WHEN the decisive step had been taken and Crauford’s perseverance was at last crowned with success, he straightway informed his uncle of his good fortune; also, he begged him to say nothing of the matter till he should have gone to Fordyce Castle to announce his news. As we have seen, he did not mean to announce it in person, but he wished to see Agneta before retiring to a safe distance and writing to Sir Thomas, of whose consent the past had made him sure; from his sister he counted on hearing how soon it would be wise for him to face Lady Fordyce. Before he left Fullarton he had allowed himself one day to be spent with Cecilia.
‘You cannot expect me to go to-morrow,’ he said to her, with solemn gallantry, as he emerged from Fullarton’s study, where he had been to declare the engagement.
‘Do you not think your parents might be offended if you delay?’ she suggested faintly.
‘Let them!’ exclaimed Crauford.
All next day she had clung to Fullarton’s proximity, hating to be alone with the man with whom she was to pass her life, and feeling half desperate when Robert closeted himself with a tenant who had come to see him on business. Crauford’s blunt lack of perception made him difficult to keep at a distance, and she had now no right to hurt his feelings. On her finger was the ring he had, with much forethought, brought with him; and, had it been an iron chain on her neck, it could not have galled her more. When, at last, he had driven away, she rushed to her room and pulled it off; then she dipped her handkerchief in rose-water and dabbed her face and lips; for, though she had tried to say good-bye to him in Fullarton’s presence, she had not succeeded and she had paid heavily for her failure.
For whatever motive she was accepting his name, his protection, and the ease of life he would give her, she must treat him fairly; she felt this strongly. She had not hid from him a truth which she would have liked him better for finding more unpalatable, namely, that she did not love him.
‘You will learn to, in time,’ he had observed, complacently.
If he had said that he loved her well enough for two, or some such trite folly as men will say in like circumstances, it would have been less hateful. But he had merely changed the subject with a commonplace reflection. For all that, she felt that she was cheating him.
To play her part with any attempt at propriety, she must have time to bring her mind to it without the strain of his presence. He might appear at Fullarton at any moment, with the intention of staying for days, and Cecilia decided that she must escape from a position which became hourly more difficult. While she racked her brain in thinking how this might be effected, like a message from the skies, came a letter from her friend and Fullarton’s cousin, the Lord Advocate’s widow. ‘Though I know Mr. Crauford Fordyce very slightly,’ she wrote, ‘he is still related to me and I have to thank him warmly for being the means of bringing my dearest Miss Raeburn into the family. Would that I could see you to offer you my sincerest good wishes! I do not know whether the day is yet fixed, but, should you have time to spare me a visit, or inclination to consult the Edinburgh mantua-makers, I should receive you with a pleasure of whose reality you know me well enough to be assured.’
She had still nearly eight weeks’ respite. The wedding, which was to take place upon the tenth of April, was, at her earnest request, to be at Morphie Kirk, for she wanted to begin her new life near the scenes of the old one. She was to be married from Fullarton; Robert, having constituted himself her guardian, would give her away, and Crauford, according to time-honoured etiquette, would be lodged in Kaims; Mr. Barclay had offered his house. In justice to the bridegroom, she must not fall short of the ordinary standard of bridal appearance, and she showed Robert his cousin’s letter, saying that, with his permission, she would go to Edinburgh to buy her wedding gown. On the plea of ill-health Lady Fordyce had refused to be present at the ceremony, and it was only the joint pressure brought to bear on her by brother and husband which forced from her a reluctant consent that Mary and Agneta should go to Fullarton and play the part of bridesmaids. Sir Thomas had shown unusual decision.
It was on the day before her departure that Cecilia rode out to take a last look at Morphie. Though there was, as yet, no hint of coming spring in the air, in a month the thrushes and blackbirds would be proclaiming their belief in its approach, and a haze, like a red veil, would be touching the ends of the boughs. As she stopped on the highroad and looked across the wall at Morphie House, she felt like a returned ghost. Its new owners had left it uninhabited and the white blinds were drawn down like the eyelids of a dead face; her life there seemed sometimes so real and sometimes so incredible—as if it had never been. She saw herself going through the rooms, loitering in the garden, and performing the hundred and one duties and behests she had done so willingly. She smiled, though her heart ached, as she remembered her aunt’s short figure leaning out of a window above the stable-yard, watching the horses being brought out for exercise and calling out her orders to the men. How silent it all was now; the only moving things were the pigeons which had always haunted Morphie, the descendants of those for which Gilbert had fought two years ago. She turned away and took the road that followed the river’s course to Whanland.
Here too, everything was still, though the entrance gate was standing open. She had never yet been inside it; long before it had acquired special interest for her she had felt a curiosity about the untenanted place; but Lady Eliza had always driven by quickly, giving unsatisfactory answers to any questions she had put. She rode in, unable to resist her impulse, and sat on horseback looking up at the harled walls. The front-door was ajar, and, seeing this, she was just about to ride away, when there were footsteps behind her and Granny Stirk, her arms loaded with fresh-cut sticks, came round a corner of the house. She let her bundle fall in a clattering shower and came up to Cecilia. Since Gilbert had left she had not seen the woman who, she was sure, had been the cause of his departure, and her heart was as hard against her as the heart of Miss Hersey Robertson.
‘Do you take care of the house?’ asked Cecilia, when they had exchanged a few words.
‘Ay; whiles a’ come in-by an’ put on a bittie fire. The Laird asket me. But Macquean’s no verra canny to work wi’.’
‘Oh, Granny, let me come in!’ cried Cecilia. ‘I want so much to see this place, I shall never see it again—I am going away you know.’
The Queen of the Cadgers eyed her like an accusing angel.
‘And what for are ye no here—you that sent the Laird awa’?’ she cried. ‘Puir lad! He cam’ in-by to me, and says he, “Ye’ve been aye fine to me, Granny,” says he. And a’ just asket him, for a’ kenned him verra well, “Whaur is she?” says I. “It’s a’ done, Granny,” says he, “it’s a’ done!” An’ he sat down to the fire just wearied-like. “An’ are ye no to get her?” says I. “Na,” says he. “Aweel, ye’ll get better,” says I. A’ tell’t him that, Miss Raeburn—but he wadna believe it, puir lad.’
Cecilia had not spoken to one living creature who had met Gilbert Speid since they parted and her eyes filled with tears; she slid from her horse and stood weeping before the old woman. Her long self-control gave way, for the picture raised by Granny’s tongue unnerved her so completely that she seemed to be losing hold of everything but her own despair. She had not wept since the day she had heard the wild geese.
‘Ay! ye may greet,’ said the Queen of the Cadgers, ‘ye’ve plenty to greet for! Was there ever a lad like Whanland?’
Cecilia could not speak for sobs; when the barriers of such a nature as hers are broken down there is no power that can stay the flood.
‘He thocht the world o’ you,’ continued Granny, folding her arms; ‘there was naething braw eneuch for you wi’ him. There wasna mony that kent him as weel as a’ kent him. He didna say verra muckle, but it was sair to see him.’
‘Granny! Granny! have pity!’ cried Cecilia, ‘I cannot bear this! Oh, you don’t understand! I love him with all my heart and I shall never see him again. You are so cruel, Granny Stirk—where are the reins? I am going now.’
Blind with her tears, she groped about in the horse’s mane.
‘What ailed ye to let him awa’ then?’ exclaimed the old woman, laying her hand on the bridle.
‘I could not help it. I cannot tell you, Granny, but I had to give him up. Don’t ask me—I was obliged to give him up though I loved him better than anything in the world. It was not my fault; he knew it. I am so miserable—so miserable!’
‘An’ you that’s to be married to the Laird o’ Fullarton’s nephew!’ cried Granny Stirk.
‘I wish I were dead,’ sobbed Cecilia.
Though Granny knew nothing of the tangle in which her companion was held, she knew something of life and she knew real trouble when she saw it. Her fierceness against her was turned into a dawning pity. How any woman could give up a man she loved was a mystery to her, and how any woman could give up the Laird of Whanland, incomprehensible. But the ways of the gentry were past finding out.
‘Come awa’ in,’ she said, as Cecilia dried her eyes, ‘and a’ll cry on Macquean to tak’ the horse. Jimmy’s at the stable an’ he’ll mind it; ’twas him brocht me here i’ the cairt.’
She took the rein from her and walked round the house, leading the animal.
‘Macquean, ye thrawn brute!’ she cried, as she went, ‘tak’ yon horse to Jimmy. He’ll no touch ye, man!’
Cecilia entered, and, through a passage window, she could see Macquean in a rusty black coat, sitting on a stone-heap outside.
‘Come here, a’ tell ye!’ cried the Queen of the Cadgers.
Cecilia saw him shake his head.
‘Ye’d be mair use as a golloch[1] than a man,’ said Granny, throwing the reins to her grandson, who was coming towards them.
Cecilia went into a room and sat down on a window-seat; most of the furniture was put away, and what was left had been covered up carefully by Granny and Macquean. Clementina’s portrait was gone from the wall, as well as that of the bay coach-horse, and the alcoves by the fireplace were empty of books. She sat and gazed at the bare beech-trees and the fields between Whanland and the sand-hills. He must have looked out at that view every day, and her eyes drank it in; the garden wall and the stable buildings broke its flat lines. Being on the ground floor, she could not see the sea; but the heaven above, with its long-drawn, fine clouds, wore the green-gray which suggests an ocean-sky. She was quite calm by the time Granny came in and stood beside her.
The old woman, though softened and puzzled, was yet in an inquisitorial mind; she stood before the window-seat, her arms akimbo and her skirt turned up and drawn through the placket-hole, for she had been cleaning.
‘An’ what gar’d ye put Whanland awa’ if ye liket him sae weel?’ she asked again. ‘Dod, that wasna the gait a’ wad hae gaed when a’ was a lassie!’
‘I cannot speak about it,’ answered Cecilia, rising, her face set; ‘there is no use in asking me. I was forced to do it. God knows I have no heart left. Oh, Granny! if he could but come back! In two months I shall be married.’
The Queen of the Cadgers stood silent; there was so much more in the matter than she had suspected; Cecilia might be a fool, but she was not the cold-hearted flirt whom she had pictured torturing Gilbert for her own entertainment.
‘It’s ill work mendin’ ae man’s breeks when yer hairt’s in anither ane’s pocket,’ she said.
Though mirth was far, indeed, from her, Cecilia could not help smiling at this crusty cutting from the loaf of wisdom.
‘Ah! ye may lauch now,’ exclaimed Granny solemnly, ‘but what ’ll ye do when he comes hame, an’ you married? Ye’ll need to mind yersel’ then.’
Neither of the women knew on how appropriate a spot the warning was offered, as they stood within a few feet of Clementina Speid’s empty place upon the wall.
‘I shall be gone,’ answered Cecilia. ‘I pray that I may never see his face again.’
‘Wad ye tak’ him, syne he was hame?’
‘Do you mean if he were to come now?’ asked Cecilia.
‘Ay.’
‘Oh, Granny, stop—there is no use in thinking or hoping.’
‘Wad ye gang wi’ him?’ persisted the old woman.
‘What do you think?’ cried Cecilia, facing her suddenly, ‘do you think anything could keep me back? Do you think I have ever ceased hoping or praying? Don’t torment me—I have enough to bear. Come, let me see Whanland. Show me everything, dear Granny, before I go. I shall look at it and never forget it; all my life I shall remember it. Come.’
The two went from room to room, Granny leading the way. Cecilia’s eyes devoured everything, trying to stamp each detail on her mind. They went through the lower rooms, and upstairs, their steps echoing in the carpetless passages. There was little to see but the heavy four-post beds, a few high-backed chairs which still stood in their places, and the mantelpieces carved with festoon and thyrsus. They went up to the attics and into the garret; the pictures had come back to the place in which Gilbert had first found them.
‘Yon’s the Laird’s mother,’ said Granny, turning Clementina’s portrait to the light, ‘she’s bonnie, puir thing.’
‘Was that like her?’
‘The very marrows o’ her,’ replied she.
The mother Gilbert had never seen and the bride he had never married were come face to face. The living woman looked at the painted one, searching for some trace of resemblance to the man from whom she had divided her; it was too dark for her to see the little box in Clementina’s hand. There was something in her bearing which recalled Gilbert, something in the brows and the carriage of the head.
‘Come away,’ she said at last, ‘I must go home now. I shall always thank you for showing me Whanland.’
They went downstairs and she stood on the doorstep while Granny went to the stable for her horse; the light was beginning to change; she would have to ride fast to reach Fullarton before it went. To-morrow she was to leave for Edinburgh and her return would only take place a few days before the wedding. A page in her life was turning down. She was to go to London with her husband, and, in a few months, they were to come back to settle in a place in Roxburghshire belonging to Sir Thomas Fordyce. The east coast would soon fade away from her like one of its own mists; the voice of the North Sea, which came faintly from the shore, was booming a farewell, for the tide was coming in beyond the bents.
Before she turned away she leaned down from her saddle.
‘Someday,’ she said, ‘when—if—Mr. Speid comes back, tell him that I came here and that——’
But she could not go on and rode down the short approach without ending her sentence. ‘Good-bye!’ she called at the gate, waving her hand.
Cecilia had reached Fullarton by the time Granny Stirk had finished her cleaning, for her visit had taken a good piece out of the afternoon. Though she generally was a steady worker, the old woman paused many times and laid down her duster. She took particular care of the room in which Gilbert slept, but, as she shook and beat the heavy curtains of his bed, her mind was not in her task. She was willing to admit that his passion was not altogether indefensible. As women went, Cecilia was more than very well, and, like nearly everyone who had once spoken to her, she did not deny her beauty. She pitied her too; though, it is to be feared, had her dead body been of any use to Speid, she would have stood by and seen her murdered. But, as he preferred her living, he should have her, if she, Joann Stirk, could get him home in time. Once let him come back and she would tell him what to do.
‘Ye’ll hae to drive me to Kaims i’ the cairt the morn’s morn,’ she observed to her grandson, as they bowled homewards.
‘I’m for Blackport,’ said Jimmy, laconically.
‘Ye’ll do as ye’re bid,’ replied the Queen of the Cadgers.