Chapter 5
"Shall sharpest pathos blight us, doing no wrong?"
So writes our greatest living poet, in one of the noblest poems he everpenned. And he speaks truth. The real canker of human existence is notmisery, but sin.
After the first cruel pang, the bitter wail; after her lost life--and wehave here but one life to lose!--her lost happiness, for she knew nowthat though she might be very peaceful, very content, no real happinessever had come, ever could come to her in this world, except Robert Roy'slove--after this, Fortune sat down, folded her hands, and bowed her headto the waves of sorrow that kept sweeping over her, not for one day ortwo days, but for many days and weeks--the anguish, not of patience, butregret--sharp, stinging, helpless regret. They came rolling in, thoseremorseless billows, just like the long breakers on the sands of St.Andrews. Hopeless to resist, she could only crouch down and let thempass. "All Thy waves have gone over me."
Of course this is spoken metaphorically. Outwardly, Miss Williamsneither sat still nor folded her hands. She was seen every where asusual, her own proper self, as the world knew it; but underneath all thatwas the self that she knew, and God knew. No one else. No one evercould have known, except Robert Roy, had things been different from whatthey were--from what God had apparently willed them to be.
A sense of inevitable fate came over her. It was now nearly two yearssince that letter from Mr. Roy of Shanghai, and no more tidings hadreached her. She began to think none ever would reach her now. Sheceased to hope or to fear, but let herself drift on, accepting the smallpale pleasures of every day, and never omitting one of its duties. Oneonly thought remained; which, contrasted with the darkness of all else,often gleamed out as an actual joy.
If the lost letter really was Robert Roy's--and though she had nopositive proof, she had the strongest conviction, remembering the thickfog of that Tuesday morning, how easily Archy might have dropped it outof his hand, and how, during those days of soaking rain, it might havelain, unobserved by any one, under the laurel branches, till the childpicked it up and hid it as he said--if Robert Roy lad written to her,written in any way, he was at least not faithless. And he might haveloved her then. Afterward, he might have married, or died; she mightnever find him again in this world, or if she found him, he might betotally changed: still, whatever happened, he had loved her. The factremained. No power in earth or heaven could alter it.
And sometimes, even yet, a half-superstitious feeling came over her thatall this was not for nothing--the impulse which had impelled her to writeto Shanghai, the other impulse, or concatenation of circumstances, whichhad floated her, after so many changes, back to the old place, the oldlife. It looked like chance, but was it? Is any thing chance? Does notour own will, soon or late, accomplish for us what we desire? That is,when we try to reconcile it to the will of God.
She had accepted His will all these years, seeing no reason for it; oftenfeeling it very hard and cruel, but still accepting it. And now?
I am writing no sensational story. In it are no grand dramatic points;no _Deus ex machina_ appears to make all smooth; every event--if it canboast of aught so large as an event--follows the other in perfectlynatural succession. For I have always noticed that in life there arerarely any startling "effects," but gradual evolutions. Nothing happensby accident; and, the premises once granted, nothing happens but what wasquite sure to happen, following those premises. We novelists do not"make up" our stories; they make themselves. Nor do human beings inventtheir own lives; they do but use up the materials given to them--somewell, some ill; some wisely, some foolishly; but, in the main, the dictumof the Preacher is not far from the truth, "All things come alike toall."
A whole winter had passed by, and the spring twilights were beginning tolengthen, tempting Miss Williams and her girls to linger another halfhour before they lit the lamp for the evening. They were doing so,cozily chatting over the fire, after the fashion of a purely femininehousehold, when there was a sudden announcement that a gentleman, withtwo little boys, wanted to see Miss Williams. He declined to give hisname, and said he would not detain her more than a few minutes.
"Let him come in here," Fortune was just about to say, when she reflectedthat it might be some law business which concerned her girls, whom shehad grown so tenderly anxious to save from any trouble and protect fromevery care. "No, I will go and speak to him myself."
She rose and walked quietly into the parlor, already shadowed intotwilight: a neat, compact little person, dressed in soft gray homespun,with a pale pink bow on her throat, and another in her cap--a prettylittle fabric of lace and cambric, which, being now the fashion, hergirls had at last condescended to let her wear. She had on a black silkapron, with pockets, into one of which she had hastily thrust her work,and her thimble was yet on her finger. This was the figure on which theeyes of the gentleman rested as he turned around.
Miss Williams lifted her eyes inquiringly to his face--a bearded face,thin and dark.
"I beg your pardon, I have not the pleasure of knowing you; I--"
She suddenly stopped. Something in the height, the turn of the head, thecrisp dark hair, in which were not more than a few threads of gray, whilehers had so many now, reminded her of--someone, the bare thought of whommade her feel dizzy and blind.
"No," he said, "I did not expect you would know me; and indeed, until Isaw you, I was not sure you were the right Miss Williams. Possibly youmay remember my name--Roy, Robert Roy."
Faces alter, manners, gestures; but the one thing which never changes isa voice. Had Fortune heard this one--ay, at her last dying hour, whenall worldly sounds were fading away--she would have recognized it atonce.
The room being full of shadow, no one could see any thing distinctly; andit was as well.
In another minute, she had risen, and held out her hand.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Roy. How long have you been in England?Are these your little boys?"
Without answering, he took her hand--a quiet friendly grasp, just as itused to be. And so, without another word, the gulf of fifteen--seventeenyears was overleaped, and Robert Roy and Fortune Williams had met oncemore.
If anybody had told her when she rose that morning what would happenbefore night, and happen so naturally, too, she would have said it wasimpossible. That, after a very few minutes, she could have sat there,talking to him as to any ordinary acquaintance, seemed incredible, yet itwas truly so.
"I was in great doubts whether the Miss Williams who, they told me, livedhere was yourself or some other lady; but I thought I would take thechance. Because, were it yourself, I thought, for the sake of old times,you might be willing to advise me concerning my two little boys, whom Ihave brought to St. Andrews for their education."
"Your sons, are they?"
"No. I am not married."
There was a pause, and then he told the little fellows to go and look outof the window, while he talked with Miss Williams. He spoke to them in afatherly tone; there was nothing whatever of the young man left in himnow. His voice was sweet, his manner grave, his whole appearanceunquestionably "middle-aged."
"They are orphans. Their name is Roy, though they are not my relatives,or so distant that it matters nothing. But their father was a very goodfriend of mine, which matters a great deal. He died suddenly, and hiswife soon after, leaving their affairs in great confusion. Hearing this,far up in the Australian bush, where I have been a sheep-farmer for someyears, I came round by Shanghai, but too late to do more than take theseyounger boys and bring them home. The rest of the family are disposedof. These two will be henceforward mine. That is all."
A very little "all", and wholly about other people; scarcely a word abouthimself. Yet he seemed to think it sufficient, and as if she had nopossible interest in hearing more.
Cursorily he mentioned having received her letter, which was "friendlyand kind;" that it had followed him to Australia, and then back toShanghai. But his return home seemed to have b
een entirely withoutreference to it--or to her.
So she let all pass, and accepted things as they were. It was enough.When a ship-wrecked man sees land--ever so barren a land, ever sodesolate a shore--he does not argue within himself, "Is this my haven?"he simply puts into it, and lets himself be drifted ashore.
It took but a few minutes more to explain further what Mr. Roy wanted--ahome for his two "poor little fellows."
"They are so young still--and they have lost their mother. They would dovery well in their classes here, if some kind woman would take them andlook after them. I felt, if the Miss Williams I heard of were really theMiss Williams I used to know, I could trust them to her, more than to anywoman I ever knew."
"Thank you." And then she explained that she had already two girls incharge. She could say nothing till she had consulted them. In the meantime--
Just then the bell sounded. The world was going on just as usual--thisstrange, commonplace, busy, regardless world!
"I beg your pardon for intruding on your time so long," said Mr. Roy,rising. "I will leave you to consider the question, and you will let meknow as soon as you can. I am staying at the hotel here, and shallremain until I can leave my boys settled. Good evening."
Again she felt the grasp of the hand: that ghostly touch, so vivid indreams for these years, and now a warm living reality. It was too much.She could not bear it.
"If you would care to stay," she said--and though it was too dark to seeher, he must have heard the faint tremble in her voice--"our tea isready. Let me introduce you to my girls, and they can make friends withyour little boys."
The matter was soon settled, and the little party ushered into thebright warm parlor, glittering with all the appendages of that pleasantmeal--essentially feminine--a "hungry" tea. Robert Roy put his hand overhis eyes as if the light dazzled him, and then sat down in the arm-chairwhich Miss Williams brought forward, turning as he did so to look up ather--right in her face--with his grave, soft, earnest eyes.
"Thank you. How like that was to your old ways! How very little you arechanged!"
This was the only reference he made, in the slightest degree, to formertimes.
And she?
She went out of the room, ostensibly to get a pot of guava jelly for theboys--found it after some search, and then sat down.
Only in her store closet, with her house-keeping things all about her.But it was a quiet place, and the door was shut.
There is, in one of those infinitely pathetic Old Testament stories, asentence--"And he sought where to weep: and he entered into his chamberand wept there."
She did not weep, this woman, not a young woman now: she only triedduring her few minutes of solitude to gather up her thoughts, to realizewhat had happened to her, and who it was that sat in the next room--underher roof--at her very fireside. Then she clasped her hands with a suddensob, wild as any of the emotions of her girlhood.
"Oh, my love, my love, the love of all my life! Thank God!"
The evening passed, not very merrily, but peacefully; the girls, who hadheard a good deal of Mr. Roy from David Dalziel, doing their best to becourteous to him, and to amuse his shy little boys. He did not staylong, evidently having a morbid dread of "intruding," and his manner wasexceedingly reserved, almost awkward sometimes, of which he seemedpainfully conscious, apologizing for being "unaccustomed to civilizationand to ladies' society," having during his life in the bush sometimespassed months at a time without ever seeing a woman's face.
"And women are your only civilizers," said he. "That is why I wish mymotherless lads to be taken into this household of yours, Miss Williams,which looks so--so comfortable," and he glanced round the pretty parlorwith something very like a sigh. "I hope you will consider the matter,and let me know as soon as you have made up your mind."
"Which I will do very soon," she answered.
"Yes, I know you will. And your decision once made, you never change."
"Very seldom. I am not one of those who are 'given to change.'"
"Nor I."
He stood a moment, lingering in the pleasant, lightsome warmth, as ifloath to quit it, then took his little boys in either hand and went away.There was a grand consultation that night, for Miss Williams never didany thing without speaking to her girls; but still it was merely nominal.They always left the decision to her. And her heart yearned over the twolittle Roys, orphans, yet children still; while Helen and Janetta weregrowing up and needing very little from her except a general motherlysupervision. Besides, _he_ asked it. He had said distinctly that she wasthe only woman to whom he could thoroughly trust his boys. So--she tookthem.
After a few days the new state of things grew so familiar that it seemedas if it had lasted for months, the young Roys going to and fro to theirclasses and their golf-playing, just as the young Dalziels had done; andMr. Roy coming about the house, almost daily, exactly as Robert Roy hadused to do of old. Sometimes it was to Fortune Williams the strangestreflex of former times; only--with a difference.
Unquestionably he was very much changed. In outward appearance more eventhan the time accounted for. No man can knock about the world, indifferent lands and climates, for seventeen years, without bearingthe marks of it. Though still under fifty, he had all the air of an"elderly" man, and had grown a little "peculiar" in his ways, his modesof thought and speech--except that he spoke so very little. Heaccounted for this by his long lonely life in Australia, which hadproduced, he said, an almost unconquerable habit of silence. Altogether,he was far more of an old bachelor than she was of an old maid, andFortune felt this: felt, too, that in spite of her gray hairs she was inreality quite as young as he--nay, sometimes younger; for her innocent,simple, shut-up life had kept her young.
And he, what had his life been, in so far as he gradually betrayed it?Restless, struggling; a perpetual battle with the world; having to holdhis own, and fight his way inch by inch--he who was naturally a bornstudent, to whom the whirl of a business career was especially obnoxious.What had made him choose it? Once chosen, probably he could not helphimself; besides, he was not one to put his shoulder to the wheel andthen draw back. Evidently, with the grain or against the grain, he hadgone on with it; this sad, strange, wandering life, until he had "madehis fortune," for he told her so. But he said no more; whether he meantto stay at home and spend it, or go out again to the antipodes (and hespoke of those far lands without any distaste, even with a lingeringkindliness, for indeed he seemed to have no unkindly thought of any placeor person in all the world), his friend did not know.
His friend. That was the word. No other. After her first outburst ofuncontrollable emotion, to call Robert Roy her "love," even in fancy, orto expect that he would deport himself in any lover-like way, becameridiculous, pathetically ridiculous. She was sure of that. Evidently noidea of the kind entered his mind. She was Miss Williams, and he was Mr.Roy--two middle-aged people, each with their different responsibilities,their altogether separate lives; and, hard as her own had been, it seemedas if his had been the harder of the two--ay, though he was now a richman, and she still little better than a poor governess.
She did not think very much of worldly things, but still she was aware ofthis fact--that he was rich and she was poor. She did not suffer herselfto dwell upon it, but the consciousness was there, sustained with acertain feeling called "proper pride." The conviction was forced uponher in the very first days of Mr. Roy's return--that to go back to thedays of their youth was as impossible as to find primroses in September.
If, indeed, there were any thing to go back to. Sometimes she felt, ifshe could only have found out that, all the rest would be easy, painless.If she could only have said to him, "Did you write me the letter youpromised? Did you _ever_ love me"? But that one question was, of course,utterly impossible. He made no reference whatever to old things, butseemed resolved to take up the present a very peaceful and happy presentit soon grew to be--just as if there were no past at all. So perforcedid she.<
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But, as I think I have said once before, human nature is weak, and therewere days when the leaves were budding, and the birds singing in thetrees, when the sun was shining and the waves rolling in upon the sands,just as they rolled in that morning over those two lines of foot-marks,which might have walked together through life; and who knows what mutualstrength, help, and comfort this might have proved to both?--then it was,for one at least, rather hard.
Especially when, bit by bit, strange ghostly fragments of his old selfbegan to re-appear in Robert Roy: his keen delight in nature, his loveof botanical or geological excursions. Often he would go wandering downthe familiar shore for hours in search of marine animals for the girls'aquarium, and then would come and sit down at their tea-table, reading ortalking, so like the Robert Roy of old that one of the little group, whoalways crept in the background, felt dizzy and strange, as if all herlater years had been a dream, and she were living her youth over again,only with the difference aforesaid: a difference sharp as that betweendeath and life--yet with something of the peace of death in it.
Sometimes, when they met at the innocent little tea parties which St.Andrews began to give--for of course in that small community every bodyknew every body, and all their affairs to boot, often a good deal betterthan they did themselves, so that there was great excitement and no endof speculation over Mr. Roy--sometimes meeting, as they were sure to do,and walking home together, with the moonlight shining down the emptystreets, and the stars out by myriads over the silent distant sea, whilethe nearer tide came washing in upon the sands--all was so like, sofrightfully like, old times that it was very sore to bear.
But, as I have said, Miss Williams was Miss Williams, and Mr. Roy Mr.Roy, and there were her two girls always besides them; also his two boys,who soon took to "Auntie" as naturally as if they were really hers, orshe theirs.
"I think they had better call you so, as the others do," said Mr. Roy oneday. "Are these young ladies really related to you?"
"No; but I promised their father on his death-bed to take charge of them.That is all."
"He is dead, then. Was he a great friend of yours?"
She felt the blood flashing all over her face, but she answered,steadily: "Not a very intimate friend, but I respected him exceedingly.He was a good man. His daughters had a heavy loss when he died, and Iam glad to be a comfort to them so long as they need me."
"I have no doubt of it."
This was the only question he ever asked her concerning her past life,though, by slow degrees, he told her a good deal of his own. Enough tomake her quite certain, even if her keen feminine instinct had notalready divined the fact, that whatever there might have been in it ofsuffering, there was nothing in the smallest degree either to be ashamedof or to hide. What Robert Roy of Shanghai had written about him hadcontinued true. As he said one day to her, "We never stand still. Weeither grow better or worse. You have not grown worse."
Nor had he. All that was good in him had developed, all his littlefaults had toned down. The Robert Roy of today was slightly differentfrom, but in no wise inferior to, the Robert Roy of her youth. She sawit, and rejoiced in the seeing.
What he saw in her she could not tell. He seemed determined to restwholly in the present, and take out of it all the peace and pleasantnessthat he could. In the old days, when the Dalziel boys were naughty, andMrs. Dalziel tiresome; and work was hard, and holidays were few, and lifewas altogether the rough road that it often seems to the young, he hadonce called her "Pleasantness and Peace." He never said so now; butsometimes he looked it.
Many an evening he came and sat by her fireside, in the arm-chair, whichseemed by right to have devolved upon him; never staying very long, forhe was still nervously sensitive about being "in the way," but makinghimself and them all very cheerful and happy while he did stay. Onlysometimes, when Fortune's eyes stole to his face--not a young man'sface now--she fancied she could trace, besides the wrinkles, a sadness,approaching to hardness, that never used to be. But again, wheninterested in some book or other (he said it was delicious to take toreading again, after the long fast of years), he would look around to herfor sympathy, or utter one of his dry drolleries, the old likeness, theold manner and tone would come back so vividly that she started, hardlyknowing whether the feeling it gave her was pleasure or pain.
But beneath both, lying so deep down that neither he nor any one couldever suspect its presence, was something else. Can many waters quenchlove? Can the deep sea drown it? What years of silence can wither it?What frost of age can freeze it down? God only knows.
Hers was not like a girl's love. Those two girls sitting by her dayafter day would have smiled at it, and at its object. Between themselvesthey considered Mr. Roy somewhat of an "old fogy;" were very glad to makeuse of him now and then, in the great dearth of gentlemen at St. Andrews,and equally glad afterward to turn him over to Auntie, who was alwayskind to him. Auntie was so kind to every body.
Kind? Of course she was, and above all when he looked worn and tired.He did so sometimes: as if life had ceased to be all pleasure, and theconstant mirth of these young folks was just a little too much for him.Then she ingeniously used to save him from it and them for a while. Theynever knew--there was no need for them to know--how tenfold deeper thanall the passion of youth is the tenderness with which a woman cleaves tothe man she loves when she sees him growing old.
Thus the days went by till Easter came, announced by the suddenapparition, one evening, of David Dalziel.
That young man, when, the very first day of his holidays, he walked inupon his friends at St. Andrews, and found sitting at their tea-table astrange gentleman, did not like it at all--scarcely even when he foundout that the intruder was his old friend, Mr. Roy.
"And you never told me a word about this," said he, reproachfully, toMiss Williams. "Indeed, you have not written to me for weeks; you haveforgotten all about me."
She winced at the accusation, for it was true. Beyond her daily domesticlife, which she still carefully fulfilled, she had in truth forgottenevery thing. Outside people were ceasing to affect her at all. What _he_liked, what _he_ wanted to do, day by day--whether he looked ill or well,happy or unhappy, only he rarely looked either--this was slowly growingto be once more her whole world. With a sting of compunction, andanother, half of fear, save that there was nothing to dread, nothing thatcould affect any body beyond herself--Miss Williams roused herself togive young Dalziel an especially hearty welcome, and to make his littlevisit as happy as possible.
Small need of that; he was bent on taking all things pleasantly. Comingnow near the end of a very creditable college career, being of age andindependent, with the cozy little fortune that his old grandmother hadleft him, the young fellow was disposed to see every thing _couleur derose_, and this feeling communicated itself to all his friends.
It was a pleasant time. Often in years to come did that little knot offriends, old and young, look back upon it as upon one of those rarebright bits in life when the outside current of things moves smoothly on,while underneath it there may or may not be, but generally there is, asecret or two which turns the most trivial events into sweet and dearremembrances forever.
David's days being few enough, they took pains not to lose one, butplanned excursions here, there, and every where--to Dundee, to Perth, toElie, to Balcarras--all together, children, young folks, and elders: thatadmirable _melange_ which generally makes such expeditions "go off" well.Theirs did, especially the last one, to the old house of Balcarras, wherethey got admission to the lovely quaint garden, and Janetta sang "AuldRobin Gray" on the spot where it was written.
She had a sweet voice, and there seemed to have come into it a pathoswhich Fortune had never remarked before. The touching, ever old, evernew story made the young people quite quiet for a few minutes; and thenthey all wandered away together, Helen promising to look after thetwo wild young Roys, to see that they did not kill themselves in someunforeseen way, as, aided and abetted by D
avid and Janetta, they went ona scramble up Balcarras Hill.
"Will you go too?" said Fortune to Robert Roy. "I have the provisions tosee to; besides, I can not scramble as well as the rest. I am not quiteso young as I used to be."
"Nor I," he answered, as, taking her basket, he walked silently on besideher.
It was a curious feeling, and all to come out of a foolish song; but ifever she felt thankful to God from the bottom of her heart that she hadsaid "No," at once and decisively, to the good man who slept at peacebeneath the church-yard elms, it was at that moment. But the feelingand the moment passed by immediately. Mr. Roy took up the thread ofconversation where he had left it off--it was some bookish or ethicalargument, such as he would go on with for hours; so she listened to himin silence. They walked on, the larks singing and the primroses blowing.All the world was saying to itself, "I am young; I am happy;" but shesaid nothing at all.
People grow used to pain; it dies down at intervals, and becomes quitebearable, especially when no one see it or guesses at it.
They had a very merry picnic on the hilltop, enjoying those mundaneconsolations of food and drink which Auntie was expected always to haveforth-coming, and which those young people did by no means despise, norMr. Roy neither. He made himself so very pleasant with them all, lookingthoroughly happy, and baring his head to the spring breeze with theeagerness of a boy.
"Oh, this is delicious! It makes me feel young again. There's nothinglike home. One thing I am determined upon: I will never quit bonnieScotland more."
It was the first clear intimation he had given of his intentionsregarding the future, but it thrilled her with measureless content. Ifonly he would not go abroad again, if she might have him within reach forthe rest of her days--able to see him, to talk to him, to know where hewas and what he was doing, instead of being cut off from him by thoseterrible dividing seas--it was enough! Nothing could be so bitter aswhat had been; and whatever was the mystery of their youth, which it wasimpossible to unravel now--whether he had ever loved, or loved her andcrushed it down and forgotten it, or only felt very kindly and cordiallyto her, as he did now, the past was--well, only the past!--and thefuture lay still before her, not unsweet. When we are young, we insiston having every thing or nothing; when we are older, we learn that "everything" is an impossible and "nothing" a somewhat bitter word. We areable to stoop meekly and pick up the fragments of the children's bread,without feeling ourselves to be altogether "dogs".
Fortune went home that night with a not unhappy, almost a satisfied,heart. She sat back in the carriage, close beside that other heart whichshe believed to be the truest in all the world, though it had never beenhers. There was a tremendous clatter of talking and laughing and fun ofall sorts, between David Dalziel and the little Roys on the box, and theMisses Moseley sitting just below them, as they had insisted doing, nodoubt finding the other two members of the party a little "slow."
Nevertheless Mr. Roy and Miss Williams took their part in laughing withtheir young people, and trying to keep them in order; though after awhile both relapsed into silence. One did at least, for it had been along day and she was tired, being, as she had said, "not so young as shehad been." But if any of these lively young people had asked her thequestion whether she was happy, or at least contented, she would havenever hesitated about her reply. Young, gay, and prosperous as theywere, I doubt if Fortune Williams would have changed lots with any one ofthem all.
Chapter 6
As it befell, that day at Balcarras was the last of the bright days, inevery sense, for the time being. Wet weather set in, as even the mostpartial witness must allow does occasionally happen in Scotland, and thedomestic barometer seemed to go down accordingly. The girls grumbled atbeing kept in-doors, and would willingly have gone out golfing underumbrellas, but Auntie was remorseless. They were delicate girls at best,so that her watch over them was never-ceasing, and her patienceinexhaustible.
David Dalziel also was in a very trouble-some mood, quite unusual forhim. He came and went, complained bitterly that the girls were notallowed to go out with him; abused the place, the climate, and did allthose sort of bearish things which young gentlemen are sometimes in thehabit of doing, when--when that wicked little boy whom they read about atschool and college makes himself known to them as a pleasant, orunpleasant, reality.
Miss Williams, whom, I am afraid, was far too simple a woman for the newgeneration, which has become so extraordinarily wise and wide-awake,opened her eyes and wondered why David was so unlike his usual self. Mr.Roy, too, to whom he behaved worse than to any one else, only the elderman quietly ignored it all, and was very patient and gentle with therestless, ill-tempered boy--Mr. Roy even remarked that he thought Davidwould be happier at his work again; idling was a bad thing for youngfellows at his age, or any age.
At last it came out, the bitterness which rankled in the poor lad'sbreast; with another secret, which, foolish woman that she was, MissWilliams had never in the smallest degree suspected. Very odd that shehad not, but so it was. We all find it difficult to realize the momentwhen our children cease to be children. Still more difficult is it forvery serious and earnest natures to recognize that there are othernatures who take things in a totally different way, and yet it may be theright and natural way for them. Such is the fact; we must learn it, andthe sooner we learn it, the better.
One day, when the rain had a little abated, David appeared, greatlydisappointed to find the girls had gone out, down to the West Sands withMr. Roy.
"Always Mr. Roy! I am sick of his very name," muttered David, and thencaught Miss Williams by the dress as she was rising. She had a gentlebut rather dignified way with her of repressing bad manners in youngpeople, either by perfect silence, or by putting the door between herand them. "Don't go! One never can get a quiet word with you, you arealways so preternaturally busy."
It was true. To be always busy was her only shield against--certainthings which the young man was never likely to know, and would notunderstand if he did know.
"Do sit down, if you ever can sit down, for a minute," said he,imploringly; "I want to speak to you seriously, very seriously."
She sat down, a little uneasy. The young fellow was such a good fellow;and yet he might have got into a scrape of some sort. Debt, perhaps,for he was a trifle extravagant; but then life had been all roses tohim. He had never known a want since he was born.
"Speak, then, David; I am listening. Nothing very wrong, I hope!" saidshe, with a smile.
"Nothing at all wrong, only--When is Mr. Roy going away"?
The question was so unexpected that she felt her color changing a little;not much, she was too old for that.
"Mr. Roy leaving St. Andrews, you mean? How can I tell? He has nevertold me. Why do you ask?"
"Because until he gone, I stay," said the young man, doggedly. "I'm notgoing back to Oxford leaving him master of the field. I have stood himas long as I possibly can, and I'll not stand him any longer."
"David! you forget yourself."
"There--now you are offended; I know you are, when you draw yourself upin that way, my dear little auntie. But just hear me. You are such aninnocent woman, you don't know the world as men do. Can't you see--no,of course you can't--that very soon all St. Andrews will be talking aboutyou?"
"About me?"
"Not about you exactly, but about the family. A single man--a marryingman, as all the world says he is, or ought to be, with his money--can notgo in and out, like a tame cat, in a household of women, without having,or being supposed to have--ahem!--intentions. I assure you"--and heswung himself on the arm of her chair, and looked into her face with anangry earnestness quite unmistakable--"I assure you, I never go into theclub without being asked, twenty times a day, which of the Miss MoseleysMr. Roy is going to marry."
"Which of the Miss Moseleys Mr. Roy is going to marry!"
She repeated the words, as if to gain time and to be certain she heardthem rightly. No fear of her b
lushing now; every pulse in her heartstood dead still; and then she nerved herself to meet the necessity ofthe occasion.
"David, you surely do not consider what you are saying. This is a mostextraordinary idea."
"It is a most extraordinary idea; in fact, I call it ridiculous,monstrous: an old battered fellow like him, who has knocked about theworld, Heaven knows where, all these years, to come home, and, because hehas got a lot of money, think to go and marry one of these nice, prettygirls. They wouldn't have him, I believe that; but nobody else believesit; and every body seems to think it the most natural thing possible.What do you say?"
"I?"
"Surely you don't think it right, or even possible? But, Auntie, itmight turn out a rather awkward affair, and you ought to take my advice,and stop it in time."
"How?"
"Why, by stepping him out of the house. You and he are great friends: ifhe had any notion of marrying, I suppose he would mention it to you--heought. It would be a cowardly trick to come and steal one of yourchickens from under your wing. Wouldn't it? Do say something, insteadof merely echoing what I say. It really is a serious matter, though youdon't think so."
"Yes, I do think so," said Miss Williams, at last; "and I would stop itif I thought I had any right. But Mr. Roy is quite able to manage hisown affairs; and he is not so very old--not more than five-and-twentyyears older than--Helen."
"Bother Helen! I beg her pardon, she is a dear good girl. But do youthink any man would look at Helen when there was Janetta?"
It was out now, out with a burning blush over all the lad's honestface, and the sudden crick-crack of a pretty Indian paper-cutter heunfortunately was twiddling in his fingers. Miss Williams must have beenblind indeed not to have guessed the state of the case.
"What! Janetta? Oh, David!" was all she said.
He nodded. "Yes, that's it, just it. I thought you must have found itout long ago: though I kept myself to myself pretty close, still youmight have guessed."
"I never did. I had not the remotest idea. Oh, how remiss I have been!It is all my fault."
"Excuse me, I can not see that it is any body's fault, or any body'smisfortune, either," said the young fellow, with a not unbecoming pride."I hope I should not be a bad husband to any girl, when it comes to that.But it has not come; I have never said a single word to her. I wanted tobe quite clear of Oxford, and in a way to win my own position first. Andreally we are so very jolly together as it is. What are you smilingfor?"
She could not help it. There was something so funny in the whole affair.They seemed such babies, playing at love; and their love-making, if suchit was, had been carried on in such an exceedingly open and lively way,not a bit of tragedy about it, rather genteel comedy, bordering on farce.It was such a contrast to--certain other love stories that she had known,quite buried out of sight now.
Gentle "Auntie"--the grave maiden lady, the old hen with all these youngducklings who would take to the water so soon--held out her hand to theimpetuous David.
"I don't know what to say to you, my boy: you really are little more thana boy, and to be taking upon yourself the responsibilities of life sosoon! Still, I am glad you have said nothing to her about it yet. She isa mere child, only eighteen."
"Quite old enough to marry, and to marry Mr. Roy even, the St. Andrewsfolks think. But I won't stand it. I won't tamely sit by and see hersacrificed. He might persuade her; he has a very winning way with himsometimes. Auntie, I have not spoken, but I won't promise not to speak.It is all very well for you; you are old, and your blood runs cold, asyou said to us one day--no, I don't mean that; you are a real brickstill, and you'll never be old to us, but you are not in love, and youcan't understand what it is to be a young fellow like me to see an oldfellow like Roy coming in and just walking over the course. But hesha'nt do it! Long ago, when I was quite a lad, I made up my mind toget her; and get her I will, spite of Mr. Roy or any body."
Fortune was touched. That strong will which she too had had, able, likefaith, to "remove mountains," sympathized involuntarily with the lad. Itwas just what she would have said and done, had she been a man and loveda woman. She gave David's hand a warm clasp, which he returned.
"Forgive me," said he, affectionately. "I did not mean to bother you;but as things stand, the matter is better out than in. I hateunderhandedness. I may have made an awful fool of myself, but at least Ihave not made a fool of her. I have been as careful as possible not tocompromise her in any way; for I know how people do talk, and a man hasno right to let the girl he loves be talked about. The more he lovesher, the more he ought to take care of her. Don't you think so?"
"Yes."
"I'd cut myself up into little pieces for Janetta's sake," he went on,"and I'd do a deal for Helen too, the sisters are so fond of one another.She shall always have a home with us, when we are married."
"Then," said Miss Williams, hardly able again to resist a smile, "you arequite certain you will be married? You have no doubt about her caringfor you?"
David pulled his whiskers, not very voluminous yet, looked conscious, andyet humble.
"Well, I don't exactly say that. I know I'm not half good enough forher. Still, I thought, when I had taken my degree and fairly settledmyself at the bar, I'd try. I have a tolerably good income of my owntoo, though of course I am not as well off as that confounded Roy. Therehe is at this minute meandering up and down the West Sands with those twogirls, setting every body's tongue going! I can't stand it. I declareto you I won't stand it another day."
"Stop a moment," and she caught hold of David as he started up. "Whatare you going to do?"
"I don't know and I don't care, only I won't have my girl talkedabout--my pretty, merry, innocent girl. He ought to know better, ashrewd old fellow like him. It is silly, selfish, mean."
This was more than Miss Williams could bear. She stood up, pale to thelips, but speaking strongly, almost fiercely:
"You ought to know better, David Dalziel. You ought to know that Mr. Royhad not an atom of selfishness or meanness in him--that he would be thelast man in the world to compromise any girl. If he chooses to marryJanetta, or any one else, he has a perfect right to do it, and I for onewill not try to hinder him."
"Then you will not stand by me any more?"
"Not if you are blind and unfair. You may die of love, though I don'tthink you will; people don't do it nowadays" (there was a slightly bitterjar in the voice): "but love ought to make you all the more honorable,clear-sighted, and just. And as to Mr. Roy--"
She might have talked to the winds, for David was not listening. He hadheard the click of the garden gate, and turned round with blazing eyes.
"There he is again! I can't stand it, Miss Williams. I give you fairwarning I can't stand it. He has walked home with them, and is waitingabout at the laurel bush, mooning after them. Oh, hang him!"
Before she had time to speak the young man was gone. But she had no fearof any very tragic consequences when she saw the whole party standingtogether--David talking to Janetta, Mr. Roy to Helen, who looked sofresh, so young, so pretty, almost as pretty as Janetta. Nor did Mr.Roy, pleased and animated, look so very old.
That strange clear-sightedness, that absolute justice, of which Fortunehad just spoken, were qualities she herself possessed to a remarkable,almost a painful, degree. She could not deceive herself, even if shetried. The more cruel the sight, the clearer she saw it; even as now sheperceived a certain naturalness in the fact that a middle-aged man sooften chooses a young girl in preference to those of his own generation,for she brings him that which he has not; she reminds him of what he usedto have; she is to him like the freshness of spring, the warmth ofsummer, in his cheerless autumn days. Sometimes these marriages are notunhappy--far from it; and Robert Roy might ere long make such a marriage.Despite poor David's jealous contempt, he was neither old nor ugly, andthen he was rich.
The thing, either as regarded Helen, or some other girl of Helen'sstanding,
appeared more than possible--probable; and if so, what then?
Fortune looked out once, and saw that the little group at the laurel bushwere still talking; then she slipped up stairs into her own room andbolted the door.
The first thing that she did was to go straight up and look at her ownface in the glass--her poor old face, which had never been beautiful,which she had never wished beautiful, except that it might be pleasantin one man's eyes. Sweet it was still, but the sweetness lay in itsexpression, pure and placid, and innocent as a young girl's. But she sawnot that; she saw only its lost youth, its faded bloom. She covered itover with both her hands, as if she would fain bury it out of sight;knelt down by her bedside, and prayed.
"Mr. Roy is waiting below ma'am--has been waiting some time; but he saysif you are busy he will not disturb you; he will come to-morrow instead."
"Tell him I shall be very glad to see him to-morrow."
She spoke through the locked door, too feeble to rise and open it; andthen lying down on her bed and turning her face to the wall, from sheerexhaustion fell fast asleep.
People dream strangely sometimes. The dream she dreamt was soinexpressibly soothing and peaceful, so entirely out of keeping with thereality of things, that it almost seemed to have been what in ancienttimes would be called a vision.
First, she thought that she and Robert Roy were little children--meregirl and boy together, as they might have been from the few years'difference in their ages--running hand in hand about the sands of St.Andrews, and so fond of one another--so very fond! With that innocentlove a big boy often has for a little girl, and a little girl returnswith the tenderest fidelity. So she did; and she was so happy--they wereboth so happy. In the second part of the dream she was happy still, butsomehow she knew she was dead--had been dead and in paradise for a longtime, and was waiting for him to come there. He was coming now; she felthim coming, and held out her hands, but he took and clasped her in hisarms; and she heard a voice saying those mysterious words: "In heaventhey neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels ofGod."
It was very strange, all was very strange, but it comforted her. Sherose up, and in the twilight of the soft spring evening she washed herface and combed her hair, and went down, like King David after his childwas dead, to "eat bread."
Her young people were not there. They had gone out again; she heard,with Mr. Dalziel, not Mr. Roy, who had sat reading in the parlor alonefor upward of an hour. They were supposed to be golfing, but they staidout till long after it was possible to see balls or holes; and MissWilliams was beginning to be a little uneasy, when they all three walkedin, David and Janetta with a rather sheepish air, and Helen beaming allover with mysterious delight.
How the young man had managed it--to propose to two sisters at once, atany rate to make love to one sister while the other was by--remainedamong the wonderful feats which David Dalziel, who had not too small anopinion of himself, was always ready for, and generally succeeded in; andif he did wear his heart somewhat "on his sleeve," why, it was a veryhonest heart, and they must have been ill-natured "daws" indeed who tookpleasure in "pecking at it."
"Wish me joy, Auntie!" he cried, coming forward, beaming all over, theinstant the girls had disappeared to take their hats off. "I've been andgone and done it, and it's all right. I didn't intend it just yet, buthe drove me to it, for which I'm rather obliged to him. He can't get hernow. Janetta's mine!"
There was a boyish triumph in his air; in fact, his whole conduct wasexceedingly juvenile, but so simple, frank, and sincere as to be quiteirresistible.
I fear Miss Williams was a very weak-minded woman, or would be soconsidered by a great part of the world--the exceedingly wise and prudentand worldly-minded "world." Here were two young people, one twenty-two,the other eighteen, with--it could hardly be said "not a half-penny,"but still a very small quantity of half-pennies, between them--and theyhad not only fallen in love, but engaged themselves to married! She oughtto have been horrified, to have severely reproached them for theirimprudence, used all her influence and, if needs be, her authority, tostop the whole thing; advising David not to bind himself to any girl tillhe was much older, and his prospects secured; and reasoning with Janettaon the extreme folly of a long engagement, and how very much better itwould be for her to pause, and make some "good" marriage with a man ofwealth and position, who could keep her comfortably.
All this, no doubt, was what a prudent and far-seeing mother or friendought to have said and done. Miss Williams did no such thing, and saidnot a single word. She only kissed her "children"--Helen too, whoseinnocent delight was the prettiest thing to behold--then sat down andmade tea for them all, as if nothing had happened.
But such events do not happen without making a slight stir in a family,especially such a quiet family as that at the cottage. Besides, thelovers were too childishly happy to be at all reticent over theirfelicity. Before David was turned away that night to the hotel which heand Mr. Roy both inhabited, every body in the house knew quite well thatMr. Dalziel and Miss Janetta were to be married.
And every body had of course suspected it long ago, and was not in theleast surprised, so that the mistress of the household herself was halfashamed to confess how very much surprised _she_ had been. However, asevery body seemed delighted, for most people have a "sneaking kindness"toward young lovers, she kept her own counsel; smiled blandly over herold cook's half-pathetic congratulations to the young couple, who were"like the young bears, with all their troubles before them," and laughedat the sympathetic forebodings of the girls' faithful maid, a ratherelderly person, who was supposed to have been once "disappointed," andwho "hoped Mr. Dalziel was not too young to know his own mind." Still,in spite of all, the family were very much delighted, and not a littleproud.
David walked in, master of the position now, directly after breakfast,and took the sisters out for a walk, both of them, declaring he was asmuch encumbered as if he were going to marry two young ladies at once,but bearing his lot with great equanimity. His love-making indeed was soextraordinarily open and undisguised that it did not much matter who wasby. And Helen was of that sweet negative nature that seemed made for theexpress purpose of playing "gooseberry."
Directly they had departed, Mr. Roy came in.
He might have been a far less acute observer than he was not to detect atonce that "something had happened" in the little family. Miss Williamskept him waiting several minutes, and when she did come in her mannerwas nervous and agitated. They spoke about the weather and one or twotrivial things, but more than once Fortune felt him looking at her withthat keen, kindly observation which had been sometimes, during all theseweeks now running into months, of almost daily meeting, and of theclosest intimacy--a very difficult thing to bear.
He was exceedingly kind to her always; there was no question of that.Without making any show of it, he seemed always to know where she wasand what she was doing. Nothing ever lessened his silent care of her.If ever she wanted help, there he was to give it. And in all theirexcursions she had a quiet conviction that whoever forgot her or hercomfort, he never would. But then it was his way. Some men have eyesand ears for only one woman, and that merely while they happen to be inlove with her; whereas Robert Roy was courteous and considerate to everywoman, even as he was kind to every weak or helpless creature thatcrossed his path.
Evidently he perceived that all was not right; and, though he saidnothing, there was a tenderness in his manner which went to her heart.
"You are not looking well to-day; should you not go out?" he said. "Imet all your young people walking off to the sands: they seemedextraordinarily happy."
Fortune was much perplexed. She did not like not to tell him thenews--him, who had so completely established himself as a friend of thefamily. And yet to tell him was not exactly her place; besides, he mightnot care to hear. Old maid as she was, or thought herself, Miss Williamsknew enough of men not to fall into the feminine error of fancying theyfeel as we do-
-that their world is our world, and their interest ourinterest. To most men, a leader in the _Times_, an article in the_Quarterly_, or a fall in the money market is of far more importance thanany love affair in the world, unless it happens to be their own.
Why should I tell him? she thought, convinced that he noticed the anxietyin her eyes, the weariness at her heart. She had passed an almostsleepless night, pondering over the affairs of these young people, whonever thought of any thing beyond their own new-born happiness. Andshe had perplexed herself with wondering whether in consenting to thisengagement she was really doing her duty by her girls, who had no one buther, and whom she was so tender of, for their dead father's sake. Butwhat good was it to say any thing? She must bear her own burden. Andyet--
Robert Roy looked at her with his kind, half-amused smile.
"You had better tell me all about it; for, indeed, I know already."
"What! did you guess it?"
"Perhaps. But Dalziel came to my room last night and poured outeverything. He is a candid youth. Well, and am I to congratulate?"
Greatly relieved, Fortune looked up.
"That's right," he said; "I like to see you smile. A minute or two agoyou seemed as if you had the cares of all the world on your shoulders.No, that is not exactly the truth. Always meet the truth face to face,and don't be frightened by it."
Ah, no. If she had had that strong heart to lean on, that tender hand tohelp her through the world, she never would have been "frightened" at anything.
"I know I am very foolish," she said; "but there are many things whichthese children of mine don't see, and I can't help seeing."
"Certainly; they are young, and we are--well, never mind. Sit down here,and let you and me talk the matter quietly over. On the whole, are youglad or sorry?"
"Both, I think. David is able to take care of himself; but poor littleJanetta--my Janetta--what if he should bring her to poverty? He is alittle reckless about money, and has only a very small certain income.Worse; suppose being so young, he should by-and-by get tired of her, andneglect her, and break her heart?"
"Or twenty other things which may happen, or may not, and of which theymust take the chance, like their neighbors. You do not believe very muchin men, I see, and perhaps you are right. We are a bad lot--a bad lot.But David Dalziel is as good as most of us, that I can assure you."
She could hardly tell whether he was in jest or earnest; but this wascertain, he meant to cheer and comfort her, and she took the comfort,and was thankful.
"Now to the point," continued Mr. Roy. "You feel that, in a worldlypoint of view, these two have done a very foolish thing, and you haveaided and abetted them in doing it?"
"Not so," she cried, laughing; "I had no idea of such a thing till Davidtold me yesterday morning of his intentions."
"Yes, and he explained to me why he told you, and why he dared not waitany longer. He blurts out every thing, the foolish boy! But he has madefriends with me now. They do seem such children, do they not, comparedwith old folks like you and me?"
What was it in the tone or the words which made her feel not in the leastvexed, nor once attempt to rebut the charge of being "old?"
"I'll tell you what it is," said Robert Roy, with one of his sage smiles,"you must not go and vex yourself needlessly about trifles. We shouldnot judge other people by ourselves. Every body is so different.Dalziel may make his way all the better for having that pretty creaturefor a wife, not but what some other pretty creature might soon have donejust as well. Very few men have tenacity of nature enough, if they cannot get the one woman they love, to do without any other to the end oftheir days. But don't be disappointed yourself about your girl. Davidwill make her a very good husband. They will be happy enough, eventhough not very rich."
"Does that matter much?"
"I used to think so. I had so sore a lesson of poverty in my youth, thatit gave me an almost morbid terror of it, not for myself, but for anywoman I cared for. Once I would not have done as Dalziel has for theworld. Now I have changed my mind. At any rate, David will not have onemisfortune to contend with. He has a thoroughly good opinion of himself,poor fellow! He will not suffer from that horrible self-distrust whichmakes some men let themselves drift on and on with the tide, instead oftaking the rudder into their own hands and steering straight on--directfor the haven where they would be. Oh, that I had done it."
He spoke passionately, and then sat silent. At last, muttering somethingabout "begging her pardon," and "taking a liberty," he changed theconversation into another channel, by asking whether this marriage, whenit happened--which, of course could not be just immediately--would makeany difference to her circumstances.
Some difference, she explained, because the girls would receive theirlittle fortunes whenever they came of age or married, and the sisterswould not like to be parted; besides, Helen's money would help theestablishment. Probably, whenever David married, he would take themboth away; indeed, he had said as much.
"And then shall you stay on here?"
"I may, for I have a small income of my own; besides, there are your twolittle boys, and I might find two or three more. But I do not troublemyself much about the future. One thing is certain, I need never workas hard as I have done all my life."
"Have you worked so very hard, then, my poor--"
He left the sentence unfinished; his hand, half extended, was drawn back,for the three young people were seen coming down the garden, followed bythe two boys, returning from their classes. It was nearly dinner-time,and people must dine, even though in love; and boys must be kept totheir school work, and all the daily duties of life must be done. Well,perhaps, for many of us, that such should be! I think it was as well forpoor Fortune Williams.
The girls had come in wet through, with one of those sudden "haars" whichare not uncommon at St. Andrews in spring, and it seemed likely to lastall day. Mr. Roy looked out of the window at it with a slightly dolorousair.
"I suppose I am rather _de trop_ here, but really I wish you would notturn me out. In weather like this our hotel coffee-room is just a trifledull, isn't it, Dalziel? And, Miss Williams, your parlor looks socomfortable. Will you let me stay?"
He made the request with a simplicity quite pathetic. One of the mostlovable things about this man--is it not in all men?--was, that with allhis shrewdness and cleverness, and his having been knocked up and downthe world for so many years, he still kept a directness and simpleness ofcharacter almost child-like.
To refuse would have been unkind, impossible; so Miss Williams told himhe should certainly stay if he could make himself comfortable. And tothat end she soon succeeded in turning off her two turtle-doves into aroom by themselves, for the use of which they had already bargained,in order to "read together, and improve their minds." Meanwhile sheand Helen tried to help the two little boys to spend a dull holidayindoors--if they were ever dull beside Uncle Robert, who had not losthis old influence with boys, and to those boys was already a father inall but the name.
Often Fortune watched them, sitting upon his chair, hanging about him ashe walked, coming to him for sympathy in every thing. Yes, every bodyloved him, for there was such an amount of love in him toward everymortal creature, except--
She looked at him and his boys, then turned away. What was to be hadbeen, and always would be. That which we fight against in our youth asbeing human will, human error, in our age we take humbly, knowing it tobe the will of God.
By-and-by in the little household the gas was lighted, the curtainsdrawn, and the two lovers fetched in for tea, to behave themselves asmuch as they could like ordinary mortals, in general society, for therest of the evening. A very pleasant evening it was, spite of this newelement; which was got rid of as much as possible by means of the windowrecess, where Janetta and David encamped composedly, a little aloof fromthe rest.
"I hope they don't mind me," said Mr. Roy, casting an amused glance intheir direction, and then adroitly maneuvering with
the back of his chairso as to interfere as little as possible with the young couple'sfelicity.
"Oh no, they don't mind you at all," answered Helen, always affectionate,if not always wise. "Besides, I dare say you yourself were young once,Mr. Roy."
Evidently Helen had no idea of the plans for her future which were beingtalked about in St. Andrews. Had he? No one could even speculate withsuch an exceedingly reserved person. He retired behind his newspaper,and said not a single word.
Nevertheless, there was no cloud in the atmosphere. Every body was usedto Mr. Roy's silence in company. And he never troubled any body, noteven the children, with either a gloomy look or a harsh word. He was socomfortable to live with, so unfailingly sweet and kind.
Although there was a strange atmosphere of peace in the cottage thatevening, though nobody seemed to do any thing or say very much. Now andthen Mr. Roy read aloud bits out of his endless newspapers--he had atruly masculine mania for newspapers, and used to draw one after anotherout of his pockets, as endless as a conjurer's pocket-handkerchiefs. Andhe liked to share their contents with any body that would listen; thoughI am afraid nobody did listen much to-night except Miss Williams, who satbeside him at her sewing, in order to get the benefit of the same lamp.And between his readings he often turned and looked at her, her benthead, her smooth soft hair, her busy hands.
Especially after one sentence, out of the "Varieties" of some Fifenewspaper. He had begun to read it, then stopped suddenly, but finishedit. It consisted only of a few words: _"'Young love is passionate, oldlove is faithful; but the very tenderest thing in all this world is alove revived.'_ That is true."
He said only those three words, in a very low, quiet voice, but Fortuneheard. His look she did not see, but she felt it--even as a person longkept in darkness might feel a sunbeam strike along the wall, making itseem possible that there might be somewhere in the earth such a thing asday.
About nine P.M. the lovers in the window recess discovered that the haarwas all gone, and that it was a most beautiful moonlight night; fullmoon, the very night they had planned to go in a body to the top of St.Regulus tower.
"I suppose they must," said Mr. Roy to Miss Williams; adding, "Let theyoung folks make the most of their youth; it never will come again."
"No."
"And you and I must go too. It will be more _comme il faut_, as peoplesay."
So, with a half-regretful look at the cozy fire, Mr. Roy marshaled thelively party, Janetta and David, Helen and the two boys; engaging to getthem the key of that silent garden of graves over which St. Regulus towerkeeps stately watch. How beautiful it looked, with the clear sky shiningthrough its open arch, and the brilliant moonlight, bright as day almost,but softer, flooding every alley of that peaceful spot! It quieted eventhe noisy party who were bent on climbing the tower, to catch a view,such as is rarely equaled, of the picturesque old city and its beautifulbay.
"A 'comfortable place to sleep in,' as some one once said to me in aMelbourne church-yard. But 'east or west, home is best.--I think, Bob,I shall leave it in my will that you are to bury me at St. Andrews.'"
"Nonsense, Uncle Robert! You are not to talk of dying. And you are tocome with us up to the top of the tower. Miss Williams, will you cometoo?"
"No, I think she had better not," said Uncle Robert, decisively. "Shewill stay here, and I will keep her company."
So the young people all vanished up the tower, and the two elders walkedsilently side by side the quiet graves--by the hearts which had ceasedbeating, the hands which, however close they lay, would never clasp oneanother any more.
"Yes, St. Andrews is a pleasant place," said Robert Roy at last. "Ispoke in jest, but I meant in earnest; I have no wish to leave it again.And you," he added, seeing that she answered nothing--"what plans haveyou? Shall you stay on at the cottage till these young people aremarried?"
"Most likely. We are all fond of the little house."
"No wonder. They say a wandering life after a certain number of yearsunsettles a man forever; he rests nowhere, but goes on wandering to theend. But I feel just the contrary. I think I shall stay permanently atSt. Andrews. You will let me come about your cottage, 'like a tame cat,'as that foolish fellow owned he had called me--will you not?"
"Certainly."
But at the same time she felt there was a strain beyond which she couldnot bear. To be so near, yet so far; so much to him, and yet so little.She was conscious of a wild desire to run away somewhere--run away andescape it all; of a longing to be dead and buried, deep in the sea, upaway among the stars.
"Will those young people be very long, do you think?"
At the sound of her voice he turned to look at her, and saw that she wasdeadly pale, and shivering from head to foot.
"This will never do. You must 'come under my plaidie,' as the childrensay, and I will take you home at once. Boys!" he called out to thefigures now appearing like jackdaws at the top of the tower, "we aregoing straight home. Follow us as soon as you like. Yes, it must beso," he answered to the slight resistance she made. "They must all takecare of themselves. I mean to take care of you."
Which he did, wrapping her well in the half of his plaid, drawing herhand under his arm and holding it there--holding it close and warm athis heart all the way along the Scores and across the Links, scarcelyspeaking a single word until they reached the garden gate. Even therehe held it still.
"I see your girls coming, so I shall leave you. You are warm now, areyou not?"
"Quite warm."
"Good-night, then. Stay. Tell me"--he spoke rapidly, and with muchagitation--"tell me just one thing, and I will never trouble you again.Why did you not answer a letter I wrote to you seventeen years ago?"
"I never got any letter. I never had one word from you after the Sundayyou bade me good-by, promising to write."
"And I did write," cried he, passionately. "I posted it with my ownhands. You should have got it on the Tuesday morning."
She leaned against the laurel bush, that fatal laurel bush, and in a fewbreathless words told him what David had said about the hidden letter.
"It must have been my letter. Why did you not tell me this before?"
"How could I? I never knew you had written. You never said a word. Inall these years you have never said a single word."
Bitterly, bitterly he turned away. The groan that escaped him--a man'sgroan over his lost life--lost, not wholly through fate alone--was suchas she, the woman whose portion had been sorrow, passive sorrow only,never forgot in all her days.
"Don't mind it," she whispered--"don't mind it. It is so long past now."
He made no immediate answer, then said,
"Have you no idea what was in the letter?"
"No."
"It was to ask you a question, which I had determined not to ask justthen, but I changed my mind. The answer, I told you, I should wait forin Edinburgh seven days; after that, I should conclude you meant No, andsail. No answer came, and I sailed."
He was silent. So was she. A sense of cruel fatality came over her.Alas! those lost years, that might have been such happy years! At lengthshe said, faintly, "Forget it. It was not your fault."
"It was my fault. If not mine, you were still yourself--I ought never tohave let you go. I ought to have asked again; to have sought through thewhole world till I found you again. And now that I have found you--"
"Hush! The girls are here."
They came along laughing, that merry group--with whom life was at itsspring--who had lost nothing, knew not what it was to lose!
"Good-night," said Mr. Roy, hastily. "But--to-morrow morning?"
"Yes."
"There never is night to which comes no morn," says the proverb. Whichis not always true, at least as to this world; but it is true sometimes.
That April morning Fortune Williams rose with a sense of strangesolemnity--neither sorrow nor joy. Both had gone by; but they had leftbehind them a deep peace.
/> After her young people had walked themselves off, which they didimmediately after breakfast, she attended to all her household duties,neither few nor small, and then sat down with her needle-work beside theopen window. It was a lovely day; the birds were singing, the leavesbudding, a few early flowers making all the air to smell like spring.And she--with her it was autumn now. She knew it, but still she did notgrieve.
Presently, walking down the garden walk, almost with the same firm stepof years ago--how well she remembered it!--Robert Roy came; but it wasstill a few minutes before she could go into the little parlor to meethim. At last she did, entering softly, her hand extended as usual. Hetook it, also as usual, and then looked down into her face, as he haddone that Sunday. "Do you remember this? I have kept it for seventeenyears."
It was her mother's ring. She looked up with a dumb inquiry.
"My love, did you think I did not love you?--you always, and only you?"
So saying, he opened his arms; she felt them close round her, just as inher dream. Only they were warm, living arms; and it was this world, notthe next. All those seventeen bitter years seemed swept away,annihilated in a moment; she laid her head on his shoulder and wept outher happy heart there.
* * * * * *
The little world of St. Andrews was very much astonished when itlearned that Mr. Roy was going to marry, not one of the pretty MissMoseleys, but their friend and former governess, a lady, not by anymeans young, and remarkable for nothing except great sweetness andgood sense, which made every body respect and like her; though nobodywas much excited concerning her. Now people had been excited aboutMr. Roy, and some were rather sorry for him; thought perhaps he hadbeen taken in, till some story got wind of its having been an "oldattachment," which interested them of course; still, the good folks werehalf angry with him. To go and marry an old maid when he might havehad his choice of half a dozen young ones! when, with his fortune andcharacter, he might, as people say--as they had said of that other goodman, Mr. Moseley--"have married any body!"
They forgot that Mr. Roy happened to be one of those men who have noparticular desire to marry "any body;" to whom _the_ woman, whetherfound early or late--alas! in this case found early and won late--is theone woman in the world forever. Poor Fortune--rich Fortune! she need notbe afraid of her fading cheek, her silvering hair; he would never seeeither. The things he loved her for were quite apart from any thing thatyouth could either give or take away. As he said one, when she lamentedhers, "Never mind, let it go. You will always be yourself--and mine."
This was enough. He loved her. He had always loved her: she had nofear but that he would love her faithfully to the end.
Theirs was a very quiet wedding, and a speedy one. "Why should theywait? they had waited too long already," he said, with some bitterness.But she felt none. With her all was peace.
Mr. Roy did another very foolish thing which I can not conscientiouslyrecommend to any middle-aged bachelor. Besides marrying his wife, hemarried her whole family. There was no other way out of the difficulty,and neither of them was inclined to be content with happiness, leavingduty unfulfilled. So he took the largest house in St. Andrews, andbrought to it Janetta and Helen, till David Dalziel could claim them;likewise his own two orphan boys, until they went to Oxford; for hemeant to send them there, and bring them up in every way like his ownsons.
Meantime, it was rather a heterogeneous family; but the two heads of itbore their burden with great equanimity, nay, cheerfulness; sayingsometimes, with a smile which had the faintest shadow of pathos in it,"that they liked to have young life about them."
And by degrees they grew younger themselves; less of the old bachelorand old maid, and more of the happy middle-aged couple to whomHeaven gave, in their decline, a St. Martin's summer almost as sweet asspring. They were both too wise to poison the present by regretting thepast--a past which, if not wholly, was partly, at least, owing to thatstrange fatality which governs so many lives, only some have the will toconquer it, others not. And there are two sides to every thing: RobertRoy, who alone knew how hard his own life had been, sometimes felt astern joy in thinking no one had shared it.
Still, for a long time there lay at the bottom of that strong, gentleheart of his a kind of remorseful tenderness, which showed itself inheaping his wife with every luxury that his wealth could bring; betterthan all, in surrounding her with that unceasing care which love aloneteaches, never allowing the wind to blow on her too roughly--his "poorlamb," as he sometime called her, who had suffered so much.
They are sure, humanly speaking, to "live very happy to the end of theirdays." And I almost fancy sometimes, if I were to go to St. Andrews, asI hope to do many a time, for I am as fond of the Aged City as they are,that I should see those two, made one at last after all those crueldivided years, wandering together along the sunshiny sands, or standingto watch the gay golfing parties; nay, I am not sure that Robert Roywould not be visible sometimes in his red coat, club in hand, crossingthe Links, a victim to the universal insanity of St. Andrews, yetenjoying himself, as golfers always seem to do, with the enjoyment of avery boy.
She is not a girl, far from it; but there will always be a girlishsweetness in her faded face till its last smile. And to see her sittingbeside her husband on the green slopes of the pretty garden--knitting,perhaps while he reads his eternal newspapers--is a perfect picture.They do not talk very much; indeed, they were neither of them ever greattalkers. But each knows the other is close at hand, ready for anyneedful word, and always ready with that silent sympathy which is somysterious a thing, the rarest thing to find in all human lives. Thesehave found it, and are satisfied. And day by day truer grows the truthof that sentence which Mrs. Roy once discovered in her husband'spocket-book, cut out of a newspaper--she read and replaced it without aword, but with something between a smile and tear--_"Young love ispassionate, old love is faithful; but the very tenderest thing in allthis world is a love revived."_
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