DECLARATION.
November though it was, next morning broke brilliantly over London.
There was a fresh west wind blowing; there was a clear sunshine filling
the thoroughfares; if one were on the lookout for picturesqueness even
in Bury Street, was there not a fine touch of color where the softly red
chimney-pots rose far away into the blue? It was not possible to have
always around one the splendor of the northern sea.
And Macleod would not listen to a word his friend had to say concerning
the important business that had brought them both to London.
"To-night, man--to-night--we will arrange it all to-night," he would
say, and there was a nervous excitement about his manner for which the
major could not at all account.
"Sha'n't I see you till the evening, then?" he asked.
"No," Macleod said, looking anxiously out of the window, as if he feared
some thunder-storm would suddenly shut out the clear light of this
beautiful morning. "I don't know--perhaps I may be back before--but at
any rate we meet at seven. You will remember--seven?"
"Indeed I am not likely to forget it," his companion said, for he had
been told about five-and-thirty times.
It was about eleven o'clock when Macleod left the house. There was a
grateful freshness about the morning even here in the middle of London.
People looked cheerful; Piccadilly was thronged with idlers come out to
enjoy the sunshine; there was still a leaf or two fluttering on the
trees in the square. Why should this man go eagerly tearing away
northward in a hansom--with an anxious and absorbed look on his
face--when everybody seemed inclined to saunter leisurely along,
breathing the sweet wind, and feeling the sunlight on their cheek?
It was scarcely half-past eleven when Macleod got out of the hansom, and
opened a small gate, and walked up to the door of a certain house. He
was afraid she had already gone. He was afraid she might resent his
calling at so unusual an hour. He was afraid--of a thousand things. And
when at last the trim maid-servant told him that Miss White was within,
and asked him to step into the drawing-room, it was almost as one in a
dream that he followed her. As one in a dream, truly; but nevertheless
he saw every object around him with a marvellous vividness. Next day he
could recollect every feature of the room--the empty fireplace, the
black-framed mirror, the Chinese fans, the small cabinets with their
shelves of blue and white, and the large open book on the table, with a
bit of tartan lying on it. These things seemed to impress themselves on
his eyesight involuntarily; for he was in reality intently listening for
a soft footfall outside the door. He went forward to this open book. It
was a volume of a work on the Highland clans--a large and expensive work
that was not likely to belong to Mr. White. And this colored figure? It
was the representative of the clan Macleod: and this bit of cloth that
lay on the open book was of the Macleod tartan. He withdrew quickly, as
though he had stumbled on some dire secret. He went to the window. He
saw only leafless trees now, and withered flowers; with the clear
sunshine touching the sides of houses and walls that had in the summer
months been quite invisible.
There was a slight noise behind him; he turned, and all the room seemed
filled with a splendor of light and of life as she advanced to him--the
clear, beautiful eyes full of gladness, the lips smiling, the hand
frankly extended. And of a sudden his heart sank. Was it indeed of her,
"The glory of life, the beauty of the world,"
that he had dared to dream wild and impossible dreams? He had set out
that morning with a certain masterful sense that he would face his fate.
He had "taken the world for his pillow," as the Gaelic stories say. But
at this sudden revelation of the incomparable grace, and
self-possession, and high loveliness of this beautiful creature, all his
courage and hopes fled instantly, and he could only stammer out excuses
for his calling so early. He was eagerly trying to make himself out an
ordinary visitor. He explained that he did not know but that she might
be going to the theatre during the day. He was in London for a short
time on business. It was an unconscionable hour.
"But I am so glad to see you!" she said, with a perfect sweetness, and
her eyes said more than her words. "I should have been really vexed if I
had heard you had passed through London without calling on us. Won't you
sit down?"
As he sat down, she turned for a second, and without any embarrassment
shut the big book that had been lying open on the table.
"It is very beautiful weather," she remarked--there was no tremor about
_her_ fingers, at all events, as she made secure the brooch that
fastened the simple morning-dress at the neck, "only it seems a pity to
throw away such beautiful sunshine on withered gardens and bare trees.
We have some fine chrysanthemums, though; but I confess I don't like
chrysanthemums myself. They come at a wrong time. They look unnatural.
They only remind one of what is gone. If we are to have winter, we ought
to have it out and out. The chrysanthemums always seem to me as if they
were making a pretence--trying to make you believe that there was still
some life left in the dead garden."
It was very pretty talk, all this about chrysanthemums, uttered in the
low-toned, and gentle, and musical voice; but somehow there was a
burning impatience in his heart, and a bitter sense of hopelessness, and
he felt as though he would cry out in his despair. How could he sit
there and listen to talk about chrysanthemums? His hands were tightly
clasped together; his heart was throbbing quickly; there was a humming
in his ears, as though something there refused to hear about
chrysanthemums.
"I--I saw you at the theatre last night," said he.
Perhaps it was the abruptness of the remark that caused the quick blush.
She lowered her eyes. But all the same she said, with perfect
self-possession,--
"Did you like the piece?"
And he, too: was he not determined to play the part of an ordinary
visitor?
"I am not much of a judge," said he, lightly. "The drawing-room scene is
very pretty. It is very like a drawing-room. I suppose those are real
curtains, and real pictures?"
"Oh yes, it is all real furniture," said she.
Thereafter, for a second, blank silence. Neither dared to touch that
deeper stage question that lay next their hearts. But when Keith
Macleod, in many a word of timid suggestion, and in the jesting letter
he sent her from Castle Dare, had ventured upon that dangerous ground,
it was not to talk about the real furniture of a stage drawing-room.
However, was not this an ordinary morning call? His manner--his
speech--everything said so but the tightly-clasped hands, and perhaps
too a certain intensity of look in the eyes, which seemed anxious and
constrained.
"Papa, at least, is proud of our chrysanthemums," said Miss White,
quickly getting away from the stage question. "He is in the garden now.
Will you go out and see him? I am sorry Carry has gone to school."
She rose. He rose also, and he was about to lift his hat from the table,
when he suddenly turned to her.
"A drowning man will cry out; how can you prevent his crying out?"
She was startled by the change in the sound of his voice, and still
more by the almost haggard look of pain and entreaty in his eyes. He
seized her hand; she would have withdrawn it, but she could not.
"You will listen. It is no harm to you. I must speak now, or I will
die," said he, quite wildly; "and if you think I am mad, perhaps you are
right, but people have pity for a madman. Do you know why I have come to
London? It is to see you. I could bear it no longer--the fire that was
burning and killing me. Oh, it is no use my saying that it is love for
you--I do not know what it is--but only that I must tell you, and you
cannot be angry with me--you can only pity me and go away. That is
it--it is nothing to you--you can go away."
She burst into tears, and snatched her hand from him, and with both
hands covered her face.
"Ah!" said he, "is it pain to you that I should tell you of this
madness? But you will forgive me--and you will forget it--and it will
not pain you to-morrow or any other day. Surely you are not to blame! Do
you remember the days when we became friends? it seems a long time ago,
but they were beautiful days, and you were very kind to me, and I was
glad I had come to London to make so kind a friend. And it was no fault
of yours that I went away with that sickness of the heart; and how could
you know about the burning fire, and the feeling that if I did not see
you I might as well be dead? And I will call you Gertrude for once only.
Gertrude, sit down now--for a moment or two--and do not grieve any more
over what is only a misfortune. I want to tell you. After I have spoken,
I will go away, and there will be an end of the trouble."
She did sit down; her hands were clasped in piteous despair; he saw the
tear drops on the long, beautiful lashes.
"And if the drowning man cries?" said he. "It is only a breath. The
waves go over him, and the world is at peace. And oh! do you know that I
have taken a strange fancy of late--But I will not trouble you with
that; you may hear of it afterward; you will understand, and know you
have no blame, and there is an end of trouble. It is quite strange what
fancies get into one's head when one is--sick--heart-sick. Do you know
what I thought this morning? Will you believe it? Will you let the
drowning man cry out in his madness? Why, I said to myself, 'Up now, and
have courage! Up now, and be brave, and win a bride as they used to do
in the old stories.' And it was you--it was you--my madness thought of.
'You will tell her,' I said to myself, 'of all the love and the worship
you have for her, and your thinking of her by day and by night; and she
is a woman, and she will have pity. And then in her surprise--why--' But
then you came into the room--it is only a little while ago--but it seems
for ever and ever away now--and I have only pained you--"
She sprang to her feet; her face white, her lips proud and determined.
And for a second she put her hands on his shoulders; and the wet, full,
piteous eyes met his. But as rapidly she withdrew them--almost
shuddering--and turned, away; and her hands were apart, each clasped,
and she bowed her head. Gertrude White had never acted like that on any
stage.
And as for him, he stood absolutely dazed for a moment, not daring to
think what that involuntary action might mean. He stepped forward, with
a pale face and a bewildered air, and caught her hand. Her face she
sheltered with the other, and she was sobbing bitterly.
"Gertrude," he said, "what is it? What do you mean?"
The broken voice answered, though her face was turned aside,--
"It is I who am miserable."
"You who are miserable?"
She turned and looked fair into his face, with her eyes all wet, and
beautiful, and piteous.
"Can't you see? Don't you understand?" she said "Oh, my good friend! of
all the men in the world, you are the very last I would bring trouble
to. And I cannot be a hypocrite with you. I feared something of this;
and now the misery is that I cannot say to you, 'Here, take my hand. It
is yours. You have won your bride.' I cannot do it. If we were both
differently situated, it might be otherwise--"
"It might be otherwise!" he exclaimed, with a sudden wonder. "Gertrude,
what do you mean? Situated? Is it only that? Look me in the face, now,
and as you are a true woman tell me--if we were both free from all
situation--if there were no difficulties--nothing to be thought
of--could you give yourself to me? Would you really become my wife--you
who have all the world flattering you?"
She dared not look him in the face. There was something about the
vehemence of his manner that almost terrified her. But she answered
bravely, in the sweet, low, trembling voice, and with downcast eyes,--
"If I were to become the wife of any one, it is your wife I would like
to be; and I have thought of it. Oh, I cannot be a hypocrite with you
when I see the misery I have brought you! And I have thought of giving
up all my present life, and all the wishes and dreams I have cherished,
and going away and living the simple life of a woman. And under whose
guidance would I try that rather than yours? You made me think. But it
is all a dream--a fancy. It is impossible. It would only bring misery to
you and to me--"
"But why--but why?" he eagerly exclaimed; and there was a new light in
his face. "Gertrude, if you can say so much, why not say all? What are
obstacles? There can be none if you have the fiftieth part of the love
for me that I have for you! Obstacles!" And he laughed with a strange
laugh.
She looked up in his face.
"And would it be so great a happiness for you? That would make up for
all the trouble I have brought you?" she said, wistfully; and his answer
was to take both her hands in his, and there was such a joy in his heart
that he could not speak at all. But she only shook her head somewhat
sadly, and withdrew her hands, and sat down again by the table.
"It is wrong of me even to think of it," she said. "Today I might say
'yes,' and to-morrow? You might inspire me with courage now; and
afterward--I should only bring you further pain. I do not know myself. I
could not be sure of myself. How could I dare drag you into such a
terrible risk? It is better as it is. The pain you are suffering will
go. You will come to call me your friend; and you will thank me that I
refused. Perhaps I shall suffer a little too," she added, and once more
she rather timidly looked up into his face. "You do not know the
fascination of seeing your scheme of life, that you have been dreaming
about, just suddenly put before you for acceptance; and you want all
your common sense to hold back. But I know it will be better--better for
both of us. You must believe me."
"I do not believe you, and I will not believe you," said he, with a
proud light in his eyes; "and now you have said so much I am not going
to take any refusal at all. Not now. Gertrude, I have courage for both
of us: when you are timid, you will take my hand. Say it, then! A word
only! You have already said all but that!"
He seemed scarcely the same man who had appealed to her with the wild
eyes and the haggard face. His look was radiant and proud. He spoke with
a firm voice; and yet there was a great tenderness in his tone.
"I am sure you love me," she said, in a low voice.
"You will see," he rejoined, with a firm confidence.
"And I am not going to requite your love ill. You are too vehement. You
think of nothing but the one end to it all. But I am a woman, and women
are taught to be patient. Now you must let me think about all you have
said."
"And you do not quite refuse?" said he.
She hesitated for a moment or two.
"I must think for you as well as for myself," she said, in a scarcely
audible voice. "Give me time. Give me till the end of the week."
"At this hour I will come."
"And you will believe I have decided for the best--that I have tried
hard to be fair to you as well as myself?"
"I know you are too true a woman for anything else," he said; and then
he added, "Ah, well, now, you have had enough misery for one morning;
you must dry your eyes now, and we will go out into the garden; and if I
am not to say anything of all my gratitude to you--why? Because I hope
there will be many a year to do that in, my angel of goodness!"
She went to fetch a light shawl and a hat; he kept turning over the
things on the table, his fingers trembling, his eyes seeing nothing. If
they did see anything, it was a vision of the brown moors near Castle
Dare, and a beautiful creature, clad all in cream-color and scarlet,
drawing near the great gray stone house.
She came into the room again; joy leaped to his eyes.
"Will you follow me?"
There was a strangely subdued air about her manner as she led him to
where her father was; perhaps she was rather tired after the varied
emotions she had experienced; perhaps she was still anxious. He was not
anxious. It was in a glad way that he addressed the old gentleman who
stood there with a spade in his hand.
"It is indeed a beautiful garden," Macleod said, looking round on the
withered leaves and damp soil; "no wonder you look after it yourself."
"I am not gardening," the old man said, peevishly. "I have been putting
a knife in the ground--burying the hatchet, you might call it. Fancy! A
man sees an old hunting-knife in a shop at Gloucester--a hunting-knife
of the time of Charles I., with a beautifully carved ivory handle; and
he thinks he will make a present of it to me. What does he do but go and
have it ground, and sharpened, and polished until if looks like
something sent from Sheffield the day before yesterday!"
"You ought to be very pleased, pappy, you got it at all," said Gertrude
White; but she was looking elsewhere, and rather absently too.
"And so you have buried it to restore the tone?"
"I have," said the old gentleman, marching off with the shovel to a sort
of out house.
Macleod speedily took his leave.
"Saturday next at noon," said he to her, with no timidity in his voice.
"Yes," said she, more gently, and with downcast eyes.
He walked away from the house--he knew not whither. He saw nothing
around him. He walked hard, sometimes talking to himself. In the
afternoon he found himself in a village in Berkshire, close by which,
fortunately, there was a railway station; and he had just time to get
back to keep his appointment with Major Stuart.
They sat down to dinner.
"Come, now, Macleod, tell me where you have been all day," said the
rosy-faced soldier, carefully tucking his napkin under his chin.
Macleod burst out laughing.
"Another day--another day, Stuart, I will tell you all about it. It is
the most ridiculous story you ever heard in your life!"
It was a strange sort of laughing, for there were tears in the younger
man's eyes. But Major Stuart was too busy to notice; and presently they
began to talk about the real and serious object of their expedition to
London.