The Pines of Lory Part 12

Among the pines, in the solemn shade of this cathedral, grander and more impressive than any human temple, moved the little procession.

No requiem; only the murmuring in the boughs above, those far-away voices, dearer to him, perhaps,--and to his companion in the grave beside,--than all other music.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

VII

THE CLOUDS GATHER

The supper that evening was late.

After the simple repast--of crackers, tongue, and a cup of tea--Pats and Elinor strolled out into the twilight and sat upon a rock. The rock was at the very tip of the point, overlooking the water to the south.

On the right, off to the west, the land showed merely as a purple strip in the fading light, stretching out into the gulf a dozen miles or more.

Behind it the sinking sun had left a bar of crimson light. To the east lay another headland running, like its neighbor, many miles to the south. These two coasts formed a vast bay, at whose northern extremity lay the little point at which Miss Elinor Marshall and Mr. Patrick Boyd had been landed by the _Maid of the North_. In the gathering gloom this prospect, with the towering forest that lay behind, was impressive--and solemn. And the solemnity of the scene was intensified by the primeval solitude,--the absence of all sign of human life.

Both travellers were silent, thoughtful, and very tired. It had been a long day, and then the misunderstanding in the middle of it had told considerably upon the nerves of both. To Pats the most exhausting experience of all had been the business of the baggage,--its transportation from the beach below to the house above. Elinor's trunk, being far too heavy for their own four hands, Pats had suggested carrying the trays up separately; and this was done. Certain things from his own trunk he had lugged off into the woods, where, as he said:

"There's a little outbuilding that will do for me. Not a royal museum like this of yours, but good accommodations for a bachelor."

She did not inquire as to particulars. The gentleman's bed-chamber was not a subject on which she cared to encourage confidences.

Her fatigue had merely created a wholesome desire for rest,--the sleepiness and indifference that come from weary muscles. But Pats's exhaustion was of a different sort. All the strength of his body had departed. Every muscle, cord, and sinew was unstrung. His spine seemed on the point of folding up. A hollow, nervous feeling had settled in the back of his head, and being something new it caused him a mild uneasiness. Moreover, his hands and feet were cold. Dispiriting chills travelled up and down his back at intervals. This might be owing to the change in temperature, as a storm was evidently brewing.

The wind from the northwest had grown several degrees colder since the sun went down, and the heavens were sombre. There was not a star in sight. A yearning to close his eyes and go to sleep came over him, but he remembered how offensive was his presence to this lady, even at his best behavior. He must take no liberties; so he remarked, cheerfully, in a tone indicative of suppressed exuberance of spirit:

"I hope you will not feel nervous in your chateau to-night."

"No, I think not. It is a weird place to sleep in, however."

"Yes, it is. Wouldn't you like me to sleep just outside, near the door?

I am used to camping out, you know."

"No, I thank you. I shall get along very well, I have no doubt."

After that a prolonged silence. At last the lady arose.

"I think I shall go in, Mr. Boyd. I find I am very tired."

While they were groping about the cottage for a lamp, Elinor remembered two candelabra that stood upon a cabinet, stately works of art in bronze and gilt, very heavy, with five candles to each. One of them was taken down.

"Don't light them all," said Elinor. "We must not be extravagant."

But Pats did light them all, saying: "This is a special occasion, and you are the guest of honor."

The guest of honor looked around this ever-surprising interior and experienced a peculiar sense of fear. She kept it to herself, however; but as her eyes moved swiftly from the life-sized figures in the tapestry to the sharply defined busts, and then to the canvas faces, the whole room seemed alive with people.

"Plenty of company here," said Pats, reading her expression. "But in your chamber, there, you will have fewer companions, only the host and his wife." Then, with a smile, "Excuse my suggesting it, if an impertinence, but if you would like to have me take a look under that monumental bed I shall be most happy to do it."

She hesitated, yet she knew she would do it herself, after he had gone.

While she was hesitating, Pats drew aside the tapestry and pa.s.sed with the candelabrum into the chamber. He made a careful survey of the territory beneath the bed and reported it free of robbers. Solomon, also, was investigating; and Pats, who was doing this solely for Elinor's peace of mind, knew well that if a human being were anywhere about the dog would long ago have announced him. But they made a tour of the room, looking behind and under the larger objects, lifting the lids of the marriage chests and opening the doors of the cupboard. Into the cellar, too, they descended, and made a careful search. The five candles produced a weird effect in their promenade along this subterraneous apartment, lighting up an astonishing medley of furniture, garden implements, empty bottles, the posts and side pieces of an extra bed, a broken statue, another wheelbarrow, a lot of kindling wood, and the empty corner where the coffin had awaited its mission. There seemed to be everything except the man they were looking for.

"Fearfully cold down here!" Pats's teeth chattered as he spoke, and he shivered from crown to heel.

"Cold! It doesn't seem so to me," and her tone suggested a somewhat contemptuous surprise.

"To me it is like the chill of death." The candles shook in his hand as he spoke.

"Perhaps you have taken cold," and with stately indifference she moved on toward the stairs.

"Proximity of a Boston iceberg more likely." But this was not spoken aloud.

Upstairs, when about to take his departure, Pats was still shivering. As he stood for a moment before the embers in the big open fireplace at the end of the cottage, his eyes rested upon a chest near by, with a rug and a cushion on the top, evidently used as a lounge by the owner. After hesitating a moment, he asked:

"Would you object to my occupying the top of that chest, just for to-night?"

As she turned toward him he detected a straightening of the figure and the now familiar loftiness of manner which he knew to be unfailing signs of anger--or contempt. Possibly both.

"Certainly not. If you have a cold, it is better you should remain near the fire. I have no objections to sleeping in that other house. You say there _is_ another house."

"Oh, yes! There is another house," he hastened to explain. "And it's plenty good enough. Of course I shall go there. I beg your pardon for suggesting anything else. I forgot my resolve. I didn't realize what I was doing."

"I prefer going there myself," she said, rapidly. "I _much_ prefer it."

And she turned toward the chamber to make arrangements for departure.

But Pats stepped forward and said, decisively, and in a tone that surprised her:

"You stay here. I go to the other house myself."

He took his hat, and with Solomon at his heels strode rapidly to the door. There he stopped, and with his hand on the latch said, more gently, in his usual manner:

"Wouldn't you like Solomon to stay here with you? He is lots of company, and a protector."

She made no reply, but looked with glacial indifference from the man to his dog.

"You would feel less lonesome, I know." Patting Solomon on the head and pointing to the haughty figure, "You stay here, old man. That's all right. I'll see you in the morning."

The dog clearly preferred going with his master, but Pats, with a pleasant good-night to the lady, stepped out into the darkness and closed the door behind him.

Solomon, with his nose to the door, stood for several moments in silent protest against this desertion. Later, however, he followed Elinor into the bed-chamber, and although his presence gave her courage and was distinctly a solace, she remained vaguely apprehensive and too ill at ease to undress and go to bed; so, instead, she lay on the outside of it, in a wrapper.

Without, the northeast wind had become a gale. The howling of the storm, together with the ghostly silence of the many-peopled room excited her imagination and quickened her fears.

But weariness and perfect physical relaxation overcame exhausted nerves, and at last the lady slept.