TELLS HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH MY WIFE
For two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting by the uneven
surface of the links. I became an adept in the necessary tactics. These
low hillocks and shallow dells, running one into another, became a kind
of cloak of darkness for my enthralling, but perhaps dishonourable,
pursuit. Yet, in spite of this advantage, I could learn but little of
Northmour or his guests.
Fresh provisions were brought under cover of darkness by the old woman
from the mansion-house. Northmour, and the young lady, sometimes
together, but more often singly, would walk for an hour or two at a
time on the beach beside the quicksand. I could not but conclude that
this promenade was chosen with an eye to secrecy; for the spot was open
only to the seaward. But it suited me not less excellently; the highest
and most accidented of the sand-hills immediately adjoined; and from
these, lying flat in a hollow, I could overlook Northmour or the young
lady as they walked.
The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only did he never cross
the threshold, but he never so much as showed face at a window; or, at
least, not so far as I could see; for I dared not creep forward beyond
a certain distance in the day, since the upper floor commanded the
bottoms of the links; and at night, when I could venture farther, the
lower windows were barricaded as if to stand a siege. Sometimes I
thought the tall man must be confined to bed, for I remembered the
feebleness of his gait; and sometimes I thought he must have gone clear
away, and that Northmour and the young lady remained alone together in
the pavilion. The idea, even then, displeased me.
Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had seen abundant reason
to doubt the friendliness of their relation. Although I could hear
nothing of what they said, and rarely so much as glean a decided
expression on the face of either, there was a distance, almost a
stiffness, in their bearing which showed them to be either unfamiliar
or at enmity. The girl walked faster when she was with Northmour than
when she was alone; and I conceived that any inclination between a man
and a woman would rather delay than accelerate the step. Moreover, she
kept a good yard free of him, and trailed her umbrella, as if it were a
barrier, on the side between them. Northmour kept sidling closer; and,
as the girl retired from his advance, their course lay at a sort of
diagonal across the beach, and would have landed them in the surf had
it been long enough continued. But, when this was imminent, the girl
would unostentatiously change sides and put Northmour between her and
the sea. I watched these manœuvres, for my part, with high enjoyment
and approval, and chuckled to myself at every move.
On the morning of the third day, she walked alone for some time, and I
perceived, to my great concern, that she was more than once in tears.
You will see that my heart was already interested more than I supposed.
She had a firm yet airy motion of the body, and carried her head with
unimaginable grace; every step was a thing to look at, and she seemed
in my eyes to breathe sweetness and distinction.
The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, with a tranquil sea,
and yet with a healthful piquancy and vigour in the air, that, contrary
to custom, she was tempted forth a second time to walk. On this
occasion she was accompanied by Northmour, and they had been but a
short while on the beach, when I saw him take forcible possession of
her hand. She struggled, and uttered a cry that was almost a scream. I
sprang to my feet, unmindful of my strange position; but, ere I had
taken a step, I saw Northmour bareheaded and bowing very low, as if to
apologise; and dropped again at once into my ambush. A few words were
interchanged; and then, with another bow, he left the beach to return
to the pavilion. He passed not far from me, and I could see him,
flushed and lowering, and cutting savagely with his cane among the
grass. It was not without satisfaction that I recognised my own
handiwork in a great cut under his right eye, and a considerable
discolouration round the socket.
For some time the girl remained where he had left her, looking out past
the islet and over the bright sea. Then with a start, as one who throws
off preoccupation and puts energy again upon its mettle, she broke into
a rapid and decisive walk. She also was much incensed by what had
passed. She had forgotten where she was. And I beheld her walk straight
into the borders of the quicksand where it is most abrupt and
dangerous. Two or three steps farther and her life would have been in
serious jeopardy, when I slid down the face of the sand-hill, which is
there precipitous, and, running half-way forward, called to her to
stop.
She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor of fear in her
behaviour, and she marched directly up to me like a queen. I was
barefoot, and clad like a common sailor, save for an Egyptian scarf
round my waist; and she probably took me at first for some one from the
fisher village, straying after bait. As for her, when I thus saw her
face to face, her eyes set steadily and imperiously upon mine, I was
filled with admiration and astonishment, and thought her even more
beautiful than I had looked to find her. Nor could I think enough of
one who, acting with so much boldness, yet preserved a maidenly air
that was both quaint and engaging; for my wife kept an old-fashioned
precision of manner through all her admirable life—an excellent thing
in woman, since it sets another value on her sweet familiarities.
“What does this mean?” she asked.
“You were walking,” I told her, “directly into Graden Floe.”
“You do not belong to these parts,” she said again. “You speak like an
educated man.”
“I believe I have right to that name,” said I, “although in this
disguise.”
But her woman’s eye had already detected the sash. “Oh!” she said;
“your sash betrays you.”
“You have said the word _betray_,” I resumed. “May I ask you not to
betray me? I was obliged to disclose myself in your interest; but if
Northmour learned my presence it might be worse than disagreeable for
me.”
“Do you know,” she asked, “to whom you are speaking?”
“Not to Mr. Northmour’s wife?” I asked, by way of answer.
She shook her head. All this while she was studying my face with an
embarrassing intentness. Then she broke out—
“You have an honest face. Be honest like your face, sir, and tell me
what you want and what you are afraid of. Do you think I could hurt
you? I believe you have far more power to injure me! And yet you do not
look unkind. What do you mean—you, a gentleman—by skulking like a spy
about this desolate place? Tell me,” she said, “who is it you hate?”
“I hate no one,” I answered; “and I fear no one face to face. My name
is Cassilis—Frank Cassilis. I lead the life of a vagabond for my own
good pleasure. I am one of Northmour’s oldest friends; and three nights
ago, when I addressed him on these links, he stabbed me in the shoulder
with a knife.”
“It was you!” she said.
“Why he did so,” I continued, disregarding the interruption, “is more
than I can guess, and more than I care to know. I have not many
friends, nor am I very susceptible to friendship; but no man shall
drive me from a place by terror. I had camped in Graden Sea-Wood ere he
came; I camp in it still. If you think I mean harm to you or yours,
madam, the remedy is in your hand. Tell him that my camp is in the
Hemlock Den, and to-night he can stab me in safety while I sleep.”
With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up once more among the
sand-hills. I do not know why, but I felt a prodigious sense of
injustice, and felt like a hero and a martyr; while, as a matter of
fact, I had not a word to say in my defence, nor so much as one
plausible reason to offer for my conduct. I had stayed at Graden out of
a curiosity natural enough, but undignified; and though there was
another motive growing in along with the first, it was not one which,
at that period, I could have properly explained to the lady of my
heart.
Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, though her whole
conduct and position seemed suspicious, I could not find it in my heart
to entertain a doubt of her integrity. I could have staked my life that
she was clear of blame, and, though all was dark at the present, that
the explanation of the mystery would show her part in these events to
be both right and needful. It was true, let me cudgel my imagination as
I pleased, that I could invent no theory of her relations to Northmour;
but I felt none the less sure of my conclusion because it was founded
on instinct in place of reason, and, as I may say, went to sleep that
night with the thought of her under my pillow.
Next day she came out about the same hour alone, and, as soon as the
sand-hills concealed her from the pavilion, drew nearer to the edge,
and called me by name in guarded tones. I was astonished to observe
that she was deadly pale, and seemingly under the influence of strong
emotion.
“Mr. Cassilis!” she cried; “Mr. Cassilis!”
I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach. A remarkable air of
relief overspread her countenance as soon as she saw me.
“Oh!” she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose bosom has been
lightened of a weight. And then, “Thank God you are still safe!” she
added; “I knew, if you were, you would be here.” (Was not this strange?
So swiftly and wisely does Nature prepare our hearts for these great
life-long intimacies, that both my wife and I had been given a
presentiment on this the second day of our acquaintance. I had even
then hoped that she would seek me; she had felt sure that she would
find me.) “Do not,” she went, on swiftly, “do not stay in this place.
Promise me that you will sleep no longer in that wood. You do not know
how I suffer; all last night I could not sleep for thinking of your
peril.”
“Peril?” I repeated. “Peril from whom? From Northmour?”
“Not so,” she said. “Did you think I would tell him after what you
said?”
“Not from Northmour?” I repeated. “Then how? From whom? I see none to
be afraid of.”
“You must not ask me,” was her reply, “for I am not free to tell you.
Only believe me, and go hence—believe me, and go away quickly, quickly,
for your life!”
An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid oneself of a
spirited young man. My obstinacy was but increased by what she said,
and I made it a point of honour to remain. And her solicitude for my
safety still more confirmed me in the resolve.
“You must not think me inquisitive, madam,” I replied; “but, if Graden
is so dangerous a place, you yourself perhaps remain here at some
risk.”
She only looked at me reproachfully.
“You and your father—” I resumed; but she interrupted me almost with a
gasp.
“My father! How do you know that?” she cried.
“I saw you together when you landed,” was my answer; and I do not know
why, but it seemed satisfactory to both of us, as indeed it was the
truth. “But,” I continued, “you need have no fear from me. I see you
have some reason to be secret, and, you may believe me, your secret is
as safe with me as if I were in Graden Floe. I have scarce spoken to
any one for years; my horse is my only companion, and even he, poor
beast, is not beside me. You see, then, you may count on me for
silence. So tell me the truth, my dear young lady, are you not in
danger?”
“Mr. Northmour says you are an honourable man,” she returned, “and I
believe it when I see you. I will tell you so much; you are right; we
are in dreadful, dreadful danger, and you share it by remaining where
you are.”
“Ah!” said I; “you have heard of me from Northmour? And he gives me a
good character?”
“I asked him about you last night,” was her reply. “I pretended,” she
hesitated, “I pretended to have met you long ago, and spoken to you of
him. It was not true; but I could not help myself without betraying
you, and you had put me in a difficulty. He praised you highly.”
“And—you may permit me one question—does this danger come from
Northmour?” I asked.
“From Mr. Northmour?” she cried. “Oh no; he stays with us to share it.”
“While you propose that I should run away?” I said. “You do not rate me
very high.”
“Why should you stay?” she asked. “You are no friend of ours.”
I know not what came over me, for I had not been conscious of a similar
weakness since I was a child, but I was so mortified by this retort
that my eyes pricked and filled with tears, as I continued to gaze upon
her face.
“No, no,” she said, in a changed voice; “I did not mean the words
unkindly.”
“It was I who offended,” I said; and I held out my hand with a look of
appeal that somehow touched her, for she gave me hers at once, and even
eagerly. I held it for awhile in mine, and gazed into her eyes. It was
she who first tore her hand away, and, forgetting all about her request
and the promise she had sought to extort, ran at the top of her speed,
and without turning, till she was out of sight.
And then I knew that I loved her, and thought in my glad heart that
she—she herself—was not indifferent to my suit. Many a time she has
denied it in after days, but it was with a smiling and not a serious
denial. For my part, I am sure our hands would not have lain so closely
in each other if she had not begun to melt to me already. And, when all
is said, it is no great contention, since, by her own avowal, she began
to love me on the morrow.
And yet on the morrow very little took place. She came and called me
down as on the day before, upbraided me for lingering at Graden, and,
when she found I was still obdurate, began to ask me more particularly
as to my arrival. I told her by what series of accidents I had come to
witness their disembarkation, and how I had determined to remain,
partly from the interest which had been wakened in me by Northmour’s
guests, and partly because of his own murderous attack. As to the
former, I fear I was disingenuous, and led her to regard herself as
having been an attraction to me from the first moment that I saw her on
the links. It relieves my heart to make this confession even now, when
my wife is with God, and already knows all things, and the honesty of
my purpose even in this; for while she lived, although it often pricked
my conscience, I had never the hardihood to undeceive her. Even a
little secret, in such a married life as ours, is like the rose-leaf
which kept the Princess from her sleep.
From this the talk branched into other subjects, and I told her much
about my lonely and wandering existence; she, for her part, giving ear,
and saying little. Although we spoke very naturally, and latterly on
topics that might seem indifferent, we were both sweetly agitated. Too
soon it was time for her to go; and we separated, as if by mutual
consent, without shaking hands, for both knew that, between us, it was
no idle ceremony.
The next, and that was the fourth day of our acquaintance, we met in
the same spot, but early in the morning, with much familiarity and yet
much timidity on either side. When she had once more spoken about my
danger—and that, I understood, was her excuse for coming—I, who had
prepared a great deal of talk during the night, began to tell her how
highly I valued her kind interest, and how no one had ever cared to
hear about my life, nor had I ever cared to relate it, before
yesterday. Suddenly she interrupted me, saying with vehemence—
“And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so much as speak to me!”
I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as we had met, I
counted her already a dear friend; but my protestations seemed only to
make her more desperate.
“My father is in hiding!” she cried.
“My dear,” I said, forgetting for the first time to add “young lady,”
“what do I care? If he were in hiding twenty times over, would it make
one thought of change in you?”
“Ah, but the cause!” she cried, “the cause! It is—” she faltered for a
second—“it is disgraceful to us!”