CHAPTER IIITELLS HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH MY WIFE
FOR two days I skulked round the pavilion, profiting by the unevensurface of the links. I became an adept in the necessary tactics. Theselow hillocks and shallow dells, running one into another, became a kindof cloak of darkness for my enthralling, but perhaps dishonourable,pursuit. Yet, in spite of this advantage, I could learn but little ofNorthmour or his guests.
Fresh provisions were brought under cover of darkness by the old womanfrom the mansion-house. Northmour, and the young lady, sometimestogether, but more often singly, would walk for an hour or two at a timeon the beach beside the quicksand. I could not but conclude that thispromenade was chosen with an eye to secrecy; for the spot was open onlyto the seaward. But it suited me not less excellently; the highest andmost accidented of the sand-hills immediately adjoined; and from these,lying flat in a hollow, I could overlook Northmour or the young lady asthey walked.
The tall man seemed to have disappeared. Not only did he never cross thethreshold, but he never so much as showed face at a window; or, at least,not so far as I could see; for I dared not creep forward beyond a certaindistance in the day, since the upper floor commanded the bottoms of thelinks; and at night, when I could venture farther, the lower windows werebarricaded as if to stand a siege. Sometimes I thought the tall man mustbe confined to bed, for I remembered the feebleness of his gait; andsometimes I thought he must have gone clear away, and that Northmour andthe young lady remained alone together in the pavilion. The idea, eventhen, displeased me.
Whether or not this pair were man and wife, I had seen abundant reason todoubt the friendliness of their relation. Although I could hear nothingof what they said, and rarely so much as glean a decided expression onthe face of either, there was a distance, almost a stiffness, in theirbearing which showed them to be either unfamiliar or at enmity. The girlwalked faster when she was with Northmour than when she was alone; and Iconceived that any inclination between a man and a woman would ratherdelay than accelerate the step. Moreover, she kept a good yard free ofhim, and trailed her umbrella, as if it were a barrier, on the sidebetween them. Northmour kept sidling closer; and, as the girl retiredfrom his advance, their course lay at a sort of diagonal across thebeach, and would have landed them in the surf had it been long enoughcontinued. But, when this was imminent, the girl would unostentatiouslychange sides and put Northmour between her and the sea. I watched thesemanœuvres, for my part, with high enjoyment and approval, and chuckled tomyself at every move.
On the morning of the third day, she walked alone for some time, and Iperceived, to my great concern, that she was more than once in tears.You will see that my heart was already interested more than I supposed.She had a firm yet airy motion of the body, and carried her head withunimaginable grace; every step was a thing to look at, and she seemed inmy eyes to breathe sweetness and distinction.
The day was so agreeable, being calm and sunshiny, with a tranquil sea,and yet with a healthful piquancy and vigour in the air, that, contraryto custom, she was tempted forth a second time to walk. On this occasionshe was accompanied by Northmour, and they had been but a short while onthe beach, when I saw him take forcible possession of her hand. Shestruggled, and uttered a cry that was almost a scream. I sprang to myfeet, unmindful of my strange position; but, ere I had taken a step, Isaw Northmour bareheaded and bowing very low, as if to apologise; anddropped again at once into my ambush. A few words were interchanged; andthen, with another bow, he left the beach to return to the pavilion. Hepassed not far from me, and I could see him, flushed and lowering, andcutting savagely with his cane among the grass. It was not withoutsatisfaction that I recognised my own handiwork in a great cut under hisright eye, and a considerable discolouration round the socket.
For some time the girl remained where he had left her, looking out pastthe islet and over the bright sea. Then with a start, as one who throwsoff preoccupation and puts energy again upon its mettle, she broke into arapid and decisive walk. She also was much incensed by what had passed.She had forgotten where she was. And I beheld her walk straight into theborders of the quicksand where it is most abrupt and dangerous. Two orthree steps farther and her life would have been in serious jeopardy,when I slid down the face of the sand-hill, which is there precipitous,and, running half-way forward, called to her to stop.
She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor of fear in herbehaviour, and she marched directly up to me like a queen. I wasbarefoot, and clad like a common sailor, save for an Egyptian scarf roundmy waist; and she probably took me at first for some one from the fishervillage, straying after bait. As for her, when I thus saw her face toface, her eyes set steadily and imperiously upon mine, I was filled withadmiration and astonishment, and thought her even more beautiful than Ihad looked to find her. Nor could I think enough of one who, acting withso much boldness, yet preserved a maidenly air that was both quaint andengaging; for my wife kept an old-fashioned precision of manner throughall her admirable life—an excellent thing in woman, since it sets anothervalue on her sweet familiarities.
“What does this mean?” she asked.
“You were walking,” I told her, “directly into Graden Floe.”
“You do not belong to these parts,” she said again. “You speak like aneducated man.”
“I believe I have right to that name,” said I, “although in thisdisguise.”
But her woman’s eye had already detected the sash. “Oh!” she said; “yoursash betrays you.”
“You have said the word _betray_,” I resumed. “May I ask you not tobetray me? I was obliged to disclose myself in your interest; but ifNorthmour learned my presence it might be worse than disagreeable forme.”
“Do you know,” she asked, “to whom you are speaking?”
“Not to Mr. Northmour’s wife?” I asked, by way of answer.
She shook her head. All this while she was studying my face with anembarrassing intentness. Then she broke out—
“You have an honest face. Be honest like your face, sir, and tell mewhat you want and what you are afraid of. Do you think I could hurt you?I believe you have far more power to injure me! And yet you do not lookunkind. What do you mean—you, a gentleman—by skulking like a spy aboutthis desolate place? Tell me,” she said, “who is it you hate?”
“I hate no one,” I answered; “and I fear no one face to face. My name isCassilis—Frank Cassilis. I lead the life of a vagabond for my own goodpleasure. I am one of Northmour’s oldest friends; and three nights ago,when I addressed him on these links, he stabbed me in the shoulder with aknife.”
“It was you!” she said.
“Why he did so,” I continued, disregarding the interruption, “is morethan I can guess, and more than I care to know. I have not many friends,nor am I very susceptible to friendship; but no man shall drive me from aplace by terror. I had camped in Graden Sea-Wood ere he came; I camp init still. If you think I mean harm to you or yours, madam, the remedy isin your hand. Tell him that my camp is in the Hemlock Den, and to-nighthe can stab me in safety while I sleep.”
With this I doffed my cap to her, and scrambled up once more among thesand-hills. I do not know why, but I felt a prodigious sense ofinjustice, and felt like a hero and a martyr; while, as a matter of fact,I had not a word to say in my defence, nor so much as one plausiblereason to offer for my conduct. I had stayed at Graden out of acuriosity natural enough, but undignified; and though there was anothermotive growing in along with the first, it was not one which, at thatperiod, I could have properly explained to the lady of my heart.
Certainly, that night, I thought of no one else; and, though her wholeconduct and position seemed suspicious, I could not find it in my heartto entertain a doubt of her integrity. I could have staked my life thatshe was clear of blame, and, though all was dark at the present, that theexplanation of the mystery would show her part in these events to be bothright and needful. It was true, let me cudge
l my imagination as Ipleased, that I could invent no theory of her relations to Northmour; butI felt none the less sure of my conclusion because it was founded oninstinct in place of reason, and, as I may say, went to sleep that nightwith the thought of her under my pillow.
Next day she came out about the same hour alone, and, as soon as thesand-hills concealed her from the pavilion, drew nearer to the edge, andcalled me by name in guarded tones. I was astonished to observe that shewas deadly pale, and seemingly under the influence of strong emotion.
“Mr. Cassilis!” she cried; “Mr. Cassilis!”
I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach. A remarkable air ofrelief overspread her countenance as soon as she saw me.
“Oh!” she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose bosom has beenlightened of a weight. And then, “Thank God you are still safe!” sheadded; “I knew, if you were, you would be here.” (Was not this strange?So swiftly and wisely does Nature prepare our hearts for these greatlife-long intimacies, that both my wife and I had been given apresentiment on this the second day of our acquaintance. I had even thenhoped that she would seek me; she had felt sure that she would find me.)“Do not,” she went, on swiftly, “do not stay in this place. Promise methat you will sleep no longer in that wood. You do not know how Isuffer; all last night I could not sleep for thinking of your peril.”
“Peril?” I repeated. “Peril from whom? From Northmour?”
“Not so,” she said. “Did you think I would tell him after what yousaid?”
“Not from Northmour?” I repeated. “Then how? From whom? I see none tobe afraid of.”
“You must not ask me,” was her reply, “for I am not free to tell you.Only believe me, and go hence—believe me, and go away quickly, quickly,for your life!”
An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid oneself of a spiritedyoung man. My obstinacy was but increased by what she said, and I madeit a point of honour to remain. And her solicitude for my safety stillmore confirmed me in the resolve.
“You must not think me inquisitive, madam,” I replied; “but, if Graden isso dangerous a place, you yourself perhaps remain here at some risk.”
She only looked at me reproachfully.
“You and your father—” I resumed; but she interrupted me almost with agasp.
“My father! How do you know that?” she cried.
“I saw you together when you landed,” was my answer; and I do not knowwhy, but it seemed satisfactory to both of us, as indeed it was thetruth. “But,” I continued, “you need have no fear from me. I see youhave some reason to be secret, and, you may believe me, your secret is assafe with me as if I were in Graden Floe. I have scarce spoken to anyone for years; my horse is my only companion, and even he, poor beast, isnot beside me. You see, then, you may count on me for silence. So tellme the truth, my dear young lady, are you not in danger?”
“Mr. Northmour says you are an honourable man,” she returned, “and Ibelieve it when I see you. I will tell you so much; you are right; weare in dreadful, dreadful danger, and you share it by remaining where youare.”
“Ah!” said I; “you have heard of me from Northmour? And he gives me agood character?”
“I asked him about you last night,” was her reply. “I pretended,” shehesitated, “I pretended to have met you long ago, and spoken to you ofhim. It was not true; but I could not help myself without betraying you,and you had put me in a difficulty. He praised you highly.”
“And—you may permit me one question—does this danger come fromNorthmour?” I asked.
“From Mr. Northmour?” she cried. “Oh no; he stays with us to share it.”
“While you propose that I should run away?” I said. “You do not rate mevery high.”
“Why should you stay?” she asked. “You are no friend of ours.”
I know not what came over me, for I had not been conscious of a similarweakness since I was a child, but I was so mortified by this retort thatmy eyes pricked and filled with tears, as I continued to gaze upon herface.
“No, no,” she said, in a changed voice; “I did not mean the wordsunkindly.”
“It was I who offended,” I said; and I held out my hand with a look ofappeal that somehow touched her, for she gave me hers at once, and eveneagerly. I held it for awhile in mine, and gazed into her eyes. It wasshe who first tore her hand away, and, forgetting all about her requestand the promise she had sought to extort, ran at the top of her speed,and without turning, till she was out of sight.
And then I knew that I loved her, and thought in my glad heart thatshe—she herself—was not indifferent to my suit. Many a time she hasdenied it in after days, but it was with a smiling and not a seriousdenial. For my part, I am sure our hands would not have lain so closelyin each other if she had not begun to melt to me already. And, when allis said, it is no great contention, since, by her own avowal, she beganto love me on the morrow.
And yet on the morrow very little took place. She came and called medown as on the day before, upbraided me for lingering at Graden, and,when she found I was still obdurate, began to ask me more particularly asto my arrival. I told her by what series of accidents I had come towitness their disembarkation, and how I had determined to remain, partlyfrom the interest which had been wakened in me by Northmour’s guests, andpartly because of his own murderous attack. As to the former, I fear Iwas disingenuous, and led her to regard herself as having been anattraction to me from the first moment that I saw her on the links. Itrelieves my heart to make this confession even now, when my wife is withGod, and already knows all things, and the honesty of my purpose even inthis; for while she lived, although it often pricked my conscience, I hadnever the hardihood to undeceive her. Even a little secret, in such amarried life as ours, is like the rose-leaf which kept the Princess fromher sleep.
From this the talk branched into other subjects, and I told her muchabout my lonely and wandering existence; she, for her part, giving ear,and saying little. Although we spoke very naturally, and latterly ontopics that might seem indifferent, we were both sweetly agitated. Toosoon it was time for her to go; and we separated, as if by mutualconsent, without shaking hands, for both knew that, between us, it was noidle ceremony.
The next, and that was the fourth day of our acquaintance, we met in thesame spot, but early in the morning, with much familiarity and yet muchtimidity on either side. When she had once more spoken about mydanger—and that, I understood, was her excuse for coming—I, who hadprepared a great deal of talk during the night, began to tell her howhighly I valued her kind interest, and how no one had ever cared to hearabout my life, nor had I ever cared to relate it, before yesterday.Suddenly she interrupted me, saying with vehemence—
“And yet, if you knew who I was, you would not so much as speak to me!”
I told her such a thought was madness, and, little as we had met, Icounted her already a dear friend; but my protestations seemed only tomake her more desperate.
“My father is in hiding!” she cried.
“My dear,” I said, forgetting for the first time to add “young lady,”“what do I care? If he were in hiding twenty times over, would it makeone thought of change in you?”
“Ah, but the cause!” she cried, “the cause! It is—” she faltered for asecond—“it is disgraceful to us!”
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