Chapter IX Cupid Abroad
“Cupid abroad was lated in the night,
His wings were wet with ranging in the rain;
Harbour he sought, to me he took his flight,
To dry his plumes,” I heard the boy complain;
“I ope’d the door, and granted his desire.
I rose myself, and made the wag a fire.”
Everyone in the neighbourhood of Burnhead called Lady Alicia’s youngest daughter “Bonnie Margaret,” so full of charm and gaiety and gentleness was she. Not all the year was Lady Alicia at the “big hoose”: since the death of her husband—worthy David Carruthers, late Advocate—she always wintered in Edinburgh; but with May, Bonnie Margaret came back to Burnhead, unless, indeed, as had happened lately, she spent that month in London with one of her married sisters. But at all events some part of the summer saw her back at Burnhead, and the sun seemed to shine the brighter for her coming.
Like everyone else, she was very fond of Miss Esperance, and she often came to Remote to play with the little boys who whole-heartedly approved of her. Mr. Wycherly, too, was fond of Bonnie Margaret, and somehow, recently, she had seemed to come across him very often during his walks with Montagu. She would join them, and sometimes spend a whole long afternoon in the little copse sitting beside Mr. Wycherly at the foot of his favourite tree, while Montagu played at the brook.
Very shyly and with many most becoming blushes, Margaret confided to Mr. Wycherly that she had met a nephew of his during her visits to her sister. Mr. Wycherly was not in the least interested in his nephew, but he was interested in anything Bonnie Margaret chose to talk about, and the nephew acquired a fictitious importance for this reason.
This nephew was, Margaret carefully explained, an exceedingly clever young man, who had taken a good degree—but he didn’t want to take orders, and he hated school-mastering—he had tried it—and now he had gone into a friend’s business as a wine merchant, and his people were very much annoyed. What was Mr. Wycherly’s opinion on the subject? And didn’t he think it was very noble of this young man to earn his bread in this particular fashion? It had taken many meetings and much elaborate and roundabout explanation upon Margaret’s part before this final statement of the situation was reached; and Mr. Wycherly, having in the meantime heard complaints that Bonnie Margaret was very ill to please in the matter of a husband, began to put two and two together. Many swains had sighed at Margaret’s shrine, and she had received what her mother called “several quite good offers,” but she would have nothing to say to any of them. She was in character fully as decided as Lady Alicia herself. But she was demure and gentle in manner, and instead of fighting for her own way, as is the custom of the strenuous, simply took it quietly, and without vehement declaration of any kind.
When appealed to as to his opinion of the nobility of his nephew’s conduct in thus plunging into trade, Margaret and Mr. Wycherly were sitting on a low wall, watching Edmund and Mause and Montagu disport themselves in the hay-field it bordered.
The summer sun was warm, and Margaret wore a floppy leghorn hat which threw a most becoming shade over her serious grey eyes; eyes with long black lashes in somewhat startling contrast to her very fair hair. Mr. Wycherly particularly admired her Greek profile, her short upper lip, the lovely oval of her cheek and chin. Still more did he appreciate her sweet consideration and gentleness; and for the first time since he came to live in Scotland he found himself wishing that he knew something of this nephew who so plainly occupied a prominent position in the thoughts of this kind and beautiful girl.
“Of course,” Mr. Wycherly remarked guardedly, “he is perfectly right to earn his own living in the way that seems best to him, though whether it was absolutely necessary to run counter to the prejudices of his relatives in order to do so is not quite clear.”
“But you would not, would you, look down on anyone just because he happened to be in trade? If he is a cultured gentleman already, his being in trade can’t make him less of a cultured gentleman, can it?”
“Of course not,” Mr. Wycherly agreed, “but I think I can understand, perhaps, some slight reason for annoyance on the part of his people. You see, had he announced earlier this extreme desire to go into business, it is hardly likely that they would have given him an expensive education at the University. He was, you tell me, five years at Oxford?”
“He didn’t waste his time there,” Margaret answered eagerly, “he took all sorts of honours: but he loathes teaching—” Margaret stopped, for Mr. Wycherly was looking at her with a curiously amused expression which seemed to say, “How is it that you are so remarkably conversant with the likes and dislikes of this young man?”
She leant over the wall to gather some of the big horse gowans that grew in the field, so that her face was hidden from Mr. Wycherly. She fastened a little bunch of them into her waistband; then she said in the detached tone of one who seeks for information merely from curiosity:
“Don’t you think that at some time or other one has to settle what to do with one’s life, regardless of whether it is pleasing to other people or not—I mean in very big and important things?”
Mr. Wycherly, who thought she was still referring to his nephew, cordially agreed that for most of us such a course at some time or other is a necessity.
As it happened, however, Bonnie Margaret was not talking of his nephew, but of herself. Mr. Wycherly remembered this in the following October when, Lady Alicia having removed her household to Edinburgh, a startling rumour shook the village to its very foundations—a rumour to the effect that Bonnie Margaret had one night “taken the train” and was married next morning to somebody in the south of England.
Miss Esperance was much shocked and perturbed, the more so that she felt it devolved upon her, and her alone, to break this agitating intelligence to Mr. Wycherly. For was not a relative of his own the chief culprit? Miss Esperance could never understand Mr. Wycherly’s indifference toward everything that concerned his relations.
She had heard the news just before supper, but she waited until that meal was finished lest her communication might spoil his appetite.
It was their pleasant custom to sit and chat for a while every evening while Mr. Wycherly drank his single glass of port, and cracked some nuts, which he generally bestowed next morning upon the little boys.
He held up his glass of wine to the light, and even in the midst of her uneasiness Miss Esperance noted with pleasure how steady was the long, slender hand that held the glass.
“I have heard,” Miss Esperance began with a deep sigh, “some most distressing news to-day about certain good friends of yours.”
“Is Mrs. Gloag worse?” Mr. Wycherly asked anxiously, for the minister’s wife was very delicate, and was often quite seriously ill.
“No, no, nobody is ill; but I fear that our good friend, Lady Alicia, is in very great trouble. Margaret——”
“Has married against her mother’s wish?” Mr. Wycherly interrupted quickly.
“That’s just what she has done—but how did you guess?”
“And she has married,” Mr. Wycherly continued, “a nephew of mine. If I mistake not, Margaret was twenty-one only the other day.”
“It seems,” Miss Esperance went on, much astonished at the calmness with which Mr. Wycherly received these grievous tidings, “that this young man proposed to Margaret some time ago; but that Lady Alicia wouldn’t hear of any engagement. He asked for Margaret again this summer, and was again refused: though Margaret told her mother that she intended to marry him and considered herself engaged to him in spite of everything. And, as you say, directly she came of age she has done it.”
Mr. Wycherly had laid down his glass of port untasted, when Miss Esperance first began to speak. Now he lifted the decanter and poured out another, offering it to Miss Esperance. “My dear friend,” he exclaimed eagerly, “they are married. Nothing can alter that. Let us drink pretty Margaret’s health, and wish her all prosperity and happiness, and may the man she has chosen try to be worthy of her!”
Miss Esperance demurred: but Mr. Wycherly continued to lean across the table with the glass of wine held out toward her, and he looked so pleading, and she so loved to gratify him, that at last, though a little under protest, she consented to drink this toast, and took one sip from the proffered glass of port.
“I wish I could feel that it will turn out well,” she said wistfully.
“She must love him right well,” Mr. Wycherly said thoughtfully, “and she is not a foolish girl. She has judgment and discretion.”
“Where love is concerned,” said Miss Esperance, “judgment and discretion generally go to the wall.”
And Mr. Wycherly could find no arguments in disproof of this statement.
Lady Alicia made a special journey to Remote for the express purpose of reproaching Mr. Wycherly with the conduct of a nephew he had never seen.
Miss Esperance was out; Mr. Wycherly, as usual, reading in his room. There Lady Alicia sought him and plunged at once into a history of the “entanglement,” as she called it, concluding with these words: “I told her never to mention that young man to me again, and she never did, so of course I concluded that, like a sensible girl, she had put the whole thing out of her head: but the hussy has married him, married him without ever a wedding present or a single new gown, and what can I do? A girl, too, who might have married anyone, by far the prettiest of the four, and look how well the rest have married!”
“She must love him very much,” Mr. Wycherly said dreamily. “Pretty Margaret, so gentle always and so quiet. What strength, what tenacity of purpose under that docile feminine exterior! Dear Lady Alicia, she is more like you than any of your other daughters.”
“Like me!” Lady Alicia almost shouted. “Do you mean to say I could have run away with any bottle-nosed vintner that ever tasted port—I, forsooth!”
“But you told me yourself that he is a gentleman, young and good-looking,” Mr. Wycherly expostulated. “If I remember rightly, too, something of a scholar—and Margaret loves him. She has proved that beyond all question. God grant that he is worthy of her love. You can’t unmarry them, my dear old friend, and though you will be angry with me, I must tell you that I think it is well you can’t. You must forgive them both.”
“Never,” said Lady Alicia with the greatest determination. “She has chosen her vintner; let her stick to him.”
“She will do that in any case,” said Mr. Wycherly; “but she will love her mother none the less, and her mother will, presently, love her all the more.”
“She will do nothing of the kind,” Lady Alicia said with considerable asperity. “You don’t seem to realise what a disgraceful thing your nephew has done in abducting my daughter in this fashion.”
“I thought you said she went to him,” Mr. Wycherly suggested apologetically.
For answer Lady Alicia rose in her wrath and strode out of the room. Mr. Wycherly hastened after her across the little landing and down the curly staircase, but he was not in time to open the front door for her, and she banged it in his face. Mr. Wycherly opened it, and stood on the threshold just in time to hear the little gate at the bottom of the garden give an angry click as it fell behind Lady Alicia’s retreating form. He did not attempt to follow her, but stood where he was, wrapped in a reverie so absorbing that he started violently as the green gate slammed again and Lady Alicia bustled up the path holding out her hand, and saying:
“After all, it’s not your fault, I don’t know why I should scold you; the only redeeming feature in the whole horrible affair is that he’s your nephew and therefore cannot be an utter scoundrel, but you must confess it is very hard for me.”
Mr. Wycherly took the extended hand and shook it. “You must forgive her,” he said gently, “she would never have done it if she hadn’t been your daughter; think of the courage and determination——”
“The headstrong folly and foolhardiness,” Lady Alicia interrupted. “I cannot imagine why you keep suggesting I could ever have done such a disgraceful thing—I always had far too much——”
“Given the same circumstances, you would have behaved in exactly the same way,” Mr. Wycherly interrupted. “My dear Lady Alicia, you know you would.”
“You are a ridiculous and obstinate man,” said Lady Alicia; “much learning hath made you mad, and you know nothing whatever about women.”
All the same she smiled, and she left her hand in Mr. Wycherly’s. It was not unpleasant to her to be considered capable of romance; her life had been so safe and seemly always, a little monotonous and commonplace, perhaps, but she had once been young.
“I don’t know much,” Mr. Wycherly answered humbly; “but surely character is the same in man or woman, and given a certain character a certain line of conduct is inevitable.”
“And you think it is inevitable that I should forgive Margaret?”
“Assuredly,” said Mr. Wycherly.
“As I said before”—here Lady Alicia thought fit to withdraw her hand—“you are an ignorant man: but we won’t quarrel. Time will show whether you or I know most about me.”
She turned to walk to the gate where her carriage was waiting. He helped her in and shut the door upon her in absolute silence. Then, just as the man was driving off, he asked: “What do you think they would like for a wedding present?”
“Man, you are incorrigible,” exclaimed Lady Alicia, but her brow was smooth and her eyes smiling.
Mr. Wycherly stood at the green gate for some time, lost hi thought. As he turned to walk up the path to the house he said aloud: “I should like to know what that young man has done that he should be singled out by the gods for such supreme good fortune.”
When the days grew long once more Lady Alicia came back to the “big house,” but no fair-haired Margaret came to play with the little boys.
“Where is she?” asked Montagu of his tutor. “Why doesn’t she come?”
“She is married,” said Mr. Wycherly; “she has to stay with her husband.”
“When I marry,” said Montagu, “I shall marry somebody like Margaret; then she’ll stay with me and I shall never be lonely.”
“When you marry,” Mr. Wycherly said very seriously, “take care of just one thing. Take care that she is kind.”
“I’d like her to be beautiful, too,” Montagu said eagerly, “beautiful and tall, like Margaret.”
“I hope she will be beautiful, but kindness comes first,” and Mr. Wycherly spoke with conviction, as one who knew.
“How can one tell if she is kind?” Montagu asked.
“Compare her with your aunt, Montagu: if she stands such comparison, she is all your best desires need seek.”
“I will remember,” Montagu said solemnly, “kind and beautiful—but the kindness must come first. I wish Margaret hadn’t been in such a hurry, she would have done beautifully.”