A LAND THAT IS LONELIER THAN RUIN
Late in the afternoon of the same day they met again, and this time
really by accident. Since morning a storm had been blowing, but just
before sunset the wind and rain had dropped, and an angry sun glared out
in its last moments upon the troubled sea. Lord Lumley, tired of
struggling with a pile of books and smoking cigarettes, had seen the
change from his study window, and seizing his cap and a stick had
hurried out to taste the strong salt wind and to watch the cloud effects
from the cliffs; and, as he had rounded the corner, he had come face to
face with Margharita.
She was standing on the highest point of the cliffs, her skirts blowing
wildly around her tall, slim figure, and making strange havoc with her
hair. Her face was turned seaward, but at the sound of his footsteps she
turned quickly round. His heart beat fast for a moment, and then he
remembered their parting earlier in the day.
"I am sorry to have disturbed you," he said coldly, raising his cap. "If
I had had the least idea that you were here I would have taken the other
path."
He was passing on, but as she made him no answer he glanced up at her
face. Then all thought of going vanished. There were glistening tears in
her dark eyes, and her lips were quivering.
"Forgive me, Miss Briscoe," he said, springing up to her side. "I was a
clumsy idiot, but I was afraid that you would think that I had followed
you. May I stay?"
She nodded, and turned her face away from him.
"Yes, stay," she answered softly; "stay and talk to me. Don't think me
silly, but I was feeling sad--lonely, perhaps--and you have always
spoken so kindly to me, that the change--it was a little too sudden."
"I was a brute," he whispered gently.
The change in her was wonderful. Her voice was soft, and, glancing up at
her face, he could see that it was stained with tears. At that moment he
felt that he would have given the world to have taken her into his arms
and held her there, but he thrust the thought resolutely from him. Now
was his opportunity to teach her to trust him. He would not even suffer
his voice to take too tender a note.
"The fresh air is glorious after a day cooped up in a little study," he
said lightly. "See the curlews there, flying round and round over the
marshes. Tennyson's old home lies that way, you know. Do you wonder that
this flat country, with its strange twilight effects, should have laid
hold of him so powerfully?"
"It is strange and weird," she murmured thoughtfully.
"Weird is the very word for it. Tennyson might have written that lovely
but hackneyed poem, 'Locksley Hall,' from this very spot. The place
seems born to evoke sentiment, and a stormy twilight like this seems to
fit in with it. It is not a fair-weather land. People come here in the
summer, and call the place flat and uninteresting. One can scarcely
wonder at it."
"It is a sad-looking country," she said. "It was its sadness which
brought me out this afternoon; _similia similibus curantur_, you know;
but in my case it has failed."
"And why should you be sad?" he asked softly. "Won't you give me a
little of your confidence?"
She smiled bitterly, and shook her head.
"No, you could never know. Ask me no questions; only leave me alone.
Talk to me of other things, if you will. My thoughts are bad companions
to-night. I do not want to be left alone with them. Do you know any of
Swinburne's 'Salt Marshes'?"
"A little."
"Say it to me. I want to escape from my thoughts."
He obeyed her, standing up by her side and watching the wild music of
the poetry kindle her imagination and work into her heart. He understood
the situation now. She was oppressed by some great trouble, and he must
help her to forget it. And so, when he had come to the last line, he
talked to her softly of it, pointing out the strange lights on the sea,
and the shadows lying across the desolate country. Soon he drifted into
verse again, striving, so far as he could, to avoid the poetry of
pessimism and despair, so beautiful and yet so noxious, and strike a
more joyous and hopeful note. Soon he found himself at "Maud," and here
he was fluent, but here she stopped him, warned perhaps by the light
which was creeping into his eyes.
"Let us go home now," she said. "You have been very kind to me. I shall
never forget it."
He gave her his hand, and they scrambled down on to the path. They
retraced their steps toward the house almost in silence. He was only
fearful of losing one particle of the advantage which he had gained. The
fear of not seeing her again, however, gave him courage.
"May I ask a favor?" he begged humbly.
She nodded.
"Make it a small one, please. I am almost afraid of having to refuse
it."
"Will you come down into the drawing room to-night?"
She shook her head.
"I cannot. I have a long letter to write."
His face fell.
"For just a short time, then."
She hesitated.
"Yes, if you wish it."
"We are friends now, are we not?" anxiously.
She flashed a brilliant look upon him, which made the color steal into
his cheeks, and his heart beat fast.
"Yes," she said softly, "if you will."