‘He died with great joy,’ said Miss Rebecca, answering the question which the other had been afraid to put.
‘Thank God,’ said the Colonel, with stentorian fervour. ‘I behaved ill to him, Aunt Rebecca. I was a very hardened young man.’
‘Indeed, you were a very charming one, John, and always my favourite; so bright and kindly, and such a bonny boy. You are handsomer now, perhaps, but the fire has gone out of you.’
‘I’m afraid it was wild-fire,’ said the Colonel, gloomily. ‘Where are these children?’
Aunt Rebecca fetched them in, and explained them, like a demonstrator in a museum. ‘This is John, and this is Malcolm. John is the cleverer of the two; but Malcolm’s a clinging sort of child, with such a sweet temper;’ and so forth, as only an old maid can.
‘Which is the elder?’ inquired the Colonel.
‘John is three weeks older,’ replied the old lady. ‘It’s not much.’
‘And then he’s of the elder branch. That’s as it should be; he shall have Grangehead, Aunt Rebecca.’
‘Oh, do you think that’s quite necessary?’ she inquired, a little chopfallen, in the interest of the clinging child with the sweet temper. It was the first time she had crossed the Colonel’s path. I may add it was the last. He was not angry; he had no wish to terrify the harmless lady; but when the man’s spirit rose, as it always did at a thought of opposition, his voice rose along with it; and the mere volume of sound was appalling to the frail old dame.
‘Primogeniture is the law of the land!’ he bawled; ‘and’ — he was going to have added it was the law of God, but thought better of this flight. ‘And a very good thing too,’ he substituted. ‘However, I don’t bind myself; I shall test the children thoroughly.’
‘I thought he was a soldier?’ demanded John, in the tone of one who has paid for his seat and means to have his entertainment.
‘So I am, little man,’ said the Colonel.
‘Where’s your sword, then?’
‘There’s nobody here to fight with; nobody but kind aunties and good little boys. But you shall see my sword some of these days, and a case of pistols. Would you like to be a soldier?’
‘That I would!’ replied the child.
‘So you shall, I hope,’ answered the Colonel, with emotion; ‘one of Christ’s soldiers.’
It was plain he had taken a fancy to John.
Chapter II The whole party moved to Grangehead. It was a rambling old house, most of it only one story high, and none of it higher than two; it seemed to have been built at odd times, and it was difficult to tell where the mansion stopped and the offices began. The grounds were overgrown with hollies and laurels. In summer many fungi prospered in the thicket, and breathed out faint odours upon passers-by; but there were also many lilacs which beautified and perfumed the place in spring. A large paddock, almost large enough to justify the name of ‘park’ by which it went, was the playground of the two boys; there was besides a belfry over the gate of the stableyard, a great range of roof to clamber on, a draw-well under an old yew in a dark part of the shrubbery, and many other romantic accidents such as youth delights in. A broken-spirited tutor disposed of their mornings.
The Colonel himself was in his element. He accepted office as elder in the parish church, where his grand manners imparted a flavour of ritual to the boldest ceremonies of Scotch Presbyterianism. He was hand and glove with the subjected clergyman, and his big voice ruled in the Kirk Session. Once in a while, of a Saturday or Sunday evening, he would give a little lecture in the school-room; when he would now besiege the obdurate with denunciations, now delight the simple with soldierly anecdotes and barrack sentiment. It was a mystery to all how Colonel Falconer managed to be so blunt, and plain, and guileless, and simple-hearted as he did on these occasions; for, personally, he was quite a man of the world. He would even throw in a broad Scotch accent on an occasion. It was at these moments that cynical friends discussed the expression of his mouth. But the commonalty were vastly pleased. This man, who had imbued himself all over in the blood of persons of colour, and made a reputation in the army, proved, when put to the touch before a critical audience in the school-room of Grangehead, no great theologian after all, but a plain Christian who was most fitted to touch the hearts of children. That was somehow agreeable to all the hinds. It was concluded that the Colonel was a manly Christian; that was his variety in the local classification.
Poor old Miss Rebecca had been ordered up to Grangehead to help with the children. She soon withered; the Colonel rode her down, horse and van, so to speak. His iron nerves, his cruelly resounding voice, his abrupt decisions, the company and regimental devotions in which she had to take part under his eye — all these things preyed upon her like a disease. Colonel Falconer was her ideal; she had no fault to find with him. But she pined in his neighbourhood — a malady incident to maids — and passed away.
The Colonel was inconsolable; and thenceforward he was a little harsher to the boys. He had always been harsh, without ever being unkind, if you can understand that. The boys were not afraid of him in any deep sense, even loved him after a fashion; but they were shudderingly averse to his society. He was rude to them on principle; he made their lives as dull and bitter as he could, because he thought that was best for them, and he imagined he had so disenchanted existence, that there were no pleasures within their reach, except the pleasures of religion. He reckoned without boyhood, without the paddock, without the roof, without the draw-well in the shrubbery, without the fungi all summer under the laurels, without the sun, and winds, and seasons. The Colonel did his best; but it is easier to command any conceivable number of sepoys than to take the interest and poetry out of young people’s lives.
John was a boy with what is called a deep nature — that is to say, he began to mature very early; wrote hymns and other performances, which he hid away in a confusion if anyone approached; was addicted to long meditation, and showed at times a morose and flighty character. Altogether, a boy to be looked after, with plenty of predisposition to evil, and all the passions impending. Malcolm was easy-going, and a little shallow; he had petty selfishnesses, for which John made way with rather a grand air; but then he could put his pride in his pocket to appease others, and had a winning way.
There never was any doubt but John should inherit. He was a boy after the Colonel’s heart — proud, brave, gloomy, and with a natural talent for religion. Accordingly, he was affianced to Miss Mary Rolland, a girl of his own age, and heiress of the next estate. Mary and John understood their position; and they were always great friends. As soon as John was of age, they were to be married.
Chapter III John was eighteen on 12 May, 18 — . It was adorable weather. All the lilacs were in flower and all the birds were in love about the gardens of Grangehead; the wind smelt of spring. Mary Rolland and her father had dined with the Falconers, and the whole party strolled into the garden; for there was no loitering over wine at the Colonel’s table.
‘No, sir, I will not let that pass,’ roared the host. ‘It is a matter of principle; I will not bate an ace on it.’
‘My dear sir,’ replied Mr Rolland, ‘my very dear sir, pardon me for saying so, but, indeed, you take this rather warmly. I believe I may say I am a man of principle myself. I have never paltered or temporised; but I must make distinctions.’
‘I make no distinctions,’ answered the Colonel, ‘in matters of principle. Is it a matter of principle, yes or no?’
‘Christian liberty,’ began Mr Rolland.
‘Don’t let me hear the phrase,’ interrupted the Colonel.
‘I believe it is unimpeachably orthodox,’ replied the other, somewhat nettled. ‘I believe I could name authorities. Indeed, if I am not mistaken, it occurs in the Bible. Malcolm, will you fetch a testament?’
‘It has been abused, Mr Rolland. People have wrested it to their own damnation. Humble Christians should reverence it as a mystery; not bandy it about in disputations.’ There was a flush under the c
urry-coloured cheek; the Colonel was on his war charger for the evening.
‘Come away, Mary,’ whispered John, pettishly. ‘There’ll be no end to this sort of thing.’
They went up a path among the evergreens, somewhat dark already, but closed at the far end by a piece of golden sky. The cover was musical on either side. Mary walked slowly, looking on the ground; John, who kept half a step in advance, could not keep his eyes from her. She seemed to have changed; there was more meaning, more life, more blood about her; from a pale, wiry slip of a girl, she had blossomed and spread, and become soft and rich, and foreign-looking. John was confused.
At the end of the path there was an open space with a seat, and a low parapet wall overlooking a public highway, and a great prospect of wood and meadow, bounded to the north by a range of hills. A river glittered along the plain in broken segments. The outline of the hills was bitten into the luminous sky. Clouds of birds passed to and fro between the clumps of plantation.
‘Have you written any more poetry?’ asked John.
‘No.’ She spoke in a constrained voice; it was a lie, and she lied clumsily, being still very young.
‘You promised you would write something for my birthday.’
‘I found I couldn’t,’ she said.
There was a pause. ‘I am so glad we are going to be married,’ he said, blankly. It elicited no answer, and she did not take her eyes off the distant view. John sighed. ‘I am so fond of — of looking at sunsets,’ he said. The speech came in two in the middle, and the end was patently not the proper sequel of the beginning.
‘So am I,’ she answered, with a sort of fervour.
‘I wonder what has come over us. One would think we weren’t happy,’ he remarked.
‘Oh! but I am happy.’
‘So am I,’ he said, in his turn,’very happy — very happy;’ and he repeated the words vacantly several times. They had never been sparing of caresses to each other, since their nurses had taught them to kiss; and so he was confounded when, on trying to take her hand, he found it withdrawn from him nervously. He waited abashed for some moments, and then he made a sort of effort, for he was frightened at the restraint and the disorder of his own feelings, and wished to do something which should break the spell and bring them back to natural terms of intercourse. He tried to kiss her. She sprang back in a commotion, turned white and red, and then white again, and stood a little way off, silent and seemingly indignant.
‘She must hate me,’ thought John. He was no great doctor in the schools of love; he was better up in the catechism, poor lad.
It was a relief to both when they heard Mr Rolland calling for Mary, and they returned in silence to the lawn.
He walked so far home with them, on her father’s invitation; and the old gentleman spoke with him very kindly by the way. Mary was quite silent; but her colour was a little heightened, and her eyes, which seemed no longer to avoid his gaze, looked very bright and soft.
Tall gates of iron, and an approach of lilacs, gave admission to Grangehead. The approach was buried in transparent shadow. A single blackbird fluted vaingloriously among the lilacs, a sweet smell of evening was abroad upon the air, the view was bounded by the sharp outline of the laurel thickets, and the gables of the house imprinted on the luminous west. Malcolm, with his head bent forward and his hands clasped behind his back, was pacing the gravel with slow, uneven footsteps. He affected not to hear John’s approach, for he did not turn. But John overtook him, and in schoolboy fashion threw his arm about his neck. Malcolm shook him off.
‘Leave me alone,’ he said, testily.
‘Why, what’s wrong with you, Malcolm?’ said John.
‘I want to be alone.’
‘Oh, by all means!’ said John, and he passed him several steps in a fling of ruffled vanity. But he came to his better self in a moment. Malcolm was certainly moved beyond his custom, and it was not an occasion to be nice on points of etiquette, so John came back. ‘Tell me what’s wrong with you, Malcolm?’ he repeated, ‘there’s a good lad! Tell me what’s wrong?’
‘I never said anything to you, did I?’ returned the other in a flash. ‘I can die, but I won’t whine. You’ve got everything else — you’ve got the estate, and Mary, and everything — you may leave me my own company.’
John was dumbfounded.
‘Malcolm, Malcolm,’ he cried, ‘you know very well that what’s mine is yours. You know very well we’re to share and share alike. Do you think I could be happy and leave you out? You know me better than that.’
‘It’s not the estate,’ said Malcolm with a sob. ‘It’s the girl, man — it’s the girl!’ and he covered his face passionately with his hands.
John became grave. ‘Do you love her?’ he asked.
‘Do I not!’ replied the other, throwing up his arms with a wild gesture. ‘Love her? Do I not!’ He was very young.
A number of ugly thoughts presented themselves simultaneously at the door of John’s mind. He suffered a furious spasm of the under lip. ‘Does she love you?’ he demanded.
‘Do you think she loves you?’ returned his cousin, with something like a sneer.
It was a Scotch answer, as people say in the North; but it sent John into the depths of despair. Everything was plain enough now; Mary hated him, as he had imagined. She loved Malcolm. They loved each other. In all likelihood there was an understanding between them. He was no more than an absurd and hateful obstacle in the lives of the two persons who were dearest to him.
Malcolm had made the answer in a tiff, and because he could say nothing more to the purpose. He had no reason to suppose Mary loved him. She seemed fond enough of his society, indeed; but then they usually conversed of John. He began to repent. ‘It’s not the estate,’ he repeated, with a whimper; ‘it’s only Mary I mind; I can’t live without her. But I can die,’ he added, cheerfully.
‘The two go together, my boy,’ replied John. ‘You must have both or neither — both or neither.’ He shook his head mechanically for a long time. He was maturing a great scheme of self-sacrifice with hereditary gusto. The blood of wrong-headed old Covenanters, the blood of the Colonel was working darkly in his heart.
Suddenly a bell interrupted the stillness with a precipitate, undignified clangour. The blackbird flew away. It was the signal for family worship. John took Malcolm’s hand solemnly.
‘Malcolm,’ he said, ‘we are nearer than most brothers. I’ll do all I can for you.’
Chapter IV
Family worship at Grangehead was an affair of great precision. All the servants were expected to attend, morning and evening.
The Colonel read aloud a chapter from the Old Testament and one from the New, and delivered a long prayer extempore. His voice was loud and hurried, as if he was calling a roll before proceeding to business; and of course the servants never listened. When the prayer was over, breakfast began in the morning; and at night everyone was expected to retire. On the evening of his birthday John requested a private interview with his uncle.
The Colonel looked at him sharply, and then bade him follow him to the study, where he took a chair himself, and motioned his nephew to another. But John preferred to stand.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘I understand, Sir,’ began John, ‘that I am to succeed you in the property; and I wished—’
‘I don’t choose to discuss these matters,’ said the Colonel; ‘above all, with you. In the meantime you are one of my nephews, and no more. Is that all?’
‘Indeed, Sir, you do not understand me. You must allow me to explain. It is a matter of conscience.’
‘Oh, if it’s a matter of conscience!’ said the Colonel; and he made an urbane movement with his hand.
‘Malcolm is in love with Mary, Sir,’ said John.
‘Well?’ bawled the Colonel.
‘He cannot marry her unless he is to have the property,’ continued John; ‘and for my part I would rather not have it. I would far sooner make a way in the world for myself.
I wish to be independent, and owe everything to my own spirit; and there is no fear of me. I could be a clergyman and save souls, or a soldier like you, or go to a colony; there is no fear of that. And think, Sir, what it would be for poor Malcolm to lose all he cares about in the world; and for me, if I had taken it all away from him!’
‘I thought you liked the girl yourself,’ said the Colonel.
‘I do.’ John’s mouth was very dry.
The Colonel jumped up and shook John by the hand.
‘You’re a fine fellow, Sir,’ he cried. ‘I honour you for every word you’ve said. You’re a nephew after my own heart, and I believe after God’s. But as to what you say, of course it’s nonsense. I leave the property to please myself and for God’s glory, and for neither your pleasure nor Malcolm’s; and you must take it, as I took it, as a talent. Yes, lad,’ he added, ‘that’s the word that will make it all come easily to you. A talent — perhaps a cross. Bear it for His sake.’ And he brought his hand down upon John’s shoulder with kindly violence.
‘But Malcolm,’ began John.
‘Go to bed,’ cried the Colonel. ‘I forgive you, but I’ll hear no more of it. And mind you pray against spiritual pride. I know you; you’re a fine lad; but there lies your stumbling-block. You wish to play the martyr.’ People will spy their own foibles through chain-mail.
Of course John was bitterly indignant. All this praise rankled in his conscience, and made him suspicious of his own sincerity. If it were only to reinstate his self-respect, he must consummate the sacrifice. Moreover, the Colonel’s last insinuation was too near the truth not to be galling. But he dared not struggle further, and said ‘Goodnight,’ leaving the Colonel to thank God upon his knees for his nephew’s excellence.
In his own room he threw the window open, and sat down to nurse his desperate determination. The flush had died out of the west; the night was full of stars; troops of dark trees huddled together in the twilight and rocked in faint airs. From the stable court he could hear the watch-dog jangle his chain, or a wakeful horse moving in the stall. He contemplated the stars with imbecility. Sometimes he walked about the room; sometimes he sat down again and began eloquent letters; often he fell bitterly to prayer. The whole subject had gone beyond his control into the region of the imagination, where it worked and fermented, and cast up a fine froth of mock heroics. He would make everybody else happy, and be himself supremely miserable. They should wallow in luxuries; he would live on dry bread in a garret. If he made enough for superfluity, it should be forwarded secretly to add some infinitesimal detail to their felicity. Sometimes a pale face would be seen in the shrubbery; the children would flee from it with screams, while the unknown benefactor made his escape unnoticed. At last he would die on a pallet; everybody would troop around him with tears and apologies, and his grave would be daily visited by those whom he had served.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 387
