The thought came to him suddenly that it was his birthday. She had promised to give him something. Ah! fate could not be so cruel on his birthday of all days in the year! Foolish irrational thought which somehow brought him comfort as his keen eyes sought a sign and found nothing but those shining footsteps, whence the water filtered even as he sped past them. Thank Heaven for so much! since it showed that the tide was still far off; that as yet there was time. Lighter and lighter too! Soon he might be able to see her, ghostlike, through the mist, or at least judge the distance of that creeping line of foam which, still unseen, and still, he hoped fiercely, far, far off, yet seemed to occupy his every thought, to fill his memory. Tortuous like a snake, with the snake's low hiss as it curled along the quivering sand. Suddenly his heart stood still, for there out of the golden mist grew the tall black spar of the old wreck with its message of warning: "Pretty safe so far, most times; beyond that--" The recollection of his own careless words prompted another cry.

"My lady--my dearest lady. It is I, Rick--only Rick."

What was that on the sand--blotting the yellow sand just below the spar? A stone? seaweed? No--that was a woman's dress; she was there, face downwards on the sand, fallen insensible perhaps--but saved.

Thank G.o.d! saved. He stumbled in his mad haste to reach her. Was it a stumble, or had his foot broken through the firmer crust? Again, this time both feet. Could he have come so far, so close, only to fail?

Impossible! Then beneath him he felt a tremor, the first slight tremor heralding the dissolution of dry land. With the sudden resolve which, in time of danger, separates one man from his fellow, decisively, absolutely, to the utter annihilation of all cant about equality, he put all his strength into one bold leap forward. The next instant he was clinging to the spar like a monkey, or a sailor. The tremor pa.s.sed; the sand settled once more with a low gurgling murmur, proclaiming the back draw of the wave still hidden by the haze.

Cautiously he tried one foot beyond the single plank between him and destruction. Hopeless, even if he stood still, and to reach her he must take a step or two. Again the tremor came,--the shifting, sliding sparkle of the sand-grains as they parted,--and the figure lying with its face hidden, resting on the right arm, sank a little. Only a very little; yet still it sank. He had come prepared for danger, with a rope wound about his waist; and almost with his first foothold on the wreck, his hands had been busy with the coil even while his thoughts and eyes were elsewhere. A bight here, a bend there, and it was fast as sailor's lore could make it, to the spars and to his body. No! not there; for it had to be doubled to bear the strain, and he could not afford to lose an inch. So, tight over one shoulder with a treble twist round his outstretched arm. That would not give way unless it tore the arm from its socket; and then the rope, being high up on the spar, would give him greater purchase when the time came for strength.

How long these thoughts, these actions, seemed to take; yet he could not spare one of them even though, with a soft, swishing rush, the hidden enemy made another sally. This time lingering half a moment round that figure on the sand as if to gain a firmer hold upon it.

Perhaps! but not so firm as his would be. Now he was ready! With a swing backwards and forwards to gain additional impetus, the rope coiled loosely so as not to drag, he leapt clear of the wreck towards her. An instant's doubt, and he had her by the hand, the left hand, which lay stretched on the sand as she had fallen. How cold it was!

Could she be dead? But the horror of the thought was forgotten in fight; for now, with the same chuckling sound as if the devils below were laughing at him, came the back draw. Not an inch, not a quarter to be yielded, come what might. The rope, despite his bitter clench upon its strands, cut deep into his arm; it seemed as if a red-hot iron pierced his shoulder, as the sinews strained to their uttermost.

Ah! that was a relief, but her weight was heavier surely, and that meant less stable support. Hanging as he was, by one arm,--the other outstretched to keep his hold on her,--he could see nothing save the unsteady sand closing round him. He seemed to feel nothing save the little cold hand in his. It was now or never. Grasping the rope as high as he could reach, he put out his whole strength, hoping to move her but an inch nearer to him. Hopeless; and the back draw, coming on him unawares, found him, as it were, on the rack, and seized its opportunity. He set his teeth and endured. How, he never knew, but when the agony pa.s.sed, a dew, like that of death, was on his face, and he hung nerveless, helpless, save for the desperate resolve to keep his hold--to keep her hand in his. The wave again. Little bubbles this time, as if some one was drowning close by. Ah! if he could only see her, even though it was to see her gripped in that pulsating horror!

"Maud! it is I--only Rick." The cry came from him as he hung on the rack once more. Perhaps, if he could keep his hold, the coming tide would slacken that grip--it might--it must. How far had she sunk--already? Had the golden head disappeared? Was there nothing left save the little cold hand where he could feel the ring--his ring--slipping under his clasp? Ah! there was the wave again--surging in his ears, whispering, whispering, whispering, surely of some far-off country, of a great rest, and peace, and forgetfulness.

Rick Halmar hung limp upon the rope. Nature had stepped in; her patience was exhausted, she would have no more heroism, no more delay.

Those two hands had held each other long enough. The time had come for them to part quietly, peacefully. Not in a moment, but gradually, as if even in unconsciousness the spirit strove against the flesh, those slender fingers slipped through the strong ones. Slipped and slipped, till, with a little jerk, Rick's hand closed upon itself, and fell back inert, while the other, still stretched in mute appeal, sank slowly into the sand.

The sun, having escaped from its halo, saw the deed done, and smiled down upon the sight cheerfully. Only a boy with a birthday present in his hand. Only one more woman loved and lost. What was that to weep over? A wheeling gull, sweeping by on broad white wings, suggested sympathy, but, in reality, it came to see if the deed portended food for its young ones. There were no other spectators. Had there been, they would have been so occupied by vain attempts to aid, that the essence of it all would have escaped them. Such things are better told than witnessed.

So thought Miss Willina when, three weeks afterwards, Rick, with his left arm still in a sling, tried to make her understand it was not his fault. He wore the silver ring on his right hand; they had found it there tight clasped when, set on the track by Eustace Gordon, they came in a boat to the rescue. Just too late to do more than release Rick from a torture none the less painful afterwards because it was unfelt at the time. Perhaps, with her older eyes, Miss Willina saw further into the blame than he did; but she said nothing.

So Rick kept the ring, with its legend "Beautiful, constant, chaste,"

as his birthday present. He did not even give it to his wife. It belonged, he said, to the most perfect woman he had ever seen, and when people suggested the propriety of this being a euphonism for the one he had chosen as his life-companion, he shook his head with a smile.

Nevertheless, Miss Willina was not silent of blame. She poured vials of it on her own head for having neglected a clear duty. If she had only insisted on the other devil being burnt as well, this terrible thing might not have come to pa.s.s. Anyhow, she would go over to the deserted Lodge without delay, and destroy the wicked idol, lest it should do more harm.

"Let me come too," said Rick in a low voice.

This time Miss Willina did not meet his request with the query, "Was she so pretty as all that, dear?" Indeed, the memory of those words choked her.

So Rick went for the first time into the little sanctum where Lady Maud had stood adrift at the window. The image was still on the mantelpiece, and he started at the sight of it. "Aunt Will!" he cried in quick, half-alarmed tones, "I never made that--it is not my work."

It was not. The professor had been right for once, when he called it a genuine savage conception of fate, brought thither by the Gulf Stream.

Rick took it up in his hands and looked at it curiously. "I wonder,"

he said, half to himself, "if things would have been different." Then, with a sort of appeal, he turned to Miss Willina. "Aunt Will--you don't really believe--all that rubbish--do you?"

Her answer was decisive. She took the image from him, and marched off with it to Kirsty's peat fire.

So that was an end of the tragic comedy of Roederay. When Rick set off to sail the seas, all the actors in it had disappeared, save Miss Willina in the windblown Noah's Ark at Eval.

Will Lockhart came back the next summer, and painted a picture of Eilean-a-fa-ash, with a golden sea-haugh hanging over drifted sand, and the skeleton of a hand showing from a stone coffin. It was gruesome and morbid; so it was much admired by the Gulf Stream of society in the Royal Academy. Miss Willina, however, still refused to find entertainment in a magic lantern. The past was sacred, she said, and no good ever came in disbelieving in it. Besides, what would become of her animals?

He came again the next summer, bringing with him a tale about the "fl.u.s.teration midst the bastes of all creation," which followed on the introduction of the "Spirit of fell Denial into the Ark," whereat they both laughed.

And that year he sent a picture to the Royal Academy, which a few critics admired. But then, it was only the portrait of a middle-aged woman with a sick gosling on her lap, and half a dozen zoological specimens grouped around her. Yet you could almost feel the northwest wind which was ruffling the coils of hair, and smell the fresh, salt, wholesome breeze which had swept the sand from those dead fingers at Eilean-a-fa-ash. It was the other side of the picture; but it did not suit the public taste so well. _Chacun a son gout_.