Kitabı oku: «Warlock o' Glenwarlock: A Homely Romance», sayfa 35

CHAPTER LIX.
A BREAKING UP

Things in the castle went on in the same quiet way as before for some time. Cosmo settled himself in his father's room, and read and wrote, and pondered and aspired. The household led the same homely simple life, only fared better. The housekeeping was in Grizzie's hands, and she was a liberal soul—a true BREAD-GIVER.

James Gracie did not linger long behind his friend. His last words were, "I won'er gien I hae a chance o' winnin' up wi' the laird!"

On the morning that followed his funeral, as soon as breakfast was over, Aggie sought Cosmo, where he sat in the garden with a book in his hand.

"Whaur are ye gaein', Aggie?" he said, as she approached prepared for walking.

"MY hoor's come," she answered. "It's time I was awa'."

"I dinna un'erstan' ye, Aggie," he returned.

"Hoo sud ye, sir? Ilka body kens, or sud ken, what lies to their ain han'. It lies to mine to gang. I'm no wantit langer. Ye wadna hae me ait the breid o' idleness?"

"But, Aggie," remonstrated Cosmo, "ye're ane o' the faimily! I wad as sune think o' seein' my ain sister, gien I had ane, gang fra hame for sic a nae rizzon at a'!"

The tears rose in her eyes, and her voice trembled:

"It canna be helpit; I maun gang," she said.

Cosmo was dumb for many moments; he had never thought of such a possibility; and Aggie stood silent before him.

"What hae ye i' yer heid, Aggie? What thoucht ye o' duin' wi' yersel'?" he asked at length, his heart swelling so that he could scarcely bring out the words.

"I'm gaein' to luik for a place."

"But, Aggie, gien it canna be helpit; and gang ye maun, YE ken I'm rich, an' I ken there's naebody i' the warl' wi' a better richt to share in what I hae: wadna ye like to gang til a ladies' school, an' learn a heap o' things?"

"Na, I wadna. It's hard wark I need to haud me i' the richt ro'd. I can aye learn what I hunger for, an' what ye dinna desire ye'll never learn. Thanks to yersel' an' Maister Simon, ye hae putten me i' the w'y o' that! It's no kennin' things—it's kennin' things upo' the ro'd ye gang,'at 's o' consequence to ye. The lave I mak naething o'."

"But a time micht come whan ye wad want mony a thing ye micht hae learnt afore."

"Whan that time comes, I'll learn them than, wi' half the trouble, an' in half the time,—no to mention the pleesur o' learnin' them. Noo, they wad but tak me frae the things I can an' maun mak use o'. Na, Cosmo, I'm b'un' to du something wi' what I hae, an' no bide till I get mair. I'll be aye gettin'."

"Weel, Aggie, I daurna temp' ye to bide gien ye oucht to gang; an' ye wad but despise me gien I was fule eneuch to try 't. But ye canna refuse to share wi' me. That wadna be like ane 'at had the same father an' the same maister. Tak a thoosan' poun' to begin wi', an' gang an'—an' du onything ye like, only dinna work yersel' to deith wi' rouch wark. I canna bide to think o' 't."

"A thoosan' poun'! No ae baubee! Cosmo, I wad hae thoucht ye had mair sense! What wad baudrins (PUSSY-CAT) there du wi' a silk goon? Ye can gie me the twa poun' ten I gae to Grizzie to help haud the life in 's a'. A body maun hae something i' their pooch gien they can, an' gien they canna, they maun du wi' naething. It's won'erfu' hoo little 's railly wantit!"

Cosmo felt miserable.

"Ye winna surely gang ohn seein' Maister Simon!"

"I tried to see him last nicht, but auld Dorty wadna lat me near him. I WAD fain say fareweel til him."

"Weel, put aff gaein' awa' till the morn, an' we'll gang thegither the nicht an' see him. Dorty winna haud ME oot."

Aggie hesitated, thought, and consented. Leaving Cosmo more distressed than she knew, she went to the kitchen, took off her bonnet, and telling Grizzie she was not going till the morrow, sat down, and proceeded to pare the potatoes.

"Ance mair," said Grizzie, resuming an unclosed difference, "what for ye sud gang's clean 'ayont me. It's true the auld men are awa', but here's the auld wife left, an' she'll be a mither to ye, as weel's she kens hoo, an' a lass o' your sense is easy to mither. I' the name o' God I say't, the warl' micht as weel objec' to twa angels bidin' i' h'aven thegither as you an' the yoong laird in ae hoose! Say 'at they like, ye're but a servan' lass, an' here am I ower ye! Aggie, I'm grouin' auld, an' railly no fit to mak a bed my lane—no to mention scoorin' the flure! It's no considerate o' ye, Aggie!—jist 'cause yer father—hoots, he was but yer gran'father! —'s deid o' a guid auld age, an' gaithert til HIS fathers, to gang an' lea' me my lane! Whaur am I to get a body I cud bide to hae i' my sicht, an' you awa'—you 'at's been like bane o' my bane to me! It's no guid o' ye, Aggie! There maun be temper intil 't! I'm sure I ken no cause ever I gae ye."

Aggie said not a word; she had said all she could say, over and over; so now she pared her potatoes, and was silent. Her heart was sore, but her mind was clear, and her will strong.

Up and down the little garden Cosmo walked, revolving many things. "What is this world and its ways," he said, "but a dream that dreams itself out and is gone!"

The majority of men, whether they think or not, worship solidity and fact: to such Cosmo's conclusion must seem both foolish and dangerous—though a dream may be filled with truth, and a fact be a mere shred for the winds of the limbo of vanities. Everything that CAN pass belongs to the same category with the dream. The question is whether the passing body leaves a live soul; whether the dream has been dreamed, the life lived aright. For there is a reality beyond all facts of suns and systems; solidity itself is but the shadow of a divine necessity; and there may be more truth in a fable than in a whole biography. Where life and truth are one, there is no passing, no dreaming more. To that waking all dreams truly dreamed are guiding the dreamer. But the last thing—and this was the conclusion of Cosmo's meditation—any dreamer needs regard, is the judgment of other dreamers upon his dreams. The all-pervading, ill-odoured phantom called Society is but the ghost of a false God. The fear of man, the trust in man, the deference to the opinion of man, is the merest worship of a rag-stuffed idol. The man who SEEKS the judgment of God can well smile at the unsolicited approval or condemnation of self-styled Society. There IS a true society—quite another thing. Doubtless the judgment of the world is of even moral value to those capable of regarding it. To deprive a thief of the restraining influence of the code of thieves' honour, would be to do him irreparable wrong; so with the tradesman whose law is the custom of the trade; but God demands an honesty, a dignity, a beauty of being, altogether different from that demanded by man of his fellow; and he who is taught of God is set out of sight above such law as that of thieves' honour, trade-custom, or social recognition—all of the same quality—subjected instead to a law which obeyed is liberty, disobeyed is a hell deeper than Society's attendant slums.

"Here is a woman," said Cosmo to himself, "who, with her earnings and her labour both, ministered to the very bodily life of my father and myself! She has been in the house the angel of God—the noblest, truest of women! She has ten times as much genuine education as most men who have been to college! Her brain is second only to her heart!—If it had but pleased God to make her my sister! But there is a way of pulling out the tongue of Slander!"

The evening was Mr. Simon's best time, and they therefore let the sun go down before they left the castle to visit him. On their way they had a right pleasant talk about old things, now the one now the other bringing some half faded event from the store-closet of memory.

"I doobt ye winna min' me takin' ye oot o' the Warlock ae day there was a gey bit o' a spait on?" said Agnes at length, looking up in Cosmo's face.

"Eh, I never h'ard o' that, Aggie!" replied Cosmo.

"I canna think to this day hoo it was ye fell in," she went on: "I hadna the chairge o' ye at the time. Ye maun hae run oot o' the hoose, an' me efter ye. I was verra near taen awa' wi' ye. Hoo we wan oot o' the watter I canna un'erstan'. A' 'at I ken is 'at whan I cam to mysel', we war lyin' grippit til ane anither upon a laich bit o' the bank."

"But hoo was't 'at naebody ever said a word aboot it efterhin'?" asked Cosmo. "I never tellt onybody, an' ye wasna auld eneuch no to forget a' aboot it."

"What for didna ye tell?"

"I was feart they wad think it my wite, an' no lat me tak chairge o' ye ony mair, whauras I kent ye was safer wi' me nor wi' ony ither aboot the place. Gien it had been my wite, I cudna hae hauden my tongue; but as it was, I didna see I was b'un' to tell."

"Hoo did ye hide it?"

"I ran wi' he hame to oor ain hoose. There was naebody there. I tuik aff yer weet claes, an' pat ye intil my bed till I got them dry."

"An' hoo did ye wi' yer ain?"

"By the time yours was dry, mine was dry tu."

When they arrived at the cottage, Dorty demurred, but her master heard Cosmo's voice and rang his bell.

"I little thought your father would have gone before me," said Mr. Simon. "I think I was aware of his death. I saw nothing, heard nothing, neither was I thinking about him at the moment; but he seemed to come to me, and I said to myself,'He is on his way home.' I shall have a talk with him by and by."

Agnes told him she had come to bid him good-bye; she was going after a place.

"Well," he answered, after a thoughtful pause, "so long as we obey the light in us, and that light is not darkness, we can't go wrong. If we should mistake, he will turn things round for us; and if we be to blame, he will let us see it."

He was weak, and they did not stay long.

"Don't judge my heart by my words, my dear scholars," he said. "My heart is right toward you, but I am too weary to show it. God bless you both. I may not see you again, Agnes, but I shall think of you there, and if I can do anything for you, be sure I will."

When they left the cottage, the twilight was halfway towards the night, and a vague softness in the east prophesied the moon. Cosmo led Agnes through the fields to the little hollow where she had so often gone to seek him. There they sat down in the grass, and waited for the moon. Cosmo pointed out the exact spot where she rose that night she looked at him through the legs of the cow.

"Ye min' Grizzie's rime," he said:

"'Whan the coo loups ower the mune, The reid gowd rains intil men's shune'?

"I believe Grizzie took the queer sicht for a guid omen. It's unco strange hoo fowk 'll mix up God an' chance, seein' there could hardly be twa mair contradictory ideas! I min' ance hearin' a man say,'It's almost a providence!'"

"I doobt wi' maist fowk," said Aggie, "it's only 'There's almost a God.' For my pairt I see nae room atween no believin' in him at a', an' believin' in him a' thegither an' lattin him du what he likes wi' 's."

"I'm o' your min' there, Aggie, oot an' oot," responded Cosmo.

As he spoke the moon came peering up, and, turning to Agnes to share the sight with her, he saw the yellow light reflected from tears. "Aggie! Aggie!" he said, in much concern, "what are ye greitin' for?"

She made no answer, but wiped away her tears, and tried to smile.

After a little pause,

"Ony body wad think, Cosmo," she said, "'at gien I believed in a God, he maun be a sma' ane! What for sud onybody greit 'at has but a far awa' notion o' sic a God as you an' the laird an' Maister Simon believes in!"

"Ye may weel say that, Aggie!" rejoined Cosmo—yet sighed as he said it, for he thought of Lady Joan. A long pause followed, and then he spoke again.

"Aggie," he said, "there canna weel be twa i' this warl' 'at ken ane anither better nor you an' me. We hae been bairns thegither; we hae been to the schuil thegither; we hae had the same maister; we hae come throu dour times thegither—I doobt we hae been hungry thegither, though ye saidna a word; we hae warstlet wi' poverty, an' maybe wi' unbelief; we loe the same fowk best; an' abune a' we set the wull o' God. It wad be sair upo' baith o' 's to pairt—an' to me a vex forby 'at the first thing w'alth did for me sud be to tak you awa'. It wad 'maist brak my hert to think 'at her 'at cam throu the lan' o' drowth wi' me—ay, tuik me throu' 't' for, wantin' her, I wad hae fa'en to rise nae mair, sud gang on climmin' the dry hill-ro'd, an' me lyin' i' the bonny meadow-gerse at the fut o' 't. It canna be rizzon, Aggie! What for sud ye gang? Merry me, Aggie, an' bide—bide an' ca' the castel yer ain."

"Hoots! wad ye merry yer mither!" cried Agnes, and to Cosmo's fresh dismay burst into laughter and tears together. I believe it was the sole time in her life she ever gave way to discordant emotion.

Cosmo stared speechless. It was as if an angel had made a poor human joke! He was much too bewildered to feel hurt, especially as he was aware of no committed absurdity.

But Aggie was not pleased with herself. She choked her tears, crushed down her laughter, and conquered. She took his hand in hers.

"I beg yer pardon, Cosmo," she said; "I shouldna hae lauchen. Lauchin', I'm sure,'s far eneuch frae my hert! I kenna hoo I cam to du 't. But ye're sic a bairn, Cosmo! Ye dinna ken what ye wad hae! An' bein' a kin' o' a mither to ye a' yer life, I maun lat ye see what ye're aboot—I wadna insist owersair upo' the years atween 's, though that's no a sma' maitter, but surely ye haena to be tellt at this time o' day,'at for fowk to merry 'at dinna loe ane anither, is little gien it be onything short o' a sin."

"I hae aye loed YOU, Aggie," said Cosmo, with some reproach in his tone.

"Weel du I ken that. An ill hert wad be mine gien it didna tell me that! But, Cosmo, whan ye said the word, didna YOUR hert tell ye ye meant by 't something no jist the verra same as ye inten' it me to un'erstan' by 't?"

"Aggie, Aggie!" sighed Cosmo, "I wad aye loe ye better an' better."

"Ay, ye wad, gien ye cud, Cosmo. But ye're ower honest to see throu' yersel'; an' I'm no sae honest but I can see throu' you. Ye wad merry me 'cause ye're no wullin' to pairt wi' me, likin' me better nor ony but ane, an' her ye canna get! Gien I was a leddy, Cosmo, maybe I michtna be ower prood to tak ye upo' thae terms, but no bein' what I am. It wad need love as roon's a sphere for that. Eh, but there micht come a time o' sair repentance! Ance merried upo' you, gien I war to tak it intil my heid 'at I was ae hair i' yer gait, or 'at ye was ae hair freer like wi me oot o' yer sicht, I wad be like to rin to the verra back-wa' o' creation! Na; it was weel eneuch as we hae been, but MERRIED! Ye wad be guid to me aye, I ken that, but I wad be aye wantin' to be deid,'at ye micht loe me a wee better. I say naething o' what the warl' wad say to the laird o' Glenwarlock merryin' his servan' lass; for ye care as little for the warl' as I du, an' we're baith some wiser nor it. But efter a', Cosmo, I wad be some oot o' my place—wadna I noo? The hen-birds nae doobt are aye the soberer to luik at, an' haena the gran' colours nor the gran' w'ys wi' them 'at the cocks hae; but still there's a measur in a' thing: it wad ill set a common hen to hae a peacock for her man. My sowl, I ken, wad gang han' in han', in a heumble w'y, wi' yours, for I un'erstan' ye, Cosmo; an' the day may come whan I'll luik fitter for yer company nor I can the noo; but wha like me could help a sense o' unfitness, gien it war but gaein' to the kirk side by side wi' you? Luik at the twa o' 's noo i' the munelicht thegither! Dinna ye see 'at we dinna match?"

"A' that wad be naething gien ye loed me, Aggie."

"Gien YE loed ME, say, Cosmo—loed me eneuch to be prood o' me! But that ye dinna. Exem' yer ain hert, an' ye'll see 'at ye dinna.—An' what for sud ye!"

Here Aggie broke down. A burst of silent weeping, like that of one desiring no comfort, followed. Suddenly she ceased and rose, and they walked home without a word.

When Cosmo came down in the morning, Aggie was gone.

CHAPTER LX.
REPOSE

Cosmo had no need of a very searching examination of his heart to know that it was mainly the wish to make her some poor return for her devotion, conjoined with the sincere desire to retain her company, that had influenced him in the offer she had been too wise and too genuinely loving to accept. He did not fall into any depths of self-blame, for, whatever its kind, his love was of quality pure and good. The only bitterness his offer bore was its justification of Agnes's departure.

But Grizzie saw no justification of it anywhere.

"What I'm to du wantin' her, I div not ken. NO BECOMIN', quo' he, FOR A LASS LIKE HER TO BIDE WI' A BACHELOR LIKE HIMSEL'!

"H'ard ever onybody sic styte! As gien she had been a lady forsooth! I micht wi' jist as muckle sense objec' to bidin' wi' him mysel'! But Is' du what I like, an' lat fowk say 'at they like, sae lang as I'm na fule i' my ain e'en!"

 
"I'm ower white, Mr. Gled, for you.
Ow na! ye're no that, bonny doo."
 

But by degrees Cosmo grew gently ashamed of himself that he had so addressed Agnes. He saw in the thing a failure in respect, a wrong to her dignity. That she had taken it so sweetly did not alter its character. Seeming at the time to himself to be going against the judgment of the world, and treating it with the contempt it always more or less deserves, he had in reality been acting in no small measure according to it! For had there not been in him a vague condescension operant all the time? Had he not been all but conscious of the feeling that his position made up for any want in his love? Had she been conventionally a lady, instead of an angel in peasant form, would he have been so ready to return her kindness with an offer of marriage? There was little conceit in supposing that some, even of higher position than his own, would have accepted the offer on lower terms; but knowing Aggie as he did, he ought not to have made it to her: she was too large and too fine for such an experiment. This he now fully understood; and had he not been brought up with her from childhood as with an elder sister, she might even now have begun to be a formidable rival to the sweet memories of Joan's ladyhood. For he saw in her that which is at the root, not only of all virtue, but of all beauty, of all grandeur, of all growth, of all attraction. Every charm—in its essence, in its development, in its embodiment, is a flower of the tree of life, whose root is the truth. I see the smile of the shallow philosopher, thinking of a certain lady to him full of charm, who has no more love for the truth than a mole for the light. But that lady's charm does not spring out of her; it has been put upon her, and she will soon destroy it. It comes of truth otherwhere, and will one day leave her naked and not lovely. The truth was in Agnes merely supreme. To have asked such a one to marry him for reasons lower than the highest was good ground for shame. Not therefore even then was he PAINFULLY ashamed, for he felt safe with Agnes, as with the elder sister that pardons everything.

It was some little time before they had any news of her; but they heard at last that she had rented Grannie's cottage from her grand-daughter, her own aunt, and was going to have a school there for young children. Cosmo was greatly pleased, for the work would give scope to some of her highest gifts and best qualities, while it would keep her within reach of possible service. Nothing however can part those who are of the true mind towards the things that ARE.

Cosmo betook himself heartily to study, and not only read but wrote regularly every day—no more with the design of printing, but in the hope of shaping more thoroughly and so testing more truly his contemplations and conclusions. I scorn the idea that a man cannot think without words, but Cosmo thus improved his thinking, and learned to utter accurately, that is, to say the thing he meant, and keep from saying the thing he did not mean.

The room over the kitchen, which had first in his memory been his grandmother's, then became his own, and returned to his disposal when James Gracie died, he made his study; and from it to the drawing-room, with the assistance of a village mason, excavated a passage—for it was little less than excavation—in the wall connecting the two blocks, under the passage in which had lain the treasure.

The main issue Grizzie's new command of money found was in a torrent of cleaning. If she could have had her way, I think she would have put up scaffolds all over the outside of the house, and scrubbed it down from chimneys to foundations.

On the opposite side of the Warlock river, the laird rented a meadow, and there Grizzie had the long disused satisfaction of seeing two cows she could call hers, the finest cows in the country, feeding with a vague satisfaction in the general order of things. The stable housed a horse after Cosmo's own heart, on which he made excursions into the country round, partly in the hope of coming upon some place not too far off where there was land to be bought.

All that was known of the change in his circumstances was that he had come into a large fortune by the death—date not mentioned—of a relative with whom his father had not for years had communication, and Cosmo never any. Lord Lick-my-loof, after repeated endeavours to get some information about this relative, was perplexed, and vaguely suspicious.

How the spending of the money thus committed to him was to change the earthly issues of his life, Cosmo had not yet learned, and was waiting for light on the matter. For a man is not bound to walk in the dark, neither must, for the sake of doing something, run the risk of doing wrong. He that believeth shall not make haste; and he that believeth not shall come no speed. He had nothing of the common mammonistic feeling of the enormous importance of money, neither felt that it laid upon him a heavier weight of duty than any other of the gifts of God. And if a poet is not bound to rush into the world with his poem, surely a rich man is not bound to rush into the world with his money. Rather set a herd of wild horses loose in a city! A man must know first how to USE his money, before he begin to spend it. And the way to use money is not so easily discovered as some would think, for it is not one of God's ready means of doing good. The rich man as such has no reason to look upon himself as specially favoured. He has reason to think himself specially tried. Jesus, loving a certain youth, did him the greatest kindness he had in his power, telling him to give his wealth to the poor, and follow him in poverty. The first question is not how to do good with money, but how to keep from doing harm with it. Whether rich or poor, a man must first of all do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with his God; then, if he be rich, God will let him know how to spend. There must be ways in which, even now, a man may give the half, or even the whole of his goods to the poor, without helping the devil. Cosmo, I repeat, was in no haste: it is not because of God's poverty that the world is so slowly redeemed. Not the most righteous expenditure of money will save it, but that of life and soul and spirit—it may be, to that, of nerve and muscle, blood and brain. All these our Lord spent—but no money. Therefore I say, that of all means for saving the world, or doing good, as it is called, money comes last in order, and far behind.

Out of the loneliness in which his father left him, grew a great peace and new strength. More real than ever was the other world to him now. His father could not have vanished like a sea-bubble on the sand! To have known a great man—perhaps I do not mean such a man as my reader may be thinking of—is to have some assurance of immortality. One of the best of men said to me once that he did not feel any longing after immortality, but, when he thought of certain persons, he could not for a moment believe they had ceased. He had beheld the lovely, believed therefore in the endless.

Castle Warlock was scarcely altered in appearance. In its worst poverty it had always looked dignified. There was more life about it and freedom, but not so much happiness. The diamonds had come, but his father was gone, Aggie was gone, Mr. Simon was going, and Joan would not come! Cosmo had scarce a hope for this world; yet not the less did he await the will of The Will. What that was, time would show, for God works in time.