CHAPTER XV.
MORE TROUBLE IN THE HIGHLANDS.
Upon the afternoon of the same day on which occurred the interview between Octavia Black and young Neva Wynde, as detailed at the conclusion of the preceding chapter, Lally Bird, attended by Mrs. Peters, arrived at Inverness, having come up from London by easy stages.
It was a week after Neva’s wild flight among the mountains of Ross-shire, but a fine, thick rain, like that through which Neva had so fruitlessly wandered, was falling like a dusky pall. The sky was dark and frowning, the air was chill and heavy, and the streets were dismal with the rain.
There was no carriage in waiting to convey the travelers to their destination, and they entered a cab and were conveyed to the Caledonian Hotel, where they passed the night.
The next morning, the mist was still falling thickly, in a dreary, drizzling, listless fashion, as if it never intended to leave off. Lally looked out of her sitting-room window, into the gloomy streets, and said:
“I fear it was a foolish idea to come to Scotland, and so far north too, at this season. And yet I wanted to come.”
“It was the best thing we could do,” said Mrs. Peters. “You were just pining to death in that great London house, Miss Lally.”
“But if we had remained there, I might have seen Rufus again, perhaps,” said the girl regretfully. “How shocked he seemed to be at beholding me! He stared at me as at a ghost. I suppose he has long ago ceased to love me. He loves another now. And yet, Mrs. Peters, for the sake of the dear old days when I was all the world to him, he might have followed me to the carriage—he might have traced us home.”
“I told him that you were a poor governess, Miss,” said Peters, who had not informed her young mistress of Rufus Black’s visit to Mount street, having conceived a cordial dislike to Lally’s young husband. “P’raps the young gentleman had to go back to his heiress that he is engaged to marry? Surely, Miss Lally, you wouldn’t take him back, and he engaged to another lady?”
Lally’s brown cheek flushed, and a sudden light leaped to her black eyes.
“Don’t ask me, Peters,” she said softly. “He was not so much to blame as you think. His father forced him to give me up. He’s only a boy, Peters, and this is his birthday. He is twenty-one to-day. How he used to talk of his birthday; quite as if he were a lord, and expected to come into a property upon this day. He was weak and cowardly, but you could see how he had suffered, Peters. He will marry this beautiful and grand young lady, a baronet’s daughter, and he’ll go to court, and his bride will worship him; while I—”
She paused, sighing heavily.
“While you marry some great man, and go to court also, Miss Lally,” said Peters.
The girl shook her head sorrowfully.
“He wrote that I am not his wife,” she said, “but if I am not his wife, I shall never be the wife of any one else. I thought I was truly his wife, Peters, and I loved him as such, and a woman cannot unlove where she has loved with her whole soul. I shall consider myself in my own heart as the wife of Rufus so long as I live. His grand young bride cannot love him as I love him—my poor wronged boy! He would have been true to me always if his father had let him alone.”
Before Mrs. Peters could reply there was a knock on the door, and Toppen, Lally’s London footman, entered, his hat in his hand.
“The Heather Hills carriage waits, Miss Wroat,” he announced respectfully. “The horses have been baited, and are fresh for the journey. We left the Hills yesterday, but broke down on the way, and did not get into Inverness until the evening, when we came to this hotel and found your name registered, and that you had retired for the night. The carriage has been put in repair, and we can leave at any hour it may please you.”
“We will go now,” said Lally. “Have the luggage taken down, Toppen. We will follow.”
She rung for the hotel bill, and paid it. The luggage was carried down, and Lally put on her wrappings and bonnet and vail. Mrs. Peters also hastily attired herself, and they descended to the waiting vehicle.
The Heather Hills carriage proved to be an old-fashioned, cumbrous coach, painted green, and with wheels heavy enough for a luggage cart. It had a stout roof, upon which the luggage was piled. Lally was assisted into the coach, Mrs. Peters entered after her, the windows were drawn up nearly to the top, the footman mounted beside the coachman, who cracked his whip, and away the equipage went, to the edification of several small boys and hotel waiters.
There were plenty of lap blankets and traveling rugs, and Lally rolled herself snugly in a corner, and rubbing a spot on the window glass, tried to look out into the streets as they passed. Mrs. Peters also rolled herself up comfortably, and was silent.
The estate of Heather Hills was situated on the coast, between Fort George and Nairn—much nearer to Nairn in fact, than to Inverness—but the drive was pleasant in good weather, and the late Mrs. Wroat had always proceeded by carriage from Inverness, a good and sufficient reason why her successor should do so.
The house at Heather Hills was old and picturesque, with a lofty tower that commanded a fine view of Moray Frith. It was of mixed styles of architecture, and was home-like, while it was imposing. The estate took its name from a low range of hills covered with heather, which formed a portion of its boundaries; but these hills were at a considerable distance from the house, which stood upon a tall and naked bluff, overlooking the Frith.
In summer the house was fanned with the salt sea-breezes, making it a delightful retreat. Seen, however, through a Scotch mist upon a day in late October, under a frowning sky, and with the dreariness of coming winter already apparent in the grounds, it was not so delightful. It looked cold, wind-swept, and deserted, to Lally, as she lowered her window and took a survey of her domain.
Around the house was a wide and fine lawn dotted with trees. There were flower-gardens, and the usual appanages to a fine country seat; but Lally’s regards were fixed upon the mansion, which, wrapped in gray mist, seemed to its new owner one of the grandest as well as one of the loveliest houses she had ever seen.
The carriage passed up the long winding drive and halted in the wide porch. Toppen sprang nimbly down from the box, threw off his Mackintosh, and opened the coach door, assisting its occupants to alight.
Then he flung open the house door and led the way up the steps into the great hall, while the carriage went around to the stables.
In the wide hall the steward and his wife were waiting, to welcome the new owner of Heather Hills.
The former was a hale, sandy-haired Scotsman, with a plain honest face. The latter was a broad-faced motherly Scots-woman, who fell in love with the young mistress of the house at first sight.
“Miss Wroat,” said Peters, “these are Mr. and Mrs. Lang, the steward and his wife.”
Lally acknowledged the introduction with a gentle courtesy that won the Scotsman’s heart.
“The house is all in order, Miss,” he said respectfully. “There’s a cook and house-maid from Inverness, and new furniture has been put in your own room, Miss, and your sitting room has been newly furnished, as Mrs. Peters ordered. If the house is not to your liking, anything can be changed as you wish.”
“I will show you up to your room, Miss,” said Mrs. Lang, noticing Lally’s pallor, and evident weariness. “Dinner will be on the table in an hour.”
Lally and Peters followed the steward’s wife to the upper hall, and to a large octagon chamber, newly fitted up with a crimson carpet, crimson-covered chairs, and a cottage piano. A wood fire burned on the hearth, and an easy-chair in a white slip cover was drawn up before it.
“How cozy and pleasant!” exclaimed Lally. “All is warmth and brightness in here, but I can look from my windows upon the wild sea, white with fury. See the sails! I shall never tire of this charming room and charming prospect.”
“Your bed-room adjoins this room, Miss Wroat,” said Mrs. Lang, well pleased with Lally’s praise. “Mrs. Peters’ room is next beyond, and opens into yours.”
“Do you live in the house, Mrs. Lang?” asked Lally.
“No, Miss. We live at the cottage half a mile back, which you passed just before turning into the grounds. We have lived there twenty years. No other spot in the world seems so like home to us. If we had to leave it now,” and Mrs. Lang’s voice trembled, “I think my old man would just fret himself to death.”
“You won’t have to leave it,” said Lally cheerfully. “I do not intend that my aunt’s old friends or faithful servants shall suffer through me. I desire Mr. Lang to continue his stewardship so long as he lives and I live. I do not know anything about the revenue or this little estate; Mr. Harris forgot to mention it perhaps; but I am sure it cannot be in better hands than those in which my aunt placed it.”
Mrs. Lang looked relieved and gratified.
“The estate has yielded some three hundred a year to Mrs. Wroat, after all salaries were paid,” she explained. “It is not as profitable as most places of its size, but it has served as a grand country seat in its day, and the grounds are very extensive and beautiful. The house and outbuildings are in perfect repair; there is a pair of carriage horses, besides the work animals; and there are a fine lot of sheep and cattle of the best breeds, and they can be made a source of greater revenue if you are willing to go to some outlay for stock.”
“We will see to all that,” said Lally beginning to feel an interest in her new possession. “I would like to talk with Mr. Lang about it some day when he has leisure. I wish you and Mr. Lang would remain to dinner with us.”
The steward’s wife accepted the invitation with delight, and went down to acquaint her husband with his prospects for the future.
Lally made her toilet, with Mrs. Peters’ assistance.
“I can see my future,” said Lally, with the first gleam of brightness Mrs. Peters had seen in her black eyes and on her gypsy face since Mrs. Wroat’s death. “I dare say I shall in time go to town and the house in Mount street for three months in the year; and I shall live here at Heather Hills, and raise prize pigs and prize sheep and prize Highland cattle, and look out of the windows at the sails; and so the years will pass and I shall grow gray. And, oh, I’ll get up a charity school of some sort and teach it myself; and the children, instead of being disfigured with baglike blouses and horrid starched caps, shall all wear the prettiest pink and blue dresses, according to their complexions, and the prettiest white ruffled aprons; and when I die they shall stand in two rows around my grave, and may be somebody will say that I was ‘a mother in Israel.’”
It was not a very bright picture of the future of one so young and pretty as Lally, with fortune and all good gifts. She seemed intended for a home fairy, to cheer and uphold and strengthen a kindly, loving husband; to gather little children of her own to her breast; and good Mrs. Peters could not help praying that such might be Lally’s destiny.
When the young mistress of Heather Hills had changed her black bombazine traveling dress for a black lustreless silk trimmed heavily with crape, and provided with white crape ruffles at the throat, and had put on her jet jewelry, she was ready for dinner. Her black hair had been gathered into braids, and was ornamented with a black bow, and she looked as she was, gentle, refined, intelligent, weighted with sorrow too heavy for her to bear, yet meek and patient as some young martyr.
“We will go down now to our guests, Peters,” she said. “How soon will you be ready?”
Mrs. Peters’ face flushed.
“Miss Lally,” she said hesitatingly, “it is not suitable I should dine with you. I am only your maid, you know. Mrs. Wroat had me always dine with her, because otherwise she must have dined alone, and she liked company. Mr. Lang is the younger son of a Scottish laird, and he might be affronted to dine with me.”
“But I insist,” said Lally.
“No, no, Miss Lally. When you are alone, I’ll dine with you for company,” said Mrs. Peters stoutly, “but I assure you I would rather eat by myself when there’s company. I won’t have any one say that my young mistress doesn’t know what is suitable to her station. If I could, I’d set you up on a pedestal above everybody else; indeed I would, Miss Lally. I would like to be housekeeper here, and manage the servants, but I can’t dine with you when there’s company.”
“You shall do as you please, Peters,” said Lally. “You are my friend as well as my maid—my only friend, Peters. If you don’t like to dine with company, you shall dine where you please. There, give me a kiss Peters, and I’ll go down.”
Peters gave the desired kiss, with many additional ones, and wiped her eyes as Lally went out, and muttered:
“She is just the bonniest, sweetest young lady that ever lived. If that young gentleman comes up here to see her, he’ll go away with a flea in his ear—see if he don’t.”
Lally went down to her guests and talked with them until the dinner bell rung. Mr. Lang offered her his arm with quite the air of a man of fashion, giving his wife his other arm, and the three went in to dinner.
The dining-room was long and low, with two great wood fires on capacious hearths, and a seven-windowed oriel overhanging the sea. It was bright with ruddy colors and fine china and gleaming silver, and the dinner upon the oval table was in keeping with the room. It was a feast fit for a princess, and had been ordered by Mrs. Lang, with a view to presenting to the heiress of Heather Hills as many varieties of birds and game and fish off her estate as could be obtained.
After dinner, Lally had a long business conversation with Mr. Lang, and repeated the promise she had already given the steward’s wife. She appointed another interview with the steward for the following day, and about dusk the visitors took their leave.
Lally spent the evening playing upon her piano, in singing, and in thought.
The next morning she walked over to the steward’s cottage, and made a brief visit. The day was dark and gloomy, but it did not rain. In the afternoon the steward came up to the great house to see Lally, and he remained until nearly dinner. At five o’clock, Lally and Mrs. Peters dined together in the dining-room overlooking the sea, a dozen candles lighted and sending their bright gleams out over the troubled waters.
“You look better to-night, Miss Lally,” said her faithful attendant. “You will find new interests up in this region, and will find that you have something to live for yet.”
Lally smiled sadly but did not answer.
They still lingered in the dining-room, Lally standing in the great oriel window and looking out upon the sea, which was being furiously beaten by the winds, when Mrs. Peters heard a carriage come up the drive and halt in the carriage porch.
The good woman’s face turned pale. She glanced at her young mistress, but Lally heard no sound save the tumult of the winds and the waves.
“It’s a wild night,” said the young girl. “I don’t see a sail in the Frith. The boats have all made for harbor.”
At that moment a double knock was heard upon the front door, and Mrs. Peters heard the housekeeper going to the door.
But Lally’s face was pressed against the cold glass, and she did not hear the summons for admittance.
“The wind is rising,” the girl said, with a shudder. “I see a steamer coming in. She’ll make port just in time. I would not like to be on the sea to-night.”
Mrs. Peters heard the front door open.
With a nervous glance at her young mistress, she stole out into the hall.
The front door was open, and a gust of wind was sweeping through the hall like a hurricane. Upon the threshold a man wearing a greatcoat and broad-brimmed artist’s hat, a man with a slender figure and eager face, was standing, talking with the house-maid.
Mrs. Peters recognized the unwelcome guest as Rufus Black.
“I want to see Mrs. Peters,” he was saying earnestly—“Miss Wroat’s companion. I have come up expressly from London to see her. I cannot go back to Inverness without seeing Mrs. Peters. She is my wife!”
“Lawks, sir!” said the housemaid, with a wild idea that her visitor was a lunatic.
The reader, who knows how naturally Rufus Black’s mistake had arisen, will not wonder at it.
“I must see her,” persisted Rufus, his voice trembling. “Tell Mrs. Peters a gentleman wishes to see her—”
At that moment Mrs. Peters, grim and terrible, resolving to protect her young mistress from one she deemed unworthy of her, marched out into the full glare of the hall lamp, and placing her arms akimbo, and assuming her most warlike aspect, exclaimed:
“Well, sir! and what may you want of me, sir? I am Mrs. Peters!”