“AGNES, this gentleman was one of my brother’s friends; you may say everything to him that you have said to me.”
This Marjory said in her own drawing-room in St. Andrews, where she stood between Fanshawe and the homely stranger, who had attracted so much of her attention and curiosity before she knew why it was. The girl’s appearance was unchanged; she stood with a certain suppressed defiance still in her aspect, before the lady whom she had distrusted, and whom even now she felt disposed to approach with caution. She was Isabell’s sister, but she was not like Isabell. The refinement and grace of the other were altogether wanting to her; she was in perfect keeping with her homely dress, her rustic manners—even the air of half-irritated, half-distressed antagonism with which she looked at her novel companions. Agnes Jeffery was in no way superior to her condition, except in so far as she was superior to all conditions in the force of a vigorous and loyal nature; she looked from one to the other with doubtful eyes.
“You may ken the gentleman, Miss Heriot, but I don’t; I dinna feel justified in disclosin’ the affairs of my folk to every new person that may come in. It’s no our way; maybe when folk are more frank, and tell everything, it’s easier for them; but it’s no our way.”
“You trusted me,” said Marjory; “and this gentleman is as I am” (she did not think of the meaning that might be put upon her words—not at least till long afterwards, when they filled her with confusion; but Fanshawe did, being more interested in these words than in any revelation the stranger could make to him). “He saw my poor brother Tom die; he heard him—as I told you—make an effort to reveal all this to me; he has done everything for us, and he will help us now. You may tell him as you told me.”
“Is he anything to you?” said Agnes gravely, searching Marjory’s face with her eyes.
And that young woman, utterly disconcerted, caught another glance at the same moment—a look which was full of the most wistful entreaty, yet just touched with fun, and an involuntary sense of all that was laughable in the question. Fanshawe felt as if life and death were involved for him in the reply; and yet he could not quench that twinkle of mischievous consciousness, which poor Marjory felt, too, notwithstanding the gravity of all the surrounding circumstances, and the solemnity of the question. Her eyes fell before the double look fixed upon her; her face flushed deeply; she cleared her throat, and faltered in uttermost confusion. It required all his anxiety, supplemented by all his self-control, to keep down the laugh which almost mastered Fanshawe’s muscles and faculties. If he had laughed, woe betide him; for in moments of emotion, no one likes the idea of being laughed at; and Marjory’s temper was something less than angelic. She conquered herself with an effort, and answered at last steadily.
“Mr. Fanshawe is my friend,” she said; “he is the friend of the family; he is (this Marjory said proudly, remembering Seton’s report of him, remembering Mr. Charles, and bearing her testimony with a certain consciousness of doing something to set him right with the world), one of those men who will work and suffer, if need be, for their friends—as you have worked and suffered, Agnes. He will not weigh what is enough or too much to do. Of all my friends, and we have many, he was the only one whom I felt I could appeal to—who would pause at nothing. Is that enough for you? It ought to be; for it is what you have done yourself.”
Agnes looked at him with growing surprise, and at Marjory’s excitement, which reflected itself in Fanshawe’s astonished face. The girl divined, as Marjory herself did not, that he was bewildered, abashed, even humbled by this praise. He stole round to her side, and took her hand and kissed it humbly.
“What can I have done to make you say this?” he cried; “how have I deceived you? I did not mean it. I have done nothing to deserve this.”
The girl’s eyes were very sharp, enlightened by the habit of observing others. And she was not sympathetic enough to care for the natural emotion which she was clever enough to perceive. She said with that disregard for them, as soon as she was herself satisfied, which is common to the uncultivated mind:
“Miss Heriot, I’ll ask no more questions. If you’ll sit down, and let me speak, I’ll tell you all there is to tell. Maybe I would not have come had I known what you wanted; but I’ll tell you now.”
This brought the others to a very abrupt stop. Fanshawe withdrew, feeling himself somewhat snubbed, if truth must be told, and in a state of mind—in respect to this girl and her sister—very different from the attitude of enthusiastic devotion in which Marjory had depicted him. But he listened, nevertheless, feeling himself pledged to an interest which was more deep than he really felt. What was Tom Heriot to him? But Marjory was everything; therefore he made an effort, and threw all his attention into the new tale.
“I take it for granted,” said Agnes, with that brusque tone of suppressed excitement, sometimes scantly courteous, which often characterizes the Scotch peasant, “that you have told the gentleman all that my poor Bell told you; she did not do it with my will; but since it’s done, and she’s called in the help of others to right her, instead of her ain folk, I have no further call to resist. You have told the gentleman how they were married—”
“Married!” said Fanshawe, with a slight start.
“What did you think else?” said the girl, turning upon him with sudden defiance. “Did you think it was a light lass, of no account, that you were to hear of? for if sae, I’ll go away and trouble you no further. It is clear that you have not been prepared to hear of my sister Bell.”
“Agnes, you must not be so hasty,” said Marjory, humbly. “Mr. Fanshawe—I told you—have you forgotten—last night—”
Fanshawe had not forgotten last night, and was not likely to forget it; but he had, it must be allowed, received the information given him with less seriousness than it deserved. He had to make the humblest and most abject apologies to both of the somewhat stern judges before whom he stood—Marjory, who was abashed by the dullness of her pupil, and Agnes who was all in arms. After this interruption, however, he was on his guard, and the narrative proceeded more smoothly. It was not of a very novel character. Tom Heriot had married Isabell Jeffrey, not entirely as the heir of Pitcomlie should have married its future mistress, but yet lawfully, according to the customs of the country, and to traditions fully accepted in the class to which she belonged. They had pledged themselves to each other as man and wife in the presence of the people in whose house they had met, a man whom Heriot had employed to take charge of his dogs while shooting in the district from which the sisters came, a mountain village in Perthshire. The marriage had been concealed, as such marriages generally are, until the last moment, when it had been necessary to avow it for the sake of poor Isabell’s character. But by that time Tom Heriot was dead, and could no longer be appealed to—and even the mother, utterly cast down by the shame of her favourite child, had refused to believe the unlikely story.
“There was nobody but me, nobody but me,” said Agnes, warming with her tale, “that kent my poor Bell would never lie. My mother; my mother is a decent woman, of a decent honest family. Lightheadedness or shame never was heard of in her kith or kin; all douce, steady folk, constant at the kirk, and mair thought of than the very Minister himsel’. It made her wild. From no believing at first that anything was wrang—which was natural—for wha could believe it? she went off in a mad way to no believing Bell. I can excuse her, for my part. If I had not trusted Bell from the very first, I would have killed her with my hands. John Macgregor and his wife had gone away, nobody kent where. There was no a creature to stand by her to say it was true. Oh, Miss Heriot! you’ve heard Bell’s story, but no mine. You can never ken the days that passed, and the weary nights—her in a way to want a’ the comfort that kindness could give her, and lifting up her white face a’ the time without support or help, to say to them that would na believe her, ‘The bairn is my man’s lawful bairn, and I’m his wife.’ Oh, I’m no heeding,” cried Agnes, “though there’s a man here! I’m no one to speak o’ such things before a gentleman. But to see her in her trouble, aye crying out in her pains, ‘I’ve naething to think shame of, mother, there’s naething to think shame of!’ I’m hard,” said Agnes, stopping suddenly, “but no so hard as to withstand that.”
“You were always her support and comfort,” said Marjory, taking her hand, and with tears in her eyes.
“Was anything else possible? I kent our Bell, ay, better than my mother. She was aye delicate. She never could stand what I could stand. She would aye read her book when she had a moment—no like me that am just a country lass—and oh, so bonnie! When gentlemen came by, they would make errands for a drink of water, or to warm their feet, or to light a cigar, or the like of that, just for the sake of a good look at her. Mr. Heriot was a pleasant gentleman. He had aye a good excuse. He would have this question and that to ask my mother, as if it was her he was wanting. The Lord forgive him,” cried Agnes, “if he meant to deceive! for he is dead and gone, and canna be punished—and I wouldna wish him to be damned for ever and ever, though he would weel deserve it, richly deserve it—if he wanted to deceive!”
Notwithstanding all her interest and all her sympathy, this was hard for Marjory’s proud spirit. She moved uneasily in her chair, she grew hot and flushed, her brow contracted, her foot beat upon the carpet.
“He did not mean to deceive,” she cried, impatiently. “I know he did not. He thought he had told me. Such a thing was not possible—”
“I hope so,” said Agnes, composing herself. “But he kept Bell without a written word, not so much as a ‘wife’ in his letters, nor signing himself her husband—no a single word. They had good reason to think she was deceived. And the little bairn was no sooner born—ye havena seen him, Miss Heriot; he’s like your bonnie little sister with the gold hair—than a friend saw in the papers that Mr. Heriot was dead in England. Oh, that terrible time! Sickness is ill, and grief’s warse, and shame the warst of a’; but a’ three at once upon one bit delicate head, a’ three! and neither consolation nor support, neither pity nor fellow-feeling! Ye may think I’m whiles no very civil nor respectful to them that’s above me. I canna help it; my heart’s bitter at you a’—bitter! bitter!—at them that lead the poor and simple astray, and leave them to bear the wyte—them that go away and enjoy themselves, and live—or even that go and die—and leave other folk behind to pay the price. It’s them I hate.”
“But the people who could have proved all this?” said Fanshawe. “Surely you speak too strongly. If there are people who can prove it, why blame Mr. Heriot? He was snatched away from this life; he had not time for anything. But if it rests on the testimony of witnesses—”
Agnes turned round to look at him, with the colour gradually rising over her face. The look of defiance was still there, but over it, as it were, like another surface, was a flutter of painful hesitation and humility—humility which was compulsory, and all the harder on that account. She looked at him with a dilation of the eyes expressive of such mental strain and painful exertion, as he had scarcely ever been conscious of witnessing before, and with a thrill in her voice, answered him steadily, looking him all the time in the face.
“It rests on my sister’s word, Sir, which is as the word of an angel out of heaven; for we’ve nae testimony—nae testimony! It rests upon Isabell’s word.”
Fanshawe’s countenance changed. He could not help it; he was not used to conceal his sentiments; but almost before he was capable of realizing this new and strange avowal, the girl had started to her feet.
“I am going home, Miss Heriot!” she cried. “You meant nae harm, but ye’ve given me another stroke—and we’ve borne enough from you and yours—”
“Agnes,” cried Marjory, arresting her. “You cannot go away from me; whatever happens, we must work this out together. What has any one done?”
“Look at him!” cried the girl, with pale indignation. “Oh, this is what I kent would happen if I was made to leave my ain way—to go among gentles, and make them believe, and summer and winter every word! He thinks it’s a lie. What does he care for our Isabell and her bairn? He cares for you; and he thinks that what I’m telling you is a lie!”
Fanshawe did not contradict her. He looked at Marjory gravely, with a certain anxiety in his glance. He thought, as was natural enough, and as men so often think in respect to a woman’s judgment, that she had been led away by her feelings. He made her a little warning sign with his head.
“If, as you tell me, her own mother did not believe this story, is it wonderful that I should hesitate?” he said. “I do not think it is a lie; but I fear she may have been deceived.”
“By Tom?” said Marjory. She was almost as indignant as the other. “If Isabell has been deceived, then Tom—my brother, has been a—— What can I say? Is there a word bad enough—vile enough?”
He was cowed between these two young women. He dared not say, as he might have said elsewhere, that men do not form the same harsh judgment of such deceptions. He made a gesture of deprecation, holding up his hands in entreaty.
“You are too hard upon me”, he said. “I did not mean to blame either side; but if this is so, why cannot these people—the witnesses—be produced?”
“Let me speak to him, Miss Heriot,” said Agnes. “Maybe the gentleman thinks it’s a’ my invention from beginning to end? and it’s me that must speak. I’ve been to seek them, Sir, a’ over Scotland, from one end to another. I’ve been directed here, and I’ve been directed there. I’ve gone after them night and day. I’ve written letters to them. I’ve sought out their friends. The little infant is three months auld, and all that time I’ve been on the road. I had left my place for Isabell’s sake; she didna tell me why, but since I’ve found it was for him, that it might not be said he had a near friend in service. All the little siller I had, I’ve spent seeking them; and, oh, I canna find them, I canna find them!” cried the girl, suddenly breaking down, and bursting into passionate weeping. “I’ve prayed the Lord on my knees, and He’ll no send them; and I cannot find them; and my bonnie Bell will die before I can clear her name!”
Her voice had risen loud and shrill in the height of her emotion, and now she sat down and covered her face, struggling with her sobs. It was not in Fanshawe’s heart to remain insensible to this outburst. He sat looking at her with a guilty face, as if he were the author of her distress.
“Can I do anything?” he said. “Is there any way of helping her to find them if they are to be found?”
But there was not in his tone the enthusiasm for the search which Marjory had expected to move him. The very sound of his voice chilled instead of invigorating her. While Agnes slowly recovered her composure, Marjory informed him in detail of the inquiries which had been made. These were very primitive, unskilful inquiries. The girl knowing of few means of procuring information except the simple one of going to ask for it, had wasted a great deal of time and much labour on a comparatively narrow round. She had indeed written to various people whom she believed to be Macgregor’s relations to ask information about him, but the idea that he and his wife might be reluctant witnesses, or adverse altogether to the establishment of the truth, had made her distrustful of letters.
“How could I tell that they would not get out o’ my way, if I sent them word I was coming?” she said. “How was I to ken that they werena enemies? And even if they were friends, they mightna like to take that trouble, or their maisters mightna like it. Few folk like to take trouble; and when you just send them a letter—Na, na, I went mysel. I would never trust to that.”
In short, poor Agnes had distrusted everybody. She had distrusted Miss Heriot up to the last moment. She distrusted her still, notwithstanding Isabell’s better instinct. She looked at the two together at the present moment with a watchful eye, not half sure that they were not plotting something against, rather than in favour of her search. When she heard them speak of the loss of time, her heart swelled within her. She who had done everything so carefully, so warily, letting nobody know, treating everybody as enemies, making so many subtle, simple schemes to entrap the missing witnesses, was it possible that, after all, she had been letting the precious moments slip out of her hand, the last days of her sister’s life? Agnes was glad to go away, leaving the last and only possible traces of the missing Macgregors in Marjory’s hands, to go out to the silence of the long seaside walk, and to cast her troubled mind abroad to seek out new means of working. She knelt down under the shadow of the Maiden’s Rock, in a crevice of that natural tower, and poured out all her passionate heart in an impassioned prayer. “Oh, bring them to me—bring them!” she prayed, demanding a miracle with pathetic earnestness. There are circumstances in which it is more painful to receive help than to be kept without it. Agnes, poor girl, endured the aid which had fallen upon her with a proud agony of submission, feeling that her heart was torn asunder by the necessity. She had so set her heart upon doing it all herself; she had taken pleasure in her hardships and wanderings, her long walks up and down, and the painful inquiries that never came to anything. And oh, if all this had been but a loss of time! She tried to contradict the thought, though a consciousness that it was true would keep creeping chill upon her. But oh, if the Lord would but step in and direct her, and make her find them now! If He would but prove that the race was not to the swift nor the battle to the strong! If He, the last resort, the final resource in everything, would but bring them to her—put them, as it were, in her hand! Agnes opened her eyes, and clambered down from the rocks, her heart aching with the hope that she might yet meet with strangers on the way, and find that her prayer had been answered. But there was no one to be seen on the long stretch of seaside path, not a soul anywhere. And thus in her humiliation she went slowly home, feeling as if this work, the work that might save Isabell’s life, was taken out of her hands.