LADY FLORIMEL.
All the coast to the east of the little harbour was rock, bold and
high, of a grey and brown hard stone, which after a mighty sweep,
shot out northward, and closed in the bay on that side with a
second great promontory. The long curved strip of sand on the west,
reaching to the promontory of Scaurnose, was the only open portion
of the coast for miles. Here the coasting vessel gliding past gained a
pleasant peep of open fields, belts of wood and farm-houses, with
now and then a glimpse of a great house amidst its trees. In the
distance one or two bare solitary hills, imposing in aspect only
from their desolation, for their form gave no effect to their
altitude, rose to the height of over a thousand feet.
On this comparatively level part of the shore, parallel with its
line, and at some distance beyond the usual high-water-mark, the
waves of ten thousand northern storms had cast up a long dune or
bank of sand, terminating towards the west within a few yards of
a huge solitary rock of the ugly kind called conglomerate, which
must have been separated from the roots of the promontory by the
rush of waters at unusually high tides, for in winter they still
sometimes rounded the rock, and running down behind the dune,
turned it into a long island. The sand on the inland side of the
dune, covered with short sweet grass, browsed on by sheep, and with
the largest and reddest of daisies, was thus occasionally swept by
wild salt waves, and at times, when the northern wind blew straight
as an arrow and keen as a sword from the regions of endless snow,
lay under a sheet of gleaming ice.
The sun had been up for some time in a cloudless sky. The wind had
changed to the south, and wafted soft country odours to the shore,
in place of sweeping to inland farms the scents of sea-weed and broken
salt waters, mingled with a suspicion of icebergs. From what was
called the _Seaton_, or seatown, of Portlossie, a crowd of cottages
occupied entirely by fisher-folk, a solitary figure was walking
westward along this grass at the back of the dune, singing. On his
left hand the ground rose to the high road; on his right was the
dune, interlaced and bound together by the long clasping roots of
the coarse bent, without which its sands would have been but the
sport of every wind that blew. It shut out from him all sight of
the sea, but the moan and rush of the rising tide sounded close
behind it. At his back rose the town of Portlossie, high above the
harbour and the Seaton, with its houses of grey and brown stone,
roofed with blue slates and red tiles. It was no highland town
--scarce one within it could speak the highland tongue, yet down
from its high streets on the fitful air of the morning now floated
intermittently the sound of bagpipes--borne winding from street
to street, and loud blown to wake the sleeping inhabitants and let
them know that it was now six of the clock.
He was a youth of about twenty, with a long, swinging, heavy-footed
stride, which took in the ground rapidly--a movement unlike that
of the other men of the place, who always walked slowly, and never
but on dire compulsion ran. He was rather tall, and large limbed.
His dress was like that of a fisherman, consisting of blue serge
trowsers, a shirt striped blue and white, and a Guernsey frock,
which he carried flung across his shoulder. On his head he wore a
round blue bonnet, with a tuft of scarlet in the centre.
His face was more than handsome--with large features, not finely
cut, and a look of mingled nobility and ingenuousness--the latter
amounting to simplicity, or even innocence; while the clear outlook
from his full and well-opened hazel eyes indicated both courage
and promptitude. His dark brown hair came in large curling masses
from under his bonnet. It was such a form and face as would have
drawn every eye in a crowded thoroughfare.
About the middle of the long sand-hill, a sort of wide embrasure was
cut in its top, in which stood an old-fashioned brass swivel-gun:
when the lad reached the place, he sprang up the sloping side of
the dune, seated himself on the gun, drew from his trowsers a large
silver watch, regarded it steadily for a few minutes, replaced it,
and took from his pocket a flint and steel, wherewith he kindled
a bit of touch-paper, which, rising, he applied to the vent of the
swivel. Followed a great roar.
Its echoes had nearly died away, when a startled little cry reached
his keen ear, and looking along the shore to discover whence it
came, he spied a woman on a low rock that ran a little way out into
the water. She had half risen from a sitting posture, and apparently
her cry was the result of the discovery that the rising tide
had overreached and surrounded her. There was no danger whatever,
but the girl might well shrink from plunging into the clear beryl
depth in which swayed the sea-weed clothing the slippery slopes of
the rock. He rushed from the sand-hill, crying, as he approached
her, “Dinna be in a hurry, mem; bide till I come to ye,” and running
straight into the water struggled through the deepening tide, the
distance being short and the depth almost too shallow for swimming.
In a moment he was by her side, scarcely saw the bare feet she had
been bathing in the water, heeded as little the motion of the hand
which waved him back, caught her in his arms like a baby, and had
her safe on the shore ere she could utter a word; nor did he stop
until he had carried her to the slope of the sand-hill, where he
set her gently down, and without a suspicion of the liberty he was
taking, and filled only with a passion of service, was proceeding
to dry her feet with the frock which he had dropped there as he
ran to her assistance.
“Let me alone, pray,” cried the girl with a half-amused indignation,
drawing back her feet and throwing down a book she carried that she
might the better hide them with her skirt. But although she shrank
from his devotion, she could neither mistake it nor help being pleased
with his kindness. Probably she had never before been immediately
indebted to such an ill-clad individual of the human race, but even
in such a costume she could not fail to see he was a fine fellow.
Nor was the impression disturbed when he opened his mouth and spoke
in the broad dialect of the country, for she had no associations
to cause her to misinterpret its homeliness as vulgarity.
“Whaur’s yer stockin’s, mem?” he said.
“You gave me no time to bring them away, you caught me up so--
rudely,” answered the girl half querulously, but in such lovely
speech as had never before greeted his Scottish ears.
Before the words were well beyond her lips he was already on his way
back to the rock, running, as he walked, with great, heavy-footed
strides. The abandoned shoes and stockings were in imminent danger
of being floated off by the rising water, but he dashed in, swam a
few strokes, caught them up, waded back to the shore, and, leaving
a wet track all the way behind him but carrying the rescued clothing
at arm’s length before him, rejoined their owner. Spreading his
frock out before her, he laid the shoes and stockings upon it,
and, observing that she continued to keep her feet hidden under
the skirts of her dress, turned his back and stood.
“Why don’t you go away?” said the girl, venturing one set of toes
from under their tent, but hesitating to proceed further in the
business.
Without word or turn of head he walked away.
Either flattered by his absolute obedience, and persuaded that he
was a true squire, or unwilling to forego what amusement she might
gain from him, she drew in her half-issuing foot, and, certainly
urged in part by an inherent disposition to tease, spoke again.
“You’re not going away without thanking me?” she said.
“What for, mem?” he returned simply, standing stock-still again
with his back towards her.
“You needn’t stand so. You don’t think I would go on dressing while
you remained in sight?”
“I was as guid ’s awa’, mem,” he said, and turning a glowing face,
looked at her for a moment, then cast his eyes on the ground.
“Tell me what you mean by not thanking me,” she insisted.
“They wad be dull thanks, mem, that war thankit afore I kenned what
for.”
“For allowing you to carry me ashore, of course.”
“Be thankit, mem, wi’ a’ my hert. Will I gang doon o’ my knees?”
“No. Why should you go on your knees?”
“’Cause ye’re ’maist ower bonny to luik at stan’in’, mem, an’ I’m
feared for angerin’ ye.”
“Don’t say ma’am to me.”
“What am I to say, than, mem?--I ask yer pardon, mem.”
“Say _my lady_. That’s how people speak to me.”
“I thocht ye bude (_behoved_) to be somebody by ordinar’, my leddy!
That’ll be hoo ye’re so terrible bonny,” he returned, with some
tremulousness in his tone. “But ye maun put on yer hose, my leddy,
or ye’ll get yer feet cauld, and that’s no guid for the likes o’
you.”
The form of address she prescribed, conveyed to him no definite
idea of rank. It but added intensity to the notion of her being a
lady, as distinguished from one of the women of his own condition
in life.
“And pray what is to become of you,” she returned, “with your
clothes as wet as water can make them?”
“The saut water kens me ower weel to do me ony ill,” returned the
lad. “I gang weet to the skin mony a day frae mornin’ till nicht,
and mony a nicht frae nicht till mornin’--at the heerin’ fishin’,
ye ken, my leddy.”
One might well be inclined to ask what could have tempted her to
talk in such a familiar way to a creature like him--human indeed,
but separated from her by a gulf more impassable far than that
which divided her from the thrones, principalities, and powers of
the upper regions? And how is the fact to be accounted for, that here
she put out a dainty foot, and reaching for one of her stockings,
began to draw it gently over the said foot? Either her sense of his
inferiority was such that she regarded his presence no more than
that of a dog, or, possibly, she was tempted to put his behaviour
to the test. He, on his part, stood quietly regarding the operation,
either that, with the instinct of an inborn refinement, he was
aware he ought not to manifest more shamefacedness than the lady
herself, or that he was hardly more accustomed to the sight of
gleaming fish than the bare feet of maidens.
“I’m thinkin’, my leddy,” he went on, in absolute simplicity, “that
sma’ fut o’ yer ain has danced mony a braw dance on mony a braw
flure.”
“How old do you take me for then?” she rejoined, and went on drawing
the garment over her foot by the shortest possible stages.
“Ye’ll no be muckle ower twenty,” he said.
“I’m only sixteen,” she returned, laughing merrily.
“What _will_ ye be or ye behaud!” he exclaimed, after a brief pause
of astonishment.
“Do you ever dance in this part of the country?” she asked, heedless
of his surprise.
“No that muckle, at least amo’ the fisher-fowks, excep’ it be at a
weddin’. I was at ane last nicht.”
“And did you dance?”
“’Deed did I, my leddy. I danced the maist o’ the lasses clean aff
o’ their legs.”
“What made you so cruel?”
“Weel, ye see, mem,--I mean my leddy,--fowk said I was ill
aboot the bride; an’ sae I bude to dance ’t oot o’ their heids.”
“And how much truth was there in what they said?” she asked, with
a sly glance up in the handsome, now glowing face.
“Gien there was ony, there was unco little,” he replied. “The
chield’s walcome till her for me. But she was the bonniest lassie
we had.--It was what we ca’ a penny weddin’,” he went on, as if
willing to change the side of the subject.
“And what’s a penny wedding?”
“It’s a’ kin’ o’ a custom amo’ the fishers. There’s some gey puir
fowk amon’ ’s, ye see, an’ whan a twa o’ them merries, the lave o’
’s wants to gie them a bit o’ a start like. Sae we a’ gang to the
weddin’ an’ eats an’ drinks plenty, an’ pays for a’ ’at we hae;
and they mak’ a guid profit oot o’ ’t, for the things doesna cost
them nearhan’ sae muckle as we pay. So they hae a guid han’fu’ ower
for the plenishin’.”
“And what do they give you to eat and drink?” asked the girl, making
talk.
“Ow, skate an’ mustard to eat, an’ whusky to drink,” answered the
lad, laughing. “But it’s mair for the fun. I dinna care muckle
aboot whusky an’ that kin’ o’ thing mysel’. It’s the fiddles an
the dancin’ ’at I like.”
“You have music, then?”
“Ay; jist the fiddles an’ the pipes.”
“The bagpipes, do you mean?”
“Ay; my gran’father plays _them_.”
“But you’re not in the Highlands here: how come you to have bagpipes?”
“It’s a stray bag, an’ no more. But the fowk here likes the cry
o’ ’t weel eneuch, an’ hae ’t to wauk them ilka mornin’. Yon was
my gran’father ye heard afore I fired the gun. Yon was his pipes
waukin’ them, honest fowk.”
“And what made you fire the gun in that reckless way? Don’t you
know it is very dangerous?”
“Dangerous, mem--my leddy, I mean! There was naething intill ’t
but a pennyworth o’ blastin’ pooder. It wadna blaw the froth aff
o’ the tap o’ a jaw (_billow_).”
“It nearly blew me out of my small wits, though.”
“I’m verra sorry it frichtit ye. But, gien I _had_ seen ye, I bude
to fire the gun.”
“I don’t understand you quite; but I suppose you mean it was your
business to fire the gun.”
“Jist that, my leddy.”
“Why?”
“’Cause it’s been decreet i’ the toon cooncil that at sax o’ the
clock ilka mornin’ that gun’s to be fired--at least sae lang ’s
my lord, the marquis, is at Portlossie Hoose. Ye see it’s a royal
brugh, this, an’ it costs but aboot a penny, an’ it’s gran’ like
to hae a sma’ cannon to fire. An’ gien I was to neglec’ it, my
gran’father wad gang on skirlin’--what’s the English for _skirlin’_,
my leddy--skirlin’ o’ the pipes?”
“I don’t know. But from the sound of the word I should suppose it
stands for _screaming_.”
“Aye, that’s it; only _screamin’s_ no sae guid as _skirlin’_.
My gran’father’s an auld man, as I was gaein’ on to say, an’ has
hardly breath eneuch to fill the bag; but he wad be efter dirkin’
onybody ’at said sic a thing, and till he heard that gun he wad
gang on blawin’ though he sud burst himsel’. There’s naebody kens
the smeddum in an auld hielan’ man!”
By the time the conversation had reached this point, the lady had
got her shoes on, had taken up her book from the sand, and was now
sitting with it in her lap. No sound reached them but that of the
tide, for the scream of the bagpipes had ceased the moment the
swivel was fired. The sun was growing hot, and the sea, although so
far in the cold north, was gorgeous in purple and green, suffused
as with the overpowering pomp of a peacock’s plumage in the sun.
Away to the left the solid promontory trembled against the horizon,
as if ready to dissolve and vanish between the bright air and the
lucid sea that fringed its base with white. The glow of a young
summer morning pervaded earth and sea and sky, and swelled the
heart of the youth as he stood in unconscious bewilderment before
the self-possession of the girl. She was younger than he, and knew
far less that was worth knowing, yet had a world of advantage over
him--not merely from the effect of her presence on one who had
never seen anything half so beautiful, but from a certain readiness
of surface thought, combined with the sweet polish of her speech,
and an assurance of superiority which appeared to them both to lift
her, like one of the old immortals, far above the level of the man
whom she favoured with her passing converse. What in her words,
as here presented only to the eye, may seem _brusqueness_ or even
forwardness, was so tempered, so toned, so fashioned by the _naïveté_
with which she spoke, that it sounded in his ears as the utterance
of absolute condescension. As to her personal appearance, the lad
might well have taken her for twenty, for she looked more of a
woman than, tall and strongly built as he was, he looked of a man.
She was rather tall, rather slender, finely formed, with small hands
and feet, and full throat. Her hair was of a dark brown; her eyes
of such a blue that no one could have suggested grey; her complexion
fair--a little freckled, which gave it the warmest tint it had;
her nose nearly straight, her mouth rather large but well formed;
and her forehead, as much of it as was to be seen under a garden-hat,
rose with promise above a pair of dark and finely-pencilled
eyebrows.
The description I have here given may be regarded as occupying the
space of a brief silence, during which the lad stood motionless,
like one awaiting further command.
“Why don’t you go?” said the lady. “I want to read my book.”
He gave a great sigh, as if waking from a pleasant dream, took
off his bonnet with a clumsy movement which yet had in it a grace
worthy of a Stuart court, and descending the dune walked away along
the sands towards the sea-town.
When he had gone about a couple of hundred yards, he looked back
involuntarily. The lady had vanished. He concluded that she had
crossed to the other side of the dune; but when he had gone so far
on his way to the village as to clear the eastern end of the sand-hill,
and there turned and looked up its southern slope, she was still
nowhere to be seen. The old highland stories of his grandfather
came crowding to mind, and, altogether human as she had appeared,
he almost doubted whether the sea, from which he had thought he
rescued her, were not her native element. The book, however, not
to mention the shoes and stockings, was against the supposition.
Anyhow, he had seen a vision of some order or other, as certainly
as if an angel from heaven had appeared to him, for the waters of
his mind had been troubled with a new sense of grace and beauty,
giving an altogether fresh glory to existence.
Of course no one would dream of falling in love with an unearthly
creature, even an angel; at least, something homely must mingle
with the glory ere that become possible; and as to this girl, the
youth could scarcely have regarded her with a greater sense of
_far-off-ness_ had he known her for the daughter of a king of the sea
--one whose very element was essentially death to him as life to
her. Still he walked home as if the heavy boots he wore were wings
at his heels, like those of the little Eurus or Boreas that stood
blowing his trumpet for ever in the round open temple which from
the top of a grassy hill in the park overlooked the Seaton.
“Sic een!” he kept saying to himself; “an’ sic sma’ white han’s!
an’ sic a bonny fut! Eh hoo she wad glitter throu’ the water in
a bag net! Faith! gien she war to sing ‘come doon’ to me, I wad
gang. Wad that be to lowse baith sowl an’ body, I wonner? I’ll see
what Maister Graham says to that. It’s a fine queston to put till
’im: ‘Gien a body was to gang wi’ a mermaid, wha they say has nae
sowl to be saved, wad that be the loss o’ his sowl, as weel ’s o’
the bodily life o’ ’m?’”