“I told you,” she said; “it is about learning to draw, and about letting him come here to show me the way.”
“Letting him come! that’s another story; and who’s him?” said Bell. She made a rapid mental review of the county while she spoke—puzzled, yet not disconcerted; there was nobody of whom the severest duenna could be afraid. There was Sir Claude—known to be very fond of pictures—but Sir Claude was a douce married man, who was very unlikely to take the trouble, and, even if he did, would hurt nobody. “Na, I canna think. Young Randal Burnside he’s away; that was the only lad in the country-side like to be evened to our Miss Margret, and him no half or quarter good enough. Na, ye maun tell me; there’s no him in the country that may not come and go free for anything I care.”
“Why should you care?” said Margaret. “But I will tell you who it is. It is Rob Glen—Mrs. Glen’s son, at Earl’s-lee. He used to play with me when I was little, and I saw him drawing a picture. And then he told me who he was, and then he said he would learn me to draw, if I liked to learn—and you may be sure I would like to learn, Bell. Fancy! to take a bit of paper out of a book, and put this house upon it or any other house, and all the woods, and the hills, and the sky. Look at that puff of cloud! it’s all rosy and like a flower; but in a moment it will be gray, and next moment it will be gone; but if you draw it you have it forever. It’s wonderful, wonderful, Bell!”
“Rob Glen,” said Bell, musing. She paid no attention to Margaret’s poetical outburst. “Rob Glen—that’s him that was to be a minister; but something’s happened to him; he’s no conductit himself as he ought, or else he tired of the notion, and he’s at hame doing naething.” Bell paused after this historical sketch. “He wasna an ill laddie. He was very good to you, Miss Margret, when you were but a little troublesome thing, greeting for drinks of water, and asking to be carried, and wanting this and wanting that, just what puts a body wild with bairns.”
“Was I?” said Margaret, with wide-opened eyes. “No! Rob never thought me a trouble. You might do so,” she added, with offence. “I cannot tell for you, but I am sure Rob—”
“I weel believe he never said a word. He was great friends with you, I mind well—oh, great friends. And so he wants to learn you to draw—or you want him? I see nae great objection,” said Bell, doubtfully. “He’s a young man, but then you’re a leddy far above him; and you’re old friends, as you say. I will not say but what I would rather he was marrit, Miss Margret; but I see nae great objection—”
“Married!” said Margaret, her eyes bigger than ever with wonder and amusement—“married!” She laughed, though she could scarcely have told why. The idea amused her beyond measure. There was something piquant in it, something altogether absurd. Rob! But why the idea was so ridiculous she could not say. Bell looked at her in her laughter with a certain doubt.
“Why should he no be married?” she said; “lads of that kind marry young—they’ve naething to wait for: the moment they get a kirk it’s a’ they can look for—very different from some. I dinna ken what Sir Ludovic may say,” she added, doubtfully. “Sir Ludovic has awfu’ high notions; a farmer’s son to learn a Leslie. I canna tell how he’ll take it.”
“Bell!” cried Margaret, with indignation, “when you know it’s you that have the high notions! Papa would never think of anything of the kind; but if you go and put them into his head, and tell him what to think—”
“Lord bless the bairn, me!” cried Bell, with the air of being deeply shocked; and then she got up and went back into her kitchen, which was her stronghold. Margaret, for her part, slightly discouraged, but still eager, stole up-stairs. If Bell was against her, it did not matter very much who was on her side. She went softly into the long room where her father was reading. Would it ever happen to her, she wondered, to sit still in one place and read, whatever might be going on—never thinking what was happening outside, untroubled whether it rained or was fine, whether it was summer or winter? Though she came in and roamed about softly, in a kind of subdued restlessness, looking over the book-shelves, and flitting from window to window, Sir Ludovic took no notice. With her own life so warm in her, it was stranger and stranger to Margaret to see that image of the calm of age; how strange it was! He had not moved even, since she came into the room, while she was so restless, so eager, thinking nothing in the world so important as her present fancy. When she had fluttered about for some time without attracting his notice, she grew impatient. “Papa, I want to speak to you,” she said.