The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 8 (2/3)

“Eh, but it mattered muckle to him. He might have been a living man this day if there had been a little mair sense in her head. She might have made him change his wet feet and all his dreeping things when he came in from the hillside. It was the planting of yon trees that cost bonnie Johnny Erskine his life. The mistress was aye of that opinion. Eh, to think when ye have a man, that ye shouldna be able to take care of him!” said Agnes, with a sort of admiring wonder. She had never attained that dignity herself. Janet, who was a widow, gave a glance upward at the pensive old maiden of mingled condescension and contempt.

“And if ye had a man, ye would be muckle made up wi’ him,” she said. “It’s grand to be an auld maid, for that⁠—that ye aye keep your faith in the men. This ane’ll be for a wife, too, like a’ the rest. I could gie him a word in his ear⁠—”

“It will be something for our young misses to think about. A fine young lad, and a bonnie house. He’ll have a’ our siller, besides his ain⁠—and that will be a grand addition⁠—”

“If he behaves himsel’!” said Janet, “The mistress is a real sensible woman. You’ll no’ see her throw away her siller upon a prodigal, if he were an Erskine ten times over.”

“And wha said he was a prodigal?” cried Agnes, turning round from the landing upon her fellow-servant, who was at once her natural opponent and bosom friend. Nora was of opinion by this time that she had listened long enough.

“Miss Barbara says that her nephew will stay to luncheon, Janet. You are to do your best for him. It is Mr. Erskine, from Dalrulzian,” Nora said, with most unnecessary explanation. Janet turned round upon her quietly, yet with superior dignity.

“By this time of day, Miss Nora,” said Janet, “I think I ken an Erskine when I see him; and also, when a visitor enters this door at twelve o’clock at noon, that he’ll stay to his lunch, and that I maun do my best.”

“It is not my fault,” cried the girl, half amused, half apologetic. “I tell you only, Janet, what Miss Barbara said. Perhaps it was to get rid of me, to send me indoors out of the way.”

“Naething more likely,” said the housekeeper. “She canna be fashed with strangers when her ain are at her hand.”

“Woman!” cried Agnes, from the landing, “how dare you say sae of my mistress? You’ll never mind, Miss Nora. Come up here, my bonnie young leddy, and you’ll have a grand sight of him among the trees.”

“Ay, glower at him,” said Janet, as she went away. “You wouldna be so muckle ta’en up with them if ye kent as much about men as me.”

“Na, you’ll pay no attention,” said Agnes anxiously; “it’s no’ real malice⁠—just she thinks she has mair experience. And so she has mair experience⁠—the only marriet woman in the house. There’s your mamma, with a bonnie family, takes nothing upon her, no more than if she was a single person; but Janet has it a’ her ain way. Stand you here, Miss Nora, at this corner, and you’ll have a grand sight of him. He’s behind the big bourtree-bush; but in a moment⁠—in a moment⁠—”

“I don’t want to see Mr. Erskine,” said Nora, laughing. “I have seen him; most likely I shall see him at lunch. He is just like other people⁠—like dozens of gentlemen⁠—”

“Eh, but when you think that you never ken what may happen⁠—that yon may be the man, for all we ken!”

When Agnes thus put into words the idea which had (she would not deny it to herself) glanced through Nora’s own mind, she was so hypocritical as to laugh, as at a great piece of absurdity⁠—but at the same time so honest as to blush.

“I believe you are always thinking of⁠—that sort of thing,” she said.

“Awfu’ often, Miss Nora,” said Agnes, unabashed⁠—“especially when there’s young folk about; and after a’, is there onything that’s sae important? There’s me and the mistress, we’ve stood aloof from a’ that; but I canna think it’s been for oor happiness. Her⁠—it was her ain doing; but me⁠—it’s a very strange thing to say: I’ve kent many that were far from my superiors⁠—as far as a person can judge⁠—that have had twa-three offers; but me, I never had it in my power. You’ll think it a very strange thing, Miss Nora?”

“I know,” said Nora; “and you so pretty. It is quite extraordinary.” This was the reply that Agnes expected to her favourite confession. She was pretty still at fifty⁠—slim and straight, with delicate features, and that ivory complexion which we associate with refinement and good blood; and the old waiting-woman knew how to faire valoir her fine person and features. She was dressed delicately in a black gown, with a white kerchief of spotless net⁠—like a lady, everybody said. She shook her head with a smile of melancholy consciousness.

“It’s no’ looks that does it,” she said; “it’s⁠—Well, I canna tell. It’s when you ken how to humour them and flatter them. But bless me, there’s Janet, a woman that never flattered man nor woman either! I canna understand it⁠—it’s beyond me. But you mustna follow the mistress, Miss Nora. She’s a happy woman enough, and a bonnie woman for her age, coming up there under her ain trees⁠—just look at her. But if that young lad had been her son, instead of just a distant cousin⁠—”

“Oh, but boys give a great deal of trouble,” said Nora, seriously. “Dear Miss Barbara, I like her best as she is.”

“But you manna follow her example, my bonnie leddy⁠—you manna follow her example. Take a pattern by your ain mammaw. I ca’ her a happy woman, young yet, and a good man, and a bonnie posie of bairns. Eh! I ca’ her a happy woman. And takes nothing upon her!” said Agnes⁠—“nothing upon her. You’ll come up the stair, Miss Nora, and look at yoursel’ in the glass. Oh no, there’s nothing wrang with your bonnie hair. I like it just so⁠—a wee blown about in the mornin’ air. Untidy! bless me, no’ the least untidy! but just⁠—give a look in the glass, and if you think another colour would be more becoming, I have plenty ribbons. Some folk thinks yellow’s very artistic; but the mistress canna bide yellow. She’s owre fair for it, and so are you.”

“Why should I change my ribbon? It is quite tidy,” said Nora, almost with indignation, standing before Miss Barbara’s long cheval-glass. Agnes came and stood behind her, arranging her little collar and the draperies of her dress with caressing hands. And to tell the truth, Nora herself could not shut out from her mind an agreeable consciousness that she was looking “rather nice;⁠—for me,” she added, in her own mind. The morning breeze had ruffled an incipient curl out of the hair which she had brushed, demure and smooth, over her forehead in the morning. It was a thing that nobody suspected when she was fresh from her toilet, but the wind always found out that small eccentricity, and Nora was not angry with the wind. Her ribbon was blue, and suited her far better than the most artistic yellow. All was fresh and fair about her, like the spring morning. “Na; I wouldna change a thing,” Agnes said, looking at her anxiously in the glass, where they made the prettiest picture, the handsome old maid looking like a lady-in-waiting, her fine head appearing over the girl’s shoulder⁠—a lady-in-waiting anxiously surveying her princess, about to meet for the first time with King Charming, who has come to marry her. This was the real meaning of the group.

Nora did not change her ribbon or her own appearance in any way, but she gave a glance to the table set out for luncheon, and renewed the flowers on it, watching all the while the other group which passed and repassed the large round window of the dining-room, their voices audible as they talked. Miss Barbara had taken John’s arm, which was a proof that he had found the way to her favour; and she was evidently asking him a hundred questions. Snatches of their talk about his travels, about his plans, something which she could not make out about the Lindores, caught the ear of Nora. They saw her seated near the window, so there could be no reason why she should stop her ears. And Nora thought him “very nice”⁠—that all-useful adjective. She could scarcely help letting her imagination stray to the familiar place which she had known all her life⁠—her “dear Dalrulzian,” which she had lamented so openly, which now she felt it would no longer be decorous to lament. He looked very like it, she thought. She could see him in imagination standing in the kindly open door, on the Walk, looking the very master the place wanted. Papa had been too old for it. It wanted a young man, a young⁠—Well⁠—she laughed and coloured involuntarily⁠—of course a young wife too. In all likelihood that was all settled, the young wife ready, so that there was no reason to feel any embarrassment about it. And so he knew the Lindores! She would ask Edith all about him. There was no doubt he was a very interesting figure in the countryside, “something for the misses to think about,” as Agnes said, though it was somewhat humiliating to think that “that dreadful man at Tinto” had roused a similar excitement. But the oftener John Erskine passed the window, the more he pleased Nora Barrington. He was “very nice,” she was sure. How kind and careful he was of Miss Barbara! How frank and open his countenance! his voice and his laugh so natural and cheerful! Up to this time, though Nora’s imagination had not been utterly untouched, she was still free of any serious inclination, almost if not entirely fancy-free. It could not be denied that when the new Rintoul became known in the countryside, he, too, had been the object of many prognostications. And he had been, she felt, “very nice” to Nora. Though he had pretensions far above hers, and was not in the least likely to ally himself to a family without fortune, his advances had been such as a girl cannot easily overlook. He was the first who had paid Nora “attention,” and awakened her to a consciousness of power. And she had been flattered and pleased, being very young. But Nora now felt herself at that junction of the two roads, which, as has been said, is inevitable in the experience of every young soul. She was standing in suspense, saying to herself, with a partial sense of treachery and guilt, that Mr. Erskine was still more nice than Lord Rintoul. John Erskine of Dalrulzian; there was something delightful in the very name. All this, it is true, was entirely visionary, without solid foundation of any kind; for they had exchanged nothing but two shy bows, not a word as yet⁠—and whether he would be as “nice” when he talked, Nora did not know.

Her decision afterwards, made with some mortification, was, that he was not nearly so nice when he talked. He showed no wish to talk to her at all, which was an experience quite out of Nora’s way. She sat and listened, for the most part, at this simple banquet, growing angry in spite of herself, and altogether changing her opinion about Lord Rintoul. If she had been a little girl out of the nursery, John Erskine could scarcely have taken less notice of her. Miss Barbara and he continued their talk as if Nora had no existence at all.

“I always thought it a great pity that you were brought up so far from home,” the old lady said. “You know nothing about your own place, or the ways of the countryside. It will take you a long time to make that up. But the neighbours are all very kind, and Lindores, no doubt, will be a great resource, now there’s a young family in it. Fortunately for you, John, you’re not grand enough nor rich enough to come into my lord’s plans.”

“Has my lord plans? For county hospitals and lunatic asylums. So he told me; and he wants my help. To hear even so much as that astonished me. When I knew him he was an elegant hypochondriac, doing nothing at all⁠—”

“He does plenty now, and cares much, for the world and the things of the world,” said Miss Barbara. “I think I have divined his meaning; but we’ll wait and see. You need not sit and make those faces at me, Nora. I know well enough they are not to blame. A woman should know how to stand up for her own child better than that; but she was just struck helpless with surprise, I say nothing different. Speak of manoeuvring mothers! manoeuvring fathers are a great deal worse. I cannot away with a man that will sacrifice his own flesh and blood. Fiegh! I would not do it for a kingdom. And the son, you’ll see, will do the same. Hold you your tongue, Nora. I know better⁠—the son will do the very same. He will be sold to some grocer’s daughter for her hogsheads. Perhaps they’re wanted; two jointures to pay is hard upon any estate, and a title will always bring in money when it’s put up for sale in a judicious way. But you must have your wits about you now, if you have any dealings with your elegant hypochondriac, John, my man. You’re too small⁠—too small for him; but if you had fifty thousand a-year, you would soon⁠—soon be helpless in his hands⁠—”

“Oh, Miss Barbara,” cried Nora, “you are unjust to Lord Lindores. Remember how kind he has been to us, and we have not fifty thousand, nor fifty hundred a-year.”

“You’re not a young man,” said Miss Barbara; “but John, take you care of dangling about Lindores. I am not naming any names; but there may be heartaches gotten there⁠—nothing more for a man of your small means. Oh ay! perhaps I ought to hold my tongue before Nora; but she will be well advised if she takes care too; and besides, she knows all about it as well as I do myself.”

“I hope,” said John, courteously⁠—for he saw that Nora’s composure was disturbed by these last warnings, and he was glad of a chance to change the subject⁠—“I hope I may be so fortunate as to see Colonel Barrington before he leaves the country. He has done so well by Dalrulzian, I should like to thank him for his care.”

This made Nora more red than before. She could not get over that foolish idea that Dalrulzian was far more to her than to this stranger, who could not care for it as she did. She felt that his thanks were an offence. “Papa has gone, Mr. Erskine,” she said, with unusual stateliness. “I am left behind to pay some visits. Everybody here has been so good to us.”

“That means we are all fond of her bit bright face,” said Miss Barbara; “but we’ll say no more on that subject, Nora. Human nature’s selfish in grain. The like of me will take no trouble for lad or lass that is not sweet to see, and a comfort to the heart.”

“I never heard such a pretty apology for selfishness before,” said John. And Miss Barbara took his compliment in good part. But he and Nora made no further approach to each other. Those praises of her made him draw back visibly, she thought, and embarrassed herself beyond bearing. To be praised before an unsympathetic, silently protesting audience⁠—can anything be more humiliating? Nora was conscious of something like dislike of John Erskine before he went away.