THE GIRLS.
The door was opened. Donal spent fully a minute rubbing his shoes on
the mat, as diligently as if he had just come out of the cattle-yard,
and then Gibbie led him in triumph up the stair to the drawing-room.
Donal entered in that loose-jointed way which comes of the brains
being as yet all in the head, and stood, resisting Gibbie’s pull on
his arm, his keen hazel eyes looking gently round upon the company,
until he caught sight of the face he sought, when, with the stride of
a sower of corn, he walked across the room to Ginevra. Mrs. Sclater
rose; Mr. Sclater threw himself back and stared; the latter astounded
at the presumption of the youths, the former uneasy at the possible
results of their ignorance. To the astonishment of the company, Ginevra
rose, respect and modesty in every feature, as the youth, clownish
rather than awkward, approached her, and almost timidly held out her
hand to him. He took it in his horny palm, shook it hither and thither
sideways, like a leaf in a doubtful air, then held it like a precious
thing he was at once afraid of crushing by too tight a grasp, and of
dropping from too loose a hold, until Ginevra took charge of it herself
again. Gibbie danced about behind him, all but standing on one leg,
but, for Mrs. Sclater’s sake, restraining himself. Ginevra sat down,
and Donal, feeling very large and clumsy, and wanting to “be naught
a while,” looked about him for a chair, and then first espying Mrs.
Sclater, went up to her with the same rolling, clamping stride, but
without embarrassment, and said, holding out his hand,
“Hoo are ye the nicht, mem? I sawna yer bonnie face whan I cam in. A
gran’ hoose, like this o’ yours--an’ I’m sure, mem, it cudna be ower
gran’ to fit yersel’, but it’s jist some perplexin’ to plain fowk like
me, ’at’s been used to mair room, an’ less intil ’t.”
Donal was thinking of the meadow on the Lorrie bank.
“I was sure of it!” remarked Mrs. Sclater to herself. “One of nature’s
gentlemen! _He_ would soon be taught.”
She was right; but he was more than a gentleman, and could have taught
her what she could have taught nobody in turn.
“You will soon get accustomed to our town ways, Mr. Grant. But many
of the things we gather about us are far more trouble than use,” she
replied, in her sweetest tones, and with a gentle pressure of the hand,
which went a long way to set him at his ease. “I am glad to see you
have friends here,” she added.
“Only ane, mem. Gibbie an’ me--”
“Excuse me, Mr. Grant, but would you oblige me--of course with _me_ it
is of no consequence, but just for habit’s sake, would you oblige me by
calling Gilbert by his own name--_Sir_ Gilbert, please. I wish him to
get used to it.”
“Yer wull be ’t, mem.--Weel, as I was sayin’, Sir Gibbie--Sir Gilbert,
that is, mem--an mysel’, we hae kenned Miss Galbraith this lang time,
bein’ o’ the laird’s ain fowk, as I may say.”
“Will you take a seat beside her, then,” said Mrs. Sclater, and rising,
herself placed a chair for him near Ginevra, wondering how any Scotch
laird, the father of such a little lady as she, could have allowed her
such an acquaintance.
To most of the company he must have looked very queer. Gibbie, indeed,
was the only one who saw the real Donal. Miss Kimble and her pupils
stared at the distorted reflexion of him in the spoon-bowl of their own
elongated narrowness; Mrs. Sclater saw the possible gentleman through
the loop-hole of a compliment he had paid her; and Mr. Sclater beheld
only the minimum which the reversed telescope of his own enlarged
importance, he having himself come of sufficiently humble origin, made
of him; while Ginevra looked up to him more as one who marvelled at
the grandly unintelligible, than one who understood the relations and
proportions of what she beheld. Nor was it possible she could help
feeling that he was a more harmonious object to the eye both of body
and mind when dressed in his corduroys and blue bonnet, walking the
green fields, with cattle about him, his club under his arm, and a book
in his hand. So seen, his natural dignity was evident; now he looked
undeniably odd. A poet needs a fine house rather than a fine dress to
set him off, and Mrs. Sclater’s drawing-room was neither large nor
beautiful enough to frame this one, especially with his Sunday clothes
to get the better of. To the school ladies, mistress and pupils, he
was simply a clodhopper, and from their report became a treasure of
poverty-stricken amusement to the school. Often did Ginevra’s cheek
burn with indignation at the small insolences of her fellow-pupils. At
first she attempted to make them understand something of what Donal
really was, but finding them unworthy of the confidence, was driven
to betake herself to such a silence as put a stop to their offensive
remarks in her presence.
“I thank ye, mem,” said Donal, as he took the chair; “ye’re verra
condescendin’.” Then turning to Ginevra, and trying to cross one knee
over the other, but failing from the tightness of certain garments,
which, like David with Saul’s not similarly faulty armour, he had not
hitherto proved, “Weel, mem,” he said, “ye haena forgotten Hornie, I
houp.”
The other girls must be pardoned for tittering, offensive as is the
habit so common to their class, for the only being they knew by that
name was one to whom the merest reference sets pit and gallery in a
roar. Miss Kimble was shocked--_disgusssted_, she said afterwards;
and until she learned that the clown was there uninvited, cherished a
grudge against Mrs. Sclater.
Ginevra smiled him a satisfactory negative.
“I never read the ballant aboot the worm lingelt roon’ the tree,”
said Donal, making rather a long link in the chain of association,
“ohn thoucht upo’ that day, mem, whan first ye cam doon the brae wi’
my sister Nicie, an’ I cam ower the burn till ye, an’ ye garred me
lauch aboot weetin’ o’ my feet! Eh, mem! wi’ you afore me there, I
see the blew lift again, an’ the gerse jist lowin’ (_flaming_) green,
an’ the nowt at their busiest, the win’ asleep, an’ the burn sayin’,
‘Ye need nane o’ ye speyk: I’m here, an’ it’s my business.’ Eh, mem!
whan I think upo’ ’t a’, it seems to me ’at the human hert closed i’
the mids o’ sic a coffer o’ cunnin’ workmanship, maun be a terrible
precious-like thing.”
Gibbie, behind Donal’s chair, seemed pulsing light at every pore, but
the rest of the company, understanding his words perfectly, yet not
comprehending a single sentence he uttered, began to wonder whether he
was out of his mind, and were perplexed to see Ginevra listening to him
with such respect. They saw a human offence where she knew a poet. A
word is a word, but its interpretations are many, and the understanding
of a man’s words depends both on what the hearer is, and on what is
his idea of the speaker. As to the pure all things are pure, because
only purity can enter, so to the vulgar all things are vulgar, because
only the vulgar can enter. Wherein then is the commonplace man to be
blamed, for as he is, so must he think? In this, that he consents to
be commonplace, willing to live after his own idea of himself, and
not after God’s idea of him--the real idea, which, every now and then
stirring in him, makes him uneasy with silent rebuke.
Ginevra said little in reply. She had not much to say. In her world
the streams were still, not vocal. But Donal meant to hold a little
communication with her which none of them, except indeed Gibbie--he did
not mind Gibbie--should understand.
“I hed sic a queer dream the ither nicht, mem,” he said, “an’ I’ll
jist tell ye ’t.--I thoucht I was doon in an awfu’ kin’ o’ a weet bog,
wi’ dry graivelly-like hills a’ aboot it, an’ naething upo’ them but
a wheen short hunger-like gerse. An’ oot o’ the mids o’ the bog there
grew jist ae tree--a saugh, I think it was, but unco auld--’maist past
kennin’ wi’ age;--an’ roon’ the rouch gnerlet trunk o’ ’t was twistit
three faulds o’ the oogliest, ill-fauredest cratur o’ a serpent ’at
ever was seen. It was jist laithly to luik upo’. I cud describe it
till ye, mem, but it wad only gar ye runkle yer bonnie broo, an’ luik
as I wadna hae ye luik, mem, ’cause ye wadna luik freely sae bonnie
as ye div noo whan ye luik jist yersel’. But ae queer thing was, ’at
atween hit an’ the tree it grippit a buik, an’ I kent it for the buik
o’ ballants. An’ I gaed nearer, luikin’ an’ luikin’, an’ some frichtit.
But I wadna stan’ for that, for that wad be to be caitiff vile, an’
no true man: I gaed nearer an’ nearer, till I had gotten within a
yaird o’ the tree, whan a’ at ance, wi’ a swing an’ a swirl, I was
three-fauld aboot the tree, an’ the laithly worm was me mesel’; an’ I
was the laithly worm. The verra hert gaed frae me for hoarible dreid,
an’ scunner at mysel’! Sae there I was! But I wasna lang there i’ my
meesery, afore I saw, oot o’ my ain serpent e’en, ’maist blin’t wi’
greitin’, ower the tap o’ the brae afore me, atween me an’ the lift,
as gien it reacht up to the verra stars, for it wasna day but nicht
by this time aboot me, as weel it micht be,--I saw the bonnie sicht
come up o’ a knicht in airmour, helmet an’ shield an’ iron sheen an’
a’; but somehoo I kent by the gang an’ the stan’ an’ the sway o’ the
bonnie boady o’ the knicht, ’at it was nae man, but a wuman.--Ye see,
mem, sin I cam frae Daurside, I hae been able to get a grip o’ buiks
’at I cudna get up there; an’ I hed been readin’ Spenser’s Fairy Queen
the nicht afore, a’ yon aboot the lady ’at pat on the airmour o’ a man,
an’ foucht like a guid ane for the richt an’ the trowth--an’ that hed
putten ’t i’ my heid maybe; only whan I saw her, I kent her, an’ her
name wasna Britomart. She had a twistit brainch o’ blew berries aboot
her helmet, an’ they ca’d her Juniper: wasna that queer, noo? An’ she
cam doon the hill wi’ bonnie big strides, no ower big for a stately
wuman, but eh, sae different frae the nipperty mincin’ stippety-stap
o’ the leddies ye see upo’ the streets here! An’ sae she cam doon the
brae. An’ I soucht sair to cry oot--first o’ a’ to tell her gien she
didna luik till her feet, she wad be lairt i’ the bog, an’ syne to beg
o’ her for mercy’s sake to draw her swoord, an’ caw the oogly heid
aff o’ me, an’ lat me dee. Noo I maun confess ’at the ballant o’ Kemp
Owen was rinnin’ i’ the worm-heid o’ me, an’ I cudna help thinkin’
what, notwithstan’in’ the cheenge o’ han’s i’ the story, lay still to
the pairt o’ the knicht; but hoo was ony man, no to say a mere ugsome
serpent, to mint at sic a thing till a leddy, whether she was in steel
beets an’ spurs or in lang train an’ silver slippers? An’ haith! I
sune fan’ ’at I cudna hae spoken the word, gien I had daured ever sae
stoot. For whan I opened my moo’ to cry till her, I cud dee naething
but shot oot a forkit tongue, an’ cry _sss_. Mem, it was dreidfu’! Sae
I had jist to tak in my tongue again, an’ say naething, for fear o’
fleggin’ awa my bonnie leddy i’ the steel claes. An’ she cam an’ cam,
doon an’ doon, an’ on to the bog; an’ for a’ the weicht o’ her airmour
she sankna a fit intil ’t. An’ she cam, an’ she stude, an’ she luikit
at me; an’ I hed seen her afore, an’ kenned her weel. An’ she luikit at
me, an’ aye luikit; an’ I winna say what was i’ the puir worm’s hert.
But at the last she gae a gret sich, an’ a sab, like, an’ stude jist as
gien she was tryin’ sair, but could _not_ mak up her bonnie min’ to yon
’at was i’ the ballant. An’ eh! hoo I grippit the buik atween me an’
the tree--for there it was--a’ as I saw ’t afore! An’ sae at last she
gae a kin’ o’ a cry, an’ turnt an’ gaed awa, wi’ her heid hingin’ doon,
an’ her swoord trailin’, an’ never turnt to luik ahin’ her, but up the
brae, an’ ower the tap o’ the hill, an’ doon an’ awa; an’ the brainch
wi’ the blew berries was the last I saw o’ her gaein’ doon like the
meen ahin’ the hill. An’ jist wi’ the fell greitin’ I cam to mysel’,
an’ my hert was gaein’ like a pump ’at wad fain pit oot a fire.--Noo
wasna that a queer-like dream?--I’ll no say, mem, but I hae curriet an’
kaimbt it up a wee, to gar ’t tell better.”
Ginevra had from the first been absorbed in listening, and her brown
eyes seemed to keep growing larger and larger as he went on. Even the
girls listened and were silent, looking as if they saw a peacock’s
feather in a turkey’s tail. When he ended, the tears rushed from
Ginevra’s eyes--for bare sympathy--she had no perception of personal
intent in the parable; it was long before she saw into the name of the
lady-knight, for she had never been told the English of _Ginevra_; she
was the simplest, sweetest of girls, and too young to suspect anything
in the heart of a man.
“O Donal!” she said, “I am very sorry for the poor worm; but it was
naughty of you to dream such a dream.”
“Hoo’s that, mem?” returned Donal, a little frightened.
“It was not fair of you,” she replied, “to dream a knight of a lady,
and then dream her doing such an unknightly thing. I am sure if ladies
went out in that way, they would do quite as well, on the whole, as
gentlemen.”
“I mak _nae_ doobt o’ ’t, mem: haiven forbid!” cried Donal; “but ye see
dreams is sic senseless things ’at they winna be helpit;--an’ that was
hoo I dreemt it.”
“Well, well, Donal!” broke in the harsh pompous voice of Mr. Sclater,
who, unknown to the poet, had been standing behind him almost the whole
time, “you have given the ladies quite enough of your romancing. That
sort of thing, you know, my man, may do very well round the fire in
the farm kitchen, but it’s not the sort of thing for a drawing-room.
Besides, the ladies don’t understand your word of mouth; they don’t
understand such broad Scotch.--Come with me, and I’ll show you
something you would like to see.”
He thought Donal was boring his guests, and at the same time preventing
Gibbie from having the pleasure in their society for the sake of which
they had been invited.
Donal rose, replying,
“Think ye sae, sir? I thoucht I was in auld Scotlan’ still--here
as weel ’s upo’ Glashgar. But may be my jography buik’s some
auld-fashioned.--Didna ye un’erstan’ me, mem?” he added, turning to
Ginevra.
“Every word, Donal,” she answered.
Donal followed his host contented.
Gibbie took his place, and began to teach Ginevra the finger alphabet.
The other girls found him far more amusing than Donal--first of all
because he could not speak, which was much less objectionable than
speaking like Donal--and funny too, though not so funny as Donal’s
clothes. And then he had such a romantic history! and was a baronet!
In a few minutes Ginevra knew the letters, and presently she and Gibbie
were having a little continuous _talk_ together, a thing they had
never had before. It was so slow, however, as to be rather tiring. It
was mainly about Donal. But Mrs. Sclater opened the piano, and made a
diversion. She played something brilliant, and then sang an Italian
song in _strillaceous_ style, revealing to Donal’s clownish ignorance
a thorough mastery of caterwauling. Then she asked Miss Kimble to play
something, who declined, without mentioning that she had neither voice
nor ear nor love of music, but said Miss Galbraith should sing--“for
once in a way, as a treat.--That little Scotch song you sing now and
then, my dear,” she added.
Ginevra rose timidly, but without hesitation, and going to the piano,
sang, to a simple old Scotch air, to which they had been written, the
following verses. Before she ended, the minister, the late herd-boy,
and the dumb baronet were grouped crescent-wise behind the music-stool.
I dinna ken what’s come ower me!
There’s a how (_hollow_) whaur ance was a hert;
I never luik oot afore me,
An’ a cry winna gar me stert;
There’s naething nae mair to come ower me,
Blaw the win’ frae ony airt. (_quarter_)
For i’ yon kirkyaird there’s a hillock,
A hert whaur ance was a how;
An’ o’ joy there’s no left a mealock--(_crumb_)
Deid aiss (_ashes_) whaur ance was a low; (_flame_)
For i’ yon kirkyaird, i’ the hillock,
Lies a seed ’at winna grow.
It’s my hert ’at hauds up the wee hillie--
That’s hoo there’s a how i’ my breist;
It’s awa doon there wi’ my Willie,
Gaed wi’ him whan he was releast;
It’s doon i’ the green-grown hillie,
But I s’ be efter it neist.
Come awa, nichts and mornin’s,
Come ooks, years, a’ time’s clan;
Ye’re walcome ayont a’ scornin’:
Tak me till him as fest as ye can.
Come awa, nichts an’ mornin’s,
Ye are wings o’ a michty span!
For I ken he’s luikin’ an’ waitin’,
Luikin’ aye doon as I clim’:
Wad I hae him see me sit greitin’,
I’stead o’ gaein’ to him?
I’ll step oot like ane sure o’ a meetin’,
I’ll traivel an’ rin to him.
Three of them knew that the verses were Donal’s. If the poet went home
feeling more like a fellow in blue coat and fustian trowsers, or a
winged genius of the tomb, I leave my reader to judge. Anyhow, he felt
he had had enough for one evening, and was able to encounter his work
again. Perhaps also, when supper was announced, he reflected that his
reception had hardly been such as to justify him in partaking of their
food, and that his mother’s hospitality to Mr. Sclater had not been in
expectation of return. As they went down the stair, he came last and
alone, behind the two whispering school-girls; and when they passed on
into the dining-room, he spilt out of the house, and ran home to the
furniture-shop and his books.
When the ladies took their leave, Gibbie walked with them. And now at
last he learned where to find Ginevra.