Paul's last day was one of those never-to-be-forgotten days, when the
mist lies in light wreaths below the mountain tops, which rise clear
and sharp against an intense blue sky; when masses of white cloud hang
in mid-air, bringing with each new moment some fresh beauty, born of
shadow, to sea and shore; when a cool breeze blows unevenly, every now
and again darkening the water to a purple, and cresting the waves with
foam-streaks edged with turquoise.
"None too soon," said Paul, briefly, as the "Tubhaneer" (so called
from her washing-tub-like build) cast off her moorings, and stood out
for the middle of the loch. "I told you it would be the deluge after
to-day, Miss Carmichael. We shall have rain to-morrow."
Will nodded his head.
"Oh, don't talk of to-morrow!" said Marjory, quickly; "to-day is
enough, surely."
Paul, from amid-ships, applauded softly, and she attempted a frown,
which ended feebly in a smile. And wherefore not? Sufficient, indeed,
unto that day was the pleasure thereof. The red-brown sail drew
bravely, the long line lay curled up forward, the oyster dredger
rested athwart, the rifles were with Paul amid-ships, the lithe rods
swept out astern behind Marjory as she leant lightly over the tiller,
her eyes upon the quivering sail; for it needed every inch she could
gain to avoid a tack, even though the current of the outgoing tide was
aiding them to slip through the Narrowest to the open sea beyond.
"Where will the white rock be?" she asked of Donald Post, who, being
learned in banks and baits, would often set his wife to carry the bag
while he was off and away after the sea fishing. He was now opening
mussels with a crunching sound, regular as a machine.
'"Deed an' she will be right ahead of us whatever," he replied,
without a pause.
"There will be plenty of water, I suppose?"
'"Deed she will no be havin' much on her, anyhow."
"Then how shall I steer?"
"Just as she is, Miss Marjory, just as she is; she will be doing fine,
I'm thinking."
"A miss is as good as a mile," murmured Paul, engaged in stretching
his long length comfortably over some ballast kegs. "Can you swim?"
Marjory nodded. "Then save me, please; I really am not inclined to
exert myself."
"So it appears," remarked Will Cameron, in an injured tone. He and the
Reverend James were forward, busy over the tangled lengths of the long
line, and the necessity for restraining his tongue before the cloth
was telling even on the former's easy temper; for a long line in a
tangle is quite indescribable in Parliamentary language.
"Keep her in a bit, Marjory. We must anchor over the fishing-house
bank for a while, and get bait for this--this _thing_."
"Then I shall have to tack."
"Tack, indeed! If you don't like it, I'll steer and you can tackle
this--this _thing_. Look out, Donald!--two trees and the white stone."
Round went the tiller. "Now, John!" said the girl; the sail came down
with a clatter, the way slackened, the anchor, poised in Donald's
watchful hands, splashed overboard, and the "Tubhaneer" drew up to it
with her mast, and the two trees, and the white stone in a line.
"Well done, Miss Marjory; that was well done, whatever," rose Donald's
voice softly, between renewed crunching; and two minor splashes
following close on each other told that the Parson and Will had their
hand-lines down. Then came a silence, broken only by the fitful gurgle
of the water against the "Tubhaneer" as she swung round to the tide,
and that monotonous crunch, crunch of the mussel-knife.
"John Roy, he wass takin' five whitin's from the bank last week," rose
Donald's voice once more, quite causelessly. "It wass a bit of himself
he was catching them with. It iss nothin' the whitin's iss liking so
much as a bit of himself."
Then silence again, his hearers being too much accustomed to the
intricacies of Donald's style to be startled by this novel fact in
natural history. So, amid the stillness, a sudden jerk of the Reverend
James's right hand, a pause of intense expectation--to judge by the
rapt look on his comely face--then disappointment from bow to stern,
and a general slackness.
"It will just be ain o' they pickers," mused Donald, recovering from
his momentary idleness; "or maybe a sooker. It iss the pickers and
sookers in this place that just beats all. Oo-aye! If it wass not a
picker, it will be a sooker."
"What is the difference between a picker and a sucker, Donald?" asked
Marjory, severely practical.
"'Deed, then, Miss Marjory, and it iss not any difference there will
be between them at all. It is a sooker that will not be caring a tamn
for the hook, and it is the picker that will not be caring a tamn
either."
"Ahem!" interrupted Mr. Gillespie, with reproachful glance at Donald's
unconscious back; "I believe, Miss Marjory, that pickers or suckers is
really only the local name for young codlings, lythe, or cuddies. In
fact, for all young fish."
"She is not them at all," retorted Donald, scornfully. "It iss sookers
and pickers, and not young fish they will be, and it iss not a local
name, whatever." The last came with such a glance of sovereign
contempt for the offender, that Paul, from his ballast kegs, smiled up
at Marjory, who smiled back at him.
"Got him at last! and a good one too!" sang out Will, ending the
discussion by a new topic of all-absorbing interest, which held the
boat's crew in suspense till the rasping rub of the line over the side
and the drip of water falling back on water ceased in a disgusted
exclamation from the captor of a small flounder, hooked foul.
"Little deevil," murmured John Macpherson, in such a self-communing
tone, that the Reverend James felt the observation must pass.
"It iss pulling like that they are," commented Donald, affably. "John
Roy he was fishin' at the ferry-house, and thinkin' it wass a
_skatach_ he got, and cryin' on me for the gaff he wass, but it was
two flukies he was hookin' by their tails."
Marjory looked as if she were inclined to dispute the fact, then
joined in the dreamful silence, which, with spasmodic awakenings as
fish after fish came over the side, lasted until there was enough
bait, and Will gave the word to move on. Then the anchor came up laden
with a root of oarweed, in which strange shells and starfish lay
entangled; so it was handed aft for Marjory to see.
"It is squeakin' like a mice yon beast will be," said Donald, pointing
to a sea-urchin. "Aye! an' bitin' most tarrible he is."
"That is quite impossible," interrupted the girl, cutting short
various other facts which trembled on Donald's lips. "They couldn't
bite if they tried."
"Then it is squeakin' like a mice they are, whatever," he retorted
doggedly; "for John Roy wass tellin' it to me." John Roy being
Donald's Mrs. Harris, the subject admitted of no further discussion,
and the ensuing pause was broken by a sudden question from Paul.
"Do you ever find niggerheads about here now? I remember when I was a
boy in petticoats----"
He took the tiny cowrie of dazzling whiteness she handed him by way of
answer, and said no more. How many years, he wondered, was it since he
had last thought of niggerheads? Truly the world was a strange place,
and a man's brain stranger still.
And now the long line, duly baited for skate and haddock, was being
paid out and left drifting, moored to floats which seemed to dance
away on the waves, as the "Tubhaneer" with sail full spread made for
the last, low, sunlit point, and so, entering the Linnhe Loch, headed
straight for the blue Kingairloch Hills. To the left lay Lismore, a
glimmering strip of green and gold amid the shining sea; behind was
Port Appin, with its heather-crested bluff, and spidery-black pier;
before them the serrated line of Ardnamurchan, and beyond, faint in
the distance, the headland of Mull jutting into a glint of the
Atlantic. To the right rose Shuna with its swelling grassy slopes and
cross-signed pebble shores, like a fairy island in the summer sea. So
further afield Appin House, set in fir knolls, Ardgour lighthouse
glimmering to the left, and beyond, all the hills rising clear and
cloudless to the peak of Ben Nevis.
On Ami's bay a cluster of boats in shore told that the herring were
in.
"They never come to Loch Eira now," remarked Will, idly. "It is funny,
but they don't."
"It will not be funny at all, sir," expostulated Donald. "It wass
comin' they were every year, sure's I sit here, but it wass old John
Mackenzie he wass going after them on the Sabbath, and it wass not
coming any more after that they were."
"And that is a fact, of course?" asked Will, gravely.
"It will not be a fact at all, sir," echoed Donald, "but it was old
John himself wass tellin' it to me."
"I believe it to be quite true, Mr. Cameron," put in the Reverend
James; "indeed I remember the Bishop commenting upon the circumstance
in a sermon. He brought it in most beautifully, and so conclusively."
"It wass a burnin' shame of the old _bodach_, whatever," grumbled John
Macpherson. "Ay! Ay! a dirty trick, whatever."
Marjory, watching the sea-pyots wheel and veer against the blue of the
distant hills, smiled to herself. The mere thought of the Bishop in
his lawn sleeves seemed unreal out there in the sunshine. Everything
was unreal save the boat skimming with a little hiss through the
water.
"There's a steamer rounding the point below Lismore," said Will. "What
will she be, I wonder?"
"She will be the salt ship from Glasgow for the harrin'," replied
Donald, after prolonged deliberation. "That iss what she will be, an'
ferry welcome. I mind when the harrin' were in Glen Etive, and the
salt ship she wass not comin' at all, the people wass diggin' holes in
the peat, and fillin' them with the harrin'. It wass not keepin' ferry
well, but it was eating them were. A terrible year for sickness it
wass, though the harrin' was that plenty, they wass takin' them in
buckets."
"'Deed an' it was a dirty trick of that old _bodachs_ to be driving
them away," grumbled Macpherson, "a dirty trick--Gorsh me!--yon's a
seal--quick, Mr. Paul!"
There was a sudden, still stir in the crew, and all eyes turned to
where a smooth brown head slipped oilily through the water. Marjory
held her breath half-shrinkingly, yet said no word. Not even when Paul
whispered "Ready, Cameron?" and, heralded by a little flash and puff,
the simultaneous report of the rifles frightened the sea-pyots into
screaming flight. The head disappeared as the bullets went ricocheting
over the water in soft _ping-pings_.
"Too high," said one voice, mournfully.
"Yes! but the direction was good."
These remarks, which in constant substance but varying form follow
most unsuccessful shots, appeared satisfactory to the speakers; for
Paul retired to the thwarts again, and Will resumed his pipe, while
Macpherson looked pensively through one of the rifles to see if it had
leaded, and the general excitement died down.
"It is curious," remarked Marjory, disdainfully relieved, and
speaking, as it were, to the circumambient air, "how even a remote
prospect of killing something will rouse a man's love of destruction."
Paul, leaning one arm on the thwart, looked up at her solemnly.
"True--too true. We are destructive, or rather, accurately speaking,
we should like to be destructive--only we aren't. That was a bad miss
of mine. But if we like to destroy, you women love to annex. Witness
that pile of seaweed and shells beside you. You don't really want it,
and ten to one when it comes to the bother of carrying it home, you
will leave it behind you."
"Pardon me," remarked the girl, "you shall carry it for me."
"A foregone conclusion, if you wish it, of course; but in that case
you will simply add my services to your possessions. And in like
manner you will dispense with them when I cease to be amusing. Woman
all over!"
"Thanks, Gleneira!" laughed Will. "It does me good to hear Marjory
kept in order. She bullies me awfully about shooting seals, and I
fully expected her to sneeze or cough. She generally does."
"I knew you wouldn't hit," retorted Marjory, scornfully, "and it
pleased you."
"'Pleased 'er and didn't 'urt me,' as the navvy said when his wife
beat him," put in Paul. "By Jove! Miss Carmichael, if I had known what
you thought, I would have put a bullet----"
"Hist!" cried Marjory, holding up her hand. There, within a stone's
throw, was the smooth brown head, with large, liquid, confiding eyes
turned towards the boat. Not a ripple, not a sound, showed that it was
in motion, and yet it slipped past rapidly.
"Gorsh me! but the beast's tame," whispered John, unable to contain
himself in the inaction; but the whisper might as well have been a
clap of thunder, for the round head sank noiselessly into the water,
leaving scarcely a ripple behind it.
"Why didn't you shoot, Captain Macleod?" asked Marjory, with an odd
little tremor in her voice, at which she herself was dimly surprised;
"you might have hit that time, for it couldn't have been more than
fifteen yards off."
"I never thought of it," he replied quietly; "the beast looked so
jolly."
"It looked quite as jolly when it was far away, no doubt."
"But I couldn't see it. And if we discuss that point I shall find it
as much out of my range as the seal was. So give me a good mark for
refraining when I did see its jolliness."
"Besides, it would have been no good trying. It would have been down
like a shot if we had stirred a finger," said Will, philosophically.
Paul Macleod sighed. "There goes my last claim to saintship. You are a
perfect devil's advocate, Cameron."
"But, really, Miss Marjory," put in the Reverend James, who had, as
usual, been left far behind in the quick interchange of thought, "I do
not see why you should object to shooting a seal. Man is permitted by
a merciful Creator to destroy animal life----"
"In order to preserve his own, and even then it seems a pity,"
interrupted the girl, eagerly. "Oh, I daresay, Captain Macleod, the
feeling isn't strong enough to make me turn vegetarian, but it _is_
wanton cruelty to kill a poor seal which is of no use to anyone!"
"There you go!" grumbled Will. "Why! I wanted its paws awfully for
tobacco pouches--mine is quite worn out."
"Your remark, Cameron, is childish and unreasonable," replied Paul,
from his lounge. "You cannot expect Miss Carmichael's tolerance of
humanity to extend to tobacco pouches. Let us be thankful it concedes
mutton chops."
"A seal is a ferry clever beast, whatever," put in Donald. "It wass
John Roy wass walking on the rocks at Craignish, and he wass seeing a
big seal, and heavin' stones at it, and--gorsh me!--but it wass takin'
the stones and fro'ing them back at John. And, tamn me! but the
creature wass a better shot than John--oo--aye! a far better shot
whatever."
"And that is a fact, Donald?" asked Will, solemnly.
"Not a fack at all, sir; but John Roy he wass tellin' it to me."
"Not so clever as the Kashmir bear, Donald?" put in Paul. "When it has
to cross a stream in flood it carries a big boulder on its head to
keep itself steady."
"An' is that a fack, sir," asked Donald, readily.
"The people were telling it to me, anyhow!"
"Then they were big liars whatever," said Donald, with such an
inimitable air of shocked conviction that a general shout of laughter
rose on the sunny air.
Oh, bright, glad day! Oh, careless, foolish talk! Oh, deep abiding
sense of peace and good-will in all that sea-girt mountain world which
rose around them, havening their little boat! Could it be that there
was trouble, or toil, or tears, yonder where the mist floated so
tenderly, or there, where cottage and castle, meadow and moor, wheat
and tares were blended into one purple glory? There were not many such
days in life, so let us cherish the mere memory of them!
The mackerel, it is true, were not to be beguiled, but what matter?
The boat skimmed over the blue water; two red-brown sails stood out to
the West or East.
"No use trying any more," said Will at last, with a shake of the head
over Paul's placid repose; for lunch had come to fill up the measure
of content, and the laird was back among the ballast with a large
basket of strawberries. "I think, Donald, we might try the big lythe
off Shuna."
"The tide will no be answerable awhile, sir, but there will be no
excuse for the _bedach ruachs_ at the rocks; no excuse at all."
"Let us hope the fish will have a sense of duty," murmured Paul from
the strawberries; "cold-blooded creatures generally have."
They anchored out of the tide race in a backwater of the current, and
Marjory, looking over the side, could see far down into the green
depth where pale, pulsating Medusas came floating by, and every now
and again a flash of light told of a passing fish.
"Too much tide," began Paul, eyeing the set of the lines from his
retreat, when four mighty and coincident strikes silenced his wisdom
for a while. But only for a while, since amid the rasp and rub of wet
lines against the side came Will's voice despondently.
"I'm in to some of you others."
"So am I--and I----" echoed Marjory and the Reverend James. Only Donald
Post whispered softly, "It is the deevil is on mine whatever," and
Paul, without stirring hand and foot, suggested the mainland of
Scotland. But it was neither. The lines passed to the stern produced
conjointly a codling, which after swallowing two baits had tried at a
third, and so hooked itself foul in the fourth.
"There's an object lesson for you, Miss Carmichael," said Paul,
teasingly. "How about your theory of the cruel hook and the poor
fish?"
"It is not feeling a tamn, fish is," commented Donald, calmly
disgorging the baits. "It was fishin' for _bodachs_ old John Boy was,
and he was catchin' her foul by the eye, and the eye she come out. But
John Roy wass leavin' it on the hook and the _bodach_ was comin' again
an' takin' his own eye."
"And there is a fact for you," continued Paul.
"No! No! sir," protested Donald, with a twinkle in his eye; "it will
no be a fack whatever, but John Roy he wass tellin' it to me." Whereat
there was laughter again.
So, as the day drew down, they landed on Shuna to boil the kettle for
tea with driftwood gathered from the shore, and wonder idly as the
flames leapt up to shrivel the lowermost leaves of the rowan tree by
the spring, whence the wreckage which burnt so bravely had come; for
storm and stress seemed far from their world.
Then, while the boatmen took their turn at the scones and cake, the
jam and toast, they climbed the grassy slopes, and, sitting down by
the old tower, watched the sunset idly; for all things, even pleasure,
seem idle on such days as these. The clouds had pricked westwards, as
if to aid the Atlantic in a coming storm, but below their heavy purple
masses lay a strip of greeny gold sky, into which the sun was just
sinking from a higher belt of crimson-tinted bars.
"No Green Ray for us to-night," said Marjory, with a smile.
Paul raised his eyebrows. "No Green Ray on this or any other night, in
my candid opinion."
The Reverend James looked puzzled. "I have often heard you mention
this Green Ray, Miss Marjory, but I am not quite sure to what you
allude."
"To a fiction of Jules Verne's, that is all," put in Paul, quickly.
"Nothing of the sort; people have seen it," corrected the girl,
eagerly.
"Say they have seen it," murmured Paul, obstinately, and Marjory
frowned.
"I will explain it to you, Mr. Gillespie," she went on, with assertion
in her voice. "It is a green ray of light which shoots through the
sea, just as the topmost curve of the sun touches the water. I watch
for it often. I intend to watch for it till I see it, as others have
done."
"And what good will it do to you when you have seen it?" asked Paul.
They were speaking to each other, despite the pretence of general
conversation; but it was so often.
"I haven't the least idea," she answered airily; "for all that, I look
forward to seeing it as a great event in my life."
"Great events are dangerous; like some very valuable medicines,
uncertain in their effects. Birth, for instance--you may be born a
fool or a wise man. Marriage--a chance of the die--so I'm told.
Death." He pointed dramatically upwards and downwards with a whimsical
look on his anxious, gracious face.
"I deny it, I deny it altogether," cried the girl, forgetting herself
and him in her eagerness. "You are either in existence before birth,
or you are not. In the one case you must remain yourself, in the other
you, being nonexistent, cannot suffer chance or change. It is the same
with death. If there is no _you_ to survive, death itself ceases to be
since you are non-existent. If there is, you must remain yourself."
"Surely, my dear Miss Marjory," said the Reverend James, breaking in
on the girl's half-questioning appeal, "we are to be changed in the
twinkling of an eye?"
"And marriage, Miss Carmichael?" put in Paul, quietly, passing by the
last remark as if it, too, had been non-existent. "You left out
marriage in your philosophy."
Her face fell, yet softened.
"I do not know; it is like the Green Ray, something to dream about."
"To dream about! Ah! that sort of marriage is, I own, beyond the
vision of ordinary humanity."
"But indeed there is nothing scientifically impossible in the Green
Ray. You have only to get the angle of refraction equal to the----"
"Spare me, please. If I have to swallow romance I prefer it
undisguised. Even as a boy I refused powders in jam."
"Wish I had," grumbled Will, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "I
have never been able to eat black-currant jelly in consequence. And it
is awfully nice in itself. Come, Marjory, we ought to be going."
"It is very hard to get rid of acquired tastes," muttered Paul, in an
undertone, as he rose, and quite familiarly held out his hand to help
Marjory to her feet also. "For instance, it will be difficult to
forget the flavour of the past fortnight."
"Why should you forget it?" They were standing apart from the others,
who were looking eastward to see if the boatmen were ready.
"Because the pleasure of it has been demoralising."
"I don't believe in the demoralising effect of pleasure."
"Perhaps not. You are one of the virtuously constituted whose pleasure
consists in behaving nicely. Mine doesn't."
Her hand went out in an impulsive gesture of denial.
"Why should you say that? You are not----"
"How can you know what I am?" he began bitterly, yet indifferently;
his eyes, not upon her, but fixed far on the distant horizon, as if
arraigning some unseen power which had made him what he was. Then he
paused abruptly, and infinite surprise drove everything else from his
face.
"Look!" he cried.
"Look?--what?--where?"
"Look!" His hand was on hers now, and its trembling touch seemed to
give her sight.
It was a new heaven and a new earth! For, on the outermost edge of the
world, the last beam of light from the sunken sun shot through the
waves, flooding sky, and sea, and shore, with a green light, soft and
pellucid as the heart of an emerald. But only for an instant. The next
he had loosed her hand and the light was gone.
"What are you staring at so, Miss Carmichael?" His mocking tone jarred
her through and through. She looked at him in sheer bewilderment.
"The--the Green Ray!"
"The Green Ray!" he echoed, in the same tones. "I say, Cameron! Here
is your cousin declaring she has seen the Green Ray. Did you see
anything?"
"Only the seal you were watching out on the rocks yonder," called
Will. "Splendid shot, wasn't it?"
"The Green Ray!" echoed the Reverend James, bustling up. "Dear me, how
interesting, and I missed it, somehow. What was it like, Miss
Marjory?"
The girl stood with her clear, cold eyes fixed on Paul's face. "I
scarcely know. You had better ask Captain Macleod. If I saw anything,
he saw it also; and saw it first!"
"But you have such a much more vivid imagination than I," he replied
easily, "that what would be to me merely an unusually beautiful
effect, might be to you a miracle. It is simply a question of
temperament, and mine is severely practical. In fact, Cameron, if we
are to get home to-night, it's time we were going."
"By George!" said Will, when, with a general scramble, they had stowed
everything on board, "it's later than I thought, the tide has turned,
and the wind is almost down. We must take the sweeps, I am afraid."
"All right," said Paul. "Hand us over an oar."
He was a different man; the lazy content was gone, and he gave a
stroke from a straight back which made Donald gasp between his
efforts--"Gorsh me! but he is a fine rower, is the laird!"
But there was silence--the silence of hard work--for the most part, as
they toiled home with wind and tide against them. Yet the scene was
beautiful as ever in the growing moonlight.
"We are not more than a mile from the house here, Marjory," said Will,
as they rounded a point below the Narrowest; "but it will take us a
good hour to get her to the boat-house, and I can't leave her here;
it's spring tides, and the painter's not long enough. But I'll land
you on that rock, and the laird will see you home. Mother will be
getting anxious."
"I would rather stay," she was beginning, when Paul cut her short.
"Back water, bow; pull, Donald. Luff her a bit. Miss Carmichael,
please. That will do." They were alongside the little jetty of rock,
and he was out. "Your hand, please, the seaweed is awfully slippery.
Donald, pass up those shells, will you, they are in my handkerchief.
All right, Cameron. Give way."
It had all passed so quickly, and this masterful activity of Paul's
was so surprising, that Marjory, rather to her own surprise, found
herself following close on his heels as he forced a way for her
through the dense thickets of bracken, or held back a briar from the
path in silence. Yet the silence did not seem oppressive; it suited
her own confusion, her own vague pleasure and pain. She had seen the
Green Ray, but she had seen it through Paul Macleod's eyes. Yes;
whether he would or not, they had seen it hand in hand. He might deny
it, but the fact remained. He was one of those who could see it!
And Paul, as he walked on, felt that the silence intensified his clear
pleasure and clearer pain. For there was no vagueness in _his_
emotions. It was not the first time that the touch of a woman's hand
had thrilled him through and through, as Marjory's had done as they
looked out over the sunset sea; but it was the first time that such a
thrill had not moved him to look upon the woman's face! And they had
stood still, hand in hand, like a couple of children, staring at the
Green Ray! What a fool he had been! What did it mean save something at
which he had always scoffed, at which he meant always to scoff! And
then the Green Ray? Was his brain softening that he should see visions
and dream dreams? He, Paul Macleod, who loved and forgot all, save his
own physical comfort. As everyone did in the end. And yet it was a
familiar pleasure to be in love again honestly, a pleasure to feel his
heart beating, to know that the girl he fancied was there beside him
in the moonlight, that he could tell her of his heart-beats if he
chose. But he did not choose. Love of that sort came and went! Did he
not know it? Did he not know his own nature, and was not that enough?
And yet, when they reached the high road a sudden desire to make her
also understand it, made him say, abruptly:
"When do you begin work? In London, isn't it?"
"Yes; in November."
"And you are really going to waste life in a dull, dirty school,
teaching vulgar little boys and girls."
"I shall teach them not to be vulgar."
He shrugged his shoulders. "You cannot fight against Nature, Miss
Carmichael; as we are born, we remain. You will only kill yourself in
your efforts at regeneration."
"I think not. I am very strong to begin with, and then I hate rusting
in idleness."
"Rust may be better than tarnish. When I think of you here in this
paradise--a fool's paradise, perhaps--and of what you must encounter
there, it seems preposterous for you to mix yourself up. But you do
not understand; you never will." He had forgotten his new outlook in
the old resentment at her unconsciousness.
"Understand what? I can understand most things if I try."
"Can you? I doubt it. You cannot understand me, for instance, but that
is beside the question. The only comfort is that real life will
disgust you. Then you will return to the home you should never have
left."
"I have no home--you know that."
"You can make one by marrying, as other girls do."
"I am not like other girls, thank you----"
"Do you think I can't see that?" he broke out quite passionately.
"Should I be talking to you as I am if you were--why, I can't even
speak to you of what some of them are. It is because you are not as
other girls----"
"Then you wish me to behave as they do. You are scarcely logical." Her
tone was as ice, and, chilling his passion, sent him back to his
cynicism.
"Logic and love do not generally run in double harness, Miss
Carmichael; but if you prefer the former, I am quite prepared to stick
to it. Someone wants a wife, someone wants a home. It is a mere case
of barter. What can be more natural, sensible----"
"And degrading."
"Pardon me, not always. I will take my own case if you will allow me.
We have touched on it often before. Let us speak frankly now. I need
money, not for myself alone; for the property. You have hinted a
thousand times that I am a bad landlord; so I am. How can I help it
without money?"
"You could be a better landlord than you are."
"If I chose to live on porridge and milk; but I don't choose, and I
don't choose to sell. I prefer to stick to champagne and devilled
bones, and give up another personal pleasure instead. And you say it
is degrading."
"I said nothing of the sort. I spoke of myself. It would degrade me. I
do not presume to speak of you."
"But you think it all the same."
"And if I do, what is that to you?" she cried suddenly, in hot anger.
"I do condemn you, if you will have the truth. I think you will
deliberately turn your back on the best part of life if you marry for
mere comfort--and, what is more, that you will regret it."
"Possibly. I regret most things after a time. Let us wait and see
whether you or I find the greatest happiness in life. Only we are not
likely to agree even there, for we shall not see the world in the same
light."
"Unless High Heaven vouchsafes us another Green Ray," she said coldly.
The allusion aroused all his own vexation with himself, all his
impatience at her influence over him. They were passing the short cut
leading to the Lodge, and he paused.
"I don't think I need intrude on Mrs. Cameron tonight," he said.
"Good-bye, Miss Carmichael." Then suddenly he turned with a smile of
infinite grace. "Let us shake hands over it to show there is no
ill-feeling. It is my last holiday, remember; and, according to
you, I am going into penal servitude for life. But I'll chance my
ticket-of-leave. I am generally fairly virtuous when I have enough to
eat and drink. And we have had a good time, haven't we?"
"Very," said Marjory. And though he tried hard to get up another
thrill as their hands met, he failed utterly. He might have been
saying good-bye to his grandmother for all the emotion it roused in
him; and as he strode home he scarcely knew if the fact were
disconcerting or satisfactory. The latter, in so far that it proved
his feeling for Marjory must be of a placid, sentimental form, to
which he was unaccustomed. What else could it be in such surroundings,
and with a girl who hadn't a notion what love meant?
And Marjory, as she crossed the few yards between her and Mrs.
Cameron's comments, felt vexed that she was not more angry with the
culprit. But once again the thought of the St. Christopher, and of
Paul's blue, chattering lips, when he had the chills at the Pixie's
Lake, came to soften her and make her forget all but admiration and
pity.