“But, Miss Barbara, you don’t want only to be amused. Oh no: to have your heart touched, sometimes wrung even—to be so sorry, so anxious that you would like to interfere—to follow on and on to the last moment through all their troubles, still hoping that things will take a good turn.”
“And what is that but amusement?” said the old lady. “I am not fond of shedding tears; but even that is a luxury in its way—when all the time you are sure that it will hurt nobody, and come all right at the end.”
“Lydgate does not turn out all right at the end,” said Nora, “nor Rosamond either; they go down and down till you would be glad of some dreadful place at last that they might fall into it and be made an end of. I suppose it is true to nature,” said the girl, with a solemnity coming over her innocent face, “that if you don’t get better you should go on getting worse and worse—but it is dreadful. It is like what one hears of the place—below.”
“Ay, ay, we’re not fond nowadays of the place—below; but I’m afraid there must be some truth in it. That woman has found out the secret, you see.” Miss Barbara meant no disrespect to the great novelist when she called her “that woman.” There was even a certain gratification in the use of the term, as who should say, “Your men, that brag so much of themselves, never found this out”—which was a favourite sentiment with the old lady. “That’s just where she’s grand,” Miss Barbara continued. “There’s that young lad in the Italian book—Teeto—what d’ye call him? To see him get meaner and meaner, and falser and falser, is an awful picture, Nora. It’s just terrible. It’s more than I can stand at my age. I want diversion. Do ye think I have not seen enough of that in my life?”
“People are not bad like that in life,” said Nora; “they have such small sins—they tell fibs—not big lies that mean anything, but small miserable little fibs; and they are ill-tempered, and sometimes cheat a little. That is all. Nothing that is terrible or tragical—”
Here the girl stopped short with a little gasp, as if realising something she had not thought of before.
“What is it, my dear?” said Miss Barbara.
“Oh—only Tinto showing through the trees: is that tragedy? No, no. Don’t you see what I mean? don’t you see the difference? He is only a rough, ill-tempered, tyrannical man. He does not really mean to hurt or be cruel: and poor Lady Car, dear Lady Car, is always so wretched; perhaps she aggravates him a little. She will not take pleasure in anything. It is all miserable, but it is all so little, Miss Barbara; not tragedy—not like Lear or Hamlet—rather a sort of scolding, peevish comedy. You might make fun of it all, though it is so dreadful; and that is how life seems to me—very different from poetry,” said Nora, shaking her head.
“Wait,” said Miss Barbara, patting her on the shoulder, “till the play is played out and you are farther off. The Lord preserve us! I hope I’m not a prophet of evil; but maybe if you had known poor Lear fighting about the number of his knights with that hard-faced woman Regan, for instance (who had a kind of reason, you’ll mind, on her side: for I make no doubt they were very unruly—that daft old man would never keep them in order), you would have thought it but a poor kind of a squabble. Who is this coming in upon us, Nora? I see Janet at the glass door looking out.”
“It is a gentleman, Miss Barbara. He is standing talking. I think he means to come out here.”
“It will be the minister,” said the old lady, calmly. “He had far better sit down in the warm room, and send us word, for he’s a delicate creature—no constitution in him—aye cold and coughs, and—”
“Indeed it is not Mr. Stirling. He is quite young and—and good-looking, I think. He won’t listen to Janet. He is coming here. Miss Barbara, shall I run away?”
“Why should you run away? If it’s business, we’ll go in; if it’s pleasure—Ah! I’ve seen your face before, sir, or one like it, but I cannot put a name to it. You have maybe brought me a letter? Preserve us all! will it be John Erskine come home to Dalrulzian?”
“Yes, aunt Barbara, it is John Erskine,” said the young man. He had his hat in one hand, and the sun shone pleasantly on his chestnut locks and healthful countenance. He did not perhaps look like a hero of romance, but he looked like a clean and virtuous young Englishman. He took the hand which Miss Barbara held out to him, eagerly, and, with a little embarrassment, not knowing what else to do, bent over it and kissed it—a salutation which took the old lady by surprise, and, being so unusual, brought a delicate colour to her old cheek.
“Ah, my man! and so you’re John Erskine? I would have known you anywhere, at the second glance if not at the first. You’re like your father, poor fellow. He was always a great favourite with me. And so you’ve come back to your ain at last? Well, I’m very glad to see you, John. It’s natural to have a young Erskine in the countryside. You’ll not know yet how you like it after all this long absence. And how is your mother, poor body? She would think my pity out of place, I don’t doubt; but I’m always sorry for a young woman,
