his husky laugh. 'But I'll not tell on you ('twould hardly do, you
know) in after days!' He fetched another tumbler from his cupboard and
would have Herries taste with him before he went. And so the
aristocratic and reserved lawyer of George Street found himself sitting
in the stuffy parlour of an unknown country doctor, with a singular
tumult in his blood, a new and tender anticipation at his heart,
drinking to happier days.
The laird of The Mains, however, falsified the prediction of his medical
attendant and lingered for nearly two years, then dying in his chair.
He was gathered to his fathers in the family vault, and friends and
neighbours, gathered to his funeral, noted one stranger sharing in his
obsequies--a stranger to all but Alison and the old doctor. The same
man, in the dusk of the evening, spoke with Alison at the little gate
under the lime tree--Alison, tall and pale and sad, in a black gown. It
was no moment to speak of love, but, nevertheless, these two did then,
in an enforced secrecy, arrange their future. A second time would
Alison leave her home, and leave it in secret. For Mrs. Graham was set
upon a perverse and obstinate opposition to any marriage for her last
remaining daughter, rightly estimating the loss, to her, as one of a
superior and most hard-working servant. Alison, who had battled so
long, had no more strength and no more courage for the fight. In a
month she and Archibald Herries fled to Edinburgh town, and were married
by license.
That it was a merry wedding, you are not asked to believe. For,
firstly, it took place almost in the shadow of death; and then,
happiness that comes after long tarrying, comes--but comes timidly--like
a flower that blows too late and trembles for the storm. Yet, in the
spring after, the same plant will throw out vigorous and fearless
shoots. And so it was, I feel sure, with Alison and Archibald Herries.
They were happy in their marriage; children were born to them in the
fine George Street house, and there were gay summer migrations to the
Galloway home, and all the due symbols of a rational and well-deserved
prosperity. I think that to the last they were on calling--if not
cordial--terms, with Clarinda, and that Willy Maclehose, grown a fine
young man, was a frequent visitor at their house.
But these things are all past and gone now. Alison's children are dust,
and their children, I daresay, are preparing in turn for the inevitable
abdication. For so the world wags, and we live and die, and Nature
renews, for each one of us, the slowly-moving pageant of joy and sorrow,
of passion and of pain. But it is the RHYMER, of whatsoever generation
he may be, singing of these things for us so that we all understand, who
is the only Immortal.
_*BURNS TO CLARINDA*_
_'Ae fond kiss and then we sever,_
_Ae fareweel and then forever!_
_Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,_
_Warring sighs and groans, I'll wage thee._
_Who shall say that fortune grieves him_
_While the star of hope she leaves him?_
_Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me,_
_Dark despair around benights me._
_'I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,_
_Naething could resist my Nancy;_
_But to see her was to love her;_
_Love but her and love forever._
_Had we never loved sae kindly,_
_Had we never loved sae blindly,_
_Never met or never parted,_
_We had ne'er been broken-hearted._
_'Fare thee well, thou first and fairest!_
_Fare thee well, thou best and dearest!_
_Thine be ilka joy and treasure,_
_Peace, contentment, love and pleasure._
_Ae fond kiss and then we sever;_
_'Ae fareweel, alas! forever._
_Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,_
_Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.'_