THE TRYST.
At the close of a recent chapter, it is mentioned that Mary Lennox
had been shedding silent tears, and had not been without secret
misgivings or forebodings of coming sorrow.
Situated as she was with regard to Cyril, it was scarcely possible
that she should feel otherwise than restless when the absence of her
lover, and the circumstance of his having unavoidably broken some
appointments with her, were coupled with the hints of Chesters, and
the stories told her by her two gossiping old domestics, of the
wealth and undoubted beauty of the new resident at Willowdean.
Without absolutely cutting her--for that was a solecism in good
breeding of which she would be loth to be guilty--Lady Wedderburn had
too plainly held aloof from Mary Lennox in the few public places
where they met; and Mary had tolerated much of that "tabooing," but
with a bursting heart, for she could not forget that the haughty
offender was the mother of Cyril; though how little could that
scheming matron then know what Cyril was to Mary--what they were to
each other!
Though Mary mourned in her loneliness when he was absent with his
regiment, and moving then, as she knew, in a gay and fashionable
circle, his letters were a constant solace to her; and now that he
was at home, though she trusted him--or strove to do so--to see him
riding, driving, talking, and laughing with his cousin and other
ladies, while he could only accord her a furtive smile or a polite
bow, fretted, galled, and humilitated her; for she could not forget
much of her father's teaching, or that she was a lady whose
forefathers had a name among the Scottish Border Barons long before
the Wedderburns had an acre of land in the Merse.
She began to recall, perhaps too much, the artful insinuations of
Chesters, and to brood over them till they sank deep into her heart.
She began also to repine and fear a little when she heard of all
those things--of such gaieties at Willowdean as the season of
conventional mourning permitted; and when she knew that he was
constantly thrown in the society of this perilous beauty--when he was
away for days with her and other ladies at race meetings and other
places; and now, through Doctor Squills and the Minister's wife,
almost her only other visitors, came a rumour that he and she were to
have quite a little cruise in the Master of Ernescleugh's yacht, to
the Isle of May, to Coquetmouth, to Lindisfarne Abbey, and other
places. So when she thought of all the advantages of propinquity,
and remembered all she had heard and read of the pleasant intercourse
that cousinship permitted, and how much more a recently known cousin
might be likely to impress him than one long known from infancy like
a sister, her poor little heart trembled within her!
One day, however, she was made happy by Lady Wedderburn bowing to her
pleasantly, and even stopping the carriage to ask for Mr. Lennox, but
that was in the fulness of her heart after the restoration of her son.
"So your mamma is coming round to me by degrees, at least, Cyril,"
said Mary, with a hopeful smile.
But Cyril knew too well what his mother's secret aspirations were,
and answered only with a sigh.
Three days after this, gossips had been at work, and when Lady
Wedderburn saw her in the little street of Willowdean she looked
straight at the ears of her horses as the handsome carriage bowled
away on the Ernescleugh road, without according a glance of
recognition to Mary, who felt crushed and hurt keenly, all the more
so that she saw the dark eyes of Gwendoleyne remarking her with an
expression of interest; and Mary could judge for herself how great
was the girl's beauty.
Mary knew that it was tradition in her family that two ladies of it,
both sisters, had died as nuns among the Cistertians at Lennel, and
somehow, now she often thought of those two women, their reasons for
becoming recluses, and wondered if they had found within their cells
the peace she feared she would not find in the world. Then she
smiled a bitter smile, as she thought that nothing lasted for ever;
that all things passed away; that even Lennel was a shattered ruin,
and its cemetery, where the sisters lay, had been swept away by the
Tweed into the sea.
All unaware of the gloomy misgivings of her he loved, in the evening
after the long and unpleasant conversation with his mother, Cyril,
after riding from one of the gates of Willowdean as if going towards
Greenlaw, the county town, turned off abruptly by a narrow bye way,
and took that for Lonewoodlee, for he was to meet Mary at the stile,
which quite as often as the coppice formed their place of tryst.
He was full of perplexing thoughts, and permitting the reins to drop
on his horse's neck, let the animal proceed at a slow walk along the
path which led only towards the residence of Mr. Lennox.
He felt that some explanation, some more open and more decided
arrangement, were imperatively due to a girl of Mary's position and
character; but, as already stated, he dreaded the opposition of his
whole family; he dreaded the debts he had contracted in his folly,
and to marry on his pay--if his father in his indignation reduced him
to that--a pittance which barely paid for his messing, glazed boots
and cigars--would be the act of a madman, even if Mary would consent
to it; but then he knew that Mary, even were she as rich as his
cousin Gwendoleyne, would not do so at present, as she was chained by
filial love and duty to her father's sick-bed.
Well, that necessity freed him from one item of responsibility in the
awkward position of their affairs.
Cyril drew from his portemonnaie a ring; it was a plain hoop, and so
like a wedding one that it might have passed as such, but for a
single diamond of great value that was set therein, and this altered
its character. It was a tiny ring too, and he trusted it would fit
the dear finger for which he intended it. With a fond smile he
replaced it in his purse, and dismounting at the stile, threw the
bridle of his horse over his arm, and looked around him.
The stile was old and well worn by the footsteps of many a wayfarer.
It was simply formed by three great stones, projecting from an
ancient wall, and stood in a sequestered place, secret and lonesome,
where the pink and white hawthorn usually bloomed and scented the air
ere the end of May; where the pendant cups of the bright foxglove and
the blue-bell mingled with the brown autumn fern, among which the
hare and rabbit lurked, and where hardy little thistles grew in every
cleft, while over all towered the triple arms of a gigantic thorn of
vast age, whereon many a Scottish outlaw and English moss-trooper had
been hung "in his boots," as the phrase went, in the foraying times
of old; for the whole Borderland is full of such dark memories.
Around the pastoral hills stood up grim and silent against the red
sunset sky. As Cyril looked on all these objects, so long familiar
to his eyes, he pondered on what other scenery they might be resting
ere long, and where that day month might find him; too probably far
away at sea, on board a transport crowded with troops, longing to be
ashore and in front of the enemy.
And Mary too had often surveyed their meeting-place with wistful eyes
and boding heart, thinking how lonely it would be when he should come
no more, and how terribly desolate it seemed when he was supposed to
be lost to her and all the world; and how often had she shuddered at
the story of the midnight race, the plunge, and the narrow
escape--the rescue of her Cyril from a terrible death!
His mother's taunt was yet tingling in his ears; and now, lest
watchful eyes might be upon them, he almost dreaded to meet Mary at
the accustomed stile or in the coppice; for had not Chesters basely
condescended to spy upon their meeting there?
"Ah!" thought Cyril, "had I but known of such a circumstance on that
terrible night, instead of sharing his sham hospitality, my
hunting-whip and Rooke Chesters' shoulders had made an intimate and
not to be forgotten acquaintance."
Cyril had but a minute or two to wait, when the slight figure of
Mary, so lithe, graceful, and so compact, from her little round hat
and feather to her brass-heeled Balmorals, came tripping down the
pathway between two fields, and ascended the stile, from whence his
ready hand now helped her down.
"Cyril, dearest Cyril, I have kept you waiting," said she, looking
upward with a strange and earnest expression in her violet-blue eyes.
Secure as she had been of his love, and familiar with it, there had
always been a charming shyness in Mary's manner when with Cyril; now
it was sad and gloomy, though visibly she sought to conceal it,
affecting to smile, and with her tightly-gloved hand to twirl,
nervously, her parasol upon her shoulder.
"And what of your papa to-day?" he asked.
"Kind Cyril, you always ask for him, my only and unfailing friend;
papa is sleeping: he always takes an after-dinner nap; but when I
watch him thus there always comes over me a horrible, an awful
thought, Cyril!"
"What--which?"
"If he were dead--DEAD--my dear papa, instead of only sleeping, what
should I do then?"
"Rely on me, darling," he whispered, and drew her close to him, and
now he observed that Mary had her veil tied tightly over her face, to
conceal her tears, perhaps.
"I can't kiss you through _that_ thing, dearest," he urged, while
endeavouring to remove it.
"Better not kiss me at all. Oh, would that you had never done so,
Cyril!"
His fine dark blue eyes possessed usually a wonderful, a magnetic
power of fascination in them; but on this occasion they failed to
reassure Mary, who, despite all her efforts at self-control, began to
weep, and Cyril, with his natural abhorrence of a scene, felt more of
worry than wonder.
"What _is_ the matter? Speak, darling Mary," he urged, tenderly; for
he could see that she looked wan, and a dark tinge that lay under
each of her eyes, was visible through the purity of her skin.
"Oh, forgive me, Cyril, forgive me!"
"For what?" he asked, with growing wonder.
"For having doubted your affection; but doubts did begin to steal
into my head. I began to fear there was a change somewhere, and I
have been praying humbly to God that you might not love me less now
than before."
"Love you less! I do not comprehend!"
"Yes, yes," sobbed Mary, nestling her sad little face on the breast
of his black velvet shooting coat; "for Chesters hinted to me----"
"What dared he to hint?" exclaimed Cyril, striking his spurred heel
into the gravel.
"Oh, pardon me, Cyril. I know not what I am saying. I have slept so
little for two or three nights past. I never do sleep when I have
not seen you, and Cyril, you seem always so gay and happy with her--I
mean--those people with whom I see you at times."
"Gay, Mary? Yes. I have to smile, like the Spartan boy, who had the
fox under his mantle--the fox whose teeth devoured his vitals,"
replied Cyril, making rather a far-fetched simile. "One is not
always happy when smiling. I think ever of you, when absent, of our
coming separation, and the difficulties of our mutual position."
There was a pause, during which he looked tenderly and lovingly into
the violet eyes of Mary, and thought how dovelike, sad, and sweet
they were in expression.
Then he began to perceive her ruling thought by her leading question.
"Your new cousin seems to be a most attractive girl. Is she not so?"
"Very. Her eyes are gloriously beautiful, Mary."
"Oh, indeed," said Mary, while her nether lip quivered, her eyes
drooped, and a pallor almost ghastly stole over her soft face.
"Yes, just like yours, except that the lids are not so finely formed,
nor the lashes, though thick, so long."
"Am I to compare with her?" she asked, a little assured.
"Yes," said Cyril, smiling back at the wistful smile.
"Indeed!"
"Yes; but you would gain immensely by the comparison. But come, my
dearest, there must be no pouting, no doubt of me, no jealousy of
poor Gwenny. You know how dearly I love, and have ever loved
you--ay, almost since you were a mere girl, when I came home from
India, and brought your dead brother's sword and rings to
Lonewoodlee; but listen to me now, I have much to say, and may not
have so good an opportunity again."
His left arm was round her waist; their right hands were clasped
together, and as Mary's head drooped on his shoulder, her words
became sighs or only half-articulated tenderness. She looked
helpless and beautiful, soft and ladylike; and once more, in the
tumult of his heart, Cyril, with broken accents, urged a private
marriage, for her further security, in case the worst should happen
to him; but Mary was firm, and with tears and paleness--not
blushes--spoke of her father's health, and how she would not and
could not, with honour to herself, marry even Cyril (whom she loved
as her own soul) in a fashion such as he proposed, as it would insure
the contempt of his family and the doubt of society; and this she
reiterated again, firmly, sadly, earnestly, and with her eyes full of
tears, till Cyril became convinced that the idea was impolitic,
unwise, and not calculated to conduce to their future happiness.
He drew the glove from her left hand, and while placing the diamond
ring upon her wedding finger--a slender little finger it was--he drew
her still closer to his breast.
"Mary," he whispered, "my darling Mary, you are the secret wife of my
heart. Never let this betrothal ring--the ring that binds you to
me--leave your finger until I replace it by one that shall be
consecrated!" and he kissed her on the eyes, and then the hand that
bore the symbol which was indicative of affection long before the
days of Juvenal.
"As your wife, Cyril, I shall ever deem myself; as your widow, should
we never meet again!" said Mary, in a soft, low, agitated voice.
And with something of a prayer in his heart, Cyril lifted his hat, as
he kissed her once more. After this they became more composed, even
more happy, perhaps, for their hearts became filled with a divine
trust in themselves and in the future.
"Yet what shall I do when you are far away from me, Cyril?" asked
Mary. "Men love so differently from women. They have their
avocations, occupations--their friends and amusements. The lonely
woman can but brood and weep in silence: her heart, thrust back upon
herself as it were, for lack of the thousand little tendernesses and
kindnesses that the man she loves can alone bestow."
"True, Mary; but do not repine thus, darling."
The twilight had deepened into the gloaming now, and even that was
darkening fast; so leading his horse by the bridle, Cyril walked
along the lonely hill-side path with Mary towards her home, and at
last, with happy hearts, they parted at the end of the ancient
thicket.
"Shall I see you to-morrow, Cyril?" she asked, as he mounted.
"It is impossible, Mary. I am engaged to dine at Ernescleugh, and
that place lies in quite an opposite direction from this. Adieu till
next evening. Adieu, with a thousand kisses to you."
And he galloped away.
Mary's heart misgave her; he was to dine at Ernescleugh, with Everard
Home. She had, with a reticence that was unwise and unlike her,
shrank nervously from speaking to Cyril of her enforced detention at
Chesterhaugh; but now she trembled lest the young Master of
Ernescleugh had recognised her in the waggonette, and might speak of
the strange circumstance of her being there with Chesters, and at
such an hour.
The demon of doubt had been removed from her heart; but fear now took
his place, and a time came when Mary repented bitterly of the
reticence in question.
She was alternately happy and fearful--longing intently for her next
meeting with Cyril, and resolved to tell him openly of the only
secret that haunted her; and she was never weary of kissing and
looking at the ring, the solemn link which bound her fate to that of
Cyril Wedderburn.
And now, when she thought of the place where it had been placed upon
her finger--the old triple thorn tree--there came back to memory a
quaint legend connected with her family. It was a little ominous, so
far as regarded the ring, and yet Mary laughed.
For local tradition avers that, in the days when Mary of Lorraine was
Regent of Scotland, Malcolm Lennox, younger brother of Oliver, who
built the present Tower of Lonewoodlee, was a famous Border warrior,
who caused an infinite deal of trouble and anxiety to the Governor of
Berwick, the Captain of Norham, and other Wardens along the English
Border. Like his compatriot, Sir William of Deloraine--
"A stark moss-trooping Scot was he
As ere couched Border lance by knee.
Blindfold he knew the paths to cross,
By Solway sands and Tarra Moss.
By wily turns and desperate bounds,
He baffled Percy's best bloodhounds."
But one night he had got more wine than usual, when supping with the
Laird of Thirlstane, and lost his way in Dogden Moss, where he must
have perished, had not a beautiful young woman, who suddenly
appeared, become his guide to firm land, and before daybreak he had
betrothed himself to her, and placed on a finger of her left hand a
golden ring.
Some nights after this, he was assailed by a multitude of wild cats,
who seemed to have been holding a species of "sabbatt," or Walpurgis
festival, at the triple thorn tree, and had to defend himself with a
sword. In the course of this strange _mêlée_ he hewed the foreleg
from one which had made itself particularly obnoxious in the assault;
and on the yelling grimalkins taking to flight, he found that his
trenchant whinger had amputated, not the limb of a cat, but the fair
and handsome arm of a young woman; and on a finger of the hand he
found his own ring, and knew thereby that he had betrothed himself to
a witch!
He never recovered his horror of this adventure; he became more
reckless of life than ever, and perished some years after in the
famous Raid of the Redswire, on the green ridge of the Carterfells,
pierced by three English arrows. This was the last conflict of any
importance fought on the Borders prior to the union of the Crowns,
and was chiefly remarkable from the circumstance that the Scots won
the day by being well supplied with firearms, while the English had
only the long-bow, with bill and spear.