FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
Lady Macleod remained obdurate; Janet went about the house with a sad
look on her face; and Macleod, tired of the formal courtesy that
governed the relations between his mother and himself, spent most of his
time in snipe and duck shooting about the islands--braving the wild
winds and wilder seas in a great, open lugsailed boat, the _Umpire_
having long been sent to her winter-quarters. But the harsh, rough life
had its compensations. Letters came from the South--treasures to be
pored over night after night with an increasing wonder and admiration.
Miss Gertrude White was a charming letter-writer; and now there was no
restraint at all over her frank confessions and playful humors. Her
letters were a prolonged chat--bright, rambling, merry, thoughtful, just
as the mood occurred. She told him of her small adventures and the
incidents of her everyday life, so that he could delight himself with
vivid pictures of herself and her surroundings. And again and again she
hinted rather than said that she was continually thinking of the
Highlands, and of the great change in store for her.
"Yesterday morning," she wrote, "I was going down the Edgeware Road, and
whom should I see but two small boys, dressed as young Highlanders,
staring into the window of a toy-shop. Stalwart young fellows they were,
with ruddy complexions and brown legs, and their Glengarries
coquettishly placed on the side of their head; and I could see at once
that their plain kilt was no holiday dress. How could I help speaking to
them? I thought perhaps they had come from Mull. And so I went up to
them and asked if they would let me buy a toy for each of them. 'We dot
money,' says the younger, with a bold stare at my impertinence. 'But you
can't refuse to accept a present from a lady?' I said. 'Oh no, ma am,'
said the elder boy, and he politely raised his cap; and the accent of
his speech--well, it made my heart jump. But I was very nearly
disappointed when I got them into the shop; for I asked what their name
was; and they answered 'Lavender.' 'Why, surely, that is not a Highland,
name,' I said. 'No, ma'am,' said the elder lad; 'but my mamma is from
the Highlands, and we are from the Highlands, and we are going back to
spend the New-year at home.' 'And where is your home?' I asked; but I
have forgotten the name of the place; I understood it was somewhere away
in the North. And then I asked them if they had ever been to Mull. 'We
have passed it in the _Clansman_' said the elder boy. 'And do you know
one Sir Keith Macleod there?' I asked. 'Oh no, ma'am,' said he, staring
at me with his clear blue eyes as if I was a very stupid person, 'The
Macleods are from Skye.' 'But surely one of them may live in Mull,' I
suggested. 'The Macleods are from Skye,' he maintained, 'and my papa was
at Dunvegan last year.' Then came the business of choosing the toys; and
the smaller child would have a boat, though his elder brother laughed at
him, and said something about a former boat of his having been blown out
into Loch Rogue--which seemed to me a strange name for even a Highland
loch. But the elder lad, he must needs have a sword; and when I asked
him what he wanted that for, he said, quite proudly, 'To kill the
Frenchmen with.' 'To kill Frenchmen with?' I said; for this young
fire-eater seemed to mean what he said. 'Yes, ma'am,' said he, 'for they
shoot the sheep out on the Flannan Islands when no one sees them; but we
will catch them some day.' I was afraid to ask him where the Flannan
Islands were, for I could see he was already regarding me as a very
ignorant person; so I had their toys tied up for them, and packed them
off home. 'And when you get home,' I said to them, 'you will give my
compliments to your mamma, and say that you got the ship and the sword
from a lady who has a great liking for the Highland people.' 'Yes,
ma'am,' says he, touching his cap again with a proud politeness; and
then they went their ways, and I saw them no more."
Then the Christmas-time came, with all its mystery, and friendly
observances, and associations; and she described to him how Carry and
she were engaged in decorating certain schools in which they were
interested, and how a young curate had paid her a great deal of
attention, until some one went and told him, as a cruel joke, that Miss
White was a celebrated dancer at a music-hall.
Then, on Christmas morning, behold, the very first snow of the year! She
got up early; she went out alone; the holiday world of London was not
yet awake.
"I never in my life saw anything more beautiful," she wrote to him,
"than Regent's Park this morning, in a pale fog, with just a sprinkling
of snow on the green of the grass, and one great yellow mansion shining
through the mist--the sunlight on it--like some magnificent distant
palace. And I said to myself, if I were a poet or a painter I would take
the common things, and show people the wonder and the beauty of them;
for I believe the sense of wonder is a sort of light that shines in the
soul of the artist; and the least bit of the 'denying spirit'--the
utterance of the word _connu_--snuffs it out at once. But then, dear
Keith, I caught myself asking what I had to do with all these dreams,
and these theories that papa would like to have talked about. What had I
to do with art? And then I grew miserable. Perhaps the loneliness of the
park, with only those robust, hurrying strangers crossing, blowing their
fingers, and pulling their cravats closer, had affected me; or perhaps
it was that I suddenly found how helpless I am by myself. I want a
sustaining hand, Keith; and that is now far away from me. I can do
anything with myself of set purpose, but it doesn't last. If you remind
me that one ought generously to overlook the faults of others--I
generously overlook the faults of others--for five minutes. If you
remind me that to harbor jealousy and envy is mean and contemptible, I
make an effort, and throw out all jealous and envious thoughts--for five
minutes. And so you see I got discontented with myself; and I hated two
men who were calling loud jokes at each other as they parted different
ways; and I marched home through the fog, feeling rather inclined to
quarrel with somebody. By the way, did you ever notice that you often
can detect the relationship between people by their similar mode of
walking, and that more easily than by any likeness of face? As I
strolled home, I could tell which of the couples of men walking before
me were brothers by the similar bending of the knee and the similar
gait, even when their features were quite unlike. There was one man
whose fashion of walking was really very droll; his right knee gave a
sort of preliminary shake as if it was uncertain which way the foot
wanted to go. For the life of me I could not help imitating him; and
then I wondered what his face would be like if he were suddenly to turn
round and catch me."
That still dream of Regent's Park in sunlight and snow he carried about
with him as a vision--a picture--even amidst the blustering westerly
winds, and the riven seas that sprung over the rocks and swelled and
roared away into the caves of Gribun and Bourg. There was no snow as yet
up here at Dare, but wild tempests shaking the house to its foundations,
and brief gleams of stormy sunlight lighting up the gray spindrift as it
was whirled shoreward from the breaking seas; and then days of slow and
mournful rain, with Staffa, and Lunga, and the Dutchman become mere dull
patches of blurred purple--when they were visible at all--on the
leaden-hued and coldly rushing Atlantic.
"I have passed through the gates of the Palace of Art," she wrote, two
days later, from the calmer and sunnier South; "and I have entered its
mysterious halls, and I have breathed for a time the hushed atmosphere
of wonderland. Do you remember meeting a Mr. Lemuel at any time at Mrs.
Ross's--a man with a strange, gray, tired face, and large, wan, blue
eyes, and an air as if he were walking in a dream? Perhaps not; but, at
all events, he is a great painter, who never exhibits to the vulgar
crowd, but who is worshipped by a select circle of devotees; and his
house is a temple dedicated to high art, and only profound believers are
allowed to cross the threshold. Oh dear me! I am not a believer; but how
can I help that? Mr. Lemuel is a friend of papa's, however; they have
mysterious talks over milk-jugs of colored stone, and small pictures
with gilt skies, and angels in red and blue. Well, yesterday he called
on papa, and requested his permission to ask me to sit--or, rather,
stand--for the heroine of his next great work, which is to be an
allegorical one, taken from the 'Faery Queen' or the 'Morte d'Arthur,'
or some such book. I protested; it was no use. 'Good gracious, papa,' I
said, 'do you know what he will make of me? He will give me a dirty
brown face, and I shall wear a dirty green dress; and no doubt I shall
be standing beside a pool of dirty blue water, with a purple sky
overhead, and a white moon in it. The chances are he will dislocate my
neck, and give me gaunt cheeks like a corpse, with a serpent under my
foot, or a flaming dragon stretching his jaws behind my back.' Papa was
deeply shocked at my levity. Was it for me, an artist (bless the mark!),
to baulk the high aims of art? Besides it was vaguely hinted that, to
reward me, certain afternoon-parties were to be got up; and then, when I
had got out of Merlin-land, and assured myself I was human by eating
lunch, I was to meet a goodly company of distinguished folk--great
poets, and one or two more mystic painters, a dilettante duke, and the
nameless crowd of worshippers who would come to sit at the feet of all
these, and sigh adoringly, and shake their heads over the Philistinism
of English society. I don't care for ugly mediæval maidens myself, nor
for allegorical serpents, nor for bloodless men with hollow cheeks,
supposed to represent soldierly valor; if I were an artist, I would
rather show people the beauty of a common brick wall when the red winter
sunset shines along it. But perhaps that is only my ignorance, and I may
learn better before Mr. Lemuel has done with me."
When Macleod first read this passage, a dark expression came over his
face. He did not like this new project.
"And so, yesterday afternoon," the letter continued, "papa and I went to
Mr. Lemuel's house, which is only a short way from here; and we entered,
and found ourselves in a large circular and domed hall, pretty nearly
dark, and with a number of closed doors. It was all hushed, and
mysterious, and dim; but there was a little more light when the man
opened one of these doors and showed us into a chamber--or, rather, one
of a series of chambers--that seemed to me at first like a big child's
toy-house, all painted and gilded with red and gold. It was
bewilderingly full of objects that had no ostensible purpose. You could
not tell whether any one of these rooms was dining-room, or
drawing-room, or anything else; it was all a museum of wonderful
cabinets filled with different sorts of ware, and trays of uncut
precious stones, and Eastern jewelry, and what not; and then you
discovered that in the panels of the cabinets were painted series of
allegorical heads on a gold background; and then perhaps you stumbled on
a painted glass window where no window should be. It was a splendid
blaze of color, no doubt. One began to dream of Byzantine emperors, and
Moorish conquerors, and Constantinople gilt domes. But then--mark the
dramatic effect!--away in the blaze of the farther chamber appears a
solemn, slim, bowed figure, dressed all in black--the black velvet coat
seemed even blacker than black--and the mournful-eyed man approached,
and he gazed upon us a grave welcome from the pleading, affected, tired
eyes. He had a slight cough, too, which I rather fancied was assumed
for the occasion. Then we all sat down, and he talked to us in a low,
sad, monotonous voice; and there was a smell of frankincense about--no
doubt a band of worshippers had lately been visiting at the shrine; and,
at papa's request, he showed me some of his trays of jewels with a
wearied air. And some drawings of Botticelli that papa had been speaking
about; would he look at them now? Oh, dear Keith, the wickedness of the
human imagination! as he went about in this limp and languid fashion, in
the hushed room, with the old-fashioned scent in the air, I wished I was
a street boy. I wished I could get close behind him, and give a sudden
yell! Would he fly into bits? Would he be so startled into naturalness
as to swear? And all the time that papa and he talked, I dared scarcely
lift my eyes; for I could not but think of the effect of that wild 'Hi!'
And what if I had burst into a fit of laughter without any apparent
cause?"
Apparently Miss White had not been much impressed by her visit to Mr.
Lemuel's palace of art, and she made thereafter but slight mention of
it, though she had been prevailed upon to let the artist borrow the
expression of her face for his forthcoming picture. She had other things
to think about now, when she wrote to Castle Dare.
For one day Lady Macleod went into her son's room and said to him, "Here
is a letter, Keith, which I have written to Miss White. I wish you to
read it."
He jumped to his feet, and hastily ran his eyes over the letter. It was
a trifle formal, it is true; but it was kind, and it expressed the hope
that Miss White and her father would next summer visit Castle Dare. The
young man threw his arms round his mother's neck and kissed her. "That
is like a good mother," said he. "Do you know how happy she will be when
she receives this message from you?"
Lady Macleod left him the letter to address. He read it over carefully;
and though he saw that the handwriting was the handwriting of his
mother, he knew that the spirit that had prompted these words was that
of the gentle cousin Janet.
This concession had almost been forced from the old lady by the patience
and mild persistence of Janet Macleod; but if anything could have
assured her that she had acted properly in yielding, it was the answer
which Miss Gertrude White sent in return. Miss White wrote that letter
several times over before sending it off, and it was a clever piece of
composition. The timid expressions of gratitude; the hints of the
writer's sympathy with the romance of the Highlands and the Highland
character; the deference shown by youth to age; and here and there just
the smallest glimpse of humor, to show that Miss White, though very
humble and respectful and all that, was not a mere fool. Lady Macleod
was pleased by this letter. She showed it to her son one night at
dinner. "It is a pretty hand," she remarked, critically.
Keith Macleod read it with a proud heart. "Can you not gather what kind
of woman she is from that letter alone?" he said, eagerly. "I can almost
hear her talk in it. Janet, will you read it too?"
Janet Macleod took the small sheet of perfumed paper and read it calmly,
and handed it back to her aunt. "It is a nice letter," said she. "We
must try to make Dare as bright as maybe when she comes to see us, that
she will not go back to England with a bad account of the Highland
people." That was all that was said at the time about the promised visit
of Miss Gertrude White to Castle Dare. It was only as a visitor that
Lady Macleod had consented to receive her. There was no word mentioned
on either side of anything further than that. Mr. White and his daughter
were to be in the Highlands next summer; they would be in the
neighborhood of Castle Dare; Lady Macleod would be glad to entertain
them for a time, and make the acquaintance of two of her son's friends.
At all events, the proud old lady would be able to see what sort of
woman this was whom Keith Macleod had chosen to be his wife.
And so the winter days and nights and weeks dragged slowly by; but
always, from time to time, came those merry and tender and playful
letters from the South, which he listened to rather than read. It was
her very voice that was speaking to him, and in imagination he went
about with her. He strolled with her over the crisp grass, whitened with
hoar-frost, of the Regent's Park; he hurried home with her in the chill
gray afternoons--the yellow gas-lamps being lit--to the little
tea-table. When she visited a picture gallery, she sent him a full
report of that, even.
"Why is it," she asked, "that one is so delighted to look a long
distance, even when the view is quite uninteresting? I wonder if that is
why I greatly prefer landscapes to figure subjects. The latter always
seem to me to be painted from models just come from the Hampstead Road.
There was scarcely a sea-piece in the exhibition that was not spoiled
by figures, put in for the sake of picturesqueness, I suppose. Why, when
you are by the sea you want to be alone, surely! Ah, if I could only
have a look at those winter seas you speak of!"
He did not echo that wish at all. Even as he read he could hear the
thunderous booming of the breakers into the giant caves. Was it for a
pale rose-leaf to brave that fell wind that tore the waves into
spindrift, and howled through the lonely chasms of Ben-an-Sloich?
To one of these precious documents, written in the small, neat hand on
pink-toned and perfumed paper, a postscript was added: "If you keep my
letters," she wrote, and he laughed when he saw that _if_, "I wish you
would go back to the one in which I told you of papa and me calling at
Mr. Lemuel's house, and I wish, dear Keith, you would burn it. I am sure
it was very cruel and unjust. One often makes the mistake of thinking
people affected when there is no affectation about them. And if a man
has injured his health and made an invalid of himself, through his
intense and constant devotion to his work, surely that is not anything
to be laughed at? Whatever Mr. Lemuel may be, he is, at all events,
desperately in earnest. The passion that he has for his art, and his
patience and concentration and self-sacrifice, seems to me to be nothing
less than noble. And so, dear Keith, will you please to burn that
impertinent letter?"
Macleod sought out the letter and carefully read it over. He came to the
conclusion that he could see no just reason for complying with her
demand. Frequently first impressions are best.