The next morning Kate and Alec rose early, to walk before breakfast to
the top of one of the hills, through a young larch-wood which covered
it from head to foot. The morning was cool, and the sun exultant as a
good child. The dew-diamonds were flashing everywhere, none the less
lovely that they were fresh-made that morning. The lark's song was a
cantata with the sun and the wind and the larch-odours, in short, the
whole morning for the words. How the larks did sing that morning! The
only clouds were long pale delicate streaks of lovely gradations in
gray; here mottled, there swept into curves. It was just the morning to
rouse a wild longing for motion, for the sea and its shore, for endless
travel through an endless region of grace and favour, the sun rising no
higher, the dew lingering on every blade, and the lark never wearying
for his nest. Kate longed for some infinitude of change without
vicissitude--ceaseless progress towards a goal endlessly removed! She
did not know that the door into that life might have been easier to
find in that ugly chapel than even here in the vestibule of heaven.
"My nurse used to call the lark 'Our Lady's hen,'" said Kate.
"How pretty!" answered Alec, and had no more to say.
"Are the people of Glamerton very wicked, Alec?" asked Kate, making
another attempt to rouse a conversation.
"I'm sure I don't know," answered Alec. "I suppose they're no worse
than other people."
"I thought from Mr Turnbull's sermon that they must be a great deal
worse."
"Oh! they all preach like that--except good Mr Cowie, and he's dead."
"Do you think he knew better than the rest of them?"
"I don't know that. But the missionars do know something that other
people don't know. And that Mr Turnbull always speaks as if he were in
earnest."
"Yes, he does."
"But there's that fellow Bruce!"
"Do you mean the man that put us into his seat?"
"Yes. I _can't_ think what makes my mother so civil to him."
"Why shouldn't she be?"
"Well, you see--I can't bear him. And I can't understand my mother.
It's not like her."
In a moment more they were in a gentle twilight of green, flashed with
streaks of gold. A forest of delicate young larches crowded them in,
their rich brown cones hanging like the knops that looped up their dark
garments fringed with paler green.
And the scent! What a thing to _invent_--the smell of a larch wood! It
is the essence of the earth-odour, distilled in the thousand-fold
alembics of those feathery trees. And the light winds that awoke blew
murmurous music, so sharply and sweetly did that keen foliage divide
the air.
Having gazed their fill on the morning around them, they returned to
breakfast, and after breakfast they went down to the river. They stood
on the bank, over one of the deepest pools, in the bottom of which the
pebbles glimmered brown. Kate gazed into it abstracted, fascinated,
swinging her neckerchief in her hand. Something fell into the water.
"Oh!" she cried, "what shall I do? It was my mother's."
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when Alec was in the water.
Bubbles rose and broke as he vanished. Kate did not scream, but stood,
pale, with parted lips, staring into the pool. With a boiling and
heaving of the water, he rose triumphant, holding up the brooch. Kate
gave a cry and threw herself on the grass. When Alec reached her, she
lay sobbing, and would not lift her head.
"You are very unkind, Alec," she said at last, looking up. "What will
your mother say?"
And she hid her face and began to sob afresh.
"It was your mother's brooch," answered Alec.
"Yes, yes; but we could have got it out somehow."
"No other how.--I would have done that for any girl. You don't know
what I would do for _you_, Kate."
"You shouldn't have frightened me. I had been thinking how greedy the
pool looked," said Kate, rising now, as if she dared not remain longer
beside it.
"I didn't mean to frighten you, Kate. I never thought of it. I am
almost a water-rat."
"And now you'll get your death of cold. Come along."
Alec laughed. He was in no hurry to go home. But she seized his hand
and half-dragged him all the way. He had never been so happy in his
life.
Kate had cried because he had jumped into the water!
That night they had a walk in the moonlight. It was all moon--the air
with the mooncore in it; the trees confused into each other by the
sleep of her light; the bits of water, so many moons over again; the
flowers, all pale phantoms of flowers: the whole earth, transfused with
reflex light, was changed into a moon-ghost of its former self. They
were walking in the moon-world.
The silence and the dimness sank into Alec's soul, and it became silent
and dim too. The only sound was the noise of the river, quenched in
that light to the sleepy hush of moon-haunted streams.
Kate felt that she had more room now. And yet the scope of her vision
was less, for the dusk had closed in around her.
She had ampler room because the Material had retired as behind a veil,
leaving the Immaterial less burdened, and the imagination more free to
work its will. The Spiritual is ever putting on material garments; but
in the moonlight, the Material puts on spiritual garments.
Kate sat down at the foot of an old tree which stood alone in one of
the fields. Alec threw himself on the grass, and looked up in her face,
which was the spirit-moon shining into his world, and drowning it in
dreams.--The Arabs always call their beautiful women _moons_.--Kate sat
as silent as the moon in heaven, which rained down silence. And Alec
lay gazing at Kate, till silence gave birth to speech:
"Oh Kate! How I love you!" he said.
Kate started. She was frightened. Her mind had been full of gentle
thoughts. Yet she laid her hand on his arm and accepted the love.--But
how?
"You dear boy!" she said.
Perhaps Kate's answer was the best she could have given. But it stung
Alec to the heart, and they went home in a changed silence.--The
resolution she came to upon the way was not so good as her answer.
She did not love Alec so. He could not understand her; she could not
look up to him. But he was only a boy, and therefore would not suffer
much. He would forget her as soon as she was out of his sight. So as he
was a very dear boy, she would be as kind to him as ever she could, for
she was going away soon.
She did not see that Alec would either take what she gave for more than
she gave, or else turn from it as no gift at all.
When they reached the house, Alec, recovering himself a little,
requested her to sing. She complied at once, and was foolish enough to
sing the following
BALLAD.
It is May, and the moon leans down all night
Over a blossomy land.
By her window sits the lady white,
With her chin upon her hand.
"O sing to me, dear nightingale,
The song of a year ago;
I have had enough of longing and wail,
Enough of heart-break and woe.
O glimmer on me, my apple-tree,
Like living flakes of snow;
Let odour and moonlight and melody
In the old rich harmony flow."
The dull odours stream; the cold blossoms gleam;
And the bird will not be glad.
The dead never speak when the living dream--
They are too weak and sad.
She listened and sate, till night grew late,
Bound by a weary spell.
Then a face came in at the garden-gate,
And a wondrous thing befell.
Up rose the joy as well as the love,
In the song, in the scent, in the show!
The moon grew glad in the sky above,
The blossom grew rosy below.
The blossom and moon, the scent and the tune,
In ecstasy rise and fall.
But they had no thanks for the granted boon,
For the lady forgot them all.
There was no light in the room except that of the shining air. Alec sat
listening, as if Kate were making and meaning the song. But
notwithstanding the enchantment of the night, all rosy in the red glow
of Alec's heart; notwithstanding that scent of gilly-flowers and
sweet-peas stealing like love through every open door and window;
notwithstanding the radiance of her own beauty, Kate was only singing a
song. It is sad to have all the love and all the mystery to
oneself--the other being the centre of the glory, and yet far beyond
its outmost ring, sitting on a music-stool at a common piano
old-fashioned and jingling, not in fairyland at all in fact, or even
believing in its presence.
But that night the moon was in a very genial humour, and gave her light
plentiful and golden. She would even dazzle a little, if one looked at
her too hard. Sho could not dazzle Tibbie though, who was seated with
Annie on the pale green grass, with the moon about them in the air and
beneath them in the water.
"Ye say it's a fine munelicht nicht, Annie."
"Ay, 'deed is't. As bonnie a nicht as ever I saw."
"Weel, it jist passes my comprehension--hoo ye can see, whan the air's
like this. I' the winter ye canna see, for it's aye cauld whan the
sun's awa; and though it's no cauld the nicht, I fin' that there's no
licht i' the air--there's a differ; it's deid-like. But the soun' o'
the water's a' the same, and the smell o' some o' the flowers is
bonnier i' the nicht nor i' the day. That's a' verra weel. But hoo ye
can see whan the sun's awa, I say again, jist passes my comprehension."
"It's the mune, ye ken, Tibbie."
"Weel, what's the mune? I dinna fin' 't. It mak's no impress upo'
me.--Ye _canna_ see sae weel's ye say, lass!" exclaimed Tibbie, at
length, in a triumph of incredulity and self assertion.
"Weel, gin ye winna believe me o' yer ain free will, Tibbie, I maun
jist gar ye," said Annie. And she rose, and running into the cottage,
fetched from it a small pocket Bible.
"Noo, ye jist hearken, Tibbie," she said, as she returned. And, opening
the Bible, she read one of Tibbie's favourite chapters, rather slowly
no doubt, but with perfect correctness.
"Weel, lassie, I canna mak heid or tail o' 't."
"I'll tell ye, Tibbie, what the mune aye minds me o'. The face o' God's
like the sun, as ye hae tellt me; for no man cud see him and live."
"That's no sayin', ye ken," interposed Tibbie, "that we canna see him
efter we're deid."
"But the mune," continued Annie, disregarding Tibbie's interruption,
"maun be like the face o' Christ, for it gies licht and ye can luik at
it notwithstandin'. The mune's jist like the sun wi' the ower-muckle
taen oot o' 't. Or like Moses wi' the veil ower's face, ye ken. The
fowk cudna luik at him till he pat the veil on."
"Na, na, lass; that winna do; for ye ken his coontenance was as the sun
shineth in his strenth."
"Ay, but that was efter the resurrection, ye ken. I'm thinkin' there
had been a kin' o' a veil ower his face a' the time he was upo' the
earth; and syne whan he gaed whaur there war only heavenly een to luik
at him, een that could bide it, he took it aff."
"Weel, I wadna wonner. Maybe ye're richt. And gin ye _be_ richt, that
accounts for the Transfiguration. He jist lifted the veil aff o' 'm a
wee, and the glory aneath it lap oot wi' a leme like the lichtnin'. But
that munelicht! I can mak naething o' 't."
"Weel, Tibbie, I canna mak you oot ony mair nor ye can the munelicht.
Whiles ye appear to ken a' thing aboot the licht, an' ither whiles
ye're clean i' the dark."
"Never ye min' me, lass. I s' be i' the licht some day. Noo we'll gang
in to the hoose."