SHORE.
At last they glided once more through the stony jaws of the harbour,
as if returning again to the earth from a sojourn in the land of the
disembodied. When Clementina’s foot touched the shore she felt like one
waked out of a dream, from whom yet the dream has not departed--but
keeps floating about him, waved in thinner and yet thinner streams from
the wings of the vanishing sleep. It seemed almost as if her spirit,
instead of having come back to the world of its former abode, had
been borne across the parting waters and landed on the shore of the
immortals. There was the ghost-like harbour of the spirit land, the
water gleaming betwixt its dark walls, one solitary boat motionless
upon it, the men moving about like shadows in the star twilight! Here
stood three women and a man on the shore, and save the stars no light
shone, and from the land came no sound of life. Was it the dead of the
night, or a day that had no sun? It was not dark, but the light was
rayless. Or, rather, it was as if she had gained the power of seeing in
the dark. Suppressed sleep wove the stuff of a dream around her, and
the stir at her heart kept it alive with dream-forms. Even the voice of
Peter’s Annie, saying, “I s’ bide for my man. Gude nicht, my leddy,”
did not break the charm. Her heart shaped that also into the dream.
Turning away with Malcolm and Lizzy, she passed along the front of the
Seaton. How still, how dead, how empty like cenotaphs, all the cottages
looked! How the sea which lay like a watcher at their doors, murmured
in its sleep! Arrived at the entrance to her own close, Lizzy next bade
them good night, and Clementina and Malcolm were left.
And now drew near the full power, the culmination of the mounting
enchantment of the night for Malcolm. When once the Scaurnose people
should have passed them, they would be alone--alone as in the spaces
between the stars. There would not be a living soul on the shore
for hours. From the harbour the nearest way to the House was by the
sea-gate, but where was the haste--with the lovely night around them,
private as a dream shared only by two? Besides, to get in by that, they
would have had to rouse the cantankerous Bykes, and what a jar would
not that bring into the music of the silence! Instead, therefore, of
turning up by the side of the stream where it crossed the shore, he
took Clementina once again in his arms unforbidden, and carried her
over. Then the long sands lay open to their feet. Presently they heard
the Scaurnose party behind them, coming audibly, merrily on. As by a
common resolve they turned to the left, and crossing the end of the
Boar’s Tail, resumed their former direction, with the dune now between
them and the sea. The voices passed on the other side, and they heard
them slowly merge into the inaudible. At length, after an interval of
silence, on the westerly air came one quiver of laughter--by which
Malcolm knew his friends were winding up the red path to the top of the
cliff. And now the shore was bare of presence, bare of sound save the
soft fitful rush of the rising tide. But behind the long sandhill, for
all they could see of the sea, they might have been in the heart of a
continent.
“Who would imagine the ocean so near us, my lady!” said Malcolm, after
they had walked for some time without word spoken.
“Who can tell what may be near us?” she returned.
“True, my lady. Our future is near us, holding thousands of things
unknown. Hosts of thinking beings with endless-myriads of thoughts may
be around us. What a joy t’ know that, of all things and all thoughts,
God is nearest to us--_so_ near that we cannot see him, but, far beyond
seeing him, can know of him infinitely!”
As he spoke they came opposite the tunnel, but he turned from it and
they ascended the dune. As their heads rose over the top, and the
sky-night above and the sea-night beneath rolled themselves out and
rushed silently together, Malcolm said, as if thinking aloud:
“Thus shall we meet death and the unknown, and the new that breaks from
the bosom of the invisible will be better than the old upon which the
gates close behind us. The Son of man is content with my future, and I
am content.”
There was a peace in the words that troubled Clementina: he wanted
no more than he had--this cold, imperturbable, devout fisherman! She
did not see that it was the confidence of having all things that held
his peace rooted. From the platform of the swivel, they looked abroad
over the sea. Far north in the east lurked a suspicion of dawn, which
seemed, while they gazed upon it, to “languish into life,” and the sea
was a shade less dark than when they turned from it to go behind the
dune. They descended a few paces, and halted again.
“Did your ladyship ever see the sun rise?” asked Malcolm.
“Never in open country,” she answered.
“Then stay and see it now, my lady. He’ll rise just over yonder, a
little nearer this way than that light from under his eyelids. A more
glorious chance you could not have. And when he rises, just observe,
one minute after he is up, how like a dream all you have been in
to-night will look. It is to me strange even to awfulness how many
different phases of things, and feelings about them, and moods of life
and consciousness, God can tie up in the bundle of one world with one
human soul to carry it.”
Clementina slowly sank on the sand of the slope, and like lovely sphinx
of northern desert, gazed in immovable silence out on the yet more
northern sea. Malcolm took his place a little below, leaning on his
elbow, for the slope was steep, and looking up at her. Thus they waited
the sunrise.
Was it minutes or only moments passed in that silence--whose speech was
the soft ripple of the sea on the sand? Neither could have answered the
question. At length said Malcolm,
“I think of changing my service, my lady.”
“Indeed, Malcolm!”
“Yes, my lady. My--mistress does not like to turn me away, but she is
tired of me, and does not want me any longer.”
“But you would never think of finally forsaking a fisherman’s life for
that of a servant, surely, Malcolm?”
“What would become of Kelpie, my lady?” rejoined Malcolm, smiling to
himself.
“Ah!” said Clementina, bewildered; “I had not thought of her.-- But you
cannot take her with you,” she added, coming a little to her senses.
“There is nobody about the place who could, or rather, who would do
anything with her. They would sell her. I have enough to buy her, and
perhaps somebody might not object to the encumbrance, but hire me and
her together.--_Your_ groom wants a coachman’s place, my lady.”
“O Malcolm! do you mean you would be _my_ groom?” cried Clementina,
pressing her palms together.
“If you would have me, my lady; but I have heard you say you would have
none but a married man.”
“But--Malcolm--don’t you know anybody that would--?--Could you not find
some one--some lady--that--?--I mean, why shouldn’t you be a married
man?”
“For a very good and to me rather sad reason, my lady; the only woman I
could marry, or should ever be able to marry,--would not have me. She
is very kind and very noble, but--it is preposterous --the thing is too
preposterous. I dare not have the presumption to ask her.”
Malcolm’s voice trembled as he spoke, and a few moments’ pause
followed, during which he could not lift his eyes. The whole heaven
seemed pressing down their lids. The breath which he modelled into
words seemed to come in little billows.
But his words had raised a storm in Clementina’s bosom. A cry broke
from her, as if driven forth by pain. She called up all the energy
of her nature, and stilled herself to speak. The voice that came was
little more than a sob-scattered whisper, but to her it seemed as if
all the world must hear.
“Oh Malcolm!” she panted, “I _will_ try to be good and wise. Don’t
marry anybody else--_anybody_, I mean; but come with Kelpie and be my
groom, and wait and see if I don’t grow better.”
Malcolm leaped to his feet and threw himself at hers. He had heard but
in part, and he _must_ know all.
“My lady,” he said, with intense quiet, “Kelpie and I will be your
slaves. Take me for fisherman--groom--what you will. I offer the whole
sum of service that is in me.” He kissed her feet.
“My lady, I would put your feet on my head,” he went on, “only then
what should I do when I see my Lord, and cast myself before _him_?”
But Clementina, again her own to give, rose quickly, and said with all
the dignity born of her inward grandeur,
“Rise, Malcolm; you misunderstand me.”
Malcolm rose abashed, but stood erect before her, save that his head
was bowed, for his heart was sunk in dismay. Then slowly, gently,
Clementina knelt before him. He was bewildered, and thought she was
going to pray. In sweet, clear, unshaken tones, for she feared nothing
now, she said,
“Malcolm, I am not worthy of you. But take me--take my very soul if you
will, for it is yours.”
Now Malcolm saw that he had no right to raise a kneeling lady; all he
could do was to kneel beside her. When people kneel, they lift up their
hearts; and the creating heart of their joy was forgotten of neither.
And well for them, for the love where God is not, be the lady lovely as
Cordelia, the man gentle as Philip Sidney, will fare as the overkept
manna.
When the huge tidal wave from the ocean of infinite delight had broken
at last upon the shore of the finite, and withdrawn again into the
deeps, leaving every cistern brimming, every fountain overflowing, the
two entranced souls opened their bodily eyes, looked at each other,
rose, and stood hand in hand, speechless.
“Ah, my lady!” said Malcolm at length, “what is to become of this
delicate smoothness in my great rough hand? Will it not be hurt?”
“You don’t know how strong it is, Malcolm. There!”
“I can scarcely feel it with my hand, my lady; it all goes through to
my heart. It shall lie in mine as the diamond in the rock.”
“No, no, Malcolm! Now that I am going to be a fisherman’s wife, it must
be a strong hand--it must work. What homage shall you require of me,
Malcolm? What will you have me do to rise a little nearer your level?
Shall I give away lands and money? And shall I live with you in the
Seaton? or will you come and fish at Wastbeach?”
“Forgive me, my lady; I can’t think about things now--even with you in
them. There is neither past nor future to me now--only this one eternal
morning. Sit here, and look up, Lady Clementina: --see all those
worlds:--something in me constantly says that I shall know every one of
them one day; that they are all but rooms in the house of my spirit,
that is, the house of our Father. Let us not now, when your love makes
me twice eternal, talk of time and places. Come, let us fancy ourselves
two blessed spirits, lying full in the sight and light of our God,--as
indeed what else are we?--warming our hearts in his presence and peace;
and that we have but to rise and spread our wings to soar aloft and
find--what shall it be, my lady? Worlds upon worlds? No, no. What are
worlds upon worlds in infinite show until we have seen the face of the
Son of Man?”
A silence fell. But he resumed.
“Let us imagine our earthly life behind us, our hearts clean, love all
in all.--But that sends me back to the now. My lady, I know I shall
never love you aright until you have helped me perfect. When the face
of the least lovely of my neighbours needs but appear to rouse in
my heart a divine tenderness, then it must be that I shall love you
better than now. Now, alas! I am so pervious to wrong! so fertile of
resentments and indignations! You must cure me, my divine Clemency.--Am
I a poor lover to talk, this first glorious hour, of anything but my
lady love? Ah! but let it excuse me that this love is no new thing
to me. It is a very old love. I have loved you a thousand years. I
love every atom of your being, every thought that can harbour in your
soul, and I am jealous of hurting your blossoms with the over-jubilant
winds of that very love. I would therefore behold you folded in the
atmosphere of the Love eternal. My lady, if I were to talk of your
beauty, I should but offend you, for you would think I raved, and spoke
not the words of truth and soberness. But how often have I not cried
to the God who breathed the beauty into you that it might shine out
of you, to save my soul from the tempest of its own delight therein.
And now I am like one that has caught an angel in his net, and fears
to come too nigh, lest fire should flash from the eyes of the startled
splendour, and consume the net and him who holds it. But I will not
rave, because I would possess in grand peace that which I lay at your
feet. I am yours, and would be worthy of your moonlight calm.”
“Alas! I am beside you but a block of marble!” said Clementina. “You
are so eloquent, my----”
“New groom,” suggested Malcolm gently.
Clementina smiled.
“But my heart is so full,” she went on, “that I cannot think the
filmiest thought. I hardly know that I feel. I only know that I want to
weep.”
“Weep then, my word ineffable!” cried Malcolm, and laid himself again
at her feet, kissed them, and was silent.
He was but a fisher-poet; no courtier, no darling of society, no dealer
in the fine speeches, no clerk of compliments. All the words he had
were the living blossoms of thought rooted in feeling. His pure clear
heart was as a crystal cup, through which shone the red wine of his
love. To himself Malcolm stammered as a dumb man, the string of whose
tongue has but just been loosed; to Clementina his speech was as the
song of the Lady to Comus, “divine enchanting ravishment.” The God of
truth is surely present at every such marriage feast of two radiant
spirits. Their joy was that neither had fooled the hope of the other.
And so the herring boat had indeed carried Clementina over into
paradise, and this night of the world was to her a twilight of heaven.
God alone can tell what delights it is possible for him to give to the
pure in heart who shall one day behold him. Like two that had died and
found each other, they talked until speech rose into silence, they
smiled until the dews which the smiles had sublimed claimed their turn
and descended in tears.
All at once they became aware that an eye was upon them. It was the
sun. He was ten degrees up the slope of the sky, and they had never
seen him rise.
With the sun came a troublous thought, for with the sun came “a world
of men.” Neither they nor the simple fisher-folk, their friends, had
thought of the thing, but now at length it occurred to Clementina that
she would rather not walk up to the door of Lossie House with Malcolm
at this hour of the morning. Yet neither could she well appear alone.
Ere she had spoken Malcolm rose.
“You won’t mind being left, my lady,” he said, “for a quarter of an
hour or so--will you? I want to bring Lizzy to walk home with you.”
He went, and Clementina sat alone on the dune in a reposeful rapture,
to which the sleeplessness of the night gave a certain additional
intensity and richness and strangeness. She watched the great strides
of her fisherman as he walked along the sands, and she seemed not to be
left behind, but to go with him every step. The tide was again falling,
and the sea shone and sparkled and danced with life, and the wet sand
gleamed, and a soft air blew on her cheek, and the lordly sun was
mounting higher and higher, and a lark over her head was sacrificing
all nature in his song; and it seemed as if Malcolm were still speaking
strange, half intelligible, altogether lovely things in her ears. She
felt a little weary, and laid her head down upon her arm to listen more
at her ease.
Now the lark had seen all and heard all, and was telling it again to
the universe, only in dark sayings which none but themselves could
understand; therefore it is no wonder that, as she listened, his song
melted into a dream, and she slept. And the dream was lovely as dream
needs be, but not lovelier than the wakeful night. She opened her eyes,
calm as any cradled child, and there stood her fisherman!
“I have been explaining to Lizzy, my lady,” he said, “that your
ladyship would rather have her company up to the door than mine. Lizzy
is to be trusted, my lady.”
“’Deed, my leddy,” said Lizzy, “Ma’colm’s been ower guid to me, no to
gar me du onything he wad ha’e o’ me. I can haud my tongue whan I like,
my leddy. An’ dinna doobt my thouchts, my leddy, for I ken Ma’colm as
weel ’s ye du yersel’, my leddy.”
While she was speaking, Clementina rose, and they went straight to the
door in the bank. Through the tunnel and the young wood and the dew
and the morning odours, along the lovely paths the three walked to the
house together. And oh, how the larks of the earth and the larks of the
soul sang for two of them! And how the burn rang with music, and the
air throbbed with sweetest life! while the breath of God made a little
sound as of a going now and then in the tops of the fir trees, and the
sun shone his brightest and best, and all nature knew that the heart of
God is the home of his creatures.
When they drew near the house Malcolm left them. After they had rung a
good many times, the door was opened by the housekeeper, looking very
proper and just a little scandalized.
“Please, Mrs Courthope,” said Lady Clementina, “will you give orders
that when this young woman comes to see me to-day she shall be shown up
to my room?”
Then she turned to Lizzy and thanked her for her kindness, and they
parted--Lizzy to her baby, and Clementina to yet a dream or two. Long
before her dreams were sleeping ones, however, Malcolm was out in the
bay in the Psyche’s dinghy, catching mackerel: some should be for his
grandfather, some for Miss Horn, some for Mrs Courthope, and some for
Mrs Crathie.