the right, it takes the strength out of all effort. Finding herself less and less likely to be able with any comfort to object, Marg’ret began instinctively to turn to the other side of the question; and she found there was a great deal to be said on that other side. Glendochart was old—but after all he was not so dreadfully old, not in the stage of extreme age, as Kirsteen supposed. He was a “personable man.” He would give his young wife everything that heart of woman (in Argyllshire) could desire. She would have a carriage to drive about in and a saddle-horse to ride. She would get a spinet, or a harpsichord, or the new-fangled thing that was called a piany to play upon if she pleased; and as many books as she could set her face to; and maybe a sight of London and the King’s court, “decent man! if he were but weel again,” said Marg’ret to herself, for the name of the Prince Regent was not in good odour. All this would be Kirsteen’s if she could but just get over that feeling about the old man. And after all Marg’ret went on, reasoning herself into a more and more perfect adoption of the only practicable side, he was not such an old man. Two or three years younger than Drumcarro—and Drumcarro had life enough in him, just a very born devil as fierce as ever he was. They would be bold that would call the laird an old man, and Glendochart was three at least, maybe five years younger. Not an old man at all—just a little over his prime; and a well-made personable man, doing everything that the youngest did, riding every day and out stalking on the hills in the season, and hurling, as Kirsteen herself had allowed, with the best. When everything was done and said what should hinder her to take Glendochart? He was a far finer gentleman than anybody that Kirsteen was likely to meet with. He was a good man, everybody said. He was what you might call a near kinsman of the Duke’s, not more than four or five times removed. She would be in the best of company at Glendochart, invited out to dinner, and to all the diversions that were going. What could a lassie want more? Marg’ret woke in the morning in a great hurry, having overslept herself after a wakeful night, with the same conviction in her mind which was so strongly impressed upon all the others. It was just for everybody’s advantage that Kirsteen should marry Glendochart, and for her own most of all.
Kirsteen herself had been much calmed and invigorated by her consultation with Marg’ret. That authority had made so little of the obstacles and the dangers, as if it would be the easiest thing in the world to shake off Glendochart, and convince Drumcarro that nothing could be done. For the moment Kirsteen’s heart rose. She was accustomed to put great trust in Marg’ret, to see her cheerful assurances more or less justified. Many a storm had blown over which had filled the girl with terror, but which Marg’ret had undertaken should come to nothing. And if that was what Marg’ret thought now, all might be well. That day Kirsteen bore herself with great courage, getting back her colour, and singing about the house as was her wont, though it was only by a great effort that she dismissed the foreboding from her heart. And this brave front she kept up heroically during the greater part of the week of Glendochart’s absence, finding her best help in silence and a determined avoidance of the subject—but the courage oozed out at her finger tips as the days stole away. They seemed to go like conspirators one by one bringing her near the dreadful moment which she could not avoid. It had been on Thursday that her father had spoken to her, and now the week had gone all but a day. Kirsteen had just realized this with a sick fluttering at her heart, as she stood at the door watching the ruddy colours of the sunset die out of the heavens. Something of the feeling of the condemned who watches his last sun setting had come into her mind in spite of herself: what might have happened to her before to-morrow? Would her father’s curse be on her, or the still heavier malison of a creature mansworn, false to her dearest vow?
While she was thus musing, all her fictitious courage forsaking her, she felt herself suddenly and roughly caught by the arm from behind. “Well,” said her father, “are ye thinking what ye’ll say to your joe? He’s to be here to-morrow to his dinner, and he’ll expect to find all settled. Have ye fixed with your mother about the day?”
“Father,” cried Kirsteen in a wild sudden panic, “you know what I said to ye. There’s no day to be settled. I will tell him I cannot do it. I cannot do it. There’s no question about a day.”
He swung her round with that iron grasp upon her arm so that she faced him. His fierce eyes blazed upon her with a red light from under his heavy eyelids. “Dare to say a word but what I tell ye, and I’ll dash ye—in pieces like a potter’s vessel!” cried Drumcarro, taking the first similitude that occurred to him. He shook her as he spoke, her frame, though it was well-knit and vigorous, quivering in his grasp. “Just say a word more of your damned nonsense and I’ll lay ye at my feet!”
Kirsteen’s heart fluttered to her throat with a sickening terror; but she looked him in the face with what steadiness she could command, and a dumb resolution. The threat gave her back a sense of something unconquerable in her, although every limb shook.
“Ye’ll see Glendochart when he comes—in my presence—ye’ll have the day fixed and all put in order. Or if ye want to appear like a woman and not a petted bairn before your man that is to be, you’ll settle it yourself. I give you full liberty if you’ll behave yourself. But hearken,” he said, giving her another shake, “I’ll have no confounded nonsense. If ye go against me in a strange man’s presence and expose the family, I will just strike ye down at my feet, let what will come of it. Do you hear what I say?”
“He will not let you strike me,” she cried in terror, yet defiance.
“Ye’ll be at my feet before he has the chance,” cried Drumcarro. “And who’s will be the wyte if your father, the last of the Douglases, should be dragged to a jail for you? If ye expose my family to scorn and shame, I’ll do it more. Do you hear me? Now go and settle it with your mother,” he said, suddenly letting her go. Kirsteen, thrown backward by the unexpected liberation, fell back with a dizzying shock against the lintel of the door. She lay against it for a moment sick and giddy, the light fading from her eyes; and for a minute or two Kirsteen thought she was going to die. It is a conviction that comes easily at such a crisis. It seemed to the girl so much the best way out of it, just to be done with it all.
“The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To bring repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom—”
Poor Kirsteen had no guilt, nor had she any clear apprehension what this meant, or what guilt it was—it might have been only the guilt of disobedience, the shame of exposing the family for anything she knew; but the words flashed through her mind in her half-faint, lying speechless against the door. It would bring repentance to them all and wring their bosoms—it would save the shame of a disturbance and the dreadful sight of a struggle between father and daughter. The only art—just to die.
He had said, “Go to your mother.” This came vaguely back to her mind as she came to herself. Her mother—no, her mother would say just the same, they would all say the same. She had no one to go to. Then Kirsteen’s gradually quickening senses heard something which sounded like an approaching footstep. She roused herself in a moment, and still sick and faint, with a singing in her ears, turned and fled—not to her mother, to Marg’ret in the kitchen, who was her only hope.
The kitchen was, as Marg’ret had said “like a new pin” at that hour, all clean and bright, the fire made up, the hearth swept, the traces of dinner all cleared away. It was the moment when Marg’ret could sit down to needlework or spell out some old, old newspaper which even the minister had done with; her assistant Merran was out in the byre looking after the kye, and Marg’ret was alone. When Kirsteen rushed in unsteadily and threw herself down in the big wooden chair by the fireside, Marg’ret was threading a needle which was a work of patience. But this sudden invasion distracted her completely and made her lay down both thread and needle with a sigh.
“My bonny woman! What is the matter now?”
“Marg’ret, I nearly fainted standing against the door.”
“Fainted! bless the bairn! na, na, no so bad as that. Your head’s cool and so is your hand. What was it, Kirsteen?”
“Or nearly died would be more like it, and that would maybe have been the best.” And then with moist eyes fixed upon her anxious companion and a tremulous smile about her mouth Kirsteen repeated her verse—
“The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To bring repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom—is to die.”
“Kirsteen! what is that you are saying?” cried Marg’ret, a sudden flush showing even upon her ruddy colour. “Guilt and shame! What have those dreadfu’ things to do with you?”
“I am disobeying both father and mother,” said the girl solemnly, “isna that guilt? And oh, it’s shaming all belonging to me to stand against them; but I canna help it, I canna help it. Oh, Marg’ret, hide me from him, find me a place to go to! What will I do! what will I do!”
“My dear, my dear!” said Marg’ret, “you make my heart sair. What can I say to you? I have ever taken your pairt as you ken weel—but oh, my bonny woman, I canna but think you’re a little unreasonable. What ails you at Glendochart? He’s a good man and an honourable man, and it would please everybody. To think so much of his age when there’s no other objection is not like you that had always such sense. And ye would be far happier, Kirsteen, in a house of your own. Because there’s white on his head is that a cause to turn your heart from a good man?”
Kirsteen said nothing for a moment: she looked with wistful eyes and a faint smile in Marg’ret’s face, shaking her head; then suddenly rising up went away out of the kitchen, hurrying as much as her limbs, still feeble with the late shock and struggle, would let her. Marg’ret stood aghast while her hurried irregular step was audible going up stairs.
“Now I have just angered her,” said Marg’ret to herself, “and cast back her bit heart upon herself, and made her feel she has no true friend. Will I go after her,—or will I wait till she comes back?”
This question was settled for her as she stood listening and uncertain, by the sound of Kirsteen’s return. Marg’ret listened eagerly while she came down stairs again step by step. She came into the kitchen with the same vague deprecating smile upon her face. She had a little Testament in its blue boards in her hand. She said nothing, but opening it held out to her faithful adviser the fly-leaf upon which there stood the initials together of R. D. and C. D., connected with the feeble pencilling of the runic knot. Kirsteen said not a word, but held it out open, pointing to this simple symbol with her other hand. “R. D.,” said Marg’ret, “wha’ is that? C. D., that will just stand for yourself. It’s not one of Robbie’s books—it’s—it’s—Oh!” she cried with sudden enlightenment, “now I understand!”
Kirsteen put the little page solemnly to her trembling lips, a tear almost dropped upon it, but she shut the book quickly that no stain should come upon it, even of a tear. She did not say a word during this little tender revelation of her heart, but turned her eyes and her faint propitiatory smile to Marg’ret as if there was no more to be said.
“And this has been in your heart all the time!” cried Marg’ret, drying her eyes with her apron. “I thought of that, twa-three times. There was something in his look yon day he gaed away, but I never said a word, for who can tell? And this was in your heart a’ the time?”
“He said, ‘Will ye wait till I come back?’ and I said, ‘That I will!’” said Kirsteen, but very softly, the sweetness of the recollection coming back to soothe her in the midst of all the pain.
“And that’s how they’ve tied their lives, thae young things!” said Marg’ret also with a kind of solemnity. “A word spoken that is done in a moment, and after that—a’ thae long and weary years—and maybe for all they ken never to see ilk ither again.”
“And if it should be so,” said Kirsteen, “it would just be for death instead of life, and all the same.”
“Oh, weel I ken that,” said Marg’ret shaking her head. She made a pause, and then she added hurriedly, “What’s to be done with you, lassie? If Glendochart’s coming the morn to mairry ye there’s no time to be lost.”
“Marg’ret, I will just go away.”
“Where will ye go to? It’s easy speaking: a creature like you cannot travel the country-side like a servant lass going to a new place. And ye’ve nae friends that will take such a charge. Miss Eelen would be frightened out of her wits. I know nobody that will help you but Glendochart himself—and you couldna go to him.”
“What is that letter on the table, Marg’ret, and who is it from?”
“The letter? What’s in the letter? Can ye think of that at sic a moment? It’s a letter from my sister Jean.”
“Marg’ret, that’s just where I am going! I see it all in a flash like lightning. I am going to London to your sister Jean.”
“The bairn is clean out of her senses!” cried Marg’ret almost with a scream.
And then they stood and looked at each other for a long rapid minute, interchanging volumes in the silent meeting of their eyes. Kirsteen had sprung in a moment from the agitated creature who had come to Marg’ret to be hidden, to be sheltered, not knowing what could be done with her, to the quick-witted, high-spirited girl she was by nature, alive with purpose and strong intuition, fearing nothing. And Marg’ret read all this new world of meaning in the girl’s eyes more surely than words could have told her. She saw the sudden flash of the resolution, the clearing away of all clouds, the rise of the natural courage, the Kirsteen of old whom nothing could “dauton” coming back. “Oh, my lamb!” she breathed under her breath.
“There’s not a moment to be lost,” said Kirsteen, “for I must go in the morning before anybody is up. And ye must not tell a living creature but keep my secret, Marg’ret. For go I must, there is no other thing to do. And maybe I will never come back. My father will never forgive me. I will be like Anne cut off from the family. But go I must, for no more can I bide here. Give me the letter from your sister to let her see it’s me when I get there. And give me your blessing, Marg’ret—it’s all the blessing I will get. And let me go!”
“Not to-night, Kirsteen!”
“No, not to-night; but early—early in the morning before daylight. Dinna say a word—not a word. It’s all clear before me. I’ll be at nobody’s charges, I’ll fend for myself; and your sister Jean will show me the way.”
There was another silence during which Kirsteen, quite regardless of the rights of propriety which existed no more between Marg’ret and herself than between mother and daughter, took possession of Miss Jean Brown’s letter, while Marg’ret stood reflecting, entirely alarmed by the revelation made to her, and by the sudden re-birth of the vehement young creature who had been for a time so subdued and broken down by her first contest with the world. To keep Kirsteen back was, in the circumstances and with the strong convictions of the Scotch serving woman as to the force of a trothplight and the binding character of a vow, impossible. But to let her go thus unfriended, unaided, alone into an unknown world, far more unknown to Marg’ret than the ends of the earth would be to her representative now, was something more than could be borne. She suddenly exclaimed in a sharp tone with a cruel hope: “And where are ye to get the siller? It’s mad and mad enough any way, but madder still without a penny in your pocket. How are ye to get to London without money? It’s just impossible.”
“I can walk, others have done it before me. I’m well and strong and a grand walker,” said Kirsteen, but not till after a pause of consternation, this consideration not having crossed her mind before.
“Walk! it’s just hundreds of miles, and takes a week in the coach,” cried Marg’ret. “Ye cannot walk, no to say ye would want money even then, for I’m no supposing that you mean to beg your bread from door to door. Without money ye canna go a step. I’ll not permit it. Have ye anything of your ain?”
“I have the gold guinea my grandmother left me in her will; but I have no more. How should I have any more?”
Marg’ret stood for a moment undecided, while Kirsteen waited a little eager, a little expectant like a child. It did not occur to her to deprecate help from Marg’ret as a more high-minded heroine might have done. Marg’ret was a little Providence at Drumcarro. She had store of everything that the children wanted, and had been their resource all their lives. And Kirsteen had not realized the difference between money and other indispensable things. She waited like a child, following Marg’ret with her eyes until some expedient should be thought of. She breathed a sigh of suspense yet expectation when Marg’ret hurried away to her bedroom at the back of the house, seating herself again in the big chair to wait, not impatiently, for the solution of the problem. Marg’ret came back after a few minutes with a work-box in her hand. All kinds of things had come out of that box in the experience of the children at Drumcarro, things good and evil, little packets of powders for childish maladies, sweeties to be taken after the nauseous mouthful, needles and thimbles and scissors when these needful implements had all been lost, as happened periodically, even a ribbon or a pair of gloves in times of direst need. She began to turn over the well-remembered contents—old buttons, hooks and eyes from old gowns long departed, Marg’ret’s two brooches that formed all her jewellery wrapped up in separate pieces of paper. “My sister Jean,” said Marg’ret with her head bent over the box, “has often bidden me to come and see her in London town. You ken why I couldna go. I couldna thole to leave you that are leavin’ me without a tear. And she sent me what would do for my chairges. It was never touched by me. It took me a great deal of trouble to get Scotch notes for it, and here it is at the bottom of my box with many an auld relic on the top of it—just a’ I’ll have of ye when ye’ve got your will,” said Marg’ret, a tear dropping among the miscellaneous articles in the box. She took from the bottom a little parcel in an old letter, folded square and written closely to the very edge of the seal. “Hae! take it! and ye maun just do with it what pleasures yoursel’,” Marg’ret cried.