RANDAL BURNSIDE was found at the station in the morning, though the train was an early one, to see the ladies away; which, as the travellers were only Margaret and Grace, and as this was one of the things impossible to Aubrey, who could not get up in the morning, was a kindness very much appreciated. It had finally been decided, after much consultation, that as nothing ever happened at the Grange, and as even Mr. St. John was absent, Grace might be sufficient guardian for Margaret for the few days longer which Mrs. Bellingham was compelled by her shopping to remain in town. There was Miss Parker, who would keep her right on one hand, and there was Bland, the most respectable of butlers, on the other, to guide her steps. So, with a flutter of mingled disappointment and exhilaration, Miss Leslie had assumed the charge of her young sister. It was a great relief to Grace’s mind to see “a gentleman” at the station, ready to relieve her of all anxieties in respect to the luggage, and she thought it “a great attention” on his part. He was very useful, as she always said afterward. Not only did he secure them in a carriage in the very centre of the train (which was such a safeguard in case of accidents) and look after the luggage, but he waited till the very last moment, though it was wasting his time sadly; and young men, when they are in London only for a few days, really have no time, as Miss Grace knew. She smiled upon him most sweetly, and entreated him not to wait; but he kept his post; it was a great attention.
“And if you should want anything,” Randal said, with great meaning, “I shall be in town, at the Wrangham, for ten days longer.” This was repeated as he stood with his hand upon the carriage door just before the train started.
“I am sure, Randal, we are very much obliged,” said Miss Leslie; “but you see dear Jean is in town behind us, and she will do all our commissions, if there is anything wanted. Dearest Margaret and I will not want very much, and dear Jean knows about everything; but I am sure it is very kind of you, and a great attention—” And as the train was gliding away out of the station, she put out her head again to beg that he would give her very kind regards, when he saw them, to his dear papa and mamma.
Margaret’s mind had been preoccupied with a dread of seeing some one else waiting to prevent her escape, and it was not till the train was in motion that she felt safe, and sufficiently relieved to wave her hand in answer to Randal’s parting salutation. What a thing it is to be out of pain when you have been suffering, and out of anxiety when you have been racked with that torture! Margaret leaned back in the corner, feeling the relief to the bottom of her heart. And it was a beautiful day, the country still all bright with the green of the early summer. When they had got a little way out of town, the faint little shade of disappointment in Miss Leslie’s mind over lost shopping and relinquished operas gave way to a sense of unusual exhilaration in being her own mistress, and even more than that, having an important trust in her hands.
“After all,” she said, “dearest Margaret, I think it will be very nice to get back to the country, though dear Jean always says a week or two in town is very reviving at this time of the year; but you must not think I am unhappy about coming away, for I really do not mind it much—nothing at all to speak of. I shall always say it was a great attention on the part of Randal Burnside, and I am sure dear Jean will feel it. But how could he think we should want him, or anything he could do for us, when dear Jean is in town? Did you hear him give me his address, dearest Margaret? He said he would be at the Wrangham for ten days more. My word, but that must cost him a pretty penny! The Burnsides must be very well off, when Randal can afford to live at the Wrangham, for it cannot be expected that he can be getting much by his profession yet. We once went to the Wrangham ourselves, but it was too expensive. I think you never go there without finding some Fife person or other. I wonder how they have got their Fife connection. But it amuses me to think that Randal Burnside should give us his address.”
Margaret listened to this monologue with but slight attention; neither did she attach any importance to Randal’s parting words. She was languid in the great relief of her mind, and quite content to rest in her corner, and listen to Grace’s soft ripple of talk, which flowed only with a fulness most delightful to herself, the speaker, who had not for many a long day had such an opportunity of expressing, uninterrupted, her gentle sentiments. She was pleased with her companion, who neither interrupted, nor contradicted, nor did anything but contribute a monosyllable now and then, such as was necessary to carry on what Grace called the conversation. The Grange was as bright and sweet to the eyes when they got there, as it had been dark and melancholy on their first arrival. Everything was beginning to bloom—the early roses on the walls, the starry blossoms of the little mountain clematis threading along the old dark-red wall, the honeysuckle preparing its big blooms, and the garden borders gay with flowers.
Miss Parker met them smiling upon the steps, and all the servants of the household, which Jean had organized liberally, courtesying behind her, while Bland, as affable as his name, with his own hands opened the carriage door. And to be consulted about everything was very delightful to Miss Leslie. She seized the opportunity to make a few little changes in the garden, which she had long set her heart upon, and even corrected one or two things in-doors, which she had not ventured to touch before. And she wrote to dearest Jean that Miss Parker was very kind, and studied their comfort in every way, and that Cook was behaving very well indeed, and Bland was most attentive. All her report was thoroughly satisfactory; and she could not help expressing a hope that dearest Jean would not hurry, but would enjoy herself. And Miss Leslie found Margaret a very pleasant companion, giving “no trouble,” and ready to listen for the whole day, if her sister pleased, and Grace was very well pleased to go on. She was very well pleased, too, to go on in her viceroyalty, and very liberal to the old women in the cottages, where Margaret and she paid a great many kindly visits. And, in short, Miss Leslie’s feelings were of the most comfortable kind, and her rule, though probably it would have been much less successful in the long-run, and consequently less popular, was for a time, to all the dependants who were permitted to have their own way, a very delightful sway in comparison with that of her sister; and it was very pleasant to herself to be looked up to, more or less, instead of being looked down upon.
“I was always fond of you, dearest Margaret, but I never did you full justice till now,” she said, half crying, as it was so natural for her to do when she was moved either happily or otherwise. Dear Jean, no doubt, was a great loss; but then dear Jean was enjoying herself too. Thus the beginning of this exile and retreat was very pleasant to both the ladies; and Margaret, with her expanded being, took real possession—with a sense of security and calm which sank into her heart like a benediction—of her own house.
On the third day after their arrival she had gone out into the park alone. It was the afternoon, and very bright and warm—too warm, Grace thought, for walking; but Margaret, in all the ardor of her young strength, found nothing too cold or too hot. She strayed across the park in the full sunshine: her broad straw hat was shade enough, and the long, black gauze veil, which Jean still insisted upon, hung floating behind her. Her dress, though black, was thin and light. She had recovered all the soft splendor of health, though in Margaret it could scarcely be called bloom or glow. A faint rose-tint like the flowers, as delicate and as sweet, was on her cheek going and coming; she had a book clasped under her arm, but she was not at all sure that she meant to read. She made her way through the blaze of the sunshine, defying it, as foolish girls do, to the clump of trees where she had rushed, in her despair, to read Rob Glen’s letter on the wet wintry day when she had caught her illness.
Without premeditation she had started for this shelter; but as she gained the shade and sat down at the foot of the great elm, the whole scene came back to her. Her heart woke, and seemed to echo the frantic beating which had been in it then. What a difference! Winter then, all weeping and dreary; yellow leaves scattered on the grass, naked branches waving in the dank air, against the mud-colored clouds; now nothing but summer—the grass covered with flickering gleams of gold and soft masses of grateful shade, the sky so blue and the leaves so green; and, what was more wonderful still, her heart then so agitated and miserable, now so tranquil and calm. Yes, she said to herself, with a little tremor, but why should she be so tranquil and calm? Nothing was changed; three days ago she had dashed through the London streets in the same frantic flight and horror. Nothing was changed. What did the distance matter, a hundred miles or a thousand, when in fact and reality everything was the same? And distance could not settle it one way or another: running away could not settle it. By word or by letter, must she not make up her mind to do it—absolutely to meet the difficulty herself, to confront the danger, not to run away?
Her book dropped down upon the warm, delicious turf beside her. In any case this, in all likelihood, would have been its fate; but it fell from her hand now with a kind of violence. Yes! it must be settled—not by running away—it must be done somehow, beyond all chance of undoing. Margaret was a child no longer: she had learned at least the rudiments of that great lesson; she had found that those evils which we have brought on ourselves cannot be undone by chance or good-fortune. If she was to reclaim herself, it must be by a conscious struggle and effort; and how was it possible that she could encounter this boldly, forestall the next danger, go out to meet the trouble? If he would but leave her alone, it would not matter so much. She thought she could thrust it away from her and be happy—too grateful to let the days drift by, to enjoy her life till the inevitable moment when the long-dreaded fate must come; and then—?
Margaret’s heart began once more to sing wildly in her ears. Then! What was it she must do? She was not as she had been a year ago, when nothing but a frightened acquiescence, compulsion yet submission, to something against which there seemed no possibility of effectual resistance, a dreadful fate which she must make the best of when it came, seemed before her. Now she could no longer contemplate the future so; she would not be passive, but must act, must make some effort for her own emancipation: but not yet! not yet! her fluttering heart seemed to say: though something sterner in her, something stronger, protested and held another strain. “If ’twere done, when ’tis done, then it were well it were done quickly.” If a struggle was inevitable, one desperate effort must be made to get herself free, why should she delay and suffer so many agonies in the mean time?
A flutter of daring, a sinking of despair, combated in her: and then arose the horrible question— If she did summon courage enough to parley with her fate and ask for her freedom, would he grant it? She had not come so far as to think anything was possible without his consent. Would he let her go free? If she could but dare to tell him that she did not love him, that it was all a mistake, would he believe her, and be persuaded, and let her go? Awful question to which it was impossible to give an answer. Margaret felt like a criminal dependent on the clemency of a monarch, before whom she could only kneel, and weep, and pray. Would he hear her? Would he waive his claims—the claims which she could not deny—and let her go free?
When she was in the midst of these thoughts, too much engrossed to heed what might be going on round her, and secure that here nothing could be going on, the creaking of a branch, as under a footstep, caught Margaret’s ear. She looked up, but saw nothing to alarm her, and with that curious deliverance from all fears or suspicions, and simplicity of trust which is apt to precede a catastrophe, returned to her fancies and questions and took no further notice. What harm could come near her there? She was in the middle of the park, in an island of shade in the midst of the blaze of sunshine, out of sight of the house, out of reach of the gate, a place shut up and sacred, where no one interfered with the freedom of the young mistress of all. It might be a squirrel, it might be a rabbit; what could it be else? She did not even go so far as to ask herself what it was; there was not the break of a moment in her thoughts. Would he let her free? Her word was pledged to him. How could she release herself from that solemn promise? He was her master by reason of this pledge. Would he be merciful? would he have pity upon her? would he set her free?
What was that? A voice: “Margaret!” She seemed to hear it somehow before it really sounded, so that when the word was uttered it felt like a repetition. She looked up with a sudden cry. The voice was close over her head, and the very air seemed to tremble with it—repeating it, “Margaret!” She sprang to her feet with a wild impulse of flight, requiring no second glance, no second hearing, to tell her that the moment of fate had come. She had even made one hurrying, flying step, with terror in her looks, her throat suddenly dry and gasping, her strength and courage gone. Was it he? what was it that caught at her dress? She darted away in terror indescribable; but just as she did so all the desperation of her case flashed upon Margaret. She stopped, and, turning round, looked him in the face.
There he stood looking at her, leaning against the tree, holding out his hands—“Margaret!” he cried. His face was all glowing and moving with emotion—unquestionably with genuine emotion. No cheat ever got by guile such an expression into his lying face. Rob was not lying. There was great emotion in his mind. He who could not look at a girl without trying to please her felt his first glance at Margaret reillumine all the first fire of loving in his heart. He had never seen her look half so beautiful. The health that was in her cheeks, the development that had come to her whole being, all tended to make her fairer; and even the improvement of her dress under her sister’s careful supervision increased her charm to Rob. He was keenly alive to all those signs of ladyhood which separated Margaret from his own sphere, and which proved not only her superiority, but his who loved her. She shone upon him like a new revelation of beauty and grace, tempting in herself—irresistible in that she was so much above him. But if she had not been at all above him, Rob still would not have let her go without the most strenuous effort to retain her. His face shone with the very enthusiasm of admiration and happiness. “Margaret! my beautiful darling!” he cried; and he held out his hands, inviting, wooing her to him. “Do not be afraid of me,” he said, with real pathos in his voice. “Margaret! I will not come a step nearer till you give me leave—to look at you seems happiness enough.”
Oh, what a reproach that look was to the poor girl, who, frightened and desperate, had yet intelligence enough left to see that there was no safety in flight! Happiness enough to look at her! while she—she, ungrateful—she, hard-hearted, shrunk from the sight of him! She could not bear the delight and the petition in his eyes. Instead of being a supplicant to him for her freedom, it was he who, for his happiness, was a supplicant to her.
“Oh, do not speak so,” she said, wringing her hands; “do not speak so well of me— I do not deserve it. Oh, why have you come here?”
“Why should I have come? To see you, my only love. How do you suppose I could keep away from you? Margaret, do you think I am made of stone? do you think I only pretend to love you? You did not think so once at Earl’s-hall,” he said, coming very softly a step nearer to her. His look was wistful, his voice so soft that Margaret’s heart was pierced with a thousand compunctions. She shrank, without venturing to step farther back, bending her pliant, slight young figure away from him; and thus he got her hand before she was aware. Margaret shrank still farther from his touch, her whole frame contracting; but the instinct of constancy and the sense of guilt were too much for her. She could not withdraw her hand.
“Oh, Mr. Glen,” she said—“oh, Rob,” for he gave her a startled look of wonder and pain, “what can I say to you? I do not want to be unkind, and oh, I hope— I hope you don’t care so much, not so very much! Oh,” she cried, breaking out suddenly into the appeal she had premeditated, “don’t you think we have made a mistake—a great mistake?”
“What mistake, Margaret? Is it because you are so much richer than we ever thought, and I so poor? Yes, it was a mistake. I had no right to lift my hopes so high. But do you think I remembered that? It was you I was thinking of—not what you had!”
“What does it matter what I have?” she said, sadly. “Do you think that was what I was thinking of? Rich or poor, has that anything to do with it? But oh, it is true— I cannot help it—we have made a mistake.”
“I have made no mistake,” he said; “I thought you the sweetest and the fairest creature that ever crossed my path, and so you are. And I loved you, Margaret, and so I do now. A king could not do more. I have not made any mistake.”
“Oh!” she cried, with a shiver of desperation running through her, drawing her hand from his, “you may scorn me, you may despise me, but I must say it. It is I, then. Oh, Rob, do not be angry! You have been kind, very kind, as good as an angel to me; but I— I am ungrateful, I have no heart. I cannot, cannot—” Here Margaret, entirely overcome, broke forth into sudden weeping, and covered her face with her hands.
Then he took the step too far, which was all that was wanted. How could he tell it was too far? He would have done it had she been no beautiful lady at all, but a country girl who had been once fond of him, whom he could not allow to escape. He put his arm tenderly round her, and tried to draw her toward him.
Margaret sprang from his side with a quick cry, putting him away with her hands. “Oh no, no, no!” she cried, “that cannot be, that can never be! Do not touch me; do not come near me, Mr. Glen!”
“Margaret!” his tone was full of astonishment and pain; “what does this mean? It seems like a bad dream. It cannot be you that are speaking to me.”
And then there was a pause. She could say nothing, her very breathing was choked by the struggling sobs. Oh, how cruel she was, how barbarous, how guilty! And he so tender, so struck with wonder and dismay, gazing at her with eyes full of surprise and sudden misery! Would it not have been better to bear anything, to put up with anything, rather than inflict such cruel pain?
It was Rob who was the first to speak. There was no make-believe in him; it was indeed cruel pain, bitter to his heart and to his self-love. He was mortified and wounded beyond measure. He could not understand how he could be repulsed so. “If this is true,” he said, “if it is not some nightmare—if I am not dreaming—what is to become of me? My God! the girl I love, without whom I don’t care for my life, my betrothed, my wife that was to be, tells me not to come near her, not to touch her! What does it mean—what does it mean, Margaret? You have been hearing something of me that is false, some slander, some ill stories—”
“No, no! oh no, no! not that, not a word.”
“Then what is it, Margaret? If you have any pity, tell me what it is. I have done something to displease you. I have offended you, though Heaven knows I would sooner offend the whole world.”
“It is not that: oh, can you not understand, will you not understand? I was so young. I did not know what it meant. Oh, forgive me, Mr. Glen. It is not that I want to be unkind. My heart is broken too. I was never—oh, how can I say it?— I was never—never—but do not be angry!—never so—fond of you as you thought.”
She raised her eyes to him as the dreadful truth was said, with the awed and troubled gaze of a child, not knowing what horror of suffering she might see, or what denunciation might blast her where she stood. But Margaret was not prepared for something which was much more difficult to encounter. He listened to her, and a smile came over his face.
“My darling,” he said, softly, “never mind; I have love enough for the two of us. We have been parted for a long time, and you have forgotten what you thought once. I think I know better, dear, than you. I was content, and so shall I be again, and quite happy when all these cobwebs are blown away. I will take my chance that you will be fond of me,” he said.
This was a turn of the tables for which she was absolutely unprepared. She could do nothing but gaze at him blankly, not finding a single word to reply.
“And you shall be humored, my darling,” he said. “I am not such a clown as you think. Do you suppose I don’t understand your delicacy, your shyness, my Lady Margaret? Oh, I am not such a clown as you think. I will wait till you give me that dear little hand again. I will be patient till you come to my arms again. Oh no, I will not hurry you, darling. I will wait for you; but you must not ask me,” he cried, “you must not expect me, to give up my betrothed wife.”
“Dearest Margaret,” said another voice behind, which made Margaret start, “I have been looking for you everywhere. Here is a letter from dearest Jean, saying that dear Ludovic is in town, and that she will bring him with her when she comes. Is this gentleman a friend of yours, darling Margaret? You must introduce him to me,” Miss Grace said.