Part 25 (1/2)

His quick and warm sympathy refused to believe the half of this letter.

It was only because she knew what was owing to the honor and self-respect of a true woman that she spoke in this tone of bitter and scornful depreciation of herself. It was clear that she was longing for the dignity and independence of a more natural way of life. And this revelation--that she was not, after all, banished forever into that cold region of art in which her father would fain keep her--somewhat bewildered him at first. The victim might be reclaimed from the altar and restored to the sphere of simple human affections, natural duties, and joy? And if he--

Suddenly, and with a shock of delight that made his heart throb, he tried to picture this beautiful fair creature sitting over there in that very chair by the side of the fire, her head bent down over her sewing, the warm light of the lamp touching the tender curve of her cheek. And when she lifted her head to speak to him--and when her large and lambent eyes met his--surely Fionaghal, the fair poetess from strange lands, never spoke in softer tones than this other beautiful stranger, who was now his wife and his heart's companion. And now he would bid her lay aside her work, and he would get a white shawl for her, and like a ghost she would steal out with him into the moonlight air. And is there enough wind on this summer night to take them out from the sombre sh.o.r.e to the open plain of the sea? Look now, as the land recedes, at the high walls of Castle Dare, over the black cliffs, and against the stars. Far away they see the graveyard of Inch Kenneth, the stones pale in the moonlight. And what song will she sing now, that Ulva and Colonsay may awake and fancy that some mermaiden is singing to bewail her lost lover?

The night is sad, and the song is sad; and then, somehow, he finds himself alone in this waste of water, and all the sh.o.r.es of the islands are silent and devoid of life, and there is only the echo of the sad singing in his ears--

He jumps to his feet, for there is a knocking at the door. The gentle Cousin Janet enters, and hastily he thrusts that letter into his pocket, while his face blushes hotly.

”Where have you been, Keith?” she says, in her quiet, kindly way.

”Auntie would like to say good-night to you now.”

”I will come directly,” said he.

”And now that Norman Ogilvie is away, Keith,” said she, ”you will take more rest about the shooting; for you have not been looking like yourself at all lately; and you know, Keith, when you are not well and happy, it is no one at all about Dare that is happy either. And that is why you will take care of yourself.”

He glanced at her rather uneasily; but he said, in a light and careless way,--

”Oh, I have been well enough, Janet, except that I was not sleeping well one or two nights. And if you look after me like that, you will make me think I am a baby, and you will send me some warm flannels when I go up on the hills.”

”It is too proud of your hardihood you are, Keith,” said his cousin, with a smile. ”But there never was a man of your family who would take any advice.”

”I would take any advice from you, Janet,” said he; and therewith he followed her to bid good-night to the silver-haired mother.

CHAPTER XIX.

A RESOLVE.

He slept but little that night, and early the next morning he was up and away by himself--paying but little heed to the rus.h.i.+ng blue seas, and the white gulls, and the suns.h.i.+ne touching the far sands on the sh.o.r.es of Iona. He was in a fever of unrest. He knew not what to make of that letter; it might mean anything or nothing. Alternations of wild hope and cold despair succeeded each other. Surely it was unusual for a girl so to reveal her innermost confidences to any one whom she considered a stranger? To him alone had she told this story of her private troubles.

Was it not in effect asking for a sympathy which she could not hope for from any other? Was it not establis.h.i.+ng a certain secret between them?

Her own father did not know. Her sister was too young to be told.

Friends like Mrs. Ross could not understand why this young and beautiful actress, the favorite of the public, could be dissatisfied with her lot.

It was to him alone she had appealed.

And then again he read the letter. The very frankness of it made him fear. There was none of the shyness of a girl writing to one who might be her lover. She might have written thus to one of her school-companions. He eagerly searched it for some phrase of tenderer meaning; but no there was a careless abandonment about it, as if she had been talking without thinking of the person she addressed. She had even joked about a young man falling in love with her. It was a matter of perfect indifference to her. It was ludicrous as the shape of the lad's collar was ludicrous, but of no more importance. And thus she receded from his imagination again, and became a thing apart--the white slave bound in those cruel chains that seemed to all but herself and him the badges of triumph.

_Herself and him_--the conjunction set his heart throbbing quickly. He eagerly bethought himself how this secret understanding could be strengthened, if only he might see her and speak to her. He could tell by her eyes what she meant, whatever her words might be. _If only he could see her again:_ all his wild hopes, and fears, and doubts--all his vague fancies and imaginings--began to narrow themselves down to this one point; and this immediate desire became all-consuming. He grew sick at heart when he looked round and considered how vain was the wish.

The gladness had gone from the face of Keith Macleod. Not many months before, any one would have imagined that the life of this handsome young fellow, whose strength, and courage, and high spirits seemed to render him insensible to any obstacle, had everything in it that the mind of man could desire. He had a hundred interests and activities; he had youth and health, and a comely presence; he was on good terms with everybody around him--for he had a smile and a cheerful word for each one he met, gentle or simple. All this gay, glad life seemed to have fled. The watchful Hamish was the first to notice that his master began to take less and less interest in the shooting and boating and fis.h.i.+ng; and at times the old man was surprised and disturbed by an exhibition of querulous impatience that had certainly never before been one of Macleod's failings. Then his cousin Janet saw that he was silent and absorbed; and his mother inquired once or twice why he did not ask one or other of his neighbors to come over to Dare to have a day's shooting with him.

”I think you are finding the place lonely, Keith, now that Norman Ogilvie is gone,” said she.

”Ah, mother,” he said, with a laugh, ”it is not Norman Ogilvie, it is London, that has poisoned my mind. I should never have gone to the South. I am hungering for the fleshpots of Egypt already; and I am afraid some day I will have to come and ask you to let me go away again.”

He spoke jestingly, and yet he was regarding his mother.

”I know it is not pleasant for a young man to be kept fretting at home,”