Part 27 (1/2)
We embarked on the smuggler next day for the Long Island and were landed at Stornoway. After a dreary wait of over a week at this place we took s.h.i.+pping on a brig bound for Edinburgh. Along the north coast of Scotland, through the Pentland Firth, and down the east sh.o.r.e _The Lewis_ scudded.
It seemed that we were destined to have an uneventful voyage till one day we sighted a revenue cutter which gave chase. As we had on board _The Lewis_ a cargo of illicit rum, the brig being in the contraband trade, there was nothing for it but an incontinent flight. For some hours our fate hung in the balance, but night coming on we slipped away in the darkness. The Captain, however, being an exceedingly timid man for one in his position, refused absolutely to put into the Leith Road lest his retreat should be cut off. Instead he landed us near Wemyss Castle, some distance up the coast, and what was worse hours before the dawn had cleared and in a pelting rain.
I wrapped Volney's cloak around Aileen and we took the southward road, hoping to come on some village where we might find shelter. The situation might be thought one of extreme discomfort. There were we three--Aileen, her maid, and I--slos.h.i.+ng along the running road in black darkness with the dreary splas.h.i.+ng of the rain to emphasize our forlorn condition. Over unknown paths we travelled on precarious errand. Yet I for one never took a journey that pleased me more. The mirk night shut out all others, and a fair face framed in a tartan shawl made my whole world for me. A note of tenderness not to be defined crept into our relations.h.i.+p. There was a sweet disorder in her hair and more than once the wind whaffed it into my face. In walking our fingers touched once and again; greatly daring, mine slipped over hers, and so like children we went hand in hand. An old romancer tells quaintly in one of his tales how Love made himself of the party, and so it was with us that night. I found my answer at last without words. While the heavens wept our hearts sang. The wine of love ran through me in exquisite thrills. Every simple word she spoke went to my heart like sweetest music, and every unconscious touch of her hand was a caress.
”Tired, Aileen?” I asked. ”There is my arm to lean on.”
”No,” she said, but presently her ringers rested on my sleeve.
”'T will be daylight soon, and see! the scudding clouds are driving away the rain.”
”Yes, Kenneth,” she answered, and sighed softly.
”You will think I am a sad blunderer to bring you tramping through the night.”
”I will be thinking you are the good friend.”
Too soon the grey dawn broke, for at the first glimmer my love disengaged herself from my arm. I looked shyly at her, and the glory of her young beauty filled me. Into her cheeks the raw morning wind had whipped the red, had flushed her like a radiant Diana. The fresh breeze had outlined her figure clear as she struggled against it, and the billowing sail was not more graceful than her harmonious lines.
Out of the sea the sun rose a great ball of flaming fire.
”A good omen for the success of our journey,” I cried. ”Look!
”'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.'
”The good G.o.d grant it prove so, Kenneth, for Malcolm and for all our friends.”
After all youth has its day and will not be denied. We were on an anxious undertaking of more than doubtful outcome, but save when we remembered to be sober we trod the primrose path.
We presently came to a small village where we had breakfast at the inn.
For long we had eaten nothing but the musty fare of the brig, and I shall never forget with what merry daffing we enjoyed the crisp oaten cake, the b.u.t.tered scones, the marmalade, and the ham and eggs. After we had eaten Aileen went to her room to s.n.a.t.c.h some hours sleep while I made arrangements for a cart to convey us on our way.
A wimpling burn ran past the end of the inn garden, and here on a rustic bench I found my comrade when I sought her some hours later. The sun was s.h.i.+ning on her russet-hair. Her chin was in her hands, her eyes on the gurgling brook. The memories of the night must still have been thrilling her, for she was singing softly that most exquisite of love songs ”Annie Laurie.”
”'Maxwelton's braes are bonnie, Where early fa's the dew, Where me and Annie Laurie Made up the promise true.'”
Her voice trembled a little, and I took up the song.
”'Made up the promise true, And ne'er forget will I; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.'”
At my first words she gave a little start, her lips parted, her head came up prettily to attention, and though I could not see them I was ready to vow that she listened with s.h.i.+ning eyes. Softly her breath came and went.
I trod nearer as I sang.
”'Her brow is like the snaw-drift, Her throat is like the swan, She's jimp about the middle, Her waist ye weel micht span.'
”Oh, Aileen, if I might--if I only had the right! Won't you give it me, dear heart?”
In the long silence my pulse stopped, then throbbed like an aching tooth.