The Elect Lady

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THE ELECT LADY

_(A Duplex Edition)_

By George MacDonald

THE ELECT LADY

CHAPTER I.

LANDLORD'S DAUGHTER AND TENANT'S SON.

In a kitchen of moderate size, flagged with slate, humble in its
appointments, yet looking scarcely that of a farmhouse--for there were
utensils about it indicating necessities more artificial than usually
grow upon a farm--with the corner of a white deal table between them,
sat two young people evidently different in rank, and meeting upon no
level of friendship. The young woman held in her hand a paper, which
seemed the subject of their conversation. She was about four- or
five-and-twenty, well grown and not ungraceful, with dark hair, dark
hazel eyes, and rather large, handsome features, full of intelligence,
but a little hard, and not a little regnant--as such features must be,
except after prolonged influence of a heart potent in self-subjugation.
As to her social expression, it was a mingling of the gentlewoman of
education, and the farmer's daughter supreme over the household and its
share in the labor of production.

As to the young man, it would have required a deeper-seeing eye than
falls to the lot of most observers, not to take him for a weaker nature
than the young woman; and the deference he showed her as the superior,
would have enhanced the difficulty of a true judgment. He was tall and
thin, but plainly in fine health; had a good forehead, and a clear hazel
eye, not overlarge or prominent, but full of light; a firm mouth, with a
curious smile; a sun-burned complexion; and a habit when perplexed of
pinching his upper lip between his finger and thumb, which at the
present moment he was unconsciously indulging. He was the son of a small
farmer--in what part of Scotland is of little consequence--and his
companion for the moment was the daughter of the laird.

"I have glanced over the poem," said the lady, "and it seems to me quite
up to the average of what you see in print."

"Would that be reason for printing it, ma'am?" asked the man, with
amused smile.

"It would be for the editor to determine," she answered, not perceiving
the hinted objection.

"You will remember, ma'am, that I never suggested--indeed I never
thought of such a thing!"

"I do not forget. It was your mother who drew my attention to the
verses."

"I must speak to my mother!" he said, in a meditative way.

"You can not object to _my_ seeing your work! She does not show it to
everybody. It is most creditable to you, such an employment of your
leisure."

"The poem was never meant for any eyes but my own--except my brother's."

"What was the good of writing it, if no one was to see it?"

"The writing of it, ma'am."

"For the exercise, you mean?"

"No; I hardly mean that."

"I am afraid then I do not understand you."

"Do _you_ never write anything but what you publish?"

"Publish! _I_ never publish! What made you think of such a thing?"

"That you know so much about it, ma'am."

"I know people connected with the papers, and thought it might encourage
you to see something in print. The newspapers publish so many poems
now!"

"I wish it hadn't been just that one my mother gave you!"

"Why?"

"For one thing, it is not finished--as you will see when you read it
more carefully."

"I did see a line I thought hardly rhythmical, but--"

"Excuse me, ma'am; the want of rhythm there was intentional."

"I am sorry for that. Intention is the worst possible excuse for wrong!
The accent should always be made to fall in the right place."

"Beyond a doubt--but might not the right place alter with the sense?"

"Never. The rule is strict"

"Is there no danger of making the verse monotonous?"

"Not that I know."

"I have an idea, ma'am, that our great poets owe much of their music to
the liberties they take with the rhythm. They treat the rule as its
masters, and break it when they see fit."

"You must be wrong there! But in any case you must not presume to take
the liberties of a great poet"

"It is a poor reward for being a great poet to be allowed to take
liberties. I should say that, doing their work to the best of their
power, they were rewarded with the discovery of higher laws of verse.
Every one must walk by the light given him. By the rules which others
have laid down he may learn to walk; but once his heart is awake to
truth, and his ear to measure, melody and harmony, he must walk by the
light, and the music God gives him."

"That is dangerous doctrine, Andrew!" said the lady, with a superior
smile. "But," she continued, "I will mark what faults I see, and point
them out to you."

"Thank you, ma'am, but please do not send the verses anywhere."

"I will not, except I find them worthy. You need not be afraid. For my
father's sake I will have an eye to your reputation."

"I am obliged to you, ma'am," returned Andrew, but with his curious
smile, hard to describe. It had in it a wonderful mixing of sweetness
and humor, and a something that seemed to sit miles above his amusement.
A heavenly smile it was, knowing too much to be angry. It had in it
neither offense nor scorn. In respect of his poetry he was shy like a
girl, but he showed no rejection of the patronage forced upon him by the
lady.

He rose and stood a moment.

"Well, Andrew, what is it?"

"When will you allow me to call for the verses?"

"In the course of a week or so. By that time I shall have made up my
mind. If in doubt, I shall ask my father."

"I wouldn't like the laird to think I spend my time on poetry."

"You write poetry, Andrew! A man should not do what he would not have
known."

"That is true, ma'am; I only feared an erroneous conclusion."

"I will take care of that. My father knows that you are a hard-working
young man. There is not one of his farms in better order than yours.
Were it otherwise, I should not be so interested in your poetry."

Andrew wished her less interested in it. To have his verses read was
like having a finger poked in his eye. He had not known that his mother
looked at his papers. But he showed little sign of his annoyance, bade
the lady good-morning, and left the kitchen.

Miss Fordyce followed him to the door, and stood for a moment looking
out. In front of her was a paved court, surrounded with low buildings,
between two of which was visible, at the distance of a mile or so, a
railway line where it approached a viaduct. She heard the sound of a
coming train, and who in a country place will not stand to see one pass!

CHAPTER II.

AN ACCIDENT.

While the two were talking, a long train, part carriages, part trucks,
was rattling through a dreary country, where it could never have been
were there not regions very different on both sides of it. For miles in
any direction, nothing but humpy moorland was to be seen, a gathering of
low hills, with now and then a higher one, its sides broken by
occasional torrents, in poor likeness of a mountain. No smoke proclaimed
the presence of human dwelling; but there were spots between the hills
where the hand of man had helped the birth of a feeble fertility; and in
front was a small but productive valley, on the edge of which stood the
ancient house of Potlurg, with the heath behind it: over a narrow branch
of this valley went the viaduct.

It was a slow train, with few passengers. Of these one was looking from
his window with a vague, foolish sense of superiority, thinking what a
forgotten, scarce created country it seemed. He was a well-dressed,
good-looking fellow, with a keen but pale-gray eye, and a fine forehead,
but a chin such as is held to indicate weakness. More than one, however,
of the strongest women I have known, were defective in chin. The young
man was in the only first-class carriage of the train, and alone in it.
Dressed in a gray suit, he was a little too particular in the smaller
points of his attire, and lacked in consequence something of the look of
a gentleman. Every now and then he would take off his hard round hat,
and pass a white left hand through his short-cut mousey hair, while his
right caressed a far longer mustache, in which he seemed interested. A
certain indescribable heaviness and lack of light characterized his pale
face.

It was a lovely day in early June. The air was rather cold, but youth
and health care little about temperature on a holiday, with the sun
shining, and that sweetest sense--to such at least as are ordinarily
bound by routine--of having nothing to do. To many men and women the
greatest trouble is to choose, for self is the hardest of masters to
please; but as yet George Crawford had not been troubled with much
choosing.

A crowded town behind him, the loneliness he looked upon was a pleasure
to him. Compelled to spend time in it, without the sense of being on the
way out of it, his own company would soon have grown irksome to him; for
however much men may be interested in themselves, there are few indeed
who are interesting to themselves. Those only whose self is aware of a
higher presence can escape becoming bores and disgusts to themselves.
That every man is endlessly greater than what he calls himself, must
seem a paradox to the ignorant and dull, but a universe would be
impossible without it. George had not arrived at the discovery of this
fact, and yet was for the present contented both with himself and with
his circumstances.

The heather was not in bloom, and the few flowers of the heathy land
made no show. Brown and darker brown predominated, with here and there a
shadow of green; and, weary of his outlook, George was settling back to
his book, when there came a great bang and a tearing sound. He started
to his feet, and for hours knew nothing more. A truck had run off the
line and turned over; the carriage in which he was had followed it, and
one of the young man's legs was broken.

CHAPTER III.

HELP.

"Papa! papa! there is an accident on the line!" cried Miss Fordyce,
running into her father's study, where he sat surrounded with books. "I
saw it from the door!"

"Hush!" returned the old man, and listened. "I hear the train going on,"
he said, after a moment.

"Part of it is come to grief, I am certain," answered his daughter. "I
saw something fall."

"Well, my dear?"

"What _shall_ we do?"

"What would you have us do?" rejoined her father, without a movement
toward rising. "It is too far off for us to be of any use."

"We ought to go and see."

"I am not fond of such seeing, Alexa, and will not go out of my way for
it. The misery I can not avoid is enough for me."

But Alexa was out of the room, and in a moment more was running, in as
straight a line as she could keep, across the heath to the low
embankment. Andrew caught sight of her running. He could not see the
line, but convinced that something was the matter, turned and ran in the
same direction.

It was a hard and long run for Alexa, over such ground. Troubled at her
father's indifference, she ran the faster--too fast for thinking, but
not too fast for the thoughts that came of themselves. What had come to
her father? Their house was the nearest! She could not shut out the
conviction that, since succeeding to the property, he had been growing
less and less neighborly.

She had caught up a bottle of brandy, which impeded her running. Yet she
made good speed, her dress gathered high in the other hand. Her long
dark hair broken loose and flying in the wind, her assumed dignity
forgotten, and only the woman awake, she ran like a deer over the
heather, and in little more than a quarter of an hour, though it was a
long moor-mile, reached the embankment, flushed and panting.

Some of the carriages had rolled down, and the rails were a wreck. But
the engine and half the train had kept on: neither driver nor stoker was
hurt, and they were hurrying to fetch help from the next station. At the
foot of the bank lay George Crawford insensible, with the guard of the
train doing what he could to bring him to consciousness. He was on his
back, pale as death, with no motion and scare a sign of life.

Alexa tried to give him brandy, but she was so exhausted, and her hand
shook so, that she had to yield the bottle to the guard, and, hale and
strong as she was, could but drag herself a little apart before she
fainted.

In the meantime, as the train approached the station, the driver, who
belonged to the neighborhood, saw the doctor, slackened speed, and set
his whistle shrieking wildly. The doctor set spurs to his horse, and
came straight over everything to his side.

"You go on," he said, having heard what had happened; "I shall be there
sooner than you could take me."

He came first upon Andrew trying to make Miss Fordyce swallow a little
of the brandy.

"There's but one gentleman hurt, sir," said the guard. "The other's only
a young lady that's run till she's dropped."

"To bring brandy," supplemented Andrew.

The doctor recognized Alexa, and wondered what reception her lather
would give his patient, for to Potlurg he must go! Suddenly she came to
herself, and sat up, gazing wildly around. "Out of breath, Miss Fordyce;
nothing worse!" said the doctor, and she smiled.

He turned to the young man, and did for him what he could without
splints or bandages; then, with the help of the guard and Andrew,
constructed, from pieces of the broken carriages, a sort of litter on
which to carry him to Potlurg.

"Is he dead?" asked Alexa.

"Not a bit of it. He's had a bad blow on the head, though. We must get
him somewhere as fast as we can!"

"Do you know him?"

"Not I. But we must take him to your house. I don't know what else to do
with him!"

"What else should you want to do with him?"

"I was afraid it might bother the laird."

"You scarcely know my father, Doctor Pratt!"

"It would bother most people to have a wounded man quartered on them for
weeks!" returned the doctor. "Poor fellow! A good-looking fellow too!"

A countryman who had been in the next carriage, but had escaped almost
unhurt, offering his service, Andrew and he took up the litter gently,
and set out walking with care, the doctor on one side, leading his
horse, and Miss Fordyce on the other.

It was a strange building to which, after no small anxiety, they drew
near; nor did it look the less strange the nearer they came. It was
unsheltered by a single tree; and but for a low wall and iron rail on
one side, inclosing what had been a garden, but was now a grass-plot, it
rose straight out of the heather. From this plot the ground sloped to
the valley, and was under careful cultivation. The entrance to it was
closed with a gate of wrought iron, of good workmanship, but so wasted
with rust that it seemed on the point of vanishing. Here at one time had
been the way into the house; but no door, and scarce a window, was now
to be seen on this side of the building. It was very old, and consisted
of three gables, a great half-round between two of them, and a low tower
with a conical roof.

Crawford had begun to recover consciousness, but when he came to himself
he was received by acute pain. The least attempt to move was torture,
and again he fainted.

CHAPTER IV.

THE LAIRD.

Conducted by the lady, they passed round the house to the court, and
across the court to a door in one of the gables. It was a low, narrow
door, but large enough for the man that stood there--a little man, with
colorless face, and quiet, abstracted look. His eyes were cold and keen,
his features small, delicate, and regular. He had an erect little back,
and was dressed in a long-tailed coat, looking not much of a laird, and
less of a farmer, as he stood framed in the gray stone wall, in which
odd little windows, dotted here and there at all heights and distances,
revealed a wonderful arrangement of floors and rooms inside.

"Good-morning, Mr. Fordyce!" said the doctor. "This is a bad business,
but it might have been worse! Not a soul injured but one!"

"Souls don't commonly get injured by accident!" returned the laird, with
a cold smile that was far from discourteous. "Stick to the body, doctor!
There you know something!"

"It's a truth, laird!" answered the doctor--but added to himself--"Well!
it's awful to hear the truth from some mouths!"

The laird spoke no word of objection or of welcome. They carried the
poor fellow into the house, following its mistress to a room, where,
with the help of her one domestic, and instructed by the doctor, she
soon had a bed prepared for him. Then away rode the doctor at full speed
to fetch the appliances necessary, leaving the laird standing by the
bed, with a look of mild dissatisfaction, but not a whisper of
opposition.

It was the guest-chamber to which George Crawford had been carried, a
room far more comfortable than a stranger might, from the aspect of the
house, have believed possible. Everything in it was old-fashioned, and,
having been dismantled, it was not in apple-pie order; but it was
rapidly and silently restored to its humble ideal; and when the doctor,
after an incredibly brief absence, returned with his assistant, he
seemed both surprised and pleased at the change.

"He must have some one to sit up with him, Miss Fordyce," he said, when
all was done.

"I will myself," she answered. "But you must give me exact directions,
for I have done no nursing."

"If you will walk a little way with me, I will tell you all you need
know. He will sleep now, I think--at least till you get back: I shall
not keep you beyond a few minutes. It is not a very awkward fracture,"
he continued, as they went. "It might have been much worse! We shall
have him about in a few weeks. But he will want the greatest care while
the bones are uniting."

The laird turned from the bed, and went to his study, where he walked up
and down, lost and old and pale, the very Bibliad of the room with its
ancient volumes all around. Whatever his eyes fell upon, he turned from,
as if he had no longer any pleasure in it, and presently stole back to
the room where the sufferer lay. On tiptoe, with a caution suggestive of
a wild beast asleep, he crept to the bed, looked down on his unwelcome
guest with an expression of sympathy crossed with dislike, and shook his
head slowly and solemnly, like one injured but forgiving.

His eye fell on the young man's pocket-book. It had fallen from his coat
as they undressed him, and was on a table by the bedside. He caught it
up just ere Alexa reentered.

"How is he, father?" she asked.

"He is fast asleep," answered the laid. "How long does the doctor think
he will have to be here?"

"I did not ask him," she replied.

"That was an oversight, my child," he returned. "It is of consequence we
should know the moment of his removal."

"We shall know it in good time. The doctor called it an affair of
weeks--or months--I forget. But you shall not be troubled, father. I
will attend to him."

"But I _am_ troubled, Alexa! You do not know how little money I have!"

Again he retired--slowly, shut his door, locked it, and began to search
the pocket-book. He found certain banknotes, and made a discovery
concerning its owner.

With the help of her old woman, and noiselessly, while Crawford lay in a
half slumber, Alexa continued making the chamber more comfortable.
Chintz curtains veiled the windows, which, for all their narrowness, had
admitted too much light; and an old carpet deadened the sound of
footsteps on the creaking boards--for the bones of a house do not grow
silent with age; a fire burned in the antique grate, and was a soul to
the chamber, which was chilly, looking to the north, with walls so thick
that it took half the summer to warm them through. Old Meg, moving to
and fro, kept shaking her head like her master, as if she also were in
the secret of some house-misery; but she was only indulging the funereal
temperament of an ancient woman. As Alexa ran through the heather in the
morning, she looked not altogether unlike a peasant; her shoes were
strong, her dress was short; but now she came and went in a soft-colored
gown, neither ill-made nor unbecoming. She did not seem to belong to
what is called society, but she looked dignified, at times almost
stately, with an expression of superiority, not strong enough to make
her handsome face unpleasing. It resembled her father's, but, for a
woman's, was cast in a larger mold.

The day crept on. The invalid was feverish. His nurse obeyed the doctor
minutely, to a single drop. She had her tea brought her, but when the
supper hour arrived went to join her father in the kitchen.

CHAPTER V.

AFTER SUPPER.

They always eat in the kitchen. Strange to say, there was no dining-room
in the house, though there was a sweetly old-fashioned drawing-room. The
servant was with the sufferer, but Alexa was too much in the sick-room,
notwithstanding, to know that she was eating her porridge and milk. The
laird partook but sparingly, on the ground that the fare tended to
fatness, which affliction of age he congratulated himself on having
hitherto escaped. They eat in silence, but not a glance of her father
that might indicate a want escaped the daughter. When the meal was
ended, and the old man had given thanks, Alexa put on the table a big
black Bible, which her father took with solemn face and reverent
gesture. In the course of his nightly reading of the New Testament, he
had come to the twelfth chapter of St. Luke, with the Lord's parable of
the rich man whose soul they required of him: he read it beautifully,
with an expression that seemed to indicate a sense of the Lord's meaning
what He said.

"We will omit the psalm this evening--for the sake of the sufferer," he
said, having ended the chapter. "The Lord will have mercy and not
sacrifice."

They rose from their chairs and knelt on the stone floor. The old man
prayed with much tone and expression, and I think meant all he said,
though none of it seemed to spring from fresh need or new thankfulness,
for he used only the old stock phrases, which flowed freely from his
lips. He dwelt much on the merits of the Saviour; he humbled himself as
the chief of sinners, whom it must be a satisfaction to God to cut off,
but a greater satisfaction to spare for the sake of one whom he loved.
Plainly the man counted it a most important thing to stand well with Him
who had created him. When they rose, Alexa looked formally solemn, but
the wan face of her father shone: the Psyche, if not the Ego, had
prayed--and felt comfortable. He sat down, and looked fixedly, as if
into eternity, but perhaps it was into vacancy; they are much the same
to most people.

"Come into the study for a moment, Lexy, if you please," he said, rising
at length. His politeness to his daughter, and indeed to all that came
near him, was one of the most notable points in his behavior.

Alexa followed the black, slender, erect little figure up the stair,
which consisted of about a dozen steps, filling the entrance from wall
to wall, a width of some twelve feet. Between it and the outer door
there was but room for the door of the kitchen on the one hand, and that
of a small closet on the other. At the top was a wide space, a sort of
irregular hall, more like an out-of-door court, paved with large flat
stones into which projected the other side of the rounded mass, bordered
by the grassy inclosure.

The laird turned to the right, and through a door into a room which had
but one small window hidden by bookcases. Naturally it smelled musty, of
old books and decayed bindings, an odor not unpleasant to some nostrils.
He closed the door behind him, placed a chair for his daughter, and set
himself in another by a deal table, upon which were books and papers.

"This is a sore trial, Alexa!" he said with a sigh.

"It is indeed, father--for the poor young man!" she returned.

"True; but it would be selfish indeed to regard the greatness of his
suffering as rendering our trial the less. It is to us a more serious
matter than you seem to think. It will cost much more than, in the
present state of my finances, I can afford to pay. You little think--"

"But, father," interrupted Alexa, "how could we help it?"

"He might have been carried elsewhere!"

"With me standing there! Surely not, father! Even Andrew Ingram offered
to receive him."

"Why did he not take him then?"

"The doctor wouldn't hear of it. And I wouldn't hear of it either."

"It was ill-considered, Lexy. But what's done is done--though, alas! not
paid for."

"We must take the luck as it comes, father!"

"Alexa," rejoined the laird with solemnity, "you ought never to mention
luck. There is no such thing. It was either for the young man's sins, or
to prevent worse, or for necessary discipline, that the train was
overturned. The cause is known to _Him_. All are in His hands--and we
must beware of attempting to take any out of His hands, for it can not
be done."

"Then, father, if there be no chance, our part was ordered too. So there
is the young man in our spare room, and we must receive our share of the
trouble as from the hand of the Lord."

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