The Half-Hearted
Page 18
CHAPTER XVIII
THE FURTHER BRINK
Wratislaw left betimes the next morning, and a long day faced Lewis withevery hour clamouring for a decision. George would be back by noon, andbefore his return he must seek quiet and the chances of reflection. Hewas happy with a miserable fluctuating happiness. Of a sudden hishorizon was enlarged, but as he gazed it seemed to narrow again. Hismind was still unplumbed; somewhere in its depths might lie theshrinking and unwillingness which would bind him to the dreary present.
He went out to the autumn hills and sought the ridge which runs formiles on the lip of the glen. It was a grey day, with snow waiting incloud-banks in the north sky and a thin wind whistling through thepines. The scene matched his humour. He was in love for the momentwith the stony and stormy in life. He hungered morbidly forill-fortune, something to stamp out the ease in his soul, and weld himinto the form of a man.
He had got his chance and the rest lay with himself. It was a chance ofhigh adventure, a great mission, a limitless future. At the thought theold fever began to rise in his blood. The hot, clear smell of rock andsand, the brown depths of the waters, the far white peaks running upamong the stars, all spoke to him with the long-remembered call. Oncemore he should taste life, and, alert in mind and body, hold up his chinamong his fellows. It would be a contest of wits, and for all hiscowardice this was not the contest he shrank from.
And then there came back on him, like a flood, the dumb misery ofincompetence which had weighed on heart and brain. The hatred of thewhole struggling, sordid crew, all the cant and ugliness and ignoranceof a mad world, his weakness in the face of it, his fall from commonvirtue, his nerveless indolence--all stung him like needle points, tillhe cried out in agony. Anything to deliver his soul from such abondage, and in his extreme bitterness his mind closed with Wratislaw'soffer.
He felt--and it is a proof of his weakness--a certain nameless feelingof content when he had once forced himself into the resolution. Now atleast he had found a helm and a port to strain to. As his fancy dweltupon the mission and drew airy pictures of the land, he found to hisdelight a boyish enthusiasm arising. Old simple pleasures seemed forthe moment dear. There was a zest for toils and discomforts, atolerance of failure, which had been aforetime his chief traveller'sheritage.
And then as he came to the ridge where the road passes from Glenavelinto Glen Adler, he stopped as in duty bound to look at the famousprospect. You stand at the shedding of two streams; behind, the greenand woodland spaces of the pastoral Avelin; at the feet, a land ofstones and dwarf junipers and naked rifts in the hills, withwhite-falling waters and dark shadows even at midday. And then, beyondand afar, the lines of hill-land crowd upon each other till the eye islost in a mystery of grey rock and brown heather and single bald peaksrising sentinel-like in the waste. The grey heavens lent a chilleeriness to the dim grey distances; the sharp winds, the forerunners ofsnow, blew over the moors like blasts from a primeval night.
By an odd vagary of temper the love of these bleak hills blazed upfiercely in his heart. Never before had he felt so keenly the namelessglamour of his own heritage. He had not been back six months and yet hehad come to accept all things as matters of course, the beauty of theplace, its sport, its memories. Rarely had he felt that intimate joy init which lies at the bottom of all true souls. There is a sentimentwhich old poets have made into songs and called the "Lilt of theHeather," and which is knit closer to man's heart than love of wife orkin or his own fair fortune. It had not come to him in the time of thehills' glory, but now on the brink of winter the far-off melancholy ofthe place and its infinite fascination seemed to clutch at hisheart-strings. It was his own land, the place of his fathers; and nowhe must sever himself from it and carry only a barren memory.
And yet he felt no melancholy. Rather it was the immortal gaiety of thewanderer, to whom the homeland is dearest as a memory, who pitches hiscamp by waters of Babylon and yet as ever the old word on his lip, theold song in his ear, and the kindly picture in his heart. Strange thatit is the little races who wander farthest and yet have the eternalhome-sickness! And yet not strange, for to the little peoples, theirland, bare and uncouth and unfriendly for the needs of life, must bemore the ideal, the dream, than the satisfaction. The lush countriesgive corn and wine for their folks, the little bare places afford nomore than a spiritual heritage. Yet spiritual it is, and for two menwho in the moment of their extremity will think on meadow, woodland, orplacid village, a score will figure the windy hill, the grey lochan, andthe mournful sea.
For the moment he felt a self-pity which he cast from him. To thisdegradation at least he should never come. But as the thought of Alicecame up ever and again, his longing for her seemed to be changed fromhot pain to a chastened regret. The red hearth-fire was no more in hisfancy. The hunger for domesticity had gone, and the girl was now lessthe wife he had desired than the dream of love he had vainly followed.As he came back across the moors, for the first time for weeks hisjealous love left him at peace. His had been a fanciful Sylvia, "holy,fair, and wise"; and what if mortal Sylvia were unkind, there was yetcomfort in this elusive lady of his memories.
* * * * *
He found George at the end of a second breakfast, a very ruddy, happyyoung man hunting high and low for a lost tobacco-jar.
"Oh, first-class," he said in answer to Lewis's question. "Out and outthe best day's shooting I've had in my life. You were an ass not tocome, you know. A lot of your friends there, tremendously disappointedtoo, and entrusted me with a lot of messages for you which I haveforgotten."
His companion's high spirits infected Lewis and he fell into cheerygossip. Then he could contain the news no more.
"I had Tommy up last night on a flying visit. He says that Beauregardwants me to go out to Kashmir again. There has been some threatening ofa row up there, and he thinks that as I know the place I might be ableto get good information."
"Official?" asked George.
"Practically, yes; but in theory it's quite off my own bat, and they aregood enough to tell me that they will not acknowledge responsibility.However, it's a great chance and I am going."
"Good," said the other, and his face and voice had settled into gravity."Pretty fair sport up in those parts, isn't there?"
"Pretty fair? it's about the best in the world. Your ordinary man whogoes the grand tour comes home raving about the sport in the Himalayanfoothills, and it's not to be named with this."
"Good chance too of a first-rate row, isn't there? Natives troublesome,and Russia near, and that sort of thing?" George's manner showed agrowing enthusiasm.
"A rather good chance. It is about that I'm going, you know."
"Then if you don't mind, I am coming with you."
Lewis stared, incredulous.
"It's quite true. I am serious enough. I am doing nothing at the Bar,and I want to travel, proper travelling, where you are not coddled withrailways and hotels."
"But it's hideously risky, and probably very arduous and thankless. Youwill tire of it in a week."
"I won't," said George, "and in any case I'll make my book for that.You must let me come, Lewie. I simply couldn't stand your going offalone."
"But I may have to leave you. There are places where one can go whentwo can't."
"When you come to that sort of place I'll stay behind. I'll be quiteunder your orders."
"Well, at any rate take some time to think over it."
"Bless you, I don't want time to think over it," cried George. "I knowmy own mind. It's the chance I've been waiting on for years."
"Thanks tremendously then, my dear chap," said Lewis, very ill at ease."It's very good of you. I must wire at once to Tommy."
"I'll take it down, if you like. I want to try that new mare of yoursin the dog-cart."
When his host had left the room George forgot to light his pipe, butwalked instead to the window and whistled solemnly. "Poor old man," hesaid softly to himself, "it had to come to this, but I'm h
anged if hedoesn't take it like a Trojan." And he added certain striking commentson the ways of womankind and the afflictions of life, which, beingexpressed in Mr. Winterham's curious phraseology, need not be set down.
* * * * *
Alice had gone out after lunch to walk to Gledsmuir, seeking in thebitter cold and the dawning storm the freshness which comes fromconflict. All the way down the glen the north wind had stung her cheeksto crimson and blown stray curls about her ears; but when she left thelittle market-place to return she found a fine snow powdering the earth,and a haze creeping over the hills which threatened storm. A mile ofthe weather delighted her, but after that she grew weary. When the fallthickened she sought the shelter of a way-side cottage, with the purposeof either sending to Glenavelin for a carriage or waiting for theoff-chance of a farmer's gig.
By four o'clock the snow showed no sign of clearing, but fell in thesame steady, noiseless drift. The mistress of the place made the girltea and dispatched her son to Glenavelin. But the errand would taketime, for the boy was small, and Alice, ever impatient, stood drummingon the panes, watching the dreary weather with a dreary heart. Thegoodwife was standing at the door on the look-out for a passing gig, andher cry brought the girl to attention.
"I see a machine comin'! I think it's the Etterick dowg-cairt. Ye'llget a drive in it."
Alice had gone to the door, and lo! through the thick fall a dog-cartcame into view driven by a tall young man. He recognized her at once,and drew up.
"Hullo, Miss Wishart! Storm-stayed? Can I help you?"
The girl looked distrustfully at the very restless horse and he caughther diffidence.
"Don't be afraid. 'What I don't know about 'oases ain't worthknowin','" he quoted with a laugh; and leaning forward he prepared toassist her to mount.
There was nothing for it but to accept, and the next minute she foundherself in the high seat beside him. Her wraps, sufficient for walking,were scarcely sufficient for a snowy drive, and this, to his credit, theyoung man saw. He unbuttoned his tweed shooting-cape, and gravely putit round her. A curious dainty figure she made with her face all brightwith wind, framed in the great grey cloak.
The horse jibbed for a second and then swung along the wild road withthe vigorous ease of good blood skilfully handled. George was puzzlinghis brain all the while as to how he should tell his companion somethingwhich she ought to know. The strong drift and the turns of the roadclaimed much of his attention, so it is possible that he blurted out hisnews somewhat baldly.
"Do you know, Miss Wishart, that Lewis Haystoun and I are going off nextweek? Abroad, you know."
The girl, who had been enjoying the ecstasy of swift motion through thebitter weather, glanced up at him with pain in her eyes.
"Where?" she asked.
"To the Indian frontier. We are going to be special unpaid unofficialmembers of the Intelligence Department."
She asked the old, timid woman's question about danger.
"It's where Lewis was before. Only, you see, things have got into amess thereabouts, and the Foreign Office has asked him to go out again.By the by, you mustn't tell any one about this, for it's in strictconfidence."
The words were meaningless, and yet they sent a pang through her heart.Had he no guess at her inmost feelings? Could he think that she wouldtalk to Mr. Stocks of a thing which was bound up for her with all thesorrow and ecstasy of life?
He looked down and saw that her face had paled and that her mouth wasdrawn with some emotion. A sudden gleam of light seemed to break inupon him.
"Are you sorry?" he asked half-unwittingly.
For answer the girl turned her tragic eyes upon him, tried to speak, andfaltered. He cursed himself for a fool and a brute, and whipped up analready over-active horse, till it was all but unmanageable. It was awise move, for it absorbed his attention and gave the poor child at hisside a chance to recover her composure.
They came to Glenavelin gates and George turned in. "I had better driveyou to the door, in this charming weather," he said. The sight of thepale little face had moved him to deep pity. He cursed his blindness,the blindness of a whole world of fools, and at the same time, with theimpotence of the honest man, he could only wait and be silent.
At the door he stopped to unbutton his cape from her neck, and even inhis nervousness he felt the trembling of her body. She spoke rapidlyand painfully.
"I want you to take a message from me to--to--Lewis. Tell him I mustsee him. Tell him to come to the Midburn foot, to-morrow in theafternoon. Oh, I am ashamed to ask you, but you must tell him." Andthen without thanks or good-bye she fled into the house.