A Princess of Thule

“Has Frank been to the Lewis?” she said suddenly, with a look of fear on her face.

“Oh, no; he had only been to Glasgow to see if you had gone to catch the Clansman and go North from there.”

“Did he take trouble to do all that?” she asked, slowly and wistfully.

“Trouble!” cried Ingram. “He appears to me neither to eat nor sleep day or night, but to go wandering about in search of you in every place where he fancies you may be. I never saw a man so beside himself with anxiety.”

“I did not wish to make him anxious,” said Sheila in a low voice, “Will you tell him that I am well?”

Mrs. Lavender began to smile. Were there not evident signs of softening? But Ingram, who knew the girl better, was not deceived by these appearances. He could see that Sheila merely wished that her husband should not suffer pain on her account; that was all.

“I was about to ask you,” he said gently, “what I may say to him. He comes to me continually, for he has always fancied that you would communicate with me. What shall I say to him, Sheila?”

“You may tell him that I am well,” she answered.

Mairi had by this time stepped out of the room. Sheila sat with her eyes fixed on the floor, her fingers working nervously with a paper knife she held.

“Nothing more than that?” he said.

“Nothing more.”

He saw by her face, and he could tell by the sound of her voice, that her decision was resolute.

“Don’t be a fool, child!” said Mrs. Lavender emphatically. “Here is your husband’s friend, who can make everything straight and comfortable for you in an hour or two, and you quietly put aside the chance of reconciliation and bring on yourself any amount of misery. I don’t speak for Frank. Men can take care of themselves; they have clubs and friends, and amusements for the whole day long. But you! – what a pleasant life you would have, shut up in a couple of rooms, scarcely daring to show yourself at a window! Your fine sentiments are all very well, but they won’t stand in the place of a husband to you; and you will soon find out the difference between living by yourself like that, and having some one in the house to look after you. Am I right, Mr. Ingram, or am I wrong?”

Ingram paused for a moment, and said, “I have not the same courage that you have, Mrs. Lavender, I dare not advise Sheila one way or the other at present. But if she feels in her own heart that she would rather return now to her husband, I can safely say that she would find him deeply grateful to her, and that he would try to do everything that she desired. That I know. He wants to see you, Sheila, if only for five minutes, to beg your forgiveness.

“I cannot see him,” she said, with the same sad and settled air.

“I am not to tell him where you are?”

“Oh no!” she cried, with a sudden and startled emphasis. “You must not do that, Mr. Ingram. Promise me that you will not do that?”

“I do promise you; but you put a painful duty on me, Sheila, for you know how he will believe that a short interview with you would put everything right; and he will look on me as preventing that.”

“Do you think a short interview at present would put everything right?” she said, suddenly looking up, and regarding him with her clear, steadfast eyes.

He dared not answer. He felt, in his inmost heart, that it would not.

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Lavender, “young people have much satisfaction in being proud. When they come to my age, they may find they would have been happier if they had been less disdainful.”

“It is not disdain, Mrs. Lavender,” said Sheila, gently.

“Whatever it is,” said the old woman, “I must remind you two people that I am an invalid. Go away and have luncheon. Paterson will look after you. Mr. Ingram, give me that book, that I may read myself into a nap, and don’t forget what I expect of you.”

Ingram suddenly remembered. He and Sheila and Mairi sat down to luncheon in the dining-room, and while he strove to get them to talk about Borva, he was thinking all the time of the extraordinary position he was expected to assume toward Sheila. Not only was he to be the repository of the secret of her place of residence, and the message-carrier between herself and her husband, but he was also to take Mrs. Lavender’s fortune, in the event of her dying, and hold it in trust for the young wife. Surely this old woman, with her suspicious ways and her worldly wisdom, would not be so foolish as to hand him over all her property, free of conditions, on the simple understanding that when he chose he could give what he chose to Sheila? And yet that was what she had vowed she would do, to Ingram’s profound dismay.

He labored hard to lighten the spirits of those two girls. He talked of John the Piper, and said he would invite him up to London, and described his probable appearance in the Park. He told them stories of his adventures while he was camping out with some young artists in the Western Highlands, and told them anecdotes, old, recent and of his own invention, about the people he had met. Had they heard of the steward on board one of the Clyde steamers who had a percentage on the drink consumed in the cabin, and who would call out to the captain: “Why wass you going so fast? Dinna put her into the quay so fast! There is a gran’ company down below, and they are drinking fine!” Had he ever told them of the porter at Arran who had demanded sixpence for carrying up some luggage, but who, after being sent to get a sovereign changed, came back with only eighteen shillings, saying: “Oh, yes, it iss sexpence! Oh, ay, it iss sexpence! But it iss two shullens ta you!” Or of the other, who, after being paid, hung about the cottage-door for nearly an hour, until Ingram, coming out, asked him why he waited; whereupon he said, with an air of perfect indifference: “Oo, ay, there was something said about a dram; but hoot toot! it is of no consequence whatever!” And was it true that the sheriff of Stornoway was so kind-hearted a man that he remitted the punishment of certain culprits, ordained by the statute to be whipped with birch rods, on the ground that the island of Lewis produced no birch, and that he was not bound to import it? And had Mairi heard any more of the Black Horse of Loch Suainabhal? And where had she pulled those splendid bunches of bell-heather?

He suddenly stopped, and Sheila looked up with inquiring eyes. How did he know that Mairi had brought those things with her? Sheila saw that he must have gone up with her husband and must have seen the room which she had decorated in imitation of the small parlor at Borvapost. She would rather not think of that room now.

“When are you going to the Lewis?” she asked of him with her eyes cast down.

“Well, I think I have changed my mind about that, Sheila. I don’t think I shall go to the Lewis this Autumn.”

Her face became more and more embarrassed. How was she to thank him for his continued thoughtfulness and self-sacrifice?

“There is no necessity,” he said lightly. “The man I am going with has no particular purpose in view. We shall merely go cruising about those wonderful lochs and islands, and I am sure to run against some of those young fellows I know, who are prowling about the fishing-villages with portable easels. They are good boys, those boys. They are very hospitable, if they have only a single bedroom in a small cottage as their studio and reception-room combined. I should not wonder, Sheila, if I went ashore somewhere, and put up my lot with those young fellows, and listened to their wicked stories, and lived on whisky and herrings for a month. Would you like to see me return to Whitehall in kilts? And I should go into the office and salute everybody with ‘And are you ferry well?’ just as Mairi does. But don’t be downhearted, Mairi. You speak English a good deal better than many English folks I know; and by the time you go back to the Lewis we shall have you fit to become a school-mistress, not only in Borva, but in Stornoway itself.”

“I was told it is ferry good English they have in Stornoway,” said Mairi, not very sure whether Mr. Ingram was joking or not.

“My dear child,” he cried, “I tell you it is the best English in the world. If the queen only knew, she would send her grandchildren to be educated there. But I must go now. Good-bye, Mairi. I mean to come and take you to a theater some night soon.”

Sheila accompanied him out into the hall. “When shall you see him,” she said, with her eyes cast down.

“This evening,” he answered.

“I should like you to tell him that I am well, and that he need not be anxious about me.”

“And that is all?”

“Yes, that is all.”

“Very well, Sheila. I wish you had given me a pleasanter message to carry, but when you think of doing that I shall be glad to take it.”

Ingram left and hastened in to his office. Sheila’s affairs were considerably interfering with his attendance there – there could be no question of that – but he had the reputation of being able to get through his work thoroughly, whatever might be the hours he devoted to it, so that he did not greatly fear being rebuked for his present irregularities. Perhaps if a grave official warning had been probable, even that would not have interfered with his determination to do what could be done for Sheila.

But this business of carrying a message to Lavender was the most serious he had yet undertaken. He had to make sundry and solemn resolves to put a bold face on the matter at the outset, and declare that wild horses would not tear from him any further information. He feared the piteous appeals that might be made to him; the representations that, merely for the sake of an imprudent promise, he was delaying a reconciliation between these two until that might be impossible; the reasons that would be urged on him for considering Sheila’s welfare as paramount to his own scruples. He went through the interview as he foresaw it, a dozen times over, and constructed replies to each argument and entreaty. Of course, it would be simple enough to meet all Lavender’s demands with a simple “No,” but there are circumstances in which the heroic method of solving difficulties becomes a trifle inhuman.

He had promised to dine with Lavender that evening at his club. When he went along to St. James’ Street at the appointed hour his host had not arrived. He walked for about ten minutes, and then Lavender appeared, haggard and worn out with fatigue. “I have heard nothing – I can hear nothing – I have been everywhere,” he said, leading the way at once into the dining-room. “I am sorry I have kept you waiting, Ingram.”

They sat down at a small side table: there were few men in the club at this late season, so that they could talk freely enough when the waiter had come and gone.

“Well, I have some news for you, Lavender,” Ingram said.

“Do you know where she is?” said the other eagerly.

“Yes.”

“Where?” he almost called aloud in his anxiety.

“Well,” Ingram said slowly, “she is in London, and she is very well; and you need have no anxiety about her.”

“But where is she?” demanded Lavender, taking no heed of the waiter, who was standing by and uncorking a bottle.

“I promised her not to tell you.”

“You have spoken with her, then?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say? Where has she been? Good Heavens, Ingram! you don’t mean to say you are going to keep it a secret?”

“Oh, no,” said the other; “I will tell you everything she said to me, if you like. Only I will not tell you where she is.”

“I will not ask you,” said Lavender at once, “if she does not wish me to know. But you can tell me about herself? What was she looking like? Is Mairi with her?”

“Yes, Mairi is with her. And, of course, she is looking a little troubled and pale, and so forth, but she is very well, I should think, and quite comfortably situated. She said I was to tell you that she was well, and that you need not be anxious.”

“She sent a message to me?”

“That is it.”

“By Jove, Ingram! how can I ever thank you enough? I feel as glad just now as if she had really come home again. And how did you manage it?”

Lavender, in his excitement and gratitude, kept filling up his friend’s glass the moment the least quantity had been taken out of it; the wonder was he did not fill all the glasses on that side of the table, and beseech Ingram to have two or three dinners all at once.

“Oh, you needn’t give me any credit about it,” Ingram said. “I stumbled against her by accident: at least, I did not find her out myself.”

“Did she send for you?”

“No. But look here, Lavender, this sort of cross-examination will lead to but one thing; and you say yourself you won’t try to find out where she is.”

“Not from you, any way. But how can I help wanting to know where she is? And my aunt was saying just now that very likely she had gone right away to the other end of London – to Peckham or some such place.”

“You have seen Mrs. Lavender, then?”

“I have just come from there. The old heathen thinks the whole affair rather a good joke; but perhaps that was only her way of showing her temper, for she was in a bit of rage, to be sure. And so Sheila sent me that message?”

“Yes.”

“Does she want money? Would you take her some money from me?” he said eagerly. Any bond of union between him and Sheila would be of some value.

“I don’t think she needs money; and in any case I know she wouldn’t take it from you.”

“Well, now, Ingram, you have seen her and talked with her, what do you think she intends to do? What do you think she would have me do?”

“These are very dangerous questions for me to answer,” Ingram said. “I don’t see how you can expect me to assume the responsibility.”

“I don’t ask you to do that at all. But I never found your advice to fail. And if you give me any hint as to what I should do, I will do it upon my own responsibility.”

“Then I won’t. But this I will do; I will tell you as nearly as ever I can what she said, and you can judge for yourself.”

Very cautiously, indeed, did Ingram set out on this perilous undertaking. It was no easy matter so to shut out all references to Sheila’s surroundings that no hint should be given to this anxious listener as to her whereabouts. But Ingram got through it successfully; and when he had finished Lavender sat some time in silence, merely toying with his knife, for, indeed, he had eaten nothing. “If it is her wish,” he said slowly, “that I should not go to see her, I will try to do so. But I should like to know where she is. You say she is comfortable, and she has Mairi for a companion; and that is something. In the meantime I suppose I must wait.”

“I don’t see, myself, how waiting is likely to do much good,” said Ingram. “That won’t alter your relations much.”

“It may alter her determination. A woman is sure to soften into charity and forgiveness; she can’t help it.”

“If you were to ask Sheila now, she would say she had forgiven you already. But that is a different matter from getting her to resume her former method of life with you. To tell you the truth, I should strongly advise her, if I were to give advice at all, not to attempt anything of the sort. One failure is bad enough, and has wrought sufficient trouble.”

“Then what am I to do, Ingram?”

“You must judge for yourself what is the most likely way of winning back Sheila’s confidence in you, and the most likely conditions under which she might be induced to join you again. You need not expect to get her back into that square, I should fancy; that experiment has rather broken down.”

“Well,” said Lavender, “I shan’t bore you any more just now about my affairs. Look after your dinner, old fellow; your starving yourself won’t help me much.”

“I don’t mean to starve myself at all,” said Ingram, steadily making his way through the abundant dishes his friend had ordered. “But I had a very good luncheon this morning with – ”

“With Sheila,” Lavender said, quickly.

“Yes. Does it surprise you to find that she is in a place where she can get food? I wish the poor child had made better use of her opportunities.”

“Ingram,” he said, after a minute, “could you take some money from me, without her knowing of it, and try to get her some of the little things she likes – some delicacies, you know; they might be smuggled in, as it were, without her knowing who paid for them? There was ice-pudding, you know, with strawberries in it, that she was fond of – ”

“My dear fellow, a woman in her position thinks of something else than ice-pudding in strawberries.”

“But why shouldn’t she have it all the same? I would give twenty pounds to get some little gratification of that sort conveyed to her; and if you could try, Ingram – ”

“My dear fellow, she has got everything she can want; there was no ice-pudding at luncheon, but doubtless there will be at dinner.”

So Sheila was staying in a house in which ices could be prepared? Lavender’s suggestion had had no cunning intention in it, but here was an obvious piece of information. She was in no humble lodging-house, then. She was either staying with some friends – and she had no friend but Lavender’s friends – or she was staying at a hotel. He remembered that she had once dined at the Langham, Mrs. Kavanagh having persuaded her to go to meet some American visitors. Might she have gone thither?

Lavender was somewhat silent during the rest of that meal, for he was thinking of other things besides the mere question as to where Sheila might be staying. He was trying to imagine what she might have felt before she was driven to this step. He was trying to recall all manner of incidents of their daily life that he now saw might have appeared to her in a very different light from that in which he saw them. He was wondering, too, how all this could be altered, and a new life begun for them both, if that were still possible.

They had gone up stairs into the smoking-room when a card was brought to Lavender.

“Young Mosenberg is below,” he said to Ingram. “He will be a livelier companion for you than I could be. Waiter, ask this gentleman to come up.”

The handsome Jew boy came eagerly into the room, with much excitement visible on his face.

“Oh, do you know,” he said to Lavender, “I have found out where Mrs. Lavender is – yes. She is at your aunt’s house. I saw her this afternoon for one moment – ” He stopped, for he saw by the vexation on Ingram’s face that he had done something wrong. “Is it a mistake?” he said. “Is it a secret?”

“It is not likely to be a secret if you have got hold of it,” said Ingram, sharply.

“I am very sorry,” said the boy. “I thought you were all anxious to know – ”

“It does not matter in the least,” said Lavender quietly to both of them. “I shall not seek to disturb her. I am about to leave London.”

“Where are you going?” said the boy.

“I don’t know yet.”

That, at least, had been part of the result of his meditations; and Ingram, looking at him, wondered whether he meant to go away without trying to say one word to Sheila.

“Look here, Lavender,” he said, “you must not fancy we were trying to play any useless and impertinent trick. To-morrow or next day Sheila will leave your aunt’s house, and then I should have told you that she had been there, and how the old lady received her. It was Sheila’s own wish that the lodgings she is going to should not be known. She fancies that would save both of you a great deal of unnecessary and fruitless pain, do you see? That really is her only object in wishing to have any concealment about the matter.”

“But there is no need of any such concealment,” he said. “You may tell Sheila that if she likes to stay on with my aunt, so much the better; and I take it very kind of her that she went there, instead of going home or to a strange house.”

“Am I to tell her that you mean to leave London?”

“Yes.”

They went into the billiard-room. Mosenberg was not permitted to play, as he had not dined in the club, but Ingram and Lavender proceeded to have a game, the former being content to accept something like thirty in a hundred. It was speedily very clear that Lavender’s heart was not in the contest. He kept forgetting which ball he had been playing, missing easy shots, playing a perversely wrong game, and so forth. And yet his spirits were not much downcast.

“Is Peter Hewetson still at Tarbert, do you know?” he asked of Ingram.

“I believe so. I heard of him lately. He and one or two more are there.”

“I suppose you’ll look in on them if you go North?”

“Certainly. The place is badly perfumed, but picturesque, and there is generally plenty of whisky about.”

“When do you go North?”

“I don’t know. In a week or two.”

That was all Lavender hinted of his plans. He went home early that night, and spent an hour or two in packing up some things, and in writing a long letter to his aunt, which was destined considerably to astonish that lady. Then he lay down and had a few hours’ rest.

In the early morning he went out and walked across Kensington Gardens down to the Gore. He wished to have one look at the house in which Sheila was, or perhaps he might, from a distance, see her come out on a simple errand? He knew, for example, that she had a superstitious liking for posting her letters herself; in wet weather or dry, she invariably carried her own correspondence to the nearest pillar-post. Perhaps he might have one glimpse at her face, to see how she was looking, before he left London.

There were few people about; one or two well-known lawyers and merchants were riding by to have their morning canter in the Park; the shops were being opened. Over there was the house – with its dark front of bricks, its hard ivy, and its small windows with formal red curtains – in which Sheila was immured. That was certainly not the palace that a beautiful sea-princess should have inhabited. Where were the pine woods around it, and the lofty hills, and the wild beating of the waves on the sands below! And now it seemed strange and sad that just as he was about to go away to the North, and breathe the salt air again, and find the strong West winds blowing across the mountain peaks and through the furze, Sheila, a daughter of the sea and the rocks, should be hiding herself in obscure lodgings in the heart of the great city. Perhaps – he could not but think at this time – if he had only the chance of speaking to her for a couple of moments, he could persuade her to forgive him everything that had happened, and go away with him – away from London and all the associations that had vexed her and almost broken her heart – to the free, and open, and joyous life on the far sea coasts of the Hebrides.

Something caused him to turn his head for a second, and he knew that Sheila was coming along the pavement – not from, but towards the house. It was too late to think of getting out of her way, and yet he dared not go up to her and speak to her, as he had wished to do. She, too, had seen him. There was a quick, frightened look in her eyes, and then she came along, with her face pale and her head downcast. He did not seek to interrupt her. His eyes, too, were lowered as she passed him without taking any notice of his presence, although the sad face and the troubled lips told of the pain at her heart. He had hoped, perchance, for one word, for even a sign of recognition, but she went by him calmly, gravely and silently. She went into the house and he turned away with a weight at his heart, as though the gates of heaven had been closed against him.

PART X

CHAPTER XXII.

“LIKE HADRIANUS AND AUGUSTUS.”

The island of Borva lay warm and green and bright under a blue sky; there were no white curls of foam on Loch Roag, but only the long Atlantic swell coming in to fall on the white beach; away over there in the South the fine grays and purples of the giant Suainabhal shone in the sunlight amid the clear air; and the beautiful sea-pyots flew about the rocks, their screaming being the only sound audible in the stillness. The King of Borva was down by the shore, seated on a stool, and engaged in the idyllic operation of painting a boat which had been hauled up on the sand. It was the Maighdean-mhara. He would let no one else on the island touch Sheila’s boat. Duncan, it is true, was permitted to keep her masts and sails and seats sound and white, but as for the decorative painting of the small craft – including a little bit of amateur gilding – that was the exclusive right of Mr. Mackenzie himself. For, of course, the old man said to himself, Sheila was coming back to Borva one of these days, and she would be proud to find her own boat bright and sound. If she and her husband should resolve to spend half the year in Stornoway, would not the small craft be of use to her there? and sure he was that a prettier little vessel never entered Stornoway Bay. Mr. Mackenzie was at this moment engaged in putting a thin line of green around the white bulwarks that might have been distinguished across Loch Roag, so keen and pure was the color.