The Ladies Lindores

“Two of the sweet’st companions in the world.”

Cymbeline

I

The mansion-house of Dalrulzian stands on the lower slope of a hill, which is crowned with a plantation of Scotch firs. The rugged outline of this wood, and the close-tufted mass of the treetops, stand out against the pale East, and protect the house below and the “policy,” as the surrounding grounds are called in Scotland; so that though all the winds are sharp in that northern county, the sharpest of all is tempered. The house itself is backed by lighter foliage—a feathery grove of birches, a great old ash or two, and some tolerably well-grown, but less poetical, elms. It is a house of distinctively local character, with the curious, peaked, and graduated gables peculiar to Scotch rural architecture, and thick walls of the roughest stone, washed with a weather-stained coat of yellow-white. Two wings, each presenting a gabled end to the avenue, and a sturdy block of building retired between them—all strong, securely built, as if hewn out of the rock, formed the homely house. It had little of the beauty which a building of no greater pretensions would probably have had in England. Below the wings, and in front of the hall-door, with its two broad flat stone steps, there was nothing better than a gravelled square, somewhat mossy in the corners, and marked by the trace of wheels; but round the south wing there swept a sort of terrace, known by no more dignified name than that of “The Walk,” from which the ground sloped downwards, broken at a lower level by the formal little parterres of an old-fashioned flower-garden. The view from the Walk was of no very striking beauty, but it had the charm of breadth and distance—a soft sweep of undulating country, with an occasional glimpse of a lively trout-stream gleaming here and there out of its covert of crags and trees, and a great, varied, and ever-changing world of sky—not a prospect which captivated a stranger, but one which, growing familiar day by day and year by year, was henceforth missed like something out of their lives by the people who, being used to it, had learned to love that silent companionship of nature. It was the sort of view which a man pauses, not to look at but to see, even when he is pacing up and down his library thinking of John Thomson’s demand for farm improvements, or, heavier thought, about his balance at his bankers: and which solaces the eyes of a tired woman, giving them rest and refreshment through all the vicissitudes of life. People sought it instinctively in moods of reflection, in moments of watching, at morning and at twilight, whenever any change was going on in that great exhaustless atmosphere, bounded by nothing but the pale distance of the round horizon—and when was it that there was no change in that atmosphere?—clouds drifting, shadows flying, gleams of light like sudden revelations affording new knowledge of earth and heaven.

On the day on which the reader is asked first to visit this house of Dalrulzian, great things were happening in it. It was the end of one regime and the beginning of another. The master of the house, a young man who had been brought up at a distance, was coming home, and the family which had lived in it for years was taking its leave of the place.

The last spot which they visited and on which they lingered was the Walk. When the packing was over, the final remnants gathered up, the rooms left in that melancholy bareness into which rooms relapse when the prettinesses and familiarities of habitation have been swept away, the remaining members of the family came out with pensive faces, and stood together gazing somewhat wistfully upon the familiar scene. They had looked on many that were more fair. They were going to a landscape of greater beauty further south—brighter, richer, warmer in foliage and natural wealth; but all this did not keep a certain melancholy out of their eyes. The younger of the party, Nora Barrington, cried a little, her lip quivering, a big tear or two running over. “It is foolish to feel it so much,” her mother said. “How is it one feels it so much? I did not admire Dalrulzian at all when we came.”

“Out of perversity,” said her husband; but he did not smile even at the cleverness of his own remark.

Nora regarded her father with a sort of tender rage. “It is all very well for you,” she said; “one place is the same as another to you. But I was such a little thing when we came here. To you it is one place among many; to me it is home.”

“If you take it so seriously, Nora, we shall have you making up to young Erskine for the love of his house.”

“Edward,” cried Mrs. Barrington in a tone of reproof, “I feel disposed to cry too. We have had a great many happy days in it. But don’t let old Rolls see you crying, Nora. Here he is coming to say goodbye. When do you expect Mr. Erskine, Rolls? You must tell him we were sorry not to see him; but he will prefer to find his house free when he returns. I hope he will be as happy at Dalrulzian as we have been since we came here.”

“Wherefore would he no’ be happy, mem? He is young and weel off: and you’ll no’ forget it’s his own house.”

Rolls had stepped out from one of the windows to take farewell of the family, whom he was sorry to lose, yet anxious to get rid of. There was in him the satisfied air of the man who remains in possession, and whose habits are unaffected by the coming and going of ephemeral beings such as tenants. The Barringtons had been at Dalrulzian for more than a dozen years; but what was that to the old servant who had seen them arrive and saw them go away with the same imperturbable aspect? He stood relieved against the wall in his well-brushed black coat, concealing a little emotion under a watchful air of expectancy just touched with impatience. Rolls had condescended more or less to the English family all the time they had been there, and he was keeping up his role to the last, anxious that they should perceive how much he wanted to see them off the premises. Mrs. Barrington, who liked everybody to like her, was vexed by this little demonstration of indifference; but the Colonel laughed. “I hope Mr. Erskine will give you satisfaction,” he said. “Come, Nora, you must not take root in the Walk. Don’t you see that Rolls wishes us away?”

“Dear old Walk!” cried Nora; “dear Dalrulzian!” She rolled the r in the name, and turned the z into a y (which is the right way of pronouncing it), as if she had been to the manner born; and though an English young lady, had as pretty a fragrance of northern Scotland in her voice as could be desired. Rolls did not trust himself to look at this pretty figure lingering, drying wet eyes, until she turned round upon him suddenly, holding out her hands: “The moment we are off, before we are down the avenue, you will be wishing us back,” she cried with vehemence; “you can’t deceive me. You would like to cry too, if you were not ashamed,” said the girl, with a smile and a sob, shaking the two half-unwilling hands she had seized.

“Me cry! I’ve never done that since I came to man’s estate,” cried Rolls indignantly, but after a suspicious pause. “As for wishing you back, Miss Nora, wishing you were never to go—wishing you would grow to the Walk, as the Cornel says—” This was so much from such a speaker, that he turned, and added in a changed tone, “You’ll have grand weather for your journey, Cornel. But you must mind the twa ferries, and no’ be late starting,”—a sudden reminder which broke up the little group, and made an end of the scene of leave-taking. It was the farewell volley of friendly animosity with which Rolls put a stop to his own perverse inclination to be softhearted over the departure of the English tenants. “He could not let us go without that parting shot,” the “Cornel” said, as he put his wife into the jingling “coach” from the station, which, every better vehicle having been sent off beforehand, was all that remained to carry them away.

The Barringtons during their residence at Dalrulzian had been received into the very heart of the rural society, in which at first there had sprung up a half-grudge against the almost unknown master of the place, whose coming was to deprive them of a family group so pleasant and so bright. The tenants themselves, though their turn was over, felt instinctively as if they were expelled for the benefit of our intruder, and entertained this grudge warmly. “Mr. Erskine might just as well have stayed away,” Nora said. “He can’t care about it as we do.” Her mother laughed and chid, and shared the sentiment. “But then it’s ‘his ain place,’ as old Rolls says.” “And I daresay he thinks there is twice as much shooting,” said the Colonel, complacently: “I did, when we came. He’ll be disappointed, you’ll see.” This gave him a faint sort of satisfaction. In Nora’s mind there was a different consolation, which yet was not a consolation, but a mixture of expectancy and curiosity, and that attraction which surrounds an unconscious enemy. She was going to make acquaintance with this supplanter, this innocent foe, who was turning them out of their home because it was his home—the most legitimate reason. She was about to pay a series of visits in the country, to the various neighbours, who were all fond of her and reluctant to part with her. Perhaps her mother had some idea of the vague scheme of matchmaking which had sprung up in some minds, a plan to bring the young people together; for what could be more suitable than a match between John Erskine, the young master of Dalrulzian, who knew nothing about his native county, and Nora Barrington, who was its adopted child, and loved the old house as much as if she had been born in it? Mrs. Barrington, perhaps, was not quite unconscious of this plan, though not a word had been said by any of these innocent plotters. For indeed what manner of man young Erskine was, and whether he was worthy of Nora, or in the least likely to please her, were things altogether unknown to the county, where he had not been seen for the last dozen years.

Anyhow he was coming as fast as the railway could carry him, while Nora took leave of her parents at the station. The young man then on his way was not even aware of her existence, though she knew all about him—or rather about his antecedents; for about John Erskine himself no one in the neighbourhood had much information. He had not set foot in the county since he was a boy of tender years and unformed character, whose life had been swallowed up in that of an alien family, of pursuits and ideas far separated from those of his native place. It almost seemed, indeed, as if it were far from a happy arrangement of Providence which made young John Erskine the master of this small estate in the North; or rather, perhaps, to mount a little higher, we might venture to say that it was a very embarrassing circumstance, and the cause of a great deal of confusion in this life that Henry Erskine, his father, should have died when he did. Whatever might be the consequences of that step to himself, to others it could scarcely be characterised but as a mistake. That young man had begun to live an honest, wholesome life, as a Scotch country gentleman should; and if he had continued to exist, his wife would have been like other country gentlemen’s wives, and his child, brought up at home, would have grown like the heather in adaptation to the soil. But when he was so ill advised as to die, confusion of every kind ensued. The widow was young, and Dalrulzian was solitary. She lived there, devoutly and conscientiously doing her duty, for some years. Then she went abroad, as everybody does, for that change of air and scene which is so necessary to our lives. And in Switzerland she met a clergyman, to whom change had also been necessary, and who was “taking the duty” in a mountain caravansary of tourists. What opportunities there are in such a position! She was pensive and he was sympathetic. He had a sister, whom she invited to Dalrulzian, “if she did not mind winter in the North;” and Miss Kingsford did not mind winter anywhere, so long as it was for her brother’s advantage. The end was that Mrs. Erskine became Mrs. Kingsford, to the great though silent astonishment of little John, now eleven years old, who could not make it out. They remained at Dalrulzian for a year or two, for Mr. Kingsford rather liked the shooting, and the power of asking a friend or two to share it. But at the end of that time he got a living—a good living; for events, whether good or evil, never come singly; and, taking John’s interests into full consideration, it was decided that the best thing to be done was to let the house. Everybody thought this advisable, even John’s old grandaunt in Dunearn, of whom his mother was more afraid than of all her trustees put together. It was with fear and trembling that she had ventured to unfold this hesitating intention to the old lady. “Mr. Kingsford thinks”—and then it occurred to the timid little woman that Mr. Kingsford’s opinion as to the disposal of Henry Erskine’s house might not commend itself to Aunt Barbara. “Mr. Monypenny says,” she added, faltering; then stopped and looked with alarm in Miss Erskine’s face.

“What are you frightened for, my dear? Mr. Kingsford has a right to his opinion, and Mr. Monypenny is a very discreet person, and a capital man of business.”

“They think—it would be a good thing for—John;—for, Aunt Barbara, he is growing a big boy—we must be thinking of his education—”

“That’s true,” said the old lady, with the smile that was the grimmest thing about her. It was very uphill work continuing a laboured explanation under the light of this smile.

“And he cannot—be educated—here.”

“Wherefore no? I cannot see that, my dear. His father was educated in Edinburgh, which is what I suppose you mean by here. Many a fine fellow’s been bred up at Edinburgh College, I can tell you; more than you’ll find in any other place I ever heard of. Eh! what ails you at Edinburgh? It’s well known to be an excellent place for schools—schools of all kinds.”

“Yes, Aunt Barbara. But then you know, John:—they say he will have such a fine position—a long minority and a good estate—they say he should have the best education that—England can give.”

“You’ll be for sending him to that idol of the English,” said the old lady, “a public school, as they call it. As if all our Scotch schools from time immemorial hadn’t been public schools! Well, and after that—”

“It is only an idea,” said little Mrs. Kingsford, humbly—“not settled, nor anything like settled; but they say if I were to let the house—”

Aunt Barbara’s grey eyes flashed; perhaps they were slightly green, as ill-natured people said. But she fired her guns in the air, so to speak, and once more grimly smiled. “I saw something very like all this in your wedding-cards, Mary,” she said. “No, no, no apologies. I will not like to see a stranger in my father’s house; but that’s nothing, that’s nothing. I will not say but it’s very judicious; only you’ll mind the boy’s an Erskine, and here he’ll have to lead his life. Mind and not make too much of an Englishman out of a Scotch lad, for he’ll have to live his life here.”

“Too much of an Englishman!” Mr. Kingsford cried, when this conversation was reported to him. “I am afraid your old lady is an old fool, Mary. How could he be too much of an Englishman? Am I out of place here? Does not the greater breeding include the less?” he said, with his grand air. His wife did not always quite follow his meaning, but she always believed in it as something that merited understanding; and she was quite as deeply convinced as if she had understood. And accordingly the house was let to Colonel Barrington, who had not a “place” of his own, though his elder brother had, and the Kingsfords “went South” to their rectory, with which John’s mother in particular was mightily pleased. It was in a far richer country than that which surrounded Dalrulzian—a land flowing with milk and cheese, if not honey—full of foliage and flowers. Mrs. Kingsford, having been accustomed only to Scotland, was very much elated with the luxuriant beauty of the place. She spoke of “England” as the travelled speak of Italy—as if this climate of ours, which we abuse so much, was paradise. She thought “the English” so frank, so open, so demonstrative. To live in “the South” seemed the height of happiness to her. Innocent primitive Scotch gentlewomen are prone to talk in this way. Mr. Kingsford, who knew better, and who himself liked to compare notes with people who winter in Italy, did what he could to check her exuberance, but she was too simple to understand why.

John, her son, did not share her feelings at first. John was generally confused and disturbed in his mind by all that had happened. He had not got over his wonder at the marriage, when he was carried off to this new and alien home. He did not say much. There was little opening by which he could communicate his feelings. He could not disapprove, being too young; and now that Mr. Kingsford was always there, the boy had no longer the opportunity to influence his mother as, young as he was, he had hitherto done—“tyrannise over his mother,” some people called it. All that was over. Much puzzled, the boy was dropped back into a properly subordinate position, which no doubt was much better for him; but it was a great change. To do him justice, he was never insubordinate; but he looked at his mother’s husband with eyes out of which the perplexity never died. There was a permanent confusion ever after in his sense of domestic relationships, and the duty he owed to his seniors and superiors; for he never quite knew how it was that Mr. Kingsford had become the master of his fate, though a certain innate pride, as well as his love of his mother, taught him to accept the yoke which he could not throw off. Mr. Kingsford was determined to do his duty by John. He vowed when he gave the somewhat reluctant, proud little Scotsman—feeling himself at eleven too old to be kissed—a solemn embrace, that he would do the boy “every justice.” He should have the best education, the most careful guardianship; and Mr. Kingsford kept his word. He gave the boy an ideal education from his own point of view. He sent him to Eton, and, when the due time came, to Oxford, and considered his advantage in every way; and it is needless to say, that as John grew up, the sensation of incongruity, the wonder that was in his mind as to this sudden interference with all the natural arrangements of his life, died away. It came to be a natural thing to him that Mr. Kingsford should have charge of his affairs. And he went home to the rectory for the holidays to find now and then a new baby, but all in the quiet natural way of use and wont, with no longer anything that struck him as strange in his relationships. And yet he was put out of the natural current of his life. Boy as he was, he thought sometimes, not only of special corners in the woods, and turns of the stream, where he nibbled as a boy at the big sports, which are the life of men in the country—but above all, of the house, the landscape, the great sweep of land and sky, of which, when he shut his eyes, he could always conjure up a vague vision. He thought of it with a sort of grudge that it was not within his reach—keen at first, but afterwards very faint and slight, as the boy’s sentiments died away in those of the man.

Meanwhile it was an excellent arrangement, who could doubt, for John’s interest—instead of keeping up the place, to have a rent for it; and he had the most excellent man of business, who nursed his estate like a favourite child; so that when his minority was over, and Colonel Barrington’s lease out, John Erskine was in a more favourable position than anyone of his name had been for some generations. The estate was small. When his father died, exclusive of Mrs. Erskine’s jointure, there was not much more than a thousand a-year to come out of it; and on fifteen hundred a-year his father had thought himself very well off, and a happy man. In the meantime, there had been accumulations which added considerably to this income, almost making up the sum which Mrs. Kingsford enjoyed for her life. And John had always been treated at the rectory as a golden youth, happily exempted from all the uncertainty and the need of making his own way, which his stepfather announced, shaking his head, to be the fate of his own boys. Her eldest son, who was in “such a different position,” was a great pride to Mrs. Kingsford, even when it seemed to her half an injury that her other children should have no share in his happiness. But indeed she consoled herself by reflecting, an eldest son is always in a very different position; and no elder brother could have been kinder—voluntarily undertaking to send Reginald to Eton, “which was a thing we never could have thought of with no money,” as soon as he came of age; and in every way comporting himself as a good son and brother.

There were, however, points in this early training which were bad for John. He acquired an exaggerated idea of the importance of this position of his. He was known both at school and college as a youth of property, the representative of a county family. These words mean more at Eton and Oxford than they require to do at Edinburgh or St. Andrews. And in these less expensive precincts, Erskine of Dalrulzian would have been known for what he was. Whereas in “the South” nobody knew anything about the dimensions of his estate, or the limits of his income, and everybody supposed him a young north-country potentate, with perhaps a castle or two and unlimited “moors,”—who would be an excellent fellow to know as soon as he came into his own. This was John’s own opinion in all these earlier days of youth. He did not know what his income was; and had he known, the figures would not have meant anything particular to him. A thousand a-year seems to imply a great deal of spending to a youth on an allowance of three hundred; and he accepted everybody’s estimate of his importance with pleased satisfaction. After all the explanations which followed his coming of age, he had indeed a touch of disenchantment and momentary alarm, feeling the details to be less splendid than he had expected. But Mr. Monypenny evidently considered them anything but insignificant—and a man of his experience, the youth felt, was bound to know. He had gone abroad in the interval between leaving Oxford and coming “home” to take possession of his kingdom. He was not dissipated or extravagant, though he had spent freely. He was a good specimen of a young man of his time—determined that everything about him should be in “good form,” and very willing to do his duty and be bon prince to his dependants. And he anticipated with pleasure the life of a country gentleman, such as he had seen it in his mother’s neighbourhood, and in several houses of his college friends to which he had been invited. Sometimes, indeed, it would occur to him that his recollections of Dalrulzian were on a less extensive scale; but a boy’s memory is always flattering to a home which he has not seen since his earliest years. Thus it was with a good deal of pleasant excitement that he set out from Milton Magna, his stepfather’s rectory, where he had gone to see his mother and the children for a week or two on his return from the Continent. The season was just beginning; but John, full of virtue and hope, decided that he would not attempt to indulge in the pleasures of the season. Far better to begin his real life, to make acquaintance with his home and his “people,” than to snatch a few balls and edge his way through a few crowded receptions, and feel himself nobody. This was not a thing which John much liked. He had been somebody all his life. Easter had been early that year, and everything was early. He stayed in town a week or two, saw all that was going on at the theatres, got all the last information that was to be had at the club on parliamentary matters, waited a day more “to see the pictures,” and then set off on his homeward way. He had everything a young man of fortune requires, except a servant, for his habits were independent. He had been “knocking about,” and there was no room at the rectory for such an appendage. So he took his own ticket, and himself saw his multifarious portmanteaus placed in the van which was to go “through.” There were a great many mingled elements in his pleasure—the satisfaction of “coming to his kingdom;” the pleasure of renewing old associations, and taking his natural place; the excitement of novelty—for it would all be as new to him, this home which he had not seen for a dozen years, as if he had never been there before. From thirteen to five-and-twenty, what a difference! He began to look about him with a new sensation as the morning rose after that long night-journey, and he felt himself approaching home.

II

Old Rolls had been butler at Dalrulzian since John Erskine was a child. He had “stayed on” after Mrs. Erskine’s second marriage with reluctance, objecting seriously to a step-master at all, and still more to one that was an “English minister”; but the house had many attractions for him. He liked the place; his sister was the cook, a very stationary sort of woman, who had the greatest disinclination to move. She was a sort of human cat, large and smooth and good-natured, almost always purring, satisfied with herself and all who were moderately good to her; and, as was natural, she made the butler very comfortable, and was extremely attentive to all his little ways. When Colonel Barrington took the house, Rolls once more expressed his determination to leave. “What for?” said the placid Bauby; “the gentleman was keen to have a’ the servants—a’ the servants that would bide.” “A’ the servants! there’s so many of us,” said Rolls, derisively. There was indeed only himself, the cook, and one housemaid; the other, who had charge of John in his earlier days, and still was attached to him more or less, had gone with the family—and so, of course, had Mrs. Kingsford’s maid. “We’ll mak’ a grand show in the servants’ hall—we’re just a garrison,” Rolls said. “We’re plenty for a’ the work there is the now,” said the mild woman, “and they’ll bring some with them. What ails ye to bide? You’re real well aff—and me that kens exactly how you like your meat. Where would you be studied as I study you? You may just be thankful it’s in your power.” “It was with the Erskines I took service,” said Rolls. “I’m no sure that I could put up with strangers, and them just travelling English. Besides, I’ve never been clear that service is my vocation. A kent family is one thing, a foreign master another. Him and me would very likely no get on—or them and me would no get on. All went very well in the last reign. Harry Erskine was a gentleman, like all his forebears before him; but how am I to tell who is this Cornel, or whatever they ca’ him—a man I never heard tell of before? I’ll give them over the keys, and maybe I’ll wait till they’re suited, but nobody can ask me to do more.”

“Hoot, Tammas!” said his sister: which was the highest height of remonstrance she ever reached. Notwithstanding this, however, year after year Rolls had “stayed on.” He was very distinct in pointing out to “the Cornel” the superiority of his native masters, and the disadvantage to Scotland of having so many of the travelling English taking up the houses of the gentry; but he was an excellent servant, and his qualities in this way made up for his defects in the other—if, indeed, those defects did not tell in his favour; for a Scotch servant who is a character is, like a ghost, a credit to any old and respectable house. The Barringtons were proud of old Rolls. They laid temptations in his way and made him talk whenever they had visitors; and his criticisms on the English, and the opinions which he freely enunciated on all subjects, had often kept the party in amusement. Rolls, however, had not been able to defend himself against a certain weakness for the children, specially for Nora, who was very small when the family came to Dalrulzian, and whom he had brought up, as he flattered himself, regretting much all the time that she was not an Erskine and natural-born daughter of the house. Rolls did not by any means see the departure of the Barringtons unmoved, notwithstanding that he hurried them away. He stood for a long time looking after the “coach,” which was a sort of rude omnibus, as it jolted down the avenue. The old servant stood in the clear morning air, through which every creak of the jingling harness and every jolt of the wheels sounded so distinctly, and the voice of Jock Beaton apostrophising his worn-out horse, and watched the lingering departure with feelings of a very mingled description. “There’s feenis put to that chapter,” he said to himself aloud. “We’re well rid of them.” But he lingered as long as the yellow panels could be seen gleaming through the trees at the turn of the road, without any of the jubilation in his face which he expressed in his words. At that last turn, just when the “coach” reached the highroad, something white was waved from the window, which very nearly made an end of Rolls. He uttered something which at first sounded like a sob, but was turned into a laugh, so to speak, before it fell into that telltale air which preserved every gradation of sound. “It’s that bit thing!” Rolls said, more sentimental than perhaps he had ever been in his life. His fine feeling was, however, checked abruptly. “You’re greetin’ yourself, Tammas,” said a soft round voice, interrupted by sobs, over his shoulder. “Me greetin’!”—he turned round upon her with a violence that, if Bauby had been less substantial and less calm, would have driven her to the other end of the house; “I’m just laughin’ to see the nonsense you womenfolk indulge in: but it’s paardonable in the case of a bit creature like Miss Nora. And I allow they have a right to feel it. Where will they find a bonnie place like Dalrulzian, and next to nothing in the way of rent or keeping up? But I’m thankful mysel’ to see the nest cleared out, and the real man in it. What are you whimpering about? It’s little you’ve seen of them, aye in your kitchen.” “Me seen little of them!” cried Bauby, roused to a kind of soft indignation; “the best part of an hour with the mistress every day of my life, and as kind a sympathising woman! There’ll be nae leddy now to order the dinners—and that’s a great responsibility, let alone anything else.” “Go away with your responsibility. I’ll order your dinners,” said Rolls. “Well,” said Bauby, not without resignation, “to be a servant, and no born a gentleman, you’ve aye been awfu’ particular about your meat.” And she withdrew consoled, though drying her eyes, to wonder if Mr. John would be “awfu’ particular about his meat,” or take whatever was offered to him, after the fashion of some young men. Meat, it must be explained, to Bauby Rolls meant food of all descriptions—not only that which she would herself have correctly and distinctly distinguished as “butcher’s meat.”

The house was very empty and desolate after all the din and bustle. The furniture had faded in the quarter of a century and more which had elapsed since Harry Erskine furnished his drawing-room for his bride. That had not been a good period for furniture, according to our present lights, and everything looked dingy and faded. The few cosy articles with which the late tenants had changed its character had been removed; the ornaments and prettinesses were all gone. The gay limp old chintzes, the faded carpet, the walls in sad want of renewal, obtruded themselves even upon the accustomed eye of Rolls. The nest might be cleared, but it looked a somewhat forlorn and empty nest. He stood upon the threshold of the drawing-room, contemplating it mournfully. A little of that “cheeney and nonsense” which he had been highly indignant with Mrs. Barrington for bringing, would have been of the greatest consequence now to brighten the walls; and a shawl or a hat thrown on a chair, which had called forth from old Rolls many a grumble in the past, would have appeared to him now something like a sign of humanity in the desert. But all that was over, and the old servant, painfully sensible of the difference in the aspect of the place, began to grow afraid of its effect upon the young master. If, after all, John should not be “struck with” his home! if, terrible to think of, he might prefer some house “in the South” to Dalrulzian! “But it’s no possible,” said Rolls to himself. He made a survey of all the rooms in the new anxiety that dawned upon him. The library was better; there were a good many books on the shelves, and it had not to Rolls the air of desertion the other rooms had. He lighted a fire in it, though it was the first week in May, and took great pains to restore by it an air of comfort and habitation. Then he took a walk down the avenue in order to make a critical examination of the house from a little distance, to see how it would look to the newcomer. And Rolls could not but think it a most creditable-looking house. The fir-trees on the top of the hill threw up their sombre fan of foliage against the sky; the birches were breathing forth a spring sweetness—the thin young foliage softly washed in with that tenderest of greens against the darker background, seemed to appeal to the spectator, forbidding any hasty judgment, with the promise of something beautiful to come. The ash-trees were backward, no doubt, but they are always backward. In the wood the primroses were appearing in great clusters, and the parterres under the terrace were gay with the same. Rolls took comfort as he gazed. The avenue was all green, the leaves in some sunny corners quite shaken out of their husks, in all bursting hopefully. “It’s a bonnie place,” Rolls said to himself, with a sigh of excitement and anxiety. Bauby, who shared his feelings in a softened, fat, comfortable way of her own, was standing in the doorway, with her little shawl pinned over her broad chest, and a great white apron blazing in the light of the morning sun. She had a round face, like a full moon, and a quantity of yellow hair smoothed under the white cap, which was decorously tied under her chin. She did not take any of the dignity of a housekeeper-cook upon her, but she was a comfortable creature to behold, folding her round arms, with the sleeves rolled up a little, and looking out with a slight curve, like a shadow of the pucker on her brother’s brows, in her freckled forehead. She was ready to cry for joy when Mr. John appeared, just as she had cried for sorrow when the Barringtons went away. Neither of these effusions of sentiment would disturb her greatly, but they were quite genuine all the same. Rolls felt that the whiteness of her apron and the good-humour of her face lit up the seriousness of the house. He began to give her her instructions as he advanced across the open space at the top of the avenue. “Bauby,” he said, “when ye hear the wheels ye’ll come, and the lasses with you; and Andrew, he can stand behind; and me, naturally I’ll be in the front: and we’ll have no whingeing, if you please, but the best curtsey you can make, and ‘We’re glad to see you home, sir,’ or something cheery like that. He’s been long away, and he was but a boy when he went. We’ll have to take care that he gets a good impression of his ain house.”

“That’s true,” said Bauby. “Tammas, I’ve heard of them that after a long absence have just taken a kind o’ scunner—”

“Hold your tongue with your nonsense. A scunner at Dalrulzian!” cried Rolls; but the word sank into the depths of his heart. A scunner—for we scorn a footnote—is a sudden sickening and disgust with an object not necessarily disagreeable—a sort of fantastic prejudice, which there is no struggling against. But Rolls repeated his directions, and would not allow himself to entertain such a fear.

It was not, however, with any sound of wheels, triumphal or otherwise, that young Erskine approached his father’s house. It was all new and strange to him; the hills—the broad and wealthy carses through which he had passed—the noble Firth, half sea half river, which he had crossed over in his way—all appeared to him like landscapes in a dream, places he had seen before, though he could not tell how or when. It was afternoon when he reached Dunearn, which was the nearest place of any importance. He had chosen to stop there instead of at the little country station a few miles farther on, which was proper for Dalrulzian. This caprice had moved him, much in the same way as a prince had sometimes been moved to wander about incognito, and glean the opinions of his public as to his own character and proceedings. Princes in fiction are fond of this diversion; why not a young Scotch laird just coming into his kingdom, whose person was quite unknown to his future vassals? It amused and gently excited him to think of thus arriving unknown, and finding out with what eyes he was looked upon: for he had very little doubt that he was important enough to be discussed and talked of, and that the opinions of the people would throw a great deal of light to him upon the circumstances and peculiarities of the place. He was curious about everything—the little grey Scotch town, clinging to its hillside—the freshness of the spring colour—the width of the wistful blue sky, banked and flecked with white clouds, and never free, with all its brightness, from a suspicion of possible rain. He thought he recollected them all like things he had seen in a dream; and that sense of travelling incognito and arriving without any warning in the midst of a little world, all eagerly looking for his arrival, but which should be innocently deceived by his unpretending appearance, tickled his fancy greatly. He was five-and-twenty, and ought to have known better; but there was something in the circumstances which justified his excitement. He skimmed lightly along the quiet country road, saying to himself that he thought he remembered the few clusters of houses that were visible here and there, one of them only big enough to be called a village, where there was “a merchant’s” shop, repository of every kind of ware, and a blacksmith’s smithy. Two or three times he stopped to ask the way to Dalrulzian out of pure pleasure in the question! for he never lost sight of that line of fir-trees against the horizon, which indicated his native hill; but after he had put this question once or twice, it must be added that young Erskine’s satisfaction in it failed a little. He ceased to feel the excitement of his incognito, the pleasure of entering his dominions like a young prince in disguise. The imagination of the women at the village doors, the chance passengers on the way, were not occupied with the return of John Erskine; they were much more disposed to think and talk of the others who had no right, it seemed to him, to occupy their thoughts.

“Dalrulzian! you’ll find nobody there the day,” said a countryman whom he overtook and accosted on the road. “The family’s away this morning, and a great loss they will be to the countryside.”

“The family!” said John, and he felt that his tone was querulous in spite of himself. “I did not understand that there was a family.”

“Ay was there, and one that will be missed sore; both gentle and simple will miss them. Not the real family, but as good, or maybe better,” the man said, with a little emphasis, as if he meant offence, and knew who his questioner was.

The young man reddened in spite of himself. This was not the kind of popular report which in his incognito he had hoped to hear.

“The laird is what they call in Ireland an absentee,” said his companion. “We’re no minding muckle in Scotland if they’re absentees or no; they can please themsels. But there’s nae family of the Erskines—nothing but a young lad; and the Cornel that’s had the house was a fine, hearty, weel-spoken man, with a good word for everybody; and the ladies very kind, and pleasant, and neighbour-like. Young Erskine must be a young laird past the ordinar if he can fill their place.”

“But, so far as I understand, the estate belongs to him, does it not?” Erskine asked, with an involuntary sharpness in his voice.

“Oh ay, it belongs to him; that makes but sma’ difference. Ye’re no bound to be a fine fellow,” said the roadside philosopher, with great calmness, “because ye’re the laird of a bit sma’ country place—”

“Is it such a small place?” cried the poor young prince incognito, appalled by this revelation. He felt almost childishly annoyed and mortified. His companion eyed him with a cool half-satirical gaze.

“You’re maybe a friend of the young man? Na, I’m saying nae ill of the place nor of him. Dalrulzian’s a fine little property, and a’ in good order, thanks to auld Monypenny in Dunearn. Maybe you’re from Dunearn? It’s a place that thinks muckle of itself; but nae doubt it would seem but a poor bit town to you coming from the South?”

“How do you know I come from the South?” said John.

“Oh, I ken the cut of ye fine,” said the man. “I’m no easy deceived. And I daur to say you could tell us something about this new laird. There’s different opinions about him. Some thinks him a lad with brains, that could be put up for the county and spite the Earl. I’ve no great objection mysel to the Earl or his opinions, but to tak’ another man’s nominee, if he was an angel out of heaven, is little credit to an enlightened constituency. So there’s been twa-three words. You’ll no know if he has ony turn for politics, or if he’s a clever lad, or—”

“You don’t seem to mind what his politics are,” said the unwary young man.

His new friend gave him another keen glance. “The Erskines,” he answered quietly, “are a’ on the right side.”

Now John Erskine was aware that he did not himself possess political opinions sufficiently strenuous to be acknowledged by either side. He agreed sometimes with one party, sometimes with another, which, politically speaking, is the most untenable of all positions. And so ignorant was he of the immediate traditions of his family, that he could not divine which was “the right side” on which the Erskines were sure to be. It was not a question upon which his mother could have informed him. As Mr. Kingsford’s wife, an orthodox Church of England clergywoman, she was, of course, soundly Conservative, and thought she hated everything that called itself Liberal—which word she devoutly believed to include all kinds of Radical, revolutionary, and atheistical sentiments. John himself had been a good Tory too when he was at Eton, but at Oxford had veered considerably, running at one time into extreme opinions on the other side, then veering back, and finally settling into a hopeless eclectic, who by turns sympathised with everybody, but agreed wholly with nobody. Still it was whimsical not even to know the side on which the Erskines were declared with so much certainty to be. It pleased him at least to find that they had character enough to have traditionary politics at all.

“You must excuse me as a stranger,” he said, “if I don’t quite know what side you regard as the—right side.”

His friend looked at him with a sarcastic gaze—a look John felt which set him down not only as devoid of ordinary intelligence, but of common feeling. “It’s clear to see you are not of that way of thinking,” he said.

As he uttered this contemptuous verdict they came opposite to a gate, guarded by a pretty thatched cottage which did duty for a lodge. John felt his heart give a jump, notwithstanding the abashed yet amused sensation with which he felt himself put down. It was the gate of Dalrulzian: he remembered it as if he had left it yesterday. A woman came to the gate and looked out, shielding her eyes with her hand from the level afternoon sun that shone into them. “Have you seen anything of our young master, John Tamson?” she said. “I’m aye thinking it’s him every sound I hear.”

“There’s the road,” said the rural politician, briefly addressing John; then he turned to the woman at the gate. “If it’s no him, I reckon it’s a friend. Ye had better pit your questions here,” he said.

“John Thomson,” said John, with some vague gleam of recollection. “Are you one of the farmers?” The man looked at him with angry, the woman with astonished, eyes.

“My freend,” said John Thomson, indignantly, “I wouldna wonder but you have plenty of book-learning; but you’re an ignorant young fop for a’ that, if you were twenty times the laird’s freend.”

John for his part was too much startled and amused to be angry. “Am I an ignorant young fop?” he said. “Well, it is possible—but why in this particular case—”

“Noo, noo,” said the woman, who left the lodge, coming forward with her hands spread out, and a tone of anxious conciliation. “Dear bless me! what are you bickering about? He’s no a farmer, but he’s just as decent a man—nobody better thought of for miles about. And, John Tamson, I’m astonished at you! Can you no let the young gentleman have his joke without taking offence like this, that was never meent?”

“I like nae such jokes,” said John Tamson, angrily; and he went off swinging down the road at a great pace. John stood looking after him for a moment greatly perplexed. The man did not touch his hat nor the woman curtsey as they certainly would have done at Milton Magna. He passed her mechanically without thinking of her, and went in at his own gate—not thinking of that either, though it was an event in his life. This little occurrence had given an impulse in another direction to his thoughts.

But the woman of the lodge called after him. She had made a slightly surprised objection to his entrance, which he did not notice in his preoccupation. “Sir, sir!” she cried—“you’re welcome to walk up the avenue, which is a bonnie walk; but you’ll find nobody in the house. The young laird, if it was him you was wanting to see, is expected every minute; but there’s no signs of him as yet—and he canna come now till the four o’clock train.”

“Thank you. I’ll walk up the avenue,” said John, and then he turned back. “Why did you think I was making a joke? and why was your friend offended when I asked if he was one of the farmers?—it was no insult, I hope.”

“He’s a very decent man, sir,” said the woman; “but I wouldna just take it upon me to say that he was my freend.”

“That’s not the question!” cried John, exasperated—and he felt some gibe about Scotch caution trembling on the tip of his tongue; but he remembered in time that he was himself a Scot and among his own people, and he held that unruly member still.

“Weel, sir,” said the woman, “if ye will ken—but, bless me! it’s easy to see for yourself. The farmers about here are just as well put on and mounted and a’ that as you are. John Tamson! he’s a very decent man, as good as any of them—but he’s just the joiner after a’, and a cotter’s son. He thought you were making a fool of him, and he’s not a man to be made a fool o’. We’re no so civil-like—nor may be so humble-minded, for anything I can tell—as the English, sir. Baith the Cornel and his lady used to tell me that.”

It was with a mixture of irritation and amusement that John pursued his way after this little encounter. And an uncomfortable sensation, a chill, seemed to creep over his mind, and arrest his pleasurable expectations as he went on. The avenue was not so fine a thing as its name implied. It was not lined with noble trees, nor did it sweep across a green universe of parks and lawns like many he had known. It led instead up the slope of the hill, through shrubberies which were not more than copsewood in some places, and under lightly arching trees not grand enough or thick enough to afford continuous shade. And yet it was sweet in the brightness of the spring tints, the half-clothed branches relieved against that variable yet smiling sky, the birds in full-throated chorus, singing welcome with a hundred voices—no nightingales there, but whole tribes of the “mavis and the merle,” north-country birds and kindly. His heart and mind were touched alike with that half-pathetic pleasure, that mixture of vague recollections and forgetfulness, with which we meet the half-remembered faces, and put out our hands to meet the grasp of old friends still faithful though scarcely known. A shadow of the childish delight with which he had once explored these scanty yet fresh and friendly woods came breathing about him: “The winds came to me from the fields of sleep.” He felt himself like two people: one, a happy boy at home, familiar with every corner; the other a man, a spectator, sympathetically excited, faltering upon the forgotten way, wondering what lay round the next curve of the road. It was the strangest blending of the known and the unknown.

But when John Erskine came suddenly, as he turned the corner of that great group of ash-trees, in sight of his house, these vague sensations, which were full of sweetness, came to an end with a sharp jar and shock of the real. Dalrulzian was a fact of the most solid dimensions, and dispersed in a moment all his dreams. He felt himself come down suddenly through the magical air, with a sensation of falling, with his feet upon the common soil. So that was his home! He felt in a moment that he remembered it perfectly—that there had never been any illusions about it in his mind—that he had known all along every line of it, every step of the gables, the number of the little windows, the slopes of the grey roof. But it is impossible to describe the keen sense of disenchantment which went through his mind as he said this to himself. It was not only that the solid reality dispersed his vision, but that it afforded a measure by which to judge himself and his fortunes, till now vaguely and pleasantly exaggerated in his eyes. It is seldom indeed that the dim image of what was great and splendid to us in our childhood does not seem ludicrously exaggerated when we compare it with the reality. He who had felt himself a young prince in disguise, approaching his domains incognito, in order to enjoy at his leisure the incense of universal interest, curiosity, and expectation! John Erskine blushed crimson though nobody saw him, as he stood alone at the corner of his own avenue and recognised the mistake he had made, and his own unimportance, and all the folly of his simple overestimate. Fortunately, indeed, he had brought nobody with him to share in the glories of his entry upon his kingdom. He thanked heaven for that, with a gasp of horror at the thought of the crowning ridicule he had escaped. It was quite hard enough to get over the first startling sensation of reality alone.

And yet it was the same house upon which the Barringtons had looked back so affectionately a few hours before—which the county regarded with approval, and which was visited by the best families. It would be hard to say what its young master had expected—a dream-castle, a habitation graceful and stately, a something built out of clouds, not out of old Scotch rubble-work and grey stone. It was not looking its best, it must be added. The corps du logis lay in gloom, thrown into shade by the projecting rustic gable, upon the other side of which the setting sun still played; the yellowish walls, discoloured here and there by damp, had no light upon them to throw a fictitious glow over their imperfections. The door stood open, showing the hall with its faded fittings, gloomy and unattractive, and, what was more, deserted, as if the house had been abandoned to dreariness and decay—not so much as a dog to give some sign of life. When the young man, rousing himself with an effort, shook off the stupor of his disappointment and vexation, and went on to the open door, his foot on the gravel seemed to wake a hundred unaccustomed echoes: and nobody appeared. He walked in unchallenged, unwelcomed, going from room to room, finding all equally desolate. Was there ever a more dismal coming home? When he reached the library, where a little fire was burning, this token of human life quite went to the young fellow’s heart. He was standing on the hearth very gloomy, gazing wistfully at the portrait of a gentleman in a periwig over the mantelpiece, when the door was pushed open and old Rolls appeared with his coat off, carrying a basket of wood. Rolls was as much startled as his master was disappointed, and he was vexed to be seen by a stranger in so unworthy an occupation. He put down his basket and glanced at his shirtsleeves with confusion. “I was expecting nobody,” he said in his own defence. “And wha may ye be,” he added, “that comes into the mansion-house of Dalrulzian without speering permission, or ringing a bell, or chapping at a door?” John smiled at the old man’s perplexity, but said nothing. “You’ll be a friend of our young master’s?” he said, tentatively; then after an interval, in a voice with a quiver in it, “Your no meaning, sir, that you’re the laird himself?”

“For want of a better,” said John, amused in spite of himself. “And you’re old Rolls. I should have known you anywhere. Shake hands, man, and say you’re glad to see me. It’s like a house of the dead.”

“Na, sir, no such things; there’s no death here. Lord bless us! wha was to think you would come in stealing like a thief in the night, as the Bible says?” said Rolls, aggrieved. He felt that it was he who was the injured person. “It was all settled how you were to be received as soon as the wheels were heard in the avenue—me on the steps, and the women behind, and Andrew—the haill household, to wit. If there’s any want of respect, it’s your ain fault. And if you’ll just go back to the avenue now and give us warning, I’ll cry up the women in a moment,” the old servant said.