A RESOLVE.
He slept but little that night, and early the next morning he was up and
away by himself--paying but little heed to the rushing blue seas, and
the white gulls, and the sunshine touching the far sands on the shores
of Iona. He was in a fever of unrest. He knew not what to make of that
letter; it might mean anything or nothing. Alternations of wild hope and
cold despair succeeded each other. Surely it was unusual for a girl so
to reveal her innermost confidences to any one whom she considered a
stranger? To him alone had she told this story of her private troubles.
Was it not in effect asking for a sympathy which she could not hope for
from any other? Was it not establishing a certain secret between them?
Her own father did not know. Her sister was too young to be told.
Friends like Mrs. Ross could not understand why this young and beautiful
actress, the favorite of the public, could be dissatisfied with her lot.
It was to him alone she had appealed.
And then again he read the letter. The very frankness of it made him
fear. There was none of the shyness of a girl writing to one who might
be her lover. She might have written thus to one of her
school-companions. He eagerly searched it for some phrase of tenderer
meaning; but no there was a careless abandonment about it, as if she had
been talking without thinking of the person she addressed. She had even
joked about a young man falling in love with her. It was a matter of
perfect indifference to her. It was ludicrous as the shape of the lad's
collar was ludicrous, but of no more importance. And thus she receded
from his imagination again, and became a thing apart--the white slave
bound in those cruel chains that seemed to all but herself and him the
badges of triumph.
_Herself and him_--the conjunction set his heart throbbing quickly. He
eagerly bethought himself how this secret understanding could be
strengthened, if only he might see her and speak to her. He could tell
by her eyes what she meant, whatever her words might be. _If only he
could see her again:_ all his wild hopes, and fears, and doubts--all his
vague fancies and imaginings--began to narrow themselves down to this
one point; and this immediate desire became all-consuming. He grew sick
at heart when he looked round and considered how vain was the wish.
The gladness had gone from the face of Keith Macleod. Not many months
before, any one would have imagined that the life of this handsome young
fellow, whose strength, and courage, and high spirits seemed to render
him insensible to any obstacle, had everything in it that the mind of
man could desire. He had a hundred interests and activities; he had
youth and health, and a comely presence; he was on good terms with
everybody around him--for he had a smile and a cheerful word for each
one he met, gentle or simple. All this gay, glad life seemed to have
fled. The watchful Hamish was the first to notice that his master began
to take less and less interest in the shooting and boating and fishing;
and at times the old man was surprised and disturbed by an exhibition of
querulous impatience that had certainly never before been one of
Macleod's failings. Then his cousin Janet saw that he was silent and
absorbed; and his mother inquired once or twice why he did not ask one
or other of his neighbors to come over to Dare to have a day's shooting
with him.
"I think you are finding the place lonely, Keith, now that Norman
Ogilvie is gone," said she.
"Ah, mother," he said, with a laugh, "it is not Norman Ogilvie, it is
London, that has poisoned my mind. I should never have gone to the
South. I am hungering for the fleshpots of Egypt already; and I am
afraid some day I will have to come and ask you to let me go away
again."
He spoke jestingly, and yet he was regarding his mother.
"I know it is not pleasant for a young man to be kept fretting at home,"
said she. "But it is not long now I will ask you to do that, Keith."
Of course this brief speech only drove him into more vigorous
demonstration that he was not fretting at all; and for a time he seemed
more engrossed than ever in all the occupations he had but recently
abandoned. But whether he was on the hillside, or down in the glen, or
out among the islands, or whether he was trying to satisfy the hunger of
his heart with books long after every one in Castle Dare had gone to
bed, he could not escape from this gnawing and torturing anxiety. It was
no beautiful and gentle sentiment that possessed him--a pretty thing to
dream about during a summer's morning--but, on the contrary, a burning
fever of unrest, that left him peace nor day nor night. "Sudden love is
followed by sudden hate," says the Gaelic proverb; but there had been no
suddenness at all about this passion that had stealthily got hold of
him; and he had ceased even to hope that it might abate or depart
altogether. He had to "dree his weird." And when he read in books about
the joy and delight that accompany the awakening of love--how the world
suddenly becomes fair, and the very skies are bluer than their wont--he
wondered whether he was different from other human beings. The joy and
delight of love? He knew only a sick hunger of the heart and a continual
and brooding despair.
One morning he was going along the cliffs, his only companion being the
old black retriever, when suddenly he saw, far away below him, the
figure of a lady. For a second his heart stood still at the sight of
this stranger; for he knew it was neither the mother nor Janet; and she
was coming along a bit of greensward from which, by dint of much
climbing, she might have reached Castle Dare. But as he watched her he
caught sight of some other figures, farther below on the rocks. And then
he perceived--as he saw her return with a handful of bell-heather--that
this party had come from Iona, or Bunessan, or some such place, to
explore one of the great caves on this coast, while this lady had
wandered away from them in search of some wild flowers. By and by he saw
the small boat, with its spritsail white in the sun, go away toward the
south, and the lonely coast was left as lonely as before.
But ever after that he grew to wonder what Gertrude White, if ever she
could be persuaded to visit his home, would think of this thing and of
that thing--what flowers she would gather--whether she would listen to
Hamish's stories of the fairies--whether she would be interested in her
small countryman, Johnny Wickes, who was now in kilts, with his face and
legs as brown as a berry--whether the favorable heavens would send her
sunlight and blue skies, and the moonlight nights reveal to her the
solemn glory of the sea and the lonely islands. Would she take his hand
to steady herself in passing over the slippery rocks? What would she say
if suddenly she saw above her--by the opening of a cloud--a stag
standing high on a crag near the summit of Ben-an-Sloich? And what would
the mother and Janet say to that singing of hers, if they were to hear
her put all the tenderness of the low, sweet voice into "Wae's me for
Prince Charlie?"
There was one secret nook that more than any other he associated with
her presence; and thither he would go when this heart-sickness seemed
too grievous to be borne. It was down in a glen beyond the fir-wood; and
here the ordinary desolation of this bleak coast ceased, for there were
plenty of young larches on the sides of the glen, with a tall
silver-birch or two; while down in the hollow there were clumps of
alders by the side of the brawling stream. And this dell that he sought
was hidden away from sight, with the sun but partially breaking through
the alders and rowans, and bespeckling the great gray boulders by the
side of the burn, many of which were covered by the softest of
olive-green moss. Here, too, the brook, that had been broken just above
by intercepting stones, swept clearly and limpidly over a bed of smooth
rock; and in the golden-brown water the trout lay, and scarcely moved
until some motion of his hand made them shoot up stream with a lightning
speed. And then the wild flowers around--the purple ling and red
bell-heather growing on the silver-gray rocks; a foxglove or two
towering high above the golden-green breckans; the red star of a
crane's-bill among the velvet moss. Even if she were overawed by the
solitariness of the Atlantic and the gloom of the tall cliffs and their
yawning caves, surely here would be a haven of peace and rest, with
sunshine, and flowers, and the pleasant murmur of the stream. What did
it say, then, as one sat and listened in the silence? When the fair
poetess from strange lands came among the Macleods, did she seek out
this still retreat, and listen, and listen, and listen until she caught
the music of this monotonous murmur, and sang it to her harp? And was it
not all a song about the passing away of life, and how that summer days
were for the young, and how the world was beautiful for lovers? "Oh,
children!" it seemed to say, "why should you waste your lives in vain
endeavor, while the winter is coming quick, and the black snowstorms,
and a roaring of wind from the sea? Here I have flowers for you, and
beautiful sunlight, and the peace of summer days. Time passes--time
passes--time passes--and you are growing old. While as yet the heart is
warm and the eye is bright, here are summer flowers for you, and a
silence fit for the mingling of lovers' speech. If you listen not, I
laugh at you and go my way. But the winter is coming fast."
Far away in these grimy towns, fighting with mean cares and petty
jealousies, dissatisfied, despondent, careless as to the future, how
could this message reach her to fill her heart with the singing of a
bird? He dared not send it, at all events. But he wrote to her. And the
bitter travail of the writing of that letter he long remembered. He was
bound to give her his sympathy, and to make light as well as he could of
those very evils which he had been the first to reveal to her. He tried
to write in as frank and friendly a spirit as she had done; the letter
was quite cheerful.
"Did you know," said he, "that once upon a time the chief of the
Macleods married a fairy? And whether Macleod did not treat her well, or
whether the fairy-folk reclaimed her, or whether she grew tired of the
place, I do not know quite; but, at all events, they were separated, and
she went away to her own people. But before she went away she gave to
Macleod a fairy banner--the _Bratach sith_ it is known as--and she told
him that if ever he was in great peril, or had any great desire, he was
to wave that flag, and whatever he desired would come to pass. But the
virtue of the _Bratach sith_ would depart after it had been waved three
times. Now the small green banner has been waved only twice; and now I
believe it is still preserved in the Castle of Dunvegan, with power to
work one more miracle on behalf of the Macleods. And if I had the fairy
flag, do you know what I would do with it? I would take it in my hand,
and say: '_I desire the fairy people to remove my friend Gertrude White
from all the evil influences that disturb and distress her. I desire
them to heal her wounded spirit, and secure for her everything that may
tend to her lifelong happiness. And I desire that all the theatres in
the kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland--with all their musical
instruments, lime-light, and painted scenes--may be taken and dropped
into the ocean, midway between the islands of Ulva and Coll, so that the
fairy folk may amuse them selves in them if they will so please_.' Would
not that be a very nice form of incantation? We are very strong
believers here in the power of one person to damage another in absence;
and when you can kill a man by sticking pins into a waxen image of
him--which everybody knows to be true--surely you ought to be able to
help a friend, especially with the aid of the _Bratach sith_. Imagine
Covent Garden Theatre a hundred fathoms down in the deep sea, with
mermaidens playing the brass instruments in the orchestra, and the
fairy-folk on the stage, and seals disporting themselves in the stalls,
and guillemots shooting about the upper galleries in pursuit of fish.
But we should get no peace from Iona. The fairies there are very pious
people. They used to carry St. Columba about when he got tired. They
would be sure to demand the shutting up of all the theatres, and the
destruction of the brass instruments. And I don't see how we could
reasonably object."
It was a cruel sort of jesting; but how otherwise than as a jest could
he convey to her, an actress, his wish that all theatres were at the
bottom of the sea? For a brief time that letter seemed to establish some
link of communication between him and her. He followed it on its travels
by sea and land. He thought of its reaching the house in which she
dwelt--perhaps some plain and grimy building in a great manufacturing
city, or perhaps a small quiet cottage up by Regent's Park half hidden
among the golden leaves of October. Might she not, moreover, after she
had opened it and read it, be moved by some passing whim to answer it,
though it demanded no answer? He waited for a week, and there was no
word or message from the South. She was far away, and silent. And the
hills grew lonelier than before, and the sickness of his heart
increased.
This state of mind could not last. His longing and impatience and unrest
became more than he could bear. It was in vain that he tried to satisfy
his imaginative craving with these idle visions of her: it was she
herself he must see; and he set about devising all manner of wild
excuses for one last visit to the South. But the more he considered
these various projects, the more ashamed he grew in thinking of his
taking any one of them and placing it before the beautiful old dame who
reigned in Castle Dare. He had barely been three months at home; how
could he explain to her this sudden desire to go away again?
One morning his cousin Janet came to him.
"Oh, Keith!" said she, "the whole house is in commotion; and Hamish is
for murdering some of the lads; and there is no one would dare to bring
the news to you. The two young buzzards have escaped!"
"I know it," he said. "I let them out myself."
"You!" she exclaimed in surprise; for she knew the great interest he had
shown in watching the habits of the young hawks that had been captured
by a shepherd lad.
"Yes; I let them out last night. It was a pity to have them caged up."
"So long as it was yourself, it is all right," she said; and then she
was going away. But she paused and turned, and said to him, with a
smile, "And I think you should let yourself escape, too, Keith, for it
is you too that are caged up; and perhaps you feel it now more since you
have been to London. And if you are thinking of your friends in London,
why should you not go for another visit to the South before you settle
down to the long winter?"
For an instant he regarded her with some fear. Had she guessed his
secret? Had she been watching the outward signs of this constant torture
he had been suffering? Had she surmised that the otter-skins about which
he had asked her advice were not consigned to any one of the married
ladies whose acquaintance he had made in the South, and of whom he had
chatted freely enough in Castle Dare? Or was this merely a passing
suggestion thrown out by one who was always on the lookout to do a
kindness?
"Well, I would like to go, Janet," he said, but with no gladness in his
voice; "and it is not more than a week or two I should like to be away;
but I do not think the mother would like it; and it is enough money I
have spent this year already--"
"There is no concern about the money, Keith," said she, simply, "since
you have not touched what I gave you. And if you are set upon it, you
know auntie will agree to whatever you wish."
"But how can I explain to her? It is unreasonable to be going away."
How, indeed, could he explain? He was almost assuming that those gentle
eyes now fixed on him could read his heart, and that she would come to
aid him in his suffering without any further speech from him. And that
was precisely what Janet Macleod did--whether or not she had guessed the
cause of his desire to get away.
"If you were a schoolboy, Keith, you would be cleverer at making an
excuse for playing truant," she said, laughing. "And I could make one
for you now."
"You?"
"I will not call it an excuse, Keith," she said, "because I think you
would be doing a good work; and I will bear the expense of it, if you
please."
He looked more puzzled than ever.
"When we were at Salen yesterday I saw Major Stuart, and he has just
came back from Dunrobin. And he was saying very great things about the
machine for the drying of crops in wet weather, and he said he would
like to go to England to see the newer ones and all the later
improvements, if these was a chance of any one about here going shares
with them. And it would not be very much. Keith, if you were to share
with him; and the machine it can be moved about very well; and in the
bad weather you could give the cotters some help, to say nothing about
our own hay and corn. And that is what Major Stuart was saying
yesterday, that if there was any place that you wanted a drying-machine
for the crops it was in Mull."
"I have been thinking of it myself," he said, absently, "but our farm is
too small to make it pay--"
"But if Major Stuart will take half the expense? And even if you lost a
little, Keith, you would save a great deal to the poorer people who are
continually losing their little patches of crops. And will you go and be
my agent, Keith, to go and see whether it is practicable?"
"They will not thank you, Janet, for letting them have this help for
nothing."
"They shall not have it for nothing," said she--for she had plenty of
experience in dealing with the poorer folk around--"they must pay for
the fuel that is used. And now, Keith, if it is a holiday you want, will
not that be a very good holiday, and one to be used for a very good
purpose, too?"
She left him. Where was the eager joy with which he ought to have
accepted this offer? Here was the very means placed within his reach of
satisfying the craving desire of his heart; and yet, all the same, he
seemed to shrink back with a vague and undefined dread. A thousand
impalpable fears and doubts beset his mind. He had grown timid as a
woman. The old happy audacity had been destroyed by sleepless nights and
a torturing anxiety. It was a new thing for Keith Macleod to have become
a prey to strange unintelligible forebodings.
But he went and saw Major Stuart--a round, red, jolly little man, with
white hair and a cheerful smile, who had a sombre and melancholy wife.
Major Stuart received Macleod's offer with great gravity. It was a
matter of business that demanded serious consideration. He had worked
out the whole system of drying crops with hot air as it was shown him in
pamphlets, reports, and agricultural journals, and he had come to the
conclusion that--on paper at least--it could be made to pay. What was
wanted was to give the thing a practical trial. If the system was sound,
surely any one who helped to introduce it into the Western Highlands was
doing a very good work indeed. And there was nothing but personal
inspection could decide on the various merits of latest improvements.
This was what he said before his wife one night at dinner. But when the
ladies had left the room, the little stout major suddenly put up both
his hands, snapped his thumb and middle finger, and very cleverly
executed one or two reel steps.
"By George! my boy," said he, with a ferocious grin on his face, "I
think we will have a little frolic--a little frolic!--a little frolic!
You were never shut up in a house for six months with a woman like my
wife, were you, Macleod? You were never reminded of your coffin every
morning, were you? Macleod, my boy, I am just mad to get after those
drying-machines!"
And indeed Macleod could not have had a merrier companion to go South
with him than this rubicund major just escaped from the thraldom of his
wife. But it was with no such high spirits that Macleod set out. Perhaps
it was only the want of sleep that had rendered him nerveless and
morbid; but he felt, as he left Castle Dare, that there was a lie in his
actions, if not in his words. And as for the future that lay before him,
it was a region only of doubt, and vague regrets, and unknown fears;
and he was entering upon it without any glimpse of light, and without
the guidance of any friendly hand.