A morning in late September on a Highland loch. How good it is to be
there! The centre just rippled with crisp waves, while shorewards the
rocks show mirrored clearly in the smooth water, each bunch of russet
bracken or tuft of yellow bent almost more brilliant in the reflection
than the reality. The hills free from haze, standing like sentinels,
solid and firm; the wild cherry leaves aping the scarlet of the rowan
berries, the birch trees beginning to drop their golden bribe into the
still, emerald laps of the mossy hollows, as if seeking to buy the
secret of perpetual summer.
A scene where it is meet to put off the travel-stained shoes which
have borne our feet along the trivial round, the common tasks of life,
and go back to the bare feet of simple pleasure. The pleasure of
children on the seashore, of young lambs in a blossoming meadow.
Yet there was an air of conscious effort, a virtuous look of duty on
many of the faces which assembled at the boat-house in order to be
ferried over to the other side of the loch, whence the ascent to the
old burying-ground was to be made.
The shadow of coming separation lay upon most of the party; on none
more than Tom Kennedy, who had filched a few extra hours of Marjory's
companionship from the Great Enemy by scorning the mail cart in favour
of a solitary walk over the crest of Ben Morven to the nearest coach,
the place settled on for the picnic being so far on his way. And she,
though all unconscious of the keen pain at his heart, felt vaguely
that she would miss the touch of his kind hand, the sound of his kind
voice more than ever now, now that it seemed the only thing remaining
of the old calm confidence. Lady George was a prey to a thousand
cares, beginning with the lunch and culminating in the certainty that
some one of the three children--whom her husband had insisted on
bringing--would be drowned; just at the last, too, when she had
brought them safely through all the dangers of Gleneira, for they and
their nurse were to start by the early boat next morning. But the day
was indeed to be a fateful one, for was not this Paul's last chance of
speaking to Alice? and did not Mrs. Woodward, for all her conspicuous
calm, show to the watchful eye that she also was aware of the fact?
Paul himself showed nothing; but, then, he was always exasperatingly
cool when a little touch of excitement would, on the whole, be
pleasing.
But of all the faces that of the Reverend James Gillespie displayed
the sense of duty most clearly, and what Paul lacked in animation he
made up for in sheer restlessness, since the time had come when he
must carry out his intention and ask Marjory Carmichael to marry him.
If only because it would be advisable to set up house at the November
term, when they would have a chance of furnishing cheaply and of
getting a good servant. So he wandered about in a fuss, alternately
trying to make an opportunity, and then flying from it, until Paul,
always observant, began to wonder what was up, and then, chancing upon
one of the bashful lover's bolder attempts, swore under his breath at
the fellow's impudence. Tom Kennedy was a gentleman, and Marjory, with
her iceberg of a heart would be happy enough in his keeping by and
bye; but this rampant, red-faced fool! And then he laughed, thinking
suddenly, causelessly, of a certain little face, looking very winsome
despite its weariness, which would have laughed too; for Mrs. Vane had
somehow failed to rally from the shock of old Peggy's death with her
usual elasticity, and was still in her room visible only to a favoured
few, Paul amongst the number. Only that morning she had looked at him
with her pretty, quizzical eyes and met his offer to escort her so far
on her southward journey with the remark that by that time he would no
longer be his own master.
And it was true. Before he rowed across the loch again his future
would be settled, he would be Alice Woodward's Highland proprietor.
"Your left, please, Miss Carmichael," he said, giving stroke with a
longer swing; "there is a nice, comfortable landing-place just beyond
the white stone, and I hate getting my feet wet, even in helping
ladies to keep theirs dry."
"But we shall miss----" began Marjory.
"Do as you're bid, my dear," put in Will Cameron, resignedly, from the
bow; "haven't you learnt by this time that the laird knows where he
wants to steer and sticks to it? After all, it saves a lot of trouble
to others."
"Right you are!" assented Paul, gaily; "your left, please; not so much
as that; thank you! I've no desire to find the sunken rocks."
The words were light, and a boat-load of people were listening to
them; yet Marjory, guiding the tiller ropes, felt that they were
spoken for her ear alone; that she and Paul were face to face, as they
so often were before his future, and the fact annoyed her. Yet, as
they stepped out on the little causeway of rock jutting forward like a
peer, the waves blab, blabbing upon its sides, reminded her of the
evening when she had sate listening to them and Paul had come along
the shore behind her, like another St. Christopher, bearing the burden
of the world's immortality--its childhood.
"Tom," she said, in a low voice, turning to him in swift appeal, why
she knew not, "let us get away from all this; we might go along the
point and look for clams, as we used to do. Remember, it is the last I
shall see of you; so don't talk about manners and being wanted; don't
think of what other people think."
She spoke petulantly, but there were sudden tears in her eyes. Yet as
they moved off together neither of then realised that a fateful moment
had come and gone; that the trivial words covered an unconscious
revolt of one side of her woman's nature against the other, and that
if, instead of hunting clams like a couple of children, he had taken
her hand and told her the truth of love and marriage, as he had seen
it in life, she would have turned instinctively from the world's
apotheosis of passion, and so have found a compass to guide her out of
danger; but Tom Kennedy, being conscious that he himself was once more
under the glamour which had come and gone many times already even in
his sober life, could not find it in his heart to decry it utterly. So
they stalked clams instead, advancing on tiptoe over the wet sand with
eyes alert for every sign of an air-hole, and then pouncing like a cat
on a mouse to seize the collapsing tube before it sank down, down,
into the depths of gravel where even finger nails could not follow it.
And to them, as they laughed and hunted, came the Reverend James,
restless as ever, yet showing to advantage in a sport which he had
practised from his barefoot childhood.
It was good to see his fair, florid face come up red with smug triumph
from each dive as he added another clam to the heap, until Marjory
forgot everything else in emulation, and Tom Kennedy, smiling at her
eagerness, sate down to a cigarette beside Lord George, who, engaged
in the same business, was watching the children paddle in the
shallows.
A silent, yet sympathetic audience were these two men of middle age,
smiling to themselves over the gay voices and childish sallies. Over
Eve's eleventh ineffectual attempt to swallow an oyster which would
have been successful if Adam hadn't made her laugh; over Marjory's
indignant claim to a clam, which, during the dispute, disappeared for
ever. Smiling, too, over Blasius' solemn face as he informed daddy
that there was a "big crawly wild beast down there wif wobbly legs,
and Blazeths wanted daddy's hand. Blazeths wathn't afwaid, but he
wanted daddy's hand."
The incoming tide was drowning the round brown heads of the boulders
out on the far point, as those two red ones, so curiously alike, bent
over the "wild beast wif wobbly legs," which Adam and Eve, with
wide-eyed superiority, said was nothing but a crab, a tiny crab! A
heron, driven from its last inch of seaweed, flapped slowly across the
bay, its trailing feet almost touching the water, and the sea-pyots
circled screaming round the invaders of their happy hunting-ground. In
the bend of the bay beneath a clump of alders showed a cluster of gay
dresses busy about a tablecloth, and above them, in wooded curves
merging into sheer slopes of rock and bent, rose Ben Morven. Half-way
up, right in the open, a single holly tree, like a black shadow,
marking the turn to the old burying-ground. Lord George came back from
the wild beast with a sober face, and eyes still watching that little
red head, bent now over a stick with which the wobbly legs were being
boldly prodded to a walk.
"Queer start, children--aren't they?" he remarked confidentially, as
he lit another cigarette. "I never thought of it before I married,
give you my word. I suppose men don't--more's the pity." He gave a
glance at his companion's face, and went on with more assurance: "You
see no one ever talks of the paternal instinct; the women are supposed
to have it all their own way, in the maternal business, and it's a
shame, for a man needs that sort of thing more than they do. A woman
can't be done out of her motherhood, but a man loses everything except
a passing pleasure if he doesn't keep straight. Look at that boy,
Kennedy! He is the very moral of me, and I had to whack him the other
day. Well, I assure you, that I felt for the first time in my life
that I was immortal--that I had a stake in time and eternity. Why
don't they teach us this when we are young? Why don't they say
something about it in the marriage service, instead of letting a
couple of young fools undertake responsibilities for which they are
not fit?"
Tom Kennedy shook his head. "Because we are not brave enough to face
our own instincts and call a spade a spade. I served a few years in
India once, and Hindooism is, I think, the only religion which sets
personal feelings aside utterly; and there the idea has been overlaid
with a horrible sensuality. Though on the whole it is not more
sickening than our artificial sentiment. But it's a weary subject.
Everyone talks of it, and yet no one cares to go back to the
beginning; to give up the romance----"
His eyes wandered to Marjory, and he was silent. It was true. When all
was said and done he craved for it.
"Well," remarked Lord George, judgmatically, after a pause, "there is
something wrong, somewhere. Take my own case. I married, as most
fellows do, to please myself, without a thought of the consequences.
And though, of course, some romance is necessary to make a man give up
his club and undertake the responsibility of a boy like Blazes--Good
Lord! and I promised his mother to keep him out of mischief!"
The last words being evoked by the sight of his youngest born prone on
his back kicking madly in six inches of water, with the crab attached
to his big toe.
"I wanted it to come a walk wif Blazeths," he wailed pathetically;
"and it bited Blazeths instead, with a wobbly leg."
"I knew how it would be, George," said his wife, with patient dignity,
when the culprits appeared before her. "But you are so self-confident.
You are always undertaking responsibilities for which Nature has not
fitted you. Give him to nurse, and cut the cucumber, do--there's a
good boy."
Lord George shot a queer glance at Dr. Kennedy, and did as he was bid;
as most people did when Blanche put on her superior manner.
"And, Dr. Kennedy," she continued, "I want you to do something for me.
The Hookers have brought--no! I don't mean the piper, George, though
they have brought him--not that it matters so much, for I have told
John Macpherson to keep him in the 'Tubhaneer,' which is anchored in
the stream, so he can do no harm, and the pipes will sound nice over
the water--No, Dr. Kennedy, it is a German professor, very
distinguished, but none of the Hooker party speak German. George will,
of course, take him in tow by and bye, being in the Foreign Office;
but just now, I thought--if you would not mind. Thanks, so much! it
always looks well to have more than one linguist. At present, I have
sent him to admire the view with Major Bertie, who says 'wunderschön'
at intervals; but that can't last long, you know."
"My dear Blanche, you are as good as a play!" protested her husband,
convulsed with laughter, at her unconscious mimicry, and even Dr.
Kennedy found it hard to keep his countenance over her innocent
surprise. Yet he was in no mood for amusement, and his face showed it
when, lunch being over, he drew out his watch, and looked meaningly to
Marjory.
"Is it time?" she asked, with a sudden sinking of the heart.
"Quite time," echoed Paul, coolly, from his place by Alice Woodward;
"that is to say, if we are to be back to tea. It is a longer pull than
it looks. Now, good people! who is for the burying-ground? You are
coming, of course, Miss Woodward; I want you to see all the beauties
of Gleneira, and the view is splendid."
The Reverend James, who had made up his mind that the descent, when
Marjory should have lost her natural escort, would be the very time
for his purpose, stood up manfully, and Major Bertie, under orders for
the time being to the athletic daughter of a neighbouring laird,
followed suit; but the rest, for the most part, declined what they
stigmatised as a gruesome invitation. The pull was not only long but
stiff, especially after lunch, and the view from below, enhanced by
idleness and a quiet cigar, good enough for them.
So it was a small single file which, led by Paul, and brought up by
John Macpherson with the whiskey flask in case of accidents, toiled up
through the fern brakes, till half-way up the hill they struck the
path, and paused for breath beside a spring roughly set in masonry.
Beside it lay a pile of broken broomsticks, one of which Alice
Woodward took up, intending to use it as a staff.
"It will be the staves they are using to carry the coffins," remarked
old John, cheerfully, as he wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve;
"it is breaking them they are when they come down, at the wishing
well; and the lassies will come with them to wish for a jo---- Ay! ay!
it will be what they were using for old Peggy that the leddy will be
choosing, for it's new whatever."
Alice dropped the stick with a little shiver of disgust, and Paul
moved on impatiently, while John, in reply to a query from the Major,
went on from behind in garrulous tones, "Ou, ay! it is a job,
whatever, but it's most the auld bodies like Peggy that's wantin' to
come to the auld place, and they're fine and light; all but the old
_bodach_, Angus MacKinnon, and by 'sunder he will be a job when his
turn comes, for he's as big as a stirk. Ay! ay! as big as a stirk,
whatever."
"There! is not that worth the climb?" cried Paul, with a ring of real
pleasure in his voice which Marjory remembered so well on many a
similar occasion, as they reached the twin holly trees--sacred to an
older cult than that which had prompted the selection of a burial site
whence Iona might sometimes be seen--and sank down upon the short
thyme-set turf to admire the view.
"We are in luck!" cried Marjory, breathlessly. "Look! yonder is Iona."
Out on the verge, between the golden sea and the golden sky, lay a
faint purple cloud no bigger than a man's hand.
"But why Iona?" asked Alice Woodward. "I mean why did they want to be
buried in sight of it?"
"As a perpetual witness to their faith when they could no longer
profess it, I suppose," said Tom Kennedy. "I like the idea."
"Would be rather difficult to carry out in Kensal Green, I should
say," put in Paul, lightly. "It wouldn't do to bury by belief
nowadays."
"But, surely," protested the Reverend James, "the Church custom of
burying towards the east is strictly enforced in all English
cemeteries." He might as well have kept silence as far as those
three--who by chance were sitting together--were concerned, for their
thoughts were far ahead of him.
"I don't know," replied Dr. Kennedy, absently, "I think a broad
division would suffice. Those who hope--not necessarily for themselves
personally--and those who don't. And most of us, who care to think at
all, look 'sunward,' as Myers says, 'through the mist, and speak to
each other softly of a hope.'"
"A mistake," broke in Paul's clearer voice. "It is better to thank
with brief thanksgiving 'Whatever gods there be, that no life lives
for ever----'"
"Finish the quotation, please," put in Marjory, quickly. "'That e'en
the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.' What more can anyone
want?" She stretched her hand, as she spoke, to the glitter and gleam
on the far horizon, and then turned with a smile to her companions.
"And this is the sunniest spot in the whole glen--the first to
get the light, and the last to lose it. I couldn't wish for a better
resting-place."
"I should prefer the society of a cemetery," remarked Paul; "one's
tombstone would not be so detestably conspicuous as it would be up
here. Imagine it--Macleod of Gleneira, etc., etc.!"
"Why should you have a tombstone at all?" asked the girl, lightly. "I
hate them; horrid, unsatisfactory things, full of texts that have
nothing to do with you, yourself."
"Well," put in Major Bertie, who had just returned from a tour of
inspection, "there's an epitaph up there, which, as the Americans say,
wraps round everything, and makes discontent impossible--'To John
Stewart, his ancestors and descendants.' That ought to satisfy you,
Miss Carmichael; or you might compose your own curious derangement,
like a fellow I knew in the regiment--classical sort of chap. He used
to write the most touching things, and weep over them profusely. Got
blown up in the Arsenal one day, and didn't need any of them. It's a
fact, Macleod. Before your time. So, if you have a fancy that way,
Miss Carmichael----"
"I'll note it in my will," she replied evasively; then, hearing a low
voice beside her quoting the lines beginning, "He is beyond the shadow
of night," she turned to Paul in quick surprise.
"I have the knack of reading your thoughts, you see, though I don't
share them," he said quietly, adding in a lower tone: "And now,
Kennedy, I hurry no man's cattle, but if you are to catch that coach
you should be going, especially if Miss Carmichael is to see you to
the top of the ridge."
The inexpressible charm, which was his by nature, born of a gracious
remembrance of other folk's interest, was on him as he spoke, and
contrasted sharply with the lack of it in the Reverend James
Gillespie, who jumped to his feet in a moment in a desperate resolve.
"If you like, Miss Marjory, I will go so far, and escort you back."
Paul looked at him distastefully from head to foot, and Dr. Kennedy
frowned, and set the suggestion aside decisively. "Thanks, Gillespie,
but I have some business to talk over with my ward. Good-bye, Macleod,
and thanks--for many kindnesses."
"Good-bye, and--and good luck! Miss Woodward, if you don't mind, I
think we ought to be starting tea-wards. The downward path is easy,
but there are plenty of beauties to admire on the way. I am always too
much out of breath to do so on the upward path. Excelsior is not my
motto."
Yet as they paused at the first turn he looked back towards the two
figures cresting the rise, and remarked easily to his companion that
Miss Carmichael was quite a picture on the hillside, and walked like a
shepherd. And then, as easily, he proposed taking a _détour_ through a
nut wood, and so by a path he knew back to the beach.
"Alice would like a cup of tea, please; she is rather tired," he said
to his sister, when they arrived there, and Lady George gave a little
gasp of relief. "Oh, Paul! I'm so glad! What a dear boy you are!"
And about the same time Tom Kennedy and Marjory Carmichael stood side
by side on a neck of land connecting one range of hills with another.
The bog myrtle, crushed under their feet, sent an aromatic,
invigorating scent into the air. The fresh cool sea breeze, which had
gathered a heather perfume in its passage over the windswept moor,
blew in their faces, and a golden mist cloud, growing above the rising
shadow of the little valley on either side of them, shut out the world
below. The only sign of life, save those two standing hand in hand,
being a stone-chat twittering on a boulder, and a group of scared
sheep, waiting with backward turned heads for the next movement to
send them with a headlong rush and a clatter of stones into the mists
below.
But none came. For those two stood silent for a time.
"Oh, Tom!" she said at last; "was there ever anyone so good, so kind
as you are?"
He paused a moment, looking into her tearful eyes, and something of
the earth earthy, seemed to slip from him, leaving him a clearer
vision.
"You shall answer that question for yourself, some day, my friend," he
said. "A year hence--two years--three years. What does it matter?
_Auf-wieder-sehn!_"
"_Auf-wieder-sehn!_"
The echo of her own reply came back to her from the mist as she stood,
after he had gone, looking into the valley.
_Auf-wieder-sehn!_ Yes!--to such a tie as that there could be no other
parting.