"I ha'e been thinking, Jenny," said Alexander McCray, one afternoon,
when, during intervals of taking pinches of snuff, he had mixed himself
a tumbler of whisky and water, wherein floated the transparent discs of
half a sliced lemon--"I ha'e been thinking, Jenny, if it wasna for Sir
Mooray wanting my airm noo he's oop again, and liking it better than
that three-wheeled chair thing, I'd give oop the stewardship, and go
back to my gairden."
"Nonsense!" said Mrs McCray, smiling.
"Weel, lassie, ye may ca' it nonsense, but I ca' it soun' sense, for
it's quite hairt-breaking to see the way that man neglects the
floor-beds. There's no floors noo in the gairden like there was in my
day."
"Alexander!" exclaimed his wife, jumping up, and turning him round
so that he could see through the low window out into the
pleasure-grounds--"you are getting in the habit of talking nonsense!
Did you ever see such a flower as that in the grounds in your day?"
"Gude save us--no," said Sandy, putting on his glasses, and a smile
dawning on his rugged face--"Gude save us--no, lassie! Ye're reet, for
she's a bonnie floor, indeed; and look at the sweet tendrils of the
thing, and how she clings to the brae stake that's goin' to support her.
Eh, lassie! but they're a brae couple, and Heaven be gracious to them!"
"Amen!" said Jane, softly, as, with dewy eyes, she rested upon her
husband's shoulder, and continued to gaze at the sight before them.
"They say it's a vale o' sorrows, this warld, Jenny lassie," said
McCray, taking off and wiping his spectacles; "but to my way of
thinking, it's a verra beautiful gairden, full of bright floors and
sweet rich fruits. But ye ken, lassie, that there's that de'il--muckle
sorrow to him--a'ways pitching his tares and his bad seeds ower the
wall, for them to come oop in weeds; and gif ye no keep the hoe busy at
wark, and bend your prood neck and stiff back to keep tearing them oop
by the roots, Auld Sootie's rubbing those hands of his at the way in
which his warks run on. Perhaps ye'll just put the whusky near by my
haund. I thank ye, lassie. Winna ye tak' a wee soopie?"
Mrs McCray declined; and after refreshing himself with a goodly
draught, the old Scot continued:
"Ye're reet, lassie; the gairden has got its breet floors aifter all;
and I think I'll e'en stay as I am. Heaven bless them! And there's
that gudely vine of the Captain's coming to them, leuking as she
desairves. Gude-sake, Jenny, I believe gif there's a better woman on
this airth than thee, it's Mrs Norton; but she's na ye're equal in soom
things, lassie. She mak's a gudely lady, but she wad ne'er ha' fitted
in your station."
There was another sip of "whusky" before McCray spoke again, when, as
two fresh figures passed slowly by the window:
"Eh, lassie!" cried Sandy; "but leuk there--that's the thing that wairms
my hairt better than e'en the whusky or the glint o' yer twa e'en. It
mak's me think o' whaat Dauvid says aboot brethren living together in
unity. Leuk hoo the puir laird hangs on the Captain's airm, and hoo he
listens to his wards. They're like brithers indeed noo; and the
Captain's always reading to him. Boot--eh, lassie?--it strikes me
they're gaun doon to the church again."
McCray was right, for, arm in arm--Captain Norton, upright of bearing,
Sir Murray Gernon bent and feeble, walking with the shuffling step
induced by his last seizure--they were bound on the frequent pilgrimage
they made, a visit never paid by either alone--a pilgrimage to a shrine
most holy in their eyes--for it was to the grave of the woman they had
both loved.
The stormy epoch was past; and a gentle time of calm had come. Brace
Norton had just returned from a two years' cruise, an impatient time,
but one which he had passed in peace, for at every station he knew that
long and loving letters awaited him. But now he was returned, and but
few days more were to elapse before words were to be pronounced that
should make two hearts one.
But Merland village was greatly dissatisfied; the couple, they said,
were capitally matched, and young Lieutenant Norton would be 'most as
wealthy as Sir Murray himself; but it did seem hard on the poor lord,
who was said to be picking up a living anyhow at the foreign
gaming-tables. Then, too, there were no grand preparations, and the
wedding was to be quiet as quiet, and no open house at the Castle; and
the general opinion seemed to be that times were not as they used to
be--a declaration to which old Chunt cordially assented.
Still, people were more lenient, and many a blessing was showered on the
blushing girl, who was led--nay, who led herself, feeble, broken Sir
Murray Gernon--into the church, while, when the service was over, a deep
hush fell upon all, and people held back with reverence; hats were
doffed, and words were spoken in whispers, for when, leaning upon her
husband's arm, Isa Norton came slowly through the porch, it was seen
that she bore a wreath of tiny flowers, and, to the surprise of all, she
stopped.
There was no fierce hand, though, to pluck them from her; and people
whispered more and more as they saw the tears standing brightly in her
eyes--tears of sorrow and happiness--thankfulness, too, for the bliss
that was theirs. The bells would have struck up, but whispered words
stayed the ringers; children would have flung flowers in the bride's
path, but, for a few moments, their little hands were arrested; for,
leaning upon Captain Norton's arm, both suffering strongly from the
emotion evoked from the past, Sir Murray Gernon now appeared, to stand
by his daughter's side; and the halt was by Lady Gernon's resting-place,
the family vault of the old family--the spot where, years before,
broken-hearted, mad almost, Philip Norton stood waiting the coming of
the bridal party.
Even the whispers now were stayed, for the Merland people felt that
something unusual was about to take place, and they were right; and for
long years after it was talked of, and handed down: for, with trembling
hand, Isa raised the wreath--the forget-me-not wreath--she held, and
laid it, her simple offering, upon the grave of the dead, where they
stood awhile, with bended heads, and then passed on. Then came the
silver chiming of the old--old bells; the children cast their flowers;
and long and hearty cheers rang out for the bridal pair; there was the
hurrying of footsteps, the trampling of horses, and the rush of wheels,
and the wedding procession swept away; but the simple wreath remained
where it had been placed--remained for people to say, again and again,
that the act was strange; but it was the token that Marion Gernon's
memory was fresh in every heart, and the colour of that wreath, wet with
her child's tears, was _True-blue_!
The End.