Archie,' Nancy said, comfortably. 'No one else could have devised
anything half so suitable. Sure, dear cousin, you are as wise as
Solomon!'
Herries did not reply, but he looked at his relative, between
half-closed eyelids, with the satirical glance he always kept for
her--not that it could half express the nameless exasperation which this
little, cooing, wooing, winsome woman roused in his suspicious nature.
Perhaps, just now, he was a little tired of being called so sensible.
Aristides, though history does not say so, may have been as wearied as
his neighbours of hearing himself called the just.
In the meantime, Alison was very happy--who so happy in all Edinburgh?
She had Danny to take care of, and she was one of those born caretakers
of the sick and weak. She carried him in and out of the parlour in her
strong arms; twice daily, with unhesitating nerve and tender fingers,
she would dress his sore; all day long she would play with him, sing to
him, talk to him, playful yet reasonable, at once tender and firm. She
did not know how a certain pair of lynx eyes watched her with the child.
The owner of the lynx eyes did not himself know how narrow was their
scrutiny. He was quite unconscious of the fact that all he saw, worth
mentioning, in that little room was the figure of a tall girl with grey
eyes, who played with a little boy. It was Nancy who remarked at this
time that she had never before known her Cousin Archie to be musical. He
certainly did evince a singular interest at present in the musical
progress of Miss Graham, asking questions about the thoroughness of
Professor Schetki's style, the duration of his lessons, and such-like
technicalities. It may be that the appearance of a certain bill in his
budget at home had something to do with this sudden interest in the
arts. Certainly, at this time, and nearly every night, the young lawyer
had a habit of pulling a certain account--nay, two--out of a bundle in
his desk. He would turn them over and over, look at them, fold them up,
and then unfold them again. Sometimes his eyebrows would merely arch
themselves, very high indeed; sometimes he would emit a soft, short
whistle; once he smiled. That was when he put the bills away for the
last time, and it is his biographer's duty to state they were
discharged.
All this time, while the mere prosaic matters of everyday life went on
as above, a certain high-souled correspondence, which took no note of
common things, continued to unite the Potterrow with St. James's Square.
Alison still took letters, weary of the job, but loyal to her friend.
Sometimes she was rewarded by hearing priceless extracts from the
effusions which came in return. '_I am delighted, my lovely friend, with
your enthusiasm for religion,_' wrote the poet. '*'Tis also my
favourite topic.*' Alison thought this sounded very nice--pious, even.
Perhaps there was no harm after all, and Herries was, yes, he was too
strict in his censures of a genius whom he did not, and would not,
understand. Yet she sighed, and sometimes wished there was no poet in
St. James's Square.
Once, near dusk, she and Nancy were walking in the New Town, and the
latter took a perverse fancy to stroll into the square herself.
'But I left your note this morning, Nancy!' protested poor Alison.
'I know, I know, child,' said Nancy, whose face had an eager look. 'But
I've been virtue, prudence itself, Ally, and never set foot in the
sacred precincts myself. Now 'tis dusk nearly, and no one about. You
know my romantic nature. I would see with my own eyes the shrine of
genius. Come, love, be generous to your friend!' And they dawdled some
minutes in the wretched, grimy square,--Nancy, holding her muff to her
face, but peering up at the windows of the houses. Alison did not know
that a foolish pen had written that morning: '_I am promised to be in
your square this afternoon, and if your window be to the street, shall
have the pleasure of giving you a nod._' Nor did she hear the poet's
lively rejoinder of the next day: '_You don't know the proper storey for
a poet's lodging, Clarinda! Why didn't you look higher?_'
And then, coming out of the square, in the very neck of it, whom should
they run against but Herries himself.
'This is an odd hour and place for you ladies to be walking alone,' said
he. And Alison saw how his eyes narrowed with suspicion, and his lips
set themselves in their most obstinate folds. But Nancy was inimitable
in self-possession and unconcern; said something about a visit to a
clockmaker in the square, and then talked of the weather. Alison, poor
Alison, had felt the shock so, that her very heart jumped. Then
followed the sickly sensation, so horribly novel to her young strength,
of a feeling of faintness. She knew that her very lips grew white, as
she stood there listening to Nancy's prattle. How foolish it was ...
but, oh, would Nancy _never_ go! At last she nodded a lively good-night
to her relative, and they separated.
'La, child!' Nancy exclaimed, as they scurried home, 'that was a queer
mischance! And did you see how mighty odd my gentleman looked at us?
He knows, all the world knows, Burns lodges in the square. But I think
I put him off the scent; he knows my big wag-at-the-wall clock comes
from Jamieson's, and that's in the square too.... But, Ally, what made
you turn so white? Are you not well, love? Sure I'm sorry you had a
qualm; 'tis horrid, vapourish weather just now, but could anything on
earth have been more opportune? For now, if Archie takes it into his
head that either of us has a sentimental interest in the square, it must
be you!' She laughed her little soft, thrilling laugh, and tripped
gaily along beside her silent companion. 'But I don't think,' she added
presently,' that he saw anything. It was too dark.'
That night Alison had a nightmare. She dreamt that she walked
somewhere, but there was a chain about her feet; and ever, as she tried
to hurry on, the chain tightened, bruising her ankles, cutting even into
the flesh. On some height beyond her stood a figure. Its face was
hidden, but she knew that it was Herries. Then Alison awoke, and found
that she was crying.
*CHAPTER XXII.*
Herries was not greatly disturbed at the meeting in St. James's Square,
after the first flash of annoyance. It was one of those incidents,
little thought of at the time, which may, at a later date, loom large; a
link in that chain of circumstantial evidence which sends many a culprit
to his doom. He merely hoped, irritably enough, that his cousin was not
playing tricks, making a fool of herself about the poet (he knew the
poet's lodging perfectly), and he made a definite resolve to interfere,
if this should be the case. Not only, he reflected, must Nancy walk
warily on her own account, but she had, under her charge, a young and
inexperienced girl, who must on no account be exposed to dangerous
poetic wiles. Miss Graham, it struck him, bad looked pale; doubtless,
she had confined herself too closely nursing Danny. He must design some
little dissipation for her. As a matter of fact, he had two in view.
'Are you still of a mind to give the ladies their tea-drinking, sir?' he
inquired, genially, of his partner, walking into that gentleman's room
one evening.
'To be sure, to be sure,' said Mr. Creighton, concealing his amazement
with creditable dexterity. 'Only, my poor rooms....'
'Oh, my dear sir,' said Herries, affably, 'consider this house at your
disposal, and Lizzie at your service. She will do everything. And, now
I come to think of it, my room above stairs is the more cheerful, more
suited to ladies than this. What do you think?'
'I entirely agree,' answered Mr. Creighton, with the solemnity of a
judge. 'My portion of the entertainment will doubtless consist in
amusing the ladies when they arrive,' he added, with a kind of stiff
jocularity. But Herries declined to see the joke.
'Shall I convey your invitation to my cousin and Miss Graham, and
perhaps I may beg you to extend it to the boy, Willy?' he inquired, in a
business-like tone.
'Assuredly,' answered his partner. 'And if you can manage gracefully to
convey to Miss Graham the idea that this little civility on my part is a
compliment to our ancient connection with her family, I shall feel that
the genteel thing has been done.' It must be admitted that Mr.
Creighton, in spite of his age and profession, could enter, with
wonderful spirit, into a little game. When his partner had gone, he
rubbed his hands together with a delighted air.
'It is working!' he said to himself. 'Who would have thought it, so
soon? But he needs tender handling, the lad. I must take care.'
Herries had no difficulty in arranging a day with the ladies of the
Potterrow, when they should enjoy the hospitalities of Mr. Creighton.
It was to be on a Thursday, and the matter was fixed. However, when the
morning came, Nancy, with great finality, announced her intention of
keeping the house all day.
'But, but,' cried Alison, in dismay, 'we _promised_, Nancy!'
'So we did, dear,' said Nancy, with provoking coolness, 'and we'll keep
our promise, that is, you shall, you and Willy. But as for me, to take
tea with those two, with that old mummy of a writer, that hates me like
poison, and good, dull Archie, that we've had such a dose of, of
late,--my dear, 'twould choke me, and that's a fact! Now, don't look so
shocked. Besides,' she added, lowering her voice, 'to be strictly
honest, and you know I am so with _you_, my love, and tell you
everything--I've other fish to fry. Ally, my poet is free to-day, for
the first time! For the very first time, he goes out. All sorts of
tiresome engagements bind him this day, he says, that he dare not
neglect. But there's a chance, Ally, a little, little chance, like the
faintest star in the firmament, that he may visit his friend. Think of
it, and you'll see that not for a kingdom would I risk his not finding
me here. Far more likely 'twill be to-morrow or Saturday ... but ...
oh, Ally, it might be to-day!'
'But for me,'--said Alison, troubled at heart, 'can I possibly go to the
house of these gentlemen alone?'
'Oh, lud, child, with Willy, yes, of course!' exclaimed Nancy,
impatiently. 'Why, now,' she went on, with a titter, 'were it a
question of taking tea with old Creighton alone, your duenna might
hesitate, but with Archie there, why, every element of propriety is
present. Don't you know him yet, child? As safe as a church, haven't I
told you a thousand times, and about as lively. There, run away now, and
get your things out. I'm sure I wish you had a gayer spark than Archie
to dress up for.'
'I think Mr. Herries is very kind to--to us,' said Alison, with her head
in the air.
'Kind?' said Nancy, 'kind as a grandfather, dear. Who ever doubted it?'
When the hour arrived, Alison in her fine pelisse and hood, and Willy,
wriggling in the agonies of his 'Sunday suit,' were prepared to start.
There was a look of beaming pleasure on Alison's face, but it clouded
over when she saw that Nancy drew from her desk the inevitable letter,
shut and sealed for delivery.
'Ah, love,' Nancy cried, in her softest voice, 'you'll leave this for me
on the way home, won't you? 'Tis on your road coming by the bridge, and
won't take a minute.'
'Must I--_must_ I take it?' said poor Alison, looking very blank. 'I--I
thought you expected Mr. Burns to-day....'
'The merest chance, child,' cried Nancy, impatiently. 'And this note is
_most particular_, Ally, for it tells him all my movements for the next
few days, so that there may be no chance of our missing. 'Tis not like
my Ally to refuse me a little favour like this,' she added,
reproachfully.
'I'll take it, Nancy,' said Alison, sadly. Refuse Nancy a favour? How
could she? But the letter in her pocket seemed to burn her. To leave
it meant a moment of degradation always. But to leave it--going
straight from Herries's house--hiding it from him all the time--hurt her
honour, hurt her very heart.
In the meantime, in Herries's fine room, the feast was spread, and Mr.
Creighton hovered round it, fascinated. He had made a reckless
expenditure in sweet cakes; there were enough to feed a multitude.
Herries had had enough to do coercing the savage Lizzie into unearthing
the best china, and the beautiful silver tea-service--a family heirloom.
Now, he regarded the preparations with a contented eye. The room was
one of those exceedingly handsome ones for which the larger Edinburgh
mansions are justly famous. Three long windows looked out into George
Street: round the cornice ran a delicate frieze, one of the masterpieces
of Adams; and the high mantel was decorated with medallions--white upon
green--from the same hand. In the slim classicality, the severe grace
of these moulded figures, an observant eye might have traced a
resemblance to the young host, especially trim this afternoon in fresh
powder and a new coat. He was reflecting that this was, properly
speaking, the drawing-room of his house. If he ever married, he must
shift his business quarters elsewhere, and this house must become his
private residence. The entrance of Mr. Creighton's guests broke in upon
his reverie.
It was a very pleasant tea-party, indeed, in spite of the absence of
Mrs. Maclehose, which was regretted with due politeness. Mr. Creighton
devoted himself grimly to the entertainment of Willy, who, perched
precariously upon the edge of a high chair, regarded his overtures much
as he might those of a well-intentioned ogre. Mr. Creighton 'pressed'
the cakes--boys, he reflected, could eat a limitless quantity. Willy
was too frightened to refuse; he ate, until the powers of mastication
were all but paralysed, and then rolled helpless eyes of repletion
towards Alison, silently imploring succour.
But Alison, it is to be feared, was not paying that attention to her
young charge, which was customary with her. She had been requested to
make the tea--an absorbing process always; and then, Herries was helping
her, kind, 'as a grandfather,' of course. How pretty was the china and
the silver! The goodly spread made her think of gala days at The Mains,
with a touch, an ache, of home. The conversation was all that a
grandfather, at his best, could have attained.
'You must tell my cousin,' Herries was saying, 'that I have arranged to
take Danny down to Prestonpans on Saturday. 'Tis sudden, but Ross
presses the change, while this clearer spell of weather lasts. I'll
have a comfortable coach at the Grassmarket--the boy will travel in
warmth and comfort. Nancy will come with him, doubtless. And you--I
trust you will honour us, Miss Graham? 'Tis a fine drive, and there's
much of interest to be seen at Prestonpans.' Alison said it would be
delightful. Then she rose to go, for it grew late.
''Tis a fine clear evening to take the air,' said Herries, 'and if Miss
Graham walks, may I have the honour to escort her to the Potterrow?'
His glance was searching hers. His escort ... through the grim streets,
under these rosy skies of the winter twilight? Her eyes shone
acquiescence. And then--and then she remembered Nancy's letter, and the
willing answer died on her lips.
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
Herries was waiting for her to speak; his quick eye caught, first, the
eager, answering look, then the cloud, the hesitation, the confusion.
'I could not trouble you to come with me, sir,' said Alison, in a low
voice, her eyes on the ground. 'Willy and I know the way well.' There
was the unmistakable note of refusal in her speech.
Herries raised his eyebrows; his irritable pride was at once in arms.
'Very well,' he said coldly; 'then I will have a coach called. At this
New Year season you cannot be permitted to walk in the streets at this
hour, with no protection but Willy.'
'I wish to walk, sir,' said Alison, miserably. She was, indeed, a poor
actress; inventions and excuses came never a one to her aid. Mr.
Creighton advanced unexpectedly to her rescue.
'These coaches,' he said, 'are a terrible expense, the drivers
extortionate, indeed, especially going up the town. There is the lass,
Mysie, sir,'--to Herries,--'could she not be spared to accompany Miss
Graham?'
'She is big enough to do the dragon, certainly,' said Herries, with a
short laugh. 'Mysie be it, then; I'll have her told.' He left the
room, with an air of offence, to give the order.
''Tis a pity you could not let Mr. Herries go with you,' Mr. Creighton
said softly to Alison. 'The walk would have done him good; he sits too
confined to his work.'
Alison raised her grey eyes to the old man's face; they were dimmed with
her vexation, her shame. But she had no time to speak, for Herries
returned to say, curtly, that Mysie waited below for her charges, and
presently both gentlemen saw their guests to the door.
When Herries returned to his room, followed by his partner, he kicked at
the fine fire in his grate, a way he had when annoyed.
'Madam was up to some little trick, there,' he said sharply.
'Tut! tut!' said Creighton. 'Why jump to ill conclusions, sir? We men
of the law are too apt to be suspicious. It does not do with women; they
have ways with them that seem little and secret to us, but are quite
innocent.'
'I like no such ways,' said Herries, dourly. 'What has she to hide?
Why could she not let me go with her?'
'For the very reason, lad,' cried his partner, in desperation, 'that
there comes a time when a lass will not do, for proper pride, the very
thing that her heart longs for most. 'Tis near on thirty years since I
had to do with a woman in kindness, but I remember that. Man, did you
not see the colour on her cheek and the glint in her eye, when you first
spoke?'
'A man that is not fool and puppy does not see such things,' said
Herries, virtuously.
But he was mollified.
Alison, meanwhile, was by no means enjoying her walk home. Her heart
was hot and sore within her. It was hard to have missed that pleasant
escort, to have been obliged to offend so kind a friend. Would he
forgive her? These melancholy thoughts were interrupted by Willy, who,
generally an active child, was lagging in a tiresome way.
'Ally,' he said at last, with the dire directness of childhood, 'I am
feeling _that_ sick....'
'You have had too much cake,' said Alison, sternly.
''Twasn't my fault, then,' cried Willy, resentfully, ''twas that old man
that made me.' And ruefully he put a hand just where the 'Sunday suit'
fastened with most unpleasant tightness over Mr. Creighton's too liberal
hospitality. But no terrible results ensued, and Alison had soon
forgotten Willy's woes in wonder at the strangeness of the escort which
Herries had substituted for his own.
Mysie was certainly an odd figure. What a queer young woman for a
servant, Alison thought, and with what very strange manners! Mysie, in
a draggled cotton gown, and screen by no means modestly covering her
charms, was no sooner out of sight of her master's windows, than she
began to stalk along as though the town belonged to her, swinging her
arms, occasionally casting a sly, sideward glance at her companions, but
more often leering at a passer-by. It was the New Year time, and the
streets were full of half-drunken loafers of both sexes. Mysie soon
attracted all the attention that she wanted; shouts of laughter began to
follow her, and soon a sorry jest or two. Her bold manner grew bolder,
her step more free; yet, in the abandonment of her air, there would have
been apparent, to an experienced eye, rather recklessness and despair
than any genuine flaunting. There was, too, a peculiarity in her gait
which Alison was too young to note, or to understand, had she noted it.
Only the odd behaviour of the woman struck her. It was very
disagreeable. She tightened her clasp of Willy's hand, and quickened
her pace.
But at the end of Princess Street she had to stop. There was that odious
letter to be delivered, and delivered secretly, as Alison well
understood. 'Mysie,' she said, with what courage she could summon, 'I
wish to turn up here on a message. Wait here, if you please, with the
young gentleman, until I return.'
'Na, I'll no wait,' retorted Mysie, with a cunning look. 'I'm for
comin' wi' ye.'
Alison knew not what to do; resistance, she felt, would only make a
scene.
'I am only going to leave a letter in the square,' she said quietly;
'you can come if you choose.'
'Whatna square?' enquired Mysie.
Alison did not answer, but hurried on. When St. James's Square opened
up before them, she felt a hand upon her arm.
'What's the like o' you doin' here?' Mysie asked, in a fierce whisper.
But when they came to the accustomed door, and Alison stopped, the woman
released her hold, and burst into a peal of laughter. 'Here,' she
cried, '_Here_! Eh, lass, but this dings a'! You anither o' them, and
you in silks and satins! Eh, but he's a braw lad!' She held her sides
with laughter, arms akimbo, and stared at Alison with her strange, wild
eyes. Alison was now certain she was demented.
'Come away, come away,' she said soothingly; she had hurriedly slipped
the letter in between the door and its lintel. But Mysie would not be
cajoled.
'Anither o' his jo's!' she ejaculated, and then she bent to Alison's
ear, 'Whar is't ye meet him, lass? And what is't ye pit intil the
letter? I canna write him ma'sel', or I would--I would--my certes,
yes!' Alison tried to shake her off.
'I don't know what you are talking of,' she said, 'and neither do you.
The letter is neither your business nor mine.'
'Ah, ye needna be tellin' me that!' said Mysie. 'But I'se no trament
ye, lass,' she added, with a sudden change of tone. 'We maun be movin',
too.' The unhappy creature sighed; her mood of excitement seemed over,
and she walked along quietly and dejectedly, her step dragging on the
stones. Suddenly she paused, seizing Alison's arm. 'Lass,' she
whispered, 'ye--ye ken him? Think ye he'll be guid to Mysie in her
trouble?'
'Who? What trouble?' asked Alison, startled, and suddenly moved to a
kind of shrinking pity for the woman. But Mysie did not explain, only
gave her a strange look and heaved a convulsive sigh. To Alison, the
disagreeable idea presented itself that her companion might babble among
Herries's servants of the leaving of the letter. Well, where you
desired silence you gave a fee. Nancy had taught her that. She felt in
her pocket for her purse; there was only a crown in it, which seemed a
great deal, but it must be given.
'This is for your trouble, Mysie,' she said, when they had reached the
General's Entry, but the words suggesting discretion which she had meant
to utter, literally stuck in her throat. They were unnecessary.
'I'se no tell on ye, lass,' said Mysie, with a cunning look, as her
dirty fingers closed upon the coin. Alison shuddered, but dismissed her
quietly.
The incident had disturbed her a good deal, and when she entered the
parlour, she had a rather pale face and frightened eyes.
'Bless the child,' cried Nancy, who, with a litter of paper round her,
was scribbling verses by the cosy hearth. 'What ails you? Has old
Creighton's tea given you the indigestion? Be sure, love, if there was
poison in the cup, 'twas meant for me! But, Ally, you look scared: what
is it, love?'
''Twas--'twas nothing much,' said Alison, struggling to rid herself of
the disagreeable impressions of her walk. 'Only, Mr. Herries has such a
strange servant-lass that he sent across the town with us; she behaved
so--so odd.' Nancy laughed.
'Was that all?' she said flippantly. 'Gentlemen have often "strange
servant lasses," dear, and I dare say Archie, for all his prim ways, is
no better than his neighbours.'
Alison's cheeks suddenly flamed scarlet, and her eyes blazed, as she
caught the innuendo.
'That--that was a _wicked_ thought, Nancy,' she said.
'La--Innocence, don't look so scandalised,' laughed Nancy. 'What a
spit-fire it is! But take my word for it, Ally, men are men, love, and
not old maids!' which was an undeniable truth; and not a surprising one,
perhaps, on the lips of the confidential friend of Mr. Burns, the poet.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
The Bard had not visited the Potterrow on that evening, as Alison was
not slow to discover. But Nancy was in a mood so gay, so full of
sparkle, that her friend presumed that the famous visit was a pleasure
only for a very little time deferred.