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LOVE GLOOMING.
Ian, the light of his mother's eyes, was gone, and she felt
forsaken. Alister was too much occupied with Mercy to feel his
departure as on former occasions, yet he missed him every hour of
the day. Mercy and he met, but not for some time in open company, as
Christina refused to go near the cottage. Things were ripening to a
change.
Alister's occupation with Mercy, however, was far from absorption;
the moment Ian was gone, he increased his attention to his mother,
feeling she had but him. But his mother was not quite the same to
him now. At times she was even more tender; at other times she
seemed to hold him away from her, as one with whom she was not in
sympathy. The fear awoke in him that she might so speak to some one
of the Palmers as to raise an insuperable barrier between the
families; and this fear made him resolve to come at once to an
understanding with Mercy. The resulting difficulties might be great;
he felt keenly the possible alternative of his loss of Mercy, or
Mercy's loss of her family; but the fact that he loved her gave him
a right to tell her so, and made it his duty to lay before her the
probability of an obstacle. That his mother did not like the
alliance had to be braved, for a man must leave father and mother
and cleave to his wife--a saying commonly by male presumption
inverted. Mercy's love he believed such that she would, without a
thought, leave the luxury of her father's house for the mere plenty
of his. That it would not be to descend but to rise in the true
social scale he would leave her to discover. Had he known what Mr.
Palmer was, and how his money had been made, he would neither have
sought nor accepted his acquaintance, and it would no more have been
possible to fall in love with one of his family than to covet one of
his fine horses. But that which might, could, would, or should have
been, affected in no way that which was. He had entered in
ignorance, by the will of God, into certain relations with "the
young woman," as his mother called her, and those relations had to
be followed to their natural and righteous end.
Talking together over possibilities, Mr. Peregrine Palmer had agreed
with his wife that, Mercy being so far from a beauty, it might not
be such a bad match, would not at least be one to be ashamed of, if
she did marry the impoverished chief of a highland clan with a
baronetcy in his pocket. Having bought the land cheap, he could
afford to let a part, perhaps even the whole of it, go back with his
daughter, thus restoring to its former position an ancient and
honourable family. The husband of his younger daughter would then be
head of one of the very few highland families yet in possession of
their ancestral acres--a distinction he would owe to Peregrine
Palmer! It was a pleasant thought to the kindly, consequential,
common little man. Mrs. Palmer, therefore, when the chief called
upon her, received him with more than her previous cordiality.
His mother would have been glad to see him return from his call
somewhat dejected; he entered so radiant and handsome, that her
heart sank within her. Was she actually on the point of being allied
through the child of her bosom to a distiller and brewer--a man who
had grown rich on the ruin of thousands of his fellow countrymen? To
what depths might not the most ancient family sink! For any poverty,
she said to herself, she was prepared--but how was she to endure
disgrace! Alas for the clan, whose history was about to
cease--smothered in the defiling garment of ill-gotten wealth!
Miserable, humiliating close to ancient story! She had no doubt as
to her son's intention, although he had said nothing; she KNEW that
his refusal of dower would be his plea in justification; but would
that deliver them from the degrading approval of the world? How
many, if they ever heard of it, would believe that the poor,
high-souled Macruadh declined to receive a single hundred from his
father-in-law's affluence! That he took his daughter poor as she was
born--his one stipulation that she should be clean from her
father's mud! For one to whom there would even be a chance of
stating the truth of the matter, a hundred would say, "That's your
plan! The only salvation for your shattered houses! Point them up
well with the bird-lime of the brewer, the quack, or the
money-lender, and they'll last till doom'sday!"
Thus bitterly spoke the mother. She brooded and scorned, raged
inwardly, and took to herself dishonour, until evidently she was
wasting. The chief's heart was troubled; could it be that she
doubted his strength to resist temptation? He must make haste and
have the whole thing settled! And first of all speak definitely to
Mercy on the matter!
He had appointed to meet her the same evening, and went long before
the hour to watch for her appearing. He climbed the hill, and lay
down in the heather whence he could see the door of the New House,
and Mercy the moment she should come out of it. He lay there till
the sun was down, and the stars began to appear. At length--and even
then it was many minutes to the time--he saw the door open, and
Mercy walk slowly to the gate. He rose and went down the hill. She
saw him, watched him descending, and the moment he reached the road,
went to meet him. They walked slowly down the road, without a word
spoken, until they felt themselves alone.
"You look so lovely!" said the chief.
"In the twilight, I suppose!" said Mercy.
"Perhaps; you are a creature of the twilight, or the night rather,
with your great black eyes!"
"I don't like you to speak to me so! You never did before! You know
I am not lovely! I am very plain!"
She was evidently not pleased.
"What have I done to vex you, Mercy?" he rejoined. "Why should you
mind my saying what is true?"
She bit her lip, and could hardly speak to answer him. Often in
London she had been morally sickened by the false rubbish talked to
her sister, and had boasted to herself that the chief had never paid
her a compliment. Now he had done it!
She took her hand from his arm.
"I think I will go home!" she said.
Alister stopped and turned to her. The last gleam of the west was
reflected from her eyes, and all the sadness of the fading light
seemed gathered into them.
"My child!" he said, all that was fatherly in the chief rising at
the sight, "who has been making you unhappy?"
"You," she answered, looking him in the face.
"How? I do not understand!" he returned, gazing at her bewildered.
"You have just paid me a compliment--a thing you never did
before--a thing I never heard before from any but a fool! How could
you say I was beautiful! You know I am not beautiful! It breaks my
heart to think you could say what you didn't believe!"
"Mercy!" answered the chief, "if I said you were beautiful, and to
my eyes you were not, it would yet be true; for to my heart, which
sees deeper than my eyes, you are more beautiful than any other ever
was or ever will be. I know you are not beautiful in the world's
meaning, but you are very lovely--and it was lovely I said you
were!"
"Lovely because you love me? Is that what you meant?"
"Yes, that and more. Your eyes are beautiful, and your hair is
beautiful, and your expression is lovely. But I am not flattering
you--I am not even paying you compliments, for those things are not
yours; God made them, and has given them to me!"
She put her hand in his arm again, and there was no more
love-making.
"But Mercy," said the chief, when they had walked some distance
without speaking, "do you think you could live here always, and
never see London again?"
"I would not care if London were scratched out."
"Could you be content to be a farmer's wife?"
"If he was a very good farmer," she answered, looking up archly.
"Am I a good enough farmer, then, to serve your turn?"
"Good enough if I were ten times better. Do you really mean it,
Macruadh?"
"With all my heart. Only there is one thing I am very anxious
about."
"What is that?"
"How your father will take my condition."
"He will allow, I think, that it is good enough for me--and more
than I deserve."
"That is not what I mean; it is that I have a certain condition to
make."
"Else you won't marry me? That seems strange! Of course I will do
anything you would wish me to do! A condition!" she repeated,
ponderingly, with just a little dissatisfaction in the tone.
Alister wondered she was not angry. But she trusted him too well to
take offence readily.
"Yes," he rejoined, "a real condition! Terms belong naturally to the
giver, not the petitioner; I hope with all my heart it will not
offend him. It will not offend you, I think."
"Let me hear your condition," said Mercy, looking at him curiously,
her honest eyes shining in the faint light.
"I want him to let me take you just as you are, without a shilling
of his money to spoil the gift. I want you in and for yourself."
"I dare not think you one who would rather not be obliged to his
wife for anything!" said Mercy. "That cannot be it!"
She spoke with just a shadow of displeasure. He did not answer. He
was in great dread of hurting her, and his plain reason could not
fail to hurt her.
"Well," she resumed, as he did not reply, "there are fathers, I
daresay, who would not count that a hard condition!"
"Of course your father will not like the idea of your marrying so
poor a man!"
"If he should insist on your having something with me, you will not
refuse, will you? Why should you mind it?"
Alister was silent. The thing had already begun to grow dreadful!
How could he tell her his reasons! Was it necessary to tell her? If
he had to explain, it must be to her father, not to her! How, until
absolutely compelled, reveal the horrible fact that her father was
despised by her lover! She might believe it her part to refuse such
love! He trembled lest she should urge him. But Mercy, thinking she
had been very bold already, also held her peace.
They tried to talk about other things, but with little success, and
when they parted, it was with a sense on both sides that something
had got between them. The night through Mercy hardly slept for
trying to discover what his aversion to her dowry might mean. No
princedom was worth contrasting with poverty and her farmer-chief,
but why should not his love be able to carry her few thousands? It
was impossible his great soul should grudge his wife's superiority
in the one poor trifle of money! Was not the whole family superior
to money! Had she, alas, been too confident in their greatness? Must
she be brought to confess that their grand ways had their little
heart of pride? Did they not regard themselves as the ancient
aristocracy of the country! Yes, it must be! The chief despised the
origin of her father's riches!
But, although so far in the direction of the fact, she had no
suspicion of anything more than landed pride looking down upon
manufacture and trade. She suspected no moral root of even a share
in the chief's difficulty. Naturally, she was offended. How
differently Christina would have met the least hint of a CONDITION,
she thought. She had been too ready to show and confess her love!
Had she stood off a little, she might have escaped this humiliation!
But would that have been honest? Must she not first of all be true?
Was the chief, whatever his pride, capable of being ungenerous?
Questions like these kept coming and going throughout the night.
Hither and thither went her thoughts, refusing to be controlled. The
morning came, the sun rose, and she could not find rest. She had
come to see how ideally delightful it was just to wait God's will of
love, yet, in this her first trouble, she actually forgot to think
of God, never asked him to look after the thing for her, never said,
"Thy will be done!" And when at length weariness overpowered her,
fell asleep like a heathen, without a word from her heart to the
heart.
Alister missed Ian sorely. He prayed to God, but was too troubled to
feel him near. Trouble imagined may seem easy to meet; trouble
actual is quite another thing! His mother, perhaps, was to have her
desire; Mercy, perhaps, would not marry a man who disapproved of her
family! Between them already was what could not be talked about! He
could not set free his heart to her!
When Mercy woke, the old love was awake also; let Alister's reason
be what it might, it was not for her to resent it! The life he led
was so much grander than a life spent in making money, that he must
feel himself superior! Throned in the hearts, and influencing the
characters of men, was he not in a far nobler position than money
could give him? From her night of doubt and bitterness Mercy issued
more loving and humble. What should she be now, she said to herself,
if Alister had not taught her? He had been good to her as never
father or brother! She would trust him! She would believe him right!
Had he hurt her pride? It was well her pride should be hurt! Her
mind was at rest.
But Alister must continue in pain and dread until he had spoken to
her father. Knowing then the worst, he might use argument with
Mercy; the moment for that was not yet come! If he consented that
his daughter should leave him undowered, an explanation with Mercy
might be postponed. When the honour of her husband was more to her
than the false credit of her family, when she had had time to
understand principles which, born and brought up as she had been,
she might not yet be able to see into, then it would be time to
explain! One with him, she would see things as he saw them! Till her
father came, he would avoid the subject!
All the morning he was busy in the cornyard--with his hands in
preparing new stances for ricks, with his heart in try ing to
content himself beforehand with whatever fate the Lord might intend
for him. As yet he was more of a Christian philosopher than a
philosophical Christian. The thing most disappointing to him he
would treat as the will of God for him, and try to make up his mind
to it, persuading himself it was the right and best thing--as if he
knew it the will of God. He was thus working in the region of
supposition, and not of revealed duty; in his own imagination, and
not in the will of God. If this should not prove the will of God
concerning him, then he was spending his strength for nought. There
is something in the very presence and actuality of a thing to make
one able to bear it; but a man may weaken himself for bearing what
God intends him to bear, by trying to bear what God does not intend
him to bear. The chief was forestalling the morrow like an
unbeliever--not without some moral advantage, I dare say, but with
spiritual loss. We have no right to school ourselves to an imaginary
duty. When we do not know, then what he lays upon us is NOT TO KNOW,
and to be content not to know. The philosopher is he who lives in
the thought of things, the Christian is he who lives in the things
themselves. The philosopher occupies himself with Grod's decree, the
Christian with God's will; the philosopher with what God may intend,
the Christian with what God wants HIM TO DO.
The laird looked up and there were the young ladies! It was the
first time Christina had come nigh the cottage since Ian's
departure.
"Can you tell me, Macruadh," she said, "what makes Mrs. Conal so
spiteful always? When we bade her good morning a few minutes ago,
she overwhelmed us with a torrent of abuse!"
"How did you know it was abuse?"
"We understand enough of Gaelic to know it was not exactly blessing
us she was. It is not necessary to know cat-language to distinguish
between purring and spitting! What harm have we done? Her voice was
fierce, and her eyes were like two live peats flaming at us! Do
speak to her."
"It would be of no use!"
"Where's the good of being chief then? I don't ask you to make the
old woman civil, but I think you might keep her from insulting your
friends! I begin to think your chiefdom a sham!"
"I doubt indeed if it reaches to the tongues of the clan! But let us
go and tell my mother. She may be able to do something with her!"
Christina went into the cottage; the chief drew Mercy back.
"What do you think the first duty of married people, Mercy--to each
other, I mean," he said.
"To be always what they look," answered Mercy.
"Yes, but I mean actively. What is it their first duty to do towards
each other?"
"I can't answer that without thinking."
"Is it not each to help the other to do the will of God?"
"I would say YES if I were sure I really meant it."
"You will mean it one day."
"Are you sure God will teach me?"
"I think he cares more to do that than anything else."
"More than to save us?"
"What is saving but taking us out of the dark into the light? There
is no salvation but to know God and grow like him."
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