A NOCTURNAL VISIT
Kirstie had many causes of distress. More and more as we grow old--and
yet more and more as we grow old and are women, frozen by the fear of
age--we come to rely on the voice as the single outlet of the soul. Only
thus, in the curtailment of our means, can we relieve the straitened cry
of the passion within us; only thus, in the bitter and sensitive shyness
of advancing years, can we maintain relations with those vivacious
figures of the young that still show before us and tend daily to become
no more than the moving wall-paper of life. Talk is the last link, the
last relation. But with the end of the conversation, when the voice
stops and the bright face of the listener is turned away, solitude falls
again on the bruised heart. Kirstie had lost her "cannie hour at e'en";
she could no more wander with Archie, a ghost if you will, but a happy
ghost, in fields Elysian. And to her it was as if the whole world had
fallen silent; to him, but an unremarkable change of amusements. And she
raged to know it. The effervescency of her passionate and irritable
nature rose within her at times to bursting point.
This is the price paid by age for unseasonable ardours of feeling. It
must have been so for Kirstie at any time when the occasion chanced; but
it so fell out that she was deprived of this delight in the hour when
she had most need of it, when she had most to say, most to ask, and when
she trembled to recognise her sovereignty not merely in abeyance but
annulled. For, with the clairvoyance of a genuine love, she had pierced
the mystery that had so long embarrassed Frank. She was conscious, even
before it was carried out, even on that Sunday night when it began, of
an invasion of her rights; and a voice told her the invader's name.
Since then, by arts, by accident, by small things observed, and by the
general drift of Archie's humour, she had passed beyond all possibility
of doubt. With a sense of justice that Lord Hermiston might have envied,
she had that day in church considered and admitted the attractions of
the younger Kirstie; and with the profound humanity and sentimentality
of her nature, she had recognised the coming of fate. Not thus would she
have chosen. She had seen, in imagination, Archie wedded to some tall,
powerful, and rosy heroine of the golden locks, made in her own image,
for whom she would have strewed the bride-bed with delight; and now she
could have wept to see the ambition falsified. But the gods had
pronounced, and her doom was otherwise.
She lay tossing in bed that night, besieged with feverish thoughts.
There were dangerous matters pending, a battle was toward, over the fate
of which she hung in jealousy, sympathy, fear, and alternate loyalty and
disloyalty to either side. Now she was reincarnated in her niece, and
now in Archie. Now she saw, through the girl's eyes, the youth on his
knees to her, heard his persuasive instances with a deadly weakness, and
received his overmastering caresses. Anon, with a revulsion, her temper
raged to see such utmost favours of fortune and love squandered on a
brat of a girl, one of her own house, using her own name--a deadly
ingredient--and that "didna ken her ain mind an' was as black's your
hat." Now she trembled lest her deity should plead in vain, loving the
idea of success for him like a triumph of nature; anon, with returning
loyalty to her own family and sex, she trembled for Kirstie and the
credit of the Elliotts. And again she had a vision of herself, the day
over for her old-world tales and local gossip, bidding farewell to her
last link with life and brightness and love; and behind and beyond, she
saw but the blank butt-end where she must crawl to die. Had she then
come to the lees? she, so great, so beautiful, with a heart as fresh as
a girl's and strong as womanhood? It could not be, and yet it was so;
and for a moment her bed was horrible to her as the sides of the grave.
And she looked forward over a waste of hours, and saw herself go on to
rage, and tremble, and be softened, and rage again, until the day came
and the labours of the day must be renewed.
Suddenly she heard feet on the stairs--his feet, and soon after the
sound of a window-sash flung open. She sat up with her heart beating. He
had gone to his room alone, and he had not gone to bed. She might again
have one of her night cracks; and at the entrancing prospect, a change
came over her mind; with the approach of this hope of pleasure, all the
baser metal became immediately obliterated from her thoughts. She rose,
all woman, and all the best of woman, tender, pitiful, hating the wrong,
loyal to her own sex--and all the weakest of that dear miscellany,
nourishing, cherishing next her soft heart, voicelessly flattering,
hopes that she would have died sooner than have acknowledged. She tore
off her nightcap, and her hair fell about her shoulders in profusion.
Undying coquetry awoke. By the faint light of her nocturnal rush, she
stood before the looking-glass, carried her shapely arms above her head,
and gathered up the treasures of her tresses. She was never backward to
admire herself; that kind of modesty was a stranger to her nature; and
she paused, struck with a pleased wonder at the sight. "Ye daft auld
wife!" she said, answering a thought that was not; and she blushed with
the innocent consciousness of a child. Hastily she did up the massive
and shining coils, hastily donned a wrapper, and with the rushlight in
her hand, stole into the hall. Below stairs she heard the clock ticking
the deliberate seconds, and Frank jingling with the decanters in the
dining-room. Aversion rose in her, bitter and momentary. "Nesty tippling
puggy!" she thought; and the next moment she had knocked guardedly at
Archie's door and was bidden enter.
Archie had been looking out into the ancient blackness, pierced here and
there with a rayless star; taking the sweet air of the moors and the
night into his bosom deeply; seeking, perhaps finding, peace after the
manner of the unhappy. He turned round as she came in, and showed her a
pale face against the window-frame.
"Is that you, Kirstie?" he asked. "Come in!"
"It's unco late, my dear," said Kirstie, affecting unwillingness.
"No, no," he answered, "not at all. Come in, if you want a crack. I am
not sleepy, God knows!"
She advanced, took a chair by the toilet-table and the candle, and set
the rushlight at her foot. Something--it might be in the comparative
disorder of her dress, it might be the emotion that now welled in her
bosom--had touched her with a wand of transformation, and she seemed
young with the youth of goddesses.
"Mr. Erchie," she began, "what's this that's come to ye?"
"I am not aware of anything that has come," said Archie, and blushed,
and repented bitterly that he had let her in.
"O, my dear, that'll no dae!" said Kirstie. "It's ill to blend the eyes
of love. O, Mr. Erchie, tak' a thocht ere it's ower late. Ye shouldna be
impatient o' the braws o' life, they'll a' come in their saison, like
the sun and the rain. Ye're young yet; ye've mony cantie years afore ye.
See and dinna wreck yersel' at the outset like sae mony ithers! Hae
patience--they telled me aye that was the owercome o' life--hae
patience, there's a braw day coming yet. Gude kens it never cam' to me;
and here I am, wi' nayther man nor bairn to ca' my ain, wearying a'
folks wi' my ill tongue, and you just the first, Mr. Erchie!"
"I have a difficulty in knowing what you mean," said Archie.
"Weel, and I'll tell ye," she said. "It's just this, that I'm feared.
I'm feared for ye, my dear. Remember, your faither is a hard man,
reaping where he hasna sowed and gaithering where he hasna strawed. It's
easy speakin', but mind! Ye'll have to look in the gurley face o'm,
where it's ill to look, and vain to look for mercy. Ye mind me o' a
bonny ship pitten oot into the black and gowsty seas--ye're a' safe
still, sittin' quait and crackin' wi' Kirstie in your lown chalmer; but
whaur will ye be the morn, and in whatten horror o' the fearsome
tempest, cryin' on the hills to cover ye?"
"Why, Kirstie, you're very enigmatical to-night--and very eloquent,"
Archie put in.
"And, my dear Mr. Erchie," she continued, with a change of voice, "ye
maunna think that I canna sympathise wi' ye. Ye maunna think that I
havena been young mysel'. Lang syne, when I was a bit lassie, no twenty
yet----" She paused and sighed. "Clean and caller, wi' a fit like the
hinney bee," she continued. "I was aye big and buirdly, ye maun
understand; a bonny figure o' a woman, though I say it that
suldna--built to rear bairns--braw bairns they suld hae been, and grand
I would hae likit it! But I was young, dear, wi' the bonny glint o'
youth in my e'en, and little I dreamed I'd ever be tellin' ye this, an
auld, lanely, rudas wife! Weel, Mr. Erchie, there was a lad cam'
courtin' me, as was but naetural. Mony had come before, and I would nane
o' them. But this yin had a tongue to wile the birds frae the lift and
the bees frae the foxglove bells. Deary me, but it's lang syne. Folk
have dee'd sinsyne and been buried, and are forgotten, and bairns been
born and got merrit and got bairns o' their ain. Sinsyne woods have been
plantit, and have grawn up and are bonny trees, and the joes sit in
their shadow; and sinsyne auld estates have changed hands, and there
have been wars and rumours of wars on the face of the earth. And here
I'm still--like an auld droopit craw--lookin' on and craikin'! But, Mr.
Erchie, do ye no think that I have mind o' it a' still? I was dwalling
then in my faither's house; and it's a curious thing that we were whiles
trysted in the Deil's Hags. And do ye no think that I have mind of the
bonny simmer days, the lang miles o' the bluid-red heather, the cryin'
o' the whaups, and the lad and the lassie that was trysted? Do ye no
think that I mind how the hilly sweetness ran about my hairt? Ay, Mr.
Erchie, I ken the way o' it--fine do I ken the way--how the grace o' God
takes them, like Paul of Tarsus, when they think it least, and drives
the pair o' them into a land which is like a dream, and the world and
the folks in 't are nae mair than clouds to the puir lassie, and heeven
nae mair than windle-straes, if she can but pleesure him! Until Tam
dee'd--that was my story," she broke off to say, "he dee'd, and I wasna
at the buryin'. But while he was here, I could take care o' mysel'. And
can yon puir lassie?"
Kirstie, her eyes shining with unshed tears, stretched out her hand
towards him appealingly; the bright and the dull gold of her hair
flashed and smouldered in the coils behind her comely head, like the
rays of an eternal youth; the pure colour had risen in her face; and
Archie was abashed alike by her beauty and her story. He came towards
her slowly from the window, took up her hand in his and kissed it.
"Kirstie," he said hoarsely, "you have misjudged me sorely. I have
always thought of her, I wouldna harm her for the universe, my woman!"
"Eh, lad, and that's easy sayin'," cried Kirstie, "but it's nane sae
easy doin'! Man, do ye no comprehend that it's God's wull we should be
blendit and glamoured, and have nae command over our ain members at a
time like that? My bairn," she cried, still holding his hand, "think o'
the puir lass! have pity upon her, Erchie! and O, be wise for twa! Think
o' the risk she rins! I have seen ye, and what's to prevent ithers? I
saw ye once in the Hags, in my ain howf, and I was wae to see ye
there--in pairt for the omen, for I think there's a weird on the
place--and in pairt for pure nakit envy and bitterness o' hairt. It's
strange ye should forgather there tae! God! but yon puir, thrawn, auld
Covenanter's seen a heap o' human natur' since he lookit his last on the
musket-barrels, if he never saw nane afore," she added, with a kind of
wonder in her eyes.
"I swear by my honour I have done her no wrong," said Archie. "I swear
by my honour and the redemption of my soul that there shall none be done
her. I have heard of this before. I have been foolish, Kirstie, but not
unkind, and, above all, not base."
"There's my bairn!" said Kirstie, rising. "I'll can trust ye noo, I'll
can gang to my bed wi' an easy hairt." And then she saw in a flash how
barren had been her triumph. Archie had promised to spare the girl, and
he would keep it; but who had promised to spare Archie? What was to be
the end of it? Over a maze of difficulties she glanced, and saw, at the
end of every passage, the flinty countenance of Hermiston. And a kind of
horror fell upon her at what she had done. She wore a tragic mask.
"Erchie, the Lord peety you dear, and peety me! I have buildit on this
foundation"--laying her hand heavily on his shoulder--"and buildit hie,
and pit my hairt in the buildin' of it. If the hale hypothec were to
fa', I think, laddie, I would dee! Excuse a daft wife that loves ye, and
that kenned your mither. And for His name's sake keep yersel' frae
inordinate desires; hand your heart in baith your hands, carry it canny
and laigh; dinna send it up like a bairn's kite into the collieshangie
o' the wunds! Mind, Maister Erchie dear, that this life's a'
disappointment, and a mouthfu' o' mools is the appointed end."
"Ay, but Kirstie, my woman, you're asking me ower much at last," said
Archie, profoundly moved, and lapsing into the broad Scots. "Ye're
asking what nae man can grant ye, what only the Lord of heaven can grant
ye if He see fit. Ay! And can even He? I can promise ye what I shall
do, and you can depend on that. But how I shall feel--my woman, that is
long past thinking of!"
They were both standing by now opposite each other. The face of Archie
wore the wretched semblance of a smile; hers was convulsed for a moment.
"Promise me ae thing," she cried, in a sharp voice. "Promise me ye'll
never do naething without telling me."
"No, Kirstie, I canna promise ye that," he replied. "I have promised
enough, God kens!"
"May the blessing of God lift and rest upon ye, dear!" she said.
"God bless ye, my old friend," said he.