"Do you think, Sheila, you will ever tire of living in the South?"
The girl looked up quickly, and said with a sort of surprised
questioning in her eyes:--
"No, not with you. But then we shall often go to the Lewis?"
"Oh, yes," her husband said, "as often as we can conveniently. But it
will take some time at first, you know, before you get to know all my
friends, who are to be your friends, and before you get properly fitted
with your social circle. That will take you a long time, Sheila, and you
may have many annoyances or embarrassments to encounter; but you won't
be very much afraid, my girl?"
Sheila merely looked up to him; there was no fear in the frank, brave
eyes.
The first large town she saw struck a cold chill to her heart. On a wet
and dismal afternoon they sailed into Greenock. A heavy smoke hung about
the black building-yards and the dirty quays; the narrow and squalid
streets were filled with mud, and only the poorer sections of the
population waded through the mire or hung disconsolately about the
corners of the thorough-fares. A gloomier picture could not well be
conceived; and Sheila, chilled with the long and wet sail and bewildered
by the noise and bustle of the harbor, was driven to the hotel with a
sore heart and a downcast face.
"This is not like London, Frank?" she said, pretty nearly ready to cry
with disappointment.
"This? No. Well, it is like a part of London, certainly, but not the
part you will live in."
"But how can we live in the one place without passing the other and
being made miserable by it? There was no part of Oban like this."
"Why, you will live miles away from the docks and quays of London. You
might live for a lifetime in London without ever knowing it had a
harbor. Don't you be afraid, Sheila. You will live in a district where
there are far finer houses than any you saw in Oban, and far finer
trees; and within a few minutes' walk you will find great gardens and
parks, with lakes in them and wild fowls, and you will be able to teach
the boys about how to set the helm and the sails when they are launching
their small boats."
"I should like that," said Sheila, her face brightening.
"Perhaps you would like a boat yourself?"
"Yes," she said, frankly. "If there were not many people there, we might
go out sometimes in the evening--"
Her husband laughed and took her hand: "You don't understand, Sheila.
The boats the boys have are little things a foot or two long--like the
one in your papa's bedroom in Borva. But many of the boys would be
greatly obliged to you if you would teach them how to manage the sails
properly, for sometimes dreadful shipwrecks occur."
"You must bring them to our house. I am very fond of little boys, when
they begin to forget to be shy, and let you become acquainted
with them."
"Well," said Lavender, "I don't know many of the boys who sail boats in
the Serpentine: you will have to make their acquaintance yourself. But
I know one boy whom I must bring to the house. He is a German-Jew boy,
who is going to be another Mendelssohn, his friends say. He is a pretty
boy, with ruddy-brown hair, big black eyes, and a fine forehead; and he
really sings and plays delightfully. But you know, Sheila, you must not
treat him as a boy, for he is over fourteen, I should think; and if you
were to kiss him--"
"He might be angry," said Sheila, with perfect simplicity.
"I might," said Lavender; and then, noticing that she seemed a little
surprised, he merely patted her head and bade her go and get ready
for dinner.
Then came the great climax of Sheila's southward journey--her arrival in
London. She was all anxiety to see her future home; and as luck would
have it, there was a fair spring morning shining over the city. For a
couple of hours before, she had sat and looked out of the
carriage-window as the train whirled rapidly through the scarcely
awakened country, and she had seen the soft and beautiful landscapes of
the South lit up by the early sunlight. How the bright little villages
shone, with here and there a gilt weathercock glittering on the spire of
some small gray church, while as yet in many valleys a pale gray mist
lay along the bed of the level streams or clung to the dense woods on
the upland heights! Which was the more beautiful--the sharp, clear
picture, with its brilliant colors and its awakening life, or the more
mystic landscape over which was still drawn the tender veil of the
morning haze? She could not tell. She only knew that England, as she
then saw it, seemed a great country that was very beautiful, that had
few inhabitants, and that was still and sleepy and bathed in sunshine.
How happy must the people be who lived in those quiet green valleys by
the side of slow and smooth rivers, and amid great woods and avenues of
stately trees, the like of which she had not imagined even in
her dreams!
But from the moment that they got out at Euston Square she seemed a
trifle bewildered, and could only do implicitly as her husband bade
her--clinging to his hand, for the most part, as if to make sure of
guidance. She did indeed glance somewhat nervously at the hansom into
which Lavender put her, apparently asking how such a tall and narrow
two-wheeled vehicle could be prevented toppling over. But when he,
having sent on all their luggage by a respectable old four-wheeler, got
into the hansom beside her, and put his hand inside her arm, and bade
her be of good cheer that she should have such a pleasant morning to
welcome her to London, she said "Yes," mechanically, and only looked out
in a wistful fashion at the great houses and trees of Euston Square, the
mighty and roaring stream of omnibuses, the droves of strangers, mostly
clad in black, as if they were going to church, and the pale blue smoke
that seemed to mix with the sunshine and make it cold and distant.
They were in no hurry, these two, on that still morning; and so, to
impress Sheila all at once with a sense of the greatness and grandeur of
London, he made the cabman cut down by Park Crescent and Portland Place
to Regent Circus. Then they went along Oxford Street; and there were
crowded omnibuses taking young men into the city, while all the
pavements were busy with hurrying passers-by. What multitudes of unknown
faces, unknown to her and unknown to each other! These people did not
speak: they only hurried on, each intent upon his own affairs, caring
nothing, apparently, for the din around them, and looking so strange and
sad in their black clothes in the pale and misty sunlight.
"You are in a trance, Sheila," he said.
She did not answer. Surely she had wandered into some magical city, for
now the houses on one side of the way suddenly ceased, and she saw
before her a great and undulating extent of green, with a border of
beautiful flowers, and with groups of trees that met the sky all along
the southern horizon. Did the green and beautiful country she had seen,
shoot in thus into the heart of the town, or was there another city far
away on the other side of the trees? The place was almost as deserted as
those still valleys she had passed by in the morning. Here in the street
there was the roar of a passing crowd; but there was a long and almost
deserted stretch of park, with winding roads and umbrageous trees, on
which the wan sunlight fell from between loose masses of
half-golden cloud.
Then they passed Kensington Gardens, and there were more people walking
down the broad highways between the elms.
"You are getting nearly home now, Sheila," he said. "And you will be
able to come and walk in these avenues whenever you please."
Was this, then, her home? this section of a barrack-row of dwellings,
all alike in steps, pillars, doors, and windows? When she got inside,
the servant who had opened the door bobbed a courtesy to her: should she
shake hands with her and say. "And are you ferry well?" But at this
moment Lavender came running up the steps, playfully hurried her into
the house and up the stairs, and led her into her own drawing-room.
"Well, darling, what do you think of your home, now that you see it?"
Sheila looked around timidly. It was not a big room, but it was a palace
in height and grandeur and color compared with that little museum in
Borva in which Sheila's piano stood. It was all so strange and
beautiful--the split pomegranates and quaint leaves on the upper part of
the walls, and underneath a dull slate-color where the pictures hung;
the curious painting on the frames of the mirrors; the brilliant
curtains, with their stiff and formal patterns. It was not very much
like a home as yet; it was more like a picture that had been carefully
planned and executed; but she knew how he had thought of pleasing her in
choosing these things, and without saying a word she took his hand and
kissed it. And then she went to one of the three tall French windows and
looked out on the square. There, between the trees, was a space of
beautiful soft green; and some children dressed in bright dresses, and
attended by a governess in sober black, had just begun to play croquet.
An elderly lady with a small white dog was walking along one of the
graveled paths. An old man was pruning some bushes.
"It is very still and quiet here," said Sheila. "I was afraid we should
have to live in that terrible noise always."
"I hope you won't find it dull, my darling," he said.
"Dull, when you are here?"
"But I cannot always be here, you know."
She looked up.
"You see, a man is so much in the way if he is dawdling about a house
all day long. You would begin to regard me as a nuisance, Sheila, and
would be for sending me to play croquet with those young Carruthers,
merely that you might get the rooms dusted. Besides, you know I couldn't
work here: I must have a studio of some sort--in the neighborhood, of
course. And then you will give me your orders in the morning as to when
I am to come round for luncheon or dinner."
"And you will be alone all day at your work?"
"Yes."
"Then I will come and sit with you, my poor boy," she said.
"Much work I should do in that case!" he said. "But we'll see. In the
mean time go up-stairs and get your things off: that young person below
has breakfast ready, I dare say."
"But you have not shown me yet where Mr. Ingram lives," said Sheila
before she went to the door.
"Oh, that is miles away. You have only seen a little bit of London yet.
Ingram lives about as far away from here as the distance you have just
come, but in another direction."
"It is like a world made of houses," said Sheila, "and all filled with
strangers. But you will take me to see Mr. Ingram?"
"By-and-by, yes. But he is sure to drop in on you as soon as he fancies
you are settled in your new home."
And here at last was Mr. Ingram come; and the mere sound of his voice
seemed to carry her back to Borva, so that in talking to him and waiting
on him as of old, she would scarcely have been surprised if her father
had walked in to say that a coaster was making for the harbor, or that
Duncan was going over to Stornoway, and Sheila would have to give him
commissions.
Her husband did not take the same interest in the social and political
affairs of Borva that Mr. Ingram did. Lavender had made a pretense of
assisting Sheila in her work among the poor people, but the effort was a
hopeless failure. He could not remember the name of the family that
wanted a new boat, and was visibly impatient when Sheila would sit down
to write out for some aged crone a letter to her grandson in Canada. Now
Ingram, for the mere sake of occupation, had qualified himself during
his various visits to Lewis, so that he might have become the home
minister of the King of Borva; and Sheila was glad to have one attentive
listener as she described all the wonderful things that had happened in
the island since the previous summer.
But Ingram had got a full and complete holiday on which to come up and
see Sheila; and he had brought with him the wild and startling proposal
that in order that she should take her first plunge into the pleasures
of civilized life, her husband and herself should drive down to Richmond
and dine at the Star and Garter.
"What is that?" said Sheila.
"My dear girl," said her husband, seriously, "your ignorance is
something fearful to contemplate. It is quite bewildering. How can a
person who does not know what the Star and Garter is, be told what the
Star and Garter is?"
"But I am willing to go and see," said Sheila.
"Then I must look after getting a brougham," said Lavender, rising.
"A brougham on such a day as this?" exclaimed Ingram. "Nonsense! Get an
open trap of some sort; and Sheila, just to please me, will put on that
very blue dress she used to wear in Borva, and the hat and the white
feather, if she has got them."
"Perhaps you would like me to put on a sealskin cap and a red
handkerchief instead of a collar," observed Lavender, calmly.
"You may do as you please. Sheila and I are going to dine at the Star
and Garter."
"May I put on that blue dress?" said the girl, going up to her husband.
"Yes, of course, if you like," said Lavender meekly, going off to order
the carriage, and wondering by what route he could drive those two
maniacs down to Richmond so that none of his friends should see them.
When he came back again, bringing with him a landau which could be shut
up for the homeward journey at night, he had to confess that no costume
seemed to suit Sheila so well as the rough sailor dress; and he was so
pleased with her appearance that he consented at once to let Bras go
with them in the carriage, on condition that Sheila should be
responsible for him. Indeed, after the first shiver of driving away from
the square was over, he forgot that there was much unusual about the
look of this odd pleasure party. If you had told him eighteen months
before that on a bright day in May, just as people were going home from
the Park for luncheon, he would go for a drive in a hired trap with one
horse, his companions being a man with a brown wide-awake, a girl
dressed as though she were the owner of a yacht, and an immense
deerhound, and that in this fashion he would dare to drive up to the
Star and Garter and order dinner, he would have bet five hundred to one
that such a thing would never occur so long as he preserved his senses.
But somehow he did not mind much. He was very much at home with those
two people beside him; the day was bright and fresh; the horse went a
good pace; and once they were over Hammersmith Bridge and out among
fields and trees, the country looked exceedingly pretty, and all the
beauty of it was mirrored in Sheila's eyes.
"I can't quite make you out in that dress, Sheila," he said. "I am not
sure whether it is real and business-like or a theatrical costume. I
have seen girls on Ryde Pier with something of the same sort on, only a
good deal more pronounced, you know, and they looked like sham
yachtsmen; and I have seen stewardesses wearing that color and texture
of cloth--"
"But why not leave it as it is," said Ingram--"a solitary costume
produced by certain conditions of climate and duties, acting in
conjunction with a natural taste for harmonious coloring and simple
form? That dress, I will maintain, sprang as naturally from the salt sea
as Aphrodite did; and the man who suspects artifice in it, or invention,
has had his mind perverted by the skepticism of modern society."
"Is my dress so very wonderful?" said Sheila, with a grave complacence.
"I am pleased that the Lewis has produced such a fine thing, and perhaps
you would like me to tell you its history. It was my papa bought a piece
of blue serge in Stornoway: it cost three shillings sixpence a yard, and
a dressmaker in Stornoway cut it for me, and I made it myself. That is
all the history of the wonderful dress."
Suddenly Sheila seized her husband's arm. They had got down to the river
by Mortlake; and there, on the broad bosom of the stream, a long and
slender boat was shooting by, pulled by four oarsmen clad in
white flannel.
"How can they go out in such a boat?" said Sheila, with great alarm
visible in her eyes. "It is scarcely a boat at all; and if they touch a
rock, or if the wind catches them--"
"Don't be frightened, Sheila," said her husband. "They are quite safe.
There are no rocks in our rivers, and the wind does not give us squalls
here like those on Loch Roag. You will see hundreds of those boats by
and by, and perhaps you yourself will go out in one."
"Oh, never, never!" she said, almost with a shudder.
"Why, if the people here heard you they would not know how brave a
sailor you are. You are not afraid to go out at night by yourself on the
sea, and you won't go on a smooth inland river--"
"But those boats: if you touch them they must go over."
She seemed glad to get away from the river. She could not be persuaded
of the safety of the slender craft of the Thames; and indeed, for some
time after seemed so strangely depressed that Lavender begged and
prayed of her to tell him what was the matter. It was simple enough. She
had heard him speak of his boating adventures. Was it in such boats as
that she had just seen? and might he not be some day going out in one of
them and an accident--the breaking of an oar, a gust of wind--
There was nothing for it but to reassure her by a solemn promise that in
no circumstances whatever would he, Lavender, go into a boat without her
express permission, whereupon Sheila was as grateful to him as though he
had dowered her with a kingdom.
This was not the Richmond Hill of her fancy--this spacious height; with
its great mansions, its magnificent elms, and its view of all the
westward and wooded country, with the blue-white streak of the river
winding through the green foliage. Where was the farm? The famous Lass
of Richmond Hill must have lived on a farm; but here surely were the
houses of great lords and nobles, which had apparently been there for
years and years. And was this really a hotel that they stopped at--this
great building that she could only compare to Stornoway Castle?
"Now, Sheila," said Lavender, after they had ordered dinner and gone
out, "mind you keep a tight hold on that leash, for Bras will see
strange things in the Park."
"It is I who will see strange things," she said; and the prophecy was
amply fulfilled. For as they went along the broad path, and came better
into view of the splendid undulation of woodland and pasture and fern,
when on the one hand they saw the Thames far below them flowing through
the green and spacious valley, and on the other hand caught some dusky
glimpse of the far white houses of London, it seemed to her that she had
got into a new world, and that this world was far more beautiful than
the great city she had left. She did not care so much for the famous
view from the hill. She had cast one quick look to the horizon, with one
throb of expectation that the sea might be there. There was no sea
there--only the faint blue of long lines of country, apparently without
limit. Moreover, over the western landscape a faint haze prevailed, that
increased in the distance and softened down the more distant woods into
a sober gray. That great extent of wooded plain, lying sleepily in its
pale mists, was not so cheerful as the scene around her, where the
sunlight was sharp and clear, the air fresh, the trees flooded with a
pure and bright color. Here indeed was a cheerful and beautiful world,
and she was full of curiosity to know all about it and its strange
features. What was the name of this tree? and how did it differ from
that? Were not these rabbits over by the fence? and did rabbits live in
the midst of trees and bushes? What sort of wood was the fence made of?
and was it not terribly expensive to have such a protection? Could not
he tell the cost of a wooden fence? Why did they not use wire netting?
Was not that a loch away down there? and what was its name? A loch
without a name! Did the salmon come up to it? and did any sea-birds ever
come inland and build their nests on its margin?
"O, Bras, you must come and look at the loch. It is a long time since
you will see a loch."
And away she went through the thick bracken, holding on to the swaying
leash that held the galloping greyhound, and running swiftly as though
she had been making down for the shore to get out the Maighdean-mhara.
"Sheila," called her husband, "don't be foolish!"
"Sheila," called Ingram, "have pity on an old man!"
Suddenly she stopped. A brace of partridges had sprung up at some
distance, and with a wild whirr of their wings were now directing their
low and rapid flight toward the bottom of the valley.
"What birds are those?" she said peremptorily.
She took no notice of the fact that her companions were pretty nearly
too blown to speak. There was a brisk life and color in her face, and
all her attention was absorbed in watching the flight of the birds.
Lavender fancied he saw in the fixed and keen look something of old
Mackenzie's gray eye: it was not the first trace of a likeness to her
father he had seen.
"You bad girl!" he said, "they are partridges."
She paid no heed to this reproach, for what were those other things over
there underneath the trees? Bras had pricked up his ears, and there was
a strange excitement in his look and in his trembling frame.
"Deer!" she cried, with her eyes as fixed as were those of the dog
beside her.
"Well," said her husband calmly, "what although they are deer?"
"But Bras--" she said; and with that she caught the leash with both her
hands,
"Bras won't mind them if you keep him quiet. I suppose you can manage
him better than I can. I wish we had brought a whip."
"I would rather let him kill every deer in the Park than touch him with
a whip," said Sheila proudly.
"You fearful creature, you don't know what you say. That is high
treason. If George Ranger heard you, he would have you hanged in front
of the Star and Garter."
"Who is George Ranger?" said Sheila with an air as if she had said, "Do
you know that I am the daughter of the King of Borva, and whoever
touches me will have to answer to my papa, who is not afraid of any
George Ranger?"
"He is a great lord who hangs all persons who disturb the deer in this
Park."
"But why do they not go away?" said Sheila impatiently. "I have never
seen any deer so stupid. It is their own fault if they are disturbed:
why do they remain so near to people and to houses?"
"My dear child, if Bras wasn't here you would probably find some of
those deer coming up to see if you had any bits of sugar or pieces of
bread about your pockets."
"Then they are like sheep--they are not like deer," she said with some
contempt. "If I could only tell Bras that it is sheep he will be looking
at, he would not look any more. And so small they are! They are as small
as the roe, but they have horns as big as many of the red-deer. Do
people eat them?"
"I suppose so."
"And what will they cost?"
"I am sure I can't tell you."
"Are they as good as the roe or the big deer?"
"I don't know that either. I don't think I ever ate fallow-deer. But you
know they are not kept here for that purpose. A great many gentlemen in
this country keep a lot of them in their parks merely to look pretty.
They cost a great deal more than they produce."
"They must eat up a great deal of fine grass," said Sheila almost
sorrowfully. "It is a beautiful ground for sheep--no rushes, no peat
moss, only fine good grass and dry land. I should like my papa to see
all this beautiful ground."
"I fancy he has seen it."
"Was my papa here?"
"I think he said so."
"And did he see those deer?"
"Doubtless."
"He never told me of them."
By this time they had pretty nearly got down to the little lake, and
Bras had been alternately coaxed and threatened into a quiescent mood.
Sheila evidently expected to hear a flapping of sea-fowls' wings when
they got near the margin; and looked all round for the first sudden dart
from the banks. But a dead silence prevailed; and as there were neither
fish nor birds to watch, she went along to a wooden bench and sat down
there, one of her companions on each hand. It was a pretty scene that
lay before her--the small stretch of water ruffled with the wind, but
showing a dash of blue sky here and there--the trees in the inclosure
beyond, clad in their summer foliage, the smooth greensward shining in
the afternoon sunlight. Here at least was absolute quiet after the roar
of London; and it was somewhat wistfully that she asked her husband how
far this place was from her home, and whether, when he was at work, she
could not come down here by herself.
"Certainly," he said, never dreaming that she would think of doing such
a thing.
By-and-by they returned to the hotel; and while they sat at dinner a
great fire of sunset spread over the west; and the far woods became of a
rich purple, streaked here and there with lines of pale white mist. The
river caught the glow of the crimson clouds above, and shone duskily red
amid the dark green of the trees. Deeper and deeper grew the color of
the sun as it sank to the horizon, until it disappeared behind one low
bar of purple cloud; and then the wild glow in the west slowly faded
away; the river became pallid and indistinct; the white mists over the
distant woods seemed to grow denser; and then, as here and there a lamp
was lit far down in the valley, one or two pale stars appeared in the
sky overhead, and the night came on apace.
"It is so strange," Sheila said, "to find the darkness coming on, and
not to hear the sound of the waves. I wonder if it is a fine night
at Borva."
Her husband went over to her and led her back to the table, where the
candles, shining over the white cloth and the colored glasses, offered a
more cheerful picture than the darkening landscape outside. They were in
a private room; so that when dinner was over, Sheila was allowed to
amuse herself with the fruit, while her two companions lit their cigars.
Where was the quaint old piano now; and the glass of hot whisky and
water; and the 'Lament of Monaltrie,' or 'Love in thine eyes forever
plays'? It seemed, but for the greatness of the room, to be a repetition
of one of those evenings at Borva that now belonged to a far-off past.
Here was Sheila, not minding the smoke, listening to Ingram as of old,
and sometimes saying something in that sweetly inflected speech of hers;
here was Ingram, talking, as it were, out of a brown study, and morosely
objecting to pretty nearly everything Lavender said, but always ready to
prove Sheila right; and Lavender himself, as unlike a married man as
ever, talking impatiently, impetuously, and wildly, except at such times
as he said something to his young wife, and then some brief smile and
look, or some pat on the hand, said more than words. But where, Sheila
may have thought, was the one wanting to complete the group? Has he gone
down to Borvabost to see about the cargoes of fish to be sent off in the
morning? Perhaps he is talking to Duncan outside about the cleaning of
the guns, or making up cartridges in the kitchen. When Sheila's
attention wandered away from the talk of her companions, she could not
help listening for the sound of the waves; and as there was no such
message coming to her from the great wooded plain without, her fancy
took her away across that mighty country she had traveled through, and
carried her up to the island of Loch Roag, until she almost fancied she
could smell the peat-smoke in the night air, and listen to the sea, and
hear her father pacing up and down the gravel outside the house, perhaps
thinking of her as she was thinking of him.
This little excursion to Richmond was long remembered by those three. It
was the last of their meetings before Sheila was ushered into the big
world to busy herself with new occupations and cares. It was a pleasant
little journey throughout; for as they got into the landau to drive back
to town, the moon was shining high up in the southern heavens, and the
air was mild and fresh, so that they had the carriage opened, and
Sheila, well wrapped up, lay and looked around her with a strange wonder
and joy as they drove underneath the shadow of the trees and out again
into the clear sheen of the night. They saw the river, too, flowing
smoothly and palely down between its dark banks; and somehow here the
silence checked them, and they hummed no more those duets they used to
sing up at Borva. Of what were they thinking, then, as they drove
through the clear night along the lonely road? Lavender at least was
rejoicing at his great good fortune that he had secured for ever to
himself the true-hearted girl who now sat opposite to him, with the
moonlight touching her face and hair; and he was laughing to himself at
the notion that he did not properly appreciate her or understand her or
perceive her real character. If not he, who then? Had he not watched
every turn of her disposition, every expression of her wishes, every
grace of her manner and look of her eyes? and was he not overjoyed to
find that the more he knew of her the more he loved her? Marriage had
increased rather than diminished the mystery and wonder he had woven
about her. He was more her lover now than he had been before his
marriage. Who could see in her eyes what he saw? Elderly folks can look
at a girl's eyes, and see that they are brown or blue or green, as the
case may be; but the lover looks at them and sees in them the magic
mirror of a hundred possible worlds. How can he fathom the sea of dreams
that lies there, or tell what strange fancies and reminiscences may be
involved in an absent look? Is she thinking of starlit nights on some
distant lake, or of the old bygone days on the hills? All her former
life is told there, and yet but half told, and he longs to become
possessed of all the beautiful past that she has seen. Here is a
constant mystery to him, and there is a singular and wistful attraction
for him in those still deeps where the thoughts and dreams of an
innocent soul lie but half revealed. He does not see those things in the
eyes of women he is not in love with; but when in after years he is
carelessly regarding this or the other woman, some chance look, some
brief and sudden turn of expression, will recall to him, as with a
stroke of lightning, all the old wonder-time, and his heart will go nigh
to breaking to think that he has grown old, and that he has forgotten so
much, and that the fair, wild days of romance and longing are passed
away forever.