James Rowland left his wife in London with a certain satisfaction which was very unlike the great affection he had for her, and the delight which day by day he had learned more and more to take in her society. He was a man full of intelligence and quickness of mind notwithstanding various roughnesses of manner; and he never had known before what it was to have such a companion; a woman who understood almost all he meant, and meant a good deal which he was delightfully learning to understand: bringing illustrations to their life which his imperfect education had kept from him, and making him aware of a hundred new sources of satisfaction and pleasure. But his very admiration for Evelyn had deepened in his mind the first stab of anxiety which her hand had involuntarily given. He had never got over the shock of finding out that his children, instead of being the little things he had invariably gone on thinking them to be, had reached the age of early manhood and womanhood, and that he knew nothing whatever about them. He had tried at first to laugh at this as a simple evidence of his own folly, but the little puncture of that first wound had gone on deepening and deepening. He felt it only in occasional thrills at first, when it had given him about as much annoyance as a stray pang of rheumatism; but as he travelled home, every day’s nearer approach made the ache a little keener.{v.1-11919} It was the only thing in his experience of which he had said nothing to Evelyn—although from the day of their arrival in London it had begun to gnaw him like the proverbial fox under his mantle. He grew restless, unable to settle to anything, continually wondering what they would be like, how they would receive him, if they would be a credit to him or the reverse, how Evelyn would receive them, and how they would take to Evelyn. Their stiff little letters about his marriage, which were almost the first letters of theirs which he had read with any attention, had been received at Suez on the way home. And they had redoubled his anxiety and his restlessness. He did not show them to Evelyn, which was very significant of their unsatisfactory character to himself. Had they been “nice” letters, he would have been too anxious to place them in her hands, to see her face light up with interest. But they were not, alas, nice letters. They were very stiff formal productions. They acknowledged that their father had a right to please himself, and that they had no claim to be taken into consideration. “What we expected was different, but it is you, as aunt Jane says, that are the master, and we hope that your lady will not look down upon us, or keep us away from you.” This was not the sort of thing which he could show to Evelyn, anxious as she was to do everything a mother could do for his children. And all this made him very restless: he wanted to escape from her, to go and inspect them before she saw them, to try even, if that were possible, to lick them into shape before they came under her eyes. He had not been afraid of the ven{v.1-12020}ture of his new marriage, nor of the perils by land and sea to which he was continually exposed; but he was very much afraid of the effect of the boy and girl whom he felt himself to have neglected, and who were now rising up as giants in his path. In these circumstances Rowland snatched anxiously at the pretext of going to see Rosmore and prepare it for his wife’s reception. What he really wanted was to see the children and decide what could be done to prepare them.

It was consequently with a sense of escape that he waved his hand to Evelyn from the carriage window, thinking, with a touch of pride, what a lady she looked in her plain dress, standing there upon the platform to see him off, among the crowd, not one of whom was like her. He was very proud of his wife. He thought she looked like a princess standing there so simple, with no outward sign to show what she was, but a look, to which any one would bow down. But, as the train rushed away into distance, and the long lines of the houses and streets flew past, James Rowland laid himself back, and thanked Heaven that he had escaped, that he had found a pretence to get away, and that he would thus be able to see the worst for himself. Dwelling upon this view of the subject so long had made him scarcely conscious of any pleasure in the anticipation of meeting his children. Had he not been married, had he come back without any special direction of his thoughts towards them, he would no doubt have looked forward with a certain pleasure to meeting his two little things, and perhaps the disenchantment of finding them grown up would have amused him, and{v.1-12121} paternal feeling excused the imperfections which he now so much feared to find. It never, however, could have pleased Rowland to find in his son a half-educated lout, or in his daughter a pert little girl, on the original level of the foundry, which was the haunting fear in his mind now; so that in any case a great disappointment would in all probability have awaited him. His apprehensions became stronger and stronger as he approached the end of his journey, when they would be proved right or wrong. He recalled to himself what the aunt had been, whom in his foolishness he had been so glad to confide them to, as one who would cherish them as if they were her own—a rosy-cheeked, cheerful lass, with a jest for any lad who addressed her; perfectly modest and good, but with the freedom of the overflowing young community, which above all things loved its fun—not equal to his Mary, who had always showed a little shrinking from the fun, and never kept company with any one but with him alone. Jane appeared very clearly before him as he searched the memories of his youth—a trig, comely, clever lass, full of health and spirits. She would be, no doubt, buxom now, terribly well off by means of the lavish cheques he had sent, and his daughter would be much as she had been. Oh, she had been a good steady lass, there had been nothing to find fault with; but to think of a daughter like Jane filled the good man with horror. What could he do with her? What could Evelyn do with her? Cold beads of perspiration came out on his forehead. And then the lout of a boy! This was how he had got to think of them who ought{v.1-12222} to have been the stars of his horizon. And it would not be their fault, it would be his fault. He was thankful to the bottom of his heart that he would see them first, and get the shock over, and have time to think how it could be broken to Evelyn. But he was not the less afraid of the first sight of them, afraid of proving all his prognostications true.

He had not warned his sister-in-law of his arrival, and it was again an escape to him to postpone the meeting till next day, and in the meantime to go to the best hotel he could find. This was many years ago, and I don’t know what may be the case now: but then the hotels in Glasgow were not very excellent, that great city being, I suppose, too much occupied with its manifold business to make preparation for tourists and idle visitors as Edinburgh does; and Mr. Rowland did not find himself in the lap of luxury to which that masterful rich man was accustomed. This probably discouraged him still more, for it must be said that next morning, instead of going to see his children, he took an early train and went down to Rosmore, thus putting off for another day the possibility of ascertaining definitely what there was to fear. He was conscious that it was a cowardly thing to do: and it was an unnatural thing—heartless, even, some people might say; but then his terrors for the moment had taken the place of his merely instinctive and quite undeveloped paternal love.

Rosmore was not disappointing, that was certain! He took a steamer from the opposite side of the Clyde, in order that he might see it first, as he had been{v.1-12323} used to do when he was a young man, and all such advancement seemed as far above him as the throne. His heart beat as the rustling, bustling, crowded steamboat came to the spot where the white colonnade had always been visible among the noble groups of trees, which withdrew a little just there, and stood about in clumps and gatherings to let the view be seen. There it stood upon its green knoll unchanged, the sloping greensward stretching down towards the salt, dazzling, water, the windows caught and shining out in the sun. It was by good fortune—which everybody knows is not invariable in these regions—a beautiful day, and to Rowland it seemed paradise to see the heavy clouds of the foliage open, and the white pillars come in view. He landed upon the side of the peninsula, where a little salt water loch runs up into the bosom of the hills. It is characteristic of a Scot in all countries that he never sees a landscape which does not remind him, to its own disadvantage, of some landscape at home. But Rowland, who had been a great deal about the world, went a step further and declared to himself that he had never seen anything to equal that “silver streak” of sea-water, with the noble line of mountains stretching across the upper end. They were beautiful in themselves, their outlines as grand against the sky and intense sunshine as if they had been as lofty as the Himalayas; but this was only half their fascination. It was the capricious Northern lights and shadows that made them so delightful, so unlike anything but themselves. In the East the sunshine drags and becomes tedious: it goes on blazing all day long without change.{v.1-12424} But the North is dramatic, individual, full of vicissitude, making a new combination every minute, never for half an hour the same. He stood and watched the clouds flying over the hills, like the breath of some spell-bound giant, now one point and now another coming into light; and the little waves dancing, and the soft banks reflected like another enchanted country under the surface of the water. The sight uplifted in his bosom the heart of the homely man who had no raptures to express, but felt the beauty to the depths of his being. “I’ve travelled far, but I never saw anything like it,” he said to the agent, who had met him on the little pier, and who backed him up with enthusiasm, partly because he was of the district too, and prone to believe that there was nothing equal to Rosmore in the world, and partly because he was a good man of business, and liked to see a wealthy tenant in such a good frame of mind.

But it would be difficult to describe the emotions of James Rowland as he walked through the beautiful woods and entered the house. He had never been in the house before. Naturally, at the time when he first conceived his passion for it, the young foundry man, however clever, could never have had any means of entering into such a place; and to tell the truth, he did not much know what was required by a family of condition in an English or rather Scotch house. He knew the luxury of the East, and how to make a bungalow comfortable, but the arrangements of a mansion at home were strange to him.

He followed the agent accordingly with a little awe,{v.1-12525} which he carefully concealed, through the suites of rooms, libraries, morning rooms, boudoirs, all sorts of lavish accommodation, with the uses of which he was practically unacquainted. But he did not betray his ignorance. On the contrary he was very critical, finding out the defects in the old-fashioned furniture as if he had been accustomed to such things all his life.

“This looks as old as Methuselah,” he said. “Why, the things must be mouldy. I should think they can’t have been touched for a hundred years.”

“More than that,” said the agent, “and that’s just why the ladies like it. It is called Countess Jean’s boudoir. Everything is just as it was when she came home a bride. The ladies will not have it touched.”

“Oh, I know that decayed style is the fashion,” said Mr. Rowland without winking an eyelid: “but you can’t imagine we will put up with these old hangings? You must have them cleared away.”

“Well do that, if it’s your desire; but the hangings are real tapestry—the oldest in Scotland. The Earl will be just delighted to have them back.”

“Now I look at them,” said Rowland, “I believe my wife will like them. For my part I like fresh colours and rich stuffs. I like to have bright things about me, I find it all a little dingy, Mr. Campbell. You must put your best foot forward and have it put in complete order. And a great many other things will be wanted. We have got a boat load,” said the engineer with exhilaration, “of Indian toys and stuff. My wife’s fond of all that sort of thing. We have curios enough to set up a shop.{v.1-12626}”

“Ah,” said the agent respectfully, “you have had unusual opportunities, Mr. Rowland: and ladies are so fond of picking things up.”

“Yes,” said Rowland, “my wife has wonderful taste—she knows a good thing when she sees it.”

“Which is very far from being a general quality,” said the appreciative agent “Mrs. Rowland, I make no doubt, will turn Rosmore into a beautiful place.”

“It is a beautiful place to begin with,” said the new tenant; “and it would be a strange place that would not be improved when my wife got it into her hands,” he added with a glow of pride. He wanted much to confide to the agent that she was a lady of one of the best English families, and full of every accomplishment; but his better sense restrained him.

What exultation he felt in his bosom as he stood under the white colonnade and gazed at the great Clyde rushing upon the beach at the foot of the knoll, and the steamer crossing (which it did by the influence of some good fairy just at this moment) the shining surface, and all the specks of passengers turning in one direction to catch that glimpse of Rosmore. So many times had he gazed at it so—and now for the first time, in the other sense, here he was looking down upon the landscape from his own door. It was not the satisfied appetite of acquisition—it was something finer and more ethereal—a youthful ideal and boyish sentiment carried through a whole life. He had dreamed of this long before there had been any conscious aim at all in his mind; and now he had actually attained the thing which had so pleased his boyish thoughts.{v.1-12727} James Rowland took off his hat as he stood under the white colonnade. The agent thought he was saluting somebody in the passing steamer, and murmured, “They’ll not see you; it’s farther off than it looks;” but Rowland was saluting One who always sees, and who does not so often as ought to be receive thanks thus warm and glowing from a grateful heart. “And for Evelyn too, who is the best of all!” he said within himself.

The agent gleaned enough to perceive that Mr. Rowland was exceedingly proud of his wife, and formed an exaggerated, and consequently rather unfavourable opinion of this unknown lady. He thought she must be a connoisseuse with her boat load of curiosities, which indeed, to tell the truth, were things that Rowland had “picked up” himself in many advantageous ways, before he had even seen his wife, and which Evelyn was not acquainted with at all. Mr. Campbell thought she must be a fantastic woman, and would, as he said, transmogrify the good honest old house, and turn it into a curiosity shop, or “chiney” warehouse—which was an idea he did not contemplate with pleasure. However, this was no reason why he should undervalue so rich and so easily pleased a tenant. He made the most ample promises as to what should be done, and the expedition with which everything should be accomplished—and accompanied Rowland to the boat, introducing him to the minister and to various local authorities on the way. “This is Mr. Rowland that has taken Rosmore. Ye’ll likely see a great deal of him, for he means to make his principal residence{v.1-12828} here.—It’s the great Rowland, the Indian engineer and railway man,” he said aside, but not quite inaudibly, in each new-comer’s ear.

The local potentates looked with admiration and interest at the new-comer. Any possible inmate of Rosmore would have been interesting to the minister, who had not much society in the parish, and had a natural confidence in the social qualities of a man who was so rich. The “merchant” who had long dreamt of a railway up the side of the loch, which would bring Glasgow excursionists in their thousands to Rosmore, gazed with awe on the new inhabitant who had but to look upon a country destitute of means of locomotion, and lo, the iron way was there. Other points of interest abounded in the new inhabitant. He would quicken life in the parish in every way: probably his very name would secure that second delivery of letters for which the whole peninsula had been agitating so long. The steamboat would certainly call summer and winter at the pier, now that the House would be occupied and visitors always coming and going; and the decoration of the church, which was so much wanted, would, the minister thought, be secured now that such a wealthy inhabitant had been added to the resources of the parish. They all gave him a welcome which was as flattering as if he had been a royal prince. “It’s been a distress to us a’ to see the House standing empty so long, and I’m very glad to make Mr. Rowland’s acquaintance. It will be good for us a’ to have a man like him among us.” How did they know what manner of man he was, except that he was rich? But{v.1-12929} James Rowland did not ask himself that question. In his present mood he was very ready to believe that, as he was delighted to come, so his new neighbours would be delighted to have him there; and he knew as well as they did that it would be a good thing for them to have a rich and liberal new parishioner at hand. He liked the looks of the minister, and the schoolmaster, and the merchant, and he was pleased that they should like him. He walked down to the pier attended by a little train; and it was quite a feather in the cap of Mr. Foggo of Pitarrow, one of the smaller heritors of the parish, that he happened to be going across to the other side, and would consequently travel with the great man. “I’ll talk to him about the kirk and see what he’s willing to give,” said this gentleman, exhilarated by the thought that a good subscription from the newcomer would save a good deal of money to the heritors. “But only don’t be hasty; don’t be rash; don’t let him think that his siller is the first thing we are thinking of,” said the minister. “Gangrel body! what would we be thinking of but his siller,” said the laird. But this, which was the only thing that was not complimentary, was not said aloud.

Thus Rowland was escorted to the boat, the frequent messenger between that solitude and the busy world, while Pitarrow followed, giving way to him as if he had been the Earl himself. The boat already felt as if it partially belonged to him, the crew, too, being all interested and impressed. He looked back from the deck upon the line of the Rosmore woods, and the profile of the house, which showed itself through them,{v.1-13030} a different view yet a delightful one: and listened with affability while the different places on the loch were pointed out to him. The evening was perfect as the day had been. The light had died off the deep waters of the loch, though it still played upon the hills, and its low rays struck full in the eyes, so to speak, of the white colonnade, bathing the house in a dazzle of light. What a place to come home to, to settle down in, to see from afar as he approached, and recognise as his own! He figured to himself returning from an absence, hastening through the woods, received by Evelyn at the door. What a beautiful dream to be fulfilled at last! What a refuge from all the labours and the tumults of life! He listened vaguely to what Pitarrow was saying, and granted cordially that it would henceforward be his duty to come to the aid of the parish and to help to beautify the church, and would have given him a cheque on the spot, had there been pen and ink handy. But of course he had not taken his cheque-book with him upon that day’s excursion, important as it was.

He got to the railway in this blissful state of mind, uplifted, his feet scarcely touching the ground. And then all at once his face grew sad and set. The light went out of it and a blank came in place of the animated and lively expression. He had done all that he wanted to do for the moment at Rosmore. Now another duty awaited him, a duty he should have turned to first, which was indeed the most important duty of all. Now there was no longer any escape for him: he must see his children, and that without any further delay.{v.1-13131}