The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 8 (1/3)

VIII

In the midst of all the attentions paid him by his neighbours and the visitors who followed each other day by day, there was one duty which John Erskine had to fulfil, and which made a break in the tide of circumstances which seemed to be drifting him towards the family at Lindores, and engaging him more and more to follow their fortunes. When a life is as yet undecided and capable of turning in a new direction, it is common enough, in fact as well as in allegory, that a second path should be visible, branching off from the first, into which the unconscious feet of the wayfarer might still turn, were the dangers of the more attractive way divined. There is always one unobtrusive turning which leads to the safe track; but how is the traveller to know that, whose soul is all unconscious of special importance in the immediate step it takes? John Erskine contemplated his rapprochement to the Lindores with the greatest complacency and calm. That it could contain any dangers, he neither knew nor would have believed: he wanted nothing better than to be identified with them, to take up their cause and be known as their partisan. Nevertheless Providence silently, without giving him any warning, opened up the other path to him, and allowed him in ignorance to choose. If he had known, probably it would not have made the least difference. Young heroes have never in any known history obeyed the dictates of any monitor, either audible or inaudible, who warned them against one connection and in favour of another. Nevertheless he had his chance, as shall be seen. The morning after his first dinner at the Castle, which had been the reopening of a delightful world to him, he decided that he had put off too long his visit to his only relative, and set off through the soft May sunshine, for it was beautiful weather, to pay his respects to his old aunt at Dunearn.

The house of Miss Barbara Erskine at Dunearn opened direct from the street. It was one of the same class of homely Scotch houses to which Dalrulzian itself belonged; but whereas Dalrulzian, being a mansion-house, had two gables, Miss Barbara’s Lodging, as she liked it to be called, had but one, stepping out into the broad pathway, not paved, but composed of sand and gravel, which ran along one side of the South Street. This gable was broad enough to give considerable size to the drawing-room which filled the upper story, and which had windows every way, commanding the street and all that went on in it, which was not much. The house was entered by an outside stair, which gave admission to the first floor, on which all the rooms of “the family” were, the floor below being devoted to the uses of the servants, with the single exception of the dining-parlour, which was situated near the kitchen for the convenience of the household. Behind there was a large fragrant old-fashioned garden full of sweet-smelling flowers, interspersed with fruit-trees, and going off into vegetables at the lower end. Notwithstanding that it was so far north, there were few things that would not grow in this garden, and it was a wilderness of roses in their season. Except one or two of the pale China kind⁠—the monthly rose, as Miss Barbara called it, which is so faithful and blows almost all the year round⁠—there were no roses in May; but there was a wealth of spring flowers filling all the borders, and the air was faintly sweet as the old lady walked about in the morning sunshine enjoying the freshness and stir of budding life. She was a portly old lady herself, fresh and fair, with a bright complexion, notwithstanding seventy years of wear and tear, and lively hazel eyes full of vivacity and inquisitiveness. She was one of the fortunate people who take an interest in everything, and to whom life continues full of excitement and variety to the end. She walked as briskly as though she had been twenty years younger, perhaps more so; for care does not press upon seventy as upon fifty, and the only burden upon her ample shoulders was that of years. She had a soft white Indian shawl wrapped round her, and a hood with very soft blue ribbons tied over her cap. She liked a pretty ribbon as well as ever, and was always well dressed. From the garden, which sloped downwards towards the river, there was an extensive view⁠—a prospect of fields and scattered farmhouses spreading into blue distance, into the outline of the hills, towards the north; at the right hand the tower of Dunearn Church, which was not more handsome than church towers generally are in Scotland; and to the left, towards the setting sun, a glimpse of Tinto arrogantly seated on its plateau. Miss Barbara, as she said, “could not bide” the sight of Tinto House. She had planted it out as well as she could; but her trees were perverse, and would separate their branches or die away at the top, as if on purpose to reveal the upstart. On this particular morning of early May, Miss Barbara was not alone: she had a young lady by her side, of whose name and presence at this particular moment the country was full. There was not a house in the neighbourhood of any pretensions which she was not engaged to visit; and there was scarcely a family, if truth must be told, which was not involved more or less in an innocent conspiracy on her behalf, of which John Erskine, all unconscious, was the object. His old aunt, as was befitting, had the first chance.

“You need not ask me any more questions,” Miss Barbara was saying, “for I think you know just as much about the family, and all the families in the countryside, as anybody. You have a fine curiosity, Nora; and take my word for it, that’s a grand gift, though never properly appreciated in this world. It gives you a great deal of interest in your youth, and it keeps you from wearying in your old age⁠—though that’s a far prospect for you.”

“My mother says I am a gossip born,” said Nora, with her pretty smile.

“Never you trouble your head about that⁠—take you always an interest in your fellow-creatures. Better that than the folk in a novelle. Not but what I like a good novelle myself as well as most things in this life. It’s just extending your field. It’s like going into a new neighbourhood. The box is come from the library this morning,” said Miss Barbara in a parenthesis.

“Oh yes, I opened it to have a peep. There is Middlemarch and one of Mr. Trollope’s, and several names I don’t know.”

“No Middlemarch for me,” said Miss Barbara, with a wave of her hand. “I am too old for that. That means I’ve read it, my dear⁠—the way an experienced reader like me can read a thing⁠—in the air, in the newspapers, in the way everybody talks. No, that’s not like going into a new neighbourhood⁠—that is getting to the secrets of the machinery, and seeing how everything, come the time, will run down, some to ill and harm, but all to downfall, commonplace, and prosiness. I have but little pleasure in that. And it’s pleasure I want at my time of life. I’m too old to be instructed. If I have not learned my lesson by this time, the more shame to me, my dear.”

“But, Miss Barbara, you don’t want only to be amused. Oh no: to have your heart touched, sometimes wrung even⁠—to be so sorry, so anxious that you would like to interfere⁠—to follow on and on to the last moment through all their troubles, still hoping that things will take a good turn.”

“And what is that but amusement?” said the old lady. “I am not fond of shedding tears; but even that is a luxury in its way⁠—when all the time you are sure that it will hurt nobody, and come all right at the end.”

“Lydgate does not turn out all right at the end,” said Nora, “nor Rosamond either; they go down and down till you would be glad of some dreadful place at last that they might fall into it and be made an end of. I suppose it is true to nature,” said the girl, with a solemnity coming over her innocent face, “that if you don’t get better you should go on getting worse and worse⁠—but it is dreadful. It is like what one hears of the place⁠—below.”

“Ay, ay, we’re not fond nowadays of the place⁠—below; but I’m afraid there must be some truth in it. That woman has found out the secret, you see.” Miss Barbara meant no disrespect to the great novelist when she called her “that woman.” There was even a certain gratification in the use of the term, as who should say, “Your men, that brag so much of themselves, never found this out”⁠—which was a favourite sentiment with the old lady. “That’s just where she’s grand,” Miss Barbara continued. “There’s that young lad in the Italian book⁠—Teeto⁠—what d’ye call him? To see him get meaner and meaner, and falser and falser, is an awful picture, Nora. It’s just terrible. It’s more than I can stand at my age. I want diversion. Do ye think I have not seen enough of that in my life?”

“People are not bad like that in life,” said Nora; “they have such small sins⁠—they tell fibs⁠—not big lies that mean anything, but small miserable little fibs; and they are ill-tempered, and sometimes cheat a little. That is all. Nothing that is terrible or tragical⁠—”

Here the girl stopped short with a little gasp, as if realising something she had not thought of before.

“What is it, my dear?” said Miss Barbara.

“Oh⁠—only Tinto showing through the trees: is that tragedy? No, no. Don’t you see what I mean? don’t you see the difference? He is only a rough, ill-tempered, tyrannical man. He does not really mean to hurt or be cruel: and poor Lady Car, dear Lady Car, is always so wretched; perhaps she aggravates him a little. She will not take pleasure in anything. It is all miserable, but it is all so little, Miss Barbara; not tragedy⁠—not like Lear or Hamlet⁠—rather a sort of scolding, peevish comedy. You might make fun of it all, though it is so dreadful; and that is how life seems to me⁠—very different from poetry,” said Nora, shaking her head.

“Wait,” said Miss Barbara, patting her on the shoulder, “till the play is played out and you are farther off. The Lord preserve us! I hope I’m not a prophet of evil; but maybe if you had known poor Lear fighting about the number of his knights with that hard-faced woman Regan, for instance (who had a kind of reason, you’ll mind, on her side: for I make no doubt they were very unruly⁠—that daft old man would never keep them in order), you would have thought it but a poor kind of a squabble. Who is this coming in upon us, Nora? I see Janet at the glass door looking out.”

“It is a gentleman, Miss Barbara. He is standing talking. I think he means to come out here.”

“It will be the minister,” said the old lady, calmly. “He had far better sit down in the warm room, and send us word, for he’s a delicate creature⁠—no constitution in him⁠—aye cold and coughs, and⁠—”

“Indeed it is not Mr. Stirling. He is quite young and⁠—and good-looking, I think. He won’t listen to Janet. He is coming here. Miss Barbara, shall I run away?”

“Why should you run away? If it’s business, we’ll go in; if it’s pleasure⁠—Ah! I’ve seen your face before, sir, or one like it, but I cannot put a name to it. You have maybe brought me a letter? Preserve us all! will it be John Erskine come home to Dalrulzian?”

“Yes, aunt Barbara, it is John Erskine,” said the young man. He had his hat in one hand, and the sun shone pleasantly on his chestnut locks and healthful countenance. He did not perhaps look like a hero of romance, but he looked like a clean and virtuous young Englishman. He took the hand which Miss Barbara held out to him, eagerly, and, with a little embarrassment, not knowing what else to do, bent over it and kissed it⁠—a salutation which took the old lady by surprise, and, being so unusual, brought a delicate colour to her old cheek.

“Ah, my man! and so you’re John Erskine? I would have known you anywhere, at the second glance if not at the first. You’re like your father, poor fellow. He was always a great favourite with me. And so you’ve come back to your ain at last? Well, I’m very glad to see you, John. It’s natural to have a young Erskine in the countryside. You’ll not know yet how you like it after all this long absence. And how is your mother, poor body? She would think my pity out of place, I don’t doubt; but I’m always sorry for a young woman, sore hadden down with a sma’ family, as we say here in the North.”

“I don’t think she is at all sorry for herself,” said John, with a laugh, “but it must be allowed there is a lot of them. There are always heaps of children, you know, in a parson’s house.”

“And that is true; it’s a wonderful dispensation,” said Miss Barbara, piously, “to keep us down and keep us humble-minded in our position in life. But I’m real glad to see you, and you must tell me where you’ve come from, and all you’ve been doing. We’ll take a turn round the garden and see my flowers, and then we’ll take you in and give you your luncheon. You’ll be ready for your luncheon after your walk; or did you ride? This is Miss Nora Barrington, that knows Dalrulzian better than you do, John. Tell Janet, my dear, we’ll be ready in an hour, and she must do her best for Mr. John.”

While this greeting went on, Nora had been standing very demurely with her hands crossed looking on. She was a girl full of romance and imagination, as a girl ought to be, and John Erskine had long been something of a hero to her. Nora was in that condition of springtime and anticipation when every new encounter looks as if it might produce untold consequences in the future, still so vague, so sweet, so unknown. She stood with her eyes full of subdued light, full of soft excitement, and observation, and fun; for where all was so airy and uncertain, there was room for fun too, it being always possible that the event, which might be serious or even tragic, might at the same time be only a pleasantry in life. Nora seemed to herself to be a spectator of what was perhaps happening to herself. Might this be hereafter a scene in her existence, like “the first meeting between”⁠—say Antony and Cleopatra, say Romeo and Juliet? Several pictures occurred to her of such scenes. At one time there were quite a number of them in all the picture-galleries. “First meeting of Edward IV with Elizabeth Woodville:” where all unconscious, the fair widow kneels, the gallant monarch sees in his suppliant his future queen. All this was fun to Nora, but very romantic earnest all the same. The time might come when this stranger would say to her⁠—“Do you remember that May morning in old aunt Barbara’s garden?” and she might reply⁠—“How little we imagined then!” Thus Nora, with a shy delight, forestalled in the secret recesses of her soul the happiness that might never come, and yet made fun of her own thoughts all in the same breath. John’s bow to her was not half so graceful or captivating as his salutation to Miss Barbara, but that was nothing; and she went away with a pleasant sense of excitement to instruct Janet about the luncheon and the newcomer. Miss Barbara’s household was much moved by the arrival. Janet, who was the housekeeper, lingered in the little hall into which the garden-door opened, looking out with a curiosity which she did not think it necessary to disguise; and Agnes, Miss Barbara’s own woman, stood at the staircase-window, halfway up. When Nora came in, those two personages were conversing freely on the event.

“He’s awfu’ like the Erskines; just the cut of them about the shouthers, and that lang neck⁠—”

“Do you ca’ that a lang neck? nae langer than is very becoming. I like the head carried high. He has his father’s walk,” said Agnes, pensively; “many’s the time I’ve watched him alang the street. He was the best-looking of all the Erskines; if he hadna marriet a bit handless creature⁠—”

“Handless or no’ handless,” said Janet, “matters little in that condition o’ life.”