Inchbracken Part 15

Now, all of a sudden he hears from the lips of her own mother, wrung from them, as it were unawares, under the dread pre-occupation of impending danger, that another man's suit is entertained or courted, and so utterly trivial are any pretensions of his held to be, that their very existence is overlooked, and himself made the confidant of the mother's views. Oh, how can he resign himself? How pluck away the image around which all his hopes and dreams, the very roots and tendrils of his being have entwined themselves for so many years?

Pluck out an eye? It were to pluck out his very heart, and cast it from him--to cease to think--to cease to live. Yet if she were to become another man's wife he would have to do it. He groaned. The universe seemed falling in on him, his head swam, and he fell into a dose.

When he next awoke the emotional strain was somewhat relaxed. His thoughts would run in no other channel, but he began now to muse, and plan, and question. Was it indeed decided? Or was it as yet but a plan of the mother? Had Sophia consented? And even if she had, was it of her own free will, and with the concurrence of her affections? Or was it a mere compliance with the wishes of her parents, while she had no sufficient reason to admit a preference elsewhere? For the unmaidenliness, as he would have called it, of loving unsought, was not to be dreamed of in the case of Sophia.

'Ah!' he cried aloud, 'Who knows? I have never spoken, or----' the rest would not frame itself in words, but a vision arose before his mind's eye, or rather many visions, remembrances of all the sweetest and most endearing looks, or what he regarded as such, that she had ever given him; and as he thought, his poor chilled soul grew warmer and more at ease, and the throbbing in his head grew easier.

'The venture is worth making,' he said presently. And thereupon he rose from bed and sat down before his desk, which, as already mentioned, was in another part of the same room.

Mary was not present at the moment, so there was no one to offer opposition. He drew to him some paper and prepared to write. His mind had been seething with emotion, but as he took the pen in his hand, the thoughts grew hazy, and refused to shape themselves in words,---they refused to be written down. Fluttering and whirling before him like the disordered gleams in a moving prism, they would not be caught, and yet kept tantalizing him by settling upon his pen, till he tried to write them, when they would dissipate again in a new and perturbed whirl of tempestuous feeling. He clasped his hands upon his aching brow, but it ached worse than ever, and he sat stupified in blank despair.

Words came after a while, and by and by he began to write, but the writing when it was done had to be torn up, and the work begun again anew. Sheet after sheet was written and destroyed, and the scattered flakes gathered like snowdrifts about his chair. He wearied himself in abortive efforts, but at least he deadened the acuteness of his misery. The fantastic pains and throes of composition were an anodyne to the more real agonies of his mind. By dividing its action in the endeavour to express its workings, he reduced their intensity. As he grew weary, therefore, he began to grow calmer, and was able with some sort of coherence to say the thing he meant. It was no great achievement in the way of a love-letter, but under the circ.u.mstances a great achievement was impossible. He was too much under the direct influence of his emotion,--whatever of mental force he had was expended in the suffering, the jealousy, the hopelessness and the longing, and but a fraction could be abstracted to express his meaning.

An emotion when it can be expressed is in a manner relegated from the present to the past,--from experience to memory; and we may be sure that the poets were pretty well cured of their woes, before they made the world resound with their harrowing despairs and their plaintive wailings. Goethe tells us he got quit of much perilous stuff in writing Werther, but one can scarcely doubt that he was convalescent before he undertook the task. Art is always fiction, though fiction is so seldom art, and its nearest approach to actual veracity is when the artist brings forth the ashes of bygone emotion from the sepulchre of memory, and galvanizes them into a second life before his attentive world.

Such utterance as Roderick had been able to achieve had done him good.

The beads of moisture stood on his brow, as he folded and addressed his letter; he directed that it should be given into Sophia's own hands, and then returning to his bed, he closed his eyes with a long sigh of relief, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

The letter was as follows:--

'My dear Sophia,

'For this once I must so address you, even if it be permitted me to do so never again. I am sick in bed, in consequence of yesterday's misadventure, so unable to come to you myself and speak, and it has come to my knowledge that an offer of marriage is already, or will shortly be made to you, therefore I write.

'I owe it to myself, that you should know before you have given an answer, that I too desire you to look on me as your suitor.

'I had meant to wait till after my ordination, but I cannot run the risk of letting another man speak while I remain silent.

'Oh, Sophia, I seem to have loved you ever since I saw you first--as far back as I can recollect--since we were both children; and the love has grown with the years till I believe I could not live if I saw you married to another. That other may be rich, while I am not; but think, Sophia,--he never saw you till the other day--and what can his love be to mine, that has been growing and deepening through so many years?

'Think of it, dearest. Have we not played together as children? sung together as boy and girl? Have we not taken sweet counsel together as christian man and woman? and shall we not walk through life as wife and husband?

'Think of it all, Sophia, and choose with the best wisdom you can command.

'My life will be a lonely journey, if it is not to be shared by you, for you have been to me the symbol of all that is good and holy; but if you find it is not I who can make you happy, at least my prayer shall ever be for a blessing on whatever choice you make.

'Yours utterly,'

'(Signed) RODERICK BROWN.'

CHAPTER XVIII.

_THE DELIVERY OF A LETTER_.

It was the next day that Joseph Smiley set out to deliver the minister's letter. His instructions were to give it into the hands of Miss Sangster herself, if possible, or at least to make sure that it went direct to her, and to ask if there was any answer. This was a mission very much to Joseph's taste. Being a man of diplomatic genius, he loved to attain his purposes by a circuitous path, and to go round a corner rather than walk straight up to his object.

There was once a minister of the Free Church, of whom a brother divine declared in the bitterness of his soul,--for he had just been circ.u.mvented in a cherished scheme,--that he never tied his shoe without having some ulterior motive. If beadles may, without irreverence, be compared with ministers--the very small with the extremely great--Joseph's idiosyncracy was of a like kind. It was well known that Mrs. Sangster's was an all-pervading presence at Auchlippie; the very cat must drink her milk in the appointed time and place, or the mistress would know why; and all comers and goers and their business were bound to come within her ken. The house, the dairy, the poultry-yard, these were her domain, but fortunately they were also its limit. Queen irresponsible in these, her writ would not run in the adjoining stable and farm-yard. The master had settled that long ago. Good-natured and submissive in the house, he tolerated no petticoat influence beyond its limits; and the mistress, after one or two defeats in the attempt to extend her sway, had yielded long ago to the insuperable, and dwelt at peace in her own kingdom.

As Joseph neared Auchlippie, therefore, he crossed a field or two and made a circuit, so as to approach it from the rear, with the farm-yard to shelter him while he reconnoitred, and to retreat into in case he was seen. He likewise carried under his arm his bag of tools, so that if, later, the lady should come upon him, his errand might appear manifest enough. There was always shelving to be put up or taken down, doors that would not close, locks that would not open, and Joseph was the man to see to it all. The work was well enough, indeed Joseph preferred 'orra jobs,' as he called them, to steady work. The variety amused him, and the sight of new faces, besides gossip, drams, and sometimes a share of the kitchen dinner were among the recommendations; but the pay at Auchlippie was not altogether satisfactory. Mrs. Sangster preferred paying in kind to disbursing her silver. Joseph would return home at night with an armful of old clothes, serviceable enough, perhaps, but with the drawback attending them, that he could never tell when his accounts were to be considered square. The next time he did an 'orra job' at Auchlippie, he would be reminded of the load of things he had carried away last time, and given to understand that the present 'job' was to be looked upon as in part working out the previous haul.

For these reasons Joseph was not disposed to obtrude his services. He now went quietly into the stable yard, and fell into chat with the lad who was rubbing up the gig in which his master would shortly start for a neighbouring market. He kept his eyes well open, and it was not long before he descried a petticoat in the distance. It was certainly not Sophia. A second look showed it to be Jean Macaulay, the kitchen-maid, returning from the garden with a basketful of green stuff, and Jean, he bethought him, was a very particular friend of his own, and he might do a trifle of business for himself as well as fulfil his commission.

He vaulted lightly over a gate, and with three or four skips intercepted Jean, just where the blind wall of the dairy intercepted all view from the house.

Here with his gayest smile he caught with both his hands----not Jeanie, it was only her disengaged hand held out at arm's length; for she had seen him in time, and laughed merrily in his face, while she held her own well beyond his reach.

Joseph had missed his chance of a salute, and had to content himself with a salutation.

'Haud awa! ye caperin' antic!' she cried, 'an' behave yersel' afore folk. Yonder's Jock Spiers e'y yaird! Lay, by! An' what brings _you_ about the town at this time o' day, my mannie?'

'What wad it be, Jean, but yer ain sonsie face? I'm aye thinkin' o'

ye, whan I canna see ye! I canna lie quiet i' my lane bed, la.s.sie, for the thocht o' ye! Sae here I am.'

'Awa, ye leein' haveril! Do you tak me for a fule, to think ye're to blaw the stour i' my e'en that gate? Lay by, now! (Joseph had become demonstrative again), or I'll gie ye a gouff i' the lug'll gar't stound the next half-hour! An' I canna be claverin' here a' day. Awa wi' ye!' and she caught up her basket.

'What ails ye, la.s.s? Winna ye bide a wee? It's no often a body gets ye yer lane for a crack. Bide a wee!'

'I canna bide, man, ey noo! Gin the mistress comes ben an' dizna find the pat on the fire; I'se get my kale through the reek, I'se warrant ye!'

'Here, than, Jean! Here's a letter frae the minister to Miss Sophia.

An' ye maun gie't to naebody but her ain-sel'. I'se be hingin' round here-awa, an' ye maun fesh back the answer belive. Winna ye, noo, la.s.s?'

'We'll see,' said Jean moving off; 'she was bakin' pies whan I gaed out, gin she hae na gaen b.u.t.t the house, I'se gie her't. Ye'll be here whan I come out? For I'll no can bide lang.' And folding the letter in her ap.r.o.n she hastened into the house.

Sophia was still in the kitchen, giving the last ornamental touches to her pies, when the letter was brought her.

'From Glen Effick, eh? A note from Mary Brown I suppose. And an answer is wanted? very well.' She slipped it into her pocket, and retired to her room to read it at her leisure.

No one could have been more surprised than was Sophia at the contents of that letter, and the earnestness and solemnity with which they were expressed. She had never received a love-letter in her life, and had some indistinct idea from what her mother had occasionally said, that the subject was scarcely a proper one in real life. It was something that was to be read about in books, especially in poetry books and tales, but of these she had not read many. Her mother considered them relaxing to the mind, except when they were of a theological cast, and refrained from such frivolities as love scenes; the biographies of serious people, in fact, had been the staple of her reading.

She had been accustomed to look forward to a time when she would be married, but the aspect in which the change of state had chiefly presented itself to her mind had been the being mistress of a house of her own. From the time Mr. Wallowby had been expected to visit them, her mother had spoken to her of the possibility of his wishing to marry her, and of the wealthy and distinguished position she would in that case be called on to fill. She had thought of it as something that would be very nice if it took place, though also rather formidable, and wondered if it would feel very strange and uncomfortable at first; but it had never presented itself to her as a thing which she was to make any effort to gain, or that it was a matter in regard to which she would be called on to exercise any independent choice. Her parents had arranged everything for her hitherto, and knew what was best and most proper. They had sent her to school, and decided what she was to study there, and she had studied it accordingly. In the proper time they would arrange for her being married, and it would be for her to fill as she best could the position they might decide on as best for her.

And yet Sophia was not a person without character or full average'intelligence, as no doubt some day would be made manifest enough, when at length her individuality should waken up and a.s.sert itself. It was only that she had lived in retirement, and been 'very carefully brought up,' that is to say, in an especially narrow and artificial groove, that she was slow and quiescent herself, and had an unusually energetic and masterful mother.

As regarded Roderick, she liked him very much for a friend, better than her own brother Peter, because he was kinder and more attentive to her, and better than his sister Mary, the only other person she had known equally long, because she was 'only a girl;' but that Roderick should feel for her anything so different from this tepid friendship, was something beyond her comprehension. She read the letter again, a third time, and even a fourth, utterly bewildered by its earnestness, and finally unable to make anything of it all, she carried it to her mother.

Mrs. Sangster opened her eyes in surprise. Had a letter reached an inmate of her castle without her knowledge? Had her daughter received one without its pa.s.sing under her censorship? What were things coming to? She took the letter and put on her gla.s.ses.

'From? Roderick Brown! as I'm a christian woman! And what? I do declare--a love-letter! Oh----!!' Many indignant thoughts swept wildly through her soul, many words hurried to her lips. 'The serpent!' But at the sound of her own voice, she paused. Her daughter knew nothing, no one had ever dared to sully her pure ear with such a tale; and should her mother's be the hand to rend the veil of innocency, and let in the sad knowledge that there is evil in the world? She could not.

And yet she must say something, if only to cover her discomposure.

'And has it come to this, that a daughter of mine has actually received a love-letter! You! Sophia Sangster! what kind of conduct do you practise, that a libert---- a----young man feels encouraged to write you a love letter, and make you a proposal? Where has been your maidenliness? Your common sense of propriety? When I was a young woman, no man breathing would have presumed to write about love to me!'

'Mamma! I have done nothing. The letter is as great a surprise to me as it can be to you!'