CHAPTER XXII
CECILIA SEES THE WILD GEESE
THERE are some periods in life when the heart, from very excess of misery, finds a spurious relief; when pain has so dulled the nerves, that, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, we sink into an endurance that is not far from peace.
Thus it was with Cecilia Raeburn. When the vault in the little cemetery between Morphie House and Morphie Kirk had been closed over Lady Eliza, Robert brought her and all her belongings to Fullarton, in accordance with a promise he had made at the bedside of his friend. She went with him passively, once that the coffin had been taken away, for the house, after the gloom and silence of its drawn blinds, was beginning to resume its original look and the sight hurt her. She had been uprooted many times since her early youth, and, like a wayfarer, she must take the road again. Her last rest had continued for fourteen happy years whose happiness made it all the harder to look forward. Her next would be Fullarton, and, after that, possibly—probably, wherever the solid heir to the house of Fordyce should pitch his tent. But a year was a respite, for who knew what might happen in a year? He might transfer his unwelcome attentions to someone else, or death, even, might step in to save her; she had just seen how near he could creep without sign or warning. She would not look forward, but, in her secret heart, she could not banish the faint hope that Gilbert might come back.
All the dead woman’s possessions which had passed to herself she had brought to Fullarton. Necessity had compelled her to sell the furniture and the horses; and the sight of the former being carried away from its familiar place was softened to her by the fact that Robert had bought it all. He had also secured Rocket; and, although the mare’s headlong impatience had dug her owner’s grave, she had been so much loved by Lady Eliza that Cecilia could scarce have endured to think of her in strange hands. She had wished to give her to Fullarton, but he, knowing that each pound must be of importance to her, had refused to accept the gift. Rocket now stood in a stall next to the black horse she had followed with such fatal haste.
Among the many things for which Cecilia was grateful to Fullarton, not the least was the consideration which moved him to forbid Crauford the house. He was aware that his nephew meant to recommence his suit, and though, knowing her and being ignorant of Lady Eliza’s dying desire, he did not think she would accept him now more than before, he would not allow her to be annoyed. Some weeks after the funeral Fordyce had proposed himself as his uncle’s guest for a few days and been told that, for some time to come, it would be inconvenient to receive him.
During the fierce ordeal of her last days at Morphie Cecilia had had little time to turn over in her mind the startling truth which her aunt, in her delirious state, had revealed; but now, as she sat in the long Spring evenings, silent while Fullarton read, she would look earnestly at him to discover, if she might, some resemblance to his son. Occasionally she fancied she could trace it, scarcely in feature, but in voice and figure. Whether rightly or wrongly, what she had learned drew her closer to him, and she took a sad satisfaction in the thought that her lover’s father was, till she could settle some way of existence, playing father to her too. She loved him because he had been so much to Lady Eliza and because she now saw how profoundly the revelation of the part he had borne in her life moved him. He had become sadder, more cynical, more impervious to outer influence, but she knew what was making him so and loved him for the knowledge. Only on one point did she judge him hardly, and that was for the entire lack of interest or sympathy he had shown to Gilbert; not realizing what havoc had been wrought in his life by his birth nor giving due weight to the fact that, until a year previously, he had never so much as set eyes on him. His intense desire had been to bury his past—but for one adored memory—as deep as the bottomless pit and Gilbert’s return had undone the work of years. He could never look at him without the remembrance of what he had cost. He did not know if his son were aware of the bond between them and he was determined to check any approach, however small, which might come of his knowledge by an unchangeable indifference; though he could not banish him, at least he would ignore him as much as was consistent with civility of a purely formal kind. Lady Eliza had understood this and it had deepened her prejudice; what small attention she had given to Speid had been the outcome of her desire that Robert should appreciate her absolute neutrality; that he should know she treated him as she would treat any presentable young man who should become her neighbour; with neither hostility nor special encouragement.
And so Cecilia stayed on at Fullarton, silenced by Robert when she made any mention of leaving it, until spring merged into summer and Crauford Fordyce, making Barclay’s house the base of his operations, knocked once more at his uncle’s door in the propitious character of wooer. He returned in the evening to his friend with the news that Miss Raeburn had refused to listen to his proposal: while Lady Eliza had not been a year in her grave, she said, she had no wish to think of marrying. To his emphatic assurance that he would return when that period should be over she had made no reply, and, as they parted and he reiterated his intention, she had told him to hope for nothing.
‘I know what women are at when they say that!’ exclaimed Barclay; ‘there is nothing like perseverance, Fordyce. If you don’t get her next time you may laugh at me for a fool. She got nothing by her ladyship’s death, and she will find out what that means when she leaves Fullarton. Keep up heart and trust Alexander Barclay.’
Crauford’s visit shook Cecilia out of the surface composure that her unmolested life had induced, and brought home to her the truth that every day was lessening her chance of escape. Apparently, his mind was the same, and, meanwhile, no word of the man she would never cease to love came to her from any source. Once she had gone to Kaims and paid a visit to the Miss Robertsons, hoping for news of him, however meagre, but she had been stiffly received. A woman who had driven away Gilbert Speid by her cold refusal was scarcely a guest appreciated by Miss Hersey, nor was the old lady one to detect anything showing another side to the situation. She looked with some disdain upon her visitor and longed very heartily to assure her that such a fine young fellow as her kinsman was not likely to go solitary about the world for lack of a wife. She reported the visit duly when she wrote to him, but without comment.
When winter came hope died in Cecilia; there was no one to stay her up, no one to whom she could go for a touch of sympathy, and, should Fordyce carry out his threat of returning in January, the time would have come when she must redeem her word. She had felt the strength of a lion when she saw her promise bring content to Lady Eliza; now, her heart was beginning to fail. But, fail or not, there was but one end to it.
Sometimes she would go out alone and walk through the wet fields towards the river—for the higher reaches of the Lour were almost within sight of the windows of Fullarton—and look at its waters rolling seaward past that bit of country which had held so much for her. She loved it the more fiercely for the thought that she must soon turn her back on it. Once, a skein of wild geese passed over her head on their flight to the tidal marshes beyond Kaims, and the far-away scream in the air held her spellbound. High up, pushing their way to the sea, their necks outstretched as though drawn by a magnet to their goal, they held on their course; and their cry rang with the voice of the north—the voice of the soul of the coast. She leaned her head against a tree and wept unrestrainedly with the relief of one not commonly given to tears. Once more, she told herself, before leaving Fullarton, she would ride to Morphie and look at the old house from the road; so far, she had never had courage to turn her horse in that direction, though she now rode almost daily. Once too, she would go and stand by the Lour bridge where she could see the white walls of Whanland.
While Cecilia, at Fullarton, was trying to nerve herself to the part she must play, Crauford, at Fordyce, was spending a more peaceful time than he had experienced since he first confided the state of his heart to his family. Lady Fordyce’s suspicions were lulled by his demeanour and by a fact, which, to a person of more acumen, would have been alarming; namely, that he never, by any chance, mentioned Miss Raeburn’s name nor the name of anything connected with her. He had said nothing about his fruitless visit to Barclay, and Fullarton, whose inclination it was to let sleeping dogs lie, did not supplement the omission. His nephew no longer honoured him with his confidence and he had no desire to provoke another correspondence with his sister. To Cecilia also, he said nothing; while he realized that to settle herself so well would be a good thing from a worldly point of view, his contempt for Crauford gave him a liberal notion of her feelings when she refused him. He knew what had happened but he dismissed the episode without comment.
Autumn had again brought Lady Maria Milwright as a guest to Fordyce, and the prodigal son, having temporarily finished with his husks and being inwardly stayed up by Cecilia’s half-implied permission to address her again, had time for the distractions of home life. Fordyce Castle blossomed as the rose, and Mary and Agneta would, no doubt, have done the same thing, had it not been a little late for such an experience. Lady Fordyce went so far as to give a dinner-party and a school feast.
Crauford kept his own counsel strictly, and, though he had the honesty to make no advances to Lady Maria, her appreciation of him made her an agreeable companion; his sisters looked on with keen interest and Agneta was emboldened to congratulate him on his return to the paths of wisdom.
‘Admit, brother,’ she began one day as they found themselves alone together, ‘that Lady Maria is vastly superior to Miss Raeburn, after all.’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed he, taken aback.
‘But why is it nonsense?’ continued his sister, ‘what is amiss with Lady Maria?’
‘Her face,’ said Crauford shortly.
‘But Mama says it is absurd to think of that; I heard her say so to Papa—quite lately too.’
‘And what did he answer?’ enquired her brother, thinking of a sentiment in the memorable letter Sir Thomas had written him.
‘I think he said that he supposed all cats were grey in the dark. He could not quite have understood what Mama said; it seemed such an odd answer, for they had not been talking about cats. It made her rather angry too.’
Crauford said nothing and the two walked on. They were on the lawn, watching Sir Thomas and the local minister playing bowls in the shower of dead horse-chestnut leaves, which fell, periodically, like so many yellow fans, to the ground.
‘Did Miss Raeburn play the harp?’ asked Agneta, at last.
‘No; at least I have never heard her,’ he replied.
‘Lady Maria does; did she sing?’
‘No.’
‘Lady Maria sings. She has had lessons from an Italian master; I saw a little drawing of him that is in her workbox. What could Miss Raeburn do that you thought her so wonderful?’ persisted Agneta.
Crauford knit his brows. Cecilia’s general mastery of life was difficult to explain, nor, indeed, did he quite understand it himself.
‘She is so—so ladylike,’ he said.
‘Why do you always say that? Miss Raeburn was only a companion; now Lady Maria has a title.’
People were much more outwardly snobbish in those days than they are now that the disease has become internal; at present, it would scarcely be possible to make such a speech and survive it.
‘You know nothing about it. Miss Raeburn was Lady Eliza’s relation and she called her her niece. And why do you say “was”? She is not dead.’
‘I don’t know; I suppose, because we need not trouble about her any more. Do tell me what she was like, Crauford, I have so often wanted to know. Do, do, dear Crauford!’
‘If I tell you a great many things, will you promise to keep them entirely to yourself?’ he enquired, in an access of gracious elder brotherhood. He longed for a confidant.
‘Oh, yes! yes!’ cried Agneta, running her arm through his, ‘I will not even tell Mary.’
‘I think she has seen the folly of her refusal,’ said he, gravely. ‘I saw her a few weeks ago; in fact, I renewed my offer, but she said she could not listen to me so soon after her aunt’s death. I am going back next January and I have reason to suppose, in fact, Barc—— I am almost sure she will accept me then. I trust you will receive her kindly, Agneta. I shall look to you.’
Between gratification at his words and apprehension for the future his sister was almost struck dumb.
‘What will Mama say?’ she exclaimed when she found her tongue.
‘I am afraid it does not much matter what Mama says,’ replied Crauford, with playful intrepidity.
He knew very well that he would not be at Fordyce to hear.
But there was no use in meeting troubles half-way and Agneta was dying to know more.
‘Is she tall, brother?’
‘Rather tall,’ he replied. ‘She has a beautiful figure—very slender.’
‘As thin as Lady Maria?’
‘Good gracious, no!’ exclaimed Crauford.
‘And what is her hair like, dark or fair?’
‘Rather dark, but not black.’
‘And her eyes?’
‘Remarkable eyes—in fact, rather too extraordinary. Not quite usual.’
‘She does not squint?’ cried Agneta, seized with horror.
‘Should I wish for a wife who squinted?’ asked he, rather huffily.
‘No, no, of course not; don’t be angry, Crauford. Why do you not like her eyes?’
‘Oh, I do like them; only I wish they were more like other people’s, wider open and bluer; you will see her for yourself, Agneta. There was another man who wanted to marry her not long ago, a sulky-looking fellow called Speid; but she soon sent him away and he has gone off to Spain.’
‘Because of her? Did he really?’ exclaimed Agneta, taking a long breath as she recognised the desperate matters life could contain.
Lady Maria’s parasol, which was seen advancing in the distance between the laurel bushes, put an end to further confidences, for Lady Maria’s eyes, round enough and blue enough to satisfy anybody, had discovered the brother and sister and she was coming towards them.
Crauford, having been absent from the breakfast table, had not met the young lady that morning. He made a stiff, serio-comic bow, laying his hand on his heart. He could unbend sometimes.
‘I hope your ladyship is well to-day,’ he observed.
She blushed awkwardly, not knowing how to take his pleasantries. She looked good and modest, and, in feature, rather as if she had changed faces with a pea-hen. Agneta surveyed her from head to heel, earnestly and covertly; she did not look as if she would drive anyone to Spain. She was rather impressed by the idea of a sister-in-law who could so ruffle her brother and his sex, for, though she was over twenty-six years old, she had only read of such things in books; she had an overwhelming respect for men, and it had scarcely occurred to her that women whom one might meet every day, and who were not constitutionally wicked, could deal with them so high-handedly. The possibilities of womanhood had never dawned on her, any more than they dawn on hundreds of others, both well and ill-favoured, who live contentedly, marry early, have children frequently, and, finally, die lamented, knowing as much of the enthralling trade of being a woman as they did on the day they were born.
But Agneta was groping along the edge of a world of strange discoveries, as she stood by the bowling-green and mechanically watched the figures of her father and the Reverend Samuel Mackay straddling as they appraised their shots. Crauford and Lady Maria had long vanished into the house by the time she turned to look after them, and the bowl-players had finished their game, discussed it, and begun another. She felt that being in her brother’s confidence had given her a great stride in life.
Four months later, she stood in the same place by the bowling-green and saw him drive up the avenue to the Castle; he had been at Fullarton for nearly a week and she went round to the front door to meet him.
‘My news is important, Agneta,’ he said, as he greeted her. ‘Miss Raeburn has consented; I have come to fetch some clothes I want and am going away again to-morrow. Say nothing.’
‘Oh!’ said his sister. ‘I——’
The sentence was never completed, for Lady Fordyce appeared in the hall.