‘You give a bonnie account of yourself,’ she said, ‘if you want nothing but to chatter with her, how dare ye stand between her and an honest man that loves her? When Margaret dies—and we all know that calamity cannot be long averted—is it your will, for the sake of your amusement, that a bonnie, tender creature should be left without friend or guide in the world? Yes, I know what you think,’ said Miss Catherine, growing hot; ‘you think she’s so soft and sweet, that you can play as you please. But mind what I say, you may go too far with Isabel; she is young, and younger than she might be, but she is not of a light nature to be guided by you. If you play her false, be it in one way, be it in another, you’ll get your punishment. Now you have heard what I have to say, and you can go on your own way, and take your own course, like all your kind; but you’ve got warning of what will follow. And now, Mr. Horace Stapylton,’ said Miss Catherine, rising and making him a stately curtsey, ‘I am obliged to bid you good day.’
Horace started to his feet amazed beyond description by this dismissal. ‘I am shocked to have intruded upon you,’ he said, angrily; ‘I shall take care never to repeat the infliction.’
‘That shall be as you please,’ said Miss Catherine, with another curtsey, and the young man found himself with artful incaution to Isabel, when despite all that had occurred, he succeeded in meeting her ‘by accident’ on the hill: ‘and all for your sake. You are getting out of the room and out of the house almost before he recovered his consciousness. ‘Old hag!’ he said to himself, ‘old Scotch cat!—venomous old maid!’ as he walked down the avenue. But he was worsted notwithstanding, and felt his defeat.
‘She turned me out of the house,’ he said, afterwards, ‘me into disgrace with everybody. They upbraid me for following you, for taking up your time, for keeping others away; and the folk at home write to ask if I am never coming back. People look glum at me wherever I go for your sake, and you will do nothing for me: I must say it is rather too bad.’
‘I would do anything for you,’ said Isabel. ‘I would not mind what all the world might say. They might gloom at me, and welcome; what would I care? anything but one thing, Horace—and that you know—you see—I could not do.’
‘Which, of course, is the only thing I want,’ said the young man, sullenly. ‘That is always the way with girls.’
‘And why should you want it so?’ said Isabel, eagerly. ‘We’re young, and we can wait. If all your folk were ready and willing, could I leave my Margaret? Horace, you know as well as I do she has been my comfort a’ my days; there is not one like her far or near. If you think, as other folk think, that Ailie is nearer God than our Margaret, oh, it shows how little you know,’ cried Isabel, with the hot colour rushing over her face; ‘and could I forsake her that has been like a mother to me? What is love, if it’s like that?’
‘I don’t think you know what love means,’ said Horace: ‘it is to give up all for one; it is to forsake father and mother—and your past life—and your prospects, as people call them—and good sense and caution and prudence, and all your Scotch qualities;—that is what love is, Isabel; to think of nobody, and care for nobody, but one; to give all your heart, and not a bit of it. I don’t ask you for a bit of it; I want you all—every thought, every feeling. I want you to give up everybody and come to me—to me!’ and here the young man opened his arms and turned to her with a look of passion which startled the girl. She made a sudden sidelong step beyond one of the great heather clumps before she answered. The colour changed from red to pale on her face; but she kept her eyes fixed on him, with a look of eagerness and wistfulness, trying to penetrate beneath the surface and see his heart.
‘Horace,’ she said, softly, ‘you and me are different—a man and a girl are different, I suppose. That is not what it is to me. It is something that makes life better, and stronger, and sweeter. I’m fonder of Margaret, I’m better to the bairns. Don’t turn away like that. It is like wine,’ cried the girl, with light rising in her eyes; ‘it gives you strength for all you have to do. You’re at your work, you’re minding your house, you’re vexed and wearied and troubled—and lo, you give a glance out of the window, and you see him pass, and all your trouble rolls away! That’s love to me. When you turn round and give me a smile, it’s like wine,’ cried Isabel once more; ‘I feel it all about my heart—I go back to my work, and something sings within me. I am neither tired nor troubled more. That’s love to me! And the world’s bonnier and the sky’s brighter,’ she went on faltering, ‘Oh, Horace, surely you know what I mean?’
‘No, I don’t know what you mean,’ cried the young man, with a kind of brutality. ‘I never understand your Scotch. If this is the sort of figure I am to cut, making you devote yourself more to Margaret and the bairns, as you call them, I had better take myself off, it would seem. A fellow is not to lose the best days of his life for such a reward as that.’