THERE was great curiosity at Rosmore to hear what the young men had done and what they had seen in Glasgow: in the chief place, no doubt on account of the decorations for the ball, which were of so much importance, and in which Eddy’s taste was expected to accomplish such great things. Eddy had so much to say on this point, that the brief interval in the drawing-room before dinner was wholly taken up with his account of his arrangements and purchases.
“If it all succeeds as I expect,” said Eddy, “I know what I shall do, Mrs. Rowland. It will make a revolution in my life. I will follow the example of other fils de famille and set myself up as a decorator. Don’t you know? Algy Fergusson makes heaps of money by it. When you are going to give a ball, he takes everything in hand, charges you a certain sum, and supplies whatever you want, from the flowers on the stairs to a few dancing men in the best society, if that is wanted. I shall follow him in humble imitation. No, I’m not going to tell you too much. Mrs. Rowland has given me carte blanche. Wait till you see.”
“It’s a queer trade,” said Rowland; “but something might be made of it. I would advise you, however, Eddy, to look out for something more like a man.”
“Oh, it is very like my kind of man,” said Eddy; “not yours, sir: but there’s not very much of me.”
Rowland, like everybody else, had learned to call young Saumarez, according to the fashion of the day, by his petit nom. And he laughed with great good humour at this self-description. The young man was the most entertaining study of what he considered the manners of the best society to the master of Rosmore. Eddy’s lightness and ease and imperturbability amused him more than he could say, and at the same time filled him with respect. It was all the more evident in comparison with Archie’s easily roused temper and irritable self-consciousness, which saw in everything a shadow of blame, and never was at ease, or able to take anything lightly. Rowland watched the effect upon his son of intercourse with the other light-hearted lad with the greatest secret anxiety. He thought with pleasure that Eddy had “taken to” his uncultured uneasy boy, and that Archie would “learn manners” from contact with the other youth, who, though so little to look at, not such a nice-looking fellow as Archie, was yet so much more a man of the world. Eddy’s cheerful admission of his own defects, and that there was not very much of him, delighted Rowland. How it disarmed criticism! Would Archie, he wondered, ever attain to that easy mind, and unembarrassed faculty of taking the sting out of any jibe by tranquil pre-assertion of his own deficiencies? It was not a thing which Mr. Rowland could himself have attained, but he saw its advantages. It did not seem, however, in the meantime that Archie had made much progress in acquiring this gift. He took little part in the conversation which young Saumarez kept up so lightly. It was Eddy who told the story of their day in Glasgow, and owned to having yawned in the Cathedral. Archie was silent, as was his wont. He kept a little apart, and said nothing. Sometimes he cast a glance of strange meaning at the lively conversationalist, who made their expedition sound so amusing. What was it that look meant? It was Archie’s usual way—his inability to understand the happier natures. They all noted that occasional glance, and all gave the same interpretation to it: for what, indeed, could it mean else? There was nothing else to arouse his surprise, the wondering, half-question in his eyes.
Archie’s wonder, indeed, was beyond words. To think that, with such a light heart, the transaction which had already cost himself so much should be taken by the other, without a thought of the penalty involved, or the shame it had already brought. Perhaps Eddy did not realise that shame, or what it was to the young man to be suspected of unkindness, of selfishness, of wasting upon miserable pursuits of his own the money that might have saved the life of another. A year ago nothing could have made Archie himself realise such a position, for he had never possessed money, and could not in the nature of things have been asked for it, and this probably was why Saumarez was so obtuse. There was another thing, however, which Archie could not understand, but which he was deeply grateful for: and that was that Eddy made not the slightest reference in his lively narrative of the day’s proceedings, to the visit to Mrs. Brown. Why? But Archie could not tell—it only vaguely increased the trouble in his mind, while more or less soothing it externally: and he did not know whether it was not his duty to mention it himself. They might think him ashamed of Aunt Jane if he said nothing, and yet the recollection of that visit was so painful that he preferred not to speak of it, and was grateful to his companion for leaving it out of his easy and amusing tale. After dinner Eddy was as much the hero of the moment as he had been before. He had various experiments to make as to the lights, as to the flowers, and all the details of the ball-room, for the due regulation of which the group of admiring spectators followed him up and down, hanging upon his words. Archie followed at the end of the train, still wondering, saying to himself, that no doubt the money, which apparently was to cost himself so dear, had so relieved Eddy’s mind that he could not restrain himself, that he felt a new man: that was no doubt the cause of his vivacity, the lightness of his heart. Archie remembered how he had himself felt when relieved of the burden of the debt to Rankin for the little dogs, and other small matters which had been on his mind before he had received his father’s first gift of twenty pounds. That gift had come to him amid painful circumstances, but when the first effect produced by them had died away, how glad he had been to have it, to clear himself from the small burdens which were as lead upon his soul! Eddy was much more a man of the world than he, and his liabilities were far greater, but he thought he could understand how he must feel from those sensations of his own. He could not but think, however, that in Eddy’s place he would have said something—he would have given a look or a grasp of the hand to his benefactor to show him that he appreciated and felt what he had done, especially if that benefactor had been likely to get into trouble for it. Then Archie, pondering behind backs, while all that lively chatter was going on, remembered himself that he had not said a word of gratitude to his father for the twenty pounds, had neither felt nor spoken any gratitude. Ah, but I am not his father, Archie said to himself. With this thought, however, came another reflection, that up to this moment he had never shown any thankfulness to his father, who had bestowed so many gifts upon him. He had been embarrassed and awkward, and had taken everything for granted. Who was he to blame another for the same sentiment which was so strong in himself? Only just I am not his father, Archie said.
It was when the party was breaking up for the night that Marion seized upon her brother, drawing him into a corner of the hall where the lights were extinguished, and where in the recess of a window there was a sheltered place beyond the reach of observation. She caught him by the arm and drew him aside there, until the others had dispersed, and then a piece of inquiry which he had not anticipated burst upon Archie. “Were you at Aunty Jane’s? Did you take him to Aunty Jane’s?” Marion exclaimed breathlessly, holding his arm with her hands as if in a vice.
“You heard him,” said Archie, avoiding the question, “telling all where we had been.”
“Were you not there? Did you not go there? He never said a word, but he could not speak if you didn’t. Archie, tell me on your word—were you not there?”
Archie saw that her eyes were gleaming, and her face pale. He did not know what to make of this sudden assault, nor what it could matter to Marion whether he had or had not gone to see Aunty Jane. He answered at last, however, with reluctance.
“Yes, we were there.”
“You were there! you took him there!” cried the girl, her eyes in the dark shooting out sparks of fire. She seized him again by the arm and shook him violently. “Oh, I knew you would do it! What do you care for keeping up our name? If it had been anybody else you might have done what you pleased—but him!”
“Why him?” said Archie; “what is he? Do you think I could neglect an old friend, not to speak of my nearest kin, and her that brought us up—”
“Oh, what’s in that?—brought us up! She was well paid for it,” cried Marion, “and now established for her life, and everything provided, because papa thinks she was kind to us.”
“She was very kind.”
“She was not unkind,” said Marion. “She just made us serve her purpose and keep her in an easy life. If she had been unkind it would have been the same as killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. And now you’ve exposed us, and showed just what we were, and where we came from, to Eddy Saumarez! Oh, Archie, man! could you not have said she was an old nurse, or something like that, and then there could have been no objection? I would have had my wits about me if I had been in such an emergency. You might so easy have said she was our old nurse; but that’s what you could never do, to take thought for our credit and not to expose us.”
“I don’t know what you mean by exposing us,” said Archie indignantly, “and as for disowning our Aunt Jane——”
“Oh, disowning is just a grand word! I mean nothing of the kind. I could just be as fond of aunty in private as you. And what could she expect more? It would show she was self-seeking and full of her own pride if she wanted us to expose ourselves for her. What does that mean? It just means that we have our position to keep up. We belong to the upper classes and not to Sauchiehall Road. I would not have let the like of Eddy Saumarez know that we had any connection with Sauchiehall Road, except with an old nurse or the like of that. An old nurse explains everything,” said Marion. “I will just let him understand that’s how it is, and that we call her aunty because we are fond of her. You may do that and no harm—just for kindness. And what is she more than an old nurse? You know yourself she would not come to Rosmore for that—not to expose us. Her and me we both understand. I will just explain it all.”
“One would think,” said Archie, “that Saumarez was of great importance, and what he thought. And most likely he thinks nothing about it. His mind is full of his own affairs.”
“And what are his own affairs?” said Marion scornfully. “Maybe that is one of his own affairs,” she added with a faint blush, as Archie turned upon her in surprise. “You never can tell what may turn out to be important and what not. Eddy is just nothing in himself. But though he will have no money, he will have a good property and a fine house, and a position and all that. And we have plenty of money and nothing more. It might be a thing to be taken into consideration on both sides. But you will never understand that, nor perhaps papa either, and I will just have all the responsibility thrown upon myself.”
“What responsibility?” said Archie, more and more astonished.
“Oh!” she cried, with a little stamp of her foot, “as if the like of you would ever understand!” She gave him a little indignant push from her in the impatience of her soul; but turned to him again after a moment’s interval. “I am not saying, mind,” said Marion, “that there is anything in it. There may be nothing in it. It may just pass over, and be of no consequence. I will maybe be in a much better position when I have gone to court, and have been seen in society and all that. But you should remember, Archie, that we’re just very new people. Papa is a new man. His name is known, but except for our money we are just nobody. Now mamma is different. I was angry at the time to think that papa had married again and brought in a grand lady that would look down upon you and me; but I’ve come to a different way of thinking now. I just study her and take a lesson by her, and I can see if we are to get on in the world that she is the one to help us most.”
“I don’t want her help,” cried Archie, “and if that’s what you call getting on in the world——”
“Oh,” cried Marion, with a sigh of impatience, “you are just like a bairn. To think that you cannot see for yourself, you that are a man! What are we to do if we don’t get into society? You would rather be back in the Sauchiehall Road, with your football and your friends, than in a grand house like this, with nobody that cares for you, and nothing that you can do.”
“May,” said the young man, sadly, “many a time I have thought that myself,—far rather! It was a kind of living, and this is none—to be waited on hand and foot when you’re not used to it, and feel like a fool, and have nothing to do. But that’s not all the harm it’s done. When I went back to the Sauchiehall Road, I was just as much out of place there! That’s ended: and the other is begun, and there’s no satisfaction anywhere. I will be faithful to Aunty Jane, poor body, that was so kind to us, while I have a breath to draw,” he exclaimed with energy. Then sinking into despondency, “But I cannot go back there, and I am out of place here; and there is no good that I can see in a world that’s all a vain show, both for the rich and the poor.”
“Well,” said Marion, with a certain satisfaction, “you see then, just as I do. We must get ourselves well into what we have, for we never can go back to what we were. And the only way that we can do it is by——” She broke off with a little laugh. “You can find it out for yourself, but you need not put a spoke into another person’s wheel. I am not saying that Eddy Saumarez will be of any consequence in the end. Maybe I will not care to know them after I have been to court. I will not commit myself, you may be sure. I will aye have a way of escape, if I should change my mind. But it was just silly beyond measure to give him a story about Aunty Jane. He will take her off, and make everybody laugh. You can see yourself how he makes fun, and takes everybody off. That is what amuses people, and makes them ask him. He could make it very funny about Aunty Jane. Oh, I know all they say, and I’m getting to understand. If you can tell them stories, and keep them laughing, it’s all they think of. And you to give him the occasion with poor Aunty Jane!”
“He had better not let me hear him say a word about Aunty Jane,” said Archie, between his closed teeth.
“Oh, he’ll not let you hear him,” said Marion. She was altogether unconscious of the fact that Eddy took herself off with perfect effect, so that even Mrs. Rowland had difficulty in looking severe enough.
Archie went to join the party in the smoking-room after this conversation, with more uneasiness than ever. He was not quite clear about his sister’s meaning. Marion was too far-seeing, too full of calculations for her brother. He had himself his own thoughts: but they were of a very different turn from hers. Rosamond Saumarez was to Archie a being of a different species from himself or any one belonging to him. It had not occurred to him that he could appropriate this beautiful lady, and make life more possible by her means. She was still upon her pedestal, a thing apart, a being to be remotely admired, scarcely even as yet worshipped: for in worship itself there is a certain appropriation, and his imagination had not gone so far as that, had not ventured to use any pronoun of possession, even with goddess attached to it. In no way had he imagined that she could ever be his, but always something beyond reach, as superior to him as heaven is to earth. The impression she produced upon him was subduing, rather than exciting. To think that there could be such a distance between him and any other human creature, as there was between him and Rosamond, doubled the mystery and awe of the world on the threshold of which he was standing, to the disturbed and unsatisfied mind of the boy-man, so rudely shaken out of all his old habitudes, so little at home in his new. At no time could Marion’s frank calculations of how she could help herself up the ascent she meant to climb, by grasping a chance hand, this man’s or another’s, as happened to suit her best, have been possible to her brother. He faintly apprehended what she meant, but found it so uncongenial that his mind declined to look into it. There are some who feel themselves forced, in the course of nature, to investigate, and come to the bottom of such questions; and there are some who shake themselves uneasily free of an examination which could end in nothing but pain.
Archie had no wish to think badly of Marion, to bring down the ideal of his sister: so he shook off the question of her meaning, and left it alone. There was not much pleasure to him in the sitting in the smoking-room, where he found his father and Eddy in full discussion, the latter bearing all the frais of the conversation, and making his host laugh with his lively descriptions and sketches. Archie was conscious that he presented a complete foil and contrast to Eddy, as he went in and seated himself a little in the background, notwithstanding the invitations of both the gentlemen to draw his chair nearer to the fire. He liked to skulk behind, Rowland thought angrily, with vexation, to himself—never could take his place simply, always kept behind backs. Perhaps young Saumarez was not any more than Archie the son he would have chosen. But yet what a difference there was!
The day of the ball was approaching apace, and everything in the house began to feel the excitement of the coming event. There was less than a week to go, when Eddy broached the subject of Johnson—of Chads—and the possibility of procuring him an invitation.
“Oh,” he said, “there is that—friend of mine up at the head of the loch.” (Naturally, Eddy, however much he might endeavour to conceal the fact, said “lock,” but I need not spoil my orthography by repeating his error.) “I wonder if you would be inclined to let me bring him, Mrs. Rowland. I scarcely like to ask; but he’s all alone, you know, and knows nobody, and looks wistful when one sees him.”
“You should bring him in to dinner, Eddy,” said the ever-hospitable Rowland.
“No, sir, I don’t think I should like to do that. He has not paid the extra twopence for manners. In a crowd he might pass muster, but at your table——”
There was the faintest emphasis on the words, which inferred a delicate compliment. And Rowland was pleased.
“Mr. Johnson?” said Evelyn, doubtfully. “I did not feel quite sure about him. He was a little—odd.”
“College dons are generally odd,” said the unblushing Eddy.
“Are you quite certain, my dear boy, that he is a college don?”
“For my own part,” said Eddy presently, “I should probably like him much better if he were not. But I suppose there can’t be two Johnsons—of Chads.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Evelyn, still doubtfully. “At the same time,” she added, “one would have thought if there was one thing you could be sure of in a college don it would be grammar—and his——and that they should talk like gentlemen.”
“I don’t know,” said Eddy, reflectively, “that one can be so very sure of that; now that everything goes by competition, you can’t tell by his profession that any man is a gentleman. Besides, they speak Latin between themselves,” said the young man, with an unmoved countenance.
“Eddy!” cried Rosamond.
“Well, they do. I allow it’s queer, but I have heard them avec mes propres oreilles, va! and Latin grammar is quite different from English—far more elaborate, and that sort of thing. English translated out of Latin would naturally sound a little strange.”
Even Evelyn looked at him with a little surprise, uncertain whether to laugh or not. She was but little interested in the ways of college dons. She had a kind of belief that there was something in what he said about competition. The gardener’s son was at college, and if he came to be a don he would no doubt remain a little inelegant in point of grammar.
While she was thus pondering, her husband took the matter in hand.
“Send him an invitation as Eddy’s friend,” he said, in his large and liberal way; “if he were a coal-heaver what does it matter, so long as he is Eddy’s friend? And I don’t suppose the young ladies will think of his conversation; they will be more interested in his dancing. It’s a question of heel and toe, and not of hs.”
“I don’t know that he dances much,” said Eddy; “but he could always prop up a doorway, and it would please him awfully to come and look on.”
“You’ll ask him, of course, Evelyn,” Mr. Rowland said.
And he was asked, of course; and the invitation was handed to him next day on the hillside, where he met Archie and Eddy and the gamekeeper, and was supplied with a gun, to the great disdain of the latter functionary.
“That man has never had a gun in his hands till this day,” said Roderick, aside; “keep out of his road, for any sake, Mr. Airchie: he will never hit a grouse, but he might put a wheen shots into you or me.”
“I was not very much better myself,” said Archie. “I can feel for him, Roderick.”
“Oh you,” said the gamekeeper. It was his young master he was speaking to, and that has a wonderfully mollifying influence. “You were maybe no to call experienced, but you were neither frightened for your gun nor sweerd to use her. Keep you to that side, Mr. Airchie, and if the other gentleman gets it, it’s just his ain friend, and he maun bear the brunt.”
“I thought you liked Mr. Saumarez, Roderick.”
“So I do like him, though he has an awfu’ funny name. He has a good eye for a bird, and will make a fine shot when he’s come to his prime, and just makes you lose your manners with his fun and nonsense. But if he brings out a stick like this upon the moor, he must just rin the risk of him. Come you, Mr. Airchie, to this side.”
Eddy, on his hand, had something to say to his guest. “Have you got me that thing?” he said.
“They won’t give it up till they see the money, Master Eddy. I’ve told you so before.”
“Very well, Johnson. I have an invitation for you, in my pocket, to the ball—and I have a cheque in my pocket, which is better than money. You shall neither have the one nor the other till I have that paper in my own hands.”
“Give and take then, Master Eddy,” said the other.
“You ass, keep down the muzzle of your gun! No. I must have it in my hands to see it’s all right before I let you touch the other. Oh, just as you please! but that’s my last word.”
“You don’t suppose I carry it about in my pocket,” said Johnson.
“I suppose nothing. I only tell you what I’ll do. Give it me that I may see its right and the genuine thing, and you shall have the cheque, which is as good a cheque as any in the world, whatever the other may be.”
“You might play me some tricks, or stop it at the bank,” said Johnson.
“By Jove, that’s an idea. I’ll do so, if you don’t look sharp with that other thing.”
“Well,” said Johnson, “if that’s how it is to be, I’ll bring it up to you to-morrow morning to the house—and then you can introduce me to the ladies. I ought to know them first, before I come to the dance.”
“No,” said Eddy, “you can come to the ball, where it will be fun: but if you come near the house till the night of the ball, I’ll let off my gun by accident, as you’ll do presently if you don’t mind, and take your wretched life. Now, you hear. You can come to old Rankin’s cottage in the wood to-morrow, if you like, at twelve. You can say you want a dog—he’ll not let you have it, for he never sells them to cads; but it will do for an excuse.”
“By Jove,” said Johnson, “if you don’t mind what you say, I’ve got a gun, and I can have an accident too.”
“Put it down, you ass!” cried Eddy, striking down the muzzle of the gun, which, in the confusion, went off, nearly knocking down by the concussion the unfortunate Johnson, and ploughing into the heather and mossy soil. The neophyte thought he had killed somebody, and fell down on his wretched knees. “I swear to God I never meant nothing. I never meant to ‘it any man,” he cried.
“Oh, get up, you brute, and hold your tongue,” cried Eddy. He added, shaking him by the shoulder, “if you talk when you’re at Rosmore, you’ll be turned out of the house. I’ve told them you speak nothing but Latin—mind you hold your tongue if you don’t want to do for both yourself and me.”