Mrs. Methven had time to recover from the agitation and trouble of the
morning before her visitors' arrival. Walter's aspect had so much
changed when he appeared that her fears were calmed, though not
dispelled. He was very pale, and had an air of exhaustion, to which his
softened manners and evident endeavour to please her gave an almost
pathetic aspect. Her heart was touched, as it is easy to touch the heart
of a mother. She had watched him go out in his boat with a faint
awakening of that pleasure with which in ordinary circumstances a woman
in the retirement of age sees her children go out to their pleasure. It
gave her a satisfaction full of relief, and a sense of escape from evils
which she had feared, without knowing what she feared, to watch the
lessening speck of the boat, and to feel that her son was finding
consolation in natural and uncontaminated pleasures, in the pure air and
sky and sunshine of the morning. When he came back he was a little less
pale, though still strangely subdued and softened. He told her that she
was about to receive a visit from his nearest neighbours--"the young
lady," he added, after a pause, "who brought you across the loch."
"Miss Forrester--and her mother, no doubt? I shall be glad to see them,
Walter."
"I hope so, mother--for there is no way in which you can do me so much
good."
"You mean--this is the lady of whom you spoke to me--" Her countenance
fell a little, for what he had said to her was not reassuring; he had
spoken of one who would bring money with her, but who was not the best.
"No, mother; I have never told you what I did yesterday. I asked
that--lady of whom I spoke--to give me her money and her lands to add to
mine, and she would not. She was very right. I approved of her with all
my heart."
"Walter! my dear, you have been so--well--and so--like yourself this
morning. Do not fall into that wild way of speaking again."
"No," he said, "if all goes well--never again if all goes well;" and
with this strange speech he left her not knowing what to think. She
endeavoured to recall to her memory the half-seen face which had been by
her side crossing the dark water: but all the circumstances had been so
strange, and the loch itself had given such a sensation of alarm and
trouble to the traveller, that everything was dim like the twilight in
her recollection. A soft voice, with the unfamiliar accent of the
north, a courteous and pleasant frankness of accost, a strange sense of
thus encountering, half-unseen, some one who was no stranger, nor
unimportant in her life--these were the impressions she had brought out
of the meeting. In all things this poor lady was like a stranger
suddenly introduced into a world unknown to her, where great matters,
concerning her happiness and very existence, were hanging upon
mysterious decisions of others, unknown, and but to be guessed at
faintly through a strange language and amidst allusions which conveyed
no meaning to her mind. Thus she sat wondering, waiting for the coming
of--she could scarcely tell whom--of some one with whom she could do
more good for Walter than by anything else, yet who was not the lady to
whom he had offered himself only yesterday. Could there be any
combination more confusing? And when, amid all this mystery, as she sat
with her heart full of tremulous questions and fears, there came
suddenly into this darkling, uncomprehended world of hers the soft and
smiling certainty of Mrs. Forrester, kind and simple, and full of
innocent affectations, with her little airs of an old beauty, and her
amiable confidence in everybody's knowledge and interest, Mrs. Methven
had nearly laughed aloud with that keen sense of mingled disappointment
and relief which throws a certain ridicule upon such a scene. The sweet
gravity of Oona behind was but a second impression. The first was of
this simple, easy flood of kind and courteous commonplace, which
changed at once the atmosphere and meaning of the scene.
"We are all very glad upon the loch to hear that Lord Erradeen has got
his mother with him," said the guileless visitor, "for everything is the
better of a lady in the house. Oh, yes, you will say, that is a woman's
opinion, making the most of her own side: but you just know very well it
is true. We have not seen half so much of Lord Erradeen as we would have
liked--for in my circumstances we have very little in our power. No
gentleman in the house; and what can two ladies do to entertain a young
man, unless he will be content with his tea in the afternoon? and that
is little to ask a gentleman to. However, I must say all the neighbours
are very good-natured, and just accept what we have got to give."
"Your daughter was most kind to me when I arrived," said Mrs. Methven.
"I should have felt very lonely without her help."
"That was nothing. It was just a great pleasure to Oona, who is on the
loch from morning to night," said Mrs. Forrester. "It was a great chance
for her to be of use. We have little happening here, and the news was a
little bit of excitement for us all. You see, though I have boys of my
own, they are all of them away--what would they do here?--one in Canada,
and one in Australia, and three, as I need not say, in India--that is
where all our boys go--and doing very well, which is just all that heart
can desire. It has been a pleasure from the beginning that Lord
Erradeen reminds me so much of my Rob, who is now up with his regiment
in the north-west provinces, and a very promising young officer, though
perhaps it is not me that should say so. The complexion is different,
but I have always seen a great likeness. And now, Lord Erradeen, I hope
you will bring Mrs. Methven soon, as long as the fine weather lasts, to
the isle?"
Mrs. Methven made a little civil speech about taking the first
opportunity, but added, "I have seen nothing yet--not even this old
castle of which I have heard so much."
"It is looking beautiful this afternoon, and I have not been there
myself, I may say, for years," said Mrs. Forrester. "What would you say,
as it is so fine, to trust yourself to Hamish, who is just the most
careful man with a boat on all the loch, and take a turn as far as
Kinloch Houran with Oona and me?"
The suggestion was thrown out very lightly, with that desire to do
something for the pleasure of the stranger, which was always so strong
in Mrs. Forrester's breast. She would have liked to supplement it with a
proposal to "come home by the isle" and take a cup of tea, but refrained
for the moment with great self-denial. It was caught at eagerly by
Walter, who had not known how to introduce his mother to the sight of
the mystic place which had so much to do with his recent history: and in
a very short time they were all afloat--Mrs. Methven, half-pleased,
half-disappointed with the sudden changing of all graver thoughts and
alarms into the simplicity of a party of pleasure, so natural, so easy.
The loch was radiant with that glory of the afternoon which is not like
the glory of the morning, a dazzling world of light, the sunbeams
falling lower every moment, melting into the water, which showed all its
ripples like molten gold. The old tower lay red in the light, the few
green leaves that still fluttered on the ends of the branches, standing
out against the darker background, and the glory of the western
illumination besetting every dark corner of the broken walls as if to
take them by joyful assault and triumph over every idea of gloom.
Nothing could have been more peaceful than the appearance of this group.
The two elder ladies sat in the stern of the boat, carrying on their
tranquil conversation--Mrs. Forrester entering well pleased into details
about "the boys," which Mrs. Methven, surprised, amused, arrested
somehow, she could not tell how, in the midst of the darker, more
bewildering current, responded to now and then with some half-question,
enough to carry on the innocent fulness of the narrative. Oona, who had
scarcely spoken at all, and who was glad to be left to her own thoughts,
sat by her mother's side, with the eyes of the other mother often upon
her, yet taking no part in the talk; while Walter, placed behind Hamish
at the other end of the boat, felt this strange pause of all sensation
to be something providential, something beyond all his power of
arranging, the preface to he knew not what, but surely at least not to
any cutting off or separation from Oona. She had not indeed met his
anxious and questioning looks: but she had not refused to come, and that
of itself was much; nor did there seem to be any anger, though some
sadness, in the face which seemed to him, as to Mysie, full of sacred
light.
"No, I have not been here for long," said Mrs. Forrester; "not since the
late lord's time: but I see very little change. If you will come this
way, Mrs. Methven, it is here you will get the best view. Yon is the
tower upon which the light is seen, the light, ye will have heard, that
calls every new lord: oh and that comes many a time when there is no new
lord: You need not bid me whisht, Oona! No doubt there will be some
explanation of it: but it is a thing that all the world knows."
Mrs. Methven laughed, more at her ease than she had yet been, and said--
"Walter, what a terrible omission: you have never told me of this."
Walter did not laugh. His face, on the contrary, assumed the look of
gloom and displeasure which she knew so well.
"If you will come with me," he said to Mrs. Forrester, "I will show you
my rooms. Old Macalister is more gracious than usual. You see he has
opened the door."
"Oh I will go with great pleasure, Lord Erradeen: for it is long since I
have been inside, and I would like to see your rooms. Oh how do you do,
Macalister? I hope your wife and you are quite well, and not suffering
with rheumatism. We've come to show Mrs. Methven, that is your master's
mother, round the place. Yes, I am sure ye will all be very glad to see
her. This is Macalister, a very faithful old servant that has been with
the Lords Erradeen as long as I can remember. How long is it--near five
and forty years? Dear me, it is just wonderful how time runs on. I was
then but lately married, and never thought I would ever live like a
pelican in the wilderness in my mother's little bit isle. But your mind
just is made to your fortune, and I have had many a happy day there.
Dear me, it will be very interesting to see the rooms, we that never
thought there were any rooms. Where is Oona? Oh, never take the trouble,
Lord Erradeen, your mother is waiting: and Oona, that knows every step
of the castle, she will soon find her way."
This was how it was that Oona found herself alone. Walter cast behind
him an anxious look, but he could not desert the elder ladies, and Oona
was glad to be left behind. Her mind had recovered its calm; but she had
much to think of, and his presence disturbed her, with that influence of
personal contact which interferes with thought. She knew the old castle,
if not every step of it, as her mother said, yet enough to make it
perfectly safe for her. Old Macalister had gone first to lead the way,
to open doors and windows, that the ladies might see everything, and,
save for Hamish in his boat on the beach, there was nobody within sight
or call. The shadow of the old house shut out the sunshine from the
little platform in front of the door; but at the further side, where the
trees grew among the broken masses of the ruin, the sun from the west
entered freely. She stood for a moment undecided, then turned towards
that wild conjunction of the living and the dead, the relics of the
past, and the fresh growth of nature, which give so much charm to every
ruin. Oona went slowly, full of thought, up to the battlements, and
looked out upon the familiar landscape, full of light and freshness, and
all the natural sounds of the golden afternoon--the lapping of the water
upon the rocks, the rustle of the wind in the trees, the far-off murmurs
of life, voices cheerful, yet inarticulate, from the village, distant
sounds of horses and wheels on the unseen roads, the bark of a dog, all
the easy, honest utterance, unthought of, like simple breathing, of
common life. For a moment the voice of her own thoughts was hushed
within her, replaced by this soft combination of friendly noises. It
pleased her better to stand here with the soft air about her, than amid
all the agitation of human influences to accompany the others.
But human influence is more strong than the hold of nature; and
by-and-by she turned unconsciously from the landscape to the house, the
one dark solid mass of habitable walls, repelling the sunshine, while
the tower, with its blunted outline above, and all the fantastic
breaches and openings in the ruin, gave full play to every level ray.
The loch, all golden with the sunset, the shadows of the trees, the
breath and utterance of distant life, gave nothing but refreshment and
soothing. But the walls that were the work of men, and that for hundreds
of years had gathered sombre memories about them, had an attraction more
absorbing. A little beyond where she was standing, was the spot from
which Miss Milnathort had fallen. She had heard the story vaguely all
her life, and she had heard from Walter the meaning of it, only the
other day. Perhaps it was the sound of a little crumbling and
precipitation of dust and fragments from the further wall that brought
it so suddenly to her memory; but the circumstances in which she herself
was, were enough to bring those of the other woman, who had been as
herself, before her with all the vividness of reality. As young as
herself, and more happy, the promised bride of another Walter,
everything before her as before Oona, love and life, the best that
Providence can give, more happy than she, nothing to disturb the
gladness of her betrothal; and in a moment all over, all ended, and pain
and helplessness, and the shadow of death, substituted for her happiness
and hope. Oona paused, and thought of that tragedy with a great awe
stealing over her, and pity which was so intense in her realisation of a
story, in every point save the catastrophe, so like her own, penetrating
her very soul. She asked herself which of the two it was who had
suffered most--the faithful woman who lived to tell her own story, and
to smile with celestial patience through her death in life, or the man
who had struggled in vain, who had fallen under the hand of fate, and
obeyed the power of outward circumstances, and been vanquished, and
departed from the higher meaning of his youth? Oona thought with a
swelling and generous throbbing of her heart, of the one--but with a
deeper pang of the other; he who had not failed at all so far as any one
knew, who had lived and been happy as people say. She leant against the
wall, and asked herself if anything should befall her, such as befell
Miss Milnathort, whether her Walter would do the same. Would he accept
his defeat as the other had done, and throw down his arms and yield? She
said no in her heart, but faltered, and remembered Katie. Yet no! That
had been before, not after their hearts had met, and he had known what
was in hers. No, he might be beaten down to the dust; he might rush out
into the world, and plunge into the madness of life, or he might plunge
more deeply, more darkly, into the madness of despairing, and die. But
he would not yield; he would not throw down his arms and accept the will
of the other. Faulty as he was, and stained and prone to evil, this was
what he would never do.
And then her thoughts turned to the immediate matter before her--the
deliverance of the man whose fate she had pledged herself to share
notwithstanding all his imperfections; he who had found means already,
since she had bound herself to him, to make her heart bleed; he whom she
had loved against her will, against her judgment, before she was aware.
He was to be made free from a bondage, a spiritual persecution, a tyrant
who threatened him in every action of his life. Oona had known all her
life that there was some mysterious oppression under which the house of
Erradeen was bound, and there was no scepticism in her mind in respect
to a wonder about which every inhabitant of the district had something
to say; but from the moment when it became apparent that she too was to
belong to this fated house, it had become insupportable and impossible.
She felt, but with less agitation and a calmer certainty than that of
Walter, that by whatsoever means it must be brought to an end. Had he
been able to bear it, she could not have borne it. And he said that she
alone could save him--that with her by his side he was safe; strange
words, containing a flattery which was not intended, a claim which could
not be resisted. He had said it when as yet he scarcely knew her, he had
repeated it when he came to her hot from the presence of the other to
whom he had appealed in vain. Strange mixture of the sweet and the
bitter! She remembered, however, that he had asked her in the simplicity
of desperation to give him her hand to help him, a year ago, and this
thought banished all the other circumstances from her mind. She had
helped him then, knowing nothing--how was she to help him now? Could she
but do it by standing forth in his place and meeting his enemy for him!
could she but take his burden on her shoulders and carry it for him! He
who had suffered so much feared with a deadly terror his oppressor; but
Oona did not fear him. On her he had no power. In Walter's mind there
was the weakness of previous defeat, the tradition of family subjection;
but in her there was no such weakness, either personal or traditionary;
and what was the use of her innocence, of her courage, if not to be used
in his cause? Could she but stand for him, speak for him, take his
place!
"Up and spoke she, Alice Brand,
And made the holy sign;
And if there's blood on Richard's hand,
A stainless hand is mine."
Oona's heart was full of this high thought. It drove away from her mind
all shadows, all recollections of a less exalting kind. She moved on
quietly, not caring nor thinking where she went, forming within herself
visions of this substitution, which is in so many cases a woman's
warmest desire.
But then she paused, and there became visible to her a still higher
eminence of generous love--a higher giddy eminence, more precarious,
more dangerous, by which deliverance was less secure; not
substitution--that was impossible. In her inward thoughts she blushed to
feel that she had thought of a way of escape which for Walter would have
been ignoble. It was for him to bear his own part, not to stand by while
another did it for him. A noble shame took possession of her that she
could for a moment have conceived another way. But with this came back
all the anxious thoughts, the questions, the uncertainty. How was she to
help him? how pour all the force of her life into him? how transfer to
him every needed quality, and give him the strength of two in one?
In the full current of her thoughts Oona was suddenly brought to a
pause. It was by the instinct of self-preservation which made her start
back on the very edge of the ruin. The sickening sensation with which
she felt the crumbling masonry move beneath her foot, drove everything
out of her mind for the moment. With a sudden recoil upon herself, Oona
set her back against the edge of the parapet that remained, and
endeavoured to command and combat the sudden terror that seized hold
upon her. She cast a keen wild look round her to find out if there was
any way of safety, and called out for help, and upon Walter! Walter!
though she felt it was vain. The wind was against her, and caught her
voice, carrying it as if in mockery down the loch, from whence it
returned only in a vague and distant echo; and she perceived that the
hope of any one hearing and reaching her was futile indeed. Above her,
on a range of ruin always considered inaccessible, there seemed to Oona
a line of masonry solid enough to give her footing. Necessity cannot
wait for precedents. She was young and active, and used to exercise, and
her nerves were steadied by the strain of actual danger. She made a
spring from her insecure standing, feeling the ruin give way under her
foot with the impulse, and with the giddiness of a venture which was
almost desperate, flung herself upon the higher level. When she had got
there it seemed to her incredible that she could have done it: and what
was to be her next step she knew not, for the ledge on which she stood
was very narrow, and there was nothing to hold by in case her head or
courage should fail. Everything below and around was shapeless ruin, not
to be trusted, all honeycombed, with hollow places thinly covered over
by remains of fallen roofs and drifted earth and treacherous vegetation.
Only in one direction was there any appearance of solidity, and that was
above her towards the tower which still stood firmly, the crown of the
building, though no one had climbed up to its mysterious heights within
the memory of man. Round it was a stone balcony or terrace, which was
the spot upon which the mysterious light, so familiar to her, was
periodically visible. Oona's heart beat as she saw herself within reach
of this spot. She had watched it so often from the safe and peaceful
isle, with that thrill of awe, and wonder, and half-terror, which gave
an additional pleasure to her own complete and perfect safety. She made
a few steps forward, and, putting out her hand with a quiver of all her
nerves, took hold upon the cold roughness of the lower ledge. The touch
steadied her, yet woke an agitation in her frame, the stir of strong
excitement; for death lay below her, and her only refuge was in the very
home of mystery, a spot untrodden of men. For the next few minutes she
made her way instinctively without thought, holding by every projection
which presented itself; but when Oona found herself standing safe within
the balustrade, close upon the wall of the tower, and had drawn breath
and recovered a little from the exhaustion and strain--when her mind got
again the upper hand and disentangled itself from the agitation of the
body, the hurry and whirl of all her thoughts were beyond description.
She paused as upon the threshold of a new world. What might be about to
happen to her? not to perish like the other, which seemed so likely a
few minutes ago, yet perhaps as tragic a fate; perhaps the doom of all
connected with the Methvens was here awaiting her.
But there is something in every extreme which disposes the capricious
human soul to revolt and recoil. Oona still spoke to herself, but spoke
aloud, as it was some comfort to do in her utter isolation. She laughed
to herself, nature forcing its way through awe and alarm. "Doom!" she
said to herself, "there is no doom. That would mean that God was no
longer over all. What He wills let that be done." This calmed her nerves
and imagination. She did not stop to say any prayer for her own safety.
There arose even in her mind upon the very foundation of her momentary
panic, a sudden new force and hope. She who had so desired to stand in
Walter's place, to be his substitute, might not this, without any plan
or intention of hers, be now placed within her power?
In the mean time everything was solid and safe beneath her feet. The
tower stood strong, the pavement of the narrow platform which surrounded
it was worn by time and weather, but perfectly secure. Here and there a
breach in the balustrade showed like fantastic flamboyant work, but a
regiment might have marched round it without disturbing a stone. Oona's
excitement was extreme. Her heart beat in her ears like the roaring of a
torrent. She went on, raised beyond herself, with a strange conviction
that there was some object in her coming, and that this which seemed so
accidental was no accident at all, but perhaps--how could she tell?--an
ordeal, the first step in that career which she had accepted. She put
her hand upon the wall, and guided herself by it, feeling a support in
the rough and time-worn surface, the stones which had borne the assault
of ages. Daylight was still bright around her, the last rays of the sun
dazzling the loch below, which in its turn lent a glory of reflection to
the sky above, and sent up a golden sheen through the air from the blaze
upon the water. Round the corner of the tower the wind blew freshly in
her face from the hills, reviving and encouraging her. Nature was on her
side in all its frankness and reality whatever mystery might be
elsewhere. When she had turned the corner of the tower, and saw beneath
her the roofs of Auchnasheen visible among the trees, Oona suddenly
stood still, her heart making, she thought, a pause as well as her feet;
then with a bound beginning again in louder and louder pulsation. She
had come to a doorway deep set in the wall, like the entrance of a
cavern, with one broad, much-worn step, and a heavy old door bound and
studded with iron. She stood for a moment uncertain, trembling, with a
sense of the unforeseen and extraordinary which flew to her brain--a
bewildering pang of sensation. For a moment she hesitated what to do:
yet scarcely for a moment, since by this time she began to feel the
force of an impulse which did not seem her own, and which she had no
strength to resist. The door was slightly ajar, and pushing it open,
Oona found herself, with another suffocating pause, then bound, of her
heart, upon the threshold of a richly furnished room. She was aware of
keeping her hold upon the door with a terrifying anticipation of hearing
it close upon her, but otherwise seemed to herself to have passed beyond
her own control and consciousness, and to be aware only of the wonderful
scene before her. The room was lighted from an opening in the roof,
which showed in the upper part the rough stone of the walls in great
blocks, rudely hewn, contrasting strangely with the heavy curtains with
which they were hung round below. The curtains seemed of velvet, with
panels of tapestry in dim designs here and there: the floor was covered
with thick and soft carpets. A great telescope occupied a place in the
centre of the room, and various fine instruments, some looking like
astronomical models, stood on tables about. The curtained walls were
hung with portraits, one of which she recognised as that of the last
Lord Erradeen. And in the centre of all supported on a table with a
lamp burning in front of it, the light of which (she supposed), blown
about by the sudden entrance of the air, so flickered upon the face that
the features seemed to change and move, was the portrait of Walter. The
cry which she would have uttered at this sight died in Oona's throat.
She stood speechless, without power to think, gazing, conscious that
this discovery was not for nothing, that here was something she must do,
but unable to form a thought. The light fell upon the subdued colours of
the hangings and furniture with a mystic paleness, without warmth; but
the atmosphere was luxurious and soft, with a faint fragrance in it.
Oona held open the door, which seemed in the movement of the air which
she had admitted, to struggle with her, but to which she held with a
desperate grasp, and gazed spellbound. Was it the flickering of the
lamp, or was it possible that the face of the portrait changed, that
anguish came into the features, and that the eyes turned and looked at
her appealing, full of misery, as Walter's eyes had looked? It seemed to
Oona that her senses began to fail her. There was a movement in the
tapestry, and from the other side of the room, some one put it aside,
and after looking at her for a moment came slowly out. She had seen him
only in the night and darkness, but there was not another such that she
should mistake who it was. A thrill ran through her of terror,
desperation, and daring. Whatever might now be done or said, Oona had
come to the crisis of her fate.
He came towards her with the air of courtesy and grace, which seemed his
most characteristic aspect. "Come in," he said; "to reach this place
requires a stout heart; but you are safe here."
Oona made him no reply. She felt her voice and almost her breathing
arrested in her throat, and felt capable of nothing but to hold fast to
the heavy door, which seemed to struggle with her like a living thing.
"You are afraid," he said; "but there is no reason to fear. Why should
you think I would injure you? You might have fallen, like others, from
the ruin; but you are safe here."
He advanced another step and held out his hand. It seemed to Oona that
the door crushed her as she stood against it, but she would not let go
her hold; and with all her power she struggled to regain possession of
her voice, but could not, paralysed by some force which she did not
understand.
He smiled with a slight ridicule in his lofty politeness. "I tell you
not to fear," he said. "Yours is not a spirit to fear; you who would
have put yourself in his place and defied the demon. You find me no
demon, and I offer no hostility, yet you are afraid."
Oona was astonished by the sound of her own voice, which burst forth
suddenly, by no apparent will of her own, and which was strange to her,
an unfamiliar tone, "I am not afraid--I am in--the protection of God--"
He laughed softly. "You mean to exorcise me," he said; "but that is not
so easily done; and I warn you that resistance is not the best way. You
have trusted yourself to me--"
"No--no--"
"Yes. You fled from the danger to which another in your place succumbed,
and you have taken refuge with me. To those who do so I am bound. Come
in; there is no danger here."
It seemed to Oona that there were two beings in her--one which ridiculed
her distrust, which would have accepted the hand held out; another--not
her, surely, not her frank and unsuspicious self--who held back and
clung in terror to the door. She stammered, hearing even in her voice
the same conflict, some tones that were her own, some shrill that were
not hers--"I want no protection--but God's."
"Why then," he said with a smile, "did you not remain among the ruins?
What brought you here?"
There was an answer--a good answer if she could have found it--but she
could not find it, and made no reply.
"You refuse my friendship, then," he said, "which is a pity, for it
might have saved you much suffering. All the same, I congratulate you
upon your prize."
These last words stopped the current towards him of that natural
sentiment of confidence and faith in her fellow-creatures, which was
Oona's very atmosphere. Her prize! What did he mean by her prize?
"There could not be anything more satisfactory to your friends," he
said. "A title--large estates--a position which leaves nothing to be
desired. Your mother must be fully satisfied, and your brothers at the
ends of the world will all feel the advantage. Other conquests might
have been better for the Erradeens, but for you nothing could be more
brilliant. It was a chance too, unlikely, almost past hoping for, thus
to catch a heart in the rebound."
She stood aghast, gazing with eyes that were pained by the strain, but
which would not detach themselves from his face. Brilliant! advantages!
Was she in a dream? or what was the meaning of the words?
"It is against my own policy," he continued, "as perhaps you know; still
I cannot help admiring your skill, unaided, against every drawback. You
have a strong mind, young lady of the isle, and the antecedents which
would have daunted most women have been allies and auxiliaries to you."
His laugh was quite soft and pleasant, sounding like gentle amusement,
not ridicule. "I know your family," he continued, "of old. They were all
men of strong stomachs, able to swallow much so long as their own
interest was concerned. With Highland caterans, that is comprehensible;
but one so young as you--named like you--after--" he laughed again that
low soft laugh of amusement as if at something which tickled him in
spite of himself, "the emblem of purity and innocence--'heavenly Una
with her milk-white lamb.'"
"You want," said Oona, whose voice sounded hoarse in her throat, and
sharp to her own ears, "to make me mad with your taunts; to make me give
up--"
"Pardon me, I am only congratulating you," he said, and smiled, looking
at her with a penetrating look of amusement and that veiled ridicule
which does not infringe the outward forms of politeness. She gazed back
at him with eyes wide open, with such a pang of wondering anguish and
shame in her heart as left her speechless; for what he said was true.
She had thought of her union with Walter in many ways before, but never
in this. Now it all flashed upon her as by a sudden light. What he said
was true. She who had never given a thought to worldly advantage, had
nevertheless secured it as much as if that had been her only thought.
Her senses seemed to fail her in the whirl and heart-sickness of the
revelation. It was true. She who had believed herself to be giving all,
she was taking to herself rank, wealth, and honour, in marrying Walter.
And giving to him what?--a woman's empty hand; no more. Oona was very
proud though she did not know it, and the blow fell upon her with
crushing effect. Every word had truth in it; her mother would be
satisfied; the family would profit by it wherever they were scattered;
and she would be the first to reap the advantage.
Oona felt everything swim around her as in the whirl and giddiness of a
great fall. Her fall was greater than that of Miss Milnathort, for it
was the spirit not the body that was crushed and broken. She could not
lift up her head. A horrible doubt even of herself came into her mind
in her sudden and deep humiliation. Had this been in her thoughts though
she did not know it? No stroke could have been aimed at her so
intolerable as this.
He kept his eyes upon her, as if with a secret enjoyment of her
overthrow. "You do not thank me for my congratulations," he cried.
"Oh!" she cried in the wondering self-abandonment of pain, "can you be a
man, only a man, and strike so deep?" Then the very anguish of her soul
gave her a sudden inspiration. She looked round her with her eyes
dilating. "When you can do this," she said, putting with unconscious
eloquence her hand to her heart, "what do you want with things like
those?" The sight of the lamp which burned before Walter's portrait had
given her a painful sense of harm and danger when she saw it first. It
filled her now with a keen disdain. To be able to pierce the very soul,
and yet to use the aid of _that_! She did not know what its meaning was,
yet suffering in every nerve, she scorned it, and turned to him with a
questioning look which was full of indignation and contempt.
And he who was so strong, so much above her in power and knowledge,
shrank--almost imperceptibly, but yet he shrank--startled, from her look
and question. "_That?_" he said, "you who know so little of your own
mind, how can you tell how human nature is affected?--by what poor
methods, as well as by great. You understand nothing--not yourself--far
less the devices of the wise."
"Oh, you are wise," cried Oona, "and cruel. You can make what is best
look the worst. You can confuse our souls so that we cannot tell what is
good in us, and what evil. I know, I know, you are a great person. Yet
you hide and lurk in this place which no man knows; and work by spells
and charms like--like--"
"Like what?" a gleam of anger and shame--or of something that might have
betrayed these sentiments on any other face--crossed his usually calm
and lofty countenance. Oona, opposite to him, returned his look with a
passionate face of indignation and disdain. She had forgotten herself
altogether, and everything but the thrill and throbbing of the anguish
which seemed to have taken the place of her heart in her. She feared
nothing now. The blow which she had received had given her the nobleness
of desperation.
"Like a poor--witch," she said; "like the wizard they call you; like one
who plays upon the ignorant, not like the powerful spirit you are. You
that can beat us down to the dust, both him and me. You that can turn
sweet into bitter, and good into evil. Oh, how can you for shame take
that way too, like a--juggler," she cried in her passion; "like a
sorcerer; like----"
"You speak like a fool, though you are no fool," he said, "not knowing
the stuff that we are made of." He made a step towards her as he spoke,
and though his tone was rather sad than fierce, there came upon Oona in
a moment such a convulsion of terror as proved what the weakness was of
which he spoke. She clung with all her failing force to the door which
seemed her only support, and broke out into a shrill cry, "Walter,
Walter, save me!" afraid of she knew not what, panic seizing her, and
the light flickering in her fainting eyes.