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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..343b1c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61915 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61915) diff --git a/old/61915-0.txt b/old/61915-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1490a9f..0000000 --- a/old/61915-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4408 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Effie Ogilvie; vol. 2, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Effie Ogilvie; vol. 2 - the story of a young life - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: April 24, 2020 [EBook #61915] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EFFIE OGILVIE; VOL. 2 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - EFFIE OGILVIE. - - - - - PUBLISHED BY - JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW. - - MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON AND NEW YORK. - _London_, _Hamilton, Adams and Co._ - _Cambridge_, _Macmillan and Bowes_. - _Edinburgh_, _Douglas and Foulis_. - - MDCCCLXXXVI. - - - - - EFFIE OGILVIE: - - _THE STORY OF A YOUNG LIFE_. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC. - - - IN TWO VOLUMES. - - - VOL. II. - - - GLASGOW: - JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS, - Publishers to the University. - LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO. - 1886. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - - EFFIE OGILVIE: - - _THE STORY OF A YOUNG LIFE_. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Effie came towards him smiling, without apprehension. The atmosphere out -of doors had not the same consciousness, the same suggestion in it which -was inside. A young man’s looks, which may be alarming within the -concentration of four walls, convey no fear and not so much impression -in the fresh wind blowing from the moors and the openness of the country -road. To be sure it was afternoon and twilight coming on, which is -always a witching hour. - -He stood at the corner of the byeway waiting for her as she came along, -light-footed, in her close-fitting tweed dress, which made a dim setting -to the brightness of her countenance. She had a little basket in her -hand. She had been carrying a dainty of some kind to somebody who was -ill. The wind in her face had brightened everything, her colour, her -eyes, and even had, by a little tossing, found out some gleams of gold -in the brownness of her hair. She was altogether sweet and fair in -Fred’s eyes--a creature embodying everything good and wholesome, -everything that was simple and pure. She had a single rose in her hand, -which she held up as she advanced. - -“We are not like you, we don’t get roses all the year round; but here is -one, the last,” she said, “from Uncle John’s south wall.” - -It was not a highly-cultivated, scentless rose, such as the gardens at -Allonby produced by the hundred, but one that was full of fragrance, -sweet as all roses once were. The outer leaves had been a little caught -by the frost, but the heart was warm with life and sweetness. She held -it up to him, but did not give it to him, as at first he thought she was -going to do. - -“I would rather have that one,” he cried, “than all the roses which we -get all the year round.” - -“Because it is so sweet?” said Effie. “Yes, that is a thing that -revenges the poor folk. You can make the roses as big as a child’s head, -but for sweetness the little old ones in the cottage gardens are always -the best.” - -“Everything is sweet, I think, that is native here.” - -“Oh!” said Effie, with a deep breath of pleasure, taking the compliment -as it sounded, not thinking of herself in it. “I am glad to hear you say -that! for I think so too--the clover, and the heather, and the -hawthorn, and the meadow-sweet. There is a sweet-brier hedge at the -manse that Uncle John is very proud of. When it is in blossom he always -brings a little rose of it to me.” - -“Then I wish I might have that rose,” the young lover said. - -“From the sweet-brier? They are all dead long ago; and I cannot give you -this one, because it is the last. Does winter come round sooner here, -Mr. Dirom, than in--the South?” - -What Effie meant by the South was no more than England--a country, -according to her imagination, in which the sun blazed, and where the -climate in summer was almost more than honest Scots veins could bear. -That was not Fred’s conception of the South. - -He smiled in a somewhat imbecile way, and replied, “Everything is best -here. Dark, and true, and tender is the North: no, not dark, that is a -mistake of the poet. Fair, and sweet, and true--is what he ought to -have said.” - -“There are many dark people as well as fair in Scotland,” said Effie; -“people think we have all yellow hair. There is Uncle John, he is dark, -and true, and tender--and our Eric. You don’t know our Eric, Mr. Dirom?” - -“I hope I shall some day. I am looking forward to it. Is he like you, -Miss Effie?” - -“Oh, he is dark. I was telling you: and Ronald--I think we are just -divided like other people, some fair--some----” - -“And who is Ronald?--another brother?” - -“Oh, no--only a friend, in the same regiment.” - -Effie’s colour rose a little, not that she meant anything, for what was -Ronald to her? But yet there had been that reference of the Miss -Dempsters which she had not understood, and which somehow threw Ronald -into competition with Fred Dirom, so that Effie, without knowing it, -blushed. Then she said, with a vague idea of making up to him for some -imperceptible injury, “Have you ever gone through our little wood?” - -“I am hoping,” said Fred, “that you will take me there now.” - -“But the gloaming is coming on,” said Effie, “and the wind will be wild -among the trees--the leaves are half off already, and the winds seem to -shriek and tear them, till every branch shivers. In the autumn it is a -little eerie in the wood.” - -“What does eerie mean? but I think I know; and nothing could be eerie,” -said Fred half to himself, “while you are there.” - -Effie only half heard the words: she was opening the little postern -gate, and could at least pretend to herself that she had not heard them. -She had no apprehensions, and the young man’s society was pleasant -enough. To be worshipped is pleasant. It makes one so much more -disposed to think well of one’s self. - -“Then come away,” she said, holding the gate open, turning to him with a -smile of invitation. Her bright face looked brighter against the -background of the trees, which were being dashed about against an -ominous colourless sky. All was threatening in the heavens, dark and -sinister, as if a catastrophe were coming, which made the girl’s bright -tranquil face all the more delightful. How was it that she did not see -his agitation? At the crisis of a long alarm there comes a moment when -fear goes altogether out of the mind. - -If Effie had been a philosopher she might have divined that danger was -near merely from the curious serenity and quiet of her heart. The wooden -gate swung behind them. They walked into the dimness of the wood side by -side. The wind made a great sighing high up in the branches of the -fir-trees, like a sort of instrument--an Eolian harp of deeper compass -than any shrieking strings could be. The branches of the lower trees -blew about. There was neither the calm nor the sentiment that were -conformable to a love tale. On the contrary, hurry and storm were in the -air, a passion more akin to anger than to love. Effie liked those great -vibrations and the rushing flood of sound. But Fred did not hear them. -He was carried along by an impulse which was stronger than the wind. - -“Miss Ogilvie,” he said, “I have been talking to your father--I have -been asking his permission---- Perhaps I should not have gone to him -first. Perhaps--It was not by my own impulse altogether. I should have -wished first to---- But it appears that here, as in foreign countries, -it is considered--the best way.” - -Effie looked up at him with great surprise, her pretty eyebrows arched, -but no sense of special meaning as yet dawning in her eyes. - -“My father?” she said, wondering. - -Fred was not skilled in love-making. It had always been a thing he had -wished, to feel himself under the influence of a grand passion: but he -had never arrived at it till now; and all the little speeches which no -doubt he had prepared failed him in the genuine force of feeling. - -He stammered a little, looked at her glowing with tremulous emotion, -then burst forth suddenly, “O Effie, forgive me; I cannot go on in that -way. This is just all, that I’ve loved you ever since that first moment -at Allonby when the room was so dark. I could scarcely see you in your -white dress. Effie! it is not that I mean to be bold, to presume--I -can’t help it. It has been from the first moment. I shall never be happy -unless--unless----” - -He put his hand quickly, furtively, with a momentary touch upon hers -which held the rose, and then stood trembling to receive his sentence. -Effie understood at last. She stood still for a moment panic-stricken, -raising bewildered eyes to his. When he touched her hand she started and -drew a step away from him, but found nothing better to say than a low -frightened exclamation, “O Mr. Fred!” - -“I have startled you. I know I ought to have begun differently, not to -have brought it out all at once. But how could I help it? Effie! won’t -you give me a little hope? Don’t you know what I mean? Don’t you know -what I want? O Effie! I am much older than you are, and I have been -about the world a long time, but I have never loved any one but you.” - -Effie did not look at him now. She took her rose in both her hands and -fixed her eyes upon that. - -“You are very kind, you are too, too---- I have done nothing that you -should think so much of me,” she said. - -“Done nothing? I don’t want you to do anything; you are yourself, that -is all. I want you to let me do everything for you. Effie, you -understand, don’t you, what I mean?” - -“Yes,” she said, “I think I understand: but I have not thought of it -like that. I have only thought of you as a----” - -Here she stopped, and her voice sank, getting lower and lower as she -breathed out the last monosyllable. As a friend, was that what she was -going to say? And was it true? Effie was too sincere to finish the -sentence. It had not been quite as a friend: there had been something in -the air--But she was in no position to reply to this demand he made upon -her. It was true that she had not thought of it. It had been about her -in the atmosphere, that was all. - -“I know,” he said, breaking in eagerly. “I did not expect you to feel as -I do. There was nothing in me to seize your attention. Oh, I am not -disappointed--I expected no more. You thought of me as a friend. Well! -and I want to be the closest of friends. Isn’t that reasonable? Only let -me go on trying to please you. Only, only try to love me a little, -Effie. Don’t you think you could like a poor fellow who wants nothing so -much as to please you?” - -Fred was very much in earnest: there was a glimmer in his eyes, his face -worked a little: there was a smile of deprecating, pleading tenderness -about his mouth which made his lip quiver. He was eloquent in being so -sincere. Effie gave a furtive glance up at him and was moved. But it was -love and not Fred that moved her. She was profoundly affected, almost -awe-stricken at the sight of that, but not at the sight of him. - -“Oh,” she said, “I like you already very much: but that is not--that is -not--it is not--the same----” - -“No,” he said, “it is not the same--it is very different; but I shall be -thankful for that, hoping for more. If you will only let me go on, and -let me hope?” - -Effie knew no reply to make; her heart was beating, her head swimming: -they went on softly under the waving boughs a few steps, as in a dream. -Then he suddenly took her hand with the rose in it, and kissed it, and -took the flower from her fingers, which trembled under the novelty of -that touch. - -“You will give it to me now--for a token,” he said, with a catching of -his breath. - -Effie drew away her hand, but she left him the rose. She was in a tremor -of sympathetic excitement and emotion. How could she refuse to feel when -he felt so much? but she had nothing to say to him. So long as he asked -no more than this, there seemed no reason to thwart him, to -refuse--what? he had not asked for anything, only that she should like -him, which indeed she did; and that he might try to please her. To -please her! She was not so hard to please. She scarcely heard what he -went on to say, in a flood of hasty words, with many breaks, and looks -which she was conscious of, but did not resent. He seemed to be telling -her about herself, how sweet she was, how true and good, what a -happiness to know her, to be near her, to be permitted to walk by her -side as he was doing. Effie heard it and did not hear, walking on in her -dream, feeling that it was not possible any one could form such -extravagant ideas of her, inclined to laugh, half-inclined to cry, in a -strange enchantment which she could not break. - -She heard her own voice say after a while, “Oh no, no--oh no, no--that -is all wrong. I am not like that, it cannot be me you are meaning.” But -this protest floated away upon the air, and was unreal like all the -rest. As for Fred, he was in an enchantment more potent still. Her -half-distressed, half-subdued listening, her little protestation, her -surprise, yet half-consent, and above all the privilege of pouring forth -upon her the full tide of passionate words which surprised himself by -their fluency and force, entirely satisfied him. Her youth, her gentle -ignorance and innocence, which were so sweet, fully accounted for the -absence of response. - -He felt instinctively that it was sweeter that she should allow herself -to be worshipped, that she should not be ready to meet him, but have to -be wooed and entreated before she found a reply. These were all -additional charms. He felt no want, nor was conscious of any drawback. -The noise in the tops of the fir-trees, the waving of the branches -overhead, the rushing of the wind, were to Fred more sweet than any -sound of hidden brooks, or all the tender rustling of the foliage of -June. - -Presently, however, there came a shock of awakening to this rapture, -when the young pair reached the little gate which admitted into the -garden of Gilston. Fred saw the house suddenly rising before him above -the shrubberies, gray and solid and real, and the sight of it brought -him back out of that magic circle. They both stopped short outside the -door with a consciousness of reality which silenced the one and roused -the other. In any other circumstances Effie would have asked him to come -in. She stopped now with her hand on the gate, with a sense of the -impossibility of inviting him now to cross that threshold. And Fred too -stopped short. To go farther would be to risk the entire fabric of this -sudden happiness. - -He took her hand again, “Dear Effie, dearest Effie; good-night, darling, -good-night.” - -“O Mr. Fred! but you must not call me these names, you must not -think---- It is all such a surprise, and I have let you say too much. -You must not think----” - -“That I am to you what you are to me? Oh no, I do not think it; but you -will let me love you? that is all I ask: and you will try to think of me -a little. Effie, you will think of me--just a little--and of this sweet -moment, and of the flower you have given me.” - -“Oh, I will not be able to help thinking,” cried Effie. “But, Mr. Fred, -I am just bewildered; I do not know what you have been saying. And I did -not give it you. Don’t suppose--oh don’t suppose---- You must not go -away thinking----” - -“I think only that you will let me love you and try to please you. -Good-night, darling, good-night.” - -Effie went through the garden falling back into her dream. She scarcely -knew what she was treading on, the garden paths all dim in the fading -light, or the flower-beds with their dahlias. She heard his footstep -hurrying along towards the road, and the sound of his voice seemed to -linger in the air--Darling! had any one ever called her by that name -before? There was nobody to call her so. She was Uncle John’s darling, -but he did not use such words: and there was no one else to do it. - -Darling! now that she was alone she felt the hot blush come up -enveloping her from head to foot--was it Fred Dirom who had called her -that, a man, a stranger! A sudden fright and panic seized her. His -darling! what did that mean? To what had she bound herself? She could -not be his darling without something in return. Effie paused half-way -across the garden with a sudden impulse to run after him, to tell him -it was a mistake, that he must not think--But then she remembered that -she had already told him that he must not think--and that he had said -no, oh no, but that she was his darling. A confused sense that a great -deal had happened to her, though she scarcely knew how, and that she had -done something which she did not understand, without meaning it, without -desiring it, came over her like a gust of the wind which suddenly seemed -to have become chill, and blew straight upon her out of the colourless -sky which was all white and black with its flying clouds. She stood -still to think, but she could not think: her thoughts began to hurry -like the wind, flying across the surface of her mind, leaving no trace. - -There were lights in the windows of the drawing-room, and Effie could -hear through the stillness the voice of her stepmother running on in her -usual strain, and little Rory shouting and driving his coach in the big -easy-chair. She could not bear to go into the lighted room, to expose -her agitated countenance to the comments which she knew would attend -her, the questions, where she had been, and why she was so late? Effie -had not a suspicion that her coming was eagerly looked for, and that -Mrs. Ogilvie was waiting with congratulations; but she could not meet -any eye with her story written so clearly in her face. She hurried up to -her own room, and there sat in the dark pondering and wondering. “Think -of me a little.” Oh! should she ever be able to think of anything else -all her life? - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Effie came down to dinner late--with eyes that betrayed themselves by -unusual shining, and a colour that wavered from red to pale. She had put -on her white frock hurriedly, forgetting her usual little ornaments in -the confusion of her mind. To her astonishment Mrs. Ogilvie, who was -waiting at the drawing-room door looking out for her, instead of the -word of reproof which her lateness generally called forth, met her with -a beaming countenance. - -“Well, Miss Effie!” she said, “so you’re too grand to mind that it’s -dinner-time. I suppose you’ve just had your little head turned with -flattery and nonsense.” And to the consternation of her stepdaughter, -Mrs. Ogilvie took her by the shoulders and gave her a hearty kiss upon -her cheek. “I am just as glad as if I had come into a fortune,” she -said. - -Mr. Ogilvie added a “humph!” as he moved on to the dining-room. And he -shot a glance which was not an angry glance (as it generally was when he -was kept waiting for his dinner) at his child. - -“You need not keep the dinner waiting now that she has come,” he said. -Effie did not know what to make of this extraordinary kindness of -everybody. Even old George did not look daggers at her as he took off -the cover of the tureen. It was inconceivable; never in her life had her -sin of being late received this kind of notice before. - -When they sat down at table Mrs. Ogilvie gave a little shriek of -surprise, “Why, where are your beads, Effie? Ye have neither a bow, nor -a bracelet, nor one single thing, but your white frock. I might well say -your head was turned, but I never expected it in this way. And why did -you not keep him to his dinner? You would have minded your ribbons that -are so becoming to you, if he had been here.” - -“Let her alone,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “she is well enough as she is.” - -“Oh yes, she’s well enough, and more than well enough, considering how -she has managed her little affairs. Take some of this trout, Effie. It’s -a very fine fish. It’s just too good a dinner to eat all by ourselves. I -was thinking we were sure to have had company. Why didn’t you bring him -in to his dinner, you shy little thing? You would think shame: as if -there was any reason to think shame! Poor young man! I will take him -into my own hands another time, and I will see he is not snubbed. Give -Miss Effie a little of that claret, George. She is just a little done -out--what with her walk, and what with----” - -“I am not tired at all,” said Effie with indignation. “I don’t want any -wine.” - -“You are just very cross and thrawn,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, making pretence -to threaten the girl with her finger. “You will have your own way. But -to be sure there is only one time in the world when a woman is sure of -having her own way, and I don’t grudge it to you, my dear. Robert, just -you let Rory be in his little chair till nurse comes for him. No, no, I -will not have him given things to eat. It’s very bad manners, and it -keeps his little stomach out of order. Let him be. You are just making a -fool of the bairn.” - -“Guide your side of the house as well as I do mine,” said Mr. Ogilvie, -aggrieved. He was feeding his little son furtively, with an expression -of beatitude impossible to describe. Effie was a young woman in whom it -was true he took a certain interest; but her marrying or any other -nonsense that she might take into her head, what were they to him? He -had never taken much to do with the woman’s side of the house. But his -little Rory, that was a different thing. A splendid little fellow, just -a little king. And what harm could a little bit of fish, or just a snap -of grouse, do him? It was all women’s nonsense thinking that slops and -puddings and that kind of thing were best for a boy. - -“My side of the house!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with a little shriek; “and -what might that be? If Rory is not my side of the house, whose side does -he belong to? And don’t you think that I would ever let you have the -guiding of him. Oh, nurse, here you are! I am just thankful to see you; -for Mr. Ogilvie will have his own way, and as sure as we’re all living, -that boy will have an attack before to-morrow morning. Take him away -and give him a little----. Yes, yes, just something simple of that kind. -Good-night, my bonnie little man. I would like to know what is my side -if it isn’t Rory? You are meaning the female side. Well, and if I had -not more consideration for your daughter than you have for my son----” - -“Listen to her!” said Mr. Ogilvie, “her son! I like that.” - -“And whose son may he be? But you’ll not make me quarrel whatever you -do--and on this night of all others. Effie, here is your health, my -dear, and I wish you every good. We will have to write to Eric, and -perhaps he might get home in time. What was that Eric said, Robert, -about getting short leave? It is a very wasteful thing coming all the -way from India, and only six weeks or so to spend at home. Still, if -there was a good reason for it----” - -“Is Eric coming home? have you got a letter? But you could not have got -a letter since the morning,” cried Effie. - -“No; but other things may have happened since the morning,” said Mrs. -Ogilvie with a nod and a smile. Effie could not understand the allusions -which rained upon her. She retreated more and more into herself, merely -listening to the talk that went on across her. She sat at her usual side -of the table, eating little, taking no notice. It did not occur to her -that what had happened in the wood concerned any one but herself. After -all, what was it? Nothing to disturb anybody, not a thing to be talked -about. To try to please her--that was all he had asked, and who could -have refused him a boon so simple? It was silly of her even, she said to -herself, to be so confused by it, so absorbed thinking about it, growing -white and red, as if something had happened; when nothing had happened -except that he was to try to please her--as if she were so hard to -please! - -But Effie was more and more disturbed when her stepmother turned upon -her as soon as the dining-room door was closed, and took her by the -shoulders again. - -“You little bit thing, you little quiet thing!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “To -think you should have got the prize that never took any thought of it, -whereas many another nice girl!--I am just as proud as if it was myself: -and he is good as well as rich, and by no means ill-looking, and a very -pleasant young man. I have always felt like a mother to you, Effie, and -always done my duty, I hope. Just you trust in me as if I were your real -mother. Where did ye meet him? And were you very much surprised? and -what did he say?” - -Effie grew red from the soles of her feet, she thought, to the crown of -her head, shame or rather shamefacedness, its innocent counterpart, -enveloping her like a mantle. Her eyes fell before her stepmother’s, but -she shook herself free of Mrs. Ogilvie’s hold. - -“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. - -“Oh fie, Effie, fie! You may not intend to show me any confidence, which -will be very ill done on your part: but you cannot pretend not to know -what I mean. It was me that had pity upon the lad, and showed him the -way you were coming. I have always been your well-wisher, doing whatever -I could. And to tell me that you don’t know what I mean!” - -Effie had her little obstinacies as well as another. She was not so -perfect as Fred Dirom thought. She went and got her knitting,--a little -stocking for Rory,--work which she was by no means devoted to on -ordinary occasions. But she got it out now, and sat down in a corner at -a distance from the table and the light, and began to knit as if her -life depended upon it. - -“I must get this little stocking finished. It has been so long in hand,” -she said. - -“Well, that is true,” said Mrs, Ogilvie, who had watched all Effie’s -proceedings with a sort of vexed amusement; “very true, and I will not -deny it. You have had other things in your mind; still, to take a month -to a bit little thing like that, that I could do in two evenings! But -you’re very industrious all at once. Will you not come nearer to the -light?” - -“I can see very well where I am,” said Effie shortly. - -“I have no doubt you can see very well where you are, for there is -little light wanted for knitting a stocking. Still you would be more -sociable if you would come nearer. Effie Ogilvie!” she cried suddenly, -“you will never tell me that you have sent him away?” - -Effie looked at her with defiance in her eyes, but she made no reply. - -“Lord bless us!” said her stepmother; “you will not tell me you have -done such a thing? Effie, are you in your senses, girl? Mr. Fred Dirom, -the best match in the county, that might just have who he liked,--that -has all London to pick and choose from,--and yet comes out of his way to -offer himself to a--to a--just a child like you. Robert,” she said, -addressing her husband, who was coming in tranquilly for his usual cup -of tea, “Robert! grant us patience! I’m beginning to think she has sent -Fred Dirom away!” - -“Where has she sent him to?” said Mr. Ogilvie with a glance half angry, -half contemptuous from under his shaggy eyebrows. Then he added, “But -that will never do, for I have given the young man my word.” - -Effie had done her best to go on with her knitting, but the needles had -gone all wrong in her hands: she had slipped her stitches, her wool had -got tangled. She could not see what she was doing. She got up, letting -the little stocking drop at her feet, and stood between the two, who -were both eyeing her so anxiously. - -“I wish,” she said, “that you would let me alone. I am doing nothing to -anybody. I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that. What have I done? I -have done nothing that is wrong. Oh, I wish--I wish Uncle John was -here!” she exclaimed suddenly, and in spite of herself and all her pride -and defensive instincts, suddenly began to cry, like the child she still -was. - -“It would be a very good thing if he were here; he would perhaps bring -you to your senses. A young man that you have kept dancing about you all -the summer, and let him think you liked his society, and was pleased to -see him when he came, and never a thought in your head of turning him -from the door. And now when he has spoken to your father, and offered -himself and all, in the most honourable way. Dear bless me, Effie, what -has the young man done to you that you have led him on like this, and -made a fool of him, and then to send him away?” - -“I have never led him on,” cried Effie through her tears. “I have not -made a fool of him. If he liked to come, that was nothing to anybody, -and I never--never----” - -“It is very easy to speak. Perhaps you think a young man has no pride? -when they are just made up of it! Yes--you have led him on: and now he -will be made a fool of before all the county. For everybody has seen it; -it will run through the whole countryside; and the poor young man will -just be scorned everywhere, that has done no harm but to think more of -you than you deserve.” - -“There’s far too much of this,” said Mr. Ogilvie, who prided himself a -little on his power to stop all female disturbances and to assert his -authority. “Janet, you’ll let the girl alone. And, Effie, you’ll see -that you don’t set up your face and answer back, for it is a thing I -will not allow. Dear me, is that tea not coming? I will have to go away -without it if it is not ready. I should have thought, with all the women -there are in this house, it might be possible to get a cup of tea.” - -“And that is true indeed,” said his wife, “but they will not keep the -kettle boiling. The kettle should be always aboil in a well-cared-for -house. I tell them so ten times in a day. But here it is at last. You -see you are late, George; you have kept your master waiting. And -Effie----” - -But Effie had disappeared. She had slid out of the room under cover of -old George and his tray, and had flown upstairs through the dim passages -to her own room, where all was dark. There are moments where the -darkness is more congenial than the light, when a young head swims with -a hundred thoughts, and life is giddy with its over-fulness, and a dark -room is a hermitage and place of refuge soothing in its contrast with -all that which is going through the head of the thinker, and all the -pictures that float before her (as in the present case--or his) eyes. -She had escaped like a bird into its nest: but not without carrying a -little further disturbance with her. - -The idea of Fred had hitherto conveyed nothing to her mind that was not -flattering and soothing and sweet. But now there was a harsher side -added to this amiable and tender one. She had led him on. She had given -him false hopes and made him believe that she cared for him. Had she -made him believe that she--cared for him? Poor Fred! He had himself put -it in so much prettier a way. He was to try to please her, as if she had -been the Queen. To try to please her! and she on her side was to try--to -like him. That was very different from those harsh accusations. There -was nothing that was not delightful, easy, soothing in all that. They -had parted such friends. And he had called her darling, which no one had -ever called her before. - -Her heart took refuge with Fred, who was so kind and asked for so -little, escaping from her stepmother with her flood of questions and -demands, and her father with his dogmatism. His word; he had given his -word. Did he think that was to pledge her? that she was to be handed -over to any one he pleased, because he had given his word? But Fred made -no such claim--he was too kind for that. He was to try to please her; -that was different altogether. - -And then Effie gradually forgot the episode downstairs, and began to -think of the dark trees tossed against the sky, and the road through the -wood, and the look of her young lover’s eyes which she had not ventured -to meet, and all the things he said which she did not remember. She did -not remember the words, and she had not met the look, but yet they were -both present with her in her room in the dark, and filled her again with -that confused, sweet sense of elevation, that self-pleasure which it -would be harsh to call vanity, that bewildered consciousness of worship. -It made her head swim and her heart beat. To be loved was so strange and -beautiful. Perhaps Fred himself was not so imposing. She had noticed in -spite of herself how the wind had blown the tails of his coat and almost -forced him on against his will. He was not the hero of whom Effie, like -other young maidens, had dreamed. But yet her young being was thrilled -and responsive to the magic in the air, and touched beyond measure by -that consciousness of being loved. - -Fred came next morning eager and wistful and full of suppressed ardour, -but with a certain courage of permission and sense that he had a right -to her society, which was half irksome and half sweet. He hung about all -the morning, ready to follow, to serve her, to get whatever she might -want, to read poetry to her, to hold her basket while she cut the -flowers--the late flowers of October--to watch while she arranged them, -saying a hundred half-articulate things that made her laugh and made her -blush, and increased every moment the certainty that she was no longer -little Effie whom everybody had ordered about, but a little person of -wonderful importance--a lady like the ladies in Shakespeare, one for -whom no comparison was too lofty, and no name too sweet. - -It amused Effie in the bottom of her heart, and yet it touched her: she -could not escape the fascination. And so it came about that without any -further question, without going any farther into herself, or perceiving -how she was drawn into it, she found herself bound and pledged for life. - -Engaged to Fred Dirom! She only realized the force of it when -congratulations began to arrive from all the countryside--letters full -of admiration and good wishes; and when Doris and Phyllis rushed upon -her and took possession of her, saying a hundred confusing things. Effie -was frightened, pleased, flattered, all in one. And everybody petted and -praised her as if she had done some great thing. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -“And when is it going to be?” Miss Dempster said. - -The ladies had come to call in their best gowns. Miss Beenie’s was puce, -an excellent silk of the kind Mrs. Primrose chose for wear--and Miss -Dempster’s was black satin, a little shiny by reason of its years, but -good, no material better. These dresses were not brought out for every -occasion; but to-day was exceptional. They did not approve of Effie’s -engagement, yet there was no doubt but it was a great event. They had -been absent from home for about three weeks, so that their -congratulations came late. - -“I don’t know what you mean by it; there is nothing going to be,” said -Effie, very red and angry. She had consented, it was true, in a way; but -she had not yet learnt to contemplate any practical consequences, and -the question made her indignant. Her temper had been tried by a great -many questions, and by a desire to enter into her confidence, and to -hear a great deal about Fred, and how it all came about, which her chief -friend Mary Johnston and some others had manifested. She had nothing to -say to them about Fred, and she could not herself tell how it all came -about; but it seemed the last drop in Effie’s cup when she was asked -when it was to be. - -“I should say your father and Mrs. Ogilvie would see to that; they are -not the kind of persons to let a young man shilly-shally,” said Miss -Dempster. “It is a grand match, and I wish ye joy, my dear. Still, I -would like to hear a little more about it: for money embarked in -business is no inheritance; it’s just here to-day and gone to-morrow. I -hope your worthy father will be particular about the settlements. He -should have things very tight tied down. I will speak to him myself.” - -“My sister has such a head for business,” Miss Beenie said. “Anybody -might make a fool of me: but the man that would take in Sarah, I do not -think he is yet born.” - -“No, I am not an easy one to take in,” said Miss Dempster. “Those that -have seen as much of the ways of the world as I have, seldom are. I am -not meaning that there would be any evil intention: but a man is led -into speculation, or something happens to his ships, or he has his money -all shut up in ventures. I would have a certain portion realized and -settled, whatever might happen, if it was me.” - -“And have you begun to think of your things, Effie?” Miss Beenie said. - -At this Miss Effie jumped up from her chair, ready to cry, her -countenance all ablaze with indignation and annoyance. - -“I think you want to torment me,” she cried. “What things should I have -to think of? I wish you would just let me be. What do I know about all -that? I want only to be let alone. There is nothing going to happen to -me.” - -“Dear me, what is this?” said Mrs. Ogilvie coming in, “Effie in one of -her tantrums and speaking loud to Miss Dempster! I hope you will never -mind; she is just a little off her head with all the excitement and the -flattery, and finding herself so important. Effie, will you go and see -that Rory is not troubling papa? Take him up to the nursery or out to -the garden. It’s a fine afternoon, and a turn in the garden would do him -no harm, nor you either, for you’re looking a little flushed. She is -just the most impracticable thing I ever had in my hands,” she added, -when Effie, very glad to be released, escaped out of the room. “She will -not hear a word. You would think it was just philandering, and no -serious thought of what’s to follow in her head at all.” - -“It would be a pity,” said Miss Dempster, “if it was the same on the -other side. Young men are very content to amuse themselves if they’re -let do it; they like nothing better than to love and to ride away.” - -“You’ll be pleased to hear,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, responding instantly to -this challenge “that it’s very, very different on the other side. Poor -Fred, I am just very sorry for him. He cannot bring her to the point. -She slips out of it, or she runs away. He tells me she will never say -anything to him, but just ‘It is very nice now--or--we are very well as -we are.replace with’ He is anxious to be settled, poor young man, and -nothing can be more liberal than what he proposes. But Effie is just -very trying. She thinks life is to be all fun, and no changes. To be -sure there are allowances to be made for a girl that is so happy at home -as Effie is, and has so many good friends.” - -“Maybe her heart is not in it,” said Miss Dempster; “I have always -thought that our connection, young Ronald Sutherland----” - -“It’s a dreadful thing,” cried Miss Beenie, “to force a young creature’s -affections. If she were to have, poor bit thing, another Eemage in her -mind----” - -“Oh!” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, provoked. She would have liked to shake them, -the old cats! as she afterwards said. But she was wise in her -generation, and knew that to quarrel was always bad policy. “What Eemage -could there be?” she said with a laugh. “Effie is just full of fancies, -and slips through your fingers whenever you would bring her to look at -anything in earnest; but that is all. No, no, there is no Eemage, -unless it was just whim and fancy. As for Ronald, she never gave him a -thought, nor anybody else. She is like a little wild thing, and to catch -her and put the noose round her is not easy; but as for Eemage!” cried -Mrs. Ogilvie, exaggerating the pronunciation of poor Miss Beenie, which -was certainly old fashioned. The old ladies naturally did not share her -laughter. They looked at each other, and rose and shook out their -rustling silken skirts. - -“There is no human person,” said Miss Dempster, “that is beyond the -possibility of a mistake; and my sister and me, we may be mistaken. But -you will never make me believe that girlie’s heart is in it. Eemage or -no eemage, I’m saying nothing. Beenie is just a trifle romantic. She may -be wrong. But I give you my opinion; that girlie’s heart’s not in it: -and nothing will persuade me to the contrary. Effie is a delicate bit -creature. There are many things that the strong might never mind, but -that she could not bear. It’s an awful responsibility, Mrs. Ogilvie.” - -“I will take the responsibility,” said that lady, growing angry, as was -natural. “I am not aware that it’s a thing any person has to do with -except her father and me.” - -“If you take it upon that tone--Beenie, we will say good-day.” - -“Good-day to ye, Mrs. Ogilvie. I am sure I hope no harm will come of it; -but it’s an awfureplace with’ responsibility,” Miss Beenie said, -following her sister to the door. And we dare not guess what high words -might have followed had not the ladies, in going out, crossed Mr. -Moubray coming in. They would fain have stopped him to convey their -doubts, but Mrs. Ogilvie had followed them to the hall in the extreme -politeness of a quarrel, and they could not do this under her very eyes. -Uncle John perceived, with the skilled perceptions of a clergyman, that -there was a storm in the air. - -“What is the matter?” he said, as he followed her back to the -drawing-room. “Is it about Effie? But, of course, that is the only topic -now.” - -“Oh, you may be sure it’s about Effie. And all her own doing, and I wish -you would speak to her. It is my opinion that she cares for nobody but -you. Sometimes she _will_ mind what her Uncle John says to her.” - -“Poor little Effie! often I hope; and you too, who have always been kind -to her.” - -“I have tried,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, sitting down and taking out her -handkerchief. She appeared to be about to indulge herself in the luxury -of tears: she looked hard at that piece of cambric, as though -determining the spot which was to be applied to her eyes--and then she -changed her mind. - -“But I know it is a difficult position,” she said briskly. “I think it -very likely, in Effie’s place, that I should not have liked a stepmother -myself. But then you would think she would be pleased with her new -prospects, and glad to get into her own house out of my way. If that was -the case I would think it very natural. But no. I am just in that state -about her that I don’t know what I am doing. Here is a grand marriage -for her, as you cannot deny, and she has accepted the man. But if either -he or any one of us says a word about marriage, or her trousseau, or -anything, she is just off in a moment. I am terrified every day for a -quarrel: for who can say how long a young man’s patience may last?” - -“He has not had so very long to wait, nor much trial of his patience,” -said Uncle John, who was sensitive on Effie’s account, and ready to take -offence. - -“No; he has perhaps not had long to wait. But there is nothing to wait -for. His father is willing to make all the settlements we can desire: -and Fred is a partner, and gets his share. He’s as independent as a man -can be. And there’s no occasion for delay. But she will not hear a word -of it. I just don’t know what to make of her. She likes him well enough -for all I can see; but marriage she will not hear of. And if it is to be -at the New Year, which is what he desires, and us in November now--I -just ask you how are we ever to be ready when she will not give the -least attention, or so much as hear a word about her clothes?” - -“Oh, her clothes!” said Mr. Moubray, with a man’s disdain. - -“You may think little of them, but I think a great deal. It is all very -well for gentlemen that have not got it to do. But what would her father -say to me, or the world in general, or even yourself, if I let her go to -her husband’s house with a poor providing, or fewer things than other -brides? Whose fault would everybody say that was? And besides it’s like -a silly thing, not like a reasonable young woman. I wish you would speak -to her. If there is one thing that weighs with Effie, it is the thought -of what her Uncle John will say.” - -“But what do you want me to say?” asked the minister. His mind was more -in sympathy with Effie’s reluctance than with the haste of the others. -There was nothing to be said against Fred Dirom. He was irreproachable, -he was rich, he was willing to live within reach. Every circumstance was -favourable to him. - -But Mr. Moubray thought the young man might very well be content with -what he had got, and spare his Effie a little longer to those whose love -for her was far older at least, if not profounder, than his. The -minister had something of the soreness of a man who is being robbed in -the name of love. - -Love! forty thousand lovers, he thought, reversing Hamlet’s sentiment, -could not have made up the sum of the love he bore his little girl. -Marriage is the happiest state, no doubt: but yet, perhaps a man has a -more sensitive shrinking from transplanting the innocent creature he -loves into that world of life matured than even a mother has. He did not -like the idea that his Effie should pass into that further chapter of -existence, and become, not as the gods, knowing good and evil, but as -himself, or any other. He loved her ignorance, her absence of all -consciousness, her freedom of childhood. It is true she was no longer a -child; and she loved--did she love? Perhaps secretly in his heart he was -better pleased to think that she had been drawn by sympathy, by her -reluctance that any one should suffer, and by the impulse and influence -of everybody about her, rather than by any passion on her own side, into -these toils. - -“What do you want me to say?” He was a little softened towards the -stepmother, who acknowledged honestly (she was on the whole a true sort -of woman, meaning no harm) the close tie, almost closer than any other, -which bound Effie to him. And he would not fail to Mrs. Ogilvie’s trust -if he could help it; but what was he to say? - -Effie was in the garden when Uncle John went out. She had interpreted -her stepmother’s commission about Rory to mean that she was not wanted, -and she had been glad to escape from the old ladies and all their -questions and remarks. She was coming back from the wood with a handful -of withered leaves and lichens when her uncle joined her. Effie had been -seized with a fit of impatience of the baskets of flowers which Fred was -always bringing. She preferred her bouquet of red and yellow leaves, -which every day it was getting more difficult to find. This gave Mr. -Moubray the opening he wanted. - -“You are surely perverse,” he said, “my little Effie, to gather all -these things, which your father would call rubbitch, when you have so -many beautiful flowers inside.” - -“I cannot bear those grand flowers,” said Effie, “they are all made out -of wax, I think, and they have all the same scent. Oh, I know they are -beautiful! They are too beautiful, they are made up things, they are not -like nature. In winter I like the leaves best.” - -“You will soon have no leaves, and what will you do then? and, my dear, -your life is to be spent among these bonnie things. You are not to have -the thorns and the thistles, but the roses and the lilies, Effie; and -you must get used to them. It is generally a lesson very easily learnt.” - -To this Effie made no reply. After a while she began to show that the -late autumn leaves, if not a matter of opposition, were not -particularly dear to her--for she pulled them to pieces, unconsciously -dropping a twig now and then, as she went on. And when she spoke, it was -apparently with the intention of changing the subject. - -“Is it really true,” she said, “that Eric is coming home for Christmas? -He said nothing about it in his last letter. How do they know?” - -“There is such a thing as the telegraph, Effie. You know why he is -coming. He is coming for your marriage.” - -Effie gave a start and quick recoil. - -“But that is not going to be--oh, not yet, not for a long time.” - -“I thought that everybody wished it to take place at the New Year.” - -“Not me,” said the girl. She took no care at all now of the leaves she -had gathered with so much trouble, but strewed the ground with them as -if for a procession to pass. - -“Uncle John,” she went on quickly and tremulously, “why should it be -soon? I am quite young. Sometimes I feel just like a little child, -though I may not be so very young in years.” - -“Nineteen!” - -“Yes, I know it is not very young. I shall be twenty next year. At -twenty you understand things better; you are a great deal more -responsible. Why should there be any hurry? _He_ is young too. You might -help me to make them all see it. Everything is nice enough as it is now. -Why should we go and alter, and make it all different? Oh, I wish you -would speak to them, Uncle John.” - -“My dear, your stepmother has just given me a commission to bring you -over to their way of thinking. I am so loth to lose you that my heart -takes your side: but, Effie----” - -“To lose me!” she cried, flinging away the “rubbitch” altogether, and -seizing his arm with both her hands. “Oh no, no, that can never be!” - -“No, it will never be: and yet it will be as soon as you’re married: and -there is a puzzle for you, my bonnie dear. The worst of it is that you -will be quite content, and see that it is natural it should be so: but I -will not be content. That is what people call the course of nature. But -for all that, I am not going to plead for myself. Effie, the change has -begun already. A little while ago, and there was no man in the world -that had any right to interfere with your own wishes: but now you know -the thing is done. It is as much done as if you had been married for -years. You must now not think only of what pleases yourself, but of what -pleases him.” - -Effie was silent for some time, and went slowly along clinging to her -uncle’s arm. At last she said in a low tone, “But he is pleased. He -said he would try to please me; that was all that was said.” - -Uncle John shook his head. - -“That may be all that is said, and it is all a young man thinks when he -is in love. But, my dear, that means that you must please him. -Everything is reciprocal in this world. And the moment you give your -consent that he is to please you, you pledge yourself to consider and -please him.” - -“But he is pleased. Oh! he says he will do whatever I wish.” - -“That is if you will do what he wishes, Effie. For what he wishes is -what it all means, my dear. And the moment you put your hand in his, it -is right that he should strive to have you, and fight and struggle to -have you, and never be content till he has got you. I would myself think -him a poor creature if he thought anything else.” - -There was another pause, and then Effie said, clasping more closely her -uncle’s arm, “But it would be soon enough in a year or two--after there -was time to think. Why should there be a hurry? After I am twenty I -would have more sense; it would not be so hard. I could understand -better. Surely that’s very reasonable, Uncle John.” - -“Too reasonable,” he said, shaking his head. “Effie, lift up your eyes -and look me in the face. Are you sure that you are happy, my little -woman? Look me in the face.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -“No, Beenie,” said Miss Dempster solemnly, “her heart is not in it. Do -you think it is possible at her age that a young creature could resist -all the excitement and the importance, and the wedding presents and the -wedding clothes? It was bad enough in our own time, but it’s just twice -as bad now when every mortal thinks it needful to give their present, -and boxes are coming in every day for months. That’s a terrible bad -custom: it’s no better than the penny weddings the poor people used to -have. But to think a young thing would be quite indifferent to all that, -if everything was natural, is more than I can understand.” - -“That’s very true,” said Miss Beenie, “and all her new things. If it was -nothing but the collars and fichus that are so pretty nowadays, and all -the new pocket-handkerchiefs.” - -“It’s not natural,” the elder sister said. - -“And if you will remember, there was a wonderful look about the little -thing’s eyes when Ronald went away. To be sure there was Eric with him. -She was really a little thing then, though now she’s grown up. You may -depend upon it that though maybe she may not be conscious of it herself, -there is another Eemage in her poor bit little heart.” - -“Ye are too sentimental, Beenie. That’s not necessary. There may be a -shrinking without that. I know no harm of young Dirom. He’s not one that -would ever take my fancy, but still there’s no harm in him. The -stepmother is just ridiculous. She thinks it’s her that’s getting the -elevation. There will never be a word out of her mouth but Allonby if -this comes to pass. But the heart of the little thing is not in it. She -was angry; that was what her colour came from. It was no blush, yon; it -was out of an angry and an unwilling mind. I have not lived to my -present considerable age without knowing what a girl’s looks mean.” - -“You are not so old as you make yourself out. A person would think you -were just a Methusaleh; when it is well known there is only five years -between us,” said Miss Beenie in an aggrieved tone. - -“I always say there’s a lifetime--so you may be easy in your mind so far -as that goes. I am just as near a Methusaleh as I’ve any desire to be. I -wonder now if Mrs. Ogilvie knows what has happened about Ronald, and -that he’s coming home. To be a well-born woman herself, she has very -little understanding about inter-marriages and that kind of thing. It’s -more than likely that she doesn’t know. And to think that young man -should come back, with a nice property though it’s small, and in a -condition to marry, just when this is settled! Bless me! if he had come -three months ago! Providence is a real mystery!” said Miss Dempster, -with the air of one who is reluctant to blame, but cannot sincerely -excuse. “Three months more or less, what were they to auld Dauvid Hay? -He was just doited; he neither knew morning nor evening: and most likely -that would have changed the lives of three other folk. It is a great -mystery to me.” - -“He will maybe not be too late yet,” said Miss Beenie significantly. - -“Woman, you are just without conscience,” cried her sister. “Would that -be either right or fair? No, no, they must just abide by their lot as it -is shaped out. It would be a cruel thing to drop that poor lad now for -no fault of his--just because she did not know her own mind. No, no, I -have Ronald’s interest much at heart, and I’m fond in a way of that bit -little Effie, though she’s often been impertinent--but I would never -interfere. Bless me! If I had known there was to be so little -satisfaction got out of it, that’s a veesit I never would have paid. I -am turning terrible giddy. I can scarcely see where I’m going. I wish I -had stayed at home.” - -“If we had not just come away as it were in a fuff,” said Miss Beenie, -“you would have had your cup of tea, and that would have kept up your -strength.” - -“Ay, _if_,” said Miss Dempster. “That’s no doubt an argument for keeping -one’s temper, but it’s a little too late. Yes, I wish I had got my cup -of tea. I am feeling very strange; everything’s going round and round -before my eyes. Eh, I wish I was at my own door!” - -“It’s from want of taking your food. You’ve eaten nothing this two or -three days. Dear me, Sarah, you’re not going to faint at your age! Take -a hold of my arm and we’ll get as far as Janet Murray’s. She’s a very -decent woman. She will soon make you a cup of tea.” - -“No, no--I’ll have none of your arm. I can just manage,” said Miss -Dempster. But her face had grown ashy pale. “We’re poor creatures,” she -murmured, “poor creatures: it’s all the want of--the want of--that cup -oreplace with’ tea.” - -“You’ll have to see the doctor,” said Miss Beenie. “I’m no more disposed -to pin my faith in him than you are; but there are many persons that -think him a very clever man----” - -“No, no, no doctor. Old Jardine’s son that kept a shop in---- No, no; -I’ll have no doctor. I’ll get home--I’ll----” - -“Oh,” cried Miss Beenie. “I will just run on to Janet Murray’s and bid -her see that her kettle is aboil. You’ll be right again when you’ve had -your tea.” - -“Yes, I’ll be--all right,” murmured the old lady. The road was soft and -muddy with rain, the air very gray, the clouds hanging heavy and full of -moisture over the earth. Miss Beenie hastened on for a few steps, and -then she paused, she knew not why, and looked round and uttered a loud -cry; there seemed to be no one but herself on the solitary country road. -But after a moment she perceived a little heap of black satin on the -path. Her first thought, unconscious of the catastrophe, was for this -cherished black satin, the pride of Miss Dempster’s heart. - -“Oh, your best gown!” she cried, and hurried back to help her sister out -of the mire. But Miss Beenie soon forgot the best gown. Miss Dempster -lay huddled up among the scanty hawthorn bushes of the broken hedge -which skirted the way. Her hand had caught against a thorny bramble -which supported it. She lay motionless, without speaking, without making -a sign, with nothing that had life about her save her eyes. Those eyes -looked up from the drawn face with an anxious stare of helplessness, as -if speech and movement and every faculty had got concentrated in them. - -Miss Beenie gave shriek after shriek as she tried to raise up the -prostrate figure. “Oh, Sarah, what’s the matter? Oh, try to stand up; -oh, let me get you up upon your feet! Oh, my dear, my dear, try if ye -cannot get up and come home! Oh, try! if it’s only as far as Janet -Murray’s. Oh, Sarah!” she cried in despair, “there never was anything -but you could do it, if you were only to try.” - -Sarah answered not a word, she who was never without a word to say; she -did not move; she lay like a log while poor Beenie put her arms under -her head and laboured to raise her. Beenie made the bush tremble with -spasmodic movement, but did no more than touch the human form that lay -stricken underneath. And some time passed before the frightened sister -could realize what had happened. She went on with painful efforts trying -to raise the inanimate form, to drag her to the cottage, which was -within sight, to rouse and encourage her to the effort which Miss Beenie -could not believe her sister incapable of making. - -“Oh, Sarah, my bonnie woman!--oh, Sarah, Sarah, do you no hear me, do -you not know me? Oh, try if ye cannot get up and stand upon your feet. -I’m no able to carry you, but I’ll support you. Oh, Sarah, Sarah, will -you no try!” - -Then there burst upon the poor lady all at once a revelation of what had -happened. She threw herself down by her sister with a shriek that seemed -to rend the skies. “Oh, good Lord,” she cried, “oh, good Lord! I canna -move her, I canna move her; my sister has gotten a stroke----” - -“What are you talking about?” said a big voice behind her; and before -Miss Beenie knew, the doctor, in all the enormity of his big beard, his -splashed boots, his smell of tobacco, was kneeling beside her, examining -Miss Dempster, whose wide open eyes seemed to repulse him, though she -herself lay passive under his hand. He kept talking all the time while -he examined her pulse, her looks, her eyes. - -“We must get her carried home,” he said. “You must be brave, Miss -Beenie, and keep all your wits about you. I am hoping we will bring her -round. Has there been anything the matter with her, or has it just come -on suddenly to-day?” - -“Oh, doctor, she has eaten nothing. She has been very feeble and pale. -She never would let me say it. She is very masterful; she will never -give in. Oh that I should say a word that might have an ill meaning, and -her lying immovable there!” - -“There is no ill meaning. It’s your duty to tell me everything. She is a -very masterful woman; by means of that she may pull through. And were -there any preliminaries to-day? Yes, that’s the right thing to do--if it -will not tire you to sit in that position----” - -“Tire me!” cried Miss Beenie--“if it eases her.” - -“I cannot say it eases her. She is past suffering for the moment. Lord -bless me, I never saw such a case. Those eyes of hers are surely full of -meaning. She is perhaps more conscious than we think. But anyway, it’s -the best thing to do. Stay you here till I get something to carry her -on----” - -“What is the matter?” said another voice, and Fred Dirom came hastily -up. “Why, doctor, what has happened--Miss Dempster?”--he said this with -an involuntary cry of surprise and alarm. “I am afraid this is very -serious,” he cried. - -“Not so serious as it soon will be if we stand havering,” cried the -doctor. “Get something, a mattress, to put her on. Man, look alive. -There’s a cottage close by. Ye’ll get something if ye stir them up. Fly -there, and I’ll stay with them to give them a heart.” - -“Oh, doctor, you’re very kind--we’ve perhaps not been such good friends -to ye as we might----” - -“Friends, toots!” said the doctor, “we’re all friends at heart.” - -Meantime the stir of an accident had got into the air. Miss Beenie’s -cries had no doubt reached some rustic ears; but it takes a long time to -rouse attention in those regions. - -“What will yon be? It would be somebody crying. It sounded awfureplace -with’ like somebody crying. It will be some tramp about the roads; it -will be somebody frighted at the muckle bull----” Then at last there -came into all minds the leisurely impulse--“Goodsake, gang to the door -and see----” - -Janet Murray was the first to run out to her door. When her intelligence -was at length awakened to the fact that something had happened, nobody -could be more kind. She rushed out and ran against Fred Dirom, who was -hurrying towards the cottage with a startled face. - -“Can you get me a mattress or something to carry her upon?” he cried, -breathless. - -“Is it an accident?” said Janet. - -“It is a fit. I think she is dying,” cried the young man much excited. - -Janet flew back and pulled the mattress off her own bed. “It’s no a very -soft one,” she said apologetically. Her man had come out of the byre, -where he was ministering to a sick cow, an invalid of vast importance -whom he left reluctantly; another man developed somehow out of the -fields from nowhere in particular, and they all hurried towards the spot -where Miss Beenie sat on the ground, without a thought of her best gown, -holding her sister’s head on her breast, and letting tears fall over the -crushed bonnet which the doctor had loosened, and which was dropping off -the old gray head. - -“Oh, Sarah, can ye hear me? Oh, Sarah, do you know me? I’m your poor -sister Beenie. Oh if ye could try to rouse yourself up to say a word. -There was never anything you couldna do if ye would only try.” - -“She’ll not try this time,” said the doctor. “You must not blame her. -There’s one who has her in his grips that will not hear reason; but -we’ll hope she’ll mend; and in the meantime you must not think she can -help it, or that she’s to blame.” - -“To blame!” cried Beenie, with that acute cry. “I am silly many a time; -but she is never to blame.” In sight of the motionless figure which lay -in her arms, Miss Beenie’s thoughts already began to take that tinge of -enthusiastic loyalty with which we contemplate the dead. - -“Here they come, God be thanked!” said the doctor. And by and by a -little procession made its way between the fields. Miss Dempster, as if -lying in state on the mattress, Beenie beside her crying and mourning. -She had followed at first, but then it came into her simple mind with a -shiver that this was like following the funeral, and she had roused -herself and taken her place a little in advance. It was a sad little -procession, and when it reached the village street, all the women came -out to their doors to ask what was the matter, and to shake their heads, -and wonder at the sight. - -The village jumped to the fatal conclusion with that desire to heighten -every event which is common to all communities: and the news ran over -the parish like lightning. - -“Miss Dempster, Rosebank, has had a stroke. She has never spoken since. -She is just dead to this world, and little likelihood she will ever come -back at her age.” That was the first report; but before evening it had -risen to the distinct information--“Miss Dempster, Rosebank, is dead!” - -Fred Dirom had been on his way to Gilston, when he was stopped and -ordered into the service of the sick woman. He answered to the call with -the readiness of a kind heart, and was not only the most active and -careful executor of the doctor’s orders, but remained after the patient -was conveyed home, to be ready, he said, to run for anything that was -wanted, to do anything that might be necessary--nay, after all was done -that could be done, to comfort Miss Beenie, who almost shed her tears -upon the young man’s shoulder. - -“Eh,” she said, “there’s the doctor we have aye thought so rough, and -not a gentleman--and there’s you, young Mr. Dirom, that Sarah was not -satisfied with for Effie; and you’ve just been like two ministering -angels sent out to minister to them that are in sore trouble. Oh, but I -wonder if she will ever be able to thank you herself.” - -“Not that any thanks are wanted,” cried Fred cheerfully; “but of course -she will, much more than we deserve.” - -“You’ve just been as kind as--I cannot find any word to say for it, both -the doctor and you.” - -“He is a capital fellow, Miss Dempster.” - -“Oh, do not call me Miss Dempster--not such a thing, not such a thing! -I’m Miss Beenie. The Lord preserve me from ever being called Miss -Dempster,” she cried, with a movement of terror. But Fred neither -laughed at her nor her words. He was very respectful of her, full of -pity and almost tenderness, not thinking of how much advantage to -himself this adventure was to prove. It ran over the whole countryside -next day, and gained “that young Dirom” many a friend. - -And Effie, to whom the fall of Miss Dempster was like the fall of one of -the familiar hills, and who only discovered how much she loved those -oldest of friends after she began to feel as if she must lose -them--Effie showed her sense of his good behaviour in the most -entrancing way, putting off the shy and frightened aspect with which she -had staved off all discussion of matters more important, and beginning -to treat him with a timid kindness and respect which bewildered the -young man. Perhaps he would rather even now have had something warmer -and less (so to speak) accidental: but he was a wise young man, and -contented himself with what he could get. - -Effie now became capable of “hearing reason,” as Mrs. Ogilvie said. She -no longer ran away from any suggestion of the natural end of all such -engagements. She suffered it to be concluded that her marriage should -take place at Christmas, and gave at last a passive consent to all the -arrangements made for her. She even submitted to her stepmother’s -suggestions about the trousseau, and suffered various dresses to be -chosen, and boundless orders for linen to be given. That she should have -a fit providing and go out of her father’s house as it became a bride to -do, with dozens of every possible undergarments, and an inexhaustible -supply of handkerchiefs and collars, was the ambition of Mrs. Ogilvie’s -heart. - -She said herself that Miss Dempster’s “stroke,” from which the old lady -recovered slowly, was “just a providence.” It brought Effie to her -senses, it made her see the real qualities of the young man whom she had -not prized at his true value, and whose superiority as the best match -in the countryside, she could not even now be made to see. Effie -yielded, not because he was the best match, but because he had shown so -kind a heart, and all the preparations went merrily forward, and the -list of the marriage guests was made out and everything got ready. - -But yet for all that, there was full time for that slip between the cup -and the lip which so often comes in, contrary to the dearest -expectations, in human affairs. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -The slip between the cup and the lip came in two ways. The first was the -arrival from India--in advance of Eric who was to get the short leave -which his stepmother thought such a piece of extravagance, in order to -be present at the marriage of his only sister--of Ronald Sutherland, in -order to take possession of the inheritance which had fallen to him on -the death of his uncle. - -It was not a very great inheritance--an old house with an old tower, the -old “peel” of the Border, attached to it; a few farms, a little money, -the succession of a family sufficiently well known in the countryside, -but which had never been one of the great families. It was not much -certainly. It was no more to be compared with the possessions in fact -and expectation of Fred Dirom than twilight is with day; but still it -made a great difference. - -Ronald Sutherland of the 111th, serving in India with nothing at all but -his pay, and Ronald Sutherland of Haythorn with a commission in her -Majesty’s service, were two very different persons. Mrs. Ogilvie allowed -that had old David Hay been so sensible as to die three years -previously, she would not have been so absolutely determined that -Ronald’s suit should be kept secret from Effie; but all that was over, -and there was no use thinking of it. It had been done “for the -best”--and what it had produced was unquestionably the best. - -If it had so happened that Effie had never got another “offer,” then -indeed there might have been something to regret; but as, on the -contrary, she had secured the best match in the county, her stepmother -still saw no reason for anything but satisfaction in her own diplomacy. -It had been done for the best; and it had succeeded, which is by no -means invariably the case. - -But Mrs. Ogilvie allowed that she was a little anxious about Ronald’s -first appearance at Gilston. It was inevitable that he should come; for -all the early years of his life Gilston had been a second home to him. -He had been in and out like one of the children of the house. Mrs. -Ogilvie declared she had always said that where there were girls this -was a most imprudent thing: but she allowed at the same time that it is -difficult to anticipate the moment when a girl will become marriageable, -and had better be kept out of knowing and sight of the ineligible, so -long as that girl is a child. Consequently, she did not blame her -predecessor, Effie’s mother, for permitting an intimacy which at six was -innocent enough, though it became dangerous at sixteen. - -“Even me,” she said candidly, “I cannot throw my mind so far forward as -to see any risks that little Annabella Johnston can run in seeing Rory -every day--though sixteen years hence it will be different; for Rory, to -be sure, will never be an eligible young man as long as his step-brother -Eric is to the fore--and God forbid that anything should happen to -Eric,” she added piously. - -On this ground, and also because Ronald had the latest news to give of -Eric, it was impossible to shut him out of Gilston, though Mrs. Ogilvie -could not but feel that it was very bad taste of him to appear with -these troubled and melancholy airs, and to look at Effie as he did. It -was not that he made any attempt to interfere with the settlement of -affairs. He made the proper congratulations though in a very stiff and -formal way, and said he hoped that they would be happy. But there was -an air about him which was very likely to make an impression on a silly, -romantic girl. - -He was handsomer than Fred Dirom--he was bronzed with Indian suns, which -gave him a manly look. He had seen a little service, he was taller than -Fred, stronger, with all those qualities which women specially esteem. -And he looked at Effie when she was not observing--oh, but Mrs. Ogilvie -said: “It is not an easy thing to tell when a girl is not -observing!--for all that kind of thing they are always quick enough.” - -And as a matter of fact, Effie observed keenly, and most keenly, -perhaps, when she had the air of taking no notice. The first time this -long, loosely clothed, somewhat languid, although well-built and manly -figure had come in, Effie had felt by the sudden jump of her heart that -it was no ordinary visitor. He had been something like a second brother -when he went away, Eric’s invariable companion, another Eric with -hardly any individual claim of his own: but everything now was very -different. She said to herself that this jump of her heart which had -surprised her so much, had come when she heard his step drawing near the -door, so that it must be surely his connection with Eric and not -anything in himself that had done it; but this was a poor and -unsatisfactory explanation. - -After that first visit in which he had hoped that Miss Effie would be -very happy, and said everything that was proper, Effie knew almost as -well as if she had been informed from the first, all that had passed: -his eyes conveyed to her an amount of information which he was little -aware of. She recognized with many tremors and a strange force of -divination, not only that there had been things said and steps taken -before his departure of which she had never been told, but also, as well -as if it had been put into words, that he had come home, happy in the -thought of the fortune which now would make him more acceptable in the -eyes of the father and stepmother, building all manner of castles in the -air; and that all these fairy fabrics had fallen with a crash, and he -had awakened painfully from his dream to hear of her engagement, and -that a few weeks more would see her Fred Dirom’s wife. - -The looks he cast at her, the looks which he averted, the thrill -imperceptible to the others which went over him when he took her hand at -coming and going, were all eloquent to Effie. All that she had felt for -Fred Dirom at the moment when the genuine emotion in him had touched her -to the warmest sympathy, was nothing like that which penetrated her -heart at Ronald’s hasty, self-restrained, and, as far as he was aware, -self-concealing glance. - -In a moment the girl perceived, with a mingled thrill of painful -pleasure and anguish, what might have been. It was one of those sudden -perceptions which light up the whole moral landscape in a moment, as a -sudden flash of lightning reveals the hidden expanse of storm and sea. - -Such intimations are most often given when they are ineffectual--not -when they might guide the mind to a choice which would secure its -happiness, but after all such possibilities are over and that happy -choice can never be made. When he had gone away Effie slid out of sight -too, and sought the shelter of her room, that little sanctuary which had -hid so many agitations within the last few weeks, but none so tremendous -as this. The discovery seemed to stun her. She could only sit still and -look at it, her bosom heaving, her heart beating loudly, painfully like -a funeral toll against her breast. - -So, she said to herself, _that_ might have been; and _this_ was. No, -she did not say it to herself: such discoveries are not made by any -rational and independent action of mind. It was put before her by that -visionary second which is always with us in all our mental operations, -the spectator, “qui me resemblait comme mon frère,” whom the poet saw in -every crisis of his career. That spiritual spectator who is so seldom a -counsellor, whose office is to show the might-have-beens of life and to -confound the helpless, unwarned sufferer with the sight of his mistakes -when they are past, set this swiftly and silently before her with the -force of a conviction. This might have been the real hero, this was the -true companion, the mate congenial, the one in the world for Effie. But -in the moment of beholding she knew that it was never to be. - -And this was not her fault--which made it the more confusing, the more -miserable. When it is ourselves who have made the mistake that spoils -our lives, we have, at least, had something for it, the gratification of -having had our own way, the pleasure of going wrong. But Effie had not -even secured this pleasure. She would be the sufferer for other people’s -miscalculations and mistakes. All this that concerned her so deeply she -had never known. She faced the future with all the more dismay that it -thus appeared to her to be spoiled for no end, destroyed at once for -herself and Ronald and Fred. For what advantage could it be to Fred to -have a wife who felt that he was not her chief good, that her happiness -was with another? Something doubly poignant was in the feeling with -which the poor girl perceived this. - -Fred even, poor Fred, whom she approved and liked and sympathized with -and did all but love--Fred would be none the better. He would be -wronged even in having his heart’s desire conceded to him, whereas--it -all came before Effie with another flash of realization--Fred would -never have thought of her in that way had she been pledged to Ronald. -They would have been friends--oh! such good friends. She would have been -able to appreciate all his good qualities, the excellence that was in -him, and no close and inappropriate relationship could have been formed -between the two who were not made for each other. - -But now all was wrong! It was Fred and she, who might have been such -excellent friends, who were destined to work through life together, -badly matched, not right, not right, whatever might happen. If trouble -came she would not know how to comfort him, as she would have known how -to comfort Ronald. She would not know how to help him. How was it she -had not thought of that before? They belonged to different worlds, not -to the same world as she and Ronald did, and when the first superficial -charm was over, and different habits, different associations, life, -which was altogether pitched upon a different key, began to tell! - -Alarm seized upon Effie, and dismay. She had been frightened before at -the setting up of a new life which she felt no wish for, no impulse to -embrace; but she had not thought how different was the life of Allonby -from that of Gilston, and her modest notions of rustic gentility from -the luxury and show to which the rich man’s son had been accustomed. -Doris and Phyllis and their ways of thought, and their habits of -existence, came before her in a moment as part of the strange shifting -panorama which encompassed her about. How was she to get to think as -they did, to accustom herself to their ways of living? She had wondered -and smiled, and in her heart unconsciously criticised these ways: but -that was Fred’s way as well as theirs. And how was she with her country -prejudices, her Scotch education, her limitations, her different -standard, how was she to fit into it? But with Ronald she would have -dwelt among her own people--oh, the different life! Oh, the things that -might have been! - -Poor Ronald went his way sadly from the same meeting with a -consciousness that was sharp and confusing and terrible. After the first -miserable shock of disappointment which he had felt on hearing of -Effie’s engagement, he had conversed much with himself. He had said to -himself that she was little more than a child when he had set his boyish -heart upon her, that since then a long time had passed, momentous years: -that he had changed in many ways, and that she too must have -changed--that the mere fact of her engagement must have made a great -difference--that she had bound herself to another kind of existence, not -anything he knew, and that it was not possible that the betrothed of -another man could be any longer the little Effie of his dreams. - -But he had looked at her, and he had felt that he was mistaken. She was -his Effie, not that other man’s: there was nothing changed in her, only -perfected and made more sweet. Very few were the words that passed -between them--few looks even, for they were afraid to look at each -other--but even that unnatural reluctance said more than words. He it -was who was her mate, not the stranger, the Englishman, the millionaire, -whose ways and the ways of his people were not as her ways. - -And yet it was too late! He could neither say anything nor do anything -to show to Effie that she had made a mistake, that it was he, Ronald, -whom Heaven had intended for her. The young man, we may be sure, saw -nothing ludicrous in this conviction that was in his mind; but he could -not plead it. He went home to the old-fashioned homely house, which he -said to himself no wife of his should ever make bright, in which he -would settle down, no doubt, like his old uncle, and grow into an old -misanthrope, a crotchety original, as his predecessor had done. Poor old -uncle David! what was it that had made him so? perhaps a fatal mistake, -occurring somehow by no fault of his--perhaps a little Effie, thrown -away upon a stranger, too-- - -“What made you ask him to his dinner, though I made you signs to the -contrary?” said Mrs. Ogilvie to her husband, as soon as, each in a -different direction, the two young people had disappeared. “You might -have seen I was not wanting him to his dinner; but when was there ever a -man that could tell the meaning of a look? I might have spared my -pains.” - -“And why should he not be asked to his dinner?” said Mr. Ogilvie. “You -go beyond my understanding. Ronald Sutherland, a lad that I have known -since he was _that_ high, and his father and his grandfather before him. -I think the woman is going out of her wits. Because you’re marrying -Effie to one of those rich upstarts, am I never to ask a decent lad -here?” - -“You and your decent lads!” said his wife; she was at the end of her -Latin, as the French say, and of her patience too. “Just listen to me, -Robert,” she added, with that calm of exasperation which is sometimes so -impressive. “I’m marrying Effie, since you like to put it that way (and -it’s a great deal more than any of her relations would have had the -sense to do), to the best match on all this side of Scotland. I’m not -saying this county; there’s nobody in the county that is in any way on -the same footing as Fred. There is rank, to be sure, but as for money he -could buy them all up, and settlements just such as were never heard of. -Well, that’s what I’m doing, if you give me the credit of it. But -there’s just one little hindrance, and that’s Ronald Sutherland. If he’s -to come here on the ground of your knowing him since he was _that_ high, -and being Eric’s friend--that’s to say, like a son of the house--I have -just this to say, Robert, that I will not answer for Effie, and this -great match may not take place after all.” - -“What do you mean, you daft woman? Do you mean to tell me there has been -any carrying on, any correspondence----” - -“Have some respect to your own child, Robert, if not to your wife. Am I -a woman to allow any carrying on? And Effie, to do her justice, though -she has very little sense in some respects, is not a creature of that -kind; and mind, she never heard a word of yon old story. No, no, it’s -not that. But it’s a great deal worse--it’s just this, that there’s an -old kindness, and they know each other far better than either Effie or -you or me knows Fred Dirom. They are the same kind of person, and they -have things to talk about if once they begin. And, in short, I cannot -tell you all my drithers--but I’m very clear on this. If you want that -marriage to come off, which is the best match that’s been made in -Dumfriess-shire for generations, just you keep Ronald Sutherland at -arm’s length, and take care you don’t ask him here to his dinner every -second day.” - -“I am not so fond of having strangers to their dinner,” said Mr. -Ogilvie, with great truth. “It’s very rarely that the invitation comes -from me. And as for your prudence and your wisdom and your grand -managing, it might perhaps be just as well, on the whole, for Effie if -she had two strings to her bow.” - -Mrs. Ogilvie uttered a suppressed shriek in her astonishment. “For any -sake! what, in the name of all that’s wonderful, are you meaning now?” - -“You give me no credit for ever meaning anything, or taking the least -interest, so far as I can see, in what’s happening in my own family,” -said the head of the house, standing on his dignity. - -“Oh, Robert, man! didn’t I send the young man to you, and would not -listen to him myself! I said her father is the right person: and so you -were, and very well you managed it, as you always do when you will take -the trouble. But what is this about a second string to her bow?” - -Mr. Ogilvie _se faisait prier_. He would not at first relinquish the -pride of superior knowledge. At last, when his wife had been tantalized -sufficiently, he opened his budget. - -“The truth is, that things, very queer things, are said in London about -Dirom’s house. There is a kind of a hint in the money article of the -_Times_. You would not look at that, even if we got the _Times_. I saw -it yesterday in Dumfries. They say ‘a great firm that has gone largely -into mines of late’--and something about Basinghall Street, and a hope -that their information may not be correct, and that sort of thing--which -means more even than it says.” - -“Lord preserve us!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. She sat down, in her -consternation, upon Rory’s favourite toy lamb, which uttered the squeak -peculiar to such pieces of mechanism. Probably this helped to increase -her annoyance. She seized it with impatient warmth and flung it on the -floor. - -“The horrible little beast!--But, Robert, this may be just a rumour. -There are plenty of firms that do business in mines, and as for -Basinghall Street, it’s just a street of offices. My own uncle had a -place of business there.” - -“You’ll see I’m right for all that,” said her husband, piqued to have -his information doubted. - -“Well, I’ll see it when I do see it; but I have just the most perfect -confidence--What is this, George? Is there no answer? Well, you need not -wait.” - -“I was to wait, mem,” said George, “to let the cook ken if there was -nobody expected to their dinner; for in that case, mem, there was yon -birds that was quite good, that could keep to another day.” - -“Cook’s just very impatient to send me such a message. Oh, well, you may -tell her that there will be nobody to dinner. Mr. Dirom has to go to -London in a hurry,” she said, half for the servant and half for her -husband. She turned a glance full of alarm, yet defiance, upon the -latter as old George trotted away. - -“Well, what do you say to that?” cried Mr. Ogilvie, with a mixture of -satisfaction and vexation. - -“I just say what I said before--that I’ve perfect confidence.” But -nevertheless a cloud hung all the rest of the day upon Mrs. Ogilvie’s -brow. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Two or three days had passed after Fred’s departure, when Mrs. Ogilvie -stated her intention of going to Allonby to call upon his mother. - -“You have not been there for a long time, Effie. You have just contented -yourself with Fred--which is natural enough, I say nothing against -that--and left the sisters alone who have always been so kind to you. It -was perhaps not to be wondered at, but still I would not have done it. -If they were not just very good-natured and ready to make the best of -everything, they might think you were neglecting them, now that you have -got Fred.” - -As was natural, Effie was much injured and offended by this suggestion. - -“I have never neglected them,” she said. “I never went but when they -asked me, and they have not asked me for a long time. It is their -fault.” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “it is winter weather, and there is nothing -going on. Your tennis and all that is stopped, and yet there’s no frost -for skating. But whether they have asked you or not, just put on your -new frock and come over with me. They are perhaps in some trouble, for -anything we can tell.” - -“In trouble? How could they be in trouble?” - -“Do you think, you silly thing, that they are free of trouble because -they’re so well off? No, no; there are plenty of things to vex you in -this world, however rich you may be: though you are dressed in silks and -satins and eat off silver plate, and have all the delicacies of the -season upon your table, like daily bread, you will find that you have -troubles with it, all the same, just like ordinary folk.” - -Effie thought truly that she had no need of being taught that lesson. -She knew far better than her stepmother what trouble was. She was going -to marry Fred Dirom, and yet if her heart had its way! And she could not -blame anybody, not even herself, for the position in which she was. It -had come about--she could not tell how or why. - -But she could not associate Phyllis and Doris with anything that could -be called trouble. Neither was her mind at all awake or impressionable -on this subject. To lose money was to her the least of all -inconveniences, a thing not to be counted as trouble at all. She had -never known anything about money, neither the pleasure of possession nor -the vexation of losing it. Her indifference was that of entire -ignorance; it seemed to her a poor thing to distress one’s self about. - -She put on her new frock, however, as she was commanded, to pay the -visit, and drove to Allonby with her stepmother, much as she had driven -on that momentous day when for the first time she had seen them all, and -when Mrs. Ogilvie had carried on a monologue, just as she was doing now, -though not precisely to the same effect and under circumstances so -changed. Effie then had been excited about the sisters and a little -curious about the brother, amused and pleased with the new acquaintances -to be made, and the novelty of the proceeding altogether. Now there was -no longer any novelty. She was on the eve of becoming a member of the -family, and it was with a very different degree of seriousness and -interest that she contemplated them and their ways. But still Mrs. -Ogilvie was full of speculation. - -“I wonder,” she said, “if they will say anything about what is going on? -You have had no right explanation, so far as I am aware, of Fred’s -hurrying away like yon; I think he should have given you more -explanation. And I wonder if they will say anything about that -report--And, Effie, I wonder----” It appeared to Effie as they drove -along that all that had passed in the meantime was a dream, and that -Mrs. Ogilvie was wondering again as when they had first approached the -unknown household upon that fateful day. - -Doris and Phyllis were seated in a room with which neither Effie nor her -stepmother were familiar, and which was not dark, and bore but few marks -of the amendments and re-arrangements which occupied the family so -largely on their first arrival at Allonby. Perhaps their interest had -flagged in the embellishment of the old house, which was no longer a -stranger to them; or perhaps the claims of comfort were paramount in -November. There was still a little afternoon sunshine coming in to help -the comfortable fire which blazed so cheerfully, and Lady Allonby’s old -sofas and easy chairs were very snug in the warm atmosphere. - -The young ladies were, as was usual to them, doing nothing in -particular, and they were very glad to welcome visitors, any visitor, to -break the monotony of the afternoon. There was not the slightest -diminution visible of their friendship for Effie, which is a thing that -sometimes happens when the sister’s friend becomes the _fiancée_ of the -brother. They fell upon her with open arms. - -“Why, it is Effie! How nice of you to come just when we wanted you,” -they cried, making very little count of Mrs. Ogilvie. Mothers and -stepmothers were of the opposite faction, and Doris and Phyllis did not -pretend to take any interest in them. “Mother will be here presently,” -they said to her, and no more. But Effie they led to a sofa and -surrounded with attentions. - -“We have not seen you for an age. You are going to say it is our fault, -but it is not our fault. You have Fred constantly at Gilston, and you -did not want us there too. No, three of one family would be -insufferable; you couldn’t have wanted us; and what was the use of -asking you to come here, when Fred was always with you at your own -house? Now that he is away we were wondering would you come--I said yes, -I felt sure you would; but Doris----” - -“Doris is never so confident as her sister,” said that young lady, “and -when a friendship that has begun between girls runs into a love affair, -one never can know.” - -“It was not any doing of mine that it ran into--anything,” said Effie, -indignant. “I liked you the----” She was going to say the best, which -was not civil certainly to the absent Fred, and would not have been -true. But partly prudence restrained her, and partly Phyllis, who gave -her at that moment a sudden kiss, and declared that she had always said -that Effie was a dear. - -“And no doubt you have heard from your brother,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who -was not to be silenced, “and has he got his business done? I hope -everything is satisfactory, and nothing to make your good father and -mother anxious. These kind of cares do not tell upon the young, but when -people are getting up in years it’s then that business really troubles -them. We have been thinking a great deal of your worthy father--Mr. -Ogilvie and me. I hope he is seeing his way----” - -The young ladies stared at her for a moment, in the intervals of -various remarks to Effie; and then Doris said, with a little evident -effort, as of one who wanted to be civil, yet not to conceal that she -was bored: “Oh, you mean about the firm? Of course we are interested; it -would make such a change, you know. I have taken all my measures, -however, and I feel sure I shall be the greatest success.” - -“I was speaking of real serious business, Miss Doris. Perhaps I was just -a fool for my pains, for they would not put the like of that before you. -No, no, I am aware it was just very silly of me; but since it has been -settled between Effie and Mr. Fred, I take a great interest. I am one -that takes a great deal of thought, more than I get any thanks for, of -all my friends.” - -“I should not like to trouble about all my friends, for then one would -never be out of it,” said Doris, calmly. “Of course, however, you must -be anxious about Fred. There is less harm, though, with him than with -most young men; for you know if the worst comes to the worst he has got -a profession. I cannot say that I have a profession, but still it comes -almost to the same thing; for I have quite made up my mind what to do. -It is a pity, Effie,” she said, turning to the audience she preferred, -“if the Great Smash is going to come that it should not come before you -are married; for then I could dress you, which would be good for both of -us--an advantage to your appearance, and a capital advertisement for -me.” - -“That is all very well for her,” said Miss Phyllis, plaintively. “She -talks at her ease about the Great Smash; but I should have nothing to do -except to marry somebody, which would be no joke at all for me.” - -“The Great Smash,” repeated Mrs. Ogilvie, aghast. All the colour had -gone out of her face. She turned from one to the other with dismay. -“Then am I to understand that it has come to that?” she cried, with -despair in her looks. “Oh! Effie, Effie, do you hear them? The Great -Smash!” - -“Who said that?” said another voice--a soft voice grown harsh, sweet -bells jangled out of tune. There had been a little nervous movement of -the handle of the door some moments before, and now Mrs. Dirom came in -quickly, as if she had been listening to what was said, and was too much -excited and distracted to remember that it was evident that she had been -listening. She came in in much haste and with a heated air. - -“If you credit these silly girls you will believe anything. What do they -know? A Great Smash--!” Her voice trembled as she said the words. “It’s -ridiculous, and it’s vulgar too. I wonder where they learned such -words. I would not repeat them if I could help it--if it was not -necessary to make you understand. There will be no Smash, Mrs. Ogilvie, -neither great nor small. Do you know what you are talking of? The great -house of the Diroms, which is as sure as the Bank of England? It is -their joke, it is the way they talk; nothing is sacred for them. They -don’t know what the credit of a great firm means. There is no more -danger of our firm--no more danger--than there is of the Bank of -England.” - -The poor lady was so much disturbed that her voice, and, indeed, her -whole person, which was substantial, trembled. She dropped suddenly on a -chair, and taking up one of the Japanese fans which were everywhere -about, fanned herself violently, though it was late November, and the -day was cold. - -“Dear me,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “I am sorry if I have put you about; I had -no thought that it was serious at all. I just asked the question for -conversation’s sake. I never could have supposed for a moment that the -great house, as you say, of Dirom and Co. could ever take it in a -serious light.” - -Upon this poor Mrs. Dirom put down her fan, and laughed somewhat -loudly--a laugh that was harsh and strained, and in which no confidence -was. - -“That is quite true,” she said, “Mrs. Ogilvie. You are full of sense, as -I have always said. It is only a thing to laugh at. Their papa would be -very much amused if he were to hear. But it makes me angry when I have -no occasion to be angry, for it is so silly. If it was said by other -people I should take it with a smile; but to hear my own children -talking such nonsense, it is this that makes me angry. If it was anyone -else I shouldn’t mind.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “I understand that; for if other people -make fools of themselves it is of no particular consequence; but when -it’s your own it’s a different matter. But Miss Doris, I suppose, has -just taken a notion into her head, and she does not care what it costs -to carry it out. Effie, now, really we must go. It is getting quite -dark, the days are so short. No, I thank you, we’ll not take any tea; -for Mr. Ogilvie has taken a habit of coming in for his cup of tea, and -he just cannot bear us to be away. When a man takes a notion of that -kind, the ladies of his family just have to give in to it. Good-bye, -young ladies, good-bye. But I hope you’ll not be disappointed to find -that there’s no Great Smash coming; for I don’t think that I should -relish it at all if it was me.” - -They had a silent drive home. Effie had so many thoughts at that moment -that she was always glad, when she could, to return into them. She -thought no more of the Great Smash than of any other of the nonsensical -utterances which it might have pleased Doris to make. Indeed, the Great -Smash, even if it had been certain, would not have affected her mind -much, so entirely unconscious was she what its meaning might be. She -retired into her own thoughts, which were many, without having received -any impression from this new subject. - -But it vaguely surprised her that her stepmother should be so silent. -She was so accustomed to that lively monologue which served as a -background to all manner of thoughts, that Effie was more or less -disturbed by its failure, without knowing why. Mrs. Ogilvie scarcely -said a word all the way home. It was incredible, but it was true. Her -friends would scarcely have believed it--they would have perceived that -matters must have been very serious indeed, before she could be reduced -to such silence. But Effie was heedless, and did not ask herself what -the reason was. - -This was the evening that Ronald had been invited “to his dinner,” an -invitation which had called forth a protest from Mrs. Ogilvie; but, -notwithstanding, she was very kind to Ronald. It was Effie, not she, who -kept him at a distance, who avoided any conversation except the vaguest, -and, indeed, sat almost silent all the evening, as if her lover being -absent she had no attention to bestow upon another. That was not the -real state of Effie’s mind; but a delicate instinct drew her away, and -gave her a refuge in the silence which looked like indifference. - -Mrs. Ogilvie, however, showed no indifference to Ronald. She questioned -him about his house, and with all the freedom which old family -connection permitted, about the fortune which he had “come into,” about -what he meant to do, and many other subjects. Ronald gave her, with -much gravity, the information she asked. He told her no--that he did not -mean to remain--that he was going back to his regiment. Why should he -stay, there was nothing for him to do at Haythorne? - -“Hoot,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, “there is always this to do, that you must -marry and settle; that is the right thing for a young man. To be sure, -when there is no place to take a wife home to, but just to follow the -regiment, that’s very different; for parents that are in their senses -would never let a girl do that. But when you have the house first, then -the wife must follow. It is just the right order of things.” - -“For some men,” said Ronald, “but not for me; it is either too early, -or, perhaps, too late.” - -“Oh, too late! a lad like you to speak such nonsense!--and there’s never -any saying what may happen,” the lady said. This strange speech made -two hearts beat: Ronald’s with great surprise, and devouring curiosity. -Had he perhaps been premature in thinking that all was settled--was it a -mistake? But oh, no, he remembered that he had made his congratulations, -and they had been received; that Eric was coming back to the marriage; -that already the wedding guests were being invited, and all was in -train. Effie’s heart beat too, where she sat silent at a distance, close -to the lamp, on pretence of needing light for her work; but it was with -a muffled, melancholy movement, no sign of hope or possibility in it, -only the stir of regret and trouble over what might have been. - -“Are you going to write letters, at this time of night?” said Mr. -Ogilvie, as he came back from the door, after seeing Ronald away. - -“Just one, Robert; I cannot bear this suspense if the rest of you can. I -am going to write to my cousin John, who is a business man, and has his -office, as his father had before him, in Basinghall Street in London -city. I am going to ask him a question or two.” - -“If I were you,” said Mr. Ogilvie, with some energy, “I would neither -make nor meddle in other folk’s affairs.” - -“What do you call other folk’s affairs? It is my own folk’s affairs. If -there ever was a thing that was our business and not another’s, it’s -this. Do you think I would ever permit--and there is very little time to -be lost. I wonder I never thought of John before--he is just the person -to let me know.” - -Mr. Ogilvie put his hands behind his back, and walked up and down the -room in great perturbation. - -“I cannot see my way to making that kind of inquiry. It might do harm, -and I don’t see what good it can do. It might set people thinking. It -might bring on just what we’re wanting to avoid.” - -“I am wanting to know, that is all,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “As for setting -people thinking, that’s done as you’re aware. And if it’s done down -here, what must it be in the city? But I must be at the bottom of it, -whether it’s false, or whether it’s true.” - -Mr. Ogilvie was not accustomed to such energy. He said, “Tchk, tchk, -tchk,” as people do so often in perplexity: and then he caught sight of -his daughter, holding Rory’s little stocking in the lamplight, and -knitting with nervous fingers. It was a good opportunity for getting rid -of the irritation which any new thing raised in him. - -“Surely,” he said, with an air of virtuous indignation, “it is high time -that Effie, at least, should be in her bed!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -“Yes, Ronald, my man. It was a great peety,” Miss Dempster said. - -She was lying on a sofa in the little drawing-room, between the -fireplace and the window, where she could both feel and see the fire, -and yet command a glimpse of the village and Dr. Jardine’s house. She -could still see the window to which the doctor came defiantly when he -took his mid-morning refreshment, to let the ladies at Rosebank see that -he was not afraid of them. - -The relations between the doctor and the ladies had modified a little, -but still that little conflict went on. He did not any longer nod at -them with the “Here’s to you!” of his old fury at what he thought their -constant _espionage_, but he still flaunted his dram before their eyes, -and still they made mental notes on the subject, and Miss Beenie shook -her head. She did not say, “There’s that abominable man with his dram -again. I am sure I cannot think how respectable people can put up with -that smell of whisky. Did you say sherry? Well, sherry is very near as -bad taken at all hours.” - -What Miss Beenie said now was: “I wish the doctor would take a cup of -tea or even a little broth instead of that wine. No doubt he wants -support with all he has to do; but the other would be far better for -him.” - -This will show how the relations had improved. He had brought Miss -Dempster “through.” Instead of her bedroom at the back of the house, -which allowed of little diversion, she had got so far as to be removed -to the drawing-room, and lie on the sofa for the greater part of the -day. It was a great improvement, and people who knew no better believed -that the old lady was getting better. Miss Beenie was warmly of this -opinion; she held it with such heat indeed that she might have been -supposed to be not so certain as she said. - -But Miss Dempster and the doctor knew better. The old lady was more than -ever distressed that Providence had not taken better care of the affairs -of Effie Ogilvie. It was this she was saying to Ronald, as he sat beside -her. He had come over with some birds and a great bunch of hothouse -grapes. He was, as the reader may remember, a connection--even, Miss -Beenie said, a _near_ connection: and the ladies had been good to him in -his early youth. - -“Yes, it was a great peety,” Miss Dempster said. “I am not grudging your -uncle Dauvid a day of his life, honest man--but the three last months is -never much of a boon, as I know by myself. It would have done him no -harm, and you a great deal of good. But there’s just a kind of a -blundering in these things that is very hard to understand.” - -“The chances are it would have made no difference,” said the young man, -“so there is nothing to be said.” - -“It would have made a great difference; but we’ll say nothing, all the -same. And so you’re asked to the wedding? Well, that woman is not blate. -She’s interfered with the course of nature and thinks no shame: but -perhaps she will get her punishment sooner than she’s looking for. They -tell me,” said the old lady, “that the Diroms have had losses, and that -probably they will have to leave Allonby, and come down in their grand -way of living. I will say that of Janet Ogilvie that she has a great -spirit; she’ll set her face like a rock. The wedding will be just as -grand and as much fuss made, and nobody will hear a word from her; she -is a woman that can keep her own counsel. But she’ll be gnashing her -teeth all the same. She will just be in despair that she cannot get out -of it. Oh, I know her well! If it had been three months off instead of -three weeks, she would have shaken him off. I have always said Effie’s -heart was not in it; but however her heart had been in it, her -stepmother would have had her way.” - -“We must be charitable, we must think ill of nobody,” said Miss Beenie. -“I’m too thankful, for my part, to say an ill word, now you’re getting -well again.” - -“She might have done all that and done nothing wrong,” said Miss -Dempster sharply. And then Ronald rose to go away; he had no desire to -hear such possibilities discussed. If it had not been for Eric’s -expected arrival he would have gone away before now. It was nothing but -misery, he said to himself, to see Effie, and to think that had he been -three months sooner, as his old friends said! - -But no, he would not believe that; it was injurious to Effie to think -that the first who appeared was her choice. He grew red and hot with -generous shame and contempt of himself when he thought that this was -what he was attributing to one so spotless and so true. The fact that -she had consented to marry Fred Dirom, was not that enough to prove his -merit, to prove that she would never have regarded any other? What did -it not say for a man, the fact that he had been chosen by Effie? It was -the finest proof that he was everything a man could be. - -Ronald had never seen this happy hero. No doubt there had been surgings -of heart against him, and fits of sorrowful fury when he first knew; but -the idea that he was Effie’s choice silenced the young man. He himself -could have nothing to do with that, he had not even the right to -complain. He had to stand aside and see it accomplished. All that the -old lady said about the chances of the three months too late was folly. -It was one of the strange ways of women that they should think so. It -was a wrong to Effie, who not by any guidance of chance, not because (oh -horror!) this Dirom fellow was the first to ask her, for nothing but -pure love and preference (of which no man was worthy) had chosen him -from the world. - -Ronald, thinking these thoughts, which were not cheerful, walked down -the slope between the laurel hedges with steps much slower and less -decided than his ordinary manly tread. He was a very different type of -humanity from Fred Dirom--not nearly so clever, be it said, knowing not -half so much, handsomer, taller, and stronger, without any subtlety -about him or power of divination, seeing very clearly what was before -him with a pair of keen and clear blue eyes, straightforward as an -arrow; but with no genius for complication nor much knowledge of the -modifying effect of circumstances. He liked or he did not like, he -approved or he did not approve: and all of these things strenuously, -with the force of a nature which was entirely honest, and knew no guile. - -Such a man regards a decision as irrevocable, he understands no playing -with possibilities. It did not occur to him to make any effort to shake -Effie’s allegiance to her betrothed, or to trouble her with any -disclosure of his own sentiments. He accepted what was, with that belief -in the certainty of events which belongs to what is called the -practical or positive nature in the new jargon, to the simple and -primitive mind, that is to say. Ronald, who was himself as honest as the -day, considered it the first principle in existence that his -fellow-creatures were honest too, that they meant what they said, and -when they had decided upon a course of action did not intend to be -turned from it, whatever it might cost to carry it out. - -Therefore it was not in this straightforward young man to understand all -the commotion which was in poor little Effie’s mind when she avoided -him, cast down her eyes not to meet his, and made the shortest answers -to the few remarks he ventured to address to her. It hurt him that she -should be so distant, making him wonder whether she thought so little of -him as to suppose that he would give her any annoyance, say anything or -even look anything to disturb her mind. - -How little she knew him! but not so little as he knew her. They met this -day, as fate would have it, at the gate of Rosebank, and were obliged to -stop and talk for a minute, and even to walk along with each other for -the few steps during which their road lay in the same direction. They -did not know what to say to each other; he because he knew his mind so -well, she because she knew hers so imperfectly, and felt her position so -much. - -Effie was in so strange a condition that it seemed to her she would like -to tell Ronald everything: how she was going to marry Fred she could not -tell why--because she had not liked to give him pain by refusing him, -because she seemed not to be able to do anything else. She did not know -why she wanted to tell this to Ronald, which she would not have done to -anyone else. There seemed to be some reason why he should know the real -state of affairs, a sort of apology to make, an explanation--she could -not tell what. - -But when they stood face to face, neither Ronald nor she could find -anything to say. He gave the report of Miss Dempster that she was a -little better; that was the bulletin which by tacit agreement was always -given--she was a little better, but still a great invalid. When that -subject was exhausted, they took refuge in Eric. When was he expected? -though the consciousness in both their minds that it was for the wedding -he was coming, was a sad obstacle to speech. - -“He is expected in three weeks. He is starting, I suppose, now,” Effie -said. - -“Yes, he must be starting now----” And then they both paused, with the -strongest realization of the scene that would ensue. Effie saw herself a -bride far more clearly at that moment through the eyes, so to speak, of -Ronald, than she ever had through those of the man who was to be her -husband. - -“I think I shall go back with him when he goes,” said Ronald, “if I -don’t start before.” - -“Are you going back?” - -He smiled as if it had been very ridiculous to ask him such a question. - -“What else,” he said--there seemed a sort of sad scorn in the -inquiry--“What else is left for me to do?” Perhaps he would have liked -to put it more strongly--What else have you left me to do? - -“I am very sorry,” said Effie, “I thought----” and then she abandoned -this subject altogether. “Do you think Eric will see much change?” she -said. - -“Eric! Oh, yes; he will see a great deal of change. The country and all -look the same to be sure; it is the people who alter. He will see a -great deal of change in you, Miss Ogilvie.” - -Effie looked up with tears starting in her eyes as if he had given her a -sudden blow. - -“Oh, Ronald! why do you call me that--am I not Effie--always----” And -there came a little sob in her throat, stopping further utterance. - -He looked as if he could have cried too, but smiled instead strangely, -and said, “When you have--another name, how am I to call you by that? I -must try and begin now.” - -“But I shall always be Effie, always,” she said. - -Ronald did not make any reply. He raised his hands in a momentary -protestation, and gave her a look which said more than he had ever said -in words. And then they walked on a few steps together in silence, and -then stopped and shook hands silently with a mutual impulse, and said to -each other “good-bye.” - -When Effie got near home, still full of agitation from this strange -little opening and closing of she knew not what--some secret page in her -own history, inscribed with a record she had known nothing of--she met -her stepmother, who was returning very alert and business-like from a -walk. - -“What have you been saying to Ronald?” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “to make him -look so grave? I saw him turn the corner, and I thought he had seen a -ghost, poor lad; but afterwards it proved to be only you. You should not -be so severe: for he has liked you long, though you knew nothing about -it; and it must have been very hard upon him, poor fellow, to find that -he had come home just too late, and that you had been snapped up, as a -person may say, under his very nose.” - -This was so strange an address that it took away Effie’s breath. She -gave her stepmother a look half stupified, half horrified. “I don’t know -what you mean,” she said. - -“Well, Effie, my dear, you must just learn; and I don’t think you will -find it very difficult, if you will give your attention to it. I have -been wanting to speak to you for two or three days, and your father too. -You must not trouble about Fred Dirom any more. I have never been quite -satisfied in my own mind that your heart was in it, if he had not been -so pressing and pushing, and, as we all thought, such a good match. But -you see it turns out that’s not the case, Effie. I got a letter -yesterday from my cousin John; and it’s all true about Dirom’s firm. -They are just going down hill as fast as can be, and probably by this -time they’ve failed. Though you don’t know about business, you know what -that means. It is just the end of all things; and to hold the young man -to his promise in such circumstances would be out of the question. We -are quite agreed upon that, both your father and me. So, my dear Effie, -you are free. It mightn’t have become you to take steps; so your father -and me--we have acted for you; and now you are free.” - -Effie stopped short in the road, and stared at the speaker aghast. If -her heart gave a little leap to hear that word, it was merely an -instinctive movement, and meant nothing. Her mind was full of -consternation. She was confounded by the suddenness, by the strangeness -of the communication. - -Free! What did it mean, and why was it? Free! She repeated the word to -herself after a while, still looking at her stepmother. It was but a -single little word. It meant--what? The world seemed to go round and -round with Effie, the dim November skies, the gray of the wintry -afternoon, the red shaft of the setting sun beyond--all whirled about -her. “Free!” She repeated it as an infant repeats a foreign word without -knowing what it means. - -“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “don’t let us have any pretences: that -is all I ask of you. Just face the thing honestly, and don’t let us have -any make-believe. If you tell me that you are deep in love with Fred -Dirom and can’t give him up, I will just not believe you. All I will -think is that you are a little cutty, and have no heart at all. I was -very glad you should make such a good match; but I could see all along -your heart was not in it. And whatever he might say, I made no doubt but -you would be thankful. So let us have none of your little deceptions -here.” - -“I don’t think I understand,” said Effie, striving to speak. “I think I -must have lost my senses or my hearing, or something. What was it you -were saying? They say people call things by wrong names sometimes, and -can’t help it. Perhaps they hear wrong, too. What is it that you mean?” - -“You know perfectly well what I mean,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with some -exasperation; “I have just written breaking off your marriage--is that -plain enough? I’ve done it under your father’s orders. It was he that -accepted and I’m thinking it’s he that has a right to refuse--It’s all -broken off--I cannot speak any plainer. Now, do you understand what I -say?” - -Effie had grown very pale--she shivered as if with cold--her lips -quivered when she began to speak. - -“And that is,” she said, “because he has failed--because he is not a -good match now, but a poor man--is that what it is?” - -“If you like to put it in that broad way. Of course he is not in a -condition to marry any longer. It is the kindest thing we can do----” - -“Give me your letter,” said Effie, holding out her hand. There was -something threatening, something dangerous, about the girl, which made -Mrs. Ogilvie scream out. - -“My letter! I am not in the habit of showing my letters to anybody but -your father. And even if I was disposed to show it I cannot, for I’ve -just been to the post and put it in with my own hand. And by this time -it is stamped and in the bag to go away. So you must take my description -of it. I will be very happy to tell you all I have said.” - -“You have just been to the post to put it in!” Effie repeated the words, -her eyes growing larger every moment, her face more ghastly. Then she -gave a strange cry like a wounded creature, and turned and flew back -towards the village neither pausing nor looking behind her, without a -word more. Mrs. Ogilvie stood for a time, her own heart beating a little -faster than usual, and a choking sensation in her throat. - -“Effie, Effie!” she cried after her--but Effie took no notice. She went -along through the dim air like a flying shadow, and soon was out of -sight, taking no time either for breath or thought. Where had she gone? -wherever she went, what could she do? It was for her good; all through -it had been for her good. If she mistook at first, yet after she must -come round. - -Effie had fled in the opposite direction to Allonby. Where was she -going? what could she do? Mrs. Ogilvie made a rapid glance at the -possibilities and decided that there was really nothing which the girl -could do. She drew a long breath to relieve the oppression which in -spite of herself had seized upon her, the sudden panic and alarm. - -What could Effie do?--just nothing! She would run and tell her Uncle -John, but though the minister was a man full of crotchets he was still -more or less a man of sense, and he had never been very keen on the -match. He would speak to her sensibly and she would see it when he said -it, though not when Mrs. Ogilvie said it: and she would come home. - -And then Ronald would get another invitation to his dinner. It was all -as simple as A B C. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -Mr. Moubray was in his study, in the gray of the winter’s afternoon. It -is never a very cheerful moment. The fire was burning brightly, the room -was warm and pleasant, with plenty of books, and many associations; but -it was a pensive moment, too dark for reading, when there is nothing to -do but to think. And though a man who has begun to grow old, and who is -solitary, may be very happy thinking, yet it is a pensive pleasure. He -was sitting very quietly, looking out at the shaft of red gold in the -west where the sun had disappeared, and watching the light as it stole -away, each moment a little less, a little less brilliant, till it sank -altogether in the gray. - -To eyes “that have kept watch o’er man’s mortality” there is always an -interest in that sight: one going out is so like another: the slow -lessening, the final disappearance have an interest that never fails. -And the minister can scarcely be said to have been thinking. He was -watching, as he had watched at many a death-bed, the slow extinction, -the going away. Whether it is a sun or a life that is setting, that last -ineffable moment of disappearance cannot but convey a thrill to the -heart. - -This was how he was seated, meditating in the profoundest tranquillity -when, all at once, the door flew open, and a young figure full of -agitation, in all the force of life and passion, a creature all alive to -the very finger points, to the hem of her skirts, to the crown of her -wind-blown hair, burst in breathless, an emblem of disturbance, of -conflict, in short, of existence in contrast with the calm of -contemplation. - -She stood for a moment before him, but only as if under protest, pausing -perforce for breath, “Uncle John,” she cried, panting, “come, come with -me! I want to tell you, I want to ask you--you must help me--to stop -something. But, oh, I can’t wait to explain; come with me, come with me! -and I’ll tell you on the way----” - -“What is it, Effie?” He got up hastily; but though her influence was -strong, it was not strong enough to prevent him from asking an -explanation before he obeyed it. - -She caught at his arm in her impatience, “Oh, Uncle John, come--come -away! I’ll tell you on the road--oh, come away--there is not a moment, -not a moment! to lose----” - -“Is anybody ill?” he said. She continued to hold his arm, not as a -means of support, but by way of pushing him on, which she did, scarcely -leaving him a moment to get his hat. Her impetuosity reminded him so -much of many a childish raid made into his house that, notwithstanding -his alarm, he smiled. - -“Oh, no, there is nobody ill, it is much, much worse than that, Uncle -John. Oh, don’t smile as if you thought I was joking! It’s just -desperation. There is a letter that Mrs. Ogilvie has written, and I -must, I must--get it back from the post, or I will die. Oh, come! come! -before it is too late.” - -“Get a letter back from the post!----” - -He turned in spite of Effie’s urgency at the manse door. It stood high, -and the cheerful lights were beginning to shine in the village windows -below, among which the shop and post-office was conspicuous with its two -bright paraffin lamps. - -“But that is impossible,” he said. - -“Oh, no,” said the girl. “Oh, Uncle John, come quick, come quick! and -you will see that we must have it. Mrs. Moffatt will give it when she -sees you. Not for me, perhaps, but for you. You will say that something -has been forgotten, that another word has to be put in, that--oh, Uncle -John when we are there it will come into our heads what to say----” - -“Take no thought beforehand what you shall speak, Effie,” said the -minister, half smiling, half admonishing; “is it so serious as that?” - -He suffered her to lead him down the slope of the manse garden, out upon -the road, her light figure foremost, clinging to his arm, yet moving him -along; he, heavier, with so much of passive resistance as his large -frame, and only half responsive will, gave. - -“Oh yes,” she cried, “it is as serious as that. Uncle John, was not -that what our Lord said when His men that He sent out were to stand for -Him and not to forsake Him? And to desert your friends when they are in -trouble, to turn your back upon them when they need you, to give them up -because they are poor, because they are unfortunate, because they have -lost everything but you----” - -She was holding his arm so closely, urging him on, that he felt the -heaving of her heart against his side, the tremor of earnestness in her -whole frame as she spoke. - -“Effie, my little girl! what strait are you in, that you are driven to -use words like these?” - -Her voice sounded like a sob in her throat, which was parched with -excitement. - -“I am in this strait, Uncle John, that he has lost everything, and they -have written to say I take back my word. No, no, no,” cried Effie, -forcing on with feverish haste the larger shadow by her side. “I will -never do it--it shall not be. They made me take him when he was rich, -and now that he is poor I will stand by him till I die.” - -“My little Effie!” was all the minister said. She still hurried him -along, but yet he half carried her with an arm round her slender figure. -What with agitation and the unaccustomed conflict in her mind, Effie’s -slight physical frame was failing her. It was her heart and soul that -were pushing on. Her brain swam, the village lights fluttered in her -eyes, her voice had gone altogether, lost in the climbing sob which was -at once breath and utterance. She was unconscious of everything save her -one object, to be in time, to recover the letter, to avert that cowardly -blow. - -But when Effie came to herself in the little shop with its close -atmosphere, the smell of the paraffin, the dazzling glare of the light, -under the astonished gaze of Mrs. Moffatt the postmistress, who stood at -her counter stamping the letters spread out before her, and who stopped -short, bewildered by the sudden entrance of so much passion, of -something entirely out of the ordinary, which she felt, but could not -understand--the girl could bring forth nothing from that slender, -convulsed throat but a gasp. It was Mr. Moubray who spoke. - -“My niece wishes you to give her back a letter--a letter in which -something must be altered, something added: a letter with the Gilston -stamp.” - -“Eh, Mr. Moubray! but I canna do that,” the postmistress cried. - -“Why can’t you do it? I am here to keep you free of blame. There is no -harm in it. Give her back her letter, and she will add what she wishes -to add.” - -“Is it Miss Effie’s own letter? I’m no sure it’s just right even in -that point of view. Folk should ken their own minds,” said Mrs. Moffatt, -shuffling the letters about with her hands, “before they put pen to -paper. If I did it for ane, I would have to do it for areplace with’ -that ask. And where would I be then? I would just never be done----” - -“Let us hope there are but few that are so important: and my niece is -not just any one,” said the minister, with a little natural -self-assertion. “I will clear you of the blame if there is any blame.” - -“I am not saying but what Miss Effie---- Still the post-office is just -like the grave, Mr. Moubray, what’s put in canna be taken out. Na, I do -not think I can do it, if it was for the Queen herselreplace with’.” - -Effie had not stood still while this conversation was going on; she had -taken the matter into her own hands, and was turning over the letters -with her trembling fingers without waiting for any permission. - -“Na, Miss Effie; na, Miss Effie,” said the postmistress, trying to -withdraw them from her. But Effie paid no attention. Her extreme and -passionate agitation was such that even official zeal, though -strengthened by ignorance, could not stand before it. Notwithstanding -all Mrs. Moffatt’s efforts, the girl examined everything with a swift -desperation and keenness which contrasted strangely with her incapacity -to see or know anything besides. It was not till she had turned over -every one that she flung up her hands with a cry of dismay, and fell -back upon the shoulder of the minister, who had held her all the time -with his arm. - -“Oh, Uncle John! oh, Uncle John!” she cried with a voice of despair. - -“Perhaps it has not been sent, Effie. It was only a threat perhaps. It -might be said to see how you felt. Rest a little, and then we will -think what to do----” - -“I will have to go,” she said, struggling from him, getting out to the -door of the shop. “Oh, I cannot breathe! Uncle John, when does the train -go?” - -“My dear child!” - -“Uncle John, what time does the train go? No, I will not listen,” said -the girl. The fresh air revived her, and she hurried along a little way: -but soon her limbs failed her, and she dropped down trembling upon the -stone seat in front of one of the cottages. There she sat for a few -minutes, taking off her hat, putting back her hair from her forehead -instinctively, as if that would relieve the pressure on her heart. - -She was still for a moment, and then burst forth again: “I must go. Oh, -you are not to say a word. Do you know what it is to love some one, -Uncle John? Yes, _you_ know. It is only a few who can tell what that -is. Well,” she said, the sob in her throat interrupting her, making her -voice sound like the voice of a child; “that is how he thinks of me; you -will think it strange. He is not like a serious man, you will say, to -feel so; but he does. Not me! oh, not me!” said Effie, contending with -the sob; “I am not like that. But he does. I am not so stupid, nor so -insensible, but I know it when I see it, Uncle John.” - -“Yes, Effie, I never doubted it; he loves you dearly, poor fellow. My -dear little girl, there is time enough to set all right----” - -“To set it right! If he hears just at the moment of his trouble that -I--that I---- What is the word when a woman is a traitor? Is there such -a thing as that a girl should be a traitor to one that puts his trust in -her? I never pretended to be like _that_, Uncle John. He knew that it -was different with me. But true--Oh, I can be true. More, more! _I can’t -be false._ Do you hear me? _You_ brought me up, how could I? I can’t be -false; it will kill me. I would rather die----” - -“Effie! Effie! No one would have you to be false. Compose yourself, my -dear. Come home with me and I will speak to them, and everything will -come right. There cannot be any harm done yet. Effie, my poor little -girl, come home.” - -Effie did not move, except to put back as before her hair from her -forehead. - -“I know,” she said, “that there is no hurry, that the train does not go -till night. I will tell you everything as if you were my mother, Uncle -John. You are the nearest to her. I was silly--I never thought:--but I -was proud too. Girls are made like that: and just to be praised and made -much of pleases us; and to have somebody that thinks there is no one in -the world like you--for that,” she said, with a little pause, and a -voice full of awe, “is what he thinks of me. It is very strange, but it -is true. And if I were to let him think for a moment--oh, for one -moment!--that the girl he thought so much of would cast him off, because -he was poor!----” - -Effie sprang up from her seat in the excitement of this thought. She -turned upon her uncle, with her face shining, her head held high. - -“Do you think I could let him think that for an hour? for a day? Oh, no! -no! Yes, I will go home to get my cloak and a bonnet, for you cannot go -to London just in a little hat like mine; but don’t say to me, Uncle -John, that I must not do it, for I WILL.” - -She took his arm again in the force of this resolution. Then she added, -in the tone of one who is conceding a great favour: “But you may come -with me if you like.” - -Between the real feeling which her words had roused in him and the -humour of this permission, Mr. Moubray scarcely knew how to reply. He -said: “I would not advise you to go, Effie. It will be better for me to -go in your place if anyone must go; but is that necessary? Let us go -quietly home in the meantime. You owe something to your father, my dear; -you must not take a step like this without his knowledge at least.” - -“If you are going to betray me to Mrs. Ogilvie, Uncle John----” - -“My little Effie, there is no question of betrayal. There is no need for -running away, for acting as if you were oppressed at home. You have -never been oppressed at home, my dear. If Mrs. Ogilvie has written to -Mr. Dirom, at least she was honest and told you. And you must be -honest. It must all be spoken of on the true ground, which is that you -can do only what is right, Effie.” - -“Uncle John,” cried Effie, “if to give up Fred is right, then I will not -do it--whatever you say, I will not do it. He may never want me in my -life again, but he wants me now. Abandon him because he is in need of -me! Oh, could you believe it of Effie? And if you say it is wrong, I do -not care, I will do it. I will not desert him when he is poor, not for -all the--not for anybody in the world----” - -“Is that Effie that is speaking so loud? is that you, John?” - -This was the voice of Mr. Ogilvie himself, which suddenly rose out of -the dim evening air close by. They had gone along in their excitement -scarce knowing where they went, or how near they were to the house, and -now, close to the dark shrubberies, encountered suddenly Effie’s -father, who, somewhat against his own will, had come out to look for -her. - -His wife had been anxious, which he thought absurd, and he had been -driven out rather by impatience of her continual inquiries: “I wonder -where that girl has gone. I wonder what she is doing. Dear me, Robert, -if you will not go out and look after her, I will just have to do it -myself,”--than from any other motive. Effie’s declaration had been made -accordingly to other ears than those she intended; and her father’s slow -but hot temper was roused. - -“I would like to know,” he said, “for what reason it is that you are out -so late as this, and going hectoring about the roads like a play-acting -woman? John, you might have more sense than to encourage her in such -behaviour. Go home to your mother this moment, Effie, and let me hear no -such language out of your head. I will not ask what it’s about. I have -nothing to say to women’s quarrels. Go home, I tell you, to your -mother.” - -Effie had caught with both her hands her uncle’s arm. - -“Oh, I wish that I could--Oh, if I only could,” she cried, “that would -make all clear.” - -“Ogilvie, she is in a state of great excitement--I hope you will set her -mind at rest. I tell her she shall be forced to nothing. You are not the -man, though you may be a little careless, to permit any tyranny over -your child.” - -“Me, careless! You are civil,” said the father. “Just you recollect, -John Moubray, that I will have no interference--if you were the minister -ten times over, and her uncle to the boot. I am well able to look after -my own family and concerns. Effie, go home.” - -Effie said nothing; but she stood still clinging to her uncle’s arm. -She would not advance though he tried to draw her towards the gate, nor -would she make any reply: she wound her arms about his, and held him -fast. She had carried him along with the force of her young passion; but -he could not move her. Her brain was whirling, her whole being in the -wildest commotion. Her intelligence had partially given way, but her -power of resistance was strong. - -“Effie,” he said softly, “come home. My dear, you must let your father -see what is in your mind. How is he to learn if you will not tell him? -Effie! for my part, I will do whatever you please,” he said in a low -tone in her ear. “I promise to go to him if you wish it--only obey your -father and come home.” - -“Go home this moment to your mother,” Mr. Ogilvie repeated. “Is this a -time to be wandering about the world? She may just keep her mind to -herself, John Moubray. I’ll have nothing to say to women’s quarrels, and -if you are a wise man you will do the same. Effie, go home.” - -Effie paused a moment between the two, one of whom repulsed her, while -the other did no more than soothe and still her excitement as best he -could. She was not capable of being soothed. The fire and passion in her -veins required an outlet. She was so young, unaccustomed to emotion. She -would not yield to do nothing, that hard part which women in so many -circumstances have to play. - -Suddenly she loosed her arms from that of the minister, and without a -word, in an instant, before anything could be said, darted away from -them into the gathering night. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -“We were just bringing her back. No doubt she has darted in at the side -door--she was always a hasty creature--and got into her own room. That’s -where ye will find her. I cannot tell you what has come over the monkey. -She is just out of what little wits she ever had.” - -“I can tell very well what has come over her,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “She -is just wild that I have interfered, which it was my clear duty to do. -If she had been heart and soul in the matter it would have been -different--but she was never that. These old cats at Rosebank, they -thought there was nobody saw it but themselves; but I saw it well -enough.” - -“In that case,” said Mr. Moubray, “perhaps it would have been better to -interfere sooner. I wish you would send some one to see if Effie is -really there.” - -“Why should I have interfered sooner? If everything had gone well, it -was such a match as Effie had no chance of making; but when it turned -out that it was a mistake, and the other there breaking his heart, that -had always been more suitable, and her with no heart in it----” Mrs. -Ogilvie paused for a moment in the satisfaction of triumphant -self-vindication. “But if you’re just sentimental and childish and come -in my way, you bind her to a bankrupt that she does not care for, -because of what you call honour--honour is all very well,” said Mrs. -Ogilvie, “for men; but whoever supposes that a bit little creature of a -girl----” - -“Will ye go and see if Effie is in her room?” said her husband -impatiently. - -“Ye may just ring the bell, Robert, and send one of the maids to see; -what would I do with her? If I said anything it would only make her -worse. I am not one of the people that shilly shally. I just act, and am -done with it. I’m very glad I put in my letter myself that it might go -in the first bag. But if you will take my advice you will just let her -be: at this moment she could not bear the sight of me, and I’m not -blaming her. I’ve taken it in my own hands, at my own risk, and if she’s -angry I’m not surprised. Let her be. She will come to herself -by-and-bye, and at the bottom of her heart she will be very well -pleased, and then I will ask Ronald Sutherland to his dinner, and -then----” - -“I wish,” said Mr. Moubray, “you would ease my mind at least by making -sure that Effie has really come in. I have a misgiving, which is -perhaps foolish: I will go myself if you will let me.” - -“No need for that,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, ringing the bell. “George, you -will send Margaret to tell Miss Effie--but what am I to tell her? that -is just the question. She will not want anything to say to me, and she -will perhaps think---- You will say just that her uncle wants her, that -will be the best thing to say.” - -There was a pause while George departed on his errand: not that Mrs. -Ogilvie had nothing to say or was affected by the anxiety of others. It -had indeed been a relief to her when her husband informed her that -Effie, no doubt, had come in and was in her own room. The stepmother, -who had been a little uneasy before, took this for granted with a sigh -of relief, and felt that a certain little danger which she had not -defined to herself was over. - -And now that the alarm was past, and that she had put forth her -defence, it seemed better not to dwell upon this subject. Better to let -it drop, she said to herself, better to let Effie think that it was over -and nothing more to be made of it. Mrs. Ogilvie was a woman without -temper and never ill-natured. She was very willing to let it drop. That -she should receive her stepdaughter as if nothing had happened was -clearly the right way. Therefore, though she had a thousand things now -to say, and could have justified her proceedings in volumes, she decided -not to do so; for she could also be self-denying when it was expedient -so to be. - -There was therefore a pause. Mr. Moubray sat with his eyes fixed on the -door and a great disquietude in his mind. He was asking himself what, if -she appeared, he could do. Must he promise her her lover, as he would -promise a child a plaything? must he ignore altogether the not -unreasonable reasons which Mrs. Ogilvie had produced in justification of -her conduct? They were abhorrent to his mind, as well as to that of -Effie, yet from her point of view they were not unreasonable. But if -Effie was not there? Mr. Ogilvie said nothing at all, but he walked from -one end of the room to another working his shaggy eyebrows. It was -evident he was not so tranquil in his mind as he had pretended to be. - -Presently Margaret the housemaid appeared, after a modest tap at the -door. “Miss Effie is not in her room, mem,” she said. - -“Not in her room? are you quite sure? Perhaps she is in the library -waiting for her papa; perhaps she is in the nursery with Rory. She may -even have gone into the kitchen, to speak a word to old Mary, or to -Pirie’s cottage to see if there are any flowers. You will find her -somewhere if you look. Quick, quick, and tell her the minister wants -her. You are sure, both of you gentlemen, that you saw her come in at -the gate?” - -“No doubt she came in,” said Mr. Ogilvie with irritation; “where else -would she go at this time of night?” - -“I am not sure at all,” said Mr. Moubray, rising up, “I never thought -so: and here I have been sitting losing time. I will go myself to -Pirie’s cottage--and after that----” - -“There is nothing to be frightened about,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, rising -too; “if she’s not at Pirie’s she will be at Rosebank, or else she will -be in one of the cottages, or else--bless me, there are twenty places -she may be, and nothing to make a panic about.” - -The minister went out in the middle of this speech waving his hand to -her as he went away, and she followed him to the door, calling out her -consolations across the passage. She met her husband, who was about to -follow, as she turned back, and caught his arm with her hands. - -“Robert, you’re not in this daft excitement too? Where in the world -would she go to, as you say? She’ll just have run somewhere in her pet, -not to see me. There can be nothing to be terrified about.” - -“You have a way,” cried the husband, “of talking, talking, that a person -would fly to the uttermost parts of the airth to get free oreplace with’ -ye. Let me go! Effie’s young and silly. She may run we know not where, -or she may catch a cold to kill her, which is the least of it. Let me -go.” - -“Sit down in your own chair by your own fireside, and listen to me,” -said the wife. “Why should you go on a fool’s errand? one’s enough for -that. Did Effie ever give you any real vexation all her life? No, -truly, and why should she begin now? She will be taking a walk, or she -will be complaining of me to the Miss Dempsters, or something of that -innocent kind. Just you let her be. What did she ever do to give you a -bad opinion of her? No, no, she’s come out of a good stock, and she’ll -come to no harm.” - -“There is something in that,” Mr. Ogilvie said. He was not ill disposed -to sit down in his own chair by his own fireside and take his ease, and -accept the assurance that Effie would come to no harm. - -But when she had thus quieted her husband and disposed of him, Mrs. -Ogilvie herself stole out in the dark, first to the house door, then -through the ghostly shrubberies to the gate, to see if there was any -trace visible of the fugitive. She was not so tranquil as she pretended -to be. Effie’s look of consternation and horror was still in her eyes, -and she had a sense of guilt which she could not shake off. But yet -there were so many good reasons for doing what she had done, so many -excuses, nay, laudable motives, things that called for immediate action. - -“To marry a man you don’t care about, when there is no advantage in it, -what a dreadful thing to do. How could I look on and let that little -thing make such a sacrifice? and when any person with the least -perception could see her heart was not in it. And Ronald, him that she -just had a natural bias to, that was just the most suitable match, not a -great _parti_ like what we all thought young Dirom, but well enough, and -her own kind of person!” - -It was thus she justified herself, and from her own point of view the -justification was complete. But yet she was not a happy woman as she -stood within the shadow of the big laurels, and looked out upon the -road, hoping every moment to see a slight shadow flit across the road, -and Effie steal in at the open gate. What could the little thing do? As -for running away, that was out of the question; and she was so young, -knowing nothing. What could she do? It was not possible she should come -to any harm. - -Mr. Moubray was more anxious still, for it seemed to him that he knew -very well what she would do. He walked about all the neighbouring roads, -and peeped into the cottages, and frightened the Miss Dempsters by going -up to their door, with heavy feet crushing the gravel at that -unaccustomed hour, for no reason but just to ask how the old lady was! - -“I must be worse than I think or the minister would never have come all -this way once-errand to inquire about me,” Miss Dempster said. - -“He would just see the light, and he would mind that he had made no -inquiries for three days,” said Miss Beenie; but she too was -uncomfortable, and felt that there was more in this nocturnal visitation -than met the eye. - -It did not surprise Mr. Moubray that in all his searches he could find -no trace of his little girl. He thought he knew where he would find -her--on the platform of the little railway station, ready to get into -the train for London. And in the meantime his mind was full of thoughts -how to serve her best. He was not like the majority of people who are -ready enough to serve others according to what they themselves think -best. Uncle John, on the contrary, studied tenderly how he could help -Effie in the way she wished. - -He paused at the post-office, and sent off a telegram to Fred Dirom, -expressed as follows:--“You will receive to-morrow morning a letter from -Gilston. E. wishes you to know that it does not express her feeling, -that she stands fast whatever may happen.” - -When he had sent this he felt a certain tranquillising influence, as if -he had propitiated fate, and said to himself that when she heard what he -had done, she might perhaps be persuaded to come back. Then the minister -went home, put a few things into his old travelling bag, and told his -housekeeper that he was going to meet a friend at the train, and that -perhaps he might not return that night, or for two or three nights. When -he had done this, he made his evening prayer, in which you may be sure -his little Effie occupied the first place, and then set off the long -half-hour’s walk to the station. - -By this time it was late, and the train was due: but neither on the -platform, nor in the office, nor among those who stood on the alert to -jump into the train, could he find her. He was at last constrained to -believe that she was not there. Had she gone further to escape pursuit, -to the next station, where there would be nobody to stop her? He -upbraided himself deeply for letting the train go without him, after he -had watched it plunging away in the darkness, into the echoes of the -night. It seemed to thunder along through the great silence of the -country, waking a hundred reverberations as he stood there with his bag -in his hand, aghast, not knowing what to do. There had been time enough -for that poor little pilgrim to push her way to the next stopping place, -where she could get in unobserved. - -Was this what she had done? He felt as if he had abandoned his little -girl, deserted her, left her to take her first step in life unprotected, -as he went back. And then, as he neared the village, a flicker of hope -returned that she might, when left to herself, have come to a more -reasonable conclusion and gone home. He went back to Gilston, walking -very softly that his step might not disturb them, if the family were all -composed to rest. And for a moment his heart gave a bound of relief when -he saw something moving among the laurels within the gate. - -But it was only Mrs. Ogilvie, who stole out into the open, with a -suppressed cry: “Have you not found her?” “Has she come home?” he asked -in the same breath: then in the mutual pang of disappointment they stood -for a moment and looked at each other, asking no more. - -“I have got Robert to go to his bed,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “God forgive -me, I just deceived him, saying she was at the manse with you--which was -what I hoped--for what would have been the use of him wandering about, -exposing himself and getting more rheumatism, when there was you and me -to do all we could? And, oh! what shall we do, or where can I send now? -I am just at my wit’s end. She would not do any harm to herself, oh! -never! I cannot think it; and, besides, what would be the use? for she -always had it in her power to write to him, and say it was only me.” - -Then the minister explained what he had anticipated, and how he had -proved mistaken. “The only thing is, she might have gone on to Lamphray -thinking it would be quieter, and taken the train there.” - -“Lord bless us!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “If she has done that we can hear -nothing till--there is no saying when we may hear.” - -And though they were on different sides, and, so to speak, hostile -forces, these two people stood together for a moment with but one -thought, listening to every little echo, and every rustle, and the -cracking of the twigs, and the sound of the burn, all the soft -unreckoned noises of a silent night, but Effie’s step or breath was not -among them all. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -Effie had darted away from the side of her father and uncle in one of -those _accès_ of impatience which are common to the young and -inexperienced. She had no training in that science of endurance which is -one of the chief bulwarks of life. Everything had become intolerable to -her. She “could not bear it,” words which are so often said, but which -in most cases mean little more than the unavailing human cry against the -hardships to which we have all to submit, and which most of us learn -must be borne after all whatever may be the struggle. By times the -young, the unprepared, the undisciplined fly out and will not submit, -to the confusion of their own existence first, and that of all others -involved. - -Effie meant little more than this uncontrollable expression of -impatience, and sense of the intolerableness of the circumstances, when -she loosed her arm from that of Uncle John, and fled--she knew not -where. She was not far off, standing trembling and excited among the -shadows, while they called her and searched for her along the different -paths; and when they went hastily into the house on the supposition that -she had found her way there, her heart for a moment failed her, and an -inclination to realize their thoughts, to escape no farther than to the -seclusion and safety of her own room, crossed her mind like one of the -flying clouds that were traversing the sky. But not only her excitement -and rebellion against the treason which she was being compelled to, but -even her pride was now in arms, preventing any return. - -She stood among the trees, among the evening damps, for some time after -the gentlemen had disappeared, thought after thought coursing through -her brain. Her determination was unchanged to go South by the night -train, though she had no clear idea what was next to be done when she -should reach London, that great fabulous place where she had never been, -and of which she had not the faintest understanding. She would seek out -Fred, tell him that she would stand by him whatever his trouble might -be--that nothing should detach her from his side--that if he was poor -that was all the more reason. - -So far as this went, Effie knew what to say, her heart was full of -eloquence and fervour. The intermediate steps were difficult, but that -was easy. She had been shy with him and reticent, receiving what he -gave, listening to what he said, of herself giving little. But now a new -impulse possessed her. She would throw herself heart and soul into his -fortunes. She would help him now that he needed her. She would be true, -ah! more than that as she had said--she could not be false--it was an -impossibility. Now that he was in need she was all his to work or watch, -to console or to cheer as might be most needful--his by the securest, -most urgent of bonds, by right of his necessities. - -The enthusiasm which she had never felt for Fred came now at the thought -of his poverty and loss. She could smile in the force of her resolution -at the folly of the woman who thought this would break the tie between -them; break it! when it made it like steel. - -This fire in her heart kept Effie warm, and glowed about her with a -semblance of passion; but first there was a difficult moment which she -did not know how to pass. Had the train gone at once all would have -been easy; but it would not go yet for hours, and she could not pass the -time standing on the damp grass, her feet getting wet, her damp skirts -clinging about her, the wintry dews dropping upon her, under those -trees. She began to think and ask herself where she would go to wait and -get a little warm before it should be time for the train. - -To Rosebank? but they were on the other side she reflected, with a vague -pang and misty passing realization of all that the other side meant. She -had been on the other side herself, against her will, till to-day; but -not now, oh, not now! She felt the pang, like a cutting asunder, a -tearing away; but would not dwell upon it, felt it only in passing. No, -she would not go into the atmosphere of the other side. - -And how could she go to the manse where Uncle John would beg and pray to -go instead of her, which was so very different; for Effie required not -only to demonstrate her strong faithfulness, but to keep it up, to keep -it in the state of passion. - -Then there suddenly came upon her a gleam of illumination. Yes! that was -the only place to go. To whom but to those who would suffer with him, -who would have need also of strengthening and encouragement, who had -such a change before them, and so much occasion for the support of their -friends--could Effie betake herself? It did not occur to her that Doris -and Phyllis, under the influence of depression and loss, were almost -inconceivable, and that to cheer them by the sympathy and backing up of -a little girl like herself, was something which the imagination failed -to grasp. Not that thought, but the difficulties of the way chilled her -a little. The dark, dark road over the brae which reached the waterside -close to the churchyard, the little path by the river, the wide, -silent, solitary park--all this made her shiver a little. - -But she said to herself with a forlorn rallying of her forces that such -trifles mattered nothing, that she was beyond thinking of anything so -unimportant, that there was the place for her, that she must go to his -sisters to give them confidence, to comfort them on Fred’s account, to -say, “I am going to him, to stand by him.” They who knew him so well, -would know that when she said that, all was said, and Fred’s strength -and endurance secured. - -This decision was made very rapidly, the mental processes being so much -quicker than anything that is physical, so that the sound of the door -closing upon Mr. Ogilvie and Mr. Moubray had scarcely died out of the -echoes before she set forth. She walked very quickly and firmly so long -as it was the highroad, where there were cottage lights shining here -and there and an occasional passer-by, though she shrank from sight or -speech of any; but when she came to the darker by-way over the hill, it -was all Effie’s courage could do to keep her going. - -There was light in the sky, the soft glimmer of stars, but it did not -seem to get so far as the head of the brae, and still less down the -other side, where it descended towards the water. Down below at the -bottom of the ravine the water itself, indeed, was doubly clear; the sky -reflected in it with a wildness and pale light which was of itself -enough to frighten any one; but the descending path seemed to change and -waver in the great darkness of the world around, so that sometimes it -appeared to sink under Effie’s feet, receding and falling into an abyss -immeasurable, which re-acted upon the gloom, and made the descent seem -as steep as a precipice. - -Her little figure, not distinguishable in the darkness, stumbling -downwards, not seeing the stones and bushes that came in her way, seemed -a hundred times as if about to fall down, down, into the depths, into -that dark clearness, the cold gulf of the stream. Sometimes she slid -downward a little, and then thought for a dizzy moment that all was -over--sometimes stumbled and felt that she was going down headlong, -always feeling herself alone, entirely alone, between the clear stars -overhead and the line of keen light below. - -Then there came the passage of the churchyard, which was full of -solemnity. Effie saw the little huddled mass of the old chapel against -the dim opening out of the valley in which the house of Allonby lay--and -it looked to her like a crouching figure watching among the dead, like, -perhaps, some shadow of Adam Fleming or his murdered Helen in the place -where she fell. - -As soon as she got on level ground the girl flew along, all throbbing -and trembling with terror. Beyond lay the vague stretches of the park, -and the house rising in the midst of the spectral river mists, soft and -white, that filled it--the lights in the windows veiled and indistinct, -the whole silent, like a house of shadows. Her heart failed although she -went on, half flying, towards it, as to a refuge. Effie by this time had -almost forgotten Fred. She had forgotten everything except the terrors -of this unusual expedition, and the silence and solitude and all the -weird influences that seemed to be about her. She felt as if she was -outside of the world altogether, a little ghost wandering over the -surface of the earth. There seemed to be no voice in her to call out for -help against the darkness and the savage silence, through which she -could not even hear the trickle of the stream: nothing but her own -steps flying, and her own poor little bosom panting, throbbing, against -the unresponsive background of the night. - -Her footsteps too became inaudible as she got upon the turf and -approached close to Allonby. All was silent there also; there seemed no -sound at all as if any one was stirring, but only a dead house with -faint spectral lights in the windows. - -She stopped and took breath and came to herself, a little calmed by the -neighbourhood of a human habitation in which there must be some -inhabitants though she could not hear them. She came to herself more or -less, and the pulsations of terror in her ears beat less overwhelmingly, -so that she began to be able to think again, and ask herself what she -should do. To go to the great door, to wake all the echoes by knocking, -to be met by an unconcerned servant and ushered in as if she were an -ordinary visitor, all agitated and worn by emotion as she was, was -impossible. - -It seemed more natural, everything being out of rule, to steal round the -house till she found the window of the room in which the girls were -sitting, and make her little summons to them without those impossible -formalities, and be admitted so to their sole company. The lawn came -close up under the windows, and Effie crept round one side of the house, -finding all dark, with a feeling of discouragement as if she had been -repulsed. One large and broad window a little in advance showed, -however, against the darkness, and though she knew this could not be a -sitting-room, she stole on unconscious of any curiosity or possibility -of indiscretion, it being a matter of mere existence to find some one. - -The curtains were drawn half over the window, yet not so much but that -she could see in. And the sight that met the girl’s astonished eyes was -one so strange and incomprehensible that it affected her like a vision. - -Mrs. Dirom was sitting in the middle of the room in a deep easy chair, -with her head in her hands, to all appearance weeping bitterly, while a -man muffled in a rough loose coat stood with his back to her, opening -what seemed the door of a little cupboard in the wall close to the bed. -Effie gazed terror-stricken, wondering was it a robber, who was it? Mrs. -Dirom was making no resistance; she was only crying, her face buried in -her hands. - -The little door yielded at last, and showed to Effie dimly the shelves -of a safe crowded with dark indistinct objects. Then Mrs. Dirom rose up, -and taking some of these indistinct objects in her hands suddenly made -visible a blaze of diamonds which she seemed to press upon the man. - -He turned round to the light, as Effie, stooping, half kneeling on the -wet grass, gazed in, in a kind of trance, scarcely knowing what she did. -The coat in which he was muffled was large and rough, and a big muffler -hung loosely round his neck, but to the great astonishment of the young -spectator the face was that of Mr. Dirom himself. He seemed to laugh and -put away the case in which the diamonds were blazing. - -Then out of the further depths of the safe he brought a bundle of papers -over which he nodded his head a great many times as if with -satisfaction. At this moment something seemed to disturb them, some -sound apparently in the house, for they both looked towards the door, -and then the lamp was suddenly extinguished and Effie saw no more. It -was a curious scene--the diamonds lighting up the dim room, the woman -in tears offering them to the man, he refusing, holding his little -bundle of papers, the unusual dress, the air of excitement and emotion: -and then sudden darkness, nothing visible any more; yet the certainty -that these two people were there, without light, concealing themselves -and their proceedings, whatever these might be. - -Effie had looked on scarcely knowing why, unaware that she was prying -into other people’s concerns, suddenly attracted by the gleam of light, -by the comfort of feeling some one near. The putting out of the lamp -threw her back into her panic, yet changed it. She shrank away from the -window with a sudden fear of the house in which something strange, she -knew not what, was going on. Her mind was too much confused to ask what -it was, to make any representation to herself of what she had seen; but -the thought of these two people _in the dark_ seemed to give a climax to -all the nameless terrors of the night. - -She went on by the side of the house, not knowing what to do, afraid now -to ask admission, doubly afraid to turn back again, lost in confusion of -mind and fatigue of body, which dimmed and drove out her original -distress. - -Now, however, she had come to the back regions in which the servants -were stirring, and before she was aware a loud “Who’s that?” and the -flash of a lantern upon her, brought her back to herself. It was the -grooms coming back from the stable who thus interrupted her forlorn -round. - -“Who’s that?--it’s a woman--it’s a lassie! Lord bless us, it’s Miss -Ogilvie!” they cried. - -Effie had sufficient consciousness to meet their curious inspection with -affected composure. - -“I want to see Miss Dirom,” she said. “I lost my way in the dark; I -couldn’t find the door. Can I see Miss Dirom?” - -Her skirts were damp and clinging about her, her hair limp with the dews -of the night, her whole appearance wild and strange: but the eyes of the -grooms were not enlightened. They made no comments; one of them led her -to the proper entrance, another sent the proper official to open to her, -and presently she stood dazzled and tremulous in the room full of -softened firelight and taperlight, warm and soft and luxurious, as if -there was no trouble or mystery in the world, where Doris and Phyllis -sat in their usual animated idleness talking to each other. One of them -was lying at full length on a sofa, her arms about her head, her white -cashmere dress falling in the much esteemed folds which that pretty -material takes by nature; the other was seated on a stool before the -fire, her elbows on her knees. The sound of their voices discoursing -largely, softly, just as usual, was what Effie heard as the servant -opened the door. - -“Miss Ogilvie, did you say?--Effie!” They both gazed at her with -different manifestations of dramatic surprise--without, for the moment, -any other movement. Her appearance was astonishing at this hour, but -nothing else seemed to disturb the placidity of these young women. -Finally, Miss Phyllis rose from her stool in front of the fire. - -“She has eyes like stars, and her hair is all twinkling with dew--quite -a romantic figure. What a pity there is nobody to see it but Doris and -me! You don’t mean to say you have come walking all this way?” - -“Oh! what does it matter how I came?” cried Effie. “I came--because I -could not stay away. There was nobody else that was so near me. I came -to tell you--I am going to Fred.” - -“To Fred!” they both cried, Phyllis with a little scream of surprise, -Doris in a sort of inquiring tone, raising herself half from her sofa. -They both stared at her strangely. They had no more notion why she -should be going to Fred than the servant who had opened the door for -her--most likely much less--for there were many things unknown to the -young ladies which the servants knew. - -“Fred will be very much flattered,” said Doris. “But why are you going? -does he know? what is it for? is it for shopping? Have you made up your -mind, all at once, that you want another dress?--I should say two or -three, but that is neither here nor there. And what has put it so -suddenly into your head? And where are you going to stay? Are you sure -your friends are in London at this time of the year----?” - -“Oh!” cried Effie, restored out of her exhaustion and confusion in a -moment by this extraordinary speech, “is that all you think? a dress, -and shopping to do! when Fred is alone, when he is in trouble, when even -your father has deserted him--and his money gone, and his heart sore! -Oh, is that all you know? I am going to tell him that I will never -forsake him whatever others may do--that I am come to stand by him--that -I am come----” - -She stopped, not because she had no more to say, but because she lost -the control of her voice and could do nothing but sob--drawing her -breath convulsively, like a child that has wept its passion out, yet has -not recovered the spasmodic grip upon its throat. - -Phyllis and Doris looked at her with eyes more and more astonished and -critical. They spoke to each other, not to her. “She means it, do you -know, Dor!” - -“It is like a melodrama, Phyll--Goodness, look at her! If we should -ever go on the stage----!” - -Effie heard the murmur of their voices, and turned her eyes from one to -another: but her head was light with the fumes of her own passion, which -had suddenly flared so high; and though she looked from one to another, -instinctively, she did not understand what they said. - -“And did you come to tell us this, so late, and all alone, you poor -little Effie? And how did you manage to get away? and how are you to get -back?” - -“Of course,” said Doris, “we must send her back. Don’t ask so many silly -questions, Phyll.” - -“I am not going back,” said Effie. “They would stop me if they knew. Oh, -will you send me to the train? for it is very dark and very wet, and I’m -frightened, it’s all so lonely. I never meant to trouble anybody. But -your father will be going too, and I would just sit in a corner and -never say a word. Oh, will you ask him to let me go with him to the -train?” - -“What does she mean about papa? The train! there is no one going to the -train. Do you mean to say that you--to-night--oh, you know you must be -dreaming; nothing like this is possible, Effie! You must go home, child, -and go to bed----” - -“To bed! and let him think that I’ve forsaken him--to let him get up -to-morrow morning and hear that Effie, because he is poor, has gone back -from her word? Oh! no, no, I cannot do it. If you will not send me, I -will just walk as I meant to do! I was frightened,” said Effie, with her -piteous little sob. “And then if your father is going--But it does not -matter after all, I will just walk as I meant to do: and if you don’t -care, that was my mistake in coming--I will just say good-night.” - -She turned away with a childlike dignity, yet with a tremor she could -not subdue. She was not afraid to go out into the world, to carry the -sacrifice of her young existence to the man who loved her, whom she -would not forsake in his trouble: but she was frightened for the dark -road, the loneliness of the night--she was frightened, but yet she was -ready to do it. She turned away with a wave of her hand. - -Both of the girls, however, were roused by this time. Doris rose from -her sofa, and Phyllis seized Effie, half coaxingly, half violently, by -the arm. - -“Effie! goodness,” she cried, “just think for a moment. You musn’t do -this--what could Fred do with you? He would be frightened out of his -senses. You would put him in such a predicament. What _would_ he do?” - -“And where would you go?” said Doris. “To his lodgings? Only fancy, a -young man’s lodgings in Half Moon Street, just the sort of place where -they think the worst of everything. He would be at his wit’s end. He -would think it very sweet of you, but just awfully silly. For what would -he do with you? He could not keep you there. It would put him in the -most awkward position. For Fred’s sake, if you really care for him, -don’t, for heaven’s sake, do anything so extraordinary. Here is mother, -she will tell you.” - -“Mamma,” they both cried, as Mrs. Dirom came into the room, “Effie has -got the strangest idea. I think she must be a little wrong in her head. -She says she is going to Fred----” - -“To Fred!” the mother exclaimed with a voice full of agitation. “Has -anything happened to Fred----” - -“Don’t make yourself anxious, it is only her nonsense. She has heard -about the firm, I suppose. She thinks he is ruined, and all that, and -she wants to go to him to stand by him--to show him that she will not -forsake him. It’s pretty, but it’s preposterous,” said Doris, giving -Effie a sudden kiss. “Tell her she will only make Fred uncomfortable. -She will not listen to us.” - -Mrs. Dirom had a look of heat and excitement which her children never -remembered to have seen in her before, but which Effie understood who -knew. Her eyes were red, her colour high, a flush across her -cheek-bones: her lips trembled with a sort of nervous impatience. - -“Oh,” she cried, “haven’t I enough to think of? Do I want to be bothered -with such childish nonsense now? Going to Fred! What does she want with -Fred? He has other things in his mind. Let her go home, that is the only -thing to do----” - -“So we have told her: but she says she wants to go to the train; and -something about my father who is here, and will be going too.” - -“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom, sharply. She gave Effie a look -of alarm, almost threatening, yet imploring--a look which asked her how -much she knew, yet defied her to know anything. - -“The poor little thing has got a fright,” she said, subduing her voice. -“I am not angry with you, Effie; you mean it kindly, but it would never, -never do. You must go home.” - -Effie’s strength had ebbed out of her as she stood turning her -bewildered head from one to another, hearing with a shock unspeakable -that Fred--Fred whom she had been so anxious to succour!--would not want -her, which made the strangest revolution in her troubled mind. But still -mechanically she held to her point. - -“I will not be any trouble. I will just sit in the corner and never say -a word. Let me go to the train with Mr. Dirom. Let me go--with him. He -is very kind, he will not mind.” - -“Mamma, do you hear what she says? She has said it again and again. Can -papa be here and none of us know?” - -“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom once more. Her tone was angry, -but it was full of alarm. She turned her back on the others and looked -at Effie with eyes that were full of anguish, of secrecy and confidence, -warning her, entreating her, yet defying. - -“How should he be here when he has so much to do elsewhere?” she cried. -“The child has got that, with the other nonsense, into her head.” Then -with a sudden change of tone, “I will take her to my room to be quiet, -and you can order the brougham to take her home.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -“She was sent home in the brougham, that disturbed all our sleep just -dashing along the road at the dead of night. They were in a terrible -state before that. The minister, too, was here, looking like a ghost to -hear if we knew anything; and how could we say we knew anything, seeing -she had parted from here in the afternoon not over well pleased with -Beenie and me. And Mrs. Ogilvie--she is not a woman I am fond of, and -how far I think she’s to blame, I would just rather not say--but I will -say this, that I was sorry for her that night. She came, too, with a -shawl over her head, just out of herself. She had got the old man off -to his bed, never letting on that Effie was out of the house; and she -was in a terror for him waking, and the girl not there.” - -“No fear of him waking; he is just an old doited person,” said Miss -Beenie, with indignation. - -“Not so old as either you or me. But let alone till I’ve told my story. -And then, Ronald, my man, you’ve heard what’s followed. Not only a -failure, but worse and worse; and the father fled the country. They say -he had the assurance to come down here to get some papers that were laid -up in his wife’s jewel press, and that Effie saw him. But he got clean -away; and it’s a fraudulent bankruptcy--or if there’s anything worse -than a fraudulent bankruptcy, it’s that. Oh, yes, there has been a great -deal of agitation, and it is perhaps just as well that you were out of -the way. I cannot tell whether I feel for the family or not. There is -no look about them as if they thought shame. They’re just about the same -as ever, at kirk and at market, with their horses and carriages. They -tell me it takes a long time to wind up an establishment like that--and -why should they not take the good of their carriages and their horses as -long as they have them? But I’m perhaps a very old-fashioned woman. I -would not have kept them, not a day. I would never have ridden the one -nor driven about in the other, with my father a hunted swindler, and my -family’s honour all gone to ruin--never, never! I would rather have -died.” - -“Sarah, that is just what you will do, if you work yourself up like -this. Will ye not remember what the doctor says?” - -“Oh, go away with your doctors. I’m an old-fashioned woman, but I’m a -woman of strong feelings; I just cannot endure it! and to think that -Effie, my poor little Effie, will still throw in her lot with them, and -will not be persuaded against it!” - -“Why should she be persuaded against it?” said Ronald Sutherland, with a -very grave face. “Nobody can believe that the money would make any -difference to her: and I suppose the man was not to blame.” - -“The man--was nothing one way or another. He got the advantage of the -money, and he was too poor a creature ever to ask how it was made. But -it’s not that; the thing is that her heart was never in it--never! She -was driven--no, not driven--if she had been driven she would have -resisted. She was just pushed into it, just persuaded to listen, and -then made to see there was no escape. Didn’t I tell you that, Beenie, -before there was word of all this, before Ronald came home? The little -thing: had no heart for it. She just got white like a ghost when there -was any talk about marriage. She would hear of nothing, neither the -trou-so, as they call it now, nor any of the nonsense that girls take a -natural pleasure in. But now her little soul is just on fire. She will -stick to him--she will not forsake him. And here am I in my bed, not -able to take her by her shoulders and to tell her the man’s not worthy -of it, and that she’ll rue it just once, and that will be her life -long!” - -“Oh!” cried Miss Beenie, wringing her hands, “what is the use of a woman -being in her bed if she is to go on like that? You will just bring on -another attack, and where will we all be then? The doctor, he says----” - -“You are greatly taken up with what the doctor says: that’s one thing of -being in my bed,” said Miss Dempster, with a laugh, “that I cannot see -the doctor and his ways--his dram--that he would come to the window and -take off, with a nod up at you and me.” - -“Oh, Sarah, nothing of the kind. It was no dram, in the first place, but -just a small drop of sherry with his quinine----” - -“That’s very like, that’s very like,” said Miss Dempster, with a -satirical laugh, “the good, honest, innocent man! I wonder it was not -tea, just put in a wine glass for the sake of appearances. Are you sure, -Beenie, it was not tea?” - -“Oh, Sarah! the doctor, he has just been your diversion. But if you -would be persuaded what a regard he has for you--ay, and respect -too--and says that was always his feeling, even when he knew you were -gibing and laughing at him.” - -“A person that has the sense to have a real illness will always command -a doctor’s respect. If I recover, things will just fall into their old -way; but make your mind easy, Beenie, I will not recover, and the -doctor will have a respect for me all his days.” - -“Oh, Sarah!” cried Miss Beenie, weeping. “Ronald, I wish you would speak -to her. You have a great influence with my sister, and you might tell -her---- You are just risking your life, and what good can that do?” - -“I am not risking my life; my life’s all measured, and reeling out. But -I would like to see that bit little Effie come to a better understanding -before I die. Ye will be a better doctor for her than me, Ronald. Tell -her from me she is a silly thing. Tell her yon is not the right man for -her, and that I bid her with my dying breath not to be led away with a -vain conceit, and do what will spoil her life and break her heart. He’s -not worthy of it--no man is worthy of it. You may say that to her, -Ronald, as if it was the last thing I had to say.” - -“No,” said Ronald. His face had not at all relaxed. It was fixed with -the set seriousness of a man to whom the subject is far too important -for mirth or change of feature. “No,” he said, “I will tell Effie -nothing of the kind. I would rather she should do what was right than -gain an advantage for myself.” - -“Right, there is no question about right!” cried the old lady. “He’s not -worthy of it. You’ll see even that he’ll not desire it. He’ll not -understand it. That’s just my conviction. How should his father’s son -understand a point of honour like that? a man that is just nobody, a -parvenoo, a creature that money has made, and that the want of it will -unmake. That’s not a man at all for a point of honour. You need say -nothing from yourself; though you are an old friend, and have a right to -show her all the risks, and what she is doing; but if you don’t tell her -what I’m saying I will just--I will just--haunt you, you creature -without spirit, you lad without a backbone intil ye, you----” - -But here Miss Beenie succeeded in drawing Ronald from the room. - -“Why will ye listen to her?” cried the young sister; “ye will just help -her to her own destruction. When I’m telling you the doctor says--oh, -no, I’m pinning my faith to no doctor; but it’s just as clear as -daylight, and it stands to reason--she will have another attack if she -goes on like yon----” - -The fearful rush she made at him, the clutch upon his arm, his yielding -to the impulse which he could not resist, none of these things moved -Ronald. His countenance was as set and serious as ever, the humour of -the situation did not touch him. He neither smiled nor made any -response. Downstairs with Miss Beenie, out of sight of the invalid who -was so violent in the expression of her feelings, he retained the same -self-absorbed look. - -“If she thinks it right,” he said, “I am not the one to put any -difficulty before her. The thing for me to do is just to go away--” - -“Don’t go away and leave us, Ronald, when no mortal can tell what an -hour or a day may bring forth; and Sarah always so fond of you, and you -such a near connection, the nearest we have in this countryside----” - -“What should happen in a day or an hour, and of what service can I be?” -he asked. “Of course, if I can be of any use----” but he shook his head. -Ronald, like most people, had his mind fixed upon his own affairs. - -“Oh, have ye no eyes?” cried Miss Beenie, “have none of ye any eyes? You -are thinking of a young creature that has all her life before her, and -time to set things right if they should go wrong; but nobody has a -thought for my sister, that has been the friend of every one of you, -that has never missed giving you a good advice, or putting you in the -way you should go. And now here is she just slipping away on her last -journey, and none of you paying attention! not one, not one!” she cried, -wringing her hands, “nor giving a thought of pity to me that will just -be left alone in the world.” - -Miss Beenie, who had come out to the door with the departing visitor, -threw herself down on the bench outside, her habitual seat in happier -days, and burst into subdued weeping. - -“I darena even cry when she can see me. It’s a relief to get leave to -cry,” she said, “for, oh, cannot ye see, not one of ye, that she’s -fading away like the morning mist and like the summer flowers?” - -The morning mist and the summer flowers were not images very like Miss -Dempster, who lay like an old tree, rather than any delicate and fragile -thing; but Dr. Jardine, coming briskly up on his daily visit, was not -susceptible to appropriateness of metaphor. He came up to Miss Beenie -and patted her on the shoulder with a homely familiarity which a few -months ago would have seemed presumption to the ladies of Rosebank. - -“Maybe no,” he said, “maybe no, who can tell? And even if it was so, why -should you be alone? I see no occasion---- Come up, and we’ll see how -she is to-day.” - -Ronald Sutherland, left alone, walked down the slope very solemnly, with -his face as rigid as ever. Miss Dempster was his old and good friend, -but, alas, he thought nothing of Miss Dempster. - -“If she thinks it right, it must be so,” he was saying to himself. “If -she thinks it’s right, am I the one to put any difficulty in the way?” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -To postpone the self-sacrifice of an enthusiast for weeks, or even for -days, is the hardest of all tests, and a trial almost beyond the power -of flesh and blood. Upheld by religious fervour, the human soul may be -equal to this or any other test; but in lesser matters, and specially in -those self-sacrifices prompted by generosity, which to the youthful hero -or heroine seem at the first glance so inevitable, so indispensable, -things which no noble mind would shrink from, the process of waiting is -a terrible ordeal. - -He, or still more, she, who would have given life itself, happiness, -anything, everything that is most prized in existence, with a light -heart, and the most perfect conviction at the moment, becomes, as the -days go by, the victim of a hundred chilling doubts and questions. Her -courage, like that of Bob Acres, oozes out at her finger-ends. She is -brought to the bar of a thousand suppressed, yet never extinguished, -reasonings. - -Is it right to feign love even for her lover’s sake?--is it right to do -another so great an injury as to delude him into the thought that he is -making you happy, while, in reality, you are sacrificing all happiness -for him? Is it right----? but these questions are so manifold and -endless that it is vain to enumerate them. - -Effie had been the victim of this painful process for three long -lingering weeks. She had little, very little, to support her in her -determination. The papers had been full of the great bankruptcy, of -details of Dirom’s escape, and of the valuable papers and securities -which had disappeared with him: and with a shiver Effie had understood -that the scene she had seen unawares through the window had meant far -more than even her sense of mystery and secrecy in it could have helped -her to divine. - -The incidents of that wonderful night--the arguments of the mother and -sisters, who had declared that the proposed expedition would be nothing -but an embarrassment to Fred--her return ashamed and miserable in the -carriage into which they had thrust her--had been fatal to the fervour -of the enthusiasm which had made her at first capable of anything. -Looking back upon it now, it was with an overwhelming shame that she -recognized the folly of that first idea. Effie had grown half-a-dozen -years older in a single night. She imagined what might have happened had -she carried out that wild intention, with one of those scathing and -burning blushes which seem to scorch the very soul. She imagined Fred’s -look of wonder, his uneasiness, perhaps his anger at her folly which -placed him in so embarrassing a position. - -Effie felt that, had she seen those feelings in his eyes even for a -moment, she would have died of shame. He had written to her, warmly -thanking her for her “sympathy,” for her “generous feeling,” for the -telegram (of which she knew nothing) which had been so consolatory to -him, for the “unselfishness,” the “beautiful, brave thought” she had for -a moment entertained of coming to him, of standing by him. - -“Thank you, dearest, for this lovely quixotism,” he had said; “it was -like my Effie,” as if it had been a mere impulse of girlish tenderness, -and not the terrible sacrifice of a life which she had intended it to -be. This letter had been overwhelming to Effie, notwithstanding, or -perhaps by reason of, its thanks and praises. He had, it was clear, no -insight into her mind, no real knowledge of her at all. He had never -divined anything, never seen below the surface. - -If she had done what she intended, if she had indeed gone to him, he -living as he was! Effie felt as if she must sink into the ground when -she realized this possibility. And as she did so, her heart failed her, -her courage, her strength oozed away: and there was no one to whom she -could speak. Doris and Phyllis came to see her now and then, but there -was no encouragement in them. They were going abroad; they had ceased to -make any reference to that independent action on their own part which -was to have followed disaster to the firm. There was indeed in their -conversation no account made of any downfall; their calculations about -their travels were all made on the ground of wealth. And Fred had taken -refuge in his studio they said--he was going to be an artist, as he had -always wished: he was going to devote himself to art: they said this -with a significance which Effie in her simplicity did not catch, for she -was not aware that devotion to Art interfered with the other -arrangements of life. And this was all. She had no encouragement on that -side, and her resolution, her courage, her strength of purpose, her -self-devotion oozed away. - -Strangely enough, the only moral support she had was from Ronald, who -met her with that preternaturally grave face, and asked for Fred, whom -he had never asked for before, and said something inarticulate which -Effie understood, to the effect that he for one would never put -difficulties in her way. What did he mean? No one could have explained -it--not even himself: and yet Effie knew. Ronald had the insight which -Fred, with those foolish praises of her generosity and her quixotism, -did not possess. - -And so the days went on, with a confusion in the girl’s mind which it -would be hopeless to describe. Her whole life seemed to hang in a -balance, wavering wildly between earth and heaven. What was to be done -with it? What was she to do with it? Eric was on his way home, and would -arrive shortly, for his sister’s marriage, and all the embarrassment of -that meeting lay before her, taking away the natural delight of it, -which at another moment would have been so sweet to Effie. Even Uncle -John was of little advantage to her in this pause. He accompanied her in -her walks, saying little. Neither of them knew what to say. All the -wedding preparations had come to a standstill, tacitly, without any -explanation made; and in the face of Fred’s silence on the subject -Effie could say nothing, neither could her champion say anything about -the fulfilment of her engagement. - -Mrs. Ogilvie, on the other hand, was full of certainty and -self-satisfaction. - -“He has just acted as I expected, like a gentleman,” she said, “making -no unpleasantness. He is unfortunate in his connections, poor young man; -but I always said that there was the makings of a real gentleman in -young Dirom. You see I have just been very right in my calculations. He -has taken my letter in the right spirit. How could he do otherwise? He -had the sense to see at once that Robert could never give his daughter -to a ruined man.” - -“There could not be two opinions on that subject,” said her husband, -still more satisfied with himself. - -“There might, I think, be many opinions,” the minister said, mildly. “If -two young people love each other, and stick to it, there is no father -but will be vanquished by them at the end.” - -“That’s all your sentimentality,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “Let them come and -tell me about their love as you call it, they would soon get their -answer. Any decent young woman, let alone a girl brought up like Effie, -would think shame.” - -“Effie will not think shame,” said Mr. Moubray: “if the young man is -equal to Mrs. Ogilvie’s opinion of him. You will have to make up your -mind to encounter your own child, Robert--which is far harder work than -to meet a stranger--in mortal conflict. For Effie will never take your -view of the matter. She will not see that misfortune has anything to do -with it. She will say that what was done for good fortune was done for -bad. She will stand by him.” - -“Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “I am not ashamed to name the name of love -for my part. There was no love on Effie’s side. No, no, her heart was -never in it. It is just a blaze of generosity and that kind of thing. -You need have no trouble so far as that is concerned. When she sees that -it’s not understood, her feeling will just die out, like that lowing of -thorns under the pot which is mentioned in Scripture: or most likely she -will take offence--and that will be still better. For he will not press -it, partly because he will think it’s not honourable, and partly because -he has to struggle for himself and has the sense to see it will be far -better not to burden himself with a wife.” - -“If you were so sure there was no love on Effie’s side, why did you let -it go on?” said Mr. Moubray with a little severity. - -“Why did I let it go on? just for the best reason in the world--because -at that time he was an excellent match. Was I to let her ruin the best -sitting down in all the countryside, for a childish folly? No, no; I -have always set my heart on doing my duty to Robert’s daughter, and that -was just the very best that could be done for her. It’s different now; -and here is another very fine lad, under our very hand. One that is an -old joe, that she has known all her life, and might have been engaged to -him but for--different reasons. Nothing’s lost, and he’s just turned up -in the very nick of time, if you do not encourage her in her daft ideas, -Uncle John.” - -“I do not consider them daft ideas: and that Effie should go from one to -another like a puppet when you pull the strings----” - -“Oh, I am not a clever person; I cannot meet you with your images and -your metaphors; but this I can say,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, solemnly, “that -it is just your niece’s happiness that is at stake, and if you come -between her and what is just and right, the blame will be yours and not -mine.” - -Mr. Moubray went away very much troubled, with this in his mind. Effie -had not loved Fred, and it was possible that she might love Ronald, that -she might have had an inclination towards him all along; but was it -possible that she should thus change--put down one and take up -another--resign even the man she loved not, as no longer a good match, -and accept the man she might love, because he was? - -Marriage without love is a horror to every pure mind; it was to the -minister the most abhorrent of all thoughts: and yet it was not so -degrading, so deplorable as this. He went home to his lonely house with -a great oppression on his soul. What could he say, what advise to the -young and tender creature who had been brought to such a pass, and who -had to find her way out of it, he could not tell how? He had nothing to -say to her. He could not give her a counsel; he did not even know how to -approach the subject. He had to leave her alone at this crisis of her -fate. - -The actual crisis came quite unexpectedly when no one thought it near. -It had come to be December, and Christmas, which should have witnessed -the marriage, was not far off. The Diroms were said to be preparing to -leave Allonby; but except when they were met riding or driving, they -were little seen by the neighbours, few of whom, to tell the truth, had -shown much interest in them since the downfall. Suddenly, in the -afternoon of one of those dull winter days when the skies had begun to -darken and the sun had set, the familiar dog-cart, which had been there -so often, dashed in at the open gates of Gilston and Fred Dirom jumped -out. He startled old George first of all by asking, not for Miss, but -Mrs. Ogilvie. - -“Miss Effie is in, sir. I will tell her in a moment,” George said, half -from opposition, half because he could not believe his ears. - -“I want to see Mrs. Ogilvie,” replied the young man, and he was ushered -in accordingly, not without a murmured protest on the part of the old -servant, who did not understand this novel method of procedure. - -The knowledge of Fred’s arrival thrilled through the house. It flitted -upstairs to the nursery, it went down to the kitchen. The very walls -pulsated to this arrival. Effie became aware of it, she did not herself -know how, and sat trembling expecting every moment to be summoned. But -no summons came. She waited for some time, and then with a strong quiver -of excitement, braced herself up for the final trial and stole -downstairs. George was lingering about the hall. He shook his gray head -as he saw her on the stairs, then pointed to the door of the -drawing-room. - -“He’s in there,” said the old man, “and I would bide for no careplace -with’. I would suffer nae joukery-pawkery, I would just gang ben!” - -Effie stood on the stairs for a moment like one who prepares for a fatal -plunge, then with her pulses loud in her ears, and every nerve -quivering, ran down the remaining steps and opened the door. - -Fred was standing in the middle of the room holding Mrs. Ogilvie’s hand. -He did not at first hear the opening of the door, done noiselessly by -Effie in her whirl of passionate feeling. - -“If you think it will be best,” he was saying, “I desire to do only what -is best for her. I don’t want to agitate or distress her--Effie!” - -In a moment he had dropped her stepmother’s hand and made a hurried step -towards the apparition, pale, breathless, almost speechless with -emotion, at the door. He was pale too, subdued, serious, very different -from the easy and assured youth who had so often met her there. - -“Effie! my dearest, generous girl!” - -“Oh, Fred! what has become of you all this time? did you think that I -was like the rest?” - -“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you are just spoiling everything both -for him and for yourself. What brought you here? you are not wanted -here. He has plenty on his mind without you. Just you go back again -where you came from. He has told me all he wants to say. You here just -makes everything worse.” - -Fred had taken her hands into his. He looked into her eyes with a gaze -which Effie did not understand. - -“To think you should be willing to encounter even poverty and misery for -me!” he said; “but I cannot take you at your word. I cannot expose you -to that struggle. It must be put off indefinitely, my sweetest girl: -alas, that I should have to say it! when another fortnight, only two -weeks more, should have made us happy.” - -He stooped down and kissed her hands. There was a tone, protecting, -compassionate, respectful in his voice. He was consoling her quite as -much as himself. - -“Postponed?” she said faltering, gazing at him with an astonishment -which was mingled with dismay. - -“Alas, yes, my generous darling: though you are willing, I am not able -to carry out our engagement: that is what I have been explaining. Don’t -think it is not as bad for me as for you.” - -“As bad for me, as for you,” the blood rushed to Effie’s countenance in -a wild flood of indignation and horror. As bad for him as for her! She -stood aghast, her eyes fixed upon his, in which there was, could it be? -a complaisance, a self-satisfaction mingled with regret. - -Fred had not the least conception of the feeling which had moved her. He -knew nothing about the revolution made in all her thoughts by the -discovery of his ruin, or of her impassioned determination to stand by -him, and sacrifice everything to his happiness. No idea of the truth had -entered his mind. He was sorry for her disappointment, which indeed was -not less to him than to her, though, to be sure, a girl, he knew, always -felt it more than a man. But when Effie, in her hurt pride and wounded -feeling, uttered a cry of astonishment and dismay, he took it for the -appeal of disappointment and replied to it hastily: - -“It cannot be helped,” he said. “Do you think it is an easy thing for -me to say so? but what can I do? I have given up everything. A man is -not like the ladies. I am going back to the studio--to work in earnest, -where I used only to play at working. How could I ask you to go there -with me, to share such a life? And besides, if I am to do anything, I -must devote myself altogether to art. If things were to brighten, then, -indeed, you may be sure---- without an hour’s delay!” - -She had drawn her hands away, but he recovered possession of one, which -he held in his, smoothing and patting it, as if he were comforting a -child. A hundred thoughts rushed through her mind as he stood there, -smiling at her pathetically, yet not without a touch of vanity, -comprehending nothing, without the faintest gleam of perception as to -what she had meant, sorry for her, consoling her for her loss, feeling -to his heart the value of what she had lost, which was himself. - -Her dismay, her consternation, the revulsion of feeling which sent the -blood boiling through her veins, were to him only the natural vexation, -distress, and disappointment of a girl whose marriage had been close at -hand, and was now put off indefinitely. For this--which was so -natural--he was anxious to console her. He wanted her to feel it as -little as possible--to see that it was nobody’s fault, that it could not -be helped. Of all the passionate impulses that had coursed through her -veins he knew nothing, nothing! He could not divine them, or understand, -even if he had divined. - -“At best,” he said, still soothing her, patting her hand, “the -postponement must be for an indefinite time. And how can I ask you to -waste your youth, dearest Effie? I have done you harm enough already. I -came to let you know the real state of affairs--to set you free from -your engagements to me, if,” he said, pressing her hand again, looking -into her face, “you will accept----” - -His face appeared to her like something floating in the air, his voice -vibrated and rang about her in circles of sound. She drew her hand -almost violently away, and withdrew a little, gazing at him half -stupified, yet with a keen impatience and intolerance in her disturbed -mind. - -“I accept,” she said hoarsely, with a sense of mortification and intense -indignant shame, which was stronger than any sensation Effie had ever -felt in her life before. - -_That_ was what he thought of her; this man for whom she had meant to -sacrifice herself! She began hastily to draw off the ring which he had -given her from her finger, which, slight as it was, seemed to grow -larger with her excitement and tremulousness, and made the operation -difficult. - -“Take it,” she said, holding out the ring to him. “It is yours, not -mine.” - -“No, no,” he said, putting back her extended hand softly, “not that. If -we part, don’t let it be in anger, Effie. Keep that at least, for a -recollection--for a token----” - -She scarcely heard what words he used. It was he who had the better of -it, she felt. She was angry, disappointed, rejected. Was not that what -everybody would think? She held the ring in her hand for a moment, then -let it drop from her fingers. It fell with a dull sound on the carpet at -his feet. Then she turned round, somehow controlling her impulse to cry -out, to rush away, and walked to the door. - -“I never expected she would have shown that sense and judgment,” said -Mrs. Ogilvie, after she had shown the visitor, whose exit was even more -hasty than his arrival, and his feelings far from comfortable, to the -door. She sat down at her writing table at once with that practical -sense and readiness which never forsook her. - -“Now I will just write and ask Ronald to his dinner,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -But things did not go so easily as Mrs. Ogilvie supposed. - -Effie had received a blow which was not easily forgotten. The previous -mistakes of her young career might have been forgotten, and it is -possible that she might have come to be tolerably happy in the settling -down and evaporation of all young thoughts and dreams, had she in the -fervour of her first impulse become Fred Dirom’s wife. It would not have -been the happiness of her ideal, but it often happens that an evanescent -splendour like that which illumines the early world dies away with -comparative harmlessness, and leaves a very good substitute of solid -satisfaction on a secondary level, with which all but the visionary -learn to be content. - -But the sharp and keen awakening with which she opened her eyes on a -disenchanted world, when she found her attempted sacrifice so -misunderstood, and felt herself put back into the common-place position -of a girl disappointed, she who had risen to the point of heroism, and -made up her mind to give up her very life, cannot be described. Effie -did not turn in the rebound to another love, as her stepmother fully -calculated. Though that other love was the first, the most true, the -only faithful, though she was herself vaguely aware that in him she -would find the comprehension for which she longed, as well as the -love--though her heart, in spite of herself, turned to this old playmate -and companion with an aching desire to tell him everything, to get the -support of his sympathy, yet, at the same time, Effie shrank from -Ronald as she shrank from every one. - -The delicate fibres of her being had been torn and severed; they would -not heal or knit together again. It might be that her heart was -permanently injured and never would recover its tone, it might be that -the recoil from life and heart-sickness might be only temporary. No one -could tell. Mrs. Ogilvie, who would not believe at first that the -appearance of Ronald would be ineffectual, or that the malady was more -than superficial, grew impatient afterwards. - -“It is all just selfishness,” she said; “it is just childish. Because -she cannot have what she wanted, she will not take what she can get; and -the worst of all is that she never wanted it when she could have it.” - -“That’s just the way with women,” said her husband; “ye are all alike. -Let her come to herself, and don’t bore me about her as you’re doing, -night and day. What is a girl and her sweetheart to me?” - -“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Moubray, “if you had been honest with Effie -from the first, if you had allowed her own heart to speak, if there had -been no pressure on one side, and no suppression on the other----” - -“In short,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, with a flush of anger, “if we had just -left everything to a bit silly thing that has not had the wit to guide -herself in the most simple, straightforward way! where ye would have -thought a fool could not go wrong----!” - -Mr. Ogilvie at this lifted his head. - -“Are ye quarrelling with John Moubray, Janet?” he said; “things must -have come to a pretty pass when you fling yourself upon the minister, -not content with putting me to silence. If ye’re ill-pleased with -Effie,” said the head of the family, “let Effie bear the wyte; but what -have we done, him and me?” - -The minister, however, was Effie’s resource and help. He opened his own -heart to her, showing her how it had bled and how it had been healed, -and by and by the girl came to see, with slowly growing perception and a -painful, yet elevating, knowledge, how many things lay hidden in the -lives and souls which presented often a common-place exterior to the -world. This was a moment in which it seemed doubtful whether the rending -of all those delicate chords in her own being might not turn to -bitterness and a permanent loss and injury. She was disposed to turn her -face from the light, to avoid all tenderness and sympathy, to find that -man delighted her not, nor woman either. - -It was in this interval that Eric’s brief but very unsatisfactory visit -took place, which the young fellow felt was as good as the loss of his -six weeksreplace with’ leave altogether. To be sure, there was a hard -frost which made him some amends, and in the delights of skating and -curling compensated him for his long journey home; and Ronald, his old -comrade, whom he had expected to lose, went back with him, which was -something to the credit side. But he could not understand Effie, and was -of opinion that she had been jilted, and could scarcely be kept from -making some public demonstration against Fred Dirom, who had used his -sister ill, he thought. This mistake, too, added to Effie’s injuries of -spirit a keener pang: and the tension was cruel. - -But when Eric and Ronald were gone again, and all had relapsed into -silence, the balance turned, and the girl began to be herself once more, -or rather to be a better and loftier self, never forgetful of the sudden -cross and conflict of the forces of life which had made so strong an -impression upon her youth. - -Miss Dempster, after some further suffering, died quite peacefully in -the ruddy dawn of a winter’s morning, after doing much to instruct the -world and her immediate surroundings from her sick bed, and much -enjoying the opportunity. She did not sleep very well the last few -nights, and the prospect of “just getting a good sleep in my coffin -before you bury me, and it all begins again,” was agreeable to her. - -She seemed to entertain the curious impression that the funeral of her -body would be the moment of re-awakening for her soul, and that till -that final incident occurred she would not be severed from this worldly -life, which thus literally was rounded by a sleep. It was always an -annoyance to her that her room was to the back, and she could not see -Dr. Jardine as formerly come to his window and take off his dram, but -perhaps it was rather with the sisterly desire to tease Beenie than from -any other reason that this lamentation (with a twinkle in her eyes) was -daily made. - -When she died, the whole village and every neighbour far and near joined -in the universal lamentation. Those who had called her an old cat in her -life-time wept over her when she was laid in the grave, and remembered -all her good deeds, from the old wives in the village, who had never -wanted their pickle tea or their pinch of snuff so long as Miss Dempster -was to the fore, to the laird’s wife herself, who thought regretfully of -the silver candlesticks, and did not hesitate to say that nobody need be -afraid of giving a party, whether it was a dinner or a ball supper that -had to be provided, so long as Miss Dempster was mistress of the many -superfluous knives and forks at Rosebank. - -“She was just a public benefactor,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who had not -always expressed that opinion. - -As for Miss Beenie, her eyes were rivers of tears, and her sister’s -admirable qualities her only theme. She lived but to mourn and to praise -the better half of her existence, her soul being as much widowed by this -severance as if she had been a bereaved wife instead of a sister. - -“Nobody can tell what she was to me, just more than can be put into -words. She was mother and sister and mistress and guide all put into -one. I’m not a whole human creature. I am but part of one, left like a -wreck upon the shore--and the worst part,” Miss Beenie said. - -The doctor, who had been suspected of a tear himself at the old lady’s -funeral, and had certainly blown his nose violently on the way back, was -just out of all patience with Miss Beenie’s yammering, he said, and he -missed the inspection of himself and all his concerns that had gone on -from Rosebank. He was used to it, and he did not know how to do without -it. - -One spring morning, after the turn of the year, he went up with a very -resolute air the tidy gravel path between the laurel hedges. - -“Eh, doctor, I cannot bide to hear your step--and yet I am fain, fain to -hear it: for it’s like as if she was still in life, and ye were coming -to see her.” - -“Miss Beenie,” said the doctor, “this cannot go on for ever. She was a -good woman, and she has gone to a better place. But one thing is -certain, that ye cannot bide here for ever, and that I cannot bide to -leave you here. You must just come your ways across the road, and set up -your tabernacle with me.” - -At this, Miss Beenie uttered a cry of consternation: “Doctor! you must -be taking leave of your senses. Me!----” - -“And why not you?” said Dr. Jardine. “You would be far better over the -way. It’s more cheerful, and we would be company for one another. I am -not ill company when I am on my mettle. I desire that you will just -think it over, and fix a day----” - -And after a while, Miss Beenie found that there was sense in the -suggestion, and dried her eyes, and did as she was desired, having been -accustomed to do so, as she said, all her life. - -The Diroms disappeared from Allonby as if they had never been there, and -were heard of no more: though not without leaving disastrous traces at -least in one heart and life. - -But it may be that Effie’s wounds are not mortal after all. And one day -Captain Sutherland must come home---- - -And who knows? - - -THE END. - -_This work appeared originally in “The Scottish Church.”_ - -ROBERT MACLEHOSE, UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Effie Ogilvie; vol. 2, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EFFIE OGILVIE; VOL. 2 *** - -***** This file should be named 61915-0.txt or 61915-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/9/1/61915/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Effie Ogilvie; vol. 2 - the story of a young life - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: April 24, 2020 [EBook #61915] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EFFIE OGILVIE; VOL. 2 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="310" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:2px solid gray;padding:1em;"> -<tr><td class="c"> - -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV.</a> -</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span></p> -<h1>EFFIE OGILVIE.</h1> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="font-size:85%;margin:2em auto;"> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">PUBLISHED BY</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">—</td></tr><tr><td class="c" colspan="2">MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON AND NEW YORK.</td></tr> -<tr><td><i>London</i>,</td><td align="left"><i>Hamilton, Adams and Co.</i></td></tr> -<tr><td><i>Cambridge</i>,</td><td align="left"><i>Macmillan and Bowes</i>.</td></tr> -<tr><td><i>Edinburgh</i>,</td><td align="left"><i>Douglas and Foulis</i>.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">—</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">MDCCCLXXXVI.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> </p> - -<h1><span class="spc">EFFIE OGILVIE</span>:<br /> - -<i><small><small>THE STORY OF A YOUNG LIFE</small></small></i>.</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -IN TWO VOLUMES.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. II.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -GLASGOW:<br /> -JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS,<br /> -<span class="eng">Publishers to the University</span>.<br /> -<small>LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO.</small><br /> -1 8 8 6.<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> </p> - -<h1><span class="spc">EFFIE OGILVIE</span>:<br /> -<i><small>THE STORY OF A YOUNG LIFE</small></i>.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Effie</span> came towards him smiling, without apprehension. The atmosphere out -of doors had not the same consciousness, the same suggestion in it which -was inside. A young man’s looks, which may be alarming within the -concentration of four walls, convey no fear and not so much impression -in the fresh wind blowing from the moors and the openness of the country -road. To be sure it was afternoon and twilight coming on, which is -always a witching hour.</p> - -<p>He stood at the corner of the byeway<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> waiting for her as she came along, -light-footed, in her close-fitting tweed dress, which made a dim setting -to the brightness of her countenance. She had a little basket in her -hand. She had been carrying a dainty of some kind to somebody who was -ill. The wind in her face had brightened everything, her colour, her -eyes, and even had, by a little tossing, found out some gleams of gold -in the brownness of her hair. She was altogether sweet and fair in -Fred’s eyes—a creature embodying everything good and wholesome, -everything that was simple and pure. She had a single rose in her hand, -which she held up as she advanced.</p> - -<p>“We are not like you, we don’t get roses all the year round; but here is -one, the last,” she said, “from Uncle John’s south wall.”</p> - -<p>It was not a highly-cultivated, scentless rose, such as the gardens at -Allonby produced by the hundred, but one that was full of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> fragrance, -sweet as all roses once were. The outer leaves had been a little caught -by the frost, but the heart was warm with life and sweetness. She held -it up to him, but did not give it to him, as at first he thought she was -going to do.</p> - -<p>“I would rather have that one,” he cried, “than all the roses which we -get all the year round.”</p> - -<p>“Because it is so sweet?” said Effie. “Yes, that is a thing that -revenges the poor folk. You can make the roses as big as a child’s head, -but for sweetness the little old ones in the cottage gardens are always -the best.”</p> - -<p>“Everything is sweet, I think, that is native here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Effie, with a deep breath of pleasure, taking the compliment -as it sounded, not thinking of herself in it. “I am glad to hear you say -that! for I think so too—the clover, and the heather, and the -haw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span>thorn, and the meadow-sweet. There is a sweet-brier hedge at the -manse that Uncle John is very proud of. When it is in blossom he always -brings a little rose of it to me.”</p> - -<p>“Then I wish I might have that rose,” the young lover said.</p> - -<p>“From the sweet-brier? They are all dead long ago; and I cannot give you -this one, because it is the last. Does winter come round sooner here, -Mr. Dirom, than in—the South?”</p> - -<p>What Effie meant by the South was no more than England—a country, -according to her imagination, in which the sun blazed, and where the -climate in summer was almost more than honest Scots veins could bear. -That was not Fred’s conception of the South.</p> - -<p>He smiled in a somewhat imbecile way, and replied, “Everything is best -here. Dark, and true, and tender is the North: no, not dark, that is a -mistake of the poet. Fair,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> and sweet, and true—is what he ought to -have said.”</p> - -<p>“There are many dark people as well as fair in Scotland,” said Effie; -“people think we have all yellow hair. There is Uncle John, he is dark, -and true, and tender—and our Eric. You don’t know our Eric, Mr. Dirom?”</p> - -<p>“I hope I shall some day. I am looking forward to it. Is he like you, -Miss Effie?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is dark. I was telling you: and Ronald—I think we are just -divided like other people, some fair—some——”</p> - -<p>“And who is Ronald?—another brother?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—only a friend, in the same regiment.”</p> - -<p>Effie’s colour rose a little, not that she meant anything, for what was -Ronald to her? But yet there had been that reference of the Miss -Dempsters which she had not understood, and which somehow threw Ronald -into competition with Fred Dirom, so that Effie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> without knowing it, -blushed. Then she said, with a vague idea of making up to him for some -imperceptible injury, “Have you ever gone through our little wood?”</p> - -<p>“I am hoping,” said Fred, “that you will take me there now.”</p> - -<p>“But the gloaming is coming on,” said Effie, “and the wind will be wild -among the trees—the leaves are half off already, and the winds seem to -shriek and tear them, till every branch shivers. In the autumn it is a -little eerie in the wood.”</p> - -<p>“What does eerie mean? but I think I know; and nothing could be eerie,” -said Fred half to himself, “while you are there.”</p> - -<p>Effie only half heard the words: she was opening the little postern -gate, and could at least pretend to herself that she had not heard them. -She had no apprehensions, and the young man’s society was pleasant -enough. To be worshipped is pleasant. It makes one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> so much more -disposed to think well of one’s self.</p> - -<p>“Then come away,” she said, holding the gate open, turning to him with a -smile of invitation. Her bright face looked brighter against the -background of the trees, which were being dashed about against an -ominous colourless sky. All was threatening in the heavens, dark and -sinister, as if a catastrophe were coming, which made the girl’s bright -tranquil face all the more delightful. How was it that she did not see -his agitation? At the crisis of a long alarm there comes a moment when -fear goes altogether out of the mind.</p> - -<p>If Effie had been a philosopher she might have divined that danger was -near merely from the curious serenity and quiet of her heart. The wooden -gate swung behind them. They walked into the dimness of the wood side by -side. The wind made a great sighing high up in the branches of the -fir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span>-trees, like a sort of instrument—an Eolian harp of deeper compass -than any shrieking strings could be. The branches of the lower trees -blew about. There was neither the calm nor the sentiment that were -conformable to a love tale. On the contrary, hurry and storm were in the -air, a passion more akin to anger than to love. Effie liked those great -vibrations and the rushing flood of sound. But Fred did not hear them. -He was carried along by an impulse which was stronger than the wind.</p> - -<p>“Miss Ogilvie,” he said, “I have been talking to your father—I have -been asking his permission—— Perhaps I should not have gone to him -first. Perhaps—It was not by my own impulse altogether. I should have -wished first to—— But it appears that here, as in foreign countries, -it is considered—the best way.”</p> - -<p>Effie looked up at him with great surprise, her pretty eyebrows arched, -but no sense of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> special meaning as yet dawning in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“My father?” she said, wondering.</p> - -<p>Fred was not skilled in love-making. It had always been a thing he had -wished, to feel himself under the influence of a grand passion: but he -had never arrived at it till now; and all the little speeches which no -doubt he had prepared failed him in the genuine force of feeling.</p> - -<p>He stammered a little, looked at her glowing with tremulous emotion, -then burst forth suddenly, “O Effie, forgive me; I cannot go on in that -way. This is just all, that I’ve loved you ever since that first moment -at Allonby when the room was so dark. I could scarcely see you in your -white dress. Effie! it is not that I mean to be bold, to presume—I -can’t help it. It has been from the first moment. I shall never be happy -unless—unless——”</p> - -<p>He put his hand quickly, furtively, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> a momentary touch upon hers -which held the rose, and then stood trembling to receive his sentence. -Effie understood at last. She stood still for a moment panic-stricken, -raising bewildered eyes to his. When he touched her hand she started and -drew a step away from him, but found nothing better to say than a low -frightened exclamation, “O Mr. Fred!”</p> - -<p>“I have startled you. I know I ought to have begun differently, not to -have brought it out all at once. But how could I help it? Effie! won’t -you give me a little hope? Don’t you know what I mean? Don’t you know -what I want? O Effie! I am much older than you are, and I have been -about the world a long time, but I have never loved any one but you.”</p> - -<p>Effie did not look at him now. She took her rose in both her hands and -fixed her eyes upon that.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span></p> -<p>“You are very kind, you are too, too—— I have done nothing that you -should think so much of me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Done nothing? I don’t want you to do anything; you are yourself, that -is all. I want you to let me do everything for you. Effie, you -understand, don’t you, what I mean?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I think I understand: but I have not thought of it -like that. I have only thought of you as a——”</p> - -<p>Here she stopped, and her voice sank, getting lower and lower as she -breathed out the last monosyllable. As a friend, was that what she was -going to say? And was it true? Effie was too sincere to finish the -sentence. It had not been quite as a friend: there had been something in -the air—But she was in no position to reply to this demand he made upon -her. It was true that she had not thought of it. It had been about her -in the atmosphere, that was all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I know,” he said, breaking in eagerly. “I did not expect you to feel as -I do. There was nothing in me to seize your attention. Oh, I am not -disappointed—I expected no more. You thought of me as a friend. Well! -and I want to be the closest of friends. Isn’t that reasonable? Only let -me go on trying to please you. Only, only try to love me a little, -Effie. Don’t you think you could like a poor fellow who wants nothing so -much as to please you?”</p> - -<p>Fred was very much in earnest: there was a glimmer in his eyes, his face -worked a little: there was a smile of deprecating, pleading tenderness -about his mouth which made his lip quiver. He was eloquent in being so -sincere. Effie gave a furtive glance up at him and was moved. But it was -love and not Fred that moved her. She was profoundly affected, almost -awe-stricken at the sight of that, but not at the sight of him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, “I like you already very much: but that is not—that is -not—it is not—the same——”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, “it is not the same—it is very different; but I shall be -thankful for that, hoping for more. If you will only let me go on, and -let me hope?”</p> - -<p>Effie knew no reply to make; her heart was beating, her head swimming: -they went on softly under the waving boughs a few steps, as in a dream. -Then he suddenly took her hand with the rose in it, and kissed it, and -took the flower from her fingers, which trembled under the novelty of -that touch.</p> - -<p>“You will give it to me now—for a token,” he said, with a catching of -his breath.</p> - -<p>Effie drew away her hand, but she left him the rose. She was in a tremor -of sympathetic excitement and emotion. How could she refuse to feel when -he felt so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> much? but she had nothing to say to him. So long as he asked -no more than this, there seemed no reason to thwart him, to -refuse—what? he had not asked for anything, only that she should like -him, which indeed she did; and that he might try to please her. To -please her! She was not so hard to please. She scarcely heard what he -went on to say, in a flood of hasty words, with many breaks, and looks -which she was conscious of, but did not resent. He seemed to be telling -her about herself, how sweet she was, how true and good, what a -happiness to know her, to be near her, to be permitted to walk by her -side as he was doing. Effie heard it and did not hear, walking on in her -dream, feeling that it was not possible any one could form such -extravagant ideas of her, inclined to laugh, half-inclined to cry, in a -strange enchantment which she could not break.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<p>She heard her own voice say after a while, “Oh no, no—oh no, no—that -is all wrong. I am not like that, it cannot be me you are meaning.” But -this protest floated away upon the air, and was unreal like all the -rest. As for Fred, he was in an enchantment more potent still. Her -half-distressed, half-subdued listening, her little protestation, her -surprise, yet half-consent, and above all the privilege of pouring forth -upon her the full tide of passionate words which surprised himself by -their fluency and force, entirely satisfied him. Her youth, her gentle -ignorance and innocence, which were so sweet, fully accounted for the -absence of response.</p> - -<p>He felt instinctively that it was sweeter that she should allow herself -to be worshipped, that she should not be ready to meet him, but have to -be wooed and entreated before she found a reply. These were all -additional charms. He felt no want, nor was conscious of any drawback. -The noise in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> the tops of the fir-trees, the waving of the branches -overhead, the rushing of the wind, were to Fred more sweet than any -sound of hidden brooks, or all the tender rustling of the foliage of -June.</p> - -<p>Presently, however, there came a shock of awakening to this rapture, -when the young pair reached the little gate which admitted into the -garden of Gilston. Fred saw the house suddenly rising before him above -the shrubberies, gray and solid and real, and the sight of it brought -him back out of that magic circle. They both stopped short outside the -door with a consciousness of reality which silenced the one and roused -the other. In any other circumstances Effie would have asked him to come -in. She stopped now with her hand on the gate, with a sense of the -impossibility of inviting him now to cross that threshold. And Fred too -stopped short. To go farther would be to risk the entire fabric of this -sudden happiness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<p>He took her hand again, “Dear Effie, dearest Effie; good-night, darling, -good-night.”</p> - -<p>“O Mr. Fred! but you must not call me these names, you must not -think—— It is all such a surprise, and I have let you say too much. -You must not think——”</p> - -<p>“That I am to you what you are to me? Oh no, I do not think it; but you -will let me love you? that is all I ask: and you will try to think of me -a little. Effie, you will think of me—just a little—and of this sweet -moment, and of the flower you have given me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I will not be able to help thinking,” cried Effie. “But, Mr. Fred, -I am just bewildered; I do not know what you have been saying. And I did -not give it you. Don’t suppose—oh don’t suppose—— You must not go -away thinking——”</p> - -<p>“I think only that you will let me love you and try to please you. -Good-night, darling, good-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Effie went through the garden falling back into her dream. She scarcely -knew what she was treading on, the garden paths all dim in the fading -light, or the flower-beds with their dahlias. She heard his footstep -hurrying along towards the road, and the sound of his voice seemed to -linger in the air—Darling! had any one ever called her by that name -before? There was nobody to call her so. She was Uncle John’s darling, -but he did not use such words: and there was no one else to do it.</p> - -<p>Darling! now that she was alone she felt the hot blush come up -enveloping her from head to foot—was it Fred Dirom who had called her -that, a man, a stranger! A sudden fright and panic seized her. His -darling! what did that mean? To what had she bound herself? She could -not be his darling without something in return. Effie paused half-way -across the garden with a sudden impulse to run after him, to tell him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> -it was a mistake, that he must not think—But then she remembered that -she had already told him that he must not think—and that he had said -no, oh no, but that she was his darling. A confused sense that a great -deal had happened to her, though she scarcely knew how, and that she had -done something which she did not understand, without meaning it, without -desiring it, came over her like a gust of the wind which suddenly seemed -to have become chill, and blew straight upon her out of the colourless -sky which was all white and black with its flying clouds. She stood -still to think, but she could not think: her thoughts began to hurry -like the wind, flying across the surface of her mind, leaving no trace.</p> - -<p>There were lights in the windows of the drawing-room, and Effie could -hear through the stillness the voice of her stepmother running on in her -usual strain, and little Rory shouting and driving his coach in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> big -easy-chair. She could not bear to go into the lighted room, to expose -her agitated countenance to the comments which she knew would attend -her, the questions, where she had been, and why she was so late? Effie -had not a suspicion that her coming was eagerly looked for, and that -Mrs. Ogilvie was waiting with congratulations; but she could not meet -any eye with her story written so clearly in her face. She hurried up to -her own room, and there sat in the dark pondering and wondering. “Think -of me a little.” Oh! should she ever be able to think of anything else -all her life?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Effie</span> came down to dinner late—with eyes that betrayed themselves by -unusual shining, and a colour that wavered from red to pale. She had put -on her white frock hurriedly, forgetting her usual little ornaments in -the confusion of her mind. To her astonishment Mrs. Ogilvie, who was -waiting at the drawing-room door looking out for her, instead of the -word of reproof which her lateness generally called forth, met her with -a beaming countenance.</p> - -<p>“Well, Miss Effie!” she said, “so you’re too grand to mind that it’s -dinner-time. I suppose you’ve just had your little head turned with -flattery and nonsense.” And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> to the consternation of her stepdaughter, -Mrs. Ogilvie took her by the shoulders and gave her a hearty kiss upon -her cheek. “I am just as glad as if I had come into a fortune,” she -said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Ogilvie added a “humph!” as he moved on to the dining-room. And he -shot a glance which was not an angry glance (as it generally was when he -was kept waiting for his dinner) at his child.</p> - -<p>“You need not keep the dinner waiting now that she has come,” he said. -Effie did not know what to make of this extraordinary kindness of -everybody. Even old George did not look daggers at her as he took off -the cover of the tureen. It was inconceivable; never in her life had her -sin of being late received this kind of notice before.</p> - -<p>When they sat down at table Mrs. Ogilvie gave a little shriek of -surprise, “Why, where are your beads, Effie? Ye have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> neither a bow, nor -a bracelet, nor one single thing, but your white frock. I might well say -your head was turned, but I never expected it in this way. And why did -you not keep him to his dinner? You would have minded your ribbons that -are so becoming to you, if he had been here.”</p> - -<p>“Let her alone,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “she is well enough as she is.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, she’s well enough, and more than well enough, considering how -she has managed her little affairs. Take some of this trout, Effie. It’s -a very fine fish. It’s just too good a dinner to eat all by ourselves. I -was thinking we were sure to have had company. Why didn’t you bring him -in to his dinner, you shy little thing? You would think shame: as if -there was any reason to think shame! Poor young man! I will take him -into my own hands another time, and I will see he is not snubbed. Give -Miss Effie a little of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> claret, George. She is just a little done -out—what with her walk, and what with——”</p> - -<p>“I am not tired at all,” said Effie with indignation. “I don’t want any -wine.”</p> - -<p>“You are just very cross and thrawn,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, making pretence -to threaten the girl with her finger. “You will have your own way. But -to be sure there is only one time in the world when a woman is sure of -having her own way, and I don’t grudge it to you, my dear. Robert, just -you let Rory be in his little chair till nurse comes for him. No, no, I -will not have him given things to eat. It’s very bad manners, and it -keeps his little stomach out of order. Let him be. You are just making a -fool of the bairn.”</p> - -<p>“Guide your side of the house as well as I do mine,” said Mr. Ogilvie, -aggrieved. He was feeding his little son furtively, with an expression -of beatitude impossible to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> describe. Effie was a young woman in whom it -was true he took a certain interest; but her marrying or any other -nonsense that she might take into her head, what were they to him? He -had never taken much to do with the woman’s side of the house. But his -little Rory, that was a different thing. A splendid little fellow, just -a little king. And what harm could a little bit of fish, or just a snap -of grouse, do him? It was all women’s nonsense thinking that slops and -puddings and that kind of thing were best for a boy.</p> - -<p>“My side of the house!” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with a little shriek; “and -what might that be? If Rory is not my side of the house, whose side does -he belong to? And don’t you think that I would ever let you have the -guiding of him. Oh, nurse, here you are! I am just thankful to see you; -for Mr. Ogilvie will have his own way, and as sure as we’re all living, -that boy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> will have an attack before to-morrow morning. Take him away -and give him a little——. Yes, yes, just something simple of that kind. -Good-night, my bonnie little man. I would like to know what is my side -if it isn’t Rory? You are meaning the female side. Well, and if I had -not more consideration for your daughter than you have for my son——”</p> - -<p>“Listen to her!” said Mr. Ogilvie, “her son! I like that.”</p> - -<p>“And whose son may he be? But you’ll not make me quarrel whatever you -do—and on this night of all others. Effie, here is your health, my -dear, and I wish you every good. We will have to write to Eric, and -perhaps he might get home in time. What was that Eric said, Robert, -about getting short leave? It is a very wasteful thing coming all the -way from India, and only six weeks or so to spend at home. Still, if -there was a good reason for it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Is Eric coming home? have you got a letter? But you could not have got -a letter since the morning,” cried Effie.</p> - -<p>“No; but other things may have happened since the morning,” said Mrs. -Ogilvie with a nod and a smile. Effie could not understand the allusions -which rained upon her. She retreated more and more into herself, merely -listening to the talk that went on across her. She sat at her usual side -of the table, eating little, taking no notice. It did not occur to her -that what had happened in the wood concerned any one but herself. After -all, what was it? Nothing to disturb anybody, not a thing to be talked -about. To try to please her—that was all he had asked, and who could -have refused him a boon so simple? It was silly of her even, she said to -herself, to be so confused by it, so absorbed thinking about it, growing -white and red, as if something had happened; when nothing had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> happened -except that he was to try to please her—as if she were so hard to -please!</p> - -<p>But Effie was more and more disturbed when her stepmother turned upon -her as soon as the dining-room door was closed, and took her by the -shoulders again.</p> - -<p>“You little bit thing, you little quiet thing!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “To -think you should have got the prize that never took any thought of it, -whereas many another nice girl!—I am just as proud as if it was myself: -and he is good as well as rich, and by no means ill-looking, and a very -pleasant young man. I have always felt like a mother to you, Effie, and -always done my duty, I hope. Just you trust in me as if I were your real -mother. Where did ye meet him? And were you very much surprised? and -what did he say?”</p> - -<p>Effie grew red from the soles of her feet, she thought, to the crown of -her head, shame or rather shamefacedness, its innocent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> counterpart, -enveloping her like a mantle. Her eyes fell before her stepmother’s, but -she shook herself free of Mrs. Ogilvie’s hold.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh fie, Effie, fie! You may not intend to show me any confidence, which -will be very ill done on your part: but you cannot pretend not to know -what I mean. It was me that had pity upon the lad, and showed him the -way you were coming. I have always been your well-wisher, doing whatever -I could. And to tell me that you don’t know what I mean!”</p> - -<p>Effie had her little obstinacies as well as another. She was not so -perfect as Fred Dirom thought. She went and got her knitting,—a little -stocking for Rory,—work which she was by no means devoted to on -ordinary occasions. But she got it out now, and sat down in a corner at -a distance from the table and the light, and began to knit as if her -life depended upon it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I must get this little stocking finished. It has been so long in hand,” -she said.</p> - -<p>“Well, that is true,” said Mrs, Ogilvie, who had watched all Effie’s -proceedings with a sort of vexed amusement; “very true, and I will not -deny it. You have had other things in your mind; still, to take a month -to a bit little thing like that, that I could do in two evenings! But -you’re very industrious all at once. Will you not come nearer to the -light?”</p> - -<p>“I can see very well where I am,” said Effie shortly.</p> - -<p>“I have no doubt you can see very well where you are, for there is -little light wanted for knitting a stocking. Still you would be more -sociable if you would come nearer. Effie Ogilvie!” she cried suddenly, -“you will never tell me that you have sent him away?”</p> - -<p>Effie looked at her with defiance in her eyes, but she made no reply.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span></p> -<p>“Lord bless us!” said her stepmother; “you will not tell me you have -done such a thing? Effie, are you in your senses, girl? Mr. Fred Dirom, -the best match in the county, that might just have who he liked,—that -has all London to pick and choose from,—and yet comes out of his way to -offer himself to a—to a—just a child like you. Robert,” she said, -addressing her husband, who was coming in tranquilly for his usual cup -of tea, “Robert! grant us patience! I’m beginning to think she has sent -Fred Dirom away!”</p> - -<p>“Where has she sent him to?” said Mr. Ogilvie with a glance half angry, -half contemptuous from under his shaggy eyebrows. Then he added, “But -that will never do, for I have given the young man my word.”</p> - -<p>Effie had done her best to go on with her knitting, but the needles had -gone all wrong in her hands: she had slipped her stitches, her wool had -got tangled. She could not see what she was doing. She got<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> up, letting -the little stocking drop at her feet, and stood between the two, who -were both eyeing her so anxiously.</p> - -<p>“I wish,” she said, “that you would let me alone. I am doing nothing to -anybody. I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that. What have I done? I -have done nothing that is wrong. Oh, I wish—I wish Uncle John was -here!” she exclaimed suddenly, and in spite of herself and all her pride -and defensive instincts, suddenly began to cry, like the child she still -was.</p> - -<p>“It would be a very good thing if he were here; he would perhaps bring -you to your senses. A young man that you have kept dancing about you all -the summer, and let him think you liked his society, and was pleased to -see him when he came, and never a thought in your head of turning him -from the door. And now when he has spoken to your father, and offered -himself and all, in the most honourable way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> Dear bless me, Effie, what -has the young man done to you that you have led him on like this, and -made a fool of him, and then to send him away?”</p> - -<p>“I have never led him on,” cried Effie through her tears. “I have not -made a fool of him. If he liked to come, that was nothing to anybody, -and I never—never——”</p> - -<p>“It is very easy to speak. Perhaps you think a young man has no pride? -when they are just made up of it! Yes—you have led him on: and now he -will be made a fool of before all the county. For everybody has seen it; -it will run through the whole countryside; and the poor young man will -just be scorned everywhere, that has done no harm but to think more of -you than you deserve.”</p> - -<p>“There’s far too much of this,” said Mr. Ogilvie, who prided himself a -little on his power to stop all female disturbances and to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> assert his -authority. “Janet, you’ll let the girl alone. And, Effie, you’ll see -that you don’t set up your face and answer back, for it is a thing I -will not allow. Dear me, is that tea not coming? I will have to go away -without it if it is not ready. I should have thought, with all the women -there are in this house, it might be possible to get a cup of tea.”</p> - -<p>“And that is true indeed,” said his wife, “but they will not keep the -kettle boiling. The kettle should be always aboil in a well-cared-for -house. I tell them so ten times in a day. But here it is at last. You -see you are late, George; you have kept your master waiting. And -Effie——”</p> - -<p>But Effie had disappeared. She had slid out of the room under cover of -old George and his tray, and had flown upstairs through the dim passages -to her own room, where all was dark. There are moments where the -darkness is more congenial than the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> light, when a young head swims with -a hundred thoughts, and life is giddy with its over-fulness, and a dark -room is a hermitage and place of refuge soothing in its contrast with -all that which is going through the head of the thinker, and all the -pictures that float before her (as in the present case—or his) eyes. -She had escaped like a bird into its nest: but not without carrying a -little further disturbance with her.</p> - -<p>The idea of Fred had hitherto conveyed nothing to her mind that was not -flattering and soothing and sweet. But now there was a harsher side -added to this amiable and tender one. She had led him on. She had given -him false hopes and made him believe that she cared for him. Had she -made him believe that she—cared for him? Poor Fred! He had himself put -it in so much prettier a way. He was to try to please her, as if she had -been the Queen. To try to please her! and she on her side was to try—to -like him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> That was very different from those harsh accusations. There -was nothing that was not delightful, easy, soothing in all that. They -had parted such friends. And he had called her darling, which no one had -ever called her before.</p> - -<p>Her heart took refuge with Fred, who was so kind and asked for so -little, escaping from her stepmother with her flood of questions and -demands, and her father with his dogmatism. His word; he had given his -word. Did he think that was to pledge her? that she was to be handed -over to any one he pleased, because he had given his word? But Fred made -no such claim—he was too kind for that. He was to try to please her; -that was different altogether.</p> - -<p>And then Effie gradually forgot the episode downstairs, and began to -think of the dark trees tossed against the sky, and the road through the -wood, and the look of her young lover’s eyes which she had not ven<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span>tured -to meet, and all the things he said which she did not remember. She did -not remember the words, and she had not met the look, but yet they were -both present with her in her room in the dark, and filled her again with -that confused, sweet sense of elevation, that self-pleasure which it -would be harsh to call vanity, that bewildered consciousness of worship. -It made her head swim and her heart beat. To be loved was so strange and -beautiful. Perhaps Fred himself was not so imposing. She had noticed in -spite of herself how the wind had blown the tails of his coat and almost -forced him on against his will. He was not the hero of whom Effie, like -other young maidens, had dreamed. But yet her young being was thrilled -and responsive to the magic in the air, and touched beyond measure by -that consciousness of being loved.</p> - -<p>Fred came next morning eager and wistful <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span>and full of suppressed ardour, -but with a certain courage of permission and sense that he had a right -to her society, which was half irksome and half sweet. He hung about all -the morning, ready to follow, to serve her, to get whatever she might -want, to read poetry to her, to hold her basket while she cut the -flowers—the late flowers of October—to watch while she arranged them, -saying a hundred half-articulate things that made her laugh and made her -blush, and increased every moment the certainty that she was no longer -little Effie whom everybody had ordered about, but a little person of -wonderful importance—a lady like the ladies in Shakespeare, one for -whom no comparison was too lofty, and no name too sweet.</p> - -<p>It amused Effie in the bottom of her heart, and yet it touched her: she -could not escape the fascination. And so it came about that without any -further question, without going any farther into herself, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> perceiving -how she was drawn into it, she found herself bound and pledged for life.</p> - -<p>Engaged to Fred Dirom! She only realized the force of it when -congratulations began to arrive from all the countryside—letters full -of admiration and good wishes; and when Doris and Phyllis rushed upon -her and took possession of her, saying a hundred confusing things. Effie -was frightened, pleased, flattered, all in one. And everybody petted and -praised her as if she had done some great thing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“And</span> when is it going to be?” Miss Dempster said.</p> - -<p>The ladies had come to call in their best gowns. Miss Beenie’s was puce, -an excellent silk of the kind Mrs. Primrose chose for wear—and Miss -Dempster’s was black satin, a little shiny by reason of its years, but -good, no material better. These dresses were not brought out for every -occasion; but to-day was exceptional. They did not approve of Effie’s -engagement, yet there was no doubt but it was a great event. They had -been absent from home for about three weeks, so that their -congratulations came late.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean by it; there is nothing going to be,” said -Effie, very red and angry. She had consented, it was true, in a way; but -she had not yet learnt to contemplate any practical consequences, and -the question made her indignant. Her temper had been tried by a great -many questions, and by a desire to enter into her confidence, and to -hear a great deal about Fred, and how it all came about, which her chief -friend Mary Johnston and some others had manifested. She had nothing to -say to them about Fred, and she could not herself tell how it all came -about; but it seemed the last drop in Effie’s cup when she was asked -when it was to be.</p> - -<p>“I should say your father and Mrs. Ogilvie would see to that; they are -not the kind of persons to let a young man shilly-shally,” said Miss -Dempster. “It is a grand match, and I wish ye joy, my dear. Still, I -would like to hear a little more about it: for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> money embarked in -business is no inheritance; it’s just here to-day and gone to-morrow. I -hope your worthy father will be particular about the settlements. He -should have things very tight tied down. I will speak to him myself.”</p> - -<p>“My sister has such a head for business,” Miss Beenie said. “Anybody -might make a fool of me: but the man that would take in Sarah, I do not -think he is yet born.”</p> - -<p>“No, I am not an easy one to take in,” said Miss Dempster. “Those that -have seen as much of the ways of the world as I have, seldom are. I am -not meaning that there would be any evil intention: but a man is led -into speculation, or something happens to his ships, or he has his money -all shut up in ventures. I would have a certain portion realized and -settled, whatever might happen, if it was me.”</p> - -<p>“And have you begun to think of your <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span>things, Effie?” Miss Beenie said.</p> - -<p>At this Miss Effie jumped up from her chair, ready to cry, her -countenance all ablaze with indignation and annoyance.</p> - -<p>“I think you want to torment me,” she cried. “What things should I have -to think of? I wish you would just let me be. What do I know about all -that? I want only to be let alone. There is nothing going to happen to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me, what is this?” said Mrs. Ogilvie coming in, “Effie in one of -her tantrums and speaking loud to Miss Dempster! I hope you will never -mind; she is just a little off her head with all the excitement and the -flattery, and finding herself so important. Effie, will you go and see -that Rory is not troubling papa? Take him up to the nursery or out to -the garden. It’s a fine afternoon, and a turn in the garden would do him -no harm, nor you either, for you’re looking a little flushed. She is -just the most impracticable thing I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> ever had in my hands,” she added, -when Effie, very glad to be released, escaped out of the room. “She will -not hear a word. You would think it was just philandering, and no -serious thought of what’s to follow in her head at all.”</p> - -<p>“It would be a pity,” said Miss Dempster, “if it was the same on the -other side. Young men are very content to amuse themselves if they’re -let do it; they like nothing better than to love and to ride away.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be pleased to hear,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, responding instantly to -this challenge “that it’s very, very different on the other side. Poor -Fred, I am just very sorry for him. He cannot bring her to the point. -She slips out of it, or she runs away. He tells me she will never say -anything to him, but just ‘It is very nice now—or—we are very well as -we are.’ He is anxious to be settled, poor young man, and nothing can -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> more liberal than what he proposes. But Effie is just very trying. -She thinks life is to be all fun, and no changes. To be sure there are -allowances to be made for a girl that is so happy at home as Effie is, -and has so many good friends.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe her heart is not in it,” said Miss Dempster; “I have always -thought that our connection, young Ronald Sutherland——”</p> - -<p>“It’s a dreadful thing,” cried Miss Beenie, “to force a young creature’s -affections. If she were to have, poor bit thing, another Eemage in her -mind——”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, provoked. She would have liked to shake them, -the old cats! as she afterwards said. But she was wise in her -generation, and knew that to quarrel was always bad policy. “What Eemage -could there be?” she said with a laugh. “Effie is just full of fancies, -and slips through your fingers whenever you would bring her to look at -anything in earnest;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> but that is all. No, no, there is no Eemage, -unless it was just whim and fancy. As for Ronald, she never gave him a -thought, nor anybody else. She is like a little wild thing, and to catch -her and put the noose round her is not easy; but as for Eemage!” cried -Mrs. Ogilvie, exaggerating the pronunciation of poor Miss Beenie, which -was certainly old fashioned. The old ladies naturally did not share her -laughter. They looked at each other, and rose and shook out their -rustling silken skirts.</p> - -<p>“There is no human person,” said Miss Dempster, “that is beyond the -possibility of a mistake; and my sister and me, we may be mistaken. But -you will never make me believe that girlie’s heart is in it. Eemage or -no eemage, I’m saying nothing. Beenie is just a trifle romantic. She may -be wrong. But I give you my opinion; that girlie’s heart’s not in it: -and nothing will persuade me to the contrary. Effie is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> delicate bit -creature. There are many things that the strong might never mind, but -that she could not bear. It’s an awful responsibility, Mrs. Ogilvie.”</p> - -<p>“I will take the responsibility,” said that lady, growing angry, as was -natural. “I am not aware that it’s a thing any person has to do with -except her father and me.”</p> - -<p>“If you take it upon that tone—Beenie, we will say good-day.”</p> - -<p>“Good-day to ye, Mrs. Ogilvie. I am sure I hope no harm will come of it; -but it’s an awfu’ responsibility,” Miss Beenie said, following her -sister to the door. And we dare not guess what high words might have -followed had not the ladies, in going out, crossed Mr. Moubray coming -in. They would fain have stopped him to convey their doubts, but Mrs. -Ogilvie had followed them to the hall in the extreme politeness of a -quarrel, and they could not do this under her very eyes. Uncle John -perceived, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> the skilled perceptions of a clergyman, that there was -a storm in the air.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” he said, as he followed her back to the -drawing-room. “Is it about Effie? But, of course, that is the only topic -now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you may be sure it’s about Effie. And all her own doing, and I wish -you would speak to her. It is my opinion that she cares for nobody but -you. Sometimes she <i>will</i> mind what her Uncle John says to her.”</p> - -<p>“Poor little Effie! often I hope; and you too, who have always been kind -to her.”</p> - -<p>“I have tried,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, sitting down and taking out her -handkerchief. She appeared to be about to indulge herself in the luxury -of tears: she looked hard at that piece of cambric, as though -determining the spot which was to be applied to her eyes—and then she -changed her mind.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></p> -<p>“But I know it is a difficult position,” she said briskly. “I think it -very likely, in Effie’s place, that I should not have liked a stepmother -myself. But then you would think she would be pleased with her new -prospects, and glad to get into her own house out of my way. If that was -the case I would think it very natural. But no. I am just in that state -about her that I don’t know what I am doing. Here is a grand marriage -for her, as you cannot deny, and she has accepted the man. But if either -he or any one of us says a word about marriage, or her trousseau, or -anything, she is just off in a moment. I am terrified every day for a -quarrel: for who can say how long a young man’s patience may last?”</p> - -<p>“He has not had so very long to wait, nor much trial of his patience,” -said Uncle John, who was sensitive on Effie’s account, and ready to take -offence.</p> - -<p>“No; he has perhaps not had long to wait. But there is nothing to wait -for. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> father is willing to make all the settlements we can desire: -and Fred is a partner, and gets his share. He’s as independent as a man -can be. And there’s no occasion for delay. But she will not hear a word -of it. I just don’t know what to make of her. She likes him well enough -for all I can see; but marriage she will not hear of. And if it is to be -at the New Year, which is what he desires, and us in November now—I -just ask you how are we ever to be ready when she will not give the -least attention, or so much as hear a word about her clothes?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, her clothes!” said Mr. Moubray, with a man’s disdain.</p> - -<p>“You may think little of them, but I think a great deal. It is all very -well for gentlemen that have not got it to do. But what would her father -say to me, or the world in general, or even yourself, if I let her go to -her husband’s house with a poor providing, or fewer things than other -brides?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> Whose fault would everybody say that was? And besides it’s like -a silly thing, not like a reasonable young woman. I wish you would speak -to her. If there is one thing that weighs with Effie, it is the thought -of what her Uncle John will say.”</p> - -<p>“But what do you want me to say?” asked the minister. His mind was more -in sympathy with Effie’s reluctance than with the haste of the others. -There was nothing to be said against Fred Dirom. He was irreproachable, -he was rich, he was willing to live within reach. Every circumstance was -favourable to him.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Moubray thought the young man might very well be content with -what he had got, and spare his Effie a little longer to those whose love -for her was far older at least, if not profounder, than his. The -minister had something of the soreness of a man who is being robbed in -the name of love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span></p> - -<p>Love! forty thousand lovers, he thought, reversing Hamlet’s sentiment, -could not have made up the sum of the love he bore his little girl. -Marriage is the happiest state, no doubt: but yet, perhaps a man has a -more sensitive shrinking from transplanting the innocent creature he -loves into that world of life matured than even a mother has. He did not -like the idea that his Effie should pass into that further chapter of -existence, and become, not as the gods, knowing good and evil, but as -himself, or any other. He loved her ignorance, her absence of all -consciousness, her freedom of childhood. It is true she was no longer a -child; and she loved—did she love? Perhaps secretly in his heart he was -better pleased to think that she had been drawn by sympathy, by her -reluctance that any one should suffer, and by the impulse and influence -of everybody about her, rather than by any passion on her own side, into -these toils.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What do you want me to say?” He was a little softened towards the -stepmother, who acknowledged honestly (she was on the whole a true sort -of woman, meaning no harm) the close tie, almost closer than any other, -which bound Effie to him. And he would not fail to Mrs. Ogilvie’s trust -if he could help it; but what was he to say?</p> - -<p>Effie was in the garden when Uncle John went out. She had interpreted -her stepmother’s commission about Rory to mean that she was not wanted, -and she had been glad to escape from the old ladies and all their -questions and remarks. She was coming back from the wood with a handful -of withered leaves and lichens when her uncle joined her. Effie had been -seized with a fit of impatience of the baskets of flowers which Fred was -always bringing. She preferred her bouquet of red and yellow leaves, -which every day it was getting more difficult to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> find. This gave Mr. -Moubray the opening he wanted.</p> - -<p>“You are surely perverse,” he said, “my little Effie, to gather all -these things, which your father would call rubbitch, when you have so -many beautiful flowers inside.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot bear those grand flowers,” said Effie, “they are all made out -of wax, I think, and they have all the same scent. Oh, I know they are -beautiful! They are too beautiful, they are made up things, they are not -like nature. In winter I like the leaves best.”</p> - -<p>“You will soon have no leaves, and what will you do then? and, my dear, -your life is to be spent among these bonnie things. You are not to have -the thorns and the thistles, but the roses and the lilies, Effie; and -you must get used to them. It is generally a lesson very easily learnt.”</p> - -<p>To this Effie made no reply. After a while she began to show that the -late autumn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> leaves, if not a matter of opposition, were not -particularly dear to her—for she pulled them to pieces, unconsciously -dropping a twig now and then, as she went on. And when she spoke, it was -apparently with the intention of changing the subject.</p> - -<p>“Is it really true,” she said, “that Eric is coming home for Christmas? -He said nothing about it in his last letter. How do they know?”</p> - -<p>“There is such a thing as the telegraph, Effie. You know why he is -coming. He is coming for your marriage.”</p> - -<p>Effie gave a start and quick recoil.</p> - -<p>“But that is not going to be—oh, not yet, not for a long time.”</p> - -<p>“I thought that everybody wished it to take place at the New Year.”</p> - -<p>“Not me,” said the girl. She took no care at all now of the leaves she -had gathered with so much trouble, but strewed the ground with them as -if for a procession to pass.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Uncle John,” she went on quickly and tremulously, “why should it be -soon? I am quite young. Sometimes I feel just like a little child, -though I may not be so very young in years.”</p> - -<p>“Nineteen!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know it is not very young. I shall be twenty next year. At -twenty you understand things better; you are a great deal more -responsible. Why should there be any hurry? <i>He</i> is young too. You might -help me to make them all see it. Everything is nice enough as it is now. -Why should we go and alter, and make it all different? Oh, I wish you -would speak to them, Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, your stepmother has just given me a commission to bring you -over to their way of thinking. I am so loth to lose you that my heart -takes your side: but, Effie——”</p> - -<p>“To lose me!” she cried, flinging away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> the “rubbitch” altogether, and -seizing his arm with both her hands. “Oh no, no, that can never be!”</p> - -<p>“No, it will never be: and yet it will be as soon as you’re married: and -there is a puzzle for you, my bonnie dear. The worst of it is that you -will be quite content, and see that it is natural it should be so: but I -will not be content. That is what people call the course of nature. But -for all that, I am not going to plead for myself. Effie, the change has -begun already. A little while ago, and there was no man in the world -that had any right to interfere with your own wishes: but now you know -the thing is done. It is as much done as if you had been married for -years. You must now not think only of what pleases yourself, but of what -pleases him.”</p> - -<p>Effie was silent for some time, and went slowly along clinging to her -uncle’s arm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> At last she said in a low tone, “But he is pleased. He -said he would try to please me; that was all that was said.”</p> - -<p>Uncle John shook his head.</p> - -<p>“That may be all that is said, and it is all a young man thinks when he -is in love. But, my dear, that means that you must please him. -Everything is reciprocal in this world. And the moment you give your -consent that he is to please you, you pledge yourself to consider and -please him.”</p> - -<p>“But he is pleased. Oh! he says he will do whatever I wish.”</p> - -<p>“That is if you will do what he wishes, Effie. For what he wishes is -what it all means, my dear. And the moment you put your hand in his, it -is right that he should strive to have you, and fight and struggle to -have you, and never be content till he has got you. I would myself think -him a poor creature if he thought anything else.”</p> - -<p>There was another pause, and then Effie<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> said, clasping more closely her -uncle’s arm, “But it would be soon enough in a year or two—after there -was time to think. Why should there be a hurry? After I am twenty I -would have more sense; it would not be so hard. I could understand -better. Surely that’s very reasonable, Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>“Too reasonable,” he said, shaking his head. “Effie, lift up your eyes -and look me in the face. Are you sure that you are happy, my little -woman? Look me in the face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“No</span>, Beenie,” said Miss Dempster solemnly, “her heart is not in it. Do -you think it is possible at her age that a young creature could resist -all the excitement and the importance, and the wedding presents and the -wedding clothes? It was bad enough in our own time, but it’s just twice -as bad now when every mortal thinks it needful to give their present, -and boxes are coming in every day for months. That’s a terrible bad -custom: it’s no better than the penny weddings the poor people used to -have. But to think a young thing would be quite indifferent to all that, -if everything was natural, is more than I can understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“That’s very true,” said Miss Beenie, “and all her new things. If it was -nothing but the collars and fichus that are so pretty nowadays, and all -the new pocket-handkerchiefs.”</p> - -<p>“It’s not natural,” the elder sister said.</p> - -<p>“And if you will remember, there was a wonderful look about the little -thing’s eyes when Ronald went away. To be sure there was Eric with him. -She was really a little thing then, though now she’s grown up. You may -depend upon it that though maybe she may not be conscious of it herself, -there is another Eemage in her poor bit little heart.”</p> - -<p>“Ye are too sentimental, Beenie. That’s not necessary. There may be a -shrinking without that. I know no harm of young Dirom. He’s not one that -would ever take my fancy, but still there’s no harm in him. The -stepmother is just ridiculous. She thinks it’s her that’s getting the -elevation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> There will never be a word out of her mouth but Allonby if -this comes to pass. But the heart of the little thing is not in it. She -was angry; that was what her colour came from. It was no blush, yon; it -was out of an angry and an unwilling mind. I have not lived to my -present considerable age without knowing what a girl’s looks mean.”</p> - -<p>“You are not so old as you make yourself out. A person would think you -were just a Methusaleh; when it is well known there is only five years -between us,” said Miss Beenie in an aggrieved tone.</p> - -<p>“I always say there’s a lifetime—so you may be easy in your mind so far -as that goes. I am just as near a Methusaleh as I’ve any desire to be. I -wonder now if Mrs. Ogilvie knows what has happened about Ronald, and -that he’s coming home. To be a well-born woman herself, she has very -little understanding about inter-mar<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span>riages and that kind of thing. It’s -more than likely that she doesn’t know. And to think that young man -should come back, with a nice property though it’s small, and in a -condition to marry, just when this is settled! Bless me! if he had come -three months ago! Providence is a real mystery!” said Miss Dempster, -with the air of one who is reluctant to blame, but cannot sincerely -excuse. “Three months more or less, what were they to auld Dauvid Hay? -He was just doited; he neither knew morning nor evening: and most likely -that would have changed the lives of three other folk. It is a great -mystery to me.”</p> - -<p>“He will maybe not be too late yet,” said Miss Beenie significantly.</p> - -<p>“Woman, you are just without conscience,” cried her sister. “Would that -be either right or fair? No, no, they must just abide by their lot as it -is shaped out. It would be a cruel thing to drop that poor lad now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> for -no fault of his—just because she did not know her own mind. No, no, I -have Ronald’s interest much at heart, and I’m fond in a way of that bit -little Effie, though she’s often been impertinent—but I would never -interfere. Bless me! If I had known there was to be so little -satisfaction got out of it, that’s a veesit I never would have paid. I -am turning terrible giddy. I can scarcely see where I’m going. I wish I -had stayed at home.”</p> - -<p>“If we had not just come away as it were in a fuff,” said Miss Beenie, -“you would have had your cup of tea, and that would have kept up your -strength.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, <i>if</i>,” said Miss Dempster. “That’s no doubt an argument for keeping -one’s temper, but it’s a little too late. Yes, I wish I had got my cup -of tea. I am feeling very strange; everything’s going round and round -before my eyes. Eh, I wish I was at my own door!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It’s from want of taking your food. You’ve eaten nothing this two or -three days. Dear me, Sarah, you’re not going to faint at your age! Take -a hold of my arm and we’ll get as far as Janet Murray’s. She’s a very -decent woman. She will soon make you a cup of tea.”</p> - -<p>“No, no—I’ll have none of your arm. I can just manage,” said Miss -Dempster. But her face had grown ashy pale. “We’re poor creatures,” she -murmured, “poor creatures: it’s all the want of—the want of—that cup -o’ tea.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll have to see the doctor,” said Miss Beenie. “I’m no more disposed -to pin my faith in him than you are; but there are many persons that -think him a very clever man——”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no doctor. Old Jardine’s son that kept a shop in—— No, no; -I’ll have no doctor. I’ll get home—I’ll——”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Miss Beenie. “I will just<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> run on to Janet Murray’s and bid -her see that her kettle is aboil. You’ll be right again when you’ve had -your tea.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I’ll be—all right,” murmured the old lady. The road was soft and -muddy with rain, the air very gray, the clouds hanging heavy and full of -moisture over the earth. Miss Beenie hastened on for a few steps, and -then she paused, she knew not why, and looked round and uttered a loud -cry; there seemed to be no one but herself on the solitary country road. -But after a moment she perceived a little heap of black satin on the -path. Her first thought, unconscious of the catastrophe, was for this -cherished black satin, the pride of Miss Dempster’s heart.</p> - -<p>“Oh, your best gown!” she cried, and hurried back to help her sister out -of the mire. But Miss Beenie soon forgot the best gown. Miss Dempster -lay huddled up among the scanty hawthorn bushes of the broken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> hedge -which skirted the way. Her hand had caught against a thorny bramble -which supported it. She lay motionless, without speaking, without making -a sign, with nothing that had life about her save her eyes. Those eyes -looked up from the drawn face with an anxious stare of helplessness, as -if speech and movement and every faculty had got concentrated in them.</p> - -<p>Miss Beenie gave shriek after shriek as she tried to raise up the -prostrate figure. “Oh, Sarah, what’s the matter? Oh, try to stand up; -oh, let me get you up upon your feet! Oh, my dear, my dear, try if ye -cannot get up and come home! Oh, try! if it’s only as far as Janet -Murray’s. Oh, Sarah!” she cried in despair, “there never was anything -but you could do it, if you were only to try.”</p> - -<p>Sarah answered not a word, she who was never without a word to say; she -did not move; she lay like a log while poor Beenie<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> put her arms under -her head and laboured to raise her. Beenie made the bush tremble with -spasmodic movement, but did no more than touch the human form that lay -stricken underneath. And some time passed before the frightened sister -could realize what had happened. She went on with painful efforts trying -to raise the inanimate form, to drag her to the cottage, which was -within sight, to rouse and encourage her to the effort which Miss Beenie -could not believe her sister incapable of making.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sarah, my bonnie woman!—oh, Sarah, Sarah, do you no hear me, do -you not know me? Oh, try if ye cannot get up and stand upon your feet. -I’m no able to carry you, but I’ll support you. Oh, Sarah, Sarah, will -you no try!”</p> - -<p>Then there burst upon the poor lady all at once a revelation of what had -happened. She threw herself down by her sister with a shriek that seemed -to rend the skies. “Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> good Lord,” she cried, “oh, good Lord! I canna -move her, I canna move her; my sister has gotten a stroke——”</p> - -<p>“What are you talking about?” said a big voice behind her; and before -Miss Beenie knew, the doctor, in all the enormity of his big beard, his -splashed boots, his smell of tobacco, was kneeling beside her, examining -Miss Dempster, whose wide open eyes seemed to repulse him, though she -herself lay passive under his hand. He kept talking all the time while -he examined her pulse, her looks, her eyes.</p> - -<p>“We must get her carried home,” he said. “You must be brave, Miss -Beenie, and keep all your wits about you. I am hoping we will bring her -round. Has there been anything the matter with her, or has it just come -on suddenly to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor, she has eaten nothing. She has been very feeble and pale. -She never would let me say it. She is very masterful;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> she will never -give in. Oh that I should say a word that might have an ill meaning, and -her lying immovable there!”</p> - -<p>“There is no ill meaning. It’s your duty to tell me everything. She is a -very masterful woman; by means of that she may pull through. And were -there any preliminaries to-day? Yes, that’s the right thing to do—if it -will not tire you to sit in that position——”</p> - -<p>“Tire me!” cried Miss Beenie—“if it eases her.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot say it eases her. She is past suffering for the moment. Lord -bless me, I never saw such a case. Those eyes of hers are surely full of -meaning. She is perhaps more conscious than we think. But anyway, it’s -the best thing to do. Stay you here till I get something to carry her -on——”</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” said another voice, and Fred Dirom came hastily -up. “Why,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> doctor, what has happened—Miss Dempster?”—he said this with -an involuntary cry of surprise and alarm. “I am afraid this is very -serious,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Not so serious as it soon will be if we stand havering,” cried the -doctor. “Get something, a mattress, to put her on. Man, look alive. -There’s a cottage close by. Ye’ll get something if ye stir them up. Fly -there, and I’ll stay with them to give them a heart.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor, you’re very kind—we’ve perhaps not been such good friends -to ye as we might——”</p> - -<p>“Friends, toots!” said the doctor, “we’re all friends at heart.”</p> - -<p>Meantime the stir of an accident had got into the air. Miss Beenie’s -cries had no doubt reached some rustic ears; but it takes a long time to -rouse attention in those regions.</p> - -<p>“What will yon be? It would be somebody crying. It sounded awfu’ like -some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span>body crying. It will be some tramp about the roads; it will be -somebody frighted at the muckle bull——” Then at last there came into -all minds the leisurely impulse—“Goodsake, gang to the door and -see——”</p> - -<p>Janet Murray was the first to run out to her door. When her intelligence -was at length awakened to the fact that something had happened, nobody -could be more kind. She rushed out and ran against Fred Dirom, who was -hurrying towards the cottage with a startled face.</p> - -<p>“Can you get me a mattress or something to carry her upon?” he cried, -breathless.</p> - -<p>“Is it an accident?” said Janet.</p> - -<p>“It is a fit. I think she is dying,” cried the young man much excited.</p> - -<p>Janet flew back and pulled the mattress off her own bed. “It’s no a very -soft one,” she said apologetically. Her man had come out of the byre, -where he was ministering to a sick cow, an invalid of vast importance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> -whom he left reluctantly; another man developed somehow out of the -fields from nowhere in particular, and they all hurried towards the spot -where Miss Beenie sat on the ground, without a thought of her best gown, -holding her sister’s head on her breast, and letting tears fall over the -crushed bonnet which the doctor had loosened, and which was dropping off -the old gray head.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sarah, can ye hear me? Oh, Sarah, do you know me? I’m your poor -sister Beenie. Oh if ye could try to rouse yourself up to say a word. -There was never anything you couldna do if ye would only try.”</p> - -<p>“She’ll not try this time,” said the doctor. “You must not blame her. -There’s one who has her in his grips that will not hear reason; but -we’ll hope she’ll mend; and in the meantime you must not think she can -help it, or that she’s to blame.”</p> - -<p>“To blame!” cried Beenie, with that acute cry. “I am silly many a time; -but she is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> never to blame.” In sight of the motionless figure which lay -in her arms, Miss Beenie’s thoughts already began to take that tinge of -enthusiastic loyalty with which we contemplate the dead.</p> - -<p>“Here they come, God be thanked!” said the doctor. And by and by a -little procession made its way between the fields. Miss Dempster, as if -lying in state on the mattress, Beenie beside her crying and mourning. -She had followed at first, but then it came into her simple mind with a -shiver that this was like following the funeral, and she had roused -herself and taken her place a little in advance. It was a sad little -procession, and when it reached the village street, all the women came -out to their doors to ask what was the matter, and to shake their heads, -and wonder at the sight.</p> - -<p>The village jumped to the fatal conclusion with that desire to heighten -every event which is common to all communities: and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> the news ran over -the parish like lightning.</p> - -<p>“Miss Dempster, Rosebank, has had a stroke. She has never spoken since. -She is just dead to this world, and little likelihood she will ever come -back at her age.” That was the first report; but before evening it had -risen to the distinct information—“Miss Dempster, Rosebank, is dead!”</p> - -<p>Fred Dirom had been on his way to Gilston, when he was stopped and -ordered into the service of the sick woman. He answered to the call with -the readiness of a kind heart, and was not only the most active and -careful executor of the doctor’s orders, but remained after the patient -was conveyed home, to be ready, he said, to run for anything that was -wanted, to do anything that might be necessary—nay, after all was done -that could be done, to comfort Miss Beenie, who almost shed her tears -upon the young man’s shoulder.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Eh,” she said, “there’s the doctor we have aye thought so rough, and -not a gentleman—and there’s you, young Mr. Dirom, that Sarah was not -satisfied with for Effie; and you’ve just been like two ministering -angels sent out to minister to them that are in sore trouble. Oh, but I -wonder if she will ever be able to thank you herself.”</p> - -<p>“Not that any thanks are wanted,” cried Fred cheerfully; “but of course -she will, much more than we deserve.”</p> - -<p>“You’ve just been as kind as—I cannot find any word to say for it, both -the doctor and you.”</p> - -<p>“He is a capital fellow, Miss Dempster.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not call me Miss Dempster—not such a thing, not such a thing! -I’m Miss Beenie. The Lord preserve me from ever being called Miss -Dempster,” she cried, with a movement of terror. But Fred neither -laughed at her nor her words. He was very respectful of her, full of -pity and almost ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span>derness, not thinking of how much advantage to -himself this adventure was to prove. It ran over the whole countryside -next day, and gained “that young Dirom” many a friend.</p> - -<p>And Effie, to whom the fall of Miss Dempster was like the fall of one of -the familiar hills, and who only discovered how much she loved those -oldest of friends after she began to feel as if she must lose -them—Effie showed her sense of his good behaviour in the most -entrancing way, putting off the shy and frightened aspect with which she -had staved off all discussion of matters more important, and beginning -to treat him with a timid kindness and respect which bewildered the -young man. Perhaps he would rather even now have had something warmer -and less (so to speak) accidental: but he was a wise young man, and -contented himself with what he could get.</p> - -<p>Effie now became capable of “hearing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> reason,” as Mrs. Ogilvie said. She -no longer ran away from any suggestion of the natural end of all such -engagements. She suffered it to be concluded that her marriage should -take place at Christmas, and gave at last a passive consent to all the -arrangements made for her. She even submitted to her stepmother’s -suggestions about the trousseau, and suffered various dresses to be -chosen, and boundless orders for linen to be given. That she should have -a fit providing and go out of her father’s house as it became a bride to -do, with dozens of every possible undergarments, and an inexhaustible -supply of handkerchiefs and collars, was the ambition of Mrs. Ogilvie’s -heart.</p> - -<p>She said herself that Miss Dempster’s “stroke,” from which the old lady -recovered slowly, was “just a providence.” It brought Effie to her -senses, it made her see the real qualities of the young man whom she had -not prized at his true value, and whose super<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span>iority as the best match -in the countryside, she could not even now be made to see. Effie -yielded, not because he was the best match, but because he had shown so -kind a heart, and all the preparations went merrily forward, and the -list of the marriage guests was made out and everything got ready.</p> - -<p>But yet for all that, there was full time for that slip between the cup -and the lip which so often comes in, contrary to the dearest -expectations, in human affairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> slip between the cup and the lip came in two ways. The first was the -arrival from India—in advance of Eric who was to get the short leave -which his stepmother thought such a piece of extravagance, in order to -be present at the marriage of his only sister—of Ronald Sutherland, in -order to take possession of the inheritance which had fallen to him on -the death of his uncle.</p> - -<p>It was not a very great inheritance—an old house with an old tower, the -old “peel” of the Border, attached to it; a few farms, a little money, -the succession of a family sufficiently well known in the countryside, -but which had never been one of the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> families. It was not much -certainly. It was no more to be compared with the possessions in fact -and expectation of Fred Dirom than twilight is with day; but still it -made a great difference.</p> - -<p>Ronald Sutherland of the 111th, serving in India with nothing at all but -his pay, and Ronald Sutherland of Haythorn with a commission in her -Majesty’s service, were two very different persons. Mrs. Ogilvie allowed -that had old David Hay been so sensible as to die three years -previously, she would not have been so absolutely determined that -Ronald’s suit should be kept secret from Effie; but all that was over, -and there was no use thinking of it. It had been done “for the -best”—and what it had produced was unquestionably the best.</p> - -<p>If it had so happened that Effie had never got another “offer,” then -indeed there might have been something to regret; but as, on the -contrary, she had secured the best match<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> in the county, her stepmother -still saw no reason for anything but satisfaction in her own diplomacy. -It had been done for the best; and it had succeeded, which is by no -means invariably the case.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Ogilvie allowed that she was a little anxious about Ronald’s -first appearance at Gilston. It was inevitable that he should come; for -all the early years of his life Gilston had been a second home to him. -He had been in and out like one of the children of the house. Mrs. -Ogilvie declared she had always said that where there were girls this -was a most imprudent thing: but she allowed at the same time that it is -difficult to anticipate the moment when a girl will become marriageable, -and had better be kept out of knowing and sight of the ineligible, so -long as that girl is a child. Consequently, she did not blame her -predecessor, Effie’s mother, for permitting an intimacy which at six was -innocent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> enough, though it became dangerous at sixteen.</p> - -<p>“Even me,” she said candidly, “I cannot throw my mind so far forward as -to see any risks that little Annabella Johnston can run in seeing Rory -every day—though sixteen years hence it will be different; for Rory, to -be sure, will never be an eligible young man as long as his step-brother -Eric is to the fore—and God forbid that anything should happen to -Eric,” she added piously.</p> - -<p>On this ground, and also because Ronald had the latest news to give of -Eric, it was impossible to shut him out of Gilston, though Mrs. Ogilvie -could not but feel that it was very bad taste of him to appear with -these troubled and melancholy airs, and to look at Effie as he did. It -was not that he made any attempt to interfere with the settlement of -affairs. He made the proper congratulations though in a very stiff and -formal way, and said he hoped that they would be happy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> But there was -an air about him which was very likely to make an impression on a silly, -romantic girl.</p> - -<p>He was handsomer than Fred Dirom—he was bronzed with Indian suns, which -gave him a manly look. He had seen a little service, he was taller than -Fred, stronger, with all those qualities which women specially esteem. -And he looked at Effie when she was not observing—oh, but Mrs. Ogilvie -said: “It is not an easy thing to tell when a girl is not -observing!—for all that kind of thing they are always quick enough.”</p> - -<p>And as a matter of fact, Effie observed keenly, and most keenly, -perhaps, when she had the air of taking no notice. The first time this -long, loosely clothed, somewhat languid, although well-built and manly -figure had come in, Effie had felt by the sudden jump of her heart that -it was no ordinary visitor. He had been something like a second brother -when he went away, Eric’s invariable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> companion, another Eric with -hardly any individual claim of his own: but everything now was very -different. She said to herself that this jump of her heart which had -surprised her so much, had come when she heard his step drawing near the -door, so that it must be surely his connection with Eric and not -anything in himself that had done it; but this was a poor and -unsatisfactory explanation.</p> - -<p>After that first visit in which he had hoped that Miss Effie would be -very happy, and said everything that was proper, Effie knew almost as -well as if she had been informed from the first, all that had passed: -his eyes conveyed to her an amount of information which he was little -aware of. She recognized with many tremors and a strange force of -divination, not only that there had been things said and steps taken -before his departure of which she had never been told, but also, as well -as if it had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> put into words, that he had come home, happy in the -thought of the fortune which now would make him more acceptable in the -eyes of the father and stepmother, building all manner of castles in the -air; and that all these fairy fabrics had fallen with a crash, and he -had awakened painfully from his dream to hear of her engagement, and -that a few weeks more would see her Fred Dirom’s wife.</p> - -<p>The looks he cast at her, the looks which he averted, the thrill -imperceptible to the others which went over him when he took her hand at -coming and going, were all eloquent to Effie. All that she had felt for -Fred Dirom at the moment when the genuine emotion in him had touched her -to the warmest sympathy, was nothing like that which penetrated her -heart at Ronald’s hasty, self-restrained, and, as far as he was aware, -self-concealing glance.</p> - -<p>In a moment the girl perceived, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> mingled thrill of painful -pleasure and anguish, what might have been. It was one of those sudden -perceptions which light up the whole moral landscape in a moment, as a -sudden flash of lightning reveals the hidden expanse of storm and sea.</p> - -<p>Such intimations are most often given when they are ineffectual—not -when they might guide the mind to a choice which would secure its -happiness, but after all such possibilities are over and that happy -choice can never be made. When he had gone away Effie slid out of sight -too, and sought the shelter of her room, that little sanctuary which had -hid so many agitations within the last few weeks, but none so tremendous -as this. The discovery seemed to stun her. She could only sit still and -look at it, her bosom heaving, her heart beating loudly, painfully like -a funeral toll against her breast.</p> - -<p>So, she said to herself, <i>that</i> might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> been; and <i>this</i> was. No, -she did not say it to herself: such discoveries are not made by any -rational and independent action of mind. It was put before her by that -visionary second which is always with us in all our mental operations, -the spectator, “qui me resemblait comme mon frère,” whom the poet saw in -every crisis of his career. That spiritual spectator who is so seldom a -counsellor, whose office is to show the might-have-beens of life and to -confound the helpless, unwarned sufferer with the sight of his mistakes -when they are past, set this swiftly and silently before her with the -force of a conviction. This might have been the real hero, this was the -true companion, the mate congenial, the one in the world for Effie. But -in the moment of beholding she knew that it was never to be.</p> - -<p>And this was not her fault—which made it the more confusing, the more -mis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span>erable. When it is ourselves who have made the mistake that spoils -our lives, we have, at least, had something for it, the gratification of -having had our own way, the pleasure of going wrong. But Effie had not -even secured this pleasure. She would be the sufferer for other people’s -miscalculations and mistakes. All this that concerned her so deeply she -had never known. She faced the future with all the more dismay that it -thus appeared to her to be spoiled for no end, destroyed at once for -herself and Ronald and Fred. For what advantage could it be to Fred to -have a wife who felt that he was not her chief good, that her happiness -was with another? Something doubly poignant was in the feeling with -which the poor girl perceived this.</p> - -<p>Fred even, poor Fred, whom she approved and liked and sympathized with -and did all but love—Fred would be none<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> the better. He would be -wronged even in having his heart’s desire conceded to him, whereas—it -all came before Effie with another flash of realization—Fred would -never have thought of her in that way had she been pledged to Ronald. -They would have been friends—oh! such good friends. She would have been -able to appreciate all his good qualities, the excellence that was in -him, and no close and inappropriate relationship could have been formed -between the two who were not made for each other.</p> - -<p>But now all was wrong! It was Fred and she, who might have been such -excellent friends, who were destined to work through life together, -badly matched, not right, not right, whatever might happen. If trouble -came she would not know how to comfort him, as she would have known how -to comfort Ronald. She would not know how to help him. How was it she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> -had not thought of that before? They belonged to different worlds, not -to the same world as she and Ronald did, and when the first superficial -charm was over, and different habits, different associations, life, -which was altogether pitched upon a different key, began to tell!</p> - -<p>Alarm seized upon Effie, and dismay. She had been frightened before at -the setting up of a new life which she felt no wish for, no impulse to -embrace; but she had not thought how different was the life of Allonby -from that of Gilston, and her modest notions of rustic gentility from -the luxury and show to which the rich man’s son had been accustomed. -Doris and Phyllis and their ways of thought, and their habits of -existence, came before her in a moment as part of the strange shifting -panorama which encompassed her about. How was she to get to think as -they did, to accustom herself to their ways of living?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> She had wondered -and smiled, and in her heart unconsciously criticised these ways: but -that was Fred’s way as well as theirs. And how was she with her country -prejudices, her Scotch education, her limitations, her different -standard, how was she to fit into it? But with Ronald she would have -dwelt among her own people—oh, the different life! Oh, the things that -might have been!</p> - -<p>Poor Ronald went his way sadly from the same meeting with a -consciousness that was sharp and confusing and terrible. After the first -miserable shock of disappointment which he had felt on hearing of -Effie’s engagement, he had conversed much with himself. He had said to -himself that she was little more than a child when he had set his boyish -heart upon her, that since then a long time had passed, momentous years: -that he had changed in many ways, and that she too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> must have -changed—that the mere fact of her engagement must have made a great -difference—that she had bound herself to another kind of existence, not -anything he knew, and that it was not possible that the betrothed of -another man could be any longer the little Effie of his dreams.</p> - -<p>But he had looked at her, and he had felt that he was mistaken. She was -his Effie, not that other man’s: there was nothing changed in her, only -perfected and made more sweet. Very few were the words that passed -between them—few looks even, for they were afraid to look at each -other—but even that unnatural reluctance said more than words. He it -was who was her mate, not the stranger, the Englishman, the millionaire, -whose ways and the ways of his people were not as her ways.</p> - -<p>And yet it was too late! He could neither say anything nor do anything -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> show to Effie that she had made a mistake, that it was he, Ronald, -whom Heaven had intended for her. The young man, we may be sure, saw -nothing ludicrous in this conviction that was in his mind; but he could -not plead it. He went home to the old-fashioned homely house, which he -said to himself no wife of his should ever make bright, in which he -would settle down, no doubt, like his old uncle, and grow into an old -misanthrope, a crotchety original, as his predecessor had done. Poor old -uncle David! what was it that had made him so? perhaps a fatal mistake, -occurring somehow by no fault of his—perhaps a little Effie, thrown -away upon a stranger, too—</p> - -<p>“What made you ask him to his dinner, though I made you signs to the -contrary?” said Mrs. Ogilvie to her husband, as soon as, each in a -different direction, the two young people had disappeared. “You might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> -have seen I was not wanting him to his dinner; but when was there ever a -man that could tell the meaning of a look? I might have spared my -pains.”</p> - -<p>“And why should he not be asked to his dinner?” said Mr. Ogilvie. “You -go beyond my understanding. Ronald Sutherland, a lad that I have known -since he was <i>that</i> high, and his father and his grandfather before him. -I think the woman is going out of her wits. Because you’re marrying -Effie to one of those rich upstarts, am I never to ask a decent lad -here?”</p> - -<p>“You and your decent lads!” said his wife; she was at the end of her -Latin, as the French say, and of her patience too. “Just listen to me, -Robert,” she added, with that calm of exasperation which is sometimes so -impressive. “I’m marrying Effie, since you like to put it that way (and -it’s a great deal more than any of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> relations would have had the -sense to do), to the best match on all this side of Scotland. I’m not -saying this county; there’s nobody in the county that is in any way on -the same footing as Fred. There is rank, to be sure, but as for money he -could buy them all up, and settlements just such as were never heard of. -Well, that’s what I’m doing, if you give me the credit of it. But -there’s just one little hindrance, and that’s Ronald Sutherland. If he’s -to come here on the ground of your knowing him since he was <i>that</i> high, -and being Eric’s friend—that’s to say, like a son of the house—I have -just this to say, Robert, that I will not answer for Effie, and this -great match may not take place after all.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, you daft woman? Do you mean to tell me there has been -any carrying on, any correspondence——”</p> - -<p>“Have some respect to your own child,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> Robert, if not to your wife. Am I -a woman to allow any carrying on? And Effie, to do her justice, though -she has very little sense in some respects, is not a creature of that -kind; and mind, she never heard a word of yon old story. No, no, it’s -not that. But it’s a great deal worse—it’s just this, that there’s an -old kindness, and they know each other far better than either Effie or -you or me knows Fred Dirom. They are the same kind of person, and they -have things to talk about if once they begin. And, in short, I cannot -tell you all my drithers—but I’m very clear on this. If you want that -marriage to come off, which is the best match that’s been made in -Dumfriess-shire for generations, just you keep Ronald Sutherland at -arm’s length, and take care you don’t ask him here to his dinner every -second day.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so fond of having strangers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> to their dinner,” said Mr. -Ogilvie, with great truth. “It’s very rarely that the invitation comes -from me. And as for your prudence and your wisdom and your grand -managing, it might perhaps be just as well, on the whole, for Effie if -she had two strings to her bow.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ogilvie uttered a suppressed shriek in her astonishment. “For any -sake! what, in the name of all that’s wonderful, are you meaning now?”</p> - -<p>“You give me no credit for ever meaning anything, or taking the least -interest, so far as I can see, in what’s happening in my own family,” -said the head of the house, standing on his dignity.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Robert, man! didn’t I send the young man to you, and would not -listen to him myself! I said her father is the right person: and so you -were, and very well you managed it, as you always do when you will take -the trouble. But what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> is this about a second string to her bow?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ogilvie <i>se faisait prier</i>. He would not at first relinquish the -pride of superior knowledge. At last, when his wife had been tantalized -sufficiently, he opened his budget.</p> - -<p>“The truth is, that things, very queer things, are said in London about -Dirom’s house. There is a kind of a hint in the money article of the -<i>Times</i>. You would not look at that, even if we got the <i>Times</i>. I saw -it yesterday in Dumfries. They say ‘a great firm that has gone largely -into mines of late’—and something about Basinghall Street, and a hope -that their information may not be correct, and that sort of thing—which -means more even than it says.”</p> - -<p>“Lord preserve us!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. She sat down, in her -consternation, upon Rory’s favourite toy lamb, which uttered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> the squeak -peculiar to such pieces of mechanism. Probably this helped to increase -her annoyance. She seized it with impatient warmth and flung it on the -floor.</p> - -<p>“The horrible little beast!—But, Robert, this may be just a rumour. -There are plenty of firms that do business in mines, and as for -Basinghall Street, it’s just a street of offices. My own uncle had a -place of business there.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll see I’m right for all that,” said her husband, piqued to have -his information doubted.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll see it when I do see it; but I have just the most perfect -confidence—What is this, George? Is there no answer? Well, you need not -wait.”</p> - -<p>“I was to wait, mem,” said George, “to let the cook ken if there was -nobody expected to their dinner; for in that case, mem, there was yon -birds that was quite good, that could keep to another day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Cook’s just very impatient to send me such a message. Oh, well, you may -tell her that there will be nobody to dinner. Mr. Dirom has to go to -London in a hurry,” she said, half for the servant and half for her -husband. She turned a glance full of alarm, yet defiance, upon the -latter as old George trotted away.</p> - -<p>“Well, what do you say to that?” cried Mr. Ogilvie, with a mixture of -satisfaction and vexation.</p> - -<p>“I just say what I said before—that I’ve perfect confidence.” But -nevertheless a cloud hung all the rest of the day upon Mrs. Ogilvie’s -brow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Two</span> or three days had passed after Fred’s departure, when Mrs. Ogilvie -stated her intention of going to Allonby to call upon his mother.</p> - -<p>“You have not been there for a long time, Effie. You have just contented -yourself with Fred—which is natural enough, I say nothing against -that—and left the sisters alone who have always been so kind to you. It -was perhaps not to be wondered at, but still I would not have done it. -If they were not just very good-natured and ready to make the best of -everything, they might think you were neglecting them, now that you have -got Fred.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>As was natural, Effie was much injured and offended by this suggestion.</p> - -<p>“I have never neglected them,” she said. “I never went but when they -asked me, and they have not asked me for a long time. It is their -fault.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “it is winter weather, and there is nothing -going on. Your tennis and all that is stopped, and yet there’s no frost -for skating. But whether they have asked you or not, just put on your -new frock and come over with me. They are perhaps in some trouble, for -anything we can tell.”</p> - -<p>“In trouble? How could they be in trouble?”</p> - -<p>“Do you think, you silly thing, that they are free of trouble because -they’re so well off? No, no; there are plenty of things to vex you in -this world, however rich you may be: though you are dressed in silks and -satins and eat off silver plate,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> and have all the delicacies of the -season upon your table, like daily bread, you will find that you have -troubles with it, all the same, just like ordinary folk.”</p> - -<p>Effie thought truly that she had no need of being taught that lesson. -She knew far better than her stepmother what trouble was. She was going -to marry Fred Dirom, and yet if her heart had its way! And she could not -blame anybody, not even herself, for the position in which she was. It -had come about—she could not tell how or why.</p> - -<p>But she could not associate Phyllis and Doris with anything that could -be called trouble. Neither was her mind at all awake or impressionable -on this subject. To lose money was to her the least of all -inconveniences, a thing not to be counted as trouble at all. She had -never known anything about money, neither the pleasure of possession nor -the vexation of losing it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> Her indifference was that of entire -ignorance; it seemed to her a poor thing to distress one’s self about.</p> - -<p>She put on her new frock, however, as she was commanded, to pay the -visit, and drove to Allonby with her stepmother, much as she had driven -on that momentous day when for the first time she had seen them all, and -when Mrs. Ogilvie had carried on a monologue, just as she was doing now, -though not precisely to the same effect and under circumstances so -changed. Effie then had been excited about the sisters and a little -curious about the brother, amused and pleased with the new acquaintances -to be made, and the novelty of the proceeding altogether. Now there was -no longer any novelty. She was on the eve of becoming a member of the -family, and it was with a very different degree of seriousness and -interest that she contemplated them and their ways. But still Mrs. -Ogilvie was full of speculation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I wonder,” she said, “if they will say anything about what is going on? -You have had no right explanation, so far as I am aware, of Fred’s -hurrying away like yon; I think he should have given you more -explanation. And I wonder if they will say anything about that -report—And, Effie, I wonder——” It appeared to Effie as they drove -along that all that had passed in the meantime was a dream, and that -Mrs. Ogilvie was wondering again as when they had first approached the -unknown household upon that fateful day.</p> - -<p>Doris and Phyllis were seated in a room with which neither Effie nor her -stepmother were familiar, and which was not dark, and bore but few marks -of the amendments and re-arrangements which occupied the family so -largely on their first arrival at Allonby. Perhaps their interest had -flagged in the embellishment of the old house, which was no longer a -stranger to them; or perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> the claims of comfort were paramount in -November. There was still a little afternoon sunshine coming in to help -the comfortable fire which blazed so cheerfully, and Lady Allonby’s old -sofas and easy chairs were very snug in the warm atmosphere.</p> - -<p>The young ladies were, as was usual to them, doing nothing in -particular, and they were very glad to welcome visitors, any visitor, to -break the monotony of the afternoon. There was not the slightest -diminution visible of their friendship for Effie, which is a thing that -sometimes happens when the sister’s friend becomes the <i>fiancée</i> of the -brother. They fell upon her with open arms.</p> - -<p>“Why, it is Effie! How nice of you to come just when we wanted you,” -they cried, making very little count of Mrs. Ogilvie. Mothers and -stepmothers were of the opposite faction, and Doris and Phyllis did not -pretend to take any in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span>terest in them. “Mother will be here presently,” -they said to her, and no more. But Effie they led to a sofa and -surrounded with attentions.</p> - -<p>“We have not seen you for an age. You are going to say it is our fault, -but it is not our fault. You have Fred constantly at Gilston, and you -did not want us there too. No, three of one family would be -insufferable; you couldn’t have wanted us; and what was the use of -asking you to come here, when Fred was always with you at your own -house? Now that he is away we were wondering would you come—I said yes, -I felt sure you would; but Doris——”</p> - -<p>“Doris is never so confident as her sister,” said that young lady, “and -when a friendship that has begun between girls runs into a love affair, -one never can know.”</p> - -<p>“It was not any doing of mine that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> ran into—anything,” said Effie, -indignant. “I liked you the——” She was going to say the best, which -was not civil certainly to the absent Fred, and would not have been -true. But partly prudence restrained her, and partly Phyllis, who gave -her at that moment a sudden kiss, and declared that she had always said -that Effie was a dear.</p> - -<p>“And no doubt you have heard from your brother,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who -was not to be silenced, “and has he got his business done? I hope -everything is satisfactory, and nothing to make your good father and -mother anxious. These kind of cares do not tell upon the young, but when -people are getting up in years it’s then that business really troubles -them. We have been thinking a great deal of your worthy father—Mr. -Ogilvie and me. I hope he is seeing his way——”</p> - -<p>The young ladies stared at her for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> moment, in the intervals of -various remarks to Effie; and then Doris said, with a little evident -effort, as of one who wanted to be civil, yet not to conceal that she -was bored: “Oh, you mean about the firm? Of course we are interested; it -would make such a change, you know. I have taken all my measures, -however, and I feel sure I shall be the greatest success.”</p> - -<p>“I was speaking of real serious business, Miss Doris. Perhaps I was just -a fool for my pains, for they would not put the like of that before you. -No, no, I am aware it was just very silly of me; but since it has been -settled between Effie and Mr. Fred, I take a great interest. I am one -that takes a great deal of thought, more than I get any thanks for, of -all my friends.”</p> - -<p>“I should not like to trouble about all my friends, for then one would -never be out of it,” said Doris, calmly. “Of course,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> however, you must -be anxious about Fred. There is less harm, though, with him than with -most young men; for you know if the worst comes to the worst he has got -a profession. I cannot say that I have a profession, but still it comes -almost to the same thing; for I have quite made up my mind what to do. -It is a pity, Effie,” she said, turning to the audience she preferred, -“if the Great Smash is going to come that it should not come before you -are married; for then I could dress you, which would be good for both of -us—an advantage to your appearance, and a capital advertisement for -me.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well for her,” said Miss Phyllis, plaintively. “She -talks at her ease about the Great Smash; but I should have nothing to do -except to marry somebody, which would be no joke at all for me.”</p> - -<p>“The Great Smash,” repeated Mrs. Ogil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span>vie, aghast. All the colour had -gone out of her face. She turned from one to the other with dismay. -“Then am I to understand that it has come to that?” she cried, with -despair in her looks. “Oh! Effie, Effie, do you hear them? The Great -Smash!”</p> - -<p>“Who said that?” said another voice—a soft voice grown harsh, sweet -bells jangled out of tune. There had been a little nervous movement of -the handle of the door some moments before, and now Mrs. Dirom came in -quickly, as if she had been listening to what was said, and was too much -excited and distracted to remember that it was evident that she had been -listening. She came in in much haste and with a heated air.</p> - -<p>“If you credit these silly girls you will believe anything. What do they -know? A Great Smash—!” Her voice trembled as she said the words. “It’s -ridiculous,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> and it’s vulgar too. I wonder where they learned such -words. I would not repeat them if I could help it—if it was not -necessary to make you understand. There will be no Smash, Mrs. Ogilvie, -neither great nor small. Do you know what you are talking of? The great -house of the Diroms, which is as sure as the Bank of England? It is -their joke, it is the way they talk; nothing is sacred for them. They -don’t know what the credit of a great firm means. There is no more -danger of our firm—no more danger—than there is of the Bank of -England.”</p> - -<p>The poor lady was so much disturbed that her voice, and, indeed, her -whole person, which was substantial, trembled. She dropped suddenly on a -chair, and taking up one of the Japanese fans which were everywhere -about, fanned herself violently, though it was late November, and the -day was cold.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Dear me,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “I am sorry if I have put you about; I had -no thought that it was serious at all. I just asked the question for -conversation’s sake. I never could have supposed for a moment that the -great house, as you say, of Dirom and Co. could ever take it in a -serious light.”</p> - -<p>Upon this poor Mrs. Dirom put down her fan, and laughed somewhat -loudly—a laugh that was harsh and strained, and in which no confidence -was.</p> - -<p>“That is quite true,” she said, “Mrs. Ogilvie. You are full of sense, as -I have always said. It is only a thing to laugh at. Their papa would be -very much amused if he were to hear. But it makes me angry when I have -no occasion to be angry, for it is so silly. If it was said by other -people I should take it with a smile; but to hear my own children -talking such nonsense, it is this that makes me angry. If it was anyone -else I shouldn’t mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “I understand that; for if other people -make fools of themselves it is of no particular consequence; but when -it’s your own it’s a different matter. But Miss Doris, I suppose, has -just taken a notion into her head, and she does not care what it costs -to carry it out. Effie, now, really we must go. It is getting quite -dark, the days are so short. No, I thank you, we’ll not take any tea; -for Mr. Ogilvie has taken a habit of coming in for his cup of tea, and -he just cannot bear us to be away. When a man takes a notion of that -kind, the ladies of his family just have to give in to it. Good-bye, -young ladies, good-bye. But I hope you’ll not be disappointed to find -that there’s no Great Smash coming; for I don’t think that I should -relish it at all if it was me.”</p> - -<p>They had a silent drive home. Effie had so many thoughts at that moment -that she was always glad, when she could, to return<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> into them. She -thought no more of the Great Smash than of any other of the nonsensical -utterances which it might have pleased Doris to make. Indeed, the Great -Smash, even if it had been certain, would not have affected her mind -much, so entirely unconscious was she what its meaning might be. She -retired into her own thoughts, which were many, without having received -any impression from this new subject.</p> - -<p>But it vaguely surprised her that her stepmother should be so silent. -She was so accustomed to that lively monologue which served as a -background to all manner of thoughts, that Effie was more or less -disturbed by its failure, without knowing why. Mrs. Ogilvie scarcely -said a word all the way home. It was incredible, but it was true. Her -friends would scarcely have believed it—they would have perceived that -matters must have been very serious indeed, before she could be reduced -to such silence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> But Effie was heedless, and did not ask herself what -the reason was.</p> - -<p>This was the evening that Ronald had been invited “to his dinner,” an -invitation which had called forth a protest from Mrs. Ogilvie; but, -notwithstanding, she was very kind to Ronald. It was Effie, not she, who -kept him at a distance, who avoided any conversation except the vaguest, -and, indeed, sat almost silent all the evening, as if her lover being -absent she had no attention to bestow upon another. That was not the -real state of Effie’s mind; but a delicate instinct drew her away, and -gave her a refuge in the silence which looked like indifference.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ogilvie, however, showed no indifference to Ronald. She questioned -him about his house, and with all the freedom which old family -connection permitted, about the fortune which he had “come into,” about -what he meant to do, and many other sub<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>jects. Ronald gave her, with -much gravity, the information she asked. He told her no—that he did not -mean to remain—that he was going back to his regiment. Why should he -stay, there was nothing for him to do at Haythorne?</p> - -<p>“Hoot,” Mrs. Ogilvie said, “there is always this to do, that you must -marry and settle; that is the right thing for a young man. To be sure, -when there is no place to take a wife home to, but just to follow the -regiment, that’s very different; for parents that are in their senses -would never let a girl do that. But when you have the house first, then -the wife must follow. It is just the right order of things.”</p> - -<p>“For some men,” said Ronald, “but not for me; it is either too early, -or, perhaps, too late.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, too late! a lad like you to speak such nonsense!—and there’s never -any saying what may happen,” the lady said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> This strange speech made -two hearts beat: Ronald’s with great surprise, and devouring curiosity. -Had he perhaps been premature in thinking that all was settled—was it a -mistake? But oh, no, he remembered that he had made his congratulations, -and they had been received; that Eric was coming back to the marriage; -that already the wedding guests were being invited, and all was in -train. Effie’s heart beat too, where she sat silent at a distance, close -to the lamp, on pretence of needing light for her work; but it was with -a muffled, melancholy movement, no sign of hope or possibility in it, -only the stir of regret and trouble over what might have been.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to write letters, at this time of night?” said Mr. -Ogilvie, as he came back from the door, after seeing Ronald away.</p> - -<p>“Just one, Robert; I cannot bear this suspense if the rest of you can. I -am going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> to write to my cousin John, who is a business man, and has his -office, as his father had before him, in Basinghall Street in London -city. I am going to ask him a question or two.”</p> - -<p>“If I were you,” said Mr. Ogilvie, with some energy, “I would neither -make nor meddle in other folk’s affairs.”</p> - -<p>“What do you call other folk’s affairs? It is my own folk’s affairs. If -there ever was a thing that was our business and not another’s, it’s -this. Do you think I would ever permit—and there is very little time to -be lost. I wonder I never thought of John before—he is just the person -to let me know.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ogilvie put his hands behind his back, and walked up and down the -room in great perturbation.</p> - -<p>“I cannot see my way to making that kind of inquiry. It might do harm, -and I don’t see what good it can do. It might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> set people thinking. It -might bring on just what we’re wanting to avoid.”</p> - -<p>“I am wanting to know, that is all,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “As for setting -people thinking, that’s done as you’re aware. And if it’s done down -here, what must it be in the city? But I must be at the bottom of it, -whether it’s false, or whether it’s true.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ogilvie was not accustomed to such energy. He said, “Tchk, tchk, -tchk,” as people do so often in perplexity: and then he caught sight of -his daughter, holding Rory’s little stocking in the lamplight, and -knitting with nervous fingers. It was a good opportunity for getting rid -of the irritation which any new thing raised in him.</p> - -<p>“Surely,” he said, with an air of virtuous indignation, “it is high time -that Effie, at least, should be in her bed!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Yes</span>, Ronald, my man. It was a great peety,” Miss Dempster said.</p> - -<p>She was lying on a sofa in the little drawing-room, between the -fireplace and the window, where she could both feel and see the fire, -and yet command a glimpse of the village and Dr. Jardine’s house. She -could still see the window to which the doctor came defiantly when he -took his mid-morning refreshment, to let the ladies at Rosebank see that -he was not afraid of them.</p> - -<p>The relations between the doctor and the ladies had modified a little, -but still that little conflict went on. He did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> any longer nod at -them with the “Here’s to you!” of his old fury at what he thought their -constant <i>espionage</i>, but he still flaunted his dram before their eyes, -and still they made mental notes on the subject, and Miss Beenie shook -her head. She did not say, “There’s that abominable man with his dram -again. I am sure I cannot think how respectable people can put up with -that smell of whisky. Did you say sherry? Well, sherry is very near as -bad taken at all hours.”</p> - -<p>What Miss Beenie said now was: “I wish the doctor would take a cup of -tea or even a little broth instead of that wine. No doubt he wants -support with all he has to do; but the other would be far better for -him.”</p> - -<p>This will show how the relations had improved. He had brought Miss -Dempster “through.” Instead of her bedroom at the back of the house, -which allowed of little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> diversion, she had got so far as to be removed -to the drawing-room, and lie on the sofa for the greater part of the -day. It was a great improvement, and people who knew no better believed -that the old lady was getting better. Miss Beenie was warmly of this -opinion; she held it with such heat indeed that she might have been -supposed to be not so certain as she said.</p> - -<p>But Miss Dempster and the doctor knew better. The old lady was more than -ever distressed that Providence had not taken better care of the affairs -of Effie Ogilvie. It was this she was saying to Ronald, as he sat beside -her. He had come over with some birds and a great bunch of hothouse -grapes. He was, as the reader may remember, a connection—even, Miss -Beenie said, a <i>near</i> connection: and the ladies had been good to him in -his early youth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, it was a great peety,” Miss Dempster said. “I am not grudging your -uncle Dauvid a day of his life, honest man—but the three last months is -never much of a boon, as I know by myself. It would have done him no -harm, and you a great deal of good. But there’s just a kind of a -blundering in these things that is very hard to understand.”</p> - -<p>“The chances are it would have made no difference,” said the young man, -“so there is nothing to be said.”</p> - -<p>“It would have made a great difference; but we’ll say nothing, all the -same. And so you’re asked to the wedding? Well, that woman is not blate. -She’s interfered with the course of nature and thinks no shame: but -perhaps she will get her punishment sooner than she’s looking for. They -tell me,” said the old lady, “that the Diroms have had losses, and that -probably they will have to leave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> Allonby, and come down in their grand -way of living. I will say that of Janet Ogilvie that she has a great -spirit; she’ll set her face like a rock. The wedding will be just as -grand and as much fuss made, and nobody will hear a word from her; she -is a woman that can keep her own counsel. But she’ll be gnashing her -teeth all the same. She will just be in despair that she cannot get out -of it. Oh, I know her well! If it had been three months off instead of -three weeks, she would have shaken him off. I have always said Effie’s -heart was not in it; but however her heart had been in it, her -stepmother would have had her way.”</p> - -<p>“We must be charitable, we must think ill of nobody,” said Miss Beenie. -“I’m too thankful, for my part, to say an ill word, now you’re getting -well again.”</p> - -<p>“She might have done all that and done nothing wrong,” said Miss -Dempster<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> sharply. And then Ronald rose to go away; he had no desire to -hear such possibilities discussed. If it had not been for Eric’s -expected arrival he would have gone away before now. It was nothing but -misery, he said to himself, to see Effie, and to think that had he been -three months sooner, as his old friends said!</p> - -<p>But no, he would not believe that; it was injurious to Effie to think -that the first who appeared was her choice. He grew red and hot with -generous shame and contempt of himself when he thought that this was -what he was attributing to one so spotless and so true. The fact that -she had consented to marry Fred Dirom, was not that enough to prove his -merit, to prove that she would never have regarded any other? What did -it not say for a man, the fact that he had been chosen by Effie? It was -the finest proof that he was everything a man could be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span></p> - -<p>Ronald had never seen this happy hero. No doubt there had been surgings -of heart against him, and fits of sorrowful fury when he first knew; but -the idea that he was Effie’s choice silenced the young man. He himself -could have nothing to do with that, he had not even the right to -complain. He had to stand aside and see it accomplished. All that the -old lady said about the chances of the three months too late was folly. -It was one of the strange ways of women that they should think so. It -was a wrong to Effie, who not by any guidance of chance, not because (oh -horror!) this Dirom fellow was the first to ask her, for nothing but -pure love and preference (of which no man was worthy) had chosen him -from the world.</p> - -<p>Ronald, thinking these thoughts, which were not cheerful, walked down -the slope between the laurel hedges with steps much slower and less -decided than his ordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> manly tread. He was a very different type of -humanity from Fred Dirom—not nearly so clever, be it said, knowing not -half so much, handsomer, taller, and stronger, without any subtlety -about him or power of divination, seeing very clearly what was before -him with a pair of keen and clear blue eyes, straightforward as an -arrow; but with no genius for complication nor much knowledge of the -modifying effect of circumstances. He liked or he did not like, he -approved or he did not approve: and all of these things strenuously, -with the force of a nature which was entirely honest, and knew no guile.</p> - -<p>Such a man regards a decision as irrevocable, he understands no playing -with possibilities. It did not occur to him to make any effort to shake -Effie’s allegiance to her betrothed, or to trouble her with any -disclosure of his own sentiments. He accepted what was, with that belief -in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> certainty of events which belongs to what is called the -practical or positive nature in the new jargon, to the simple and -primitive mind, that is to say. Ronald, who was himself as honest as the -day, considered it the first principle in existence that his -fellow-creatures were honest too, that they meant what they said, and -when they had decided upon a course of action did not intend to be -turned from it, whatever it might cost to carry it out.</p> - -<p>Therefore it was not in this straightforward young man to understand all -the commotion which was in poor little Effie’s mind when she avoided -him, cast down her eyes not to meet his, and made the shortest answers -to the few remarks he ventured to address to her. It hurt him that she -should be so distant, making him wonder whether she thought so little of -him as to suppose that he would give her any annoy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span>ance, say anything or -even look anything to disturb her mind.</p> - -<p>How little she knew him! but not so little as he knew her. They met this -day, as fate would have it, at the gate of Rosebank, and were obliged to -stop and talk for a minute, and even to walk along with each other for -the few steps during which their road lay in the same direction. They -did not know what to say to each other; he because he knew his mind so -well, she because she knew hers so imperfectly, and felt her position so -much.</p> - -<p>Effie was in so strange a condition that it seemed to her she would like -to tell Ronald everything: how she was going to marry Fred she could not -tell why—because she had not liked to give him pain by refusing him, -because she seemed not to be able to do anything else. She did not know -why she wanted to tell this to Ronald, which she would not have done to -anyone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> else. There seemed to be some reason why he should know the real -state of affairs, a sort of apology to make, an explanation—she could -not tell what.</p> - -<p>But when they stood face to face, neither Ronald nor she could find -anything to say. He gave the report of Miss Dempster that she was a -little better; that was the bulletin which by tacit agreement was always -given—she was a little better, but still a great invalid. When that -subject was exhausted, they took refuge in Eric. When was he expected? -though the consciousness in both their minds that it was for the wedding -he was coming, was a sad obstacle to speech.</p> - -<p>“He is expected in three weeks. He is starting, I suppose, now,” Effie -said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he must be starting now——” And then they both paused, with the -strongest realization of the scene that would ensue. Effie saw herself a -bride far more clearly at that moment through the eyes, so to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> speak, of -Ronald, than she ever had through those of the man who was to be her -husband.</p> - -<p>“I think I shall go back with him when he goes,” said Ronald, “if I -don’t start before.”</p> - -<p>“Are you going back?”</p> - -<p>He smiled as if it had been very ridiculous to ask him such a question.</p> - -<p>“What else,” he said—there seemed a sort of sad scorn in the -inquiry—“What else is left for me to do?” Perhaps he would have liked -to put it more strongly—What else have you left me to do?</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry,” said Effie, “I thought——” and then she abandoned -this subject altogether. “Do you think Eric will see much change?” she -said.</p> - -<p>“Eric! Oh, yes; he will see a great deal of change. The country and all -look the same to be sure; it is the people who alter. He will see a -great deal of change in you, Miss Ogilvie.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Effie looked up with tears starting in her eyes as if he had given her a -sudden blow.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Ronald! why do you call me that—am I not Effie—always——” And -there came a little sob in her throat, stopping further utterance.</p> - -<p>He looked as if he could have cried too, but smiled instead strangely, -and said, “When you have—another name, how am I to call you by that? I -must try and begin now.”</p> - -<p>“But I shall always be Effie, always,” she said.</p> - -<p>Ronald did not make any reply. He raised his hands in a momentary -protestation, and gave her a look which said more than he had ever said -in words. And then they walked on a few steps together in silence, and -then stopped and shook hands silently with a mutual impulse, and said to -each other “good-bye.”</p> - -<p>When Effie got near home, still full of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> agitation from this strange -little opening and closing of she knew not what—some secret page in her -own history, inscribed with a record she had known nothing of—she met -her stepmother, who was returning very alert and business-like from a -walk.</p> - -<p>“What have you been saying to Ronald?” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “to make him -look so grave? I saw him turn the corner, and I thought he had seen a -ghost, poor lad; but afterwards it proved to be only you. You should not -be so severe: for he has liked you long, though you knew nothing about -it; and it must have been very hard upon him, poor fellow, to find that -he had come home just too late, and that you had been snapped up, as a -person may say, under his very nose.”</p> - -<p>This was so strange an address that it took away Effie’s breath. She -gave her stepmother a look half stupified, half horrified. “I don’t know -what you mean,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, Effie, my dear, you must just learn; and I don’t think you will -find it very difficult, if you will give your attention to it. I have -been wanting to speak to you for two or three days, and your father too. -You must not trouble about Fred Dirom any more. I have never been quite -satisfied in my own mind that your heart was in it, if he had not been -so pressing and pushing, and, as we all thought, such a good match. But -you see it turns out that’s not the case, Effie. I got a letter -yesterday from my cousin John; and it’s all true about Dirom’s firm. -They are just going down hill as fast as can be, and probably by this -time they’ve failed. Though you don’t know about business, you know what -that means. It is just the end of all things; and to hold the young man -to his promise in such circumstances would be out of the question. We -are quite agreed upon that, both your father and me. So, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> dear Effie, -you are free. It mightn’t have become you to take steps; so your father -and me—we have acted for you; and now you are free.”</p> - -<p>Effie stopped short in the road, and stared at the speaker aghast. If -her heart gave a little leap to hear that word, it was merely an -instinctive movement, and meant nothing. Her mind was full of -consternation. She was confounded by the suddenness, by the strangeness -of the communication.</p> - -<p>Free! What did it mean, and why was it? Free! She repeated the word to -herself after a while, still looking at her stepmother. It was but a -single little word. It meant—what? The world seemed to go round and -round with Effie, the dim November skies, the gray of the wintry -afternoon, the red shaft of the setting sun beyond—all whirled about -her. “Free!” She repeated it as an infant repeats a foreign word without -knowing what it means.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “don’t let us have any pretences: that -is all I ask of you. Just face the thing honestly, and don’t let us have -any make-believe. If you tell me that you are deep in love with Fred -Dirom and can’t give him up, I will just not believe you. All I will -think is that you are a little cutty, and have no heart at all. I was -very glad you should make such a good match; but I could see all along -your heart was not in it. And whatever he might say, I made no doubt but -you would be thankful. So let us have none of your little deceptions -here.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I understand,” said Effie, striving to speak. “I think I -must have lost my senses or my hearing, or something. What was it you -were saying? They say people call things by wrong names sometimes, and -can’t help it. Perhaps they hear wrong, too. What is it that you mean?”</p> - -<p>“You know perfectly well what I mean,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span>” said Mrs. Ogilvie, with some -exasperation; “I have just written breaking off your marriage—is that -plain enough? I’ve done it under your father’s orders. It was he that -accepted and I’m thinking it’s he that has a right to refuse—It’s all -broken off—I cannot speak any plainer. Now, do you understand what I -say?”</p> - -<p>Effie had grown very pale—she shivered as if with cold—her lips -quivered when she began to speak.</p> - -<p>“And that is,” she said, “because he has failed—because he is not a -good match now, but a poor man—is that what it is?”</p> - -<p>“If you like to put it in that broad way. Of course he is not in a -condition to marry any longer. It is the kindest thing we can do——”</p> - -<p>“Give me your letter,” said Effie, holding out her hand. There was -something threatening, something dangerous, about the girl, which made -Mrs. Ogilvie scream out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span></p> - -<p>“My letter! I am not in the habit of showing my letters to anybody but -your father. And even if I was disposed to show it I cannot, for I’ve -just been to the post and put it in with my own hand. And by this time -it is stamped and in the bag to go away. So you must take my description -of it. I will be very happy to tell you all I have said.”</p> - -<p>“You have just been to the post to put it in!” Effie repeated the words, -her eyes growing larger every moment, her face more ghastly. Then she -gave a strange cry like a wounded creature, and turned and flew back -towards the village neither pausing nor looking behind her, without a -word more. Mrs. Ogilvie stood for a time, her own heart beating a little -faster than usual, and a choking sensation in her throat.</p> - -<p>“Effie, Effie!” she cried after her—but Effie took no notice. She went -along<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> through the dim air like a flying shadow, and soon was out of -sight, taking no time either for breath or thought. Where had she gone? -wherever she went, what could she do? It was for her good; all through -it had been for her good. If she mistook at first, yet after she must -come round.</p> - -<p>Effie had fled in the opposite direction to Allonby. Where was she -going? what could she do? Mrs. Ogilvie made a rapid glance at the -possibilities and decided that there was really nothing which the girl -could do. She drew a long breath to relieve the oppression which in -spite of herself had seized upon her, the sudden panic and alarm.</p> - -<p>What could Effie do?—just nothing! She would run and tell her Uncle -John, but though the minister was a man full of crotchets he was still -more or less a man of sense, and he had never been very keen on the -match. He would speak to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> sensibly and she would see it when he said -it, though not when Mrs. Ogilvie said it: and she would come home.</p> - -<p>And then Ronald would get another invitation to his dinner. It was all -as simple as A B C.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Moubray</span> was in his study, in the gray of the winter’s afternoon. It -is never a very cheerful moment. The fire was burning brightly, the room -was warm and pleasant, with plenty of books, and many associations; but -it was a pensive moment, too dark for reading, when there is nothing to -do but to think. And though a man who has begun to grow old, and who is -solitary, may be very happy thinking, yet it is a pensive pleasure. He -was sitting very quietly, looking out at the shaft of red gold in the -west where the sun had disappeared, and watching the light as it stole -away, each moment a little less, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> little less brilliant, till it sank -altogether in the gray.</p> - -<p>To eyes “that have kept watch o’er man’s mortality” there is always an -interest in that sight: one going out is so like another: the slow -lessening, the final disappearance have an interest that never fails. -And the minister can scarcely be said to have been thinking. He was -watching, as he had watched at many a death-bed, the slow extinction, -the going away. Whether it is a sun or a life that is setting, that last -ineffable moment of disappearance cannot but convey a thrill to the -heart.</p> - -<p>This was how he was seated, meditating in the profoundest tranquillity -when, all at once, the door flew open, and a young figure full of -agitation, in all the force of life and passion, a creature all alive to -the very finger points, to the hem of her skirts, to the crown of her -wind-blown<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> hair, burst in breathless, an emblem of disturbance, of -conflict, in short, of existence in contrast with the calm of -contemplation.</p> - -<p>She stood for a moment before him, but only as if under protest, pausing -perforce for breath, “Uncle John,” she cried, panting, “come, come with -me! I want to tell you, I want to ask you—you must help me—to stop -something. But, oh, I can’t wait to explain; come with me, come with me! -and I’ll tell you on the way——”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Effie?” He got up hastily; but though her influence was -strong, it was not strong enough to prevent him from asking an -explanation before he obeyed it.</p> - -<p>She caught at his arm in her impatience, “Oh, Uncle John, come—come -away! I’ll tell you on the road—oh, come away—there is not a moment, -not a moment! to lose——”</p> - -<p>“Is anybody ill?” he said. She con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span>tinued to hold his arm, not as a -means of support, but by way of pushing him on, which she did, scarcely -leaving him a moment to get his hat. Her impetuosity reminded him so -much of many a childish raid made into his house that, notwithstanding -his alarm, he smiled.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, there is nobody ill, it is much, much worse than that, Uncle -John. Oh, don’t smile as if you thought I was joking! It’s just -desperation. There is a letter that Mrs. Ogilvie has written, and I -must, I must—get it back from the post, or I will die. Oh, come! come! -before it is too late.”</p> - -<p>“Get a letter back from the post!——”</p> - -<p>He turned in spite of Effie’s urgency at the manse door. It stood high, -and the cheerful lights were beginning to shine in the village windows -below, among which the shop and post-office was conspicuous with its two -bright paraffin lamps.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span></p> - -<p>“But that is impossible,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said the girl. “Oh, Uncle John, come quick, come quick! and -you will see that we must have it. Mrs. Moffatt will give it when she -sees you. Not for me, perhaps, but for you. You will say that something -has been forgotten, that another word has to be put in, that—oh, Uncle -John when we are there it will come into our heads what to say——”</p> - -<p>“Take no thought beforehand what you shall speak, Effie,” said the -minister, half smiling, half admonishing; “is it so serious as that?”</p> - -<p>He suffered her to lead him down the slope of the manse garden, out upon -the road, her light figure foremost, clinging to his arm, yet moving him -along; he, heavier, with so much of passive resistance as his large -frame, and only half responsive will, gave.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” she cried, “it is as serious as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> that. Uncle John, was not -that what our Lord said when His men that He sent out were to stand for -Him and not to forsake Him? And to desert your friends when they are in -trouble, to turn your back upon them when they need you, to give them up -because they are poor, because they are unfortunate, because they have -lost everything but you——”</p> - -<p>She was holding his arm so closely, urging him on, that he felt the -heaving of her heart against his side, the tremor of earnestness in her -whole frame as she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Effie, my little girl! what strait are you in, that you are driven to -use words like these?”</p> - -<p>Her voice sounded like a sob in her throat, which was parched with -excitement.</p> - -<p>“I am in this strait, Uncle John, that he has lost everything, and they -have written to say I take back my word. No,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> no, no,” cried Effie, -forcing on with feverish haste the larger shadow by her side. “I will -never do it—it shall not be. They made me take him when he was rich, -and now that he is poor I will stand by him till I die.”</p> - -<p>“My little Effie!” was all the minister said. She still hurried him -along, but yet he half carried her with an arm round her slender figure. -What with agitation and the unaccustomed conflict in her mind, Effie’s -slight physical frame was failing her. It was her heart and soul that -were pushing on. Her brain swam, the village lights fluttered in her -eyes, her voice had gone altogether, lost in the climbing sob which was -at once breath and utterance. She was unconscious of everything save her -one object, to be in time, to recover the letter, to avert that cowardly -blow.</p> - -<p>But when Effie came to herself in the little shop with its close -atmosphere, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> smell of the paraffin, the dazzling glare of the light, -under the astonished gaze of Mrs. Moffatt the postmistress, who stood at -her counter stamping the letters spread out before her, and who stopped -short, bewildered by the sudden entrance of so much passion, of -something entirely out of the ordinary, which she felt, but could not -understand—the girl could bring forth nothing from that slender, -convulsed throat but a gasp. It was Mr. Moubray who spoke.</p> - -<p>“My niece wishes you to give her back a letter—a letter in which -something must be altered, something added: a letter with the Gilston -stamp.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, Mr. Moubray! but I canna do that,” the postmistress cried.</p> - -<p>“Why can’t you do it? I am here to keep you free of blame. There is no -harm in it. Give her back her letter, and she will add what she wishes -to add.”</p> - -<p>“Is it Miss Effie’s own letter? I’m no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> sure it’s just right even in -that point of view. Folk should ken their own minds,” said Mrs. Moffatt, -shuffling the letters about with her hands, “before they put pen to -paper. If I did it for ane, I would have to do it for a’ that ask. And -where would I be then? I would just never be done——”</p> - -<p>“Let us hope there are but few that are so important: and my niece is -not just any one,” said the minister, with a little natural -self-assertion. “I will clear you of the blame if there is any blame.”</p> - -<p>“I am not saying but what Miss Effie—— Still the post-office is just -like the grave, Mr. Moubray, what’s put in canna be taken out. Na, I do -not think I can do it, if it was for the Queen hersel’.”</p> - -<p>Effie had not stood still while this conversation was going on; she had -taken the matter into her own hands, and was turning over the letters -with her trembling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> fingers without waiting for any permission.</p> - -<p>“Na, Miss Effie; na, Miss Effie,” said the postmistress, trying to -withdraw them from her. But Effie paid no attention. Her extreme and -passionate agitation was such that even official zeal, though -strengthened by ignorance, could not stand before it. Notwithstanding -all Mrs. Moffatt’s efforts, the girl examined everything with a swift -desperation and keenness which contrasted strangely with her incapacity -to see or know anything besides. It was not till she had turned over -every one that she flung up her hands with a cry of dismay, and fell -back upon the shoulder of the minister, who had held her all the time -with his arm.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle John! oh, Uncle John!” she cried with a voice of despair.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it has not been sent, Effie. It was only a threat perhaps. It -might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> be said to see how you felt. Rest a little, and then we will -think what to do——”</p> - -<p>“I will have to go,” she said, struggling from him, getting out to the -door of the shop. “Oh, I cannot breathe! Uncle John, when does the train -go?”</p> - -<p>“My dear child!”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John, what time does the train go? No, I will not listen,” said -the girl. The fresh air revived her, and she hurried along a little way: -but soon her limbs failed her, and she dropped down trembling upon the -stone seat in front of one of the cottages. There she sat for a few -minutes, taking off her hat, putting back her hair from her forehead -instinctively, as if that would relieve the pressure on her heart.</p> - -<p>She was still for a moment, and then burst forth again: “I must go. Oh, -you are not to say a word. Do you know what it is to love some one, -Uncle John? Yes, <i>you</i> know. It is only a few who can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> tell what that -is. Well,” she said, the sob in her throat interrupting her, making her -voice sound like the voice of a child; “that is how he thinks of me; you -will think it strange. He is not like a serious man, you will say, to -feel so; but he does. Not me! oh, not me!” said Effie, contending with -the sob; “I am not like that. But he does. I am not so stupid, nor so -insensible, but I know it when I see it, Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Effie, I never doubted it; he loves you dearly, poor fellow. My -dear little girl, there is time enough to set all right——”</p> - -<p>“To set it right! If he hears just at the moment of his trouble that -I—that I—— What is the word when a woman is a traitor? Is there such -a thing as that a girl should be a traitor to one that puts his trust in -her? I never pretended to be like <i>that</i>, Uncle John. He knew that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> -was different with me. But true—Oh, I can be true. More, more! <i>I can’t -be false.</i> Do you hear me? <i>You</i> brought me up, how could I? I can’t be -false; it will kill me. I would rather die——”</p> - -<p>“Effie! Effie! No one would have you to be false. Compose yourself, my -dear. Come home with me and I will speak to them, and everything will -come right. There cannot be any harm done yet. Effie, my poor little -girl, come home.”</p> - -<p>Effie did not move, except to put back as before her hair from her -forehead.</p> - -<p>“I know,” she said, “that there is no hurry, that the train does not go -till night. I will tell you everything as if you were my mother, Uncle -John. You are the nearest to her. I was silly—I never thought:—but I -was proud too. Girls are made like that: and just to be praised and made -much of pleases us; and to have somebody that thinks there is no one in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> -the world like you—for that,” she said, with a little pause, and a -voice full of awe, “is what he thinks of me. It is very strange, but it -is true. And if I were to let him think for a moment—oh, for one -moment!—that the girl he thought so much of would cast him off, because -he was poor!——”</p> - -<p>Effie sprang up from her seat in the excitement of this thought. She -turned upon her uncle, with her face shining, her head held high.</p> - -<p>“Do you think I could let him think that for an hour? for a day? Oh, no! -no! Yes, I will go home to get my cloak and a bonnet, for you cannot go -to London just in a little hat like mine; but don’t say to me, Uncle -John, that I must not do it, for I <small>WILL</small>.”</p> - -<p>She took his arm again in the force of this resolution. Then she added, -in the tone of one who is conceding a great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> favour: “But you may come -with me if you like.”</p> - -<p>Between the real feeling which her words had roused in him and the -humour of this permission, Mr. Moubray scarcely knew how to reply. He -said: “I would not advise you to go, Effie. It will be better for me to -go in your place if anyone must go; but is that necessary? Let us go -quietly home in the meantime. You owe something to your father, my dear; -you must not take a step like this without his knowledge at least.”</p> - -<p>“If you are going to betray me to Mrs. Ogilvie, Uncle John——”</p> - -<p>“My little Effie, there is no question of betrayal. There is no need for -running away, for acting as if you were oppressed at home. You have -never been oppressed at home, my dear. If Mrs. Ogilvie has written to -Mr. Dirom, at least she was honest and told you. And you must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> -honest. It must all be spoken of on the true ground, which is that you -can do only what is right, Effie.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle John,” cried Effie, “if to give up Fred is right, then I will not -do it—whatever you say, I will not do it. He may never want me in my -life again, but he wants me now. Abandon him because he is in need of -me! Oh, could you believe it of Effie? And if you say it is wrong, I do -not care, I will do it. I will not desert him when he is poor, not for -all the—not for anybody in the world——”</p> - -<p>“Is that Effie that is speaking so loud? is that you, John?”</p> - -<p>This was the voice of Mr. Ogilvie himself, which suddenly rose out of -the dim evening air close by. They had gone along in their excitement -scarce knowing where they went, or how near they were to the house, and -now, close to the dark shrubberies, encountered suddenly Effie’s -father,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> who, somewhat against his own will, had come out to look for -her.</p> - -<p>His wife had been anxious, which he thought absurd, and he had been -driven out rather by impatience of her continual inquiries: “I wonder -where that girl has gone. I wonder what she is doing. Dear me, Robert, -if you will not go out and look after her, I will just have to do it -myself,”—than from any other motive. Effie’s declaration had been made -accordingly to other ears than those she intended; and her father’s slow -but hot temper was roused.</p> - -<p>“I would like to know,” he said, “for what reason it is that you are out -so late as this, and going hectoring about the roads like a play-acting -woman? John, you might have more sense than to encourage her in such -behaviour. Go home to your mother this moment, Effie, and let me hear no -such language out of your head. I will not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> ask what it’s about. I have -nothing to say to women’s quarrels. Go home, I tell you, to your -mother.”</p> - -<p>Effie had caught with both her hands her uncle’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish that I could—Oh, if I only could,” she cried, “that would -make all clear.”</p> - -<p>“Ogilvie, she is in a state of great excitement—I hope you will set her -mind at rest. I tell her she shall be forced to nothing. You are not the -man, though you may be a little careless, to permit any tyranny over -your child.”</p> - -<p>“Me, careless! You are civil,” said the father. “Just you recollect, -John Moubray, that I will have no interference—if you were the minister -ten times over, and her uncle to the boot. I am well able to look after -my own family and concerns. Effie, go home.”</p> - -<p>Effie said nothing; but she stood still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> clinging to her uncle’s arm. -She would not advance though he tried to draw her towards the gate, nor -would she make any reply: she wound her arms about his, and held him -fast. She had carried him along with the force of her young passion; but -he could not move her. Her brain was whirling, her whole being in the -wildest commotion. Her intelligence had partially given way, but her -power of resistance was strong.</p> - -<p>“Effie,” he said softly, “come home. My dear, you must let your father -see what is in your mind. How is he to learn if you will not tell him? -Effie! for my part, I will do whatever you please,” he said in a low -tone in her ear. “I promise to go to him if you wish it—only obey your -father and come home.”</p> - -<p>“Go home this moment to your mother,” Mr. Ogilvie repeated. “Is this a -time to be wandering about the world? She may<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> just keep her mind to -herself, John Moubray. I’ll have nothing to say to women’s quarrels, and -if you are a wise man you will do the same. Effie, go home.”</p> - -<p>Effie paused a moment between the two, one of whom repulsed her, while -the other did no more than soothe and still her excitement as best he -could. She was not capable of being soothed. The fire and passion in her -veins required an outlet. She was so young, unaccustomed to emotion. She -would not yield to do nothing, that hard part which women in so many -circumstances have to play.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she loosed her arms from that of the minister, and without a -word, in an instant, before anything could be said, darted away from -them into the gathering night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“We</span> were just bringing her back. No doubt she has darted in at the side -door—she was always a hasty creature—and got into her own room. That’s -where ye will find her. I cannot tell you what has come over the monkey. -She is just out of what little wits she ever had.”</p> - -<p>“I can tell very well what has come over her,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “She -is just wild that I have interfered, which it was my clear duty to do. -If she had been heart and soul in the matter it would have been -different—but she was never that. These old cats at Rosebank, they -thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> there was nobody saw it but themselves; but I saw it well -enough.”</p> - -<p>“In that case,” said Mr. Moubray, “perhaps it would have been better to -interfere sooner. I wish you would send some one to see if Effie is -really there.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I have interfered sooner? If everything had gone well, it -was such a match as Effie had no chance of making; but when it turned -out that it was a mistake, and the other there breaking his heart, that -had always been more suitable, and her with no heart in it——” Mrs. -Ogilvie paused for a moment in the satisfaction of triumphant -self-vindication. “But if you’re just sentimental and childish and come -in my way, you bind her to a bankrupt that she does not care for, -because of what you call honour—honour is all very well,” said Mrs. -Ogilvie, “for men; but whoever supposes that a bit little creature of a -girl<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Will ye go and see if Effie is in her room?” said her husband -impatiently.</p> - -<p>“Ye may just ring the bell, Robert, and send one of the maids to see; -what would I do with her? If I said anything it would only make her -worse. I am not one of the people that shilly shally. I just act, and am -done with it. I’m very glad I put in my letter myself that it might go -in the first bag. But if you will take my advice you will just let her -be: at this moment she could not bear the sight of me, and I’m not -blaming her. I’ve taken it in my own hands, at my own risk, and if she’s -angry I’m not surprised. Let her be. She will come to herself -by-and-bye, and at the bottom of her heart she will be very well -pleased, and then I will ask Ronald Sutherland to his dinner, and -then——”</p> - -<p>“I wish,” said Mr. Moubray, “you would ease my mind at least by making -sure that Effie has really come in. I have a mis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span>giving, which is -perhaps foolish: I will go myself if you will let me.”</p> - -<p>“No need for that,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, ringing the bell. “George, you -will send Margaret to tell Miss Effie—but what am I to tell her? that -is just the question. She will not want anything to say to me, and she -will perhaps think—— You will say just that her uncle wants her, that -will be the best thing to say.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause while George departed on his errand: not that Mrs. -Ogilvie had nothing to say or was affected by the anxiety of others. It -had indeed been a relief to her when her husband informed her that -Effie, no doubt, had come in and was in her own room. The stepmother, -who had been a little uneasy before, took this for granted with a sigh -of relief, and felt that a certain little danger which she had not -defined to herself was over.</p> - -<p>And now that the alarm was past, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> that she had put forth her -defence, it seemed better not to dwell upon this subject. Better to let -it drop, she said to herself, better to let Effie think that it was over -and nothing more to be made of it. Mrs. Ogilvie was a woman without -temper and never ill-natured. She was very willing to let it drop. That -she should receive her stepdaughter as if nothing had happened was -clearly the right way. Therefore, though she had a thousand things now -to say, and could have justified her proceedings in volumes, she decided -not to do so; for she could also be self-denying when it was expedient -so to be.</p> - -<p>There was therefore a pause. Mr. Moubray sat with his eyes fixed on the -door and a great disquietude in his mind. He was asking himself what, if -she appeared, he could do. Must he promise her her lover, as he would -promise a child a plaything? must he ignore altogether the not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> -unreasonable reasons which Mrs. Ogilvie had produced in justification of -her conduct? They were abhorrent to his mind, as well as to that of -Effie, yet from her point of view they were not unreasonable. But if -Effie was not there? Mr. Ogilvie said nothing at all, but he walked from -one end of the room to another working his shaggy eyebrows. It was -evident he was not so tranquil in his mind as he had pretended to be.</p> - -<p>Presently Margaret the housemaid appeared, after a modest tap at the -door. “Miss Effie is not in her room, mem,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Not in her room? are you quite sure? Perhaps she is in the library -waiting for her papa; perhaps she is in the nursery with Rory. She may -even have gone into the kitchen, to speak a word to old Mary, or to -Pirie’s cottage to see if there are any flowers. You will find her -somewhere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> if you look. Quick, quick, and tell her the minister wants -her. You are sure, both of you gentlemen, that you saw her come in at -the gate?”</p> - -<p>“No doubt she came in,” said Mr. Ogilvie with irritation; “where else -would she go at this time of night?”</p> - -<p>“I am not sure at all,” said Mr. Moubray, rising up, “I never thought -so: and here I have been sitting losing time. I will go myself to -Pirie’s cottage—and after that——”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to be frightened about,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, rising -too; “if she’s not at Pirie’s she will be at Rosebank, or else she will -be in one of the cottages, or else—bless me, there are twenty places -she may be, and nothing to make a panic about.”</p> - -<p>The minister went out in the middle of this speech waving his hand to -her as he went away, and she followed him to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> door, calling out her -consolations across the passage. She met her husband, who was about to -follow, as she turned back, and caught his arm with her hands.</p> - -<p>“Robert, you’re not in this daft excitement too? Where in the world -would she go to, as you say? She’ll just have run somewhere in her pet, -not to see me. There can be nothing to be terrified about.”</p> - -<p>“You have a way,” cried the husband, “of talking, talking, that a person -would fly to the uttermost parts of the airth to get free o’ ye. Let me -go! Effie’s young and silly. She may run we know not where, or she may -catch a cold to kill her, which is the least of it. Let me go.”</p> - -<p>“Sit down in your own chair by your own fireside, and listen to me,” -said the wife. “Why should you go on a fool’s errand? one’s enough for -that. Did Effie ever give you any real vexation all her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> life? No, -truly, and why should she begin now? She will be taking a walk, or she -will be complaining of me to the Miss Dempsters, or something of that -innocent kind. Just you let her be. What did she ever do to give you a -bad opinion of her? No, no, she’s come out of a good stock, and she’ll -come to no harm.”</p> - -<p>“There is something in that,” Mr. Ogilvie said. He was not ill disposed -to sit down in his own chair by his own fireside and take his ease, and -accept the assurance that Effie would come to no harm.</p> - -<p>But when she had thus quieted her husband and disposed of him, Mrs. -Ogilvie herself stole out in the dark, first to the house door, then -through the ghostly shrubberies to the gate, to see if there was any -trace visible of the fugitive. She was not so tranquil as she pretended -to be. Effie’s look of consternation and horror was still in her eyes, -and she had a sense of guilt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> which she could not shake off. But yet -there were so many good reasons for doing what she had done, so many -excuses, nay, laudable motives, things that called for immediate action.</p> - -<p>“To marry a man you don’t care about, when there is no advantage in it, -what a dreadful thing to do. How could I look on and let that little -thing make such a sacrifice? and when any person with the least -perception could see her heart was not in it. And Ronald, him that she -just had a natural bias to, that was just the most suitable match, not a -great <i>parti</i> like what we all thought young Dirom, but well enough, and -her own kind of person!”</p> - -<p>It was thus she justified herself, and from her own point of view the -justification was complete. But yet she was not a happy woman as she -stood within the shadow of the big laurels, and looked out upon the -road, hoping every moment to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> see a slight shadow flit across the road, -and Effie steal in at the open gate. What could the little thing do? As -for running away, that was out of the question; and she was so young, -knowing nothing. What could she do? It was not possible she should come -to any harm.</p> - -<p>Mr. Moubray was more anxious still, for it seemed to him that he knew -very well what she would do. He walked about all the neighbouring roads, -and peeped into the cottages, and frightened the Miss Dempsters by going -up to their door, with heavy feet crushing the gravel at that -unaccustomed hour, for no reason but just to ask how the old lady was!</p> - -<p>“I must be worse than I think or the minister would never have come all -this way once-errand to inquire about me,” Miss Dempster said.</p> - -<p>“He would just see the light, and he would mind that he had made no -inquiries<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> for three days,” said Miss Beenie; but she too was -uncomfortable, and felt that there was more in this nocturnal visitation -than met the eye.</p> - -<p>It did not surprise Mr. Moubray that in all his searches he could find -no trace of his little girl. He thought he knew where he would find -her—on the platform of the little railway station, ready to get into -the train for London. And in the meantime his mind was full of thoughts -how to serve her best. He was not like the majority of people who are -ready enough to serve others according to what they themselves think -best. Uncle John, on the contrary, studied tenderly how he could help -Effie in the way she wished.</p> - -<p>He paused at the post-office, and sent off a telegram to Fred Dirom, -expressed as follows:—“You will receive to-morrow morning a letter from -Gilston. E. wishes you to know that it does not express her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> feeling, -that she stands fast whatever may happen.”</p> - -<p>When he had sent this he felt a certain tranquillising influence, as if -he had propitiated fate, and said to himself that when she heard what he -had done, she might perhaps be persuaded to come back. Then the minister -went home, put a few things into his old travelling bag, and told his -housekeeper that he was going to meet a friend at the train, and that -perhaps he might not return that night, or for two or three nights. When -he had done this, he made his evening prayer, in which you may be sure -his little Effie occupied the first place, and then set off the long -half-hour’s walk to the station.</p> - -<p>By this time it was late, and the train was due: but neither on the -platform, nor in the office, nor among those who stood on the alert to -jump into the train, could he find her. He was at last constrained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> to -believe that she was not there. Had she gone further to escape pursuit, -to the next station, where there would be nobody to stop her? He -upbraided himself deeply for letting the train go without him, after he -had watched it plunging away in the darkness, into the echoes of the -night. It seemed to thunder along through the great silence of the -country, waking a hundred reverberations as he stood there with his bag -in his hand, aghast, not knowing what to do. There had been time enough -for that poor little pilgrim to push her way to the next stopping place, -where she could get in unobserved.</p> - -<p>Was this what she had done? He felt as if he had abandoned his little -girl, deserted her, left her to take her first step in life unprotected, -as he went back. And then, as he neared the village, a flicker of hope -returned that she might, when left to herself, have come to a more -reasonable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> conclusion and gone home. He went back to Gilston, walking -very softly that his step might not disturb them, if the family were all -composed to rest. And for a moment his heart gave a bound of relief when -he saw something moving among the laurels within the gate.</p> - -<p>But it was only Mrs. Ogilvie, who stole out into the open, with a -suppressed cry: “Have you not found her?” “Has she come home?” he asked -in the same breath: then in the mutual pang of disappointment they stood -for a moment and looked at each other, asking no more.</p> - -<p>“I have got Robert to go to his bed,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “God forgive -me, I just deceived him, saying she was at the manse with you—which was -what I hoped—for what would have been the use of him wandering about, -exposing himself and getting more rheumatism, when there was you and me -to do all we could? And, oh!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> what shall we do, or where can I send now? -I am just at my wit’s end. She would not do any harm to herself, oh! -never! I cannot think it; and, besides, what would be the use? for she -always had it in her power to write to him, and say it was only me.”</p> - -<p>Then the minister explained what he had anticipated, and how he had -proved mistaken. “The only thing is, she might have gone on to Lamphray -thinking it would be quieter, and taken the train there.”</p> - -<p>“Lord bless us!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “If she has done that we can hear -nothing till—there is no saying when we may hear.”</p> - -<p>And though they were on different sides, and, so to speak, hostile -forces, these two people stood together for a moment with but one -thought, listening to every little echo, and every rustle, and the -cracking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> of the twigs, and the sound of the burn, all the soft -unreckoned noises of a silent night, but Effie’s step or breath was not -among them all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Effie</span> had darted away from the side of her father and uncle in one of -those <i>accès</i> of impatience which are common to the young and -inexperienced. She had no training in that science of endurance which is -one of the chief bulwarks of life. Everything had become intolerable to -her. She “could not bear it,” words which are so often said, but which -in most cases mean little more than the unavailing human cry against the -hardships to which we have all to submit, and which most of us learn -must be borne after all whatever may be the struggle. By times the -young, the unprepared, the undisciplined fly out and will not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> submit, -to the confusion of their own existence first, and that of all others -involved.</p> - -<p>Effie meant little more than this uncontrollable expression of -impatience, and sense of the intolerableness of the circumstances, when -she loosed her arm from that of Uncle John, and fled—she knew not -where. She was not far off, standing trembling and excited among the -shadows, while they called her and searched for her along the different -paths; and when they went hastily into the house on the supposition that -she had found her way there, her heart for a moment failed her, and an -inclination to realize their thoughts, to escape no farther than to the -seclusion and safety of her own room, crossed her mind like one of the -flying clouds that were traversing the sky. But not only her excitement -and rebellion against the treason which she was being compelled to, but -even her pride was now in arms, preventing any return.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span></p> - -<p>She stood among the trees, among the evening damps, for some time after -the gentlemen had disappeared, thought after thought coursing through -her brain. Her determination was unchanged to go South by the night -train, though she had no clear idea what was next to be done when she -should reach London, that great fabulous place where she had never been, -and of which she had not the faintest understanding. She would seek out -Fred, tell him that she would stand by him whatever his trouble might -be—that nothing should detach her from his side—that if he was poor -that was all the more reason.</p> - -<p>So far as this went, Effie knew what to say, her heart was full of -eloquence and fervour. The intermediate steps were difficult, but that -was easy. She had been shy with him and reticent, receiving what he -gave, listening to what he said, of herself giving little. But now a new -impulse<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> possessed her. She would throw herself heart and soul into his -fortunes. She would help him now that he needed her. She would be true, -ah! more than that as she had said—she could not be false—it was an -impossibility. Now that he was in need she was all his to work or watch, -to console or to cheer as might be most needful—his by the securest, -most urgent of bonds, by right of his necessities.</p> - -<p>The enthusiasm which she had never felt for Fred came now at the thought -of his poverty and loss. She could smile in the force of her resolution -at the folly of the woman who thought this would break the tie between -them; break it! when it made it like steel.</p> - -<p>This fire in her heart kept Effie warm, and glowed about her with a -semblance of passion; but first there was a difficult moment which she -did not know how to pass. Had the train gone at once all would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> have -been easy; but it would not go yet for hours, and she could not pass the -time standing on the damp grass, her feet getting wet, her damp skirts -clinging about her, the wintry dews dropping upon her, under those -trees. She began to think and ask herself where she would go to wait and -get a little warm before it should be time for the train.</p> - -<p>To Rosebank? but they were on the other side she reflected, with a vague -pang and misty passing realization of all that the other side meant. She -had been on the other side herself, against her will, till to-day; but -not now, oh, not now! She felt the pang, like a cutting asunder, a -tearing away; but would not dwell upon it, felt it only in passing. No, -she would not go into the atmosphere of the other side.</p> - -<p>And how could she go to the manse where Uncle John would beg and pray to -go in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span>stead of her, which was so very different; for Effie required not -only to demonstrate her strong faithfulness, but to keep it up, to keep -it in the state of passion.</p> - -<p>Then there suddenly came upon her a gleam of illumination. Yes! that was -the only place to go. To whom but to those who would suffer with him, -who would have need also of strengthening and encouragement, who had -such a change before them, and so much occasion for the support of their -friends—could Effie betake herself? It did not occur to her that Doris -and Phyllis, under the influence of depression and loss, were almost -inconceivable, and that to cheer them by the sympathy and backing up of -a little girl like herself, was something which the imagination failed -to grasp. Not that thought, but the difficulties of the way chilled her -a little. The dark, dark road over the brae which reached the waterside -close to the churchyard, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> little path by the river, the wide, -silent, solitary park—all this made her shiver a little.</p> - -<p>But she said to herself with a forlorn rallying of her forces that such -trifles mattered nothing, that she was beyond thinking of anything so -unimportant, that there was the place for her, that she must go to his -sisters to give them confidence, to comfort them on Fred’s account, to -say, “I am going to him, to stand by him.” They who knew him so well, -would know that when she said that, all was said, and Fred’s strength -and endurance secured.</p> - -<p>This decision was made very rapidly, the mental processes being so much -quicker than anything that is physical, so that the sound of the door -closing upon Mr. Ogilvie and Mr. Moubray had scarcely died out of the -echoes before she set forth. She walked very quickly and firmly so long -as it was the highroad, where there were cot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span>tage lights shining here -and there and an occasional passer-by, though she shrank from sight or -speech of any; but when she came to the darker by-way over the hill, it -was all Effie’s courage could do to keep her going.</p> - -<p>There was light in the sky, the soft glimmer of stars, but it did not -seem to get so far as the head of the brae, and still less down the -other side, where it descended towards the water. Down below at the -bottom of the ravine the water itself, indeed, was doubly clear; the sky -reflected in it with a wildness and pale light which was of itself -enough to frighten any one; but the descending path seemed to change and -waver in the great darkness of the world around, so that sometimes it -appeared to sink under Effie’s feet, receding and falling into an abyss -immeasurable, which re-acted upon the gloom, and made the descent seem -as steep as a precipice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span></p> - -<p>Her little figure, not distinguishable in the darkness, stumbling -downwards, not seeing the stones and bushes that came in her way, seemed -a hundred times as if about to fall down, down, into the depths, into -that dark clearness, the cold gulf of the stream. Sometimes she slid -downward a little, and then thought for a dizzy moment that all was -over—sometimes stumbled and felt that she was going down headlong, -always feeling herself alone, entirely alone, between the clear stars -overhead and the line of keen light below.</p> - -<p>Then there came the passage of the churchyard, which was full of -solemnity. Effie saw the little huddled mass of the old chapel against -the dim opening out of the valley in which the house of Allonby lay—and -it looked to her like a crouching figure watching among the dead, like, -perhaps, some shadow of Adam Fleming or his murdered Helen in the place -where she fell.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></p> - -<p>As soon as she got on level ground the girl flew along, all throbbing -and trembling with terror. Beyond lay the vague stretches of the park, -and the house rising in the midst of the spectral river mists, soft and -white, that filled it—the lights in the windows veiled and indistinct, -the whole silent, like a house of shadows. Her heart failed although she -went on, half flying, towards it, as to a refuge. Effie by this time had -almost forgotten Fred. She had forgotten everything except the terrors -of this unusual expedition, and the silence and solitude and all the -weird influences that seemed to be about her. She felt as if she was -outside of the world altogether, a little ghost wandering over the -surface of the earth. There seemed to be no voice in her to call out for -help against the darkness and the savage silence, through which she -could not even hear the trickle of the stream: nothing but her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> own -steps flying, and her own poor little bosom panting, throbbing, against -the unresponsive background of the night.</p> - -<p>Her footsteps too became inaudible as she got upon the turf and -approached close to Allonby. All was silent there also; there seemed no -sound at all as if any one was stirring, but only a dead house with -faint spectral lights in the windows.</p> - -<p>She stopped and took breath and came to herself, a little calmed by the -neighbourhood of a human habitation in which there must be some -inhabitants though she could not hear them. She came to herself more or -less, and the pulsations of terror in her ears beat less overwhelmingly, -so that she began to be able to think again, and ask herself what she -should do. To go to the great door, to wake all the echoes by knocking, -to be met by an unconcerned servant and ushered in as if she were an -ordinary visitor, all agitated and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> worn by emotion as she was, was -impossible.</p> - -<p>It seemed more natural, everything being out of rule, to steal round the -house till she found the window of the room in which the girls were -sitting, and make her little summons to them without those impossible -formalities, and be admitted so to their sole company. The lawn came -close up under the windows, and Effie crept round one side of the house, -finding all dark, with a feeling of discouragement as if she had been -repulsed. One large and broad window a little in advance showed, -however, against the darkness, and though she knew this could not be a -sitting-room, she stole on unconscious of any curiosity or possibility -of indiscretion, it being a matter of mere existence to find some one.</p> - -<p>The curtains were drawn half over the window, yet not so much but that -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> could see in. And the sight that met the girl’s astonished eyes was -one so strange and incomprehensible that it affected her like a vision.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dirom was sitting in the middle of the room in a deep easy chair, -with her head in her hands, to all appearance weeping bitterly, while a -man muffled in a rough loose coat stood with his back to her, opening -what seemed the door of a little cupboard in the wall close to the bed. -Effie gazed terror-stricken, wondering was it a robber, who was it? Mrs. -Dirom was making no resistance; she was only crying, her face buried in -her hands.</p> - -<p>The little door yielded at last, and showed to Effie dimly the shelves -of a safe crowded with dark indistinct objects. Then Mrs. Dirom rose up, -and taking some of these indistinct objects in her hands suddenly made -visible a blaze of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> diamonds which she seemed to press upon the man.</p> - -<p>He turned round to the light, as Effie, stooping, half kneeling on the -wet grass, gazed in, in a kind of trance, scarcely knowing what she did. -The coat in which he was muffled was large and rough, and a big muffler -hung loosely round his neck, but to the great astonishment of the young -spectator the face was that of Mr. Dirom himself. He seemed to laugh and -put away the case in which the diamonds were blazing.</p> - -<p>Then out of the further depths of the safe he brought a bundle of papers -over which he nodded his head a great many times as if with -satisfaction. At this moment something seemed to disturb them, some -sound apparently in the house, for they both looked towards the door, -and then the lamp was suddenly extinguished and Effie saw no more. It -was a curious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> scene—the diamonds lighting up the dim room, the woman -in tears offering them to the man, he refusing, holding his little -bundle of papers, the unusual dress, the air of excitement and emotion: -and then sudden darkness, nothing visible any more; yet the certainty -that these two people were there, without light, concealing themselves -and their proceedings, whatever these might be.</p> - -<p>Effie had looked on scarcely knowing why, unaware that she was prying -into other people’s concerns, suddenly attracted by the gleam of light, -by the comfort of feeling some one near. The putting out of the lamp -threw her back into her panic, yet changed it. She shrank away from the -window with a sudden fear of the house in which something strange, she -knew not what, was going on. Her mind was too much confused to ask what -it was, to make any representation to herself of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> what she had seen; but -the thought of these two people <i>in the dark</i> seemed to give a climax to -all the nameless terrors of the night.</p> - -<p>She went on by the side of the house, not knowing what to do, afraid now -to ask admission, doubly afraid to turn back again, lost in confusion of -mind and fatigue of body, which dimmed and drove out her original -distress.</p> - -<p>Now, however, she had come to the back regions in which the servants -were stirring, and before she was aware a loud “Who’s that?” and the -flash of a lantern upon her, brought her back to herself. It was the -grooms coming back from the stable who thus interrupted her forlorn -round.</p> - -<p>“Who’s that?—it’s a woman—it’s a lassie! Lord bless us, it’s Miss -Ogilvie!” they cried.</p> - -<p>Effie had sufficient consciousness to meet their curious inspection with -affected composure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I want to see Miss Dirom,” she said. “I lost my way in the dark; I -couldn’t find the door. Can I see Miss Dirom?”</p> - -<p>Her skirts were damp and clinging about her, her hair limp with the dews -of the night, her whole appearance wild and strange: but the eyes of the -grooms were not enlightened. They made no comments; one of them led her -to the proper entrance, another sent the proper official to open to her, -and presently she stood dazzled and tremulous in the room full of -softened firelight and taperlight, warm and soft and luxurious, as if -there was no trouble or mystery in the world, where Doris and Phyllis -sat in their usual animated idleness talking to each other. One of them -was lying at full length on a sofa, her arms about her head, her white -cashmere dress falling in the much esteemed folds which that pretty -material takes by nature; the other was seated on a stool before the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> -fire, her elbows on her knees. The sound of their voices discoursing -largely, softly, just as usual, was what Effie heard as the servant -opened the door.</p> - -<p>“Miss Ogilvie, did you say?—Effie!” They both gazed at her with -different manifestations of dramatic surprise—without, for the moment, -any other movement. Her appearance was astonishing at this hour, but -nothing else seemed to disturb the placidity of these young women. -Finally, Miss Phyllis rose from her stool in front of the fire.</p> - -<p>“She has eyes like stars, and her hair is all twinkling with dew—quite -a romantic figure. What a pity there is nobody to see it but Doris and -me! You don’t mean to say you have come walking all this way?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! what does it matter how I came?” cried Effie. “I came—because I -could not stay away. There was nobody else that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> was so near me. I came -to tell you—I am going to Fred.”</p> - -<p>“To Fred!” they both cried, Phyllis with a little scream of surprise, -Doris in a sort of inquiring tone, raising herself half from her sofa. -They both stared at her strangely. They had no more notion why she -should be going to Fred than the servant who had opened the door for -her—most likely much less—for there were many things unknown to the -young ladies which the servants knew.</p> - -<p>“Fred will be very much flattered,” said Doris. “But why are you going? -does he know? what is it for? is it for shopping? Have you made up your -mind, all at once, that you want another dress?—I should say two or -three, but that is neither here nor there. And what has put it so -suddenly into your head? And where are you going to stay? Are you sure -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span>your friends are in London at this time of the year——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Effie, restored out of her exhaustion and confusion in a -moment by this extraordinary speech, “is that all you think? a dress, -and shopping to do! when Fred is alone, when he is in trouble, when even -your father has deserted him—and his money gone, and his heart sore! -Oh, is that all you know? I am going to tell him that I will never -forsake him whatever others may do—that I am come to stand by him—that -I am come——”</p> - -<p>She stopped, not because she had no more to say, but because she lost -the control of her voice and could do nothing but sob—drawing her -breath convulsively, like a child that has wept its passion out, yet has -not recovered the spasmodic grip upon its throat.</p> - -<p>Phyllis and Doris looked at her with eyes more and more astonished and -critical. They spoke to each other, not to her. “She means it, do you -know, Dor!”</p> - -<p>“It is like a melodrama, Phyll—Good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span>ness, look at her! If we should -ever go on the stage——!”</p> - -<p>Effie heard the murmur of their voices, and turned her eyes from one to -another: but her head was light with the fumes of her own passion, which -had suddenly flared so high; and though she looked from one to another, -instinctively, she did not understand what they said.</p> - -<p>“And did you come to tell us this, so late, and all alone, you poor -little Effie? And how did you manage to get away? and how are you to get -back?”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Doris, “we must send her back. Don’t ask so many silly -questions, Phyll.”</p> - -<p>“I am not going back,” said Effie. “They would stop me if they knew. Oh, -will you send me to the train? for it is very dark and very wet, and I’m -frightened, it’s all so lonely. I never meant to trouble anybody. But -your father will be going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> too, and I would just sit in a corner and -never say a word. Oh, will you ask him to let me go with him to the -train?”</p> - -<p>“What does she mean about papa? The train! there is no one going to the -train. Do you mean to say that you—to-night—oh, you know you must be -dreaming; nothing like this is possible, Effie! You must go home, child, -and go to bed——”</p> - -<p>“To bed! and let him think that I’ve forsaken him—to let him get up -to-morrow morning and hear that Effie, because he is poor, has gone back -from her word? Oh! no, no, I cannot do it. If you will not send me, I -will just walk as I meant to do! I was frightened,” said Effie, with her -piteous little sob. “And then if your father is going—But it does not -matter after all, I will just walk as I meant to do: and if you don’t -care, that was my mistake in coming—I will just say good-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>She turned away with a childlike dignity, yet with a tremor she could -not subdue. She was not afraid to go out into the world, to carry the -sacrifice of her young existence to the man who loved her, whom she -would not forsake in his trouble: but she was frightened for the dark -road, the loneliness of the night—she was frightened, but yet she was -ready to do it. She turned away with a wave of her hand.</p> - -<p>Both of the girls, however, were roused by this time. Doris rose from -her sofa, and Phyllis seized Effie, half coaxingly, half violently, by -the arm.</p> - -<p>“Effie! goodness,” she cried, “just think for a moment. You musn’t do -this—what could Fred do with you? He would be frightened out of his -senses. You would put him in such a predicament. What <i>would</i> he do?”</p> - -<p>“And where would you go?” said Doris. “To his lodgings? Only fancy, a -young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> man’s lodgings in Half Moon Street, just the sort of place where -they think the worst of everything. He would be at his wit’s end. He -would think it very sweet of you, but just awfully silly. For what would -he do with you? He could not keep you there. It would put him in the -most awkward position. For Fred’s sake, if you really care for him, -don’t, for heaven’s sake, do anything so extraordinary. Here is mother, -she will tell you.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” they both cried, as Mrs. Dirom came into the room, “Effie has -got the strangest idea. I think she must be a little wrong in her head. -She says she is going to Fred——”</p> - -<p>“To Fred!” the mother exclaimed with a voice full of agitation. “Has -anything happened to Fred——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t make yourself anxious, it is only her nonsense. She has heard -about the firm, I suppose. She thinks he is ruined,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> and all that, and -she wants to go to him to stand by him—to show him that she will not -forsake him. It’s pretty, but it’s preposterous,” said Doris, giving -Effie a sudden kiss. “Tell her she will only make Fred uncomfortable. -She will not listen to us.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dirom had a look of heat and excitement which her children never -remembered to have seen in her before, but which Effie understood who -knew. Her eyes were red, her colour high, a flush across her -cheek-bones: her lips trembled with a sort of nervous impatience.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she cried, “haven’t I enough to think of? Do I want to be bothered -with such childish nonsense now? Going to Fred! What does she want with -Fred? He has other things in his mind. Let her go home, that is the only -thing to do——”</p> - -<p>“So we have told her: but she says she wants to go to the train; and -some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span>thing about my father who is here, and will be going too.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom, sharply. She gave Effie a look -of alarm, almost threatening, yet imploring—a look which asked her how -much she knew, yet defied her to know anything.</p> - -<p>“The poor little thing has got a fright,” she said, subduing her voice. -“I am not angry with you, Effie; you mean it kindly, but it would never, -never do. You must go home.”</p> - -<p>Effie’s strength had ebbed out of her as she stood turning her -bewildered head from one to another, hearing with a shock unspeakable -that Fred—Fred whom she had been so anxious to succour!—would not want -her, which made the strangest revolution in her troubled mind. But still -mechanically she held to her point.</p> - -<p>“I will not be any trouble. I will just sit in the corner and never say -a word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> Let me go to the train with Mr. Dirom. Let me go—with him. He -is very kind, he will not mind.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, do you hear what she says? She has said it again and again. Can -papa be here and none of us know?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom once more. Her tone was angry, -but it was full of alarm. She turned her back on the others and looked -at Effie with eyes that were full of anguish, of secrecy and confidence, -warning her, entreating her, yet defying.</p> - -<p>“How should he be here when he has so much to do elsewhere?” she cried. -“The child has got that, with the other nonsense, into her head.” Then -with a sudden change of tone, “I will take her to my room to be quiet, -and you can order the brougham to take her home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“She</span> was sent home in the brougham, that disturbed all our sleep just -dashing along the road at the dead of night. They were in a terrible -state before that. The minister, too, was here, looking like a ghost to -hear if we knew anything; and how could we say we knew anything, seeing -she had parted from here in the afternoon not over well pleased with -Beenie and me. And Mrs. Ogilvie—she is not a woman I am fond of, and -how far I think she’s to blame, I would just rather not say—but I will -say this, that I was sorry for her that night. She came, too, with a -shawl over her head, just out of herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> She had got the old man off -to his bed, never letting on that Effie was out of the house; and she -was in a terror for him waking, and the girl not there.”</p> - -<p>“No fear of him waking; he is just an old doited person,” said Miss -Beenie, with indignation.</p> - -<p>“Not so old as either you or me. But let alone till I’ve told my story. -And then, Ronald, my man, you’ve heard what’s followed. Not only a -failure, but worse and worse; and the father fled the country. They say -he had the assurance to come down here to get some papers that were laid -up in his wife’s jewel press, and that Effie saw him. But he got clean -away; and it’s a fraudulent bankruptcy—or if there’s anything worse -than a fraudulent bankruptcy, it’s that. Oh, yes, there has been a great -deal of agitation, and it is perhaps just as well that you were out of -the way. I cannot tell whether I feel for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> the family or not. There is -no look about them as if they thought shame. They’re just about the same -as ever, at kirk and at market, with their horses and carriages. They -tell me it takes a long time to wind up an establishment like that—and -why should they not take the good of their carriages and their horses as -long as they have them? But I’m perhaps a very old-fashioned woman. I -would not have kept them, not a day. I would never have ridden the one -nor driven about in the other, with my father a hunted swindler, and my -family’s honour all gone to ruin—never, never! I would rather have -died.”</p> - -<p>“Sarah, that is just what you will do, if you work yourself up like -this. Will ye not remember what the doctor says?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, go away with your doctors. I’m an old-fashioned woman, but I’m a -woman of strong feelings; I just cannot endure it! and to think that -Effie, my poor little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> Effie, will still throw in her lot with them, and -will not be persuaded against it!”</p> - -<p>“Why should she be persuaded against it?” said Ronald Sutherland, with a -very grave face. “Nobody can believe that the money would make any -difference to her: and I suppose the man was not to blame.”</p> - -<p>“The man—was nothing one way or another. He got the advantage of the -money, and he was too poor a creature ever to ask how it was made. But -it’s not that; the thing is that her heart was never in it—never! She -was driven—no, not driven—if she had been driven she would have -resisted. She was just pushed into it, just persuaded to listen, and -then made to see there was no escape. Didn’t I tell you that, Beenie, -before there was word of all this, before Ronald came home? The little -thing: had no heart for it. She just got white like a ghost when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> there -was any talk about marriage. She would hear of nothing, neither the -trou-so, as they call it now, nor any of the nonsense that girls take a -natural pleasure in. But now her little soul is just on fire. She will -stick to him—she will not forsake him. And here am I in my bed, not -able to take her by her shoulders and to tell her the man’s not worthy -of it, and that she’ll rue it just once, and that will be her life -long!”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Miss Beenie, wringing her hands, “what is the use of a woman -being in her bed if she is to go on like that? You will just bring on -another attack, and where will we all be then? The doctor, he says——”</p> - -<p>“You are greatly taken up with what the doctor says: that’s one thing of -being in my bed,” said Miss Dempster, with a laugh, “that I cannot see -the doctor and his ways—his dram—that he would come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> to the window and -take off, with a nod up at you and me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sarah, nothing of the kind. It was no dram, in the first place, but -just a small drop of sherry with his quinine——”</p> - -<p>“That’s very like, that’s very like,” said Miss Dempster, with a -satirical laugh, “the good, honest, innocent man! I wonder it was not -tea, just put in a wine glass for the sake of appearances. Are you sure, -Beenie, it was not tea?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sarah! the doctor, he has just been your diversion. But if you -would be persuaded what a regard he has for you—ay, and respect -too—and says that was always his feeling, even when he knew you were -gibing and laughing at him.”</p> - -<p>“A person that has the sense to have a real illness will always command -a doctor’s respect. If I recover, things will just fall into their old -way; but make your mind easy, Beenie, I will not recover, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> -doctor will have a respect for me all his days.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sarah!” cried Miss Beenie, weeping. “Ronald, I wish you would speak -to her. You have a great influence with my sister, and you might tell -her—— You are just risking your life, and what good can that do?”</p> - -<p>“I am not risking my life; my life’s all measured, and reeling out. But -I would like to see that bit little Effie come to a better understanding -before I die. Ye will be a better doctor for her than me, Ronald. Tell -her from me she is a silly thing. Tell her yon is not the right man for -her, and that I bid her with my dying breath not to be led away with a -vain conceit, and do what will spoil her life and break her heart. He’s -not worthy of it—no man is worthy of it. You may say that to her, -Ronald, as if it was the last thing I had to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Ronald. His face had not at all relaxed. It was fixed with -the set seriousness of a man to whom the subject is far too important -for mirth or change of feature. “No,” he said, “I will tell Effie -nothing of the kind. I would rather she should do what was right than -gain an advantage for myself.”</p> - -<p>“Right, there is no question about right!” cried the old lady. “He’s not -worthy of it. You’ll see even that he’ll not desire it. He’ll not -understand it. That’s just my conviction. How should his father’s son -understand a point of honour like that? a man that is just nobody, a -parvenoo, a creature that money has made, and that the want of it will -unmake. That’s not a man at all for a point of honour. You need say -nothing from yourself; though you are an old friend, and have a right to -show her all the risks, and what she is doing; but if you don’t tell her -what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> I’m saying I will just—I will just—haunt you, you creature -without spirit, you lad without a backbone intil ye, you——”</p> - -<p>But here Miss Beenie succeeded in drawing Ronald from the room.</p> - -<p>“Why will ye listen to her?” cried the young sister; “ye will just help -her to her own destruction. When I’m telling you the doctor says—oh, -no, I’m pinning my faith to no doctor; but it’s just as clear as -daylight, and it stands to reason—she will have another attack if she -goes on like yon——”</p> - -<p>The fearful rush she made at him, the clutch upon his arm, his yielding -to the impulse which he could not resist, none of these things moved -Ronald. His countenance was as set and serious as ever, the humour of -the situation did not touch him. He neither smiled nor made any -response. Downstairs with Miss Beenie, out of sight of the invalid who -was so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> violent in the expression of her feelings, he retained the same -self-absorbed look.</p> - -<p>“If she thinks it right,” he said, “I am not the one to put any -difficulty before her. The thing for me to do is just to go away—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t go away and leave us, Ronald, when no mortal can tell what an -hour or a day may bring forth; and Sarah always so fond of you, and you -such a near connection, the nearest we have in this countryside——”</p> - -<p>“What should happen in a day or an hour, and of what service can I be?” -he asked. “Of course, if I can be of any use——” but he shook his head. -Ronald, like most people, had his mind fixed upon his own affairs.</p> - -<p>“Oh, have ye no eyes?” cried Miss Beenie, “have none of ye any eyes? You -are thinking of a young creature that has all her life before her, and -time to set things right if they should go wrong;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> but nobody has a -thought for my sister, that has been the friend of every one of you, -that has never missed giving you a good advice, or putting you in the -way you should go. And now here is she just slipping away on her last -journey, and none of you paying attention! not one, not one!” she cried, -wringing her hands, “nor giving a thought of pity to me that will just -be left alone in the world.”</p> - -<p>Miss Beenie, who had come out to the door with the departing visitor, -threw herself down on the bench outside, her habitual seat in happier -days, and burst into subdued weeping.</p> - -<p>“I darena even cry when she can see me. It’s a relief to get leave to -cry,” she said, “for, oh, cannot ye see, not one of ye, that she’s -fading away like the morning mist and like the summer flowers?”</p> - -<p>The morning mist and the summer flowers were not images very like Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> -Dempster, who lay like an old tree, rather than any delicate and fragile -thing; but Dr. Jardine, coming briskly up on his daily visit, was not -susceptible to appropriateness of metaphor. He came up to Miss Beenie -and patted her on the shoulder with a homely familiarity which a few -months ago would have seemed presumption to the ladies of Rosebank.</p> - -<p>“Maybe no,” he said, “maybe no, who can tell? And even if it was so, why -should you be alone? I see no occasion—— Come up, and we’ll see how -she is to-day.”</p> - -<p>Ronald Sutherland, left alone, walked down the slope very solemnly, with -his face as rigid as ever. Miss Dempster was his old and good friend, -but, alas, he thought nothing of Miss Dempster.</p> - -<p>“If she thinks it right, it must be so,” he was saying to himself. “If -she thinks it’s right, am I the one to put any difficulty in the way?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">To</span> postpone the self-sacrifice of an enthusiast for weeks, or even for -days, is the hardest of all tests, and a trial almost beyond the power -of flesh and blood. Upheld by religious fervour, the human soul may be -equal to this or any other test; but in lesser matters, and specially in -those self-sacrifices prompted by generosity, which to the youthful hero -or heroine seem at the first glance so inevitable, so indispensable, -things which no noble mind would shrink from, the process of waiting is -a terrible ordeal.</p> - -<p>He, or still more, she, who would have given life itself, happiness, -anything, everything that is most prized in existence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> with a light -heart, and the most perfect conviction at the moment, becomes, as the -days go by, the victim of a hundred chilling doubts and questions. Her -courage, like that of Bob Acres, oozes out at her finger-ends. She is -brought to the bar of a thousand suppressed, yet never extinguished, -reasonings.</p> - -<p>Is it right to feign love even for her lover’s sake?—is it right to do -another so great an injury as to delude him into the thought that he is -making you happy, while, in reality, you are sacrificing all happiness -for him? Is it right——? but these questions are so manifold and -endless that it is vain to enumerate them.</p> - -<p>Effie had been the victim of this painful process for three long -lingering weeks. She had little, very little, to support her in her -determination. The papers had been full of the great bankruptcy, of -details of Dirom’s escape, and of the valuable papers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> and securities -which had disappeared with him: and with a shiver Effie had understood -that the scene she had seen unawares through the window had meant far -more than even her sense of mystery and secrecy in it could have helped -her to divine.</p> - -<p>The incidents of that wonderful night—the arguments of the mother and -sisters, who had declared that the proposed expedition would be nothing -but an embarrassment to Fred—her return ashamed and miserable in the -carriage into which they had thrust her—had been fatal to the fervour -of the enthusiasm which had made her at first capable of anything. -Looking back upon it now, it was with an overwhelming shame that she -recognized the folly of that first idea. Effie had grown half-a-dozen -years older in a single night. She imagined what might have happened had -she carried out that wild intention, with one of those scathing and -burning blushes which seem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> to scorch the very soul. She imagined Fred’s -look of wonder, his uneasiness, perhaps his anger at her folly which -placed him in so embarrassing a position.</p> - -<p>Effie felt that, had she seen those feelings in his eyes even for a -moment, she would have died of shame. He had written to her, warmly -thanking her for her “sympathy,” for her “generous feeling,” for the -telegram (of which she knew nothing) which had been so consolatory to -him, for the “unselfishness,” the “beautiful, brave thought” she had for -a moment entertained of coming to him, of standing by him.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, dearest, for this lovely quixotism,” he had said; “it was -like my Effie,” as if it had been a mere impulse of girlish tenderness, -and not the terrible sacrifice of a life which she had intended it to -be. This letter had been overwhelming to Effie, notwithstanding, or -perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> by reason of, its thanks and praises. He had, it was clear, no -insight into her mind, no real knowledge of her at all. He had never -divined anything, never seen below the surface.</p> - -<p>If she had done what she intended, if she had indeed gone to him, he -living as he was! Effie felt as if she must sink into the ground when -she realized this possibility. And as she did so, her heart failed her, -her courage, her strength oozed away: and there was no one to whom she -could speak. Doris and Phyllis came to see her now and then, but there -was no encouragement in them. They were going abroad; they had ceased to -make any reference to that independent action on their own part which -was to have followed disaster to the firm. There was indeed in their -conversation no account made of any downfall; their calculations about -their travels were all made on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> ground of wealth. And Fred had taken -refuge in his studio they said—he was going to be an artist, as he had -always wished: he was going to devote himself to art: they said this -with a significance which Effie in her simplicity did not catch, for she -was not aware that devotion to Art interfered with the other -arrangements of life. And this was all. She had no encouragement on that -side, and her resolution, her courage, her strength of purpose, her -self-devotion oozed away.</p> - -<p>Strangely enough, the only moral support she had was from Ronald, who -met her with that preternaturally grave face, and asked for Fred, whom -he had never asked for before, and said something inarticulate which -Effie understood, to the effect that he for one would never put -difficulties in her way. What did he mean? No one could have explained -it—not even himself: and yet Effie knew. Ronald had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> insight which -Fred, with those foolish praises of her generosity and her quixotism, -did not possess.</p> - -<p>And so the days went on, with a confusion in the girl’s mind which it -would be hopeless to describe. Her whole life seemed to hang in a -balance, wavering wildly between earth and heaven. What was to be done -with it? What was she to do with it? Eric was on his way home, and would -arrive shortly, for his sister’s marriage, and all the embarrassment of -that meeting lay before her, taking away the natural delight of it, -which at another moment would have been so sweet to Effie. Even Uncle -John was of little advantage to her in this pause. He accompanied her in -her walks, saying little. Neither of them knew what to say. All the -wedding preparations had come to a standstill, tacitly, without any -explanation made; and in the face of Fred’s silence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> on the subject -Effie could say nothing, neither could her champion say anything about -the fulfilment of her engagement.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ogilvie, on the other hand, was full of certainty and -self-satisfaction.</p> - -<p>“He has just acted as I expected, like a gentleman,” she said, “making -no unpleasantness. He is unfortunate in his connections, poor young man; -but I always said that there was the makings of a real gentleman in -young Dirom. You see I have just been very right in my calculations. He -has taken my letter in the right spirit. How could he do otherwise? He -had the sense to see at once that Robert could never give his daughter -to a ruined man.”</p> - -<p>“There could not be two opinions on that subject,” said her husband, -still more satisfied with himself.</p> - -<p>“There might, I think, be many opinions,” the minister said, mildly. “If -two young people love each other, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> stick to it, there is no father -but will be vanquished by them at the end.”</p> - -<p>“That’s all your sentimentality,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “Let them come and -tell me about their love as you call it, they would soon get their -answer. Any decent young woman, let alone a girl brought up like Effie, -would think shame.”</p> - -<p>“Effie will not think shame,” said Mr. Moubray: “if the young man is -equal to Mrs. Ogilvie’s opinion of him. You will have to make up your -mind to encounter your own child, Robert—which is far harder work than -to meet a stranger—in mortal conflict. For Effie will never take your -view of the matter. She will not see that misfortune has anything to do -with it. She will say that what was done for good fortune was done for -bad. She will stand by him.”</p> - -<p>“Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “I am not ashamed to name the name of love -for my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> part. There was no love on Effie’s side. No, no, her heart was -never in it. It is just a blaze of generosity and that kind of thing. -You need have no trouble so far as that is concerned. When she sees that -it’s not understood, her feeling will just die out, like that lowing of -thorns under the pot which is mentioned in Scripture: or most likely she -will take offence—and that will be still better. For he will not press -it, partly because he will think it’s not honourable, and partly because -he has to struggle for himself and has the sense to see it will be far -better not to burden himself with a wife.”</p> - -<p>“If you were so sure there was no love on Effie’s side, why did you let -it go on?” said Mr. Moubray with a little severity.</p> - -<p>“Why did I let it go on? just for the best reason in the world—because -at that time he was an excellent match. Was I to let her ruin the best -sitting down in all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> the countryside, for a childish folly? No, no; I -have always set my heart on doing my duty to Robert’s daughter, and that -was just the very best that could be done for her. It’s different now; -and here is another very fine lad, under our very hand. One that is an -old joe, that she has known all her life, and might have been engaged to -him but for—different reasons. Nothing’s lost, and he’s just turned up -in the very nick of time, if you do not encourage her in her daft ideas, -Uncle John.”</p> - -<p>“I do not consider them daft ideas: and that Effie should go from one to -another like a puppet when you pull the strings——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am not a clever person; I cannot meet you with your images and -your metaphors; but this I can say,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, solemnly, “that -it is just your niece’s happiness that is at stake, and if you come -between her and what is just<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> and right, the blame will be yours and not -mine.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Moubray went away very much troubled, with this in his mind. Effie -had not loved Fred, and it was possible that she might love Ronald, that -she might have had an inclination towards him all along; but was it -possible that she should thus change—put down one and take up -another—resign even the man she loved not, as no longer a good match, -and accept the man she might love, because he was?</p> - -<p>Marriage without love is a horror to every pure mind; it was to the -minister the most abhorrent of all thoughts: and yet it was not so -degrading, so deplorable as this. He went home to his lonely house with -a great oppression on his soul. What could he say, what advise to the -young and tender creature who had been brought to such a pass, and who -had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> find her way out of it, he could not tell how? He had nothing to -say to her. He could not give her a counsel; he did not even know how to -approach the subject. He had to leave her alone at this crisis of her -fate.</p> - -<p>The actual crisis came quite unexpectedly when no one thought it near. -It had come to be December, and Christmas, which should have witnessed -the marriage, was not far off. The Diroms were said to be preparing to -leave Allonby; but except when they were met riding or driving, they -were little seen by the neighbours, few of whom, to tell the truth, had -shown much interest in them since the downfall. Suddenly, in the -afternoon of one of those dull winter days when the skies had begun to -darken and the sun had set, the familiar dog-cart, which had been there -so often, dashed in at the open gates of Gilston and Fred Dirom jumped -out. He startled old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> George first of all by asking, not for Miss, but -Mrs. Ogilvie.</p> - -<p>“Miss Effie is in, sir. I will tell her in a moment,” George said, half -from opposition, half because he could not believe his ears.</p> - -<p>“I want to see Mrs. Ogilvie,” replied the young man, and he was ushered -in accordingly, not without a murmured protest on the part of the old -servant, who did not understand this novel method of procedure.</p> - -<p>The knowledge of Fred’s arrival thrilled through the house. It flitted -upstairs to the nursery, it went down to the kitchen. The very walls -pulsated to this arrival. Effie became aware of it, she did not herself -know how, and sat trembling expecting every moment to be summoned. But -no summons came. She waited for some time, and then with a strong quiver -of excitement, braced herself up for the final trial<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> and stole -downstairs. George was lingering about the hall. He shook his gray head -as he saw her on the stairs, then pointed to the door of the -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>“He’s in there,” said the old man, “and I would bide for no ca’. I would -suffer nae joukery-pawkery, I would just gang ben!”</p> - -<p>Effie stood on the stairs for a moment like one who prepares for a fatal -plunge, then with her pulses loud in her ears, and every nerve -quivering, ran down the remaining steps and opened the door.</p> - -<p>Fred was standing in the middle of the room holding Mrs. Ogilvie’s hand. -He did not at first hear the opening of the door, done noiselessly by -Effie in her whirl of passionate feeling.</p> - -<p>“If you think it will be best,” he was saying, “I desire to do only what -is best for her. I don’t want to agitate or distress her—Effie!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>In a moment he had dropped her stepmother’s hand and made a hurried step -towards the apparition, pale, breathless, almost speechless with -emotion, at the door. He was pale too, subdued, serious, very different -from the easy and assured youth who had so often met her there.</p> - -<p>“Effie! my dearest, generous girl!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Fred! what has become of you all this time? did you think that I -was like the rest?”</p> - -<p>“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you are just spoiling everything both -for him and for yourself. What brought you here? you are not wanted -here. He has plenty on his mind without you. Just you go back again -where you came from. He has told me all he wants to say. You here just -makes everything worse.”</p> - -<p>Fred had taken her hands into his. He looked into her eyes with a gaze -which Effie did not understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span></p> - -<p>“To think you should be willing to encounter even poverty and misery for -me!” he said; “but I cannot take you at your word. I cannot expose you -to that struggle. It must be put off indefinitely, my sweetest girl: -alas, that I should have to say it! when another fortnight, only two -weeks more, should have made us happy.”</p> - -<p>He stooped down and kissed her hands. There was a tone, protecting, -compassionate, respectful in his voice. He was consoling her quite as -much as himself.</p> - -<p>“Postponed?” she said faltering, gazing at him with an astonishment -which was mingled with dismay.</p> - -<p>“Alas, yes, my generous darling: though you are willing, I am not able -to carry out our engagement: that is what I have been explaining. Don’t -think it is not as bad for me as for you.”</p> - -<p>“As bad for me, as for you,” the blood rushed to Effie’s countenance in -a wild<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> flood of indignation and horror. As bad for him as for her! She -stood aghast, her eyes fixed upon his, in which there was, could it be? -a complaisance, a self-satisfaction mingled with regret.</p> - -<p>Fred had not the least conception of the feeling which had moved her. He -knew nothing about the revolution made in all her thoughts by the -discovery of his ruin, or of her impassioned determination to stand by -him, and sacrifice everything to his happiness. No idea of the truth had -entered his mind. He was sorry for her disappointment, which indeed was -not less to him than to her, though, to be sure, a girl, he knew, always -felt it more than a man. But when Effie, in her hurt pride and wounded -feeling, uttered a cry of astonishment and dismay, he took it for the -appeal of disappointment and replied to it hastily:</p> - -<p>“It cannot be helped,” he said. “Do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> you think it is an easy thing for -me to say so? but what can I do? I have given up everything. A man is -not like the ladies. I am going back to the studio—to work in earnest, -where I used only to play at working. How could I ask you to go there -with me, to share such a life? And besides, if I am to do anything, I -must devote myself altogether to art. If things were to brighten, then, -indeed, you may be sure—— without an hour’s delay!”</p> - -<p>She had drawn her hands away, but he recovered possession of one, which -he held in his, smoothing and patting it, as if he were comforting a -child. A hundred thoughts rushed through her mind as he stood there, -smiling at her pathetically, yet not without a touch of vanity, -comprehending nothing, without the faintest gleam of perception as to -what she had meant, sorry for her, consoling her for her loss, feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> -to his heart the value of what she had lost, which was himself.</p> - -<p>Her dismay, her consternation, the revulsion of feeling which sent the -blood boiling through her veins, were to him only the natural vexation, -distress, and disappointment of a girl whose marriage had been close at -hand, and was now put off indefinitely. For this—which was so -natural—he was anxious to console her. He wanted her to feel it as -little as possible—to see that it was nobody’s fault, that it could not -be helped. Of all the passionate impulses that had coursed through her -veins he knew nothing, nothing! He could not divine them, or understand, -even if he had divined.</p> - -<p>“At best,” he said, still soothing her, patting her hand, “the -postponement must be for an indefinite time. And how can I ask you to -waste your youth, dearest Effie? I have done you harm enough already. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> -came to let you know the real state of affairs—to set you free from -your engagements to me, if,” he said, pressing her hand again, looking -into her face, “you will accept——”</p> - -<p>His face appeared to her like something floating in the air, his voice -vibrated and rang about her in circles of sound. She drew her hand -almost violently away, and withdrew a little, gazing at him half -stupified, yet with a keen impatience and intolerance in her disturbed -mind.</p> - -<p>“I accept,” she said hoarsely, with a sense of mortification and intense -indignant shame, which was stronger than any sensation Effie had ever -felt in her life before.</p> - -<p><i>That</i> was what he thought of her; this man for whom she had meant to -sacrifice herself! She began hastily to draw off the ring which he had -given her from her finger, which, slight as it was, seemed to grow -larger with her excitement and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> tremulousness, and made the operation -difficult.</p> - -<p>“Take it,” she said, holding out the ring to him. “It is yours, not -mine.”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” he said, putting back her extended hand softly, “not that. If -we part, don’t let it be in anger, Effie. Keep that at least, for a -recollection—for a token——”</p> - -<p>She scarcely heard what words he used. It was he who had the better of -it, she felt. She was angry, disappointed, rejected. Was not that what -everybody would think? She held the ring in her hand for a moment, then -let it drop from her fingers. It fell with a dull sound on the carpet at -his feet. Then she turned round, somehow controlling her impulse to cry -out, to rush away, and walked to the door.</p> - -<p>“I never expected she would have shown that sense and judgment,” said -Mrs. Ogilvie, after she had shown the visitor, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> exit was even more -hasty than his arrival, and his feelings far from comfortable, to the -door. She sat down at her writing table at once with that practical -sense and readiness which never forsook her.</p> - -<p>“Now I will just write and ask Ronald to his dinner,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">But</span> things did not go so easily as Mrs. Ogilvie supposed.</p> - -<p>Effie had received a blow which was not easily forgotten. The previous -mistakes of her young career might have been forgotten, and it is -possible that she might have come to be tolerably happy in the settling -down and evaporation of all young thoughts and dreams, had she in the -fervour of her first impulse become Fred Dirom’s wife. It would not have -been the happiness of her ideal, but it often happens that an evanescent -splendour like that which illumines the early world dies away with -comparative harmlessness, and leaves<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> a very good substitute of solid -satisfaction on a secondary level, with which all but the visionary -learn to be content.</p> - -<p>But the sharp and keen awakening with which she opened her eyes on a -disenchanted world, when she found her attempted sacrifice so -misunderstood, and felt herself put back into the common-place position -of a girl disappointed, she who had risen to the point of heroism, and -made up her mind to give up her very life, cannot be described. Effie -did not turn in the rebound to another love, as her stepmother fully -calculated. Though that other love was the first, the most true, the -only faithful, though she was herself vaguely aware that in him she -would find the comprehension for which she longed, as well as the -love—though her heart, in spite of herself, turned to this old playmate -and companion with an aching desire to tell him everything, to get the -support of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> sympathy, yet, at the same time, Effie shrank from -Ronald as she shrank from every one.</p> - -<p>The delicate fibres of her being had been torn and severed; they would -not heal or knit together again. It might be that her heart was -permanently injured and never would recover its tone, it might be that -the recoil from life and heart-sickness might be only temporary. No one -could tell. Mrs. Ogilvie, who would not believe at first that the -appearance of Ronald would be ineffectual, or that the malady was more -than superficial, grew impatient afterwards.</p> - -<p>“It is all just selfishness,” she said; “it is just childish. Because -she cannot have what she wanted, she will not take what she can get; and -the worst of all is that she never wanted it when she could have it.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just the way with women,” said her husband; “ye are all alike. -Let her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> come to herself, and don’t bore me about her as you’re doing, -night and day. What is a girl and her sweetheart to me?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Moubray, “if you had been honest with Effie -from the first, if you had allowed her own heart to speak, if there had -been no pressure on one side, and no suppression on the other——”</p> - -<p>“In short,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, with a flush of anger, “if we had just -left everything to a bit silly thing that has not had the wit to guide -herself in the most simple, straightforward way! where ye would have -thought a fool could not go wrong——!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ogilvie at this lifted his head.</p> - -<p>“Are ye quarrelling with John Moubray, Janet?” he said; “things must -have come to a pretty pass when you fling yourself upon the minister, -not content with putting me to silence. If ye’re ill-pleased with -Effie,” said the head of the family,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> “let Effie bear the wyte; but what -have we done, him and me?”</p> - -<p>The minister, however, was Effie’s resource and help. He opened his own -heart to her, showing her how it had bled and how it had been healed, -and by and by the girl came to see, with slowly growing perception and a -painful, yet elevating, knowledge, how many things lay hidden in the -lives and souls which presented often a common-place exterior to the -world. This was a moment in which it seemed doubtful whether the rending -of all those delicate chords in her own being might not turn to -bitterness and a permanent loss and injury. She was disposed to turn her -face from the light, to avoid all tenderness and sympathy, to find that -man delighted her not, nor woman either.</p> - -<p>It was in this interval that Eric’s brief but very unsatisfactory visit -took place, which the young fellow felt was as good as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> the loss of his -six weeks’ leave altogether. To be sure, there was a hard frost which -made him some amends, and in the delights of skating and curling -compensated him for his long journey home; and Ronald, his old comrade, -whom he had expected to lose, went back with him, which was something to -the credit side. But he could not understand Effie, and was of opinion -that she had been jilted, and could scarcely be kept from making some -public demonstration against Fred Dirom, who had used his sister ill, he -thought. This mistake, too, added to Effie’s injuries of spirit a keener -pang: and the tension was cruel.</p> - -<p>But when Eric and Ronald were gone again, and all had relapsed into -silence, the balance turned, and the girl began to be herself once more, -or rather to be a better and loftier self, never forgetful of the sudden -cross and conflict of the forces of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> life which had made so strong an -impression upon her youth.</p> - -<p>Miss Dempster, after some further suffering, died quite peacefully in -the ruddy dawn of a winter’s morning, after doing much to instruct the -world and her immediate surroundings from her sick bed, and much -enjoying the opportunity. She did not sleep very well the last few -nights, and the prospect of “just getting a good sleep in my coffin -before you bury me, and it all begins again,” was agreeable to her.</p> - -<p>She seemed to entertain the curious impression that the funeral of her -body would be the moment of re-awakening for her soul, and that till -that final incident occurred she would not be severed from this worldly -life, which thus literally was rounded by a sleep. It was always an -annoyance to her that her room was to the back, and she could not see -Dr. Jardine as formerly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> come to his window and take off his dram, but -perhaps it was rather with the sisterly desire to tease Beenie than from -any other reason that this lamentation (with a twinkle in her eyes) was -daily made.</p> - -<p>When she died, the whole village and every neighbour far and near joined -in the universal lamentation. Those who had called her an old cat in her -life-time wept over her when she was laid in the grave, and remembered -all her good deeds, from the old wives in the village, who had never -wanted their pickle tea or their pinch of snuff so long as Miss Dempster -was to the fore, to the laird’s wife herself, who thought regretfully of -the silver candlesticks, and did not hesitate to say that nobody need be -afraid of giving a party, whether it was a dinner or a ball supper that -had to be provided, so long as Miss Dempster was mistress of the many -superfluous knives and forks at Rosebank.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span></p> - -<p>“She was just a public benefactor,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who had not -always expressed that opinion.</p> - -<p>As for Miss Beenie, her eyes were rivers of tears, and her sister’s -admirable qualities her only theme. She lived but to mourn and to praise -the better half of her existence, her soul being as much widowed by this -severance as if she had been a bereaved wife instead of a sister.</p> - -<p>“Nobody can tell what she was to me, just more than can be put into -words. She was mother and sister and mistress and guide all put into -one. I’m not a whole human creature. I am but part of one, left like a -wreck upon the shore—and the worst part,” Miss Beenie said.</p> - -<p>The doctor, who had been suspected of a tear himself at the old lady’s -funeral, and had certainly blown his nose violently on the way back, was -just out of all patience with Miss Beenie’s yammering, he said, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> he -missed the inspection of himself and all his concerns that had gone on -from Rosebank. He was used to it, and he did not know how to do without -it.</p> - -<p>One spring morning, after the turn of the year, he went up with a very -resolute air the tidy gravel path between the laurel hedges.</p> - -<p>“Eh, doctor, I cannot bide to hear your step—and yet I am fain, fain to -hear it: for it’s like as if she was still in life, and ye were coming -to see her.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Beenie,” said the doctor, “this cannot go on for ever. She was a -good woman, and she has gone to a better place. But one thing is -certain, that ye cannot bide here for ever, and that I cannot bide to -leave you here. You must just come your ways across the road, and set up -your tabernacle with me.”</p> - -<p>At this, Miss Beenie uttered a cry of consternation: “Doctor! you must -be taking leave of your senses. Me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span>!——”</p> - -<p>“And why not you?” said Dr. Jardine. “You would be far better over the -way. It’s more cheerful, and we would be company for one another. I am -not ill company when I am on my mettle. I desire that you will just -think it over, and fix a day——”</p> - -<p>And after a while, Miss Beenie found that there was sense in the -suggestion, and dried her eyes, and did as she was desired, having been -accustomed to do so, as she said, all her life.</p> - -<p>The Diroms disappeared from Allonby as if they had never been there, and -were heard of no more: though not without leaving disastrous traces at -least in one heart and life.</p> - -<p>But it may be that Effie’s wounds are not mortal after all. And one day -Captain Sutherland must come home——</p> - -<p>And who knows?</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<br /><br /><br /><small> -<i>This work appeared originally in “The Scottish Church.”</i><br /><br /><br /> -ROBERT MACLEHOSE, UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Effie Ogilvie; vol. 2, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EFFIE OGILVIE; VOL. 2 *** - -***** This file should be named 61915-h.htm or 61915-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/9/1/61915/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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