Chapter XVII: Mary's Preparations

Greatly to the chagrin of Lady Dunkeld, there seemed no chance of extracting a proposal from Captain Colville, the rumour of whose engagement to her daughter was simply provincial gossip, and as for Sir Redmond Sleath, for certain cogent reasons of his own, perhaps he dared not make one, even if dazzled by the fair Blanche Galloway.

The invitation to Craigmhor seemed to be a failure as yet, so far as the former was concerned, for after the shooting began on the 12th of August, when not on the moors, he spent much of his time most provokingly immersed in correspondence concerning the property to which he had succeeded and his peerage claim--both circumstances that greatly enhanced his value in the eyes of such a match-making mother as my Lady Dunkeld.

He was often found closeted in consultation with Doctor Wodrow, with whom he seemed to stand high in favour, and it was noted that they always separated in high good humour; so the supposition was, that the latter was seeking the wealthy Guardsman's good offices for his son Robert. What other matter could they have in hand?

Lady Dunkeld was therefore not sorry when Captain Colville took his temporary departure to shoot in the forest of Alyth, trusting to a change on his return.

If she had flattered herself that, amid the somewhat secluded life all led at Craigmhor, any fancy Colville had for Blanche would speedily manifest itself, she was doomed to disappointment--angry disappointment, and worse; for, if the stories Mademoiselle Rosette told were true, the captain had spent somewhat too much of his time wandering, rod in hand, on the banks of the May, and tarrying for afternoon tea at Birkwoodbrae.

The result of all this was that Mary and Ellinor had become painfully conscious that many who were their friends before had now begun to view them coldly and distantly, why or wherefore, in their innocence, they knew not, because they were ignorant of malevolent hints regarding them dropped to chance visitors at Craigmhor, by elevation of the eyebrows, shrugs of the shoulder, or the impatient wave of a fan, if their names were mentioned; the ladies there--mother and daughter--were leaving nothing undone to injure them in the estimation of all, and even spoke of them as 'young women who were above doing their duty in that state of life to which Providence had called them.'

A consciousness of all this added to their new mortification, and increased their anxiety to be gone, and they worked away at their arrangements in a species of suppressed excitement, and Dr. Wodrow was still in Edinburgh.

It was neither a Sacramental Fast-day nor a Sunday at Birkwoodbrae, yet a strange stillness, as if death were there again, brooded over all the place; the house with its roses and creepers, the garden with its now untended flowers, the empty meadow, and the lovely silver birches; and poor Robert Wodrow, as sadly he approached the house for the last time, felt conscious of this as he passed, and with a bitter sigh looked around him.

Even Jack's bark was unheard; the scythe lay among the rich clover, the gate that led to the highway stood wide open, and near it lingered some cottar people, with mouths agape, old and young, with grave and anxious faces, even with tears, for some of the young girls' 'belongings' had already been sent away, the gazers knew not where.

Something strange they thought had come to pass, yet the sunshine of the first of September lay golden on the woods, the pastures, the cattle, and the flower-gardens, though beneath was a great shadow like that of death over all, and Robert Wodrow, impressionable at all times, felt it; for the sisters were on the eve of departure, and another day or two--so quickly had Mary's preparations been made--would see all ended.

The bright sunshine of the autumn evening was touching, we have said, with fiery light the smooth silver stems of the tall birch-trees, and the birds still sang sweetly under the feather-like foliage that hung gracefully downward, unstirred by the faintest breeze, when, looking from an open window on the scene she loved so well, Mary Wellwood paused in the bitter task of making up a list of their household effects ere she left the roof of Birkwoodbrae for ever. After she was fairly gone, a letter to Dr. Wodrow would inform him of all their wishes, she was thinking, when suddenly Robert stood by her side, and put an arm kindly round her.

'Why, you will kill yourself with all this work and anxiety; dear Mary, let me help you,' said he.

'I am nearly done,' said she, wearily, and with a quivering lip; 'there are but a few relics, books and so forth, I wish to keep----'

'Leave it with me; save you, Mary, and the old folks at the manse, I have no one left to care for now.'

'Poor Robert!' said she, kissing his cheek, for she knew his meaning well.

No one can 'minister to a mind diseased' like a mother, it has been said; but Mrs. Wodrow, to her sorrow, had signally failed to so minister to her son Robert.

'And you have failed at the University, Robert?' said Mary, after a pause.

'Utterly!'

'How--and why?'

'I don't know--at the last moment, somehow,' said he, despondently, looking down on the carpet.

'Ellinor, no doubt, was the cause?' said Mary, softly.

He smiled bitterly, but made no reply.

'You will try again, Robert dear?' said Mary, patting his hand.

'Never, Mary,' he replied, in a low, husky voice; 'God only knows how I toiled and toiled, at botany, anatomy, and chemistry--Balfour and Quain and Miller, and with _what_ object; but I have taken my last shot, and shall grind no more.'

'And what do you mean to do, Robert?'

'Heaven knows--you will hear in time, Mary.'

She eyed him wistfully and sorrowfully, and then said,

'After your quarrel with Ellinor----'

'Don't call it a quarrel, Mary--say coldness. Well?'

'It is very kind of you to take the trouble to come here now.'

'Kind--trouble; why, what has come to you, Mary, that you speak thus, and to _me_? A farewell letter might have done, but I--I preferred to come to the old place once again.'

'Pardon me, Robert, but I am so crushed--so confused--that I scarcely know what I say.'

'But is the step you are about to take absolutely necessary, and in such hot haste too?'

'What step?' asked Mary, as if to delay the bitterness of the admission.

'Leaving Birkwoodbrae! I can't make out the mystery of it at all!'

'Alas! we must go; this house was never ours--we dwelt here on sufferance; and the place is another's now--another whom we know only by name and in family feud.'

'Can it be that God's world belongs only to rascals!' exclaimed young Wodrow, bitterly.

'Well, the rich and cruel seem to thrive best, for a time at least,' said Mary, a little infected by his mood.

'But to go away so far--so far as London?' he urged, with an air of bewilderment.

'The further the better now, Robert.'

'But the idea of making your own livelihood in that awful human wilderness, you and Ellinor, seems so strange--so perilous and unnatural.'

'Why so--don't thousands work?'

'And starve and die of broken hearts!'

'Robert, you are not encouraging.'

'I would that I could be so.'

'We must make the attempt as others do and have done. We are well-nigh penniless now; without Birkwoodbrae and its accessories we could not live alone on the pittance poor papa left us, and here we could not add a penny to it. I don't think I am fit for much, Robert,' continued Mary, sadly and humbly, with tears in her soft, sweet eyes. 'No one will give me a high-class situation, my education has been so very simple, and beyond a little music'--her voice broke fairly now--'and Ellinor's pencil, she is very clever, you know----'

'I wish I could see this infernally grasping cousin of yours!' surmised Robert, angrily and reflectively.

'Don't think of it--I would not accept a favour from his father's son; for that father was--through life--the enemy of mine!'

'Why--and about what?' asked Robert.

'Some quarrel about a lady in their youth, as subalterns, I believe.'

'Oho--the old, old story!' said Robert, gnawing his nether lip, and taking up his hat, but lingering still.

'You will see Ellinor, Robert dear,' said Mary, timidly and pleadingly. 'I can call her from her room--it will be for the last time.'

The cloud on young Wodrow's face deepened, as he said, in a low voice,

'No, Mary--thank you--I dare not--would rather not see her again.'

'Why?' asked Mary, taking his hands caressingly between her own.

'All my love for her might--nay, would break out for her with renewed force, for I am in some ways weak and unstable of purpose. Better not--better not--never again--never again,' he muttered, huskily, and Mary kissed him with her eyes full of tears, for just then her heart was very sore indeed.

'Besides, Mary, I have schooled myself for the future.'

'And that _future_, Robert.'

'You will learn in time. Curse that fellow,' he suddenly exclaimed, his eyes flashing, as he referred to Sleath, 'what evil chance brought him among us here? How I can recall his eyes, alternately sleepy and shifty, and the air of would-be high-bred tolerance and boredom with which he condescended to survey us all and everything here!'

In the gust of jealous anger that now possessed him, Mary knew that it was useless to urge again that he should see Ellinor, and after making her all offers of assistance and proffers of kindness, he strode suddenly away, muttering to himself the lines of Edmondstoune Aytoun.

'Woman's love is writ in water,
Woman's faith is traced in sand,
Backwards, backwards let me wander,
To the noble northern land.'

The little money that Mary could spare from what she had been able to realise by the hasty sale of two pet cows and the stock of her fowl-yard, she bestowed, as far as she could, upon Elspat and other old servants, all of whom were bowed down with wonder, grief and alarm at movements and changes so unexpected; and she felt that she would be glad when the parting with all--the final wrench--was over.

Between her and these subordinates there was a closer bond of sympathy than usually exists between mistress and servant--even in Scotland--now-a-days, and can scarcely be found south of the Tweed. 'My English readers,' says an English writer on this subject, 'will probably ridicule such a feeling on the part of a servant, for the majority of them are of the belief that money is the only connecting link of a household. So long as wages are regularly paid and the ordinary meals provided, a servant has only to do her duty properly, and leaves it as utter a stranger as when she entered it. There is no obligation on either side, and, if she goes, some one will be found to take her place.'

But it is not quite so yet in the kindly north country, especially the further north we go; for the influences of the old feudal system, and of the still older and dearer ties of clanship, linger among the hills and glens, knitting all ranks and conditions of men together, and long, long may they continue to do so.