"Have you no curiosity?" he demanded--"Don't you want to know his
opinion?"
"No,"--and I smiled--"My dear Mr. Harland, with all your experience of
the world, has it never occurred to you that there are some people
whose opinions don't matter?"
"Brayle is a clever man,"--he said, somewhat testily, "And you are
merely an imaginative woman."
"Then why do you trouble about me?" I asked him, quickly--"Why do you
want to find out that something in me which baffles both Dr. Brayle and
yourself?"
It was now his turn to be silent, and he remained so for some time, his
eyes fixed on the shadowing heavens. The waves were roughening slightly
and a swell from the Atlantic lifted the 'Diana' curtsying over their
foam-flecked crests as she ploughed her way swiftly along. Presently he
turned to me with a smile.
"Let us strike a truce!"--he said--"I promise not to try and 'draw' you
any more! But please do not isolate yourself from us,--try to feel that
we are your friends. I want you to enjoy this trip if possible,--but I
fear that we are proving rather dull company for you. We are making for
Skye at good speed and shall probably anchor in Loch Scavaig to-night.
To-morrow we might land and do the excursion to Loch Coruisk if you
care for that, though Catherine is not a good walker."
I felt rather remorseful as he said these words in a kindly tone. Yet I
knew very well that, notwithstanding all the strenuous efforts which
might be made by the rules of conventional courtesy, it would be
impossible for me to feel quite at home in the surroundings which he
had created for himself. I inwardly resolved, however, to make the best
of it and to try and steer clear of any possibilities or incidents
which might tend to draw the line of demarcation too strongly between
us. Some instinct told me that present conditions were not to remain as
they were, so I answered my host gently and assured him of my entire
willingness to fall in with any of his plans. Our conversation then
gradually drifted into ordinary topics till towards sunset, when I went
down to my cabin to dress for dinner. I had a fancy to wear the bunch
of pink bell-heather that still kept its fresh and waxen-looking
delicacy of bloom, and this, fastened in the lace of my white gown, was
my only adornment.
That night there was a distinct attempt on everybody's part to make
things sociable and pleasant. Catherine Harland was, for once, quite
cheerful and chatty, and proposed that as there was a lovely moonlight,
we should all go after dinner into the deck saloon, where there was a
piano, and that I should sing for them. I was rather surprised at this
suggestion, as she was not fond of music. Nevertheless, there had been
such an evident wish shown by her and her father to lighten the
monotony which had been creeping like a mental fog over us all that I
readily agreed to anything which might perhaps for the moment give them
pleasure.
We went up on deck accordingly, and on arriving there were all smitten
into awed silence by the wonderful beauty of the scene. We were
anchored in Loch Scavaig--and the light of the moon fell with a weird
splendour on the gloom of the surrounding hills, a pale beam touching
the summits here and there and deepening the solemn effect of the lake
and the magnificent forms of its sentinel mountains. A low murmur of
hidden streams sounded on the deep stillness and enhanced the
fascination of the surrounding landscape, which was more like the
landscape of a dream than a reality. The deep breadths of dense
darkness lying lost among the cavernous slopes of the hills were broken
at intervals by strange rifts of light arising as it were from the
palpitating water, which now and again showed gleams of pale emerald
and gold phosphorescence,--the stars looked large and white like
straying bits of the moon, and the mysterious 'swishing' of slow
ripples heaving against the sides of the yacht suggested the
whisperings of uncanny spirits. We stood in a silent group, entranced
by the grandeur of the night and by our own loneliness in the midst of
it, for there was no sign of a fisherman's hut or boat moored to the
shore, or anything which could give us a sense of human companionship.
A curious feeling of disappointment suddenly came over me,--I lifted my
eyes to the vast dark sky with a kind of mute appeal--and moon and
stars appeared to float up there like ships in a deep sea,--I had
expected something more in this strange, almost spectral-looking
landscape, and yet I knew not why I should expect anything. Beautiful
as the whole scene was, and fully as I recognised its beauty, an
overpowering depression suddenly gripped me as with a cold hand,--there
was a dreary emptiness in this majestic solitude that seemed to crush
my spirit utterly.
I moved a little away from my companions, and leaned over the deck
rail, looking far into the black shadows of the shore, defined more
deeply by the contrasting brilliance of the moon, and my thoughts flew
with undesired swiftness to the darkest line of life's horizon--I had
for the moment lost the sense of joy. How wretched all we human
creatures are!--I said to my inner self,--what hope after all is there
for us, imprisoned in a world which has no pity for us whatever may be
our fate,--a world that goes on in precisely the same fashion whether
we live or die, work or are idle? These tragic hills, this cold lake,
this white moon, were the same when Caesar lived, and would still be
the same when we who gazed upon them now were all gone into the
Unknown. It seemed difficult to try and realise this obvious fact--so
difficult as to be almost unnatural. Supposing that any towns or
villages had ever existed on this desolate shore, they had proved
useless against the devouring forces of Nature,--just as the splendid
buried cities of South America had proved useless in all their
magnificence,--useless as the 'Golden Age of Lanka' in Ceylon more than
two thousand years ago. Of what avail then is the struggle of human
life? Is it for the many or only for the few? Is all the toil and
sorrow of millions merely for the uplifting and perfecting of certain
individual types, and is this what Christ meant when He said 'Many are
called but few are chosen'? If so, why such waste of brain and heart
and love and patience? Tears came suddenly into my eyes and I started
as from a bad dream when Dr. Brayle approached me softly from behind.
"I am sorry to disturb your reverie!"--he said--"But Miss Harland has
gone into the deck saloon and we are all waiting to hear you sing."