*XI.*
After Trevelyan left, the household in Aberdeen settled back again intoits usual state of placidity.
The second day after his departure was threatening, and Cameron andMaggie killed time by pretending to play billiards. Malcolm Stewart haddriven into the village in the morning to be gone all day; his wife wasbusy writing to Kenneth, her youngest son, who was tramping it throughNormandy with a couple of old classmates. Cary was curled up in thewindow seat in the library, absently watching McGuire, the gardener,rake the path.
"Is the book so absorbing?"
Cary turned suddenly and met Stewart’s laughing eyes.
"Why, I didn’t know you were there!"
"So it seems. I’ve been sitting here for the last quarter of an hourwatching you—read!"
Cary flushed.
"It’s a stupid old story, anyway," she complained, tossing the book tohim. "What have you been doing?"
"Offered to help Tom and Maggie with billiards, but they were so deucedungrateful I left."
"You were a wise man," said Cary, and she laughed. Then she began todrum on the window. "If you could do anything you liked what would youdo, just at this minute?"
Stewart twirled the book he held indifferently. "I’d kiss you," hethought, but aloud he said meekly, "I’ll watch you, please ma’am."
"Nonsense!" answered Cary, turning her head uneasily and looking out ofthe window at McGuire again.
She stifled a yawn.
"It’s a lazy day, isn’t it?"
"You’re sure it’s the day?"
"Of course! What a suggestion. Is it near lunch time?"
Stewart nodded.
"How about a walk afterwards," he said. "It’s clearing and the sun’scoming out. We might go to the Point and watch it set," he addedquickly, seeing her waver.
Cary clapped her hands.
"Truly? You really mean it; you’ll take me to the Point at last?"
"You’ll go then?"
"Of course I’ll go! I’ll get on a short skirt this minute. See merun!"
She jumped down from the window seat like a delighted child.
Stewart caught at her hand as she passed and detained her.
"I haven’t the right to ask," he said quickly, looking up into her facewith his grave Scotch eyes, "but were you thinking of Robert when Ispoke to you?"
"Yes," said Cary, not looking at him. "I’ve been thinking of him allday."
Stewart let her hand drop suddenly, but Cary made no movement to begone.
"I—I can’t just tell you why," she said, pressing her hand tightly overthe one Stewart had held, and keeping her eyes fixed on a bust of Burns,"but I feel—somehow, and I suppose it’s foolish—we—we won’t see himagain for a long time."
Stewart leaned forward, looking up again at her.
"I haven’t the right," he said, "and you needn’t answer me, but—_is_ itRobert, Cary?"
A long shaft of breaking sunlight came through the window and touchedher shoulders and her hair. The quiet of the room was absolute. Shestill pressed the hand he had held with the other.
"It isn’t Robert," she said, and her voice was lower than its wont, andshe did not meet Stewart’s eyes, "I—" and then she ran swiftly from theroom.
She would not meet his eyes all during lunch, and she insisted ondevoting herself to Cameron, much to Maggie’s inward amusement.
"There’s something in the air," Maggie confided to Cameron after lunch;"I just feel it pricking—like pins. It’s something to do with John andCary. Now what _do_ you suppose it is?"
She laughed, meeting Cameron’s eyes.
"What _do_ you suppose it is!" he repeated banteringly. "I’m _sure_ Idon’t know!"
"Johnny’s taking her to the Point this afternoon!"
Cameron sighed heavily.
"Well, that means ’good-bye’ to Johnny!"
Maggie wheeled around suddenly on him.
"What a way to talk!"
Cameron pulled her to him gently by the shoulders, until he could lookdown into her face.
"Perhaps—that is—will you go with me to the Point to-morrow, Maggie?" heasked.
"Is it not too late in the year to try the Point?" asked John’s motheranxiously, as he and Cary started out. "The days are shorter now, andthen there is the tide, and the danger of a mist, you know!"
Stewart studied the skies critically.
"It seems straight enough, but, of course, if you’re going to worry,Little Madre—"
"Oh, of course not. I’m just foolish. Go along with you both," and shepushed them gently away from her with a laugh.
"We won’t stay long on the Point," Stewart said when they were well ontheir way. "It would be a nasty thing to be caught in a mist outthere."
Cary pushed a small stone along with the toe of her walking boot, andwas silent. Indeed she scarcely spoke all during the walk to the Point.
If he _had_ been at the Dargai Hill, she kept thinking, if—he—had!
She followed Stewart out to the extreme end of the peninsula, and shestood quietly listening as he pointed out to her, how in high tide thewaters met across the narrow neck and isolated it from the mainland.Sometimes, he told her, the waters swept across the island so left, andhe showed her where they had come up and left their mark upon the trunksof the trees.
And then the spell of her silence fell upon him and they stood quiet andmotionless, looking out to sea.
They waited so, for the sun to sink slowly behind the distant line ofthe horizon, and they watched the big white clouds change and clothethemselves in the pink and purple of the coming sunset, like air nymphsgetting ready for a ball. The quietness of the day’s death was on them.Once or twice they spoke.
"It reminds me of the Point, at home," said Cary once.
He smiled.
"I knew it would," he answered.
She sat down on a big rock at the end of the Point and looked up at thechanging clouds. He walked a little way down to the water’s edge andthen he came back slowly.
The vision of the Highlanders and the Dargai heights, that had hauntedhim since Trevelyan had gone, faded. There seemed to be nothing in theworld that mattered except her sitting there on the big gray stone, withthe water lapping at her feet, and the glow of the sunset on her face.
He watched her as she looked toward the sinking sun, and after it haddisappeared he stole up behind her and stooped over her, calling her byname, softly, as though afraid the sea and pines would hear.
She looked up, and then her eyes went back quickly to the afterglow.
The incoming tide lapped softly against the rocks on the shore, and drewnearer. The pink and purple of the clouds changed to a delicate gray,that deepened as the moments passed; and from the sea there stolelandward a thin white vapor, as exquisite as a bride’s veil, but growingthicker and thicker as it came nearer.
Stewart, following the direction of her eyes, straightened himselfsuddenly with the alertness that comes with the consciousness of danger.
"It’s the mist," he said, briefly. "Come."
He took her hand and held it, and when she would have drawn it away, hetightened his hold.
"You need my help," he said sharply. "We’ve got to get out of this justas quick as we can!"
The white vapor, grown thicker, crept up behind them, and Stewartchanged their rapid pace into a run, but the mist caught up with them,and by and by surrounded them and hid the sea behind them and on eitherside, and the narrow neck in front. He urged her on over the two milesthat lay between them and the mainland.
After awhile he felt her hold on his arm relax.
"I—can’t—go—so fast," she panted. "I—I—" and her voice trailed off andwas lost in the heaviness of the mist.
He stopped and began to talk rapidly, and he rubbed her cold hands as hespoke.
"You must," he said sternly. "We can’t stop here. Don’t you know thesea may cover the peninsula, and that the tid
e is coming in, and iscutting off the neck?"
She nodded.
"I’ll try again, oh, I will try!"
She staggered on—blindly, clinging to him. He could feel the cold, tensepressure of her fingers, and it thrilled him. She could feel the strongtouch of his hand, and it reassured her. Neither could see the face ofthe other.
And still the tide crept in on either side of the narrow peninsula. Itwas the only thing he was conscious of—except her presence and herdanger.
If he could lead her from out of this mist! If he could save her! If hecould reach the neck in time! His heart burnt within him, and cried outin passionate protest that he seemed so powerless—he who loved her so!
He drew her hand closer and he bent over her for a moment, his face nearto her own. They could see each other’s faces so,—faintly.
"Dear," he whispered, and his heart was in his voice.
She clung to his hands, trembling.
If he would only tell her that he loved her, the waters might sweep overthe narrow neck before they two reached it! But he did not speak again.
The land tapered off, leading to the neck, and he felt the ground growmoist beneath his feet. He went forward, keeping her at arm’s length,but afraid to let go her hand, lest he should lose her in the mist. Heput down his foot and he could feel the water creeping up around hisboot and filling it.
"The tide is covering the neck," he said briefly, stooping down andunfastening his boots, after which he stood upright, breathing deeply,to gather all his strength. Then he came closer to her and stooped andraised her in his arms and rose again, pressing forward.
She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and struggling, tried to pushherself free.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.
"Afraid of you!" and she laughed, but the laugh was swallowed up in themist.
"Then you must let me carry you across."
"What do you think I am?" she asked fiercely. "Let you carry me withthat wound in your back! I am as strong as you!"
She struggled again to free herself.
"Oh, no, you’re not," he cried gladly, "and you’ll be safer so!"
"What do I care for safety when your life is in danger? We’ll face ittogether. Let me down and you—you—I’ll let you lead me through—" hervoice broke in a sob.
The silence of the years was broken by her sob. He let her slip down,holding her closely still, and then he drew her face to his, and kissedher.
"I love you," he whispered, "I love you," and he laid his cheek againsther own, cold with the damp of the mist, and then he drew her nearer tothe waters. "Come on, dear," he said brokenly.
They could feel the tide creeping around their feet, and it came upalmost to the woman’s knees. Still she clung, struggling, panting, tohis hand, as he led her into the deeper waters. Once she brought hishand that was leading her up to her face, and he felt her lips upon it.
"I love you," she said clearly, and the words pierced the mist, reachinghim.
"Come on, dear," he said again, and still brokenly, leading her to wherethe tide ran swiftest.
The waters were up to her waist, and she was chilled and benumbed, andher clothes dragged on her, and she was weary with the weariness ofdeath, but she did not know it. She still clung to his hand. And thenas the waters grew deeper:
"Will it hurt?" she asked, and when he did not answer her, "There! I amnot afraid."
Her voice was stronger than he had ever heard it, and sweeter; but thestrength and the sweetness of it, were like crushing weights upon hisheart and brain. She could speak so—when the waters were growingdeeper! Moisture not of the mist or the sea sprang to his face andbathed it. And then the agony her words had caused—lifted. She didlove him then; loved him with a deathless courage. Let the waters coverthem, and the mist draw the folds of its mantle over the level sea!
Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head, breathing quickly.
"The ground’s higher," he cried. "We’ve reached it—the mainland!"
She did not call back to him, but she placed her free hand over his thatheld hers, and he could feel the added pressure of thanksgiving.
Little by little they could feel the waters receding. Now they weredown to his knees again; now they were at his feet—conquered.
He drew her into his arms and he called her by name. She did notanswer.
"Aren’t you going to speak to me?" he asked, bending over her.
She stroked the shoulder of his coat slowly with her cold, wet hand.
"I—I—what must I say?"
"What I have been waiting all these years to hear—what you said a littlewhile ago—that you love me," he answered, looking into her face.
She bent her head and laid her cheek against her hand on his shoulder.
"I do," she said. "I love you—" her voice broke.
He waited.
"I love you," she repeated, clinging to him. "I have loved you formonths. I have been foolish for you! I have been frightened to haveyou out of my sight; to have you do anything when I was not along forfear you would get hurt in some way! I’ve imagined all kinds of thingsthat could happen to you—I am so foolish—I love—"
The words came up to him, choked, and he had to lean closer over her tohear.
She faltered, lifting her face from her hands.
"_Yes?_"
"I dreamed last night you were at the Dargai Hill—that you were killed,and I awoke sobbing in the darkness. I am—so foolish. I knew it wasn’ttrue—" she turned her face away and wiped her eyes.
"And you love me—like that?" he asked slowly.
Behind them the tide crept in, covering portions of the peninsula andall of the narrow neck. Around them the mist lay heavy.
"But you were not frightened a little while ago and you were in dangerthen."
She shook her head.
"No; I was with you—we were together," she answered him simply.
He stroked her damp hair, unconscious alike of the tide and the mist,drinking in her words thirstily.
"Then it isn’t Robert!" he said more to himself than to her.
"No," she said again. "I think it has been you always—and I didn’t knowit. I think I have been waiting for you always. Robert showed me thatit was you!"
He was silent, waiting for her to go on.
"If it hadn’t been for your danger when you were ill from the wound, Imightn’t have ever known. And if you’d been at the Dargai Hill—" shestopped and stretched out her arms, and put them around his neck, andlooked into his eyes. "Oh! I couldn’t have borne that! I’m selfish,but I couldn’t have spared you even for the Service!"
The vision of the desolate years he had planned and thought of—the yearsdevoid of service—and the memory of the useless uniforms, hidden away,and the sabres, useless too, crossed on the wall at home, faded, and helaid the dead memories at her feet.
"This compensates—" he broke off, kissing her in silence.
After awhile he drew her arm through his and started to walk slowly.
"You must get home and get on dry clothes," he said.
And he helped her up the steep embankment and into the road that ledhome.
The tide reached its flood and turned. The sea’s low song came to themmuffled by distance, and was lost in the darkness behind them. The heavymist lifted slowly, and through the rifts, one by one, the starsappeared, peeping down at them like little children peeping from thecoverings of their cribs; and by and by the moon stole from behind acloud and moved slowly between the twinkling stars, as a nurse stealsfrom behind a shadowy curtain and moves softly from bed to bed, to seeif the children sleep.
He led her in silence through the great wrought-iron gates and up thedrive, toward the lighted house, looking down into her uplifted facewith his grave eyes.
And he kept looking at her all during dinner. Once she looked across athim—and smiled.
Later she complained of being tired, and she rose to go to bed. Stewartl
ighted her candle and waited for her at the foot of the stairs, afterthe fine old custom of his people. Not even Malcolm Stewart, as theelder host, ever thought of lighting Cary’s candle.
Stewart handed it to her as she came up to the great stairway andstopped. To-night he did not offer to shake hands.
She took the candle and then slipped by him quickly. He called herback.
"Aren’t you going to say ’good-night’ to me?" he asked, a smile creepingaround his mouth.
"Why—yes. Good-night."
He leaned over her and kissed her.
"Good-night," he said, and his voice was suddenly grave. "I hope yourdreams will be sweet."
She sighed—a sigh of happiness, and she looked down at the burning taperin her hand.
"Then they will have to be of you."
She did not speak for a moment; afterwards she lifted her eyes from theburning taper and looked into his.
"I love you," she said again, and she repeated the words over and overas a master plays over and over a bar of sweetest music, and she put outher hand and pressed her fingers against his cheek. They restedthere—closely—for a minute. "I love you so!"
Then she gathered up her long silk skirts and began slowly to mount thestairs, the taper lifted carefully before her. She did not look back,but he could see her face, even in the shadow of the grim armor, by itslight. And on her white face there rested a perfect peace. Once adraught caught the flickering taper and nearly extinguished it. Shestopped and, dropping her long skirts that fell back upon the oakenstairs with a silken rustle, she shielded the taper with her hand. Sowould she shield the light of her pure life and her wifehood from theworld’s breath, he thought.
He stood leaning against the bannister, watching her until she vanished,and he stood there after the soft silken rustle of her skirts and herfaint footfall were lost, staring at the last turn in the stairs.
And in western Scotland, Trevelyan sat, his head bowed upon the letterhe had just finished to Cary.