Red Rowans Part 28

"But I don't understand."

"Thank heaven you don't," he replied.

"Why should you say that?" she cried reproachfully. "I cannot see why I should not, if I can. I am not a fool----"

"Marjory!" interrupted Dr. Kennedy, coming forward, "little Paul Duncan has just come round from the Lodge with a message that his grannie wants to see you. We might go round that way; it is getting late as it is."

"There's no hurry," put in Paul. "I will tell them to give the boy a piece, and he can wait till Miss Carmichael has finished giving me absolution."

"That is the wrong way about, surely?" she said.

"It is the usual way between a man and a woman," replied Paul, "and will be to the end of the chapter, I'm afraid."

Half an hour afterwards Mrs. Vane, who had come out into the hall with some parting instructions to Marjory, stood looking down with the others at little Paul Duncan, who, weary of waiting, had cuddled himself round on the doorstep and fallen into the heavy sleep of childhood. "He looks very delicate," said Violet, kindly stooping over him as he lay with one hand tucked into the back of his neck in rather an unusual posture; and then suddenly she looked up at the big Paul, for the trick had taken her back to the old days when she had watched his sleep with jealous care, lest her patient should be disturbed; and how often had she not wondered why he chose so uncomfortable a position?

Impossible! and yet there was a likeness. The name, too, and his evident dislike to the mention of the boy's mother! It must mean something--what? The thought left her pale, so that Paul, turning back with her when those two had gone, noticed it, telling her that she was overworking herself.

"Of course I am overworking," she retorted, with a strange mixture of self-pity, blame, and fierce resentment. "I always do. Is it my fault if I do things quicker than other people? Is it my fault if I see things more clearly? You think I am always managing, managing; and so I am. How can I help it when, everything keeps coming into my mind, and no one thinks or cares?"

"My dear Violet! You have been overworking, indeed. You must take it easier, or we shall be having you laid up----"

"And then what would Paul Macleod do?" she went on, with a reckless laugh. "No! I won't make myself so disagreeable as all that--if I can help it, Paul; but how can one help being disagreeable at times when one is wise--wise and old? Oh, Paul, how old I am!"

"I don't see it," he answered, with an amused smile.

"You! you never see anything," she began; then suddenly returned to her own light, half-jesting manner. "No! that is not true; you see most things, but you are too young to understand me. Dreadfully young for your age, Paul, so it is lucky there are so many of us to look after you."

When she went upstairs to dress for dinner she sate down before the looking-gla.s.s and stared at herself with a sort of repugnance. Yes!

she was old, hatefully old, in mind, in knowledge of the world, in experience. That thought which had flashed through her brain at the sight of little Paul lying asleep on the doorstep was not a nice thought. Yet could she help its flas.h.i.+ng? and, if there was anything in the thought, might not the knowledge strengthen her hand in the coming fight? For a fortnight's daily experience of Alice Woodward's calm attractions had raised Mrs. Vane's opposition to her marriage with Paul to virtuous horror. No true friend, she told herself, would hesitate to throw every difficulty in the way of so disastrous a connection. At the same time she felt almost afraid to reach out after this new weapon, lest it might prove too heavy for those delicate hands of hers, accustomed for the most part to leading reins. It was one thing to goad and guide people into the right path, another to split open their heads with a sledgehammer. Though how this could be such a lethal weapon she could not see, since she knew enough of Paul Macleod to doubt if he would have had the hardihood to mention Jeanie Duncan to Marjory if there had been anything between them in the past.

And yet? So she stood before possibilities, s.h.i.+vering on the brink, and finally telling herself there would be time enough to think of such things if less heroic measures failed. It was a mistake to touch pitch needlessly; at the same time it was as well to make sure there was pitch in the pot. So the next day saw her, on some airy pretence of getting old Peggy to knit stockings, sitting beside the old pauper and bringing to bear on her ailments and wrongs all the gay cheerfulness and sympathy which Paul declared always put him in a good humour.

CHAPTER XV.

Apparently it had the same effect on Peggy Duncan, for the next Sat.u.r.day when, as usual, her ancient schoolfellow and crony, Janet, came to give the hovel that weekly redding up which was beyond little Paul's ability, the old lady lay in her bed discoursing at length on the "bit thing just made up o' fal-lals that sits in the auld chair as if 't belonged to her, and chirrups awa like the lady's o' heaven's hen. A sicht guid for sair e'en, no like what the house was maistly acquaint wi'--just puir, ill-fa'ured warlocks."

Whereupon Janet Faa tossed her head, and muttered in an undertone that Peggy might speak for herself; she was no warlock whatever. But she went on with her work, patiently, being accustomed to such sly hits and finding the description of Mrs. Vane's dresses and the puckles o'

tea that appeared from her pocket far more interesting than the old lady's usual snappishness. But then, under any circ.u.mstances, Peggy's tongue would have been softened by the knowledge that help was more than ever necessary that day, since visitors were expected to tea. So the old woman watched the preparations with wrathful eyes, and did not even quarrel with the polish of the two silver spoons, which, usually secreted with her other treasures in the bottom drawer of the bureau, now graced the clean tablecloth. To tell truth, however, fault-finding would have had no practical effect, since Janet never took the slightest notice of it, beyond remarking every now and again: "Whist, woman! whist! It is no breath you will be having to crack with the doctor."

On the other hand, wee Paulie, who contributed his share by timidly presenting a mug full of early rowan-berries and heather for the middle of the table, was sternly bidden to take away the ugly trash, and solemnly warned against the sin of mistaking weeds for flowers, and thus setting himself up to be a judge instead of abiding by the will of Providence. The rebuke, however, did not seem to touch the child, who, with many previous memories of Miss Marjory's liking for the said "ugly trash," set the posy aside on a shelf at the back of the bed, and so beyond the reach of his grandmother's eyes.

"If Towpie wad lay anither egg," said the old lady at last, surveying the _tout ensemble_ with a smile struggling with the frown which was necessary to keep Janet Faa in subjection, "it wad nae be sae bad; but I misdoot the silly thing is for clucking."

"But it is two eggs there are, Peggy, woman, and the shentlemans is never for eatin' but one egg," protested Janet, who occasionally helped at the Big House, and was great, in consequence, on the ways and customs of the quality.

Peggy sniffed. "That may be your way o' thinkin', it's no mine. Ye soudna press on a guest what ye're no able to tak' yoursel'. And I'd no cook it, ye ken--I'd just offer it up to show there was ane--Lord sakes! wha's yon at the door, an' me wi' my bald head. Quick, Janet, woman, my mutch, and pit it straight, woman! I'll no have it c.o.c.kit over an ear as if I were tipsy."

"It will only be the master," said little Paul, coming from the door.

"He will be having a letter for you he says with a penny to pay."

"Then bid him tak' it back and pay himsel' if he's carin' for it. I'm no. There's no letters for me that I'm carin' to have, and I'll just no be fashed wi' them when there is company comin'--Hoot awa' wi' the man comin' pryin', pryin', and me puttin' on my mutch for him."

"But, Mistress Duncan," came in remonstrant tones from the door.

"Oh! you're there are ye. Weel! I'm obleeged to ye, sir, for comin'

sae far oot o' ye're road. An' I must pit ye to the trouble o' takin'

it back again, and tellin' them as sent it that Peggy Duncan is on the pairish an' hasna a penny to spare for their trash."

Mr. McColl, standing outside, looked longingly at the blue envelope, with the seal of a well-known firm of Writers-to-the-Signet upon it, and hesitated. Was it worth paying a penny on the chance of being the first to spread news? A momentous question, which left a tremble in his voice as he called again. "But there will be naethin' to pay, Mistress Duncan. Here! Paulie, my man, rin with it to your grannie.

And it will be Scriven an' Plead's name on the anvelope, and they will be the foremost Writers-to-the-Signet in Glasgow, whatever."

"They may be Writers to onybody else," retorted Peggy, taking the bulky letter, however, and nodding to Mr. McColl, who had seized the opportunity of slipping in so far. "But I dinna ken what right they have to be Writers to me."

The master put in a deft suggestion. "Then ye can see inside, Mistress Duncan. If you are carin' for't I could be readin' it to you before I was goin' on. I'm no in a hurry."

Peggy's black eyes glittered with sheer malice as she tucked the envelope away under her pillow, and lay back on it defiantly.

"An' I'm no in a hurry, either, Mr. McColl, an' I would be asking you to have a sup tea, but that I'm expectin' the quality; sae gude day to ye, and mony thanks for your kindness."

And yet when poor Mr. McColl had retired discomfited, bemoaning the loss of his penny, and Janet Faa, having done her part of the business, had left the kettle in charge of little Paul, who sate outside watching for the first glimpse of Miss Marjory, the old woman brought out the envelope again and looked at it wistfully. Perhaps the thoughts of the long years, during which she had waited in vain for some word of the husband who had deserted her, came back to her; yet as she muttered to herself--as she did often when alone--it was not that thought which came uppermost.

"Aye! aye! it's a fine thing the readin' o' writin'. If it were aboot the la.s.sie now; and me promising never to speir, never to let ony other body know! I canna break my word, an' me sae near the Judgment.

It is no as if I were a Papist, like Janet, puir body, that can just awa' an' get absolution, ye ken. I maun carry my sins wi' me, and it will be ill eneuch flyin' wi' what I've got."

"May I come in, Mrs. Duncan?" said a clear voice, breaking in on the old woman's preoccupation. As a matter of fact, however, the permission was scarcely needed, for Violet Vane was already in the room, close to the bed, her eyes on the letter; yet her first words made it appear as if her attention had been given to something else.

"Ah! you are expecting visitors, and I shall be in the way."

"Naethin' o' the sort, ma'am," replied Peggy, hastily, as usual on the lookout for a grievance. "I'm no sae sair put to it yet but that I can spare a cup o' tea for them that takes the trouble to come and see the auld wife."

"And a very good cup of tea, too," put in Mrs. Vane. "What you gave me the other day was delicious. I only meant that strangers may not be welcome when friends are talking secrets."

"I've nae friends and nae secrets," retorted the old woman, looking up quickly.

"Then you are lucky," continued her visitor, lightly. "Friends are often troublesome, especially over secrets; nine times out of ten you daren't ask their advice for fear of their knowing too much."

"Ye'll no be askin' mony folks' advice, I'm thinking," said Peggy, shrewdly. "Ye've plenty brains; eneuch for yoursel' and ithers to the bargain."

Mrs. Vane laughed. "Perhaps; but other folks' brains are better than one's own sometimes. When I am in a difficulty I go to someone who is as near a perfect stranger to me as possible and ask for advice. I needn't take it, you know--Gracious! what is that?" That was a clamorous cackling at the foot of the bed, and the stately march therefrom of Towpie, the hen, triumphant over the laying of an egg in her favourite nest.

"Oh ye o' little faith!" cried Peggy; "and me misca'ing the puir beastie! It's a special Providence, aye, aye. He neither slumbers nor sleeps, ye ken. And you will no be goin' to stop at Gleneira long, I'm thinking." The question followed fast on the quotation as if there was some connection in the old woman's mind between them.

"I leave it very soon, I'm sorry to say, as I think it the loveliest place in the world; and it is sad to know that I shall not see it again."

The envelope had come put of its hiding-place again during this speech, and Peggy was turning it over and over as if to attract attention to it; but she failed, and had to resort to more direct methods.