Part 9 (1/2)
Nan it was, singing a Scots song, a song of sad and familiar mood, a song of old loves, old summers, and into the darkness it came with a sweetness almost magic.
”Is she not fine?” he said again, clutching with eager hands at the rail and leaning over as far as he could to lose no single note of that alluring melody.
”Oh, the dear! the dear!” sobbed Miss Mary, moved to her inmost by the strain. ”When I heard her first I thought it was her mother, and that too her favourite song! Oh, the dear! the dear! and I to be the sinful woman here on any quarrel for her!”
The song ceased, a window noisily closed, and Gilian fell back with a shock upon a wet world with roads full of mire and a salt wind from the sea moaning in the trees behind the town.
”What--what--what are we here for?” said he, beholding for the first time the impropriety of this eavesdropping on the part of so genteel and sensitive a dame.
She blushed in the dark with the shame the query roused. She had thought him too young to understand the outrage this must be on her every sense of Highland decency, and yet he could reprove her in a single sentence!
”You may well ask,” she said, moving away from that alluring house-front with its inmates so indifferent to the pa.s.sions in the dark without And her sobs were not yet finished. ”Because I prize my brothers,” said she, ”and grieve at any slight upon them, must I be spy upon my dead companion's child?” She hurried her pace away from that house whose windows stared in a dumb censure upon her humiliation. Gilian trudged reluctantly at her side, confounded, but she seemed almost unconscious that he was there, till he tugged with a shy sympathy at her gown. Then she looked and beamed upon him with the mother-face.
”Do you like that girl?” said she.
”I like her--when she sings,” said he.
”Oh! it was always that,” she went on helplessly ”My poor brothers!
They were not to blame, and she was not to blame, at least, not very much perhaps; if blame there was, it lay with the providence that brought them together.” Then she stopped a moment with a pitiful exclamation: ”Oh! I was the instrument of providence in their case; but for me, that loved them all, it might never have been. What am I doing here with you? She may have her mother's nature as well as her mother's songs.”
For once Gilian found himself with many pieces of a tale he could not put together, for all his ingenuity. He said nothing, but fumbled in many trials at the pieces as he and the little lady walked up the street, now deserted but for themselves and a man's footsteps sounding on the flags. The man was on them before Miss Mary realised his coming.
It was Mr. Spencer of the New Inn. He stopped with a salutation, coming upon them, as it happened, in the light of the oil-lamp at the Cross Well, and a discreet surprise was in his visage.
”It is an inclement evening, Miss Campbell,” he said, in a shrill high dainty accent that made him seem a foreigner when in converse among the guttural Highland burghers.
She answered in some confusion, and by this time he had found a reason for her late hour abroad in the wet deserted street.
”You have left the Sheriff's early to-night,” said he. ”I was asked, but I find myself something of the awkward stranger from the big world when I come into the kind and homely gatherings of the clans here.”
”I think we are not altogether out of the big world you speak of,”
said Miss Mary, in a chilly tone. ”The mantua-maker tells me the latest fas.h.i.+ons are here from London sooner than they are in Edinburgh.” She saw in his face the innkeeper's apology for his common sin against the Gaelic vanity. ”We were just out for an airing,” she added, taking Gilian's hand in hers and squeezing it with meaning.
”I thought, ma'am, you were at the Sheriffs,” said Mr. Spencer.
”Oh! there is a party in the Sheriff's, is there?” she said. ”That is very nice; they have a hospitable house and many friends. I must hurry home to my brothers, who, like all old gentlemen, are a little troublesome and care neither to move out at night, nor to let me leave them to go out myself.”
She smiled up in his face with just a hint of a little coquette that died in her twenty years before. She said ”Good-night,” and then she was gone.
Mr. Spencer's footsteps sounded more slowly on the flagstone as he resumed his accustomed evening walk, in which for once his mind was not on London town, and old friends there, but upon the odd thing that while this old maid had smiled upon him, there was a tear very plain upon her cheek.
CHAPTER IX--ACADEMIA
In the fulness of time, Gilian attained to the highest cla.s.s in old Brooks' school, pushed up thereto by no honest application of his own, but by the luck that attends on such as have G.o.d's gift to begin with. And now that he was among the children of the town he found them lovable, but yet no more lovable than the children of the glen. The magic he had fancied theirs as he surveyed them from a distance, the fascination they had before, even when they had mocked with cries of ”Crotal-coat, Crotal-coat,” did not very bravely stand a close trial.
He was not dismayed at this; he did as we must all be doing through life and changed one illusion for another. It is a wonderful rich world for dreams, and he had a different one every day, as he sat in the peaty odour of instruction.
Old Brooks would perch high on his three-legged stool conning over some exercise while his scholars in their rows behind the knife-hewn inky desks hummed like bees upon their tasks. The hornbooks of the little ones at the bottom of the room would sometimes fall from their hands in the languor of that stagnant atmosphere, but the boys of the upper forms were ever awake for mischief. To the teaching of the Dominie they would come with pockets full of playthings, sometimes animals from the woods and fields about the town--frogs, moles, hedgehogs, or fledgeling birds.
Brooks rarely suspected the presence of these distractions in his sacred grove, for he was dull of vision and preferred to see his scholars about him in a vague mist rather than wear in their presence the great horn spectacles that were privy to his room in Crombie's Land. The town's clock staring frankly in at the school windows conveyed to him no knowledge of the pa.s.sing enemy, and, as his watch had been for a generation but a bulge upon his vest, he must wait till the hour struck ere he knew it was meridian and time to cross the playground and into Kate Bell's for his gla.s.s of waters. ”Silence till I return!” he would say, whipping on his better coat and making for the door that had no sooner shut on him than tumult reigned.
On his way back from the tavern he would meet, perhaps, the Paymaster making for the house of the Sergeant More. ”I cannot understood,”