It was some days after this before Isabel actually ventured out upon the
braes. One afternoon, standing in the garden, seeing nobody near, a
forlorn impulse seized her to visit the birch tree on the braes, which
had been so often their trysting-place. Looking up and looking down,
the white roads seem to her to extend for miles on every side, without a
single passenger upon them. Nobody, then, could criticise or blame her
for that sick movement of her heart. Isabel went in softly, feeling her
circumstances now too solemn to permit her to run out with a shawl round
her as she had once done--and put on her bonnet. And then, with a thrill
of excitement, took her way up the hill. Either its steepness or some
strange expectation took away her breath. The braes were changed from
what they had so lately been. The ferns were crumpled up by the first
touch of frost, and tinged yellow. The heather bells were all dry and
dead, with the colour and life gone out of them, like so many
_immortelles_. And the turf was wet under Isabel’s feet. The great
heather bushes caught her dress, and sprinkled her with showers of
rain-drops. She was cold, and her heart sunk within her. Was it maidenly
to come and look for him here when he did not seek her? Was it becoming
her bereavement to be able now to think of him, to remember anything
about the birch, and all the foolish words that had been said under it?
She put her arm softly, almost with a sense of guilt, round its silvery
stem. There were only young trees on the braes, and this little lady of
the woods with its long locks waving, and its graceful, slender stem,
was like Isabel. He had said so, moved by the sentiment which sometimes
makes the dullest mind poetic. She thought of that as she put her arm
round it, and leaned her cheek against the silvery bark. Moved by her
touch, the branches dropped a little shower of rain over her. Were they
tears? She wept, too, leaning upon her woodland likeness.
‘It is liker me now--far liker me now--for I’m alone! alone!’ said
Isabel; and with a pang of exquisite anguish could not tell which she
was mourning for--her dead Margaret or her lost love.
But tears will not flow continually, however full the heart may be. They
had all dried out of her eyes after a few minutes, and she stood still
leaning against the tree, gazing out once more upon that familiar
landscape, and wondering if she was to see nothing for ever and ever but
the still loch and the roads that stretched away so long and wistful up
to the sky on one side, and away to the Clyde on the other, without a
living creature upon them to break the stillness--when she heard behind
her a rustle as of someone coming. She dared not turn her head to see
whom it was, but the sound made her heart thrill and beat with a wild
excitement she could not control.
Then, suddenly, an arm was put round her, and a voice sounded in her
ear. She had known it must be so. A flood of satisfaction came into her
heart. ‘I thought I was never to see him more!’ she said to herself
without turning her face to him. But he had come at last, and her mind
for the moment required no more.
‘It was a long time before I could make sure that this black figure in a
bonnet was you,’ he said, as if they had parted an hour before; ‘I have
been gazing and wondering for five minutes who it could be. I ought to
have thought of the change of dress.’
Was this all he had to say to her after ‘what had happened?’ Isabel’s
heart shrank, with a sense of sudden chill, within her breast.
‘I came out because my heart was sore,’ she faltered. ‘I cannot tell
why; I thought I would like to see it again.’
‘Not to see me?’ said Stapylton, coming round where he could see her
face.
‘If you had cared for that you might have come before,’ said Isabel,
with a little movement of displeasure. How different it was from the
conversation she had dreamed of!--the soft words, the tender pity, the
assurances of his love.
‘Yes, among all those women that are constantly about you,’ he said,
‘your stepmother, and that old witch Miss Catherine--to see you coddled
and kissed and mumbled over! No, Isabel; if I could have had you all to
myself, as I have now----’
‘And you never thought. Maybe she wants me sitting there her lane? Oh,
Horace! I would not have studied my own pleasure if you had been in
trouble.’
‘Well, never mind,’ he said. ‘Of course I am not so good as you are; if
I were to show myself so gentle, and patient, and unselfish, it would be
taking your _rôle_. But we must not quarrel now we have met. You are
pale, my darling. They have been shutting you up indoors and preaching
you to death.’
‘Do you think there is nothing else to make me pale?’ said Isabel, moved
once more by a pang of disappointment.
‘Don’t let us speak of that. Why should we dwell on such gloomy
subjects?’ said Stapylton. ‘Change of thought is as necessary as change
of scene; and, besides, I have other things to tell you of. It is weeks
now since I have been able to get near you. Don’t let us be unkind and
miserable now that we have met at last.’
Isabel had no answer to make. She was stupified by his tone; and yet how
could she, loving him as she did, tell herself that he was heartless?
Her startled soul paused and stood still for a moment, and then she
said to herself that this must be the way folk thought in England, the
custom of the bigger, greater world. No doubt it was only in an
out-of-the-way corner like Loch Diarmid that there was time to dwell
upon personal grief. She dried her eyes hastily with a furtive hand, and
half-upbraided herself with self-indulgence. But she could not reply.
‘I am not very cheerful, either,’ he said. ‘I want you to comfort me,
Isabel. I have heard from home since I saw you last, and I have no
further excuse to make. I fear I shall have to go away.’
‘To go away!’ cried Isabel, feeling as if the sky had suddenly darkened,
and all comfort had gone out of the earth.
‘It is very hard upon me,’ he said, ‘just when I might have had you a
little more to myself. But I am not my own master, and the folks at home
must be obeyed.’
What could she answer? So much in need of pity, and comfort, and
soothing, as she was, so unprepared to encounter any new blow! She gave
a little gasp as for breath, leaning again upon the birch-tree. And once
more the chill tears from its long drooping branches came down upon them
like a shower. Stapylton sprung aside with a little impatience.
‘Hallo!’ he said; ‘mind what you’re about!’ And then, after a pause,
‘Well, it appears you have nothing to say!’
‘What can I say?’ said poor Isabel, shivering with agitation and pain.
‘If you must go, Mr. Stapylton, it cannot matter what I think or what I
say.’
‘I knew it would be like that,’ he cried; ‘I knew you would take it as
an offence. But, Isabel, look here; I have been dangling after you for
more than a year. You are quite willing I should hang about and wait for
you here; and perhaps you would let me come down to the cottage and see
you, for anything I can tell, now. But as that is all the satisfaction I
have ever got, or am likely to get----’
‘What satisfaction would you have?’ said Isabel, under her breath.
‘What satisfaction would I have? that is a charming question to put to
me after all that has passed between us. Just look here, Isabel; if it
had not been for your ridiculous scruples, think what a different
position I should have been in. I’d have written home a penitent letter,
saying I was very sorry, and all that, and that I was married, and all
about it. There would have been a flare-up, of course; but what could
they have done? Whereas, now, what can a fellow say? I cannot moon on
here for another six months, or another year, or perhaps more than that.
Neither my people, nor anybody’s people, would listen to it for a
moment. When I speak plainly you are affected; and yet it is all your
own fault.’
‘If I look like that to _him_, what must I look to other folk?’ Isabel
said to herself. Her pride was not roused, but broken down. Even the
thought of answering him was absent from her mind. She had to receive
the expression of his will; but what could she reply to it? She had
nothing to say.
‘So,’ he continued, after a pause. ‘I am to be left to make the best of
it, I suppose. You have no answer to give me even now.’
‘You have asked me no question, Mr. Stapylton,’ said Isabel, faintly.
‘You have but found fault with me. It was never my meaning to keep you
hanging on, as you say. What you asked me was impossible--then; and if I
am aye to be reproached and blamed for what happens, maybe it is best
that it should always be impossible. I would not be the one to keep you
back--from your own folk--or waste your time--or----’
‘What more?’ said her lover, irritated. ‘Say something more! say you’ve
been making game of me all the time. I can believe it. Perhaps that
canting hypocrite at Ardnamore would please you better. I hear he was in
the cottage not long ago; or the minister----’
Isabel’s heart swelled as if it would burst. She raised her drooping
head with what remnants of pride she had left in the utter overthrow of
all her strength.
‘I cannot tell,’ she said, with a gasp, ‘what right any man has to say
such things to me.’ And she disengaged herself from the birch-tree which
had been her prop and support--but softly still, poor child, not to
throw upon him the rain with which it was laden--and made a step or two
away. Then she paused, finding it hard work to stand alone, and harder
work still to restrain the convulsive sobbing which struggled in her
breast. ‘If we are to part,’ she said, softly, taking breath between the
words, ‘you know best--I am not saying a word; but if we are to part,
may not we part friends at least?’
And with a woeful smile she put out her hand to him. She was too weak
for pride; she seemed to herself to be dying, too, like Margaret, and
dying folk should be kind, she said in her heart. He was but a man, and
perhaps knew no better; and she was too much crushed and wounded to be
angry. The only anxious desire she had was to be done with this, and to
get home to the fire, to feel some sensation of warmth in her once more;
and then die.
‘I think you want to drive me mad,’ he said; and then he seized the
proffered hand with sudden haste, and drew her almost roughly to him.
‘This is a woman’s way of doing things, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but not
mine--crying; you seem to me to do nothing but cry. Look here, once for
all, Isabel, you had a reason before, but you have none now. Will you
come with me now?’
‘Where?’ she said, in a whisper, not having breath enough or heart
enough either for resistance or utterance.
‘Where? what does it matter where? It might be here for anything I care;
but all this ridiculous set would object, and there would be time lost,
and the news would be sent home. Come with me now--come to-morrow. What
does it matter? You have no invalid to keep you back. What! offended
again? How is a plain man to understand all your fancies? If you like to
be gloomy and cry I can’t help it, Isabel; but what is the good of
dwelling on the past? You did all you could be expected to do, and more.
Surely you may think of yourself now.’
‘It is you that does not understand,’ said Isabel, with a sudden
movement of indignation, withdrawing from him. ‘What can I say that will
make you understand?’
‘I don’t want to understand!’ he cried. ‘Come, Isabel, don’t keep me in
pain. If you’ll meet me here to-morrow I’ll arrange everything to-night.
We’ll go to Kilcranion and get the steamer there, and reach either
Glasgow or Edinburgh in the evening. Isabel! no, you shan’t go away! You
can leave a note for your stepmother. Surely, I am more to you than she
is. You will make me happy, and make everything possible. It is best to
write and tell them after it is done. We’ll go and see everything
together; and you never were out of your parish before. Isabel, it will
bring back the roses to your cheeks again.’
He held her hand, though she struggled away from him, and bent forward
gazing into her face. Isabel’s pale cheeks grew crimson with a violent
blush; all at once life and force and strength seemed to pour back into
her heart with this wild temptation which shook her to the very depth of
her being. The stream had sunk so low that this sudden tide swelled all
her veins to bursting, and brought noises to her ears, the sound of
awakening, confused hum and buzz of every pulse, of her breathing and
her heart. Escape out of this grey atmosphere into the ideal light--out
of this chill into the warmth of love--out of this stillness into
movement and music and sunshine, and all the stir of common life. But
again with equal suddenness a sense of the chill, the grey landscape,
the falling night, the heavy evening dew came back to her, quenching
out the light and stilling the sounds. She uttered a heavy sigh, she
clasped her hands together as if relinquishing all outside aid. ‘And
Margaret not three weeks in her grave!’ That was all she could find to
say.
‘What has that to do with it?’ said Stapylton, ‘you sacrificed yourself
to her when she was living--and are you to make no use of your freedom
now she is dead? _She_ can’t feel it _now_: what will it matter to her
whether you are here or with me? You are free now; go where you like, it
can’t affect her any more.’
He had taken her hand again, but she wrung it out of his almost with
violence; a dull flush came over her of nervous passion. ‘You neither
understand her nor me,’ she said, with a pang in her heart. ‘Oh, how
dare you speak--how dare you speak?’ and in her anger she stamped her
foot upon the yielding turf.
‘Now I’ll tell you what, Isabel,’ he said, ‘I am not to be trifled with
any more. It must be made an end of one way or another. The steamer
leaves Kilcranion at three----’
‘It shall be made an end of,’ cried Isabel, ‘when you can speak to me
like that in my trouble--when you can speak of _her_ like that--oh, say
no more! It shows me you do not know what love means--not what it means.
I bade you farewell, and you would not take it--but now I say, Go, Mr.
Stapylton, go! You have said enough--oh, too much, too much! I cannot
bear it. Free! and nothing to her! O man, man, have ye a heart within
ye? and can you think I would be glad of that?’
‘I can’t speak your cant,’ cried Stapylton. ‘Isabel! this is the last
attempt I will ever make----’
He followed her as he spoke, for she had turned from him, making her way
towards the highroad. For a few minutes he went on with her, keeping
close by her side, speaking rapidly.
‘This is the last time I will speak. The steamer leaves Kilcranion at
three; I will be here waiting for you at two o’clock. I will take every
precaution, and make every arrangement. Think it over, Isabel, you never
made such an important decision. If you do not come to me at two
to-morrow we may never meet more in our lives.’
She stopped and stood gazing at him as he came to this conclusion. For
his part he had grown pale and breathless with excitement. He looked at
her menacingly from beneath his lowering brows. ‘Never in our lives if
not to-morrow!’ he repeated, looking intently in her eyes as if to look
her down.
But Isabel was roused, too; she met his eyes without flinching, though
every particle of colour had left her face.
‘You threaten me!’ she said, with unconscious scorn. ‘If it was me, I
would go to the end of the earth for one I loved--not frown at her, and
break her heart to do a thing that’s impossible. Oh, how could you ask
me to do it? It will have to be never--never! if that is your last
word----’
And even then poor Isabel’s maidenly soul was so faithful, so incapable
of believing he could mean the cruel things he said, that her eyes grew
wistful and woeful looking at him, for one final moment appealing still.
‘I will wait for you all the same,’ he said, with a half-laugh. ‘When
you think it all over, you’ll change your mind. At two o’clock I will be
here.’
For yet one more moment they stood confronting each other; he with a
smile of affected calmness; she with a gaze that gradually clouded into
despair. Then she turned with a little wave of her hand, and left him.
He did not attempt to follow. He stood on the same spot watching her as
she wound her way through the heather. Once or twice he moved a step in
the same direction as if to go after her, but immediately stopped
himself.
‘If I give in now all’s lost,’ he said to himself, trying to force his
lips into a cheerless whistle. ‘She’ll have thought better of it before
to-morrow,’ he said unconsciously aloud. After all, a sister is only a
sister, a sort of secondary relationship in life. What girl (he thought)
would lose a husband for the sake of a dead woman who could interfere
with her comfort no more? ‘She’ll think better of it,’ he repeated to
himself in his heart.