A Daughter of Fife Part 13
"They'll ken aboot boats, though."
"They may. I'm no sae sure. They lose a gude many every year that comes to them."
"How is Aunt Margery?"
"Her man has got into the excise. She holds her head as high as a hen drinking water aboot it. I never could abide pride o' any kind. It's no in me to think mair o' mysel' than other folks think o' me."
Allan joined the family party in the evening, and he did his best to win Janet Caird's favor, and conciliate her numerous prejudices. But unfortunately she intercepted a glance intended for Maggie, and her suspicions were at once roused. Young people, in her opinion, were full of original and acquired sins, and she made up her mind in a moment that David had suspected his sister's propriety, and was anxious to shelter her under the spotless integrity of Janet Caird's good name.
"And for the sake o' the family I sall watch her well," she decided; "she sall na lightly either the Cairds or the Promoters if I ken mysel'": and from the moment of that resolve, Allan was ranged in her mind, "among the wolves that raven round the fold."
There was nothing in the parting to strengthen her suspicions. Maggie was indeed white and silent, but Allan went almost hurriedly away: as if he were weary of the circ.u.mstances surrounding him. David thought him cool and cross, and was pained by the mood; but Maggie knew the meaning of the worried, slightly haughty manner; for in one quick glance, he had made her understand how bitter it was to leave her in her worse than loneliness; and how painful in his present temper was the vulgar effusiveness of Janet Caird's thanks and noisy farewells.
An hour upon the sea cured him. "David," he said, "I was very cross. I did not like that woman in your home. She spoils my memory of it."
"She is my fayther's sister, sir."
"Forgive me, David. Let us speak of other things. You have found comfortable lodgings, I hope?"
"Ay, sir. Willie Buchan's third cousin married a Glasgow baker, who has a gude place in the Candleriggs Street. That is close by the High Street and vera convenient as to locality. The charges also are sma'. I hae a comfortable room and my bite and sup for ten shillings weekly."
This introduced a subject which opened up endlessly to David, and Allan was glad to let him talk; for thought is sweet to the lover, thought of the beloved under any circ.u.mstances. No other shadow darkened a friendship that had been so evenly cloudless, and David and Allan parted full of mutual good will and regard, although the hopes and aims of each were so widely different.
Allan went directly to his father's office, but John Campbell had gone to a board meeting, and so he took the next boat for Meriton. Evidently Archibald had not been warned that day by any peculiar "feeling" of his arrival. There was no conveyance of any kind waiting for him; but as the distance was only two very pleasant miles, Allan did not much regret the prospect of having to walk them.
The woods adjoining the road were the Campbells' property, he leaped the wall, and took the footpath through them. How silent it was under the pines! the more so because of that vague stir in the air among them.
What nameless perfumes! emanations from the resinous earth, from the old trunks, from the foliage. What delightful mysteries in their nooks! Bird twitterings intimate and charming; chirpings of the mothers to their newly fledged young; little cries of joy, and counsel, and innocent surprises!
A large, cool, calm hand was laid upon his heart, the hand of nature; he sauntered slowly in the aromatic air, he dreamed impossible dreams of bliss, and with the faith of youth believed in them. Good! When we have weaned youth from dreams, from poetry, from enthusiasms, and made it thoroughly sensible, and material, what kind of race will remain to the world?
And alas! All happy dreams are short enough. Allan's was dissipated by a sound of suppressed weeping. He looked cautiously around, and on the clean, brown ground beneath the pines, a little in advance of him, he saw a woman sitting. Her back was against the trunk of a large tree, her face was turned quite away from him, but he knew it was Mary Campbell. And softly and hurriedly he retraced his own steps for some distance, and then he found the wall, and leaped into the highway, and walked home by it; thoroughly awake and disenchanted.
He did not meet Mary until the dinner hour. She was then elegantly dressed, her face clear and bright, her manner, as it always was, gentle and yet cheerful.
"The sphinx," thought Allan, "is some inscrutable woman on our own hearth-stone." He remembered the low sobbing he had heard in the wood, the bowed head, the unmistakable att.i.tude of grief, and then he looked at Mary's face dimpling with smiles, and at her pretty figure, brave in glistening silk and gold ornaments. And somehow, that night, she made him feel that she was the head of the House of Campbell, and the heiress of Drumloch.
The next day was the Sabbath. She was very particular about her religious duties; she went to kirk twice, she had the servants in the evening for catechism and parallel pa.s.sages.
She gave Allan no opportunity of seeing her alone. On Monday morning, although it rained, she insisted on going to Glasgow; and she stayed in Glasgow until the following Wednesday evening. It was perhaps the first sensation of "snub" that Allan had ever received; and it annoyed him very much.
But on Wednesday night she seemed to relent, and she did all in her power to make their last dinner together one pleasant to remember. When she left her uncle and cousin to finish their wine, she left them well disposed to kindly confidence. For since Allan's return from Fife he had not felt confidence possible. His father had asked no questions, and shown no disposition to discuss his plans. But at this hour he voluntarily renewed the subject.
"You went to Fife, I suppose, Allan?"
"Yes, sir. I was there two days."
"And are you still in the same mind?"
"Nothing can change my mind on that subject, sir."
"Time has worked greater wonders, Allan. However, I will venture no opinion for two years. When do you go Westward?"
"I shall leave for Liverpool by to-morrow night's train. I shall sail on Sat.u.r.day."
"Call at the office early, or go to town with me. All is ready for you.
Write as often as you can, Allan, I shall weary for your letters." His eyes were full of tears, he lifted his wine gla.s.s to conceal them.
"Father, is there any special reason why I should go so far away from you?
Can I not wait two years at home?"
"In justice to my own side of the bargain, Allan, you must travel and compare other women with this Fife girl. You must not only be where you can not see her, but also, where you can see many others. I think American women will be a fair test of your affection. Between Boston and New Orleans their variety is infinite. Gillbride says, they are the blood, and beauty, and intellect of all races potently mingled. Mary has a right to be considered; she is evidently embarra.s.sed by your presence; the least you can do for her now, is to relieve her from it. Next spring there will be an opportunity to re-consider matters, if you desire. Money has acc.u.mulated belonging to Drumloch, and Mary has decided to expend it on the house. A new wing is to be built, and she will go to reside there. The work will get on better, and the tenants look with justice to the advantages of an open house again. But there is no more to be said at this time. Come, Allan, let us go to the drawing-room, I hear Mary playing a song I never can resist, no nor any other person, I think--" and he began to hum "_O Love will venture in_."
"Isn't it a wonderful combination of thirds and sevenths? There is nothing like it in the whole portfolio of music. Nothing so winning, nothing that can so charm and haunt your ear-chambers." And they stepped softly and slowly, and stood at the door together, to listen to the enchaining plaintive little song:
[Musical notation omitted.]
O love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen, O love will venture in where wisdom once has been; But I will down the river rove amang the woods so green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear: For she's the pink o' womankind and blooms without a peer: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll pu' the budding rose when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue And a' to be a posie for my ain dear May
The lily it is pure and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there, The daisy's for simplicity of unaffected air; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear; The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of love, And I'll place it on her breast, and I'll swear by a' above.
That to the latest breath o' life the band shall ne'er remove.
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.
The last long drawn notes of melancholy sweetness were scarcely still, when a servant entered. "The minister is here, sir."
"I had forgotten," said Campbell hastily. "There is an extra kirk session to-night. It is about the organ, Mary. Will you go?"
"I would rather not. Every one will have his testimony to raise against it, and I should get cross."
"Then good night, bairnies. I must not keep the minister waiting. Maybe I'll be beyond your time. Don't lose your beauty sleep for me."
He left the room in a hurry, and in a few minutes the "bairnies" heard the crunch of the retreating wheels upon the gravel. Mary continued at the piano, lightly running over with one hand the music she happened to turn.
Allan stood on the hearth watching her. Both were intensely and uncomfortably conscious of their position. At length Allan said, "Mary, suppose you cease playing, and talk with me!"
"Very well." She rose slowly and turned with affected reluctance.
Affected, because she really wished for some satisfactory conversation with him. The recollection of their last confidence was painful and humiliating. She could hardly bear the idea of carrying its memory throughout two years. Few as the steps were between herself and Allan, she determined, as she took them, to speak with all the candor which her position gave her the right to use; and at any rate, not to end their interview again in debt to self-esteem. The strength of the Scotch mind is in its interrogative quality, and instinctively Mary fell behind the cover of a question.
"Why should we talk, Allan? Is there any thing you can say that will unsay the words you have spoken?"
"You were not fair with me, Mary. You took me up before I had finished my explanation."