THE WHITE OWL
To distract her mind I told her tales of the grey city of the North
where I had been colleged. I told of the bleak and biting winds which
cut their way to the marrow of the bones. I described the students rich
and poor, but mostly poor, swarming into the gaunt quadrangles, reading
eagerly in the library, hasting grimly to be wise, posting hotfoot to
distinction or to death. She listened with eyes intent. "We have
something like that in Russia," she said; "but then, as soon as these
students of ours become a little wise, they are cut off, or buried in
Siberia." But I think that, with all her English speech and descent,
Lucia never fully understood that these students of ours were wholly
free to come or go, talk folly or learn sense, say and do good and evil,
according to the freedom of their own wills. I told of our debating
societies, where in the course of one debate there is often enough
treason talked to justify Siberia--and yet, after all, the subject under
discussion would only be, "Is the present Government worthy of the
confidence of the country?"
"And then what happens? What does the Government say?" asked Lucia.
"Ah, Countess!" I said, "in my country the Government does not care to
know what does not concern it. It sits aloft and aloof. The Government
does not care for the chatter of all the young fools in its
universities."
So in the tranced seclusion of this Alpine valley the summer of the year
went by. The flowers carpeted the meadows, merging from pink and blue to
crimson and russet, till with the first snow the Countess and her
brother announced their intention of taking flight--she to the Court of
the South, and he to his estates in the North.
The night before her departure we walked together by the lake. She was
charmingly arrayed in a scarlet cloak lined with soft brown fur; and I
thought--for I was but three-and-twenty--that the turned-up collar threw
out her chin in an adorable manner. She looked like a girl. And indeed,
as it proved, for that night she was a girl.
At first she seemed a little sad, and when I spoke of seeing her again
at the Court of the South she remained silent, so that I thought she
feared the trouble of having us on her hands there. So in a moment I
chilled, and would have taken my hand from hers, had she permitted it.
But suddenly, in a place where there are sands and pebbly beaches by
the lakeside, she turned and drew me nearer to her, holding me meantime
by the hand.
"You will not go and forget?" she said. "I have many things to forget. I
want to remember this--this good year and this fair place and you. But
you, with your youth and your innocent Scotland--you will go and forget.
Perhaps you already long to go back thither."
I desired to tell her that I had never been so happy in my life. I might
have told her that and more, but in her fierce directness she would not
permit me.
"There is a maid who sits in one of the tall grey houses of which you
speak, or among the moorland farms--sits and waits for you, and you
write to her. You are always writing--writing. It is to that girl. You
will pass away and think no more of Lucia!"
And I--what could or did I reply? I think that I did the best, for I
made no answer at all, but only drew her so close to me that the
adorable chin, being thrown out farther than ever, rested for an instant
on my shoulder.
"Lucia," I said to her--"not Countess any more--little Saint Lucy of the
Eyes, hear me. I am but a poor moorland lad, with little skill to speak
of love; but with my heart I love you even thus--and thus--and thus."
And I think that she believed, for it comes natural to Galloway to make
love well.
In the same moment we heard the sound of voices, and there were Henry
and the Count walking to and fro on the terrace above us in the blessed
dark, prosing of guns and battues and shooting.
Lucia trembled and drew away from me, but I put my finger to her lip and
drew her nearer the wall, where the creepers had turned into a glorious
wine-red. There we stood hushed, not daring to move; but holding close
the one to the other as the feet of the promenaders waxed and waned
above us. Their talk of birds and beasts came in wafts of boredom to us,
thus standing hand in hand.
I shivered a little, whereat the Countess, putting a hand behind me,
drew a fold of her great scarlet cloak round me protectingly as a mother
might. So, with her mouth almost in my ear, she whispered, "This is
delightful--is it not so? Pray, just hearken to Nicholas: 'With that I
fired.' 'Then we tried the covert.' 'The lock jammed.' 'Forty-four
brace.' Listen to the huntsmen! Shall we startle them with the horn,
tra-la?" And she thrilled with laughter in my ear there in the blissful
dark, till I had to put that over her mouth which silenced her.
"Hush, Lucy, they will hear! Be sage, littlest," I said in Italian, like
one who orders, for (as I have said) Galloway even at twenty-three is no
dullard in the things of love.
"Poor Nicholas!" she said again.
"Nay, poor Henry, say rather!" said I, as the footsteps drew away to the
verge of the terrace, waxing fine and thin as they went farther from us.
"Hear me," said she. "I had better tell you now. Nicholas wishes me
greatly to marry one high in power in our own country--one whose
influence would permit him to go back to his home in Russia and live as
a prince as before."
"But you will not--you cannot--" I began to say to her.
"Hush!" she said, laughing a little in my ear. "I certainly shall if you
cry out like that"--for the footsteps were drawing nearer again. We
leaned closer together against the parapet in the little niche where the
creepers grew. And the dark grew more fragrant. She drew the great cloak
about us both, round my head also. Her own was close to mine, and the
touch of her hair thrilled me, quickening yet more the racing of my
heart, and making me light-headed like unaccustomed wine.
"Countess!" I said, searching for words to thrill her heart as mine was
thrilled already.
"Monsieur!" she replied, and drew away the cloak a little, making to
leave me, but not as one that really intends to go.
"Lucia," I said hastily, "dear Lucy--"
"Ah!" she said, and drew the cloak about us again.
And what we said after that, is no matter to any.
But we forgot, marvel at it who will, to hearken to the footsteps that
came and went. They were to us meaningless as the lapse of the waves on
the shore, pattering an accompaniment above the soft sibilance of our
whispered talk, making our converse sweeter.
Yet we had done well to listen a little.
"... I think it went in there," said the voice of the Count, very near
to us and just above our heads. "I judge it was a white owl."
"I shall try to get it for the Countess!" said Henry.
Then I heard the most unmistakable, and upon occasion also the most
thrilling, of sounds--the clicking of a well-oiled lock. My heart leapt
within me--no longer flying in swift, light fashion like footsteps
running, but bounding madly in great leaps.
Silently I swept the Countess behind me into the recess of the niche,
forcing her down upon the stone seat, and bending my body like a shield
over her.
In a moment Henry's piece crashed close at my ear, a keen pain ran like
molten lead down my arm; and, spite of my hand upon her lips, Lucia gave
a little cry. "I think I got it that time!" I heard Henry's voice say.
"Count, run round and see. I shall go this way."
"Run, Lucy," I whispered, "they are coming. They must not find you."
"But you are hurt?" she said anxiously.
"No," I said, lying to her, as a man does so easily to a woman. "I am
not at all hurt. Have I hurt you?"
For I had thrust her behind me with all my might.
"I cannot tell yet whether you have hurt me or not," she said. "You men
of the North are too strong!"
"But they come. Run, Lucy, beloved!" I said.