MR. CHARLES had been seated all alone in the library of his house, a room which confused him much, seeing that it was a library, full of books, such as they were, yet not his, nor like anything that could have been his. Had he been condemned to sit much in this room, it would have been impossible for him to rest without remodelling and changing it; but thanks to golf and the club, he was not tempted to remain for too long a time at one sitting. This day, however, accident, which interferes with golf as much as with other things, had broken up one of the most promising matches ever arranged, and left Mr. Charles disconsolate. He came home to seek Marjory, and found Marjory gone; even little Milly had her own engagements; and he was thus left to himself. It gave him a realization of the time which might come, if Marjory were to marry, for instance, and he childless, daughterless, with nobody to make any house feel like home, might be left to the cold comfort of George’s Square. He did not like the idea. He sat down in the library, as we have said, with a statistical work before him—dry reading, but he felt still more dry. He was out of his element, absent from his favourite surroundings, alone; and everything was against him. How could he tell if he should ever again find himself comfortably established in his sunny old tower, in the room which he had garnished and arranged so carefully with all the accumulations of his life? “These young women” were about to pull down his old tower about his ears; or if they could be stopped in that, here was this other story, this strange marriage of Tom’s, this peasant aspiring to the name of Heriot, with her child, who would bring into the old house the unknown qualities of some nameless race. And Marjory, with her head full of this nonsense, leaving him just at the moment he wanted her most, to mix herself up with such a business! And Fanshawe, an English ne’er-do-weel—Tom’s friend, no doubt, and not a bad fellow, but far from the sort of person to match with Marjory—brought into it, head and shoulders! No wonder Mr. Charles was put out. The statistical book, too, indulged in statements about Fife which made every drop of blood in his body boil separately; statements which he could not absolutely contradict, yet which he felt were untrue, and would not have believed had an angel from Heaven proclaimed them. He was reading something particularly offensive about the fishers of the East Neuk itself, and fuming over it, when the maid came to the door to say that some one outside was asking for Miss Heriot.
“They’re awfu’ disappointed to hear she’s no in,” said the woman. “They have the look of decent folk, as if they had come a long way. Maybe you would see them, Sir, and no disappoint the poor bodies? Miss Heriot is aye awfu’ polite and ceevil to poor folk.”
“Miss Heriot, I hope, is polite to everybody,” said Mr. Charles. “You may show them in if their business is urgent. But stop; if it’s only charity, or that sort of thing—”
“Eh, no, Sir; they’re no folk to want charity,” said the woman, dismayed at the suggestion.
And, half unwillingly, half pleased to get quit of himself and his loneliness, and the statistics, Mr. Charles closed his book, and prepared to receive the strangers. There was a little controversy at the door, as he could hear, as to which should enter first, which was quite audible. The woman would have yielded the pas to her lord; but while her modesty was slightly artificial, that of the man was perfectly genuine in its unalloyed loutishness.
“Gang you in, gang you in first; you’ve aye a word ready, right or wrong; and me, I canna speak,” the bass voice grumbled, as the little struggle ended in the most natural way, and the wife appeared at the door.
This amused Mr. Charles to start with; and it was with benevolent kindness in his look, that he invited his visitors to approach.
“Miss Heriot, my niece, is out. Come forward, come forward. You can tell me your business,” he said.
The pair came in accordingly; a rustic pair, she advancing with bashful self-possession, he hanging behind in her shadow. They were middle-aged people; the man grizzled and ruddy, the woman a comely housewife, with a cheerful countenance which belied her timid gait. She advanced to within a few paces of the library table, at which Mr. Charles sat.
“You see, Sir, we’ve come a long way. It’s no but what we would have waited for the leddy; but my man there was struck to hear it was a leddy, and thought maybe that in any case there would be mair comfort to his mind in seeing the maister—”
“Na, Jean; na Jean,” said the man; “that was nane of my thought; it was your ain.”
“And what matter which of us it was?” said the woman, “the gentleman no heeding about us; and it’s mair decent-like to put it on the man, the head of the house. He thought, Sir, it would be mair satisfaction to see you, being a responsible person, than a young leddy, that’s apt to take fancies in their heads.”
“That may be, that may be,” said Mr. Charles, not displeased; “though Miss Heriot is not one of that kind; but you were not to be expected to know. I’ll be glad to hear your story, and do what I can for you.”
“Oh, Sir, we’re no folk that are wanting anything,” said the woman; “we’re well enough off, for that matter. My man is gamekeeper with Mr. Eclles, of the Langholm, and much thought of; with a cottage and a coo, and as little to complain of as we can expect in this weary world. My eldest lass is in service, and the second lad, he helps his father; and as for him that’s out in the world——”
“Was it about them you wanted to speak to Miss Heriot?”
“No, Sir, I canna say it was,” she answered, with a slight air of offence. “It was something altogether different; no concern of ours, as my man says.”
Here the man interposed, plucking at her shawl.
“Jean, say it was in the papers, and be done wi’t. What’s the use of so many words?”
“Bravo!” said Mr. Charles; “you are a sensible man. Now, let us hear it; and be so good as to be brief, my good woman, for I must be on the Links at half-past four.”
Mr. Charles grew quite energetic and brisk as he spoke. There is nothing an idle man loves like this playing at business—those fictitious bonds of engagements, appointments, and all the pretences at an occupied life, which when they are real, constitute a heavy bondage. He seemed to feel himself a most important member of society as he specified the hour at which he must be gone. The man obeyed this suggestion, once more nudging his wife; but the woman, with livelier instinct, saw through it.
“We might come again,” she said; “another day, maybe, when the gentleman is no engaged.”
“I can give you my time till a quarter-past four,” said Mr. Charles; and then there followed a little consultation between his visitors, a controversy as to how to state their case.
“It was about an advertisement in the papers. There’s nae telling the meaning of an advertisement. It was something that was to be to the advantage of the person—”
“Ah! you are John Macgregor then,” Mr. Charles said, with instant brightening up of all faculties, and great internal contentment that he was the first to hear.
“I’m no saying that. It’s ane we have heard of—ane we ken, mair or less,” said the woman; “a poor man that’s aye busy, and has little time to spare. We were to find out for him what it was about. Hold your tongue!” she said, turning round upon her husband. “Am I the one to speak, or am I no?”
“Oh, ay! you’re the one to speak; but you’ve ower mony phrases,” said the husband, muttering.
The wife turned round upon Mr. Charles with an air of compassion.
“Ye’ll no mind his grumbling, Sir. It’s my man’s way. He has real sensible thoughts, but an ill way of expressing them. A’ that comes from me is really from my man; but the words aye fail him—”
“They don’t seem to fail you,” said Mr. Charles.
“Na, never!” muttered the husband behind backs.
“The Lord be praised!” said the woman; “what would become of the house and the bairns if there was not some person that had sense enough to speak when there was occasion for’t? But as I’m saying, this man in the advertisement—It’s a long way off for him to come, and as we were in the town for our ain concerns, we gave him our word we would ask. It’s maybe about some poaching business; though that’s a queer thing for a young leddy to take in hand.”
“Does not the young lady’s name suggest to you what the business may be?” said Mr. Charles, rousing up to this little conflict of wits, and feeling a sensible pleasure in thus being thrust as it were into the very front of the battle.
The two looked at each other.
“I told you so,” said the woman.
“Then speak out; I’ll no do it,” said the man.
“Well, Sir,” resumed the wife, “I ken just this much, that John Macgregor was ance in the service of a Mr. Heriot, a poor young gentleman that’s dead, I hear? Eh, Sirs, to think how the young and the goodly die, and auld dry sticks aye live on and flourish! There’s a man in our ain parish, sixty if he’s a day, married upon a young lass—”
“That is not the question,” said Mr. Charles with some heat, not liking the turn these remarks had taken. “If we were to keep to our business we’d get on all the quicker. This man was in the service of my nephew, Mr. Tom Heriot?”
“No altogether in his service. He keepit his dogs; he did an odd thing about the lodge now and then; he was just a serviceable person about the place.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Charles, “since you know so much about him, you will probably know that something is supposed to have happened in Mr. Heriot’s life there, about which his friends are anxious to have information.”
“Now what could that be?” said the woman, putting up her hand to her forehead, with that natural artifice which we call theatrical. It was exactly what commonplace actors would have done in the endeavour to look puzzled, and full of candid simplicity. “What could that be? I’m no so instructed in Mr. Heriot’s life as I might be. John, ye’ll may mind something? But if you’ll tell me what it is, Sir, I’ll tell our—friend; no that’s he just what you would call a friend.”
“Your memory is so good that I am sure you could recollect were you to try,” said Mr. Charles. “Of course, as it is my niece that wants to know, not me, I am not authorised to make any explanations.”
“Eh me, what a pity the young leddy’s no at hame!” said the woman with ingenuous regret.
“But,” resumed Mr. Charles, “you know that there are sometimes connections which a young man forms, unpleasant things for the family. Young men will be young men, you know—and what’s perhaps only the fancy of a day may leave results behind, and may bring great trouble into a family. If you had it in your power now to prevent a great deal of disturbance and heart-burning, and perhaps a law-suit, and the succession of an old estate from being disputed—I cannot tell—perhaps you know nothing at all about it—”
“Oh, my man kens a great deal more than he says. Now what can it be about, John?” said the wife.
In the meanwhile John was undergoing internal struggles of a very severe description. He was a large brawny man, more slow in speech and heavy in aspect than men in his position, rubbed up into sharpness, at least, by contact with imperious sportsmen, generally are. He twisted his limbs so that he seemed all shoulder, he screwed up his features till he seemed all mouth.
“I’ll no do it,” he burst forth at length, “I’ll no do it! I’ll no wrong a poor lass, nor be mansworn!”
“What does the haverel mean?” cried Jean. “John!” shaking him violently, “you’re falling into ane of your ill turns. Lord save the man! if ye dare to lay a finger on me!”
“I’ll no do it!” cried John, stretching forth his arm with a clenched fist at the end of it, which might well have made the weaker creatures beside him tremble. Even Mr. Charles felt a nervous tremor go over him. Finesse and intellect grew pale in presence of brute force thus displayed.
“Gently, gently, my good man,” he said, “you’ll be forced to nothing. To tell what you know, that is all anybody wants of you. The law you know, if the worst comes to the worst, will make you do that; on the other hand, if you will give your information to the family and prevent going to law, it will be to your advantage; you see the difference; the court will give you nothing; that’s all I have to say.”
“Oh, dear me, dear me!” said the wife, wringing her hands. “Oh, John, is there nae way you can please the gentleman? You’ll no be mansworn, my bonnie man! you’ll no wrong the lass. Poor silly thing she’s nigh her last by this time; and if the gentleman is that anxious and was to make it worth our while? Often and often we’ve spoken of Canada, John. The lads would soon make their fortunes there with their talents. It would be to swear naething; it would be but to hold your tongue and that’s so easy to some folk! the gentleman would be content if ye were but to hold your tongue. And where’s the harm? Isabell, she canna live if she was to be made a queen—and it’s no for your auld wife that you would throw away all the bairns’ prospects? Oh, John, my bonnie man!”
The “bonnie man” paused irresolute; needless to say that the pair had entirely misconceived the object of the advertisement, and the service sought from them. They had not thought it possible, or rather Jean had not thought it possible—for John’s mind did not readily exercise itself on an abstract question—that “the family” could have any wish but to nullify, if possible, the irregular marriage; “no to get ourselves into trouble” had been the principle of the pair from beginning to end of the transaction, and they had kept themselves out of the way of Agnes, whose search after them they had heard of. “We’ll get ourselves into hot water, and you’ll lose your place, and muckle Agnes Jeffrey can do to make it up to us,” Jean had said. To swear falsely was a crime which neither of the two could have wound themselves up to; but to be silent! that was another matter. The tongue is an unruly member, doing much harm in the world; but to say nothing how good it is! Had Mr. Charles been a cynic he would have watched this self-controversy to an end, and no doubt enjoyed it, as knowing how it must infallibly end; but Mr. Charles was no cynic; he preferred to interrupt the struggle before it ended in the subjugation of John’s wavering virtue.
“Look here,” he said suddenly and sharply, “and hold you your tongue, Mrs. Macgregor, I’m speaking to your man. You were present when my nephew, Tom Heriot, married a girl up in Strathmore, Isabell—what was her name? They took each other as man and wife in your presence? Answer me aye or no, is that true?”
“I was there too,” cried Jean astonished. “I’m as sure a witness as him; we were both together in our ain kitchen, no heeding the two young fools. I said to Mr. Heriot, ’dinna do’t’—but wha was to make the young gentleman mind me?”
“Then it’s true? You’ve told me a lie to begin with, woman, and you were willing to tell me another. Man, it’s for you to answer. Your name is John Macgregor, and it’s true?”
“As sure as death, as true’s the Bible. I’m no a man of many words like her, but naething would have made me mansworn!” said John, in the pleasure of being personally appealed to. “And I’ll no deny my name. John Macgregor’s my name, ance gillie to the laird in Strathmore, then odd man about the Moors doing whatever turned up—then—”
“It’s a speat when it comes,” said Jean composedly, folding her hands upon her bosom and regarding Mr. Charles with a vindictive pleasure, “you’ve brought it on yoursel.”
“This then is what is wanted of you,” said Mr. Charles hastily. “To prove this; not to go away, as you thought, and hold your tongues, and dishonour a woman, and wrong a bairn; what you’ve got to do is to prove this. Hold your tongue, woman—”
“Eh, Mr. Heriot!” cried the irrepressible Jean, “I’ve heard of the Heriots that they were kind; but, oh, what a blessed family to uphaud the marriage and right the lass! And it’ll be something to our John’s advantage,” she added insinuatingly, “just the same? for though it’s hard to haud your tongue it’s sometimes just as hard to speak out and say a’ the truth; and if we were to get ourselves into trouble in our new place—”
“Make your wife hold her tongue, John!” said Mr. Charles. “You can go to the kitchen, both of you, and get something to eat; and then I’ll take you out to see the young woman—I’m meaning Mrs. Tom Heriot, my nephew’s wife; and we’ll settle this business—as it is not a pleasant business—once for all.”
“We’re to go and see—Isabell?” asked Mrs. Macgregor, faltering.
“I said Mrs. Tom Heriot, my nephew’s wife.”
“Come, Jean, haud your tongue; the gentleman wants none of your clavers!” said John, giving a vigorous tug to her shawl.
But Jean lingered; she took a few steps towards the door, and then turned back.
“Ye’ll no say naething to Isabell of what we were speaking o’—nor of the proposition to gang to Canada and hold our peace. Oh, Sir, you’ll no say anything?”
“It was your proposition, Mrs. Macgregor, not mine!” said Mr. Charles.
“Aweel, aweel, Sir, what does it maitter? How was I to know you were such a good gentleman? Eh, so few as is like you! but you’ll no say anything? It was a’ from a good motive—for my ain bairns’ sake, and to keep dissension out of a family, and to pleasure you—”
“Go away, go away!” said Mr. Charles with a smile, which he tried hard to conceal; and a short time after he set out with his two strange companions for the Spindle, to find the cottage where Isabell was. This was the interruption which broke in upon Marjory when deeply touched and half-weeping, she sat with Tom’s child upon her lap, and her heart going back into her own childhood—when Tom, too, was a child. The knocking at the cottage door was not a more harsh interruption of the stillness than was the other interruption, which was about to come into this sad yet exciting chapter of her life.