But Sir Ludovic did not stir. He had dropped asleep again, and did not wake even at his daughter’s call. As he lay back in his chair, with his old ivory hands spread out upon its arms, and his white hair falling back, Rob thought he had never seen a more venerable appearance. If it were possible that things should so come about as that he should be familiar here, one of themselves, perhaps, calling this old man father (such things had been—and his mother thought were likely to be again—and what else could be the meaning in Margaret’s eyes?), Rob felt that he would have reason to be proud. Even the very idea swelled his heart. The room, upon the threshold of which he stood, was unlike anything else he had seen before. He had been in wealthy Glasgow houses where luxury abounded—he had seen dwellings much more wealthy, costly, and splendid than Earl’s-hall; but there was something in the aspect of the place, its gray noble stateliness outside, so poor, yet so dignified, its antique old-world grace within, the walls lined with books, the air of old establishment and duration that was in everything, which exercised the strongest influence over him. It was like a scene in a fairy tale—an old magician, and his fresh, fair young daughter, so liberal, so gentle, receiving him like a princess, opening wide the doors to him. He stood, as we have said, in a kind of enchantment. He was on the borders—was it of Paradise? certainly of some unknown country, more noble, more stately than anything he had known before.
This train of thought was interrupted by Margaret, who came back to him walking softly, and putting her finger to her lips. “Papa has fallen asleep again,” she said, half annoyed, half anxious, and she pushed open softly the door of the little west chamber. “Here, come here!” she said, and went in before him, pointing to a chair and clearing Lady Jean’s work and other obstacles with her own hands from the table. “Now let me see them,” she cried. How eager she was, how full of interest and admiration! She spread the portfolio open before him which she had herself snatched from his hands and carried to her father. In it was the drawing of the Kirkton which his mother had suggested he should give “in a present” to Margaret. She was not aware yet of this happiness; but she was as simple as Mrs. Glen in ready admiration, and it seemed to her that nothing ever was more beautiful. “Oh!” she cried, struck dumb with wonder and delight. She said nothing more at first, then suddenly burst into ecstasy. “Did you ever see it from the tower, Mr. Glen? Oh, it does not look like that, you are so high above it. But I know that look just as well; that might be from the wood. It would be in the morning when the dew was on the grass. It would be when everything was quiet, the men away to their work, the children in the school, the women in their houses—and the church standing against the sky: oh, how can you paint things that are not things?” cried Margaret—“the air, and the light, and the wind, and the shadows flying, and the clouds floating! Oh, how can you do it? how can you do it?”
Rob was carried away by this flood of delicious praise; he stood modest and blushing, deprecating, yet happy. He knew at the bottom of his heart that his drawing was not a poem like this, but only very ordinary water-color. He did not know what to say.
“You make me ashamed of my poor work. It ought to be a great deal better to deserve to be looked at at all. The beauty is in your eyes,” he said. But Margaret took no notice of this speech. She put that portfolio aside, and opened the other, and plunged into a world of amusement. These were his more finished works, the larger drawings which he had done from his sketches; and, indeed, Rob had spent a great deal of time and trouble upon them; they had occupied him when he was going through the squabbles and controversies of the last few months. They had been his refuge and shelter from a great deal of annoyance; and sometimes, when he looked at them, he had thought they might be worthy of exhibition, and perhaps might help to make his fortune—at least might open the door to him and put him in the way of making his fortune. But at other times he fell into gulfs of despair, and saw the truth, which was that they were only very tolerable studies of an amateur. He shook his head now while Margaret praised them. “Only daubs,” he said, “only scratches. Ah, you should see real artist work. I am only an amateur.”
“And so you ought to be,” said Margaret. “An amateur means a lover, a true lover, doesn’t it? I mean of pictures, you know,” she added, with her usual blush. “And if you do anything for love, it is sure to be better than what you do for—any other reason—for money. Could anybody paint a real beautiful picture for money? No,” cried the daring young theorist, “it must be for love.”
“I think so too,” said Rob. He reddened also, but with more conscious sentiment. “I think so too! and if I paint Earl’s-hall, it will be so.”
“Will you?” said Margaret, grateful and happy. Love of her was not what the girl was thinking of; nothing was farther from her mind, nor did it ever occur to her that the word had other meanings than that she gave it. Then she pushed the portfolio away from her, and changed the subject in a moment. “You cannot begin to make the picture, Mr. Glen; what shall we do now? Will I show you the house?” said Margaret, with her Scotch imperfection of grammar, “or will you begin me with the straight lines, or will you (that would be the best) draw something and let me watch. Draw papa! I will open the door, look, like this; and he never stirs, I know he will never stir for an hour at a time. Oh, that is the thing I should like you to do. Draw papa!”
Her voice sank into a softer cadence, not to disturb Sir Ludovic; but her face was more eager than ever. She put the door open, showing like a picture the other room within: the background of books in many tones of subdued color, with gleams of old gilding, giving a russet edge of light here and there. In the midst of the scene thus disclosed sat Sir Ludovic, his head, with its silver locks, leaning back upon his high chair.
“I cannot draw the figure,” Rob had said, with anxiety and alarm, feeling the task too much for him; but, after all, when he looked again there was not much of the figure visible. The wide old velvet coat was folded over the old student-sleepers’ knees; only his cheek was visible, still perfect in its fine oval, and the outline of his noble old head against the dark leather of the chair. It was a study of still life, not a portrait, that was wanted. Rob looked at the “subject” thus proposed to him, and Margaret looked at him with great anxiety, to see in his face what he was going to do. Would he consent? Would he refuse to her this thing, which, now that she had proposed it, she felt that she wanted more than anything else in the world? Recklessly Margaret threw herself “under obligations” to the young man.
“Oh, if you please, do it!” she cried, in a half whisper, putting her two pretty hands together in a pretty, spontaneous gesture of supplication. How could Rob resist, whose first desire was to please her, and to whom in pleasing her so many soft brightnesses of pleasure to himself opened up? Even without that motive, to do him justice, he would have been melted by her entreaty—he would have been proud to do anything for her.