It was afternoon, and all was drowsy and still; very still was the long room, now those younger creatures were gone. The rain streamed down outside with a soft, continuous patter upon the trees. The skies were all gray, the earth all silent. The faintest hum, no more than might come from a beehive, might sometimes be audible from the West Chamber, but the walls were thick and the doors fitted closely. If he heard the voices at all, they fell into the subdued patter of the rain, the general stillness. Afternoon—and seventy-five. What reason had he to keep himself awake, to insist upon living instead of sleeping through that heavy, silent, drowsy afternoon? And yet he did not like to think he had been sleeping. When John came in behind the screen and began to prepare for dinner, Sir Ludovic sat upright with very wide-open eyes. He was always erect, but now he sat bolt-upright in his chair.
“Is that you, John?” he said, with unusual suavity, so that the old man might entertain no doubt of his perfectly wide-awake condition.
“Ay, it’s just me, Sir Ludovic,” said John. No one could have been more indifferent on this subject than John was. He knew very well that his master was apt to doze the afternoon through—but what of that? It was a privilege of his position, not a misfortune. Old John would gladly have dozed too, and found it entirely natural. He himself took a nap whenever he could get it, and though he would cling with natural vehemence to the fact that he had “not slept a wink,” there was neither shame nor annoyance in his mind at being caught in the act. The signs of old age were not alarming nor troublesome to John; he had a distinct pleasure in perceiving them in his master, and no objection to put them forth for himself, to boast a little of what he still could do “at my age,” and to claim all manner of little exemptions on this score. The old master sat up very erect in his chair, with a great pretence of interest and absorption in his book, to cheat the other’s observations, but the old servant was not to be cheated. He said to himself quite calmly, and to Bell when he went down-stairs, “Sir Ludovic’s getting an auld man.”
“No so much aulder than yoursel’,” Bell retorted, promptly.
“Was I saying he was much aulder than mysel’? He’s nearer ten years than five—and that makes a great difference; but you women are aye for comparisons,” said John. “I said he was getting an auld man.”
How differently the same sentiment mingled with the great stillness in the long room! Sir Ludovic did not want any change; he was well enough, willing to last just as he was, hoping nothing different, satisfied if he could only go on so. But here, creeping about him, irresistible, not even to be kept at arm’s-length or regarded as something outside of himself, were the symptoms of change coming. How erect he sat, how wide-awake he forced himself to look! he would not own to the weakness, and perhaps, who could tell, by mere ignoring, might vanquish—or, at least, appear to vanquish it. But it was not to be forgotten, nor even resisted very effectively. Even John’s movements, the passing of himself or his shadow across the light, the sound of his heavy old leisurely footsteps, the slight clang of the silver and tinkle of the glass as it was put on the table, began to take a certain rhythm, and to lull the listener once more. “There must be something the matter with me,” Sir Ludovic said, as he roused himself once more with an effort, and got up to shake himself free, by movement, from the spell. Movement, that must be what he wanted—a little exercise, which he was aware he had neglected sadly. But now, perhaps, it might be of use. He had to go to prepare for dinner, which was always of use in charming the drowsiness away.
Margaret came in a few minutes after with a little flutter and rustle of roused life about her, which was very different from the slumbrous atmosphere of old age, in which Sir Ludovic had discovered himself to be sinking. She was very eager, and at the same time doubtful, as to what he would say to her; he had not found her visitor so delightful as she had done, she felt. To Margaret the afternoon had been full of pleasure. The wet day, which in the morning had filled her with despair, had become more attractive than the finest of weather: Rob’s society, the novelty of talking to him, of pouring forth her own ideas upon subjects with which Bell, for instance, had little sympathy, and of hearing from him a great deal which, if not very new in itself, was profoundly intellectual, brilliantly original to the little country girl—had transported Margaret. How clever he was, how well he could talk! She had never met with anybody like him. What worlds of books he had read! not, perhaps, such learned books (but of this she was not quite sure) as papa. But then papa did not talk of them; and Mr. Glen was so willing to talk of them, mingling his own impressions and ideas with hers, quoting his favorite poets and leading Margaret herself, shyly, with glowing eyes and flaming cheeks, to quote hers, and “say” verses out loud which she had said to herself with all the sweet enthusiasm of youth in many a solitary place, but had never found anybody to care for. Even Jeanie, Jeanie who was young, and full of natural poetry too, when Margaret had tried to “say” her beloved “pieces” to her, had dropped asleep, which had been one of the girl’s great disappointments in life.
When she was younger, Bell, indeed, had listened with great complacency to these “pieces,” as proving how clever the child was; but from that time to this, when she suddenly found that Rob Glen knew them too, and would say half, asking if she remembered the next—most delightful of suggestions—she had found nobody who cared, nobody who would listen and respond. Margaret’s eyes grew brighter and brighter, the ready flush of feeling went and came over her face like the flying shadows on a sunshiny landscape, as quick as those shadows fly upon the hills; and a soft excitement got possession of her. She talked as she had never talked in her life before, and impressed him as he impressed her by that easy poetry of youth which can look almost like genius in its early outpouring. A mutual admiration, a mutual interest, thus sprang up between them: and how much your admiration of the superiority of another is increased by the certainty that the other shows his superiority by admiring you, who can doubt? Rob, too, felt all this. He was dazzled himself by the pretty, simple strains of thinking and feeling which Margaret showed unawares, and he dazzled her (wittingly and of purpose) by his own eloquence, his theories, his deep thoughts, his lofty fancies. How delightful it all was, and how the hours of wetness out-of-doors, of slow-falling rain, and heavy clouds, and drippings and patterings and overflowings, tedious to everybody else, flew over the two young people in the little panelled room!
The drawing-lesson was not so happy; spite of all the master’s efforts, it had been impossible to get Margaret’s wavering pencil to execute the necessary straight line. This had been humbling; but it had been partially sweetened by Rob’s assurance that many who could not overcome such a commonplace difficulty became excellent in color, and in a sense of the harmonies of Nature. What a lovely phrase this was, “the harmonies of Nature!” Margaret felt instinctively that she would understand them, though she could not make a straight line. Then she took him over the house, showing him “the high room,” which was over the long room, the vaulted gallery with its tapestries, which filled him with wonder and admiration. Neither of them perceived another figure, which retreated before them, getting out of their way as they lingered at every point of interest, and which was poor Jeanie, who finally took refuge behind the tapestry, with a forlorn wish to see and hear again the faithless “freend” who had forgotten her. The two stood close to that tapestry for some time, he talking, smiling upon the young lady, giving her a great deal of information (of dubious accuracy) about tapestry and art manufactures, while Jeanie, in great terror of discovery, and still greater shame and horror of herself for so mean an action as “listening,” lurked behind, scarlet with anxiety, confusion, and wretchedness. Jeanie, however, it is needless to deny, was a little comforted by what she heard.
Courtship goes quickly on the lower levels of society, and how Rob should occupy the time in talking of the old hangings which were just “an awfu’ place for dust,” if he really wished to make himself agreeable to Miss Margaret, Jeanie could not understand. “No a word but that the hale world might hear,” she said to herself, puzzled but soothed, as she escaped to her little room in the top of the turret, after the others had gone away. She could hear their voices, with little breaks of laughter still going on, as they went down-stairs—the same sound which was as the humming of bees to Sir Ludovic in his great chair. Not so, Jeanie knew, had Rob made his advances to herself. These approaches were much less abstract, far more rapid. Perhaps “he wasna meaning onything,” perhaps it was but a polite visit, for abstract reasons, occupied by abstract subjects. This thought consoled Jeanie, and made her heart swell with a secret pride in Rob’s education and capability to hold his place with the best.