But, undoubtedly, there might be trouble. Frank was sufficiently experienced in the ways of the world to know that trouble would sometimes come from young ladies who treat young men like their brothers, when those young men are engaged to other young ladies. The other young ladies are apt to disapprove of brothers who are not brothers by absolute right of birth. He knew also that all the circumstances of his cousin’s position would make it expedient that she should marry a second husband. As he could not be that second husband—that matter was settled, whether for good or bad—was he not creating trouble, both for her and for himself? Then there arose in his mind a feeling, very strange, but by no means uncommon, that prudence on his part would be mean, because by such prudence he would be securing safety for himself as well as for her. What he was doing was not only imprudent—but wrong also. He knew that it was so. But Lizzie Eustace was a pretty young woman; and, when a pretty young woman is in the case, a man is bound to think neither of what is prudent, nor of what is right. Such was—perhaps his instinct rather than his theory. For her sake, if not for his own, he should have abstained. She was his cousin, and was so placed in the world as specially to require some strong hand to help her. He knew her to be, in truth, heartless, false, and greedy; but she had so lived that even yet her future life might be successful. He had called himself her friend as well as cousin, and was bound to protect her from evil, if protection were possible. But he was adding to all her difficulties, because she pretended to be in love with him. He knew that it was pretence; and yet, because she was pretty, and because he was a man, he could not save her from herself. “It doesn’t do to be wiser than other men,” he said to himself as he looked round about on the bare hillside. In the meantime he had altogether lost his way.
It was between nine and ten when he reached the Cottage. “Of course you have dined?” said Herriot.
“Not a bit of it. I left before five, being sure that I could get here in an hour and a half. I have been riding up and down these dreary hills for nearly five hours. You have dined?”
“There was a neck of mutton and a chicken. She said the neck of mutton would keep hot best, so I took the chicken. I hope you like lukewarm neck of mutton?”
“I’m hungry enough to eat anything;—not but what I had a first-rate luncheon. What have you done all day?”
“Stone and Toddy,” said Herriot.
“Stick to that. If anything can pull you through, Stone and Toddy will. I lived upon them for two years.”
“Stone and Toddy—with a little tobacco, have been all my comfort. I began, however, by sleeping for a few hours. Then I went upon the mountains.”
“Did you take a gun?”
“I took it out of the case, but it didn’t come right, and so I left it. A man came to me and said he was the keeper.”
“He’d have put the gun right for you.”
“I was too bashful for that. I persuaded him that I wanted to go out alone and see what birds there were, and at last I induced him to stay here with the old woman. He’s to be at the Cottage at nine tomorrow. I hope that is all right.”
In the evening, as they smoked and drank whiskey and water—probably supposing that to be correct in Ayrshire—they were led on by the combined warmth of the spirit, the tobacco, and their friendship, to talk about women. Frank, some month or six weeks since, in a moment of soft confidence, had told his friend of his engagement with Lucy Morris. Of Lizzie Eustace he had spoken only as of a cousin whose interests were dear to him. Her engagement with Lord Fawn was known to all London, and was, therefore, known to Arthur Herriot. Some distant rumour, however, had reached him that the course of truelove was not running quite smooth, and therefore on that subject he would not speak, at any rate till Greystock should first mention it. “How odd it is to find two women living all alone in a great house like that,” Frank had said.
“Because so few women have the means to live in large houses, unless they live with fathers or husbands.”
“The truth is,” said Frank, “that women don’t do well alone. There is always a savour of misfortune—or, at least, of melancholy—about a household which has no man to look after it. With us, generally, old maids don’t keep houses, and widows marry again. No doubt it was an unconscious appreciation of this feeling which brought about the burning of Indian widows. There is an unfitness in women for solitude. A female Prometheus, even without a vulture, would indicate cruelty worse even than Jove’s. A woman should marry—once, twice, and thrice if necessary.”
“Women can’t marry without men to marry them.”
Frank Greystock filled his pipe as he went on with his lecture.
