Only something terrible, Gavin thought, could have brought Babbie to
him at such an hour; yet when he left his mother's room it was to
stand motionless on the stair, waiting for a silence in the manse that
would not come. A house is never still in darkness to those who listen
intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand
presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created
when the first man woke in the night.
Now Margaret slept. Two hours earlier, Jean, sitting on the
salt-bucket, had read the chapter with which she always sent herself
to bed. In honour of the little minister she had begun her Bible
afresh when he came to Thrums, and was progressing through it, a
chapter at night, sighing, perhaps, on washing days at a long chapter,
such as Exodus twelfth, but never making two of it. The kitchen
wag-at-the-wall clock was telling every room in the house that she had
neglected to shut her door. As Gavin felt his way down the dark stair,
awakening it into protest at every step, he had a glimpse of the
pendulum's shadow running back and forward on the hearth; he started
back from another shadow on the lobby wall, and then seeing it start
too, knew it for his own. He opened the door and passed out
unobserved; it was as if the sounds and shadows that filled the manse
were too occupied with their game to mind an interloper.
"Is that you?" he said to a bush, for the garden was in semi-darkness.
Then the lantern's flash met him, and he saw the Egyptian in the
summer-seat.
"At last!" she said, reproachfully. "Evidently a lantern is a poor
door-bell."
"What is it?" Gavin asked, in suppressed excitement, for the least he
expected to hear was that she was again being pursued for her share in
the riot. The tremor in his voice surprised her into silence, and he
thought she faltered because what she had to tell him was so woeful.
So, in the darkness of the summer-seat, he kissed her, and she might
have known that with that kiss the little minister was hers forever.
Now Babbie had been kissed before, but never thus, and she turned from
Gavin, and would have liked to be alone, for she had begun to know
what love was, and the flash that revealed it to her laid bare her own
shame, so that her impulse was to hide herself from her lover. But of
all this Gavin was unconscious, and he repeated his question. The
lantern was swaying in her hand, and when she turned fearfully to him
its light fell on his face, and she saw how alarmed he was.
"I am going away back to Nanny's," she said suddenly, and rose cowed,
but he took her hand and held her.
"Babbie," he said, huskily, "tell me what has happened to bring you
here at this hour."
She sought to pull her hand from him, but could not.
"How you are trembling!" he whispered. "Babbie," he cried, "something
terrible has happened to you, but do not fear. Tell me what it is, and
then--then I will take you to my mother: yes, I will take you now."
The Egyptian would have given all she had in the world to be able to
fly from him then, that he might never know her as she was, but it
could not be, and so she spoke out remorselessly. If her voice had
become hard, it was a new-born scorn of herself that made it so.
"You are needlessly alarmed," she said; "I am not at all the kind of
person who deserves sympathy or expects it. There is nothing wrong. I
am staying with Nanny over-night, and only came to Thrums to amuse
myself. I chased your policeman down the Roods with my lantern, and
then came here to amuse myself with you. That is all."
"It was nothing but a love of mischief that brought you here?" Gavin
asked, sternly, after an unpleasant pause.
"Nothing," the Egyptian answered, recklessly.
"I could not have believed this of you," the minister said; "I am
ashamed of you."
"I thought," Babbie retorted, trying to speak lightly until she could
get away from him, "that you would be glad to see me. Your last words
in Caddam seemed to justify that idea."
"I am very sorry to see you," he answered, reproachfully.
"Then I will go away at once," she said, stepping out of the
summer-seat.
"Yes," he replied, "you must go at once."
"Then I won't," she said, turning back defiantly. "I know what you are
to say: that the Thrums people would be shocked if they knew I was
here; as if I cared what the Thrums people think of me."
"I care what they think of you," Gavin said, as if that were decisive,
"and I tell you I will not allow you to repeat this freak."
"You 'will not allow me,'" echoed Babbie, almost enjoying herself,
despite her sudden loss of self-respect.
"I will not," Gavin said, resolutely. "Henceforth you must do as I
think fit."
"Since when have you taken command of me?" demanded Babbie.
"Since a minute ago," Gavin replied, "when you let me kiss you."
"Let you!" exclaimed Babbie, now justly incensed. "You did it
yourself. I was very angry."
"No, you were not."
"I am not allowed to say that even?" asked the Egyptian. "Tell me
something I may say, then, and I will repeat it after you."
"I have something to say to you," Gavin told her, after a moment's
reflection; "yes, and there is something I should like to hear you
repeat after me, but not to-night."
"I don't want to hear what it is," Babbie said, quickly, but she knew
what it was, and even then, despite the new pain at her heart, her
bosom swelled with pride because this man still loved her. Now she
wanted to run away with his love for her before he could take it from
her, and then realising that this parting must be forever, a great
desire filled her to hear him put that kiss into words, and she said,
faltering:
"You can tell me what it is if you like."
"Not to-night," said Gavin.
"To-night, if at all," the gypsy almost entreated.
"To-morrow, at Nanny's," answered Gavin, decisively: and this time he
remembered without dismay that the morrow was the Sabbath.
In the fairy tale the beast suddenly drops his skin and is a prince,
and I believed it seemed to Babbie that some such change had come over
this man, her plaything.
"Your lantern is shining on my mother's window," were the words that
woke her from this discovery, and then she found herself yielding the
lantern to him. She became conscious vaguely that a corresponding
change was taking place in herself.
"You spoke of taking me to your mother," she said, bitterly.
"Yes," he answered at once, "to-morrow"; but she shook her head,
knowing that to-morrow he would be wiser.
"Give me the lantern," she said, in a low voice, "I am going back to
Nanny's now."
"Yes," he said, "we must set out now, but I can carry the lantern."
"You are not coming with me!" she exclaimed, shaking herself free of
his hand.
"I am coming," he replied, calmly, though he was not calm. "Take my
arm, Babbie."
She made a last effort to free herself from bondage, crying
passionately, "I will not let you come."
"When I say I am coming," Gavin answered between his teeth, "I mean
that I am coming, and so let that be an end of this folly. Take my
arm."
"I think I hate you," she said, retreating from him.
"Take my arm," he repeated, and, though her breast was rising
rebelliously, she did as he ordered, and so he escorted her from the
garden. At the foot of the field she stopped, and thought to frighten
him by saying, "What would the people say if they saw you with me
now?"
"It does not much matter what they would say," he answered, still
keeping his teeth together as if doubtful of their courage. "As for
what they would do, that is certain; they would put me out of my
church."
"And it is dear to you?"
"Dearer than life."
"You told me long ago that your mother's heart would break if----"
"Yes, I am sure it would."
They had begun to climb the fields, but she stopped him with a jerk.
"Go back, Mr. Dishart," she implored, clutching his arm with both
hands. "You make me very unhappy for no purpose. Oh, why should you
risk so much for me?"
"I cannot have you wandering here alone at midnight," Gavin answered,
gently.
"That is nothing to me," she said, eagerly, but no longer resenting
his air of proprietorship.
"You will never do it again if I can prevent it."
"But you cannot," she said, sadly. "Oh, yes, you can, Mr. Dishart. If
you will turn back now I shall promise never to do anything again
without first asking myself whether it would seem right to you. I know
I acted very wrongly to-night."
"Only thoughtlessly," he said.
"Then have pity on me," she besought him, "and go back. If I have only
been thoughtless, how can you punish me thus? Mr. Dishart," she
entreated, her voice breaking, "if you were to suffer for this folly
of mine, do you think I could live?"
"We are in God's hands, dear," he answered, firmly, and he again drew
her arm to him. So they climbed the first field, and were almost at
the hill before either spoke again.
"Stop," Babbie whispered, crouching as she spoke; "I see some one
crossing the hill."
"I have seen him for some time," Gavin answered, quietly; "but I am
doing no wrong, and I will not hide."
The Egyptian had to walk on with him, and I suppose she did not think
the less of him for that. Yet she said, warningly--
"If he sees you, all Thrums will be in an uproar before morning."
"I cannot help that," Gavin replied. "It is the will of God."
"To ruin you for my sins?"
"If He thinks fit."
The figure drew nearer, and with every step Babbie's distress
doubled.
"We are walking straight to him," she whispered. "I implore you to
wait here until he passes, if not for your own sake, for your
mother's."
At that he wavered, and she heard his teeth sliding against each
other, as if he could no longer clench them.
"But, no," he said moving on again, "I will not be a skulker from any
man. If it be God's wish that I should suffer for this, I must
suffer."
"Oh, why," cried Babbie, beating her hands together in grief, "should
you suffer for me?"
"You are mine," Gavin answered. Babbie gasped. "And if you act
foolishly," he continued, "it is right that I should bear the brunt of
it. No, I will not let you go on alone; you are not fit to be alone.
You need some one to watch over you and care for you and love you,
and, if need be, to suffer with you."
"Turn back, dear, before he sees us."
"He has seen us."
Yes, I had seen them, for the figure on the hill was no other than the
dominie of Glen Quharity. The park gate clicked as it swung to, and I
looked up and saw Gavin and the Egyptian. My eyes should have found
them sooner, but it was to gaze upon Margaret's home, while no one saw
me, that I had trudged into Thrums so late, and by that time, I
suppose, my eyes were of little service for seeing through. Yet, when
I knew that of these two people suddenly beside me on the hill one was
the little minister and the other a strange woman, I fell back from
their side with dread before I could step forward and cry "Gavin!"
"I am Mr. Dishart," he answered, with a composure that would not have
served him for another sentence. He was more excited than I, for the
"Gavin" fell harmlessly on him, while I had no sooner uttered it than
there rushed through me the shame of being false to Margaret. It was
the only time in my life that I forgot her in him, though he has ever
stood next to her in my regard.
I looked from Gavin to the gypsy woman, and again from her to him, and
she began to tell a lie in his interest. But she got no farther than
"I met Mr. Dishart accid----" when she stopped, ashamed. It was
reverence for Gavin that checked the lie. Not every man has had such a
compliment paid him.
"It is natural," Gavin said, slowly, "that you, sir, should wonder why
I am here with this woman at such an hour, and you may know me so
little as to think ill of me for it."