It was a glorious September, and the Scottish moors looked as they had
not looked for years; the heather grew in rich profusion, the grouse
were plentiful. The prospects for sportsmen were excellent.
Not knowing what else to do, Lord Arleigh resolved to go to Scotland for
the shooting; there was a sort of savage satisfaction in the idea of
living so many weeks alone, without on-lookers, where he could be dull
if he liked without comment--where he could lie for hours together on
the heather looking up at the blue skies, and puzzling over the problem
of his life--where, when the fit of despair seized him, he could indulge
in it, and no one wonder at him. He hired a shooting-lodge called
Glaburn. In his present state of mind it seemed to him to be a relief to
live where he could not even see a woman's face. Glaburn was kept in
order by two men, who mismanaged it after the fashion of men, but Lord
Arleigh was happier there than he had been since his fatal marriage-day,
simply because he was quite alone. If he spent more time in lying on the
heather and thinking of Madaline than he did in shooting, that was his
own concern--there was no one to interfere.
One day, when he was in one of his most despairing moods, he went out
quite early in the morning, determined to wander the day through, to
exhaust himself pitilessly with fatigue, and then see if he could not
rest without dreaming of Madaline. But as he wandered east and west,
knowing little and caring less, whither he went, a violent storm, such
as breaks at times over the Scottish moors, overtook him. The sky grew
dark as night, the rain fell in a torrent--blinding, thick, heavy--he
could hardly see his hand before him. He wandered on for hours, wet
through, weary, cold, yet rather rejoicing than otherwise in his
fatigue. Presently hunger was added to fatigue; and then the matter
became more serious--he had no hope of being able to find his way home,
for he had no idea in what direction he had strayed.
At last he grew alarmed; life did not hold much for him, it was true,
but he had no desire to die on those lonely wilds, without a human being
near him. Then it became painful for him to walk; his fatigue was so
great that his limbs ached at every step. He began to think his life was
drawing near its close. Once or twice he had cried "Madaline" aloud and
the name seemed to die away on the sobbing wind.
He grew exhausted at last; for some hours he had struggled on in the
face of the tempest.
"I shall have to lie down like a dog by the road-side and die," he
thought to himself.
No other fate seemed to be before him but that, and he told himself that
after all he had sold his life cheaply. "Found dead on the Scotch
moors," would be the verdict about him.
What would the world say? What would his golden-haired darling say when
she heard that he was dead?
As the hot tears blinded his eyes--tears for Madaline, not for
himself--a light suddenly flashed into them, and he found himself quite
close to the window of a house. With a deep-drawn, bitter sob, he
whispered to himself that he was saved. He had just strength enough to
knock at the door; and when it was opened he fell across the threshold,
too faint and exhausted to speak, a sudden darkness before his eyes.
When he had recovered a little, he found that several gentlemen were
gathered around him, and that one of them was holding a flask of whisky
to his lips.
"That was a narrow escape," said a cheery, musical voice. "How long have
you been on foot?"
"Since eight this morning," he replied.
"And now it is nearly eight at night! Well, you may thank Heaven for
preserving your life."
Lord Arleigh turned away with a sigh. How little could any one guess
what life meant for him--life spent without love--love--without
Madaline!
"I have known several lose their lives in this way," continued the same
voice. "Only last year poor Charley Hartigan was caught in a similar
storm, and he lay for four days dead before he was found. This gentleman
has been fortunate."
Lord Arleigh roused himself and looked around. He found himself the
center of observation. The room in which he was lying was large and well
furnished, and from the odor of tobacco it was plainly used as a
smoking-room.
Over him leaned a tall, handsome man, whose hair was slightly tinged
with gray.
"I think," he said, "you are my neighbor, Lord Arleigh? I have often
seen you on the moors."
"I do not remember you," Lord Arleigh returned; "nor do I know where I
am."
"Then let me introduce myself as the Earl of Mountdean," said the
gentleman. "You are at Rosorton, a shooting-lodge belonging to me, and I
beg that you will make yourself at home."
Every attention was paid to him. He was placed in a warm bed, some
warm, nourishing soup was brought to him, and he was left to rest.
"The Earl of Mountdean." Then this was the tall figure he had seen
striding over the hills--this was the neighbor he had shunned and
avoided, preferring solitude. How kind he was, and how his voice
affected him! It was like long-forgotten melody. He asked himself
whether he had seen the earl anywhere. He could not remember. He could
not recall to his mind that they had ever met, yet he had most certainly
heard his voice. He fell asleep thinking of this, and dreamed of
Madaline all night long.
In the morning the earl came himself to his room to make inquiries; and
then Lord Arleigh liked him better than ever. He would not allow his
guest to rise.
"Remember," he said, "prevention is better than cure. After the terrible
risk you have run, it will not do for you to be rash. You must rest."
So Lord Arleigh took the good advice given to him to lay still, but on
the second day he rose, declaring that he could stand no further
confinement. Even then Lord Mountdean would not hear of his going.
"I am compelled to be despotic with you," he said. "I know that at
Glaburn you have no housekeeper, only men-servants--and they cannot make
you comfortable, I am sure. Stay here for a few days until you are quite
well."
So Lord Arleigh allowed himself to be persuaded, saying, with a smile,
that he had come to Glaburn purposely for solitude.
"It was for the same thing that I came here," said the earl. "I have had
a great sorrow in my life, and I like sometimes to be alone to think
about it."
The two men looked at each other, but they liked each other all the
better for such open confession.
When a few days had passed, it was Lord Arleigh who felt unwilling to
leave his companion. He had never felt more at home than he did with
Lord Mountdean. He had met no one so simple, so manly, so intelligent,
and at the same time such a good fellow. There were little peculiarities
in the earl, too, that struck him very forcibly; they seemed to recall
some faint, vague memory, a something that he could never grasp, that
was always eluding him, yet that was perfectly clear; and he was
completely puzzled.
"Have I ever met you before?" he asked the earl one day.
"I do not think so. I have no remembrance of ever having sees you."
"Your voice and face are familiar to me," the younger man continued.
"One or two of your gestures are as well known to me as though I had
lived with you for years."
"Remembrances of that kind sometimes strike me," said the earl--"a
mannerism, a something that one cannot explain. I should say that you
have seen some one like me, perhaps."
It was probable enough, but Lord Arleigh was not quite satisfied. The
earl and his guest parted in the most friendly manner.
"I shall never be quite so much in love with solitude again," said Lord
Arleigh, as they were parting; "you have taught me that there is
something better."
"I have learned the same lesson from you," responded the earl, with a
sigh. "You talk about solitude. I had not been at Rosorton ten days
before a party of four, all friends of mine, proposed to visit me. I
could not refuse. They left the day after you came."
"I did not see them," said Lord Arleigh.
"No, I did not ask them to prolong their stay, fearing that after all
those hours on the moors, you might have a serious illness; but now,
Lord Arleigh, you will promise me that we shall be friends."
"Yes," he replied, "we will be friends."
So it was agreed that they should be strangers no longer--that they
should visit and exchange neighborly courtesies and civilities.