The Ladies Lindores

By Margaret Oliphant.

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

The Ladies Lindores

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—”