DUNCAN’S VOW:

Waimate Daily Advertiser, Volume VI, Issue 8, 21 January 1905, Page 7 (Supplement)

DUNCAN’S VOW:

OR, THE PROMISE OF ODIN

If there is a spot above all others where one could find unbroken rest for the last sleep, it must be, I think, that God’s Acre known as Kilcolmkiel. To-day the little lonely cemetery lies bathed in light, and the great Atlantic, which is stealing up under the cliff, murmurs like a happy child soothing itself to sleep with a little, low, rhythmical song. Such a peaceful, sunlit sky! We cad scarcely believe that it is the same which is wont to break in mighty green waves struggling in ceaseless battle with the stern old moyle up yonder—or which tosses itself in “white range” even over the quiet graves where the tough, green bent creeps up amongst the lichen-covered stones, and the bright sea-pinks gleam like gems through the mossy grass.

To-night the water laps up slowly; we only see its progress by marking how the big brown rocks with their golden burden of tangled seaweed are covered one by one; then the white fringe of the water seems to laugh as it runs over the ribbed land, yellow as was that on which Ariel and his attendant nymphs “took hands.” Above the spray-drenched graves there is a red rock, curious in shape", and oddly engraven with the figures of beast and biref, and in the centre of this stone there is hewn a hole; by this strange monument to-night, in the yellow glow of the daffodil sky, two figures are outlined almost black against the light. "And to-morrow—to-morrow you are going away?” It is the man who speaks, and his deep voice sounds as if he were struggling with the pain which darkens his hazel eyes and has curved that deep line on his forehead. His companion—a girl in a white gown and hat, with lovely eyes, dark as the darkest pansies, says: "Yes, Duncan,” and then smiles a little, as if even his tone and look could not prevent her from seeing something charming in the words, albeit they mean parting from him. “One cannot,” she says, "always live in Cantyre.” "No, I suppose not; but when you left it, if it had been with me, Ethel—if I had been there by your side, to shield you from every pain, every briar!”

She laughs again. "The world is not such a very dreadful place. You must not play Cassandra, Duncan—you were always so hopeful!”

He does ndt answer, and she goes on with a little pucker of her whit© forehead :

“You are afraid I do not keep my troth? Ara you thinking, ‘Ah, she is a Campbell, after all, and I am a Macdonald, and the Campbell has played the Macdonald false in Cantyre since the time of the great Marquis of Argyle—and there was Glencoe!’ Is that what you are thinking, Duncan ?”

He leans his arms on the stone, his eyes bent on her face:

“If I thought you would play me false, Ethel, I would fling myself from yonder rocks into the sea ! It would be better for me to die than to find you false! What am I saying? Do not talk of the Campbell and the Macdonald like that, derfr heart; we are in the nineteenth-century Scotland, and the old feuds are as dead as the old days!” “They were not dead to your father! He told me he had never sat down to meat with a Campbell yet, and he never would, so long as he lived! He was just like one of the old chiefs, Duncan. How well I can imagine him charging the foe, with his blue eyes on fire, and his face all set and quivering! What do you think was the last thing he said to me? ‘lf you were ever to play my son false, lassie, it would just be better for you that you had never been born!’ •”

And then she comes round the rock, and nestles her face up against his shoulder, speaking in fond caress, tender and low:

“As if I would do that! as if I could ever love anyontf else !” • He takes her hands, he kisses her, with hie passionate eyes devouring her face, and then he half laughs as he lets her go.

“This is the trysting-stonc, Ethel. We must have our betrothal—the promise of Odin! See, put your little hand through, and clasp mine. So!. it is the old Norse custom.”

She does as he tells her, smilingly; and then Duncan, with the little slender fingers clasped in his, looks over the sea, changing now to amethystine, and to violet, quivering under the glorious sky, imparting colour to the hills, blue and beautiful and baseless, on the opposite coast. "She could not give me up,” he murmurs, “knowing all she is to me—life, and hope; my very all! She could not!” “What must I say, Duncan? What are the words?”

"Where thou goest I will go. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God !’■ ”

She says it sweetly, tenderly, prettily, and he repeats the promise once more, and then they loose hands. The sky is wondrous, so is the sea—the very gates of gold seem to have opened, and they stand there by the old sacrificial stone, silent, till the glory has faded.

Then a little breeze rustles the water, masses of seaweed float up to the cliff’s base, a sudden soothing sigh rustles over the long grass on the graves below; the coast beyond is dusky, dark, mysterious, like an unknown world.

"Will you ever forget Cantyre?” he says, with his arm around her.

And Ethel whispers: "When I forget the promise of Odin, Duncan, and you!” There is no answer, save the wind sighing again over the dead.

Eight years have passed in the busy world beyond Cantyre. The crash of dynasties and thrones, the thunder of battle, the evolutions of the revolving wheel of Time have been everywhere, and the touch of changes, but Kilcolmkeil is the same—the graves and the sea: "Age cannot wither, nor custom change her infinite variety.” But it is another night of peaceful loveliness, of rippling water, of lazy waves that toss the brown seaweed in wanton idleness, of glorious sunset sky. This is "clear shining after rain,” for all night previously the storm fiend has raved, the sea has answered, murmuring sullenly, shrieking defiance, tossing its white waves in revolt, scattering cloud sprays over the graves till the long grass has been bent and the sea-pinks broken; but the sun has dried the tears from the grass, and now the water is returning like a penitent child, promising quiet and renewed obedience.

A man is painting by the red stone —a tall man who wears a loose tweed coat, and who has cast his hat by the side of the easel. You see his face, handsome but roughly-hewn features, eyes that have depths of pain and passion, lips set fiercely, resolutely, scornfully. Ho paints steadily—it is the scene before him: the sea, the loch, the rock. He is just filling in the details of the girl’s figure which in his picture stands beside the stone, her hands clasped through the aperture by her lover. The man is in outline, so is the girl, her face is but almost untouched—but for them the picture is finished.

He is a power, this man, in the world of art which lies beyond Cantyre. When this canvas goes to adorn the walls of the Academy next spring he will be able to ask any price that his fancy may choose; but to-night, though he paints steadily, there is none of that bright, intense vigor of energy which betokens the enjoyment in work well done. It is not easy to describe the expression of the keen, clear eyes, of the set lips; they are strained to repose, locked in silence. And then over the cliff path come two more figures—one man in a fashionable shooting attire, with a gay, handsome face, bright, and open-hearted. His companion is a very beautiful girl; her voice comes clearly to the artist’s ear in the hush of the evening hour. "Harry, what an odd fancy! Let us go home!”

"It is the stone, my darling! yes, there it is, and by Jove!.if there is not my old friend Macdonald! Macdonald, by all that’s fortunate! I was just telling Lady Devereux she must come and see the I ryst-

ing stone—but I forgot, you have not met Macdonald, have you, Ethel? Lady Devereux—Duncan. I say, what a lovely thing you’re making of it?” He goes round to examine the canvas, and these two stand still, one on each side of the stone—as they stood before, eight years ago—their eyes meet and hers fall, and she clasps her ringed hands till the jewels cut the tender flesh. They do not speak. When she raises her eyes he is looking at her still—the man whose life and heart she has marred and crushed for ever; and his eyes burn into her heart with fire, and is it hate unquenchable ? "What is the story, Macdonald? What are the people saying?” Duncan goes back, with a sudden laugh, and takes up his brush to paint.

"Shall I tell you the story in a few sentences? This is the promise of Odin. They are plighting their solemn troth to each other for ever! I am doing the picture for a friend. He was the man; the girl jilted him, and ho wants the thing as a memento.”

“An odd memento. But he should not break his heart; you tell him so. A fickle woman is not worth the heartache, of a good man! Tell him to find another love —there are hundreds of sweet girls, thank Heaven! in the world—and forget this false love!”

"Most men can do that sort of thing,” the artist says; "this man cannot! He risked his all on one throw, and he lost! Lady Devereux, if I might take so great a liberty, may I sketch in just the outline of your head ? The temptation of so lovely a profile is irresistible! You don’t mind, Devereux? We arc impudent, we artists!”

The tone is unlike him, the look at Iler ladyship’s white and terrified face is almost fierce; but Sir Harry laughs easily. "Ethel won’t mind! She’s run after by half of London, you know, and painted oftener than she can count. By Jove! how you’re working it in—it’s inconceivable! One would fancy you’d known Lady Devereux all her life! I’ll be back in a moment. I want to see that old stone down there.” The moment his head is turned his wife moves, and faces the artist resolutely. Lady Devereux, whose coldness keeps admirers of all ranks at bay, professional beauty though she be, and who never, even to her kind and noble young husband, has shown anything but tolerant good humour, is now flushed and trembling. She-holds out her hand piteously. “Duncan, is it true that I spoilt your life?” “Yes.” “Will you forgive me? For the sake of the past—for the sake of your old love?” "Our old love!” and his laugh rings out so wildly that she starts, terrified. “I will never forgive you till all hate and love die out with my breath —my hate and my love will die when I die—not till then!” “You will not forgive me, then—why?” “There is no future for such as I! — love is Paradise, and you shut the gates upon me! and hate will die with the hater.” And then he turns away, leaving her speechless. When her husband comes back, macdonald is gone. “It is awfully good of you to sit up for me, darling. I was kept in Boulogne pver that sad business. You would see it in the papers.” “I never read the pajjers,” Lady Devereux said, drearily, toying with her diamond bracelet. "The Duke was here, and he kept me talking. I was not dull.” The young baronet’s clear brow clouds a little. "Ethel,” he says, unsteadily, "I have never interfered or asked much obedience from you—but a spotless name is very precious to me—so precious that a breath —forgive me, darling; a.light jest, a look, a word against it, would stab me—the duke is too often here! The world will talk, as it has talked of those as innocent as you before now! A word against a woman—of insult—cost a good man's life yesterday—true or false, Heaven knows! I don’t even know who she was, and I saw him die!” "Him ! Whom? What do you mean?” She is standing under-the light of the great chandelier, her trailing draperies of white satin falling on the polished oaken floor, her diamonds sending out a thousand lights. She turns her lovely, indifferent, world-weary face upon her husband’s, coldly, almost contemptuously —he is so soft-hearted, poor Harry—what tragedy—what horrid thing has he been mixed up with now? She may as well know. "It was a row in a French club. A lot of Britishers were talking, and a Frenchman told, and repeated, some story about a young English lady at home, of rank, I believe; they did not tell me her name. Macdonald was there. He was always queer where women were concerned, and hated gossips and that sort of thing, and he started up and gave the man the lie direct. Well, it was the usual thing—they fought. I only arrived too late to do anything but go and see the poor fellow.” “Macdonald—what Macdonald ?” "Duncan, the artist. We saw him, you remember, in Scotland.” "Well,” a strange, chill voice says; "go on. You went and saw him.” "He was lying alone in the hotel. He looked up when I spoke his name, but he had been delirious, and he did not seem to know me. He diqd holding my hand. I wonder whom he meant the message for?” "What message?”

Sir Harry passes his hand over his eyes —he does not see the radiant, lovely figure, the warm perfumed room—he hardly hears her voice—instead of these things he holds again a cold hand, looks down into haggard and dying eyes, and sees the bare, comfortless hotel room where the Scotchman is ending the life that might have been so great.

"I don’t know who he meant, and to whom he wag, referring,” he says at last. "Just at the end he smiled. ‘Tell her < forgave her as I said I would.’ he whispered—as if I knew whom ho mfeant, aud then—it was all over. I told' Dene, and he said she must be the woman whose name he defended. But I—Ethel!”

For she had fallen prone on the shining floor, her arms outstretched; and when hv lifts her, drawing her to the mantlepiece, and pulling wildly at the bell, her head falls back on his shoulder, senseless.

luady Devereux has grown tenderhearted, to faint at the recital of so common a story. Her husband bends above her tenderly and wonderingly. And the picture entitled "The Promise of Odin,” the posthumous work of Duncan Macdonald, is one of the most prominent of the artistic year.