THE DUNE.
Having put Kelpie up, and fed and bedded her, Malcolm took his way to the
Seaton, full of busily anxious thought. Things had taken a bad turn, and
he was worse off for counsel than before. The enemy was in the house with
his sister, and he had no longer any chance of judging how matters were
going, as now he never rode out with her. But at least he could haunt the
house. He would run, therefore, to his grandfather, and tell him that he
was going to occupy his old quarters at the House that night.
Returning directly, and passing, as had been his custom, through the
kitchen to ascend the small corkscrew stair the servants generally used,
he encountered Mrs. Courthope, who told him that her ladyship had given
orders that her maid, who had come with Lady Bellair, should have his
room. He was at once convinced that Florimel had done so with the
intention of banishing him from the house, for there were dozens of rooms
vacant, and many of them more suitable. It was a hard blow. How he wished
for Mr. Graham to consult! And yet Mr. Graham was not of much use where
any sort of plotting was wanted. He asked Mrs. Courthope to let him have
another room, but she looked so doubtful that he withdrew his request and
went back to his grandfather.
It was Saturday, and not many of the boats would go fishing. Among the
rest, Findlay's would not leave the harbor till Sunday was over, and
therefore Malcolm was free. But he could not rest, and would go
line-fishing. "Daddy," he said, "I'm gaein oot to catch a haddick or sae
to oor denner the morn. Ye micht jist sit doon upo' ane o' the Boar's Taes
an' tak a play o' yer pipes. I'll hear ye fine, an' it'll du me guid."
The Boar's Toes were two or three small rocks that rose out of the sand
near the end of the dune. Duncan agreed right willingly, and Malcolm,
borrowing some lines and taking the Psyche's dinghy, rowed out into the
bay.
The sun was down, the moon was up, and he had caught more fish than he
wanted. His grandfather had got tired and gone home, and the fountain of
his anxious thoughts began to flow more rapidly. He must go ashore. He
must go up to the House: who could tell what might not be going on there?
He drew in his line, purposing to take the best of the fish to Miss Horn
and some to Mrs. Courthope, as in the old days.
The Psyche still lay on the sands, and he was rowing the dinghy toward
her, when, looking round to direct his course, he thought he caught a
glimpse of some one seated on the slope of the dune. Yes, there was some
one there, sure enough. The old times rushed back on his memory: could it
be Florimel? Alas! it was not likely she would now be wandering about
alone. But if it were! Then for one endeavor more to rouse her slumbering
conscience! He would call up all the associations of the last few months
she had spent in the place, and, with the spirit of her father, as it
were, hovering over her, conjure her, in his name, to break with Liftore.
He rowed swiftly to the Psyche, beached and drew up the dinghy, and
climbed the dune. Plainly enough, it was a lady who sat there. It might be
one from the upper town enjoying the lovely night: it _might_ be
Florimel, but how could she have got away, or wished to get away, from her
newly-arrived guests? The voices of several groups of walkers came from
the high-road behind the dune, but there was no other figure to be seen
all along the sands. He drew nearer. The lady did not move. If it were
Florimel, would she not know him as he came, and would she wait for him?
He drew nearer still. His heart gave a great throb. Could it be, or was
the moon weaving some hallucination in his troubled brain? If it was a
phantom, it was that of Lady Clementina: if but modeled of the filmy
vapors of the moonlight, and the artist his own brain, the phantom was
welcome as joy. His spirit seemed to soar aloft in the yellow air and hang
hovering over and around her, while his body stood rooted to the spot,
like one who fears, by moving nigher, to lose the lovely vision of a
mirage. She sat motionless, her gaze on the sea. Malcolm bethought himself
that she could not know him in his fisher-dress, and must take him for
some rude fisherman staring at her. He must go at once, or approach and
address her. He came forward at once. "My lady!" he said.
She did not start, neither did she speak. She did not even turn her face.
She rose first, then turned and held out her hand. Three steps more and he
had it in his, and his eyes looked straight into hers. Neither spoke. The
moon shone full on Clementina's face. There was no illumination fitter for
that face than the moonlight, and to Malcolm it was lovelier than ever.
Nor was it any wonder it should seem so to him, for certainly never had
the eyes in it rested on his with such a lovely and trusting light in
them. A moment she stood, then slowly sank again upon the sand and drew
her skirts about her with a dumb show of invitation. The place where she
sat was a little terraced hollow in the slope, forming a convenient seat.
Malcolm saw, but could not believe she actually made room for him to sit
beside her--alone with her in the universe. It was too much: he dared not
believe it. And now, by one of those wondrous duplications which are not
always at least born of the fancy, the same scene in which he had found
Florimel thus seated on the slope of the dune appeared to be passing again
through Malcolm's consciousness, only instead of Florimel was Clementina,
and instead of the sun was the moon. And creature of the sunlight as
Florimel was, bright and gay and beautiful, she paled into a creature of
the cloud beside this maiden of the moonlight, tall and stately, silent
and soft and grand.
Again she made a movement. This time he could not doubt her invitation. It
was as if her soul made room in her unseen world for him to enter and sit
beside her. But who could enter heaven in his work-day garments?
"Won't you sit by me, Malcolm?" seeing his more than hesitation, she said
at last, with a slight tremble in the voice that was music itself in his
ears.
"I have been catching fish, my lady," he answered, "and my clothes must be
unpleasant. I will sit here."
He went a little lower on the slope and laid himself down, leaning on his
elbow.
"Do fresh-water fishes smell the same as the sea-fishes, Malcolm?" she
asked.
"Indeed I am not certain, my lady. Why?"
"Because if they do--You remember what you said to me as we passed the
saw-mill in the wood?"
It was by silence Malcolm showed he did remember.
"Does not this night remind you of that one at Wastbeach when we came upon
you singing?" said Clementina.
"It _is_ like it, my lady--now. But, a little ago, before I saw you, I was
thinking of that night, and thinking how different this was."
Again a moon-filled silence fell, and once more it was the lady who broke
it. "Do you know who are at the house?" she asked.
"I do, my lady," he replied.
"I had not been there more than an hour or two," she went on, "when they
arrived. I suppose Florimel--Lady Lossie--thought I would not come if she
told me she expected them."
"And would you have come, my lady?"
"I cannot endure the earl."
"Neither can I. But then I know more about him than your ladyship does,
and I am miserable for my mistress."
It stung Clementina as if her heart had taken a beat backward. But her
voice was steadier than it had yet been as she returned, "Why should you
be miserable for Lady Lossie?"
"I would die rather than see her marry that wretch," he answered.
Again her blood stung her in the left side. "You do not want her to marry,
then?" she said.
"I do," answered Malcolm, emphatically, "but not that fellow."
"Whom, then, if I may ask?" ventured Clementina trembling.
But Malcolm was silent. He did not feel it would be right to say.
Clementina turned sick at heart. "I have heard there is something
dangerous about the moonlight," she said. "I think it does not suit me
to-night. I will go--home."
Malcolm sprang to his feet and offered his hand. She did not take it, but
rose more lightly, though more slowly, than he. "How did you come from the
park, my lady?" he asked.
"By a gate over there," she answered, pointing. "I wandered out after
dinner, and the sea drew me."
"If your ladyship will allow me, I will take you a much nearer way back,"
he said.
"Do, then," she returned.
He thought she spoke a little sadly, and set it down to her having to go
back to her fellow-guests. What if she should leave to-morrow morning? he
thought. He could never then be sure she had really been with him that
night. He must sometimes think it then a dream. But oh what a dream! He
could thank God for it all his life if he should never dream so again.
They walked across the grassy sand toward the tunnel in silence, he
pondering what he could say that might comfort her and keep her from going
so soon.
"My lady never takes me out with her now," he said at length. He was
going to add that if she pleased he could wait upon her with Kelpie and
show her the country. But then he saw that if she were not with Florimel,
his sister would be riding everywhere alone with Liftore. Therefore he
stopped short.
"And you feel forsaken--deserted?" returned Clementina, sadly still.
"Rather, my lady."
They had reached the tunnel. It looked very black when he opened the door,
but there was just a glimmer through the trees at the other end.
"This is the valley of the shadow of death," she said. "Do I walk straight
through?"
"Yes, my lady. You will soon come out in the light again," he said.
"Are there no steps to fall down?" she asked.
"None, my lady. But I will go first, if you wish."
"No, that would but cut off the little light I have," she said. "Come
beside me."
They passed through in silence, save for the rustle of her dress and the
dull echo that haunted their steps. In a few moments they came out among
the trees, but both continued silent. The still, thoughtful moon-night
seemed to press them close together, but neither knew that the other felt
the same.
They reached a point in the road where another step would bring them in
sight of the house.
"You cannot go wrong now, my lady," said Malcolm. "If you please I will go
no farther."
"Do you not live in the house?" she asked.
"I used to do as I liked, and could be there or with my grandfather. I did
mean to be at the House to-night, but my lady has given my room to her
maid."
"What! that woman Caley?"
"I suppose so, my lady. I must sleep to-night in the village. If you
could, my lady--" he added, after a pause, and faltered, hesitating. She
did not help him, but waited. "If you could--if you would not be
displeased at my asking you," he resumed--"if you _could_ keep my lady
from going farther with that--I shall call him names if I go on."
"It is a strange request," Clementina replied after a moment's reflection.
"I hardly know, as the guest of Lady Lossie, what answer I ought to make
to it. One thing I will say, however, that, though you may know more of
the man than I, you can hardly dislike him more. Whether I can interfere
is another matter. Honestly, I do not think it would be of any use. But I
do not say I will not. Good-night."
She hurried away, and did not again offer her hand.
Malcolm walked back through the tunnel, his heart singing and making
melody. Oh how lovely--how more than lovely, how divinely beautiful--she
was! And so kind and friendly! Yet she seemed just the least bit fitful
too. Something troubled her, he said to himself. But he little thought
that he, and no one else, had spoiled the moonlight for her. He went home
to glorious dreams--she to a troubled, half-wakeful night. Not until she
had made up her mind to do her utmost to rescue Florimel from Liftore,
even if it gave her to Malcolm, did she find a moment's quiet. It was
morning then, but she fell fast asleep, slept late and woke refreshed.