THE END OF THE SESSION.
At the end of the appointed week the two young men returned to Glasgow,
and braced themselves up for the remaining four months of work. At
the northern Universities the academic year ends (except for a few
supplementary medical classes) with the 1st of May. Alec Lindsay had a
great deal of leeway to make up, as he had never had a proper grounding
in either Latin or Greek; but he did his best, and felt pretty sure of
being able to take at least one prize.
Of course he found his way back to the Church of England chapel at
which he had seen Miss Mowbray; and on more than one occasion he was
gratified by a sight of her. As to the Anglican form of worship, he
regarded it with very mixed feelings. He was pleased by the stately
simplicity of the collects, and by the rhythm of the chants. The
service was free from the monotony of the Presbyterian form, and it was
more ‘congregational’ than anything to which he had been accustomed.
But it was some time before he could divest himself of the idea that he
was witnessing a kind of religious entertainment, ingeniously devised
and interesting, but by no means tending to edification. He felt like
his countrywoman, who when taken to a service at Westminster Abbey
said afterwards: ‘It was very fine--but eh! that was an awfu’ way o’
spending the Sabbath!’ The voice of conscience is as loud when it
condemns the infraction of a rule founded only in prejudice as when
it protests against a breach of the moral law itself; and for several
Sunday evenings Alec Lindsay left the chapel with the feeling that he
had been guilty of a misdemeanour--he had been playing at worship. The
unexpressed idea in his mind (a result of his Presbyterian training)
was that collects, and chants, and ceremonial observances in general,
were too interesting, too pleasing to the natural man, to be acceptable
to the Almighty. But by degrees this feeling wore off; and when he
became familiar with the Prayer-book, he found that it was an aid
rather than a hindrance to devotion.
The end of the session drew near; and the April sun shone clear and
fair through the smoke-cloud of Glasgow. It was a Saturday afternoon,
and Alec determined to console himself for the loss of a long walk, for
which he could not afford time, by putting a book in his pocket, and
taking a stroll in the park.
Those who are most attached to the country care least for parks. A
piece of enclosed and tended pleasure-ground, whether it is large or
small, always affects the lover of nature with a sense of restraint,
of formality, of the substitution of an imitation for a reality. Trim
gravelled walks are but a poor substitute for a grass-grown lane; a
neglected hedgerow, a bit of moorland, or even a corner of a common,
will hold more that is beautiful, more that is interesting to one who
loves the open country, than acres of park, with all their flower-plots
and ticketed specimens of foreign shrubs; for in a thorn hedge or a
mound of furze one recognises the inexpressible charm that Nature only
possesses when she is left to work by herself.
Yet, to a dweller in cities, parks are worth having. They are, at
least, infinitely better than the streets. So, at least, thought
Alec Lindsay this April afternoon, as he wandered along the deserted
pathway, under the budding trees. Glasgow is fortunate in at least
one of its parks. The enclosure is of small extent, but then it is
not merely a square of ground planted with weedy young trees and
intersected by roads. It is a bit of the valley of the Kelvin; and it
includes one side of a steep rising-ground which is crowned by handsome
houses of stone. The little river itself is always dirty, and in
summer is little better than a sewer with the roof off; but seen from a
little distance it is picturesque, and lends variety to the scene.
Alec was wandering along one of the pathways, watching the sunlight
playing in the yet leafless branches, and trying to cheat himself into
the idea that his mind was filled with Roman history; when suddenly he
found himself face to face with--Laura Mowbray. She was dressed, not in
winter garments, though the air was cold, but in light, soft colours,
which made her look different from the Scotch damsels whom Alec had
seen in the streets. She seemed the impersonation of the spring as she
slowly approached Alec with a smile on her face. Of course he stopped
to speak to her.
‘I have come out for a turn in the park, for I really couldn’t bear to
stay shut up in the house on such a glorious day,’ said Laura. ‘Uncle
wouldn’t come with me, though I teased him ever so long. He said he
was very busy; but I think people sometimes make a pretence of being
studious,’ and she glanced at Alec’s note-book as she spoke.
Alec laughed and thrust the book into his pocket, and turning round
walked on slowly by the girl’s side.
‘If you had an exam. to prepare for, you wouldn’t much care whether
people thought you studious or not,’ he said.
‘How is your uncle?’ asked Laura.
‘I’m sure I can’t tell.’
‘Can’t tell! You wicked, unnatural creature! I am quite shocked at you.’
‘He was very well when I saw him last--that is, about three months
ago--with the exception of a fearfully bad temper.’
‘Don’t you know that it is highly unbecoming of you to speak of anyone
older than yourself in that disrespectful way?’
But Laura’s look hardly seconded her words; and Alec went on:
‘It is quite true, though. I wonder Aunt Jean can put up with him.’
‘Who is Aunt Jean? Miss Lindsay? The lady who lives with your uncle and
keeps house for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘She is a relation of your uncle’s, isn’t she?’
‘Oh yes; a cousin in some degree or other.’
‘Mr. Lindsay never married, I believe,’ said Miss Mowbray.
‘No; he has no relations nearer than’--‘nearer than I am,’ he was going
to have said; but he stopped and substituted--‘nearer than nephews and
nieces.’
‘And he has plenty of them, I suppose? All Scotch people seem to have
so many relations; it is quite bewildering.’
‘Uncle James is my father’s uncle, you understand,’ said Alec; ‘and
there are only two in our family, my sister and I; that is not so very
many.’
‘No. But have you really a sister?’ exclaimed Laura, turning round so
as to face her companion for an instant.
‘Yes, one sister: Margaret.’
‘How lucky you are! I have no brothers or sisters; I have only my
uncle. How I wish I knew your sister! And Margaret is such a pretty
name.’
‘It is common enough, anyway.’
‘But not commonplace; oh! not at all commonplace. If I had a sister I
would call her Margaret, whatever her real name might be. By the way,
have you seen Mr. Semple since that night of the dinner-party?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t seem very sorry for it?’ said the girl, with a little
smile.
‘No; I can’t say I care much for Cousin James.’
‘_He_ is a relation of Mr. Lindsay, too, isn’t he?’
‘Yes; his mother was a Lindsay, a niece of my grand-uncle’s. He is in
the oil-works; and I dare say he will become manager of them some day.’
Miss Mowbray was silent for a few moments; then she stopped and
hesitated.
‘Do you know, I don’t think I ought to allow you to walk with me in
this way. Suppose we were to meet anyone we knew!’
Alec flushed to the roots of his hair.
‘I beg your pardon!’ he exclaimed.
‘Oh, I don’t mind; but--Mrs. Grundy, you know.’
‘Do you know that you can see Ben Lomond from the top of the hill?’
said Alec, suddenly changing the subject.
‘No; _really_?’
‘Yes; won’t you let me show it to you? It’s a beautiful view, and only
a few steps off.’
Miss Mowbray seemed to forget her scruples, for she allowed herself to
be led up a narrow winding path, fringed with young trees, which led to
the top of the rising ground.
‘If I had known you a little longer,’ began Laura, with some
hesitation, ‘I think I would have ventured to give you a little bit of
my mind.’
‘About what?’ asked Alec with sudden eagerness.
Laura shook her head gravely.
‘I fear you would be offended if I were to speak of it,’ she said.
‘Indeed I would not. Nothing you could say could offend me.’
‘Well, if you will promise to forgive me if I _should_ offend you----’
‘You couldn’t offend me if you tried,’ said Alec warmly.
‘Then I will tell you what I was thinking of. I don’t think you should
neglect your grand-uncle as you do.’
‘Neglect!’
‘Yes. It is not kind or dutiful.’
‘Neglect! My dear Miss Mowbray, you are altogether mistaken. We can’t
neglect those who don’t want us. He hasn’t the slightest wish, I assure
you, to see me dangling about him.’
‘There! You promised not to be offended; and you are!’
‘Indeed I am not.’
‘Yes, you are. I won’t say another word.’
‘Oh, Miss Mowbray! How can you think I am offended? What have I said to
make you fancy such a thing? On the contrary, I think it so very, very
good of you to take so much interest----’
Here Alec stopped, for he saw that his companion was blushing, and that
somehow he had made a mess of things. He had not yet learned that some
species of gratitude cannot find fitting expression in words.
‘I think it is my turn to say that I have offended you,’ he said after
a pause.
Laura laughed--such a pleasant, rippling laugh!
‘It is getting quite too involved. Let us pass an Act of Oblivion, and
forget all about it.’
‘But if you think I ought to call on my uncle,’ began Alec--‘no; don’t
shake your head. Tell me what you really think I ought to do.’
‘Do you like Miss Lindsay?’ asked Laura, without replying to the
question.
‘Aunt Jean? Yes; much better than I like Uncle James.’
‘Then you can go to see _her_ now and then; and when you are in the
house go into your uncle’s room and ask how he is, if he is at home.
We ought not only to visit people for our own pleasure, but sometimes
because it is our duty to do so.’
‘Yes, you are quite right; and I will do what you say. But here we are
at the top of the hill. What a delightful breeze, isn’t it? Do you see
that blue cloud in the distance, just a little deeper in tint than
those about it?’
‘Yes; I see it.’
‘That is Ben Lomond, nearly four thousand feet high.’
‘Really?’ said Miss Mowbray; but there was not much enthusiasm in her
voice.
Alec, on the contrary, stood, in a kind of rapture which made him
forget for the moment even the girl at his side. The sight of distant
mountains always affected him with a kind of strange, delicious
melancholy--unrest mingling with satisfaction, such as that which
filled the heart of Christian when from afar he caught a glimpse of the
shining towers of the celestial city.
The English girl watched the look in the young Scotchman’s face with
wonder not unmixed with amusement. When with a sigh Alec turned to his
companion, she, too, was gazing on the far-off mountain-top.
‘I really must go now,’ she said softly, holding out her hand.
‘May I not go to the park-gate with you?’
Laura shook her head; but her smile was bright enough to take the sting
from her refusal.
‘Good-bye.’
And in another moment Alec was alone.
The sun had gone out of his sky. He sat down on a bench, and began to
wonder how he had dared to converse familiarly with one so beautiful,
so refined, so far removed from his ordinary friends, as Laura Mowbray.
Then he recalled her great goodness in interesting herself in his
concerns, and of course he resolved to follow her advice. He could
think of nothing but Laura Mowbray the whole afternoon. He recalled
her looks, her smile, her lightest word. To him they were treasures,
to be hidden for ever from every human eye but his own; and in every
look and word he found a new ground for admiration, a new proof of Miss
Mowbray’s intelligence, sweetness, and goodness.
Next week he acted upon her suggestion, and paid a visit to Blythswood
Square. He was received by Miss Lindsay, a tall, spare, large-featured
woman, whose gray hair was bound down severely under her old-fashioned
cap.
‘Weel, Alec; an’ what brings you here?’ was her greeting, as she held
out her hand without troubling herself to rise.
‘Nothing particular: why do you ask?’
‘Ye come sae seldom; it’s no often we hae the pleasure o’ a veesit frae
you.’
‘I canna say much for my attentions, Aunt Jean; but then I canna say
much for your welcome,’ returned Alec, flushing as he spoke.
‘Hoots, laddie! sit doon an’ behave yersel’. My bark’s waur nor my
bite.’
‘And how’s my uncle?’
‘Much as usual. I don’t think he’s overly weel pleased wi’ you, Alec,
my man.’
‘What have I done now?’
‘It’s no your daein’; it’s your no-daein’. Ye never look near him.’
‘He doesn’t want to be bothered with me.’
The door opened, and the master of the house came in. He gave Alec his
hand with his usual dry, consequential air, and hardly looking at him,
made some indifferent remark to his cousin.
‘Here’s Alec sayin’ he doesna believe you want to be bothered wi’ him,’
she said.
The old man seated himself deliberately, and made no disclaimer of the
imputation.
‘You’ll be going home for the summer?’ he asked.
‘Yes; I am going home at the end of the month; but I should like to get
a tutorship for the summer, if I could.’
‘Humph!’
‘What are you going to be?’ asked Mr. Lindsay after a pause--‘a doctor,
or a minister, or what?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Alec.
His uncle sniffed contemptuously.
‘A rowin’ stane gethers nae fog,’[6] put in Aunt Jean.
Alec changed the subject; but his grand-uncle soon returned to it.
‘The sooner ye mak’ up yer mind the better, my lad,’ said the old man.
‘Would you like to go into the oil-works?’ he added, as if it were an
after-thought.
‘I hardly know, sir. I would like another year at College first,’ said
Alec. ‘But thank you all the same, Uncle James;’ and as he spoke he
rose to take his leave.
Mr. Lindsay paid no sort of attention to the latter part of the reply.
He took up a newspaper, and adjusting his spectacles began to read it,
almost before the lad had turned his back.
In another week the session was practically at an end. The prize-list,
settled by the votes of the students themselves, showed that Alec had
won the fourth prize, which in a class numbering nearly two hundred was
a proof of at least a fair amount of application; and he also won an
extra prize for Roman History.
‘You don’t seem much elated,’ said Cameron to his friend, when he
brought home the splendidly-bound volumes of nothing in particular.
‘You’ve either less ambition or more sense than I gave you credit for.’
‘I expected something better,’ said Alec. ‘Self-conceit, you should
have said, not sense, Duncan.’
If Alec were conceited he got little to feed his vanity at home. His
father looked at the books, praised the binding, asked how many prizes
were given in the class, and said no more. Secretly he was gratified
by his son’s success; but it was one of his principles to discourage
vainglory in his children by never, under any circumstances, speaking
favourably of their performances. No one would have guessed from Alec’s
manner that he cared a straw whether any praise was awarded to him
or not; but he felt none the less keenly the absence of his father’s
commendation.
The month of May went by slowly at the Castle Farm. Alec was longing
for change of occupation and change of scene. One morning he chanced to
notice an advertisement which he thought it worth while to answer. A
Glasgow merchant, whose wife and daughters had persuaded him to spend
four months of the year at the seaside, wished to find some one to read
with his boys three hours a day, that they might not forget in summer
all that they had learned in winter. For this service he was prepared
to pay the munificent sum of five guineas a month. As it happened, the
merchant’s address was a tiny watering-place on the Frith of Clyde,
where Mr. James Lindsay had a large ‘marine villa.’
In reply to Alec’s letter, the advertiser, Mr. Fraser, asked only one
question, whether the applicant were a relation of Mr. James Lindsay of
Drumleck. Alec replied that he was, and was forthwith engaged.
For once Alec had taken a step which pleased his father. The laird
commended his son’s intention of earning his own living during the
summer; and Alec fancied that his father used towards him a tone of
greater consideration than he had ever adopted before. Margaret was
much chagrined at her brother leaving home so soon after his return;
but she did not say a word on the subject. She knew she had not reason
on her side; and she was too proud to show her mortification. It might
have been better if she had spoken her mind; for a coolness sprang up
between brother and sister, which even the parting did not quite remove.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Moss.