The way in which all this ended was as follows: Marjory had gone out to the Spindle on a bright Winter day to pay a farewell visit to that spot which had occupied so important a place in her past life. Who does not know the keen and radiant brightness of a sunny day in Winter, when there is no wind to chill the still air, no clouds upon the deepened blue, none of the languid softening of Summer, but every outline sharp, and every tint brought out by the radiant sun and clear atmosphere? The rocks unfolded all their glittering veins, all their ruddy stains of colour under the sunshine. There were no trees to keep the fact of decay before the spectator by means of fallen leaves and bare anatomy of branches. The sea was like a great blue mirror, except where the crisped surface, still, though ruffled, betrayed some breath of wandering air. The sails of the fishing boats rose brown out of this dazzling surface, and in the distance some far white ships glided like great sea-birds along the bright broad line of the horizon to which both sky and sea went out widening and paling. The sun was warm, and Marjory seated herself, for a few moments, on a dry rock from which the sea had long ebbed. This stillness was more intense than it ever is on a Summer day—the brightness almost more intense too. She sat and thought of all that had passed there—of Isabell and her death-bed—of the strange way in which this corner of rocky beach had been thrust into her own story. She was disturbed and annoyed when she heard a step approaching, scattering the pebbles, and sounding through the Winter’s stillness. She was still more disturbed, but perhaps not annoyed, when she saw that the intruder was Fanshawe. He was the only intruder whose presence she could have endured; and when she saw him, she rose and went to meet him, taking the path towards home, which somehow made the encounter less embarrassing. He turned and accompanied her. It is a long walk, winding up and down by many a fold of the bold coast, now at the foot of the cliffs, now above—an endless walk to people who are embarrassed by finding themselves together; and yet not disagreeable—one of those opportunities of pleasant pain which few have the courage to avoid; and which may become, who knows, all pleasure, and no pain, by the chance of a sudden word.
“Do you know,” said Fanshawe suddenly, after some vague conversation about nothing, “that I know what a poor wretch I am, Miss Heriot? If I was good for anything—if I was of the least consequence in the world, or knew how to make myself so, I should go away.”
“Should you?” said Marjory; “I do not see the necessity. Do you know that I think you talk a great deal of nonsense on this point. You cannot expect me to agree with you, seeing what a friend you have been to us; how much you have done for us ever since we knew you. You have been good for everything—”
“And yet,” he said, “it is odd if you will think of it—that I have been of no real service whatsoever. I don’t mean to say I had not the best intentions—but there is nothing so feeble as good intentions. About these Macgregors, for instance; they were found before I got back from my wild-goose chase. I meant well, but I did nothing.”
“That is not the question,” said Marjory loftily; “their coming was a mere accident. You did everything—the accident came in and balked you. I was half disappointed myself.”
“Were you?” he said, looking at her with those melting, glowing eyes which betray secrets. And then he added quite abruptly: “The road is rough, will you take my arm?”
Marjory laughed. “I do not see how that follows,” she said, amused.
“No, it does not follow; nothing follows in life—except that the road is rough, you know, and facts count for something. They do count for something—not for much, perhaps you will say—”
“Indeed, I am not such an infidel; they count for a great deal,” she said, and though she needed no support, she accepted it to give him pleasure. But such was the fantastical nature of the man that, after the first gleam of delight that came across him at the touch of her hand, his brow clouded over.
“How good you are, Miss Heriot! too good. You drive me to despair when you are kind to me. Often, do you know, I have wanted to ask you whether, by any chance—people take odd fancies sometimes—you would have me, to try what you could make of me? and then you have been kind, and driven me to despair. It is no use, is it, telling you that I have been a greater fool than usual to-day? Do you know,” he went on, holding her hand tightly in his arm, “if you would have had me, I think something might have come of me, perhaps—”