THE TRYST AT HALLOWS BRIG
It was a clear, cool evening when Carsluith Maxwell leaned on the rails
of a footbridge which spanned the river, looking up at the old place of
Culmeny. It rose from the stony hillside, a straggling pile of time-worn
masonry, with all its narrow windows aflame with the evening light, and
the green of ivy softening its rugged simplicity. A square tower formed
its major portion, and this had been built with no pretense at adornment
in troubled days when the Maxwells had won and held their possessions
with the mailed hand. They had been, for the most part, soldiers of
fortune, and their descendant recalled the traditions of his race as,
turning, he looked south and east across the shining flood-tide toward
the Solway sands.
More of his forbears had, when there was scarcity at Culmeny--which was
generally the case--ridden that way in steel cap and dinted harness than
ever rode back, and Carsluith Maxwell had hitherto fulfilled the family
destiny, chancing his life in modern ventures where the risks were
perhaps as heavy as any the old moss-troopers ran. Now, however, he had
come to a turning-point in his career, and that night must decide
whether he applied his energies to the slow conversion of barren mosses
into arable land, or went forth again to seek his fortune over seas. The
wandering life appealed to his instincts; and fortune had not wholly
evaded him; but he had recognized of late that unless he could share it
with one woman, even prosperity would have little value for him. There
was a trace of melancholy almost akin to superstition in his nature, and
it was with a curious smile that he turned toward Culmeny to put his
fate to the test. If Lilian Chatterton would not listen, it was high
time to begin his search for the African mine.
In the meantime, Hilton Dane sat in the hall of Culmeny waiting for a
word with Maxwell, and also until it was time to keep his appointment at
the Hallows Brig. Three narrow, diamond-paned windows with rose lights
in the crown of their lancets pierced one end of the hall, and the
fading sunlight beating through, forced up into brightness the
pale-tinted dresses of his companions. They were young and comely women,
and, because the rest of the dark-paneled room was wrapped in shadow,
neither face nor dainty figure suffered from being silhouetted against a
somber background. A cluster of late roses in a silver bowl, and the
tawny skin of an African leopard on the polished floor, both touched by
the tinted gleam, formed by contrast glowing patches of color.
Nevertheless, Dane's eyes most often rested upon Lilian Chatterton, who
sat near an open window with a ruddy glory blazing in her hair, while
the dark oak behind it emphasized the delicate chiseling of her face.
There was a stamp of decision upon it as well as refinement.
"Is it not wonderfully peaceful to-night?" she said, glancing out across
the velvet lawn. A few roses still flowered along one side of it, a tall
clipped hedge hemmed it in, and, beyond the lawn, fir wood, yellow
stubble, and meadow rolled down to the silver shining of the sea. The
whole lay steeped in the sunset, serenely beautiful; but the black
shadow of the firs lengthened rapidly across the grass.
"You are all very silent," the girl continued. "Why does not somebody
agree with me? Don't you think it peaceful, Margaret? This might be an
enchanted garden, and yonder hedge a barrier impassable to care. It is
good to talk nonsense occasionally; and to-night one could almost fancy
that no cause for trouble might enter here."
As she spoke, Dane noticed that the gloom of the firs had swallowed most
of the lawn, and the coincidence struck him as an unfortunate augury.
Lilian had known little of either sorrow or care; and having learned by
painful experience that the balance of light and darkness is determined
by immutable law, the man trembled for her.
Margaret Maxwell laughed a little.
"You are distinctly fanciful. Culmeny has seen very little of either
peace or prosperity. The spot where this very garden stands was once
worn down by the hoofs of stolen cattle, and the feet of armed men bent
on exterminating the gentle Maxwells who plundered them. We also read
that the serpent entered Eden, and have the authority of Milton and
others for picturing the Prince of Darkness as a somewhat courtly
gentleman; while one notices that when there is unusual harmony, trouble
not infrequently follows the advent of a man. It is a coincidence, but
that ditty should herald Carsluith's coming."
A voice rose out of the adjoining meadow chanting a plaintive ditty in
an unknown tongue. The air resembled nothing Lilian had heard before,
and she leaned forward listening, for the refrain, pitched in a
mournful minor key, was equally striking.
"I did not know your brother sang so well; but I do not like that song.
It strikes one as uncanny," she said.
Margaret Maxwell nodded.
"It is West African, and that, I understand, is an uncanny country. My
brother spent some time there. He really sings--as he does most things
when he thinks it worth while, which is not always--tolerably well."
The song died away as Carsluith Maxwell came lightly across the lawn,
and Dane noticed that the last of the sunlight faded and the shadows
shut in both himself and Lilian Chatterton when the newcomer entered
through the open window.
"I did not know I had such an audience, or I should have been too
diffident to play the nightingale," Maxwell laughed.
"Miss Chatterton did not like your song, though she admired its
rendering," said Margaret mischievously. "But what put that doleful
composition into your head to-night?"
"Association of ideas, most probably," answered Maxwell, with a smile on
his lips, but none in his eyes. "I met the post-carrier, and must decide
forthwith whether I shall follow up my African scheme or not. It is
curious, but by the same token I'm standing with my heel on the neck of
the leopard, and I feel inclined to say God send it be a true augury.
You have your foot upon him, too, Miss Chatterton; and that is a very
ill-omened beast."
"How so?" asked Lilian. "It cannot be very large or terrible, to judge
by its skin."
"It holds a country larger than Scotland in terror," replied Maxwell.
"There are whole tribes of black men who tremble at the sight of a tuft
of leopard's fur."
"As an insignia, I suppose; but the beast is clearly vulnerable." Lilian
stooped and pointed to the fur. "Surely that is the work of a bullet."
"You have keen eyes," said Maxwell. "The taxidermist did his best to
hide it. That hole was made when I first pitted myself against the
leopard by shooting one to convince my carriers the thing was mortal.
For some time I suspected that was the beginning of a duel."
"And now?" interposed his sister, with a trace of anxiety.
"Now I almost hope I was mistaken," said Carsluith Maxwell. "With your
permission, I have one or two things to see to, and should like a word
with Hilton."
They went out together, and presently Dane returned alone to bid Miss
Maxwell adieu.
"You have been very patient during the last hour," said that lady. "Now
that you have seen Carsluith, one could not, of course, expect too much
from you."
"I have been very self-indulgent," said Dane, who had seen the elfish
child again and promised to meet his correspondent. "Still, there is a
limit to everybody's opportunities for enjoyment, and unfortunately I
must tear myself away."
Margaret Maxwell glanced at him sharply, for she fancied that he spoke
with sincerity, as indeed he did; but Dane, having given his promise,
intended to keep it. She also glanced at Lilian, and decided that Miss
Chatterton was not wholly pleased.
"Carsluith proposed to drive you both home. Can you not wait until he is
ready?" she suggested.
"I fear I cannot," answered Dane, with a trace of confusion. "The fact
is, I have an appointment to keep."
He left them a trifle abruptly, and Miss Maxwell turned to Lilian.
"Whom can your guest have an appointment with? He looked positively
guilty. I fear that he must have fallen into the toils of some rustic
beauty, which, considering his opportunities, shows a deplorably
defective taste."
If Lilian felt any resentment she showed no sign of it; but she was a
little more quiet than usual while they awaited the return of Carsluith
Maxwell.
Dane, remembering Lilian's glance of interrogation, hurried toward the
Hallows Brig in a somewhat uncertain humor. Though the hillside was
still projected blackly against a pale gleam of saffron above, it was
nearly but not quite dark when he reached the bridge, and the water sang
mournfully through the deepening gloom of the firs. The cool air was
fragrant with the faint sweetness of honeysuckle, and the calling of
curlew rose from a misty meadow; and it seemed to Dane that the slight,
shadowy figure which presently flitted toward him was in keeping with
the spirit of the scene. When the girl halted beside him there was still
just sufficient light to show that her face was comely. Hilton Dane was
not given to wandering fancies, and had long carried Lilian Chatterton's
photograph about with him; but he felt compassionate when he saw the
anxiety in the thin face, and noticed that the girl's lips were
quivering.
"Miss Johnstone, I presume?" he said. "Will you please tell me why you
sent for me?"
"I will try, sir," was the answer. "I have two little sisters to bring
up on what I earn by my needle, and what Jim can spare; but work has
been ill to get at the quarries, and, now when Jim's in prison, and
winter's no far away, I'm afraid to wonder what will be the outcome if
he is convicted."
"He should have considered such risks before he attempted to steal
another man's partridges," said Dane, with a poor attempt at severity.
"Poaching is not stealing, sir!" There was a ring in the girl's voice.
"Sorrow on the game that steals the farmer's corn to make a rich man's
pleasure, and tempts a poor man to his ruin! May ye never learn, sir,
what it is to choose between stealing and starving."
"The question is, what do you wish me to do?"
"To let Jim off, sir," was the answer; and the girl's eyes were eager to
tearfulness as she fixed them on the man, who frowned, perhaps because
he felt the appeal in them almost irresistible. "It was a dark night,
and maybe ye could not be quite certain. It was the others who tempted
him. He will go no more poaching if he once wins clear, and if the
fiscal sends him to prison the bairns will be hungry often or the
winter's through. It's for their sakes I'm asking; and the neighbors say
there will be no conviction if ye cannot swear to Jim."
Perhaps it was Dane's duty to sternly rebuke the pleader, but she
appeared half-fed and desperately anxious; and the face of her tiny
sister, with its look of childish confidence, rose up before his fancy.
He had once, and with little compunction, cut down with a shovel a
frenzied Italian laborer who led a mutiny, but now, though he set his
lips firmly for a moment, his eyes were pitiful.
"I am afraid what you suggest would not be right," he said presently.
"Does your father not help you at all?"
The girl's "No," expressed a good deal, and the despair in her voice
completed the man's discomfiture.
"I'm sorry; I had no right to ask," he said. "I am sure, at least, that
it was not your brother who broke my head, because--because he was not
in a position to attack anybody just then--and, for the sake of the
little ones, if there is any doubt at all--and I dare say there will be,
he shall have full benefit. But I cannot set him at liberty to continue
poaching; and the neighboring land-owners will probably see that he gets
no more work at the quarries; so he must take a letter from me to a
contractor who will no doubt find him employment."
Here, to the consternation of Dane, who did not know that his underfed
and overworked companion had done a courageous and, in the eyes of her
neighbors, a very suspicious thing, the girl broke out into half-choked
sobbing.
"You really must not cry," he pleaded awkwardly. "It is distressing to
me; and it is not my fault that your brother's friends cut my head open.
However, as I am the unfortunate cause of your distress, if the little
ones have suffered already it would be my duty to--to see they
didn't--you understand me?"
The girl, though still tearful, drew herself up with some show of pride.
"I'm no asking ye for money. The relief was just overmuch for me; but,
and it's a last favor, ye will no tell Miss Chatterton. Her good word
means work and bread to me."
"I am not likely to tell Miss Chatterton," the man assured her; then
added in haste: "If I did, she would not blame you."
"Maybe! Ye will not tell her," the girl said enigmatically, and then
once more caught her breath.
Dane, being unpleasantly uncertain what she might say or do in an
hysterical attack, felt it incumbent on him to soothe her, and laid a
hand reassuringly on her shoulder. It is possible that his companion
found comfort in the grasp, or instinctively recognized the touch of an
honest man, for she made no effort to evade it. As it happened, the lane
was grass-grown and sandy, and the river frothed noisily down a rapid
beyond the bridge. Thus neither of them heard the fall of hoofs until a
sudden glare of light beat into the face of the man. Fate had decreed
that the driver of the approaching vehicle should not only light the
lamps a little earlier than usual, but choose the longest road.
The result was unfortunate, for Dane, acting on impulse, drew the girl
farther back into the shadow of the hedge, and stood before her with his
hand still on her arm. The light had partly dazzled him, but he
recognized in the occupants of the dog-cart Lilian Chatterton and
Carsluith Maxwell, and barely choked back an expletive. Neither, if they
had seen him, showed any sign of recognition, which, however, was hardly
to be expected under the circumstances. Then, as the vehicle jolted on,
the girl, seeing the chagrin in the man's face, gazed at him curiously,
and with half-coherent thanks hurried away, leaving Dane in a state of
savage dismay.
"It is confoundedly hard on an unfortunate and innocent man! This is a
situation which will require considerable explaining, and I shall
probably never have an opportunity for attempting it," he muttered.
In the meantime Lilian Chatterton felt the hot blood surge upward from
her neck, and was thankful that the darkness partly hid her face. It is
true that she had effectively, so she hoped, put an end to any
aspirations Dane might have cherished; but when he had once accepted the
position there was no longer any necessity to conceal the fact that to a
certain degree she found his society congenial, or to consider how far
her interest in him might carry her. His complaisance had been the more
gratifying because she fancied it was not every woman who could bend
such an individual to her will. Lilian, however, had not only set up a
somewhat elevated standard of conduct for herself, but was inclined to
judge harshly those who fell beneath it; and now she was unmistakably,
if illogically, angry. The knowledge that the man had gone out fresh
from her presence to keep such an assignation stung her pride to the
quick, and brought the crimson to her very forehead. It was, she
considered, an unforgivable insult. Still, she had but seen him dimly
for a second, and might be mistaken, and so she turned toward her
companion.
"It is curious that I should fancy there was something familiar in the
voices we overheard," she said as lightly as she could.
Maxwell had learned discretion.
"Voices are always deceptive," he answered. "One should never trust to a
fanciful resemblance. The bridge is a favorite trysting-place for rustic
lovers; as one result of the sudden appearance of a pair of them, this
excitable beast managed to upset me the last time I approached it."
Carsluith Maxwell had done his best for his friend, and it was not his
fault that he had only confirmed the girl's suspicions, and set her
wondering if all men were equally perfidious.
"That being so, was it not very thoughtless of you to drive me this
way?" she inquired, with some asperity.
"Guilty," laughed Maxwell. "May I plead in extenuation that it is the
longest?"
He sprang down and looped the reins round a gatepost when they reached
the winding drive which led up to The Larches.
"Do you mind alighting here, Miss Chatterton?" he asked.
"No," said Lilian. "But may I inquire the reason?"
"A desire not to risk your safety a second time. The drive is very dark,
the horse addicted to bolting on opportunity; and it would be hard to do
justice to what I must tell you if I were forced to watch him. The task
is sufficiently beyond me already; I would give a good deal for the
power of eloquence."
Lilian was startled, for the speaker had certainly not worn his heart on
his sleeve.
"Could you not wait until to-morrow?" she asked with some trepidation.
"I am afraid not," said Maxwell, a trifle grimly. "I fear this must be a
surprise to you, but circumstances prevent my waiting, and it is even
better to hear one's sentence than to remain in suspense. Won't you
listen?"
Lilian, seeing there was no escape, bent her head; and, if Maxwell had
not the gift of eloquence, he could compress a good deal into a few
brief sentences. There was no superfluous protestation. The man spoke
abruptly, but Lilian could not doubt the earnestness in his voice, or,
as he stood hat in hand under the lamplight, mistake the look in his
eyes. She saw that what he offered was the enduring love of one who
could be trusted to the utmost, and the few pointed words revealed
depths of tenderness she had hardly suspected in him.
"I am sorry, very sorry--but it is impossible," she said softly.
Maxwell moved a pace or two forward, and his face seemed to have grown
suddenly haggard.
"Think," he urged hoarsely. "This means so much to me. Will it always be
impossible? I shall not change."
Lilian fancied she could believe him. She looked him fully in the eyes
as she answered.
"It can never be possible. I am sorry. If I had known, I should have
tried to warn you. You must forget me."
Maxwell recognized finality in her tone. For the space of several
seconds he turned his head away. Then he faced round again, speaking
very quietly:
"You have nothing to reproach yourself with. The mistake was mine. I
shall, however, never forget you; and I want you to promise that if any
adversity overtakes you--which God forbid--you will remember me. I sail
for Africa shortly, and it may be long before we meet again. Now I will
walk with you up the drive."
He held out his arm, and Lilian wondered a little at his composure as
she laid her hand on it and they passed together into the blackness of
the firs.
Miss Chatterton had not long joined her aunt when Dane came in, and
glanced in her direction as he made some not oversapient observation to
Chatterton. She did not avoid his gaze, but met it coldly, and,
gathering up some needlework, moved without ostentation, but
deliberately, out of the room. No speech could have been plainer, and
Dane grew hot, while the fingers of one hand contracted without his
will.
"You don't look well, Hilton," remarked Thomas Chatterton. "Is your head
troubling you?"
"No," said Dane. "I must have walked tolerably fast, and I am perhaps a
trifle shaky yet. With Mrs. Chatterton's permission I will go out and
smoke a cigar."
He passed out, and the iron-master smiled as he looked at his wife.
"Can you tell me what is the meaning of this?" he asked.
"Your inquiry is indefinite; and why do you ask me?"
"Because I think you ought to know," Chatterton answered dryly. "Women
generally have a finger in it whenever there is trouble."
"Even if true, that is not strikingly original," Mrs. Chatterton
retorted. "I have not noticed anything unusual."
"Then listen," and Chatterton pointed toward the window. "When a young
man goes out for a stroll he does not usually stamp in that savage
fashion upon the gravel. Now, I want your candid opinion."
"You shall have it," said the lady, smiling. "I believe that no good
ever resulted from a choleric elderly gentleman's interference in
affairs beyond his comprehension."
Meanwhile Carsluith Maxwell stood talking to his sister in the hall of
Culmeny.
"After what has happened, the sooner I get out on my African venture the
more pleasant it will be for all concerned," he said gloomily. "It is a
good country where one can forget one's troubles; in fact, there are so
many peculiarly its own that I don't know a better."
"Poor Carsluith! It will be a heavy disappointment to father. He is
failing more rapidly than I care to notice, and had begun to lean on
you. I don't think I can forgive her. Yes; go out, and forget her."
"It was not Miss Chatterton's fault," Maxwell declared quickly. "She
never, to use the inappropriate phrase, encouraged me. It was my own
folly to hope that she could stoop to me."
"Without any wish to flatter you, I consider that Miss Chatterton might
have stooped a good deal farther," said Margaret Maxwell. "However, we
need not go into that; and I am only sorry you are so hardly hit. I
wonder if it was because of Dane?"
"No," Maxwell answered with decision. "I can't exactly tell you why, but
I am certain it was not because of Dane."
His sister said nothing further, though she was not convinced. Her heart
was heavy for her brother, because she knew the Maxwell temperament, and
that he was not the man to change.
Carsluith passed out into the darkness, and leaning against a fir, spoke
half aloud:
"No man Miss Chatterton had smiled upon could scatter his affections as
Dane seems to have done. Pshaw! The thing is perfectly impossible!"
This was, perhaps, a greater tribute to the speaker's loyalty than to
his knowledge of human nature, though Carsluith Maxwell was usually
accounted a shrewd man.