IN AYRSHIRE.
The old man passed a quiet night, and was so much better in the morning
that he insisted on getting up.
'What kind of a morning is it?' was the first question he put to Gladys
when she entered the kitchen soon after six o'clock.
'A lovely morning, uncle, so balmy and soft. You can't think what a
difference from yesterday, and there's a bird singing a spring song in
my tree.'
Often yet she said such things. The grey monotony of her life had not
quite destroyed the poetic vein, nor the love of all things beautiful.
'Warm, is it? Have you been out?'
'Not yet; but I opened my window and put my head out, and the air was
quite mild. A spring morning, Uncle Abel, the first we have had this
year.'
'Any sun?'
'Not yet, but he will be up by and by. How have you slept?'
'Pretty well. I am better this morning--quite well, in fact, and
directly you have the fire on I'll get up.'
'Don't be rash, uncle, I really think you ought to stay in bed to-day.'
'No; I have something to do. How soon can you be ready--finished with
your work, I mean? Have you anything you can leave ready for Wat's
dinner?'
'Why, Uncle Abel?' asked Gladys, in surprise.
'Because I want you to go somewhere with me.'
'You are not going out of this house one foot to-day,' she answered
quickly. 'It would be very dangerous.'
The old man smiled, slightly amused, but not displeased, by the decision
with which she spoke. 'We'll see, if it keeps fine, and the sun comes
out. I'm going to-day, whatever the consequences, and you with me. It's
been put off too long.'
Gladys asked no more questions, but made haste to build up the fire and
get him a cup of tea before he rose.
'Put on your warm clothes, and make ready for a journey in the train,
Gladys,' he said after breakfast.
She looked at him doubtfully, almost wondering if his mind did not
wander a little.
'Uncle Abel, what are you thinking of? You never go journeys in trains.
It will not be safe for you to go to-day, with such a cold,' she
exclaimed.
'I am going, my dear, as I said, and so are you, whatever the
consequences, so get ready as fast as you like, so that we may have the
best of the day.'
'Is it a far journey?'
'You'll see when you get there,' he replied rather shortly; and Gladys,
still wondering much, made haste with her work, and began to dress for
this unexpected outing. But she felt uneasy, and, stealing a moment, ran
up to Walter, who was busy in the warehouse, and revelling in the
unaccustomed luxury of a blazing fire.
'How nice it is, and what a difference a fire can make, to be sure,' she
said quickly. 'I say, Walter, such a thing! Uncle Abel is going a
journey,--a railway journey, actually,--and I am going with him. Has he
said anything to you? Have you any idea what it means?'
'Not I. He's a queer old chap. Not off his head, I hope?'
'Oh no, and he says he is quite well. I don't know what to think.
Perhaps I shall understand it when I come back. You will find your
dinner in the oven, Walter; and be sure to keep up a good fire all day
down-stairs, in case uncle should come back very cold and tired. I am
afraid he will, but it is no use saying anything.'
Walter leaned his elbows on the soap-boxes, and looked into the girl's
face with a curious soberness.
'Something's going to happen, I feel it--something I don't like. I'm
oppressed with an awful queer feeling. I hope they're not worse than
usual at home.'
'Oh no, you are letting your imagination run away with you,' she said
brightly. 'I hope you will have such a busy day you won't have time to
think of such things;' and, bidding him good-morning, she ran down again
to her uncle.
Then, for the first time since that memorable and dreary journey from
the fen country, these two, the old man and the maiden, went forth
together. Both thought of that journey, though it was not spoken of. She
could not fail to see that there was a certain excitement in the old
man; it betrayed itself in his restless movements and in the gleam of
his piercing eye. Gladys no longer feared the glance of his eye nor the
sound of his voice. A quiet confidence had established itself between
them, and she really loved him. It was impossible for her to dwell
beside a human being, not absolutely repulsive, without pouring some of
the riches of her affection upon him. As for him, Gladys herself had not
the remotest idea how he regarded her, did not dream that she had
awakened in his withered heart a slow and all-absorbing affection, the
strength of which surprised himself. He bade her stand back while he
went to the booking-office for the tickets, and they were in the train
before she repeated her question regarding their destination.
'I think it would only be fair, Uncle Abel, if you told me now where we
are going,' she said playfully.
For answer, he held out the ticket to her, and in amazement she read
'Mauchline' on it. The colour flushed all over her face, and she looked
at him with eager, questioning eyes.
'Oh, Uncle Abel, what does it mean? Why are you going there to-day? I
cannot understand it.'
'I have my reasons, Gladys. You will know them, perhaps, sooner than you
think.'
'Is it a long journey, uncle? I am so afraid for you. Let me shut the
window up quite. And are we really, really going into Ayrshire at last?'
She was full of excitement as a child. She sat close to the window, and
when the train had left the city behind, looked out with eagerest
interest on the wintry landscape.
'Oh, Uncle Abel, it is so beautiful to see it, the wide country, and the
sky above it so clear and lovely. Oh, there is room to breathe!'
'I am sure it looks wintry and bleak enough,' the old man answered, with
a grunt. 'I don't see much beauty in it myself.'
'How strange! To me it is wholly beautiful. Is this Ayrshire yet? Tell
me when we come to Ayrshire.'
A slow smile was on the old man's face as he looked and listened. He
enjoyed her young enthusiasm, but it seemed to awaken in him some sadder
thought, for once he sighed heavily, and drew himself together as if he
felt cold, or some bitter memory smote him.
In little more than an hour the train drew up at the quiet country
station, and Gladys was told they had reached their journey's end. It
was a lovely spring morning; the sun shone out cheerfully from a mild,
bright sky, the air was laden with the awakening odours of spring, and
the spirit of life seemed to be everywhere.
'Now, my girl, we have a great deal to do to-day,' said the old man,
when they had crossed the footbridge. 'What do you want most to see
here?'
'Mossgiel and Ballochmyle, and the house where you lived in Mauchline.'
'We'll go to that first; it's not a great sight, I warn you--only a
whitewashed, thatched cottage in a by-street. When we've seen that,
we'll take a trap and drive to the other places.'
'But that will cost a great deal,' said Gladys doubtfully, recalled for
the moment to the small economies it was her daily lot to practise.
'Perhaps; but we'll manage it, I daresay. It is impossible for us to
walk, so there's no use saying another word. Give me your arm.'
Gladys was ready in a moment. Never since the old fen days had she felt
so happy, because the green earth was beneath her feet, the trees waving
above her, the song of birds in her ears instead of the roar of city
streets. They did not talk as they walked, until they turned into the
quaint, wide street of the old-fashioned village; then it was as if the
cloak of his reserve fell from Abel Graham, and he became garrulous as
a boy over these old landmarks which he had never forgotten. He led
Gladys by way of Poosie Nancie's tavern, showed her its classic
interior, and then, turning into a little narrow lane, pointed out the
cottage where he and her father had been boys together.
It was the girl's turn to be silent. She was trying to picture the dear
father a boy at his mother's knee, or running in and out that low
doorway, or helping to swell the boyish din in the narrow street; and
when they turned to go, her eyes were wet with tears.
'I would rather have come here to-day, Uncle Abel, than anywhere else in
the whole wide world. But why did you wish to come? Did you take a
sudden longing to see the old place?'
'No; that was not my object at all. You will know what it was some day.
Now we'll go to the inn and get something to eat while they get our
machine ready. See, there's the old kirk; there's a lot of famous folk
buried in that kirkyard. We'd better go in, and I'll show you where I
want to be laid.'
They got the key of the churchyard gates, and, stepping across the
somewhat untidily kept graves, stood before an uneven mound, surrounded
by a very old mossgrown headstone.
'There's a name on it, child. You can't read it, but it doesn't matter,'
he said; but Gladys, bending down, brushed the tall grass from the
stone, and read the name, John Bourhill Graham of Bourhill, and his
spouse, Nancy Millar.
'Whose names are these, uncle--your father's and mother's?'
'Oh no; _they_ were not Grahams of Bourhill,' he answered dryly. 'That's
generations back.'
'But the same family?'
'I suppose so--yes. I see you would like to explore this place; but we
can't, it's not the most cheerful occupation, anyhow. Come on, let us to
the inn.'
The lavish manner in which her uncle spent his money that day amazed
Gladys, but she made no remark. Immediately after their hot and abundant
dinner at the inn, they drove to the places Burns has immortalised, and
which Gladys had so long yearned to see. Ballochmyle, in lovely spring
dress, so far exceeded her expectation that she had no words wherein to
express her deep enjoyment.
'Do not let us hurry away, uncle,' she pleaded, as they wandered through
the wooded glades, 'unless you are very tired. It is so warm and
pleasant, and it cannot be very late.'
'It is not late, half-past two only; but I want you to see Bourhill,
where our forbears lived when we had them worth mentioning,' he said
grimly. 'Did your father never speak to you about Bourhill?'
'No, never, Uncle Abel. I am quite sure I never heard the name until I
read it to-day in the churchyard.'
'I will tell you why. He had a dream--a foolish one it proved--a dream
that he might one day restore the name Graham of Bourhill again. He
hoped to make a fortune by his pictures, but it was a vain delusion.'
A shadow clouded the bright face of Gladys as she listened to these
words.
'This place, Bourhill, is it an estate, or what?' she asked.
'Not now. A hundred years ago it had some farms, and was a fair enough
patrimony, but it's all squandered long syne.'
'How?'
'Oh, drink and gambling, and such-like. My grandfather, David Graham,
kent the taste of Poosie Nancie's whisky too well to look after his ain,
and it slipped through his fingers like a knotless thread.'
He had become even more garrulous, and unearthed from the storehouse of
his memory a wealth of reminiscences of those old times, mingled with
many bits of personal history, which Gladys listened to with breathless
interest. She had never seen him so awakened, so full of life and
vigour; she could only look at him in amazement. They drove leisurely
through the pleasant spring sunshine over the wide, beautiful country,
past fields where the wheat was green and strong, and others where
sowing was progressing merrily--sights and sounds dear to Gladys, who
had no part nor lot in cities.
'Oh, Uncle Abel, Ayrshire is lovely. Look at these low green hills in
the distance, and the woods everywhere. I do not wonder that Burns could
write poetry here. There is poetry everywhere.'
'Ay, to your eyes, because you are young and know no better. Look, away
over yonder, as far as your eyes can see, is the sea. If it was a little
clearer you would see the ships in Ayr Harbour; and down there lies
Tarbolton; away over there, the way we have come, Kilmarnock. And do you
see that little wooded hill about two miles ahead to the left? Among
these trees lies Bourhill.'
'It is a long drive to it, Uncle Abel. I hope it has not tired you very
much?'
'No, no; I'm all right. We'll drive up the avenue to the house and back.
I want you to see it.'
'Does nobody live in it?'
'Not just now.'
Another fifteen minutes brought them to an unpretending iron gateway,
which gave entrance to an avenue of fine old trees. The gate stood open,
and though a woman ran out from the lodge when the trap passed, she made
no demur.
The avenue was nearly half a mile in length, and ended in a sharp curve,
which brought them quite suddenly before the house--a plain, square,
substantial family dwelling, with a pillared doorway and long wide
windows, about which crept ivy of a century's growth. It was all shut
up, and the gravel sweep before the door was overgrown with moss and
weeds, the grass on the lawns, which stretched away through the
shrubberies, long and rank; yet there was a homely look about it too, as
if a slight touch could convert it into a happy home.
'This is Bourhill, my girl; and whatever ambitions your father may have
had in later years, it was once his one desire to buy it back to the
Grahams. Do you like the place?'
'Yes, uncle; but it is very desolate--it makes me sad.'
'It will not be long so,' he said; and, drawing himself together with a
quick shiver, he bade the driver turn the horses' heads. But before the
house vanished quite from view he cast his gaze back upon it, and in his
eye there was a strange, even a yearning glance. 'It will not be long
so,' he repeated under his breath,--'not long; and it will be a great
atonement.'
[Illustration]