A SUMMONS.
"What can I do, Kaethchen? What can I do?" she was saying, in accents
almost of despair; and in her agitation she was walking up and down
before the windows, glancing out from time to time towards the far
island that was now shining in the morning sunlight, while the driven
blue sea was springing white along its rocky shores. "What can I do?
What atonement can I make? Or is it quite hopeless? Is he to be sent
away as a stranger, without a word of excuse, or apology, or appeal?"
And then she said: "Kaethchen, surely there is some fatality in it, that
this young man, who has heaped kindness on me since ever I came to this
place--but always keeping aloof in a strange, proud way, as if to avoid
the possibility of thanks--surely there is some fatality that he should
receive nothing but insult and wrong at our hands. First, my
uncle--now, my brother----"
"At all events," said Kate Glendinning, boldly, "I don't see why you
should torture your mind about it, Mamie. It has been none of your
doing. You are not responsible for what your uncle may have done; and
if Fred has spoken in a moment of anger, well, I don't suppose Mr. Ross
will prove to be so unforgiving."
"It is the whole family he must think of, Kaethchen!" Mary broke in
bitterly. "I shouldn't wonder if he hated the very name of Stanley!
What a despicable race he must think us! But I suppose there is an end
now. He has borne too much already: this puts a climax to it.
Unforgiving? Why, even if I could persuade Fred to go out to Heimra and
offer him an apology, he would treat it with scorn--and rightly too. I
know he would!"
The shrewd Kaethchen, though she did not say so, had her doubts on this
score. In the dim recesses of her consciousness there was an echo of
two lines from 'Maud'--
'Peace, angry spirit, and let him be!
Has not his sister smiled on me?'
And she fancied, for reasons of her own, that if the headstrong lad
could be brought to ask for pardon, the somewhat haughty features of the
young owner of Heimra would not long remain stern and implacable. But
she dared not reveal those reasons, even as she dared not repeat those
two lines. She was a prudent lass; and careful not to presume unwarily.
Of a sudden Mary said, in her impetuous way--
"Kaethchen, I will take the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn!"
Kate Glendinning looked up, startled.
"Yes," the young proprietress said, with decision. "After breakfast you
and I must drive away out and see Mr. Watson. If he will give up
Meall-na-Fearn on the same terms as Meall-na-Cruagan, good and well; the
sheep must go; and the crofters can have the pasturage divided amongst
them. I suppose," she added, with something of embarrassment in the
clear-shining eyes, "some one would be sure to--to carry the news--out
to Heimra? Or a line, perhaps--you might have occasion to send out to
him----"
"Mamie!" said Kaethchen, in warm protest. "What are you thinking of? Is
that the atonement you want to make? Do you mean to cut down Mr.
Watson's farm still further just to please Donald Ross? Why, it is
madness! To begin with, it would not please him--not in the least; he
has told you that you have already been far too generous; and I don't
know what he would think of such a needless and useless sacrifice."
"Oh, you think he would not approve?" said Mary, slowly. She was now
standing at one of the windows, looking out towards the distant island
beyond the wide blue plain of the sea.
"I am pretty sure he would not," Kaethchen responded, "especially if he
fancied it was done to propitiate him: it would put him in a very
awkward position. But I'll tell you what I should do if I were in your
place, Mamie----"
"Yes," she said, instantly turning from the window. "What is it? Is
there anything I can do, Kaethchen? It seems so terrible--and so
shameful; and here am I helpless. And then he is so proud--yes, proud
and disdainful; I have said it before; only this time he has an ample
right to be."
"Well, Mamie, if I were you, I would simply take no notice of what
happened yesterday afternoon;" this was Kaethchen's advice. "I would
assume that the friendly relations between him and you were precisely as
they always had been."
"Yes, but how to let him know that that is what I am thinking?" said
Mary eagerly--and rather piteously withal.
"I would send him a note," said the intrepid Kaethchen.
"About what?"
"About anything!"
"Shall I ask him to come over and dine with us?" Mary asked, rather
nervously.
"Well, no: that would be useless; he would not accept--at present,"
Kaethchen made answer. "But indeed, Mamie, I would not send him any
invitation, nor would I say anything that needed an answer: I should
write so that he might answer or not just as he pleased."
"Yes, yes," said Mary, with some animation. "Your advice is excellent,
Kaethchen. I will write at once. And about what? Oh, about kelp. I
have got all the information I wanted about the burning of kelp; and I
will tell him that any time he comes over to the mainland I should like
to show him the report." And then as abruptly she discarded this idea.
"No. Kelp is too common-place. It would be like asking for his advice
about something connected with the estate; and I want him to understand
that I can get on by myself. Oh, I'll tell you, Kaethchen!--the
photographs!--the photographs I promised to send to Mrs. Armour. You
know how proud he was of the old woman's coming all the way from Canada
to have but a glimpse of Young Donald; and I could see how he was
pleased by the little attentions I was able to show her--quite grateful
he seemed--though you know he doesn't say much."
She was all excitement now, and as happy and sanguine as hitherto she
had been despondent. She went and got writing materials forthwith, and
hastily, and yet with some consideration, penned this note:--
"Lochgarra House, Tuesday Morning.
"Dear Mr. Ross,--I do not know whether I told you that, before Mrs.
Armour left to return to Canada, I promised to send her a series of
photographs of Lochgarra and the neighbourhood. I am arranging to have
a photographer come through from Inverness, and any time that you happen
to be over here I should be exceedingly obliged if you would spare me a
few minutes to let me know what places would be likely to prove most
interesting to her.
"Yours sincerely,
"MARY STANLEY."
"Now, you see," she said, as she rather triumphantly handed the letter
to Kaethchen, "that demands nothing. He does not need to reply unless
he happens to have plenty of time and nothing else to do. It merely
shows that, as far as I am concerned, I don't consider that anything has
occurred to disturb our friendly relations. It was so clever of you to
think of it, Kaethchen! And I must send word to Big Archie that I shall
want him and his boat. I'm afraid it's too rough to try the
steam-launch. I'm so much obliged to you, Kaethchen, for thinking about
it!"
Indeed, she was quite joyous and radiant. Her keen remorse, and shame,
and piteous despair seemed wholly to have fled; she was possessed with
an audacious confidence; a sort of gratitude towards all the world shone
in her eyes. And Kaethchen, who had studied this young woman closely,
and who was capable of drawing conclusions, knew perfectly the origin of
this buoyancy of spirit: the letter Mary had just written demanded no
answer, it is true, but none the less was she in her heart convinced
that an answer--an answer confirming all her best anticipations--would
be forthcoming, and that without delay. Big Archie was bidden to haste
and get his lugger ready: he was to set out for Heimra at once.
Kate Glendinning was not the only one in this house who could draw
conclusions, or at least form suspicions. When the two gentlemen
returned that evening from the hill, they found the letters and
newspapers that had arrived by the mid-day post spread out on the
hall-table; and they began to glance at addresses and tear open
envelopes. Fred Stanley was soon satisfied; he went off to his room to
change for dinner; but his elder companion remained--holding a letter in
his hand, and apparently much concerned about something. At this moment
Kaethchen appeared, passing across to the door leading out into the
garden; and the instant he caught sight of her his eyes seemed to light
up with interest. Here was a friend in need.
"Miss Glendinning," said he, in something of an anxious undertone,
"could you give me a couple of minutes? Are you going into the garden?
May I come with you? I want to ask you to do me a great service--how
great I can hardly tell you."
Kaethchen was surprised; for this trim, brisk, bronze-cheeked,
shrewd-eyed sportsman generally took things in a very happy-go-lucky,
imperturbable fashion. But her instant conjecture was a natural one:
"Be sure this is about Mamie!" she said to herself.
Well, he accompanied her down the stone steps and into the garden, where
she began to employ herself in cutting flowers for the dining-room
table, while she listened attentively enough.
"The fact is," said he, "I have just had a letter from home, with no
very good news. My father, who is an old man, has been an invalid for a
great many years, varying in health from time to time; but now it seems
he has had a very bad attack of asthma along with his other ailments,
and the doctors have ordered him off to Bournemouth----"
"I am very sorry," said Kaethchen, as in duty bound.
"And--I have received an intimation that I may be telegraphed for--I
might have to leave here at a moment's notice almost." He hesitated for
a second or so. "Miss Glendinning," he said, "you see how I am
situated: I may be called away at any moment--with something that is of
great importance to me left unsettled. I have been living in a fool's
paradise; I thought there was plenty of time. And then, again, I did not
care to confide in any one. But now I am going to appeal to you. Will
you tell me something in strictest confidence--something you are likely
to know? It might save your friend--you can guess whom I mean--much
embarrassment, even pain; and it would be the greatest favour you could
possibly confer on me."
And now Kaethchen knew her surmise was correct; and perhaps she may have
been inclined to think that there was something incongruous, something
even humorous, in this ordinarily cool and firm-nerved person appearing
to be afflicted by the hesitation of an anxious lover, only that she was
also aware of the gravity of the situation. For tragic things may
happen even to the steeled.
"Miss Glendinning," said he, "I want you to tell me if there is anything
between Mr. Ross and Miss Stanley?"
Well, this was a frank challenge; and she answered it as frankly.
"I do not think there is," she said; "but I think there might be at any
moment. That is only my impression; and I may be quite wrong; and
indeed I have no right to say so----"
"But I have appealed to you as a friend, to do me this great favour,"
said he; and then he paused for a second. "The fact is," he went on, as
if with some unwillingness, "I have noticed one or two odd things--Miss
Stanley's indignation with her brother if he said anything against Mr.
Ross--and the painful scene of yesterday evening--these things might
lead one to conjecture----"
"Oh, but I'm sure there is nothing between them--nothing at present, at
least," said Kaethchen, with some earnestness; for this assurance she
could honestly give him; and when did a perplexed and troubled lover
ever appeal in vain to a woman's heart? "There is nothing between them
at present, I am certain of that; and whether there ever may be, who can
tell? Both of them have peculiar natures. Both of them are proud; and
she, besides that, is wilful and impulsive; while he is
reserved--and--and you might almost think cold--only that I imagine his
studiously keeping away from her, and treating her with a kind of
distant civility, has some meaning and intention in it. I don't think he
would like to become the slave of any woman; and she--well, she is very
independent, too. And then both of them are very peculiarly situated:
there is the old-standing feud between the two families; it must have
been hard on him and on his mother to have strangers coming into the
neighbourhood, tearing down the old landmarks. There are things that
the Highland nature can never forget; and Mary knows that well; more
than once she has said to me, 'Kaethchen, there are wrongs that can
never be undone; I can never rebuild Castle Heimra.'"
"Yes, yes, I quite understand," said he, rather absently; "and yet Ross
does not seem to bear any resentment--not against her. No, nor against
any one belonging to her. I must say for him that his forbearance
yesterday towards Fred Stanley was most remarkable: that was another
thing that struck me as peculiar. And yet you say there is nothing
between him and Miss Stanley?"
"Nothing, I am certain," Kaethchen assured him again.
"I am so awfully obliged to you!" he said, with some little expression
of relief; and yet he was thoughtful and silent as they walked back to
the house--Kaethchen having got all the flowers she wanted.
That night, after dinner, when the two young ladies retired to the
drawing-room, Mary seemed somewhat disturbed.
"Don't you think it rather strange, Kaethchen," she said, "that Big
Archie brought no message back from Heimra? I don't mean an answer. I
don't mean an answer to my note. That was not necessary--it was hardly
to be expected. But why has he not come to say he delivered my letter?"
She went to one of the windows, and pulled aside part of the blind. The
night had turned out rather dark and squally; and there were spots of
rain on the glass that caught the light of the lamps within.
"I should like to see Big Archie," said she, with a vague restlessness.
And then of a sudden she made this abrupt proposal: "Kaethchen, won't
you come down with me into the village? Barbara says the gentlemen have
gone into the billiard-room, for there is a threatening of rain; but we
could put on waterproofs, and run away down there and back, without
anything being known of it."
"Is it worth while, Mamie?" Kaethchen remonstrated. "He must have
delivered your note!"
"Yes; but it is so strange there should be no message of any kind!" said
Mary. And then she instantly added, changing her tone: "Of course, it
is not at all strange. Only--only, Big Archie sometimes takes a glass
of whisky, you know; and he might have got some answer that he has
forgotten--perhaps a note that he has left in his pocket----"
"Oh, if you like, I will go with you," said Kaethchen at once, rather
welcoming a little bit of adventure; and forthwith both of them hurried
away to get their waterproofs.
The night was dark and blustering; the ordinarily clear twilight of
these northern regions was obscured by heavy clouds; and the wind that
blew in from the sea brought with it a sense of moisture that promised
to become actual rain. The two black figures made their way with little
difficulty in the direction of the orange lights of the village, the
unseen sea washing up on the beach close by them. Neither spoke; but
both walked quickly; perhaps they wanted to be back at Lochgarra House
before their absence should be known.
Then, just as they were getting near to the inn, Kate suddenly put her
hand on her friend's arm. Ahead of them were two other figures, as
black as themselves, but looming larger through the dusk.
"That is Big Archie," said Kaethchen, in a whisper, "and isn't the other
Hector?--yes, I am sure that is Hector!"
At this moment the two men disappeared.
"I know where they have gone," Mary said promptly. "They have gone into
the tap-room behind. Well, we will follow, in case the people in the
inn should deny them. Come along, Kaethchen, I know the way."
The two young women left the main street, crossed a stable-yard, and,
guided by the dull glow of a window, went up to a door, which Mary
entered. The next moment they were gazing into a small sanded parlour,
where Gilleasbuig Mor and his friend the keeper were standing: indeed,
the two men had not had time to sit down nor yet to order anything to
drink. The oil-lamp on the table shed a feeble light, but it was quite
sufficient to show that Hector, thus caught, was looking terribly
guilty; while the great, heavy-shouldered fisherman, whose deep-set grey
eyes under the bushy eyebrows seemed to say that he had already had a
glass, instantly came to his companion's help.
"Aw, well now," Archie said, in his plaintive Argyllshire accent, "iss
it Miss Stanley herself that would be coming in here--indeed,
indeed!--and Hector, the honest lad, chist feenished up with ahl his
work--oh, aye--the guns ahl cleaned, and the dogs fed, and everything
ready for the chentlemen to-morrow--and me coming bye from the Camus
Bheag, and says I, 'Hector, will you come along with me and hef a dram
when your work is feenished?' And Miss Stanley need not be thinking
there wass any more in our minds than that; for Hector is a fine lad,
and a fine keeper, and what harm will a dram do to anyone when ahl the
work is done?"
"Sit down, Archie--sit down, Hector!" said Mary, quite good-naturedly.
"I saw you come in this way, Archie, and I merely wished to ask you what
happened at Heimra."
"Aw, Heimra," said Archie, collecting his thoughts--and his English.
"Iss it at Heimra? Aw, well, now, Martha is a ferry nice woman, and she
wass giving me some bread and cheese, ay, and a glass of spirits the
like of it is not ahlways--a good woman Martha----'
"Yes, but my note, Archie," said Mary. "The note you took out: I suppose
you gave it to Mr. Ross? And he did not say anything? Well, there was
no need for an answer--none in the least----"
"Aw, the letter?" said Archie. "Well, I wass not seeing Mr. Ross at
ahl, for he wass aweh up on the north side of the island, setting snares
for the rabbits."
"Oh, you did not see Mr. Ross?" said Mary, quickly. "He could not
possibly have sent any answer?" She seemed greatly pleased--as
Kaethchen observed. "No, of course, he could not send an answer if he
was away at the other end of the island." Then she turned to Hector;
and the tall, swarthy, brown-bearded keeper perceived that the fair
young Englishwoman--the Baintighearna--had no mind to rebuke him or to
be in any way angry with him. "Why, Hector," she said, quite
pleasantly, "that is a very strange thing, that he should go snaring
rabbits: why doesn't he shoot them?"
"Mr. Ross, mem," said Hector, in his grave and respectful fashion, "he
does not care much about shooting. And the rabbits, if they are not
kept down, would do a dale of mischief on a smahl island like that."
"He is not fond of shooting, then? No; I think he told me so himself."
Then, with one of her sudden impulses, she said--"Come, Hector, let me
know what all this is about poaching on this place. Ever since I came
here I have heard of all kinds of rumours and charges and suspicions;
and I want to know the truth. I shan't blame anybody. I want to know
the actual truth. Tell me frankly. It isn't such an important thing,
after all. I only want to know what is happening around us."
The tall keeper looked concerned--not to say alarmed: the violent scene
of the day before was fresh in his mind. But the big, good-natured
giant from Cantire broke in.
"Aw, he is a fine lad, Hector, Miss Stanley may be sure of that; and
there's no mich poaching going on about this country-side--at least, not
about Lochgarra whatever. It's myself that wass hearing Hector seh that
if he wass catching the Gillie Ciotach with a gun, he would brek the gun
over his head."
"Gillie Ciotach?" said Mary. "I know him--a wild-looking young fellow,
with a mark across his forehead. Well, is he a poacher, Hector?"
"It is in this way, mem," Hector said, slowly and carefully; "there's
very little poaching about Lochgarra, as Archie says, and Hugh and
myself we know it well; but there's some of the young lads, ay, and some
of the older men, too, that if they came across a salmon, or a few
sea-trout, or a hare, they would be for taking it out to Heimra, and
slipping round by the back-door, and Martha there to take the present.
Mr. Ross, he does not pay attention to such things; for he is ahlways
having a salmon, or a capercailzie, or a box of grouse sent him by the
big families that he knows, when their friends are up for the shooting;
and he will believe anything that Martha says; and he pays no more heed
to such things."
"Yes, but, Hector, what I want you to tell me is this," she
interposed--and she spoke with a certain air of proud confidence--"what
I want you to tell me distinctly is this: do you mean to say that Mr.
Ross himself would take a gun or a fishing-rod and go where he had no
right to go, either fishing or shooting?"
It was a challenge; and Hector met it unflinchingly. He said, in his
serious way--
"Oh, no, mem--no, no: there is not anyone about here that would think
such a thing of Mr. Ross."
Mary turned to Kaethchen, with a quick, triumphant glance. Then she
addressed herself again to Hector.
"Well, sit down, and have a chat with your friend, Hector," said she,
very pleasantly. "We shan't interrupt you any longer. And if now and
again one of the lads about here should be taking out a little present
of fish or game to old Martha, for the housekeeping, well, that is a
trifling matter; and I dare say she gives them a glass of whiskey for
their trouble. And, Archie, any other time you go out to Heimra with a
message from me, mind you come back and tell me whether there is an
answer or not, even when I am not expecting an answer, because that
makes everything certain and correct. So good-night to you
both--good-night!--good-night!" And therewith the two young ladies,
who, even in the dull light of this little sanded parlour, had formed
such a curious contrast to those two big, swarthy, heavily-bearded men,
withdrew, and shut the door after them, and set out for home through the
darkness and the drizzling rain.
Next morning Mary said, with a casual glance out towards Eilean Heimra--
"Kaethchen, don't you think, if you lived on that island, you would
rather have a good-sized steam-launch than any sailing-boat? It would
be so much more handy--ready at a moment's notice almost--and taking up
so much less time, if you wanted to send a message to the mainland. I
suppose Mr. Ross has to think twice before telling his men to get the
yacht ready, or even that big lugsail boat."
But as the day wore on there was no sign of either yacht or lugger
coming away from Heimra; the grey and squally sea remained empty;
indeed, towards the afternoon, the wind freshened up into something like
half a gale, and it grew to be a matter of certainty that Donald Ross
would not seek to communicate with the shore. Mary was not
disheartened. On the contrary, her face wore the same happy look--that
Frank Meredyth could not quite understand. He had become observant and
thoughtful: not about grouse.
The following morning broke with a much more cheerful aspect.
"Kaethchen," said Mary, before they went down to breakfast together,
"don't you think that any time Mr. Ross comes across to the mainland he
might as well walk along here for lunch, instead of going to the inn?
Talking to us should interest him as much as talking to that soft-headed
John, the policeman, or to the sulky Peter Grant, or even to the
sing-song Minister. And it would be very pleasant for us, too, with the
gentlemen away on the moor all day."
But again the slow hours of the day passed; and, whatever may have been
her secret hopes, her anxious fears, or even, at times, her disposition
to be proudly resentful, that width of rough blue water gave no answer
to her surreptitiously questioning gaze. There was a fresh westerly
breeze blowing; either the smart little cutter or the more cumbrous
lugger could have made an easy and rapid passage. However, neither brown
sail nor white sail appeared outside the distant headland; and so the
afternoon drew on towards evening; and here were the sportsmen come down
from the hill, and the dressing-bell about to sound.
After dinner, when the two young ladies were alone together, Mary
said--with a curious affectation of indifference--
"I did not ask for an answer, Kaethchen. Oh, certainly not. There was
no answer needed--but still--it seems to me he might have acknowledged
the receipt of my note. Of course I am rather anxious to know on what
terms we are--naturally--and--and naturally I should like to know
whether he absolves me----" She was silent for a moment. When she
spoke again she was more honest: there was something of a proud, hurt
feeling in her tone. "I do think he might have sent me a message.
Don't you, Kaethchen? Either yesterday morning or to-day--the whole of
to-day has been fine weather. I went out of my way to make the first
overtures--after--after what happened. I held out the olive-branch. It
seems to me that common courtesy would suggest some little
acknowledgment: one is not used to being treated in this way----"
"Perhaps to-morrow----" suggested Kaethchen, vaguely.
"Oh, if he is not in a hurry, neither am I," said she, with a sudden air
of haughty unconcern; and she would have no more said.
Nay, from this moment she seemed to dismiss Donald Ross from her mind.
When, on the following day, Eilean Heimra remained as mute and
unresponsive as before, she made no remark to Kaethchen; she resolutely
dismissed an involuntary habit she had formed of scanning the space of
sea intervening between the island and the coast; and if Kaethchen
mentioned Mr. Ross's name, she would either not reply at all, or reply
with a cold indifference, as much as to say, "Who is the stranger whom
you speak of?" All the day long she busied herself with her
multifarious duties, and was particularly cheerful; in the evening she
showed herself most complaisant towards the two young men who were her
guests. She talked of giving a ball to the keepers, the gillies, and
their friends; and wondered whether there was anywhere a barn big enough
for the purpose.
So time went by; and these four young people occupying Lochgarra House
appeared to be as merry and happy as though they had belonged to a
certain little band of Florentines of the fourteenth century. For Mary
was not always deep-buried in her industrial schemes. Sometimes she and
Kate Glendinning would go away up to join the sportsmen at lunch-time;
and thereafter, perched high on these sterile and lonely altitudes, she
would set to work to add to a series she was forming of sea-views and
coast-views--drawings in most of which the horizon-line was close up to
the top of the sheet. It is true that in these spacious sketches she
had sometimes to include the island of Heimra; but no mention was made
of Donald Ross; it was as if he had gone away, and for ever, into some
unknown clime. Even Fred Stanley was almost ready to believe that the
poaching had ceased; and so there was peace in the land.
But there came a thunder-clap into this idyllic quiet. One evening,
when the two young men returned from their long day on the hill, there
was a telegram among the letters on the hall-table. It was for Frank
Meredyth. He tore open the envelope.
"I was afraid of it," he said to his companion. "I must be off, Fred, by
the mail-car to-morrow morning. Very sorry, old chap, to have to leave
you."
"I hope it is nothing serious," young Stanley put in, with his grey eyes
grown grave.
"They don't say anything very definite," was the reply. "Only I am
summoned, and I must go."
"Then I will go with you," said the other promptly, "as far as London.
This just decides it. I'll accept Nugent's invitation, after all; and
if he has started, I'll pick him up at Marseilles. We've seen pretty
well what the moor is like; and perhaps some other time my sister asks
us down, we may wait on and have a try for a stag or two. Very sorry,
though, you must go."
Dinner that evening, in view of this summons, was rather a sombre
affair: it was Kaethchen who, when the young men subsequently made their
appearance in the drawing-room, suggested they should all go out for a
stroll up to the top of the Minard road. She thought this little
excursion would remove some of the prevailing constraint. Besides, it
promised to be a beautiful moonlight night; and from the summit of the
hill they would have a view of the wide southern seas, with the black
headlands running out into the shimmering pathway of silver.
Well, the expedition, so far as pictorial effects were concerned, was
entirely successful; but it was not moonlight that was in Frank
Meredyth's mind. He was going away on the morrow; he did not know what
might happen in his absence; and he thought his departure was a fair and
reasonable excuse for his revealing to Mary Stanley certain hopes and
aspirations that had gradually, and for some long time back, been taking
possession of him. On their way back to the house Fred and Kaethchen
were walking on in front; the night was still, so that half-murmured
words were enough; the surroundings lent a certain charm. And so it came
about that Frank Meredyth asked Mary to become his wife.
Now it cannot be said that the language in which this proposition was
couched was quite in accordance with these poetical accessories of
moonlit vale, and larch wood, and hill; for the average young
Englishman, however honest and sincere he may be, does not express
himself fluently on such occasions; probably he would be ashamed of
himself if he could and did. Nevertheless, a proposal of marriage,
however stumblingly and awkwardly conveyed, is a very serious thing to a
young woman; and Mary, startled and frightened, had only the one
immediate and overwhelming desire--to postpone the terrible necessity of
giving a definite answer. For it was all too bewildering. She wanted to
think. To tell the truth, Frank Meredyth's wooing had not been too open
and avowed. A man of the world in other things, in this he had been a
little shy--one touch of nature among a thousand conventionalities.
Then, again, was not a refusal a very cruel thing, that should be
administered gently?
"Oh, Mr. Meredyth," she said, in a very low and rather breathless voice,
"I think--I think--this is hardly the time----"
"But surely it is!" said he. "For I am going away to-morrow morning.
And I don't know when I may see you again. And I should like to take
with me some little word of hope--something to remember----"
"Did you see that hare?" Fred Stanley called to them, looking back for a
moment.
Meredyth did not pay much heed to the hare.
"Perhaps I have asked you too abruptly," he went on, in the same hurried
and confused undertone. "Perhaps I am asking too much--that you should
say something definite all at once. Very well: I will not press for an
answer--I will wait--I will wait----"
They were emerging from the shadow of the larch trees; before them was
an open space of gravel, white in the moonlight, and beyond that rose
the grey walls and turrets of Lochgarra House.
"Only tell me this," said he, in a still lower voice, "tell me if there
is any one before me. I have hesitated about speaking earlier because I
imagined certain things--perhaps I was mistaken--at least you will tell
me that--tell me if there is some one else----"
"No," said Mary, as they crossed that space of white moonlight, and
perhaps she spoke a little proudly. "That--at least--I can assure
you----"
"No one?" he said, eagerly, in the same undertone.
But here they were at the house--with Fred and Kaethchen waiting for
them on the grey stone terrace: these two had turned to look at the
wonderful beauty of the night.