EDDY took his morning walk to Rankin’s cottage next day; but he did not meet any one there. He went in and endeavoured to treat with the old gamekeeper for a dog, but found the old man quite indisposed for any such negotiation.
“Na, na,” he said, “I have nae dogues that I can part with. They’re a’ bespoken. Lady Jean has mostly friends that want them, and I have but few this year. I canna part with one o’ them. Mr. Archie from Rosmore House, he came and picked up my best. I couldna well refuse the son o’ the place—but that’s thrown me far behind. Ye’ll excuse me for saying it, but you’re a stranger, my young gentleman, and I’m my lord’s auld servant, and Lady Jean’s. I must think o’ them first.”
“Do you think I would not be kind to it, you old sceptic,” said Eddy.
“I wasna saying ye would not be kind to it. There’s few folk wicked to dogues. I was saying I have none to dispose of. Ye will not be staying very lang at the Hoose? Ye’ve been here a good while, the young lady and you. Few visitors bide as lang now-a-days. I canna tell whether its the faut of having so many enjoyments, or if its the faut of the hosts that dinna give a sufficient welcome; but I notice that its three days, and that kind of a veesit that’s popular now. No time to turn yoursel’ round in. Just the day of coming and the day of going, and one or at the most twa days between.”
“We are not like that,” said Eddy, “we have come for a visitation, don’t you see: but I am sorry you think that we are staying too long.”
“Oh, it is none o’ my business,” said Rankin, with a serious face. “I’m thinking ye will be taking the road after this ball? they’re a’ talking about it. To hear what they say you would think it was ane o’ the Queen’s balls.”
“Well,” said Eddy, “I flatter myself it will be quite as pretty. By the way, Rankin, have you had any more encounters with that great scholar, don’t you know—the college man from Oxford—that I saw here.”
“I’m glad,” said Rankin, “that you’ve given me an occasion of speaking. Sir, ye’re young, and your experience is no great, though you have a real good opinion of yourself. Yon’s nae college man—or, if maybe in these times he may have gotten himself to be a college man—at least I can say this of him that he’s nae gentleman. Just you be awfu’ careful what you’re about wi’ yon man. I would not trust him a foot’s length out of my sight. He has nae root o’ the matter in him: neither ceevility, which is little thought upon, I allow, in the training of a college—nor learning. He is awfu’ cautious no to open his mouth on sich subjects; but my impression is that he has naething to say, and he’s nae mair a gentleman than yon doug. Mair! I’m meaning far less. Rover’s a real gentleman. He’ll make place for ye by the fire, and he’ll give you his best attention when you speak, and thank ye when ye do him a pleasure. A good doug of a good breed might learn manners to a prince; but as for yon friend of yours—”
“I never said he was a friend of mine,” said Eddy, “but you are too severe, Rankin. How should you be such a judge, not being a gentleman yourself?”
The old gamekeeper’s ruddy colour deepened a little.
“Sir,” he said, “I’ve aye found the best sign of a well-bred man was that he gave credit to other folk of being as good as himself—if no better. Them that fail in that will never come up to my standard. Ye think nae doubt that ye ken better than me—but just you take warning from an auld man. I’ve seen a’ kinds. Maybe you are no aware that I was much about the world in my younger years with my lord—and my lord wasna very particular in these days, though he’s a douce man now. I’ve seen a’ kinds; but a worse kind than yon Johnson man—”
“Johnson of St. Chad’s, Rankin—mind what you’re saying.”
“He’s nae mair of St. Chad’s than I am! There’s both a note and a query in my paper from the real man—on a subject, it is true that he doesna understand—he goes clean against my reasoning, which to any unprejudiced mind would be mair than conclusive; but it’s dated from a place away in Wales, or somewhere far to the south of this. Na, na, yon man is nae scholar, and if ye’ll take my word for it, nae gentleman either. His name may be Johnson, but he’s just masqueradin’ in another’s local designation, and I wouldna trust him, no a fit beyond what I could see him. Ye are a very clever lad, but ye canna have the experience of the like o’ me.”
“Here he is, Rankin; you may be right, but you must be civil,” Eddy said.
“Ceevil! in my ain house. He kens John Rankin little that thinks it needful to tell me that. Good-morning to ye, sir,” said the gamekeeper raising his voice. “Come ben without hesitation, there’s naebody but freends here.”
“Oh, friends! I don’t seek my friends in a hole like this,” said Johnson, evidently bent on showing his quality. “I’ve nearly been blown away coming along your infernal lock, and I’ve been in the mud up to my ankles on what you call the paths in the wood.”
“It’s a pity,” said Rankin grimly, “that the maker of them was not mair careful to suit baith land and water to your needs.”
“The maker of them,” said Johnson, “could have understood nothing about making roads—some of your country fellows that are behind in everything. Oh, you are here, Master Eddy. I’ve come to see after one of these little dogs you talk so much about.”
“And what may you be wanting with a little dogue?” said Rankin, with scrupulous politeness.
“I?—just what other people want I suppose. Let’s see, old gentleman, what sort you have got.”
“I have no little dogues,” said the gamekeeper, folding his hands on his chest. The impulse was so strong upon him to dip into the nest, where their small conversation as they tumbled over each other was quite audible, that he had to grasp his coat with his hands, in order to refrain.
“I can hear them squeaking,” said Johnson.
Rankin turned a serene glance upon Eddy. “Ye see,” he said, “what I tellt ye. What kind of a person would use a word like that? My dogues, sir,” he added, “are all bespoke. I have certain ladies and gentlemen, great friends of mine, that get a’ I can spare. Ye hear naething squeaking here, but just a few remarks made atween themselves by a sma’ family, that are of as good blood and race as any here.”
“Oh, come my man,” said Johnson, “I’m not a softy to be cheated out of my money like that. I’ll give a fair price, but you needn’t think to take me in, with your ladies and gentlemen. I know what a dog is worth.”
“Hold hard, Johnson,” said Eddy. “It’s a monopoly, don’t you know, and Rankin can do what he likes. He knows a lot, I can tell you. He knows you’re in South Wales or somewhere and not here—”
“I?” cried Johnson again. “I never was in Wales in my life.”
“I tellt ye sae, sir,” said Rankin significantly; “and that being proved, I hope you will mind the rest of my advice.”
“What is he saying, Master Eddy? What has he been advising you? Something about me? I’ll trouble you, my man, to keep your advice where you keep your dogs, and not to interfere with me.”
“I am no man o’ yours,” said Rankin, “any more than you are a man o’ mine. I advise my friends for their good just when I please. Ye are in my poor bit dwelling, and that gives ye a privilege: but I must do my duty by a young gentleman that is a veesitor at the Hoose, and therefore more or less under what I may call my protection when he comes to see me.”
“You are no match for him, Johnson,” said Eddy laughing. “You needn’t try. Come along, old fellow. I’ll show you that business I told you of. Don’t be afraid, Rankin. Whatever I do that’s wrong it will be my own fault and not his. I’m young, but I know a thing or two for all that.”
“Mair than you should—mair than you should!” cried the gamekeeper; “but come soon again and see me, sir; there’s a hantle mair advice I would like to give ye. Janet,” said Rankin solemnly to his wife as the door was closed, “if there’s any devilry comes to your ears, mind you it’s that man.”
“Hoots, John,” said Mrs. Rankin, who had come “ben” with her glistening arms wrapped in her apron, from the midst of her washing, at the sound of the opening door: it was almost all that good woman ever said.
In about half an hour from this time Eddy Saumarez reached Rosmore, and made his way to his room in much haste. He was drenched with the rain which for some time had been coming down small and soft, but persistent, after the fashion of the west country, and only waved his hand to the party collected over the great fire in the hall, where the decorations were already being put up. “I am so wet, I must change before I can be of any use,” he said, as he passed: but before he succeeded in gaining the shelter of his room, his sister came out upon him from hers, where she seemed to have been keeping watch. She put her hand upon his wet sleeve and detained him.
“Eddy,” she said, “what have you been doing? You have got into some scrape? For goodness sake remember where you are, and all that depends upon it.” Rosamond was very serious, she had even a pucker of anxiety on her usually smooth brow.
“I have got very wet,” said Eddy, “if that’s what you mean: and probably a bad cold depends on it, which would be pleasant on the eve of a ball. If you’ve got a sermon to preach you can do it after. I must change my clothes now.”
“Oh, what does getting wet matter,” said Rosamond, “or catching cold either? Who is this man you have made them ask? If it’s any one that ought not to come, and father hears of it——”
“It’s Johnson—of St. Chad’s,” said Eddy, pausing to laugh at his joke, which had already prospered so much beyond his hopes.
“What do you know of St. Chad’s? And father, who set me to keep you straight? Eddy, I didn’t mind any humbugging with grandmamma, she deserves it, and you had a great deal of provocation: but they’re good people here——”
“Who are good people? my little girl, or your fellow that you can turn round your finger? I’ll answer for them, my child. And the father, with his money——”
“He has been very kind to us,” said Rosamond. “I will not have him mystified. Tell me who this man is, or I will go straight to Mrs. Rowland and tell her not to let him come.”
“Oh, he’ll come fast enough,” said Eddy, “he’s got his invitation; all the country couldn’t keep him from coming. But if you have any bravos at your disposition, and can have him waylaid and thrown into the loch, do it, my dear, with my blessing; I shan’t mind.”
“Then why, why did you make them ask him,” cried Rosamond.
Eddy laughed; there was excitement in his laugh, but there was also amusement. “Why?” he said, “for fun! isn’t that reason enough. To watch him will be the best joke that ever was. I’m to introduce him to all the bigwigs, and shan’t I do it, too! Find me a title for Miss Eliza, Rose. How he’ll listen to her!—and lend the nephews money——”
“Eddy, it’s some wretched money-lender——”
“Well,” said Eddy, with a laugh, “there are many worse trades; they must have it, or they couldn’t lend it. Go away and let me change my wet clothes.”
Rosamond went away as she was bidden, partially satisfied. She was a girl of great experience in many ways. She knew the shifts of living when there is very little money to live on, and yet all the luxuries of existence have to be secured. She was not acquainted with the expedient of doing without what you cannot afford to buy, but all the other manners of doing it were tolerably familiar to her. She had none of that shrinking from a money-lender which people, who know nothing about them, are apt to suffer from. She even appreciated the advantage of keeping on good terms with members of that fraternity. It was one of their weaknesses to be eager about getting into society, putting on a semblance of gentility. Rosamond went back to her room, with that air of a princess which was natural to her, shaking her head a little over Eddy’s joke, but not so disturbed by it as she had been. Her only hope was that Johnson would not come to the ball covered with jewellery, that he would understand the wisdom of holding his tongue and refraining from the dance. She herself knew very well how to defend herself from the penalty of dancing with him. Rosamond was not out, but yet she was aware of those guiles by which girls, obliged to accept any partner that offers, defend themselves from carrying out their engagements when that is necessary. She was in no uneasiness on her own account, and a faint sense that it would be fun to see the money-lender floundering among people who after all, whatever airs they might give themselves, were not, Rosamond reflected, in society, stole through her mind. It does not matter so much when people are not in society who they associate with. Who thinks of their lesser distinctions? You are in society or you are not; and if the latter is the case what does it matter? This was the thought in her mind. She hoped that Johnson was not too Hebraic, that his nose was less pronounced than usual, and his eyes less shining. Indeed, as she endeavoured to recall his appearance, he had no speciality in the way of nose, so that on the whole there would be little harm done. If any society man happened to be there who recognised the money-lender, he could either divine the real state of the case or suppose that the Rowlands were not so well off as they looked. And in neither case, would that do any harm.
Eddy, for his part, locked his door behind him when he got inside his own room: and he risked the cold which would be so awkward on the eve of the ball, by remaining still for some time in his wet clothes. What he did was to take a paper from his pocket, which he carried to the light of the window, examining it closely, holding it up to the daylight which was subdued by the overhanging shadow of the trees, and the clouds of rain sweeping up from the sea. Then after reading it over line by line, he took it, holding it very closely in both hands as if he had been afraid that it might take wings to itself and flee away, to the smouldering fire—for it was nearly the end of October and fires were very necessary to combat the damp of the place. Then Eddy put the paper carefully into the centre of the fire, where it curled up and blackened and began to smoke, but did not burst into flame until he had seized the box of matches on the mantelpiece and had strewed a handful upon it. Then there was a series of small distinct reports like minute guns, and the whole flamed up. His clothes steamed as he stood before the fire, but he was not aware of it, nor that the damp was meantime penetrating into every muscle and limb.
After this Eddy dressed himself cheerfully in dry clothes and went downstairs. He had never been more lively or entertaining. He went down to find the whole party occupied with their letters, which came in before lunch, making that meal either a joyful feast or a meal of anxiety. Rowland it was who knitted his brows most keenly after he had received his letters. Over one of them he lingered long, casting glances occasionally at Archie, who had no letters, and who was amusing himself furtively with the two dogs, Roy and Dhu, which he had abandoned on discovering that they took to his stepmother more than to himself. Such a preference is always irritating to the legitimate owner of dog or man. He could not forgive them for their bad taste: nevertheless, when Mrs. Rowland was out of the way, the infantile graces of the two puppies were more than flesh and blood could stand out against. He had withdrawn into a deep recess of the hall in which there was a window, and where he considered himself free from inspection, and there was rolling over the two little balls, with their waving limbs and the gleams of fun that were visible under the tufts of hair that fell over their eyes. Though they were rolling over and over each other in the height of play, attacking and retreating before Archie’s hands, with which he pulled their ears and tails, now lifting one, now another, by some illegitimate portion of hair, each little dog kept an eye upon where the Mistress sat, retired in a large chair, reading her letters, waiting till she moved or looked, and ready at a moment to pick themselves up, get upon their respective legs, and run out of the recess, one after the other, as if they had been anxiously awaiting the moment when her attention might relax and she would have leisure to bestow upon her faithful retainers. It was not, however, Mrs. Rowland, but her husband, who disturbed the pastime. He looked up from his letter and called “Archie!” in a voice which meant mischief. Archie looked up startled.
“Yes,” he said, “I am here.”
“How was it you never mentioned that you had gone to see Mrs. Brown the other day when you were in Glasgow?”
Archie raised himself up, pushing the puppies away from him. “I—scarcely could have been in Glasgow,” he said, though with a slight faltering in his voice, it was so little true; “without going to see Aunt Jane.”
“That is true enough,” said his father, in a slightly softened tone. “It was of course your first duty: but—is this story she tells me true?”
“She is very little likely,” said Archie, “to tell anything that is not true; but I don’t know what she has told you.”
“She says—that she asked you to help a poor comrade of yours who is ill, and must go away to save his life, and that you refused—is that true?”
Archie stood in the vacant space formed by the recess, turning his face towards his father—pale, miserable, half-defiant, without a word to say.
“Is that true?” said Rowland, his voice pealing through the hall. It disturbed the whole party, drawing their attention from their letters. Mrs. Rowland looked up with an air half of terror, half of compassion. “James, James!” she said in a low voice.
“Let alone, Evelyn! you don’t understand. Do you hear me, sir? come forward; don’t skulk, as you are always doing. Is it true?”
Archie made a step forward, his brows bent over his eyes, his head sunk between his shoulders. He saw them all turning to him—his stepmother, with a compassionate look, which he could tolerate less than if it had been the triumph and satisfaction which he believed she felt; Rosamond raising her head from the letter she was reading with a half-contemptuous surprise; and Eddy! Eddy in the background, unseen by any, sending over their heads a look of half-amused, half-sympathetic comment, opening his eyes wide and raising his eyebrows. Eddy looked—not as if he had anything to do with it, but as if partly indignant, partly astonished, yet as good as saying—that is just as they all do.
“Yes,” said Archie, at last; “it is true.”
His father began, with an exclamation, to speak, but recalled to himself by another low but emphatic call from his wife, “James, James!” restrained himself. He gave Archie, however, a look, under which the unfortunate young man fell back, feeling as if something had struck him to his heart. Oh, the contempt in it, the indignation, as of something unworthy a word! and to know that he did not deserve it, and yet have his lips sealed and nothing to say for himself. It was almost harder to bear than any fury of reproach. Archie felt himself shamed in the way in which shame was most bitter, and in the presence of those who made his disgrace most terrible to bear—the girl whom he admired with a kind of adoration, and the woman whom he hated without knowing why. As he stood there, drawn back a step, lowering, gloomy, his eyes sunk in their sockets, he looked the picture of conscious meanness, and almost guilt. And such he appeared to his father, whose passion of disappointment and rage of offended affection was scarcely to be restrained. Rowland got up from his seat abruptly and went into the library, which was the room he used. He came back in a minute or two, holding a cheque in his hand, which he tossed at his son, as he had once tossed the twenty-pound note. “Send that,” he said, “to your aunt for your friend.” He walked back towards his place, then turned again, and adding, “By to-day’s post,” sat down with his face towards the fire.
Archie stood for a moment with the cheque lying at his feet. All the old rebellion rose within his heart. It was more bitter this time than the last. Should he leave it there lying, the wretched money, and turn his back upon his father, who even when he was kind was so in scorn, and flung the help for the friend, whom he believed Archie had refused to help, as he would have flung a bone to a dog. Should he go and leave it, and turn his back upon this house for ever? There was a moment’s struggle, very bitter and sore, in Archie’s breast: and then he remembered Colin, the pale-faced lad, whose illness, it had been no great surprise, but so overwhelming a blow to hear of, just at the moment when he had made himself incapable of helping him. Then he stooped down, and picking up the paper went to the writing-table and wrote a hasty letter, stooping over the blotting-book as he stood. “Aunt Jane,” he wrote, “you have done me a very ill turn, but I do not blame you: and my father will perhaps end by driving me desperate; and most likely you will none of you ever know the reason. But here’s the money for Colin Lamont, though it’s been flung at my head, like the time before, and though I have not even you to take my part now. Anyhow it will be good for him. His is a better case, however ill he is, than mine.—A. ROWLAND.”
Archie put this letter and the cheque into an envelope, which he placed conspicuously on the table that his father might see it, and then he left the house, with a soul more heavy and a heart more sore than words could say.
“Your brother is always getting to loggerheads with your father,” said Eddy to Marion, who was helping him with a design for the wall. “You should give him good advice, and get him to take a jaw pleasantly. They all do it, don’t you know.”
“Who all do it?—but I’m astonished at papa,” said Marion; “for why should Archie give all his money to a lad that was not at all of his kind, but just a companion for a while, when we were—not as we are now. Archie has not so much money that he could give it away to—a friend.”
“Why should he indeed?” said Eddy. “Friends that want money are always to be had in plenty; but money is best in one’s pocket, which is the right place for it, as you say.”
“I am just surprised at papa,” said Marion; “for it should be a father’s part to keep us from foolishness, and not to put it into our heads. Archie is silly enough without giving him any encouragement. He was always for giving things away; and this Colin—for I am sure it must be Colin—is just one that will never be better whatever is done for him. It is just throwing away money.—Shall I cut out all these leaves the same, or would it be better if they were a little different, like leaves upon a tree?”
“Oh, make them like the drawing, please,” said Eddy.—“Archie is a very good fellow, but he takes things too seriously. What is the use of looking so tragical? The best of fathers loves a chance for a sermon. You must speak to him like a mother, Miss May.”
“I have always been the most sensible,” said May; “but I am the youngest, and I don’t see how I could speak to him like a mother. I will, perhaps, speak to papa, and tell him how wrong it is, when a boy is disposed to be saving and takes care of his money, to put such things in his head. For what could Colin Lamont matter to him in comparison with himself? And where would we have been now, if papa had thrown away his money and made that kind of use of it? It is not for Archie’s sake, for Archie is just very silly; but I think I will perhaps speak to papa.”
And then they returned with enthusiasm to the decorations for the hall.
Poor Archie, for his part, wandered out disconsolate upon the hills: everything was turning out badly for him. There had been a moment when things were better, when he had overcome various troubles—his unaccustomed gun, and Roderick and the groom, and the sudden valse into which he had been driven, with still less chance of escape. For a week or two things had gone so well, that he had began to trust a little in his fate; but now again the balance had turned, and everything was going badly. Small comfort was there in prospect for him. He had denuded himself altogether of all his revenues, and now there came upon him the consciousness of many things that would be required of him, many claims which he would be unable to respond to. He would not have a sixpence to give to a boy, or a penny to a beggar. He would have to guard against every little expense as if he were a beggar himself. He could not go to Glasgow again, however much he might wish to do so, scarcely even to go across the ferry. He had nothing, and would have nothing till Christmas, these long and weary months. And Eddy did nothing but lift his eyebrows, half-amused at the misery of which he was the cause. And never could Archie explain, neither to his father, nor to Aunt Jane, the reason why he had refused her prayer for Colin Lamont. When he thought of that, Archie gnashed his teeth, and in the silence of the hillside, dashed his clenched hands into the air. He must bear it all and never say a word—and all the time see before him the other, smiling, who could make it all plain. But Archie did not know how much greater and more awful trouble was yet in store.