one winter night leslie, in her deep chair, observed hector garret turning over the leaves of an old pocket-book. hector; catching her eye, offered it to her with a "see, leslie, how my father chronicled the fashions"—he never did suppose her susceptible of very grave interests.
in the dearth of other amusements leslie pored over the ancient diary, and found more suggestive paragraphs than the entry indicated: "abel furness has sent me a waistcoat an inch and a half shorter, and a pair of clouded silk hose for the black ditto, ordered." there were—"three pounds english to my boy hector, to keep his pocket during his stay at ardhope." "a crown to hector as fee for fishing out the black stot that broke its neck over the rocks." "a letter from utrecht from my son hector; a fair hand and a sensible diction." "forty pounds over and above paid to please hector on the bond over the flax-fields of ferndean." "a small stipend secured to my thriftless kinsman, willie hamilton, by the advice and with the aid of my son hector." "to earlscraig with hector:" this notice was repeated many times, until the record closed abruptly with the tremulous thanksgiving—"my dear son and heir, hector, recovered of his malady by the blessing of god."
very plainly lay the life-clue of that silent heart, traced in the faded ink of those yellowing pages. how old men cherished their offspring! what did hector garret think of those mute but potent witnesses of a [page 237]regard that he could know no more on earth? she knew he prized the book, for she had seen it carefully deposited in one of the private drawers in his study. she opened it at the beginning, and slipping her fingers into its gilded pockets, discovered a folded paper. it contained merely a sprig of heather, and written on the enclosure—"from my dear wife, isobel; her first gift." two dates were subjoined, with thirty years' interval—that of the receipt of the token, and that of the inscription of the memorandum.
with flushing cheeks leslie sat, and spread out the crushed, brittle spikes, so fondly won, so dearly held. she was sure hector had not one leaf, riband, or ring which she had given him. once when he was gayer than his wont, and plagued her with his jesting petting, she took up the scissors and cut off a lock of his hair. he did not notice the theft till it was accomplished, and then he stood half-thoughtful, half-contemptuous. he had not a hair of hers, but of course the whole head was his; his father had judged otherwise.
this earlier hector garret—she had heard bridget enlarge upon his merits. "a fine man, like the master, but frank and light of heart until he lost the lady—ay, a real lady! grand and gladsome—the old lady of otter." leslie longed for a vision of those old occupants of her place and her husband's; to have a vivid experience of how they looked, spoke, and lived; to see them in spirit—in their morning good wishes, their noonday cares, their evening cheer, their nightly prayers? was their union only apparent? were they severed by a dim, shapeless, [page 238]insurmountable barrier, for ever together, yet for ever apart?
these shades lingered and abode with leslie in her lonely vigils, ere she distinguished whether their language was that of warning or reproach. she studied their material likenesses—the last save one in the picture-gallery—honest faces, bright with wholesome vigour; their son hector's was a finer physiognomy, but the light had left lip and eye, and leslie missed it as she gazed wistfully at these shadows, and compared them with their living representative.
a stranger came to otter: that was an unfrequent event, even when the spring was advancing, and the boats which had been drawn up for the winter were again launched in the cove, and the brown nets hung anew to dry on the budding whins and gowans—the april gowans converting the haugh into a "lily lea." their nearest neighbour, only an occasional resident among them, lounged over with his whip, dog-call, and dogs, and entered the drawing-room at otter, to be introduced for the first time to its mistress. leslie's instincts were hospitable, and they were by no means strained by exercise; but she did not like this guest; she felt an involuntary repugnance to him, although he was very courteous to her—with an elaborate, ostentatious homage that astonished and confused her. he was a man of hector garret's age, but, even in his rough coat, with marked remains of youthful foppishness and pretension. he was a tall man, with beard and moustache slightly silvered; his aquiline features were sharpened and drawn; his bold [page 239]searching eyes sunken. he was a gentleman, even an accomplished and refined gentleman in manner and accent—and yet there was about him a nameless coarseness, the brutishness of self-indulgence and low aims and ends, which no polish could efface or conceal.
leslie, notwithstanding her slight knowledge of life, apprehended this, and shrank from the man; but he addressed hector garret with the ease of an intimate associate—and hector garret, with his pride and scrupulousness, suffered the near approach, and only winced when the stranger accosted leslie, complimented leslie, put himself coolly on the footing of future friendship with the lady of the house.
the day wore on, and still the visitor remained, entertaining himself, and discoursing widely, but for the most part on practices and motives strange at otter.
"so you've married, after all, hector," he said, suddenly, as they sat together in the twilight: "well, i excuse you," with a laugh and a touch on the shoulder.
the words were simple enough, but they tingled in leslie's ears like insolence, and hector garret, so hard to rouse, bit his lips while he answered indifferently—"and when does your time come, nigel? are the shadows not declining with you?"
"faith, they're so low, that there's not light left for the experiment; besides, french life spoils one for matrimony here, at least so poor alice used to say—'no galling bonds on this side of the channel'—the peaceful couvent grille, or a light mariage de convenance among the pleasant southerns;—not that they are so pleasant as they were formerly either."
[page 240]hector garret got up and walked to one of the window recesses, his brow knit, his teeth set.
leslie rose to steal from the room.
"nay, stay, madam," urged the bland, brazen intruder; "don't rob us so soon of a fair, living apology for fades souvenirs."
but "go, leslie, we will not detain you," hector garret exclaimed, impatiently; and leslie hurried to her own chamber in a tumult of surprise and indignation, and vexed suspicion. mysteries had not ceased; and what was this mystery to which hector garret deigned to lend himself in disparaging company with a sorry fine gentleman?
bridget kennedy was there before her, making a pretence of fumbling in the wardrobe, her head shaking, her lips working, her eyes blazing with repressed rage and malice.
"is he there, madam, still?" she demanded, impetuously. "is he torturing and maddening master hector with his tones and gestures? he!—he that ought to crouch among the bent grass and fern sooner than pass the other on the high road. borrowing and begging, to lavish on his evil courses: he who could not pay us—not in red gold, but with his heart's blood—the woe he wrought. they had guileful, stony hearts, the boswells, before they ever took to foreign lightness and wickedness: and evil to him who trafficked with them in life or death."
"who is he, bridget? i do not know him; i cannot understand," gasped leslie.
"don't ask me, madam—you, least of all."
[page 241]"tell me, bridget, tell me," implored the girl, frightened, yet exasperated, catching the old woman's withered hands, and holding them fast.
"don't ask me, madam," reiterated bridget, sternly. "better not."
"i will know; what do you mean? oh, you hurt me, you hurt me! i will ask hector garret himself. i cannot bear this suspense!"
"child, do you choose what you can bear? beware!" menaced the nurse; then, as leslie would have broken from her—
"have it, then! he is the brother of that alice boswell who perished in the burning of earlscraig nigh twenty years ago."
"poor lady, bridget," leslie said, with a bewildered, excited sob. "poor unhappy lady; but what has that to do with him, with me? i understand no better. help me, bridget kennedy—a woman, like myself. i will not let you go."
"madam, what good will it serve? it is small matter now:" then half reluctantly, half with that possession with which truth fills its keeper, slowly and sadly she unfolded the closed story. "what had master hector to do with alice boswell? he had to do with her as a man has to do with his heart's desire, his snare, his pitfall."
"he loved her, bridget; he would have wedded her. i might never have been his—that is all."
"love, marriage!" scornfully; "i know not that he spoke the words, but he lay at her feet. proud as master hector was, she might have trodden on his neck; cool as [page 242]master hector seems to others, he was fire to her. i have seen him come in from watching her shadow, long hours below her window, in the wind and rain, and salt spray. i have known him when he valued her glove in his bosom more than a king's crown—blest, blest if he had but a word or a glance. but it is long gone by, madam. master hector has gained wisdom and gravity, and is the head of the house; and for fair miss alice, she has gone to her place. yes, she was a beauty, miss alice; she could play on stringed instruments like the heavenly harpers, and speak many tongues, and work till the flowers grew beneath her fingers. she learnt to wile men's souls from their bodies, if nothing more, in the outlandish parts where she was bred."
"so fair, so gifted—did she care for him in return, bridget? did she love him as he loved her?" asked a faint voice.
"what need you mind, madam?" sharply. "it is ill speaking harsh words of the dead. did i not say she had gone to her place? god defend you from such a passage. let her rest. sure she cared for him, as she cared for aught else save herself. she scattered smiles and favours on scores. he knew at last what she took, and what she gave, if he did not guess it always."
"why did he not save her, bridget? die with her!"
"madam," bitterly, "he did what man could do. they say he was more like a spirit than a mortal; but if he was to lose his love, how could even master hector fight against his maker? he was fain to follow her; he dallied with death for weeks and months. those were fell [page 243]days at otter, but the lord restored him, and now he is himself again, and no woman will ever move master hector more."
there was silence in the room for a space. at last bridget broke it: "do you want anything more with me, madam, or shall i go?"
haughty as bridget kennedy was, she spoke hesitatingly, almost pitifully. she had stabbed that young thing, sitting pale and cold before her; and no sooner was the deed done than her strong, deep nature yearned over her victim as it had never done to hector garret's girl wife, in the first rosy flush of her thoughtless gladness.
"nothing more." the words were low and heavy, and when bridget left her, leslie raised her hands and linked them together, and stretched them out in impotence of relief.
what was this news that had come to her as from a far country?—this blinding light, this burst of knowledge that had to do with the very springs of a man's nature, this fountain so full to some, so empty to others? she had been deceived, robbed. hector garret was alice boswell's—in life and death, alice boswell's.
this love, which she had known so slightly, measured so carelessly—oh, light, shallow heart!—had been rooted in his very vitals, had constrained him as a conqueror his captive, had been the very essence of the man until it spent itself on alice boswell's wild grave. he had come to her with a lie in his right hand, for he was bound and fettered in heart, or else but the blue, stiff corpse of a man dead within; he had betrayed her woman's right, her [page 244]best, dearest, truest right, her call to love and be loved. another might have wooed her as he had wooed alice boswell; to another she might have been the first, the only one! she knew now why she was no helpmeet, no friend for him; why his hand did not raise her to his eminence, his soul's breath did not blow upon hers, and create vigour, goodness, and grace to match his own. deep had not cried unto deep: heart had not spoken to heart: the dry bones, the vacant form, the empty craving, were her portion; and out of such unnatural hollowness have arisen, once and again, deadly lust and sin.
why had none stepped in between her and this cruel mockery and temptation? "mother, mother, how could you be false to your trust? were you, too, cheated and bereft of your due? left a cold, shrinking woman, withering, not suddenly, but for a whole lifetime?"
leslie sat long weighing her burden, until a tap at the door and bridget kennedy's voice disturbed her. "earlscraig is gone, madam; master hector is sitting alone with his thoughts in your room. may be, he is missing his cup of tea, or, if you please, madam, his lady's company that he is used to at this hour."
leslie rose mechanically, walked out, and entered her drawing-room. what did he there, his eyes fixed on the broken turret of earlscraig, defined clearly on the limited horizon, his memory hovering over the fate of fair alice boswell?
was it horrible to be jealous of a dead woman? to wish herself in that ever-present grave, sacred to him as the holiest, though no priest blessed it, no house of god threw [page 245]over it the shadow of the finger pointed to heaven—the cross that bore a world's saviour? but that swift and glowing passage from life and light and love, such as his to darkness, forgetfulness—eternity. how could she have faced it? bridget, her old enemy, had prayed she might be delivered from it, whatever her trials.
"nigel boswell is gone at last; he was an old playfellow, and fortune and he have been playing a losing game ever since," he said, in unsuspecting explanation, as he joined her where she sat in her favourite window.
she did not answer him; she was stunned, and sat gazing abstractedly on the wallflowers rendering golden the mossy court wall, or far away on the misty otter sea. she thought he had relapsed into his reveries, was with the past, the spring-tide of his life, the passion of his early manhood, while she was a little school-girl tripping demurely and safely along the crowded glasgow streets. if she had looked up at him she would have seen that he was observing her curiously—wondering where his young wife had acquired that serious brow, those fixed eyes.
"what are you thinking of, leslie?"
"nothing; i cannot tell," hastily and resolutely.
"that sounds suspicious." he put his hand on her head, as he had a habit of doing, but she recoiled from him.
"a shy little brain that dreads a finger of mine on its soft covering must discover its secrets. are they treasures, leslie?"
oh, blind, absent, reckless man, what treasure-keeper kept such ward!
lightly won, was lightly held.
[page 246]leslie struggled with her oppression for several dull feverish days; then, driven by her own goading thoughts, her sense of injury, her thirst for justice and revenge, she left the house and wandered out on the beach to breathe free air, to forget herself in exertion, fatigue, stupor. it was evening, dark with vapour—gloomy, with a rising gale, and the sea was beginning to mutter and growl. leslie sat shivering by the water's edge, fascinated by the sympathy of nature with her bitter hopelessness. a voice on the banks and meadows, even in the chill night air, whispered of spring advancing rapidly, with buds and flowers, with sap, fragrance, and warmth, and the tender grace of its flood of green; but here, by the waves, a passing thunder-cloud, a stealthy mist, a whistling breeze, darkened the scene, and restored barren, dismal winter in a single hour. the night drooped down without moon or star, and still leslie sat listless, drowsy with sorrow, until as she rose she sank back sick and giddy; and then the idea of premature death, of passing away without a sign, of hiding her pain under the silent earth that has covered so many sins and sorrows, first laid hold of her.
the notion was not fairly welcome: she was young; her heart had been recently wrung; she had been listless and disappointed—but she had loved her few isolated engagements, her country life, her household dignity, the protection of her husband. she could not divest herself of these feelings at once. she feared the great unknown into which she should enter; but still death did not appal her as it might have done: it was something to be scanned, waited for, and submitted to, as a true sovereign.
[page 247]the cold wind pierced her through and through; the rain fell; she could not drag herself from the shelving rock, though the tide was rising. she felt frozen, her limbs were like lead, and her mind was wandering, or lapsing into unconsciousness.
she did not hear a call, an approaching foot; but her sinking pulses leapt up with sudden power and passion when hector garret stooped over her, and endeavoured to raise her.
"here, bridget, she is found! leslie, why have you remained out so late? you have been sleeping; you have made yourself ill. how can you be so rash, so imprudent? it is childish—wrong. you have made us anxious—distressed us. poor old bridget has stumbled further in search of you, this squally night, than she has ventured on the sunniest morning for many a year."
he was excited, aggrieved; he upbraided her. he had sympathy for old bridget's infirmities; he knew nothing of his wife's misery.
leslie resisted him as she had done since that day, slipped from his clasp, strove to steady herself, and to walk alone in her weakness. bridget put her feeble arm around her.
"lean on me, madam, and i will lean on you, for i am frail, and the road is rough, and the wind is blowing fresh, besides the darkness." "i knew that would quiet her," she muttered. "poor old bridget indeed! said master hector. poor colleen! misled, misguided. cruel makes cruel. st. patrick could not save himself from the hard necessity."
[page 248]hector garret was content since he saw leslie safe; he accused her of captiousness and nervousness, but it was the waywardness and perversity of illness. he had tried her simple nature with too much alienation from her kind; she had grown morbid on the baneful diet, tutored though she had been to self-dependence. he had been to blame; but her merry temper would come back, and the rose to her cheek, and the spring to her foot, with other ties, other occupations—dearer, more sufficient.
