THE DUNE.
Having put Kelpie up, and fed and bedded her, Malcolm took his way to
the Seaton, full of busily anxious thought. Things had taken a bad
turn, and he was worse off for counsel than before. The enemy was in
the house with his sister, and he had no longer any chance of judging
how matters were going, as now he never rode out with her. But at least
he could haunt the house. He would run therefore to his grandfather,
and tell him that he was going to occupy his old quarters at the House
that night.
Returning directly and passing, as had been his custom, through the
kitchen to ascend the small corkscrew stair the servants generally
used, he encountered Mrs Courthope, who told him that her ladyship had
given orders that her maid, who had come with Lady Bellair, should have
his room. He was at once convinced that Florimel had done so with the
intention of banishing him from the house, for there were dozens of
rooms vacant, and many of them more suitable. It was a hard blow! How
he wished for Mr Graham to consult! And yet Mr Graham was not of much
use where any sort of plotting was wanted. He asked Mrs Courthope to
let him have another room; but she looked so doubtful that he withdrew
his request, and went back to his grandfather.
It was Saturday, and not many of the boats would go fishing. Findlay’s
would not leave the harbour till Sunday was over, and therefore Malcolm
was free. But he could not rest, and would go line-fishing.
“Daddy,” he said, “I’m gaein oot to catch a haddick or sae to oor
denner the morn. Ye micht jist sit doon upo’ ane o’ the Boar’s Taes,
an’ tak a play o’ yer pipes. I’ll hear ye fine, an’ it’ll du me guid.”
The Boar’s Toes were two or three small rocks that rose out of the sand
near the end of the dune. Duncan agreed right willingly, and Malcolm,
borrowing some lines, and taking the Psyche’s dinghy, rowed out into
the bay.
The sun was down, the moon was up, and he had caught more fish than he
wanted. His grandfather had got tired, and gone home, and the fountain
of his anxious thoughts began to flow more rapidly. He must go ashore.
He must go up to the House: who could tell what might not be going on
there? He drew in his line, purposing to take the best of the fish to
Miss Horn, and some to Mrs Courthope, as in the old days.
The Psyche still lay on the sands, and he was rowing the dinghy towards
her, when, looking round to direct his course, he thought he caught
a glimpse of some one seated on the slope of the dune. Yes, there
was some one there, sure enough. The old times rushed back on his
memory: could it be Florimel? Alas! it was not likely she would now be
wandering about alone! But if it were? Then for one endeavour more to
rouse her slumbering conscience! He would call up all the associations
of the last few months she had spent in the place, and, with the spirit
of her father, as it were, hovering over her, conjure her, in his name,
to break with Liftore.
He rowed swiftly to the Psyche--beached and drew up the dinghy, and
climbed the dune. Plainly enough it was a lady who sat there. It might
be one from the upper town, enjoying the lovely night; it _might_ be
Florimel, but how could she have got away, or wished to get away from
her newly arrived guests? The voices of several groups of walkers came
from the high road behind the dune, but there was no other figure to be
seen all along the sands. He drew nearer. The lady did not move. If it
were Florimel, would she not know him as he came, and would she wait
for him?
He drew nearer still. His heart gave a throb. Could it be? Or was the
moon weaving some hallucination in his troubled brain? If it was a
phantom, it was that of Lady Clementina; if but modelled of the filmy
vapours of the moonlight, and the artist his own brain, the phantom was
welcome as joy! His spirit seemed to soar aloft in the yellow air, and
hang hovering over and around her, while his body stood rooted to the
spot, like one who fears by moving nigher to lose the lovely vision of
a mirage. She sat motionless, her gaze on the sea. Malcolm bethought
himself that she could not know him in his fisher-dress, and must take
him for some rude fisherman staring at her. He must go at once, or
approach and address her. He came forward at once.
“My lady!” he said.
She did not start. Neither did she speak. She did not even turn her
face. She rose first, then turned, and held out her hand. Three steps
more, and he had it in his, and his eyes looked straight into hers.
Neither spoke. The moon shone full on Clementina’s face. There was no
illumination fitter for that face than the moonlight, and to Malcolm it
was lovelier than ever. Nor was it any wonder it should seem so to him,
for certainly never had the eyes in it rested on his with such a lovely
and trusting light in them.
A moment she stood, then slowly sank upon the sand, and drew her skirts
about her with a dumb show of invitation. The place where she sat was a
little terraced hollow in the slope, forming a convenient seat. Malcolm
saw but could not believe she actually made room for him to sit beside
her--alone with her in the universe. It was too much; he dared not
believe it. And now by one of those wondrous duplications which are not
always at least born of the fancy, the same scene in which he had found
Florimel thus seated on the slope of the dune, appeared to be passing
again through Malcolm’s consciousness, only instead of Florimel was
Clementina, and instead of the sun was the moon. And creature of the
sunlight as Florimel was, bright and gay and beautiful, she paled into
a creature of the cloud beside this maiden of the moonlight, tall and
stately, silent and soft and grand.
Again she made a movement. This time he could not doubt her invitation.
It was as if her soul made room in her unseen world for him to enter
and sit beside her. But who could enter heaven in his work-day garments?
“Won’t you sit by me, Malcolm?” seeing his more than hesitation, she
said at last, with a slight tremble in the voice that was music itself
in his ears.
“I have been catching fish, my lady,” he answered, “and my clothes must
be unpleasant. I will sit here.”
He went a little lower on the slope, and laid himself down, leaning on
his elbow.
“Do fresh water fishes smell the same as the sea-fishes, Malcolm?” she
asked.
“Indeed I am not certain, my lady. Why?”
“Because if they do,----You remember what you said to me as we passed
the saw-mill in the wood?”
It was by silence Malcolm showed he did remember.
“Does not this night remind you of that one at Wastbeach when we came
upon you singing?” said Clementina.
“It _is_ like it, my lady--now. But a little ago, before I saw you, I
was thinking of that night, and thinking how different this was.”
Again a moon-filled silence fell; and once more it was the lady who
broke it.
“Do you know who are at the house?” she asked.
“I do, my lady,” he replied.
“I had not been there more than an hour or two,” she went on, “when
they arrived. I suppose Florimel--Lady Lossie--thought I would not come
if she told me she expected them.”
“And would you have come, my lady?”
“I cannot endure the earl.”
“Neither can I. But then I know more about him than your ladyship does,
and I am miserable for my mistress.”
It stung Clementina as if her heart had taken a beat backward. But her
voice was steadier than it had yet been as she returned--
“Why should you be miserable for Lady Lossie?”
“I would die rather than see her marry that wretch,” he answered.
Again her blood stung her in the left side.
“You do not want her to marry, then?” she said.
“I do,” answered Malcolm, emphatically, “but not _that_ fellow.”
“Whom then, if I may ask?” ventured Clementina, trembling.
But Malcolm was silent. He did not feel it would be right to say.
Clementina turned sick at heart.
“I have heard there is something dangerous about the moonlight,” she
said. “I think it does not suit me to-night. I will go--home.”
Malcolm sprung to his feet and offered his hand. She did not take it,
but rose more lightly, though more slowly than he.
“How did you come from the park, my lady?” he asked.
“By a gate over there,” she answered, pointing. “I wandered out after
dinner, and the sea drew me.”
“If your ladyship will allow me, I will take you a much nearer way
back,” he said.
“Do then,” she returned.
He thought she spoke a little sadly, and set it down to her hating
to go back to her fellow-guests. What if she should leave to-morrow
morning! he thought. He could never then be sure she had really been
with him that night. He must then sometimes think it a dream. But oh,
what a dream! He could thank God for it all his life, if he should
never dream so again.
They walked across the grassy sand towards the tunnel in silence, he
pondering what he could say that might comfort her and keep her from
going so soon.
“My lady never takes me out with her now,” he said at length.
He was going to add that, if she pleased, he could wait upon her with
Kelpie, and show her the country. But then he saw that, if she were
not with Florimel, his sister would be riding everywhere alone with
Liftore. Therefore he stopped short.
“And you feel forsaken--deserted?” returned Clementina, sadly still.
“Rather, my lady.”
They had reached the tunnel. It looked very black when he opened the
door, but there was just a glimmer through the trees at the other end.
“This is the valley of the shadow of death,” she said. “Do I walk
straight through?”
“Yes, my lady. You will soon come out in the light again,” he said.
“Are there no steps to fall down?” she asked.
“None, my lady. But I will go first if you wish.”
“No, that would but cut off the little light I have,” she said. “Come
beside me.”
They passed through in silence, save for the rustle of her dress, and
the dull echo that haunted their steps. In a few moments they came
out among the trees, but both continued silent. The still, thoughtful
moon-night seemed to press them close together, but neither knew that
the other felt the same.
They reached a point in the road where another step would bring them in
sight of the house.
“You cannot go wrong now, my lady,” said Malcolm. “If you please I will
go no farther.”
“Do you not live in the house?” she asked.
“I used to do as I liked, and could be there or with my grandfather. I
did mean to be at the House to-night, but my lady has given my room to
her maid.”
“What! that woman Caley?”
“I suppose so, my lady. I must sleep to-night in the village. If you
could, my lady,” he added, after a pause, and faltered, hesitating.
She did not help him, but waited. “If you could--if you would not be
displeased at my asking you,” he resumed, “--if you _could_ keep my
lady from going farther with that--I shall call him names if I go on!”
“It is a strange request,” Clementina replied, after a moment’s
reflection. “I hardly know, as the guest of Lady Lossie, what answer
I ought to make to it. One thing I will say, however, that, though
you may know more of the man than I, you can hardly dislike him more.
Whether I can interfere is another matter. Honestly, I do not think it
would be of any use. But I do not say I will not. Good night.”
She hurried away, and did not again offer her hand.
Malcolm walked back through the tunnel, his heart singing and making
melody. Oh how lovely, how more than lovely, how divinely beautiful
she was! And so kind and friendly! Yet she seemed just the least bit
fitful too. Something troubled her, he said to himself. But he little
thought that he, and no one else, had spoiled the moonlight for her. He
went home to glorious dreams--she to a troubled half wakeful night. Not
until she had made up her mind to do her utmost to rescue Florimel from
Liftore, even if it gave her to Malcolm, did she find a moment’s quiet.
It was morning then, but she fell fast asleep, slept late, and woke
refreshed.