Lavender’s communications with the King of Borva were of a different nature. Wonderful volumes on building, agriculture, and what not, tobacco hailing from certain royal sources in the neighborhood of the Pyramids, and now and again a new sort of rifle or some fresh invention in fishing-tackle – these were the sort of things that found their way to Lewis. And then in reply came haunches of venison, and kegs of rare whisky and skins of wild animals, which, all very admirable in their way, were a trifle cumbersome in a couple of moderate rooms in King street, St. James’. But here Lavender hit upon a happy device. He had long ago talked to his aunt about the mysterious potentate in the far North, who was the ruler of man, beast and fish, and who had an only daughter. When these presents arrived, Mrs. Lavender was informed that they were meant for her, and was given to understand that they were the propitiatory gifts of a half-savage monarch who wished to seek her friendship. In vain did Ingram warn Lavender of the possible danger of this foolish joke. The young man laughed, and would come down to Sloane street with another story of his success as an envoy of the distant King.
And so the months went slowly by, and Lavender raved about Sheila, and dreamed about Sheila, and was always going to begin some splendid achievement for Sheila’s sake, but never just managed to begin. After all, the future did not look very terrible, and the present was satisfactory enough. Mrs. Lavender had no objection whatever to listening to his praises of Sheila, and had even gone the length of approving of the girl’s photograph when it was shown her. But at the end of six months Lavender suddenly went down to Sloane street, found Ingram in his lodgings, and said, “Ingram, I start for Lewis to-morrow.”
“The more fool you!” was the complacent reply.
“I can’t bear this any longer; I must go and see her.”
“You’ll have to bear worse if you go. You don’t know what getting to Lewis is in the Winter. You’ll be killed with cold before you see the Minch.”
“I can stand a good bit of cold when there’s a reason for it,” said the young man; “and I have written to Sheila to say I should start to-morrow.”
“In that case I had better make use of you. I suppose you won’t mind taking up to Sheila a sealskin jacket that I have bought for her?”
“That you have bought for her!” said the other.
How could he have spared fifteen pounds out of his narrow income for such a present? And yet he laughed at the idea of his ever having been in love with Sheila.
Lavender took the sealskin jacket with him, and started on his journey to the North. It was certainly all that Ingram had prophesied in the way of discomfort, hardship and delay. But one forenoon, Lavender, coming up from the cabin of the steamer into which he had descended to escape from the bitter wind and the sleet, saw before him a strange thing. In the middle of the black sea and under a dark gray sky lay a long wonder-land of gleaming snow. Far as the eye could see the successive headlands of pale white jutted out into the dark ocean, until in the South they faded into a gray mist and became invisible. And when they got into Stornoway harbor, how black seemed the waters of the little bay, and the hulls of the boats, and the windows of the houses against the blinding white of the encircling hills!
“Yes,” said Lavender to the captain, “it will be a cold drive across to Loch Roag. I shall give Mackenzie’s man a good dram before we start.”
But it was not Mackenzie’s notion of hospitality to send Duncan to meet an honored guest, and ere the vessel was fast moored Lavender had caught sight of the well-known pair of horses and the brown wagonette, and Mackenzie stamping up and down in the trampled snow. And this figure close down to the edge of the quay? Surely, there was something about the thick gray shawl, the white feather, the set of the head, that he knew!
“Why, Sheila!” he cried, jumping ashore before the gangway was shoved across, “whatever made you come to Stornoway on such a day?
“And it is not much my coming to Stornoway, if you will come all the way from England to the Lewis,” said Sheila, looking up with her bright and glad eyes.
For six months he had been trying to recall the tones of her voice in looking at her picture, and had failed; now he fancied that she spoke more sweetly and musically than ever.
“Ay, ay,” said Mackenzie, when he had shaken hands with the young man, “it wass a piece of foolishness, her coming over to meet you in Styornoway; but the girl will be neither to hold nor to bind when she teks a foolishness into her head.”
“Is this the character I hear of you, Sheila?” he said; and Mackenzie laughed at his daughter’s embarrassment, and said she was a good lass for all that, and bundled both the young folks into the inn, where luncheon had been provided, with a blazing fire in the room, and a kettle of hot water steaming beside it.
When they got to Borva, Lavender began to see that Mackenzie had laid the most subtle plans for reconciling him to the hard weather of these Northern Winters; and the young man, nothing loth, fell into his ways, and was astonished at the amusement and interest that could be got out of a residence in this bleak island at such a season. Mackenzie discarded at once the feeble protection against cold and wet which his guest had brought with him. He gave him a pair of his own knickerbockers and enormous boots; he made him wear a frieze coat borrowed from Duncan; he insisted on his turning down the flap of a sealskin cap and tying the ends under his chin; and thus equipped they started on many a rare expedition around the coast. But on their first going out, Mackenzie, looking at him, said with some chagrin, “Will they wear gloves when they go shooting in your country?”
“Oh,” said Lavender, “these are only a pair of old dogskins I use chiefly to keep my hands clean. You see I have cut out the trigger finger. And they keep your hands from being numbed, you know, with the cold or the rain.”
“There will be not much need of that after a little while,” said Mackenzie; and indeed, after half an hour’s tramping over snow and climbing over rocks, Lavender was well inclined to please the old man by tossing the gloves into the sea, for his hands were burning with heat.
Then the pleasant evenings after all the fatigues of the day were over, clothes changed, dinner despatched, and Sheila at the open piano in that warm little drawing-room, with its strange shells and fishes and birds!
Love in thine eyes for ever plays;
He in thy snowy bosom strays,
they sang, just as in the by-gone times of Summer; and now old Mackenzie had got on a bit further in his musical studies, and could hum with the best of them,
He makes thy rosy lips his care,
And walks the mazes of thy hair.
There was no Winter at all in the snug little room, with its crimson fire and closed shutters and songs of happier times. “When the rosy morn appearing” had nothing inappropriate in it; and if they particularly studied the words of “Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,” it was only that Sheila might teach her companion the Scotch pronunciation, as far as she knew it. And once, half in joke, Lavender said he could believe it was Summer again if Sheila had only on her slate-gray silk dress, with the red ribbon around her neck; and sure enough, after dinner she came down in that dress, and Lavender took her hand and kissed it in gratitude. Just at that moment, too, Mackenzie began to swear at Duncan for not having brought him his pipe, and not only went out of the room for it, but was a full half hour in finding it. When he came in again he was singing carelessly, just as if he had got his pipe around the corner.
Love in thine eyes for ever plays.
For it had been all explained by this time, you know, and Sheila had in a couple of trembling words pledged away her life, and her father had given his consent. More than that he would have done for the girl, if need were; and when he saw the perfect happiness shining in her eyes – when he saw that, through some vague feelings of compunction or gratitude, or even exuberant joy, she was more than usually affectionate toward himself – he grew reconciled to the ways of Providence, and was ready to believe that Ingram had done them all a good turn in bringing his friend from the South with him. If there was any haunting fear at all, it was about the possibility of Sheila’s husband refusing to live in Stornoway even for half the year or a portion of the year; but did not the young man express himself as delighted beyond measure with Lewis and the Lewis people, and the sports and scenery and climate of the island? If Mackenzie could have bought fine weather at twenty pounds a day, Lavender would have gone back to London with the conviction that there was only one thing better than Lewis in Summer-time, and that was Lewis in time of snow and frost.
The blow fell. One evening a distinct thaw set in, during the night the wind went around to Southwest, and in the morning, lo! the very desolation of desolation. Suainabhal, Mealasabhal, Cracabhal were all hidden away behind dreary folds of mist; a slow and steady rain poured down from the lowering skies on the wet rocks, the marshy pasture land and the leafless bushes; the Atlantic lay dark under a gray fog, and you could scarcely see across the loch in front of the house. Sometimes the wind freshened a bit, and howled about the house or dashed showers against the streaming panes; but ordinarily there was no sound but the ceaseless hissing of the rain on the wet gravel at the door and the rush of the waves along the black rocks. All signs of life seemed to have fled from the earth and the sky. Bird and beast had alike taken shelter, and not even a gull or a sea-pye crossed the melancholy lines of moorland, which were half obscured by the mist of the rain.
“Well, it can’t be fine weather always,” said Lavender, cheerfully, when Mackenzie was affecting to be greatly surprised to find such a thing as rain in the Island of Lewis.
“No, that iss quite true,” said the old man. “It wass ferry good weather we were having since you hef come here. And what iss a little rain? – Oh, nothing at all. You will see it will go away whenever the wind goes around.”
With that Mackenzie would again go out to the front of the house, take a turn up and down the wet gravel, and pretend to be scanning the horizon for signs of a change. Sheila, a good deal more honest, went about her household duties, saying merely to Lavender, “I am very sorry the weather has broken, but it may clear before you go away from Borva.”
“Before I go? Do you expect it to rain for a week?”
“Perhaps it will not, but it is looking very bad to-day,” said Sheila.
“Well, I don’t care,” said the young man, “though it should rain the skies down, if only you would keep in doors, Sheila. But you do go out in such a reckless fashion. You don’t seem to reflect that it is raining.”
“I do not get wet,” she said.
“Why, when you came up from the shore half an hour ago your hair was as wet as possible, and your face all red and gleaming with the rain.”
“But I am none the worse. And I am not wet now. It is impossible that you will always keep in a room if you have things to do; and a little rain does not hurt any one.”
“It occurs to me, Sheila,” he observed slowly, “that you are an exceedingly obstinate and self-willed young person, and that no one has ever exercised any proper control over you.”
She looked up for a moment with a sudden glance of surprise and pain; but she saw in his eyes that he meant nothing, and she went forward to him, putting her hand in his hand, and saying with a smile, “I am very willing to be controlled.”
“Are you really?”
“Yes.”
“Then hear my commands. You shall not go out in time of rain without putting something over your head or taking an umbrella. You shall not go out in the Maighdean-mhara without taking some one with you besides Mairi. You shall never, if you are away from home, go within fifty yards of the sea, so long as there is snow on the rocks.”
“But that is so very many things already; is it not enough?” said Sheila.
“You will faithfully remember and observe these rules?”
“I will.”
“Then you are a more obedient girl then I imagined or expected; and you may now, if you are good, have the satisfaction of offering me a glass of sherry and a biscuit, for, rain or no rain, Lewis is a dreadful place for making people hungry.”
Mackenzie need not have been afraid. Strange as it may appear, Lavender was well content with the wet weather. No depression or impatience or remonstrance was visible on his face when he went to the blurred windows, day after day, to see only the same desolate picture – the dark sea, the wet rocks, the gray mists over the moorland and the shining of the red gravel before the house. He would stand with his hands in his pocket and whistle “Love in thine eyes forever plays,” just as if he were looking out on a cheerful Summer sunrise. When he and Sheila went to the door, and were received by a cold blast of wet wind and a driving shower of rain, he would slam the door to again, with a laugh, and pull the girl back into the house. Sometimes she would not be controlled; and then he would accompany her about the garden as she attended to her duties, or would go down to the shore with her to give Bras a run. From these excursions he returned in the best of spirits, with a fine color in his face; until, having got accustomed to heavy boots, impervious frieze and the discomfort of wet hands, he grew to be about as indifferent to the rain as Sheila herself, and went fishing or shooting or boating with much content, whether it was wet or dry.
“It has been the happiest month of my life – I know that,” he said to Mackenzie as they stood together on the quay at Stornoway.
“And I hope you will hef many like it in the Lewis,” said the old man, cheerfully.
“I think I should soon learn to become a Highlander up here,” said Lavender, “if Sheila would only teach me the Gaelic.”
“The Gaelic!” cried Mackenzie impatiently. “The Gaelic! It is none of the gentlemen who will come here in the Autumn will want the Gaelic; and what for would you want the Gaelic – ay, if you was staying here all the year round?”
“But Sheila will teach me all the same, won’t you, Sheila?” he said, turning to his companion, who was gazing somewhat blankly at the rough steamer and at the rough gray sea beyond the harbor.
“Yes,” said the girl; she seemed in no mood for joking.
Lavender returned to town more in love than ever; and soon the news of his engagement was spread abroad, he nothing loath. Most of his club-friends laughed, and prophesied it would come to nothing. How could a man in Lavender’s position marry anybody but an heiress? He could not afford to go and marry a fisherman’s daughter. Others came to the conclusion that artists and writers and all that sort of people were incomprehensible, and said “Poor beggar!” when they thought of the fashion in which Lavender had ruined his chances in life. His lady friends, however, were much more sympathetic. There was a dash of romance in the story; and would not the Highland girl be a curiosity a little while after she came to town! Was she like any of the pictures Mr. Lavender had hanging up in his rooms? Had he not even a sketch of her? An artist, and yet not have a portrait of the girl he had chosen to marry? Lavender had no portrait of Sheila to show. Some little photographs he had he kept for his own pocket-book, while in vain had he tried to get some sketch or picture that would convey to the world of his friends and acquaintances some notion of his future bride. They were left to draw on their imagination for some presentment of the coming princess.
He told Mrs. Lavender, of course. She said little, but sent for Edward Ingram. Him she questioned in a cautious, close and yet apparently indifferent way, and then merely said that Frank was very impetuous, that it was a pity he had resolved on marrying out of his own sphere of life, but that she hoped the young lady from the Highlands would prove a good wife to him.
“I hope he will prove a good husband to her,” said Ingram, with unusual sharpness.
“Frank is very impetuous.” That was all Mrs. Lavender would say.
By and by, as the spring grew on, and the time of the marriage was coming nearer, the important business of taking and furnishing a house for Sheila’s reception occupied the attention of the young man from morning till night. He had been somewhat disappointed at the cold fashion in which his aunt looked upon his choice, admitting everything he had to say in praise of Sheila, but never expressing any approval of his conduct, or hope about the future; but now she showed herself most amiably and generously disposed. She supplied the young man with abundant funds wherewith to furnish the house according to his own fancy. It was a small place, fronting a somewhat commonplace square in Notting Hill, but it was to be a miracle of artistic adornment inside. He tortured himself for days over rival shades and hues; he drew designs for the chairs; he himself painted a good deal of paneling; and, in short, gave up his whole time to making Sheila’s future home beautiful. His aunt regarded these preparations with little interest, but she certainly gave her nephew ample means to indulge the eccentricities of his fancy.
“Isn’t she a dear old lady?” said Lavender one night to Ingram. “Look here! A check, received this morning, for two hundred pounds, for plate and glass.”
Ingram looked at the bit of pale green paper: “I wish you had earned the money yourself, or done without the plate until you could buy it with your own money.”
“Oh, confound it, Ingram! you carry your puritanical theories too far. Doubtless I shall earn my own living by and by. Give me time.”
“It is now nearly a year since you thought of marrying Sheila Mackenzie, and you have not done a stroke of work yet.”
“I beg your pardon. I have worked a good deal of late, as you will see when you come up to my rooms.”
“Have you sold a single picture since last summer?”
“I cannot make people buy my pictures if they don’t choose to do so.”
“Have you made any effort to get them sold, or to come to any arrangement with any of the dealers?”
“I have been too busy of late – looking after this house, you know,” said Lavender with an air of apology.
“You were not too busy to paint a fan for Mrs. Lorraine, that people say must have occupied you for months.”
Lavender laughed: “Do you know, Ingram, I think you are jealous of Mrs. Lorraine, on account of Sheila? Come, you shall go and see her.”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you afraid of your Puritan principles giving way?”
“I am afraid that you are a very foolish boy,” said the other, with a good-humored shrug of resignation; “but I hope to see you mend when you marry.”
“Ah, then you will see a difference!” said Lavender, seriously; and so the dispute ended.
It had been arranged that Ingram should go up to Lewis to the marriage, and after the ceremony in Stornoway return to Borva with Mr. Mackenzie, to remain with him a few days. But at the last moment Ingram was summoned down to Devonshire on account of the serious illness of some near relative, and accordingly Frank Lavender started by himself to bring back with him his Highland bride. His stay in Borva was short enough on this occasion. At the end of it there came a certain wet and boisterous day, the occurrences in which he afterwards remembered as if they had taken place in a dream. There were many faces about, a confusion of tongues, a good deal of dram-drinking, a skirl of pipes, and a hurry through the rain; but all these things gave place to the occasional glance he got from a pair of timid and trusting and beautiful eyes. Yet Sheila was not Sheila in that dress of white, with her face a trifle pale. She was more his own Sheila when she had donned her rough garments of blue, and when she stood on the wet deck of the vessel, with a great gray shawl around her, talking to her father with a brave effort at cheerfulness, although her lip would occasionally quiver as one or other of her friends from Borva – many of them barefooted children – came up to bid her good-bye. Her father talked rapidly, with a grand affectation of indifference. He swore at the weather. He bade her see that Bras was properly fed, and if the sea broke over his box in the night, he was to be rubbed dry, and let out in the morning for a run up and down the deck. She was not to forget the parcel directed to an innkeeper at Oban. They would find Oban a very nice place at which to break the journey to London, but as for Greenock, Mackenzie could find no words with which to describe Greenock.
And then, in the midst of all this, Sheila suddenly said, “Papa, when does the steamer leave?”
“In a few minutes. They have got nearly all the cargo on board.”
“Will you do me a great favor, papa?”
“Ay, but what is it, Sheila?”
“I want you not to stay here till the boat sails, and then you will have all the people on the quay vexing you when you are going away. I want you to bid good-bye to us now, and drive away around to the point, and we shall see you the last of all when the steamer has got out of the harbor.”
“Ferry well, Sheila, I will do that,” he said, knowing well why the girl wished it.
So father and daughter bade good-bye to each other; and Mackenzie went on shore with his face down, and said not a word to any of his friends on the quay, but got into the wagonette, and, lashing his horses, drove rapidly away. As he had shaken hands with Lavender, Lavender had said to him, “Well, we shall soon be back in Borva again to see you;” and the old man had merely tightened the grip of his hand as he left.
The roar of the steam-pipes ceased, the throb of the engines struck the water, and the great steamer steamed away from the quay and out of the plain of the harbor into a wide world of gray waves and wind and rain. There stood Mackenzie as they passed, the dark figure clearly seen against the pallid colors of the dismal day; and Sheila waved a handkerchief to him until Stornoway and its lighthouse and all the promontories and bays of the great island had faded into the white mists that lay along the horizon. And then, her arm fell to her side, and for a moment she stood bewildered, with a strange look in her eyes of grief, and almost of despair.
“Sheila, my darling, you must go below now,” said her companion; “you are almost dead with cold.”
She looked at him for a moment as though she had scarcely heard what he said. But his eyes were full of pity for her; he drew her closer to him, and put his arms around her, and then she hid her head in his bosom and sobbed there like a child.