Macdonald_Alec_Forbes.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
asking leave or giving offence, indulging in the same lawlessness as
before, and seeming incapable of being restrained by other bonds than
those of duty.
now the month of was nearly over, and the primroses were
_glintin'_ on the braes.
evening she went out bare-headed to look how a certain den, wont to
be haunted by wild-flowers and singing-birds, was getting on towards
its complement of summer pleasures. she was climbing over a fence, a
horseman came round the corner of the road. saw at a glance that it
was , and got down again.
had passed upon both since they parted. was a full-grown man
with a settled look. was a lovely woman, even more delicate and
graceful than her childhood had promised.
she got down from the fence, he got down from his horse. a
word on either side, their hands joined, and still they stood silent
for a minute, with her eyes on the ground, gazing in her
face, which was pale with more than its usual paleness.
" saw yesterday," said at length, with what seemed to
a meaning look.
face flushed as red as fire.-- have betrayed her?
managed to stammer out,
"! you?
then silence fell again.
"! ," she said at length, taking up the conversation, in her
turn, "we thought we would never see ye again."
" thought so too," answered , "when the great berg came down on us
through the snow-storm, and flung the barque upon the floe with her
side crushed in.-- used to dream about the old school-days, ,
and finding you in my hut!-- did find you in the snow, ."
a figure came round the other corner--for the road made a double
sweep at this point--and cried--
", come hame direcly. 're wantit."
"'m coming to see you again soon, ," said . " must go
away for a mouth or two first."
replied with a smile and an outstretched hand--nothing more.
could wait well enough.
lovely the flowers in the dyke-sides looked as she followed
home! the thought that perhaps had told him something
was like the serpent under them. somehow she had got so beautiful
before she reached the house, that her aunt, who had come to see her,
called out,
"! lassie! hae ye been aboot? hae a colour by ordinar'."
"'s easy accoontet for," said her mistress roguishly. " was
stan'in' killoguin wi' a bonnie young lad an' a horse. winna hae sic
doin's aboot my hoose, can tell ye, lass."
flew into a passion, and abused her with many words,
which , so far from resenting, scarcely even heard. length she
ceased, and departed almost without an adieu. what did it
matter?-- did any earthly thing matter, if only had not told
him?
, all that had told was that was not engaged to
him.
the days and nights passed, and , the girl, changed into
, the woman; and still did not come.
evening, when a wind that blew from the west, and seemed to smell
of the roses of the sunset, was filling her rosy heart with joy--
sat in a rough little seat, scarcely an arbour, at the bottom of a
garden of the true country order, where all the dear old-fashioned
glories of sweet-peas, cabbage-roses, larkspur, gardener's garters,
honesty, poppies, and peonies, grew in homely companionship with
gooseberry and currant bushes, with potatoes and pease. scent of
the sunset came in reality from a _cheval de frise_ of wallflower on
the coping of the low stone wall behind where she was sitting with her
. read aloud in a low voice that sonnet beginning "_ that
in the prime of earliest youth_." she finished it, a voice, as low,
said, almost in her ear,
"'s you, ."
was looking over the garden wall behind her.
", ," she cried, starting to her feet, at once shocked and
delighted, "dinna say that. 's dreidfu' to hear ye say sic a thing.
wish was a wee like her."
", , think ye're jist like her. come oot wi' me. hae a
story to tell ye. me yer han', and pit yer fit upo' the seat."
was over the wall in a moment, and they were soon seated under the
trees of the copse near which had met him before. brown
twilight was coming on, and a warm sleepy hush pervaded earth and air,
broken only by the stream below them, cantering away over its stones to
join the . of them was inclined to quarrel with the
treeless country about them: they were lapped in foliage; nor with the
desolate moorland hills around them: they only drove them closer
together.
unmeasured by either passed without speech.
" tell't me," said at length, "that you and had made it
up."
"!" exclaimed , and looked up in his face as if he had accused
her of infidelity, but, instantly dropping her eyes, said no more.
" wad hae fun' ye oot afore a day was ower, gin it hadna been for
that."
's heart beat violently, but she said nothing, and, after a
silence, went on.
" my mother ever tell ye about how the barque was lost?"
", ."
" was a terrible snow-storm with wind. couldn't see more than a
few yards a-head. were under bare poles, but we couldn't keep from
drifting. in a moment a huge ghastly thing came out of the gloamin'
to windward, bore down on us like a spectre, and dashed us on a
floating field of ice. barque was thrown right upon it with one
side stove in; but nobody was killed. was an awful night, ; but
'm not going to tell you about it now. made a rough sledge, and
loaded it with provisions, and set out westward, and were carried
westward at the same time on the floe, till we came near land. we
launched our boat and got to the shore of . we set out
travelling southwards. of our men died, do what could to keep
them alive. 'll tell you all about it another time, if you'll let
me. want to tell you noo's this.-- nicht, as sure as lay
doon i' the snaw to sleep, dreamed was at hame. ' the auld stories
cam' back. woke ance, thinkin' was carryin' you throu' the water i'
the lobby o' the schuil, and that ye was greitin' upo' my face.
whan woke, my face was weet. doobt had been greitin mysel'. '
the auld faces cam' roon' me ilka nicht, and
and my mother--whiles ane and whiles anither--but ye was aye there.
" mornin', whan woke up, was my lane. dinna ken richtly hoo it
had happened. think the men war nigh-han' dazed wi' the terrible
cauld and the weariness o' the traivel, and had sleepit ower lang,
and they had forgotten a' aboot me. what think ye was the first
thocht i' my heid, whan cam' to mysel', i' the terrible white
desolation o' cauld and ice and snaw? wantit to run straucht to you,
and lay my heid upo' yer shouther. had been dreamin' a' nicht
that was lyin' i' my bed at hame, terrible ill, and ye war gaein
aboot the room like an angel, wi' the glimmer o' white wings aboot ye,
which reckon was the snaw comin' throu' my dream. ye wad never
come near me; and cudna speak to cry to ye to come; till at last,
whan my hert was like to brak 'cause ye wadna luik at me, ye turned wi'
tears i' yer een, and cam' to the bedside and leaned ower me, and--"
's voice failed him.
" ye see it was nae wonner that wantit you, whan fand mysel' a'
my lane i' the dreidfu' place, the very beauty o' which was deidly.
", that wasna a'. got mair that day than thocht ever to get.
, think what used to say maun be true. ,
think a body may some day get a kin' o' a sicht o' the face o' .--
was sae dooncast, whan saw mysel' left ahin', that sat doon upon a
rock and glowered at naething. was awfu'. ' it grew waur and waur,
till the only comfort had was that cudna live lang. wi' that
the thocht o' cam' into my heid, and it seemed as gin had a
richt, as it war, to call upon him-- was sae miserable.
" there cam' ower me a quaietness, and like a warm breath o' spring
air. dinna ken what it was--but it set me upo' my feet, and startit
to follow the lave. had fa'en, sae that could hardly see the
track. never cam' up wi' them, and haena heard o' them sin'
syne.
" silence at first had been fearfu'; but noo, somehoo or ither,
canna richtly explain 't, the silence seemed to be himsel' a' aboot
me.
" 'll never forget him again, .
" cam' upo' tracks, but no o' oor ain men. war the fowk o' the
country. they brocht me whaur there was a schooner lyin' ready to
gang to . here am."
there ever a gladder heart than 's? was weeping as if her
life would flow away in tears. had known that would come back
to some day.
ceased speaking, but she could not cease weeping. she had tried
to stop the tears, she would have been torn with sobs. sat silent
for a long time. length spoke again:
", don't deserve it--but _will_ you be my wife some day?"
all the answer made was to lay her head on his bosom and weep
on.
.
it worth while, debate with myself, to write one word more?--
tie the ends of my warp, or leave them loose?-- will tie them, but
no one needs sit out the process.
farm of prospered. never practised in his profession,
but became a first-rate farmer. two years and he were
married, and began a new chapter of their history.
found that and were engaged, she discovered
that she had been in reality wishing it for a long time, and that the
opposing sense of duty had been worldly.
came to see them every summer, and generally remained over
the harvest. never married. he wrote a good book.
and he had many long disputes, and did each other good.
grew gentler as he grew older. he learned to hope more for
other people. then he hoped more for himself too.
first time saw after the wedding, he was amazed at his
own presumption in ever thinking of marrying such a lady. about
thirty, by which time he had a good business of his own, he married
--still little, still old-fashioned, and still wise.
was taken good care of by , but kept
herself clear of all obligation by never acknowledging any.
had to refund, and content himself with his rights.
died worth a good deal of money notwithstanding, which must have been a
great comfort to him at the last.
is a clergyman, has married a rich wife, hopes to be
of the some day, and never alludes to his royal
ancestor.